The Ordeal of Being Known

Chapter One

Draco groaned as the floo chime continued to clang incessantly from his sitting room. He groped for his wand beneath his nest of pillows, squeezing his eyes shut against the harsh light of dawn streaming in from the large windows next to his bed. Not for the first time, he sorely regretted his bedroom layout. However nice it was to be able to look out the window into the starry night when he couldn’t sleep, it surely wasn’t worth the direct sunlight on his face first thing in the bloody morning.

His fingers finally found his wand, and his lazily flicked tempus charm read half past five in the morning. Anyone important, like Pansy or his mother or the Minister for Magic, had direct access to his wards and would therefore be able to floo through to his house without the chime, so whoever was bothering him at this unthinkable hour could not be nearly important enough. He threw a pillow over his head, trying to drown out the unrelenting noise.

He sighed in satisfaction as the chime eventually ceased. Perhaps whoever thought they were worth his time had finally given up…

His hopes were dashed not two minutes later when he felt a wobble in the wards indicating an incoming unfamiliar apparition. Draco growled audibly, throwing the covers off himself and twisting to lay his bare feet on the hardwood floor. His white blond hair was sleep-mussed and tangled in the back, falling haphazardly around his chin—he probably looked insane, but he was too irritated to worry about a pristine appearance. His guest might not live long enough to appreciate it, anyway, he thought dramatically. It was Sunday, for Merlin’s sake, his precious day off. It was probably another incompetent mediwix unable to decipher his (perfectly legible, thank you) notes on a patient’s chart, again.

He grabbed his black silk dressing gown from the bedpost as he stomped out to the hall to make his way to his front door, forgoing his suede house slippers for the sake of efficiency, muttering obscenities the entire time. Timsy, his house elf, watched warily from behind the doorway to the kitchen, clutching nervously at the sleeves of his little green jumper. Timsy knew not to disturb Draco before nine in the morning on weekends, unless it was life or death.

He kept his wand in his hand and a hostile glare on his face as he swung the front door open to tear his uninvited guest a new one, but the words were quickly wiped from his mind upon their greeting:

“Malfoy.”

To say having Ronald Weasley nearly banging down his front door at daybreak on a Sunday was unexpected would be the understatement of the year.

It had been almost eight years since the end of the war, eight years since Harry Potter had testified for him at his trial, effectively keeping him out of Azkaban. Draco had kept his nose clean the entire time, studying hard and taking Healer’s apprenticeships on the Continent and around the world, making a name for himself as one of the leading experts in the field of Mind Curses and Afflictions. Even his probation Aurors, back when he was on probation, got bored with supervising “a bloody swot”. There was no reason for Ronald sodding Weasley, as ginger as ever and in full Head Auror uniform, to be on his doorstep at this Merlin-forsaken hour on a weekend.

“Weasley,” Draco replied, consciously making an effort to snap his jaw shut and school his features back into superiorly aloof.

“May I come in?”

This effectively snapped Draco back to the present, and he narrowed his eyes. “Not without a warrant, you may not.”

“Oh. This isn’t—you’re not in trouble or anything. I didn’t have time to change, it’s not…” Weasley fumbled over his words, making vague motions at his uniform, and Draco took the opportunity to really look at his face for the first time in years, with his hand still curled around his wand by his side. He noticed Weasley had already returned his wand to the leather thigh holster most Aurors wore—apparently, Draco Malfoy in his pyjamas wasn’t much of a threat. Draco scowled.

Weasley had grown up, definitely—his shoulders and chest had broadened significantly to fill his tall frame, effectively moving him from lanky, gawky teenager to intimidating Auror. Draco was irritated to note Weasley had at least a couple inches on him, which was no small feat. The fabric of his navy Auror uniform was perfectly tailored, but still straining over the muscles of his shoulders, arms, and thighs, and honestly, when did wet-shoelace-Ronald-Weasley get so stupidly big? His offensively ginger hair had grown long and wavy, just past his collarbone, and his freckles seemed to blend in with a couple days’ growth of slightly darker stubble on his jaw. There were hints of old scars on his hands and neck, which Draco could see with the top two gold buttons of his uniform undone. His Head Auror badge was pinned crookedly on the left side of his chest.

There were heavy bags under his eyes, but he wasn’t covered with dirt or sweat or blood, as one would expect of an Auror that looked this harried and claimed he “didn’t have time to change”, so Draco couldn’t really tell what his problem was. He’d have to wait for the inconsiderate, bumbling, surprisingly-muscled Gryffindor to actually explain himself.

It looked like it was quite a trial. Weasley’s face was reddening with the effort, his large hands scrubbing through his hair, making it frizz out and flop over the side of his head in a very decidedly-not-attractive tousled way. Draco’s patience was wearing thinner by the second.

“Weasley. It’s half five in the fucking morning on a Sunday. What in Merlin’s name do you want?” Draco injected each word with the irritation it deserved, his tone scathing.

Weasley had his hands in his hair again, but seemed to heed the clear direction as he looked at Draco with blue eyes that Draco could only describe as pleading. Eurgh.

“Right. We need your help.”

“With?”

“Please, let me in and I’ll tell you everything, Malfoy. You know I wouldn’t be here except as a last resort.”

And yes, while that stung a bit, Draco could acknowledge that there was indeed no way a Weasley would ever ask a Malfoy for help unless something absolutely apocalyptic rested on it. The feeling was mutual, anyway. He could at least see the amount of effort it was taking Weasley to speak it aloud.

Scowl firmly back in place, Draco reluctantly stepped aside to allow him in. Weasley let out a relieved huff and hurried past him into the foyer, where Timsy was waiting to take his cloak. Draco stepped around him and began walking to the sitting room.

“Timsy, could you please bring me my slippers? And a pot of coffee for us in the sitting room.”

“Yes, Master Draco.”

“Thank you, Timsy.”

Draco paused at the door to the sitting room, once he realized Weasley hadn’t followed him. He turned back with an annoyed question on his lips, to see Weasley struck dumb by the door, left hand still held out where it had handed off his cloak. His wide eyes goggled at Draco in pure shock. Draco raised an imperious eyebrow at him. He hoped he could still manage it, in his striped pyjamas and dressing gown, with a rat’s nest of bed head.

Weasley shook himself then. “Sorry. Never expected to hear you being polite to a house elf, let alone a free one.”

Draco rolled his eyes as his temper flared. “You’re really making me glad I let you in, Weasel. Timsy was freed as soon as the war ended, but he’s lived with Malfoys for generations and he wanted to stay with me, so I pay him, and he gets time off, and whatever else Granger wanted from that PUKE business she was making noise about in school. Happy?” He figured adding ‘and he’s a cherished part of my family’ would be a bit much this early in the morning.

Weasley snorted at that. “SPEW, but I won’t tell her if you won’t.” He finally made his way into the sitting room with Draco on his heels.

Draco loved his sitting room, with its light grey walls and rich, russet leathers and wood accents, large marble fireplace and warm red oriental rugs. The lush plants with their deep green foliage, enjoying the sun from the large bay window covered in plush cushions and pillows. The record player on the shelf, next to his collection of novels. It couldn’t have been further from the old stone and deep velvets and shadowy halls of Malfoy Manor, and Weasley seemed to agree as he looked around appraisingly before taking a seat.

Draco sat on one of the chestnut leather sofas opposite Weasley, just as Timsy apparated in with a quiet pop bearing a tray of coffee with fixings, and, to Draco’s horror, not his suede house slippers, but his favourite pair of slippers: some obnoxious fuzzy green monstrosities with a cartoonish face on them that Pansy had found at a muggle shop. The tag said “Oscar the Grouch”, which Draco had assumed was some muggle thing. Pansy had laughed and said the character on them was “fitting” for him, because he was grouchy and reclusive and “loved trash” which Draco took as the pointed barb it was on his taste in men. Apparently, her five-year-old daughter had seen the character on the “telly” and immediately thought of her godfather. Charming girl got her viciousness from her mother, clearly.

But they were soft as hell, impossibly warm, and Timsy was sensitive, if a little devious. It was too late to hide them from Weasley, anyway, so Draco gathered the scraps of his pride and slipped them onto his feet gratefully, thanking Timsy and daring Weasley to say something. By the way his face was purpling, his lips pressed together in a line and twitching to keep down a smile, and his shoulders vibrating, it was inevitable. Draco sighed in exasperation.

“Go on, get it all out.”

Weasley burst into very unmanly giggles. Draco just narrowed his eyes and waited for it to stop. This was quickly turning into one of the most frustrating days of his post-war life, and the sun had only just risen.

“My daughter loves that show,” Weasley muttered between giggles. “What a day… Draco Malfoy being polite to freed house elves, wearing fuzzy slippers of a very fitting character from a muggle, American, children’s television show, Merlin’s pants…” His face was red enough to blend in with the rest of his freckles as his body shook with laughter.

“American?” Draco wrinkled his nose, this was news. Pansy’s child was watching American muggle shows? Rebelling against pureblood society was understandable, but resorting to children’s entertainment from the colonies? He’d have to ask her about that. If Weasley ever got over himself enough to get to his point and free them from this awful interaction.

“That’s what you’re worried about? Oh Circe…” Weasley’s giggles were finally slowing. Draco took the opportunity to pour himself a cup of coffee, and reluctantly, a cup for Weasley as well. Weasley wiped the tears from his eyes and nodded to him, taking the cup gratefully, but still watched Draco drink his own first before taking a sip himself. Draco was losing track of how often he’d rolled his eyes in the last ten minutes alone. As much as he wanted to kill Weasley for disturbing his sleep, it was too bloody early in the morning for poisoning. And for what? What could he possibly gain from murdering the Head fucking Auror, in his own house no less?

“Well? Care to explain why you’d stoop so low as to beg me for help, at the arse crack of dawn, on a Sunday? Surely you’re not here to discuss my footwear.” Draco hoped they’d get this over with fast. He wondered if he’d be able to go back to sleep after this nonsense.

Weasley sobered quickly, clearing his throat. “Right. It’s Harry.”

“Potter?”

“Yes, who else?”

“Well, what the hell is wrong with him?” Draco snapped.

“We don’t know. We think he’s been cursed. But he’s been on holiday for a week, so we don’t know who did it or what it was.” Weasley’s Auror voice was coming out, ready to debrief a crime.

“Who is ‘we’? And why can’t you ask him?” Draco sipped his coffee in an attempt to soothe his frayed temper. He closed his eyes to breathe in the rich aroma. Damn, Timsy made the best coffee.

“Myself, Hermione, my curse breaker brother Bill, every Healer in the Curse Damage ward at St. Mungo’s, and every Auror in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.” Weasley was looking into his cup as if it held all the answers. “And we have asked him, but… he doesn’t remember, and he can’t speak.”

“'He can’t speak,'” Draco repeated flatly.

Weasley shook his head, finally looking away from his cup to meet Draco’s eyes. Draco was startled by the intensity there. It felt almost threatening.

Weasley’s exhausted sigh seemed to move through his whole body. “He went on holiday, his first one ever, and stayed in his house the entire time. He told us he wanted to relax and work on some home renovation. Then the day before he’s supposed to return to work, he shows up at our floo frantic, and silent, pointing to his throat and flailing his hands around. We took him straight to Mungo’s, he’s been there for two days, seeing every Healer they have. We think he may have been Obliviated, maybe if he went out for food or something, someone might have…” He trailed off, scrubbing his hand through his hair again. He set down his coffee and pulled a thin black elastic off of his wrist, wrestling his hair into a messy bun at the back of his head. It looked good on him, accentuating his strong jawline and showing off the muscles of his neck and shoulders, which only pissed Draco off more. Weasleys were not good-looking, damn it.

Draco raised his eyebrow. “And you want me to…”

Weasley huffed and picked up his coffee again. “To do whatever it is you do. Fix him, heal him, figure out what happened to him, so we can find the bastard that did this and put him away. All the Healers we’ve spoken to agree that you’re the best option, and the only option in England, and Harry doesn’t want to leave the country without his voice.”

“You do understand that my work involves Legilimency? What makes you think Potter would even be willing to be treated by me?” Draco asked, and stopped himself from absently rubbing the heel of his palm across his chest, swiftly turning it into a questioning motion with his hand.

“Well, yes, we’ve heard that. He probably won’t be too keen on it—he had a really awful time trying to learn Occlumency from Snape back in school—but we’re getting desperate. You’re our only hope.” Weasley’s knuckles were white where they gripped his mug like a lifeline.

Draco just stared back at him in shock. Nothing here made any sense. Potter had tried to learn Occlumency from Severus? In school? While Severus was being a spy for the Dark Lord and Dumbledore? Also, ‘you’re our only hope’? He felt like he’d have to look at this memory in his Pensieve later to prove to himself that it actually happened.

But Draco was a Healer, albeit an unconventional and very niche one, and he had an obligation to help when he was needed. Yes, it felt great having Weasley beg for his help. He wished he’d done it at a more reasonable time of day, but still, you can’t choose your beggars… or whatever that muggle saying is. Draco had known as soon as he let Weasley inside that he would help. The fact that Harry Potter depended on his expertise only made him that much more eager. He never could ignore a challenge, especially not one from Potter—but Weasley didn’t have to know that. Draco could keep him on his toes a little while longer.

Weasley was shifting uneasily under Draco’s stare, awkwardly sipping at his coffee, obviously uncomfortable with his admission. Draco felt a bit petty, but he was enjoying watching the Head Auror squirm.

“Alright.”

“Really?” Weasley’s eyes lit up in shock and he leaned forward, reminding Draco suddenly of a labrador retriever.

“Yes, I’ll take the case. But is there some sort of deadline on this? Do I need to start right now, or can I get a few more hours of precious sleep?” Draco’s mind was working way too fast to even contemplate going back to bed, but it wouldn’t do to seem too excited.

Weasley at least had the decency to look embarrassed. He cleared his throat awkwardly. “Erm… no, I suppose you can start in the afternoon, if that works. I just had to get to you early, the Healers said you were in very high demand, and probably booked, and this is obviously urgent…” He trailed off again, and Draco decided to put him out of his misery. It was true, he was booked, but that was irrelevant. He stood up, setting down his coffee cup and adjusting the belt of his dressing gown.

“Right. He’s still at St. Mungo’s, you said? I’ll drop in later today. Is there anything else…?”

Weasley set down his cup and stood up as well. “Yeah, he’s in the Curse Damage ward. Erm, nothing else, but…” he wrung his hands in front of him and raised nervous blue eyes to Draco’s.

“Yes?” Draco’s patience was hanging by a thread. Bumbling, brutish, stupidly fit, too-tall Weasleys…

“You’ll keep this quiet, yeah?” Weasley looked for a moment scared, as if Draco was going to laugh in his face and run to the Prophet with this juicy tidbit. Which, while annoying and insulting at the moment, was kind of understandable. That had been Draco’s M.O. back in Hogwarts. At least, before the Dark Lord became a permanent house guest in his childhood home. That kickstarted a bit of a personality shift—not one that most of Wizarding Britain was able to grasp, unfortunately, considering his background and his family and his, him.

“I’m a Healer,” Draco replied, in lieu of an explanation. All Healers took patient confidentiality vows, as well as hippocratic oaths. It was unethical for a ministry-licensed Healer to divulge patient information to anyone other than associated Healers and mediwix without the patient’s expressed consent. The Ministry, charming folk that they were, would only give Draco his license if his vows were magically binding, regardless of his skill or accomplishments or recommendations from his time on the Continent. He wasn’t sure why they thought he’d try to become a Healer if he was just going to go back to his “nasty Death Eater ways”, even after questioning him under Veritaserum—but he had never claimed the Ministry of Magic was good or logical. They’d practically rolled out the red carpet for the Dark Lord, after all.

Nevertheless, he was magically bound to keep patient confidentiality, to do no intentional harm, and to maintain ‘ethical working relationships’ with anyone under his care, which was difficult in his line of work, but not impossible. He wouldn’t die if he broke any of these vows, probably—but he hadn’t tried. The one time one of his patients had developed an inconvenient crush on him, and tried to act on it, the pain had been excruciating.

Weasley looked relieved, as if he had just remembered this fact. Draco wondered if he knew about Draco’s bonds, working for the Ministry—the licenses were public records. “Right. Well, thank you. We’ll see you later today then, Healer Malfoy.” He stuck out his right hand: a peace offering, even though his face twisted a little in what looked like pain.

Draco looked at the outstretched hand in barely concealed wonder. Oh, what his twelve-year-old self would say if he saw this. He grasped it firmly and gave it a quick shake, then gestured for Weasley to lead the way out. He was still in his pyjamas, after all.

After Weasley had donned his cloak and given him a farewell nod, with a not-so-subtle glance to his slippers, Draco made his way to the kitchen to ask Timsy for some breakfast and try to make sense of the swirling thoughts in his head.

So, Potter was cursed and Obliviated, and then left alone. Weasley didn’t mention anything about nightmares or pain or hallucinations, but then again, Potter couldn’t speak, so it was unlikely he’d be able to communicate those symptoms anyway. Was he unable to write, too? How was he communicating without a voice? He must be frantic, the Saviour of the Wizarding World was scheduled for speeches and appearances months in advance, and it must be impossible to be the cherished star Auror he was without a voice. What would the world think of a mute Boy Who Lived?

Draco would never know, under vows of confidentiality as he was. He could imagine the headlines, though. The Boy Whose Lips Are Sealed: How Can Our Saviour Save Us in Silence? He tittered to himself.

It just seemed so different from curses he’d worked on before. Curses usually caused pain, destruction, misfortune, grief, et cetera—hence the name. He still had scars on his chest from Potter’s curse on him in sixth year. A curse of silence would cause major inconvenience, and a significant life change, but people lived with disabilities like that every day. He would never say so to Potter, or his entourage, but this seemed… almost benign, compared to the curses he was used to, and probably compared to the curses Potter was used to, as well. He wasn’t in pain or being mentally tortured, as far as Draco knew, and his memory was mostly intact. But for an icon like Potter to lose his ability to speak… that could affect more than just Potter.

Draco sat at his kitchen table, eating Timsy’s perfectly cooked bacon and eggs and buttered toast, his mind practically vibrating with eagerness to get started on this particular puzzle.

***

Draco walked purposefully through the corridors of St. Mungo’s towards the Curse Damage ward. At first, no one met his eyes—the staff glared at his feet, a combination of enmity towards him because of who he was, and deep suspicion because of what he did for a living. Most magical folk knew that Legilimency required eye contact. Why they thought Draco would bother reading boring thoughts that were so clearly hostile towards him, for no reason, he had no idea.

The closer he got to his destination, the friendlier—or at least less hateful—the staff became. The Curse Damage and Dark Arts Reversal wards were the most familiar with him, and had seen for themselves the extent of his skill. It was a breath of fresh air, being around people who at least trusted him not to hurt them. He hoped that wouldn’t change once he reached Potter’s room.

He was dressed impeccably, as per usual (the exception being this morning). He’d decided on his muggle charcoal three piece suit, because it was neutral, he’d thought, even though it didn’t look nearly as striking as the cobalt blue suit or the forest green robes, and he wore a pale blue shirt underneath his waistcoat. He couldn’t wear black, of course, that would seem ominous, and camel was far too relaxed, obviously, and the burgundy would seem deferential in a room full of Gryffindors, and so what if he’d spent most of his time this morning overthinking his sartorial choices? Draco had to look his best, had to show the world (his former enemies) that he was a confident, competent, (devastatingly handsome) Healer, before he even spoke. His sleek hair was swept artfully away from his face, not slicked rigidly back like it was in school, and certainly not the rat’s nest it was this morning.

He sent an apologetic thought to Timsy, who’d have to clean up the mess of expensive clothes strewn around his room. Draco planned to stop at their favourite bakery on the way home for the baklava Timsy loved, to make up for it.

He stopped outside the door to Potter’s room, gathering himself, smoothing nonexistent wrinkles out of his jacket and straightening the glowing Healer’s Emblem pin on his lapel—the crossed wand and bone shimmered with its authority charm. If he weren’t in public, he would shake the tension out of his limbs vigorously, but he settled for deep breathing. He could feel a bit of sweat under his arms and on his lower back, which was annoying. It wouldn’t be seen, of course, the jacket was practically drowning in his own well-crafted impervious and temperature regulating charms, but he cast a freshening spell on himself anyway, just as he caught the sight of bushy brown hair rounding the corner.

Too late to back out now, he thought grimly.

He turned to greet Granger, who had grown into her features as much as her husband, without the height and muscle. He’d seen her photo in the Prophet plenty of times, but the effect in-person was something else entirely. He couldn’t exactly pinpoint what was different—just that she was most definitely a woman now, a mother, an influential activist, though Draco was sure she was just as much of a know-it-all as ever. She was clearly a force to be reckoned with: she stood with more confidence, walked with more grace. The staff swerved out of her path in the corridor, recognizing her both as a war hero and the vehicle of strength behind the Ministry’s many reforms. Her right hook might have more power behind it, now, he mused warily.

Draco wondered absently if these old classmates had similar thoughts when they saw him. He guessed the phenomenon of getting older would never—well, get old.

Draco nodded at her as she stepped up next to him, eyeing him with sharp, calculating dark eyes. “Granger.”

“Malfoy,” she replied coolly. Then, apparently mustering the strength for something, “Thank you for coming.”

Draco nodded again in acknowledgement. It was a small comfort knowing he wouldn’t get any awkward conversation from Potter today. Two-thirds of the Golden Trio thanking him was quite enough for one day.

“Shall we?” Draco motioned towards the door. Granger seemed to shake herself out of staring at Draco as if he were a complicated Arithmancy problem, and made towards the door, gently pushing it open.

“Harry? The specialist has arrived,” she said gently, and Draco had to keep from rolling his eyes at her careful tone and vague wording as he followed her into the room.

Upon closing the door, he turned and cast the usual privacy and soundproofing wards at it lazily. This is just another patient, he reminded himself. Just another puzzle I can solve, another person I can help. He turned around to face the room.

The first thing he noticed was Weasley, eyeing him cautiously from where he sat on a chair next to the hospital bed, his hand held over a floating wizard’s chess board where he’d been interrupted from making a move. He narrowed his eyes at Draco. “Did you just lock us in or something?”

Draco was very proud of himself for avoiding another eye roll. Gods, he was so professional. “Those were hospital standard privacy and soundproofing spells. You probably saw every Healer who came through here perform them on the door. I wouldn’t trust anyone who didn’t,” he explained, keeping his face carefully blank as he moved his eyes to the man in the bed. “Especially with you, Potter.”

Potter had grown, but not much in height. His chest and shoulders had much more muscle on them than when Draco had last seen him in person, which was when he was malnourished from a year on the run and saving the bloody world, so that wasn’t much of a comparison. He could appreciate, however, the curve of his biceps where they held the top half of his body up from the bed, propped on one elbow to better see the chess game. This stretched his plain, grey t-shirt over his apparently toned chest, making Draco divert his eyes quickly back to Harry’s face. His deep black hair was as ridiculous as ever—Draco thought privately there must be magic keeping those wide, wild curls from being remotely tamed. They fell haphazardly over his forehead, around his ears and the nape of his neck, sticking up at random intervals as if they couldn’t decide whether or not gravity mattered. Draco could see the trademark scar peeking through the fringe in a jagged, pale line that barely cut through his right eyebrow, just over his glasses, which Draco noticed were a slightly larger, more modern version of the round frames he had worn throughout school.

Draco could feel Potter’s magic as soon as he’d walked in the room, and by now thankfully his goosebumps were going down. It was stupid how powerful Potter was. He probably wasn’t even aware of it. His magic hung in the air around him, still but vibrating with potential, charged like the damp air before a storm. If Draco closed his eyes, he knew he would smell faint hints of wet earth and ozone, but he didn’t dare, locking away that area of perception deep in his brain. Not for the first time, he wished his extensive training hadn’t made him so sensitive to magical auras. It would be so much easier to work with Potter without this unconscious power play happening.

Potter’s bottle green eyes practically glowed against his coppery skin, and Draco had to take a subtle deep breath to maintain his composure on meeting them. Their intensity made his heart race. Yes, he was a beautiful man, objectively, but currently, said man looked positively irate, which was a very familiar expression to Draco. He felt almost nostalgic looking at a furious Potter. It was nice knowing not everything had changed.

Weasley and Granger looked nervous, eyes darting from Potter to Draco and back, as if they expected a shouting match to break out any second, which was absurd, because Potter couldn’t speak. Draco resigned himself to working with thickheaded Gryffindors for the foreseeable future.

Draco eyed Weasley as he moved further into the room. “I’m guessing you didn’t tell him, and that’s why he’s looking at me like he could dismember me with sheer force of will?” Which, honestly, he probably could, if he really wanted to. Draco had seen what he was capable of as a teenager, and he was very much a grown man, now.

Weasley’s face turned apologetic, which only infuriated Potter more. He may not be able to speak, but Draco could practically hear the choice words Potter had for his friends right about now, and for Draco himself. Weasley turned back to Potter, with his hands held up in what might have been an appeasing gesture. “I’m sorry, mate. It’s true, he is the best at what he does. All the Healers on this floor recommended him. He’s in high demand, and we’re lucky he’s got the time to take on this case at all.”

Draco didn’t bother to mention that he’d already recommended all of his much less urgent patients to other Healers in order to free up said time. There was no way he was missing this.

Potter’s face fell as it turned back to Draco, his gaze moving from his blond head to his expensive leather shoes and back, assessing. Draco’s skin crawled under the scrutiny. Potter couldn’t keep the suspiciousness out of his eyes, but Draco felt a little calmer now that he looked less like shattering the windows with raging accidental magic. Potter’s eyes moved to Granger, entreating, nearly begging, and he thrust a hand in Draco’s direction. Draco could read that one: but it’s Malfoy! She only pursed her lips at him.

“Ron’s right, Harry, and so are the other Healers. I’ve been researching all of his public cases and published works, and he really is our best option,” Granger explained, causing Draco to look at her with raised eyebrows.

“You’ve read my articles?”

Granger looked back at him, eyes taking on a new light with excitement only new knowledge could provide. “Yes, of course! I was particularly intrigued by your work on the Unstoppable Nightmare Curse, how you were able to guide the patient through the nightmares to find the personalized counter curse pieces in each one, utterly fascinating, and the False Tongue Curse, with that witch who could only speak to people in languages they didn’t understand, were you really able to—”

“Okay, point is, Healer Malfoy is our best bet,” Weasley interrupted, “since there’s nothing wrong with you physically, the Healers agree this is a problem for the specialist in Mind Curses and Afflictions, and he’s agreed to help regardless of your history, and Harry, you’re just going to have to trust us on this,” he implored, as Potter began to deflate more and more onto the bed in defeat.

“And me,” Draco had to supply. “You’re going to have to trust me. The Legilimency will be an utter nightmare without a basic semblance of trust.”

Potter shot up in his bed at the mention of Legilimency, looking from Weasley to Granger and back with wild, betrayed eyes. He couldn’t speak, but Draco could read that, too: You’re letting him into my head?!

Weasley’s hands quickly rose again in that surrendering gesture. “Mate, it’s not like that. He won’t be assaulting your mind and asking you to defend it with no real instruction. He’s a Healer, he’s a professional. People wouldn’t be raving about his work if it was torture, alright?”

Draco’s eyebrows furrowed. “Is that what Severus did? That’s practically barbaric,” he muttered. It was what his dear psychotic Aunt Bellatrix did to teach him Occlumency, indirectly—she’d only wanted to see him suffer, for fun, but he’d eventually learned how to keep her out. He’d never thought his godfather would do something like that—Severus certainly hadn’t been nice by any means, but he was calm and logical and precise, not torture-happy like Bella. Draco had also had much more incentive to learn Occlumency quickly. He’d had a lot to hide in that Manor, among such… company. He wasn’t surprised it didn’t take for Potter the same way.

All eyes turned to him in surprise, as if they’d forgotten he was there for a moment. Potter still looked angry, but the fire in his eyes was dimming as he assessed Draco again, as if Draco’s merely agreeing that Snape was a bully was unexpected enough for him to spare a thought before storming out of the room.

Potter scrubbed his hand through his hair, causing it to curl back from his forehead in what should not be an attractive way. How could anyone look that good with such illogical, untameable hair? His hand came down to rub over his jaw as he turned his calculating gaze to his friends. They were quiet, recognizing that he was in the process of making a decision. The room was silent but for the soft sound of Potter’s calloused fingers absently rubbing over his stubble.

Finally, he let out a huff, and closed his eyes as he nodded his assent to the room. The other occupants let out a collective breath, and Draco moved forward to grab Potter’s chart from the foot of the bed. He sat in the chair on the other side of the bed, crossed one long leg over the other, and pulled his tortoiseshell reading glasses from his jacket pocket, putting them carefully on his face. He started to read over the file, familiarizing himself with its contents, until he realized the silence of the room was heavy with something he hadn’t expected.

Draco glanced up from the file to find all three members of the Golden Trio staring at him in utter shock. This time, he could not suppress his eye roll as he clicked his tongue, annoyed. “What now?”

They continued staring for a moment, until Potter slowly raised his hand to point at the wire-framed glasses on his own face, his lips twitching in barely concealed amusement.

Draco knit his brows. “Reading glasses, yes. What about them?” He took them off and inspected them, in case there was an embarrassing smudge or something, but they were pristine.

“I think, erm… well, it’s just that…” Weasley started, his lips twitching as well, and Draco turned a very unimpressed look on him as he traded amused glances with Potter. “You used to tease Harry relentlessly about his glasses…” Ah, there it is.

Draco huffed. “Yes, yes, I was a prick, karma’s a bitch, and now I have to wear reading glasses at age twenty-five. Anything else we need to get out of the way before I can start working?” he asked, exasperated.

This apparently released some sort of tension in the room as the three Gryffindors broke into quiet giggles and looked at each other meaningfully. Draco shook his head and tried to keep the small smile off his face as he put his glasses back on and returned his attention to the file. The satisfaction of finally making these people laugh, even at his own expense, caused a warm feeling in his chest. Which was pathetic, he soon realized, and rearranged his face back to indifferent aristocrat post haste.

There was nothing in the file he hadn’t already expected. He was pleased to note that Potter was still shorter than him by a few inches. He was apparently healthy, physically. Despite the loss of his voice, his larynx was perfectly fine. There was no curse residue, nor any trace of Dark Magic, and the statistics of his memory showed potential for a minor Obliviation, but nothing major. Whatever was going on was happening entirely in his mind. Truly, Draco was the best person for the job. This is what he lived for.

Draco looked up at Potter, who had picked up the wizard’s chess game with Weasley as if nothing of note had happened. He carefully removed his reading glasses and held on to them as he braced himself to burst their bubble again.

“Alright, Potter, I’ll give you an overview on how this is going to work.”

All three faces turned to look at him expectantly.

Draco hesitated. He knew, in his bones, that Weasley and Granger were practically Potter’s family, and have been hearing anything the other Healers had to say about his case, but he didn’t want to test his bonds right now.

“As a Healer, I have to make sure you consent to Weasley and Granger hearing this as well.”

Potter frowned, a little confused, but nodded his head in consent. He sat up, crossing his legs under himself on the bed, all of his attention reluctantly turned to Draco. It was a heady feeling. How many times had Draco vied for that attention in school? In the worst possible ways, of course. He blinked his way back to the present, where Potter was watching him and waiting for his expertise as a skilled Healer.

“Very well. As I’m sure you’re aware, you’re in perfect health, physically. Your larynx is intact, nothing is inflamed, there’s no curse residue, there’s not even a hint of Dark Magic on you, your magical core looks fine. This means that whatever’s wrong with you is entirely in your mind, which is why Weasley was about to kick down my door at five thirty in the morning. Just because it’s happening inside your head, doesn’t mean it’s not real.”

Potter, who had been listening intently, jerked back at these last words. His face was shocked, then frightened, then enraged, so quickly Draco had trouble keeping up. He couldn’t for the life of him figure out what he’d done wrong already.

Potter looked to Weasley, then seemed to realize he couldn’t tear him a new one with just his face, so he scrambled his hands on the bedside table, desperately grabbing the blank parchment and quill that sat there. He started frantically writing something, then shoved the parchment in Draco’s face.

GET OUT OF MY HEAD

Draco furrowed his brows again, bewildered. Had he accidentally done Legilimency? No, his wand was still tucked in his blazer. Looking up from the parchment, he searched Potter’s face for answers. Upon meeting his eyes, Potter hastily looked away. Evidently, he really thought Draco was in his head right now. Perhaps Draco had said something that triggered a memory?

“Potter, I’m not in your head. Yet. I assure you I’m much more professional than that. Our sessions will be strictly regimented, and I never go in without the patient’s consent. I’ve already told you there has to be a semblance of trust between us, or else it will feel like a brawl the whole time. What would I have to gain by breaking that trust now, before we’ve even started?”

Potter looked back at him, his face guarded, still carefully not making eye contact. This was definitely going to be a job for the fucking books.

“If I may continue?” Draco tried for exasperated, but it only came out a bit wary. Everything seemed so fragile at the moment.

Potter nodded, still not meeting his eyes. Draco missed the attention, pathetically. He nodded back.

“Anyway. It’s in your head, probably hidden somewhere in your mind or your memories, which is where I come in. The numbers here show a small potential that you’ve been Obliviated, but certainly nothing major or dangerous to recover. As you know, I use Legilimency, to find curses or diseases that may be hidden in someone’s mind, or to guide someone through countering a mind curse on their own, or in the most dire circumstances, helping someone learn to cope with afflictions or curses of the mind that do not yet have a cure.”

The trio nodded along, Weasley and Granger kept their eyes on him, drinking in every word. Draco had to keep himself from preening.

“This looks to me like it might be a mind curse,” Draco continued, “but we won’t know for sure until we get in there. I’ve certainly never seen anything like it—most silence curses simply remove one’s voicebox, physically. But curses inside the mind tend to leave clues, or marks, like… like breadcrumbs.'' He furrowed his brows, recalling a muggle fairy tale about siblings that dropped a trail of breadcrumbs to prevent themselves from getting lost. The words were barely out of his mouth, however, when he realized how utterly ridiculous that sounds to anyone who didn’t know the tale, like it had to him a few years ago when a curse breaker used that analogy in a lecture.

But Potter and Granger both nodded in understanding. Weasley looked confused, and turned to Granger, as he probably did every time he didn’t understand something, since their first year at Hogwarts. Granger felt his gaze, but kept hers on Draco as she muttered, “Reference to a muggle fairy tale. Two kids are abandoned in the woods, and drop a trail of breadcrumbs behind them so they can find their way back. It sounds like the best way to describe what he’s saying, I can’t think of anything similar magically.”

Weasley’s eyebrows raised once again—probably digesting the fact that Draco Malfoy referenced a muggle fairy tale—then shot back down. “How come I’ve never heard of it? Rose loves fairy tales. We must have read every single one.”

Granger hesitated, darting glances around the room, before she gathered herself again, clearing her throat. “It’s not a very nice story. They sort of fall prey to a cannibalistic old witch with a house made of sweets, who fattens them up like pigs for slaughter. They end up murdering her with her own oven, and barely escaping with their lives.” She shuddered. “Gave me nightmares as a child. Not a good bedtime story.” She thought for a moment. “Also a terrible portrayal of magical people, but not entirely atypical for the muggle world, especially at the time it was written, in the middle ages.”

Draco nodded, as Weasley stared, open-mouthed, at his muggleborn wife. It was a creepy story, and unrealistic—that witch must have been truly senile to be overpowered and outwitted by two muggle children, but she was obviously barmy if she was trying to eat them anyway. Good riddance, Draco thought.

“Agreed, Granger, not a fun story. But the breadcrumbs are the best analogy here. Sometimes, I have to find all of the breadcrumbs and connect the dots, which together make a countercurse,” Draco explained. “Sometimes the patient has been thrown into their unconscious mind, and has to be guided along a trail to find their way back.” He suppressed a shudder. He hated venturing into an unconscious. They were bloody huge and nonsensical and near impossible to navigate.

“So, I’ll be seeing you twice weekly for the next six weeks—Mondays and Thursdays, and full eight hour appointments. It’s not Legilimency the entire time—” Draco added, seeing Potter’s comically wide eyes, “—it’s a session in the morning, followed by rest and mapping out the progress, then another session in the afternoon. It’s irresponsible to do anything more frequent than that.”

Potter’s eyes were still wide and fearful as he exchanged glances with Weasley and Granger. They all looked back at him, having successfully communicated something wordlessly.

“Six weeks?” Weasley asked, clearly affronted.

Draco shot him another unimpressed look. “Yes, six weeks, and that’s on the shorter end of the timeline. The mind is absolutely gargantuan, and we have to pay attention to every detail. If we’re keeping the analogy, we’re literally scouring the forest floor for breadcrumbs. You can’t rush through it, as missing a crumb or taking a wrong turn could set us back even farther. Plus, we have to recover any lost memories first.”

Weasley looked chastised, Granger looked intrigued, and Potter looked… still cagey. It made Draco feel like he was cornering a wild animal, treading carefully, desperate not to spook or anger it.

“If you’re amenable, Potter, we can start with memory recovery right now. I’d have to look at the general structure of your mind to find any holes, and from there it’s a simple matter of tugging the memory back from your unconscious. You don’t feel like you’re missing anything substantial, correct? You don’t feel disconcerted, disorientated, or confused?” Draco asked.

Potter shook his head slowly.

“Then it shouldn’t take very long at all, and you’ll be out of here in time for supper.” Draco slowly raised his hand towards his chest, but didn’t grab his wand yet. He felt Potter might bolt if he drew his wand without warning. Draco raised his eyebrows. “If I may?”

Potter took a deep breath, steeling himself. Draco wondered if it was the same kind of breath he took before facing an enemy in battle. Potter’s eyes opened and met Draco’s head on, and he gave a quick nod, his lips pressed together in a thin line.

He’s expecting pain, Draco realized. Snape must have been a real arse to him—Legilimency only hurt if the caster wanted to cause the pain.

Draco gently removed his wand from his jacket, and held it up in a loose, easy grip, pointing it at Potter’s forehead. He flinched minutely, but Draco caught the movement.

“Relax,” he said in a low voice he used with his more skittish patients. “I won’t hurt you.”

Potter’s eyes met his again, emerald green on sterling silver, with a glaring intensity that made Draco sigh and lower his wand. He hadn’t cast anything, but Draco could read his expression: You’ve hurt me plenty before.

Draco kept the eye contact for a moment, softening his face. It was true, Harry Potter had no reason to trust Draco Malfoy—but he needed to get through this moment if they were going to cure Potter at all. Even if it had to happen in the presence of the entire Golden Trio.

“Harry,” he tried. It rolled too easily off his tongue—it felt nice. Potter’s eyes widened, but he maintained his glare. “I know you have no reason to trust me. But I won’t ply you with empty words, I won’t grovel at your feet. The only way you’ll know I’m not the same boy I was is if you see it for yourself, but I won’t waste my time if you won’t bother giving me a chance.” Which was true; Draco didn’t need to be Potter’s Healer. Draco could give him a long list of recommendations, there were quite a few other Healer Legilimens around the world, whom Draco had learned from. He wanted to take this case—but he wouldn’t beg for it.

Draco could feel the hint of sweat returning on the back of his neck. He wished he knew what his face looked like right now; it was probably impossible to achieve the “cold and superior and warm and open” combination he was going for.

His fingers were fidgeting where they held his silver lime wood wand in his lap, but his voice didn’t waver, and held the conviction he had hoped for. He never thought he’d have the chance to say these words to Potter. He’d had to say them a few times before, but he had formulated them with Potter in mind, first.

Potter kept his intense gaze on Draco for a long moment, and Draco held it, refusing to look away.

Eventually, Potter gave one look each to Granger and Weasley, as if to say, if anything happens to me, it’s your fault, but they were too busy staring at Draco in shock to register it. He guessed it must have been as much of an emotional whirlwind of a day for them as it had been for him—although in very different ways.

Reluctantly, Potter turned back to Draco, and continued turning his whole body until he was facing Draco entirely. He let his legs dangle off the bed, socked feet barely grazing the floor, and gripped the edge of the bed with both of his hands. Their knees were only inches apart. He took another deep breath, then another, and met Draco’s gaze again, giving another short nod.

Draco released the breath he had been holding, and hoped his gratitude showed in his eyes, because he’d given up too much of his pride in one day to say ‘Thank you’ out loud to Harry Potter, after that. He raised his wand again, slowly.

“Liceat mihi ingressum*,” Draco whispered, a not-quite-Legilimency spell to enter the mind. Draco could see Potter’s mind now as more of an apparatus, or an organism. He wasn’t intruding, not yet. Just looking. It looked like a glowing, writhing, living, web—always a bit disconcerting, but always breathtakingly beautiful. It reminded Draco of a fully transformed Veela, without the allure, all light and magic and near-violent energy. Potter’s mind glowed gold, red, and green, twisting and whirring and sparkling with his magic. Draco admired it for a moment, breathing in the indulgent scent of treacle and a garden after rain, before setting to work.

Normal memory holes made a mind look like a malfunctioning clock, as if a gear or a cog was removed somewhere. There was nothing like that here. Everything moved smoothly together, and looked intact. But soon enough, Draco spotted something odd. It was small, almost miniscule, but a little black dot moved silently among the glowing strands. It was dark, a clear absence where light should be, and faintly ringed in a silver glow, almost like an eclipse. Draco watched it move slowly, nearly blending in with its surroundings. It was so innocuous, yet so obvious. As if its purpose was to hide, but only in order to be found.

Draco concentrated his magic, and gave it a gentle tug.

He was immediately dragged forward into a memory. He suppressed a twitch of panic; that was not supposed to happen. He’d have to see it through, though, to figure out why it had happened. Taking in his surroundings, he guessed this was a muggle pub. He felt drunk, distantly, and knew he was experiencing the memory as… as Potter. This hidden memory was of Potter, drunk, at a cozy looking muggle pub.

Draco concentrated more. Tired, stressed—a feeling of dull dread, and resignation. Exhaustion. Potter was seated at the bar, a number of empty lowball glasses in front of him. The pub was nearly empty, it must have been very late. The bartender was nowhere in sight.

A figure sat a couple seats down from him, and was speaking to him, but in this intoxicated state, it was almost impossible to make out any words. He couldn’t even tell the gender of the speaker, could not discern anything about their looks at all. It must have been some sort of Notice-Me-Not, but not one Draco had ever seen. He concentrated harder on the words.

“Are you tired of being Him all the time?”

“Mmm.” Potter hummed, eyes half closed.

“Harry Potter, the Chosen One, the Boy Who Lived.” The figure’s tone was part disdainful, part coddling. Draco didn’t trust it at all. “The hero,” they added, like prodding a dying fire.

“‘M not,” Potter slurred, shaking his head slowly, regretting it as he squeezed his eyes shut against a wave of nausea. Draco felt it too, and felt himself sway and sweat in his own body. That was odd—normally he was able to remain an outsider in someone’s memories. He was able to discern emotions and feelings, but as a separate entity. Why was he Harry, right now?

“No one truly knows who Harry Potter is, do they?” the figure asked, probably rhetorically, and where was the fucking bartender? Was no one else picking up on this bizarre conversation? How will Potter get home like this? “They see who they want to see, the icon whom they want to idolize, the pedestal on which to place their burdens and their blame. Their hero, responsible for saving them, again and again.”

Draco tried to get another look at the figure from Harry’s peripheral, but his vision was swimming, and their image was constantly shifting. There was definitely some sort of charm there. Harry continued to shake his head, apparently trying to not hear what they were saying. Meanwhile, the indecipherable figure moved closer.

“Not for much longer, Mr. Potter. I have seen it, and you will be known.” Okay, that was definitely a wand coming closer. He felt Harry’s stomach jump with the instinct to move, and outside, Draco was shaking with secondhand adrenaline. But Harry’s muscles were too sluggish, and felt weighed down by lead, disconnected from him. There may have been something extra in those drinks.

“But in order to be known as the man,” the figure continued, “you will have to stop being their hero.”

“Can’t,” Harry muttered. His breathing had sped up. “Have to.”

“You do not want to be known, as yourself?” the figure probed, and Draco honestly could not figure out what their aim was. To understand Harry? To get him out of the way? To belittle him? “Irrelevant. You will be known, whether you are ready for it or not. And until then…”

“Hide your Voice.” The figure spoke with conviction, and Draco felt a soft breeze pass through Harry. Through the haze of alcohol, Draco tried to figure out how this was possibly an incantation, but the figure continued on. “Speak only for yourself.”

The breeze ended, and Harry and Draco both swayed. He felt a disconnect now, something had changed. Harry’s mouth opened to say something, but no noise came forth. Harry’s panic was rising. The figure continued to gaze at Harry with their ever-changing features, and Draco had never seen someone so inconceivable. Were they even human?

“I am sorry to leave you like this, Mr. Potter,” and Draco doubted this very much, “and I am sorry to make you misplace this memory, as well. But do not worry,” they said, and was that excitement in their voice? “He will find it.”

Their wand was raised again, and Draco fell backwards into his mind-viewing. He quickly gathered his wits and exited Harry’s mind.

He gasped for breath as he returned fully to his body, quickly taking inventory of himself as he did after every session. Fingers, flexed, that’s his own hair, brushing his face, those are his legs, yes. That was too intense for a mind-viewing. He was only supposed to return the memory to Potter’s conscious mind, why did it suck him in like that? He slowed his breathing, wiped his forehead with his silk handkerchief, and absently handed it to Potter. If he was feeling anything like Draco was, he’d need it, but Draco couldn’t look at him now. He quickly pulled a small notebook and biro from his jacket pocket, thank Merlin for those extension charms, and started frantically writing down everything he could before he could forget. The room was silent for a few moments, except for the sounds of their breathing and the scratch of the pen.

Finally, Draco looked back up at Potter. Potter was watching him, wide-eyed, lips barely parted. He was breathing quickly, and his eyes were shiny. His skin looked paler, hints of sweat still on his forehead—Draco’s handkerchief was clutched tightly in his fist. Did he even use it?

“Are you alright?” Draco asked. Potter didn’t answer, just continued watching him.

“Did you see what I saw? At the pub?” Draco tried again. Potter hesitated, then nodded slowly.

Draco scribbled some more notes in his notebook. Finally, unable to help herself, Granger spoke up.

“Did you find something? Was he Obliviated?” she asked.

“Yes, he was Obliviated, but…” Draco furrowed his brows. This was the weird part. “He wasn’t Obliviated very hard.” He wasn’t sure that made sense, but it was true. “It wasn’t hidden, just sort of… tucked away…” He mumbled, making more notes. “It wanted to be found. It knew it would be.”

“Who was it? Why’d they bother Obliviating him at all?” Weasley piped up.

“Erm…” Draco looked at Potter for help. “Do you have any idea who—or what—that was?”

Potter shook his head, and Draco’s Healer instincts kicked in at his glazed eyes, recognizing the symptoms of shock, maybe even panic. Draco quickly conjured a glass, and filled it with his special aguamenti with lemon. He set it on the nightstand with his left hand, and conjured his Patronus with his right. The nightingale burst from his wand in a small puff of silvery light and turned to him, hovering expectantly. “Please tell the nearest mediwix we need chocolate in 306,” Draco said, and the small bird turned and sailed out of the room.

Draco looked back at Potter, who seemed to be having trouble keeping up with his surroundings. He was still breathing too quickly, too shallow. “Potter, lie back down. Are you dizzy?” Potter just obeyed absently, his eyes still glassy, fixated on Draco. Draco adjusted the bed with a gentle flick of his wand, so that he wasn’t completely horizontal, and his feet were raised slightly. The mediwitch finally knocked twice, and came in holding a bar of Honeyduke’s Finest.

Draco reached out for it, muttering a quick “Thank you, Nanette.” She gave a quick smile and a “You’re welcome, Healer Malfoy,” and left the room. He was grateful it was Nanette, whom he’d worked with plenty before. He trusted her discretion. Draco reset the privacy charms before turning back to the bed and unwrapping the chocolate, breaking off a large piece and handing it to Potter.

“Eat,” he commanded gently, “You’ll feel better.”

Potter watched him thoughtfully, but thankfully did as he was told. After a few bites, he was steadily improving. He was blinking normally, though still watching Draco carefully, and according to the monitor charm above his bed, his heart rate was evening out. His breathing slowed, and Draco released the tension in his own shoulders.

“Yes, someone cursed him, but it was quite bizarre, I was unable to figure out a motive… Might have been a fan that lost the plot. The person was… indecipherable. I could not make out a single defining feature at all, it was charm work like I’ve never seen.” Draco paused, unsure how much of this memory Potter was willing to share with his friends. He decided to skip the morose parts for now.

“I shouldn’t have been able to see that memory, from where I stood on the edge of his mind. That spell only lets me look at the mind as a whole, so I can see where there might be missing parts or pieces not connecting. But when I found the empty spot, and tried to tug it to his conscious mind, it dragged me in.” Draco took a deep breath. “It made me experience it, and I believe that was intentional on the part of the caster. It wanted to be found, and I have no idea why they bothered hiding it at all.”

The three Gryffindors were quiet, taking in the information. Potter still looked a little spooked, so Draco decided to let him recover. His own mind was buzzing with theories, none of them helpful at the moment. Today’s work was done.

“Right. Well, Potter, we’ll discuss that curse first thing tomorrow morning, say, nine o’ clock? I can provide meals. We can meet here, or at your home, or at mine—which would you prefer?” Draco was curious for a glimpse of Potter’s home, but he had to offer options.

Potter looked at Weasley with a question in his eyes. Weasley understood it easily. “No, he doesn’t mean the Manor. He has a place of his own,” he answered Potter, with a meaningful glance at Granger. Draco suppressed another shudder at the memory of her screams under Bellatrix’s wand at the Manor, and looked away from Granger as she absently rubbed her right arm, where Draco knew the word “mudblood” was carved on the skin under her jumper. He recognized the gesture as a nervous one; he was constantly having to stop himself from rubbing the faded, ugly Dark Mark on his left arm when he was nervous, or the scars on his chest when he thought about Potter. He clasped his hands together in front of him to keep himself from doing it now.

“Thank Merlin for that,” Draco muttered.

Potter watched Draco for a moment, appraisingly, before pointing at him with a gentle movement.

“Mine, then?” Draco clarified, and Potter nodded. Draco reached into his jacket pocket again and pulled out a card with his apparition coordinates, handing it over.

“Alright,” Draco said, standing from his chair and smoothing down his jacket again. “I’ll expect you tomorrow morning at nine. Send an owl if you have questions in the meantime.” He straightened his spine, and sent a small glare at Weasley. “If you have any trouble finding the house, I’m sure the Head Auror can get you there in record time.”

Weasley seemed amused by his jab, but his ears were a little red. “Thank you for your help, Healer Malfoy,” he nodded at Draco.

Draco nodded politely at each person in turn, his eyes lingering on Potter a bit longer than normal, before turning and striding out of the room. Granger and Weasley broke out in quiet conversation as he closed the door behind him, and walked briskly towards the apparition point in the hospital.

It wasn’t until he was safe behind his own wards that he realized Potter still had his handkerchief. Oh, well.

Chapter Two

Draco spent the entire evening in his study that night, pulling down every leather-bound text and dusty tome that could possibly be relevant to Potter’s case and burying himself in the work. There was nothing, which Draco should have expected. Most mind curses were unprecedented, especially one that simply hid someone’s whole voice inside their own mind.

Timsy had to step in around one in the morning to make him go to bed, which Draco tried to do, he really did. But his thoughts were moving too fast to relax, and even his best efforts at Occlumency couldn’t keep the image of Potter’s angry green eyes out of his head. He’d ended up slipping out of his house for a quick fly on his Firebolt 3001, hoping the cold, late March air would clear his brain enough for sleep. The sky was a deep blue-black, the stars shining brighter under a new moon. It was beautiful, and rejuvenating, disencumbering his mind as it always did. Timsy gave him an exasperated look when he landed, but said nothing.

Draco was able to sleep after that, but it was fitful and shallow, his dreams marred with flashes of green eyes pleading from a swollen face, of a warm body against his chest and fiendfyre at his back, of blood in the water on the floor of a flooded bathroom.

By the time his alarm went off Monday morning, he was in a similar mood as the morning before. As the minutes ticked closer to nine, his doubts became louder and louder. Why on earth had he agreed to this? There was no way to maintain a professional distance with Potter—there was just too much history between them, right? Surely there was somebody else with his particular skill set that could help Potter?

Sure, but not here. Potter didn’t want to leave the country, gods forbid the Golden Boy shirk his hero duties for a few weeks to heal from a curse. Draco was the only Healer Legilimens in England, and he was sure Potter was quite eager to get back to chasing Dark wizards and generally being Wizarding Britain’s pride and joy.

“Master Draco is being angry at the morning again,” Timsy’s hoarse, quiet voice dragged him out of his thoughts. The elf was eyeing him disapprovingly as he served a fried egg on top of Draco’s toast—good and runny, just how he liked it. He must have appreciated the baklava Draco brought home yesterday.

“If mornings would stop being so horrible to endure, I might be happier to see them,” Draco retorted. He set down his coffee mug and started in on his breakfast.

“It is not being the sun’s fault that Master Draco does not sleep when he should,” Timsy replied smoothly, and Draco had to appreciate how he was finally allowing himself to be sassy in front of Draco, even when it was in his characteristic quiet reprimand.

“Too right you are, Timsy, but I’ll hold the grudge as long as I can.” The corners of Draco’s mouth were turned up, and he could not keep the fondness out of his voice. No matter what was going on in his life, Timsy always seemed to be able to lift his mood a little.

Draco refilled his coffee cup and stood up, stretching out his long limbs and trying to breathe life and energy into himself. He’d gone for a “casual elite” look today, with dark grey muggle trousers, warm brown Oxfords and a white button-up shirt, with the top button left undone. He was in his home, after all, and he knew for a fact that Potter wouldn’t be showing up in his finest, either. If he showed up at all.

He took his steaming mug and thanked Timsy for the meal. Timsy offered to welcome the impending guest and show them to his study whenever they arrived—he had probably deduced from Draco’s agitated fidgeting that he was expecting someone. Draco agreed and gave the elf a smile before returning to his study to organize his thoughts.

He paused on entering, realizing the room was still in disarray from his fevered research the night before. He waved his wand in a slow arc in front of him, and the books and scrolls steadily put themselves away, leaving his study looking immaculate once more. He went to the windows and drew the curtains, letting in the bright morning sun. The walls were covered in bookshelves, holding a wide array of tomes and medical texts and curious—and relatively benign—magical artifacts. Plants stood in every corner and on the shelves that received the best sunlight.

Draco’s primary thought when decorating his house was that wherever he imagined Lucius would have displayed a Dark artifact, or token of pureblood ancestry, Draco would put a plant instead. The effect was that his house seemed like a bit of a jungle, at times, and Timsy had his hands full with plant care most of the time.

The heavy wingback chairs in front of the fireplace looked inviting, but he walked over to his wide mahogany desk instead, rounding it to sit in his own cozy leather chair behind it. Draco set his coffee cup down, removed his notebook from his locked desk drawer with a complicated wand movement, and began reviewing yesterday’s events.

His heart sped up unnecessarily as he felt the telltale wobble in the wards, but he kept his face blank and smooth. He heard the low rasp of Timsy’s voice welcoming someone, and barely had time to straighten his hair out one last time before the door to the study opened and Potter walked in.

“Potter,” Draco greeted, standing from his comfy chair and shutting the notebook. Potter looked at him, meeting his eyes for a moment and giving him a quick nod, before his gaze continued its wandering journey, taking in the details of Draco’s study. Draco bristled at the scrutiny, feeling protective of his home, but he tried to rein it in. He recognized what Potter was doing, other than familiarizing himself with Draco’s study—walking to the window and looking outside before looking back, and hurriedly inspecting every corner of the room with his eyes. He was taking inventory of exits and escape routes, vulnerabilities for potential threats. He was putting his back against the wall so he could see everything, and every way in or out. Draco did the same thing in unfamiliar places. He still did it at the Manor. He never felt truly safe unless he was behind his own painstakingly-crafted wards, in his very own home.

Plus, Potter was technically in “enemy territory.” Never mind Draco was a former enemy. Potter had no real reason to believe that yet.

“Have you had breakfast yet?” Draco asked. Potter nodded once. He was wearing a long sleeved black t-shirt and a pair of snug, well-worn muggle jeans with his Auror-standard dragonhide boots. It suited him, which made Draco frown. It was annoying how good Potter looked, especially in something so casual. He probably didn’t even think before pulling on those clothes this morning.

Draco looked away, retrieving a blank notebook and another muggle ball-point pen from his desk, gathering up his own notebook and making his way towards the comfortable wingback chairs that faced each other in front of the fire. He gestured for Potter to join him, doing him a favour and taking the seat with his back to the door. Potter eyed him thoughtfully as he sat down across from Draco, his calloused fingers rubbing the rich leather of the armrests. His shoulders were tense, and he kept his feet firmly planted on the floor, instead of leaning back or crossing his legs like Draco. Cornered animal, Draco thought, again.

“Would you like anything to drink? Make a ‘C’ with your hand, for coffee—“ Draco demonstrated the gesture, “—a ‘T’ for tea, or a ‘W’ for water.” Potter tilted his head, and made a ‘C’ with his hand.

“Timsy,” Draco said quietly. Timsy appeared with a small pop.

“Could you please bring us some coffee, perhaps some biscuits as well? And a bar of chocolate, just in case,” Draco added, remembering the day before.

“Yes, Master Draco,” Timsy replied, before looking up at Draco with wide, innocent eyes, which immediately made Draco suspicious. “Is Master Draco requiring his slippers as well?”

Draco narrowed his eyes, but the corners of his mouth twitched, belying his reluctant amusement. “No, thank you, Timsy.”

Timsy’s eyes sparkled as he bowed and apparated away with another small pop. Draco shook his head with barely contained fondness, and returned his attention to Potter, who looked like he was thinking very hard about something.

“If you have to use the loo, do this with your hand.” He stuck his thumb between his middle and index finger, palm facing out, and rocked his hand from side to side. He remembered that from his False-Tongue Curse patient—Draco spoke a few languages, so his patient had used American Sign Language with him for a while, until Draco picked it up, at which point they switched to Yiddish. “Fair enough?”

Potter nodded again, eyebrows slightly furrowed. Draco set his own notebook and pen on the side table, and handed the blank one over to Potter.

“For when you have something to say that can’t be communicated with hand gestures,” Draco explained. Potter examined the notebook, opening it and touching the blank pages, rolling the blue pen between his fingers.

Timsy reappeared with a tray laden with coffee, fixings, biscuits, and chocolate, and laid it on the side table between them. It looked heavenly, even though Draco had just eaten and had already had two cups of Timsy’s delectable coffee. He restrained himself to a glass of water, knowing if he had more coffee now his hands would start to shake.

Potter poured himself a coffee, after Timsy had left. They were seated abnormally close, but that was necessary for Draco’s work. No matter how often he did it, it was always a bit awkward to sit like this with someone for the first time, knees only centimetres apart. His hand twitched with the urge to start casting and get it over with, to avoid acknowledging this proximity, but good Healers didn’t work like that, Draco had learned. Legilimency in healing was ineffective without trust, and conversation was imperative to building trust. It had been a truly disquieting lesson to learn, for a Slytherin and especially for a Malfoy, raised to take advantage of others’ weaknesses and trust no one with their own.

Draco leaned back in his chair and folded his hands over his lap, forcing himself to slow down and watch Potter for a moment. Potter had noticed that Draco wasn’t drinking coffee with him, which had apparently made him suspicious. He took out his wand and proceeded to check his coffee for poisons. Draco tried not to sigh.

“I’ve already had two cups this morning,” Draco offered. Conversation had to start somewhere, he figured, even if it was doomed to be one-sided, what with Potter being mute. “As much as I want to—Timsy’s coffee is incredible—having any more than that would make me a very twitchy, ineffective Healer.”

Potter’s mouth quirked, probably picturing a twitchy, ungraceful Draco Malfoy. He finally deemed his coffee safe to drink, and closed his eyes at the first sip, sighing in satisfaction. Draco smirked, but refrained from saying ‘I told you so.’

“Alright, well,” Draco started, “I think we ought to begin with that memory of the incident. I don’t have to go back in your head for it, if you’d rather pull it out for the Pensieve, we can watch it again together. We might be able to make out more details that way, without the nausea. It’ll still be hazy, but we’ll only be watching.” He’d rather not endure the full experience again if he didn’t have to.

Potter thought for a moment, then conjured a small glass vial with his wand. He raised the tip of his wand to his temple, squeezed his eyes shut, and pulled the silvery strand of memory out. Even outside of his head, it looked odd. It didn’t look like tampered memories he’d seen before, just—odd. Tainted. Not a normal memory.

“Do all your memories look like that?” Draco asked, as Potter carefully slipped the strand into the glass vial and handed it to Draco. Potter furrowed his brows again as he shook his head. He clearly didn’t know what was wrong with it, either.

Draco stood up and walked over to one of his bookshelves, finding the purple spine of the charmed book and pulling until it stopped, halfway out. Magic shimmered in a large rectangular shape around the book, revealing a cabinet, which swung open slowly. He didn’t have a real need to hide his Pensieve, but he’d never seen one that wasn’t carefully protected, so it couldn’t hurt. There were small shelves full of memories around it—some were gifts, but most were his own. Mostly dull things, lectures that would be useful to recall fully later, his observations of other Healer Legilimens at work, when he was permitted. Others were simpler, and more personal: three of them were of Lucius, showing him and his mother genuine affection, when Draco was very young. The only three times he could recall. There were several of his goddaughter, that always made him laugh. One was of Potter’s testimony, of him silently handing back Draco’s hawthorn wand at the end of the trial.

He carefully lifted the Pensieve from its plinth and sent it floating back towards Potter. Potter stood as Draco returned, and continued watching him warily.

Draco poured the odd strand into the placid part-liquid-part-gas of the Pensieve and looked at Potter for confirmation. Potter tilted his chin down—Draco was getting very familiar with these barely-there gestures—and they both dipped their faces into the Pensieve.

As they fell into the memory, the stability of being an outsider that Draco had hoped for was washed away. The floor they landed on moved and swayed beneath their feet, causing Draco to reach out instinctively and grab Potter’s upper arm to keep his balance. Potter met his eyes, his knees bent slightly to stabilize himself, and Draco sighed. “I guess we’re not escaping the nausea after all,” he commented dryly.

Looking around, he spotted Potter’s hunched figure at the end of the bar, closest to the wall, his head in his hands. The mysterious individual was there, as well, a couple seats down, talking softly. Draco still couldn’t decipher any singular feature, and could only discern that this was somebody. The Potter next to him was staring hard at them, bewildered and frustrated. Draco wondered if he’d have more luck recognizing them like this.

Draco looked around. There was still no one else to be seen at this pub—no staff, no patrons. Just Potter and someone. But it was definitely a muggle pub; the bottles behind the bar held muggle alcohol, and nothing shimmered or sparked or smoked, and the pictures on the wall looked to be of famous football players, perpetually frozen and still.

He tuned back into the words, listening intently while watching the Potter next to him for his reactions. Potter’s eyes were strained, as if the words hurt to hear, but his top lip was curling subtly in… disgust? Disdain? His fists were clenching and unclenching at his sides, his body was tense as he watched the scene unfold.

“Not for much longer, Mr. Potter. I have seen it, and you will be known.” Was this person a Seer? Were they trying to fulfill a prophecy? Or—and this was a large possibility—were they just crazy? Draco had seen a lot of harm done under the guise of ‘the greater good.’ Some people genuinely believed they were doing the right thing, while doing the worst possible things.

“Hide your Voice,” the wand was pointed at his head, and the drunk Potter’s eyes widened as he tried and failed to move around, away. “Speak only for yourself.”

Potter watched his incapacitated self struggle, opening and closing his mouth when no sound came out, with barely concealed fear and disgust. Draco would feel the same if he had to watch himself laid low like this, caught unawares, when he normally wouldn’t have taken his guard down for even a second. Draco frowned as this gave him a thought.

Then the someone apologized, half-heartedly, and Obliviated Potter, and they were thrown out of the memory and back onto their feet in Draco’s study.

Draco checked Potter over, subtly, making sure he didn’t go into shock again, before making his way back to their chairs.

“If you’d like, you can have a few minutes to write down your thoughts or questions, and we’ll discuss it,” Draco suggested. Potter sat down and started writing, a frown of concentration on his face, and Draco added to his notes.

Potter sipped his coffee as he worked, kept warm by Timsy’s temperature regulating charms on the mugs. He raised his eyebrow at Draco, apparently surprised that the coffee was still perfect. Draco only murmured, “That would be Timsy’s doing.”

Soon enough, Potter put his pen down, and after a great hesitation, handed his notebook to Draco. It only had a couple sentences on it.

Couldn’t recognize person—reminds me of Unspeakables

Draco raised his eyebrows. He hadn’t thought of that.

“That could well have been an Unspeakable, but I wouldn’t know. I’ve never actually seen one, that I know of.” Draco thought for a moment. “There’s a Hall of Prophecies down in the Department of Mysteries, isn’t there?”

Potter’s eyes widened. His lips pressed together, his face turned grave. He nodded his head yes. Draco vaguely recalled something about the Hall of Prophecy being mentioned at the end of his fifth year, when his father was arrested, after apparently battling Potter and his friends in the Department of Mysteries. Draco shuddered at the thought of Lucius and Bellatrix, grown adult wizard and witch, side by side, pointing their wands at children for the favour of a bloodthirsty megalomaniac.

“I figured. This person sounds a bit prophetic, don’t they? ‘I have seen it, and you will be known.’ Maybe they work down there. Or, they could be a Seer—do you know any, other than Trelawney?” Draco rolled his eyes, everyone knew Trelawney was an old fraud, but he didn’t want to waste time with Potter writing down her name. Potter shook his head in reply.

“Alright.” Draco got up and walked to the wall opposite the Pensieve cabinet. He waved both of his hands in a vague gesture, and the wall of bookshelves transformed in a flurry of spinning tiles, into a clean, black chalkboard. Using his wand, he wrote Who? in the top left corner, underlined it, and added Unspeakable? Seer? underneath. He returned to the chair, and lay his wand on the side table, next to his glass of water.

Draco picked up Potter’s notebook again, reading the next question, which was simple enough.

Incantation?

“Ah, yes. ‘Hide your Voice,’ a command, and…” Draco frowned and looked at his own notes. “‘Speak only for yourself’, a condition.” He looked up and sent the incantations to be written on the chalkboard. “I don’t exactly know how they were able to just say it, in plain English, but it makes sense in the context of their rambling.”

Potter looked uncomfortable. Draco decided to come back to that later, but first, he needed to know something.

“Potter, was that a bar you frequent regularly?” Potter nodded slowly. “Why?” Draco added, handing Potter back his notebook. He looked reluctant, but started writing anyway, soon handing it back to Draco.

No one knows me there.

Draco tilted his head down in response. “Understandable,” he said, “I wear glamours or transfigure my face when I have to go out shopping or dining in Wizarding districts.” He paused, remembering the spit on his face the one time he tried to restock his potions ingredients in person, as himself—and the violence and jeers of the approaching mob as he walked down Diagon Alley toward Gringotts, at nineteen. He had fled in disapparition before he ever arrived. “Pansy doesn’t allow it, says I have to ‘face them head on,’ or something, but she’s scary enough that people don’t bother us when we’re together.”

Potter’s mouth was pressed in a thin line. He motioned for his notebook again, scribbling something with agitation before flipping it around to face Draco again.

Muggle places too low for a Malfoy?

Draco sighed and closed his eyes. They were on the precipice, here, of that fragile trust that Draco needed to work, which could only be formed through open, honest conversation. This was always the hardest part, but supposedly, it would be worth it in the end.

“Too low for Lucius, probably, even in Azkaban,” Draco began, trying not to hesitate so much, “but for me, no, I’m just…” he huffed. This was so much work. “I’m honestly quite afraid I’ll just muck it up,” he admitted.

“I’ve had encounters with maybe a handful of muggles throughout my life,” he explained, “and every time I got so nervous that I was going to reveal something and break the law or that they were going to hurt me—I was raised to believe they were inherently dangerous, and needed to be subjugated, so when I was young, I was terribly afraid of them. I know they’re not any more dangerous than wizards, but I still clam up around them. I don’t know how to handle the different money, or the customs, I don’t know what food or drinks to order, or what to say, or how to act. I never learned.”

Potter watched him fumble to explain himself, and Draco felt uneasy under his interrogating gaze.

“I do visit muggle places, sometimes, but usually with Pansy, who’s much more comfortable around them,” Draco added. His fingers were tapping on his knee in agitation. Admitting a weakness never got any easier, no matter how often he did it.

Draco tried to steer the conversation back to the matter at hand. “Anyway, I asked if you frequent that pub because you seemed very… comfortable there, even if you were uncomfortable at the time.”

Potter’s eyes flashed, probably getting defensive about having so obviously let his guard down for an attacker.

“Was it common for people to make conversation with you, there? Were you friends with any of the regulars or staff? Could this person have been chatting you up for a while, maybe under a disguise, until they were close enough to be able to slip potions into your drinks with you unawares?”

Draco regretted the onslaught of questions, one at a time was obviously easier for someone who couldn’t speak, but they also kept getting sidetracked with each question, and there was so much Draco needed to know. Potter had diligently started writing his answers, and eventually flipped the notebook towards Draco again.

Yes.
Yes—saw none there.
Yes, possible. Have no reason to distrust muggles.

“Alright, then there’s two paths we could take today.” Draco sat up, ready to work. “Option one: we go through your memories of that pub, to try to learn more about your attacker. I’d use Legilimency first, to sort through all of them quickly, then pick out any relevant ones for us to look at in a Pensieve. I’d probably go back three months, at least.”

Potter looked thoughtful, but his eyes flashed again, with something like excitement. Draco assumed Auror Potter would probably be raring to go, eager to investigate and finally catch the bad guy. But he waited for Draco to continue.

“Option two: we start looking for the curse, and how to reverse it. We’d begin the same as the rest of my patients, with me basically introducing myself to your head, getting you accustomed to my presence, and looking around for clues—looking, not digging or rooting around carelessly, don’t look at me like that. I’m not Severus or Bellatrix or Voldemort. I’m a Healer.”

Potter’s face was pure shock, once he got past the angry narrowing of his eyes at the thought of Legilimency. Draco couldn’t identify which part of his last sentences had caused him to be so appalled. Maybe the use of Voldemort’s name?

Eventually Potter got over himself, blinking and returning to his notebook. He wrote quickly and aggressively, scratching out and rewriting, and handed it over when he was finished, his gaze back to assessing Draco.

Option 1: get those memories out, but send to Ron
Option 2: ok
You said Bellatrix?

Draco sighed again, and decided to tackle these one at a time.

“Good idea, you and Weasley can handle that part of the investigation yourselves. Gives us more time to focus on healing you. I’ll get the important memories for you, though—we can do that before you leave today.” Draco looked at the next item on the list. “We’ll start on the curse today then, although I’m not entirely sure it can be classified as a curse, but that’s a discussion for another time.” Potter narrowed his eyes at him, again, but he had to go on.

“Yes, Bellatrix could perform Legilimency. But she used it as an attack, as torture. She thought it was fun, the pain she could cause like that. I was her favourite mind to dig through, and she lived in my house for over two years.” Draco met Potter’s eyes, clenching his hands on the notebook to keep them from shaking. They always shook when he had to talk about the War. But he had to.

“Legilimency only hurts if the caster wants to cause the pain. It’s a horrific headache, but the worst part is feeling defenseless, invaded, and helpless—again, Bellatrix’s favourite effect. She liked that it wasn’t as messy as other forms of torture, and more interesting than a Cruciatus.” And now, Draco couldn’t suppress his shudders. His memories of his Aunt’s twisted, gleeful face as she pointed her wand at him time and again were at the forefront of his mind—she’d enjoyed using the Unforgivables on him as well. He knew he’d be panicking if he didn’t even out his breathing soon.

“She also loved having people’s secrets, throwing their vulnerability in their faces. She outed me to my parents, when she thought I was taking too long to fulfill Voldemort’s… task. It took me six months of rigorous training, on my own, to learn enough Occlumency to keep her out. Thank Merlin I was at school most of the time.”

Potter sat back and listened, fingers rubbing the armrests again, his face intent, but Draco thankfully could see neither contempt nor pity. He just listened, and accepted. He’d probably experienced Bellatrix’s wrath first hand as well.

“I hate doing this,” he admitted. It was somehow easier to admit it to Potter. “But it’s an integral part of my work. You’re undoubtedly going to feel extremely vulnerable. I’m going to enter your mind, four times a week, and I have to see everything, Potter. I don’t know if you ever learned Occlumency after Severus tried to teach you—” Potter snorted at this, “—but you can’t hide anything from me, while I’m in your head. I’ll see embarrassing things, personal things, grief and joy and pain and all the rest. Someone forced you to hide your own voice away inside your mind, which means we’ll have to look for it, and leave no stone unturned.”

Draco paused for a moment, letting a dangerous looking Potter digest his words.

“So,” he started again, “Healer Legilimens have to make themselves vulnerable, as well. You probably knew Bellatrix and my hangups about muggles were not something I particularly wanted to discuss.” He held up his still shaking hand in emphasis. “But you are vulnerable to me, in here, so I allow myself to be vulnerable with you, in here, too. Any question you ask of me will be answered honestly, and without judgement. I am taking a risk, as well, you understand—you will learn things about me that I’d rather keep to myself, and if you wanted to, you could run to the Daily Prophet and tell them everything. You could even make something up and as long as it came from you, Potter, it would ruin me. But I’m trusting that you won’t.” He made sure to hold eye contact with Potter. This was too important. And utterly terrifying.

“This room, my study, is a sanctuary. There is no judgement, or hatred, or violence in here. Nothing that happens in here leaves this room, not even for your friends, without both of our consent. My wards here are stronger than the centuries-old blood wards at the Manor. My floo is normally locked to everyone except my mother, Pansy, and the Minister, but while you are here, it is locked and warded completely. While you are here, this space is only for you, me, and sometimes Timsy—who is the most loyal being I’ve ever known, and I consider him family.” Draco put his arms on the armrests, forcing himself out of his defensive posture. “You are safe, here.”

Potter was silent—of course he was. His face was tense, concentrating, like Draco was a difficult puzzle to solve. Which was alright, because Draco thought of Potter like a puzzle, too, albeit from more of a Healer’s perspective. The fire crackled quietly in the grate.

Potter’s eyes moved over Draco’s face for a while, just watching him, and Draco sat still and calm, as much as he was squirming internally under Potter’s intense perusal. His skin felt hot, and tight, and he knew he would feel betrayed if Potter walked away now, after Draco had opened up to him like this, even though it was only day one. But it was a lot to ask: for Harry Potter, to let his guard down alone in a room with Draco Malfoy, who would make himself vulnerable in return? The universe was clearly laughing at them, getting themselves into this situation. But Draco had done it, and the choice of whether his sanctuary and trust would be accepted was in Potter’s hands.

Eventually, Potter’s eyes moved back to the notebook in his lap, and Draco breathed a quiet sigh of relief for the respite. The notebook was quickly turned to face him again, a simple request at the end of the previous scribbles.

Call me Harry, then

Draco gave a small, relieved smile. That was simple enough, easy, even though it felt like the earth was shifting under his feet.

“Alright,” he said, reaching out his hand, fending off memories of eleven-year-olds on the Hogwarts Express. “Harry.”

Pot—Harry returned Draco’s smile, and it made Draco feel like his chest was glowing. He grasped Draco’s hand firmly, shaking it gently. “When you’re able,” Draco smirked, “please call me Draco.”

Harry rolled his eyes and let go of Draco’s hand.

They basked in the heretofore inconceivable moment, until Harry looked at Draco expectantly and put his hands up, palms facing the ceiling, in a slight shrug. Draco read it as, what now?

Draco checked his watch—they had about an hour until lunch. “The time between our sessions is supposed to be used for rest and recuperation. We’ve got some time before lunch… do you still enjoy flying?”

Harry’s eyes lit up. Draco had seen Harry on a broom enough in his youth to know he absolutely loved flying.

“Well, let’s go for a fly then, I’ll introduce you to the property.”

They both stood up, and Draco ushered Harry out of the room. He began by giving him a tour of the house, starting with the sitting room, then the kitchen, where Timsy was making steak and kidney pie for lunch. Harry moved through each room, running his fingers along walls, shelves, countertops, even the plants, acquainting himself with the house. Draco showed him the guest bedroom, the bathroom, the master suite, and the domed sunroom, bright and humid and filled with more plants than he knew what to do with, both magical and not, but nothing dangerous. He’d had enough of that in the greenhouses at Hogwarts.

They made their way out to the garden, which was small and not perfectly tended, per Draco’s request. He liked gardens best when the earth could grow what it wished, and he especially loved the magnolia tree, which was sprouting the smallest of buds, making Draco excited for their full, graceful blooms in a few weeks’ time, and the gentle shower of large, pale pink petals that fell around the grass when they were finished. An old, wrought iron bistro set sat underneath it, where he liked to sit and read and have tea with Timsy, or alone. He loved that his garden was nearly a complete opposite of the Manor’s gardens. His own little corner of the earth.

Draco walked with Harry across the lawn, towards the shed, talking at him about the magnolia tree and the garden and Timsy’s horticultural quirks. Harry just listened intently, nodding sometimes, tilting his head to the side when he questioned something, pointing out things he wanted Draco to talk about. Surprisingly, it felt like a conversation, even though Harry wasn’t able to fully contribute. Draco found himself wishing he was able to. He wanted to know what Harry liked about the place, what his own home looked like, when the last time he went flying was, what he had for breakfast. Draco was content with their dynamic, for now, but couldn’t wait for them to finally free Harry’s voice, so he could actually speak to Draco, like Draco was speaking to him now.

If he still wants to speak to you after you heal him, his traitorous brain supplied. Why would Harry Potter want to speak with you, when he doesn’t need your expertise anymore?

Draco hesitated at the door to the shed, trying to preserve his good mood, but it was no use. He’d be in the air soon, anyway. He pulled open the door.

The smell of broom polish and wood drifted over them, and Draco breathed it in indulgently. His brooms were hung neatly in a line along one wall, and all of Timsy’s outdoor tools adorned the other, above a short wooden counter filled with pots of soil and plant cuttings. Draco had held on to every broom he’d ever had, even as they got old and couldn’t fly like they used to, or lost too many twigs to keep a straight line. There were five in total, starting with his first real broom, a Cleansweep Lucius had bought him for his tenth birthday, at the protest of his mother. Then there was the Nimbus 2001, part of the set Lucius had bought for the Slytherin team, followed by a top of the line Comet Aurora he had bought anonymously after the war, when he was stuck within the bounds of the Manor on probation. After that was the Turkish Göktaşı he’d bought while apprenticing in Istanbul, and finally, his Firebolt 3001.

Harry looked over each one, running his fingers along the polished wood. He was so tactile. He turned to Draco after his inspection and brought his index and thumb together on one hand, separating them by about an inch, before making a quick grabbing motion with the same hand.

“I don’t have a Snitch at the moment,” Draco replied, and it was truly bizarre how he could just understand what Harry was trying to say, without actually reading his thoughts. “The last one I had, erm… got away from me.” He chuckled to himself. “But that’s what I get for playing a solo Seeker’s game in the middle of the night. We can just fly for today.”

Draco stepped up next to Harry and contemplated for a moment, before grabbing his Göktaşı and the Firebolt, handing the Firebolt over to Harry. It was much lighter and more powerful than their original model, which he knew Harry had had at one point, and he wanted to see how Harry handled it. They were barely out of the shed before Harry swung his leg over it and kicked off, hard, soaring into the air.

Draco mounted his broom and kicked off to join him, flying laps around his house to warm up. The old forest around the house swayed in the light breeze, and the sun shone down on them generously. Its warmth suffused his clothes, which Draco appreciated. He had forgotten to put on a cloak or gloves before leaving the house, and felt uncharacteristically bad for depriving Harry of the same.

But Harry swerved and dived through the air without a care for the early spring chill. There was a wide smile on his face, carefree and jubilant, something Draco hadn’t seen since Hogwarts, probably since the last time he had seen Harry on a broom, grabbing the Snitch out from under the nose of an opposing Seeker.

Draco steered his broom away from the house, wanting to show Harry how far out the wards extended, hoping it would help his peace of mind. Harry followed him, performing an occasional loop or barrel roll, and Draco knew that if he could, he would be laughing with unbridled joy.

Soon Draco saw the shimmer ahead of the wards, and spun to stop. Harry stopped next to him, his eyes shining with exhilaration, the ghost of a smile still on his face. Draco had to look away.

“This is where the wards begin,” Draco explained, motioning towards the shimmering, transparent wall ahead of them. He started flying lazily along the barrier, all the way around the property, with Harry next to him, watching, listening. “They extend half a kilometer in each direction from the house, including up.” He motioned above him. “People can apparate into the front walkway, but not if they have any intention to cause harm. You probably felt an assessment of sorts on your way in.”

Harry raised his eyebrows in surprise and nodded. He almost looked… impressed.

“I worked on them for years. This place is practically a fortress,” Draco added. Then an amusing idea came over him.

“I’ve never been able to race these two brooms against each other,” Draco told Harry, eyes full of mischief. “Will you do me the honour?”

Draco barely got a glimpse of Harry’s wicked smile before he shot off, and Draco followed closely, urging his broom faster as they raced towards the house. It was close, but the Göktaşı was built for speed more than maneuverability, and Draco reached the garden barely a half-second before Harry, landing clumsily and laughing in delight.

“Thank you for indulging me in that experiment,” Draco said, unable to keep the smile off of his face. It felt so good to beat Harry at something, anything. His inner twelve-year-old was whooping with joy. Harry shook his head at him, still smiling, his cheeks flushed from the wind, his dark hair utterly chaotic. Draco’s heart raced—from victory, or flight, or something else, he didn’t care to know. He simply savoured the lightness in his chest, and moved on.

They walked over to the shed, putting away their brooms, before returning to the house.

As they went to sit at the table, Timsy gave them one of his signature exasperated looks and snapped his fingers. Draco paid no mind to the cleaning charm that swept across his hands, quite accustomed to Timsy’s interference, but Harry jumped, bringing his hands to his face, inspecting the new lack of dirt under his nails.

“Masters will not be eating Timsy’s cooking with Masterses hands being filthy,” Timsy croaked quietly, and Draco half expected him to roll his huge eyes.

Draco thanked Timsy as he served them and returned to the kitchen, softly muttering about manners and cleanliness. Draco tried to keep the amused fondness out of his eyes, but according to Harry’s thoughtful look, he wasn’t successful.

“He’ll eat with me, occasionally,” Draco started, “But only once or twice a year. It makes him uncomfortable, especially around guests. I’m lucky if I can get him to take tea with me in the garden.”

Harry had his mouth open in shock—thankfully he was in between bites. Draco was used to his patients’ general surprise at him when they got to know him, but now it just seemed so much more… personal. He looked back down to his plate, and they carried on eating in silence.

Timsy appeared as soon as Draco put down his fork, and began clearing the table. Draco took a quick swig of his pumpkin juice, made sure Harry was done, and stood up, stretching again. Harry watched, seeming to map out the lines of Draco’s body with his eyes, the way he mapped out unfamiliar rooms.

“Back to work, then,” Draco declared, and led the way back to his study.

Once they were safely ensconced back in their wingback chairs by the fire, Harry looking much more relaxed having flown and eaten, Draco picked up his notebook.

“So, we want to get the memories of the pub for Weasley by the end of the day. That means I’ll start with the introductory Legilimency, getting you accustomed to it, we’ll spend some time getting acquainted with the process. Every mind is different, and it takes some getting used to for me, as well,” Draco explained, while Harry listened intently, rubbing the leather on the arms of his chair with his hands. Draco spotted thin, jagged scars on the back of his right hand, that looked like words. Curious.

“Once we’re more comfortable, I’ll go ahead and run through the memories of the pub, and if you’re alright with it, I’ll remove them myself, and put them in a vial for you.”

Harry nodded his assent, and Draco took a deep breath.

“Have you ever been successful at Occlumency?” Draco asked.

Harry tilted his head from side to side, apparently undecided. He eventually shook his head no, and lifted his hand to absently rub at his scar.

“It sounds like Snape taught you similarly to how Bellatrix taught me,” Draco guessed, and Harry grimaced. “It’s obviously not the best way to learn.”

Sitting up in his chair, Draco put his hands on his knees and got comfortable. “I’m not going to teach you Occlumency unless you ask me to, but it would be easier for us to start if we’re completely relaxed. Imagine what your mind looks like when you’re anxious or upset, then imagine having to watch that in someone else—“ Harry shuddered, “—quite—so we’ll start with some breathing and meditation.”

Harry sat up as well and mirrored Draco’s position. “You don’t have to mirror me exactly, as long as you’re comfortable, but aware. Now, close your eyes…”

Draco guided Harry through a basic meditation, and Harry followed his instructions intently. Draco watched him, occasionally, watched his shoulders gently rise and fall with his measured breathing, watched his thumbs absently rub the inseam of the denim on his knees. When Draco told him to open his eyes, he sighed and gave Draco a little smile, and Draco fought to keep his face neutral, to not betray the glow in his chest through his face.

“Are you ready?” Draco asked, and Harry took another deep breath as he nodded.

Draco raised his wand, and concentrated to allow only a fraction of his power through it. “Legilimens.”

The quick flashes were expected, even with the meditation, and he rode it out, while softly explaining himself to Harry.

“You won’t last two seconds if He invades your mind,” Severus snarls. “You’re just like your father, lazy, arrogant—”

“I’m using the least amount of power I can, right now,” Draco murmured.

A tiny, dark room, under the stairs, a small spider descends from the ceiling.

“You may feel like someone’s standing right behind you, looking over your shoulder.”

A toddler is hugging his leg, looking up at him and smiling. As Harry watches, his hair turns from soft turquoise waves to chaotic black curls. Harry laughs and ruffles it.

“Focus on where you feel me, in your head.”

A fourteen-year-old Draco laughs at him, surrounded by their classmates, wearing a badge that flashes ‘Potter Stinks’.

A twenty-five-year-old Draco hands him a piece of chocolate and says, “Eat, you’ll feel better.”

A twelve-year-old Draco stands with the Slytherin Quidditch team, holding a new Nimbus 2001, sneering at Granger. He spits the word, “Mudblood,” at her, like venom.

A seventeen-year-old Draco stares at his swollen face, recognition and fear in his eyes, and says, “I can’t be sure.”

“It’s alright,” Draco said, his own emotions tucked carefully away to deal with later. “Let them come, let them drift. I’m going to add more power, see if you can pick out my presence.” He concentrated, and felt more energy flow through his wrist. Harry gasped softly.

Fifteen-year-old Harry runs through the Ministry atrium, full of grief, and screams “Crucio!” as Bellatrix taunts him, “You have to mean it!”

Ginny Weasley sits on a bed. “You don’t love me, Harry—I don’t know why you keep trying to convince yourself that you do.”

“I’ve been told my presence smells a bit like broom polish, or candlesmoke. You may experience something similar.” Harry’s memories were so vibrant—detailed and intense. He felt everything so strongly, and Draco had trouble keeping up with the rapid changes. Fear, curiosity, anger, grief, joy. Draco could feel his own reactions about to burst from where he kept them held back.

In a graveyard, Voldemort’s Cruciatus rips through a fourteen-year-old Harry, as Lucius laughs and jeers from the side. Harry screams in agony.

Draco gently pulled away, breathing shakily. He lowered his wand, and closed his eyes, and kept them closed, forcing his breathing to even, counting his breaths, rubbing the tops of his thighs. He ran his hand through his hair, yes, that was his own hair, soft and sleek. He stuck his index finger into the open collar on his shirt, felt the raised skin of the tip of a scar there, on his collarbone. He rubbed the inside of his left forearm through his shirt, though it disgusted him more than usual, after that.

Draco should have been expecting a memory of Lucius. He should have been prepared for something like that. He would be, next time, he promised himself. He opened his eyes.

Harry was looking at him anxiously, but didn’t appear to be in distress. These were his memories, after all, he must be used to them by now. Apparently, they flowed through him that quickly all the time. It was clearly Draco who had been affected the most.

“I told you, it takes both of us some getting used to.” Draco quirked his lips, trying to inject confidence back into his voice. “How did that feel?”

Harry just watched him a moment more, before grabbing his notebook and turning to a blank page to write.

It didn’t hurt?

Draco frowned. “It shouldn’t have,” he said cautiously. “As I said, it only hurts if the intention is to cause pain. I don’t want to hurt you.”

Harry shook his head, scratched something out, wrote again.

It didn’t hurt? hurt you?

Draco furrowed his brows. Harry was looking at him with… concern? He couldn’t really tell. “No, it doesn’t hurt me, either. But your memories are very vibrant, you feel things very intensely. It’s a lot to handle, at first, but I’ll get used to it.”

Harry was still looking at him with that maybe-concerned face, and Draco decided to move on.

“Were you able to identify my presence in your head?”

Harry thought for a moment, and touched his finger to his nose with a smirk. “You could smell me?” Draco guessed, and Harry nodded. “That’s a good place to start. Soon you’ll be able to tell, it’ll feel a bit crowded. You’ll experience your own memories, but we’ll see the same things. You’ll feel the presence of a spectator, again, like someone is watching from right behind you, just out of sight.”

Harry rubbed his hand over his jaw, thinking. He turned considering eyes back to Draco.

“Do you have any questions so far?” Draco offered. Harry hesitated, holding the pen over the paper.

“I told you you can ask whatever you like, and I will answer honestly,” Draco reminded him, ignoring the warning lights flashing in the back of his mind, begging him to retract the statement, to crawl back to safety.

Harry thought, and began to write. He took care in writing this one, chewing the end of the pen, finding the right words, before turning the notebook around.

Why did you agree to do this?

Draco took a deep breath, and caught himself rubbing his chest. He quickly returned his hand to the armrest, but Harry stared at his chest now, as if he could see through the fabric.

“A few reasons,” Draco began. He had to be honest, Harry would know if he wasn’t. “The biggest reason is that I’m a Healer, and I’m obligated to help when I’m needed. It’s not a part of my bonds, but I feel the obligation nonetheless. I haven’t turned down a case yet.” Harry furrowed his brows, and Draco cleared his throat. He hadn’t meant to mention his bonds, and now he was flustered. He didn’t want to get into that now.

“The second reason is that I owe you at least one life debt, if not more than that, and I knew this would help even it out, if only a little.” Harry’s eyebrows were drawing even closer together. He clearly didn’t like that.

“The third reason,” Draco paused, but made himself continue, “is sheer curiosity.” Harry’s face smoothed out, carefully blank. He really didn’t like that. Draco narrowed his eyes at him. “Not in the way your fans are curious,” Draco added, because apparently that wasn’t clear. “I’m curious about all of my cases, because they all present a unique challenge. I love that part of my work, I love solving the puzzles, traversing the mazes.” Draco paused again, watching Harry’s eyes slowly lose that carefully guarded look. “And of course I was curious about the challenge you would present. I never was able to ignore a challenge from you.”

Harry continued watching him, absorbing his words. Draco made himself finish.

“And lastly,” he continued, “I wanted the opportunity to show you that I am much more than the cruel, spoiled boy you knew me as.” Harry’s lips parted in shock. “Your opinion matters to me, always has,” Draco muttered, “even when I made you hate me and fight with me, I earned your regard as a rival, an enemy. I relished in it, spitefully, as a child. And then everything went to shit, my father turned out to be a monster who kissed the feet of another monster, everything I knew was turned on its head. I wished that I’d seen it sooner, that I’d been able to make you see me differently. But it was too little, too late, and I was a coward. I did horrible things, inexcusable things,” he shuddered, unable to suppress it. “And then you testified for me, to the surprise of the whole world, and I didn’t understand why, but I figured that was as good as I was going to get. I was sure I’d never get an opportunity to… to get to know you, for you to get to know me. So I never bothered to try. Until Weasley woke me up at the crack of dawn yesterday, and made fun of my slippers, and asked for my help.” Draco met his eyes. So outrageously green, and bright like the sun on the foliage in Draco’s sunroom, and so fucking intense. “So, here we are.”

Harry seemed appalled that Draco had answered truthfully. His shock was evident on his face, his hand still holding the pen, still held carefully over the notebook, as if he’d forgotten it was there.

“I told you I would answer you honestly,” Draco reminded him again, because Harry apparently hadn’t really believed him. Hopefully he would, now. Draco had had practice in honesty, but it still felt heavier, more difficult, with Harry. More important.

“Could I ask…” Draco hesitated. “You don’t have to answer, since that’s not part of our agreement. But I’m curious as to why…” he bit his lip, sorting his words. “Why you agreed to work with me, considering our history, when there are plenty of Healer Legilimens elsewhere in the world.”

Harry began writing right away.

Need this fixed ASAP. Responsibilities

Draco nodded. “I figured,” he muttered. “But the Healers I trained under have more experience, they might have been faster.”

Harry’s mouth twisted; he turned his notebook back around, returned the pen to it for a minute more.

Knew you had incentive to do well—reputation

“This is true,” Draco nodded again, “and not only because you could ruin me if I failed, or otherwise sabotaged your healing.”

Harry’s hands gripped the notebook like a lifeline, and he seemed to be fighting himself over something. He turned the notebook back to himself, and wrote once more.

Curious, too

Draco prayed to whoever was listening that he wasn’t blushing. Merlin preserve his dignity, Harry Potter was curious about him. Or maybe about his work. Or about whether he was up to anything nefarious. He accepted the warmth in his chest and put it out of his mind.

“Fair enough,” he replied. Harry’s lips turned up in a small smile, and Draco returned it.

“Now, back to business,” he declared, shaking himself out and taking a deep, stabilizing breath. “I didn’t see anything that particularly stuck out to me as a clue, but the memories were flying past me rather quickly. Tomorrow, when we go back in, we’ll do more meditation. It helps slow things down, in your head. I’ll be able to look more closely. But since we’re nearly finished for today, how about I grab those memories from the pub?”

Harry seemed grateful to move on from the heavy moment, and he nodded quickly in assent. Draco raised his wand.

“This may feel overwhelming, but try to sit back and ride it out, alright?” He waited for Harry to nod, keeping his eye contact. “Legilimens.”

A small Harry stands at a stove. The food is burning, a shrill woman is yelling.

Hermione is dancing with him, tears in her eyes, in the middle of a wizarding tent.

Robards is yelling at him. “You’re not the Chosen One, here, you’re not fighting evil alone anymore, Auror Potter! Your fellow Aurors are relying on you out in the field, trusting you, and you need to rely on them and trust them in return!”

“It’s alright,” he repeated, unsure of what he was trying to console. “I’m going to steer us around, hang on.” He focused, imagining what he was looking for. He found a similar image quickly, and latched on, commanding his wand to find more.

The memories started to rush past, but Draco paused the flow, stopping for barely a second on each one.

The bartender smiles at him as he enters. “Back again, Harry?”
Harry laughs. The bartender pours a glass of whiskey, neat. “You know me too well, John.”

Draco, still watching the memory, gave his wand a complicated flick, and the memory started funneling away from him. Draco didn’t have to see it to know it was drawing itself out of Harry’s head, floating into an empty vial on his shelf. He moved on.

A man with curly brown hair and light blue eyes smiles at him. “I’d offer you a drink, but it seems you’ve had plenty, and I’d much rather you buy me one so I can catch up.” He winks.

A woman sits next to him, drunk, rambling about her ex boyfriend. “Thanks,” she sighs. “You’re a good listener.”

“You seem familiar,” a blond man says. “Have we met?”

Draco flicks.

“You in law enforcement?” a pale woman asks. “We’ve never met, obviously, but you seem the type. Am I right?”

Flick.

“Come on, Harry,” a burly man smiles at him, as Harry gathers darts from a dart board. “I’ve got money on you. I know what you can do.” He winks at him.

Flick. More memories passed, Harry at the bar, chatting with the bartender about nothing. Men and women chatting him up, but uninterested in him, talking about themselves constantly. Harry evades their questions, and leaves with no one.

“You’re very mysterious,” a man with deep brown skin remarks, a small smile on his face. “I’m not trying to pull or anything. I find you interesting, I want to get to know you.”

Flick.

“So, which war were you in?” an older man sidles up next to him against the wall. Harry snaps his head around, looking for a wand on the man’s person, and doesn’t see one. “I can just tell,” the man says. “You look the way I felt.”

Flick. On and on it went. Anyone who actually showed interest in Harry’s life was funneled efficiently out of his head and into the vial. Any repeating faces, as well, even though the attacker would probably have remained disguised. Anyone who mentioned anything about knowing him, or not knowing him, or how much he hid from them. He tried to listen for vocal inflections he might recognize from the attacker, but he figured they’d have masked their voice as well.

Harry looks over his shoulder—a blonde woman is staring at him from across the pub, nursing a drink. She stares for the rest of the night, never approaching him, until Harry gets fed up with the hairs on the back of his neck standing up, and leaves in a huff.

Flick. Draco felt Harry urge him on, then, a quiet yes feeling. Maybe he was stared at often. Draco rushed through the memories, searching for that particular feeling of discomfort, of being watched, and flicked several more strands into the vial. He stopped the flow, gave Harry a second to catch up now that he controlled his own thoughts again, and pulled away, lowering his wand.

Draco came back to himself, performing his normal routine, rubbing his thighs, his hair, looking at his fingers, feeling the scar, touching his left arm. When he opened his eyes, Harry was already writing.

What are you doing?

“Ah,” Draco said, “with my body, just then?” Harry nodded.

“I’m er…” how could he phrase this without sounding like a nutter? “I’m returning to my body, per se,” he tried. “The lines can blur, sometimes, of where I end and the other person begins, and it’s very important to maintain those boundaries as much as possible. I do that every time I leave someone’s head, I take inventory of the things I know about my own body, and reaffirm those boundaries.” Harry listened intently, eyes moving around Draco’s body where it was seated in the chair, taking an inventory of his own.

“My hands fall on my thighs frequently, so my legs are very familiar to me,” Draco explained, rubbing the tops of his thighs again. “I know inherently what my own hair feels like, that it is my own. I have a scar, on my collarbone, here,” he stuck his finger in his shirt again, but didn’t move the fabric, “and on my left arm is what’s left of the Dark Mark, something that’s very unlikely to be on anyone I’m healing, so I know I am me.”

Harry nodded slowly in understanding, his eyes still roaming Draco’s body. His thumb absently rubbed the scars on the back of his right hand.

Draco stood and retrieved the vial from the shelf, corking it. It glowed silver with the plethora of memories in it. He handed it to Harry, who took it carefully, with a vague look of awe on his face.

“This should be enough to start with,” Draco said, explaining his criteria for filtering the memories. Harry nodded along, his eyes still watching the swirling strands. “We can go back for more later if you need them or decide on a different criteria.”

Harry looked back at him, considering. They watched each other for a moment.

“Do you have any more questions before we wrap up for the day?”

Harry thought for a bit, biting his lip, before shaking his head. Draco sat back down in his chair.

“Then we’ll finish with one more meditation, which is meant to help you reaffirm your control over your mind, and your autonomy over your body, like I just did. I’ll guide you through this one, but after today, you’ll do the ending meditation on your own. It’s important for me not to have sway in how you return to yourself, understand?” Draco paused briefly, before adding, “Plus, you’ll be quite sick of my voice in your head after a while. You’ll want to do this part on your own.”

Harry grinned at him, sitting up comfortably, putting his hands on his knees and closing his eyes. His breathing slowed, and Draco could tell he was counting through them, inhaling for four, holding for two, exhaling for four, over and over.

Draco guided him through it, telling him how to touch things he knew about his body, birthmarks or scars. He rubbed the scars on the back of his hand, one that Draco couldn’t see, on his upper chest, and one on his left bicep. He told Harry to think about times he felt most loved, most at home, and delighted at the small smile this produced on Harry’s face. He told Harry to think about things he wanted, even things he hated, if he had to, as long as he went back to things he loved afterwards. He made Harry think about his accomplishments—his favourite accomplishments, not whatever the Wizarding World thought were his greatest moments, he clarified. He asked Harry to think about the things he liked best about himself, which made Harry frown in concentration. Apparently he struggled with that one.

He finally told Harry to let his thoughts drift however felt natural to him, to not try to control them, but simply allow his mind to flow how it was used to, and to open his eyes when he felt ready. Harry breathed for a couple more minutes before opening his eyes, where Draco waited, watching him. Harry grinned at him again, and Draco returned it, silently reveling in how good it felt to have Harry look at him with something other than rage or revulsion.

“Leave that notebook here,” Draco told him. “You can use it for our sessions, but it won’t leave this room.” Harry set the notebook on the side table, and grabbed a chocolate covered biscuit from Timsy’s tray. Draco smirked. “Good, Timsy would be terribly offended if you didn’t.”

He walked Harry to the front door himself, and watched him take his leather jacket off the hook on the wall and slip it on. Harry ran a hand through his hair, and turned to face Draco, holding out a hand for him to shake.

Draco shook it gently, “Thursday,” he reminded. “Nine o’ clock.” Harry nodded.

“Until then, Harry.” The corner of Draco’s lips turned up as he opened the door, and Harry gave him a quick smile, before stepping out. Draco closed the door after him, knowing he wouldn’t hear a goodbye of any sort. It was indeed odd to say goodbye to someone without hearing it in return.

But he’d get used to it.

He stayed there with his hand on the doorknob until he felt the wobble of the wards, then released a long breath, the work of the day finally catching up with him. He felt drained, emotionally, physically, magically.

“Timsy,” he mumbled. The elf simply leaned his head out of the sitting room and looked at him, instead of apparating. Draco was glad for it. “Will you please wake me in time for dinner?”

“Yes, Master Draco,” Timsy replied as he slipped back into the sitting room. Draco smiled faintly as he heard the muttering about “Master is never learning to be sleeping when he is supposed to, never learns.”

His bed welcomed him, and he barely bothered to remove his clothes before climbing under the covers, drifting into a deep, dreamless nap.

Chapter Three

Draco frowned at the chalkboard in his study, his hands on his hips.

He’d added ‘crazed fan?’ to the notes under the Who? line, because it was possible. Likely, even.

Next to Who? was a new section, Why? because every curse had a purpose, and this arsehole had to have some sort of motive, other than inconveniencing Harry with muteness. It certainly sounded that way, with their prophetic rambling. This section was filled with half-thought-out scribbles, like remove HP as political figure, belittlement, qualms about hero status, and other little notes that just weren’t adding up.

Draco still had no clue, after puzzling over it for days. He thought about everything the attacker had said, about how Harry played the part of a hero to appease the masses, and no one really knew anything about him. But so what? So he was a private man, but fulfilled what he probably felt he was obligated to do as a war hero people looked up to. How was that a problem for anyone else? Did they want the spotlight, instead? Did they have some sort of political agenda? Were they just bored of watching Harry play his role?

“I have seen it, and you will be known.” Okay, so they had a dream or a vision or visited the future and saw someone getting to know the real Harry. Did they want that privilege for themselves? Or someone else? And most of all, how does hiding Harry’s voice help someone get to know him?!

Unless… Draco frowned harder. Hiding Harry’s voice did limit his healing options quite a bit. It was really something only a Healer Legilimens should handle, and Legilimency was indeed a very fast and intense way to get to know someone. But Legilimency shouldn’t be used to just get to know somebody, it was horribly invasive, not to mention dangerous if done incorrectly. Draco certainly wouldn’t trust a Legilimens who cast on him just to get to know him. He’d rage and rant that the prat should have just asked him to go for a pint, instead, like a normal person. He wouldn’t want anything to do with someone like that.

But it was possible that if the attacker had foreseen someone getting to know Harry, they might have foreseen him seeing a Healer Legilimens, too, and done something to him to warrant such an interaction. Seeing as Draco was the only Healer Legilimens in England, it was even possible the attacker had intentionally pushed Harry towards Draco. He thought about the attacker’s final words, their vague excitement and anticipation: “I am sorry to make you misplace this memory, as well, but do not worry. He will find it.”

He thought about how easy it was to find that missing memory, how it had dragged him in against his will and gotten him hooked on the puzzle, on the mysteries he wanted to solve. He felt something like lead fill his stomach—this curse could involve Draco as much as it involved Harry. Wasn’t that just his luck?

He knew, in his bones, that Harry would be livid if he found out he and Draco were pushed together against his will by someone who claimed they knew best. His childhood was thrown away by a prophecy, it was completely unfair that another should follow him into adulthood. He’d been a pawn for most of his life, and probably valued his free will and independence greatly, now that he had it.

Worst of all, he hadn’t wanted to interact with Draco in the first place. If Harry thought someone knew he’d have to go to Draco, he would jump straight into suspicion that Draco himself had made it that way.

“But do not worry. He will find it.” “He” sounded like a friend, or someone this person knew. If Harry believed his attacker knew Draco personally, Draco probably had a one-way ticket to Azkaban in the near future. Bloody Seers.

And if someone did push Harry to Draco, they certainly didn’t do it out of the goodness of their hearts, or with Draco’s interests in mind. This would be a terrible plan to give Draco business, which he honestly didn’t need, he did well enough for himself. No, if someone wanted Draco involved with a curse on Harry Potter, it was more likely that Draco was supposed to take the fall for it. He was certain no one would fight that accusation, especially coming from the Saviour. No one would question it. Draco began to sag with dread—this had been a terrible idea.

But it was Thursday, it was almost nine o clock, and this room, this sanctuary, was made for honesty. Draco would have to share his suspicions, even if they might cause Harry to attack, or flee.

Would Harry even believe him?

Draco sighed in resignation, trying to collect himself into the professional he was, and looked down into his half-empty mug of coffee. There was one way he could make Harry believe he was telling the truth, but he hated the idea.

He walked to the window, drawing open the curtains to reveal a grey, misty day. As he felt the wards wobble with Harry’s arrival, he smoothed out wrinkles in his dark blue shirt. Nothing was ever simple with Harry Potter involved, he shouldn’t be surprised that it could turn on his head at any moment.

Harry entered the room, closing the door quietly behind him and nodding at Draco. He swept the room quickly with his eyes, but not as thoroughly as the first time. Harry was a little more comfortable here, now, which made Draco’s gut clench, knowing what he had to share with him.

“Harry.”

Harry was catching on to Draco’s nervous body language, eyes darting from Draco’s tense face to the white knuckles gripping his coffee mug. It was making Harry nervous in turn. Harry’s right hand was twitching, wanting to draw his wand out of the pocket of his jeans. Not a hopeful start.

“I’ve been thinking, and I’ve come up with a possible theory about your attacker, one that honestly frightens me, and that I’m pretty sure you’re not going to like.” Draco hoped his fear didn’t show too much on his face. “But I told you I would be honest with you, in here, and I will be.” He walked behind his desk, setting down the coffee, and opened another locked drawer, which held a number of assorted potions. He picked out the small glass vial of clear liquid, tightly sealed, and held it up.

Harry’s eyes widened as he recognized the Veritaserum, but Draco held his hand up to stop any protests, silent though they would be.

“Let me explain my theory to you, first, and when I’m finished, I’ll take the Veritaserum and answer any questions you have. I told you I’ll always give you full honesty, and you should trust that, but in this case, I thought you might appreciate the extra failsafe.”

Draco grabbed his notebook and walked towards the chairs by the fire, motioning for Harry to join him. Draco took the chair with his back to the door, again. He waited for Harry to sit across from him. Harry sat, cautiously, his eyes darting back and forth between Draco and the tiny bottle on the side table. Draco took a deep breath.

“Right. I’ve been going over what the attacker has said, and done, and there’s a possibility that I’m involved in whatever little prophecy made them attack you in the first place.” Harry jerked back. That was expected, but Draco carried on.

Draco explained everything he thought he knew, the possible reasons they would have for attacking Harry in this way, forcing him to see a Healer Legilimens, to see Draco Malfoy. The odd, prophetic things they said to Harry. “You will be known.” “He will find it.”

Harry listened intently, his face caught somewhere between rage and determination. Draco recognized that look from school, and knew he wanted to fight someone, right now. Draco hoped it wasn’t him, that Harry would give him the chance to take the potion and tell the whole truth. But he’d understand if he didn’t. The trust between them was still so new, and so fragile, and it was already being tested.

Draco finished explaining his theory, watching Harry’s face carefully, and picked up the potion vial on the side table. Harry watched its path warily.

“Now, if I’m right, and I know what that theory sounds like, you’re probably thinking I had something to do with whoever cursed you, that I made them do it, or something, to make you come to me. I know I told you on Monday that I’d always wanted an opportunity for us to get to know each other properly, but never thought I would actually get it. I know it probably wouldn’t even surprise you if I did have something to do with it. It’s what you’d expect from me, it’s what the world expects from a Malfoy, and if you were to accuse me, no one would question it.” Harry furrowed his brows, as if he had no idea the kind of power he held, the idiot.

“I want to make sure you know I’m telling you the truth.” He handed the bottle to Harry. “Check it,” he ordered. “It’s Auror-grade Veritaserum, straight from the Ministry.”

Harry eyed him suspiciously, but pulled out his wand and performed the diagnostic charms on the bottle, identifying it as Veritaserum. He wondered if Harry even recognized the bottle. It was definitely the same ones Aurors used, he knew. He’d nicked it from them himself.

Apparently satisfied with his checks, he handed the bottle back to Draco, who quickly went ahead and broke the wax seal, uncorked it, and dumped the entirety of its contents down his throat. It felt like viscous, lukewarm water in his mouth, and Draco could feel it taking effect immediately. He squeezed his eyes shut, hopelessly trying to stop it, but he felt high, now, and it only made him feel more sick, and more panicked. Merlin, he had never planned on using that potion on himself, he’d only thought it would be helpful for a cursed patient someday. He was astonished at himself, at the lengths he would go to for this particular patient. Draco had never wanted to feel like this ever again, after his time in the Ministry.

He looked up at Harry, who was just staring at him, eyes wide, jaw clenched tight. His hands were held tensely out in front of him, as if he had wanted to grab Draco, but decided against it halfway through.

“Well, start writing,” Draco snapped.

Harry’s pen dropped obediently to the paper, writing furiously. He turned the notebook around.

Only 3 drops needed!! Why did you take whole thing?

As soon as he finished reading, words were coming out of Draco’s mouth, beyond his control. “Because I don’t want to take any chances that you won’t believe me,” Draco heard, and yes, that was true, but the potion demanded more, so he finished with, “and because that’s how much they normally used on me, so I assumed you would want me to use that much, too.”

Harry was writing again, shaking his head vehemently.

Who used it on you before?

“The Ministry of Magic.”

Who in the Ministry?

“Aurors. Licensers. Wizengamot. Harry, this isn’t—” —important, he wanted to say, but apparently that wasn’t true, and he couldn’t force the word from his lips. Harry continued writing, and at this point, the notebook was always faced where Draco could read it, as Harry wrote, sitting awkwardly crooked on his chair.

Did you tell someone to hide my voice or curse me?

“No,” Draco said fiercely, because it was the truth, and the potion knew it, too.

Do you know who did this to me?

“No.”

Do you know any prophecies about me?

“N—” The potion stopped him again, apparently he did know a prophecy about Harry. “Yes,” he tried. “I know there was a prophecy that named you as the one who could kill Voldemort, but I don’t know exactly what it said. I don’t know of any others.”

Do you know any Seers?

“N—eurgh, Trelawney. But she doesn’t c—” He couldn’t finish that one, either.

Why did you agree to help me?

“Because I wanted to,” the words flooded out of Draco’s mouth. “Because I knew I should, as a Healer, because I owe you a life debt, because I was curious, because I wanted the challenge, because I wanted the opportunity to really get to know you, after I mucked up so many chances, and for you to see me as the man I’ve become.” Draco gasped. The potion hadn’t let him take a breath through that word vomit. He hoped Harry’s other questions required shorter answers.

Harry eyed him for a moment, giving him a minute to breathe. Draco was grateful for the brief respite. He told himself that if this is what it took to gain Harry’s trust, then it was worth it. It didn’t make it any more comfortable to endure. Harry returned pen to paper.

Where are we?

“In my study, in my home, in Devon.”

Are you married? “No.” Dating? “No.” Honestly, why would he be…?

Do you own any Dark Artifacts?

“N—” he tried. “Not in my home,” the potion corrected. “Apparently there are some waiting for me in an inheritance that I do not yet have access to. I don’t want them.”

Where were you born?

“In Malfoy Manor, Wiltshire.”

Where did we first meet?

“On the Hog—” nope. “Madam Malkin’s, though I didn’t know it was you at the time.”

Harry’s eyes were smiling, but a corner of his mouth was turned down in concern, or concentration. He seemed to light up a little as he wrote the next question.

What is your Patronus?

“A common nightingale.”

What memory do you use to conjure it?

Damn it. Draco tried to hold his lips together, but it was no use. This was so embarrassing. “Not a memory,” Draco panted as the truth burst through. “A dream. A fantasy.”

He shook his head frantically, hoping the potion would accept that, but he could feel the words bubbling up his throat. “I dreamed I was in my bed, naked, with a man curled behind me. It was morning, we were waking up, he was stroking my sides, intertwining our fingers, pulling me closer to him. I could feel the warmth of his chest against my back and his erection against my arse—” Draco groaned, now, because he was reciting a fantasy to a patient, which was apparently quite unethical, according to the harsh, painful yank in his stomach. He gasped and doubled over, clutching his abdomen and panting, but the potion forced him to continue through the pain. “—but we weren’t fucking. We were just laying together, and his nose was in my hair and he was whispering something against my ear, and I don’t know who he was, but I knew that I loved him, and that he loved me. It’s not real. But the happiness I felt was, and it was enough to conjure a corporeal Patronus.”

Draco’s hands were shaking violently, and he could feel his hair sticking to his forehead and neck with sweat. The pain continued in his gut, as if someone had reached in, grabbed his organs in a fist and twisted them around. His hands clutched at his sides, his arms curled over his abdomen in defense, in defeat.

When Draco looked up at him, swaying, Harry’s eyes were wide and frantic, one hand held out in front of him as if to touch Draco—for what reason, Draco didn’t know. He looked almost… regretful? Afraid? Draco had worn the same expression a few times when his goddaughter was an infant, and he’d made a face at her to try to make her smile, but had only ended up making her cry.

But Harry took his hand back, shaking himself out of whatever had come over him, hunching his shoulders in. He glanced apologetically at Draco, once, and started writing again, and Draco tried to hold back a sob, because the fear was real, now. What if Harry was just like the other Aurors, who had laughed and watched as he suffered through Veritaserum overdoses as a teenager, who had asked him the most incriminating and embarrassing things they could think of, purely for their own entertainment?

But Harry’s notebook read, who has used Veritaserum on you before?

“Aurors, Licensers and Wizengamot of the Ministry of Magic.” Draco’s voice was small, hoping to be able to dissociate himself from this moment and ride it out. At least the pain in his gut was subsiding.

Where did you get this Veritaserum?

“Nicked it,” came the automatic reply, “it fell out of an Auror’s pocket as he bent over my cot to spit on me. They always brought so much with them. I was convulsing, my body covered it.”

What were the names of the Aurors?

“I don’t know. They never wore badges around me.”

He chanced a look up at Harry, and saw his mouth pressed in a thin, grim line. A muscle was twitching in his jaw. His green eyes looked fiery with anger, but ultimately concerned, and it struck Draco that Harry was possibly angry for him, angry at the Aurors that had abused him. That probably ruffled his unwavering sense of justice—this might be his hero complex at work. But Harry was still an Auror, and Draco had taken too much Veritaserum, and this was not a dynamic he had ever wanted to revisit. He tried to keep his bottom lip from trembling, hoping Harry would run out of questions soon.

Before Sunday, did you ever expect to speak to me again?

“No.”

Who do you speak to on a regular basis?

“Timsy, Pansy, and my mother, though not as often as I should. Minister Shacklebolt, occasionally. The staff of the Curse Damage ward at St. Mungo’s, when we collaborate.” He paused, but apparently the potion thought this was important. “There’s a muggle bakery called Sweet Nothings, in London, I’m friendly with the folks there. I buy their baklava regularly, because Timsy loves it.”

How did you learn to use muggle money?

“I learned how to buy the baklava, after watching another muggle do it, with two of the blue paper money they use. I went to Gringotts and told them to convert a sum into the blue muggle papers, with the ‘5’ on them, so now I have a stash of them. The first time, I handed over the requisite two blue papers, and the muggle at the counter tried to hand me change, but I don’t know what to do with the other colours or the different coins, so I told him to keep it, and he liked that. Now we have a routine, where I go in, and they know I want the baklava, and I give them the two blue papers, and I always tell them to keep the change, and they smile at me.” What an odd thing for the potion to insist on explaining, Draco thought as he gasped for air, again.

Are you in contact with your father?

Draco’s lip curled. “No.”

When was the last time you spoke to him?

“In the moments after you killed Voldemort, sitting in the Great Hall, before the Aurors came for us.”

Harry raised his eyebrows, his pen moving quickly across the page.

You don’t write to him, or him to you?

“No. I haven’t wanted to speak to him since he offered me up to the Dark Lord, as collateral, in an effort to remedy his failings.” Harry raised his eyebrows again, probably at Draco’s switch to “the Dark Lord.”

Harry was writing again. He’d used up several pages by now.

What do you want to do right now? Harry looked up at him as he finished writing. What an odd question. Draco let the potion answer it without his input.

“I want to stop this interrogation, because it feels like the Aurors, again. I want to sleep off the Veritaserum. I want to drink Timsy’s hot chocolate.” Shite.

Timsy immediately popped into the room, with two steaming mugs of hot chocolate topped with homemade marshmallows, Draco would never get over his speed and efficiency. But his big, round eyes landed on Draco, recognizing a(nother) Veritaserum overdose, and he turned quite a menacing glare on Auror Potter.

But Harry only put down his notebook, and held his hands up, then held out one finger, pointed up, to Timsy. Harry Potter was telling Draco’s house elf, give me a minute. Unbelievable.

Draco expected more questions. He expected magical handcuffs for no reason other than Harry could. He even hoped Harry would just let him go sleep it off. He didn’t expect Harry to lean over and gently pull Draco’s hands away from his waist, curling his palms over the inside of Draco’s wrists, his index fingers pointing up his forearms, inside his shirt cuffs. Draco could feel Harry’s fingers grazing the bottom of the Mark on his left arm, and he was too shocked to do anything but stare. His body was sweating and twitching through the effects of the potion—he knew the convulsions would start soon, he’d probably be incapacitated for the rest of the day.

He wondered what sort of trick Harry had planned now. If this was how the Aurors were arresting people, these days, maybe it wasn’t so bad. Harry’s hands were rough, but so gentle, and so warm.

And getting warmer. Or was that just his arms? No, it was both. Draco felt warmth building in the veins of his wrists, and following his bloodstream up his arms. He looked up at Harry’s face, which was pinched in concentration, his eyes firmly shut. When he looked back down at his arms, he thought he could see a soft, pinkish glow, like a horizon just before dawn, where Harry’s fingers met his skin.

Draco wondered and wondered, shocked and awed and a little afraid as the heat continued washing through him, reaching his heart and pumping down throughout his torso, down his legs, up his neck and into his brain. His mind wasn’t bothering to comprehend it, and his own hands were subconsciously wrapping themselves around Harry’s wrists. It was a heady feeling, and he could feel himself starting to sweat and sway, again, but he realized his vision wasn’t swimming, like it was supposed to. His head felt clearer. He could feel his warmed blood rushing through him like wind, like a tropical storm in his veins.

And then it really hit him that this was Harry’s doing, Harry was doing something to his blood, and if his head felt clear right now, if he was able to think of untrue things, then Harry was wandlessly burning the Veritaserum out of his blood with his magic.

Draco hadn’t even known such a thing was possible. But he was grateful for the result, so he didn’t question it. The warmth flowed and filled him so completely, and Draco could unfortunately feel a stir in his groin, but that couldn’t be helped, with Harry warming and pushing his blood around his body, and with Harry’s thoughtless display of magical power. His bonds agreed, apparently, because there was no pain, no tweak of warning, thank Merlin.

After a couple of minutes the heat was beginning to diminish, but Draco hadn’t taken his eyes off of Harry’s face. He just watched him, watched Harry frown in concentration, watched Harry use his outrageously powerful magic to make Draco feel better. He watched the curls of his hair above his forehead, he watched the breath coming in and out of Harry’s straight nose. He watched Harry’s shoulders tense, barely, with the effort of moving his magic like this, he breathed the smell of rain and ozone in the air around them, until finally, Harry released his wrists, and opened his eyes.

Draco didn’t know how long they sat there, watching each other, assessing each other, until Draco finally remembered himself enough to say, “Thank you,” and his voice came out hoarser than he’d liked, but he wasn’t going to repeat himself. Harry gave a quick nod and grabbed his notebook again, and Draco took the time he was writing to take inventory of himself. Thighs, hair, scar, Mark, Harry’s handprints, thighs, hair, scar, fingers, Mark, Draco, Harry’s magic, Draco.

When he opened his eyes again, he saw Harry’s notebook, facing him once more.

Lie to me

Draco allowed himself a small smile. “I won’t,” he replied. “Not in here.” He let himself meet Harry’s eyes. Harry’s lips were turned up in another tiny smile. “You were successful, however or whatever you did,” Draco added. “I feel much better.”

Harry’s smile grew then, and he reached over to the side table for something. His hand returned holding two hot chocolates, and he handed one to Draco. Only then did Draco realize Timsy had left.

“Where did he go?” Draco asked, and Harry just shrugged.

“Then he trusts you,” Draco noted, impressed. “He wouldn’t have left if he thought I wasn’t safe.”

Draco debated with himself for a moment, then toed off his shoes with a mental ah, fuck it. He tucked his feet up under him on the chair, and allowed himself to relax for the first time that day, sipping his luxurious hot chocolate, until Harry turned the notebook on him again.

You are safe, here

Draco grinned at Harry, who’d apparently taken Draco’s words to heart that first session and returned them to him, when he needed it most.

***

The weather wouldn’t have made for a good flight, and Draco was still feeling drained from the Veritaserum, so they spent their midday break inside. Draco hadn’t even tried Legilimency after that ordeal. They’d spent the morning in their chairs, discussing the theory, brainstorming who might have such bizarre motives, and coming up blank.

But Harry had at least believed him, and trusted him. And Draco trusted Harry, too, after being taken care of like that, and having Harry prove that he was safe, in their agreed sanctuary, even when he was terrified. Draco felt the trust almost as a physical thing, between them, an imaginary rope being braided with more strands of experience every time they interacted, growing stronger with each addition.

Draco had shown Harry to the sitting room, to the shelves of easy reading he could pick from, if he wanted. He even pointed out the record player Pansy had bought him, years ago, that played both muggle and magical albums. Draco sat on the sofa, legs extended along its length, now that he’d committed to being without shoes for the day. Harry had removed his boots, as well, revealing a pair of hideously bright, hand knit polka dot socks that made Draco laugh.

Harry sat cross-legged on the floor next to the record player, assorted records scattered around him. Pansy bought him several new ones for every Christmas, sometimes just because they looked interesting, and his mother had dutifully provided Celestina Warbeck’s entire discography. Now he had a bit of a collection. Harry was currently playing Oasis’ (What’s the Story) Morning Glory?, his bowl of chicken soup nearly forgotten on the floor next to him. Occasionally he would hold up a record to show Draco, his face full of silent questions, which Draco dutifully answered.

The chords of “Champagne Supernova” filled the room, and Draco sighed, relaxing deeper into the couch, his legs crossed at the ankle. His soup was long finished. Harry held up an album of Doris Day’s Greatest Hits, another question in his eyes.

“Witch,” Draco answered. “American. Muggles love her, too. That’s Timsy’s favourite album, he listens to it when he’s roasting.”

Harry furrowed his brows in further confusion.

“Coffee,” Draco added. “He roasts his own coffee beans. I bought him a little roaster a couple years ago, when I got fed up with his complaining about the quality of the coffee in Wizarding Britain. It’s quite a process, but he picked it up quickly, he sources the beans himself, and he loves doing it. Now, I have the best coffee in England, every morning.” Draco smirked.

“And, he listens to that album there, while he roasts,” he finished. Harry was grinning widely now. It was a fun image to picture, Timsy humming to “Dream a Little Dream of Me” while carefully watching and smelling his beans in the little roaster with his long, curved nose. Draco grinned back.

Harry continued his journey through Draco’s albums, and Draco closed his eyes and dropped his head back on the arm of the sofa, just for a moment. His hands were folded over his stomach, his wand left on the coffee table. He’d never have believed he could be so relaxed with Harry Potter in his house, especially after the events of the morning. He felt warm and languid, and he could easily have dozed right there and left Harry to his own devices. He didn’t, because after a couple of minutes, Harry snapped his fingers to get his attention.

“Sorry,” Draco mumbled, lifting his head and peering at him. Harry only looked amused. He was holding up The Fugees album, The Score this time. He pointed at it and mouthed, hip hop?

“Hip hop,” Draco repeated, and Harry nodded. “I honestly have no idea what you’re talking about, but Lauryn Hill has a voice like a Veela. She’s an American muggle—as far as I know. She might be a Veela, who knows? Have you heard this?” Harry shook his head, still smiling.

“Well, then depriving you of it now would be a crime. Put it on, go on then, track eight.” He flapped his hand at Harry with faux impatience. They had time for one more song, before they had to get back to work. “Then sit back and relax. Appreciate the experience, Harry.” Draco folded his hands behind his head and stared at his ceiling, ready to be entranced, as was proper when listening to this particular song.

“Strumming my pain with his fingers
Singing my life with his words
Killing me softly with his song
Killing me softly…”

Draco sighed as the beat kicked in, Hill’s angelic voice reverberating around the room and his head. Such a voice, it had to be magic. He’d heard this song playing in a muggle coffee shop Pansy took him to, and hadn’t wanted to leave. He’d made Pansy get the name of the artist from the muggle barista—because he was a coward—and hinted heavily that she should be included in his Christmas record haul that year.

As her echoing vocals faded out, Draco sighed again in satisfaction. He turned his head to the side to look at Harry, who was still sat on the floor, jean-clad legs out in front of him, ridiculous socked-feet crossed at the ankles. His hands were folded in his lap, his back against the shelves, his head tipped back and his eyes closed. He looked peaceful. He looked like how Draco felt.

Harry opened his eyes as the song ended, meeting Draco’s gaze, and mouthed Wow.

Draco made a haughty, gracious motion with his hand, like a benevolent king. “You’re welcome. Now, back to work.”

Draco swung his feet back to the floor and picked up his wand, making a wide sweeping arc in front of him. The records gracefully picked themselves up off the floor and floated back to their cabinet, in perfect alphabetical order (because he was clueless about genre). He was so glad he’d learned that charm early on.

Back in the study, Draco asked Timsy for tea. Mostly because he felt like he should be holding something warm in his hands. He didn’t want to lose that comforting feeling just yet.

“I think we should actively start our search today, do you agree?” Draco asked. Harry nodded, putting three sugars and plenty of milk in his own tea. Draco refrained from wrinkling his nose at how that might taste.

“Then we start where we should, at the beginning. You can steer us to your earliest memories—” Harry grimaced, “—but I’ll take the reins if we need to see something closer, or if you have trouble recalling something important. Alright?”

Harry’s peaceful mood seemed to have evaporated. He set down his teacup, breathing harshly through his nose, his fingers flexing against the armrest of the chair. His eyes were darting from Draco to the door.

“Harry,” Draco tried, lowering his voice and moving his head a little to the side to meet his eyes. “Are you nervous about the memories themselves—” he held up his index finger, “—or my control of how we view them?” He held up his middle finger next to the first.

Harry searched Draco’s face, hands still gripping the armrests, before holding up his index finger in answer.

Draco nodded. That wasn’t unusual for his patients.

“You know you’re safe here,” he reminded Harry. “I won’t pass judgement on you, and nothing in there can hurt you now. If it gets to be too much, if I feel your body responding in panic or shock or anything else dangerous, I pull us out. If you need me out before then, snap your fingers. I’ll hear it.”

Harry still looked nervous, but he nodded and relaxed his grip on the armrests.

“Good. Meditation first, a bit more than we did last time, yeah?” Draco suggested, and Harry took a deep breath, positioning himself as he had on Monday. Draco wondered if he’d been practicing at all in the days between their sessions, if he was finding it as helpful or enjoyable as Draco did.

Their meditation lasted at least ten minutes, and Harry looked much more calm by the end of it. Deciding not to allow Harry any time to get nervous again, Draco slowly lifted his wand, waited for Harry’s nod and eye contact, and cast. His mind fell forward into Harry’s, and the flashes began, but slower this time.

Harry stands in a grim, dark, stuffy looking room with his hands on his hips. He can smell old Dark Magic, and he hates it.

Weasley and Granger at a dinner table. “I’m glad it’s going alright, Harry. He seems to really know what he’s doing.”

“Good,” Draco praised, and he could feel Harry’s appreciation of it. “You’re getting better, this is calmer, more controlled. I hope it feels easier for you, too.”

“No, Harry, you can’t come back to work. I told you, you can help investigate who attacked you, but we’d need you at full capacity in the field, which you know you’re not at right now,” Weasley says, apologetically. Harry is frustrated.

A twenty-three-year old Harry is watching the reunion of an abducted child with his mother. He was too late to save the other children, but the horrific man will be in Azkaban for the rest of his life. The mother looks at Harry with fear and relief and gratitude. Harry feels numb.

“Now, you can steer us around. Take us to your earliest memories.”

Harry’s mind stopped for a moment, then everything flew past Draco’s presence in a whoosh. When it slowed, it was a jumble, a bit hazy, which was expected of early memories like this. He took a moment to look around, not stopping on anything for long enough to interpret, looking for anything that stood out.

Soon he saw a faint silvery glow, just out of sight. It reminded him of the glow around the Obliviation on Sunday. He watched it move around his peripherals for a while. “I see something,” he warned Harry. “I’m going to follow it.” He concentrated his magic, funneled a small amount more through his wand, and latched onto the glow as soon as it came back into view, demanding it to focus, but it was too murky, a haze of shadow and colour. A baby’s memory. The sound rang through Harry’s head, much more clear than a baby’s memory should be.

A child’s bedroom, yellow walls. The bars of a crib.
“No! Not Harry, please!” a woman screams.
“Stand aside, girl.” A high, cold voice.
“No! Not Harry!”
A flash of green light, a cruel laugh.
…
The rumble of a motorcycle, the cold night air, the feeling of flying.

The memory ended, and Draco allowed the early memories to flow around each other again. “Alright, Harry, we’ve found the first breadcrumb.” He gently pulled himself out of Harry’s head.

Harry immediately sagged, landing his face in his hands. Draco called Timsy for chocolate. He pointed his wand at the chalkboard, drew a dot towards the left side, and labeled it “31/10/81”. He hated writing out morbid memories on display. He knew the date, which would be reference enough.

Once the important work was done, Draco looked back at Harry, who had his hands gripped tight in his hair, his face still hidden from Draco, sniffing occasionally. Draco allowed himself a moment to feel, to relieve his Occlumency and react to what he’d seen.

It was one thing to know Harry’s parents died trying to save him, and quite another to witness it. Draco’s fingers itched to reach out and touch Harry, to comfort him, but he couldn’t. He rubbed his left forearm instead, reminding himself of who he was. His hands were shaking.

“It’s alright,” he murmured. “Take your time. That was a lot to remember.” His voice was low and quiet, only loud enough for Harry to hear. A bar of chocolate appeared on the side table, and Draco internally thanked Timsy for recognizing a moment where apparition wouldn’t be welcome.

Harry rubbed his face with his hands, gathering himself, before finally looking back up at Draco. Draco could see the helpless dread in his eyes. He must have been thinking that every breadcrumb would be something painful like that. Draco didn’t know—he hoped not, but it was possible. Likely. Harry had a lot of pain in his past, he knew.

Draco opened the chocolate bar and broke off a small piece. Harry was writing in his notebook, and turning it towards Draco.

Dementors made me remember it

Draco shivered. “They affected you much more than anyone else, didn’t they?” Harry gave a short nod, and Draco looked away, remembering his own taunts in third year. Harry had been perfecting a Patronus charm in his spare time, at thirteen, while Draco only came up with new ways to make fun of him for his weakness.

Harry had that thoughtful look on his face again, and continued writing.

You remind me of Remus, sometimes

Draco’s breath caught in his throat, and he cleared it awkwardly, feeling his cheeks heat. He knew Harry had adored Professor Lupin. This was quite a compliment.

“I didn’t know him,” he admitted. “Not like you did.”

Harry’s thoughtful look gave way to a snort, which Draco heard as of course you didn’t, he was a Gryffindor, and a werewolf, and your father got him fired. Draco handed over the piece of chocolate. “Go on,” he urged. “It helps. It really helps.”

And now Harry looked amused again, and Draco was confused again. “What?”

But Harry shook his head, smirking, and raised his hand to his face. He tapped his forehead twice, crooking his finger with an invitation. Draco hoped he wasn’t blushing again.

“Such a Gryffindor,” he chastised, flustered. “We won’t go barging back in just like that. Finish your chocolate, we’ll do some more breathing first, then you can show me whatever you want to show me.”

Harry obeyed, and didn’t make Draco sweat any more, which he was grateful for. The idiot had no idea how attractive he was, and it was so bloody annoying. Or maybe he did, and he enjoyed watching Draco squirm like this. Draco wouldn’t put it past him. He kept his face carefully neutral, and breathed until the heat left his cheeks, and felt in control of himself again. Crooking a finger in invitation, honestly.

When they were both ready, Draco raised his wand, and went back in.

Remus hands him a large piece of chocolate. Harry feels cold and hopeless—symptoms of a dementor attack. “Eat,” Remus says. “You’ll feel better.” His eyes are warm and tired.

Remus helps Harry sit from where he’s fainted on the stone floor. The boggart is locked back in its trunk. He hands Harry another piece of chocolate. “It helps,” he says, “It really helps.”

“Alright, I see what you mean,” Draco muttered, reluctantly amused. It was still a huge compliment for Harry to compare him to this man, even if it was for just a couple of words he’d said. “Ready to get back to work?”

Draco felt a soft yes feeling in response. “I’ll take us back, this time.” He pushed with his magic, farther back in Harry’s memories, until he saw the tiny, dark room under the stairs he’d seen on Monday. Harry was small, too small. Draco spotted a little toy soldier on a shelf, and wondered if this was some sort of play hideout. “I’m going to take another look around,” he warned Harry.

He let the memories come, keeping an eye out for that silvery glow.

A woman is trying to wrestle a hideous jumper over his head. The jumper is shrinking and shrinking, until it’s small enough for a rat. She’s furious, she’s screaming at him. “I’m telling Vernon what you’ve done!” she yells shrilly. “You had to be a freak, didn’t you?”

A tiny, dark room under the stairs. He hears a lock latch on the other side of the door. “And that’s where you’ll stay,” a man growls from outside, “until you learn to behave.”

A tiny, dark room under the stairs. Harry is hungry.

A tiny, dark room under the stairs. A spider descends from the ceiling.

A tiny, dark room under the stairs. Someone is jumping on the stairs above and laughing, causing dust and bits of plaster to fall into Harry’s waking face.

Draco could feel his rage about to burst from behind his careful Occlumency barrier, so he paused for a moment to breathe and tuck it away again. Not now, he reminded himself, he definitely couldn’t allow his own anger into Harry’s head, not now.

A small Harry stands at the stove, assembling a casserole. He accidentally burns his hand as he puts it in the oven, and yelps. The shrill woman enters the kitchen, furious at him for making noise while she has guests. He hides his wound. He knows he won’t get to eat, now.

A small Harry sneaks several spoonfuls of sugar into a cup of tepid leftover tea, and fills the rest of the cup with milk. The sugar helps keep the hunger at bay.

More memories flashed past him as he waited—Harry running from a gang of boys, Harry yanked around by a large man with a purpling face, Harry’s teachers telling him he’s a compulsive liar, according to his aunt, so why should they believe him, and won’t he just admit he fell down the stairs? Thankfully, he spotted a silvery glow soon enough. “I see another,” he told Harry, and latched on.

Harry is watching a large snake in its enclosure. The snake picks up its head, and watches him back. Harry starts hissing quietly at it. The snake hisses back, leaning towards the glass for a closer look. A large boy—Harry’s cousin, Draco gathered—runs up and shoves him to the ground, and presses his own face to the glass. Harry is angry—the glass disappears, and the boy falls in. The snake slithers out, and gives Harry a nod as he passes. They both hiss at each other quietly as the snake makes his escape.
The large, angry man, Uncle Vernon, grabs Harry by his shirt and yanks him up. “What have you done, boy?” he growls in Harry’s ear. “I told you, no funny business. You’ll be sorry this time.”

Draco pulled back, just a bit, and focused on his breathing again as the memories flowed past him once more.

“Think we can go for another?” Draco asked. “Snap if you need a break.”

Another soft urging in Harry’s head. Draco continued his search, but the next crumb appeared soon after the snake memory. It looked like a chunk, actually. The silvery glow seemed to encompass a number of smaller scenes over a short time. “This will be a big one, I think,” Draco muttered. He took another deep breath, and latched on.

‘Harry Potter, The Cupboard Under the Stairs, 4 Privet Drive, Surrey’ the thick envelope reads, before it is snatched out of his small hands.
…
Hundreds of letters fly around the house, from the windows, the chimney, breaking open the bolted-shut mail slot. Uncle Vernon wrestles Harry into the tiny, dark room and locks the door.
…
Harry lays on the floor of a cold shack. It’s storming outside. “Happy Birthday to me,” he whispers, just before the door is kicked down to reveal what Harry thinks must be a giant.
…
“You’re a wizard, Harry,” Hagrid says.
“I’m a what?” Harry replies. Hagrid is furious, turning to the aunt and uncle.
“He doesn’t know?!” Hagrid yells.
…
Harry is in the Leaky Cauldron. Everyone is clamoring to get to him, to shake his hand. He doesn’t know why. He doesn’t like it.
…
“I know I’ll be in Slytherin, all our family have been—imagine being in Hufflepuff, I think I’d leave, wouldn’t you?” an eleven-year-old Draco asks. Harry replies with a grunt; this pale boy makes him feel so stupid.
…
Hagrid is holding up a cage with a beautiful snowy owl. Harry is stammering his thanks. “Don’t mention it,” Hagrid says gruffly. It’s Harry’s first ever birthday present, but he doesn’t mention it.
…
“It is very curious indeed,” Ollivander says, “that you should be destined for this wand, when its brother gave you that scar.” Harry swallows.
…
“I think I can tell who the wrong sort are for myself, thanks,” Harry says coldly. Draco drops his small hand, his cheeks are pink.
“I’d be careful if I were you, Potter,” Draco says. “Unless you’re a bit politer you’ll go the same way as your parents.”
…
The Sorting Hat covers his eyes. ‘Not Slytherin,’ Harry thinks.
“Not Slytherin, eh?” the hat replies. “Are you sure? You could be great, you know, it’s all here in your head, and Slytherin will help you on the way to greatness, no doubt about that—no? Well, if you’re sure—better be GRYFFINDOR!” Harry takes off the hat, relieved.

Draco didn’t see any more of the silvery glow he was looking for, so he pulled back slowly, all the way out of Harry’s head. He pointed his wand at the chalkboard, added another dot labeled “Snake Enclosure,” and another dot after that. Draco frowned as he tried to figure out how to label all of that, but eventually decided on “31/7/91 & 1/9/91” and put his wand down.

Draco closed his eyes, finally letting his Occlumency barriers down, feeling the tidal wave of reactions burst through. His thoughts were racing, but he rubbed his thighs, his hands, his hair, his collarbone. He knew who he was. He had just seen who he was. He’d hated it. It certainly wasn’t helping him feel any calmer. His hands were shaking again.

He opened his eyes and looked at Harry, who was watching him with a wary face, as if he had just been reminded of who Draco really was, which he had been. Draco continued rubbing his thighs, but the energy wouldn’t leave him. He stood up and began pacing back and forth in front of the window, occasionally shaking out his hands. Harry continued to watch.

Draco felt like he was drowning under the deluge of emotions he’d held back, but he knew they wouldn’t go away until he’d felt them all. He’d never felt this strongly seeing another person’s memories before, and he’d seen a few shitty childhoods. But a cupboard under the stairs? He remembered Lucius once punishing a house elf for making a noise after accidentally burning themselves—he had seen Harry’s aunt do the exact same thing. He realized he hadn’t even heard anyone say Harry’s name until Hagrid came into the picture, and Harry apparently hadn’t known he was a wizard until then, either, just assumed all the odd happenings around him were because he was some sort of freak, as they called him. Draco had never felt so angry in his life.

And then Harry met Draco, who took up the mantle of bully from Harry’s awful cousin, because he’d had no idea how to interact with kindness, he’d never learned. Draco’s whole world was made of leaders and followers, of exploitation and political runaround, even at the tender age of eleven, and Lucius would never have allowed Draco to be anything less than a leader. Lucius and Narcissa never taught Draco how to make friends, they taught him how to make allies, and when someone wasn’t an ally, they were an enemy. And for Merlin’s sake, they were fucking eleven. Harry wouldn’t shake his hand, so Draco had threatened him with murder—he truly was Lucius in miniature. Lucius Lite, the Death Eaters had called him, leering and snickering at him. No wonder Harry had begged the Hat to sort him anywhere but Slytherin.

Not for the first time, Draco wondered if this was a good idea, if it should continue. He knew that Harry’s encounters with Draco only got worse from there. Harry would have to relive almost their entire rivalry—how could he have any respect for Draco, after that? Draco had been counting on them putting their history behind them in order to work together; how could he have forgotten that the history was exactly what Draco would be dragging up?

Draco’s pacing was growing feverish, and his breath was whistling where it was rushing past his teeth in harsh, shallow gusts. He couldn’t hear much over the rush of blood in his ears, the floor felt like it was vibrating under his feet. He didn’t even notice Harry had moved until he was right in front of him, grabbing Draco’s upper arms, with a determined look on his face. When Draco met his eyes, he realized he was hyperventilating. His hands gripped Harry’s elbows like a lifeline. He was suffocating, he was dying, surely, and Harry’s fiery green eyes would be the last thing he ever saw.

But Harry only intensified his eye contact, and started to breathe—in through his nose for four, hold for two, out through his mouth for four. Somewhere in Draco’s brain, that sounded like a good idea, so he tried to mirror it. His breaths were shaky and hard, and it felt unnatural, but he focused on the feeling of Harry’s hands on his arms, and breathed.

Harry eventually deemed him not-dying, and released him, making his way back to the chair. Draco followed him, trying to rub feeling back into his face.

“Sorry,” Draco muttered. Harry shook his head, breaking off a piece of chocolate and handing it to Draco. He picked up his notebook to write while Draco ate, feeling the warmth of the chocolate spread through him. It didn’t escape Draco’s notice that this was the second time today Harry had taken care of him. Some Healer you are, Malfoy, Draco thought, dejected.

Why? Harry’s notebook read.

“Why did I react like that?” Draco clarified, to Harry’s affirmative nod. Draco took another deep breath, and another bite of chocolate to stall.

“I use Occlumency to hold back my emotions and reactions while I’m in someone’s head,” he began. “When I finish casting, I have to take down the barriers and feel them, process them. But that was a lot to take in, and too much anger to hold back at once.”

Harry looked confused. Anger? He wrote.

“Yes, anger, mostly. Fury, a heavy dose of wrath. I don’t think I’ve ever felt angrier. I’m still angry,” Draco answered. His hands were starting to shake again. Somewhere, he thought he heard a soft clatter of glass.

Harry still looked perplexed. He pointed to the Why? on the page with his pen.

“Harry,” Draco said through clenched teeth. “Those muggles were abhorrent. No child deserves to be treated that way. No one deserves that. They never said your name, they punished you for things beyond your control, they bloody starved you—they treated you the same way Lucius treated the Malfoy house elves, do you know that?”

Harry’s eyes were wide. He looked somewhere between afraid and upset. He looked uncomfortable. His eyes were darting around the room, his hand twitching for his wand. Draco’s ears were ringing.

“Your letter, Harry,” Draco said firmly. Behind him, something heavy hit the floor. Draco didn’t notice. “Your letter was addressed to you, in the Cupboard Under the Stairs. In McGonagall’s handwriting, in her favourite green ink. They knew, Harry, and they did nothing, and I’m so fucking angry.”

The fire shot up in the grate, roaring and sparking and dangerously large. Books were throwing themselves off the shelves. The clattering glass finally shattered, whatever it was. Draco gripped the arms of the chair and breathed again, listening only to the sound of air moving in and out of his nose.

The fire slowly died back down, the noise subsided, and Draco peeled his hands off the armrests, flexing his fingers. He chanced another look at Harry, who was simply watching him, with an unreadable look on his face. Draco watched him back, amazed that a man could still be so bloody good, having grown up like that.

Had to live there, Harry wrote, turning a fresh page in his notebook. Blood wards.

Draco shook his head, closing his eyes again. “There are so many other ways to protect someone,” he muttered. He knew he would only get angry again, if he had to argue about this with Harry, and it wasn’t really his business, anyway. He changed the subject.

“Next time, we’ll go for one crumb at a time. I shouldn’t hold back that much with Occlumency—I have to feel it all at once, when I let it out.” Draco sighed. “I’m sorry, I thought I could handle it.”

Harry shrugged it off.

“Do you have questions for me?” Draco asked, because he needed to.

Harry bit his lip, and started writing.

What do the breadcrumbs look like?

An easy one to start, Draco noted, relieved. “It’s an odd, silvery glow around certain memories,” he explained. “It looks very similar to what the hole in your memory looked like, when I first saw it. It’s a kind of magical signature. I let the memories pass until I see that glow, and then I sort of… grab it.”

Harry nodded, intrigued. He wrote some more.

Would you change any of it?

“Are you referring to eleven-year-old me? If I could go back?” Draco asked, and Harry gave a quick nod, chewing his lip again. Draco looked at him for a moment, formulating his honest reply, however scary it was.

“I want to say yes,” Draco sighed, “but I don’t think I would. There’s things I wish I’d done differently, but it’s so much. I wish I’d shown you kindness, but I also wish I had known how. I wish I hadn’t answered your slight with a death threat, but I also wish I wasn’t created in Lucius’ image. I have a lot of regrets, Harry, but none of them do me any good, when my mistakes have made me who I am.”

Harry looked thoughtful, and sat back in his chair, putting his notebook down on the table.

“Alright, three breadcrumbs in one day is not bad, not bad at all,” Draco rallied. “And that last one was a big one, apparently two days worth. Start coming back to yourself and we’ll be done for the day.” He pulled his reading glasses out of his pocket and picked up his own notebook, beginning the process of making copious notes on all he’d seen, careful to not enrage himself again.

Every few moments, he’d look up and watch Harry idly rub the scars on his hand, or the stubble on his jaw, and smile at a happy memory. Harry’s face eventually landed on a frown of concentration, where Draco hoped he was trying to think of things he liked about himself, before smoothing out into neat, deep breaths. Harry opened his eyes and gave Draco one of his tiny smiles, and the little sun in Draco’s chest woke up. Pathetic, Draco berated himself.

“Very good,” Draco declared with an approving nod, and Harry blushed at the praise.

Draco stood up and started the walk towards the door, Harry close behind. “If you have questions over the weekend, you may owl me,” Draco told him. “I might not answer until our next session, depending, but I’ll take them,” he added, and Harry nodded, his lips still turned up in that little smile.

As Harry shrugged on his old leather jacket, Draco decided to try his luck on something.

“The snake,” he said, and Harry raised his eyebrows. “What were you talking about, with the snake?”

The corner of Harry’s lips twitched; his eyes were amused. Draco wondered if he’d been expecting that question, after all. Harry turned towards the wall, raised one finger to it, and began drawing out letters.

B R A Z I L

“Brazil,” Draco repeated flatly. “You’re joking.” Harry huffed a laugh, stuffed his hands in his pockets, and with a final smile at Draco, walked out of the house.

Draco didn’t even wait after closing the door this time; he simply locked the front door with a flick of his wand, turned around, and walked straight to his bed, unbuttoning his shirt as he went. He got his trousers off just in time to fall into his nest of pillows, pulling the fluffy duvet up to his eyes. He brought his hands up close to his face, his nose next to his wrists, and fell asleep instantly, breathing in the faint scent of treacle and warm grass after rain.

Chapter Four

“...Draco, are you listening?”

Draco blinked, and turned his head away from the windows in Pansy’s kitchen. The mid-afternoon sun looked warm on the new spring grass. It’d be a nice day for a fly, but he’d probably end up flying later tonight anyway, he always did. Daytime flying just wasn’t the same.

“I’m sorry, Pans,” Draco apologized. “What were you saying?”

Pansy pinched her lips together. “Does it matter?”

Draco rolled his eyes. They both shared dramatic tendencies, it was how they got along so well, after all this time. Their interactions would do well on a stage. He loved her for it, even when it was annoying as shit.

“You know it does, Pansy,” Draco sighed. “I’m distracted with this new case, but I’m here now.”

“You’re always distracted with your cases,” Pansy argued. “They don’t usually make you gaze longingly at my garden, or tap your foot incessantly on my floor.”

Draco forcefully stilled his jumping leg. He hadn’t even noticed.

“It’s tougher than most.”

“Tell me about it,” Pansy shot back.

Draco narrowed his eyes. “You know I can’t.”

“Yes, yes, I know,” Pansy sighed, flapping her hand. “I can’t help it, gossip is in my nature, I’ll never stop asking.”

“I’m well aware of your nature,” Draco smirked. “Bloody vulture,” he muttered under his breath.

“Language!!” Pansy hissed, eyes full of amusement, dramatically reaching over to cover her daughter’s ears. Camila giggled at her antics, unperturbed by the interruption to her drawing.

“Camila,” Pansy cooed, “what do we call Uncle Draco when he’s being boring?”

“Draco the Grouch,” the girl replied, still giggling. Draco scoffed at the pair of them, a reluctant smile on his face.

“I am not boring!”

“Please, Draco, you’re practically drowning us in ennui.” Pansy smirked. Draco huffed a laugh.

“Draco the Grouch, Draco the Grouch…” Camila sang in a little tune to herself. Her straight, dark hair, so like her mother’s, fell into her face as she drew. Pansy absently tucked it behind her ear. The colourful scribbles on the paper were dancing between its edges, thanks to her charmed crayons, courtesy of Draco.

“Did you know that show was American?” Draco asked.

“Of course,” Pansy laughed. “Hard to miss, the way those puppets go on.” She narrowed her eyes at him, but the smile remained. “Why, are you practicing your faux-muggle prejudices?”

Draco chuckled. “Absolutely. Isn’t it difficult to get it, though, from across the ocean? How do they do it?”

“Merlin, I don’t know how they do it, Draco,” Pansy said, exasperated. “I just pay for the premium telly package, and Camila turns it on and presses the buttons and finds it, every Saturday morning. I think she even records it, to watch later, because of the time difference. No idea how she does it.”

She eyed him intently. Draco recognized this look, she usually wore it when she poked and prodded Draco for his secrets. “How did you find out it was American, anyway?”

Draco’s smile vanished. He cleared his throat awkwardly. “Someone saw my slippers,” he said vaguely. Pansy sighed.

“You’re no fun. And I know you love those slippers, don’t pretend you don’t, your guest was probably gushing over them,” Pansy declared, standing up to clear the table. Draco stood to help.

“I do,” he mumbled. “They’re softer than a pygmy puff.”

“When have you ever held a pygmy puff?” Pansy laughed as they deposited the dishes in the sink, setting a charm to clean them. Camila came in and added her new drawing to the growing collection on the cupboard, with help from one of Pansy’s sticking charms. From a distance, the cupboards looked like they were crawling with odd, colourful insects.

Pansy’s house was smaller than Draco’s, but no less elegant. It was just enough room for her and Camila, and she liked it that way. ”I don’t want there to be empty space I’d feel pressured to fill with something superfluous, like a man,” she’d told him when she bought it. He’d agreed with the sentiment, and silently wondered if that was why he kept buying all those sodding plants—daddy issues notwithstanding.

They chatted idly about her work in the sitting room, cradling cups of tea. She was a private divorce lawyer, and made a fortune at it, most of which she put away for Camila, wisely not trusting the Parkinson family to include an illegitimate child in an inheritance or trust. Pansy had no qualms about confidentiality around Draco, regaling him with the tales of juicy betrayals and sordid affairs of divorcing couples.

Camila eventually became restless, making her way to the sofa to crawl all over her godfather’s lap. He effortlessly flipped and rolled her around, playfully shouting, “Is this comfortable for you, love? I only want you to be comfortable!” as she shrieked with laughter. This was enough to tire her out for a nap, even though she begged “Again, Uncle Draco!” over and over until her head hit the pillow. It filled Draco with a quiet joy, as Camila always did.

Back in the sitting room, Pansy hit their tea with a quick warming charm, sighing as she settled back into her armchair.

“Don’t work too hard, Draco, or I’ll hear about it from Timsy.”

“I know. That elf doesn’t know when to keep his mouth shut.”

“He does. He also knows when to open it for the purpose of your continued well-being.”

Draco rolled his eyes, but conceded the point.

“I moved all my other patients to different Healers,” he appealed. “There’s only one on my plate right now.”

Pansy widened her eyes. “Must be big, then, for you to give up the others,” she murmured. Draco gave her a nod, and hoped it would be enough to satisfy her thirst for knowledge. By the intrigued look on her face, it wasn’t. “Whatever happened to not putting all your eggs in one basket?”

“I’ll be fine,” he replied, and prayed that not an ounce of weakness showed on his face, because Pansy would pounce on it in a heartbeat. “No matter how this ends, the demand outstrips the supply, you know.”

“Yes, we know, you’re the only man in England who can do what you do, Merlin, you’re so special,” she rolled her eyes, flapping her hand at him, but the small smile remained on her face, as it usually did when Draco was around.

***

Draco lay on a conjured blanket, stretched out on the quickly-growing grass in his garden. It wasn’t too cold, for so late at night. With his hands folded behind his head, he stared up at the wide night sky, allowing his mind to drift, identifying the constellations he knew. An owl flew silently overhead.

A dim light came from the kitchen window, which was opened to let in fresh air, and let out the exhaust from Timsy’s roaster. Draco’s garden smelled like crisp night air and honeyed toast. Draco smiled as he breathed it in—the beans were nearly done, then. He could hear the warble of Doris Day, muffled from inside the house.

“Stars shining bright above you
Soft breezes seem to whisper, I love you…”

His thoughts drifted to his current patient. He’d never before worked on someone he knew personally, and it was frustrating, that he had to realign his own memories of his and Harry’s interactions with what he’d seen from Harry’s own perspective.

That day on the train, after Harry had rejected him, Draco had fled Harry’s compartment with Greg and Vince after Greg was “attacked” by Weasley’s rat. He’d told Greg and Vince to go on to their own compartment without him, and he’d made his way to the most deserted end of the train, near the exit of the rear car. Draco had then proceeded to throw his tantrum in solitude, angry at himself for crying a little, and all he could think about was What did I do wrong, and Father will be so disappointed in me for messing up this opportunity, and What if everyone I talk to at school treats me like that, because Harry Potter did? He’d berated himself for already feeling homesick, for not acting like a proper Malfoy heir, for being childish, for being not good enough for Harry Potter.

But in Harry’s eyes, Draco had spent their interactions making him feel stupid and inferior, throwing a bigoted ideology on his shoulders and expecting him to carry it, and insulting his first two friends, ever. They’d made enemies of each other so quickly, as children. What would have happened if Draco had apologized and asked for Harry’s perspective? If they had had time to introduce themselves in Madam Malkin’s, if Draco was the one to offer his friendship first, instead of Weasley?

The Dark Lord would probably be alive, he thought grimly. Lucius would have sunk his claws in Harry as soon as he could, if the Malfoys were the first wizard family Harry encountered. Narcissa would have loved him as her own, probably, but even Narcissa’s love hadn’t kept Draco safe from Lucius’ ideals or Voldemort’s demands. It wouldn’t have kept Harry safe, either. And Draco had worshipped his father, as a child. He would have fought Harry the second he disagreed with Lucius, which he inevitably would have, because Harry was just so innately good.

No, Harry had to know the Weasleys, had to experience the love of a proper family. Draco was glad Harry hadn’t had to endure the full Malfoy experience growing up. He wouldn’t wish it on anybody.

“And in your dreams, whatever they be
Dream a little dream of me…”

Soon, the garden began to smell like perfectly roasted coffee. Draco could hear the hissing and crackling of the beans on the cooling tray. He sat up with a sigh, giving the constellations one last glance, and made his way inside, vanishing the blanket with a lazy swish of his wand.

***

“You seem tired,” Draco observed, as Harry yawned again. He was cradling his coffee mug with both hands, absently rubbing the lip of it with his thumb. There were dark smudges under his eyes. Harry shrugged.

“Nightmares or insomnia?” Draco asked, holding up one and two fingers for Harry to use as an answer. Harry hesitated for a moment before holding up one finger. Draco nodded in understanding.

“I have a few bottles of dreamless sleep, if you’d like,” he offered, and Harry grimaced. Draco held his hands up, “Or not.”

Harry shook his head firmly.

“Does your mind feel slow, right now? Do you feel calm?” Harry shrugged again.

“It’s not ideal, but we can skip the meditation, then,” Draco explained. “I fear it would only make you more tired, at the moment. We can have a nap during our break today.” Harry sat up, apparently ready to go. Draco set down his coffee, and lifted his wand, waiting for Harry’s nod. “Legilimens.”

Fred Weasley stares at him from the stone floor, covered in rubble. His face is slack with surprise, frozen in death, and his clothes are stained with blood. An acromantula crawls through a hole in the side of the castle. Harry looks around. Bodies are everywhere, all unseeing eyes trained on him.

Draco recognized the signs of a dream, other than it being so unrealistic, with all those bodies looking at him. Surrealism never really mattered in a nightmare—they always felt real, always terrifying and painful.

“It’s alright, Harry,” he soothed in his low voice, feeling Harry’s grief and panic surge. “I know this is a nightmare. Look at the walls, see how they’re a bit hazy? Look for your hands—you won’t be able to count your fingers, in a dream.” He let the nightmare pass him.

“No wonder you couldn’t sleep,” he mumbled. “Hang on, let me show you something.”

Draco pushed gently with his magic, searching. It felt a bit like flipping through his records, or a photo album, until—there.

“Training for the ballet, Potter?” a twelve-year-old Draco sneers on his broom. He doesn’t notice the snitch hovering just behind him. Harry’s arm is broken, but he ignores the pain, steering his broom clumsily towards Draco, who is widening his eyes in surprise. Harry shoots past him, grabbing the snitch out of the air by Draco’s head before landing with a heavy thud on his back. He looks up—Draco’s jaw is hanging open in shock, looking foolish. Harry laughs quietly at him, shaking his head.

“Merlin, what a prat,” Draco muttered, and he could feel a small spark of Harry’s amusement. “I certainly knew how to make a fool of myself around you, didn’t I?”

Draco made another quick search, knowing exactly what he was looking for—

Harry lands on the pitch, the snitch in his fist, a wide smile on his face. Remus jogs up to him.
“That was some Patronus,” he remarks with a wry grin. “You gave Mr. Malfoy and his friends quite a fright.” Harry turns his head, surprised, and sees Draco and a few other Slytherin boys flailing and tangled in heavy, dark robes on the ground, getting scolded by a furious McGonagall. Harry throws his head back, and laughs.

And now Draco could hear Harry laughing for real, just soft breaths huffing out of his mouth. The rhythm matched almost perfectly to the bright, joyful laugh he was listening to in Harry’s head, and Draco could imagine how it would sound on Harry today, a little lower, a little rougher. Draco grinned.

“Knew that would cheer you up,” he said quietly. “Feel ready to get to work?”

He could still feel Harry’s joy, quiet and warm, and he waited for the soft assent before starting another push.

“We’ll start where we left off last time,” Draco explained. “You had just practically sorted yourself into Gryffindor, as I recall.” More soft huffs, more amusement. Draco found the sorting memory with ease; it still had its silvery glow around it.

Draco relaxed his control a bit, and let the jumble of first year flow around him, all out of order.

Harry leaps onto a mountain troll’s club, it swings him around wildly. In his flailing, his wand is shoved up its nose.

“I think I’ll leave it somewhere for Longbottom to find,” Draco yells, and throws the Remembrall. Without thinking, Harry shoots after it on his broom, and it’s exhilarating and natural and right.

Weasley sits on a giant chess knight. “You have to go on, Harry,” he says. “It has to be you. Not me, not Hermione, you.” The giant queen swings her sword, and Ron is thrown across the board, unconscious.

“Still looking,” Draco said, furrowing his brows. “Hold on…”

Harry sits in front of a large, ornate mirror. His mother pets his head affectionately in the reflection. His father smiles at him, proud. Harry feels a painful mixture of joy and loss, and can’t get enough.

Harry runs from Professor Quirrell, but he’s tackled to the stone floor. The Sorcerer’s Stone rolls out of his pocket. His head feels like it’s on fire. Quirrell reaches for the Stone, but Harry grabs his face. It starts to burn and disintegrate; Quirrell and Voldemort scream. Harry holds on until the pain in his head renders him unconscious.

Draco frowned. That seemed pretty fucking important. Why wouldn’t that be a breadcrumb? But it passed, and Draco finally saw the silvery glow in his peripheral. “There you are,” he whispered, grabbing onto the memory.

Harry urges his broom faster, his body held close to the wood, gaining on the snitch. He reaches out his hand, but loses his balance, tipping forward over the front of his broom. He opens his mouth to yell, and catches something hard and cold in his mouth, nearly choking. He rolls over after his fall, and coughs the snitch into his hand. The crowd is cheering wildly. He’s never felt happier.

Draco pulled back and out, lowering his wand and his barriers, quickly putting the memory on the chalkboard (“First Quidditch win”) next to the rest. He idly rubbed the scar on his collarbone, watching Harry, processing.

Harry still had a little smile on his face. “That was a fun one,” Draco said, grinning. Harry’s smile widened, but faded slowly again. He grabbed his notebook and started writing.

Do you think attacker chose these memories to be breadcrumbs?

Draco tilted his head to the side, thinking. “No,” he decided. “When they cursed you, they technically commanded you to hide your voice—whatever potion they slipped you may have made your subconscious more suggestible. Either way, they made the command, but I’m pretty sure your own mind did the hiding, and considering how they went on about you being known for yourself and not your image, I believe your mind marked a trail of your most formative memories—the ones that shaped who you really are.”

Harry looked thoughtful. He twirled his pen around in his fingers.

“The first one,” Draco said, pointing at the short trail on the chalkboard, “obviously changed your life, was the reason you became who you are. The snake, I think, must have been your first… I’d say magical, but you’d have thought it simply abnormal, conversation with something or someone who didn’t immediately think you were… different, who simply spoke to you as you are,” Draco muttered, thinking hard, carefully avoiding that awful word: freak. Harry’s eyebrows were raised, looking surprised and thoughtful.

“The third one was obviously a bundle of formative memories. Learning you’re a wizard, learning you’re famous, your first friends, your first birthday present, your first rival, I suppose—finally being among people just like you, learning you’re not… abnormal, that you’re in fact celebrated.”

Harry continued to stare at him, like this was all new to him, like he hadn’t expected Draco to say anything at all.

“But you’ve caught plenty of snitches in your day,” Draco remarked. “I know that was the first, and probably the only one you’ve ever swallowed,” he smirked, “but why do you think that particular one was so formative to you?”

Harry thought for a moment, staring at the fireplace, before turning a new page and writing again.

My first real accomplishment

“Ah,” Draco said, tipping his chin down. “You were praised for your own achievement, and not for the gnarly scar on your head?” Draco clarified, a wry grin on his face.

Harry smirked, and nodded once.

“I’m amazed you only got one detention that year, the amount of mischief you got up to,” Draco commented. Harry rolled his eyes.

“While a lot of it was very intense, I only saw the one crumb. We’ll go back and see if there’s one more from that year—I’ve a feeling there must be another—and then we’ll call it for a nap, yeah?”

Back in Harry’s head, swimming through the flashes of first year, Draco decided to look at the smaller, duller ones, just in case he was missing something.

“This was my dad’s?” Harry asks in disbelief, and wraps the silvery cloak around himself.
“Whoa,” Weasley breathes. “I know what that is!”

Several wizards on brooms take off from the astronomy tower, a crate carrying a baby dragon suspended between them.

Harry sees the dead unicorn, and is filled with sorrow and dread. The hooded figure looks up at him. His scar burns fiercely, his vision swims. Draco runs.

“...to have been loved so deeply, even though the person who loved us is gone, will give us some protection forever. It is in your very skin. Quirrell, full of hatred, greed, and ambition, sharing his soul with Voldemort, could not touch you for this reason. It was agony to touch a person marked by something so good.” Dumbledore smiles. Harry’s eyes are wet.

“There’s got to be…” Draco mumbled, his own emotions carefully tucked away. “Aha.” This memory was small, almost irrelevant, but the glow was definitely there.

“It’s about the Sorcerer’s Stone,” Harry says frantically. McGonagall drops her books in shock.
“How do you know—?”
“Professor, I think—I know—that someone’s going to try and steal the Stone. I’ve got to talk to Professor Dumbledore.”
She eyes him with a mixture of shock and suspicion.
“Professor Dumbledore will be back tomorrow,” she says finally. “I don’t know how you found out about the Stone, but rest assured, no one can possibly steal it, it’s too well protected.”
“But Professor—”
“Potter, I know what I’m talking about,” she says shortly. She gathers her books. “I suggest you all go back outside and enjoy the sunshine.”

And that was it. That conversation couldn’t have been more than sixty seconds. Why…?

Draco retreated, quickly adding another dot to the board, but he blanked on what to label it. He looked at Harry again, furrowing his brows, rubbing his jaw in thought.

“Now, why do you think that one was so important?” Draco asked. Harry shrugged, looking just as confused as Draco was. It probably wasn’t the first or the last time he’d argued with McGonagall. Draco closed his eyes and set his clever brain to work, idly twisting a lock of his hair in his fingers. That short, dismissive conversation had shaped Harry in some way, had changed the course of his life, affected his future…?

“Oh,” Draco breathed, opening his eyes wide. “I think…” He bit his lip, hesitating. Harry probably wouldn’t like this too much.

“I think that was when you realized you couldn’t rely on adults,” Draco spoke slowly, hoping he was making sense. “You learned you’d have to fight the important battles yourself, if they were going to be fought at all. They never did take you seriously, when you told them something was terribly wrong, did they?”

Harry’s eyes were as wide as saucers. Draco shook his head in disbelief.

“Merlin, Harry,” he breathed. “How many times did you hold the safety of the entire school in your hands, because the adults weren’t handling it, or they were caught up in their own politics, or they wouldn’t believe you? They literally made you have to save the day, yourself, over and over.”

Harry frowned at this, looking like he wanted to protest. Draco held up his hand.

“I know, they didn’t make you do anything. But the professors did, unwittingly, provide you with no other option than to go it alone, to fight it yourself. Think about it, Harry,” Draco implored. “I bet you knew, as soon as that conversation was over, that you were going to stop whoever from stealing the Stone yourself, no matter how dangerous it was, because you couldn’t trust anyone else to do it. You had to, because terrible things would happen if you didn’t, and because nobody else would.”

Harry’s jaw was clenched tight, and he crossed his arms over his chest, defensive. This was clearly not fun to hear, but it made perfect sense to Draco.

“Think, Harry,” Draco commanded. “In the rest of your years at school, when did you ever trust an adult to take care of something dire? How many times were you forced to take matters into your own hands, because the adults around you wouldn’t, or couldn’t?”

Harry was breathing hard, his nostrils were flaring. He looked angry, but it was widening into fear, then pleading, and Draco knew he understood, even if he didn’t want to admit it.

“Sixth year,” Draco continued quietly, “How many times did you try to tell the staff that something was happening with me, that I needed to be stopped?”

Harry didn’t respond, but the truth was written on his face, in the purse of his lips, the distress in his eyes. Draco nodded slowly.

“And they did nothing,” Draco said, “so you watched me yourself. You had to.”

The fire crackled quietly in the grate. Harry bit his lip again, his brow creased in thought as he watched Draco label the new dot on the board: “Adult distrust - Stone.”

Draco gave his armrests a gentle pat to shift the mood. “Now that we’ve figured that out, I could do with a nap, and I know you could, too. If you prefer a bed, feel free to use the guest room, but personally I prefer the sofas for a kip. Take your pick.”

***

Draco’s index finger was idly tracing the tip of the scar on his collarbone again, inside the open collar of his shirt. He couldn’t relax enough to doze, with Harry Potter so close, asleep on the chestnut leather sofa opposite him. So Draco simply lay there, occasionally watching the afternoon light move across the ceiling, occasionally watching Harry sleep. It was so quiet—all Draco could hear was Harry’s soft breathing, matching the gentle rise and fall of his chest, and the intermittent chirping of a blackbird outside.

Harry was stretched out, his head propped on a soft cream throw pillow against the armrest, his lawless hair splayed across the fabric. He had one arm thrown above his head, the other settled against his stomach. The hem of his navy t-shirt had ridden up a little in his sleep, and Draco’s eyes were drawn to the thin sliver of deep bronze skin there on his hip, just above the waistband of his faded muggle jeans. His boots had been discarded in the front hall as soon as he arrived this morning—his socks today were a normal, black cotton. Draco missed the polka dots.

Harry wouldn’t have been able to function properly, as sleep-deprived as Draco knew he was. He’d truly needed the nap. But seeing Harry like this, so peaceful and vulnerable, asleep in Draco’s sitting room, was causing him a sort of discomfort—a pulling, constricting feeling in his chest. Draco couldn’t discern if it was his bonds acting up or not, because he’d felt something like it a couple of times before: after the final task of the TriWizard Tournament, in sixth year after Harry had sliced him open, during the battle when Hagrid had carried Harry’s body, and when Harry had testified for him, to name a few. It wasn’t a feeling he particularly enjoyed. It felt like his chest was being squeezed, it was hard to breathe. It felt like gravity, like magnetism, an inevitable force that was futile to resist, though he had tried. He didn’t understand what it was, he didn’t want to, he didn’t like it.

Regardless, Draco couldn’t make himself stop, though he wished he would. He couldn’t move.

His gaze landed on Harry’s holly wand, laying on the coffee table between them, next to his glasses. His face looked so different without them—he looked defenseless, and so young. Draco felt privileged, to be trusted like this, but he needed it to end, very soon, needed to stop this uncomfortably familiar ache in his ribs.

Harry stirred, and Draco wondered if his protesting thoughts were loud enough to wake him. He turned his face back to the ceiling. The sunlight was filtering through the leaves on the crabapple tree outside of the window. The shadows danced and flickered on the crisp, white paint above his little antique chandelier. He’d bought that at an estate sale, years ago—he’d found it charming, and un-Malfoyish, while still very elegant.

Draco gave Harry a few moments to wake up, hearing the rustle of fabric and leather as he stretched and sighed, the clatter of metal against glass as he plucked his glasses off the table. Draco turned to look at him, and was momentarily startled by the brightness of his eyes. He’d apparently forgotten how vibrantly green they were, green like his old Slytherin tie.

“Feeling better?” Draco asked, his voice tight, and Harry gave a little satisfied smile with his single, short nod. Draco looked away. “Excellent. Timsy’s prepared roast beef sandwiches, I believe,” he said, glad to finally be able to fill the silence, to distract from his incomprehensible discomfort. He swung his legs over the side of the couch, standing in a single, graceful movement. He made his way towards the kitchen, hearing Harry follow him, not bothering to look back.

The sandwiches were excellent, of course they were. Timsy should be given an Order of Merlin or something, honestly, Draco thought, and he made sure to tell Harry this, too, because if anyone could make that happen, it would be Harry Potter. Harry huffed a laugh, and tapped his hand on his chest.

“Yes, I know you have one,” Draco rolled his eyes. Harry shook his head and put down his sandwich. He then proceeded to fully mime removing a medal from his own chest, bending down, and pinning it on the chest of a tiny, invisible being, nodding seriously and shaking a little hand.

Draco stared at him for one full second, then two, before he burst out laughing, a full belly laugh that had tears leaking out of his eyes. When he was finally able to look at Harry again, Harry’s smile was nearly blinding, his eyes twinkling and shoulders shaking with his own silent laughter.

Draco wiped the tears from his eyes with his finger. “Oh, Merlin,” he breathed, still chuckling. “If chasing down Dark wizards doesn’t work out, Auror Potter, you’ll definitely have a career waiting in pantomime.” Draco giggled some more, and Harry rolled his eyes, still smiling. “But yes, you should absolutely hand over your Order of Merlin to Timsy. He was roasting into the wee hours of the morning, you know, the dedication he has to providing the best coffee in Wizarding Britain is unsurpassed. Now, finish the sandwich our hero has so graciously prepared for you.”

Harry huffed another laugh at him, and picked up his sandwich again. It felt like a casual lunch between friends, the way they were laughing and joking with each other so naturally. Draco allowed himself to believe it for a second and a half, then swept the fantasy aside.

***

“Do you have any questions for me, before we begin?”

Harry’s face looked calm from their meditation, like the surface of the Black Lake—still, but full of potential. He considered Draco for a moment, before grabbing his notebook and pen from the side table, turning a fresh page.

Why don’t you use the hawthorn wand?

“Hmm,” Draco sighed, wondering how to explain this. He propped his chin in his hand, idly tapping his finger against his cheek.

“The short answer is that it didn’t feel right, to use it for healing,” Draco decided. “I still have it, but it’s put away.” Harry tilted his head to the side, another question on his open face.

“You want the long answer?” Draco asked, smirking. Harry nodded sheepishly. He was so easy to read. Draco sat up fully, rolling his pale wand between his slender fingers. Harry watched his hands, his face intent and curious.

“That wand performed a lot of Dark magic, when it didn’t want to,” he began. “I remember the day I got it, Ollivander explained to me that hawthorn chooses a wizard with internal conflict. My father was quite disappointed—he’d figured I’d find something with dragon heartstring, which more easily adapts to the Dark Arts, and unicorn hair is so… pure. Dark magic is against its nature. A wand with a core of unicorn shouldn’t ever have to perform Unforgivables, but I did, and it adapted accordingly.” Draco looked up at Harry, who looked a bit abashed, which Draco did not understand, but he continued anyway. “When I decided to become a Healer, I didn’t want to do it with a wand with a history of Dark magic. So I went back to Ollivander’s—he didn’t hold a grudge against me personally, thank Merlin—and I met this wand. Silver lime wood, unicorn hair, eleven inches, flexible. It’s a rare wood, it makes for wands that are well suited to Legilimency. Ollivander seemed surprised that this wand chose me—I doubt he ever expected something like this to end up with a Malfoy, and neither did I, truly, but I’m very happy with it.”

Harry nodded slowly, digesting the information. Draco, not exactly eager to continue talking about the hawthorn wand and its feats, moved on. “Speaking of which,” he said, raising his wand. “Are you ready?” Harry nodded, his eyes too knowing for Draco’s comfort. “Legilimens.”

Amycus Carrow spits in McGonagall’s face. Harry is enraged. He throws the Cloak off of himself and aims the hawthorn wand, fury in his veins. “Crucio!” he yells, and Amycus is thrown across the Ravenclaw common room, screaming.

Harry is laying on his cot in the wizard tent. He can hear waves against a rocky shoreline outside. It’s dark, he is staring at an old parchment map by the light of the hawthorn wand. On the map, a pair of footprints is walking down a corridor, the name “Draco Malfoy” moving along with them.

“Alright, Harry,” Draco said quietly. “Let’s start in the summer after first year.”

The memory of the strange map disappeared, and more memories started to rush past, until Draco recognized the house at Privet Drive.

“Harry Potter must say he’s not going back to school—”
“I can’t—”
“Then Dobby must do it, sir, for Harry Potter’s own good.” The floating pudding crashes to the floor. The elf vanishes.

A bowl of cold tinned soup is pushed through a cat flap in his bedroom door. Harry scarfs it down hungrily. There are bars on his window.

Ron looks sheepish. The room is frighteningly orange, but Harry is so happy to be there. “This is the best house I’ve ever been in,” Harry grins, and Ron’s ears go pink.

“I can see one coming up,” Draco observed. He flipped quickly through flashes of a flying car, a lot of ginger hair, dancing ghosts and blood on the walls and a duel with Draco and then—

“Hannah,” the stout boy says solemnly. “He’s a Parselmouth. Everyone knows that’s the mark of a Dark wizard. Have you ever heard of a decent one who could talk to snakes?” The group of Hufflepuffs is gossiping among themselves. Harry listens, just around the corner. “That’s probably why You-Know-Who wanted to kill him in the first place. Didn’t want another Dark Lord competing with him. I wonder what other powers Potter’s been hiding?” Harry is furious.

The memory slid away, the silvery glow following it. Draco retreated out of Harry’s head, pointed his wand at the chalkboard, and labeled a new dot “Gossipy Hufflepuffs”, trying not to wrinkle his nose at it. The anti-Hufflepuff prejudice was a hard one to shake, and he never really knew why.

Draco grabbed his own notebook off the table, squinted at it, then huffed and held out his hand, wandlessly summoning his reading glasses from where he’d left them on his desk. He placed them on his nose and picked up his pen, making his notes, allowing his emotions: victory at Harry’s attack on the Carrow brother, curiosity at the odd, magical map.

“Dobby tried to get you expelled?” Draco asked, glancing up at Harry, who snorted quietly. “He always did have a roundabout way of doing things,” Draco murmured absently as he wrote. “Very clever, and very brave.”

He continued his notes for a few moments more, before finally looking back up at Harry. Harry’s eyes were wide with undisguised curiosity. He was watching Draco intensely. Draco raised an eyebrow at him, and Harry opened his notebook to write.

You knew Dobby well?

Draco tried to rein in the sorrow and shame. “I did, as a child.”

Harry looked like he wanted something else from Draco, but didn’t know how to ask for it. Draco had an idea of what it might be.

“I can show you memories of him sometime, if you’d like. He was always helping me get into mischief.”

Harry smiled, but his eyes were sad. He nodded once. Draco returned it, and took a deep breath.

“Now, why did your subconscious mind decide that overhearing a bunch of Hufflepuffs gossiping was paramount to your development?” Draco asked, smirking, pen held above the paper. Harry snorted again, shaking his head. He twirled his pen in his fingers, staring at the fire for a bit in contemplation before finally writing—

Hard to explain

Draco clicked his tongue. How anticlimactic. “Give it your best shot,” he said. “We’ve got time.”

Harry chewed on the end of his pen, staring at the paper, before turning back to Draco with an exasperated look on his face. He shook his head, put his notebook down, and tapped his index finger on his forehead insistently. Draco raised his eyebrows.

“You want to show me?” he clarified, and Harry nodded. Draco was wary. “You’re sure you have that much control over it?”

At this, Harry rolled his eyes, leaned forward a bit, and continued his insistent forehead tapping. Draco sighed. “I’ll just sit and watch, then,” he said, raising his wand, and his mind fell forward into Harry’s. The flashes Harry showed him weren’t longer than five seconds each, but there were many.

Thirteen-year-old Harry is walking through a corridor. The students stare at him as he passes, their faces awed and curious.

Fourteen-year-old Harry is walking through a corridor. The students stare at him as he passes, their faces indignant and sneering.

Fifteen-year-old Harry is walking through a corridor. The Ministry employees are staring at him in amazement and derision.

Fifteen-year-old Harry is walking through a corridor. The students stare at him with suspicion and wariness, and divert their gazes.

Sixteen-year-old Harry is walking through a corridor. The students stare at him with admiration, and sometimes lust.

Seventeen-year-old Harry is walking through a Ministry corridor. He’s on Polyjuice potion, full of adrenaline. Harry’s face stares back at him from the posters on the walls, under the large words, “UNDESIRABLE NO. 1”.

Seventeen-year-old Harry stands among his peers, wand in hand. They stare at him, pure fear in their eyes. “But he’s right there!” Pansy shouts. “Someone grab him!”

Eighteen-year-old Harry is walking down Diagon Alley. The crowd stares at him with unmitigated adoration, their eyes worshipful.

Eighteen-year-old Harry is walking down Diagon Alley. People are staring at him with disappointment and disdain. He sees someone holding a Daily Prophet—the headline reads “TROUBLE IN PARADISE: HARRY AND GINNY’S VICIOUS ROW IN DIAGON” by Rita Skeeter.

“Alright, I get it,” Draco admitted, withdrawing from Harry’s head. He set his wand down in his lap and rubbed his eyes beneath his glasses.

“You learned that fame is fickle,” he analyzed, “and that it does not ensure loyalty.”

The corner of Harry’s lips turned up in a smirk. He gave an exaggerated nod, reminding Draco of one of his old tutors, when he had finally understood a difficult lesson as a child.

“Interesting,” Draco mumbled, looking over the top of his glasses at the skeleton map of memories on the board. He twirled a piece of hair around his fingers—soft, thick, platinum, very his. Breathed in, breathed out.

“Any questions so far?” Draco offers. Harry thinks for a moment before writing.

Were you truly excited for Muggleborns to die?

Draco winced. “Fair question,” he muttered. “At the time, yes, because my father was, and I didn’t truly understand the concept of death. Lucius had been so excited that his plan was working, I thought him so cunning. I was excited for his success, even when I didn’t fully understand it. I wanted to be just like him.” He grimaced, looking away from Harry. “I didn’t really get it until the end of fourth year, and even then, I was still desperate for his approval. I practically worshipped him.”

Harry pursed his lips together, considering Draco for a moment. He started writing again.

Does seeing my memories of Lucius hurt you?

Draco frowned, looking away again. “I’ve seen Lucius’ cruelty plenty of times. Your memories don’t hurt me any more than mine do—and I know, you’ve met him more than I’ve seen so far.”

Harry nodded slowly, biting his lip. He didn’t look entirely sure of Draco. Draco wasn’t entirely sure of himself, either, but that was irrelevant. He was a professional.

“Let’s do a bit more breath work, and we’ll go back in, alright?” Draco suggested, sitting up and placing his hands on his knees. He pushed his glasses up into his hair, which he knew looked ridiculous, but his appearance was not his priority at the moment, when he felt he might be losing his grip. He was a professional.

The meditation calmed his racing heart a little. Draco leaned forward, raised his wand, and cast.

“You’ll meet the same sticky end as your parents one of these days, Harry Potter,” Lucius says softly. “They were meddlesome fools, too.” He turns to go. “Come, Dobby.”
But Dobby doesn’t move. He is holding up Harry’s disgusting, slimy sock, and looking at it as though it were a priceless treasure. “Master has given a sock,” he says in wonderment. “Master threw it, and Dobby caught it, and Dobby is free.”
Lucius becomes enraged, lunging at Harry. “You’ve lost me my servant, boy!” He whips out his wand, “Avad—”
Dobby snaps his fingers, and Lucius is thrown backwards onto the floor.

Draco’s Occlumency barriers crashed, and he withdrew so quickly it probably left a vacuum in Harry’s head. He let out a harsh, shaky breath, and rubbed his face with his hands. His glasses immediately fell forwards; he ripped them off, tossing them carelessly onto the side table and closing his eyes. His emotions were storming again—fear, regret, anger, loss, pain—he tried his best to keep up.

“Sorry,” Draco muttered. “Just a moment.” He didn’t look at Harry.

He almost wished that had been a breadcrumb, just so he wouldn’t have to go back in Harry’s head today. He didn’t want to do his routine, didn’t want to return to himself, didn’t want to be himself, right now.

“I’m sorry,” Draco said again. He wasn’t sure for which part he was apologizing. Maybe all of it. “He tried to kill you… you were twelve…” The mumbled words were tumbling out of Draco’s mouth. “I shouldn’t even be surprised, at this point… but you were so small, and he… if I had known—”

Harry snapped his fingers to get his attention. Draco looked up and met Harry’s sharp glare. Harry shook his head, and grabbed his notebook to write.

You wouldn’t have believed me

Draco sighed, and rubbed the tops of his thighs with his palms. “You’re right,” he said. “I wouldn’t’ve.”

Draco shook himself, taking a deep, slow breath, then another. I am not who I was, he reminded himself, but who I was is part of who I am. He rubbed the Dark Mark on his arm through the silk sleeve of his shirt, and felt the raised scarring under the fabric.

He eventually raised his wand again, and declared himself ready. Harry consented, but he still looked a bit cautious, which only furthered Draco’s resolve. He had to do this, had to see this through, he was a fucking professional, one of the best of his age. He strengthened his Occlumency walls. “Legilimens.”

Harry pulls the Sword out of the Sorting Hat and stands. The blinded basilisk lunges and Harry swings, misses. The colossal snake knocks Harry to the wall. Harry stands back up, aiming the sword as the basilisk lunges again. He throws his full weight behind it, impaling the roof of the serpent’s mouth. He feels a searing pain in his arm as one long, poisonous fang pierces him.

Not now, Draco told himself, behind his careful Occlumency walls. Keep looking. Don’t get distracted.

“Saint Potter, the Mudbloods’ friend,” Draco says slowly. They’re sitting in the Slytherin common room. “He’s another one with no proper wizard feeling. And people think he’s Slytherin’s heir!”

A silvery glow appeared in his peripherals, and Draco seized it. “Got one—”

“Listen to me, Harry,” Dumbledore says calmly. “You happen to have many qualities Salazar Slytherin prized in his hand-picked students. His own very rare gift, Parseltongue; resourcefulness, determination—a certain disregard for rules,” he adds. “Yet the Sorting Hat placed you in Gryffindor. You know why that was. Think.”
Harry feels defeated. “It only put me in Gryffindor because I asked not to go in Slytherin—”
“Exactly,” Dumbledore beams at him. “Which makes you very different from Tom Riddle. It is our choices, Harry, that show what we truly are, far more than our abilities. If you want proof that you belong in Gryffindor, I suggest you look more closely at this.”
Harry turns over the sword, rubies blazing in the firelight. He sees the name engraved just below the hilt: Godric Gryffindor.

The memory ended, and Draco withdrew carefully, not yet letting his Occlumency walls down. He had work to do first. He pointed his wand at the board, made another dot, and frowned, not sure what to label it.

“That was obviously an important conversation,” Draco began, “but why do you think it was important? Why then?”

Harry closed his eyes, his body only partially relaxed, his pen flicking in his restless fingers. He leaned back in his chair, and slightly furrowed his brow. Draco had a moment of envy—how could Harry exude power and authority like that, just from sitting, and thinking? If someone had shown him this memory of Harry, simply sitting back in this wingback chair, eyes closed and face tensed in thought, and asked Draco to follow this man and take up his causes, Draco would consider it. He would honestly turn over the prospect in his mind, whether Harry was Harry Potter, or simply a man.

But Draco’s Occlumency walls were still up, and his face was carefully blank. His body was still while he waited.

When Harry opened his eyes and picked up his notebook, it felt like time had restarted. Draco’s joints creaked as he crossed his legs, his body protesting being held so tense and motionless for so long. Harry was writing.

Combination of accepting parts of me I was uncomfortable with, and learning that my choices mattered more.

Draco silently noted that that may have been the longest sentence Harry had written in his notebook thus far. He nodded slowly in understanding, and pointed his wand at the board, labeling the new dot on the map “Abilities & Choices”. He rested his wand in his lap when he was finished, turning his gaze to meet Harry’s again.

Harry had an expectant look on his face, that was slowly turning puzzled. Draco kept his walls up, and his face emotionless. “We’ve made excellent progress today,” he said. “We’ll start on third year next time. You can start your ending meditation, now.”

Harry only frowned, his face dropping into a half-hearted glare. He started writing again.

Unfair

Draco furrowed his brows. “What’s unfair?” Harry shook his head, disgruntled. He returned the pen to paper.

You can shut me out, but I can’t shut you out

Draco closed his eyes, sagging. “I’m not shutting you out, Harry. I’m shutting me in.”

Harry scoffed.

“I don’t see how I could add anything valuable, at this point,” Draco snapped. “Haven’t you had enough of my reactions for one day? I can’t keep making this about me,” he explained desperately, but Harry was shaking his head again. He’d done that a lot, today.

I learn from your reactions

Draco’s brows creased further. He was getting agitated. “Learn what?”

Harry rolled his eyes, and simply pointed at Draco, apparently tired of writing for the moment, or unsure of the words.

“Learn… about me?” Draco guessed, and Harry nodded. He motioned between the two of them, back and forth.

“So we learn about each other,” Draco guessed again, and Harry seemed proud of himself for communicating that nonverbally. “I understand,” he sighed. “It’s unbalanced. What do you want to know?”

Harry shook his head yet again, and decided he needed the notebook after all.

I want you to react

“To what I’ve seen so far?” Harry nodded. Draco groaned, cautiously letting down his barriers. It still felt a bit dangerous to be so open with Harry, but he’d said he would be, their first day. Harry was right: Draco was getting scared of his own reactions, how raw and vulnerable they made him feel, but Harry didn’t exactly have a choice in being vulnerable. He had no defense against Draco’s Legilimency. It was only fair. Draco knew that.

“Fine,” he sighed. “I’m dying to know how the bloody hell you survived basilisk venom.”

Harry looked pleased with Draco’s concession. He gave Draco a small smile, and wrote quickly.

Phoenix tears - Fawkes

Draco stared at the page in shock for a moment, before his lips started twitching, and suddenly he was trying very hard to hold back a giggle. He raised his hand to cover his mouth, because laughing at that felt morbidly wrong, but Harry quickly reached over and pulled his wrist away. He wanted Draco to react, and Draco had promised him honesty. So he released his laughter. Harry’s face was gratified and amused.

“Of fucking course,” Draco snickered. “I don’t even doubt that, you know, I know it must be true, but it’s so… it’s of course, I shouldn’t have expected anything less from you. I’ll bet the tears came straight from the bird’s eyes. Please tell me the phoenix cried on you, Harry,” he implored, giggling helplessly, and Harry smiled at him as he nodded. Draco was fully laughing now.

“Typical,” he said, shaking his head. “And let me guess, you took Polyjuice to get into the Slytherin common room and spy on me,” he said, his laughs on hold as he waited for Harry’s inevitable nod.

Hermione brewed it in a loo, Harry wrote.

“Of course she did,” Draco threw his head back, laughing some more. “Merlin, Harry,” he breathed, wiping a tear from his eye. “You never do a thing halfway, do you?”

Harry’s eyes were dancing with mirth, his shoulders shaking with his own silent laughter.

Draco let his laughter die down. “Go on, then, meditate and return to yourself, you absolutely ludicrous human being.”

Harry did, and the soft smile remained on his face the entire time.

***

Draco stood alone in his study, staring at his empty Pensieve inside its cabinet. He picked up an empty vial from a shelf full of memories.

He closed his eyes, thinking deeply, remembering. He raised his wand to his temple, and carefully drew out two long, silvery strands of memory, dropping them delicately into the mouth of the vial. He pointed his wand at the glass, and with a quick spell, labeled it “Dobby”. He set it back on the shelf, where it sat glowing softly with the rest.

Later that night, after a relaxing evening spent with Timsy and an obligatory letter to his mother, Draco fell into a deep and contented sleep, cradled by his luxurious bed. He dreamed of tiny footprints walking on parchment, the light of a wand keeping careful vigilance.

Chapter Five

Dearest Draco,

I’m happy to hear that you’re doing well. I still believe you work too hard, but you understand I never imagined you working at all, so I may always think this way.
I am still so proud of you, Draco, and all you’ve accomplished—never doubt that.
I spend my days helping the house elves prepare the gardens for spring, and reading. The roses will be breathtaking this year, I can feel it. You must come for tea, soon. I’d love for you to see the work we’ve done, and how much brighter the Manor looks because of it.
Your Aunt Andromeda reached out to me, recently. I was surprised she was willing to speak with me—you may remember I wrote to her years ago, and did not receive a response. We now have a tentative correspondence, and I must say I look forward to reconnecting with her. We were very close, when we were girls. She is curious about you, in her letters.

I miss you, darling. Visit soon, and please give Timsy my best.

Love, Narcissa

Draco put the parchment down on the table next to the rest of his post, and adjusted his reading glasses. It was interesting that Andromeda was finally reconnecting with Narcissa—but why now? Andromeda was the guardian and grandmother of Teddy Lupin, wasn’t she? And wasn’t Teddy Harry’s godson? He wondered if Harry knew about this development. He didn’t know how much Harry was involved in little Teddy’s life, but would he want his godson that close to a Malfoy? Narcissa hadn’t mentioned the boy, so maybe he didn’t have to worry about that just yet.

Draco tried to control his dread at the invitation to tea. He knew he’d have to accept, sooner rather than later, if he didn’t want his mother bursting in and providing one of her powerful guilt trips. She still felt he belonged at the Manor, as the sole Malfoy heir. There was a lot about Draco that Narcissa didn’t understand—his career, his home, his lack of a partner (and his preference of the gender of that partner)—but he knew she loved him, anyway. He needed to see her. She was his mother, after all—he just wished he didn’t have to see her there.

Draco unrolled the Daily Prophet, glancing at the headlines before tossing it to the side—something incredibly boring about certain Wizengamot members retiring, opening up positions. He picked up a small package, tied with twine and stamped with the Quality Quidditch Supplies logo, and smiled. He’d been expecting this order to come in for a while.

As he stood up to go stow his latest purchase in the shed, he heard a man’s voice call his name from his floo, and he groaned quietly in irritation. He adjusted the belt on his dressing gown and buttoned up the top buttons of his pyjama shirt on his way to the sitting room.

“Shacklebolt,” Draco sighed at the Minister’s floating face in the fire, crouching in front of the grate. “What can I do for you?”

“Healer Malfoy,” he greeted in his deep, smooth voice. “May I come through?”

Draco tried not to roll his eyes. He was still wearing his fuzzy slippers, but he couldn’t really say no. He stood up fully, giving the man a wave of permission. He supposed it was nice that the Minister for Magic, Kingsley Shacklebolt himself, bothered to ask permission, first, when he knew Draco had given him full access to his floo.

Draco had done that after enough of their back and forth correspondence while he was studying for and subsequently applying for his Healer License—it was terribly inconvenient to correspond with the Minister normally, and he’d needed the Minister’s involvement to get his license approved, considering his background. Shacklebolt had helped keep an eye on him, personally, after his trial, so they had spoken and caught up every few months since then. Draco had found it odd, but knew better than to question it. He’d figured if he could prove himself to the Minister for Magic, beloved leader of Wizarding Britain, it would help ease the way into his career, and his return to England. It hadn’t, really—he still felt threatened when he went out alone, and the Licensers at the Ministry still required him to be magically bound, even with Shacklebolt’s stamp of approval. But at least, Draco hadn’t had any Aurors breaking down his door with every whiff of neo-Death Eater activity. That, he could probably attribute to Shacklebolt—maybe. There might have been plenty of Aurors who were itching to bring a Malfoy their own form of justice, but Weasley and Harry probably wouldn’t allow that either, without sufficient cause, as committed as they were to that trademark Gryffindor fairness. Weasley had probably weeded out the corrupt Aurors himself, once he took charge. He’d have seen it all, climbing the ranks.

The flames flared green, and Shacklebolt stepped out, dusting nonexistent soot off of his deep violet robes.

“Healer,” he greeted, again.

“Minister,” Draco nodded, because apparently they were back to titles instead of names. He motioned for Shacklebolt to sit on the sofa, and sat opposite him, suddenly reminded of the last time he entertained a Ministry employee while wearing his pyjamas and Grouch slippers. Was this going to become a pattern? Was calling before nine in the morning a Ministry custom he should be expecting?

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” Draco asked, crossing one leg over the other. He realized he was still wearing his reading glasses—he removed them from his face, slipping them into the pocket of his dressing gown.

Shacklebolt clasped his hands in his lap and gave Draco a grave look.

“I know you’re working with Harry,” he declared.

Draco let none of his emotions show on his face—of course, the Minister was checking to make sure Draco wasn’t hurting their Golden Boy. He should have known.

“Whether I am or not, you know I can’t discuss it,” Draco said, narrowing his eyes.

Shacklebolt closed his eyes and sighed. “And thus I know that it’s true, because if you weren’t, you would have been much more surprised, and you’d have been able to deny it. I only wanted to confirm it. If you’re really working with him, that means he’s out of commission for at least six weeks, and I can’t wait that long,” Shacklebolt explained.

Draco stared at him. “Then this will be a very one-sided conversation. But I am curious as to whether—the man you speak of—knows you’re here, discussing him,” Draco strained, feeling the tentative warning in his gut. It wasn’t painful, not yet, but it had the potential to be, if Draco said anything further about Harry or his condition.

“He doesn’t. Not for this,” Shacklebolt mumbled, looking away, and his eyes widened slightly, as if he hadn’t meant to say that out loud.

“‘Not for this’?” Draco repeated, frowning in confusion.

“I only mean that, he knows we know each other, that we talk. He doesn’t know I’m here to talk about… this.”

“He knows we talk,” Draco parroted him again, because what?

Shacklebolt looked a bit uncomfortable now, which was a very odd look on him, the Minister for Magic, in an ex-Death Eater’s sitting room, while said ex-Death Eater was wearing fuzzy Oscar the Grouch slippers. How did Draco somehow gain the upper hand?

“Yes, well,” Shacklebolt started, looking away from Draco again. “He was the one who asked me to keep an eye on you, in the first place, after your trial. So, he knows that we’re acquainted.”

Now, Draco could not control his shock. That certainly explained Shacklebolt’s surprising interest in him, all those years ago, but for some reason, it didn’t feel very good.

“I don’t mean keep an eye on you, as in make sure you weren’t doing anything illegal or nefarious,” Shacklebolt clarified, apparently getting over his discomfort with this admission. “He was… he was worried, that Wizarding Britain and the Ministry would try to hold you back, because of your history and their grief and anger. He said he wanted to make sure you got the second chance you deserved, and that he didn’t testify for you for nothing.”

Draco closed his eyes, shaking his head slowly. This was too much. Harry Potter had been worried about him? At seventeen? Mere weeks after defeating Voldemort? There was no way. Maybe Shacklebolt was trying to manipulate information on Harry’s curse out of him. He was a politician, now, after all.

“I don’t believe you,” Draco said finally, because he couldn’t say anything else.

Shacklebolt shrugged, another shockingly informal gesture for the Minister. “That’s your prerogative,” he said. “Either way, I doubt he ever wanted you to know.”

“You know I don’t keep secrets from my—“ a twist of pain in his gut. He clutched his abdomen, breathing hard. He glared at the Minister, who knew the ins and outs of Draco’s work, who had signed off on the approval of his magical bonds, and who was here discussing a patient with him, anyway.

Shacklebolt only pursed his lips in concern. For Draco, or for what Harry might do if he knew Draco knew, Draco didn’t know.

“I need Harry back in working capacity as soon as possible,” Shacklebolt said mechanically, and Draco rolled his eyes. “With the sudden retiring of Vance and Eldridge from the Wizengamot, the path has been cleared for some rather unsavoury up-and-coming politicians—Umbridge types, you understand—and I need Harry to start publicly endorsing the right candidates, to ensure the Wizengamot remains balanced.”

Draco deepened his glare, hoping Shacklebolt could feel the disapproval in his gaze, since he didn’t want to risk saying another word in this conversation. The Minister was relying on the bloody Chosen One to save the day, yet again. Did anyone get anything done without help from the Saviour?

Recognizing that Draco wouldn’t contribute any more to the discussion, nor would he reveal any details about Harry’s condition, Shacklebolt ended the conversation by patting his knees once and standing up to his full, not-inconsiderable height.

Draco stood as well, still subtly clutching his torso.

“Thank you for your time, Healer Malfoy,” Shacklebolt nodded. Draco returned it shortly.

“Good day, Minister.”

Shacklebolt grabbed a small handful of floo powder out of a pouch in his pocket, stepped into the flames, called out “Minister Shacklebolt’s Office,” and was gone in a whoosh of green flame.

Draco continued glaring at the empty fireplace. The nerve of these fucking meddlesome Gryffindors.

***

When Harry apparated in on Thursday, Draco was already in the front garden, helping Timsy pick Narcissus flowers for the house. The garden was nearly overrun with them, this time of year, which Draco loved. Timsy normally never needed help with this, but Draco hadn’t questioned it when Timsy had muttered, “Master Draco should be enjoying the sunshine before his guest arrives, Master Draco should pick some of the flowers for the house, he should, it is being good for him,” with an odd gleam in his eye. Draco hated denying him anything.

Therefore, when Harry appeared in the walkway at nine, Draco had the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to his elbows, crouched on one knee in the dirt in his expensive trousers, with an armful of yellow and white flowers. Not an ideal professional Healer look, in his opinion.

Harry broke into a wide, surprised smile upon seeing him like this, raising his eyebrows in a look Draco could only describe as lightly teasing, and Draco couldn’t help feeling like Timsy had made him look foolish on purpose, but he tried to take it in stride.

“Morning,” he waved, awkwardly, and winced at himself. “Timsy wanted help picking these for bouquets,” he explained, lifting his armful of flowers in emphasis. Why had he picked so many? He’d thought he’d just pick until Timsy told him to stop, but of course, Timsy hadn’t. The elf had his own tiny bundle, significantly smaller than Draco’s, and he was side-eyeing them persistently. Draco sent him a half-hearted glare.

“Where do you want these, Timsy?”

“Master Draco is putting the blooms in the kitchen, where Timsy is being arranging them for the house,” Timsy replied, looking at Draco meaningfully. The elf’s apparent hidden agenda eluded him, but Draco went along with it, as he usually did. He glanced at Harry, jerking his head toward the front door, and led him inside.

Harry slipped off his jacket as he entered, floating it wandlessly to a hook on the wall, not stopping at all as he followed Draco and his many flowers into the kitchen.

Draco unloaded his burden onto the wide, wooden butcher block island in the kitchen. The flowers rolled across the wood. As he stretched his arms out, his elbows tense from holding the blooms so delicately, he caught a glimpse of the Dark Mark, grayish-red and hideous and exposed on his left arm. He put his arms down quickly, hoping Harry hadn’t noticed, but according to Harry’s pinpointing stare on his arm, he most definitely had. Draco, embarrassed and defensive, reached his right hand over his torso and started to roll his sleeve back down.

Harry’s eyes snapped up to meet Draco’s. His face was intent, apparently trying to communicate something without having the words to do it. Draco froze, and waited.

Harry’s eyes darted around Draco’s face for a moment, before he slowly reached across the pile of flowers, took Draco’s left arm in his hands, and rolled his sleeve back up. He looked back up at Draco’s face, unreadable, and Draco wished he would just say something, but they both knew he wouldn’t. He felt his cheeks heating.

Draco took the hint for what it was: hiding his Mark like that was another barrier between them, another thing that Draco could hide from Harry, when Harry could hide nothing from Draco. He cleared his throat, and made his way to the study, feeling very exposed. He left his sleeves rolled up, but took his wand out of his pocket and cast a swift tergeo at the dirty knees of his trousers. He had some standards, after all.

“The Minister came to visit me yesterday,” Draco proclaimed as they sat in their usual chairs by the fireplace, watching Harry carefully for his reaction. Harry raised his eyebrows, and darted his eyes to the side and back. He looked at Draco expectantly.

“He somehow found out I was working with you, and basically wanted to tell me to hurry it up,” Draco explained. “He told me—in so many words—that he can’t afford to not have you available as a political tool, otherwise the Wizengamot will fall to the control of blood purists and traditionalists.” He gave Harry a sharp look, raising one disapproving eyebrow, hoping that conveyed all of his distaste.

Harry looked away, uncomfortable, and made a dismissive motion with his hand.

“He told me something else, too,” Draco continued, trying very hard not to sound too accusatory. “He told me that you were the one who insisted he keep an eye on me himself, after the trial.”

Harry looked at him warily, and let out a long, exhaustive breath. Draco waited for a moment, watching him.

“Is that true, Harry?” he asked in a small voice. He wasn’t upset, anymore—just confused, conflicted. He didn’t know what to feel.

Harry sat still for a moment, eyes searching Draco’s expression. The morning light from the window was hitting the left side of his face, while the soft firelight danced on the other. Draco was mesmerized by the play of light on Harry’s skin.

Finally, Harry nodded, so gently that Draco would have missed it if he weren’t looking right at him. It only confused Draco more, and he furrowed his brows. He didn’t know if he could ask Harry why. He hated asking Harry anything, in here, where most of the time, Harry had no control over what Draco knew about him. Why should Draco feel entitled to anything more?

“Shacklebolt gave me a very brief explanation as to why you would ask that of him, but I don’t know if I believe it,” Draco said, breaking the silence, and Harry looked away, clicking his tongue in annoyance. At Draco or the Minister, he may never know. “After all, he was trying to weasel information on your condition out of me, he may have simply told me what he thought would work best to that end. But that would make him a bit of an idiot, considering he is more familiar with my work than probably anyone else at the Ministry, and knows full well that I am bound by patient confidentiality.”

Harry was looking at him with that unreadable look again. Draco missed the open book he usually was.

“Besides, I would not rush this kind of healing if the world were on fire. There’s too much at stake. There’s too much that could go wrong, if I’m careless and hurried, or if we just stop halfway through the maze. This is your mind we’re talking about. Why would I risk that?” Draco was pretty much talking to himself now, his hand half-covering his mouth, propping his chin up with his elbow on the armrest. He sighed, scrubbing his hand over his face and sitting up properly.

“It doesn’t matter, now,” Draco muttered. “Point is, I’m not rushing your healing for anybody. The other point is, someone else knows you’re seeing me, and I certainly haven’t let anything slip, because I can’t. I don’t know if that matters to you or not, but if it does, you might want to contain that rumour before it catches.”

Harry’s cheeks were pink, and Draco was starting to feel like an idiot, the way he could not comprehend a single thing about Harry other than his past. But that was what they were here for: Harry’s memories, and the voice hidden inside them. Healer, and patient.

They assessed each other for another moment, still and silent, before Draco quietly called Timsy and asked him for coffee. As they poured and sipped out of warm mugs, Harry’s hand kept moving towards his notebook on the side table, resting on it for a moment, and moving away, as if he couldn’t decide whether or not he actually wanted to pick it up.

“Do you have questions for me?” Draco asked, because maybe that would make this moment more comfortable. Harry winced a little, shook his head once, but finally picked up the notebook and pen, turning it to a blank page and setting it on his lap to write one quick word:

Ask

Draco didn’t need to clarify the vague command, because his many questions hung so clearly and heavily in the air around them. Yes, he would probably get his answers eventually, in his head, beyond Harry’s control, but maybe Harry wanted the chance to do it his way, first. Draco still hesitated before obliging.

“Why? Why did you set the Minister on me, when we were seventeen?”

Harry nodded, accepting the question he’d been expecting, and began to write. It didn’t take him very long, but it was still longer than anything he’d written so far.

I wanted to be sure the Ministry/public wouldn’t stop you from succeeding, after that trial. The Aurors were always talking about ways to bring you down, for no reason.

Draco wrinkled his nose in confusion. “Succeeding at what?”

Harry shrugged, writing again.

Anything

This was so much, and Draco was baffled. He eyed Harry intently for a moment, searching for an answer in his face, but didn’t find one.

“I thought you hated me,” he mumbled.

Harry met his eyes, shaking his head slowly before returning his face to the notebook.

Not for a long time

That was news to Draco—he remembered Harry’s furious face when Draco arrived in his hospital room, he remembered Harry’s silence and cold look upon returning his hawthorn wand, and walking away from him, before Draco could muster the strength for a useless ‘thank you.’ But he also remembered Harry’s lengthy and unnecessary testimony to keep him out of Azkaban; he remembered Harry flying back into danger and pulling him out of the fiendfyre. In the back of Draco’s brain, he knew that it could be true—that Harry hadn’t hated him, even then, and had maybe even wanted good things for him. Maybe Harry had wanted him to live, to thrive.

But for some reason, a world where Harry Potter didn’t previously loathe Draco Malfoy, and vice versa, was frightening, and Draco couldn’t make himself accept it. It felt dangerous to him, like standing on a cliff, and being told everything about the fatal drop to the jagged rocks below would be absolutely fine. It was too precarious, and against his common sense. His characteristic Slytherin self-preservation was winning out, and his gut told him to back away from the edge, so he did. He sighed and closed his eyes to collect himself, and to protect himself from Harry’s penetrating gaze.

“Alright,” he said finally, even though things were definitely not alright. He sipped his coffee, allowing the warmth and flavour to soothe him, and caught himself absently rubbing his sternum with the heel of his palm. He put both his hands on the coffee mug to keep them occupied. Harry simply watched him, a cautious, vulnerable look on his face.

“Do you feel ready to begin?” Draco asked, and Harry eyed him for a moment more before putting his notebook down on the side table, sitting up and readying himself for the work.

Draco guided them through a slow, careful meditation, but he kept his hands on his own coffee mug the whole time, its warmth softening him from the inside out, relaxing the muscles still tensed in fight-or-flight.

“We’ll start with third year today,” Draco began. “I’m going to walk us through it, similarly to how I flipped through your memories of the pub, but less quickly. I’m going to skim through them, like pages of a book, and stop once I find a breadcrumb. Alright?” Harry nodded. “Legilimens.”

“Of course, Harry, I suppose I can do that. But I must ask: why not just keep an eye on him, yourself?” Shacklebolt asks, and Harry scoffs at him.
“Trust me, Kingsley,” Harry says. “It’ll be much more welcome coming from you.”

“He’s doing well,” Shacklebolt says, amused and exasperated. “He’s just got his Healer License, though the Licensers gave him a hard time about it. He’ll be moving back to England, soon…”

“I’m taking us back, now,” Draco said, cutting this reverie short, keeping his emotions behind his Occlumency walls. He tightened his grip on his wand a little, and pushed, until he saw the same breadcrumb they’d left off with last time, with Harry and Dumbledore discussing his Slytherin qualities and Gryffindor choices in the Headmaster’s office. He started skimming, following Harry’s return to Privet Drive that summer.

“It all comes down to blood, you see it with dogs all the time. If there’s something wrong with the bitch, there’s something wrong with the pup—” The large woman doesn’t finish her thought, because Harry is furious, and she is inflating like a balloon, floating away into the garden, screaming.

Harry is sitting on his trunk on the sidewalk, fuming and scared. He thinks he sees a large dog across the street, raises his wand arm, and the Knight Bus appears, nearly running him over.

“No, no, you won’t be expelled, dear boy! The important thing is, you’re safe. You can stay here, where everyone can keep an eye on you…” Cornelius Fudge says, looking shifty, and Harry is confused.

“Sirius Black is after me?” Harry asks, and Arthur Weasley nods gravely.
“Promise me Harry, no matter what you may hear, that you won’t go looking for Black.”
Harry is baffled. “Why would I go looking for someone who wants to kill me?”

“You’re doing great, Harry,” Draco praised him, because his memories did feel calmer, more stable than usual—he’d probably be great at Occlumency, if he wanted to be.

Dead, scaly hands open the compartment door, Harry feels more cold and hopeless than he ever has in his life. Distantly, he hears a woman screaming, before everything fades to black.

“Yeah, you’re not dangerous at all, are you, you great ugly brute?” Draco snarls at Buckbeak, who rears up indignantly, swinging down with giant, steely talons.

The memories flashed past him, and Draco suppressed a wince at watching himself milk that shallow injury for all it was worth.

“We owe them everything,” Fred Weasley says wistfully, gazing at the old parchment in adoration. ‘Messrs Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs do proudly present The Marauder’s Map,’ it reads. Harry opens it and sees every room and corridor of Hogwarts, with tiny, named footprints traversing the paper halls.

Draco flipped and flipped, moving forward and faster, through Quidditch matches and illicit Hogsmeade trips, until finally the glow appeared in his peripherals, and he seized it—

“You don’t understand!” Peter Pettigrew whines on the filthy floor of an old shack. Severus Snape is unconscious against the wall. “He would have killed me, Sirius!”
“THEN YOU SHOULD HAVE DIED!” Sirius Black roars. His long, matted hair hangs down over his tatty Azkaban robes. “DIED, RATHER THAN BETRAY YOUR FRIENDS, AS WE WOULD HAVE DONE FOR YOU!”
Sirius and Remus stand shoulder to shoulder, wands raised.
“You should have realized,” Remus says quietly, “if Voldemort didn’t kill you, we would. Goodbye, Peter.”
Hermione covers her face, turns away.
“NO!” Harry yells. He runs forward, placing himself in front of Pettigrew. “You can’t kill him.”
“Harry, this piece of vermin is the reason you have no parents,” Sirius snarls. “This cringing bit of filth would have seen you die, too, without turning a hair. You heard him. His own stinking skin meant more to him than your whole family.”
“I know,” Harry is panting with adrenaline. “We’ll take him up to the castle. We’ll hand him over to the dementors… he can go to Azkaban… but don’t kill him.”
“Harry!” Pettigrew wheezes, throwing his arms around Harry’s knees, “You—thank you—”
“Get off me,” Harry spits. “I’m not doing this for you. I’m doing it because I don’t reckon my dad would have wanted his best friends to become killers—just for you.”

Draco retreated from Harry’s head, pointing his wand at the chalkboard to label a new dot “Sparing Pettigrew” before lowering it to his lap. He examined his fingers, ran one hand through his hair, let it fall down his neck, inside his collar to trace the tip of the scar there. Harry watched the path of his hand, apparently enraptured. Draco swallowed.

“That was quite a memory,” Draco murmured, clearing his throat. “How do you feel?”

Harry blinked himself out of his daze, and shrugged.

“Any discomfort, with the way I pushed through your memories there?”

Harry thought for a moment, and shook his head, no. Draco sat back, contemplating the memory, twirling another lock of hair through his fingers with his elbow propped on the armrest. Harry watched his hand, again.

“Was that the first time you… you made the choice to spare someone’s life, even though they didn’t deserve it?” Draco asked.

Harry looked away from Draco’s hand, meeting his eyes. He nodded.

“So that must have been the first time you actually felt the power of holding someone’s life in your hands,” Draco added. “The first time you were somewhat aware of incurring a life debt, and what that might mean…” He trailed off, thinking some more.

“But you didn’t do it for him, did you? No, you said you did it so your dad’s friends wouldn’t become killers—you saved them from damaging their souls. But you didn’t have to do it, that’s the point there. You’d saved lives before—multiple times, by then—but those times you were only doing what you had to do. This was quite different. This was a much more conscious decision, and I’ll bet it had an impact on you later in life, didn’t it?” Draco was musing to himself again, but Harry was following along now, and he nodded, grabbing his notebook to write.

He paid that debt, eventually

Draco nodded. “I’m sure he did, what with the way I found him in our cellar, having strangled himself.” They both cringed at the memory. Harry shook his head, writing again.

The gift hand turned on him—Voldemort punishing an act of weakness/mercy

Draco nodded again, eyes wide. “Sounds like something Old Voldy would do,” he said, surprising himself at the slip of the silly nickname. Harry’s lips quirked at it.

“I have a feeling you hated that kind of power, even when you were thirteen,” Draco muttered, and Harry frowned, nodding. “Do you understand how unique that is?”

Harry knit his brows in confusion.

“Anyone with even a slight thirst for power would have relished in a moment like that,” Draco explained. “Having that kind of—of dominance over someone, influencing life and death, is like a drug, for so many people. They can’t get enough. The Death Eaters were especially addicted.”

Harry looked at him curiously, and started writing again.

Did you like it?

Draco grimaced. “I thought I would,” he said quietly, shuddering, “until I didn’t.”

Harry’s face was full of understanding, and Draco was filled with the usual regret of the cowardly Death Eater he used to be. They simply stared at each other for a moment, digesting the knowledge.

“I’m curious…” Draco hesitated, and Harry looked up at him, a little pleased. Draco reminded himself that Harry wanted him to react, to ask questions—that this was important to maintaining the balance of their Healer-patient relationship.

“Which one of you knocked out Severus?”

Harry huffed, barely smiling, and pointed to himself, abashed. Draco chuckled.

“I reckon he wasn’t too pleased about that,” he said, and Harry shook his head, his smile growing. Draco felt satisfied he had cheered Harry up enough to go back in.

“Feel ready for one more?” he asked, raising his wand. Harry hesitated, one hand out, and quickly started writing again.

Next bit might look weird. Time turner

Draco rolled his eyes. “Of course,” he exclaimed haughtily, the signature sarcasm he usually only displayed around Pansy coming out in full force. “I was just thinking that this year looked a bit too mundane for you, with only the escaped-convict-turned-godfather to keep things interesting. It only makes sense that you’d bring something like that in to spice things up.” He couldn’t keep the delight and amusement out of his eyes, and it was infecting Harry, whose shoulders were quivering with laughter, shaking his head in what might have been something like fondness at Draco.

“But thank you for the warning, I probably would have gotten very confused. Ready?”

At Harry’s nod, Draco fell back in, and found himself exactly where he had left off. “You brought me right back,” he noted, awed. “Your control really is quite impressive. You’ll be a great Occlumens, one day.”

He could feel that Harry was pleased with the praise, which only made Draco want to praise him more. Draco never thought that someone so constantly fawned over by adoring crowds would appreciate praise so much. Maybe Harry could just tell that Draco actually meant it, or that it was for Harry’s actual improvement and accomplishments. He put it away in his mind for later, and got to work watching the rest of the memories flash by.

To say it was an odd feeling would be an understatement. He saw everything happen to Harry, first, Sirius offering him a home and family, Remus transforming, Pettigrew escaping, being attacked by dementors by the lake, being saved by a Patronus that Harry was convinced was the work of his own father. There was a very slight glow around that last bit, but Draco thought it might have been from the powerful Patronus in the memory, and decided to wait and see. Then he watched it all happen to Harry again, but differently—he watched Harry make some of it happen, until the silvery glow appeared in full force at the lake the second time, and Draco seized it.

Harry nears the edge of the lake, seeing tiny glimmers of silver at the opposite bank—his own attempts at a Patronus. There is no one around him, except for a very nervous Hermione.
Across the lake, the pathetic glimmers of silver were extinguished. The dementors were swarming. Harry feels excitement and fear shoot through him.
“Come on!” Harry mutters, looking around. “Where are you, Dad? Come on—”
But no one comes. On the opposite bank, a dementor is lowering its hood.
A wild shock of understanding runs through him. He flings himself out from behind a bush and pulls out his wand. “EXPECTO PATRONUM!”
Out of his wand bursts a blinding, dazzling, silver animal, galloping across the lake, scattering hundreds of dementors, radiating light unlike anything Harry had ever seen. Harry is breathless.
The Patronus turns and canters back towards him, across the still surface of the water. Harry can finally make out its shape as it stops in front of him on the bank, bowing its antlered head.
“Prongs,” he whispers, reaching out his hand—the creature vanishes.

Draco withdrew, carefully. He made a new dot on the board, and labeled it “Patronus - Prongs”. He let down his Occlumency barriers, and felt everything he needed to feel about that moment, while gingerly rubbing the tops of his thighs. He watched Harry closely—his eyes were currently closed, but his face was smooth, even as he gripped the armrests of the chair.

Harry opened his eyes, immediately meeting Draco’s gaze, and Draco could now see the traces of sadness on his face—of course, a Patronus is the embodiment of happiness, but his stag apparently represents the parts of him that came from his father, which would conflict with those feelings.

“It was quite something,” Draco commented, breaking the silence. “But I’ve seen that stag charge me down before, as you know. What about that one particularly shaped you?”

Harry twisted his mouth, looking up at the ceiling in thought for a few minutes. Draco retrieved his own notebook and reading glasses and added to his notes, sipping his coffee occasionally.

When Harry turned the notebook around, Draco blinked—he hadn’t even noticed Harry writing.

First time I was made aware of my magical power

“Oh,” Draco breathed, his eyebrows rising on his forehead. “You didn’t know?” Harry shook his head, returning the notebook to his lap.

“So that moment was a catalyst—you knew you could produce a Patronus that powerful, because you’d already seen yourself do it… and you hadn’t really needed to use that much magical power, ever before…” Draco furrowed his brows, because it was getting confusing again, but Harry was nodding vigorously, surprised that Draco had apparently understood him, and not called him crazy.

Draco watched him for a bit. “Would you say you’re aware of your magical power, now?”

Harry looked a little uncomfortable. He shrugged, gave a half-hearted nod. A conflicting, evasive answer. Draco made a split-second decision.

“Would you like to know about it, now, from a Healer Legilimens’ perspective?”

Harry widened his eyes.

“My training has made me extremely sensitive to magical auras,” Draco explained. “I can tell you what yours looks and feels like, if you wish.”

Harry stared at him for a moment, eyes full of curiosity, and nodded hesitantly. Draco breathed in deep, and concentrated hard on Harry, reaching out gently with his magic, allowing himself to perceive it all. Harry’s lips parted as he watched, and Draco wondered if he could feel Draco’s magic, too.

“The air around you shimmers, a bit like a heatwave coming off of the earth,” Draco began, watching the distortion of the chair around Harry. It was heady, finally letting himself observe and feel this, when he kept this part of his training so carefully locked away. It would be too overwhelming, feeling and seeing the magical cores of everyone he passed. It was overwhelming now, when it was just Harry. He could feel his own lips turning up in a small, satisfied grin.

“It’s calmer than I’ve seen before, gentler. When you’re angry or upset, the air feels charged, like it does right before a lightning storm. Like going to touch something metal in a dry winter, knowing the static will zap you.” Draco breathed in deeply again, and rolled his head on his neck, letting it wash over him.

“It smells like that, too, like a thunderstorm on summer grass, like ozone in the air, and erm…” he huffed an embarrassed laugh, eyes closed. “Like treacle, if I’m honest—syrupy and sweet. It’s warm, and thick, like…” He paused and bit his lip, choosing not to disclose how comforting it could be, how it felt like curling in front of the fire at home after a long day, or putting on his fuzzy green slippers. He moved on, opening his eyes and looking closely at the edges of Harry’s body, his hands.

“I can’t see it strongly now, but I know from experience your magic looks like gold, red and green light—not like a fire, but the light you see and feel when you finally hold the right wand, you know?” Like coming home, Draco thought again to himself. Harry nodded slowly, and Draco felt a bit drunk. It looked like Harry was hanging on to his every word. “I’ve seen it in your mind, before. It’s… incandescent.” Draco paused, eyes roaming Harry’s body.

“Magic at rest doesn’t usually have a colour visible to the naked eye,” he continued. “It manifests physically through will and intention, direction and incantation—for most people. You, obviously, don’t always require an incantation—just the intention, and the will to make something happen, like purging a potion out of someone’s bloodstream,” he added, giving Harry a pointed look. Harry’s cheeks were pink.

“But for someone trained to feel it, your magic, even at rest, causes the hair on the back of my neck to stand up. If I couldn’t see or hear you, I would still be able to feel you, and I would know it was you, Harry—because I’m familiar with your magic, I’ve known you for a long time, and because I’ve never known anyone with as much magical power as you. It’s quite intense,” Draco commented. “A bit intoxicating, if I don’t control my perceptivity—which I do, constantly.”

Draco waited a moment more, watching and experiencing Harry’s magic swirling around him, relishing in its warmth and energy, before closing it off, allowing his head to clear.

“Does it feel like that, to you?” Draco asked, curious. Harry’s face was flaming with a blush, his eyes still wide with surprise, and it was so stupidly endearing that Draco could feel his own cheeks heating, as well. Harry simply coughed gently into his fist, and shook his head.

“Hm,” Draco hummed quietly. “Well, now you know,” he said matter-of-factly. “Ready for a break?”

Harry nodded quickly—they were both apparently grateful for the distraction.

“Good,” Draco said, standing up. “I’ve got something I think you’ll like. Feel up for a fly?”

***

Draco flung open the doors to the shed, breathing in the smell of wood and broom polish. He could hear Harry taking a deep breath of it behind him. It was one of Draco’s favourite scents, which is probably why it manifested in his magic. It reminded him of the joy of flying, and filled him with a feeling of potential energy and possibility.

He walked to the shelves next to his broom rack and picked up the small package he’d received the previous day, tossing it to Harry, who caught it with typical Seeker reflexes, looking back up at Draco with a question in his eyes.

“Open it up, I’ve been waiting on that to come in for a while.”

Draco stepped over to the broom rack as Harry opened it, pulling out the brand new Golden Snitch. Draco gave him a wicked smile, holding up his hand with his index finger and thumb an inch apart, and making a quick grabbing motion with the same hand. Harry laughed silently at his teasing, his smile wide and bright.

“As the guest, you get first pick,” Draco motioned towards his brooms. Harry took his time deciding, inspecting each one, stroking his fingers against the smooth wood, tracing the ends of the carefully trimmed twigs, before picking up the Nimbus 2001, and looking back at Draco with a mischievous smirk.

“Ah,” Draco said, giving a sly smile. “You think you’ll be beating me on my own school broom, don’t you? We’ll see.” He picked up his Comet Aurora and led the way out of the shed, mounting the broom swiftly and kicking off into the air, Harry close behind.

“I think we have time for best two out of three, yeah?” Draco yelled, flying in tight circles to warm up his muscles. Harry smiled at him from across the garden, coming out of a Sloth Grip Roll, and released the Snitch.

The wind and sun was invigorating against Draco’s face. He felt like a part of the air, swerving and diving and drifting with the currents. It was exhilarating, competing against Harry again, even casually, in the way they both loved best. By the joyful, carefree look on Harry’s face, and the way he kept careful watch on Draco in the air, eyes alight with competition, he was feeling the same, and Draco didn’t want it to end. He wanted to stay up there, where he and Harry were friends who loved flying together, but eventually Harry caught the Snitch for the second time, effectively winning and ending their little contest, and they made their way to the ground.

Draco wasn’t too ashamed to admit he was pouting a little. He’d always been a sore loser. But as they walked back into the house, Harry bumped his shoulder with his, in a friendly, almost affectionate gesture only Pansy had ever done with him, and Draco chuckled softly at him, all of his moping forgotten.

Timsy served them falafel for lunch—he was a fan of it, lately, even though Draco didn’t see the appeal of the handfuls of little sprouts Timsy stuffed in the pitas. Harry ate the whole thing.

“I’m sorry to break this to you Harry, but you’re wrong,” Draco argued on their way back to the study. “Backstreet Boys was and remains inferior to N*SYNC, no matter how many more albums they made. I’ve tried telling Pansy, as well, but N*SYNC did what the Backstreet Boys wouldn’t and got out while the going was good, plus, they gave us Justin Timberlake, there’s honestly nothing more to be said, and we don’t have time for you to write out all your arguments in your chicken scratch.”

Harry was laughing at him as they plopped down in their chairs, shaking his head at Draco’s false arrogance. He had spotted the No Strings Attached album on top of the record player as they passed by the sitting room after lunch, and had given Draco a perplexed look, shaking his head in clear disapproval. Draco had picked up on the age old muggle-boy-band debate with great enthusiasm—it was one of his favourite things to argue about with Pansy, when they felt like being extra dramatic.

Draco summoned two glasses from the sideboard against the wall and poured himself water from his wand. Harry picked up his glass and held it out to him, biting his lip.

“You might want to do it from your own wand,” Draco pointed out. “Mine’s been adding a touch of lemon juice for years, I can’t get it to stop.” Harry only shook his head and pushed his glass closer to Draco.

“Oh, you like the lemon?” Draco asked, filling Harry’s glass as he nodded with a small smile. “Well, good to know. Let’s get into some more breathwork, and then resume our efforts.”

Harry closed his eyes in satisfaction as he sipped his lemon water. It was such a simple thing—Draco had modified his aguamenti years ago, because he preferred it with lemon, and he didn’t really use the charm for anything else, since Timsy took care of the plants. But it seemed like a luxury to Harry, a treat. Draco wondered what other kinds of luxuries Harry enjoyed, if any.

Draco put his hands on his knees, focusing on his breathing, on slowing his thoughts, on building up his Occlumency walls.

“Right,” Draco declared. “Ready for fourth year?” He raised his wand.

Harry nodded, sitting forward in his chair. Draco wanted to look away from his eyes, sitting this close, but couldn’t, considering the eye contact was necessary for the work. Harry made him feel like he could do it wandlessly, if he wanted, with those bright green eyes piercing him so intently—all Draco would have to do is tip forward, just a little, and fall. “Legilimens.”

Harry took him back to the summer before fourth year himself, and they made no detours along the way.

“Well done, Harry,” Draco said, enjoying that pleased feeling coming from Harry again. “You’re getting better at this.”

Draco skimmed past the memories, knowing himself what happens this year, but seeing it fresh through Harry’s fourteen-year-old eyes.

“You better get your bushy brown head out of here, Granger,” Draco says. “Unless you want to be next.” Harry can see the fire of the burning tents, hear the jeers of the Death Eaters.

“That’s the Dark Mark, Harry,” Hermione whispers. “His mark.” An unconscious house elf lays on the ground, holding Harry’s wand in her tiny hand.

The Goblet of Fire spits out another piece of paper. “Harry Potter,” Dumbledore reads aloud. The Great Hall is completely silent. Ron is glaring at him, with the rest of the students.

Draco kept moving, onward through the year, past memories of the students glaring at him, wearing Draco’s “Potter Stinks” badges, past an adrenaline filled memory with a massive, angry dragon following him on a broom that made Draco shake, past an uncomfortable Yule Ball watching Cho and Cedric and even Draco dancing with Pansy, until he saw that iridescent glow coming up, and latched on to it.

“Potter!” Cedric Diggory is jogging up to him. Harry feels an uncomfortable nervousness in his gut, it makes him feel resentful. Cho Chang watches from across the corridor.
“I wanted to thank you,” Cedric says quietly, “for that tip about the dragons.”
“Don’t mention it,” Harry says gruffly. His voice breaks. He feels small. “You’d have done the same.”
“Exactly,” Cedric says, looking at him intently. “Have you figured out your egg yet?”
Harry glares up at him, adjusts the strap of his satchel. “I’m getting there.”
Cedric darts his eyes around, but the hallway is empty except for them, and Cho several feet away, out of hearing range. Cedric leans in closer to Harry, and Harry’s heart speeds up, and he has no idea why.
“You know the prefect’s bathroom on the fifth floor?” Cedric mumbles, still looking at him intently, and Harry can’t look away. He manages a nod. “It’s not a bad place for a bath,” Cedric continues.
Harry swallows, Cedric leans even closer, and Harry can feel the heat off of his body. Harry’s breathing is shallow, and he is so confused.
“Password is ‘pine fresh’,” he murmurs in Harry’s ear, and Harry feels a swooping sensation in his stomach. His cheeks are on fire, and he is so, so confused.
Cedric pulls back, starts walking backwards towards Cho. “Just take your egg and… mull things over in the hot water,” he says vaguely. He winks before he turns and walks away, and Harry is confused and aroused and bitter and excited all at once.

Draco withdrew, pointed his wand at the board, and labeled the next dot “Diggory’s Help”. He looked back to Harry, and his lips started twitching at the fiery blush on Harry’s cheeks. Harry’s eyes were wide, surprised and embarrassed. Draco couldn’t hold back his amusement, now that his Occlumency walls were down.

“Oh Merlin, Harry,” he mutters, trying to hold back an exhilarated giggle. “Join the club. Cedric Diggory was responsible for the queer awakening of so many unsuspecting young men, myself included,” he chuckled. Draco was vibrating a bit from the nervous feelings of all of those memories. “Sweet Circe, that was fun.”

Harry was shaking his head in that odd, almost-fond way of his, and his smile was growing. He scoffed and rolled his eyes, but the smile remained, as did the colour on his cheeks.

“Now, how did that particular scene shape you, other than stirring up desires heretofore undiscovered?” Draco pressed his lips together, but couldn’t hold back his giddy laughter. His own cheeks felt hot—he’d had the same thoughts, seeing Cedric Diggory sweaty and covered in dirt and blood after battling a dragon—confused and bitter and aroused and excited, all at once. It was a classic.

Harry shook his head again, that incredible smile stuck on his face, and grabbed his notebook to write.

Learned difference between competitor and enemy

“Hmm,” Draco hummed. “You were surprised that he helped you?” Harry nodded.

“I suppose if you’re used to fighting for your life all the time, it must have been difficult to think of the Tournament as just a game.” Draco commented, grabbing his own notebook and reading glasses, making his notes.

Harry closed his eyes, nodding again, and Draco remembered Harry staying in the Black Lake for way too long, the way Draco’s hands had shaken and his heart had sped up with fear, until Harry’s head popped out of the water with not one, but two other people. He’d probably thought Fleur’s little sister would have died if he didn’t, and risked his neck to save her, as he was wont to do. Draco couldn’t blame him—he’d kind of been trained that way, hadn’t he, the way he was forced to save the school all the bloody time, with the adults otherwise occupied. It was just how Harry was, how he’d always been, because he had to be.

“Well, that made me a bit giddy, so let’s do some more breathing to calm our heart rates, and try for another one,” Draco suggested, and Harry nodded once, smirking.

When they both felt calmer, Draco raised his wand. “Ready?”

Harry started to nod, but stopped himself, as if he had just remembered something. The colour drained from his face. He grabbed his notebook, writing again.

Next one will not be fun

“Mm,” Draco grunted, remembering. “No, I don’t suppose it will be. But we’ll be alright. We’re safe, here.”

Harry looked at him intently again, searching his face for something, lips pressed tightly together. He let out a huff of breath, and nodded. Draco raised his wand and cast.

Cedric was walking away, right where they’d left off. Draco pushed through the memories quickly—he had a feeling, just as Harry did, he knew where the next breadcrumb would be, and it would not be pleasant.

Past fighting Grindylows in the lake, past letters from Sirius, through a maze and a gut feeling of wrongness until the glow appeared, covering another hefty chunk of memories, similar to the breadcrumb of Harry’s eleventh birthday—but these looked dark, painful. Draco took a deep breath, and seized them with his magic.

“Kill the spare,” a voice rasps from a bundle of cloth in Pettigrew’s arms. A flash of green light, and Cedric Diggory falls.
…
Pettigrew cuts Harry’s arm, deposits the blood in the cauldron. “The Dark Lord will rise again,” he pants. Light bursts from the heavy cauldron, Harry’s scar burns like never before. He is trapped, tied to a gravestone. A massive snake circles the ground at his feet.
…
Lucius grovels at Voldemort’s feet. “My Lord, if there had been any sign, or whisper of your whereabouts…”
“There were signs, and more than whispers,” Voldemort snarls.
…
“Oh, Harry! I’d forgotten you were here,” Voldemort says coldly. The Death Eaters laugh. Lucius smiles cruelly.
…
“I’m going to kill you, Harry Potter, but properly. First, we will duel. You were taught how to duel, yes?” Voldemort’s voice is gleeful and cruel. “We begin with a bow. Come on, now, Dumbledore wouldn’t want you to forget your manners. I said, bow. Imperio.”
Harry feels such sweet emptiness in his mind, but knows it is wrong. He strains, but shoves it away.
“Impressive, I’ll admit, but I suppose we can skip the niceties. Crucio.”
A Cruciatus rips through Harry. Lucius laughs and jeers from the side with the other Death Eaters, as Harry screams in agony. The pain is unbearable. When it finally ends, Harry gets to his feet and points his wand again, muscles shaking. He tries a disarming charm, Voldemort bats it away like an insect. Voldemort toys with him, throwing curses at him that Harry physically dodges, unable to fight back. Harry ducks behind a gravestone.
“Come out, Harry,” Voldemort jeers, to the delight of the Death Eaters. “Face your death like your father did. Lord Voldemort can be merciful—your death will be quick.”
Harry believes he is going to die, but he won’t do it cowering behind a gravestone on his knees. He stands, wand at the ready, and walks out to face his foe. His hand shakes as he aims his wand.
“Avada Kedavra!”
“Expelliarmus!”
Jets of red and green light shoot from the wands, colliding in the middle in a burst of gold light. Power courses through Harry as light explodes from the collision of spells, encasing the pair of them in a golden dome, filled with eerie music. Harry pushes his spell harder, forcing the light back into Voldemort’s wand.
Echoes of sounds and translucent figures start emerging from the tip of Voldemort’s wand, surrounding them: an old man, a woman, Cedric, and Harry finally sees the figures of his parents. They stand next to him as he strains against the powerful magic, and he drinks in their faces. “Don’t let go, Harry,” his mother encourages. “We can hold them for a moment, but only a moment—you have to get back to the portkey, understand?” his father urges. “Take my body back, Harry,” Cedric’s figure says.
Harry releases the spell, the figures swarm Voldemort, the golden web disappears, and he runs like he’s never run in his life, dodging stunners from Death Eaters around gravestones. He dives onto Cedric’s body, summons the Triwizard Cup, and is jerked away from the graveyard in a swirl of colour and darkness, Voldemort’s screams of fury fading. He lands in front of the maze, the crowd cheers, and Harry cries hysterically into Cedric’s cold chest.

Draco gasped and withdrew, feeling something warm in his left hand. When he exited Harry’s head, he saw that he had unwittingly reached out towards Harry, and Harry had taken his hand, gripping it tightly. His Occlumency barriers, already halfway down under the onslaught of reaction, fell completely, and his vision blurred. His throat burned. He set his wand down and took his glasses off his face, still holding tightly to Harry’s hand, but it wasn’t the glasses blurring his vision, he realized—it was tears, shit.

He quickly let go of Harry’s hand, and realized he was shaking. He was not fully aware of himself, and knew he needed to be. He rubbed his thighs, scrubbed his hands through his hair, a tear fell down his cheek, he wiped it away in annoyance, stuck his finger inside his collar, traced the scar, another tear fell. He clicked his tongue in irritation at himself, wiping it again.

Draco had been waiting in the crowd, that night, complaining to Pansy and Greg about how long Diggory and Potter were taking in the stupid maze. Meanwhile, Harry had been dueling the Dark Lord, while Draco’s father watched—Harry was so unbelievably young, and he’d been fighting for his life, no one left to save but himself, fuck.

And then Harry had returned, and Draco had watched with fear and shock and that sudden squeezing sensation in his chest as Harry cried openly, refusing to release Cedric’s body.

His right hand fell on his left forearm and felt the Dark Mark on his skin, his sleeves still rolled up from earlier. His hand recoiled from it in disgust. Finally, he looked up at Harry.

Harry’s eyes were wide, red and shiny, watching Draco anxiously. He probably hadn’t wanted Draco to see that at all, but he had to. Harry’s hands were shaking in his lap, clenching and unclenching his fists, and the muscles in his shoulders were tense and bunched under his t-shirt. Draco instinctively started to reach out to him again—he inhaled sharply as he noticed it happening, and pulled his hands back to his own lap.

Harry was obviously a man, now, as Draco could tell from the shadow of stubble on his jaw and the size and roughness of his hands, but in this moment, Draco could see the boy he was, too—the scrawny fourteen-year-old with a voice that broke from puberty, the tiny eleven-year-old on a broom with mischief in his eyes, the sixteen-year-old with a grave face and a watchful gaze. He felt he was being bombarded with every Harry he had ever known, all combining into this one astonishing man, and he let himself revel in the miracle that was Harry Potter, just for a moment, as they watched each other with careful eyes from the too-close distance between the wingback chairs.

When Draco finally came down from the adrenaline rush, his breathing smooth and even, he raised his wand and pointed it at the chalkboard, labeling a new dot “Voldemort’s Return”. He took another deep breath and looked back at Harry, who was still watching him cautiously, as if Draco might spook at any moment.

“Are you alright?” Draco asked. Harry took a deep, stabilizing breath and clasped his hands together in his lap to keep them from shaking, but he nodded all the same. Draco quietly called Timsy for hot chocolate, which he brought with his typical unnatural speed. Harry took his mug gratefully, closing his eyes and sipping it carefully. Draco simply watched him, deep in thought, cradling his own mug in his hands.

“Your wands,” Draco mused. “Cores of phoenix feather. Did the feathers come from the same bird?” Harry nodded, opening his notebook on his lap with one hand, writing one word.

Fawkes

“Priori Incantatem… I’d heard of the phenomenon, but I never…” Draco took a deep breath, and sipped more of his hot chocolate, letting the warmth fill him. He felt like he couldn’t finish a thought before his mind raced to the next.

“You were maneuvered into that graveyard,” Draco commented. “He needed your blood…”

Harry pursed his lips, nodding again, absently rubbing a thin, long scar on his right forearm. The room was quiet for a while, as they sipped their hot chocolates and processed their thoughts.

“You amaze me, you know,” Draco finally spoke, barely above a whisper, because it would feel wrong if Harry left today without knowing this. “Do you have any idea how incredible you are?”

Harry stared back at him for a moment, gripping his mug tightly, before looking away, lifting his shoulders in a tiny shrug.

“I know, you only did what you had to do. I doubt you enjoy being praised for doing what was necessary, or for surviving. But Harry, it is a bloody miracle that you are alive today—and I’m so glad you are, even if it was all out of sheer dumb luck and Gryffindor stubbornness. And the fact that you are here, and that you still feel joy and love so freely, and that you’re still always trying to do the right thing, after everything—the fact that you’re here with me now, placing your trust in me, after everything my father and I have put you through…”

Draco trailed off, making a vague gesture with his hand. He took a deep, shaky breath and shook his head slowly in disbelief. “That, you did yourself, all on your own. You’re a bloody marvel, Harry.”

Harry’s cheeks were pink again, a faint rosy tint on his copper skin. His bright eyes darted down to his hot chocolate, where his fingers were fidgeting against the mug, feeling it’s smooth edges. If Draco hadn’t been watching him so closely, he would have missed the corner of his lip lifting up, just a little, in the ghost of a smile. Draco’s shoulders finally relaxed, and he decided to offer Harry something of himself, to balance the scales a bit.

“Would you like a bit of a break, from being in your own head?” Draco asked. Harry furrowed his brows in confusion, tilting his head to the side.

“You’ll have to meditate and return to yourself before you leave, of course, but you endured a lot, today, in your own mind. If you want a holiday from it, you’re welcome to mine, for a bit.”

Harry’s eyebrows shot up behind his fringe, his jaw dropping in shock.

“I’m an accomplished Occlumens, Harry—you’ll only see what I want you to see. I have some places I think you’d enjoy, if you want a—a recess,” Draco offered. “You don’t have to perform the spell, either, all it’ll take is a nonverbal shield charm, which I know you can do,” he smirked. “Up to you.”

Harry stared at him in disbelief for a while, and Draco was beginning to think he might turn down the offer, after all, regardless of his curiosity. But Harry finally shut his mouth, set down his hot chocolate, and pulled his wand out of his pocket. His face was both eager and shy, as if he wasn’t really sure if Draco was serious, but hoped he was.

Draco smiled encouragingly and took a deep breath, building his defenses and selecting a couple of memories. He raised his wand. “I’ll cast and hold the Legilimency, while you just relax and keep up the shield charm, yeah? It doesn’t have to be very strong.” Harry nodded, and raised his wand. “Three, two, one, legilimens.”

Harry flicked his wand automatically, holding his eye contact, and tumbled clumsily into Draco’s head.

The first thing they saw was an empty room, with stone floors and walls and two large, heavy wooden doors.

“This is Occlumency at work,” Draco said, luxuriating in the smell of treacle and summer rain in his head. “I’m going to open the door on the right, which is where I want us to go.”

Draco opened the door, and remembered—

A field full of lavender, the warmth of the sun on his skin.

He could feel Harry’s curious presence, watching. “Welcome to Provence, France,” he said quietly.

A twenty-year-old Draco is walking through the vast lavender fields alone, surrounded by their heavy, floral scent. His hair is longer than ever, it’s tied messily in a bun on the back of his head. He is dressed casually, in a thin, blue jumper with the sleeves rolled up. He ambles lazily along the rows of flowers that seem to stretch on for miles. He can’t keep the silly grin off of his face.

“I studied here for about six months, one of my first apprenticeships, under a renowned Healer who would only let me call him ‘Croque Monsieur’—which is basically the name of a cheese toasty,” Draco explained, pleased with the burst of curiosity and amusement he could feel from Harry’s presence. “He was an odd fellow, but quite inspiring.”

A cool breeze lifts the flyaway strands of hair from his face. He reaches his hand into his trouser pocket, and fiddles with the worn, folded parchment inside. The early-evening sun shines warm on the side of his face, and his smile widens.

“I have a letter in my pocket, that I’ve kept in there all day—it’s from Pansy, informing me of the child she’s expecting, how happy she is about it, the names she’s picked out, and the godfather she’s chosen: me.” Draco could feel Harry feeling his own happiness—it was odd, but enjoyable. Draco gently moved them to the next memory, which was significantly noisier than the first.

Twenty-one-year-old Draco meanders through the stalls of a busy bazaar. It’s more crowded than he’d ever seen in Diagon Alley, but no one is looking at him in anger or disgust. No one knows him, here, and it feels wonderful. Someone is busking nearby—Draco enjoys the music.

His hair is shorn shorter, a bit longer on the top of his head. The sun beats down on him, through his thin black t-shirt, which is getting too tight on him—he’s finally building up the mass he lost in the War, and he feels healthy. Everywhere he looks, the stalls are sparking and whirring and glowing with magical wares. He breathes in the smell of fragrant spiced meats and the city. Above him, a wizard shoots by on a beautiful broom at an incredible speed, and lands somewhere farther ahead along the wide alley.

“This is Istanbul, Turkey,” Draco notes, feeling Harry’s awe all around him, “on the Wizarding side of the Grand Bazaar. I apprenticed here for a few months, under Healer Ekrem. I learned from all of my mentors, but Ekrem is the one who made me practice vulnerability, and explained the necessity of a balance between the patient and Healer Legilimens. I worked the hardest, under him, but spent a lot of time here, wandering the Bazaar—it always felt amazing, to be among a crowd where no one knew my name.”

Draco continues through the Bazaar, aimlessly winding his way through the crowd, until he reaches the point where the flying wizard had landed. It’s a large, ornate stall selling racing brooms. Draco’s eyes land on the Göktaşı, and he knows he must have it—he has no broom, here, and he misses flying. He bargains with the merchant in Turkish until they settle on a price, and Draco pulls a pouch out of the pocket of his shorts and pays for it. He walks out of the stall with the Göktaşı, excitement running through his veins.

“It’s an excellent broom, perfect for covering long distances at high speeds. Its maneuverability suffers for it, though,” Draco commented, moving them on to the next memory.

Twenty-two-year-old Draco stands in the small garden of the Wizarding house he’s rooming in, Göktaşı in hand. He hasn’t bothered to put shoes on—he’ll be in the air, after all. He casts a disillusionment charm, swings his leg over the handle, and kicks off into the dark night sky. Joy swoops through him—it’s been too long since he last flew.

Smiling widely, he steers the broom toward the sea, and accelerates. The wind is whipping his shirt around his torso, his hair around his face.

“Italy,” Draco smiled. “A small fishing village on The Amalfi Coast. My apprenticeship here was short, but I loved the sea.”

By the time he reaches the shoreline, Draco is hurtling through the air at top speed. He shoots out over the sea, steering the broom in a wide turn to follow the sheer, rocky cliffs of the coastline. He hears only the sound of the waves on the rocks below, and the wind rushing past his ears. He smells the salt of the sea and faint hints of lemon from the groves nearby. His eyes are watering from the speed, but Draco doesn’t care. He feels wild and free, flying barefoot in the air, with the night sky stretched wide above him, the clear, salty waves of the Tyrrhenian Sea below.

Draco continued the reverie for a few moments more, before ending his spell, gently pushing Harry out of his head with Occlumency. Harry’s smile was small, but it reached his eyes, and Draco knew he could feel Draco’s emotions in those memories. Harry lowered his wand, watching Draco’s face, and mouthed thank you.

“You’re welcome,” Draco grinned, and sighed. “Ready to finish up for today? I always prefer to end on a good note.”

He watched Harry meditate, touching some of his scars and his hair. Draco replaced his reading glasses on his face, and tried to add to his notes, but was distracted by Harry’s gentle movements, the sound of his even breathing, the rasp of his large palm moving over the stubble on his face. Draco absently rubbed his hand over his chest, feeling the thin, raised scars under the fabric, notes forgotten.

He walked Harry to the door, continuing their one-sided argument over boy bands. Harry wandlessly summoned the leather jacket from the hook on the wall, and shrugged it on, stuffing his hands in his pockets. Harry’s face lit up with surprise, and his cheeks pinked again as he pulled out a small, plastic, rectangular object from his pocket, gently shook it in the air in front of his face—almost forgot about this, Draco read from his expression—and handed it to Draco.

“What’s this, then?” Draco asked, amused. He took the object from Harry’s hand, and read Harry’s handwriting on a piece of paper inside the plastic:

For continuing your muggle music education

On the back, Draco found a list of songs with different artists he hadn’t heard of. He grinned widely, his face brightening with excitement as he looked back at Harry, who seemed pleased and abashed.

“Excellent,” Draco declared, still grinning. “Thank you, Harry. I will figure out what on earth this object is and how to hear music from it, mark my words.”

Harry rolled his eyes, huffed a silent laugh, and left.

Chapter Six

“Pansy Parkinson!” Draco yelled into Pansy’s sitting room from where his head floated in the fire. It was always uncomfortable, floo calling like this, on his knees in one place with his head halfway across the country. But he didn’t have time to properly visit her, and he had questions.

Camila poked her head into the sitting room.

“Hi, Uncle Draco.”

“Why, Pansy, you’ve shrunk!” Draco exclaimed, and Camila rolled her eyes, giggling at his bad joke. “Is your mother around, Camila?”

Camila nodded, her hair falling into her face. “I’ll go get her,” she said seriously. She loved being given important tasks. She dashed out of the room on her errand.

Pansy eventually showed up, hair tied messily on the top of her head, clad in a fluffy dressing gown. “You interrupted my bath, you pillock,” she scowled at him. “What do you want?”

“Do you know what this is?” Draco asked, and pulled Harry’s mysterious music rectangle through the floo, holding it up next to his head. Pansy frowned at it.

“It’s a muggle cassette tape,” she answered. “It holds music, but muggles don’t use them much anymore—where’d you get it?”

“It was a gift,” Draco explained vaguely. “How do you get the music out of it?”

Pansy smirked at him. “You put it in a tape player,” she replied. “I’ll get it out of you eventually, you know. You’re shit at keeping things from me.”

“Whatever,” Draco waved the cassette tape dismissively. “Where can I find one of these ‘tape players?’”

“Any muggle electronics store, but that would require you to talk to muggles, wouldn’t it?” Pansy’s smile was devious, and Draco knew he’d have to make a bargain. Slytherin habits never died.

“I’ll let you listen to it, if you can help me figure out how to play it,” he offered. Pansy rolled her eyes.

“Boring,” she sighed. “I have a boombox in my attic somewhere—never liked it as much as the vinyls. I’ll bring it over whenever I find it.”

Draco raised his eyebrows. “Boombox?” he repeated. “Sounds dangerous. Why would the muggles require explosions to play music?”

Pansy laughed. “I thought the same thing, when the muggle at the shop sold it to me. I handled it like a volatile cauldron for weeks, before I realized it’s quite benign. I think they call it that because it emphasizes the bass in the music, or something.”

“Odd,” Draco muttered. “Well, thank you. Enjoy your bath, I’m off to my mother’s for tea.”

“Good luck,” Pansy said, widening her eyes. Draco huffed, and pulled himself out of his fireplace.

He stood up from where he knelt in front of the grate, and dusted off his knees. He placed the odd cassette tape back on the shelf next to his records, and adjusted his suit jacket, smoothing out nonexistent wrinkles in his waistcoat. It was a bit of a statement for him to wear anything other than robes to the Manor—it asserted his independence, and would hopefully reaffirm to his mother that he indeed did not belong there. He took deep breaths, trying to calm his racing pulse. I’m just visiting Mother, he reminded himself. It’s just tea, and then it will be over.

He grabbed another handful of floo powder from a small pot on the mantle, and threw it into the fire. Green flames whooshed from the grate, and he stepped in. “Malfoy Manor,” he called out, ignoring the sinking feeling in his stomach.

After a twisting journey of being pulled past hundreds of fireplaces, he finally landed gracefully in the receiving room of the Manor. He’d been taught early on how to use the floo without getting a speck of soot on him, and his parents had made him practice until he stopped stumbling out of it. He took another deep breath and made his way out of the room, taking the familiar path to the conservatory, where Narcissa always preferred to have tea.

His eyes darted around every corridor and doorway nervously. He would probably never stop feeling unsafe, in his childhood home, after what it had seen. They could scrub the blood out of the stone, but they couldn’t scrub out the memories or the nightmares, or the unnatural, heavy weight of Dark Magic residue. Draco had only become more sensitive to it with his training—another thing his mother didn’t understand.

As he neared the entrance to the conservatory, he saw that the door was cracked open, and he could hear multiple voices beyond it. Draco inhaled sharply—he had not agreed to additional guests.

He pushed open the door fully, disgruntled and tense, and nearly drew his wand on the woman he saw sitting across from his mother. She looked almost exactly like Bellatrix, and his instincts told him to run—but Draco paused, looking closer, and saw that her hair wasn’t as dark, her eyes were softer. She held herself differently, calmer, and she was definitely wearing muggle jeans and a cable knit jumper, which Bellatrix wouldn’t have been caught dead in. He let himself examine her magical aura, just in case—the woman’s magic was gentle, probably a homemaker, definitely a mother, and it felt a little sad. It smelled like snow, and strong tea. Definitely not Bellatrix, Draco decided, shoulders relaxing. Andromeda, he realized.

The two women were deep in discussion, murmuring quietly. Draco moved further into the room, and they snapped their heads towards him as they noticed him.

“Draco,” his mother smiled, standing from her seat and holding out her hands to him. Draco smiled and felt a tiny jolt of warmth as he went to her, kissing her cheek. Yes, it was worth it, the anxiety of visiting the Manor, as long as he could see his mother.

“Draco, this is your Aunt—my sister, Andromeda,” Narcissa introduced, waving a graceful hand towards the other woman, who remained seated, watching their interaction with sad eyes and a soft smile. She held out her hand to him, and Draco took it and kissed it gingerly. She had the same slender hands as Narcissa—a gene that had passed to Draco, too.

“A pleasure, Aunt,” Draco said quietly, still studying her face, marveling at the fact that this woman was family, and she wasn’t sneering at him, or attacking him, or serving him up to the Dark Lord. He felt a little spark of hope in his chest.

“Likewise,” Andromeda replied, studying him just as closely. “I’ve heard so much about you, nephew.” Her brown eyes twinkled.

Draco had a brief moment of realization that she may have been hearing about him from Harry, as well as Narcissa, and felt a bit manic with how much he wanted to know what Harry would have told her. But he couldn’t ask, would never say a word about it.

He didn’t have time to dwell on it, however, because at that moment, a small human with a full head of turquoise hair came dashing around the fountain in the middle of the huge, plant-filled, glass room, stopping in front of Andromeda and holding up something wiggly and potato-shaped in his hand.

“Gran! I caught one! Look!” the boy exclaimed, panting. Draco stared at him in shock. It was a wonder he hadn’t panicked or jumped at the sudden intrusion—Andromeda apparently had a very calming effect.

A tiny, grumpy garden gnome was struggling in the boy’s grip. Draco assumed whatever it was communicating in its little grunts and squeaks was colourful language, not suitable for children, but no one could understand it anyway.

“You should give it to a house elf, Teddy,” Andromeda instructed. “They’ll know what to do with it, and your Aunt Cissy is probably hoping to avoid an infestation in her gardens.”

“I am impressed you managed to catch one, Teddy,” Narcissa commented, smiling fondly and snapping her fingers to summon one of the house elves. “They’re always too quick for me.”

Teddy, who couldn’t have been more than eight years old, handed over his prize dejectedly. His turquoise hair fell in soft waves around his face—a face quite similar to Professor Lupin’s, Draco noticed. His knees and hands were covered in dirt.

Teddy looked up, eyes widening as he finally realized Draco was there, and Draco noticed his eyes were the exact same shade of green as Harry’s. He gave the boy a soft smile, surprisingly nervous.

“Teddy, this is your cousin, Draco,” Andromeda motioned towards Draco with her hand. “Aunt Cissy’s son.”

Teddy schooled his little face into a serious expression, and thrust out his hand. Andromeda discreetly cast a cleaning charm on it from under the table. “Pleasure to meet you,” he spoke clearly, in his best efforts at maturity, and Draco was terribly endeared. He took Teddy’s hand and shook it gently.

“The pleasure is mine, Teddy,” he grinned. “You must have excellent reflexes if you caught one of those wily gnomes. Do you play Quidditch?”

Teddy’s face lit up, and his eye colour melted from leafy green to frosty grey, matching Draco’s. Draco huffed a delighted laugh as he watched—he had never actually seen a Metamorphmagus change in person.

“Yeah! I want to be a Seeker, like my godfather, but Gran won’t let me have a real broom yet, and the toy one I have really isn’t quick enough to play Seeker, so I’m usually a Chaser when we play at the Weasley’s, which is still fun of course, I’m really good at scoring goals, Aunt Ginny says I could definitely be a professional like her one day, but I wouldn’t want to play for the Harpies like her, my favourite team is the Falmouth Falcons, what’s your favourite team?”

Teddy spoke a mile a minute, practically bouncing with excitement, and Draco had the sudden urge to go out and buy him a broom, right then and there. He quelled it quickly. Andromeda was right, of course, eight was much too young for a real broom. But Teddy’s energy was infectious, and Draco wanted to fuel his happiness.

“I’m a Falcons fan, myself,” Draco said. “They’re not doing too well, this season, but we know they’ll turn it around.” He gave Teddy a private grin.

“I know! Uncle Harry says it’s because their new Chasers aren’t in sync with—”

“Time to go, Teddy,” Andromeda interrupted quietly. “Harry’s coming over for tea, soon, remember?”

“Oh! Right!” Teddy jumped, and his hair swiftly morphed into chaotic black curls. His eyes remained a mirror image of Draco’s. Draco was utterly charmed.

“It was lovely to meet you, Teddy,” Draco said. “I’m sure we’ll meet again—maybe we’ll have time for a Seeker’s game, next time.” He was careful not to include any reference of when they would meet again, not entirely sure if it would actually happen, though he wanted it to. Teddy grinned up at him, nodding with excitement.

Draco looked over at Andromeda, who was watching the pair of them fondly. Teddy turned to Narcissa, schooling his face into that serious expression, and Narcissa’s lips barely twitched in amusement. She held out her hand to Teddy, who took it in his own and bowed his little head over it. “Lovely to see you, Aunt Cissy,” he said earnestly, and Draco pressed his lips together to hold back a giggle.

“I enjoyed our visit, Teddy,” Narcissa smiled at him. “I look forward to the next one.” She turned to her sister, holding out the hand Teddy had just released. Andromeda took it and squeezed it gently, and they grinned softly at each other. Narcissa seemed just as awed at the prospect of family as Draco did.

They walked Andromeda and Teddy to the floo, and Draco was bewildered by the carefree joy that was Teddy skipping down the dank, oppressive corridors of Malfoy Manor. The juxtaposition was absolutely baffling.

When the green flames had died down in the fireplace, Narcissa turned to Draco, amusement in her eyes.

“I know you’re wondering, and yes, Draco, you did look just like that when you were showing off your manners at that age,” she smirked at him.

“I charmed every adult in the room, you mean, while also amusing them with my efforts?”

“Most assuredly,” Narcissa replied, her smirk widening into a full smile as she took his arm. “I’m sorry to have surprised you like that, I must have lost track of time.”

“No need to apologize,” Draco said, even though he hated being caught off guard. “I was happy to meet them.”

“You were wonderful with him,” Narcissa sighed wistfully. “You’ll make an amazing father, one day.”

Draco kept his mouth shut. And so it begins.

They settled back at the small table in the conservatory, which had been set for tea by the house elves in their absence. They chatted idly about their lives, Draco purposefully vague as always, Narcissa sneaking in hints about settling down and how lovely the Manor is lately.

“Draco,” Narcissa began after a long pause. “You—you haven’t heard from your father, lately, have you?”

Draco’s eyebrows shot up. “You must know I haven’t,” he replied, “as you probably know I plan to keep it that way.”

If Draco hadn’t known her so well, he would have missed the way her shoulders sagged, ever so slightly, in disappointment. Narcissa was the perfect archetype of pureblood nobility—distant and cold, the epitome of grace and poise, never showing any signs of weakness. She was always difficult to read, even to her family, but Draco knew her better than anyone—except maybe Lucius.

“He’s stopped responding to my letters,” Narcissa said quietly, not meeting Draco’s eyes. Draco set his teacup down on the table.

He knew that his parents loved each other—at least that Narcissa loved Lucius, even with everything he had put their family through. Draco was still unsure if Lucius was truly capable of love, but even if he wasn’t, he had played the part of doting husband well, before the Dark Lord’s return. Draco shuddered as he remembered experiencing Harry's memories of that night, of Lucius’ jeers in the graveyard.

“How long ago?” Draco asked, unsure of what else to say, since good riddance was out of the question.

“Six months,” Narcissa replied, and Draco raised his eyebrows again in shock, staring at his mother across the table.

That could have meant any number of things. Lucius had about twelve years left of his sentence. He may have finally lost his mind, in Azkaban—even with the dementors evicted, it was a horrible, hopeless place. He may have fallen ill, too ill to write a letter. Narcissa’s letters might have been intercepted. Or, Lucius may have simply bored with their correspondence, and given up on it.

Whatever the reason, Draco gathered that only one aspect of this bit of news was important to him: his mother was grieving, and she had been grieving for months now, and she had kept it from him, knowing how he felt about his father.

Draco reached across the ornately wrought table, and carefully took his mother’s hand in his, holding it gently. Narcissa managed a soft smile, but her eyes were wet.

“I’m sorry, Mother,” he murmured, holding her gaze with his own. He wasn’t sorry about Lucius, and Narcissa knew that. He was sorry that his mother was in pain, and hadn’t felt she could confide in Draco.

Narcissa nodded shortly. “I know the chances of you hearing from him are slim, but if you do, will you…?” She trailed off, subtly wiping the corner of her eye, and Draco was slightly stunned by how disjointed she seemed, when she was normally so cool and collected.

“I will,” Draco replied, though he knew the chances were less than slim. If Lucius wouldn’t speak to his devoted wife, he certainly wouldn’t deign to reach out to his disappointing, working, gay son. With a jolt, Draco realized Lucius would now classify him as a blood traitor, as well, with how he hadn’t identified Harry at the Manor during the War, and the donations he made regularly to charities supporting Muggleborn integration and orphans of the War. The thought made him feel somewhat accomplished.

Narcissa changed the subject, back to the safe topic of their respective gardens, and they finished their visit without another mention of Lucius. Though he loved his mother, Draco still breathed a sigh of relief when he stepped out of his floo into his own sitting room.

***

“I met your godson, yesterday,” Draco mentioned as they settled themselves in their usual chairs. He wondered idly if he’d ever see that chair as anything other than Harry’s chair. He watched Harry for his reaction, still slightly worried that he would be angry at the thought of Teddy visiting Malfoy Manor. Draco certainly never wanted Camila to step foot there, but perhaps that was his own baggage. Harry’s last visit there hadn’t been a very long one, after all.

Harry only smiled, and looked at Draco curiously. Draco returned the grin.

“He’s a very charming boy,” he remarked. “My mother is smitten.”

Harry huffed a gentle laugh, nodding, smiling affectionately at the thought of his godson.

Draco watched him for a moment. “I’ll admit I was surprised to see him and Andromeda at the Manor,” he said, trying to convey the rest of his thoughts nonverbally, hoping that he wouldn’t have to say with my mother, Lucius’ wife or after everything you went through there out loud.

Draco was successful, apparently, because Harry picked up his notebook and pen, opening it to a blank page to write.

I was nervous, but I trust your mother, and Andy

Draco raised his eyebrows—Harry trusted Narcissa Malfoy?—but didn’t question it. Narcissa clearly loved visiting with her sister and grand-nephew, and without her husband’s correspondence, Draco wanted her to have company whenever possible.

“Alright,” Draco said. “I was delighted to meet them, regardless.”

Harry grinned at him again, crossing his ankle over his knee. He looked so relaxed, here in Draco’s study, and Draco felt another moment of incredulity, at the surreality of that fact. His life had changed so drastically over the past couple of weeks, even though he was only doing his job—but he was doing that job with Harry, and even the fact that Draco called him Harry now, when less than a month ago he was facing a furious Potter in a hospital bed for the first time after eight years, was enough to make him feel a bit dizzy.

“Ready to get to work?” Draco asked. Harry nodded, sitting up properly in his chair. Draco led him through his meditation, even though Harry already seemed plenty calm and content.

“Alright, fifth year,” Draco mumbled, preparing himself. He raised his wand, waited for Harry’s nod, and cast himself into Harry’s head. Harry had brought him to the very end of fourth year, where they had left off last time.

A large, shaggy black dog holds vigilance by Harry’s bedside in the hospital wing.

Molly Weasley is hugging him fiercely—like a mother. Harry’s body is shaking with suppressed sobs.

“Take it,” Harry says, handing his winnings to an appalled Fred and George. “Use it to start that joke shop. I have a feeling we’ll all be needing some laughs, soon.”

Harry receives no letters at Privet Drive. He scours the muggle newspapers for any scrap of news. He feels abandoned, and resentful.

Draco noticed that these memories felt a bit different than before—a little darker, a little angrier, a little… older. Which, of course, Harry felt older in these memories, because he was a little bit older. But Harry felt older than fifteen, somehow. Draco continued skimming.

A pair of dementors ambush him and his cousin. Harry has no choice. “Expecto Patronum!”

“We’re sorry, Harry, but Dumbledore made us promise not to say anything to you,” Hermione says, and Harry feels that sharp abandonment again.
“But I’m the one who saw Voldemort return, I’m the one who fought him!” he yells.

Harry sits in the chair on the floor of Courtroom Ten. The Wizengamot seems determined to expel him. Dumbledore defends him from a chintz armchair, and never looks at him. To Fudge’s great distress, Harry is cleared of all charges.

Draco finally recognized the underlying emotion in these memories as that of opposition. Harry feels like he is fighting everyone and everything—fighting dementors to survive, fighting his friends about keeping him in the dark, fighting the adults for keeping him out of the Order of the Phoenix, fighting the Wizengamot to be able to go back to school, fighting Dumbledore for ignoring him, fighting the public for not believing him… Draco buckled down, knowing that Harry will probably feel this way for a long time. The memories flashed to Hogwarts, to Umbridge, to Harry yelling at her in the middle of class, until finally the silvery glow appeared in Draco’s peripheral. “Here we go,” Draco whispered, seizing the glow.

“You’re going to do some lines for me, Mr. Potter. I want you to write, ‘I must not tell lies.’” Umbridge’s voice is sickly sweet. Harry hates it. He picks up the dark quill in front of him.
“How many times?” Harry asks.
“As many times as it takes for the message to… sink in.”
Harry rolls his eyes behind her back. “You haven’t given me any ink,” he says.
“Oh, you won’t need any ink,” She replies, a hint of a laugh in her voice. Harry places the tip of the quill onto the parchment, and starts to write.
As he finishes the first line, he gasps with pain. The words appeared on the parchment, shiny and red, and at the same time, they had carved themselves into the skin on the back of Harry’s right hand, as though traced by a scalpel. Seconds later, the cuts healed over, leaving the skin red and irritated, but smooth.
“Something wrong?” Umbridge smiles. Harry stares at her, astonished.
“No,” he mumbles finally. “Nothing.”
Harry looks down to the parchment, and continues to write, over and over. Blood drips down the back of his hand.

Draco pulled away as the memory ended, quickly labeling a new dot on the chalkboard “Umbridge’s Punishment”. He touched his hair, rubbed the tops of his thighs. When he looked up, Harry’s face was grim, and he was absently rubbing the scars on the back of his right hand.

Draco took down his walls slowly, letting the rage and disgust and regret trickle through him gradually, which was easier than enduring it all at once.

“They tried you in front of the full court, in the Death Eater courtroom, for underage magic?” Draco asked.

Harry nodded, rolling his eyes faintly.

Draco shook his head slowly. He clenched his jaw to keep from speaking his honest thoughts—like when has the Ministry ever helped you, instead of using you or blaming you?

Draco sighed, and caught a glimpse of the thin, jagged scars on Harry’s hand. He motioned toward them with his head, and met Harry’s eyes. “May I?”

Harry slowly lifted his right hand off of his lap, and held it out in front of him. Draco took it gingerly with both of his hands, feeling the warmth and strength and chapped skin against his fingers, softer than he’d thought it would be. He examined the scars on the back of Harry’s hand: I must not tell lies.

Draco gently ran his thumb over the raised lines, and was casually fascinated by the juxtaposition of their hands, together. Draco’s fingers were long and slender, his skin pale and soft with only the occasional broom callous. Harry’s fingers were shorter, but his hand was stronger, rougher. The skin of his palm was a slightly lighter shade than the rest of his hand, and there were more scars than Draco had seen, at first—all shapes and sizes, all over his arms, and Draco knew the stories of some of them, now. His hand moved to Harry’s wrist, feeling the quickening pulse beneath his fingertips, the light dusting of dark hair on Harry’s forearm, the muscle tensing beneath the bronze skin. A work of art, his brain supplied out of nowhere, and he felt a barely-there twist in his abdomen.

That effectively snapped Draco out of his daze, and he blinked, trying not to drop Harry’s hand too quickly. He could feel a traitorous blush on his cheeks, spreading down his neck. What a ridiculous thing to think.

“She must have made you do that quite often, for it to scar like that,” Draco said, finally. Harry nodded, his hand back in his lap, fidgeting awkwardly. Draco saw his own blush mirrored on Harry’s face, and felt a little better.

“Why do you think your mind chose that memory specifically?”

Draco grabbed his own notebook and reading glasses, giving Harry time to think and write, and giving himself time to cool down. He had a feeling it would be a few minutes. He was right—he had filled a couple of pages with his own notes by the time Harry turned his notebook around, but the answer was shorter than he’d expected.

It wasn’t simple anymore

“Oh,” Draco breathed, the gears turning in his mind. He sat back for a moment, taking off his glasses, eyes closed as he worked on solving this particular puzzle.

“At that moment it was a private battle of wills, wasn’t it? You wouldn’t ever have given her the satisfaction of knowing she got to you. But you also knew it was bigger than that… because she was the hand of the Ministry. It wasn’t just you versus Voldemort, anymore, or a simple matter of what was right or fair or not. It was bigger than just you—the fight became political. Is that what you mean?”

Harry nodded, and he seemed almost proud that Draco had understood it. Harry adjusted his pen in his hand, and wrote something else.

I don’t lie

“That, I don’t doubt,” Draco muttered, shaking his head. “Though you obviously hadn’t told a lie in the first place. To be fair, you never were much of a liar to begin with,” he smirked. “You’re a painfully honest person, Harry. It’s a good thing you chose Gryffindor, Slytherin would have eaten you alive.”

Harry scoffed, rolling his eyes again. Draco smiled. He was too easy to tease.

“Ready for one more?” he asked, raising his wand. He took a moment to build up his Occlumency defenses—he knew Lucius would make an appearance this year, and he refused to allow his own emotional turmoil to taint Harry’s already-too-intense memories.

Harry sat up, taking a couple deep breaths, and gave Draco a meaningful look before he nodded. Draco took it as a warning. “Legilimens.”

A dream but too real—Harry is a snake, attacking Arthur Weasley. He wakes with a shout, shaking and covered with sweat, and is rushed to the Headmaster’s office.

Sirius is humming Christmas songs around Grimmauld Place, which is overflowing with decorations. Harry has never seen Sirius so happy.

“I’m so angry, all the time… what if, something went wrong with me? After everything… what if I’m becoming bad?” Harry asks, fumbling over his words.
“The world isn’t split into good people and Death Eaters, Harry,” Sirius answers. “We’ve all got light and dark inside of us. It’s the part we choose to act on, that matters.” He puts his hands on Harry’s shoulders and meets his gaze intently, and Harry loves this man, his only family. “There is nothing wrong with you, Harry,” Sirius says firmly.

Harry is watching a memory of Cho Chang kissing him under the mistletoe—he tries desperately to push Snape out of his head, and feels a sharp pain in his knee. He’s fallen to the floor.
“You will need more discipline than this,” Snape says coldly.

Draco continued his search. Snape’s Occlumency lessons really were useless—did he really think Harry would understand just “disciplining the mind”? Harry had probably never learned anything by following a vague instruction. He was too kinetic, too tactile—he had to see it first, he learned by doing. But Snape hadn’t seemed to care, even though he’d taught Harry for years.

Harry is watching a memory Snape had hidden from him. Harry’s father is bullying Snape mercilessly after an exam… out of boredom. Harry is horrified—he knows exactly how Snape feels in this position, and apparently, Harry’s father was every bit as arrogant as Snape had always told him.

Draco is stomping after him on the pitch, spitting insults. “Or maybe you can remember what your mother’s house stank like, and Weasley’s pigsty reminds you of it—“ He sneers venomously, and Harry lunges for him.

Harry falls asleep in the middle of an exam, and experiences another too-real dream, this time of Sirius—Voldemort is torturing him in a hall filled with glowing glass orbs.

“The Cruciatus ought to loosen your tongue,” Umbridge murmurs.

“Filthy half-breeds!” Umbridge shrieks, and the centaurs charge, seizing her effortlessly, carrying her away. She’s screaming at them.
“Tell them, Potter! Tell them I mean no harm!”
“I’m sorry, Professor,” Harry says. “I must not tell lies.”

The memories were becoming more rushed, more intense, more vibrant, and Draco knew that meant something particularly horrible was coming up. The images flashed past him on their own, now—Harry was remembering it all clearly, himself, without Draco’s assistance. Draco held his Occlumency walls, maintained his presence as a spectator in Harry’s head, and kept watch for the telltale glow.

“Harry, it’s got your name on,” Ron says, pointing at a shelf of glowing glass orbs. Harry picks up the dusty sphere, tagged with his name.
Lucius’ drawling voice emerges suddenly, right behind them. “Very good, Potter. Now turn around, nice and slowly, and give that to me.”

“So he wanted me to come and get it? Why?” Harry is stalling for time. He feels his friends tensing with adrenaline around him.
“Because the only people permitted to retrieve a prophecy from the Department of Mysteries, Potter, are those about whom it was made.” Lucius sounds incredulously delighted.

“NOW!” Harry bellows, and six different Reductor curses hit the shelves of spheres. Shards of glass and shelves are thundering down on them.

A stunner hits a cabinet of time turners. It falls, shatters, rises up again, repairs itself, falls and shatters again…

A Death Eater slashes his wand across Hermione’s chest in purple flame. She gasps, and crumples to the floor.

Harry runs, desperately trying to draw the Death Eaters away from his injured friends.

Neville screams under Bellatrix’s Cruciatus.

Doors burst open—Sirius, Remus, Moody, Kingsley, and Tonks sprint into the room, joining the fray.

“Harry, take the prophecy, grab Neville, and run!” Sirius yells, running to face Bellatrix.

Dumbledore stands in a doorway, his wand aloft, his face white and furious.

“Come on, you can do better than that!” Sirius is laughing at Bellatrix. The next jet of green light hits him square in the chest. The laughter freezes on his face, his eyes are wide in shock—he falls backwards, through the ragged veil of the stone archway on the dais.
“SIRIUS!” Harry screams. Remus grabs hold of him. He doesn’t stop screaming, struggling against Remus’ arms.

Draco was panting and shaking with adrenaline—Occlumency couldn’t protect from his own physical reactions. He felt something warm and strong in his left hand, gripping him and trembling, and knew he’d probably unconsciously reached for Harry’s hand again. But he had a feeling Harry needed it, too, an anchor to the real world. Draco couldn’t stop now—he could feel more than see the next breadcrumb, so close, nearly there. It couldn’t get much worse than this, right?

Harry is chasing Bellatrix through the Ministry Atrium, grief and fury in his veins.

“So, you smashed my prophecy?” Voldemort says softly. “No, Bella, he is not lying… I see the truth looking at me from inside his worthless mind…”

“It was foolish to come here tonight, Tom,” Dumbledore says calmly. The magic of their dueling makes Harry’s hair stand on end.

Voldemort vanishes. Harry tries to move. “Stay where you are, Harry!” Dumbledore sounds frightened. Harry doesn’t understand why—and then his scar bursts open.
It is pain beyond imagining. Harry is locked in the coils of a creature with red eyes, he doesn’t know where he ends and the other begins. They are fused together by pain.
“Kill me now, Dumbledore,” The creature speaks, Harry feels his mouth move. “If death is nothing, kill the boy…”
Harry begs internally for death, for the pain to stop, because surely death is nothing compared to this… and he’ll see Sirius again…
As Harry’s heart fills with emotion, the creature’s coils loosen, the pain is gone.

“Hang on, Harry,” Draco murmured, his voice wavering. He could feel their hands still gripping each other tightly, he could hear Harry’s hoarse breaths. “We’re almost there, you’re doing great, here it is—” he latched on to the silvery glow, another group of smaller memories, tainted and hazy with grief.

Harry is in the Headmaster’s office, filled with rage and grief like he’s never known. He is destroying everything he can get his hands on, screaming at Dumbledore, who sits calmly behind his desk. He runs for the door, but it will not open.
“Let me out,” Harry says coldly, panting.
“Not until I’ve had my say,” Dumbledore says.
…
The figure of Sybill Trelawney floats above the Pensieve.
“The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches… Born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies… and the Dark Lord shall mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not… and either must die at the hand of the other, for neither can live while the other survives…” Her voice is harsh and hoarse.
…
Harry’s breathing feels difficult. “It means—me?”
“The odd thing is, Harry, that it may not have meant you at all. Sybill’s prophecy could have applied to two boys, both born at the end of July that year, both of whom had parents in the Order of the Phoenix, both sets of parents having narrowly escaped Voldemort three times. One, of course, was you. The other was Neville Longbottom.”
“Then—it might not be me?”
“I am afraid that there is no doubt that it is you.” Dumbledore looks pained.
“But you said—”
“You are forgetting the next part of the prophecy, the final identifying feature of the boy who could vanquish Voldemort… Voldemort himself would ‘mark him as his equal.’ And so he did, Harry. He chose you, not Neville. He gave you the scar that has proved both blessing and curse.”
…
“He did not know that you would have ‘power the Dark Lord knows not’—”
“But I don’t!” says Harry in a strangled voice. “I haven’t got any powers he hasn’t got, I couldn’t fight the way he did tonight, I can’t possess people or—or kill them—”
“There is a room in the Department of Mysteries,” Dumbledore interrupts, “that is kept locked at all times. It contains a force that is at once more wonderful and more terrible than death… It is the power held within this room that you possess in such quantities and which Voldemort has not at all. That power also saved you from possession by Voldemort, because he could not bear to reside in a body full of the force he detests. In the end, it mattered not that you could not close your mind. It was your heart that saved you.”
Harry closes his eyes, filled with grief and guilt and regret. To stave off the moment when he’d have to think about Sirius again, Harry asks, “The end of the prophecy… it was something about ‘neither can live…’”
“... while the other survives,” Dumbledore finishes.
“So, does that mean that… that one of us has got to kill the other, in the end?”
“Yes,” says Dumbledore. Harry sees a single tear rolling down his face into his long silver beard.

Draco gasped as the glow disappeared, and withdrew quickly from Harry’s head. They both sagged heavily, breathing hard. Draco felt as if he had just swum the Channel. He knew that Harry would only feel worse, right now. He held tight to Harry’s hand.

Draco laid his wand on the side table, and rubbed his thighs with his now-free hand, felt the Mark on his left forearm, traced the scar inside his collar. He felt his own breath moving in and out of his lungs, his own adrenaline slowly funneling out of his body, leaving cold sweat in its wake. His Occlumency barriers came down slowly—he still felt too much.

Harry was watching him, and Draco could so clearly see the grief and regret on his face, in the tear tracks tracing down his cheeks. He wanted nothing more than to reach out and take Harry’s face in his hands, to hold him against his chest, to protect him from this pain—pain that Draco had dragged back to the surface, and made Harry feel all over again. Draco clamped his right hand down on his own leg, to keep it from reaching of its own accord.

Draco felt that being made to feel all of Harry’s pain secondhand was a fitting punishment for having to put Harry through that again. His own emotions were combined with what he’d absorbed from Harry, and he couldn’t tell what pain was his own—he felt a wetness on his cheeks, and when had that happened?

“Harry,” Draco said, because he didn’t know what else to say, but he had to say something, to try to bring Harry back to the present, alleviate his hurt. Harry let out a shaky breath, still gripping Draco’s fingers tightly with his right hand, eyes intent on Draco’s face. His left hand reached into the back pocket of his jeans, pulled out a silk handkerchief, and handed it to Draco.

Draco took it, and immediately recognized it as his own—the same handkerchief he’d given Harry at St. Mungo’s, that very first day. He huffed with a weak laugh.

“You need this, too, you know,” Draco muttered, but he wiped his face anyway. Harry blinked, bringing his free hand to his face and feeling the wetness there. He seemed surprised by it—Draco knew the feeling. He handed the handkerchief back to Harry, who wiped his own face and awkwardly tried to hand it back to Draco. Draco’s lips quirked in quiet amusement.

“Keep it, Harry,” Draco said. “It’s yours.”

And with that, Draco finally felt himself return to reality. He looked down at their joined hands. Harry looked, too—his face was curious. Draco carefully pulled his hand away, resting it in his own lap. He lightly rubbed the faint red marks on his fingers, left by the tight grip of Harry’s hand.

Draco picked up his wand again, pointing it at the chalkboard. He made a new dot at the end of the line, and labeled it “Hearing the Prophecy”.

“That one was pretty self-explanatory—pain and grief like that must have irrevocably changed you, and you finally got the answer you’d been looking for, why it was you that got stuck with being Voldemort’s target… it gave you only one path forward, a grim one, at that…” Draco trailed off, frowning to himself as he looked back at Harry.

“Do you have anything to add to it?” Draco asked, and Harry thought for a moment before shaking his head in reply. Draco looked back at their progress on the chalkboard.

“Thirteen,” Draco muttered. “We’ve found thirteen breadcrumbs, so far. Not bad.”

Harry took a deep breath, shaking himself. He opened his notebook and picked up his pen.

How many more?

“I don’t know, to be honest,” Draco replied. “I know we’ve got the War to get through, now, and there will probably be several in the next two years. But I don’t really know what you’ve been up to since then—only what I’ve seen in the papers. I can guess there will be much fewer breadcrumbs in the more recent years, because the most formative memories usually occur before full adulthood, and your mind has targeted only the memories that truly shaped who you are as a person.”

Harry’s mouth twisted in a grimace, and Draco didn’t know which part of his answer was the most distasteful. The War memories? The ones after? The amount of work they had ahead of them?

“I’ll do a basic mind-viewing, to see if our progress has revealed any sort of trail in your mind—I might be able to see how much of the path is left,” Draco offered. “But not now. You need a break, we both do. You must feel as though you’ve just finished running across the country,” he said, and Harry huffed, nodding.

Draco stood slowly. Every muscle in his body felt stiff and exhausted—there was no way they’d be able to fly today, but he knew they could use fresh air, and they both needed a dose of happiness. An idea began to form in his mind.

Draco led the way out of the study, straight to the kitchen, where he could hear Timsy cooking and humming something out of tune quietly to himself. It smelled incredible, and—Draco grinned with anticipation—luxurious. He summoned two water glasses and filled them with his ice-cold lemon aguamenti charm. Harry took a glass gratefully, sitting down across from Draco at the table.

When Timsy served them, it was not something expensive and French as Draco had thought: it was a simple cheese toasty, with sharp cheddar cheese, and a bowl of creamy tomato soup. Draco smiled—only Timsy could make something so simple feel so opulent.

They ate in silence, enjoying the warm, comforting food.

“Come for a walk with me?” Draco asked when they were finished, as Harry stood. Harry nodded, a small, tired grin on his face.

Looking outside, Draco saw a thick coat of fog on the ground. It would probably be chilly. He frowned, thinking. “Timsy,” he called.

Timsy appeared next to him with a quiet pop. “Yes, Master Draco?”

“Do you know where that—that shirt is, with the…” Draco trailed off, vaguely gesturing, unsure of the terminology to describe a piece of muggle clothing Pansy had made him buy last year, that he knew would be perfect for this weather. Timsy disapparated before he could try to finish his thought, and reappeared a second later with the shirt-jacket in question. It was a deep navy canvas, with large pockets and a sharp collar, lined with shearling wool. The muggle at the high-end menswear shop had called it a “chore shacket” which Draco thought sounded like something dirty, and refused to say aloud.

“Thank you, Timsy,” Draco said fondly as he slipped it on, enjoying its warmth. The elf walked away, muttering under his breath, something about “Master has too many clothes, he is never knowing where anything is, never learning, he is filling the whole house…”

He looked back at Harry, who had summoned his own leather jacket while waiting. He was watching the interaction, eyes full of amusement. Draco jerked his head toward the back garden, and led the way outside, crossing the garden to the small trail that led into the old forest around his home.

“Would you like to meet a friend?” Draco asked.

Harry looked shocked and guarded immediately. Draco smirked and amended, “Not a human.”

Harry thought it over for a moment, checking that his wand was secure in his pocket, just in case, then shrugged. Draco smiled. “Come on, then.”

Draco led him along the narrow trail, deeper into the trees. They could only see a few feet in either direction through the fog, but Draco knew the way innately, and the trail was easy enough to follow. They walked on, over gnarled, weathered roots and a tiny, bubbling creek. The clouds on the ground gave off an eerie feeling, rolling over the bright green grass that sprouted from the undergrowth, the trunks of crooked, moss-covered trees emerging out of the cool grey mist with every step.

Draco soon saw the thick, bowed tree he thought of as “the meeting place,” and began whistling a little tune. It was Celestina Warbeck’s Curse Breaker, which was a little embarrassing, but it was the first thing he’d thought of, the first time he did this, and he couldn’t change it now. Harry raised his eyebrows, cautiously amused.

Soon, he heard the soft patter of careful hooves, and Hera’s face appeared around a tree nearby, silhouetted by the fog. The doe looked cautious at the sight of a stranger with Draco, which was understandable. He never brought anyone else with him. He wasn’t even sure why he’d brought Harry. He reached into the pocket of his wonderfully warm shirt-jacket, rooting around its extended depths for a moment, before pulling out two carrots, pristine under preservation charms. Timsy must have known where he was headed. Hera’s ears perked up, and she slowly began making her way towards them.

“This is Hera,” Draco explained, not taking his eyes off of her. “She enjoys carrots and gentle scratches behind her ears.” Draco gave her the carrot with a fond smile, and demonstrated the ear scratches. Hera leaned into his hand.

He chanced a look at Harry, expecting to be laughed at or silently ridiculed, but Harry only watched with a delighted smile and sad eyes.

“Honestly, where are your manners? Give the lady a carrot!” Draco teased, offering Harry the second carrot. Hera followed its path with her nose. Harry grinned, taking the carrot and holding it out for an eager Hera, all wariness forgotten between both parties. Harry slowly reached his other hand up to try scratching behind her ears, and almost laughed in disbelieving joy when she leaned into it. Draco wondered when the last time Harry had interacted with an animal was—at least one that wasn’t an owl. Speaking of which…

Draco looked up, and sure enough, Bubo the eagle owl had silently appeared on a branch several feet above them, Draco’s whistling having alerted him to impending snacks. Bubo was watching them, patiently waiting for his turn, as always. He was a patient bird, but the one time Draco had forgotten to look up after feeding Hera, Bubo had dived down and landed violently on his shoulder, clearly enraged. He still had the scars. Draco never forgot again.

He lifted his arm up, and Bubo gracefully dropped down onto it. Harry looked up in surprise. “This is Bubo,” Draco introduced, rooting around in his extended pocket for the pouch of owl treats. “He delivers the post when he feels like it, which isn’t often. He spends most of his time out here.” Draco opened the pouch and held it up to the owl, who gave a quiet, grateful hoot and began rummaging inside it with his beak.

Harry was watching with another sad smile on his face, still absently petting Hera. Draco thought he was probably remembering his snowy owl—he wondered what had happened to the beautiful bird, but resolved not to ask. He’d most likely find out soon enough, in Harry’s head.

Harry met his eyes, and his lips quirked. He mouthed clearly to Draco, Bubo?

Draco gave an embarrassed grin. “Yes, Bubo. I was stuck on what to name him, so I ended up researching as much about eagle owls as I could—the taxonomic name of the eagle owl is literally Bubo Bubo, which I found endlessly entertaining. So, Bubo.”

Harry huffed a laugh at that. Bubo finished up his feast, hooted once, and flew back up to his perch. Hera looked back at him with her big, dark eyes, hoping for another carrot, but when he held up his two empty hands, Hera huffed and brushed past him to return to whatever she had been doing before. He gave her a soft pat on the back as she passed.

Draco grinned at Harry, and started walking back towards the house, hands stuffed in the pockets of his shirt-jacket. Harry walked next to him along the trail, which was narrow enough that their elbows kept brushing.

Draco subtly looked over at him occasionally, and each time, Harry’s eyes were on the ground in front of him, lost in thought, that tiny, contented smile stuck to his face. It was the brightest thing around, among the heavy, rolling fog.

***

When they got back to the study, Draco decided to be proactive and ask for hot chocolates in preparation for the work. Sixth year had been a shitshow, for him, and he knew it probably would have been for Harry, too. They’d probably need the extra comfort.

Draco gestured to the chalkboard. “I’ll do the mind-viewing, now, if you don’t mind,” he explained, “but while I’m in there, I’d like you to think of all the breadcrumbs we’ve seen so far, which, yes, I know, is a lot. But they may show themselves as you focus on them, which might help me see a pattern.”

Harry gazed at the chalkboard with wide eyes, clearly daunted by the task of memorizing each breadcrumb, even though they were his own memories. Draco twirled his wand in his hand, the pale wood smooth under his fingers, and waited. After a moment, Harry turned back to him, clasping his hands together in his lap and nodding, once. Draco raised his wand.

“Liceat mihi ingressum.” Draco’s vision fell forward into Harry’s head, where he existed somewhere outside of Harry’s mind, seeing once more the writhing, glowing, gold and red and green web of thought and magic that made up Harry. Layers upon layers of iridescent strands of pure energy and emotion, shifting and swirling and growing in front of Draco’s eyes, filling his vision. He wished Harry could see it, how utterly awe-inspiring the essence of him was. Draco sighed contentedly, enjoying the faint scents of treacle tart and thunderstorms.

As he watched, Harry began his task of focusing on each breadcrumb, and Draco saw miniscule flashes of silver light among the web. He focused on the whole, trying to memorize the image, to recognize a pattern in the bigger picture. Harry’s breadcrumbs flashed intermittently.

Draco released the spell, his vision returning to Harry’s face. He stood up and quickly walked over to the chalkboard, summoning the nearest piece of chalk.

The chalkboard still took up a large portion of Draco’s wall where his bookshelves usually existed. Draco’s feeble notes on Who? and Why? were in a small area of the top left corner, and next to that were the incantations of the attacker’s curse. But underneath those, Draco had begun the map of breadcrumbs, a long row of labeled dots connected by a single line. There was still a significant amount of empty space beneath it, nearly the entire bottom half of the board, which is where Draco placed the tip of his piece of chalk. He transcribed the mess of glowing dots as closely as he could from his memory, crouched on one knee in front of the wall.

He stood and stepped back, looking at the larger picture again, but they still seemed entirely random, other than being more concentrated and closer together near the top, slightly more sparse and spread out near the bottom.

Harry stepped up next to him—Draco started, he hadn’t even heard him move—and frowned at the jumble of thirteen white chalk dots, eyebrows furrowed in concentration. Draco watched him, wondering if he’d recognize any pattern of his own. It was his own mind, after all. But Harry looked as confused as Draco did, running a hand through his wild hair in frustration, pushing it up off of his forehead—

Draco did a double-take, and his head snapped back to the chalkboard—it couldn’t be. Seriously?

“Oh, come on,” Draco shook his head, his lips twitching in amusement and disbelief. He glanced once more at Harry’s forehead—Harry looked even more confused, now. Draco knelt and started tracing the dots like a constellation on the chalkboard, in the pattern he really should have seen, because he knew it too well.

The lines were jagged—one path down from the top, a little diagonally toward the right, branching out once shortly on the left and twice more on the right side, the bottom path on the right just a little longer, further out, the middle path thicker, more uneven, tracing down…

Harry scoffed as he recognized the top half of his lightning bolt scar, and Draco started to laugh.

“Merlin, Harry, you’re even a Scarhead in your subconscious mind,” he teased. “Do you ever catch a break?”

Harry rolled his eyes at him, the corners of his lips twitching upwards.

“Now this, I don’t understand,” Draco said, laughter dying down as he stood fully to face Harry. “This curse—or command—was meant to silence you until someone truly knew you for who you are, and not who you are to the Wizarding World, if we take their words literally. Your scar—it’s an integral part of you, but it’s also the part of you the public sees most prominently. The scar has become a symbol of the Boy Who Lived, the Chosen One, the Saviour. Yet your mind arranged these breadcrumbs in a clear path along this symbol, that’s apparently supposed to be separate from you, Harry, as a person…”

Harry watched Draco puzzle it out to himself, his arms crossed over his chest. He seemed to be waiting for something.

“...but the scar was yours, before it was theirs,” Draco mumbled, frowning, pieces clicking together in his own mind. “And when it became a symbol of the Boy Who Lived, followed by the Chosen One, followed by the Saviour… you still took up the mantle, each time, even when it was thrust upon you. Because you had to—that’s just who you are, how you’ve always been. You’re the Chosen One and the Saviour, the same way you were the protector of the Sorcerer’s Stone when you were eleven. You had to take up the role, own the scar and all it represented, because no one else would...”

Harry looked torn between anxious and impressed, staring up at Draco with wide eyes behind the round frames of his glasses. Draco’s eyes were glued to his face, watching and even hoping for a denial, a debate. For some reason, it didn’t feel good, confirming how deeply entrenched Harry was in the role of hero—yes, he felt he had to, but did he actually want to?

Harry said nothing, of course, didn’t move his head an inch, didn’t take his eyes off of Draco’s—so fucking green, so intense, brimming with words he could not communicate. Draco cleared his throat after a moment, looking back to the board.

“Well, it’s a little over halfway finished, which is great progress, considering this is only week three,” Draco observed, shifting the mood. He put his chalk down, and walked back towards the wingback chairs.

“You may still be tired from earlier, so it’s alright if you can’t control your thoughts as well. Don’t overextend yourself,” Draco said, eyes closed, hands on his knees, breathing deeply. He didn’t have to see Harry to know he was doing the same, nor did he need to see Harry nod to acknowledge Draco’s prefacing.

Draco kept them meditating for much longer than before—it gave him time to strengthen his Occlumency barriers again, and prepare himself for what he knew he would see.

When he opened his eyes and met Harry’s gaze, he saw that Harry’s face was tense, but resigned. That was probably as good as Draco was going to get. He raised his wand, holding it delicately, and aimed it at Harry’s head. “Legilimens.”

“Draco, Draco, you are not a killer.” Dumbledore smiles.

Draco heard himself gasp, a physical reaction he could not have prevented. This wasn’t in order—Harry was indeed too tired to convey the memories chronologically. Draco quickly took the reins, pushing them back to the end of fifth year, where they had left off. With Draco in control, the memories played out efficiently and chronologically, which would at least allow Draco some warning before seeing something traumatic, in memories he shared with Harry.

“Professor Slughorn will try to collect you, Harry,” Dumbledore says.

Harry is spying on Draco in Borgin and Burke’s. “Why don’t you bring it into the shop?” Borgin asks.
“I can’t,” Draco says. “It’s got to stay put. I just need you to tell me how to fix it.”

Draco stamps hard on Harry’s face, breaking his nose.
“That’s from my father. Enjoy the train ride back to London.” He throws the Invisibility Cloak over Harry’s frozen body.

Sweet Merlin, Draco hoped that Harry focused on something else this year, even though he knew, from experience, he probably wouldn’t. There really was no way to prepare for seeing the worst of himself through someone else’s eyes. Meditation and Occlumency could only do so much.

‘This book is the property of the Half-Blood Prince,’ the narrow handwriting on the inside cover of the potions textbook reads.

Harry and Dumbledore are watching someone else’s memories in a Pensieve.

Katie Bell is floating six feet in the air, screaming. She falls to the ground with a heavy thud, and remains still.

“It was Malfoy,” Harry says, and his friends sigh and inch away from him. The professors stare at him, shocked. No one believes him.

Draco could feel his left hand shaking in his lap, but carried on.

In Harry’s bed in the Gryffindor dormitory, he is watching Draco’s footprints traverse the seventh floor corridor on the Marauder’s Map. The footprints suddenly turn and vanish, and Harry curses.

“So you’re not ‘the Chosen One’?” Scrimgeour asks.
“I thought you said it didn’t matter either way?” Harry says, with a bitter laugh. “Not to you, anyway.”
“I shouldn’t have said that,” Scrimgeour says quickly. “It was tactless—”
“No, it was honest,” Harry interrupts. “One of the only honest things you’ve said to me. You don’t care whether I live or die, but you do care that I help you convince everyone you’re winning the war against Voldemort. I haven’t forgotten, Minister…” he holds up his right fist, displaying the scars Umbridge had made him carve into his own flesh: I must not tell lies.

Ron is on the ground, twitching and frothing at the mouth. Harry shoves a bezoar down his throat, and he goes still.

Draco was piling up his mountain of regrets and guilt and fear behind his Occlumency barriers. He really wished they could have skipped this year.

Harry is staring at Draco across the Great Hall, again. Draco looks ill, lifeless. “You’re obsessed, Harry,” Ron sighs.

“Seven?” Memory-Slughorn is appalled. “Merlin’s beard, Tom, the thought of killing one person is bad enough, but to rip the soul into seven pieces…”

“You think he succeeded then, sir?” Harry asks. “He made a Horcrux? And that’s why he didn’t die when he attacked me? A bit of his soul was safe?”
“A bit… or more,” Dumbledore says.

“It is essential that you understand this!” Dumbledore says in agitation, standing up and striding about his office. “By attempting to kill you, Voldemort himself singled out the remarkable person who sits here in front of me, and gave him the tools for the job! ...and yet, Harry, despite your privileged insight into Voldemort’s world, you have never been seduced by the Dark Arts, never, even for a second, shown the slightest desire to become one of Voldemort’s followers!”
“Of course I haven’t!” Harry says indignantly. “He killed my mum and dad!”
“You are protected, in short, by your ability to love!”

“I see it,” Draco announced, grateful for the sight of a destination in the telltale glow in his peripheral vision. He pushed a bit more of his magic through his wand, forcing his right hand to remain steady. “Here we go—”

But as he tried to latch onto it, he felt a hard, intangible shove. The silvery glow vanished, and memories swirled around him haphazardly, almost desperately, disorienting him. Draco cursed under his breath. “Lost it,” he grumbled. “Hang on, I’ll find it…”

But he was pushed forward along the long line of memories, feeling as if he was being dragged along by a strong current. He couldn’t get a grip on them anymore, not without hurting Harry, and had to resign himself to being carried along this frustrating mental river.

Ginny is running towards him, a fiery look in her eyes. Harry catches her in his arms, kissing her soundly.

In the middle of a dark cave, surrounded by water, Harry forces Dumbledore to drink the last of the potion. “Water,” Dumbledore begs, barely conscious. Harry tries an aguamenti, but the goblet won’t hold it—he has no choice. He walks to the edge of the water and dips the goblet in. A cold, slimy hand shoots out and grabs his wrist, and suddenly, the water is churning with Inferi.

Draco’s wand hand is shaking terribly. Harry is still frozen in Dumbledore’s body bind, under his Invisibility Cloak.
“No, Draco,” Dumbledore says quietly. “It is my mercy, and not yours, that matters now.”
Draco’s face is full of terror. He lowers his wand a fraction—
And the door bursts open, four Death Eaters buffeting him out of the way.

“Avada Kedavra!” The jet of green light from Snape’s wand hits Dumbledore in the chest, and he falls over the battlements and out of sight.

“Okay, I see another,” Draco observed. This time, he had no trouble latching on to the silvery glow of the breadcrumb, and forcing it to play out in front of him:

Harry is kneeling next to Dumbledore’s broken body. The gathering crowd is murmuring and crying around him. He feels something hard under his knee, and picks up the locket that they had gone through so much trouble to retrieve.
But something is wrong—this is not the locket Harry had seen in the Pensieve memories, and when he opens it, all he sees is a folded up piece of parchment. He opens it, and reads:
‘To the Dark Lord
I know I will be dead long before you read this but I want you to know it was I who discovered your secret. I have stolen the real Horcrux and intend to destroy it as soon as I can. I face death in the hope that when you meet your match, you will be mortal once more.
R.A.B.’
Harry crumples the parchment in his hand, and his eyes burn with tears as behind him Fang begins to howl.

Draco finally, gratefully, withdrew from Harry’s head. His left hand was still shaking in his lap, and his breathing was hoarse and shallow, but he pointed his wand at the chalkboard, adding two more dots to the long train of memories. He left the first one blank, for the moment, and labeled the second one “Dumbledore Death - Fake Locket” because he couldn't bring himself to write the word ‘Horcrux’. Slowly, his Occlumency barriers came down, and his reactions and emotions came flooding through.

He nearly doubled over with the force of them, and dropped his head into his hands, his fingers gripping tightly to his hair. He tried to focus on his breathing, but the emotions had to run through him, first. His muscles were tensing randomly—he had no choice but to ride this out.

He had known that Harry had been there, that night on the astronomy tower, only because Harry himself had said so in his testimony—he had told the court that Draco couldn’t kill, that he had lowered his wand. But it was one thing to hear about it, and quite another to have to watch it play out through Harry’s eyes. Draco had been so unbelievably terrified—he knew he couldn’t kill anyone, but he couldn’t see any other way out of it.

Draco hadn’t seen Dumbledore’s body, afterward—broken and dead from the curse and subsequent fall. Harry had knelt there, next to him, for so long… and seeing the locket they had worked so hard for, that wasn’t even a real Horcrux—

And Horcruxes? Draco had read something terribly vague about them in one of Lucius’s old Dark Arts books, when he was younger. He hadn’t really understood it. The thought of ripping his soul had nearly made him lose his lunch—he hadn’t gone digging through Lucius’ Dark texts again, after that. And Voldemort had shredded his soul into—

“Seven pieces…” Draco mumbled aloud. He loosened his grip on his hair, looking up at Harry, who looked anxious and in pain. “He ripped his soul into seven pieces…?”

Harry nodded shortly, eyes searching Draco’s face again.

“That’s sick,” Draco said quietly, closing his eyes against the wave of nausea. “One Horcr—” Draco grimaced. “One of them is horrific enough, but six…”

Harry grabbed his notebook off of the table to write:

You know about them?

Draco nodded, mouth still twisted in disgust. “Read about them, once, in Lucius’ library.” Harry started writing again.

No one else can know

Draco frowned at him. “Obviously, Harry,” he said. “The less people that know about them, the better… not to mention, I told you that nothing would leave this room. I’m bound by patient confidentiality, but even if I wasn’t, I wouldn’t betray your trust.”

Harry’s face was serious, but he gave a tentative nod. Draco decided to move on.

“Can I take a guess?” he asked, gesturing vaguely toward the new dots on the chalkboard. Harry shrugged at him, nonchalant—that was odd, but Draco decided not to mention it.

“I think your mind chose that moment because it illustrated the vastness of the task ahead of you,” Draco tried, eyebrows furrowing as his brain worked. “It was the first time you realized the work it would take, the sacrifices you would have to make, and what it would cost not only you, but the people close to you. Is that it?”

Harry’s face twisted in misery. He looked away from Draco, staring into the fireplace, but nodded eventually. Draco sighed deeply—that part of the work was over. Now, it was time to figure out that other breadcrumb he’d missed.

What had happened was so peculiar, he’d never been shoved around like that while in someone’s head. Draco knew there were some parts of sixth year he hadn’t seen in Harry’s head, like the many times Draco knew Harry had been following him around, watching him. He’d had to work twice as hard just to avoid Harry, that year, but Harry always seemed to find him anyway—

Draco’s eyes flew open, looking shrewdly at Harry, whose gaze was still on the fireplace, his chin propped in his hand, half-covering his pursed lips. Harry’s entire body was tense, and though Draco could see grief in the lines of his face, his body language was agitated, and apprehensive. He was afraid, and his body was rigid, as if preparing for a fight. Even when he couldn’t say a single word, even by omission, Harry was a terrible liar.

“Harry,” he said in a low voice. Harry didn’t look up, but he flinched, barely.

“We have to, Harry.”

Harry closed his eyes. He didn’t move.

Draco took a risk, and inched his right foot forward on the carpet, until the tip of his shoe touched Harry’s. It was much less scary than surprise handholding—they could pretend it wasn’t happening, if they wanted to, or they could take comfort from the modest contact. To each his own.

Harry opened his eyes, and turned reluctantly towards Draco, with an expression full of pain, regret, and wariness.

“I’m impressed,” Draco murmured. “You’ve gained a lot of control over the past couple of weeks, if you were able to shove me around like that. Unless you’ve been an expert Occlumens all along, and you’ve been toying with me.” Draco smirked weakly. Harry’s face didn’t change.

“But we have to, Harry. We need that breadcrumb—it’s not enough that we both know what it is. It has to be seen, which marks it along the path, in your mind.” He gestured toward the half-completed lightning bolt pattern on the bottom half of the chalkboard.

Harry’s face was slowly morphing from apprehensive, to defensive, to pleading, softly shaking his head. Draco leaned forward a little in his chair, holding Harry’s desperate eye contact.

“We’ll be alright,” he soothed quietly. “I forgave you a long time ago, you know—and I did deserve it.”

Harry simply frowned back at him, letting out a harsh, shaky breath. Draco raised his eyebrows, rolling his wand between his hands, and waited.

Finally, after what felt like an age, Harry took a deep breath and gave Draco a miniscule nod. Draco raised his wand, raising his Occlumency barriers as much as he could, which wasn’t much, after all the work they’d done. “Legilimens.”

“I can’t do it… I can’t… he says he’ll kill me…” Draco is crying, his back to the door, his hands gripping either side of the sink. Tears are streaming down his face into the grimy basin. Harry’s shock is so powerful it seems to root him to the spot.
Draco gasps and shudders, and looks up—finally spotting Harry in the reflection in the cracked mirror. He wheels around, drawing his wand. Harry pulls out his own. Draco’s hex misses Harry by inches, hitting the lamp on the wall by Harry’s head; Harry throws himself sideways, flicks his wand with a Levicorpus. Draco blocks the jinx, and raises his wand for another—
“No! Stop it!” Moaning Myrtle is squealing, her voice is echoing around the tiled room.
With a loud bang, the bin behind Harry explodes; Harry attempts a Leg-Locker Curse that backfires off the wall behind Draco’s ear and smashes the cistern beneath Moaning Myrtle, who screams loudly; water pours everywhere and Harry slips as Draco, his face contorted, cries “Cruci—”
“SECTUMSEMPRA!” Harry bellows from the floor, waving his wand wildly.
Blood spurts from Draco’s chest and abdomen as though he had been slashed with an invisible sword. He staggers backward and collapses onto the waterlogged floor with a great splash, his wand falling from his limp right hand.
“No—” Harry gasps.
Slipping and staggering, Harry gets to his feet and plunges toward Draco, whose face is now splattered with shining scarlet, his white hands scrabbling at his blood soaked chest.
“No—I didn’t—”
Harry falls to his knees beside Draco, who is shaking uncontrollably in a pool of his own blood. Moaning Myrtle is screaming.

Draco gasped as he retreated from Harry’s head, panting and shaking. It felt so fresh, so raw—he could practically taste the metallic tang of blood in the back of his mouth, could nearly feel the ripping, slicing of the Dark magic against his body, could almost feel the warm wetness of blood soaking his front, icy cold water against his back. His left hand had made its way to his chest, without his knowledge, and was gripping the front of his shirt. His body was bent forward, heaving, unconsciously leaning into Harry’s space, something warm was gripping his shoulders like a vice. His barriers had barely held until the end of the memory, and they were crashing, now. He didn’t want to open his eyes, but he knew he had to.

Harry was right in front of him, so close. Too close, Draco thought, unsure if the maelstrom in his gut was of his own making, but he didn’t move. Harry’s eyes were wet, and wide with fear and guilt—the same face Draco remembered seeing above him when he was sixteen, clinging to consciousness in a puddle of blood and water. Harry’s breathing was shallow and hoarse, and his hands were gripping Draco’s shoulders tightly, as if he was afraid Draco would disappear.

Draco then recognized the pulling, tightening ache in his ribs, the same one he had felt laying on that bathroom floor, staring up at Harry. It made him want to scream, it made him wish the earth would swallow him whole—and even while he hated this peculiar anguish, he honoured it. He knew it was essential, somehow, a fundamental part of who he was, just like the scars.

Draco’s head tipped forward, his neck failing to hold its weight completely, and he felt Harry’s wayward curls brush his forehead. He could feel the soft puffs of Harry’s sharp breaths on his face, and it was hurting, now, in his core, but not enough to make him stop.

“I’m sorry, Harry,” he whispered, because he had never actually said it to him before, and he needed to. Draco lifted his hands, gently gripping Harry’s wrists, holding him there, ignoring the twisting pain in his gut, which he could now differentiate as the bonds of the Ministry deciding Draco was being unethical.

He felt Harry shake his head—a soft swish back and forth of his hair against Draco’s forehead—and Draco finally made himself let go of Harry’s wrists, and pull away. Harry sat back in his chair, his hands falling limply to his lap. The tips of their shoes were still touching on the carpet—something they both chose not to acknowledge.

Draco looked around the floor and saw his wand laying next to his feet—he had dropped it at some point. Very professional, Healer Malfoy. He held his hand out and summoned it wandlessly, feeling he had to do something slightly impressive in order to make up for his mess, even if he was sitting in front of someone already quite proficient in wandless magic. He pointed the wand at the chalkboard, finally labeling the empty dot “Sectumsempra”.

Taking a deep breath, he looked at Harry again, and wordlessly charmed the hot chocolates Timsy had prepared to float over to them. Thank Merlin for foresight.

They sipped their hot chocolates, sighing with the warmth that flowed through them, drowning out the grief and adrenaline and cold sweat. Draco broke the silence—as he always did.

“I have ideas,” Draco said quietly, “but I’m not sure exactly what it was about that fight that was so important to you.”

Harry opened his notebook immediately, and began to write.

Worst thing I’ve ever done. I didn’t know what that spell did. My biggest regret

Draco frowned. “That? That was the worst?” Harry pressed his lips together, and continued writing.

You were crying, I attacked you. I should have helped you

Draco shook his head. “I attacked you, Harry. You defended yourself. And I would not have accepted your help—I didn’t even accept Dumbledore’s help, when it was offered.”

Harry stared at Draco for a moment, and his eyes darted to Draco’s chest before returning to the notebook.

I scarred you

“You did.”

Harry was looking at him expectantly, and Draco knew he was waiting for Draco to show him the scars that divided his chest. But Draco wouldn’t, until he had to, and he would only have to if Harry asked him to, because Draco had promised him full honesty, had promised not to hide anything from Harry if he asked. Draco waited, but Harry didn’t ask.

I’m sorry, Harry’s notebook read.

Draco steadily held Harry’s gaze with his own—grey against green, like fog above grass.

“I told you, I forgave you a long time ago,” Draco said, his voice barely over a whisper. “It shaped me, as much as it shaped you. The scars are a part of me—I would not be who I am now without them.” He clamped his hands on his mug of hot chocolate, to keep them from moving back to his chest.

They sat there, regarding each other for long moments, recovering from their darker memories with the help of Timsy’s delectable hot chocolate. After a few minutes, Harry opened up his notebook again, clicking his pen, writing something carefully.

I forgave you, too

Draco felt a sharp burning sensation in his throat, and his eyes were wet, and honestly, when did he become so stupidly emotional? Had Harry always had this effect on him, making him feel things so strongly, more intensely? Was this why Draco had been so stuck on tormenting him in school, why they had been so ridiculously attached to their rivalry? What about Harry Potter made him throw his pureblood training out the window and react, every single time?

“Thank you, Harry,” Draco whispered, knowing his voice would shake if he tried anything louder. He felt a massive weight lifting off of his shoulders, and he tried not to crumble with the subsequent rush of relief.

Harry’s smile was a diminutive, tired thing, but he set down his mug and closed his eyes, beginning the meditation that would end their day.

Chapter Seven

Draco lands on the pitch, face white with fury, shouting insults in Potter’s direction. He stomps furiously after Potter, who is walking away to celebrate another Gryffindor victory.
“—Or perhaps,” Draco is spitting, leering, “you can remember what your mother’s house stank like, Potter, and Weasley’s pigsty reminds you of it—”
Potter is whirling around, sprinting at him, and Draco is filled with adrenaline. Potter’s face is twisted in rage, his wicked green eyes fiery with determination, fixed ferociously on Draco, finally. Potter’s hands raise to attack—
And Draco is shoved onto the ground, Potter’s body boxing him in, pinning him down against the grass. Potter is growling fiercely, teeth bared in front of Draco’s face—Potter’s hands are gripping him savagely, hungrily, and Draco’s blood is rushing in his ears, there’s a tapping noise in his head—Draco arches his hips up, viciously fists the front of Potter’s uniform and pulls—

Draco’s eyes flew open, and he winced. The morning sun was far too bright, the sharp tapping noise far too loud, his pyjama trousers far too snug—

Oh, fuck, no.

With a jolt of panic, he looked down at himself and let out an aggravated groan. He hadn’t had a dream like that about Potter—shit, Harry, his current patient—in years, why did it have to be that one, again—honestly, what was wrong with him? What was he, fifteen? He refused to touch himself, in petty self-punishment—he wasn’t about to reward bad behavior. You pathetic, horny imbecile. Unbelievable.

The incessant tapping noise was real, apparently, coming from his window, and getting louder by the second. Draco refused to leave the bed in his… state, however, so the aggressive owl would just have to wait.

After a couple of minutes of forcing himself to imagine Argus Filch in tartan bloomers, Draco deemed himself decent enough. He crawled reluctantly out of his nest of pillows and walked over to the window, where the persistent owl was still tapping angrily. He unlatched and opened it, and the vengeful little scops owl hit Draco’s face with his wings on his way in. The bird dropped the roll of parchment he had clutched in his talons onto the floor, and landed on top of Draco’s dresser, where he coughed up a disgusting pellet in revenge. Draco glared at him; the tiny owl simply glared back.

Grumbling, Draco bent over and retrieved the short note, frowning as he read it.

Malfoy,

We could really use your help with this investigation. Come round ours later tonight, about seven, if you’ve got the time.

R. Weasley

Draco flipped the parchment over—there were apparition coordinates on the back, a place not too far from his own house, in Devon. Interesting.

The grumpy little owl still sat on his dresser. Apparently, he was to wait for a reply. Draco summoned a biro and quickly penned an affirmative response on a small piece of notepaper. He was about to hand it over to the disgruntled bird, when he stopped himself—he didn’t want the bird to report back negatively to Weasley. His reputation was at stake, so he summoned the pouch of owl treats from wherever it was in the house. A small thud hit his bedroom door, and he rolled his eyes at himself.

Draco retrieved the pouch of treats from the other side of his door, and held it out to the annoyed owl, who looked at it curiously before hopping onto Draco’s hand and gorging himself on its contents. The sight reminded Draco of how Weasley had looked at many of the school’s feasts, in the Great Hall, and he chuckled to himself.

The owl flew off looking much happier, and Draco felt satisfied that no one would suspect he had mistreated the bird at all.

Draco slipped his cold feet into the fuzzy green Grouch monstrosities and made his way into the kitchen, where he could smell that Timsy was brewing coffee and making breakfast. He froze in his tracks at the sight of his kitchen table.

On top of the smooth wood was a large, plastic muggle device, with a section of what looked like black mesh on either side, covered in buttons, which bore neither words nor explanations—only mysterious, simple symbols, certainly not anything Hogwarts had covered in Ancient Runes. What in Merlin’s name…

Draco moved in for a closer look, and saw a small scroll of parchment tied to the handle on the top of it. He didn’t touch it, but took out his wand and unrolled it with magic. He couldn’t be too careful—he still got hate mail, occasionally, and some of it was cursed or covered in bubotuber pus—

But it was only from Pansy, succinct and biting, as always.

Here’s the boombox. Enjoy your secret lover’s mixtape, prat. Triangle to “play,” square to “stop.”

Draco grinned at her tone, then frowned again—secret lover? What was she thinking? It was just a cassette tape—wait a minute, didn’t she say it was a cassette tape? Why was she now calling it a mixtape? Was it because it held numerous artists… Had Harry curated it himself?

Draco looked back at the boombox, examining it, and eventually spotted the triangle and square Pansy had mentioned. Simple enough. Should be a cinch.

He picked up the device by its handle, it was as heavy as it looked. Draco carried it out to the sitting room, walking awkwardly under its weight. He returned to the kitchen, where Timsy happily served him breakfast.

“Mistress Pansy is bringing the muggle device very early,” Timsy croaked. “Mistress is knowing not to wake Master Draco before the sun.”

“Smart woman,” Draco smirked.

After breakfast, he spent about an hour perched on his sofa, fixated on the boombox and the “mixtape” which sat on the coffee table in front of him. Yes, he knew where the “play” and “stop” buttons were now, but he couldn’t figure out how to get the tape inside the thing, and though Pansy had said it wasn’t named for explosions, he still didn’t trust all those buttons, and didn’t want to risk pushing all of them willy nilly—what if Pansy simply hadn’t pressed the right button, what if it did explode? That seemed like something a Wizarding invention might do, definitely something that would be sold at Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes, and he knew better than to underestimate the muggles.

When Draco’s face started to hurt from frowning so hard, he decided to give it up as a bad job, at least for now. Pansy was probably laughing her arse off, imagining him stumped by this stupid thing. He hauled the boombox over to the shelf with his records, rearranging things a bit to make space for the exasperating, cumbersome machine. He put on a record instead, because that, he knew how to do, and whiled away the hours of his day off humming to himself in his pyjamas, just because, while Timsy worked on the plants and gave Draco occasional disapproving looks.

“You know I'm such a fool for you
You got me wrapped around your finger
Do you have to let it linger?”

***

When seven o’ clock finally came around that evening, Draco was standing in his sitting room, perfectly still, dressed informally—he was going to a Weasley’s house, there was no need for finery. Grey chinos, ivory cotton jumper, topped off with his beloved navy shirt-jacket—he was quite impressed with himself. Only he could make something so casual look so expensive, and yet no one could claim he was showing anyone up.

And when he showed up three minutes late, no one would suspect he had been standing in his house, eyes glued to his watch, for the past half hour, determining the exact moment his arrival would be appropriate—not insultingly late, but not right on time as if he’d been itching to go, either (even though he definitely had been). He palmed his wand, and disapparated to the coordinates Weasley had given him.

The little cottage he appeared in front of was homely, and quite charming. They were closer to the Channel, here, than Draco’s home was—he could feel it in the cool breeze, smell the faint hint of sea air. As he began his walk up the stone path towards the front door, his nerves returned in full force. What was he doing here? Did he really think he was going to be welcome at the home of Ronald Weasley? Draco had literally written a song just to torment him in school—mostly because it had absolutely infuriated Pot—Harry, which was always a thrill, but still—

Weasley opened the door before Draco could knock, grinning, for some unknown reason. He was nearly as tall as the door frame, making Draco’s six feet of height feel insignificant. His long, red hair was tied back in another bun on the back of his head. Draco tried not to scowl.

“Malfoy,” he greeted, still grinning. Draco had no idea what was worth smiling about. “Come on in.”

Draco didn’t get the chance to return the greeting as he was ushered into a tight hallway. Weasley motioned vaguely to the hooks on the wall, moving on further into the house. Draco kept his beloved shirt-jacket on, for comfort.

“Malfoy’s here, ‘Mione,” Weasley called as Draco took in his surroundings. He heard some noises from what must be the kitchen, and then Granger walked in, toweling her hands dry. She smiled tentatively at Draco, who was still stunned. Why were Granger and Weasley smiling at him?

“Granger,” Draco nodded at her, “you have a lovely home.” He glanced over at Weasley, to include him in the sentiment, which was true: the cottage was lovely, filled with warm colours and hand knit blankets and plenty of photographs. There was a gentle fire going in the hearth in the sitting room, and the whole thing felt rather comforting, soothing Draco’s nerves a bit, even as his eyes darted around in his typical paranoia.

“Thank you, Malfoy,” Granger smirked, raising her eyebrows. “And please, call me Hermione.”

“Thank Merlin,” Weasley suddenly let out a sharp exhale, as if he had been holding his breath. “That means you can call me Ron, now. There are too many Weasleys—it gets confusing, you know.”

Draco huffed a weak laugh, trying to keep his face from looking too shocked. “Alright, Ron, Hermione,” he said, out loud, and this was so fucking weird, “please, call me Draco.”

Ron looked relieved. “Much better,” he muttered, sharing a meaningful look with Hermione.

The moment was interrupted by a soft noise from the hallway, and Draco spotted a small head of curly orange hair peeking out from behind a corner. He smiled softly, only just now remembering that Ron and Hermione have a child.

“Rose, come say hello,” Hermione urged, and the girl walked slowly out from the hallway, half her face hidden by her hair. Draco was reminded of Camila, who was also terribly shy with strangers. She hid her face in her hair the exact same way.

Rose looked to be the same age as Camila. She was dressed in pink pyjamas, clutching two stuffed cartoonish creatures to her chest—one of them looked vaguely familiar. She stopped just behind her mother, hiding herself a little behind Hermione’s leg, looking up at Draco with one wide, fearful eye.

“Rose, this is Draco Malfoy,” Hermione said, petting the girl’s head. “He’s, erm… an old schoolmate of ours. He’s a friend.”

Draco tried not to jump at the word “friend”—she was probably only saying it to show her daughter that Draco wasn’t a threat. Which was still baffling, but he was rolling with it. He loved children, and he didn’t want this little girl to be afraid of him, so he got down on his knees, sitting back on his heels—he could see Ron’s eyebrows shooting up at the sight of Draco Malfoy on the floor—but he kept his eyes on Rose, smiling gently.

“Hello, Rose,” Draco uttered, keeping his body relaxed.

Hermione gave her daughter a gentle push, urging her out from behind her legs. Rose clutched the stuffed creatures closer to her face, looking down as she muttered, “‘lo, Mr. Malfoy,” so quietly Draco wasn’t sure Ron or Hermione would have heard. Draco lowered his voice further.

“You can call me Draco, if you like,” he said. “Up to you.”

She glanced up at him again, and moved her face just an inch out from behind the creatures. “‘Kay,” she replied in a whisper. Draco smiled again.

“Is that Oscar the Grouch?” Draco asked, with a small gesture towards the fuzzy green creature. She looked up at him in surprise, both of her brown eyes now visible, little face framed by the full head of wild, curly hair. She nodded vigorously.

“My goddaughter loves Oscar,” he said with quiet excitement, “she says I’m like him, sometimes, when I’m being grumpy, or when I’ve just woken up.” He rolled his eyes exaggeratedly, a friendly smirk on his face. Rose let out a tiny giggle.

“I even got fuzzy Grouch slippers, for Christmas,” he whispered, like a secret, and Rose’s eyes widened with interest. “They look quite silly. Do you want to see them?”

Rose’s little smile was bright, and she nodded again with enthusiasm.

Draco stood up, spared one moment of sorrow for his expensive shoes—Merlin, the things he would do for kids, when did Draco get so soft?—and pulled out his wand, slowly, aiming it at his feet, concentrating hard on the thought of his favourite slippers as he transfigured his shoes.

Before long, the supple brown leather boots were transformed into outrageously fuzzy green slippers, each with two huge eyes under a ridiculous unibrow, and a wide, thin mouth. Rose let out a delighted giggle, clear as a bell, and bounced gently on the balls of her feet. She whirled around to her mother, who was watching the interaction with a face full of shock.

“Mum! Can I get Grouch slippers, too? Please, mum?”

“Perhaps,” Hermione replied, shaking herself. “You’ll have to ask Draco where he found them.”

Rose whipped her head back to Draco, her face shy but eager, curly hair flying in every direction with her sudden movements.

“Don’t worry, Rose. I’ll investigate, and make sure that wherever Camila got them, they have them in your size.” Draco wiggled his feet goofily, but his tone was serious, as if this was a life or death mission. It was true—he would absolutely tear down the city of London to find this little witch some Oscar the Grouch slippers. Because he was a pathetically tender-hearted fool around children, and they always made him want to spend all of his money on silly things to make them happy. Maybe he was just excited that they weren’t growing up during a war, or that they weren’t being bred to carry on a mantle of political and social power, or that they didn’t lead angry mobs against him when he was still a teenager, or that they weren’t like him at all… kids these days were fun, and nice.

Rose let out another giggle, her face alight with simple joy, and Draco felt a wonderful sense of accomplishment. Hermione started to usher her out of the room, because it was apparently her bedtime. The girl called out a soft “Goodnight, Draco,” as she left the room, looking back at him over her shoulder.

“Goodnight, Rose,” he replied, giving her a little wave and smiling to himself, already planning his venture for Grouch slippers. Mother and daughter disappeared into the hallway, and suddenly he was alone with Ron Weasley. Draco looked over at the man nervously.

Ron’s face was torn between incredulity and glee. He looked like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to laugh or not.

“Fucking surreal, mate,” Ron muttered quietly, shaking his head in disbelief, and Draco’s nerves spilled over into a choked little laugh.

“You’re telling me, Ron,” Draco replied, chuckling, and then they were both quietly giggling at the absurdity of the situation.

“Oh, Merlin,” Ron breathed, his face red from suppressing his laughter. “Tea, yes, I think we need tea.” He made his way toward the kitchen, and Draco, unsure of what else to do, followed him, still wearing his transfigured fuzzy slippers. It would feel wrong to change them back now.

Ron put the kettle on, and started preparing three mugs for tea. Draco frowned at them, counting.

“Where’s Ha—” he tried, but his gut twisted with discomfort and he nearly choked on the words. Honestly, he couldn’t even mention Harry’s name? Hadn’t these people already gotten Harry’s consent to know about his condition? Ron was looking at him oddly as Draco rubbed his stomach with a grimace, cleared his throat, and tried a different tactic.

“Aren’t we expecting one more?”

“Ah,” Ron said, still puzzled, clearly trying to figure Draco out. “Yes. Harry’ll be here soon, he was visiting Teddy and Andy.”

Draco nodded, feeling awkward. What were they supposed to do until then, sit around and reminisce about old times?

Hermione came into the kitchen after a few minutes of tense silence, and smiled at Draco again. Unreal.

“I’ve never seen her take so quickly to a stranger,” she said, apparently impressed, sharing another look with Ron, who only nodded in agreement. Draco shrugged with a smirk, unsure of how he was supposed to respond to that. Ron handed out the mugs of tea, and they made their way back to the sitting room.

Hermione set her mug down on the coffee table. “I’ll go get the Pensieve, I’m pretty sure Harry’s pub memories are still in there.” She walked away, and Ron took a seat on the sofa, sipping his tea. Draco frowned—they wouldn’t be able to do anything until Harry arrived, why bother getting it out now? He shrugged it off and sat in the armchair, because it was closest to the corner, where the walls of bookshelves met, and from there, he could see everything in the room—the doorways, the windows, the hearth. He felt a little calmer. Hermione reentered the room, floating the Pensieve above the coffee table.

“Right, so, we’ve been going through these for ages, and you’ve obviously seen them, but only once, and you know a lot more about the curse and the attacker and how it all worked—” Hermione was rambling, and the blood was draining from Draco’s face, because why was she talking about this, when Harry wasn’t here and he needed to be, “—we hoped you’d be able to go through it with us again, give us some more information on the curse, any theories you may have come up with since you’ve been working with Harry…” she trailed off, frowning at Draco, and he could tell from their concerned faces that he probably looked terrified. He glanced to the hearth. Ron had said soon, right? What time did Teddy go to bed? Would Harry stay longer to visit with Andromeda?

“Harry knows you’re here,” Ron muttered, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “He’s been keeping us updated, as much as he can—which isn’t much, you must know he’s not much of a writer. But he told us to go ahead and get started, to not wait for him, since these are his own memories. He’s obviously seen them already, and is still clueless as to who cursed him.”

Draco was gripping the armrests of the chair. His heart was racing—were they going to make him?

“I can’t,” Draco said, eyes pleading. Their confused frowns only deepened.

“Why not?” Hermione probed.

Draco glanced at the hearth again, internally begging Harry to just get here. “I’m bound by patient confidentiality,” he replied, trying for nonchalant, but his voice shook with nerves.

Hermione opened her mouth to argue, still perplexed, “But Harry already told—”

“Wait, what?” Ron interrupted, mouth hanging open with shock and indignation. To him, apparently, there was no doubt as to what Draco had meant—Draco was just surprised Ron thought it at all compelling. Hermione whipped her head to the side to stare at her husband in bewilderment. Draco thought privately this may have been one in only a handful of moments in history where Ron Weasley knew something Hermione Granger didn’t.

“By who?” Ron asked, oblivious to his wife’s barrage of silent questions.

“The Ministry, of course,” Draco grumbled, looking back to the hearth again. Any minute now, right?

“What, what am I not getting, here?” Hermione nearly shouted, clearly frustrated with the lack of knowledge. Ron looked at her, the shock of the latest revelation still evident on his face, and cast a quick Muffliato on the room.

“He’s bound, ‘Mione,” Ron replied vehemently. Hermione searched his face, as if that would provide a better answer.

“You mean… magically?” She asked hesitantly.

“Of course,” Draco tried not to scoff. “How else would I be?”

Ron looked at him warily. “The Ministry bound you? Why?”

Draco narrowed his eyes. Stupid question. “It was the only way they would give me my Healer License—if I would make the three basic tenets of Healers’ Ethics magically binding. I took oaths to protect patient confidentiality, to do no intentional harm, and to maintain professional, ‘ethical’ relationships with those under my care, and they bound me to them. It’s not exactly a secret, you can find it in the Ministry’s records.” He grit his teeth, feeling defensive. Did he really have to explain to war heroes why the Ministry didn’t want to give an ex-Death Eater a Healer License?

“Oh,” Hermione breathed, her eyes wide with shock and understanding. “That means… Does it mean that every time, to purebloods? When you say you’re bound to something—you mean, literally, magically bound?”

Draco nodded, still tetchy. “What else would it mean?”

Hermione looked back and forth between the two confused pureblood wizards. Draco could practically hear her brain whirring with comprehension behind her skull.

“Well, to witches and wizards who grew up with muggles, or at least heavy muggle influence,” she explained, “it means something different. When we say we’re bound to something, we don’t usually mean it literally—unless the person is visibly, physically bound, of course. It usually means it’s—it’s like a value we live by, or a promise we made. I would say I’m bound to the vows I made to you, Ron, on our wedding day, and mean that I keep those promises, and stand by them. But not that I’m literally, magically bound to them.”

It was Draco’s turn to look shocked. Muggles loved a metaphor, apparently. Ron turned his face towards Draco.

“Harry doesn’t know this,” he said flatly, simply stating a fact.

“I’ve told—” Draco’s throat closed up again, and he coughed into his fist. “I…” he stared up at the ceiling, finding his way around this, like a maze. He could do this, he was good at mazes.

“I tell people I’m bound by patient confidentiality,” he said slowly, waiting for the harsh twist in his stomach. “I didn’t realize that wasn’t fully understood. I didn’t think it was a big deal—it’s annoying, yes, and painful, sometimes, but the Licensers insisted, and the Minister approved it, and no one questioned it. Now I have a career, doing what I love, what I’m good at, what I trained and studied for years to do. What’s done is done.”

“Kingsley approved this?” Hermione exclaimed. The couple still looked utterly appalled.

“Yes.” Draco frowned and waved his hand dismissively, sneaking another look at the fireplace.

“Harry would want to know this,” Ron said, with a meaningful look that Draco didn’t have the patience to decipher. Draco took a moment to form the sentences that would hurt the least before speaking aloud.

“In my work, I don’t keep things from my patients,” Draco began, trying to convince himself he was simply explaining his career to two strangers. “They are extremely vulnerable to me, during the process, so I allow myself to be vulnerable with them, as well. The balance is necessary for the work, and for the Legilimency to be comfortable. I tell all of my patients that anything they ask me will receive a full and honest answer, and nothing is off limits.” He winced against the growing discomfort in his gut, and his arm moved to defensively cover his abdomen. “I don’t answer what they don’t ask.”

Ron and Hermione were watching him with something between wariness and concern, and Draco really hoped it wasn’t pity.

“There are some things that some patients are better off not knowing, especially if they do not ask,” Draco forced through his teeth, he could feel a thin sheen of sweat building along his brow. His breathing was becoming more difficult by the second. “Some patients might decide that I need rescuing, or something, and take such a matter into their own hands—” Sweet Merlin, this was so vague, and it still hurt. He tried to hold back a grunt of pain, looking at Harry’s friends intently, desperately trying to get his message across, “—which would probably endanger someone who was in a—a compromised state, while distracting them severely from their healing.”

Draco sagged, panting and clutching his torso, squeezing his eyes shut against the pain. He hadn’t even been talking about Harry, specifically, just a hypothetical person, with an inconvenient hero complex—

The fireplace flared with green flames and Harry finally, finally stepped out of the floo. Thank fucking Merlin.

Harry smiled in greeting to the three of them, but his face fell immediately upon taking in their silent expressions—Ron and Hermione with shock and maybe concern, and Draco looking ill, defensive, and in pain, and also wearing green, fuzzy slippers.

“Hi, Harry!” Hermione exclaimed, shaking herself out of the moment and smiling at her friend, who was glaring suspiciously at her. “Don’t look at me like that—we just had a little disagreement, Draco here was quite determined to protect your privilege as his patient—we tried to tell him you tell us everything anyway, but here we are. So, does Draco have consent to discuss your condition and your healing with us, now?”

Draco looked at her gratefully, and her lip twitched in return. Her eyes were still anxious—she would hate keeping things from her best friend. Draco wondered how long it would hold up.

Harry rolled his eyes and scoffed, oblivious to their nonverbal conversations, and nodded his consent firmly. Draco couldn’t help his sigh of relief. “Thank you.”

Harry’s lips quirked in amusement as he looked from Draco’s face, to his fuzzy-slipper-clad feet, and back, raising his eyebrows in a silent question.

“I didn’t wear them for you,” Draco scoffed dramatically. “I wore them for Rose, of course.” He flipped his hair and crossed one long leg over the other, putting the outrageous slippers on full display for the room. The trio chuckled at him, before Ron clapped his hands together and motioned toward the Pensieve.

“Shall we?” Ron asked the room at large, itching to get to work. But Draco had just realized something—

“Wait a minute…” He frowned at Harry. “How did you use the floo if you couldn’t call out the destination?”

Harry grinned at him, rolling his eyes again. He made a vague gesture to the other people in the room, then pointed at his mouth.

“Someone else called it out for you?” Draco questioned, and Harry nodded. “Interesting.”

“Andy has full floo access here, so as long as her, Teddy, or Harry calls out the name of the house, whoever’s in the floo at the time can come through,” Hermione explained.

“Ah,” Draco nodded, finally comprehending. “Right. Yes, I did the same thing with the floo from the Manor—as long as my mother is the one calling out the destination, she can come through, no problem. Except when a patient is present, of course,” he said, looking at Harry, who only continued to grin at him. Draco wondered if it was as surreal to Harry as it was to himself, seeing a Malfoy here with Harry and his friends.

“Anyway, you said you wanted to know more about the curse, before watching all of that again, right?” Draco suggested. “I don’t know how much Harry has told you, but I can tell you what we’ve learned so far.”

At this, Harry’s smile fell, and his face turned guarded. Draco gave him a meaningful look. “Not about the breadcrumbs themselves, Harry,” he murmured. Ron and Hermione were watching the interaction sharply, wide eyes darting back and forth between Harry and Draco, probably shocked that there were parts of Harry’s healing he wasn’t keen on them knowing about—and at hearing Draco say Harry’s name, soothing him, in that low, quiet voice.

Harry still looked hesitant, but he nodded anyway, and Draco understood that Harry trusted him enough to let him take the lead—even though he didn’t have much of a choice. Draco turned back to the couple.

“Harry wasn’t exactly cursed, he was sort of… commanded. My guess is that a potion was slipped into his drinks that night, something that made his subconscious mind easier to manipulate. It also clearly had a physical effect, lowering his inhibitions significantly, making his body feel weighed down and sluggish—he could hardly move.”

Ron’s eyes widened at this. Hermione was watching Harry carefully. Draco realized Harry probably hadn’t explained how he was feeling that night—Draco only knew because he’d been forced to experience it. But Harry didn’t really talk about things he felt, anyway, physically or otherwise. He had probably never told his friends what it felt like to be under Voldemort’s possession, for instance, or what it felt like to be pierced with a Basilisk fang, or what it felt like to be locked in a cupboard and starved.

“The attacker then only had to magically command Harry’s mind to hide his own voice, until such a time when he was ‘truly known’ for who he is, and not who he is to and for the Wizarding World. ‘Speak only for yourself,’ I believe, is what they’d invoked. Harry’s subconscious mind then obeyed, and created a trail of breadcrumbs to follow, of what he had decided—unconsciously—were his most formative memories, the ones that shaped who Harry really is. We’re a bit over halfway through the trail, now.”

Ron and Hermione’s jaws were hanging open, apparently dumbfounded. It was Ron who spoke first.

“So then… the curse—command—agh, the problem, could only be solved by a Legilimens who would be able to see the right memories and follow the trail?” Ron asked, and Draco could tell he was several moves ahead, in his mind. Draco glanced at Harry, who was still looking cautious, where he sat on a large pouf on the floor next to Draco’s armchair. His head was only inches from Draco’s hand, which itched to reach out and touch that tumultuous hair, just to see if it was as soft as it looked. He clenched his fist on the armrest.

“Yes, it’s highly likely that was the attacker’s goal, but I’m stumped as to why. I don’t see how this—” Draco gestured between himself and Harry, “—could be beneficial to any sort of agenda, other than getting Harry out of the way for a bit. But there are much simpler ways of getting him out of the way—Harry was pretty much defenseless, at the time. They could have done anything to him, but they did that.”

Ron hesitated before replying. He shot an appeasing look at Harry first. “I promise I’m not accusing you of anything, Draco, but I have to cover all angles, here—how do we know you had nothing to do with it, when they had essentially driven Harry to a Legilimens, and you are obviously the only Healer Legilimens in the country?”

Now it was Draco’s turn to be shocked. Harry hadn’t told…? He snapped his gaze to Harry, searching his wary face fruitlessly for an answer. Harry only pressed his lips together, and looked away, awkwardly scrubbing a hand through his dark hair. Draco didn’t know if he was glad or not, that Harry had kept Draco’s Veritaserum breakdown to himself—it was embarrassing, but it also cleared him of suspicion, and Ron was the Head Auror, leading the investigation… But he still felt a little grateful, as well, that Harry had given Draco the choice of revealing such private details to someone else. Harry had protected their sanctuary.

“You can trust that Harry knows I had absolutely nothing to do with it, which he learned during our first week, when I realized the suspicion the situation would place upon me. He questioned me under Veritaserum.”

“He what?!” Hermione stood, shocked and enraged, and Ron joined her, shooting Harry a wide-eyed look.

“Harry gave you Veritaserum?” Ron asked dangerously, not taking his eyes off of Harry, who was only staring straight at Draco. Draco raised his hands, conciliating.

“Harry did not give me Veritaserum. I drank it myself, and had him write out his questions, which I had to answer truthfully as I read them. It works the same, no matter how the questions are delivered.”

“You dosed yourself?” Hermione pressed, and Draco rolled his eyes. Were they just going to repeat his words all night?

“Yes, I did. I suggested it. I knew how it looked, once I realized the attacker had given him only one path forward. I needed him to believe me, to trust me.”

The room was silent for a minute as Ron and Hermione digested his words, coming down from their indignation to return to their seats on the sofa. Once again, it was Ron who broke the silence.

“Where did you get Veritaserum?” Ron asked, puzzled and still a little suspicious. Draco closed his eyes and sighed softly. Did he have to answer? Were these two people covered in his promise of honesty with Harry? Not technically, but…

But he didn’t want Harry to see him lie. Harry trusted his friends, and he trusted Draco, and he wouldn’t object if Draco lied to his friends to keep his own secrets, but he wouldn’t like it, either. Unless Harry communicated otherwise, Draco would assume that his policy of honest answers to questions asked extended to the company of Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger. He opened his eyes and looked at Harry, who simply stared back at him with an expression that felt like it was solely for Draco. It was almost soothing, encouraging. He saw Harry’s hands twitch, then clasp together firmly in his lap.

“Filched it,” Draco finally spoke. “From the Ministry, when I was eighteen. It fell out of an Auror’s pocket.”

Ron scoffed quietly. “Heard that before,” he mumbled. Draco glared at him, but kept his mouth shut. Draco didn’t have to answer what they did not ask.

Unfortunately, Hermione Granger, brightest witch of her age, had picked up on this fact, and had caught on to Draco’s methods much too quickly, darting her eyes back and forth between him, Ron and Harry. She was obviously thinking of what Draco had told them about honesty in front of his patients, but only when they asked, and possibly remembering the situation he had been in at eighteen. She looked at him shrewdly, and Draco thought he could see a little light of victory in her eyes, as she continued to solve the puzzle of Draco Malfoy in her head.

“Draco, in what situation were you able to steal a vial of Veritaserum from an Auror?” She asked, and Draco scowled at her. She would have made an excellent Slytherin. Harry was looking at her with pride, and thoughtfulness.

“It fell out of an Auror’s pocket, when he bent over my cot to spit on me,” Draco replied, through a clenched jaw. “My body was convulsing from an overdose, and covered it. He didn’t notice. I kept it in my sock until I was freed.”

This must be a record, the number of times he’d astounded Head Auror Weasley tonight. For someone so well-respected, so strategically-minded, the youngest Head Auror in a century, he could be quite dense. Draco could at least admit to himself that he was the same, Pansy told him so all the time. “You’re only a thick-headed idiot about things you don’t try to know, Draco,” she’d say. Auror corruption was probably something Ron hadn’t particularly tried to know about—at least, when he was eighteen, and it concerned someone he’d loathed. Draco was sure things must be quite different now, under Ron’s quintessentially Gryffindor leadership.

“Anyway,” Draco said firmly, “point is, you can move past your suspicion of me. I had nothing to do with it, which Harry himself can vouch for. It’s even likely that someone wanted to frame me for it, knowing that no one would refute the accusation. It would be so easy.”

The three of them were all looking at Draco thoughtfully. He felt a little uncomfortable with it.

“So before we spend all our time watching Harry get chatted up and stared at,” Draco’s voice drawled as he motioned toward the Pensieve, “why don’t you tell me what you’ve already gathered from what you’ve seen, and share your theories?”

Ron seemed to appreciate the direction and swift subject change.

“Well, honestly, it’s mostly that: getting chatted up and stared at in a muggle pub. The only people he spoke to repeatedly were the staff, and maybe a couple other regulars, but they never expressed any distinct interest in who Harry was. I don’t think any of them even knew his surname, nor did they care. Which is probably why Harry liked it so much,” Ron smirked, and Draco and Harry only nodded in agreement.

“But other than that, Harry didn’t go very deep into conversations. Anyone that showed interest gave up after enough of Harry’s evasions and rejections, and those people always had more people around to talk to. The only link I could find with any of them was that he was stared at, pretty frequently, by one person alone somewhere in the bar. But, it was always a different person. We think it may have been polyjuice, but there’s nothing else to suggest they were all the same person—just the uncomfortable staring.” Ron shuddered.

“How would you describe the staring?” Draco asked, frowning.

“Uncomfortable,” Ron repeated, taking a deep breath. “Piercing. Curious. Invasive. Not friendly, but not threatening, either. I wasn’t even experiencing it, but it made me squirm.”

Draco looked up at the ceiling, folding his hands in thought. “Did you notice anything about how they carried themselves? For instance, did a staring woman sit in a feminine way, did a staring man spread himself out in his seat? Did they slouch or sit rigidly upright? Did they fidget or move their face in any certain way? Any ticks?”

He looked back down at the room, where everyone had identical frowns of deep thought on their faces. Draco almost laughed. Ron opened his eyes, looking at Draco, and said simply, “I think you should see for yourself.”

Draco tried not to sigh. They were going to be here for hours, if he couldn’t go through the memories at Legilimency’s speed. It had taken maybe twenty minutes to get all those memories out of Harry’s head, at Draco’s pace. Watching them all play out on their own time would take an age, but he nodded and stood, walking toward the Pensieve between them. Ron joined him, but no one else did.

“Just us, then?” Draco asked, motioning between himself and Ron, who looked back at his wife in inquiry.

“I’ll hang back,” Hermione said, “I’ve seen them all already.” She darted a glance at Harry. “Harry has too, obviously.”

Harry, incomprehensibly, looked a bit resigned, and defeated. Draco felt like he was missing something, but Ron only shrugged, and looked back at Draco, gesturing toward the Pensieve. Draco took a deep breath, and they both plunged their faces in. They landed with a swirl of colour in the muggle pub, next to the bar.

“You’re very mysterious,” the dark-skinned man says to Harry, with a bright, curious smile. “I’m not trying to pull or anything. I find you interesting, I want to get to know you.”

Draco sighed. “We’re looking for creepy staring, yeah?”

“Yep,” Ron replied, crossing his arms and relaxing his posture, readying himself for a long watch.

“Mind if I take over for a bit, then? It’ll be a bit disorienting, but I’ll get us to the right memories. I remember the feeling of them.” Draco suggested.

Ron frowned dubiously. “What do you mean? You can control these?”

“I can’t control them, I can just filter them and steer them, if you’ll allow it.”

“Fine,” Ron sighed, after a moment of thought. “I don’t really trust that. But Harry trusts you, and we’ll be here all bloody night if we have to watch everything.”

“Good,” Draco answered lamely—what else was he supposed to say? “Hang on.”

Draco concentrated hard, connecting himself back to his body outside of the Pensieve, making himself put his hand on his wand in his pocket. Ron watched him curiously.

Once he could feel the wood against his palm, distantly, he focused his magic inside the Pensieve, remembering the hair-raising feeling of being watched. He gently pushed, expending his energy in a search for more and pushing aside anything that wasn’t.

The memories jumped and swirled around them, flying through and against Draco’s filters. He heard Ron gasp beside him as the floor disappeared and reappeared over and over. It didn’t matter—they weren’t really material, in here, they couldn’t actually fall.

The memories slowed, and finally stopped. The muggle pub surrounded them once again. Harry was alone at the bar, looking tense. Draco looked around—there she was, on the other side of the room, the blonde woman he remembered from the first time he glimpsed this memory. He nudged Ron with his elbow and pointed.

The woman sits rigidly at a high-top table, alone. She is nursing a drink, but the liquid never goes down. It looks like brandy, probably expensive. No one approaches her. Her posture is perfect—spine straight, shoulders back. Her legs are held close together, but her arms are held slightly out to the side. She watches Harry intently, hardly blinking. There is no emotion on her face—as if this is simply something she must do. She is confident.
After a moment, she turns her head slightly to the side, reaching behind her neck to grab the long blonde ponytail at her nape. She gently brings the hair over her shoulder and lays it against her chest, smoothing it out before returning to her careful vigil.

The man sits alone at the opposite end of the bar. He looks rugged, and young, and a bit dirty—his dark hair is cropped short on his head, and his bright eyes are trained on Harry. His posture is perfect, even as his legs are splayed to take up space. He is confident, spinning his glass of brandy with an elegant, unwashed hand. He turns his head slightly to the side, reaching his hand up to his nape.

And so it continued—over and over, Harry was stared at, watched vigilantly, by a different person each time. But Draco could spot the similarities, after a while: in the way they held themself, in the intensity of their gaze, in the glass of brandy in their hand. He looked over at Ron.

“Do you see it?” Draco asked. Ron looked back at him, brows furrowed in thought. He nodded, took Draco’s elbow, and pulled them out of the Pensieve.

Outside of the Pensieve, Draco removed his hand from his wand and took in the scene. Harry and Hermione hadn’t moved, but they were glaring at each other in silence. Hermione’s hand was raised in a vague gesture, and Harry’s arms were crossed over his chest, looking petulant. They had clearly interrupted something.

“Alright…?” Ron asked tentatively, darting looks back and forth between Harry and Hermione, trying desperately to catch up. Hermione’s gaze snapped to Draco.

“Draco, did you overdose on Veritaserum?” She demanded, and Draco rolled his eyes and scoffed in annoyance.

“Some would have considered it an overdose. How is this important?”

“If you took as much as I think you did, it should have knocked you out, after long hours of painful convulsions. Why did you drink a whole vial?”

Ron whirled around. “An entire vial?!” he asked, incredulous and apparently somewhat irritated. Draco felt like he was being chastised, which was stupid, because it was long over, and he was a grown man who made his own choices—these days. He bristled defensively.

“Yes, I drank the full vial, because that’s how much the Aurors gave me when they were bored, so I thought maybe that was a standard dosage for the bloody Department of Magical Law, and I didn’t want to risk Harry not believing me. If Harry Potter had accused me, I’d have been in Azkaban by nightfall, do you understand? Absolutely no one would question it.” Draco was trying so hard not to raise his voice, thinking of little Rose asleep down the hall, before remembering the Muffliato Ron had placed on the room.

Harry was looking at him with those sad, concerned eyes again, and Draco did not have the patience for Gryffindor pity—

“But Draco, if you did take that much, you’d have been out for over a day—you wouldn’t have been able to work. But according to Harry, you haven’t gone a single session without Legilimency. I’m not doubting your story, but either something doesn’t add up with it, or it was terribly irresponsible and unsafe to go into Harry’s head in that kind of state—”

Harry’s hand slammed down on the coffee table, interrupting Hermione’s scolding. Draco couldn’t tell who she was even angry at. Harry was glaring fiercely—he held up his hand in a fist, palm facing down, then opened it quickly.

Hermione looked bewildered and indignant, her face lacking comprehension.

“I think he’s telling you to let it go, Hermione,” Draco mumbled, and Harry glanced at him, nodding once, before returning his arms to their defensive, crossed position over his chest. Hermione scoffed at them both, opening her mouth to very much not let it go. Draco interrupted her before she could get into her stride.

“I did take the full vial,” he explained in a low, placating tone. “And we did get started on the breadcrumbs the same day. But I wasn’t, erm… compromised.” He could feel the hint of a blush creeping up his neck, remembering the flood of warmth and Harry’s magic in his veins—

“But that’s impossible—”

“He took care of it,” Draco said quickly, quietly, darting glances at Harry, who couldn’t seem to meet his eyes. He could see a faint blush on Harry’s cheeks, too, and knew that for some reason, that moment was something Harry didn’t particularly want his friends knowing about. Draco agreed wholeheartedly. It seemed too—intimate. Private... Those were Draco’s own reasons, anyway.

“‘He took care of it,’” Hermione repeated flatly, entirely unimpressed, narrowing her eyes at him.

“Yes. He just… took care of it.” Draco’s face was practically begging as he awkwardly stuffed his hands into his pockets. Please, let it go.

Hermione dropped her face into her hands, muttering under her breath, apparently done with the lot of them. Ron took the opportunity to change the subject, to Harry’s and Draco’s great relief.

“Okay, well, Draco and I were able to spot some similar characteristics in all those creepy watchers, Harry,” he announced.

“Yes, they’re likely to be very wealthy,” Draco added. “A pureblood, by my guess.”

“Oh?” Ron frowned, looking a little offended. Draco rolled his eyes.

“Old money, definitely. Their posture, the way their hands move—” Draco demonstrated, spinning an imaginary glass of brandy with his elegant fingers. Harry watched, apparently mesmerized. Draco stuffed his hand back into his pocket. “—people don’t move like that unless they’re trained to since birth. No one sits like that naturally, spine straighter than a wand. Even when that person was looking as relaxed as possible, they still practically oozed confidence, the confidence of status.”

Ron hummed thoughtfully, looking Draco over subtly. Draco raised an eyebrow at him.

“Plus, they were drinking brandy.” Draco rolled his eyes again, remembering the crystal decanters in his father’s study in the Manor. In Draco’s mind, no one drank brandy for fun. It was always a display of some sort, a move in an invisible chess game between two powerful, wealthy men. It was who Draco had been trained to be—someone who invited a political figure to the study after dinner, and offered them thousand-galleon elf-made brandy to kick off the manipulation—and it was utterly pretentious. It certainly didn’t taste as good as firewhiskey, or an excellent muggle gin and tonic.

“Right,” Ron said after a moment. “I’m glad you noticed that. I was focused on their staring, and the annoying habit with their hand…”

“What habit?” Draco frowned. Ron’s lips quirked in the slightest smile, not too gloating, but obviously glad to have seen something Draco hadn’t.

“They kept moving their hand to the back of their neck, turning their head a little to reach their hair. They even did it when they were someone with short hair, they couldn’t help it. My guess is probably a woman, with long hair. Hermione does that with her hair, sometimes—“ Ron looked over at his wife, who subconsciously reached toward her tumbling, bushy curls. “—you reach behind your neck, and sweep it over your shoulder to the front.”

“Okay, so a wealthy pureblood with long hair—doesn’t have to be a woman, I’ll thank you to look in the mirror, Ronald Weasley, you mess with your hair all the time,” Hermione summarized, frowning, unable to resist the jab.

Ron rolled his eyes. “Five galleons, it’s a woman,” he mumbled.

“I’m not gambling, Ronald.”

“Done,” Draco muttered. He was thinking of the Death Eaters he’d known, and some of his father’s old ‘friends’—nearly all of them were in Azkaban by now, but several of the men did cherish their long hair, like it was a luxury. It was possible. Ron smirked at him, and stuck out his hand. Draco shook it briefly, and they carried on.

“Harry once thought it might be an Unspeakable,” Draco continued with their theorizing. “I don’t know anything about them. This person clearly has access to an extensive store of Polyjuice Potion, and probably some more dangerous, experimental potions… They also sounded pretty prophetic, when they attacked him. What do you think?”

“Well, Polyjuice isn’t exactly difficult to brew—” Hermione noted.

“Yes, I know, you brewed it in a bathroom when you were twelve,” Draco flapped his hand, then inhaled sharply once he realized what he’d revealed. He cleared his throat at their amused expressions. “But the ingredients are rare, and the process is time consuming. They might be a brewer, or working with one—and again, they sounded like they were referencing some sort of vision or prophecy. Do any of you know anything about the Unspeakables?”

The trio all looked at each other uncomfortably. Ron coughed softly into his hand.

“We haven’t been back down there since, erm, fifth year…” Ron muttered, with a quick glance at the others. “We’re not exactly… welcome? We caused quite a bit of damage…”

Draco smirked—that was an understatement. “So, no, you don’t know anything about them?”

They all shook their heads. “No. We avoid Level Nine, and as far as I know, they want nothing to do with us,” Ron explained. “But of course, no one knows what Unspeakables look like, or what they get up to down there nowadays. So, it’s possible. They’re generally assumed to be a bunch of swots, buried in their books and their secrets.”

Draco sighed. “It’s possible, then. I’ll ask Shacklebolt, see what he knows about them.”

“You’ll ask Shacklebolt?” Ron raised his eyebrows at him, and Draco scoffed.

“Yes, I’ll ask him. He somehow found out I’m working with Harry, and will be glad to provide any information to speed up his healing—he’s quite impatient.” Draco rolled his eyes again. “We’re well acquainted, I assure you,” he muttered, with a quick glance at Harry, who was apparently very interested in something on the wall.

Hermione narrowed her eyes at him, and then at Harry, so Draco quickly moved on to prevent another scolding tangent.

“Anyone other than Unspeakables we have to consider?”

“Well, wealthy purebloods make up the majority of Harry’s political opponents,” Ron mentioned, frowning. Draco knit his brows in confusion.

“Political opponents? For what? Harry’s not a politician—are you?” Draco asked, looking at Harry, who only shrugged at him uncomfortably.

“I mean, he kind of is, now,” Ron muttered, “it’s obviously not his job—he’s the best Auror we have, and he hates politics. But he’ll speak in Court, sometimes, he has a vote on the Wizengamot, whenever he wants to use it—he’s not so much a politician as he is a person of influence, usually at Kingsley’s request, or some other activist or political figure. Prat doesn’t know when to say no,” Ron smirked fondly, and Harry rolled his eyes.

Draco sighed. Yes, that sounded like Harry. “That certainly explains Kingsley’s impatience,” he grumbled. “It also doesn’t really narrow down the suspect pool. Now we have the entire Department of Mysteries, as well as every wealthy pureblood in politics.”

“Every wealthy pureblood woman in politics, with long hair, and a history of or connection to potion brewing,” Ron specified, ticking off his points on his fingers.

“Perhaps,” Draco replied, deep in thought.

“Do you know anyone like that in your, erm… circles?” Ron asked tentatively.

“Everyone I can think of is in Azkaban—thankfully,” Draco replied. “And my ‘circle,’ as you call it, consists of Timsy, Narcissa, Shacklebolt, and Pansy—who’s a private divorce lawyer, and doesn’t give a shit about politics.”

“Timsy?” Hermione frowned, confused.

“My house-elf,” Draco replied nonchalantly, then widened his eyes, realizing what he’d said and the inevitable explosion it would cause—

“A free elf, ‘Mione,” Ron said quickly, hands up in surrender, because her mouth had opened for a fiery debate, “trust me on that. I’ve met him.”

Hermione closed her mouth, mollified, but still disgruntled. Draco checked his watch and groaned internally at the lateness of the hour. Now would be a great time to escape.

“On that note, I’m going home,” Draco said, taking a deep breath and standing from his armchair. “Thank you both for having me. I hope this was helpful to you—call on me again, if you have questions I can answer.” He left out with Harry’s expressed consent, hoping they wouldn’t forget that important detail.

The trio stood, and he shook hands with Ron and Hermione, confirming that he would indeed find a pair of Grouch slippers for Rose. He turned to shake Harry’s hand last.

“See you Thursday, Harry,” Draco smirked, and Harry returned it, nodding. His eyes were bright, twinkling with amusement and something like pride. Draco met his gaze for only a moment before turning away towards the front door. Ron walked him out.

“Draco,” Ron called from the doorway, as Draco pulled out his wand to disapparate. Draco looked up at him expectantly. “Thanks.”

Draco nodded, a little uncomfortable, and disapparated back to the comfort and solitude of his own home.

***

Draco, not wanting to choose between hot chocolate and coffee on Thursday morning, asked Timsy for mochas, much to Harry’s delight and Timsy’s annoyance. The elf obliged, because he also hated denying Draco anything, but he complained under his breath the whole time, something about “Masters is asking Timsy to ruin Timsy’s perfect coffee,” and “Masters is having no respect for the flavour profile.”

The drinks, however, were delicious, despite Draco’s apparent slights.

“Seventh year,” Draco sighed as they settled into the wingback chairs. “You feel ready for it?”

Harry shrugged and sipped his mocha, his fingers once again absently rubbing the edges of the ceramic mug. He watched Draco for a moment before setting down his mug and sitting up fully in his chair, rubbing the tops of his thighs nervously. He was ready to work, but obviously not excited about the prospect of reliving the War. Neither was Draco, but they had to. Hence, hot chocolate and coffee. Comfort and motivation.

Draco led their meditation, strong and slow, as he always did. When they were finished, he raised his wand slowly, and waited.

Harry stared warily at the wand, and took several more deep breaths before meeting Draco’s gaze, and nodding. “Legilimens.”

Harry brought them back to the end of sixth year, past Dumbledore’s funeral, and the uneventful summer at the Dursley’s. The first breadcrumb came almost immediately. “Got one,” Draco muttered, and latched on.

Harry is flying through the air in the sidecar of Hagrid’s motorcycle. The night is lighting up with curses around them, Harry’s heart is racing. A jet of green light misses him by inches, hitting the metal birdcage at his feet. The owl screeches and falls to the floor of the cage.
“No—NO!” Harry yells. “Hedwig—”
…
“Mine!” Voldemort screams, and as the pain in his scar forces Harry’s eyes shut, his wand acts of its own accord, dragging his hand around like a great magnet…
…
“You!” Harry shouts, reaching for his wand in his empty pocket.
“Your wand’s here, son,” the man says, “and that’s my wife you’re shouting at.”
“Oh, I’m—I’m sorry,” Harry says as Andromeda moves further into the room.
“Hagrid said you were ambushed—where’s our daughter? Where’s Nymphadora?” Andromeda demands.
…
Remus and George Weasley appear in a swirl of blue light in the garden of the Burrow. There is something wrong: Remus is supporting George, whose face is covered in blood.
…
“Mad-Eye’s dead,” Bill Weasley says, his scarred face grim. The room is silent with shock and grief.

The glow of the breadcrumb disappeared as it passed, and Draco withdrew calmly, aiming his wand at the chalkboard and labeling a new dot “Hedwig/Moody”. Vague, but just specific enough. The only thing that connected those two beings was that they were Harry’s friends, and they had apparently been murdered on the same night.

Draco stuck the index finger of his right hand inside the collar of his shirt and idly traced the scar there. He was determined to keep his wits about him, today—they were literally reliving a war, and he knew Harry had endured the absolute worst of it. He wanted to be strong, for Harry. He wanted to be something Harry could lean on. Draco refused to fall apart under his own emotions, this time.

Harry had his eyes closed, and his face was grave. He looked like he was trying to strengthen himself just as Draco was—Draco wanted to touch him, to tell him that he didn’t have to be the only one holding himself up all the time, especially in here, in their sanctuary. Harry opened his eyes, and Draco saw a hint of defeat among the grief in his face.

“Was that the first time your friends died, while protecting you?” Draco asked softly, and Harry grimaced, closing his eyes and nodding slowly.

“I’ll bet you tried to give them the slip, not two minutes later,” Draco said, and Harry opened his eyes again, watching Draco thoughtfully. He nodded again. “You were realizing the cost this would have to people who were close to you, the violence that would follow you, endangering those around you. But they were probably having none of that, were they?”

Harry shook his head with a wry look, but the solemnity of his expression remained. Draco was rolling his wand between his hands, face creased in thought, digesting all he’d seen, connecting it to what he knew about Harry.

“I had the same reaction, when I first saw Andromeda,” Draco muttered, smirking gently, lightening the mood a fraction. “Thank Merlin she didn’t see me, at first. It took me a moment to realize Bellatrix wouldn’t have been caught dead in jeans, and her magic was the antithesis of Bella’s.”

The corners of Harry’s lips twitched a little as he listened, a faint curiosity growing in his eyes. He tapped his nose with his finger, raising an eyebrow in silent query.

“Yes, her magic smelled different, too. It’s comforting, and soft—it smells like snow, and strong tea.”

Harry huffed a weak laugh, and nodded—he probably knew exactly how Andromeda liked her tea. Draco, satisfied that Harry was feeling a little bit better, raised his wand again.

“Ready for another?” he asked, and Harry took another deep breath before nodding and meeting Draco’s eyes. “Legilimens.”

“To Harry James Potter, I leave the Snitch he caught in his first Quidditch match at Hogwarts, as a reminder of the rewards of perseverance and skill.” Scrimgeour reads from Dumbledore’s will, and places a golden snitch in Harry’s hand, frowning when nothing happens to it.

A lynx Patronus lands in the middle of the crowded dance floor. “The Ministry has fallen,” it says in Kingsley Shacklebolt’s voice. “Scrimgeour is dead. They are coming.”

Harry stands in Sirius’ room at Grimmauld place, holding a torn photograph and a partial letter, tracing Lily’s handwriting with his finger, absently wiping tears from his face.

A Death Eater is on the floor, in front of a fireplace, screaming and writhing in agony. A slighter figure stands over him, wand outstretched. Harry speaks in a high, cold, merciless voice: “Draco, give Rowle another taste of my displeasure… do it, or feel my wrath yourself!” A log falls in the fire, and the light falls on a terrified, gaunt, pale face—

Draco checked his Occlumency walls briefly—still strong, thank Merlin, what the fuck—

“I’d never have believed this,” Harry is nearly snarling, “the man who taught me to fight Dementors—a coward.” Remus’ face is livid, his wand is drawn so fast Harry has no time to react before he is thrown backward into the wall.

“Master Regulus took from his pocket a locket like the one the Dark Lord had, and he told Kreacher to take it and, when the basin was empty, to switch the lockets…” Kreacher is sobbing and shaking. “And he ordered—Kreacher to leave—without him…”

Umbridge looks down imperiously on a muggleborn witch from the stand in Courtroom Ten. Harry, Cloaked and Polyjuiced as a large man, stands right behind a woman, a Polyjuiced Hermione, he knows. He stuns Umbridge, Hermione grabs the locket from her neck, and Dementors swarm the floor. “Expecto Patronum!”

Ron is pale and shaking on a forest floor. His arm and shoulder is covered in blood. “Splinched,” Hermione says, her fingers busy at Ron’s sleeve. “Harry, quickly in my bag…”

The memories felt vibrant and violent and Draco prepared himself for a potential breadcrumb, but the violent feeling quickly retreated, followed by a deep feeling of bitterness and despair in the next flow of memories. It was months in a tent, on the move, carrying a horrible locket, hungry and hopeless and miserable, and only getting worse—

“No, you don’t understand! You have no family!” Ron yells, and Harry lunges at him, hurt and furious.

Harry stares at the Marauder’s Map, following Ginny’s footprints around the Gryffindor common room.

Harry gazes at the broken remains of the house he was born in. A decrepit old woman hobbles up to him and Hermione, feet making soft crunching sounds against the snow.

Nagini emerges from an old woman’s skin, and strikes. Harry feels a leap of joy that is not his own. “Hermione! He’s coming!” He fights desperately with the snake, Hermione’s spells firing everywhere, and they finally reach each other—he hears the shatter of glass and a tightening sensation, before the rage and fury in his head—not his own—sends searing pain through his scar, knocking him unconscious.

“Okay, it’s coming up,” Draco murmured, spotting a slight glow on the edge of his vision, keeping his reactions carefully tucked away. “Here we go—”

Harry is reading a book, anger and confusion in his veins. He stares at a photograph of a young Albus Dumbledore with his arm over the shoulder of a young Gellert Grindelwald, and a copy of a letter—
‘Gellert—
Your point about Wizard dominance being FOR THE MUGGLES’ OWN GOOD—this, I think, is the crucial point. Yes, we have been given power, and that power gives us the right to rule, but it also gives us responsibilities over the ruled. We must stress this point, it will be the foundation stone upon which we build. Where we are opposed, as we surely will be, this must be the basis of all our counterarguments. We seize control FOR THE GREATER GOOD. And from this it follows that where we meet resistance, we must use only the force that is necessary and no more. (This was your mistake at Durmstrang! But I do not complain, because if you had not been expelled, we would never have met.)
Albus’

Draco retreated slowly, as calmly as he could. He could definitely see why Harry’s mind chose that particular memory—he pointed his wand at the chalkboard, and labeled the fresh dot “Dumbledore & Grindelwald” before turning back to check on Harry.

Harry had his head in one hand, eyes squeezed shut, rubbing his forehead. His expression was pained, and Draco panicked a little.

“Did I hurt you?” he asked, worried.

Harry’s head snapped up to look at him, as if he had just remembered Draco was there. He shook his head hastily, removing his hand from his face.

“You look like you’re in pain,” Draco remarked. “If I hurt you, I need to know.”

Harry only shook his head again, and picked up his notebook and pen to write a response.

Memory of pain

“Oh,” Draco said. “Yes, your head did hurt quite a lot that year. Voldemort’s doing, I presume?”

Harry put his pen back on the paper.

Unintentionally, he wrote.

“Hm.” Draco hummed shortly, still worried. “If you’re sure…”

Harry set his notebook in his lap and looked at Draco expectantly. Draco sighed, watching Harry with wary eyes, and let his reactions trickle through slowly.

“How did you…” He tried, unsure of the real question he wanted to ask—how, or when, or why don’t you hate me for what you saw? Harry seemed to pick up on something, anyway, as he bent to write again.

Connected to Voldemort - could see/feel what he did, when he was emotional

“Hm,” Draco hummed again, frowning. “So he was in charge of the Occlumency between you, then? Since it was agony for him to possess you?”

Harry nodded, and Draco took another deep breath, lightly rubbing the Mark on his left arm.

“I’m sorry you had to see that,” he mumbled. Harry did nothing—simply watched him with that knowing, expectant gaze, and waited.

“Regulus Black…” Draco began again. “He found the first one. He died trying to bring Voldemort down…”

Harry nodded once. Draco leaned his head back on the chair and stared up at the ceiling, processing, learning.

“Nagini was nightmarish enough as a snake,” Draco shuddered. “She had to go put on an old woman like a bloody coat,” he muttered, grimacing in disgust. Harry’s lips quirked at Draco’s wording, but he shuddered as well. It had happened to him, after all.

Draco frowned, thinking hard. “The Snitch…” he mused. “Why’d he give you a Snitch?”

Harry smirked, looking at him with those sad eyes again. He bent over his notebook, writing once more.

You’ll see

Draco huffed. “I’m sure I will,” he said grimly, then furrowed his brows as his brain set to work. “I’m going to guess that breadcrumb was the moment you learned you didn’t really know him as well as you’d thought,” he speculated. “The man who had practically been your foundation in the Wizarding World, who’d supported you and helped you and then gave you this impossible mission, with hardly any tools or knowledge to aid you in it. He was a kind of hero, to you, right? Until you realized how little you actually knew him, how much he kept from you. As much as it clearly infuriated you, how much he expected from you with so little in return, it also made him more human—you were upset he’d told you none of that himself. It made him simply a man with a complicated history, and not just the most powerful wizard of his age, the one with all the answers… he got to know you so well, he knew practically everything about you, expected the world from you, and gave you almost nothing of himself in return… right?”

Harry was staring at him with wide eyes, lips parted—almost fearful. Draco frowned again.

“Did I say something wrong?” Draco asked quietly. Harry shook his head slowly, that alarmed expression remaining. Draco watched him for a moment, searching his face, before looking away and picking up his mug from the table. This seemed to shake Harry out of his daze, and he did the same.

They sat in silence for a few minutes, enjoying the chocolatey warmth of their drinks. Draco glanced at his watch. Barely ten-thirty—they were definitely becoming more efficient.

“We have time for one more, before our break,” Draco said. “Do you feel up for it? Be honest.”

Harry thought about it for barely two seconds before giving Draco a short nod. He put his mocha down and sat up straight, closing his eyes, taking some deep breaths to prepare himself.

Draco watched him, absently twirling a lock of his hair around his finger. Even sitting still, Harry looked like a masterpiece, and he was only breathing. Pathetic, Draco.

When Harry finally deemed himself ready, Draco lifted his wand once more, and cast himself into Harry’s head.

Harry is following a silvery doe Patronus through a forest. It feels so familiar. The doe vanishes over a frozen pond, inside which Harry spots a glint of rubies. Harry sighs, understanding what he must do, and starts removing his clothes.

Arms are dragging him out of the icy water onto the frozen ground, the chain of the locket has finally released his neck, he is gulping in air. His hand clings to the sword. “Why the hell,” Ron pants, holding up the locket, “didn’t you take this thing off before you dived?”

Ghostly figures of Harry and Hermione embrace above the locket, their lips meeting. Ron’s face is filled with anguish. “Do it, Ron!” Harry yells, and Ron plunges the sword down into the locket. There is a clang of glass and metal, and a long, drawn-out scream.

Behind his walls, Draco was cheering, while also being quietly disgusted at the image of Harry and Hermione together. That just looked so wrong. Harry was guiding them along again, remembering it all on his own. Draco was glad to see he wasn’t too tired from their earlier ventures.

Hermione closes The Tales of Beedle the Bard. “Well, there you are,” Xenophilius Lovegood says. “Those are the Deathly Hallows.” He picks up a quill and parchment, drawing the odd symbol in thick, black ink. “Those of us who understand these matters recognize that the ancient story refers to three objects, or Hallows, which, if united, will make the possessor Master of Death.”

“And what would you say to Harry if you knew he was listening, Romulus?” Lee Jordan’s voice sounds from the wireless.
“I’d tell him we’re all with him in spirit,” Remus’ voice replies, “and I’d tell him to follow his instincts, which are good and nearly always right.”

“Come on, Hermione, why are you so determined not to admit it? Vol—”
“HARRY, NO!”
“—demort’s after the Elder Wand!” The Sneakoscope on the table lights up and spins, voices are outside their tent—
“Come out of there with your hands up!” a rasping voice yells in the darkness.

Draco’s breathing was speeding up. Fuck, he thought. Here we go.

“I can’t—I can’t be sure,” Draco says, wide grey eyes full of terror and recognition. Harry doesn’t understand why Draco won’t admit it. His chest feels tight.
“But look at him carefully, look! Come closer!” Harry has never heard Lucius so excited. “Draco, if we are the ones who hand Potter over to the Dark Lord, everything will be forgiven…”
“I don’t know,” Draco says.
“But then, that’s the Weasley boy! Potter’s friends—Draco look at him, isn’t it Arthur Weasley’s son—?” Lucius is practically beside himself.
“It could be,” Draco shrugs.

Harry can hear Hermione’s screams from the cellar. “We’re in the cellar of Malfoy Manor, help us,” he says desperately into a shard of broken mirror. A moment later, Dobby pops into the room.
“Harry Potter,” Dobby squeaks in the tiniest quiver of a voice, “Dobby has come to rescue you.”

“You’re going to kill me?” Harry chokes. “After I saved your life? You owe me, Wormtail!” The fingers of the silver hand slacken and release him, and start moving inexorably towards Pettigrew’s own throat. Pettigrew’s eyes widen in terror.

Harry’s scar is bursting with pain—Voldemort is coming. A bead of blood drips down Hermione’s throat under Bellatrix’s silver blade…

Harry leaps over an armchair and wrests the three wands from Draco’s grip, pointing them all at Greyback…

The silver hilt of the knife protrudes from the elf’s heaving chest. Harry catches him as he falls. “Dobby, no, don’t die, don’t die—”
Dobby’s eyes meet his. “Harry… Potter…” he says, lips trembling with the effort, before his body gives a little shudder, then goes still.

Draco was shaking in his own body, from the adrenaline, from seeing his own memories through Harry’s eyes, from watching the elf he’d once known die. He thought of Timsy, behind his Occlumency walls, and his shaking increased, but they were so close, Draco could feel it—no use stopping now.

“Almost there, Harry,” Draco murmured, his voice trembling. “You’re doing great, we’re so close—”

Harry buries Dobby the muggle way, with dirt and sweat. He feels Voldemort’s fury, distantly—Harry is protected by his own grief.

“Harry,” whispers Hermione, “are you saying what I think you’re saying? Are you saying there’s a Horcrux in the Lestranges’ vault?”

“Hawthorn and unicorn hair. Ten inches precisely. Reasonably springy. This was the wand of Draco Malfoy,” Ollivander rasps.
“Was? Isn’t it still his?” Harry asks.

“It’s a boy!” Remus shouts, utterly thrilled. Everyone cheers. “Teddy, after Dora’s father. You’ll be godfather, Harry?”

Harry stares at the Marauder’s Map, by the light of the hawthorn wand. He opens a flap to continue watching Draco’s footprints traverse a dungeon corridor.

“Alright, here it is,” Draco said, after several memories of planning with the goblin, eating meals with Bill and Fleur, despairing that Voldemort now had the Elder Wand. He spotted the glow in the corner of his vision, finally, latching on tightly. “Hang on—”

Harry is under the Cloak, with a goblin on his back, standing in front of a tall desk at Gringotts with a barely recognizable Ron, Travers the Death Eater, and Bellatrix Lestrange—Hermione, on Polyjuice.
“Identification? I have never been asked for identification before!” says Hermione/Bellatrix.
“They know,” Griphook the goblin whispers in Harry’s ear. “They must have been warned.”
“Your wand will do, madam,” says the old goblin at the desk. They must have known that Bellatrix’s wand was stolen—
“Act now, act now, quickly!” Griphook whispers urgently.
Harry raises the hawthorn wand beneath the Cloak, points it at the old goblin, and whispers, for the first time in his life, “Imperio.”
A curious sensation shoots down Harry’s arm, tingling warmth that seems to flow from his mind, down the veins and sinews connecting him to the wand. The old goblin takes Hermione/Bellatrix’s wand, examines it closely, and says, “Ah, you have had a new wand made, Madam Lestrange!”

Draco withdrew, and lowered his wand. He closed his eyes and allowed his Occlumency barriers to fall, feeling precariously close to crashing. He was still shaking from adrenaline, a cold sweat dotting his forehead. His hands moved to his collar, his left forearm, his hair, over and over, as he concentrated on the breath moving in and out of his body, riding out the flood of emotions: fear, anxiety, grief, guilt, awe, even a little joy, swirling through and around him. He was caught like a little boat in a stormy sea, with no choice but to wait for it all to pass, and hope for the best.

When Draco opened his eyes, Harry was watching him anxiously again. Draco gave him a tiny, reassuring smile. “Alright?”

A corner of Harry’s lips twitched up, and he gave a short nod. Draco prepared to start his analysis, but Harry grabbed his notebook first, glancing at Draco once before writing.

Why didn’t you tell them?

Draco took a deep breath, knowing exactly what the vague question was referring to. Full honesty, he’d promised.

“Because I didn’t want you to die,” he answered. “If I’d identified you, they’d have called him immediately, and he’d have killed you then and there. I wouldn’t do it.”

Harry was looking at him intently, face full of something Draco couldn’t quite read. Draco waited for more questions, but they didn’t come, so he decided to move on.

“Was that your first—successful—Unforgivable?” he asked. Harry nodded again, eyes still trained on Draco’s face.

“Probably the first time you caused harm to what was technically an innocent bystander, right? Must have completely thrown you…” Draco trailed off, thinking further, as Harry gave him another encouraging nod.

“...and totally uprooted your concrete view of right and wrong,” he murmured. “You needed to get into that vault, in order to defeat Voldemort. Morals were a luxury, at that point, one you couldn’t afford. So you used Unforgivables on innocents, and robbed a bank, and if the rumours are true, you also stole a dragon. Right and wrong became irrelevant, in matters of survival.”

Harry was looking at him meaningfully, with that maybe-pride again, and something like understanding. Draco felt like Harry was seeing right through him. With a jolt, Draco realized he had also just described his own experiences in sixth and seventh year—right and wrong became irrelevant, in matters of survival. Was that what Harry was thinking about? Was Harry understanding him, this time?

Draco searched Harry’s face, but he didn’t move to communicate—he just sat there, staring at Draco with knowing green eyes. Draco pointed his wand at the board, labeled a new dot “First Unforgivable”, and moved on.

“Where did the Patronus come from?” Draco asked. Harry looked at him for a moment more before picking up his notebook to write.

Snape

Draco raised his eyebrows. “Severus’ Patronus was a female deer?” Harry bent his head to write more.

My mother’s

Draco sighed deeply. This made absolutely no sense.

“Merlin, Harry, I really wish you could talk,” he breathed. “There’s so much I want to talk to you about, so much I want to know about you, and I don’t like learning it like this—where you have no control, no say in what I see. When you can’t talk about it.” Draco pressed his lips together to keep himself from saying anything else. Harry only looked wryly at him, and shrugged.

Draco patted the armrests of his chair, and stood up, effectively ending the odd confessional moment.

Harry remained in his seat for a moment more. His wild, dark hair was curling softly over his forehead, and Draco could faintly see the tip of his lightning bolt scar where it cut through his right eyebrow. The light from the fire danced over the light stubble shadowing his jaw, accentuating his cheekbone. He sat so confidently, taking up the space of the wingback chair—his denim clad legs splayed slightly, strong arms laying across the armrests, like he belonged there. He looked up at Draco suddenly, through his glasses, too-bright green eyes piercing Draco from under thick, dark lashes, and Draco inhaled sharply, feeling a jolt of heat run up his spine.

He turned away quickly, one arm raising to cover his stomach, where he could feel that twist of discomfort, of warning.

“Come on, then, time for lunch,” Draco said, voice coming out more hoarsely than he’d liked as he made his way to the door, not bothering to see if Harry would follow.

***

Harry had wanted to visit the animals again, so they did. The sun was out, thankfully, so neither of them needed outerwear. Draco had even rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, allowing the mid-April sun to warm his skin, and fill him with contentment.

The trail was easier to follow, with the sunlight dappling through the leaves. Harry’s black t-shirt and dark hair stood out among the bright forest, like a harmony—something that wasn’t quite the same, but supposed to be there regardless, adding to the trees to create something even more lovely. The earth around them was becoming greener by the day, and Draco couldn’t help but compare the colours to those in Harry’s eyes, noting the similarities accentuated with the variety of flora. He hoped, with his entire being, that if he was being this pathetic internally, he was at least being subtle about it.

Harry looked at him as they approached the meeting place, smirking in amusement, and pursed his lips to whistle Celestina Warbeck’s Curse Breaker. Draco huffed a laugh, shaking his head in disbelief.

“So that’s apparently the only sound you can make from your mouth,” he chuckled quietly. “What will the papers say? ‘Chosen One Chooses New Calling: Professional Whistling Pantomime...’”

Harry laughed silently at him, and Draco’s lungs tightened at seeing him look so happy, so carefree, because of Draco.

Hera seemed happy to see Draco’s strange companion again, and gladly took Harry’s carrots and affections. As Bubo hopped down from his perch to land gently on Draco’s bare arm, Draco saw the situation from a new perspective—Harry loved the doe and the owl, even though they reminded him of those he had lost. It certainly explained Harry’s conflicting expressions from their last visit: delighted smile, with mournful eyes, which Draco could see again, now, as Harry took the pouch of owl treats from Draco and held it up to the eagle owl.

When they made it back to the house, enduring another of Timsy’s discreet-yet-invasive hand cleaning charms, Draco decided to offer something he knew Harry wouldn’t ask for.

“I pulled out some memories, for you, a couple of weeks ago,” Draco began tentatively, “of Dobby, when I was young. We can watch them, if you’d like.”

Harry’s smile was shy, but he looked eager, and curious. He gave a hesitant nod—as if showing too much excitement would make Draco retract his offer. Draco grinned at him. Adorable.

Draco then turned away, leading the way back to the study, berating himself again for his wayward thoughts.

Draco unlocked the secret cabinet and pulled out the Pensieve, floating it over towards where Harry stood, in the middle of the room. He plucked the vial labeled “Dobby” off the thin shelf, and made his way back to Harry.

“There’s two memories in here,” he said, holding up the vial. “My favourites.” Draco uncorked the vial, and carefully dumped the contents into the swirling magic-liquid-wind inside the Pensieve. He glanced once at Harry for confirmation, and they both bent over to lower their faces into the basin.

They landed in Draco’s childhood bedroom. The walls were covered in Quidditch and broomstick paraphernalia, and the shelves were stuffed with books and toy dragons. The furniture was ornate, the curtains around his bed were a deep, Slytherin green. Harry grinned at the sight.

A seven-year-old Draco is laying on the floor, wearing a set of blue, expensive, formal robes, and patent leather shoes. A set of tiny Quidditch player figurines are flying around above his head.
“Young Master Draco should not be laying on the floor in his formal robes, at this moment,” Dobby says cautiously, meaningfully, from where he’s apparated into the room, standing at the foot of the bed. He looks nervous, wringing his little hands.
“Why not?” Draco asks petulantly, not moving from his spot on the floor. Dobby only becomes more apprehensive, bouncing on the balls of his feet, his ears flapping with the movement.
“Because Dobby is seeing Mistress Narcissa walking in the corridor, at this moment,” the elf replies quietly. Draco’s eyes widen comically, and he shoots up from the floor and runs toward his desk, grabbing a book on the way. Dobby snaps his fingers, magically cleaning the toys from the air and the floor, and clearing any dust and wrinkles from little Draco’s expensive robes. Draco straightens his spine, and Dobby disapparates the moment the door unlatches, disguising the sound.
Narcissa glides into the room, smiling fondly at the sight of her apparently-well-behaved son. “Draco, your father’s guests will be arriving in an hour, and I expect you to be ready to greet them in the drawing room,” she says softly, petting his hair affectionately. Draco looks up from his book, as if he’d just noticed she was there.
“Of course, Mother,” he replies, in his best efforts at pureblood grace and maturity, which still seem ridiculous coming from a seven-year-old. “I look forward to meeting them, and welcoming them into our home.”

Harry’s hand moved to his mouth to cover his laughter, his eyes were dancing with mirth. They saw Narcissa’s lips twitch with amusement, as well, and Draco was reminded suddenly of Teddy, bowing over Narcissa’s hand.

Narcissa kisses his head gently, and leaves the room. As the door closes, Draco lets out an exaggerated sigh of relief, closing the book with a snap. Dobby apparates back into the room, checking things over. Draco grins at him.
“Since Young Master Draco’s presence is not being required for an hour, Young Master Draco could be using this moment to lay on the floor in his formal robes,” the elf says, big, round eyes staring at Draco meaningfully again. Dobby snaps his fingers, and the Quidditch figurines return to the air, toy dragons prowl around on the floor. Little Draco laughs, and lays back down on the hard floor.

The memory ended, and the scene swirled into another. The same bedroom surrounded them, but this time, with twice as many Slytherin decorations, and twice as many books, that mostly looked heavy and old, and quite boring. Night had fallen, and thick, fluffy snow was falling outside the window.

An eleven-year-old Draco sits on his bed, clad in black robes, knees curled up to his chest, staring out the window dramatically. He sighs dejectedly. Dobby quietly pops into the room, quickly looking Draco over, before turning to the shelves to pretend to clean them.
“Welcome home, Young Master Draco. Was the Young Master having a good time at school?”
“I want to go back,” Draco replies, not looking away from the window. “Even with stupid, famous Harry Potter prancing about, it’s better than here. I can’t even go play in the snow. At Christmas!”

Harry snorted at this, and Draco grinned.

“Is Young Master Draco being unhappy because Master Lucius is being punishing him, sir?” Dobby asks, side-eyeing the boy.
“Of course,” Draco snaps petulantly. “Just because my marks aren’t as good as… Professors playing favourites, obviously… only one semester…” he mutters to himself, under his breath.
“Master Lucius is forbidding Young Master Draco from crossing the threshold of his bedroom, sir, until Master Lucius is deciding the punishment is being sufficient,” Dobby says, staring straight at Draco intently with his huge eyes. Draco scoffs.
“I’m well aware, Dobby, no need to rub it in,” Draco snarls. Dobby is wringing his hands again, looking around nervously.
“Young Master Draco cannot cross the threshold of his bedroom, until Master Lucius is deciding the punishment is being sufficient, sir,” Dobby says, emphasizing the words, bouncing gently on the balls of his feet. Draco picks his head up from his knees, looking shrewdly at the nervous elf.
“Are you saying that perhaps… there’s a way out of my bedroom, without crossing the threshold?” Draco asks slowly. Dobby’s face breaks out in an odd grin, and he nods vigorously, ears flapping wildly.
“Young Master Draco could be playing in the snow, sir, if Young Master is wanting to, and is telling Dobby to help him get there, sir,” Dobby whispers, and Draco grins excitedly, jumping off of his bed to put on his shoes, pulling his Slytherin scarf out of his trunk. He runs back over to the elf, who is still wringing his hands nervously, but seems almost as excited at the prospect of mischief as Draco. The elf snaps his fingers, and a strong warming charm covers the boy.
“Dobby,” Draco says quietly, “take me outside.”
Dobby grins again, and grabs hold of Draco’s sleeve, apparating them out of the room.

As they landed in their own bodies outside of the Pensieve, Draco laughed. Harry joined him, laughing silently with bright, wet eyes, watching Draco. Draco felt something cold on his cheek, and wiped at it absently—a tear. Oh, well.

“He was a wonderful elf,” Draco said, laughter fading. “I was upset when you freed him, but I’m glad he could get away from the Manor, from my father. I’m glad he was happy.”

Harry’s face was lit up with fondness—Draco didn’t know to whom it was being directed, but it didn’t matter. He was just happy to have brought Harry joy, to have shared something of himself that he actually liked with Harry.

As they came down from their giddiness, Draco motioned towards the chairs by the small fire, sighing. “Let’s finish up seventh year, shall we?”

Harry glanced briefly at the shelves of memories inside the Pensieve cabinet, before making his way to his chair. “Start meditating, I’ll be over in a moment,” Draco said, pulling out his wand to fish the memories out of the Pensieve, placing them carefully back into the glass vial. He brought the Pensieve back to its cabinet, replaced the vial on the shelf, and closed it up, locking it meticulously.

Draco settled himself in his chair, twirling his wand in his fingers, breathing deeply as he watched Harry meditate. He thought privately that the gentle, repetitive rise and fall of Harry’s shoulders was calming enough for him to forgo his own meditation. Instead, he brought up his Occlumency shields again, stuffing his emotions and reactions behind the big, wooden door in his mind, preparing himself for the work ahead.

Harry opened his eyes, quirked his lips, and nodded once at Draco. Draco raised his wand.

“The cup, for the sword!” Griphook yells, and Harry has no choice, they are drowning in burning treasure. He throws the Sword of Gryffindor to the goblin, who throws the golden cup back to him. It burns his skin and starts spitting out copies, but Harry doesn’t let go.

“Relashio!” Harry shouts, and the cuffs chaining the dragon to the floor break open. “This way!” Harry sprints towards the beast, firing stunning spells at the goblins and wizard guards.
“Harry—Harry—what are you doing?” Hermione cries.
“Get up, climb up, come on—” Harry climbs onto the dragon’s back, stretches out an arm, hoists Hermione and Ron up behind him, and then the dragon realizes it is untethered, rearing up with an ear-splitting roar.

“And they took?” His voice is high and cold, fury and fear burn inside him. “What did they take? Tell me!”
“A… A s-small golden cup, my Lord—” the goblin stammers, and he lets out a scream of rage, of denial. The Elder Wand slashes through the air, spellfire fills the room, bodies and blood cover the floor.

“We have to get going, Hermione,” Harry says firmly, sparing a moment to mourn his lack of sleep. There was no time. “Can you imagine what he’s going to do once he realizes the ring and the locket are gone? What if he moves the Hogwarts Horcrux, decides it isn’t safe enough?”

Behind his walls, Draco cheered that the rumour of the stolen dragon was true—he had always hoped it was. Gringotts had always denied it. But the consequences of it… Bits and pieces were clicking together in Draco’s mind, connecting the memories to his own.

“I knew my brother, Potter. He learned secrecy at our mother’s knee. Secrets and lies, that’s how we grew up, and Albus… he was a natural.” Aberforth’s eyes travel to the portrait of the girl on the mantelpiece.

“I knew you’d come! I knew it, Harry!” Neville looks a mess, clambering out from behind the portrait on the mantelpiece.

“There’s something we need to find,” Harry says. “It’s here at Hogwarts, but we don’t know where. It might have belonged to Ravenclaw.”
“Well, there’s Rowena Ravenclaw’s lost diadem,” Luna pipes up. “I told you about it, Harry, remember?”

Amycus Carrow spits in McGonagall’s face. Harry, furious, throws off his Cloak, aims the hawthorn wand. “Crucio!”

McGonagall’s and Flitwick’s wands slash through the air. Snape hurtles through a classroom door. “Coward!” McGonagall cries.

Inside his own body, Draco was vibrating with nerves. He did not want to relive this night, he really did not want to—

“Here, I’ve got a picture!” Remus says proudly to Fleur and Harry, pulling out a photograph of a tiny baby with a tuft of turquoise hair, waving fat fists at the camera.

“Give me Harry Potter, and none shall be harmed. Give me Harry Potter, and you shall be rewarded. You have until midnight.” Voldemort’s voice dissipates, followed by a heavy silence in the Great Hall.
“But he’s there!” Pansy shrieks, pointing with a shaking arm. “Someone grab him!”

Ron demonstrates an awful hissing sound, holding an armful of basilisk fangs.
“‘S’what you said to open the locket,” he explains, to Harry’s dumbfounded look. “Took a few tries, but I got there.”

“The house-elves, they’ll all be down in the kitchens, won’t they?” Ron says.
“You mean we ought to get them fighting?” Harry asks.
“No,” Ron says. “I mean we should tell them to get out. We can’t order them to die for us—”
A clatter as the basilisk fangs cascade out of Hermione’s arms. She runs at Ron, flinging her arms around his neck, kissing him full on the mouth.

“Don’t kill him! DON’T KILL HIM!” Draco yells at Vince and Greg.

“IF WE DIE FOR THEM, I’LL KILL YOU, HARRY!” Ron roars as he and Hermione drag Greg onto their broom, and Draco finally grasps Harry’s arm, clambering up behind him, clutching tightly to his waist. Harry spots the diadem flying through the air, makes a hairpin swerve, and dives. Draco’s face is buried between his shoulder blades.
“What are you doing, what are you doing, the door’s that way!” Draco screams as Harry catches the falling diadem around his wrist and soars back towards the door, Draco holding him so tightly it hurts.

Draco’s breathing was harsh outside of Harry’s head. He could hear Harry’s shaky breaths, and he could feel his left hand trembling in his lap. Almost there, almost there…

“You actually are joking, Perce! I don’t think I’ve heard you joke since—”
The air explodes, everyone is thrown, and from the wreckage, Harry hears a terrible, agonized cry…

“If your son is dead, Lucius, it is not my fault. He did not come and join me like the rest of the Slytherins. Perhaps he has decided to befriend Harry Potter?”
“No… Never,” Lucius whispers.

“NO!” Hermione shrieks, and with a deafening blast from her wand, Greyback is thrown from the feebly stirring body of Lavender Brown.

“Don’t hurt ‘em, don’t hurt ‘em!” Hagrid yells, vanishing among the swarming Acromantulas.

“We’re all still here,” Luna whispers, “we’re still fighting, come on now…”

Harry is bent over Snape, trying to staunch the bloody wound at his neck. “Take… it…” Snape rasps, and Harry sees the silvery blue leaking from his eyes and mouth. Hermione thrusts a flask into his hand—Harry fills it to the brim.
“Look… at… me,” Snape whispers, and Harry meets his dark eyes, a moment before the life inside them vanishes.

“Almost there, Harry,” Draco murmured, his voice shaking again. “So close, I can feel it.” He heard Harry huff, and without even seeing it, Draco knew it meant something like Obviously, you dolt. Probably because Draco was thinking it, too.

The Weasleys surround Fred’s body. Harry can clearly see the bodies of Remus and Nymphadora Tonks beside them, peaceful and still, and his world seems to shrink. He runs for the Headmaster’s office.

Inside a memory, on the Hogwarts Express, an eleven-year-old Severus grins at an eleven-year-old Lily Evans. “You’d better be in Slytherin,” he says.
“Slytherin?” Another boy in the compartment pipes up—the young James Potter. “Who wants to be in Slytherin? I think I’d leave, wouldn’t you?”

Inside a memory, on a hilltop, Severus is trembling with terror. “The prophecy—he thinks it means her son! He’s going to hunt them down—hide them, please, keep them safe—”
“And what will you give me in return, Severus?” Dumbledore asks.
“Anything.”

Inside a memory, Severus is crying. “You know how and why she died. Make sure it was not in vain. Help me protect her son,” Dumbledore urges.

Inside a memory, Severus’s wand is on Dumbledore’s blackened hand. “You’ve done very well, Severus. How long do you think I have?” Dumbledore asks.
Severus hesitates. “Maybe a year.”

Inside a memory, Severus raises his eyebrows. “Are you intending to let Draco kill you?”
“Certainly not,” Dumbledore replies. “You must kill me.”

“Alright, Harry, hang on tight,” Draco murmured, and inhaled sharply as he felt Harry’s warm hand grab his own—Harry was taking that literally. Draco held it tightly, anyway, as he spotted the glow in his peripherals, brighter and longer than ever, and hooked his magic into it.

Inside a memory, Dumbledore paces his office. “Harry must not know, not until the last moment, otherwise how could he have the strength to do what must be done?”
“Know what?” Severus asks.
“There will come a time—after my death—when Voldemort will seem to fear for the life of his snake. Then, I think, it will be safe to tell Harry. ... That on the night Lord Voldemort tried to kill him, when Lily cast her own life between them as a shield, the Killing Curse rebounded, and a fragment of Voldemort’s soul was blasted apart from the whole, and latched itself onto the only living soul left. Part of Voldemort lives inside Harry, and it is that which gives him the power of speech with snakes, and a connection with Voldemort’s mind. And while that fragment of soul, unmissed by Voldemort, remains attached to and protected by Harry, Voldemort cannot die.”
“So the boy… the boy must die?” Severus asks.
“And Voldemort himself must do it. That is essential.”
Another long silence. Then Severus says, “I thought… all these years, that we were protecting him for her. For Lily. You have kept him alive so he can die at the proper moment?” Severus is horrified.
Harry rises out of the Pensieve, and his legs give out beneath him, sending him to the floor.
…
“Neville, listen… you know Voldemort’s snake, huge snake, calls it Nagini…” Harry says.
“I’ve heard, yeah… what about it?”
“It’s got to be killed. Ron and Hermione know, but just in case they—” Harry chokes on his words.
…
At the edge of the Forbidden Forest, Harry’s nerveless fingers fumble at the pouch on his neck, pulling out the Snitch. He reads the words on the metal: I open at the close. He presses his lips to the Snitch, and whispers, “I am about to die.” The shell breaks open, revealing a small, black stone. He closes his eyes, and turns the stone in his hand three times.
When he opens his eyes, the memory-like figures of James, Lily, Sirius, and Remus stand around him, smiling at him.
…
Harry is walking through the forest, under the Cloak, flanked by the figures of James, Lily, Sirius, and Remus. Their presence is his courage.
…
“I expected him to come. It seems I was mistaken,” Voldemort says.
“You weren’t,” Harry says, loud and clear, as he drops the stone onto the forest floor and removes his Cloak, stepping into the clearing. The figures around him vanish.
“Harry Potter,” Voldemort says very softly. “The Boy Who Lived.” He raises his wand, head tilted to one side. Harry’s heart is racing so fast, counting out its final beats. He does not draw his own wand.
He sees Voldemort’s mouth move and a flash of green light, and then everything is gone.
…
The air was shoved out of Draco’s lungs as the secondhand impact of the Killing Curse punched him in the chest, but the glow continued, the breadcrumb was still going, and he couldn’t stop now even though he wanted to, for what could possibly come after death? But he knew Harry was alive, here, right in front of him, gripping his hand so tightly it hurt, and he had to continue.
…
A huge, bright white, misty place. Something is making pitiful whimpering noises—the form of a small, naked child, skin raw and flayed-looking, curled on the ground. Harry recoils.
“You cannot help,” a voice says, and Harry turns to face Albus Dumbledore.
…
“But if Voldemort used the Killing Curse,” Harry starts, “and nobody died for me this time—how can I be alive?”
“I think you know,” Dumbledore says. “Think back. Remember what he did, in his ignorance, in his greed and his cruelty.” Harry thinks for a long time, remembering.
“He took my blood,” Harry says finally.
“Precisely!” Dumbledore exclaims. “He took your blood, and rebuilt his living body with it! Your blood in his veins, Harry, Lily’s protection inside both of you! He tethered you to life while he lives!”
…
“I’ve got to go back, haven’t I?” Harry asks.
“That is up to you.”
“I’ve got a choice?”
“Oh yes.”
…
“By returning, you may ensure that fewer souls are maimed, fewer families are torn apart. If that seems to you a worthy goal, then we say goodbye for the present,” Dumbledore says, and Harry sighs and nods. He doesn’t really want to—it is warm and light and peaceful, here, and he knows he is heading back to more pain and fear of more loss. But he has to.
“Tell me one last thing,” Harry says. “Is this real? Or has this all been happening inside my head?”
Dumbledore beams at him. “Of course it is happening inside your head, Harry. That doesn’t mean it’s not real.”
…
Harry is laying on the forest floor, as still as possible, listening to the voices around him.
“You,” Voldemort says, and there’s a bang and a small shriek of pain. “Examine him. Tell me whether he is dead.”
Harry doesn’t know who is sent. His heart is pumping traitorously as careful footsteps approach.
Hands, softer than he had been expecting, touch Harry’s face, pull back an eyelid, creep beneath his shirt, down to his chest, and feel his heart. He can feel the woman’s fast breathing, her long hair tickles his face. She leans in close to his ear, her hair shielding her face, her hand feeling his heart beating beneath his ribs, and whispers, barely audible:
“Is Draco alive? Is he in the castle?”
“Yes,” Harry breathes. The hand on his chest contracts, nails piercing him as she sits up.
“He is dead,” Narcissa Malfoy says, to Voldemort and the watching Death Eaters.

Draco gasped, withdrawing himself, finally, with an audible groan of pain and relief and every emotion he hadn’t had time to feel. He shuddered violently, his face wet with tears and sweat, his hand gripping Harry’s tightly—this time, it was he who thought Harry might disappear, and held on for dear life.

“Fuck,” Draco breathed hoarsely, emotions storming through him. He dropped his wand, somewhere—his hand grabbed for his chest, not for the scars, but where he felt the jet of green light hit him—hit Harry—Harry. The hand on his chest reached out of its own accord, and was found by another, just as warm, alive, here.

Harry had died. He had made the ultimate sacrifice for them all—because he had to. Because he always did, because no one else could, or would. And then he came back, given the choice, not because he wanted to, but because he had to, because no one else would. He couldn’t be free from feeling responsible for the wellbeing of the Wizarding World, a burden that had been thrust upon him as a child, even in death.

“Harry,” Draco’s voice was strained, nearly whimpering, and he was completely overwhelmed, because now righteous anger had joined the mix. They had known, Dumbledore had known, had raised Harry like a pig for slaughter, forcing him to endure a horrific childhood, making him save the day over and over, giving him a daunting, dangerous, impossible task, and then asking him to die—and even in death, Dumbledore was pleasantly surprised when Harry came through it, tethered to life by a mere twist of fate. And then the man practically told him to go back and finish the job, and Harry did. Un-fucking-believable.

Draco’s breathing was shallow, uneven, difficult through the painful lump in his throat. With shaking arms, he brought the strong hands he held to his face, holding the backs of the fingers to his forehead and cheek, feeling the warmth beneath the skin. Alive. Alive. One of the hands released him, but returned shortly, tentatively, to his face, a rough palm on Draco’s cheek, careful fingers in Draco’s hair. Alive. Here. Safe. Draco, not yet completely aware of himself, leaned into the touch, and he heard a quiet, shaky intake of breath in front of him. Alive.

Draco held the hand against his face, trying to control his breathing, riding out the hurricane of emotions, noticing the difference between those and the twisting discomfort in his gut from his bonds, now, painfully sharp. He had never had to test it like this, before. It only made him grip Harry’s hand harder, probably out of spite.

When he finally felt he had some control over himself, he released Harry’s hands and sat back in his chair, pulling away from the warmth of the being in front of him. Only then did he decide to open his eyes.

Harry’s face was wet, too, and Draco knew he himself must look a right mess—he knew he got red and blotchy when he cried, Pansy had always told him it wasn’t a good look. But Harry looked like a tragic angel, because of course he did, the tosser. His eyes shone brighter against his smooth, brown skin, his lips a lovely rosy colour from pressing themselves together so hard, from the straight teeth currently biting them nervously.

“So that’s why you trust my mother,” is what Draco finally decided to say, because he didn’t trust himself to say anything else and not completely explode. Harry searched his face carefully for a moment, before a corner of his mouth lifted a little, and he nodded.

Draco took several more deep breaths, the room descending into silence once more.

“I know why that was important, and formative to you,” Draco muttered, meeting Harry’s eyes. He said nothing else—it was too volatile. He waited for Harry to prod him for more, but thankfully, he didn’t. He simply continued watching Draco, silently.

Draco bent over and picked up his wand from where he’d dropped it on the floor. He pointed it at the board, made yet another dot on the trail, and labeled it “Death”. Simple and succinct, there really wasn’t any way to make it look less morbid. He looked back at Harry, thinking, remembering.

“Why did you come back for me?” Draco asked softly, brow furrowed, unsure if Harry would even answer. Draco wouldn’t blame him if he didn’t, but Harry didn’t hesitate. He opened his notebook, clicked his pen, and started to write.

I didn’t want you to die

Draco’s face smoothed out into a tiny smile, which seemed to please Harry. Typical, that Harry would use Draco’s own words, like that—but appreciated, nonetheless. That Harry Potter remembered and valued anything he had to say was a miracle in and of itself, just as the fact that Harry Potter was alive was a miracle. Draco cherished both of them equally. He shook his head fondly.

“What Dumbledore said, at the end… is that why you were frightened, when I spoke to you at St. Mungo’s? You thought I was in your head, watching that?”

Harry nodded slowly.

“And he gave you the Snitch… it held the Resurrection Stone, not for you, but for your escort…” Draco was mumbling to himself, at this point, processing all the rest of it, now that the flood of emotions had subsided. Harry was still nodding at him.

“You know that technically makes you the ‘Master of Death,’ right? You actually possessed all three…” Draco made air quotation marks with his fingers, and Harry scoffed, rolling his eyes.

“I know,” Draco smirked. “As if you need another ridiculous title to add to your list of epithets. When you do finally croak, they won’t be able to fit all of them on your gravestone,” he said dryly. Harry chuckled silently at him, eyes still shiny from tears now twinkling with amusement.

Eventually, Draco sighed and glanced at his watch. “We’re out of time for today, but…” he raised his wand to his temple, concentrating hard on a memory of sitting on a beach on the Amalfi Coast. He made sure he was fully clothed in this one, not exactly eager for Harry to see his scars. It was boring, but peaceful—Draco had simply sat there, on the beach, for hours, trying and failing to read a book, distracted by the beautiful scenery. He focused on the scents of the lemon groves and the feel of the sea breeze and the sun on his skin, the sounds of the waves on the rocks. Draco carefully pulled the strand of memory out of his head, stood up, and took an empty glass vial from a drawer in his desk, placing the memory inside and corking it tightly.

“In case you need another holiday, from your head,” Draco murmured, handing the glowing vial to Harry, “I’m assuming you have a Pensieve, at home.”

Harry took it delicately, staring at it in awe. He looked up at Draco with a delighted, grateful smile, that made Draco feel warm all over.

Chapter Eight

Draco straightened his tie under his waistcoat as he knelt in front of his fireplace. He didn’t have to dress formally for a floo call, but it certainly wouldn’t hurt, in this particular case. Timsy was shaking his head in disapproval on the other side of the room at the sight of Draco practically ruining the knees of his expensive trousers, when they wouldn’t even be seen.

He threw the floo powder into the fire, and called out “Minister Shacklebolt’s Office!” before sticking his head into the flames, enduring the odd, twisting journey sending his head and shoulders away from his body.

His face popped up in another fireplace, and Draco recognized the office of the Minister for Magic. Shacklebolt was sitting at his large desk, writing something with a long quill. Draco internally thanked him for the full floo access, and cheered that he’d got him at a time when he wasn’t too busy, doing Minister things.

“Minister,” Draco greeted. Shacklebolt looked up from his desk, a barely concealed look of surprise on his face.

“Healer Malfoy,” he replied calmly. “Do you have news?”

Draco couldn’t control his eye roll. Not a good start. “Even if I did, you know I can’t relay it, Shacklebolt,” he muttered. “I need information.”

Shacklebolt raised his eyebrows. He lowered his quill, sitting back in his ornate leather chair and motioning for Draco to continue.

“I need to know what you know of the Unspeakables’ current projects, as well as a list of who works there and their backgrounds,” Draco said, and Shacklebolt stared at him for a moment, dumbfounded, before throwing his head back and laughing.

“You can’t be serious,” Shacklebolt mumbled between chuckles.

“Quite serious,” Draco replied firmly, glaring at the Minister, who finally got himself under control, folding his hands in his lap, a disbelieving smile on his face.

“That is information I cannot provide, not because you don’t have clearance—which you don’t, by the way—but because I don’t know, myself. The Department of Mysteries is not under my jurisdiction. No one knows what those swots get up to except themselves. I’ve only been there once, in ‘96, with the Order, fighting Death Eaters. I didn’t understand a whit of what I saw, and we certainly didn’t run into any Unspeakables.”

Draco’s mouth opened in shock. “Not under your… then whose jurisdiction are they under?”

“Their own,” Kingsley shrugged. “Have been for centuries.” Draco just stared at him in disbelief.

“So you, the Minister for Magic, have absolutely no idea what goes on on an entire floor of the Ministry, nor who works there… and you don’t care?”

“Of course I care,” Kingsley scoffed. “But it is beyond the limit of my power. The DoM is practically its own entity. They keep to themselves, they hide in their books and their mysteries of life, they bother no one. I simply sign off a budget approval for Level Nine, every year, and leave them to their studies.”

“Kingsley, you don’t know that,” Draco urged, shocking himself with the use of the Minister’s first name, but too utterly bewildered by Kingsley’s indifference to care. “You don’t know if they keep to themselves and bother no one, because you’ve never seen them. What you’re telling me is that they answer to no one, they’re not held accountable for anything, they might even be above the law.”

“No one is above the law, Draco, but any time I tried to find out what goes on down there, I hit hundreds of dead ends.”

“And that seems normal to you, how hard they’re working to hide from you? Weren’t you an Auror before this?”

“Why is this important, Draco?” Kingsley glared. “You think the bookworms down there had something to do with what happened to Harry?”

Draco opened his mouth to reply, but no words came out. He coughed softly, glaring back at the Minister, whose eyebrows were raising at what Draco’s silence obviously meant.

“I’ll see what I can find out, but like I said, they’re near impossible to track down,” Kingsley said. Draco sighed. Why did Kingsley Shacklebolt, the Minister for Magic, have such little faith in his own authority?

“Fine,” Draco replied shortly, and hesitated before continuing, “I also require a favour, Shacklebolt.”

Shacklebolt raised his eyebrows again, probably at the sheer audacity of Draco Malfoy, ex-Death Eater, mere Healer, asking the Minister for a favour, after telling him how to do his job. But Kingsley was a politician now, had been for eight years, and traded freely with the currency of favours.

“Go on,” Shacklebolt muttered, clearly curious.

Draco hesitated again, but thought of his mother, and hardened his resolve.

“Have you had any word from Azkaban, lately, about Lucius?”

Shacklebolt tried not to wrinkle his nose in distaste, but Draco still saw it, and understood it too well.

“No, I haven’t. Are you expecting news?”

“He stopped responding to my mother’s letters, six months ago,” Draco said quietly. His knees were starting to hurt from kneeling on the hard floor in front of the fire. “That could mean anything, but my mother… I’d appreciate it if you could just… check,” he fumbled, cringing at his lack of eloquence.

“I see,” Shacklebolt murmured, nodding. “I’ll write the warden for an update, then.”

Draco exhaled in relief. “Thank you. That’s all I need. Good day, Minister.”

Kingsley gave him a curious look before replying, “I’ll be in touch, Draco.”

Draco pulled his head out of the fire, comfortably back on his own body, and stood up, stretching his sore back and legs. He really needed to update the cushioning charms on the floor in front of the grate. He turned and walked to his study to pen a vague, disappointing letter to the Head Auror.

***

On Monday morning, Draco stood in front of his music shelf in the sitting room, rubbing his chin, scowling at the boombox again. Harry’s cassette tape sat innocuously on the shelf, and Draco was dying to know what music Harry thought he would like. The curiosity was quickly overtaking his self-preservation, which was probably what Pansy had been counting on. If this thing exploded on him, he would be blaming her entirely—she’d definitely have to reimburse him for the damage, or buy him more records, or something. It’d be worth it, to her, the devious cow.

He took a deep breath, shook out his hands, and started pressing every single button on the device indiscriminately. It started whirring and making clicking noises, some things were lighting up, and Draco was worried, but not enough to stop. He pushed buttons that stayed down, some snapped back up, he flicked switches and turned dials until—

Click.

Draco froze as a small rectangular compartment opened in the front, barely the size of his palm, almost exactly the size of the cassette tape on the shelf. Holding his breath, Draco opened the plastic case of the tape, glancing at Harry’s scrawled handwriting on the card inside. He took out the odd, smaller rectangle within, and carefully slid it into the compartment—it fit perfectly, and he whooped with accomplishment, startling Timsy in the hallway, who jumped and grumbled under his breath.

Draco delicately closed the compartment, buzzing with anticipation, and tried to return all the other buttons and switches and dials to their original positions, somehow, before finding the “play” triangle—

And then the wards wobbled, signaling Harry’s arrival. Draco sighed, and pulled his hands away, resolving to listen to the tape right after their session today.

Harry entered the house, and Draco noticed he hadn’t worn his leather jacket, deciding a thin green jumper was all the layering he required. Draco only missed it a little bit—the jumper brought out his eyes, which made up for it, and he smiled at Draco, which made his breath catch and caused him to choke, a bit, effectively wiping away all other preoccupations.

In the study, settled into the wingback chairs with their coffees—black, this time, to appease Timsy—Draco looked over their progress on the chalkboard.

“Twenty down,” Draco mumbled. “If we were a bit over halfway through at thirteen, we must be getting close.”

Harry looked up at the board, but he didn’t look excited by this revelation. He stared at the long line of breadcrumbs, looking dejected. Draco wanted to ask about it, but he didn’t. He figured he might get to ask Harry plenty of things, soon, when they solved this subconscious maze, and Harry would even be able to answer him, maybe. Perhaps. If he wanted to.

Draco shook his head quickly—no point getting ahead of himself. He summoned his notebook and reading glasses from his desk, and set them on the side table—hopefully he’d have time to update his notes today. He’d fallen asleep directly after their session last time, completely unproductive.

Harry looked back at him, setting down his mug and sitting up straight to start his meditation. He looked calm, on the surface—Draco wondered idly if he’d taken that mental holiday he had given him last time, and spent time in that memory on Draco’s favourite beach. He wouldn’t ask that, either, until Harry could really answer him. If he wanted to.

They finished their meditation, comfortable in their routine, now, and Draco raised his wand, waiting. Harry’s eye contact seemed more intense than usual, but Draco went with it. “Legilimens.”

Harry brought them back to the forest floor. Narcissa was walking away, Death Eaters were cheering, Harry’s body was being thrown around, impervious to the pain of Voldemort’s curses.

Hagrid’s tears soak Harry’s shirt.

“Harry Potter is dead!” Voldemort yells, and Harry hears screams, he wants to comfort them…

The glint of a sword through the air as Neville slices Nagini’s head clean off…

Molly Weasley’s curse hits Bellatrix in the chest, her face frozen in shock as she falls…

“Draco Malfoy was the Master of the Elder Wand—until I disarmed him at Malfoy Manor…”

“Try, Tom. Try for remorse.”
“Avada Kedavra!”
“Expelliarmus!”
A wand flies in a high arc through the air…

Draco was only a little surprised that that duel wasn’t a breadcrumb—but then again, dueling Voldemort was old hat to Harry Potter. It was simply something he had to do, at that point. He had just died, after all. Dueling must have seemed a chore, after that. Watching it happen, though, at the time—listening to a seventeen-year-old Harry’s fierce arguments, hearing him say Draco’s name among the reasons why he was going to win, talking to the Dark Lord like he was just another dueling partner, then taking him down with a disarming spell, completely confident in his ability—that was definitely a formative memory, to Draco. His own mind would have definitely chosen it as a breadcrumb.

People swarm him, shaking his hand, he just wants to sleep.

Aurors are escorting the Malfoys out of the Great Hall.

Harry lays in Ron’s room at the Burrow, and doesn’t leave for days.

“I see something coming up,” Draco murmured, frowning. What was so important at this time? He’d have assumed Harry rested all summer, enjoying the freedom and the sunshine and Ginny. According to the papers, the only time he ever went out in public that summer was for the Death Eater Trials—oh. “Here we go—“

Harry barely makes it to the Courtroom in time. In typical Ministry fashion, they had changed the time last minute, but he’d told Kingsley to keep an ear out for it. He wouldn’t miss this.
Draco is chained to the chair on the floor of Courtroom Ten. He looks sick, his face is gaunt. He is shaking, Harry assumes from hunger and cold—he recognizes it. He has no shoes on, only dirty socks, under his filthy prisoner’s robes. Harry thinks it looks wrong—this is not how Draco Malfoy should ever look.
Draco looks up at him on the witness’ stand with piercing grey eyes, defensive and resigned. Harry can’t look away.
“Mr. Potter, you are here to testify in the trial against known Death Eater, Draco Malfoy—“
“No,” Harry says firmly, the magistrate freezes. “I am here to testify for Draco Malfoy, in his defense.”
A low hum of surprised murmurs fills the echoing room, and Draco’s chapped lips part in shock.
“Very well,” the magistrate mutters. “You may begin.”
Harry clears his throat, looking at Draco again. Harry might have been talking to him, alone. His voice rings loud and clear.
“Draco Malfoy is a spoiled git and a bully. I’ve never known him to be a particularly nice person. He is indeed a Marked Death Eater, who was tasked with the murder of Albus Dumbledore, who did find a way to let Death Eaters into Hogwarts.”
At this, Draco drops his head in defeat, but Harry still doesn’t look away from him, and continues.
“However, Draco only took that Mark, and attempted the task, at the age of sixteen, because Voldemort had his family at wandpoint. Voldemort, out of sheer cruelty, gave a teenager an impossible task he knew he would fail at, to punish his family. Draco faced death on either side—fail, and be murdered with his mother by Voldemort; or die trying to bring down the most powerful wizard of our time. He had absolutely no other options, and not one person offered him a way out.”
Draco raises his head, watching Harry with cautious disbelief.
“I was there, that night, on the Astronomy tower. I had just returned from a mission with Dumbledore, who was severely weakened. He knew what was going to happen, and told me to hide—he put me in a body-bind so I wouldn’t interfere. I watched, as Draco had a defenseless Dumbledore at wandpoint. He couldn’t do it, even when his own life was on the line. He was lowering his wand by the time Snape and the Death Eaters arrived. I only learned later that Dumbledore was dying anyway, and had told Snape to kill him, to spare Draco, and to prove Snape’s loyalty to Voldemort—even though his true loyalties laid with us, all along.”
Draco’s face is white with fear and shock, his hands gripping the chair under his chains, shivering.
“When I was captured and taken to Malfoy Manor this spring, my face was swollen from Hermione’s Stinging Jinx, but I could still be recognized by someone who knew me well—they asked Draco to identify me, and even though I knew he could recognize me, he wouldn’t tell them it was me. He wouldn’t identify Ron Weasley or Hermione Granger, either—he’d gone to school with us for six years, we’d taunted each other every day. He knew, and his silence kept me alive. I would not have lived to defeat Voldemort if he had said something.”
Harry paused to look around the room at the faces hanging on his every word, before looking down to meet Draco’s eyes again.
“Draco was a pawn in an adult’s war, the same way I was. We played the same role, on opposite sides. He was raised to follow one path and one path only. He was sent on an impossible task, to kill the most powerful wizard alive, and he had no choice but to follow it, or die. He did what he had to do to keep himself and his mother safe. I was raised to follow only one path, thanks to a stupid prophecy. I was told I had to kill one of the most powerful wizards alive, or else he would kill me, and everyone I love—I had no choice. I did what I had to do to keep my friends safe. The only difference is that I succeeded in killing someone. Draco could not.”
Draco’s eyes widen further, he seems frozen to his chair.
“If you’re going to throw Draco in Azkaban, for things he did as a teenager in an impossible situation, you’ll have to throw me in there, with him. I’ve broken into the Ministry, twice. I’ve used Unforgivables, multiple times. I’ve robbed a bank and stolen a dragon. I’ve used a time turner illegally. I’ve used Polyjuice Potion illegally, many times. I’ve performed underage magic around muggles. I’ve been seen by muggles in a flying car. I’ve harbored fugitives. I’ve attacked Professors. I’ve stolen and cheated and hurt people who didn’t deserve it. I did what I had to do to protect the people I love. Convict both of us, or neither of us. There is no good reason one pawn should be free while the other has to pay for their crimes.”
The Courtroom is stunned into complete silence, Harry’s last words echoing against the cold stone. Faintly, Harry can hear Draco’s shallow, shuddering breaths, from the chair below. Draco’s shining, grey eyes are rooting him to the spot—he feels an incomprehensible pulling, tightening sensation in his chest.

Draco carefully pulled himself out of Harry’s head, pointed his wand at the board to label a new dot “DM Trial”, and closed his eyes. He set his wand down in his lap, and let his Occlumency walls fall slowly.

He didn’t know if the constricting feeling in his ribs was his or Harry’s. He was not entirely sure if he wanted to know. His finger traced the scar on his collarbone, the Mark on his arm, rubbed the tops of his thighs.

“That was the last time I heard your voice, you know,” Draco mused after a moment, opening his eyes. Harry had remembered that testimony exactly as Draco had, word for word, everything was exactly the same. He had just relived his own memory, from a different place in the room—from the eyes of the boy who truly saw him, the only person who spoke up for him.

Harry was simply looking at him again, seeing him. His face was strained—he looked like he was trying to force words out through his eyes, through his pores, but they wouldn’t come. Draco couldn’t help but stare back at him for a moment, before making himself speak again.

“Why?”

Harry looked down at his hands, which were clamped firmly on his own legs. He prised his fingers off, opened his notebook slowly, and clicked his pen.

It was the right thing to do

Draco clicked his tongue. “That’s why you do anything, Harry,” he said. “That may be one of the reasons why, but that’s not enough to make a formative memory, that’s not enough to shape who you are. Doing the right thing isn’t new, for you.”

Harry pressed his lips together, eyes searching Draco’s face for something, Draco didn’t know what. He waited, but Harry wrote nothing else.

Draco realized he’d always been the one explaining the importance of Harry’s memories, out loud, and he might be expected to do it now. He could—he had plenty of ideas, his mind was working a mile a minute, but none of it was anything he wanted to say out loud. So, he waited, in what felt increasingly like a staring contest.

“We can come back to that later,” Draco muttered. “Ready for another?”

Harry took a deep breath, long and slow, still embroiled in the staring contest. He nodded once, and Draco raised his wand, falling once more into Harry’s head.

“Then help me understand, Harry! He tormented you for years, he called Hermione slurs, he taunted our entire family, Luna and Dean were prisoners in his house! He let Death Eaters into the school—he’s the reason Bill was mauled by Greyback! His father tried to kill both of us, Fred is dead because of Death Eaters like him! Why?!” Ginny is yelling in Diagon Alley, her face twisted in betrayal.

At Fred’s funeral, Harry stands stoically beside the Weasley family.

At Remus’ and Tonks’ funeral, he doesn’t have the strength to speak to Andromeda, who is holding onto a turquoise-haired baby like a lifeline.

“I need a favour, Kingsley,” Harry says. “I need you to keep an eye on Draco Malfoy.” Kingsley raises his eyebrows in disbelief.
“Not like that,” Harry says quickly, fumbling over his words. “I just want you to check in on him, occasionally, make sure he’s… the Ministry will try to hold him back, as will the public, whatever he decides to do… I want you to back him up, get to know him. Don’t let them keep him under their boot. He’s got a second chance now, at a proper life, away from Lucius’ shadow—I don’t want it all to go to waste.”
Harry pauses a moment, in Kingsley’s silence, before adding, “Please. I’ll owe you, big time.”
“Sure, I suppose I can do that for you, Harry, but I must ask: why not keep an eye on him, yourself?” Kingsley probes.
Harry scoffs. “Trust me, Kingsley—it’d be a lot more welcome, coming from you.”

At Colin Creevey’s funeral, Harry can’t look Dennis Creevey in the eye.

“Okay, here comes another,” Draco murmured, spotting another glow in his peripheral—this was apparently quite a formative year. He quickly latched on to the breadcrumb as it appeared.

Harry walks up to the cottage, through the garden he remembers crashing in with Hagrid. His palms are sweaty, he is shaking with nerves. It feels wrong, being here, but he has to—he wants to. He knocks on the door.
A moment later, Andromeda Tonks opens the door, her long, curly hair piled in a bun on top of her head, a turquoise-haired baby perched on her hip. Harry opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. He’s terrified—he is the reason her grandson is an orphan, why should she let him be his godfather?
But Andromeda smiles softly, and sighs. “Took you long enough,” she says, opening the door fully and stepping aside to let Harry in. He hesitates for only a moment, confused, before entering the cottage. He wipes his palms on his jeans as they enter the sitting room, and turns to face Andromeda, pain and guilt on his face.
“Mrs. Tonks, I—”
“Hush,” she interrupts him. “Whatever nonsense you’re about to spew—I can tell it’ll be nonsense, from the look on your face, Harry—don’t bother. I’m just glad you’re here.”
Harry is speechless. Andromeda takes advantage of it, and pushes baby Teddy into his arms. “Teddy needs his godfather, and I need a long, hot bath, and maybe a nap. There’s formula bottles in the kitchen under a warming charm, and clean nappies on the changing table in the nursery—second door on the right. You’ll figure it out.” Andromeda looks and sounds exhausted, and she walks away from them. Before she enters her room, he hears her call, “By the way, just call me Andy. We’re family now, you know.” Harry’s breath catches in his throat.
He looks back at the infant squirming in his arms, who is now pulling on Harry’s wild, overgrown hair—he has no idea what he’s doing, still stunned by the entire interaction. He sits on the sofa, and eventually maneuvers baby Teddy so that he’s laying in the crook of Harry’s arm, making quiet little sounds, staring at Harry curiously with big, brown eyes.
“Hello, Teddy,” Harry murmurs quietly, smiling gently. He feels a little ridiculous, and completely out of his depth. “It’s nice to meet you.” Harry lifts Teddy’s chubby little fist, and the tiny fingers immediately wrap around his finger, holding on tight. Harry chuckles at him, and Teddy seems pleased by that, making more little noises, kicking his legs in delight. Harry’s smile is growing, and as he watches, Teddy’s eyes melt from warm brown to bright green. Harry is utterly enchanted, and his next laugh comes out as a sob, though his cheeks hurt from smiling.

When Draco returned to his body, he realized he was smiling, and he hummed with a short, contented laugh. He quickly labeled the new dot on the board “Teddy”, and turned back to Harry, who was smiling back at him.

“That was familiar,” Draco said. “I felt the same way when I first held Camila. The weight of the responsibility, and the complete and utter joy of it—it feels like the most important thing you’ve ever done, the highest honour, to have such a special place in that child’s life. To add to your family. It’s wonderful, isn’t it?”

Harry huffed, still smiling at him, watching him. He nodded, once. Draco basked in the warmth and contentment for a moment, before glancing at his watch. Barely ten-fifteen, amazing.

“We’re getting good at this. Shall we do one more, before our break?”

Harry’s grin remained as he nodded, leaning forward in his chair, meeting Draco’s gaze. Draco raised his wand. “Legilimens.”

“No need to bother with NEWTS, Harry, you’ve more than proved yourself. You’ll be a fine addition to the Aurors.” Kingsley waves a hand dismissively, smiling at him.

Harry is helping George reopen Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes. The place feels darker without Fred. George hasn’t spoken more than a few words in weeks.

Ginny is helping Harry move into Grimmauld Place. She leaves for Harpies training, soon. She gives him a blazing look as they put down his trunk—he picks her up swiftly, setting her on the countertop and kissing her soundly. Her laugh is bright and clear.

Draco felt something uncomfortable at the sight of Harry and Ginny—he pushed it aside, safe behind his barriers. He would probably have to see a lot more of that, soon.

Harry wakes with a shout, covered in sweat, his wand already in his hand, breathing hard. Ginny is next to him, touching his hair gingerly. She looks exhausted.

Harry puts on his Auror uniform for the first time, and looks at himself in the mirror, frowning. Something about it doesn’t feel right, but it doesn’t feel wrong, either.

Harry’s floo flares, he doesn’t look to see who it is. Hands touch his waist from behind, wrapping themselves around him tightly. He smells something light and floral. “Ginny,” he grins, turning in her arms. She doesn’t look happy—she holds him tighter.

The light of spells surrounds him in the darkness of the warehouse. Harry smells treacle tart, broom polish, and something else, a little smoky—Amortentia, though not exactly how he remembers it. It makes him feel lightheaded. He runs out from behind a barrel, sprinting toward the source of the cursefire, he hears his partner yelling something behind him, but Harry has him—
“Incarcerous!” he yells, and thick cords shoot from his wand, taking down the brewer, who struggles and growls against his bonds. Harry feels the rush of accomplishment, of finally stopping a criminal, putting away a man who deserves it.

“Got one,” Draco said quietly, hooking his magic onto the approaching silvery glow.

“I don’t think you actually want me, Harry,” Ginny says softly. She doesn’t sound upset, but Harry is. They’re in Harry’s bed, naked, but something is wrong, and Harry doesn’t feel right at all, and he is so, so frustrated.
“I do,” Harry replies, sitting up, scrubbing his hands through his hair. Why couldn’t he have this? “Of course I do, Gin. I want this so fucking badly, and I don’t understand what’s wrong with me.”
Ginny sits up next to him, holding the sheets to cover herself. She places a hand on his arm, rubbing it gently. “You don’t love me, Harry,” she murmurs, matter-of-factly. “I don’t know why you keep trying to convince yourself that you do.”
“But I do! Of course I want you, of course I love you, I thought about you all the time, I couldn’t wait to get back to you, to start our life together. I want this so badly, Gin. Something’s wrong with me, but I’m going to figure it out, I’m going to fix it—”
“You’re not listening, Harry,” she interrupts quietly, firmly, squeezing his arm. “You don’t want this, and it’s okay. Stop trying to force yourself into it. Your instincts are telling you something is wrong. You’ve never ignored them before, and you shouldn’t ignore them now.”
She pulls him gently back down to the bed, turning him onto his side to face her. She watches him carefully, running slim fingers delicately through his hair. He’s nearly shaking with frustration and sadness.
“We’ll be okay, you know,” she whispers after a moment, laying her small, soft hand on his cheek. “Even if we’re not lovers, we’ll always be friends, and you’ll always be a part of my family.”
The grief and frustration spills over, and Harry curls into himself, crumbling into Ginny’s arms.

Draco withdrew, and as Harry closed his eyes and sagged against his chair, Draco pointed his wand at the chalkboard. The next dot appeared, and he labeled it “Breakup”, thinking idly to himself that that might be the most “normal” thing on the board.

Draco had had a similar conversation with Pansy, back in fourth year. He had tried so hard to be with her, to want her, knowing their parents would probably try to marry them one day. It just felt wrong—his instincts had fought him every step of the way, no matter how badly he wanted to want it. It had taken him a long time to come to terms with it, with acknowledging the massive disappointment he would be to his family, to his future wife. Having a crush on Cedric Diggory was one thing, but knowing your entire life wouldn’t be what you’d dreamed of was much different. He wondered if Harry had actually accepted that yet.

Draco sat quietly, twirling a lock of his hair in his fingers, feeling the softness, seeing the colour of it in the corner of his eyes, very much his own. He waited patiently for Harry to return from wherever he’d drifted off to, in his mind.

After a few moments, Harry opened his eyes, and gave Draco a look of such resignation and defeat that it was shocking. Nope, apparently not.

“Did you think she was your only chance at a normal life? A family?” he asked tentatively. Harry grimaced, and looked away. Draco took that as a firm yes. He thought for a moment, carefully forming the rest of his words.

“Did you think a woman was your only chance at a normal life, with a family?” Harry flinched. Draco sighed softly.

“I did too, once,” he murmured. Harry’s eyes snapped back to his, still looking cautious, resigned. “Pansy was also very gracious about it. I was fourteen.”

Harry continued watching him, wary and defensive, but obviously curious.

“Of course, I had a bit more time to figure that out, as a teenager,” Draco continued. “You were quite busy, as I remember.” He paused for a moment, pondering how much he wanted to push. Harry kept watching him, waiting, silent as ever.

“It’s not true,” Draco said gently. “I don’t know if you know that now, or not. You can have a normal life, a real love, a family, with anyone—even if they’re not a woman. Family isn’t just about blood, about getting the girl and settling down and breeding a Quidditch team of sprogs that look just like you and the wife. Family is a decision made between people, a connection, usually of blood relation, but blood isn’t the deciding factor. As long as the relationship is cherished, cultivated, held above all else… Timsy is more family, to me, than my father ever was. Because he chose to protect me, when I was in danger, even when it was against orders he’d been given. Because he decided to remain with me, when he was freed. I cherish him, and the way we care for each other, the same way I cherish my mother, and Pansy, and Camila.”

Harry closed his eyes again, breathing out slowly.

“And if a Potter-themed Quidditch team is what you want, you certainly don’t have to have sex with a woman to get it,” Draco said, and Harry opened his eyes, furrowing his brows in confusion.

“Come on. Surrogacy…?” Draco raised an eyebrow, vaguely motioning with his hand. Harry’s face didn’t change, and Draco couldn’t decide if he was surprised about this or not.

“You really have been too busy,” he muttered dryly. “We can talk about it later, if you want—I did way too much research, as a terrified, gay teenager. My primary duty as a Malfoy is to carry on the name, to have an heir, you know—I was so scared I was just going to have to take a potion and lie back and think of England.” He smirked, pleased when the wariness fell out of Harry’s face with the twitch of a smile. “But there are plenty of ways to become a father, I assure you. And you’ll be so bloody good at it, whenever that day comes, they’ll have to install a second gravestone next to yours to add ‘Wizarding Britain’s Father of the Year’ to your novel of epithets—probably listing all the years you held the title, as well.”

Harry was chuckling silently at him by now, his chin propped in his hand, shaking his head fondly, and Draco felt confident that he’d lifted Harry’s mood a little. The sense of accomplishment filled him with warmth.

“Ready for a break?”

***

It was raining heavily outside; a near torrential downpour had begun while they’d been working. The sky was grey and dull, and the patter of droplets on the windows and the roof caused a low, hushed whisper throughout the house. Pleuvisaud, Draco mused to himself, remembering the strange word from one of his favourite Wizard romance novels on the shelf in the sitting room.

Timsy apparated into the kitchen a moment after they entered it, causing Harry to jump. The elf was carrying a large, brown paper bag, which he deposited with a thud on the table, turning around to face Draco.

“Timsy is deciding to take the afternoon off,” he said, crossing his arms defiantly, as if Draco were going to argue. “Timsy is not being cooking or cleaning for the rest of the day.”

Draco smiled. Timsy’s days off were rare, and no matter how much he encouraged them, Timsy always felt like he had to fight about it, a little.

“That’s wonderful, Timsy. What’s in the bag?”

“Timsy is purchasing food that someone else is making. Timsy has brought home curry for Masterses lunch.”

“Excellent! Tikka masala?” Draco asked, clapping his hands together in excitement.

“Of course,” Timsy muttered, narrowing his big eyes. “Timsy is knowing what Master Draco is wanting. Timsy is getting Lamb Vindaloo for Master Harry… Timsy is thinking Master Harry is wanting something with more flavour, Master Harry is probably being able to handle it.”

Timsy’s narrowed eyes trained on Harry, daring him to object, but Harry was giggling silently, nodding with enthusiasm. Draco ignored Timsy’s indirect slight about his tolerance for spice. If he had to be insulted by anyone, no one did it more delicately than Timsy.

“Thank you, Timsy,” Draco grinned. “We’ll be in the sunroom, then. The only proper way to eat takeaway is on the floor, as you know, that seems like a nice place for it.”

Timsy sighed in exasperation—he hated when Draco sat on the floor. Probably had something to do with living with Malfoys for too many generations. But he did not refute the claim, he simply walked past them, grumbling, towards the sunroom. He’d said he wouldn’t cook or clean, but with some things, Timsy couldn’t help himself. Draco picked up the brown bag and handed it to Harry, then nearly jumped when an idea entered his brain.

“I’ve finally figured out how to get that cassette tape into the boombox,” Draco said excitedly, trying not to sound too eager. “We can listen to it while we eat, if you want.”

Harry’s cheeks pinked, and his eyes darted to the side, apparently embarrassed. He shook his head a few times.

“No? Alright, then,” Draco mumbled, a little dejected. Harry then started pointing at him, and Draco furrowed his brows, trying to decode the vague message.

“Me,” he mumbled. “My music, you mean? You want to listen to mine?”

Harry nodded, grinning. Draco wondered if anyone else understood nonverbal Harry as quickly as he did. The accomplishment was too much for his ego. He shrugged, aiming for casual.

“Alright, I’ll get it. Head on over to the sunroom.”

Harry did, taking the brown bag with him, and Draco made his way to the sitting room to fetch his record player. He spared one longing look at the boombox, which still held the mysterious mixtape, before selecting a record and floating the record player across the house to the sunroom.

Timsy had cleared out the seating in the middle of the room, leaving the floor wide open. A large blanket took up the space in the middle, with a couple of throw pillows, and Draco knew they’d be practically drowning in impervious charms—the elf hated cleaning stains out of fabric. Harry was sat crosslegged on the blanket, removing plastic containers and disposable silverware from the bag.

Draco loved this room—it was where most of the plants lived, and the number of plants grew every year, with Draco’s lack of self-control in buying them. They stood on wooden and metal stands along the circle of glass walls, hanging from the domed glass ceiling among strands of faintly glowing lanterns. The panes were streaked with rain, blurring the outside world. The sound of it was much louder, in here. He lowered the record player to the floor, next to the blanket, and leaned the record against it as he sat down across from Harry.

“My favourite record for rainy days,” Draco said. “If we’re lucky, I might be able to get Timsy to dance to it.”

Harry grinned at this, looking incredulous, and handed him the containers of rice and creamy Chicken Tikka. Draco dug into it eagerly as Harry tore himself some naan and started in on his Vindaloo, a contented smile on his face.

After a few moments of listening to only the sound of rain on the glass roof, Harry looked up at Draco and jerked his head toward the record player.

“Oh!” Draco said, laughing at himself. “I was so excited for tikka, I forgot.” He set down his food, which was nearly half gone already, and carefully pulled the record out of its sleeve, placing it on the turntable and lifting the arm to the outer edge.

“Bones, sinking like stones, all that we fall for
Homes, places we’ve grown, all of us are done for…”

Draco sighed in contentment. He turned up the volume dial a little to hear it over the loud rush of the rain. Harry grinned at him.

“Muggles, I think, English ones,” Draco explained, picking up his food again. “Have you heard of them?”

Harry picked up the empty record sleeve, examining it, before nodding at him.

“This was one of the first albums Pansy ever bought me. I listened to it so much that Pansy ended up just buying me more records, so that she wouldn’t have to listen to the same thing every time she came over,” Draco said. “She’s been adding to my collection ever since. She even forced all the Backstreet Boys albums on me, though I tried to get her to take it back. I’m perfectly satisfied with N*SYNC, as you well know.”

Harry chuckled at him, shaking his head in disagreement, even though he wasn’t able to argue. They continued eating their takeaway, until the chords of the next song came on, and Draco snapped his head up with a mischievous grin.

“Timsy!” he called, setting down his food and standing as Timsy apparated in. Timsy sighed as he heard what was playing.

“Come on, Timsy,” Draco pleaded. “It’s been ages!”

Timsy lowered his head in defeat, but Draco knew he secretly loved this. He was just surly, as always, and couldn’t let Draco think he was eager for this kind of humiliation.

“Is Master Draco wanting to perform the Viennese again?” Timsy asked, with another exaggerated sigh. Draco looked around the room.

“Might be a bit tight for a Viennese, but I think we could make it work, don’t you?”

Timsy assessed the floor of the circular room. “It is being the only dance fitting for the time signature.”

“Too right,” Draco said seriously, trying to control the grin on his face. He could see Harry’s face lighting up with excitement as Draco approached the elf, who held up his little hands with another dramatic, exasperated sigh, grumbling under his breath about “Masters is making Timsy exercise on his day off.”

“Did you want me to change? Well I’d change for good
And I want you to know, that you’ll always get your way…”

Draco took both of Timsy’s hands—the elf was much too short for Draco to dance with properly, but he knew the steps better than anyone. They made it work. As the chorus approached, Draco gave Timsy a wicked grin, and he could have sworn he saw him roll his huge eyes before swinging a leg back and vaulting them into a perfect Viennese Waltz, gliding around the room with Draco in perfect synchronization at a high speed, which was quite impressive with his short, little legs. Draco let out a bright laugh of delight as he spun them around. Harry’s smile was blinding as he followed them with his eyes, shoulders shaking with silent laughter.

What an absurd situation, Draco thought as he danced a Viennese Waltz to Coldplay with his house elf, while Harry Potter watched and laughed fondly from the middle of the room among containers of takeaway. Draco’s twelve-year-old self would have spontaneously combusted if he could see this. Could his life get any stranger?

They slowed as the song started to come to an end. Draco was panting, at that point—that dance was fast—but still grinning wildly as he stepped back from Timsy and gave him a low, exaggerated bow. The elf rolled his eyes again—did he pick that up from Draco?—and gave a little curtsy, because it was proper. He wasn’t even a little bit winded.

“Thank you for indulging me, Timsy,” Draco said. “You’re an excellent dance partner, as always.”

Timsy waved his little hand dismissively and turned to walk out of the room, grumbling. He only ever walked out of rooms when he wanted Draco to hear him complain under his breath, and it always made Draco smile.

“I awake to find no peace of mind
I said, ‘How do you live as a fugitive
Down here, where I cannot see so clear...’”

Draco plopped himself back down on the blanket and laid back onto the floor, catching his breath. He turned his head to the side to see Harry, whose smile was so bright it made Draco’s heart race even faster. So much for catching his breath.

“Try not to be too impressed, Harry,” Draco said, smirking, “Timsy’s been living with Malfoys for generations—he’s had much more time than me to perfect a Viennese Waltz.”

Harry held out his hand and wandlessly summoned his notebook and pen from the study. Draco felt a little uneasy at seeing it outside of that room—it almost felt too sacred to leave the sanctuary of the study, like most of their interactions, but he said nothing as Harry opened it up to write.

Where did you learn to dance?

Draco grinned. “The cold, marble ballroom of Malfoy Manor, of course,” he replied. “Most of the ‘pureblood nobility’ are trained in ballroom dancing before we’re old enough to go to school. Dance was a part of my lessons—I had several private tutors, before Hogwarts. Between them and my mother, I could not escape adolescence without knowing how to dance. Thank Merlin it was at least fun, though you’d never hear me admit it, as a kid.”

Harry smirked at him, and returned the pen to the paper.

Very impressive

Draco rolled his eyes, laughing at him. He could practically hear the sarcasm in the hastily scrawled words.

“Yes, yes, oh how pureblood training has benefited me. It’s not hard, you know. It’s like learning to fly, or dueling—without all the antagonism or danger.”

Harry raised his eyebrows, his lips spread in a disbelieving smile. Draco scoffed, remembering Harry’s nervous, awkward dancing at the Yule Ball in fourth year.

“It’s true! The body wants to move like that, rhythm is instinctual. The same way you duel, or fly, how your body simply moves, without thinking about it. You could do it, too, quite easily, if you just stopped thinking about it, and let your body do what is natural to it.”

Harry was shaking his head firmly, that incredulous grin still on his face, as if Draco had just told him to put on lederhosen and perform a Schuhplattler. Draco narrowed his eyes at him.

“Oh, you’re going to dance, Harry,” he said, grinning mischievously when Harry’s eyes widened and his head shaking became more frantic. “Absolutely, yes, you are, no arguments—not that you can, anyway. We’ve flown plenty before, and dueled, you’ll have no problem dancing with me. You won’t even have to talk to a snake this time, lucky you.” Draco’s shoulders were shaking with suppressed laughter at the dismay and fear on Harry’s face, mixed with the furious blush creeping up his cheeks. Adorable, Draco’s traitorous brain supplied again, but he ignored it, determined to prove his point. The song that started playing was nice and slow, anyway, an easy one. He sat up and stood with a swift, graceful movement, and held out his hand.

“Come on, up, up,” he urged, still grinning, and Harry’s eyes darted around nervously, apparently searching for a way out of this. Harry could easily find one, if he wanted to. Draco couldn’t force him to do anything. He waited, hand outstretched.

Harry soon rolled his eyes and gave an exasperated sigh, but took his hand anyway, the same as Draco’s previous dance partner. Draco pulled him up with a quietly victorious chuckle and led him off the blanket.

“Did I drive you away?
I know what you’ll say, you’ll say
Oh, sing one you know…”

Draco took Harry’s left hand and placed it on his right shoulder—Harry furrowed his brows in confusion. Draco scoffed softly.

“You may be the Saviour of the Wizarding World, Harry, but that doesn’t mean you get to lead.”

Harry rolled his eyes, his blush only increasing as he stepped closer. Draco took Harry’s other hand in his, holding it up a little out to the side, and carefully placed his right hand on Harry’s waist, feeling his own cheeks heat up. Why was he doing this?

“But I promise you this
I’ll always look out for you
Yeah, that’s what I’ll do…”

“Relax, Harry,” he murmured, feeling Harry’s muscles tensing beneath his hand. His chest tightened as Harry took a deep, slow breath, meeting Draco’s eyes. He still looked so nervous, which was certainly not conducive to dancing.

“Close your eyes,” Draco ordered quietly. Harry raised his eyebrows, but did as he was told.

“You’re going to move your left foot back, then out to the side, followed by your right foot forward, and back to the side, in a little box, nice and slow. Don’t think about it too much. Just feel the rhythm of the song, feel where my body is moving, and move with me.”

Harry’s lips twitched up in what might have been amusement, but he kept his eyes closed, and when Draco moved, Harry followed the steps as he’d been told. His movements were awkward and jerky at first, but after a few bars, Draco noticed he was breathing in time to the music, and his steps became smoother, more natural.

“My heart is yours,
It’s you that I hold on to
Yeah, that’s what I’ll do…”

Draco tried very hard to continue pretending that he had started this nonsense just to prove a point, but it was becoming clearer he’d only been looking for an excuse to touch Harry, as Harry was moving closer to him, held near by Draco’s hand on his waist, by Harry’s grip on his shoulder. They were so close that their chests were nearly touching, and Draco could feel Harry’s hair tickling his cheek, and he was so pathetic, but he never wanted it to end, even with the twists of warning starting in his stomach.

“And I know I was wrong,
But I won’t let you down
Oh, yeah I will, yeah I will, yes I will…”

Draco didn’t know when his hand had slid from Harry’s waist to his back, but it was certainly there now, and Harry was so warm, and so close. The only things Draco could hear were the hush of the rain, the gentle music from the record, and his own pulse hammering in his ears. He knew Harry wasn’t thinking about the steps at all, anymore, the way they were moving so fluidly in that imaginary little box on the floor. The world had shrunk to this small, plant-filled, glass room, and the only thing that mattered to Draco in this moment was that he continued holding Harry close to him, no matter what.

He could feel Harry’s careful breathing on his jaw, and Draco tipped his head down, only a little, which just barely brushed his nose against Harry’s hair, just above his ear. He smelled some sort of spicy, woody scent from his shampoo, and it was hurting him, now, but he still wouldn’t stop.

Harry’s left hand was slowly, languidly sliding up his shoulder, landing softly on the back of Draco’s neck, pulling them even closer together, so that Draco could feel the heat radiating off of Harry’s body. Harry’s face was turning slightly, his nose gently brushing against Draco’s jawbone. Draco wondered if he even knew he was doing it, but then the hand gripping his own carefully released it and moved to Draco’s upper arm, instead, and Draco’s freed hand fell to Harry’s side, sliding around to his back, and that was very much a conscious decision on both parts. Draco continued ignoring the pain—the reward was far too great.

Draco hadn’t been this close to someone since his time on the Continent, and this was so, so different—probably because it was Harry, and of course only he would make Draco act so foolishly, throwing his self-preservation out the window. Draco would only have to move an inch, just an inch, he thought, as Harry’s hand on the back of his neck slowly slid up into his hair, Harry’s nose was gradually shifting against Draco’s cheek, Harry’s forehead eventually resting against his, and Draco’s gut was twisting horribly, and that pulling, tightening ache in his chest was making his breathing shallow, but he could feel the soft puffs of Harry’s breath against his mouth—

And then Harry’s lips were on his, so much softer than Draco had ever imagined they’d be, and he gasped and tried not to cry out softly with the twisting, stabbing pain that exploded in his core, but he couldn’t help it, just as he couldn’t help tightening his arms around Harry’s waist and kissing him back like it was the most important thing he would ever do.

Harry’s arm slid around his neck, his hand buried in Draco’s hair, and Draco had never been kissed like this before. Harry was pulling Draco against him, their bodies pressed together from knees to chest, like he was starving for it, like he couldn’t get enough. Draco’s breathing was harsh, his eyes squeezed shut, and he couldn’t keep his body from shaking as the pain ripped through him, like an army of knives in his abdomen, like his muscles were on fire, but he fisted his hands in Harry’s jumper and kissed him again and again, and Harry was nibbling on his lips, tasting him on his tongue, absolutely nothing was more important than this—

But the pain was excruciating, it was agony, equal in intensity but opposite to the sheer bliss and relief of kissing this extraordinary man, and he couldn’t suppress a choked sob of pain, nor the trickle of sweat falling down his temple, nor the moisture gathering in his eyes. Harry pulled away suddenly with a quiet gasp, his hands gripping Draco’s shoulders hard. Draco was panting, and he didn’t want it to end, he would have endured anything for this, but he released the back of Harry’s jumper, allowing him to retreat.

Once Draco’s arms were free, they immediately, instinctively moved to cover his abdomen, and he doubled over, panting and grunting with pain, riding out the spasms of his muscles and his throbbing magical core.

The haze in his brain was clearing as the pain slowly subsided, and he realized he could not remember who had kissed who first, who had started that at all. Draco had started it with the dancing, which was unethical in the first place, but they had moved closer simultaneously, Harry’s hand had definitely moved to his hair, Draco’s nose had moved to Harry’s ear—

“I’m sorry,” Draco uttered, when he was finally able to speak. “That was unethical of me.”

He opened his eyes to see Harry, standing a couple feet away from him, staring at him with frightened eyes that searched Draco’s body frantically, his fingers absently touching his own lips, as if he couldn’t believe what had just happened. Draco wouldn’t have believed it either, if it wasn’t for the winded, battered feeling his bonds had left him in, so close to a Cruciatus. That kiss may have been a dream, but the pain was unforgettable, and definitely real.

“Are you alright?” Draco asked softly. Harry blinked a few times, apparently coming out of a daze, and nodded, his hand lowering back down to his side. His face was still full of fear and concern—not a look Draco ever wanted him to have, in their sanctuary. Had Draco made him feel unsafe?

“I’m sorry,” he muttered again, one arm falling away from where it hugged his own waist. “I don’t know what came over me. It won’t happen again.”

They both looked away from each other at those words. He knew Harry would say nothing in response, and Draco didn’t want to see relief on his face. He wondered if Harry was curious about Draco’s insane reactions to that kiss—Draco would have to answer him, if he asked.

But Harry only pulled out his wand and vanished the empty food containers, folding up the blanket on the floor and picking up his notebook. So Draco pulled his own out of his pocket and stopped the record player, levitating it and the empty record sleeve out of the sunroom, back to the sitting room, inferring that they would simply pretend it had never happened.

And that felt awful. He couldn’t decide what would be worse: to have kissed Harry only once, and learned how absolutely wonderful it was even through the torture of his bonds, and know that he’d never have it again, or to have never kissed Harry Potter at all, and gone his entire life wondering what if, as he had been since he was a teenager?

But it didn’t matter. He was a Healer, and he had work to do. He took a moment in the sitting room to gather himself, breathing deeply, calming the shaking of his muscles, resetting his priorities, before he made his way back to the study, confident that the colour had subsided in his cheeks, at least, if not his lips.

Harry was already sitting in his wingback chair by the fire, eyes closed and hands folded over his stomach, looking quite at ease, if it weren’t for the slight crease between his brows. He opened his eyes as Draco sat down, and watched him warily. Draco hated that he’d made Harry feel like this. What was he thinking?

Draco took a deep breath and conjured two glasses, filling them with the lemon water Harry liked, before pulling his notebook into his lap.

“Go ahead and start your meditation,” Draco said, slipping his reading glasses onto his face, trying for a lighthearted tone to ease Harry’s tension. “We’ve got work to do. We’re getting close, I can feel it.”

Harry obeyed, and Draco opened his notebook, hurriedly filling it with the notes he’d missed, desperately trying to drag the rest of his brain towards the task at hand, and not the feeling of Harry’s lips—which were still a distracting, rosy colour, damn it. There was no part of Harry he could look at now that was safe: the warm hands that had run through Draco’s hair, the straight nose that had brushed against his cheek, the strong arms that had pulled him closer, the firm chest that had pressed against his, the chaotic hair that had tickled his face. Damn it, damn it.

While Harry meditated, Draco worked on his Occlumency walls, building them up as formidably as he could. It was more dangerous, now that he’d let his guard down like that once. It would be too easy to subconsciously do it again, while he was in Harry’s head, to pull himself closer and let himself drown in Harry, like he desperately wanted to. Draco closed his notebook and waited, rubbing the Dark Mark on his arm through his sleeve, reminding himself of exactly why that could not happen.

When Harry finally opened his eyes, sitting forward and meeting Draco’s gaze, Draco carefully tucked his whole self behind his barriers, and raised his wand. Harry gave him a short nod. “Legilimens.”

Robards is yelling at him. “You’re not the Chosen One, here, you’re not fighting evil alone anymore, Auror Potter! Your fellow Aurors are relying on you out in the field, trusting you, and you need to rely on them and trust them in return!”

Draco tried not to scoff. Easy for him to say, he wasn’t trained to save the day himself since he was eleven…

Harry is at a club, very drunk, a man is pressing him up against a bathroom stall, his mouth on Harry’s neck. Harry’s hands are under his shirt.

Fuck, this was so much harder than Draco had thought it would be.

“You know I’d ask you, Potter, it’d be great for the Department to have the Saviour at its head—but you’re too hot-headed, too impulsive, you know that. Auror Weasley is much more strategic, he’s got the mind for it, and he doesn’t enjoy being out in the field as much as you,” Robards says, watching Harry carefully.
“Thank Merlin for that,” Harry replies, chuckling. “I do not want your job, Robards, don’t worry. Ron would be perfect for it.”

Molly Weasley has tricked Harry and Ginny into another dinner alone. They both chuckle at the situation.
“When do you think she’s going to give it up?” Harry asks.
“Probably never,” Ginny replies, grinning. “Oh well. Free food, yeah? We can catch up.”
Harry laughs.

A bombarda hits the wall behind Harry’s Auror partner—Jeffries goes flying, landing hard on the stone floor. Harry can hear kids screaming in the cellar below, and in Harry’s rage and his fury, he sees the kidnapper fall to his knees, hands scrabbling at his neck as he chokes on Harry’s accidental magic…

“I see one coming up,” Draco mumbled. “Hang on.” He focused more power through his wand, and latched on.

Harry, Ron and Hermione are finishing up brunch. They’re laughing and reminiscing about their adventures at school—the ones where nobody died.
“Malfoy’s face, though, when Dumbledore awarded Gryffindor a hundred and sixty points last minute—” Harry breaks off into laughter and Ron doubles over with it. It feels easy. But Hermione hasn’t moved. Ron looks over at her, his laughter subsiding.
“Y’okay, ‘Mione?” Ron asks. Hermione looks a bit pale, holding her stomach, a grimace on her face.
Hermione stands suddenly, holds up one finger, and runs to the loo. Harry and Ron can hear her throwing up, then the sink running, and a moment of silence before she returns to the kitchen, looking exhausted.
“‘Mione, that’s the third time this week,” Ron says, face full of concern.
“I know,” she sighs, with another grimace. “I don’t feel ill the rest of the time, only in the mornings—” her eyes shoot open, wide and fearful, and she looks at Ron. Harry watches them go through some silent conversation, before Hermione stands suddenly, pulling her wand out of the bun in her hair and performing a complicated movement directed at her abdomen. A small, sparkling yellow glow emits from just below her navel, and she gasps, looking back at her husband.
“Oh my god,” she whispers, eyes wide with shock. Ron is standing from the table, slowly.
“I’m pregnant,” she says, and Harry gasps, as their faces transform from shock and fear to the purest joy Harry has ever seen from them. Ron lets out a bark of delighted laughter, and in a blur, he flings himself around the table and scoops Hermione in his arms, twirling her around. He finally sets her down and kisses her firmly on the mouth.
“Merlin’s pants, Harry!” he nearly yells, turning to his best friend, completely elated. “I’m gonna be a dad!”
Harry throws his head back and laughs, standing to embrace them both.
“It’s about time,” Harry says, infected with their joy.

Draco retreated from Harry’s head as the glow subsided and the memory passed. He pointed his wand at the board, labeling a new dot “R&H Expecting”.

“That was lovely,” he murmured, the corner of his lips turning up in a smile. “But I think there might be more to that, than just happiness for your friends, yeah?”

Harry looked at him warily again, with a small smile, and shrugged. Draco watched him for a moment, his mind whirring with activity.

“You’ll have to tell me if I’m wrong, you know,” Draco said. “I don’t know the man you are now as well as the boy I went to school with. But I can guess.”

Harry raised one eyebrow, and waited.

“That was obviously a very happy and life-changing moment, for everyone involved, but it was quite different for you—because it had always been you three, since you were kids, the absolute best of friends, you did everything together. It must have been odd when Ron and Hermione got together, and became something separate, even though your friendship stayed just as close as ever. But when they had a child, it was even more pronounced…”

Draco waited for a rebuttal, but it didn’t come. Harry’s tiny smile was falling on his face.

“... it was like they were moving on, becoming adults, without you. You may have thought that you’d never have something like they had, that you’d be stuck where you were, unable to move forward with them.”

Harry’s head fell back onto the chair, still watching Draco, his face resigned.

“Am I wrong?”

Harry didn’t move for a moment, eyes darting back and forth between Draco’s, taking a long, deep breath. Eventually, he shook his head, slowly. Draco nodded at him.

“Of course, it’s not true, but the mind isn’t always formed by rationality, is it?” Draco muttered. “They got a seven year head start on their relationship. They got lucky, finding their soulmate at eleven, even though it took them ages to do something about it. You’ve been there, with them, the entire time. Notice that the first words Ron said after finding out his wife was pregnant, were ‘Merlin’s pants, Harry, I’m gonna be a dad’. You were as important a part of that moment as anything. You’re as integral a part of their lives as ever—that has not changed. They’d do anything for you. I mean, Ron Weasley threw out his pride to beg a Malfoy to help you,” he smirked. “Do you even understand how deep the Malfoy-Weasley feud runs?”

Harry’s lip twitched.

“There’s nothing you can do that will make them draw away from you. I’d go as far as to say you’re their family—they’d probably agree. I bet Rose calls you Uncle Harry, and she doesn’t give a damn that you’re the sodding Saviour, or that you’re not married yet or that you have a demanding career, or that you’re at a different place in your life than those around you, now that you have the time to figure it out without a bloody prophecy hanging over your head. What matters to her, and her parents, is that you’re Harry, and that you’re there with them.”

Harry didn’t move, but the sadness had lifted somewhat from his face, and Draco felt that tiny, warm sense of accomplishment again.

“Ready for another go?” Draco asked, giving Harry a reassuring smile. Harry smirked, leaning forward and intensifying his eye contact, and Draco’s pulse sped up erratically. He cleared his throat, raised his wand, and waited for Harry’s nod. “Legilimens.”

George Weasley is holding his goddaughter, Rose, for the first time. Harry hasn’t seen him look so happy in years.

Harry stands in a grim, dark, stuffy looking room with his hands on his hips. He can smell old Dark Magic, and he hates it, but he won’t leave Grimmauld Place.

Harry stands at the dimly lit bar of a club. He’s tipsy, the music is so loud. A tall, lean muggle man with a blond ponytail is standing in front of him, taking his hand and sending him a wink as he leads him to the dance floor. Harry’s stomach flutters.

Draco clenched his fist in his lap, and continued his skimming. More Auror raids, rare glimpses of muggle clubs that made Draco’s stomach turn, more Ron and Hermione, Rose and Teddy and Andromeda, but mostly work—paperwork at a desk, lunch in the Ministry canteen, asking Ron for more cases, taking down criminals, until finally Draco spotted another silvery glow.

“Found something,” he muttered as the light grew in his peripherals, and he made to grab on to it, but immediately felt another disorienting shove, and then it was gone. Draco tsked in annoyance.

“I won’t hurt you by forcing it, Harry, but you know I’ll have to see it eventually,” Draco grumbled, but allowed himself to be swept along the river of memories for now.

Harry stands in front of the Wizengamot, his stomach churning, reading from a sheet of parchment in front of him. They hang on to his every word.

Harry enters Kingsley’s office. Kingsley and another man stand to greet him. Kingsley introduces Harry to the man, quite formally, and Harry now understands this is someone he’s supposed to endorse.

Harry is sitting with the Wizengamot, clad in his full Auror regalia. He feels sick to his stomach. He raises his hand to cast his vote, and immediately leaves the room to run to the loo.

“Are you sure, Harry?” Ron asks, looking concerned.
“I’ve got to,” Harry sighs, “I’m the only one who can, apparently.”
“Not the only one,” Ron mutters. “Just the easiest one.”
Harry glares at him, and changes the subject.

Harry is out to lunch with an up-and-coming politician. They’re not there to talk, or even eat—they’re there to be seen together. All Harry can think as the man drones on is how much he’d rather be spending this time with Teddy.

Harry is in a broom cupboard, alone in his formal robes, covered in his medals. He hugs himself tightly as panic rips through him, breathing harshly, feeling like he might die.

Draco was pressing his lips together so hard it hurt. He’d been waiting for something good, or happy, like a relationship or a new home or a hobby or even a pet, but there’s none of that here, and the months are flying by into years. All Draco is missing are those memories of the muggle pub he knew Harry liked, because those memories are probably still in Ron and Hermione’s Pensieve. But he knew Harry only went there to be alone, to be simply a stranger nobody knew.

Harry is wearing his formal robes, in front of a podium, reading from a parchment. The crowd watches him, enraptured. He fights back a wave of nausea.

Harry is at Hogwarts, giving a guest lecture in Defense Against the Dark Arts, and the excitement on the childrens’ faces as they duel each other is equal parts heartwarming and sickening, when all Harry can see is the Battle. He stops them suddenly, deciding a Patronus Charm would be a much better topic.

“It’s been a while, Harry,” Andromeda says, her gaze piercing him.

Harry is in his bedroom, he thinks, crouched on the floor, hugging himself tightly as the panic tears through him. He’s shaking violently.

Harry is at a wizarding primary school, talking to a class of seven-year-olds about Merlin-knows-what, and they gaze at him with fear and awe. He feels panic coming on—they’d made him sit in the middle of the room, with his back to the door.

Harry is in his formal robes, shaking hands with whoever Kingsley tells him to. Photographers from the Daily Prophet snap pictures every time, and through his forced smile, Harry thinks to himself that this still feels like War, of a different kind. His instincts are telling him to hide.

The memories were getting more and more recent, Draco could tell, they were quickly approaching present day.

“Harry,” he said firmly, pausing a memory of another panic attack in a broom cupboard. “Let me see it.” His tone left no room for argument, but he could feel Harry’s anxiety building, pleading.

“We have to, Harry.”

With great reluctance, the memories started moving past him, backwards in time, until the glow appeared again, and Draco was finally able to latch on to it.

“You wanted to see me, sir?” Harry asks, closing the door to the Minister’s office.
“Harry, yes, sit down, please,” Kingsley says happily. Harry sits in the chair, and Kingsley leans forward on his desk, steepling his fingers in front of his face, studying Harry carefully. Harry waits.
“I need to cash in on that favour, Harry,” Kingsley starts tentatively.
“Favour?”
“Yes… when you asked me to keep an eye on the Malfoy boy, you know, you offered a favour in return. I need to redeem it. I need your help, Harry.”
Harry sighs, remembering. He doesn’t know when Kingsley became such a politician, but it’s only fair. He did offer. “Right,” he says. “What can I do for you?”
Kingsley pauses for a moment. “Nothing big,” he says. “I just need you to meet some people, be seen with certain members of the government, make the occasional speech at Ministry events. Maybe use a vote on the Wizengamot, sometimes, they’ll give it to you. You’re a person of influence, you know, and your influence can really help the balance of power in the Wizengamot, your presence in the ‘upper ranks’ will help keep the blood purists at bay. No one will go against the Saviour.”
Harry grits his teeth, clenching his hands on the armrests of the chair. The scars on his hand stand out even paler with the effort: I must not tell lies.
“This seems like a pretty big favour, Kingsley,” he grumbles, narrowing his eyes.
“As is keeping the Aurors out of Draco’s way, for the past five years,” Kingsley retorts calmly. Harry closes his eyes, takes a deep breath to fend off an explosion.
So far he’d only used his name and influence to help Hermione with her activism—that was as far as he’d ventured into politics, and he didn’t like it, but he did it for her. Nothing was real, in politics, everything was a power play—a dangerous game, full of smoke and mirrors.
But if Kingsley says he can help, keep the blood purists down, prevent the rise of another Dark Lord—Harry remembers being in the Ministry on Polyjuice when he was seventeen, seeing the muggleborns being stripped of their wands, Umbridge on her throne, holding court…
“Fine,” Harry says, and Kingsley breathes a sigh of relief. Harry hesitates before speaking again.
“How is Malfoy, then?”
“He’s doing well,” Shacklebolt says, amused and exasperated. “He’s just got his Healer License, though the Licensers gave him a hard time about it. He’ll be moving back to England, soon…”

Draco retreated from Harry’s head, and did not bother with another dot on the board. His body was shaking, a physical reaction to buried emotions he couldn’t control. He let his Occlumency walls down slowly, but even at the gradual pace, by the time they were fully down, Draco was vibrating with rage.

“I want to ask if that’s even real, but I know it is, I just fucking saw it,” Draco muttered, jaw clenched. Harry watched him silently with wide eyes, his body tense. Draco couldn’t stand it.

“How much more of yourself are you going to give them, Harry? How much longer are you going to keep this up?” Draco’s voice was rising, hands clenched into fists, shaking in his lap. He’d dropped his wand again, at some point. Harry didn’t answer him, of course, but Draco could see the start of a glare—getting defensive. Draco didn’t care. He stood up to pace the room, the energy of his anger overflowing. At Harry, at Kingsley, at the Ministry, at Dumbledore and Voldemort and the world for what they’ve done…

“That prick didn’t curse you, Harry, they gave you a fucking holiday, though I doubt that was their intention. How many times since then have you done something because you felt like you had to, like you owed it to the world? How many times in these last few weeks were you finally able to do things you wanted, like fly and visit your family and friends and listen to music? Your silence is bloody inconvenient, sure, but not for you. For the rest of them.”

Harry was fully glaring at him now, standing from his chair, his fists clenched at his sides.

“You can’t honestly believe that you’re the only one who can change the world, the only one with that kind of power, that you owe it to the world to give them any part of you they need—but of course you do. Of course you do, you were never taught to think any other way, were you, thanks to Albus fucking Dumbledore,” Draco was shouting at this point, and he could feel Harry’s indignation building in the room, but he couldn’t stop. Had no one ever told him? Had anyone ever said it out loud?

“Of course you believe that, and I can’t fucking stand it, Harry, the way they took away any scrap of self-worth you might have had. You’d better believe it was intentional, every last moment of your life was curated to create the boy who would die for the greater good. He didn’t make you stay with your Aunt and Uncle to keep you safe from Death Eaters, he kept you there because you felt worthless there, and if you had grown up with any confidence in yourself, your self-preservation might have won out in the end, and we couldn’t have that, not with the fate of the world on the line. They don’t tell pigs how wonderful and cherished they are before they slaughter them, do they?”

Draco was shaking, he didn’t know if he’d ever been this angry before, and it was only growing, both of their rage fueling the other.

“You can’t tell me that Albus Dumbledore, the most powerful wizard of our time, thought the best way to hide a dangerous magical object was with a bloody obstacle course that a few eleven-year-olds could get past. He knew Voldemort was after it, and he could have destroyed it at any time, but he waited until Harry Potter, a fucking child, proved that he would risk his life for us all. You can’t tell me that he couldn’t get into the Chamber of Secrets, himself, when he knew who had died the last time it was opened and where her ghost resided, when Ron fucking Weasley was able to open it simply by repeating some Parseltongue he had heard. He could have used that time turner, himself, Harry, he could have refused to let you participate in the Tournament, he could have kept you safe, but he didn’t. He made you into a boy who would never rely on anyone else, who would always take matters into his own hands, whose own life was secondary to those around him. Who would take on the roles thrust upon him because he believed he had to, because he always did, because apparently, no one else would. You gave the Wizarding World everything, Harry, your entire childhood, you fucking died for them! And even then, you came back not because you wanted to, not because you thought your life had any worth, but because you had a job to finish, because you believed no one else would do it. He honed you masterfully into a tool, to be used solely for the greater good—and you still are!”

Harry was fuming, nostrils flaring as he followed Draco’s furious pacing with his eyes. The books were shaking on the shelves. Draco thought he could hear the chalkboard vibrating.

“Thank Merlin you did come back, Harry, but what are you doing with it, now that you’re free? You never learned how to do what you wanted, so you just keep doing what you have to do, because it's the right thing to do, isn’t it? That is not why you spoke at my trial. I would have gotten a couple years in Azkaban, at worst, because I was a minor, and I never killed anyone. My life was not at stake, you didn’t have to speak for me. I think you did it because you wanted to help me, for some bloody reason, and it practically turned the world upside down, didn’t it? I’ll bet not one person supported you. You did something you wanted, for once, and you were left alone in it.”

The fire was roaring in the grate, and Draco could smell ozone and wet earth in the air, which was rippling around them like a heat wave. Harry’s eyes seemed to be filled with it, radiating fury. Draco hadn’t seen him this angry in over a decade. Maybe ever.

“And now Kingsley tells you you have to do this, that you owe it to him and to the world, even though it’s tearing you apart, Harry, and for what? You think Kingsley is the one keeping the Aurors away from me? You’re an Auror, Harry! Your best friend is the Head Auror! Nothing goes on there without you or Ron knowing about it, now. They know you testified for me, Harry, and they won’t go against you. It’s not the Aurors that have kept me down. Kingsley is using you, because apparently I’m a vulnerability to you, and you’re continuing to give your life away to them, piece by piece, like none of it is anything worth holding on to. How much more, until there’s nothing left? You’ve already given your life for them, Harry! You know you were a pawn your entire childhood, just like I was—you think just because they’ve promoted you to a knight, this time, that you’re anything more than a puppet?”

There was a growling noise and a loud, horrible crack as the chalkboard finally split, books launched themselves off the shelves, embers were spat from the grate. Harry moved so fast that Draco had no time to react before the holly wand was at his throat, and Harry’s face was inches from his, practically spitting, his teeth bared in rage, his green eyes burning with lividity. The tip of the wand was hot, singeing Draco’s skin, but he froze, holding his breath.

“You don’t know me,” Harry snarled, in a low, painfully familiar voice. Then his eyes widened, and Draco closed his eyes against the obvious lie, letting out a shaky exhale.

He felt Harry’s shocked, furious breaths on his face for two seconds more, and then the burning wand left his skin. He heard Harry’s footsteps moving away from him, opening the door, then running down the hall to the sitting room. He heard the floo flare, he heard Harry call out, “Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place!”, he heard the whoosh of the fire, and then Harry was gone.

After a numb, suspended moment, Draco smelled smoke among the heavy scent of ozone, and opened his eyes to see the cinders from the fire catching on the carpet in front of the wingback chairs. He walked carefully over to them, unfreezing his limbs, enduring the aftermath of adrenaline, and picked up Harry’s glass of lemon water, pouring it over the burning embers, dousing the tiny flames.

Chapter Nine

Healer Malfoy,

According to the Azkaban Warden, Lucius Malfoy is in perfect health. He apparently spends his time playing chess by himself, in his cell, with pieces of parchment. He receives post, occasionally. The guards describe him as a “model prisoner.”

Hope this helps.

K. Shacklebolt
Minister for Magic

Draco frowned at the expensive parchment, headed with the seal of the Office of the Minister. What an anticlimax.

It wasn’t that Draco wasn’t grateful for the update; this just meant that Lucius was intentionally ignoring Narcissa’s letters. She would be devastated.

But also—Lucius Malfoy, “model prisoner”? Seriously? Draco had never heard a prisoner of Azkaban referred to like that, especially from the people whose job it was to keep them in there.

The whole thing just felt odd, and a bit sad. But that might have just been Draco.

Draco sighed and tossed the parchment onto his desk, adjusting his glasses. He grabbed a sheet of fresh stationery and clicked open a biro to pen a delicate, disappointing letter to his mother.

In the several days since Harry had walked out, Draco hadn’t left the house. He’d puttered around, reading or sleeping or listening to his records and flying at night. He hadn’t yet let St. Mungo’s know he was available for new patients again. It all felt so unfinished—even though Harry was clearly healed, and even though Harry would likely never speak to him again, if he hadn’t by now.

“You don’t know me,” he’d said. The first time Draco had heard his voice in eight years, and it was a livid, growling lie.

Harry probably knew that. He wouldn’t have been able to speak, if it was true. The return of his voice only meant that Draco truly knew him, for who he was, if the attacker was to be believed.

But maybe Harry was a little right. Draco might have seen his most formative memories, might have watched him more closely than anyone else in their year at school, but they hadn’t spoken for over eight years. They still haven’t had a real conversation, maybe ever. The universe was clearly laughing at them again—of course, the only way Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy could ever speak to each other was with bitterness, with violence.

Draco might be able to guess on many things, but there was so much more to Harry than just his memories and the way he was raised. The Harry Draco thought he knew would never have kissed him, for instance. Draco hadn’t known that he liked vindaloo. Draco didn’t know what his favourite colour was or what his house looked like or if he liked to sing while he cleaned, if he cleaned, Draco didn’t even know what kind of music he listened to—he still hadn’t listened to that mixtape, he hadn’t once looked at the boombox since Harry left.

When Draco thought about all the things he didn’t know about Harry, all the things he’d been hoping to talk to Harry about when he could speak again, he could agree that he didn’t really know Harry at all.

Draco didn’t feel like the work was done. The maze had been solved, but it seemed such a small piece of a much bigger puzzle. Harry was “healed,” but Draco still didn’t know who’d caused it or how or why, and the not knowing was making him itch, keeping him frozen in time, unable to move forward. He felt restless with it.

He walked to the sitting room to pick out another record, probably something angsty—but when he approached the shelf he was faced with the offending boombox once more. Draco glared at it.

This was so stupid. It was just music, right? So what if Harry had apparently personally curated it with music he wanted to share with Draco? It might even be horrible music, which would probably make Draco feel better about the whole thing—he snatched up the cumbersome machine with a huff and stomped his way outside, through the garden to the broom shed.

He swung open the door and hobbled inside, lifting the boombox onto the low countertop of soil and pots. He scowled at it for a few more moments, before gathering his wits and pressing the button with the play triangle.

Draco turned around as the music started, something upbeat that felt like a breath of fresh air, and moved to the other side of the shed, sitting on the stool next to his brooms and rolling up his sleeves.

“All I can say is that my life is pretty plain
I like watching the puddles gather rain
And all I can do is just pour some tea for two,
And speak my point of view, but it’s not sane…”

Draco furrowed his brows as he opened the tin of broom polish, breathing in the scent, grabbing a couple of rags and his Firebolt from the rack on the wall. He laid a rag on his knee and leaned the broom against it, dipping the other rag into the polish.

Draco was annoyed that the music wasn’t horrible. Yet, he reminded himself. The first song was great, yes, but he still had seven more tracks ahead of him. He ran the polishing rag slowly along the grain of the wood, filling in any scratches, caring for it meticulously, as he always did.

“You’d kill yourself for recognition, kill yourself to never, ever stop
You broke another mirror, you’re turning into someone you are not
Don’t leave me high
Don’t leave me dry…”

Draco scoffed softly. Harry’d just done that, hadn’t he? Git. Draco was frowning now, especially because this song was good, too. Why couldn’t Harry have had horrible taste? Why couldn’t he have given Draco a mixtape of his favourite bullfrog choir show tunes, or something?

He laid the broom across his thighs and set the rag down, grabbing his wand to carefully balance and tighten the footholds. He jerked his head up at the boombox when he realized he was unintentionally bobbing his head to the beat of the next song, damn it, so different from the first two, but Draco still loved it. He could definitely see why it was called a boombox now.

“The man that knows something knows that he knows nothing at all
Does it seem colder in your summertime, and hotter in your fall...”

Draco made a silent pact with himself that if he ever saw Harry again, he was going to hit him, or something—wait, he couldn’t, that would definitely count as intentional harm. Damn. He would do… something. Not anything harmful, but maybe just seriously annoying… He flipped the Firebolt over to examine the twigs, picking up the clippers to trim any wayward ends, pretending he wasn’t tapping his heel along with the rest of the song. He couldn’t help it.

The next song was too easy for him to subconsciously sway to, so he stood to replace the Firebolt on the rack, and returned to his stool with the Göktaşı in hand.

“I wanna hold the hand inside you
I wanna take the breath that’s true
I look to you and I see nothing
I look to you to see the truth…”

Whatever, Draco thought irritably, scowling. Stupid Harry and his annoying taste in music, with ridiculous lyrics that were absolutely meaningless—

“That’s not the face I imagined you making while listening to your secret lover’s mixtape, I’ll be honest,” Pansy said suddenly from the open doorway, and Draco started violently, nearly dropping the broom in his lap.

“Hello to you too, you utter cow,” he grumbled at her, fixing his hair and picking up the polishing rag again. “And it may be a mixtape, but your ‘secret lover’ theory is bullocks, and you know it.”

“I beg to differ, this song is very romantic. I bet all the muggles gift it to their lovers. I’m simply impressed you finally found the guts to leave your home and your job and go find a secret lover, Draco.”

“I have done no such thing,” he replied, narrowing his eyes at her. “Why are you here?”

Pansy scoffed. “Timsy told me you were being maudlin.”

“I am not—“

“He said you haven’t left the house or worked in days, that you lay around moping all day.”

“That fucking—“

“Cut the shit, Draco. You’re alone in your shed, polishing your brooms again while listening to Mazzy Star. What’s going on? Did something happen with your secret lover?” Pansy demanded, and Draco glared at her. The next track on the tape was something soft and soothing, he ignored it as best he could.

“I do not have a secret lover, Pansy. I certainly haven’t been looking—”

“Nightingale, tell me your tale
Was your journey far too long?
All the voices that are spinnin' around me, trying to tell me what to say
Can I fly right behind you, and you can take me away…”

Pansy listened to the song that was playing, and raised her eyebrows at him. Draco’s glare was now directed at the boombox. That arsehole.

“Well, darling, this person surely didn’t curate this tape to convey their friendship,” Pansy muttered, and Draco rolled his eyes at her. “And if it’s true you’ve been doing what you’ve always done, drowning yourself in your work and being antisocial, and it is also true that you’ve only had one patient for the past several weeks, I can only infer that something quite ‘unethical’ has occurred,” she said, putting air quotation marks around the word. Draco felt his cheeks heat traitorously, and he saw Pansy’s eyes widen.

“You didn’t,” she whispered, and Draco’s eyes subconsciously darted to the side, his most obvious tell. Damn. She gasped sharply. The song changed, and her face melted from concern to fear to a fierce glare.

“The world was on fire and no one could save me but you
Strange what desire will make foolish people do…”

“You really are an idiot,” Pansy said, shaking her head in reprimand. “Who on earth could possibly be worth that kind of pain?”

Draco closed his eyes, his hand subconsciously moving to his stomach, remembering the agonizing, burning feeling, mixed with the rush of euphoria and relief. He sighed, knowing he was caught.

“It was worth it, at the time,” he replied quietly. “It won’t happen again. The patient—is healed,” the twist of warning made him even more scared now, with the memory of the pain of that kiss, and none of the reward to balance it. “They—won’t be back.” Draco clenched his jaw through the discomfort and went back to his broom care. He set down the polishing rag and laid the broom across his lap, examining the footholds as he absentmindedly rubbed his chest with his free hand.

Pansy stared at him in pure shock for a moment, and then slowly, her perfectly shaped eyebrows started drawing down, her eyes darting from his face to his chest, and Draco started to panic a little as he could practically hear her brain working, putting things together. He begged internally for her to let it go, leave it alone—

“What a wicked game to play, to make me feel this way
What a wicked thing to do, to make me dream of you
And I don’t wanna fall in love, no I don’t wanna fall in love, with you…”

Pansy’s eyes snapped back to his, spearing him with her furious stare, and when she spoke, her voice was low and dangerous.

“I heard a rumour, Draco,” she began silkily, still leaning against the doorway. “A silly rumour, at the Ministry, when I was filing some divorce papers. I heard a rumour that Harry Potter was cursed, and had been unable to work for several weeks.” Her eyes were threatening in their suspicion and anger, rooting him to the spot. Draco swallowed.

“It was just a rumour, of course, but he’s been in the public eye nearly every day for years—except for the last few weeks, hasn’t he? And as of almost a week ago, he’s finally returned to his duties, in perfect health,” she said, and Draco hoped all of this was rhetorical, because he couldn’t and wouldn’t answer.

“Please, tell me I’m wrong, Draco,” she said, enunciating every word. “Tell me you did not take on the fucking Chosen One, and spend weeks burying yourself in his head.”

Draco said nothing, of course. His bonds wouldn’t allow it, and she knew that. At his obvious silence, Pansy groaned in exasperation.

“Circe’s sagging tits, Draco, are you out of your fucking mind?”

The song changed, and Draco glared at the boombox again. Classic Harry Potter, always getting him into more trouble, somehow.

“How could you do that to yourself, Draco? I know what your work entails, how could you let yourself into that position with him? But of course you did, you fucking moron, you never could control yourself around him, you’ve only been gone for him since you were eleven—“

“I keep on fallin’ in and out of love with you
I never loved someone the way that I love you...”

“I have not—”

“You’ve been in love with that git for over a decade, Draco, and you put yourself into a situation where you’d have him all to yourself, where he could get anything he asked from you! And apparently it got bad enough that he made you a mixtape with this fucking song on it, and he got close enough that your bonds reacted violently—“

“It was just a crush—“ Draco could barely get a word in, between the twist of his bonds protecting confidentiality, and Pansy really getting into her stride.

“A crush, you are so dense, I told you, you’re only an idiot about things you don’t try to know, Draco! You were never able to stay away from him at school, you did anything for his attention, you even told me once you thought he’d cursed or poisoned you, because looking at him made it difficult to breathe, even after he scarred you! You tried denial for more than ten years, Draco, and look where that’s gotten you, letting him get close enough to hurt you again! Just admit it, you complete fool, so we can move on!”

Draco felt like he might explode—with what, he didn’t know. His hands were shaking where they gripped the broom on his lap, and all he knew was that he absolutely, most definitely could not do what she asked.

“I can’t,” he finally forced out. “Please.”

Pansy was finally quiet, winded from her rant, eyes wide with fear and concern, which quickly morphed back into anger when the last track came on. She turned her fiery glare on the boombox.

“No fucking way,” she said indignantly. “That absolute prick.”

Draco shrugged. “This is the first I’m hearing it,” he grumbled, and she scoffed.

“And I’d give up forever to touch you
‘Cause I know that you feel me somehow
You’re the closest to heaven that I’ll ever be,
And I don’t wanna go home right now…”

“Do you have any idea how many slavering muggle men have given me this song on a mixtape, trying to get into my knickers?” she asked, and Draco shrugged again. “Too fucking many, Draco.”

“And I don’t want the world to see me,
‘Cause I don’t think that they’d understand
When everything’s made to be broken,
I just want you to know who I am…”

The broom clattered to the floor as Draco stood suddenly, furious, and stomped over to the countertop, quickly slamming the square stop button down, sending the broom shed into silence once more. Who did Harry think he was, putting lyrics like that in Draco’s mixtape?

The shed was quiet for a while as Draco stood there, glaring at the stupid boombox. After a moment, he felt small hands wrap around his waist, and looked down to see Pansy hugging him, settling her face on his chest. He sighed and wrapped his arms around her slender shoulders, laying his cheek against her sleek, dark hair. She smelled like mint leaves and lime, his very best friend, his family.

“I love you, darling,” she said softly, her voice muffled against his chest. “I hate seeing you hurt.”

Draco’s eyes burned and he felt a painful lump in his throat, but he wouldn’t cry, he wouldn’t, he wouldn’t. Instead, he held her tighter, and internally thanked Timsy for knowing just what he needed, as always.

***

Only a couple days later, Draco stood in his study, glaring at the remains of the chalkboard. He hadn’t yet repaired it. It would take serious work, since it had been broken by such violent, wild magic, and he didn’t want to just vanish it, either—he’d worked hard on adding the chalkboard to this wall, with its spinning tiles that sealed together when he needed it, and carried his books when he didn’t. It was excellent charm work.

But now, it also held the remains of an unfinished puzzle, which Draco hated. He was determined to solve this. He’d read through all of his notes on the “curse,” and the attacker, he’d dissected their every word, and there was only one thing he hadn’t yet done in his investigation: visit the Department of Mysteries.

It was the only thing Draco could think of. There was a huge, gaping hole in the reasoning, where the attacker had claimed they’d foreseen it all happening. If they were an Unspeakable—which was likely, thanks to Kingsley’s insight that the Unspeakables answered to no one—they’d have access to the Hall of Prophecy, and something there must have caused them to act.

Ron had said they never went down there, that they weren’t welcome after the damage they’d caused in ‘96. It was probable, then, that they still hadn’t gone. They hadn’t checked. Draco’s brain was sprinting.

“Because the only people permitted to retrieve a prophecy from the Department of Mysteries, Potter, are those about whom it was made.” Harry’s memory of Lucius’ voice echoed in Draco’s head, making him shudder.

The prophecy, if there was one, was probably about Harry. But it had caused a reaction that had sent Harry to the only Healer Legilimens in England: Draco. And unless the attacker themselves was a Seer, the only way they could have heard it was from the Seer’s mouth—or else the prophecy concerned them, as well, and they had full access to it.

It was his best guess, at the moment. There was nothing for it. He left the study, and walked to his room to put on a proper suit.

***

The heavy, thick smog of London nearly made Draco gag after so much time in the fresh, natural air at home. It didn’t help that he had to apparate into a dank alleyway, next to some overflowing dumpsters and the dinky red telephone booth that marked the visitor’s entrance to the Ministry.

He probably could have used the direct floo to the Minister’s office, but that just seemed rude. He didn’t want to push his luck. So with a grimace, he stepped into the filthy booth, and dialed 6-2-4-4-2.

“Welcome to the Ministry of Magic. State your name and purpose.”

Draco hadn’t thought that through. He couldn’t just say he was visiting Level Nine for a prophecy, could he? Would that alert somebody? The last time a Malfoy had been there for a prophecy had caused quite a stir—

“Healer Draco Malfoy, gathering information.” Yes, that was good. Vague enough. Definitely suspicious, but not enough to be arrested on site. Probably.

There was a small clattering noise as the booth spit out a nametag in the coin return slot. Draco took it out and examined it as the floor of the booth lurched, and started descending into the ground.

Draco scoffed. Quest for knowledge, indeed. Someone was having a laugh, somewhere. He pinned the nametag to the crisp black lapel of his suit, right under the Healer’s Emblem pin. The charms probably wouldn’t do him any good, here, but a little authority couldn’t hurt.

The booth finally halted, and the door opened, releasing him into the buzzing Ministry Atrium. It was nearly lunchtime, so it wasn’t crowded enough to make Draco panic, but it was still horrible, being here. He tried to keep the grimace of nausea off of his face as he straightened his spine and crossed the floor briskly to the Wand Registration booth on the other side of the room, eyes on his destination, steadily ignoring the stares and double-takes.

The fountain had been changed—no longer the Fountain of Magical Brethren, nor the Magic is Might monstrosity, but some large, vague marble sphere that spewed water out of the top, which landed back on the stone and cascaded down into the pool below. It was so different from what he’d seen before, but Harry’s memories were still flashing in Draco’s brain, alongside his own: the spot by the wall where the statue had guarded a fifteen-year-old Harry, the space on the floor where Harry had fallen, in agony under Voldemort’s possession, the floor that’d been crowded by an angry mob after eighteen-year-old Draco was freed—

“Wand, please,” the young, sleepy looking wizard at the desk held out his hand mechanically as Draco approached, not even looking up. Draco handed over his wand with only minute hesitation. This is fine. Everything is fine. The wizard laid the wand on the little scale and waited, looking surly, until the contraption spit out a little piece of parchment. He took it in his fingers and read:

“Silver lime wood, eleven inches, unicorn hair core. Sound right?”

“It does,” Draco replied, and the wizard finally looked up, his eyes widening at the sight of notorious ex-Death-Eater Draco Malfoy in a very sharp, black, muggle, three-piece suit. Draco was just going to pretend the staring was because he looked fantastic, and not because of—all the rest, the things that were making his stomach churn. Thank Merlin for the confidence of an excellent, snug-fitting suit.

The wizard continued staring for a moment, open-mouthed, reminding Draco of a fish, until Draco raised one imperious eyebrow. The man shook himself and cleared his throat, finally handing back Draco’s wand.

“Enjoy your time at the Ministry, Mr. Malfoy,” the wizard mumbled, face still slack with shock. Draco decided to test his new theory by looking him in the eye and giving the man a charming, lopsided grin, saying, “Thank you, Mr. ...Collins,” as he read the man’s badge. The young wizard swallowed and blushed, and Draco smirked as he turned away, feeling a bit victorious. Still got it, Draco.

Draco walked across the Atrium to the line of golden grilles that housed the lifts, and the sound of his expensive shoes against the dark marble floor was quite satisfying. They certainly didn’t make this clear, authoritative tap on his hardwood floors at home.

He tried to get a lift by himself, but a couple people squeezed in at the last minute. It took them a few floors before they realized who they were riding a lift with, and one of them got out on the next floor—Draco had heard him talking about Level Eight, there was no need to get off on Four. But the other passenger remained, an older woman who kept her lips pursed tightly together in disapproval—at what? Draco himself, or his muggle attire? He’d never know. She kept her hand on her wand the whole time, and got off on Level Eight, looking back once in confusion and suspicion when she realized he was staying on to the last Level.

“Level Nine: Department of Mysteries.”

Draco stepped out of the lift and immediately felt colder. Maybe it was because he saw Harry’s memory of Dementors stationed in this corridor during seventh year, or because they were so deep underground, or because the memories of Harry’s fifth year nightmares and battles were bombarding his mind, or because this path led to the Courtrooms… Not anything he had time to ponder over. He strode along the dim, tiled corridor, making his way to the big, black door at the very end, his shoes echoing off the polished stone.

He reached the black door, and stared at it for a moment—he remembered Harry’s memory of Lucius talking to Fudge, in front of this very door. It was awful, seeing the settings of those horrible memories come to life. It made it all much more real, much too close. He felt wretched, knowing so much about Harry, walking the paths he’d walked, aware that they would never speak again. Draco took a deep breath, ignoring the tight feeling in his chest, and opened the door.

The circular room he entered was incredibly dark, with only candles of dim blue flame adorning the walls between the many, identical doors. As soon as the door shut behind him, the walls began to spin very fast, causing the blue light to blur around him, so there was no way to tell from which door he’d entered. He clicked his tongue in annoyance.

“I just need the Hall of Prophecy,” he muttered, and the walls suddenly stopped, a door in front of him opening wide onto another dark room. Draco shrugged to himself. It made sense that the Department of Mysteries would keep their entryway as off-putting and dramatic as possible. Most people probably didn’t bother to just ask for what they needed.

Draco walked into the next room, almost as dark as the first, and heard his own breath catch in his throat—it was at least the size of a cathedral, or two, and packed with towering shelves of glowing glass spheres, exactly like Harry’s memory. He could almost hear Lucius’ demands and Bellatrix’s jeers, could practically see them in front of him. Draco shuddered.

But there were thousands of them… how was he supposed to find it? And why weren’t there any Unspeakables around? He was completely alone, in this dim, echoing hall, buried deep underground.

Draco decided to try the method that had already worked once before. He cleared his throat. It might not work, there might not even be a prophecy here, but if there was, he would only be able to obtain it if it was about him. He had to try.

“I need my prophecy—the prophecy concerning Draco Malfoy.”

Immediately the massive shelves began to move, slowly, the glass spheres clattering gently in their stands. They reached almost all the way to the huge, vaulted ceiling, and Draco jumped and braced himself to run, but they did not fall—simply continued sliding along the floor, shifting and turning for a couple of minutes, making a low rumbling sound that vibrated the floor under his feet.

Finally, a tower of shelves stopped directly in front of him. Taking a deep breath to clear the adrenaline in his veins, he stepped forward, examining the tags on the spheres of the shelf at eye-level, until—

B. C. to Unspeakable
D. L. Malfoy & H. J. Potter
L. A. Malfoy?

Draco choked. What? He stared at the glowing glass sphere, that he hadn’t even been sure he would find, yet here it was—tagged with his name, and Harry’s, and—Lucius Abraxas Malfoy, question mark?

He took yet another deep breath, trying to calm his nerves, shaking out his hands before just going for it and plucking the sphere off the shelf. He didn’t die or go insane, all was well so far—

“With true knowledge of the Saviour, the one who rejects his name shall rise higher than those before him, taking what his father never had, and rendering the Voice of the Saviour unnecessary at last.”

Draco gasped as a child’s hoarse, monotone voice filled his head, and nearly dropped the glass sphere. What the fuck?!

He felt frozen where he stood. Yes, that was definitely a prophecy, but—the one who rejects his name—could mean anybody, and yet, here it was, Draco’s and his father’s names were on the tag, and his brain was working so fast he could hardly keep up. If his name was on the tag, that meant that action had been taken, events already set in motion, just like with the prophecy of the ‘Chosen One’, the tag had been edited after Voldemort had targeted Harry Potter instead of Neville Longbottom—

Draco’s breathing was shallow and his hands shook as he replaced the sphere on the shelf. He backed away as they began to move once more, back to their original positions, and suddenly he was running, instinct driving him away.

He threw open the door and ran back into the dark, circular entry room. The walls started spinning, and when had he pulled his wand?

“I need the exit!” Draco growled with frustration, and the walls froze, a door banging open directly in front of him. Draco sprinted out of it, not bothering to close the door behind him, and didn’t stop until he was forced to, when he reached the lifts again.

The grilles of the lift clanged open, and Draco stepped inside, winded. He wasn’t even sure what he was running from—just that something was very wrong, something was unsafe, and his instincts wouldn’t let him stop until he was safe behind his own wards again.

He didn’t run when he reached the Atrium, because a Malfoy running was always cause for alarm, and arrest would not help his current situation in the least. He still crossed the floor as quickly as he could toward the line of outgoing floos.

He rooted around in his extended pocket, Timsy always made sure he had extra floo powder when he went out—there it is. He pulled the small pouch hurriedly out of his pocket, and accidentally elbowed someone else in line for the floo.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, and the person said nothing, thank Merlin.

Draco grabbed a pinch of floo powder from the pouch, threw it into the fire, and stepped into the green flames, quietly calling out the name of his home: “Silver Hawthorn Residence.”

The floo sucked him in and he waited, enduring the nauseating, dizzying journey, before he landed in his own fireplace, and stepped into his sitting room with a great sigh of relief.

Now that he was home, he needed to think, but his stomach chose that moment to growl. He couldn’t hear any sounds from the kitchen—Timsy must have been out shopping, then. Right—it was Tuesday, Timsy always did the shopping on Tuesdays. Damn. Draco couldn’t stay still long enough to make his own food at the moment. He’d have to wait to eat.

He walked quickly down the hall to his study, once again facing the split chalkboard, as that Seer child’s hoarse voice started playing on a loop in his head.

“With true knowledge of the Saviour,...”

True knowledge of the Saviour is what he apparently had, now, thanks to that meddlesome Unspeakable. Was it their job to make sure prophecies were fulfilled or something?

“...the one who rejects his name shall rise higher than those before him…”

Technically, Draco had rejected his name by rejecting his duties as a Malfoy, rejecting his childhood home, rejecting his and his family’s bigoted beliefs, and somewhat unintentionally helping Harry Potter win the War. But people opposed their families all the time, it could have even meant someone who’d opted to change their name! Yet someone had decided it meant Draco. And rise higher in what, in status, power? Maybe even physical distance, he had a dream once about flying his broom to the moon, when he was a kid…

“...taking what his father never had…”

This may have been the most obscure prophecy he’d ever heard of; he could have written something like this in Divination and received perfect marks for it. There was so much that his father had never had—like real friends, for instance, or a loving relationship with his family—just a few examples. But the wording could mean something different, it could mean ‘taking what his father never had taken…’

“...and rendering the Voice of the Saviour unnecessary at last.”

That sounded pretty fucking ominous, but it also sounded like Harry catching a bit of a break, for once. The whole thing was so utterly vague, so incomplete, but someone had surmised Draco Malfoy, and had done something about it, but why? It played over and over in his head, like a broken record.

It sounded like a power issue. With true knowledge of the Saviour—a strength, a benefit, apparently—he will rise higher than those before him… taking what his father never had…

Lucius had been pretty damn powerful in his prime, he had bribed and blackmailed and manipulated nearly every person he’d met. Draco certainly didn’t want that power. He had rejected it, after all, in rejecting his name, how would he rise higher…? But rising higher than someone didn’t have to mean power, it could mean anything… But someone wouldn’t have acted on it if they’d believed it meant anything benign… but only with true knowledge of the Saviour—

Draco inhaled sharply, pointed his wand, and vanished the chalkboard entirely, with only a half-second of mourning for the loss of his delicate charm work and books. That board held a ton of “true knowledge” of the Saviour… apparently it was a tool of power, a weapon—and now, currently, a weapon only Draco had—

He quickly left the study and jogged back to the sitting room, kneeling in front of the fire. He needed to call—who? He needed to call someone, but he wouldn’t be able to talk about this with anyone but Harry, without Harry’s consent, and where was Harry? Would he be working? Pansy had said he’d gone back to work, and fuck, Draco had just been there at the Ministry, if he had been thinking clearly at all… and Kingsley certainly wouldn’t just let him walk out of his floo, minding his own business…

Draco growled with frustration and stood, pacing his sitting room. A letter, he’d have to write a letter, he wouldn’t even be allowed to relay a message with his Patronus, since the message would be heard by anyone in the room. He flicked his wand and summoned a small piece of paper and a ballpoint pen, sitting on the end of his sofa and propping his leg up on the coffee table to write on it, it didn’t have to be neat.

Ron Weasley, he wrote on the back, and flipped it over to attempt to communicate this latest development, the child’s voice still looping the prophecy over and over in his head.

Prophecy, he wrote, his hand wouldn’t write anything about a curse or an attack or Harry…

9, he wrote, because his hand wouldn’t write anything else about the attacker having anything to do with Level Nine, now that Draco knew they certainly did… And what else?

Me, he wrote, though hopefully they would figure that out if they figured out he heard a prophecy, because he only could if it was about him, maybe he could write more about himself, trick his bonds that way…

Weapon, he wrote, because the attacker thought that true knowledge of Harry was Draco’s tool of power, which made Draco a weapon, in their eyes, to either use or be threatened by…

And who on earth would be threatened by him? He was boring, these days. If they were afraid of the prophecy coming true, of Draco getting this knowledge and possibly “rising higher” than his predecessors or his ancestors, they could have just left it alone. But they made sure that Draco would be the one to know Harry like that, though Draco still had no idea how that made him powerful, at all. That simply pointed to someone else wanting to use that power, and relying on Draco to get it—but that meant that someone would soon be trying to get it from Draco, trying to gain that power somehow, trapped in Draco’s head—

That power that could make Draco “higher,” maybe even “better,” than his ancestors or predecessors, that could make Draco “take what his father never had,” and “render the Voice of the Saviour unnecessary…”

Nothing made sense, but everything felt wrong, and he could hear Ginny Weasley’s voice, in Harry’s ear, in Draco’s head: “Your instincts are telling you something is wrong. You’ve never ignored them before, and you shouldn’t ignore them now.”

There was only one person Draco could think of who would lose his mind at the thought of Draco becoming better and more powerful than him, of Draco having something his father never had, or never bothered to take, and it was impossible, it was completely outrageous, but no one important had heard from him in six months, and the Azkaban Warden had said the weirdest things about him, and his name was on the tag—

Lucius, he scrawled quickly, just in case, folding up the paper into a tiny square, hurrying to the window and opening it, praying that Bubo was around, feeling like he was about to crawl out of his skin—

When the flames flared green in the fireplace, louder than usual, lighting up the room, and Lucius Malfoy stepped coolly out of the grate, as if this was a dream, or a nightmare, and no time had passed at all since the War.

He was dressed impeccably, as he always had been, but Draco couldn’t see the walking stick anywhere. His hair was much longer and whiter than it was the last time Draco had seen him, down to the middle of his back, and he was looking around Draco’s sitting room curiously, as if he’d just popped by for a visit. He held his wand loosely, lazily, in hands clasped in front of him.

Draco felt the folded square of paper fall out of his numb hand, frozen in his shock and fear. Lucius simply stood there, fiddling with his wand and gazing around the room, he hadn’t looked at Draco at all, and was this real?

Draco felt the blood rushing back into his limbs; there was only one way to find out. He drew his wand in a blur, aiming it at his maybe-father, maybe-hallucination—

“Stupef—” Draco choked as pain exploded in his core, and he cried out with it as his body doubled over, this was so much worse than during that kiss—

Draco heard a tsk sound through the rush of blood in his ears.

“No, Draco, that would be causing intentional harm, wouldn’t it? To your own father, no less—not very fitting behaviour, for a Healer.”

Draco gasped again, through the twisting, punishing pain, because even his own mind couldn’t recreate Lucius’ drawling voice that well, couldn’t fill Draco with shame for no fucking reason. He raised his wand again.

“Expelli—” Another sharp cry as the knives in his stomach stabbed and pulled, and his throat was closing, he couldn’t breathe, these bonds were not supposed to kill him—he felt sharp pain in his knees and assumed he’d hit the floor, as his father’s voice sounded again, above him, much closer, and his vision was darkening and fuzzy around the edges—

“And that is the difference between owning or rejecting your name, my son. You are leashed by the Ministry, while the Ministry is leashed by me.”

******

Harry ate lunch at his desk, again. He had thought he’d be kept busy, being back at work after nearly six weeks away, but his pile of paperwork was dwindling quickly, and he’d already run two interrogations this week, and successfully completed a raid of an illegal potions dealer’s warehouse… it was only Tuesday, and it wasn’t nearly enough.

He stood up from his desk, stuffing the last of the cold sandwich in his mouth and adjusting the leather wand holster on his thigh. He’d gotten used to carrying his wand in his pocket, again, and now the holster just felt constricting, uncomfortable. He walked down the long row of cubicles, towards the heavy, ornate wooden door of the Head Auror’s office.

Patricia gave him a perfunctory smile from the secretary desk as he approached, signaling to Harry that Ron wasn’t busy. Excellent. He knocked once, then twice quickly—a short code, letting Ron know who was at the door, before opening it and stepping inside.

Ron sat at his huge desk, surrounded by his usual mess of parchment, his long hair sticking up oddly from where his hand kept running through it. He hardly ever wore it up, at work, even though it was obviously easier to deal with. He looked up as Harry walked in and plopped himself down in one of the hard chairs in front of Ron’s desk.

“I need more cases,” Harry declared, and Ron stared at him for a moment, before narrowing his eyes shrewdly.

“No.”

“What do you mean, ‘no?’” Harry scoffed.

“I mean, no, Harry, you’ve done enough, you’ve done too much actually, and I know you’re only trying to drown yourself in it to avoid something.”

Harry huffed again, feeling piqued. “I’m not avoiding anything. I’m just glad to be back at work, is all. I missed it.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“What?”

“You did not miss it, mate. You asked to come back once, that first week, before you finally let yourself relax and focus on your healing. You had a great time, somehow, in all your sessions with Malfoy—Draco,” Ron corrected, and Harry flinched minutely.

“I’d never seen you so relaxed,” Ron continued, exasperated. “You seemed happy. Even when you came home exhausted from Draco’s sessions, you were never upset or distressed, you didn’t itch to be occupied like you’re doing now. You went to your sessions, and you spent time with us, and you visited Andy and Teddy practically every other day. You didn’t miss this. You were fine, you were content, until the moment you were healed.”

Harry pressed his lips together, glaring at his friend. Ron simply stared back, waiting.

“Well, I’m here now. And my desk is nearly cleared, and I need more cases.”

Ron kept staring at him, causing Harry to squirm in his chair.

“That’s it,” Ron muttered, sighing and putting his quill back in its stand. He sat back in his chair, pulled his wand, and waved it at his desk, sending the parchments to all their respective files, leaving his desk clear. He stood up from his chair and straightened his robes. “Come on.”

“What are you doing?” Harry asked, bewildered.

“We’re going home,” Ron replied, as if that was obvious.

“What do you mean? It’s half noon!”

“Sure is, and you and I are taking a half day. I’m not dealing with this shit again, we’re going to figure it out. Now, come on, or I will Stun you and drag you out of here by your feet. The Prophet would lose their minds,” Ron grinned deviously, reminding Harry suddenly of Fred. Harry couldn’t see a way out of it—Ron was apparently quite serious. He sighed and stood, but continued glaring. He’d go, but he didn’t have to be happy about it.

“We’re leaving, Patricia,” Ron said to his secretary as they left the office. Patricia raised her eyebrows, but said nothing, as usual. “You can go home early if you want.”

“‘Mione’ll be home today,” Ron mentioned casually, leading the way out of the DMLE, and Harry groaned internally. That meant they would really be ‘figuring it out’ today. The dressing-down was going to be legendary. “Rose is at school until three. She’ll be delighted to see you, if you stay for dinner.”

Harry gave a non-committal grunt as they approached the floos in the Atrium. As his eyes darted around, he noticed Collins at Registration looking dazedly across the room—was he blushing? Harry snorted and elbowed Ron, motioning towards Collins. Ron joined in his chuckling; they’d never seen Collins looking anything but half-asleep and surly.

“Wonder who happened to him,” Ron snickered, as he stepped into the floo and called out “Granger-Weasley Cottage!” Harry followed close behind him.

“Ron? Is everything alright?” Harry heard Hermione’s worried voice as he stepped into the sitting room.

“Everything’s fine, love, but everything is also not fine, and we’re going to get it out of him if I have to break open his thick skull to do it,” Ron declared, and Harry made a rude gesture at him as he entered the kitchen to join them. “He’s trying to get me to drown him in work again, you know how it is. I’ve had enough.”

“Oh, good,” Hermione said. “I’ll start tea, then.”

Harry sat himself silently and petulantly at the well-worn wooden table in Ron and Hermione’s kitchen, where most of the scoldings occurred, crossing his arms over his chest, feeling like a child.

Ron and Hermione joined him, bringing mugs of tea. Hermione slid his over to him, exactly how he usually took it—too much sugar, too much milk. Another remnant of his traumatic childhood, he thought, glaring at the mug. It was probably Dumbledore’s fault he drank his tea like this, too. Harry tried to keep from growling.

Hermione sat at the end of the table, directly to his left, while Ron sat across from him—a strategic, intentional move, an effort to make this dressing-down feel like less of a confrontation.

“Okay, Harry,” Ron said clearly, and Harry recognized his face and body language from those he used right before a chess game. “Spill.”

Harry sighed, trying to calm his heart rate, wishing he was back at Grimmauld Place, sitting on a beach in a Pensieve next to memory-Draco, away from it all. “What do you want to know?”

“Everything, honestly,” Hermione replied, “but most importantly, why you seemed to be having the time of your life while Draco was healing you, until the very last day, when you came back fully healed and just as unhappy as you were before you were attacked. What happened?”

Harry pressed his lips together. Nothing for it now, they were going to get it out of him sooner or later.

“I may have…” Harry huffed, regret making him feel heavier than ever, “...attacked him.”

They were silent for a moment, as if waiting for Harry to say something that would make that any less true.

“Harry, why?” Hermione asked.

“Well, we kind of… fought,” Harry said lamely, eyes darting to the side.

“No, you didn’t,” Ron said, and Harry rolled his eyes. “Fighting is a two-party thing, you said you attacked him. And I’m going to guess, since you probably couldn’t speak and were in the middle of a session, that Draco saw something in your head that made him upset, and that prat knows exactly how to get under your skin, so he said things that pissed you off enough that you attacked him.”

Harry’s mouth twisted, and he looked away, drumming his fingers on the surface of the table.

Hermione clicked her tongue, impatient. “Just tell us, Harry. You can’t move on from this until you face it, and we can’t help you unless you talk about it.”

“And we're not going to think any less of you, no matter what, mate,” Ron added. “You know that.”

Harry did know that. Maybe. He took a deep breath, counting it in and out, the way Draco taught him.

“The last breadcrumb was a memory of Kingsley, erm… convincing me to help him out.”

They stared back at him, and Ron raised one eyebrow at the vast amount of information left out of that sentence. Harry grimaced, but continued.

“A few years ago, I asked Kingsley for a favour—a pretty big, long-term favour,” Harry said. “I offered him a favour in return. I, erm—“ he huffed in frustration, how was he supposed to say this? “—I became ‘political,’ for him, in return for that favour.”

“That’s why you keep doing all that political bullocks?!” Ron exclaimed.

“Harry,” Hermione said, her voice low and dangerous. “What was the favour?”

Harry hesitated for a moment, looking back and forth between them. They were not going to like this—just like they hadn’t liked him testifying for Draco, in the first place.

“After the Death Eater trials, I asked Kingsley to keep an eye on Draco, check in on him occasionally. To make sure the Aurors were staying away from him, and the Ministry didn’t try to hold him back from whatever he wanted to do. I had saved Draco’s life and I’d testified for him and he finally had a second chance, away from his father—I didn’t want it to go to waste, is all,” Harry finished lamely, crossing his arms in defense.

“Of course you did,” Ron sighed, setting down his mug and wrestling his hair into a bun. “That sounds exactly like something you would do and not tell us about for eight years.”

“Why should I have?” Harry asked irritably. “You two didn’t look me in the eye for a week after I testified for Draco. You think I was that keen on telling you I’d sent the Minister to protect him and back him up?”

“Fair,” Ron muttered, sighing again. “We were definitely being arseholes to you back then. But what, then, Draco was pissed that you’d sicced the Minister on him?”

“No,” Harry replied. “Draco was pissed about what I was doing in return for that favour. He saw all the speeches and the handshakes and the stupid events, and he saw how much I hated it all—“

“So Draco was angry for you?” Hermione interrupted, looking confused.

Harry hesitated again. “I suppose… but he was definitely angry at me, as well, he was angry at a lot of things… people…” He waved his hand around vaguely. “He was pretty fucking furious, actually. He’d only ever been angry like that during our sessions once before, and it wasn’t—he didn’t put blame on me, that time, but this time… it felt like maybe he’d been holding that all in, the entire time, and he just exploded,” Harry said, feeling a bit desperate.

“Why was he angry the first time?” Hermione asked, nonchalantly taking a sip of her tea, and this was starting to feel more like an interrogation.

Harry pursed his lips. “He saw the first eleven years of my life, and my Hogwarts letter,” he muttered. “Set off his accidental magic, he broke some things. But he said that happened because he’d not paced his Occlumency well enough, or something. He didn’t get angry again until that last day.”

“That’s understandable. I’d probably break a few things if I had to watch your life at the Dursley’s,” Hermione said, as if this was a simple fact, before furrowing her brows again. “What was wrong with your letter?”

Harry ground his teeth, once again wishing he were anywhere else, or at least that he knew when to keep his mouth shut. “It was addressed to the Cupboard Under the Stairs,” he mumbled, looking down at his fidgeting hand on his mug, tracing the edge of the porcelain. When he looked back up, Ron and Hermione both wore identical expressions of horror.

“You didn’t tell us that,” Ron said.

“Because it’s not important,” Harry glared.

“Like hell—”

“Not now, Ron,” Hermione interrupted, horror transforming to determination on her face as she laid her hand on Ron’s forearm. “Did you know the last day was your last day?”

“No,” Harry replied, grateful for the subject change, but not for what the subject was changed to. “That was, erm… a surprise, to us both.”

“Come on, Harry.” Ron was clearly exasperated. “Draco being angry on your behalf is not enough to make you attack him. Out with it.”

Harry groaned, burying his face in his hands.

“He said a lot of things,” Harry began. “He said that I was… that I was raised to be the hero, that Dumbledore had intentionally made me endure trial after trial to train me to risk my own life, over and over, so that when the time came for me to die, I wouldn’t even blink before walking to my death. He said Dumbledore had forced me to stay at the Dursley’s because I felt worthless there, and if I’d had a better childhood I’d have too much self-worth to willingly give up my life for the greater good. ‘They don’t tell pigs how wonderful and cherished they are before they slaughter them,’ he said.”

Ron’s and Hermione’s mouths were open again in shock. But now that Harry had started, that anger he’d felt was building again, and he couldn’t stop the flow of words coming out of his mouth.

“He said I was trained to give myself up, without thinking twice about it, all the time. He said that Dumbledore could have done all of the things I had to do as a kid himself, but that he’d made me do it, instead, so that I would prove that I’d put myself in danger for the sake of others. He said it was all I knew how to do, now, that all I had ever done was take the roles thrust upon me because I had to, because I was told it was the right thing to do, because I have no self-worth, apparently—he said I keep giving away pieces of myself because I never learned that there was anything worth holding on to, and that people were using me, all the time, and I’m letting them, that I’m just as much of a pawn as I ever was… He called me a puppet…”

Harry trailed off, and the kitchen descended into silence once more. He crossed his arms over his chest, scowling indignantly.

After a moment, Ron cleared his throat softly. “Well, someone had to,” he mumbled, and Harry snapped his head up, ready to fight again.

“Don’t look at me like that, Harry, you know he was right.” Ron glared at him, and Hermione sat back in her chair, folding her hands in her lap.

“This one is all you, Ronald,” she murmured. Ron ignored her.

“What, Harry, you honestly think Albus Dumbledore was incapable of keeping you safe, or making sure your foster family didn’t starve you and keep you locked in a cupboard?”

“He said my mother’s blood—”

“Yes, Harry, the blood wards, I know, no one could touch you while you were there, they kept you safe from Death Eaters, but there are so many ways to keep someone safe. You remember the wards they put on the Burrow! You remember Grimmauld, even Hogwarts! He could have done anything else, could have sent you to a wizard family on the Continent. Even Remus would have taken you in, he’d probably tried to. But he kept you with those awful muggles, and he knew how they were treating you, he had Mrs. Figg reporting back to him the whole time, you just said your letter was addressed to the cupboard. You didn’t grow up knowing that you were loved, Harry, because if you had, you wouldn’t have been so freely willing to die!”

“I died because I had to, Ron, I didn’t want to!” Harry stood up, fists clenched at his sides.

“Of course you didn’t! But when has something you wanted ever mattered to you, more than what anyone said you had to do?” Ron stood, raising his voice.

Harry opened his mouth to mention Draco’s trial, but shut it immediately. He didn’t want to prove Draco right. Unfortunately, he couldn’t think of anything else. He couldn’t think of a single time he’d placed something he wanted to do over something he was told he had to do. It had never actually mattered, to him. He’d certainly never gotten anything he wanted at the Dursley’s, so he hadn’t bothered wanting anything. He’d only ever wanted to stay away from them, once he got to school, but that hadn’t mattered, either, more than the fact that he had to stay with them. There was no real reason Harry had to stay there, especially after fourth year, when they’d put Grimmauld Place under a Fidelius charm—he’d only been able to go after being attacked by Dementors in Little Whinging. Or after fifth year, once they’d put those wards on the Burrow—Dumbledore had taken him there himself, only after using him to convince Slughorn to return—

“But that’s…” Harry huffed, quickly losing steam.

“Horrible, I know,” Ron finished for him. “You would never have allowed Teddy to live a life like that. You’d have packed him and Andy up and dragged them to America, before letting Teddy grow up like you did, to hell with the greater good.”

Harry felt a painful lump in his throat, imagining Teddy in his cupboard under the stairs, sleeping through hunger pains… living in a house where no one said his name, where no one wanted him… throwing himself into every dangerous situation because he felt he was the only one who could, while the adults around him watched and rewarded him for making it out alive, he was a child…

Something small and warm landed on his hand, and he looked down to see a blur of Hermione’s hand covering his own. Embarrassed, he sat back down and ripped off his glasses, hastily wiping his eyes.

Harry opened his eyes again, defeated. Ron had sat down, and he watched Harry carefully, concern and sadness written all over his face—probably imagining Rose in the same situation.

“I attacked him,” Harry said quietly. “I lost control of my magic, I pulled my wand on his throat, I—I told him he didn’t know me.”

“As in, you said that, out loud?” Hermione clarified, and Harry nodded.

“Well, that was obviously not true,” she said. “You wouldn’t have been able to say it if it was.”

Harry only shrugged, feeling wrung out. The kitchen was quiet again as they processed their thoughts.

“So, Draco was furious at everything, after finding out that Kingsley’s been manipulating you for years,” Hermione gathered, “apparently using Draco as a bargaining chip.”

“I wouldn’t say he’s manipulating—” Harry tried.

“Of course he is, Harry, he’s a politician. You’ve been doing whatever Kingsley asks of you, because the inference was that if you didn’t, Kingsley would stop looking after Draco and ‘protecting him’ from the Ministry,” she explained. “He probably said you were the only one who could keep blood purists from rising to power, or something, too, because the easiest way to get you, Harry, to do something unpleasant, is to threaten someone you care about, or tell you it could keep everyone else safe.”

Harry felt like he’d been punched. That was almost exactly what Kingsley had said—and exactly why Harry had agreed to do it. Had he really become a slave to the greater good?

“Draco was probably more furious that you hadn’t even gotten your end of the bargain for it, some job Kingsley did protecting him,” Hermione grumbled, rolling her eyes. Harry's head snapped up again.

“What do you mean?” he asked, narrowing his eyes, and Hermione froze, exchanging a worried look with Ron.

“Did you ask… he didn’t tell you about his…?”

“Ask what, Hermione?”

“You didn’t ask about, erm… his Healer License, or anything? I really thought he would have told you by now—”

“If you know something I don’t, Hermione, spit it out,” Harry growled.

“Well Draco kind of, vaguely, indirectly told us not to tell you,” she said, uncomfortable. “He generally said he would tell you, himself, if you asked, but he didn’t want us telling you, knowing you’d probably take it up as a cause, something to save him from, which would distract from your healing—“

“Well, that point is moot, now, isn’t it, I’m healed, so carry on,” Harry interrupted, growing more frustrated by the second.

“Okay, you’re right, erm…” Hermione looked at Ron, who only sat back in his chair, picking up his mug from the table.

“This one’s all you, ‘Mione,” Ron chuckled, sipping his tea, and she tsked at him.

“Have you ever heard Draco say something, like… like he’s bound by patient confidentiality?” she asked tentatively.

“Once or twice, why?”

“Well, apparently, purebloods mean that quite literally, Harry. He’s bound, magically, to patient confidentiality—among other things.”

“I’m sorry, what?” Harry’s eyes were widening, his hand tightening on the mug of too-sweet tea in front of him.

“Draco’s magical core was bound to the three tenets of Healer’s Ethics, in order to get his Healer License: to protect patient confidentiality, to do no intentional harm, and to maintain ethical standards in Healer-patient relationships. He physically can’t talk about you or your case to anyone else without your expressed consent—we had to watch that happen, before you arrived, that night. It hurts him, terribly, even when he’s being as vague and generic as possible.”

Harry’s stomach dropped through to the floor. Oh, fuck.

“I did some research on bonds like that, after that night,” Hermione brightened a little at the relief of being able to provide cold, hard facts. “They’re rare, quite out of fashion these days, because they’re so subjective—ethics is such a murky subject, and no one really knows where the line is, so they just cause a range of discomfort, based on the ‘severity of the offense:’ described as a mild, gut twisting sensation for the least unscrupulous, and Cruciatus level pain for the most—which would probably be for causing intentional harm, in this case, or ‘behaving inappropriately’ with a patient or something…”

The blood was quickly draining from Harry’s face. Pieces were clicking together in his mind: Draco clutching his stomach with a grimace of discomfort after looking at Harry sometimes, Draco’s face twisted in pain while describing a fantasy on Veritaserum, Draco doubling over after—Oh, fuck. Oh, no.

“Shit,” Harry breathed. “Shit.”

“I know, talk about irony, binding someone to ethics in such an inhumane way,” Hermione scoffed.

“No, I—” Harry started, then shut his mouth, swallowing hard. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Hermione narrowed her eyes at him, scrutinizing him. “Harry,” she began, hesitating, “you and Draco didn’t do anything unethical, did you?”

Ron choked on his tea and sat up instantly. Harry’s silence was all the answer they needed.

“Harry, what did you do?” Hermione demanded, her face torn between fear and anger.

“I erm—” Harry swallowed again, feeling ill, blood rushing back to his cheeks. “I kissed him, once—”

“What?!” Their simultaneous exclamations made Harry flinch.

“I really wanted to, alright?” Harry suddenly felt desperate to explain himself. “We were on our break and eating takeaway on the floor and he’d just danced with his house elf and he was teaching me to dance and we were just really close and I really wanted to so I kissed him—”

“What the fuck—” Ron started, before shaking himself, holding up his hand. “We’ll deal with the rest of that sentence later, but Harry, that must have hurt like hell, and you still didn’t ask?”

“I don’t know, I’m a bloody idiot, apparently! I didn’t realize he was in pain, he didn’t stop me at all, and it was a really good kiss, but he eventually made this odd noise so I stopped and he doubled over, he looked really ill, I thought he was just really regretting it or something, or that I’d—”

“Wait, Harry,” Hermione interrupted him again, “are you saying Draco kissed you back?”

“Yeah, for a bit,” Harry winced.

“Oh, Merlin,” she exhaled, closing her eyes. “I love you, Harry, but sometimes, you can be really dense.”

Harry agreed wholeheartedly. How could he not have noticed—? Draco had practically crumpled, shaking and sweating and clutching his abdomen, and Harry had been too preoccupied with the fact that he’d just kissed Draco Malfoy to even think twice about it.

“He must have really wanted that kiss,” Ron muttered, shaking his head. He brought his hands up to rub his eyes, looking suddenly exhausted. “You two are perfect for each other, apparently… should’ve seen this one coming after sixth year, honestly…” he continued grumbling under his breath. “The most stubborn, thickheaded, idiotic bloody martyrs—“

Harry was still stuck on the fact that Draco hadn’t immediately pushed him away, had in fact pulled him closer, and kissed him harder, and thinking back, Harry could now recognize the sounds he’d made as those of pain. Why in Merlin’s name would he do that?

But then Harry thought about it, and realized he’d probably endure something similar, if that was his one chance to kiss Draco, just to see… he’d have probably kept going, pushed himself through the pain, it had been a really good kiss. That was Harry’s M.O., evidently, martyring himself like that, but never for something—or someone—he’d wanted, before… had Draco really wanted it that badly?

“Well, good on you, Harry, for apparently being a kisser worth enduring a Cruciatus for,” Ron declared, throwing his hands up in vexation. Harry suppressed a wave of nausea at the thought of causing Draco so much pain. Things ostensibly went a little haywire, when Harry did what he wanted to do.

“Wait,” Harry frowned. “Why did he—who did this to him?”

Hermione furrowed her brows. “I told you, Harry—Draco was bound in order to obtain his Healer License.”

“He’s bound… to the Licensers?” Harry clarified, to Hermione’s nod. Harry’s brain was suddenly whirring with activity, flashes of memory and conversation filling his head. His eyes widened. “He’s bound to the Ministry.”

Who gave you Veritaserum?
“Aurors. Licensers. Wizengamot. Harry, this isn’t—“

“Kingsley…” Harry began, swimming through the onslaught of memories, connecting the many dots.

“It’s not the Aurors that kept me down…”

“Kingsley only told me the Licensers gave him a hard time about it…” Harry finally finished his thought. Ron and Hermione looked warily at each other, before Hermione spoke again, very delicately.

“Kingsley approved it, Harry.”

Harry’s body gave him about two seconds to process those words before the rage settled in. He could hear his teeth grinding in his skull. How could he have been so stupid? How could he not have seen it?

“And now Kingsley tells you you have to do this, that you owe it to him and to the world, even though it’s tearing you apart, Harry, and for what? You think Kingsley is the one keeping the Aurors away from me?”

Harry stood up, needing to move, that fucking building was going to burn, he was going to kill Kingsley—

When suddenly the air in the kitchen was split with a loud crack, and all three of their wands were pulled without even thinking, aimed directly at the two people who had just apparated into the kitchen—no, three?

Timsy stood there, looking furious, but not as furious as Pansy Parkinson, who was holding on to his left hand, while Narcissa Malfoy held his right, looking like death warmed over. Harry’s blood ran cold. Draco.

“You have a lot to answer for, Potter,” Parkinson snarled, glaring murderously at him, completely unmoved by the three wands trained on her face.

Chapter Ten

The kitchen was thrown into a tense, shocked silence, before Ron used the cool head that had gotten him the Head Auror position and slowly lowered his wand. Harry and Hermione reluctantly followed suit, still buzzing with adrenaline from the sudden invasion. Timsy was no threat, even though he certainly looked quite threatening at the moment: glaring venomously, holding onto the wife of someone who’d tried to kill Harry, and the woman who’d tried to hand him over to Voldemort.

“Right,” Ron began slowly, “I’m going to assume you got through the wards with Timsy’s house-elf magic, but how did you find us?”

“We weren’t looking for you,” Parkinson sneered. “We were looking for him.” She jerked her head at Harry.

“Timsy is being following Harry Potter’s magical signature,” Timsy grumbled, and Harry mourned that he wasn’t Master Harry anymore. It had become quite endearing. “It is being very loud and easy to follow.”

“Where is Draco?” Harry asked loudly, because wasn’t that the important issue here?

Narcissa seemed to crumble a bit, her usual ethereal grace now transformed into something ghostly, completely despaired. Harry noticed she was shaking.

“We don’t know,” Pansy replied, sparing a concerned look for Narcissa. “Narcissa doesn’t know where he is, but she’s pretty sure she knows with whom.” She opened her other hand, which held a crumpled and folded piece of paper, and thrust it in Ron’s direction. “Found that on the floor of his sitting room, next to an open window.”

Harry walked around the table to stand next to Ron, his heart pounding as Ron opened up the little sheet. Something is very wrong.

Prophecy
9
Me
Weapon

Lucius

“He couldn’t write anything, with those fucking bonds,” Ron muttered. “But it sounds like there’s a prophecy, he’d thought that’d be the case… but if he was able to hear it, that means it was about him—”

“He was the target,” Harry mumbled. “Of course, that curse sent me directly to him, he’s the only one in England… Fuck, I’m an idiot.”

“Seconded,” Parkinson spat. Harry ignored her, turning a stony gaze towards Narcissa.

“Lucius is supposed to be in Azkaban, Narcissa, so why is his name written here?” Harry’s voice was ice, and Narcissa winced, her expression filled with utter misery.

“He appeared at the Manor, this afternoon, claiming he’d just been freed,” Narcissa began, in a much more timid voice than Harry would ever expect from her. “He was so happy to see me, he said he’d wanted it to be a surprise, and I hadn’t heard from him in months, and I—I’d missed him so terribly—I didn’t call anyone at all—”

Harry’s anger was rising, and the room was growing hotter. He felt a firm grip on his arm—Ron’s hand, a warning to control himself. Parkinson was staring at him with wide, furious, kohl-lined eyes, arms now crossed in front of her chest.

“—I should have done something, Draco had just written me with an update from the Warden that had called Lucius a ‘model prisoner’, but I didn’t, and—and he said he wanted to find Draco, to see his son, and it was then I knew something was truly wrong, because he would never have wanted to visit Draco, he would have insisted Draco come to the Manor. I told him that he shouldn’t, that Draco was probably working, anything to try to hold him there, but he insisted, and when I tried to deny him, he… he Imperiused me—”

Narcissa choked on a sob, and her breaths were heaving.

“—he stepped into the floo and he—he made me call out the name—”

She was fully sobbing now, and Harry felt like a huge hand was squeezing him so tight he would surely pop. Draco’s wards were impenetrable, allowing in no one with ill intentions. Draco’s floo was only accessible to Narcissa from the Manor, as long as she called out the name of the house. Apparently, Lucius had had time to figure that out, and find a way to Draco using the path of least resistance—his own devoted wife. Typical.

“Lucius tried to murder me when I was twelve, Narcissa,” Harry snarled, and Ron’s grip tightened on his arm. “Lucius laughed when Voldemort tortured me, as a child. He offered up your son to Voldemort as collateral. That man is incapable of love or empathy.”

Narcissa was hyperventilating at this point, consumed by her grief and her fear, and Harry sighed heavily, trying not to lash out. He flicked his wand and summoned a Calming Draught from the cabinet where Ron and Hermione stored potions, and handed it to her. Her hands shook as she uncorked the tiny bottle, downing the whole thing. Harry was still livid that she’d even allowed Lucius to open his mouth, but he pulled out the chair at the table nonetheless, and took her arm, gently leading her to it.

“If Draco had tried to defend himself at all, his bonds would have revolted,” Hermione said quietly, and one of the mugs of cold tea on the table shattered. She whipped her head around to glare at Harry.

“Keep it together, Harry, we’ll need your head clear if we’re going to find him,” she ordered impatiently as she swished her wand at the table to vanish the mess. Harry worked on his breathing, in and out, remembering Draco’s low, quiet voice in his head: “Well done, Harry, you’re getting better at this…”

But then his mind moved to the strength of Draco’s arms around him, nearly lifting him off the ground as he kissed Harry as if his life depended on it… torturing himself for it—

“So Lucius has him, and no one knows where, or why or how that prick isn’t in Azkaban?” Ron asked the room at large, and Parkinson scoffed.

“Excellent deduction, Head Auror,” she muttered. Ron ignored her, as well.

“If there’s a prophecy, it probably concerns me too, otherwise I wouldn’t have been attacked. I’ll be able to hear it. We need to go to Level Nine. We should have done it weeks ago,” Harry said, desperate to get moving, to do something.

“Agreed,” Ron replied. “That’s probably why he wrote 9. That may also mean Unspeakables are involved, as he’d also thought, which means Lucius has access to Level Nine.” He frowned at the paper in his hand. “Do you think he’s trying to say, he is a weapon?”

“That would explain why Lucius wants anything to do with him,” Parkinson chimed in, still glaring fiercely at the room. “If Draco was a weapon of some sort, Lucius would either feel threatened by him or want to use him to his own advantage, probably both.”

“Yes, that sounds like him,” Ron added grimly. “But if Lucius is working with the Unspeakables, he could have access to literally anything in the Ministry. Especially if the Warden and the guards of Azkaban are covering for him, intentionally or not—he’s obviously got a lot of power. Why would he need Draco?”

“I guess we’ll find out with that prophecy,” Harry replied.

“Then let’s go,” Parkinson growled. Ron raised his eyebrows at her, which only made her angrier.

“Oh, I’m not letting either of you out of my sight until Draco is safe. It’s your fucking fault he’s in danger right now, and you’re going to fix it, Potter!”

“How is this Harry’s—“

“You probably thought this was all about you the entire time, you arsehole, you spent weeks with him, getting close enough to make a shitty mixtape and activate those horrific bonds and then you just left him there!”

“A mixtape, Harry—?”

“Oh, now that Harry Potter’s problem is fixed, you thought you could simply wash your hands of it all, what else could possibly be important, certainly not who caused the problem or why it happened in the first place—!”

“You’re right, Parkinson,” Harry interrupted loudly, surprising her enough that she quickly lost steam. “It is my fault. I wasn’t thinking at all, I should have realized he was the real target, I should have realized he was magically bound, I shouldn’t have kissed him, I shouldn’t have left—“

“You what—you kissed him?!” Parkinson’s fury was fully renewed. Narcissa, finally placid from her Calming Draught, was simply watching the argument play out, as if this was a dream she was hoping would end soon. “Oh, Merlin, you’re dead, Potter—“

“Parkinson—“

“You’re fucking dead, I swear, you know that idiot told me that it was worth it? You tortured him! And then you just left, without a word?! You’d better find him, Harry Potter, and then you’ll be lucky if I don’t murder you myself, Chosen One be damned—“

“I’m going to find him, Parkinson, and I’m going to destroy Lucius when I do, but to do so, we need to get to Kingsley, we need to get those bonds removed, and we need to hear that prophecy, so if you’re insisting on coming, let’s go.” Harry started walking towards the floo, but paused and turned back, looking pleadingly at Hermione.

“‘Mione, can you…?”

“Yes, Mrs. Malfoy can stay here for now,” she sighed. “I have to be here to pick up Rose from school.”

“Granger, I’ll pay you a thousand galleons if you pick up Camila as well,” Parkinson added, making her way towards the floo with Timsy in tow.

“Of course—they’re in the same class—that’s not necessary—“ Hermione was flustered, and no one could tell if Parkinson was serious or not.

Harry strode to the floo, opened his mouth to tell Timsy to stay behind—but shut it quickly at the piercing glare he was given. Looked like he’d be flaying the Minister with an audience, after all.

He threw the powder into the flames and stepped inside, giving Ron a look.

“We’ll be right behind you, Harry,” he assured, kissing Hermione’s cheek. Harry nodded, and called out, “Minister Shacklebolt’s Office!” just before he was sucked into the floo network.

He stumbled out of Kingsley’s fireplace, absently brushing ashes off his navy uniform. He never did learn how to leave a floo correctly.

He looked up and saw a man and woman in plum Wizengamot robes, sitting in the mahogany chairs in front of Kingsley’s desk, staring at him in shock, while Kingsley himself looked somewhere between annoyed and bemused. Harry stood up straight, glaring at the Wizengamot members and radiating as much authority as he could.

“Get out,” he growled.

All three occupants began spluttering in indignation, which only made Harry angrier. He didn’t have time for this.

“I said, get out,” he snarled, and the Wizengamot members stood up abruptly, yelping as if they’d been burned—they had, Harry’s already-precarious accidental magic had apparently made their seats extremely hot. He pretended it was intentional, and watched their faces transform into fear as they hurried out of the room. As soon as they shut the door, Kingsley sighed, turning an exasperated glare on him.

“Harry, those two were the only—“

“Shut up,” Harry snapped, his rage returning in full force as he met the Minister’s gaze.

The fire blazed green behind him with a loud whoosh, casting his shadow over the ornate, carpeted floors, and Parkinson stepped out of the grate with Timsy, both of them still emanating fury. To Harry’s surprise, they stepped up next to him—Harry had never thought he’d stand side-by-side with Pansy Parkinson, ever, about anything, but here they were.

“Timsy,” Kingsley mumbled in what may have been a greeting, or an observation. His eyes widened in surprise, then narrowed shrewdly at Parkinson. “Aren’t you the one who—“

“I said, shut up, Kingsley,” Harry interrupted brusquely. “You lied to me. You did not do as I asked.”

Kingsley frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I told you to look after Draco, Kingsley, I told you to back him up. I told you to make sure the Ministry didn’t try to keep him under their boot, and instead you decided to bring the boot down yourself.”

Ron stepped through the floo last, calm and authoritative. He simply stood there, behind them, with his arms crossed against his chest—silently letting Harry know that he was supported, and he could let loose. Kingsley’s eyes darted around the room as the heavy books began vibrating on the shelves, and the many portraits of former Ministers on the walls began whispering excitedly to each other.

“Harry, you asked me to keep the Aurors away from him—“

“No, Kingsley, I asked you to keep the Ministry away from him, and when that was tested, you decided to hell with it, and approved a cruel and inhumane and completely unnecessary magical bond!”

Harry was shouting now, releasing all of his pent up anger and frustration and anxiety. Kingsley stood from his desk, hands held up in supplication.

“Harry, the Licensers insisted—“

“You’re the Minister for Magic, Kingsley, they wouldn’t have done it without your approval! They would have simply given Draco his license if you’d just used your authority for once and told them to!”

“I was outnumbered and outvoted, they said no one would trust him in England unless he was restrained! I couldn’t force them—“

“Yes, you could! You’re the leader of Wizarding Britain!”

“But I don’t want that kind of power, Harry, I don’t want to be that kind of—“ Kingsley was yelling back, and Harry lost it. The heavy chairs in front of the desk flew to the side, landing with hard thuds out of Harry’s path as he advanced on the Minister.

“You don’t want the power that was entrusted to you, so you just decide to not use it? Too fucking bad! You think I wanted to be the Chosen One? I didn’t, but I didn’t have the option of saying no, and I did what I had to do. You had a choice! If you can’t handle that power, you shouldn’t have taken the job, Kingsley! Make someone else do it! I didn’t ask you to look after Draco as a man, I asked you to give him your support and protection as the Minister!”

“Harry, you don’t understand—“

“No, I understand perfectly. I understand that I've been running around as your political lackey for years, I’ve been letting you use my power, in return for you using yours to keep Draco safe from the Ministry, and you have not held up your end of the deal!”

“I have, Harry, the Aurors haven’t bothered him, he’s safe, he’s successful—”

“He is not safe!” Harry’s fist slammed down hard on the desk, accidentally singeing the wooden surface. “He is tortured by those bonds! Did the Licensers tell you how much pain he’d be in if he tried so much as vaguely referring to a patient? You’ve seen him, you’ve tried to talk to him about me, you know. You let it happen, you let it continue for years, and you used the promise of his wellbeing against me, without even following through. You’d better believe I’m not doing a single fucking thing for you again, Kingsley, and you’re going to help me remove those bonds right now, because Draco has been abducted by Lucius Malfoy—who’s supposed to be in prison—with help from the bloody Unspeakables! And because of those bonds, he was unable to explain anything in a letter before Lucius showed up, and he could not defend himself without causing intentional harm!”

Kingsley’s jaw dropped, finally silent. There was a low rumble in the room as the vibrations of Harry’s accidental magic settled in the dark wooden shelves, the opulent furniture, the pristine floor. The gossiping portraits hushed, drawing a tense stillness into the room. Harry felt all eyes on him, and turned his gaze to meet Parkinson’s, standing next to him. Her eyes were wide, painted lips pressed together in a thin line, her expression distressed, but otherwise completely unreadable.

“Lucius…?” Kingsley finally mumbled, apparently coming out of his shock, his face slowly transforming with realization and anger. “With the Unspeakables?”

“Yes,” Harry answered, turning his glare back to the Minister, holding his hand out towards the door. “After you.”

***

Harry had never actually been in the Licensing Department before. They had simply given him his apparition license after the War, they hadn’t made him take the test at all. But looking around at the place, he was glad he’d avoided it before now.

The massive room was dim, smelling musty and dank. The walls were covered in filing cabinets, some with drawers that extended out ten feet or more. There were desks spread throughout the room, each with a single lamp, covered in parchments, pretentious charmed quills dancing across endless scrolls. A number of smaller, closed off rooms lined one of the walls—they looked far too much like interrogation rooms for Harry’s liking.

The ancient wooden floors creaked beneath them as they approached the empty reception desk. It appeared no one was in, but Harry knew better than to assume. He pulled out his wand.

“Homenum Revelio.”

The spell rushed through the office in a wave, covering every inch of surface area, revealing one human in a closed office in the back. Harry stepped around the desk and stormed his way to the back of the room, wand in hand, anxious entourage in tow.

He flicked his wrist quickly as he approached the office, and the door banged open violently, causing the occupant to yelp in alarm.

The wizard at the desk didn’t look much older than Harry himself. His sandy blond hair was combed back neatly, his robes pressed impeccably. The office was immaculate, not a single quill or parchment out of place, but it was still small and cramped. It was clearly the office of someone who believed themselves more important than they were. Harry glared at the man, who only continued staring in consternation, but Ron wrinkled his nose as he followed Harry inside the narrow doorway.

“Smith?”

Harry narrowed his eyes, allowing logic and reasoning out from behind the cloud of fear and rage, and finally recognized him as the absolute prick he remembered from school: Zacharias Smith. Of course.

Smith cleared his throat, schooling his face. “Well, now that you’ve so rudely barged into my office, Aurors, what can I do for you?” His voice only pissed Harry off more. He had never liked this guy.

There was barely enough room for Harry and Ron to fit through the doorway, and Ron was large enough that rat-like Zacharias Smith couldn’t see past his wide shoulders, where the Minister, Timsy, and Pansy Parkinson waited impatiently.

“Retrieve Draco Malfoy’s Healer License, and remove the magical bonds from it,” Harry ordered, still trying to hold himself together. The more time that passed, the antsier he became. Draco was in danger, and he needed everyone moving at the same pace he was. He felt like he was slogging through muck, dragged down by how much he didn’t yet know, how much lay in their way, as a person he cared for was hurt, or tortured, or dying... It felt like one of his nightmares. He subtly glanced at his hands, and counted his fingers easily, as Draco had taught him—not a dream, then, very real.

Smith scoffed at him. “Not likely,” he sneered.

Oh, there went that last scrap of self control he’d been holding on to. In a blur of movement, Smith was pinned to his chair, Harry’s wand blistering hot at his throat. He was hit suddenly with the memory of Draco’s throat under his wand, just like this, and he pushed it aside forcefully to focus on the task at hand.

“Now, Smith.”

Through his obvious fear, Smith still managed to sniff derisively. Harry dug his wand deeper under his chin, and he winced at the increasing burn. Ron stood calmly in the doorway. He’d probably been dreaming of seeing this pillock get his arse kicked since fifth year. Ron could be scary enough, when he wanted to be, but it was still Harry who held the most power and influence, and in this case, reason to use it.

“I won’t. Serves him right.” Smith inhaled sharply as the wand began to singe his neck. “I couldn’t, even if I wanted to, Potter. It’d require multiple Licensers, and I’m obviously the only one in today.”

Harry kept his eyes on him, hard and unmoving as a brick wall. Smith winced again as the burn on his skin intensified. He was probably imagining how much money he’d get from suing Harry after this.

“Then tell us what to do, Smith, and we’ll help you with it,” Kingsley’s voice sounded as he stepped around Ron’s imposing figure.

Smith’s eyes widened. “Minister,” he said politely through a clenched jaw. “Leash your dog, please.”

“Go get the license, Smith,” Kingsley ordered in a firm, quiet voice, ignoring the jab. “Now.”

Harry dropped his wand and stepped back, glaring pointedly at Smith, gesturing towards the door to the tiny office. Smith glared back, rubbing the welt on his neck.

“If you think you can intimidate me just because you’re the fucking Saviour, Potter, think again,” Smith growled, standing up, and Harry did his best not to smirk. That is exactly what he’d just done, and would continue doing, until Draco was safe. Smith fooled nobody.

He was gone for a while. They could hear drawers opening and banging around, and Harry knew he was taking his sweet time about it to piss Harry off. It was working. They left the office to follow him, eventually, pressuring him to hurry it up, which made for an interesting sight: Zacharias Smith being followed around filing cabinets by the Chosen One, the Head Auror, the Minister for Magic, a house elf, and a divorce lawyer. Too bad no one else was around to witness it.

Smith finally pulled the license out of a long drawer of identical looking parchments, and flattened it against a nearby desk. Harry read it in the lamplight:

Harry’s heart sped up a little at the sight of Draco’s elegant signature, but he forced himself to concentrate.

Harry squinted at the two seals adorning the bottom right corner of the parchment, just after the dates and witnesses. There was nothing there about the Veritaserum Harry knew they had used on Draco—which meant it hadn’t been necessary to the license at all. The Licensers had simply wanted to make Draco hurt, to humiliate him, while they held something he wanted and needed over his head.

One of the seals Harry recognized was that of the Office of the Minister. The other was completely foreign to him, a complicated series of runes in a tight circle, glowing faintly with red and white light, which made Smith furrow his brows.

“What? What is it?” Harry asked anxiously. Smith glanced at him, then rolled his eyes arrogantly.

“This means the bonds have reacted, recently,” Smith explained in his most pompous manner. “Or, they are currently acting in a constant, low-level defense.”

“Then remove them, now!” Harry yelled. Smith rolled his eyes again, but Harry saw him flinch.

“I told you, Potter, I can’t. Not without the other Licensers.”

“Then tell us what to do, Smith, his life is at stake.”

“So?”

Harry lunged, snarling, but was held back by something—Ron’s hand gripping his arm, again. He heard a noise to his right, and looked to see the Minister holding Parkinson back in the same manner, her face wild with fury.

“Any other day, Harry,” Ron murmured in his ear. “Not today.”

Harry huffed. He saw Timsy take Parkinson’s hand and pull on it, gently. It had twice the effect of the Minister’s restraint.

“Enough, Smith. Tell us how to help you remove the bonds from Healer Malfoy’s license, or pack your desk and don’t come back,” Kingsley said seriously, and Harry was a little bit relieved to hear him using the full reach of his authority, for once. Smith scoffed at him.

“You’d fire me, Shacklebolt? Because of a Death Eater? Over a bond you approved?”

“Without a second thought,” Kingsley replied, with a face of stone. “I’ve changed my mind, and your recalcitrance is endangering a life. Help us remove this bond, or find somewhere else to work.”

Smith stared at him in disbelief for a moment before rearranging his face into a contemptuous glare.

“It will require three wands to untangle and separate the strands of the bonds, and one extra to be the force that severs them. It will be extremely painful, to the bonded individual, and to those attached to the bond at the moment of severance,” Smith grumbled at them all. “Us,” he added, as if that wasn’t clear.

Parkinson pulled out her wand without hesitation, pointed it at the glowing license, and stared daggers at Kingsley and Smith until they did the same. Smith’s mouth twisted with his reluctance and obvious distaste at the prospect of enduring pain for a Death Eater. It seemed to be unanimously assumed that Harry would be the “force” that cut the bonds.

“I feel one,” Parkinson muttered, twisting her wand slowly with her wrist, and a thin, white, glowing strand was pulled from the parchment, out of the seal of runes. But as she pulled, it dragged out a mess of more strands, twitching and curling, all tangled together like a knot of living yarn. Parkinson clicked her tongue in annoyance.

Smith and Kingsley each took hold of a strand with their wands, all three faces frowning in concentration as they tugged, threaded, turned, and wrested the strands from each other and the parchment. The bonds looked almost alive, the way they resisted and fought against their handlers. Harry was reminded suddenly of Slytherin’s locket, around his neck in an icy pond, and his wand hand twitched with the impulse to destroy it all.

After too many long minutes, Parkinson, Kingsley, and Smith had unravelled the threads of magic, and held them out straight and parallel to each other, waiting for Harry’s move. Harry raised his wand, and thought of the way Draco had leaned his tear-streaked face into Harry’s hand, the feel of his soft hair in Harry’s fingers—that must have hurt him, too.

“Diffindo.”

The strings bounced as if they had been plucked, but did not break. Kingsley, Parkinson and Smith winced in discomfort.

“Diffindo,” he tried again, pushing more magic through his wand, feeling it heat up in his core. Again, they did not break, the others’ faces were straining against the feeling. Ron joined him, pulling out his own wand.

“Together,” Ron murmured, and they cast the cutting spell simultaneously. The three people holding onto the strands gasped as they were plucked more violently, and Timsy started rocking back and forth anxiously, squeezing his eyes shut—could he feel it, too? Or could he feel Draco’s distress? They tried again and again, and Harry was losing patience, watching those handling the bond threads as their faces twisted in pain, knowing Draco was likely in agony—Draco, who was already in danger, already defenseless against a man without a conscience—

Harry looked at Ron, who was looking back at him as if he had come to the same conclusion. Ron lowered his wand and stepped back.

“Do it, Harry,” he mumbled.

Harry set his jaw firmly. He swung his wand up, gathered his magic, and called, “Sectumsempra!” as he slashed the wand down.

The bonds snapped violently and fizzled into the air, and the room dropped into a cold silence, marred only by the sounds of heavy breathing as the three strand-holders fought to catch their breath, clutching their wand arms defensively.

“Now,” Harry began, sickened and winded, “let’s get that prophecy, and find him.”

******

Draco woke slowly, consciousness returning to him in small pieces. He became aware of something cold and hard beneath him, of the smell of old stone and potions ingredients. Then of the stiff soreness of every muscle in his body—then of the last thing he remembered, the indescribable pain of his bonds, Lucius’ voice above him—

His eyes snapped open and he saw the stone of the floor against his face, the dimness of the large, windowless room he did not recognize. Then he saw the bars, cold, hard iron, separating him from the rest of the room. Panic shot through him as he launched himself into a sitting position, then hissed at the wave of nausea and dizziness that rolled through him. His muscles weren’t moving like they should—he felt heavy, lethargic, like his body was taking much too long to catch up with his brain.

This isn’t natural, he realized.

He decided against movement, then, opting to fully take in his surroundings, first. He didn’t see a doorway among the bars—magically closed, then. He turned around, slowly—the rest of this little cell was formed by more cold, grey stone walls.

It was then that he noticed a small, dark shape in the shadowy corner.

Through his daze, Draco made himself study this shape, and take in its details, though it made him dizzy to do so. He could see a small pair of denim-clad legs drawn up, a thin pair of arms wrapped tightly around them, a pair of wary, dark eyes shining at him from the shadows. Draco tested his throat, coughing slightly. He needed to speak.

“Hello,” he tried, and it came out muddled, but at least it came out. The figure did not answer for a long moment.

“He gave you a potion,” a timid, young voice finally responded, stirring something in Draco’s brain, and Draco hummed in agreement.

“Sounds like him,” he mumbled, frowning. “Are you alright?”

The question went ignored. The figure simply continued watching him, which Draco felt was fair. The answer was quite obvious, they were in a cell, for Merlin’s sake.

“I won’t hurt you,” Draco slurred. “Promise.”

The figure continued staring, and Draco took the time to take inventory of himself, slowly. He felt no wounds, no bruising—only the stiff, sore heaviness of his muscles, and a dull ache in his core, and a disconcerting, disorienting incoherence in his head.

“He told me that, too,” the timid voice sounded again.

“Bet he did,” Draco scoffed, feeling extremely drunk and terribly sad for this small probably-human. “He’s quite fond of lies.”

“You know him?” They lifted their head, an inch.

“Unfortunately.”

More silence. Draco decided he couldn’t continue holding his own body up—he’d have to move to the wall. Damn.

The second Draco tried to move, however, the tiny figure flinched violently, which made Draco’s heart ache.

“I don’t lie,” he said. “I won’t hurt you. ‘M moving to the wall.”

The dark eyes watched him cautiously as he slowly dragged his body across the floor, feeling like a flobberworm. By the time he finally leaned himself against the wall, he was completely winded, holding his head against the waves of nausea. This reminded him of—of Harry, of Harry in a muggle pub, with a wand pointed at his head…

His new position had brought him much closer to his cellmate, and they sat there studying each other in silence for a long time.

“What’s your name?” Draco tried, hating how the words all blended together when they came out of his mouth. His cellmate hesitated a moment, dark, shiny eyes still trained on him, before answering.

“Boran.”

Draco could tell this was a child, now, as the name floated through his mind, familiar…

“Thunderstorm,” Draco murmured, the Turkish word coming to him from his own memories of being caught in the pouring rain, under a darkened sky in Istanbul, the heavy July humidity finally breaking, soaking him through. He smirked gently as the figure raised their head further, nodding slightly, eyes much too old for such a youthful face—Boran, a little boy, not much older than Camila, with golden skin and wavy brown hair and too-sharp eyes, a boy who had clearly seen too much.

“My name is Draco,” he said, and the boy watched him, thinking, before quietly replying:

“Dragon.”

Draco smiled softly, giving the slowest nod he could, pointing up with one finger. “Constellation,” he added, and Boran nodded in agreement, a little bit pleased.

Now, Draco was remembering that this child was in a cell, imprisoned, with him, because of his father. His smile fell.

“Where is he?” Draco asked, mourning the loss of Boran’s slightly pleased expression as it returned to its previous cautiousness. Boran shrugged.

“Where are we?” Draco added, to another one of Boran’s little shrugs. Draco paused, thinking hard, staring at the child.

“How long you been here?”

When Boran shrugged, yet again, Draco’s heart squeezed tightly with empathy, indignation for the helpless child building deep within him, but Boran spoke before it could burst from him.

“Why are you here?”

“Hm,” Draco hummed as he thought, holding the anger at bay, not wanting to be a threat to this child. “A prophecy, I think.”

Boran inhaled sharply as his head snapped up, eyes wide with fear. “I’m sorry,” he said quickly, “I didn’t mean to!”

Many pieces clicked together at once. Draco could recognize his voice, now, though it was different than when he’d first heard it, in the prophecy—clearer, more alive.

“You done nothing wrong,” Draco slurred. “‘S’that what happened? You’re a Seer, he took you for it?”

The boy nodded, still afraid of potential backlash. Draco sighed sadly. A child… but that had never stopped Lucius, before.

“Sorry that happened to you, Boran,” he mumbled. “I know you can’t control it. Don’t worry, ‘kay? Lucius made a big mistake, choosing us. We’re gonna get out of here.”

“You sound quite sure of yourself, Draco,” Lucius drawled from behind him, causing both of them to start violently. Boran backed himself even further into the corner, hugging his knees again. Draco turned his head, glaring at the blurry figure standing outside of the bars.

“‘Lo, Father,” Draco said, slowly moving his body out from the wall, putting himself between the boy Seer and the worst living man he knew. He heard Boran’s quiet gasp from behind him. “See you’ve been busy.”

“Quite,” Lucius replied vaguely. He turned around, walking towards a long bench on the side of the room, picking up a small, glass vial from a shelf. It was empty.

“The Unspeakables have been developing this little potion for years,” Lucius mused, walking back towards the cell, the vial held delicately between two pale fingers. “The Department of Mysteries was a good investment, on my part. So quiet, so easy to underestimate.”

Draco recognized his tone as one he used when he was about to waffle on about his own excellence for a while. When Draco was young, Lucius would pepper these lectures with phrases like, “this will be your burden someday, Draco,” and “this is why you need not fret about Harry Potter—no matter how much he is fawned over, his blood will always be as dirty as his mother’s.”

“All those years of carefully placed funds, assets, gifts of knowledge—they couldn’t survive without me, by the time I was sentenced to Azkaban. It was touching, the years of work they put in to silently recovering me for their ranks, freeing me from Azkaban, concealing their own tracks.”

Draco valiantly stopped himself from rolling his eyes, but it was only a matter of time.

“The Department of Mysteries has been quite useful to me, in the past—how do you think Potter and his little friends were able to enter the Ministry so easily, that night? How do you think I could ensure the Dark Lord’s complete control so quickly? Imagine my delight at returning here and seeing how much they have grown in my absence, how much power they have gained in the Wizarding World without attracting even an ounce of notice. They have paved the way for my resurgence in society. For six months now, I have been laying in wait, planning my return to power, studying everything the Department has to offer. There was nothing in my way but time—until two months ago, when the Seer we had captured delivered the strangest prophecy.”

Now, Draco couldn’t help but scoff. Lucius’ head snapped towards him, and suddenly a wand was pointed at him, the shadow of Lucius’ mouth moving silently.

It was unlike anything Draco had ever felt before. It might have been close to the Imperius Curse, but Draco was so much more aware of it. He felt completely detached from his body—his legs were moving without his permission, and Boran was whimpering behind him, as he stood fully and began to walk, no longer in control. Surges of panic and terror and rage were pulsing through him violently as his legs carried him forward, closer to the bars, closer to his father.

His body and face pressed themselves up against the cold iron, Lucius’ wand aimed resolutely at Draco’s head. Draco’s breathing was shallow and harsh with fear, but his face was filled with fury, directed fiercely at his father.

“This Seer told me that you, in fact, were my biggest obstacle—that you were going to have something I did not, and with it, become more powerful than I ever was.”

“You’ve learned—nothing,” Draco forced out through teeth clenched against his will. “I will rise higher than you—only because—you have decided to ensure it.”

Draco grunted as his face pressed itself harder against the bars, the harsh metal digging painfully into his cheekbone.

“Wrong,” Lucius muttered darkly, “as usual, Draco. I have ensured that I will take what you would have used against me. I will know everything there is to know about Harry Potter. I will know how he survived multiple Killing Curses, I will know how he survived every confrontation with the Dark Lord—I will know everything he knows about the Dark Lord, himself. I will know how Potter makes any wizard fall at his feet, and why the world is so eager to follow him. You will tell me every one of his weaknesses, his greatest fears, and with your knowledge, I will know how to obliterate him from my path.”

Draco was breathing heavily, nostrils flaring, every instinct wanting to attack, but his body was no longer his own.

“Obviously, you don’t have much of a say,” Lucius continued leisurely, “you cannot harm me, and with this potion, you are practically my puppet. I control the blood in your veins, the paths of your subconscious mind. I could make you as silent as I did Potter, if I wanted to. I could stop the blood flowing to your heart. I could make you tell me everything.”

Draco growled at the man he’d once worshipped, low and threatening, deep in his throat.

“No matter what—you think—you know, Lucius,” Draco sneered, through spitting breaths, “you will never—understand.”

Lucius dropped his wand to his side, and Draco crumbled abruptly, falling painfully onto the hard stone as the spell was released. Lucius walked away lazily, towards the table in the center of the room, as if he had all the time in the world.

Draco breathed harshly, feeling completely battered, before turning his head on the floor to look up at Boran, who was crouched as small as possible in the dark corner, shaking.

“‘S’alright, love,” Draco whispered, just loud enough for Boran to hear, slipping subconsciously into his endearment for Camila. “We’re gonna get out of here.”

Boran’s dark eyes met his over the tops of his knees, filled with fear and doubt.

“He decided to act on that prophecy, remember? He set it in motion, he’s making it come true. You remember it, yeah?” Draco’s voice was low and hushed, and he kept his eyes on the boy’s face, willing him to understand, to take Draco’s reassurance. Boran nodded faintly.

“Then you know I’ll emerge victorious,” Draco smirked, “and I’m taking you with me.”

Boran still looked terrified, but Draco thought he saw the twitch of a smile, and felt a little satisfied.

Suddenly, he felt a horrible pull in his core, and he gasped with the abrupt twinge, grabbing his waist. He realized distantly he was still wearing his suit—Timsy was going to be furious about the state it was in, after laying on the dirty stone floor. He felt another awful yank and his abdomen contracted with it. He let out a grunt of pain as his body seized on the ground. What now?

Boran had nearly jumped, and was pressing himself against the wall, eyes filled with terror again.

“It’s alright—” another painful spasm, harder this time, and he wheezed heavily as he clutched tightly at his waist, curling in on himself.

Draco looked up to face his attacker, blinking through a haze of pain. But Lucius was still at the table in the middle of the room, wand resting on the surface in front of him, watching Draco intently with a somewhat anxious look on his face. Not Lucius, then—

Draco let out a shout as his core was attacked again, it felt like a hippogriff was digging through his torso, pulling and ripping with its sharp beak, like it was trying to tear something out of him—

Oh.

Through the torrents of spasming, excruciating pain, he somehow found himself giggling, between rough groans and wheezing breaths. About time you figured it out.

Draco’s body was rocked with agonizing convulsions, feeling like huge hooks were jerking violently in his core, and he tried not to shout aloud as they increased in frequency and intensity—

Get on with it, Harry.

And then with a final, harrowing snap in his abdomen, Draco cried out, and it was gone, as suddenly and completely as it had commenced. He laid there, trembling and sweating, desperately catching his breath on the floor.

After a moment, Draco opened his eyes, turning to check on Boran again. He gave the terrified boy a shaky, reassuring smile. “S’okay,” he whispered. “‘M’okay. A friend’s just helped me out.” He couldn’t help himself from chuckling with the rush of relief, even though he knew Lucius had moved closer and now stood watching Draco like a hawk, wand held tight in his hand.

He couldn’t wait to say it, couldn’t keep the grin off his face, couldn’t control the tiny waves of happiness as he finally uttered it aloud, without his patient’s presence, knowledge, or consent:

“Harry.”

******

Harry’s gut was churning as they entered the dark, circular entry room of the Department of Mysteries. Ron’s face was paler than usual, his hand unconsciously gripping the tentacle scars on his arm, and Kingsley’s mouth was set in a hard line. The three of them had never wanted to come back here—but apparently, the Unspeakables had been relying on that. From the grim look on Kingsley’s face, he was thinking the same thing.

The walls began to spin, and Parkinson and Timsy jumped, looking completely panicked. Harry’s lip curled in distaste at the Department’s dramatics. Merlin forbid they have cubicles, or something, like everyone else.

“I need the Hall of Prophecy,” he muttered, and the disorienting walls froze suddenly, a door in front of them opening wide, revealing the room featured in many of Harry’s nightmares. Ron raised his eyebrows.

“How’d you figure that out?” he asked.

“Accidentally,” Harry mumbled, “...back then.”

Ron nodded shortly.

The Hall of Prophecy was exactly how Harry remembered it, with its huge cathedral ceilings and towering shelves of dusty, glowing spheres. He felt overwhelmed with memories, of his friends tensing for battle around him, of Bellatrix’s cruel laughter—

He shook his head quickly to dispel them. Focus. He heard Draco’s murmuring voice in his mind again: “Focus on where you feel me, in your head.” It was a good thing no one could see him blush, in the shadowy Hall.

Ron groaned quietly beside him. “How the hell are we supposed to find it like this? Last time, you saw…” He trailed off. No one wanted to talk about it.

But their success in the entry room had given Harry an idea, and he decided to try it out, before they wasted more time scouring the hundreds of shelves.

“I need the prophecy concerning Harry Potter,” Harry said aloud, feeling like an idiot, but the shelves did respond, and everyone jolted backward in alarm, braced to run. The adrenaline and movement was only spurring on more flashbacks, flashes of curses and the voices of hundreds of Seers, shards of shelving and glass thundering down on them—

“Hang on, Harry, you’re doing great, we’re almost there…” Draco’s voice was in his head again, drawing him back to the here and now—an anchor of calming presence in his worst memories.

The shelves weren’t falling, Harry realized, just moving, on their own. Ron’s breathing was hoarse and panicked at his side, and Harry knew he’d just endured the same thing. Harry laid his hand on Ron’s tensed wand arm, bringing him back as well.

A colossal shelf finally halted directly in front of them, and Harry stepped forward to examine the nearest tag. It had only his name—he needed his and Draco’s. But he hadn’t even heard of another prophecy being made about him, what was this? On second thought, he didn’t want to know. He moved on to the next.

Before long, he realized the entire shelf, over a hundred stupid spheres, all held his name, and he sighed, suddenly reminded of how often Trelawney had predicted his gruesome death for fun. Of course, the Chosen One would be a very popular topic among Seers. He looked back at the group that stood behind him, and beckoned with his hand.

“Bloody Seers can’t even help themselves,” he muttered at them. “Come on, we’re looking for one with mine and Draco’s name, maybe Lucius’.”

Parkinson scoffed as she walked up to the shelf. “Look at them all—they’re worse than the Daily Prophet. You’d think they’d have anything better to talk about—I don’t know, the weather, for instance—” she continued her grumbling as she searched the tags, and Harry couldn’t help but smirk. He wholeheartedly agreed.

“No one touch the spheres themselves,” he reminded them. Parkinson raised an eyebrow, but thankfully complied, eyeing the dusty spheres warily.

It took them a few minutes, but eventually Harry heard Timsy’s rasping voice speak up.

“Timsy is having found the prophecy.”

“Thanks, Timsy,” Harry said as he crouched down to the low shelf, reading the tag he was pointing to.

B. C. to Unspeakable
D. L. Malfoy & H. J. Potter
L. A. Malfoy?

Harry scowled at it, the cause of their trouble, and plucked it off the shelf, frowning at it in his palm—

“With true knowledge of the Saviour, the one who rejects his name shall rise higher than those before him, taking what his father never had, and rendering the Voice of the Saviour unnecessary at last.”

Harry gasped as the child’s strained, monotone voice echoed around his skull, but when it was over, he clutched the sphere tight in his fist. What utter nonsense. He had it memorized already, no need to preserve it. He turned to face his companions.

“Ready?” Harry asked, and they all furrowed their brows in confusion, but nodded. Harry raised his arm, and with all of his pent up anxiety and impatience, hurled the sphere at the floor. It shattered violently, releasing the voice within, a tiny, ghostly figure rising from the shards and dissipating like mist.

“With true knowledge of the Saviour, the one who rejects his name shall rise higher than those before him, taking what his father never had, and rendering the Voice of the Saviour unnecessary at last.”

And then, complete silence. The others’ faces were a mix of shock and confusion, gaping at the mess of glass on the ground. Harry crossed his arms, still scowling, shaking his head.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Parkinson said, breaking the silence. “That was a child—that could have meant anybody—”

“Lucius was never known to put reasoning before pride,” Ron grumbled. Harry turned to face Kingsley.

“I’m going to tear this place apart,” Harry warned.

“Be my guest,” Kingsley sighed, looking around, thinking hard. “If this is how they’ve been using their freedom, I’ll enjoy watching it burn.”

***

The Head Auror office was the last place Harry wanted to be at the moment, and Ron had practically dragged him the whole way there. That strategic head of his was insisting they bring backup, make a plan, find out exactly where Draco was and with whom before they tear down the entire country looking for him.

Harry hated every second that Draco remained unsafe. He couldn’t relax, his hands constantly fidgeting, fingering his wand, his feet always pacing. Fear and regret were dragging him down like an undertow. All he had wanted, all those years ago, was to keep Draco safe, to ensure his chances of success, to protect his life away from his father—and now he was in danger, trapped by his father once again, thanks to Harry’s thoughtlessness.

But Ron was right: he could be anywhere. The Malfoys held multiple properties in England and France. Lucius could be using some secret Unspeakable hideout. Depending on how long he’d been out of Azkaban, he could have had time to obtain even more hiding spots, maybe even old Death Eater safehouses…

“I doubt he’ll leave England,” Ron said to the room as he wrote the ridiculous prophecy on the chalkboard. “His seat of power was and apparently is in Wizarding Britain, he won’t give it up, even to hide someone. The Malfoys have been in England for centuries, and that bloodline is the foundation of his ego.”

The large office now held several more Aurors that Ron trusted the most: the youngest ones, who would not have been full Aurors during the time of Draco’s brief incarceration. Ron was pretty sure he’d weeded out all the corruption he’d seen in his time as a Junior Auror, but neither he nor Harry wanted to risk it right now.

Every Auror in the room looked grim and wary at the idea of Lucius Malfoy free from prison, and having help from inside the Ministry. They might not have fully agreed with Harry about Draco’s innocence, back then, but everyone could agree that Lucius was a real piece of work.

“Malfoy—Draco—was your Healer? A Healer Legilimens?” Susan Bones spoke up, facing Harry, removing her Auror cloak. Harry nodded at her.

“And you’re sure this isn’t his own doing—he hasn’t teamed up with his father or anything to get to you?” Auror Harrison chimed in from the corner, a dubious look on his face. Harry’s lip curled, and his hand twitched for his wand, but Ron spoke before he could.

“We’re sure, Harrison, and if you or anyone else is going to doubt us, you can leave right now. We have no time to debate this, and I have no patience to deal with any prejudice while lives are in danger.”

Ron glared at each person in the room until they either nodded or looked away. He turned back to the board.

“This prophecy obviously could have been meant for anybody, but Lucius has evidently decided that it’s referring to Draco. His pride won’t allow his son to become more powerful than him—in his own view of success or ‘rising higher’—and his greed won’t allow that sort of ‘power’ to pass him by.” Ron pulled the small, folded paper out of his pocket, handing it to Harry to be passed around the room. Harry’s chest tightened at the sight of Draco’s frantic handwriting.

“Draco was unable to say more than this due to magical bonds the Licensers had placed on him—” half the room gasped collectively, probably the pureblood half, “—which we’ve only just severed. But you’ll see he wrote ‘me’ and ‘weapon’. If Lucius believes that ‘true knowledge of the Saviour’ is something Draco would use to rise above him, he would consider it a sort of weapon, and do anything in his power to get his hands on it. Lucius therefore placed a complex sort of mind curse on Harry, causing him to hide his own voice in his subconscious, which is something only a Healer Legilimens can fix—Draco is the only Healer Legilimens in England, he obviously uses Legilimency in his healing… You see where this is going.”

The other Aurors’ jaws were dropping slowly.

“Our biggest problem is that Lucius probably has the help of the Unspeakables, who are and have always been anonymous and extremely secretive. Apparently, they’ve been relying on us thinking they’re a bunch of paranoid swots in order to carry on without suspicion. No one, not even the Minister, knows what they get up to or have access to. But now that I think about it, it was way too easy for Harry and I, and a few other teenagers, to break into the Ministry and into the DoM back in ‘96. Lucius had set a trap for us, and there’s no way he could have done it without the Unspeakables’ help. You know how tight security is here.”

Harry did not want to talk about that night, again, so he quickly cut in to steer them back to the present.

“Timsy, you said you were able to find me by following my magical signature,” Harry began. “Are you able to do the same with Draco’s?”

Timsy looked down, defeated. He was standing in a corner of the room, next to a defensive looking Pansy Parkinson. “Timsy is trying, but Master Draco’s magic is being quiet, delicate, not as loud as Harry Potter’s. Timsy cannot find him the way he is finding Harry Potter.”

Harry frowned—that last, somewhat cryptic sentence reminded him of Dobby. Something was hidden in there.

“Timsy… is there another way you’d be able to follow him?” Harry asked, and Timsy’s eyes darted to the side.

“There is being a way, but wizards do not like it…”

“Whatever it is, Timsy, we need to use it,” Harry replied. “Draco could be anywhere, and you know what Lucius is like. Please, tell us how to find him.”

Timsy was wringing his hands, darting apprehensive looks at every witch and wizard in the room, determinedly trying to fight through obvious nerves.

“Timsy is requiring a wand,” Timsy’s rasping voice was barely over a whisper. “Timsy is needing Master Draco’s magic in Harry Potter’s mind.”

The Aurors could not contain their shock. Even to the muggleborns, a house elf wielding a wand was unheard of. Hermione would be having a field day.

Harry did not hesitate before walking over to the corner and crouching down on one knee in front of Timsy’s small figure, his eyes level with Timsy’s wrinkled, anxious face. Timsy was clutching nervously at the sleeves of his green jumper, clearly uncomfortable. Harry pulled his wand out of its thigh holster and held it out for Timsy, hilt first. Timsy’s already huge eyes were nearly bulging with anxiety and disbelief.

“Whatever you need to do, Timsy,” Harry said reassuringly. He could tell that several of the room's occupants wanted to object, but he knew that they wouldn’t.

Slowly, with shaking little hands, Timsy reached out and took Harry’s wand, staring at it in his grip with wonder. He looked back up at Harry with a determined, awe-filled expression, and raised the holly wand, pointing it at Harry’s forehead.

Harry immediately felt the strangest, quietest mental invasion. Timsy hadn’t incanted anything, but of course, house elf magic was nothing like wizard magic, even with a wizard’s wand. The wand was only a conduit, through which Timsy could focus the strength of his magic, and he marshalled it skillfully into searching Harry’s mind for traces of Draco’s magical signature. Harry was currently the only thing around that Draco had used magic on recently, and powerfully, over a long period of time. Harry only hoped that not too much time had passed since he’d left—since Draco had come to know him, and Harry had attacked him for it, not two hours after kissing him.

Memories and thoughts and feelings were flying through Harry’s head at an incredible speed, so different from Draco’s Legilimency. Faintly, Harry could smell freshly roasted coffee, and he thought he felt himself grin softly through his disorientation. But he was getting dizzy, and he wasn’t aware of anything outside of the hurricane in his head, and the floor under his knee didn’t feel as solid as it had a moment ago—

Distantly, he felt a petite, warm hand on his shoulder, keeping him upright as Timsy worked.

After an indeterminate amount of time, the rush in his head slowed as Timsy gathered several potent memories. Draco with his silver lime wand at Harry’s face, the muted trace of candlesmoke, Draco’s carefree joy flying barefoot over the sea, Draco’s elbow brushing his in a forest. The smell of broompolish as he hands Harry a Firebolt, the intensity of grey eyes locking onto his, Draco’s low, quiet voice by the fire, “You’re a bloody marvel, Harry…”

Find him, find him, find him, Harry was begging Timsy in his head. He felt something like agreement—Timsy obviously had no need to use Occlumency to keep his own emotions at bay.

With a movement like an exhale of air, Timsy exited Harry’s head, and lowered the wand. Harry slowly blinked himself back to the room around him, where his fellow Aurors were staring at them in complete bewilderment. Parkinson’s slender hand held on to his shoulder; she quickly dropped it as he came to full awareness. Timsy’s thin mouth was frowning in concentration.

“Timsy is collecting the traces,” he mumbled. “Timsy is finding.” He closed his big eyes, and tightened his grip on the wand at his side. Harry stayed right where he was, waiting as patiently as he could, that soothing hint of candlesmoke still wafting in his head. The room was frozen in silence, in anticipation. Timsy’s frown deepened, further wrinkling his greyish face, and one huge ear twitched as he worked, the wand moving slowly to point at the floor in front of him.

“Master Draco is being here,” he finally croaked, and Harry’s heart leapt, then dropped again at what that meant.

“In the Department of Mysteries? Level Nine?” Harry asked, and Timsy’s eyes squeezed themselves shut.

“Timsy is being unsure, but Timsy is knowing Master Draco is here,” he replied. “The stone, the earth around, is being the same. Very deep. He is being in this place.” Timsy paused, ear twitching again, shaking his head. “He is not being alone. He is being hurting, but he is happy he is being able to say Harry Potter’s name.”

Harry sagged with mixed relief and dread. He could tell that if the situation were less dire, Timsy would be rolling his eyes at Draco’s thoughts. “Thank you, Timsy,” he said, as Timsy opened his eyes and handed back the holly wand.

Harry stood up to face the rest of the room, and nearly toppled over at the dizziness the movement caused. He felt two slender hands grip him again as he held his own head in his hand.

“Thanks,” he mumbled quietly at Parkinson, who pursed her red lips and nodded, her face pale with fear. But she was blinking strangely, too quickly, and her hands dropped as she too swayed gently on her feet. Harry’s hand shot out to keep her upright, when he heard more movement in the room.

His hand secure on Parkinson’s upper arm, Harry turned his head, still dizzy, to see the rest of the room’s occupants swaying dangerously, heads nodding forward, hands on their own foreheads, trying to blink away the same daze.

With a jolt of panic, Harry raised his wand, made several rapid circular movements in the air, casting nonverbal Bubble-Head Charms on everyone in the room.

After a tense, precarious moment, everyone had stabilized with their own personal bubbles of clean air. All eyes, Kingsley’s especially, were wide with a mixture of fright and a single-minded ferocity that only preceded their most dangerous and important missions. Harry hadn’t seen that expression on Kingsley’s face since the Battle.

“They know,” Ron muttered, stating the obvious, looking warily at the air vents in the ceiling. As the room filled with odourless, colourless, poisonous air, the mood settled firmly into one of grim determination.

Chapter Eleven

“Protego Totalum. Salvio Hexia. Muffliato.”

Ron cast the privacy and protection spells on his office through the bubble over his face. Harry knew the movements and incantations were second-nature to him, still, after their year on the run and even more years of Auror raids and stakeouts. Harry could probably do them wandlessly, at this point.

“How are we going to find the Unspeakables? No one knows who they are or what they look like,” Auror Bones asked.

“Look for what your eyes don’t want to see,” Harry replied. “Unspeakable glamours are like Notice-Me-Nots, but ten times as intense and effective. If you see movement in the corner of your eye that you can’t focus on, or if you feel that someone is near you that your eyes won’t see, trust your instincts. Use Homenum Revelio often, they’ll probably use Disillusionment Charms, too.”

The Aurors nodded grimly. Parkinson chimed in from the corner.

“Would they be using Polyjuice, as well?”

“It’s possible,” Ron said, finally done with his spells. The walls glowed with the strength of his charms. “Aurors, you know each other’s identifying questions. Parkinson, you know I can’t let you join us on this—you’re a civilian, you have no training—”

“You’ll have to lock me up, Weasley, if you want me to stay behind, and hope that I don’t have my own methods of breaking out, I told you I’m not letting either of you out of my sight, since you’re the reason Draco’s in danger in the first place—”

“She’s with me,” Harry interrupted, before she could get into another rant. Ron rolled his eyes at him.

“She’s your responsibility then, Harry, and if she slows us down or compromises this in any way, I’m blaming you,” Ron said shortly, using his best Head Auror voice. Harry could tell he wasn’t happy about the situation, but he knew why Harry was allowing her to join, regardless.

“What about a Fidelius Charm?” Auror Stanley piped up timidly from the corner. Ron furrowed his brows as he turned to face her.

“What about it?”

“Well, if we put the Department of Mysteries under a Fidelius, and made one of us the Secret Keeper, no one else would be able to get in without the Secret Keeper personally giving away its location,” she explained. Ron hummed in thought.

“Good idea,” he mumbled, “but what about everyone that’s already in there?”

“They cannot return after they leave,” Kingsley cut in. “Which they will have to, eventually. If they learn we’re putting a Fidelius on the Department, they’ll hold themselves in there as long as possible—we’d be trapping them, essentially, while banishing the rest. The only thing I know about the Unspeakables is that they are committed to their research, above all else. They won’t abandon it easily.”

“So we flush them out, and take them down when they try to return for their precious research,” Auror Jeffries added, nodding slowly.

“Brilliant,” Ron said, “I’ll be Secret Keeper, then.”

“No,” Kingsley interrupted. “I will.”

Ron and Harry both raised their eyebrows at him.

“The Unspeakables will surely come after the Secret Keeper, Kingsley,” Harry said. “Especially once they’re flushed out and on the run. You’ll have a target on your back for the rest of your days.”

“I already have plenty,” Kingsley replied, stone-faced. “Let them come. If we’re taking down the Department, then let the burden of it lie with me.” He paused for a moment, meeting Harry’s eyes intently. “I did take this job for a reason. I will take responsibility for the whole of the Ministry.”

Harry pursed his lips, not wanting to believe a word of it, but saying nothing.

******

Draco sat leaning against the stone wall of the cell. He didn’t know how long he’d been here—he hadn’t even needed to eat or drink or use the loo. There must have been charms on the cell preventing the immediate need for those sorts of luxuries.

He sat close to Boran, ready to shield him if necessary, trying not to think about how Lucius could turn him against the child on a whim. To think of anything else, he turned his mind toward a different problem as he directed his voice at his father in the middle of the room.

“How did you get into my home?”

Lucius looked up, pleased. “I am glad you asked,” he said, as if he’d been waiting to brag about his cleverness for ages. “I will admit the wards on your—abode—are quite impressive. I tried to use the floo once I finally heard you call out the destination at the Ministry, but it spit me back out again. So I went to the one person I knew you would not bar access from.”

Draco’s veins were slowly filling with a cold fire, a painful mixture of outrage and dread.

“Mother,” he mumbled, fists clenched and shaking. “What did you do to her?”

“Narcissa is in perfect health,” Lucius replied, looking down condescendingly on his son. “The aftereffects of the Imperius Curse do not last long.”

Draco closed his eyes tightly to prevent himself from exploding—he still didn’t want to scare Boran, whom he could feel sitting next to him, hugging his knees, making himself as small as he possibly could.

Draco didn’t know what was happening outside of this room, but he knew that something was happening. He knew his bonds had been removed, which his father had sneered at—with or without the bonds, Lucius still had complete control of him. But the bonds could only have been severed with Kingsley around, and Kingsley would only have done that under serious influence—had Harry finally realized how manipulated he was, and confronted the Minister?

He knew that his mother would have never given away the name of his home, though she must have been unable to disguise her happiness at the return of her husband—no matter what a monster he’d been, she had loved him. Lucius Imperiusing her would have broken her heart irreparably, especially if he’d used it to cause her son harm. Draco’s heart ached for her—she must be a mess, right about now.

He frowned, thinking hard. Narcissa would have gone straight to Draco’s as soon as she was able to. Maybe she’d have called Timsy, but Draco didn’t know what Timsy would be able to accomplish… would he have then gone to Pansy’s, trying to find him? Pansy would know exactly who to call, shrewd witch that she was…

Draco’s eyes snapped open as he remembered the frantic missive he’d been about to send. Had anyone found it, where he had dropped it on the floor? He’d left the window open—

“Come along, Draco,” Lucius called, almost cheerfully, standing just outside the bars with his wand at the ready. Draco didn’t have time to react before his body was moving without him again, walking towards the bars without his consent, every muscle stiff and spasming in its fruitless struggle against the reins.

Lucius touched the bars with his hand, and they wobbled, widening just enough to let Draco through.

He walked Draco over to a large, metal chair, with chains dangling from the back and arms. It looked exactly like the chair on the floor of Courtroom Ten, and he shut his eyes against the image, bracing himself against the chains that bound him the moment he was sat down. It wasn’t necessary, with Lucius’ wand aimed resolutely at Draco’s head. Lucius was pulling the strings, and Draco was powerless to do anything but go along with it.

“Let us begin with something easy,” Lucius muttered, sitting down on a stool in front of him. “Tell me how Harry Potter survived two Killing Curses.”

“The protection of his mother’s love,” Draco’s voice came out of his own mouth, sounding foreign and monotone without his control over it, but he smirked anyway, asserting himself the only way he was able to. Lucius frowned.

“How did he really survive them, Draco?”

“Lily’s love, her protection, in his blood,” Draco’s voice replied, and he was able to hold on to it for one small moment:

“I told you, Lucius. You will never understand.”

Lucius’ lip curled derisively. “You dare speak to me that way,” he growled. “I have been studying Love for months, Draco. I think I know more about it than you do.”

Draco wanted to laugh. It was no use arguing with him. Even if that room wasn’t locked to everyone at all times, which Draco knew it was—Lucius could study everything the Department of Mysteries knew about Love, and he would still never know it, or understand it.

“Tell me everything Harry Potter knows about the Dark Lord.”

“The Dark Lord, Voldemort, Tom Marvolo Riddle, was a half-blood wizard who grew up in an orphanage in muggle London—” Draco’s mechanical voice was interrupted by the sharp whip of the back of Lucius’ hand across his cheek, a harsh stinging pain and a coppery taste in his mouth. He was less surprised by the attack itself than he was by the muggle style of it, but he supposed Lucius’ wand was otherwise occupied.

“The Dark Lord was no half-blood,” Lucius snarled, and Draco smirked again, tasting blood on his teeth.

“He even brought you to his muggle father’s grave, and still, you groveled at his feet,” Draco muttered, feeling more confident in himself, even without full control of his faculties. Lucius’ nostrils were flaring with anger, but he probably wasn’t willing to attack Draco like a muggle so impulsively again.

Lucius visibly made an effort to calm himself, sitting up straight, taking a deep breath. He brought his free hand up to the nape of his neck, taking the long, white ponytail in his hand and pulling it over his shoulder, smoothing it straight against his chest. Draco huffed a laugh, and Lucius’ eyes snapped open.

“Something funny, Draco?”

Draco smiled, his head tipped back, looking down his nose at his father. He knew he must look insane with the blood in his teeth. “Ron Weasley owes me five galleons,” he slurred, trying to hold back a manic giggle. Lucius glared at him, tightening his grip on his wand.

“Your hubris is astounding, son,” Lucius said. “You are weak, powerless, defenseless. You are completely at my mercy, and still, you show no respect for your superiors.”

“No, Lucius,” Draco whispered, closing his eyes, still grinning weakly at himself. A lock of his dirty hair fell into his face. “It is my mercy, not yours, that matters now.”

His lungs tightened suddenly, contracting violently and squeezing all of the breath out of his body. He tried desperately to inhale, but once again, his body was not his own. Lucius held him like that, suffocating him, glaring ferociously, until he saw dark spots on the edge of his vision, and felt his body start to sag.

Lucius released him, and Draco gulped in air like a dying man, his ears ringing.

“How did the Dark Lord evade death for so long?” Lucius demanded, growing impatient.

“Horcruxes,” Draco’s mouth answered involuntarily, and he winced as Lucius’ eyes widened. This was the absolute last person who should know about such things.

“I had wondered… but I couldn’t know for sure…” Lucius mumbled to himself, before turning back to Draco, eyes brightening. “Then, the Dark Lord is still alive, is he not?”

“He is not.”

“You mean to say, his Horcruxes were destroyed?”

“Yes.” Draco scowled at his father’s word choice. He didn’t mean to say any of this.

“How many?”

“Seven.” Lucius jerked back at this answer, his eyes wide with shock. Draco wanted desperately to escape the coils of his own body, to retreat inside his mind and wait for this to be over, but he needed to stay aware, both of what Lucius was learning from him, and for the little boy in the cell.

“His soul was in eight pieces… extraordinary…” Lucius was muttering to himself again. Draco studied his face—he looked so much older than the last time he’d seen him, his face more lined, his hairline receding. Draco guessed Azkaban and time would do that to a person—too bad he hadn’t gotten any wiser with age.

“Why does the Wizarding World fall at Harry Potter’s feet?” Lucius asked, moving on quickly. He probably already knew exactly how to make a Horcrux.

“Because he is good,” Draco’s voice answered. “Because he saved us all, when no one else could.” He closed his eyes again, briefly, enjoying the slight warmth in his chest at the thought of Harry. What was he doing, right now?

Lucius’ lip curled further. Draco knew that if he weren’t so obsessed with maintaining his pureblood composure at the moment, Lucius would be rolling his eyes. “What is his greatest strength?”

“His heart.”

“What is his greatest weakness?”

“His heart,” Draco repeated, hating himself a little.

“That makes no sense, Draco,” Lucius snarled. Draco only raised his eyebrows, saying nothing, trapped in his own body.

Lucius finally dropped his wand, and Draco sagged against the hard, metal chair, still secured tightly within its chains. Lucius stood up to pace the room, muttering under his breath again, apparently thinking hard.

Draco flexed his fingers against the arms of the chair, briefly reasserting what little control he had over his body. He wiggled his feet against the floor, and suddenly remembered he had yet to find a pair of Grouch slippers for little Rose. He quickly moved that to the top of his mental priorities list, right after somehow getting himself and Boran safely out of here and locking his father away for life—or killing him, whichever came first. Murder my father, then get Boran to safety, then get Rose’s slippers—

“My sources tell me Potter has only become political in the last few years, making things quite difficult for purebloods,” Lucius said, sneering, drawing Draco back to the present. He pointed his wand again, and Draco’s body stiffened as Lucius took control once more. “Tell me why.”

“The Minister has been manipulating him,” Draco winced again as the truth came out of his mouth. Lucius moved closer, an eager gleam in his eye.

“How?”

“By demanding a favour in return for a favour.”

“A true politician, Shacklebolt’s become,” Lucius mumbled, almost impressed. Draco wanted to curse him and Kingsley both. “Tell me the favours, Draco.”

Draco tried to press his mouth closed, to resist it, but he was only a mere passenger.

“Harry lets the Minister use his political influence, in return for keeping me safe from the Ministry.”

Lucius’ shock was so strong that his wand lowered of its own accord. Draco’s body sagged once more against the chair, feeling defeated.

“How intriguing,” Lucius breathed, sitting back down on the stool in front of Draco, staring at him like he was a vault full of gold. It was the same look he’d worn when Harry was captured and brought to the Manor, as he urged Draco to identify him. It was the look that told Draco he was about to get everything he wanted.

******

The Aurors, Parkinson, Timsy, and the Minister gathered in the corridor of Level Nine, outside the ominous black door to the Department of Mysteries. Kingsley had ordered a Ministry wide evacuation, and they had strengthened and added to the anti-apparition wards over Level Nine, effectively trapping whoever was inside.

“Kingsley, I know you’ve done plenty of Fidelius Charms for the Order, so you’ll have to tell Harry how it’s done,” Ron had taken command seamlessly, he was made for this. “Harry, I’m making you the caster because we’ll need as much power behind it as possible, so don’t hold back.”

Harry nodded, remembering the way Draco had rolled his head on his shoulders, luxuriating in the feel of Harry’s magic. He closed his eyes, feeling a shiver run down his spine. “Intoxicating.” “Incandescent.”

Kingsley walked over to Harry as Ron moved on to give the rest of the team their orders. His face was strained as he approached.

“I’m sorry, Harry,” Kingsley muttered in his deep voice, only loud enough for Harry to hear. His brow was knit with resolve, and his dark eyes were grave as they met Harry’s. Harry tried not to scowl. “You were right. I’ve become too much of a politician, and I nearly lost the Auror and warrior I used to be. I failed you, in the one thing you ever asked of me.”

“You did,” Harry replied, matter-of-fact, crossing his arms. Kingsley looked uncomfortable, but continued.

“Draco tried to tell me Unspeakables were involved, but I didn’t believe him,” he said quietly. “He asked me to check on Lucius, since Narcissa hadn’t heard from him in months, and I simply wrote the warden, and accepted the reply I received from Azkaban. I failed him, too.”

Harry kept his face carefully blank, trying to control the simmering rage that was building once again. He could blame the Minister, but Harry hadn’t seen it coming, either, despite Draco’s theories. He was just as at fault.

“I’m going to fix it, Harry,” Kingsley said firmly, setting his jaw. “I’m going to take back my Ministry, and I won’t stop until Draco is safe, Lucius is locked up for good, and every single Unspeakable is accounted for.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it, Kingsley,” Harry muttered, trying not to glare.

Kingsley only nodded. “Fair enough,” he said, holding Harry’s eye contact a moment more, trying to convey the depth of his conviction, before getting back to business, describing the minutiae of the Fidelius Charm and demonstrating the complex wand movements.

“Alright, Kingsley, Harry, ready when you are,” Ron said, stepping back a few feet from the door. Harry put one foot slightly in front of the other, bending his knees a bit, stabilizing his body. He raised his wand towards the door and waited for the Minister’s nod, before beginning the complicated wand movements, pushing his magic through his wand from his core.

“Praestes Fidelis,” Harry flicked his wand back towards Kingsley, who gasped with the surge of power that ran through him. “Celare loco isto*.”

“Praestes Fidelis,” he repeated the routine several times, digging for the absolute depths of his energy. He imagined all the rooms he could remember inside the Department of Mysteries, forcing his magic to cover even the rooms he didn’t yet know about, blanketing the entire Department while Kingsley stood stiff and sweating, breathing hard through the heavy waves of Harry’s power. “Celare loco isto.”

Finally, he felt something close in his spell, like drawing a curtain shut, and the black door in front of him disappeared. Harry lowered his wand and glanced over at Kingsley, who looked a bit battered as he turned to face Harry, wiping a bit of sweat off his own shiny forehead.

“The Department of Mysteries is located on Level Nine, in the Ministry of Magic, London.”

The door reappeared, and Harry nodded. Kingsley turned away and moved on to the rest of the group, giving each of them the secret individually.

Harry beckoned to Parkinson and Timsy, once they’d been given the secret. He was glad that no one was questioning their presence anymore. He knew he shouldn’t be bringing them into danger, endangering more of Draco’s family—but he also knew what they were feeling. He wouldn’t have been able to stop them from coming to Draco’s aid, just as no one would have been able to stop him.

“How are you with defensive spells?” he asked Parkinson quietly. She rolled her eyes at him.

“I fight off greedy men all the time, Potter,” she replied in a low voice. “And even after being hit with several barely-legal curses, they still manage to make better mixtapes than you. The Goo Goo Dolls, honestly.”

Harry’s lips quirked and he shrugged, even as he felt his cheeks heating. “Come on, it’s a classic. Essential to his musical education.”

“A classic, sure, just like that obscure Norah Jones song about his Patronus was a classic, purely for his education,” Parkinson scoffed, shaking her head, tucking her sleek, dark bob behind her ear.

“You’ve made your point,” Harry mumbled, cheeks flaming with an embarrassed smirk, shifting uncomfortably on his feet. “I never said I was smooth.”

“Good, because you’d be a liar,” She muttered, looking away, glaring at something over Harry’s shoulder. He watched her thoughtfully for a moment.

“How’d you know it was me?” he asked, and she clicked her tongue as she glanced back at him, drawing her perfectly shaped brows together.

“He touches his chest,” Parkinson answered hesitantly, demonstrating the movement with the heel of her palm. “The scars, when he’s reminded of you. He doesn’t know he’s doing it, most of the time, the idiot.”

It was Harry’s turn to look away as a fresh wave of guilt rolled over him. He had seen Draco do that plenty of times. He even did it when he was reaffirming himself in his own body, because the scars Harry had made, the pain he’d caused, were apparently an integral part of him.

“And he was moping for days, the stupid sod,” she added in another mutter, igniting another surge of guilt, and Harry felt he might actually be crushed under the weight of it all.

“Ready?” Ron asked, coming up from behind them to grab the door handle, his face set in grim determination. Harry nodded, and Ron looked back at their team, including Kingsley, Parkinson, and Timsy, waiting for everyone’s assent before swinging open the door and stepping inside, wand first.

The circular entry room looked the same as it had earlier, only... stiller. The Aurors spread out along the walls, wands aimed at every door, moving swiftly, in perfect sync. When the door shut behind them, Harry braced himself for the spinning, but the walls remained still. Harry and Ron looked at each other, confused.

“I need the Hall of Prophecy,” Ron said, because they had to start somewhere, but the doors did not move. Ron walked to the nearest one and pulled, but it was locked. He moved to the next, but that was locked too. He tried every door, but they were all locked, barring them entry. Harry guessed that was to be expected.

Harry stepped forward and tried every unlocking charm he knew on one of the doors. When it didn’t budge, he moved to the next, and the next.

“We’re going to have to break them down, Harry,” Ron said. Harry looked back at him.

“One of these is the Love Chamber,” Harry said gravely, to the raised eyebrows of everyone in the room. “It should never be opened, it’s kept locked at all times. Remember how it melted my knife? ‘A force that is at once more wonderful and more terrible than Death,’ Dumbledore told me.”

Ron looked around warily at all the doors, as did everyone else. He eventually turned back to Harry, brows creased, thinking hard.

“Harry, Dumbledore also said Love was the source of your strength, it was that power that defeated Voldemort multiple times. Has Love ever hurt you?”

Harry frowned. “No,” he answered, but paused, thinking of those he’d lost. “I mean, not really. But it hurt Voldemort a lot.”

Ron spun to address the rest of the room. “Everyone’s soul is in good shape, yeah? Haven’t torn it up in cold-blooded murder or relished in causing pain to the helpless?”

Seven cautious faces nodded hesitantly in affirmation.

“Then I think we’ll be alright. We’ve got no other option.” Ron moved to the center of the room, raising his wand and aiming it at one of the doors. “Three teams: Harrison, Bones, Stanley, take a door. Shacklebolt, Jeffries, you’re with me, and Harry, you’ve got those two, as you’ve insisted, and if you die, know that I won’t be bothered with your funeral.”

Harry smirked and nodded, moving to join him at the center of the room with the rest of the Aurors, Parkinson and Timsy following him. Ron was the best at diffusing nerves right before a raid, just enough to settle everyone into awareness, instead of paranoia. Harry subtly moved to stand directly in front of Parkinson and Timsy, shielding them from the doors. Parkinson tsked at him again.

“Wands up, on three,” Ron called, once everyone had their wand aimed at a door. “One, two, three—”

“Bombarda!”

Three doors exploded violently, making Harry’s ears ring. He ran into the one he’d just blasted, with Timsy and Parkinson close behind, and was immediately lifted off the ground, completely weightless. Parkinson yelped as she entered behind him and was also swept off of her feet.

The room was completely dark, except for several huge, glowing globes that Harry could barely make out through the dust from the busted door. The Space Chamber. Damn.

He reached out towards the sound of Parkinson’s panicked breathing and grabbed her wrist. “Space Chamber,” he muttered, looking around frantically. “Grab Timsy.”

She made a sound of effort, pulling away from him, but he held on tight.

“Got him,” she panted. Harry dragged her wrist to his back.

“Hold on,” he ordered quietly, and she immediately fisted the back of his uniform.

The dust was clearing, and Harry could hear the sound of spellfire and the voices of the other Aurors in the distance—whose, he couldn’t tell. He swished his wand.

“Homenum Revelio.”

The spell lit up him and Parkinson, but not Timsy. Harry frowned, thinking quickly, trying to remember the other spells—

“Vitae Revelio,” Parkinson whispered, swishing her own wand with her free hand. The spell lit up not only Timsy, who was holding on to her sleeve, but every globe in the room. Apparently, the model planets were somehow alive.

They could deal with that news later. The important thing was that Draco wasn’t here. Harry turned in the air, Parkinson attached to the back of his uniform, looking for a door, but the room was too dark, and the planets were too big and in the way—

And coming closer, closing in around them. Harry couldn’t see past them at all. Eight huge, colourful globes were surrounding them, this was definitely not an accurate model of the Solar System, and weren’t there supposed to be nine?

Right—Luna had blown up Pluto, nearly a decade ago.

“Reducto!” Harry shouted, aiming his wand at Jupiter, which exploded into a thousand tiny, wispy, fizzling pieces. Through the shrapnel, Harry saw a faint, rectangular outline of dim light.

“Hang on,” he called behind him, and the grip on his shirt tightened as he aimed his wand. “Accio door!”

He was jolted forward by his wand, nearly choking on his collar as Parkinson and Timsy were dragged along with him by the back of his shirt. He braced his arm up in front of his face as the door drew nearer and nearer, picking up speed, until he finally burst through it, gravity and light reasserting itself abruptly. He twisted his body in the air, grabbing Parkinson just before landing heavily on his back, causing her to land right on top of him with a hard oof as the breath was knocked out of them both.

“Stupid—Gryffindor—” she panted, rolling off of Harry as he tried desperately to draw breath. Not his finest landing, but he had Draco’s bloody best friend to protect, Draco would murder him if anything happened to her. He lifted his head, seeing Timsy standing up from the floor, casually dusting off the sleeves of his jumper, and looking at them expectantly. Harry struggled into a sitting position, raising his wand before standing fully, and his stomach dropped upon seeing where they had landed.

It hadn’t changed at all—it still looked like Courtroom Ten, but instead of the horrible chair in the middle of the floor, there was a stone dais, upon which stood a high stone archway, with an old, tatted veil flapping gently in a nonexistent breeze. The walls held at least ten identical doors, one of which they had just flown through.

“Death Chamber,” Harry murmured. “Homenum Revelio.”

Nothing. He waited for Parkinson to do her Life Detection spell, but she was silent. When Harry looked over at her, she was staring wide eyed at the archway.

“Do you hear them?” she asked. Harry’s face hardened.

“Yes,” He replied, because he did. The whispers were even stronger than they were last time, and he knew that if he listened hard enough, he would hear Sirius, or Remus, Tonks, Fred, his parents—

He grabbed Parkinson’s arm to stop her from moving forward. The temptation to listen, to follow those whispers, to see the people he’d loved, was almost overwhelming, but he’d been through this before.

“Trust me, Pansy,” Harry said quietly, standing in front of her to make her look at him, “you don’t want to.”

Parkinson blinked a few times before shaking her head, coming out of her daze. She kept her eyes averted from the dais, though Harry could tell it was taking serious effort.

“Timsy,” Harry called, and Timsy grabbed his wrist, having moved to stand right next to him. He crouched down to meet Timsy at eye level.

“Can you feel him, Timsy? Do you need my wand again?”

Timsy held out his hand, and Harry handed over his wand, though his instincts were screaming at him for leaving himself defenseless in enemy territory. He’d have to trust Pansy Parkinson, of all people, to watch his back. When he glanced behind him, Parkinson had her wand raised, watching every single door with fierce determination.

Harry expected Timsy to enter his head again, but he didn’t—he only closed his big eyes, rolling the wand carefully in his fingers.

“Timsy is finding,” he rasped, and once again, Harry waited as patiently as he could, though his nerves felt electric. His eyes darted around to the many doors, carefully avoiding the pull of the veil.

Timsy’s hand started to move, as if drawn by a magnet, holding Harry’s wand tightly. It spun him, slowly, pointing outwards across the room, until it finally stopped, aiming at a door three doors down from them.

“Master Draco is being through there,” he said, eyes snapping open, long, curved nose twitching as if he could still smell the trace of candlesmoke. Harry wished he could, too. Timsy quickly handed back the wand, eyes fixed on the door.

Harry leapt up and ran towards the door, hearing the quick footsteps of Parkinson and Timsy behind him. He yanked at the door, but it was locked.

“Alohomora!”

The lock clicked, and Harry swung the door open, dashing inside. But as soon as he entered the dark corridor, the door slammed shut behind him, locking Parkinson and Timsy out.

“Shit,” he muttered, running back to the door. Parkinson was pounding and yelling on the other side. He tried to push it open again, but it wouldn’t budge, even with another unlocking charm. He was torn—help them get through to follow him into danger, or go find Draco as soon as bloody possible?

Well, he wasn’t that torn.

“It’s alright!” Harry called, “Just stay there, I’ll be back!”

This seemed to piss off Parkinson even more, but Harry couldn’t wait any longer, when Draco’s life was on the line. He turned around, lighting the tip of his wand and sprinting down the dark corridor, where he could see the outline of another door at the end.

I’m coming, Draco.

******

“So, Harry Potter would do all of that, to protect a cowardly Death Eater, his old school rival?”

Lucius’ voice was like ice, and Draco could feel sweat forming on his brow. He said nothing, keeping his face carefully blank. Lucius raised his wand again, and Draco felt him grabbing hold of the strings, like picking up a puppet.

“Tell me the truth, Draco,” he demanded, “how does Potter feel about you?”

“I don’t know,” came the automatic, honest answer. It was true. Harry may have kissed him, made him a mixtape, testified for him, trusted him, saved his life—but he had also never wanted to see Draco again, had loathed him for years, had fought against him in a War, had attacked him in his study and walked away, hating the fact that Draco knew him so well. Harry may have sent the Minister to protect Draco, but he definitely hadn’t wanted to do it himself.

Lucius lip curled, his face twisting in frustration.

“Then how do you feel about him, Draco?”

“I love him,” the truth flew out of Draco’s mouth, and he flinched with the abruptness of it, feeling like he’d been slapped. All those years of precious denial, all that work in shoving it away, gone in less than a second. He loved Harry, he’d loved him for way too long, and Pansy had been right, as always. A wash of sweet relief mixed with the painful loss of denial, conflicting him. He wanted to cry, but he wouldn’t.

Lucius looked positively gleeful. If this were any other situation, Draco could have pretended that his father had just learned that his only son was in love, and was brimming with happiness for him. But Draco was chained to a chair, his father’s wand was aimed at his face, maneuvering him like a bloody toy, and Lucius had just discovered Draco’s greatest weakness.

“That prophecy was bullshit, Lucius,” Draco growled through clenched teeth, feeling more panicked and desperate by the second.

“Clearly not, since it has illuminated such fascinating subjects,” Lucius grinned. “But, now, it is discredited, you insolent boy, because you will never have more power than I, especially while you hold this pathetic weakness—“

“It’s not about power, Lucius, you bloody fool—“

“I quite disagree, considering the situation you are in,” Lucius smirked, gesturing vaguely to the chains and Draco’s body. Draco snarled, his hands itching to hit him, to do something, but his body was a mere plaything, out of his reach. Lucius was clearly enjoying the taste of his success, and evidently eager to rub it in Draco’s face, because he released Draco’s mouth, enough to allow him to speak freely.

“I only know Harry as well as I do because you made it so, Father! To know him is to love him, and I am a better man because of it, better than you will ever be,” Draco’s voice was rising, and Lucius only chuckled patronisingly at his hysterics, but he continued anyway, trying to make his father see any scrap of sense.

“I have taken the second chance you never took, I have taken the opportunities to be better than what you thought I should be, I am the only Malfoy that has ever placed family and love above status and power, and that is where I rise above you, Lucius, that is a strength you will never, ever have!”

Lucius opened his mouth to speak, probably to wax on about his imminent victory, when suddenly the room began to feel denser, as if someone had plugged it up, sealing it. He paused, looking around warily. It felt like a heavy blanket was being drawn over the ceiling, closing them off further from the world. Draco looked up, and gasped quietly at the subtle, shimmering waves of barely visible gold, red, and green magic coursing through the stone. He grinned softly, knowing immediately who was responsible.

He knew Lucius wouldn’t be able to see it, but he would certainly feel it, all that power. Draco concentrated, studying the waves, working backwards to find its incantations, to hear them hidden among the light—

Lucius snapped his head back to Draco, eyeing him suspiciously, thrusting his wand back in Draco’s face.

“What is happening?” His voice was almost panicked. Draco couldn’t answer truthfully just yet, so his head tilted instead, listening, reaching out—

“Praestes Fidelis,” Draco mumbled, grinning slyly as he looked back at his father. “A Fidelius Charm.”

Lucius lowered his wand, eyes wide, looking furious. He turned away and started pacing the room again. Draco wondered if that was a habit he’d picked up from Lucius—if it was, he was certainly going to kick it, right after finding Rose those slippers.

Lucius was muttering to himself, and Draco realized he may have truly lost the plot this time. He’d always been a bit insane, his morals completely backwards, but Voldemort had enjoyed torturing him for his failures, and he’d spent eight years in Azkaban… His only goal had always been power, and Draco had seen what that did to Tom Riddle, after so many years. Maybe, once upon a time, Lucius had been smart enough to know that vague prophecies should be left well enough alone, but that time was obviously long gone.

“Fine,” Lucius finally said, to no one in particular. “I do not need the Department, I have friends, allies, all over the country—” Draco doubted that very much, “—this only affects from where I will return, when I return to society, I have already studied everything they have here, most of which is useless, the bloody swots—”

Draco’s latest theory was quickly gaining more traction, as Lucius’ desperation obviously grew.

“—and I have their precious Seer—” Draco’s stomach dropped.

“—and I have you,” Lucius whirled around, snarling, pointing the wand at Draco again, causing his muscles to seize up painfully with the force of it. “I have you and everything you are keeping from me, I have the boy who loves Harry Potter, and I can bet that if he sent the Minister to protect you, became political to ensure it, even severed your bonds for you, then he will be coming to your rescue, right about now. He did the same thing last time, the Dark Lord knew he would, the Dark Lord always knows.”

Draco was breathing heavily, carefully hiding his emotions with whatever Occlumency he could muster, which wasn’t much. Lucius’ eyes were still wide, at once fearful and gleeful, the tip of his wand inches from Draco’s throat.

They heard several soft booms of explosions in the distance, and Lucius jumped minutely, but a horrific grin was twisting his face.

“He will not harm you,” Lucius mused, “no, I dare say he will protect you at all costs.”

Draco’s heart was racing wildly, the blood draining rapidly out of his face. No, no, no, no—

“You, boy,” Lucius growled, pointing his wand at Boran, who flinched, curling into himself. Draco was suddenly reminded of Harry’s Uncle Vernon, and he’d never wanted to kill his father more than in that moment. “You will keep your mouth shut, if you want your mother to survive the night.”

Lucius lifted his wand to his own head, giving Draco a brief respite, and Draco saw the wicked gleam in his eyes just before the heavy Disillusionment Charm melted over his body. He heard Boran whimper behind him—an invisible enemy was much scarier than a visible one.

Draco was sensitive enough that he could see the faint, cold, silvery shimmer of Lucius’ magic covering him, but he didn’t want Lucius to know that, so he darted his eyes around in panic, careful not to land on him. The chains suddenly released him from the chair, and he was pulled up out of it like a doll onto his feet, hissing as his muscles seized again. His body was walked to the middle of the room, and kept there, his feet rooted to the spot against his will.

Draco’s teeth were clenched together painfully, his jaw locked tight, and he ached to turn around and run to the cell, to comfort the frightened child, but he couldn’t.

“It’s alright, Boran,” he forced out through his teeth, panicking against his captivity, terrified for whatever Lucius had planned, “it’s gonna be okay—”

“Quiet,” Lucius ordered from his corner, and Draco choked, coughing, his voice beyond his reach, no, no—

The air grew warmer around him, gentle currents of charged air surrounding him, caressing him. No.

He heard a door slam, and a muffled yell, followed by the distant sound of someone furiously pounding on a door, but the energy was only increasing, the air around him growing heavier, sweeter, like summer, like rain, Harry, please, no—

The heavy door swung open, and Draco saw the holly wand first, followed by a strong, uniform-covered arm, before his eyes finally landed on Harry’s stupid, beautiful face, and Draco wanted to cry at the look of relief that washed over his features upon seeing Draco, but he couldn’t, he could do nothing at all but stare, standing there, trembling.

“Draco,” Harry breathed, eyes and wand moving frantically around the room, lingering on the boy in the cell. “Where is he?”

Draco was frozen, powerless, completely silent. He fought desperately against the restraints in his head, but it was no use, and Harry was slowly, hesitantly coming closer. Draco was begging him internally to look, to use any spell, to see the danger, but Harry was focused entirely on him, searching his face, eyes landing on the bruise on his cheek, the blood that had dripped onto his shirt. He lowered his wand, and inside his head, Draco was screaming.

“Finite Incantatem,” Harry tried, frowning when nothing happened.

Harry continued moving, his steps gaining speed until finally, to Draco’s pathetic delight and utter horror, he was right in front of him, his hands gripping Draco’s arms, touching his face, his neck, his chest, checking him for injuries, proving to himself that Draco was actually there, and all Draco could do was watch him.

“Draco,” Harry whispered, feeling his tense and shaking body with strong, careful hands. “What has he done to you?”

He looked up, and Draco met his eyes, brilliantly green as always, even in the dim light of this awful room. Draco remembered once thinking he could do this wandlessly, if Harry kept looking at him like that, so he locked onto Harry’s gaze desperately, trying to tip forward, to fall in—

But Harry looked away, abruptly, looking down at Draco’s shaking hands, which were slowly moving up towards Harry’s chest. Please, Harry, look at me—

Harry continued watching Draco’s hands, as if hypnotized, as they finally landed on his chest, continuing their journey upwards, and through the seizing, Draco could feel Harry’s heart racing beneath his uniform. No, no, no—

Draco’s fingers slowly wrapped around Harry’s throat, tightening viciously, and Harry did nothing to stop him as he choked, dropping his wand in surprise, his hands coming up to Draco’s wrists, his eyes finally snapping back to Draco’s, wide with confusion and fear.

Legilimens, legilimens, legilimens—

Draco locked eyes with him, frantically trying to push himself into Harry’s head, hearing the quiet choking sounds from Harry’s mouth. His face was reddening as he struggled to draw breath, and still, he did nothing to defend himself. Draco could now hear Boran in the cell behind him, his whimpering steadily growing louder, more distraught.

Legilimens, legilimens, legilimens—

A sudden tipping feeling and Draco’s mind was falling forward, clumsier than he’d ever done, even in his very first days of training. He tumbled down into Harry’s head as if falling down a rocky hill, not entirely in control of it, and he heard himself gasp as he landed in a memory, so familiar—it was his own, on a beach on the Amalfi coast. A memory-Draco was lounging on the rocks, distracted by the scenery, while Harry lounged next to him, distracted by Draco.

Stop me. Stop me. Stop me.

He felt Harry’s hands tighten on his wrists, he heard Harry’s own voice in Harry’s head, for the first time.

I won’t hurt you.

Draco let out a sob through his teeth, he could feel something wet on his cheek.

Potion. Please, Harry. Stop me.

Harry’s hands quickly turned, his palms landing on the inside of Draco’s wrists. He closed his eyes, effectively pushing Draco out of his head. Draco was terrified that he’d passed out, that he’d killed him, and tears were streaming freely down his dirty face, outside of his or Lucius’ control.

But Harry’s hands were warm, tight around his wrists, very much awake, alive, though he was clearly fading. Harry’s palms were heating quickly, and Draco felt the warmth in his wrists immediately, flowing gently up his arms. It wasn’t as strong as it was last time, but Harry couldn’t breathe, with Draco’s hands like a vice around his neck, and he’d already used so much magic on the Fidelius. Draco could only fight ferociously in his head and hope that it would be enough, before it was too late. Draco could not, would not live in a world where Harry Potter didn’t exist, would not give up the one boy who truly saw him, would not be able to survive if it was by his own hands, even though Lucius was pulling the strings.

Harry’s magic flowed through him slowly, like warm honey, and Draco let it fill him as Harry’s knees weakened. He fought desperately against the reins in his father’s control, pushing with everything he had, trying to make his own magic help Harry’s along. Draco’s arms were completely stiff, and he was now practically holding Harry up by his neck, Harry’s face nearly purple above his unmoving grip, Harry’s hands locked onto his wrists, so, so warm.

A twitch, in his finger, and Draco gasped through his clenched jaw, putting everything he had into taking back his hands. Another twitch, and one of Draco’s thumbs lifted from under Harry’s Adam's apple. Harry took in a sliver of desperate breath.

Another twitch, and another, and Draco’s fingers lifted knuckle by knuckle, little by little. Harry’s straining inhales grew stronger, and Draco could feel his own knees shaking a moment before they buckled, sending both of them to the floor. With a grunt and an effort that felt like lifting an entire castle, he tore his hands away from Harry’s throat. They both fell backwards, away from each other, Draco panting and whimpering, Harry coughing and wheezing for air.

Draco quickly sat up, looking around, finding that the cloud of Lucius’ magic was advancing on them steadily, silently. He tried to stand, but his legs crumbled beneath him, completely drained. He instead flung himself on top of Harry, just as another loud boom sounded from outside, much closer, causing the invisible Lucius to freeze.

In seconds, the half-open door was blown off its hinges by Timsy, followed by Pansy, who gasped at the sight of them on the floor: Harry, half-conscious and breathless, with Draco on top of him, shielding him with his body. Panicked and frantic that even more people he loved were now in danger, Draco did the only thing he could, and thrust his hand out, pointing directly at the shroud of magic that hid Lucius.

Pansy didn’t move, but Draco heard a high-pitched yell in the next split second, and the stool that Lucius had sat on came flying across the room, hitting that cloud of magic head on with a hard thud and a deep grunting noise. The weight of the old, metal stool toppled over a Disillusioned Lucius, who reappeared suddenly, visible and unconscious on the floor.

Draco looked up, and his breath caught at the sight of the little Seer boy, on his knees at the bars of the cell, panting and lowering his hands.

“Well done, little storm,” Draco croaked softly, and Boran looked back at him as if he couldn’t believe he was alive. “I told you we’d make it.”

Draco looked back at Lucius’ unconscious body, wondering if he’d be able to set him on fire wandlessly, when Lucius was suddenly wrapped up tightly with thick cords conjured from the air. Draco snapped his head around, causing a wave of dizziness, and saw Harry lowering his wand, still laying on the floor, gasping for breath beneath him, safe, alive, here.

“Harry,” Draco’s voice broke, and his arms couldn’t hold him up anymore. He crumbled clumsily, his entire body shaking violently as he hit the floor next to Harry, staring at him in disbelief. He heard Pansy’s soft footsteps advancing, then her quiet grunt and a thump against a body, before continuing across the room toward the cell. Through his cold sweat, he felt one of Timsy’s hefty cleaning charms rush over him and his suit, though he was still laying on the filthy stone floor.

“I’m sorry, Draco,” Harry rasped hoarsely, one shaky hand rising to touch Draco’s face, alive, here. “I’m so sorry. I always lose my head around you.”

Draco let out a choked sob, feeling dizzy, cold, much too lightheaded. His breathing was too fast, too much, and his vision was darkening at the edges. He could hear Pansy speaking soothingly to Boran, who was crying with relief. He raised his clammy hand to hold Harry’s against his face.

“Idiot Gryffindor,” he said softly, teeth nearly chattering with his violent trembling. “Not much there to begin with.”

He saw a glimpse of Harry’s weak smile, before everything went black.

Chapter Twelve

The first thing Draco noticed upon returning to consciousness was the smell: the sharp, distinct antiseptic scent of St. Mungo’s.

He listened carefully, but could only hear the sounds of soft breathing, somewhere near him, and the occasional quiet chimes of the monitoring charms.

He focused on what he could feel, other than feeling like he’d been run over by an erumpent: a soft, cotton shirt and joggers, hospital standard. A sub-par pillow under his head, slightly elevated. Low thread count sheets under his right hand, laying against his side, and something warm was moving in his left hand. He’d have to open his eyes, then. He blinked against the bright, floating hospital lights, directing his gaze toward his left hand.

Harry was sitting in a hard, wooden chair next to his bed, holding Draco’s hand spread in his own, carefully tracing the lines of his palm with his fingers. So bloody tactile.

Draco watched him for several minutes, studying him, memorizing every detail, in case this was some sort of trick his mind was playing on him. Harry’s wide, black curls were sticking up wildly, as if he’d been running his hands through them incessantly. He was still wearing his navy Auror uniform, which was cleaner than Draco would have expected, perhaps Timsy’s doing, and the top three gold buttons at his throat were left undone. When Harry tilted his head a little, eyes fixed on Draco’s hand, Draco could see the harsh, deep purple bruises, in a ring around his neck, the horrific impressions of Draco’s fingers on his copper skin. Draco’s vision blurred, and he unconsciously squeezed Harry’s wandering fingers in his hand.

Harry’s head snapped up, meeting Draco’s gaze, his face a mix of awe and relief and trepidation. Draco was once again startled by the intensity of the bottle green eyes behind the round frames, briefly remembering how it felt to just tip forward, to fall in. He didn’t let go of Harry’s fingers—they simply stared at each other, taking the other in, and Draco felt that familiar, constricting ache in his chest.

“This is why I sent the Minister, and not myself,” Harry whispered, after a long, suspended moment. “I didn’t know how to be around you without hurting you.”

Draco tsked feebly, rolling his eyes.

“And I hurt you anyway, by trusting him with that,” Harry continued. “And I keep doing it. I don’t know what it is about you that makes me act like such an idiot.” He looked down at his fingers, trapped in Draco’s hand. Draco loosened his grip just enough to take his hand properly, rubbing his thumb over Harry’s knuckles.

“I’m sorry, Draco,” Harry said, his voice unbelievably quiet. “I’m so sorry. I fucked up my one chance to get to know you. I attacked you, I endangered you, again and again. I tortured you—”

“Shut up,” Draco rasped, not taking his eyes off of him. “I tortured myself, and I’d do it again. Evidently, your insufferable martyrdom is rubbing off on me.” Draco smirked, but Harry’s face twisted in pain and guilt. He squeezed Draco’s hand in his own, bowing his head in defeat.

“This isn’t how I’d hoped our first real conversation would go,” Draco said hoarsely, “but I am glad you’re healed, anyway.”

Harry’s lips twitched, eyes still stuck on Draco’s hand in his as he shook his head. “That curse was bullocks, and you know it,” he mumbled. “You knew me before ever entering my head. Lucius just wanted my memories, my knowledge.”

Draco frowned at him. “What do you mean?”

Harry’s eyes darted back to his for a moment, before looking back down at their hands. “You already knew me, Draco,” he replied softly. “You knew why every one of those memories was important, you knew how they made me who I am. You didn’t need me to tell you anything. You knew me better than I did, and I attacked you for it, and abandoned you and the case, putting your life in danger.”

Draco’s frown deepened. Harry was only half right. Draco knew him well, had always refused to see him as the god the Wizarding World insisted he was—but he didn’t know Harry nearly as well as he’d like to.

“What do you want, Harry?” he asked, brushing his thumb over the scars on the back of Harry’s hand. Harry looked up at him cautiously.

“I want you to be safe,” he replied. “I want you to thrive.”

“No, Harry,” Draco shook his head. “What do you want?”

Harry pressed his lips together, his expression pained. Draco knew he could probably count the number of times he did something he wanted, over something he needed to do, on one hand. He had no idea what Harry actually wanted, because he’d only ever seen Harry making himself do the right thing. Draco had been forced to answer Lucius truthfully, when asked how Harry felt about him: “I don’t know.”

Harry’s eyes searched Draco’s face for a prolonged moment, before letting out a shaky exhale.

“I want to be around you,” he answered, his voice just above a whisper. “All the bloody time.”

The corners of Draco’s mouth lifted as that little sun in his chest woke up. How unbelievably miraculous it was to hear Harry Potter say that to him.

“Then do so, you berk,” he replied, delighted when Harry’s mouth slipped into his favourite tiny smile.

“It’s about fucking time,” Pansy’s soft voice and sharp tongue sounded from Draco’s other side, and he turned his head away from Harry to see his best friend and his mother sharing a transfigured, oversized armchair, with Camila curled up in their laps, fast asleep. Narcissa was blinking herself awake, startled by Pansy’s quiet outburst. How had Draco not even noticed, not even looked—?

“Merlin, you two are imbeciles,” she continued in her muttering, hiding a smirk, careful not to wake her daughter. “The absolute worst flirting I’ve ever seen…”

Draco mirrored her grin, but he reached his right hand out toward his mother, first. Narcissa wrapped her slender hands around his, her expression tortured. She looked as exhausted as the rest of them.

“Mother,” Draco said quietly. “Are you alright?”

Narcissa’s face contorted as she tried to suppress sobs, not wanting to break down in public, not wanting to wake the child in her lap.

“I’m so sorry, Draco,” she whispered shakily, and Draco squeezed her trembling hands to stop her.

“We can’t help who we love, Mother,” he said, eyes darting to Pansy’s raised eyebrow before returning to Narcissa. “You’ve done nothing wrong. I know he Imperiused you.”

She looked like she didn’t believe him, but she kept her mouth shut, drinking in the details of his face with wet, anguished eyes.

Draco found his checklist of priorities in his head, and decided to start with the first. He turned his face back to Harry, who was watching him closely, rubbing his thumb over Draco’s fingers.

“He’s not getting out this time,” Harry said, reading the question in his eyes. “Kingsley’s making sure of it.”

Draco raised his eyebrow doubtfully, and Harry smirked weakly.

“This time,” Harry confirmed.

“I’ll be surprised if Kingsley doesn’t personally supervise every Ministry employee with an iron fist, after that scolding,” Pansy added, shooting Harry a wicked, knowing grin. Draco raised his eyebrows further.

“Went all Gryffindor on him, did you?” he asked Harry, who snorted.

“It was a dressing-down for the history books, Draco,” Pansy teased. “Wish you were there. Throwing chairs with accidental magic and everything.”

Draco huffed a laugh as Harry rolled his eyes, his cheeks pink.

“And Boran?” Draco asked, moving on.

Harry turned to look behind him, and Draco saw the boy a few beds down from him, sound asleep. A woman with dark, wavy hair kept vigil at his bedside, never moving her eyes from him, as if he could disappear at any moment.

“The Aurors have been looking for him for months,” Harry said gravely. “He was right under our noses the whole time.”

Draco squeezed Harry’s hand, hard, staring at the small, sleeping child in the bed. Months.

As if he knew they were talking about him, Boran’s eyes slowly opened, landing first on his mother. He stared at her in disbelief, as if he was worried he was dreaming, that none of it was real. She smiled gently at him, reaching out and taking his hand.

Narcissa sniffled, pulling out her handkerchief, and Boran turned his head at the quiet noise, slowly meeting Draco’s gaze. Draco gave him a weak smile.

“Hey, little storm,” he said softly. Boran’s mother grinned at the nickname, while to Draco’s delight, Boran rolled his eyes.

“Hey, little dragon,” Boran replied, his exhausted, youthful voice still carrying a hint of snark, making Draco’s smile widen further. If Boran could mock him, then he would be alright, after all.

Draco felt a soft weight climbing onto his right side, and turned to face a sleepy Camila, who was settling herself in the crook of his arm.

“Hello, love,” he murmured, brushing a piece of her hair out of her face. “Feeling alright?”

Camila tsked at him, so shockingly similar to her mother that Draco raised his eyebrows at her. “You’re not supposed to ask me that, Uncle Draco,” she muttered, still shy with present company. “You’re the one in hospital.”

Draco chuckled at her impeccable logic. “Fair point,” he replied, gathering her close to his side. Harry watched him fondly.

Camila’s eyes darted nervously to Harry and back, before she cupped her little hand around Draco’s ear, bringing her face close to share a secret.

“Harry Potter’s been here for ages,” she whispered, eyeing Harry with deep suspicion, and Draco pressed his lips together to hold back a bark of laughter.

“I’ll bet he has,” Draco whispered back. “He’s unbearably stubborn.”

Harry’s lips twitched as he pretended not to hear their conversation. Draco squeezed his hand again, and continued down his mental to-do list.

“Camila,” he began, and the girl sat up quickly, sensing the urgency in his tone. “I need to know where you found my slippers. I have a friend who really wants a pair of her own.”

Camila’s face lit up, thrilled to have the answers Draco needed. Draco knew it was only a matter of time until Pansy taught her how to bargain with these things, and he savoured her straightforwardness for the time being.

“Mum and I know where the shop is,” she said seriously. “They have them in every size. You can come with us next time we go.” Draco heard Pansy sigh—Camila was relentless in toy shops.

The door opened, and the room suddenly became a lot more crowded. Ron Weasley entered first, giving Draco a friendly nod as he stepped silently up to his bed, barely sparing a glance for their joined hands. He pulled a tiny leather pouch that jingled with galleons out of his pocket and tossed it at Draco, smirking and shaking his head, before turning away, moving on to visit with Boran.

Hermione came in after him, holding hands with a tired looking Rose, who grinned sleepily at the sight of Harry, Draco and Camila, then hid her face in her wild, ginger hair upon seeing Pansy and Narcissa. Andromeda followed, with a bouncing Teddy bringing up the rear. They all crowded around Draco’s bed, bringing too many chocolate frogs and even an Oscar the Grouch stuffie, chatting quietly and excitedly to each other. Draco looked over to Boran’s bed, and saw his face transform in delight upon receiving his own mountain of chocolate frogs.

“They said you’ll be free to go by the end of the day, Draco,” Hermione said matter-of-factly, perching on the end of his bed. “You were brought in for extensive physical and magical exhaustion, as well as a thorough potion detoxification—although it didn’t take nearly as long as they thought it would, because apparently someone had started the process using sheer magical force,” she said, glaring suspiciously at Harry, whose cheeks were turning pink again as he examined an uninteresting piece of wall. He was still holding tight to Draco’s hand.

“Thank Merlin someone did,” Draco said, raising an eyebrow when he turned back to Hermione. “But why aren’t the Healers explaining this?”

Hermione looked away. “They, erm… they’re a bit embarrassed, I think. They were quite disturbed to find out you were magically bound to Healer’s Ethics—they just thought you were a stickler, or something. I doubt they would have allowed it to continue if they’d known, to be honest.”

Draco sighed. “I suppose that makes sense. They hate when the Ministry interferes with Healers.”

Teddy came up then to chat eagerly about Harry’s daring rescue mission, not forgetting to remind Draco that he had said they’d have a Seeker’s game, and that he better not think he can get out of it just because he was ill. Camila climbed off to go talk with Rose, bringing Draco’s Grouch stuffie with her.

When Teddy was distracted by Andromeda and Narcissa momentarily, Draco met Harry’s eyes, unable to hold back his fond grin.

“I think your ‘circle’ has just gotten a lot bigger,” Harry murmured, idly rubbing the back of Draco’s hand, that small, contented smile lighting up his whole face.

******

The following Tuesday, Harry left work early, much to Ron’s surprise—especially for this particular Tuesday. He walked briskly through the Atrium to the apparition point, ignoring the stares, and apparated to Draco’s front garden before he could talk himself out of it.

The narcissus flowers were blooming again, as well as several other varieties of flora, and Harry grinned at the memory of Draco awkwardly carrying a bundle of blooms, with dirt on the knees of his expensive, pressed trousers.

He hadn’t given Draco any warning, he hadn’t even asked if he could visit—he wasn’t sure how. He hadn’t heard from Draco at all since they’d left St. Mungo’s. He’d never felt more ill-prepared for anything, and after almost a week of sweating over it, he figured he’d use the Gryffindor approach, which he was more than familiar with, and just barge in head first.

Now that he was here, however, facing the house’s sophisticated black door and its colourful, overgrown gardens, his nerves were returning in full force. He hadn’t even stopped at Grimmauld to change out of his uniform—what if Draco thought he was here in an “official” capacity? How on earth was he supposed to explain himself then? What if Draco was busy with a patient? What was he even really doing here? Did he honestly think Draco Malfoy wanted to spend time with him, after everything he’d put him through?

The front door opened, interrupting his spiral, to reveal Timsy in the doorway, who was giving Harry one of his signature exasperated looks.

“Is Harry Potter being here only for admiring the gardens?”

Harry’s lips quirked, but he didn’t know what to say. He shook his head, stuffing his hands in his pockets. Timsy rolled his eyes—very reminiscent of Draco—and opened the door fully to allow Harry in.

Harry stepped inside, giving Timsy a grateful nod. He opened his mouth to ask where Draco was, but Timsy beat him to it.

“Master Draco is being in the garden, reading,” the elf croaked, walking away from Harry dismissively. Harry took a deep breath, and strode his way down the familiar path to the back door, unbuttoning the top buttons of his uniform in an effort to help himself breathe.

He closed the back door behind him, stepping fully into the garden, admiring the long grass and wildflowers growing uninhibited beneath his boots. It was a garden the Dursleys would have hated, which made it the best garden in the world, exactly how a garden should be.

Harry’s eyes gravitated toward the head of white blond hair, as they always did. His breath caught at the sight of Draco sitting at the small table under the magnolia tree, which was nearly in full bloom, soft pink petals half-unfurled along the long, thin branches over his head. The sleeves of his charcoal jumper were rolled up to his elbows, with one long leg crossed elegantly over the other.

Draco looked up from his book and closed it immediately, carefully removing his reading glasses as his mouth stretched in a bright grin, directed entirely at Harry. Panic started to build in Harry’s gut, mixing uncomfortably with pleasure.

“Harry,” Draco said, standing from his chair. He set down his book on the table and started walking slowly towards Harry, his sharp, pale face transforming gradually from joy to concern as he approached. He looked like a dream, and Harry’s heart raced wildly, his feet rooted to the spot.

Draco’s hand touched his arm, and Harry inhaled sharply. Not a dream, then, he was actually here, fuck, why was he here? Why was this so much harder than talking to Draco in a hospital bed, surrounded by their friends and family?

“Harry, are you alright?” Draco asked, brows furrowing with worry. To Harry’s horror, the back of Draco’s hand touched his forehead, checking for a fever. Merlin, what was wrong with him? He defeated the most powerful dark wizard of all time at seventeen, why was this feeling like the hardest thing he’d ever done?

Harry continued staring silently at Draco, petrified, while Draco continued checking him over as a Healer, pulling out his wand and casting multiple diagnostic charms, which of course showed Harry to be in perfect health, but with a very elevated heart rate. A lock of his sleek hair fell into his face as he worked, and Harry fixated on it, to avoid staring at anything else.

“Harry,” Draco repeated, firmly gripping Harry’s shoulders, forcing him to make eye contact. “What is it?”

Harry closed his eyes against the intensity of Draco’s gaze, which was not helping his heart rate. Neither were Draco’s hands on him, but he didn’t want that to stop at all. He opened his mouth to speak, to say something, but his throat felt too dry. He cleared it awkwardly, taking another deep breath before opening his eyes again.

Draco was still staring at him, his worried expression melting into one of thoughtfulness.

“What’s your favourite colour?” Draco asked.

“Green,” Harry answered without thinking, his chest warming at the way Draco’s eyes lit up.

“There you are,” he murmured, grinning as he stood up straight again, reluctantly dropping his hands. Harry briefly mourned the loss, and he gathered as much of his wits as he could, feeling like his nerve could slip away again at any moment, if Draco kept looking at him like that.

“What’s yours?” Harry asked, more hoarsely than he’d hoped. He cleared his throat again, cheeks heating as Draco’s grin turned into a smirk.

“Green,” he answered, his grey eyes darting back to Harry’s. “Of course.”

Harry smiled, just a little, which seemed to please Draco.

“Are you going to tell me why you’re here?” Draco asked in a low voice, and Harry’s smile dropped. Shit. How was he supposed to explain himself? His eyes darted nervously around the garden, lingering on Draco’s magnolia tree. He shifted uncomfortably on his feet, feeling incredibly small. Idiot.

Draco, inexplicably, leaned in a little closer. Harry swallowed.

“Say it, Harry.”

Sweet Circe, why were words so bloody difficult? Harry spoke English fluently—it was, in fact, the only language he spoke, while he knew Draco spoke several and he never had problems finding the right words in any of them. But this dynamic was completely new, he hadn’t needed to speak around Draco before, in this sanctuary, as a man who honestly just wanted to be around him.

Draco probably knew that, because he was clever as anything and he knew Harry too well. But knowing it and hearing Harry say it himself were two very different things, he knew. Harry locked eyes with him again, reminding himself that he was a bloody Gryffindor, even if this felt like the scariest thing he’d ever done.

“I wanted to,” Harry said quietly. “I wanted to see you.”

Draco’s smile was blinding. He took Harry’s hand in his own and started leading him across the garden, towards the trail that led into the forest.

“Well done,” Draco declared, to Harry’s pathetic delight. “We’ll make a selfish man out of you yet, Harry Potter.” He winked, and Harry huffed a weak laugh in an attempt to control the fluttering in his stomach.

The forest was calming in its familiarity, the afternoon sun filtering through the foliage, tinting everything a shade of green. All around them were the sounds of birds and skittering creatures, the hush of a breeze rustling the leaves, and the scents of earth and growing things.

“I was waiting for that, you know,” Draco said after a moment of quiet as they walked leisurely along the trail.

“For what?” Harry asked.

“For you to do what you wanted to,” Draco clarified, lips twitching in a wry grin. Harry rolled his eyes.

“I had no idea what to do,” Harry admitted. “I still don’t know what you want, Draco.”

Draco clicked his tongue. “I thought that was obvious.”

“To anyone else, maybe,” Harry mumbled, frowning at the trodden path in front of him. Little white flowers were sprouting from the ground on either side of them, reaching for the specks of sunlight falling in through the canopy.

“Oh, you need me to spell it out for you, then?”

Harry scoffed, rolling his eyes again. “Yes, I do—”

Draco turned him abruptly, pushing him back against the solid trunk of a moss-covered tree. Draco’s lips were suddenly inches from his face, and Harry stared at them for a moment before lifting his eyes to meet his intense gaze. He felt Draco’s firm grip on his shoulders again, holding him there against the tree.

“I want to know everything about you, Harry,” Draco murmured in that low, quiet voice that Harry adored. “I want to stand with you, I want to be yours, I want to be what you choose over anything you feel you owe the world. I want to be the one thing you’re selfish for, and I want to kiss you so badly. I’ve wanted to for longer than you could possibly know.”

Harry’s breathing sped up as Draco’s hands moved up his shoulders to his neck, those gentle, elegant fingers threading through the curls on the back of his head, sending a shiver down his spine. Yes, that certainly did spell it out.

“Then do so, you berk,” Harry breathed, and Draco huffed lightly at Harry using his own words against him again, with his own voice this time, but how could he not, when Draco was clearly the eloquent one? Harry caught a glimpse of those perfect lips turning up in a lopsided grin, before Draco tilted his head down and closed the distance between them, finally.

Draco’s kiss was softer than Harry remembered, but so much more purposeful, and his nerves were flushed out with the rush of relief, of rightness that ran through him. Harry felt exhilarated with it, his body thrumming with the feeling of yes, and more. He hadn’t known that it could be better than their kiss in the sunroom. He hadn’t expected Draco to want him as much as he wanted Draco, he hadn’t expected this at all. This kiss was ardent, steadfast, full of intent—less desperate, but still so eager; less pained, but just as passionate. Kissing Draco felt like the dawn of spring after a long winter, like flying through cool, night air, like blowing out the candles on a real birthday cake.

Harry’s hands found Draco’s waist, gripping his sides and pulling him closer, until he was pressing Harry into the tree with his body, kissing him like he was born to do it.

Draco drew in a sharp breath upon the contact, and Harry opened his eyes, terrified that something went wrong again, that the bonds were still active. But Draco wore an elated smile, eyes half-closed in contentment, with one hand buried in Harry’s thick hair, the other gently lifting Harry’s glasses off of his face, folding them carefully with dextrous fingers and stowing them in the open collar of his uniform. He leaned back in for more, and Harry felt completely surrounded by him, already addicted to his scent, his taste, the smooth slide of his lips, the feel of his warm body under Harry’s curious hands.

Harry felt Draco’s tongue against his lips, and opened his mouth with the sudden flurry of sparks in his veins, wrapping his arms fully around Draco’s waist, feeling the firm muscles of his back beneath his jumper. He felt giddy and lightheaded, unable to stop himself from grinning against Draco’s lips, even as their kisses gained urgency. Draco’s hands tilted Harry’s head to the side, deepening their kiss, sliding Harry’s tongue against his own, and a soft, satisfied sound came from Draco’s throat.

Harry felt like he was made for this—like kissing Draco, feeling his heartbeat against his chest, making him make those little sounds, was the only thing in the world worth doing. Harry was hit with the memory of dancing with him, of finally allowing his body to do what was most natural to it, to move in an instinctual way. Of course, of course it was Draco Malfoy who made him feel like this, who set his blood on fire, who made him throw his self-control out the window and just react, every time. It had always been Draco.

Draco’s lips left Harry’s mouth to grace his cheek, then his neck, just below his ear, peppering his skin with delicate kisses, causing him to shiver again. Harry’s hands settled at the base of Draco’s spine, holding him close, fingering the hem of his jumper. He brushed his nose against Draco’s cheek, smiling against his skin, breathing hard.

Draco leaned his forehead against Harry’s, catching his breath. Harry felt the soft puffs of air against his own kiss-swollen lips, and he wanted to reach up and kiss him again, but they had plenty of time. Harry felt he had all the time in the world to do the things he wanted to do with Draco.

“Want to go for a pint, sometime?” Harry nearly slurred, feeling drunk, still out of breath. Draco laughed under his breath as one of Harry’s hands travelled slowly up his spine, feeling every vertebrae under his fingers.

“A pint, Harry? Really?”

Harry couldn’t help himself—he lifted his chin and kissed Draco again, one more time. “Just seems like a good way to get to know you, s’all,” he mumbled against Draco’s warm, grinning lips. Draco chuckled again and kissed him back softly, his thumb gently brushing along the stubble on Harry’s jaw.

Draco stepped back, and Harry dropped his hands reluctantly, but Draco caught one in his own. Harry opened his eyes and huffed at the blur that was Draco as he retrieved his glasses from his open collar, sliding them back on his nose to look at him properly.

Draco’s lips were an incredible shade of dark pink, his sharp, pale face flushed. His jumper was disheveled from Harry’s wandering hands, and his brilliant smile reached his eyes, the grey of his irises nearly glowing against his face—like drops of morning dew on new, spring grass, refracting the light around them. Harry was utterly mesmerized, torn between the desire to stand there and continue staring at him like an idiot, and the urge to close the distance between them and kiss him again.

Draco made the decision for him. He reached into his pocket with his free hand, and started whistling Curse Breaker.

Harry looked around—he hadn’t even noticed they’d arrived at the meeting place.

Draco handed Harry a carrot, just as Hera’s head poked around the side of a tree, stepping fully into the small clearing. She headed straight for Harry first, this time, making both of them laugh as Bubo swooped down, landing gracefully on Draco’s arm. Obligingly scratching behind Hera’s ear, Harry felt himself truly relax for the first time since Draco had healed him.

******

“Wait here,” Draco said, throwing Harry a wicked grin as he picked himself up off the blanket on the grass and quickly made his way to the shed. He opened the door, stepped inside, and grabbed the boombox from the low countertop, where it had been sitting for over a week. Harry lifted his head as Draco returned to the blanket, groaning as he caught sight of the muggle machine.

“Oh yes, we’re going to listen to it,” Draco teased. “The first time was slightly ruined by a very rude interruption from Pansy.”

“Don’t worry, she made sure I knew just how boorish my attempts were,” Harry replied, mimicking Pansy’s posh, irritated tone, his cheeks flaming with embarrassment as Draco pressed play.

“Impressive how she manages to find time to slip in harsh disparagements of every one of your faults, isn’t it, even in the most dire situations,” Draco laughed fondly, his joy mingling with the music that now filled the garden. He laid back down next to Harry, watching the dappled sunlight play across his skin.

“I just want someone to say to me, oh, oh, oh, oh,
I’ll always be there when you wake…”

“I have to ask, Harry,” Draco began hesitantly, rolling his body on the conjured blanket and propping himself up on one elbow, staring down at him. Since returning from their walk, they’d done nothing but lay under the magnolia tree all afternoon, talking and occasionally kissing, but Draco had thought he’d have left by now, considering the date. Not that he was complaining.

Harry raised one eyebrow at him, folding his hands under his head and crossing his legs at the ankle, looking perfectly relaxed.

“I know what day it is,” Draco said. “Aren’t you… expected somewhere, soon?”

“I am,” Harry sighed, looking up at the freshly flowering branches above them. He said nothing else, so Draco continued staring at him expectantly, until he finally looked back at him.

“They’ll just have to be disappointed, this year,” Harry said, in that low, rough voice Draco was quickly reacquainting himself with. The corners of Harry’s lips turned up slightly as he watched Draco’s face, which was trying and failing to stifle a grin.

Draco knew Harry had been present at every Ministry-sponsored War Memorial event, every May the Second, at least since he’d been back in England. The Daily Prophet had been sure to capture photos of him in his formal robes from every angle, speculating on his relationship with every single person he spoke to. Not that Draco had read those articles, or stared at every photograph, obviously.

But apparently, today, May the Second, 2006, was different.

“Oh?” Draco prodded.

“They certainly don’t need me there in order to remember it,” Harry replied, eyes dancing with amusement. The sunlight was settling into an early evening gold, the shadows of the trees around them elongating with every passing minute. “Besides, I’d prefer to spend my time differently, today.”

Draco bit his lip, suppressing a wild grin, but he was sure Harry could still see it in his eyes. Harry’s smile only grew. His eyes darted to Draco’s lips, and suddenly Draco was pushed onto his back, giddy laughter bubbling up from his throat as Harry threw his leg over him, boxing him in against the ground. Draco beamed up at him, subtly glancing at his own fingers as they ran up Harry’s powerful arms, counting them, just to be sure. This entire day felt unreal.

Harry leaned down and kissed him thoroughly, demonstrating exactly how he’d prefer to spend his time today, stealing Draco’s breath. Harry kissed the same way he did anything else: vibrantly, intensely, with his entire being. Harry’s kisses were completely enthralling, all-consuming, and Draco couldn’t get enough.

His fingers buried themselves in Harry’s hair, so much thicker and softer than Draco had ever imagined it’d be, and he could admit he’d imagined quite a bit.

“What then,” Draco mumbled against Harry’s lips, between breathless kisses. “You thought you’d just show up, see if I was feeling gracious enough to host you to get you out of another speaking engagement? What if I’d turned you away, would you have run back to the Ministry with your tail between your legs?”

Harry let out a bark of laughter, pulling back to look at Draco properly. He shifted his weight onto one arm, lifting the other to push his glasses firmly back onto his nose. A cool breeze ruffled the deep black curls that escaped Draco’s hands, and Draco futilely smoothed them down with his fingers.

“My backup was actually a bottle of Ogden’s and a carton of ice cream, waiting for me back at Grimmauld,” Harry replied, smirking. Draco swatted his arm playfully.

“Two-timing me already, Harry Potter,” he grumbled, before narrowing his eyes. “What kind of ice cream?”

Harry’s smile grew. “Cake batter,” he answered, and Draco’s eyes widened.

“That’s an ice cream flavour?” Draco breathed, and Harry chuckled at him, nodding.

“And it’s perfect with firewhiskey,” he added.

Draco opened his mouth to demand they apparate to the intriguing ice cream straightaway, but something bright and silvery burst into the garden, stopping next to the pair of them on the blanket.

The terrier Patronus opened its mouth and spoke in Ron Weasley’s deep voice.

“If you’re skiving off, Harry, thank Merlin, and we’re joining you—yes, at Draco’s. We’ll bring curry. Let me know what Draco wants.”

Harry huffed a laugh at Draco’s shocked expression as the Patronus dissipated, looking back down at him with one eyebrow raised.

“You’re sure you want this, knowing that is what you’re signing up for?” Harry asked, and laughed when Draco’s hands gripped his face urgently.

“Free curry and mysterious ice creams, you mean? Harry, where do I sign?”

Harry’s mirthful laugh made Draco feel like he was floating, even as he was pinned to the ground. Harry leaned down to kiss him again, as if he couldn’t help himself.

“Tikka masala, then?” Harry asked, sitting back on his knees, hovering over Draco as he pulled his wand out of its thigh holster. Draco’s breath caught in his throat as a jolt of heat ran through him. He nodded at Harry’s smirking face, not trusting his voice to come out in any sort of dignified manner.

“Expecto Patronum,” Harry whispered, and the blinding, familiar stag burst forth, galloping once around the garden before trotting up to them, bowing its regal head.

“Tell Ron Draco wants tikka masala,” Harry told it, before glancing back at Draco. “What do you think Timsy wants?”

“Kheer,” Draco answered, wincing at his breathy voice. He cleared his throat, trying to cool down, but his hands landed on Harry’s thighs anyway. “Extra naan.”

“Fade into you
Strange you never knew…”

Harry relayed the message, sending the Patronus on its way. He tossed his wand on the blanket and leaned back down, and Draco welcomed his kisses hungrily. Harry’s hand found Draco’s side, moving up across his chest, and Draco indulged them both for several moments, before reluctantly pushing Harry away, dazed and panting.

“Don’t start something you can’t finish, Potter,” he muttered hoarsely. Harry gave an exaggerated sigh.

“Fine,” Harry said, playfully exasperated, giving Draco one final, captivating kiss. “I’ll buy you dinner first, like a gentleman.”

He climbed off, settling onto his side on the blanket, head propped up on one elbow, watching Draco with a satisfied smile on his face. Draco couldn’t look at him directly, his heart was already racing dangerously. He looked up at his magnolia tree instead, admiring the golden light filtering through the thin branches, furrowing his brows in thought.

“Ron is buying dinner,” he said, frowning at Harry, who only grinned back at him, wicked green eyes sparkling with mischief.

“Then you’ll have to agree to another date, Malfoy.”

Draco huffed a laugh, shaking his head in wonder. He wanted to snog the living daylights out of him, he wanted to take Harry apart right there in the garden, he wanted to climb on top of him and make him come undone.

But they had time.

And Ronald “Cockblock” Weasley was on his way, with curry.

******

Harry was glad that Draco had insisted they eat in the sitting room, setting many cushions for them on the floor around the coffee table. He still abided by his rule of only eating takeaway on the floor, but Harry felt protective of the sunroom—he hadn’t been back in it since he’d unwittingly tortured Draco with a kiss, and didn’t want their first time back there to be with his best friends and their raised eyebrows and their kid.

Draco was delighted to see Rose, introducing her pompously to Timsy, who curtsied politely at her, making her giggle. They settled in the sitting room, Rose taking her time choosing the perfect cushion to sit on. Draco chatted seriously with her over the merits of each one, and Harry couldn’t hide his fondness, which made Ron roll his eyes.

Draco had invited Timsy to join them, mentioning the kheer Ron had brought, which made Hermione stare at him in wonder. Timsy politely declined, but did steal away with the kheer. Rose got up again, just as food was put in front of her, distracted by the record player, and Draco joined her, helping her pick out a record for them to play while they ate. Rose chose Tidal by Fiona Apple, because “the lady has nice eyes.”

Memories of the War and the Battle hung heavily around Harry, as they always did on this day, seeming more real and more terrifying in the company of those who had been there with him. But whenever Harry felt himself starting to drift away, he’d feel a warm pressure against his leg—Draco’s hand, resting on his thigh, or his knee, pressing gently into Harry’s, bringing him back to the here and now. He never drew attention to himself, but Harry’s friends were shrewd, and caught the movement every time, shooting Harry knowing glances. Harry assumed they were going through the same thing—which is probably why they’d brought Rose, in the first place. Rose was their symbol of post-war peace, of moving on, their love and joy made manifest. It was impossible for them to get stuck in the past with her around.

“Draco,” Ron began, wiping his mouth on his sleeve, causing both Hermione and Draco roll their eyes. “You didn’t happen to see any other Unspeakables, when you were, erm… down there, did you?”

Draco’s eyes darkened, and Harry casually leaned closer to him. “No,” Draco answered, “only the one. And Boran… how is he?”

“He’s doing good, he’s happy to be back at home. His mum says he gets nightmares, of course—but we’re hoping some time with a good Mind Healer will help.”

Draco nodded. Harry guessed he was probably thinking of ways to help Boran, himself.

“What, then, you didn’t catch enough Unspeakables?” Draco asked. Harry sighed quietly. What an understatement.

Rose was focused on her food, swaying to the music, but Ron cast a quick, subtle spell on her anyway that would make their conversation sound like the most boring, adult-ish talk in the world.

“We didn’t catch any, Draco,” Ron said gravely. “Place was empty. Lucius won’t talk, even on Veritaserum—” Draco winced, barely, and Harry leaned back, holding himself up with his arm behind Draco’s back. Not touching him, but Draco could lean back and accept the comfort if he wanted it—which evidently, he did, and Harry relished in the simple touch, in being his strength, just for a moment.

“—guess they locked his speech, he can’t tell us anything about the Department at all. Only good news is they can’t get back in, with the place under a hefty Fidelius, but that also means they’re all just… out there.” Ron waved his hand vaguely. “Doesn’t feel right. I’d feel much better with them all behind bars, after what they did—what they’ve been doing, this whole time.”

“You and me both,” Draco muttered, shaking his head. “Merlin, I never thought they’d abandon it so easily.”

“I mean, they did try to poison us first,” Ron said matter-of-factly, and Draco’s head snapped up.

“What? How?”

“Something in the air vents,” Harry said. “Nearly knocked us all out.”

“Would’ve done, too, if Timsy had taken a minute longer doing Legilimency on Harry, and Harry hadn’t realized what was happening and thrown Bubble-Head Charms on all of us,” Ron said, with a mouthful of curry and rice. Draco didn’t even flinch at his lack of manners, too filled with shock, staring at Harry with wide eyes.

“...Timsy performed Legilimency…?”

Harry quirked his lips, looking up into Draco’s bewildered face and nodding. “That’s how we found you,” he said quietly. “Timsy used my wand to get traces of your magic from my head, and he followed it with his elf magic. He found me that way, broke into Ron’s with your mother and Pansy, but he said your magic was… ‘quiet, delicate,’ not ‘loud’ like mine, or something.”

“Thank Circe he did, Harry was about to tear down the whole of Great Britain,” Ron grumbled, taking another bite of naan. Rose was humming quietly to herself, making a little puppet with the bread, blissfully unaware. Draco simply stared at Harry in disbelief, and Harry didn’t know which part of this news was the most worrisome.

After a moment of tense silence, Ron shrugged and sighed.

“Just means we have our work cut out for us, Harry,” he said grimly, and Harry nodded, pulling his gaze away from Draco. Draco blinked and shook himself, leaning back subtly into Harry’s shoulder again.

“What about a taboo?” Hermione asked, frowning. Ron turned to her.

“On what? ‘Department of Mysteries?’ Seems pretty broad,” Ron replied, leaning back on his hands, and Hermione shook her head.

“No, something more specific, maybe, like the name of one of the chambers,” she clarified.

Ron chuckled. “It’s a brilliant idea, but I am not chasing after anyone who utters the words ‘Love Chamber’, I can promise you that.”

Hermione tsked at him, rolling her eyes.

“There might be something else only Unspeakables would say,” Draco chimed in, brows furrowed, deep in thought. Harry had only ever seen him use that expression facing either Harry or his chalkboard, and a small shiver of curiosity ran through him at all the other new ways he would see Draco, now, the innumerable things he could learn about him.

“I’ll let you know if I think of anything,” Draco said, with a tone of finality, and Ron flicked his wand under the coffee table, removing the spell from Rose’s ears.

The evening light dimmed as the sun set, until the only light came from the crackling fire and a few candles. Ron had his arm around Hermione on the sofa, and Draco was sat on the sofa opposite them, wearing his fuzzy slippers, his arm boldly around Harry’s shoulders. Rose had fallen asleep in Harry’s lap, wearing her very own pair of Oscar the Grouch slippers, courtesy of Draco.

Harry looked around as their after-dinner conversations petered out, his chest nearly glowing with warmth and contentment. He hoped Rose could feel it, curled up as she was, and that it was giving her happy dreams.

There was plenty of work left to do, plenty of danger left to confront, but Harry had never felt more hopeful about the future as he did in that moment. He couldn’t help thinking that this is what he hadn’t dared to hope for, when he decided to come back from Death: to be able to live in peace, to experience being loved, being known, without any of the fear and constant danger.

Ron and Hermione eventually took their sleeping charge and departed cordially through the floo, leaving Harry alone with Draco once more. They sat on the sofa in silence for a long time, Harry tracing the lines of Draco’s free hand, feeling his skin against his own, his body settled against Draco’s side. Neither of them wanted to end their evening, or make any move to change their current situation, even as the hour grew later and later.

“You busy Friday, round seven?” Harry asked quietly, nonchalantly, breaking their silence as delicately as he could. Draco turned his head towards him, which only succeeded in burying his nose in Harry’s lawless hair, but he could almost feel Draco’s smirk against the side of his head.

“I don’t believe so,” Draco replied. “Why, are you making plans?”

Harry scoffed, and turned his body, swiftly throwing his leg over Draco’s to straddle his lap, looking him square in the eye.

“I’m trying to,” Harry said. “You haven’t yet said yes, Draco.”

“I didn’t realize I needed to,” Draco murmured, with a wry grin.

“It’s a requirement,” Harry said matter-of-factly. “Know that if you say yes, you’re agreeing to spelling out the obvious for the densest Gryffindor you know, for as long as you can.”

Draco chuckled, gazing up at him through thick, blond lashes, his hands running slowly up Harry’s thighs to his waist. He took a while to respond, eyes darting all over Harry’s face, and even though he was smiling softly, even though his hands were communicating just how much he wanted Harry here, Harry began to worry that he might say no, after all. Maybe it was just bad timing, maybe Draco wanted to keep things casual, maybe he wanted to keep it a secret—

“Stop worrying, Harry,” Draco mumbled, his grin widening as Harry clearly snapped out of it. Harry had no idea how Draco knew him so well. “Yes, I’ll go on a bloody date with you, you complete idiot.”

Harry huffed a weak laugh at him. When, exactly, had Draco’s insults started feeling more like endearments?

“Prat,” Harry replied, shaking his head, but eagerly leaning down to kiss him anyway, threading his hands through soft, blond hair, unable to control his own happiness.

Harry climbed off when he heard that quiet sound from Draco’s throat, grinning from ear to ear at the sight of Draco’s apparent dismay.

“Friday,” Harry reminded him, walking backwards towards the floo. “Seven o’clock. I’ll pick you up.” He turned to get a pinch of floo powder from the little pot on the mantelpiece.

Strong hands found Harry’s waist immediately, turning him around until he was once more nose to nose with Draco Malfoy. Harry smiled again at the hunger in his grey eyes, which he knew was mirrored in his own.

Draco took Harry’s chin in one hand, tilting his face up for another kiss, so consuming that Harry nearly dropped the floo powder in his hand, but Draco ended it much too quickly.

“Goodnight, Harry,” he murmured, grudgingly releasing Harry’s face.

“Goodnight, Draco,” Harry replied hoarsely, savouring Draco’s closeness a moment more, before tossing the powder into the flames and stepping back into the grate.

He licked his lips briefly, and Draco’s eyes tracked the movement, to his delight. Draco made him feel so powerful. Draco made him feel incredible. He felt alive.

So he gave Draco a quick wink, thoroughly enjoying Draco’s sharp intake of breath and widening eyes, before calling out the floo destination.

“Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place!”

And he was sucked away from his sanctuary, the excited grin a near permanent fixture on his face.

******

Draco stared at the fire for a few minutes after Harry left, a turbulent mixture of emotions running through him.

Harry wanted him. Harry wanted him enough to take him out, to kiss him in his garden for hours. Harry wanted him more than he felt he needed to attend a Ministry War Memorial—Harry Potter chose him, after all these years, after everything.

Harry let Draco’s house elf perform Legilimency on him, with his own wand, in order to find Draco.

And even now, their dynamic was so familiar—Harry asked him on a date like a challenge, and Draco couldn’t let him have the last word before he left, though it felt like Harry had it, anyway, with that unexpected wink. Unbelievable.

He reached up and twirled a lock of his hair around his finger. Harry’s strong, calloused hands had run through it, so tenderly, only moments ago. He let his hand drop to his thighs—Harry had sat there, gazing intently at Draco, daring him to say yes.

Draco turned around and started walking towards his bedroom, removing his jumper as he went. He caught a glimpse of the scars on his chest in the firelight before entering the darkened hallway—the chest that Harry had pulled against him, that had pressed Harry’s body into the tree.

He reached his room, tossing his jumper into the laundry basket and undoing his belt. As his hands slipped the leather out of the loops, he caught sight of the hideous, disfigured Dark Mark on his arm—the part of him that ultimately separated him from Harry, that had made them more than just schoolboy rivals. Enemies, in a War.

A War that had ended on this day, eight years ago, during some of the worst moments of Draco’s life. The day Harry had died, and returned to save them all.

But Harry knew that, he had been there for all of it. Harry knew the worst of Draco, had only known the worst of Draco, and even eight years ago, had wanted to keep him alive, had wanted to protect him. Even then, Harry had wanted Draco to flourish on his own, like his garden, without his father around to cut him down regularly.

It’d still felt like standing on the edge of a cliff, having Harry Potter on his lap, throwing down a gauntlet, waiting for his yes. But maybe that was alright. Draco was terrified, but maybe he could jump anyway. It might not even be a fall, or a gruesome collision with rocky earth—he might fly, he might float. He might dive, and relish in the freedom and thrill of it. He wouldn’t know unless he tried, and even though it frightened him half to death, he knew he wouldn’t forgive himself if he didn’t.

He wondered if that was how Harry was so brave—being horribly afraid, and just doing it anyway.

He stepped out of his trousers and climbed into his luxurious bed, sighing deeply in contentment as he finally got a hand on himself, a shiver of pleasure and relief rolling through him. It still felt like he was getting away with something, thinking of Harry’s solid weight on top of him, his wicked smirk, his brilliant green eyes full of challenge.

Draco flicked his left hand lazily, wandlessly dousing the candle on his bedside table, throwing the room into darkness, and filling it with the faint scent of candlesmoke.

Chapter One: Harry

Harry had no idea that Wizards’ Chess would be so difficult when he couldn’t tell the pieces what to do. Ron’s pieces usually argued with him at every turn, anyway, and now they seemed to be arguing amongst themselves, since Harry couldn’t steer them back to the task, verbally. Needless to say, the game was slow.

But his holiday from work had technically been extended, anyway, into “medical leave.” It’s not like they were in a rush, stuck here in St. Mungo's.

So far, this curse was proving to be bothersome, but he was surprised at its painlessness. Harry’d been hit with hundreds of curses in his life, and none of them were nearly this easy. He couldn’t remember how he was cursed, but it felt like someone might have accidentally tripped and sneezed this harmless, benign curse on him. It didn’t feel like anything malevolent—this odd, irritating silence.

But it was bloody inconvenient.

He’d spent the whole week prior in Grimmauld Place, trying his best to renovate it, or at least clean it up and make it feel like a home. It was futile, which he should have expected. The house had fought him at every turn, as it always did. For every one thing he fixed, two more broke. He hadn’t had hot water for the last three days—some staycation that was.

And then he had to go and get cursed and Obliviated, the day before coming into work. Worst holiday ever.

Not that he had any others to compare it to.

Ron and Hermione had sighed and shaken their heads when he’d told them how he’d be spending his holiday. They both thought that Harry shouldn’t stay in Grimmauld—it was grim and musty, and full of Dark Magic and memories of grief and pain. But Sirius had left it to him; it was one of the few things he had left of his family. He just couldn’t bear to part with it. Not yet.

At least he’d been able to repair Sirius’ old motorbike. That, a stuffy old house, and a worn leather biker jacket were all that was left of his godfather.

The house was fucking miserable, though. So much so that Harry didn’t even mind having to spend a couple days in St. Mungo’s, even with the constant poking and prodding. At least they had hot water.

The Healers so far were baffled. They kept telling Harry there was nothing wrong with him, when there quite obviously was. The curse was painless, yes, but he really did need it fixed, ASAP. He couldn’t work without a voice, and though he could do quite a bit of nonverbal magic, he wasn’t able to use the full strength of it without incantations. Kingsley needed him for endorsements, too, and the anniversary of the Battle was coming up, Harry was always forced to go to the Ministry Memorial event and make a stupid speech. So the Healers had insisted that it was a job for the Specialist in Mind Curses and Afflictions, who worked privately, and whom Ron had set out to recruit that morning while Harry slept, apparently.

Harry flicked the knight on the chess board and pointed to the square he wanted him to move to. The horse huffed at him, severely offended.

Perhaps this curse seemed alright for now because he had Ron and Hermione with him the whole time. He wasn’t looking forward to Ron going back to work tomorrow. Harry didn’t speak much at all, when he was at Grimmauld by himself, unless he was humming along to music while he cooked or cleaned, or swearing colorfully at the broken pipes, or the stair he always stubbed his toe on, or Walburga’s hideous portrait. Not much to be missed there, but he would get terribly lonely. More than usual, anyway.

Teddy and Andromeda might enjoy a visit from him. Teddy could talk enough for three people, he wouldn’t mind Harry’s silence.

Harry’s musing and worrying was interrupted by the soft click of the door opening and Hermione’s gentle voice, which instantly made him suspicious.

“Harry? The Specialist has arrived,” she said hesitantly, and Harry’s jaw dropped at the sight of the man who followed her in. The man turned and flicked his wand several times at the door as he closed it behind them.

He should have known. He should have guessed. Of course, of course it’d be Draco sodding Malfoy. This curse had been too easy to begin with, something had to give. Cruel fate took the form of a tall, lean, beautiful blonde man, wearing an immaculately tailored, charcoal grey, muggle suit. Harry’s throat dried up, and his chest tightened, mixing with the swooping in his stomach and making him feel resentful. He snapped his jaw shut and ground his teeth, seething. He clenched his fists in the sheet of the hospital bed.

A Healer. Harry had known he’d become a Healer. But a Specialist? In mind curses? Typical Malfoy, had to go be bloody impressive, as well, couldn’t just be normal successful, like the rest of them—

“Did you just lock us in or something?” Ron asked suspiciously, hand still poised over the chess board.

Harry saw Malfoy’s eyes flash, and was reluctantly impressed with his professionalism—he could tell he’d really wanted to roll his eyes at that.

“Those were hospital standard privacy and soundproofing spells. You probably saw every Healer who came through here perform them on the door. I wouldn’t trust anyone who didn’t,” Malfoy explained, his face smooth and indifferent as he slowly met Harry’s outraged eyes. “Especially with you, Potter.”

Harry was furious.

He didn’t know who he was more angry at, Malfoy, or Ron. Ron had obviously gone and recruited Malfoy behind his back, knowing he’d throw a fit, like he was doing now. But Malfoy was… was Malfoy. Irritating, bigoted, posh, pretty, arrogant Malfoy.

Harry hadn’t seen him since his trial, nearly eight years ago, and the confident man in front of him now was a far cry from the broken teenage boy chained to the chair in Courtroom Ten. Harry remembered thinking that Draco Malfoy should never, ever look like he did in that chair—pale, gaunt, and dirty, shivering from cold and hunger, wearing only prisoners’ robes and filthy socks. Defeated.

The beautiful man in the sharp muggle suit, sliding a pale wand back into the chest pocket of his jacket, certainly did not look defeated. He looked expensive. He looked confident, he looked elegant. He looked like how Harry thought Draco Malfoy should look, and the effect on the twenty-five-year-old man Malfoy was now was infuriatingly attractive. Harry felt indignation building in his gut as clever grey eyes perused him. He could feel Ron and Hermione’s nervous gazes on him, but he continued glaring daggers at Malfoy, who slowly walked further into the room towards the bed, eyeing Ron warily.

“I’m guessing you didn’t tell him, and that’s why he’s looking at me like he could dismember me with sheer force of will?” Malfoy surmised, raising an eyebrow. Harry turned to Ron, who looked apologetic, which only pissed Harry off more. Ron raised his hands in front of him, supplicating.

“I’m sorry, mate. It’s true, he is the best at what he does. All the Healers on this floor recommended him. He’s in high demand, and we’re lucky he’s got the time to take on this case at all.”

Fuck, Harry thought, his face falling as he turned his gaze back to Malfoy, assessing him. Highly recommended. Best at what he does. In very high demand. Harry remembered the Healers saying there was only one Mind Curse Specialist in all of England, and that he was exceptionally good at it, if a little young. He wondered if the Healers had purposefully left Malfoy’s name out of those descriptions. Maybe they only did for Harry—Ron had certainly gotten it out of them, the git.

But it’s Malfoy. Harry turned to Hermione, practically begging, thrusting a hand out in Malfoy’s direction. Hermione only pursed her lips at him.

“Ron’s right, Harry, and so are the other Healers. I’ve been researching all of his public cases and published works, and he really is our best option,” she explained, and Harry closed his eyes. Of course she did. Without telling me.

“You’ve read my articles?” Malfoy turned to her, and Harry opened his eyes to see Malfoy’s face stunned, a tiny spark of hope in his eyes, that only increased as Hermione brightened with that signature look she got after doing research.

“Yes, of course! I was particularly intrigued by your work on the Unstoppable Nightmare Curse, how you were able to guide the patient through the nightmares to find the personalized counter curse pieces in each one, utterly fascinating, and the False Tongue Curse, with that witch who could only speak to people in languages they didn’t understand, were you really able to—”

“Okay, point is, Healer Malfoy is our best bet,” Ron interrupted, “since there’s nothing wrong with you physically, the Healers agree this is a problem for the specialist in Mind Curses and Afflictions, and he’s agreed to help regardless of your history, and Harry, you’re just going to have to trust us on this.”

Harry sagged heavily on the bed. They really were going to make him go through with this. It was either get dissected by Malfoy, or go find some other Mind Curse specialist on the Continent. Maybe it would be over quickly.

“And me,” Malfoy tacked on to the end of Ron’s sentence. “You’re going to have to trust me. The Legilimency will be an utter nightmare without a basic semblance of trust.”

What the fuck?!

Harry snapped his head around, glaring at Ron and Hermione with wide eyes that he hoped conveyed the betrayal he felt. They were really letting him into Harry’s head? After everything?!

Of course, Mind Curse Specialist. Of course that involved bloody Legilimency. Fucking hell. This would be torture.

Ron put his hands up in that appeasing gesture again. “Mate, it’s not like that. He won’t be assaulting your mind and asking you to defend it with no real instruction. He’s a Healer, he’s a professional. People wouldn’t be raving about his work if it was torture, alright?”

Malfoy furrowed his brows. “Is that what Severus did? That’s practically barbaric,” he muttered.

That was enough to make Harry pause. He had never heard Malfoy say anything negative about Snape—he’d never thought Malfoy would admit Snape was a fucking arsehole to Harry, even if he did protect and help him.

Harry inhaled deeply, trying to calm himself, scrubbing a hand through his hair as he thought. His hand came down and rubbed over his jaw—his stubble was bloody relentless, he had shaved that morning and still, it grew back defiantly, just like the hair on his head.

He finally closed his eyes and huffed as he nodded his assent to the room. He heard them let out a collective breath of relief.

Malfoy moved forward, grabbing the chart from the end of Harry’s bed and situating himself in the chair next to it, crossing one long leg gracefully over the other. He reached into his suit jacket again and pulled out, to Harry’s great surprise, a pair of tortoiseshell reading glasses, sliding them delicately onto his sharp face.

Harry stared at him in shock for several moments until Malfoy apparently felt it, and glanced up at them. This time, Malfoy could not suppress his eye roll as he clicked his tongue, clearly annoyed. “What now?”

Harry’s lips quirked with amusement. That was much more familiar than the smooth, indifferent, professional Malfoy. He slowly raised his hand to point at the wire-framed glasses on his own face, that Malfoy had taunted him about for years.

Malfoy furrowed his brows. “Reading glasses, yes, what about them?” He took them off his face, inspecting them for smudges or damage.

“I think, erm… well, it’s just that…” Ron began, his lips twitching as well as Harry turned to grin at him, watching him suppress a giggle. “You used to tease Harry relentlessly about his glasses…”

Malfoy huffed. “Yes, yes, I was a prick, karma’s a bitch, and now I have to wear reading glasses at age twenty-five. Anything else we need to get out of the way before I can start working?” He asked, exasperated.

Harry suddenly found himself giggling, silently, along with Ron and Hermione. Draco Malfoy had just made them laugh, voluntarily. Harry thought he saw a glimpse of a satisfied smile on Malfoy’s face as he slipped his glasses back on, before it was schooled back into that aristocratic smoothness.

Harry returned to the chess game with Ron, occasionally darting glances over at the intriguing new Malfoy, who was reading through Harry’s file with a frown of concentration. A lock of his sleek, white-blond hair kept falling into his face, and Harry’s eyes were drawn to it, every time.

“Alright, Potter,” Malfoy said, drawing their attention. “I’ll give you an overview of how this is going to work.”

Ron levitated the half-completed game aside, sitting forward in his chair. Hermione continued standing, arms crossed over her chest, her face expectant and a little excited. Malfoy glanced at them, briefly, before returning his gaze to Harry. Harry thought he saw a flicker of unease in his eyes, but that could have been anything.

“As a Healer, I have to make sure you consent to Weasley and Granger hearing this as well.”

That was odd. Didn’t Malfoy infer, what with Ron himself recruiting him, that they already had that sort of consent? Harry furrowed his brows and nodded, sitting up fully and crossing his legs under him, giving Malfoy his full attention. Malfoy blinked at him a few times before speaking, looking him carefully in the eye.

“Very well. As I’m sure you’re aware, you’re in perfect health, physically. Your larynx is intact, nothing is inflamed, there’s no curse residue, there’s not even a hint of Dark Magic on you, your magical core looks fine. This means that whatever’s wrong with you is entirely in your mind, which is why Weasley was about to kick down my door at five thirty in the morning. Just because it’s happening inside your head, doesn’t mean it’s not real.”

Harry jerked back. What the hell?! Didn’t Ron just say this wouldn’t be an assault on his mind? He turned to Ron, remembered he couldn’t bloody speak, and reached over to grab the blank parchment and quill a Healer had left there for him, quickly writing out his anger and shoving the parchment in Malfoy’s face.

GET OUT OF MY HEAD

Harry watched Malfoy’s expression, careful not to make eye contact again, the slippery git. But Malfoy only frowned in confusion, his eyes searching Harry’s face.

“Potter, I’m not in your head. Yet. I assure you I’m much more professional than that. Our sessions will be strictly regimented, and I never go in without the patient’s consent. I’ve already told you there has to be a semblance of trust between us, or else it will feel like a brawl the whole time. What would I have to gain by breaking that trust now, before we’ve even started?”

Harry dropped the parchment, feeling defensive. If Malfoy wasn’t seeing his memories, then why did he say that?

“If I may continue?” Malfoy asked warily. Harry nodded, his gaze turned cautiously away from him.

“Anyway. It’s in your head, probably hidden somewhere in your mind or your memories, which is where I come in. The numbers here show a small potential that you’ve been Obliviated, but certainly nothing major or dangerous to recover. As you know, I use Legilimency, to find curses or diseases that may be hidden in someone’s mind, or to guide someone through countering a mind curse on their own, or in the most dire circumstances, helping someone learn to cope with afflictions or curses of the mind that do not yet have a cure.”

That actually sounded pretty interesting. No wonder Malfoy had picked that as a career. It sounded like solving puzzles and mysteries all the time, but with Legilimency, which Harry would much rather do without… Malfoy really did it all on his own? Had Harry ever solved a mystery all on his own?

“This looks to me like it might be a mind curse,” Malfoy continued, “but we won’t know for sure until we get in there. I’ve certainly never seen anything like it—most silence curses simply remove one’s voicebox, physically. But curses inside the mind tend to leave clues, or marks, like… like breadcrumbs.'' He furrowed his brows, probably realizing how weird that sounded coming from his pureblood mouth. Harry understood, but was surprised by the reference.

Malfoy was looking at Ron, who was staring in confusion at Hermione—a common occurrence. Hermione clearly felt his gaze, but continued watching Malfoy as she explained the word choice.

“Reference to a muggle fairy tale. Two kids are abandoned in the woods, and drop a trail of breadcrumbs behind them so they can find their way back. It sounds like the best way to describe what he’s saying, I can’t think of anything similar magically.”

Ron’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, probably having the same reaction Harry was to Malfoy referencing anything muggle. Then his brows shot down again.

“How come I’ve never heard of it? Rose loves fairy tales. We must have read every single one,” Ron said, and Harry turned to Hermione, trying to conceal his amusement. Yeah, why don’t we tell Rose that one, ‘Mione?

Hermione hesitated uncomfortably before answering. “It’s not a very nice story. They sort of fall prey to a cannibalistic old witch with a house made of sweets, who fattens them up like pigs for slaughter. They end up murdering her with her own oven, and barely escaping with their lives.” She shuddered. “Gave me nightmares as a child. Not a good bedtime story.” She thought for a moment. “Also a terrible portrayal of magical people, but not entirely atypical for the muggle world, especially at the time it was written, in the middle ages.”

Ron’s jaw dropped as he stared in shock at his wife. Muggle fairy tales were indeed much different from Wizarding ones. Harry wanted to introduce him to Little Red Riding Hood.

“Agreed, Granger, not a fun story. But the breadcrumbs are the best analogy here. Sometimes, I have to find all of the breadcrumbs and connect the dots, which together make a countercurse,” Malfoy explained, pulling Harry back to the present. “Sometimes the patient has been thrown into their unconscious mind, and has to be guided along a trail to find their way back.”

Harry hoped that Hermione was taking her copious mental notes, because things were starting to not make sense. Why did Draco look so apprehensive at that last sentence? Weren’t unconscious minds just sleepy and boring? Harry’d been unconscious plenty of times, it’d never been very exciting.

“So, I’ll be seeing you twice weekly for the next six weeks—Mondays and Thursdays, and full eight hour appointments. It’s not Legilimency the entire time—” Malfoy added, seeing Harry’s wide eyes, “—it’s a session in the morning, followed by rest and mapping out the progress, then another session in the afternoon. It’s irresponsible to do anything more frequent than that.”

Six fucking weeks?!

Harry turned back to Ron and Hermione, whose eyes were widening at Malfoy’s words. Apparently they were all thinking the same thing.

“Six weeks?” Ron asked, conveying all of their displeasure.

Malfoy shot him an unimpressed look. “Yes, six weeks, and that’s on the shorter end of the timeline. The mind is absolutely gargantuan, and we have to pay attention to every detail. If we’re keeping the analogy, we’re literally scouring the forest floor for breadcrumbs. You can’t rush through it, as missing a crumb or taking a wrong turn could set us back even farther. Plus, we have to recover any lost memories first.”

Harry berated himself for ever thinking this curse was easy. He was really going to have to endure Malfoy’s Legilimency for six bloody weeks.

“If you’re amenable, Potter, we can start with memory recovery right now. I’d have to look at the general structure of your mind to find any holes, and from there it’s a simple matter of tugging the memory back from your unconscious. You don’t feel like you’re missing anything substantial, correct? You don’t feel disconcerted, disorientated, or confused?” Malfoy asked.

Harry shook his head slowly, slightly overwhelmed. He was actually very disconcerted and confused, but not from his Obliviation.

“Then it shouldn’t take very long at all, and you’ll be out of here in time for supper.” Malfoy slowly raised his hand towards his chest, but didn’t grab his wand yet. Harry’s muscles were already tensing with fight-or-flight. He was really going to sit there and take it while Draco Malfoy aimed a wand at him. What was wrong with him?

“If I may?”

Harry steeled himself, taking a deep breath. He knew what was wrong with him: he was an unlucky, cursed bastard. He opened his eyes to meet his former enemy’s gaze head on.

Malfoy slowly lifted his wand from his pocket, holding it in a loose, easy grip as he aimed at Harry’s head. Harry tried not to flinch, unsuccessfully. He had never been this close to Malfoy without them hurting each other—what else could he expect?

“Relax,” Malfoy said, and Harry was surprised to hear such a low, soothing tone. “I won’t hurt you.”

Harry’s eyes snapped to his, fiercely glaring. Maybe Malfoy could pull that shit with his other patients, but he’d hurt Harry plenty before. It was all they knew how to do around each other.

Malfoy must have seen this in Harry’s expression, because he sighed deeply, slowly lowering his wand to his lap. His face softened as he held Harry’s gaze.

“Harry,” Malfoy murmured, shocking him. Had he ever said Harry’s name like that before? “I know you have no reason to trust me. But I won’t ply you with empty words, I won’t grovel at your feet. The only way you’ll know I’m not the same boy I was is if you see it for yourself, but I won’t waste my time if you won’t bother giving me a chance.”

Harry hid his shock behind his glare. Malfoy had a point. Harry would call bullshit if he started apologizing for anything, there was nothing Malfoy could say right now that would make Harry trust him at all. Harry needed to see it for himself, he needed to experience this new Malfoy, but he wouldn’t get the opportunity if he didn’t let himself have it.

And that was terrifying. Trusting Draco Malfoy was terrifying. But Harry had been so curious about him all these years, had made sure the Minister was there to back him up. He’d wanted to see what Malfoy could do, uninhibited by his father or Voldemort or the Ministry. He’d wanted him to be successful, now that he was free to create his own life, and this was Harry’s chance to see who Malfoy had become, the man he’d grown into.

Unfortunately, that required letting Malfoy into Harry’s fucking mind.

But he’d done scarier things. Right? He was a bloody Gryffindor, for Merlin’s sake. It was just a little mind invasion. It couldn’t possibly be worse than Snape’s or Voldemort’s.

Malfoy looked slightly nervous, but he still held himself with confidence. Harry knew he didn’t need to take Harry’s case—the Healers had been quite adamant that “the Specialist'' was usually booked for months out. Harry was curious as to why he’d agreed to do this at all, but maybe he’d find that out, eventually. They were going to be working together very closely, for six weeks, after all.

Harry turned to look at Ron and Hermione, in warning. He’d be blaming them entirely if this all went tits up. They were impervious to his glare, staring at Malfoy with identical stunned expressions.

Reluctantly, Harry uncrossed his legs and turned his whole body to face his new Healer, dangling his legs off the side of the bed. He gripped the edges of the bed in his hands and took a few deep breaths, trying to calm his tensed muscles, before finally meeting Malfoy’s eyes again.

Malfoy released a breath he’d apparently been holding, and Harry thought he saw something like gratitude in his eyes as he raised his wand once more.

“Liceat mihi ingressum.”

Harry felt something soft and quiet enter his head, not like any invasion he’d felt before. This felt like someone had just stepped inside and was standing in the foyer, taking a look around. Not fully inside his head, but definitely not outside, either. Harry’s mind and memories were still under his own control. He thought he smelled something a little smoky, but not like the scent of a fire—like the smoke of a candle, blown out just before crawling into bed. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad.

Then he felt a sharp, mental tug and gasped as he was thrust into a memory. He felt a brief twinge of panic that wasn’t his own, and understood that this was definitely not supposed to be happening, but that they were here now, and they’d have to see this through to figure out what was happening.

Unfortunately, whatever was happening was happening at Harry’s favorite pub. Damn it.

He was sitting at the end of the bar, his usual seat, closest to the wall. A number of empty glasses sat in front of him, and he was slowly, hazily remembering this night, now that Malfoy had found this Obliviated memory. He didn’t realize he’d drank so much. He never had more than two or three drinks a night, there.

But where was John? Where were the other patrons? Harry had never seen the place so empty.

It was then that he realized he wasn’t alone. Someone was with him, talking at him with a morphing, shifting voice, their features completely indecipherable. Harry felt sluggish, and disjointed, way too drunk. He’d never been this drunk in his life. Why did he have all those drinks? And why was he reliving this memory, feeling everything again, instead of just watching it, like a normal memory?

“Are you tired of being Him all the time?”

“Mmm.” Memory-Harry hummed, eyes half closed. Why wasn’t he cursing the shit out of this creep right now? What was he doing?

“Harry Potter, the Chosen One, the Boy Who Lived.” The person’s tone was part disdainful, part coddling. Harry hated it. “The hero.”

“‘M not,” Memory-Harry slurred, shaking his head slowly, regretting it as he squeezed his eyes shut against a wave of nausea. Harry felt himself sweat outside of his head, in his own, present-day body. Of all the things to relive.

“No one truly knows who Harry Potter is, do they?” The person asked, probably rhetorically, and where was everybody? Had this person really cleared the place out in order to get Harry alone? And now that they had him alone, why were they bothering with this stupid monologue?

“They see who they want to see, the icon whom they want to idolize, the pedestal on which to place their burdens and their blame. Their hero, responsible for saving them, again and again.”

Harry really didn’t like this, he didn’t like this at all. Yes, the Wizarding World worshipped him for bloody surviving and it made him very uncomfortable, but he did what he had to do. There wasn’t much he could do about it. He didn’t understand why this arsehole gave a shit.

“Not for much longer, Mr. Potter. I have seen it, and you will be known.” Fuck, that was definitely a wand coming closer. He felt the instinct to move, to react, but his body wasn’t his own. His muscles felt like they were made of heavy sand, slipping through his fingers, out of his control. It didn’t stop the adrenaline rush.

“But in order to be known as the man,” the figure continued, “You will have to stop being their hero.”

“Can’t,” Memory-Harry muttered. His breathing had sped up. “Have to.” Harry was baffled as to why he was still chatting with this git and not shutting them up.

“You do not want to be known, as yourself?” The figure asked, probably another rhetorical question, as out of it as Harry was. No, he wasn’t in a bloody hurry to get to know anybody. Honestly, the only person who’d come close was Ginny, and he just couldn’t be with her. He couldn’t imagine meeting somebody, now, and having to explain his life story to them. What a nightmare. “Irrelevant. You will be known, whether you are ready for it or not. And until then…”

“Hide your Voice.” The figure spoke with conviction, and Harry felt a breeze pass through his head. Wait, was that an incantation? Did he just tell Harry what to do, and he just did it?!

“Speak only for yourself.”

The breeze ended, and Harry swayed in his own body. He could hear Malfoy’s laboured breathing, and assumed he was enduring the same thing. He felt a disconnect now, something had changed. Memory-Harry’s mouth opened to say something, but no noise came forth. Harry’s panic was rising. The figure continued to gaze at Harry with their ever-changing features, and Harry wanted to just hit them or something, or at least figure out who the hell they were, but the charm work on them was insane. They were completely imperceptible.

“I am sorry to leave you like this, Mr. Potter,” they said, in a tone that told Harry they were not sorry at all, “and I am sorry to make you misplace this memory, as well. But do not worry,” the anticipation in their voice only worsened Harry’s panic. “He will find it.”

Their wand raised again, and Harry felt both himself and Malfoy thrown back into reality. He heard Malfoy’s gasp, and his vision returned to see him flexing his fingers, examining them, touching his hair, touching his legs. As if it was simply something he had to do, making sure he was all there. He pulled a silk handkerchief from his pocket and quickly wiped his forehead with it, then absently handed it to Harry, who took it without thinking. Harry clutched it in his fist, unable to comprehend anything through the building panic and shock.

Malfoy pulled a small notebook and a muggle biro from his jacket pocket, and Harry was slightly impressed with the extension charms it obviously held. But his brain was whirring with anxiety, he couldn’t stop on a thought for longer than a second. His heart was racing wildly, and his breathing was shallow and quick.

Someone had gotten him drunk as shit, and then simply ordered him to silence himself, and he bloody did. He’d done this to himself. He felt cold with dread and revulsion.

At some point, he realized that Malfoy was watching him. Nice eyes. He hadn’t known that such a frosty grey could look so warm. It was nicer to think about than his current situation.