Extraordinary Labor

by Miershooptier

Summary:

It’s so clear, you see, that if we’re to begin living in the present, we must first redeem our past and then be done with it forever. And the only way we can redeem our past is by suffering and by giving ourselves over to extraordinary labor, to steadfast and endless labor.

Anton Chekhov, The Cherry Orchard

Set long after the Battle of Hogwarts.

Draco Malfoy is abruptly and unwillingly called home after spending the last twenty years living and studying abroad. It seems that there are things at Malfoy Manor which need to be put to rest, and the Ministry of Magic has determined that as the sole remaining Malfoy by blood, Draco is the only one who can do it.

But curse breaking is not Draco’s area of expertise, and so the Ministry has found someone willing to help.

 

Completed!

 

I don’t own any characters you recognize, I just like to push their faces together and make kissy noises. Not making any money from this, etc., etc.

 

Please do not repost. I do not consent to this work being used to train generative AI platforms in any way.

Chapter 1

In Draco’s defense, he was exhausted when the large spectacled owl landed on the railing of the main deck of the Esperanza.  If he’d had more than a few hours of sleep in the last two days, he would have taken his usual precautions before opening the letter that was attached to the owl’s leg.  Even now, twenty years after the Battle of Hogwarts and everything that came after – the trials, the forfeiture of the Malfoy fortune, estate, and any future Draco might have hoped for at the time – it was not uncommon for him to receive owls from either the grieving family members of those lost or ‘former’ Death Eaters and their associates who had managed to escape Azkaban, and neither was the sort of post that was healthy to open unawares.

As it was, he saw his mother’s name on the thick parchment envelope, written in her hand and with that particular glimmer of deep purple ink that she favored when writing to him.  So, Draco opened it without even casting a single Revelio or Aparecium, the more fool him.

“The captain has some treats for you,” Draco murmured distractedly, fumbling with the wax seal as the brown owl blinked its large eyes under forbidding brows.  He hardly noticed it take off toward the stern, where he knew Séneca would be waiting to spoil it.  Séneca loved owls.  All kinds of birds, really, which was one of the reasons why they had just spent so much time in the Arrecife Alacranes.

There was something small and heavy in the bottom of the envelope, and it tumbled out as Draco removed the letter from his mother.  Silver glinted in the early morning sunlight, and Draco reached out and caught the object without thinking.

A sharp tug around his navel, familiar and entirely unwelcome, the world twisting around him, the startled cries of “Señor!” from the Esperanza’s crew, and blinding pain in his head as he was yanked through space by the Portkey – these were all Draco knew before his feet slammed into a hard surface with so much force he stumbled to his knees.  He managed to catch himself with his hands, palms scraping against the floor, but did not succeed in preventing the contents of his stomach from making a sudden and violent appearance.  Not that there was much to come up, since he’d eaten only slightly more often than he’d slept, recently.

The pain in his head worsened, throbbing over one eye, and Draco allowed himself to tip over onto his side, feeling darkness creep around the edges of his limited vision.  At least he’d been wearing his satchel when he’d touched that thrice-damned Portkey, he thought wearily before succumbing to unconsciousness.

~ * ~

“Wake up, Malfoy.”

The voice was only faintly familiar, masculine, and definitely not one that Draco had heard recently. 

The touch of cool, soft hands on his face was much more recognizable, one that he’d known since birth, as was the delicate scent of lilacs. 

“Draco, darling.”

The sound of his mother’s voice was both a comfort and a warning.  If Narcissa Malfoy used the word ‘darling’ in company, then that meant that said company was not in a friendly state of mind.  Draco gathered himself before opening his eyes, wincing slightly at the brightness of the room but carefully and methodically donning the haughty, detached expression his mother had required him to master in his youth before allowing him to participate in society events.  He blinked to clear his vision, such as it was, and noted a figure with red hair (fuck), several figures in scarlet robes (double fuck), and none other than the Minister of Magic (triple fuck) sitting behind a large, ornately carved desk.

This was the Minister’s office.

This was the Ministry of Magic.

Draco took it all in, hid the anxious bob of his throat as he swallowed, and turned his head toward the only person in the room he was confident was mostly on his side.  “Mother.”

Narcissa Malfoy gazed serenely at him, her hair gone almost completely white these days.  He’d beaten her to it, of course, but since his hair had already been so pale it was no more than a subtle difference from his more youthful coloring.

“Draco, I see you received my letter,” Narcissa said, her tone as pleasant as if they were taking tea together on the balcony of her small house in Nice.

“I did,” Draco confirmed. “Although I regret that I did not have time to read it before I was illegally Portkeyed to England without my consent.”  Narcissa did not wince – she would never be so open in public.  But the slight tightening around her blue eyes was all the apology she was going to make, he knew.

“As the Head of the Department of Magical Transportation, I have discretion on how and when Portkeys are used.”  The ginger-haired man with the peaky freckled face could only be a Weasley, and Draco sifted through his knowledge of the current government and came up with a name.  Percy, as far as he knew, was the only Weasley currently working directly for the Ministry, after Arthur had retired several years ago.

“Departmental discretion does not trump international statute,” Draco drawled, easing himself up into a sitting position on the settee, which protested with a creak.  A quick glance down at his clothes confirmed that either he’d managed not to be sick all over himself, or someone had done him the courtesy of cleaning him up before dumping him in the Minister’s office.  “I could have been right in the middle of a herd of Muggles when I touched that Portkey.”

Percy scoffed, crossing his arms in front of his chest.  “You?  I think not.”

“And furthermore,” Draco continued.  “Doesn’t the statute require that international Portkey travel be coordinated between the respective countries?  Did you even contact the Cámara de Gobierno Mágico beforehand?”

“That particular part of the statute is only applicable when the Portkey is on dry land,” Percy said smugly.  “And since when did you concern yourself with the rule of law?”

Draco sighed internally, though his expression did not change.  He didn’t like the implication that the Ministry was so aware of his whereabouts as to deliberately contact him while he was on Séneca’s ship.  “Why am I here?” he asked, attempting to cut straight to the heart of the matter.

Kingsley Shacklebolt, who had been observing the exchange with sharp, intelligent brown eyes, cleared his throat before speaking.  “Mr. Malfoy, your presence is required here in England because there are…problems with Malfoy Manor.”

Of all the things that Draco might have expected to hear the Minister of Magic say to him, this was near the bottom of the list, and he couldn’t help but laugh derisively.  He heard his mother give a quiet, chiding tsk at his display.  “I believe that the Ministry has been quite clear that Malfoy Manor is entirely the problem of the government, Minister.”

Shacklebolt shifted in his chair.  “It is indeed.  However, I have been informed that the Manor and surrounding estate is…interfering with our attempts to clear it of Dark magic.”

Draco stared at him, feeling his heart start to pound with remembered fear.  “Again, I fail to see how this is my problem now.  And it’s been twenty years.  Are you telling me that you’ve waited until just now to clear the Manor?”

One of the men in scarlet robes, with a grizzled face and graying hair, scowled at him.  “When the Ministry first took possession of Malfoy Manor after the war, the DMLE did attempt to clear it – or at the very least, to confirm that no Death Eaters remained in hiding there.  We lost two Aurors in the attempt, and it was de-prioritized due to the danger.”

“So why now?” Draco demanded.  “Why not leave it to rot?” 

Beside him, Narcissa gasped quietly, nothing more than a small, sharp intake of breath.  Likely she was shocked at his cavalier attitude toward his ancestral home.  Draco didn’t care.  He’d never admitted to her his feeling of immense relief when the Ministry had informed them that the Manor was included in the long list of things that were no longer theirs.  He’d never gone back after the Battle of Hogwarts, and when he left England, he’d vowed to himself he never would.

“That’s none of your concern,” Percy snapped.  “All you need to know is that you’re the one who needs to fix it.”

“Percy,” Shacklebolt said, his tone slightly remonstrative.  “That is not all that he needs to know.  I would prefer that this meeting be constructive in moving substantively toward our shared goal.”  The implication that Percy’s attitude was not helping was left unsaid.

While normally Draco would be gloating internally at Percy being taken down half a peg, it was all he could do to maintain his composure.  The only outward sign of his distress was the whitening of his knuckles as he clenched his fists, and he knew that his mother had noticed.  She laid one of her hands on his, a silent command to master himself.

He couldn’t quite manage it.  “What do you mean, I’m the one who needs to fix it?  Fix what?”

“It might be best to call Granger in,” one of the other Aurors suggested mildly, her tone respectful but firm.  “I know that she stated a preference not to be involved in this meeting if possible, but for the sake of expediency…”

Shacklebolt nodded, flicking his wand and sending a silvery wild cat – a lynx Patronus, if Draco guessed correctly – bounding through the closed door of his office.

If his mother hadn’t been present, Draco would have discarded everything she’d taught him and groaned aloud.  Granger.  Fucking wonderful.  The warm waters of the Gulf of Mexico seemed as far away now as the moon, and Draco felt a pang of regret for not being able to give Séneca any notice of his unwilling departure.  He was a good man.  He’d worry until Draco could get word to him.

Draco focused on taking deep, even breaths while they waited for Hermione fucking Granger to grace them all with her presence.  He ignored the hostile glare that Percy Weasley was aiming in his direction.  He expected nothing less and a great deal more, to be honest, after all of the bad blood between his family and the Weasleys, not the least of which was the death of one of the twins during the war.  Though Draco was fairly certain that neither of his parents were directly responsible for that.

It wasn’t long before there was a brief knock at the door and Granger came striding in, her black robes marking her as an Unspeakable – a researcher for the Department of Mysteries.  Draco had known this, of course.  He’d read all of the papers she’d published, both before and after becoming an Unspeakable, though naturally there wasn’t much she was allowed to say publicly about her work there.  Her open black robe was her only nod to wizarding formality in the workplace, as she wore Muggle business attire underneath.  This was a trend among younger Ministry officials, he understood from the disapproving descriptions of such in his mother’s letters.  As he was currently wearing much more shabby Muggle clothing himself, Draco could hardly comment on it.

He studied Granger instead.  She wore the past twenty years well, though her dark hair was as untamable as ever.  There were faint lines around her eyes and mouth, evidence of more frequent smiles than frowns, though she was stony faced at the moment.  Draco felt unexpectedly glad at the thought that she seemed to be happy more often than not.  She was a brilliant scholar, always had been, and she contributed an almost impossible amount to current academic discourse.  He felt that she deserved a bit of happiness if she was going to work so hard, which was certainly a change from the bitter resentment he’d felt during their time at school.  Of course, he’d gotten to know her better through her papers and other academic correspondence.

Granger barely spared him a glance as she unceremoniously dropped a pile of parchment on Shacklebolt’s desk, taking some time to arrange the papers in some new sort of order, working up to whatever it was she was here to say.  Or perhaps it was to allow herself time to acclimate to Draco’s presence.  The last time they’d seen each other had been the year during which the trials had taken place.

Finally she turned, abandoning the documents on the desk.  Her gaze was unimpressed as it swept up and down, no doubt taking in the state of Draco’s field work clothes, the dark circles under his eyes, and the utter disaster that was his hair – impossible to maintain in a decent style in a viento del Norte reaching twelve knots, even with magic.

“Malfoy.”

“Granger,” he answered, mirroring her flat tone.

Granger let out a breath.  “Are you in need of a Healer?”

Draco was taken aback, caught off guard at this unexpected question.  “Pardon?”

“A Healer, Malfoy.  Do you need one?  I was told you fainted after arriving by Portkey.”

“I did not faint,” Draco said, bristling.  “I merely temporarily lost consciousness.”

Granger’s narrow-eyed look spoke volumes.

“That is rather the definition of fainting, my dear,” Narcissa murmured, and the fact that she spoke at all let Draco know how concerned she must have been.  “Perhaps a Healer –”

“I’m fine,” he snapped, then immediately modulated his tone.  “Thank you for your solicitude, Granger.  But I would prefer to get on with whatever this is.  The sooner you explain it to me, the sooner I can reiterate that this is none of my concern and return to my work.”

“What work is that?”  Percy sneered.  “I wasn’t aware that ‘aimless drifter’ was now a legitimate profession.”

Draco said nothing.  He didn’t even look in Percy’s direction, merely kept his attention on Granger.  “Well?”

“Are you familiar with ley lines?”  Granger asked, briskly and to the point.

“Of course.”

“Were you aware that Malfoy Manor is a secondary node in one of the most critical ley lines on the island?”

Draco hesitated, racking his brain for any scrap of memory which might have involved his childhood home and its position within the network of ley lines in the United Kingdom.  “No.”

The corner of Granger’s mouth turned up in a slight smirk, and all at once Draco felt much more like his younger self in every single class he’d taken with the Gryffindors in his same year at school.  Only now, his anger at once again being shown up by a witch who’d come to Hogwarts with absolutely no magical upbringing or experience was tempered by an equally strong sense of shame at how poorly he’d handled it then.  He’d spent years trying to train himself to react differently, and here he was being tested yet again.

But still, it rankled.  Malfoy was his home and his name.  If anyone ought to know about it, it should be him.

“To ensure that we are all starting from a solid understanding of the problem, ley lines are the paths through which wild or natural magic flow, and they are essential not only for the survival of magical creatures and beings, but also the day-to-day use of magic by witches and wizards,” Granger lectured, sounding as though she’d be right at home at the front of a Hogwarts classroom.  “While it is true that most of our own magic comes from our internal magical cores, active spellcasting often borrows from wild magic or follows established wild pathways, depending on the skill, strength, and intent of the caster.  When the availability of this wild magic or its channels are disrupted in some way, this can have a devastating effect on local witches and wizards, not to mention the effect on the overall magical environment.”

Draco’s heart sank, the logical conclusion to Granger’s explanation becoming very clear.  “Malfoy Manor is causing this kind of disruption?”

“It is.”  Granger met his gaze and didn’t look away, her brown eyes very serious.  “Not only is it interfering with what we would consider to be the normal use of magic in Wiltshire, but it seems to be impacting the local Muggle communities as well.  Not that you’d give a damn about that.”

Biting back a protest at that not unearned assumption, Draco pressed on with his questions.  “What have you observed so far?”

“The Floo network in and around Wiltshire has become increasingly unreliable,” Percy butted in.  “Witches and wizards who are licensed to Apparate have been unable to accurately target locations within the county, sometimes ending up miles out of their way.”

“Muggles aren’t necessarily aware of them, but the natural magical cycles have been off,” Granger added.  “Weather and climate patterns have resulted in extreme heat and cold, and have affected crops and livestock.  People and animals have died.  Wifi coverage – an important way that Muggles communicate and do business,” she explained quickly, though Draco did basically understand that wifi was billions of invisible messages floating around through the air that Muggles could only see on their little electronic devices.  “That’s been incredibly spotty in Wiltshire as well.”

“And the Ministry had decided not to do anything about this until now?”  Draco’s tone was acid.

“It took some time to determine the source of the effects,” Granger said defensively.  “And while the effects seemed to be nearly unnoticeable at first, they have not only magnified in impact over time, but the rate of that magnification seems to have increased.  We strongly suspect that the untreated Dark magic at Malfoy Manor is no longer what we can consider to be ‘contained,’ but we’ve been unable to ascertain that or take mitigating steps because no one has been able to get beyond the gates – not even by Apparating.  And if this suspected containment breach continues, I believe we can expect to see further corruption of the magical environment – either transported through the ley lines or fundamentally altering the nature of the ley lines themselves.  I hope I don’t need to explain to you how catastrophic that would be.”

No, Granger absolutely did not need to explain that.  What needed explaining was why Draco was sitting in a room with some of the most powerful and influential wizards currently living who were apparently so incompetent that they had ignored this issue until it had become a disaster and was well on its way to becoming even worse.

You ignored it, too, whispered a small voice inside him.  You left.

To which Draco furiously and silently replied that the Manor was not even fucking his anymore, the Ministry had taken possession and that made it their responsibility.  And he was determined to make everyone here understand that as well.

“So this brings us back to my original question,” he said, striving to keep the tremor of anger he felt out of his voice.  “Why am I here?”

“Unspeakable Granger is of the opinion – as am I – that the effort to clear Malfoy Manor of the Dark magic currently festering within its walls will only be successful if it is undertaken by the lord of the manor,” Shacklebolt explained.

“Brilliant.  I suppose you’d better get started then,” Draco said firmly, his posture as rigid and unbending as he could possibly make it, as though he could stave off what he knew was coming through sheer deportment.  “The Manor, as I have already stated repeatedly, belongs to the Ministry now.”

“Malfoy Manor does not appear to share that assessment,” Shacklebolt said delicately, and there was something almost like pity in his expression when he looked at Draco.  “You are the last Malfoy by blood, and therefore the current lord of the manor by tradition.  Tradition which is so fundamentally ancient that it seems to supersede modern law, as far as the Manor is concerned.”

Draco closed his eyes, concentrating hard on his breathing, and he felt his mother’s grip on his hand tighten almost to the point of pain.  It took a moment before he trusted himself enough to speak again.

“No.”

Shacklebolt raised an eyebrow.  “No?”

“No,” Draco repeated.  “The Manor is no longer my home or my responsibility.  It hasn’t been for over twenty years.  And I am not – I don’t have any expertise in clearing Dark magic.”

“We are all well aware of the nature of your expertise in Dark magic,” Percy muttered, but Shacklebolt quelled him with a look before turning back to Draco.

“The Ministry is prepared to compensate you –”

“I don’t care,” Draco interrupted.  “I won’t do it.”

Shacklebolt pursed his lips, his brow furrowing in slight consternation, and then he gave a small shrug.  “If you insist.  Robards –”

“With pleasure, sir.”  Robards, the grizzled and scowling Auror, drew his wand.  Draco braced himself, reaching for his own, when the Auror shifted his attention to Narcissa.  “Incarcerous!”

“No!”  Draco shouted as thin cords wrapped themselves around his mother’s body, breaking her grip on his hand and binding her arms tightly to her sides. 

He reacted, surging to his feet and pointing his wand at Robards, casting a nonverbal Impedimenta and Protego simultaneously, sensing several spells bounce off his hastily erected shield charm.  He moved in front of his mother, darting his gaze around the room and frantically searching for the best way out.  Spells hammered against the Protego, and he pushed more power into it before aiming his wand behind him and sending a nonverbal Finite at the ropes binding his mother.

He felt a buzzing in his right ear, and he whirled to face the threat – but he was not quick enough to block the stunning spell from Granger that sent him flying.  He hit an empty armchair before crashing into the wall by the door, his vision going hazy and feeling as though he’d been hit by the Knight Bus.  Granger certainly still packed a wallop.  He felt someone remove the wand from his limp hand, though he couldn’t quite see who it was, and there was quite a lot of shouting – he’d rarely heard his mother raise her voice, and especially not in public.

At least his Finite had worked, he thought muzzily as he felt Narcissa’s hands on him again.  Someone – it sounded like it might have been Shacklebolt – muttered “Rennervate,” and he could breathe again, drawing in great lungfuls of air and fumbling to get himself upright.  His mother helped him, her strong grip under his arm enough for him to regain his feet.

“I would ask everyone to resume their seats.  Now.”  Shacklebolt’s tone brooked no arguments, and Draco sagged back down into the settee.  He abandoned all efforts to maintain a proper posture this time, though he could tell that his mother was more than making up for it.

“Mr. Malfoy, I regret that you have forced me to put this in plain terms, but the fact of the matter is that your mother has been corresponding with known former Death Eaters other than yourself, in opposition to the conditions of her acquittal.  And given her history, this is more than sufficient reason for us to arrest and hold her pending a more thorough investigation.”  Shacklebolt tapped the fingers of his wand hand on the desk in irritation.

When Draco snuck a glance at his mother, she avoided his gaze, keeping her face calm and utterly expressionless.

“Provided that nothing concerning comes of this investigation, however, we are content to allow her to remain under house arrest if you agree to take on – with pay – the task of addressing the Dark magic problem at Malfoy Manor.  I assure you that this contract would be more than generous, and of course there is the added benefit of sparing your remaining parent any time in Azkaban.”

Draco gave in and dropped his head to his hands, elbows braced against his knees, dragging his hands through his white hair.  This couldn’t be happening.  Why now?  He swore that he would never go back.  But his father had died in Azkaban.  And as much as Draco had hated him, he had loved him too, once.  There was no possibility that he would allow his mother to be sent to that godsforsaken island, even if it no longer utilized Dementors as wardens.

“You don’t know,” he whispered.  “You don’t know what’s in there.”

“Whatever it is, it needs to be taken care of,” Granger said, her tone oddly gentle.  “You see that, don’t you?  If the ley lines are compromised…”

“None of this changes the fact that I’m no curse breaker, or Auror, or whoever the fuck else would be best suited for the job,” Draco said bitterly.  “If I die trying to clear the Manor, then everything is still fucked anyway.”  He felt his mother’s hand on his shoulder, her nails digging into his skin.  The pain grounded him a little, and he knew that she wasn’t trying to hurt him, merely hide her distress at hearing him mention his own possible death.

Shacklebolt cleared his throat.  “No one said that you were required to attempt this entirely on your own.  And as it happens, I know of an experienced former Auror who is expected to return to London in the next day or two, who has recently successfully concluded an extended contract for curse breaking work on the Continent.”

Draco knew.  Of course.  Of course it would be him, who else could it possibly be?

“I think Harry’s actually sort of looking forward to the challenge, honestly,” Granger said, and Draco couldn’t help but laugh with absolutely no mirth whatsoever.

Chapter 2

Querido Elvio,

Estás en un buen lío, fresa.  Todavía estoy contento de saber estás bien, más o menos.  Ya extraño tu culo sarcástico.  Tienes una casa en mi barco en cualquier momento.

Besos,

Séneca

 

Draco snorted after reading Séneca’s brief missive, delivered via a saw-whet owl which nibbled at his knuckles and the tip of his quill while he penned a quick response. 

Pendejo,

Estaré en contacto cuando pueda. Tú y la tripulaci ón cuídense.

Gracias por todo.

-Elvio

 

The saw-whet wasn’t one he recognized, so it was likely that Séneca’s owl had transferred the letter at an owl post waystation.  Still, Draco took special care when attaching his reply to the bird’s leg, and directed it to the owlery for rest and food before it would start the journey back across the Atlantic.

Draco made sure that all of his belongings were stowed safely in his satchel before venturing out of the small room he’d been given for the night.  While he was less than thrilled about sleeping in one of the Aurors’ kip rooms, as they called them, he couldn’t deny that he’d needed it.  It was, irritatingly, the best and most sleep he’d had in at least a week and he felt vaguely guilty at the thought, as though it were some kind of betrayal.  The Esperanza was often a rowdy place, which accurately reflected the personality of her captain, and there had been far too much work to do in the Arrecife Alacranes to waste time taking more than the bare minimum of care for himself.

He was met in the hallway by the Auror woman from the meeting in Shacklebolt’s office yesterday.  She gave him an assessing glance, then nodded.  “You look better.  Come with me, we’ll get you something to eat before we leave for the Manor.”

Without even waiting for Draco’s response, the Auror took off down the hallway, and Draco muttered a curse as he hurried to keep up.  He hardly remembered his way around the Ministry now, except for the location of the Wizengamot.  That place was burned into his memory, but he hadn’t paid much attention when accompanying his father to meetings with various officials before the end of fifth year, and he was too recognizable to risk getting lost outside the company of someone who knew he was supposed to be here now.  That was just begging to be jinxed.

‘Something to eat’ was a phrase very generously applied to the depressingly pallid egg salad sandwiches from the Ministry canteen, especially after Draco’s recent travels in Central America.  Still, food was food, and he choked them down quickly, since it didn’t seem like his escort was in any mood to chat.  He hadn’t even caught her name yet, though he’d be damned if he would ask before she offered it.  She was the rude one in this situation.

Draco dodged a flock of memos that were flapping their way through the hallway, feeling his irritation mount at being made to follow the Auror like an errant schoolboy being led to detention.  She reinforced the feeling by saying, “Keep up, Malfoy,” over her shoulder.

He resisted the urge to send a Jelly-Legs hex in her direction.  That would be a quick way to lose his wand again.  He knew he’d been fortunate that Shacklebolt had directed Robards to give it back after the unpleasantness in the office.  

The Auror finally stopped in front of a door, the perfectly-shined brass name plate of which declaring it be the office of Percy Ignatius Weasley, Head of the Department of Magical Transportation.  Percy’s “Come in, Woodlocke,” issued forth before she even had the opportunity to knock.

Hermione Granger was already in the office, and Draco couldn’t help but note the tension in her expression as she looked at Percy.  It seemed very much like Percy had invited them into his office in the middle of a discussion, and that Granger had plenty more that she wanted to say. 

Percy’s office was well appointed and organized – no surprise considering what the man had been like in the few years Draco had attended Hogwarts with him.  While much of the wall space was covered with maps of various locations within the U.K., many of which identified Floo network locations and connections, there was also a decent amount dedicated to framed certificates and awards which painted a picture of Percy’s Ministry career.  The remainder of the space, and most of the desk, was cluttered with family photos.  Entire passels of Weasleys, grinning and waving from different locales and in a range of configurations, including the families that some of the Weasleys had started to form on their own.  Including Percy’s, if Draco were to judge by the way the pretty brunette woman was smiling adoringly at photograph-Percy, with two small ginger children by their side.

Right in the center of the cluster of frames on the desk was one that stood out for only having two people in it.  Fred and George, the infamous twins, at about the time they had first opened their joke and charm shop in Diagon Alley.  Draco was slightly transfixed by it, long-forgotten memories of his time at Hogwarts starting to trickle back into prominence in his mind.  He shook himself.

“Where is my mother?”  He asked, before Percy had the chance to get straight down to business.

“She is under house arrest, per the agreement you reached with the Minister yesterday,” Percy replied stiffly.

“In Nice?”  Draco’s eyebrows rose in disbelief.

“Of course not.  We could hardly monitor her properly in a foreign country.”

“Then where is she?”  Draco repeated insistently.

“She’s at a house in London,” Granger said, shooting a discreet glare at Percy.

“We don’t have a house in London.”

“No, but a house was offered to her for the duration of the investigation into her communications and activities, and she accepted.  She’s quite safe,” Granger added, obviously believing that Draco would find this reassuring.

“And the duration of the investigation will no doubt correspond with the duration of my work at the Manor,” Draco said flatly.

“It will take as long as it takes.”  Percy’s lip curled in a sneer.  “Unless, of course, the investigation yields evidence that she should serve an appropriate sentence in Azkaban.”

Draco leaned forward, resting his hands on Percy’s desk and staring the insufferable git directly in the eye.  “If that happens, then I have no reason to stay here and fix the Ministry’s cock-up at the Manor, now, do I?”

Percy smiled widely at him, but the smile didn’t banish the cold look in his hazel eyes.  “I’m so glad that you brought that up.  Woodlocke.”

The Auror’s spell hit Draco from behind, and he cursed himself for letting his guard down and forgetting to keep his lines clear as his entire body seized up, his arms and legs snapping tightly together.  No one caught him as he fell, though he heard Granger whisper a cushioning charm before he hit the floor full-on.

“Your movements in the country happen to fall under my jurisdiction, Malfoy.”  Percy opened a desk drawer, retrieving something that was outside of Draco’s field of vision.  “And while you may still freely make use of the Floo network, brooms, and authorized Portkeys, Apparition is something that is much more difficult to trace.  So the Minister has granted me permission to limit your ability to Apparate for the length of your contract.”  Percy made his way around the desk, crouching down to reach Draco’s right arm.  Draco felt the sensation of cold metal slide around his wrist and lock into place, felt some sort of enchantment shiver through him.  And he could do nothing to stop it.

“Percy,” Granger said impatiently, her voice holding a note of warning.

Percy ignored her, leaning closer to make sure that Draco could hear him.  His voice was low and soft, barely audible.  “I know what you are, Malfoy.  I know what you’ll always be.  You’re a Marked man, and all it will take is just one toe out of line for me to send you to Azkaban myself.”

“Percy!”  Granger was more insistent this time, placing a firm hand on Weasley’s shoulder. 

Percy lifted his hands in surrender.  “All done, Hermione, keep your hair on.”  He straightened up and took a few steps back.

Granger pointed her wand at Draco.  “Reparifors.”

He instantly felt the body bind loosen, freeing his limbs, but a cold fury laced with no small amount of fear was racing through his veins.  He shook off Granger’s hand when she reached out to help him to his feet, hoping that his brisk movements in straightening his clothes hid the tremble he felt in his hands. 

He inspected the metal cuff that Percy had locked onto his right wrist.  It was a dull bluish-gray color, with runes engraved into its surface.  Draco recognized a few of them, and pieced together the meaning of the others in context.  He wouldn’t be able to Apparate at all with this on, not even Side-Along, and there was another rune he believed was meant to track his movements as well.  Interesting that Percy hadn’t mentioned that function.

“It’s keyed to the individual who places it, and it’s Unbreakable,” Percy informed him, not bothering to hide his satisfaction.  “It’s not coming off until I remove it.”

Perhaps, perhaps not.  Draco had learned many things in his time abroad, and he’d give himself decent odds at cracking the locking charm.  But the threat of Azkaban, for both himself and his mother, was sufficient disincentive to try.  At least for the moment.

When it became clear that Draco was not going to be the first to break this charged silence, Granger sighed and looked at Percy.  “Shall we crack on, then?”

“Certainly.”  Percy picked up a glass paperweight from his desk, shook his wand out of his sleeve, and adopted a look of intense concentration. “Portus.”

There was a brief flash of light as the enchantment took hold, and Percy held out the paperweight expectantly, motioning Woodlocke and Draco to come closer. 

Draco was reluctant to do so.  “This is taking us to Malfoy Manor.”

Percy only just suppressed an eye roll.  “Obviously.”

“What about the issues you mentioned with Floo and Apparition?” Draco asked.  “The disturbance to the ley lines hasn’t had the same effect on Portkeys?”

Granger shook her head.  “Not yet, or at least, not that we’ve been able to observe.  You can think of the Floo network as a kind of web, which can be warped by the activity of the ley lines.  Apparition generally requires familiarity with the geography of the intended destination and also flows along wild magic pathways.  Portkeys, as you know, utilize a different type of location mechanism that so far has not been impacted in the same way.  It’s point-to-point transportation.”

“If you’re sure,” Draco said dubiously. 

“Quickly now, I’ve set it to activate in the next half minute,” Percy urged sharply.

The four of them crowded together, Granger, Woodlocke, and Draco each laying a finger on the smooth glass surface of the paperweight.  There was an awkward fifteen second pause as they waited for the Portkey to reach its activation time, and then for the second time in as many days Draco was unceremoniously dragged through space, pain blooming above his eye yet again as the world twisted around them to re-shape itself into their destination.

The impact wasn’t as bad as it had been yesterday, as they hadn’t traveled halfway across the world.  Still, it was all Draco could do to keep the egg salad sandwiches from attempting a daring escape.  He kept his feet, but leaned over to brace himself with his hands on his knees, taking deep breaths until his stomach finally relented and settled with prejudice.

Draco sensed Granger approaching and elected to keep his head down, ignoring her for as long as he could manage it.  The pain in his head was a decent distraction, as it hadn’t faded at all yet, and in fact seemed intent on ruining the rest of his day.  He was able to take a small amount of satisfaction in Granger’s waning patience, though she was polite enough about it.

“Are you all right?”  She finally asked.

Draco turned and squinted up at her.  The day was overcast, as it often was in September, so his squinting was due more to his headache than the sunlight.  He was mildly surprised to see that Granger actually looked genuinely concerned.  He briefly wondered why, but then remembered that he was apparently the key to fixing this mess with the ley lines – the only key, in fact, according to her.  It made sense for her to be worried about that.

“Don’t trouble yourself, Granger, I’m fine,” he said, but it came out with a bit more weariness than he meant it to.

“Here,” Granger said, abruptly thrusting her hand toward him.  “You’ll need this.”

Draco cautiously extended his own hand, and she dropped something small and silver into his palm.  Upon examination, it turned out to be a ring.  A ring with the Malfoy crest. 

His father’s ring.

“This was the Portkey from yesterday,” Draco said in a detached sort of way.

Granger nodded.  “It was a risk, sending it, but the goal was to ensure that you would touch it.”

“Hence, having my mother send it on behalf of the Ministry.”

“That’s your own fault, as you were incredibly unresponsive to all of the previous letters the Ministry attempted to send you.” 

“It is difficult to respond to letters when they are set on fire immediately upon receipt,” Draco allowed, and Granger snorted a laugh.

Her hand flew up to cover her mouth, and she looked as shocked as he felt.  The familiarity between them was increasing in awkwardness by the second, so Draco finally did what he had been dreading since their arrival.

He turned to face Malfoy Manor.

Draco had sometimes, in darker moments, imagined what it would feel like to see the Manor again.  To see the house and grounds where he grew up, where his parents had thrown lavish and exclusive parties, where he had first learned to ride a broom, where his earliest memories had been made.

Where his worst memories had been made.

He hadn’t known what he expected to feel, but feeling nothing was a surprise.  Although it was the kind of nothing that had a great deal of Something banging up against it, demanding to be let out, and Draco steadfastly refused to allow that to happen, especially in front of his present company.

The gates were there, as he remembered, the grotesque wrought iron faces leering at him.  The Manor itself looked harmless enough from the outside, though the grounds were in a poor state, overgrown and wild in comparison to the militantly manicured images in his memory.  But there was an aura around it, a Dark and threatening presence that hung heavily in the air and made it hard to breathe.

Or perhaps that was the panic attack.

Draco was suddenly aware of hands gripping his shoulders and turning him in the opposite direction, Granger’s worried face wavering in his field of vision as he gasped for air.  She was saying his name, and telling him to breathe, and he thought that if it were as simple as that he would already be doing it.

Granger swore, then fumbled inside the pocket of her robes, bracing him with one hand when he weaved on his feet.  She let out a triumphant “Ha!” and her hand emerged with a small phial.  “Drink this,” she instructed, holding it up to his lips, and he was beyond caring if it was some kind of poison.  He drank.

He recognized the taste of a Calming Draught, the peppermint almost too sharp as it went down his throat.  He only took a swallow or two, then turned his face away, feeling the burn of shame brightly on his cheeks in spite of the potion.  But at least he could breathe again.

Draco looked back at the Manor, avoiding the gazes of Weasley and Woodlocke.  He didn’t want to see their expressions, didn’t want to acknowledge the weakness they had witnessed in him.  His mother would be disappointed in his lack of control if she were present, even though he was twenty years out of practice.  But now that he knew what to expect, and under the influence of the draught, he could look at his former home more objectively.

“Hermione.”  Percy sounded impatient.

“Give him a moment, Perce,” she said.

Right. Draco shook himself.  They were here to do more than look.  Or at least, he was.  His father’s ring slipped almost eagerly onto the ring finger of his right hand, he could feel it shrink slightly to ensure a secure fit, and for a moment his mind engaged in the delightful exercise of cataloging all of the items on his person which documented his subordinance to things he didn’t freely choose.

The ring.

The cuff.

The Mark.

Fortunately that last was quiescent, not giving him a single twinge from underneath his shirt sleeve.  He would not be rolling his sleeve up to check its color.  It had faded somewhat, after Voldemort’s death, but had never gone completely. 

And here, facing the Dark Lord’s final seat of power, he wondered if the Dark magic lingering at the Manor was part of the reason it never would.  The thought sent a chill down his spine.

He stepped up to the gates, which dissolved into static smoke at his approach.  He didn’t know if that was because he wore his father’s ring or merely that he was a Malfoy.  But it didn’t matter.  He passed through the smoke.

Behind him, the smoke solidified into iron again, stopping his companions from proceeding further.  He could hear the grotesques hissing interrogatively at them, and he waved a hand irritably.  “Let them through.”

Granger joined him immediately, as did Woodlocke.  Percy didn’t budge.  “I’ll wait here, thank you.  I have no desire to set foot on a Death Eater estate.”

Which was fair enough, Draco supposed.  It was hard to remember when the Manor hadn’t been that, if it was ever the case during his lifetime.

“I knew it would work,” Granger said, though Draco detected no smugness in her tone.  Satisfaction, to be sure, in the expected answer to a theoretical question.  “You are the lord of the manor.”

Draco closed his eyes, not allowing himself to indulge in a futile wish to be thousands of miles away, feeling salt spray on his face on the deck of the Esperanza.  “Were you able to get the house elves out, at least?”

“We were,” Granger confirmed.  “Though they were quite reluctant to leave the house.”

“They would be,” Draco murmured, and was surprised when Granger made a noise of agreement.

“We hadn’t learned anything about hearth magic at school,” she said.  “Though that in and of itself is proof of how little house elf culture is understood and valued by wizarding kind, and I still maintain that overall, working conditions and compensation could stand to see a lot of improvement.”

Draco snorted softly.  “Well, we wizards certainly take them for granted, deliberately misconstruing their bond with the domicile as loyalty to the family, or to individuals.”

He felt Granger’s surprise, but didn’t have the energy to meet her gaze.  “Exactly,” Granger said slowly, then cleared her throat.  “Anyway.  The house elves were offered opportunities in other wizarding homes.  Harry and I vetted each placement ourselves.”

There was a pause.  “So when is Potter expected, then?”  Draco asked.

“Tomorrow, I think.  He has to make the rounds now that he’s back in the country.  He’ll make contact with you when he’s available.”

Not having the mental space to deal with his entirely muddled and confusing sense of anticipation for that moment, Draco set it all aside.  “As for the Manor, then, there are no expected human or being bystanders?”

“None but you, and Harry at some point,” Woodlocke said, finally joining the conversation.  “Though no one has actually been inside the Manor itself since that first attempt after the war.”

“Do you know anything about that?”  Draco asked.  “About how they went through the house?”

Woodlocke shook her head.  “All I heard from Robards is that the two Aurors were lost in the dungeons.”

“Fools,” Draco whispered.  But no one had asked him, not that he’d been in the best frame of mind to provide decent intelligence at the time.  Beside him, Granger shuddered and looked away from the Manor, and all of a sudden he remembered that she had her own trauma associated with this place, which might explain why she’d had the Calming Draught on her.  And that made an odd sort of kinship between them, he was surprised to realize.

“You can go,” he said.  “I’ll try to put together some kind of plan while Potter is doing whatever it is he needs to do.”

“Oh, but –”  Granger started.  “Are you all right to stay here?”

Draco rested his hand on his satchel.  “I have everything I need for now, though I suppose I can owl you with any requests.”

“Robards and the Minister are going to want regular reports, so you can send those along with them,” Woodlocke said.  “They’re invested in seeing this dusted and done with, so as long as your requests are reasonable you’d be able to get whatever you might need.”

“You want me to do paperwork, too?”  Draco asked in mock outrage.  “That’s almost worse than the Dark magic.”

Again, Granger snorted, and again she looked surprised at herself.  She cleared her throat once more.  “I know we discussed how the impacts of the ley line disruption seem to be increasing, and I’m working on a theory that the magnifying effect might be coinciding with the natural magical cycles.  Which means it would be ideal for us to start seeing improvements sooner rather than later, but especially before the solstice.”

“Not the equinox?”  Draco asked caustically.

Granger’s chuckle was unsteady.  “I think two weeks is hardly a reasonable deadline for something like this.”

Nothing about this was reasonable, but Draco kept schtum about it.  Complaining wouldn’t make any difference.

“I’ll come back with Harry when he’s ready,” Granger offered.

Draco scoffed.  He couldn’t help it.  “There’s no need to hold my hand, Granger.  I can look after myself.”

Granger’s expression shifted into something icy, and whatever tenuous affinity they might have had abruptly dissolved.

“Fine,” she said, her voice clipped.  “Then we’ll leave you to it.  Are you ready, Woodlocke?”  At the Auror’s nod, she turned on her heel and strode away without even a glance back as she followed the disheveled gravel path toward the gates.

And even though Draco knew that it was not only inevitable but right that they would leave, the feeling of desperate loneliness that settled around him as Woodlocke and Granger passed through the enchanted iron smoke threatened to drown him.

Chapter 3

Staying inside the Manor was absolutely out of the question.

Fortunately, it had been at least a decade since Draco had actually had any kind of permanent address, so he was well prepared. 

He was careful in selecting the best location for his tent.  He dithered about whether he wanted to be in sight of the Manor or not, plagued by the irrational notion that if he couldn’t see it from his tent, then it was possible that it might somehow sneak up on him.  On the other hand, he hadn’t grown any fonder of the sight than when he first laid eyes on it after twenty years.  He settled for a partial view, from somewhat inside the woods that were at the edge of what used to be the manicured grounds and close to the pond where he’d first learned to swim.

The Extendable Charms he’d placed on the compartments of his worn black leather satchel allowed it to contain all of his worldly possessions, such as they were.  The tent, a modest two-bedroom layout, was one of his best investments when he was a practically penniless student at the Sorbonne, when only his mother’s distant connections from her own school days had got him a place in the Collège des Sciences Magiques.  Most of the universities in France had academic programs for witches and wizards that were of course kept largely secret and separate from the more mundane programs and student body, though Draco had discovered that the United Kingdom was unusually strict in its interpretation of the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy, and there were a number of trusted Muggle faculty that he was allowed to learn from who had at least an idea of what his studies truly involved. 

The tent went up easily, unfolding itself and extending the support poles with a little prodding from Draco’s wand.  The exterior was a plain, dishwater dull canvas color.  Visible but unassuming, it wasn’t much to look at from the outside, which was ideal for discouraging unwanted interest.

The interior of the tent was a reflection of his travels since his time at university, somewhat cluttered with things that he’d picked up here and there – the empty carapace of a desert tortoise, a carved gourd that resembled an owl, a hand-painted clay pot.  He’d developed an unexpected interest in textiles during his time in the Americas, mostly due to the vibrant colors they incorporated, and had a variety of woven blankets, rugs, and wall hangings at which his mother would wrinkle her nose if she ever deigned to set foot in his tent.  She still preferred a more austere and, to her mind, dignified aesthetic which skewed either toward minimalism and light colors or traditional heavy and ornate furnishings, which was how Malfoy Manor had been decorated throughout most of its history.

The wards he set at a standard radius around the tent were as strong as any he’d deployed deep in the rainforests of South America or the perilously exposed keys scattered throughout the Caribbean.  He was taking no chances with the Manor or whatever Dark things it may have drawn to the grounds.  Before he had a better idea of what he was dealing with, all of his usual precautions would be taken.

Draco didn’t expect to see any of the white peacocks that used to wander the grounds.  As far as he knew, his aunt and Macnair had killed them all out of boredom and spite after breaking out of Azkaban and being made to cool their heels while Voldemort alternated between plotting against Albus Dumbledore and punishing Lucius Malfoy for his failure at the Department of Mysteries.  He didn’t expect to see them, but still a small part of him hoped.  Hoped that there was something that still remained around this place that was even a little bit good.

Realizing that he’d just been staring vaguely into the distance across the pond for an unknown amount of time, Draco shook his head firmly and ventured into his tent in search of something to eat.

There was still a good amount of food that was still in stasis from the last time the crew of the Esperanza had cooked together.  Rather than dedicate so much time and labor toward the process of feeding his crew every day at sea, Séneca always set aside one full day before the start of a voyage for everyone to help with mass food preparation, portioning things out and casting stasis charms in the galley to preserve it until the days it was scheduled to be eaten.  Because the captain knew that Draco often neglected to remember to eat with the crew when he was absorbed in his work, he always had individual meals prepared and delivered to his cabin onboard, or his tent on land.  Often, Séneca was the one delivering them.

The enticingly spicy aroma of the enmoladas after Draco cast a quick heating charm on the dish made his appetite sit up and beg for the first time in what felt like months.  He sat down at the small table in the kitchen of his tent, pushing aside the papers he’d not even had a chance to revisit since his forced relocation to England and eating like a starving man.

While satisfying, the strong and familiar flavors of the food only sharpened Draco’s sense of loss at being made to return to this country.  To this place.  He’d had a life, a purpose, and people around him whose first thoughts associated with him were of his work and research, and not that he was a former Death Eater.  That was not something he’d hidden from Séneca, who deserved to know who and what was on his ship.  But he always disguised the Mark with the glamor of a tattoo whenever his arms were bare around the crew, or hid it with a pañuelo wrapped around his left forearm.  He took their good-natured ribbing for being a snobby, bookish Anglo as the gift it was, let them call him ‘Elvio’ and ‘Espectro’ because his hair and skin was so much paler than that of most of the crew, and now he was feeling the lack of that easy acceptance much more keenly than he’d ever thought he would.

With a flick of his wand, Draco sent his empty plate and fork to the small sink to be cleaned later, and pulled a pile of parchment back toward the center of the table.  His most recent notes on the merfolk and other denizens of the reef that made up the tiny islands that he had been studying while Séneca and his crew collected and bartered for much sought after potions ingredients beckoned to be revised into something that could more easily be included his next academic paper. 

The colony of sirenas that lived there had been hostile to the prospect of doing business, saying that they had no resources to spare after gulf currents had brought the residue of a crude oil spill into their underwater coral gardens.  Not that Draco had heard this directly from them – he didn’t particularly care for the sound of a sirena’s voice above water, but Séneca had a few people among his crew who were fluent in their dialect and acted as interpreters.

The sirenas’ predicament had presented an excellent opportunity for Draco to test his experimental Transfigurare Infinitus spell while building good will with the colony, and it had taken weeks of trials on larger and larger samples of contaminated sea water before he was willing to attempt to scale it up to the real world, and then only in a very limited way.  While the oil residue was a serious problem for the sirenas and their gardens, any misapplication of his Infinitus spell could be even more devastating.

He was so absorbed in his reading that it took him a moment to register the sound of frantic cawing and shrieking coming from somewhere outside.  He looked up from his papers with an absent frown, unhappy at the interruption, but whatever it was kicking up such a fuss didn’t seem inclined to stop.

It was nearing sunset, he was surprised to see as he cautiously stepped outside.  In contrast to the gloominess of the sky at his arrival earlier, the last rays of sunlight were spearing through some breaks in the clouds in the west, throwing momentarily brilliant bands of color across the sky.  There was still plenty of light left to see the commotion at the edge of the pond, a wild splashing and thrashing and flapping of black wings, all accompanied by non-stop squawking.

Draco looked carefully at his surroundings before passing outside the protection of the wards, but nothing else stirred that he could see as he made his way quickly toward the disturbance.  A raven was trapped right at the edge of the water somehow, and Draco had to get closer than he would have preferred to see that one of its feet was enveloped in a large cabbage-like plant that was slowly moving bright green tendrils up the bird’s leg so as to more firmly and permanently ensnare it.  The plant was a Bufonidentris – a toad eater, a species that was not necessarily invasive but had certainly never been tolerated anywhere on the grounds back when Malfoy Manor was a functioning estate. 

Taking aim at the rounded cabbage-y head of the Bufonidentris with his wand, Draco cast a quick and precise “Expulso!”

The plant collapsed with an unpleasant squelch, flattening as though he’d stomped on it with his foot, and released the raven.  The bird promptly took flight, screaming and flapping its way to one of the lower branches of a nearby larch.  Draco carefully reached down and dug his hands into the mud surrounding the base of the squashed plant, wanting to make sure that he brought up the entire shallow root system as he pulled.  It more or less came entirely free with little effort, and he made a disgusted face as he chucked it a few feet away before Vanishing it completely.  Bloody nuisance plants. 

Draco turned to face the raven, which had finally quieted and perched, watching him.  He studied it for any signs that it could be anything other than just a raven – Animagi typically had unusual or unnatural markings, and Auguerys had a distinctive green tinge to their black feathers.  He cast a nonverbal Revelio and then a Homorphus charm, neither of which had any effect. 

Just a raven, then.

“I haven’t often seen them go after birds, but as we’ve both discovered it seems like these ones are willing to give it a go. Stay away from any other plants that are round like that one was,” Draco warned.  He waved a hand at the pond.  “They’ll be close to the water’s edge, since it’s the toads they’re really after.  Tell your mates, all right?”

He felt no compunction about speaking directly to the raven as though it could understand him.  It was well-known that they were intelligent, and in fact there had been quite a few historical attempts to use ravens for post delivery in the same way that owls were.  But all corvids were a great deal more mischievous and independent than most owls, and utterly immune to any magical attempts to make them more biddable.  The wizards and witches in the U.K., at least, gave it up as a bad job and stuck with owls, which were much more reliable.

The raven’s only response was to ruffle its neck feathers and tilt its head back and forth so as to get a good look at Draco with both eyes.  He was sure that the rest of the flock was nearby, and idly considered leaving out some high-value treats somewhere else on the grounds in order to tempt them away from the pond.  He probably had some peanuts or something similar in stasis.  And if not, he could always write the Ministry with an official request.  He snorted softly, imagining the look on Shacklebolt’s face upon reading a peanut requisition, and then immediately resolved to write it.  He may as well get some amusement out of this enterprise.

Draco cast one last glance at the raven, which was still watching him, then turned back toward his tent.  Dispatching the Bufonidentris took almost no effort, magical or otherwise, but he was suddenly weary.  With the last light of day fading quickly, there was no way he was going to start assessing the Manor tonight.  But his notes captured his attention yet again as soon as he was back inside the tent, and he plopped down at the table, retrieving a quill and some fresh parchment from his satchel so that he could start putting them into some kind of sensible order.

~ * ~

The battered wall clock was chiming three when Draco woke from something that was absolutely nowhere close to restful sleep, but was slightly more than a doze.  His face was plastered against the parchment on the table, and he grimaced as the topmost page adhered to his cheek as he sat up.  There was a smear of drool and ink at the corner of his mouth and he wiped it away with his sleeve, blinking blearily around the cozy kitchen-hyphen-dining-hyphen-sitting room of his tent.

At first he thought that it was the stubborn twinge in his neck that had woken him, but he came fully awake all at once when he felt something brush against his wards – again.  This was not an accidental collision.  It was a deliberate test, and the realization chilled Draco down to his bones.

Three in the morning was what the Muggles called the Witching Hour, though of course they didn’t truly understand what the difference was between witches and the natural uptick in the energy and activity of things that were not necessarily Dark, but often were.  Draco cast a nonverbal Finite on the illumination charms placed around the room, and then Disillusioned himself.

He eased his way soundlessly toward the tent flap, his bare feet picking up a slight chill as he used just one finger to push it aside enough to see out.  There was a slight drizzle of rain, and therefore no moon, not with such cloudy skies.  The air was chill and damp, but the rain wasn’t heavy enough to obscure all sound.  He strained his senses for any clue as to what had disturbed his wards.

The faintest of movements caught Draco’s attention, really nothing more than a contrast between two different shades of darkness at the perimeter of his wards, straight ahead of him.  The contrast resolved into an unnaturally tall hooded and cloaked figure, the black cloth in which it was swathed seemingly impervious to both the rain and the chilly breeze.  The edges of the cloth swayed and drifted in opposition to any natural forces.  A feeling of intense despair swamped Draco as the figure fully formed, though the figure itself did not, could not, cross the wards.

There was a Dementor at Malfoy Manor.

This wasn’t the first time, of course.  When the Dementors had defected to the Dark Lord’s side in the second war and facilitated the mass breakout of Death Eaters from Azkaban, including his father, they had walked the grounds.  They had fed on the emotions of the household, fed on Draco’s emotions, until his father had gained Voldemort’s permission to direct them toward the local Muggle village instead.

After Shacklebolt, newly appointed Minister of Magic, had dissolved all ties with the Dementors and forbidden them from Azkaban, no one knew where they had gone.  It was hoped that with improved morale and stability in the wizarding world after the war, the spawning conditions for these Dark creatures would be less favorable, and that their numbers would die down.

Draco didn’t like what the presence of this one might mean, even as he struggled not to give in to the hopelessness that was suffocating him, that he knew objectively was only the product of the sudden absence of all of his positive emotions.  But in this place, so close to the house where some of the most terrible moments in his life had occurred, it was hard not to believe in the seductive lie woven by the Dementor’s parasitic magic – that there was utterly no hope, that there was nothing to be gained by struggling to survive, that the best and easiest thing would be to just surrender…just give up…just let go…

No, Draco thought suddenly, fiercely.  I won’t be doing that.  Not again.

Summoning the memory of watching bottlenose dolphins race the Esperanza through the waves while performing increasingly complex leaps out of the water, pure joy written in every line of their sleek bodies, Draco dropped the Disillusionment and raised his wand, jerking the tent flap all the way open.  “Expecto patronum!”

Even after he’d taken his N.E.W.T.s by special arrangement well after his disastrous seventh year, Draco had been unable to produce a corporeal Patronus.  It had taken him years of study and practice with his new wand before finally achieving it during his time at the Sorbonne, which was fortunate because it had turned out to be an essential ability later on in his travels.

A pure white ermine formed from the silvery mist which erupted from his wand.  The tiny thing chittered and bounced threateningly at the Dementor, and then charged, driving the Dark creature back several paces beyond perimeter of the wards.  The light from his Patronus penetrated the gloom of the rainy night, and Draco thought he glimpsed several more cloaked figures standing well back from the first.

“This place is not yours,” Draco raised his voice, wanting to be certain that he was heard and understood, even though inside he was quaking.  “The lord of the manor has returned, and your presence will not be tolerated.”

His bold front faltered a bit when the Dementors showed no signs of retreating.  He gritted his teeth and pushed more power into his Patronus, making it shine even more brightly.  The ermine resumed its war dance, every bounce bringing it closer and closer to the tall figures, until finally they broke formation, each one spinning off into the darkness and quickly fading from view.

Draco breathed a short, shaky sigh of relief.  His ermine Patronus, satisfied that it had done its job, bobbled its way back to him, radiating just as much smugness as light from its tiny form.  It sniffed around Draco’s bare feet and attempted a gentle, exploratory nibble of his little toe, then faded away.

He was in over his head.  This entire notion of the Ministry – of Granger’s – was doomed to failure, but it wasn’t because he couldn’t handle a few Dementors.  It was the fact that they were here, that his childhood home had become some kind of twisted haven for Dark magic and creatures.  And the only reason the Ministry cared was because it was fucking with the ley lines.  The Manor might consider him its lord, but that didn’t automatically give him the power to undo everything that had been done decades ago, or to banish whatever horrific abomination it could have coalesced into now.

Stumbling back into the kitchen, Draco illuminated the room with a careless wave of his wand and paused, suddenly aimless.  His papers held no interest for him now, and the thought of trying to sleep unaided was daunting, even with how tired he was.

Reluctantly, Draco opened his potions cupboard.  His small pewter cauldron was bubbling gently, halfway through the process of brewing an Invigoration Draught for Séneca’s crew, which would have been used by those on the night watch rotation to stay alert.  He frowned, wondering who would take over the bulk of potions work on the ship while he was away.  It wasn’t as though no one could, but it had been a niche he’d carved for himself, a way to prove his usefulness.

There were a few small phials of Dreamless Sleep left.  Draco tried not to take it too often, as he never felt fully rested afterward, but also because it was too easy to become reliant on the potion and too difficult to wake up if there were an emergency.  Likely he shouldn’t take it now, not while he was alone at the estate amongst hostile Dark things.  But neither could he afford to start the day with only the sleep he’d managed at the kitchen table.

Half a dose, he decided, lifting one of the phials from the rack.  He took a small sip, feeling the induced lassitude settle over him, putting distance between his conscious mind and the sense of dread and inevitable defeat that the encounter with the Dementors had instilled.  He opted not to seek his bed, instead settling himself on the large, comfortable armchair and footstool.  He made sure his wand was at hand on the armrest and pulled a brightly colored blanket woven from alpaca wool over himself, and was asleep in seconds.

~ * ~

Since Draco had already been at Hogwarts when Voldemort had led his Death Eaters and assorted allies from Malfoy Manor to battle on the school grounds, he had no specific knowledge about what had been left behind.  If Lucius had succeeded in anything related to his carefully calculated efforts to help the Dark Lord regain a physical body and continue where he’d left off after the first war, it was only in piling failure on top of failure, and allowing his family to pay the price for it.  At the end, Lucius had no authority in his own home – Voldemort had been the one giving all the orders, and the perverse and complex workings of the Death Eater pecking order had shifted to such a degree that Lucius and his family were firmly at the bottom.

All of this meant that Lucius would have had little input in what kinds of traps were laid at the Manor before the Death Eaters departed.  It was as close to a standard operating procedure as that gang of chaotic, unprincipled and brutal malignants had ever come – assume victory, but in the event of failure, assure the death of the enemy.

If the Aurors had just asked before breaching the Manor, he would have told them.  As it was, he was mildly surprised they’d only lost two.

Bellatrix had taken it upon herself to ‘tutor’ Draco in the ways of Death Eaters, and had set many nasty and sometimes intentionally impossible traps around the Manor in order for him to learn how to dismantle them.  The price of failure was as unpredictable as she was, seemingly dependent upon how mad she was on any given day, and could be anything from missing meals to enduring the Cruciatus Curse yet again.  She really favored that one.  Draco couldn’t find it in himself to be grateful for the instruction, even though now he’d finally found a use for it.

He decided to start at one of the staff entrances, the one which led directly into the kitchen.  When the house elves were still serving at Malfoy Manor, the Death Eaters had generally preferred uninterrupted food service and housekeeping as opposed to abusing their inferiors to a degree which would have interfered with standard comforts.  And the house elves had been excellent at maintaining a low profile and avoiding drawing attention to themselves.

Still, it was possible that the Manor’s most evil houseguests (which, in its storied history, was saying quite a lot) had laid traps at all potential entrances, so Draco was determined to approach everything as slowly and as methodically as he knew how.  He wouldn’t allow Granger’s theory about the coming solstice being a significant potential deadline to rush him. 

He removed a Self-Inking Scrivener quill and notebook set from his satchel, activating the Scrivener spell so that it sat poised above a blank page.  Unlike other animated quills on the market, the Scrivener was scrupulously accurate when taking down dictation, and did so in the speaker’s own handwriting after being taught with some pre-determined lines of text.  Draco found it to be incredibly useful.

The sound of cawing distracted him from beginning his narration, and he turned his body to face the main lawn to the west of the Manor, where a flock of ravens were busily picking peanuts out of the disgracefully overgrown and wild grass.  The corner of his mouth turned up slightly.  He had indeed had a decent sized bag of roasted chili lime peanuts in stasis, and before he could bring himself to get started with assessing the Manor, he’d taken some time to scatter the treats thoroughly in the grass.  He guessed there were probably about two dozen ravens, though they made it difficult to get a firm count when they were constantly flying back and forth between the lawn and some location deeper in the woods.  What was it, that word for a group of ravens?

An unkindness.

In spite of their collective noun, the ravens seemed delighted with the food and were chatting amongst themselves while they foraged.  Draco couldn’t tell if the raven he’d saved the previous day was with them – none of them did more than glance in his direction.  Not that it mattered, of course.

Reluctantly, he turned back to the discreet staff entrance.  Though the Manor had been staffed by house elves for as long as Draco knew about, the door was suitable for humans to use – with their formidable magic, especially in a home to which they were bonded, elves rarely had to bother with construction that was designed specifically for beings of their size.   

“Eighth of September, west-facing staff entrance to the main kitchen,” Draco said, and heard the sound of the Scrivener quill busily taking down his words.  He performed a Revelio with a modifier to increase the intensity of the spell, and spotted two glimmers of magic – one at the door latch, and the other at the upper corner of the doorframe. 

He’d expected this.  Aunt Bella had always laid obvious charms in her ingenious little death traps – they were meant to put the victim at ease after disarming them, to give them a false sense of security so that the hidden spell or potion mechanisms could do their work.  There was no guarantee that she had been the one to set this one, but there shouldn’t be any harm in assuming.  She had been the worst of them, except for Voldemort himself.

“Praepostero,” Draco said, weaving his wand in a complicated pattern.  The glimmers of magic on the door flashed, then shifted.  The one on the latch traveled down to the doorstep.  The one on the corner of the doorframe shifted to the door’s center.  And a new glimmer appeared, this one a thin line running across the frame at around head height for the average person.

“Nasty,” he murmured, and the Scrivener dutifully took that down, too.  Whatever spell was on the doorstep was likely sequenced with the new spell stretched across the door.  Draco levitated a small stone from the ground and landed it directly on the doorstep, ready to raise a shield if necessary.

Nothing happened.

Which meant that the spell was triggered by the signature of something living, most probably those of humans and beings – it wouldn’t do to allow some poor mouse to die springing a trap that was meant for a member of the Order of the Phoenix, or an Auror.  Or a traitor.

Draco considered just hurling a Confringo at the door and having done with it.  But that was nothing more than a momentary impulse born of irritation – doing so would likely set off an even worse spell sequence, a magnifier or duplicator or some such thing, and it wasn’t worth the risk.  There would be no blasting his way through the Manor, as tempting a prospect as it was.

He set his jaw, and swung his wand arm wide, fingers splayed while just his thumb kept his wand firmly against his palm.  “Immobiles incantementum.”

The glimmers revealed by his previous spells faded, as this incantation should have locked those potential magics in their current configuration.  ‘Should’ being the operative word, of course.  Draco sidled up to the wall, refraining from approaching the door directly, and carefully reached out to tap the door latch lightly with his fingers.  When nothing happened, he lifted the latch and gave the door a little push, forcing it to swing inward.  Hinges that had not been used in twenty years screeched in protest, and there was a metallic scraping noise as a dozen knife blades suddenly erupted from the door frame, their points all centered right where his head might have been if he’d tried to walk through.

Draco frowned.  That spell should not have activated, unless it had been hidden behind one of the first –

He stumbled as the ground gave way under his feet with a cracking sound, the stone pathway leading up to the door crumbling away so quickly that he barely had time to fling his hands out to grip the edge of the doorstep, leaving him dangling over a newly formed sinkhole.  For a moment he was aware of nothing but the adrenaline rushing through his veins and the panic rising within him.  The grip of his right hand was compromised by his wand, but there was no way he could let go of it in favor of a firmer hold on the doorstep. Wandless magic was not his forte.

Forcing himself to breathe and think clearly, Draco closed his eyes.  He could handle this, this was fine, he could get himself out.  He instinctively tried to Apparate to solid ground, but the metal cuff around his right wrist suddenly tingled, suppressing his magically innate sense of destination and leaving him dizzy, and still exactly where he was.

It was all he could do not to scream when he felt something cold and strong curl around his ankle.  He knew that touch, knew the feeling of dead flesh when it touched the living, knew the uncompromising, near unbreakable clench of an Inferi’s hand. 

“No!”  The cry was torn from him when he felt an inexorable downward pull, causing his hands to slip, and he tightened his grip as much as he could, dug his fingers into the surface of the stone, trying to pull himself up.  “Lumos!”

The tip of his wand, which was just peeking over the edge of the doorstep, sparked into a small but bright light.  Draco blinked and averted his eyes, turning his head as much as he could to look down.

The Inferi was desiccated, hardly more than deathly gray skin over bones, its long dark hair stringy and matted.  He recognized it – her – as a Muggle woman that the Death Eaters had captured and tortured to death right after the end of his sixth year. 

Aunt Bella had called the event a ‘birthday present.’

“No…”  It was more of a moan this time, the horror and pain of the memory assaulting him just as fiercely as his panic and the strain in his hands.

Please, he thought.  Please, please –

When a warm hand seized his wrist in a tight hold, Draco nearly let go of the doorstep, his eyes flying open in shock. 

A voice above him growled “Incendio!” and a jet of flame shot past Draco, so close that he could feel the heat singe the ends of his hair on his left side, and all of a sudden his ankle was free and he was just dangling from the wrist of his wand arm.  He desperately reached up to grab the arm holding his, and felt himself being half lifted, half dragged out of the sinkhole.  As soon as he felt he had enough purchase, he scrambled the rest of the way out, crawling a few feet away and collapsing onto his back, gasping for air.

His view of the sky – clear and blue, today – was suddenly blocked.  A face, one that was so familiar and yet also not, hovered over him upside down.  White teeth flashed in a grin.

“Hello, Malfoy.”

Chapter 4

There were not many times in his life that Draco could remember being speechless.  He had a natural wit and an instinctive way with words, even though he’d grown up using them to wound more often than he did to amuse.  He was clever, and he read a great deal, and it wasn’t often that he would abide someone being loudly wrong in his presence.  He could also hold his tongue when necessary, and had done so for many reasons – the biggest one being his own survival.  But choosing to hold back his words was not the same as not having them at all.

He was overwhelmed with so many conflicting emotions he could not even identify that it wasn’t possible to construct anything remotely coherent to say.  His body still felt the zing of terror-induced adrenaline, with a significant portion of his attention put toward wrestling the recollection of that poor Muggle woman back into the mental lockbox in which he tried to keep all of the memories from those hellish years.

The rest of him was trying to cope with the experience of seeing Harry Potter again, after twenty years of nothing more than a passing glance or two at a photo in the wizarding newspapers.  A familiar and automatic antipathy heaved itself into place like a shield charm, creating a more comfortable distance between them and allowing him to more objectively catalogue all the little ways in which Potter had grown up.

Potter’s green eyes had even more smile lines around them than Granger’s had.  There was the strong nose, the sharp jaw with a dusting of dark stubble, the unruly black hair with a few threads of silver just starting at the temples – and he’d filled out.  Potter at eighteen had had a coltish, rangy build, all elbows and knobbly knees.  The breadth of his shoulders was much more apparent now that he’d put on some decent – more than decent – muscle.  Those same round glasses briefly reflected the sunlight as Potter met his eyes.

“Malfoy?”  Potter sounded almost concerned.

And Draco couldn’t bear that.  He felt shame burn through him at the fact that Potter had happened upon him in a moment of need, of weakness, and had charged in ready to save him like any typically reckless Gryffindor.  It was so very Potter of him.

So Draco did what felt right, the habit established ever since he’d first offered his hand and Potter hadn’t taken it.

He got angry, letting his resentment and disgust at himself for having needed any help fuel the emotion.  “How lovely of you to finally show up, Potter.  Tell me, how did you get past the gates?  Even Granger wasn’t able to set foot on the grounds until I allowed it.”

A frown line appeared on Potter’s forehead.  “First off, you’re welcome for saving your life, Malfoy, it was absolutely no trouble at all.  Second, Hermione told me about the lord of the Manor stuff and I was waiting at the gates.  They just opened up for me, turned into smoke just like Hermione said they would.  I assumed it was you…”  He broke off, pursing his lips thoughtfully.  There was a new scar on his face, Draco realized.  A thin, pale line that cut at an angle through the stubble on his chin and just into his bottom lip, contrasting with his warm brown skin.

“Well, it wasn’t.”  Draco got shakily to his feet, pathetically grateful to Potter for merely taking a step back to give him room, rather than making an attempt to help which Draco would have had to reject.  He turned to face Potter, surprised to find that they were now about the same height – Potter was maybe an inch shorter, but he had more mass to him.  He wasn’t wearing wizarding robes, but instead a weather-beaten anorak over a Muggle T-shirt and jeans.  His only obvious magical apparel were the dark brown dragon hide boots on his feet, and those were close enough to Muggle clothing as to go unnoticed in non-magical company.

“The earring is new.”  Potter commented.  His voice had deepened over the years, but its timbre was still just as warm as it had been when they were at school.

Draco twitched, chastising himself for not realizing he was being observed in turn.  He reached up and briefly touched the small silver hoop with the miniaturized ‘charm’ in his right ear, and flushed.  “Still wearing the same glasses, I see.  Merlin forbid you make a concession to current trends at any point in your life.”

Potter’s expression shuttered slightly, and he shrugged.  “I’ve grown used to the way my face looks with them.  How about you tell me how you managed to wander into the arms of an Inferi.”

“Date gone wrong,” Draco quipped automatically, and Potter let out a startled bark of laughter.  Draco almost smiled in return, but the echo of the memory of how that Inferi came to be was still present in his mind, and he sobered instead.  “I was attempting to disarm a trap.  It seemed like Bellatrix’s work.”

Potter’s amusement also dimmed immediately, his face tightening into lines of anger.  “That sounds about right.”  He walked cautiously to the very edge of the sinkhole and peered down into it. 

Draco clenched his fists to keep himself from reaching out to pull him back.  “Is it…” He swallowed.  “Is it gone?”

“Mostly,” Potter reported.  He cast another Incendio into the pit and Draco averted his eyes, the memory of another fire from long ago threatening to put itself front and center in his mind. 

“Do you know who she was?”

“A Muggle,” Draco mumbled.  “I didn’t know her name.”

“Was she from round here, then?”

“I…I don’t know.  Probably.”

Potter nodded.  “The Aurors can get photos of missing persons in the county from the Muggle police.  It might bring her family some measure of peace if you can identify her, even if the police won’t be able to tell them the truth about how or where she died.”

“There will be more,” Draco said woodenly, looking up at the Manor.  “Quite a few more, I think.  Not all of them Muggles.” 

He heard Potter curse under his breath, but ignored it in favor of scrutinizing the damage done by the trap.  He didn’t understand how those spells had activated after he’d locked them, unless Bellatrix or whoever had laid them had set them in double layers, which was unlikely.  Could it be that this was an example of the interference related to the lack of containment of the Dark magic at the Manor?  Percy had gone on at length about the effect it was having on the Floo network and Apparition within the county, but Granger had talked about day-to-day magic also being affected.  His heart sank.  As if this weren’t already difficult enough.

Draco raised his wand, pointing it at the sinkhole.  “Reparo maxima.”

There was a slight rumble beneath his feet, and a few of the stones that had been part of the pathway to the door trembled at the bottom of the pit, but nothing more happened.

He grit his teeth, concentrating harder and lending more power to the spell as he repeated himself.  “Reparo maxima!”

This time the soil started to rise, along with the stones, but Draco could feel the strain almost immediately. 

“Here, let me –”  Came a voice from his right, and he jumped, not expecting Potter to be so close.

“I can do it, Potter,” Draco snapped.  He redoubled his efforts, willing the earth to return to its former state along with the stones for the path.  He was panting for breath by the time it was done, and the stone path was far from even.  The section of ground which had sunk was all turned over, part sod, part bare soil in random places. 

“It looks great,” Potter said, his expression deadpan, and Draco wanted to laugh as much as he wanted to give him a clip round the ear for his cheek.  He shoved both impulses down ruthlessly.

They stared at the open kitchen door, which still had the knives sticking out of the top part of the frame.

“Shall we go in?”  Draco said, forcing the words out reluctantly.

“We could,” Potter said.  “Or we could take a break and get something to eat first.  It’s well past midday.”

Draco scoffed, but it was half-hearted.  “A break.  You’ve only just got here.”

Potter shrugged.  “I’m hungry.”  His eyes lingered on the sweat that had beaded along Draco’s brow, however.

While his first impulse was to reject the opportunity for food and rest that he suspected had been offered mostly for his benefit, and to instead push on just to show Potter that he was fine, Draco couldn’t force himself to go through the motions.  He was tired, and hungry as well, as his growling stomach reminded him.  “Fine.  Let’s adjourn for now.”

“I saw a pub in the village just down the road,” Potter said, his tone cheerful enough to be irksome.  “Let’s walk, it won’t take more than ten minutes.”

Draco hesitated.  “A Muggle pub?”

Potter made a ‘tch’ sound with his tongue.  “Yes, Malfoy, a Muggle pub, with Muggle food and Muggle drink.  Should be good enough fare even for you.  Unless you’re scared?”  His voice was taunting.

When he was younger, Draco had not been afraid of Muggles.  He’d seen them as beneath him, and beneath all witches and wizards except for maybe those who were Muggle-born, who he had also been taught to despise.  It was what he had been told all his life, the narrative of the hapless, helpless Muggle reinforced not only in wizarding popular culture but also in the way the Death Eaters and Greyback’s werewolves had treated Muggles as legitimate prey.  Easily caught, just as easily discarded.  Not magical, and therefore no serious threat.

Draco hadn’t been afraid of Muggles until he’d learned something about the world, gained a proper understanding of by just how much Muggles outnumbered all of wizarding kind, worldwide.  He hadn’t been afraid of them until he’d comprehended exactly how clever they were, developing machines and weapons and technology that he didn’t understand – with the most terrifying part being that most of them didn’t seem to understand much about those things either, but were recklessly and determinedly pushing forward, always pushing forward regardless of the harm their inventiveness left in its wake.  Witches and wizards weren’t immune to this impulse, either, but there were a lot fewer of them.  As much damage as they could do with magic, Muggles seemed more than equal to the task of destroying the world as they all knew it.  Some would argue that they were well on their way.

He couldn’t admit any of this to Potter, though, partly because it would likely come off as a natural extension of the bigotry he’d previously held against Muggles, and partly because it would be yet another weakness revealed, another crack in Draco’s armor that someone could exploit and use against him.

So he muttered, “Of course not,” in as disdainful a tone as he could manage, and used his wand to cast a few nonverbal cleaning charms to rid his work clothes and satchel of terror sweat and dirt.  His clothing was not too much different than Potter’s – a white button up linen shirt paired with one of his favorite old many-pocketed waistcoats, and sturdy wool trousers – so there was no real reason to change except for the nagging residue of his formal upbringing, which he had not completely eradicated, his mother’s opinion notwithstanding.

He kept pace with Potter as they walked through the gates to leave the grounds, the wrought iron hissing into smoke irritably as though it were reluctant to let Draco go.  Potter seemed content to stroll along the narrow road with his hands in his pockets, admiring the scenery, and Draco found himself relaxing slightly in spite of himself.  It was actually possible to appreciate a beautiful day when one wasn’t grimly facing down the source of major trauma and reanimated corpses.

The last time he had been this close to Harry Potter, he had been waiting with his mother to stand before the Wizengamot and then wait to hear whether they would send him back to Azkaban along with his father.  Potter had spoken for each of them, and while the Mark on Draco’s arm was itself enough for at least half of the members to vote for conviction, his age and admittedly fragile state at the time worked in his favor. 

Narcissa had nothing but praise for Potter whenever she’d spoken of him since, even when she was among company who had – distantly, carefully, and with plausible deniability – favored Voldemort to win.  The limitations which had been placed on both of them – no correspondence or association with known Death Eaters, with the exception of such between each other, as Draco was her son – had meant that Narcissa’s former social circle had shrunk considerably.  Her partisanship for Potter after the war had reduced it even further, though she had attempted to make overtures to the survivors on the winning side.  Many of those overtures had been rejected.

Draco was only startled out of his ruminations about which Death Eater his mother may have been in contact with when an elbow nudged his arm, and he realized that Potter had been trying to get his attention for some time.

“We’re here,” Potter said, indicating the sign of the building in front of them. 

The Nettlecross Arms was an ancient white stone building with a thatched roof, and Draco could hear the clink of glassware and the din of lunchtime patrons coming from within.  His hands clenched for a moment, and he blurted, “I don’t have any Muggle money,” before he could formulate a more tactful way to address the issue.  Potter was a former Auror and a Gryffindor – he likely wouldn’t approve of Confunding some Muggle pub worker to avoid paying for a meal.

“’S all right, I do,” Potter said, unperturbed, and led the way inside.

It was strange that Draco was less comfortable in a Muggle pub in England than he had been in countless Muggle settings abroad.  Perhaps it was because he was already obviously an outsider in many of those places, and had accepted it as part of the strangeness that came naturally with fumbling through conversations with limited vocabulary and navigating cultures which he knew little about.  And the distinction between the Muggle world and the wizarding world had not seemed quite as sharply drawn in those places as it did here.  He had experienced a little more openness and understanding that the world was wider than any given person, magical or not.

England was not like that.  He was hardly a mile from the place where he was born, and yet he felt lost as Potter weaved his way through the other patrons to find a small table in the corner.  He couldn’t help but follow after him, reluctant to let too much distance come between them.  And wasn’t that an odd feeling.

He automatically took the stained, printed menu that Potter shoved into his hands, glancing down at it distractedly.  The words seemed to swim in his vision – the pub felt a little too loud, a little too crowded, and all of his senses were focused more on maintaining an enhanced awareness of his surroundings than they were on what he might like to have for lunch. 

“I’ll have the same as you,” Draco said, setting the menu down and inching it back toward Potter with the tips of his fingers.

“Fine,” Potter huffed, as though annoyed by Draco’s passivity, and got up to place their order.  He returned shortly with two pints, taking a long sip of his right away.

Draco was slower to lift his own glass, these days much more used to drinking from a chilled bottle on the deck of a ship swaying with the motion of the waves.  But it was good, going down smoothly with just a hint of toffee and stone fruit. 

“So,” Potter said, setting down his glass and scrubbing away a bit of foam from his upper lip with the back of his hand.  “Let’s talk about the Manor.”

It was difficult to think of many other subjects which would have killed Draco’s appetite as quickly, though he tamped down his disappointment at the choice in subject matter.  Because really, what else would they possibly talk about?  They weren’t here to reminisce, they weren’t old school friends getting a pint together in order to catch up.  Both of them were in Wiltshire because the Ministry wanted them to be, because they were getting paid – and coerced, in Draco’s case – to deal with the Dark magic there.  To fix the consequences of the Malfoy family history of bad decisions.

“What would you like to know?”

Potter gave a slight shrug.  “The best approach to curse breaking is getting a detailed history if possible, ideally before any actual curse breaking is attempted.  I don’t see any reason not to approach this in the same way, and I don’t know much about Malfoy Manor, outside…”  He didn’t finish the sentence, but Draco knew exactly what Potter’s direct knowledge of the Manor entailed.

“Granger surely briefed you.  There are one or two books on the subject, which she’s no doubt memorized.”

The corner of Potter’s mouth quirked up, and Draco was irritated by the momentary appearance of a dimple in that stubbled cheek.  Mostly he was irritated with himself for noticing, and partly because Potter had no business having dimples at a time like this.  “Hermione did give me a bit of a run down on the place,” Potter admitted.  “But I want to hear it from you.  You have insight.” 

“What I have,” Draco drawled, “is the version that was endlessly repeated to me during my childhood.  But certainly, we can call that insight.  Should we really be discussing it here, though?”

Potter shook the sleeve of his anorak slightly, and Draco heard a slight hum as a nonverbal Muffliato took effect. 

He cleared his throat.  “Very well.  When William the Conqueror led the Norman army into England and crowned himself king in 1066, he was accompanied by my ancestor, Armand Malfoy.  I’m sure you can imagine what kind of services a Malfoy wizard might have rendered to the leader of an invasion.”

Potter nodded, taking another sip of his pint.

“In appreciation for said services, the self-appointed king gifted a sizeable parcel of land to Armand, upon which was built Malfoy Manor.  Most of the Manor construction is original, and has been preserved by generations of charm work.  Armand and subsequent Malfoys further enriched themselves by seizing land from neighboring Muggles, alongside other activities of dubious legality.  The Ministry of Magic put a stop to it – officially – when it succeeded the Wizards’ Council as the governing magical authority in 1707.  The Malfoys weren’t particularly subtle, you see, in their use of magic.  But the International Statute changed all that, at least by forcing the Malfoys to stop conducting their business in broad daylight.  The ultimate result of all of it, as you know, was a fortune large enough for everyone to want to pretend its legitimacy, and a Pureblood family tree.” 

Draco paused as cheerful red-faced woman came by their table to deliver their food.  Two pork pies and mash, and two side salads as a nod to the existence of vegetables outside of the starch category.  The pie smelled good, and Draco felt his hunger stir reluctantly.  Potter was already digging into his food, his head down and both elbows on the table.  Just the same as he had done at the Gryffindor table in the great hall.  Clearly, no one had yet had a civilizing influence on him.  Potter ate as though he were under a time constraint, like it would be taken away if he lingered over his food.

It was so difficult not to make a snide comment, the way Draco absolutely would have in his adolescence.  It was habit, but that didn’t mean it was worth perpetuating – and that notion was a sign of his own personal growth, he fancied.  It was a struggle, though.  His mother would have been appalled at the Chosen One’s table manners.  So as a precaution against saying anything untoward, he tucked in to his own pie, which tasted as good as it smelled, and better than it looked.

“And what about more recently?”  Potter finally asked, chasing the few remaining leaves of lettuce and lone tomato around the salad plate with his fork.

Draco let his own fork rest on the plate with a clatter that gave away the slight tremble in his hand.  His pie and mash were half gone, and that would have to be good enough.  He let out a breath.

“My parents – my father, really – invited all of the Death Eaters not in Azkaban to the Manor every summer.”  Draco’s voice was quiet, and his gaze was fixed firmly on the table, just beyond his plate.  “Until after our fourth year, when the Dark Lord regained his body.  He then selected the Manor as his headquarters after calling his Death Eaters to him.”

He could see Potter’s knuckles go pale as he clenched his fist on the table.

“Arthur Weasley led several raids on the Manor prior to that, I believe,” Potter said.  “Looking for Dark artifacts.”

“Secret storeroom in the cellar.  Hidden by a Fidelius charm, the Ministry would never have discovered it no matter how long they looked.  Those of the Malfoy blood keep the secret.  I assume we’ll reach it at some point for me show it to you, provided nothing in the Manor kills me first.”  Draco let his gaze drift to the street outside the slightly grubby glass of the window next to their table.

“Do you think any of those artifacts are…in play inside the Manor?”  Potter asked.

“It’s possible.”  Draco took a sip of his drink and then wiped his mouth with the serviette.  “I can do my best to make a list of what I remember.”

“That would be helpful,” Potter agreed.  “This type of clean out is even more difficult when Dark artifacts have an attachment to the home.”

Draco raised his eyebrows.  This sounded like Potter was speaking from experience, and he let the silence stand as an invitation to fill it.

Potter obliged.  “I had to clear my own house of Dark magic.  It took bloody ages, and some of the Dark stuff in it put up a hell of a fight.”

“You…live in a house that belonged to…?”

“The Blacks,” Potter said, matter-of-factly.  “Sirius Black was my godfather, he left it to me.  It’s in Islington.”

Draco had the vaguest memory of visiting the home of some distant aunt or other when he was a child, holding the hand of his mother tightly as he looked up at a broad tapestry dotted with scorch marks.  The house had been decidedly unfriendly, not necessarily because of Dark stuff – though there had been plenty of that – but because of the utterly unbending, determined and prideful misery of what remained of the Black family.  His mother’s Aunt Walburga had been a cold woman, with nothing much to say other than a long recitation of disgraced Blacks and stern instructions to Draco that he was not to bring such shame upon the Malfoys.  Which of course, ultimately, he had.

“Narcissa is staying there at the moment,” Potter added, and at first Draco thought he hadn’t heard him right.

“What?”

“Your mum,” Potter said clearly, his brows drawing together at Draco’s surprise.  “She’s staying at Grimmauld Place.”

Draco shook his head, trying to clear it of the strange emotions that were all clamoring at once for his attention.  Granger had said that his mother was staying in town, but he’d never even thought about the origin of that offer.  “But…why?”

Potter shrugged.  “I’m not often there lately, and she needed to stay in London as per the Ministry.  She’s safe there, don’t worry.”

And the thing of it was, Draco had absolutely no trouble believing him.  Potter wouldn’t allow someone under his protection to come to any harm, not if he could help it.  It just wasn’t in him.  “I – that’s unexpected.  She’s…well, then?”

“You can write to her,” Potter suggested.  “I haven’t seen her, the house elves got her settled right in, though.”

“You have house elves?”  Draco tried not to sound so surprised, but he was.  “And Granger is still friends with you?”

Potter laughed, a warm, husky chuckle that came from deep inside his chest.  “Yes, I do.  And yes, she is.  One of them was already bonded to the house when I inherited, but he’s ancient and shouldn’t be pushing himself to keep up with everything on his own.  The other is a bit younger and does most of the work…she used to be at the Manor.  I was told that she was actually glad to see your mother again, I wasn’t sure…”

“Oh.”  For the second time that day, Draco found himself without words.  He mulled everything over in his mind, allowing different bits of knowledge to sift and click together in ways that he hadn’t considered before.  He looked up, meeting Potter’s green eyes squarely.  “You knew about all this for some time, then.  About my mother, and the Manor.”

To his credit, Potter’s expression only changed minutely.  Not many other people would have even caught it, he was sure.  Draco reached down beside him to the front pocket of his satchel and gripped his wand, but didn’t draw it.  Just physical contact with it was enough for Legilimency if he had eye contact as well, but he was met with nothing more than a cloudy barrier.  Potter’s mind was Occluded.  Another way in which he had grown up over the past twenty years.

“Don’t.”  Potter’s tone was hard, and the single word carried with it enough finality that Draco knew he meant what he said.  He let go of his wand.

“Very convenient that a former Auror suddenly became available for such…specialized work,” Draco commented.  “So strange that the Ministry suddenly had access to your talents the moment they needed the cooperation of a former Death Eater, eh?  Speaking of, who’s to say that former Death Eater couldn’t have gained access to the Manor without his father’s ring, right?  There would be no reason to suspect someone who has been so conspicuously out of the country, but what if that were simply a well-constructed alibi?  It would be nothing for me to sneak back quietly at any time to a de-prioritized property seized by the Ministry to perhaps start some mischief.  I could have been doing it for years, couldn’t I?  And even if that weren’t the case – which it’s not, by the way – the Chosen One himself is now in the perfect position to not only surveil me, but the leverage being used against me by inviting my mother to stay in his home.  That’s actually reasonably clever thinking for Ministry bureaucrats.”  Draco smiled widely, in a manner which served better to bare his teeth than to convey any real emotion.  “How ‘former’ an Auror are you, Potter?”

Potter said nothing, and didn’t move to stop him when he rose from the table, adjusted the strap of the satchel over his shoulder, and strode out of the pub without a backward glance.

Chapter 5

Draco called himself seven different kinds of fool as he walked back to the Manor.  He should have seen this for what it was the moment he found himself in Shacklebolt’s office.  He had no doubt that the issue with the ley lines was both genuine and urgent, having just experienced what might have been magical disruption while disarming the trap at the staff door.  His error lay in taking everything else at face value.  It hadn’t even occurred to him that they would require him to assume the role of lord of the manor while also suspecting him to have disturbed the ley lines intentionally.

He would write to his mother, as bloody Potter suggested.  She had no doubt correctly assessed the situation far earlier than he had and therefore would not need a warning.  No, he would write to her to assure her that he was on his guard, and would be working to wrap things up at the Manor in a timely fashion.  The longer he was in England, the more time the Ministry had to scrape together justification for their suspicions and find some way to keep him here, under scrutiny – perhaps even go so far as to throw him in Azkaban, as Percy had all but threatened.  Granger’s solstice deadline was irrelevant now.  He intended to be far away from here as soon as he could manage it.

For a moment in the pub, Draco had started to feel something almost like gratitude towards Potter for giving his mother somewhere to stay while she was required to be in London.  It had been a generous gesture, and even in this new context he still had no doubt that his mother would at least be physically safe.  The Ministry was holding Narcissa’s freedom over him, not her life.  That vague reassurance that he’d felt after hearing that she was essentially under Potter’s protection hadn’t faded, it had just been paired with a pointless sense of betrayal.

He didn’t blame his mother for capitulating to the Ministry’s efforts to retrieve him.  She had wanted him to return at least to the Continent for years, and it was entirely like her to both serve and protect her own interests at the same time if she could.  Their last, and really only, truly big row had been when he insisted on traveling after finishing his studies at the Sorbonne.  Narcissa had learned to rarely show her true emotions to anyone, even to family, and had in turn raised Draco to be the same.  So it was quite something that their argument had been loud enough to require some hasty charm work to avoid rousing Narcissa’s neighbors in Nice.  They hadn’t even come close to that level of disagreement since, even when Draco refused to set foot in England long enough to retrieve his father’s ashes from Azkaban.  Narcissa had performed that task alone, and together they had scattered Lucius’s remains at Castel Plage under the light of a full moon.

Draco scratched at the inside of his left forearm through his shirt, knowing that any perceived itch was all in his head, and yet unable to stop himself even though he knew that there would be deep red welts on his skin later.  He’d scratched himself bloody before, and sometimes he’d done worse, as if some kind of fever would take hold of him and he could do nothing else but try anything to remove that fucking Mark.  The more Draco dwelled on it, the stronger that urge became, so he forced himself to stop scratching and shoved his right hand into his pocket as he neared the gates to the Malfoy estate.

A lone raven was perched on the top rail of the gates, settled between two of the fleur de lis post toppers.  The grotesques were still and silent, completely unbothered by its presence.

“I haven’t got any peanuts with me,” Draco said.  “And I’d find a different place to roost, if I were you.”

The raven cocked its head at him, then gave a little hop, flared its wings, and glided down to the unkempt gravel path. 

“Clever bird,” Draco murmured as the gates transformed into black smoke.  He passed through them, idly wondering if this was the same raven that had the run-in with the Bufonidentris – he didn’t have Séneca’s eye for the small details when it came to birds.  But it was nice to think that there was perhaps one living thing on the estate that would be inclined to see a bit of good in him.

The crack of an Apparition sounded from behind him, and he tried to not resent Potter for sparing himself the walk back from the pub.  He glanced over his shoulder, seeing Potter scowling at the now-solid grotesques, which were no doubt scowling much more effectively back at him.

“Hermione wasn’t joking about Apparating being off around here.  Took me three tries to get this close.  I ended up in a cow field the second time,” Harry groused, stamping his feet in an attempt to get what Draco preferred to think of as ‘mud’ off his boots.  He looked up at Draco, nodding pointedly at the gates.

“Let him through,” Draco said.  “There’s no need to question him every time, he has the run of the estate unless I say differently.”

The gates rattled against each other in a disgruntled fashion, but did as they were told.  Potter stepped through, though the smoke solidified a little quicker than usual and nearly caught the back of his anorak inside one of the posts.  Potter turned with a glare and raised two fingers at the gates, which rattled again.  This time, they sounded smug.

Draco rolled his eyes and took the unobtrusive gardener’s path (made more so through decades of disuse) which led around the Manor and back toward the west grounds and the hopefully safe staff entrance to the kitchen.  He could hear Potter following, and was surprised to observe that the raven was as well – it flew in short, low bursts interspersed with a few hops, keeping pace with them.

“I won’t apologize,” Potter finally said, drawing level with Draco, even though the path wasn’t really wide enough for the two of them to walk abreast.

“I would never expect you to,” Draco replied, hiding his dry amusement at the stubborn set of Potter’s jaw.  The statement was obviously prompted by Potter’s own conscience pricking at him.  Gryffindors were so easy to influence if one simply nudged at their innate sense of justice.  “I will simply tell you that this is the first time I’ve been back to England since the trials, that I have not put a single toe on the estate since even before that, and that I wish to leave as soon as possible.”

“Would you say that under Veritaserum?”  Potter challenged, giving him a piercing look.

“Not unless I were charged,” Draco said flatly.  “The Ministry is not entitled to my secrets outside the scope of a formal investigation.  And you are no doubt aware that testimony given under Veritaserum is unreliable, particularly from wizards capable of Occlumency.”

“If you’ve done nothing wrong, then you have nothing to be concerned about.”

Draco laughed.  He stopped and laughed, because it was better to laugh than it was to try to hex an Auror.  Potter stopped as well, a look of consternation on his face.

“Anyone who believes that is either quite stupid or quite naïve.  I am neither of those things, Potter.”  Draco laughed again.  “And you said that with such a serious face for someone who knows it’s not the truth.”

Potter’s small shake of the head was automatic, and quickly stifled.  “What makes you think I don’t believe it?”

“Because it’s the Ministry, Potter.  You might personally trust many of the people who work there but you don’t trust the apparatus – as well you shouldn’t, given how it has both used and turned on you.  It might not be the Death Eaters’ Ministry anymore, but you and I both know that a witch or wizard can be thoroughly evil without ever in their life casting a single Dark spell.  Don’t we?” 

Draco met his gaze.  He noted the way that Potter’s jaw worked, and the way his right hand twitched.  In particular, he noted that Potter didn’t seem to have a ready response.  Interesting.

“Fine,” Potter said finally, continuing down the path.  “Let’s just get on with it, shall we?”

Touchy, Draco thought, this time following instead of leading.  The raven anticipated him as well, launching into a true flight so that it could perch in the lovely old field maple that made for excellent shade on sunny afternoons.  Draco wished he could take a moment or two to sit and read on the carved stone bench beneath it, the way he did on summer days back in what he considered to be his true childhood, but the Manor took priority.

He watched as Potter cautiously approached the still-open staff door, wand at the ready.  He had to admit that Potter’s movements were precise and controlled – very refined compared to his wand work at school.  He was casting nonverbal spells, too, and Draco could only guess at the specific charms by the accompanying movements and what he could see of their effects.

Potter was verifying the status of the trap, magically examining every component of the door and its frame, as well as the step.  Only when he was satisfied did he bother to Vanish the dozen knives that had been protruding from the frame.  He glanced back at Draco, briefly, and then made to go through the door.

“Wait,” Draco ordered.

Pausing in mid-step, Potter glared at him.  “What is it, Malfoy?  Are you expecting traps on every square inch of floor in there?”

“Possibly,” Draco said, and he was only half joking.  “But I wanted to warn you before we try to go in – I saw at least one Dementor on the grounds last night.  I think more than one, but I can’t tell you for certain.”

If Draco hadn’t been looking for it, he probably would have missed the momentary flash of fear that crossed over Potter’s face – there for an eyeblink, and not a second longer.  Potter hardened his expression instead.  “That’s not ideal.”

“Agreed.”

“Right, then,” Potter said, and an enormous shining stag poured into being in front of them, formed by the silvery mist of his nonverbal Patronus charm.  “We’ll have Prongs lead the way.”

With Potter watching the Manor instead of him, Draco was free to wrinkle his nose in bemusement about the way Potter seemed to treat his Patronus as some kind of a pet – at least to the extent that he had named it.  There was something highly emotional behind the choice, Draco had no doubt.  Gryffindors were selected for their bravery, which to his mind included proudly displaying their vulnerabilities as though they were somehow assets.  Still, it was not the time to either comment or to ask, so Draco cautiously stayed just a pace behind Potter as he passed the threshold of the door – the first one to do so at Malfoy Manor in twenty years.

If he were honest with himself, Draco had expected something significant to occur at that moment, mostly likely something bad.  But all that did happen was that Potter shuffled aside to allow Draco to enter kitchen as well without going too far in. 

The kitchen was…clean.  It seemed a little musty, though it was musty in a way which didn’t actually involve any dust or grime on working or walking surfaces.  Even the stoves, ovens, and large central hearth were spotless – no soot stains or burn marks marred any of the stone or ironwork.  The fireplace was swept clean of ashes.  The room looked ready for its intended purpose, just…just dimmed.  Muted. 

Draco was sincerely impressed by the strength of the house elves’ magic, especially after decades of their absence.  He didn’t know much about hearth magic or elf culture beyond what information he’d picked up during his studies in France, as house elves actually weren’t common outside of Europe.  He certainly didn’t know as much as Granger probably did.  But he did know that hearth magic was most often centered in the kitchen of a wizarding home.  There was meaning behind acts of provision, and warmth, and community.  He was somewhat shocked to discover that Malfoy Manor must have had any or all of those things in sufficient quantity to allow so many house elves to bond with it.

It was such a contrast to the feeling of the rest of the house – indeed, the narrow hallway that led to the adjacent dining room and beyond was ominously lacking in illumination, even with the sunlight streaming in from the open door and the pristine windows with their scant ivy covering.  Even when the Death Eaters had ceased the polite fiction that Lucius was in any way their host, they hadn’t bothered to trespass into the kitchen.  Any food they wanted, they called for an elf – or a Malfoy – and demanded it.  Draco had thought nothing of their avoidance at the time – it had seemed natural.  But perhaps there had been a reason for it.

“Not too bad so far,” Potter commented.

It took all of Draco’s self-control not to kick him hard in the shin.  “Well, it will be now you’ve said that!”

Potter grinned at him, and the reappearance of the dimples made Draco momentarily lose his steam.  “I didn’t know you were superstitious, Malfoy.”

“I’m surprised that you apparently aren’t, curse breaker.”  Draco retorted, then paused.  “Or was that just a cover story?”

“No.”  Potter’s grin faded.  “I’ve been doing the work for…Merlin’s beard, probably eight or so years now.  Despite what you think, I am not currently an officer with the DMLE.  Bill Weasley took me under his wing until I had a decent handle on the whole curse-breaking thing, and we’ve worked together often since.”

Since it was Potter saying it – and Draco was confident that Potter could not possibly have become much better at hiding it when he wasn’t telling the truth, even in twenty years – Draco accepted it.  For now, at least.  And while this revelation did intrigue him, he refrained from asking why Potter had changed fields.  This was neither the time nor place for chitchat.

“Try the hallway, then?”  Draco suggested.

With a nod, Potter summoned his Patronus again, and directed the luminous white stag through the kitchen to the opening of something which was really a service hallway, allowing for quick runs back and forth from the kitchen to the dining room and ballroom while remaining out of sight of the family and guests. 

The Patronus – or Prongs, as Potter had called it – didn’t balk at the transition from the polished stone of the kitchen floor to the dark hardwood of the passage, but instead tread confidently into the oppressive gloom.  Its hooves didn’t make a sound, and its light didn’t do much other than change the obscuring darkness to an obscuring muddiness instead.  Not that there should have been much to see, but Draco was bothered by the lack of visible detail.  Eventually, Prongs stopped when it could go no further.  The hallway reached only the extent of the ballroom at the center of the ground floor of the Manor.

“Living signatures,” Potter muttered to himself.

“Almost certainly,” Draco agreed.  He cast a Revelio, but it weakened the further it traveled down the hallway, and caused nothing more than a brief glint as it passed over Prongs.

“Hang on,” Potter said, reaching into one of the pockets of his anorak.  He must have had an Extendable charm on it, because what he retrieved was a large hard rubber ball, a dull rusty color, which showed the marks, dings, and gouges of frequent and careless use.  It was far too big for it to have fit inside that pocket without magic – smaller than a Quaffle, but not by much.

Potter held it up in one hand and pointed his wand at it.  “Simulacrimus!” 

A strange sort of glimmer suddenly surrounded the ball.  It had no fixed color – indeed, it almost looked like a greasy bubble, with an oil slick rainbow shine slipping across the surface of the spell.  Draco wasn’t familiar with it, and couldn’t help but watch avidly as Potter examined the floor, ceiling, and walls of the hallway before drawing back his arm and hurling the ball down at the floor at an angle.  There was enough momentum that the ball traveled forward with each bounce, hitting the walls and ceilings as well as the floor as it made its way toward Prongs. 

There were a few flashes and bangs that went off which were clearly triggered by the passage of the spelled ball, and Prongs danced out of its way as it reached the end.  Potter lifted his wand with an “Accio!” and the ball came flying back at speed, which he caught one-handed.

“What was that?”  Draco asked, too curious to pretend to be above asking questions.

“Something I picked up from Bill,” Potter said, tossing the ball and catching it before stowing it back in his pocket.  “The spell mimics a living human signature – not perfectly, and it won’t set off everything that might be keyed to one.  But it’ll trip the small stuff most of the time.  It’s usually worth trying.”

Draco could see why, though commenting further would be too much like making conversation.  So he cast a nonverbal Lumos to try to illuminate any other signs of magical traps, especially since the light of Potter’s Patronus was fading without him consciously renewing the charm.  Nothing immediately jumped out at him, literally or figuratively, so he set one foot on the hardwood section of the floor.  He retracted it immediately, just in case of a Sticking charm or pressure trigger.  But nothing happened.

“Come on,” Potter said quietly, joining him, and Draco felt at once reassured and irked by it, this feeling of gratitude for not being alone while in this house, and for knowing that Potter was so vexingly, dependably honorable that he was ready to defend him like he would anyone else.  Which made him the only person in England besides his mother who would.

The two of them slowly inched their way down the hallway, wands lit.  Draco craned his head in every direction, consciously reminding himself not to neglect the ceiling – that had been one of Bellatrix’s favorite tricks.  Potter tested each plank in the floor before fully putting his weight on it, but there were only small creaks and groans that would be expected of any such floor.

It was only when Draco felt something almost like a spiderweb brush his arm, just the barest touch, that he heard something start to rattle at the end of the hallway.  His head jerked up in alarm and he went to retreat, but whatever whisper-thin line had contacted his skin suddenly pulled against it, as though it were hooked with an invisible line.  It sent a red-hot sizzle of pain up his arm, and he instinctively threw his left hand out to keep Potter from going ahead.  “Stop!”

Potter did, immediately, turning to Draco with his brow furrowed in concern.  “What –”

A buzzing in Draco’s ear made him duck instinctively and he yanked on Potter’s arm to bring him down as well, but he wasn’t quick enough for Potter to avoid the impact of whatever small objects were flying down the corridor.  He heard Potter yelp, felt him bring his hand up to his face, and saw that it came away bloody.

“Protego!”  The force of the two shield spells cast simultaneously caused the floor to groan, and one of the planks cracked in front of them. 

“Go back,” Draco urged, letting go of Potter’s arm.

“Not likely.”  Potter’s scowl somehow made his green eyes more intense, and Draco had to shake himself to return his attention to whatever was being hurled against their shields.  There was a slightly musical sound, like a soft plinking, which was odd.  There was a growing pile of wooden splinters of various shapes and sizes, clattering together on the floor on the other side of the protective charms.  In the distance at the end of the hallway, Draco could hear another floorboard being ripped up and crumbled into pieces before they were all hurled toward them. 

“Finite maxima!”  Potter’s spell had only a slightly dimming effect on the hostile enchantment.  The number of splinters dropped, but their velocity did not.  If they hadn’t had their shields up, there was no doubt that any exposed skin would be akin to a pincushion.

Draco searched urgently through his memories of all of Bellatrix’s ‘tests.’  This one didn’t feel quite like her, but she had been the cruelest of all the Death Eaters when it came to…most things, actually.  There was one thing that was all but guaranteed to get them out of this, but he didn’t want to resort to it unless he had absolutely no other choice.  Instead, he did his best to consider the problem. 

It was likely that the enchantment at the end of the hall was an Iactus charm, paired with a targeted Confringo to break up the floorboards.  Well, he might be able to stop the Iactus from accessing more ammunition, at least.  He lowered his wand as close to the floor as the filament attached to his arm would allow and tried to aim it precisely as he shouted “Obsepius totalus!”

There was a final patter of the smaller splinters from the last board that had been ripped up, and then all movement from the distant gloom stopped completely.

Draco looked at Potter.  “I’ve only sealed up the floor, and I think we should count on that being temporary at best.”

Potter nodded, gripping Draco’s arm as he stood, but not releasing it.  Instead, he held on, pulling Draco along with him in a retreat – until the filament spell caught on Draco’s right arm again.  Draco’s hiss of pain stopped Potter in his tracks.

“What is it?”

“Something’s got my arm,” Draco said through gritted teeth.  “Be careful, I’m certain there are more.”

Casting a Lumos, Potter examined Draco’s forearm.  A spot of bright red blood had welled right at the point where the filament had latched on, and the strand was partially visible if only for the traces of blood trailing along it.  Draco’s skin was tented slightly where the filament was tugging at it.  Potter aimed his wand carefully, and said “Diffindo!”

Draco let out a small huff of relief as he felt the spell give way, and this time he had no trouble keeping up with Potter as they hurried back toward the kitchen.  A cracking sound behind them made them quicken their pace, and Potter cast another shielding charm right at the point where hardwood met stone. 

“Well, fuck,” Potter commented, sounding slightly out of breath.  “That was a bit of business, wasn’t it?  And the whole house is like that?”

“Your guess is as good as mine,” Draco said sourly.  “But probably.”  He winced as he saw the blood stain on the rolled up cuff of his linen shirt, and when he met Potter’s gaze, he could see rivulets of blood running down his cheek.  “Your face is a mess.”

Potter glowered at him.  “Thanks for that.”

“No, I mean –”  Draco let out a frustrated breath.  “Just come with me.”

“Come where?”  Potter asked, somewhat suspiciously.

Draco rolled his eyes and didn’t bother to answer.  Instead he strode out the staff door, and felt almost a hundred times lighter in the fresh air and early evening sunshine.  He headed toward his tent, knowing that Potter would follow.  The nosy git was too curious not to, even if he was also wary. 

There were a few ravens still poking about in the grass, though they had to have found every last one of the peanuts by now.  The one raven was still perched in the maple, and it followed them into the small wooded area much as it had before.  Draco ignored it, too.

When they reached the tent, Draco unceremoniously yanked the flap aside and gestured impatiently for Potter to go inside.  Potter gave him a beady look and moved slowly, bending slightly to poke his head in first.  Draco fought the urge to take a step back, unprepared for the way he could feel the heat from Potter’s body with how close they were. 

“Get in,” he snapped, congratulating himself for not giving in to his impulse to prod Potter’s backside with his wand.  He followed Potter all the way inside, moving past him to grab his small toolkit from the shelf just inside the living area.  He pointed to one of the kitchen chairs.  “Sit.”

Potter sat, watching Draco intently as he went to the sink and wet down a cloth.  He was slow to take it when Draco thrust it at him, though he eventually did press it against his bloody cheek.  Draco unrolled his kit and selected a pair of fine tweezers.

“What’s that for?”  Potter asked, pulling the damp cloth away to peer at the blood on it.

“I think you might have one or two splinters embedded,” Draco said, not meeting his gaze.  “You’ll want those removed before the punctures are healed.”

Tilting his head slightly, Potter regarded him for a moment, then shrugged and turned his face to give Draco a better angle.

For a moment, Draco froze.  He had everything he needed and knew what spells were necessary after the splinters were removed, but he’d somehow neglected to register that what came next would require him to touch Potter.  On the face.  With his hands.

With that realization, he hopped back up to his feet and hurried to wash his hands at the sink, using plenty of soap and perhaps scrubbing a little longer than he needed to.  He gathered himself, dried his hands thoroughly, and retrieved the tweezers.

“Right, hold still,” Draco said, putting the tips of his fingers on Potter’s stubbly chin and lightly nudging him to tilt his head just so.  He used the cloth that Potter had been holding to dab at the small wounds, leaning in to get a good look at them.

There were four splinters in all, one of them a particularly wide and flat one that had penetrated deep beneath the skin and broken off at the surface.  It was stubborn, and Draco felt Potter’s jaw clench under his hand as he used the tweezers to remove it, as gently as he could. 

“You’re lucky this didn’t hit your eye,” Draco said chidingly, as though it were Potter’s fault for getting in the way of a Hurling Hex that Draco had triggered by touching the filament spell.  

Potter shrugged awkwardly.  “I’ve had worse.”

Draco knew he had, knew that he himself had at times given him worse.  There was a slight bump in the bridge of Potter’s nose that had been there ever since Draco had stomped on his face in their sixth year.  He ruthlessly suppressed the vague feeling of shame that welled up at the thought, instead focusing on the stubborn splinter.  It pulled free at last, and Draco covered the wound with the bloodstained cloth, putting a little pressure on it to discourage further bleeding.  Potter hissed.

“Stop it,” Draco ordered.  “You are perfectly well, or you will be in a minute.”  He picked up his wand from the table, pointing it at Potter’s cheek.  “Episkey.”

The small puncture wounds drew their edges closed, knitting the warm brown skin back together and leaving nothing but faint lines which would be completely gone in a few minutes.  Draco patted the cloth back over the area, removing any lingering traces of blood and ensuring that he hadn’t missed anything.  Nodding in satisfaction, he turned to drop the soiled cloth into the sink basin to clean up later, but a hand snaked around his wrist.

Draco looked back at Potter in surprise as the man pulled him a little closer in order to examine the tiny cut that the filament spell hook had left behind.  Potter didn’t even need to touch his wand or speak the spell – he just brushed a thumb lightly over the injury, and it closed up the same way his own had.

Gooseflesh rose under Potter’s warm touch, and Draco suddenly realized that Potter was still loosely gripping his wrist.  He swallowed hard and jerked it back.  He had no idea what to say, other than perhaps a thank-you, but even those words stuck in his throat.  Instead, he washed his hands again and cast a quick Scourgify on the cloth.  He did the same for the pair of tweezers before stowing them back in his kit, his nerves rising higher the longer the silence stretched on. 

“I think I’d better go,” Potter said finally, getting to his feet.  “Don’t go back inside the Manor without me, Malfoy.”

“I know that, Potter,” Draco snapped, looking up.  “Believe me, I have no intentions of doing so.”

“Fine.”  Potter’s tone was even.  “And that list of artifacts will be helpful as well.  We can go over it tomorrow morning if you’re finished with it by then.”

“Of course.”  Draco crossed his arms. 

“Right.”  Potter fidgeted with the zip of his anorak for a moment.  “See you tomorrow, then.”

“Tomorrow, then,” Draco repeated.

There was another brief flash of white teeth, the dimples emerging yet again, and then Potter was through the tent flap and gone.

Draco sank into the chair that Potter had been sitting in, running both hands through his hair.  His mind was whirling with too many thoughts, none of which he wanted to examine more closely.  So he reached into his satchel for the Scrivener quill and notebook, ready to dictate an itemized list and description of every wretched Dark thing he could remember from the Malfoy family collection.

Chapter 6

“Here.”  Draco slapped a thin stack of parchment against Potter’s chest, ignoring the quiet “Oof” of surprise he heard in response.

He hadn’t slept well.

Dementors – or at least what he believed were Dementors, as he hadn’t actually seen them – had tested the wards around his tent the previous night.  Again.  More than once.  After the third incident, Draco didn’t bother trying to go back to sleep.  His ermine Patronus had chased them off each time, but it had been increasingly difficult to summon it as he grew more fatigued through the night, and that worried him.  He wasn’t sure how his wards would fare if there were enough Dementors attempting to breach them all at once, but that didn’t seem to matter as their current strategy seemed instead to be focused on wearing him down. 

He didn’t know what to do about that, and so he allowed himself to be snappish when Potter showed up outside his tent just before Draco had made himself a morning cup of tea.  Tea wasn’t what he really wanted.  What he really wanted was a large mug of café de olla, but he was never able to make it the way Séneca did, and it was the one thing that Séneca always insisted had to be made fresh.  It didn’t taste right after being in stasis, he claimed, but just now Draco felt that he’d be prepared to kill someone for it.

Potter claimed one of the kitchen chairs as Draco threw together a pot of tea with an air of grim determination and a high likelihood of shattering one of his teacups.  Draco could hear the shuffling of paper behind him, a soft mumbling as Potter read through the list of artifacts that had been completed in fits and starts between poor quality naps and chasing off Dementors.

While the tea was brewing, Draco retrieved the map of the Manor he’d drawn on pages from his notebook, all held together with Sticking charms.  He dropped that in front of Potter as well. 

Potter’s eyebrows flew up, the lightning bolt scar on his forehead disappearing completely behind his messy black fringe.  “This is a lot of work, Malfoy.  Did you sleep at all?”

Draco poured himself a cup of tea and considered offering Potter one as well.  But he couldn’t quite muster up the necessary politeness to say it out loud, and instead just poured another cup and set it in front of Potter without a word.  The small jug of cream and the sugar bowl were already on the table.  He added a bit of both to his own tea, then finally sat down. 

“Not much,” Draco admitted, after taking a long sip.

“I don’t know that you needed to go all Hermione on this, we’re only just getting started,” Potter said, dropping three lumps of sugar into his cup and causing the tea to stir itself with a minute twirl of his finger.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”  Draco said testily.

“Just that this is a lot of detailed work to be done overnight, Malfoy.  Very Hermione-esque.”  Potter didn’t smile, but the lines around his eyes crinkled in a way that told Draco he was amused.

Hiding his annoyance with another long sip of tea, Draco closed his eyes and re-thought the sharp response that was on the tip of his tongue.  Potter’s words had brought to mind frequent speeches from his father about allowing a Muggle-born witch to out-perform him, which had grown from stern lectures to tirades with each passing year.  It wasn’t only that Draco was behind Granger in classes that they had together, but also that she had somehow earned high marks in classes she couldn’t possibly have taken.  Not without five or six extra hours in a day, at least.  He didn’t know how she’d done it, not specifically, though he believed he was aware of all the potential options. 

But Potter…perhaps Potter wasn’t intending this as a slight, but as some sort of teasing compliment.  He was friends with Granger after all, and Draco had since gained a high degree of respect for Granger’s academic achievements.  He didn’t need or want any compliments from Potter, of course, but he ought to be socially astute enough to understand the difference and react accordingly.  So he settled for a noncommittal hum.

“I brought some paper, too.  Let’s have a trade,” Potter said, pulling a file out of the pocket of his anorak and sliding it over to Draco.

Intrigued, Draco flipped the file cover open and started reading.  This was from the DMLE, specifically from the Auror records, and described the attempt made by a party of Aurors to enter Malfoy Manor with the aim of flushing out any Death Eaters which may have been in hiding there after the end of the second war. He skimmed through the reports, noting that there seemed to be one from each of the surviving Aurors who had been on the assignment. 

“They went in through the conservatory,” he murmured.

“Yeah,” Potter agreed.  “So there might be fewer obstacles if we were to try the same route, if they were able to get as far as the cellars.”

Draco wasn’t so optimistic, but he would reserve final judgment until they could see it in person.  “There are a few service passages that the Death Eaters might not have thought to hex.  The elves used them, when they didn’t just Apparate.  But they don’t go through the entire manor, and they don’t always exist.  They form when required, but I’m not sure exactly how.”  He tapped the map that was spread out on the table, indicating one such passage which allowed access to the bedrooms on the upper floor.

“What about the roof?”  Potter asked.  “Would it be possible to get inside from there?”

“Unlikely,” Draco said, finishing the dregs of his tea.  It hadn’t done much to increase his readiness to face the day.  “The Manor has several old enchantments that were laid during its construction, some of which were intended to allow it to aid the family in repelling attacks.  Weak points like the roof, chimneys, and windows will be difficult to breach, if they are not also hexed.”

“Well, from the conservatory it looks like we can get in close to the ballroom, main hall, and…what’s this room here?”

Draco didn’t even need to look at where Potter was pointing on the map.  “My father’s study.  It adjoins the library.”

Potter didn’t say anything for a moment, neither did he look up to try to meet Draco’s gaze.  “I’m sorry.”

“What for, Potter?  You didn’t kill him.  You didn’t put him in Azkaban.  He did that to himself.”  Draco was mildly proud of the disinterested air he was able to affect.  It had been the only safe way to talk about his father for a very long time.

“I’m sorry when anyone loses family, even if I’m not particularly sorry about him personally.”

There was no hiding the slight hitch in his breath, so Draco cleared his throat and rose from his chair.  The small pewter cauldron in his potions cupboard was full of the Invigoration Draught which had now finished brewing, and he needed at least a sip before facing the Manor again today.  He measured out some of the clear orange liquid and tossed it back, instantly feeling better as the potion infused a little extra energy into his body.  One had to take care about using this draught too often, as overuse could interfere with the signals the body sent when rest was truly necessary.  But right now, it was hard to bring himself to care.

“All right?”  Potter asked, a hint of concern in his green eyes.

“Fine.”  Draco shut the cupboard door firmly.  “Just let me get the peanuts and we can get started.”

“The what?”  The look on Potter’s face was slightly baffled. 

Not bothering with an explanation, Draco again rummaged through the food he had in his stasis cupboard, which had an Extendable Charm on it to allow for a significant amount of storage.  His second-to-last bag of roasted peanuts in hand, he led the way out of the tent.  The ravens were already perched expectantly in the trees beyond the wards, and they all started cawing when they saw him.

He hid a grin, secretly pleased at the warm reception.  There were all kinds of tales and misconceptions about ravens – some people considered them to be unlucky, others thought they were a nuisance.  But a little bribery could result in a cordial relationship with a flock.

When they reached the west lawn, Draco reached into the bag of treats and scattered handfuls of them all throughout the grass, watching as the ravens descended.  He took a moment to admire the way the early light shone on their glossy black feathers, showing off the hints of purple and blue iridescence that often went unseen.

Draco turned to ask Potter if he was ready to get started, and found the man watching him thoughtfully.  Potter’s scrutiny was…disconcerting, to say the least, though not unfamiliar.  He’d experienced plenty of it while they were at Hogwarts together, though back in those days it was accompanied by overt reciprocal hostility.  The lack of it now was throwing him off-balance, but…not necessarily in a bad way.

“Before we take a look at the conservatory, I’d like to see if that Hurling Hex has run its course,” Potter said.

“Certainly,” Draco agreed, though it was entirely without enthusiasm.

While the kitchen itself was inert, still in the same preserved condition as it had been the previous day, the hallway containing the Iactus charm was a different story.  The shield that Potter had placed was still up – a fact that Draco was finding it difficult not to be impressed by – but the hex had not ‘run its course.’

It had taken up the entire hardwood floor of that hallway and shredded it, cycling the resultant shards and splinters of wood through the entire length of the corridor and continuously hurling them against the shield.  It was a blizzard of projectiles, so thick that in combination with the still lingering gloom, visibility was twenty feet at most.

“Never seen anything quite like this,” Potter said, staring narrow-eyed at the perpetual destruction.  “Generally speaking, this shouldn’t be possible.  I’d expect a hex like this to fade eventually, especially when it’s not actively being renewed by the original caster.  And particularly if that caster happens to be dead, though of course not all of the Death Eaters ended up as casualties of the war.”

Draco looked away, ignoring the sudden feeling of itchiness under the sleeve covering his left arm. 

“Something here is keeping these curses strong.  It’s powering them independent of the witch or wizard who put them in place, and making them resistant to the standard counter spells,” Potter continued.  He’d turned his glare on Draco now.  “Whatever it is, it’s probably what has been causing the interference with the ley lines.  And you know what it is.  Don’t you.”

It wasn’t a question.  And Draco couldn’t even pretend to take it as one, as he was too overcome by the rush of memory that brought with it pain and sickness, the echo of horror and revulsion so strong that it drove him to his knees, his head splitting in agony.  He had no thought clearer than his need to flee, to get out, to leave this place and be thousands of miles away.

He heard Potter call out after him as he managed to lurch to his feet and stumble through the kitchen, bouncing off of one of the preparation tables and heaving in gulps of fresh air as soon as he made it outside in an attempt to keep his stomach from rebelling.  He squeezed his eyes shut, as even the clouds obscuring the sun didn’t dull the light enough to keep it from being too painful to take in. 

A hand on his shoulder startled him so badly that he jerked away blindly, almost losing his balance.

“Easy, Malfoy.”  Potter’s voice was low and soft, as though trying to soothe a frightened animal. 

Draco despised him for the gentleness, despised himself even more for allowing it to work on him, and imagined what his mother would think of him if she saw him fall apart like this.  He scrubbed at his face, forcing himself to straighten up to his full height.  He took a deep breath and opened his eyes, the sunlight still too bright, but he stubbornly kept them open even though it caused his head to throb.

Potter’s face came into focus, and for some reason it helped Draco to concentrate on the deep frown line between those black brows.  He felt the irrational urge to try to smooth it away with his thumb and clenched his fists to keep himself from doing it.  He didn’t feel entirely under his own control at the moment.

“You do know what it is.”

“Yes.”  Draco’s response was little more than a hiss of breath through his teeth.

“Tell me.”  Potter’s eyes were boring into him.

“I can’t,” Draco managed to say, before his throat felt constricted, and it was painful for him to swallow.

“You can’t, or you won’t?”

The words wouldn’t come either way, so Draco just shook his head, feeling the pain in his head intensify. 

“But it’s in the cellars?”

“Yes.”  Draco could barely choke out the word this time.

“All right, I’ll stop asking,” Potter said, reaching out with his hand, but hesitating before he actually touched Draco’s shoulder, instead letting it hover awkwardly.  “It’s fine, Malfoy, we won’t talk about it anymore today.”

The chuckle that succeeded in breaking free from him had an edge of hysteria to it.  “Doesn’t matter.  This isn’t going to work.”

“What’s not going to work?”  Potter asked, his brows knitting together again.

“Any of it.”  Draco waved his right hand toward the Manor, then held it up in front of Potter’s face so that he could see the ring, the Malfoy crest glinting in spelled silver.  “This does nothing.  Whatever Granger thought would happen, it’s not working.”  I’m going to die here, he thought, but didn’t say aloud.  He felt sure of it, though.  All the way down to his bones.

“I don’t believe that,” Potter said firmly.  “Hermione is the smartest person I’ve ever known, and that includes wizards who have a lot more fame and a lot less brain.  She’s been working on this problem for more than a year, she was the one who figured out what was disrupting the ley lines.  If she says this is the way to fix it, then this is the way to fix it.”

“This situation is the ultimate embodiment of the phrase ‘easier said than done,’ Potter.  She’s not here, is she?  It’s me and you.  It’s easy to understand why I’m here – I’m expendable, and as long as they can threaten my mother, easily manipulated.  You, though?  I thought Granger would value her friends more, that’s all.” 

Draco turned on his heel and stalked away, heading south towards the side of the Manor where the conservatory was located.  His headache had settled into dull but persistent pressure, but he was beyond caring.  He probably had some kind of remedy somewhere in his satchel, but the idea of stopping to retrieve it felt pointless.  Why not indulge the inclination toward self-destruction when this house was ultimately going to achieve that end anyway?  The only difference would be the timing.

This time Potter was less gentle when he grabbed Draco’s shoulder, and he easily blocked and captured Draco’s fist when he turned and swung at him.  Draco shouldn’t have been surprised by the strength in Potter’s hands as they gripped his wrists and held him in place, but he was.

“You listen to me, Malfoy,” Potter growled, his green eyes blazing now.  “You are not expendable, and neither am I.  No one is.  And I think we’ve both survived too much to let some old mansion get the better of either of us.  Agreed?”

Draco opened his mouth and closed it, at a complete loss for anything to say – again.  It was dizzying to go from grim resignation to something that almost felt like hope this abruptly, and at first he automatically distrusted it.  It seemed impossible for anyone to have this kind of sincere conviction – how could they, with all of the unknowns they were facing?  But Potter was a Gryffindor.  This must be how that lot felt all the time.

“Agreed?”  Potter asked again, quieter this time.

“Agreed,” Draco said, hardly believing it.  But he did mean it, a little.

Potter suddenly seemed to realize that he was still holding tightly to Draco’s wrists, and quickly let go.  He cleared his throat and straightened his anorak, dropping his eyes to his sleeve as he brushed off some non-existent dirt.  “Good.  Now let’s take a look at that conservatory.”

The conservatory was…not promising.  It was almost completely obscured by the greenery encasing its glass and stone construction.  There had always been some ivy climbing the walls of the Manor, kept in check by regular trimming but mostly just enough to give it a bit of romance.  Now its coverage was like a reclamation, veiling many of the large windows and creeping along the ground and melding with the overgrowth of the lawns.  The conservatory was clearly the hardest-hit part of the Manor, with the biggest botanical obstruction being the hedge maze that had extended itself right up to the wide exterior doors. 

Draco remembered the glittering summer gatherings – the ones that hadn’t centered around the Death Eaters – that his mother had staged so elegantly that they spilled seamlessly from the ballroom to the wide ground-level balcony, which allowed their guests access to the grounds and most particularly the maze.  The maze was a good place to steal a private moment or two, with a particular person (or two), out of sight of the rest of the partygoers.  The hedge walls themselves were ten feet high with dense branches and leaves.  Draco had had quite a few private moments of his own in that maze, one of which had led to his inadvertent coming out when his father stumbled upon him and Blaise Zabini snogging under the statue of the firedrake.

“Well, that’s not good,” Potter commented.

“No,” Draco concurred, seeing the empty marble plinths at the entrance of the maze, which customarily held a pair of carved manticore statues.  “The hedge was never designed to reach the conservatory doors.  The Auror reports you brought didn’t say anything about this.”

“Which means it must have happened afterward.”  Potter scratched his chin thoughtfully, his fingers scraping over stubble.  “Please tell me that these aren’t those magical hedges.”

“What do you think?”  Draco asked, sarcasm bleeding into his tone a tad more than he intended.

“Fuck,” Potter muttered, turning away and starting to pace back and forth. 

Draco could guess at what he might be thinking about.  Potter had gone into a similar maze during their fourth year, when he was competing in the Triwizard Tournament. 

That night had changed everything for both of them, even if they hadn’t fully understood it at the time.

“Perhaps you should try that living signature spell with the ball,” Draco suggested.  “Because as I see it, the quickest way to get inside the conservatory is through the maze, and I’m not keen on first trying it out myself.”

Potter gave him a quick nod, retrieving the hard rubber ball from his pocket and casting that strange Simulacrimus charm on it once more.  Taking aim at the gap between the empty marble plinths, he lobbed it into the maze, where it disappeared from view almost instantly.  The hedge rustled as it snapped closed, and the maze itself seemed to shudder and shake violently and at random.  Draco thought he could hear what sounded almost like growling noises, and one ear-splitting screech from something that was definitely neither human nor animal.  Then there came a thwack and the ball was launched straight up into the air.

“Accio!”  Potter Summoned the ball to him before it could fall back inside the maze.  The oily sheen of the Simulacrimus was gone, and the ball appeared to be sporting a few more deep gouges.

“I think,” Potter said, after a moment’s contemplation, “that it might be time to call in an expert.”

~ * ~

“He’s late,” Draco said, trying to hide his agitation behind scribbling a draft of his first report to Shacklebolt and whoever the Minister cared to share it with.  He’d already vented his feelings in writing with liberal use of various profanities, and was actually considering leaving at least half of them in the final version.

“We’re lucky it’s Saturday, Malfoy.  He wouldn’t be able to come at all if he’d had classes to teach,” Potter reasoned.  He was laying on his back in the grass with his eyes closed, propped up by his elbows and his face turned up toward the sun as it briefly appeared from behind the patchy cloud cover.  He seemed to be the very picture of relaxation.

Draco tried not to notice the way Potter’s shirt was riding up slightly on his abdomen, displaying a stripe of brown skin with a thin trail of black hair that disappeared beneath the waistband of his jeans.

“He does know where he’s supposed to meet us?” 

“Yes, Malfoy.”

“And he knows…he knows that he’s not just meeting with you?”  Draco focused on his notebook when Potter opened his eyes and looked over at him.

“He knows.  It was all in my message.”

Underlining one particular word several times for emphasis, Draco couldn’t quite suppress the skeptical huff that seemed the most natural response.  Then a thought occurred to him.  “He’s not Apparating here, is he?”

Potter sat up quickly.  “Shit.  Yes, probably.  It’s too long a flight on a broom from Scotland.  I’ll message him again.”

Casting his Patronus, Potter sent the stag bounding off toward the gates of the estate.  “This distortion of the Floo network and destination targeting interference is damned inconvenient.”

Draco scoffed.  “At least you can Apparate.”  He raised his right hand to show Potter the metal cuff around his wrist, giving an exaggerated wave.

Looking slightly uncomfortable, Potter shrugged one shoulder.  “They weren’t sure…  There were some who didn’t think Narcissa would be enough to keep you here.”

“You can name names, Potter, no need to be coy about it.  I know what you all must think of me.”

“No, you don’t,” Potter argued.

“Don’t I?”  Draco chuckled, though there was no humor in it.  “I left the country for a reason, you know.”

“Hermione said you were in…Brazil?”  Potter got to his feet and stretched, causing his shirt to lift up higher, exposing even more of his torso.

“Not lately.  Mexico.”  Draco concentrated so hard on his notebook that the words blurred.  He was lucky the quill didn’t snap between his fingers, they were clenched so tightly.

Potter opened his mouth, likely to ask another question, but he caught sight of a shining silver shape ambling through the grass towards them.  “Oh, that’ll be Neville’s Patronus.”

As the shape drew nearer, Draco could see the slight differences in the silver gradient that would be stark black stripes on a white face for a true badger, complete with tufty round ears and powerful forelegs with long blunt claws.  The badger Patronus sat up on its haunches, and Neville Longbottom’s voice issued forth.  “Bloody hell, Harry, this is getting ridiculous.  I think I can see the estate from where I am now, hang on a mo’ and I’ll try to pop over.”

“Brilliant,” Potter said, jogging in the direction of the gates. 

Draco was slower to follow, taking a little more time than necessary to arrange his notebook and quill back into their customary compartments in his satchel.  His stomach gave an anxious gurgle, but he steeled himself and started walking.  He was almost caught up to Potter when there was a sudden crack of displaced air, and Longbottom stood just beyond the gates looking slightly windswept and flustered.

“Fucking finally,” Longbottom said, looking around with evident relief, and his wide smile dimmed immediately into a carefully neutral expression when his gaze shifted from Potter to Draco.  He gave a cautious nod.  “Malfoy.”

“Hello, Longbottom,” Draco replied, striving for banal pleasance in his tone.  He addressed the gates.  “Let him through, he can come and go as he likes.”

Longbottom passed through the smoky gates with only a hint of the general nervousness that had composed most of his personality the first few years they were at school together.  There was still a bit of roundness to his face and midsection, but he was much taller now and had the kind of bulk that came from hard physical labor – Potter had said that Longbottom had completely rebuilt the greenhouse at Hogwarts after it was devastated during the battle.  The new design was built almost like a cross, like the way Muggles used to build cathedrals, in order to create greenhouse chambers for four different climates and seasons.  The central part of it was an updated version of the teaching greenhouse in which old Professor Sprout had taught them about Herbology. 

Draco thought Longbottom looked like he was a good teacher – his face had always been kind, but there was a confident authority to him now that commanded respect.  Perhaps it was the neatly trimmed beard.  In any case, Draco could easily picture him as the current Head of Gryffindor House now.

Potter grabbed Longbottom in a tight hug, pounding his back with his fist as they both laughed.  “Good to see you, Professor.”

“Please.”  Longbottom made a face.  “Let me not be a professor for today, for the love of Ptolemy’s Tables.  We’re only a little over a week into the term and I’m already exhausted, I swear that eleven-year-olds get younger every year.”

“Or you’re just getting older,” Potter teased.  “How’s Hannah?  And your mum?”

Longbottom grinned broadly.  “Hannah’s amazing as always.  And mum’s okay, she’s good.  She likes sitting in the back garden, and sometimes she even helps me pull weeds, though she often gets them mixed up with flowers.  I think she’s much happier with us than staying at St. Mungo’s since dad died.”

Draco felt a sympathetic pang in his chest at those words.  He hadn’t heard about the death of Frank Longbottom, but he didn’t know what to say now, or if his saying anything would even be welcome.  He doubted he had anything of value to offer Neville Longbottom after having tormented him for most of their school years.

“So!”  Longbottom clapped his hands and rubbed his palms together, an eager glint in his eye.  “Let’s take a look at these murderous hedges, shall we?”

“This way,” Draco said, gesturing.  “Thank you for coming all this way.”

“Of course,” Longbottom said politely.  “Anything for Harry.”

And that was a moment of bitter clarity for Draco.  Anything for Harry.  Any help that he had with the impossible task that the Ministry had set him was entirely down to Potter, directly and indirectly.  Draco was almost entirely alone here.  Here, he didn’t have the kinds of friends or colleagues who would drop everything and run to help when needed.  He was nothing to them – an afterthought at best, and an old enemy at worst.  And that was no more than he deserved, he supposed. 

He nearly ran into Potter when he stopped walking, he’d been so absorbed with his own thoughts that he hadn’t realized that they’d reached the south end of the Manor.  

“Blimey.”  Longbottom was examining everything he could see of the hedge maze from a safe distance, squatting down to get a look of what was visible of the roots.  “Buxus labyrinthus.  These are rare, they are.  They’re tame enough with regular care and the right kind of supplemental fertilizer, as they’re slightly carnivorous, but there’s always a chance they could go feral.”

Slightly carnivorous?  Draco shuddered.  “Assume that they have not had such care for at least twenty years, and have been under distal influence of Dark magic for just as long.”

“Ooh.”  Longbottom winced.  “Then yeah, I think it’s safe to say they’ve gone feral.”

“So what do we do, then?”  Potter asked, adjusting his glasses.  “Do we have to, I don’t know, burn them down?”

“No!”  Draco and Longbottom said in unison, and then gave each other startled and wary looks. 

“Ordinary fire isn’t going to hurt them at all.  You’d need something much more magically intense to eradicate them,” Longbottom explained.

Draco knew what he meant.  Fiendfyre.  There were absolutely no circumstances under which Draco wanted to see those cursed flames again.

“It’s essentially all one plant, you see.  The root system is interconnected, which makes the maze itself a kind of organism.  It’ll respond to the magic of wand wood, but only when a wand comes into direct contact with the heart of the maze.  There is a core, usually right at the center, that we’ll need to find in order to bring it under control.”  Longbottom reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew an atomizer, its glass bottle filled with some kind of yellow-green liquid.  “This might help.  It’s a mild sedative and paralytic that only works on plants which are capable of this kind of independent movement, like the Whomping Willow back at Hogwarts.  We can at least keep it from boxing us in.  It wouldn’t normally do that, but as it is…”

“We’ll need it,” Potter said firmly.

“There are other things that we need to consider,” Draco said.  “This maze had several points of interest within it, including a number of marble statues which…I think are no longer where they are supposed to be.”  He pointed to the two marble plinths at the maze entrance.  “Those two held manticores.  There should also be a firedrake, a phoenix, a chimera, and a thestral.  At the center of the maze – at least as it was designed – there was a fountain with three veela.”

“What, animated statues?”  Longbottom’s eyebrows met in a worried frown.

“Probably,” Draco said, remembering the fresh gouges on Potter’s curse-breaking decoy.

Potter clapped both of them on the shoulder, a manic grin splitting his face.  “Sounds like fun.”

Chapter 7

“Watch out!” 

Draco heard Potter’s shout of warning and whirled around, only just stumbling out of the way of the marble thestral as it charged down the narrow passage of the hedge maze.  Longbottom steadied him with a hand on his shoulder, withdrawing it the second he judged that Draco had regained his balance.  The thestral took a hard left turn and disappeared from view, its sharp hooves flinging gravel from the path high into the air. 

“Neville, the hedge!”  Potter pointed at the right-hand branch of the passage, the one the thestral hadn’t taken, while holding his wand up to maintain the shield that was the only thing between them and one of the large stone manticores.  The statue’s scorpion tail contained no venom, of course, but it had already taken a swipe at Longbottom’s knee with one of its massive lion paws and torn through his trouser leg.  He wasn’t limping, and Draco couldn’t see any blood, so he seemed to be all right.

Longbottom rushed to spritz some of the sedative potion from the atomizer on both sides of the hedges to prevent them from closing up the pathway, which would have cut them off from the route which might at least get them slightly closer to the heart of the maze.  The affected hedges shuddered when the yellow-green mist came into contact with their leaves, and Longbottom kicked away a few coiling vines that attempted to sneak their way around his ankle.  “None of that, you cheeky thing!”

“What was that?”  Potter asked, keeping one eye on the manticore.

“That’s what you avoid by using the supplemental fertilizer,” Longbottom said, grinning crookedly.  “If they can, the hedges will use the vines to drag carrion into the beds to allow the roots to absorb the extra nutrients.  They’re remarkably resourceful.”

“Yes, remarkable,” Draco drawled, taking care to stand in the exact center of the path.  “Except that they don’t seem to be very discerning, considering the fact that you – we – are not carrion.”

“Not yet,” Longbottom said cheerfully, and Potter laughed.

Draco stared at them, unnerved.  They were insane, both of them.  No, not insane.  They were Gryffindors.  Laughing in the face of danger was such a House cliché that it made Draco’s lip curl, unpleasant memories of his own cowardice drifting unbidden towards the surface of his mind.  He was torn between the urge to laugh along with them to hide his unease, and the compulsion to puncture their fortitude with cutting words. 

He did neither, instead cautiously approaching the junction where the path diverged in two opposing directions.  He could see nothing but more hedges on each side, and taking the right turn wouldn’t necessarily get them to the heart of the maze sooner than the left.  The maze had shifted during its period of untended growth, not only by reaching the doors to the conservatory but also by completely rearranging its innards from the configuration that Draco had been more familiar with in his youth.  However, with one of the manticores blocking their retreat, there was no other choice but to pick a direction and continue.

“I don’t supposed we could just blast our way directly through the hedges,” Potter suggested, his voice slightly strained from the effort of keeping the manticore at bay.  The moving statue had given up swiping at the Protego charm and was instead focused on digging at the gravel path beneath it.

“Not unless you want to see this maze go completely mental,” Neville said, joining Draco to poke his own head around the corner toward the right.  “You need to think of it as a single entity, not just a lot of plants close together.  This far gone, it will defend itself if necessary.”

“Well, that stuff you’ve got might be keeping the maze from boxing us in, but these statues are doing that instead.”  Potter huffed.  “Choose one, right or left, and let’s go!”

Draco raised his wand, aiming it at the manticore.  “Drop the shield when I say, Potter.”

“Malfoy –”

“Just do it,” Draco snapped, readying himself.  “Now!”

Potter dropped his wand arm – later Draco would puzzle over that little show of faith, how ready Potter seemed to trust him – and the manticore reared, testing the air in front of it and preparing to charge.

“Wingardium leviosa!”  Draco screwed his face into a grimace as he levitated the heavy marble statue, flinging it across the tops of the hedge rows for some distance.  Levitation did not make a thing weightless – the magical force necessary to do so was proportional to the mass of the object being lifted.  There was a thud and a terrible, grating screech which came from a stone maw, along with the sound of cracking branches and scraping gravel.  Potter gave him an indecipherable look, then shook himself.

“Right, let’s go!”  Potter led the way, jogging ahead of Draco and Longbottom and taking the path to the right, then left, then left again, until they were facing another dead end.  Potter let out a frustrated growl and turned back.  “I don’t suppose either of you have a broom on you?  This will take us ages at this rate.”

Longbottom shook his head.  “Not me.  I’ve never really got the hang of flying, if I’m honest.”  He rubbed his arm, as if in memory of a long ago broken bone. 

Potter turned his questioning gaze to Draco.

“No,” Draco said shortly, with no intention of elaborating.  He hadn’t flown in years.

“Well, we can’t Apparate there, as we don’t even know exactly where the heart of the maze is, and that’s pretty dodgy around here anyway.”  Potter hesitated, his eyes flicking between Draco and Longbottom.

“What d’you think, Harry?”  Longbottom asked, glancing back the way they came.

“I’ve got my broom with me,” Potter said reluctantly.  “But using it would mean splitting up, and I’m not sure that’s the best idea.”

“You’re right about this taking too much time,” Draco said.  “Our choices are either to bumble about as a party of three or to have at least one of us aloft and able to give some direction to the other two.”

“I’m quite all right with my feet on the ground,” Longbottom said quickly. 

“As am I,” Draco agreed.  “Besides, it would be safer for two to walk the maze instead of just one alone.”

Potter’s face soured, and Draco had no doubt that he was trying to figure out some way that he could take on all the risk himself instead of leaving it to them.  He was so damnably, heroically predictable. 

“Go on, Potter.”  Draco waved a hand.  “The sooner we can locate the heart of the maze, the better.”

“Fine.”  It was clear that Potter wasn’t entirely happy with this new plan, but he reached into the pocket of his anorak anyway.  He withdrew something small enough to fit on the palm of his hand, though it quickly grew to its proper size when he cast a nonverbal Engorgio charm on it.

The broom wasn’t a model that Draco recognized, though admittedly he had not been keeping up with the latest in broom development.  It was clearly designed for Quidditch, not day-to-day travel, as its sleek mahogany lines and individually polished twigs practically hummed with power and the promise of speed.  There was a shining gold symbol etched right along the upper part of the handle – a stylized hand with the index finger and thumb folded together.  The foot grips were clearly goblin-made, and tied to the top of the handle was a large dappled gray hippogriff feather which caught the sunlight and gleamed in soft pink and green luster.

“It’s a prototype,” Potter said, looking slightly embarrassed.  “They’re supposed to be officially released next year, it’s called a Vayu Beta-one.  Padma’s design, she apprenticed under Spudmore and took his place in the company when he retired.”

“Helps to be connected and everyone’s favorite,” Longbottom said, his smile genuine and teasing.  Potter cuffed him lightly on the shoulder.

“It’s beautifully crafted,” Draco observed, unable to refrain from commenting.  It truly was gorgeous work.  He felt a familiar yearning surface within him, the desire to feel the wind in his face and see the world unfolding below him.

“It flies like a dream,” Potter admitted, a broad grin spreading across his face. 

A sudden rustling noise from a few hedgerows over reminded them of their present task, and Potter quickly got astride his broom, hooking one foot into the grip and kicking off the ground with the other.  The broom shot upwards, more smoothly than Draco had seen even in professional Quidditch matches.  The Vayu was obviously an elegant piece of craftsmanship, but Potter was a good flyer.  He always had been.

Potter shaded his eyes and peered down at Draco and Longbottom, then swept his gaze around the maze.  He wouldn’t be able to go too high, as that would risk being seen by any passing Muggles or potentially flagged by their radar. 

“That manticore is on its way back,” he called down to them.  He raised his hand and pointed to the east.  “The fountain is that way, let me get a closer look at it.” 

As Potter zipped effortlessly through the air, Draco raised his eyebrows at Longbottom and gestured back towards the closest junction.  “Shall we?”

“Er, all right,” Longbottom said awkwardly. 

Draco sighed inwardly.  He didn’t want Longbottom to be uncomfortable being alone with him, but he could hardly blame him for it.  Any reassurances that came to mind for him to say died on the tip of his tongue, smothered by the doubt that Longbottom would hear them as sincere.  So, he instead decided to say nothing, keeping a wary ear out for the approaching manticore and following Longbottom as he turned the opposite direction than the one they’d first taken at the junction.  Draco gave two flicks of his wand to scratch an ‘X’ in the gravel of the dead end path, though he wasn’t optimistic that the mark would stay for long should the maze rearrange itself – again.

The two of them trudged along in silence for a bit, the uneasiness stretching between them like an elastic band ready to snap at any moment.  Draco was just about to open his mouth to say something – anything – which might relieve the tension, when Longbottom gave a cry of delight and picked up his pace.  He jogged a few meters down the path until he reached a small flower bed, distinct from the areas they’d seen before as the hedges curved widely around it instead of making sharp, narrow right angles. 

Longbottom bent to examine the blooms, which Draco had to admit to himself were an unexpectedly pleasant surprise.  He remembered the decorative garden patches which had been diligently maintained as part of the maze, offering sweet scents and delightful views to wandering guests even aside from the statuary.  He was somewhat shocked to see so many of the flowers still thriving, even if the edges of the bed and the gravel path were ragged and there were more than a few weeds the flowers were having to contend with.

The primary subject of Longbottom’s attention was the rosebush at the focal point of the small garden.  It had delicate high-centered blooms which were a soft, pale gray in color, with intriguing streaks of a brighter shade of white distributed throughout the petals. 

“It’s a rose de lune de minuit,” Longbottom breathed, very gently touching a petal between his thumb and forefinger.  “A midnight moon rose.  If you view it under moonlight, these variegations glow with the reflection of it.  I can’t believe you have these in your garden, they’re highly prized among collectors.”

Draco felt mild shame wash through him.  He had no idea what Longbottom was talking about – he barely remembered anything specific about the gardens, as those had typically been the purview and passion of his mother.  When he was younger, one plant was much the same as another to him.  And his father hadn’t cared much more than that, other than to see Narcissa happy and to have rare and valuable things that few others did.

“You should take some cuttings,” he said impulsively.

Longbottom froze, turning his head to look at Draco with an expression of incredulity on his face.  “What?”

“Take some cuttings.  Of this, of anything else you might want for yourself.  Please.  It’s the least I could do to repay you for your help.”

It was as if he’d given a child permission to run wild in a toy and candy shop, the way Longbottom’s face lit up.  “Hannah will murder me if I try to propagate the labyrinthus at home, but maybe for the school grounds…you know, as a learning opportunity for the older students.”

Draco couldn’t quite keep a small, lopsided smile from stealing across his face.  “For the students.  Of course.”

Longbottom grinned ruefully at him.  “I’m that transparent, am I?”

“I have no doubt that you care very much for all your students,” Draco said honestly.  “I remember how you protected the younger ones during our last year.”

A hard, flinty expression crossed Longbottom’s face, the grin gone in an instant, as though it had never even been there.  Draco actually took half a step back, the change was so drastic.  Longbottom took a deep breath and held it for a moment, then let it all out at once.

“Sorry,” Longbottom said.  “Those are not pleasant memories for me.”

“No, of course,” Draco said, wanting to agree further, to express even a small part of how awful his own were from that time.  But how could he?  He’d be a villain puling about his troubles to the face of one of the heroes of the Battle of Hogwarts, one of the few who had personally dispatched a piece of Voldemort’s soul to usher him fully into true and lasting death.

“I’ll come back to take some cuttings, after we’ve got the maze under control.”  Longbottom sounded like he was promising himself.  “If you meant what you said.”

“I did,” Draco assured him, not quite able to meet his eyes.  “Anything you want, you can take.  The Ministry doesn’t give a toss about flowers.  They got the fortune and the estate, even if they haven’t yet been able to exploit the latter.”

“Oh.”  Longbottom was surprised.  “That’s right, I didn’t think about that.  I suppose I was still thinking of all of this as…yours.”

“It’s only mine to the degree that they need it to be, until the Dark magic is cleared.  It…it’s never really been mine.”

Longbottom opened his mouth as if to speak, but a blur whooshed over the tops of the hedge rows above them, low enough that they both felt the wind of its passing.  Draco thought he’d heard Potter’s voice as he’d just flown overhead, just an endless repetition of “Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck!”

And then he heard inorganic shrieks and a strange noise, something like multiple simultaneous wing beats except they didn’t sound like any birds he’d ever heard before.  His confusion was put to rest when he saw three veela statues go past, these ones made of tarnished bronze rather than marble, and smaller than their real life counterparts, flapping their way through the air in slower but determined pursuit of Potter. 

Potter zoomed back to hover over them after he’d led them a good distance away, hurriedly calling out an explanation.  “I managed to stir them up when I was checking to see if the fountain was the heart of the maze.  I’ll keep them busy, look out for –” 

He was cut off as one of the veela, who had doubled back earlier than her sisters, dove straight for him.  He took off towards the west, the opposite direction from where the fountain was located, and all three of the bronze veela gave chase.

After a moment of shocked silence, Longbottom started to laugh.  “Bloody hell, that was amazing.  We’d better get a move on, though, before they wear him out.”

To his astonishment, Draco also felt like laughing, though he just managed not to.  He considered what little information Potter had been able to impart before being hounded away.  “The fountain was the center of the maze as it was originally designed, but things have shifted.  That might mean that the true heart of the maze has shifted as well, probably towards the south.”

“Agreed.”  Longbottom nodded.  “And the heart will be part of the labyrinthus plants.  It should look like a particularly large version of one of the primary trunks, you’ll know it when you see it.”

“Is there a specific spell that we need to use when we find it?  Or will the touch of a wand be sufficient?”

“Just a touch, I th—”

The scrape of gravel behind them announced the presence of the manticore, looking somewhat worse for wear with one of its ears and a portion of its stylized mane broken off, and cracks all along its hindquarters and tail.  It was covered with twigs and branches, and it did not look happy, insofar as it was possible to ascertain the mood of animated stone.

“Impedimenta!”  Draco cast the spell before it could take another step, and he and Longbottom legged it further into the maze.

Draco usually prided himself on having an excellent sense of direction, and he knew the grounds of the Manor well, even if the tall hedges obstructed his view of the usual landmarks.  But he was thoroughly disoriented after the seventh turn that he and Longbottom had taken, this one opening up into a small clearing with an empty marble plinth at its center.  There was no indication of what it previously held, though Draco suspected this might have been where the firedrake statue usually stood.  The ornamentation on the sides and corners of the plinth seemed to spark the memory of the way the firedrake’s tail had gracefully draped over the front edge while it stood rampant, wings spread. 

Longbottom coated the leaves of the hedges behind them with the potion from his atomizer, keeping their way out open – for the time being, anyway.  Draco did not want to think about what might happen if they spent so long searching for the maze’s heart that the potion started to wear off.

“I think we’re getting closer to the fountain,” Draco said, catching his breath. 

“Then all we have to do is figure out which direction is south.”  Longbottom turned, looking up at the tops of the hedges.  He shrugged his shoulders helplessly at Draco.  “Your guess is likely better than mine.”

They tried to be cautious as they moved onto a new path, but the manticore at their heels kept their forward momentum urgent, no matter how many Impedimenta jinxes Draco threw behind them.  Their situation compounded when they came to a crossroads of sorts, with two straight paths intersecting and going fairly far in the three other directions they could see.  At the end of one of them was another statue, which immediately alerted to their presence and lashed its long serpentine tail, pawing at the ground with one cloven hoof.

“Fuck, is that –”

“The chimaera,” Draco groaned.

“Come on,” Longbottom urged, tugging at his arm.  “I think I see a wider opening at the end of this path.”

Running abreast was awkward, because although the paths were normally more than wide enough for two people, twenty years of going unpruned had allowed the hedges to grow into wild and unformed shapes.  This meant that they often had to dodge and weave their way around protruding leafy stems, and Longbottom actually had to leap over a tangle of vines on the path ready snare unwary prey.

Breaking into the large courtyard at the former center of the maze only brought with it short-lived relief, as their pursuers forced them to separate and peel off into different directions.  Longbottom headed toward the fountain with clear intentions of putting it between himself and the chimaera, while Draco rounded the boundary of the courtyard with the manticore stalking close behind him. 

Draco was wary of casting anything that was too destructive – the memory of the Hurling Hex in the hallway adjacent to the kitchen was fresh in his mind, and he did not intend to create unnecessary projectiles or increase the number of potential adversaries with careless spell work.  So he cast a Knockback jinx with a maximizer, sending the manticore careening into the shrubbery.  He wove his wand back and forth, willing a variation of Incarcerous to entice the vines of the hedge to wrap themselves tightly around the statue’s limbs. 

After watching to make sure that the manticore was secure at least for the moment, Draco looked around to find Longbottom sitting on the edge of the empty, dry fountain in the middle of the clearing.  The chimaera statue seemed to be frozen, likely by an Immobulus charm, just a few meters away.

“What are you doing?”  Draco asked, puzzled by the way Longbottom was holding his wand on the flat of his open palm.

“I just remembered – this is one of Hermione’s spells.  It’ll tell us which direction is north, so that we can pick the best path toward where we think the heart is.”  Longbottom concentrated on his wand, then said, “Point Me.”

The wand spun in a full circle, slowing on its second turn until it finally stopped, pointing past the fountain. 

“So we need to go that way,” Longbottom said, pointing straight ahead of himself.

As Draco turned to look in that direction, there was a sudden shattering sound as the chimaera broke free of its spelled rigidity, shedding some small pieces of marble fur from its goat legs and lion’s mane, and a few spikes from its dragon-like tail.  It stampeded forward, heading right toward them, and Draco had no time to do anything but push Longbottom backward into the dry basin of the fountain. 

And then it was on him.

The attack was more confusing than painful, though the sudden agonizing pressure on his upper left arm as the chimaera’s jaws clamped down, and the impact on the back of his head and shoulders as it bore him to the ground were straightforwardly sharp and unpleasant.  No, what was confusing was the fact that it stopped almost as soon as it had started, ending with him pinned to the ground and the chimaera no longer moving.

Draco opened his eyes, though he couldn’t see much beyond the massive stone head still latched onto his arm.  His right hand was pressed firmly up against the stone chimaera’s eye, an instinctive move to try to push it away when it had pounced on him.  The stone surface was cool to the touch.  He felt no life, no magic in it at all.  It was utterly still, returned back to its inanimate state.

“Merlin’s hairy balls!”

The exclamation could only have come from Longbottom, and Draco had to suppress an almost hysterical laugh at such an aggrieved turn of phrase.  He couldn’t move even enough to turn his head to see the fountain, and only heard the footsteps approaching on his right side.

“Fucking hell, Malfoy, are you all right?”

Longbottom’s face came into view as he peered anxiously down at Draco, eyes widening as he took in the tableau. 

“I – I’m all right, I think, I just can’t move,” Draco panted.  “I think it’s gone back to being a statue.”

Getting to his knees, Longbottom tentatively felt around the jaws of the chimaera where they were wrapped around Draco’s bicep.  “I don’t feel any blood.  Does that hurt at all?”

“Not much,” Draco replied truthfully.  He was more stuck than he was injured, at least judging from the aches he was feeling just then.

“Okay, I think that if I can loosen this up by breaking off its teeth, that might give you enough room to pull free.”  Longbottom grunted as he wedged his fingers between Draco’s arm and the carved marble canine.  The first one came off with a snap, and Draco could feel that the pressure on his arm had lessened slightly.  The tooth on the opposite side broke away just as easily.

Draco used his right hand to push against the statue in order to free his arm, slowly pulling it out of the chimaera’s jaws.  He wriggled on the ground to get himself completely out from underneath its body, thanking every bit of luck he possessed that it hadn’t landed directly on top of him.  He got shakily to his feet, Longbottom steadying him again with a hand on his shoulder.

There were some rips in his linen shirt sleeve, but no sign of blood.  He imagined that he was going to have some spectacular bruising on his bicep, however.

“How did you do that?”  Longbottom asked, a hint of admiration in his voice.

“I…I didn’t intend to, but I think I know how,” Draco said, looking down at his hand.  The Malfoy crest flashed silver as the light hit it at the proper angle.  “We can test it, just to be sure.”

“Test it how?  Wait, Malfoy –”

But Draco had already crossed the distance to the bound manticore still thrashing and stuck in the hedge, and reached out with his right hand to touch its flank, making sure the ring made contact with the stone.

Just as the chimaera had, the manticore stilled, all magical energy leaving it and instantly returning it to nothing more than a statue.  It looked odd, certainly, half-in, half-out of the shrubbery, but it showed no signs of movement whatsoever.

“I suppose this has been good for something at least,” Draco murmured, running his thumb against the band of his father’s ring.

“Well, that’s a relief,” Longbottom said, his relentless cheerfulness starting to return.  “Now we know what to do when we find the other ones.”

“And the veela, too.  Do you suppose we should try to get Potter’s attention?”

“Nah, not yet.  Why bother him when he’s having so much fun?”  Neville grinned evilly, and Draco couldn’t help but grin in response.

~ * ~

When they did finally send bright sparks into the air to signal Potter, it was after Longbottom had discovered the heart of the maze a few rows south of the fountain.  He’d been right – the heart was easily recognizable, a large, bulbous trunk that was barely covered by the leaves from the surrounding branches.  It looked as though it had been formed of several primary trunks twisting and growing together, which very much resembled the vena cava and ventricles of a human heart. 

Longbottom had insisted that Draco try his wand first, and then touch the Malfoy ring to the heart to let it know that the lord of the Manor was now in control of it.  Draco was slightly dubious, but could hardly object after successfully turning all the marble statues but the phoenix and the other manticore back into stationary objects.  The firedrake had been easy – it was lazily sunning itself on a different plinth that they passed, and barely twitched when Draco had approached it.  The thestral was more difficult, but he’d managed to brush a hand against one of its wings as it galloped past them, freezing it in place.

A ripple of shuddering leaves and rustling branches passed through the maze when Draco touched the trunk with his right hand, and he focused on thoughts of the conservatory doors and the concept of retreat, hopefully directing the maze to pull back and allow access to those doors from outside of the hedges.  At least it had stopped shifting its internal passages, meaning Longbottom could finally stow the atomizer back in his pocket.

Potter came into view, the three veela still tirelessly pursuing him, but Longbottom had his wand ready.  He cast Immobulus charms in quick succession, causing the bronze statues to plummet to the ground with heavy thumps.  Draco approached and touched each one, feeling the animating magic drain from them as he did so.

“What the hell?”  Potter scowled, finally touching down.  His hair…the word windswept couldn’t do it justice, he looked as though he’d flown through a lighting storm that made every single hair stand on end.  He ran a hand through it, irritated, and eyed the veela statues with not a small amount of suspicion.

“We’ve got it handled,” Longbottom said, trying for nonchalance but unable to keep himself from snickering.  “Malfoy’s magic ring turns them back.”

“Really?”  Potter’s eyebrows rose, and swept his gaze over Draco from head to toe, brow furrowing at the sight of the tears in his left sleeve.  He turned and gave Longbottom a once-over as well, as if to reassure himself that both of them were well.

“Yes, just keep an eye out for the second manticore, and the phoenix,” Draco instructed.  “We weren’t able to find them.”

“What did I tell you about bringing in an expert?”  Potter grinned, nudging Longbottom with his elbow.

“Ach, I hardly did anything,” Longbottom said, glancing down.

“That’s not true.  And I believe I promised you some cuttings, as many as you wanted,” Draco said.

By the time Longbottom had collected his cuttings from not only the Buxus labyrinthus and the rose de lune de minuit, but a few other flowers and plants he came across, he was practically vibrating with excitement, obviously eager to start heading home so that he could get his new additions properly settled. 

Potter followed them bemusedly, not having been part of the flower conversation.  He kept glancing at Draco for some reason, and it was starting to become irritating.  Draco didn’t quite have the energy to confront him about it, however, so he ignored it instead as they walked Longbottom back to the gates of the estate.

“Oh, I almost forgot,” Longbottom said, juggling his small bundles of cuttings into the crook of his left arm so that he could more easily dig around in his pocket with his right hand.  He withdrew a small phial, recognizable as a dose-sized container, but Draco couldn’t identify the potion inside.

“Here.”  Longbottom pressed it into his hand, his cheeks going slightly red, nothing but kindness in his brown eyes.  “I made this up for my mum, she sometimes gets awful headaches, and she’s sensitive to magic.  Don’t worry, I’ve got plenty at home, I just thought that this might help.”

Draco blinked down at the potion, which was a light milky blue color.  “I…I don’t –”

“Mum went gray early, too,” Longbottom said quietly.  “Part of the damage caused by the Cruciatus.  This has got the distillation of a special cultivar of valerian in it, it seems to work for her better than others.”

“Thank you.”  Draco forced the words out, unable to look Longbottom in the eyes.  He wouldn’t be able to bear even the hint of any pity.  He heard the gates hiss into smoke, and then the loud crack as the man Disapparated.  He could feel Potter’s presence next to him, and he fought himself, fought the impulse to rage and sneer and drive him away so that he would no longer bear witness to his weakness.

But he was tired.  Exhausted, really, even apart from the lack of recent sleep.  This compulsion to snap and snarl like a wounded dog was nothing more than a remnant of his upbringing, he knew, and it wasn’t as though Potter had not already seen him in some of his worst moments.

“All right, Malfoy?”  Potter asked quietly.

“Fine.”  That automatic response, at least, was far more ingrained, and much more comfortable.  “Let’s wait until tomorrow to tackle the observatory, if that’s acceptable.”

“Yeah,” Potter said, in an easy, even tone.  “Yeah, it can wait.”

Chapter 8

Kingsley Shacklebolt, Minister of Magic

1 HGR, Sublevel One

Westminster

London, United Kingdom

 

Re: The Ministry Cock-up

Minister Shacklebolt, et al.

Please accept the attached as a detailed account of the negligible progress which has been made in the attempt to clear Malfoy Manor of decades of Dark magic, which was left by the Ministry to fester undisturbed until very recently.  The following is a précis of data collected, to date:

• Number of rooms now suitable for long-term occupancy: 1 (estimate)
• Number of reliable points of access to the interior of the Manor: 2, but more accurately, 1
• Number of hedge mazes under nominal control: 1
• Number of gnomes expelled from the conservatory, which were able to colonize the remains of the potted plants because the previous Aurors had left the doors wide open: 17
• Number of fingers bitten during said expellation: 4
• Number of shirts ruined in the course of dismantling a cursed inkpot while evading pursuit by a cursed writing desk, both of which had been overlooked by the previous Aurors who entered the conservatory: 2
• Number of pints necessary to soothe Potter’s ruffled feelings over one of said shirts, as it was apparently a favorite: 5 (collectively)

In summary: progress, if any, proceeds at a glacial pace.  While this may be a comfortable and familiar speed at which the cogs of government generally turn, the urgency of this cock-up situation was conveyed upon assignment of the project.  If my performance thus far is deemed inadequate, I stand ready and eager to tender my immediate resignation.

Your unwilling servant,

Draco Malfoy

PS, Below are a list of necessaries.  Please see to them.

• 10 kg roasted peanuts
• Appropriate consultation fee to be paid to Professor Neville Longbottom for his work on the estate hedge maze
• 1 Weird Sisters ‘1999 End of the World (Or Possibly Not) Tour’ T-shirt, size large, signed by Kirley Duke

~ * ~

Draco Malfoy, Temporary Ministry Contractor

Small Tent

Old Leland Road

Hardwick

Wiltshire, United Kingdom

 

Re: Malfoy Manor

Mr. Malfoy,

Upon receipt of your report it is perhaps necessary to inform you that there are a number of interested parties with access to it and all other reports you may provide in future.  In light of that fact, due consideration might be given to ensuring a standard of professionalism in official communications. 

While the lack of significant progress so far is of course disappointing, it is not unexpected, and therefore your resignation will not be necessary – particularly due to the fact, as you know, that you are acting in your capacity as the lord of Malfoy Manor and the only person known to be able to fill that role.  We stand ready to meet your reasonable requests in furtherance of our shared goals.  In that spirit, we hope that along with this letter you are now in possession of 10 kilograms of roasted peanuts.  Professor Longbottom has been duly compensated.  The item related to the T-shirt is currently in progress but may not be possible to achieve, as Kirley Duke retired from his musical career some years ago and has since retreated from public life.

Yours most sincerely,

Kingsley Shacklebolt, Minster of Magic

~ * ~

Draco Malfoy

Malfoy Manor

Old Leland Road

Hardwick

Wiltshire, United Kingdom

 

My dearest son,

It was very kind of you to send me the roses.  I’d had no reasonable expectations of seeing this variety ever again, and so the bouquet you sent was an exquisite surprise which only grows lovelier when the moon rises.  My deepest gratitude for the reminder of happier times.  Of course Mr. Longbottom should have as many cuttings as he might want.  It would please me greatly to have what remains of my gardens enjoyed by anyone capable of such genuine appreciation.  If you see him again soon, please convey my best wishes for his mother’s continued health.

I am well, and occupying much of my time with reading.  Mr. Potter has a well-stocked library, and I remember many of the books in it from visiting my cousins when we were all children, though of course we weren’t as interested in reading at that age.

I’m not currently at liberty to divulge my recent contacts, as I’m still under investigation.  Just be assured that I have everything well in hand.  Your focus is needed elsewhere, and I do not wish to become a distraction from precarious work.  Work which I would encourage you to complete with all deliberate speed.

I want nothing more than your safety, and your happiness, if that is possible.

Take care, darling.

N.

~ * ~

Potter glared around the disaster that was the conservatory, his hands fisted on his hips.  He made such an indignant picture that Draco was having a difficult time hiding his amusement.  Ever since the incident with the writing desk and that blasted inkpot, Potter seemed to have a personal vendetta against the conservatory itself.  Admittedly, the aggravating and time-consuming experience of capturing the infestation of cantankerous gnomes and tossing them into the maze to let them try their luck with semi-carnivorous hedges had done nothing to improve their morale.

Even more frustrating was the fact that the conservatory seemed to have sealed itself off from the remainder of the Manor.  The wide double doors, crafted of black walnut, which should have led into the main hall had grown roots and branches, burrowing themselves deep into the plaster walls and beneath the tiled floor.  And they were cautious of trying anything too destructive without knowing what might be on the other side.  They both remembered the first Inferi, and Draco’s prediction that they would encounter more.

It had been a week since their initial foray into the conservatory, and both of them were chafing at their lack of success in getting any further inside the Manor.  Even aside from the traps laid by the Death Eaters, Draco had the sense that over time, the Manor had hardened itself into a protective shell around that which lay in wait inside the cellars.  His father’s ring seemed to be of little help with that, in spite of its effectiveness at taming the hedge maze somewhat.  It had no discernible impact on the rooted doors.  Assuming he was even using it correctly, of course.

“What if we cut our way through one of the walls?”  Potter asked, startling Draco out of his abstraction.  “You said that the old enchantments help to repel attackers from getting inside the Manor, but now that we’re already inside, do these walls have the same kind of protection?”

“Doubtful,” Draco said, tilting his head in consideration.  “But it’s still a risk – the other side of any of these walls is still an unknown quantity.  We could potentially trigger spells armed with filaments, the same as the Hurling Hex next to the kitchen.  Why?”

“It’s a curse breaking tactic that Bill taught me,” Potter explained.  “The places we get into, the ones designed to guard treasure, are deliberately constructed and spelled to channel intruders in a specific way.  Thinking outside that framework offers opportunities to avoid traps and more quickly reach the target.”

“Except that I think we’re confronting two separate influences which happen to be converging to create a synergistic effect.”  Draco frowned, rubbing his forehead in the hope that a little pressure might alleviate his headache.  He had tried the potion that Longbottom had given him and found that it worked exceptionally well, and had been meaning to write to politely request information on how it was brewed and where to obtain that special valerian cultivar he’d mentioned.  But it had so far slipped his mind after the long (fruitless) days that he and Potter were putting in.

“The Death Eaters, and the thing in the cellars,” Potter guessed, removing his hands from his hips and crossing his arms in front of his chest, tapping long brown fingers against an elbow in thought.

“And the Dementors,” Draco said in realization.  “Though they may not be a third influence so much as an extension of either of the others.”

Potter was silent for a moment.  “Are you still seeing them at night?”

“Yes.”  Draco’s answer was clipped in a manner which he hoped Potter would understand to mean that he didn’t want to talk about it.  The Dementor visits seemed to have become consistent.  No more than three tests of his wards each night, and at every test he sent his ermine Patronus after them.  It felt like a stalemate, and he didn’t like it.

“You know, I could –”  Potter started, but he was mercifully interrupted by a tinny musical sound which seemed to be coming from his pocket.

Draco was relieved and then fascinated to see Potter retrieve one of those small-ish Muggle devices from his anorak and put it up to his ear.  “Yeah, Dee?”

The slightly buzzing reply was barely audible, but it sounded urgent and maybe panicked, something that was confirmed when Potter interrupted the stream of noise.  “Hold on, I can barely understand you.  Slow down and tell me what happened.”

Potter listened intently for about a minute, the furrow between his brows deepening with every passing second.  “No, of course I can help.  Just keep everyone there, I’ll be there as soon as I can.  It’ll be okay, Dee.  This is not the end of the world, not even close.  I’ll talk you through everything.  See you soon.”

“You have one of those?”  Draco asked, intrigued.

“One of what?  Oh, this?”  Potter held up his device somewhat distractedly.  “Yeah, lots of us do, even though magic typically interferes with them, more in some places than others.  Hermione worked up a useful little spell to create a tiny neutral field to improve the connectivity.”  He stowed the thing back in his pocket, running a hand through his hair and glancing around as though to make sure he had all his belongings.

“Is everything all right?”

Potter gave a small shake of his head.  “That was my cousin.  It’s his daughter’s eighth birthday today, and she had a party with a few friends over.  The cake exploded.”

Draco waited.  This sounded more messy than catastrophic to him.

“Magically.  She’s never shown any signs of magic before now,” Potter elaborated.  “And they’re not a wizarding family.”

“Ah.”  Draco instantly saw the problem.  “But surely the patrol wizards of the Improper Use of Magic Office would respond –”

“No.”  Potter growled.  “That lot don’t exactly have a delicate touch, and my cousin is nervous enough around magic as it is, with good reason.  I’m already worried about how he’s going to take it if Junie has enough magic to be admitted to Hogwarts when she turns eleven, I don’t need the Ministry crashing her birthday party and making everything worse.”

The sentiment was surprising, as Draco hadn’t heard Potter say anything so critical of the Ministry before now.  Especially seeing as he was a former Auror, this attitude toward the other DMLE division seemed inconsistent.

“Listen, we’re not getting anywhere quickly here,” Potter said, motioning vaguely around him.  “And this is kind of urgent.  Would you mind if we stopped for the day so that I can take care of this?”

“By all means,” Draco said dryly.  “I’ll do my best to contain my disappointment.  It is a weekend, after all.”

Potter grinned at him, then squinted, as though a thought had just occurred to him.  “How are you with Memory charms?”

“Decent enough,” Draco replied, feeling slightly alarmed.

“Brilliant.  Let’s go, I want to have everything under control before anyone from Improper Use shows up.  My cousin already got the letter, it’s why he was so spooked.”  Potter turned and strode purposefully out of the conservatory, trotting faster once he reached the lawns and skirting the edge of the retreated maze.

“I still can’t Apparate, Potter,” Draco said, hurrying to keep up.

“We’re not Apparating,” Potter assured him, barely giving the gates at the border of the estate time to dissolve before passing through the smoke.  “I’ve got transportation for both of us.”

He waved his wand at a nondescript patch of ground just off the shoulder of the road in front of the estate, and the Disillusionment shimmered away, revealing a shiny black motorbike with gleaming chrome trim.

Draco stopped dead.  “What is that?”

Potter tapped his wand against the seat of the motorbike, which caused a matching sidecar to unfold from the depths of the thing’s mechanical parts and expand to the appropriate size right next to it.  He rummaged in the sidecar for two helmets (black), one of which he held out to Draco.  His grin was crooked and resembled the one he’d worn on the day they’d entered the maze.

“I’m assuming you know what it is, so I’ll answer with why I have it.  My godfather left it to me.”

“This does not look safe,” Draco declared, not moving to take the helmet.  He hadn’t given much thought to how Potter was commuting to the Manor each day.  Since Apparating to destinations in Wiltshire was currently unreliable, and the Manor was no longer connected to the equally unreliable Floo network, he’d assumed Potter had been flying in on his broom.  Apparently, he was incorrect.

“It is safe, especially when we get up into the air.”  Potter pushed the helmet at him until he reluctantly accepted it, then donned his own.  “We won’t be sharing the road with other motorists for very long.”

Flying didn’t sound too bad, Draco supposed, so he pulled the helmet over his head and tried to fold his long legs into the sidecar.  It wasn’t as uncomfortable as he expected, but it was hardly luxurious either.  Potter started the engine, which roared until he cast a Silencing charm, and then Draco saw another shimmer as the Disillusionment was restored around them.

The motorbike accelerated faster than Draco was expecting, causing him to grip the sides of the sidecar contraption as Potter took them onto the road, increasing in velocity until they lifted up into the air.  Draco’s stomach lurched as it always did, but soon settled once accustomed to the feeling of flight.  Potter kept the motorbike relatively low as they zipped past the cars below, and turned east-northeast.

~ * ~

The small house in Brixton seemed to be in relative disarray by the time they arrived, compared to the sleepy feel of the surrounding neighborhood.  There were some sad remains of wilted balloons and streamers dangling above the door.  Draco could hear shouting from the small garden path as he followed Potter to the doorstep.  Thankfully, there was no sign of anyone from the Improper Use of Magic Office.

Potter rapped his knuckles against the door authoritatively, and it was opened seconds later by a small woman with golden-brown skin and large, worried brown eyes. 

“Harry, thank god.  I’m so glad you’re here!”  She reached up to hug Potter around the neck, and he returned it, wrapping her up in his arms.  Draco felt a sudden and unexpected pang of…that couldn’t be jealousy.  No, that was absurd.  He was obviously just feeling impatient with Potter’s rudeness, as he hadn’t bothered with any introductions.

“Of course, Xiumei, I’m happy to help.  Where’s Junie?  Is she all right?”

“She’s a little upset,” Xiumei said, clearly understating the matter.  “Come in, come in.  Oh!  And you are…?”

“Shit,” Potter muttered, then straightened.  “Draco, this is Lau Xiumei.  She’s Junie’s mother and my cousin is her husband.  Xiumei, this is Draco.  He’s here to help as well.”

“Welcome,” Xiumei bobbed her head quickly and ushered them inside to stand in the cramped parlor.  “We took advantage of the nice day and had the party out in the back garden, but the other mums are in the kitchen, and…the arguing you hear is Dee and Petunia upstairs.”

Potter halted, a blank, neutral expression on his face.  “Petunia’s here?”

Xiumei tried her best to hide her distaste, but Draco could see it.  It looked wrong on a face that seemed to tend more toward merriment.

“Never mind,” Potter said.  “First things first.  Let’s go talk to these mums, and then the kids.”

A group of four women sprang apart from each other as soon as they entered the kitchen, all of them looking up with varying levels of concern.  One of them started in on Xiumei immediately.

“I will not stay in this house another minute, I’m taking Diana and going straight home.  I’ll be speaking with the headmaster first thing tomorrow, there is no way I will allow my child to be in class with that –”

Draco gripped his wand in the front pocket of his satchel and cast a nonverbal Obliviate on the woman, noting the way that Potter’s fists had clenched. 

“There’s no need,” he said smoothly, making his voice as non-threatening as possible.  “You and Diana had a lovely time at Junie’s birthday party.  Children are naturally a little messy with cake when there’s so much excitement to be had.  The party will be over soon and you can take Diana home.  She’ll see Junie at school tomorrow.”

The woman blinked, her mouth slightly agape, and then her features relaxed into something a little more pleasant.  “Oh.  Yes, of course.  Yes.  Tomorrow.”

One of the other mums was looking back and forth between Diana’s mum and Draco, suspicion growing in her face.  “What was that?  What did you just do to her?”

“Nothing that wasn’t necessary,” Potter assured her.  “It’s best for everyone if you and the children remember the good parts from today and not anything that might have been unusual or frightening.”

Draco could see Potter’s Memory charm take effect on her, too, and she settled.  She didn’t quite look satisfied, but she didn’t disagree any further.

The next mum, who had seemed the calmest of the four, just shrugged her shoulders.  “It’s all the same to me.  Definitely not the weirdest thing I’ve ever seen, with three older children at home.”

Potter chuckled in response, and in short order Xiumei was making idle chitchat with the women about teachers at the school as if nothing had ever happened, though she kept throwing grateful glances at Potter. 

Draco was about to follow Potter out the back door and into the garden when he felt a slight tug at his trouser leg.   Looking down, he was mildly surprised to see a small child, perhaps two years old, with dark brown hair and the same golden brown skin as his mother. 

“That’s Tao,” Xiumei called to him.  “He just likes to know what’s going on, you can pick him up if you’d like.”

That was something Draco was quite sure he would not like, but Tao’s grubby little fist seemed surprisingly strong for such a tiny person, and the last thing he wanted was to frighten or upset any children that were related to Potter.  He might end up a smear on the footpath outside.  So, he crouched down, gently freed the fabric of his trousers from Tao’s grip and scooped him into his arms, settling the child on his hip.  He continued out the door, to see the tattered remnants of blue and purple birthday decorations and what was left of a very exploded white sponge cake.

Potter had a small girl in his arms, and he was making soothing noises as she sobbed uncontrollably.  This was obviously Junie, though her hair was a shade or two lighter than her brother’s.  The other cake-spattered children, two girls and two boys, were either playing unconcernedly or looking on with sympathetic tears starting to roll down their own cheeks.

Draco located a chair that was fairly free of icing and cake crumbs, and carefully took a seat, transferring Tao to his lap.  The toddler had relocated his fist to his mouth, and he was looking up at Draco with slightly disturbing fascination. 

“It’s not polite to stare,” Draco told him, to no effect. 

“Who are you?”  Asked the only girl who wasn’t crying, distracted from braiding three dandelion stems together.  There was a conical hat sticking out from the side of her head, but she didn’t seem bothered by the hat’s configuration or the elastic holding it in place.

“I’m here to tell a story,” he said.

“What kind of story?”  The girl demanded, dropping her weeds and coming closer.  One of the boys followed her lead, though he only watched Draco with naked suspicion.

“You don’t know this story,” Draco assured them, raising his voice slightly.  “This is the story of the race between the deer and the toad.”

“That’s not how it goes.”  The other boy scowled, scrubbing the back of his hand across his face and smearing nose drippings onto his cheeks.  “It’s a race between a tortoise and a hare.”

Draco was horrified at this unhygienic display, but thought that he hid his reaction well enough.  “No, this one is definitely about a deer and a toad.  You’ll want to hear it, I promise.”

This garnered the interest of the remaining girl, who shuffled closer while trying to calm her sniffles.  She kept throwing distraught glances back at Junie.

“You’re Diana, aren’t you?”  Draco asked, and the girl nodded.  He shifted, placing a hand on his wand where it rested in the front pocket of his satchel.  It was doable but slightly awkward with Tao in his lap.  He cast a very low-power Obliviate, not specifically directed at any one child.  One had to take care with children – their memories were already so fluid, it didn’t take much to make one version of events slightly more prominent than another.

“It was very silly when someone dropped the cake, wasn’t it?”  He asked, looking each child in the eyes one at a time.  They hesitated only a moment before nodding.  “That’s why Junie is so sad.  You’d be sad, too, if someone dropped your birthday cake, wouldn’t you?”

Again, there was a chorus of nods. 

Satisfied, Draco launched into the tale of an arrogant deer who believed he was the fastest animal in all the land, and scoffed at the toad when he challenged the deer to a race.  The deer believed he would win easily, of course, because deer are in fact much faster than toads.  But what the deer didn’t know was that the toad had collaborated with all his friends, stationing them all along the route they were to run, so that every time the deer left one toad behind, he would see another ahead of him just seconds later.  The deer ‘lost’ the race and was humbled, and the toads congratulated themselves for making such a good team.

“It’s s’posed to be ‘slow and steady wins the race,’” insisted the boy with snotty cheeks.

“This one’s different, Aaron, it’s about how if you only go on about how fast you are, you won’t make friends with toads,” said the dandelion girl, her voice ringing with authority.

“Close enough.”  Draco allowed himself a small smile as the mums trooped out to the garden and gathered up their respective children, calling out goodbyes and birthday wishes to Junie and thank-yous to Xiumei in a much more friendly manner than they would have not a quarter of an hour earlier.

Junie had stopped crying by now, but her face was tear-streaked and she appeared to be devastated.  Potter was still holding her, stroking her back in a comforting manner.  “That’s better, Junie-girl.  Did you get the present I sent you?”

The girl hiccupped and nodded.  “Thank you for the telescope, Uncle Harry.”

“Sometime soon, we’ll go out to the country where it’s not so bright at night and set it up, all right?  You’ll see loads of stuff that you couldn’t see from here.”

“Really?”  Junie sniffed, her watery eyes huge.

Potter nodded.  “Really.  The light from the city blocks out so much, you’ll be amazed.”

Junie’s lower lip trembled.  “Grandmama is mad.”

Draco could see Potter’s jaw clench so hard that muscle rippled in his cheek.  “Let’s not worry about that right now, all right June bug?  You’ve had a big day.”

Xiumei stepped out onto the lawn, holding out her arms to Junie, and the girl readily went to her mother.  “Let’s splash some water on that face, love.  You’ll feel so much better afterward.”

Potter straightened up to his full height, letting out an explosive breath and glancing around before his gaze landed on Draco.  His eyebrows shot up when he caught sight of Tao sitting placidly in Draco’s lap.  He came closer, holding his hands out to the child.  “Hey, little man.  Do you want up?”

Tao tightened his grip on Draco’s waistcoat, and leaned into him slightly.  Potter chuckled.  “I see how it is.  Thank you, by the way,” he said, addressing Draco directly.  “You did really well with the kids.”

Draco shrugged awkwardly.  “It was no trouble.”  He started at the sound of a woman’s voice, furious and accusatory, and his arms tightened protectively around Tao, who cuddled obligingly into his chest.

“Just when we thought we had that – that evil rubbish out of our lives!”  The speaker was an older woman, a graying brunette, who wore a pressed floral print dress that even Draco could tell was stuffy and uptight in the context of current Muggle trends, as if she were attending a royal garden party instead of an eight-year-old child’s birthday.  She jabbed a finger at Potter.  “You did this, I know you did, you’re trying to punish us for –”

“How do you figure?”  Potter interrupted, his face blank and his voice deceptively calm.  “It runs in your side of the family, Petunia.  It’s nothing to do with me, it’s not contagious.”

“How dare you,” she hissed.  “I warned Dudley, when he told me he wanted to stay in touch with you, I warned him!”  She swung her glare to Draco.  “Put my grandson down this instant, I do not want any of you touching him!”

“Mum!”  A large man who reminded Draco sharply of Gregory Goyle – except perhaps not quite as tall and with thinning blonde hair – got in between Petunia and Draco, blocking him completely from her view.  “I told you to leave!”

Petunia burst into tears that sounded more angry than sorrowful.  “I can’t believe what it’s come to, that you would throw out your own mother, Duddy!  I only want what’s best for you and the children!”

“I asked you not to call me that anymore,” the man said, exasperated.  “And it’s time for you to leave.  That’s what’s best for them right now.  If you can find it in your heart to love your granddaughter the way she deserves instead of screeching about magic and scaring the life out of her, maybe you can come round again sometime.  But not until then.  Goodbye, mum.”

The man – who Draco realized must be Potter’s cousin, Dee – crowded his mother gently but insistently back inside the house and directly to the door, overriding all of her tearful protests and firmly closing and locking the door behind her.

Draco glanced up at Potter, expecting him to be angry or upset, but instead he saw a look of fierce pride in Potter’s green eyes, the corner of his mouth twitching up as though he wanted to grin.  He strode up to Dee when the exhausted man trudged back out into the garden and gave him a one-armed hug around what he could reach of Dee’s broad shoulders.  “Well done, Dee.  It’ll be all right, I promise.”

Dee gave him a half-hearted smile.  “I really appreciate you coming, Harry, I know you didn’t have to.”

“I’d never leave Junie in the lurch like that,” Potter said, adamant.  “She’s going to be just fine, you know that, right?”

“I’m fucking terrified,” Dee admitted, his face crumbling slightly.  “It still makes me nervous, and I won’t even know how to help her.  This isn’t like bringing home maths from school.”

“That’s what phones are for, Dee.  You can call any time.”

“She’s going to go to that school of yours, isn’t she.”  Dee scrubbed a hand over his face.

“She’s definitely strong enough,” Potter admitted.  “There are other options in Europe and further abroad, but I know you and Xiumei will want her as close as possible, and Hogwarts has made some improvements since my days.”

Dee chuckled.  “Of course we’ll want her close, but Xiumei will want to know everything about everything, to make sure we choose the best school for Junie.”

“Too right,” Xiumei said cheerfully, poking her head out the door.  “Harry, come in and sit at the table with us, Junie and I are making lists.”

“She does love her lists,” Potter said.  “Reminds me of a certain someone we both went to school with.”  He winked at Draco, which was completely uncalled for, and went inside.

Tao sat up in Draco’s lap, raising his arms and saying “Da!  Da!” demandingly, until Dee scooped him up and spun him around.  Tao squealed his approval, giggling madly as Dee settled him and grabbed another chair, pulling it up beside Draco’s. 

The big man visibly steeled himself, then extended a hand.  “I’m Dee, thanks for coming.”

Draco took it, bracing himself for the hard testing grip that men sometimes employed when meeting people they weren’t certain of, but it was a normal (if firm) handshake.  “Draco.  And it was nothing, really.”

“No, it was good of you,” Dee insisted.  “I don’t mind saying, if you’ll pardon me, that it’s a bit scary when you lot show up expecting us to know what the hell you’re on about, sending owls and throwing magic everywhere without so much as an explanation – especially when it involves laws we’ve never even heard of!  This was hard enough on Junie as it was, and it could have been so much worse.  I’m just sorry you had to see me bowl out my mum.  That’s two out of two, now.”

Draco raised an eyebrow, but didn’t say anything.

“Cut my dad out of my life when he couldn’t get his head round me marrying Xiumei.  Mum left him for it, too, which is why I had higher hopes for her.  But today…”  Dee shook his head, and his sadness was evident.  “I’m just lucky Harry took my call.  God knows he owes me nothing, but he’s fond of Xiumei and the kids.”

“I thought you were cousins…”  Draco said, not quite asking.

“We should have been more like brothers,” Dee said, dropping a kiss on his son’s head.  “That’s what should have happened.  But my parents hated him, hated that we had to take him in after his parents died.”  He was quiet for a moment.  “It was awful, the way they treated him.  The way I treated him.  Abusive.  Fuck, I’m surprised he ever spoke to me again.  But I reached out, after uni, and we started talking.  He’s a good man.”

“He is a good man,” Draco agreed, and he didn’t entirely mean it as a compliment.

Dee eyed him, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips.  “You two together, then?”

Draco choked, his eyes going wide.  “What?!”

“Oh.”  Dee’s face fell, twisting into something like panic.  “Shit.  Sorry, I didn’t mean to assume – I try not to be offensive, but sometimes I just put my foot right in.  It’s only, the way he looked at you…  Sorry.  My mistake.”

“It’s fine,” Draco said, in a somewhat strangled tone, trying to ignore the way his heart was beating rapidly in his chest.

“It’s hard, this,” Dee said, waving a hand, a look of slight disgust on his face.  “Unpacking all the bollocks I was raised with.  I owe a lot of it to Xiumei, she’s got no patience for that nonsense.”

“I know precisely what you mean,” Draco said, with absolute sincerity.

“You too?”

Draco fiddled with the strap of his satchel.  “My upbringing was very particular.  I wanted for nothing.  I was told I was above everything, and everyone.  I fully believed it.  And because of that I made a lot of decisions and behaved in ways that I deeply regret now.”

“You do get it.”  Dee grinned at him, but the edge of it was sharp and full of commiserating self-recrimination.  “It’s hard, right?  And it should be, I know that.  It’s just…I don’t think people should be forced to stay forever as the worst version of themselves, you know?”

“Yes,” Draco croaked, his throat dry, eyes stinging.  “Yes, I do.”

Chapter 9

The Aurors came the following week.

Draco hadn’t even fully awakened yet, still nestled in the armchair that had become his de facto bed since he’d been brought back to England, with how often he had to get up during the night to chase Dementors away from his wards.  It was his father’s ring that woke him, a stinging sensation against his finger that escalated into outright pain until he finally jerked awake with a start, blinking blearily around him.  There was little daylight venturing through the small gap between the tent flaps, but that was more due to the gloomy overcast sky than it was due to the hour.

It was too early for callers, though.  Even Potter didn’t show up this early, and he’d already given the man a free pass to come and go as he liked without having to bother with the gates.  Draco knew instinctively that this was what the ring was persistently trying to convey – there were people at the gates.

Throwing a dark green jumper on over his shirt in lieu of his waistcoat, as he could already feel the cold early morning air, Draco also donned a pair of duck boots to protect his feet from the damp chill.  It had rained during the night.  He knew because he had been out twice in it, sending his ermine after Dark creatures that would not leave him in fucking peace for even a single night.  His head throbbed, and his empty stomach rumbled in complaint as he started up the slight incline of the grounds toward the gates.

The ravens cawed after him, sending up a racket when he passed by their tree without the customary offering of roasted peanuts.  He could hear them flapping and fluttering along behind him, not quite overtaking him but very pointedly making their presence known.  Only one outdistanced him, landing just a few meters ahead as he walked, cawing and tilting its head this way and that.

“Will you shut up, you noisy thing?”  Draco snapped.  The raven’s calls were doing his aching head no favors. 

To his surprise, the raven quieted, coming slightly closer to him with two short hops.

“I’ll get you and the rest of the flock some peanuts after I’ve finished shouting at whoever is trying to come in through the gates,” Draco said, slightly conciliatory.  “Have a few minutes’ patience.”

The raven burbled at him, ruffling its throat feathers.  It stayed still as he passed it, showing no sign of fear or inclination to flutter off.  He couldn’t help but feel absurdly pleased by that.

There were three figures in scarlet robes waiting just beyond the border of wrought iron. 

Draco stopped in his tracks, feeling in his pocket for his wand and gripping it tightly before forcing himself to continue. 

He recognized Woodlocke from a distance.  Her long, dark blonde hair was distinctive enough, even braided back.  The other two men, he didn’t know.  One of them was examining the grotesques, his wand raised and at the ready. 

The gates were decidedly unhappy.  They were clanking against each other, the faces jeering and groaning like old rust on hinges.  The movement was significant enough to cause the fence panels on either side to wobble slightly.

“Aurors.”  Draco addressed them from a standstill a few meters away, hands clasped lightly behind his back.  “To what do I owe this dubious pleasure?”

“Malfoy.”  Woodlocke stepped forward, and one of her companions stepped aside for her.  “We just have a few questions.”

Draco only nodded in acknowledgement.  He had not yet forgiven Woodlocke for the body-bind she’d put on him in Weasley’s office.

There was an awkward pause.

“This would be easier if you would let us in,” growled the Auror standing at Woodlocke’s left.  His nose had obviously been broken sometime long past, and he was missing half an eyebrow.

“How?”  Draco asked.  “Are we not already conversing?  Shall I speak up, would that help?”

“Strickland,” Woodlocke said warningly as the Auror stepped right up to the gates.  He ignored her, his attention focused on Draco.

“Let us in,” Strickland demanded.

Draco pretended to consider it.  “No.”

“You –”  The man wrapped a hand around one of the iron uprights, then yelped and let go quickly.  He glared at Draco.

“We just want to have a look round,” said the remaining Auror, his tone appeasing and diplomatic.  His wand hand had three fingers total. 

“I thought you were just here to ask questions,” Draco said, raising an eyebrow.  “By all means, ask them.”

“The cuff,” Woodlocke said, her words clipped.  “Do you still have it?”

Draco simply raised his right hand in answer (though he was tempted to only show two fingers), tugging the sleeve of his jumper to slide down far enough so that the cuff was visible.  His left hand gestured to the cuff with an exaggerated flourish.

“You left Wiltshire recently.  Why?”

Draco sucked in a breath.  That rune, the one he’d noticed was not related to preventing him from Apparating.  It seemed as though he had been correct – it was meant to provide information on his whereabouts. 

“Why wouldn’t I?”  He asked, treading carefully.  He wasn’t sure if Potter responding personally to Junie’s magical debut was strictly within procedural bounds, and if it wasn’t, he didn’t want it coming down on either of them, or on Junie’s family.  “The Ministry could hardly expect me to be here every minute of every day, now, could they?  This is paid work, not a prison sentence.”

“Yet,” muttered Strickland, but Draco heard him very clearly, and his hands clenched into fists behind his back.

Woodlocke threw her fellow Auror a reproving look.  “It would be best for you to remain on the estate in future,” she said.  “The Ministry considers this project to be top priority, which is why we’d like to take a look at the place.  We can provide an informal report.  Additional perspective.”

“An informal report to whom?”  Draco asked.  “Robards?”

None of the Aurors reacted to his guess, but they didn’t provide any clarification, either. 

Draco addressed the other part of what Woodlocke had said.  “I will be going wherever I like, which means I will leave the estate when necessary or when I feel the inclination.  I’ll even do you all the courtesy of relating this little visit in my next written report, and I’ll make it clear that you were refused entry even after you asked so nicely.  Just to be extra certain that none of you receives any blemishes on your no doubt flawless records for disappointing whoever you intend to informally report to, I’ll record you by name.  Those would be Woodlocke, Strickland, and…?”  He looked inquiringly at the remaining Auror.

The man shrugged, a smirk playing on his lips.  “Farris.”

“Charmed,” Draco said dryly.  “Well, if that’s all…”

“You’re not going to let us in?”  Woodlocke asked.

“I will not.  Any more questions?”

“I’ve got one,” Strickland said, leaning forward conspiratorially, though he avoided touching any of the iron between him and Draco.  “How’s your mum?”

Draco’s blood froze in his veins, and it took all of his self-control not to draw his wand right then and there.  “Why do you ask?”

“Oh, plenty of reasons,” Strickland drawled, clearly enjoying the reaction he knew he was getting, even if Draco was maintaining an outwardly cool demeanor.  “It’s just, it can be dangerous for former Death Eaters in and around London.  Especially the ones who didn’t spend any time in Azkaban.”

“My mother is not, and never was, a Death Eater,” Draco said coldly.

“Some people aren’t picky about that, given that she’s related to so many of them.  Speaking of which, you ought to look out for yourself.  Whispers are getting around that you’re back.  Easy to find.”

Drawing on all the lessons that his mother ever gave him about maintaining calm under pressure, Draco stood resolutely still, projecting an air of unconcern to the best of his ability.  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

The roar of a motorbike engine cut through the air, interrupting anything that Strickland might have said.  Woodlocke’s eyes were slightly downcast, not looking at Draco at all.  Farris still had that indolent smirk on his face, though he smoothed it away as Potter’s motorbike shimmered into view, descending through the air to land in front of the estate.

Removing his helmet, Potter flicked his gaze from each of the three Aurors and then to Draco.  His face darkened at what he saw, and he dismounted, casually Disillusioning his motorbike without even reaching for his wand. 

“Farris.  Woodlocke.  Strickland.”  Potter nodded to each of the Aurors.  “Haven’t seen any of you in quite some time.  Woodlocke, you were just a trainee when I was last with the office, weren’t you?  Congratulations on getting your badge.”  He paused, taking in the tension of the situation.  “I wasn’t aware that any Aurors had been assigned to the Manor project.”

“There’s no official assignment,” Farris said, smiling in a way that didn’t reach his eyes.  “We were just checking up on things.”

“They were counting on my impeccable manners to be a good host and grant them access to the grounds,” Draco said.  “I’m afraid I quite disappointed them on that front.”

“Is that so?”  Potter’s lips twitched, as though they wanted to curve up into a grin.

“Indeed.  Apparently I inadvertently ruffled some feathers when I left the county.  Woodlocke was concerned enough to recommend that I remain at the estate indefinitely, and Strickland very solicitously inquired after my mother.”  Draco felt somewhat like he had as a student at Hogwarts, tattling on rulebreakers – although in his defense, Potter and his lot had so obviously been Dumbledore’s pets that it had been maddening to see them get away with what they did and get rewarded for it.

“Really.”  Potter’s expression became flinty.

“What?”  Strickland was defensive.  “We’re Aurors, Harry.  It’s our job to keep an eye on –”

“On who?”  Potter demanded.  “On private citizens who have not been convicted of breaking any laws?”

“Come on,” Farris scoffed.  “He’s a former Death Eater and his mother is as good as one.”

Draco swore that he could hear the qualifying punctuation on the word ‘former,’ and it was clear that Potter did, too.

“None of you has any business here,” he said, green eyes flashing with anger.  “So you’d best just run along.”

“We’ll go,” Woodlocke said, overriding Strickland’s protest and nudging Farris with an elbow.  “Just know that the Ministry is very interested in seeing this concluded, which means that someone will be coming by again – us or someone else.”

“Sure,” Potter said, crossing his arms across his chest and waiting pointedly for them to get a move on.

With a series of sharp cracks, the Aurors Disapparated.

Draco hoped that they ended up in a bog somewhere on their way out of Wiltshire, although he didn’t say so.  He watched as Potter sighed heavily and passed through the gates – who actually seemed relatively happy to see him, as they dissolved and resolved without complaint or trying to snare any bit of his clothes.

“Tell me truly, Potter.  Is my mother safe at your house?”  Draco asked, still maintaining his stiff posture.  It was the only thing he felt he had under control at the moment.

Potter looked at him in surprise, which quickly shifted into an expression of understanding.  “Yes.  You have my word.  My house is well-protected, not least by a Fidelius charm.  Only someone who keeps the secret can divulge its location, though admittedly there are a fair few Secret-Keepers now.  But all of whom I’d trust with my life.  No current Aurors could locate it without being told.”

“And if the Ministry ordered her to be moved to Azkaban?  Would you allow it?”  Draco knew that even voicing the question was audacious, but he couldn’t stop himself.

Potter’s hesitation was answer enough, and Draco blew out a breath as he turned his back on him and headed back toward his tent.  He shouldn’t have expected any other response.

“Malfoy, wait –”

“Now is not the time for talking, Potter,” Draco snapped, not slowing at all.  He was tired and hungry, and he needed a cup of tea in the worst way.

“Really?  Because it sort of feels like we should,” Potter said, trotting to keep up with him.

“To what end?  Nothing about this situation will change.  I’ll be exactly where I don’t want to be in order to keep my mother from going to the same prison that killed my father, and you’ll be ready to send her there as soon as your masters decide it.  What more is there to say?”  Draco did glance back at him this time, not noticing when he got too near the flock of ravens waiting patiently for their peanuts, and he jumped a mile as they all took flight at once, winging their way back to their tree.

“It’s not that simple, Malfoy,” Potter protested, and his voice had an edge of frustration to it.

“Then explain,” Draco said shortly, passing his wards and heading straight inside his tent.  Potter kept following, taking the seat he usually did at the small kitchen table.  Draco opened his food stasis cupboard with a scowl at the realization that Potter now had a usual seat at his table.

“I thought you said that now wasn’t the time for talking,” Potter retorted, but relented under the decidedly poisonous glare that Draco gave him.  “It’s politics.”

Draco said nothing, busying himself with selecting a plate of tamales verdes and casting a heating charm on the dish while waiting for Potter to continue.  When Potter didn’t say anything, he looked inquiringly at him only to see Potter’s longing gaze aimed directly at his food.

“These are mine,” he snapped, setting his plate down on the opposite side of the table.  “Keep talking.”

He rummaged through the storage cabinet again, this time retrieving a plate of tamales de rajas, which were made with the spiciest local chilies that Séneca’s crew could get their hands on.  He didn’t care for them, even though he’d expanded his palate considerably during his travels.  He used his wand to heat this plate up as well and put it down in front of Potter, as the man’s company was even more unbearable when he was hungry.

“Kingsley has been nudging Robards towards retirement,” Potter said, taking an appreciative sniff of the enticing aroma of the steaming tamales.  “And Robards doesn’t want to go.  He’s not doing a terrible job but his control has been slipping.  Disciplinary incidents and citizen complaints are up.  Some of the Aurors are jockeying for Head of the Auror Office, and DMLE Head Maratus is trying to stay well out of all of it.  It’s a fucking mess and Aurors are choosing sides.”  Potter cut away a generous portion of one of the tamales with his fork and brought it to his mouth, letting out a pleased hum as the spice and melted cheese hit his tongue.

Draco was slightly disappointed to see no reaction which indicated anything but enjoyment of the spicy food, but motioned for Potter to continue.

“I haven’t received an official offer, but everyone knows that Kingsley has asked me if I’m interested in heading up the Auror Office.”  Potter’s face shuttered slightly, though he didn’t stop eating.  “And I think that Robards believes that if he can do something that calls my judgement – possibly even my character – into question, something like proving that I was wrong to testify on behalf of you and Narcissa during the trials, then he’s safe and I’ll never work in the Ministry again.”

It did not take long for Draco to puzzle it all out.  “I’m assuming that Robards took advantage of this situation because you were involved, and not because he’s invested either in the Manor or the issues it’s causing with the ley lines.”

“You assume correctly,” Potter grumbled, scraping up the last of the cheese and masa from the plate.  “The timing of this was coincidental.  Hermione was the primary advocate for bringing you in, and she and Kingsley both wanted me involved as well.  Robards is just trying to use the situation to his own ends, but not to the point where he’d ever deliberately sabotage its success.”

Draco had his own opinion on that score, but chose not to say anything.  He waved his wand at the kettle, encouraging the water within to boil so that he could make some much-needed tea.  “I detest being used, Potter, but I have to say that it’s a bit more insulting to learn that this harassment isn’t necessarily even personal.”  Not entirely at least, though Draco remembered the venom in Percy Weasley’s voice when he’d locked the cuff onto his wrist.

A small grin caused Potter’s cheek to dimple.  “Bruised your ego a bit, Malfoy?”

“Oh yes,” Draco said lightly, starting the tea brewing in the pot after the kettle began to whistle.  “Felt just like old times, you suspecting me of something nefarious.”

Potter’s grin fell away, his face growing serious.  “If I still suspected you, Malfoy, I would never have taken you to Brixton with me.”

The truth rang quite clearly through that statement, even without the use of Legilimency.  Draco knew that Potter fundamentally was incapable of deliberately putting those he cared about at risk.  He did, foolishly, feel slightly complimented at that realization, which was in itself both unexpected and confusing.

Draco was quiet as he poured them both a cup of tea, somewhat preoccupied with the possibility that Robards might try to provoke him into acting rashly by attempting to carry out the threat of Azkaban against his mother.

Potter added three lumps of sugar to his tea, as he usually did, and sat back.  His gaze was appraising when he asked, “When did you lose your eye?”

The teacup in Draco’s hands shattered, sending pieces of the china flying, spilling hot tea over his skin and the table and threatening some of the papers he’d set aside to look at later.  Potter jumped up with a curse and grabbed a dish cloth, hurriedly soaking up the mess and reaching over to examine the state of Draco’s hands.

Draco jerked them back out of his reach, his breaths coming in short, sharp gasps.  “How – how did you –”

“You hide it well,” Potter said, hesitating before letting him be and returning to his seat.  “But you overcompensate, turn your head more to look at things than it seems like you should.  Sometimes you react to things coming at you on your right side, but sometimes you don’t.”

Grown-up Potter was many times more observant than he’d been while they were at school together, Draco thought sourly as he willed his aching hands to stop trembling.  It had been a long time since he’d been shocked enough to lose control of his magic to that degree.  His mind raced through possible responses – denials, deprecations, retaliations – before he discarded all of them and lifted a hand up to his right ear.  He gently took hold of the silver hoop, causing it to release from his pierced ear lobe.  He set the earring carefully down on the table between him and Potter and didn’t look away from it, trying not to hear Potter’s slight intake of breath now that his face – his true face – was fully visible.

Draco knew what he was seeing, though he hadn’t used a mirror to look himself in the face in a very long time.  The crisscrossing curse scars high on his cheekbone would not have faded, the cloudiness of the corneal scarring in his right eye still just as conspicuous as ever.

“I can see light and dark,” Draco said tonelessly, still staring at the silver jewelry on the table and resisting the urge to touch it again.  “Not shapes or color.  I have no peripheral vision on this side.”

Potter’s hand moved slightly across the table, a finger pointing toward the earring as if in question. 

“The silver is spelled with a mirror glamor.  It more or less reflects the other side of my face in reverse, with some adjustments to make it seem more natural.  It takes almost no power to maintain it, it just has to be in contact with my skin.”  Draco swallowed, an attempt to soothe his dry throat. 

“Why the glamor?”

Draco scoffed.  “Vanity, Potter, why else.”

“Right, vanity.”  Potter tapped his fingers on the table.  “I’m sure it has nothing to do with concealing a vulnerability from any hostiles who would take advantage of it.”

Both could be true, Draco thought, though he was somewhat surprised that Potter hadn’t accepted his explanation without comment.  “The charm is a miniaturized Sneakoscope.”

“What, really?”  Potter asked, his tone intrigued.

Startled, Draco actually raised his head a fraction and met Potter’s gaze.  “It is.  It’s an imperfect solution, as you’ve noticed, since it is short range and only activates based on intent.  Neutral or benign objects or people don’t provide any warning at all.”

“That’s fucking ingenious.”  Potter leaned down to examine the earring and its bauble more closely, but he was careful not to touch it.  He was quiet for a moment.  “How did it happen?”

Draco took his time in answering.  This was not a subject that he typically discussed.  Ever.  But Potter had this odd way about him – he was remarkably straightforward, always had been.  He was taking the revelation of Draco’s impairment and drastic change in appearance in stride, and he wasn’t looking at him or treating him any differently.  Not so far, at least.  That wasn’t even something that Draco could say about his own mother, though he could hardly blame her for that.

“You’re familiar with Thorfinn Rowle, I assume.”

Potter’s expression darkened, his mind no doubt running through all of his past encounters with the huge blonde Death Eater.  “I am.  He’s been on the priority wanted list in the Auror Office ever since Hogwarts.”

“I would speculate,” said Draco, carefully.  “That you could remove his name from that list now.”

 

He didn’t hear the tell-tale miniature thunderclap of a nearby Apparition, not over the wind and rain of the storm blowing in from the sea, not with the collar of his coat pulled up to keep warm.  The narrow alleyway that he’d taken to shorten the walk back to his mother’s house was suddenly blocked behind him, and a massive figure stood ahead, partially concealed by the shadow of the old archway connecting two buildings. 

But he knew that voice.

“Remember me, little Draco?”

 

“Is that right.”  Potter’s expression shifted into something that resembled satisfaction.  “Did you go after him, or did he find you?”

“I never sought him out.”

 

Draco had cast first, drawing and pointing his wand in a desperate move that Rowle easily countered with an Expulso that smashed him against a stone wall. 

“Did you think I would forget, boy?”  Rowle stalked toward him, slashing his wand through the air to take Draco’s legs out from under him as he tried to stand.  “To think that the Dark Lord ordered my punishment to be delivered by you, when you are the one who betrayed him – betrayed all of us.  You and that miserable bitch of a mother.  Crucio!”

Familiar and excruciating pain seared through him, and Draco writhed on the ground, sheer terror the only thing allowing him to maintain his grip on his wand – that and the hope that he could use it as soon as Rowle relaxed his guard.

 

“So he hunted you.  Why?”  Potter took a sip from his cup.

Draco clenched his hands on the table, feeling a slight sting as his tea-scalded skin stretched uncomfortably.  “An acquitted Death Eater has more enemies than friends, and that is true regardless of which side you mean.”

 

“I’ll make her suffer,” Rowle promised.  “In every way possible.  I’ll make it last as long as I can.  Just as soon as I’m finished with you.”  He squatted down next to Draco, who was lying boneless on the cobblestones.  He reached out and grabbed a fistful of Draco’s hair, lifting his head so that he could look him in the eyes.

Draco broke his knee with a Reducto.

Rowle screamed and fell to the side, but he moved as quickly as Draco did as they scrambled away from each other. 

Just dodging a bolt of green light, Draco raised his wand and pulled a cement planter containing a small tree off of a balcony above them, and it smashed to pieces right where Rowle had been only seconds before.

 

“And you dueled?”

There was no stifling a derisive snort.  ‘Dueling’ implied rules and limitations.  “As much as you ever dueled any of the Dark wizards who tried to kill you, Potter.”

 

It ended with them both casting at once.  Rowle’s spell hit Draco right in the face and it was only a frantic twist as he fell that allowed him to maneuver his Sectumsempra to devastating effect.  He heard only a gurgle and a heavy thump as he stared sightlessly up at the clouds, feeling the rain on his face and wondering, in a detached sort of way, how long it would take for him to die.

But he didn’t.  Some semblance of feeling eventually crept back into his limbs, along with just enough presence of mind to risk Splinching himself as he Apparated to his mother’s doorstep.

He was spared the sight of his mother’s face when she discovered him slumped against the door.  He only felt the tremor in her hands and heard the tears she was attempting to stifle as she helped him inside, treated his wounds as best she could and settled him on a couch close to the fireplace.

She left, and when she returned his undamaged eye had regained enough vision to see that she was soaked through to the bone.

And he knew that no one would ever find what was left of Thorfinn Rowle.

 

“Did you kill him?”  Potter asked bluntly.

“Are you asking as an Auror?”  Draco inched his fingers across the table until he made contact with the small silver hoop, and he felt the faintest brush of magic as the glamor once again activated.  And, of course, the feeling of relief and security that came with it. 

“I’m not an Auror anymore, Malfoy.”

“Perhaps not for now.  But I’m sure you can understand how foolish it would be for anyone to admit to such a thing, especially in the company of someone who has close ties with the DMLE.”

“Yeah, all right.”  Potter scratched his chin thoughtfully, his fingers scraping against the stubble over the pale scar that cut into his lip.  He shook himself out of his contemplation, and changed the subject.  “I’ve been talking over our problem with the conservatory dead end with Hermione.”

“Oh?”  Draco occupied himself with fastening the small silver hoop back in its customary place in his ear lobe.

“She has some ideas,” Potter said.  “What am I saying?  It’s Hermione, of course she has ideas.  The thing is, she has to be here to implement them.”  He got to his feet and fetched a spare teacup after poking about through the cupboards, and poured Draco a fresh cup of tea.

“How delightful,” Draco drawled, and Potter chuckled.

Chapter 10

It turned out that when Granger had ideas, she did not travel light.

Draco had watched with patient equanimity as Granger set her large canvas tote bag on one of the work tables in the kitchen.  It was no surprise at all to see her reach deep into the bag and withdraw a stack of books far too bulky to have fit inside it without the use of an Extendable charm.  He didn’t bat an eye as she laid out a few scrolls and a copy of the map he’d drawn of the Manor, as well.  The thick files covered with sticky squares of brightly colored paper, each of which had extensive notations in Granger’s neat penmanship, were likewise only to be expected.

When Granger started unpacking what appeared to be a lumpy tangle of frankly hideous pea soup green yarn still attached to large straight knitting needles, Draco was glad that Potter commented first.

“What, are you moving in, Hermione?  Getting a head start on Christmas jumpers, are you?”

Granger glared at him.  “As if I would ever even attempt to compete with Molly’s work.  My knitting doesn’t come close to hers, as Rosie has been forthright enough to tell me.  Several times.  Never underestimate the willingness of a teenager to be brutally honest with you.”

Potter threw his head back and laughed.  “Even when that teenager is your own daughter?”

“Especially then,” Granger said, shaking her head, her thick dark hair bouncing with the movement. 

“You have a daughter?”  Draco asked, unthinkingly, and then snapped his mouth shut when both Potter and Granger looked at him as though they’d forgotten he was even there.  But this little revelation had been yet another reminder of how cut off he was from life in this country, even with the bits of news that his mother always included in her letters. 

“I have two children.”  Granger smiled warmly, and Draco knew that warmth wasn’t directed at him.  “Rosie is in her third year, and Hugo just started his first year.  Ron is absolutely beside himself, he hates how empty the house is now.”

“It’s a good thing they now have more than just the two holiday breaks, then,” Potter said, his face twisting with an emotion that Draco couldn’t identify.  “More chances for the kids to come home to visit during the year.”

“Do they?”  Draco felt utterly adrift.  He had put any thoughts of his school days far behind him for so long that it was very strange to think about things at Hogwarts changing since he’d been there, though of course they must have.

Potter started ticking holidays off on his fingers.  “They get a week now for Hallowe’en and Samhain, a good long time for Christmas, Yule, and the winter solstice, and then of course Ostara and Easter in the spring.  Students who have cultural or religious holidays outside those ones are given special leave to be home with their families if they want, and families are invited to come to Hogsmeade during the weekends when students are allowed free time in the village.”

“Oh,” Draco said, his mind swimming with the burden of processing both this new information and the sudden memories of his last holidays here at the Manor – the Easter break during which the Snatchers had scooped up both Potter and Granger.

His stomach twisted in revulsion and he forced himself to abandon those mental threads immediately.  He couldn’t think about that, especially not here.

“I think McGonagall’s changes have really improved things for the students,” Granger continued, oblivious to Draco’s inner upset.  “She had to fight the board to implement them, even after…  Well, the Houses are still the same, though they’ve created new House common rooms outside the dormitories.”

“What for?”  Draco asked, bewildered.

“The Houses were too separate, too…disconnected from each other when we were kids,” Potter said softly, tracing the pattern of the wood grain in the table surface with a finger.  “And before then, too.  The students are still Sorted, but then they’re put into sets of four, one from each House.  They call them ‘quads.’  The quads attend classes together and are assigned to the same dormitory.  They have scheduled time to spend in their House common rooms, and they still compete for the House Cup and with the House Quidditch teams.  But most of their structured time is spent with a mix of students from other Houses instead of just their own.  Kids can sit wherever they like in the great hall except on the first night and when House prizes are awarded.”

So simple, and yet so radical.  Draco was not naïve enough to think that such a system would ever have fully prevented something like the Battle of Hogwarts from happening.  Not on its own, not with all of the other forces that had been decades in the making.  But a greater sense of school unity as opposed to House loyalty…  He could see how beneficial that would be.  It wouldn’t be perfect, of course.  Children were still children, after all, and they would learn and grow and make mistakes the same as children did anywhere.

He tried not to dwell on how different things might have been if they’d had such a system in place when he was at Hogwarts.  That line of thinking was worse than useless.  The past was over and done with, and there was nothing he could do to change it.  The only thing he could change was himself, and he’d tried.  The question of whether he’d changed enough, well.  That wasn’t really for him to answer, and how could he trust his own judgement about it in any case?

“So if this isn’t a knitting project gone horribly wrong, d’you mind explaining exactly what it is?”  Potter poked at the mass of ugly green yarn. 

“I’ll show you horribly wrong,” Granger muttered, yanking it out of his reach.  She cleared her throat.  “This is my idea for cancelling out the enchantments that are drawing power from the Dark magic in the Manor.”  She took hold of the knitting needles and flapped out her creation.  Its appearance only raised more questions than it answered, however.  It was…wide, certainly, and square-ish, but the stitches left Knut-sized gaps between them.

Potter stared at the thing intently, tilting his head slightly in a way that Draco found to be irritatingly endearing.  “I’m not seeing it, Hermione.  More explanation is required.”

“It’s meant to be a sort of magical fire blanket,” Granger said, exasperated.  “Or, er, perhaps a fire afghan, in this case.”

Draco took a step back.  “It makes fire?”

“No,” Granger said.  “It puts fires out.  Or rather, it puts magic out.  At least that’s the goal.  Harry, remember the null spell that I put on your mobile to free it up from magical interference?  I’ve knitted that spell into this, er, blanket-net thing, at every stitch.  If we can cast it over the enchantment, it will cut it off from the source of its power.  Just as a fire blanket smothers a fire by depriving it of oxygen.”

Potter glanced automatically toward the hallway leading off the kitchen.  The shards of the hardwood floor had been cycled throughout its length by the Hurling Hex for so long that by now it was a storm of sawdust kept at bay only by Potter’s Protego, and still going as strong as ever.  “And how do you propose we get close enough to do that?”

“Successive Shield charms?”  Granger raised her eyebrows, as if daring either of them to come up with a better idea.

“If we do that, we’ll only compress the available space for what’s left of the floor boards,” Draco said.  “By the time we get to the end of the corridor, the dust will be so thick we couldn’t even reach the enchantment to nullify it.”

“So we Vanish as much of it as we can along the way.”  Potter’s tone was decisive.  “How about this – Malfoy and I will alternate casting Shield charms and you can gauge our progress and do the Vanishing until we reach the Hex, all right, Hermione?”

Hermione finished tying off the loose ends of the knitting, then rolled the blanket up and bundled it under one arm. 

“I suppose I should be grateful that you’re letting me do that much.”  Her tone was light, but there was an edge to it that spoke to it being less of a jest than she’d meant it to be.

“Hey,” Potter said softly, reaching out to touch Granger’s elbow.  “You’ve already cast that null field spell however many hundreds of times it took to make this thing, and who knows how late you stayed up to do it.  You’re the one that knows the most about how it should work, so whatever I can do to clear the way for you, I’ll do it.  I’m not trying to keep you from anything.”

Granger let out a breath.  “Right.  I’m sorry.  This place just…it has me on edge.”

It was fortunate that no one was forcing Granger to stay, Draco thought, though that was unjust and he tried to chastise himself for it.  She was here to help solve a serious problem, and the sooner the issue with the ley lines was fixed, the sooner Draco himself could leave.  But still.  It rankled to hear her express such discomfort when she and the Ministry had condemned him to it indefinitely.

He forbore from saying so, but he could feel the sharpness of the unspoken words as he strode over to Potter’s existing shield.  He cast a nonverbal Protego a few meters beyond it, though it was hard for him to accurately judge the distance.  He concentrated on ensuring that his shield filled the height and breadth of the hallway, and knew he had succeeded when he saw the sawdust that was trapped in between the shields slowly drift to settle on the exposed floor, freed from any magical impetus. 

Draco held his wand steady and glanced back at Potter and Granger.  “Can we get started then?”

It was slow going, as the Hex’s removal of the hardwood floor meant that they were having to tread carefully on the exposed chalk limestone upon which the Manor had been built.  It was level but not smooth, and so the three of them had to mind their feet with every opportunity to move forward.  Granger was making this easier by Vanishing every last bit of debris, which helped prevent any additional risk of slipping.  The closer they got to the Hurling Hex, however, the shorter the distance Draco and Potter could cast the next Shield charm – it fought the barriers even harder.

But after Potter cast another Protego, this one only a couple of feet beyond Draco’s, there was little enough remaining dust that they could see the orb-like distortion in the air that was the Hex, turning over and over in its attempts to throw anything it could at them.

“Ready, Hermione?”  Potter grunted, holding his shield steady as Draco dropped his.

Granger shook out her bundle of spelled knitting, spreading it between her hands, and she stared intently at the enchantment.  “Ready!”

“Now!”  Potter dropped the Protego and Granger tossed the net over the Hex almost simultaneously, though they were all pelted with small particles of the remaining sawdust during the split second before the null field spells had the intended effect.

Draco grimaced and raked his fingers through his hair, trying to dislodge the heavy dust that had settled in it during the entire operation.  Granger’s net was hovering in the air still, completely covering the Hex.  Apparently it wasn’t quite enough to cancel it completely, though that might just be a matter of time.

“I think we should leave it there,” Granger said, stepping closer to examine how the net was hanging in the air.  “I’d rather not remove it and get thrown all the way back to the kitchen.”

“So we can make more of these, then?”  Potter asked, excitement brightening his eyes.  “Because this is a solid bit of progress, Hermione.”

“Well, I can,” Granger said dryly, walking around to the other side of the net.  “Though either of you are welcome to take up knitting if – ouch!”

She slapped a hand against her cheek but dropped it quickly, wincing and holding completely still as a bead of blood welled on her skin.

“Filament,” Draco said urgently, and Potter surged forward, severing the whisper-thin spell with a quick Diffindo. 

But the damage was done.

There was a faint crackling noise behind the double doors which led into the ballroom, and then a single, sustained violin note played.  The sound had an odd quality to it, scratchy and hollow, as though it were an old recording.

“Fuck,” Draco breathed.  Potter had already pushed open both doors, revealing the dim interior of what had once been a grand room with a high ceiling with decorative frescoes, the focal point of which was an enormous crystal chandelier.  The ornately paneled walls and exquisite parquet flooring had seen much better days – there were dust and cobwebs obscuring much of the fine detail, dulling its splendor down to decrepitude.  There was barely any light coming in from the huge ivy-choked windows.

But the formerly elegant décor was not what was drawing them in.  Granger had already stepped awkwardly up to the ballroom floor and Potter was right behind her.  Draco could feel the compulsion himself as the sound of that lone violin called to them, pressed them – required them – to come inside.

“Don’t fight it,” Draco warned, clambering up to the level of the parquet floor.  Potter and Granger were already drifting slightly, their feet moving in slow steps without their say-so.  He gave Granger a hard nudge, pushing her closer to Potter before he took her wrist, trying to avoid impeding the wand in her hand.  “Take Potter’s hand.  We can help hold each other up this way.”

“What’s going on?”  Granger asked sharply, sending a glare at Draco before grabbing the sleeve of Potter’s anorak.

“It’s one of the Dark artefacts, isn’t it?”  Potter asked grimly, his gaze seeking Draco’s as he was forced to take an unexpectedly long stride, as though an invisible force had shoved him forward.

“Gaultier Auguste Malfoy’s phonograph,” Draco said, letting his feet move accordingly in whatever way would allow him to maintain his balance.  “Once the music starts, you have to keep moving – it will compel you, and it won’t matter if you’re on your feet or not.  We have to move as quickly as the music does, it will – there it goes.”

The recording of the violin transitioned abruptly from that single note into a waltzing melody in a minor key that drew them in a wide counterclockwise circuit of the ballroom.  The music was appropriately haunting, a frenzied theme weaving in and out, and Draco’s recollections of his father telling him about how the phonograph came to be in Gaultier’s possession turned his stomach.  This was not the time to focus on that – he needed to try to figure out a way for the three of them to get out of this alive.

“How do we stop it?”  Granger stumbled slightly as the music picked up the tempo.  She was clearly still fighting the tune’s force, trying to resist the momentum even while the melody’s presence grew heavier in their minds.  The recording being played by the phonograph had not increased in volume, but it was becoming more intrusive with every note.

“We have to silence the phonograph somehow,” Draco answered, hearing the strain in his own voice from keeping his feet moving in time.  “Charms won’t have any effect on it.  We’ll either have to destroy it or physically muffle it in some way.  But first we have to find it, can anyone see –?”

“Ach!”  Potter hissed, using his free hand to swipe at the back of his neck, and Draco could see the spot of blood where another filament spell had left its mark.

The intricate pattern of the parquet floor beneath them began to rattle, the individual tiles shifting slightly with the music, until several of them flipped up, sticking out of the floor.  In time with the feverish beats of the waltz, groups of tiles within the pattern popped up and down, creating obstacles to trip them up as they were forced to continue this mockery of a dance.

Draco swore under his breath, then raised his wand over his head and shouted “Filum revelio!”

Almost immediately, he could see faint blue glints as untriggered filament spells became more visible.  The ballroom was large, but there were more spells than Draco was comfortable with dotted at random around the dance floor.

“I see them,” Granger said, visibly trying to relax and let her feet carry her along.  Fighting the push and pull of the music would be like fighting a riptide – a waste of energy and nothing gained but a hastened end.

The three of them kept up with the music, skipping over raised parquet tiles and doing their best to dodge any additional filaments that they could see.  And all the while the tempo increased, a continuous accelerando forcing them to take more and faster steps.

“Can we wait it out?  Stay on our feet until the song is over?”  Potter shouted, trying to make himself heard over the music that wasn’t overly loud but oppressive all the same.  He was panting, his eyes darting from the floor to all around them, as he was in the lead and trying to steer them away from any other potential traps.

“It won’t stop,” Draco gasped.  He was scanning the walls and corners as they passed, trying to find the phonograph.  “It will only keep getting faster.”

Granger cried out and was wrenched out of their hands, the toe of her trainer having gotten stuck in one of the openings left by a parquet tile.  The music had not dropped its hold on her, however, and even as Draco and Potter were carried away by their steps, she was driven forward as well, awkwardly trying to catch herself on her hands and knees but not quick enough to satisfy the relentless pressure of the violin’s song.

“Hermione!”  Potter tried to go backwards, tried to reach her, but it was futile trying to swim against the overwhelming current of the cursed melody.

Draco whirled, barely keeping his feet under him as he twisted just far enough to see Granger nearly stagger to her feet before she fell yet again, her body battering against the rhythmically shifting tiles.  “Potter, catch her on the next rotation – stay on your feet, you can’t help her if you go down, too!”

Potter spared him a furious glare but he nodded, his hands now free and spread out to help him maintain his balance as they continued their circuit of the ballroom.  Draco brushed Potter’s ire aside.  If he needed to deal with it later, he would.  He scrutinized the walls as they passed, searching for any sign –

There.  On the lower shelf of an abandoned serving cart, he could see the gleaming brass of the phonograph’s trumpet-like speaker horn.  He pointed his wand.  “Accio!”

The serving cart inched forward, but its progress was almost immediately impeded by the tiles as they flipped up and down.  Draco felt like howling his frustration.  He couldn’t even keep his wand steady, the music was too fast now, and it was only a matter of time before he lost his own footing.

Potter was dancing his way back toward Granger, and he used his wand to help lift her upright so that he could wrap an arm around her waist.  Her feet feebly moved with his, but she was very obviously favoring one of her ankles and trying to stifle any noises of pain.

Unfortunately, Potter was so focused on helping Granger along that he didn’t see the filament spell until it latched onto his skin.  Draco could see the line stretching between the two figures and the grandiose chandelier, whose crystals shuddered and clinked together musically as whatever spell that was laid upon it activated. 

Draco divided his attention between his feet, the phonograph, and the chandelier as its arms twisted sinuously.  The chain suspending it from the ceiling lengthened, and the crystals jangled as the chandelier seemed to take hold of the chain as it descended, looking very much like some horrible arachnid facsimile.  Indeed, it moved more like a hunting spider than anything else, touching down to the floor and extending its arms to scuttle toward Potter and Granger.  Potter tried to cast wandlessly, some spell to repel it perhaps, but whatever magic it was had no effect and he was having to use both of his hands just to keep Granger from falling again.

There wasn’t enough time to try to destroy the phonograph first – the recorded violin’s frenetic playing was only picking up speed, and there would be no reprieve.  There were yet more filament spells that so far had not been triggered, and Draco could feel his own fatigue and shortness of breath even as he desperately strove to keep tripping his way around the floor.

Only one thing left to do.

Draco set his wand between his teeth as he fumbled with the cuff of his left sleeve, loosening it enough so that he could bare his arm in order to get access to the Mark.

The beady eyes of the snake protruding from the mouth of the skull seemed to focus on him, and he nearly lost a step as he tried to stave off the wave of utter dread that threatened to sweep him under.  The Mark glistened in a dark, sickly way, as though it were freshly applied rather than decades old, and it made his heart pound with fear and a deep, burning hatred.

His right hand took hold of his wand once more, and he carefully directed it at his own defiled skin.  “Diffindo!”

Flesh parted easily, blood welled to the surface and dripped to the floor below, leaving a trail of spatters behind him as he continued his desperate footwork.

“Mortem non timeo,” Draco intoned, siphoning as much of his own blood as he dared into a wobbly dark crimson sphere.  “Absumo et nihil relinquo.”  The blood rose and started to boil in midair.

Ahead of him, Potter foundered, his body contorting to cushion Granger’s as he hit the floor hard, and then the spidery chandelier was upon them.

“Epuletur in fine!”  Draco shouted, and the sphere of blood burst, sending a powerful wave of Dark magic rushing throughout the entire room.

The silence was deafening in its abruptness.  The music of the phonograph cut off, and there was a faint clatter of tiles as the entire parquet floor lay flat once more, accompanied by the tinkling of crystals as the chandelier stilled and tipped onto its side.

And then nothing.

Draco felt a sense of vertigo as his body tried to adjust to the sudden lack of the momentum that had been driving him, mingled with the repulsive feeling of elation that always followed the use of Dark magic.  It was something that he had not experienced for a very long time, and he did not welcome it.  Whatever high sang through his blood in the wielding of Dark magic, it did not last long, and he knew the price would soon come due.

He made his way carefully to the cart which held the phonograph, only vaguely aware of the sensation of blood dripping from the fingertips of his left hand.  He crouched down, and with a quiet grunt of effort, snapped off the tone arm and flung it away, hearing it clatter against the floor.  He then straightened and put his foot through the wooden casing that supported the turntable mechanism.  He stamped the horn flat for good measure.

Then the world started to spin, and that had nothing to do with the phonograph or its music.  So he slumped against the wall, letting it brace him as he sank to the floor.

He did not lose consciousness.  He stubbornly clung to his awareness even as the edges of his limited vision grew hazy, though it was fair to say that he wasn’t fully cognizant of everything that was happening.  He had a foggy impression of Potter speaking to him, shaking his shoulder gently and growing increasingly frustrated as the man’s repeated attempts to use Episkey to close the neat gash on his left forearm failed to do so.

Draco could have told him that it wouldn’t work, not on the skin under the Mark.  And indeed he may have even done so, as Potter switched to applying pressure by tightly wrapping the wound with a bit of ripped T-shirt.

The Manor was hard on Potter’s T-shirts, it seemed.

He was alone for a bit, though he wouldn’t have been able to say how long.  Only that he dispassionately observed Potter helping to mend Granger’s hurts, particularly her ankle, before the two of them disappeared down the service hallway with the nullified Hurling Hex.  Perhaps it wasn’t too long, as it seemed as though between one blink of his eyes and the next Granger was in front of him, a scowl marring her face as she used gloved hands to remove Potter’s hastily fashioned bandage and replace it with one which looked as though it came from a Muggle first aid kit, no doubt drawn from deep within the recesses of the tote bag she’d brought with her. 

Granger Vanished the bloodstained cloth and did her best to clean Draco up as well, though his clothing was still spattered with flecks of red.  She glanced at the clean white gauze that she’d expertly wrapped around his forearm.  It completely covered the Mark, but she couldn’t hide a small shudder.  Draco didn’t blame her.

“Come on,” she said, getting to her feet and taking his elbow.  “Up you get.”

Draco’s legs were slow to respond, moving sluggishly, but somehow he found himself suddenly upright, the change making him dizzy.  He felt his right arm being tugged around Potter’s shoulders, with one of Potter’s arms finding its way securely around his waist.  His touch was so warm, heat radiating from where their sides were pressed together.

He might have protested that he was fine.  He meant to, but if he had actually given voice to the thought he was roundly ignored by both Potter and Granger.  He heard them talking quietly to each other, but none of it seemed important.  Something about calling Weasley to take a Portkey home, as Potter didn’t want Granger to try Apparating after what they’d been through.

And then Draco found himself back in his tent without knowing exactly how he’d got there, with warm hands urging him under the covers of his disused bed, the linens stale but also blessedly cool against his skin.  He closed his eyes.

~ * ~

The wards roused him, and at first he didn’t know where he was.  He didn’t remember falling asleep – he didn’t even remember the last time he’d actually been inside his bedroom for anything other than a change of clothes.  His feet were bare, picking up a chill as soon as he set them on the floor.

His entire body ached with the memory of the blood magic he’d performed, and he still felt drained even after sleeping for some time.  His wand was on the nightstand, and his hand was shaking enough that he nearly fumbled it to the floor before he was able to pick it up.

Shuffling through the kitchen toward the tent flaps, Draco tried to summon up a happy memory – but his head was aching and it was difficult to focus.  He pinched his arm hard in an attempt to wake himself up more, tried to bring to mind the impression of the sun setting over a vast expanse of water, the sound of waves lapping at the shore, the feeling of true and utter calm.  It wasn’t the best kind of emotion to use for summoning a Patronus, but it would have to do for now.

He stepped outside, wand raised –

“Expecto patronum!”

Draco stumbled back in shock as a brightly shining stag emerged seemingly out of nowhere, rearing back on its hind legs to paw at the air before setting its feet firmly down on the ground, lowering its antlered head, and charging at the Dementors that stood just beyond the circle of the wards. 

They scattered, taking flight and rasping away into the night far more quickly than they ever did for Draco’s ermine, and the heavy sense of hopelessness and despair that they imparted dissipated almost immediately.  The stag continued its pursuit far into the woods, only glimpses of its glowing silver form visible now and then through the trees.

Potter appeared suddenly, lowering his hood and shifting a cloak from his shoulders.  His eyes never left Draco’s as he bundled it into one of the inner pockets of his anorak.

The energy between them was thick with a tension that Draco struggled to name, and he automatically took a step back when Potter advanced on him.  Unfortunately, his bare heel caught one of the tent stakes and he started to fall, flinging his hands out to catch himself.

But he didn’t need to.  Potter’s hands were gripping his arms, hauling him up as though it took almost no effort.  Those strong hands curled around his biceps, fingers digging in almost painfully, but Draco didn’t notice because there was no escaping those piercing green eyes.

For a moment they stood, close enough to share breaths, and Potter’s gaze flicked down and back up.

Draco was still, absolute disbelief freezing him in place.

“You drive me mad,” Potter growled, and let him go – only staying just long enough to be sure that Draco was steady on his feet before turning on the spot and Apparating away with a crack.

Chapter 11

Kingsley Shacklebolt, Minister of Magic

1 HGR, Sublevel One

Westminster

London, United Kingdom

 

Re: The Ongoing Ministry Cock-up

Minister Shacklebolt, et al.

It seems remarkable that in spite of repeated refusals, the Ministry continues to demand unnecessary answers regarding the occurrence in the ballroom.  Relevant facts were provided, and again nothing more will be said but that it will not be desirable or feasible to replicate those actions which were taken in a very specific set of circumstances.  Any methods which were employed in bringing the incident to a satisfactory conclusion (i.e., all three of us sodding survived) have no utility or bearing on the larger issue of the ley lines.  Having restated all of this yet again, I must kindly ask you to wind your neck in, as my response will always be the same.

Unspeakable Granger’s innovative nullification nets have proven to be effective at neutralizing lingering malicious enchantments, though they appear to be single use.  Therefore I would request as many of these nets as can be provided (color immaterial), as we have yet to breach the main hall of the ground floor and it is all but guaranteed that additional obstacles remain.

I must also decline the offer to sweep ‘cleared’ areas of the Manor for Dark artefacts for the purposes of their removal – first because no mention of appropriate destruction and disposal of said artefacts was made, and second because introducing nonessential personnel to the estate at this stage creates unnecessary risk to all parties involved.  Any Aurors or other Ministry officials who may arrive at the estate in spite of my refusal are recommended to bring their own refreshments and perhaps some light reading material, as they will be left waiting outside the gates until they decide to find more productive things to do.

I am as ever your unwilling servant,

Draco Malfoy

PS, Though of course this does not currently apply to me, it appears that with the passing of the autumnal equinox Apparition targeting has become even less dependable, and Potter reports that Muggle devices now get spotty ‘signal,’ whatever that means.

~ * ~

Draco Malfoy, Temporary Ministry Contractor

Small Tent

Old Leland Road

Hardwick

Wiltshire, United Kingdom

 

Re: Malfoy Manor

Mr. Malfoy,

At some point during this coordinated enterprise it may be useful to more fully acquaint you with the commonly understood meanings of ‘offer’ and ‘order’ in the hope of aiding you in your interpretation of both terms, though your point regarding unnecessary risk is well taken.  For now, clearing Dark artefacts from the Manor will be delayed until the Manor itself can be rendered inert. 

Officials within the Department of Mysteries are already at work replicating Unspeakable Granger’s nullification nets, though initial efforts were delayed somewhat while those assigned to the task learned how to knit.  You may expect delivery of finished and inspected nets upon completion.

After consultation with Mr. Potter and Unspeakable Granger, the Ministry has determined that further details concerning the incident in the ballroom are not in fact relevant to restoring the desired status of the ley lines at this time.  However, myself and other interested parties agree that maintenance of some level of trust requires you to be more forthcoming in response to future requests for information.

Yours most sincerely,

Kingsley Shacklebolt, Minister of Magic

PS, Unfortunately no progress has yet been made in obtaining an exact replacement Weird Sisters tour T-shirt for Mr. Potter, but Kirley Duke has graciously provided a number of autographed items which he hopes will go some way to making up for the loss.

~ * ~

Draco Malfoy

Malfoy Manor

Old Leland Road

Hardwick

Wiltshire, United Kingdom

 

 

Dear Dickhead,

First off you’re a tosser for not even dropping a single owl to let me know that you’re back, I had to hear it from the fucking red robes when they nicked me just for driving a lorry full of dodgy snow globes.  How was I to know they weren’t enchanted properly?  I know they’re only supposed to snow on the inside but it’s not like it’s my job to test them out, is it?  I just drive where they tell me.  Anyway after they de-iced me and the lorry they barely wanted to talk to me about them at all.  They only wanted to know about your mum and who’s she’s been talking to.  I didn’t say nuffin, of course.

I know you think that you’re protecting me by keeping your distance, though you know that’s bollocks as much as I do.  It’d be nice to meet up for a pint or sommat, is all.  Been at loose ends a bit since Millie and me split up.  Owl me when you’ve pulled your head out of your arse.

Wanker.

Greg

PS, One of the red robes let it slip that you’re working with Potter these days.  You finally get in his pants yet?

~ * ~

Potter was getting on Draco’s last nerve, which was saying something because Draco had actually managed a good handful of decent nights’ sleep since the stag Patronus had run off the Dementors.  He was still hesitant to sleep anywhere but the armchair, just in case, but the recent lack of nightly interruptions had been a welcome respite.

So in a way it was somehow impressive that Potter had managed to irritate him to such a degree that he couldn’t even watch the man pace restlessly by the gates, his temper was so short.  And not without reason.  Ever since the ballroom and the subsequent encounter with the Dementors – or at least what had happened immediately afterwards – Potter had been cool and standoffish, not lingering around the estate or following Draco back to his tent for a meal or a cup of tea.  There were no walks down to the Muggle pub for a pint or two.  Any conversation had been strictly limited to the Manor and potential strategies they could employ to make more headway.

It was so clear that Potter was avoiding the entire topic of…of that moment that Draco could only conclude that he hadn’t misunderstood it at all.  He’d tried to convince himself that Potter was being distant because Draco’s use of Dark magic and its necessary incorporation of the Mark had reminded him of the stark ugliness of the past.  And certainly, that could still be at least partially true.  But Draco was by no means inexperienced, nor did he indulge in false modesty.  He knew what it looked like when a man wanted him.

Trust Potter to complicate things, Draco thought bitterly.  He had been away for twenty years.  He thought that he had, if not dealt with, then at least sufficiently suppressed any lingering feelings of fascination he might have had for Potter.  Said feelings were inextricably entangled with everything that was bad between them, not the least of which was his own abhorrent behavior.  There was no escaping it.  It was so much easier to think of his past…and present…infatuation as completely one-sided, he could manage it that way.  For Potter to drop even the slightest hint that he might reciprocate some degree of interest and then immediately dash the unwanted spark of hope that had ignited within Draco was…well.  Unpleasant was putting it mildly.  Draco smarted from a rejection he hadn’t done anything to invite.

He focused instead on coaxing the boldest of the ravens to come closer while he and Potter waited, bribing them with gently tossed roasted peanuts.  Grito was the only one he had named – the raven almost demanded a moniker which suited its vocal personality.  It seemed to be the only member of the flock that was comfortable enough to settle near him most often, and he rewarded such trust with plenty of treats.

“Malfoy.”  Potter’s voice had what Draco considered to be an unjustified edge to it, as though he’d tried several times to get his attention.

“Yes, what is it, Potter?”  Draco replied testily, dusting his hands of what remained of the peanuts.

“Before they arrive, I’ve got something to tell you.”

“Fine.”  Draco got to his feet, adjusting the strap of his satchel, and looked at Potter in cool expectation.

Potter scowled, not directly at Draco but off to one side.  He seemed to be working himself up to whatever it was that he was going to say, and Draco strove for patience.  Finally, Potter spoke.

“Hermione isn’t coming today.”

Draco’s brows twitched together in confusion.  “All right…  But if she isn’t, then who is escorting the elf here?  Were you going to—?”

“No,” Potter interrupted.  He blew out a breath.  “Teddy is bringing her.”

Teddy.  Draco racked his brain, trying to understand why that name was familiar.  Who—?

Oh.

“You mean…you mean your gods—”

“Teddy is genderfluid,” Potter said, cutting him off again.  “And I mean that quite literally.  They inherited their Metamorphmagus nature and ability from Tonks, and they have a variety of presentations.  They use he and she also, but prefer whatever is most consistent with how they’re presenting in the moment.”

“I see,” Draco said, except his confusion had not abated.  “But…shouldn’t they be at Hogwarts?  School is in session.”

Potter gave him a startled look, then barked out a laugh, the first time he’d been even slightly relaxed around Draco since the…moment.

“Teddy’s last year at Hogwarts has come and gone, Malfoy,” Potter said, still chuckling.  “Granted, they haven’t fully settled on a career path yet, instead preferring to faff around for a bit while they figure it out.  But they’re grown up now.”

“That can’t be right.”  Draco shook his head in disbelief.  He’d never even laid eyes on Teddy, but they’d always been a figure on the periphery of his life, and certainly his mother had attempted multiple times to rebuild a relationship with her sister, with hopes of also someday meeting the child.  And ‘child’ was the category that Draco had always unconsciously kept them in, it seemed.  It was somewhat disorienting to think of Teddy as an adult.

“They didn’t have the easiest time at Hogwarts,” Potter said pointedly, the edge creeping back into his tone.  “Not all the students or the professors accepted them as they were.  Are.  So I’m asking you to keep that in mind when –”

“Potter.”  It was Draco’s turn to interrupt.  “It’s fine.  My only concern is whether Andromeda knows that they’re coming here, as I can’t imagine she would approve.”

“She wouldn’t, and she doesn’t,” Potter agreed.  “But ever since Teddy learned that Narcissa was staying at Grimmauld Place, they’ve popped by several times to meet her.  Teddy wants to meet you as well, and as Hermione has her hands full at the Ministry…”

“It’s fine,” Draco repeated, though he couldn’t deny that some small anxiety was now moving to the forefront on his queue of concerns.  He’d had no expectations of meeting one of his very few living relatives for the first time today, though he was heartened to hear that his mother had already had the chance to make Teddy’s acquaintance.  “How is…I mean does it seem like my mother and Teddy are getting on all right?”

Potter’s face softened ever so slightly.  “Yeah.  It’s a bit tense, you know, since Andromeda hasn’t changed her mind about seeing or speaking to Narcissa.  Which means Teddy is more or less doing this behind Dromeda’s back, and I can’t see that going over well when she finds out.  But, as I said, Teddy is grown.  They make their own decisions, and…when you’re an orphan it makes you a little desperate for family connections.”

That made Draco’s heart twinge a bit, and he inwardly cursed Potter for unwittingly provoking sympathy while Draco was justified in being annoyed with him.  That wasn’t playing fair at all.  He wasn’t an orphan, but the Malfoys had always had families which were quite small, likely a consequence of being so selective about the lineage and magical status of anyone who married into it.  It was rare that there were two or more children in a generation, and as a result he didn’t even have a great bevy of cousins, not like the newest generation of the Weasley clan did.  He understood the desire for a wider familial circle.

A screeching of brakes and the hiss of hydraulics grabbed his attention, and he turned to see an enormous purple triple decker bus coming to an alarmingly abrupt stop right in front of the Manor.  Draco was quite sure that the Knight Bus had never in its existence made a stop here before, as the Malfoys were nothing if not consistently snobbish Purebloods when it came to anything that acknowledged the ingenuity of Muggles or the needs of poor or infirm wizards and witches.

Draco could see a few of the passengers peering curiously out the windows, though at least half of them were pale and a bit green from the bus’s typically chaotic style of travel.  Two figures, one tall, one inhumanly small, made their way somewhat shakily down the steps.  They weren’t but one pace away on solid ground before the Knight Bus shifted gears and blurred back into frenetic motion, zooming down the road on the way to its next stop.

He couldn’t help but clasp his hands behind his back, a nervous habit that his mother had striven to train him out of long ago, as it was an obvious means of hiding fidgety and trembling hands.  He opened his mouth, about to order the gates to let these new visitors onto the grounds of the estate, when the smaller of the two reached up to pat each of the grotesques affectionately, and the gates puffed into smoke of their own accord.

Potter moved to sweep the blue-haired Teddy into a hug, murmuring something that Draco couldn’t hear into their ear and then leaning back to tug playfully at their wildly striped scarf.  It was done in stripes of black and yellow – all shades of black and yellow, in all different textures of yarn.  Some of it was fluffy, some of it looked almost like tatted lace, and no two yellows or blacks were the same. 

“Malfoy, this is Teddy,” Potter said, keeping his arm around his godchild’s shoulders but turning just enough to be polite during the introduction.  “Teddy, this is Draco Malfoy.”

“Cousin,” Draco said formally, extending his hand.

“Hi,” Teddy said, giving him a thoroughly scrutinizing look before taking it.  Teddy’s current appearance had their bright blue hair framing their face in soft waves, cut shorter in the back.  They had a heart-shaped face similar to what Draco’s limited and hazy memories of Nymphadora called up.  He didn’t see a lot of Remus Lupin in Teddy, except for their eyes – hooded and slightly tired, but a nice amber brown in color.  They were taller than both Potter and Draco, with a slender build.  Draco supposed that, too, was a bit of Lupin.

“And you probably remember Pipsy,” Potter said, gesturing to the house elf who was standing a respectful distance away.  The elf had the large eyes and pointed ears that were common features among their kind, though it was impossible to guess at her age.  House elves lived a very long time, and once they reached maturity their appearance didn’t change much until they entered the last stages of their lifespan.  Pipsy was clothed not in a tea towel or some sort of house linen, but in a well-cut dress which seemed to be sewn out of purple and silver drapery material.  A compromise, it seemed, between acknowledging the bond with Potter’s home without bowing to the traditional markers of servitude.

Draco did remember Pipsy, though not by name.  He hadn’t bothered much with the names of the house elves when he was first an arrogant child and then a terrified teenager.  That was his mother’s domain, and his father’s when Lucius was in need of an outlet for his cruelty and frustration.  That thought made his stomach turn.

“Hello, Pipsy,” Draco said, giving her a slight bow in greeting.  “I appreciate your willingness to come back here.  I can’t imagine that the prospect was pleasant.”

Pipsy regarded him with her enormous violet eyes.  “Harry Potter asked if Pipsy could help, and Pipsy said that she could.  Pipsy is missing the old house, and…Pipsy is happy to be seeing Master Draco again.”

Draco’s shake of the head was immediate, and brooked no argument.  “Please don’t call me that, Pipsy.  I’m no one’s master.”

“But you is the lord of the Manor, sir,” Pipsy said, no doubt or hesitation in her high voice.  “Pipsy is only wanting to show the proper respect.”

“Just my name is all the respect I need,” Draco assured her, meaning every word.  Of all of the former house elves of Malfoy Manor, Pipsy in particular owed him nothing.  “I thought we might start with the kitchen, if that’s agreeable.  It’s consistently been the safest place inside the Manor so far, I think in large part to you and the other elves.”

“As you say, sir.”  Pipsy nodded enthusiastically, and Draco didn’t press her on using his name.  It was an awkward situation, he could make things slightly more comfortable without objecting to ‘sir.’

“You’re to stay in the kitchen or outside on the grounds,” Potter was telling Teddy firmly.  “The Manor is still very dangerous, and—”

“I get it, Harry,” Teddy said.  Draco wasn’t looking at them, as he was leading the way while trying to maintain a slower pace for Pipsy, but he could hear the eyeroll.  “I’m not a complete idiot, you know.”

“I do know that,” Potter said, obviously striving for a more reasonable tone.  “I just don’t want anyone to get hurt, that’s all.”

Teddy let out an exaggeratedly weary sigh, and Draco huffed a quiet laugh.  Potter was a definite mother hen type, most Gryffindors were.  He could only imagine how seriously Potter took his responsibilities as Teddy’s godfather.

Grito kept pace with them, almost constantly cawing, as though ensuring that Draco was aware that there were new people on the estate.  The rest of the flock kept their distance, but Draco tossed a few peanuts off to the side.  He was rewarding vociferous behavior, he knew, but it was charming in its way.

“Oh.”  Pipsy’s soft exclamation as she set eyes on the Manor kitchen for the first time in decades was as if she’d finally been reunited with an old friend.  She ran a small, delicate hand along one of the work tables as she made her way to the cold hearth of the massive fireplace.  After regarding it for a moment, her eyes glistened and she shook her head. 

“It was a terrible shame, the hearth fire going out.  Not to be saying that Pipsy isn’t grateful to Harry Potter,” she hastened to add.  “But…to fail a house is…it’s a wicked thing to be doing.”

“You did not fail,” Draco said, adamantly.  “You were failed.  All of you.”

Pipsy bit her lip, a single tear escaping and dripping onto the stone floor.  “Wouldn’t be right to ignite it again,” she said regretfully.  “A hearth is needing an elf to tend to it.”

“That won’t be possible for a while yet, Pip,” Potter said.  “It’s not safe for anyone to live here at present.”

“Will Draco Malfoy be wanting house elves when he does live here again?”  There was no mistaking the hopeful note in Pipsy’s voice.

“Pipsy…”  Draco was trying hard to keep his voice from coming off harshly, but he wanted to make sure there were no misunderstandings.  “The Manor isn’t mine.  It belongs to the Ministry, it has for twenty years now.  I won’t be living here after this work is done.”  He didn’t say that he’d also be out of England and around the world the second his ‘contract’ with the Ministry ended.  Pipsy’s face had already fallen at the reminder of the Manor’s ownership.

“Stupid of Pipsy to forget,” the elf said, scrubbing at her eyes with both hands.  “The Manor is knowing who its master is, it knows.”

“Let’s have a look at the service passages,” Potter suggested.  “You said that there was a way to keep them open?”

Pipsy nodded.  “If the house is agreeing, even without its hearth fire, then Pipsy can be fixing them open.”

“There aren’t any elf passages which lead to the cellars, are there?”  Draco asked, hoping that his tone didn’t betray the way his heart was pounding in his chest at the thought.

“No, sir,” Pipsy said, and Draco tried to hide his relief at her answer.  He wasn’t prepared for the cellars.  He didn’t think he ever would be.

The elf made her way toward a massive Welsh dresser in which was stored stacks of crockery bearing the Malfoy crest.  She raised one thin hand and snapped her fingers sharply, the sound echoing through the kitchen with the force of a small boom.  The dresser shuddered in its place against the wall, the crockery beginning to rattle, though not a single dish dared fall as space unfolded between the dresser and the end of the row of enameled cast iron stoves.  Without dresser or stoves shrinking or turning either inward or outward, there was now a narrow gap between them, with a steep set of stairs leading up. 

“Hold on for a minute,” Potter cautioned, moving protectively in front of Pipsy.  He cast some nonverbal spells, verifying the relative safety of the passageway.  He looked down at the elf.  “Where does this one lead?”

“It is the upper service wing, Harry Potter, sir,” Pipsy said.  “But it is not feeling of Dark magic.  Pipsy is certain that no Dark wizards are going inside.”

That wasn’t completely true, Draco thought to himself, but he didn’t comment.  The spirit of what Pipsy had said was accurate.

“Well, I can’t detect any filaments or other signs of enchantments lying in wait,” Potter said.  “But just in case, I’ll go first.”

Draco only just stopped himself from rolling his eyes, and Teddy, who had stopped to examine some copper pots hanging from a rack, grinned broadly at him as though they’d guessed at his reaction.  Potter pointed at them.  “You’re staying here.”

“I dunno, Harry, there might be sharp objects in the kitchen.  I’ll wander a bit outside instead.”  Teddy shot their godfather a grin.

“There’s a pond if you head west from that field maple,” Draco said.  “The ravens might follow you there, keep an eye out for the toad-eating plants.”

“Ooh.”  Teddy’s face lit up with interest. 

“There are Dementors on the estate,” Potter cautioned.  “So far they’ve only been seen at night –”  He glanced briefly at Draco, a dark flush coloring his cheeks.  “– but send a Patronus if there’s any trouble.”

“Harry, I’ll be fine,” Teddy said firmly.  “It’s the rest of you who are heading into danger unknown, so maybe you should be sending me Patronuses.”

Draco coughed, unsuccessfully trying to hide a laugh.  Potter glared first at him, then at his godchild.  “Fine.  I hope the toad-eaters get you, insolent brat.”

They could hear Teddy cackling as they stepped outside, heading for the stone bench under the field maple.

“Mas—Draco Malfoy, sir,” Pipsy called, beckoning him over.  She used the tip of one pointed fingernail to scratch a symbol into the frame of the passageway she’d opened, the lines of which glowed a soft golden color.  “If you are touching your ring to the sigil, the Manor will be letting us know if it agrees to stay open.”

Feeling slightly foolish, Draco crouched down and pressed the knuckle of his ring finger to the sigil, ensuring that the flat surface of the crest was fully in contact with the wooden frame.  The sigil flared and then went out, leaving behind a char mark in the same design.

Pipsy nodded in satisfaction.  “There now, this will be staying open until an elf is closing it again.”

“Brilliant,” Potter said, taking the lead.  “Let’s see if it’s as safe as it appears to be.”

The narrow stairway led to the upper service wing, just as Pipsy had said, which only extended as far as necessary to provide service access to the family bedrooms.  Draco regarded the poky hallway, with its branches leading off between the rooms to hidden doors to allow unseen and discreet housekeeping, with a kind of numbness that did not bode well.

There were no hexes, no Dark artefacts, no filament spells waiting to spring a trap.

Only memories.

Unbothered by Draco’s silence, Potter forged cautiously ahead, pausing every once in a while to repeat his detection spell work.

“It seems clear,” Potter reported.  “Should we try any of the rooms?  What are the chances that those are safe?”

“Pipsy is not certain, Harry Potter, but the family rooms are having strong protections on them,” Pipsy offered.

Draco felt as though he should say something – confirm Pipsy’s assessment of the rooms, or provide his opinion on the status of the elf passage thus far.  But there was a thickness in his throat that all but prevented speech.  His mind could not be pulled away from the fact that he was standing in the place which he’d spent his last night inside Malfoy Manor, the night before he was packed off back to Hogwarts at the end of the Easter break.

The night after Potter, Granger, Weasley, and the other prisoners escaped.

The night the Dark Lord had known that Draco lied.

Voldemort frequently punished his followers, or directed them to punish each other.  Rarely ever to the point of death, however, as even within the surety of victory that he projected at all times, he did also know that meaningless sacrifice of his Death Eaters and allies lessened his chances at prevailing against the rest of the wizarding world within the United Kingdom.  But he hardly needed to threaten them with death, not when he was inventive and ruthless enough to make them beg for it.

Draco had not begged for death.  Lucius had miscalculated, in choosing to host the Dark Lord at the Manor.  As soon as his fall from grace had begun, as soon as Lucius had found himself in Azkaban after the fiasco at the Department of Mysteries, it had become clear that the Malfoys had truly only ever been hostages, not hosts.  Voldemort’s utter contempt for the concept of love did not prevent him from recognizing it, or from using it as a weapon.

What Draco had begged for was to spare his parents from punishment.  They were punished anyway, of course, and he could do nothing to stop it.  But Voldemort had a way of twisting the mind, to force it to accept guilt where no guilt should lay.  Even now, Draco could not look at his mother without remembering what she suffered, with some part of him still insisting that it had been his fault.  So Draco bore the brunt – or at least he probably did.  He had early on lost awareness of anything but his own pain.

The Dark Lord had eventually lost interest in delivering that pain himself, and had given him over to the hands of the Death Eaters who had not been at the Manor when Potter and the others had escaped. 

It hadn’t stopped until Pipsy had taken him into the service wing, between when one Death Eater had had enough and the next was yet to arrive to continue Draco’s torment.  There she had done what limited healing she could, given that elf magic was not really suited for it, and had brought Narcissa to him the next morning when he was due to board the train back to Hogwarts – something that the Dark Lord insisted he do, as he needed as many Death Eaters inside the school as possible.

Draco’s hair had started growing in white after that night.

A small but strong four-fingered hand slipped into his, giving it a squeeze, bringing Draco back from the prison that was his memory-locked mind.  He gasped in a breath, feeling his knees wobble, but the elf seemed to be supporting him, holding him upright just by that minimal, comforting contact alone.

“Master Draco is going to be all right,” Pipsy said, her high voice somehow still soothing.

“I—didn’t—I never thanked you,” Draco said, struggling to get the words out.  “I don’t think I did.”

He hadn’t even known her name.

“House elves is not needing thanks—”

“You deserve it nevertheless,” Draco said.  “Thank you.”

Pipsy’s face turned bright pink with embarrassment.  “You is very welcome, Master Draco, sir.”

Draco let that go, not up to the task of correcting her.  Not now, after she’d rescued him again.  He blinked, startled to feel the sting of tears in his eyes, and he hurriedly wiped them away with a sleeve.

Potter was watching them quietly, poised at the intersection between the main hallway and one of the small entrances to the service hallways leading to the rooms, this one for the master suite that Draco’s parents had once shared. 

To Draco’s profound relief, Potter did not ask, though the deep frown line between his brows indicated that he had at least an idea of what had just passed. 

“If you want to join Teddy outside, Pip and I can—”

“No,” Draco said, meeting his gaze squarely.  He held up his right hand.  “We need to keep the passages open, and the ring will only work for me.”

“All right,” Potter agreed, doing him the courtesy of just accepting his decision rather than asking if he was sure or trying to persuade him otherwise.

There were three passages in all that Pipsy was able to open for them, and her magic and Draco’s ring kept them in that fixed state.  There was the stair to the upper service wing, one which provided access from the conservatory to the library and the adjoining study, and one between the dining room and the ballroom which served the main drawing room, near the front entrance. 

It was by no means the most physically taxing day Draco had experienced at the Manor – far from it.  It wasn’t even magically taxing, as the use of the ring had seemed to require no effort whatsoever.  But the memories weighed heavily on Draco’s shoulders, present in much sharper detail than they had been in a very long time.  The only way he knew to deal with this level of emotional fatigue was to hide away and wait for it to pass.

Teddy seemed to sense the change in atmosphere.  They looked up from their book as the three of them approached, their bright honey-brown eyes scanning first Potter, then Pipsy and Draco for any signs of injury. 

“Everything all right?”  Teddy asked, sitting up from their sprawled position on the stone bench.

“It’s fine,” Potter said, obviously trying to be reassuring but coming off as subdued all the same.  “No new problems and a lot of progress, thanks to Pip.”

“Pipsy is always being happy to help,” said the elf, her face flushing pink once again.

“Yes, thank you again, Pipsy,” Draco said, meaning it in more ways than one.  He looked at Teddy.  “It was very good to meet you, cousin.  I would ask you to give my regards to your grandmother when you next see her, but I doubt she would welcome them.”

“No,” Teddy said, a trace of sadness crossing their expressive face.  Then their expression firmed.  “Not yet.”

That was the sort of optimism that Draco couldn’t share.  Andromeda had been estranged from Narcissa for longer than Draco had even been alive due to her marriage to Ted Tonks, and with the devastating losses of both her husband and daughter, not to mention her son-in-law, Draco couldn’t see how Andromeda would ever consider changing her mind about continuing in that state.

“Harry, are we still on for Saturday?”  Teddy asked suddenly.

“Yeah, Teddy, of course,” Potter said, sounding slightly confused.

Teddy grinned, turning to face Draco.  “Do you like Quidditch?” 

Draco was startled by Teddy’s question.  He was definitely not current on Quidditch – as much as the sport ruled the wizarding world of Europe, the average wizard or witch in the Americas was much more likely to follow Muggle football.  It was one of the main topics of conversation among Séneca and his crew, and they always put into port when there were major matches happening.  Quidditch was an afterthought at best.

“I do like Quidditch,” Draco said finally, wondering where this was going.

“Then you should come on Saturday,” Teddy said, a note of triumph in their voice.  “The Harpies are playing the Cannons, it’s a Weasley holy war.”

Draco blinked, then looked helplessly at Potter for an explanation.

Potter cleared his throat, glaring daggers at his godchild.  “What Teddy means is that Ginny Weasley plays for the Harpies, and Ron is a diehard Cannons fan for life.  It’s always an…interesting time when the teams face off with each other.  They’re playing on the pitch in Devon on Saturday.”

“I…I’m not sure…”  Draco couldn’t deny that the prospect of seeing a Quidditch match was appealing, but the notion of some kind of Weasley holy war was a bit frightening.

“You should come,” Potter said abruptly, shooting another narrow-eyed look at Teddy, who smiled innocently at him.  “You can get a ride with me if you like.”

Draco blinked again, feeling a bit off kilter.  “I—sure.”

“Great,” Potter declared, sounding as though it were anything but.  “Saturday it is, then.”

Chapter 12

He was being ridiculous.

And the worst part was that Draco knew he was being ridiculous.  The last time he remembered dithering this much over what to wear, he’d been at uni with some semblance of a social life.  Since beginning his post-education travels, he had kept to a polished but basic look, eliminating the need to fret over day-to-day choices by ensuring that his entire wardrobe was serviceable, durable, and well-fitted.

To compound matters, the reason behind this dithering was absurd.  He was going to a Quidditch match at Teddy’s invitation.  He was likely to be in close company with people who had no reason to like him and many reasons to dislike him intensely.  The fact that Potter was also going to be there was practically just a coincidence, and he certainly had not seemed terribly enthusiastic about Draco tagging along.  Therefore the idea of taking any particular care in choosing his apparel was laughable.

The pile of discarded clothing strewn across his bed was merely an indication of what a fool he was.

Ultimately he settled on one of his usual white button-down shirts with a thick shawl-collar cardigan in dark brown, paired with herringbone tweed trousers.  It was likely far too poncey for a Quidditch game, but he knew he looked decent enough, and the clothes would be warm on a cool September day.  He even found a scarf and charmed it to show the Holyhead Harpies’ team colors, with wide stripes of dark green and thinner bands of gold. 

Draco tossed the strap of his satchel over his shoulder and left the tent.  He threw peanuts to the ravens on his way up to the gates, and Grito followed him, confident in the expectation of receiving additional treats for sticking close by.  He’d started to be able to tell this raven apart from the rest of the flock, not just in small physical details, like the way the short feathers on the top of its head often fluffed up like a crest, but also in Grito’s more playful nature.  The bird was always pushing its luck with some of the older members of the flock, pulling gently but repeatedly at their tail feathers until they lost patience and warned Grito away.

Currently, Grito was keeping Draco company and amusing itself by sorting through the gravel of the weedy path guarded by the gates.  Any pebbles with a bit of sparkle to them were carefully set aside, while rejects were tossed in Draco’s direction when he wasn’t looking. 

Draco stood stoically so as not to ruin the game, but the silliness of it warmed him, going a long way toward bolstering his spirits.  There had been a time in his life when seeing a Quidditch match and going out and being seen was the most normal thing in the world.  Now it was just a poignant reminder of how much of his old life had been lost.  He’d rebuilt, of course, and there were some things about his old life that had needed to be discarded.  But he hadn’t rebuilt here, and so he felt bereft of any safe foundation.

His musings were interrupted by Potter’s arrival, which was heralded by the rumbling engine of his flying motorbike.  He looked up to see Potter glide to a stop in front of the gates, watched him take his time in removing his helmet and using a fingernail to scrape some nonexistent tarnish from one of the chrome handlebars before even glancing in Draco’s direction.

Well.  That was clear enough.  Draco schooled his expression before passing through the smoke of the gates, hearing them hiss back into solidity behind him.  He wished, for the hundredth time, that he didn’t have an infernal runic cuff preventing him from Apparating, as he would much rather have risked a few odd trips on his way to and from Devon than fly in tense silence with someone who looked as though he’d prefer to be anywhere else.

Potter finally dismounted the motorbike, tapping the seat with his wand just as he did before to extend the sidecar.  He was also wearing a scarf in Harpies’ colors, which at first amused Draco and then sobered him.  Potter had dated the Weasley girl, hadn’t he?  But that was ages ago, he reminded himself, and as far as he knew nothing had come of it.  It was none of his business, anyway, so fixating on the fact that Potter seemed to be siding with Ginny in the so-called Weasley holy war was just as foolish as all the time he’d wasted deciding what to wear.  He had no one to impress.

“Ready?”  Potter prompted him, and Draco looked up, startled to see Potter holding the spare helmet out to him. 

“Yes, of course,” Draco said, accepting it.  It was on the tip of his tongue to mind his manners and thank Potter for the ride, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to express gratitude for what was so far shaping up to be an excruciatingly awkward experience.  So he donned the helmet, folded himself into the sidecar, and off they went.

~ * ~

Draco’s day brightened considerably as soon as the Devon pitch came into view.  Salazar, it had been fucking ages since he’d set eyes on a Quidditch stadium, even the modest ones they used for British-Irish League matches.  The stands rose high above the ground, and he could see the goal hoops by the time Potter directed the motorbike to start its descent.  For a very brief moment, he was able to let go of the nerves associated with seeing yet more people who knew him only as he had been, and didn’t care to know him as he was now.

Hundreds of Quidditch fans were queuing at the various entrances to the stadium, with most of those wearing green staying eastward, and most of those wearing orange heading westward.  Teddy was waiting for them at the ticketing stand, her appearance decidedly feminine today, with blue hair hanging down as far as the middle of her back and sporting a dark plaid skirt topped with a green and gold jumper.  She was again wearing her odd black and yellow scarf.

Teddy jumped up and down, waving madly at them, and Potter finally smiled, opening his arms wide for a hug.  “Hi, Teddy.  Have you been waiting long?  Have the others arrived?”

“Everyone’s more or less here, I think,” Teddy said with a grin.  She let go of Harry and immediately hugged Draco, who went rigid with shock.

“Er, sorry,” Teddy said, obviously sensing his discomfort.  She drew back and looked him in the face, her brown eyes uncertain.  “Was that wrong?”

“No,” Draco managed to choke out.  He brought his arms up stiffly, giving her only the gentlest embrace in return, as he felt quite at a loss as to how he should return the unexpected gesture.  “No, it wasn’t wrong.”  He patted her awkwardly on the back.

“Good.”  Teddy beamed at him, and seized his hand and then Potter’s, towing them along behind her.  They soon reached the press of witches and wizards all crowding to reach the stairs that would take them up to the stadium seats, and it wasn’t long before Draco’s body had gone stiff and wooden again.  This was a denser throng than he’d anticipated, and he turned his head slightly, trying to widen his field of vision just a little so that he had a better sense of his immediate surroundings.

“It’s a bit chockablock today, isn’t it?”  Potter disentangled his hand from Teddy’s, giving her shoulder a squeeze.  “Let’s shift a bit to see if we can get through any better.” 

He moved around until he was standing just behind Draco’s right shoulder, and with that warm presence at his back Draco instantly felt more at ease.  He twisted to look at Potter, not quite certain what he was expecting to find.  Potter’s expression was that of easy confidence, with not a hint of pity – and it provided a sense of security that Draco hadn’t presumed or asked for.  He shouldn’t have needed it.  He would have muddled through on his own and been just fine, and any second he was going to open his mouth and give Potter a sharp reminder of this.

Except that he didn’t.  He let Potter provide a buffer against the crowd in his literal blind spot, and felt immeasurably better for it as they finally reached the wooden stairs and started to climb.

Draco had only ever sat in box seats at the League games he’d attended with his parents growing up, which was why he was somewhat surprised to see bench seating when Teddy led them out of the stairwell.  He got the impression of ginger heads bobbing in a sea of green scarves, jackets, and jumpers like poppies in a summer field.  The only exception was Ron Weasley, who was dressed head to toe in orange and black, half his face painted an orange that was in almost painful discordance with his hair.  Granger, seated next to him, appeared to be attempting a sense of balance or possibly spousal solidarity by wearing a thin orange and black scarf over her green and gold jumper.

The benches of Weasleys sent up a cheer at the arrival of Teddy and Potter, though they quieted right down when they caught sight of Draco.  Teddy appeared not to notice, still tugging Draco’s hand as she sat next to a young woman with blue-green eyes and silvery blonde hair.  Draco recognized the young woman’s parents – her father Bill Weasley, on her other side, was unmistakable due to the scars left behind by Greyback’s claws.  And there was Fleur Weasley, née Delacour, just beyond him. 

Potter nudged him, and Draco sat down next to Teddy, feeling a cold clench in his stomach that he endeavored to ignore as his face automatically fell into the haughty neutrality that was the social armor his mother had taught him.  He wished she were here, at least, though she had never cared for Quidditch quite as much as he and Lucius did.  He supposed that it was best for her to remain at Potter’s house, even if she were allowed an outing such as this.

“This is Victoire,” Teddy was saying to Draco, who was trying not to focus on the warmth of Potter’s body as the man settled onto the bench beside him.  “Vic, this is my cousin, Draco.”

Victoire did not seem impressed as she nodded at him, her eyes picking out and lingering on every pulled thread of his cardigan, the slightly worn patches at the knees of his trousers, and the incongruous silver hoop in his right ear.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Draco murmured, acutely aware of a great many pairs of Weasley eyes on him, watching every move he made.  Percy’s gaze in particular was quite blatantly hostile, and the man scowled as the two small children who were with him and his wife jumped to their feet and ran to greet Potter.

“Uncle Harry, Uncle Harry!”  The boys appeared to be identical as far as Draco could tell, but they were a blur of limbs and sharp elbows as they both attempted to climb into Harry’s lap at the same time, talking non-stop about how they’d flown their own broomsticks in the garden at home while tossing a Quaffle back and forth.

Potter managed to fit one on each knee, bending his head down so that he could listen closely to what the twins were saying over the growing noise of the stadium.  Occasionally he would interject with things like “That’s brilliant, Gabe!” or “You’re both a bit young to play with Bludgers, Fletch, how about we try a Snitch next time?”

With Teddy talking animatedly with Victoire on his left, and Potter engaging with Percy’s boys on his right, Draco dropped his gaze, tracing the faint lines in the tweed pattern of his trousers rather than try to strike up a conversation with anyone else there.  Granger was sitting a bit too far away on the bench in front, with George and Angelina between them, for him to speak with her.  Ron was pointedly not looking at him at all, which Draco considered to be more of a relief than a snub.  Molly, the famed Weasley matriarch, sounded determinedly cheerful as she extolled Ginny’s virtues at recently being made captain of the Harpies, and dropped a few wistful remarks no doubt aimed in Potter’s direction about how she hoped that Ginny would finally start thinking seriously about settling down, while “still pursuing her career, of course – you know that there’s no better Chaser in all of Europe, it’s just that the life of a professional athlete can be quite hard on the body, and she ought to consider retiring while she’s still in one piece.”

A roar filled the stadium as the fanfare meant to introduce the players suddenly erupted, and the announcer called out each name as the Chudley Cannons flew onto the pitch from the west side, highly visible in their orange Quidditch robes.  Ron stood up, shouting and clapping like the dedicated fan he was, while the rest of the section they were seated in was virtually silent.  Granger’s face was flushed and slightly red at the spectacle he was making, but she was also smiling up at her husband with such fondness that it almost made Draco smile along with her.

Then the announcer began to call out the names of the Holyhead Harpies, and the entire section started making noise.  But when the man shouted out “Weasley!” the sudden creaking of benches and floorboards was lost amid the utter cacophony that exploded as all of the Weasleys (Ron included) and associates leapt to their feet and screamed out their support.

All but Draco, who had been unprepared for the response, and Potter, who was still holding his nephews in his lap.  Potter looked at him with a broad, excited smile, laughing just from the energy of the moment, and sharing it with Draco in what felt like a small bubble of privacy as they were surrounded by people standing up.  Draco’s breath caught in his throat at the sight of him, just a little.

The crowd settled a bit after all the players were introduced, and Draco strained to see the tiny figure of one of the referees down on the grass at the center circle, kicking open the trunk which contained all the regulation balls that would be in play.  The Snitch was nothing but a brief flash of gold before it disappeared from sight, and the Bludgers took off in different directions.  The heads of the Beaters on both teams tracked their flights, gripping their clubs in anticipation of the official start of the match.  The referee picked up the Quaffle, gave a short blast on the whistle hanging around their neck and launched the ball into the air, where it was immediately captured by the Harpies’ Chasers.

The game moved quickly, and the announcer was doing a serviceable job at the commentary, which was also being broadcast on the Wizarding Wireless Network.  But there were some things that the crowd reacted to that Draco didn’t quite catch, such as when the Cannons’ Keeper performed a magnificent save and then promptly collided with the tallest goal in his efforts to avoid a Bludger that was heading in his direction.

When Draco lifted up slightly from the bench to try to follow some fast flying by the Harpies’ Seeker, as he didn’t want to miss a successful catch, Potter started adding his own commentary to the plays.  He leaned in close to fill in the gaps between the official announcer’s words and what Draco missed because he couldn’t easily see what was happening at certain angles.  It was helpful, and it drew him into the game, to the point where he hardly noticed when one of the twins was transferred to his lap because Potter’s legs were going numb.  The boy – he didn’t know if it was Fletch or Gabe – waved a green pennant every time Ginny’s name was mentioned.  And it was mentioned a lot, as she was a phenomenal player, having grown and developed her innate talent into something that was nigh unstoppable – at least not by the Cannons.  The Harpies were up by fifty points and their Beaters kept the Cannons’ three Chasers on the defensive, monopolizing the Bludgers and shutting the Cannons out of many opportunities to recover the Quaffle and attempt a goal. 

On the opposite side of the stadium, the crowd stirred, people getting to their feet as two blurs of green and orange zoomed past them.  The Seekers were after the Snitch, and they were tracking it together even as each of them tried to out-fly the other.  The Cannons’ Seeker was doing well, putting on a burst of speed in an attempt to outpace the Harpies’ Seeker, but she was foiled when the green-robed Seeker did a half-roll on her broom, hanging upside down as she nabbed the Snitch when the other Seeker’s hand was only inches away. 

The catch happened almost right in front of the Weasley section and the entire east side of the stadium went absolutely nuts, screaming and cheering and sending off sparks and booms with their wands.  The announcer called the match in favor of the Harpies, three hundred and forty to one hundred and forty, and the winning team formed up in a ‘V’ to fly a slow circuit of the stands.  The Weasleys were on their feet again, and when Ginny led her team by their section, waving and grinning so hard it looked like her face might crack, the noise was deafening.  Draco and Potter were standing this time, each holding a twin on their hip, and for that one glorious moment, Draco felt the kind of normal homely contentment here in England that he hadn’t since his fourth year at Hogwarts.

It ended quickly, because of course it did.  There were still shouts and cheers, and people were starting to file back down the stairs to the designated Apparition and Portkey areas at the ground level.  And then there was Percy, standing in front of Draco, his face bright red with rage.

“Fletcher, get down this instant, come here,” Percy barked, obviously expecting to be obeyed immediately.

But it was too jarring, the command seeming nonsensical after the excitement of only seconds before.  Fletch’s small fists tightened on handfuls of Draco’s cardigan.  “Why, Dad?”

“I said to get down, that man is dangerous!”  Percy’s hand shot out to take hold of his son’s arm and Draco, now recovered from his shock, hurried to set the boy down before things escalated.  The look that Fletch was giving Draco now as he reached out for his father, one of surprise and fear, twisted in his guts like a knife.

“Perce, come on –”  Potter tried to interject, setting Gabe down as well, but Percy gave him a poisonous glare.

“I thought you of all people would have known better, Harry,” Percy said, taking each of his sons’ hands as his wife hurried to join them.  She’d been talking with Molly and only just noticed the scene her husband was making.

“Percy, what –?”

“Let’s go, Audrey,” Percy said firmly.  He led his family toward the stairwell, Gabe and Fletch glancing back at everyone in distressed confusion.  Audrey mouthed a wide-eyed I’m so sorry to Potter before following, giving an embarrassed wave to the rest of the Weasleys before disappearing down the stairs.

“Prick.”

The voice had come from so close behind him that Draco jumped, whipping his head around to see George staring at the opening to the stairwell.  From this angle Draco could see what remained of George’s left ear, not much more than just a sliver of the shell of the outer ear.

“I—I’m sorry?”  Draco said, distracted.

George fixed him with a look.  “Were you going to off the kid right here in front of us all?”

Draco’s eyes widened and he shook his head rapidly, opening his mouth to add a verbal denial before George interrupted him.

“Didn’t think so.  Then Perce was being a prick.  Not to worry, it happens sometimes.  Wouldn’t be a real Weasley family outing if it didn’t,” George said, a wicked dimple forming in one cheek as he smirked.  He clapped Draco hard on the shoulder and looked around.  “Who wants to go to the pub?”

A small cheer answered him, but Molly and Arthur demurred, working their way through the group with hugs and handshakes – skirting past Draco, obviously – before they, too, made their way back down to ground level and then home from there.

“Where is Ginny going to meet us?”  Asked Ron, as Granger waved her wand at his face to remove the orange paint. 

“At the Thorn and Thestral,” George replied, holding his arm out for Angelina to take.  “See you all there, then!”

A touch to Draco’s hand startled him again, but it was only Teddy, concern in her eyes.  “Are you all right?  Percy was out of line.”

“He was protecting his family,” Draco said, though inwardly he thought that did not necessarily preclude also acting like a prick, as George had said.  He couldn’t dismiss the memory of the fearful expression that Fletch had worn after Draco put him down.

Teddy opened her mouth to say something, but Victoire tugged at her arm impatiently.  “Come on, Teddy!  I want to be there soon in case any of the other Harpies come along with Aunt Ginny, they’ll be mobbed otherwise!”

“You’re coming, too, right?”  Teddy asked, looking back as she was being pulled away.  “You and Harry?”

There was nothing in Draco now that made him want to prolong the day and join everyone at the pub, nothing but the pleading look in Teddy’s eyes.  He could already feel a headache brewing, and he was in no mood for a social evening.  But Teddy was now on the very short list of people in England who seemed happy to have his company, and he wanted to do what he could to give his young cousin the familial connections she was obviously craving.

Which is how Draco found himself sitting at a table in the corner of a noisy pub, picking at a plate of fish and chips, his pint of ale barely touched.  His headache had only grown worse with the throng’s rendition of the Holyhead Harpies’ chant, which Ron loudly countered with the Chudley Cannons’ chant even as the other Weasleys and fans playfully tried to shout him down. 

Ginny had arrived with her arms slung over the shoulders of the Harpies’ Seeker and one of the Beaters, to even louder uproar.  Victoire had been right – Ginny and her teammates were immediately mobbed with fans trying to buy them drinks and get autographs.  They didn’t seem fussed about what was being signed – scarves, hats, jumpers, programs, hands, even one or two faces.  One man brought in his broom, cheeks burning a bright red and stammering out his thanks as each of the Harpies scribbled their signatures on it.  Teddy and Victoire hovered around the edge of the small crowd of admirers, looking as though they had stars in their eyes.

Granger found her way back to the table after congratulating Ginny on the win, sinking into a chair with a grateful sigh.  She eyed the plate of chips that Draco had abandoned, and he pushed it across the table toward her.

“You’re not hungry?”  Granger’s eyebrows rose, though she did pick up one of the chips.

“No,” Draco said shortly.  “It won’t go to waste.  Potter will finish it off, I’m sure.”

Granger chuckled.  “Or Ron.  Rosie’s just like him, they’re both constantly hungry.”

“If you don’t mind me asking,” Draco said, taking a small sip from his pint.  It was dark and bitter, which seemed well suited to his mood.  “How was she Sorted?  And your son?”

“Not at all,” Granger said, her face brightening.  It was clear how happy she was to talk about her children.  “Rosie was Sorted into Gryffindor, and Hugo into Ravenclaw.  He was a little nervous not to be in the same House as his sister, but he loves everyone in his quad and he’s doing so well.”

“Glad to hear it,” Draco said sincerely.  “How are they finding their studies?”

This offered an opportunity for Granger to expound on education more generally, clearly a favorite subject of hers, while Draco was able to focus on what she was saying instead of feeling buffeted by the noise coming from the Quidditch crowd around the bar.  It was easy to let the conversation evolve from there, even with Granger being unable to say much about her work in the Department of Mysteries.  But the Manor’s impact on at least one of the primary ley lines on the island was something that they were both involved in, so naturally they ended up talking about it. 

Granger was describing the process of her investigation into the magical disturbances in Wiltshire when Ron and Potter finally joined them, each carrying a pint glass and a heaping plate of food.  Ron merely grunted in greeting and dropped a kiss on Granger’s cheek, and Potter set upon his food like he hadn’t eaten properly in days.

“But what led you to connect the warping in the Floo network to the ley line?”  Draco asked.

“It was almost completely through luck,” Granger admitted.  “I was focusing on the plots we’d made of reported issues and the shape of the data just wasn’t providing the answers we were expecting, and it certainly did nothing to indicate a point of origin.  So, one night after coming home with no significant progress, I decided to take a break –”

“That’s ‘Mione-speak for reading something dense and academic,” Ron interrupted, and Granger elbowed him without missing a beat.

“—which meant trying to force my mind to switch gears, and yes, that meant looking at a new subject,” Granger continued.  “There’s a fascinating, relatively new area of study that has to do with the ecological role of magic –”

Draco nearly dropped his pint glass, fumbling it enough that some of the remaining ale inside sloshed over the rim.

“—and one particular scholar that I’d been reading had just submitted an extremely interesting paper on magical contamination which had affected an extended family group of selkies on the Paracas Peninsula off the coast of Peru.  Apparently there was an inland town which had a shop that manufactured some kind of cleaning product that was supposed to remove magical residue from cauldrons, and they hadn’t realized that a byproduct of – oh, what was it?”

“Aconite,” Draco supplied.

“Right, thank you.  So they burned aconite in order to use the ashes in their product, and thought nothing of it because the amount of aconite they were using was relatively small.  But some magical properties of the plant transferred to the air from the smoke column and then were precipitated, reacting with various compounds as the water made its way back out to sea in ways that unfortunately led to the sea caves of these selkies –”

“Cambiantes del mar.”

“What?”  Granger looked up in surprise, thrown off her thread and unused to being corrected.

“They’re not selkies, that’s a term that applies to the seal skin-changers that live here in the waters around the UK, Ireland, and Europe,” Draco explained.  “They call themselves cambiantes del mar, or at least they do when speaking Spanish.”

Granger eyed him suspiciously.  “You read this paper?”

Draco tilted his pint glass, examining the light reflecting off of the surface of the dark ale he was hardly drinking.  “I wrote it.”

“No, you didn’t,” Granger said immediately, shaking her head.  “I remember the author’s name, it was –”

“Pavo Salus,” Draco said, before she could.

Granger stared at him, her mouth dropping open in realization.  “But – a year ago, I wrote to him…”

“You wrote to me.  We corresponded.”  Draco was aware that both Ron and Potter had stopped eating, and were looking between him and Granger.

A complex set of emotions crossed Granger’s face, which ultimately ended with her mouth set in a hard line.  “Tell me why.”

“I think you know why, or at least you could easily make an accurate guess,” Draco said, not meeting her eyes.  “It didn’t take long after finishing my studies at the Sorbonne for me to understand that a paper authored by Draco Malfoy was not likely to get published in any significant way.  I…I felt that I had something of value to contribute.  So I used a different name.”

“You’ve published a lot,” Granger said, her voice somewhat strangled.

“That’s relative, especially compared to your body of work,” Draco countered, rolling his glass between his hands.

“I—I had no idea.”  Granger’s brow was furrowed, and she looked unhappy for some reason.

“That was the point,” Draco said, shaking his head slightly.  The thought that his own work had prompted Granger’s discovery, which in turn had led to his being brought back to England…  He had no idea what to make of that.  There was bit of pride, perhaps, at getting this small bit of true recognition for his work.  And a lot that was quite a bit more complicated.

“So…”  Ron said, breaking the silence after chewing and swallowing one of his last chips.  “You a Harpies supporter, Malfoy?”

“For today,” Draco replied, touching a hand to his green and gold scarf.

“Who do you usually support?”

Draco’s father had always been a big supporter of the Falcons, and most of the League matches they attended when he was growing up featured that team.  But Draco had privately felt that precision and skill was preferable to ruthless tactics, even if Falmouth’s methods weren’t technically always against the rules as they were strictly defined.  Lucius had loved to discuss the nuance of the plays, how closely the Falcons could skate to the letter of the rulebook before being called on it by the referees.

“The Magpies,” Draco said truthfully.  He’d had a Montrose Magpies poster up on the wall of the Slytherin dorm room he’d shared with Greg, Vince, and Blaise, even if he only had Falcons stuff at home.

Ron scoffed.  “That figures.  It’s easy to support a team that wins a lot.”

“It’s certainly more fun to win,” Draco retorted, the corner of his mouth quirking up.

“Yeah, well, Malfoys do like being on the winning side, don’t they?”

Draco stilled, dropping his gaze down to his hands.  The silver band of his father’s ring glinted mockingly at him, just one more reminder of who he was to everyone here.

Granger said, “Ron,” in a soft tone that nevertheless conveyed obvious disappointment, and Draco suddenly felt the need for a change of venue.

“I’m going to get another pint,” he said, standing so abruptly that his chair scraped against the floor.  He thought he felt a light touch on his arm as he sidled past Potter, but clearly he was imagining things.

The Thorn and Thestral wasn’t likely to have anything else to drink than what would be found in a standard English wizarding pub, which was unfortunate as Draco really wanted something hard like tequila or cachaça just then.  He headed toward the barkeep, meaning to interrogate him about their supply of liquors, when he noticed that Teddy and Victoire were sitting at the end of the bar.  There were a few blokes standing entirely too close to them, Draco felt instinctively, and this hunch was borne out by the expressions of discomfort on their faces and the polite but firm headshake that Victoire gave in response to a question from one of the men.

Two of them were old enough to be fathers with kids who were Teddy and Victoire’s age, Draco thought, disgusted, and he abandoned his mission to harass the barkeep and instead made his way over to join his cousin.

Before he reached them, one of the men leering at Victoire reached out a hand to paw at her, and Teddy jumped to her feet, instantly growing in height and muscle so that she could loom menacingly over the tosser.  She was still feminine, but now she had bulk that caused her clothing to strain at the seams, and all three of the men drew back in surprise.

One of them made a comment.  Draco couldn’t quite hear all of it, but the one word that did come through very clearly was “—freak!”, and he saw Teddy’s reaction to it.  He drew his wand, holding it tightly as he cast a very basic Legilimens to get just a surface level impression of the men, to validate his concerns.

There was nothing good or well-intentioned there.

So Draco had absolutely no compunction about Confunding all three of the idiots at once, not bothering to hold back the power in his nonverbal spell.  The men staggered when it hit them, and the one who’d dared to touch Victoire tipped over backwards when he couldn’t regain his footing.

“That’s enough,” Draco barked.  “You’re cut off.  Get out and go home, all of you.”

“Wha—?”  The man who’d called Teddy a ‘freak’ blinked stupidly, confusion clouding his face.

“Out!”  Draco spun him by the shoulder to point him toward the door and gave him a shove.  It was a tragic coincidence that he happened to trip over his prone companion and fall flat on his face. 

Draco felt a buzzing in his right ear, and he turned to catch the wild punch that the last man tried to throw at him.  He used his other hand to seize the man by the throat and gave what he knew was a painful squeeze, as the man let out a strangled yelp.  “Out.”

The man stumbled for the doorway as soon as Draco released him, his two companions following after him still ensnarled in the mental shambles of the Confundo.

“Are you all right?”  Draco asked, turning to face Teddy, surprised at how far he had to look up to meet her gaze.

Teddy was staring down at him from her increased height, mouth agape.  Abruptly, she realized how many eyes were on them from the other pub patrons, and she shrank back to her usual size. 

“We’re okay, I think,” she said, glancing at Victoire, who nodded.

“Teddy!”  Potter’s voice was thick with worry, and he was shoving his way through the onlookers that had gathered to watch the spectacle.  “What happened?  Were they bothering you?”

“They’re not anymore.”  Victoire smirked.  “Cousin Draco took care of it.”

Potter’s glance at Draco was fleeting, just a quick flash of glasses and green eyes before he turned back to Teddy and Victoire.  “You’re both going to Shell Cottage tonight?”

When the young women nodded, Potter sighed, rubbing the back of his head.  “I’m not telling you what to do,” he prefaced, as though this were a necessary way to begin the instructions that would surely follow.  “But if you’re not going to sit with your aunts and uncles, maybe you ought to consider heading there now.”

“We’ll be fine, Harry,” Teddy promised.  “Look, we’ll go sit with George and Angelina – they have room at their table.”

“All right.  Text me when you reach the cottage,” Potter said, and that was an order that he didn’t bother to soften.  He turned toward Draco.  “We have to go.”

And without so much as a word of explanation, Draco was being dragged by the elbow out of the pub and bundled into the sidecar of Potter’s motorbike, as if he were the one who had done something wrong.  Potter’s lips were pressed tightly together in a grim expression, his brows drawn into a deep frown.

The flight back to Wiltshire and the estate was tense.  Potter didn’t respond to any of Draco’s increasingly irritated attempts to at least understand what the problem was, and the night air made for a much colder flight than the one earlier in the day.  Draco cast a few warming charms along the way, but he still ended up chilled and shivering by the time Potter landed the motorbike.

Draco nearly leapt out of the sidecar as soon as they stopped moving, discarding his helmet and stalking furiously around the front wheel to the other side of the bike, in order to better confront Potter about just what the hell he thought he was doing.

“Potter, what—”

Potter grabbed Draco’s scarf with one hand and hauled him down, his mouth meeting Draco’s in a hard, heated kiss.

Chapter 13

Never in any of Draco’s waking moments did he ever believe that this would happen.

And yet.

His body was instantly flooded with warmth, as if he hadn’t just spent a good amount of time flying through the autumn night sky at a fairly decent speed.  Potter’s lips were firm against his, and he felt himself yielding to that insistent press, parting his own lips as he gathered the lapels of Potter’s anorak in his fists to hold him in place.

There was nothing hesitant in the way that Potter invaded his mouth, and for a moment Draco was lost in the feel of him, in the slide of lips and tongues and the way Potter’s other hand reached up to curl around the back of his neck.  Potter tasted of malt and the tang of vinegar, which mingled pleasantly with his natural scent of cypress after rainfall.

The sudden realization of what he was doing hit Draco like he’d been Stupefied, shattering the glowing feeling and causing him to wrench himself away, heaving in breaths of cold air and staring at Potter in complete bewilderment.

“You’re drunk,” Draco said, casting about for any explanation that would make sense of the last few minutes.  “You must be.  Did you fly us across three counties while you were—”

“I’m not drunk,” Potter said, breathing hard, eyes burning as he looked up to meet Draco’s gaze.  “I barely had one pint.”

“Then – then what are you doing?”  Draco hated the way his voice shook, deprived of an easy means of explaining away whatever was happening.

Potter chuckled ruefully.  “I have no fucking idea.”

And Draco didn’t know what that meant.  He was afraid to ask.  Did Potter mean he didn’t know what he was doing with another man?  Draco hadn’t remembered any credible gossip about Potter and any of the other boys at school, despite him being attached at the hip to Ron Weasley.  Or was it not that Draco was another man, but that he was Malfoy – childhood bully, teenaged Death Eater, and adult expatriate?  That seemed more likely, more…plausible, even though the idea made his chest feel tight.

He'd gone too long without saying anything, he knew.  He should go, he should walk through the gates and back to his tent.  Pretend this never happened, so that things could still make sense.  So that he could at least have some chance at surviving his time here with the scaffolding he’d painstakingly built to hold himself upright somewhat intact, if he managed to survive the Manor at all. 

Draco broke free of Potter’s gaze, turned to go –

– and Potter grabbed his wrist, his calloused thumb rubbing gently back and forth on the sensitive skin of his inner arm, much like he’d done when he had healed that tiny cut from the filament spell.

“You like bright colors but you never wear them,” Potter said.  “You feed peanuts to ravens and you’re kind to kids.  You’re apparently a secret scholar, one who Hermione respects.  You send roses to your mother.  You defended Teddy.  You surprise me, over and over, and I didn’t expect that.”

How he was meant to respond to those words or the fact that it was Potter saying them, Draco had absolutely no idea.  To say that he’d been caught off guard was an understatement.  His mind was blank.  Well, nearly.

“I need a drink,” Draco blurted, and jerked his arm away.  He practically ran through the gates, a thousand crazed thoughts crashing through his mind, at least half of which were variations on the theme of why the fuck he was walking away from the very thing he’d wanted, to varying degrees, for most of his life. 

But wanting something didn’t mean that he could have it.

That lesson had been a hard one, and Draco had learned it many times over.  It had come to him later in life than it did for most people, but it had shown him no quarter, and he wasn’t foolish enough to hope that it didn’t apply here.

The small kitchen lit up as soon as he stepped inside, and he only just bothered to remove his satchel before heading straight to his stasis cupboard.  While liquor didn’t actually need to be in stasis to be safe to drink, it was easier to keep all of his food together.  There was still a mostly full bottle of tequila in there, left over from when Séneca had dropped by to celebrate the end of successful negotiations with the colony of sirenas at the Arrecife Alacranes.

Draco cast a freezing spell on the bottle to chill it, then took a swig.  The cold made it go down more smoothly, even though this was from a quality distillery, operated by the land-based extended family of several members of the crew.  Normally he’d prefer to sip it with salt and lime, but this felt like an emergency.

There was a small thunderclap just outside the wards, and then Potter was inside the tent, his green eyes creased with worry.  He stared at Draco for a moment, gaze going from his face to the bottle in his hand. 

“I’m sorry,” Potter said, finally.  “I shouldn’t have done that.”

As expected as those words were, they still cut through Draco like knives.  He took another swallow from the bottle, wiping his mouth on the sleeve of his cardigan.  With a nearly empty stomach his head was already swimming a bit, so he set the bottle down on the table.

“I didn’t bother to check if you liked men, I didn’t even ask,” Potter continued, a look of shame clouding his face.  “I just…I’m sorry, I got caught up, and –”

His jaw clicked shut when Draco burst out laughing, staring in consternation as Draco gasped for breath and wiped errant tears away from his eyes.  It took a moment for Draco to get himself under control, as his sudden bout of hilarity was right on the edge of hysteria.

“Gay,” Draco said, pointing to himself.  “Quite gay.”

“Oh.”  The lines around Potter’s eyes smoothed somewhat, a glint of humor appearing in them, and a dimple threatened to form in his cheek.

“You didn’t know?”  Draco was slightly incredulous.

Potter shrugged helplessly.  “You went to the Yule Ball with Pansy.”

“I was fourteen and closeted, and poorly at that,” Draco retorted.  “You never heard anything?  Did you Gryffindors have some sort of gossip-proof ward around your dormitory?”

“I wish,” Potter muttered.  “I’m a bit…oblivious to these things sometimes.”

He really was, Draco thought, an unexpected swell of affection spreading warmly through his chest.  He mentally shook himself, unwilling to indulge in the feeling when it could only go nowhere.

“I didn’t know that you liked men,” he commented, trying to make it sound as neutral as possible.

“I didn’t either, for a while, with…everything…going on,” Potter said, dropping his gaze somewhat bashfully.  “Though I’m more attracted to individuals than I am to categories of people, if that makes sense.”

It did make sense, in fact it suited Potter extremely well.  Which made it all the more unbelievable for him to have kissed Draco in the first place.

“So…it’s not that you don’t fancy men.  It’s because it’s me?”  Potter asked, the dimple disappearing, and a resigned set to his features that plucked at Draco’s heartstrings.

Yes, it’s because it’s you, Draco thought, biting his tongue to keep from saying it.  But not in the way that you’re thinking.

It would have been so easy to let the silence stand, to allow Potter to take it as confirmation that it was he who was the problem.  But Draco didn’t have it in him to do it.

“I’m not staying,” Draco said, and even though it was the truth, it was somehow still difficult to get the words out.  “Once the ley line is cleared up and the Manor is more or less safe.  I’m not staying.”

“I didn’t think you were,” Potter said, his expression not betraying even a hint of what he thought about it.  “I just…I realized there’s a lot about you that I don’t know.”  He took one step toward Draco, and then another, telegraphing his intent with deliberate movements.

Draco could feel his heart pounding harder, his pulse quickening in anticipation.  The best course of action would be to put a stop to this, to draw a firm line that would ultimately spare both of them in the long run.  In truth, nothing had changed, even though just now it felt like everything had, and Draco struggled to concentrate on that fact.  They still had a significant amount of work that needed to be done, the Ministry was still manipulating them both in different ways, the past and everything in it was still hanging over them and always would.

The right thing to do was to deny himself, and in doing so protect both of them.

But Malfoys did not have a history of doing the right thing, and apparently Draco was no exception.

He stepped in to meet Potter, his hands automatically latching on to his clothes to pull him close, and once again they connected.  Heat poured through him, clearing the alcohol-induced haze from his mind and replacing it with something that was sweeter and sharper, the pleasure of slaking what had been a long disappointed thirst paired with the pain of knowing that it wasn’t going to last.

So he resolved to stay in the moment, to keep his Slytherin mind from examining all the angles and teasing out all of the potential consequences, and just enjoy what he had while it was in front of him.  And surrounding him, as Potter’s hands slid up his shoulders to cup his face, tilting his head just so in a way that let Potter direct the kiss exactly as he wished.

Draco flinched slightly when Potter’s thumb brushed across the scars on his right cheek, hidden by the glamor but not from direct physical contact.  He expected Potter to draw back or reposition his hand, yet he did neither.  He switched his attention from Draco’s lips to the line of his jaw, working his way up with soft kisses until he reached the place where the curse scars left noticeable furrows in the skin. 

The sensation was new, and strange, as the scar tissue inhibited feeling but the edges of the undamaged skin that Potter’s lips touched responded by opening the blood vessels, heating the skin by bringing the blood close to the surface.  Draco made an involuntary noise, something that wasn’t quite a moan, and let his hands slip inside Potter’s anorak, pressing against the firm muscles of his chest and exploring with deft fingers. 

Potter encouraged him, letting out a deep, pleased hum when Draco’s thumb skated over one of his nipples beneath the fabric of his shirt.  He slid his lips down from Draco’s cheek to his neck, just under his ear, the rough stubble on his face scraping so deliciously that Draco shuddered.  He pushed the anorak off of Potter’s shoulders, and Potter allowed it, dropping his arms just long enough to let the jacket fall to the floor. 

Draco found himself being propelled backward, Potter’s forward momentum not relenting until the back of Draco’s thighs hit the edge of the small kitchen table.  Potter slotted their legs together, pressing the juncture between his hip and thigh against Draco’s groin, and Draco could feel Potter hard against his own thigh, hot and thick, even through the layers of clothing between them.

And all of a sudden clothing felt like too much, too constricting, too hot for whatever energy was flowing between them.  Draco reluctantly pulled one of his hands away from Potter’s chest and fumbled with the large buttons of his cardigan, trying to shrug it off at the same time and somehow managing to trap his arms to his sides in his haste.  Potter chuckled and helped him out of it, his mouth pulling off of the skin of Draco’s neck with an obscene, bruising slide.  After tugging the cardigan all the way off, Potter’s hands settled on Draco’s waist, then slowly drifted down to the waistband of his trousers.

“Can I?”  Potter asked, his voice husky and his breath hot against Draco’s ear.

“Can you what?”  Draco asked, shifting so that he could capture Potter’s earlobe gently between his lips, teasing it enough to induce a shiver.

In answer, Potter got to his knees, keeping his hands right where they were.  He looked up at Draco, raising an eyebrow in question.

Draco’s breath caught in his throat, hardly believing what he was seeing.  He tentatively reached out to stroke Potter’s hair, just the lightest of touches, before gently taking hold of the arms of Potter’s glasses.  Potter let him remove them and set them carefully on top of a stack of papers at the far end of the table.

Without his specs Potter had a slight squint, and he was still so strikingly beautiful that Draco had to avert his gaze, looking over Potter’s shoulder instead of directly at him.  His hands covered Potter’s as they worked to open his fly, then a warm palm was pressing against his briefs, and Draco indulged himself in grinding against it before his briefs and trousers were drawn down far enough to free his cock.

His fingers tightened on the edge of the table when he felt Potter’s breath, and he moaned at the first touch of a tongue against his hot skin.  He felt like he was already on the edge, and he struggled to keep control of himself as Potter first explored and then swallowed him, cheeks hollowing as he moved his head.  Potter’s tongue was firm against his shaft, causing an agonizingly sweet drag that had Draco panting for breath.

One of Potter’s hands was gripping his hip, and the other encircled Draco’s wrist like an anchor tethering him to the earth.  Draco slid his free hand through Potter’s thick hair again, tightening them around a handful – not to pull or direct, but simply to have something to hang onto.  Potter worked him expertly, taking him deeper and deeper with each pass, until he was able to swallow around the head of Draco’s cock, throat muscles providing incredible pressure, to the point where Draco gave a light tug and gasped out, “Stop, stop!”

Potter pulled off immediately, looking up at him with eyes that were half-closed in pleasure. 

“Everything all right?”  He asked hoarsely, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Y-yes,” Draco stammered, his eyes closing briefly as he wrapped a hand around the base of his cock and careened back from the precipice.  “Just didn’t want to come like this.”

Potter’s green eyes darkened noticeably.  “How did you want to come, then?”

Draco grabbed a fistful of Potter’s shirt, dragging him back up to his feet for a wet, sloppy kiss, tasting traces of both of them together on Potter’s tongue.  There was a quiet rattle on the table next to his right hand, and he groped for the phial that he had managed to Summon without wand or words.  It contained a potion which was decidedly not part of anyone’s early magical education, and was in fact made according to a recipe that Draco had learned in France.

He pressed it into Potter’s hand, grazing his teeth against the other man’s throat at the same time.  “Fuck me.  Please.”

If he was going to walk the unwise path, then he at least wanted everything that it could offer.

He let out an undignified yelp as Potter suddenly grabbed his hips and spun him, bending him over the table as he palmed Draco’s arse.  The surprising weight of Potter’s body kept him pinned in place as Draco’s trousers were dragged even further down his legs, and he tried to widen his stance within the confines of the clothing.

Potter made a surprised, approving noise after removing the stopper from the phial.  “This is nice.”

“I – I brewed it myself,” Draco said, almost breathlessly, and groaned as he felt slick fingers slide against his skin.  The potion stayed at just under normal body temperature, requiring little warming and causing almost no discomfort when applied.  It also reduced the sting of stretched muscles and enhanced the users’ pleasure while easing the way.  If it were legal to do so, Draco could have made a killing by selling it commercially to Muggles.

Potter used plenty of it to work him open, first with one finger and then two, the palm of his other hand rubbing in smooth arcs across Draco’s lower back, heightening every sensation with each pass over the base of his spine.  Draco was torn between allowing himself to revel in the slow, thorough attention and his growing impatience – and as much as he was enjoying the feel of Potter’s fingers the impatience won out.

“Get on with it, Potter!”

The only response was another chuckle, and then Potter’s fingers left him open and aching.  There was the wet sound of the phial being emptied a little more, and then slick noise of Potter coating his cock before pressing the blunt tip against Draco’s hole.

Draco had a moment to wonder if he’d perhaps been too impatient before Potter pushed past the slight resistance and slid smoothly in, the potion working exactly as it should to translate discomfort into something that set Draco’s nerves aflame.  Potter must have felt something comparable, as he rested his forehead between Draco’s shoulder blades, taking a moment breathe, grunting when Draco quivered beneath him.

And then Potter began to move, and the fire inside Draco’s skin did not abate, it only grew.  Through a mind clouded with pleasure, he recognized that his magical core was reacting to Potter’s – the sensation of their two powers entwining something that was at once completely new, and yet felt so familiar.  It was unlike anything that Draco had experienced with any previous partner, magical or not.

The combination of the physical and the magical energy that flowed between them was enough for Draco to lose himself, all of his worries set aside as he basked in the way that Potter rolled his hips, and he pushed back to meet each thrust, amplifying every sensation.  He could feel his orgasm building back up again like a vast wave, a moving swell that gained in magnitude with each movement, and just as it was beginning to crest Potter wrapped his arms around him and hauled him up.  The change in position meant that Potter was driving into him with greater force, which made his cock drag across Draco’s prostate in a toe-curling way.

“Are you close?”  Potter growled, not letting up either his embrace or the movement of his hips.

“Ah – yes,” Draco groaned, covering Potter’s hands with his own and holding onto them tightly.

“Bring yourself off.”

Draco reached down, fumbling for his own cock as Potter’s tempo quickened, and he stroked himself furiously until that wave curled and broke, crashing down around them both.  Potter was right there with him, burying himself deep as he shuddered out his own orgasm, and their magics fit together seamlessly, separate but fully complementary in the way they ebbed and flowed.

For a moment they could do nothing but stay joined together, each of them trying to recover their breath and quivering with sudden small aftershocks of pleasure.  But finally Potter loosened his arms slightly, still supporting Draco’s upper body as he gently withdrew, taking the feeling of his magic with him.

And now all of the thoughts and anxieties that Draco had managed to compartmentalize for the sake of staying in the moment were starting to trickle back, and the awkward sense of ‘Now what?’ was hovering over him the way it always did whenever he fucked anyone.  Something akin to a yawning pit opened up inside of Draco’s mind, the realization of just how incredibly foolish he’d just been.  Yet another example of his inherent weakness, especially where Potter was concerned.  This was a needless and potentially disastrous complication in a situation he should be navigating carefully, this –

“I can hear you thinking,” Potter murmured against his back, his breath creating a hot, damp patch on his shirt.  “This doesn’t have to be bad, you know.”

Draco closed his eyes and shook his head, afraid to even look at Potter until he’d at least slightly come to terms with the disconnect between how completely satisfied his body felt, and how disquieted his mind was.  He didn’t regret this, but he did regret the necessity of dealing with whatever would come of it.  He could only hope that they could stay on course to part on better terms than they had twenty years ago.  It was the best that he could possibly expect.

A warm hand enveloped his, and Potter gave it a slight squeeze.  He was still squinting a little, so Draco reached across the table to retrieve his glasses for him.  Potter’s eyes focused on him as soon as the glasses were settled back on his face. 

“It’s late,” Potter said finally, and Draco nodded, hurriedly adjusting his clothing and looking around the floor for Potter’s anorak.  He Vanished what he could of the mess, though he could definitely do with a proper wash. 

“Let’s get some sleep.”  Potter didn’t show any indication of retrieving his clothing or making preparations to leave.

“Here?”  Draco stared at him.  “With me?”  He couldn’t remember the last time he’d actually slept with a sexual partner.  Even Séneca had always retreated to his own cabin whenever they’d shagged, it being understood that what was between them was casual relief and nothing more.

“No, I thought I’d settle in for a kip with the manticore statue in the hedge maze.”  Potter gave a slight roll of his eyes.  “Yes, with you.”

Draco was strangely reminded of the time that a cat had decided to make the Esperanza her home, regardless of the wishes of the ship’s captain or crew.  She was a marbled brown tabby-ish sort of creature and quite resistant to every attempt to evict her.  Draco suspected that she likely was at least part Kneazle, as Séneca had attempted several times to leave her on shore immediately prior to departure, only to find her sunning herself on the deck when they were miles out to sea.  Séneca had finally given up on getting rid of her after observing her closely to make sure she didn’t disturb any of the creatures they came across during their voyages, particularly the birds.  The crew called her Mieda or Picante, as she wasn’t shy about making her displeasure known whenever they got in her way.

He found himself being towed by the hand to his own bedroom, where he was mortified to see the heap of discarded clothing he’d left strewn across the bed.  Potter didn’t comment when Draco swept all of them haphazardly into the wardrobe with a hurried wave of his wand.  He’d certainly never anticipated anyone, let alone Potter, seeing it when he’d left it earlier in the day.

Potter, for his part, had no problem shucking off his jeans and T-shirt, the ropey muscle of his back rippling as he removed his clothes.  Draco had resolved not to ogle him, their recent intimacy aside, but there was a mottled burn scar that ran from arse to shoulder blade on his left side.  Moving involuntarily, Draco lightly touched the area, his fingers asking a question that he wasn’t able to voice.

“Dragon,” Potter said, looking back over his shoulder.  “When I was an Auror.  There was a juvenile Opaleye being kept by smugglers who traded in banned potions ingredients, including endangered creatures.”

“You’ve tangled with much larger dragons than that without getting burned,” Draco said, unable to stop himself from mapping the edges of the scar with his fingertips.  Potter shivered slightly at his touch.

“True,” Potter said, clearing his throat.  “But in this case the confrontation happened in Knockturn Alley and there were bystanders…  A witch and two kids.  And juvenile dragons aren’t as good at controlling their flame.”

This was enough to paint a picture of what had happened, and of course Potter would fling himself in front of dragon fire to save someone else.  As much as Draco wanted nothing to do with Aurors or the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, he could see Potter being a superior and respected Auror, a natural fit for his drive to protect others.

Which raised the question of why Potter had left that work behind, and seemed reluctant to take it up again at the Minister’s request.

Draco was more circumspect in removing his own clothing for sleep, facing away as Potter Transfigured the bed into something large enough to fit them both more comfortably, even though it made the room feel small.  He considered and discarded the idea of sleeping in his briefs, as Potter evidently seemed intent upon doing.  It was growing colder at night, and he didn’t care to feel as exposed as he did without pajamas.  And after his adjustment from living an extremely privileged life to having to make his own living, fine pajamas were one of the few things he allowed himself to indulge in.  These ones were pima cotton and dark blue in color.

Potter was already under the magically altered bed covers when he turned back around, looking as though he was mere seconds from falling asleep.  His specs were folded and placed on the nightstand next to him.

Perhaps this was a dream, Draco thought.  Perhaps he had drunken himself into a stupor, had passed out in the armchair and this – something that he never thought he could have – was what his subconscious mind had elected to torture him with.

But it felt real enough when he dimmed the light of the room with a wave of his wand and slipped between the sheets.  He left plenty of space between himself and Potter, not wanting to presume –

– when a pair of strong arms wrapped around him and dragged him close, and he felt soft puffs of warm breath on the back of his neck.  The heat from Potter’s body was like a furnace, raising goosebumps on his skin before his own body acclimated to the warmth.

Draco swallowed.  “Are you cuddling me, Potter?”  He didn’t even bother to try to hide the incredulity in his voice.

“I am, Malfoy, well spotted,” Potter rumbled sleepily.  And then there was nothing further but a soft snoring.

~ * ~

It was not the wards that woke Draco.

It was the chill left behind where there had been a warm body pressed against his.  Still in a state of partial wakefulness, and with no maddeningly charming curse breaker plastered against him, he was ready to consign everything that he remembered happening after leaving the Thorn and Thestral to nothing more than an alcohol-induced hallucination.

But when he turned over onto his other side, trying to convince himself that the acid feeling in his stomach was due to too little food and too much tequila rather than a misplaced sense of abandonment, he saw the figure huddled at the very edge of his newly enlarged bed.

Potter was there, curled up tightly and shaking, his powerful body suddenly seeming to be so fragile that Draco was afraid that he’d crack into pieces.  His jaw was clenched tight, which allowed only the quietest whimpers to escape.  He’d partially thrown off the covers in his unconscious migration, which meant his upper body was exposed to the cool air.

Draco tentatively reached out a hand, but drew it back, uncertain how to handle this.  He knew from his own experience that being forcibly awoken from a nightmare could make it worse, could trap the person experiencing it firmly in the emotion of the moment instead of allowing it to run its course. 

But he couldn’t just do nothing.

“Potter,” Draco said, keeping his voice low.  “You are safe, and this will pass.”

It didn’t seem to make a difference, in fact Potter groaned and thrashed, one of his arms nearly hitting Draco in the face as he uncurled to toss and turn.

“Potter,” Draco repeated, knowing that his concern was bleeding into his tone but unable to help it.  He took a breath, trying to calm himself.  Getting agitated would benefit neither of them.  He closed his eyes, taking another slow breath, then reached out a hand to gently stroke Potter’s hair.

“Harry,” he murmured.  “Harry, shh, you’re all right.”

To his surprise, Harry quieted, his body relaxing slightly as Draco smoothed his unruly black hair away from his forehead.  He saw the lightning bolt scar, the one that had marked him and set him apart for nearly his entire life.

And as Draco drew the covers back up over them both, he saw its twin – a larger lightning bolt, placed just over Harry’s heart.

That was why, Draco thought, closing his eyes and continuing to slide his fingers softly through Harry’s hair.  Someone who chose to offer themselves up to all but certain death in order to protect countless others, someone who was so fundamentally good hearted…

A person like that deserved so much more than a person like Draco.  And that was why he wasn’t going to let himself think he had any kind of place here, or with Harry.

Chapter 14

Number twelve Grimmauld Place was not as Draco remembered it.

But to be fair, he hadn’t seen it from the street when he and his mother had visited her Aunt Walburga those many, many years ago.  They had Flooed from the Manor, which of course was no longer possible.  And since Draco was also prevented from Apparating, his options for transportation were limited.  As much as he appreciated Harry’s generosity in ferrying him from the Manor to visit his mother for the first time since his initial unwanted journey by Portkey, he chafed at this dependence so much that he almost considered taking up a broom again.  But his compromised depth perception made flying on his own extremely unnerving, and he didn’t want to chance it unless there were truly no other choice available.

The stone and brick façade had a grubby patina to it that wasn’t present at number eleven or number thirteen on either side.  Draco assumed this was because any Muggle maintenance or upkeep applied to the houses on this street must skip past the former Black family home.  Harry had said that it was protected by a Fidelius charm, and Draco would guess that it was likely Unplottable as well.  Most wizarding families who had residences in predominantly Muggle areas made their homes Unplottable if they were skilled or rich enough – it helped to maintain compliance with the requirements of the secrecy statute. 

The Manor had never been Unplottable, merely isolated and impenetrable.  What use was a grand Manor house if other people, even Muggles, didn’t even see it?

“Come on,” Harry said, tapping his wand against the seat of his motorbike to swallow up the sidecar once more.  He put his hand against the small of Draco’s back, gently urging him forward up the stairs.

He’d been doing that, ever since…

There hadn’t been a repeat.  Not yet.  But Harry was a little more free with his hands, with small touches whenever they were in arm’s reach of each other.  Draco chalked it up to Harry being naturally more tactile, and their newer and more intimate familiarity allowing him to indulge in it more than he had previously.  For his own part, it was difficult not to reciprocate, but he was trying to resist doing so.

The front door of Grimmauld Place was painted a forbidding black, and its sole ornamentation was the knocker – no door handle or deadbolt or spyhole could be seen.  The knocker was in the shape of a tarnished silver serpent that animated in response to a quiet, hissed word from Harry.  The serpent raised its head and accepted an affectionate pat before returning to its complicated, knotted coil.  Then it shifted a bit, and there was a click as the door latch released and allowed it to swing inward.

The entry way was much more familiar, though the feel of the place was different now.  Harry had said that he’d spent a lot of time and effort to clear it of Dark stuff, and the change was striking.  The air felt less heavy and stale, and there was far more light coming in through the front windows and emanating from updated light fixtures, which definitely reduced the need to cast Lumos just to safely navigate the hallway. 

There were two loud cracks as Grimmauld Place’s bonded house elves suddenly appeared on the ground floor to greet them.  Pipsy was beaming, her purple and silver dress just as smart as it was when he’d seen her last.  The other elf was presumably the one who had been bonded to the house when the Blacks still had possession of it.

Harry had not exaggerated.  This elf truly looked ancient.  His brows were bushy and heavy, dominating his face to such a degree that Draco actually wondered if he could see out from under them at all.  He was as wrinkly as an old apple, had a nose that was reminiscent of a stalactite, and was clad in a pillowcase embroidered with the Black family crest.

“Mast – Draco Malfoy, you is very welcome!”  Pipsy said, correcting herself without prompting.

This was followed by a monotone sort of grumbling, which Draco realized was coming from the other elf.

“Kreacher,” Harry said, a hint of fond exasperation in his voice.  “Words, mate.  Use your words.”

“…my Master is having proper guests again, it is an honor to be serving members of the ancient and most noble house of Black, Kreacher’s mistress would be so happy to know that the Blacks have taken shelter here once more…”

That was highly doubtful, if Kreacher was referring to Walburga.  If she were still alive then Narcissa and Draco would no doubt be scorch marks on the very edge of that old family tapestry.  But Kreacher was very old, and he knew from his previous visit that Walburga treated house elves in much the same way that his father had.  A vivid memory suddenly surfaced, and Draco glanced apprehensively at the wall of the grand staircase leading to the upper floor.

It was mercifully free of the mounted heads of house elves long dead, and Harry had obviously noticed what he was looking for.  He leaned in, placing a hand on Draco’s shoulder.

“They were cremated and their ashes sealed into a communal urn,” Harry murmured, his breath tickling Draco’s ear.  “The urn is sitting in pride of place in Kreacher’s quarters.  Sometimes he mentions being added to the wall, but he’s been getting a bit forgetful these last few – well, decades, really.”

“An unquestionable improvement,” Draco replied quietly.

“This way, Draco Malfoy,” Pipsy said, beckoning him to follow her down the hall.

The drawing room was another familiar place, though again it had been transformed from a suffocating, gloomy chamber that had seemed little different from a particularly spacious coffin, to something that was elegant and airy.  The décor had been updated but hadn’t changed in the overall style – antique furniture had been reupholstered, surfaces refinished, new drapes hung which matched Pipsy’s dress.  It didn’t seem to fit Harry’s personal aesthetic, so perhaps he had just refreshed for the sake of expediency rather than making the space truly his own.

Narcissa rose to greet them, setting aside the book she was reading and allowing herself one of her real smiles.  She took Draco’s hands in hers and kissed his cheek.  “Draco, love, it is so good to see you.”

“Hello, mother.” 

Draco kissed her cheek as well, disregarding the protocol she’d drummed into him by pulling her into a tight hug even in front of Harry and the house elves.  She made a startled noise, but he felt her arms wrap around him in turn.  There was an expression of slight annoyance on her face when they drew back, though she was still smiling.

“We will be bringing in tea and sandwiches, Mistress Narcissa!”  Pipsy said in her high, piping voice.  She gently took Kreacher’s elbow and they both Disapparated with almost simultaneous bangs.

Narcissa shook her head slightly.  The Manor house elves had never been quite so demonstrative, but it was a different time and a different house, and the Ministry Office of Magical Creature and Being Affairs Management (formerly the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures) had significantly changed both the laws of protection and the level of enforcement for all types of creatures and beings.  The bond between house elves and their domiciles was paramount – all other services were subject to negotiation and consent between the elves and the wizards inhabiting the homes.

“Will you be joining us, Mr. Potter?”  Narcissa asked, looking inquiringly at Harry.

“Just Harry, please,” Harry said, the corner of his mouth quirking up as his gaze moved from Narcissa to Draco.  “And I’m afraid not – it’s Sunday, which means the big Weasley family lunch at the Burrow.  I’m under orders, you understand.”

“Of course,” Narcissa said, nodding graciously.  Draco had to suppress a smile.  His mother had been the consummate hostess for so long that she even played the role in other people’s houses.

“Besides,” Harry said cheerfully, gathering a handful of Floo powder from the polished silver chalice resting upon a stand on the hearth of the huge central fireplace in the drawing room.  “This will give you both an opportunity to catch up.  I’ll be back this evening.”

Draco felt he ought to say something, to give Harry some well wishes to pass on to the Weasleys, but the doubt that they would be well-received prevented him from voicing any such sentiments.  Instead, he said, “Ask Granger about when we can expect those nullification nets.”

“If I remember to,” Harry said with a wink, before throwing the Floo powder into the fire and stepping into the rising green flames.  With a clear shout of “The Burrow!”, he disappeared in a sudden bright flare which made Draco squint and look away.

“Come, sit down.”  Narcissa touched Draco’s arm, gesturing toward a bergère armchair next to the settee where she’d left her book.  “Tell me how things are progressing at the Manor.”

Draco grimaced.  “Slowly, at best,” he said, and dutifully gave his mother a brief summary of what headway he and Harry had been able to make.  He neglected to go into to detail about some things, the ballroom in particular, and he could tell by the way Narcissa’s eyes narrowed that she knew that he was omitting information.  She didn’t call him on it, although perhaps this was more due to the fact that Pipsy Apparated back into the drawing room with a serving tray larger than she was, laden with tea service and the promised sandwiches.

“Thank you, Pipsy,” Draco said, letting his mother serve as he took two sandwiches and placed them on one of the small china plates. 

“Pipsy is pleased to help,” the house elf said, bobbing a shallow curtsy.  “If Draco Malfoy or Mistress Narcissa are needing anything else…”

“We will call, thank you, Pipsy,” Narcissa said.

Pipsy departed with another crack of air, and Narcissa passed a cup and saucer to Draco. 

“How is it, being here?”  Draco asked after taking a sip.  “I see that Pipsy still calls you Mistress.”

Narcissa gave a small, dismissive wave of her hand, the motion belying her discomfort.  “It was how she addressed me before.  Mr. Potter has said that he doesn’t mind.  It means nothing.”

She stirred her tea, and Draco waited.  “This house is very comfortable, especially with the changes that Mr. Potter has made since he inherited it.  He’s rarely here, however.  I gather he often spends nights with friends, or…or at Andromeda and Teddy’s home.”

“I see,” Draco said, feeling a familiar ache bloom in his heart.  Narcissa was perfectly capable of spending time in no one’s company but her own, but that didn’t mean it was what she preferred.  In Nice at least she had old school friends she visited, and who visited her.  Here, he imagined that she was as lonely as he was, perhaps more so, both of them removed from the settings within which they’d cultivated new lives and thrust back into a place where they were viewed with dislike and suspicion. 

Not by everyone, insisted a small voice within Draco’s mind.

“You seem to be working well with him,” Narcissa commented, her expression neutral.

“He’s competent,” Draco replied.  “And surprisingly easy to work with.  He has useful connections.”

“Indeed,” Narcissa said carefully, in a particular way that told Draco that she was saying far less than what she was thinking.  That was usually the case with his mother, but this specific tone made him want to squirm guiltily and tell her everything, and that he would not do.

“Unspeakable Granger is also unexpectedly pleasant to work with,” Draco continued.  “She’s always had a keen mind.  Innovative.  I suppose that comes from seeing things differently from those of us who were born and raised in the wizarding world.”

“I’m quite sure you’re right.  Very observant, that one.  I’d be surprised if she doesn’t rise even higher in the Ministry one day.”  Narcissa nibbled at a cucumber sandwich.

Draco wasn’t quite so delicate with his own sandwiches.  They were good, and plentiful, and he packed away four more of them during the lull in conversation.  His gaze wandered to the book that Narcissa had set aside – Nasir Shafiq’s The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts.

He allowed his mother time to finish eating, sipping the rest of his tea and resisting the temptation to pour himself another cup, as it would be rude to do so before she had the chance to offer.  And in truth, he was considering his words.  He didn’t want his effort to fall flat just because he didn’t trouble himself to approach it properly.

“Mother…would you consider turning things over to the Ministry now?”

Narcissa froze in the act of setting her teacup down on the side table, then deliberately and carefully completed the motion.  She smoothed the skirt of her charcoal gray dress out with hands that did not tremble.  “Whatever do you mean, darling?”

Draco raised an eyebrow.  “Do you believe that Potter has us under surveillance right now?”

His mother’s blue eyes flashed, and she gave a small shake of her head in warning.  “House elves have ears, love.”  Her expression fell slightly, the lines around her eyes deepening with regret.  “And at times they can be manipulated against you.”

“Would it be so terrible if they told Potter?”  Draco asked quietly.  “If Potter then told Shacklebolt?  He’s a reasonable man, I think.  And he might be grateful for the intelligence.”

Narcissa said nothing, her lips pressed tightly together.

“It would make for a tidy conclusion to the investigation currently being conducted into your correspondence,” Draco said.  “And the DMLE would dedicate more resources than you have at your disposal.”

He got a slight huff in response to that, an indication of dry, sardonic amusement.  He leaned forward, resting his hand on both of hers where they were folded in her lap.

“Mother, do you at least have a way out of England, if you will not allow the Ministry to handle it?”

“As if I would ever take such action while you are caught up in all of this,” she said, her tone going frigid at the very idea.  Her fingers traced the cuff that encircled his wrist.

“You are the only reason I remain,” Draco said, trying to keep the frustration out of his voice.  “I can find my own way out as long as you’re safe.  I will not allow you to be imprisoned.”

“You will if preventing it would mean that you were destined for Azkaban yourself,” Narcissa said with ferocity, and then composed herself.  “I’m not quite ready to sever all remaining ties, my son, even as few as there are.”  Narcissa’s eyes glittered harshly with tears that she would never shed.  Not even in front of him.  “We each of us have to make our amends in our own way.” 

She touched a hand to Draco’s face, her fingers seeking out the hidden scars.  He sucked in a sharp breath, reminded of the last time someone else had touched them, and drew back out of her reach.

“I indulged myself in grief.  Grief over my altered circumstances, grief over Lucius’s death, and look at what my apathy – my negligence – produced,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

“You were – are – allowed to mourn your husband,” Draco rasped.  “You couldn’t have –”

“There is no excuse,” Narcissa said sharply.  “Just another entry in my long list of failures.  I’m close, so close, to finding every last one of them.  Perhaps then will I consider telling Mr. Potter, or the Minister, what I know.  I need to make sure they can get to them all.”

Draco was silent, fighting an internal war.  His mother’s drive to track down every escaped Death Eater and end them – by death or by imprisonment, whichever she could most easily accomplish – was understandable.  After his encounter with Rowle, she had been single minded in her efforts and had broken the conditions of her acquittal, not to mention the law, many times in order to get the information she needed.  She had just never been caught at it until now.  It was a dangerous game she was playing, with the Aurors on one side and Death Eaters at large on the other.

“In any case,” Narcissa said, patting his knee.  “I thought we agreed to be more or less truthful with each other.”

“What?”  Draco frowned.

“You said that I’m the only reason you’re still in England, when we both know that’s not true.”  Narcissa raised her teacup to take a sip, not looking away from him, her eyebrows raised in challenge.

Fuck.  His mother was far too perceptive sometimes.  “True or not, it’s hardly relevant.”

“How could it not be relevant?”

“It just isn’t,” Draco snapped, then closed his eyes and took a deep breath.  “I apologize.”

“Draco,” Narcissa said softly.  “You are allowed to…”

“To what?”  He asked tiredly.  “To pursue something that has no hope of becoming anything real?  To hobble someone with my past and reputation without even being able to offer them a single advantage or benefit in return?”

“Attend to me,” Narcissa said firmly, just as she always did when imparting a lesson.  She reached out and raised his chin so that he would look at her.  “A man who was fortunate enough to get your love and loyalty would count himself lucky until the end of his days and beyond.”

It was sweet of her to say it, though mothers had to say such things.

“And,” she continued, gently tightening her grip so that he would pay attention.  “The right man would want you above any advantages – or disadvantages – being with you might bring.  Tell me that you believe me.”

Draco tried to smile.  “We agreed we would be truthful with each other.”

Narcissa’s calm visage cracked for a moment, her brows drawing together and her eyes once again filling with tears that would not fall.  She set her teacup aside and leaned forward, drawing him into a tight embrace.  He returned it, wrapping his arms around her and taking the comfort that she offered.

“Your father and I meant to leave you a legacy that would set you up for a comfortable and successful life,” she murmured.  “We managed to fail in almost every way.  And look at what you’ve accomplished in spite of our disastrous mistakes.  I couldn’t be more proud, or you more deserving of happiness.”

“I am happy enough, Mother,” Draco assured her, and that was mostly true.  He enjoyed his work, was content to lose himself in his research and contribute to the collective body of knowledge for the wizarding world.  What did it matter if he couldn’t do it under his own name?  Was it truly a hardship that he could never feel at home in his country of origin, when there was so much to see and do everywhere else in the world?  He had meaningful occupation, and that was more than a lot of people had.

His mother didn’t reply, only squeezed him harder for a moment before letting him go.

“It would ease my mind if you would at least consider sharing the information you’ve gathered with Potter,” Draco said, wishing to bring the conversation back to the most pressing subject.  He looked his mother in the eye.  “He’s not an Auror anymore, but he would know how best to deliver it to the Ministry to make sure that it doesn’t go to waste.”

“If any of the escaped Death Eaters get wind of the others being taken in, they will take steps to run and the information will be useless,” Narcissa said, her mouth twisting sourly.  She lifted the tea pot and refilled Draco’s cup.  “This has to be precise.  Coordinated.  Or it will all be for naught.”

“Still, it’s not something that you can accomplish even with your network of news collectors.”  Draco took a sip of tea.  “And you know that you can’t trust all of them.  Someone must have informed on you to the Ministry.”

“I am aware,” Narcissa said tartly.  It was clear that she still had sore feelings about it.  She pursed her lips, her eyes going distant in thought.  Draco waited, not wanting to push too hard.

“All right,” she said finally.  “I will take it under consideration.”

“Thank you,” Draco said, keeping most of his relief out of his voice, though his mother gave him a knowing look.

Across the room, the fire burning merrily in the large fireplace started to crackle and hiss, turning bright green in color before it flared up.  It wasn’t Harry who stepped out of it, but Teddy.  They didn’t seem to be presenting any particular way today, dressed in their ever-present black and yellow scarf along with a loose, flowy top, tight-fitting jeans, and heavy black boots.  Their face brightened when they saw Draco and Narcissa, and they tracked a bit of ash across the carpeting in their haste to greet them.

“Hi, Aunt Cissy!”  Teddy flung their arms around Narcissa, squeezing her tightly.

Narcissa let out a quiet “Oof” but patted Teddy’s back fondly.  Teddy released her and wasted no time before giving Draco the same treatment.

“Harry said that you were both here, so I snuck away from the Burrow early!”  Teddy sat down on the settee with Narcissa, grabbing the last sandwich from the tray without bothering to put it on a plate.  Narcissa discreetly tucked the copy of The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts between her other side and the arm of the settee.

“I imagine that there are enough people there to have made that relatively easy,” Draco ventured, settling back into the armchair. 

“You’d be surprised,” Teddy said with a grin.  “I had to change my face and hair three times just to get out the door.  It usually takes that many tries to leave Molly’s house, she’s always wanting to send home leftover food or persuade you to have one more serving of dessert.”

“Such a hardship,” Narcissa commented.

“It is,” Teddy said tragically.  “I’m so full.” 

Draco refrained from either laughing or pointing out that Teddy had just eaten the last sandwich, though it was a struggle.

“Have you spoken to the acquaintance I mentioned at St. Mungo’s?”  Narcissa asked.

Teddy shrugged, their eyes downcast.  “Not yet.  I…I don’t want to bother anyone.”

“There are never enough Healers in the world.  I promise you that they would be happy to know anyone interested in learning the profession,” Narcissa said, patting Teddy’s hand reassuringly.  “Would it help if I sent an owl first?”

“You want to become a Healer, Teddy?”  Draco asked, intrigued.

“Yes, sort of,” Teddy said, a blush coloring their cheeks.  “If I did, I’d learn all of the basic Healer stuff, but I’d want to specialize in Self-Transformation if I could.”

“What does that entail?”

“Well, it’s a broader specialization than most people think,” Teddy explained.  “It includes helping Animagi and werewolves.  Wizards and witches who have non-human ancestry and who have to manage some unusual traits – half giants or half veela, you know?  And…and it also includes witches and wizards who want to change things about themselves.  It’s, er, something that I relate to, as a Metamorphmagus.”

Draco was fascinated.  It seemed very fitting for Teddy to be interested in this field – Hufflepuffs were generally good caretakers, and Teddy would of course be drawn to witches or wizards who needed to make their bodies more their own.

“I think that would be an ideal choice for you, Teddy,” he said sincerely. 

“Maybe.”  Teddy toyed with one of the ends of their scarf.  “My potions marks weren’t good enough in my fifth year to take the N.E.W.T. level course, so I didn’t think…”

“That’s easily overcome,” Narcissa declared.  “You can apply to take N.E.W.T.s even after you leave school.”

“I did,” Draco added, and Teddy looked at him in surprise.

“You did?”

Draco nodded.  “I took them when I was nineteen.  And if you want any assistance in studying potions work before you decide to take your exam, I would be happy to help if I can.”

“Wow, really?”  Teddy beamed at him.  “Thank you!  That would be brilliant.”

“I’ll write to my contact at St. Mungo’s,” Narcissa said, sending an approving look in Draco’s direction.  “That way, she’ll know to expect to hear from you.”

The conversation wandered from there, and the time passed pleasantly.  It shouldn’t have been unexpected to enjoy Teddy’s company so much, and it wasn’t – not exactly.  More that it was unusual for there to be another person present when Draco visited with his mother.  His trips from the Americas to France had grown less frequent over the years, as he got caught up in his work and she in hers.  As Draco had no fixed address, Narcissa had never even considered coming to visit him.  And that was fine.  They wrote to each other often.  But it wasn’t the same as sitting comfortably in the same room, this time with an extra family member.

Teddy brought out a wizarding chess set so that they could play.  The pieces for this one had been shaped and painted to look like Quidditch players – and given that one side wore Cannons orange and the other light blue, like the Tutshill Tornadoes, Draco was only mildly surprised to learn that it had been made by none other than Ron Weasley.

“Oh, he’s really very talented,” Teddy said earnestly.  “When he quit the Aurors he started working with George in the joke shop, but they’ve expanded a lot since then.  Uncle Ron gets commissions, and his custom work goes for loads of Galleons.”

“I’ll play the winner,” Narcissa said, eyeing the chess pieces critically.

Draco and Teddy battled it out, with Teddy having an advantage since they’d played with both sides of this chess set before, so even though Draco was the one issuing commands to his Cannons pieces, they seemed more inclined to make moves that kept Teddy ahead.  Thus, he and the Cannons lost, and art imitated life.

Narcissa took his place at the chessboard and ruled over her pieces like a general at war, brooking absolutely no nonsense from the surly orange-robed figures.  But Teddy hadn’t won the previous game on misplaced loyalty alone – they were skilled enough to make Narcissa work hard for her victory.

The game was so absorbing that Draco almost didn’t notice when the fire flickered bright green once more, suddenly rising up and fading to reveal Harry, back from the Burrow. 

“No one told me we were having a chess tournament,” he commented, grinning broadly at the sight of them huddled around the low table.

“Tournament might be a generous term,” Narcissa said.  “Though you’re welcome to play, as I seem to be on a winning streak.”

The next game turned into another, and then another, and then another.  Harry rummaged through the ornate cabinet against the wall and managed to find another chess set, also made by Ron, but it was a little more traditional.  There were knights, castles, kings and queens, but they carried shields and flags which had the Gryffindor lion on scarlet and the Slytherin serpent on emerald green.  Draco somehow found himself playing against Harry, each of them marshaling the forces of their former Houses, while Pipsy brought more tea and more sandwiches.

Eventually, the hour grew late enough that Teddy reluctantly made their goodbyes before Flooing back to their grandmother’s house.  Draco could see the slightly pained expression on his mother’s face when they left.  It was clear that she was fond of them, and still grieving the silence between herself and Andromeda. 

Narcissa retired to bed shortly afterward, giving Draco a farewell kiss on the cheek accompanied by a request to visit more often in future.  One that he was happy to agree to, after glancing at Harry to make sure he was welcome.

And then it was just Draco and Harry, unhurriedly resetting the Hogwarts chessboard with only a half-formed intent to play again.  Draco admired the fine detail in the pieces while Harry told him stories about Ron’s earliest attempts at Transfiguring charmed metals or pieces of wand wood.

“He tried to create a set of gnomes and Jarveys, but there was something off about the interaction between the different types of wand wood that he’d used, and after playing it once and then boxing it up, he opened it up later to find that the Jarvey pieces had eaten all of the gnome pieces, there were splinters everywhere.”  Harry laughed, the dim light from the fire and the few lit wall sconces reflecting in his glasses.

Draco chuckled as well, feeling a flush start to work its way up from his neck to his cheeks.  He cleared his throat, unnecessarily adjusting the Slytherin queen on her square while she scowled and swatted at his fingers.

He looked up to see Harry watching him. 

“It’s late?”  Draco hadn’t meant it to sound like a question.

“Yes.”  Harry tilted his head slightly.  “You’re more than welcome to stay, if you like.”

“I shouldn’t.”  Draco’s response was automatic, but the thought of returning to his tent, alone, made his heart sink after the lovely evening he’d just had.

“Shouldn’t you?  Why?”

There were so many reasons, but Draco was still tempted.  If he did, however, there would be no hiding it from his mother.  And that would only encourage her erroneous notions about…things which were obviously impossible.

“I should go,” Draco said finally.

“All right,” Harry agreed, though his face shuttered slightly, something like disappointment clouding his expression.  “I’ll get my coat, it’ll be freezing on the motorbike tonight.”

He was right.

It was bitterly cold during their flight back to the Manor, especially when compared to the warmth of Grimmauld Place.  Draco tried to concentrate on the stars as they flew, picking the constellations out of the clear night sky.  Star names were a Black family naming tradition, he knew, but he didn’t often seek out his own namesake.  He’d never really been able to picture the things that constellations were meant to be – to him, they were just a series of points rather arbitrarily connected.  And he wondered about the ancient peoples who had looked up at the sky and seen a dragon there.

At least the flight from Islington to Wiltshire was relatively short, and they made good time.  Still, Draco was again shivering in spite of the warming charms he’d cast, and was glad when they finally touched down in front of the Manor. 

Draco could feel Harry’s eyes on him as he adjusted his satchel so that he could more easily get his legs out of the sidecar.  He took more time than he needed to straighten his clothing, flexing his cold hands to try to get the blood circulating.  Finally, he turned to face Harry, to thank him for the ride and the chance to visit with his mother.

Instead, he said, “You can stay if you like.”  His gut clenched, and he wasn’t sure if he were hoping for Harry to accept the offer, or reject it.

A slow grin dawned on Harry’s face.  “Are you sure?”

“No,” Draco said.

But he leaned down to kiss him anyway.

Chapter 15

“Tell me,” Harry growled as he slammed the door behind him, panting from exertion after sprinting back to the protection of the service passage.  “Which of your ancestors can we thank for decorating the main hallway with medieval weapons?”  Behind him, there were several loud thuds against the door, as the weapons they’d been fleeing encountered the barrier.

“That would be Séraphine Rosier Malfoy,” Draco gasped, equally out of breath and sweeping his gaze up and down Harry’s body, searching for any injuries.  “I understand she developed an interest in collecting weapons after getting caught up in the Napoleonic Wars.”

“Caught up?”  Despite having a brush with death only moments before, Harry’s eyes lit up with curiosity.  “Did she fight in them?”

“Ah, perhaps it would be more accurate to say ‘meddled in’ rather than ‘caught up,’” Draco corrected himself.  “Seeing as she was smuggling weapons to both sides.  Thought it was a great joke every time she was able to stir up a new conflict.”

“Hilarious,” Harry said dryly, shaking his arms out and stretching his neck by tilting his head from side to side.  He leaned cautiously back toward the door, cracking it open slightly to peer out into the main hall. 

Draco resisted the urge to pull him back, reminding himself that this was what they were here to do.  The closest point of access to the cellars could be found in the hall.  The sooner they dealt with what remained there, the sooner Draco would be able to ensure his mother’s freedom and then return to his neglected work across the Atlantic.  This thing with Harry, whatever it was that was between them now – it was by turns confusing and heady, and all of it conspired to make him forget the barriers that remained.  Both those that existed between himself and Harry, and those between the two of them and any kind of peaceful life.

It simply was not possible.

But as much as he thought that he should, he couldn’t quite force himself to feel remorse for allowing it to happen.  Oh, that was likely to come, at some point.  It would be over, and he wouldn’t be leaving unscathed.  But now he knew.  He knew what Harry looked like when he was fully sated and just about to fall asleep.  He knew the taste of him, knew the deceptive softness of that thick black hair and the sandpapery feel of the stubble on his face.  He knew the heat of his embrace and his capacity for touch both rough and tender.

And all of that was worth knowing, even if at some point it would only be memory.

“What do you reckon?”  Harry asked, jarring Draco out of his distraction.

Draco bit the inside of his cheek, chastising himself for his inattention.  There were literally axes and swords flying around just on the other side of the passage door.  This was no time to be lost in thought.  “About?”

“Do you think it’s another Hurling Hex?”

“No.”  Draco shook his head.  “No, even if there were multiple Hurling Hexes, the enchanted objects wouldn’t display that type of behavior.  I think we’re dealing with individual Scopos charms, the way they were tracking and targeting us.”

“Fuck.”  Harry started to tap the side of his leg with his wand hand, obviously thinking hard.  “That’s a lot of weapons to charm individually and tie together with a single filament.  Would any of those Death Eaters have had the attention to detail, or patience?”

“Edmund Nott,” Draco suggested.  “Or Severus Snape, but he was already at Hogwarts when the Death Eaters left the Manor.”

Harry sucked in a breath at the mention of Severus, looking away.  But Draco didn’t miss the way his hands tightened into fists, his knuckles going pale.

“All right,” Harry said finally.  “How many of the nullification nets do we have left?”

“We have four with us, and six more still in the kitchen,” Draco said, glancing down at the neatly folded stack of nets they’d set beside the door.  He wasn’t sure if hideous yarn color was a requirement for functionality, but at the very least it so far seemed to be a common trait.  There was a variegated rainbow yarn which closely resembled the color of a vomit-flavored Bertie Bott’s bean, a lifeless gray, an eyewatering chartreuse, and a rusty orange mohair. 

“In other words, not enough.”  Harry grimaced.  He blew out a breath.  “Stay here for a moment.  I’m going to try something, but I need to go outside first.”

“Outside?”  Draco was baffled.

“It’s something that worked for me when I was breaking into an underground strongroom in Anatolia last year.  It’s easier to show you than try to explain.  Do not go back in there without me,” Harry said, his tone stern.

“I am not a complete idiot, Potter,” Draco said, irritated.  “Go.  Get whatever it is you need.”

Harry gave him a short nod before heading back down the service passage, which would take him briefly through the study before reaching the conservatory and its doors leading outside.

Lucius’s study had been surprisingly free of traps.  Or perhaps not so surprising, as it had been his father’s last place of refuge prior to the battle at Hogwarts.  It was likely that Lucius had occupied it right up until the very moment Voldemort and his supporters departed for Scotland and what they thought would be an easy victory. 

Draco had not wanted to linger there.  The conspicuous absence of his father combined with the eerie tranquility of the study had somehow seemed more threatening than any of the indoor spaces they had encountered thus far.  Draco had glanced around enough to see that the portrait which his grandfather Abraxas had previously occupied now depicted Lucius – a means by which the current lord of the Manor could obtain some small bits of counsel from the one who had come before.  Draco’s possession of the ring and his grudging acceptance of the role must have triggered that change.  And when he’d met the painted silver-gray eyes of his father’s likeness, Draco had fled back into the service passage with Harry jogging after him.

The idea of taking possession of the study was repellant.  It had too many strong memories attached to it, mostly of his father, and Lucius’s unintended, enduring legacy was that all of Draco’s memories of him were now painful, including the good ones. Perhaps especially the good ones.

When Harry returned, carrying something in his hand that Draco couldn’t immediately make out, he looked even more disheveled than he had before.  There were pine needles in his hair, which he appeared not to notice.

“What have you been doing?”  Draco asked, unable to keep the slightly scolding note from his tone.  He moved closer and plucked one of the pine needles out of the thick dark strands, holding it up in front of Harry’s face.

“Just getting what we need,” Harry said, batting away Draco’s hand so that he could concentrate on what he had gathered.  In his own hand he held a decently sized ball of pine sap, about as wide as a silver Sickle. 

Harry held the sap in his left hand, prodding it with the tip of his wand.  It started levitating and rotating simultaneously, the surface of the sticky amber substance smoothing due to the spinning force applied to it. 

“Crescere,” Harry said firmly, waving his wand in a pattern that was vaguely S-shaped.  The ball of sap started to expand, growing wider with every rotation.  When it reached the size of a Quaffle, Draco expected it to stop, but Harry kept the charm going, continuing to concentrate fiercely until the ball was over a meter in diameter.  It was clearly heavy, too.  Draco could see beads of sweat starting to form on Harry’s forehead.  This was different from using an Engorgement charm – that merely altered an object’s size.  Harry was actually making more sap, adding to the material instead of merely stretching it.  A subtle but important difference, and vastly more complicated in terms of magical prowess.

Harry’s left hand flexed, and then he folded his index and third finger toward his palm.  The huge orb of pine sap split neatly into three even pieces, each of them spinning into perfect spheres.  He breathed out sharply from the exertion, maintaining the awkward contortion of his fingers.

“You’re going to catch the weapons with these,” Draco said in realization, and Harry nodded, giving him a tight smile.

“Those Scopos charms are not going to target sap, Potter,” Draco argued.

“You’re right about that,” Harry agreed.

“Then how do you intend to capture the weapons?  Levitating these things around the hall is going to take a lot of time and effort.”

“I’m not going to chase around axes and swords.  They’re going to come to me.”  Harry turned and moved carefully toward the door, making sure that none of the spheres came into contact with the walls of the narrow passageway.

“You’re making yourself the target?”  Draco asked, appalled.

“Unless you have a better idea.  Don’t worry, Malfoy, I’ve done it before.”

“This is supposed to be reassuring?”  Draco moved quickly to put himself between Harry and the door, though the balls of sap didn’t leave much room to maneuver.  He glared at Harry.  “You just performed a creative and intricate bit of magic and all you can think to do with it is to let sharp objects fly straight at you while you try to catch them with pine sap?”

“I told you,” Harry said, irritation creeping into his voice.  “I’ve done this before, in Anatolia.”

“Oh, well that must mean that it’s perfectly safe,” Draco said, sarcasm dripping from his words.  “I can just picture the headline in the Prophet: The Boy Who Lived Killed at Death Eater Safe House, Turns Out He’s Not So Good at Living After All.”

“Fuck off,” Harry said, unable to completely repress a laugh.  “Fine.  What would you suggest?”

“Cast the Simulacrimus spell on them,” Draco said.  “It’s worth a try, and better than putting yourself at risk.”

Harry shook his head.  “These are too malleable for that spell.  It needs something with a hard surface to put out a steady ‘living’ signature.”

Draco tsked in vexation, turning the problem over in his mind.  Another option presented itself, and while it would never have been his first choice, it was definitely superior to letting Harry approach this in far too Gryffindor a manner. 

“I assume you were working alone when you deployed similar measures before?”  Draco asked.

Harry squinted, then gave a short nod.

“Then I’ll shield us both while you capture the weapons,” Draco said.  “You won’t have enough concentration to spare on a Protego, and this way you can focus entirely on the levitation.”

“Fine.”

Draco opened his mouth, ready to argue further, then closed it with a snap when his mind caught up and he realized that Harry had agreed so readily.  He had expected to have to make his case, to assure Harry of his reliability, to let him know that Draco could and would shield him from any weapon that targeted them.

But either Harry knew that already, or he was confident enough in his own abilities to take control of the situation should Draco prove inadequate.

“All right, then,” Draco said, swallowing hard before turning to face the door.  “Let me know when you’re ready.”

He heard Harry take a deep breath, and he did the same, mentally preparing himself for the type of shield configuration he’d need to create to protect them on all sides.

“Let’s go,” Harry ordered, and Draco yanked open the door, casting a dome-like Protego which guarded himself and Harry without trapping the sticky masses of sap inside it with them.

The myriad weapons, which had once decorated the walls of the wide hallway but were now hovering in midair, all turned towards them at once.  The buzzing in Draco’s right ear was an unwelcome distraction this time, as the miniaturized Sneakoscope dangling from the silver hoop in his ear raised the alarm about multiple threats at once.  He was well aware of the danger, and briefly wished there was a way to temporarily muffle its effects before he devoted himself fully to maintaining the shield, while also keeping watch for any filament spells they might yet trigger.

With Draco standing guard for both of them, Harry wielded the balls of gummy sap with brutally masterful efficiency, moving all three of them at once to snag throwing axes and spear tips right out of the air.  It was slightly unnerving to catch sight of a deadly weapon flying directly towards them, only to be swept up into an amber blob which quickly came to resemble some sort of nightmarish pin cushion, with the sharp ends encased while the poles and grips stuck out.

While it wasn’t possible to watch everything that Harry was doing, Draco was still impressed to see him work.  Of course he’d seen Harry in action prior to this, but levitating three objects with intent the way he was doing now was beyond the skill level of most of the witches and wizards of Draco’s acquaintance.  Harry demonstrated a similar spatial awareness to that which he’d had as the Gryffindor Seeker so many years ago, but now enhanced with maturity and experience.  He could see how proficient Harry would be at curse breaking, and why he was confident enough to try to take on the hexed weapons on his own.

Still, there were several instances in which a sword or battle axe or halberd made contact with Draco’s shield, which justified his initial caution and allowed him to feel just the tiniest bit smug about it. 

A loud, slightly wet thump drew his attention to the floor, where Harry had stuck one of the sap balls which was full to bursting with weaponry.  There was no more room for any others, so Harry anchored it and cast an Unbreakable charm to keep the blades firmly neutralized.  He still managed to keep control of the remaining two, sending them zooming around the dome of Draco’s shield to catch a short sword and then a morningstar.

And then suddenly it seemed to be over.  There were no more weapons flying at them, and Draco’s earring was no longer buzzing, which was a relief.  Still, Draco did not relent on the Protego he was sustaining, not wanting to take any chances as Harry directed the other two mounds of weapons to adhere to the floor – ruining the hardwood in the process, of course, but that was the Ministry’s problem now. 

Harry was breathing hard after finally letting go of his levitation spells, but his eyes were fiery with barely repressed excitement.  “That was a neat bit of business, wasn’t it?”

Draco stared at him, brows furrowed in a combination of exasperation and perplexity.  He understood, on some level, that Harry was just like this, but it was another thing entirely to be confronted with the reality of a person who seemed to delight in facing peril.

But no, he thought, reconsidering.  It wasn’t the peril, necessarily, but the challenge.  The opportunity to flex a magical ability that was at once world-famous and also, Draco suspected, significantly underestimated.  And that…that was something that he could understand, meeting an obstacle and overcoming it, or encountering a puzzle and managing to solve it.

So instead of letting loose any number of appropriately scathing remarks, Draco merely reached out and plucked a few more pine needles from the tangle of Harry’s thick black hair.  If he also took the opportunity to brush back some of the handsomely graying strands at Harry’s temple, well, there was no one else there to witness it.  “You are covered in sap, Potter.”

The fire in Harry’s eyes banked, now seeming more full of heat than light.  “That’s easily fixed.  First let’s chuck some of those ugly nets over these weapons, see if we can’t cancel out the Scopos charms on them.”

The effect that the knitted nullification spell nets created, when spread atop hardened globs of sap bristling with what remained of a decorative and deadly armory, was comical.  It looked as though a party of rogue grannies had stampeded through the hall, leaving nothing but monstrous knitting in their wake, and Draco had to fight hard to repress his chuckles after meeting Harry’s mirthful gaze more than once.  It was ridiculous in a way that Draco could not remember the Manor ever being in the time during which he’d called it home, and it was almost like repelling a boggart – making something frightening into something absurd. 

The magic that he had worked had clearly taken its toll on Harry, as they were in mutual unspoken agreement to quit the Manor work for the day.  And since there were no options for cleaning up inside the Manor, Draco automatically headed for his tent as soon as they stepped outside. 

The ravens were perched in a few of their favorite trees, but Grito called to him, gliding down to hop and fly next to him as he walked.  In fact, the bird was being so distractingly silly that it took Draco a moment to notice that Harry wasn’t keeping pace with him, as he’d expected.

Perplexed, Draco lifted his head and swept his gaze around until he spotted Harry at the edge of the pond, which was a good way away from the tent.  He opened his mouth, intending to ask Harry what he was up to, but the words died in a strangled cough when he saw Harry shrug off his anorak and remove his shirt.

Even though he’d seen it before, it was hard not to be mesmerized by that expanse of warm brown skin and muscle, from which the scarring detracted not at all.  And when Harry looked back over his shoulder at Draco, a wicked grin lighting his eyes up with mischief, well.  That wasn’t playing fair at all.  Draco nearly tripped trying to get his feet coordinated enough to approach the pond.

“Potter, what in the name of Merlin’s wrinkled old todger are you doing?”

Harry laughed, throwing his head back and exposing the long line of his throat.  “Classy, Malfoy.  I thought you were too posh to use language like that.”

“On the contrary, I’m posh enough to know when such language is warranted.  You do realize that it’s October, don’t you?  As in, no longer summer?  In other words, too cold for swimming?”  Draco eyed the tranquil surface of the pond distrustfully, but not because he had any fears about what was in it.  The odd carp or grindylow didn’t bother him.  But the water had to be bloody freezing.

Harry met his gaze in a clear challenge, undoing the button and zip of his jeans and pushing them down until he was in nothing but navy blue briefs.  “Scared, Malfoy?”

Draco’s mouth quirked.  “You wish.  Though the pond is hardly appropriate for getting cleaned up, especially when I have an actual shower inside the tent.”

“Pfft.  If you can call it that.  It’s far too small.”

“Too small for what?”  Draco asked, though the expression on Harry’s face was giving him some idea.

Harry winked at him.  “Come find out.”  Then he turned and took a running jump into the pond, sending an arc of water in Draco’s direction, and which was deftly avoided.

“You’re a nutter,” Draco said, but it came out as a laugh and there was no concealing it.  And perhaps it wasn’t necessary to suppress every emotion.  Not all the time, at least. 

He did hesitate for a moment, but then squared his shoulders and slipped the strap of his satchel over his head, followed by his jumper.  With just his thin undershirt, the cool autumn air made his skin pebble with goosebumps, and his nipples were embarrassingly visible as they peaked beneath the material.  He could feel Harry’s eyes on him, and made quick work of his trousers and shoes.  After a moment’s consideration, he removed his undershirt as well.

Draco knew that dithering in the shallows would only make the transition from cool air to cold water even worse, so he waded in quickly until the water reached his knees, then performed a shallow dive to get the rest of it over with.  The sudden change nearly drove the air from his lungs, and his nerves were screaming until he concentrated on extending his magical core slightly outward, enough to alleviate the almost painful edge of the water’s temperature.  It was a trick that he’d learned during his time with Séneca and his crew, who often swam in the ocean wherever they stopped.

He surfaced and expelled his breath, causing a small spray of water.  The pond was deceptively deep, enough that he’d have to be on tiptoe on the mucky bottom in order to keep his face above water.  It was plenty deep to tread water, as Harry was doing a few feet away from him.

“What?”  He asked, taken aback by the expression of sadness and self-reproach on Harry’s face.

Harry didn’t say anything at first, just swam toward him and snaked an arm around Draco’s waist, drawing him in close.  He stretched out his fingers and traced the faint, pale lines of scars that were placed haphazardly around Draco’s chest and torso.

Oh.  Draco shivered, capturing Harry’s hand in his and gently moving it away.  Their limited intimacy thus far hadn’t yet involved him being completely shirtless.  He should have anticipated this, but he almost never thought about the scars that Harry’s ignorant use of Sectumsempra had left behind in their sixth year.

“Snape wasn’t able to heal them completely, then?”  Harry’s voice was soft, and he wasn’t meeting Draco’s gaze.

“You can hardly see them as it is,” Draco said.  “Honestly, I always forget about them until I happen to notice.”

“I could have killed you,” Harry said, a thick note of misery in his voice so clearly evident that Draco was surprised at the depth of emotion that it revealed.

“At the time, I wished you had,” he said unthinkingly, and Harry drew in a sharp breath and raised his head, his eyes searching Draco’s face.

“You – what?”

“I don’t anymore,” Draco said quickly.  “But at the time, I thought it would have solved many of my problems.  He wouldn’t have been able to use me against my parents, or vice versa.  And…and I wouldn’t have been a danger to the school, or to the residents of Hogsmeade, any longer.  I…I felt quite resentful toward Severus for a while, after he healed me.”

“Fuck, Malfoy…”  Harry seemed at a loss for words.  “It was awful, not really knowing how you were after…  I hardly got into trouble for it, not really.  I should have.”

And Draco didn’t know what to do, what to say to bring them back to the playful mood they’d both shared just moments earlier.  He wanted to fix this, to make it so this reminder of the past had never resurfaced.  He should have left his damn undershirt on.

“I don’t blame you,” Draco said cautiously, hoping that it was the right thing to say.  “I tried to curse you first, and unlike you I knew what the hell I was doing.”

Harry chuckled, sounding slightly pained, but it was a laugh just the same. 

There was a heaviness, though, the weight of things between them that had not been addressed and never would be, not if Draco had anything to say about it.  There was no need to re-open these wounds, to expose these years-long hurts to the light and air, not when there would be no purpose to it.  They didn’t need to, to carry on as they were.  It wasn’t necessary, when they would go their separate ways, and likely never see each other again.

So he ran his fingers through the sodden strands of hair at the back of Harry’s head, curling his fingers into a fist so that he could use his grip to tilt Harry’s face to the perfect angle.  And then he kissed him, willing Harry to let it go, to leave the past where it ought to be.

Harry took a moment to respond, but he did, kicking out his legs to propel them to shallower water so that they could both comfortably stand.  He pressed his body against Draco’s, and Draco was duly impressed to feel the hard length of Harry’s cock even immersed in the cold water as they were.  Draco couldn’t help but match him, thrusting his pelvis forward so that their cocks rubbed together.

The friction was intense and almost painful, the wet material of their pants catching on sensitive skin, but the pressure was exactly right, especially when Harry’s hands fell to Draco’s hips and pulled him even closer.  Draco could feel his magic starting to stir and he knew that Harry’s would match it, the push and pull between them seeming to warm the water around their bodies to a degree that was almost comfortable.

Draco worked a hand between them, tugging clothing out of the way until he could grip both of them together, and that was even better, the hot press of skin against skin feeling like the glow of a furnace when compared to their surroundings.  They developed a rhythm, and one of Harry’s hands wandered, sliding back to squeeze one of Draco’s arse cheeks, two of his fingers delving into the cleft to softly stroke delicate skin, and that was enough to send Draco over the edge.  He shuddered in Harry’s arms, latching onto the skin of the other man’s neck with his mouth so that he could muffle his moan.  He started jerking them both faster, ignoring his own slight discomfort in his efforts to bring Harry off as well.

Harry’s fingers tightened, possibly hard enough to leave bruises, and then suddenly he was coming, biting down on the meat of Draco’s shoulder in a way which definitely would leave a bruise.  Draco didn’t mind.  These kinds of marks were easily removed with an Episkey or two, but since they weren’t where anyone else would even see them, perhaps it wouldn’t matter if he let them fade on their own.

They clung tightly to each other, giving themselves time to catch their breaths and indulging in firm, languid caresses.  From the branch of a tree near the edge of the pond, Grito squawked, as though providing commentary.

“Vulgar bird,” Draco muttered, and Harry laughed, planting a kiss on Draco’s temple.

“He likes you,” Harry said, finally dropping his arms to tuck himself away and then pushing off the bottom of the pond with his feet.  He lazily floated on his back, only moving his arms or legs to stay more or less where he was. 

“He ought to,” Draco snorted, adjusting his briefs and falling into a proper breaststroke to work off a little of the afterglow from their frotting.  “I’ve fed him enough.”

“You call him Grito,” Harry remarked.  “What’s that mean?”

“It’s something I learned in Mexico.  It’s a special type of yell that the people there do to express significant emotion – often happiness or excitement, but sometimes not.  You hear it a lot when they play music.”

“Really?”  Harry grinned.  “Would you show me?”

“Absolutely not,” Draco said firmly.  “They tried to teach me many times, but ultimately decided that an Anglo could not do it properly.  Or at least, this Anglo couldn’t.”

“They?”

Draco paused before answering, suddenly very aware that he was on the precipice of revealing more of himself to Harry than he had when he’d removed his clothing to swim.  This was more than deepening their understanding of each other from when their lives had overlapped.  This was sharing something new, and that was potentially fraught. 

“The crew of the ship I traveled on to do my research.  The Esperanza goes on months-long voyages to places that are difficult to reach any other way, even by broom.  The crew collect and barter for all kinds of things, but mostly rare potions ingredients.  They often stay for at least a few weeks at major trading stops along their route, and it’s at these places that I take notes, experiment, and then try to make sense of it all.”

“Sounds interesting,” Harry said, and Draco could tell that he meant it.  “You’re close with them, then?”

“I’ve traveled with them for the last seven years.  I knew the captain, Séneca, by reputation and very brief acquaintance before he agreed to let me sail with them.”  Draco was suddenly grateful for the coolness of the water, as he could feel a blush rising from his chest and that was something he did not want to share with Harry.  He hadn’t been in the position of talking to a current sexual partner about a previous one since…probably ever. 

Ironically, it was not Harry that he had to worry most about in that moment, as the sound of a throat clearing caught both their attention.

Draco looked up in horror to see none other than Hermione Granger standing at the edge of the pond, both hands clasped tightly around the handles of the enormous tote bag slung over her shoulder, staring at the two of them swimming in nothing but their briefs.

Granger raised an eyebrow.  “Am I interrupting something?”

Chapter 16

Draco’s first impulse was to Obliviate Granger right on the spot, and only two things really stopped him.  First, that his wand was in his satchel on dry land, far out of his immediate reach.  And second, that he was quite certain that Harry wouldn’t appreciate having the memory of one of his oldest friends altered right in front of him. 

But even as he fought to maintain a cool, blank expression, his heart was racing just as fast as his mind, wondering how long Granger had been standing there, if there was any way to pass this off as anything but what it was.  As much as he knew Harry would disapprove of casting a Memory charm on Granger, he was equally sure that Granger would object just as strongly to a former Death Eater shagging her best friend, who happened to be the savior of the wizarding world in the U.K. at the very least.

When Granger’s assessing dark eyes fell to the fresh mark on Draco’s shoulder, however, he knew that there was no chance of hiding this even if she hadn’t been witness to what he and Harry had been doing, not truly.  Granger was too clever not to draw the painfully obvious conclusion, though Draco had no idea what she might be thinking about it.  Her face was as calm and neutral as the countenance he was struggling to put forth.

“Just fancied a swim,” Harry said airily, filling the long silence that had dropped after Granger’s sudden appearance.

“Is that so?”  Granger narrowed her eyes.

“That’s so.  And if you don’t want to get an eyeful, Hermione, you might want to turn around while we get out.”

Granger did so with a huff, even going so far as to stamp her foot lightly against the squelching, saturated ground.  “It is October, why on earth would you want to go swimming at this time of year?”

Harry tried to catch Draco’s eye at that, pressing his lips together to keep from laughing, but Draco couldn’t even give him a half-hearted smile in return.  There was very little about this situation that he found amusing, and his stomach churned anxiously as he followed Harry out of the water, fumbling in the satchel for his wand so that he could dry himself before redressing. 

A faint frown line appeared between Harry’s brows, and he looked away, focusing on sluicing the water from his body with a casual wave of his hand before tugging on his jeans. 

“What are you doing here, Hermione?”  Harry asked, his tone only faintly cross. 

“I’m here to talk about the Manor, obviously,” Granger said, still with her back to them.  “I looked for you both in the kitchen, but –”

“Hermione, tell me you didn’t go poking around the Manor by yourself,” Harry snapped, real exasperation and concern apparent in the way he threw on his shirt and stomped around so that he could face her, the mud at the edge of the pond coating his bare feet.

“Of course not,” Granger said, affronted.  There was a short pause.  “I did want to take a quick look at the service passages that Pipsy was able to open –”

“Hermione.”  Harry’s expression was as dark as a thundercloud.  “You know what a risk that was, we haven’t ventured into even half the Manor –”

“Obviously, I was and am perfectly fine,” Granger said, interrupting him.  “And I’ll thank you to remember that I’m fully capable of taking care of myself.  Also, did you know that there are pine needles in your hair?”

Harry’s eyes drifted upwards, as though asking for patience, though he did run a hand through his hair and seemed disgruntled when it emerged with a few stray pine needles.

“You smell like pond,” Granger said with a disgusted sniff.  She glanced behind her, where Draco was quietly standing fully dressed.  “Likely you both do.”

“This way, then,” Draco said, proud of the utterly neutral tone he was able to strike.  He avoided Harry’s gaze as he turned around, heading for his tent and hearing two sets of squelching footsteps following.  Grito cawed at them, dropping from his perch in the tree to glide along beside them. 

Granger paused at the boundary of the wards around the tent, and Draco stifled his annoyance at the delay.  Whatever her true reaction was to discovering that there was slightly more going on between himself and Harry than working to clear the Manor, he wanted to confront it and be done with it.  Perhaps he could convince her to keep it to herself, for Harry’s sake, if not his.

“This is good work,” Granger said, sweeping her gaze around the ward circle.

“Better for wards to be too strong than not strong enough,” Draco said evenly, holding the tent flap open.  “You only need to be surprised by the Yacumama once.  If you survive, the lesson sticks.”

Granger was clearly bursting to ask, but she held her tongue for the moment as she ducked into the tent, with Harry close behind her.  Harry gave Draco a searching look, brushing a hand briefly against his hip, then followed Granger inside.

Draco took a deep breath before joining them, feeling the beginnings of a headache take hold.  This was the tangle he’d implicitly accepted as a consequence of indulging his selfishness.  He should have planned for this eventuality, or avoided it entirely by keeping it to that single night.  The problem with that, of course, was the aforementioned selfishness. 

Harry and Granger were murmuring quietly to each other in the small living area just beyond the kitchen.  Granger was holding the desert tortoise carapace, and Draco pressed his lips together tightly to keep himself from barking an order for her to put it back in its proper place on the side table.  She wasn’t going to hurt it, but still.  It was rather rude to come into someone’s home and start rifling through their things.

They both looked up when he drew near, falling silent, and for a moment he could have sworn they were all back at Hogwarts.  The scene was so juvenile. 

“Sorry, did you want me to dally a bit more outside?”  Draco asked, unable to keep the bite of sarcasm out of his words.

“No, of course not,” Granger said, her cheeks faintly flushed.  She glanced at Harry.  “You should get cleaned up.”

“’Mione –”  Harry looked slightly worried.

“It’s fine, Potter,” Draco said, not looking away from Granger’s gaze.  “You know where the shower is.” 

There wasn’t really any point in pretending he didn’t, after all.  Harry’s lips thinned, clearly unhappy with the situation but unwilling to upset the delicate balance of the tension in the room. 

“Won’t be but a few minutes,” Harry said, narrowing his eyes at Granger before giving Draco what was probably meant to be a reassuring glance.  He disappeared behind the first door on the right of what could barely be called a hallway. 

Draco sighed, waving his wand at the kettle to get some water boiling, and opening the cupboard.  “Tea?”

“I – yes, thanks,” Granger said, finally setting the tortoise carapace gently back down on the side table.  She looked around, taking in the wall hangings and brightly colored blankets strewn over the sparse furniture, then ventured closer to the table, stacked with piles of notes that Draco had been forced to set aside in order to focus on the Manor work.

Granger jumped slightly when Draco set a teacup in front of her.  He didn’t ask her to sit, but took the chair at the opposite end of the table.  His mother would have been mortified at his rudeness, but he wasn’t going to be the one to speak first.  Still, there was an uneasy knot of anticipation in his chest, and he wished that she would just say what she had to say.

Reluctantly pulling her fingers away from the heap of scrawled observations of remarkable happenings far across the world, Granger set her oversized tote bag on the floor and finally sat, lifting the teacup to her lips and taking a long sip. 

Draco waited her out.  Granger had never been one to not have her words at the ready, and he wondered at what this reluctance might signify. 

“If you don’t end it now, then it’s only a matter of time before more people find out,” Granger said, her gaze steely as she met Draco’s eyes.  “Our time at school notwithstanding, I’m assuming that you don’t actually want Harry’s love life splashed across the front page of the Daily Prophet or dissected at length in Witch Weekly.  Again.”

Memories of their fourth year and whispered conversations between himself, Rita Skeeter in her unregistered Animagus form, and other Slytherins happy to make trouble for the Golden Trio shuffled themselves to the top of Draco’s mind, as though there were an orderly mental index of every wrong he’d done alphabetized by surname of the person who had been harmed.  With the recollection came the familiar feeling of the insurmountable weight of the past, and the futility of remaining here where it would always be a millstone around his neck.

And it was telling that Granger alluded to Harry’s reputation as a deterrent without mentioning his own.  The implication being, of course, that there was nothing of Draco’s reputation that was worth trying to preserve.  Which was the truth, at least in England, with this name.  Indeed, being publicly associated with Harry could hardly make it worse.

“I don’t want that,” Draco said, his hands tightening around his own teacup. 

“It’s more than just the Prophet, even though they’re always eager to stir up a story when it involves Harry, since they don’t seem to think he deserves his privacy.”  Granger scowled, lightly drumming her fingers on the table.  “It’s his career.  He’s next in line to head up the Auror office, and something like this getting out could ruin that for him.”

That was a little more difficult to accept.  Not the idea that Robards would use whatever means he could to spoil Harry’s candidacy for the job – it was all too clear that the man was already working toward that end.  It was the premise that succession for the position was all but guaranteed.

“And Potter wants to be Head Auror?”  Draco asked, taking a sip of his tea.

Granger looked up, a surprised look on her face.  “Of course he does.  He was one of the best Aurors in the field, even with the scrutiny he was under because of who he is and what he did to end the war.  The DMLE needs him, badly, and there’s no one who could do the job better.”

All of that was likely true, Draco thought, and yet none of it actually meant that Harry wanted it.  He was surprised that Granger didn’t seem to realize that nothing she’d said had really described Harry’s feelings in the here and now.  But perhaps he’d got it wrong.  It wasn’t as though Harry had confided in him, or even said much about his time as an Auror.  They weren’t…they weren’t that for each other, not confidants, not partners.  They’d shagged less than a handful of times, had only been working closely together for a little over a month.  It would be the height of arrogance for Draco to assume that he knew better than Harry’s best friends what he really wanted.

But arrogance came naturally to him, in fact some might call it one of his core personality traits.  So Draco couldn’t quite make himself believe that Granger was correct in her assessment here.

“So you’ll end it?”  Granger asked, when he didn’t reply.  “You have to see that I’m right.  It would be ‘newsworthy’ because it’s you.  And I don’t think you’re the kind of person anymore who would do this to hurt him deliberately.”

As far as backhanded compliments went, that one had a decent amount of sting to it.  Granger wasn’t doing anything but confirming what he already knew.  He knew that it couldn’t last, that the longer they carried on the more dire the consequences for each of them.  But he somehow couldn’t bring himself to consider the idea of being the one to put a stop to it.  The very thought made him want to curl around an ache that he’d lived with for years, but that had somehow become sharper and more acute now that he knew what he would be giving up.

This was already a mess, and had the potential to be an absolute disaster.

Granger was watching him, her expression shifting from protective resolve to something softer and somehow more troubled.  And no, Draco did not want Granger’s keen mind wandering down any road that would make him any kind of object of pity, and especially not if any such speculation would somehow make its way back to Harry.

“You don’t seem surprised,” Draco said, wanting to fill the silence but unable to give her the answer he knew she wanted.

“I am, but I’m also not.”  Granger huffed something that was barely a laugh.  “You two couldn’t leave each other alone at school, either.”

Draco couldn’t disagree with that, but he was grateful for Harry’s sudden appearance, black hair wet and dripping onto his T-shirt, which meant he didn’t have to come up with a response.  Instead, he abandoned his tea and got to his feet, heading towards the shower.  He avoided Harry’s gaze as he slid past him, willing himself not to listen when he heard quiet voices resume a hushed conversation.

He made a decision as he gathered his things for a wash-up, casting his ermine Patronus and sending it bobbling through the wall of the tent with a message.  He wouldn’t get a response, he knew, but that hardly mattered.  He needed to be elsewhere tonight, with or without company.

His time in the shower was quick and perfunctory, though he at least took the time to dry himself completely with towel and magic rather than drip all over the floor as Harry apparently preferred.  He shuddered to think of what that Gryffindor dorm room had been like when it had contained not only Harry, but Ron, Dean Thomas, and Seamus Finnigan as well.  His own had been horrifying enough, and he and Blaise had been relative paragons of cleanliness when compared to Vince and Greg.

Throwing on his dark green jumper and some soft gray wool trousers, Draco padded back into the kitchen.  This time, Harry and Granger had clearly finished their discussion, as Granger had her nose embedded in a book she’d brought with her, pointedly silent, while Harry was scowling his tea into stirring itself as he added more than the usual three lumps. 

“You said you had Manor business to discuss?”  The sound of Draco’s voice made both of them jump slightly.

“Er, yes,” Granger said, ducking down to dig through her tote bag.  Her arm disappeared quite a way inside it before she straightened, pulling out her copy of the map Draco had drawn of Malfoy Manor.  “I know that you and Harry made some progress on the main hallway today, but I had a thought about a way we could potentially bypass the rest of the house entirely in order to access the cellars directly.”

Draco blinked, taken aback by the very idea and feeling his stomach clench with dread.  “Go on.”

“Well, the Hurling Hex that we neutralized in the hallway just off the kitchen pulled up the floor, exposing the limestone,” Granger said, pointing at the area on the map.  “And while these aren’t drawn exactly to scale, I believe that the service hallway is just west of the cellars.  So in theory, we could excavate the hallway and make our own entrance.  The cellars were made the same way, weren’t they?  By carving them out of the limestone and then building the Manor on top?”

“I’m not certain about how such activity would interact with the protective enchantments laid on the place,” Draco said, frowning down at the map and doing his best to give the idea due consideration.  “I would assume that the cellars are included in those enchantments, but honestly I don’t exactly know their configuration.”

“Either way, it would be delicate work,” Harry observed, slurping his overly sweet tea.  “But how would you propose it be done?  It would mean bringing in additional people, as I sure as hell don’t have the expertise to do stable, precise excavation.”  He glanced up at Draco.  “Unless that’s something that you’ve picked up?”

“No, I’m afraid not,” Draco murmured. 

“I was thinking that we could reach out to the goblins,” Granger ventured.  “They certainly have the skills.”

“I seriously doubt any goblins will come to Malfoy Manor,” Draco said.

Harry looked up at him, a grim expression on his face.  “I think you’re probably right about that.”

“Why?”  Granger asked, glancing between them.

“Because Voldemort slaughtered about a dozen of them right here,” Harry said, a muscle twitching in his cheek.  “Including Griphook.” 

Granger gasped, a sharp intake of breath punctuating the stricken look she directed at Harry.  “That was here?”

“How did you know?”  Draco asked.  “Was there…were the bodies still…”

Harry shook his head, then tapped a finger to the lightning bolt scar on his forehead.  “I saw it while it was happening.”

Draco stared at him, horror and disgust welling up within.  He had, of course, reviewed all of the publicly available materials that the Ministry had released after the year of trials had concluded, the facts and evidence that they felt were proper to share with the wizarding world at large.  Some of the information had been redacted, naturally, as there was a balance to be struck between transparency and essentially giving means and methods to anyone sufficiently motivated to follow in the Dark Lord’s footsteps.  But there had been mention of Voldemort’s Horcrux strategy, and that Harry’s status as one of them meant that there was some sort of unprecedented magical connection between them.  But it was one thing to read it and quite another to understand what that meant for Harry personally.

He wanted to reach over and squeeze Harry’s hand, wanted to reassure himself that Harry was here, alive and well and no longer beholden to visions of terrible deeds.  But he remembered Harry’s nightmares, remembered the way he trembled and writhed in troubled sleep.  There might not be an active connection anymore, but perhaps those memories were still more present than they ought to be.

“Aside from the willingness of the goblins to help,” Draco said, clenching his hands into fists to reduce the temptation to touch Harry, especially in front of Granger.  “There is the question of what they – and we – would be facing once the cellars are breached.” 

Granger’s sharp brown eyes focused intently on him.  “And what can you tell us about that?”

The now-familiar feeling of his throat constricting even as his stomach roiled, threatening to disgorge the tea he’d managed to drink earlier, prevented Draco from saying anything.  Which was exactly what had been intended, when he’d received the Mark at the tender age of sixteen.

“Hermione,” Harry said warningly, his large hands gripping the edge of the table.

“I see it, Harry.  You were right,” Granger said, drawing her wand.  “Revelio!”

Pain bloomed above Draco’s eye, sharp enough to make him list to the side, fumbling blindly for the back of the chair so that he could brace himself.  But Harry was already there, gripping his elbow and holding him steady, letting Draco rest some of his weight against his side. 

The pain was gone as abruptly as it had started, and through the fog of it Draco realized that his earring had given him no warning at all – which meant that Granger had not intended him any harm.  His headache was worse now, and he’d have to take something for it before he left the estate this evening.  But Granger seemed to have found what she was looking for, judging by the grimly satisfied expression on her face.

“A binding magical contract,” she said.  “No, don’t try to say anything.  Without knowing the parameters I don’t want to put you in the position of having to suffer the effects of coming close to breaking it.”

Draco swallowed carefully, minding his sore throat and squinting slightly against the brightness of the room.  Harry was still pressed up against him, his hand on his elbow, and he didn’t want to move away just yet.  But there might be something he could do to at least give Granger a little more information, ideally as painlessly as possible.

So he gave Granger a meaningful look and tapped his left forearm twice.  His throat mercifully stayed open, though he didn’t want to push it.  He was not at all interested in testing the limits of what he could or could not say or do.

She took his meaning immediately, sucking in a breath.  “Well, then.  I suppose I have some research to do.”

Draco wished her luck, though he didn’t voice it.  “I’ll do some research as well.  There may be some information in my father’s study that could prove useful, if the goblins do become involved and we end up digging into the cellars.”

“Not alone,” Harry said firmly, his hand tightening on Draco’s elbow.

“Not alone,” Draco agreed, gently pulling away.  He missed the warmth of Harry’s body almost immediately.  “But also not tonight.  I have plans.”

“You – what?”  Harry scowled.  “With who?”

Draco gave him a cold look, the proprietary edge in Harry’s tone causing him to bristle instinctively.  “I do know people outside of you and Granger, Potter.  And it’s none of your business.”

Harry snapped his mouth shut, his brows drawing together in a slightly hurt expression before he smoothed it away.  “You’re right.  It’s not.”

Granger looked between them, her mouth pinched at the corner in an expression Draco couldn’t quite decipher.  “I’d better be going anyway.  I have to Portkey back to the office for a few things, and I’ll be late for dinner as it is.”

“What’s Ron cooking?”  Harry asked.  “Maybe I’ll join you.”

“At your own risk,” Granger said with a laugh.  “No, he’s actually a very good cook.  He learned a lot from Molly after Rosie was born, since he was staying home with her.  And then with Hugo, when he came along.  I think he’s doing a roast with Yorkshire puddings.”

“Until tomorrow, then,” Draco said, feeling the distance between this description of homely domesticity and his own rather nomadic existence.  Just one more kind of separation, yet another reason why there was no point in thinking in the long term. 

“Yes, er.”  Granger shoved the book that she’d been reading back into her tote bag and started to fold up the map of the Manor.  “Before I go…”

Draco waited, feeling Harry’s eyes on him but resolutely refusing to acknowledge him.  The silence stretched, Granger worrying her lower lip as though uncertain about what she was going to say.

“Out with it, Granger.”

She rolled her eyes.  “Yes, all right.  I just wanted to say…”  She let out a frustrated breath.  “I think the Ministry – we – approached you all wrong for this.  It needs to be done, and we need the lord of the Manor to do it.  But we made some assumptions, and…  I’m sorry for my part in it.  I wish it had happened differently.”

Draco blinked, caught completely off guard. 

“And you can call me Hermione, you know, I have a first name and you might as well use it,” she said primly, hoisting her tote bag to her shoulder.  “I’ll be in touch.”

“And I’ll leave you to your plans,” Harry said, giving Draco a lingering look but following Hermione out of the tent all the same. 

A moment of misgiving froze Draco where he stood, caught up in second-guessing himself.  He hadn’t liked either Harry’s incredulity or his presumption at learning that Draco was planning to do something that didn’t involve him.  He would never tolerate being commanded by anyone, not ever again.  Not even his mother had issued him any directives or ultimatums after the end of the second war.  And while he sailed with the Esperanza and had a deep respect for Séneca, he was not part of the crew and therefore would never consider himself bound by any of his orders. 

Perhaps he had overreacted, but it was no longer in his nature to accept any controlling impulses directed at him, and especially not from anyone he happened to be fucking.  But he also did not want Harry to be suspicious of him – he wanted, absurdly, for Harry to trust him.  To not need to know where he was going or who he was seeing. 

He broke free of his self-imposed immobility and finished getting ready, trying to keep his foul mood at bay.  He needed this.  He needed some time and space and new faces, and he wasn’t going to get them at the estate.

Grito followed him to the gates but not beyond, perching on the irritable wrought iron and cawing after him as he walked briskly down the road towards the village.  The setting sun lit up the scant clouds in shades of brilliant pink and orange, and he let himself breathe, relaxing bit by bit as he went.

The Nettlecross Arms wasn’t the busiest he’d seen it in the last month or so, but there were still a decent number of Muggles at the bar and seated at the tables when he walked in.  He felt easier in the environment than his first time here with Harry, especially as he’d ordered and received a Permutatius Pouch.  It had been expensive but necessary, as it converted the Galleons, Sickles, and Knuts within to the currency indicated on the decorative dial attached to the front of the pouch.  Just now the small arrow was pointing at the £ sign, which should be sufficient for any food or drink he wanted to purchase.  He’d misplaced the small card which explained which symbol represented which country’s currency, but it couldn’t be too complicated if Muggles could handle cash every day.

“What’ll it be, love?”  Asked the cheerful red-faced woman behind the counter. 

“Pork pie, please,” Draco said.  The buttery, yeasty scent of ale hit his nose, and his stomach lurched unpleasantly.  He didn’t remember it tasting as sour as it smelled.  “And a lemonade.”

“Give us two shakes and we’ll bring –”  The woman’s eyes widened comically as she looked up, past Draco’s shoulder as two enormous, muscular arms wrapped around him from behind.

“Dickhead,” growled a deep voice.

“Get off me, you big numpty.”  Draco gave a hard pinch to the skin of one of the massive forearms squeezing his chest, and was rewarded with a yelp.  The arms loosened and he was able to turn around, looking up into the face of one of his oldest friends.

“Greg, you’re looking – oof!”

This time Draco was lifted off his feet, and he could barely move his arms to pat Greg’s side ineffectually.

“Hey up, good to finally see you.  Was pleased as anything to get your – ah – your message,” Greg said, dropping Draco to his feet and glancing sidelong at the Muggle woman who was staring at him with her mouth hanging open.

“He’s a big ‘un, innee?”  She said, shaking her head when she realized she was being a bit rude.  “Can I get you anything, dearie?  Big lad like you needs a bit of fuel to keep goin’.”

Greg chuckled.  “I’ll have what he’s havin’, only times three.”

“Three pork pies and three lemonades?”

“Tch.  Yes to the pies, but let’s switch the bevvy up for an ale or three, can we, love?”  Greg winked at the woman, whose face grew impossibly redder.

“Sure thing, duck.  Should only be a few.” 

Draco carefully counted out the strange Muggle paper money from his new pouch to pay for everything.  He rolled his eyes slightly as he turned away and jerked his head towards an empty table.  “You on the pull tonight or are you here to drink with me?”

“Could be a bit of both if I play my cards right,” Greg said, grinning.  He sank down into one of the chairs, which seemed entirely too small for a man of his bulk, and winced a little.  “Besides, you’re not even drinking.”

“They don’t have anything I want,” Draco said, not missing the brief flash of pain on his friend’s face.  “Your back still troubling you?”

“A bit,” Greg admitted.  “Should probably go and see a Healer about it.”  He leaned backwards, stretching his spine over the back of the chair, and there were a few loud pops.  “Much better.  Now, tell me about what’s going on with you and Potter.”

Draco’s gaze snapped up to meet Greg’s eyes, which were blue-gray and knowing.  “Who says anything’s going on?”

Greg tilted his head to the side, the corner of his mouth quirking up. 

“Ugh, fine,” Draco groaned, and dropped his head dramatically on his forearms where they rested on the table.  “But this is strictly between us, you understand?”

“Sure.”

It was amazing, really, how they could pick up where they left off.  And it wasn’t as though Draco was free with the details.  Greg didn’t need or want to know any of those.  But he was well used to hearing Draco complain about Harry Potter, he’d done it for all seven years of school together.

Most people thought that Gregory Goyle was slow and stupid, and to be fair, Draco had believed that himself for much of their early friendship.  It was true that Greg wasn’t academically gifted – his O.W.L. scores were barely passing, with mostly Acceptables and a few Poors.  But because others didn’t think much of his intelligence, they happened to say a lot of things in his hearing, often forgetting that he was there or assuming he wouldn’t understand their significance.  And Greg had a good memory for tidbits like that, which made him an excellent and reliable part of Narcissa’s information gathering network.  Greg was ideally positioned in that respect – he had the background to belong in places where news about Death Eaters might be spoken aloud, and enough minor brushes with magical law enforcement to hear what they had to say as well.

Narcissa’s inheritance from her father Cygnus Black was relatively small when compared to the vast Malfoy family wealth, but it had been enough for her to buy the house in Nice and keep her informants well in pocket for years now.  Greg appreciated the money, as he was mostly a driver and sometimes picked up a few odd jobs here and there. 

And he was just as fierce about the cause.  He’d been different ever since they’d seen Vince consumed by the very Fiendfyre he’d conjured and ultimately failed to control, and Draco knew that he blamed Crabbe Senior and all the other Death Eaters for the death of his best friend.  Vince had been pushed and molded and shaped to become what he was at seventeen, and had not been lucky enough to have a chance to forge his own path the way they had.

Food and drink was brought and eaten, though neither of them engaged in the Muggle woman’s hopeful attempts at starting more friendly conversation with Greg.  Draco was hungry enough to finish his entire pie, and Greg of course had no problem packing away the three that he’d ordered.  He downed three ales too, without even blinking. 

“So Granger thinks you ought to call it quits, then?”  Greg said, wiping a bit of foam away from his upper lip.

“Potter’s all tangled up in DMLE politics, and…well.  He’s still a favorite of the vultures working for the newspapers.  Also, almost everyone that he calls family despises me.”  Draco focused on tracing the grain pattern of the wooden table top with his fingers. 

“Mmhmm.  And what do you want?”

“What I want doesn’t matter.”

Greg sighed heavily, then leaned forward and flicked Draco’s forehead.

“Ouch!”  Draco jerked back and rubbed away the sting, shooting a glare at his friend.

“You could do worse than Potter.  He’s a decent bloke.  And he damn well could do worse than you.”

“Since when do you think Potter’s a decent bloke?”  Draco asked, trying for lighthearted but knowing that he fell far short.

“Since he pulled me and you out of the fire,” Greg said.  “Since he testified for you, which kept you from going back to Azkaban and wasting away like your dad did.”

The plain and simple honesty of Greg’s response made Draco’s eyes sting.  “Yeah.  He did do that.”

“He did it because he owes you, too,” Greg continued, a firm edge to his voice intended to make Draco pay attention to what he was saying.  “It would have all been over well before Hogwarts if it wasn’t for you.”

“That,” Draco said, again unable to meet Greg’s sincere gaze.  “Was the absolute least I could have done.”

“It likely made all the difference.  You know that.  I know that.  He knows it, too.”

“Salazar, enough of this,” Draco said, swiping a hand over his face.  “What happened with you and Millie?”

This time it was Greg who dropped his eyes.  The big man shrugged one shoulder.  “She met someone else.”

“Oh, Greg.”  Draco reached out a hand and placed it on Greg’s, the contrast between their relative sizes made absurd with the contact.  “I’m sorry.”

“It is what it is.  As long as she’s happy.  If she wasn’t with me, then…”  Greg shrugged again.

“Fuck that,” Draco snapped, and Greg looked up at him, startled.  “If she couldn’t see what she had right in front of her then that’s her mistake.  You deserve better than that.”

Greg’s lips twitched up into a small smile, and he shook his head slightly.  “You could be right.”

“I know I am,” Draco said, with every bit of confidence he wanted Greg to take from their conversation. 

The two of them ended up closing out the pub, being shooed out by the staff as they started their end of night cleaning.  Greg thanked Draco for the meal and the company, as well as the tip about driving his lorry to the village instead of trying to Apparate.  They shared a brief bone-crushing (in Draco’s case) hug before saying goodnight, and Draco started walking.

There was plenty of moonlight to light his way, though the night air was chillier than he’d expected it to be.  He wrapped his arms around himself, wishing that he’d dug out his coat instead of just wearing the jumper.  He did feel better after talking to Greg.  It had been a very long time since they’d spent an evening like that, and it was exactly what he had needed.

There was a slight flicker, as though a shadow had passed over him, and Draco’s senses prickled as he looked up at the sky.  He couldn’t see anything, but…

There.

Another shadow streaked across the sky, briefly blotting out the moon, and the hair raised on the back of his neck, his skin prickling with fear.  He reached into his satchel and drew his wand, then felt the tell-tale wave of despondence and soul-crushing emptiness where every positive emotion should be.

A dark shape materialized on the road in front of him, and the faintest flickers of changing light on his left told him that he was dealing with more than just the Dementor in front of him.  The buzzing in his right ear confirmed it, and he raised his wand.

To his surprise, the memory that came closest to hand was the thought of Harry, sitting on the floor across from him, with a chessboard and a plate of half-eaten sandwiches between them.  It was the way the firelight lit up the paler greens in his eyes, the way the dimples in his cheeks deepened when he laughed.  It was the heat of his hands and the coziness of an evening spent in the company of family.

“Expecto patronum!”

Draco’s ermine burst into being from the silvery magic of the spell, shining more brightly than he’d ever seen it.  The Dementors seemed surprised by that as well, gliding back in some semblance of alarm as the tiny but powerful creature danced its war dance, bouncing threateningly before charging at the creature in front. 

And Draco followed, running after his ermine Patronus as though his life depended on it – which it very well might.  He hadn’t been too far from the gates when the Dementors had revealed themselves, and he passed through the smoke so quickly that they took a little longer to re-form behind him.  He could hear the hissing, shrill sound of the air as the Dark creatures passed through it in their pursuit of him, but he stayed as close as he could to the Patronus, pushing more power into it as they ran.

He fell to his knees when he passed the boundary of the wards, feeling the Dementors’ progress halt abruptly as they came up against the barrier.  He snarled at them, unable to form words as he caught his breath.  His lungs felt like they were on fire, but he gestured sharply with his wand to direct the blindingly white ermine to drive them away. 

And it worked, the strength of the Patronus charm reflecting the power of the memory he’d used to cast it.  He knew, though, that relief would be temporary. 

The Dementors were back, if they’d ever truly left.

Chapter 17

Dawn was nothing more than a hint of grey in the east when Draco made his way into the Manor.  Not even the ravens were awake at this hour, and the estate was cold and quiet, a faint mist hanging over the grounds waiting to be burned away by the rising autumn sun. 

A night of no sleep due to the need to keep a watchful eye out for the Dementors meant taking a hefty dose of Invigoration Draught, and for some reason he was feeling the ache of fatigue particularly keenly, in his body if not his mind.  Perhaps that was partially due to the slight sense of guilt he felt for not waiting for Harry to arrive before heading to his father’s study. 

But there were some things that he needed to say to his father’s portrait which required privacy.

His footsteps echoed through the eerie silence of the Manor as he walked, tracing the safe paths they’d managed to establish.  He was risking enough just by being inside the place alone.  He had no intention of trying to win new ground.

The door that led from the service passageway into the study was heavy because it was disguised with a built-in bookcase, matching the shelves that lined most of the wall space.  The only exceptions were the large window which overlooked a section of the hedge maze and the blank space behind the large black walnut desk.  It was there that the portrait of the preceding lord of the Manor was placed, looking over the shoulder of the current one if they happened to be seated at the desk. 

For the moment, Draco ignored the way his father’s image shifted in surprise at his sudden and unexpected arrival.  Instead he waved his wand at the wall sconces, giving them light so as to brighten the room.  He then made his way behind the desk and started to pull open the drawers, some of which were locked.  Touching his father’s ring to the locks solved that issue, and Draco removed the contents if they appeared to be safe enough to handle.  Mostly it was documents of various types, and he avoided touching things that he suspected might be Dark artefacts.  Lucius had been an avid collector, discreetly patronizing the estates of down-on-their-luck Pureblood families to exchange a much-needed infusion of gold for things which were rare, aesthetically interesting, and of deadly provenance.

The slightly off sounds of impatient shuffling behind him filled Draco with a sense of petty satisfaction.  It might have been silly and spiteful to annoy his father’s portrait into being the one to open the conversation, but Lucius had always prided himself on being able to control these small components of interaction in order to put the other party off their game and maintain the upper hand at all times.  His ability to do so with witches and wizards who were too cowed by his reputation or too eager to ingratiate themselves in the hope of getting a piece of the Malfoy fortune had deluded him into thinking that he could hold his own with Voldemort – a Voldemort who, after returning to corporeality, was even less human than he’d been prior to his first defeat.  A delusion which had cost him dearly.

“Not even a greeting, then?  You’re just going to rummage through my things without so much as a ‘Good morning, Father’?  We raised you better than that, Draco.”

Draco didn’t respond immediately, instead taking the time to feel under the drawer he was searching in case his father had used a Sticking charm to hide something on the bottom of it.  No joy there.  So he slowly straightened, taking a deep but subtle breath before turning around to meet the eyes of his father’s likeness.  Lucius appeared as he had in his prime as Draco had known him, before his first brief stint in Azkaban had dulled him into a sickly, fearful man desperate to keep his family alive.  The haughty expression was familiar, as was the long, glossy white-blonde hair draped just so over his shoulders.

“These aren’t your things anymore,” Draco informed him.  “In fact, they’re not even mine.  As you are well aware, the Manor and everything in it belongs to the Ministry, along with the family vault at Gringotts.  To address your other point, Mother raised me to do what is necessary.  And the sense to recognize true necessity – that I earned for myself.  What you raised me to be was nothing more than a copy of yourself, and I can happily say that I’ve turned out to be a profound disappointment on that front.”

There was that sneer, the refined curl of the upper lip paired with the hard glint in those silver-gray eyes. 

“The Ministry tries to claim something to which it has no right, and you used to have some semblance of the respect that was due to your elders.”

“I used to admire you enough to want your approval.”  Draco crossed his arms and leaned against the desk, the sharp ache behind his breastbone giving the lie to his nonchalant stance.  “Things change.”

“Clearly.  Then enlighten me, son.  If the Ministry has taken possession of our wealth and estate, then what is it that you are doing here?  How did you come to be the lord of the Manor?  For you must be, if I’m here.”

“I’m here because of the monster you invited into our home, and what he left behind,” Draco said.  “I’m here because the Manor is a twisted labyrinth of Dark magic, and the only way to even begin to untangle it is to humor its insistence that the role of ‘lord’ be fulfilled by the last remaining Malfoy by blood.  I’m here to fix what I can of your numerous and massive errors in judgment, to put things as charitably as I can.”

Lucius’s face had by then flushed red with anger, a strange effect when it was conveyed through fine brush strokes and pigment instead of skin and blood vessels.  “Do you not mourn me at all, boy?”

“Mourn.”  Draco chuckled grimly.  “What a question.  You are not my father, you are merely a pale imitation of him.  And my feelings about him are far more complex than I suspect he was as a person for most of his life.  It’s much too tempting to take out any lingering frustrations I had with him on you, though I think that might be something he could have appreciated, seeing as you are powerless and incapable of feeling pain.”

The portrait of his father stared at him in disbelief.  As well it should, since Draco had never spoken to his actual father this way, not even in letters.  It had been difficult to write to Lucius before he died.  Draco had tried, out of a sense of duty and to please his mother, but the flood of words that built up in his head seemed to stop right at the point where quill met parchment.  He supposed that he had always expected that there might be time for honesty over perfunctory platitudes when Lucius finished his ten-year sentence. 

But of course there hadn’t been.

Lucius had written to him, though.  And Draco still had every one of his letters.

“So, you have resigned yourself to doing the Ministry’s bidding?”  The sneer was back, but Draco recognized it as an attempt to command the conversation.  “I cannot believe that.  What have you done to work toward reclaiming what is rightfully ours?”

“Absolutely nothing,” Draco replied honestly.  “If I could shake the dust of this place from my feet today, I would, and there is not a single thing in existence that would entice me to come back.  The family fortune was the proper price and punishment to make some small start at repairing what our family helped to break.  I have no idea how the Ministry has chosen to use it towards that end, but I am not entitled to know.  It’s not mine.  The Manor has only gone unused because it’s too dangerous to inhabit.  I imagine that if I manage to succeed in clearing it, then it too will be utilized as the Ministry sees fit.”

“What.”  The fury and incredulity evident in Lucius’s voice made Draco flinch slightly.  “This place has stood as the bastion of the Malfoy family for over a thousand years, and you intend to just – let it go without a fight?  You are the last Malfoy by blood!”

Draco launched himself at the portrait, bracing himself with his hands on either side of the frame so that he was almost nose-to-painted-nose with the image of his father. 

“You are correct.  I am the last Malfoy by blood, and I intend to be the last Malfoy, the last Death Eater, the last of this miserable, power hungry Pureblood line ever to walk this earth.  There is no Malfoy legacy.  The end of it was something that you started, whatever your intentions, and I am determined to see it through.  When I die, everything that the Malfoys were and did will eventually fade into history and irrelevance.”

“Selfish, stupid boy,” Lucius whispered, narrowing his gaze, his face now bloodless with rage.  “If you expect me to help you at all in this endeavor to destroy a thousand years of tradition and strength –”

“Your help might speed the process along but it is not required,” Draco said coldly.  “I have access to everything here in the study and I’m reasonably intelligent, I think probably more so than many of my predecessors.  I don’t need you.”

“You think so?”  Lucius spat the words out contemptuously.  “Arrogant child.  You think that you can catch up on everything that makes you the lord of the Manor and the Malfoy heir after – what has it been, twenty years now?  This burden you have taken up will not be so easily escaped.”

Draco felt a chill roll down his spine at those words, though he endeavored not to show that he was at all bothered by them.  “You’re one to talk of arrogance.  Now, if you will excuse me, I’m looking for any records of the historical enchantments that have laid on the Manor.”

Lucius’s eyes flicked involuntarily towards a set of shelves to Draco’s right, and Draco suppressed a smirk.  He approached the shelves, running his gaze over them carefully.

“Even if you’re able to find what you’re looking for, Draco, I wish you luck in deciphering it.  Do you know when those books were written?”

“I would imagine, since you’ve mentioned it several times, that they were written about a thousand years ago.”  Draco crouched down and gingerly removed a thick book which had a battered black leather cover.  Embossed with fading gold leaf were the words L’estoire fedeil de maner Malfoie ed li enchauntements a dedeines.  The book was heavy in his hand, and it looked both promising and intimidating, as he knew that the title at least was not written in a modern dialect.

He glanced up at Lucius’s portrait.  “I’ll start with this, shall I?”

Without waiting for a response, he straightened to his full height, feeling his knees creak slightly, and made his way to the door which led to the service passage.

“Wait.”

Draco paused, his free hand resting on the bookcase that was attached to the door.  He looked back, raising one eyebrow inquiringly.

Lucius pressed his lips together tightly, his eyes darting around his former study before he reluctantly dragged them back to meet Draco’s gaze.  “When can I expect to see your mother?”

“You can’t,” Draco said bluntly.  “Did you not hear me describe the state of the Manor?  There are Death Eater traps and wild Dark magic everywhere.  I will not risk her safety or what peace she’s been able to make with your death just to see a caricature of her late husband.”

The look of raw anguish on his father’s face made Draco’s own heart ache, the backs of his eyes suddenly stinging with tears that he would never acknowledge.  He ducked into the service passage without another glance.

~ * ~

Draco didn’t look up when the tent flap opened, although he did grimace and hold his hand up to keep the sudden piercing beam of sunlight out of his good eye.  He kept his focus on the extensive notes that he was taking on the book that he’d removed from the study.  If he was working, he wasn’t thinking about his father or the facsimile of him hanging above the desk. 

And it was difficult work.  The majority of L’estoire had been written prior to the Muggle invention of the printing press, and the only reason it was in such good condition was because of magical preservation and the thestral leather in which it was bound.  The style of calligraphy in the first section was beautiful but nearly unreadable Merovingian, and the words themselves seemed to go back and forth between Latin and Old Normaund, sometimes mid-sentence.  The Latin could represent incantations, but while it had died as a spoken language somewhere around the eighth century it remained the written language of scholars for a good long while, regardless of whether they were witch, wizard, or Muggle.

It was maddening.

And fascinating.

He’d quickly filled two pages of his notebook with words he didn’t recognize, maintaining a third, neater page with phrases and references that he was more certain of.  He was taking care to pay special attention to the illuminations within and around the text, as he suspected that they might contain hidden runes. 

The sound of a throat loudly clearing itself distracted him momentarily from his work, and he glanced up briefly.  “Hello, Potter.”

“What are you reading, Malfoy?”  Harry asked suspiciously, leaning over his shoulder to look at his notes.  Draco didn’t bother trying to stop him.

“This – did you get this from the Manor?” 

“There’s tea,” Draco said absently, carefully turning a page.  “Or at least there was.”

“Malfoy.  Did you go into the Manor without me?  We agreed you wouldn’t –”

“I know,” Draco interrupted him with a weary sigh.  “It was necessary, and I was careful.”

“I assume you at least picked up something useful,” Harry grumbled, pouring himself some tea and reheating it with a flick of his fingers.  Steam rose from the cup almost immediately.  “Don’t do it again.”

Draco gently closed L’estoire and put it to the side.  “I’ll do whatever I choose, Potter.  But I’m not in the habit of taking unnecessary risks.  It likely won’t happen again.”

He got a slight roll of green eyes in response.  “What made it urgent enough that you couldn’t wait until I got here?”

The tea in Draco’s neglected cup was likely ice cold, so he touched the tip of his wand to the cup to fix that before taking a sip, debating with himself on how to answer.  He was accustomed to speaking in partial truths, on the principle that one’s available options were reduced the more one shared, and he resented the feeling of being trapped into a course of action instead of choosing it.  Every detail had its ideal moment, even those details which seemed inconsequential.  That was something his mother had taught him.

But he needed Harry.  It was impossible to finish the work at the Manor without him.  And Harry deserved to have information related to the dangers of the estate.

“Dementors again,” Draco said, and could see Harry’s body tense with apprehension.  “Outside of the estate this time, though they followed me through the gates.  They were…persistent.  As for the book, it came from the study, and I felt that my father’s portrait might be more forthcoming without you there.”  Which was more or less true.

Harry’s gaze was thoughtful, though there was still a slight downward turn of his mouth that meant he wasn’t quite over his pique at discovering that Draco had been inside the Manor on his own.  “Tell me.”

Draco recounted the events of the prior evening, assiduously avoiding any specifics about his conversation with Greg, though he did note that Harry’s posture seemed to relax slightly at finding out that he had been meeting with an old friend.  Strange. 

“And your father?”  Harry asked, after the incident with the Dementors had been exhausted.  “Did he tell you that this would help?”  He pointed a finger at the tome resting next to Draco’s notebook on the table.

“In a way,” Draco said.  “But I don’t think we can rely on straightforward assistance on that front.”

“No surprise there,” Harry snorted, then immediately looked abashed.  “Sorry.”

“It’s fine, Potter.  I’m well aware of my father’s failings, and no true portrait of him would behave any differently.”

“Still…was it…do you feel better after talking to him?”  Harry fiddled with the handle of his teacup, causing the remaining liquid inside to swish dangerously close to the lip.

“No, I can’t say that I do.”  Draco tilted his head slightly, examining the man sitting across from him, realization solidifying into certainty.  “You don’t have portraits of your parents.”

Harry’s mouth quirked up into something that resembled a smile but wasn’t.  “No.  Not of anyone, really.”

“They’re not real,” Draco said, giving in to the impulse to reach over and put his hand over Harry’s, stilling his fidgety movement.  “You know that they’re not real, don’t you?  Portraits don’t…sometimes they can bring you more pain than not, even when your feelings about person they represent are complicated.”

“I can see that being true if you could compare it to the personality you knew,” Harry said, a slightly wistful note in his tone.  “But I never had that.”

Draco thought he had grown used to the way he was often sharply reminded of how privileged his upbringing had been, but that usually had to do with money and status instead of the simple fact of having living parents.  It was unsurprising, therefore, that his mind helpfully recalled the many times he’d used Harry’s status as an orphan as a weapon against him, thoughtlessly throwing the lack of family in his face just to get any sort of attention from him, along with the reassuring validation that came from his fellow Slytherins. 

The silence stretched between them for a moment, during which Harry’s fingers somehow entwined themselves with Draco’s right there on the table, and that was alarming.  This was not the kind of touch that was consistent with something that was purely physical, that would run its course and leave them unaffected by the aftermath. 

“What did Hermione say to you yesterday?”  Harry asked, and that prodded Draco enough to withdraw his hand.

“Probably something similar to what she said to you,” Draco said.  “Nothing that a good and loyal friend of yours wouldn’t say.  You are, as always, too popular for your own good, and also that I am too notorious for your own good.  The combination of those things would jeopardize your career and your privacy.”

“Such as it is,” Harry said sourly, crossing his arms over his chest and staring moodily at nothing in particular. 

Unsure whether Harry was referring to his privacy, his career, or both, Draco allowed himself the time to think carefully about the questions to which he wanted answers.  Did he want answers for himself?  Was it simply to satisfy curiosity?  He didn’t indulge in telling himself that he was only interested insofar as it related to the work they were here to do, because that was a lie.  The problem with the ley lines was still emotionally abstract, the problem with the Manor uncomfortably proximal, and his antipathy toward the Ministry all too evident for him to pretend that the work was all that important to him.

“Have you accepted Shacklebolt’s offer to head up the Auror Office, then?”

Harry gave him a fleeting glance before fixing his gaze elsewhere.  “I have a good amount of experience under my belt, both as an Auror and as a curse breaker.  Not to mention everything that I did, you know, before.  Robards is…he’s not what he was in his prime.  And that’s a tall order to ask of anyone, to maintain a high level of leadership and control for as long as he’s done.  But it’s something that the office sorely needs.”

“Is that a yes?”  Draco pressed, well accustomed to conversational maneuvers intended to distract from the fact that the question went unanswered.  His mother was excellent at that tactic.

“I haven’t accepted it, all right?”  Harry said testily.  “Not yet.”

Draco nodded.  “Do you want to?”

“I’d be good at it.”

“Undoubtedly.  You are also, as far as I’ve been able to observe, an excellent curse breaker.  You were a good Quidditch player, too, and from what I’ve heard, a good teacher even when you yourself were still just a student.  We don’t only have to do things just because we’re good at them.”

“No, we do things because they’re needed,” Harry said, a bit of heat creeping into his tone.  “We do them because if we don’t, people could get hurt.  We do them to make things better.”

“But you don’t want to.”

“I never said that!”  Harry shoved his chair back and lurched to his feet, starting to pace the length of the tiny kitchen.

“Admitting it wouldn’t have to change your decision,” Draco said.  “If you truly believed that taking up a role that you don’t want would be for the best, then why not at least acknowledge that it’s not what you want?”

“Don’t assume that you know what it is that I want, Malfoy,” Harry said, shooting him a glare before turning away to pace in the other direction. 

“I’d simply be getting in on the trend,” Draco said, leaning back in his chair, affecting calm detachment.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means that I think everyone is accustomed to ‘knowing’ what you want.  It’s what Hermione was doing yesterday, wasn’t she?  Identifying me as an obstacle in the way of what she thinks must be your professional goal.”

“Hermione is one of my best friends,” Harry said stiffly, the tension in his shoulders visible even underneath the anorak. 

“Yes, and?  Does that mean that she can’t ever be mistaken?  It’s rare, I know, that she doesn’t know what she’s talking about –”

“I’m not going to listen to you insult her –”

“Potter,” Draco interrupted, raising his voice.  “There was no insult in anything I said, intended or otherwise.  If you weren’t being so defensive, you’d be able to see that.”

“I’m the best person for the job,” Harry said with conviction. 

“Very likely.”  Draco hesitated, then pressed on.  “But are you the only person for the job?”

Potter stopped abruptly, staring at him in something that was almost like astonishment.  “What do you mean?”

“It’s quite obvious what I mean,” Draco said, not hiding his irritation.  “Many would say that you are a remarkable person.  Heading up the Auror Office isn’t a remarkable position.  It is important.  Probably vital.  But the Office has been in existence in one form or another since the eighteenth century.  Is it so fragile that it will fall apart completely if it doesn’t have you, specifically?”

Harry gaped at him, and for a moment he looked so ridiculous that Draco wanted to laugh.

He didn’t.  Instead, he asked, “Why don’t you want this position, Potter?”

Harry was silent for so long, the seconds stretching uncomfortably into minutes, that Draco thought he wouldn’t answer.  He’d gone too far, overstepped the tenuous boundaries of this new affinity between them.  He started casting about for some kind of appropriate subject change, when Harry finally spoke.

“I stopped being an Auror for a reason.”  Harry’s voice was colder than its usual warm timbre, a detached sort of hollowness to it that Draco was unaccustomed to hearing from him.  “It – the problems I had with being an Auror wouldn’t change or go away just because I’d be in charge.”

“And Shacklebolt and Hermione, do they know about it?”  Draco very pointedly refrained from asking about the problems that Harry mentioned.  The way he was talking around it meant that it was too significant to inquire just from mere curiosity.

“Kind of.  Mostly.”  Harry ran a hand through his hair, leaving some of it sticking straight up and causing Draco to want to smooth it back down.  “They know the basics.”

“And if they knew more than the basics, do you think they would still want this for you, or expect that you would want it for yourself?”

Harry’s eyes were troubled, the turmoil in his gaze showing clearly.  “What I want doesn’t matter.”

Draco did laugh then, a bitter, fleeting chuckle at this echo of his conversation with Greg.  Harry didn’t seem to know why what he’d said merited such a response, a frown line appearing between his brows as he took an uncertain step back.

“Merlin knows that I am the last person who should be saying this to you,” Draco said, getting to his own feet.  “Given that we obviously see this from such different vantages.  But if you don’t take care to center your own wishes about what you do with your life, then the people around you are going to have a difficult time looking past what you mean as a figure –” here Draco gestured, encapsulating The Boy Who Lived with nothing more than an inadequate wave of the hand.  “– To who you are as a person.  No one is going to be able to do that for you, not even the ones who care about you the most.”  Draco smirked slightly.  “All that Chosen One stuff has messed with your head, Potter.  Being the Chosen One to defeat one of the greatest evils in a generation doesn’t mean you have to be the Chosen One of riding a desk.”

“I…”  Harry stopped, seemingly at a loss for words.

“You should do whatever you think best,” Draco said, taking a step towards him, wanting to put his arms around him and only just able to stop himself from doing so.  “But if this isn’t something you want…then I would appreciate not being your excuse.”

“What?”  Harry looked startled.

“Everything that Hermione said yesterday was correct.”  Draco closed his eyes for a moment, firming up his resolve.  “If we don’t go back to a more…professional type of acquaintance, then it’s not only possible but even likely that others will find out, and that it will, in one way or another, get back to people eager to make news out of it.  Robards will seize upon it as a means to keep you from ever heading up the Auror Office, and then you’ll be off the hook.  You won’t have to do a job you don’t want, but you also won’t have to admit that you never wanted it, or disappoint any of the people you’re close to.  It’s an understandable and certainly elegant solution to the problem, but…  I don’t want to be part of that.”

“Why would you think that?”  Harry demanded fiercely, reaching out with both hands and gripping Draco’s arms tightly just above the elbows.  “I wouldn’t – that’s not –”

“Not intentionally, you wouldn’t,” Draco agreed, lowering his voice to something that he hoped was more soothing than the agitation he felt inside.  “Probably.  Unless you’ve somehow become more Slytherin since we were at scho–”

Harry stopped his mouth with an almost violent kiss, his magic rising to the surface with just that level of intimacy and causing Draco’s to respond in kind.  Draco felt that familiar and welcomed heat rush through him, and he gripped Harry’s hips, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise.  He parted his lips and Harry took advantage, letting his tongue slip inside until there was nothing between them but sensation and warmth, communicated only through the way their bodies fit and moved with each other.

Eventually, though, they had to come up for air, and Draco broke the kiss, gasping for breath.  Harry was breathing just as hard, his green eyes intent on Draco’s face, one hand sliding up his arm to cup his cheek.

“If you don’t want this,” Harry said, then swallowed, his throat bobbing with the action.  “If you don’t want to do this anymore, then I’ll understand.  Just know that what you said – none of that is why.”

That was an invitation to ask why, Draco knew, to ask why this was happening when there was every reason that it shouldn’t.  But he didn’t.  Couldn’t.  It was safer to leave it undefined.  It would hurt more to unmake something than it would if it were never made in the first place.

Chapter 18

Draco adjusted his slate gray robes as he stepped out of the Floo fire into the Atrium at the Ministry of Magic, not feeling any more accustomed to the decidedly formal wizarding clothing since he’d put them on that morning.  He hadn’t worn robes with any regularity since he’d finished his studies at the Sorbonne, and even then the style had not been ubiquitous among the magical students there, since there were a number of classes in which they comingled with Muggle students. 

At least they still fit, though he didn’t remember them being this heavy.  Draco had considered his choice of clothing very carefully before meeting Harry outside the gates of the estate.  He did not want to reprise the disheveled, disadvantaged impression in which he’d been forced to meet with Shacklebolt and the others when he’d been Portkeyed in unexpectedly, but nor did he want to come off as though he were in any way trying to win their approval or respect.  Attending this meeting in his shabbier field work clothes would tell them exactly how little he cared for their good opinion, but he couldn’t deny the value of impeccable dress and the confidence that came with it.  This was one thing at which his father had excelled, particularly in his dealings with the Ministry prior to Voldemort’s return.

Harry had elevated his own look for this meeting as well.  While he didn’t go so far as wearing traditional robes, he had put on a finely made coat in hunter green that was cut long, hitting mid-thigh, loose enough to mimic the way traditional robes draped over the chest but tight enough to accentuate his broad shoulders.  It clearly wasn’t what he preferred, as his fidgety movements and dissatisfied patting at where the pockets of his anorak usually were gave him away, but he did look strikingly good. 

Hermione was waiting to meet them, dressed as Draco remembered her being at that first meeting in the Minister’s office, in her black Unspeakable robes and dress slacks.  Her eyes flicked to Harry and then to Draco, as though trying to gauge the state of things between them.  Draco didn’t intend to give her anything to go on.  He was confident in his ability to conceal any hint of intimacy between himself and Harry, and that Harry would be competent enough to do the same at least in front of people who didn’t know him as well as Hermione did. 

“It’s become complicated,” Hermione said in a low tone as they approached.  “Percy has tried putting off other departments about the issues with the Floo network and Apparition in Wiltshire – he’s referred them to the Department of Mysteries, which of course usually ends the inquiries right there.  But this week we’ve received reports of Floo irregularities from Swindon, Southampton, and Bournemouth.”

Draco’s stomach dropped like a stone into a still pond.  “It’s spreading.”

“It seems to be,” Hermione agreed, a worry line creasing her brow.  “We only noticed the issue in the first place because of the Floo network, with the Apparition targeting problems following some time afterwards.  My guess is that the effect is becoming more magnified with the approach of Samhain, and the combination of timing and Floo irregularities in other counties has caused a bit of an uproar among other Ministry departments.”

“Who’s in the meeting, then?”  Harry asked intently.

“Everyone who has been involved in the ley line problem from the start.  Kingsley, obviously, and Percy.  Robards has shoved his way in, but since nearly all of the other departments are represented that unfortunately isn’t objectionable in this case.  Magical Accidents and Catastrophes – Baxter is absolutely livid that we didn’t bring her in before this.  Public Information, obviously, now that word is getting out.  Llewellyn in Maintenance has been briefed but isn’t available to attend, as someone in Accidental Magic Reversal tried to fix some mis-enchanted novelty snow globes and caused a full scale blizzard in the office, it’s all hands on deck for Maintenance right now.  And Zabini from the Department of International Magical Cooperation will be there, as Bournemouth is uncomfortably close to the Channel, and thus France.  So, these people and their various aides, which means that the entire Ministry will know by lunchtime, and the press shortly afterward.”

“Blaise?”  Draco asked, surprised.  The last he’d heard of his former schoolmate, he’d been an undersecretary of some kind.

Hermione nodded.  “He was in the Office of Law until poor Keating came down with dragon pox – he’s out on medical leave and for now Zabini is Acting Head.  He’s doing a good job of it.”

“How much does everyone know about the steps that have been taken to address the problem?”  Draco flicked an imaginary piece of lint off the cuff of his sleeve, trying to will away his growing anxiety.

“If you’re wondering if the other departments are aware that you’re working with Harry on this, the answer is yes,” Hermione said, scowling slightly.  “They will have plenty to say about it.”

“Do they know why?”  Draco asked sharply.

“They know that you were hired by the Ministry to do so, but nothing about your mother’s connection to any of it, or her being under house arrest in London.”

Draco expelled a short, relieved breath.  “I would like to keep it that way, if at all possible.”

“She’ll be safe either way,” Harry assured him, his face set in a determined expression.  “I promise you.”

On some level, Draco did appreciate hearing that.  But he was acutely aware of his surroundings, of the seat of the power that had been wielded against both himself and his mother with indifferent efficiency.  The cold metallic sensation of the cuff around his right wrist was a constant reminder of it.  He felt the almost gravitational weight of the Wizengamot, of the place where his father had effectively been sentenced to death, a fate Draco had only barely escaped.  He hadn’t put his faith in Harry during the trials, certain that the justified anger and grief of the second war’s aftermath would be insurmountable, especially as he bore the Mark on his arm.

But perhaps he could put his faith in Harry now, even as daunting as that was. 

“Let me do most of the talking,” Hermione said, heading down the hallway, clearly expecting them to follow.

“Gladly,” Harry muttered, lengthening his stride to keep up.  Draco matched him, silently agreeing with the sentiment.  If he got out of this meeting without having to say a single word to anyone, he’d count himself lucky.  As it was, he very much doubted that would be the case.

He kept his head up, gaze fixed rigidly ahead of him as the three of them made their way through the halls.  He could hear snatches of whispers as they passed other wizards and witches, could feel the cold stares and a very, very faint buzzing of the miniaturized Sneakoscope dangling from his right ear.  No threat – not yet.  But enough collective ill intent to register on the tiny Dark Detector.

Shacklebolt’s office clearly had some sort of complicated Extendable charm laid on it, as it was much bigger than he remembered it being, and there was more seating available that exactly matched the standard furnishings.  Draco didn’t want to sit at all.  He would have preferred to lean against the wall nearest to the door, if anything, but Hermione was sitting in the closest chair to the left of the Minister’s desk, and Harry was just taking the seat next to it. 

So, Draco gave an inward sigh at the obviously ingrained front-row habits of obnoxiously gifted witches and their loyal hero followers, and reluctantly sat close to Harry.

They were not the first ones to arrive.  Percy Weasley was in the corner, speaking to a short, plump man with dark skin who was wearing a badge on the lapel of his black robes which identified him as the Senior Undersecretary to the Minister.  Draco had no idea what his name was, though there was a small niggling thought that his mother might have mentioned him in one of her letters.  She had always taken it upon herself to keep him informed of the Ministry make-up, though he had never intended to again be in a position for it to be this relevant to his life.  This man had overseen the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures as it had transitioned into its new incarnation as the Office of Magical Creature and Being Affairs Management.  He had started as a Goblin Liaison, Draco thought, and might even be part goblin himself, given his small stature. 

A significant improvement to the Senior Undersecretary of Cornelius Fudge’s administration, Draco thought.

As though sensing Draco’s gaze, Percy paused his murmured conversation and shot him a half-hearted glare.  There was nowhere near the level of venom in it as there had been when they’d last seen each other at the Quidditch match in Devon, but it was still by no means a pleasant expression.  Percy was clearly preoccupied, however.  Draco imagined that he was in a very tight spot at the moment, having been caught out concealing the magical disruptions in Wiltshire from his departmental counterparts.

More people trickled into Shacklebolt’s office, one of them a cross-looking woman in deep cobalt blue robes.  She had long, silky black hair that was shaved close on the sides, so that only the half of it just above her ears was pulled back into a severe ponytail.  From Hermione’s hurried, informal briefing in the Atrium, Draco guessed that this was Baxter, Head of the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes.  There were two young wizards who scurried in her wake, their arms full of documents and generally giving the impression that they were too terrified to even speak without Baxter’s permission.

Just a moment behind Baxter was Blaise, immaculately dressed as always, the handsome man stopping dead when he caught sight of Draco.  He recovered himself quickly, giving Draco just the barest nod of acknowledgement but offering no other greeting.

It stung slightly, but Draco understood.  Blaise had to protect his position and the interests of his department, and in order to do that he needed to get a feel for the room and the general sentiment of the meeting attendees toward Draco’s role in the situation. 

When Robards entered the room, flanked by Woodlocke and Farris, Draco felt Harry stiffen beside him.  He felt slightly guilty about the fact that it was somewhat refreshing to have that animosity directed at someone other than himself.  Robards’ scarred, grizzled face held nothing but cold hostility, and it seemed to make several of the other people in attendance deeply uncomfortable to see such an antagonistic stance taken toward the unimpeachable Harry Potter. 

There was a subtle shifting of the room in response, with Baxter, Percy, and Blaise drifting across an invisible dividing line to place themselves on Harry’s side, and the Senior Undersecretary staying neutrally right in the middle, hands clasped lightly behind his back and his gaze fixed on a framed cityscape of London hanging on the far wall. 

“Just waiting on Munro from Public Information,” Hermione whispered, just loud enough for Harry and Draco to hear.  “And Kingsley, of course, but he always turns up exactly at the moment when everyone arrives.”

In the end, Shacklebolt and Munro arrived together, emerging from an antechamber where they had clearly been in urgent conference.  Munro looked harried, their umber robes rumpled as though they’d slept in them.  There were several interdepartmental memos flapping in their wake, and every so often they would bump into the back of Munro’s head or shoulders before being impatiently batted away.

Shacklebolt swept his gaze around the room, undoubtedly noticing the arrangement of the meeting attendees in relation to each other and the tension around the DMLE contingent as an undercurrent to the atmosphere in the room.  He strode to the chair behind the desk and took a seat, clearing his throat and taking a moment to shift some papers to the side. 

“No doubt those of you who have only recently learned of the critical situation in Wiltshire have many questions –”  Shacklebolt started, but Baxter interrupted him.

“That’s putting it mildly,” she snapped, holding out her hand imperiously to one of her aides, who furiously rummaged through his papers to find the one she was looking for.  She held it up so that the entire room could see, though the print was so miniscule as to make it more of a gesture than a useful means of conveying information.  “Reports of magical accidents in the county have gone up significantly when compared to last year, and I had the numbers checked going back even further.  There’s a clear pattern of escalation.  So yes, I have many questions, but I’ll start with just one: why wasn’t I brought in from the very beginning?”

“Wasn’t your jurisdiction,” Robards said bluntly, before Shacklebolt could answer.  “Your department deals with the effects, not the cause.”

“That doesn’t mean that I shouldn’t have been informed that there was a reason I’ve had to stretch my team so thin because of having to dedicate more resources to Wiltshire,” Baxter retorted.  “As for the cause – ”  Her gaze shifted to Draco.  “Why haven’t you arrested him yet?”

Robards clearly had no intention of contributing further, only crossed his arms in front of his chest before looking pointedly at the Minister.

“Mr. Malfoy has not been arrested because he has committed no crime,” Shacklebolt said, carefully patient in a way which indicated that he’d restated this several times.  “He has been hired by the Ministry to address the root cause due to his role as the lord of Malfoy Manor.  Unspeakable Granger –”

“Unspeakable Granger seems to have had a heavy hand in managing this situation,” Baxter interrupted again, switching her glare from Draco to Hermione.  “The Department of Mysteries is not a response unit.  She should not be dealing with this in anything other than an advisory capacity.”

“Unspeakable Granger has been acting in an advisory capacity.”  Shacklebolt leaned forward, steepling his fingers together on the desk.  “And it is thanks to her that we understand the causal relationships between the Manor, the ley lines, and the magical disruptions that we’ve been monitoring.”

“I want it noted that it was not my work alone which contributed to this understanding,” Hermione said sharply.  “I drew on the expertise of my colleagues and other scholars.”  She did not look at Draco, and Draco had to concentrate on maintaining a blank expression.  That small nugget of acknowledgement was meant for him, and he was surprised to appreciate it as much as he did.

Baxter scowled, switching tactics.  “Hiring Draco Malfoy to fix an issue caused by Malfoy Manor is rather like hiring the dragon to put out the fire, isn’t it?”

At that, Robards barked out a laugh.  “That’s what I said.”

“I think that I should state again that there is no evidence that Mr. Malfoy has committed any crime –”  Shacklebolt started.

“Other than the fact that it’s his bloody house causing all of this –”  Baxter scoffed.

“I’d like to dispute that point,” Draco said, raising his voice slightly to ensure that he was heard.  He hadn’t wanted to speak, but he couldn’t let that stand.  “Malfoy Manor does not, and has never, belonged to me.  It passed into the possession of the Ministry before I ever inherited, and that has not changed.”

“Draco is acting as the lord of the Manor because the Manor will not recognize anyone else,” Hermione said, a steely note in her voice.  “And we’ve already made more progress with his help than we have since we were first able to connect the Manor to the disruption of the ley lines.”

“What progress?”  Robards asked scathingly.  “Have you tried Apparating anywhere in Wiltshire lately?  Weasley here has had to remove several locations from the Floo network in the county because they were dangerously unstable.”

“Temporarily,” Percy snapped.  “These are temporary disconnections, Robards, as you well know.  And at least Malfoy was actually able to access both the grounds and the estate, which is more than can be said for your department.”

“I lost two Aurors!”  Robards dropped his arms, his hands clenching into fists.

“Sit down, Gawain,” Shacklebolt said tiredly.  “I had intended this meeting to be productive, not an exercise in placing blame.  We must deal with the situation as it is.”

“Fine.  Then I would appreciate a better understanding of the significance of this ‘lord of the Manor’ business.  Not all of us grew up as toffs with fancy houses.  What does it matter who owns it?”  Baxter handed the report of magical accidents back to her aide, who juggled his armful of documents to take it.

“It’s not about ownership.  It’s related to hearth magic,” Hermione said, darting a brief glance at Draco before continuing.  “Similar to what house elves use to bond to the homes that they tend.  But it’s also, unfortunately, a type of blood magic, which is why the Manor won’t recognize anyone not of the Malfoy line by blood as its lord.  The enchantments which have been laid on the estate and the house are tied to and reinforced by Draco’s presence, including the ones which have allowed us to chip away at the Dark magic left behind, which is contaminating the ley line which crosses the estate from Stonehenge to the Isle of Wight.”

None of this was particularly revelatory to Draco.  He’d known on some level that the blood that ran through his veins was what was connecting him to the Manor, focused by his father’s ring.  His reading of L’estoire had only confirmed it – the word ‘sanke’ was close enough to modern French that he hadn’t even needed to look that one up.  But the words of his father’s portrait haunted him – that this tie to the Malfoy legacy, such as it was, would not be easily set aside.  Assuming that he didn’t die before he had the chance to even try.

“Say more about the Dark magic left behind,” came a new voice, and Draco twisted to look at the Senior Undersecretary, who was still standing placidly, one hand resting on the back of an empty armchair.  “How is it corrupting the ley line?”

“We’re not sure of the specific mechanism yet,” Hermione said.  “Only that the source is in the cellars, which we have not yet been able to breach, and that it originated from Voldemort, not the Malfoys.”

There was a barely noticeable collective flinch at the mention of the Dark Lord’s name, even all these years later. 

“And what is the source?”  Asked the Senior Undersecretary.

Draco kept his gaze fixed on his hands where they rested on his knees so that he wouldn’t feel tempted to answer, and therefore invoke the magical binding that prevented him from saying anything.

“We don’t know that, either,” Hermione said, after just a moment’s hesitation. 

“How is that possible?”  Baxter interjected, glaring at Draco.  “You were there.”

“That is not an avenue we can currently pursue.”  Hermione’s tone brooked no argument.  “Draco is bound by a magical contract which means he cannot tell us anything specific about what is in the cellars.”

Baxter seemed unimpressed.  “There are ways around that.”

“None that do not involve criminal charges when used on an unwilling subject,” Blaise cut in smoothly.  “And our Ministry’s mutually beneficial agreements with our international partners depend very much upon our adherence to the Accord of the Rights and Protections of Magical People.  Since we were only allowed to sign on to the Accord after abandoning the practices of employing Dementors as prison guards for Azkaban and allowing the Kiss to be performed on anyone, including prisoners, I must strongly advise that we refrain from entertaining any notion of violating the Accord now.  Omar, would you agree?”

“I would,” said the Senior Undersecretary, nodding.

“Fine,” Baxter snarled.  “Then I want officers from my department working on the Manor.”

“Yes,” Robards said quickly.  “We should expand our efforts there.  I have Aurors I can assign to this.  Think of how much more progress we can make with more people working on it, instead of ‘we don’t know this’ and ‘we don’t know that’ after almost two months –”

“No.”

The word was not spoken with any particular volume or force, but it stopped the discussion cold.  Harry got to his feet, looking at each person in the room, even Baxter’s aides, who looked both awed and petrified to receive the attention.  Harry let his gaze linger last on Shacklebolt before addressing the room again.

“It is too dangerous for work at the Manor to involve more than just a few people,” Harry said.  “You can’t undo twenty years’ worth of Death Eater traps, Dark artefacts, and Dark magic gone wild in two months.  We’re trying to clear a path that will stay clear so that we can take all the time we need to deal with what’s in the cellars.  Rushing to what we think is the endpoint without really knowing what we’re up against is shortsighted, and no one needs to die for this.”  Harry looked at Baxter.  “Magical Accidents isn’t equipped to deal with deliberate spells, Bax, and you know it.  And these have had decades to set in.”

“Which is why my Aurors –”  Robards started, but was cut off when Harry shook his head.

“This isn’t Auror work either, Gawain,” he said, and even though his tone was mild, Draco could see the way his jaw tightened.  “We’re making progress, and when we know what we’re dealing with we can talk about broadening the team.  I understand that everyone here is worried about the way the ley line is affecting Wiltshire and some of the other counties, but that only shows how important it is that we handle this as carefully as we can – not just for our own safety, but so that we don’t break anything that we aren’t able to fix.”

There was a moment of silence, then Percy cleared his throat.  “Well said, Harry.  And I agree.  My department is working on expanding our Portkey authorizations to bridge the gap created by the interference with the Floo network and Apparition.  It’s not ideal, but with some overtime we can hopefully address the scheduled transportation needs of witches and wizards in the area, and widen that workaround to include the other areas which are starting to experience the same thing.”

“I need more people,” Baxter said flatly.  “If we expect the effects of the ley line corruption to continue to expand, then we’re going to start seeing increases in accidents on top of what we’re already dealing with in Wiltshire.”

“Done,” Shacklebolt said.  “I will approve transfers, temporary assignments, and overtime as needed.”

“We’ve yet to discuss how this will be handled when the press starts reporting on it.”

Everyone turned to look at Munro, who had been driven to the point of casting a small Protego to keep the memos from continuing to bump determinedly into their head.  They gestured at the persistent flying papers.  “You see these?  These are inquiries from the Prophet, The Quibbler, and the Wireless.  They started following me around just after I arrived to work this morning, so the news about the ley lines is already out.”  Munro narrowed their gaze at Robards before continuing.  “And if we wait too long, then they’ll start printing and broadcasting with a notable lack of comment from the Ministry, which will only fuel the inevitable rumors of conspiracy and cover-up.” 

“None of you will be speaking to the press independently if you value your jobs,” Shacklebolt said with finality.  “Inquiries will be answered with ‘no comment’ or directed to Munro’s or my office.  Is that clear?”

There was a chorus of nodding heads around the room, though Draco noted that Robards’ expression appeared to be slightly bored and not at all repentant.  The Head Auror caught him looking, and his face transformed into a mask of pure contempt.  Draco only gazed calmly back.  He’d had decades of time to become used to looks like that.

“For those of you who have not previously been privy to progress reports on this issue –”  Shacklebolt cast a wry sidelong glance at Draco.  “– I will provide you with access to everything that we have.  The contents of those reports are not to leave this building or find their way to the press in any way.  I am confident that the course of action currently underway is the correct one, even though the resolution to this difficulty is not yet in reach.  As always, thank you all for your diligence and your discretion, and come to me with any requests for resources.  Munro, let’s discuss the Ministry response to those inquiries.”

“Yes, sir,” Munro said, relief evident in the way their posture slumped slightly.  They still had their shield charm up.  As Shacklebolt ushered them back into the antechamber of the office, the rest of the meeting attendees began to drift towards the door, engaging in brief conversation on their way back to their respective departments.

Harry checked his watch, a grin spreading over his face as he read the time.  “Excellent, we’ve still got a few minutes before when Teddy said that they’d be at the Leaky Cauldron.”

“I told you to let me do most of the talking,” Hermione said, quietly enough so that she wouldn’t be overheard but loud enough for Draco to hear the smugness.  “Although you set everyone to rights fairly quickly, Harry, well done.  You’ll fit right in when the time comes.”

At that, Harry briefly met Draco’s eyes, his gaze pained and guilt-ridden.  He schooled his expression before speaking.  “Yeah, sure.  Are you joining us, Hermione?”

“I’ve far too much to do,” Hermione said regretfully.  “But Halloween break is coming up for the children, and we’ll make time.”

“A word, Harry,” Robards called, gesturing for Farris and Woodlocke to go ahead of him out the door.

Harry let out a short sigh.  “Excuse me.”

“Omar,” Hermione gave a small wave, and the Senior Undersecretary headed in their direction.  “Thanks very much for giving me a moment of your time.  Have you heard back regarding my proposal to reach the Manor cellars via excavation?”

Omar didn’t answer at first, instead taking the opportunity to examine Draco more closely.  And Draco felt the weight of his gaze, but nothing of the intent behind it.  He wouldn’t have dared to use Legilimency on a Ministry official, and certainly not within the Ministry itself.  Omar’s dark brown eyes were clever and discerning, as though they could see right through the façade of good breeding that Draco had been trained to affect in situations like these.

“Yes,” Omar said finally.  “I spoke with Gunnar Granatson about your idea, and while he was willing to take it back to the Goblin Council, he did not seem optimistic that they would approve it.”

“Damn,” Hermione said, her face falling.  “Not that I blame them, of course.  But I appreciate you trying, Omar.”

“It wasn’t a bad thought,” Omar said, a small smile curving his lips.  He looked at Draco.  “I wonder if, once the Manor is cleared, you would have any objection to allowing the goblins to recover any goblin-made items that may yet be in the Malfoy family collections.”

Draco blinked, not expecting such a delicately phrased request.  “No objection on my part, but I reiterate that the Manor does not actually belong to me.  And neither do the possessions inside.  So, really, you should be asking yourself.”

The skin around Omar’s eyes crinkled with mirth.  “Indeed, my mistake.  I hope we have the chance to speak again.”

And with that, the little man turned away, joining Percy on his way out the door.

“He’s always like that,” Hermione said, a fond note in her voice.  “Most people don’t know quite what to make of him – oh, look out!”

Draco stumbled slightly as Blaise knocked into his shoulder, apparently intently reading a file in his hands.  Blaise barely looked at them, murmuring a brief “Pardon me,” before striding purposefully out of the office.

“He could have at least said hello,” Hermione grumbled indignantly. 

“Yes, very rude,” Draco agreed, putting his hand in his pocket and closing his fingers around a tightly-folded piece of paper, as expected.  He and Blaise had used the same method to pass notes to each other in the halls of Hogwarts and at society gatherings where youthful behavior was strongly discouraged.  He smiled slightly, looking forward to having something interesting to read later.

~ * ~

“Draco!”  Teddy jumped up and threw his arms around Draco, squeezing him tightly before letting go and doing the same to Harry.  Teddy looked mostly masculine today, his bright blue hair short but well-styled, with a light green button up shirt and gray slacks.  His black and yellow scarf was loosely knotted around his neck in a manner which resembled a tie.

“How did your meeting with the Healer go?”  Harry asked, grinning affectionately at his godchild.  “Did you learn anything?”

“Loads!”  Teddy beamed, settling back into his seat at the table in the Leaky Cauldron.  “I hope you don’t mind, but I invited her to come have lunch with us, her and her girlfriend.  Is that okay?”

“Of course,” Harry said, shooting Draco a laughing glance.  “The more, the merrier.”

Draco wasn’t entirely sure that he agreed.  Unlike the Nettlecross Arms back in Wiltshire, this was a wizarding pub in one of the busiest wizarding districts in the United Kingdom.  Harry seemed impervious to the looks that the other patrons were giving him, and equally so to the whispers of “That’s Harry Potter!” and “The Boy Who Lived!”

He didn’t fancy his chances of going unrecognized here, even though he took the seat on the far side of Teddy in an attempt to stay out of the direct line of sight of most of the patrons.  “What did you think of St. Mungo’s, Teddy?”

“It was brilliant,” Teddy gushed, running a hand through his hair.  “And they said that they have trainee positions for people who haven’t yet got a N.E.W.T. in Potions!  I still need to study and take the exam, but I don’t need to wait before I start helping!  Astoria said that I might be a good fit to start on the first floor, you know, because my dad was a werewolf.”

“Astoria?”  That name pinged something in Draco’s memory, though he couldn’t quite place why.

Teddy nodded.  “She’s really nice, I – oh!”  He jumped to his feet again, waving madly.

A woman with long dark brown hair approached the table, her hazel eyes widening when she saw Harry.  She didn’t falter, though, walking right up and extending her hand.  “I didn’t realize that Teddy had you for a godfather, Mr. Potter.  I’m Astoria Greengrass.  Very pleased to meet you.”

“We’ve met before, haven’t we?”  Harry shook her hand.  “You were at Hogwarts with us.”

“Us?”  Astoria looked confused for a moment, before she spotted Draco.  A faint line appeared between her brows.  “Oh, hello.”  She shifted, suddenly looking slightly uncomfortable.  “Yes, I was two years behind you.”

“Where’s your girlfriend?”  Teddy asked, glancing around.

“She’s meeting us here,” Astoria said, taking a seat and smiling in a way that erased her previous uncertainty.  “She had to make a stop at Quality Quidditch Supplies, but she’ll be here shortly.”

Greengrass.  Draco remembered the name now, and had a vague impression of two young faces.  Sisters, both of whom were in Slytherin.  Daphne had been in his same year. 

Both their names had been on a list that his father had shown him during the Christmas holiday of his fifth year.  The one and only time Lucius had acknowledged aloud that Draco was gay, and it was in the context of discussing future marriage prospects among the daughters of other Pureblood families.  The most important thing was to produce an heir, Lucius had said, and that it wasn’t uncommon for unions to be formed among the Sacred Twenty-Eight solely for that purpose, while the individuals involved discreetly pursued their own romantic interests elsewhere.

His parents’ marriage had not been like that, though Draco had suspicions about how Lucius had spent his youth prior to his wedding.  But as far as he was aware, Lucius and Narcissa had truly loved each other, and showed that love in a number of ways, including fidelity. 

“How is your sister, Daphne?”  Draco asked suddenly, while Teddy was taking a moment to breathe in the midst of telling Harry everything that he wanted to learn once he started at St. Mungo’s.

Astoria’s face clouded with grief, and she shook her head slightly.  “She died recently, just a few years ago.  Blood malediction.”

“Fucking hell,” Draco said softly.  “I apologize, I didn’t know.  I’m very sorry for your loss.”

“It’s…it’s not all right, but it’s all right that you asked after her.  She wasn’t the same after giving birth to her daughter, it took so much out of her…”  Astoria sniffed, covertly wiping a tear away from the corner of her eye and giving a small chuckle.  “I became a Healer because of her.  Well, because of my family, but I knew that she wanted a child, even in spite of the risk.”

“Astoria is working on a cure,” Teddy said, quietly but with unmistakable admiration in his tone.

“Partly due to self-interest.”  Astoria laughed dismissively, but the edge of grief still lingered.

“That’s pretty amazing,” Harry said.  “How does St. Mungo’s do research like that?  Do you coordinate with the Department of Mysteries, or –”  Harry stopped talking abruptly, his mouth snapping shut.

Draco followed his stare to see Ginny Weasley, standing stock-still just a few feet away, her shocked expression mirroring Harry’s.

“Ginny!”  Astoria jumped to her feet, wrapping her arms around Ginny’s taller frame.  “You made it out alive, I see, even after those fans spotted you in the Quidditch shop?”

“Er, yeah,” Ginny said, automatically enfolding Astoria into an embrace, but not taking her eyes off of Harry.

“You’re dating Ginny?”  Teddy’s eyes were huge and excited.  “Ginny!  You never said!”

“No, I didn’t,” Ginny said with a chuckle, relaxing a little.  “And I haven’t yet, understand, wolf pup?”

“Got it,” Teddy said, miming turning an invisible key as if to lock his mouth.  He bounced a little in his chair.  “But it’s really exciting!”

“You,” Ginny said, taking a seat while pointing a threatening finger at Harry.  “Not a thing out of you.”

“I would never,” Harry said loftily, but his wide grin spoiled the affectation.  “Seriously, that’s great, Gin.  Happy for you both.”

“Thanks,” Ginny said, and she looked pleased as Astoria leaned into her, pressing their sides together.  “We haven’t exactly made it public yet, not that I think the team will be any trouble at all.  But.  Well, you know.”

Harry nodded.  “I do.  No one’s going to hear it from me, Gin, promise.”

Ginny’s eyes flicked to Draco, who shrugged. 

“Who would I tell, Weasley?  I have much better things to do than to spread gossip about who you may or may not be seeing.”

“You just don’t want to get on the wrong side of my Bat-Bogey Hex again.”

“I absolutely do not,” Draco replied with perfect honesty, and Ginny grinned evilly. 

“So do Molly and Arthur know?”  Harry asked quietly, eyeing the other patrons of the pub. 

Ginny winced slightly.  “Not yet.”

Astoria was quiet, but she laced her fingers with Ginny’s, squeezing her hand.

“You know that they’ll be fine with it, don’t you?”  Harry sounded confident and reassuring, and the dimple in his cheek deepened as he said, “Even if she is a Slytherin.”

Ginny barked out a laugh, and so did Astoria.  Teddy rolled his eyes, clearly above outdated inter-House prejudices.

“It’s a new era, Harry,” Ginny said.  “Gryffindors are allowed to date Slytherins now.”

Harry’s eyes darted to Draco automatically.  It was just for a second, and he corrected himself quickly, but the look on Ginny’s face made it clear that she understood the implications of that small gesture very well indeed.

“Sometimes it’s not so easy to be open about these things,” Ginny said.  “But it’s nice to know that the people who care about you will always be there for you.”

“Yeah,” Harry agreed, his knuckles going pale as he tightened his hands into fists.  Draco could tell that he was holding himself back, though it was clear that he wanted to reach for him.

Almost without thinking, Draco shuffled his foot under the table until it was touching Harry’s, just the smallest bit of contact and pressure, where no one was looking.  Where no one would know.

It was all very well for Ginny to laugh about Gryffindors being able to date Slytherins.  But it was another thing entirely when one of them was a former Death Eater and the other was the greatest hero in recent memory.  That was something that Draco didn’t ever think he’d overcome.

Chapter 19

“Perhaps I should stay here,” Draco said, with a glance toward where his mother was seated on the chaise. 

“Perhaps you should not,” Narcissa said, not looking up from her book.  “I will be very well spending an evening alone, except for Pipsy and Kreacher, of course.  Go, Draco.”

“Yeah, Draco,” Harry said, his face splitting into a grin.  “Now let’s hear your next excuse.”

Draco glared at him, more annoyed that he couldn’t truthfully deny the fact that he was searching for reasons not to accompany Harry to the Burrow than he was at Harry’s teasing.  His mother was clearly not intending to be any help on that front.  He blew out a breath.  “I really should be working on the translation of L’estoire.”

“Like you have been almost non-stop for nearly two weeks?”  Harry’s grin fell away, replaced by an expression of aggravation.  “Other than working on the Manor?  We both need a break, and it’s Halloween.  Dee and his family are driving up from Brixton so that Junie can meet some other magical kids.  I know they’d be glad for another familiar face.  Besides, you’ve never been to the Burrow, it’s brilliant.”

Draco very carefully did not flinch, did not blink, nor did he look at his mother.  He did hear the pause in her breathing as the only reaction to what they were both remembering.

He had been to the Burrow, once.  But he had been wearing hooded black robes and a mask, and everyone attending the wedding of Bill Weasley and Fleur Delacour had been fleeing in panic while his aunt Bellatrix sent the Dark Mark into the sky above the cobbled-together house.

But there was no way for anyone to know that unless Draco admitted it.  It hadn’t come out during the trials – as lengthy as that process had been, it had been impossible to require every arrested Death Eater to provide a full accounting of every incident, especially one which hadn’t actually resulted in any fatalities.  And for a moment he did consider confessing it now, not as an excuse to stay away from the evening’s celebrations, but because many would consider it to be the right thing to do.  But was it worth owning up to, when the likely outcome was reopening old wounds and stirring up painful memories to no other purpose?  He could expect no forgiveness, no absolution.  Was it now the greater wrong to force anyone to revisit it, after twenty years’ distance?  He didn’t know.

He and Lucius had been on a tight leash at that time, the unspoken threat to Narcissa hanging heavily over them both.  Even though the task that Voldemort had given to Draco was fulfilled by the death of Albus Dumbledore, regardless of who had struck the killing blow, he still considered Draco to have failed for not doing it himself.  And Lucius had still been in penance for his own failure to retrieve the prophecy from the Department of Mysteries.  They’d had no choice but to be part of the Death Eater raiding party searching for any hint of Harry Potter’s whereabouts.

Draco had returned to the Manor with the rest of the Death Eaters after, relieved beyond measure that Harry hadn’t been there at the wedding, and just as terrified of being punished for yet another defeat.

“Look, you don’t have to,” Harry said, a hint of concern in his green eyes, and Draco realized that he’d gone too long without speaking. 

“I’ll go,” he said quietly, daring to throw a glance at his mother. 

Narcissa had set her book in her lap, which meant she’d been worried enough to be more direct about checking on him.  She met his gaze calmly, and gave an almost imperceptible nod.

“I’ll go,” he repeated, more strongly this time, projecting a confidence that he in no way felt.

“Brilliant.”  Harry clapped him on the shoulder, using his grip to turn Draco toward the large fireplace.  “Now, I’m going to give you a word of advice before we go – trust me, it’ll be easier if you know this going in.”

“And that is?”  Draco asked, apprehensively.

“Don’t let Molly see you without a plate.  And if she sees room on that plate, she’ll find some way to fill it up.  Carrying some nibbles around with you is your only defense.  Otherwise, you’ll only arouse suspicion that you’re not eating enough, and she would never let that stand.”

Draco snorted in spite of himself.  Harry’s advice likely wouldn’t apply to him.  While Molly Weasley probably monitored the status of every plate at a family gathering, the key word there was family.  He’d stay in the background as much as possible, the way everyone would prefer.

“I’ll go first,” Harry said, stepping forward and taking a handful of Floo powder out of the chalice.  He threw it into the fire, stood in the middle of the green flames, and shouted “The Burrow!”

“It will be all right, dear,” Narcissa said, when Draco glanced back at her.  Her expression was slightly wistful, and the temptation to just stay here at Grimmauld Place with her was strong. 

“Go on,” his mother prompted him firmly, when he didn’t move.

Draco let out a sigh, since there wasn’t anyone else around to see, then gathered some Floo powder for his own trip and away he went.  He shut his eyes tightly against the smoke and soot, keeping his arms close at his sides to avoid hitting anything as he traveled through the Floo network.  Soon enough he heard the roar of flaring fire and felt a sudden increase in heat, which meant that it was time to exit.

He stepped out onto an unfamiliar wooden floor, blinking a bit of stray ash out of his eyes, and looked around. 

This sitting room felt cluttered and loud when compared to the spacious and elegantly furnished parlor of Grimmauld Place, but it was also decidedly lived in.  There were knitted cozies covering every flat surface – side tables, footstools, bookcases, even the mantle of the fireplace.  The area rug was some sort of woven cloth oval thing, multi-colored as though it had been put together from all of the fabric scraps in existence without any sense of cohesive design, which was definitely also somewhere within the cozy family. 

“Harry!”

Draco looked up in time to see Harry engulfed in Molly’s embrace, Harry laughing as he returned it just as enthusiastically.  “Harry, love, it’s wonderful to see you!  The children have been asking after you all day, so do forgive us if we shove them all off onto you – oh, but your cousin is on his way, isn’t he?  I felt the car pass the wards not too long ago, so we should be seeing them any moment now.”

Molly finally took a breath, shooting a look at Draco, not quite frowning, but definitely no longer smiling.  “Hello.”

“Er, hello,” Draco said, returning the awkward greeting.  “Thank you for having me.”

“Yes, well, I could use some help taking the food up to the top of Stoatshead Hill, that’s where we’re having the bonfire.”  Molly patted Harry on the arm.  “Now, go out and meet your cousin, love, while I pack things up for us to carry.”

Draco was quick to follow Harry outside, though he did try to take in everything he could see of the house, including the very long dining table and the kitchen beyond, since whatever Molly had been cooking smelled quite good.  He was surprised to feel his stomach rumbling in anticipation. 

The meadow outside the Burrow was different than how Draco remembered it.  It lacked a crowd of terrified, screaming people, for one thing.  But autumn had transformed the long grasses into a golden sea that moved in shimmering waves, as though it were mimicking the water beyond the cliff which marked the meadow’s edge. 

He had always imagined – assumed, really – that the Weasleys lived in a decrepit hovel.  And perhaps one could think of the Burrow that way, especially in comparison to what the Manor had been, in all its former glory.  But it was peaceful here in a way that the estate wasn’t, where the memory of manicured lawns and pristine pathways and flawless gardens felt confining, restrictive, and cold.  This was wilder country, and the salt of the sea was right there on his tongue, the cool air blowing in and filling his lungs.  It made him ache for the life he’d been torn away from, for the freedom of the open ocean and the sense of possibility that just didn’t exist for him here. 

It took Harry’s hand slipping into his to bring him back to the moment, and he blinked, turning to look at him.

“All right?”  Harry asked, his voice low.

“Of course,” Draco replied automatically, carefully memorizing every detail of the way the salty breeze ruffled Harry’s wild black hair, which caught the light of the sun hanging low over the horizon.  His dark skin looked as though it had been edged in gold, his green eyes sparkling with exquisite clarity.  Harry was alive here in a way that was different from how he was at the Manor, or even at Grimmauld Place.  Draco wasn’t sure what the difference was, but he suspected that it had a lot to do with the people here, who loved him like family.

The noise of an approaching car caught Harry’s attention, and he let go of Draco’s hand, turning to wave as Dee carefully brought the vehicle to a stop on the wide but overgrown track that only just met the definition of a drivable lane.  Xiumei got out first, waving back before opening one of the rear doors to retrieve Tao.

The glare on the windshield was too much for Draco to quite see Dee’s expression, but he could discern white knuckles as the big man still gripped the steering wheel as though his life depended on it.  But eventually he uncurled his fingers, removing his seatbelt so that he could help Junie out of the child seat she was buckled into. 

Tao started wiggling in his mother’s arms as soon as he set eyes on Draco and Harry, patting her face and babbling.  Xiumei grimaced and leaned her head back out of her son’s reach.  “Yes, all right, go say hello then.”  She set Tao on the ground and waited a moment to make sure he was steady on his feet before letting him go.  Tao toddled over to them as quickly as his little legs could carry him.

Harry crouched down to one knee, holding his arms out, only for Tao to teeter right past him until he was able to grasp the leg of Draco’s trousers.  Draco looked down and raised an eyebrow at Tao’s beaming, slobbery smile.

“Up!”

“Oh, is that so?”  Draco obediently reached down to scoop Tao up, settling him on the hip opposite his satchel.  “You are very bossy for someone who’s not yet three.”

Tao just stared at him in fascination, his tiny hands digging into the cable knitting of Draco’s deep blue jumper. 

“’Ween,” the child said eventually, as if in explanation.

“Correct,” Draco said.  “It is indeed Halloween.”

“Tao,” Harry said, reaching out imploringly with an expression of pained mock-betrayal on his face.  “I thought we were mates, little man.”

Tao dissolved into giggles, throwing his head back and forcing Draco to hastily adjust his hold so that he didn’t fall.  Harry shook his head, then turned just in time to catch Junie as she flung herself into his arms.

“Uncle Harry!”

“Hey, Junie-girl!”  Harry whirled her around once before setting her back on her feet.  “I love your dress.”

“It’s a witch’s dress!”  Junie said proudly, twirling on the spot to show off the cheap black crushed velvet with an overskirt and bodice of sparkling purple tulle. 

“Er, I hope that’s not, you know, offensive,” Dee rumbled nervously, running a hand through his thinning hair.  “But she insisted, and it is Halloween –”

“Dee,” Harry interrupted his cousin with a warm smile.  “It’s absolutely fine, no one will care what she’s wearing or why – most of them don’t pay any attention to non-magical fashion trends, so they won’t even notice that it’s a costume.  Good to see you were able to find the place all right.”

“More or less,” Xiumei said, tucking herself under Dee’s arm.  “I brought out the road atlas for the last bit, as the phone map didn’t seem to want to work properly the closer we got.”

“Wouldn’t have made it without you,” Dee said fondly, bending to give her a kiss.  “Oh, I almost forgot – Junie’s telescope is in the boot, I’ll just go and fetch it.”

“How’s he doing?”  Harry asked Xiumei quietly, once Dee was out of earshot.

“He’s trying very hard,” Xiumei said.  “But I think that it helps that we drove here and will be staying the night in Minehead, though you were very sweet to offer –”

“Oh, Harry, who is this?”  Molly’s delighted voice carried from the front step of the Burrow.

“Molly, this is Lau Xiumei, who is married to my cousin Dee Dursley, and their children, Junie and Tao.”  Harry nudged Junie forward slightly as he introduced her, and nodded his head toward where Tao sat placidly on Draco’s hip.  Junie, who had come over shy at this new face, looked down and scuffed her shoe against the grass.

“You’re all very, very welcome,” Molly said, clasping Xiumei’s hands in hers.  “And hello, Junie, that is such a pretty dress!”  She directed a wide smile and a small wave of her fingers at Tao, though her expression was tinged with confusion, as if she were puzzled at the sight of him in Draco’s arms.

“Dee, this is Molly Weasley,” Harry said as Dee joined them, a heavy-looking black canvas bag dangling from his grip.  “She’s Ron’s mum, and the best cook you’ll ever meet.”

“Oh, you,” Molly said, pushing at Harry’s arm as her cheeks grew red.  “Don’t think flattery will get you out of carrying the food up the hill.”

“Of course not,” Harry said, grinning.  “Is the food all packed away in the hampers?”

“Five of them, dear, if you wouldn’t mind.”

“Not at all.”  Harry briefly disappeared inside the house, and when he emerged, he was preceded by five large wicker hampers which were levitating about half a foot off the ground.

Dee sucked in a sharp breath and took a step back, and Xiumei squeezed his arm comfortingly.  Junie stared for a moment, wide-eyed, before she ran up to Harry and started pelting him with questions about how he was doing that, and did he think she might be able to do it someday.  Harry chuckled and hoisted Junie up until she was sitting on the closest hamper, her feet dangling over the side.

“Oh!”  Xiumei said, slightly alarmed, but Molly patted her arm reassuringly.

“Not to worry, dear, it’s perfectly safe.  Harry has excellent control, I’d trust each and every one of my grandchildren with him.”  Molly tucked Xiumei’s hand into the crook of her elbow, escorting her after the procession of hampers up the gradual slope of what must be Stoatshead Hill.

Draco kept pace with Dee, who was clearly forcing himself to plod determinedly in the same direction.  He let the silence stand for a bit, looking out at the sea when Tao pointed at it and babbled excitedly.

“Afraid of magic, then?”  He asked finally, glancing up at Dee, who was puffing slightly as they got further uphill.

“I’ve had…bad experiences with it in the past,” Dee said.  “Yeah, a bit scared of it, if I’m honest.”

“That’s rational,” Draco said.  “Magic can be frightening, even to those who can wield it.  There’s quite a bit that Muggles get up to that frightens me.”

“Really?”  Dee looked at him in surprise.  “Like what?”

“Aeroplanes,” Draco said with a shudder.  “Guns.  Those doors at the shops that open by themselves.”

Dee laughed, a great booming laugh that was pleasant to hear.  “Sorry.  I do understand about guns, everyone ought to be afraid of those.  But automatic doors and aeroplanes – those are just normal.”

Draco gave him a wry look.  “So is levitation, to anyone who grew up in the magical world.”

“Point,” Dee acknowledged.  “I suppose I’ll have to get used to it.”

“Perhaps it’s more that you will grow to appreciate it, even if you never like it,” Draco suggested.  “Unless you’re in a mixed-magic family, there’s very little overlap here in the U.K.  It’s not like that everywhere.”

“Is it not?”  Dee asked, giving him a curious sidelong glance.

Draco shook his head.  “I’ve spent the last – oh, fifteen or so years in the Americas.  Mixed-magic families are much more common there.  It’s rare that you’ll find a family where every single member is magical, or families where only one member is.  As such, it’s not so much of a secret.  Witches and wizards are still careful, of course, among outsiders especially.  But it’s not something they usually have to hide so strictly from their own communities.”

“The Americas, eh?  No wonder you’re wary of guns.”

“Mm.”  Draco hummed in agreement, determined not to let intrusive images of his first horrifying experience with those Muggle weapons distract him from this crisp, clear autumn evening. 

Tao crowed with delight when they crested the hill to see the bonfire already roaring merrily, and Molly ordering her adult children about while unpacking the first of the hampers bulging with food.  There were more children chasing each other around than Draco was expecting to see, and he remembered that Hogwarts students now had a week off for Halloween and Samhain.  Most of the unfamiliar ones had ginger hair, but there were two that had silvery-blonde hair and looked very much like Victoire’s younger siblings.  And there was one child with a very serious expression who was carefully laying out silverware on one of the picnic tables, his light brown skin and untamed dark hair bearing a striking resemblance to Hermione’s. 

Junie was immediately drawn into a game with Percy’s twins, Fletch and Gabe seizing her hands without even waiting for an introduction and tugging her along as they chased a beginner Snitch which hovered no more than a meter off the ground and flew at a much slower pace than regulation Snitches. 

When Tao pointed imperiously at the bonfire, the flames of which George was changing from yellow, to green, to purple, to pink upon request from a few of the children who were gathered around it, Draco obligingly moved closer to give him a better view.  Tao didn’t seem inclined to explore on his own two feet at the moment, so Draco was content to go wherever the toddler directed. 

Those adults who were not assisting Molly with laying out the food were mingling off to the side, many of them with bottles of butterbeer in hand.  Draco could spot Hermione, Angelina, Percy’s wife Audrey, Fleur, Arthur, and –

For a moment his breath froze in his chest, and Tao squeaked as he unintentionally tightened his hold.  He relaxed immediately, patting Tao’s back in silent apology.  He just hadn’t been prepared to lock eyes with his aunt Andromeda, who looked so much like Bellatrix that for a moment he’d thought she’d come back through the veil, thin as it was on Samhain. 

Andromeda’s hair was much shorter, though, cut to hang just below her jaw and shot through with gray.  And while her features were disturbingly similar, she did not share the almost permanent sneer and generally unhinged mien of her late sister.  Her dark eyes widened in recognition when she saw him, and then she deliberately looked away.

He didn’t see any anger in the snub, though.  Only pain.

There wasn’t time to dwell on it, however, as Molly declared that the table setting was complete and that it was time to feast.  The children scrambled madly to sit next to their favorites, colonizing one entire picnic table all on their own. 

Junie wasn’t quite ready to sit away from her own parents, and broke away from the twins to hover anxiously around her mother and father while they settled on one side of the adjacent table.  Xiumei beckoned for Tao, and Draco transferred the child to her lap before taking a seat next to Dee, with Harry taking the last empty spot on the bench on his other side. 

Draco helped himself to the food along with everyone else, mindful of Harry’s advice and taking enough to fill his plate, even if he weren’t sure he would eat it all.  After the first bite of roasted potatoes, strongly flavored with herbs and garlic, he had no problem tucking in with just as much enthusiasm as the others.

Teddy was sitting next to their grandmother at another table, and briefly met Draco’s gaze with an apologetic expression.  It hurt more than it should have, that Teddy wasn’t able to greet or acknowledge him in front of Andromeda.  Teddy was a genuine, sweet person, and it couldn’t be easy for them to keep such a secret from the one who’d raised them.  The last thing that Draco wanted was for Teddy’s acquaintance with him to drive a wedge into such an important family connection.

“Mum, why isn’t anyone sitting at that table?”  Junie’s voice piped up over the sound of cutlery and cheerful conversation, and Draco leaned forward to see where Junie was pointing.

The last picnic table was the one that Hugo had been setting, and was covered in a black tablecloth instead of the brightly patterned (and mismatched) cloths on the others.  There were seven place settings and someone had lit candles, one hovering over each plate. 

“That’s the Silent Table,” Hermione said kindly, answering for Xiumei.  “It’s a Samhain tradition to set places for the ones who have already passed on.  Many people, not just witches and wizards, believe that the veil between life and death is thinner on nights like tonight, and so we let our loved ones know that they are welcome, even if we can’t see or hear them.”

The small flames of the candles floating over the Silent Table all flickered at once. 

Likely it was just a breeze.

The Malfoys in recent generations had set aside many of the old traditions, and so Draco had never passed a Samhain with a Silent Table, nor had there ever been one at Hogwarts.  Draco vaguely remembered his grandfather Abraxas scoffing disdainfully at ‘suspicious nonsense,’ and claiming that since there was no power to be gained from ancient magic in these modern times, those who still participated in bygone rituals whose original meaning had been half-forgotten ought to be discarded completely.

“Then who are they for?”  Junie asked, fascinated.  “Are they going to eat all their vegetables?”

“Junie, love, it’s not polite to pry –”  Xiumei started, but Ron cut her off.

“It’s all right, we can hardly remember them properly if we don’t talk about them, can we?”  He gave Xiumei a smile that had an edge of grief to it.  “My older brother Fred has a seat over there, he was a twin so he looked just like George.”  Ron pointed George out at the next table.  “And did you know that your Uncle Harry is a godfather?  Teddy lost their parents and grandfather, so three of those places are for them.”

Junie twisted around to stare wide-eyed at Harry, who nodded.  “My own parents and godfather died a long time ago.  They also have seats at that table.”

“Oh,” Junie said, and her eyes suddenly filled with tears.

“My tender heart.”  Xiumei moved Tao to Dee’s lap and enfolded Junie in her arms, and there was some muffled sniffling.  “It’s all right, love.”

“We’ll set up your telescope after we finish eating, June bug,” Harry said, his tone lighthearted and encouraging.  Dee leaned back, reaching around Draco to grip Harry’s shoulder, squeezing it gently.  Harry patted Dee’s hand, and Draco suddenly felt very uncomfortably out of place, literally in the middle of grief and comfort he had no business being in, and had in fact been, in some ways, a small part of the cause of it.

He focused on his food, eating past the point of feeling sated but needing something – anything – to occupy himself, in a vain attempt to keep unwanted emotions at bay and maintain his indifferent exterior. 

“I think you may have a Hufflepuff on your hands,” Ron said, his expression soft as he looked at Xiumei and Junie. 

Dee shifted slightly, withdrawing his hand from Harry’s shoulder and cuddling Tao close.  “I’m, er, not sure what that means.”

“It’s one of the four Houses at Hogwarts,” Hermione explained.  “Hufflepuffs are known for their loyal and caring natures, there are a few of them in the family now.  It’s definitely a compliment.”

Draco thought back to his own childhood, remembering the way his parents spoke so dismissively of that House, because compassion and loyalty given without calculated self-interest were signs of weak character and anathema to ambition.

From there the conversation wandered.  Weasleys and spouses and children alike finished their plates and drifted, some going towards the bonfire, others following Harry and Dee as they led Junie a little way away from the fire to put together her new telescope.

It was the perfect night for it – cool and crystal clear, not even the hint of a cloud in the sky.  The moon was waxing gibbous, very nearly full, and Harry was adjusting the telescope to bring the craters and seas on its surface into focus.

Somehow, Tao found his way back onto Draco’s lap, leaning back contentedly against his chest with his thumb in his mouth.  Tao was completely uninterested in the bonfire now, instead captivated by whatever his sister was doing.  So, in order to make things a bit more comfortable for both of them, Draco turned around on the bench, stretching his legs a little. 

To his surprise, Ron joined him, leaning back so that he could rest his elbows on the table.  Draco braced himself for whatever the man had to say, since it was incredibly unlikely that Ron would casually keep him company.

He was almost relieved when Ron got straight to the point.  “’Mione says that you and Harry…  That there’s a thing.  Between you.”

Draco had to turn his head slightly to even see Ron, since he was sitting on his right side. 

“A thing,” he repeated flatly.

“I’d rather not spell it out, yeah?”  Ron said irritably, gesturing at Tao.  “Little ears, and all that.  Not to mention the fact that I want to Obliviate myself every time I try to picture it.”

“Don’t blame me for the workings of your demented mind, Weasley,” Draco said.  “And Hermione seems to be speaking very freely for someone who doesn’t want any of this getting out, especially to anyone in the Auror Office.”

“She reckons it will ruin his prospects there.”  Ron shifted, stretching his legs out and crossing them at the ankle.  He was so tall that it was quite a bit of leg to manage.

“It likely would.”  Draco indulged himself very briefly in rubbing his chin against Tao’s soft dark hair.  Tao made for a very pleasant companion in social settings, he found.  He didn’t talk much, and he was straightforward about what he wanted.

“That might not be such a bad thing,” Ron commented. 

This time Draco turned fully to face him.  “What do you mean by that?”

Ron was quiet for a moment before he spoke.  “My wife is a brilliant woman.  She’ll go as far as it’s possible to go, I have no doubt.  And she thinks long term, it’s just the way her mind works.  So even if she has no immediate ambition, it’s not out of the realm of possibility that she could be trying to build the kind of Ministry she wants to lead, if you follow me.”

Draco did.

“And so with the best of intentions, she can be…the slightest bit…well, I’d get in trouble if I used the word ‘pushy,’ but…  She doesn’t actually know what it’s like to be an Auror.  That’s not something you can just read about and understand completely.  She knows what it was like to be married to one, and what it was like to have one as her best friend.  Neville left the Aurors early on, and that wasn’t much of a surprise – being the Herbology teacher at Hogwarts suits him right down to the ground, of course.  And then I left, because it’s a dangerous job and we were expecting our first, and staying home with Rosie and Hugo has been the best thing I ever did.”

Draco waited, knowing that there was more.

“Harry never would have left without a good reason,” Ron said finally.  “And not because he ‘wanted a change’ or whatever bollocks he keeps telling people.  There was some stuff that happened right at the end of his time as an Auror, but it’s got to go deeper than what he’s said to any of us.  So while it’s rare that I ever disagree with the mother of my children, since she is right nearly all the time, she might not be when it comes to this.”

“You don’t think he wants the job,” Draco said.

Ron shook his head.  “I wish he’d actually speak up about it.  But he’s always been too busy making himself into what everyone else wants him to be.”

The flood of relief that Draco felt was almost shocking, but the sense of not-quite-satisfaction that he felt at knowing that there was at least one person in Harry’s life who cared about him and who also saw what he had was immense.  “You should tell him that.”

“You think so?”  Ron glanced at him.

“I don’t think he hears enough that he’s allowed to say no.  To do what makes him happy.”

“You think you make him happy, Malfoy?”  Ron’s gaze was challenging.

Yes.

“No,” Draco said, knowing that wanting something didn’t make it true.  He didn’t even know if Harry was happy with the way things were now, in this moment – but even if he was, he was a Gryffindor.  He’d want to live his entire life in the open, and Draco didn’t fit in it.  He didn’t fit here, among Harry’s family.  He didn’t even fit in this country.

Ron huffed, sounding somewhat surprised.  He let the conversation lapse into silence, and Draco was grateful for it.

“Dad, come and see!”  Hugo ran up to Ron, grabbing his hand and trying his best to pull him to his feet.  “You can see everything, and it’s not even magic!”

Ron sighed theatrically, letting his arms and legs go limp.  “I’m too boneless, Hugo, you’re going to have to go and whip up a batch of Skelegrow.”

“No, you’re not!”  Hugo rolled his eyes, seizing Ron’s other hand and leaning back, heels digging into the ground.  “Come on!”

Laughing, Ron got to his feet, allowing his son to tug him over to the telescope.  All of the children had gathered around it now, and Junie was beaming as they oohed and ahhed at the sight of the moon in its lens. 

“See!”  Tao demanded, bouncing in Draco’s lap.

“You are a merciless tyrant,” Draco told him, heaving himself up anyway.  Fletch and Gabe gave him nervous looks as he approached, but clearly the prospect of seeing the moon up close was worth enough to stand their ground.

A tall, gangly red-haired girl who Draco presumed to be Rosie was bent over the eyepiece, looking her fill. 

“It’s brilliant,” she declared.  “But you know what’s even better, Junie?  The tallest tower at Hogwarts castle is the Astronomy Tower, it has loads of magical filters and stuff that lets you see through clouds or the moon’s aura, and if you look at Jupiter…”

Her voice was drowned out by the rush of blood in Draco’s ears, and he had enough presence of mind to hand Tao over to Dee before he walked briskly away.  He was nearly blind to where he was going, he was so overcome with the memories that had broken out of his carefully compartmentalized mind.

It wasn’t so much the mere mention of the Astronomy Tower, Draco realized, stumbling over a rock in the darkness.

It was the children.

He had let Death Eaters into the castle, with children just like these ones.  He had let Fenrir Greyback gain access to a castle full of sleeping children.  He had opened up the Vanishing Cabinet and just…set them loose.

The other students hadn’t seemed so young when he himself was only sixteen.  Sixteen and a newly-minted Death Eater himself, thrust into the role of protecting his mother from her own sister and the barely human thing that his father had invited into their house.

But now he was plagued with images of these children in the same situation he’d created for his fellow students more than twenty years ago, his mind conjuring up visions of their broken and grieving parents, and his stomach wanted to reject every last bit of food he’d eaten during the evening.

He’d managed to stagger his way downhill, he realized, when he saw the Burrow ahead of him.

The front door of the haphazard house wasn’t locked, and it was only a matter of a moment for him to find the Floo powder in the terra cotta flower pot set atop the mantle. 

His journey through the Floo network was slightly rougher than the previous one, the edge of one passing fireplace clipping his shoulder as he rushed past it, until finally he was at Grimmauld Place.  He stumbled out of the hearth, no doubt tracking ashes onto the carpet.

The drawing room was momentarily empty before a loud crack announced the arrival of Pipsy.  The elf blinked up at him in surprise, tilting her head and peeking around him, no doubt looking for Harry.

“Draco Malfoy, sir, you is looking unwell,” Pipsy said, her enormous eyes full of concern.  “Pipsy can be fetching a tea tray –”

“My – my mother?”  Draco gasped out, his chest feeling tight.

“Mistress Narcissa has gone to bed,” Pipsy said.  “But Pipsy can be waking her –”

“No,” Draco said, lurching over to the armchair and letting himself collapse into it.  “Please leave, Pipsy.  Please.”

The elf pursed her lips in disapproval, clearly reluctant to go.  But she bowed her head in acknowledgement and Apparated away.

Draco gritted his teeth and leaned back into the chair, closing his eyes and trying to regulate his breathing.  He reminded himself, over and over, that all of it was in the past, that there was no threat to the Weasley children or to Junie or Tao, and especially not from him.  His head ached fiercely, and he knew that there was nothing to do but endure until his body either exhausted itself or he was able to calm down.

The hissing and popping of the fireplace, in combination with the sudden flare of green illuminating the room, told him that Harry had followed him.  He turned his face toward the wall, still trying to force his lungs to breathe deeply and not in short, agonizing gasps. 

“What can I do?”  Harry asked, putting a hand on Draco’s knee.

Draco refused to look at him, tightening his grip on the arms of the chair until his hands went white. 

“I’m fine,” he managed to wheeze.

“Fuck, Malfoy,” Harry growled.  “Why do you never ask for help?”

That surprised Draco enough to bring him slightly closer to a normal breathing rhythm.  “What?”

“You never ask for help, even when you desperately need it,” Harry said, his frustration evident in his face.  “And you’ve always been like this, even when we were at school.”

“No one was interested in helping me then,” Draco said.

“That’s not true,” Harry said hotly.  “I can guess why you had to leave tonight – I thought of it, too.  I was there, remember?”

That had been one of the key components of Harry’s testimony during the trials, that Draco had only disarmed Albus Dumbledore at the top of the Astronomy Tower.  That, and the fact that Dumbledore had been weeks away from death at most, and had ordered Severus Snape to kill him should it become necessary.

“Dumbledore offered you help then,” Harry continued, really building up steam now.  “He gave you a chance to change sides, he offered to protect your parents –”

“He offered me nothing,” Draco snapped, shoving Harry’s hand away.  “There was no real choice for me, the Death Eaters were already in the castle because I let them in.  Even if he were telling the truth, there wasn’t time –”

“What do you mean, if he was telling the truth?  He would have helped you if you accepted his offer!”

“How was I to know that?”  Draco glared up at Harry.  “He’d never said a word directly to me before that night, I didn’t know him!  He was the enemy, Potter!  I was brought up to see him as nothing more than an obstacle in the way of how things were supposed to be, to understand that he hated me, my family, and others like us just as much as I was taught to hate him.”

Harry stared at him, his brow wrinkled in confused anger.

Draco took a deep breath, finally able to let his lungs fill with air completely, and to let it back out without coughing or gasping.  “Sit down, Potter.  I’m tired and I don’t want to keep craning my neck.”

Harry sat right on the coffee table, not seeming to care that it creaked slightly as he put his weight on it.  He looked expectantly at Draco, eyes intense and focused.

“You and I grew up very differently,” Draco began, then paused, unsure how to continue.  “Do me the courtesy of listening to what I have to say, and opening your mind to exactly how different it was.”

At Harry’s nod, Draco laced his hands together, squeezing his knuckles to the point of pain to ground himself.

“Imagine that you were raised with a certain set of beliefs.  You were told your entire life that the world had a specific order to it, and that there were others out there who were determined to go against the way things were supposed to be.  To go against what was just naturally right.  That you were special, because of your blood status and because you knew the truth.  It didn’t matter when you finally got to go to school and meet some of these people who fought against the natural order, because you were told about them, about how wrong they were.  You were told that they would try to convince you that what you knew to be the truth wasn’t true at all.  That when you resisted them, when you acted in the way that was right and proper for you to act, that they would despise you, hate you, and that was fine because soon everything was going to be fixed.”

Draco blew out a breath.  “I trusted my parents, Harry.  I told myself that they couldn’t be wrong, no matter what my lived experience was, what I saw, what I was told in class, who I met – none of it was good enough evidence to set my entire worldview on its head, you understand?  I had to believe that they were right, more so with every passing year, as things grew worse and worse…  Do you remember our first year, when we had detention with Hagrid and went into the Forbidden Forest with him?”

Harry nodded, but didn’t say anything, his eyes still fixed on Draco’s.

“You remember that thing in the forest, that killed the unicorn to drink its blood.”  Draco paused.  “I ran from it, and you should have, too.  Imagine that your father then invited it to live in your house – your father, who loved you, and promised you everything.  If he brought something like that into the place you always thought of as home, he must have had a good reason to do it, mustn’t he?  Because the alternative – that he made a grave mistake which put your entire family in danger – was unthinkable.  Any moments of doubt I may have had…well.  They didn’t matter, because I had spent years making myself the enemy of anyone who could have helped.  And then this.”  Draco tapped his left forearm, and Harry’s eyes dropped to it immediately, as though they could perceive the Mark even through the heavy wool sweater sleeve covering it up. 

“So no, Harry.  I couldn’t believe anything that Dumbledore offered me, because what he was offering was impossible.  Voldemort had come into my life and taken control of every single aspect of it, including my parents.  Including me.  That wasn’t something that could be changed in the few seconds when I thought I was alone with Dumbledore.”

“You didn’t do it, though,” Harry said quietly.  “You had the chance to kill him and you didn’t.”

“And at the time I felt it as a failure that was going to cost mine and my parents’ lives,” Draco replied.  “It wasn’t bravery, it was weakness.”

“That’s not how I see it.”

“Oh?”  Draco asked tiredly.  “You see everything through Gryffindor-colored glasses, Harry.  Things are right or wrong, people are good or bad.  The truth is much more complicated.  I was an entitled little fascist shit when I was a child.  The fact that I was also, in a way, a victim of someone even worse doesn’t erase that.  It doesn’t erase what I did do, to you and everyone else.”

“Give me a bit of credit,” Harry said, his lips curving up into a small smile.  “I’ve grown up a little since then, all right?  And looking back at the choices I had, which weren’t really choices at all, I can see where you felt the same way.  As for what you did…  What I did…  We can’t take any of that back, Draco.  All we can do is move forward.”

“You move forward,” Draco quipped.  “I’ll move across the Atlantic.”

There was a brief flash of something like pain in Harry’s eyes for just a moment, there and gone so quickly that Draco wasn’t even sure that he’d seen it.

“Right,” Harry said, his tone light.  He leaned forward, capturing Draco’s lips in a kiss, his big hands covering Draco’s where they were placed on the armrests.  “For the moment, then, how about you and I move upstairs?”

“Yes,” Draco said, kissing his way down to Harry’s jaw and then lightly scraping his teeth against the stubble there.  “Let’s do that.”

Chapter 20

Draco came awake slowly, his body tensing at the sensation of unfamiliar sheets against his skin and the fact that the room he was in was larger than his small two-bedroom tent entirely.  It took him a moment to remember that he’d fallen asleep at Grimmauld Place.  In Harry’s bedroom.  In Harry’s bed.  With Harry.

Contrary to his expectations of the previous evening, once Harry had Draco upstairs the ensuing activities had consisted of Harry distracting Draco with long, unhurried kisses while stripping them both down to their briefs.  Then Draco had found himself under the covers of the large four-poster bed, which were softer and warmer than he’d expected, with the furnace-like heat of Harry’s body at his back.  His eyes were already drifting closed by the time he’d even suspected that he was being taken care of, which was not something he’d ever asked or required of previous sexual partners.  The fact that Harry had managed it without him noticing spoke either to his exhaustion or to Harry’s quiet subtlety.  Quite possibly both.  Draco couldn’t help but be slightly impressed.  He wouldn’t have known that Harry had it in him.

Still trying to shake off the remnants of sleep and content to stay snug under the covers for a moment, Draco examined what he could see of Harry’s bedroom.  It was significantly more Harry than anything else he’d seen of Grimmauld Place, in that it was a bit messy when compared to the obvious care the house elves put into keeping the rest of the house in order.  There were clothes hanging out of the half-open drawers of the dresser, while its top was covered in seemingly random items.  There were letters, a few drawings that looked to have been done by various children, a random assortment of Chocolate Frog cards, three Golden Snitches of various international styles, a Sneakoscope balanced precariously on the edge.  There were framed photographs both on the dresser and the walls.  Some had obviously been taken some time ago, as their smiling and waving inhabitants were people that Draco knew to be long dead.  Many were more recent, and depicted people from Hogwarts, the extended Weasley clan, and quite famous figures in the wizarding world – Quidditch players in particular. 

Harry himself appeared only rarely in any of the wide array of photos, and when he did he was hanging close to the edge of the frame, his attention on the other people in the photo, as if he were studiously avoiding the attention of the viewer.  And that was very Harry, too.  As often as Draco had accused him of reveling in the spotlight when they were at school together, it had always been painfully clear that Harry was uncomfortable with the notoriety he could never escape. 

Even with the sections of clutter, the master bedroom of Grimmauld Place felt slightly cavernous.  Some previous member of the Black family had likely magically altered it to their architectural taste years back, giving it a higher ceiling than the Muggle homes on either side would have had.  All of it gave the impression of a very formal type of emptiness which was reminiscent of the Manor when it had still been livable.  Nothing like the cramped but cozy chaos of the Burrow.

No wonder Harry didn’t spend much time here.

Behind him, a short snore which reversed course and became a deep sigh preceded a questing hand, callouses scratching lightly across Draco’s chest before Harry dragged himself right up against his back, with nothing between them but the fabric of their briefs.  And that did nothing to disguise the hard length of Harry’s cock situated snugly in the cleft of Draco’s arse. 

Draco’s own cock, which had already been half-hard from sleep, perked right up in response.  He moved his hips back, grinding his arse against Harry’s body, and was rewarded with a pleased hum and the tightening of Harry’s arm across his chest.  That was comforting in more ways than one, because if Draco were to leave this bed after nothing more than a surprisingly good night’s rest and chaste cuddling, then that resembled something that was closer to a relationship than this thing between them had any right to be.  More importantly, wanting Harry had never been the problem, only any opportunities to act upon it.  And he wasn’t about to waste any of those.

So he turned under Harry’s arm, pushing at the other man’s shoulder until he lay flat on his back.  Harry’s look of surprise was adorably squinty, since his specs were still resting on the nightstand.  Surprise quickly turned to pleasure when Draco slid his hand inside Harry’s briefs and wrapped his fingers around his thick length, giving it a few hard strokes.

Harry reached for Draco, but Draco grabbed both of Harry’s wrists and pressed them into the mattress at his sides, not forcing, only asking silently that he keep them there.  Harry licked his lips, his chest heaving as his breath quickened, and he gave a slight nod. 

Draco lowered his mouth to Harry’s lightly furred chest, leaving a trail of hot kisses as he worked his fingers back under the waistband of Harry’s briefs, tugging them down.  He was tempted to try Vanishing them just for the convenience, even without his wand, but that was not something that was done without at least a little conversation first – and his mouth was already occupied with one of Harry’s nipples. 

He reveled in having his hand once again around Harry’s cock, feeling the small involuntary jerks of Harry’s hips as he nibbled and sucked at the sensitive skin of his pecs and then continued to work his way down his torso, shifting his position on the bed as he did so.  He took a moment to breathe in the scent of musky cypress before whispering a quick cleaning charm.

Séneca had always laughed at Draco for his fastidiousness, claiming that primal acts should always be at least a little filthy, but Draco didn’t see the point in risking unpleasantness when there were spells readily available, or soap and water at the very least. 

Draco settled between Harry’s muscular thighs, keeping his hand around the hot velvety skin of his cock before pulling it back to reveal the head, a bead of pre-come glistening at its tip.  He licked it away, pulling a deep groan from Harry, and he chuckled, letting Harry feel his breath.  He took his time, ignoring the way Harry’s grunts grew higher in pitch and length, until they were more properly described as whines.  But Draco was not going to be rushed.  He ran his tongue along the thick vein that pulsed on the underside of Harry’s cock, letting a hand drift lower to cradle his sac, rolling it gently but insistently between his fingers.

When Harry’s thighs started trembling, the intensity of his choked out moans increasing, Draco let Harry’s cock slip out of his mouth, holding off his orgasm with a hand around the base.  He paid some attention to the deliciously sensitive juncture between thigh and groin, leaving wet kisses and soft, teasing bites behind before letting himself meet Harry’s gaze.  Harry was glaring at him, frustration battling with the heat of lust in his expression.  His hands were gripping the sheets, right where Draco had put them, and Draco gave him a slight smirk. 

Trailing his hand even further down, Draco tapped a finger at the furled muscle between Harry’s cheeks, looking up at him with a raised eyebrow.  Harry nodded furiously, and Draco felt a soft thump on the bed next to his hand – the phial of potion that he’d made sure was in his satchel, just in case.  He held Harry’s cock in his mouth to free up his hands, taking the stopper out and pouring a small amount of potion onto the fingers of his right hand. 

He went gently at first, one finger only, swirling it around Harry’s hole as he resumed sucking him off, pressing in when he felt the bed jolt as Harry dug his heels into the mattress.  He gave Harry some time to adjust before exploring, moving the pad of his finger just so until –

Harry bucked so hard that his cock went deeper down Draco’s throat than he’d prepared for, and he gagged and coughed in surprise.  Harry immediately lowered his hips back to the bed, his mouth opening to issue an apology, which Draco neatly circumvented by sliding in another finger and giving Harry’s prostate a firm stroke.  Harry’s back arched off the bed as he cried out.

Draco wrapped his free arm around Harry’s thigh and took in as much of Harry’s length as he comfortably could, speeding up the motion of his fingers.  Harry’s aborted shout and subsequent gasping pants were exactly the reaction he’d been hoping for, an immense swell of pride and gratification coursing through him at being able to pull these noises, these movements from Harry’s body, that he was able to give Harry this pleasure.  He wasn’t even seeking any friction on his own neglected cock, keeping his not inconsiderable focus solely on Harry.

When Harry came it was with a strangled growl, flooding Draco’s mouth with the salty, bitter taste of his spend and then suddenly releasing all of the tension in his muscles at once.  His arms and legs went limp, his chest heaving with the effort of having had to hold himself in check.

Draco popped off of his cock, planting a kiss just below Harry’s navel, still hard but more satisfied than he’d ever been while having sex.  He carefully withdrew his fingers, performing the cleaning charm again, and let his head rest on Harry’s stomach, giving himself a moment to catch his own breath.

Harry clearly had different plans for him, however, as Draco felt strong hands suddenly slide under his arms.  He was pulled up on the bed and then flipped over onto his back so quickly that he bounced before Harry was weighing him down, his lips trapped in a scorching kiss as his briefs were yanked down.  He barely had a moment to register his shock at being so casually tossed around before Harry pulled away and moved down his body.

There was none of the finesse that Harry had previously shown as he swallowed Draco’s cock almost brutally, sucking hard enough that Draco’s eyes rolled back and he grabbed for anything to keep him tethered, his fingers scraping against Harry’s scalp before getting a firm grip on his thick black hair.  Harry was merciless, in spite of his movements being a little sloppy and uncoordinated, still feeling the effects of his own orgasm.  But it wasn’t long before Draco was coming himself, spilling down Harry’s throat. 

The two of them lay there in silence for a moment, basking in the lassitude that was the rush of pleasure slowly leaving their bodies.  Draco almost felt as though he could sleep for hours more, which still wouldn’t come close to making up for years of neglecting that need.  But he always felt as though he had better – or at least more urgent – things to do than sleep.  On the Esperanza it had been his research, and here it was dealing with the Manor.  But at this moment, spending the day in bed with Harry seemed like the most consequential use of his time.

A prickling sensation on the ring finger of his right hand disabused him of that fanciful notion, the feeling steadily increasing until it was sharp enough to make him wince.

“We need to go,” he said reluctantly, carding his fingers through Harry’s hair.

Harry gave a muffled grunt of protest, tightening his arms around Draco’s waist.

“There’s someone at the Manor who shouldn’t be.  The gates are keeping them out, but…”

“Mmmph.  Yeah, we should go,” Harry said, fumbling around for Draco’s hand, lifting it and planting a kiss on the inside of his wrist.

Draco couldn’t hide the shiver this induced, and Harry’s chuckle was one last, fleeting moment of heat against his skin before the other man heaved himself up and out of bed. 

Neither of them took long to get ready, although Draco allowed himself a moment of intense envy at the sight of the enormous clawfoot bathtub in the ensuite to Harry’s bedroom.  His tent was perfectly serviceable but there was very little about it that could be considered luxurious.  For the most part he had acclimated to a very different standard of living than the one in which he’d been raised, but it was a shame to see such an amenity go unappreciated.

Draco hadn’t let himself dwell upon facing the other inhabitants of Grimmauld Place when he’d taken Harry’s hand and followed him up the stairs the night before.  He’d rationalized it by telling himself that the house elves had no interest in anything outside the harmony of the house, or at least no present motivation to spill anyone’s secrets.  And his mother already suspected that there was something between him and Harry.  Would it make much of a difference if there was some small confirmation of it?

The answer was slightly more complicated than a simple yes or no, which was fitting.  Narcissa was rarely straightforward about anything.  She greeted Draco and Harry at the table in the dining room, which was laden with everything that was required for a full English breakfast.  Pipsy and Kreacher had outdone themselves, certainly producing much more food than three humans and two house elves could eat in one sitting. 

Narcissa regarded both of them calmly without saying a word, even after Harry had filled his plate and planted his elbows firmly on the table as he ate.  Her blue eyes swept over them both, taking in every detail – including the fact that her son was wearing the same clothes she had seen him in the previous day (spelled clean, of course, as there was only so much morning after shame Draco was willing to incur).  Draco found that his appetite was suddenly lacking, and limited himself to tea and toast.  His father’s ring had not let up on its warning, stinging his skin relentlessly as he knew it would until he was back at the Manor. 

“I trust you both spent a pleasant evening with the Weasley family?”  Narcissa asked conversationally.

“The weather was lovely,” Draco said truthfully.  He hesitated only a moment before adding, “Aunt Andromeda and Teddy both looked well.”

There was a loud clink as Narcissa set her fork down, missing the table and letting it clatter against the edge of her plate. 

“Did they,” she said finally.  “I’m glad to hear it.  The festivities must have gone very late, seeing as I have the pleasure of your company this morning.”

Harry nearly choked on a bite of fried tomato and egg, his eyes flicking to Draco before taking a large swallow of tea and getting to his feet.  “I’ve, er, got to talk to Pipsy about something before we leave.  Excuse me.”  And then he fled the room.

Draco let out a small sigh, looking at his mother with reproach.

Narcissa’s eyes were dancing with repressed amusement.  “He scares easily for a former Auror.”

“He has enough experience to recognize a formidable opponent,” Draco replied, raising his teacup to her in a mock toast.  “But I think he knows that he can trust your discretion.”

“Indeed he may, as long as I can trust him to treat my son with the respect he deserves,” Narcissa said evenly.  Her tone was mild, but the meaning behind it was anything but.

“Mother –”

“That is non-negotiable,” Narcissa cut him off.  “I won’t entertain unreasonable expectations.  I am aware of the complexity of the situation, though I will own that I remain hopeful for your happiness.  However far this progresses, he will respect you, or I will take pains to show him where he has erred.”

“Understood,” Draco said, the warmth of love he felt for her warring with the sense of futility when he thought about the impossibility of a future with Harry.  The idea was laughable.

He rose from his chair, crossing the room and bending down to kiss his mother’s cheek.  “I love you, Mother.”

Narcissa took hold of his hand with both of hers, her eyes glittering with emotion.  They were rarely so direct at verbalizing their affections toward each other.  “I love you, Draco.  Be safe, my son.”

~ * ~

There were nearly a dozen owls perched along the gates to the Malfoy estate when Harry’s motorbike touched down.  Draco was so focused on the highly visible scarlet envelopes that some of them had clutched in their talons that he almost didn’t notice the figure who was standing off to the side, hands tucked into the pockets of her heavy wool tartan pea coat.

“Pansy,” Draco greeted her warily, unfolding his legs from the sidecar.  He elected to ignore the owls for the moment. 

“Draco,” Pansy Parkinson smiled at him, just a hint of genuine fondness peeking through her carefully crafted expression.  “It’s been far too long.”

“Not long enough,” Harry muttered, tapping his wand against the sidecar to retract it back into the body of the motorbike, then Disillusioning the vehicle entirely.

“The public had a legitimate interest in that spectacle with the Billywigs,” Pansy said virtuously.  “Though primarily they were interested in the extended series of half-page photographs of giggling Aurors floating up to the rafters of the White Wyvern pub, after a – forgive me – sting gone wrong.”

Harry scowled at her, and Draco had to suppress a snort of laughter, making a note to himself to request some copies of the Prophet’s archived issues sometime soon.

“What are you doing here?”  Draco asked, noting that the prickling sensation in his ring finger had finally ceased. 

Pansy raised her immaculately shaped eyebrows.  “Why, I’m here in my role as a journalist, of course.”

“We can’t comment on the ongoing work related to the Manor,” Harry said brusquely.  “But I can refer you to Public Information Services –”

“No, thank you,” Pansy said politely.  “I’m afraid that Director Munro is still quite cross with me after that unfortunate article about the extremely inappropriate relationship between Derora Wilkins from Magical Games and Sports and Marcel Moreau of the International Quidditch Committee, which utterly tanked the British-Irish League’s chances at hosting the next World Cup.”

“I think Munro was more upset that your article included quotes from Derora’s kids, who were ambushed on a Hogsmeade weekend and asked about their mum’s affair, which was the first they’d ever heard of it,” Harry said flatly.

Pansy’s expression tightened.  “That wasn’t me.  Barnabus thought the piece needed more color, and he sent Chester Lanius up to Scotland.”

“Your name on the byline,” Harry pointed out.

“Oh, Potter,” Pansy fluttered her eyelashes at him.  “I wasn’t aware that you followed my work so closely.”

“Speak to Shacklebolt or Munro, Pansy,” Draco said.  “Potter is correct.  You won’t be getting any comment from us.”

“Oh?  And what if I asked you about the Floo network outage that was reported this morning?”

“Outage?”  Harry asked, his body going tense.

“All the connected fireplaces from here to Hampshire,” Pansy confirmed, all traces of humor gone.  “Magical Transportation has been inundated with owls since dawn.”  Her gaze flicked to the line of owls still perched on the gates.  The red envelopes were beginning to vibrate and smoke.

Draco suddenly remembered his return trip from the Burrow the previous evening, and knocking his shoulder during his passage through the web of joined hearths.  He’d hardly noticed it at the time, and chalked it up to his distress preventing him from taking as much care as he should.  But what if it was a warp caused by one of the threads in that web snapping entirely?

A chill rolled down his spine, and he turned his head to look at the Manor.  Hermione had said that the effect of the Dark magic contaminating the ley line was exacerbated by natural magical cycles, and Samhain was a significant point in those cycles, almost on par with a solstice.  He wasn’t as familiar with ley lines as he was with other ways magic played a role in the environment, but there would come a point in which the natural structure of magic in Wiltshire would reach a catastrophic collapse, and the impacts would spread far wider than arbitrary county boundaries.

Behind them, the first of the Howlers burst into flame, the magically amplified voice of its sender booming out so suddenly that all three of them jumped.

“– DEATH EATER SCUM, THEY SHOULD HAVE EXECUTED YOU AFTER THE TRIALS OR AT LEAST LOCKED YOU IN THE DEEPEST CELL IN AZKABAN AND VANISHED THE KEY.  THERE WASN’T ENOUGH DEATH AND DESTRUCTION FOR YOU, YOU HAD TO GO AND RUIN EVERYTHING YOU COULD –”

Another Howler exploded into overlapping noise.

“YOU WERE ALWAYS ROTTEN TO THE CORE, DRACO MALFOY, THIS IS JUST FURTHER PROOF OF IT.  YOU ARE A SCOURGE ON WIZARDING KIND AND I WILL BE WRITING THE MINISTER –”

And another.

“– KNOW WHERE YOU LIVE, YOU EVIL PUREBLOOD FILTH.  WE’RE NOT GOING TO LET YOU GET AWAY WITH IT THIS TIME.  IF THE MINISTRY ISN’T GOING TO ACT, THEN BE ASSURED THAT WE WILL –”

And another.

“– AT LEAST YOUR BASTARD FATHER HAD THE GOOD SENSE TO DIE.  IF THERE WERE ANY DECENCY IN YOU AT ALL, YOU’D –”  

“Silencio maxima!”  Harry bellowed, slashing his wand through the air.

There was an abrupt and total silence, all of the Howlers instantly withering into nothing but ash.  The owls which had been tasked with delivering them took off, flapping away as though their tails had caught fire along with the missives.  The other owls, which still held more seemingly benign post, shifted nervously on their perches along the top rail of the gates.

Howlers weren’t generally supposed to be Silenceable.  That was rather the point of the enchantment they carried, and certainly Draco had never been able to accomplish it himself with previous Howlers he’d received.  And Harry had just done it with four of them, and two which hadn’t even started burning yet. 

Draco startled when he felt a light touch on his arm, whipping his head around to look at Pansy.  Her face was a combination of fury and a deep sadness.  “Are you all right?”

“Fine,” Draco answered automatically, only just now becoming aware of the way his hands were trembling slightly.  His heart was racing, the adrenaline still making its way through him, off-balance after the sudden explosion and equally sudden cessation of such awful noise.  There was something slightly familiar about one of the voices from the Howlers, but everything had happened so quickly that he couldn’t pinpoint which one.  Nor would he be able to investigate further, since the envelopes and accompanying handwriting were now burned down to practically nothing.

“I’ll put you both down as ‘no comment,’” Pansy said, giving Draco’s arm a squeeze.  “And maybe drop a word in Munro’s ear about Owl Post deliveries to this address, when I speak to them next.”

Harry eyed her suspiciously.  “Simple as that?”

“Nothing about this is simple, Potter,” Pansy said, narrowing her eyes at him.  “All I can say is that you’re lucky that Barnabas assigned this story to me.  I know how to handle him, but stonewalling can only go so far.  And eventually the news is big enough that it will get reported one way or another.”

“Thank you, Pans,” Draco said quietly, knowing that she understood exactly what he was thanking her for.  She wasn’t stupid.  She’d been Draco’s main source of gossip while they were at school together.  She knew who to talk to and who to listen to, and as a reporter for the Daily Prophet she could easily stir up exactly the kind of press that Hermione was so concerned about, when it came to Harry.

“Give my regards to your mother,” Pansy said.

Draco gave her a faint smile.  Pansy was perfectly able to pass her regards on to Narcissa herself, as she was another integral part of Narcissa’s network of informants on rumors and hearsay about the location of fugitive Death Eaters.  “I will.”

Pansy nodded decisively.  “I’ll be off then, as you two clearly have quite a bit of work to do.”  She reached into the pocket of her pea coat and withdrew a stylish broom, with a polished ebony shaft and elegantly shaped twigs.  There was a bright silver inlay of runes that offered protection against the cold and wind, and a comfortable-looking seat and foot grips.

With a wink at Draco, Pansy sat astride the broom and lifted off, Disillusioning herself before she rose above the tops of the trees on the opposite side of the road.

Harry was busy retrieving the other letters from the legs of the remaining owls, shooing each bird away as he went. 

“Be careful with those,” Draco said, asking the gates to open for them with a slight wave of his right hand.  The iron obligingly transformed into its smoky essence, allowing the two of them to pass through.

“I’ll check them over,” Harry said gruffly.  His face was set in a mask of banked rage, clearly still unhappy at hearing the Howlers meant for Draco.  Possibly also at seeing Pansy again, since they obviously didn’t get on with each other.

A flurry of flapping wings and cacophony of squawks and calls greeted them as they neared the Manor, the ravens clamoring for their daily treat.  Grito glided down from his perch in the field maple, passing close enough to Draco that he felt the lightest brush of feathers against his hair.  The bird landed on the grass at his feet, pecking and pulling at his trouser leg.

“We need to get into the cellar.”  Draco let the statement hang in the air, letting himself drift away from the yawning chasm of dread that the idea opened up inside his mind. 

“We haven’t yet finished clearing the hall.” Harry objected.

“We can get to the door,” Draco said, his tone more dismissive than he intended it to sound.  It was only that he had to keep the fear at bay, to bury it down deep so that he could do what needed to be done.

Harry huffed, running a hand through his hair, obviously thinking hard.  “I don’t like the idea of opening that door without any notion of what’s waiting at the bottom of those stairs.”

“But I know,” Draco said.  “Which means that if I tell you to do something, you do it.  No arguing, no questions.  And that includes running if I say so.”

“I can’t agree to that,” Harry said, adamantly.  “It’s my job to protect you –”

“That’s not your job,” Draco bit out.  “Our mission is clearing the Manor and healing the ley line.”

“It is my job, because you’re the lord of the Manor and Hermione says we need you to do that,” Harry retorted.  “And I promised you that we were both going to get out of this alive.  I won’t follow any orders that make me into a liar.”

Draco’s mouth snapped shut, and he met Harry’s gaze, unable to look away.  Harry stepped in to meet him, raising a hand to cup Draco’s cheek and brushing a thumb over those hidden scars.

“We’ll do this together,” Harry said softly.  “And I’ll follow your lead.  But you’re mad if you think for even a moment that I would leave you behind, Draco Malfoy.”

Chapter 21

There was a tradition that was held at the beginning of every voyage of the Esperanza, which typically involved circumnavigation of South America through waters which were treacherous for Muggles and magical folk alike.  Though of course Muggles didn’t know about the Obscure Winds or Hermetic Currents, and could not purposefully sail to the hidden places whose coordinates had been passed down through generations of the families whose members sailed with Séneca, who captained the ship that he had inherited from his own family.  Their journeys were very much the culmination of hundreds, if not thousands, of years of knowledge and stewardship.  Everyone who sailed with Séneca knew that the collection, harvesting, and bartering for rare magical goods was meant to sustain all of the generations that came after, not to make any one cohort obscenely wealthy.

That reputation for respectful prudence and forethought was a major component of why the peoples and beings they encountered on those voyages were willing to trade.  It was so different from the way the Malfoys had accumulated their own fortune, which had largely been through theft and force and extraction, that Draco had been fascinated to learn everything that the Esperanza’s crew had been willing to share. 

But friendly trading partners didn’t make the voyage itself safe.  Most of the time the profits outweighed the risk, but there had been many close calls and some fatalities among the crew even during the years that Séneca had allowed Draco to sail with them.  And so the tradition was for every crewmember to start a new voyage with at least one milagro, imbued with a protection spell by a family matriarch.  Draco wasn’t even certain that the custom was strictly magical in origin, intertwined as it was with one of the common faiths of the region.  But as he’d told Dee, there was far more modern cultural overlap between the magical and the Muggle in the Americas. 

Draco brushed his fingers over the soft velvet bag which held his own collection of milagros.  The crew had insisted that the protective effect of the charms worked best when everyone had one, and so he had dutifully purchased a new one for each of the voyages he’d made.  He loosened the string which cinched the opening of the bag and withdrew two of the charms without looking. 

Uncurling his fingers, he saw a small silver heart with intricately sculpted wings, and a pair of eyes, formed in such a way that the silhouette of the charm resembled the symbol for infinity.  Love, and vigilance.  Or at least that was Draco’s interpretation, since people carried milagros of various types for countless reasons.  In another time, in another place, a different and less experienced version of himself would have scoffed at the idea of carrying love into what was essentially a battle.

But Draco had learned many things over the years, and ironically enough it had been Voldemort himself who had indirectly taught him about how powerful love could be.  It had been wielded as a weapon and a tool of punishment against the Malfoys.  And it had also been the undoing, in so many ways, at so many moments, of one of the most powerful Dark wizards in history.

Draco hoped that it would be again, today.

He placed the milagros in one of the pockets of his waistcoat, then scooped up his satchel and slung it over his shoulder.  He also grabbed a sack of peanuts before exiting the tent, as the incredibly spoiled flock of ravens had not yet received their customary offering. 

Harry was standing just outside the ward circle, his arms crossed over his chest and looking pensively at the Manor.  A cool wind was sifting through the strands of his thick hair, having already brought in a billow of gloomy gray clouds which looked likely to threaten rain.  The scent of an impending storm was in the air, because of course the sun wouldn’t deign to shine on a day like today.

Draco let him be for the moment, scattering peanuts for the ravens, letting the now routine action and the happy burbles of the birds ground him.  If he let himself think for too long about what they were about to do, he might invent an excuse to put it off.  There were a number of reasons that he and Harry couldn’t, or shouldn’t, make this attempt today.  But none of them were quite good enough in light of what Draco knew in his bones was the very tenuous stability of the natural magical pathways of Wiltshire.  He had to hope that they would be able to make a difference, that things had not already gone beyond salvaging.

He had considered and discarded the notion of leaving a letter for his mother.  He didn’t want to be overly pessimistic about what lay ahead, and he had no regrets about the way he’d left her earlier that morning.  Besides, there was a line between preparation and procrastination, and he didn’t necessarily trust himself not to cross it.

“I sent a Patronus to Hermione.”

The sudden breaking of the silence between them was jarring, and Draco looked up from brushing peanut dust from his hands.  “Was that wise?”

“She’s not as impulsive as you might think, and I wanted to let her know to expect me to check in later.  And if not…”  The grim set to Harry’s mouth was all that was needed to convey the rest of that thought.

Draco dipped his fingers into the pocket of his waistcoat, retrieving one of the milagros.  It was the small heart with wings, as he somehow knew it would be.  He held it out, waiting for Harry to extend his hand before pressing the charm into his palm.

Harry took it, a quizzical look on his face.  He studied the milagro closely.  “What’s this?  It sort of looks like a Snitch.”

Draco’s lips twitched.  “Yes, it does a little.  Keep it on you.  It’s spelled for protection.”

Harry’s green eyes searched his face, his slight grin softening into something Draco wasn’t quite prepared to deal with.  He lifted the lapel of his anorak so that he could tuck the charm safely away in an inner pocket.  “Thank you.”

Shrugging uncomfortably, Draco turned his head to look at the Manor.  There was a slight rumble of far off thunder, which he felt was a tad overdramatic.  Still, he would prefer to be inside when it started to rain.

“Scared, Potter?”  He asked, removing his wand from the front pocket of his satchel and gripping it tightly.  He was surprised when he felt his free hand suddenly engulfed in Harry’s, warmth spreading from the tips of his fingers to the top of his shoulder in mere seconds.

“A bit, yeah,” Harry said.  “But let’s crack on anyway, shall we?”

There was a stillness to the Manor that felt ominous as Draco and Harry traced the established route to the main hallway.  Draco had packed into his satchel all of the spare nullification knitting that the Unspeakables at the Department of Mysteries had supplied, though the nets didn’t provide much of a sense of safety.  The grand hallway of the Manor was still littered with the traps and Dark devices that they had already deactivated, and the Filum revelio that Draco cast showed that there were still a few filament spells just waiting to be triggered.

The entrance to the stairway leading down to the cellars was a nondescript door that was easily missed by visitors to the Manor – particularly Ministry visitors from the Department of Misuse of Muggle Artefacts, and this wasn’t even the room that was protected by a Fidelius charm.  It was plain, painted the same color as the upper walls and bearing the same dark wood paneling as the lower. 

It had seen more use when the cellars had been used as a makeshift prison than Draco could remember for his entire sixteen years prior.  Not to mention its use for the storage of the Dark Lord’s personal possessions, limited as those were. 

“Wait,” Harry said, putting a hand out to block Draco when he would have approached the door. 

Draco stopped, giving Harry a questioning look.

Harry rummaged around one of the pockets of his anorak, letting out a tsk of frustration before he finally found what he’d been looking for.  In his hand was a small, animated model of a dragon, which flared its wings and hissed in a threat display when Draco leaned down to get a closer look at it. 

“That’s a Horntail, isn’t it?”  Draco asked, impressed by the detail of such a small figure.

“It is,” Harry said, a fond smile dimpling his cheek.  “I got it during our fourth year.”

“Wait, that’s –”  Draco looked up at him in shock.  “From the Tournament?”

“Yeah, they had us draw the figures out of a sack to assign each Champion to a dragon.  I kept mine.”

Draco felt his face flush slightly at the memory of sitting in the stands and watching with his heart in his throat as Harry dodged and weaved through the air on his broom, evading the spikes, flames, and teeth of a nesting Hungarian Horntail for the first task of the Triwizard Tournament.  His courage and skill had been unbearably attractive after it was clear that he had survived the encounter, and so naturally Draco had to do everything he could to make Harry’s life miserable for the entire year.

Pointing his wand at the tiny figurine, Harry adopted a look of fierce deliberation.  “Portus!”

The little model dragon lashed its spiked tail through the air, yellow eyes glinting, but otherwise seemed unaffected. 

“There,” Harry said with satisfaction.  He lifted the figurine up to the collar of his anorak, where it latched on and crawled behind his neck, nestling deep inside the hood.  “I’ve set it to take us to the kitchen in two hours if we’re both touching it at that time.  If we somehow make it out sooner than that, I’ll cancel the spell.”

“You don’t want to keep it safe in your pocket?”  Draco asked.

“A Portkey won’t activate from any of my pockets,” Harry explained.  “They’re all set with stasis charms, which interferes with the timing of the spell.”

“Ah.  Good thinking,” Draco said, turning his attention back to the cellar door.  There were no filament spells visible on the outside of it, but they would undoubtedly be triggering some by opening the door.  He set his wand between his teeth, freeing his hands so that he could fumble with the button of the cuff of his left sleeve.

“What are you doing?”  Harry asked, concern evident in his tone.

Draco focused on rolling up his sleeve, exposing the Mark.  It was dark, nearly black, and shone wetly like a fresh ink stain.  He took hold of his wand once more.  “Preparing.”

“Last resort, all right?”  Harry’s expression was stern.

“I wouldn’t be much use later on if I started with Dark magic,” Draco said dryly.  “I won’t use it at all if I don’t have to.”

He could tell that Harry wasn’t entirely satisfied with that response, and Draco felt a moment of uncertainty.  “Does it bother you?”

Harry blinked at him in surprise.  “Does what bother me?”

Draco gestured vaguely at his bared arm.  “Technically, using Dark magic is against the law.”

“Not just technically,” Harry said, the corner of his mouth lifting up in a lopsided grin.  “It’s actually pretty explicitly illegal.  But…  I’ve come to find that the Darkness is up here, a lot of the time.”  Harry tapped a finger to his temple.  “It’s not necessarily the magic itself – not in every case.  It’s the person who wields it.”

Draco didn’t quite know what to say to that, so he just gave a nod of acknowledgment.  Taking a deep breath, he took a step towards the door, raising his right hand and pressing his palm against it.  He made sure that the silver band of his father’s ring made contact with the flat surface, and tried to muster up every bit of authority and command he could.  He was the lord of the Manor, and he wanted to make that abundantly clear.

There was something there, a tingling response that warmed his palm, and then there was a click as the latch disengaged.  The door popped open barely an inch, and there was nothing but darkness beyond.  This was not the darkness born of a simple lack of illumination in the space beyond.  This was true darkness, much like what he’d achieved during that night at Hogwarts with the use of Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder.

Still, he lit the tip of his wand with a muttered “Lumos!” and carefully pulled the door wide open, casting a Sticking charm to keep it firmly in place. 

Harry moved to stand beside him, his own wand lit.  He held a hand out, and Draco took it.

And then they stepped into the darkness.

It was almost like crossing into another world.  The air was cold, damp, and still, like the inside of an unexplored cave.  The scent of petrichor had a bitter, almost rotten sharpness to it, and the air felt clingy, latching mistily onto skin and clothing and sending its chill right down to the bone. 

The light from Draco’s wand barely penetrated the darkness, illuminating nothing but his own arm.  He couldn’t see Harry’s light, and they were standing right next to each other.  It was as if the doorway behind them didn’t even exist, there was absolutely no light to be had from the hallway.

“I would say ‘watch your step,’” Draco said, trying for a droll tone and utterly missing the mark when his voice quavered slightly.  “But under the circumstances…”

There was a quietly amused huff nonetheless.  “How many steps?”

Draco racked his brain, digging for muscle memory that hadn’t been exercised in decades.  “The stairs are narrow, and there’s a curve as you go down.  I think a couple dozen steps.”

“All right.”  Harry’s voice felt like it was coming from far away, even though Draco had his hand in a tight grip.  “Let’s feel it out, one by one.  Don’t let go.”

“Not likely,” Draco agreed, and carefully moved his foot until he could sense the edge of the landing.  Then he pushed it slightly beyond, keeping most of his weight on his back foot, until he felt the next stair.

The process of forward movement was agonizingly slow, both of them taking their time with every cautious shift, every guarded footfall.  Without visible reference points it was impossible to know for certain that they were going anywhere.  It felt like they were descending the stairs, but Draco didn’t dare try to reach out with his wand hand to feel for the walls. 

On one of the steps downward his heel slipped and he jolted forward, his fall arrested only by Harry’s firm hold. 

“All right?”  Came Harry’s voice, sounding slightly strained.

Draco’s heart was pounding, but he was able to twist his body to get his feet flat on the stairs again.  “Fine,” he gasped.  “I’ve lost count – how many…Fuck!”

“What is it?”

Draco’s earring was all abuzz, the tiny Sneakoscope vibrating in warning.  He carefully moved his wand towards his left arm, where he felt a taught stinging sensation.  It was only when his light was hovering merely inches away from his other arm that he saw the faint shine of the filament spell that had snagged on the skin close to the Mark, a dark bead of blood welling up from where it had caught him. 

Almost as soon as he severed it, he heard a loud clank echo through the darkness, sounding like it came from behind them.  And then there was another.  And another. 

“I’m not sure we’re going to be able to take it slowly anymore,” Harry muttered.  “Do you want me to go ahead?”

“No.”  Draco swallowed, flinching as the sound came again, this time much closer.  “No, I can go faster.”

He was as careful as he dared to be while descending the stairs at a quicker pace.  It was fairly obvious that they were being herded downward, and he was equally certain that whatever waited for them at the bottom of the stairs was nothing good.  He just didn’t know what to do about it.  The light from his wand was no more effective now than it had been when they’d first passed the threshold of the cellar door.  And trying to cast a shield or something similar, which might impede their escape from whatever was behind them…  He didn’t like that idea, either.

The clanging noise was growing louder, faster, with less time between each sound, and he felt Harry pressing into his side, seemingly to avoid whatever might be behind them.  It was too dark to descend faster, not without losing his footing, and so Draco acted on the first best impulse that came to mind.  He focused on the fresh memory of waking up with Harry, of warmth and security and something that he thought might be happiness, but so was much more that the idea of it was incredibly daunting.

“Expecto patronum!”

The narrow passageway lit up with the glow from his ermine Patronus, the silver light sluggishly overcoming the oppressive darkness to the point that he could actually see the walls on either side of the narrow stairway. 

Unfortunately, Harry moved behind him in response to another loud clank, and his elbow pressed hard enough into Draco’s shoulder as to push him off balance.  His left foot skidded down two steps in quick succession and then he fell, his hand wrenching out of Harry’s grip as he skidded the rest of the way down the stairs on the outside of his knee and hip.  He slid right past his Patronus, leaving him with nothing but his wand for light.  Harry’s alarmed shout followed him, along with the now almost constant clanging.

Draco hit the lower landing with a hard thud, an entire side of his body aching.  The knuckles of his wand hand scraped against the carved limestone floor, and something shiny glinted just past the small circle of the Lumos light.  He leaned forward carefully, trying to get a better look, when he felt a hand slip into his and squeeze it tight.

For just a fleeting moment he felt relief.

But there was no possible way to mistake that cold, clammy, inhumanly strong grip for Harry’s hand.  Or the hand of anything living.

Air rushed out of his lungs, his chest contracting with fear as he tried to yank his hand back.  He gasped in a breath and screamed, as loud as he could.  “Inferi!”

He clawed at the hand that was wrapped around his, trying not to drop his wand, but the Inferi’s hold was uncompromising, implacable.  He struggled to his knees in an attempt to rise to his feet, when another hand snaked around his neck, the palm pressing hard against his windpipe. 

Draco fought with everything he had, kicking his legs in an attempt to dig his heels into the limestone floor while simultaneously trying to cast a nonverbal Incendio over his shoulder.  There was a brief flare of heat and light, but he couldn’t get the wand movement right while trying to fight off the hands of the Inferi.

A third hand grasped a fistful of the back of his waistcoat, pulling him inexorably back toward the wall.  He was starting to see small sparks of white light dancing at the edges of his limited vision, the lack of air quickly becoming his biggest concern.

“Expecto patronum!”

An enormous silver stag exploded into being almost right in front of him, Harry coming down the last of the stairs and looking around frantically.  His eyes fell on Draco, nearly immobilized by the clenched hands of multiple Inferi, and his face went dark with fury.

“Incendio maxima!”

Flames spewed forth from Harry’s wand, shooting past Draco so close that he felt the breeze created by the contrast between sudden heat and the cold air of the stairway.  There were no shrieks or howls or gasps – Inferi weren’t capable of making any vocalizations.  But he could feel the hand around his throat weakening as the flames spread behind him. 

He sagged to the floor as the Inferi’s arms were burned away from their bodies, and he scrabbled over to Harry’s feet, cowering away from both the flames and the dead.  His glowing white ermine bounded over to meet him, clambering up his arm to sit on his shoulder.  With the illumination from both Patronuses and the flames from Harry’s wand, he could see that the entire archway of the landing was lined with the torsos and upper bodies of pale, bloodless corpses, as though the limestone had been made pliant and swallowed half of them before hardening again.  There were even a few Inferi reaching down from the ceiling, one of who’s outstretched hand barely brushed the top of Harry’s head.

Draco couldn’t muster the breath for an incantation, but he sent his own flames into the air, pushing power into them to make them hot enough to reduce the grasping fingers and hands of the Inferi above them to nothing but ashes.  The firelight reflected in their dark, hollow eyes, and he didn’t let himself try to place the features of their faces.  There had been so many people, Muggle and magical and non-human, who had been killed while Voldemort had utilized the Manor as his headquarters.  He didn’t want to know which of them might have had their mortal remains built into this death trap.

“The door!”  Harry barked, keeping his wand steady while he directed the flames all around them. 

Draco squinted through the rain of ashes, seeing a dark wooden door just about a meter ahead.  He glanced nervously around the archway, not wanting to come within arm’s reach of any of the Inferi, then crawled forward until he could press his right hand against the door which led to the main cellar chamber.  The roar of the flames was too loud for him to hear it, but he felt this new door click open at the touch of his father’s ring.

There was some dim light in the chamber beyond, not the crushing darkness that had hidden the Inferi trap.  So Draco reached up, fumbling for the latch so that he could pull the door open, using the leverage of the sturdy handle to haul himself back up to his feet.

Harry ended the steady stream of his fire with a sharp “Finite!”

The archway of the landing was now a shriveled mess of charred limbs and heads, twitching from the movement of scattered unburnt musculature.  The stench was horrendous, and Draco gagged, closing his eyes and leaning against the doorframe. 

He jerked away when a warm hand touched his arm, stumbling back a step into the main cellar, then he forced himself to stand still.  He didn’t want to inadvertently activate any more traps.  He cracked his eyes open just enough to see Harry crouch down, brushing away some ashes so that he could pick something up off the floor. 

“I think we can guess what happened to at least one of those Aurors twenty years ago,” Harry said quietly as he straightened.  He held out his hand, showing Draco a battered silver badge.  It bore the stylized ‘M’ of the Ministry of Magic, with three crossed wands and the words ‘Department of Magical Law Enforcement’ etched into the ring which bordered the seal.  There was a number on the lower part of the badge, which would no doubt be useful in identifying to whom it had once belonged. 

Harry tucked the badge into one of his pockets, then reached out slowly to lift Draco’s chin, the concern on his face deepening has he examined Draco’s throat. 

“Are you all right?”  The question was accompanied by a gentle caress over the bruises that Draco felt blooming over his skin.

“Well enough,” Draco rasped, wincing in pain. 

“Episkey.”

The minor healing spell instantly eased the ache in his throat, and Draco sucked in a lungful of air almost without pain.  “Do you know what was making that sound behind us?”

Harry’s face was grim.  “Some kind of solid iron gate followed us down each step, no doubt to pinch us on the landing with the Inferi.  It’s still there.”

Draco felt a moment of panic before he remembered the Portkey that Harry had enchanted, their failsafe that still lay curled up in the hood of his anorak.  He felt Harry’s arm sneak around his waist, pulling him close while they both took a moment to recover.

“So that’s your Patronus, then?  A stoat?”  Harry’s question held a touch of humor that raised Draco’s hackles a bit.

“An ermine,” Draco corrected sharply.  “Note its winter coat.”

“Of course,” Harry snorted.  “Quite elegant.”

“And deadly.  Ermines are very territorial, and regularly take down prey that outweigh them by three times or more.”  Draco knew his tone was defensive, but he felt protective of the Patronus it had taken him so long to learn to cast.

“No doubt,” Harry said, his arm tightening for a moment before he gently disentangled himself.  “It suits you.”

Draco rolled his eyes, but the much-needed distraction had given him the reassurance he needed to face the rest of the large cellar chamber in which they now found themselves.  The pale gray limestone almost glowed with the dull, sunless light peeking through the narrow slits high up on the walls.  They couldn’t be called windows.  Their function was more akin to vents that had been carved out at the same time as the cellar, centuries ago when the Manor was built. 

The low, curved ceiling was supported by thick square columns, informally dividing the space into large rectangular sections.  They were close.  The secret storeroom was accessible from the far wall right across from them, and the seeming emptiness of the space was taunting them, daring them to approach.

“Revelio.”  Draco spoke the incantation, his voice still slightly hoarse, but much better than it had been a moment ago.

There was the shine of magic ahead, a thick web of filaments crossing between the two pillars which framed the section of the wall they needed to reach. 

The two of them advanced cautiously, Draco limping slightly because his knee and hip were still aching from his fall down the cellar stairs. 

“These look different,” Harry remarked, staring intently at the thin, gossamer-like spell threads which barricaded the space between the pillars.

“What do you mean?”  Draco asked.  The filament spells looked the same to him as they had everywhere else in the Manor.

“They’re not just single lines.”  Harry pointed, moving his arm as he traced the path of one particular filament, which started at the ceiling, traveled down to the floor, and then stretched back to a central point past the barrier.  “All of them eventually end at that spot.  It’s a classical configuration from Pythagoran numerology.  When you look at it from a certain angle, these lines going across those lines meeting at that point create a tetractys – really stable, commonly used in western curses.  That’s likely going to mean that all of these filaments are meant to trigger just one trap.”

Draco blinked.  He shouldn’t have been surprised to hear that Harry was familiar with the work of Pythagoras, but he was.  He hadn’t thought that curse breaking would have required knowledge of the classics.  “So what do we do?”

Harry gave him a cocky grin that didn’t hide the strain that was evident in the lines around his eyes.  He’d expended a lot of power while burning away the Inferi until they were no longer such a threat. 

“I spring the trap.”

Before Draco could stop him, Harry strode toward the crisscrossing filament spells.  But instead of doing something Gryffindor-ish, like just sticking his hand in the middle of it to face the threat down directly on the terms of whoever laid the trap, Harry moved his wand in deliberate, precise motions.  Golden threads trailed behind, pulling taught as he directed them to connection points along the ceiling, creating an opposing tetractys, with the points culminating in a shape that was directly obverse to the trap that was laid.

But it was clearly difficult work, as beads of sweat were starting to form on Harry’s forehead, in spite of the damp chill of the cellar. 

“You have to collapse it properly,” he commented as he worked.  “And it won’t necessarily neutralize the triggered threat, but you’ll have some time to examine that component before you’re forced to act.”

When he was finished anchoring the last golden strand which formed the upside down tetractys, Harry held up both hands, his long brown fingers spread wide, palms facing outward while his right thumb kept his wand pressed flat against his hand.  Slowly, he brought his hands to the center in front of him, then drew them back suddenly and made a forceful pushing motion.

The golden tetractys sailed forward, colliding with the faint blue filaments and dissolving into bright sparks that made Draco wince and turn away. 

Harry bent forward, bracing his hands on his knees, breathing as though he’d just run a mile.  Draco rested a hand lightly on his shoulder, not quite sure what he could do to help.  That had clearly been a significant working, another insight into the depth of the skill Harry possessed as a curse breaker. 

Lifting his gaze to the space between the arches, he saw what had been revealed with the collapse of filament spells.  They had obviously been tied to some sort of Disillusionment, because where before there had been seemingly empty space, there stood a full suit of Gothic-style armor, its hands resting on the hilt of a longsword.  There was nothing visible in the small gaps which would have showed glimpses of the person wearing it. 

There were new lines of magic which now gleamed under its feet, creating a grid that spanned the length of the wall and stopped at the pillars.  It looked almost like a chess board, though the squares were not patterned that way.  Instead there were runes visible in each one, and seemed to convey the meaning of some kind of movement.

Along the far wall, there was a huddled skeleton swathed in the red robes of an Auror, the glint of a silver badge just visible underneath a fold of tattered cloth.

“Fuck,” Harry said, straightening and scrubbing the back of his hand across his forehead to wipe away the sweat.  “There’s the second Auror.  Let’s see what this armor does, other than the obvious.”

He reached into the pocket of his anorak, removing the trusty hard rubber ball that had become a staple of their Manor work, and pointed his wand at it.  “Simulacrimus.” 

The oily rainbow sheen of magic instantly surrounded the ball, shifting its colors even as Harry gave it a small toss, catching it in his hand again before lobbing it onto the grid.

The suit of armor moved surprisingly quickly for something that probably weighed at least five stone.  It wielded the longsword in a two-handed grip, slicing the blade through the air at its intended target.  The edge of it caught the rubber ball and carved off a small chunk, sending the ball spinning away.  It hit the far wall and rebounded, only to be stopped at the edge of the grid. 

Harry raised his wand.  “Accio!”

The ball lifted feebly off the floor, but there was some sort of invisible barrier preventing it from leaving the magical borders of the Gothic armor’s territory.  Which meant that it could not escape the heavy sabaton coming down on top of it, the armor’s foot pinning the ball to the floor before it was skewered with a single thrust of the longsword.  The Simulacrimus enchantment flickered and died.  Once all signs of its ‘life’ had faded, the Gothic armor retreated back to the center of the grid, resuming its initial pose.

Harry paced between the pillars, using every angle to peer at the armor and the section of floor that it guarded.  “That can’t be all there is to it.”

“That’s not enough for you?”  Draco scoffed in disbelief.

“It’s too straightforward.”  Harry shook his head.  “There’s something I’m missing.  Why tie this to the tetractys?  It’s clearly able to be activated by the grid alone.  Why hide it, if we’re meant to face it either way?”

“How do you propose we find out?”  Draco asked.

“Once we set foot on the grid, we’re committed,” Harry said.  “You saw what happened.  So we have to be prepared to either get past it, or deactivate it.  But we have an advantage, since there are two of us to split its attention.”

“Lovely,” Draco commented, his throat going dry.  “So, one on each side?”

Harry nodded.  “Shields up.  I’ll try to disarm it.”

Readying their wands, they each took a corner.  Taking a deep breath, Draco stepped onto the grid at the same time Harry did, giving the Gothic armor two targets at once. 

“Protego!”  Draco spoke the incantation just in time to block an overhead blow from the longsword.  The blade caught on the shield, sparking, and then the shield collapsed.  Draco threw himself to the side as the longsword arced through the air right where he’d just been.

“Shields are only good for one hit!”  Draco shouted, casting another one as the armor pursued him.

“Got it,” Harry said, pointing his wand.  “Expelliarmus!”

The longsword flew out of the Gothic armor’s hand, but didn’t go far.  The weapon bounced off of the invisible barrier of the grid and was almost immediately scooped back up, the armor turning its attention to Harry and ignoring Draco for the moment.

Draco could see what Harry meant, now.  Whoever faced this armor would be able to protect themselves from its blows up to a point – but being forced to cast shield after shield, while being unable to permanently disarm it, or to exit its territory for escape or rest would quickly exhaust any opponent. 

So what was the solution?

The weight of the satchel against his side suddenly registered, as did the fact that he’d packed their current supply of null nets into the main compartment.  He hurriedly unclipped the top flap, dodging once again as the Gothic armor turned suddenly, unable to land a blow on Harry.

“Keep it busy,” Draco ordered, circling so that Harry was between him and the armor.

“Right.”  Harry darted forward to keep its attention on him, but this put him in range of the longsword.  Lightning fast, the Gothic armor landed one hit to dissolve Harry’s shield and then whipped the sword around again.  Harry danced to the side, but the edge of the sword’s point caught him across the arm, slicing through the anorak and drawing some blood. 

Draco fumbled inside his satchel, haste and divided focus making his movements clumsy.  But he managed to take out one of the folded nets (knitted from lumpy earth-brown yarn) and flap it open, spreading it out on the limestone floor.  He put his fingers to his lips and blew out a sharp whistle, wanting to test his theory before potentially wasting any more of their precious resources.

The Gothic armor turned and moved toward him, giving Harry an opportunity to clutch at the wound on his arm with a grimace of pain.  Draco stood his ground, ready to raise a shield if necessary.

The armor suit’s progress was halted right at the edge of the net, the neutrality spells woven into it seeming to have an effect on the grid which formed the bounds of the suit’s territory.  But Draco only had a moment to feel victorious, as the armor paced along the edge of the impediment of the net so that it could reach him on the other side. 

Draco cut across the net, since he was not restricted by the grid the way the Gothic armor was.  As it reversed direction in order to continue tracking him, he tried an offensive spell rather than defensive, mindful of the quick movements it had made to break through Harry’s shield.

“Expulso!”

The armor was knocked back, the pauldron over one of its shoulders caved in from the force of his spell.

At the same time, he heard a sharp cry of pain behind him, and he turned just in time to see Harry’s wand drop from unresponsive fingers as he collapsed against one of the pillars, sinking to the floor.

Draco froze for a moment, unable to comprehend what had just happened.  But the clanking sound of steel plate armor against the stone floor reminded him that he had no time to puzzle it out.  He threw up a shield as the armor advanced, taking a few steps closer to Harry.

“What happened?”

“Something’s broken,” Harry grunted out through gritted teeth, gripping his injured arm at the elbow to immobilize his shoulder.  “Sympathetic magic.  That’s what the filament tetractys was for – to draw blood and give that magic a target.”

“So anything we do to the armor –”  Draco started, horror dawning.

“It would happen to me, too.  Nasty piece of spell work,” Harry said grimly.  His face was pale and taught with pain.

The longsword crashed against Draco’s shield, shattering it with another shower of sparks.  He moved, trying to lure the suit away from where Harry was slumped against the limestone column.  It seemed to hesitate, clearly drawn to its now magically connected target, who was also conveniently helpless.

“Harry,” Draco said desperately, meeting his pain-filled green eyes.

“Do it,” Harry said, giving him a firm nod.

Draco pushed aside his terror and reluctance, and pointed his wand directly at the exquisitely-crafted helmet atop the suit of armor.  “Confundo!”

The armor staggered, dropping its sword and clattering around drunkenly.  Draco didn’t dare look toward Harry.  He had to take care of the threat first. 

He dug through his satchel again, drawing out another null net.  Working deliberately, avoiding the clumsy movements of the armor, he laid it out so that the net cancelled the section of the grid between the armor and the longsword.  Then he repeated the action, boxing the armor into a corner against the wall and giving it no way to regain its territory.  Still suffering the effects of the Confundus charm, it fell to one knee, using its gauntlets to try to feel for an outlet.  Finding none, it tried to grab for Draco as he got near enough to cast the last net on top of the armor itself.  Draco hoped that this would be enough to sever the sympathetic connection between it and Harry.

Harry himself was out cold, lying fully prone on the floor next to the pillar.  The wound on his arm was still bleeding, and his injured shoulder just above it was hunched slightly inward, the angle of it clearly unnatural. 

Draco swallowed the bile that tried to rise.  He’d done this.  It was his spells that had hurt Harry so badly. 

He did what he could.  The gash on Harry’s bicep was too deep to be healed with something like Episkey, so he muttered “Ferula!” over it, doing the same for the broken shoulder.  Bandages wrapped themselves tightly around the injuries, and Draco was momentarily glad that Harry was unconscious for this process, as the shoulder was wrenched back to its proper position before being firmly wrapped.

Harry’s wand was lying just a few feet away, and Draco reached for it, intending to place it in Harry’s good hand.  But as soon as his fingers made contact with the holly, he felt an intense, almost painful pulse of energy.  He took the hint and left it well alone, settling himself at Harry’s side and brushing unruly dark hair away from his forehead. 

Draco was tempted, so tempted, to retrieve the Horntail from Harry’s hood and just wait for the Portkey to take them both back to the safety of the kitchen.  But they’d already come this far.

“Renervate,” Draco murmured, cupping Harry’s stubbled jaw.

Harry inhaled deeply before his eyes flew open, darting around frantically.  “What –”

“Don’t fucking move,” Draco growled in annoyance, shifting his hand to press down on Harry’s chest when he would have tried to sit up.  “Sit still, if that’s even something you can manage.”

Biting back a groan, Harry glared at him.  “The armor –?”

“I used all of our nullification nets,” Draco said, jerking his head at the now lifeless pile of armor in the corner.  “I…I’m so sorry, I didn’t realize –”

“You couldn’t have,” Harry said immediately.  “I knew I was missing something, that there had to be more to it.”

“Mm,” Draco hummed noncommittally.  He was still responsible for the state of Harry’s shoulder, for the splitting headache he no doubt had from being indirectly Confunded.  Ignorance didn’t change that.

He got to his feet, approaching what remained of the second lost Auror, and carefully retrieved the badge that was still pinned to the robes.  It was almost identical to the other one, except for the badge number, of course. 

“Here,” Draco said, dropping it into Harry’s uninjured hand.  “Now let me show you what we came for.”

He faced the deceptively blank limestone wall in front of them, and said, “This is the secret storage chamber for the treasures of the Malfoy family.”

The protection of the Fidelius charm, recognizing him as one of the last remaining Secret Keepers, faded away, revealing a wide stone archway and smaller chamber beyond.  The walls were lined with polished wooden shelves, stuffed with Dark artefacts. 

In the center of the secret chamber stood a stone pedestal, carved from black marble with wide veins of white running through it.  Resting on top of that pedestal was a tarnished silver basin, the contents of which were throwing shifting purplish-silver light around the small room. 

“What the fuck is that,” Harry breathed, heaving himself into a sitting position with a grunt of pained effort.

“That is what has been feeding power to all of the Death Eater traps, and causing the wild magic of the estate to turn Dark.  That is what has been sickening the ley line and destabilizing the Floo network, and interfering with the way magic works in the county,” Draco replied, speaking completely without consequence.  Someone else had finally laid eyes on the thing, which meant that the magical binding that prevented him from talking about it was no longer in effect.  “And I think I know why.”

There was a crack in the basin, a shriveled, jagged split in the grungy silver, which had allowed its liquid-like contents to drip onto the marble pedestal and follow gravity’s pull to the floor.  There was a fissure in the limestone, something that Draco had not remembered being there before, and the sickly purple residue of the basin’s contents trailed directly into it.

As he approached the chamber for a better look, a wall of ghostly white flame rose up from the floor, sealing the chamber off but translucent enough to still see the basic shape of what lay inside.  Angry red fire spiraled out from the center of the obstruction, forming into words.

If you would look upon

That which is concealed

Be certain that you know

The cost that you will bear

For nothing comes

Without a price

Step forward if you dare

Let the secret be revealed

But understand the marks you wear

On body and soul

Are never truly healed

 

Draco ran his eyes over the words carefully.  Once.  Twice.  Three times, his stomach sinking in realization.

“What does that mean?”  Harry asked worriedly, looking up at him.  Draco could see the lingering effects of the Confundus in his slightly dazed expression.  But it was the lightning bolt scar over his eyebrow that had captured his full attention.

Leaning down, he gently brushed his lips over Harry’s, lingering there for a moment, breathing him in and letting himself absorb some of the warmth that Harry seemed to have in abundance.  Then he shifted his lips to Harry’s forehead, right over the scar.

“It means that you can’t go through that barrier,” Draco murmured, and then stood, turning to face the ghostly flames.  “But I can.”

He ignored Harry’s anguished shout of protest and strode forward.

He thought that he’d braced himself, that he’d been somewhat prepared for whatever came of crossing that threshold.

He wasn’t.

Agony sliced through him, the years-old curse scars on his body all opening at once.  Every slash of the misapplication of Harry’s Sectumsempra that he’d endured during sixth year, the last curse that Rowle had ever cast to take his eye, all of them bled freely the moment Draco set foot in the small storage chamber.

And here he was, about to add to it. 

Draco pointed his wand at the Mark on his left arm, managing to croak out a weak “Diffindo.”

He weaved slightly on his feet as blood welled up and mingled with the residue of the Mark, the same residue that had somehow leaked out of this basin of Voldemort’s and deep beneath the chalk limestone upon which the entire Malfoy estate sat. 

“Fractum reparatur,” Draco said, forcing his voice to ring out with all of the power he could muster.  “Contineri et tenete.”

The blood which dripped from his arm onto the floor raced around the base of the pedestal, neatly circling the fissure until it became an unbroken ring of dark red.  The blood started to boil, red mist rising upwards, sending the resulting rush of Dark magic toward the center of the circle.  The floor sealed itself as it passed, becoming solid limestone once more.  And the crack in the tarnished silver basin closed, leaving a shining scar where it had once been.

Draco stumbled backward, collapsing through the cursed flames and landing hard.  The back of his head cracked against the stone, the pain mingling unpleasantly with the euphoric aftereffect of the Dark magic he’d just used.  His stomach roiled, the dizziness from blood loss making him nauseous.

But at least he was out.

He could feel the raw edges of his re-opened curse wounds start to knit back together slowly, and was overwhelmed with an incredible sense of relief.  He hadn’t been certain that the effect of the curse flames would only persist while he was inside the secret room.  But his skin and clothing were damp and sticky with blood, the cold seeping into him more easily than his blood had seeped out, and he started to shiver.

His hand was enfolded in a warm grip, the spiky figure of the Horntail pressed between his and Harry’s palms.

He let his eyes fall closed just as he felt that familiar tugging sensation behind his navel, and knew nothing after that.

Chapter 22

The first thing Draco became aware of were voices, soft and indistinct enough that he couldn’t immediately make out any details of what was being said.  They were familiar, though, so it didn’t worry him overmuch.  What was slightly more concerning was the heavy, vibrating weight on his chest.  It wasn’t painful, but it certainly wasn’t usual.

His eyelids seemed to be particularly difficult to lift, however.  He was warm and comfortable, which was a definite improvement over what he could remember of his last moments of consciousness.  His left arm ached, but he expected that, and he could feel the pressure of a bandage wrapped around his forearm. 

He breathed in as deeply as he could, in spite of whatever it was that was weighing him down, and mustered the effort necessary to crack his eyes open.  He was met with a pair of slitted yellow eyes, half-closed in a drowsy expression.

Draco drew back slightly, shifting his body as if to move, when several sharp points dug lightly into his chest and the soft vibration paused for a moment, as if waiting to see what he’d do next.  He considered his options for a moment, then decided to relax his body and stay where he was.

The purring started right up again, sounding almost like Harry’s motorbike, it was so loud.  Draco admitted momentary defeat and instead explored what he could of his surroundings from his vantage point on the extremely comfortable sofa.  It appeared to be a sitting room, though it was entirely unfamiliar to him.  It was nicely decorated, though it had a more modern look than Grimmauld Place, and gave the impression of being more organized than the Burrow but with a similar sense of homeyness. 

The question of whose sitting room he was currently occupying was easily answered with a glance at the framed photos which rested on the mantle, the side table just visible past the enormous lump of orange fur on his chest, and hanging up on the walls.  He recognized Rosie and Hugo from the Samhain celebration at the Burrow – was that yesterday?  The day before?  He had no idea how much time had passed.  And of course there were Ron and Hermione, as well as Harry and numerous other members of the Weasley clan scattered throughout the photos.  Strangely, there seemed to be no sign of anyone from Hermione’s side of the family.

He finally settled his attention on the moggie purring on his chest.  He wasn’t sure if this was the same creature that Hermione had with her at school.  If so, it had to be at least half Kneazle to have lived so long, and the slight graying around the eyes and squashed-looking nose indicated that this cat was at a fairly advanced age. 

“Will you let me up?”  Draco asked, not quite daring to move yet.  Perhaps the cat only wanted to sleep on the soft, fuzzy blue blanket that had been laid over him.  If that were the case, Draco was happy to let the animal continue doing so, as long as he could extricate himself.

The cat just blinked at him, then yawned, displaying a wide pink mouth with teeth that were slightly yellowed with age.  Then its massive front paws started kneading the blanket, which unfortunately meant that the points of alternate sets of claws started to dig rhythmically into his skin.

Draco was just beginning to contemplate alternate escape strategies when the voices in the other room grew louder, and Hermione’s voice preceded her appearance from around the open corner connecting to what Draco presumed was a hallway.

“– check to see if he’s – oh!”  Hermione blinked in surprise.  “You are awake.  And not alone, I see.”  She quirked an eyebrow at the cat currently holding Draco prisoner.  “Apologies, Crookshanks doesn’t usually sit on people he doesn’t know.”

She crossed the room and scooped her arms under the giant orange feline, rolling him onto his back until she was cradling him like a baby.  “What are you doing?”  She cooed, planting a kiss on Crookshanks’ furry head.  “Off to the kitchen, I’m sure Ron has your dinner for you.”

At the word ‘dinner,’ Crookshanks let out a raspy chirp and allowed himself to be placed on the floor, where he sauntered back the way Hermione had come.

Draco took the opportunity to sit up on the sofa, rubbing at his chest to ease the sting of the pinprick sensation of Crookshanks’ claws.  His hand paused in its movement, trying to puzzle out an unexpected texture, and he looked down at what he was wearing.

It was a dressing gown.

A hideous dressing gown with garish orange stripes on faded, overly laundered black. 

There was even a monogram on the pocket.  It boasted the initials ‘R.W.,’ with tacky flourishing curls and swoops instead of much more dignified serifs.

Draco went cold all over, a new and unexpected kind of horror rising within.  He cleared his throat.

“Hermione,” he said carefully.  “Please tell me that I am not wearing Ron Weasley’s dressing gown.”

“Er.”  Hermione’s face flushed dark pink, and she put a hand up to her mouth.  “You are, actually.  Your clothes were horribly blood-stained, and –”

Draco closed his eyes, trying to suppress the absolute revolt of every inch of his skin as it protested being subject to the same threads that ever graced the body of Ron Weasley.  “Was it clean?”

“Yes,” Hermione said quickly.

Too quickly.

“I would like to wear my own clothes, if possible,” Draco said politely but firmly.  “As long as they are in any condition short of leaving blood stains on the furniture, I will wear them.”  He braced his hands on the sofa cushion in order to heave himself to his feet, but before his legs had even straightened, a wave of dizziness washed over him and he fell back, his head swimming.

“I’ve got a blood replenishing potion for you to drink before you do anything else,” Hermione informed him, her expression of stifled amusement changing to one of concern.  “And then you need to eat.  Harry and Ron are in the kitchen, we can talk there.”

“Is Harry all right?”  Draco asked, toying with the soft blue fluff of the blanket in his lap.

“He’s mending,” Hermione said, her mouth pursed in something like disapproval.  “But he’ll be fine.”

Draco’s heart sank.  How much had Harry already told his best friends?  Did they know that his injuries were due to spells that Draco had cast, or had he been vague about what had happened in the cellars?  In spite of knowing that any energy directed at somehow endearing himself to Ron and Hermione was inevitably wasted effort, he found that he did want to at least part on better terms with all of them.

Well.  With Harry and Hermione, at least.

“I’ll go fetch that potion,” Hermione said, and left the room.

The carpet beneath his bare feet at least had a soft pile, Draco thought as he dug his toes in.  Anything to keep his mind off what he was wearing, and the anticipatory anxiety around talking about the cellars and what they contained.  He rolled up the left sleeve of the utterly dreadful dressing gown to inspect the bandaging that covered the Mark.  The cut he’d made would heal in time, as it always did, just more slowly than it would with proper magical assistance.

He slipped a hand inside the fold of the dressing gown over his chest, probing at old scars and feeling relief when there was only the memory of pain.  He did the same for the scars on his face, though Hermione returned in the midst of his self-examination and he quickly dropped his hand.

“Here.”  Hermione handed him a mug half-filled with a dark green liquid that smelled sickly sweet.  “All of it.  Harry said you lost a lot of blood, and from what I could see of you when you two arrived in the Manor kitchen, I can well believe it.”

Draco reluctantly accepted the mug, blowing out a breath before tipping it back and downing the contents in a few quick swallows.  It felt thick and viscous going down his throat, but he refused to succumb to his gag reflex so that the entire unpleasant exercise wasn’t wasted.

“Your shirt wasn’t worth saving,” Hermione said quietly, offering him a hand when his knees wobbled a bit on his second attempt to get up.  “But Harry’s always leaving stuff here, he stays with us a lot when he’s in the country.  I’ve put one of his shirts in the bathroom for you.”

“Thank you,” Draco said, feeling strength slowly returning to his limbs.  The blood-replenishing potion, while awful, was at least effective. 

The shirt that Hermione had left for him was in fact one of Harry’s T-shirts, which depicted an admittedly cute tri-color Crup, tails waving in a friendly way, with the words ‘Yes, I have two’ underneath.  It did not go with his wool trousers, but would look even worse with his waistcoat, so he left that off.  It was loose on him, as his shoulders were narrower than Harry’s, and it had that scent of cypress that Draco couldn’t help but inhale, holding the material of the shirt against his nose for one indulgent moment.  Overall it was leagues better than Ron Weasley’s obviously beloved Cannons dressing gown.

Stepping out into the hall, he followed his nose to the kitchen.  He moved carefully to spare his hip, still aching from his fall down the stairs leading to the cellar.  There was something that smelled divine bubbling on the stove, which paired beautifully with the aroma of freshly baked bread.  He was tempted to bypass the Golden Trio sitting at kitchen table completely and start eating straight from the stew pot.  His mother would be horrified.

But Harry was the first to notice him from his place at the table, his face breaking into a lopsided smile.  His anorak was hanging from the back of his chair, which meant Draco could see the white bandage on his bicep, peeking out from under the sleeve of his T-shirt, and his arm and shoulder were supported by a thin sling.

“All right?”  Harry asked, his green eyes assessing Draco from head to toe.  He huffed a laugh when he noticed what Draco was wearing.

Draco shrugged.  “Likely better than you by now.”

“I can take this off anytime,” Harry said, plucking at the sling dismissively.

“No, you cannot,” Hermione snapped, raising a warning finger at him.  “You will wait the recommended twelve hours for that Configo to knit those bones back together before you even think of removing that sling, Harry James Potter.”  She turned to Draco.  “Please, have a seat.  Ron and I will get everything.”

Draco took the remaining chair as Ron and Hermione set about filling bowls with soup and slicing up the fresh loaf of bread that was resting on the cutting board.  He opened his mouth, not sure what he was going to say but needing to fill the silence regardless, when his lap was suddenly full of orange cat.

He looked down at Crookshanks in consternation, but the half-Kneazle just folded his paws underneath that generous fluff and that rumbling purr started up again.  Draco prodded at the cat’s back experimentally, and felt those warning pinpricks dig into his leg, no doubt snagging on the threads of his trousers. 

“Ron’s made chicken soup tonight –”  Hermione started, turning around with a bowl in each hand and stopping short at the sight of Crookshanks on Draco’s lap.  Her brow furrowed, but she still set the bowls on the table, one each in front of Harry and Draco. 

Suddenly overcome with hunger, Draco abandoned all of the manners his mother had taught him and grabbed his spoon, leaning over the cat in an attempt to keep from spilling any drips onto him.  The soup was strongly flavored with black pepper and herbs, clearly made with excellent stock, and the vegetables were tender but not mushy.  Ron had obviously made the noodles himself, and they were a decent consistency.  Molly Weasley had taught her son well.

He sopped up the remaining broth with a slice of bread after his ravenous outburst, literally cleaning his bowl before any of the others were so much as partway through their own.  He acceded to the demands of propriety for long enough to wipe his hands with one of the serviettes from the wicker holder on the table.  When he looked up, Harry, Ron, and Hermione were all staring at him.

“It’s good,” Draco said lamely, feeling color start to rise in his cheeks. 

Ron pointed at his empty bowl, eyebrows raised.  “More?  There’s plenty.”

Draco nodded.  “I can –”

“Nah.”  Ron waved him off, getting to his feet.  “Once Crookshanks picks a lap, he won’t be moved.  I’ll get it.”

They finished the meal in relative silence, with Hermione murmuring a compliment about the food and Harry asking a few questions about how everything had gone in getting the children on the train back to Hogwarts, as well as how they were doing at school, since Draco’s abrupt departure from the Samhain celebration at the Burrow hadn’t allowed them much time to catch up.  Draco felt slightly guilty about that, though he hoped that his sudden absence had gone unnoticed or at least unremarked by the majority of the people there.

“So,” Hermione said, levelling a serious look at Harry, then Draco.  “Shall we talk about what you found in the cellars?”

Draco glanced at Ron, who pushed back his chair and started gathering the dishes.

“It’s fine,” Hermione said.  “Ron knows pretty much all of it, between what the news has printed and this one –”  She jerked a thumb at Harry.  “– being incapable of keeping his mouth shut where Ron is concerned.”

“I don’t tell Ron everything,” Harry protested mildly.  He shot a wink at Draco, that dimple suddenly appearing in his cheek.  “Just most things.”

“I assume that the binding that you were under has been broken?”  Hermione said, ignoring Harry and raising her eyebrows at Draco.

Draco leaned forward, using one hand to brace Crookshanks and keep the cat from falling off of his lap.  He didn’t want to deal with more claw marks in his trousers.  “Before we talk about anything, Hermione, I need to know that the outcome of this discussion, of all the work that Harry and I have already done, is to eliminate the source of the ley line contamination.  Not to move it and study it elsewhere.  Not to let the Department of Mysteries add it to their collection of magical oddities.  Not to simply leave it in its current condition.  What we’re speaking of does not end up in Ministry hands, nor anyone else’s, understood?  In fact, I will have your word on that.”

Hermione gave him an assessing look, but didn’t immediately respond.  Instead, she looked at Harry.

“Nothing that belonged to Voldemort is worth studying if it could hurt people, or if people could use it to hurt others,” Harry said simply.  “We already know how dangerous, how powerful it is, if it’s affected a ley line.  It’s not worth the risk, Hermione.”

“If we could stop it from ever happening again –”  Hermione said hesitantly.

“This is one of Voldemort’s tools.  It wasn’t the cause of either war, and allowing it to continue to exist will not prevent someone else from doing as he did.”  Draco made sure to meet her gaze.  “I’ll ask for a Vow if I have to.”

“No, you bloody well won’t!”  Ron snapped, letting the bowls he’d been holding fall into the sink with a clatter of breaking crockery.  He stormed back over to the table, hovering over his wife protectively.  “’Mione is not going to stake her life on a promise to anyone, least of all to you, Malfoy!”

“Ron –”  Hermione put a hand on her husband’s arm.

“No!  You’re not going to –”

“No, she won’t,” Harry said, talking over his best friend.  “Because Hermione keeps her word without any magical death contracts, and she’s going to promise that this thing in the cellars will be destroyed and not just moved.  Right, Hermione?”

“You’re right,” Hermione sighed.  “All of you.  Ron, fix those dishes, will you?  I don’t want to have to explain to Molly why her wedding gift to us ended up in pieces.”

Ron gave Draco a menacing scowl before waving his wand at the sink, where the broken pieces of the bowls snapped back together.  He resumed his seat at the table with a huff, clearly intent upon speaking up in defense of his wife if necessary.

“We’ll work to destroy it,” Hermione said firmly.  “Which means we’ll need to do it quietly.  As much as I loathe the idea of keeping Kingsley out of the loop, if we don’t want this to become an administrative fight or leak to the news, then it can’t go any further than the four of us.”

“Agreed,” Harry said, lifting his eyes to meet Draco’s gaze.  “So tell us about Voldemort’s Pensieve, Draco.”

Ron’s jaw dropped.  “Voldemort’s fucking what?”

Hermione didn’t say anything, just waited for Draco to begin his explanation.  Though her face had gone slightly pale.

“It’s not a Pensieve in a strictly traditional sense,” Draco said, relieved that there seemed to be no lingering trace of the magic preventing him from speaking about it, which had been locked in place on the day he received his Mark.  “A normal Pensieve is usually a highly personal object.  Imagine the vulnerability involved in having your memories accessible to anyone who could acquire it.  They’re difficult to retrieve, as well – doing so incorrectly could damage the memory irreparably, which is why most witches and wizards don’t bother with them.”

He paused, absently rubbing at the bandage on his arm while he tried to keep himself from getting lost in the past.

“This thing…it likely started its existence as a Pensieve.  But a corrupted, tainted version of one.  It wasn’t simply memories that Voldemort hoarded within it.  And eventually…he was not the only one add to it.”

 

Draco had never in his life felt the fear of enclosed spaces.  But tonight the cellars were crowded with Death Eaters, even with the arrest and imprisonment of his father and several others after the debacle at the Department of Mysteries.  His mother had not been allowed to observe, since she did not have any inclination to take the Mark herself.  Nor had Voldemort intimated that he wanted her to.

The Manor to which he’d returned after his fifth year had been saturated with the Dark Lord’s fury.  The very air stank of it.  His mother had met him at the train station, pale-faced and so terrified that even she could not hide it.  She had given him strict instructions to maintain a low profile, to come when called, depart when dismissed, and make no trouble for anyone.  Neither of them could hide, as they were ostensibly Voldemort’s hosts.  But their ‘guests’ whispered in the corridors, and Voldemort himself seemed to regard them with far too much hostile consideration, eyes almost glowing like the dying embers of a fire, whenever they were summoned to answer to his needs. 

Aunt Bellatrix appeared to delight in reminding her sister and nephew of the danger they were in at every opportunity, all the while couching her digs within assurances that she was working to win back favor for them.  Draco didn’t understand how that was supposed to happen when Bellatrix had deflected the entirety of the blame for the loss of the prophecy toward Lucius, and continued to do so whenever the topic was brought up.

And here she was now, baring her teeth in something that was almost entirely unlike a smile, gazing in obsessive adoration at Lord Voldemort as though her husband weren’t standing right next to her.  Voldemort, for his part, paid her absolutely no attention, his dark red eyes focused entirely on Draco.

“So, Draco Malfoy,” the Dark Lord rasped, his voice grating coldly against the ear.  “You are here to atone for your father’s failure.”

Draco’s mouth was bone dry, and he couldn’t even muster up sufficient moisture to swallow.  He thought of his father, trapped on a cold, wet rock in the North Atlantic and subject to the unrelenting effects of Dementors.  And his mother, who for two months had walked the halls of her own house like a ghost, losing weight she couldn’t afford to spare.

“Yes.”

 

“I’m sure it will surprise no one here to know that Voldemort was someone who delighted in the pain and fear of others.”  Draco smirked slightly, though he was anything but amused.  “Some people hear that and offer up the word ‘sadist.’  But I assure you that there is no word which adequately captures the way he reveled in causing it.  Seeing it.  Of dragging it out to the maximum possible extent.  Though I’m not even sure that you could call it pleasure, what he felt.  I don’t know if he was human enough for it.  But whatever it was, that was what he filled the Pensieve with.  The…gratification that he got, paired with the memories of the deeds he’d performed to cause it.”

Draco rested his left arm on the table, nodding towards the stark white bandage.  “It was with that stew of memory and emotion that he Marked his first Death Eater, before the start of the first war.  And with each and every Mark, the one who received it was required to add to the corrupted Pensieve.  Their own memory, their own twisted feelings of enjoyment from inflicting pain, or of performing Dark magic, when those things were not already somehow entwined.”

“Wait, so…that Pensieve has some of the memories of all Death Eaters inside it?”  Ron’s face was a picture of horrified disgust.  “Even yours?”

“Ron,” Hermione said, a note of exasperation in her voice. 

“Yes, Weasley,” Draco snapped.  “I said ‘all,’ I meant ‘all.’  It was a requirement of the initiation ritual.”

“And what else did that involve?”  Harry asked, his voice even and his expression passive, giving nothing of what he thought away.

“Obviously, the process of actually receiving the Mark,” Draco said, more subdued.

 

Draco had hoped, on some level, that he would be forced to see it through.  That it might take a few Death Eaters, or some kind of magical compulsion like the Imperius Curse, to make him raise his arm and hold it over the silver basin, which was soiled with the greasy black remnants of…Draco did not know what, nor did he even want to speculate. 

But the Death Eaters did nothing, merely stood in a loose circle around he, Voldemort, and the vessel full of a bilious purple not-quite-liquid, that shifted and oozed almost like a living thing.  It was difficult to look at, and yet Draco couldn’t tear his eyes away, abject fear rooting him to the spot.

“You must freely offer your arm, little Draco,” the Dark Lord practically purred, no other sound in the cellars but the slight rasp of Nagini’s scales against the limestone floor.  “This is your moment to demonstrate the value of the Malfoy family – a necessary gesture, I’m afraid, as you have all fallen far short of your promise as of yet.  It’s enough to make me wonder if my purpose is not better served without you, though of course it would be a terrible tragedy to have yet another Pureblood line come to an end.”

With numb, trembling fingers, Draco rolled up his left sleeve, nearly falling over when he took his first hesitant step towards the basin.  The cold sweat of terror had dried on his skin, inviting the chill of the cellar to settle within him, but his body wouldn’t even shiver.  He had to concentrate to move at all, battling to lift his arm and then extend it, the whispery, icy tendrils of the purple light licking up to taste him.

“Very good,” Voldemort breathed, his slitted, reptilian nostrils flaring open as though he could smell Draco’s fear.  He raised his bone-white yew wand.

And then there was pain.

 

“It is not a tattoo, and it is not made of ink,” Draco said.  “The substance in the corrupted Pensieve is cursed into the Death Eater’s skin.  Indelibly.  Connecting them to Voldemort, and to each other, to a lesser extent.  It gave him the means to summon them…us…at his whim.  And it…there is something about the shared pool of memory and emotion surrounding horrific actions that provides…  I’m not sure how to describe it.  Reassurance?  Motivation?  A kind of euphoric confidence that fills that space where courage ought to be, to allow the hesitant to overcome any natural revulsion and commit to the deed.  All Death Eaters are, ultimately, cowards in one way or another.  I was not the only one who required this false sense of invincibility to carry out orders.”

“Like a drug?”  Hermione asked, a pronounced frown line between her brows.

Draco held out a hand, waggling it from side to side.  “Not to the point of being incapable of true agency, if that’s what you’re thinking.  I don’t want you to get the impression that anyone bearing this Mark was magically coerced and therefore not to be held accountable for what they did.  That was how so many of them escaped culpability after the first war, my father included.  And I was the only new Death Eater made during the second.”

“That’s fucked up, mate,” Ron grunted, his knuckles standing out in stark white because of how hard he was clenching his fists on the table.

“Everything was fucked up back then,” Harry said somberly, his expression looking slightly pinched with pain as he shifted his shoulder.

“But memories and emotions – yeah, they’re from a bunch of murderers and psychopaths, total nightmare, agreed, but could that really take down a ley line?”  Ron sounded skeptical.

Draco was startled to realize that he was petting Crookshanks, running his hand along the cat’s broad back in response to his rumbling purrs, trying not to let the sting of Ron’s words settle over him with any kind of permanence.  It wasn’t as though Ron were entirely, or even mostly, incorrect.

“If I wanted to distill evil down to its essence,” Draco said, staring at the table.  “To concentrate what it means to be truly Dark into something almost tangible, then I’d be hard pressed to think of a better way than what Voldemort did to that Pensieve.  There was a split in it, when we found it.  Maybe it happened at the same time as the solid limestone underneath it cracked – or maybe the limestone was affected by the corruption that leaked out of the Pensieve, I don’t know.  But it was deep.  And underneath the Chalk, as the Muggles call it, is groundwater.  Ley lines connect points of significant magical concentration, but are guided by natural forces.”

“Like an underground river,” Hermione said with a nod.  “But surely now that we know, we can find a way to purify the water.”

Draco snorted, he couldn’t help it.  It earned him a glare from Ron and a slightly offended huff from Hermione. 

“You don’t understand the scale of the issue,” Draco said.  “At its most fundamental, magic is indistinguishable from nature.  It is incorporated in everything, even though Muggles are incapable of recognizing it, or intentionally manipulating it.  But they understand the principles and impact of contaminants on the molecular level.  They ought to, given that they’re so fond of inventing new substances without thinking about how to dispose of them.  Though we’re often no better.  We don’t do it quite the same way, but there are plenty of witches and wizards who are too lazy even to Vanish what they chose to discard, and we tend to see magical problems as completely separate from the mundane.”

He paused for a moment as Crookshanks shifted in his lap, rolling onto his side to expose an expanse of lighter orange belly fluff.  Draco opted to let him be, tempting as that soft fur was, as he had no intention of springing a trap.

“Contaminants, magical or mundane, move through environmental compartments in ways specific to their nature.  Some love the water, others the air, or the soil, and some accumulate in living things.  Very little usually ends up in the magical compartment, and those things tend to also be magical in some way.  But some measure of it will end up in all of them.  That spill has been going on for years.  It started in the groundwater, but has been drawn up through wells and springs and used to irrigate crops or as drinking water.  It’s evaporated into the air.  It’s gone into the soil.  People and animals have eaten the plants that have grown in that soil.  Believe me when I say that this is not something that can simply be erased or neutralized.  It’s already been embedded in the environment.”

All three of them stared solemnly at him for a moment.  Then Ron spoke.

“Merlin’s scraggly beard,” he said, looking between Draco and Hermione.  “There’s two of them.”

Harry burst out laughing, and Ron joined him, while Draco and Hermione sat in slightly affronted silence.

“Hopefully,” Hermione said, her voice slightly raised so as the curb the hilarity between her husband and her best friend.  “The fact that the leak is no longer active will make a difference in terms of the effects on the Floo network and Apparition.  There are potions that are used to dissolve the contents of Pensieves after their owners have decided to discard their extracted memories.  I can’t see why something like that wouldn’t work on this, even though it is corrupted.  After that, we can melt down or destroy the basin and the pedestal.”

“We’ll need a way to get past those curse flames, first,” Harry said.  “Walking through them is not an option.  For anyone.”  He shot Draco a pointed look.

“Could be a potion for that, too,” Ron suggested.  “Like there was for those flames guarding the Stone in our first year.”

“You weren’t even awake for that part,” Harry grumbled, and Hermione giggled.

“I’ll look into that, too,” she promised.  “In the meantime, you two will continue as you have been.  Nothing has changed as far as the Ministry’s concerned, not until we get rid of the Pensieve.  Agreed?”

Ron and Harry both nodded, then looked at Draco expectantly.  Draco didn’t notice, absorbed in tracing a finger along the darker orange stripes on the top of Crookshanks’s head.

“What is it?”  Hermione asked.

“Why the Manor?”  Draco mused aloud, raising his gaze to meet hers.  “You said the Manor is a secondary node for this ley line, between Stonehenge and the Isle of Wight.  But does the Manor actually have significant enough magical importance to be a node?  It’s barely a thousand years old.  Stonehenge is easily three times that.”

“It is a node, though, it has to be,” Hermione insisted.  “Everything about it fits – the source of the contamination is causing the disruption to the ley line.”

“I agree.”  Draco nodded.  “The Manor holds the source of the corruption.  But something about the Manor’s connection to the ley line doesn’t seem quite right.”  He waved a hand dismissively, intending to delve back into L’estoire when he returned to the estate.  “Regardless, that doesn’t change our present course of action.”

“All right, then,” Harry said.  “Then I think it’s time for Draco and I to Portkey back to the Manor.”

“Oh, but –”  Hermione protested, gesturing towards Harry’s shoulder.

“It’s fine, Hermione.”

“It’s not.”  She glared at him, then at Draco.  “Make sure he keeps it on until morning, just to be safe.”

“Oi!  I’m right here,” Harry said testily.

Draco just blinked at her in surprise.  “You’re assuming that he’ll be with me until then?”

Ron made a gagging noise that ended in a yelp when Hermione elbowed him. 

“Yes,” Hermione said, her tone resigned.  “I am.”

~ * ~

“Stop,” Draco said, gently slapping Harry’s hand away from the strap of the sling.  “Hermione said until morning.  Leave it alone.”

Harry frowned at him.  “I don’t know if I approve of you joining Hermione’s side like this.  I feel fine.”

“You weren’t fine in the cellars.”  Draco pulled back the covers of his bed, then moved around to the other side to give Harry room to get in.  “Since I’m the one who broke your shoulder, I think that gives me the right to scold you about letting it heal.”

“Hey,” Harry said, grabbing his hand across the bed.  “That wasn’t your fault, you didn’t know.”

Draco huffed a denial, but gave in to Harry’s insistent tug on his hand, settling in beside him.  He was, inexplicably, still wearing Harry’s T-shirt paired with his pima cotton pajama pants.  Utterly baffling choice, but for some reason he hadn’t wanted to take it off.

Harry’s good arm fell across his waist, his head coming to rest on Draco’s chest. 

“Remove your glasses, you numpty,” Draco ordered, wincing as the frames dug into his skin. 

Grumbling, Harry rolled over to set his glasses on the nightstand, then returned to his previous position.  They lay together in silence for a moment, Draco dimming the light in the wall sconce with a wave of his hand.

“I didn’t like seeing you like that.” 

Harry’s soft confession surprised Draco, and he started to run his fingers through messy dark hair, separating the strands gently when they tangled.

“Like what?”

“When you fell through the curse flames,” Harry said.  “On the floor, covered in blood, just like –”  He stopped abruptly, drawing in a shuddering breath.

“I’m all right,” Draco whispered, trying to be reassuring.  “I’m fine.”

“See that you stay that way,” Harry said, cracking the sentence midway through with a yawn.  Eventually his breaths became deep and even, sleep taking him in just a few minutes.

Draco continued petting him, probably taking more comfort from the action than Harry had.  And he lay awake for a bit, tired as he was, just in case Harry’s sleep was troubled with nightmares.

Chapter 23

Les enchauntements fondamentaux sont liés aux biens de domeigne, apurtenaunce à ceal du sanke dans le cadre de l'échange.

Tuning out the raised voices around him, Draco focused on the sentence that he’d copied down in his notebook from L’estoire, annotating it with arrows pointing to his best guesses at the English translations that were nevertheless liberally sprinkled with question marks.  Old Normaund was tantalizingly familiar, close to modern French but different enough to be especially frustrating, since he fancied himself to have something of a talent for languages. 

L’echange, though.  At first he had thought it was a reference to the exchange of favors Armand Malfoy performed for William the Conqueror in order to be rewarded with the estate.  But the context seemed to imply that the referenced exchange occurred after the estate had been granted, which didn’t make sense.  And his father’s portrait had been no help, when Draco had finally become vexed enough to ask.  Lucius’s image had simply sat in smug silence – at least until Draco had sat down in his father’s chair, put his feet up on the desk (taking care to knock over the antique brass sand sifter that Lucius had claimed once belonged to Merwyn the Malicious), and proceeded to finish off a bag of pistachios that he had in his satchel, tossing the shells behind him.  Being pelted with food waste was enough to provoke his father’s portrait into an extended rant about all of Draco’s defects, past and present, which was slightly entertaining but not at all educational.

“– it was a temporary outage, we were able to get those fireplaces reconnected within the day.”  Percy was clearly fuming but doing an admirable job at holding in his temper as he was forced to explain himself yet again, this time to Baxter of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes.  “And you’ve said yourself, however grudgingly, that you’ve seen improvements in the past few weeks.”

“I said we haven’t seen an increase in accident reports,” Baxter returned swiftly.  “A plateau is not an improvement, returning to normal levels would be an improvement, and – I’m terribly sorry, are we boring you?”

This last part was directed at Draco, who looked up to see nearly everyone in Shacklebolt’s office glaring at him.

“Oh, forgive me,” Draco said, closing his notebook with a loud snap, tucking it under his arm so that he could lace his fingers together and place them on his knee, adopting an attitude of exaggerated attentiveness.  “I was only trying to get some real work done today, but if you insist I shall listen closely to the very same points that have been revisited at every meeting I have been required to attend so far.”

“You think this is a waste of time, Malfoy?”  Robards growled, taking a step forward from where he’d been leaning against a side table.

Draco gave him a bored look.  “I don’t think so, I know so.  I recognize this as a venue for you all to vent your displeasure at the slow progress being made in clearing the Manor.  If I cared at all for your opinions I’m sure that I would be appropriately devastated, but alas, I never sought either this work or your thoughts about it.  What you all apparently fail to grasp is that the more time you insist upon spending here, the less time I have to work toward the end that we all ostensibly crave.”

“Perhaps you’re dragging your feet on purpose,” Baxter suggested, her lip curling. 

“Yes, indeed.  The ultimate goal of my nefarious tampering with the ley line has been to risk my life almost daily and then be summoned here and berated for something the Ministry was unable to accomplish in the past twenty years with its existing resources, I can think of no greater use of my time as lord of the Manor.”  Draco held up his right hand to display his father’s ring.  The anti-Apparition cuff shifted on his wrist as well, an ever-present reminder of the reality of his ‘employment’ by the Ministry, which was starting to grate heavily on his nerves.

Keeping the successful breach of the cellars a secret from the Ministry had been more difficult than Draco had believed it would be, ironically because of the weeks of recent data which indicated that the situation with the ley line was at the very least not getting any worse for the moment, and in fact may have been showing extremely incremental improvement.  Far from taking it as a good sign, it seemed to have aroused suspicion from both Robards and Baxter, and Thaddeus Sallow of the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office had finagled his way into these interminable meetings with a clear agenda of picking up right where Arthur Weasley left off when it came to Malfoy Manor.

All of this meant that Draco’s capacity for tolerating time-wasting nonsense meetings was severely lacking, and he had no interest in keeping up with niceties.  Instead, he decided to lean into being an arrogant sod.  It didn’t seem to make a difference, but it was vastly more satisfying.

He turned his head slightly to bring Hermione into his meager peripheral vision.  She seemed torn halfway between amusement and disapproval, tapping her quill so forcefully on the pile of notes in her lap that the tip was no doubt already ruined.  Harry, seated on her other side, was covering his mouth with a hand as though rubbing his chin thoughtfully.  It was painfully obvious to everyone in the room that he was hiding a grin.

“Ah, Mr. Malfoy, I must say that it’s somewhat refreshing to see your contributions here aligning more closely with the tone of your written reports.”  Shacklebolt’s dry observation cut through the tension left hanging in the air.  “And however lacking in diplomacy your input may be, it remains true that everyone in attendance has many demands on their time, and this does not need to be one of them.  At the very least, not at this frequency.”

“It’s all very well and good for you to say, Minister,” Baxter said, her dark eyes flashing with anger.  “But I don’t see how else we’re supposed to stay informed about the situation.  Malfoy’s reports are vague, the bits that Munro feeds to the newspapers and the Wireless aren’t anything that we don’t already know, and you’ve given us no means of pursuing accountability other than this.  Every time I’ve asked for leave to verify what we’re being told, all I hear is that it’s still too dangerous to go to the estate and that we must be careful with the ley line.  Frankly, it makes me question your faith in us – do you see us as competent witches and wizards or not?  You’ll trust us to lead our respective divisions but not to evaluate a musty old Manor?  A Manor, I might add, that is under the direct oversight and ownership of the Ministry?”

“Baxter’s right,” Robards grunted, shifting his stance to put more weight on his left leg, as though relieving the strain on an old injury.  “You throw reports at us and expect us to take them at face value, in spite of the source being a Death Eater –”

“Former Death Eater,” Shacklebolt interjected.

“– who no one in this office trusted enough with this work without sufficient leverage to keep him here –”

“What leverage?”  Baxter asked sharply.

“– and yet all we have to go on regarding progress at the Manor is Malfoy’s word –”

“And mine.”

Robards suddenly fell silent, eyeing Harry warily as he got to his feet. 

“I’m working on this, too, Gawain, in case you forgot.  Or perhaps you don’t think that my word is enough to go on.”  Harry’s voice was cool and even, but there was a weight behind it, a promise that felt like charged air before a lightning strike.

Draco could see Robards weighing his options, considering whether to make a direct move against Harry’s candidacy for the role of Head Auror, or to make nice and bide his time for a better opportunity.  Ultimately the grizzled Auror decided on the latter, but with a little dig.  “No one’s questioning your word, Harry.  But it’s not always possible to have clear eyes when you’re too close to a situation.”

Harry stiffened slightly, but Hermione broke in smoothly before he could speak.  “I think that we’re right on the cusp of seeing a very encouraging trend in the disruptions caused by the ley line, and I would imagine that once things become more stable, we’ll have reached the point where we can discuss cautiously opening up the undertaking to involve any departments which may have a stake.”

“Another non-answer.  Unspeakable Granger, you are a credit to your department.”  Baxter whirled on her heel, snapping her fingers to call her two aides to follow in her wake.  “I find myself in the strange position of agreeing with Malfoy, here – these meetings are, in fact, a waste of time, since no one here seems interested in wringing any specifics out of him.”

With that, she swept out of Shacklebolt’s office, barking instructions to one of the aides regarding the next item on her schedule.  It rather felt as though Baxter had sucked out all the remaining air in the room with her departure, as there was an awkward silence before people began murmuring about their next appointments and shuffling their papers around, before departing themselves. 

“I thought that we agreed to let me do most of the talking,” Hermione hissed at Draco.

“I seem to be better at ending meetings than you are,” Draco whispered back.  “Perhaps this means I should speak more, not less.”

“I know that Baxter can be rather…abrasive,” Hermione admitted in a low voice.  “But she is actually quite good at her job.  In her position I’d likely push just as hard.”

“And I would delight in pushing back,” Draco said, intending it amicably.  But something about the aggravation that he was struggling to hide must have come through in his expression or tone, because Hermione frowned and turned abruptly to cross the room, catching Shacklebolt’s arm and speaking quietly to him.

Draco sighed.  He was being snappish today.  The Dementors did not seem to be reducing their activities in response to him having stopped the active leak from the Pensieve in the cellars.  In fact they had appeared outside Draco’s wards during the last three nights in a row, and even a double dose of Invigoration Draught hadn’t been enough to banish the ache of fatigue from either mind or body before being summoned to attend yet another meeting at the Ministry.  He had even fallen asleep at the table this morning while trying to puzzle out sections of L’estoire, and counted himself lucky that he hadn’t somehow damaged the readability of the book when he’d startled awake and knocked over his neglected cup of cold tea.

He made his way toward the door, intending to wait in the hallway while Hermione and Harry finished speaking with all of the Ministry people who ‘only wanted a few minutes’ of their time, but someone attempted to slip through the door at the same time, jostling him against the frame.  Since the person was on his right, Draco wasn’t sure who it was until he heard that smooth, low tenor.

“So sorry, old chap.  Late for my next meeting, you understand.”

Draco felt something light drop into the pocket of his tweed Chesterfield coat, and looked up to glimpse Blaise from behind as the man swiftly made his way down the hall.  The atmosphere of these frequent meetings had made it clear that Blaise’s effectiveness as Acting Head of International Magical Cooperation would be compromised if they appeared to be too friendly with each other.  He retrieved his notebook from under his arm and flipped it open, leaning his shoulder against the wall and taking a moment to reread the sentence he’d been trying to interpret earlier.

Blaise’s note was easy to slip into the open pages of his notebook, held in place with a thumb.  Relatively invisible to anyone who may be casually observing, and this wasn’t a situation which would call for any more subterfuge than that.

Draco,

You always did know how to get under somebody’s skin.  I should invite you to all of my meetings, it would certainly free up much more of my time. 

I came into some information which could mean a satisfactory end to your mother’s current project.  If this is the case, I would recommend that she do what she can to wrap it up quickly, as it’s become commonly known that she is in London.

Unrelated, Greg has mentioned hearing about renewed interest in the Manor from certain quarters now that it’s back in the public eye.  No details, just whispers here and there.  He’s got an ear to the ground, and so do I.

I hope you know what you’re doing.  There’s stalling, and then there’s provocation.  Just be careful.

B.Z.

Vanishing the note with a flick of his wrist, Draco once again snapped his notebook closed, this time stowing it away in his satchel.  Harry and Hermione were just leaving Shacklebolt’s office by the time he looked up, which was fortuitous, since there were several Aurors arriving to meet Robards.  One of them was Strickland, who Draco had seen outside the gates of the estate.  The Auror narrowed his eyes at him, then looked away when Harry shot a glare in his direction.

“I’ve got some business in Diagon Alley,” Harry said, tilting his head toward the Atrium and its many Floo connections.  “What to you all say to lunch there before going back to the Manor?”

“Tempus,” Hermione said, checking the time, worrying her lower lip between her teeth.  “Yes, all right.  As long as we don’t take too long.”

Draco exercised what he felt to be remarkable restraint as they took turns traveling via Floo to Diagon Alley.  It wasn’t as though Harry or Hermione were necessarily bad at working covertly, but this Gryffindor-ish tendency to announce everything was both irritating and amusing.  A Slytherin would never stoop to being so obvious – though, any decent Slytherin would have already cultivated a reputation for aloofness and mystery, and therefore would have no need to invent explanations for their behavior.  If everything one did was suspicious, then it was difficult for anyone else to deduce which actions were, in fact, actually suspicious.

Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes had made its section of Diagon Alley a prime location for business, as evidenced by the numerous flyers and advertisements floating about over the heads of prospective customers, exhorting them to just walk a little further, or to take a quick left or right to patronize the shops which were close by but not quite as ostentatious as the carnival-like atmosphere of the crowning achievement of the famous Weasley twins.  Though it did not have the centuries-long history of some of the other establishments of Diagon Alley, there was no doubt that it was already a fixture, and would be for years to come if George continued to demonstrate the same savvy that already demanded the respect of wizarding London in spite of the apparent frivolity of his products.

Ron met them at the counter, giving them a wave as he finished up a conversation with Victoire, who appeared to be working as the sales clerk today. 

“Just hex them if they give you any trouble,” Ron said.  “You know George doesn’t tolerate harassment of his staff, and especially not when the staff in question is one of his favorite nieces.”

Victoire rolled her eyes.  “I can handle it, Uncle Ron.”

“Someone bothering you, Victoire?”  Harry asked, a note of concern evident in his voice.

“No more than usual,” Victoire muttered.  “It’s just, sometimes…  You know.  The veela thing.”

“You know that doesn’t excuse their behavior,” Hermione said.  “Do as Ron said.  Hex them.”

“I don’t actually like hexing people,” Victoire huffed.  “Besides, sometimes they crash into the displays and it takes me ages to put them back together.”

“But if the alternative is putting up with it –”  Harry started, his brows drawn down in a deep frown.

“There are other options,” Draco said, drawing their attention in a manner which indicated that they’d forgotten he was even there.

“Please, feel free to offer a suggestion,” Victoire sighed, waving her hand in the air.  “Everyone else has.”

“I don’t pretend to know exactly what it must be like, being part veela,” Draco acknowledged.  “But if you want to minimize potential damage to the shop’s displays and also rid yourself of unwanted attention, you might employ Liberum lingua.”

“How would that help?  They’ll only keep talking at me, I just won’t be able to understand them!  Unless they happen to spell themselves into speaking French.”  Victoire scowled at him, and Draco smiled faintly.

“Don’t use it on them.  Use it on yourself.  And choose a language that might be particularly intimidating – I would suggest Mermish.  It’s not really meant to be heard above water.”

Victoire’s mouth dropped open, and then she collected herself, blinking in surprise.  “That actually could work.”

Ron laughed, clapping her on the shoulder.  “That’s the ticket!  Just screech them right out of the shop.”  He glanced at Draco.  “What made you think of that?”

“Los idiomas son simplemente otro tipo de barrera para aquellos a quienes no les interesa aprenderlos,” Draco said, and then wandered down one of the aisles to get a closer look at some items that appeared to be deceptively harmless self-spinning tops.

“What does that mean?”  Ron called after him.  “Oi!  What does that mean?”

“I think we’d better be getting upstairs,” Hermione said, laughter evident in her voice. 

The Weasley twins, when establishing their shop, had wisely decided to convert the upper story into their workshop, rather than use the cellar.  Their charms and potions work had been largely experimental when developing their first product lines, and as George continued to expand after the second war, the need for such experimentation remained.  With the workshop being on the upper floor, any inadvertent or unintentional explosions or fires were less likely to disturb anything on the mercantile level, and any damages were far easier to extinguish and repair.

It was here that Hermione was brewing two potions – one, a modified version of the potion that was used to dissipate extracted memories for those who used Pensieves.  The other was intended to allow the one who ingested it to pass safely through curse flames, such as those which still guarded the entrance to the secret chamber in the Manor cellars. 

Using George’s workshop was necessary, as each of these potions required a controlled environment to brew.  And using Ministry resources was not an option, since Hermione would have had to account for the use of ingredients and available cauldrons, even within the Department of Mysteries.  This made some of the rarer ingredients rather difficult to obtain, but fortunately Draco was in an ideal position to overcome that obstacle.

“Were you able to get all of them?”  Hermione asked, clearing a space on one of the worktables.

“I was,” Draco said, lifting the strap of his satchel over his head so that he could set it down and sift through the contents.  He removed the deliveries from Séneca one by one.  “Vipertooth venom.  Hair of an Acalica’s beard.  Lagahoo saliva.  And a Lusca tooth.”

“Bloody hell,” Ron said.  “That’s thousands of Galleons’ worth of merchandise right there.  Tens of thousands.  And your friend just…gave it to you?”

“I tried paying him what I could,” Draco said, toying with the vial of Lagahoo saliva, the interior of which was coated in silver nitrate to preserve its properties.  “But I can’t afford fair market value, and he knows that.  He wanted to help.”

“He must like you,” Ron said in a slightly questioning tone, as though marveling at the concept of anyone liking Draco that much.

“Anyway,” Harry growled, pushing past Ron to join Hermione at the worktable, where she was donning dragon hide gloves before carefully removing the stopper from the vial of Vipertooth venom.  “How much longer do the potions need?”

“This needs another week for the Acalica hair to fully dissolve,” Hermione said, indicating the cauldron which held the potion for the Pensieve.  “And this one is nearly finished brewing – with a stasis charm, it will keep indefinitely.”  She gave the other potion three stirs with the Lusca tooth clockwise, then five stirs counterclockwise. 

“There’s still the question of what to do with the basin after we use the potion on its contents,” Draco said, rubbing his forehead to try to release some of the tension from his headache.  “I’m sure that it and the pedestal are enchanted against Vanishment.  Dragon fire would do it, though I don’t happen to have one of those at hand.”

“Well, you’re in luck,” Ron said with a grin.  “Because I do.  Or at least, I have a brother who works with dragons.”

“It’s just getting the pieces to Romania,” Harry said.  “I wish we could destroy them in situ, but that kind of power might also bring the Manor down around us, which is less than ideal.”

Draco indulged in a brief daydream of setting a dragon loose in the Manor.  It was tempting.  But dragons were anything but inconspicuous, and notoriously difficult to contain.  It was probably best to leave dragon fire to the dragonologists. 

“I think we can keep Kingsley and the rest of them in the dark until after we get the Pensieve and its stand out of the country,” Hermione said, plucking the vial of Lagahoo saliva out of his hands.  “Though I can’t promise that another meeting won’t be called in between now and then.”

“Wonderful,” Draco said.  “I can’t wait.”

“Antagonizing them isn’t going to help anything.”  Hermione carefully measured out three drops of the saliva, letting them coat the back of a polished platinum disc, then dropped the disc into the Pensieve potion.

“I should follow my own advice and only speak to them in Mermish.”

Harry burst out laughing, and even Hermione chuckled a bit. 

“Can’t say I miss Ministry work,” Ron commented.  “Equal parts exciting or terrifying, and then mind-numbingly boring.  Those parts were like being trapped in Professor Binns’ History of Magic class all over again.”

“You’re not wrong,” Harry agreed.

“Now’s your chance to get used to it again, Harry,” Hermione said, stripping off the dragon hide gloves.

“If he wants to,” Ron said, looking pointedly at Harry.

“What do you mean by that?”  Hermione asked, raising her eyebrows.  “What do you mean, ‘if he wants to’?  Why wouldn’t he want to?”

“Maybe he doesn’t want the job, ‘Mione.”  Ron’s tone was defensive.

Hermione turned to Harry.  “You don’t want to be Head of the Auror Office?  But they’re in desperate need of leadership, Harry, you’ve seen how things are with Robards.”

“He’s been stepping up lately,” Harry said, his eyes downcast.  “And I haven’t decided about the job.”

“Kingsley still needs to replace him, the Office needs real change.  You know he’s only trying to protect himself right now, and then things will go right back to the way they’ve been when he thinks he’s not under so much scrutiny.”

“Surely there are other candidates who would be able to do the job,” Draco said. 

“None as good as Harry,” Hermione snapped.

Draco could see it in Harry’s eyes.  The turmoil from the conflict between disappointing his best friend by choosing not to take on an important challenge, versus maintaining his own peace and sticking with the decision he’d made years ago to take up a new kind of work. 

He could see that turmoil bending toward self-sacrifice, toward fitting inside a mold of someone else’s design, toward fulfilling a need instead of fulfilling the self.

And he didn’t want to see the moment it happened, the moment when Harry chose yet again to surrender his life to something that was wanted of him.  It was a pattern, Draco thought.  It had to be.  It had been trained into him, over and over, reinforced by prophecy and manipulation and genuine, dire necessity.

So he turned and descended the stairs, intending to wait on the mercantile floor for the three of them to finish deciding Harry’s life for him.  It wasn’t as though he had the right to step in more than he had.  He had no intention of staying in this country – if everything went as it should, he would never be subject to Ministry again.  He should have no interest in who was or wasn’t Head Auror. 

But if he stayed, he knew that he wouldn’t be able to keep from inserting himself into an argument he had no business in. 

At the lower landing of the stairs, he turned to the right, not seeing the person who was standing there until he’d already bumped into them hard enough to send them stumbling against a display of Peace Disturbers, which immediately lit up in an eyewatering array of colors and a cacophony of horns and whistles.

“I’m so sorry,” Draco shouted over the noise, grabbing the man’s arm and helping to steady him.  “I didn’t see –”

His words died in his throat as Dean Thomas glared down at him, yanking his arm away.  He’d aged, as the rest of them had, with salt liberally sprinkled through his salt and pepper beard, his curly black hair cropped close and showing a little more gray at the temples.  His dark skin was turning ashen with something like fear, now that he’d recovered from his surprise.

“Quit makin’ a bloody racket, Dean, what possessed you to –”  That Irish brogue could only belong to Seamus Finnigan, unless Dean had found some other short, plump and irritable Irish bloke to marry.  His mother had sent him a copy of the announcement years ago, clipped from the Daily Prophet and accompanied by a photograph of the two of them smiling at each other in mutual adoration.  As if they were pouring every ounce of the feelings they couldn’t show for each other at school into that one moment.

Seamus stopped dead when he saw him, and then an instant later his wand was in his hand, pointed right at Draco.  “What the fuck’re you doin’ here?”

Draco spread his hands slowly, palms outward in an attempt to placate.  “I had some business here.”

“Yeah?  Well, you and your business can fuck right off now.”  Seamus’s face was red and getting redder.  He’d never been able to hide any of the physical signs of his temper, including his tendency to make things explode. 

“You can’t be ordering my customers around in my own shop, Seamus,” came a drawl, and Draco glanced over to see George, arms crossed over his chest.  “Put that wand away, did you even look at where you’re standing?”

Seamus scowled, but his gaze slid involuntarily to the shelf next to him, which held a neat stack of Basic Blaze Boxes, and below it, a basket of Bombtastic Bombs, each of the shiny black orbs equipped with short fuses.  Reluctantly, he slipped his wand back up the sleeve of his coat, though his ire hadn’t cooled.

“What’re you doin’ lettin’ him into your shop, George?  Him, of all people!  Did you know what he did to Dean?  He had him locked in the fuckin’ cellar in a house full of werewolves and Death Eaters, him half-starved after bein’ on the run for months!  They took his wand, George!”

“They took a lot of things,” George said softly.  “You don’t have to tell me.”

Seamus thrust a hand out, gesturing to Draco.  “Then why –”

“Because Harry spoke for him, and because it’s been twenty fucking years, Seamus.”

“You think that matters?  You think twenty years is long enough to forgive –”

“Seamus, love, calm down,” Dean said, slipping an arm around his husband’s ample waist.

“Dean, you still wake up in a cold sweat –”

“It’s not about forgiveness,” George said, running a finger behind what was left of his ear.  Draco didn’t think it was a conscious gesture, but instead motivated by memories bubbling to the surface.  “It’s about moving on.  You think I want to spend the rest of my days stewing in the past?  To stay stuck in that moment forever?  You think that’s what we owe to the ones who didn’t make it?”

Seamus looked stricken, his face draining of color almost as quickly as it had reddened.  “George, no, I didn’t –”

“And it’s sure as fuck not what we owe to the kids who are growing up now,” George continued, cutting him off.  “They deserve better than carrying our baggage, don’t you think?  That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”

“It is,” Dean said, with a final glance at Draco.  “We wanted to get some early Christmas shopping done.”

“Then do that.  At the very least, do it for Victoire, who would be stuck putting those shelves back together if you blew them up.”

“Not on your life!”  Victoire called from the front of the shop, her voice ringing out in a singsong sort of way.

“Yeah, fine.”  Seamus’s eyes flicked past Draco, a little further up the stairs.  “All right, Harry, you can quit your earwiggin’.”

“Good to see you again, Seamus,” Harry said, descending until he was on the landing with Draco.

“I’d say the same except for the manky company you’re keepin’.”  Color was rising again in Seamus’s cheeks, but he gave in to the pull of his husband’s arm and followed him to the other side of the shop.

George watched them go, a thoughtful look on his face.  “Everything going all right upstairs?”

“Yeah.”  Harry cleared his throat.  “Thanks again for letting us use a couple of your cauldrons.”

“This time of year, if we hadn’t already worked ourselves ahead in terms of stock, there wouldn’t have been any to spare.”  George grinned.  “If you want anything on your way out, just make sure Victoire takes note of it for inventory.”

“I will,” Harry chuckled.  He gently nudged Draco’s arm with his elbow.  “You okay?”

“Yes, Potter,” Draco said, and saw Harry flinch at the reversion to his surname.  “It’s my favorite thing, to be able to turn a corner and be confronted with some of my greatest regrets at any moment.  But I think I’ve had enough of these fabulous delights for one day, and I’d like to leave.  Now.”

“Sure, just let me –”

“Alone.  I can get myself back to the Manor just fine, thank you.”  Draco strode for the door, twisting his body to move through the other patrons of the shop without jostling anyone else into the merchandise.

The cold air outside hit him in a gust of icy wind, the sharp smell heralding imminent snow.  The air burned when he drew it into his lungs, but he kept up the quick gait, wanting to put as much distance as possible between himself and the people he’d hurt.

“Draco!”  Harry caught him by the arm, but Draco pulled away, determined not to stop.

“Careful, Potter, you don’t want to be seen in manky company.”

“I don’t care about that,” Harry snapped, keeping pace with him.

“Yes, you do.  And you should.  There’s nothing that I can offer you that would make up for what you’d lose.”

“Seamus only said that because he doesn’t know you the way I do, he doesn’t –”

Draco stopped abruptly, glaring into Harry’s eyes.  “Why do you care?”

“I care because – because it’s all wrong!  You’ve changed, and I’ve changed, and all of us have, and they should know that, they should see who you are and not who they thought you were when we were all seventeen-year-old idiots.”  Harry’s expression was fierce and determined.  “I’m not going to go blabbing your secrets, Draco, but if they knew what I do, then maybe they’d –”

“I will not,” Draco spat, feeling his eyes sting with the unexpected strength of his emotion.  “I will not – flay myself open and beg for their mercy!  I will not expose my pain to the world on the off chance it might make me more tolerable to anyone.  Almost everything in my life was taken from me for what I did.  I have lawfully paid for my sins in money, status, land, and reputation.  I paid with my father’s life.  Would you have me give up my pride as well?  You might not think that pride is worth much, but when you have almost nothing else, you’d be surprised at how valuable it is.”

“Draco –”  Harry reached out as though to cup his cheek, and Draco batted his hand away.

“No.”  Draco took a deep breath and let it out slowly.  “I let myself get carried away when I should have known better, and for that I apologize.”

“Apologize for what?”  Harry demanded, his eyes searching Draco’s face.  “What are you saying?”

“I’m going back to the Manor.  Alone, as I said.  I’ll see you tomorrow, Harry.”

And with that, Draco resumed walking, popping the collar of his coat against the wind, and keeping his head down as the first few flakes of snow started to fall. 

Chapter 24

Draco gazed unblinkingly into the flames of the smokeless fire he’d charmed to float in the middle of his small sitting room, needing something to cut through the chill that had settled deep within him.  The ground outside was now covered with a scant inch or two of snow, not that it had had any impact on the way the driver of the Knight Bus had navigated his way from Diagon Alley to the Malfoy estate.  Draco had never actually used that service before, and once he’d set his feet back on blessedly solid ground he resolved never to do so again.  He had stood on the deck of the Esperanza in hurricane-force winds, but the Knight Bus was a wholly different thing.  He hadn’t been the only passenger to suffer from motion sickness, and he was grateful that at least he hadn’t eaten anything before hailing the Bus for a ride.

This had been a complete and utter cock-up.

And he couldn’t even lay much of the blame on Harry.  It was unreasonable to fault an optimist for being an optimist.  It had always been on Draco to be the one who understood the reality of the situation and acted accordingly, but he’d been greedy, and now there was no way to escape this without pain on all sides.  He’d been foolish to think that he was risking only his own feelings, not with the way Harry apparently took up relationships the way he took up a righteous cause.  Harry had been clear – it was the perceived injustice that rankled him, the endearing naivety of believing that everyone should see Draco the way Harry saw him now.  Somehow he had engaged the protective instinct which had been Harry’s defining trait almost since the first time they’d met. 

Draco had been shocked to realize that the scrawny boy with specs and wild hair that he’d spoken to briefly at Madame Malkin’s shop in Diagon Alley was none other than The Boy Who Lived.  And given Draco’s upbringing, it was unlikely that their second meeting could have gone any other way.  It had been obvious even to Draco’s eleven-year-old self that Harry had a soft spot for the underdog.  The idea that he himself, having come from the highest degree of privilege it had been possible to have in wizarding England, now played the part of the underdog was humiliating.

Harry wasn’t the only one with patterns, Draco thought wearily.  Knowing that anyone thought that he might need help, that they could see through his affectation of unshakeable independence and confident self-sufficiency, was discomfiting to put it mildly.  Vulnerabilities, assumed or actual, were safest when they were concealed.  And anyone who might get too close to discerning them were usually put off by his sharp tongue and cold shoulder.

But Draco felt strongly that in this case he was in the right.  Chasing after the goodwill of people that he’d either harmed directly or been complicit in harming was a fool’s errand, and he feared that Harry was in for a rude awakening if he felt that the public’s adoration of him was stronger than their hatred of Death Eaters.  The particulars – Draco’s acquittal, and the individual circumstances surrounding it – didn’t actually matter.  It was that he represented that which was justifiably hated, a movement which had taken many, many lives and spread fear through every corner of the isles.  And he would never prevail against that perception.  Deep down, he wasn’t sure he should even try.

In need of a distraction, Draco pulled the alpaca wool blanket more tightly around him, opened up L’estoire and tried to continue reading, leaving his bookmark in the section which described the exchange that had so puzzled him.  The Malfoy ancestors, several generations removed from Armand, who were responsible for writing things down apparently hadn’t felt compelled to put things in any kind of logical order, as now he seemed to be reading about ‘lyngnee’ and the early succession of Malfoys in England.  There was some rather sexist nonsense about entailment when there were no direct male heirs and the seeds of what Draco suspected had grown into the preoccupation his family had with being Pureblood wizards and witches.  He thumbed to the next section, which was delineated with an ornately illuminated page, and continued to muddle through it.

His fatigue weighed on him, however, and it wasn’t long before he was dozing, the conjured fire flickering merrily in the air.  The stiffness in his body from his awkward position in the armchair, paired with increasingly poignant pangs of hunger, kept him from a much-needed true sleep.

Still, even in his half-waking state it took some time for him to register the burning sensation on the ring finger of his right hand.  At first it had been nothing more than a slightly irritating itch, a persistent teasing nuisance that had him rubbing his thumb against the silver band of his father’s ring.  But when it suddenly felt as though his entire hand had been plunged into molten metal, every nerve ending abruptly igniting in searing agony, he jerked to his feet with a choked off scream, clutching his hand to his chest. 

Heart pounding wildly, Draco tried to make sense of what he was feeling, of what the ring was trying to tell him.  It had only actively warned him before when there were people at the gates, but this – he could barely curl his fingers around his wand well enough to hold it, everything hurt so badly.  And it was starting to spread up his arm, a creeping, throbbing ache that seemed to grow more intense with every beat of his heart. 

Draco Disillusioned himself before easing the tent flap aside and slipping out into the night.  He didn’t even know what time it was, other than the fact that it was well past sunset and not yet sunrise.  Moonlight glimmered on the surface of the patchy, newly-fallen snow, illuminating the estate in a way that cast everything in shades of ethereal blue.

Which only made the faint column of bright green smoke rising in the distance that much more visible. 

It seemed to be coming from the road, from the far side of the Manor right where the gates should be.  Shivering against the cold, Draco cautiously jogged along the gardener’s path, taking a wide berth around the Manor itself and cresting the gentle slope as silently as he could.  He was painfully aware of the fact that he was leaving footprints behind, but that couldn’t be helped just now.

He peered around an unkempt fastigiate shrub, one of the many which lined the gravel drive.  One of the gates was askew, hanging just from the warped remnants of the top hinge.  The other had fallen inward, a slightly muffled hissing emanating from the grotesque face where it was pressed into the snow-covered ground.  The stench of organic rot made Draco gag, his stomach heaving as he recognized the odor of acidic Bundimun secretion.  Bundimun infestations were common enough, but gathering the fungal secretions was a dangerous and costly business.  Undiluted, it was a powerful substance – caustic enough to eat through stone foundations, capable of toppling centuries-old structures if left untended.  And apparently wrought iron gates as well.

Draco was not a knowledgeable enough tracker to make complete sense of the mad scattering of footprints which led from the road onto the grounds, but he didn’t have to be.  It was clear enough that whoever had made them was heading towards the Manor, and it seemed to be a party of people, not one individual acting alone.  His brows drew together in perturbation.  Who on earth would be foolish enough to break into an estate riddled with Dark magic, much less one that was owned by the Ministry of Magic?

He could hear distant, muttered conversation, though the shadow that the Manor cast with the moon behind it made it impossible to make out any details of the…five?...six?...figures that were shrouded in darkness and getting closer to the heavy double doors which were sheltered by the low overhanging roof.  The imitation Roman columns which supported it gleamed slightly, like teeth in the maw of some monstrous architectural beast.  Draco and Harry had not even attempted to address any of the Death Eater traps that might have been laid at the front entrance to the Manor, it was such an obvious lure.

The intruders had sense enough to pause before trying the door, at least, and brief glimmers of magic lit up the darkness as they cast various detection spells.  Draco was torn between two conflicting impulses – should he allow them to try their luck against the traps and the Manor’s ancient defenses, which might whittle them down or eliminate them completely?  Or should he attempt to intervene and at least learn who they were, and their purpose in coming here?

Even without any kind of latent sense of affection for or duty toward his childhood home, the audacity of these trespassers kindled a spark of anger within him.  His father had tolerated Ministry intrusions for the sake of maintaining a false pretense of innocence and compliance, as well as to tweak Arthur Weasley’s nose when he invariably ended his raids empty-handed.  And even worse was the presence of the Dark Lord, his Death Eaters, and assorted allies, though technically they had actually been guests.  But Draco could not remember anyone, Muggle or magical, who had dared to set foot uninvited on the estate otherwise.  The Malfoy reputation was too fearsome, the threat of wealth and privilege – not to mention ethically dubious use of magic – all too believably poised and ready to bring down upon anyone who crossed them.

It wasn’t pleasant, the realization that Draco wasn’t completely free of the familial ego with which he’d been raised, which of course had mingled well with his own.  The affront shouldn’t have been more present in his mind than the potential danger, with a handful or more of potential foes, but the urge to evict them from his – no, not his – land felt as though it were purely instinctual.  Indeed, it felt so natural that it was difficult to resist.

But Draco was not some impetuous Gryffindor.  He was a Slytherin facing unfavorable odds, which meant that baser instincts must bow to more levelheaded strategy.  He withdrew from the hedge, retracing his steps until he could cut across the grounds toward the conservatory.  The footprints he left behind galled him, but stirring up a wind or using some other magic to brush them away would only draw unwanted attention, and he wasn’t ready for such a confrontation.

There was just enough moonlight streaming in from the window in his father’s study to navigate around the desk, though Draco didn’t need to rap his knuckles on the frame of his father’s portrait to wake him up.  Lucius’s bright silver-gray eyes were already open, regarding him with cold hauteur.

“Finally noticed, did you?”  Lucius drawled.  “Perhaps I ought to be grateful that you bothered to stir yourself at all, since you have so clearly given up any notion of trying to keep the Malfoy legacy intact.  Why not just let them rob us blind, if you only intend to accede to the Ministry’s claim?”

“If I don’t try to stop them, they will likely all die, and I don’t need any excuse for the Ministry to come sniffing around until we’re able to rid the world of that particular item of Voldemort’s that you agreed to store for him,” Draco snapped.  “Bodies will garner attention.”

“Soft.”  Lucius’s lip curled.  “You could just tidy up afterward.  Thieves and housebreakers deserve what they get, if they did not come equipped to deal with peculiarities of their target.”

“These peculiarities have required the work of a powerful curse breaker to even make a dent,” Draco retorted.  “Now tell me what I can do to seal the Manor before they wise up enough to search for other avenues of entry.”

“You’ve seemed quite determined that you don’t need my help, I don’t see why I should give it now,” Lucius said.

Draco growled in frustration and started to pace.  “They managed to disable the gates, we are wide open.  The estate is vulnerable.”

“Then do what you must,” Lucius said, his tone bored.  “Perhaps you should start with what you most want to protect.”

“I don’t know what version of my father was magically translated into…this.”  Draco waved a hand at the portrait.  “But it seems to have captured and preserved only his worst qualities.”

That got a reaction, just the slightest flinch and then those painted gray eyes darted away from Draco’s gaze. 

Since no answer seemed to be forthcoming, Draco shook his head slightly and ducked into the service passage that connected the study to the main hall.  At minimum, the corrupted Pensieve needed to be secured, and the best way to do that was to lock the cellar door.  But the glimpse he got of the hall was daunting.  The front windows were on the wrong side of the Manor to receive much of the light from near-winter moon, and shadows loomed in a way that they had not when he had last seen the hall in daylight.  He dared not use his wand to light the way, as he could hear the muffled sounds of what seemed like an argument outside the front door.  There was still a chance that the intruders would re-think their plan and leave, postponing action until a more propitious opportunity presented itself.

But he suspected the likelihood of that happening would be significantly reduced if he made his presence known.  So the most he allowed himself was to whisper a “Revelio!” in order to avoid any unbroken filament spells, and he moved carefully to avoid tripping over any of the obstacles created by the traps he and Harry had already dismantled.

The cellar door was like a gaping maw, utter blackness cutting a hole through the dim interior of the Manor like the darkest depths of the Black Lake next to Hogwarts castle.  Draco’s Sticking Charm was still holding the door firmly open, and he hoped desperately that he was not undoing any of his and Harry’s progress when he cast a nonverbal Finite.  The door popped gently loose from the wall, drifting slightly towards him, and he pushed it closed, making sure that he heard the latch click.  Keeping his right hand pressed against the wood of the door, hard enough that the silver band of the Malfoy ring had made contact, he whispered “Colloportus.”

There was a bright gold flash, similar to when he and Pipsy had opened up the house elf service passages, and Draco let his shoulders droop slightly in relief. 

His relief was short-lived, however.

He heard the creak of a floorboard behind him and was just turning around to look when he heard an incantation, at the same time his earring buzzed in warning.

“Incarcerous!”

Thin cords whipped around him, yanking his arms down to his sides and pulling tightly enough that he was forced to drop his wand, hearing it clatter to the floor as he staggered.  He managed to stay on his feet, glaring at the woman standing in front of him.  She nearly blended in with the shadows with her dark clothes, only the pale skin of her face visible enough to make out any details.

“What’s so valuable that you’d lock it away first thing, hmm?”  The woman seemed familiar.  There was something in the shape of her forehead and jaw, in the way her brown eyes glittered shrewdly, that resonated in his memory.  But he also would have sworn that he’d never met her before. 

“How did you get in here?”  Draco asked, racking his brain for a name, a place from which he might have known her.

“Followed you,” the woman replied, with a slight smirk.  “Or your footprints, rather.  Didn’t know it was you, of course, but seeing as how it didn’t seem safe to try to come in through the front doors, I thought I’d explore a little.  Speaking of.”

The woman turned, striding for the heavy double doors at the center of the hall.  Draco didn’t understand her intention until he saw the motion of her wand arm, far too late to stop her.  But he tried anyway.

“No, don’t –”

“Bombarda!”  The woman shouted, and a bright yellow-white light erupted from her wand, expanding rapidly until it collided with the doors and blew them outward.  The glass panes of the entry way shattered completely, sending shards of antique colored glass flying and forcing Draco to duck, hunching to the side in an attempt to protect his face. 

When he looked up, he squinted through the dust hanging in the air to see the rest of the intruders picking their way through the rubble to join the woman in the hall.  They were dressed in similarly dark clothing, but that seemed to be the extent of their coordination.  It was nothing like a uniform – no official or informal insignias or matching elements.  Nothing that sparked memory of any group he was familiar with.

But he did recognize one of the other five.

“Graham?”  Draco gasped out, choking on the dust left behind from the destructive spell.

The big man lowered dark, forbidding brows in a scowl.  “What’s he doing here, Dollie?  I thought you said that the Manor would be empty.”

The woman – Dollie, apparently – shrugged her shoulders.  “It’s a good thing he was, or we’d never have got in.  This place is spelled to the rafters.”

“It is,” Draco agreed, shifting his feet slightly to get closer to where his wand was lying on the floor.  “And you’ve just upset a very delicate, very dangerous balance of enchantments.”

“Yeah?”  Sneered Graham Montague.  “Then we’d better be quick about it, then.”  He raised his wand, pointing it at Draco.  “Crucio!”

Pain ripped through Draco’s body, causing his knees to fold as he arched his back in a silent scream.  He hit the floor hard, his shoulder and elbow taking the brunt of the impact and sending additional spasms through his joints as Graham kept his wand trained on him.

It only stopped when a deep, creaking groan echoed throughout the hall, causing Graham to jerk back nervously.  Dollie lit her wand with a “Lumos!” and ran assessing eyes over the ceiling above them. 

“What was that?”  Graham asked warily.

“No idea, but it can’t be anything good,” Dollie replied.  “I’m here for profit more than revenge, Montague, so either content yourself with what you have, or start picking up whatever isn’t nailed down.  All of you,” she ordered, turning to the rest of her crew.  “There’s a passage that leads to Malfoy’s study back that way.  Take what you can.”

“What about you?”  Asked one of them, another woman.

“There’s something behind this door that Malfoy didn’t want us to find,” Dollie said.  “It would be a shame to not even have a peek.”

“This house is littered with Death Eater traps,” Draco rasped, forcing his voice out as loudly as he could.  “I’m warning you now – you should leave while you’re still alive to do it.”

The other witch and three other wizards looked uncertainly between Draco, who was sprawled in an undignified heap on the floor with his arms still bound to his sides, and Dollie and Graham. 

“There are probably a million Galleons’ worth of artefacts and trinkets in this house,” Dollie said sharply.  “If you want even a small cut of what we can get, you’ll do as you’re told.  Don’t be stupid – make sure you put everything in the stasis bags that I gave you.”

Looking only somewhat reassured, the crew of thieves started to make their way carefully in the direction Dollie had indicated.  They whispered and pointed at the yarn-covered mounds of sap prickling with medieval weaponry, but continued undeterred until they vanished into the passage.

Draco’s fingers closed painfully around his wand, his body hiding the movement from the two who had remained behind.  “So, profit and revenge, then?  Mind telling me which is which?”

“You even have to ask!”  Graham snarled, taking a step toward him.  “You badgered me for months about that fucking Vanishing Cabinet, and when you didn’t believe that I’d told you everything I remembered, you used the bloody Cruciatus Curse on me!”  He spat, the gob hitting Draco on the arm and oozing down the sleeve of his jumper.

Fighting to retain his calm exterior in spite of his pounding heart, Draco shifted his gaze to Dollie.  “Ah.  That’s how you know her, then, I take it?  Dollie is short for something, isn’t it, Miss Borgin?”

“Dolabella.  But you can continue to call me Miss Borgin, you piece of Death Eater shite.”  Dollie’s dark eyes were cold.  “I would have inherited my great-uncle’s shop from him, if the Ministry hadn’t bankrupted him with fines after the second war.”  She crouched down, staring directly into Draco’s face.  “The way I figure it, you owe me a livelihood, seeing as your testimony stole mine from me.  You ruined him,” she breathed, and there was a hitch in her voice, the sound of repressed grief.  “Your father, and then you.  Coming into the shop when you wanted to offload something illegal to get the Ministry off your backs, or to bully an old man into being an accessory to the attempted murder of Hogwarts students.”

Draco glanced at Dollie’s hand, which was locked in a white knuckled grip around her wand, trembling with emotion. 

“I was there,” she whispered.  “When you threatened Uncle Cecil about fixing the Cabinet.  He made me hide under the counter when he saw you come in, said you were dangerous.  You told him you’d send Fenrir Greyback round, when we lived above the shop.  I had nightmares for months.  And they just…let you off.  Just like that.”

It hadn’t been just like that, but there was nothing that Draco could or would say to dissuade her. 

“Anything you manage to take from the Manor, you’re stealing from the Ministry,” Draco said.  “None of this is mine.”

“Then what is it you’re protecting?”  Dollie jerked her chin at the cellar door.  “If you don’t own it, then why keep it hidden?”

“Because it’s infinitely more dangerous than it is valuable,” Draco said honestly, shifting his wand ever so slightly.  “And I need to see it destroyed.”

Dollie straightened, her expression unimpressed.  “That’s just throwing away Galleons, if you ask me.  One thing I learned from Uncle Cecil is that there’s a buyer for everything, no matter what it is.”

With a nonverbal Finite, Draco snapped away the cords that were binding him and tried to surge to his feet.  The tremors lingering in his body from Graham’s Cruciatus foiled him, however, causing him to stumble as he attempted to bolt for the service passage.  Graham caught him around the arm with one meaty hand, his grip painfully tight and wand hand raised –

– when a scream shattered the air, demanding their attention.  The other witch who was part of Dollie’s crew ran towards them, a bulging white sack clutched in one hand while her other was thrust out to the side, her fingers contorted rigidly at odd angles.  The skin of her hand was bloodlessly pale, almost translucent, and –

No.

Her skin wasn’t pale or bloodless, it was wax.  The witch was screaming in terror, the off-white waxy texture spreading up her arm, affecting not just her skin, but her clothing as well.  Five small flickering candleflames sputtered to life at the tips of her fingers, and the witch’s shrieks abruptly cut off as the spell reached her lungs and throat.  As they watched, the stasis sack dropped from unresponsive, stiff wax fingers as what was left of her body finally stilled, tiny flames sprouting along her arms and shoulders, along the top of her head and face.  The heat caused the wax to drip down in rivulets, the features of the witch melting away almost as quickly as the transfiguration curse had taken hold. 

For a moment, they all froze in stunned silence.  Then Dollie darted forward to rescue the stasis sack from the masses of soft wax that were now collapsing to the floor, not giving her former compatriot a second glance. 

“Dollie…”  Graham said, his voice shaking slightly.

“One less share to dole out,” Dollie said, her face betraying no emotion whatsoever.  Then she suddenly seemed to remember that Draco had freed himself, just as Draco took advantage of the distraction to cast a double Knockback Jinx.  The spell sent Dollie and Graham flying back against the wall, though Dollie maintained a death grip on the sack, and Draco legged it, heading back toward the study.

Graham let out a roar of outrage, setting off after him, and Draco fired an Impedimenta over his shoulder almost at the same time he felt his legs lock together at a growled “Locomotor mortis!”

“Molliare!”  Draco shouted, right before he hit the floor.  The air caught him, cushioning his fall, and with another quick Finite he was staggering back to his feet.  Unfortunately, Graham had shaken off the effects of Draco’s spell and crashed into him, the combination of his bulk and momentum causing them to break through an adjacent door into a room which Harry and Draco hadn’t even touched yet.

Draco’s earring doubled the intensity of the near-constant vibrations it had been giving off since this entire encounter had started, and Graham’s terrified gasp made him freeze in place.

There was an eerie, blueish glow emanating from somewhere outside Draco’s field of vision, and he could see that Graham, who was half on top of him, was staring in its direction as though transfixed. 

“No,” Graham whimpered, his eyes filling with tears.  “No, no.  No no no no –”

“Don’t look, Graham,” Draco said, reaching up to cover the man’s eyes with his hands.  “Whatever it is, don’t look!”

But Graham was compelled.  He jerked his head out of Draco’s reach so that he could continue staring, pushing his palms against the floor as though he were going to lever himself upright.

Draco Stunned him.

The force of it sent Graham rolling back toward the hallway, and with a grunt of effort Draco levitated him the rest of the way, leaving him in a heap on the floor.  He reached blindly for the knob of the door to the room they’d just escaped, yanking it shut and slamming his right hand against it.  “Colloportus!”

There was another flash of gold light, and Draco gasped in a breath, raising a shaking hand to the scars on his face.  He felt certain that his lack of sight in one eye had just saved him from whatever it was that had Graham so petrified.  His only thought now was to get to safety.  He had no idea where Dollie was, whether she’d tried burgling another part of the Manor or was in pursuit.  Or perhaps she, too, had fallen victim to a trap.  But in any case, lingering in the Manor was far too treacherous.

Stumbling through the service passage, Draco nearly fell through the hidden bookcase door, catching himself on the frame.  He froze at the sight of two bodies on the floor of his father’s study, members of Dollie’s crew.  One of them was nothing more than a shriveled brown husk, its hands clutched around an exquisitely crafted Victorian carriage clock.  The eye sockets were empty, the papery dry skin pulled back from the skull far enough to expose all of its gleaming white teeth in a deathly rictus.

The other corpse was stretched out, spread eagled on the floor with his hands and feet secured in place with long, slender, shining silver spikes driven through his wrists and ankles.  The killing blow had to have been the spike protruding from his chest.

And resting next to him was a wide glass display box, full of butterflies of all sizes and colors flapping their wings in a frenzied attempt to escape their confines. 

Draco dragged his gaze up to his father’s portrait, where Lucius’s image was scrutinizing him intently.  Seeming satisfied that Draco was well enough, Lucius gave a slight toss of his head, flipping an errant lock of white-blonde hair back over his shoulder.  “I did warn them.  They didn’t listen.”

“Fucking hell.”  Draco couldn’t think of anything else to say.  His mind was already whirling with the implications – three confirmed deaths at least.  The DMLE was going to be foaming at the mouth to bully their way into investigating, and one of the potions Hermione was brewing still needed another week.  There was no way they could start the destruction of the corrupted Pensieve before it was finished.

His head swam, and he weaved on his feet, overwhelmed with just how terribly this day had gone, and utterly at a loss as to what could be done to fix it.

“Draco –”  Lucius’s alarmed expression and warning shout alerted him to Dollie’s presence in the service passage behind him, and without thinking, he threw himself toward the door which connected the study to the conservatory, hearing some sort of spell hit the bookshelf right where he’d been before darting through the opening.  He nearly slipped on the tiled floor of the conservatory in his haste to make it outside, where at least he’d have some room to maneuver without having to worry so much about traps and artefacts.

It was lighter outside, the moon hanging in a clear sky that was the gray of pre-dawn.  The air was dry and frigid, biting through Draco’s clothing as he ran for the field maple, hoping to get some cover before engaging Dollie again. 

She had other ideas, firing Stunning spells that hit the ground around him in jets of red light that sizzled as they blasted away patches of snow. 

“Not again,” Dollie chanted, as though reciting a mantra.  “Not again, not again, you’re not getting away again –”

Draco dove behind the trunk of the maple, which was now bare of all its leaves, its dormant branches spindling upward toward the sky like grasping, bony fingers.  A flicker of movement caught his attention, a shadow darting across the snow at the edge of the woods.

“Dollie!”  He shouted, pressing his back to the maple’s trunk and wincing when he heard a splintering sound, felt the impact of another Stunning spell cut into the bark.  “Dollie, take what you have and go, there are –”

He heard a hoarse, despairing wail, and his good eye automatically tracked the movement of another shadow as it glided silently across the snow.  He turned, peering around the maple to see two tall, slender figures approaching Dollie, who was on her knees, clutching two full stasis sacks with tears pouring down her face. 

“Fuck,” Draco cursed, then raised his wand, grasping for any snatches of happy memory that he could.  “Expecto patronum!”

 His Patronus flowed into being, only slightly brighter than the snow as the silvery mist coalesced into the shape of an ermine.  He sent it bounding forward, heading straight for the Dementors.  One of the Dark creatures had reached down, a long-fingered bony hand extended as though to caress Dollie’s hair.

At the approach of Draco’s ermine, the two figures withdrew sharply, but did not flee.  They retreated to the edge of the woods, which wasn’t nearly far enough for Draco’s liking.  He sucked in a breath and hobbled after his Patronus, winded from his recent sprint across the grounds, and leaned down to grab Dollie’s elbow, helping her to her feet.

“Go,” Draco urged.  “You can –”

There was a sudden sharp pain in his chest, so intense that his vision whited out for a moment.

He looked down in disbelief to see Dollie’s hand dropping away from a shining gold and green enamel scarab brooch, which had dug its mandibles through the wool of his jumper and into his skin.  He could feel the pain spreading out from where it had bitten him, complete lethargy following in its wake.  His wand dropped from fingers that were no longer under his control, he could do nothing to break his fall as his somatic functions ceased, and the world tilted on its axis. 

Draco found himself gazing upward, Dollie’s haggard face only partially in view.

“Now I can go,” Dollie wheezed, a note of triumphant exhaustion in her voice, and staggered a few steps away. 

The scarab brooch squeezed its mandibles tighter, sending a fresh wave of agony rolling through him, but Draco found that he could still turn his head just far enough to see Dollie scoop up her wand, juggling the sacks of artefacts in one arm. 

His own wand was inches away from the fingers of his right hand, but it might as well have been on the moon.  He had no control of his body from the chest downward, but he could feel every bit of the cold, of the way his clothes were slowly soaking through.

The Dementors ended their temporary retreat, shadows rolling across the bright white snow like an oil slick. 

Dollie didn’t seem to notice them at first, but he could see when the despair overcame her.  She tried to continue trudging along, stumbling first to one side and then the other as the pair of Dementors hemmed her in between them.  She let out a broken sob of fear and anguish, trying to wrench herself away as the Dementor on her right enfolded her almost lovingly into its ghostly cloaked embrace.

He had expected it to be violent, the Kiss.

But the fact that it wasn’t was somehow worse.  It was inexorable, the way the other Dementor tilted Dollie’s face up by the chin, unmoved by her terrified whimpers and whispered pleading, her weak struggles utterly futile as the Dementor implacably lowered its hooded face to hers.

Draco saw the moment her soul left her body, the quiet spasm and rush of energy leaving her hanging limply in the arms of the Dementor who had captured her.  It released its grip carelessly, the abrupt negligence startling after the horrifying gentleness of the Kiss.  Dollie toppled onto the snow on her side, facing Draco, her brown eyes now dull and lifeless.  The faint puffs of her breath steaming into the air were nothing but another kind of death throe, the last gasps of a body that didn’t know it was already dead.

And then the Dementors turned back toward him, the full force of their nature stripping away any vestige of hope that he might have had that they’d be satisfied with the taking of a soul and not a mere feeding. 

There was nothing he could do to stop them – that understanding was crystallized in his mind, overwhelming even the terror that was bubbling through him, every nerve ending screaming in primal protest at his inaction in the face of these two predators.  He wished that he’d lost consciousness, that the scarab brooch that had robbed him of the strength to move had killed him quickly.  Rather that than this, the consumption and likely permanent end of his soul.  There would be no place on the other side of the veil for him.  Nothing would remain.

Draco’s spiral of despair was interrupted by ear-splitting squawks as the entire flock of ravens swooped out from their perches in the trees, diving at the Dementors and harrying them back from where Draco lay.  Grito in particular was in full voice, his calls sharp and agitated as he used his small talons to rip at the cloak covering one of the Dementors’ heads, pecking sharply at any part of the creature he could reach. 

It was almost comical, the way the Dementors seemed to be utterly flummoxed by a few dozen ravens.  But the flock was relentless, and they drove the Dementors back towards the woods, screeching and cawing and forcing one of the Dementors to take flight and spiral away as the last moments of the night started to burn away with the dawning of the sun.  The other Dementor quickly followed suit, vanishing into the depths of the trees.

Satisfied with a job well done, Grito let out a burble as he flapped a circuit around the field maple, finally alighting on the snow next to Draco’s head.  The bird peered at him with sharp black eyes, tilting his head this way and that, finally resorting to a light peck on Draco’s forehead.

A slightly larger cloud of steam was the only evidence that Draco laughed in response.  He felt a swell of affection for the plucky raven, for the entire flock.  They weren’t to know that their efforts were likely wasted.

He’d tried to extend his magical core, tried to use it to keep his body warm, but it stayed stubbornly centered right where it was supposed to be.  The paralytic effects of the scarab brooch didn’t seem to be waning at all, and Draco hadn’t expected them to.

He was going to die here, like he’d always known he would.  And he had no one to blame for it but himself.

It hadn’t even occurred to him to call for help, and that oversight had cost him dearly.  He could have sent his ermine with a message to Harry, to at least have assistance on the way while he secured the cellar door.  But no, he had operated the way he always had – as if he were utterly alone in the world, as if the burden of responsibility rested entirely on his shoulders. 

He suddenly felt very ashamed for judging Harry’s reluctance to speak his mind to Hermione and the Ministry about the Head Auror position.  Who was he to criticize anyone for falling into lifelong patterns, when his own ingrained behavior was going to prove fatal in a matter of hours?  He would freeze to death here, with the means of his survival resting right at hand, and yet completely out of reach.

The first feathery weight settling on his body startled him, and he strained his good eye to see that one of the other ravens had come to rest on his stomach, fluffing out its feathers as widely as it could.  And then another raven landed on him, this one on his chest.  It cocked one beady eye at the scarab brooch suspiciously, wisely deciding not to touch it.  Raven after raven flew down to nestle on him, blanketing him in the collective heat of their small bodies, while Grito preened his beak through the strands of Draco’s hair.

Draco smiled faintly.  He wasn’t going to let himself hope that this would be enough, but…

“Thank you for trying,” he whispered, and let his eyes fall shut, feeling the burn of icy tears on his cheeks.

He drifted for a while, not quite losing consciousness, unfortunately, but far enough so that the sharp ache of the cold sapping the life from his body was dulled.  He’d suffered worse than this.  He hoped that fact would be of some small comfort to his mother.  Perhaps Harry would help her leave the country, now that there would no longer be any reason for her to play along with the Ministry’s investigation.

And Harry. 

He regretted how he’d left Harry, in a state of doubt and hurt and confusion.  He regretted not telling Harry how much this time had meant to him, even under less than ideal circumstances.  Just once.  And he regretted that it would likely be Harry who discovered him.  He wished…

Well.  He wished things were otherwise.

Draco was vaguely aware of the ravens stirring from where they’d nestled on his body, an irritated murmur making its way through the flock as Grito sent up a series of deafening squawks.  The bird took to the air, but Draco couldn’t see where he’d gone.

The rest of the ravens seemed to be alert for something, shifting nervously, their small, sharp talons digging in and snagging Draco’s clothes.  Until finally, they scattered, all of them taking flight at once.

And then came the most welcome sound he’d ever heard – Harry’s voice, raised in annoyance.

“– get the fuck off me, you feathery nutter!  I’m coming, I’m coming, just –”

Harry’s voice cut off in a sharp gasp, and then there was the rapid sound of footsteps crunching through the snow, growing louder and louder until Harry threw himself to his knees at Draco’s side.

Warm hands cupped his face, and his vision was suddenly filled with the sight of distressed green eyes, worry lines making deep furrows in Harry’s forehead.

“Draco!  Draco?  Look at me, sweetheart, please look at me.”

Draco struggled to focus on Harry’s face, but he made an effort.  He had to, he had something important to say, something that would show Harry that he could change.

“H–”  Draco rasped, his mouth dry and numb from the cold.  “H-help.  Please.”

Harry’s face broke, and he pulled Draco’s limp body into his arms, almost sobbing in relief.  “Yeah, of course I’ll help.  I’m here.  I’ve got you.”

Chapter 25

“Don’t…”

Draco was floating, and he wasn’t cold anymore. 

That should have worried him more than it did, as he was fairly certain that he was still lying in the snow and unable to move, half in Harry’s lap.  And while he wasn’t cold, he couldn’t say that he was warm, either. 

In fact it was getting harder for him to feel Harry’s hands on him, and that had never been a problem before.  Harry was a being of fire, it had always seemed to him – always running hot, quick to anger, and burning himself to ashes only to dig his way out, again and again.  He was like…he was like a phoenix.  He’d thought so ever since overhearing Voldemort’s grudging discussion of his own wand’s reaction to being used against his prophesied enemy, and learning that Harry’s wand had a phoenix feather at its core.

Pressure on his chest pulled him out of his sluggish, meandering line of thought, and he labored to draw another breath.  Why was breathing becoming so difficult?

“Don’t…t-touch…it…”  He had no idea how the scarab brooch would react to someone trying to remove it, and if it was already too late for him to survive it, he at least didn’t want Harry to fall victim to it as well.

“Draco, I have to get it off you.”  Harry’s voice was strained, and even though his touch felt distant, Draco thought that he could detect a slight trembling in his arms.  And that puzzled him for a moment.  Was Harry succumbing to the chill of this cold day?  The sun was up, had been up – how long had it been up?

Or…

…was Harry afraid?  But why would he – oh.  He must have seen Dollie’s body.  The aftermath of a Dementor’s Kiss would make anyone afraid.

Had he explained to Harry what had happened yet?  He couldn’t remember.  Things had started to blur after the immense rush of relief he’d felt, knowing that Harry was here.

He frowned.  Harry was shouting.  That was absurd, Draco was right here, there was no need for raised voices.  Except that it did sound as though Harry’s voice was coming from rather far away…

“– hang on, I’ll get us out of here, Draco, just stay with me!”

Draco would have snorted in amusement if he could.  He wasn’t going anywhere, did Harry not understand how the brooch worked?

A wave of dizziness swept over him, something that was unrelated to his artefact-induced lassitude.  It was familiar, but his mind was slow to connect the sensation with its cause.  And then it clicked.

Harry was trying to Apparate, and to take him Side-Along, to…somewhere. 

“C-cuff,” he managed to rasp.

“Fuck,” Harry snarled, and Draco could feel his big hand circling the metal cuff that Percy Weasley had placed around his wrist.  “We don’t have time to be delicate about this, sweetheart.  I’m sorry.”

It was odd, Harry apologizing, because Draco didn’t understand why.  Until there was pain, sharp and searing, right against the skin of his wrist.  That hurt, that hurt –

A heartfelt groan forced its way out of him, and he could hear Harry’s answering grunt of pain as the cuff literally melted away, the runes erased as the metal heated and softened, splattering into the snow with a series of violent hisses.  There was a breathless, muttered, “I know, I know, I’m sorry, I had to.”

And then there was the sensation of movement within twisting, oppressive, labyrinthine darkness.  Draco could do nothing but squeeze his eyes shut and hope that neither he nor Harry were Splinched, because he could feel that they were traveling some distance, a greater distance than he ever would have tried on his own in a single jump.

The feeling of whipping through space came to a sudden stop, and Draco’s ears were abruptly assaulted by nattering and crying and wailing and noises which were likely coming from humans but were stridently incomprehensible.  Draco cracked open his good eye, but he could hardly see anything but one or two lime green blurs dashing around to darker blurs seated along the wall of the room they were in.  The candle-filled orbs that hovered in the air were bright, too bright, and everything had a strange shining quality to it.

“Healer!”  Harry’s voice was clear and authoritative.  “I need help immediately, he’s dying!”

“Mr. Potter, sir!”  Gasped a light male voice, presumably one of the Healers.  “What is his ailment, do you –”

“Cursed artefact, I don’t know how long he’s had it on him,” Harry replied concisely, as if he were giving a report.

“This floor, then, just let me –”

Draco felt suddenly weightless, as though someone had cast a levitation charm on him, and he would have flailed if he’d been able to move.  As it was, he mourned the loss of Harry’s touch but couldn’t even vocalize it, not with the way he could barely draw in any air with every breath.

“Sir, you can wait –”

“No.”  Harry’s firm reply completely shut down any additional protest at his being allowed to accompany Draco to wherever they were taking him.

The quality of the light changed several times, dipping in and out as they passed through different rooms, until Draco felt himself being lowered gently onto a firm but comfortable surface.  There were more voices, urgent and quick, not quite talking over each other but difficult to follow, even if Draco had the capacity to do so.  The first Healer said something like “Mr. Potter, sir, your hand –” followed by Harry brusquely putting him off, directing him to do whatever was necessary to assist with Draco’s care.  And a new voice, feminine and familiar, talking through her actions as she crisply demanded dragon hide gloves and a set of annealed silver forceps cleansed with the essence of Dittany.

And then Draco was wracked with intense agony, spiraling out from where the scarab brooch had dug its mandibles into his chest.  He thought he might have let out a scream, he wasn’t sure. 

One of the Healers spoke an incantation.  “Somnious!”

After which Draco mercifully fell into the relative bliss of unconsciousness.

~ * ~

Someone was holding his hand, and there was soft conversation happening around him. 

There was a throbbing ache in his chest, which was mirrored in all of his limbs.  It felt as though he had tried – and spectacularly failed – to lift a mountain.  On his first voyage aboard the Esperanza, with Séneca grudgingly giving him the opportunity to accompany them as long as he didn’t prove to be a burden on the crew or a detriment to their objectives, Draco had been introduced to the reality of manual labor.  In spite of the fact that most of the crew had the ability to do magic, sailing a ship was difficult, precise work which couldn’t completely be accomplished with the mere wave of a wand.  And even the work which was done with magic could be exhausting.  During that first voyage, until he’d acclimated and built up a reasonable amount of muscle, Draco had had to peel himself out of bed each morning, his arms and legs screaming from overuse.

He felt much the same now.  And while he was mostly confident that if he tried to move that he would be able to, the soreness present throughout his entire body was enough to discourage him. 

But he was alive, and he hadn’t expected to be.

Draco forced his eyes open, then immediately squinted against the brightness of the room.  It was painted an aggressively cheerful daffodil yellow, which was far too saturated to be anything but obtrusive.

“Oh, he’s awake!  Just let me –”  That was Teddy’s voice, which preceded the very welcome dimming of the glass candle bubbles hovering near the ceiling. 

Letting his eyes open further, Draco could now see his young cousin sitting on his left.  He tilted his head to the right, until his mother came into view.  Her grip on his hand tightened as she smiled at him, only the lines around her eyes betraying her worry.

“What –”  His voice came out dry and thin, and Teddy shot to their feet and rushed over to a side table to pour a glass of water from a waiting pitcher.  They waved their wand at the bed, and Draco felt himself being moved gently into an almost upright position, the bed folding to support him.

“Here,” Teddy said, holding out the glass.

It took some effort, but Draco succeeded in raising his hand to take it, though it trembled slightly as he brought it to his lips.  He drank it all, the slightly cool water soothing his parched throat and washing away the stale taste in his mouth.  His stomach rumbled when the water reached it, giving him a pointedly sharp reminder of how empty it was.  He couldn’t even begin to guess how long it had been since he’d eaten, since he didn’t know how long he’d been unconscious.

“Teddy,” Draco managed finally.  “What are you doing here?”

Teddy drew back slightly, their expression faintly hurt.  “I…I was working here with Astoria when Harry brought you in.  I’m…I’m in training, remember?”

“Of course,” Draco said.  “I apologize, I did not intend to make it sound as though you weren’t wanted, I was just surprised to see you.”  He noticed now that Teddy was wearing white robes trimmed in lime green bands over their clothing.  Their black and yellow scarf was wound around their neck, tied off to the side to keep the ends from dangling down far enough to impede their work.

“It’s all right,” Teddy assured him, a small smile appearing on their face.  “Astoria was nice enough to let me sit with you until Aunt Cissy arrived.”

“That was very kind of her,” Draco said, turning to raise an eyebrow at his mother.

“Mr. Potter came to fetch me after your condition was considered to be stable,” Narcissa said, answering his unspoken question. 

“Does this not break the terms of your house arrest?”  Draco’s heart pounded, his breaths coming slightly more quickly and shallowly at the thought of the Ministry deciding to send her to Azkaban after all.

“Shhh, it’s all right,” Narcissa murmured in an attempt to soothe him.  “I have leverage, as you well know.”

“Mother –”

“You nearly died,” she said, cutting him off, and her blue eyes went hard.  “There was no more appropriate place for me to be than at your side.”

He squeezed her hand and tried to calm himself, holding each breath for a few extra seconds until he achieved a less panicked rhythm.  “Where…where is Harry?”  He asked, hoping to distract himself.

“He went to the Manor with Ron,” Teddy said, chewing at their lower lip.  “He wouldn’t say why, just that you were hurt there and there were some things that needed clearing up.”

“I see,” Draco said, ruthlessly tamping down any ridiculous feelings of abandonment.  Harry was quite right to address the issues at the Manor – the gates, the dead bodies, etc.  Without remembering what he might have told Harry, or what Harry would have told anyone else, he didn’t offer any explanation as to what needed to be done.  He was glad, at least, that Harry hadn’t gone there on his own.

“I’ll go find Astoria,” Teddy offered, glancing from Draco to Narcissa.  “She wanted to check on you after you woke up, and before you had anything to eat.  There can be…some unpleasant interactions with potions and healing spells.”

“Thank you, Teddy,” Narcissa said, giving them a grateful smile.  When the door to the small room had closed behind them, she turned to Draco, reaching out to brush some hair back out of his eyes.  “How are you feeling, my dear?”

Draco weighed his response, not wanting to give his mother any additional reason for concern.  “Much better than expected.  What did Harry tell you?”

“That you had been attacked at the Manor, and had suffered the effects of one of the items in your father’s collections,” Narcissa replied, an edge of displeasure coloring her tone.  “That obsession of his –”

“That’s more or less accurate,” Draco said, dropping his gaze down to his hands, which were settled limply in his lap.  He noticed for the first time that he was dressed in shapeless pajamas made of scratchy cotton, simple white patterned with thin stripes of navy blue.  The best that could be said for them was that they provided some amount of warmth. 

“You’ve been…sleeping most of the day,” Narcissa said.  “Even after the healing sleep spell was supposed to wear off.  You look so tired, Draco.”

He was tired.  He had been for a long time, certainly since he was dragged back to England, but lately he had felt his exhaustion like never before.  And he didn’t know what to make of it, and did not want to interrogate the cause.  The only remedy he could see was being allowed to return to his old life across the ocean, and as tempting as that prospect was, the true and final destruction of Voldemort’s corrupted Pensieve was something that he felt compelled to see through to the end. 

Draco raised his hand to give his mother’s knee a reassuring squeeze, but winced when the slight twisting of his wrist set off a spike of pain that was different from the soreness in his muscles.  He tugged the sleeve back from his right arm, staring at the white bandage that had been wrapped around it.

“Mr. Potter broke the cuff that prevented you from Apparating, so he could get you to St. Mungo’s quickly,” Narcissa explained.  “I do hope that he’s found some time today to at least tend to his own hand, it was burned almost as severely when he arrived at Grimmauld Place to escort me here.”  She paused, looking thoughtful.  “It would have taken a significant amount of power to overcome the runes in such a way.”

“I don’t think that many people realize just how powerful he is,” Draco said honestly.

“The more fool them,” Narcissa said.

A tentative knock at the door stopped whatever she might have said next, and she glanced at Draco.  He gave her a small nod, and to his surprise, instead of rising to answer the door, she raised her voice rather than leave him even for a moment.  “Come in.”

The door opened, a head of tousled black hair poking around it, white teeth flashing in a hesitant grin.  Draco’s breath caught as he met Harry’s green eyes.

“I’ve got Ron and Hermione with me, is that all right?”  Harry asked, his gaze traveling the length of Draco’s body, as if to make sure he was whole and well.

“It’s fine,” Draco said automatically, forgetting for a moment that he was wearing nothing but ill-fitting hospital pajamas and so weak that he could not sit up on his own.

The Golden Trio shuffled in, Harry looking tired and worn down.  A filthy bandage was wrapped around his left hand, barely covering the palm.  Draco could see the edges of reddened, inflamed skin peeking out past the white gauze, and he scowled.

“You are in a building full of Healers, Potter.  Do you have any plans to avail yourself of their services?” 

Harry grinned broadly.  “Eventually.  Had a few things to do.  Are you…you look…”

“You look like hell,” Ron put bluntly.

“Yes, thank you, Weasley,” Draco said testily.  “I’ll own up to not being at my best at the moment.”  He dismissed Ron and looked at Hermione.  “Were you also at the Manor?”

“Only briefly,” she said, a grim set to her countenance.  “I had a look at the situation and then an urgent meeting with Kingsley.  I had to bring him up to speed.”

Draco’s hands tightened on the blanket covering his lap.  “What do you mean, ‘up to speed’?  What did you tell him?”

Hermione sighed, sinking into one of the chairs at the small table.  “I told him everything.  People died, Draco.”

“I am well aware,” Draco hissed.  “I was nearly one of them.”

Harry let out a quiet, pained grunt as he clenched his fists, the burn on his palm obviously protesting the action.

“I had to get ahead of Robards,” Hermione insisted.  “Kingsley is the only person who can legally stall the Aurors, who are already aware of what happened because they picked up Graham Montague in Camden, mumbling about the Manor and Black Annis.  He mentioned Dolabella Borgin by name – currently on a low-priority watch list – as well as several others.”

Black Annis…  Draco remembered that spectral blue light in the room that had so captivated Graham, and shuddered.  He had no idea how to evict a murderous ghost.  At least Graham had made it out alive, unlike his comrades.

“And the Pensieve?”  Draco persisted, trying to shrug off the memory of how many times he’d come close to death during the previous night.

“I told him what we were trying to do, and why.”  Hermione grimaced.  “He was…unhappy that it was the first he’d heard of it, but I think that I was able to bring him round to seeing our side of it.”

“Does that mean he agrees with our course of action?”

“I think so,” Hermione said.  “Kinglsey wants to discuss it with all of us, after he’s dealt with Robards.”

Draco blew out a breath and leaned back against his pillow.  The situation was perhaps not as unsalvageable as he’d thought.

“That’s a scary fucking house you have, Malfoy,” Ron said, closing his eyes and shaking his head slightly.  “Seriously cacked.”

“It’s not mine,” Draco sighed, wondering exactly how many times he was going to have to repeat himself on that score.

There was another knock at the open door, followed by Astoria Greengrass sweeping into the room with Teddy in her wake.  She ran an assessing gaze over Draco, focusing on his face.  Her lips pursed as though she wasn’t pleased with what she saw, but she didn’t remark on it.  Instead, she said, “You must be hungry.”

A loud growl issued forth from his stomach at the statement, and Astoria smiled.  “I see that you are.  Just bear with me, we just need to run some diagnostics to make sure that any food will agree with you while you’re healing.  That was a vile curse, on that brooch.”

“I – yes.  Thank you,” Draco said.  “For helping me.”

Astoria’s mouth quirked up in a half-smile.  “I’m always happy to fulfill my oath as a Healer, especially when it means success against something so Dark.”  She turned, beckoning to Teddy.  “Do you remember the spell I taught you?”

Teddy blinked in surprise.  “You want me to do it?”

“If your cousin is agreeable,” Astoria said, with an inquiring glance at Draco. 

Draco shrugged.  “It makes no difference to me.”

Teddy beamed at him, then readied their wand.  Moving their arm in a slow arc, they said, “Morbus exploratium.”

A faint but pleasant tingling sensation flooded Draco’s body, gently moving through him and pulsing as it examined old and new hurts.  He could feel it skim the lines of his scars, buzzing lightly around the burn circling his wrist.  It inspected right eye, tickled across his scalp, lingered at the marks on his chest from the scarab brooch’s mandibles, and ultimately settled in his belly before fading away.

“Erm,” Teddy said, nervously, almost dropping their wand as they ran their hand through blue hair.  They looked desperately at Astoria.  “I don’t think I did that right.”

“What’s wrong?”  Draco asked, feeling slightly alarmed.

Astoria narrowed her eyes at him, moving closer to the bed.  “Could you remove any items you may have on you that are magical in nature?  Sometimes they can interfere with these types of spells.”

Draco started to shake his head in denial, then stilled suddenly as he remembered his earring.  His gaze darted to Harry, then lingered briefly on Ron and Hermione.  He debated asking them to leave, but…they would know something was amiss even if they didn’t see him without his glamor.  Instead, he picked a spot on the wall and focused on it as he removed his earring, and the miniature Sneakoscope that dangled from it.

Teddy’s gasp was quiet, but clearly audible in the absolute silence as his glamor fell away.  Draco dropped the earring into his mother’s waiting hand to keep safe for him.  He didn’t look at Astoria when he said, “That’s all.”

He caught the impression of Astoria’s arm moving in a similar arc, and a quiet “Morbus exploratium.”

The tingling sensation was back, slightly stronger than before.  It followed the same pathways that it had previously, lingered in the same spots on and within his body, settling at his navel and then dissipating quietly.

“You didn’t do it wrong, Teddy,” Astoria said, and Teddy gasped again.  Astoria laid a hand on Draco’s arm, mutely asking for his attention. 

Draco looked at her reluctantly, but Astoria did an admirable job of keeping her focus on meeting his gaze rather than his damaged eye. 

“Is there a reason,” Astoria asked, her voice gentle.  “To think that you might be pregnant?”

“Wh-what?”  Draco choked out, recoiling from her touch.  He was utterly bewildered by the question, and he shook his head rapidly.

“The diagnostic charm indicates that you are,” Astoria said, absolutely no judgment in her expression.  “Likely a couple of months along, though that can be more difficult to tell with magical pregnancies in men.”

Draco was at a complete loss for words, and he automatically looked at his mother, seeking comfort, reassurance – anything that might contradict what the Healer was saying.

But he saw none of that in his mother’s face.  Narcissa had one hand covering her mouth, her eyes wide with shock.

And something like realization.

“Mother?”  Draco asked, hating the way his voice shook slightly. 

“The Progenitus enchantment,” Narcissa breathed, dropping her hand.  “I’d completely forgotten.”

“Explain, please,” Draco said, suddenly feeling lightheaded.

“Draco,” Narcissa reached for him, but he evaded her hand.  A pained expression flashed across her face before she adopted her customary neutral mien.  “You know that the Malfoys have not historically been blessed with many children in a generation.  Usually one, two at most.  It is likely, though any one of them would have denied it outright, that most of the Malfoy family had difficulty conceiving.”  Narcissa paused, exhaling slowly.  “I believe that it was true for your father and I, as well.”

“What?”  Draco’s question was nothing more than a whisper.

He did let his mother take his hand this time, as he could see her eyes were now shining with tears.  “I dearly wish you could have known your father as he was in his younger days, Draco,” she said, her voice thick with emotion.  “Lucius and I were…so happy together when we first married.  Both of us had broken away from our families, living in the south of France.  Our lives were perfect, except that we did not have what we desperately wanted.”

Draco squeezed her hand, urging her to continue.

“Your father knew that your grandfather Abraxas may have had answers for us, after we tried for years.  And he did.”  Narcissa closed her eyes, a single tear falling down her cheek.  “One of the original enchantments laid upon the Manor as it was being built was a Progenitus – the means by which any Malfoy in residence would be guaranteed at least one heir.  So we returned, and while we were soon blessed with your arrival, Lucius was back under his father’s influence.  And I lost the man he’d been before you were born.”

“But I – I’m not – I’m a man, why…”  Draco shook his head again.

“You are the last Malfoy by blood, my dear,” Narcissa said, her lip quivering.  “And I believe that the Progenitus enchantment worked as it always had when given an opportunity.”

“A magical pregnancy,” Astoria added softly.  “Which forms within the magical core when a womb isn’t available.  Generally, it lasts as long as a conventional pregnancy does, but the term is not quite as fixed since it is magical rather than biological.  As such, it draws more from your magic than a witch’s pregnancy might draw from hers.  The mechanisms are different, you see.  I imagine…I imagine that lately you have felt very tired.”

Draco’s insides were clenching in fear and confusion, unable to cope with this revelation.  Almost involuntarily, he looked up at Harry, who was gripping the frame at the foot of the bed with white knuckles, his face expressionless but ashen with shock.

There was a commotion in the hallway, a woman’s voice raised in strident determination.  “Remove your hands or I will remove them for you.  I am here to find my grandchild and I will not leave – here?  No, don’t touch me, I said, I just need to make sure they’re all right –”

Teddy’s eyes widened in alarm, and they turned toward the door.  “Oh no.  Gran –”

Andromeda Tonks burst into the room, her eyes slightly wild, and calmed somewhat once she saw Teddy.  “Teddy, why are you still here?  Your shift was over hours ago, you were supposed to be home for dinner –”

She stopped talking, abruptly becoming aware of the others in the room.  Her eyes fell on Draco, and then immediately flicked to her sister Narcissa, who was staring back at her in astonishment.

“What,” Andromeda growled, her face darkening like a thunderstorm.  “Is the meaning of this?  Teddy?”  Her voice was sharp, demanding answers.

“I…”  Teddy stammered.  “I – I just, er…  Aunt Cissy needed the company, you see…”

“Aunt Cissy,” Andromeda repeated flatly.  She glared at Narcissa, her hand tightening around her wand.  “Was the lack of contact not clear enough?  I thought it was understood that you and your son were to leave me and Teddy alone, how dare you –”

“It’s not her fault,” Teddy protested hotly.  “It’s mine, I wanted to meet them, Gran!  And I’m glad I did, they’re lovely –”

“Teddy,” Andromeda snarled.

“That’s enough,” Narcissa said, getting to her feet and letting go of Draco’s hand.  “Your anger is for me, and me alone, Dromeda, so I will do you the courtesy of keeping you from taking it out on your grandchild.  You have things to say to me and I will hear them, but we will not be doing this in my son’s sickroom.  For civility’s sake, please leave.  I will follow shortly, and you can shout to your heart’s content.”

Andromeda gaped at her for a moment, then snapped her mouth shut, her face creasing into a fierce scowl.  Without a word she turned on her heel and marched out of the room.

“I’m so sorry to leave you like this,” Narcissa whispered, leaning down to wrap her arms around Draco.  “I will return as soon as I can, my son.  Everything will be well, I promise.”

And Draco hated to see her go, almost as much as he hated her in the moment, for telling such a lie when they’d promised each other truth.

The room was silent once again after the Black sisters had departed, though the sick churning within Draco hadn’t abated.  Astoria cleared her throat, opening her mouth to speak, but Ron beat her to it.

“Well, that explains it.”  Ron’s voice held a note of realization.

“Explains what, Ron?”  Hermione asked, in a slightly strangled tone.

“I mean, it seems obvious now,” Ron said, gesturing between Draco, lying in the bed, and Harry, standing stiffly at the foot.  “That Progenitus thing had something to do with this.”

“What are you saying?”  Harry asked in a low, even voice.  He’d been silent for so long that Draco was startled to hear him speak.

“Come on, Harry.  You and Malfoy.  It makes much more sense now that we know there was magic behind –”  Ron finished his sentence with a yelp of pain, his hand flying to his nose because Harry had just punched it.  “Bloody hell, Harry, what the –”

“What the fuck, Ron.  I can’t know my own mind?”  Harry growled, his green eyes flashing with anger.  “I can’t have feelings of my own, is that what you’re saying?  That I’d need some enchantment to –”

“Everyone here who has not been pregnant, leave this room.  Now.”  Hermione’s voice rang out with authority, brooking no argument as she glared at her husband and her best friend.  She gestured toward the door with a flourish.  “You heard me.  Get.  Out.  Now.  You as well, please.”  She directed that last bit toward Astoria and Teddy, who were staring wide eyed and slack jawed at them.

“Hermione –”  Harry started, but Hermione did not allow him to speak, merely pointed again at the door.

“Out.”

Harry glared at Ron before storming out of the room, and Ron followed sullenly after him, still holding his nose to contain the small drips of blood that resulted from Harry’s fist.  Astoria gently took Teddy, whose eyes were filled with frustrated tears, by the elbow, towing them along and closing the door behind them with a muted click.

Hermione let out a breath, rubbing her forehead before she turned to face Draco.  The quiet was welcome.  The scrutiny was not.  He could feel her eyes on the scars marring the right side of his face, on the cloudiness of his bad eye.  He dreaded what she had to say, and he had nothing to say for himself.  There were no words yet.

“Is it all right if I sit?”  Hermione asked, motioning to the bed.

Draco looked at her, startled, and then shrugged one shoulder.  What did it matter where she sat?

Sitting down on the covers, Hermione put her legs up and scooted closer to him, until they were almost pressed together.  Her hand tentatively covered his, and he didn’t move away.

“I love my husband dearly,” Hermione said.  “But one of his more troublesome traits is that he often speaks without thinking or considering the people around him.  He will apologize to you later on, I promise you that.”

Draco said nothing, but he could feel the sting of tears at the corners of his eyes.

“This obviously came as quite a shock to you,” Hermione continued.  “Even when you’re expecting it, hoping for it – it’s the kind of news that takes some time to fully absorb, and in the meantime you’re going through every imaginable emotion.  I remember when I first realized that I was pregnant with Rosie.  I was terrified, even though it was something that I’d been dreaming of for a while beforehand.”  Her hand tightened around his, giving it a tentative squeeze.  “What are you thinking right now?”

“I –”  Draco’s voice cracked as he tried to speak, and he let out a chuckle that was a bit watery.  “I don’t know.  Except…I was supposed to be the last.  The last Malfoy.  After the war, I…I took it as a sign, you know.  That I’m gay.  I wasn’t meant to have children, and the Malfoy line didn’t deserve to be carried on.”

Hermione was quiet for a moment.  “Do you know why Harry and Ginny broke up?”

Draco scoffed.  “I have no earthly idea.  I understand it wasn’t too long after the year of the trials.”

“That’s right.  And normally I wouldn’t be one to go telling tales, particularly about Harry, you understand?  But this is a unique situation.  And other than what you’d expect from people that age, after what we’d all been through – everyone growing and changing and becoming adults – the biggest reason that Harry and Ginny didn’t work out is that she never wanted children.”

The image of Ginny and Astoria with their arms around each other came unbidden to Draco’s mind, and he thought that Ginny not wanting children might not have been the whole of it.  But it wasn’t his business to go around outing people.

“Having Teddy as a godchild was one of the main things that got Harry through those first few years,” Hermione said softly, her voice distant with memory.  “He was in fairly rough shape, mentally.  Well, we all were, but him especially.  Having someone to care for was good for him, even if Andromeda was the one mostly raising Teddy.  And then the Weasley brothers started settling down and having children, including Ron.  And every time we welcomed a new member of the family, Harry would get this look on his face…”

“What sort of look?”  Draco asked hesitantly.

“Longing is the best word for it,” Hermione sighed.  “And when Ron quit the Aurors to stay home with our daughter, I heard Harry say more than once how Ron had the better job.  He…he wants family, Draco.  More than anything.  So if you’re worrying at all that he doesn’t want this, the answer is that you shouldn’t.  I know that’s a lot to take in, and you and he need to talk things over for yourselves.  But I wanted you to know, in case that sets your mind at ease in any way.”

Draco squeezed her hand, unable to express his gratitude any other way at the moment.  From the beginning, he had been thinking of this time with Harry as having a definite, near term ending.  He’d hardly been able to endure the thought that he would leave Harry’s life worse than it was before they’d come to know each other again, and Ron’s words had felt like a cold spike through his heart – that some ancient Malfoy enchantment had caused it all to happen in the first place.

“Also,” Hermione said, her voice firm.  “This is happening to you.  This is your body.  If you don’t want this, there are steps we can take to end it.  And I will support you in that, whichever way you decide.”

“I don’t know,” Draco said again, knowing that there was an edge of desperation in his voice but unable to quell it.

“Talk to Harry,” Hermione urged gently, squeezing his hand again. 

“What about the Head Auror position?”  Draco asked, his tone flat.  “Isn’t this exactly the kind of thing you were worried about getting out?”

“Yes and no.”  Hermione huffed.  “When I thought it wasn’t serious, the two of you, then a casual dalliance would have hurt him.  Not just for the position.  I was thinking of the press, too.  But…it’s not casual, is it?”

“It could still hurt him,” Draco said.  “It…it will hurt him.”

“Talk to him,” Hermione said again.  “Don’t decide things for him.  That was my mistake.”

“Hmm?”

Hermione tsked at him chidingly.  “Don’t pretend that you don’t understand.  I wanted him for the Head Auror position.  Wanted it for him, and apparently I didn’t stop to consider whether he wanted it for himself.  I…may have been…a bit…pushy about it.”

“I hadn’t noticed,” Draco said dryly, and Hermione chuckled and nudged his arm with her elbow. 

“I know now that you never wanted to come back,” Hermione said finally, after a moment or two of silence.  “And almost nothing about this has been fair to you.  But I hope that…whatever happens…you at least know that I consider you to be a friend.  You don’t need to reciprocate, if that’s not how you feel.  But you also don’t need to count me among your enemies.  Ron either, even if he manages to regularly put his foot in it.”

Draco didn’t know how to respond to that.  He marveled at the bizarre picture the two of them must make, sitting in bed together and chatting.  It wasn’t something that he’d ever envisioned happening, not once in his entire life.  Of course, he’d never imagined himself…he could hardly even think the word.  Pregnant.  It made him feel unmoored in a way he’d never experienced before, and it was…kind of Hermione to make the effort to keep him from feeling quite so alone because of it.

“I’ll send Harry in, if that’s what you want.”  Hermione said, patting his hand and heaving herself off the bed to her feet.  Her dark eyes studied him, and this time Draco didn’t feel as though she were riveted by his scars so much.

“Please,” Draco said, his mouth going dry.  He wanted to see Harry slightly more than he dreaded it.

Hermione left the room, and for a moment he had the space to come to terms with what was happening with his body.  The concept of carrying something that could eventually become a child was…  It was unthinkable, a betrayal of unknown magic conspiring with his body to form something he’d never even contemplated.  Pregnancies among wizards weren’t exactly made illegal in the isles under the Statute of Secrecy, but the practice had been largely discouraged for the past few centuries.  There were ways to hide them, of course, but prejudices in the wizarding world often mirrored those of the Muggle world, as much as the magical community would like to deny the fact.

Draco was startled out of his reverie when Harry came through the door, a tray levitating over his right hand while he gingerly closed the door behind him with his left.  The smell coming from the steaming plate on the tray had his mouth watering, and his stomach rumbling in sincere agreement.

“You said you were hungry,” Harry said, his smile hesitant in a way that made Draco’s heart lurch.  Harry positioned the tray, which had a cushioning charm to remain level and hovering, over Draco’s lap.  He took the chair that Narcissa had occupied, motioning for Draco to eat.  “We can talk after you’ve finished, go on.”

It was abominably rude, the way Draco devoured stew and crusty bread that was before him with barely a pause for breath.  He likely shouldn’t have eaten so quickly, but one taste of the rich broth and the tender chunks of lamb and potato eroded any thought of pacing himself, let alone decorum.  He sopped up what he could of the thick broth with the last of the bread and briefly gave serious consideration to licking the bowl clean.  But his stomach was placated well enough for now.

Harry was watching him with a fond expression.  “I think Molly’s been a bad influence on me, since I feel like telling you that you don’t eat enough.”

Draco nudged the tray away from his lap, unsure where to begin.  “I…thank you for the food.  And for saving my life.  Again.  Last night…I was not expecting to survive.”

A flinty expression crossed Harry’s face.  “I was able to more or less piece together what happened, but you can tell me the details in your own time.  I keep thinking about…what if I’d decided to take my time, or what if I’d decided not to come at all?  I never would have known – you would have –”

“I’m all right,” Draco interrupted.  “Dwelling on what could have happened is useless.”

“Are you?”  Harry asked, meeting his gaze with serious eyes.  “Are you all right?  I don’t think either of us ever expected –”  He paused, then gestured helplessly at Draco’s stomach.

Draco wanted to laugh, but he knew that if he did he wouldn’t be able to keep it from devolving into something much more embarrassing.  He shrugged instead.  “I honestly don’t know.  I’m still trying to get my head around it.”

“Me too,” Harry agreed, his brows pinching together in a frown.  “But…you shouldn’t do anything you don’t want.”

“I keep thinking that what I want doesn’t matter,” Draco confessed, clenching his hands around the blanket in his lap.  “It hasn’t so far.”

He was surprised when Harry nearly lunged at him, wrapping strong arms around him, encasing him in a sudden sensation of warmth that sank into him like rain on the parched desert ground.  Harry’s lips moved against his cheek, his breath tickling over the scars that were still visible.  “Nothing you don’t want,” Harry said fiercely.  “Whatever you decide.”

Draco let his arms snake around Harry’s waist, pulling him closer, selfishly prolonging the embrace for longer than might have been comfortable for either of them.  Or…perhaps they both needed this.  Holding, and being held.

“For a very long time I have thought – believed – that the world doesn’t need another Malfoy,” Draco whispered, and felt Harry’s breath hitch, his arms tightening.  “But more of you in the world, Harry…  That could only ever be a good thing.  The best thing.”

Harry drew back suddenly, just far enough so that he could look Draco in the face.  His eyes were brimming with unshed tears.  “I want everything you’re willing to give, Draco.  I only haven’t said as much because I know that none of this was in your plans, it’s not – but whatever it takes.  Understand?  Whatever it takes.”

It felt impossible.  But Draco wanted it, with his entire heart, his soul, and every other part of him.

Chapter 26

Draco stared hard at the muddy concoction he was about to drink.  It was a potion that Astoria had prescribed to him, meant to boost his magical reserves so that he didn’t feel the draw on it from his pregnancy as keenly.  The only reason he had continued to take it daily as ordered was that it had, in fact, made a significant difference in the way he was feeling now.  He felt much more energized, though he slept deeply and longer than he normally would during the night.

Harry had been extremely resistant to the idea of Draco resuming occupancy of his tent on the estate, and while he chafed at the overbearing nature of Harry’s wheedling to get him to stay at Grimmauld Place for the time being, Draco acknowledged privately that he wasn’t eager to be staying alone at the Manor.  They had been back, however, brief visits to both fetch Draco’s satchel and some of his other things, and to work with Pipsy on making what repairs they could to the gates.  The Bundimun secretion had caused a considerable amount of damage, and the gates themselves had seemed decidedly unhappy, as far as any emotion could be ascribed to them.

But through a combination of Pipsy’s influence with her dormant bond to the Manor, and Draco’s shaky command of his father’s ring, they had managed to get both gates upright again – though the grotesques seemed a bit slower to puff into smoke for any individuals who were granted access to the grounds. 

Deciding that he’d put it off long enough, Draco picked up the small tumbler containing the utterly unappetizing-looking potion (which unfortunately tasted as bad as it appeared) and tossed it back, trying to let as little of it as possible hit his tongue on the way down.  He smacked his lips in disgust, indulging in making a revolted face before chasing the vile stuff with a glass of water.

He managed not to startle too badly when Pipsy Apparated into the kitchen with a resounding crack, keeping a firm grip on the empty glass.  “Hello, Pipsy.”

“Draco Malfoy, sir, can Pipsy be tempting you with a sandwich?  Pipsy and Kreacher have prepared many sandwiches for Harry Potter’s guests, so there is plenty!”  Pipsy waved both hands at the admittedly enormous platter of sandwiches on the counter as though dramatic presentation would make them even more enticing.

“Pipsy, I will be attending the meeting with Harry’s guests.  I will have one when everyone else does, but thank you.”  Draco strove for patience, as he suspected that Harry had taken Pipsy aside and asked the obliging house elf to ply Draco with food at every opportunity.  He was torn between a disturbingly warm feeling at knowing that Harry was looking after him, and annoyance at knowing that Harry felt that Draco’s efforts at taking care of himself fell short.  The fact that Harry was correct in thinking that Draco often neglected himself only increased Draco’s irritation.

“Then if Draco Malfoy is wanting to wait in the drawing room, we is happy to be taking in some tea and biscuits!”  Pipsy beamed at him, her large violet eyes shining with innocent misapprehension that Draco suspected was not quite genuine.

He sighed.  “Thank you very much, Pipsy.”  Since it didn’t seem as though he were going to escape having to eat something before the Minister and a select few were to arrive, he resigned himself to tea and made his way down the hall to the drawing room. 

His mother was seated on her preferred settee, a book in her lap.  She looked up as he entered, giving him a brief smile.  Her blue eyes swept over him, evaluating his appearance, and he knew that she wanted to ask how he was feeling.  But Narcissa Malfoy was a clever woman who knew her son well, correctly surmising that he had only a limited tolerance for answering the same question over and over during the six days since the robbery at the Manor.

“Draco,” she greeted him, gesturing at the armchair with a graceful hand. 

“Mother,” he acknowledged, taking the offered seat.  “Be warned, tea is imminent.”

Narcissa’s eyes crinkled slightly with repressed amusement.  “I am so warned, thank you.  I am also mindful of the time – do not worry.  I will depart before Mr. Potter’s guests arrive.”

“I wasn’t worried,” Draco said, only lying just a little.  His mother’s departure from Grimmauld Place to be at his side at St. Mungo’s, even in an emergency, troubled him more than he would show.  He hadn’t even told Harry of his fears.  So far nothing had come of it, but he was resolute that his mother would never set foot in Azkaban, not as long as he was alive to stop it.

There was another loud crack as Kreacher suddenly appeared with the threatened tea tray, taking slow, slightly wobbly steps to set it down on the table for them.  The ancient house elf bowed deeply.  “Kreacher is happy to be serving members of the house of Black, he was almost losing hope at seeing another noble generation come into the world before he is joining his worthy ancestors on the wall.”

And with that, Kreacher Disapparated with resounding clap of air that echoed through the room, leaving both Draco and Narcissa blinking in astonishment. 

“Did you tell him?”  Draco asked finally.

“I did not,” Narcissa said.  “And I doubt Mr. Potter would have said anything directly, but perhaps the house elves overheard…”

Perhaps, but Draco was not one to discount the magic or intelligence of house elves anymore, not like the way he had in his youth.  He leaned forward, reaching for the teapot, only for his mother to lightly slap his hand and give him a reproving look.  Then she pointedly took her time pouring two cups of tea and placing a few biscuits on a plate before passing them over to him.

They passed the time in companionable silence, Narcissa with her book and Draco thinking about what Astoria had been able to tell him about the type of pregnancy he was…experiencing?  Doing?  Making?  He didn’t know the right word for it, it still seemed to be completely foreign, and utterly outside of anything he’d ever pictured for himself.  Even when he’d had the vague expectation of having children, it was always in the context of marrying a woman from a Pureblood family and following the traditional route for such things, even if he’d never in his life felt attracted to anyone but other men.

 

“The fetus is inside your magical core, yes, but your core is inside your body,” Astoria explained.  “So you can expect that as it grows, your body will grow to accommodate it, same as a conventional pregnancy.”

“And…and how will…I mean, I expect that I won’t be delivering conventionally,” Draco said, hating the way that his cheeks heated for being unable to just come out and ask.  In his defense, Hogwarts classes during his days at school had very little to teach its students in the way of magical human biology, expecting that their families would tell them everything they needed to know.  And the centuries old disapproval of wizard pregnancies in particular meant that it wasn’t much talked about except as a point of ridicule (among the boys at least, prior to them hopefully outgrowing their latent misogyny).  If any of the historical figures which Professor Binns had endlessly droned on about had reproduced in such a way, he did not remember hearing about it.

“Cesarean delivery is common enough to be considered conventional,” Astoria replied, amused.  “Even when performed through magical means.  Our Healers are well-practiced at this, Draco, so do not worry.  In fact, I recommend that you start seeing someone who specializes in –”

“No,” Draco interrupted.  “No, I…  I don’t want this to go farther than anyone who already knows, for now.  I’d rather see you, if that’s all right.”

“Of course,” Astoria said, her brow slightly furrowed in confusion.  “If you insist.  But I have to caution you to follow my professional advice.  Pregnancy is risky for anyone, and just because you happen to be carrying in your core, that does not mean that you are immune to that risk.  Am I clear?”

“Perfectly,” Draco said, with a sinking feeling.  His emotions around this entire thing were already fraught.  He didn’t think he could bear it if he tried to see it through…and ultimately failed.

 

A hissing and popping sound came from the fireplace, which cast a green glow across the carpeting.  Draco looked up, startled – it wasn’t quite time for Shacklebolt or the others to arrive.

But it wasn’t anyone from the Ministry who stepped out of the hearth.  It was Andromeda, and she did not look well.  In fact she looked exhausted, with faint bruises under her eyes as though she hadn’t slept, or at least hadn’t truly rested.  She was not the force of nature that had invaded St. Mungo’s in search of her grandchild.  No, this woman seemed subdued, her dark eyes scanning the room.  She pursed her lips when she saw Draco and Narcissa, who was so shocked to see her sister that the book she’d been reading fell to the floor with a loud thump.

Andromeda sighed, and there was true weariness behind it.

“I’m – I’m sorry for coming unannounced, but I owe you an apology,” she said, looking at Draco.  Her posture was stiff, but she was meeting his gaze – at least after her eyes had scanned the right side of his face.  She gave no sign or mention of surprise that the scars that had been visible at their last meeting were now hidden under a glamor.  “I was worried, because Teddy usually lets me know when they can’t make it home on time –”  Andromeda paused, letting out the faintest pained gasp, almost like a sob.  “– and I intruded on a private crisis.  I…I do hope that you’re feeling better.”

“I am,” Draco said, trying to recover his manners out of his surprise.  “Thank you.”

“Dromeda,” Narcissa said.  “What is the matter?”

Andromeda took a deep breath, a clear attempt to calm herself.  “Teddy and I had a terrible row about it.  They accused me of treating them like a child, and they…they moved out.  I understand that Teddy and Victoire had already been looking for a flat together close to Diagon Alley and St. Mungo’s, and they…”

“Oh,” Narcissa said, getting to her feet automatically.  She hesitated, but clearly wanted to go to her sister.  “What can I – is there something –”

“Can we talk?”  Andromeda asked, her eyes wet with tears.  “Please?  They’re…they’re not speaking to me.  I feel like I’ve failed them, Cissy, Teddy is all I have left, and I –”

“You have not failed,” Narcissa said firmly.  “Or at least you have not failed so completely as I did.  You have not known failure until you have seen your own child throw himself into harm’s way to save you from reaping the rewards of your mistakes.”

Draco blinked hard, drawing back a little.  He’d never heard his mother put things in quite that way before.

“Come,” Narcissa said, bending to retrieve the book that she’d dropped.  “We can speak in the library, I’m sure that Pipsy would be glad to bring us some tea.”

“I – yes, thank you.”  Andromeda’s shoulders were still taut with stress and fatigue, and she did not move to embrace her sister, or even touch.  But she followed after Narcissa, looking more forlorn than Draco had ever seen her.  Not that he’d seen her more than a handful of times in his life.  But the fact that she had purposely sought out her sister after decades of painful silence might be a sign that things were changing.

He heard the loud rumble of Harry’s motorbike from the street outside, and not long after that the creak of the front door opening.  There was some murmured conversation in the hall, low voices as Harry passed Narcissa and Andromeda in the hall.

There was a slight grimace on Harry’s face as he entered the drawing room, but the transformation in his expression as he saw Draco was genuine and remarkable.  Those damned dimples appeared immediately as Harry smiled, his eyes warming in a particular way that had only become more frequent since that day at St. Mungo’s. 

Harry truly did not know how devastating such a smile could be, Draco thought, as Harry approached the armchair.  He opened his mouth to say something – perhaps to mind his manners and offer up a proper greeting – when Harry dropped to his knees on the plush carpeting, sneaking his arms around Draco’s waist and pulling him forward into a strange sort of half-sitting, half-kneeling hug.

Almost automatically, Draco’s fingers sought those surprisingly soft tufts of windswept black hair, his fingernails lightly scraping over Harry’s scalp in a way that made him give a small shiver of pleasure.  Harry’s eyes closed and he let out a sigh, his embrace going slack enough that Draco could again use the back of the chair for support.

“Teddy’s moved out,” Draco said, still combing his fingers through Harry’s loose tangle of hair. 

“I know,” Harry said softly.  “Victoire and they have been talking about it for ages, Teddy was excited but nervous to tell Andromeda.  But then all this…I really wish this step could have been taken on better footing between the two of them.”

“I would wish that for them as well,” Draco agreed.  “Do you know where this flat is, that they’ve moved to?  Is it suitable for them?”

“Seems to be,” Harry said.  “It’s actually on Tottenham Court, an old Unplottable residence converted into small flats.  All let and occupied by witches and wizards.  I checked it out, it’s safe enough.”

Thinking back to some of the places that he himself had stayed when he first traveled to South America, when he hadn’t been much older than Teddy and Victoire were now, Draco felt somewhat reassured.  Given how naturally protective Harry was, he would hardly countenance his godchild and niece living anywhere similar. 

“How are you feeling today?”  Harry asked, finally getting to his feet, reluctantly pulling away from Draco so that he could take a seat on the settee.

“Overfed,” Draco said, allowing a slightly pointed edge to color his answer.

Harry only chuckled, not looking the slightest bit repentant.  “Better than the alternative.  I suppose we ought to wait for Kingsley and the others…”

“Pipsy would be overjoyed if you nipped down to the kitchen.  The stack of sandwiches is so high that I fear structural integrity might be compromised.”

Laughing, Harry opened his mouth to reply, when the fire in the hearth started to sputter and pop again, green light filling the room as Hermione stepped out.  She brushed a bit of ash from her hair and took a moment to adjust her clothing before acknowledging them both with a tired smile.  It had been a difficult few days for her, as she was defending herself on two fronts from both Shacklebolt and the Head of the Department of Mysteries, Unspeakable Isrun. 

“Kingsley and Percy are right behind me,” she said, falling into the armchair on the opposite side of the low table. 

“Pipsy, you can bring in tea and sandwiches now,” Harry said in a clear voice, and waved his wand to move two other chairs from where they had been placed near the old grand piano at the end of the room.

Kreacher and Pipsy appeared together, in nearly simultaneous Apparitions that made the platter of sandwiches they carried between them wobble precariously.  But Pipsy was an excellent house elf and skilled at her craft, depositing the platter on the table with zero losses and whisking the smaller tea tray away.  She reappeared seconds later with the larger tray and tea so fresh that steam was pouring out of the spout of the teapot.

“Pipsy and Kreacher will be waiting if you are needing anything else, Harry Potter,” Pipsy said, dropping a short curtsy and taking Kreacher’s arm before they both popped out of sight just as the hearth signaled another imminent arrival.

Kingsley Shacklebolt ducked out of the fireplace, straightening to his full height and sweeping his gaze around the room.  His eyes lingered on Draco for a moment, and Draco met his gaze squarely – not challenging.  Not quite.  But not passive, either.

The Minister of Magic relaxed slightly, taking one of the chairs which Harry had recently rearranged and then filling a plate with sandwiches.  He ate one immediately, his hunger evident.  Shacklebolt seemed to be allowing himself to be slightly less polished in this setting than Draco had ever seen him, which was interesting. 

Draco knew that Shacklebolt was upset to learn that Hermione and Harry had concealed something important from him, but it didn’t seem as though he was in any doubt of the intentions behind that decision.  They had all been part of the Order during the second war, after all, and had more than proven themselves to have the good of everyone at top of mind.  Draco was the unknown factor in the mix, and it would be foolish of Shacklebolt to make any assumptions about his intentions – particularly after the way the Ministry had coerced him into acting on their behalf.

Following Harry’s example and making up a plate for himself, Draco bit into an egg and watercress sandwich just as the final guest arrived via Floo.  Percy’s face lit up slightly at the sight of food, and barely spared Harry a nod as he took the last chair and poured himself a cup of tea before piling his own plate high.  It looked as though they might make a decent dent in Pipsy’s over-preparations.

“Are we all sufficiently fed?”  Shacklebolt inquired after the rate of consumption seemed to have slowed.

“I think so,” Harry said, setting his empty plate down.  Percy and Hermione followed suit, though Draco was in no rush to finish his own.

“Very well.  I think that it would be beneficial to start with the current status of the Manor.”  Shacklebolt raised an eyebrow at Harry.

“The balance between the wild Dark magic and the remaining Death Eater traps was disrupted by the brute force entry into the hall,” Harry reported.  “It was a bit dicey when Ron and I were clearing out the…remains.  Definitely not in a fit state to be crawling with Aurors or officers from Accidental Magic Reversal.  The situation is destabilized, far enough that I haven’t wanted to attempt reaching the cellars again just yet, though I don’t know if this has had an impact on the ley line.”

“Not from what we’re able to measure,” Hermione said, looking to Percy for confirmation. 

Percy nodded.  “The Floo network in Wiltshire has shown some promising signs.  We were able to reconnect a few fireplaces that had previously been too dodgy to use any longer, though we’ve cautioned the residents to keep from overusing them at present.”

“Well, that’s something at least,” Shacklebolt sighed.  He rubbed at his jaw, lost in thought for a moment.  “As for what is in the cellars…”

“Everything is in place,” Hermione said, not showing any sign that Shacklebolt’s half-hearted glare disturbed her at all.  “All you have to do is let us move forward.  Both of the necessary potions have finished brewing and are currently under a stasis spell.  Charlie Weasley is amenable to coaxing one of the dragons under his care at the sanctuary in Romania into using its flame to destroy the more physical components of the item.”

“Are we certain that its destruction will have the desired effect on the ley line?”  Shacklebolt asked.

“At minimum, it will remove the direct and active source of any future contamination,” Draco said, surprising himself with his own contribution.  But this was his area of expertise, even if there weren’t many people here in England who knew it.  “The magical and mundane ecosystems within Wiltshire are still affected, and may continue to be for some time to come.  Pollution lingers, and I doubt this will be an exception.”

“Oh, do you?”  Percy said, his lip curling ever so slightly in a muted sneer.  “How do we know that this thing – don’t think I haven’t noticed that none of you have said what it is – is the only source of contamination?  What if it doesn’t work?”

“Then it doesn’t work, but a dangerous and powerful Dark object will still have been destroyed,” Harry said.  “And we keep working on it.”  He glanced at Draco, a look that was filled with apology.  “Though maybe we revisit the terms of the work.”

“You mean the terms of the work which included the use of Ministry equipment to restrain the travel of a flight risk?”  Percy scowled fully then, his gaze aimed pointedly at Draco’s bare wrist.

“A ‘flight risk’ who has had the ability to Apparate for almost a week now and has not, in fact, disappeared,” Hermione snapped.  “Honestly, Perce –”

“You might not be familiar with the concept working for the Department of Mysteries, Hermione, but some of us operate on a budget, and that was an expensive –”

“And dangerous,” Harry interrupted, his voice deepening to a growl.  “Limiting a person’s options for escape in the context of something like the Manor –”

“You know, if you’re all going to speak as if I’m not in the room, I could just leave,” Draco offered, the bite of sarcasm more than evident in his tone.

“The question becomes,” Shacklebolt said, raising his voice over what might have devolved into a more school-age argument than was appropriate for this type of meeting.  “How do we transport the physical components to Romania, once the potions have been used for their intended purposes?”

There was a short silence. 

“I am of course willing to reach out to the Romanian Deputy Minister for Transport to arrange an international Portkey –”  Percy began, but Draco smoothly broke in.

“The offer is appreciated, but I don’t travel well by Portkey,” Draco said, which was both true and an excellent excuse not to risk it, as Astoria had told him in no uncertain terms that travel by Portkey was not recommended for people who were pregnant, particularly when they were far along.  Draco had already been lucky that the small Portkey trips on the day he and Harry had breached the cellar didn’t seem to have done any harm.

“I’m not sure we’d want to try mixing Portkey magic and whatever residual magic might be attached to the item anyway,” Hermione said, frowning slightly.

“We’ll fly it,” Harry said decisively.  “With some spell work to shorten the flight time and make it a little more comfortable to fly this time of year, two of us could easily manage the pieces.”

“Fine,” Percy said, sour faced.  “I can get you some ready-made charms from Regulatory Control.”

“Very well,” Shacklebolt said.  He looked from Harry to Hermione, a careworn expression on his face.  “I hope that I don’t need to impress upon you how much pushback I’m getting from nearly every other department, which might have been more manageable if I’d at least had an inkling of what was truly happening.”

“I’m sorry, Kingsley,” Harry said.  “But when it comes things connected to Voldemort, it’s not worth the risk of it falling into – well, anyone’s hands, really.  The safest thing to do is what we’re already planning.”

“And that was best accomplished with as few people knowing about it as possible,” Hermione added, looking contrite.  “I am sorry, Kingsley, and I’ll say it again.  But if we’re agreed that we’re ready to move forward, the sooner we can be done with it.”

Percy checked his watch.  “Minister, I’ve got a meeting with Edgecombe in twenty minutes, so if there’s no further need for me here, I’d like to have a little extra time to prepare.”

“Thank you, Percy,” Shacklebolt nodded to him.  “I’m sure Hermione will be in touch with you about when those flight enhancement charms will be needed.”

“I’ve no doubt,” Percy said wryly, and got to his feet.  He nodded to Hermione and then Harry, ignoring Draco completely, then helped himself to some Floo powder and disappeared behind a rush of green flames.

“Now, I’d like to discuss the matter of the position I’ve been considering you for, Harry,” Shacklebolt said, eyeing the plate of biscuits on the table and surrendering to the impulse to take one.

Harry stiffened.  “Sir –”

“Kingsley –”  Hermione said, at the same time, but Shacklebolt waved a hand in a silencing gesture, giving himself time to finish the bite of biscuit he’d taken.

“I am aware now that you do not wish to return to Auror work,” Shacklebolt said, his dark eyes softening as he looked back up at Harry.  “And I respect that.  But you must admit that Robards has risen to your perceived challenge, which has lately resulted in fewer citizen complaints and more stability among the ranks of the Office.  And so, in order to give me some time to reach out to my second choice and hammer out the details of a formal offer, I wonder if you would oblige me by continuing as you are.  You needn’t pretend that you plan to accept an offer, just…don’t necessarily be open about your intention not to accept it, if you follow me.”

Harry relaxed, nodding.  “I can do that much.  I know I’ve put you in a tough spot –”

“Not you, Harry,” Shacklebolt insisted gently.  “Robards should have retired years ago, and I should have broached the idea much sooner.  As it is, he’s fallen prey to something that affects all of us sooner or later, and that is the fear of change.  He’s been doing this for so long that he’ll never be able to see how the Office – likely the entire Department – needs to adapt to the world we live in now.  Nor can he see how inadequate it was for the world we used to live in.”

“I appreciate your understanding,” Harry said, the relief in his voice coming through very clearly.

Shacklebolt smiled briefly, then turned his attention to Draco.  “I am relieved to see you looking well, Mr. Malfoy.  And it seems as though your contracted work with the Ministry may soon be coming to an end.  You will, of course, be compensated with the agreed upon amount.  And perhaps a bonus, given how hazardous the work has proven to be.”

“And my mother?”  Draco asked sharply, not allowing any talk of money to distract him.  This had never been about the money, for either side.

“I expect that the investigation into her communications should be wrapped up in the near future,” Shacklebolt said.  “I do…regret that it was necessary to involve her.”

Far from feeling mollified at this statement, it was all Draco could do to contain the anger that suddenly rushed through him, at the fact that this man, who had approved what amounted to his abduction and blackmail to do work he didn’t want in a country to which he’d never wanted to return, called threatening his mother necessary.  And Draco couldn’t even wish that none of it had happened – because if it hadn’t, he never would have…

“Excuse me,” Draco said coldly, getting to his feet and leaving the room quickly to hide the emotions that were threatening to overwhelm him.  He felt bombarded on all sides with rage at being forced into this position, a strange sense of grief at the ‘what if’ sort of loss that was only hypothetical, and detached panic over how little control he’d had over any of this.  He didn’t like things happening to him, as though he weren’t the master of his own life.

But he wasn’t.  He wasn’t even the master of his own body, if it could make such monumental changes to his life without consulting him.

Draco suddenly found himself on the stairs leading up to Harry’s bedroom, where he’d stayed since leaving St. Mungo’s.  It was as though he’d suddenly awaken from some sort of sleepwalking nightmare, and it took a moment to realize what he wanted to do. 

He retrieved his satchel from where it had been casually hung from one of the ornate knobs on the enormous wardrobe in the corner of the bedroom, then headed back down to the kitchen, hoping that he wouldn’t encounter anyone on the way there.  He Summoned his coat from the rack by the door, not wanting to delay his departure.

The bags of currants and cashews that he’d requested from Pipsy earlier were easily tucked away into the front pocket of his satchel, and the kitchen was mercifully free of house elves when he Apparated from there to what he hoped would be the North Wessex Downs.  His first trip winded him a little, as he’d expected, and he decided to walk in a westerly direction for a few minutes while he recovered from his first Apparition since Percy had placed that wretched cuff around his wrist. 

The Downs had lost their color, patchy snow dotted with tufts of wilted brown grass presenting a rather miserable picture of the winter season.  The sky was gray with clouds but not threatening snow or rain, which was fortunate because even with his coat and a warming charm, Draco could feel the bite of cold at the tips of his ears and nose. 

When he felt more himself, he Apparated again, aiming for Old Leland Road but ending up slightly off course.  His duck boots squelched into cold mud and…other stuff, as a grimy Cotswold sheep bleated at him from the dry patch of hilly ground upon which she was standing.  A few of her fellow ewes picked lazily at what remained of the grass, some of them observing his attempts to unstick himself unconcernedly.

Draco swore under his breath and struggled out of the mud, heading for the fence stile which would at least grant him access to the road.  He hadn’t been walking for long when he recognized the Nettlecross Arms in the distance, which meant the Manor was close.

Calling to mind the memory of Harry’s soft expression and the warmth of his embrace, Draco summoned his ermine Patronus and sent it back to Grimmauld Place with a message for Harry.  He needed some time alone, he said, and planned to be back for supper.  His stomach gave a growl at the thought of supper, and Draco scolded it.  He’d just had four sandwiches, for fuck’s sake.

The grotesques made loud, possibly gleeful whispers and hissing noises at him as he approached, rattling for a moment before managing to dissolve into iron smoke to allow him to pass.  When they solidified behind him, he gave each of them a grateful pat with his right hand.  He felt foolish, but he hoped that contact with his father’s ring might encourage them to repair themselves a little more.  Though it was possible that they had been too damaged to fully recover.

He gave the Manor a wide berth, not intending to go anywhere near the structure when he was here alone.  He wasn’t worried about encountering any of the bodies of the members of Dollie’s crew of would-be thieves, as Harry and Ron had taken care of the ones they’d found.

But Draco had a debt to pay, and it was past time to pay it.

He could hear the ravens’ calls growing louder as he approached the edge of the woods where his tent still stood.  He missed it, missed the familiarity of his own furnishings and space, of being surrounded by the notes from his true work, however neglected they might be.  He stopped in front of the trees in which the ravens perched, withdrawing the bag of currants that he’d brought and flinging handfuls of them across the cold ground.

The flock descended in a flurry of black wings and ear-piercing caws, the birds hopping around to gobble as many of the treats as they could get.  A few of them flew nervously back up to some low branches when Draco ran out of currants and started to toss out the cashews, but they were quick enough to rejoin the others when they realized that there were more goodies to be had.

Draco kept a few of the last cashews in his hand, scanning the ravens in front of him for any sign of Grito.  An extra loud squawk got his attention, as Grito pulled at the tail feathers of a larger raven that had just scooped up a currant that Grito was after.

Smiling, Draco cast a quick “Moliare!” on the ground before sitting on a cushion of air.  It was cold, but not quite as much as the ground would have been.  He held his hand out, palm up, and called softly.  “Grito!”

The bird perked up, the small wonky feathers at his crown sticking up slightly in the mad way they always did.  Tilting his head, Grito flapped his wings in a longer series of hops, beady black eyes fixed on the offering in Draco’s hand.  The bold little thing nibbled gently at the tips of Draco’s fingers before finally picking up one of the cashews, ruffling his throat feathers in pleasure.

None of the other ravens were quite tempted enough to approach in the same way, though a few of them were gathered in something almost like a semicircle a couple of meters away.  Grito finished all of morsels off quickly, then burbled an inquiry, following it up with another head tilt.

“That’s all I have for you.  For now,” Draco said softly, not withdrawing his hand.  He moved slowly, stretching his fingers slightly so that they brushed the feathers on Grito’s breast.  The bird showed no sign of alarm, blinking the blueish membrane of his eye once before turning its head to look at Draco with his other eye.  The feathers were glossy and smooth, softer than Draco had expected them to be, though of course they were entirely different from owl feathers.

“Thank you,” Draco whispered.  He was looking at Grito, but hoped that the entire flock would take his meaning.  “Thank you all.”

~ * ~

The sensation of wards passing over him confirmed to Draco that he had the right building.  That, and the sight of the tawny owl perched on the black railing of one of the upper windows.  The owl blinked sleepily down at him before tucking its head under its wing and resuming its daytime slumber.

The building itself was nothing remarkable – just sandy-colored brick with a bright green door which granted access to the converted flats within.  Though unlike doors to Muggle residences, this one had eight mail slots lined up neatly under the brass knocker in the shape of a Knarl with a looped daisy chain dangling from its mouth.  As he approached the font steps, he could see the glimmer of magic form into names on the flaps covering each mail slot. 

Draco scanned them, then tapped the flap which read ‘Weasley and Lupin’ with his wand.  He waited for a moment, wondering if either of them were even at home, then rapped the brass daisy chain firmly against the door, just in case.  He could hear some noise beyond the door, as though someone were scrambling to open it.

“Hello – Draco!”  Teddy stood in front of him, door flung wide, a huge smile on his face, as he was wearing more masculine features and clothing today.  He’d obviously been at work putting his new shared household together, as there was a smear of dirt on one cheek, and the lower legs of his jeans were covered with dust.  “How’d you know where to find me?  Are you feeling all right?  You look so much better!”

Raising his eyebrows, Draco gave Teddy an amused grin.  “Do I get to come inside, or shall we just chat on the doorstep?”

“Oh!”  Teddy stepped back, beckoning Draco inside.  To Draco’s surprise, he did not see the shared entryway as he expected.  Instead, he walked directly into Teddy’s flat, right from the front door.

“That’s rather ingenious,” Draco remarked, turning back to glance out the front window.  They had to be on the third or fourth floor.

“Isn’t it?”  Teddy beamed.  “I can’t tell you how much easier it made moving our things in – no stairs to climb.”

“Where’s Victoire?”  Draco asked, removing his coat.  It was quite cozy indoors, though there wasn’t a coat rack in sight.  He settled for folding it over his arm, looking around at the messy floor and bare walls, which were painted robin’s egg blue.

“Vic’s at the shop,” Teddy said, shoving a pile of things off what was revealed to be a sofa.  “Please, sit down.  I’m sorry it’s so –”  Teddy waved his arms helplessly at the clutter.

“It’s fine, Teddy,” Draco said, taking a seat at the end.  He sank into the cushions a little more than he’d anticipated, causing him to fall against the back of the sofa.  It didn’t seem like the type of furniture which would be glad to let its occupants go easily.  A thought came to him suddenly, and he felt some color rise in his cheeks.  “I’m sorry, I didn’t even think to bring anything –”

“It would only get lost in all this anyway,” Teddy laughed, sitting down next to him.  He twirled one of the ends of his black and yellow scarf through his fingers, a repetitive motion, as though the sensation of the different textures sliding against his skin were soothing.

“Where did you get that?”  Draco asked.  “It’s hardly a standard part of the Hufflepuff school uniform.”

Teddy blinked at him, a small, sad smile only just lifting the corner of his mouth.  “My mum made it when she was at school.  It…it doesn’t go, I know, but I love it.  I got in trouble a few times for wearing it instead of the scarf I was supposed to wear.”

“Oh.”  Draco inwardly cursed himself.  If Teddy wore it all the time, then of course it was sentimental.  “I apologize, I didn’t know.”

“It’s all right,” Teddy said.  “It just…makes me feel close to her, you know?  Especially because I was the only Metamorphmagus at school, and even though I guess my mum was really popular because of it, that wasn’t really the case for me.  I’m not as clever as she was, I suppose – she was always changing herself to play jokes and all that.”

“Teddy.”  Draco reached out and covered Teddy’s hand with his.  “You are very clever, I hope you know that.  Not everyone is accepted to train as a Healer, you know, and you’re going to go on to do great things.”

“You really think so?”  Teddy asked, something truly vulnerable in his honey brown eyes.

“I do,” Draco said.  “And I’m sure this – sharing this flat with Victoire – will be just another step in the process of you building your own life.  Once you wrestle it into some kind of order.”

“Yeah,” Teddy said, running a hand through his blue hair, which was barely long enough to shift under his fingers.  “It…it all came together a little sooner than we’d planned.”

“Yes,” Draco said cautiously.  “That’s the impression that your grandmother gave when she stopped by earlier today.”

“Gran…went to Grimmauld Place?”  Teddy’s brows were furrowed in confusion.

“She did.  She wanted to talk with my mother.  She…seemed upset.”  Upon seeing Teddy’s expression of alarm, Draco hastily went on.  “Not with her, or with me.  Not even with you.  It seemed like she was most upset with herself.”

Teddy’s eyes glistened, and he angrily knuckled away any potential tears.  “She should be.  I’m not a kid anymore, I don’t need her to protect me.  Especially not from my own family!  And she came to the hospital to – what, scold me?  Drag me home by the ear?  She barged into your room, and that was bad enough, but it could have been any patient’s room and it would have been just as wrong!  If Astoria wasn’t so understanding I might have been sacked, after I finally started doing something that I really love!”

Draco was quiet for a moment, rolling all of that through his mind.  “She was wrong to do that, yes.  And I won’t tell you that you’re not allowed to be a little angry about it.  But…she said that you weren’t speaking to her?”

“No,” Teddy said sullenly, looking away.  “Not at the moment.”

“All right,” Draco said, nodding.  “It was difficult for me to write to my father when he was in Azkaban.  There was…so much that he’d done that I was angry about, and it was hard to put down on paper.  I thought – hoped – that I might be able to talk properly with him when he was released.”

“He…he died there, didn’t he?”  Teddy asked hesitantly.

“He did,” Draco confirmed.  “And now I’ll never get the chance to say anything to him.  Teddy, words can’t express how glad I am that you were able to grow up in a world that was healing from the damage the second war did.  For those of us that lived through it…it stays with us.  And loss is something that never truly fades.  You and Andromeda lost the same people, but her loss is a little different from yours.”

“I didn’t even get to know them!”  Teddy burst out, tears falling freely down his cheeks.  “At least she remembers them!”

“I know,” Draco murmured, hesitating only for a moment before awkwardly hugging Teddy around the shoulders, and his young cousin melted into him, trying so hard to suppress his sobs that he hiccupped.  “It’s not fair that she knew them and you didn’t, it’s not fair that either of you lost them in the first place.  And for Andromeda the loss goes a little further than her husband, her daughter, and your father.  She lost her sisters and her parents long before then, in a different way.  And unfortunately she did have the kind of family that she needed to protect herself from.  It’s not unreasonable of her to see me and my mother the same way.  During the war, we were the kind of people who others were completely right to fear.”

Teddy drew in a sharp breath, tilting their head to look at Draco.  “But that was a long time ago.”

“It was,” Draco acknowledged.  “But as much as I would like to, I can’t erase the things I did, Teddy.  Nor can my mother.  Our actions then still matter today.  The difference is that I hope that those are no longer the only actions that matter.  For some people, nothing will ever be enough.  I thought that your grandmother might be one of them, but…  It was encouraging to see her wanting to speak with my mother again.  A real conversation, I hope, and not just venting a lifetime of heartache.”

“I…I haven’t really asked anyone about the war,” Teddy whispered.  “It makes everyone so sad, and we learned a little about it at school, but…I tried not to pay attention.  I didn’t want to hear about how my parents died, or what happened to Harry…  It was too much.”

“It was too much.”  Draco agreed with that wholeheartedly.  “But it still happened.  You don’t need to seek that knowledge out, Teddy.  Just remember that Andromeda had to live through it, and that has left its mark.  It’s almost like a wound that re-opens at the most inconvenient times.  This –”  Draco shifted, laying his free hand on his belly.  “I still haven’t quite come to grips with what it really means yet.  But there are two things about it that frighten me the most.”

“What things?”  Teddy asked, tightening his own arm around Draco’s shoulders.

“First, that I will be the kind of father that mine was to me.  I hope, since I learned not to become what he raised me to be, that I will at least avoid falling fully into that trap.”

“And the other?”

Draco swallowed, hearing his dry throat click.  When he spoke, his voice was hoarse.  “I’m afraid the second thing is unavoidable.  That eventually, this child will learn the truth of what I did.  What I am.  And they will decide that I am not the kind of father they want.”

Teddy was quiet upon hearing that, and it was quite clear that he didn’t have anything comforting to say in response.

There really was nothing to say.

Chapter 27

If the bright red ears and nervous pacing were any indication, Ron was extremely uncomfortable with being alone with Draco in the kitchen of Malfoy Manor, even temporarily.  Though it wasn’t as if Draco were thrilled with this delay himself.  He was just much more practiced at hiding his discomfort.

He hadn’t realized how necessary a buffer the presence of Harry or Hermione (preferably both) were to being in close proximity to Ron Weasley, who was clearly thinking along similar lines.  The absurdly tall man was intently examining every inch of the abandoned kitchen that wasn’t occupied by Draco Malfoy.  Each and every piece of crockery bearing the Malfoy crest came under scrutiny.  The cold and lifeless hearth was thoroughly inspected.  The craftsmanship of the enormous cast iron stoves was tested with several prods of the toe of Ron’s shoe.

Unfortunately, this resulted in perhaps ten minutes’ worth of distraction.  At most.  And since Draco was certainly not going to be the first one to speak, the lengthy silence between them only meant that Ron’s ears reddened even further, to the point that Draco expected them to catch fire at any moment.

“Look,” Ron said, planting his hands on one of the work tables, electing to study the patterns in the grain of the wood rather than meet Draco’s gaze.  “I’m sorry for what I said.”

Draco considered this for a moment, waging an internal war with himself about how obnoxious he wanted to be in response.  He was well practiced at getting under Ron’s skin – he’d done it through almost their entire time at Hogwarts together.  But those barbs had most often been lobbed at Ron’s family and impoverished circumstances, neither of which were worthy targets for scorn.  So while he was tempted – very tempted – to feign ignorance and rile Ron up by forcing him to explain himself, he restrained the impulse.

Instead, he dismissed it.  “It’s fine.  It was nothing.”

Ron did look up then, his blue-green eyes narrowed.  “It wasn’t, though.  Was it.”  He didn’t phrase it as a question.

“You don’t need to apologize to me because Hermione thinks you ought to,” Draco said, not quite understanding where Ron intended this conversation to go.  He clasped his hands behind his back, wanting to hide any fidgeting that might betray his agitation.

Ron scoffed.  “I don’t do everything Hermione thinks I ought to do.”

Draco said nothing in reply, merely raised one skeptical eyebrow, and Ron deflated slightly.

“Fine,” he snapped.  “I do, yeah, but only because she’s usually right about these things and I know that I can be a bit gobby.  But that’s not the whole reason…nah, forget it.”

“No, please, do go on,” Draco drawled, relaxing a little now that it seemed that Ron was too annoyed to soldier on through the awkwardness.

“You’re a right git sometimes, you know?”  Ron scowled, running a hand through his ginger hair. 

“I got top marks in being a git at school,” Draco agreed, and Ron barked out a surprised laugh.

But the moment of levity was brief, as Ron’s mirth faded into something that was closer to puzzlement.  Draco found that he was now the subject of Ron’s examination, and he didn’t care for the feeling of being so frankly assessed.

“You’ve changed,” Ron said finally, in a faintly accusatory tone.

“It’s been twenty years, Weasley,” Draco pointed out.  “I’d think that most of us would have changed in that amount of time.”

“Yeah, but it’s got me all wrong-footed since I was set on hating you forever,” Ron said, and didn’t miss the slight flinch that Draco was unable to fully conceal.  “But Harry’s my best mate, and most of the time he’s not a complete knobhead.  So if it’s not some kind of weird Pureblood magic that got the two of you together, then there’s obviously more to you than what I thought.”

“Are you attempting to make a point, or are you just thinking out loud?”  Draco asked stiffly.  “Because if you’re just trying to work it out without actually talking to Harry, I’d prefer it if you kept it to yourself.”

“No, I –”  Ron started to protest, then blew out a frustrated breath.  “Fuck, I’m no good at this.  What I mean is, I can see that you care about him.  And that’s…good.  It’s fucking weird, but it’s good.  There’s not many people he’s been with that see him as a person first instead of some kind of savior, you know?”

“Not really,” Draco admitted.  “I’ve not exactly been around to see it.  But…I believe you.”  It was clear enough from the assumption that Harry would take up the leadership of the Auror Office, in spite of how he felt, that it was his reputation and fame and what it meant to the public that mattered most.

“And now you’re – the two of you are – blimey, this is awkward,” Ron said, color rising in his freckled cheeks to match his ears.  “I’ve never really talked to a pregnant bloke before.”

“I’ve never been pregnant before,” Draco said, the corner of his mouth quirking up.  “It’s a first for both of us, I suppose.”

“So have you thought about –”  Ron waved a hand through the air, as though to convey the meaning of something so big he couldn’t even define it.  “– how you’re going to handle it all when this gets out?  I mean, you’re not going to be able to hide it forever.  Harry can’t just show up one day with a kid, with you as the other parent, and have it go unquestioned.”

“No, Weasley,” Draco said acidly.  “I haven’t given it the slightest amount of thought, and it certainly doesn’t keep me up at night.”

Ron snorted, his mouth curling into a reluctant smile.  “Fair enough, that was a stupid question.  But…I’m not saying you don’t already know this, but it’s not going to go over easy.”

“Case in point,” Draco retorted, gesturing at Ron.

“I am trying to apologize,” Ron said ruefully.  “At least I think that’s what I’m doing.”

“The last thing,” Draco said, pausing for just a moment to reign in his emotions.  “The last thing that I want is for him to ever have to choose…”  He couldn’t even finish the thought.  If Harry had to choose between Draco and his family, the people who had loved and supported him for years, through what were probably the most difficult years of his life…  That wasn’t any choice at all, really.

Ron gave him a sharp look, his gaze far too knowing for Draco’s comfort.  “Just make sure that you’re not doing the choosing for him, yeah?”

“Thank you so much for the advice,” Draco said, his tone light and slightly absent, as though they were discussing nothing of importance.

Fortunately, Ron was prevented from saying anything further when Hermione practically stomped her way into the kitchen, scowling fiercely as she slung her large tote bag from her shoulder and started rummaging through it.  Harry was right behind her, irritation written in his expression.

“Bloody hell, ‘Mione, what was the hold up?”  Ron asked, seemingly oblivious to his wife’s discomposure.

“Robards,” Hermione said, carefully removing several stoppered vials of potion.  There were two vials which held a thin liquid, smoky black in color and somehow very fluent in the way it moved as she set them on the work table.  The third vial – which was really more of a bottle, since they needed a greater volume of the potion it contained – seemed to glow with the softest yellow-white light.  Hermione was clearly skilled at brewing potions, since Draco could discern no visible flaws in the concoctions.  They seemed to have done well under stasis.

“There were Aurors tailing us at the Ministry and in Diagon Alley,” Harry explained.  “They didn’t confront us, but they wanted us to know we were being watched.”

“And did they follow you here?”  Draco asked, wanting to know if he had Aurors outside the gates of the estate once again.  He had felt nothing from the ring, but the recent incursion by Dollie, Graham, and the others was still fresh in his mind.  It likely would be for some time.

“They have to know that this is a likely place for us to be,” Harry said.  “But we didn’t want to bring any trouble down on George’s shop, so we used the cloak to get in and left from there.  So they wouldn’t have been able to follow us directly.”

Ron relaxed slightly, hearing that.  “You got what you needed from Percy?”

“Yes,” Hermione said, a note of exasperation in her voice.  “He says he can barely leave his office without stepping on an Auror, he’s quite put out about it.”

Ron slung an arm around her shoulders, pulling her in to plant a kiss on her temple, and her expression softened into a warm smile.  “They won’t have any reason to bother any of us if we get this evil Pensieve sorted.”

That wasn’t quite true, Draco thought.  This was a political scuffle as well as an environmental magical disruption, and solving the latter really had little to do with tempering the former.  Robards and those Aurors who were loyal to him would simply move onto a new opportunity to circumvent the Minster’s plans to force Robards into retirement.

He didn’t say as much, however, as the most pressing issue was beginning their neutralization and then total destruction of Voldemort’s Pensieve, as Ron said.  And while his stomach churned with a mixture of fear and anticipation, he didn’t want any further delays.

Almost as if he could sense Draco’s restlessness, Harry sidled up next to him.  Draco felt an arm wind cautiously around his waist, and he could tell that Harry was alert for any sign that he might not be comfortable with this degree of closeness in front of Ron and Hermione.  But…there was nothing to keep secret from them anymore.  So Draco resisted the instinctual urge to move away, even while he couldn’t quite look at the others.  He didn’t want to see their reaction to this more open affection.

“Let’s get it done, then, shall we?”  Harry suggested, a dimple forming in his cheek as he grinned crookedly.

The main hall was colder than the kitchen, due to the gaping hole that had been left behind when the front doors had been blasted away.  Light and the passage of frigid air from the outside changed the character of the hallway considerably, though the remnants of disarmed Death Eater traps still littered the stretch between the service passage and the door to the cellar.  There was a greasy mark on the hardwood floor left behind where the witch who had been Transfigured into wax had died and melted away, and Draco shuddered both from the cold and the memory.

There were fewer visible filament spells than Draco remembered, and he wasn’t sure if that was due to the chaos of that night or the efforts of Harry and Ron when they came to collect whatever remained of Dollie and her crew.  Either way, it was a relief not to have to fret as much about springing other traps as the four of them picked their way carefully around the hall.  Hermione even snorted a little at the sight of her department’s knitting draped over bristling piles of the weapons which had previously decorated the walls.

Draco felt the loss of Harry’s warmth keenly as soon as he stepped away to unlock the door to the cellars, but he could hardly drag him to and fro as though he were his own personal furnace, especially not when they were about to head back into what waited for them at the bottom of the stairs.  He pressed his hand against the door, fingers spread wide so that the silver band of the Malfoy ring touched the wooden surface. 

“Alohomora,” Draco murmured, hoping the counter spell to the way he’d locked it before would be sufficient to persuade the door to open.  The response was sluggish, similar to the damaged iron gates, and Draco couldn’t help but frown.  Had the magic of the estate been affected by breach?

But the door did click open, only creaking slightly at the hinges as Draco pulled it wide and again used a Sticking charm to keep it from slamming closed on its own behind them.  Just as it had before, nothing but true darkness waited for them beyond the threshold.

“Hold on, I think I might have something that could help with that,” Hermione said, handing Ron the potions she was carrying and once again delving into her tote bag.  It wasn’t long before she made a soft noise of triumph and withdrew a small pouch made of soft leather. 

“What is it?”  Draco asked, watching as Hermione poured some of the contents of the pouch into her free hand.

“Phoenix ashes,” she replied absently, passing the pouch to Ron, who patiently added it to the items he was already holding for her.  “They retain some properties of the rebirthing fire.”

Hermione moved to stand beside Draco, holding her open palm out toward the darkness.  She readied her wand in her other hand, performed a movement which involved moving the tip of her wand in a tight spiral, and said, “Ventus!”

The ashes swirled into the air, carried by the conjured wind past the threshold.  Every tiny particle sparked to life as soon as it encountered the inky, almost solid shadow, the wind carving minute pinholes through it and beyond until parts of the enchantment collapsed in on itself.  What remained of the dark sank down to hug the floor like a particularly murky fog, obscuring the details of the carved limestone stairs but reducing the gloom to more natural levels everywhere else.

“Oh,” Hermione said, disappointed.  “I’d hoped it might be more effective than that.”

“It’s actually a significant improvement,” Draco remarked.  He lit his wand with a nonverbal Lumos, and it illuminated what was visible of the stair walls until they curved around and downward.  “We’ll just have to take extra care as we descend.”

“I’ll go first,” Harry and Ron both said simultaneously, then looked at each other in momentary confusion.

“It’s not quite wide enough for you both to go first together,” Hermione said, her voice quivering as if she were trying to suppress a laugh. 

“I’ll go,” Harry said pointedly.  “Since I’m not the one carrying the potions that are the entire reason for us going down there.”  He positioned himself at the threshold, lighting his wand and peering down as far as he could see.  He gave Draco a startled look when he took his free hand, but Draco just raised an eyebrow at him in return, and that dimple made a momentary appearance before Harry carefully took the first step down the stairs.

It was slightly disconcerting, seeing their feet disappear into ankle-high utter darkness, but they were able to feel out every tread.  The phoenix ashes had done nothing for the chill, however, which still clung to them in a way which felt damp but wasn’t, not quite.  It numbed the skin and made the contact between Draco’s and Harry’s hands feel clammy.

Harry muttered a curse when they made the turn in the stair, almost at the bottom landing.

“What is – oh.”  Draco lifted his wand to get a better look at the rusted iron grate that barred their way from the landing, with its charred remains of Inferi – some of which were still twitching, but had mostly been burned away.

“It’s still there,” Harry said grimly.

“Let me take a look,” Ron said, shifting the potions back into Hermione’s arms.

“Oh, but Ron –”  Hermione started worriedly, but Ron cut her off.

“It’s all right, ‘Mione, I have an idea.”  Ron shuffled down past Draco and Harry, using the wider part of the treads as he carefully put one foot down in front of the other.  He inspected the metal frame, whose openings weren’t wide enough for any of them to even slip a hand through, not even Hermione. 

Ron tapped the grate thoughtfully with his wand, then flattened his hand against it, making direct contact with the skin of his palm.

“Oi –”  Harry said, reaching for him.

“Need to get a feel for it,” Ron grunted.  “Every material Transfigures differently, you know?”  He sucked in a breath, held it, then let it out in a long hiss.  Then he withdrew his hand, still holding his wand, and made a precise motion resembling half of a five-pointed star.  “Verto!”

The grate made a scraping, grinding series of creaks as it twisted away from one side of the stairway and folded itself against the opposite wall, bending and molding itself into a curved shape with a blunt base that resembled –

“Sorry,” Ron panted, running a hand through his hair and blushing slightly.  “I mostly use Transfiguration for my chess sets these days, so I’m afraid I’m a bit stuck on the shapes.”

“I think it’s a very, er, lovely, rusty knight, Ron,” Hermione said loyally. 

It was, Draco agreed.  In an avant garde sort of way.

“At least it’s knight-shaped out of our way,” Harry chuckled, but he sobered quickly.  “Don’t get close to the walls.  Don’t look at them, either.”

Draco was committed to following those words of caution to the letter, though he heard Hermione gasp behind him.  He focused on the landing door, pushing against it with his right hand until the latch finally clicked and gave way, then hurried into the cavernous cellar chambers.

The others followed close behind him, but at Ron’s muttered, “Fuck,” he turned around, concerned.

Ron’s face was bone white, staring into the section between two pillars where the prisoners collected by the Snatchers had been kept.  His arms were wrapped tightly around Hermione, who was rubbing his back and speaking quietly to him in soothing tones.  And a tiny bit of Draco hated him for that, for remembering, and making him remember in turn.  He and his parents had been left with two wands between them, and a small complement of Death Eaters.  Including his aunt Bellatrix, who had all but pounced on the opportunity to torture Hermione for being Muggle born.

His memory progressed relentlessly along that sequence of events, of Harry’s escape with the others after that desperate battle in the sitting room upstairs.

And then Voldemort’s return.

He had never stood a chance against the force of the Dark Lord’s Legilimency, and the fact that Draco had lied about Harry’s identity took mere seconds to uncover.

Because of course he’d known him.  The reddened, irritated skin, the swollen flesh of his face – none of that was enough to hide the face that he thought he might know almost as well as his own.

But that was a moment where Draco had felt time itself split in two, the paths diverging so sharply from that point that the gap between them had given him something like vertigo.  It was a yawning chasm, and each side held the near certainty of death.  He knew that his life, that his parents’ lives were as good as forfeit, but there was no other answer that he could give, except the one that gave Harry a chance.

“Draco?”

Draco nearly jumped out of his skin at the brush of Harry’s hand against his, and he whipped his head around.  The Golden Trio were standing there quietly, staring at him, and he abruptly realized how quickly and shallowly he was breathing.  He closed his eyes and deliberately let out all the air from his lungs, pausing a moment before taking a slow, intentional breath, as deep as he could.

“All right?”  Harry asked quietly.

“Of course,” Draco rasped, trying to firm up his wilting posture.  “Let’s get this over with, shall we?”

The Gothic armor which had caused them so much grief during their first time in the cellars was still crumpled into the corner of what had been the grid full of runes, much of which had faded away due to the disruptions caused by the nullification nets. 

“I’m glad to see all that work didn’t go to waste,” Hermione said, obviously striving for a lighthearted tone.

But Draco was now confronted with the fresher memories of Harry sagging against one of the pillars, his face pale with pain that Draco had inadvertently caused.  He did not want to linger here, didn’t want to put off the reason they’d ventured down in the first place for any longer.  He approached the opening in the wall which contained the secret storage chamber, only stopping when the white curse flames rose up to prevent his entry.  He watched impassively as the fiery red letters swirled into existence, making the warning clear.

“Fucking hell,” Ron said, a deep furrow between his eyebrows as he read through the message.  “You crossed those flames?”

“Not one of my best ideas,” Draco said, with a glance at Harry.  “But there was no viable alternative.”

“You’re not crossing them this time,” Harry said firmly, and held his hand out to Hermione.  “Give me those.”

“You can’t think that you’re going in there,” Draco growled, putting himself between the two of them before Hermione could hand anything over.

“Of course I am,” Harry said, as though this had all been settled.

“No.”  Draco’s denial was flat, and as implacable as he could make it.  “You carry the marks of two Killing Curses on you, Harry.  If Voldemort had anyone in mind when he created this enchantment, it was you.”

“He’s right, mate,” Ron said bluntly, and Draco couldn’t help but gape at him in shock.  “We’ve all three of us been banged up over the years but you’ve survived the unsurvivable.  Let’s not push our luck, yeah?”

“Ron,” Harry said warningly.

“Oh, do shut up, Harry,” Hermione said briskly.  “There’s only two doses here, and neither of them are yours.”  She unstopped one of the vials containing the smoky black potion and tossed it back, shuddering slightly as it took effect.

“Hermione!”  Harry protested.

“I can handle this.”  Hermione’s tone was steely.  She handed the other vial to Draco.  “Here.  Just in case anyone needs to come in after me.  I’m going to try to remove the curse flames from the other side, but the priority is the Pensieve.”

And before any of them could react, Hermione strode confidently through the white flames as though they weren’t even there.  She paused for a moment on the other side, looking around the small storage area, then turned her attention to the flames which marked the boundary between it and the larger cellar chambers.

Her examination of the enchantment seemed to take ages, but Draco knew that it had only been minutes at most.  Part of the reason for that was the fact that Harry and Ron were clearly impatient, both of them coiled like springs ready to jump into action as soon as they thought they might be needed.  Which was incredibly foolish, as neither of them were holding the remaining dose of the potion which would have allowed safe passage through the curse flames.

Their view of Hermione through the ghostly white wall of fire was hazy, but they could still see her well enough when she straightened up and gave an exaggerated shake of her head.  “I can’t see where it’s anchored.”  Her voice was slightly muffled, but still intelligible.

Harry let out a breath.  “That’s fine, Hermione, that will be a problem for a different day.”

Hermione nodded, the features of her face indistinct, but Draco thought he could detect a deliberate effort on her part to turn and face the Pensieve on its black marble pedestal.  She stood resolutely before it, her motions unhurried and controlled as she removed the stopper from the larger bottle of the softly glowing yellow-white potion. 

She poured the concoction over the sickly purple contents of the corrupted Pensieve in a slow, even spiral from the rim of the basin towards its center, tipping the bottle fully upside down to ensure that every drop was used.

It took a moment for the substances to fully integrate, the glow of the potion expanding to cover the surface, changing the quality of the light within the secret chamber.  Then, suddenly, the mixture exploded upward in a column of dark purple smoke, and Hermione stumbled back with a cry.

“Hermione!”  Ron shouted, making as though to rush forward, but Draco was faster.

Because he was dealing with the ultimate in Gryffindor hero complexes, he cast nonverbal Impedimentas at both Harry and Ron before downing the contents of the second vial in a single swallow.  It burned like ice going down, settling onto his core like a protective layer of hoarfrost, and he was already moving, nearly leaping through the curse flames.

He felt nothing but an unpleasant tickle across his skin, worlds away from the agony of the first time he’d entered the chamber.  He already had a Bubblehead charm ready for Hermione, and then immediately cast one for himself, the translucent membranes of concentrated air covering their faces and providing a layer of protection against the smoke issuing forth from the Pensieve.  He hoped that Harry and Ron had the sense to do the same for themselves, since he doubted the wall of flame would prevent anything noxious from spilling out into the wider area of the cellar.

“All right?”  Draco asked, gripping Hermione’s elbow to steady her.  “Did you inhale any of it?”

“I – I don’t think so,” she gasped.  “It surprised me, that’s all.  Th-thank you.”

The column of purple-black smoke was thinning now, as the dissolved contents of the Pensieve were more completely consumed by the potion.  Draco looked up at what remained of the smoke, which was forming itself against the ceiling of the chamber, rippling and shifting like a liquid, seeking a way out and up.

This, at least, Draco had some experience with.  He made a cupping motion with his left hand and cast a nonverbal Aguamenti with wand hand, conjuring water into a sphere which expanded in volume until he was satisfied that it was large enough for what he intended.  He tried to shut out any distractions, including the slightly muffled sounds of Harry and Ron demanding to know what was going on and Hermione shouting back a reassurance.  Simultaneous spell work was challenging even under ideal conditions.

He levitated the ball of water up to the center of the ceiling, until it made contact with the smoke, and saw the clear liquid start to discolor as the smoke particles began to settle into it.  He hurried it along by pushing more power into the sphere, being mindful about drawing too much from his core.  He didn’t want to exhaust himself through overuse when there was already a steady demand to sustain his pregnancy.

When the water was almost opaque with the suspended particles from the smoke, and there were no visible traces left outside of it, Draco cast a freezing charm, hardening the sphere before lowering it down to the floor.  He took a moment to catch his breath, leaning forward and bracing himself with his hands against his knees.

He felt a touch on his shoulder as Hermione moved to stand slightly in front of him, and she raised her wand.  “Evanesco!”

The frozen sphere Vanished, leaving nothing but a damp discoloration on the limestone floor.

“That was brilliant,” Hermione said, once Draco had recovered.  She waved her wand in front of her face, canceling the Bubblehead charm, and he followed her example.   “Where did you learn to do that?”

“Bits and pieces over the years,” Draco answered.  “But the technique was most refined when I was working on the incident with the cambiantes del mar in Peru, the one you read about.  This was the best way to prevent the aconite in the smoke from ending up in the local water ways, and as far as I know that family business is still using this method when they manufacture that particular cauldron cleaning product.”

“That was really good work.”  Hermione glanced toward the wall of curse flames, where the blurry figures of Ron and Harry were as close as they could get to them without actually touching the fire.  “We’d better get the Pensieve out of here before they try anything stupid.”

Draco chuckled, then waved an arm emphatically, hoping that the other two would get the message to back away.  It took them a moment, but Harry reluctantly moved to the side, pulling Ron after him.

Hermione levitated the tarnished silver basin off of the pedestal, walking back through the flames.  Ron did at least have the sense to restrain himself until she had set it down on the floor next to her tote bag, and then he wrapped her up in his arms.

It took significantly more effort to levitate the black marble pedestal than it had the water, and Draco was glad to set it down as soon as he crossed the threshold back into the main cellar room.  Though he had expected it, on some level, it was still surprising when he felt himself drawn into a fierce embrace, and he reciprocated after a moment of hesitation.

“I didn’t want you to go back in there,” Harry sighed, pressing his lips against Draco’s.

“Yes, well.  I don’t take orders from you.”  Draco kept his tone light, though he didn’t loosen his arms from around Harry’s shoulders.

“Or from anyone,” Harry said with a grin.

“Draco.”

The two of them turned at the sound of Ron’s voice, and Draco was somewhat apprehensive when he saw the serious expression on the taller man’s face.  Ron no doubt had something to say about the Impedimenta Draco had cast to keep him and Harry from following him through the flames.

Ron extended a hand.  “Thank you for helping her.”

Draco blinked, taken aback.  Then he took Ron’s hand, giving it a small shake.  “Of course.”

Harry and Hermione both had smiles on their faces, and Draco let go of Ron’s hand quickly, feeling a sense of overwhelm at this bizarre moment.  How was he standing here with none other than the Golden Trio, and with all of them acting like he belonged with them, no less?  He wouldn’t have believed it to be possible, not at any prior point in his life.  “Let’s get these things packed up, shall we?”

~ * ~

There was no experience in the world quite like flying on a broomstick, and Draco had resigned himself to never again feeling that specific kind of exhilaration since the loss of his eye so many years ago.  He had tried once, when he was still foolishly determined that his encounter with Rowle would not change anything about him or his life, and he would go on as he always did. 

That flight had been short and terrifying, without the customary field of vision and depth perception that Draco had always relied upon before.  He had crashed into the top branches of a tree and only some quick and messy spell work had saved him from a nasty fall.  The experience had rattled him, driven home the fact that this new disability had irrevocably changed the way he would interact with the world going forward.

So he had been anxious when Harry had attached the Pensieve basin to one of his spare brooms, the thing contained within a net which lightened the load considerably.  The pedestal was in a similar net, and strapped to Harry’s prototype Vayu beta-one.

“We’ll stay in this configuration,” Harry said, positioning himself on Draco’s left side, slightly ahead of him.  “You just keep me in sight, at this distance, and I’ll catch you if you start to drift, all right?”

Draco swallowed nervously, but sat astride the broom that had been readied for him, feeling his stomach churn in anticipation.

They kicked off together, Draco wobbling slightly on the takeoff, but focusing hard on Harry’s back and ensuring his control of the broom was sound.  Harry had given him some time to relax into a state of relative comfort before he pulled something that resembled a stopwatch out of the pocket of his anorak.  This was the Dilator, one of the devices strictly controlled by Percy’s department which stretched seconds out within a limited magical field that would enable them to reach Romania in hours instead of days.  Keeping this flight formation was crucial if Draco didn’t want to risk being left behind.

“Ready?”  Harry shouted back, glancing over his right shoulder.

Draco took a deep breath and held it, then let it out all at once.  “Ready.”

Harry clicked the button underneath the ring of the silver timepiece, and the rush of wind in their ears quieted suddenly, a pocket of relative stillness and warmth within an entire sky of air currents and clouds.  Draco couldn’t discern the boundary of the field surrounding them, but as they passed a chattering of starlings that were flying almost as high as they were, each and every bird seemed to be moving incredibly slowly, a single wingbeat taking almost a minute to complete.  He was able to see the exquisite details of the birds’ plumage, including the pale-tipped feathers along their bodies which gave them a speckled appearance.  The winter sun shone against the darker feathers, bringing out notes of blue, green, and purple iridescence which were strikingly beautiful.

They didn’t say much to each other during the flight, as Draco wanted to maintain his concentration to keep from either colliding with Harry or drifting out of the time dilation field which allowed for quick travel.  The earth rolled out its scenery below them, snow-covered land and deep blue water shimmering like fields of jewels to be admired and never collected, preserved in the treasure vault that existed in memory only.  It called to mind a lifetime’s worth of moments that he’d taken for granted.

He used to love flying.

When Harry signaled the start of their descent, Draco was surprised at how quickly they’d covered thousands of kilometers.  They were just now passing over the top of a snowcapped mountain range, a giant valley opening up beneath them, and Harry clicked another button on the Dilator.

The cold abruptly set in, the icy air hitting their skin and raising gooseflesh as they carefully followed the curve of the mountain down to a clearing marked by a lone figure, holding up a wand that was shooting red sparks up into the air.

Draco panicked a bit as he followed Harry in for the landing, his feet hitting the snowy ground too soon and nearly dragging him right off the broom.  But he felt Harry’s magic take hold of him, lifting him up before gently nudging him to a stop.  Still, Draco could feel the trembling start in his limbs as he dismounted as gracefully as he could under the circumstances, the complaints of muscles unused to being set in such a way making themselves known all at once.

“Hey, easy.”  A stabilizing arm wrapped around his waist, a large hand curling around his hip kept him upright while he got his legs back.  Harry was giving him a soft, concerned look, which warmed Draco from the inside out, embarrassment warring with appreciation for the care.

“Harry!”  A series of crunching footsteps heralded the arrival of Charlie Weasley, who was likely the brawniest of the brothers.  He wasn’t as tall as Bill or Ron, but he was broad, stockier than George.  He was dressed for the weather in a way that Draco and Harry were not, with a thick parka and large fur-lined mittens warding off the chill of this secluded mountain refuge.  He swept Harry up into a bone crushing hug, if Harry’s choked off grunt was anything to go by.  “Perfect timing.  We’ve got some crepuscular species that are just starting to become active this time of day, and I didn’t want any of them to take too much of an interest in the two of you.”

Indeed, the sun was just starting to set behind the opposing range of mountains, throwing the valley into an early evening shadow.  The expansive sanctuary was truly breathtaking, reminding Draco sharply of some of the remotest places he’d visited in the Americas, though many of those were within the tropics and sub-tropics.  There was just something about a place in which the presence of humans, magical or mundane, was minimal.  A wild, unencumbered ferocity that was terrible and beautiful all at once.

“Ah, hello,” Charlie said, letting go of Harry (who wheezed slightly) and eyeing Draco.  He seemed to be striving for a neutral expression, though there was a frown line between his brows.  “I don’t think we’ve ever formally met.”

“Likely not,” Draco said, taking a chance and extending his hand in greeting.  “You were well ahead of us at school.  I know this is outside of the scope of your work, so…”

Charlie pursed his lips for a moment, and Draco’s attention was drawn to the smattering of small burns that started along his jawline and disappeared below the collar of his parka.  But he took Draco’s hand, engulfing it in that huge mitt.  “Happy to help, if it means getting rid of something that oughtn’t to exist.  We’ve had some success in building relationships with some of the residents here through positive reinforcement, and they’ve plenty of flame to spare.”

Harry was just collecting the two miniaturized brooms and tucking them back into the pocket of his anorak.  The components of Voldemort’s Pensieve sat in their netting on the snow, looking deceptively benign in the gloom of twilight.  “Where do we go from here?  We’ll need to levitate these, I don’t want anyone touching them unnecessarily.”

Charlie laughed.  “Not far.  I can call Nilla from here.”

“Nilla?”  Draco was intrigued.

“She’s our dominant Swedish Short-snout.  Gunilla is her proper name, not that she answers to either, of course.  The names are mostly for us, so that we can keep track of the individuals within species populations.  Particularly the showrunners, like Nilla.  She’s a right terror most of the time, but sweet enough with the promise of a treat.”  Charlie beckoned them to follow him, heading down a gentle slope toward a snow drift.

But no, it wasn’t a snow drift – it was a glamor.  A kind of blind to keep them safe in proximity to some of the most dangerous magical creatures in existence.  There was a dry patch of ground behind the mound, the one-way illusion allowing them an unobstructed view of the clearing.

“Wait here,” Charlie instructed them.  “There’s a strong ward around the blind but they have devilish noses and might try to sniff you out, since you’re new and interesting.  Just stay calm – they can’t break through the wards, you just have to give them some time to get bored.”

With that, the big man jogged back, getting to within a couple of meters of the basin and the pedestal, and removed something from his coat pocket.  It turned out to be some sort of object attached to a long, thin cord, and Charlie handled it expertly, taking hold of the rope and giving the object a few practice swings, letting the rope out little by little as it gained momentum.  As the object started to gain speed, traversing wider and wider arcs over Charlie’s head, it emitted a strange, thin howling noise while it whipped through the air.

Both Draco and Harry watched in breathless amazement as there was a distant flash of movement high up on the mountain nearest to them, bright blue against the pale white of the snow, hearing a great rumbling growl as the creature sprang away from the rocks and dropped about a hundred feet before unfurling its wings with a loud snap.  There was an aggressive screech, a warning to any other dragons that might be nearby that this one – Nilla, presumably – had claimed this potential prey for her own.

The shape in the air just kept getting bigger, impossibly bigger, as it approached at speed.  Front legs tucked neatly up against its breastbone, back legs stretched out behind for aerodynamic efficiency, the enormous dragon glided in a circle around the clearing, the gleam of one bright copper eye briefly visible as it craned its neck downward, taking in every detail of the man still calmly swinging the lure.

“Bloody hell,” Harry breathed, his hand seeking out Draco’s.  They both jumped slightly when the Swedish Short-snout alighted on the snow, sending sprays of the powder in every direction.

Charlie allowed the lure to slow, lowering his arm until the cord wrapped around his midsection, securing itself to free his hands. 

“Hey, beauty,” Charlie crooned, his voice audible even from the safety of the blind.  “We need some of your fire, that’s a girl.”  He shook his wand out of the sleeve of his parka, aiming it at the space between the carved black marble and the corrupted Pensieve basin, both of which seemed diminutive and insignificant in the presence of such a creature.  A plant appeared to bloom from beneath the snow, a short, bristly-looking shrub which sprouted sickly red blossoms edged in pale yellow.

The dragon let out another earsplitting screech, rearing back with her teeth bared, eyes narrowed to slits.  She drew a deep breath, keeping her blunt snout pointed away from the bush and stoking her internal bellows.  Her breast and throat started to glow, the air around her rippling with sudden heat, before she opened her mouth and let loose a barrage of blue-white flame, bright enough that Draco had to squint and avert his gaze.  Harry had raised a hand to shield his eyes, staring in slack jawed wonder.

The bush vanished almost immediately, with a quickness that told Draco that it had only been an illusion.  The flame heated its intended targets, however, the basin dissolving into a puddle of molten silver before evaporating away entirely.  The marble pedestal took slightly longer, glowing red-hot for a moment before cracking, pieces of it flying into the surrounding snow with a series of hisses before they, too, were burned into nothing but flaky ash. 

Draco’s heart leapt.  They’d done it – something he’d never thought possible.  One of the last remnants of the Dark Lord and his poisonous legacy, burned into nothingness like so much refuse.

Nilla ended her flame with a snap of her jaws and a strange snorting sound, inspecting the burned area of ground critically before casting an expectant, hungry look at Charlie.

“Manners, princess,” Charlie shouted, as the dragon darted forward in a lightning fast lunge.  He Disapparated right before her jaws snapped again around now empty air, and Draco and Harry suddenly heard a deep, breathy chuckle come from behind them.

Charlie’s eyes were bright with excitement, and he gave a careless wave of his wand.  Two goat carcasses suddenly appeared right next to one of the dragon’s clawed feet, and Nilla rumbled with delight before snatching one up and biting into it with a loud crunch.

“Sneaky bint,” Charlie said affectionately.  “She always tries that.”

“That was incredible,” Harry said, grinning so hard Draco feared his face might break.  “Fucking brilliant!  What was that plant thing that you conjured?”

“Isn’t she?”  Charlie gave him an answering grin.  “I didn’t actually conjure anything – that was just an illusion of dragonsbane.  They’re smart creatures, they recognize it as poisonous to them and they’ll destroy any they encounter on sight.  It’s extremely rare.  Maybe you’ll get the chance to spot one or two other dragon species while you’re here, we’ve done really well in curbing their natural territoriality by supplementing their diets.”

“That would be amazing,” Harry agreed.  “Right, Draco?”

But Draco barely heard him.

He shouldn’t have hoped.  He shouldn’t have even let the possibility enter his mind.  But once the idea of destroying the corrupted Pensieve had started to resolve into something feasible, he’d had the notion that once it was gone, the despicable memories dissolved and its pieces incinerated in something as powerfully magical as dragon flame…

“Draco?”  The concern in Harry’s voice was strong, but Draco couldn’t bear to meet his eyes.  He only turned, letting Harry see how he’d pulled back the sleeve of his jumper to bare his left forearm.

The Mark stood out starkly, sharp black lines contrasting with pale skin.  Not glistening black, like it had done at the Manor.  But not gone, either.

“It’s still there,” Draco croaked hollowly, feeling despair clogging his lungs, spreading up through his throat and stinging his eyes, and he collapsed into Harry’s arms as silent sobs racked his chest.

Chapter 28

The library of Grimmauld Place was small, and of all the rooms in the house it was the one which most closely matched Draco’s childhood impressions of it overall, as infrequent as his visits had been.  It wasn’t dangerous any longer, and one couldn’t quite call it Dark.  But the walnut-stained bookshelves which stretched from floor to ceiling, save for a tiny window that looked out over the back garden, contributed to a gloomy atmosphere. 

Draco had been spending much of his time there lately.  He was still making half-hearted progress through L’estoire, and there were plenty of books here which might have diverted him when he needed a break from trying to decipher Old Normaund and the creative spelling choices of his ancestors. 

But mostly what the library offered him was solitude.  Certainly Pipsy and sometimes Kreacher popped in regularly to force food and drink on him.  His mother frequently visited him there, usually with the pretense of selecting a new book to wile away the time.  And Harry largely let him be, allowing him his own time while in the library, but at his side during meals and wrapped around him through the nights.

Which was quite the opposite of what Draco had been expecting from Harry.  He had been prepared for Harry to insist upon keeping him company, for him to attempt to go about ‘fixing’ Draco’s subdued melancholy in all the wrong but well-intentioned ways.  But he hadn’t.  He’d quietly given way to what Draco felt he needed and didn’t push, and that was…unexpected.

It was foolish nonsense, what he was doing.  Draco knew that.  It had been a ridiculous thought in the first place, that his Mark might be expunged through the destruction of its source.  But the residue of that monstrous mixture of memory had been cursed into his skin by Voldemort himself, and curse scars were not something easily erased.  It was greed, on his part, pure and simple.  A desire to distance himself even further from the mistakes of his past.  And…perhaps some sort of physical validation that he might be a worthwhile person for Harry to hitch his life to, which would happen regardless of how they felt about each other once there was a child between them.

Wallowing in disappointment that he had set himself up to for – that was indulgent and extremely stupid.  He had plenty of other things to worry over, including the fact that even with the removal and destruction of the corrupted Pensieve the very minor improvement that had been observed within the Floo network and frequency of magical accidents in Wiltshire seemed to have reached a plateau.  Draco knew from brief conversations with Hermione that there was some concern that this degradation might be longer-term than previously thought.  Perhaps even permanent.  And that soured what little sense of achievement he’d been able to take back with him from the dragon sanctuary in Romania.

He couldn’t help but think that he was missing something.  The awareness of it teased around the edge of his thoughts whenever he was engaged with L’estoire or contemplating the Manor in general.  And he was tired of chasing it indirectly through study and curse breaking.  It felt like something that he needed to tackle the way he’d done with every interesting case of magical ecological disturbance that he’d encountered during his travels in the Americas, and most particularly on the voyages of the Esperanza.

All of the major pieces were there, he thought.  The source of the disruption, the natural mechanism for it to have interfered with the ley line’s natural state.  But the Pensieve had existed long before it had found a place at Malfoy Manor.  There wasn’t much official knowledge around Voldemort’s whereabouts when he’d first started Marking his followers, but the issue with the ley line was unprecedented.  Indeed, it had taken a mind like Hermione’s to discover what was truly going on, methodically following the effects back to their cause.

If something like the Pensieve could have such a significant impact on the very structure of magic in one county, the relationship between its location and the disruption to the ley line had to be the defining element.  And it was the location that still bothered Draco.  The Malfoys had historically been a proud and arrogant lot.  If their residence was important enough to be considered a secondary node on the ley line connecting such notable sites as Stonehenge and the Isle of Wight, then surely he would have heard it listed among all of the other things that supposedly made them better than all of the other wizarding families.

But Hermione’s briefing, when he’d first been dragged halfway across the world to attempt to fix something he’d never known could be broken, was the first he’d heard of the Manor’s significance in that respect.  And who was left to contradict her findings?  Only Draco, and whatever he might be able to glean from the contents of his father’s study and his own investigation.

His broody rumination was interrupted by a knock at the door, followed shortly by Harry poking his head in.  His eyes swept up and down Draco, who was curled up in the oversized armchair in the corner.  He raised his eyebrows at the sight of the Instant Warming socks Draco had nicked from Harry’s drawer, which were bright purple and patterned with pink and green Puffskeins. 

Draco just squinted at him, silently daring Harry to comment.  It wasn’t as though Draco had never endured a winter during his time in the Americas.  But equatorial winters were quite a different proposition from winters on an island in the North Atlantic.  His feet got cold.

Harry’s lips twitched.  “Are you ready?”

“What time is it?”  Draco asked, trying to hide his dismay at suddenly remembering that Harry had asked him to come to an informal solstice celebration at the Burrow.

“Nearly lunchtime,” Harry said, pushing the door all the way open so that he could lean against the frame.  “They’re going to have presents for the kids afterwards, since Bill and Fleur are taking theirs to visit Fleur’s parents in France for Christmas.”

“Right,” Draco said, not quite managing the level of enthusiasm that he’d been striving for.

“And I have it on good authority,” Harry said, his mouth quirking up into a small grin.  “That Ginny is bringing Astoria with her to meet everyone.  Which I can guarantee will be the topic of conversation today.”

“Interesting,” Draco said, perking up slightly.  He had no fears about Astoria inadvertently disclosing the fact that he was still technically one of her patients, or why.  She was too much of a professional for that.  And Ginny, as the last ostensibly single Weasley, would indeed be the object of everyone’s attention for bringing someone round for a holiday meal.  The prospect of visiting the Burrow under those circumstances didn’t seem quite so daunting.

Still, he put L’estoire in its now customary place in his satchel before getting to his feet.  Provided he wasn’t suddenly compelled to flee after being confronted with the memory of past mistakes combined with the horror of ‘what ifs,’ he might actually be able to make a bit more progress.  Given his previous observations of Harry’s long absences on Sundays, he knew that this event was likely to stretch well into the evening.

In spite of agreeing to this earlier in the week, Draco hadn’t let himself think about it too much.  The prospect of spending time with the Weasleys as a collective – with Harry’s family – was still a source of painful confusion and anxiety, not that he had said as much to Harry.  Like dancing on the edge of a cliff, potential catastrophe looming over every moment.  So he hadn’t actually been intentional when dressing for the day, as evidenced by Harry’s stolen socks.  The gray tweed trousers he was currently wearing were fraying a bit at the hems, and he knew that there were some pulled threads on the slightly ratty dark plum jumper he’d pulled on before visiting the Manor ravens that morning.  Grito had lately taken to perching on his shoulders to take food directly from his hand, which was a gratifying show of trust but slightly hard on his clothes.

But the Weasleys were generally not people who cared about details like that, and Draco was comfortable enough to be reluctant to go upstairs to change. 

His mother did raise an eyebrow in a slightly critical fashion while he and Harry prepared to depart via the fireplace in the drawing room, but as Andromeda was currently having tea with her she forbore from comment.  Draco gave her a small, knowing grin and a kiss on the cheek, and she flapped a hand at him dismissively. 

Andromeda gave him a polite, uncertain smile.  While she seemed to have developed a tentative ease around her formerly estranged sister, she wasn’t quite sure what to make of her nephew.

That was fair.  Draco barely knew her, either, as their ties existed only through the people they had in common.  And even those were still fragile.

The Burrow was bustling with people when Draco stepped out of the fireplace shortly after Harry, the house creaking ominously in complaint due to being temporarily stretched wide enough to accommodate the extended dining table and benches.  Molly was in full command of her kitchen, barking out orders to all her sons who were almost running back and forth to set the table and arrange all the food. 

Someone had strung cords with tiny mirrors dangling from them to entice the local flutter of fairies to come inside and act as living decorations, the small figures buzzing around the ceiling to investigate their own reflections and partake of the small, strategically placed dishes of milk and honey.  The colors of their fairy lights shifted according to mood, many of them boasting soft pinks, greens, and blues – though two of them had got into a scrap over one of the mirrors and were currently glowing an angry red.

“Harry!”  Arthur called cheerfully, threading his way through the crowd of his children and their spouses, stepping carefully to avoid trodding on any of the grandchildren playing on the floor.  There seemed to be some sort of very serious battle going on between figures appropriated from a wide array of chess sets, with Fletch and Gabe marshaling one side and Victoire’s younger brother and sister directing the other.  But Arthur managed to keep from stepping on any of it, though he did get in the way of a volley of tiny, harmless sparks emitted by a team of dragon-shaped pieces.

“It’s good to see you, my boy, come in, come in!”  Arthur pulled Harry into what was no doubt a very comfortable hug.  Retired life agreed with Arthur, his ginger hair gone mostly grey now, with a bit of extra padding around the middle from his wife’s cooking.  “We’re nearly there, I think.  We just need to – Rosie!  That Christmas punch is for the adults, dearie, and I think you know that.  Put it back.  Ron, see to your moppet, will you?  She takes after you in all ways, I swear it.”

“Oi, you!”  Ron called from far down the dining table, where he was arranging several side dishes.  “What did I say about getting caught?”

“Ron!”  Molly whirled around to scold him, while Rosie giggled.  The girl’s expression transformed into one of wide-eyed, innocent contrition when she caught sight of Hermione’s disapproving look, however, and she scampered away from the large glass bowl on one of the side tables.

Shaking his head, Arthur finally turned his attention to Draco, his chuckle fading away.  “Right, then,” he said.  “Here you are.”

With Arthur’s not infrequent visits to Malfoy Manor when he was still working for Misuse of Muggle Artifacts before the second war, Draco had had quite a few opportunities to be a smug little shite directly to him.  The actions of Lucius Malfoy were no doubt at the forefront of Arthur’s mind as well, including the incident with the journal which had nearly claimed Ginny’s life.  So the cold greeting wasn’t exactly unexpected, even if he might have hoped for better.  Fortunately, he was saved from having to come up with an appropriate response.

“Arthur!”  Molly called, summoning her husband to the kitchen.  “I need you to watch the jelly, love, I don’t want it to burn.”

“Coming, dear,” Arthur said, his expression softening slightly.  He clapped Harry on the shoulder and went where his wife bid him.

“Draco!”  Teddy waved to get his attention.  She and Victoire had claimed a corner of the sitting room as their own, the demarcation between their territory and the battlefield of the younger children comprising of an end table and an ottoman with a knitted afghan blanket stretched over them.

“Go on,” murmured Harry, nudging him to join them.  “And don’t worry, Ginny will be here any minute.”

Draco only gave a noncommittal hum in response, but picked his way over to the corner to perch gingerly on half of the larger armchair, after Teddy scooted over and adopted a smaller body type to make room.  Things between Teddy and Andromeda were slowly beginning to thaw, though it was telling that Andromeda was visiting Narcissa at Grimmauld Place instead of attending the Sunday luncheon with Teddy. 

“How is the new flat coming along?”  Draco inquired, giving a nod of greeting to Victoire.

“Smashing!”  Teddy grinned, brushing a lock of wavy blue hair out of her face.  “We’ve finally got a lot of Vic’s art up on the walls and nearly everything has a place.”

“Not that you bother putting half your things away,” Vic said affectionately, rolling her eyes.  “But yes, it is coming together rather nicely.  You’ll have to visit again to see the changes we’ve made.”

“I’d like that,” Draco said honestly.

“Do you have a flat overseas?”  Teddy asked.  “Or a house?”

“Neither.”  Draco smiled, trying not to let his face show how much he was suddenly missing the life he’d built for himself, that he’d been torn from in order to be here.  “I have a tent, and for quite a few years I’ve spent most of my time living out of a small cabin on a ship crewed by people in search of rare potions ingredients.”

Teddy’s jaw dropped.  “Do you really?”

“What’s that like?”  Victoire asked, leaning forward in fascination.

So Draco told them about the Esperanza, some stories from his most recent voyage and a bit about his travels in South America, before he’d made his way north and encountered Séneca’s extended family.  They listened attentively, hanging onto every word – especially when he described a run-in with the Tata Duende in Belize, a race distantly related to the house elves of Europe, except that they didn’t bond with houses.  They bonded with larger territories and guarded them fiercely, and at times had uneasy relationships with the humans that farmed and lived within those territories.  They had four-fingered hands, like house elves, except that none of those fingers were opposable thumbs.  It was considered to be a serious breach of etiquette to show one’s thumbs when interacting with the Tata Duende.

He remembered that encounter vividly because he had still been relatively fresh from completing his formal education at the Sorbonne and was traveling with a few other green alumni at the time.  One of their local guides had, as a joke, successfully convinced the slightly gullible American of the group that it was common practice to for anyone seeking an interaction with the Tata Duende to Vanish their own thumbs before venturing into the jungle.  So the poor berk had done it, instead of just sticking his thumbs in his fucking pockets like the rest of them, and then had to see a Healer who used some specialized Transfiguration and Skelegrow to replace the lost digits.

Draco was just finishing that story when a sudden flash of green announced an impending arrival at the fireplace, and soon enough Ginny stepped through, and Astoria a moment later.  Teddy clapped her hands and bounced on the seat of the chair, obviously excited for this moment.

“What – this isn’t the pub!  Where are all of my loyal Harpy-heads?”  Ginny planted her hands on her hips and swept her gaze around the sitting room in mock disappointment. 

“Here, Aunt Ginny, we’re here!”  The younger children immediately abandoned their miniature war and jumped up to greet their aunt, all clamoring for her attention and trying to sneak their hands into the pockets of her coat to see what she might have brought them.

“Unhand me, villains!”  Ginny cried dramatically, batting their hands away.  “Presents come after lunch.  Besides, I want you all to meet someone special.”  She stepped aside, making more room for Astoria to come forward.

“Who’s that?”  Asked Fletch, pointing at the shorter woman.

Ginny slid her arm around Astoria’s waist, planting a kiss on her cheek.  “This is my girlfriend, Astoria Greengrass.  Astoria, brace yourself, love, this is going to take a minute.  Merlin bless you if you remember it all after the first go.  Ready?”

“Ready,” Astoria laughed, leaning into Ginny’s side. 

“All right.”  Ginny took an exaggeratedly deep breath and started pointing.  “Fletcher and Gabe, they belong to Percy and Audrey.  George and Angelina, over there, you remember them.  And Charlie’s the one wearing pink oven mitts.  Jean-Mael, Claire, and – where’s Victoire?  Victoire!  There you are.  They’re Bill and Fleur’s kids.  Rosie and Hugo – Hermione’s definitely their mum but they’re way too clever and charming to be Ron’s –”

“Shut it, you horrible minx!”  Ron retorted loudly.

“Ronald Bilius Weasley, you will mind your tongue in front of guests, not to mention the children!”  Molly hurriedly wiped her hands on her apron and gave Ron a light smack on the back of the head, though she had to reach for it.  She hummed nervously and bustled over to the sitting room.  “Astoria, dear, it’s a pleasure to finally meet you now that we know that you exist.”

“Mum,” Ginny growled, drawing out the word.  “We talked about this.”

“Yes, yes.  Come along, Astoria, we’re just about ready to eat.  Sit down, everyone, come on!  Everyone sit down, we’re not about to let the food get cold, are we?”  Molly ushered Astoria over to one end of the table, giving Ginny no choice but to follow.

It was an exercise in barely controlled chaos, getting every member of the Weasley clan settled at the table.  Gabe kept jumping up from his seat to grab this or that of the figures they’d been playing with, insisting that they needed to eat, too, and Audrey insisting just as vehemently that no, they didn’t.  This resulted in a brief but loud bout of tears that only ended when Fletch threw his arms around his twin and declared that they would run away after lunch and no one would ever see them again, upon which Percy sorrowfully lamented the fact that the presents everyone had planned to give them would be going to waste.  There were no further arguments from the twins.

Draco was grateful that he ended up between Teddy and Harry, with Charlie, George, and Angelina sitting opposite them.  George had watched the entire exchange between the twins and their parents with a soft smile and glistening eyes, while Angelina drew small circles on the back of his hand with her thumb.  Charlie pressed his shoulder against George’s on the other side, looking slightly choked up himself.

The questions that Molly and Arthur peppered at Astoria and Ginny were a source of background hilarity as everyone dug into the truly impressive meal that Molly had put together.  The earnest inquiry of “So how long have you known that you fancied girls, Astoria?” had everyone studiously focused on their plates while Ginny covered her crimson face with both hands.  Astoria was commendably unphased, her brown eyes sparkling with wicked glee.

Content to listen to Charlie and George catch each other up on their work, swapping stories about dragons and mishaps with experimental fireworks, Draco cut into his Beef Wellington (of which Molly had prepared two, as well as a roast turkey) with enthusiasm.  He stuck to water instead of the Christmas punch, as he didn’t need anything that might loosen his tongue in front of the Weasleys even apart from not knowing if he ought to be abstaining from alcohol.  Were magical pregnancies affected by such things the way conventional pregnancies were?  He had no idea, and preferred not to chance it.

There was a bit of an uproar when Hugo noticed that it had started to snow outside, his observation quiet but almost immediately loudly echoed by his older sister.  And indeed, soft, fat flakes drifted down peacefully to make a good show of covering the meadow outside, making all of the children start to clean their plates at a pace which had to be unhealthy.  They were so eager to go outside that Harry had to raise his voice to be heard.

“So you’ll not be wanting any of the presents we brought, then?”  There was a gleam in Harry’s eyes when his nieces and nephews were suddenly frozen with consternation, torn between the prospect of immediately playing in the snow and seasonally appropriate greed.

“Presents first,” Molly said firmly.  “That way I’ll know that you’ll all be properly wrapped up before going out.”

“I swear the woman knits in her sleep,” Charlie muttered under his breath, and George snickered.

“You’re just sore about the sweater vest that she knitted you last year,” George whispered back.  “But I thought that the bright yellow argyle pattern was really flattering, could double as a safety v–”  His teasing was cut off when Charlie put one massive arm around his head and locked him against his side, seemingly unbothered by George’s muffled protests.

“Boys, that’s enough,” Molly scolded.  “Now help us clear the table, there’s some good lads.”

The process of simultaneous clean-up and distribution of parcels wrapped in brightly colored paper was so orchestrated that it was clearly the result of years of practice with an ever increasing number of family members.  Gifts from aunts and uncles were passed around to the appropriate children, while Molly nipped upstairs for a moment, only to descend with a mountain of bundled knitting that she only managed through a combination of levitation and full arms. 

The Weasley matriarch kept a running commentary as she dropped the bundles in front of children and grandchildren alike.  “Yes, that’s one for Jean-Mael, and one for you, Claire, darling.  No, Gabe, yours is the blue – that’s right, Fletch has got the orange.  Hermione, dear, here’s for you, and Ron, and – where did Hugo get to?”

There didn’t seem to be any customary wait before the children were tearing into the wrapped parcels, and unrolling the knitted gifts to hold them up and exclaim.  Contrary to Draco’s vague memories of seeing Harry and the Weasley brood in casual clothing at school, the gifts weren’t all jumpers.  There were mittens, shawls, socks – Hermione looked pleased to have received a cape of some kind in a soft dove gray, which reminded Draco of a poncho. 

Ginny received a dark green jumper with three Quidditch hoops in gold, and Astoria was surprised and clearly touched to unfold a scarf in sky blue patterned with small white flowers.  Harry immediately placed the knitted emerald hat he was given on his head, grinning when Molly said, “There, I knew it would bring out your eyes.”

And then to Draco’s utter astonishment, Molly placed a small bundle in front of him without any fanfare, placing a hand briefly on his shoulder before continuing on to give a pair of black and yellow mittens to Teddy.  Draco just stared at the item for a moment, completely taken by surprise.  Harry recovered from his own momentary shock more quickly, reaching out to unroll the scarf knitted from jet black yarn that was soft to the touch.  It was unadorned, except for one end which bore a familiar constellation in silver.

Draco traced the pattern of silver yarn with his finger, stopping at each point which indicated one of the stars that made up his namesake.  Molly had already moved along down the table, finally resuming her own seat and beaming with joy to see her family wearing her handiwork.  The children noticed nothing amiss, preoccupied with the other gifts from George’s joke shop and various Quidditch memorabilia from Ginny.  But the adults were focused on the sight of Harry lifting up the scarf and gently placing it around Draco’s neck, and Draco could feel the color rising in his cheeks.

He could hardly look away from the soft expression in Harry’s eyes, but the sensation of being so obviously watched was too much for Draco to ignore for long.  He dared to glance around to gauge the reaction this unexpected gift had produced.  Thoughtful looks from Bill and Fleur, with Fleur idly stroking Bill’s arm where it was it was settled around her waist.  Charlie was unsurprised, having been witness to Draco’s shameful breakdown at the sanctuary, the corner of his mouth tilted up.  Hermione was smiling and Ron wasn’t, though the tips of Ron’s ears were red.  Teddy had her mitten-covered hands over her mouth, Victoire giving a smug look over her shoulder before turning to look at the Chocolate Frog card her younger brother was trying to show her.  Angelina was resting her head on George’s shoulder, and George had an odd quirk to his lips.

Percy’s expression, however, was hard, his mouth drawn tight and a wounded look in his eyes.  Audrey obviously sensed her husband’s tension but didn’t share it, not seeming to find anything remarkable about Draco’s inclusion. 

And Ginny gave him a discreet thumbs up while she leaned into Astoria’s shoulder, both of them also wearing Molly’s knitting.  Arthur was very intentionally focused on his wife, who was wiping away happy tears as Arthur fastened a beautiful silver charm bracelet around her wrist.

“But, Uncle Harry, where are the presents from you?”  Jean-Mael piped up, looking around the table. 

“Jean-Mael, manners!”  Fleur admonished him.  “We do not demand, comprenez-vous?”

“Oui, Maman,” Jean-Mael said, hunching his shoulders slightly in embarrassment.

“I’m afraid that the presents I brought this year were too big to fit in my pockets,” Harry said, pausing dramatically before continuing.  “So I hid them in your granddad’s shed!  Good thing it snowed today, yeah?”

The children all whooped in excitement and jumped to their feet, a small herd thundering outdoors with Harry chasing after them with an equal degree of enthusiasm.  The adults were slower to follow but clearly curious to see what might have needed to be stored in Arthur’s shed.  Draco was exceedingly grateful for the distraction, hanging back so that he could avoid being the object of anyone else’s attention.

The handmade scarf was soft and warm around his neck, and Draco saw that Harry had arranged it so that the end with the constellation was hanging in front, seeming even brighter against the black now that they were all outside.  He couldn’t remember ever receiving a gift quite like this.  His mother was not the type of person who enjoyed crafts – she had been made to learn embroidery for some archaic reason when she was a child, and had developed a dislike for any similar occupation.  The textiles that he had collected from various countries in the Americas had been purchases, not gifts.  This felt…different, in an unfamiliar and cozy sort of way.  He wandered slowly toward the shed, where everyone was crowded to wait for Harry to unveil his surprise. 

Harry grinned broadly at his audience, his hands behind his back on the handles of the double doors to the ramshackle old structure.  Then he stepped forward, flinging them open with a flourish, and six contraptions glided out onto the snow.  They were made of light pine, all trimmed in different colors, and looked like small wooden chairs on skis.  There was a handle that rose up above the back of the chair, and the runners extended well past the back.

“They’re potke – potkukle – they’re kicksleds!”  Harry said, giving up on whatever term he’d been trying to pronounce.  “I picked them up when I was on contract in Finland.  Only, these are very special kicksleds, because they’re enchanted almost like brooms.  Fletch, come here, help me show everyone.”

Fletch obligingly stepped forward, following Harry’s encouraging gesture to sit down in the small chair of the blue-trimmed sled.

“Now, keep your feet either on the runners or hold them up off the ground,” Harry instructed.  “You don’t want to slow us down!”  Harry grasped the handle, placed his left foot on the runner, and kicked off with his right.  The sled was propelled forward, gliding smoothly across the freshly fallen snow almost as though it were hovering very slightly off the ground.  Fletch let out a squeal of excitement as Harry kicked off again, leaning to the side to steer the sled into a graceful turn to head back toward the shed.

There was a brief moment of awe before every child was scrambling to a sled, a few of the adults not far behind.  Soon all of the sleds were occupied, sailing across the meadow.  George goaded Percy into a race, with Gabe and Jean-Mael as passengers.  Rosie was tall enough to be pushing Hugo all on her own, the younger sibling calling out warnings when they were going too fast or too near the other sleds – most of which were ignored.

Harry looked so happy, switching sleds the way one might switch partners on the dance floor, all of the children eager for the chance to ride with their uncle.  He handled the sleds as well as he handled a broom, but was clearly being careful not to spill any of his smaller passengers.  The knit hat did bring out his eyes, which were bright with laughter and the intense vitality that he’d always had.

It was strange, the overwhelming sensation of want that swept over Draco.  He wanted that, he wanted to see Harry look just like that with a child of his own.  With…with their child.  The idea sparked a bit of panic within him, unaccustomed as he was to actually getting anything he wanted this badly.  Everything that was supposed to have been his had been taken away.  Perhaps that was why he shied away from the thought of intentionally, openly claiming Harry as his own.

Almost as if he had sensed the direction of Draco’s thoughts, Harry hopped off the sled he’d been pushing Hugo on and jogged along it, waiting for Ron to take his place before making his way toward Draco.  Harry’s warm brown skin was flushed and slightly red at the cheeks and the tip of his nose, his breath puffing out in clouds of fog as he got his wind back.

“All right?”  He asked Draco, his eyes lingering on the scarf wound around his neck.

“You look cold,” Draco said, instead of answering the question.

“I am a bit,” Harry admitted, letting one of his hands pull at the end of Draco’s scarf, drawing him closer.  “We’ll need to huddle together for warmth, I reckon.”

“Is that so?”  Draco raised an eyebrow.

“Mm-hmm.”  Harry hummed, unraveling Draco’s scarf so that he could throw it about both their necks, forcing them to stand nearly chest to chest.  The proximity and warmth granted by the scarf caused Harry’s glasses to fog, clouding those lovely green eyes behind a nearly opaque layer of condensation, and the incongruity between that and Harry’s suave intentions was so unexpected that Draco burst out laughing, unable to stop his shoulders from shaking and grasping the lapels of Harry’s anorak for support.

Harry huffed but soon joined in, removing his glasses so that he could squint at Draco more directly.  Cold fingers nudged Draco’s chin, and there was only a brief moment of panic before Draco surrendered to Harry’s kiss, the scarf hiding their faces just enough that he didn’t feel quite so exposed even with the Weasleys close by.  Harry’s lips were soft and warm, and Draco lingered there for a moment, just breathing him in.

Draco’s earring buzzed in mild warning, so he was able to hunch slightly and protect his ear before the snowball hit them and splattered all over the outside of the scarf.

“Oi!”  Harry jerked back and glared at George, who was busily packing another snowball into shape.  “What was that for?”

“First strike, mate.  I’d snap to it before the second volley, if I were you.”  George cocked his arm, preparing to throw.

Harry hurriedly ducked low to the ground, pulling Draco down with him, and the second snowball shattered in the air in front of them thanks to Harry’s nonverbal Protego.

“That’s cheating!”  George shouted, then had to duck himself to avoid Harry’s return fire.  Unfortunately, the snowball missed him but caught Bill full in the face, and the tall man growled menacingly before scooping up some snow to create his own missiles.

Things devolved into a frenzy of snow being flung in all directions, without any clear definition of who was against who.  Angelina and Hermione joined in after they’d been caught in a crossfire between Charlie and Bill, who were now down on the ground wrestling to see who could shove the most snow down the back of the other’s jumper. 

It was a free for all, the children and grandparents wisely staying well out of it.  Ginny proved to have deadly accuracy with lobbed projectiles, which spoke to her skill as a Chaser, and she used Astoria as a squealing human shield in order to get close enough to smash a handful of snow down on top of Percy’s head.

Draco didn’t quite know what to make of it, or what to do, since he didn’t feel sure enough of his position here to dare attacking any of the Weasleys even with something as benign as snow.  So he contented himself with making snowballs and handing them off to Harry, who gleefully pelted them at anyone within range.

It was Molly who ultimately called a halt to it, stepping calmly into the artificial blizzard with admirable confidence that none of her children would dare hit her with a snowball.  She proved to be right, as George had to do some hasty spell work to redirect the one he’d just thrown to hit Ron instead.

“That’s enough,” she declared, hands on her hips.  “Look at the state of you all, it’s as though someone fed you all a Reverse Aging Potion by mistake.  Come inside, I’ve got tea, hot chocolate and biscuits waiting.”

Those seemed to be the magic words, as the children abandoned the kicksleds and trooped inside, with their parents, aunts and uncles following once they’d brushed themselves off well enough to keep from tracking too much snow into Molly’s domain.  Harry slung an arm over Draco’s shoulders, still chuckling slightly breathlessly, and escorted Draco to one of the armchairs in the sitting room while he went to fetch some hot drinks and biscuits for them.

The shift in the energy of the gathering was palpable, as everyone found comfortable places to rest up.  A few of the Weasley brothers had worked up enough of an appetite to raid the kitchen for leftovers, but most of the children flopped down to the floor, halfheartedly resuming their previous game with the figures from the chess sets while fighting droopy eyes. 

Draco was feeling a little spent himself, even though he’d taken a dose of Astoria’s disgusting potion before coming to the Burrow.  He let his head fall against the back of the armchair, shifting slightly so that he was resting more fully on his hip and side, instead of sitting properly in the chair the way his mother would have expected of him – especially as a guest.  But he let his eyes fall most of the way shut anyway, slowing his breathing and trying to stay awake.

When he felt a blanket (knitted, of course) being draped over him, he roused enough so that he could thank Harry – only to see that it was Molly standing there, looking kindly down at him.

“Er, thank you,” he said quietly, feeling suddenly more awake.  “And…thank you for the scarf.”

“You’re welcome…Draco,” Molly said hesitantly, as though unsure how to address him.  She gestured at the ottoman which was close by.  “May I sit?”

“It’s your home, of course you can,” he said, starting to sit up.  “Please take the chair, I can –”

“That’s all right, Draco.  I remember what it’s like to be expecting.”  Molly situated herself on the ottoman as Draco froze, anxiety trickling like ice through his veins.  She saw his expression and gave a slight shake of her head.  “No one else knows, and I promise you that Ron didn’t mean to let it slip.”

“I –”  Draco wasn’t sure what to say.

“He talks to me when there’s anything bothering him,” Molly said, a fond smile crossing her face.  “He never used to, not until he decided to stay home to raise his children.  I think it’s helpful for him to at least be able to have someone to listen to him ramble on, I can’t imagine what I might tell him that’s useful, when it comes to things outside of cooking or parenting.”

“A great deal, I would imagine,” Draco said, meaning it quite sincerely.  Molly was the lynchpin of the family, and had managed to bring up seven children with limited resources.  He doubted anyone could do that without gaining decades of wisdom.

“I think of Harry as one of my own, you know.”  Molly straightened the sleeve of her cardigan, picking off a pill of fluff and Vanishing it with a quiet snap of her fingers.  “And all I’ve wanted for him, seeing him grow up all these years, is to be happy.  He loves the children, and they love him just as much.  I can’t think of anyone who would be a better father.”

“Nor can I,” Draco rasped, fighting the sudden, absurd welling of emotion inside.

Molly nodded.  “Ron, bless him, is prone to saying things that he ought not to, but usually it’s because he cares so much that his mouth runs away with him, poor lad.”

Draco huffed slightly.  Poor lad indeed.

“So I think that it should be said, in case there was ever a worry, that when it comes to Harry, we will always be here for him.  He’d do the same for us.  He has done.  He’s a good man.”

“Yes,” Draco agreed.

Molly regarded him for a moment, taking in his disheveled and slightly tired appearance.  “My brother Fabian was carrying when he was killed,” she said quietly.  “It wasn’t as talked about during those days, of course, when a man was inclined toward other men, or women likewise.  But he fell in love with Stephen Macmillan, you see, and Stephen loved him, too.  They wanted to start a family together, in spite of all that was going on at the time.  I was a bit too young to understand, and my own parents a bit too old to really approve.  But he told me and Gideon, my other brother.”

Draco didn’t want to ask.  He felt he already knew what happened, given the way Molly was talking about them.

“The Death Eaters killed Stephen first, caught him when he was heading back to Scotland after coming down for a meeting of the Order and to visit Fabian.  Fabian was too late to stop it, and Gideon was too late to stop Fabian from trying.  They both died that day, and Fabian’s child with him.”

“I’m –”  Draco swallowed, trying to clear the lump in his throat.  “I’m sorry.  So sorry for your loss.”

“We can’t change the past, duck.  But neither should we let the past keep us from trying for a better future.”  Molly patted his knee. 

Across the room, Harry was watching them, holding steaming mugs in each hand, a plate of biscuits precariously wedged between his wrist and the crook of his elbow.  When Draco met his gaze, Harry lifted his eyebrows, as though to ask if everything was all right.

Draco gave him a slight nod in response.  Because it was.

Chapter 29

There was something fairly macabre about scavenging the Manor for Christmas presents, Draco mused.  Technically, he was stealing from the Ministry, as he was lord of the Manor in function only, not in law.  And yet he could not bring himself to even slightly care.  Perhaps if they’d taken proper stewardship of the estate instead of merely the Malfoy fortune, the ley line would never have sickened.  As it was, Draco was choosing to think of this minor reclamation of a few personal items as a form of hazard pay, and sod the Ministry.

Besides, he wasn’t about to attempt a trip to Diagon Alley or somewhere similar.  He had absolutely no interest in any other unexpected encounters with people from his past.  On some level he recognized that as an avoidant tactic with a short period of efficacy, as sooner or later what was between himself and Harry would garner wider attention than just a few people within their own circles.  And assuming all went well, there would also be a child soon entering the world, and Draco had already vowed to himself that he would not allow said child to lose out on any social experiences or benefits just because they were unlucky enough to have him as a father.

He was keeping his scavenging to the family bedrooms only, however, as he was not a complete fucking idiot.  The Manor did not seem settled after the damage to the gates and doors, even now that the Dark Lord’s Pensieve had been removed and destroyed.  But Pipsy had been correct when she said that the strongest protective enchantments had been laid around where the family might be most vulnerable, and the service passage from the kitchen allowed for safe access.

Not that Harry would see it that way, of course, but as far as Harry knew, Draco was visiting the ravens again, as he strived to do as often as he could.  It was reassuring to be able to move around more independently.  He didn’t feel quite so constricted, as he had when he was wearing the anti-Apparition cuff.

The bedrooms held nothing more hazardous than memories, though those could be troubling enough.  Draco picked through his own room first, feeling like an intruder in the space in which he’d grown up.  It was almost like standing in the room of a stranger, so much had changed since he’d last set foot in this chamber.  But it was almost exactly as he remembered it.  The house elves had re-made the bed and tidied up from his frantic few minutes of packing before he returned to Hogwarts for the remainder of his disastrous seventh year and left his childhood home for the last time.  It wasn’t home any longer.  He didn’t belong here, didn’t want to be here. 

But surely not everything from their old lives needed to be completely discarded.  Which was why he was tucking a battered copy of The Tales of Beedle the Bard into his satchel, the one he’d insisted on leaving at home before he boarded the Hogwarts Express for the first time because, at the ripe old age of eleven years, he’d outgrown it.  But it had remained on the bookcase in his bedroom regardless, even after the prelude to the second war had aged him far beyond his youth. 

Perhaps he could give the book to his own child, Draco thought wistfully as he collected the only other item he intended to keep from what remained of a life that hardly even seemed real to him now.  He wasn’t foolish enough to think that he wasn’t that person any more, because that would be a lie.  But he was different.

He didn’t linger inside the master bedchamber that his parents had shared.  He’d already thought ahead regarding what things he would take if he could find them, and wasted no time collecting them from the top of the credenza, vanity, and from the lowest drawer of the grand wardrobe which held an assortment of accessories which weren’t easily categorized with any other items of his parents’ clothing.  Expensive and carelessly thrown into a drawer to be forgotten, worn maybe a handful of times if they didn’t sufficiently please to make it into more regular rotation.

Ministry meetings.  Dinner parties.  Society gatherings.  Perfect dress and perfect manners, speaking delicate bigotries to like-minded peers and offering theoretical solutions – deals, agreements, informal commitments – that would further the agenda of those sympathetic to Voldemort’s cause.  Polite and plausibly deniable, at least until alcohol had worn away the stiff caution of the guests, and they felt safe enough to let their true colors show. 

And his parents had been the exquisitely glimmering jewels at the center of it all, their wealth and poise offering both reassurance and temptation to anyone not fully committed.  Both Lucius and Narcissa had been beautiful, it was true.  They were a matching set in looks and ambition, but it was their obvious and unapologetic devotion to each other that emphasized their charismatic image as one of the most powerful couples in this corner of the wizarding world. 

It felt like another lifetime.  And it was time to leave it behind.

Draco quietly retreated, closing the service door to the room behind him.  He hesitated for a moment, but then pressed his right hand against the door and whispered “Colloportus.”

A golden flash accompanied the click of the latch.  And he wasn’t sure why he did it, except that it felt like he needed to do something to preserve the memory of what had been mostly good about how fiercely his parents loved each other.  He had no idea of the Ministry’s plans for the Manor after they decided to call an end to this contract, and he had been firmly shoving back any unease he felt about the moment when he would try to remove the lord’s ring from his finger, if it would even be possible. 

It was likely that some Ministry department would assign its employees to comb through the Manor once it was safe enough, to rummage around for anything of value before discarding or destroying the rest.  This little piece of it would no doubt be subject to the same, the artefacts of his parents’ committed, loving, and flawed marriage picked apart by strangers who would be indifferent and careless at best.

But it felt like the right thing to do, so he adjusted his hold on the items that he’d taken and made his way back down the narrow stairs to the kitchen, where he spent some time carefully packing everything away in his satchel. 

Grito landed on his shoulder almost as soon as he stepped outside, giving a warning squawk before settling on his right side.  Draco wasn’t sure if the bird preferred that shoulder because he liked to nibble on his earring, but Grito had learned quickly that Draco might shy away from an unexpected touch on that side.  All of the ravens were clever, but Grito’s natural intelligence was undeniable.

Draco reached up to stroke the bird’s feathers, heading in the direction of his tent.  “Don’t you dare shit on my jumper again, you menace.” 

It wasn’t as though it were difficult to magic away any mess, but Draco could do without a repeat of the experience.  Grito only warbled in reply, the vocalization sounding suspiciously like a chuckle.  Cheeky thing.

The reliable old tent had been neglected since the night of the robbery, but Draco had taken to renewing the wards around it every time he visited the ravens.  He wasn’t sure why he hadn’t just taken the tent down, except that it felt wrong to do so.  It was a symbol of his residence on the estate, and he couldn’t shake the notion that any control the ring might give him over it was contingent upon that, at least in part.  It couldn’t all be down to the blood.

The air inside the tent was cool and slightly stale, but Draco’s possessions were undisturbed.  He felt a strange pang of homesickness.  He hadn’t taken any of his blankets or textiles with him to Grimmauld Place – and why should he?  That wasn’t his home any more than the Manor was, and while he didn’t think Harry would mind if he suddenly arrived on the doorstep with everything he owned, they hadn’t discussed it.  Each of them were tiptoeing around the fact that the need to make actual plans was becoming more and more pressing, but every time Draco felt like he might have gathered up the courage necessary to bring it up, he just…hadn’t.

Because Draco Malfoy was a coward.  Always had been, and he apparently always would be.

He flipped open the lid of the old trunk that he used as a coffee table in the small sitting area of the tent, retrieving some items that he thought might make good gifts for Junie and Tao.  Harry had invited him to come along when Harry stopped by Brixton later in the afternoon, and Draco wasn’t about to show up emptyhanded on Christmas.  Besides, the colorful baleros, muñecas, and trompos that he’d picked up here and there would hopefully be different enough to be interesting for the children.

The pond was tranquil when Draco finally exited the tent, Grito gliding down to join him once more.  The edges of the pond were frozen, but it hadn’t yet been cold enough this winter to sustain ice over its entire surface. 

The pond…

The pond.

Grito squawked as Draco suddenly jogged towards the water, trying to mind where he put his feet as he crunched through the snow until he reached the shoreline.  He stared down at the water, feeling his heart start to race as fast as his mind.  This pond was stillwater – it wasn’t fed by any surface waters, nor did any surface waters flow out of it.  That meant that it was likely maintained by the presence of groundwater, the same groundwater which had been contaminated by Voldemort’s Pensieve through the crack in the Chalk. 

So where else did this underground river flow?

A piercing caw right in his ear jostled Draco from his train of thought, and he looked up to see a dark robed figure hovering slightly on the opposite side of the pond, the side which was more wooded.  Draco inhaled sharply and drew his wand, but didn’t cast his Patronus – not yet.

He stood his ground, watching the Dementor and remembering that night, when the Dementors had sensed an opportunity and administered the Kiss to Dollie, consuming and destroying her soul.  That wasn’t going to happen again.  Not today. 

The Dementor’s hood was pointed toward him, its shadowed depths a sharp reminder of the fact that it was full, wintery daylight.  He’d only ever seen them at night before. 

“Expecto patronum!”  Draco’s ermine formed on the ice at the edge of the pond, formed of silver vapor and the memory of sitting in the corner at the Burrow, attempting to share the armchair with Harry, with Harry finally settling for balancing precariously on the arm of the chair, his side pressed up against Draco’s shoulder as they were surrounded by the happy, warm chatter of the family that had chosen to be Harry’s when he needed them most.

The ermine bounced threateningly, skittering towards the Dementor and indifferent to the transition between ice and water – it was all the same to the small protector.  It broke into a full charge halfway across, and nearly reached the opposite shore before the Dementor apparently lost its nerve and fled.  It flared up into the air, not exceeding the height of the tree tops, and retreated rapidly back into the depths of the woods.

Draco gazed after it for a moment, feeling the gears of his mind turn.  Then he reached into his pocket for another peanut, holding it up for Grito to take from his flat palm.  The raven protested a little when he then shook his shoulder, encouraging Grito to take flight.  But he obligingly flapped away, leaving Draco with the necessary space to safely turn right on the spot, and Apparate away.

~ * ~

“You is almost being late, Draco Malfoy, sir,” Pipsy said, a slight note of disapproval in her high, piping voice as she met him in the entry way of Grimmauld Place.  “The luncheon is already set out, and Mistress Narcissa is insisting that everything must wait until you is here.”

“I’m here now,” Draco said, looking down at her with a small smile.  “I don’t suppose that you’d be interested in wrapping up some gifts for me, would you, Pipsy?”

Pipsy looked absolutely delighted by the request, a huge, beaming smile taking up most of her face.  “Of course, sir!  Pipsy was so pleased with those recipes Draco Malfoy is giving from travels abroad, even Kreacher is tasting them and calling them good enough for a Black family Christmas luncheon.”

“Such a relief,” Draco said dryly, removing some select items from his satchel and handing them to her one by one.  The elf glanced curiously at a few of the assorted objects in her arms, then back up at Draco, her violet eyes brimming with tears.

“Pipsy is thinking these will be very good presents, Draco Malfoy.”  And with that, Pipsy Disapparated with a crack of air.

Taking a moment to duck into the washroom to double check the back of his jumper, ensuring that he did not, in fact, have any evidence of Grito’s affinity for perching on his shoulder, Draco washed his hands and made his way into the dining room.  The table had indeed been laid with food, and the smell of the roast and assorted side dishes induced his stomach to growl loudly. 

“Just in time,” Narcissa said, a raised eyebrow the only indication of her amusement.  She was busily adjusting and then re-adjusting the placement of the silverware.  Pipsy and Kreacher had done immaculate work as always, so Draco knew that it was a sign of her nerves – even though anyone else would never know it from just looking at her customary cool expression.

“Mother,” Draco greeted her, gently taking her hands and raising them up so that he could place a light kiss on her knuckles.  “It’s going to be fine.  Teddy did say they were coming, even knowing that Andromeda will be here.”

“I know,” Narcissa murmured, withdrawing her hands from his and patting his cheek affectionately.  “But I regret being the wedge between them.”

“I don’t think you can truthfully take full credit for that,” Draco said.  “Teddy is taking steps to becoming more of their own person.  Some distance was inevitable, even if the focus of the argument wasn’t.  I think…Andromeda would always have had trouble letting go.”

“You don’t know it yet,” Narcissa said, meeting his gaze with fond understanding.  “But it’s very difficult for parents to let go of their children – or grandchildren, in Teddy’s case.  And I would say that none of us ever let go completely.”

Draco cleared his throat uncomfortably, fighting back the overwhelming implications of his own impending parenthood.  His mother took pity on him, opting not to continue the conversation in light of his obvious discomfort with the topic.

Fortunately, distraction came in the form of a commotion coming from the drawing room, Harry’s and Teddy’s voices greeting Kreacher and discussing the British-Irish League’s coming Boxing Day match between the Montrose Magpies and the Holyhead Harpies.  Draco perked up slightly, hearing that.  In spite of attending the match between the Cannons and the Harpies back in September, he had not been keeping up with the League at all.  It would be something to watch the Magpies play again, even if he had no idea who was currently playing for the team.  He likely wouldn’t have even heard of many of them.

“Who do you fancy for the Championship then, Teddy?”  Harry was asking, as they came into the dining room.

Teddy shrugged, fiddling with the ends of their scarf nervously.  Their blue hair was short today, styled in a ‘hawk combed toward the forehead.  “I think that Pudd United has got a decent shot at going higher in the rankings than they’ve ever done, and the Kestrels are motivated to keep the title of League Champions and that shows in their game.”

“Don’t let Ginny hear you say that, she’s still hacked off that they pulled that win out from under her back in August,” Harry laughed.  His gaze fell on Draco, his face lighting up in a way he wasn’t even trying to hide. 

“Teddy, it’s wonderful to see you,” Narcissa said warmly, enduring Teddy’s enthusiastic embrace for a moment before patting their back.  “I’ll go wait for your grandmother in the drawing room, she should be here soon.  Please, be seated.  We’re informal today.”

Teddy shot an incredulous look at the special occasion china that had been laid out on the table.  “Informal?”

“Compared to some of the dinner parties that my mother has thrown, this is practically a picnic,” Draco drawled.

Narcissa shot him a glare.  “There’s nothing wrong with preserving the tradition of proper etiquette.  Though I admit a more relaxed atmosphere can be quite pleasant.”

“I’m not sure I want to know how much more formal it can get than eating in the dining room,” Harry admitted in a low voice as Narcissa made her way to the drawing room.  “I mostly eat in the kitchen with Pipsy and Kreacher when I’m here.”

“You have no idea,” Draco murmured, matching Harry’s volume.  A sudden flash of memory took him back to the opulent dining room of the Manor, the interminable dinner parties that were first and foremost about impressing and often intimidating the guests, which meant that Draco himself had to exhibit flawless manners and largely keep his thoughts to himself.  He was to observe and learn, and then report to his father after the parties were over, as Lucius was determined that his son would become just as expert a manipulator as he was.

Soft voices just outside the dining room preceded the appearance of Narcissa and Andromeda, the Black sisters with their heads together and arm in arm.  In spite of Narcissa’s hair being mostly white these days, and much longer than her sister’s, there was significant resemblance between them in the shape of their eyes and mouths. 

Andromeda stopped talking abruptly when she saw Teddy, her mouth curving upward in a tentative smile.

“Hello, Gran,” Teddy said stiffly, knotting their hands in their black and yellow scarf.

“Hello, Teddy,” Andromeda said, and she raised a hand almost unthinkingly, reaching out for her grandchild.

Teddy’s lower lip trembled and they all but fell into Andromeda’s arms, squeezing her tightly and burying their face in her shoulder even as they had to bend to do it.

“I’m so sorry, love,” Andromeda whispered, and Teddy’s shoulders shook in a silent sob.

Harry and Draco hastily sat down at the table, facing the sideboard in order to give them a moment.  Draco heard a scraping thump and realized that Harry had moved his chair closer, so that they were almost brushing elbows in spite of the care that Narcissa and the house elves had taken in setting every place just so.  He said nothing, and his mother didn’t either, though it was clear that she hadn’t missed the slight rearrangement.

The meal began without fanfare, with Teddy and Andromeda not saying much while Narcissa engaged Harry in a conversation about his recent curse breaking activities on the Continent, which gave her an opportunity to reminisce about her time in France. 

Draco was obliged to share a little about his time in the Americas, especially when Pipsy proudly brought out the dessert course – five individual servings of traditional flan and slices of tres leches cake.  Narcissa prodded the flan a little dubiously but nevertheless lifted a spoonful to her mouth, humming in surprised delight when she tasted it. 

Harry was not quite so subtle about how much he enjoyed it, letting out a moan that made Draco’s cheeks heat and cleaning his dessert plate in such a short span of time that it was surely some kind of personal record. 

“They make that in Mexico?”  He asked Draco, his eyes straying to the half-eaten flan that Draco had paused in eating.

“They do,” Draco said, pressing his lips together to keep from laughing.  He nudged his plate over to Harry, knowing that Pipsy likely had back-up custards ready to bring out from the kitchen.  The elf had been overjoyed to have new recipes to try.  Harry hesitated only for a moment before finishing that off as well, unable to suppress his sweet tooth for the sake of politeness.

“Er, I have something for everyone,” Teddy said, sounding unusually timid.  “Sorry it’s not more, but with…with moving to the flat I’m trying to be better with my money.”  They got up and started pulling small blue packages out of the pockets of their cardigan, each of them topped with a shiny red bow.  They passed them around, smiling when Harry thanked them warmly.

The packages were Chocolate Frogs, the seasonal chocolate and toffee flavor, and Draco pulled the string to pop open the small pentagonal box eagerly.  It had been years since he’d had a Chocolate Frog, and he was quick to snatch it as it tried to hop across the table.  It stilled into normal chocolate as soon as he got his hand around it, and he ate it in a few bites while lifting up the bottom layer of the packaging to see which card had been included.

He snorted aloud when he saw Harry’s face blinking back at him in a slightly bewildered manner, and he flipped it around to read the description on the back.

Also known as The Boy Who Lived, Potter is best known for his heroic actions during the second wizarding war and the permanent vanquishing of the Dark Lord.  Awarded the Order of Merlin, First Class during his career as an Auror, Potter is also an accomplished curse breaker and an avid Quidditch fan.

“What are you – no,” Harry groaned, moving to take the card from him.  Draco held it out of his reach, pushing Harry’s hand down on the table.

“I’m keeping this, thank you very much,” Draco said firmly.  “How else am I to tell my Famous Witches or Wizards apart?  Order of Merlin, First Class, really?”

Harry’s face shuttered slightly, and all at once Draco regretted teasing.  He switched from pressing Harry’s hand flat to lacing their fingers loosely together, his thumb brushing lightly over Harry’s warm brown skin. 

“I want to keep it,” Draco said softly.  “Might start my collection over.”

After studying Draco for a moment, Harry’s lips twitched, and then he broke into a grin.  “Fine.  I’ll even let you have mine, since I’ve got this one already.”  He passed Draco the card from his own Chocolate Frog, which depicted Miranda Goshawk.

“Thank you.”  Draco hesitated for a moment, a last minute doubt intruding on what had seemed like a good idea earlier in the morning while he was at the Manor.  “I…also have some gifts for everyone.”

As if she had been waiting for this moment, Pipsy suddenly appeared just behind his chair, her arms full of beautifully wrapped presents.  They were different enough in size and shape that Draco could easily tell which parcel he intended for each person present, and he thanked the house elf quietly before distributing them.

Harry was giving him a slightly suspicious look, no doubt wondering when Draco might have had time to acquire anything to give as a gift for Christmas.  But he accepted the thin cylindrical package, which was tied off at both ends with shiny curled ribbon.  He tore into the red paper patterned with Golden Snitches to find an old, slightly tattered tapestry rolled around a straight wooden hanger.  He carefully unfurled it, revealing a round shield on a wine red field, supported by a silver unicorn on one side and a golden hippogriff on the other.  On the shield was a wand tipped with a seven-pointed star, and a stylized banner at the bottom of the shield bore the words Potentia ex honore.

“What is this?”  Harry asked in a hushed tone, his fingers tracing over the weave outlining the unicorn.

“The Potters are an old family,” Narcissa said quietly.  “And they were wise enough to use their fortune for the betterment of each generation instead of putting it all into maintaining an aristocratic face for the rest of the wizarding world.  Plenty of the families in the Sacred Twenty-Eight maintained a proud front but were nearly destitute in secret, you see, but the Potters were willing to part with holdings and heirlooms if it meant taking care of their living family members.  And of course, after the end of the first war, anything related to the Potters became greatly sought after items for collectors.  And you know that my husband was such a collector.”

“This is the Potter family crest, which my father managed to obtain at some point,” Draco said, not mentioning that it had been hanging in his own bedroom.  At first it was because, as a child, he had been fascinated by the story of The Boy Who Lived, in spite of where his father’s loyalties lay.  And after meeting Harry properly at school and falling into a rivalry, he’d told himself that keeping the tapestry was just another way to stick it to Potter.  “I thought you should have it.”

“It’s amazing,” Harry said thickly, unable to tear his eyes away from it.  “Thank you.”

“Yes, thank you,” Andromeda said.  She had unwrapped the tiny box that held her own gift, and was now turning the silver ring which had been inside over and over with her fingers.  It was stylized to look like a vine with blunt thorns for the band, topped with an open rose with a small red jewel nestled at the center.  “This belonged to our mother.”

Draco glanced briefly at Narcissa, gauging her reaction to his decision to gift something that had been passed down to her by default to Andromeda.  There was a wet shine to her blue eyes, but no recrimination when she noticed him looking and gave him a small smile.  Druella Black, nee Rosier, had at least been wise enough to pass down her jewelry to Narcissa, as Bellatrix would surely have carelessly lost it or given it up to Voldemort’s cause, and Andromeda had at that point been estranged for years. 

There was a deep furrow between Andromeda’s brows as she examined the ring, as though she were struggling with a lifetime’s worth of complicated emotions around its origins.  But eventually, she slipped it on to the middle finger of her right hand, where it seemed to be a perfect fit.

Teddy was already opening their gift, which was in a slightly larger box than the one which had held the ring.  Their expression turned puzzled as they tipped it over into their hand, examining the device in their palm.

“It looks like a pocket watch, but…”  Teddy looked up in confusion.  “There’s no numbers on the face, just – phases of the moon?  And just one hand.”

Andromeda let out a small gasp and looked at Narcissa, who appeared to be as surprised as Teddy was.  “Is that what I think it is?”

“I believe so,” Narcissa murmured, looking at Draco.  “I’d quite forgotten it existed, to be honest.”

“But what is it?”  Teddy asked, holding it up so that Harry, who was leaning over the table, could get a better look.

It did look like a pocket watch, in an ornate silver casing with a celestial design engraved on the back and the edges.  The dark blue face displayed a ring of the lunar phase, as Teddy had mentioned, and pinned at the center was a balanced arrow that shone bright gold against the background.

“It’s a Fortune Timer,” Andromeda explained.  “They’re extremely rare, only one artisan ever made them and she died…it had to have been a hundred years ago.  This used to belong to Marius Black, our great uncle.  It…it was taken away from him before he was expelled from the family for not having any magic of his own.”

“He was a Squib?”  Teddy asked, their honey brown eyes widening in horror at the idea of anyone being cast out from their family.

“He was,” Narcissa said, a note of regret in her voice.  “This device is more like a compass than a watch.  The arrow is coated with a drop of Felix Felices potion, you see, and it will be drawn to the phases of the moon during which you are most likely to be able to expect good fortune.”

“Really?”  Teddy looked awed. 

“My husband carried it for a while and declared it to be unreliable,” Narcissa said, her lips quirked in slight amusement.  “But it’s not meant to be a guarantee of anything, and the person who carries it must be open and able to recognize fortune when they see it.”

Teddy looked down at the Fortune Timer, frowning slightly while they thought that through.  Then their face broke into a beaming smile and they rushed around the table to hug Draco around the shoulders.  “Thank you so much, Draco!”

“You’re quite welcome, Teddy,” Draco said, patting their arm in a slightly awkward fashion.

“Aunt Cissy, what did you get?”  Teddy asked, as though they were one of their younger cousins eager to see what other toys might be revealed once all the presents have been opened.

“Let’s see, shall we?”  Narcissa said, raising an eyebrow before meticulously unfolding the white wrapping paper with a pattern of blue snowflakes on it, taking care not to tear any of it.  She removed the paper, uncovering a heavy silver frame.

And then she did something that Draco had only witnessed a few times in his life.

She cried, pressing a hand against her mouth and closing her eyes around tears that slid freely down her cheeks.  Andromeda instantly got to her feet and crossed over to her sister, putting an arm around her and murmuring something soothing.

On the table was the silver-framed photograph that had been sitting on his mother’s vanity in the master bedchamber at the Manor.  It showed a young Narcissa, with much more brunette than white blonde in her two-toned hair.  She was laughing, gazing adoringly up at an equally young Lucius, who looked nothing like even the portrait that was now hanging in the study.  This Lucius was bright and carefree, holding nothing back as he swung his newly married wife into his arms and kissed her.  A few petals from the blossoming fruit trees in the background drifted down around them.

Draco felt his own eyes stinging sympathetically.  He ought to have given his mother’s wedding photograph to her in private, spared her the embarrassment of displaying such strong emotion in front of others. 

But Narcissa stretched out her free hand towards him, and he took it, feeling her deceptively strong fingers squeeze his own in a tight grip.  She shook her head, trying to convey the gratitude that she wasn’t yet able to voice.

He felt Harry’s arm slide around his waist, felt Harry’s lips on his cheek which drew out a blush even though every person here knew that he and Harry were more or less together now. 

“We’ll talk about where you got all of this later,” Harry whispered, his breath tickling Draco’s ear.  “But thank you.”

~ * ~

Draco’s back hit the bed and he bounced slightly, hemmed in by the way Harry’s forearms bracketed him.  He barely had a moment to catch his breath before Harry’s mouth was on his, and he yielded, opening far enough to allow the invasion of Harry’s tongue in an overwhelming kiss that had him squeezing his eyes shut even as he tore at Harry’s anorak, shoving it off his shoulders.

They’d just come back from Brixton, visiting Dee, Xiumei, and the children and dropping off gifts.  Draco had been correct about Tao and Junie’s enthusiasm for things that were foreign and new, as Junie exclaimed over how beautiful the ribboned dolls were and Tao brandished one of the baleros like a deadly weapon while cackling with delight, not quite understanding that the point of the game was to swing the barrel onto the stick to which it was attached.  Dee had relieved him of it when there was a near miss involving the brightly colored wooden barrel coming too close to Junie’s head, but Tao seemed equally happy holding a trompo in each hand and banging them on the floor.

It had started out as a very pleasant visit, with light conversation amid the joyous noise that the children were making.  Dee had been very expressive with his eyebrows at one point when Harry had placed his hand on Draco’s knee, and Draco had given him a little shrug in response.  Dee grinned broadly at that, and there was the familial resemblance between the big man and Harry.  Not necessarily the same features, but they wielded them in strikingly similar ways – near identical expressions.

The pleasantness had turned into an exercise in restraint when Draco, sitting comfortably on the sofa with a sleeping Tao draped over his chest, met Harry’s gaze across the room.  The heat in those green eyes was unmistakable, and Draco wasn’t quite sure what had sparked it but he couldn’t help his own body’s response.  They’d made their goodbyes, and Harry had taken him Side-Along back to Grimmauld Place, bypassing the entry way and depositing them both in Harry’s bedroom.

Which is how Draco found himself panting, the fingers of one hand tangled in Harry’s thick black hair as he determinedly kissed, nipped, and licked his way across every mark on Draco’s chest.  Harry tasted his scars, apology and passion pressed into every touch of his lips and tongue, one strong hand gripping Draco’s hip to keep him firmly in place while he lavished his attention.

Harry was immovable, tangling the fingers of his other hand with Draco’s and drawing it up over his head, pinning it to the sheets, allowing his body weight to keep Draco’s legs in place and leaving him with no option but to just take whatever Harry was moved to give him.  It was a shamefully long time before Draco’s pleasure-addled mind connected Harry’s attention to more neglected areas with the noises that he was allowing Harry to pull from him.  Draco had never been especially vocal during sex, and the idea of letting himself go in that way was strange and a bit unsettling.

But Harry seemed to thrive on his moans, on the tiny gasps that he let out when Harry shifted lower on the bed and started to finger him.  And surely the room was soundproofed enough that he wouldn’t disturb any other members of the household.  So he let Harry know when his fingers brushed that particularly sensitive spot, and then growled in frustration when Harry’s other hand closed around his cock, staving off his orgasm for the moment.

“I want to feel you come on my cock,” Harry said, and Draco felt him smile against the skin of his abdomen, the stubble scraping in a way that raised gooseflesh.

“Get on with it then,” Draco demanded, glaring down at him.

Harry pretended to consider it for a moment before wrapping his arms around Draco’s legs and yanking him further down the bed, until his arse was practically in Harry’s lap.  Harry positioned himself and fucked into him, his extensive prep and the lubricating potion making it so that his thick cock slid easily inside.

There was nothing for Draco to do but to grasp Harry’s wrists tightly, holding on as Harry pistoned in and out of him.  He didn’t have the breath for noises now, just small, choked-off grunts.  He did his best to lock his ankles around the small of Harry’s back, moving in time with him to prolong the pleasure for both of them.

And then Harry’s hand was on him, stroking his cock in time with his thrusts, and Draco’s orgasm crashed over and around him, feeling the swells and falls of his magical energy as it matched Harry’s.  He could feel Harry stiffen and thrust hard, hips stuttering as he found his own release.  He dropped to his elbows again, hovering over Draco and kissing every part of him he could reach in between his gasps for breath.

Things were a bit hazy for a moment or two.  Draco felt Harry’s weight leave the bed while he drifted.  He vaguely registered the sound of water running but didn’t understand its significance until Harry insistently bullied him out of bed, supporting him with an arm around his waist while they shuffled into the en suite.

Draco let out a heartfelt groan at the sight of steam rising from the half-filled clawfoot tub, and he managed not to make a complete fool of himself as he almost scrambled over the side to sink into hot water.  He held himself up long enough for Harry to climb in behind him, then leaned back against Harry’s chest, feeling the wiry hair prickle against his back.

Harry’s hands smoothed over Draco’s skin without any particular purpose, just touching, mapping, committing it to memory as they both relaxed.  Draco was nearly dozing off when he felt the rumble of Harry’s voice in his chest.

“Sorry, what?”  Draco yawned, letting one of his hands fall to Harry’s thick thigh.  His fingers explored the muscle and tendons there while Harry repeated himself.

“I said, thank you again for today.”  There was a hint of a chuckle in his voice, but his meaning was sincere.  “I can’t say I’m happy that you were poking about inside the Manor by yourself.  But I never thought…  I’m going to ask Pipsy to hang the tapestry up.  Hopefully Kreacher won’t be too miffed about it, having another family’s crest displayed on the wall.”

“There have been marriages between the Potters and the Blacks before, you’ll see it if you look closer at that family tree,” Draco murmured, shivering slightly as Harry’s hands slid under his arms and down his chest to settle on his belly.  It wasn’t too noticeable yet, but it was definitely not the same as it had been before.  There was a softness now that caused the flesh there to pooch out slightly in a way that gave Draco mixed feelings when he was willing to notice it.

“That thing is full of more holes than the practice targets on the Auror training floor,” Harry grumbled, but Draco felt Harry’s lips press into the skin on the back of his neck.

Draco was silent for a moment, unwilling to compromise the peace that they’d achieved but also feeling as though it was time to at least ask.  “Why did you leave the Aurors, Harry?”

Harry inhaled sharply, his legs and arms tensing around Draco.  Draco held his breath for a moment, not remotely concerned about what Harry might do, but wanting to give him the space to decide.  And it was a long time before Harry finally spoke, a silence of at least quarter of an hour before Harry sighed, relaxing his body once more – though not to the degree it was before Draco’s question.

“I orphaned a kid,” Harry said, in a flat, neutral tone, as though giving a verbal report or testifying in front of the Wizengamot.

Draco said nothing, even though his heart hurt for him, knew how much emotion Harry must be holding back.

“It was a planned action gone wrong,” Harry continued.  “I wasn’t in charge of it, it hadn’t started out as my case.  It wasn’t even about anything that was particularly bad, I’d seen a lot during my time as an Auror already.  There’s a healthy underground market for potions ingredients that are so regulated that buying them from legitimate suppliers puts them well outside the reach of most witches and wizards.  But Pearce had been dogging the case for months, and had a grudge against the witch who was suspected of managing the storage and shipping of the entire operation.  We conducted a raid on the house, and it was…it was a fucking mess.  Pearce had a couple of trainees that he wasn’t watching, and one of them got tangled up in the Devil’s Snare that the witch had guarding the exterior door to the cellar.  The other panicked and started cursing everything in sight, including another Auror who returned fire.”

Harry paused and drew a shuddering breath.  “When I got in the middle of it to try to sort it all out, the trainee in the Snare had already died, and the fire that I’d conjured to try to get it to release him had caught on the house.  By that time the other half of the team had already breached the house, it was absolute chaos going on in there.  And then I heard the screaming.”

Draco swallowed and pulled Harry’s arms more tightly around him, and Harry gave him a squeeze.

“No one had known about the witch’s kid, who was in her bedroom hiding in the closet.  And the witch and I were the only ones trying to get to her, except that the kid had accidentally magically locked the door from the inside and I didn’t want to try blasting my way in.  I was focused on the door and Pearce and his partner were coming up the stairs.  The witch bolted for them, I think she was going to beg them for help, and they killed her.”  Harry panted out something that was almost a sob.  “The fire had almost consumed the entire bedroom by the time I got the door open, and I grabbed the kid and ran with her, Apparating to St. Mungo’s as soon as I was clear.  They gave me fucking a medal for that.”

“And what happened to Pearce?”  Draco asked quietly, already having some sense of the answer.

“Nothing.  Not even a reprimand for shoddy planning, or for getting a trainee killed.  He died last year, finally.  Got on the wrong side of someone who was brewing poisons.  Went faster than he deserved.”

“The child?”

“She came from a big family, fortunately.  Settled with her grandparents, who lived close to their other children and grandchildren.  It’s a good place with good people, I made sure of it before she was placed.  I still send them money every month.”

Of course he did.  Draco closed his eyes, willing the lump in his throat to subside.  “And Hermione, Ron, Shacklebolt…  They don’t know this?”

A pause.  “They do,” Harry said, cautiously.

“Tell me the part they don’t know.”

Harry let out a mirthless chuckle, but didn’t say anything at first. 

“I get…so angry sometimes,” Harry whispered.  “And there’s a little part of me, that afterward wanted to fix things.  To fix Pearce.  To make things how I thought they should be.  And I could do it, I could do it so easily, I…  But isn’t that how he felt, too?  That’s what I wonder.  If this impulse to use what I have to just force things into their proper place comes from…from him.  Maybe…maybe I came back wrong, when I had the stone.  Maybe part of him is still there, inside me.  And if that’s the case, then…I can’t let it have that kind of power.  I just can’t.”

Draco sat up, twisting his spine so that he could face Harry properly.  “I don’t believe that,” he said fiercely, lifting Harry’s chin so that he could stare directly into those troubled green eyes.

“I’m better off not chancing it,” Harry said, his lips trembling into a sickly smile.  “But now, I worry…  What if I feel that way as a father?  What if –”

“Listen to me, Harry,” Draco said firmly.  “Not a single person who knows you doubts that you will be a fantastic father.  Including me.  And if you get worried, we’ll manage it, or find help to manage it.  All right?  You don’t have to handle it alone.  Not anymore.”

Harry’s eyes searched his face, and he must have found what he was looking for, because he leaned forward, curling his hand around the back of Draco’s head, and drew him in for another kiss.

Chapter 30

“Yer bum’s oot the windae, ye dafty!  Tha’s flint, nae magnesium.  Ye’ve got the wrong fork, no wonder the readin’s aw fankled.”

“Keep yer heid, ye weapon!  Jus’ give us the righ’ one, then, instead o’ haverin’ on!”

Draco watched in slightly awed fascination as the two goblin women squabbled over the proper setup of their equipment, desperately hoping that he was not going to be expected to keep up with their conversation. 

They were lucky to get a break in the series of snow storms that had passed through Wiltshire.  Not unusual for January, but it did mean that any outdoor work that needed to be done at the estate was made that much more difficult – along with the fact that he’d had to apply to the Goblin Council for specialized help, through the Senior Undersecretary.  They had taken their time considering the request for assistance in tracing the flow of the groundwater that had been contaminated – and rightfully so, given that the Manor was the location of a massacre of goblins.  Draco had actually been surprised to get an affirmative answer, even after he had urged Omar to mention that the Ministry would be open to negotiating the transfer of any goblin-made treasures from the Manor to the goblins once it was deemed safe enough.  There was certain to be some protest about that, if not from Shacklebolt then likely from the other departments.  But the Ministry was trying to strengthen its ties to the Goblin Council, not antagonize them, so Draco hoped that Shacklebolt would see the wisdom in keeping a promise made without official permission.

Between the back and forth with the Goblin Council and the weather, very little progress had been made at the Manor itself since the holidays.  Draco wasn’t inclined to spend time and effort deactivating traps when he had a strong hunch that there were answers to be found elsewhere on the estate.  And Harry was similarly disinclined, though Draco suspected that his lack of enthusiasm for Manor work had more to do with wanting to keep Draco safe.

Draco wasn’t quite sure what to do about that, since Harry hadn’t been direct with his feelings about Draco doing dangerous work and had thus robbed him of a good opportunity to be righteously cross with him.  He was both pleased and irritated at the idea of being protected, but he recognized the irritation as something akin to what he had felt after losing his eye.  He didn’t want to accept the fact that he needed to adapt to his new circumstances, even though it was the wisest course of action.

But they had the chance to make some headway now, at least, with the help of Gormelia and Grizele Gobha.  Draco had not yet sussed out whether they were sisters or cousins, or married.  Certainly they bickered like either a married couple or two people who had grown up side by side and therefore were unafraid to be somewhat rough in their speech with each other.  And since they had very pronounced accents it was difficult to pick up the right clues.  The accent persisted when they spoke in the language of the goblins – ignorantly and derogatively called Gobbledegook by many European witches and wizards, but which the goblins themselves called Gobannan. 

Though he considered himself to be passingly familiar with Gobannan, he could not make heads or tails of it when Gormelia and Grizele spoke it, and their acquaintance was still new enough that he did not know how receptive they would be to him attempting conversation with them to iron out the differences in pronunciation.  So he contented himself with observing for the moment, and hiding his amusement at the way Ron in particular seemed to be utterly baffled by the two goblin women.  Granted, they had referred to Ron as a ‘skinny malinky longlegs’ within minutes of meeting him, and that was enough to throw anyone off.

Hermione was standing close in order to watch them work, clearly bursting with curiosity about the equipment they were setting up.  Grizele had warned her off at first with an “Away wi’ ye, hen!”, but Hermione was persistent, inching ever nearer and only just stopping herself from asking questions. 

Draco was curious himself.  Gormelia had dug into near frozen soil quite easily, using a goblin-made spade that seemed to have been enchanted to cut into most types of ground.  She’d stopped when she hit stone, then retrieved a solid metal rod from her pack, which must have had an Extendable Charm on it.  It was at least two meters long, almost twice as tall as she was, and she turned it vertically and lowered it into the hole until the end made contact with the stone.

Grizele had pulled a square tray of the same metal from her own pack, attaching it to the rod with a set of clamps that fit so seamlessly that it almost seemed as if the entire set-up had been forged as a whole.  She then retrieved a small pouch of extremely fine black sand and poured it onto the tray, tapping the edge of the tray gently to create an even distribution. 

“Is this where you’ll attach the fork – ouch!”  Hermione yelped sheepishly as Grizele slapped her hand away.  “Sorry.  I just want to see how it works.”

“Aye, keep yer hair on,” Grizele said, sounding a little more patient than she had before.  “The forks are tuned for partic’lar materials, y’see.  The sand’ll tell us.”

With that, Gormelia selected another of the carefully packed tuning forks from the case lying open on the ground, and struck it firmly against the rod.  It started ringing immediately, a pure, high-pitched note emitting from its vibrating tines.  The goblin set the stem of the fork into the small raised keyhole in the center of the tray of black sand, translating those vibrations into microscopic movement that nevertheless caused the tiny particles to shift and bounce into a specific pattern before the ringing of the fork gradually subsided.

The two goblins scrutinized the sand for a moment, muttering to each other.  Gormelia produced a small notebook from her coat pocket and scribbled down some notes in the written form of Gobannan, which Draco wasn’t able to read.  His spoken Gobannan was barely passable only due to having had a goblin instructor at the Sorbonne.  Their written language was far too complex for him to pick up as casually.

“Righ’, attend, lass,” Grizele said, beckoning Hermione to lean in.  “Ye see these forms here?  The Chalk is shallower where we’re standin’, and this distribution around the center shows likely groundwater.  The signature’s too fain’ t’ ken flow direction –”

“Wha’ d’ye mean?”  Gormelia demanded, waving her hand at the tray.  “The water’s flowin’ tha’ way!”  She pointed in the direction which would take them deeper into the woods of the estate, which at least was consistent with Draco’s own hunch about where they would be heading next.

“We cannae ken tha’ for certain,” Grizele argued.  “Two more samples t’ be sure.”

“Stodgy old fusspot,” Gormelia muttered, but she dutifully began to disassemble the resonating equipment.

“Isn’t there any kind of spell for this sort of thing?”  Ron whispered grumpily as they trudged through the snow after the two goblins. 

He was wise to keep his voice low enough so that they didn’t hear, after all the trouble that had gone into even getting them here, Draco thought.  It would be just their luck if Ron’s loose tongue set them back further.

“It’s unreliable,” Draco said.  “And it works better when the land is more awake.  Late spring and summer.  You should know this, Weasley, even the Muggles know a bit about dowsing, even though they can’t do it the same way we do.”

“What, that thing with the sticks?”  Ron asked incredulously.

Draco pointedly held his own wand up.  “There is a lot that can be accomplished with sticks, Weasley.”

“Have you ever done it then?”  Ron’s voice held a slight note of challenge.

“I have, but it’s a skill,” Draco admitted.  “I know people who have handed the practice down through many generations, and they can rightly ask a steep price for their work.  And as I said, some Muggles can do it, if they’re lucky enough to cut their dowsing rods from a wand tree.  At least then the magic of the wand wood will steer them in the right direction, since they can’t manipulate it directly.  And the magical energy of the water is strongest during the warmer seasons.”

“Dowsin’ will only tell ye when water is close t’the surface,” Gormelia called back to them, not even bothering to turn around.  “It says nothin’ aboot how deep ye must dig, or wha’ type of rock ye’ll encounter.  ‘S better to do it righ’ and save yerself the bother of riskin’ the well collapsin’.”

“Were you digging a lot of wells, then, Malfoy?”  Ron asked, the tips of his ears turning red with embarrassment.

“Not a lot, no,” Draco said.  “But mapping underground waterflow was a key part of much of my research.”

“Hermione says you’ve written a lot of papers,” Ron said, after an extended pause.

“He’s actually a leader in his field,” Hermione interjected, looking at Draco.  “I looked up everything that you’ve submitted to the journals under the name ‘Pavo Salus.’  Magical ecology is still emerging – miles behind what the Muggles already know – and Draco is one of the foremost scholars.”

“Much of that work has been to formalize existing knowledge,” Draco said, giving a small, dismissive wave of his hand.  “Locals know a great deal about the environments in which they live – but scholarly witches and wizards only give it credence if it’s been documented in the way to which they’ve become accustomed.  I’ve done nothing but build on the work of others.”

“That’s true of any scholar,” Hermione retorted.  “But it’s important work, especially these days, and presenting it in a more academic format has made many of the old guard sit up and pay it more proper attention.  I’ve certainly been guilty of dismissing knowledge that doesn’t come from a book.”

“’Mione!”  Ron gave an exaggerated gasp.  “Knowledge that…doesn’t come from a book?!  That’s practically blasphemy!”

“Shut it,” Hermione grumbled.  “I’m trying to be better about it, you know.”

“I do know,” Ron said affectionately, wrapping an arm around her waist and tugging her in close. 

Draco felt Harry take his other hand, though he didn’t say anything.  Harry had been scanning the trees almost constantly since they moved beyond sight of the Manor.  The reason Ron and Hermione were coming along was the risk of encountering the Dementors which haunted the grounds – there was nothing in the known wizarding world better for repelling them than the Patronus charm, which goblins were unable to cast.  The Goblin Council had insisted upon adequate protection for any goblins on the estate, and their Patronuses were strong. 

When Draco had first floated the idea of investigating the woods, he could tell from the pinched expression that Harry didn’t like it.  Draco wasn’t sure if it was Harry’s nearly lifelong fear of the Dark creatures more than the skepticism that they would find anything useful, but Harry was here nonetheless.  A strong, reassuring presence in the midst of an almost eerily quiet forest. 

The ravens had not followed them, not even Grito, for which Draco was grateful.  The bird was far too curious not to have interfered with Gormelia and Grizele’s equipment.  He might have even attempted to steal some of it, shiny as it was.  Besides, the flock had done its duty already, and he had left them their customary treats in the clearing between the pond and his tent. 

A halt was called when the goblins found a spot they deemed suitable for another resonance test, and Draco allowed himself to wander a little further in the direction in which they seemed likely to continue.  He had been combing through his own memories of these woods, and nothing significant was coming to mind.  The estate had never had tenants or staff other than the house elves, had never used or needed to use the land for anything.  According to his father, there were some very old, very minimal remains of the homes of hapless Muggle peasants who were unlucky enough to live on or close enough to the parcel of land awarded to Armand Malfoy as to make tempting prospects for expansion.  They had been humble structures even at the time of their construction centuries ago – nothing but the crumbled remains of a few stone foundations remained.

“Ach, tha’s strange enough, innit?”  Grizele muttered to herself, scratching her long fingers through her dark hair.

“Aye,” Gormelia agreed, peering intently at the sand patterns left behind by the vibrations of the tuning fork.  “But the water’s flowin’ this way, righ’ enough.  Jus’ as I said.”

Grizele smacked her arm with a scowl.  “Ye wanna ‘nother skelpin’, happy t’ oblige, hen.”

“What is it?”  Draco inquired, coming close to stand next to Hermione and look down at the sand.

“Isnae symmetrical,” Grizele explained.  “There’s sommat oot there reflectin’ the resonance.”

“What could do that?”  Hermione asked.  “A new type of rock?”

“We’d be able t’ tell, easy,” Gormelia said.  “No’ many creatures know rock better’n goblins.  Nae, reckon it’s a void o’ some kind, an’ – would ye agree tha’s indicative of an organic, Griz?”

“Aye.”  Grizele was looking contemplatively off into the distance.  “Best be gettin’ on, then.”

This part of the woods was definitely older, Draco thought, judging by the size and spacing of the trees.  The woods closer to the Manor were dense with aspen and pine.  Out here was old growth of yew and oak and rowan, the thick trunks testament to the undisturbed nature of the forest.  The watery gray light of the sun and the lack of foliage kept it from seeming too dark, but there were shadows everywhere.  Harry was sticking close to him, keeping a wary eye on their surroundings.

Progress was more difficult as well, with the layer of snow covering the ground also disguising many fallen trees and branches which seemed eager to trip them up.  Draco stumbled a few times, but never feared hitting the ground since Harry was always there to catch his elbow and steady him.  He tried to be annoyed by it, but he didn’t fancy a face full of snow if he fell.

“D’ye hear tha’?”  Grizele asked, coming to a full stop.

“Hear wha’?  Wha’re ye on aboot?”  Gormelia huffed as she hitched her shoulders to settle her pack more comfortably.

“Sounds like water.”  Grizele swiveled her head, trying to pinpoint the sound.  “Could be we’ve found a spring.”

“Sounds like I were righ’,” Gormelia said smugly, grinning a grin of slightly pointed teeth at her companion.  “We didnae need a second sample after all.”

“Haud yer wheesht.”  Grizele’s tone was sour.  “This mayn’t be wha’ the young Malfoy lad was seekin’.”

“What are you looking for, Malfoy?”  Ron asked, a slight scowl on his face.  His nose and cheeks were red, but that was from the cold instead of having said something stupid.

“The groundwater carried that contamination out of the Manor, and that sickened the ley line,” Draco explained in a way that sounded much more patient than he felt.  “I don’t think the Manor is the node connecting the corruption to the ley line, just the source.  I’m looking for the true node.”

“I understand what you’re saying, but I don’t know what else it could possibly be!”  Hermione said.  “I’ve checked any records I could think of.  Since the ley lines have begun to be properly mapped and studied, the Malfoy estate was assumed to be the node!”

“I think it’s on the estate,” Draco reassured her.  “I’m just not convinced that it’s the Manor.”

“But what –”  Hermione’s question was cut off by Harry’s sharp shushing noise.

Harry was gazing intently at an enormous ash tree, which was growing out of a snowy mound.  The area around the tree was relatively clear from what Draco could see, which made sense because with a full canopy during most of the year, it would surely block out most of the sunlight for any smaller trees that might sprout around it.  The trunk was wide and gnarled, so wide that he wasn’t sure that the four adult humans here could even join hands around it.  One of its branches was down, blackened with some kind of rot.

And then a shadow flickered out of that rot, resolving into a tall slender figure cloaked in black that hovered in the air before them.  The cold sensation of utter hopelessness and wretched despair swept out from it like a wave, and the two goblin women flinched, reaching out for each other.

“Expecto patronum!”  Hermione shouted, thrusting her wand aggressively at the Dementor.  Wisps of silver mist coalesced into a shining otter, much larger than Draco’s ermine, of course, but with a similar bouncing, loping gait as it charged at the Dark creature. 

The Dementor retreated, whirling over the large downed branch of the ash tree and disappearing on the other side of the mound.  For a moment, all was still.

And then a storm of Dementors erupted from behind the massive ash, more than Draco had ever seen in his life, even after Voldemort had forced Lucius to allow them onto the estate.  More than he’d seen during their third year at Hogwarts, when they were patrolling the school grounds in search of Sirius Black.

“Fucking hell!”  Ron swore, and then pointed his wand.  “Expecto patronum!”  His Patronus took the form of a small terrier, which lifted its lips in a fierce snarl.

Harry and Draco cast their own Patronuses at the same time, the ermine and the stag coming into being and placing themselves along side the otter and the terrier to form a barrier between them and the Dementors.

“Ragnuk’s bloody tools!”  Gormelia gasped, pulling Grizele closer to where the others were standing.  “There be fuckin’ dozens of those ghosty bastards!”

“Don’t worry,” Harry said, his voice slightly strained but nevertheless reassuring.  “I can handle this.  Draco, take Grizele and Gormelia back to the Manor and –”

“Finish that sentence, Harry James Potter, and you will be The Boy Who Lived To Regret It,” Draco said, icy cold fury dripping from every syllable.

Harry looked momentarily shocked, his green eyes going wide with surprise, but then his expression shifted into a feral grin as he chuckled.  “Then watch my back.”

“Always,” Draco said firmly.

And Harry turned and charged the Dementors, with Prongs running just ahead of him and glowing brighter and brighter until Draco had to shield his good eye in order to preserve what was left of his vision.

The other three Patronuses watched calmly, staying right where they were even as the Dementors started to spread out, darting this way and that almost like a school of bait fish avoiding a predator. 

“He can do this, he’s done it before,” Hermione whispered, though Draco could see that her knuckles had turned white, she was gripping her wand so tightly.

“You’re joking,” Draco said, disbelieving. 

“Third year,” Ron confirmed.  “And there were plenty at the battle –”  He broke off with a grunt as Hermione elbowed him, turning his face resolutely toward where the stag Patronus broke through the cloud of Dementors, tossing its antlers defiantly.

The intensity of the light coming from Prongs did not abate, and the Patronus sprang after a small cluster of Dementors that seemed as though they were huddled together in something almost like confusion.  They seemed certain about the need to flee, however, as they threw up their arms in a vain attempt to shield themselves from the blindingly white light. 

Ron dashed forward as a group of Dementors tried to circle around the tree to reach Harry, sending his terrier Patronus snarling and snapping at the hem of their cloaks.  Draco wanted to follow, but there were a few lone Dementors which had broken off from the remnants of the larger group and were hovering not far off. 

“I see them,” Hermione said grimly, and her otter charged toward one of them, alternating between a gallop and sliding on top of the snow on its belly.  The otter nearly managed to catch one of the being’s bony hands in its jaws after a very surprising leap. 

Draco kept his ermine right where it was, even as the Dementors’ numbers began to dwindle.  They didn’t seem to know where to go, now that they were being forced out of their sanctuary within the woods, and were escaping in all directions. 

“Hermione, we need to ward this place.”  Draco gestured at the tree atop the mound covered with snow.  “Make it difficult for them to return, keep them from congregating in such numbers, at least.”

“Yes,” Hermione said, her brown eyes brightening.  “I’m not sure what’s so special about this place – were they actually inside the tree?”

“I’m not sure,” Draco said absently, his eyes on Harry.  He was holding himself rigidly, wand raised and alert for any remaining Dementors.  When he was finally satisfied that they had all absconded for the moment, he allowed Prongs to fade away to nothing while he sank to his knees in the snow, his chest heaving.

Draco started towards him, dismissing his ermine with a careless wave.  He crouched next to Harry, putting an arm around his shoulders to steady him.

“Are you all right?”  Draco asked, feeling his heart start to pound with sudden worry.

“I – yeah,” Harry wheezed.  “I just – need to – catch my breath.”

“Better off than last time, mate,” Ron said cheerfully, examining the trunk of the giant ash tree.  “Last time you were out cold and –” 

Draco blinked.  Ron had been pacing around to the other side of the tree, and suddenly vanished.  A thump and a muffled cry of pain had Hermione rushing forward in alarm.

“Ron!”  Hermione picked her way carefully to where Ron had been standing, and peered down at the ground.  Her hand flew up to cover her mouth, and her shoulders started shaking.

“Hermione?”  Harry tried to heave himself to his feet, but his legs didn’t seem to want to cooperate, and he staggered against Draco, who was all but holding him upright.

Hermione took her hand away from her mouth, and Draco was startled to hear laughter.  She raised her head to look at them, wiping at her eyes with the back of her hand, but was unable to speak through her relieved giggles.

“Oi, it’s not funny, woman!”  Ron’s voice was partly muffled, but it seemed to echo out past the ash tree.

“What the fuck?”  Harry was bewildered.

“He fell through a gap in the roots,” Hermione explained, gesturing down the slope of the mound.  “Come on, I’ll show you.”

Gormelia and Grizele had already made their way to the other side of the mound, which turned out to be only half formed.  The ground dropped away sharply on the other side of the ash, and there they could see how its massive roots had created a kind of lattice work, bearing the weight of a thin layer of sod and snow and encircling the small clearing below in a wide, incomplete embrace.  There was the spring that Grizele had heard right before the Dementors had been stirred up, bubbling at the base of a massive block of limestone, part of the Chalk that was beneath the soil and through which the groundwater flowed.

Ron was dangling uncomfortably in the lower roots, having fallen through the thinnest part of the ground above him, at the base of the ash tree.  He looked disgruntled more than anything, which Draco was relieved to see because that meant he could freely enjoy the man’s predicament.

“Dropped my wand,” Ron muttered, glaring at all of them.

Hermione had finally got control of her giggles, and used her wand to levitate her husband out of the cradle of roots and onto the sunken level of ground with them.

“Tha’s a sigh’, innit,” Gormelia declared, looking up at the limestone.  “’S nae goblin work, but a bonnie carvin’ all the same.”

Draco moved to stand next to her, examining the detail of the relief that had been sculpted into the Chalk.  It had faded from exposure to the elements, though not, he suspected, as much as it might have given the age he believed it was.  The figure which was protruding slightly from the face of the limestone was robed in a simple garment which draped nearly straight from the shoulders to its feet, which were bare.  In its arms it carried a basket of round objects – eggs, perhaps? – and wound around its left arm was a serpent, its body coiled loosely and its head resting docilely on the figure’s shoulder.  The features of the figure’s face and hair were indistinct – recognizably human, or at least appearing so, but there was nothing definite to provide a basis to guess at their gender. 

“It’s a nemeton,” Hermione breathed.

“What in the bloody fuck is a nemeton?”  Ron growled, brushing slushy mud from his clothing.

“An ancient place of worship.  Many of them were destroyed when newer belief systems were brought to the isles, this has to be thousands of years…”  Hermione trailed off, looking at Draco with wide eyes. 

“This is the node,” they both said together, and hurriedly glanced away in embarrassment for voicing the same thought at the same time.

“If ye were thinkin’ tha’ the corruption were carried from the Manor by the water, yon spring certainly supports yer claim,” Grizele noted. 

“I never knew this was here,” Draco said.  “I don’t remember venturing this far, though…”

Struck by a sudden thought, Draco opened his satchel and fumbled in the front pocket for L’estoire.  He flipped the book open to the section about l’echange – the exchange that his earliest ancestors had written about.  The first page of that section was illuminated, colorful and painstakingly inked drawings of a tree sprouting from the top of the first letter of the first word.  Down the outer margin was another drawing which had a startling resemblance to the relief in front of them. 

“But at least some of my family must have known.”  He shifted the book so that Hermione could get a better look at it. 

“You said it’s a place of worship,” Harry said.  “A place to worship what?”

Hermione bit her lip, deep in thought.  “This is not my area of expertise,” she admitted finally.  “But I think I know who we can ask.”

~ * ~

They were nearly finished warding the area by the time Ron had returned.  Gormelia and Grizele had departed, not keen to remain at a place to which Dementors might return.  But they were friendly enough in their goodbyes, with Grizele mentioning that she intended to request copies of some of the papers Draco had written, as he “didnae seem like a complete gowk.”  And also there might be some magical ecology that might interest him in the highlands of Scotland.  Draco had promised to get in touch with them if he ever found himself that far north.

He was panting slightly as he trekked back down to the level of the spring, taking care to give the edge of the ash’s roots a wide berth.  He didn’t want to fall through them the way Ron had.  But between his work and Hermione’s, he felt certain that no Dementors would be able to cross these wards, even if they swarmed the way they had earlier that day.

Harry had been instructed to sit and rest, since he still looked peaky and worn from his impressive magical exertion against the Dementors.  Draco had found a small vial of Invigoration Draught in his satchel, warring with himself before giving it to Harry.  He didn’t want Harry to avoid resting just because the effects of the potion would leave him feeling fully refreshed, but the man looked nearly dead on his feet.  He decided to wait until they were ready to quit for the day – hopefully Luna would be able to give them something, some idea of what to do next.

Draco had been surprised to learn that Luna Lovegood was the person who Hermione believed might be able to provide them with some insight.  He’d barely given her a thought while they were at school together, until she was brought to the Manor and imprisoned in the cellars in order to blackmail her father Xenophilius into aiding Voldemort’s plans.

That had been a pivotal moment for him, in hindsight.  His grasp on the reality of the situation, the full understanding that there were no plans to protect him or his generation from the violence that Voldemort intended – and had already achieved.  It was why he snuck down to talk to her when he could, as there certainly wasn’t anyone else in the house who felt as trustworthy and strangely nonjudgmental.  And her unexpected kindness in response, when she was being held against her will in a cold, damp stone room underneath a house full of murderers…

That had meant seeking out more confrontations with the Death Eaters around him than was strictly wise.  His distractions had been very effective in deterring his aunt and a few of the others from amusing themselves with the prisoners whenever they grew bored.  What were a few more rounds with the Cruciatus Curse, if it granted Luna a little more peace.

She hadn’t changed much, from what Draco could see as she and Ron approached.  She certainly hadn’t grown any taller, and her build was still what his mother would call ‘willowy.’  But she’d cut her hair so that it just reached her shoulders, and at this length it was naturally wavy like her father’s.  Her silver-blue eyes were just as strange as they had been – vague and penetrating all at once, as though she existed on multiple planes at the same time.  It gave her a slightly distracted air, which was unusual for someone who was part of the Ravenclaw House.

“Hello, Draco.”  Luna smiled at him, eyes drifting from his face to somewhere over his left shoulder.  “You never answered any of my letters.”

“No,” he agreed, feeling shame welling up within him.  Her letters, especially in the immediate aftermath of the second war, when everyone’s losses were still fresh and open wounds, were a kindness that he did not deserve.  He had still been selfish enough to read them, however, and he still had them in the box at the bottom of his wardrobe where the letters from his father were also stored.  “Thank you for coming, Luna.”

“Of course,” she said, her face brightening as she focused on him once more.  “It’s very unusual, getting a Patronus from Hermione when she usually sends me owls.  I nearly left my group of first years at the edge of the Black Lake – we were cataloging Ice Skippers, you see – but Neville was nice enough to collect them for me.”

“Ice Skippers?”  Draco was confused.  He’d never heard of such a creature.

“They’re a bit like freshwater Lobalugs,” Luna said.  “Except that they’re invisible.  So is their ink, until it’s exposed to excess heat.  The students like to use them to pass secret notes.”

That seemed more plausible, Luna was often seeing things that were basically invisible to other people.  He wasn’t quite sure how that talent would translate to their current situation, but he trusted Hermione’s judgment.  And he trusted Luna to do whatever it was she was supposed to do here.

“Luna.” Harry greeted her with a hug, which she enthusiastically returned.  “We’ve got a bit of ancient magic for you to take a look at.”

“She’s got a knack for it,” Hermione explained, seeing Draco’s expression.  “It’s not like reading runes or having specific knowledge of a particular place.  She just has an intuitive feel for magic that’s less structured than the way we practice it now.”

“Mmm, structured.”  Luna rolled the word around in her mouth as if it were something distasteful.  “I don’t care for it, it’s too boxy.”  She removed a pair of glasses from her coat pocket and placed them on her face.  They weren’t quite as eye-catching as the cardboard specs Draco remembered her sporting at school, but they were still very unusual looking.  They had gold wire frames and multiple sets of lenses, which could be raised or lowered in front of the eyes by swiveling it up or down.  The lenses shone with slightly different types of magic, though Draco couldn’t tell which types. 

She adjusted her lenses, flipping a few up and down until she had the configuration that she wanted, and gazed up at the limestone carving.  She started humming tunelessly, nothing recognizable, while tilting her head first one way, then another. 

“It’s definitely alive.  I wonder how it managed…oh, I see.  That’s rather clever.  Alive, but damaged.  I wonder…” 

Luna stepped across the threshold of the spring’s waters bubbling up to the surface, getting as close as she could to the carving so that she could better examine the root system of the ash tree.  Some of its roots had grasped onto the rough edges of the limestone block, but not in a way which would crack it apart as the tree continued to grow.  It appeared as though the tree was simply holding the stone in place, shoring up the soil to keep it and the stream from being buried over time.

Her proximity to the carving gave it some proper scale.  Her head barely exceeded the height of the basket of eggs the figure was holding at its waist, and she took some time to examine it from this new angle.  Then, she hesitantly raised her hands and pressed her palms against the figure’s robe.

There was a sudden pulse of magic, and Luna was forced back, her heel catching on the ground and causing her to topple backwards half in and half out of the spring.

“Luna!”  Harry rushed forward to help her up, but froze in place when Luna got to her feet.

Or…not Luna.

Because Luna had never worn such a cold and angry expression before, not that Draco could recall.  There was nothing unfocused about her gaze, and as they all stared at her in shock, a small bubble of red grew and burst at one of her nostrils, staining her lip with blood as it dripped down to her chin.

“Antae?”  Luna’s voice was harsh and guttural, not at all like her usual soft tones.  “Restat?  Fuireach?  Fanann?  Remaneo?  Remain?”

Seeing their reactions to that last word, whatever was inhabiting Luna’s body straightened, piercing them with its gaze.  “Who of Malfoy remains?”

“I do,” Draco said, stepping forward.  He ignored Harry’s emphatic gesture to stay put.

“Thou?”  Luna looked him up and down.  “Thou hast taken payment for services which are yet to be provided.  Hold to thy promise, else the boon will be reclaimed.”

“What payment?”  Draco asked, baffled.  “I haven’t taken anything from you.”

“Hast thou not?”  Luna’s lip curled into a sneer.  Then, in a move that was fast as lightning, her body darted forward, one hand seizing Draco around the throat, and the other pressing low on his abdomen.  “This was agreed upon – a definite blood heir – by Malfoy.  It has been paid, and paid, and paid.  In exchange, I survive.  Or did thou think’st to end our bargain by poison?”

“Let him go,” Harry demanded, his wand pointed at Luna’s head.  His teeth were bared in a soundless snarl.

“Harry –”  Draco could hear Hermione’s soft plea behind him, but Luna’s grip was so strong he couldn’t do anything but stare into those cold, inhuman eyes.

“No,” Draco choked out.  “That was not intentional.”

“Then preserve this life, Malfoy,” Luna’s voice growled.  “Or what grows in thee, dies with me.”

“H-how?” 

But Luna’s grip had already gone lax, and the coldness had faded from her eyes.  Or at least, that was Draco’s impression before they rolled back and Luna collapsed bonelessly to the ground.

“Luna!”  Hermione darted forward, landing on her knees to cradle Luna’s head.  “Luna?  Can you hear me?”  Luna’s eyelids fluttered slightly, and she let out a soft moan.

Draco didn’t even realize that he was shaking until Harry took him firmly into his arms, pressing their chests together so that Draco could feel Harry’s slow, exaggerated breaths.  Gradually, he started to match him, breathing in and out in rough counts of three.  He didn’t look at Ron when he heard the man’s quiet approach, choosing to keep his face tucked tightly into the crook of Harry’s neck.

“Did that mean what I think it means?”  Ron asked, keeping his voice low.  “That this thing, whatever it is, we need to keep it alive, or –”  He stopped abruptly, as if he couldn’t bear to finish the sentence.

“Yeah,” Harry said thickly, his arms tightening around Draco’s waist.  “If it dies, then we lose the baby.”

Chapter 31

It was still dark when Draco finally allowed himself to slip silently from the bed, leaving Harry’s snores and the pocket of warmth he’d created under the covers behind. 

He had not slept.  He could only lay there in the stillness of the night, feeling time slip away from him like grains of sand in an hourglass, occupying his mind with jumbled attempts to think through the problem of the nemeton and the unknown presence which occupied it, coupled with relentless self-recrimination.  He had no idea what had to be done – what could be done to preserve whatever life still lingered in that place.  A place which he’d had no idea even existed until recently.  But looking back, especially at the notes he’d scribbled while reading L’estoire, he should have anticipated something like it.

Merlin’s fucking beard, he had known that directly after the passage about l’echange, those early family historians had gone on and on about the lineage descended from Armand Malfoy.  It was so obvious now – the Progenitus enchantment that his mother had described was either powered or enacted by this…this entity as payment for – preservation?  Hermione had said that the newer belief systems, the unifying religions imposed by different waves of invaders and royal dynasties, had been the impetus for the destruction of the old places where old magic and acts of worship had been conducted.  Not every place could be quite as culturally powerful as Stonehenge, which had been painstakingly constructed over centuries, and had hosted centuries’ worth of the dead.  It had withstood change so well that even the Muggles guarded it fiercely, and came from all over the world just to see it.

What had been the purpose of the nemeton on the estate?  Had it been used in rituals by people long forgotten?  What sort of people had they been, magical or mundane?  Or both?   

But even as pressing as the question of the nemeton was, it was still a distraction from the true reason for Draco’s insomnia. 

No, that was the fear.  The deep, confusing terror of losing something he didn’t even have yet, but that he had begun to want more than anything he’d wanted in a very long time.  And what surprised him most was that the possibility of losing Harry as a partner in whatever capacity, short or long term, frightened him less than the idea of being denied the chance to meet the person that might come into being in a matter of months. 

Carrying this pregnancy successfully would allow Draco to continue to live in the comfortable belief that Harry was with him because this, he could give – was in the process of giving.  The makings of a family.  A child.  Someone to love and who would bestow love in return, someone to care for and teach and watch grow into a fascinating, unique person in their own right.

This was the one thing that might make it worth being with Draco in spite of everything else he was – a former Death Eater and bully, whose actions had caused real and material harm in ways he probably didn’t even understand.  But losing Harry’s affection was something he could survive.  He’d lived without it for nearly all of this life until now.  Losing it would be far worse than never having had it at all, of course.  But he could try to move on.

Losing what would be his child, his and Harry’s…that was different.  The thought brought forth a physical ache deep in his chest, his heart grieving the potential impossibility of something that he believed – he knew – would be wonderful.  As unexpected as it was – the very definition of unplanned, since Draco had never even thought of it as a possibility – as soon as he had allowed himself to accept the idea that it could happen, there was no controlling the yearning that had bloomed within him, like a tiny sun burning bright.  He thought it might be the same yearning that he sometimes glimpsed in Harry.

Draco flinched when the light in the ensuite brightened – he’d left it intentionally dim so as not to wake Harry at whatever uncivilized hour this was.  But it was Harry who was watching him solemnly in the wide mirror above the expansive sink and vanity.  He heard the shuffle of Harry’s bare feet against the tile floor, felt those strong arms encircling him from behind as he watched Harry rest his stubbly chin on Draco’s right shoulder.  His breath tickled the hairs on his neck.

“Where are you going?”  Harry asked, his voice quiet and raspy the way the first words of the day tended to be.

“The Manor,” Draco said.  “I…perhaps my father’s portrait might have some idea…”

“Let me come with you.”  Harry’s eyes met Draco’s in the mirror, slightly bleary green locked onto bloodshot silver gray.  “Please.”

A denial was on the tip of Draco’s tongue, the words to refuse the plea at the ready.  But even if all Harry could offer in going with him to the Manor and his father’s study was company, Draco would be a fool to reject it.  His instincts contended darkly that it was dangerous to need to rely on someone else for anything that wasn’t truly necessary.

Fuck his instincts.  What had they done for him lately, except to leave him close to death on the grounds of his family estate?

“If you want,” Draco said, his hands seeking out Harry’s where they were wrapped around him.  “But I don’t know…this might not do any good.”

“What I want,” Harry said, his voice soft.  “What I want to is help you find a way to fix this.  But I also want…I want you to hear me when I say that no matter what happens, I still want this.  Us.  I want there to be an us.”

Draco felt a stinging sensation in the corners of his eyes – a consequence of not having slept, no doubt – and blinked rapidly.

“Why?”

The question slipped out before he had a chance to even think about it, and the word hung in the air between them, something tenuous and fragile.  He wished he could take it back the moment it had escaped.

Harry’s lips brushed the skin of Draco’s neck while he took his time to consider it.  Draco could see the tiny furrow between Harry’s brows that told him Harry was composing his answer, thinking carefully through every word.

“Because you know me,” Harry said finally.  “Because you lived through it, same as I did.  Because you lied for me, and you made something of yourself after losing everything, and you’ve changed in all the right ways and stayed the same in all the ways that make me love you.”

For a moment, Draco couldn’t breathe.  And then he was breathing too quickly, and he could see his own expression crumpling in the mirror, along with the growing alarm on Harry’s face.

“No,” he choked out.

“No, what?”  Harry asked, perplexed.

“You can’t, I – you…”  Draco trailed off, shaking his head, not knowing exactly how to put this visceral reaction into words.  “You shouldn’t.”

“What do you mean, I shouldn’t?”  Harry growled, his arms tightening possessively around Draco.

Draco cast about for the right way to explain what felt obvious.  “I haven’t changed as much as you think I have, Harry, I – you know how I was raised.  I told you that much.  I am, before anything else, a creature of hate.  I was raised to hate almost everyone who wasn’t basically like me – Muggles, Muggle borns, part-humans, creatures.  You.  I was supposed to hate you, Harry, and I think I did for a while.  You think that I’ve changed, when really I’ve only just redistributed that hate, moved it around a little.  Turning it on the other Death Eaters, on Voldemort – that was easy.  Hating the Ministry, likewise.  Hating my father.  Even my mother, for going along with him as far as she did.  Hating myself.  You need – you deserve someone who can match you in your capacity for love.”

Harry was quiet, studying him in the mirror.  “And you don’t think that’s you?”

“I know it isn’t,” Draco said.

“Do you still hate me?”

“No.”  Draco’s reply was fierce, automatic, and sincere.

“How do you feel about me, then?”

Draco dropped his gaze, unable to meet Harry’s eyes even indirectly through the mirror.  He shifted, but Harry’s embrace was unyielding, holding him firmly but gently in place.

“Do you love me?”

Draco huffed.  “I don’t think that’s relevant, I told you –”

“On the contrary,” Harry said, cutting him off.  “I think that’s very relevant to this conversation.”

“I want you to be able to look at this rationally,” Draco argued.  “You’re a romantic, Harry, and feelings won’t do anything to change all the reasons why –”

“So you admit that there are feelings?”  Harry asked, waggling his eyebrows at him in a mad way.

Draco couldn’t help but let out a surprised laugh.  “Stop distracting me, I –”

“Hush,” Harry said gently.  He kissed Draco’s neck.  “If I wanted to distract you, I’d go about it entirely differently, I assure you.  Let me talk for a moment.  Just listen.  Please?”

Taken aback, Draco only nodded, unable to look away from Harry’s serious expression in their reflection.

“You have a lifetime of hurts that have been part of shaping you into who you are now.  You’ve confronted some hard things about yourself in a way that I never expected.  But you’re not objective – you can’t be, when it comes to seeing yourself.  You’ve got to make some room for the way others see you, as well.”

“I know how others see me,” Draco said, unable to keep a note of bitterness from his tone.

“Do you?”  Harry asked, giving him a squeeze.  “Because you tell me things about yourself that I don’t see.  I’m not an idiot, all right?  I know that there are obstacles, but it’s not your responsibility to be the one to jump them all, understand?  I want us to build something together on purpose, not because we stumbled our way into it, or because something amazing happened that means that we’ll have a kid together.  I don’t expect you to throw away everything that you accomplished over the last twenty years, I would never want that.  I want us to decide how our lives fit together.  I want you to trust me with you.  I want you to know that you have choices, and the only thing I ask is that you don’t just give up, especially before we even give it a go.  All right?”

Draco studied Harry in the mirror, watching the way that his own fingers traced up and down the brown skin of Harry’s forearm.  He didn’t quite understand how Harry routinely reduced him to speechlessness, but he seemed to have developed a talent for it.  There was something about the confidence in Harry’s warm timbre that made what he said sound…possible.  As if there was a way forward that wasn’t going to end in ruination.

“I’ll try,” Draco whispered, unable to say anything else.

~ * ~

Draco had avoided spending any time in his father’s study at the Manor since the night of the attempted robbery by Dollie Borgin and her crew, the memory of the two wizards who had been felled by Dark artefacts still relatively fresh in his mind.  He’d had no desire to interact with his father’s portrait, either, as the semblance of Lucius Malfoy seemed to have no interest in providing any sort of aid in putting the Manor to rights. 

But he was desperate, not that he intended to reveal that fact to his father’s portrait.  And as he couldn’t avoid explaining the reason why he needed to know anything Lucius could tell him about the Progenitus enchantment on the estate, he at least had the leverage of continuing the Malfoy line to hold over him.  It was the necessary play, but it grated.  He had felt so certain, so righteous when he’d told his father’s likeness that he intended to be the last Malfoy.  Lucius would see it as a backtrack, and therefore a plea from a position of weakness.

Which wasn’t entirely inaccurate, Draco thought moodily as he dusted his hands to remove some of the bits of roasted peanuts which clung stubbornly to his skin after throwing treats to the ravens.  Harry had tried to follow his example and offer some of the peanuts to the ravens by hand, but only Grito had been brave enough to take a few.  And Grito was ensconced firmly on Draco’s right shoulder, avoiding a perch on Harry altogether. 

“I’m not sure you’ll like it inside,” Draco warned the raven as he and Harry took the steps up to the conservatory entrance. 

Grito fluffed his neck feathers with a burble, showing no sign of wanting to fly off.

“Silly thing,” Harry chuckled, keeping his hand pressed to the small of Draco’s back.  The service passageways were narrow, intended for house elves more than the average adult human, but Harry never broke contact between them as they made their way to the study.

The remains of the would-be robbers had long been cleared by Harry and Ron, but Draco still had to suppress a shudder when he glanced at the floor where one of them had been pinned like a butterfly.  The study was otherwise untouched since that night, as the destruction of the Manor’s front door had shifted the Dark magics within and made conditions even less predictable.  There were plenty of artefacts remaining, and both Draco and Harry took care as they eased open the service door.

“What is he doing here?”  Lucius’s voice sounded tired, with a forced air of disinterest.  It sounded much like the true Lucius had toward the end of the second war, though the portrait still showed the man in his prime rather than reflect the hollow cheeks and bruise-like patches under the eyes that his father had before being returned to Azkaban. 

“You know what he’s here for,” Draco said.  “He’s working for the Ministry, as I am, to clear the Manor and the estate of Dark magic.”

“I mean what is he doing here?”  Lucius snapped, his gray eyes narrowing at Harry.  “It was enough that he and that Weasley boy were bumbling through cleaning up that mess you failed to handle.  If I must choose between remaining here alone or suffering through this sort of company, I prefer the former.”

“Then it’s very unfortunate for you that you don’t have a choice,” Draco said, leaning a hip against the large wooden desk and rubbing his eyes.  He could feel Grito’s beak preening gently through the hair on the back of his head, which was actually sort of soothing.  “I need you to tell me what you know about the Progenitus enchantment, how it came to be.  Anything.  Everything.”

Lucius’s lip curled.  “I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about, boy.”

Draco heard Harry’s small intake of breath behind him, but he knew what it sounded like when his father lied.  “You needn’t pretend that you don’t.  Mother already told me a little about it.”

Lucius’s image drew back in surprise, further into the frame of the portrait.  “Narcissa would never have told you, she and I agreed –”

“It became relevant,” Draco said, cutting him off.  “Tell me what you know.”  It was worth trying, though he knew that Lucius would not give up the information so easily.

“How did it become relevant?”  Lucius asked shrewdly.

Draco bit the inside of his cheek, working up the fortitude to just come right out with it.  “I’m pregnant.”

Lucius’s jaw dropped open, genuine surprise on his face.  He glanced down at Draco’s torso, and Draco forced himself to keep from folding his arms defensively.  He knew that his waist didn’t taper to his hips in the same way anymore, his lean frame filling out as his belly grew little by little.  It wasn’t very noticeable under his jumper, not quite.  But that would change soon.

A series of emotions flickered over the likeness of his father’s face – the initial surprise, a brief twist of the mouth that might have been disgust, then a heaviness to the eyes that contrasted sharply with the neutral set of his jaw.  Draco braced himself.

“And who is the other father?”  Lucius asked, though his eyes drifted to Harry as though he already knew.

Harry didn’t hesitate to confirm his suspicions.  “I am.”

“Ugh.”  Lucius put a hand to his face and shook his head, dragging his fingers down until he was gripping his chin so hard that Draco could see the way his painted skin indented.  If he were flesh and blood, Lucius’s fingers would have left marks.  “Really?”

“It’s entirely possible – preferable, even – for us to skip the part where you are extremely tiresome, and return to the most pressing part of our conversation,” Draco drawled, but there was a sharpness to it that his father immediately picked up on.  “The existence of your potential grandchild depends on it.”

“Explain.”  Lucius’s gaze was hard, though he was having to divide it between Draco and Harry, which somewhat lessened any potential it may have had to cow them.

“The presence of Voldemort’s possessions in our house, more specifically the corrupted Pensieve –”

Lucius’s eyes widened at the mention of the Pensieve, and he quickly scanned Draco, no doubt looking for the physical effects he was meant to suffer as a result of the binding that had been placed when he received his Mark, which should have prevented him from speaking of it.  Draco waved a hand irritably, nearly dislodging Grito from his perch on his shoulder.

“The contract was broken when an outsider saw the Pensieve,” Draco said.  “Not that you have to worry about it any longer.  Fortunately, I don’t have to, either.  The contents of the Pensieve leaked, Father.  They found their way into the groundwater running beneath the estate, and carried the corruption to an ancient nemeton in the woods.  Do you know it?”

Lucius’s face was guarded.  “I do.”

Draco nodded, striving not to show his relief.  “There is some sort of entity which dwells there, which was sickened by the corruption and that has, in turn, affected the ley line which crosses the estate.  We only discovered the nemeton two days ago, and in the process it communicated to us that it is the power behind the Progenitus enchantment, and that if it dies –”  Here, Draco stopped, a lump in his throat preventing him from continuing.

A warm hand on his elbow provided a small measure of comfort, as Harry stepped closer to finish the explanation.  “If it dies, then Draco loses the pregnancy.”

There was a long silence as Lucius’s portrait absorbed this.  Draco felt Harry’s hand slide from his elbow to circle around his back, resting on his opposite hip.  Grito grumbled softly at this unwanted proximity but didn’t fly away – which was fortunate because Draco did not think he had the energy to try to corral a panicking raven in order to get it back outside.

“Does Narcissa know about this?”  Lucius asked, suddenly and sharply.

“She knows about the pregnancy,” Draco said tiredly.  “I have not told her about the threat to it.  I…she would not take it well.”

And neither would I, he thought to himself, his stomach clenching with the same fear that had kept him from any kind of restful sleep during the past few nights.

“Not the last, then,” Lucius said, his tone bitingly sarcastic.

“Not now.  Not if I can help it,” Draco replied steadily, meeting the portrait’s gaze.  “But I know nothing about the nemeton nor the entity which inhabits it.  I have no idea how to preserve the life of something when I don’t even understand how it’s alive in the first place.  So I am asking you, yet again, to tell me what you know about the Progenitus.  Mother has already told me that it was how I was conceived.  Apparently it is what made this possible.”  Draco briefly gestured at his belly.  “Tell me.”

Another long silence.

Then Lucius spoke.  “I am…aware that I am not the father I might have been to you, Draco.  So you will understand what I mean when I say that in spite of everything, I can at least take satisfaction from the fact that I did not become my father.”

Draco did understand that.  He understood it very well.  He did not have many memories of his grandfather Abraxas, who had died of dragon pox when Draco was still very young.  But from what his mother had said of the early years of her marriage to Lucius, the way she had implied that their time in France was some sort of escape from both of their families…  Draco had never known the Lucius who appeared in his parents’ wedding photograph, which was now sitting on the nightstand in the guest bedroom at Grimmauld Place where Narcissa slept.  But something had changed Lucius from the smiling, laughing man in the photo to the cold, calculating man Draco had known as his father.

“Abraxas Malfoy did not believe in what he called ‘ancient superstitions,’ and so he did not acquaint me with much of the Manor’s history beyond what he knew from his own father.  But when your mother and I found ourselves in need, I returned to the Manor to visit him and ask for his help.  There was very little that he cared about regarding my marriage that did not involve producing an heir, and I remembered him saying that the Malfoys were always guaranteed the opportunity to carry on the family line.  When that did not seem to be the case for me, I grew desperate.”

Lucius paused, a shadow passing over his face.  “He was drunk when I arrived, as usual.  Rough in his treatment of me, as usual.  And he laughed at me when I explained our situation.  It took time to get him to come to the point.”  The ironic twist to Lucius’s lips suggested that he was well aware of the parallels at play.

“When the alcohol had cleared his system well enough for a bit more coherence, he extracted a promise from me that that if I returned to the Manor with Narcissa – permanently – he would tell me how it was possible for us to have a child, when I…”  Lucius cleared his throat.  “Apparently both the men and women of the Malfoy line had issues with fertility.  That was not something I knew, however, until your mother and I discovered it for ourselves.”

“So you moved back,” Draco said.

“We did.  There are many things that I regret, Draco, but I do not regret that part of it.  I never regretted you.  And neither did your mother, even though our lives were very different when I was back in my father’s house.  When we were settled, I went to him again, begging him to tell me what I had to do in order to ensure that we had a child.  He laughed again, and said nothing else was needed.  I grew angry with him, and he with me, though that was…normal.”  There was a tightness to Lucius’s expression, and edge to his tone that spoke of badly concealed memory of pain.  “At any rate, when he felt that I had learned my place again, he told me about the Progenitus, though it was with an air of great skepticism.  He only cared that it worked, but I wanted to know why.”

It was odd, feeling such momentary kinship with his father.  Draco would have reacted the same way, intent upon discovering the mechanism behind such an enchantment.

“While my father did not put any stock in old legends, he was a great admirer of the founder of the Malfoy line in England, and knew a great deal about Armand Malfoy and how he came to be awarded this initial parcel of land.  Armand had known himself to be impotent, and so the boon from William the Bastard was somewhat bittersweet.  He had no expectation of leaving a lasting legacy, as he had no children to inherit anything he’d built.  But when he was surveying the land the king had granted him, he came across the nemeton, secluded in the woods and known only vaguely to the elders of the local community.  However it had begun its existence, any significance it might have had faded even by Armand’s time.  He was already making plans to work the land, and remarked to his companions that this ancient ruin would need to be cleared away along with the forest.”

Lucius cleared his throat, though of course as a portrait it wasn’t possible for him to become fatigued from speaking in the same way a flesh and blood human might.  “Armand encountered a presence then, something which manifested in some way to advocate for its continued existence.  It was customary in those days to remove physical reminders of the old ways, especially those to which local communities weren’t particularly attached.  The entity struck a bargain for its preservation with Armand, offering him what he desired most – the opportunity to make the Malfoy name and reputation something that endured beyond Armand’s own lifetime.  Apparently Armand and his wife welcomed their son the following spring, and so the line continued.”

“And you went to see it for yourself,” Draco said.  It was what he would have done.

“I did,” Lucius acknowledged.  “But while I felt lingering traces of ancient magic, nothing chose to make itself known to me.  Still, though, I did not quite trust my father’s assertion that merely attempting to conceive while on estate grounds was enough.  So I voiced aloud my desire that Narcissa and I would have a child soon.  And of course we did.”  A faint but fond smile appeared on Lucius’s face, true affection and warmth suffusing his expression when he looked at Draco.

“That’s all?”  Harry asked, his hand tightening slightly on Draco’s hip.  “Do you know what it is, or what can be done to keep it alive?”

“No,” Lucius said heavily.  “Anything that Armand or his more immediate descendants might have known would be in the history that you already have.  I only know that the ring with the family crest was forged by Armand after the bargain was struck, and his commitment may have involved a blood pact.”

Draco blinked in surprise.  “How would that be possible?  A blood pact requires the blood of both parties – as far as I know now, this entity is noncorporeal.  Or at the very least, does not exist in a form that bleeds.”

His father’s image shook its head.  “I truly have no idea.  I would tell you if I knew.”

And that, Draco believed.  His father constantly used or misused the truth to his advantage in life, but he had no reason to doubt anything that his portrait had said so far.

“Thank you,” Draco said finally.  He shifted his weight, his hip aching from where it had been resting against the desk.  Grito warbled a bit and shook his tail feathers, seeming pleased that they were finally moving again. 

“Wait,” Lucius called, as Draco and Harry started to turn toward the access to the service passage.

“Yes?”  Draco turned, raising an eyebrow.

“How are…that is, are you well?”

Draco was taken aback by the question.  He hadn’t heard many such inquiries from his father while he was alive.  He’d been expected to either be well, or appear to be to anyone who might take advantage of a perceived weakness.

“Well enough for now,” Draco said, which was the truth but also not. 

“I see.”  Lucius’s gaze shifted to Harry, his eyes narrowing.  “You had better look after him, Potter.”

To Draco’s surprise, Harry only grinned at the portrait, then drew Draco into a slightly heated kiss which made Grito grumble at the jostling.  Out of the corner of his good eye, Draco saw Harry’s hand move upward in a two-fingered gesture, before Harry broke off the kiss and tugged him into the service passage with an evil chuckle.  The only thing he heard from his father’s portrait as they departed was outraged sputtering.

~ * ~

“Have you been taking the potion that I prescribed?”  Astoria’s face showed her disapproval at the results of the diagnostic spells she’d cast on Draco.

“I have,” Draco said defensively, clenching his hands into fists in order to keep them from trembling with nerves.

“You haven’t been sleeping, then,” Astoria said frankly.  “Draco, you must keep up your strength, for your own sake as well as the fetus that you’re carrying.  The draw on your magical core is only going to increase the further along you are, which is why I’m increasing your dosage.  I’d recommend taking the potion two times daily, once in the morning and then again before you retire for the night.  And you need to sleep.  If you need me to, I can prescribe a potion for that as well.”

“No,” Draco said shortly.  He took a breath, then let it out with a sigh.  “No, please.  I’ve just had some additional stress this week that has kept me awake, I don’t need another potion.”

“You can just take it as needed,” Astoria said, her tone gentle.  “It wouldn’t hurt to have it available.”

“I don’t feel rested when I’m aware that I’m essentially being forced to sleep,” Draco admitted.  “I’d prefer not to take it.”

“Let’s revisit this in another couple of weeks, then,” Astoria said reluctantly.  “We’ll see how rested you are then.  But if you continue to have frequent insomnia before then, please send me an owl.”

“I can agree to that.”  Draco debated for a moment whether to tell Astoria about the possibility of losing the pregnancy, if he couldn’t figure out some way to keep whatever dwelt in the nemeton alive.  Would there even be anything that she could do? 

Keeping this information to himself was the opposite of asking for help, he told himself sternly.  As much as he did not want to discuss it, Astoria deserved to know.  She was already doing him a favor in acting as his primary Healer, even though magical pregnancy wasn’t her specialization.

“The reason I haven’t been sleeping is related to my work at the Manor,” he said, forcing the words out.  “I – we discovered recently that the enchantment which started the pregnancy is in jeopardy.  If we don’t find a way to fix it, then I’ll lose it.”

Astoria gasped, a small intake of breath.  Her hand automatically sought his, squeezing gently to offer some small amount of comfort.  “I can see why that might be the cause of some sleepless nights.”

“Is there – can we do anything to protect it?  Sustain it independently of the enchantment?”

Furrowing her brow, Astoria pondered the question for a moment, then shook her head slowly.  “Not that I’m aware of, other than what you’re already doing to supplement the magic of your core.  But –”  She held up a finger when she saw his posture slump in defeat.  “– as you know, I did not specialize in magical pregnancy.  If you’ll allow me to consult with other Healers who are more informed than I, we may be able to come up with something.  I can reach out without revealing your identity, though I cannot guarantee that my colleagues won’t deduce which patient I’m discussing when you decide to be more public about your pregnancy.”

“Please,” Draco whispered, eager to grasp any potential solution.

“All right then.”  Astoria patted his hand.  “I’ll be in touch.  And you keep me informed, understood?  If we can act on any problems that may arise, the sooner the better.”

“I will, thank you.”  Draco rose from the chair in Astoria’s small office on the ground floor of St. Mungo’s.  “Can you direct me to Luna Lovegood’s room?  Harry said he’d visit with her while I met with you.”

“I’ll do better than that, I’ll show you there,” Astoria said with a smile.  “She’s not my patient, but she’s here a little more frequently than most witches or wizards.  I was glad when she got the teaching position at Hogwarts.  Her field work in discovering new species of magical creatures tends to be a bit…hazardous.”

Luna was sitting up in bed when Draco entered, Hermione having answered his soft knock with a weary smile.  Hermione had felt responsible for calling Luna for assistance and insisted on keeping watch over her during her stay at St. Mungo’s.  The experience of hosting the entity of the nemeton within her body had injured Luna’s magical core and taken its toll on her physically as well, though the Healers were willing to release Luna back to her teaching work at Hogwarts within a day or two.

“Hello, Draco,” Luna said, giving him a smile while her eyes drifted up as though to look at something hovering over his head.

“Hello, Luna,” he greeted her, scanning the room.  Harry and Hermione were occupying the two visitors’ chairs, so he sat gingerly on the very edge of the foot of the bed, hoping that he wasn’t crowding Luna.  He was a little too tired to stay standing, though.  “How are you feeling?”

Luna hummed thoughtfully.  “My head still aches a bit, though that might be because of the Wrackspurts.  I’m surprised the Healers even let them in.”

“Seems quite neglectful of them,” Draco agreed.  “I…I’m sorry that you were hurt, Luna.  We know the estate is dangerous, we should have taken more care –”

“I’m glad I came,” Luna said, leaning forward to pat his hand.  Her fingers brushed the silver ring on his finger, and she toyed with the design absently.  “I’ve never met anything quite like it, you see.  I don’t think it knew how fragile we are compared to it.  I didn’t sense anything malevolent when it invited me to touch the statue.”

“Wait, it invited you?  It spoke to you before it took over your body?”  Hermione asked, concerned.

“Not so much in words,” Luna said, resting back against the mound of pillows behind her and shrugging her shoulders.  “It was more of a feeling of invitation.  Urgent, but not ill intentioned.”

“Are you sure, Luna?”  Harry’s face was serious.  “Because it seems to be where the Dementors have been holing up, maybe even since they were expelled from Azkaban and all Ministry employment.  I don’t think it can be too friendly if it pals around with Dark creatures like that.”

“Oh, no, it wants nothing to do with the Dementors,” Luna said earnestly.  “That’s the problem, isn’t it?  It doesn’t want to die.”

“Luna,” Draco said, trying to quell the spark of intuition that had suddenly ignited within him.  “Are the Dementors killing it?  Or is it the corrupted groundwater?”

“It’s been weakened,” Luna said.  “I’m sorry I can’t be more exact, it was very overwhelming.  But the Dementors are trying to feed off of it, and they’ve only able to hurt it because it’s been ill.”

“How could the Dementors feed off of it?”  Harry voiced what they were all thinking.

“They eat souls, don’t they?”  Luna said, tilting her head.  “It might not be a human soul, but it’s a kind of soul all the same.  And it’s…so big.  Vast.  And it fears what the Dementors might become if they’re successful in consuming it.”

“What do you mean, what the Dementors might become?”  Hermione asked urgently.

“Non-beings can’t change over time the way Beings and creatures can,” Luna explained.  “They don’t reproduce in the same way, you see.  They can’t incorporate those miniscule changes over hundreds of generations, they can’t adapt to changes in their environment without intentional magical interference.  Dementors didn’t always exist as they do now – centuries ago, they were nothing but shadows in the night, sentient but relatively harmless.  But then witches and wizards started using them against each other, started to feed them more than just positive emotions.  The first time a Dementor gave its Kiss to a witch or wizard, they changed.  The power of a magical soul made them…more.  Bigger.  More aware of how different they were compared to the minor shades they had been before.  They’ve been cut off from the position which enabled that big change, and now they’re seeking something new.  Something to help them survive in this new environment.”

“Fucking hell,” Harry swore, his hands clenching into fists.  He looked at Hermione, his expression troubled.

“If we lose the node, the ley line might collapse,” Hermione said.  “And if the Dementors are successful in consuming the – the soul that lives in the node, then we might have something worse on our hands.”

“Luna,” Draco said, automatically reaching for her ankle under the covers, needing something to ground himself.  “You understood how the entity at the nemeton is dying.  Do you have any idea of what we can do to save it?”

Luna’s silver-blue eyes met his, and she smiled.  “I might.”

Chapter 32

“Neville, mate, watch your step,” Ron warned, staying well back from the base of the giant ash tree which protected the nemeton.  “The ground’s pretty thin there.”

“Yeah, all right,” Neville said absently, lifting himself up on his toes so that he could get a closer look at the stump of the branch which had dropped due to the black rot within the tree.  It was clear that he hadn’t heard a word of what Ron said, and Draco had his wand ready to catch him, just in case.

“I’m still not certain what the tree has to do with the nemeton, Luna.”  Draco could hear snatches of the discussion that Hermione was having with Luna a bit further back.

“It’s part of it,” Luna said.  Her voice had a slightly dreamy tone.  She seemed to be getting around just fine, having been released from St. Mungo’s for more than a week.  Still, no one there was keen to let her repeat her experience with the entity that resided here, and there was mutual unspoken agreement not to let her touch anything.

“Part of the nemeton?”  Hermione was only just holding back the confused frustration she was obviously feeling.  She clearly respected Luna’s intuitive sense for ancient magic and trusted her judgement, but she was accustomed to learning about things in firm academic terms, which Luna seemed inclined to shy away from.

“This is a gorgeous specimen,” Neville was saying, taking hold of one of the intact branches closer to the ground so that he could brace himself as he stepped up higher on the base of the roots of the ash tree.  “I’ve never seen one this big, or this old.  They’re normally not expected to live for more than a few centuries.  And aside from this rot, this is wand-quality wood, I wonder why we haven’t seen…”

The branch that he was using to support some of his weight gave way with a sudden crack, and Neville stumbled back, landing on the bed of roots below and falling partway through when a bit of sod crumbled away.  Out of the broken stub of the branch fell a pile of short brown twigs, tumbling onto the snow like matchsticks.

But no – those weren’t twigs, Draco realized as he approached carefully to help Neville to his feet.  They were the corpses of Bowtruckles, their small thin bodies turned withered and brown in the absence of life, and their normally leafy heads bare.

“Oh!”  Luna pressed a hand to her mouth, her eyes glistening with tears.

“That explains the rot,” Neville said grimly, giving Draco’s shoulder a brief squeeze in thanks.  He moved more cautiously, testing each step before putting much weight on it.  “If this ash had a healthy population of Bowtruckles to guard it, they never would have allowed it to get to this state.”

“They’re really dead?”  Harry came up to stand next to Draco, wearing a pinched expression.  “They’re not just…dormant, because of the winter?”

Neville shook his head.  “They’d be sluggish, but they don’t experience true hibernation.  They would defend this tree if they were alive, and they’ve lost every hint of green, you see?”

“It was the Dementors,” Luna said softly, picking her way over to the pile of dead Bowtruckles and gently scooping one of them into her gloved hand.  Its razor sharp limbs were stiff, its woody exoskeleton having hardened.

“Dementors aren’t interested in animals,” Neville argued, glancing warily at the woods surrounding them.

Their foray back to the nemeton had involved several encounters with small groups of Dementors, though the wards that Draco and Hermione had set around the place seemed to be effective at keeping them at bay.  The Dark creatures showed no signs of voluntary retreat, however, as they made their presence known while Neville examined the sickly ash, hovering right at the edge of the ward boundaries and fading back into the woods periodically.

“They weren’t after the Bowtruckles, not directly.”  Luna carefully returned the tiny figure to join the rest of its colony.  “The entity of the nemeton tried to escape the corruption in the spring by retreating into the ash, sort of.  But in taking on armor that was organic and living, instead of inanimate stone, it made itself more vulnerable to the Dementors.”

“The entity is in the tree?”  Hermione seemed skeptical.  “But you touched the stone carving, Luna.”

Luna pursed her lips thoughtfully.  “It might be better to try to show you.”

“Luna –”  Harry interjected, his expression worried, but Luna only gave him one of her odd smiles.

She raised her wand.  “Ostentio!”

A small scale outline of the ash tree shimmered into existence, glowing a soft green color that stood out amidst the overcast gloom of the afternoon.  It expanded from there, building out the half-dome of the root system where it created the protective overhang of the limestone statue, and the spring bubbling up from the ground below.  A pale blue light suffused the representation of the statue, pulsing with simulated life. 

“The corruption carried through the groundwater from the Manor started to eat away at the nemeton, both physically and magically,” Luna explained.  A darker purple light came up through the spring, saturating the ground at the base of the statue and forming small cracks.  “The carving is anchoring the entity here, but everything surrounding it is also the nemeton.  The ash has been here almost as long, as has the spring.  The entity has tried to spread itself to other components of it in order to avoid destruction.”

The blue light of Luna’s explanatory illusion traveled upward through the roots into the tree, until only a small amount of it remained in the Chalk. 

“But that made its…its being, its soul potentially accessible to the Dementors.  They can try to scrape emotions and souls away from any living thing.  They couldn’t touch it before.”

Small dark shadows passed through the glowing green tree, over and over, forcing the light to flicker and move in feeble attempts to avoid them.

“That’s how the Bowtruckles died,” Luna said sadly.  “The concentration of Dementor activity was so high that they were stripped of even their simple inherent motivation, which allowed the ash to be damaged even further.”

Draco was struck by a sudden memory of bleak, meaningless existence on a cold, windswept rock in the North Sea.  There was a squat, pedestrian stone castle which occupied it, the interior broken into small cells to house the worst of the isles’ wizarding kind.  His time there had been brief, and it had been after the Dementors had defected to Voldemort’s side and were subsequently dismissed from their ‘service’ as prison guards.  He’d been only seventeen at the time, and as bad as the experience had been, he couldn’t imagine how much worse it might have been had he been robbed of every scrap of hope or happiness.  That rock, Azkaban, was a lifeless thing, without birds or plants – only human Darkness and misery.  Nothing but stone, the chill of frigid salt spray wind, and despair.

“I don’t know if I can keep this tree alive,” Neville said doubtfully.  “The rot may be too extensive to overcome.  A tree lives on in its outermost layers but it depends on the integrity of the heartwood to maintain its structure.”

“You have to,” Draco blurted, reaching out and gripping the sleeve of Neville’s coat.  “Please.  There has to be something that you can do.”

Neville’s brows furrowed, looking uncertainly from Draco to Harry.  “It’s always a tragedy to lose an old tree like this, but I’m getting the sense that there’s more to it than that.”

“I don’t think the entity will survive without it,” Luna said.  “The limestone carving is too damaged for it to inhabit the way it used to.”

Draco rubbed his forehead, concentrating on his breathing in order to stave off the beginnings of panic.  “I was able to seal the crack in the cellar floor.  Perhaps I can –”

“No,” Harry said shortly, giving his hand a squeeze.  “That was something small, and that method can’t be our first choice here.  It takes too much out of you, I don’t even want to think about how much –”  He cut himself off, clearly reluctant to mention Draco’s past uses of the Dark magic of the Mark. 

And he wasn’t wrong.  Draco didn’t know how much blood he would have to spill in the attempt to repair the nemeton, and it would take a significant toll on his magical core, as well.  He couldn’t afford to take such a risk, not when the goal was saving the babe he was carrying.

“We could try reintroducing a new colony of Bowtruckles,” Neville suggested, though his tone indicated a degree of uncertainty.  “Sometimes they’ll take to a new tree.  It would be tricky this time of year, especially for a tree that’s already dying, but there are some wand trees on an island in the Black Lake at school which have an abundance of Bowtruckles.”

“It’s not just the tree,” Luna said, expanding her illusion so that the nemeton disappeared within a map of the isles.  Red lines appeared against the green, displaying the network of ley lines which connected and directed natural magical pathways.  “We need to strengthen the entire ley line.”

“How?”  Hermione asked, frowning.  “The ley line will go back to normal when we save the nemeton, it’s the weak point in this ley line.”  She pointed to the red line which stretched from Stonehenge to the Isle of Wight.

“By reweaving the magic,” Luna said, as if it were just that simple.  “We need to remind the nodes of the ley line that they are connected to each other, to shore up this node while at the same time working to save it.”

Draco stared at Luna, who gazed calmly back at him.  What she was proposing seemed both fundamentally basic and impossible all at once.  Reweave magic?  And not just any magic, but ancient pathways upon which the modern wizarding world had built most of its magical infrastructure? 

“That sounds a bit more complicated than what can be accomplished in the weekends, Luna.”  Neville’s tone was gentle.  “I’m not saying it’s not important, but if this is going to happen during the term we’re going to need to apply to McGonagall for some lenience around our teaching schedules.”

“I can help with that,” Hermione said, sounding slightly smug.  “I’m still one of her favorites.”

“That’s only because Rosie hasn’t come into her prime trouble-making years,” Ron quipped, a note of pride in his voice. 

“That girl.”  Neville shook his head.  “I’ve only ever seen so many House points lost and then won back by a single student when we were all first years.  Merlin help us all if you’re right.”

Draco gasped sharply when his father’s ring suddenly stung his finger, the sensation not quite as intense as it had been the night of the robbery, but much stronger than it would be for some casual visitor.  He turned his head to look in the direction of the Manor, though of course he couldn’t see it directly this deep in the woods. 

“What is it?”  Harry asked, raising his wand slightly and glancing around warily.

“Someone’s at the gates,” Draco said.  “And it’s urgent.”

“All right, hold on,” Harry said.  “We shouldn’t split up –”

But Draco was already moving, taking a few steps toward more solid ground to get clear of the others so that he could Apparate.  While the ley line disturbance still impacted destination targeting, smaller trips were less likely to be significantly off course.  He lingered just long enough for Harry to shout after him, then turned on the spot, aiming for the clearing by the pond. 

His feet squelched into freezing mud at the edge of it, and Draco wobbled a bit as he tried to extricate himself with a muttered curse.  Somehow the warping of the ley line always sent him into the mud.  Grito cawed a welcome from his perch in the nearby larch, and dropped into a glide so that he could perch on Draco’s shoulder. 

“Keep quiet,” Draco told the bird firmly, and Disillusioned himself and Grito before stumbling from the mud to more walkable terrain.  He was already passing the field maple when he heard several cracks announcing the arrival of Harry and the others, and he didn’t look back.  He knew that the prudent thing would have been to wait, but the sting in his finger hadn’t let up at all, and he didn’t get any sense of hostility regarding whoever was waiting at the gates. 

He was panting by the time he had crested the slow rise up to the gravel path, making far more noise than Grito, who was obediently staying silent.  It seemed like Draco’s body was changing day by day now, and in ways which were nearly all unpleasant surprises.  He shouldn’t have been this winded.

There was a broad-shouldered figure slumped with their back against the gates, and the gates were uncharacteristically still and silent for constructs that didn’t like to be touched by outsiders.  Draco glanced around furtively, looking for signs of anyone lurking or lying in wait.  Seeing no one, he dropped the Disillusionment and approached the gates, which hissed into smoke when he drew near.

Gregory Goyle collapsed backward with a sharp groan, his bloody hands pressed against the wound in his side.  His face was creased with deep lines of pain, the left side mottled with dark bruises, and when he managed to open his blue-gray eyes the sclera of the left eye was a deep blood red.

“Fuck,” Draco cursed, casting a nonverbal levitation spell to drag Greg completely onto the grounds of the estate.  The gates solidified as soon as his feet were clear, and they rattled unhappily.  Draco crouched next to his childhood friend, laying a hand gently on his shoulder.  “Were you followed?”

“Don’t think so,” Greg grunted.  “But I can’t be sure.”

“Draco!”  Harry’s raised voice was laced with worried frustration.  He skidded to a halt a few meters away, glaring at Draco and breathing hard.  “You couldn’t wait two minutes?  What the fuck is going on, who is – is that Goyle?”

Draco was about to offer a sarcastic reply when he felt Greg’s big hand encircle his wrist, his palm sticky with blood.  “I need to see your mum, Draco, it’s life or death – maybe hers, definitely someone’s.  I only know that she’s in London, I don’t know where.”

“Ferula!”  Draco cast the stabilizing and bandaging charm before addressing anything that he’d just heard, which had sent a stab of icy fear into his heart.  “Who did this to you?”

Greg’s throat bobbed as he swallowed, taking his other hand away from the bandages that were now wrapped around his torso.  “Rodolphus Lestrange.”

Draco heard Harry’s sharp intake of breath even over the sound of blood rushing through his ears.  His aunt’s husband had escaped in the immediate confusion and highly emotional turmoil of the aftermath of the battle at Hogwarts and had not been seen or heard from since, as far as he knew.  There was no reason for him to come back, nothing but settling old scores.  The Auror Office might be a jumbled mess when it came to low-level magical crimes but if there was one thing that was guaranteed to garner swift and brutal attention, it was the possibility of capturing anyone on the top priority list.

“Did you say Lestrange?”  Harry glared down at Greg, though Draco could tell that it was resurfaced anger at the thought of an escaped Death Eater daring to show his face that Harry was feeling, rather than childish dislike of an old school antagonist.  “I’ll send Kingsley a Patronus, he can tell Robards –”

“No!”  Draco barked, laying a hand on Harry’s wand arm and pressing it down.  “You need to speak to my mother first.  We need to get Goyle to Grimmauld Place.  Harry, please.  She needs whatever information he has.”

“Why is that?”  Harry’s green eyes were narrowed in suspicion, his mouth set in a grim line.

“There isn’t time to explain it to you twice, and my mother is the best one to do that.”

“Draco, what –”

“I said, there isn’t time,” Draco snapped.  “If Lestrange is here in England, he’s here for a reason.”  He swallowed down the feeling of nausea that was threatening to claw its way up his throat.  “We need to get Molly to safety.”

“What about Molly?”  Ron’s voice cut in like a saw blade, and when Draco turned to look at him, his entire face was red.  “What about my mum?”

Harry held Draco’s gaze for a moment, and Draco’s gut squirmed guiltily at the look of badly hidden hurt and confused disappointment on his face.  Then Harry let out a breath and turned to Ron and Hermione, instantly donning a reassuring air of confidence.

“Ron, ‘Mione, Lestrange is here, in the country.  Until we know more, Molly and Arthur need to be somewhere safe, the Burrow is too well-known and too exposed.  You can bring them to Grimmauld Place, either until you find somewhere better or for as long as they need to stay.  Luna, Neville, go back to Hogwarts and tell McGonagall – she deserves to know, so she can take any necessary steps to keep the students safe, even if he’s unlikely to target the school.  But otherwise, keep it to yourselves.  We’re better able to scoop him up quickly if he thinks that no one else knows he’s here.”  Harry turned back to face Draco.  “I’ll take Goyle Side-Along.  You can follow me.”

And with that, Harry grasped Greg’s forearms, leaning back and hauling the big man upright with a grunt of effort.  He paid no mind to the way Greg braced himself heavily on his shoulders with shaking, bloody hands.  The two of them Disapparated with a resounding crack.

“Be quick,” Draco warned the others, hating the way that they were looking at him now, as if the news of Lestrange’s re-emergence had somehow shortened the twenty-year distance between himself and his own Death Eater status.  He reached up with his right hand, gently urging Grito off his shoulder, and the raven took flight with a few loud complaints, winging his way back to where the rest of the flock was roosting.

Draco didn’t watch as Hermione and Ron joined hands and Disapparated, didn’t let himself notice the way Ron glared at him before he and his wife took their leave – hopefully on their way to the Burrow.  Neville and Luna had exchanged grave looks before they followed suit, departing without a word.

Taking hold of one of the cast iron uprights of the gates, Draco let himself sag slightly as soon as he knew he was alone.  This was not how he’d envisioned revealing his mother’s years of near-obsessive work, and he doubted it was what Narcissa had intended, either.  He tightened his grip, pressing the inner band of his father’s silver ring against the iron.

“No one gets in unless invited, agreed?”  Draco murmured quietly, and he felt the gates vibrate gently in acquiescence.  “Thank you.”

His first Apparition left him gasping in the middle of the Downs, which had become his customary halfway point between the Manor and Grimmauld Place.  He bent forward, bracing his hands on his knees while he regained his breath, willing the new, dull ache in his belly to subside.  It almost felt the way a stitch in his side would, after a fast sprint with no warm-up.  He tried to straighten, easing himself upright, and pressed his hand against his belly.

“Stop that immediately,” he scolded, his voice hardly louder than a whisper.  “I haven’t forgotten about you.  But your grandmother has pressing business that requires our attention.  It will be all right, I promise.”  That last sentence had the taste of a lie, but the pain abated.  He only had to overcome his dread at facing Harry’s disappointment again.

It only took him one more jump to arrive in the entryway of Grimmauld Place, and he could hear commotion coming from the drawing room down the hall.  There he found Greg sprawled on the floor, half covered by a blanket which Draco was certain had come from one of the unused guest rooms.  Narcissa was kneeling next to him, pulling aside the bandages that Draco had conjured so that she could assess his wound.  Harry and Pipsy were speaking urgently to each other, no doubt making arrangements to accommodate more guests who were likely to arrive any minute.

Harry stopped talking as soon as he spotted Draco in the doorway, and Pipsy wisely took the hint, vanishing with a small thunderclap of air.  Harry’s eyes swept up and down Draco’s body, and Draco took a small measure of comfort in that automatic gesture of care.  Perhaps…perhaps things weren’t irreparably broken between them.

“Gregory,” Narcissa said firmly, withdrawing her bloodstained hands and spelling them clean again with a bit of nonverbal magic.  “Still with us?”

A muscle in Greg’s cheek rippled as he clenched his teeth against the pain, but he gave her a short nod. 

“Then you know what I need to hear first.”  Narcissa laid a comforting hand on the big man’s shoulder, but it was clear that nothing would be explained aloud until she was certain that he hadn’t been compromised.  Polyjuice potion likely would have started to wear off by now, but the Imperius Curse was a devilishly tricky thing – plausibly used by Lucius Malfoy and other Death Eaters to claim innocence after the first wizarding war, as it left no trace in its victims and even questioning someone with Veritaserum yielded inconsistent results.  The curse often left the victim’s memory too fuzzy to give concrete answers, and many of Voldemort’s followers had been skilled enough at Occlumency to defend against the truth potion.

“A hellion’s home is anywhere good men fear to tread,” Greg recited.  Draco wasn’t familiar with the code phrase, but his mother was careful.  She had a different code for each of her closest informants, and one for him as well.

Narcissa breathed a sigh of relief, closing her eyes briefly before patting Greg’s shoulder.  “Now, tell me what news you have.  Mr. Potter mentioned Rodolphus, but things were rather hectic when you first arrived.”

“He’s a fucking arsemonger,” Greg growled through clenched teeth.  “I was in Folkestone with my lorry for a pick-up, at the request of an off the books client.  I was expecting a handoff of information, and probably some cargo that wasn’t strictly legal.”  Greg gave a sideways glance at Harry, who didn’t so much as blink.  “It was naught but a few boxes that came across the Channel, small ones.  I couldn’t understand why they’d need to hire a lorry to transport ‘em.  But he hit me with a curse once I’d got onto the M25, just past Sevenoaks.”

“He was in one of the boxes?”  Harry asked intently.

Greg nodded, wincing as he did so.  “He’s an Animagus now, I got a look because he transformed back right when I rolled the lorry.  Turns into one of them sodding great wandering spiders, the ones about the size of dinner plates.  I Apparated out of there as soon as the lorry stopped moving, nearly Splinched myself right from the start because I forgot about the damned safety belt.”

“An Animagus, you say?”  Narcissa raised her eyebrows.  “I can’t say that his alternate form isn’t fitting.”  She rose from her kneeling position, reaching for the book she’d left on the settee.  Draco saw the faintest expression of trepidation cross her face when she looked at Harry.  “I imagine you have questions, Mr. Potter.”

“A few, yes,” Harry said, a distinct chill in his tone.  “Draco said that you were the best person to answer them.”

“That is correct, and I want you to understand that he has had nothing to do with the work that I’ve undertaken.”  Narcissa gave him a severe look, clearly waiting for a response.

“Understood,” Harry said finally.

Nodding decisively, Narcissa held her book open in her hands, allowing Harry to leaf through the pages.  A line formed between Harry’s brows and grew deeper the more pages he turned, and then he used his finger to mark his place so that he could look at the cover.  It was The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts, by Nasir Shafiq.  Except that Narcissa had enchanted the pages within with Protean Charms to receive intelligence from her contacts around the world, transferred instantly as they wrote it down in their corresponding books.  It contained painstakingly drawn maps spelled with Homunculus Charms, which tracked the known locations of positively identified Death Eaters who had escaped after the end of the second war.  Tucked into the pages to reinforce those charms were small bits and bobs, a lock or two of hair, all intended to reinforce the targets of the charms, and possibly to be used against them once the time was right.

It seemed that the time was right now, which Draco knew had his mother off balance.  She had been so meticulous, for so many years – determined that everything would be ready so that none of the Death Eaters in her sights would slip through the net when she decided to draw it in.

“How long have you –”  Harry blew out a breath, raising his eyebrows.  “This must have taken you years.”

“It did indeed.  I began this work shortly after my Lucius died, when it became clear to me it was in my son’s best interests, as well as mine.  Any infractions of the terms of my acquittal have been in the service of compiling this information, and I have been considering the idea of turning it over to you for some time, in the hopes that you would know best how it could be used to the best possible effect.  But Lestrange’s appearance has taken the luxury of timing away from me, and I fear that this is as complete as I can make it.”

Harry glanced down at Goyle, who was looking between him and Narcissa with apprehension.  “You said you needed to talk to Narcissa…you’ve been a part of this, too.  Haven’t you.”  It wasn’t a question.

Greg swallowed hard, his hands clutching at the blanket covering him.  “I have, yeah.  I know you don’t believe it, but Vince…  He deserved better.  And his old man is rotting in Azkaban, the way he ought to be, but it weren’t just him, you know?  There’s fifty names on that wall in the courtyard, back at school.  The people that put them there can’t just be going free.”

“No,” Harry agreed, his voice soft.  “No, they can’t.”  He met Narcissa’s gaze again.  “I need to give this to Kingsley and Robards.  They have the resources to bring in other departments and liaise with enforcement divisions in other countries.”

The corners of Narcissa’s mouth tightened, but Draco knew that she could see the wisdom in what Harry was saying.  “If you must.”

Harry gave her a nod, tucking the book securely under his arm, and made to go toward the fireplace.

“Wait,” Draco said suddenly, heaving himself away from the wall he’d been leaning against.

Harry paused, his expression shuttering into something neutral when he turned to face him.

“I want Shacklebolt’s promise that my mother, and anyone who worked with her and might also be subject to the Ministry, receive immunity for their actions related to gathering this information.  No one is going to Azkaban for this.”  Draco’s voice was firm, but he had to clench his fists to hide the tremble in his hands.

“You think that of me?”  Harry’s face shifted, becoming pained.

“No.”  Draco shook his head.  “It’s the Ministry I don’t trust.”

“I’ll get it in writing, then,” Harry said, and Draco missed the warmth that usually infused everything he said.  This Harry was distant, and cool – not cold, which might have indicated enough intensity of emotion as to lower the temperature intentionally.  But the coolness had an indifference to it that Draco didn’t like.  “I’ll be back as soon as I can.  Goyle, you can stay here as long as you need to – in fact, I insist on it.  Lestrange knows that you know he’s in the country.  You could very well be a target yourself.”

“’S good of you,” Greg grunted, flapping a hand tiredly.

Harry looked at Draco again, and this time his features softened slightly.  But he stepped up to the hearth, tossing in a pinch of Floo powder, and was gone.

~ * ~

Draco started at the gentle touch of a hand on his shoulder, and he jerked upright from his seat at the small kitchen table.  He hadn’t realized how close to a doze he’d been, and he tried to compose himself when he saw Molly’s surprised and apologetic face.

“It’s late, Draco,” she said softly.  “You ought to be resting.”

“I have been saying the same, Missus Molly,” Pipsy declared, more than a touch of exasperation in her voice as she whisked away the cup of cold tea that had been sitting in front of Draco on the table and replaced it with a fresh one, steam rising lazily from the brew.

“I’m fine,” Draco said automatically, then shook himself and gestured at the seat beside him.  “You’re welcome to join me, if you’re not planning to sleep yourself.”

“I think I will, thank you.”  Molly pulled the tatty but comfortable-looking fuzzy pink robe more closely around her and sat, giving Pipsy a nod of thanks as another cup of tea appeared before her.  Pipsy grumbled about putting together some sandwiches, as it was clear that no one in the kitchen was inclined to be in bed where they belonged, and the meeting in the drawing room between Harry, Shacklebolt, Robards, Narcissa, Ron, and Hermione was still going on.  Arthur had wanted to be part of it as well, but Molly had reminded him very firmly of his retirement status and sent him to bed.  And Draco couldn’t bring himself to advocate for his own presence there.  He didn’t want to be involved in hunting down Death Eaters, for one thing, and he didn’t feel that Harry would appreciate his attendance, for another.

“They’ve been at it a while,” Molly commented, after taking a sip of her tea.

“They have,” Draco agreed.  “My mother has spent years gathering every scrap of information she could.  I imagine that it would take some time to go through it all, even focusing on just Lestrange.  He’s gone past the boundaries of the map that my mother created for him, unfortunately, so they don’t currently have an easy way to track him.”

Molly fiddled with the handle of her cup, her movements rattling it against the saucer slightly.  “It’s not that I don’t appreciate Harry’s hospitality, mind, but I do hope that your mother isn’t upset with us staying here.”

Draco frowned, feeling his brows knit together.  “Why on earth would she be?”

“Well, I did do away with her sister twenty years ago,” Molly said tartly.  “That’s the reason I’m here, instead of safe at home.”

Understanding suddenly dawned.  No wonder Molly had seemed so uncomfortable when she and Arthur had popped out of the fireplace in quick succession, followed closely by Hermione and a still scowling Ron.  Draco held his breath, then dared to reach out and cover Molly’s hand with his.  She didn’t pull away, but she did meet his gaze, her eyes searching.

“My aunt was someone who had to be stopped, one way or another,” Draco said, meaning every word.  “My mother and I understand that, Molly.  She was cruel, and obsessive, and I honestly think that she met a quicker, kinder fate than being shut away in Azkaban for life.  She deserved nothing else.”

“Oh,” Molly sighed, her shoulders relaxing.  She flipped her hand, giving his a grateful squeeze.  “I can’t say that I’m sorry I did it.  She was going to kill my little girl.”

“You have nothing to apologize for,” Draco said firmly.  He closed his eyes, feeling a wave of fatigue wash over him.  “Though I might.”

“What do you mean, dear?”  Molly asked. 

“I didn’t tell Harry about my mother’s activities,” Draco said, dropping his gaze.  “I didn’t feel that secret was mine to tell.  But I assure you, her intentions were entirely the opposite of putting anyone in danger.”

Molly nodded, her eyes shrewd.  “She wanted to keep you safe.  Any mother would understand.”

“I can take care of myself,” Draco protested weakly.

“Of course you can,” Molly said.  “But you never stop wanting to protect your children.  You’ll know that soon enough.”

Draco’s eyes burned suddenly, and he had to turn away, taking deep breaths to recover himself.  The nagging worry about the ongoing situation with the Manor and the nemeton rose to the surface, nearly overtaking him completely.

“What’s this, a midnight tea party?”  Harry’s exhausted voice intruded on the moment of quiet as he stepped through the doorway.

“A witching hour tea party, more like,” Molly said, giving Harry an affectionate smile.  “Harry, love, you look done in.”

“Then the outside matches the inside,” Harry said tiredly, bending down to give her a kiss on the cheek.  “We’re going after Lestrange tomorrow, Molly.  You’ll be home before you know it.”

“’We’?”  Draco asked sharply, forcing himself to set his tea cup down before he shattered it by accident.

“Yes.”  Harry gave him a measured look, his green eyes giving away nothing of what he might be feeling.  “Robards wanted people with the right experience for this operation, though he nearly choked on the word ‘please.’  It’s temporary.”

“Is it.”  Draco could feel something like a deep pit opening up inside him, gnawing away at his emotions and leaving nothing but an inflammation of guilt at all of his raw edges.  He struggled to master himself, to compel his face into something pleasant so that he could give Molly the politeness she deserved.  “Goodnight, Molly.  I hope that you’ll be able to get some sleep.”

He got to his feet, feeling numb, not really aware of his actions as he made his way upstairs to Harry’s room.  The bed beckoned to him, and his tired body wanted to answer that call, to change into soft pajamas that were starting to get a little tight around the waist and sink into clean sheets that nevertheless had that smell of rain and cypress that was all Harry. 

There had to be another spare room, in a house this large.  They had settled Greg (with a healing spell and pain potions) in the one next to his mother’s, with Arthur and Molly set up across the hall.  He supposed he could sleep in the library, curled up in the big chair with a blanket.  It would hardly be worse than many of the nights he’d spent in his tent on the estate, keeping watch for Dementors.  Should he go back to his tent?  Was that the right thing to do?  If it was, then Draco was going to fail to do it once again, since he did not think he could Apparate back there tonight, even if he made more than two jumps.

“Hey.” 

Draco was suddenly aware of Harry, standing close to him, close enough so that he could feel the heat from his body but not quite touching.

“Don’t be angry with me,” Harry said, almost begging, craning his neck so that he could meet Draco’s eyes.

Draco blinked, then shook his head slightly in astonishment.  “Why would I be angry with you?”

“I need to work with the Aurors on this, Draco.  I have to make sure that Molly and the rest of the family are safe.  As long as Lestrange is out there –”

“Harry.”  Draco cut him off firmly.  “You do what you need to protect your family.  I’m just sorry that you were suddenly dragged back into work that you hate, and I don’t want them to string you along or wear you down, make you think that you have to take Shacklebolt’s offer after all.  I’m sure he’d still be thrilled to have you.”

“That’s not what this is,” Harry insisted.  “This is just to capture Lestrange, if possible.”

Lestrange’s fate if capture were not possible went unsaid, though they both knew it.

“I didn’t tell you about Mother’s work,” Draco blurted out.  It wasn’t an apology. 

“That was…definitely unexpected,” Harry admitted, though he finally stepped into Draco’s space, reaching up to run a hand along his jaw, cupping his cheek.  “Though I think I understand why you didn’t.”

“Are…are you angry with me?”  Draco’s eyes lifted to Harry’s and then darted away, unable to see them turn cool and indifferent again.

“I’ll get over it,” Harry said, leaning in to press his lips against the corner of Draco’s mouth, and then again more properly on the lips.  “I didn’t like the way you just went…blank…when you found Goyle at the gates.  It was like some horrible copy of your face, still and almost lifeless.  I felt closed out, and I didn’t like it.”

“I didn’t realize…”  Draco mumbled, leaning in to Harry’s touch, lifting his own hand up to keep Harry’s pressed against his face.  “I didn’t mean to.”

“You hide a lot,” Harry said softly.  “But I want to know you, I want to know what you’re feeling.  I want you to snarl and laugh and cry if you need to, I want to see that part of you.  You don’t have to protect yourself from me, Draco.”

An indignant voice in Draco’s mind protested that he had to be ready to protect himself from anyone, and especially from Harry, as he was close enough now to wound him in a way that no one else could.  But telling himself to keep his distance at this point was worse than useless.  It could only damage what was between them, and he’d only end up hurting anyway.  And hurting Harry at the same time.  Still, trying to break the habits of a lifetime was daunting.

“Come on,” Harry said, breaking the silence and jarring Draco from his turmoil.  “Let’s go to bed.”

Chapter 33

ARRESTED DEATH EATER SUCCUMBS TO INJURIES, MINISTRY KEEPS MUM ABOUT LINGERING THREATS

By Chester Lanius

An anonymous source from St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries said today that Rodolphus Lestrange, one of the most notorious Death Eaters who escaped justice after the Battle of Hogwarts and the end of the second wizarding war, has died of injuries sustained while resisting capture by a team led by none other than Harry Potter, best known for his defeat of the Dark Lord at the previously mentioned Battle.  Lestrange, who has been on the top priority list of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement for just over twenty years, was witnessed entering the country five days ago.

The response team, which was made up of five current or former Aurors and three Hit Wizards, tracked and confronted Lestrange just outside Ottery St. Catchpole in Devon.  Eyewitnesses recounting the intense skirmish claimed to see Lestrange take the form of a large spider, though there was some disagreement about just how large this abominable arachnid Animagus actually was.  Descriptions ranged from the size of a small terrier to that of a mature Acromantula, though full disclosure requires this reporter to admit that Lestrange’s Animagus form tended to increase in size in accordance with the number of pints the witnesses had downed during the interview.  Incidentally, visitors to Devon might consider availing themselves of the jolly atmosphere and reasonably priced fare of The Somebody’s Inn, on Park Lane in Combe Martin.

While no fatalities other than Lestrange appear to have come from the affray, the fugitive Death Eater was by no means the only one who required to be transported to St. Mungo’s in London after all was said and done.  Aurors Algar Farris and Farah Bukhari suffered serious injuries and have not yet been released from the hospital, and seven bystanders were hurt when Lestrange used the Bombardment Spell with a modification in an attempt to collapse a building onto members of the response team.  One of the bystanders is still in serious condition, according to the source from St. Mungo’s.

Harry Potter’s experience and leadership has been widely credited for the low number of casualties, considering the threat posed by any witch or wizard who is listed as top priority by the D.M.L.E., and his involvement in this action has only fueled rumors of the impending retirement of Gawain Robards, who has acted as Head of the Auror Office for the past twenty-two years.  Though Robards’ record of service contains many commendations and his steady hand was sorely needed while the Ministry of Magic was restructured after the second wizarding war, under his recent tenure citizen complaints against individual Aurors and other members of D.M.L.E. divisions have gone up, along with a number of troubling high-casualty actions.

Questions remain around Lestrange’s motivation to return to England, and one can’t help but note the timing of his reappearance seems to have coincided with that of former Death Eater Draco Malfoy, who has been involved in the magical disruptions and Floo Network disconnections in Wiltshire.  Director of Blythe Munro of the Office of Public Information Services at the Ministry flatly denied any known connection between the presence of Rodolphus Lestrange and any Ministry response work occurring in the vicinity of the Malfoy estate and reiterated that Draco Malfoy is in fact currently a contracted employee of the Ministry.  But still, two decades of relative quiet interrupted by the return of not one, but two Marked followers of He Who Must Not Be Named has caused a widespread feeling of unease among the wizarding community of the United Kingdom. 

Munro’s refusal to answer questions about any ongoing threats which may exist, calling such inquiries “nothing but wild speculation,” has done nothing to reassure the wizarding public.  No one from the Auror Office has responded to questions, maintaining an uncharacteristically locked down posture amid whispers that future actions related to Lestrange’s capture and arrest are being planned.  Such secrecy around D.M.L.E. activities, particularly if they involve escaped Death Eaters, is a justifiable basis for concern for the Daily Prophet, which is committed to shining light on the facts so that our own wide readership can take all appropriate action to protect themselves and their families.

~ * ~

Draco Malfoy, Former Student

Number Twelve Grimmauld Place

Islington

London, United Kingdom

 

Re: Unreasonable Demands and Overreach

Mr. Malfoy,

I’m quite frankly astonished that you would have the audacity to commandeer the invaluable staff and resources of Hogwarts when, as a temporary contractor for the Ministry of Magic, you ought to already have the means to obtain whatever you might possibly need to accomplish your assignment at the Malfoy estate.  And to attempt to do so in the middle of a school term is utterly unacceptable.  Professors Longbottom and Lovegood are critical figures in the lives of all Hogwarts students, and to place demands on what little free time they possess would be distasteful enough.  When they relayed your supposed need for additional work, which quite obviously would require them to take time away from the education of their students, I felt moved to write and state in no uncertain terms that you will not be able to expect their continued assistance. 

I was also quite displeased to receive a letter from Unspeakable Granger repeating your request, as her involvement has required me to re-evaluate my position in light of her statement of urgency regarding the situation.  However, as underhanded as you were to utilize one of my favorite former students to further your cause, I will not authorize the use of my professors’ time or the appropriation of the magical creatures which reside on school grounds without being convinced that it is truly necessary.

I therefore grant you one opportunity to do so.

In person.

You may call at my office this coming Friday an hour before the noon meal.  If you do not appear, I shall consider the matter closed and refuse all future repetitions of the request.  The wards have been adjusted to allow you to enter the school grounds, a temporary cancellation of your expelled status which went into effect just prior to the end of your seventh year.

Yours sincerely etc.,

Professor Minerva McGonagall, Headmistress

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

~ * ~

“You keep pacing and you’re going to wear through the floor and into the parlor,” Greg said, wincing slightly as he lifted his feet one by one onto the squashy ottoman set in front of the equally squashy armchair he was sitting in.  His healing was progressing slowly due to the scarring on his side, an unavoidable consequence of the Cleaving Curse Lestrange had cast on him.  The bruising on his face had faded completely, though – easy enough to heal since it had happened when he rolled his lorry. 

Draco only shot his friend a half-hearted glare, tapping the papers he held against his right leg with each step he took.  The library was a bit small for pacing, but the hardwood floor had let out a satisfying creak with every turn until Pipsy had Apparated with a small offering of tea and biscuits and then snapped her fingers pointedly to fix the loose floorboard.  The house elf was far too well-mannered to say aloud that Draco was driving what currently remained of the household to madness, but that had made it clear enough.

Greg was still recovering from his encounter with Lestrange, and though the Prophet had broken the news of the fugitive’s death before the Ministry had issued an official statement, Molly and Arthur were staying at Grimmauld Place for the time being.  This might have made for a slightly crowded living situation, were it not for the long and repeated absences of Harry and Narcissa.  Both of them had been drawn into the Ministry’s response to the information Narcissa had been able to give them about the habits and whereabouts of the remaining Death Eaters, and just as Draco had feared, it had not ceased with Lestrange’s apprehension. 

He’d seen Harry only briefly in the days since Lestrange had entered the country, and his mother only a handful more times.  While Narcissa was no longer even technically under house arrest, the matter quickly and quietly scuttled under the mountains of paperwork which seemed to be the life’s blood of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, she was now a frequent visitor to Shacklebolt’s office at the Ministry.  That was where the actions intended to pursue the other escaped Death Eaters were largely being planned.  Robards was behaving remarkably sensibly about it all, keeping the information from being conveyed to the Auror Office as a whole and limiting it to just a small number of experienced Aurors.  The Hit Wizards, who reported directly to Department Head Maratus, were also involved but used sparingly, as they were capable of significant destruction and their deployment was always a cause for alarm. 

And in the meantime, he was expected to present himself to Professor McGonagall at Hogwarts and beg for the help that was necessary to preserve any chance he had of carrying this pregnancy to term.  He had not set foot on Hogwarts grounds since he and his father had been arrested along with the handful of other Death Eaters who had survived but not fled after Voldemort’s final death.  The letter informing him of his expulsion from Hogwarts and subsequent ineligibility to return to school to make up coursework and exam preparation for the N.E.W.T.s had been delivered to him at Azkaban. 

That had been a strange experience.  He had known since the moment that Voldemort had arrived at the estate after being recorporealized that his life would never be the same as it had been, and things had proceeded to get steadily worse from there.  But holding that letter in trembling hands, shut in a cell that was no more than about nine square meters and having no idea what the outcome of his impending trial would be, had brought home to him in a way nothing else ever could that his life had been irrevocably fucked.  He hadn’t eaten anything for three days, until the Aurors who were on the prison guard duty rotation arranged a supervised visit with his father.  Lucius had displayed a weary tenderness that Draco had rarely seen from him, putting an arm around his shoulders while he stammered out the news.  Lucius had murmured hollow words of comfort and encouragement, but had managed to feed him from the plates the Aurors brought in.

Which had made it all the more surprising that Harry Potter, of all people, had all but marched into the witness box of the Wizengamot and duly listed all of the too little, too late actions Draco had taken (or not taken) that might have stolen Voldemort’s victory away from him.  Harry hadn’t looked at him at all, except for a fleeting backward glance over his shoulder as he left the chamber after being dismissed.  In the space of an hour, Harry had given Draco the chance at some kind of future, something that he’d thought to be lost forever.  And then twenty years had gone by.

“What are you so worried about?”  Greg asked finally, after watching Draco continue to pace.  He’d picked up a book from the side table, which seemed absurdly small in his large hands, but set it back down.

“Would you like that list alphabetically or in order of severity?”  Draco’s question was dryly sarcastic, but Greg was well used to Draco putting bite into his words in order to hide vulnerability behind them.

“I could help, maybe, if you told me what was going on.”

“What do you mean?”  Draco asked, hesitating just a second too long.

“That.”  Greg pointed at him, his eyes narrowed.  “There’s stuff that you’re not telling me, and that’s fair enough, I suppose.  But it’s weird.  You’re acting weird.  And I know I’m not the sharpest Knarl in the hedge, but I can’t figure out why.”

“Don’t,” Draco snapped, shoving his copy of the Daily Prophet at Greg and forcing him to look at the headline.  “Don’t speak about yourself that way.  You were part of this.  You helped this happen, and my mother would never have relied on you if you weren’t clever and capable.”

“All right,” Greg said, drawing back slightly in surprise and taking the newspaper from him.  “Keep your hair on, I didn’t mean anything by it.”

“I’m sorry,” Draco said, blowing out a breath and running his free hand through his hair in frustration.  “It’s just that I realized that I’ve only told one other person about this on purpose, and technically it wasn’t even a person, it was my father’s portrait.  Everyone else who knows found out through dramatic and unfortunate circumstances.  And also Ron Weasley’s big mouth.”

“Blimey,” Greg commented.  “Good thing I’m sitting down for it, then.”

“Indeed,” Draco said, giving him a small smile.  He took a deep breath, then let it out slowly.  “I…am pregnant.”

Greg blinked several times, his mouth falling open slightly.  “Oh.  Then things are going well with Potter?  I honestly wasn’t sure.”

“Yes.  No.  I don’t know, I haven’t even seen him since yesterday morning.”  Draco scrubbed his face with his hand, and when he glanced back at Greg, he saw that his friend was squinting at his belly.  “I’m not showing very much yet.”

“But now that I know, I can see it.”  Greg met his gaze, his eyes soft.  “Congratulations.  No wonder the house elf keeps trying to feed you.”

“I – thank you,” Draco said, feeling his face heat.  “I’m trying not to…it might not happen.”

“What?  Why not?”  Greg’s brows drew together in concern.

“Because the enchantment that made it possible, it’s tied to something on the estate.  And if it dies, then…”  Again, Draco couldn’t bring himself to voice it aloud.

“And you need something from Hogwarts to keep that from happening?”

“I think so.  Luna Lovegood and Neville Longbottom teach there now, and they’ve been instrumental in the project.  I don’t know what else I could do, if I don’t have their help.  And I don’t know if there’s time to wait until after the school year ends.”  Draco started to pace again, his grip tightening around McGonagall’s letter.

Greg gave a decisive nod, stifling a pained grunt as he moved his feet off of the ottoman.  “Then I’ll come with you.”

“What?”  Draco stopped in his tracks.  “No, you don’t –”

“I want to help,” Greg said, heaving himself to his feet.  “Not that I can do much, mind.  The headmistress scares the life out of me, always has.”

“Understandable.”  Draco put a hand out to Greg’s arm, helping to steady him.  “My mother knows about the pregnancy but does not know about the threat to it.  I’m asking you not to tell her.”

“Been telling your mum a lot of things for a long time,” Greg said, the corner of his mouth lifting up into a half smile.  “But I won’t tell her.  Promise.”

“Thank you, Greg.”

“’Spose I’d better hold off on hugging you until after you’ve had the bairn,” Greg said, rubbing the back of his head awkwardly. 

Draco chuckled, the memory of being lifted off his feet in the pub in the village by the estate fresh in his mind.  “It might be best.” 

“Ready to go back, then?”  Greg asked, dropping his gaze down to the letter in Draco’s hand, upon which the Hogwarts seal was visible.

“I suppose I have to be,” Draco said softly, wishing selfishly that Harry was here with him instead of Greg.  But Harry was off being needed, and that was something that he could not easily refuse.  He wondered, briefly, if Shacklebolt was dragging his feet on extending the offer to lead the Auror Office to whoever his second choice was, in the hope that Harry might regain a taste for Auror work and fill the role himself.  It wasn’t an unsound tactic – indeed, it appealed in principle to his own Slytherin tendencies.

But he remembered the flat tone of Harry’s voice when he was recounting the incident which had earned him the Order of Merlin, the mismanaged failure which had killed a trainee and orphaned a girl, with no disciplinary measures taken for the Aurors at fault.  He remembered the way Harry’s arms had tightened around him, minute, barely noticeable tremors of genuine fear shivering through his muscles when he haltingly voiced his worries about wanting to use any power given to him to fix injustices outside the confines of ethics and law.

Draco did not agree with Harry that he might end up becoming like Voldemort, if he were to travel down the path of shaping the world to his own sense of what was right.  But if Harry should ever become a tyrant, he would be far more effective and ruthless than Voldemort had ever been.  Because Harry was a good man.  He would not delay any necessary actions or enact overly complicated schemes to set up a grandiose spectacle of victory.  He would do whatever needed to be done, quickly and without fanfare, efficiently losing the best parts of himself to his purpose while achieving exactly what he intended.

The wizarding world did not know how fortunate it was that Harry didn’t crave any power beyond what he already had.

~ * ~

Draco had never traveled to Hogwarts by Floo before.  He had a vague memory of Professor Binns droning on about the history of the castle, and the logistical problems which had surrounded the means by which students were transported to and from that particular Unplottable bit of Scotland.  The task was complicated by all of the wards and other measures which were intended to both keep the students safe and contain the wild consequences of attempting to teach hundreds of actual and almost teenagers how to control their magic.  Until, finally, the Muggle invention of the steam engine had prompted the creation of the Hogwarts Express.

He knew that there must at least be a few fireplaces in the castle which were connected to the Floo network, as the headmaster or headmistress of Hogwarts was frequently called to the Ministry and meetings with the board which governed the overall running of the school.  It had also been possible to make Floo calls, though this means of communication was generally off limits to students except in case of emergencies. 

It wasn’t a surprise, therefore, to see an unfamiliar room when he stepped out of the green flames of the Floo Network, moving quickly to the side to allow Greg plenty of space for his own arrival.  It appeared to be some sort of small common room, likely something only accessible to the staff given the size and the relative niceness of the furnishings.  There was even an extremely complicated bronze samovar with three distinct taps occupying a table against the opposite wall, with a small hutch of cups and saucers ready for use.  The samovar belched steam periodically, and there was a faint bubbling noise as whatever beverages it contained percolated through the brewing process.

The room was sparsely occupied at this time of day, just before the luncheon was due to be served in the great hall.  Draco was unsurprised to see Luna and Neville, looking up from their quiet conference in the corner with expressions which at least meant that they weren’t displeased to see him.  Probably.  But he was not expecting to see Hermione perusing the volumes tucked into the large bookcase nearby.

“Hermione,” Draco greeted her, as green fire roared up in the fireplace behind him, allowing Greg to step carefully onto the hearth.  “What are you doing here?”

“Hello to you, too,” Hermione said, seeming slightly startled at how far she had to look up to meet Greg’s gaze.  When she’d seen him briefly at Grimmauld Place earlier, he’d still been prone on the floor of the drawing room before Pipsy had Apparated him to the prepared guest room so as not to aggravate his injuries.  “I’m here because Professor McGonagall is being shortsighted and stubborn.  I have two children here, I am extremely cognizant of the need to prioritize their educational experience –”

“That is most gratifying to hear, Unspeakable Granger,” came a sharp voice with a Scottish accent softened from decades of teaching children from all over the isles.

Since Greg was on Draco’s left side, he had just enough peripheral vision to see him straighten up with a grunt, as though he were in the military and McGonagall were his commanding officer.  It was almost diverting enough to distract him from the sudden attack of nerves which assailed him at the sight of one of the most imposing figures from his childhood. 

Pale blue eyes met his gaze squarely, and they traveled up and down his body, cataloging every detail of his appearance.  He had taken care with his choice of clothing, not quite adopting the level of formality which would have required robes, but putting on (and letting out) his best black wool trousers and hiding his small belly behind a dark green jumper over one of his customary white collared shirts (which had also needed to be magically altered so as to not pull tightly over his stomach).  His color choices had been quite deliberate, with the intent to show McGonagall that he wasn’t attempting to pretend to be anything other than he was – a former student of House Slytherin and former Death Eater, expelled with cause.

McGonagall switched her perusal from Draco to Greg, her eyes widening only slightly.  “Good gracious, Mr. Goyle.  I nearly forgot how excessively tall you insist on being.”

“Er, sorry, Professor,” Greg mumbled, shifting slightly on his feet.

“Merlin’s beard, do not apologize, young man.  I daresay you cannot help it.”  McGonagall glanced briskly around the room.  “I suppose you had all better accompany me to my office, where we can talk properly.”

Draco hadn’t quite known what to expect from McGonagall upon their first interaction in decades, but he found that he didn’t mind being snubbed so much.  It gave him a little extra time to gather himself, to attempt to get a tight rein on the turbulent and confusing mix of emotions that came from being inside Hogwarts castle again.  He had a Calming Draught in his satchel, just in case he felt any signs of an incipient panic attack.  Though he would of course prefer not to have to use it.  He didn’t know how it might mix with the dose of the potion Astoria had recently recommended that he start taking three times each day now. 

They traveled through familiar hallways which were mostly empty, as all of the students ought to still be in their morning classes.  McGonagall issued some sharp reprimands to any of the students they encountered who didn’t seem to have a good reason for not being inside a classroom, taking five points from Ravenclaw in the case of one student who was very clearly dawdling on his way back to Divination.  They all seemed so incredibly young and breakable.

The entrance to McGonagall’s office was apparently behind the statue of a bird-like gargoyle, which turned on its low pedestal and stepped aside when the headmistress spoke the password.  “Mercurius praecipitatus.”

A spiral staircase guided them upward, revealing a spacious room with a domed ceiling and filled to the brim with various magical implements and curiosities.  Draco wondered if it looked similar to the way it had when Albus Dumbledore had occupied it, or whether McGonagall had personalized it during her own tenure.  The portraits of past headmasters and headmistresses circled the room high up on the walls, and Draco met the kindly gaze of Dumbledore’s portrait before firmly and deliberately looking away.  He knew that Severus Snape’s portrait was positioned right next to it, and he felt no desire to see that face again, either.  He felt a slight ache at the back of his throat, where a lump of emotion was threatening to form, and he concentrated hard on the hourglass which McGonagall turned over before she took her place behind the enormous desk.

“There.”  McGonagall nodded pointedly at the grains of white sand slipping through the narrow neck of the glass.  “You have exactly an hour to make your case, Mr. Malfoy.”

“Professor, I have already explained –”  Hermione began, but McGonagall cut her off.

“I have thoroughly reviewed your letter, Unspeakable Granger, and there was no part of its contents which required an explanation.  Professors Lovegood and Longbottom are of course free to do as they wish as soon as we end the academic year and begin summer holidays.  Until that time, they are answerable to me, and I must first think of the students under my care.  I see no reason why this should not wait.  As for the request related to a starting colony of Bowtruckles, that will depend entirely on being able to successfully persuade them into a new tree, in a new ecosystem, during the time of year during which they are usually largely at rest.  February is hardly the ideal time for a colony transfer.”  The headmistress looked a Draco, raising an impatient eyebrow.  “Well?”

“Not having been privy to Hermione’s letter to you, I can hardly present my case without knowing where to begin,” Draco said calmly, even as he tightened his hand around the strap of his satchel.  “If, as you said in your own letter, I had attempted to leverage one of your favorites against you, it would have been a shoddy attempt to do so without even bothering to coordinate our messaging.”

“Draco didn’t ask me to write you, Professor –”

“If he did not, then I would like to hear what he has to say for himself,” McGonagall said, raising a hand to shush Hermione again.

“I assume that you are at least passingly familiar with the magical disruptions in Wiltshire, as they have been widely reported on lately,” Draco said.

“Yes, and I am aware that the ley line is the cause.”  McGonagall seemed unimpressed.

“The ley line is supported by, and indeed part of, the magical ecology of the area,” Draco said.  “The delicate balances between which maintain this ecology and allow it to provide the magical and environmental services at its customary capacity were thrown into disarray with the introduction of a magical contaminant, the source of which was an object housed inside Malfoy Manor.  It was carried from there to a secondary node of that ley line through groundwater.  And while I need the expertise of your professors to address the health of that node specifically, the entire ecology of Wiltshire has been affected by the contaminant.  The ley line may very well collapse if the node fails, but I believe it will do so in spite of the node if the magical ecosystem itself crumbles.”

“And upon whose expertise are you basing that assessment, Mr. Malfoy?”  McGonagall’s eyes narrowed.  “The last I heard of you, you were in France, where your mother’s connections had secured you a place at the Sorbonne.  You certainly did not complete your studies here, nor did you sit for your N.E.W.T. level exams under the supervision of any professor at Hogwarts.  Influence and money do not grant you expertise or credibility as far as I’m concerned.”

“Professor, I brought Draco into this project because of his heritage, as at the time I believed that Malfoy Manor was the secondary node which had impacted the ley line.  His involvement has been extremely beneficial to us, not just because of his blood ties, which have turned out to be incidental to our progress, but because Draco is an accomplished scholar with years of experience studying the ecological aspects of magic.  I assure you that he is qualified to make his assessment.”  Hermione spoke firmly but respectfully, though Draco noticed that she had shifted the looping straps of her tote bag to the crook of her elbow.

“I am not so ensconced in the education of more youthful students that I do not keep up with more advanced academic discourse,” McGonagall snapped.  “If Mr. Malfoy was half the scholar you imply that he is, I would know.”

“You don’t know because I didn’t know,” Hermione retorted.

“Miss Granger – blast it, I mean Unspeakable Granger, I must say that I’m surprised to see you so passionately defending one of the blemishes on Hogwarts’ proud legacy of producing some of the brightest –”

“Death Eaters?”  Neville interrupted, spots of color visible on his face, just above his dark beard.  “Most of the known Death Eaters were educated right here at Hogwarts, Professor, including Voldemort himself.  Draco barely rates as a blemish if we’re taking them into context.  An irritating pimple, at worst.”  Neville shot Draco the slightest wink, and Draco had the sudden urge to laugh, even if he was mildly affronted at the comparison.

“Would you like to see some of Draco’s work, Professor?”  Hermione challenged.  “Because it’s likely you already have, and you just don’t know it.”  She began to rummage through her tote bag, pulling out stacks of parchment pages affixed together with Sticking Charms and dropping them one by one onto McGonagall’s desk.  “Draco has been publishing under a pseudonym.  I’m sure you can guess why, since you were already gracious enough to give us a demonstration.”

McGonagall glared at the papers in front of her with such ferocity that Draco was somewhat concerned that they might catch fire, and he prepared to cast an Aguamenti just in case.

“Is this true?”  She demanded, looking up at him with a deep scowl.

Draco shrugged one shoulder, feeling nonplussed at the entirely unexpected show of support from his former schoolmates.  “It is.  I have a decent body of work under the name Pavo Salus.”

Flipping through the pages, McGonagall’s scowl started to ease into something that more closely resembled puzzlement, the line between her brows deepening as she tried to make sense of this revelation.  She set several of the papers aside, dividing them into neat stacks so that they blended more harmoniously with the general orderliness of the rest of her desk.  She rested her hand on one paper in particular, tapping her fingers against it thoughtfully.

“Then prove it,” McGonagall said finally.  “I do recall having come across this paper in the past couple of years, this Treatise on the Subject of Micro Transfiguration and its Ecological Implications.  Show me this spell you claim to have developed, the Transfigurare Infinitus spell.  I would very much like to see how it works.”

“Certainly,” Draco said, glancing around the office and spying a silver tray holding a pewter pitcher of water and several drinking glasses.  He retrieved the pitcher and one of the glasses, bringing them back to set them on a clear space on the desk.  He glanced at Hermione.  “Somewhere in that endless bag, I assume you have a piece of blank parchment?”

“As much as anyone could ever need,” Hermione said, her lips pressed together to suppress a grin. 

She handed the parchment to him, and he laid it out on the desk, retrieving a quill from his satchel and sketching out a runic circle.  He then placed the glass inside the circle and used the pitcher to fill it half-full.

“Do you have a contaminant that you’d like to introduce?”  Draco asked McGonagall.  “The demonstration will be more dramatic if the compound changes the color of the water, but I suppose you’d still be able to verify the success or failure of the spell even if it stays clear.”

McGonagall opened a drawer and removed a small vial of slightly greenish powder.  “Copper carbonate.”

“Perfect.”  Draco tapped some of the powder into the water, twirling his finger over the glass in a bit of wandless magic to encourage the mixture to fully dissolve.  The water turned a clear blue color.  He then placed just a tiny amount of the copper carbonate on the parchment, scratching out some formulas with his quill before circling everything and connecting it to the runic circle with an unbroken line of ink.

He retrieved his wand, weaving it through two distinct patterns before murmuring the incantation.  “Transfigurare infinitum.”

For a moment, nothing seemed to happen, even as Draco kept his wand trained on the contents of the glass.  And then, slowly, the vibrant blue color of the water began to fade, gradually lightening before it cleared completely.  It appeared exactly as it had before Draco had added the copper carbonate.

“And how do I know – ”  McGonagall started, closing her mouth with a snap as Draco raised the glass in a slightly mocking toast and took a sip of the restored water.

“It’s quite safe,” Draco said.  “Though you are welcome to test it.”

McGonagall narrowed her eyes at him, then picked up her own wand and performed several exploratory spells, each of them intended to provide flashes of colored light to indicate whether certain elements were present in the targeted substance.  She was silent for several minutes after she completed her last test, a muscle in her cheek working as she clenched and unclenched her jaw.

“That is…quite remarkable,” she said finally, sounding as though every word had been pulled out of her against her will.

“I’m sure you could guess how difficult – not to mention dangerous – it is to scale up,” Draco said somewhat ruefully.  “I haven’t dared test it on anything larger than just a few gallons, and it gets more complex when dealing with a substance like sea water, which is already a solution.”

“Of course,” McGonagall murmured thoughtfully.  “And any organisms contained in such a solution would be affected, particularly if they had ingested any of the elements that you intended to Transfigure –”

“It’s a knotty problem, to be sure,” Draco said, trying to categorize this strange sense of camaraderie he suddenly felt.  It was good to be discussing these fascinating technical details, and he wished that he could indulge himself in the distraction.  “As is the issue with the ley line, and that secondary node, for which Neville’s and Luna’s timely assistance is so essential.”

“Hmm.”  McGonagall didn’t sound quite convinced.  “I suppose I could ask Pomona to step back in for a time.  And Hagrid is always eager to share his knowledge with the students, though admittedly he doesn’t have much use for lesson plans.”

“Coincidentally, neither do I,” Luna said, who was wearing her multi-lensed specs and seeming to follow something around the room.

“Very true.”  McGonagall reached for the water glass, peering closely at it.  “But are you certain it’s urgent enough to pull both of you away right now?  It’s such a critical time for the fifth and seventh years…”

“Professor.”  Greg’s deep voice made a few of them jump, it came so unexpectedly.  “I can’t tell you anything scholarly or show off any fancy spells.  But if Draco says that it’s urgent, then it is, even if I don’t understand the reason he’s not telling you why.”

Draco stumbled slightly from the gentle nudge of Greg’s elbow, and he managed to shoot a glare up at his friend, who looked impassively back at him. 

“Goyle, that’s –”  Hermione began.

“Private, I know,” Greg said bluntly.  “Maybe it’s just the Slytherin in me, but you ought to use every means you have when it’s this important.  Besides, it might be my only chance to be anything like an uncle.”

McGonagall’s eyebrows lifted so high on her forehead that they seemed in danger of coming off entirely.  “What did you say?”

Greg looked pointedly at Draco, who waged a brief internal war with himself before sighing in resignation and giving his friend a slight nod.

“Right.”  Greg straightened, confining his wince of pain to just a tightness around his eyes, and laid out the facts.  He pointed at Draco.  “Magical pregnancy.  The magic is linked to whatever needs saving on the estate.  I want to be an uncle, or something near enough to it.  So please give him whatever help he needs.”

“Well.”  McGonagall looked as though she didn’t have the faintest idea what to say.  “This has been a day of revelations.  I suppose congratulations are in order, Mr. Malfoy.”

Draco was quiet for a moment, trying to quell the superstition that too many people knowing about his pregnancy might somehow diminish its chances of being successful.  But that was foolish, paranoid thinking, and Greg was right.  He needed to play whatever cards he could.

“I hope so,” he said finally, his voice hardly loud enough to be heard.

McGonagall’s expression softened, and then she moved her gaze from Draco to the parchment on her desk, the physical representation of nearly his entire life’s work.

“Then it will be my pleasure to assist, Mr. Malfoy.”

Chapter 34

The sensation of weight causing the bed to dip roused Draco from fitful rest, and the room was nearly pitch dark when he cracked open his good eye.  The faint light from the nearly full moon danced through the window on gently sifting motes of dust, as little dust as there could be found in a wizarding house bonded to a house elf as vigilant as Pipsy.  He rolled over to face Harry, who had just slipped under the covers and was sinking into the mattress as though he never meant to leave.

Harry moved his arm away from his side and reached for Draco, an open invitation that Draco was glad to accept.  He slid closer and pressed himself against Harry’s side, not surprised to find that Harry was completely nude, his skin even warmer than usual from the hot water of the shower he must have taken.  He avoided sharing Harry’s pillow, knowing that the man hardly ever bothered to dry off completely after bathing – which likely contributed to the unruly nature of his hair.

Instead, Draco rested his head on Harry’s shoulder, draping his arm lightly across his torso.  The dark hairs which led the way down past Harry’s navel tickled the sensitive skin of his inner forearm, brushing against the Mark, and the sudden feeling of wrongness, of touching Harry with that cursed non-ink made him instinctively pull back. 

But Harry’s hand wrapped around his wrist, his grip just tight enough to keep him in place.  When Draco relaxed, Harry let go and started to run his fingertips up and down Draco’s arm, light and soothing strokes that seemed to be as much for Harry’s benefit as they were for his.

“Did you find her?”  Draco finally whispered.  He wouldn’t have asked, indeed he would have preferred for Harry to fall asleep, to catch up on the rest he clearly needed.  But other than melting into the softness of the mattress beneath them, Harry didn’t show signs of falling asleep any time soon.  His body was still too tense, and there was an edgy sort of energy that was thrumming under his skin.

“Yeah,” Harry said with a huff.  “Once we’d traced Amycus back from one of his regular haunts in Stuttgart, he led us right to Alecto.  But I was ordered home before the team moved in to take her.  The Invigoration Draught isn’t working so well anymore.”

Draco scowled into the darkness and moved his hand, giving one of Harry’s nipples a hard flick.  Harry yelped and tried to rub away the sting.

“You’re not supposed to abuse it,” Draco scolded.  “That potion is intended for infrequent boosts, not daily use, and certainly not multiple doses within the same twenty-four hour period.  They were quite right to send you home.”

But Draco’s harsh words were belied by the way he felt gently at Harry’s hip, where the edge of a Confringo had caught him just a few days earlier.  Nothing remained of the injury now, not after the excellent care of one of the Healers at St. Mungo’s, but Harry hadn’t even allowed himself a full day of recovery before heading back out into the field.  Draco hadn’t felt it was his place to try to stop him – Harry confiding in him didn’t give him the right to police his behavior, even if that meant allowing him to get pulled back into what was essentially Auror work.

“I’m all right,” Harry said, covering Draco’s hand with his, and Draco could hear the smile in his voice and then the soft brush of lips against the top of his head.  “Still in one piece.”

Draco took his time, weighing the different responses he could give.  “If you need someone else’s permission – or validation – to take a step back, then you have it.  If you don’t want to do this, Harry, then don’t.  Tell them no.” 

Draco forced himself to snap his mouth shut, to keep from saying that he needed Harry’s help with the nemeton.  It wasn’t strictly true, not just now.  Neville and Luna had introduced three dozen new Bowtruckles to the dying ash tree just that morning, and the little creatures had seemed eager enough to explore their new home in spite of the cold.  Time would tell, of course.  They might not survive, even with the wards keeping the Dementors at bay.  They could decide to swarm to another wand tree, if this one proved to be too far gone.

And the last thing he wanted was to make demands of Harry.  Harry was far too giving, and other people far too willing to ask everything of him. 

“The sooner we do what we can with the information Narcissa put together, the safer everyone will be.  It’s not a matter of want.  I feel like I have to see it through.  Finish what I started.”

“Haven’t you done enough?”  As soon as the words left him, Draco wanted to take them back.  They felt…petty.  Selfish.  And revealing of too much of what he was really feeling.

“It seems like there’s always more.”  Harry’s soft, wistful reply was full of muted pain, his hand tightening around Draco’s wrist once again, as though needing to be grounded.  “Besides, if we manage to take care of all of them, then eventually the Prophet will run out of Death Eater stories to print.  They always seem to find some way to slip your name into their reporting, even though you have nothing to do with it.”

Draco didn’t care for that, either, although Pansy’s articles never mentioned him.  She didn’t seem to be the primary reporter on this beat, however, and Chester Lanius clearly felt free to make as many creative connections as it took to increase circulation.  Draco had scrupulously avoided the Prophet’s opinion pages.  The letters published in that section were selected because of their inflammatory and adversarial qualities, not because the wizards and witches who wrote in ever had anything interesting or noteworthy to say.  While Draco was grateful that Director Munro had put a stop to any more Howlers being delivered to him by owl post, the recent opinion pages had adopted the spirit of those missives.  Greg had taken to just removing that entire section and chucking it into the fireplace every morning.

“They have a great deal to say about you, too,” Draco said.

“I’m used to it.”  Harry’s reply was resigned.  “It doesn’t matter what they say about me.”

“It does, though,” Draco said.  “The Prophet has all but crowned you as the new Head of the Auror Office, which isn’t true.”  He put that out there, almost holding his breath in anticipation, wanting to hear Harry agree with him.

“No,” Harry said, and Draco didn’t know if Harry’s obvious fatigue was to blame for the slight pause before his answer, or the lack of conviction underneath it.  His heart sank, dread welling up within him.  It felt like Harry was slipping away, losing his grip on the changes he’d deliberately made to take up a new line of work.

“Harry –”

“What did Astoria have to say?  Have she and her colleagues been able to come up with anything that could help sustain this in spite of what might happen with the nemeton?”  Harry’s warm hand came to rest on the slight roundness of Draco’s belly.

Draco suppressed a sigh.  “She increased the dosage of the magical restorative that she’s having me take.  Utterly vile stuff, but at least it seems to be working.”

“Nothing else?”

“Not yet.”  Draco didn’t say aloud that he doubted that there was anything that could be done.  He didn’t have to.  The way Harry rolled, turning them both on their sides so that he could press himself up against Draco’s back and settle a large, warm palm against his belly, said that he knew.

~ * ~

Pipsy was the only one who was already up when Draco slipped downstairs.  He’d been able to get a few more hours of sleep, but only in between the two times that Harry’s nightmares had awakened him.  Draco couldn’t say for certain what had triggered them, but it wasn’t unreasonable to guess that Harry’s plunge back into chasing Death Eaters and working among Aurors might be stirring up some very unpleasant memories.  He had managed to soothe Harry back to sleep both times, though after the second he himself was unable to manage anything other than drifting right on the edge of sleep. 

Rather than risk waking Harry by tossing and turning, Draco had decided to rise for the day, which now started with a dose of the mud-brown potion intended to replenish the magic in his core, as it was drained to sustain the pregnancy.  He had been dreading the idea of ‘morning’ sickness, something that he’d heard of, had observed in a few of Séneca’s crew members, and that Astoria had told him was possible even with a magical pregnancy.  But so far, in spite of the foul stuff he was forcing himself to choke down three times daily, he hadn’t experienced it.

Breakfast preparation was underway, with Pipsy monitoring the various pots and pans that were sizzling or boiling on the stove.  Her lack of height wasn’t at all a hinderance, as she seemed to be able to sense the contents and their relative state of doneness merely through judicious snaps of her fingers and a number of tasting spoons.  Kreacher was not yet in the kitchen, and likely wouldn’t be until most everyone in the house had already eaten.  He was sleeping more and more these days, and Pipsy was extremely gentle with him when he was up and about.  He was ancient, even for a house elf, and Draco suspected that he might be nearing the end.

“Good morning, Draco Malfoy,” Pipsy greeted him, swapping his tumbler – now empty of his prescribed potion – for a cup of tea.  “You is feeling all right?”

“Well enough, Pipsy, thank you.”  Draco took a grateful sip of the tea, which was perfectly brewed as always. 

“And…”  Pipsy hesitated for a moment.  “Harry Potter is feeling all right?”

“He’s very tired,” Draco said.  He wasn’t quite sure why she was asking.  She clearly cared about the occupants of any home with which she shared a bond, and Harry was an important figure not just to witches and wizards, but to most Beings as well.  But this was slightly outside of the bounds of Pipsy’s usual sense of propriety.

“He is always being tired when he is doing Auror work,” Pipsy remarked.  “Or at least that is what Pipsy is remembering from before.”  She fiddled with a dish towel draped over the handle of the oven, smoothing out the wrinkles.  “It would be better for things not to be going back to how they were before.”

“What do you mean, Pipsy?”  Draco asked.

“Harry Potter is not being as happy back then.  He is not laughing so often.  He is being alone much more.  He is being hurt much more.  He is not sleeping well.”

Draco closed his eyes, feeling a series of emotions rolling through him.  Sadness, at the idea of Harry alone and recovering from injuries incurred in the line of work, except for two house elves.  Anger, because it didn’t seem like anyone in Harry’s life at the time, not even his closest friends, could see what Auror life had been doing to him.  And some sort of mixture of confusion and disgust, at the thought that the quality of Harry’s life had been so poor that entangling himself with a former Death Eater had yielded some kind of measurable improvement. 

That was not the life that the hero of the second war deserved.

And at present it was unclear that his new life would prove to have any staying power, since Harry had now found himself thrust right back into what had made his life so miserable before.

“He’ll at least sleep for a little while longer today,” Draco said finally, giving Pipsy a conspiratorial wink.  He reached into his pocket and withdrew Harry’s Muggle device, the thing that he used to call Dee and tapped out messages on for Teddy, and which jingled out an obnoxious wake-up alarm every morning.

Pipsy grinned back at him.  “It is too bad Harry Potter is forgetting his telemobile downstairs.”

“I’m glad we understand each other.”  Draco shuffled over to take a seat at the kitchen table, wincing slightly as he eased himself into a chair.  The skin of his abdomen was pulling, particularly around the thin Sectumsempra scars which had been called upon to stretch as his belly grew.  He hadn’t said a word about it to Harry, unwilling to see those tired green eyes cloud with lingering, unnecessary guilt.  He would have to rummage through his potions collection stored in the cupboard in his tent, to see if he had any topical remedy which might help.

“You’re up early.  Are you sleeping well?” 

Draco was surprised to look up and see his mother, who was up equally early and entirely put together.  Her mostly white hair was pulled back into an elegant chignon, and the gray dress she wore with the dusty lavender sheen was smooth and unwrinkled.  Her appearance was in stark contrast to his own, as he was still in his pajamas, feet stuffed into slippers that might have been his or could have been Harry’s, as their feet were the same size and he hadn’t been awake enough to worry about it, topped with what was definitely Harry’s wine red dressing gown.

“Not very,” Draco admitted quietly.  “I’m not sure any of us are.”

“True,” Narcissa said, seating herself at the small kitchen table.  She looked out of place, both in dress and in her bearing, since she usually took meals in the dining room, as was proper.  “But none of the rest of us are with child, so I feel that a bit of specific concern is warranted.”

Unsure how to respond, Draco focused on the wood grain pattern of the table top and shrugged one shoulder. 

“I had more than a few sleepless nights while I was carrying you,” Narcissa continued, her tone light and conversational, in a way which told Draco she was trying to put him at ease.  “Cravings, as well.  I was forever sending Lucius to the kitchens for raspberry sorbet and soupe à l’oignon.”

“Pipsy is remembering that very well,” said the house elf as she set a cup of tea in front of Narcissa.  “Toddy was making that soup every day, just in case Mistress Narcissa was wanting it.  Master Abraxas hated the smell.”

“Toddy?”  Draco couldn’t immediately recall the house elf who had belonged to that name.

“After the Manor hearth was going out, Harry Potter was helping all of the house elves to be finding new homes,” Pipsy explained.  “Toddy was going to Mistress Zabini’s house.  She was enjoying his cooking, and he was enjoying the house, so it was being a good fit.”

“Céline has since returned to France, leaving that house in her son’s care,” Narcissa added.  “She might actually be married again by now, though I did make a good faith attempt to warn this fellow off.”

Draco made a mental note to write to Blaise to ask him how many stepfathers he’d had by now – the count was at seven when they were both at Hogwarts, and at that rate his mother could potentially get a fair number of new husbands in twenty years.

“Every pregnancy was different, for me.”

They all turned to see Molly standing hesitantly in the doorway connecting the kitchen to the dining room. 

“Mrs. Weasley,” Narcissa greeted her, offering a tentative but welcoming smile.  “Won’t you join us?  It seems a rather pointless to ask Pipsy to move her excellent cooking if most of us are here in the kitchen already.”

“Molly, please,” said the Weasley matriarch, seeming pleased to be invited to sit with them.  She, too, was still in her dressing gown, so Draco felt slightly better about not having taken the time to dress for the day before coming downstairs.  “It’s strange not to be the one cooking at this hour.  Or any hour, really.”  She gave a nervous chuckle.

“I wouldn’t have been able to manage,” Narcissa admitted.  “I’m afraid I’m rather hopeless at cooking.  Did you have anything ready-made when you had cravings?”

“I tried to,” Molly said, smiling in fond reminiscence.  “Though things grew progressively hectic with each son, of course.  With Bill it was pickles, so those were easy enough to get.  Charlie made me want a good steak most of the time, which was a little hard to come by with Arthur’s salary…”  Molly cleared her throat and moved on quickly from that subject.  “When I was pregnant with Percy, I wanted sweets all the time, didn’t matter what kind.  The twins, the spiciest food that I could get – I may have overindulged there, they were the wildest of the lot and I can only blame the chili peppers.  And with Ron, I didn’t have so many particular cravings, but I was hungry all the time.  Sweet little Ginny wouldn’t let me eat much of anything but potatoes.  Fortunately, she wasn’t too picky about how they were prepared, as long as it was potatoes.”

“It might be different with magical pregnancies,” Draco remarked.  “I’ve had more of an appetite, but that seems to be it so far.”

“Could be,” Molly said, giving him a warm smile.  “But I’d wager that your energy is bound to follow a pattern, like how a traditional pregnancy tends to go.  It goes up and down.  You’ll feel more tired in the last trimester, until you get these little bursts that let you finish up everything that needs doing, setting up the nursery and the like.”

“I remember that,” Narcissa agreed.  “Lucius thought I’d taken a potion and was ready to scold me before he understood that it was just part of that last stage.”

“Nursery?”  Draco asked in a strangled tone.

“Of course.”  Narcissa patted his hand.  “You’ll likely want to keep the babe close to you during the first few months at least, but it will be good to set up a room for naps, and for when you’re ready to start spending the night apart.  It would be most convenient for you and Harry to have the nursery on the same floor, so perhaps the little study might be converted.”

“Have you and Harry been thinking of any names?”  Molly asked.  “Though sometimes you don’t truly know the right name until after they’re born and you get a better sense of who they are.  Ginny was like that – I was fairly set on the name Cedrella, after Arthur’s mother, but the girl looks nothing like a Cedrella.”

“Cedrella was my older cousin,” Narcissa remarked.  “Though I don’t remember – Draco?”

“Oh dear,” Molly said, looking alarmed.

Draco was gripping the edge of the table so hard his knuckles were bone white, and he was starting to get lightheaded.  He was breathing too quickly, short, sharp gasps around the pain in his chest.

Nothing.  He had done nothing, nothing was ready, he hadn’t even given a thought to what came after the birth, and he’d been avoiding thinking of the birth at all.  Babies needed things, didn’t they?  They needed names and nurseries and nappies, and he had none of that.  He and Harry hadn’t even talked about it, and he was failing his child before they even existed yet, if they even got the chance to exist, if he was able to save the nemeton and keep the pregnancy.

And if he didn’t, if he failed the nemeton as well as his child, then everyone would know.  His mother would be heartbroken, Harry would be devastated, Greg would never be an uncle, he will have disappointed everyone who knew –

He was dimly aware of his mother’s hands on his face, but he couldn’t seem to pull himself out of this panic.  There was too much, he couldn’t even explain it to her, because he’d been hiding the threat to his pregnancy.  He didn’t want to disappoint her.  He didn’t want to disappoint anyone.

There was a sudden crack of air, and then warm, strong hands were gently prying his fingers out of the death grip he had on the table.  He found one of his palms pressed against thin cloth covering firm muscle, and there was a steady rhythm under that muscle.  A heartbeat, and slow, consistent breaths in and out.  Unconsciously, he started to mimic that rhythm, his lungs following jaggedly at first, but then smoothing into deeper, more regular breaths.  The pain in his chest lessened, though he became aware of a dull ache in the tendons in his hands.  He was suddenly very tired, and ashamed, and he wished that he’d been able to retreat and suffer this attack in private.  There were too many pairs of eyes on him, and he knew, intellectually, that no one there thought less of him.  But he felt raw.  Exposed.  And exhausted.

“Are you with me?”  Harry’s voice was soft but deep, rumbling in his chest in a way that made the skin of Draco’s palm tingle.

Draco only gave a short nod, keeping his gaze on Harry’s brown hand covering his, keeping it pressed against his chest.

“Hey.”  The tips of the fingers of Harry’s other hands met Draco’s chin, lifting it.  “No one else is here, it’s all right.”

Alone?  Draco blinked around him, startled to see that it was true.  He hadn’t even sensed anyone leaving.  There were teacups still on the table, which meant even Pipsy had made herself scarce.

He felt gratitude and shame magnify at once, glad that he wasn’t having to endure the sympathetic gazes of his mother, or Molly, but disgusted at himself for being so weak.  He was pregnant, for fuck’s sake, and he was creeping up on his fortieth birthday in a few years.  He ought to be able to cope with this.  He ought to have thought of preparing for the actual birth of their child without his mother bringing it up.

“What’s wrong?”  Harry asked, squeezing Draco’s hand.

“I don’t know what I’m doing.”  The words tumbled out of Draco’s mouth, there was no stopping them.  “I don’t even know how to care for a baby, and I’ve done nothing to get anything ready.  My mother was talking about a nursery – I don’t even live here!  I can’t just take over your house and turn the study into a nursery –”

“What do you mean, you don’t live here?”  Harry’s voice was incredulous.

“I – this is your home, you’re just letting me stay here because the estate isn’t safe –”

“Draco.”  There was heat in Harry’s tone, something close to actual anger.  “You do live here, you numpty.  If you want.  I want you to.  But that’s my fault, as we’ve never actually properly talked about it, or moved more than just your clothes here.  We can do whatever the fuck we need to the house to make it ready for the baby.  We can get a new house, if you don’t like this one.”

“But what if we do, and…”  Draco’s throat closed up, and he reached out with his other hand, grasping Harry’s T-shirt and holding on like it was an anchor in a stormy sea.

“We’re going to do everything we can, first of all,” Harry said firmly.  “And if the worst happens, then we’ll get through it.  Together.  That’s what I want, if you want it, too.”

“I…I can’t seem to think about anything beyond saving the nemeton, I haven’t even thought up to the birth.  I don’t even know how much time we have left, with either the nemeton or the baby.  I don’t know what to do.”

Draco suddenly found himself pulled into a hug, with Harry’s strong arms wrapped tightly around him.  “That’s why we’ve got help, all right?  You’re not in this alone, Draco.  I may not be good for much but I know my way around kids, I helped a lot with Teddy, and then with Rosie and Hugo when they came along.  You don’t have to do everything yourself, it’s not all on you.”

“This part of it is,” Draco whispered, putting a hand against his belly.  His stomach rumbled, reminding him grumpily that it was time for breakfast.

“And it’s still my job to help you however I can,” Harry said, mumbling the last part of that sentence into Draco’s neck and following it with a kiss.  “I’m sorry I’ve been busy elsewhere.  What is the plan for today?”

“You’re not going back into the field?”  Draco asked, tensing slightly.  He didn’t want to give away how much he would prefer Harry to work with him and the others, rather than continue to put himself in the way of Death Eaters who would do anything to remain free.

“I think I’ve had my fill of field work just now,” Harry said, drawing back so that he could meet Draco’s gaze, his green eyes intent.  “This is more important.”

~ * ~

Luna’s Patronus message, delivered by a shining silver hare, had been cryptic enough, informing Draco that his presence would be needed not at the Manor, but in Oxfordshire.  But not until just before nightfall, which meant that had Harry not insisted that Draco return to bed and catch up on his rest, he would have had most of the day free to sit and fret about everything that he had neglected to arrange for the impending birth of his child.  But he’d been tired enough to sleep, at least, and when he arose for the second time that day, Greg was there to pull him into a discussion centered around the sports section of the Daily Prophet.

Greg was giving Draco a thorough rundown of the starting line-ups for Pudd United over the past few years, which apparently was essential knowledge for him to understand the team’s chances of winning the League championship this season.  When Draco voiced his opinion that Pudd United had the same chances as Snowdon being made of cheese, particularly with the Kestrels leading and the Magpies right behind them, the discussion devolved into a good-natured row that even drew Arthur in, though the man had been determinedly focused on the sections of the paper that he’d managed to get away from Greg.

Draco suspected that he was not meant to notice the way that Narcissa and Molly had their heads together and were speaking in low voices.  Neither of them were so obvious as to glance in his direction, but Draco would have been quite surprised if they were not talking about something to do with his disgraceful display that morning, or the baby, or both.  Narcissa had a look in her eye now that meant that she suspected there was something going on that she didn’t know about, and it was only a matter of time before she confronted him about it.

Fortunately, she and her book of Death Eater intelligence had an appointment with Shacklebolt, and she did not have the opportunity to get him alone.  And shortly afterwards, Harry started up his motorbike with Draco securely ensconced in the sidecar, and lifted up into the air to head westward.

The winter sun was low in the sky when they finally caught sight of their destination, and the cheerful blue sparks that were being sent up confirmed that they were to land on Whitehorse Hill, just above the enormous, stylized figure of a horse that sat on its north slope.  Draco had known of the Uffington White Horse, though he’d never seen it from the air.  There were a number of figures carved into the landscape over the Chalk in the southwest, many of them predating recorded history but others being more recent Muggle works. 

Looking at the White Horse from the sky, however, gave Draco the strong impression that its initial conception had to be from someone magical, capable of broom flight, or perhaps flight on the back of winged creatures.  It was visible from the ground, of course, but the crushed white chalk that filled the deep furrows which outlined the figure seemed to shine abnormally bright in the light of the full moon, and the short line that Draco had always assumed represented one of the Horse’s ears seemed more elongated.  Almost like the horn of a unicorn.

There were patches of snow scattered about the ground, but Harry managed to find a good landing spot close to where Luna and Neville were waiting.  There were several large buckets at Neville’s feet, and he was leaning on the handle of a spade made of what looked like silver.  Luna was wearing her multi-specs and had a large canvas bag which appeared to be holding several bunches of carrots.

“You’re just in time,” Luna said, shrugging the straps of her bag off her shoulder and pushing it at Harry, who hastily took it in his hands before it could fall to the ground.  “They’ll be out soon, and before that we want to collect some of these pieces.”

“Pieces of what?”  Draco asked, pulling the scarf that Molly had made for him a little tighter around his neck.  The chill had set in abruptly as the sun began to set, pointedly driving home the fact that winter was not yet over.

“The Chalk,” Luna said, as if that were obvious.  “The White Horse is one of the nodes on the ley line, though it’s likely more of a tertiary or quaternary node.  I think that the properties imbued in the chips will help to start the reweaving process, once we get them back to the nemeton.”

“Warp and weft,” Draco murmured thoughtfully, crouching with a wince to examine the furrow of the Horse’s back.  He really needed something to soften the scars on his stomach.  The high contrast between the soil and dormant vegetation, and the lines of the figure were refreshed with what was essentially limestone gravel, but the original construction of the figure had cut through the sod all the way to the Chalk underneath.  Upkeep of the figure had been performed by the local residents during the ‘scouring festivals’ led by the Craven family, if Draco recalled his history correctly.  One branch of the Cravens had been a powerful magical family in England before that particular line had ended.  The Malfoys had intermarried with them several centuries back, but he knew of no modern scions.

“Exactly,” Luna agreed.  “But the warp in this case is quite literal – the nemeton’s corrupted pull on the ley line is what we need to weave around.”  She knelt down and scooped up some of the limestone chips, depositing them into a small leather pouch.  She handed it to Draco, who accepted it gravely, and tucked it into his satchel. 

“What other sites do you have in mind for this weaving?”  He asked, straightening from his crouch.

“Stonehenge, obviously, but I have a feeling that we’ll need to build up to that.  It’s too powerful, and the nemeton too weak, for it to benefit from its magic so directly right now.  It might be overwhelmed.  So we might visit the Rollright Stones and The Needles on the Isle of Wight first.”

“And the ash?  How are the Bowtruckles faring?  I wasn’t able to visit the Manor today.”

Luna’s meditative expression pinched slightly, her mouth turning down into a grimace.  “They’re still alive, and still with the tree.  But they’re not very active, and they haven’t taken any action to hollow out the rot present in that portion of the main trunk and its offshoots.”

“That’s not good,” Draco said, trying to keep his calm.  One indulgent panic per day was his limit.

“But that’s the other reason we’re here,” Luna said, a smile brightening her face.  She made direct eye contact with him, something that she didn’t often do.  “They’ll come out any time once the moon rises.”

“They?”  Draco was puzzled.

“I don’t want to ruin the surprise,” Luna replied mysteriously, and then glanced around.  “Where did my carrots get off to?”

“I believe Harry has them,” Draco said, suppressing a smile.

“Why?”  Luna looked baffled, and slightly annoyed.  “Harry!  I need those!”

Draco had to stifle a laugh as she darted for the canvas bag, hearing Harry’s startled exclamation that she had been the one to give the carrots to him in the first place.

“All right, Draco?”  Neville asked, leaving his spade to stand upright on its own so that he could join him at the furrow.  “You and Harry both seem to be a bit knackered.”

“Harry’s been the one chasing all over the Continent,” Draco demurred, not wanting to have any discussion about either his appearance or his health.  “Though I’m glad he’s here tonight.”

“I don’t envy him,” Neville said, turning his head to gaze over the vale below the White Horse.  “I first joined the Aurors because I wanted justice.  For my parents, for the ones that died at Hogwarts.  There were too many of them that escaped, and I needed to feel as though I was doing something about it.”

Draco could understand that, though of course he’d been in a very different position after the battle.  “I think that the world needs more teachers than Aurors.”

“I think you’re right,” Neville agreed, flashing a quick grin.  “I certainly didn’t find any justice in that line of work, though I suppose it looks close enough like the real thing for the Wizengamot.  And I can’t say that I wasn’t glad to read about Lestrange in the Prophet.  I know him being dead doesn’t change anything for my mum, nor for my dad, may he rest.  But the world is a better place without him.  I hope his brother follows soon.”

“He may,” Draco murmured, knowing that his mother had a decent bit of information on Rabastan Lestrange, who was likely hiding out in the wastes of Chernobyl.  Hopefully his apprehension would only be a matter of time, though it was quite possible the radiation would do him in before then.  There was only so much magic could do to shield against such a powerful force.

“The Ministry has been tight lipped about all of this, but I remember what you said that day Goyle showed up at the Manor.  I know that your mum has something to do with this.  So please give her my regards when you see her.”

“I will,” Draco said, not caring that he was basically confirming his mother’s involvement.  She was too often at the Ministry for that fact to be buried for long.

“Look, there they are!”  Luna called out, pointing down the slope of the hill, and Draco peered in that direction.

At first he couldn’t see what Luna might be talking about, and it was very possible that she was pointing to something that only she could see – either with her multi-specs, or just her innate Luna-ness.  But then he saw them.

The light of the full moon was shining down on the vale, which was patchy with snow and half-frozen grasses turned brown with the season.  But the Mooncalves found it to be a suitable enough stage for their strange dances.  The animals had long necks and large eyes which reflected the moonlight, giving the impression of dozens of tiny lights flitting about the field.

The Mooncalves danced, rearing up on their hind legs and weaving intricate patterns of movement.  Had they been dancing in spring or summer, then the grasses beneath their wide, plate-like hooves would have left behind the delicate impressions that the Muggles called crop circles.  As it was, the snow cover was too noncontiguous for the wider pattern to be stamped into it, but it didn’t seem to bother the Mooncalves at all. 

The full moon was their time to frolic, the phase energizing them enough to go from four legs to two, their long, woolly necks stretched upwards as they swayed back and forth, carried away by their instincts and utterly oblivious to the fact that they were being observed. 

“Marvelous, aren’t they?”  Luna’s question was rhetorical, enraptured by the sight.  “Most people think that they’re very silly creatures, and they certainly don’t have the best survival sense.  But they gaze at the moon because their magical biology requires a very specific kind of photosynthesis to aid in digestion, which means that the dung they leave behind has very unique properties.”

“It’s fantastic fertilizer for the growth of magical plants,” Neville agreed.  He glanced at Draco.  “And that includes wand trees.”

“The carrots are to encourage them to linger long enough to leave some droppings,” Luna explained.  “As soon as they’re finished dancing, we can Apparate down there and feed them.  They won’t run off.  They’re not tame, they’re just very…”

“Stupid,” Neville finished the sentence for her.

Soon enough, the Mooncalves’ movements began to slow and become less synchronized, some members of the small herd deviating from the pattern and wandering the vale.  While he wasn’t exactly eager to scoop up their leavings, Draco was looking forward to seeing them up close.  He remembered the illustrations from textbooks, but had never seen one under the full moon.  He joined hands with Harry and went Side-Along with him, Apparating to the edge of the vale.

A few of the nearby Mooncalves trotted closer, their eyes wide and curious.  They weren’t at all put off by the sounds of Neville and Luna Apparating close by, and one of them let out an eager bleat that was somewhere between a sheep and a horse when it detected the carrots that Luna was again carrying. 

That caused something of an amiable stampede, though it was about as frightening as being charged by a Puffskein.  The Mooncalves crowded around them, snuffling at hands and pockets and nearly taking each other down when they crowded so close that they were stepping on each other’s wide hooves.  Luna was giggling uncontrollably, and seemed reluctant to allow anyone else to distribute the carrots.  Harry was laughing, too, when he felt the soft lips of one of the Mooncalves quest around his palm before finally hoovering up the carrot he held.

They were silly creatures, Draco thought, but that didn’t make them any less wonderful for what they were.  They were eager to accept pats to the soft wool that covered their bodies regardless of whether they were rewarded with a carrot, and their longish tails were waggling happily. 

Draco was brushing a bit of Mooncalf slobber from his hands with a whispered cleaning charm when he felt…something.  He froze, not quite believing it, and pressed a trembling hand to his belly.

It was there.  Faint movement, right there under his palm.

“Harry!”  Draco whisper-shouted, though he could have bellowed and the Mooncalves wouldn’t have startled. 

“What?”  Harry turned quickly at the sound of his name, concern written across his face.

“Come here, quickly!”

Harry was at his side in less than a second, sweeping his gaze up and down Draco’s body.  “What’s wrong?”

In answer, Draco grabbed his hand, not caring that it was slightly slimy, and pressed it to his belly, right where his own hand had been.  Harry’s brows furrowed, clearly not understanding, until –

“Fucking hell,” Harry breathed, his voice barely audible.  “Is that…?”

Draco nodded, unable to keep a wide smile from his face.  “It is.”

To his surprise, Harry’s eyes glistened with tears, and he let out a sound that was half laugh, half sob.  “Hello, little one.  We can’t wait to meet you.”

Feeling the sudden sting of tears in his own eyes, an inevitable reaction to the great swell of affection that he had for Harry and the child they hoped for, Draco curled his free hand around the back of Harry’s neck and brought him in for a kiss. 

Chapter 35

The features of the limestone carving that anchored the entity of the nemeton seemed to be more defined now, compared to the weathered appearance it had when they had first discovered it.  But Draco couldn’t be certain whether the apparent sharpening of the details of the carving could be thought of as a sign that its overall health was improving, or if it was all down to wishful thinking on his part.  This was a circumstance in which a true Pensieve might have come in handy, as it would have allowed him to examine his memory side by side with the present.

But Draco had been rather put off the idea of Pensieves ever since receiving his Mark.

Still, though.  The face of the statue, which had been worn away by time even within the protective embrace of the roots of the great ash tree, looked more recognizably…perhaps not human.  Certainly more distinct.  Draco still had no idea as to what gender, if any, it was meant to represent.  But the small sack of limestone chips from the Uffington White Horse, along with some soil from the center of the Rollright Stones, were tucked securely at the feet of the statue – without anyone touching the stone directly.  They did not want to repeat whatever strange interaction the entity had with Luna.  The earth from which the ash tree’s roots drew nutrients had been turned over with Mooncalf dung, which had caused all manner of small sprouts even in the space of a week.  The tiny, bright green shoots of whatever seeds had lain dormant were a welcome sight after months of winter gray.

It was hard to say if it was the physical components of the lesser nodes or the fertilizer which had encouraged the Bowtruckles to start behaving as though they meant to build a colony inside the ash.  Though the weather was still cold, the winter season was coming to its inexorable end, and March had brought with it cloudy skies and rain instead of snow. 

The tiny, insect-like creatures had made some progress in carving out the putrid black rot that the Dementors had left behind in their attempts to consume the entity as it had tried to protect itself from the corrupted groundwater.  They went at it in a very organized fashion, forming lines both going out and coming into the stump of the huge branch which had broken away.  Those on the way out dumped tiny armfuls of rotted heartwood, and then turned right around to join the line going the opposite direction.  They were quite industrious, and Neville was vigilant in Vanishing all of the detritus that the Bowtruckles dumped onto the ground.  He didn’t want to risk diminishing the quality of the surrounding soil by allowing it to remain.

The Dementors had not yet abandoned the estate, even though they had been barred from the nemeton ever since Draco and Hermione had set the wards.  They had not swarmed again, but Draco, Neville, Luna and whoever else happened to be assisting with the ley line work on any given day were still extremely careful.  All of them had been forced to deploy their Patronuses more than once while outside of the protection of the wards.  The Dementors appeared most often to menace Draco, which he assumed was either because they were threatened by his role as lord of the Manor, or because they sensed the way his pregnancy made him slightly more vulnerable.

Draco was continually surprised by how hard his body had to work to do things that he hadn’t even had to think about back in September.  His prescribed potion only did so much, and then only for his magic levels.  His energy was another story entirely, and his gait had begun to change to compensate for the belly that was becoming increasingly difficult to hide.  He’d grown past his ability to alter his own clothing in a way that ensured it would still look decent on him, and so lately he’d taken to wearing Harry’s T-shirts and joggers, though he'd had to lengthen the legs of the latter slightly.  He was unaccustomed to wearing such casual clothing while in the company of others, and especially while working.  But he couldn’t deny that they were comfortable.

His mother, expertly hiding the look of horror that wanted desperately to show on her face, had gently suggested that she might take him shopping for more appropriate attire.  He had just as diplomatically refused the offer, as she favored wizarding shops and he did not want his condition to be any more widely known than it already was.  Besides, Harry didn’t mind that he borrowed his clothes – in fact there was a particular glint in his eyes sometimes when he looked at Draco that said he rather enjoyed it.

There was a tentative nibble at his earring, and Draco reached up and poked Grito with his finger to discourage him from it.  The raven had boldly followed him all the way to the nemeton several times now, though most of the rest of the flock still kept their distance. 

“Can you feel it?”  Luna asked, coming to stand beside him.  She had been examining the root system of the ash, using her wand to help shore up some of the places where the soil had grown too thin and exposed some of the root caps.

“What do you mean?”  Draco peered critically at the nemeton, scanning the still bare branches of the ash and following the trunk down to the statue.

“It feels more alive than it did,” Luna said, pulling her coat more tightly around her when a cold breeze picked up.

“Does it?  Or is that just how it seems now that the land is waking up after winter?”  Draco hoped that he didn’t sound as though he were doubting Luna’s word on the matter, but he didn’t want objective observation to be shunted aside in favor of optimism. 

“I think that’s part of it,” Luna acknowledged.  “But there’s an aura of power here now that was…muted before.”

“How do you know that?”  Draco asked, genuinely curious.  “Is that something you see with your specs?  Or is it an artifact from when you touched the statue?”

“Hmm, neither,” Luna hummed, her gaze drifting somewhere else.  “Humans are so limited, you know.  We think of life as a hierarchy, with ourselves at the top.  The pinnacle of adaptation and evolution.  And some humans take it even further.”

Draco swallowed hard, sudden memories of his father’s rants on the superiority of Pureblood wizards fresh in his mind.

“But there’s so much that we can’t do.  We’re just another type of animal, suited for certain things and absolute rubbish at others.  There are animals, insects, and magical creatures that can see in much wider color spectrums, did you know?  Sometimes, humans can change the nature of their own perception.  Think of thestrals.”

“Ah.”  Draco understood what she meant.  Thestrals, unlike other winged horse species, could only be perceived by those who had seen death.  He had known of them but had not been able to see them during most of his years at Hogwarts.  The presence of Voldemort in his home had changed that quickly, as death had been such a common occurrence at the Manor since then.

“My mum was studying the phenomenon at the time when she was killed,” Luna said.  “One of the spells she was developing went wrong.  She wanted to know if it was possible to see past the veil, she was certain that she could invent a spell that would allow it, even for a short time.  I was there when it happened.”

“Luna…”  Draco didn’t know what to say, but he laid a hand on her shoulder and squeezed it briefly before withdrawing it again.  Luna tolerated touch fairly well, often better than she did with direct eye contact, but making her uncomfortable was rather the opposite of the intention behind the gesture.

“It was a long time ago,” Luna said, though there was a sadness in her tone that meant that the grief was still strong.  “The experimental spell fractured her mind and her body, and the edge of it caught me up as well.  Ever since then, after I recovered, I’ve tended to notice things that others just don’t.  It took me a good number of years before I realized that I was different in that way, I was so young when it happened.”

Everything that Draco remembered of Luna during their time at Hogwarts came flooding back – the nickname ‘Loony,’ the way even other Ravenclaws had thought her batty and strange, some of them openly speculating on why the Sorting Hat would have put her into the House known best for producing intelligent and academically gifted witches and wizards.  It must have been a mistake, they said, that her head was so scrambled that it confused even old Godric’s hat.

Luna had not been as interesting a target as any one of the members of the Golden Trio, and so Draco had not participated directly in bullying her, but everyone knew that it happened.  And no one cared enough to pause and consider whether there was a reason Luna was the way she was, or even to wonder if being different in a way that harmed no one was so worthy of disdain.

No one until Harry and the others, Draco had learned from his whispered conversations with Luna in the dark of the cellars.  It had been comforting to listen to her talk about anything that crossed her mind, when she was being held prisoner there.  And the subject she kept returning to was her newly made friends, those bonds formed during fifth year when Dolores Umbridge had tried to wrest control of the school from its rightful headmaster. 

“How do you describe something that only you can see or feel to someone who is incapable of replicating your observation?”  Luna’s lips gave a wry twist.  “It’s not even worth writing down when no one would even believe it.”

“Hermione said you have a feel for ancient magic,” Draco said.

“And that’s all she knows, at present,” Luna said.  “She’s a brilliant witch and a good friend, but she’s also an Unspeakable.  I don’t care to be involved with the Department of Mysteries in any way.  I’m happy to teach, and to travel the world in search of new and interesting things.  And to help you.”  She patted his arm distractedly. 

“Thank you, Luna,” Draco said quietly.  “You truly feel that we’ve made a difference?”

“I do,” Luna assured him.  “And I think that after the equinox, the nemeton will be resilient enough to accept a weaving from Stonehenge.”

“That’s…ten days from now.”  Draco considered what might be done during that span of time, absently smoothing his hand over his belly.  The pulling of his scars had thankfully lessened after a few applications of a medicinal salve that he had received from the same family matriarch who charmed the milagros of the crew before each voyage of the Esperanza.  It was meant to soothe bruises and mend sunburn, and seemed to work perfectly well for his needs.  “What do you think we need to collect from there?”

Luna didn’t answer him, not at first.  Instead, she closed her eyes and breathed deeply, drawing the fresh cold air into her lungs and holding it for a moment before releasing it with a sigh.  Finally, she looked at him.

“You and Harry will figure that out when you get there, I’m sure of it.  Stonehenge is a place of beginnings and endings.  Many people associated it with death, but even Muggles go there to celebrate the solstices.  And what are those, except the end of one season and the beginning of the new?  The two of you are uniquely suited to understand how the magic of Stonehenge might be weaved back to strengthen the nemeton.  Harry has the memory of death, and you carry the possibility of life.  Endings, and beginnings.”  Luna reached out and briefly touched Draco’s belly, and Draco twitched in surprise at both the unexpected contact and the feeling of movement within.  It was such a strange sensation.

“I trust what you’re saying, Luna,” Draco said, gently covering Luna’s hand with his and lifting it away.  “I’m just not sure I trust myself to have the same intuition that you do.”

“That’s where academic magic falls short, I think,” Luna remarked.  “I do wish Professor McGonagall would allow me to open up the rubric and allow students some room to come up with new ways to find the answers.”

“Anarchist,” Draco said, in a dry, teasing tone, and Luna laughed.

“Guilty as charged.”

“Right, then.”  Neville’s voice was cheerful as he dusted his hands, having finished his task of pruning rotted branches away from the core trunk of the ash.  It was crucial to do this before the tree fully awoke with the coming of spring, he had explained, before the sap began to flow through the outer layers of the tree again.  With the Bowtruckles focused on the interior, Neville had begun testing and evaluating the tree’s exterior, neatly severing and levitating the unhealthy and dead branches away.  “I’ve got to be getting on for the day, it’s mum’s birthday and Hannah’s made her favorite lemon drizzle cake for dessert.”

“I wish her many happy returns,” Draco offered.  “Please, go.  I don’t think there’s much more that we can do other than monitor the Bowtruckles and continue with our work with the other nodes.”

“We’ll want to make sure that those wards hold,” Neville said, his expression dropping into something more serious.  “Even with everything we’ve already done, the tree is in a bit of a fragile state right now.  I don’t know if we can bring it back a second time.”

“I check the wards every day,” Draco said firmly.  “I won’t let them fail.”

Making their goodbyes, Neville and then Luna Disapparated, heading north to their homes.  Luna had teacher’s quarters in Hogwarts castle, but Neville, Hannah, and Alice lived in a cottage in Hogsmeade.  Draco had not yet asked them if their own experience with Apparition to and from the estate had improved.  Again, he was wary of too much wishful thinking on his part.  But when he shooed Grito off his shoulder so he could safely Apparate to the clearing by the pond, hopefully skirting past any more potential Dementor encounters, he found that he was coming within just a few feet of his intended target destination.  This was a marked improvement over what it had been even a month ago.

He stopped briefly by his tent to renew the wards and retrieve a few potions ingredients from the cabinet in which he kept his cauldron and stored his brewed potions.  Teddy was preparing to take the N.E.W.T. for Potions in order to move forward in their career as a Healer, and ingredients were expensive.  He gathered that Teddy and Victoire were capable of keeping up with the rent on their flat, but they had laid out much of their savings to secure it.  He knew himself how much housing costs could eat into the income of someone just starting out on their own.

Draco walked a bit through the Downs after Apparating there, still his customary halfway point between the estate and London.  They, too, were starting to show signs of impending spring, with the first tender shoots of the grasses just nudging out of the soil, creating an effect like a blanket of bright green fuzz for as far as Draco could see.  There were low rain clouds in the distance dropping their cargo over wide fields, dulling the new green with gray.  The smell of it was on the wind, and he breathed it in, more than ready for the change in season. 

It was so different from what he’d become accustomed to, in the past decade in the Americas.  There had been rain aplenty, but it was much warmer.  The sounds of the landscapes were so different, the smell of the earth and the plants which grew from it much brighter and heavier, particularly in the forests.  His previous life felt far away, not just in distance but in memory, and that was disheartening.  He’d gained so much after being made to return to his homeland, but he had also lost much.  His past had immensely greater weight here, and he felt keenly the lack of the esteem he had earned from people like Séneca and his crew. 

But he trusted Harry, trusted that the man wanted to find a way to merge their lives together in a way which benefitted them both.  He couldn’t let himself think that he would never again return to the place in which he had remade himself, where he had forged his own path and relationships on terms which were unburdened by the first half of his life.

Shaking his head slightly, Draco concentrated on the entryway of Grimmauld Place, Apparating there in the blink of an eye.  He was meant to meet up with Harry and Teddy and eventually make their way to Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes so that Teddy could use George’s workshop to practice one or two of the potions they would most likely be asked to make as part of their exam, and he didn’t want to be late. 

“Draco Malfoy, sir,” Pipsy greeted him.  “The Manor work is going well?”

“It’s proceeding,” Draco said.  “I think it’s a bit early to say that it’s going well, but the frequency of setbacks seems to have slowed a bit.”

“Pipsy is glad to be hearing it,” the elf replied, a wistful note in her voice.  “Perhaps the hearth of the Manor is soon going to be burning again.”

“I can’t speak to that,” Draco said, though he tried to do so as gently as possible.  He knew that her connection to the place was different than his own.  “But perhaps the Ministry will find some use for it, once it’s safe enough.”

“Will Draco Malfoy be wanting his potion?”  Pipsy asked, as she followed him to the drawing room.  She looked slightly disapproving as he only shifted the strap of his satchel instead of removing it and his coat.

“It’s still a bit early for the next dose, but I’ll take it with me, if you don’t mind.”  Draco was frowning down at his belly, which protruded even when his coat was buttoned. 

“Draco Malfoy should be eating something,” Pipsy huffed, but she Disapparated to the kitchen with a crack in order to fetch his prescription. 

Draco’s stomach grumbled slightly in agreement, but he ignored it in favor of anchoring a small glamor on his coat to make it look as though it were hanging flat against his body.  The discomfort of walking around in spaces frequented by the greater wizarding society in London was still enough that he didn’t like the idea of advertising his pregnancy.

Pipsy reappeared with another clap of air, holding out a small vial which contained the muddy brown sludge he was getting very tired of taking so many times per day.  “Here you are, Draco Malfoy.”

“Thank you, Pipsy.  Will you let my mother know that we may not be back for supper, when you see her?  I’m not sure how long we’ll be out.”

“Pipsy would be happy to.”  The elf bobbed her head.  “As long as Draco Malfoy promises to be getting plenty to eat while he is going out.”

“I will,” Draco said, giving her a small smile.  His natural inclination in the face of such insistent caretaking was to become irritated, but Pipsy meant it so sincerely, and had demonstrated it during their last days at the Manor, that it was impossible not to appreciate it.  He stowed the vial in his satchel, took a bit of the Floo powder from the silver chalice, and was on his way to Diagon Alley.

There weren’t too many people in the short backstreet which housed the large fireplaces which allowed access to Diagon Alley via the Floo network, for which Draco was grateful.  He skirted past a small cluster of witches who were discussing whether to stop at Twilfitt and Tattings or Obscurus Books first, and they paid him no attention at all even as he hunched his shoulders slightly to remain as inconspicuous as possible. 

It took him almost no time to reach Mulpepper’s, though because it shared a wall with its direct competitor, Slug & Jiggers, there were so many competing signs practically begging customers to patronize this shop and not that one, the entrance was almost completely obscured.  But find it he did, the bell hanging above the door jingling merrily as he stepped inside.

“Draco!”

Draco was suddenly enfolded in Teddy’s tight embrace, his form tending slightly taller and broader today.  Teddy’s hair was shorter, too, though his blue hair was falling in a nice fringe over one eye.

“Hello, Teddy.”  Draco patted his younger cousin’s back fondly, though almost as soon as he was released there was another set of arms winding their way around him.

“All right?”  Harry murmured into his ear, one of his hands roaming down to touch Draco’s belly.  Harry was always delighted to feel movement there, and so he took every possible opportunity to see if he might.

“Fine,” Draco said, trying to fight the natural stiffness of showing much affection for Harry in public.  He had his good eye on the sales clerk at the counter, who was looking in their direction with his mouth hanging slightly open. 

Harry noticed where he was looking, and let out a soft sigh.  “I don’t mind, you know that, right?  You don’t have to hide anything.”  His green eyes dropped down to the glamor on Draco’s coat meaningfully, then back up to meet his gaze.

Draco shrugged uncomfortably.  He minded, he didn’t want to draw more attention to himself as a visibly pregnant man on top of being a very recognizable former Death Eater, in the company of someone so well known as Harry.  He knew that Harry didn’t seek out the spotlight, but it had been necessary for him to make some sort of peace with his celebrity.  Draco wasn’t quite there, and frankly did not want to be.

“Thank you both for your help,” Teddy said earnestly, rubbing the back of his neck.  “I’m so nervous, I don’t want to make anything that explodes in the examiner’s face.”

“Do you know who it is yet?”  Harry asked.

“Professor Sharpe.  She wasn’t teaching at Hogwarts when I was there, so fortunately she doesn’t remember any of my mistakes.”  Teddy looked down and fiddled with a bottle of dead lacewing flies.

“It will be fine, Teddy,” Draco said.  “You’ve been getting a lot of practice in at the hospital, and Harry and I will keep time for you today, almost like it will be during the exam.”

Teddy nodded vigorously, but didn’t say anything, his nerves apparent in the way that one of his hands started to stroke the black and yellow scarf around his neck.

“Come on, let’s get the last few things we’ll need,” Harry said firmly, reaching up to put an arm around Teddy’s shoulders.

Draco was content to follow them around the shop, only stepping in when Teddy tried to insist on picking out some of the cheaper options in the ingredients he needed.  It was worth a few extra Sickles to ensure the proper reactions during potion-brewing, and having his practice potion fail to meet expectations would only make Teddy more anxious.

A sudden burning sensation on his inner left forearm brought Draco up short, and he stood stock-still in the middle of the shelves displaying the selection of herbs as adrenaline started to zing through his veins, bringing with it a terrible, caustic fear.

“No,” Draco choked out through numb lips.  “No, it can’t be –”

“Draco?”  Harry’s voice was sharp with concern.

Draco pulled at the sleeve of his coat, and there was just enough give in the material to allow it to slide up his arm far enough to show most of the Mark.  There was a purple glint to the outline of the skull and the snake, almost a glow. 

“Fuck.”  Harry’s face had gone ashen.  “It’s not –”

“No,” Draco said, voice shaking.  “It’s another Death Eater, I have to go, I have to –”

“Draco, wait –”  Harry reached for him, but Draco was already out the door, the bell on the frame clanging loudly as he stumbled out into the street.  He’d felt something similar to this in the days leading up to his encounter with Rowle in France, but he hadn’t known what it meant, not then.  If a Death Eater was using their common curse of the Mark to try to trace him, then he had to flee, he had to lead whoever it was away from such a populated area and get back to somewhere safe.  Grimmauld Place might do, or even the Manor, if the gates could –

His escape was foiled almost immediately as a figure in a dark cloak Apparated into existence right in front of him, pointing his wand with an “Impedimenta!”

Draco stumbled, pulled far enough off balance that he landed hard on his knees, just barely managing to catch himself with his hands.  His heart was pounding – what if he’d fallen flat against the cobblestones?  He fumbled for his wand, drawing it out of the front pocket of his satchel and raising it to point at Antonin Dolohov.

The man’s face was twisted into an ugly sneer, and Draco noted the spatters of blood that were forming from the drips falling from the fingers of Dolohov’s left hand.  Death Eaters didn’t have the same kind of sympathetic connection to each other that Voldemort had forged between himself and all of them.  They weren’t able to summon each other the way he had, but the corruption that had been cursed into their skin was identical, and just sufficient to cast successive locating spells across short distances.  It was how Rowle had found Draco all those years ago, and it was something that Narcissa had never, ever asked of him, even as driven as she had been to find all of the fugitive Death Eaters.  It was too dangerous.

An invisible force yanked Draco to his feet and dragged him closer to Dolohov, and the Death Eater seized a fistful of his coat as soon as he was within reach.  Draco could see the mottled burn scar that started on the back of Dolohov’s hand and disappeared under the ragged sleeve of his shirt, a remnant of the duel between him and Remus Lupin during the Battle of Hogwarts.  Lupin had succumbed to Dolohov’s curse of purple fire, but not before blasting him with a magnified Reducto.  Dolohov had been forced to flee even before witnessing Voldemort’s final death, too weak to continue the fight without risking his own fall.

“Relashio!”  Harry’s spell flew over Draco’s shoulder and hit Dolohov, breaking his grip.

“I’ll deal with you in a moment, Potter,” Dolohov snarled, his eyes flashing with manic fever.  He must still be riding out the euphoria that followed his use of the Mark, and Draco tightened his grip around his wand.  Dolohov was hardly rational to begin with, and now he was bolstered by the false bravado of Dark magic.  “First, I need little Draco here to tell me where his mummy is.  Narcissa has been very busy, hasn’t she?”

“Draco,” Harry said in a low voice.  “I need you to –”

“Ah ah ah,” Dolohov chided, adopting an expression of mock disappointment.  “I’m not finished with him yet.  Protego diabolica!”

Black fire rose up from the cobblestone street, spanning its width and spreading to form a ring which completely surrounded them – and anyone else who had been unlucky enough to be in close proximity.  Dimly, Draco was aware of cries of alarm and pain as some people were struck by the flames, and others trapped inside them.  At the edge of his limited vision, he vaguely registered the movement of panicked witches and wizards who were desperately trying to find a way out – and, failing that, a place to shelter from one of the deadliest Death Eaters ever known.

“Someone will be summoning the Aurors now,” Harry said, his face set in a strange sort of calm.  “We only need to hold him off until they arrive.”

There was no Apparating out of the diabolica flames.  It was meant to keep enemies from crossing them in any way, including when those enemies were contained with the caster. 

“That will be easier if there are multiple targets to distract him.” 

Draco turned sharply to see a copy of his own face gazing calmly back at him, a familiar black and yellow scarf wrapped around his neck.  Teddy tugged at it, since it was too obvious a way to tell them apart, and tucked it into the pocket of his coat.  He then used his wand to cast a glamor, making his clothing appear similar enough to Draco’s as to make it particularly difficult. 

“Teddy –”  Harry said in a warning tone, not having taken his eyes off of Dolohov.

“It’s like you said, Harry, we only need to wait until the Aurors get here,” Teddy said firmly.  At least he still sounded like himself – that would have been too much for Draco to accept in his rattled state.

“Petrificus –”  Dolohov started his incantation, but Harry was faster.

“Incarcerous!” 

Thin, strong cords appeared around Dolohov, but he slashed his wand through the air in a quick Finite before they’d even tightened around his body.  He charged forward, and Harry cast a Knockback Jinx, following it quickly with some sort of nonverbal concussive spell, an Expulso or perhaps a Confringo. 

Draco felt the sudden tickling sensation of a Disillusionment spell fall over him, and he looked at Teddy, surprised at his quick thinking and kicking himself for not having done it first.  Teddy remained in full view, edging carefully away as Harry and Dolohov circled each other, trying to divide the Death Eater’s attention to give Harry an advantage.

“Be careful,” Draco snapped at Teddy, before hurrying over toward where a wizard was cowering behind a flimsy wooden display for The Junk Shop, a crying witch huddled in his arms.  He cast a nonverbal Protego and anchored it in front of the cart, hoping that it would hold against any stray spells that might come their way.  He wasn’t moving as quickly as he needed to, feeling a cramp forming in his side as he made his way as fast as he could towards the next small cluster of bystanders.

A jet of bright yellow light hit the upper floor of the shop just outside the wall of black flames, sending broken glass and debris flying, and Draco raised an arm to protect his face.  He felt the edge of one shard of glass graze the side of his head, but he paid it no mind.  He heard Teddy yell behind him, and he jerked his head around to see Teddy only just dodge the strike of an enormous black serpent, which Dolohov had just conjured.  Harry hissed sharply at it, and it snapped its jaws closed, curling up on itself defensively. 

Harry’s moment of distraction cost him, as Dolohov used his wand to levitate a stack of cauldrons which had been on display outside of one or both of the rival potions shops, heating them until they glowed cherry red and then hurling them at Harry.  Harry deflected most of them, sending them spinning off to the sides.  Draco’s numerous shield spells held against the ricocheting cauldrons, but the last one smashed into Harry’s right knee with a sickening crunch, and even just that moment of contact set the leg of Harry’s jeans aflame.

“Aguamenti!”  Draco shouted, aiming his jet of conjured water as precisely and quickly as he could.

“There you are,” Dolohov crowed, sending Teddy skidding and rolling across the street with an almost indifferent flick of his wand.  Teddy’s back collided with an iron lamp post, and he sagged to the ground, his wand falling from limp fingers and the glamor fading away from his clothes, the features of his face shifting back into his own.

“Finite!”  Dolohov stripped the Disillusionment from Draco, his teeth bared in a triumphant rictus.  “Crucio!”

Draco screamed as his nerve endings erupted into sudden agony, fighting to keep his feet so that he didn’t risk collapsing in a way that might harm the babe he carried.  He even managed to keep hold of his wand, the threat of impending death giving him just enough strength to struggle through the pain and maintain just enough control over himself to do so.

“Tell me where your mother is, and I will end you quickly,” Dolohov snarled, advancing on his prey.

“Go fuck yourself.”  Draco wheezed, staggering as the torture was suddenly lifted away.

“Then I will take my revenge on her through you,” Dolohov roared, but Harry’s voice cut through his declaration.

“Deturbo!” 

Harry was half lying on the ground, propped up with one elbow.  His wand was pointed straight at Dolohov, and for a moment Draco wasn’t quite sure what his intention had been.

But then Dolohov coughed, a fountain of blood bubbling up from his mouth and spilling down his chin.  Dumbstruck, he looked down at himself, seeing dark stains on his already dark robes.  He pressed a hand to his stomach, and flesh came with it when he pulled it away, parts of his innards spilling out of his abdomen along with copious amounts of blood.  He choked again, rolling his dark eyes toward Harry in something like astonishment, and he swayed. 

Draco took a couple of tentative steps toward Harry, watching as Dolohov’s body literally fell apart.  But then Dolohov stiffened, his knuckles going white as he tightened the grip on his wand, and he made a slashing motion that lifted Harry off the ground, dropping him right onto the line of black flames behind him.

“Harry!”  Draco screamed, his vision going almost black at the edges.  Terror and rage filled him, buoyed by a rising tide of utter dread.

The black flames flickered and died, sinking into the ground as Dolohov took his last breaths.  Draco could hear the death rattle in his throat as he stumbled past him, intent on reaching Harry.

“No,” Draco whispered, falling to his knees beside Harry, whose chest was jerking in short, agonized gasps.  “Harry, you stay alive, do you understand me?  You are not to die, not now, not before –” Draco’s words cut off in a sob.  “Not before you meet your child, you stupid git.  I will not allow you to leave me.  Leave us.”

There was a sharp wheeze, which might have been as close as Harry could get to a laugh.  His face was screwed up with pain, and trickles of blood ran from his nose, from the corner of his mouth, from the one ear that Draco could see.  His body was shaking, his brown skin turned gray and ashy, the effects of the black flames racing through him.  It was clear that he was dying, and that left Draco with very few options.

“You will not die,” Draco hissed furiously, and he raised his wand.  “Adservo!”

Harry stilled as a slight silver sheen encased him, his body going rigid as the stasis spell took hold.  Stasis spells were not meant for living things, and certainly not for long term.  But Draco needed time to get Harry to St. Mungo’s, to the Healers who were the only people now who could do anything to save him.  Draco reached out a trembling hand, gripping Harry’s arm as he prepared to take him Side-Along.

“Expelliarmus!”

Draco’s wand flew out of his hand, flying up into the air so quickly that he couldn’t even follow its flight.  He whirled around, seeing flashes of scarlet as more Aurors Apparated onto the scene.  It took him a moment to recognize Woodlocke, who was scanning the street with a look of horror on her face, and Farris, who was directing a narrow-eyed glare at Draco.  The man’s expression was calculating as he took in the sight of Harry’s body, still locked in stasis, and the pile of disassembled flesh and robes which was all that remained of Dolohov. 

“You need to get him to St. Mungo’s as quickly as possible,” Draco said urgently, struggling to his feet and holding his hand out for his wand, which Farris had in a loose grip.

“Maybe we don’t,” muttered Strickland, the battered Auror coming up to stand next to Farris.

“No.  We don’t need a martyr or an investigation, which there surely would be if it appeared that we let the savior of wizarding kind die by dragging our feet.  But we also don’t need a hero.  Not again.”  Farris blew out a sharp breath.  “Woodlocke.”

“Sir.”  Woodlocke was already moving toward Harry, clearly avoiding Draco’s gaze as she moved around him and bent down to touch Harry’s shoulder.  The two of them Disapparated, the sound of their departure echoing off of the walls of the surrounding buildings, even as damaged as they were. 

“My wand,” Draco snapped, the scant relief he felt at knowing that Harry would soon be in the hands of the Healers not doing enough to quell the rage he still felt.  He intended to follow Harry to the hospital, to make sure that Teddy and anyone else who had been injured during the desperate duel receive the same treatment.

“I don’t think so,” Farris said, with a glance at Dolohov’s remains.  “Draco Malfoy, you are under arrest on suspicion of colluding with known Death Eaters, in violation of the terms of your acquittal.”

Draco gasped, drawing in a sharp breath.  “Are you out of your mind?  Dolohov came here to attack –”

“Silencio!”  Farris barked, flicking his wand at Draco, whose voice immediately quieted.  Draco could feel his vocal cords straining as he tried to speak, but he couldn’t utter a single sound.  He reached up, grasping desperately at his throat in a vain attempt to dislodge the spell.

“Sir…”  One of the Aurors, a younger-looking wizard, shifted uncomfortably, his eyes darting from his superiors, to Draco, and then back again.

“Quiet, Bennion,” Strickland growled.  “This is politics.  Search him, then cuff him.”

Bennion’s face betrayed his misgivings, but he raised his wand.  “Revelio!”

Draco bolted, aiming for the gap between Farris and another Auror he didn’t know, who was far enough away that he might have made it.  But he felt a spell catch hold of him, slowing him down, and then rough hands grabbing at the strap of his satchel and nearly taking his head off as they ripped it away from him.  His coat was next, which caused a murmur of shock to ripple through the surrounding Aurors at the sight of his belly, the borrowed T-shirt pulling taught enough over it as to make it extremely visible.

“What the fuck.”  The disgust was evident in Strickland’s expression.

Then someone tugged at Draco’s earring, and there was a sharp sting as it came away.  Again, there was a pause as the surrounding Aurors saw Draco for how he truly looked without the protection of his glamors.

Farris was the first to break the silence, an ugly chuckle filling the air.  “Not so pretty any more, are you, Malfoy?”

Bennion was a little more gentle as he got a grip on the ring on Draco’s right hand, the one that his father had worn.  But it wouldn’t budge, in fact it tightened painfully around Draco’s finger, and he would have cried out if he could have. 

“It’s not coming off, sir,” Bennion said, turning to Farris for some sort of instruction on what he should do next.

“I’ve got his wand, and the cuffs will contain his magic,” Farris said, giving a careless shrug of one shoulder.

Draco felt the cold metal of the cuffs encircle his wrists, locking into place in front of him with a flash of the runes engraved into the surface.  These ones were joined together by a short length of chain, also inscribed with tiny runes.  The sensation of his magic being cut off from the ambient magical atmosphere was jarring, and Draco staggered.  Bennion and one of the other Aurors caught him by the elbows, holding him upright.  He couldn’t bring himself to feel any gratitude toward them, even as his awareness narrowed down, in a detached sort of way, to just himself, and the need to protect the child he carried.

The sound of hurried footsteps approaching was followed by a loud poof and a flash of bright white light which had Draco blinking tears away, and he barely registered the sight of a lanky man with a scruffy beard.  The man coughed slightly, having inhaled some of the smoke from the flash powder that emitted from the camera he was holding, and his rapid fire questions were delivered in a raspy voice.

“Auror Farris, Chester Lanius, Daily Prophet.  Can you tell me what happened just now?  I can see you’ve made an arrest, is this in connection with the reported sighting of Antonin Dolohov?  Are there any more perpetrators at large?  Will you comment on Harry Potter’s involvement in this incident?”

“Now, now, Chester, you know we don’t comment at an active scene.  You’ll have to reach out to Director Munro for an official statement while we secure the area and see to the wounded.”  Farris paused.  “But there’s no hold on photographs.”

Chester’s eyebrows lifted in surprise, but then his foxlike features shifted into a nasty grin.  “Understood.”

“Bennion, Liddell, take him in.”

Draco stumbled as the Aurors supporting him suddenly moved, and his feet dragged for a few steps before he managed to get them working properly.  He felt numb, all external sights and sounds inconsequential in comparison to the sick, roiling mass of emotion that he was only just able to suppress.  He couldn’t fall apart.  He would not.  If there was any way out of this situation, he needed his wits about him in order to find it. 

So he calmly, coldly gathered up all of his scattered feelings – his grief, his fear, his fury – the aches and pains that were starting to register from the frantic struggle for survival, the growing fatigue that was weighing him down, body and mind.  And he shoved them down deep, burying them under a protective layer of dispassionate vigilance.

Waiting for his opportunity to act.

Chapter 36

There was protocol for how Aurors were to transfer the prisoners in their custody to Azkaban.  Draco had gone through it when he had been seventeen and shellshocked, reeling from the battle he’d just managed to live through, from the horrifying loss of one of his best friends, and from being forcibly separated from both of his parents. 

His father had been led away in cuffs very similar to the ones he wore now, and he remembered the way his mother screamed Draco’s name and struggled against the pair of patrol wizards holding her back, who had been called in to flesh out the significantly depleted ranks of the Aurors responding to the devastation at Hogwarts that day.  Even though the Ministry had been in shambles after months of overt Death Eater control, it had held together under Shacklebolt’s less-than-legal interim leadership and the emergency appointment of department heads who were neither suspected Death Eaters nor purity-obsessed zealots taking advantage of Voldemort’s regime to enact their deepest desires to persecute Muggle-born witches and wizards.

So because the experience had been seared into his memory, one more trauma upon a day of traumas upon years of traumas, Draco knew that Bennion and Liddell had deviated from the protocol.  He was not surprised when the two Aurors coordinated their Apparition to the designated arrival chamber on the second sublevel of the Ministry, with Liddell going on ahead and Bennion following quickly after, taking Draco Side-Along.  He expected to be directed to the handful of holding cells that the Department of Magical Law Enforcement maintained on their floor, to wait until formal charges were filed by the Wizengamot.  After that, he would be taken via Floo to Gills Bay in Scotland, where the ferry boat that was the only means of transport to the Unplottable island of Azkaban made berth. 

But instead of immediately moving toward the holding cells, the two Aurors had lingered just outside the arrival chamber, having a low-voiced conversation.

“Fucking disaster,” muttered Liddell, raking his hand through the short, spiky black hair on the top of his head.  “I wasn’t looking forward to having Potter breathing down all our necks once he was Head of the Office, but I never wanted him dead.  What are they thinking?”

“Robards needs to know,” Bennion insisted.  “They’ve gone too far this time –”

“Robards isn’t on duty.  Farris is the senior officer in charge, and Strickland is ready to curse anyone who even looks at him sideways.  So unless you’re planning on skipping down to Southwark and knocking on Robards’ door, it’s in our best interests to do as we’re told.”  Liddell scowled absently at Draco, his agitation seemingly more general than specific.

Bennion scoffed.  “I’m not putting a pregnant bloke in a holding cell, and maybe I will stop by Robards’ place, if you’ll cover for me.  Can you imagine walking into this mess unaware tomorrow morning?”

“Where are you going to put him, then?”  Liddell’s hand tightened slightly on Draco’s elbow when Draco swayed a little, his fatigue making itself known.

“This way, come on.”  Bennion took hold of Draco’s other arm once again, wincing and looking quickly away when his gaze briefly fell on the newly revealed scars on Draco’s face. 

Draco might have taken offense at the two Aurors speaking about him rather than to him, or as if he weren’t there at all.  But he remembered this, he remembered the way the Aurors in Azkaban had been.  Liddell and Bennion were speaking freely in front of him because he had no power here, no wand, not even a voice.  He was somewhere between a non-threat and a non-person.  The very fact that they didn’t seem to be concerned about what he might overhear told him that.  As far as they were aware, he was a disgraced former Death Eater with no money, no influence, and no allies.

He hoped that they might be proven wrong about that last bit, but he couldn’t be sure.  And he couldn’t rely on anyone but himself at the moment.  Even if his new, tentatively forged friendships were of any use to him now, were they strong enough to overcome what must surely seem like confirmation of every negative thing the wizarding world in England still believed about him?  What happened in Diagon Alley had almost certainly claimed lives.  Perhaps even Harry’s…

No.  Draco gave himself a small but firm shake of his head, even as he stumbled when the Aurors steered him around a corner.  He would not allow himself to go down that road, not now.  There was nothing more he could do for Harry.  And he was the only one who could protect what was theirs.  To do that, he needed a clear head without distractions. 

“You can’t be serious,” Liddell said suddenly, and Draco realized that they had stopped abruptly in a short hallway which had a series of familiar-looking doors.  “You can’t put him here.”

“Why not?”  Bennion scowled.  “He’s got no wand and we’ll leave the cuffs on.  He won’t be able to get the door open after I lock it.”

“It’s your funeral, mate.”  Liddell shrugged.  “If Farris is expecting to find him in the holding cells –”

“You don’t cast a Silencing charm on someone you’ve arrested,” Bennion interrupted him.  “You give them the opportunity to talk as much as they want, give them enough rope to hang themselves with.  I’ll bet you anything Farris has already got what he wanted, and hasn’t even sent an owl to convene the Wizengamot.”

Liddell huffed.  “You’re completely fucked if you’re wrong.  Think of Artemesia, think of your pension –”

“That’s exactly what I’m doing, and damn Farris for forcing me to pick a side in this,” Bennion snapped.  He leaned forward and turned the knob on the door in front of them, pushing it inward to reveal a small room with a narrow bed, with a tiny adjoining lavatory.  It was one of the kip rooms that the Aurors on duty could use to get some sleep during their long shifts, and Draco remembered Woodlocke showing him to one on his very first day back in England, after his meeting with the Minister had concluded.

“Sit tight.”  Bennion actually addressed Draco directly as he gave him a firm nudge towards the room.  “We’ll figure out what’s to be done with you.”

Draco managed to keep his feet even as Bennion’s push threatened to put him off balance, and the door of the kip room was yanked closed behind him.  He heard a muffled “Colloportus!” and the click of the latch locking into place, and then footsteps growing fainter as the two Aurors retreated from the hallway.

A wave of dizziness swept over Draco as he was assessing the room and its contents, severe enough to force him to sit heavily down on the bed.  The springs supporting the thin mattress creaked as he did, and it was all he could do to keep himself upright instead of collapsing onto his side.  He was exhausted, and by the time indicated on the small brass alarm clock he could see sitting atop the rickety excuse for a nightstand, he had missed two doses of the magic-replenishing potion he was supposed to take – the one that Pipsy had packed for him, and which was now in his satchel and out of reach, and the one scheduled for a few hours later.  It was frightening, how quickly it was that he started really feeling the draw on his magical core, though he didn’t begrudge it.  It wasn’t as though he were capable of casting any spells right now, anyway.

The feeling of being wandless, just as he’d been in Azkaban, just as he had been off and on after Voldemort had commandeered Lucius’s wand and then Harry had taken his – that was stoking something like panic at the back of Draco’s mind, and it was something that he could absolutely not afford to indulge.  He gave himself five minutes of rest, watching the alarm clock intently.  Five minutes to master himself, to push down all of the feelings that threatened to break free and sink his chances of escape.

Because Draco had no intention of staying here, passively awaiting whatever the Aurors intended to do with him.  Fleeing the country, as tempting as it was, wasn’t a tenable option.  He needed to remain here to ensure the survival of the entity which inhabited the nemeton on the estate.  And besides, he would not leave Harry like this.  But the ley line was at stake just as much as the nemeton, intertwined as they were, and Shacklebolt and the other Ministry departments had a vested interest in seeing it restored.  Surely they would be moved by practical consideration to handle this arrest and whatever might follow.

The first item on the agenda was to get out of this room.

There were many lessons that Draco had taken away from his youth, and among them was the determination never to be helpless in the face of wandlessness ever again.  His hawthorn wand had never worked properly for him after Harry had won it from him during the frantic skirmish at the Manor that could barely be called a duel.  Upon his acquittal and release from Azkaban, the hawthorn wand had been returned to him, but he and it were constantly at odds with each other.  It refused to even attempt a Patronus, for one, and was fouling up his work enough as he prepared to take his N.E.W.T.s that his mother had taken him to the prestigious Allard wand shop in Paris to be paired with a new one.

His new wand was willow, much more flexible than the hawthorn, and it had been a comfortable fit in his hand from the moment he picked it up.  Its core was also a hair from the tail of a unicorn, a mare instead of a stallion, Monsieur Allard had said.  And it had been shortly after that purchase that Draco had managed to summon the little shining white ermine, the first advanced spell he’d mastered since his education had been thrown so wildly off track.

The hawthorn wand was currently nestled in a box somewhere in his mother’s house in Nice.  She felt that it should be kept within the family, such as it was, perhaps hoping that Lucius might use it when he’d served his full sentence at Azkaban.  Voldemort’s reckless use of Lucius’s elm wand had resulted in its destruction when he tried once again to go after Harry.  But of course, Lucius had never seen the end of that sentence.

Suddenly swamped with the thought of going back to Azkaban, of finishing out his pregnancy and birthing his child there, Draco reeled, grabbing onto the footrail of the bed with his cuffed hands to keep himself steady.  The pain of that thought was followed almost immediately by grim determination – that would not happen, his child would not be born in a prison.  He would leave Harry behind before allowing that to happen, even as deeply as he would regret the necessity.

He had to get out of here.

Getting shakily to his feet, Draco swept his gaze around the room once more.  It was spartan, literally no furniture but the bed and the spindly, wobbly table.  No supplies except for the bedding, which were scratchy linen sheets covered with an unassuming gray flannel blanket, the alarm clock, and the loo roll in the lavatory.  It barely took him three steps to reach the small sink that was just beyond the foot of the bed, and when he turned the cold water tap, he was suddenly aware of how thirsty he was.  He drank, cupping his hands a few times under the water to take the edge off his thirst, and then he twisted the tap once more to stop the water. 

He examined the old-fashioned nickel taps, his attention captured by the slender lever that stopped or unstopped the sink, depending on whether it was raised or pressed down.  He turned and looked thoughtfully at the door, noting that it opened toward the inside of the room.

Though he had been raised to discount Muggles and Muggle-born witches and wizards as inferior, his experience in regions which were much more relaxed about the Statute of Secrecy and therefore more integrated had exposed him to a great deal more of Muggle society.  And that had highlighted certain weaknesses in the thinking of magical folk, the most relevant of which was the idea that once a spell was cast, the problem was sorted and certainly someone without the use of magic couldn’t hope to get around it.

Draco leaned forward and looped the short chain between the cuffs on his wrists around the stem of the lever, pulling it tight against the flat knob on top.  And then he yanked his hands upward as hard as he could, jerking the chain around it.  The unforgiving metal of the cuffs dug into his skin in a way that would leave him bruised, even if he didn’t manage to cut himself – but he felt the stopper lever give slightly, as if one of its interior connections had broken. 

He did it again, and then once more, his joints protesting the movement and his belly bumping against the edge of the porcelain sink basin a little harder than he would have liked.  But the lever came free, and Draco suddenly had a slim, sturdy length of metal in his hands.  He gripped it tightly with his left hand as he made his way to the nightstand, picking up the alarm clock and hefting it, getting a feel for its weight.  That would have to do, or else he would have to start dismantling the bed frame or the plumbing for the sink, and he couldn’t honestly say that he would have the energy for that. 

Pulling the flannel blanket from the bed, Draco dropped it onto the floor and pushed it against the small gap between it and the door with his foot, hoping to at least slightly muffle some of the noise he was about to make.  And then he very carefully, very gingerly got to his knees, setting the broken end of the stopper lever against the bottom of the hinge pin and striking the other end with the back of the brass alarm clock.  With the cuffs hampering his movements, he wasn’t able to put much force behind each blow, but he could see when the pin popped up from where it held the lowest door hinges together. 

He wasn’t keeping count of his strikes with the clock, just focusing on forcing the pin higher and higher, until he was rewarded with a soft tinkle of metal as it came loose and toppled to the floor.  Draco was breathing hard, somewhat shocked at how much effort that had taken, but he still had two more to go.  The middle pin was easier, perhaps because it was slightly cleaner than the lower hinge had been, or perhaps it carried less of a load due to its placement.  In any case, he soon had that pin out, too, which left the top hinge.

It fought him, stubbornly staying in place, as it was now bearing all of the door’s weight as the other hinges had shifted slightly in the absence of their pins.  Draco, panting with exertion, finally had to resort to wedging one of the already loosened pins into the door frame to relieve some of the pressure, and then the top pin gave way with the hardest blows he could manage.  The alarm clock held up surprisingly well to the abuse, though in between a few of the strikes the bells sounded halfheartedly before he slammed it against his makeshift pry once more. 

Draco stepped back, eyeing his work critically.  He just needed to pull the door away from its hinges, the interlocking hinge barrels now the only thing holding it in place, other than the latch.  He raised his arms to wipe a bit of sweat from his brow, exceedingly glad that this expenditure of his limited reserves of energy had paid off.  So, he had the door nearly open.  The question now was where to go from there.  He was on the second sublevel, and he couldn’t stay there – all of the DMLE offices were on this floor, and he had had his fill of Aurors.  The Ministry higher-ups were literally higher up, on the first sublevel above him.  And Hermione, as an Unspeakable, likely had an office far below on sublevel nine. 

Either way, up or down, he needed to get to the lift.  It was the primary means of moving between the sublevels, and he knew of no connected staircases which would have served the same purpose.  He obviously couldn’t Apparate, and the Atrium with the Floo-connected fire places was on a lower sublevel.  He would just have to try for another floor, and then work from there.

It took effort to crouch down far enough to retrieve the flannel blanket from the floor while maintaining his balance, but he did it, wrapping it around himself in a manner which hopefully looked enough like a cloak to avoid immediately raising suspicion in anyone who might see him.  He needed something that could hide his belly along with his cuffed hands, and for now its arrangement was somewhat akin to a cowled hood that concealed his face, as well.

With a soundless grunt, Draco used the chain between the cuffs again, pulling against the hinge pin he’d wedged into the door.  Since he was applying the force towards the outside of the door frame, it had to come out at an angle, and with it, the edge of the door popping out from the frame.  He wedged the fingers of his right hand into the inch-wide gap, giving it another hard pull.  The door came free, thankfully staying mostly upright as its latch was still magically fixed to the other side of the frame.  That was a relief – he’d been afraid the door would clatter to the floor, as he certainly didn’t have the strength to catch it.

This late in the day, anyone at the Ministry who worked regular hours had gone home, or was about to.  Draco wasn’t sure if that was good or bad – fewer people meant a lesser likelihood of encountering someone, but it also made him stand out more, in his ridiculous blanket over a T-shirt and joggers.  He felt ungainly, his belly weighing him down and making him acutely aware of every footfall, convinced that he must sound like an Erumpent lumbering about.  But nor could he give in to the urge to skulk, as that would all but announce that he was somewhere he shouldn’t be.

He followed one wall consistently, only making turns in the opposite direction when he was certain that it was the right way to the lift.  He stayed near a flock of interdepartmental memos – they flew around head-height for most people, so they tended to be given a wide berth.  He walked with as much purpose as he could muster, trying to appear as though he knew exactly where he was going and had no time for even passing greetings.  The two witches he passed were engrossed in a file that one of them was carrying, and neither of them glanced his way.

It turned out that interdepartmental memos also used the lift to traverse from one sublevel to another, as they flapped their way toward a gleaming brass accordion gate.  The lift shaft behind it was empty, and Draco was about to press the call button when the memos dived down en masse and smashed themselves against the button until they activated the small Lumos spell that meant the lift was on its way. 

Draco waited, darting some furtive glances around to see if there was anyone else in the vicinity.  He wasn’t sure what to expect if the Aurors discovered that he was missing, but he heard no shouts of alarm, saw no signs of DMLE employees frantically searching for an escaped prisoner. 

A rush of displaced air wafted up from the shaft as the lift responded to its call and started moving, the magic of its operation humming slightly until it settled at sublevel two.  Draco was tense and ready to bolt if needed, since he remembered that the lift was operated by an attendant, but the memos were eager to get to their intended recipients and rushed toward the gate as soon as the lift dinged its readiness.

“Hold up, hold up, ye glaikit papery menaces!”  The admonition came from somewhere behind the crowd of memos, and Draco couldn’t immediately see who had said it.  “Ye’ll all get where ye’re wanted soon enough, aye.  Budge up, then, make way for the real passenger, ye wee diddies.”

Draco supposed that meant him, so he stepped into the lift, which bobbed ever so slightly as it took his weight.  But it was enough to have him stumble a little, and he caught himself by bracing his shoulder against the paneled wall.  He kept his head down, the cobbled-together hood of the blanket covering most of his face, but turned to face the lift’s attendant.

He was surprised to see that it was a goblin man, dressed smartly in a charcoal gray uniform with black and maroon trim.  The goblin stood upon a crate so that he could reach the large brass lift switch to move between levels.  He eyed Draco skeptically, one large bushy eyebrow almost meeting the brim of the small cap that was part of his uniform.

“Which floor then, lad?  We’re goin’ doon first off.”

Fighting down a brief moment of panic, Draco poked his hands partway out from the protection of his blanket cloak and held up nine fingers, hoping that would be clear enough.

“Unspeakable business, is it?”  The goblin’s eyes narrowed, and he drummed his fingers, which were tipped with small claws, against the switch.  “Right, then.  We’ll be stoppin’ at each floor.  Have to let these flappy bampots off.”

Draco gave him a nod, and then had to brace himself once again as the lift suddenly dropped.  He felt his stomach drop with it, and an unpleasant sense of bile rising in his throat.  He swallowed it down, desperately hoping that he wasn’t going to be sick in the lift.  That would draw far too much attention.

True to his word, the goblin operator stopped the lift at each of the sublevels, announcing them in a clear voice so that any memos which were intended for Ministry employees on that floor could fly their way out.  Little by little, the flock thinned with calls of “Three, Magical Accidents!  Four, Affairs of Magical Creatures!”

When the goblin called out, “Five, International Magical Cooperation!” only one memo flapped past the gate.

But two wizards and a witch were waiting for the lift on sublevel five, and they crowded into it while talking animatedly.

“– I’m telling you, they’re saying it was Dolohov.  The Daily Prophet is putting out an evening edition tonight, you’ll see it right there in black and white –”

“– two people dead at least, my mam is saying.  She works at Eeylops and it happened not a hundred meters from the shop.  Curse fire, it was.”

“Haud yer wheesht and tell me which floor, if ye please!”  The goblin operator said, raising his voice to be heard above the conversation, which stopped abruptly as one of the wizards turned a disapproving expression on the goblin.

“English, Tasgall.”  The wizard huffed.

“Aye, can speak perfect English,” Tasgall agreed, once again tapping his clawed fingers against the lift switch, this time in irritation.  “Which floor?”

“One,” the wizard replied, the exasperation clear in his tone. 

“Goin’ doon first, ye’ll have to wait,” Tasgall said.

“Fine.”  The wizard’s terse tone indicated that it was anything but fine, and that he was of the opinion that in the proper order of things, Tasgall ought to have taken him and his companions up to sublevel one straight away. 

The witch was continuing her tale.  “My mam sent me an owl directly.  She was keeping well back, of course, but she said that Harry Potter was there, fighting –”

“Did Dolohov escape?”  The other wizard demanded, a slight quaver in his voice.  “We would have heard, surely, if there was another Death Eater on the loose –”

“They did arrest a Death Eater,” the witch replied, resting a reassuring hand on the wizard’s arm.  “Draco Malfoy.”

Draco’s stomach lurched again as the lift stopped at the next sublevel, and he pushed his way out, unable to even murmur an apology, or anything else that might explain his sudden need to vacate the lift as quickly as he could.  He turned slightly, a quick glance to reassure himself that no one had realized, that no one was coming after him –

The wizard who had been so affronted by Tasgall’s Scottish dialect was staring after him, all the makings of an inconvenient realization writ large across his face.  But Tasgall worked the switch, slamming the brass accordion gate closed before the wizard could move.  The goblin’s right eye twitched in something that was possibly the very briefest of winks, and then the lift suddenly sank out of sight, continuing its way down.

Draco slumped against the nearest wall, shivering slightly as gooseflesh raised on skin that had been chilled with the cold sweat of sudden terror.  He didn’t even know where he was.  Tasgall hadn’t called out the floor when they stopped.  But he couldn’t wait – the Ministry employees would still be on the lift when it made its way back up.

He need somewhere to rest, to regroup.  He was breathing more heavily than he should, partly because he was on the verge of panic but also because he was just so fucking tired.  There was a tremble in his legs, and he set off down the hallway, peering at the name plates on the office doors as he passed, trying the knobs of a few of them to see if they happened to be unlocked.

And then the gleam of brass caught his eye, along with a familiar name.

Percy Ignatius Weasley, Head of the Department of Magical Transportation

There was light visible, coming out from the small gap at the bottom of the door.

Draco closed his eyes briefly, feeling slightly sick at the idea of risking what progress he’d made in his escape by going to Percy Weasley, of all people, for help.  But he wasn’t going to get much further on his own, not in the condition he was.  And it was not only himself that he needed to consider.  He owed it to the babe he was carrying to do everything he could to get out.

So he reached out with a shaking hand and twisted the brass knob, letting himself in.

“Basil, I told you I was not to be disturbed at all today.  I’m going to be late getting home as it is, and I need to get these reports finished –”  Percy’s irritated tirade cut off abruptly the moment he raised his head.  “Who are you?” 

When Draco didn’t answer, Percy got to his feet, drawing his wand just as quickly.  “I asked who you are.  Identify yourself.”

Draco reached up and pulled the blanket away from his face and completely off of his shoulders, and let it fall to the ground.  He stood there mutely, feeling as though he’d been laid completely bare to the gaze of someone who might be a hostile ally at best.  He had no defenses up – he had no wand, no glamors, and no way to speak, his hands bound in front of him.

The look on Percy’s face was one of confused outrage, and his jaw worked slightly, giving the impression of a gasping fish out of water.  He appeared to be utterly flummoxed, with no idea what to say.  Finally, he seemed to rally. 

“Merlin’s hairy ballsack,” he breathed.  “What the actual fuck is going on?”

That…wasn’t the worst-case reaction at least.  Draco lifted his hands, hoping that the gestures he made at his mouth and throat was meaningful enough for Percy to understand.

Percy’s gaze sharpened on the cuffs around his wrists, then his eyes darted upward to Draco’s face.  He gave a small flick of his wand.  “Finite!”

Draco felt the Silencing charm give way, and he gasped in a lungful of air.  It hadn’t actually impeded his breathing at all, but being unable to make any kind of vocalization had made it seem that way.

“Thank you,” he rasped hoarsely, shocked to hear that his voice sounded like he’d spent the last couple of hours screaming at the top of his lungs.  His throat was certainly sore enough.

“Explain yourself,” Percy snapped, jerking his head in a nod at the cuffs.  “Because it looks as though I ought to summon the Aurors.”

“Don’t,” Draco wheezed, holding up his hands placatingly.  “Please.  Have you heard what happened in Diagon Alley today?”

Percy’s eyebrows flew up in surprise.  “What’s happened?  I’ve been locked in my office all day, I have a mountain of paperwork to get through.”

Haltingly, Draco stumbled through an explanation of the events that had unfolded outside of the potions shops, his voice scraping like sandpaper against his own ears.  He faltered when he got to the part where Harry had been so grievously injured, unable to say whether he was even still alive.  With every word, Percy’s face grew more and more grim, his hand tightening around his wand when Draco described how Farris had arrested and then Silenced him, and that the Aurors Bennion and Liddell had seemed to think that there was a political move at play that Robards needed to know about.

“Hell and damnation,” Percy growled, starting to pace behind his desk.  “I warned Kingsley, I told him that there are factions among the Aurors, some of which are determined to see through an internal appointment when Robards retires, rather than someone from the outside.  This is a disaster.”

That seemed to be a sound assessment of the situation, so Draco kept his mouth shut, unwilling to speak unless it was necessary. 

“And what about this?”  Percy asked suddenly, gesturing at Draco’s belly.

Draco swallowed, the motion causing a brief spasm of pain in his throat.  “Harry is the other father.”

“Of course he is,” Percy said resignedly, with a slight roll of his eyes.  “But I suppose that makes things simpler.”

Seeing that Draco was unable to hide the look of surprise that showed on his face, Percy sighed.  “I don’t like you, Malfoy, and that has not changed.  But Harry is family, and now I suppose that means so are you.  Or at least, the child you’re carrying is family.  Sit down, you look as though you’re about to collapse at any moment.”

Slightly bewildered, Draco shuffled to the small loveseat that Percy had against one wall of the office, sinking down onto it with a weary sigh that he was unable to completely suppress.  He wasn’t quick enough to actually catch the gray flannel blanket when Percy picked it up and tossed it to him, but he was grateful for it.  The chill he’d felt outside in the hallway had not yet abated.

“First thing is to get those cuffs off of you,” Percy said brusquely.  “And the next is to get an understanding of where things lie.  Fortunately, I know someone who can help us with both at once.  Stay here.  Rest a bit.  I’ll lock the door behind me.”

And with that, Percy swept out of the office, and for the second time that day, Draco heard the click of a latch being magically locked into place.  He was almost too tired to care.  If he needed to escape a second time, he was going to take a nap first.  He leaned against one arm of the loveseat, tucking his feet up without caring that he was putting his shoes on the furniture, and pulled the blanket more tightly around him.

Draco only knew that he’d fallen asleep when he was awoken by familiar voices that seemed to be trying for quiet, but were failing in the face of existing brotherly dynamics. 

“I don’t know why he wouldn’t have just told us –”

“Oh of course, with you being so obviously welcoming to the idea, I’m sure that there was absolutely no reason Harry might have kept schtum about it.  It’s not like you threw a wobbly at the Quidditch match, or anything – frightening the twins in the process, I might add.”

“I wasn’t lying, he is dangerous,” Percy huffed.

“Yeah, he looks it,” George retorted, and Draco finally mustered the energy to force his eyes open, trying to push himself into a sitting position.  George, seeing that he was awake, gave him a wink.  “No offense.”

“You try being pregnant,” Draco grumbled, and George winced at the sound of his voice.  “It’s not exactly easy.”

“Mate, you don’t have to convince me,” George said, crouching down in front of Draco and pulling a small leather tool kit from his coat pocket.  From it, he extracted two slender silver implements which gleamed with magic.  “Though…it’s worth thinking about, isn’t it.  Angelina can’t, and we’ve been talking off and on about adopting, but…”  George gave a shrug, setting his magical picks to work on the cuffs.

“You can’t be serious,” Percy snapped.  His arms were folded defensively across his chest, and he looked as though he were rethinking his decision to call upon his brother.

“Perfectly,” George said, his brow furrowed in concentration.  “Who knows?  Maybe we’ll get another set of twins in the family, wouldn’t that be something?”

“It’s not –”  Percy started, but cut himself off when George turned a glare on him.  “There’s the Statute to think about, you know.”

“If this whole mess with Harry has taught us anything, it’s that a wizard’s pregnancy seems to be ridiculously easy to hide,” George said.  “Pull the other one.”

“Molly knows,” Draco rasped.  “So does Arthur.”

“What?”  Percy nearly screeched, while George let out a laugh.

“Mum can sniff out a potential grandchild from miles away, I’m not surprised.”  With a click, the cuff around Draco’s left wrist fell away, and George frowned at the bruises that had been left behind.  But he transferred his attention to the right cuff without missing a beat.

“Ron told her,” Draco huffed, still annoyed at the fact.  But George only chuckled again.

“Looks like we’re out of the loop, Perce.  What Ron knows, Hermione knows.”

“Speaking of, what do you know about what happened earlier?  Any word on Harry’s condition?”  Percy’s crossness at having been kept out of a family secret shifted into grave concern.

“The shopkeepers are in an uproar.  The Aurors have that section of the Alley locked down tight, they’re not letting anyone through.  Multiple dead, as far as I’ve heard.  Nothing about Harry, but he’s proven to be basically unkillable.”  The optimism in George’s words was belied by the shadow that crossed his face.  “Nothing on the Wireless yet, but the Daily Prophet vultures got to the scene first, so no surprise there.”

“Teddy?”  Draco asked, trying to keep still as George worked on picking the second cuff.

“Haven’t heard,” George grunted, twisting one of his tools and letting out a satisfied “Ha!” when the lock disengaged.

Draco instantly felt better, and he knew it wasn’t just the mental relief of being free of the cuffs.  The feeling of being reconnected to the ambient magic around him was nearly tangible, and while it didn’t do anything to mitigate the fatigue that was weighing on him, it was far better than the sensation that an integral part of him was missing.

“Do we need to alert the family?”  Percy asked.  “I’ve been shut in my office all day, I hadn’t even heard about what happened.”

“No,” George said.  “I already got an owl from mum, she was frantic when she heard.  I’ve no doubt that she’s at St. Mungo’s for Harry, as we speak.  She’s likely already put the word out to the rest of the family.”

“Then that’s where we should go,” Percy said firmly.  “He needs to go, regardless, just look at him.”  He waved a hand at Draco.

“There will be Aurors there,” George said, offering a hand to Draco to pull him to his feet.  Draco overbalanced, and George caught him, drawing one of his arms across his broad shoulders and bracing him with an arm around his waist.

“Yes, there will,” Percy said, a look of steely determination settling onto his face.  “Let’s see if we can’t make them regret mucking about with our family.”

Chapter 37

There were Aurors in the waiting room at St. Mungo’s.  Draco saw the flashes of scarlet robes through the throng of witches and wizards who were spilling out the doors and into the decrepit Muggle department store that served as the main entrance to the hospital.  None of the people in the crowd appeared to be ill or injured, though there was one harried-looking trainee Healer in white robes with lime green bands rushing about to check briefly with each one to see if they needed medical attention. 

Draco felt magic slip over him like the trickle of cold water spreading over his skin, and he shivered a bit, craning his neck to get a better look at George, who was still supporting him on his right.  George was just slipping his wand back up his sleeve, and he gave Draco a wink.  “If you know you’re courting trouble, it’s best to choose your moment.  Wouldn’t want anyone recognizing you before we get a chance to have a Healer see to you.”

“I don’t know if Astoria is here,” Draco said, keeping his raspy voice low.  “And if she is, she’s likely busy with other patients.”

“She does curses, doesn’t she?”  George asked, looking slightly confused.  “Not births.”

“It’s rather a long story,” Draco demurred. 

“I’m surprised they’re allowing so many people in here,” Percy harrumphed.  “The Muggles are going to notice if what they think is a closed department store suddenly has a queue of people coming out the door and down the street.  It’s irresponsible –”

“’Scuse us, are you ‘ere to wait for news or do you need an ‘ealer?”  The young wizard in the trainee Healer robes had finally reached them, and had a pad of parchment and a quill raised and ready to use.

“We’re here to see Healer Greengrass, we’ve got one of her patients with us,” George said smoothly, giving the young man a friendly grin.  “What do you mean, here to wait?  What is everyone waiting for?”

The trainee’s face fell slightly.  “Everyone knows that ‘arry Potter was taken ‘ere after dueling the Death Eater in Diagon Alley.  They’re waiting for word on ‘im.  A vigil, like.”

Draco’s knees suddenly buckled, tears stinging his eyes, his sore throat constricting with emotion that he had been suppressing for too long now.  George scrambled to keep him upright, tightening his arm more firmly around his waist.

“Seems to be a little more urgent than we thought,” George said tightly.  “Let’s get a move on, shall we?”

“’ealer Greengrass is one of the team working on ‘arr—er, on an ‘igh profile case,” the trainee Healer said, catching himself before too explicitly revealing private information, though it was clear what he’d been about to say.  “Can I get your name, sir?”

“It’s best that we handle all of that in Admissions,” Percy interjected.

“Oh – of course, please follow me.”

Draco was barely aware of being practically carried past dozens of people, of holding tightly to George’s arm as they had to shuffle their way through the bottleneck at the entrance to the true waiting room, past the few witches and wizards who had been lucky enough to snag a chair in which to wait out their vigil and beyond to the Admission Department.  He had circumvented this area in his recent visits to the hospital – first because when he had been afflicted with the scarab brooch, he was rushed right into the emergency treatment room for Artefact Accidents.  And in his subsequent visits with Astoria, he’d gone directly to her office.

“Madam Atterbury, I ‘ave one of ‘ealer Greengrass’s patients ‘ere to see ‘er, it’s urgent,” said the trainee, a slight tremble in his voice as he addressed the person known as the Welcome Witch.

The witch who was working the Admissions desk, a severe-looking woman with hair pulled back into a gray-streaked bun so tight that Draco rather feared for the state of her scalp, glared at the trainee over a pair of forbidding spectacles.

“Trainee Clarke, Healer Greengrass is occupied with a case that is of utmost importance, as you are well aware.”  Madam Atterbury pointedly emphasized the ‘H’ sound in a stuffy, cut-glass accent.  “I’m sure that some other Healer will be more than adequate.”  She ran her gaze critically over Draco, who was nearly hanging limply between the two Weasley brothers.  “And it is not conducive to the diagnostic process to allow glamored patients to be admitted.”

She raised her wand and gestured sharply with it, casting a nonverbal Finite, and Draco felt the glamor that George had cast over him melt away.

Madam Atterbury and Clarke both gasped, Atterbury going to her feet and seeming ready to bolt from the room.  “You!  You are supposed to be in Auror custody, I saw it in the evening edition of the Daily Prophet –”

“Sit down immediately, Madam Attebury, or I assure you, you will regret it.”  Percy’s wand was drawn, and while he wasn’t aiming directly at the witch, he made sure that she could see it.  “Clarke, return to your duties.  None of this is your concern any longer.”

“Er…er…yes, sir!”  Clarke squeaked, and he darted back into the waiting area as quickly as his gangly legs could carry him.

With another glare at Atterbury, Percy took a step back to give himself a little more room before casting.  “Expecto patronum!”

Silver vapor coalesced into a tall, long-legged bird with a hooked beak and a crest consisting of several long plume feathers that bobbed whenever it moved its head.  It ruffled its feathers in a businesslike fashion, then stepped elegantly through the far wall in search of the intended recipient of the message Percy wanted it to convey.

“Mind if I borrow this?”  George asked, leaning over to swipe Atterbury’s copy of the Daily Prophet right off her desk, ignoring her gasp of outrage.  “Thanks, love.”

“Let me see,” Percy demanded grimly, and somehow the paper was spread out between the two brothers, and Draco was treated to a close-up view of his own arrest.

DEATH IN DIAGON ALLEY!

HARRY POTTER IN GRAVE CONDITION, DRACO MALFOY ARRESTED

Proclaimed the headline, below which was the photo that Chester Lanius had taken hours earlier, taking up a good amount of space on the front page.  Draco managed to examine it with some detachment, raising a hand to feel dried blood crusted in his hair from the graze he’d sustained sometime during the duel.  He hadn’t even realized that he’d been bleeding, though he remembered the sting of broken glass. 

The curse scars that crossed his face high on his right cheek and over his eye stood out starkly in the photograph, as did the roundness of his belly.  With Draco’s hands cuffed in front of him, splayed in a slightly awkward fashion to make room for his belly, about half of the Dark Mark was visible on the inside of his left forearm.  The expression on the face of the Draco in the photograph was overwhelmed, though it could also likely come off as blank or dispassionate to anyone who didn’t know him personally.  Which was, of course, the vast majority of the Prophet’s readership.  Coupled with the curse scars, the Draco in the photograph looked the part of a villain, even being visibly pregnant.

Draco barely read any of the words of the accompanying article, only snatches of it coming to his attention here and there.  Snippets like ‘photos of the remains of someone believed to be Antonin Dolohov were deemed too shocking for sensitive readers’ and ‘three pronounced dead at the scene assumed to have died from curse flame, and the Aurors have yet to identify –’.  Phrases like ‘noted Death Eater Draco Malfoy’ were interesting – the shift from ‘former’ to ‘noted’ certainly implied something to the Prophet’s readers. 

And those excerpts such as ‘questions remain as to why Harry Potter was in the company of Draco Malfoy during the time of the attack’ and ‘while not technically in violation of the Statute of Secrecy, wizard pregnancies are frowned upon in broader society and speculation as to the identity of the other party involved is running high’ were in close enough proximity as to practically demand readers to connect the obvious dots.  It was virtually an announcement.

And while it wasn’t unfounded, it was completely unwelcome.  It also seemed to be exactly what Farris had likely hoped to achieve with Draco’s arrest – there were reports of a few witness accounts which described Harry’s actions, though they weren’t couched in such glowing terms as more recent reporting had done.  And with the fatalities of innocent bystanders associated with this incident, the public was much more likely to focus on the details which made this seem like an intentional action gone wrong, rather than an unexpected confrontation with an infamous Death Eater that required Harry to respond almost entirely alone.  It certainly might take the shine off the idea of him heading up the Auror Office.

The worst of it was that it was so fucking unnecessary.  Harry had already refused the position, even if that wasn’t yet public knowledge.  Farris had acted against a threat that didn’t truly exist, and Draco was going to make sure that it cost him. 

“Draco!”  Called a familiar voice, filled with concern.

Percy turned to face them, which moved him far enough out of the way that Draco was able to see Astoria standing there, looking haggard in her lime green robes.  There was some sort of sickly, ashy residue on the cuffs of her sleeves, which she hurriedly cleared away with a couple of deliberate waves of her wand.

“Teddy has been nearly frantic with worry over you,” she said, striding forward and clicking her tongue in disapproval at his appearance.  She gently took hold of his chin and tilted his head to the side, in order to get a proper look at the shallow gash over his ear.  “Episkey!”

“Teddy’s all right?”  Draco rasped, his voice scraping painfully in his throat.

Astoria let out a hissing breath of dismay at the sound.  “To my office, now.  Please.”  She turned and led the way, both George and Percy helping Draco shuffle along in her wake.  When they lowered him into one of the chairs in Astoria’s office, it was all Draco could do to keep himself from groaning in relief.  He didn’t think he could stand up again now if he tried, and he curved a hand around his belly, trying to massage away some of the accumulated pain from his day.

“Teddy is fine, they were brought in with a concussion and some cracked ribs, but those were relatively easy to mend.  They’re on the upper floor with Mrs. Weasley and their grandmother, they were quite distraught when they heard about Harry and almost hysterical when no one could tell them where you were.”  Astoria scowled absentmindedly as she cast a series of diagnostic spells, which Draco recognized from his regular appointments.  She healed the bruises around his wrists, the scrapes on his palms, the skinned patches on his knees from his earlier fall when he had tried to flee Diagon Alley.  “Where have you been?  And have you been skipping doses of the potion I prescribed for you?  That is extremely unwise, Draco.”

“It’s not his fault, he’s supposed to be arrested,” George said cheerfully.

“What?”  Astoria’s mouth dropped open.  “Why?”

“You’ll see it in this evening’s Daily Prophet,” Percy sniffed.  “Suspicion of colluding with Death Eaters.  And technically, since he…let himself out…the Aurors will not be pleased when they find out he’s here.”

“He should have been brought here in the first place, arrested or not!”  Astoria snapped, waving her wand to Summon a vial of the muddy brown potion that Draco was supposed to take.  “In his condition –”

“You said my mother is in the tea room?”  Percy interjected.

Astoria nodded distractedly.  “I expect a few more people have shown up for Harry by now.”

“Go,” George told his brother, making a shooing motion.  “I’ll stay.”

Percy gave him a sharp nod, directed a lingering, frown-y sort of look at Draco, and then left, slipping through the door and closing it quietly behind him.

“Here, drink this straight away,” Astoria said, holding the vial out for Draco.  “I’ll fetch you some water –”

Instead of taking the vial, Draco grabbed her wrist and squeezed – not hard, but enough to get her attention, waiting until she met his gaze.  “What about Harry?”

Her face clouded, and her brown eyes dropped to the floor.  “We don’t know yet.  His condition right now is…precarious.  He would have already died if the Aurors hadn’t brought him to us when they did, if they hadn’t cast the stasis spell –”

Draco growled, his sore throat protesting the action.  “They didn’t.  I did.”

Astoria raised her head, blinking in surprise.  “What?”

“I was about to bring him here myself when the Aurors arrived, I didn’t know if the stasis spell would be enough –”  Draco’s words all came together to lodge painfully in his throat, and he choked down a sob.  George gripped his shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze, offering some comfort.

“You saved his life,” Astoria said, her voice soft.

Draco looked away, shrugging one shoulder and trying to force down the feeling of nausea making itself known.  “As you said, we don’t know that yet.”

“We know that we wouldn’t have even had the chance to try to save him if that spell hadn’t been cast,” Astoria insisted.  She pressed the vial into his hand, folding his fingers around it.  “Take this, I’ll find something to restore your voice and ease the pain.  When did you last eat?”

When had he last eaten?  Draco could hardly remember, since this had been – and still was – one of the most extraordinarily long and miserable days of his life.  He rubbed his face tiredly.  “This morning?”

“Food as well, then, and rest.  A lot of rest,” Astoria declared, and then paused, setting a hand on Draco’s where it was protectively holding his belly.  “What else is troubling you?  Other than –” She shook her head somewhat helplessly to encompass the monumental list of troubling things.

“I –”  Draco tried to speak, tried to force the words out past the guilt that was threatening to drown him.  “Dolohov, he – he used the Cruciatus Curse on me during the duel, I don’t know for how long – and I haven’t…”  He drew in a shuddering breath.  “I haven’t felt any movement since then.”

He felt George’s hand tighten again on his shoulder, felt both gratitude that he wasn’t alone, but also shame that someone was witnessing him confess his failure to protect his unborn child from an Unforgivable Curse.

“I didn’t see anything drastically wrong in my scans,” Astoria said, squeezing his hand.  “Nothing that I wouldn’t expect to see from you in this condition, as your magical core has been so overdrawn without replenishment.  You have had to use a great deal of energy in a short amount of time, even if you weren’t using magic.  Let’s get a dose of that potion in you, and some food, and then see where things lie, all right?”

Draco nodded, ducking his head slightly as he felt the color rise in his cheeks.  He took the stopper out of the vial and tipped the contents down his throat, gagging slightly at the pain of swallowing and the nausea he still felt.  He didn’t want to eat, even as his stomach ached with hunger.  He didn’t know if he could keep any food down, though he would have to try.

A sudden furious pounding on the door made them all jump, and Astoria heaved herself to her feet, her own fatigue making her slightly unsteady as she crossed the room.  She opened it only partway, keeping Draco and George out of view of whoever was on the other side.

“What is it?”  She snapped.

In answer, the door was forced open, taking Astoria by surprise and knocking the Healer back so hard that she stumbled and would have fallen if George hadn’t moved quickly to catch her.  Three Aurors stood in the doorway, wands at the ready.  Draco recognized Farris and Strickland, but not the third.

“What do you know,” Strickland said, the normally stern set of his mouth curling up into an unpleasant grin.  “The old bat was right.”

“Escape from lawful custody is a serious offense, Malfoy,” Farris chided, though the hard expression in his eyes betrayed his temper. 

“That’s in dispute,” George remarked, gently nudging Astoria to the side and putting himself in between the Aurors and Draco.  He folded his hands behind his back nonchalantly, and Draco could see his wand slip out of his sleeve and into his grip.

“I’m afraid five centuries of wizarding law disagrees with you.”  Farris smirked indulgently at George, then flicked his gaze back to Draco.

“I mean the part about ‘lawful’ custody,” George said.  “And if we’re listing offenses, then we might add ‘excessive force’ to it.  You could have injured Healer Greengrass.”

“For that matter, you did not abide by the lawful requirement to provide medical attention to individuals in your custody,” Astoria said, raising her voice in outrage.

“And you are providing aid and comfort to a criminal,” Farris snarled.

“I am fulfilling my oath,” Astoria retorted.  “Enforcing the law is not my concern, and in this instance, my duty trumps yours.  This is my patient, and I am admitting him to the hospital for needed care.”

“Not bloody likely,” Strickland said, raising his wand.

“Bad idea, mate,” George said, letting his hands fall to his sides so that his own wand was now visible to the Aurors.

“You think you’re going to stop us?”  Strickland sneered.

“This is a hospital,” Astoria said sharply.  “You can’t possibly think you’re going to start dueling in a hospital.”

Neither Strickland nor Farris paid her any attention.

“I think that abusing your authority when it comes to me is going to play very badly for you,” George said calmly, though there was a tension in his body that told Draco that he was ready to act if necessary.  “I’m a pillar of the community these days, haven’t you heard?  Besides, I’m not alone.”

“I see a Healer and a wandless fugitive,” Farris said dismissively.  “I’m not sure how much they’re worth here.”

Three nearly simultaneous cracks of displaced air announced the sudden arrival of additional Weasleys – Percy, Bill, and Ginny, all of whom had their wands in hand.  Astoria let out a shocked cry and stepped hastily back, though there wasn’t much room to do so with the unexpected crowd in her office.

“The Minister is on his way here, Algar,” Percy said, coming to stand shoulder to shoulder with George.  “He should arrive shortly.  Shall we wait for him?”

Rage flashed over Farris’s face, there and gone in a blink.  The Auror gave an exaggeratedly careless shrug.  “Interfacing directly with the Minister is above my current pay grade.  It’s my superior’s job to brief him, though I suppose the Minister could always read the paper to bring himself up to speed.  Besides, we still need to finish processing the scene.”

“But –”  Strickland started to protest, but Farris cut him off with a glare.

“You heard the Healer.  Malfoy has been admitted.  We’ll be here to scoop him back up when he’s deemed fit enough.  Singh.”  Farris practically barked the last name, and the third Auror snapped to attention.  “Stay here.  Make sure he doesn’t leave the hospital.”

“Yes, sir,” replied Singh, his dark eyes roaming uneasily along the veritable wall of Weasleys in front of him.

“We’ll be seeing you, Malfoy,” Farris said, peering around George and giving Draco a mocking wave before he and Strickland retreated into the hallway, leaving their younger colleague behind.

Once they were gone from view, Ginny immediately went to Astoria, cradling her face with both hands.  “All right, love?  Did they hurt you?”

“I’m fine,” Astoria assured her, but her lip trembled as she said it, and Ginny wrapped her up in a fierce embrace, kissing the side of her head. 

Bill took a step towards Singh.  “Leave,” he suggested, his voice a deep rumble with the threat of a growl behind it. 

“I’m supposed to –”

“I don’t give a fuck what you’re ‘supposed to’,” Bill interrupted him.  “We’ll be upstairs in the tea room.  You can wait outside of it if you don’t have the sense to recognize when you’ve been handed a fool’s errand.”

Singh gulped, glancing around at the other Weasleys, his eyes finally settling on Draco.  With a short nod of acceptance, he took his own leave, presumably to find somewhere unobtrusive to lurk until Draco was recovered enough to be taken back into custody.

Bill turned back to face George, dragging a hand down his scarred face as he gave a heavy sigh.  “Mum’s just about to go spare, she wants all of us together right quick.  That includes you,” he said, giving Draco a stern look.  “You have a number of people near sick with worry over you.”

“I do?”  Draco rasped, furrowing his brows.

“You do,” Bill said firmly.  “Let’s get moving.”

Astoria sniffed and attempted to disentangle herself from Ginny’s arms, though Ginny didn’t seem inclined to let her.  “I’ll meet you there, I have to get another potion for Draco and consult with the rest of Harry’s team.  We should have an update for you all.”

Draco gripped the arms of the chair he was sitting in and attempted to push himself to his feet, but his body rebelled, the muscles of his legs stiffening up immediately and a sharp twinge radiating from his lower back.  He hissed in pain and collapsed back, squeezing his eyes shut.

“Easy, now,” George said, a note of concern in his voice.  “That’s my future niece or nephew you’re carrying.”

Bill grunted and raised his wand.  “Astoria, we’ll return the chair later.  Volate!”

Draco let out a hoarse yelp as the chair suddenly lifted into the air, hovering about five inches above the floor.  He was surrounded by Weasleys as they guided the chair down the hallway to the lift, which was larger and more modern than the one in the Ministry.  It required no dedicated operator, for one, and had proper sliding doors instead of gates.  Bill touched his wand to the brass plate which read Fifth Floor, Tea Room and Shop, and the lift whirred to life, humming slightly as it passed each level until it finally slowed to a stop.

The doors opened to reveal a spacious and comfortably furnished room, packed with sofas and armchairs and settees and ottomans, many of which were already occupied by people Draco recognized.  Molly and Arthur were sitting together on a loveseat that was facing the lift, with various members of the Weasley clan scattered about in their orbit.  There were even more abandoned tea and coffee cups littered atop the low tables that were tucked in and around the other furniture, a testament to how long Harry’s loved ones had been maintaining their own vigil.

“Draco!”  Teddy almost shouted in relief as soon as they saw them, leaping to their feet and rushing to meet Draco’s ginger escort.  Their blue hair was lank and stringy, and fell just below their jaw.  They were still wearing the same clothes as when he’d met them in the potions shop, but they fit loosely around them, their frame slightly shrunken from the more muscled build they’d had.  Teddy’s eyes were swimming with tears, and they bent at the waist to more easily throw their arms around Draco, seated as he was in the hovering chair.

“I’m – I’m so sorry,” Teddy cried, and Draco immediately returned the embrace, stroking a hand over their shoulders in a way he hoped was soothing.

“Whatever for, Teddy?”  Draco winced slightly at the way his voice grated, but Teddy didn’t seem to notice.

“I didn’t protect you, and Harry –”  Teddy’s voice broke on a sob.

“That wasn’t your fault.  None of that was your fault, Teddy.  And you did protect me.”

“I didn’t know where you were,” Teddy hiccupped.  “I woke up in the hospital, and no one would tell me.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Draco said, unwilling to upset Teddy even further by sharing the news about his arrest.

“Come on, wolf cub, let’s get him settled, yeah?”  Ginny was gentle as she pulled Teddy away, putting her arm around their shoulders and leading them back to sit with Andromeda. 

Bill nudged Draco’s chair further into the room, but they didn’t get far before being swarmed by Molly, Hermione, and Ron, with Arthur hanging back, seeming slightly uncertain.  Ron’s eyes and nose were red and somewhat drippy, and Hermione wasn’t much better.  She kept wiping tears away impatiently as they ran down her cheeks.

“I didn’t know,” she said in a low voice, mindful of Teddy and the others in the room.  “If I had, I would have come up to the second floor directly, I hope you know that.  I rushed here as soon as I got word about Harry –”

“I managed,” Draco said, interrupting her.  “And Percy did the rest.”

“Proud of you, Perce,” Ron said quietly, his watery eyes trained on his older brother.

Percy looked away from all of them, his hands tightening into fists at his sides.  “Family comes first,” he said stiffly.  “I learned that lesson.  Too late, but I learned it.  If I had wised up sooner, then Fred might –”

His voice cracked, and George yanked him into his arms, curling a hand around the back of Percy’s neck and pulling him down until their foreheads were touching.  Percy’s eyes were screwed shut, a few stray tears glistening wetly on his eyelashes. 

“That had nothing to do with you,” George whispered fiercely.  “It might have happened either way, it’s impossible to say differently.  That wasn’t your fault, Perce, and you came back to us, and he knew that.  He was so happy you were back with us.”

“I –”  Percy tried again to speak, but couldn’t seem to muster the words.  His knuckles went white as they tightened around handfuls of George’s coat. 

“Percy, my love.”  Molly went to them both, trying her best to fit her arms around two of her adult sons.  Arthur made up the difference by hugging them from the other side, all four of them clustered together without speaking for several minutes.

“Kingsley is bringing your mum here,” Ron said to Draco, swiping at his eyes again.  “She…I don’t even know some of the words she was saying when she found out about Dolohov, and then that you were just missing.”

“Mother has an extensive and fluent vocabulary in English, French, and Italian,” Draco said, a small, amused quirk to his lips.  “She likes to pretend she doesn’t know those words, either, but…”

“How are you feeling?”  Hermione asked, anxiously.

“I’d rather not talk about that,” Draco said.  “Suffice it to say that I’ve met with Astoria.  All right?”

“All right,” Hermione said reluctantly.  She clearly wanted some reassurances, but that was something that Draco was unable to provide to anyone, especially himself. 

“He needs to eat something,” came George’s slightly muffled voice, one of his hands extended out of the huddle to point at Draco.  “Astoria said so.”

“I’ll get you something from the shop,” Ron volunteered hurriedly, jumping on the opportunity to distract himself.

Draco sighed tiredly, slightly annoyed at George’s tale-telling but unable to deny the hunger pains that he was feeling.  He only hoped that he could keep some food down. 

A soft touch to his knee brought him out of his slight daze, and he looked down to see a familiar toddler looking back up at him.  He blinked in surprise.  “Tao?”

Tao’s face broke out into a wide grin, his cheeks dimpling in a painfully familiar way.

“Tao!”  Dee came hurrying up, the big man leaning down to scoop his son into his arms.  Tao immediately began to squirm unhappily, reaching both hands out to Draco.  “I’m sorry, I just looked away for a second –”

“Dee?”  Draco was suddenly acutely aware of his ragged appearance, of the tatty nature of his borrowed clothes and the blood that was still crusted in his white hair.  Dee’s eyes were fixed on the right side of his face, his brows drawn together in a fierce frown.

“Ron brought them here,” Hermione explained, trying to smile.  “The Healers said…they said that it was…that Harry’s loved ones ought to be ready to – to say goodbye.”

No, Draco told himself firmly.  Don’t think about that, you cannot fall apart.  Not here.  Not now.

“It’s just me and Tao,” Dee said somberly.  “Junie’s got school in the morning and Xiumei is with her – we just weren’t sure…  I’ve been trying to keep her updated, but my mobile doesn’t bloody work in this place.”

Tao let out a sharp, demanding squeal and leaned hard out of his father’s arms, and Draco automatically reached up to take him.

“Tao, sweetheart, I’m not sure –”  Dee started nervously, but Draco cut him off.

“It’s fine, I don’t mind.”

Dee somewhat reluctantly allowed Tao to transfer to what was left of Draco’s lap, with his belly as large as it was now.  Draco could see the way Dee kept looking at it, and then back up to his face, and took pity on the poor man.

“I’m pregnant,” he explained, shifting around so that Tao could settle more comfortably against his side.  “It’s a magic thing.”

Dee looked as though he were making a solid effort to wrap his mind around it.  “Er, so…I mean.  Who…is Harry…”

“Yes,” Draco said, fighting down a sudden urge to chuckle.  “Harry is the other father, and it’ll be a cesarean birth, just in case that was troubling you.”

“Not troubled,” Dee said quickly.  “Just…wasn’t sure how it was going to work.  Bloody hell, I don’t even know what’s going on.”  He looked down somewhat helplessly at his son, who had a hand resting on Draco’s belly.  “You’re going to have a little cousin, Tao.”

Tao blinked at his father, then turned to look at Draco, as though for confirmation.

Draco nodded gravely.  “It’s true.”  He thought he did well in not allowing any of the doubt and worry he was feeling to show through.

Tao grinned again, patting his hand gently against Draco’s belly.  “Baby,” he cooed softly.

“That’s right, love.”  Dee smiled fondly.

Tao flopped against Draco’s side contentedly, keeping his little hand where it was, pressing lightly.  It didn’t hurt – quite the opposite, in fact.  Tao’s body was warm, and his presence soothing, and gradually Draco felt himself relax.  Even when Ron came back from the adjacent tea shop with a mug of steaming tea and a packet of cucumber sandwiches, and there was some rather officious arrangement regarding Draco’s still-hovering chair and its proximity to a table tall enough for him to rest his mug and partially eaten sandwiches.  He ended up sharing with Tao, who was eager to try whatever Draco was eating, and the tea went down easier than the food.

The arrival of Narcissa and Shacklebolt caused quite a stir, with raised voices being directed towards the Minister by a number of irate Weasleys.  Narcissa was coldly furious in that way she had, as if her face were sculpted from ice.  Her blue eyes locked on Draco the moment the doors of the lift opened, and she strode toward him without even glancing at anyone else.  He reached for her, and she for him, hugging each other fiercely.

Draco knew that it was futile not to tell her about Dolohov’s motivations for tracking him through the Mark, knew that his mother would be devastated once she knew that her son was targeted in order to get to her.  But he didn’t want this moment to be about that – there was too much already.  Astoria had not yet appeared with her promised news about Harry, and that was the only reason that Draco was continuing to stave off the exhaustion that threatened to pull him under.

Introductions were made, with Narcissa exchanging a brief, polite smile with Dee and a somewhat slobbery handshake with Tao, who had removed his other hand from his mouth in order to greet her.  Draco had to hide a grin at Narcissa’s obvious (to him) dismay, and watched as she discreetly used her wand to cast a quiet cleaning charm as soon as the toddler had let her go.

Finally, there was the soft ding of the lift once more, and everyone turned to watch as the doors slid open to reveal Astoria.  She looked almost as tired as Draco felt, and she carried a small bottle of light blue potion in one hand.

Astoria held up her other hand to forestall any of the anxious questions from the crowd, instead moving to hand the bottle off to Draco and watch him drink it all down before speaking.  Draco did so, just as eager as everyone else to hear what she might have to say.  The potion did its job, soothing his sore throat and lessening the aches he was feeling overall. 

Ginny came up to slip an arm around Astoria’s waist, and the Healer leaned into her gratefully for a moment before addressing everyone in the room.

“I appreciate your patience,” she began.  “I know that it hasn’t been easy to wait to hear about Harry’s condition, and I want you to know that our team did everything possible to bring you good news.”  She paused for a moment, gathering herself.  “The curse fire damaged his body and his magical core, but right now we’re hopeful that he will make a full recovery.”

The room erupted into noise of various types – applause, sobs of relief, exclamations of joy – but settled down immediately when Astoria raised her hand again.

“He also suffered a significant injury to his right knee that will need some time to heal – the combination of the physical impact with the subsequent magical injury to his core made all aspects of his treatment a bit more complicated.  We expect him to improve there, too, but it will be a longer process than is customary.  But he will have all of you to support him, so I can’t imagine that he doesn’t have the best possible chance.”  Astoria’s face split into a tired grin at the resumption of relieved celebration.

Hermione had her face pressed into Ron’s shoulder, her body shaking with sobs, and he was sniffling into her hair.  Teddy had thrown their arms around Andromeda, holding onto her tightly, and Draco could see that they were trembling with emotion.  He felt Narcissa’s hand slip into his, squeezing tightly, which was all of the emotion he knew his mother would allow herself in such wide company. 

And in the corner of the room, closest to the tea shop which was now closed for the night, Kingsley Shacklebolt had collapsed back into his chair, body sagging with the sudden release of tension and his head resting in his hands.

~ * ~

Draco had been allowed to be the first one to visit Harry in the Janus Thickey Ward, set up in a room opposite the wing intended for the ward’s more long-term patients.  The room was dimly lit and magically soundproofed to provide the least disruptive environment possible.

And then there was Harry, still in a magically induced healing sleep, hovering just a few inches off the bed and draped only with a thin sheet.  The curse burns on his back needed to breathe, Astoria had explained in a hushed tone, and would only be aggravated with the pressure of being supported directly by the bed.  The Cushioning charm prevented that, and the warming charm on the sheet kept Harry from getting too cold.

An ingenious little lamp on the bedside table acted as a monitor for Harry’s vitals, a soft golden glow expanding and contracting with every breath Harry took, and a warm, barely audible thump – like the quiet ringing of a drum – pulsing in time with his heartbeat. 

Astoria ushered Draco to a cushioned chair on Harry’s other side – even with the rest he’d managed on the upper floor, he was slow to move, his pace no more than a determined shuffle.  She left him alone then, for which he was profoundly grateful.  As much as he appreciated the obvious love and care that Harry’s family had, Draco was unused to being included to that degree.

“That was a near thing,” Draco remarked.  “Too close by half.  I will not tolerate losing you, do you understand?  I know heroics come to you as naturally as breathing –”  He paused for a moment to watch the lamp, seeing the light grow and shrink, and listening to the soft thrums that meant that Harry was here, and alive.  “– but it’s about more than you and me, now.  At least, I hope that it is.”

Draco’s breath hitched in his chest, that pent-up emotion hammering against the shoddily constructed walls that he’d thrown up just to get through the day, and he reached out a trembling hand.  Harry’s skin was still warm to the touch – perhaps too warm.  But Draco still threaded his fingers through Harry’s, carefully, gently, drawing his large palm to press against his belly.  He slowed his breathing to match the way the lamp brightened and dimmed, keeping pace with Harry’s lungs, and closed his eyes.

A tiny, fluttering kick answered the touch of Harry’s hand, and Harry’s long, clever fingers tightened slightly around Draco’s.

The tears welled up and spilled down Draco’s cheeks, and there was nothing he could do to stop them. 

Chapter 38

“Hush, you.  If you keep on like that you’re going to wake him.”

The voice was warm and slightly frail, quiet in a way which felt out of character.  But in spite of that, something about it made Draco fight against the hold that sleep had on him.  It was difficult, as he didn’t feel fully rested, but as various aches and pains also started to make themselves known, he felt himself drifting back into consciousness.

“Might be for the best, that can’t be comfortable.”

That voice was also familiar, and had a mildly critical edge to it.

“I think it’s really rather sweet,” offered a third voice.

The realization that the voices seemed to be discussing him was enough to bring Draco into full wakefulness, and when he opened his eyes he at first saw nothing but the warm brown skin of Harry’s arm, dusted with dark hair.  To his chagrin, he realized that he had been using it as a pillow, with his forearms tucked underneath while his cheek rested on top.

A sharp twinge in his lower back drew his attention to the fact that he had obviously been in this position for some hours, and he stifled a groan as he forced himself to sit upright, catching the edges of the hospital blanket that someone had tucked around him.  Rather than face the amused expressions that Hermione and Ron were wearing, he focused on Harry, critically taking in his improved color, though he still looked a touch too gray for Draco’s liking.  Harry was wearing his specs, and there were lines around his mouth and eyes that spoke to some degree of lingering pain, but his hand had prevented Draco from withdrawing completely.  It was now wrapped around his wrist, his thumb moving softly back and forth in slow arcs.

Harry’s eyebrows drew together as he studied Draco’s face in return, his sharp green eyes lingering on the right side of his face, then drifting to where Draco’s earring ought to be.  The frown deepened on his face as he took in the rest of Draco’s appearance – specifically, what was missing.

“Where’s your glamor?”  Harry asked, the confusion evident in his voice, which was still a bit shaky.

Draco drew in a deep breath, not quite prepared to talk about what had happened after he’d cast the stasis spell to save Harry’s life.  He hadn’t yet had a chance to sort out his own feelings about it, as focused as he’d been upon making it out of Auror custody and back to Harry’s side.  He had an idea of what Harry’s reaction would be, and while he didn’t want anything to impede Harry’s healing, there really was no viable way to conceal this from him.  And he found he didn’t want to, not really.  Harry deserved the truth.

“I will explain,” Draco said, with a quelling glance at Ron and Hermione, who were both looking at their best friend apprehensively.  “But before I do, I must remind you that you almost died yesterday, and are far from recovered.  There is a time and place for action, but it is not now and it is not here.  Understood?”

Harry’s hand tightened around Draco’s wrist, nearly to the point of pain.  And Draco didn’t know if he were holding himself back, or if it was an indication of how much Harry’s strength had been sapped just to survive the curse fire that Dolohov had thrown him into. 

“I understand,” Harry said thickly.  “Just tell me.”

“My glamor, satchel, and wand were confiscated when I was arrested,” Draco said, putting significant effort into keeping his voice calm.  “The Aurors responded to Diagon Alley just after I put you under stasis.  They transported you here to St. Mungo’s, and took me into custody.”

“They what.”  Harry’s voice had gone flat and dangerous, and he very deliberately let go of Draco, clenching both hands into fists so tight that his knuckles were nearly white.

“It’s a bit of a fucking mess, mate,” Ron offered quietly.  “It was in the Prophet last night, in typical Prophet fashion.”

“I want to see.”  It was much more of a command than a request.  The light of the candle-lit orbs hovering in the room glinted harshly on the lenses of Harry’s glasses, sitting up as he was, still cushioned by magic to spare his back.

“Fine,” Hermione said, in a clipped manner.  “But I’m prepared to cast the full Body-Bind to keep you right where you are if you can’t hold it together, Harry.  I mean it.”  She rummaged through her tote bag, retrieving a copy of the previous evening’s edition of the Daily Prophet, and handed it to Harry.

Harry was still for a moment or two, his eyes scanning over the printed text and lingering over the photo that had pride of place on the front page.  His gaze darted to Draco and back to the paper, and it abruptly burst into flames in his hands, transformed into nothing but scant black ashes in mere seconds.  Harry’s hands closed around flakes that crumbled into fine powder, smearing his hands with black.  He looked briefly startled, as though he were just as surprised at the paper’s destruction.

“Why.”  Harry growled the word through gritted teeth.

Hermione sighed, rubbing at her forehead as though she were trying to stave off a headache.  “Because Farris wants Robard’s position, and he thinks that you’re in the way.  This was a convenient way of mobilizing the public against you.”

“I don’t fucking want the job,” Harry hissed, making a fist and slamming it down on the bed.  He grimaced in pain, the motion clearly having pulled at his injuries.  Draco reached out and took his hand, prying his fingers open so that he could lace their hands together.  Harry let out a breath and relaxed somewhat, giving him a slightly apologetic look.  “If you were arrested, then how is it that you’re here?  Are you hurt?  Is the baby –”

“I’m all right,” Draco interrupted, wanting to set his mind at ease.  “The babe seems to be fine, or at least Astoria doesn’t have any pressing concerns.  As to how I’m here, I let myself out.”

“Let yourself…?”  Harry blinked, confused.

“He bloody well escaped,” Ron said, an odd note of pride in his voice.  “Took the door right off and made it down to Percy’s office.”

“None of us knew what had happened,” Hermione added, sounding slightly choked up.  “We got word of you at first, and you were so badly hurt –”

“The confusion was both inevitable and intentional.”  Draco became more certain of that even as he was saying it.  “I doubt that Farris even intended to have me formally charged – the Aurors he tasked with taking me to the Ministry certainly didn’t seem to think so.  They put me in one of the kip rooms instead of a holding cell.”  He rubbed a hand over his belly, and Harry’s eyes tracked the movement.  “But Farris and the others know that I’m here, and the only reason they didn’t press the issue of my escape was that Astoria admitted me.”

“Well, that and they didn’t care to tangle with four Weasleys who weren’t inclined to let them get away with it,” Ron tacked on, his chest puffing slightly. 

“And that,” Draco agreed, having no issue with acknowledging the role Ron’s siblings had played.  “But they will be back.”

“One of them is still here,” Hermione said.  “He’s skulking about the halls, but George is keeping an eye on him.  He’s meant to report to Farris when Draco is released.”

Draco thought that he’d done well in concealing the trepidation he felt at the thought of confronting Farris again.  The tightening of Harry’s grip around his fingers told him that he wasn’t as successful as he believed. 

“You’re not going back there,” Harry said, making it sound more like a statement of fact than a promise.  “I don’t give a fuck about what Farris or Robards or anybody else has to say about it.”

“On that, we can both agree,” Astoria said, causing Ron to jump in surprise and mutter a curse at her sudden appearance.  She had come into Harry’s room so quietly that she’d gone unnoticed by almost everyone, though Harry didn’t seem surprised to see her. 

The Healer was carrying a tray with an assortment of vials placed on it, and she set it down on the side table which also held a pitcher of water and several drinking glasses.  “How are you feeling, Harry?”

“Fine.”  Harry’s answer was short and did not invite any further inquiry. 

Draco scowled at him.  “You are a shit liar, Harry James Potter.”

“It’s the kind of lie I hear most often,” Astoria said, her lips quirking into a smile.  She handed one vial to Draco, and another to Harry.  “Drink up, gentlemen.”

The potions appeared to be the same magic-replenishing potion that Draco had been drinking as prescribed, and he swallowed it without complaint.  With the damage the curse flame had done to Harry’s magical core, it was something that the Healers clearly felt that Harry needed as well, but he made a disgusted face and smacked his lips after drinking his down.  Draco might have warned him not to let it touch his tongue.

Ah, well.

“You’ve been taking this all these months?”  Harry gagged slightly.

“Disgusting, isn’t it?”  Draco agreed, chuckling quietly.

“If medicinal potions tasted good, our patients wouldn’t have nearly so much motivation to be well again,” Astoria quipped, swapping the empty vials for glasses of water.  “Don’t get too comfortable, Harry, I still have two more for you.”

Harry glowered, but he didn’t take his displeasure out on Astoria, and he only grumbled a little before taking each subsequent vial from her and choking them down. 

“Astoria, is Harry losing control of his magic a symptom of his magical injuries?”  Hermione asked, ignoring the glare that Harry threw her way.

“Hermione,” Harry growled.

“Shut up, Harry, you nearly died.”  Hermione dismissed him, looking intently at the Healer.

“That’s happened plenty of times before.”  Harry’s mutter was barely audible, but Draco still caught it.

“You do realize that doesn’t make it better, don’t you?”  Draco gave his hand a warning squeeze. 

A huff was all he got in response.

Harry Potter, it seemed, was a terrible patient.  Draco might have guessed at this, given Harry’s reluctance to allow his shoulder to heal properly by keeping his arm in the sling after they’d first breached the cellars at the Manor.  But Pipsy had given him to understand that being injured was not an infrequent state for Harry when he had been working as an Auror, and one would think that might have taught the man to have patience with himself during the recovery period.

Such was not the case.

While Harry was polite enough to Astoria and the other Healers who had been part of the team responsible for keeping him alive, it was clear that he was exercising a great deal of self-restraint while enduring their diagnostic spells and answering their questions.  The team, which was comprised of another witch and three wizards with rather bumptious gray-to-white beards, came to the consensus that loss of control was indeed a likely symptom of the damage the curse fire had done to Harry’s magical core, and cautioned him against intentionally using it until they could get a better sense of what treatments, if any, would be most effective. 

Harry made a disgruntled face at the porridge that he was given on the Healers’ recommendation that he ought to stick to simple foods at first.  Disgruntlement turned to outrage when a trainee Healer brought Draco something much more like a proper breakfast – fried eggs, toast, sausages, tomatoes, and beans.  Draco had to force himself not to eat too quickly, hungry as he was, but the almost comically sad eyes that Harry was giving him – or rather, his food – were too much for him to bear. 

Since there was no one else there to scold him, as the Healers had departed to discuss Harry’s treatment and Ron and Hermione were updating the rest of the Weasleys on Harry’s condition, Draco gave in to his softer impulse.  However, Harry shook his head when Draco covertly offered him a tomato and sausage.  “You need it more.  I’ll live through a few bland meals.”

It was just food.  That shouldn’t have sparked such a warm feeling of affection in him, Draco knew, but it did.  “Harry, I –”

Perhaps it was fortunate that there was a knock at the door, since even Draco didn’t precisely know what he’d been about to say.  Harry had been watching him, lips slightly parted.  But the tenuous proto-moment gently melted away when Bill cracked the door open and poked his head around it, giving Harry and Draco both assessing once-overs before pushing it wide.  While Bill was likely the tallest of the Weasleys, he wasn’t quite broad enough to obscure Dee’s bulk behind him. 

“Glad to see you more or less upright, Harry.”  Bill stepped forward and clasped Harry’s hand, giving it a careful squeeze.  “Your cousin wanted to see you before he left.”

“Only if you’re feeling well enough,” Dee said hurriedly, shifting a sleeping Tao so as to better support him with one arm.  “Xiumei’s got the car and she’s on her way to get us – not that I’m not grateful to Ron for bringing us here, it’s just…”

“I’m glad you came, Dee,” Harry said, giving his cousin a crooked smile.  “I know this place is a lot, I wouldn’t have blamed you if you didn’t.”

Dee’s face fell into a slightly hurt expression, and he moved closer to the bed.  Draco silently held his arms out, offering to take the sleeping child from him, and Dee accepted gratefully, transferring Tao to Draco’s lap.

“I know that we – I wasn’t there for you the way family should be, not for a long time,” Dee said, a finger tracing the weave of the thin hospital blanket that was draped over Harry’s legs.  “But you would come if I needed you.  You have.  It’s only right that I do the same, even when – bloody hell, I couldn’t even reach Xiumei to tell her you made it through, not until your friend – Hermione?  Put a spell on my mobile.”  Dee glanced around the room, shivering slightly at the sight of the transparent orb hovering over them, which held the candles lighting the room.

“It means a lot, Dee,” Harry said, looking contrite, and he winced as he tried to stretch his arm far enough to reach Dee’s hand.  Dee made up the distance, tentatively grasping Harry’s hand.

Draco kept quiet, patting Tao’s back when the boy murmured fretfully in his sleep.  He was leaning back slightly in the chair, allowing Tao to stretch out more comfortably over him, his small head resting just above the swell of Draco’s belly.  And inside, there were a few small movements, as though the babe were wondering at the negligible press of Tao’s body against it.

Dee was staring at his cousin, taking in his frail state, which was such a contrast to his normally lively and vibrant demeanor.  His hand tightened around Harry’s as he ducked his head, trying to hide the tears that were streaming down his cheeks.

“Dee –”  Harry started, but Dee shook his head rapidly, a pained noise escaping through clenched teeth.  The big man took a few deep breaths, trying to calm himself.

“What are we doing, Harry?”  Dee finally asked, his voice thick with emotion.

“What do you mean?”  Harry’s brows drew together, the concern overriding any pain in his expression.

“I heard them talking,” Dee sniffled, scrubbing at his eyes with the sleeve of his shirt.  “Your…your family.  About the man who did this to you, and...  I know that you went through some really grim stuff when we were younger.  I suppose I hoped that it was all behind you, but…  And I kept thinking about Junie, about how she’s now part of this world, and –”  He became too choked up to continue, the words no more than a warble in his throat before he swallowed hard.  “I can’t let her…it’s too dangerous, what kind of a father would I be if –”

“If you what?”  Harry asked quietly.  “Tried to stop her from being who she is?  What she is?  Like your parents tried to do to me?”

“I – no, I –”  Dee stammered, his face going pale.

“Dee,” Draco said, his voice imposing but not loud.  He didn’t want to wake Tao, but he wanted both Dee and Harry’s attention, lest they risk talking further past each other.  “I understand what you mean.  You love your daughter, and of course you don’t want to see her get hurt.  But as much as we throw around the term ‘wizarding world,’ the truth is that we all live in the same world.  And we always have, even though we pretend that there’s some kind of meaningful separation.  If you tried to keep her from this part of herself, you would only be putting her in greater danger.  She needs to learn how to master her magic, and that isn’t something you can teach her.  And in mastering it, she will be best equipped to defend herself if needed.”

Harry relaxed slightly at his words, the deep furrow on his forehead becoming less pronounced.  “He’s right, Dee.  I can only guess as to what you heard, but the truth is that things are better now than they were when we were still just kids.  They’re still getting better, I think, though it’s slow going.  But all the world is this way, it’s not as though Muggles live their lives free from danger.”  Harry paused for a moment, then squeezed Dee’s hand.  “And yes, the Weasleys are my family.  But so are you, and Xiumei, and Junie and Tao.”

“I feel like we’ve only just started being cousins properly,” Dee said wetly, trying to smile.  “So that means that you can’t be going around almost dying, Harry.  I want us to watch our kids grow up together.”

This time it was Harry that couldn’t speak, tears glistening in his eyes.  “I’d like that,” he said hoarsely, turning his head to look at Draco.

Draco gave them both a small smile, patting Tao’s back softly and trying not to mind the way the toddler was drooling through his shirt.  It sounded nice.  Lovely, even.  But underneath the idyllic daydream of Tao and Junie playing with the child they had yet to meet, there was an ache, a gaping cavity of loss at the knowledge that he was likely going to have to set aside his work for some time in order for such a notion to come true.

You can’t have everything that you want, he reminded himself sternly.  You ought to be grateful you have this much.

Harry was alive.  His babe was still moving inside him.  It was pure selfishness to wish for more.

The brief silence was interrupted by the sound of jangly music emitting from Dee’s pocket, which startled Tao into a confused and exhausted state of wakefulness.  The boy’s lower lip wobbled, tears welling in his eyes, and he began to cry.  Dee hurriedly put his mobile device to his ear, speaking in a low voice.  Draco did his best to soothe Tao, but it had been a very long night for everyone, especially for someone who was only small. 

Dee tapped his device and slipped it back into his pocket, coming around the bed to scoop Tao back into his arms.  Tao’s sobs receded slightly in his father’s embrace, but they didn’t stop completely.

“That was Xiumei,” Dee explained, running a hand up and down Tao’s back.  “She’s just pulled up, erm – ”  He looked somewhat helplessly at Harry.  “I would invite her to come up, but –”

“It’s fine,” Harry assured him, gesturing at Tao.  “You’d best get him home, poor tyke.  He must be so tired.”

“You look done in yourself,” Dee said with a small grin at Harry.  “Please call if we can help in any way.  I know Junie would be relieved to hear from you when you can manage it.”

“Of course,” Harry said, flapping his hand tiredly.  “Don’t keep Xiumei waiting.”

Bill, who had been leaning against the wall with his arms folded across his chest, suddenly straightened.  He hadn’t said a word past greeting Harry, though Draco had felt his assessing stare several times since then.  “I’ll show you to the ground floor, the way can be a little tricky even for us.”

“Er, thank you,” Dee said, clearly unused to having to look up to meet someone’s gaze.  Or perhaps it was the visible scarring on Bill’s face, or the dragon tooth earring he sported.  All of the Weasleys had grown up to become formidable in their own right, but Bill had an effortless, predatory grace to his movements that his younger siblings lacked.

With one last wave at Harry, Dee holding Tao’s small hand in his to wave with him, Bill ushered them out.  As fond of Tao as Draco was, it was a relief to be spared the sounds of his distress.  Children cried, he knew, and his own would be no exception.  But the makings of a fierce headache were building up, the pain centered over his right eye.  It had been so long ago that he did not remember if his headaches had started before Rowle had flung the curse at him which took his eye.  He had needed to recover physically as well as emotionally from the years during which Voldemort and the other Death Eaters had stayed at the Manor, and the same from his brief time in Azkaban after that.  Much of the most miserable times in his life had blended together, so it was hard to know the cause of the effects he still endured now.

“All right?”  Harry asked, the concern evident in his voice.

“Fine,” Draco said.  “Just a headache, it will pass.”

“We’re in a hospital,” Harry pointed out, a dimple forming in his cheek as his mouth curled into a half-grin.  “I can call for a Healer.”

“There’s no need,” Draco said repressively.  “If we’re keeping score, I’m currently in much better health than you.”

Harry’s eyes softened.  “I’m alive, thanks to you.”

Draco scoffed, bitterness suddenly rising up within him.  “Dolohov only came there because of me.  And now three people are dead, and you…”

“I’m going to be fine,” Harry said, reaching for his hand.  “And Dolohov is the only one responsible for the deaths of those people.  Not you.  Not me.”

“From what I hear, the casualties might have been even worse,” came an unexpected voice from the doorway.

Draco was surprised to see Pansy there, dressed in sharp navy pinstripe slacks and a matching jacket, the cut of which nearly reached her knees.  In spite of that, it was obviously tailored to hug her figure.  She was in sharp contrast to her companion.  Greg was with her, and he looked disheveled and slightly murderous.  His ratty, mismatched track suit stretched over the muscles in his arms and thighs, and Draco noticed some red, rough-looking abrasions on his knuckles.

“We won’t be long,” Pansy said smoothly, not waiting for either Harry or Draco to invite them in.  “Greg and I just wanted to see for ourselves how you were.”

She wasn’t looking at Harry at all, and Harry’s expression had darkened into a fierce scowl.  Pansy pointedly looked Draco up and down.  “And now I can see for myself that ‘how you are’ is pregnant.  Draco.  If you had told me, I could have helped.”

“Helped with what?”  Harry asked sharply.  “With plastering it all over the papers?”

“It is plastered all over the papers, Potter, though perhaps you haven’t had a chance to see that yet,” Pansy retorted.  “And unfortunately, the office has been inundated with letters for the opinion section.  The general theme is not congratulatory, by the way.  You’ve been a favorite topic in wizarding media for your entire life, Potter.  By now you ought to have learned that a controlled release of information is always going to play better with the public than the printed equivalent of a Bombarda.”

The thought of intentionally announcing his pregnancy to the public at large turned Draco’s stomach, though he saw the truth in what Pansy was saying.  “Pansy, even if I had considered that to be a viable option, I would not have chosen it.”

“I know,” Pansy said, rolling her eyes in expressive exasperation.  “But lucky for you, I intend to engage in some damage control whether you want it or not.”

Draco raised his eyebrows, surprised.  “Damage control?”

“Yes, indeed.  My esteemed colleague Chester –”  Pansy’s explanation was briefly punctuated by the sound of Greg cracking his knuckles.  “– has recently had the misfortune of tripping and falling – several times – which also tragically resulted in the loss of his camera.  Completely shattered, I’m afraid, just the most terrible luck.  Poor Chester.”

“Poor Chester,” Greg echoed, his deep voice little more than a growl.  He gave Draco a flat, unrepentant look, not that Draco had been inclined to chide him.

“Of course, his wrist was also shattered, so it’s not as though Chester will be able to operate a camera or pick up a quill for some time.  I had to convince him of the importance of looking after his health before even trying to come back to work.  I very generously offered to pick up the task of reporting on the Diagon Alley incident while he’s away.  See how thoughtful I am, Draco?”  Pansy gave her head a little toss, flicking a lock of black hair back over her shoulder. 

“Your thoughtfulness is something that I’ve always admired about you, Pans,” Draco said gravely, stealing a glance at Harry.  He expected to see an even deeper scowl on Harry’s face, but instead Harry had the knuckles of his other hand pressed against his mouth, striving to look thoughtful and stern.  But the amused glint in his eyes gave him away.

“Why, thank you,” Pansy said, fluttering her eyelashes at him.  “And wouldn’t you know, it seems Chester was a bit selective in the quotes from witnesses that he chose to include in last evening’s article.  Imagine my surprise when I learned from his notes, and my own follow-up interviews this morning, about the nine other people who had been trapped inside the diabolica flames, all of whom miraculously survived.”

“What’s this?”  Harry asked, dropping his hand away from his mouth.

Pansy spared him a look.  “The three fatalities were two wizards and a witch who were unfortunately caught up in the curse flames when Dolohov cast them.  Other than you, Draco, and Edward Lupin –”

“Teddy,” Harry and Draco both corrected her in unison.

“Teddy Lupin,” Pansy repeated obligingly.  “There were nine other bystanders caught inside the circle, and someone was both smart and quick enough to anchor Protego spells in front of them, which according to them spared them from death or any serious injury, given that they were in such close proximity to a duel between a Death Eater and a former Auror.”

Harry stared at Draco, his gaze shifting quickly from surprise to heated admiration, and for some reason Draco felt color rising in his cheeks.  He had honestly forgotten what he’d done after Teddy had adopted his appearance and then Disillusioned him – it hadn’t seemed to matter at all in the immediate aftermath of the bloody conclusion to the duel, not when Harry’s survival was so precarious, and Draco’s freedom curtailed.

“Chester expressed his regret at neglecting to include that information in his initial reporting,” Pansy said.

“He was very regretful,” Greg agreed.  “He said so several times when I was helping him up after his falls.”

“So, the duty to add to the record clearly falls to me,” Pansy declared, narrowing her gaze at Draco.  “Which includes any statements that you might wish to make at this time.  And you, I suppose.”  She acknowledged Harry with the barest nod of her head. 

“I don’t think it’s wise for me to say anything publicly at this juncture,” Draco said.  “As I am technically still under arrest.”

“I could have a word or two with the Auror prowling around in the halls,” Greg offered, a slightly menacing edge to his tone.

“I won’t have you getting yourself arrested as well.”  Draco was resolute on this.  “Leave him be.”

“You can say that Draco being arrested is a huge mistake, and that I fully confirm that Draco and I are having a child together, and that I don’t give a single fuck about what anyone has to say about it,” Harry stated firmly.

Pansy huffed, looking both frustrated and grudgingly charmed all at once.  “This is why you both should have come to me first, that is not the way to handle such an announcement.  You have all the delicacy of a troll in a tea shop.”

“Would it really make a difference?”  Draco asked, suddenly feeling tired.  “Either way, it’s still me.  And that’s the problem.”

“Grant me the leeway to paraphrase,” Pansy said to Harry.  “If I can convey the sentiment and the facts while presenting it to the best advantage for you both, would that do?”

Harry hesitated, clearly reluctant to just trust Pansy to act on her own.  But Draco gave him a small nod, so he sighed in resignation.  “Do the best you can.”

“Excellent.”  Pansy’s face split into a slightly evil smile, and she moved to Draco’s side, leaning down to buss him lightly on the cheek.  She pulled back, her eyes lingering on the scars on the other side of his face.  “Stay in touch, will you?  And congratulations.”

“Thank you, Pans,” Draco said, hoping that the gratitude he felt was adequately conveyed.  It had been a very long time since his friends had acted on his behalf – not through any real fault of their own.  The immediate aftermath of the war had been hard on all of them, even if they had been able to stay out of Azkaban and remain as students at Hogwarts.  And after that, he’d simply been absent.  After twenty years, he’d had no expectation of any of them leaping to his defense in the way that Greg and Pansy obviously did.

“Am I interrupting?”

All four of them turned their heads to see Kingsley Shacklebolt standing in the doorway, lines of exhaustion creasing his face.  But his sharp brown eyes were trained on Greg and Pansy, narrowed slightly in suspicion.  “Ms. Parkinson, I believe I told you that all press inquiries were to be directed to –”

“Yes, I know, Minister,” Pansy said, giving him a bright, clearly false smile.  “I’ve already spoken to Director Munro, and I will dutifully repeat their exquisitely crafted non-statement in this evening’s edition of the Prophet.”

Shacklebolt frowned.  “Ms. Parkinson, you are perfectly aware that your presence in this room is inappropriate –”

“It’s fine,” Harry cut in, his tone flat.  “Pansy was kind enough to take my statement, and she and Greg were just going.”

“Or I could sit in on what is promising to be an extremely fascinating discussion,” Pansy countered, tilting her head slightly at Harry’s suddenly chilly demeanor.

“You’ve got a bit of writing to do, Pans,” Greg said, placing one of his enormous hands at the small of her back and gently urging her towards the door.  “And now you’re just being nosy.”

“That is what I do for a living,” Pansy said haughtily, but she allowed herself to be propelled out of the room with nothing more than more than a “Ta ta, darlings!”

Shacklebolt moved aside to let them pass, coming further into the room.  He rubbed his face tiredly, glancing between Harry and Draco.  “May I sit?”

“You won’t be staying that long,” Harry said, gazing steadily at the Minister.  But Draco detected a slight tremble where their hands were still joined, and knew that Harry was not as unaffected as he was pretending to be. 

“Harry –”

“Give me one reason why I shouldn’t publicly call for your resignation.”  Harry’s voice was cold and measured.

Draco was as shocked at those words as Shacklebolt appeared to be.  Shacklebolt had been a member of the Order of the Phoenix, just as Harry had.  They had a long history together, and Harry was nothing if not loyal.  It was completely out of character for him to use his influence as a public figure against someone who was a close ally and friend, let alone threaten to do so.

“You let it get this far,” Harry continued, starting to seethe with anger.  “I agreed not to publicly deny my candidacy for the Head of the Auror Office, and look what happened.  You have been so slow to act that the Aurors themselves are split and playing games with people’s lives and freedom.  Draco should never have been arrested, you should have required Robards’ retirement years ago –”

“Yes, he should have.”  This came from yet another figure standing in the doorway to Harry’s room, and it was none other than Robards himself.  The Auror looked far older than he had when Draco had seen him last, lines of stress and age carving deep crags into his scarred face.  He looked like a man defeated, trudging in to stand next to Shacklebolt without waiting for an invitation. 

Robards looked Harry in the eyes, regret and self-loathing showing clearly in his expression.  “I thought I had a firm grasp of the situation among the ranks, and I was wrong.”  His eyes darted to Draco.  “And it’s gone too far, that much was made clear to me last night.  I’m here to tender my resignation.”

“Gawain –”  Shacklebolt began, but Robards shook his head, holding up a hand to stop him.

“I…I can’t really pinpoint where it started to go wrong,” Robards said, in a softer, slightly puzzled tone.  “And that’s the real issue, isn’t it?  I couldn’t see it, couldn’t see where we were fracturing as an Office, as a force for good.  That’s what I thought we were, I thought that I was protecting us from the whims of politics and public attitudes.”

“To serve the public, you have to listen to the public,” Draco said, the words coming out without him quite giving them permission. 

Robards gave him a half-hearted glare.  “What would you know about it?”

“That is exactly the problem,” Harry snarled, and there was a pained edge to it as he tried to sit further upright, so as to better face his former superior.  “Right there.  Being on the side of the Aurors is so ingrained in you that you can’t hear what people are telling you.”

“Gawain, while I do accept your resignation, and thank you for your years of service, the person to whom I have offered the position of Head Auror is not yet arrived in England.  I don’t think that any of us wish for your second-in-command to be Acting Head until she’s here to replace you directly.”

Robards’ second-in-command was Farris, Draco realized with a sudden rush of dread.  He found himself to be in full agreement with Shacklebolt – better for an ineffectual placeholder to remain in place than allow someone with the capacity to do much more harm to be in control, even temporarily.

“Who is it?”  Harry asked, almost in unison with Robards.

“I was waiting to make an official announcement until she returned from New Zealand,” Shacklebolt said, a warning note in his tone.  “For now, this information is strictly between us.”

Harry nodded stiffly, clearly waiting for the Minister to answer his question.

“Susan Bones has already given notice of her own resignation to the Minister of Magic in Wellington, and has accepted my offer to take up the post here,” Shacklebolt said.  “She has served with distinction as Head Auror there for the last five years, and is well respected among her peers.  I believe that she will be exactly what our Aurors need in a leader.”

Bones, Draco thought, racking his brain for any memory of her.  He knew that there had been a Bones in Hufflepuff, the niece of Amelia Bones, who had been Head of the DMLE and someone who Voldemort had murdered personally, with the aid of two other Death Eaters.  He hadn’t heard anything about her since the Battle of Hogwarts, but what he remembered was an unremarkable girl of slight stature, light brown hair and a face dusted with freckles. 

Robards was scowling slightly, clearly turning this news over in his mind.  But finally, he nodded.  “Agreed.  Though with the way things are, it’s going to begin as an uphill struggle.”

“Which is why she would benefit from your cooperation, to make this as smooth a transition as possible,” Shacklebolt pointed out.  “So I will informally accept your resignation and delay the announcement until Susan is here as the official candidate for your replacement.”

“Fine,” Robards said, suddenly looking as though a heavy weight had been lifted from his shoulders.  “That’s fine.  I can keep the ranks in line until then.  But in the meantime, we need to discuss what’s to be done about him.”  Robards jerked his head at Draco.

Shacklebolt’s face was impassive.  “I don’t follow.”

“There’s an order to these things,” Robards said.  “His mother has been raising holy hell trying to get back his personal effects, except that nothing about this arrest has gone the way it should have.  We need to get him in front of the Wizengamot –”

“The arrest shouldn’t have happened at all!”  Harry shouted, and his hand tightened almost painfully around Draco’s.  It was a welcome distraction, as Draco’s heart had begun to sink further with every word from Robards’ mouth.  “You’re not bringing him before the Wizengamot, he is not going back into custody – this was an abuse of power and a false arrest at best, and you know it!”

“Harry, you know how these things go –”  Robards argued, holding up his hands in what might have been a placating gesture.

“Yeah, I do, and it’s exactly why I left the Aurors to begin with!”  Harry was breathing hard, and he directed his furious gaze toward Shacklebolt.  “Fix this.  Or I promise you that I will call for your resignation.”

“Harry, you need to calm yourself –”  Shacklebolt replied, trying to appeal to Harry’s reason, but Harry was beyond that.

There was a rattling sound as the wand on the nightstand on Harry’s other side started to vibrate, jerking in small movements this way and that until it finally leapt into Harry’s hand.

And then Draco felt a sudden well known swirl of dark and light, of stretching and compression as he was taken Side-Along to wherever Harry was intending – or not intending? – to go.  He was barely able to brace himself properly to prevent being Splinched as he was towed almost violently along in the wake of Harry’s Apparition, and the length of time it was taking told him that they were going a significant distance.

Draco stumbled when his feet met solid ground, and Harry with him, clad in nothing but a flat sheet and thin hospital blanket.  They tumbled to an unfamiliar hardwood floor, cushioned only by a thick woven rug.  Harry was groaning in pain, but Draco wasn’t much better off, the pain above his eye blooming into something overwhelming.

The last thing he heard before the darkness at the edges of his vision overtook everything was a loud crack, the sound of another Apparition, and a startled exclamation of “Help ma boab, wha’s this?  Harry Potter is promising Beedy to call ahead before he is arriving –”

And then there was nothing.

Chapter 39

The sea was calm in the early morning, nothing but a flat gray expanse for as far as the eye could see, dulled by low-hanging clouds which blocked the sun.  The gentle rhythm of the waves crashing against the rocks at the base of the cliffs upon which Draco stood was soothing, the tang of salt air cold in his lungs and against his tongue.  Sea birds glided leisurely in wide arcs, riding the currents of air which rushed up the cliffside.  Where Draco stood there was nothing but a gentle breeze, though it would no doubt build up to strong winds later on in the day.  Dark shapes played in the water below, likely members of the selkie colony that lived further up the coast where there were sea caves and a more forgiving, sloping beach.

If the sea was tranquil, the loch behind him was as still as glass, barely a ripple disturbing its surface.  He had watched a bevy of otters slip past just as he’d exited the cottage in the gray light of dawn, their sleek bodies leaving nothing but faint, momentary wavelets in their wake.  It was due to their presence that the cottage was named what it was, Harry had explained.

 

“Taigh-Dòbhrain belonged to the Cowans, who are closely related to the McGonagalls.”  Harry looked down, fiddling with a loose thread on the shabby quilt that he’d laid over Draco during the first chaotic and confusing hour after Harry’s unintended escape from St. Mungo’s.  It had taken some frantic owling back and forth to reassure the Weasleys and the Healers that Harry and Draco were alive and mostly well in spite of their sudden Disapparition, and then frantic owling changed to agitated owling when it became clear that Harry had no intention of returning to the hospital even after Percy had authorized a temporary emergency Floo connection to the small Unplottable cottage on the Isle of Skye. 

“I…needed a place, after the war,” Harry continued, his shoulders slumping slightly as if confessing some sort of shameful truth.  “Grimmauld Place was barely habitable, and it was full of…memories.  Can’t say that Kreacher and I were on the best terms back then, either.  And just being in London was too much, especially after Ginny and I…anyway, I wasn’t well, and I wasn’t as good at hiding that fact as I thought.  The Professor reached out to me and offered up an old family cottage, quiet and remote.  It needed some work that wasn’t just clearing out Dark stuff, and I was happy to do it.  Kept my mind off things.  The commute gave me a lot of practice with Apparition, too, which helped during my Auror training.”

“And then Beedy is coming to bond with the house,” the strange little house elf prompted, proudly straightening his spotless white button-down and the waistband of the small tartan kilt that matched the colors of the wall hangings on the lower floor.  He squinted at Draco suspiciously, exhibiting none of the eagerness to provide homey comforts that was typical of most house elves.

“And then Beedy bonded with the house,” Harry said, a ghost of a smile lighting up his face for the first time since they’d arrived.  “When Hermione and I were tasked with relocating the house elves from Malfoy Manor, Beedy had one or two unusual requirements.”

“Beedy is needing time to read,” the house elf said, with an expression of extreme seriousness.  “Master Lucius is not liking house elves to read, he is punishing Beedy whenever he is catching him in the library.  But Harry Potter is letting Beedy decide about reading time, and is giving all sorts of new books.”  This last was said in a challenging manner, as if daring Draco to comment.

“Beedy is a bit of a homebody, even for house elves,” Harry said fondly.  “A small cottage gives him plenty of time for other things, especially since I don’t spend as much time here as I used to.”

 

Draco pressed a hand to his belly, strong sensations dragging across the inner walls of…wherever it was that the babe was being kept.  He wasn’t entirely clear on that, as he didn’t have a womb.  But he could feel everything under his skin, as though someone was turning over inside him.  He wasn’t sure what might have prompted such activity – perhaps the fresh, cold air?  Either way, it was reassuring – if not comfortable – to feel the degree of the babe’s movement increasing since the events of Diagon Alley.

Harry’s disrupted magic had ripped them away from St. Mungo’s in response to his strong feelings about everything regarding Draco’s arrest, and it was still behaving in an uncharacteristically volatile manner even as his body was slowly healing.  At least Harry could lie properly in a bed again without needing a magical cushion to protect his back – which was fortunate, as Draco’s body had taken the opportunity for rest and forced him to spend most of the first few days at Taigh-Dòbhrain sleeping, with infrequent breaks for food, prescribed potions, and other necessaries.  Harry was content to rest with him for most of it, his strong arm draped over what remained of Draco’s waist and the heat of his body pressing up against his back.

The actual toll that the encounter with Dolohov, and subsequently the Aurors, had taken on Draco was sobering, and he was only just now fit enough to do any substantial walking outside.  He hadn’t realized how much he had been relying on pure will and adrenaline to carry him through until he collapsed after the rough Side-Along trip.

This had of course led to Harry slinking around like a wounded puppy, the guilt he felt lingering around him like the stench of a Dungbomb from George’s shop.  Draco wasn’t quite sure how to handle that.  Harry could hardly be blamed for his magic taking over after a near-fatal injury, though Draco had to admit that they had both been lucky not to have been worse off for it.  And the fact that Harry’s magic had instinctively taken them to what was a place of refuge spoke to his desperation for a sense of safety.

Still, their sudden absence had ruffled quite a few feathers.

Astoria in particular had been absolutely livid when she learned that they would not be coming back to the Janus Thickey Ward, but it hadn’t stopped her from sending several owls laden with the potions that both of them were to continue taking.  Along with very strict instructions on how they were to care for themselves, since they would not be under the direct care of a Healer.

Not long after, another owl had arrived – this one an eagle owl with fierce orange eyes that Harry had recognized.  It carried Draco’s satchel and wand, along with a brief note from Kingsley Shacklebolt that Harry read and then accidentally incinerated.

The small silver hoop which carried the glamor and the miniature Sneakoscope had not been recovered.  It was certainly possible that such a small object could have easily been misplaced – dropped, left behind, missed by whichever Auror had relieved him of it.  But Draco’s scars were something that he had obviously wanted to hide.  And perhaps its disappearance was an act of petty revenge with the intent to humiliate, to force him to show his true face to a country that already did not want him here.

Draco found that he missed the Sneakoscope more than the glamor, though that glamor had been a deceptively tricky thing to anchor and then fine-tune to the point where it was unnoticeable.  But the glamor was all about his outward appearance – it actually did nothing to make up for his loss of sight in that eye.  The Sneakoscope at least provided some degree of warning of ill intent that he could not see, and right now that was much more important to him.

His wand had marked its reunion with him by sending a shower of silver sparks into the air, just as soon as he’d wrapped his fingers around it.  Apparently it was just as relieved as he was, which was somewhat touching.  He’d been plagued with the idea that the Aurors might have snapped it in half – which these days was supposed to be a rare and serious punishment reserved only for those who had been convicted of despicable crimes.  Still, given the lack of regard Farris and Strickland seemed to have for legal formalities, he had quietly braced himself for the possibility of never using this particular wand again.

The satchel seemed to be undisturbed, at least.  Draco had placed plenty of enchantments on it, not only the Extendable charms on its many pockets, but also those to prevent Summoning and a variation on the Thief’s Curse that was a favorite among magical librarians to discourage anyone thinking of stealing from their collections.  Though this last one was applied more to anyone other than Draco who attempted to rifle through the contents of the satchel.

Unable to ignore the increasingly insistent rumblings of his stomach, Draco turned back for the cottage, picking his way carefully down the trail.  His balance wasn’t what it had been, given how big he was now, and he didn’t want to risk slipping on the loose, damp stones.  He could have Apparated back to the cottage and avoided the trail altogether, but the morning was too still and quiet to disturb.

It had become clear early on, once Draco was able to stay awake for longer than just an hour or two at a time, that Beedy’s interests did indeed lie more in the written word than they did in traditional house elf pursuits like cooking.  Draco did not comment on it – Beedy provided perfectly adequate fare, and neither Draco nor Harry were in the best position to either fend for themselves or take care of each other.  It just wasn’t quite up to Pipsy’s exacting standards, and Draco found himself missing her cooking when presented with fried eggs which were a little too hard and rubbery, and porridge which was more lumpy than not.

Harry met him at the door, leaning hard on the old blackthorn cane that Beedy had dug out of the attic when it became clear that Harry’s injured knee would be slow to heal.  He was still getting used to needing it, oftentimes losing the rhythm of taking steps with it in the way which offered him the most relief.  It was clear that he was frustrated at not only being unable to accompany Draco on his frequent walks but also forced to refrain from using his magic to Apparate along with him.

“Good morning,” Harry said, giving Draco a soft, lingering kiss.  “It’s cold out.”

“I was warm enough,” Draco said, shrugging off his coat.  It had been part of an especially welcome owl delivery – a parcel charmed small enough for the Owl Post to deliver, but when unwrapped turned out to be about a week’s supply of clothing for both him and Harry.  There was no note with it, but Draco strongly suspected his mother, as it had been lacking in borrowed T-shirts and joggers and included some quality fleece pullovers and wool trousers which were large enough to fit Draco at his current size, and could withstand some magical stretching as he grew even bigger.  They were all in colors that he preferred and which suited him.  Narcissa had always had a keen eye for understated taste.

“Did you go as far as the Old Man of the Storr?”  Harry turned to follow him as he made his way toward the small kitchen, wobbling slightly as he repositioned the blackthorn cane.

“Not quite.”  Draco smiled, reaching out to steady Harry as he pulled out a chair and eased himself down with a slight grimace of pain.  “It’s a bit too much of a hike.  I watched the sea for a while.”

“I’ve seen dragons on days like these,” Harry said, reaching for the tea pot.  “They live on the Outer Hebrides, on a few of the smaller Unplottable islands, and when the clouds are this low, it gives them enough cover for daytime hunting.  I saw one take a porpoise once.”

“Did you?”  Draco lit up with interest.  He was busy spooning some raspberry jam into his porridge, which helped to liven the dish a little.  “Porpoises and the smaller cetaceans are a favorite of the great serpents that live in the open water, though I’ve seen them more often in the Pacific.”

“Why the Americas?”  Harry asked, after swallowing a bite of slightly burnt toast.  “I mean, I do understand ‘why not England.’  And I know you went to university in France.  But why the Americas after?  Did you just want to get as far away as possible?”

“The distance was part of it,” Draco allowed, breaking up a few lumps of porridge with his spoon.  “And the relative anonymity was also appealing.  But it was mostly because the Americas were utterly new to me – new cultures, new languages, new magic, new ecosystems.  I craved newness because everything that was familiar was…just too painful.”

Harry’s big hand covered his where it rested on the table, and when Draco met his gaze there was nothing but complete understanding in those green eyes.

“And it was more than new,” Draco continued, flipping his hand so that it was palm-up and lacing their fingers together.  “They treat the Statute of Secrecy so differently in most places in South and Central America.  Their families are more…balanced.  Less isolated from the surrounding Muggle community than we are here.  I learned so much, just living there.  I don’t want to paint it as some sort of utopia – every place has its bad points.  But in some ways, things are better.”  Draco paused, feeling his throat tighten with emotion.  “I’m going to miss it very much.”

“Why?”  Harry asked, his brows furrowed quizzically.

Draco blinked at him.  Harry seemed so honestly confused, but hadn’t Draco just spent the last few minutes explaining why?  “It’s a cherished part of my life, Harry.  I’m just…it’s difficult to say goodbye to it.”

“Why would you have to say goodbye?”  Harry was frowning now.  “Your work is there, and your friends.”

“But you’re here,” Draco said, still not understanding why Harry was failing to grasp the obvious.  “And so is your family.”

“Well, yes, but that doesn’t mean that we’ll never go to the Americas,” Harry said, as if it were just that simple.  “You’ll want some time to recover after the birth, and I expect we’ll both need a year or so to figure out how to be parents and let the tyke grow up a bit.  But if you want to go back and continue your work, then I want to come along.  Me and the baby.  It would be a little different than it was before, but not impossible.”

“I – but –”  Draco was astonished at Harry’s ready acceptance of dividing their lives between continents.  “But what about your curse breaking?”

“I could do with some training in non-European curse work,” Harry said, waving a hand dismissively.  “Or perhaps I’ll just be a dad for a while.  We don’t need to worry about money, fortunately.”

“Fortunately,” Draco echoed, feeling somewhat adrift.  It had been about twenty years since the last time he hadn’t had to worry about money.  He’d done potions work and odd jobs to support himself in the early years of his research in the Americas, until aligning himself with Séneca and the Esperanza. 

“I told you that I wanted to build something that worked for both of us,” Harry said, capturing Draco’s hand between both of his.  “I meant it.  I know that this entire thing has been a huge disruption in your life, though I can’t say that I regret what’s come of it.  But I never wanted this to permanently uproot your life, or to stop you from doing what you want to do.”

“But the Weasleys, and Dee…”  Draco started, trailing off when he wasn’t quite sure how to express what he was thinking.

“We’ll visit them plenty.”  Harry’s voice was firm.  “Curse breaking took me out of the country many times, sometimes for months.  I don’t think this will be too different.  How about you and your mum?”

“The same, I think,” Draco said faintly.  “We’ve exchanged letters much more often than we’ve visited, though…  I think she would appreciate being less isolated, if that’s possible.”

“I think that could be arranged,” Harry said, his cheeks dimpling in a smile.  He made as if to stand, then winced, settling back with a slightly disgruntled expression.  He narrowed his eyes at the gap between himself and Draco, which was due to the spacing of the chairs around the small round table, then gripped the stile of Draco’s chair and dragged it closer until they were flush together.

“Harry –”  Draco was half laughing, half protesting at being rearranged along with the furniture.  He was unable to finish whatever else he might have said, as Harry curled his hand around the back of Draco’s neck and drew him in for a kiss that tasted faintly of overly sweet tea.

“It’s my fault,” Harry murmured, only withdrawing far enough to rest his forehead against Draco’s shoulder. 

“What’s your fault?”  Draco asked, utterly lost.

“I forget that you and I see things differently.  I moved you into my house, Draco, and you weren’t even sure that you could treat it as your home.  I’m making assumptions and you’re trying not to make them, and it’s putting you at a disadvantage even when that’s not my intention.  I need to be better at telling you things, because I go on thinking that everything is settled and leave you to worry when things go unsaid.  So I’ll say it as many times as you might need to hear it – I want us to be happy together, and that doesn’t mean one person making all the sacrifices.  Especially ones that I never asked you to make.”

Draco shifted uncomfortably, disliking the feeling of being so accurately pinned with those words.  He wasn’t quite sure what made him so reluctant to voice his concerns to Harry.  Perhaps it was the sense that his reputation did put Harry at a disadvantage, so it was ‘fair’ for Draco to be the one molding himself around Harry’s existing life, to minimize the disruption.  But that assumed that Harry didn’t want his life to change, which he realized was clearly not true – now that Harry had put it so plainly.

“You’re not the only one making assumptions,” Draco said quietly, lifting a hand to comb his fingers through Harry’s black hair, touched faintly with silver.  “I’m sorry, this is new to me, I…  I suppose I’m more inclined to retreat lest I risk damaging what I have.”

“I’m fairly stubborn,” Harry said.  “It takes a lot to get me to back down.”

“Well aware of that, Potter.”  Draco huffed slightly in amusement.  “I suppose we’ll both just have to try saying things aloud more often.”

“Every Brit’s worst nightmare,” Harry said, pretending to shudder, and this time Draco laughed aloud.  “I suppose if we’re in a talking mood already, we could discuss where we want to live.  We don’t have to stay at Grimmauld Place, you know.  We could stay here –”

There was a thump and a dismayed squeak, as though a house elf listening in from an adjacent room had dropped his book at the thought of his orderly bonded cottage being more permanently occupied.

“– or we could look somewhere else entirely.  I think I’d prefer to live here in the isles at first, but I want to hear what you think.”

“I think I’d prefer that, too,” Draco said slowly, surprised to find that it was true.  Parenthood was going to be a significant adjustment, and for all of the many valid reasons he didn’t feel as though he belonged here, it was also the place where lived a number of people seeming ready and eager to offer their support and experience.  He wanted his mother to be able to see her grandchild, though he himself was still acclimating to seeing her so often since he’d been dragged back to England.

“I know how much you like the sea,” Harry said, lifting his head to meet Draco’s gaze.  “I’ve seen how much easier you seem when you’re close to the water.”

“It’s reassuring, I suppose,” Draco said, somewhat surprised by the accuracy of Harry’s observation.  “A reminder that there are great and wondrous forces in the world, and that I’m nothing but a small part of it, in the grand scheme of things.”

“Perspective,” Harry agreed, squeezing his hand.

“Speaking of,” Draco said, reluctant to change the subject to one that would pull them inexorably back to reality, and the tangled mess they’d been able to leave behind, if only for a short while.  “We need to go to Stonehenge.”

Harry heaved a sigh, and while it was slightly exaggerated, Draco could detect the weight of true weariness behind it.  He felt the same – picking up the thread of the Manor work after the ordeal with Dolohov and the Aurors was not at all appealing.  But it needed to be done – Draco was determined to prevail in protecting the continued existence of the entity of the nemeton on the estate. 

“It’s the equinox tomorrow,” Harry pointed out.

“Luna said that the nemeton would be strong enough to accept a magical weaving from Stonehenge after the equinox,” Draco explained.  “And I feel…I’m not sure how to explain it.  It’s the right time, an auspicious time, to go there to get it.”

“Then we will,” Harry said, raising Draco’s hand so that he could press his lips to the back of it. 

~ * ~

Draco was re-checking the arrangement of his satchel, ensuring that extra doses of his potions as well as Harry’s were stowed properly when he felt eyes on him.  He glanced around, expecting to see Harry, but was met with Beedy’s flat stare instead, the house elf’s large brown eyes taking up most of his face.

“Will Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy be living here?  Will the bairn be living here?”  Beedy gave a pointed nod to Draco’s belly. 

“I’m not certain of anything at present, Beedy,” Draco said, trying to dredge up any memories that he might have of this particular elf.  He felt the usual shame settling over him for his indifference toward the elves of the Manor, both individually and regarding his father’s treatment of them.  “Would it bother you if we did?”

He had to stifle a chuckle at Beedy’s struggle not to let how much it bothered him show in his expression, the house elf’s small face twisting itself out of a grimace into something that was likely supposed to be a polite smile. 

“The cottage is belonging to Harry Potter,” Beedy said finally, a faint edge to his tone which indicated that it was a slightly painful admission.  “He is deciding what to be doing with it.”

“But Harry’s the sort of person who would want to take your feelings into account,” Draco said.  “I know that we arrived here unexpectedly, which threw your routine into disarray.”

Beedy nodded hesitantly.  “Beedy is not a very good house elf,” he confessed, his tone ashamed and defiant at the same time.  “So the cottage is being very uncomfortable for everyone if everyone is living here all the time.”

“You do fine, Beedy,” Draco said, only lying a little.  It wasn’t as though he himself didn’t prefer reading to housework.  “Try not to let it trouble you.  I can at least promise that no decisions will be made without consulting you, if that helps.”

“Hmm.”  Beedy peered at Draco intently, long enough that Draco squirmed slightly under such consideration.  Then the elf gave a small nod.  “Draco Malfoy is very different from Master Lucius.” 

And with that, Beedy Disapparated with a loud crack of air, just as a series of taps and measured thumps announced Harry’s arrival at the foot of the stairs.  He was wearing his new anorak, this one a deep burgundy instead of the weather-beaten forest green of his old one.  It had been too damaged by the diabolica flames to be saved, but Hermione had spent some time laying almost exactly the same enchantments on the pockets, and what belongings could be salvaged from the pockets of its predecessor had been carefully organized within them.

“Are you ready?”  Harry asked, making his way carefully to stand next to Draco in front of the cramped hearth.

“You’re certain that Bill and Fleur are all right with this?”  Draco fiddled with the strap of his satchel, moving it to sit more comfortably above his belly.

“Of course,” Harry said, reassuring.  “But if you’re not comfortable with it, we could Floo to the Burrow instead.  It might take a little longer to Apparate from there to Stonehenge, I was only thinking that Shell Cottage is closer –”

“You’re right,” Draco said, trying to shake off his nerves.  It had been nice, being here with just Harry and Beedy and the beautiful coastline of the Isle of Skye.  He wasn’t quite ready to leave that tranquility behind.  “I’ll follow you.”

Harry gave him a searching look, but finally nodded and took a bit of the Floo powder that had been sent along with Percy’s rather irritated letter explaining the temporary Floo connection to Taigh-Dòbhrain, which apparently was a very tricky accommodation given the cottage’s location on a separate island.  He had to duck slightly to stand fully within the green flames, but then said “Shell Cottage!” clearly and slowly, and he vanished behind a curtain of green fire.

Draco blew out a breath, then followed.

It was a rather long trip through the Floo network, but he detected no warps or incongruities that might have indicated a significant disturbance in the ley lines.  And when he stepped out, he emerged into a light, airy room with exposed beams and many large windows letting in as much of the fading daylight as possible.

“Bienvenue chez nous.”  The musical, feminine voice could belong to no one but Fleur, and Draco tore his gaze away from the cottage’s view of the waters of the Channel.  “’arry, Draco, it is so good to see you both.”

Fleur stepped forward to kiss Harry on the cheek, and Draco wasn’t too surprised to find that he received one, also.  Fleur was French, after all.  Her violet eyes swept over him appraisingly, and then she smiled.  Her veela heritage meant that her features were sharply beautiful, with a bit of extra magical allure that made her regard particularly captivating. 

“Are the kids ‘round?”  Harry asked, unable to keep himself from glancing beyond her.  “They’re on break for Ostara, right?”

Fleur laughed, the fine lines around her eyes crinkling in amusement.  “But of course, I will summon them.  Claire!  Jean-Mael!  Votre oncle ‘arry est là!”

She was immediately answered with shouts of excitement and running feet as her two younger children came stampeding into the room, both of them making a beeline for Harry.  She raised a hand quickly, catching Jean-Mael across the chest.  “Ah-ah!  Doucement s'il te plait.  ‘arry is still recovering, yes?”

Jean-Mael and Claire both subsided, looking slightly guilty.  “Je suis désolé, Uncle Harry.”

“C’est bon,” Harry replied cheerfully, and both Fleur and Draco winced.

“Your accent continues to be atrocious, ‘arry,” Fleur chided, though it was clear that she meant it in good humor.  She turned to Draco.  “Can I get you something to drink?”

“Un peu d'eau s'il vous plait,” Draco said politely, and was rewarded with another of Fleur’s brilliant smiles.

“Ton accent est bon,” Fleur complimented.  “Where did you learn?”

“From my mother, as I was growing up, and then I put it into practice when I studied at the Sorbonne.”

Fleur raised her eyebrows, clearly impressed.  “I do not believe I ‘ave ‘ad the pleasure of meeting your mother.”

“I think that she would enjoy meeting you very much,” Draco said honestly.  Fleur was exactly the type of clever woman that Narcissa preferred as a friend.  “She has until lately been living in her house in Nice, and I know that she would welcome the chance to converse in a language more pleasing to the ear.”

“Ah,” Fleur said, dragging out the sound and giving Harry a knowing look.  “’arry, I can see why you are charmed by ‘im.”

“That’s not the only reason,” Harry said with a wink.  Draco suddenly felt his cheeks heat, which was ridiculous, but it was difficult to be irritated with Harry when he was bending down to better hear Jean-Mael talk excitedly about what he’d been learning at Hogwarts.  He was in the same year as Hugo, apparently, though Jean-Mael was part of Gryffindor.

“Dinner’s ready.”  Bill’s deep, growling voice carried over the chatter of his children and called their attention to the appetizing aroma of whatever they were about to eat.

It turned out to be one of the best seafood chowders that Draco had ever eaten, light but flavorful, with fresh crusty bread.  Molly had apparently imparted her cooking and baking skills to more of her sons than just Ron.  Because Clair and Jean-Mael were present, Bill and Fleur deftly kept the conversation away from topics such as Harry’s duel with Antonin Dolohov, and just how severe his injuries had been.

Claire had been sneaking glances at Draco here and there throughout the meal, until finally her curiosity got the best of her.  “Are you having a baby?”

Draco gave Harry a brief look, who shrugged unconcernedly.  Fleur had an expression which looked as though it were leading up to an admonishment of her daughter, but Draco pre-empted her.

“Not quite yet, but sometime soon,” he answered.

Claire’s eyes grew round.  “Do you know if it’s a boy or a girl?”

“We’ll find out when they get here,” Harry said, giving her a smile.  “It doesn’t matter to me one way or the other.  Or they could be like Teddy, and that would be fine, too.”

“What will you name it?”  Claire asked, leaning forward eagerly.  “My best friend Phoebe just got a baby sister and her parents named her An-, er, Anen…”  She trailed off uncertainly.

“Anemone,” Bill supplied helpfully, and Claire made a face.

“It’s hard to say,” Claire said.  “Babies shouldn’t have hard names.”

Harry chuckled.  “We haven’t really talked about it, but I will definitely keep that in mind.”

“I’m sure that we’ll figure out the right name when the time comes,” Draco said, hoping that he was right.  It was yet another on the long list of things that he’d failed to do to prepare for this child, and he tried to shut away the guilt he felt because of it.  There were other things, such as the nemeton, which had to take precedence.

Fleur directed the children upstairs to wash up and prepare for bed after the meal, overriding their strident protests and pleading for an exception to their regular bedtime due to Harry’s presence.  The discussion quickly turned into a fierce negotiation, touching on other areas such as household chores and promises to finish their required school reading early instead of leaving it until the train back to Hogwarts.  Bill ended it by telling them that Harry would tell them two bedtime stories, giving Harry a significant look while stating that these stories would not consist of anecdotes about Harry and Ron’s own time at Hogwarts. 

It seemed that this restriction still made for plenty of exciting story possibilities from Uncle Harry, however, as the children nearly leapt to do as they were told after being assured of hearing two.  Harry kept his hilarity in check until they disappeared upstairs, and then he burst out laughing while Bill just shook his head and rolled his eyes.

“I can’t say that Ron and I make the best academic role models, especially when we were their age,” Harry explained.  “I’ve been told to keep those sorts of stories to myself going forward.”

“They are young,” Fleur said indulgently, though she didn’t contradict Bill’s imposition on the subject matter.  “Their marks are good.”

“Most of the time,” Bill allowed.

Bedtime readiness was accomplished in record time, which Draco observed from the rapid patter of footfalls on the floor above them, and the winces that both Fleur and Bill gave when there was a sudden crash and then silence.

“I’ll sort it,” Harry said, grinning broadly.

“Harry, your magic –”  Draco cautioned, wanting to remind him before he attempted to repair anything while his magic was still in a state.

“Right.”  Harry’s face fell slightly.

“I will ‘elp,” Fleur declared.  “Though they will banish me from the story, I know it.”

This left Bill and Draco still sitting at the table, and Draco was suddenly not sure what to say.  Bill was regarding him steadily, his pale amber-brown eyes even more disconcerting than the deep furrows of Fenrir Greyback’s claw marks on the left side of his face.  Those were put there the night Draco had opened up the Vanishing Cabinet to allow Death Eaters and vindictive werewolves to enter Hogwarts castle.  That was a matter of public record – it had been from that night, though Dumbledore’s death had overshadowed many of the details.  But it had been documented again during the trials, so there was no way that Bill was unaware of the fact.

“Take a walk with me,” Bill said finally, his chair making a quiet screech as he pushed it back and stood.

“All right.”  Draco struggled to maintain his calm, though the nerves he felt made it difficult. 

The sun had already set beyond the watery horizon, its fading rays painting streaks of orange and pink on the clouds that hung over the ocean in the distance.  Shell Cottage was situated very similar to Taigh-Dòbhrain, though the cliff side was not quite as high, and from the garden path Draco could see that there was a trail that led down to the short, sandy beach below.

“I worked closely with Harry when he approached me about curse breaking.  He wanted to switch careers – well, you already know that.  Gave me the chance to get to know him better, and to see that he’s a powerful natural talent.  But even after he learned the ropes, he seemed a bit aimless.  I think that’s why he accepted the contracts that took him all over the Continent.”  Bill stopped for a moment, gazing out to sea.

The sound of the crashing against the shore filled the silence between them, Draco trying to puzzle out exactly what Bill was telling him.

“I’ve seen his work,” he ventured.  “At the Manor.  And he saved my life multiple times.”

“You’ve saved his, too, from what I hear,” Bill said, finally turning to look at him.  There was brief, faint shine in his eyes.  “We were all a bit worried, when Ron first said the two of you were together.”

“Ron,” Draco snapped, exasperation suddenly overtaking his nerves.

Bill chuckled.  “I know.  I want to say that he can’t help it, and I think that’s partly true.  But it’s also partly because my youngest brother had to be the loudest just to be heard, especially with the twins just ahead of him in age.”

“I can’t imagine,” Draco said dryly, shaking his head.

“You’re not using him,” Bill said abruptly, and it took Draco a moment to catch up with who he meant.  “That’s clear enough, and aside from Ginny you’re the only person I’ve seen him with that doesn’t treat him as a means to an end, whatever that might be – fame, status, money.  He’s had enough of that in his life, and he deserves better.”

“He does,” Draco agreed.  “All of this has just sort of…happened.”

“Life just happens.”  Bill’s mouth twisted into a wry grin.  “There’s very little we can do to stop it.  I’m just glad to know that if Harry’s still drifting, at least now he’s drifting with a purpose.  Look after each other.  That’s all I wanted to say.”

Draco wanted to say that he thought that was what they were trying to do, but it felt trite.  Instead he settled for a nod of acknowledgement, and turned back with Bill, following him back to the cottage.  A pale stone caught his eye, and he turned his head to look more closely at the words that were carved into it.

HERE LIES DOBBY, it read.  A FREE ELF.

He stumbled, his mind flashing back to that terrible day at the Manor.  He’d never sought confirmation, and indeed he’d had many other things on his mind, especially after Voldemort returned to find Harry and his prisoners gone, thanks to Draco’s lie.  But he’d known, on some level, that Aunt Bella’s aim had been true.

His throat growing tight with emotion, he blinked rapidly and hurried after Bill, leaving nothing behind but a silent apology.

~ * ~

“What exactly are we waiting for?”  Harry asked, rubbing his hands together, then cupping them and breathing out some air to create a small pocket of warmth. 

Draco cast another warming charm on him, conscious of the fact that Harry wasn’t so much impatient with the wait as he was frustrated by the fact that he still couldn’t risk using his magic.  Draco had been the one to Apparate them both to Stonehenge from Shell Cottage, after resting in the guest room during the small hours of the night. 

“Sunrise,” Draco answered.  They were Disillusioned to avoid the attention of the Muggles who managed the crowds at the ancient circle of sarsen stones.  This was the node of England, a hub which supported the spokes of many ley lines stretching in every direction, not just the one stretching south through the Malfoy estate. 

The Muggles knew of its significance, if not to the degree of those within the wizarding world.  They gathered around it not just as an attraction, but as an important place during the changing of the seasons.  Many of them had their devices out, others had what he recognized more clearly as cameras, and still others were dressed in traditional costume, ready to welcome the spring with the coming dawn. 

He and Harry were facing due east, watching the sky slowly brighten.  They were far enough apart from the Muggles within the central ring that the noise of the crowd was easy enough to ignore, and Draco hoped that it wouldn’t interfere with whatever it was that he was feeling driven to collect from this place.

There was something in the air – something that waited, waiting to fill the space occupied by the potential with something actual, like the charged air just before a lightning strike.  It felt like it could be just as dangerous – perhaps more so, the imminent threat of the presence of something that was ancient and powerful.

And then when the first ray of dawn broke, they saw movement.

It was small, nothing more than a splash of color, the dull green of the grass growing richer and more vibrant, spreading out from one small patch illuminated by that first light of day.  And as the sunlight grew, a figure began to resolve into visibility, so faint at first that Draco thought that he might have imagined it.

But no, it was something that looked sort of human, but definitely was not.  It was tall, with nut brown skin garbed in undyed homespun cloth – just a robe belted at the waist with ribbons in all the colors of spring. 

And it walked, and flowers bloomed in its wake – crocuses and daffodils and cowslip, allium and snowdrops and bluebells, bursts of color lit up by the sun so that they shined more brightly than any flowers Draco had ever seen.  There were small flickers of light and movement – fairies flitting about to taste the nectar of the first spring flowers of the year.  Small creatures darted through the grass, seeming to change shape every time Draco thought he had an idea of what they were – rabbits?  Foxes?  Badgers?  Field mice?  They were all of them.  None of them.  The taller stalks of grass waved in their wake, sending ripples of glittering green and gold across the meadow.

He felt his hand engulfed by Harry’s, the quiet intake of the other man’s breath the only sound he made as they watched something that was otherworldly, and utterly invisible to the Muggles, for they lacked the magic to see.

One by one, the figure shed the ribbons it was wearing as it escorted the first day of spring into the world.  Blue and yellow and green and red and purple and white and orange and pink – each of them floated away as though wafted by a non-existent breeze, settling within the embrace of land which had suddenly awakened to new growth.

And then finally, the figure’s robe followed suit, flying gently away piece by piece, until there was nothing left.  But there was no sense of nudity associated with the tall personage, any more than one would think of a deer as nude.  It regarded them for a moment with sloe-black eyes, nothing of the whites showing at all. 

Draco was suddenly struck by a sense of familiarity, the idea that he was looking at something that was distant kin to the entity which inhabited the nemeton on the estate.  He wondered, briefly, unable to tear his eyes away from the figure in front of him, if it knew of their purpose for being here, now.

Tilting its head slightly, the personage continued on its path toward the inner circle where they stood, the sun rising behind it with each and every step it took.  Until the sun broke fully free of the horizon, lifting into the sky unencumbered with a flash of bright daylight.

And the figure was gone.

Harry let out a sharp breath beside him, as though he’d been holding it the entire time.

Draco freed his hand from Harry’s, ignoring his concerned exclamation as he stepped outside of the circle, past the place where the figure had stood to observe them for just the barest moment before continuing according to its purpose.  He grunted slightly as he bent to collect the ribbons from where they had fallen, scattered about the grass.  He tensed as he touched the first one, light blue in color, bracing himself for some sort of indication that he ought not to – but there was nothing.

He picked up each brightly colored length, carefully laying them flat in his palm, trying to keep them from tangling.  Until finally there were no more left to gather, and he turned back.

Harry was scowling at him, lit up in brilliant golden light with the vague shapes of the Muggles engaging in their own celebration of the equinox in the distant background.  Draco only had eyes for the man who was opening his mouth to scold him, ready to express his displeasure for potentially putting himself in danger.

Draco kissed him instead, pulling Harry in until he stopped against the bump of his belly, sending the fingers of his free hand to tangle in his hair.  Harry kissed him back, dropping the blackthorn cane so that he could place his hands on Draco’s hips instead.  He wobbled slightly, but Draco stood firm and Harry was able to steady himself against him, and for a long moment they were lost in each other.

Drawing back with a short gasp, Harry met Draco’s gaze, lifting a hand to cup his face. 

“What was that for?”  He asked, somewhat hoarsely.

Draco dropped his gaze to the ribbons he held in his hand, the colorful ends fluttering in the breeze that was whispering across the meadow.  He reached up to gently lift Harry’s hand away from his face, bringing it down so that their hands were joined between them.

And then he somewhat awkwardly wrapped the ribbons around where their hands were clasped, once.  Twice.  Three times.

Harry stared down in confusion, but then his expression cleared, and his eyes darted back up to Draco’s face.

“You understand what this means?”  Draco’s question was soft.  He needed to be sure.

Harry swallowed hard, then nodded.

“I don’t know if it’s fair for me to say that I love you,” Draco said.  “It’s a small word, and I wonder if it’s strong enough to carry the true meaning of what I feel for you.  But you have a talent for leaving me without the proper words, Harry.  I could say it in every language that I know and it still wouldn’t be enough.  Every time I tried to build up the courage to say it aloud, it felt inadequate, so I suppose the word ‘love’ will have to do.”

“You say it all the time in the ways that really matter,” Harry whispered, his hand tightening around Draco’s underneath the spring ribbons.  “I love you, too.”

Chapter 40

TEN LIVES SAVED

By Pansy Parkinson

The true measure of a man has been a subject long debated throughout wizarding history, from the time of priestess Paphnutia and her efforts to weigh the human soul on her infamously accurate alchemical scales, to the more modern work of Adalbert Waffling, whose endeavor to use arithmancy to calculate the incalculable qualities that distinguish witches and wizards from Muggles and Beings eventually drove him to spend the rest of his life in isolation at the top of a tower in Shetland.  Even in the recent past, there have been those who attributed an individual’s quality to the purity of their bloodline, or their wealth (since surely there must be some correlation between intrinsic worth and financial worth).  Still others have defined a person’s value in the extent of their magical and academic contributions to the wizarding world.

In these more enlightened times, it has been more socially agreeable to judge our fellow men and women by their works.  Actions do speak louder than words, after all, and if it is by this metric that we would personally wish for others to assess us, it is not at all unreasonable for us to demand that all of our deeds be included for consideration – not to be picked or chosen to fit a narrative, however entrenched it may be.  If we would require fairness for ourselves, then it follows that we must then extend it to others – or else we are hypocrites.

Though recent reporting has served as a surprisingly frequent reminder of Draco Malfoy’s past, the facts are these: he was acquitted during the Trials in light of the actions he took which enabled The Boy Who Lived to drive the Dark Lord to his final death, and become The Boy Who Lived Twice.  As reported in October, his return to and ongoing presence in England was by insistent invitation of the Ministry of Magic, to repair a damaged ley line which has inconvenienced and even endangered hundreds of our number living in Wiltshire.  And finally, that he is indeed currently expecting a child, and Harry Potter has unapologetically acknowledged his identity as the second father.

Repeated questions directed at the Department of Magical Law Enforcement regarding Malfoy’s arrest after the tragic events in Diagon Alley have yielded no official charges or even sound justification for said arrest.  Blythe Munro, Director of the Office of Public Information Services, has reiterated Malfoy’s legitimate contract employment regarding the ley line and can offer no complaints or concerns about the work thus far.  When asked about the Ministry’s position on the sudden appearance of Death Eater Antonin Dolohov in Diagon Alley, they were not able to provide any details but intimated that it was likely related to the recent coordinated efforts of our D.M.L.E. and their international counterparts to aggressively pursue and bring fugitive Death Eaters to long awaited justice.

On the subject of determining a person’s character by all of their works, it is appropriate that we at the Prophet, having spilled so much ink describing Malfoy’s past, now take the opportunity to report on more recent deeds, which include the following witness statement.

Marlowe Prentice, age 19, employed as a stockboy at Obscurus Books, found himself caught up within the Protego diabolica flames which Dolohov conjured on March 5, cutting him off from any means of escape.  His experience, in his own words:

“There was nothing but black flame everywhere I looked.  I tried to Apparate, but I couldn’t get out, there was no way out.  Except for a few scattered carts from The Junk Shop next door, there was nowhere to hide, and besides there was already a couple taking shelter behind the biggest one.  Spells were flying everywhere, and I thought I was a goner – but none of them hit me.  And they should have, I mean, I was right there in the open.  I wasn’t sure how it happened, because Mr. Potter was dueling Dolohov.  But when Mr. Malfoy’s Disillusionment fell away, I realized who’d cast that Protego in front of me.”

Mr. Prentice’s experience is by no means unique.  Jasper and Flora Stoneberry were the couple that he observed behind the cart, also protected by a Shield charm.  As were Jillian Louisa Frost, Elwood Robinson Sr., Aster O’Connor, Muhammed Afzal, Kip Sutton, and Dickie Hopkins.  Unfortunate as they were to be trapped within Dolohov’s circle of diabolica flames, luck spared them from having been touched, which would have proven just as fatal as it had for the lost three.  And it was Draco Malfoy who did the rest.

‘But Pansy!’  My clever readers are wondering.  ‘There are only nine names listed here.’ 

Indeed there are, dear readers.  The tenth life (as referenced in the headline) which was saved was none other than Harry Potter himself.  While Potter dueled Dolohov with all of the valiance and skill we’ve come to expect from him, he was gravely injured in the effort.  An anonymous Healer from St. Mungo’s confirmed that had Potter not been immediately put under a stasis spell, he likely would not have survived long enough even to be treated when the Aurors transported him to the hospital.

And it was Draco Malfoy who cast that spell.

Knowing what was implicitly announced in the Prophet’s evening edition that day and subsequently proudly confirmed by Potter, one can’t help but see a bit of romance in that.

So I leave it up to you, dear readers, to make of this information what you will.  It has been evident from the letters directed to our opinion pages that many of you have not forgotten Malfoy’s past and have freely drawn conclusions regarding his present.  Now that a more complete understanding has been made available to you, consider – or reconsider – those conclusions accordingly.

~ * ~

On their first night spent back at Grimmauld Place, Narcissa welcomed them with her usual poise, even though it had been more than a week since she had personally laid eyes on either her son or her host.  As they stepped out onto the hearth moments after saying farewell to Beedy and traveling from Taigh-Dòbhrain, Narcissa’s face lit up in restrained happiness at the sight of them.

Until her sharp eyes landed on the matching goblin-made wedding bands – hammered tungsten with a dark green agate inlay flecked with gold – that they each wore on their left hands.  Gormelia and Grizele Gobha, who lived not far from Taigh-Dòbhrain in Applecross, it turned out, had a cousin who worked in materials less precious to the goblins and which were therefore suitable for permanent sale to witches and wizards.  Goblins did not consider anything not imbued with their magic to be their permanent treasure, as was the case for so many artefacts which were still in the possession of witches and wizards.

Narcissa’s hand flew to her mouth, her blue eyes instantly filling with tears.  She didn’t seem to know whether to rush to embrace them or to turn away and compose herself first.  Draco didn’t leave her much choice, as he stepped forward and grabbed her into a tight, awkward hug, with his belly protruding between them.

“I –”  She tried to speak, but it ended in a choked off sob.

“We’re all right,” Draco murmured, patting her back gently and laying a soft kiss on her temple.  “We’ve gone quite outside the proper order of things, Mother.”

She laughed, a wet sort of sound, and pulled away, wordlessly Summoning a handkerchief so that she could pat her eyes dry.  She looked up to meet his gaze, her expression falling just the slightest when her eyes rested on the right side of his face.  But then she smiled – and it was one of her real smiles, not the polite construction that she usually offered while in company, and rarely even between the two of them.

“Whatever has brought this about must be the proper order,” Narcissa said, cupping his cheek in her hand.  “I’m so happy for you, my dearest son.”

A pair of strong arms wrapped around both of them, squishing them back together, and Narcissa let out a quiet, shocked gasp.  Draco couldn’t suppress his chuckle.  He didn’t know the last time his mother had allowed anyone other than family to embrace her, but here was Harry, grinning sappily at both of them.  Though, he supposed Harry was family now, too.

“Thank you for the clothes,” Draco said, after Harry had finally relaxed his tight hug.

“The least I could do,” Narcissa replied, somewhat tartly, her residual vexation at their abrupt disappearance and subsequent refusal to return showing slightly in her tone.  “Though at the time I didn’t realize you were eloping.  I would have chosen something more formal.”

“I think it’s safe to say that it was the farthest thing from formal,” Harry said, that dimple appearing in his cheek.  “It was perfect.”

Draco looked away, feeling his own cheeks heat with a strange mix of embarrassment and happiness.  It had been perfect.  Just the two of them, witnessed only by the first dawn of spring.  There had been no worries about what anyone else would think, about how they would move forward fitting their lives together, about the enormous amount of the work that was child-rearing ahead of them.  It was just him and Harry.

“Well.”  Narcissa sniffed, though it was clear that she wasn’t truly annoyed.  “Since you both insisted upon staying away – against the advice of the Healers, I might add – then Molly, Pipsy and I had to find some occupation for ourselves.”

At the sound of her name, Pipsy Apparated into the room, her hands clasped together and almost bouncing on the tips of her toes.  “Is it time, Mistress Narcissa?”

“I think so,” Narcissa said, clearly repressing some sort of similar excitement.  “It shouldn’t take more than a moment, if you would both follow us.”

Giving each other startled looks, they followed Narcissa up the stairs, with Pipsy skipping gleefully ahead.  They reached the top level just as Draco was starting to puff slightly, though he was hiding it as best he could.  Harry wasn’t fooled, linking arms with him to give him a little extra support as they ascended to the same floor where Harry’s – their? – room was located.  Harry was still a little unsteady on his own feet, walking with a noticeable limp even if he no longer had to regularly rely on a cane.  He was wearing a brace instead.

Pipsy met them in the short hallway, flinging open the door to a room which Draco had only briefly explored during his time at Grimmauld Place.  It was an old study that Harry never used, especially as his more recent curse breaking work had him traveling frequently.  Narcissa waved her wand to light up the room, not from a centralized magical light fixture, but from dozens of tiny Lumos charms anchored to the ceiling.  The room had been painted, the dated hunter green patterned wallpaper stripped away to allow the walls to start at the bottom with a pale sky blue, in a gradually darkening gradient until the walls met the ceiling, which was painted a deep night blue.  The Lumos charms were arranged to resemble constellations, and Draco could see the one meant to be his namesake right above a well-worn crib made of dark wood.

Harry gasped, rushing over to the crib and running a hand reverently along the outer rail.  He turned back to look at Narcissa, a question forming on his lips.

She anticipated him, saying, “Molly wanted you to have it.”

“Molly?”  Draco raised an eyebrow.

“It’s the Weasley family crib,” Harry said, his voice suspiciously thick.  “It’s the crib that Molly and Arthur used for all of their kids, and then passed around as needed for the grandkids.  Ron and Hermione used it for Rosie and Hugo.  Percy and Audrey were the last ones to have it, for the twins.”

There were other pieces of furniture in the room, the purpose of which Draco only the vaguest idea.  The rocking chair was easy enough to understand, and it was sweet to see Kreacher snoring away on its seat, an old teddy bear cradled in his arms.  There was a small wardrobe next to a chest of drawers, and what was likely a changing table.  And there were all manner of soft toys arranged atop a wooden trunk in the corner.

“It wasn’t just the three of us,” Narcissa said.  “Though Pipsy did a masterful job with the painting.  Andromeda and Hermione brought some things over, and helped to arrange it properly.”

“It is fitting for the newest child of the Black family,” Kreacher suddenly said in a voice that was creaky with age and fatigue.  He heaved himself off the chair, stumbling slightly, then reverently replaced the teddy bear in the center of the seat.  “Kreacher is not being of much use to arrange it, but Kreacher is doing his best to make sure that it is good enough.”

“Kreacher is being very particular,” Pipsy murmured, which was as close to an expression of exasperation at the ancient, persnickety elf as she was capable of making.  Her cheeks were still bright red, a reaction to Narcissa’s praise of her work.

“Thank you, Kreacher,” Harry said seriously, and the wrinkles on the house elf’s face deepened as he beamed with pride.  “Thank you, Pipsy, and Narcissa.  I can’t believe you did all of this for us.”

“Not just for you,” Narcissa contended, laying her hand on Draco’s where it was resting on his belly.  Sudden movement under their hands surprised her enough that she gasped audibly, and she had to swallow hard before continuing.  “For the babe, as well, of course.  I must say that this nursery is much more cheerful than yours ever was, Draco.  Abraxas categorically refused his permission for us to make any changes to it, saying that it had been good enough for generations of Malfoys before you.  It felt like a mausoleum.”

Draco frowned slightly, dredging up fuzzy memories of imposing yet lifeless paneled walls and a cold hardwood floor.  He’d certainly never felt lacking in his parents’ love for him, to be sure, and they had been rich enough that he hardly remembered feeling lacking in anything at all.  But there was definitely nothing in Malfoy Manor like the beautiful, cozy room in which they were all standing.  It seemed like it would be a very pleasant place to spend his time, once the baby came.

“What do you think, dearest?”  Narcissa asked, adjusting her hand slightly so that she could give his a squeeze.  “Will it suit?”

“More than,” Draco said honestly.  “It’s far better than anything I could have done, though I should never have left it –”

“Draco.”  Narcissa interrupted him firmly.  “You have had other demands upon your time, much more pressing concerns.  We were all happy to be able to do this for you.”

“It was my responsibility,” Draco said quietly, unable to keep a hint of the shame he was feeling out of his voice.

“There were many disservices that your father and I did to you during your upbringing,” Narcissa said, the lines around her eyes creasing slightly, the corners of her mouth pulled down with sadness.  “One of which was to act as though we had no need to rely upon anyone else for anything, or that it was only acceptable for someone to provide aid and support if we were paying or directing them to do so.  If…if Lucius and I had allowed ourselves to actually be part of a community instead of ‘society,’ then there might have been much that could have turned out very differently.  I expect better, Draco, both of you and for you.  Do you understand?”

Draco’s jaw clicked shut, startled by his mother’s words.  But they rang true, especially in light of what he knew to be his own tendency to try to shoulder everything alone, without asking for help.  And that was something that he was trying to change – he was changing.  He just had to accept this gift for what it was, as a part of this change.

“Thank you, Mother.”  Draco drew her back into his arms.  “I think I do understand.”

~ * ~

Draco slouched down further in the sidecar of Harry’s motorbike, letting the scarf Molly had knitted for him shift upward to cover more of his face against the wind.  He could have Apparated them both to the Manor, but Harry was chafing at the slow recovery of his control over his magic.  It wasn’t quite enough for him to attempt to Apparate on purpose, let alone bring anyone Side-Along, but it was coming back – just at a far more sedate pace than he would have preferred.  And since he refused to be left behind while Draco met with the others to place the weaving from Stonehenge at the nemeton on the estate, Draco had not raised any objection when Harry insisted that he fly them there on the motorbike.  He understood that Harry needed to feel like he was being useful.

Flying in on the motorbike wasn’t quite conducive to real conversation, however, so rather than try to shout back and forth over the wind, Draco ran his left thumb over the still strange texture of the wedding band.  He had been both eager and apprehensive when Harry had broached the idea after their impulsive handfasting.  He had no qualms about his commitment to Harry, to doing his best to make this marriage a true and loving partnership.  But the feeling of having yet another visible mark on him took some adjustment – even though this was something he had chosen, unlike his scars, and his father’s ring, and the Dark Mark. 

What made it feel slightly less immuring was the fact that Harry had an identical ring on his finger, and was just as marked as Draco.  In more ways than one.  The Dark Lord had marked him twice, after all, and Harry’s many acts of bravery were as good as etched into his body.  Dolohov’s curse flame had left a dark, smoky and jagged line across his back and arms, and while it had faded somewhat with treatment and the administration of prescribed potions, none of the Healers could say if it would ever go away completely.

A half-heard exclamation from Harry pulled Draco out of his distracted brooding, and he looked up, scanning the sky ahead of them for whatever might have given Harry cause for alarm.  The day was overcast, as days typically were during an English spring, but fortunately it wasn’t currently raining.  But the cloud cover meant that the problem wasn’t immediately obvious, not until there was a brief flash of lightning far in the distance.  It had come from a dark patch of sky, nothing more than a spot nearly swallowed up in the lighter gray of the surrounding clouds. 

But it grew larger the closer they flew, and Draco realized that it was centered directly above the estate.  Harry started the descent far earlier than he would have under other circumstances, not wanting to risk undue proximity to any more lightning.  None of the Muggles driving their cars on the road below were bothered by their unusually low flight, as they were Disillusioned, though Draco didn’t care to be so near the exhaust fumes being emitted by the vehicles.  He understood the need for it, however, and focused on the thing which appeared to be a very localized microburst.

He got nothing from his father’s ring, which told him that the disturbance likely did not originate from the Manor itself, nor from any outside intruders.  He hoped that was the case, anyway, as he didn’t think that their small group was well-equipped enough to repel anyone intent upon gaining access to the estate without incurring any damage to themselves – not with Harry still unable to fully control his magic.

Harry turned the motorbike off the main road toward the estate, and Draco could feel the change in air pressure as they got within range of the cold column of air that was darkening the sky.  He was relieved, on some level, to see that he and Harry were the last to arrive.  Luna, Neville, Ron, and Hermione were all huddled together just inside the main gates, staring westward to where the huge thunderhead loomed over the woods.

Impatient to confer with Luna and Hermione about this development, Draco gripped the frame of the sidecar to heave himself up – only to find that he was somewhat wedged into the narrow seat, his belly taking up some of the space that his knees needed to straighten in order to get out.  Grunting with dismay, he shifted slightly, trying to turn far enough to give himself room.  He was so preoccupied with this predicament that he didn’t notice that Harry had already dismounted the motorbike and had come around to help him, though the insufferable man hadn’t been able to help but let out a quiet snort of amusement.

Draco glared up at him, giving Harry his frostiest expression.  “Not a single word out of you, Potter.  Get me out before I melt this damned thing into scrap metal.”

Harry obligingly bent down, sliding his arms underneath Draco’s and getting a firm hold, while also taking the opportunity to deliver a kiss and an “I love you” quivering with barely suppressed laughter.

“I’m Apparating home after we’re done with this,” Draco grumbled as Harry levered him into an upright position.  “Shut up, Harry.”

“I’m sorry,” Harry chuckled.  “This isn’t funny at all.”

“What’s not funny?”  Ron asked, peering over Harry’s shoulder.

“Nothing.”  The last thing Draco needed was for Ron to go around wagging his jaw about how the pregnant bloke had got stuck in the sidecar.

“If you say so,” Ron said, narrowing his eyes first at Draco, then at Harry.  “What’s going on?  Something is different with you two.”

“Don’t know what you mean,” Harry said cheerfully, bracing Draco as he stepped out onto solid ground.

“Hmm.”  Ron frowned suspiciously, but didn’t comment further, instead leading the way through the gates.  The grotesques started to hiss irritably but switched to rattling in excitement when they sensed Draco’s presence, before puffing into thick smoke. 

Draco patted each of them as soon as they solidified with them on the inside, glad to see that they seemed to be holding up well.  Lifting his gaze to take in the threatening clouds which were far too close for comfort, he was about to ask Luna what she thought of it when he heard Hermione emit something that was rather like the undignified squawk of a Diricawl.  When he gave her a startled look, he saw that she was pointing at him, her mouth hanging open in shock.

More specifically, she was pointing at his left hand, and then her other arm shot out to point at Harry.

“Rings,” she managed to squeak.  “Rings.  Ron, look.  Look, Ron, they’re wearing rings.”

“They what?”  Ron seized Harry’s hand, ignoring his protests, and glared down at the new jewelry.  He lifted an accusing gaze to Harry’s face.  “Why didn’t you invite us?”

“Congratulations,” Neville said, clapping Draco on the shoulder and grinning.  “We were all a bit worried about you both after…well, you know.”

“It was a bit spur of the moment,” Harry was saying, trying futilely to free his hand from Ron’s grip.  “Very informal, it really was just the two of us.”

“Mum is going to murder you,” Ron said severely.  “None of the rest of us got out of having a big to-do!”

“Charlie and Ginny aren’t married, she’s still potentially got two more weddings to oversee,” Harry reminded him, finally yanking his hand back just in time for it to be seized by Neville in a congratulatory handshake.

“Harry,” Hermione said, her eyes full of happy tears threatening to spill.  She threw her arms around her best friend and buried her face in his shoulder.  The rest of her words were muffled, but Draco caught snatches of them, including “insensitive git, we would’ve wanted to be there” and “so happy for you.”

“Happy equinox, Draco,” Luna said, giving Draco a few seconds of sustained eye contact, beaming with happiness before her gaze drifted off to the side.

“Thank you, Luna,” Draco replied, placing an arm around her thin shoulders and giving her a gentle squeeze.  “We got what we needed from Stonehenge.”

“I knew you would.”  Luna tilted her head one way, then the other, taking in the storm column from different angles.  “I think they’re desperate.”

“They?”  Draco asked sharply, trying to stretch his limited vision as far as he could in a vain attempt to understand what Luna might be looking at.

“The Dementors,” Luna said calmly, without any trace of worry or fear in her voice.

Draco’s hand immediately went to his belly, pressing in slightly to feel a soft, reassuring movement in response.  His heart was pounding, Luna’s words sending a spike of fear through his veins.  “What are they doing?”

“We think they’re trying to degrade the wards,” Hermione said, wiping her eyes dry as she lifted her head away from Harry’s shoulder.  “They can’t do much to wear down the protective magic, not while I’ve been renewing them while you’ve been…away.  But they could be trying to further destabilize the physical components of the nemeton, like the soil, in order to regain access to the tree.  They do have some influence over the weather when they get into a frenzy, but I’ve never seen anything like this.”

“We’ll definitely need our Patronuses then,” Neville said somewhat grimly.  “But are there enough of us?  They’ve been persistent every time I’ve been here, and there are a lot of them.”

Draco didn’t say it, but Hermione did.

“Harry can’t use his magic at present, he’s still recovering,” she said briskly, ignoring the injured look on Harry’s face.  “Which leaves six of us, and five Patronuses.”

“We could regroup,” Ron suggested.  “Reach out to a few more folks we know have reliable Patronuses and come back later this week.  Maybe the Dementors will have exhausted themselves by then.”

“No,” Draco and Luna said together, and then Luna gave a soft giggle at the timing.

“We can wait for others to join us if they can,” Draco added.  “But I don’t think we should wait for another day.”  His arm tightened around his belly.  He knew what he was asking of them, knew that they were going to put themselves at risk.  But they were already so close.  Draco didn’t want to take the chance of leaving the Dementors undisturbed for any longer than they already had.  The thought was selfish, but it was sincere – if the nemeton was going to fall, he wanted to delay it for as long as possible, until after the birth of his child.  And then he would hope that any pull the nemeton would have had over the Progenitus enchantment, as part of its bargain with the Malfoy family, would be gone.

“Draco is right,” Harry said firmly, and Draco felt a bit of warmth spread through him at the support.  “We can’t delay, there’s too much at stake and no guarantee that we can repair any damage the Dementors could do a second time.”

“That’s true enough,” Neville agreed.  “The old ash tree…I don’t know that we could bring it back again.  It was very nearly dead this winter.  It’s only survived this long because of that…thing that lives in the nemeton.”

“We’ll call Teddy,” Hermione decided.  “Their Patronus is as strong as any I’ve ever seen except for yours, Harry, and that’s because you started teaching them how to do it as soon as they got their wand.  And who else, Ron?”

“Percy, if he’ll come,” Ron said.  “And George.  Bill’s on a contract, I think, and Ginny has a match in Manchester tomorrow, the Harpies are practicing on the pitch today.  But Fleur might be available.”

“That’s nine if everyone can make it,” Harry said, his mouth twisting into a grimace, no doubt because he was unhappy at not being able to help at his full capacity.

“At least nine,” Luna said, somewhat cryptically, then started wandering down the gentle slope of the grounds, towards the edge of the woods.

Draco followed her, leaving the others to arrange communication with their proposed reinforcements.  The wind had picked up, the cold air column that the Dementors had formed creating movement when mixing with the warmer surrounding air.  The threat of rain hung heavily in the atmosphere, and Draco huddled in his scarf as they approached the field maple.  Green buds were visible on all of its branches, heralding the coming days of sunshine and shade.

He lifted the flap of his satchel, feeling around the main compartment for the bags of treats that he’d made sure to bring.  They were close to the tree in which the ravens typically roosted, though it was the time of year when the mated pairs would be out gathering materials and constructing nests.  He heard a few calls of welcome, and saw Grito flap his way to perch on the branch of one of the closer trees, but for the most part, what he could see of the flock remained where they were.

“They’re cautious,” Luna observed, coming to stand next to him.  “And very intelligent.”

“They are,” Draco agreed, reaching into one of the bags for a handful of dried currants and cherries.  He flung the treats outward, hoping that the birds might be tempted to come further out into the open.  “They’ve tangled with the Dementors before.  They saved my life.”

“I always wondered why people call them an ‘unkindness’,” Luna mused.  “Ravens have always seemed perfectly friendly to me.”

“They return what you give them,” Draco said absently, gathering some cashews in one hand and then holding it out, palm flat.  Grito squawked, ruffling his feathers, then alighted from his perch and glided down to settle on Draco’s forearm.  A few more of the ravens followed suit, picking through the grass to reach the food which had already been scattered.  “But they have their own minds.”

Grito’s beak started to preen through Draco’s white hair now that the bird had finished with the treats, with a gentle nibble at his earlobe, as though questioning the absence of its usual ornament.  Draco carefully reached up and stroked his glossy feathers, feeling his internal anxiety lessen somewhat with the knowledge that help was coming.

But that didn’t stop him from practicing a few Shield charms with his wand, in small, spherical configurations – first outside his body, and then carefully, deliberately inside, encompassing what he thought was the babe within his belly and the connection to his magical core.  He felt the spell settle within him, feeling strange but not foreign, and there was no reactive movement or sense of wrongness in response.  He heaved a silent sigh, feeling marginally better about what they were about to do.

The others had arrived one at a time, requiring Draco to make the trek back up the sloping, unkempt lawn to allow them passage through the gates.  Teddy shot him a nervous grin and threw her arms around him, wearing a baggy jumper, thick leggings, and her long blue hair pulled back today.  She grasped his left hand with barely contained excitement, admiring the color of the gold-flecked green agate inlay on the ring.

Fleur gave Draco a kiss on the cheek, then drew her wand out of her coat pocket and surveyed the estate with wary curiosity.  Percy only gave him a nod of acknowledgment, looking none too thrilled about standing on the grounds in light of his earlier refusal to do so.  But George hugged Draco around the shoulders, grinning unconcernedly.

“So what exactly is it that we’ll be doing?”  Percy asked, eyeing the raven still perched on Draco’s shoulder with skepticism.

“There are Dementors on the estate,” Hermione explained.  “Lots of them.  All we need to do is get close enough to the ancient nemeton in the woods to lay down a magical weaving from Stonehenge to strengthen the ley line, but the Dementors are trying to get past the wards and they’ve been confrontational in the past.”

“They won’t hesitate to administer the Kiss if they get the opportunity,” Draco added.  “We’re hoping to put them off with the sheer number of our Patronuses.”

“Sounds simple enough,” George said, and Percy elbowed him immediately, causing him to yelp.  “What?”

“Don’t tempt fate,” Percy snapped.  “It will all go to hell now you’ve said that.”

“No it won’t,” Harry said, trying to sound confident and reassuring, but it came off as more subdued than when he usually donned his natural air of leadership.  “It’s going to take some work, maintaining your Patronuses for so long against them.  Don’t falter.  We’ll keep them circled around us and push through to the nemeton, where we’ll also have the protection of the wards.”

Teddy drew in a deep breath, closing her honey-brown eyes in concentration.  “Expecto patronum!”

The sliver mist produced by her wand formed into a large, familiar shape.  The more blunt shape of the snout and the oddly shaped eyes told Draco that Teddy’s Patronus was a werewolf, and not a true wolf.  He had never had a glimpse of Remus Lupin in his werewolf form, so of course it was impossible to say that he was looking at a representation of his former professor.  But it seemed a likely guess.

Percy had already summoned his own Patronus, the secretary bird that Draco had seen him send in search of Astoria when they were at St. Mungo’s.  And Fleur was just in the process of forming hers, silver vapor, which unsurprisingly took the shape of a veela in the more aggressive, birdlike form they adopted when their natural charms were ineffective in either defense or an attack.

George followed suit, producing a red fox Patronus that immediately gamboled around the long legs of Percy’s secretary bird and then nipped at the tail of Ron’s terrier Patronus, causing the little dog to show it some fang.

Draco’s ermine joined the others, as well as Hermione’s silver otter, Neville’s badger, and a spritely hare that danced around where Luna was standing.  Harry was standing quietly in the middle of it all, looking slightly dispirited but mostly proud, and Draco realized with a start that almost all the people here had Harry to thank for being able to successfully produce a corporeal Patronus at all.  He knew that the Golden Trio, at least, had all been able to do it during their fifth year, and suspected that was where Luna and Neville had learned as well.  Harry’s close ties to the Weasleys would naturally have allowed for some individual coaching for the rest of the siblings. 

Feeling an unreasonable sort of pride for having managed to master the Patronus charm on his own, Draco met Harry’s eyes, and on impulse he reached out and took Harry’s hand.  Harry had resisted drawing his own wand so far, cognizant of his current lack of control, and so those long brown fingers entwined with his as though Harry were grasping a lifeline.

They organized themselves into a relatively tight cluster, allowing the Patronuses to surround them on all sides as they proceeded to enter the woods of the Malfoy estate.  Even with the newness of spring chasing away the white snow of winter and putting a shine of bright green almost everywhere they looked, the nearly black clouds above them rumbled ominously.  They could just see the elongated shapes of Dementors in flight within them, circling like the soul-sucking vultures they were.

One by one, a Dementor would break off from its flight and drop down suddenly, stopping just outside the circle of Patronuses and gliding this way and that, seeking a way in.  The tension in the air thickened the more Dementors decided to surround them, their flowing, wispy black robes wafting gently, completely independent of the chilling gusts of winds that were tugging at their clothes and stinging their skin as they moved on.

Teddy was looking around nervously, clearly struggling not to become so distracted by the pernicious drain on all of their good feelings and happy memories by the Dark creatures that she would let her werewolf Patronus fade away.  It flickered slightly as she tried to adjust to the onslaught, and the Dementors clustered around it, clearly sensing a potential weakness.  But George’s fox zipped out of formation and drove them back, circling wide and waving its bushy tail before returning to its customary place.

A sharp, booming crack of thunder echoed above them, and Harry shouted a warning.  Draco could feel Harry’s magic burst free once again, pushing all of them outward right before there was a blinding flash right in the center of their cluster.  Dirt sprayed upward from the lightning strike, spattering them as they all staggered from the unexpected magical force.

Draco blinked rapidly, trying to clear the afterimage of the lightning from the vision of his remaining eye.  His hand tightened on his wand, and he tried to straighten even as Grito shrieked in his ear.  He could hardly see, the strange electric purple and black of the lightning flash stubbornly refusing to fade, further clouded by stubborn tears, but he could hear the alarmed cries of the others.  Harry’s magic had separated them, breaking their grip on each other’s hands, and Draco suddenly felt very alone.

Grito cawed again and launched himself from his shoulder, and Draco forced his eye open just far enough to see the raven dive at the hooded face of a Dementor.  The Dark thing retreated slightly, but more of the Dementors joined it, clustering around Grito as he attempted to dart away.  There were so many of them that Grito disappeared from view, obstructed by the skeletal figures swathed in ghostly robes.

“No,” Draco said, his voice scraping hoarsely in his throat.  “No!”  He raised his wand, directing his ermine toward the Dementors and pushing as much power as he dared into it, causing the little Patronus to shine even more brightly. 

The Dementors fled, gliding several meters back, turning their attention toward scattering their group even further.  But Draco couldn’t worry about that, not just now.

Grito lay on the ground, wings spread limply at odd angles, one scaly black leg sticking up.  Draco could see the faintest twitch of his taloned toes, but the raven was otherwise unmoving.  Draco fell to his knees, scooping the bird into his arms but utterly at a loss as to what he should do.  The little body was cold against his chest, a far cry from the warmth he remembered when members of the flock had settled on him to keep him warm in the frigid hours of an early winter morning.

“Here!”  Harry shouted, and it sounded as though he were right next to him.  “Everyone, here, we’ll form up again!”

Draco felt Harry’s hand on his shoulder, heard his murmur of dismay when he saw what Draco was clutching tightly to his chest.  There were tears streaming down both of Draco’s cheeks, and he couldn’t seem to pull himself out of the spiral of grief.  Over a raven, of all things.

A loud, obnoxious, brave, curious, affectionate raven, who had thrown himself in between Draco and the Dementors again, even without the safety of his flock.

“Love, we’ve got to keep moving, we need to make it to the wards,” Harry said, tugging on Draco’s elbow as if to help him up.

“Look out!”  Teddy screamed, and then everything seemed to happen at once.

Dementors crowded around the two of them, looming like a wall of darkness, Draco’s ermine blinking out as his concentration failed.  Harry cursed, wrapping his arms around Draco and hauling him up, Draco’s belly the only thing keeping him from crushing Grito between their bodies.  And then another rush of magic and heat that felt like fire against Draco’s hands but left no burns behind, as Harry shouted “Expecto patronum!”

But it wasn’t just the bright silver form of Prongs that loped out, lowering its antlers as it charged at the Dementors surrounding them.  A mottled mess of silver and black feathers flew shrieking and cawing, using its sharp, gleaming talons to rip away at the robes cowling the Dementors’ faces. 

It was Grito, but also not – a messy jumble of patches of silver magic and glossy black feathers, and the Dementors reacted to this new thing with the closest thing to terror they themselves might be capable of feeling.  They fled from it, from Grito, whisking themselves upward and away and leaving nothing but rapidly fading black mist in their wake. 

Grito was not inclined to let up his pursuit, and he seemed uncannily fast, his body darting between trees and outstretched branches to chase one of them down.  Draco watched, expecting Grito to reach out with his talons in another attack, or perhaps to peck the Dark creature with his sharp beak, but instead Grito flew through the Dementor, piercing the core of its Non-being and shattering it into nothing but mist.

“What the fuck,” Harry breathed, staring upward along with Draco.  All of them were, the Dementors having realized that something was drastically wrong and breaking off their coordinated attack.  They paid the remaining Patronuses almost no attention at all, their slender, ghostly bodies clearly attuned to this remarkable new threat.

“Come on,” Hermione urged, after watching Grito dispatch another Dementor, and then another, not seeming to flag at all – in fact gaining speed with every apparent destruction.  “We’re almost there!”

Harry and Draco were nudged into moving by George, who was dragging Percy behind him, herding them all towards the enormous ash tree and the clearing it protected.  The moment they crossed the wards, Draco felt that he could breathe again, and he felt his heart pounding with excitement and confusion.  He had thought Grito to be lost, but now the bird was – what was he?

“I didn’t mean to do that,” Harry whispered, his voice shaking slightly, and Draco tugged him into his arms.

“Everyone all right?”  Ron barked, one arm firmly around Hermione’s waist as he scanned the rest of them for any sign of injury. 

Only Fleur seemed completely unruffled, other than the slightly wild look in her violet eyes, and the rest of them were sagging from the effort of maintaining their Patronuses and the adrenaline of their narrow escape from both the lightning and the Dark creatures.

“What the hell happened?”  Percy demanded, shaking off George’s hand and folding his arms tightly across his chest, as if he could restore order through sheer administrative intimidation.  “I’ve never seen a Patronus like that.”

“I don’t think there is a Patronus like that,” Luna said, her eyes tracking Grito’s flight above the clearing as the newly pied raven hurled himself through yet another Dementor.  “I think this is an entirely new kind of creature.”

“How is it doing that?”  Neville asked, wide eyed.  “I didn’t think Non-beings could be destroyed.”

“They…they can’t,” Hermion said, though she seemed uncertain.  “What we’re seeing is…it shouldn’t be magically possible.”

With a final defiant screech, Grito ended his chase after the significantly depleted numbers of the Dementors, gliding downward to the clearing.  The bird bypassed Draco’s shoulder and instead settled upon that of the limestone sculpture of the nemeton, flicking his tail and fluffing his feathers as though settling into this new, unexpected configuration.

The branches of the ash tree above them were dotted with new buds, some of the higher ones having unfurled already into tiny, new leaves.  A smattering of small purple flowers peeked out of the grass at the statue’s feet, and the clearing was suddenly quiet except for the burbling of the spring that had, for so long, delivered the Dark Lord’s lingering corruption from the Manor.

Draco felt around once more in his satchel, retrieving the long ribbons that he had collected on the morning of the equinox at Stonehenge.  Taking a deep breath, he approached the statue, looking warily up at the impassive stone face, and then at Grito, who tilted his head and blinked at him – a gesture so achingly familiar that Draco felt some small measure of reassurance.  He spread the ribbons and raised them above his head, intending to drape them over the arms of the statue, where they were bent at the elbow to support the basket of eggs.

As the colorful cloth strips came into contact with the limestone, there was a surge of magic, an invisible flash that seemed to ripple outward, and Draco stumbled, catching himself against the statue with an outstretched hand.

Everything fell away, fading into nonexistence as Draco suddenly found himself eye to eye with a figure eerily similar to the one he and Harry had observed at Stonehenge.  This one’s eyes were a milky white, but Draco felt its gaze as inescapably as the world felt the light of the sun.  The serpent wound around the nut brown skin of the personage’s arm was bright green in color, and it continued lazily down until it had wrapped itself around Draco’s left arm.  He was startled to find that this being had grasped his hand, engulfing it in a wide palm and long fingers, the serpent twining around where they were joined.

Sanctimonia Vincet Semper

The voice that was not a voice boomed inside his mind, and he felt the belly scales of the serpent glide along his arm as it retreated.  Once it had fully withdrawn, the figure abruptly released his hand, and he fell backward.

Frantic, chaotic shouting was the first thing he became aware of, that and the warmth of Harry’s body against his back, the vibrations of his voice rumbling through as it echoed harshly in his ears.  He reached for Harry’s hand where it was pressing against his belly, and Harry’s panicked shout cut off the instant he felt Draco’s touch.

“Draco, love, are you with me?” 

Terrified green eyes, temporarily obscured by the reflection of those round specs, stared down at him.  For a moment, Draco wasn’t sure why Harry was asking, why he was so worried.  But then a memory flashed through his mind, an image of something timeless and powerful taking him by the hand and refusing to let go.

The skin of his arm burned, as though someone had taken a pumice stone and scrubbed a few layers of it away.

Instead of answering Harry, he looked down at where his left arm hung limply at his side, tugging up the sleeve of his fleece pullover.  He expected to see some kind of abrasion, of reddened, scraped skin. 

He expected to see the Mark.

But there was nothing, his skin smooth and pale except for old, faded scars.  And where the dark not-ink of the Mark had been was nothing but fuzzy white scar tissue, the crisp lines of the Mark having bled slightly as the pigment had been burned away.  Instead of being recognizable as a snake protruding from the mouth of a skull, that familiar, hated image, it now looked like something serpent-like, coiled through a round sort of blob that looked more like a somewhat malformed basket of eggs.

Draco looked back up at Harry, his husband’s image blurring through the tears that suddenly welled in his eyes.

“I’m fine,” he said, and it felt truer than any time he had said it in decades.

Chapter 41

“Love, it’s getting on in the day, and we have somewhere to be.”

Draco screwed his eyes firmly shut at the brush of lips and the scrape of stubble against his cheek, stubbornly refusing to budge even an inch.  “No, thank you.”

There was a pause.  “Are you feeling ill again?  I can tell Kingsley to carry on without us, if you’re not up to it.”

Draco groaned internally, because while he had absolutely no compunction about spinning polite fictions to get out of things normally, for some reason it didn’t sit well with him to actually lie to Harry.  No matter how much he did not want to go to some sort of Ministry event where they supposedly intended to thank him for his work on the Manor. 

“I’m just tired, Harry,” he said instead, and that was definitely true even if it wasn’t the complete truth.  The weeks after placing the weaving from Stonehenge at the nemeton had hit him hard, though Astoria said it likely wasn’t even mostly due to his accidental contact with the limestone statue and the entity which inhabited it, but because of the fact that he was now very, very pregnant.

Gravity, Draco had discovered, was an insidious enemy.  He hurt in various places and in myriad ways constantly, and while he had experimented with casting a lightening charm on his belly to help relieve some of the strain, the babe inside had let him know in no uncertain terms that this was not an acceptable course of action.  He had felt nothing but constant, churning movement, as if the babe were turning over and over, and that in turn had made Draco feel an intense, fierce sort of nausea that he never wanted to experience again.

All of this meant that the only place that he was feeling truly comfortable these days was immersed neck-deep in warm water in the enormous clawfoot tub in Harry’s – their – ensuite.  He honestly felt that he would prefer to wait out the remainder of his pregnancy in that tub if it were remotely feasible.  At the very least Harry should have let him try, rather than casting disapproving looks at his prune-y fingers and hauling him out so that he could be put to bed.

Even sleeping was only bearable now when Draco deployed far more pillows than he had ever needed in his life – one under his belly, as he was forced to sleep on his side, one between his legs to keep his hip and knee joints from feeling like they were disintegrating, one under his head, and one to wrap his arms round, since his belly got in the way of him wrapping his arms around Harry.  Harry, for his part, tried his best to brace Draco from behind – not grumbling at all when Draco overheated and shoved him away in the middle of the night, and happily adjusting his position when lying on one side became too uncomfortable and Draco had to resituate the entire arrangement in the opposite direction.

Draco was sure that his poor attempts at preventing his discomfort from activating his temper were going to be too much for Harry.  Certainly the other members of the household, including his mother, were treading with caution these days.  But Harry continued to give him nothing but fond, soft looks and seemed to treasure every moment that Draco actually let him keep his hands on his belly.  He would have liked to indulge Harry in this more often, since the warm, melty feeling he got when Harry whispered encouragement to their child was almost as good as soaking languidly in the bathtub.  But most of the time, Draco’s skin felt tight and itchy, and for some reason that made most contact from other people almost unbearable.

“We won’t stay for the entire thing,” Harry said, smoothing some of Draco’s hair back from his forehead, his movement tentative, ready to withdraw if this turned out to be a moment in which Draco absolutely could not stand to be touched.  “These things tend to drag on, but we can be there for the nice words and the photographs – Pansy will be covering it for the Prophet, so you know that the focus will be where it ought to be.  Narcissa is looking forward to it.”

His mother was looking forward to it, that was true.  She was still extremely displeased with the fact that he’d been arrested, even if no charges had officially been brought and the matter had been quietly swept under the rug.  So the fact that Kingsley Shacklebolt intended to honor Draco publicly for his work on the ley line was simply nothing less than what Narcissa felt was owed.

Personally, Draco felt that it was still premature to declare the ley line fully restored, though by all accounts the frequency of mistargeted Apparitions within Wiltshire had dropped significantly, and Percy’s staff had painstakingly evaluated every Floo connection that had ever been reported as troublesome and had found no lingering disruption.  Even the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes had grudgingly admitted that their caseload within the county had dropped down to levels not seen in at least three years.

But even with the apparently total departure – or possible destruction – of the Dementors from the Malfoy estate, the knowledge of just how vulnerable the nemeton could be to outside interference plagued Draco’s mind, when he wasn’t preoccupied with his anxiety over the impending birth.  Nearly everything about what the estate and the Manor were now worried him – not because the Manor and much of the grounds were still dangerous, as that was something that could still be set to rights, but because Draco feared what the Ministry would make of it when they deemed it safe enough to assert their ownership.

Was it his father’s ring that was prompting this irrational urge towards stewardship?  It still stubbornly refused all attempts to remove it, including his own.  Or was it more that Draco appreciated the estate for being the small, unique ecosystem that it was, one which had (with Harry’s unintentional assistance) produced something that was previously unheard of in the magical world? 

Draco had nearly begged Hermione not to reveal Grito’s altered existence to her colleagues within the Department of Mysteries, and Luna had backed him.  He knew that Hermione wanted to know everything that was possible to know about the raven and his new capabilities, his strange melding with Patronus magic and what it might mean for more deliberate applications.  Unspeakables had access to magical resources and research capacity beyond anything Draco could even dream of.  But Hermione also cared deeply about magical creatures and the rights and protections to which they were entitled, and had agreed not to say anything about Grito for now.

“I can practically hear you thinking,” Harry murmured, easing the covers away from Draco’s body and bringing his hand back up in a soft caress across his belly.  “Come on.  Let me help you get ready.”

Torn between a grumpy assertion that he didn’t need Harry’s help, and the secret pleasure of allowing himself to be cared for, Draco let Harry pull him into a sitting position.  He wobbled a bit when he eased himself to his feet, but Harry was there to steady him. 

In the ensuite, Harry’s hands were gentle as he stripped Draco out of his pajamas – new ones, large enough to fit him at this size, but still made of the softest material that he’d ever felt and not at all irritating to his oversensitive skin.  Though Draco cast a longing look at the clawfoot tub that was in no way subtle, Harry started the shower instead, reaching in to test the water with his hand before tugging Draco in behind him.

“I know you like to start your days with a bath,” Harry said, blinking water out of those bright green eyes and flashing his teeth in a brief, cheeky grin.  “But let me see what I can do to make it up to you.”

“I thought you were in a bit of a hurry,” Draco said, trying to keep his voice steady as Harry slipped around to press his chest against his back, running his hands up and down the swell of Draco’s belly before moving them slowly, very slowly, up his chest and then down his shoulders and arms.  He captured Draco’s hands, gently massaging them with his thumbs before pressing them flat against the cool tile of the shower wall.

“We have time for this.  I have time for you.  Always.”  Harry’s breath on the back of Draco’s neck caused him to shiver agreeably, and he felt his skin pebble into gooseflesh in response to the promise in Harry’s voice.

Harry’s hands slid their way back down to Draco’s belly, gently rubbing circles against the tight skin, idly tracing the pattern of thin scars which had stretched to accommodate his pregnancy.  Even under the hot spray of water cascading over both of them, Harry’s hands felt like brands, leaving trails of heat wherever they roamed.  One of them drifted lower, sliding to the juncture between thigh and groin, gripping loosely around Draco’s half-hard cock.

Draco let out a soft moan and let his forehead rest against his arms, bracing himself against the tile wall, unable to keep his hips from moving slightly as Harry stroked him into a full erection.  Sex between them had been infrequent lately, with Draco often being too tired and too uncomfortable to want much more than what Harry was able to provide just by curling up next to him on the bed.  Now, his own arousal was an unexpected but pleasant surprise, and he wanted to make it last.

“Can you squeeze your thighs together for me?”  Harry rumbled, moving until he was flush against Draco’s back and hooking his chin over his shoulder, mouthing at his neck.

In answer, Draco repositioned his feet until they were touching, clenching his thighs as he felt the hard, hot length of Harry’s cock slip between them, the velvety skin teasing against his sensitive perineum in a way that made him quiver.  For a while they rocked slowly together, Draco torn between concentrating on maintaining that tight channel for Harry even as he floated in the feeling of a warm, strong hand on his cock, and the blunt head of Harry’s occasionally nudging his sac, sending delicious tingles shivering through his body.

Eventually, though, Harry’s movements became more urgent, his grip tighter, his hips slapping wetly against Draco’s arse, until Draco finally came with a bitten-off cry and Harry followed him, withdrawing from Draco’s thighs and stripping his cock until he came all over Draco’s skin.  Draco barely felt it, Harry’s spend washing away under the shower spray almost immediately, and he hummed a satisfied sigh into the hollow of his arms.

“Be careful,” he murmured, as Harry drew him away from the wall and steadied him until his legs no longer felt as though they were made of jelly.  “I’ll want to start every day like this.”

“Anything you want,” Harry promised, curling his hand around the back of Draco’s neck and drawing him into a kiss.

Years ago, in his youth, Draco would have exploited a pledge like that, would have used it to extract gifts and concessions just to prove that they would be given.  But here, now, just the two of them and the expectation of someone new – there was very little else that Draco wanted.  That would change after the birth, he knew, once they started to settle in as parents and were able to build room in their lives to further their other interests.  But Harry had already promised him that, too.  And while Draco was unaccustomed to placing so much trust in one person, he had no doubt that Harry would do his best to keep it.  Allowing himself to rely on that trust was a much more comfortable proposition than he ever would have believed.

~ * ~

The Atrium at the Ministry of Magic had changed relatively frequently during Draco’s lifetime, compared to what had been its stagnant nature almost since the Ministry was established in the early eighteenth century.  But the Fountain of Magical Brethren had of course been demolished in the wake of the Death Eaters taking control during the second war to make way for Voldemort’s display of bigotry and domination of ‘pure’ magical humans over all other beings.  That monstrosity had at least been more straightforward than the traditional Fountain, which had cloaked the belief in wizarding kind’s inherent superiority in something more like benevolent rule.

During the trials, after the Battle of Hogwarts, that space in the Atrium had been empty.  Many of the remaining Ministry employees and much of the wizarding population of the isles had assumed that the Fountain would be restored to its original configuration, but Shacklebolt had deftly circumvented all efforts to this end without overtly exercising his still-dubious authority as acting Minister, after Imperius-controlled Pius Thicknesse was ousted.  It had been a precarious time, the community rocked by so many murders and massacres over the course of more than a year, capped by an unthinkably violent attack on the school at which many of their children were in attendance. 

Draco had other concerns during that time than how the acting Minister was faring, and had little to no awareness of the specific power struggles which ensued as the Ministry was being built back up.  But his mother had paid very close attention – it was likely that her future and that of her husband and son depended upon whoever emerged as the acknowledged leader of wizarding kind in the isles.  He remembered that she had told him that Shacklebolt had called for thoughtful restoration with an eye toward healing rather than merely replicating what had been before.

And so what now stood in the Atrium was something that was more modern and abstract and representative as opposed to realistic, a distinct departure from tradition which meant that its unifying effect primarily manifested in the large number of people who absolutely hated it.  That was a shame, Draco thought, letting his gaze trace the lines of the array of unique shapes which were meant to represent witches, wizards, and different beings without conveying any sort of hierarchy.  The curves, angles, or combinations of the two were intended to capture the character of each of those groups, though they all leaned toward the center of their circular formation, water pouring into a collective basin which supposedly represented how they all contributed to something greater than themselves.

While it wasn’t the most elegant or attractive thing he had ever seen, it was still quite an improvement on both of its most recent iterations.  That, and his natural contrariness to the majority opinion of the United Kingdom wizarding community in general, made him inclined to like it.

Certainly it was a much more appealing prospect than the podium which had been erected a few meters away, positioned so that the new Fountain of Magical Accord would be the background for any photographs.  He hadn’t seen Chester Lanius since that day in Diagon Alley, but he did see Pansy standing at the front of the small crowd that had gathered in front of the podium.  Greg was acting as an enormous shadow, lurking behind Pansy’s slim figure as though he were ready for anyone to try to take issue with it.

Pansy just flashed him a devastating smile, raising the camera she was holding, and mouthed the words “You’re huge” at him.

Draco scowled at her, though his distemper was mixed with a healthy dose of amusement, and the corners of his mouth wanted to pull up.  He couldn’t very well send a rude gesture in her direction, not in front of everyone who was ostensibly here to watch Shacklebolt bestow an honor on him.  Besides, his mother was here.  Narcissa would never forgive him for misbehaving publicly in such a manner.

While the public was free to attend these sorts of things, the crowds consisted mostly of Ministry employees eager to take a few minutes away from the drudgery of their everyday duties and have a gander at whatever happened to be going on.  There were a few more non-Ministry witches and wizards present within this particular group, as evidenced by the slightly greater proportion of people wearing attire that was more in line with Muggle fashion than wizarding robes.

Narcissa had lost their battle over what he would wear today.  He had no robes that were fitted to him at this size, and he firmly made it clear that he was prioritizing comfort over formality.  So they compromised on him wearing his best pair of new trousers, his customary white button-up, and a navy blue pullover.  Not too unlike the way he usually dressed, though he’d rather be wearing slippers instead of the black leather brogues that were pinching his feet. 

Harry had not had anything like Draco’s excuse, and so had conceded to wearing the hunter green coat that draped more like traditional robes, over a black button-up and matching trousers.  He looked exceedingly handsome, even if there really was nothing that could be done with his hair.  But Draco felt as though it suited him.

Their matching rings didn’t seem to be garnering much notice at the moment, though Draco was positive that Pansy hadn’t missed that detail.  He felt as though the odds of her getting his and Harry’s permission to share it in her write-up of the event were about fifty-fifty, which wasn’t too bad when one considered how the Daily Prophet normally operated (print first, post minuscule corrections later, if at all).

“Mr. Malfoy,” Shacklebolt said, finally disentangling himself from a low-voiced discussion with Director Munro and Robards.  “You’re looking well.”

Draco gave him a skeptical look, because he knew that he was likely looking tired and irritable.  Still, his mother had raised him to be polite.  “Thank you, Minister.”

“I was given to understand that you wouldn’t mind if this little conference served more than one purpose today,” Shacklebolt said, the skin around his dark brown eyes crinkling in something like amusement.

“No, indeed,” Draco replied, feeling a slight sense of relief.  “I would actually prefer not to be the center of attention for the duration.”

“Harry said as much.”  Shacklebolt sent a brief wink in Harry’s direction.  Harry, for his part, just acknowledged it with a nod.  It was clear that things between him and the Minster were still not what they had been.  “We just have to wait for a few more arrivals – ah!”

Draco followed Shacklebolt’s gaze to the lift, where Hermione and Ron were just stepping out of the car.  He got a brief glimpse of a familiar goblin – Tasgall – who gave him something between a wave and a salute with long, claw-tipped fingers before pulling the lever to close the gate, and the car hoisted out of view to continue its journey up the shaft.

“Sorry we’re late,” Hermione said, somewhat breathlessly.  Her hair was usually as untamable as Harry’s, though in a different way, and just now it seemed to be particularly disheveled.  Her swollen lips, a matching set with Ron’s, provided some additional clues as to the reason behind their tardiness.  “We, er, got caught up.”

“Clearly,” Draco said, unable to help himself.  Harry suppressed his chuckle and gave Draco’s hand a squeeze when Hermione’s face flushed with a strange expression of pleased embarrassment.

“That’s almost everyone,” Shacklebolt said.  “I think we can at least get started, what do you think, Munro?”

“Yes, very well,” Munro said, seeming somewhat distracted, but they hurried toward those within the crowd who held press cards, speaking to them in a hushed tone and herding them all together, just off to one side.

“Mr. Malfoy, if you wouldn’t mind coming with me.  We can get your part of it over and done with first thing, if you’re agreeable.”  Shacklebolt gestured toward the podium. 

“Fine,” Draco said, eager to have the chance to melt into the crowd as soon as possible.  He moved to follow the Minister, but Harry tightened his fingers where they were laced with his, and Draco was drawn up short.  He looked questioningly at Harry, but Harry just smiled, raised Draco’s hand to his lips, and kissed the back of it before releasing him.

Feeling his cheeks warm – there were so many people watching – Draco nearly tripped as he moved to stand next to the podium, while Shacklebolt took up his position behind it.  He shook his wand out of his sleeve, murmured “Sonorus,” and smiled brightly at those assembled in front of him.

“Good afternoon, witches, wizards, and beings.  Thank you all for being here today, as we honor someone who has worked tirelessly since late last year to address the root cause of the serious magical disruptions recently experienced in Wiltshire.”

Shacklebolt’s magically amplified voice seemed to echo slightly in the Atrium, but not quite to the point of becoming too garbled to understand.  Draco only paid half of his attention to it, suddenly very aware of many, many eyes on him as he stood next to the Minister.  He let his good eye go unfocused, allowing the features of the people at the front of the crowd to blur so that he wasn’t focusing on their expressions – or, Merlin forbid, making direct eye contact with any of them.  He let Shacklebolt continue to expound on his excellent work at the Manor in the face of personal adversity, etc., before he was suddenly startled back into full awareness by the words “Order of Merlin, Second Class.”

He turned to look at Shacklebolt in astonishment – he had assumed that this conference would be nothing but pleasant, meaningless words to pay lip service to his work in appeasement to Harry – and nearly flinched because Shacklebolt was already raising the purple ribbon from which the small gold medal hung.  He froze, allowing it to be slipped over his head and settled around his shoulders, and then all of a sudden Shacklebolt was vigorously shaking his hand as there was some applause from the crowd.  It was scattered at first, but then grew, with a few cheers echoing out from voices he didn’t recognize.  Had the Minister planted people in the audience to keep them from standing in stony silence while he received his award?

Shacklebolt used his grip on Draco’s hand to gently turn him so that he was facing the press, and there were several unwelcome flashes of blinding white light as his photograph was taken yet again.  Granted, these were much more ideal circumstances, but he was very conscious of how large his belly was now, as well as the fact that the scars on his face were on display for all to see.  It shouldn’t have bothered him this much.  It wasn’t as though the wizarding community hadn’t already seen him in much worse shape.  But most of the public attention he’d received throughout his life, and particularly after his trial, had never been positive.  It was difficult to believe that this situation would not also fall into that category.

“Please, hold your questions until I’ve had the opportunity to offer a few more remarks.  Or, announcements, I should say.”

Draco felt an arm curve around the small of his back, felt Harry’s reassuring warmth as he was gently ushered off to the side – not quite joining the crowd, but no longer within the figurative spotlight.  He stared down at his chest, where the small gold disk glinted back at him from where it hung just above the swell of his belly.  There was the stylized ‘M’ which resembled the DMLE badges, though here it was bordered by a perfect ‘O,’ so Draco supposed that in this case it stood for ‘Merlin’ instead of ‘Ministry.’ 

“Proud of you, love.”  Harry spoke into his ear, and Draco shivered.  “I know, it’s strange, right?  But you deserve it more than most.”

“I’ve seen the list of plonkers who have one of these,” Draco whispered back, and Harry had to bury his face into Draco’s shoulder in order to muffle his laughter.

Hearing Hermione clear her throat pointedly beside them, they subsided, striving to return their attention to Shacklebolt. 

“It is a fact of life that time marches on, oftentimes too quickly for our liking.  Inherent in that natural procession of years is the ever present reality of change.  It can be frightening for some, welcome to others, sometimes a bittersweet mixture of both, but it is inevitable in any case.  As many of you are aware, Gawain Robards has served as Head Auror through tumultuous times over a good number of years.  He has served with distinction and deserves the retirement that he is due.  In light of that, Gawain will be stepping down effective immediately.”

There was a slightly shocked murmur in response to that, people in the crowd leaning towards each other to whisper about something that had been rumored for at least a year, as far as Draco knew.  Possibly longer.  Robards, for his part, stood ramrod straight, his lips pressed tightly together and utterly ignoring the sudden flurry of cameras and flashes pointed in his direction.

Shacklebolt continued.  “We at the Ministry wish Gawain all the best in his retirement, and are sad to see him go.  But we are equally as glad to introduce to you the new Head of the Auror Office, Susan Bones.”

Draco blinked in surprise as a woman seemed to suddenly emerge from the background to Shacklebolt’s left.  She was of average height and stocky, with light brown hair that was pulled back into a knot.  Her black robes were cut in a strange fashion, the sleeves ending just above her elbows.  Which made the gleam of silver on her right arm stand out starkly.  Just above the joint, Susan’s right arm appeared to be constructed entirely of exquisitely worked silver, with unfamiliar patterns etched into the flexible metal to resemble something like a tattoo.  Her expression was calm, and she appeared to take no notice of the buzz of conversation within the crowd nor the scrutiny of the press. 

All in all, she looked formidable.  She had a bearing which required respect, and Draco hoped that Harry was seeing the same.  While he knew that Harry categorically did not want to return to Auror work, he knew that he still worried about the office itself, as well as the people they were nominally required to serve.  He wanted Harry to believe that Susan was more than equal to the task set in front of her.

“Head Auror Bones will be available for questions soon enough,” Shacklebolt said quellingly, waiting for the chatter to die down before clearing his throat.  “In pondering such a significant change, it is only natural to allow one’s mind to wander more broadly, which I have done.  And what I have realized is that as necessary as it has been to devote my effort toward the slow process of rebuilding, that work has within it some inherent limitations.  It keeps our attention on the past and the present, while it has been the case for some time now that we must focus on our future.  For the past is unchangeable, the present merely fleeting, and our direction of travel can only ever be forward into the future.  As such, I must announce yet another change, which is that I plan to retire in a year’s time.  During the course of that year –”  Even with the Amplifying charm, Shacklebolt had to raise his voice to be heard over the sudden uproar.  “– I will instruct my successor in the many important duties given to my office, assuming that the current department heads and members of the Wizengamot agree with my choice.  She is someone with whom you are all already very familiar, and whose work ethic and numerous administrative and academic accomplishments truly speak for themselves.  I am referring, of course, to Unspeakable Hermione Granger.”

Hermione beamed as she stepped forward to shake Shacklebolt’s hand, a wide smile splitting her face as the Atrium was suddenly filled with thunderous applause and cheers, though it was by no means universal amongst the members of the crowd.  Draco saw more than one face with a flat or even angry expression.

“Did you know about this?”  Harry hissed, yanking Ron’s arm in order to pull him down far enough for him to speak into his ear.

“Found out last night,” Ron whisper-shouted, trying to be heard over the noise filling the chamber.  “Kingsley spoke to her weeks ago, but she didn’t say a word.  Can you believe that she didn’t trust me not to blab?”  Ron’s face was indignant.

“Yes,” Draco and Harry said together, and Ron glowered at both of them.

“I’m moving up in the world,” Ron said, with a mock-haughty sniff.  “I won’t need to hang around uncultured blokes like you when my wife is the Minister for Magic.”

“They are going to eat you alive,” Draco said, meaning every word.  Part of him, a small part, relished the thought of Ron Weasley being made a laughingstock at high-level Ministry and society events, many of which the Minister had to attend as an integral part of the role.  It was expected, and many informal agreements which progressed to public policy changes were born in backrooms.  Draco wanted to think that Hermione would be the type of Minister to be much more transparent than was traditional, but it would still be vital for her to be in those rooms in order to keep others from working against her agenda.

Ron’s face fell slightly, the tips of his ears turning red, and Draco took pity on him.  “I will speak to my mother,” he said.  “She taught me how to navigate society when I was young, she can surely teach you, too.”

“Really?”  Ron looked surprised.  “She would do that?”

“All that and more,” Draco promised.  “Including selecting an entirely new wardrobe for the two of you.”

“Is that really necessary?”  Ron asked, a slightly panicked expression crossing his face.

“It is,” Draco said firmly.  “It really is.”

The conference devolves into clustered groups of discussion and mingling, with many people lining up to speak with Shacklebolt, Susan Bones, Robards, and Hermione, and plenty of others lingering at the edges in an attempt to overhear any snatches of conversation they could.  Ron was pulled aside multiple times in his efforts to sift through the throng to make it back to Hermione, his obvious irritation growing each time he was thwarted. 

He would definitely benefit from Narcissa’s instruction, Draco thought as he watched, profoundly grateful that Shacklebolt had made such momentous announcements that it seemed he and his Order of Merlin, Second Class had been all but forgotten by the crowd.  Even Pansy was jockeying for position amongst the press card holders all trying to shout over the other to get quotes from the current Minister and the Minister-to-be.

At a rumble from his stomach, Draco lamented that this didn’t seem to be the type of event which included refreshments or nibbles.  He could do with something to snack on, especially as he had been a little too nervous to indulge in the brunch that Pipsy had laid out in the dining room when he and Harry had finally found their way downstairs.

“Excuse me, Mr. Malfoy?”

Draco turned his head sharply in order to get a good look at the young man who was suddenly standing to his right, hand outstretched.  The man was tall and gangly, all knees and elbows, wearing a pair of thick horn-rimmed glasses and a nervous expression.

“Yes?”  Draco said warily, glancing off to either side to make sure the young man was alone.

“Er…  Right, you don’t actually know me.  I’m Marlowe Prentice, I work at Obscurus Books.”

“Oh.”  Realization flooded Draco, along with a flash of memory, of this man attempting to take cover within a circle of black flames along with a handful of others.  “Mr. Prentice, of course.”  He took Marlowe’s hand, giving it a firm shake.

“I just wanted to thank you in person,” Marlowe said, the corner of his mouth lifting up in a crooked smile.  “For saving my life.  I wouldn’t have made it, none of us would have, if you hadn’t shielded us.”

Fuck, what was Draco supposed to say in reply to something like that?  He wasn’t Harry, he wasn’t a hero.  He didn’t go around saving people as a matter of course.  He had been there, and he had been able to do something, and that was the end of it.

“You’re very welcome, but please think nothing of it,” Draco said finally.  “I’m glad that I was able to be of some help.”

“I hope I’ll see you in the shop at least.”  Marlowe’s face was earnest.  “Madam Lee told me I could give you the friends and family discount, if you were ever of a mind to make a purchase.”

Draco’s lips quirked.  “That’s very generous, Marlowe, thank you.  I’m sure I’ll find myself browsing sometime soon.”

“That would be brilliant.”  Marlowe grinned widely.  “Thank you again.  I hope everything goes well with the – er –”  Marlowe made a rounding gesture at his own belly, apparently at a loss for what to say.

“Thank you,” Draco said, trying to suppress his laughter.  “If you’ll excuse me, I seem to have misplaced my, er, Harry.”

He turned away from Marlowe, who was already heading back towards a small group of other young people who seemed to be waiting for him.  Not seeing Harry in his immediate vicinity, he slowly made his way toward the Fountain, murmuring apologies to people as he pushed through them.

Pain erupted in his right side as something hard collided with him, forcing him off balance to such a degree that it was impossible for him to keep from falling.  Only a lucky twist had him landing on his hip instead of fully on his side, and he couldn’t even cry out, the pain stealing the breath from him.

“Oh no, Mr. Malfoy!  How clumsy of me.”  Came a voice in a tone of feigned remorse.

It was Farris, Draco could see him through the haze of pain that clouded the edges of his vision.  The Auror was stooping down, reaching for him in a way that might have looked to others as though he intended to help Draco to his feet.  But Draco flinched away, even as that movement sent another shock of pain lancing through his side, bent on preventing Farris from touching him in any way.

“Draco!”  Harry’s furious, worried shout echoed in his ears, sounding slightly muffled by the press of shocked and slow-moving bodies between them.

“People might have forgotten who you are, what you are,” Farris growled in a low voice.  “But I haven’t, and I haven’t forgotten about your precious mum, either.  I’ll find a reason –”

“Were you under the impression that you still had a job?”  A new voice cut through the surrounding noise, cut through Farris’s ugly threats, slicing into sudden silence.

Draco craned his neck to peer up at Susan Bones, who was directing an icy glare at Farris.

Farris straightened abruptly.  “Miss Bones, I was just helping Mr. Malfoy after I accidentally –”

“That’s Head Auror Bones, or did you not hear anything the Minister said?”  Bones raised an eyebrow.

Face going dark with anger, Farris dutifully repeated “Head Auror Bones, I –”

“No.  You are dismissed from Auror service, Farris, and documentation of cause will be sent to you by owl post by end of day.”

“You can’t do that,” Farris growled.

Draco suddenly felt Harry’s hands on him, roaming helplessly as though unsure of what to do or how Draco was hurting.  He gripped one of Harry’s hands and held on tightly, stifling a groan behind clenched teeth.

“I can and I have.  It is done.  And when I assign whatever Aurors remain after I scour that office of those more interested in power than in the mission to investigate your tenure as Robards’ second, you’ll be informed of that as well.  I may even decide to lead the investigation personally.  If you don’t vacate the Ministry this instant, you will be arrested.”  Bones stood implacably, watching Farris like a hawk.

Farris’s lips pulled back into a snarl, and he reached for his wand.

But Bones was quicker, a small click and a whir before her wand shot into her grip from where it was stored in her silver prosthetic arm, and she made her move.  “Immobulus!”

The now-former Auror froze in mid-reach, eyes wide with surprise and completely unable to move.

Draco was surprised as well, to see that Bones’ wand arm apparently had not switched to her left after whatever injury had caused the amputation of her right.  It was unheard of for a witch or wizard to be able to channel magic through a wand without direct contact with flesh, and through the sharp pain in his side that showed no signs of abating, Draco wondered at how she’d been able to manage it.

“Get him out of here,” Bones murmured to Harry, still not taking her eyes off of Farris, incapacitated as he was.  “I’ll take care of this, you take care of him.”

“Thanks, Susan.”

Draco heard Harry’s reply even as he fought to stay conscious, squeezing Harry’s hand even more tightly as he felt the familiar sensation of Harry’s Apparition taking him Side Along to St. Mungo’s.  He only hoped that they weren’t already too late.

Chapter 42

It was noise and pain and confusion.

Draco used the pain to focus, as an anchor point for consciousness instead of motivation to let the darkness creeping around the edge of his vision soothe him into non-awareness.  Harry was shouting, he could feel the rumble of his voice in his chest, and there was movement as someone levitated him onto a stretcher.

That brief moment of weightlessness made the pain worse, he felt the babe turn over in his belly as though disoriented, and he couldn’t help but let out a sharp cry of pain.  There were more voices in response, talking over each other, one of them explaining crisply to Harry that it wasn’t wise to use any spells or potions to lessen the pain until they could determine whether it was necessary to prepare for delivery.

Delivery.

Delivery?!

“Wait,” Draco groaned, fumbling blindly for Harry’s sleeve and gripping it tightly.  “It isn’t – it isn’t time, it’s too – too dangerous.”  He was panting through the waves of agony that were traveling along his sides and across the taught skin of his belly.

“It’s been long enough,” Harry said, trying to be reassuring, but Draco felt the tremble in his hand when his large palm came to rest against his cheek.  “They’re fetching the primary midwife Healer on duty, and they’ve sent off an urgent owl to Astoria.  It’s one of her days off, she’s not in right now.”

“Harry –”  Draco stopped and gritted his teeth, squeezing his eyes shut as he waited for another wave of pain to pass.  This one left him feeling lightheaded, and his head lolled before he was able to regain control over its movement.  He tried to meet Harry’s eyes, because what he had to say was important.  “If you – if you have to make – a choice –”

“It won’t come to that,” Harry said firmly.  “You’re both going to be just fine, it’s just happening a little earlier than we thought.”

Draco mustered enough energy to glare fiercely at him, and Harry’s expression crumpled slightly.

“I’m not going to make any promises or borrow trouble we don’t have yet,” Harry said, his voice cracking and becoming hoarse.  “I’ll listen to you and to the Healers when and if anything needs to be decided, all right?”

“Fine,” Draco conceded, suddenly feeling unable to push the issue any further.  He was starting to feel drained, similar to the way he did when he wasn’t timely enough with his scheduled magic-replenishing potions.

“It’s going to be fine,” Harry said fiercely, leaning down so that he could press his lips against Draco’s forehead.

“Of course it will,” came a cheerful voice, and Harry jerked upright to look at someone that Draco couldn’t immediately see.

“You’re the midwife?”  Harry asked, sounding somewhat dubious but doing his best to hide it.

“That’s right.  Healer Brennan Dooley, at your service.  No, I’m not a woman.  Yes, I have given birth myself, and helped hundreds of others do the same.  Now let me take a look at our patient.”

A man’s face suddenly filled Draco’s vision, and though it was startling to have someone practically sharing breath with him with no warning, he felt reassured by the fact that the face was kindly.  There were a multitude of laugh lines, and though he was an older male Healer, he didn’t seem to be the type who felt the need to grow a ridiculous gray beard.  In fact he was nearly bald, and somewhat resembled a baby himself, as his features were round, rosy, and tended towards smiley.

“I was told that you fell, Mr. Malfoy, is that right?”  Healer Dooley asked, waving his wand in a familiar pattern.  Draco had seen Astoria use that same magical scanning technique during his appointments with her.

“He was pushed,” Harry said darkly, something ominous and deadly about his tone.

Dooley glanced at him sharply, his mouth turned down in a frown.  “Then I hope that will be addressed,” he said severely.  “I think we’ve got an abruption on our hands, which means that we do need to deliver as quickly as possible.  Congratulations, gentlemen.  You’re about to be parents.”

“It’s not too early?”  Draco asked, unable to hide the strain he was feeling.

“No, I think the babe has been coming right along,” Dooley said, patting Draco’s shoulder reassuringly.  “Could be a mite smaller than they otherwise would be, but plenty big enough to greet the world.  Come on then, let’s get you to the second floor.”

“Isn’t that for magical diseases?”  Harry asked hesitantly, keeping pace with the stretcher as Dooley directed it toward the lift.

“This is a magical pregnancy, Mr. Potter.  Delivery will require that we separate the babe from Mr. Malfoy’s magical core, which is itself a type of injury – one from which he will recover,” Dooley said quickly, as Harry’s head jerked toward him in alarm.  “Not to worry.  We’ve done this before.”

Dooley kept up a rhythm of meaningless chatter that Draco was free to ignore as they made their way to the second floor delivery room.  Instead, he tried to focus on taking deep, even breaths, to the extent that he was able.  When he had awoken at the beginning of the day, he had not expected to have a baby by the end of it, but it seemed as though it was going to happen whether he was ready or not.  It became difficult to regulate his breathing at that thought – not only because of the immense apprehension at being responsible for a small, helpless person who would need a lifetime of love, guidance, and care, but because any potential control around the timing of that person’s arrival had been taken from him by a dangerous, petty man for little reason other than that he was angry about being thwarted in his corrupt ambition.

Which in turn made Draco feel ashamed at letting his guard down.  Of all the dangers that he had already protected his unborn child from, all of the work he had put into preserving his pregnancy, it was his own physical weakness, his partial blindness, that had allowed Farris to get close enough to assault him.  He had become more complacent than he should have, after losing his earring to the loose-fingered custody of the Aurors.  He couldn’t be without some sort of means of being more aware of his surroundings, not now.  He was going to have a child to protect, him and Harry, and Draco vowed that he would not fail his child yet again.

“All right, take this for me, Mr. Malfoy.”

Draco abruptly found himself sitting up, braced as the magical stretcher he was on folded up slightly to support him.  Healer Dooley held a small glass of a potion that was light green in color, and which was smoking a bit.  Draco squinted at it, and then at the Healer.

Dooley chuckled.  “It will help with the pain and relax your magical core, so that it’s more inclined to let go of the babe.  We have to go in physically, you understand, so this will numb you appropriately.”

Unable to help a slight twist to his lips, Draco nevertheless drank the potion down obediently.  He would have taken the glass himself, but his hands were far from steady at the moment.  Almost instantly, he felt a cool sensation wash through him, spreading through every nerve like the gentle trickle of water over a shallow bed of river stones.  The muscles around his abdomen, which had only grown more and more painfully tight since their arrival, loosened completely.  The potion left him feeling floaty and perhaps somewhat less attached to his body than he was normally.

“Now, duck, are you fond of these clothes, or are you all right with me Vanishing them?  I’m afraid it’s necessary,” Dooley said, sounding apologetic.

“Hmm…my mother picked them for me,” Draco mumbled, confused at the way his voice sounded slow and rather dreamy.

“Is that a yes or a no, Mr. Malfoy?”  Dooley asked, the wrinkles in his face deepening as he smiled.

“You can Vanish them,” Harry said, giving Draco’s hand a squeeze.  “They’ll be too large for him, anyway.”

“True enough,” Dooley agreed.  “Though it takes time for the body to bounce into whatever shape it decides it will be after a pregnancy.  Believe me, I know.”  Dooley waved his wand, conjuring a wide sheet and letting it settle lightly over Draco’s body, before executing a much more complex movement.  Draco suddenly felt the cool linen against his skin, and he shivered.  He looked down, and saw that his belly was just a huge mound underneath the sheet, resembling a snow-covered hillock.

He lost a bit of time after that, content to know that Harry was by his side.  He was vaguely aware of Astoria bursting into the room and conferring with Healer Dooley before checking him over and assisting with whatever preparations were necessary.  He could hear the Healers talking and explaining things to Harry, but it was difficult to try to pay enough attention to make out the specific words, and even then he suspected that he wasn’t of sound enough mind to truly understand them.  But it was fine, because Harry was there, murmuring endearments to him and to his belly, never once letting go of Draco’s hand, even as he gently smoothed his hair back with the other.

And then there was another sheet, this one hanging in the air like a curtain which blocked his view of his body, and Draco suddenly felt pressure on his belly.  It wasn’t bad, but it was strange.  He knew that something was happening, even if it also sort of felt as though it were happening to someone else.  Harry dared a quick peek around the curtain to see what the Healers were doing, and when he turned back to face Draco, his face was ashen.

“Harry.”  Draco squeezed his husband’s hand, trying to draw his attention away from whatever he’d seen.  “Eyes on me, Harry, look.  I’m not hurting, see?  It’s fine.  I’m fine, love.”

Taking a deep, shuddering breath, Harry locked eyes on him, taking Draco’s words as the permission they were for him not to look again.  “Are you sure you don’t feel anything?”

“Feels weird,” Draco confessed.  “But it doesn’t hurt.”

“I love you so much,” Harry said, his voice scraping roughly over the words.  His green eyes were wet with unshed tears.  “So much.”

Draco hummed, feeling some warmth creep into his chest in spite of the chilliness of being covered only by a sheet.  It was rather a good thing that he was too caught up in the effects of the numbing potion to care about his nudity at the moment.  “And I –”

There was a sudden, strong tug, different enough from the previous sensations that Draco was startled enough to stop speaking.  And then the brief silence was broken by a thin, reedy cry, small and frail, and Harry’s eyes went wide as he and Draco stared at each other in a mixture of astonishment and worry.

“There, now, it’s all right.”  That was Healer Dooley’s voice.  “I know, such a change, isn’t it?  This world will grow on you, I promise.”

The Healer stepped around the sheet blocking their view, holding up a tiny, squirming bundle, red-faced and dark haired.  “Congratulations, gentlemen.  You have a son.  Let me just take some measurements and get him cleaned up a bit, and then you can meet him properly.”

“Holy fuck,” Harry whispered.  He turned to look at Draco, looking as though he’d been Stupefied.  “We have a son.”

“I heard,” Draco said, bemused.  He could still feel some small tugs and more pressure on his lower half, and hoped Astoria was putting everything back where it was supposed to go.  His brow furrowed as he tried to clear some of the fogginess from his mind.  This was an important moment, he needed to be present in it.

Soon enough, Dooley returned, the babe wrapped up loosely in a thin blanket.  He leaned carefully over Draco, transferring the whimpering thing onto Draco’s chest, helping to adjust his arms to provide good support. 

“They like being skin to skin,” Dooley said with a smile.  “Keeps them warm, reminds them who you are.  He might be hungry in a bit, so a bottle will be prepared for him.  We’ll just be setting you back to rights – let us know if you feel any pain, because you shouldn’t be.”

Draco could only shake his head, unable to tear his eyes away from the face of the babe nestled against his chest.  He was…sticky.  Damp from the birthing process and the cleaning, and he was small and hot.  His hair was thick and black, but not entirely so, Draco discovered.  There was a small patch of pale white hair just over his right brow, which was wrinkled in tiny, adorable perturbation.  It was a little difficult to tell with how reddened his skin was, but Draco rather thought he tended toward the middle, between his complexion and Harry’s. 

“He’s perfect,” Harry breathed, his eyes once more swimming with tears, and he leaned over to place the gentlest of kisses on their son’s head, and then against Draco’s forehead.  “I can’t believe it, I can’t believe that he’s finally here.”

“It doesn’t seem real,” Draco said, and that worried him a bit, thinking that he might wake up just as pregnant as he had been this morning, with none of this having happened.  But he estimated that the odds were that this was actually happening, that he was, in fact, holding a baby – his baby – in his arms.  He fervently hoped so, at least.  He did not want to do this twice.

“He looks like you.”  Harry reached out a finger, slipping it under one of the babe’s tiny fists until those delicate fingers uncurled and wrapped themselves around the digit.

“You think so?”  Draco tilted his head slightly, trying to get a better look.

“The shape of his face, that nose, the set of his eyes – those are all you.”  Harry’s voice was impossibly fond.

“What about my nose?”  Draco asked, narrowing his eyes, and Harry laughed, though it had the echo of a joyous, incredulous sob within it.

“What should we call him?”  Harry shifted, settling himself so that he was half-sitting on the stretcher.  He didn’t seem inclined to move, now that their son was holding him in place with nothing but his fragile grip.  “There are a lot of family names we could use.”

“None from my family, I don’t think,” Draco murmured.  “Though…I do like the idea of keeping the Black family naming tradition intact.”

“I like that, too,” Harry said immediately.  “And he’ll need a middle name.”

“That ought to come from you.  From the Potters,” Draco said, meaning it.  Names were important, but it was equally important that they didn’t overshadow the ones who had to bear them.  “James?”

Harry’s expression, if possible, softened even further.  “Yeah.  That’s good.”

“Scorpius James?”  Draco ventured, testing the name.  Was it something a child could live with?  He was strongly reminded of the last place he had visited with Séneca’s crew, aboard the Esperanza, before he was taken back to England by Portkey.  The Arrecife Alacranes – the Scorpion Reef, just off the coast of Yucatán.

“Scorpius James,” Harry repeated, a crooked grin slowly dawning on his face.  “Potter-Malfoy?”

Draco scowled at him, displeased with the reminder of the discussion they’d been having ever since their handfasting on the equinox.  “Are you certain you want to tie your name to mine?”

Harry leaned down, taking great care not to jostle the tiny baby resting contentedly – for the moment – on Draco’s chest.  He pressed his lips against Draco’s, a slow, careful, deliberate kiss.  “I’m sure.”

~ * ~

It wasn’t so much noise that woke him, as it was the lack thereof.  Draco blinked himself into full wakefulness, taking note of the still-dark room and the emptiness of the bed beside him.  For a moment he felt panic rising in him, unable to see Scorpius where the babe had previously been nestled in the bed between him and Harry, but Harry’s absence was an almost instant comfort.  If Scorpius wasn’t with Draco, he was with Harry, and everything was fine.

Still, that momentary zing of fear and anxiety was not likely to allow him to slip back into slumber anytime soon, so he eased himself carefully upright.  He winced as he swung his legs out to shuffle them into his slippers.  While everything in his abdomen was well closed, Healer Dooley had been right that it would take his body some time to recover from both the pregnancy and the birth.  Skin that had been stretched now felt loose, and hung in ways which Draco not only found distasteful but also a bit painful.

His magic, too, was in need of time.  Astoria had done her best to explain it to him, that his magical core was somewhat diminished with the removal of Scorpius from the half magical, half biological organ that had grown inside of him all these months.  Which meant that he still needed to take the magic replenishing potion for at least a few weeks more, to help his core along in his recovery.

Harry’s family had so far kept a respectful distance, contenting themselves with both magically developed and mundane…electric?...digity? photographs that Harry took with his Muggle device and sent to Hermione, Teddy and a few of the other Weasleys, such as Arthur, George, and Victoire, who had been more enthusiastic about adopting the use of non-magical technology.  Between them all, there were enough baby photos being passed around to assuage any feelings of distress about not yet being able to visit in person.

It wasn’t as though Draco wanted to keep Scorpius from them.  But something had shifted within him when he first felt Scorpius’s tiny body against his.  Something quiet and profound, that he didn’t even recognize until after he and Harry had taken Scorpius home, that first nerve-wracking Apparition back to Grimmauld Place after Dooley and Astoria had pronounced both Draco and Scorpius fit for light travel.

To be a parent was something both remarkable and terrifying all at once, the reality so much more than Draco had been able to imagine.  And he was struck with an implacable sense of protectiveness that was not easy to overcome.  It had been difficult enough to allow Narcissa to hold Scorpius carefully in her arms, and he had watched his mother cry again – still a jarring and uncomfortable experience, even though he understood the reason behind her tears.

Narcissa had picked up on her son’s internal struggle to refrain from snatching the baby right back out of her hold, and after pressing a great number of kisses into her grandson’s soft hair, she departed to stay with Andromeda.  Draco tried to feel guilty about practically driving her away, but he couldn’t deny that he felt easier.  He knew that his mother and Andromeda had been discussing the possibility of living together anyway, as neither of them wanted to spend most of their time in empty houses.  But they were both realistic about the possibility that the two of them were far too set in their respective ways to make a harmonious home together, and Narcissa was keeping her options open.

Draco found the remainder of his small family in the nursery, and he paused at the doorway, leaning against it so that he could more easily take in the scene before him.  He was not too proud to admit that without Harry, he would have been completely lost in attempting to care for Scorpius.  Harry had far more experience in helping to raise his nieces and nephews, and the love that he already felt for their son was written in every look, every careful movement, every turn of the head whenever Scorpius made even the softest noise. 

And just now Harry was half asleep in the old rocking chair, Scorpius in the cradle of his arms and supported by his lap, bare feet flexing against the rug every so often to keep the soft rocking steady.  There was a small, mostly empty bottle sitting on the changing table, and Draco felt a momentary flash of relief at the knowledge that Scorpius was fed for the moment.  He’d taken to the formula recommended by Healer Dooley very well – in fact he was, at times, quite demanding when he didn’t have it quickly enough.

The moonlight streaming in through the gauzy curtains covering the window briefly lit up the small white lock of Scorpius’s surprisingly thick hair, and Draco couldn’t help but cross the room and lay a hand on his son’s head in a gentle caress.  Scorpius stirred, a tiny frown line appearing between his brows, and he let out a faint whine.

As Draco expected, Harry barely twitched as he alerted to the sound, his eyes flying open darting down to Scorpius before he realized Draco was even there.  Then the corner of Harry’s mouth tilted up in a tired smile, and he lifted Draco’s hand to his lips, kissing the back of it before twining their fingers together.

“I didn’t want to wake you,” Harry said, his voice barely audible.  He was developing faint bruise-like patches beneath his eyes, Draco noted with disapproval.  While neither of them were getting much sleep, as they were still usually both up whenever Scorpius was awake, Draco suspected that grief was also responsible for stealing away Harry’s rest.

Kreacher had been overjoyed when they brought Scorpius home.  The old house elf had gazed rapturously at the babe’s sleeping face, mumbling about how many members of the most noble house of Black he had seen come into the world, and expounding on how glad he was that the line had continued, even if it hadn’t been through any of Walburga’s children. 

And then the next morning, Pipsy had gone to the small door to Kreacher’s quarters hidden within the pantry, intending to wake Kreacher for the day, as it had been getting on noon by that point.  Only to find Kreacher finally at peaceful rest, the urn containing the ashes of his ancestors clutched tightly in his arms.

Harry and Pipsy had both shed tears, each of them saying a few words over the urn after Kreacher’s ashes had been added to it.  And Draco had offered what comfort he could, knowing that Harry felt some guilt around being so often away from Grimmauld Place during the last years of Kreacher’s life.  But at the very least, the old elf had benefitted from Pipsy’s excellent and caring company, and had died knowing that the family he loved and cared for had finally seen a new generation.

“I’ve found that it’s difficult for me to sleep without either of you now,” Draco whispered back.  “Granted, Scorpius has already shown a talent for making it difficult to sleep in general.”

“He’s a prodigy.”  Harry’s teeth flashed in a grin.  “Should you be up and about?”

“I’m perfectly capable of navigating between rooms on the same floor, Harry.”  Draco’s tone was chiding, but he was warmed by Harry’s concern.  It wasn’t as though he had expected any different, but it was reassuring to the parts of him that still fretted about bringing Harry more trouble than he was able to make up for, of having a place in Harry’s life and Harry’s – their – home. 

If he repeated that to himself more and more, then maybe eventually his whole self would really believe it.

He leaned down, carefully sliding his hands underneath Scorpius.  It had been at least an hour since he’d had the opportunity to hold his son, he was long overdue.  And as he cuddled Scorpius close and breathed in the scent of his hair, he knew that eventually he would have to allow more people into Scorpius’s life, so that he would know how many people there were in the world who already loved him, and who would always be ready to stand up for him.  Draco didn’t think he would have believed it if he hadn’t experienced it himself, but it was true, and he was confident that no one who laid eyes on Scorpius could fail to fall in love with him.

“Come on,” Draco said to Harry, nodding his head in the direction of the door.  “Let’s try for a little more sleep, all right?”

Harry sighed, bracing his hands on the arms of the rocking chair as he heaved himself to his feet, and he wrapped his arms around both Draco and Scorpius, taking care not to wake the babe.  His lips found their way to Draco’s, and for a moment they just stood there, swaying slightly, feeling each other with Scorpius safe and sleeping between them – so different from when Draco had been carrying him in his belly, and yet not so very different.

“After you, love,” Harry said.  “Let’s go to bed.”

And this time it was Draco who stayed awake to watch Scorpius breathe, to see his little chest rising and falling while his father dropped off to sleep beside him.

~ * ~

Draco stepped carefully onto the hearth of the Burrow, putting a bit of distance between himself and the fireplace before pulling down the cloth wrap which held Scorpius snugly against his chest so that it was no longer covering the babe’s face.  He knew that people traveled through the Floo network with babies and children all the time, but he still felt some apprehension about all of the smoke, even if it was magical.  Scorpius merely blinked blue-green eyes up at him, eyebrows lifting up curiously and causing little wrinkles to form on his forehead.  Draco smiled at him, suspecting that they would continue to see Scorpius’s eyes change until they were more of a shade with his father’s.  Harry might be right in saying that Scorpius had Draco’s features, but he was also unmistakably Harry’s son.

Molly approached him, her teary eyes locked on Scorpius, and Draco abruptly realized that the Burrow was much emptier than he’d been prepared for – he had braced himself for the wall of noise which he usually encountered when they visited.  But Harry had gone on ahead of him, letting Draco stay at Grimmauld Place until Scorpius had finished his nap.  Harry’s early departure was ostensibly to help make everything ready for the end of term party welcoming the Weasley grandchildren back from Hogwarts, but he had likely also done what he could to make things a little less overwhelming for Draco.

“Oh, isn’t he just precious,” Molly cooed, clearly dying to hold the babe, and Scorpius was staring right back at her with wide eyes.

Steeling himself, Draco shifted Scorpius out of the sling, since he was already wake and seemed amenable to being cuddled.  Molly received him with the expertise that was only natural for a woman who had raised seven children of her own, and already had numerous grandchildren. 

“He’s darling, Draco, you must be so proud.”  Molly beamed at him, and surreptitiously brushed away a tear.  “Harry can hardly talk of anything else.”

“Yes, his accomplishments are many, and at only a month old, too,” Draco said dryly, and Molly laughed. 

“We’re all set up in the meadow,” Molly said.  “The boys will have got everything arranged by now – we decided to put up a canopy, since it’s such a sunny day.  And I think everyone else has already arrived.  Come along, dear.”

Draco followed closely behind Molly, freezing for a moment on the porch.  The white canvas canopy was nowhere near the size of the marquee that had been erected for Bill and Fleur’s wedding all those years ago, but he was struck by that memory all the same.  Again, he vowed to himself that he would not reveal the fact that he had been one of the Death Eaters present that day.  It would do no one any good – and besides, he no longer carried the Mark.  He could, perhaps, start letting go of some of the guilt.

There were children of all sizes running about, including Teddy and Victoire, who were chasing after the youngers with absolute glee.  It was unclear what the game was, but Draco could see Junie in the mix, keeping close to the twins, and little Tao was toddling after the faster-moving group and laughing hysterically every time he mis stepped and toppled over.  As rambunctious as the others were, they were clearly being careful not to trample him.

Beyond the roving pack of children, sitting in the shade of the canopy, were Pansy and Greg.  They were close to Narcissa and Andromeda, and even from this distance Draco could see that they didn’t seem quite at ease among so many (many) Weasleys.  But Narcissa was an excellent hostess even at other people’s parties, and she appeared to be keeping them involved in conversation even as Pansy observed the chaos like an affronted cat, and Greg seemed to be inclined to join the fun but was unsure of his welcome.

Dee and Xiumei weren’t too far away, chatting with Ron and Hermione, and Draco had sincerely intended to continue mapping out the locations of the rest of the family, but he was distracted by the sight and smell of the enormous heap of assorted pork, fish, and cheese and onion pies surrounded by platters of chips and salads.  And he hadn’t even looked at the dessert table yet.

“All right, little love, time to go back to your…mum?”  Molly glanced at Draco uncertainly.  “Sorry, dear, I’m afraid I didn’t even think about what he might call you one day.”

“I suspect we’ll find out,” Draco said, accepting Scorpius and settling him back into the sling, instantly feeling better at having the babe close once again.  “We’ve been talking to him, of course, but we haven’t put much thought into terms of address.”

“He’s young, yet,” Molly chuckled.  “Go on, dear.  Enjoy yourself, I just to need to make sure everything has been set out.”

Draco descended the steps, finding himself suddenly surrounded by children the moment his foot touched the garden path.  Rosie was the tallest, and therefore the first one of the cousins to get a good look at Scorpius.  She gasped, clamping a hand over her own mouth so as to muffle her squeal of delight.  “He’s so cute!”

So of course Draco had to crouch down to allow them all a better look, with Fletch and Gabe shushing each other repeatedly as they jostled for the best angle.  There were an abundance of coos and soft exclamations, because if there was one thing that the Weasley matriarch had drilled into the entire clan, it was to never disturb a baby. 

Tao, who had been slower to catch up with the others, wormed his way through the small crowd and patted Draco’s leg excitedly, beaming at Scorpius and repeating the word “Baby” over and over again.  But Draco’s knees were already protesting, and so he regretfully straightened up and continued on his way to the canopy, with Tao attached to his free hand like a limpet.  Once there, Draco endured another round of well-deserved coos from the adults, which he tolerated because it was impossible not to be overcome by Scorpius’s charm.

In spite of the first few weeks of his life being rather limited in terms of acquaintances, Scorpius handled it all as though it were his due (it was), and even managed some gummy smiles when George leaned over him and waggled his eyebrows absurdly.  Even Percy’s face softened into something that was entirely unlike his usual forbidding demeanor, reaching out tentatively to stroke Scorpius’s cheek with a finger.

It took some doing, but Draco eventually arrived at the picnic table at which Dee, Xiumei, Ron, and Hermione were sitting, which was next to where Narcissa was holding court with her small group.  Greg hardly needed any encouragement to join them, Draco raising his eyebrows and jerking his head pointedly at the empty place beside him.  Pansy was a tad more circumspect, continuing to speak amiably with Narcissa and Andromeda before finally sauntering her way over as well.

Greg looked somewhat dumbfounded when Draco lifted Scorpius out of the sling and deposited him into his massive arms, and after staring down at the babe for a moment, looked up and blurted, “He’s so small.”

“Everyone is small compared to you,” Pansy said, though her tone was less acerbic than it could have been.  “He’ll grow soon enough, I’m sure.”  She affected disinterest, but Draco could see her examining Scorpius out of the corner of her eye.  Pansy was all sharp edges and sarcasm, and Draco knew that it was a protective front because it was one that he had also employed.  He felt a rush of gratitude for Harry and Scorpius, for giving him the opportunity…and the permission…he needed to be softer and less sharp.

Greg’s only response was a slight sniffling sound, and he rounded his shoulders, ducking his head to hide his face from the others.  Draco just patted him on the arm, doing his friend the favor of not calling attention to this display of emotion.  It still made him uneasy, handing Scorpius off to anyone but Harry, but it warmed him to see Greg finally get a true taste of being an honorary uncle.  Scorpius, for his part, was so at ease in the big man’s arms that he fell right to sleep.

When the children were summoned to the canopy so that everyone could start eating, the noise and chaos levels increased again, though Harry ensured that Draco didn’t have to worry about wading into it with Scorpius by fixing a plate for him.  Draco suspected that Scorpius would be hungry again when he woke, which was why he had four bottles of formula in stasis in the large pocket of his satchel.  He knew that Harry had at least one in the pocket of his anorak, as well, so they were both ready.

But as the babe was still sleeping happily enough in the crook of Greg’s arm, Draco focused on his food, and in listening to Ron proudly explain to Dee that Hermione was set to become the next Minister for Magic.  The Wizengamot had been in unanimous agreement with Shacklebolt’s choice, and the department heads slightly less so.  They were powerful people, after all, and powerful people had their own ambitions. 

“Well done,” Dee said, looking suitably impressed as he turned to look at Hermione, who was at once beaming with pride and trying to play it off as though it hadn’t been a near certainty, given her numerous achievements thus far.  “Seems like it could only be a good thing, having someone in charge who understands what being on the non-magical side is like.”

“That is something where I think there could be a great deal of improvement,” Hermione admitted, taking a sip of her butterbeer.  “Eventually…I think it could be beneficial to employ some non-magical folk in the Muggle Liaison Office, instead of just interfacing with Muggle counterparts in the other government’s offices.”

Draco’s eyebrows flew up.  “You’re going to face some resistance for that one,” he cautioned, remembering well the anti-Muggle attitudes of many of the Ministry officials his father had met with over the years.  Many of them no longer held office, it was true, but Draco knew that attitudes shaped policies and influenced decisions on those selected to succeed them.  Hermione had an uphill battle ahead of her if she intended to make Muggles official employees of any Ministry department.

“I’m aware,” Hermione said, her mouth twisting wryly. 

“’Mione’s got loads of ideas,” Ron said, wrapping his arm around Hermione’s waist and tugging her closer.  “She’s even got a few about what to do with the Manor.”

“Oh?”  Draco did his best to hide his apprehension.  He did not want actual possession of the Manor, and had not considered it to be his home in any way for a very long time.  But his father’s ring still sat on his right hand, and there were aspects of the estate, including the nemeton and the marvelous creature that was Grito, that needed to be protected, including from the Ministry.

“Yes,” Hermione said, slightly hesitantly.  “Obviously we know now how critical the estate is to the health of the ley line network in the isles, but we still know frustratingly little about how ley lines really work – this recent situation had pushed forward our collective knowledge about the subject by leaps and bounds, and so I thought that we might establish Malfoy Manor as a research institute.  It could very well be that we discover something that might help to improve the health of the ecosystems connected to ley lines, through influence of the magical environmental compartment that you’ve mentioned.”

“It would require a great deal of research before something like that could be achieved,” Draco said cautiously.  “Meddling without the kind of groundwork necessary for that kind of work could be disastrous.”

“I know,” Hermione said, her face serious.  “Which is why this would be a very select institute, and not merely controlled by the Department of Mysteries.”

Draco nodded, humming thoughtfully.  “You don’t do things by halves, do you?  You’re setting yourself up to have another big fight on your hands.”

“If anyone can do it, Hermione can,” Ron said, stubbornly loyal.  But not without cause, Draco mused.  Hermione was formidable, even if she lacked experience on the governing side of things.

Scorpius chose that moment to rouse, breaking into the conversation with a demanding cry as he squirmed in Greg’s arms.  Draco immediately turned to take him, stifling a laugh at the look of sheer panic on Greg’s face as he situated Scorpius in one arm while rummaging through his satchel with his free hand.

“I’ve got it,” Harry murmured, showing Draco the bottle that he had ready before scooping Scorpius up into his own arms.  “You keep talking, love, I’ll handle this hungry little monster.”

Draco settled somewhat reluctantly, watching as Harry moved off with Scorpius so that his wails would be a little less disruptive.  He only half-heartedly participated in the conversation after that, the rest of his attention dedicated to watching Harry walk around while feeding the babe, laughing with Ginny as Astoria gave Scorpius a somewhat clinical onceover before finally smiling and making a remark to Harry that had him grinning proudly. 

That grin melted away suddenly, coinciding with the appearance of horrified expressions on both Astoria’s and Ginny’s faces, before Harry hurried into the Burrow, no doubt because of an urgent need for a nappy change.  Draco couldn’t help but snort at the relief evident in the way Ginny and Astoria leaned on each other, before Ginny got a devilish look on her face and tugged Astoria out from under the canopy, heading down the cliffside path at the edge of the meadow which soon took them out of sight.

“You get used to it,” Hermione said, drawing Draco’s attention away from the Burrow as he was waiting for Harry to reappear with Scorpius.

“What do you mean?”  Draco asked distractedly.

“Letting them out of your sight,” Hermione replied, a knowing look in her eyes.  “You do, eventually, become accustomed to it, to just trusting that most of the time they’ll be all right, and that you’ll be ready to help them when they’re not.”

“How?”  Draco almost demanded, feeling a note of anxiety growing at the thought of not knowing where Scorpius was at any given time.

“It’s inevitable, mate,” Ron said softly, his eyes going distant as if lost in a memory.  “They grow up, see?  And they’re their own people who start making their own decisions, and then there’s school…”  Ron shrugged.  “What else can you do but let them fly?”

Draco blinked hard and looked away, willing the stinging at the back of his eyes to go away and telling himself how ridiculous he was being.  Scorpius was barely a month old.  But that had gone in a blink of an eye.  How much more quickly would the rest of the time go?

It was within this somewhat pensive melancholy that Draco found himself in possession of his son once again, snuggled deep into the sling to keep him out of the slightly chilly breeze coming in from the sea.  And all at once Draco was struck by the need to see it, to gaze out over the water.  So he disentangled himself from the bench at the table and wandered outside the shade of the canopy, stopping well back from the edge of the cliff that defined the border of the Weasley’s property on one side.  He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, feeling the salt air in his lungs and remembering times in warmer waters.

Scorpius wiggled and whimpered in the sling, and Draco boosted him into something slightly more upright, making sure that the babe’s view was unimpeded by the cloth.  He doubted that Scorpius had much in the way of farsightedness at this stage of development.  Nevertheless, the babe’s eyes widened when he took in the vast blue expanse of the sea below, and he waved his tiny fists in a way which surely signified something that hopefully wasn’t gas.

A pair of warm, strong arms wrapped around him from behind, and Draco let his lips turn up into a smile as Harry hooked his chin on his shoulder.

Time would continue to pass.  It was inevitable, as Ron had said.  But the prospect of its passing had never seemed so welcoming to Draco as it did in this moment, with Harry at his back and their future in his arms.

Chapter 43: Epilogue

Three Years Later

The waters surrounding the small Caribbean island in the stretch of ocean between Mexico and Cuba were a range of particularly vivid shades of blue, and it was a sight that Harry had quickly come to treasure after his first time traveling with Draco to the Americas.  He had become used to taking the lion’s share of child wrangling while they were abroad, so as to allow Draco to focus on his research, though he had to admit that Scorpius’s attachment to his Papi often meant middling success on that front.

The air was sweet, fragrant with the scent of the tropical flowers blooming, and the sky was clear, though Harry had learned that even in an apparent paradise the weather could change quickly.  Still, there was no reason to think that this inaugural Conference of Naturalist Magics and the Thaumatic Environment would be anything other than a triumph.  It had been championed by both Draco and Hermione, after all, and there were no witches or wizards in the world who were smarter than those two, in Harry’s opinion.

It had taken time for Hermione to persuade Draco to take ownership of his scholarly work under his own name.  Draco had been quite resistant to the idea, not wanting to risk any progress he’d made in the field being dismissed because of his history.  Harry had been all in favor of Draco being given the respect and appreciation he deserved, but he also knew that one of the worst ways to get his husband to do anything was to push.  Draco would either dig in his heels on principle and with bitingly sharp commentary, or he would withdraw and fret.  The first was entertaining, at least when Harry wasn’t the one on the wrong end of that razor tongue.  The second always broke Harry’s heart a little.

But eventually, Hermione had worn him down.  It didn’t hurt that she’d enlisted the support of Professor McGonagall, Luna, Neville, a few other Hogwarts professors and some of Draco’s former instructors at the Sorbonne – all of whom committed to wading into the ink and parchment battlefield of magical academia in Draco’s defense, should the revelation that the work of the esteemed Pavo Salus was actually truly attributable to a notorious former Death Eater go over poorly.

The reaction had been…mixed.  And that was expected, though disappointing.  There were still some in the wider academic community who categorically refused to have anything to do with Draco or his work.  But the work continued to stand on its merits, and Draco’s status had been confusingly elevated after receiving the Order of Merlin, Second Class almost at the same time he’d married none other than Harry Potter.  So it was that the majority of wizardly scholars accepted this new information and more or less carried on as usual.

This conference, held on La Isla de Escondido, was really the first of its kind, and Draco was one of the featured speakers.  Harry couldn’t have been more proud of the fact, even though he was hardly a scholar and didn’t have much to contribute other than his support. 

“Daddy!”

His support, and the aforementioned child wrangling, of course.

Harry dropped to one knee so as to better catch Scorpius as the toddler threw himself into his arms, giggling like he’d managed to get away with something sneaky.  He scooped up his son and whirled him around, his heart soaring as he heard Scorpius’s delighted squeal.

A hearty chuckle caught his attention, and Harry turned to find Séneca standing on the ancient stone steps leading up to the ruins of the castillo in which the conference was being held.  Though Harry supposed that they weren’t technically ruins, as La Isla de Escondido still supported a small population of witches and wizards who saw themselves as guardians of the site, descended as they were from the people who had originally built on the island.

“Cómo te va, primo?  Ah, mi bichito, you have grown since yesterday, no?”  Séneca’s grin was almost blinding, and the island breeze teased through his long, curly black hair in spite of his earlier attempts to tame it by tying it back.

“Did you hear that, Scorp?”  Harry adopted an expression of mock outrage as he looked at Scorpius.  “He called you a little bug!”

“I’m a bug!”  Scorpius shouted, always willing to play along with his tío.

Séneca laughed again, holding a hand out to Harry, which he shook without hesitation.  He knew that he had been unable to hide his irrational jealousy when he’d first met the man, after learning that he and Draco had been casual lovers before Draco’s unexpected return to England.  It was stupid, Harry knew – he had his own history, and there was no cause to dislike the man.  Which was rather the problem.  Harry would have had a harder time disliking him at first if he had been dull, instead of so very charming.

But Séneca had been nothing but welcoming when Draco reestablished contact with him and the rest of the crew of the Esperanza, and had practically adopted Scorpius upon first sight.  Scorpius had been effortlessly enfolded into the gaggle of children which roamed the small neighborhood in Veracruz which was mostly made up of Séneca’s vast extended family.

“Needed some fresh air?”  Harry asked, noting the way that Séneca was tugging irritably at the more formal suit of clothes that he was wearing, a stark departure from his usual attire of a half-buttoned linen shirt, denim cutoffs, and sandals.

“Sí,” Séneca said, making a disgusted face.  “So many words to say so little, no?  I am un comerciante, tu esposo es el erudito.  I don’t know why he invited me.”

Harry wasn’t able to pick up languages the way Draco did, but after a few seasons traveling through the Americas he got the gist of what Séneca was saying.  “Draco invited you because he couldn’t have done much of his work without you, and the crew.  You saw what that crowd looks like.  Most of them will never set foot in the places you go, but they’re happy to build on the work that has been done to further their own research, or to make demands of the people and beings who live in those places.  It doesn’t hurt for them to remember those who have hereditary knowledge as well as experience.”

“You speak the truth,” Séneca agreed grudgingly.  He winked at Scorpius.  “Did you also need the fresh air, or did mi bichito escape el tedio?”

“I think we both escaped,” Harry admitted.  It was difficult still for Scorpius to sit quietly for extended periods of time, even in Harry’s lap – especially when he could see his Papi sitting on the raised stage along with the other members of the panel discussing magicotoxicants and their effects on both magical and mundane aquatic species. 

“But not your friend, el pelirrojo?”  Séneca grinned again.

“Ron’s the husband of the Minister for Magic, and Rosie and Hugo are old enough to at least pretend to pay attention.”  Harry shrugged.  “His actions reflect on Hermione, and he knows it.”

“Perhaps I will invite him to sail away with me,” Séneca said, flinging an arm out toward the sea dramatically, vaguely in the direction of where the Esperanza was anchored.  “There are no newspapers where we are going.”

Harry threw back his head and laughed, knowing the other man wasn’t serious.  Ron’s inability to keep from blushing at Séneca’s repeated attempts to flirt with him had been the subject of much hilarity between Harry, Hermione, and Draco ever since the family’s arrival on the island a few days ago.  “If you do, just make sure I’m around to see it.”

They passed the time waiting for Draco and the others by allowing Scorpius to explore the grounds of the castillo a little, though Harry was keeping a watchful eye.  Other than the food, one of the things he liked best about this region of the world were the many species of snakes he’d encountered, as he enjoyed being able to deploy his Parseltongue ability even just casually.  But friendly as they were, there were a few venomous species, such as the terciopelo, that would not do for Scorpius to find without Harry there to warn them away.

Scorpius, for his part, was presently dedicating a significant portion of his limited toddler attention toward drawing figures in the sand with a stick, the tip of his tongue protruding ever so slightly as a sign of intense concentration.  He looked so much like Draco, Harry thought fondly, though most other people only saw it when Scorpius and Draco were together.  And while Scorpius was, without a doubt, the best little boy anyone could have as a son, it was also becoming more and more apparent as he grew that he might have inherited his other father’s propensity for finding trouble.

All in all, Harry felt that so far he and Draco had done an admirable job of raising Scorpius together.  They had definitely learned more about each other during that first year when discussing their respective parenting philosophies.  Harry had been distressed to understand a little about what Draco’s childhood might have been like when he listened to his husband passionately demand that Harry step in if he felt that Draco was ever forcing Scorpius into a role that didn’t suit him, or engaging in stern lectures about how much Scorpius did not measure up to expectations. 

Draco, in turn, had been compelled to Apparate to the Manor – or rather, the Institute – to spend some time alone after the time Harry had earnestly told him that Scorpius should be allowed to eat until he was full at every mealtime, as they transitioned their son to solid foods.  And when he’d finally come home, he’d participated in Scorpius’s bedtime routine as usual, tucking him into his bed in the nursery and reading from an old copy of The Tales of Beedle the Bard until Scorpius’s eyes drifted shut.  And then he took Harry into their bedroom and demonstrated very determinedly how much he felt Harry deserved to be loved and cherished.

“Papi!”  Scorpius’s gleeful cry brought Harry out of his slight reverie, and he looked up in time to see Scorpius barrel straight into Draco’s arms.

As always, Harry was momentarily struck by how beautiful his husband was – his sharp, angular features softening as Scorpius babbled to him.  That softness was rare, something very few people outside their family ever got to see.  In England, Draco rarely allowed himself to drop that cold, haughty expression that was his default while they were in public.  Here in the Caribbean, and the Americas more broadly, he was a bit more relaxed, though still not demonstrative – particularly not when compared to the exuberant and very physically affectionate behavior of the crew of the Esperanza.

“And then what did you see?”  Draco was asking Scorpius, who was settled comfortably on Draco’s left hip.

“A yellow bird, Papi, it flew away!”  Scorpius made a gesture with his small hand, as though to demonstrate.

“Remember that birds are easily startled, so we must be still and quiet if we want them to stay,” Draco said, dropping a kiss on Scorpius’s forehead, right next to the lock of white hair that he’d had since birth.  “A yellow bird, you say?  Dime en Español?”

“Erm.”  Scorpius thought for a moment.  “Un pájaro amarillo.”

“Et en français?”

“Un oiseau jaune!”

“Excelente, mijo, muy bueno.”  Draco praised, bouncing Scorpius a little as he beamed with pride.  When another wizard approached Draco’s other side for a quick word, Draco alerted to his presence and turned so as to better see him.

After the loss of Draco’s earring, Harry had worked with George to see what they could come up with for a replacement.  The miniaturized Sneakoscope had been a clever workaround for Draco’s blind side, and since Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes carried the larger models, George had experience in both the assembly and repair of those Dark Detectors.  With some trial and error, George had developed a modified Sneakoscope that spun at different frequencies for most close proximities, with patterns that indicated the difference between neutral or benign proximity and ill-intentioned proximity.  Draco had been concerned that the device would alert so often that he would become desensitized to its warnings, but with some additional fine-tuning it seemed to be working well.

Just like its predecessor, the custom Sneakoscope had been miniaturized to look like nothing remarkable, just a small bauble on a new hoop earring, though Draco had chosen not to imbue the silver with the glamor spell he’d had before.  Since his un-glamored face had been plastered all over the front page of the Daily Prophet and other publications multiple times, it seemed rather pointless to hide his scars now.  That didn’t mean that there weren’t still some awkward moments where people couldn’t help but stare, or even comment, but Harry was usually there to intimidate anyone who might be inclined to say something nasty into silence.

Harry fought to keep his expression from betraying him when he felt a rush of dark anger directed at the Aurors responsible for Draco’s arrest and the loss of a needed protective item, Farris in particular.  Susan Bones had swept into the Auror Office like a hurricane, and just as she’d promised, Farris and quite a few other Aurors had been subject to investigations into their actions ostensibly on behalf of the Ministry.  When charges had been presented to the Wizengamot, Farris had elected not to risk serving a sentence in Azkaban and had fled the country, evading the custody of the Aurors who had been sent to collect him.  Harry and Susan had both reached out to their contacts at various magical law enforcement agencies to warn them against hiring the disgraced Auror, should he come looking for work.

And nothing had been heard from him since.  Harry was certain that most people probably believed that Farris had found another line of work in some other country.  Only a few people knew the truth.  Narcissa still had an extensive network of contacts, and while she had been more than happy to coach Hermione and Ron through lessons in navigating the upper echelons of wizarding society and political machinations in general, she had not abandoned her years-long mission of tracking down threats to her son.

Farris had been no different, and not all of Narcissa’s contacts were the type who merely gathered intelligence and reported their observations.  A few of them were quite a bit more hands-on, and Farris was currently buried in an unmarked grave somewhere on the slopes of the Swiss Alps, if Narcissa’s information was accurate.

Harry knew this because Narcissa had told him, without a hint of guilt or remorse in her icy blue eyes, which in turn had freed Harry of the burden of making a similar decision for himself.  It had been a relief, not to feel cheated of the opportunity for vengeance after learning of Farris’s orchestrated demise.  He had been afraid of what such an impulse might mean, that it might be a sign of his own weakness in the face of the periodic urges he felt to make things right, to take action to force them into what he felt would be the proper order.  He was under no illusion that his intentions would make him any less of a tyrant, if he did take that route.

Just more validation of his decision not to take a position of authority and power which would have presented that temptation over and over again, to the point where he might not have been able to resist it any longer.  No, there was nothing that Harry missed about Auror work that he couldn’t find in curse breaking.

He had been the one to finish dismantling the Death Eater traps and containing Dark Artefacts in and around Malfoy Manor, before the old house was repurposed to become the Institute for Applied Magical Sciences.  Without the influence of Voldemort’s corrupted Pensieve and after the full restoration of the entity which inhabited the nemeton, the wild magic of the estate had gradually returned to a more neutral state, rather than reinforcing the Dark magic that had been left behind. 

Draco had of course fretted about Harry taking on that work more or less by himself, but Harry had conscripted Bill for some of the trickier bits of magic he encountered, and the rest had been comparatively easy in light of the disaster it had been when he and Draco were first set the task.  Draco had still visited frequently without partaking in ‘Manor work,’ as he wanted to maintain his relationship with the ravens.  The flock had remained largely the same size, but a growing number of them were now a pied silver color similar to Grito, the result of several years of successfully raising hatchlings with his mate.

“Harry?”

Warmth spread through him at the sound of Draco’s voice, that no-nonsense, clipped tone that nevertheless provoked a desire to hear more of it, and Harry focused on his husband’s face, noting the slight crease of concern between his brows.  That wouldn’t do.  That wouldn’t do at all.

Harry stepped closer and curled a hand around the back of Draco’s neck, drawing him in for a kiss and ignoring the outraged squeak of protest as Scorpius was suddenly sandwiched between his fathers.  The small, surprised noise that Draco made as their lips met made Harry momentarily wish that they were somewhere more private, and Scorpius in the care of his Uncle Ron and Aunt Hermione.  But that would have to wait.

“How did it go, love?”  Harry asked, after they reluctantly separated.

“Well enough, I think.”  Draco gave a slight shrug.  “There is, at the very least, a significant amount of interest in holding another conference next year as planned, and I’ve had several representatives from various universities approach me about funding research projects.”

“That sounds bloody amazing,” Harry said, unable to hide his amusement at the way Draco was downplaying the obvious success of the whole affair, which he and Hermione had worked very hard to pull together.

“Bloody amazing!”  Scorpius repeated, and Draco gave Harry a longsuffering and pointed look.

“Mate, you know that they’re just tiny repeating machines at this age,” Ron said around a mouthful of a tostada smothered in ceviche.  He’d clearly just come from the long table of food that had been laid out for the conference attendees, and had more of the tostadas stacked on a small plate.  “You’ve got to watch what you say.”

“Otherwise Scorp’ll end up getting detention when one of his professors overhears him saying something that he learned at home, even though it was a private conversation,” Rosie huffed, still indignant over such an injustice.  She was just turned seventeen and fully embodied everything that entailed, including being impatient to finish her last year at Hogwarts so that she could finally start being treated as the ‘adult’ she believed herself to be.

“Oi!”  Ron barked.  “I never –”

“You know that we can still hear you when you listen to the commentary for the Cannons matches on the Wireless, don’t you?”  Rosie challenged.

“How dare you use my emotional traumas against me!  Go bother your mother,” Ron instructed, pointing towards where Hermione was conferring with a small group of witches who Harry thought might be professors at Beauxbatons.  “Remind her that we’re on holiday, will you?”

“Fine.”  Rosie rolled her eyes and slouched away, every inch a put-upon teenager.

“A mí me encanta un hombre con pasión,” murmured Séneca, and while Harry understood only the gist of that sentence, Draco snorted and Ron’s face went crimson at Séneca’s suggestive tone.

“Sorry, didn’t quite catch that,” Ron said, clearing his throat and directing a wary smile at the captain.

“It is not important, lindo.”  Séneca sighed, adopting an exaggeratedly forlorn expression.

“Ron!”  Hermione’s tone was slightly cross.  “We are not on holiday, this is a working trip –”

“’Mione, we’re on a fucking tropical island, and we brought the kids along!”  Ron protested.  “It wouldn’t hurt for you to skive off just a little while we’re here –”

“Merlin help me, is this how the Prophet was able to justify spinning this conference as frivolous?  What did you say?  You know that you’re supposed to let Munro handle the press!”  Hermione pinched the bridge of her nose.  “And this is an important educational opportunity, Rosie and Hugo –”

“Are on holiday.”  Harry felt the need to point that out.  “The term ended weeks ago, Hermione.  And now the conference is over, and you’re not due back in London until next week.  Skive off.”

“Harry –”  Hermione’s face was contorted into a grimace, torn between seeing the wisdom in Harry’s words and concern about how this might play out in the newspapers.

“He’s right,” Draco interjected.  “The Prophet will do as it has always done.  Take some time, Hermione.  Omar has things back in London well in hand, and you’ve been working nonstop to make this conference a success.”

Hermione’s mouth snapped shut, and she was clearly still agonizing over the situation, until finally she heaved a tired sigh.  She pointed a finger at Draco.  “Only if you promise to do the same.  And have a word with your friend, will you?  She is well aware that this is trip was not a pretense for me to use Ministry funds to take my family on holiday.”

“I have absolutely no control over what Pansy does or does not write, Hermione, you know that,” Draco said airily.  “And she’s your friend, too.”

“Most of the time,” Hermione muttered, and Ron shoved his plate into Harry’s hands so that he could wrap both arms around his wife in an attempt to kiss away her anxiety.

Though it was Séneca who ultimately orchestrated the transition from work to holiday by inviting them to the shore encampment of the Esperanza.  Harry knew that the ship would have to sail on the morning tide in order to stay on schedule for the rest of the annual voyage.  Séneca had been generous as it was to carve out a few days for the conference, and here he was expanding on that generosity to give them an opportunity to wind down with good food and good company.

Most the crew preferred to stay in their quarters on the Esperanza, Apparating back and forth to the island as needed, but a few of them had set up tents and a large temporary pavilion which allowed everyone to dine together on the small, secluded beach where the Esperanza was anchored not far off.  Indeed, there were already delicious smells coming from the clay pots that were currently sitting on hot coals just outside of the shade of the pavilion, being tended to by the ship’s cook.

It was not customary for young children to sail along with the crew on the extended yearly voyage – Séneca was adamant about not crewing anyone who was less than seventeen years old.  So Scorpius did not have the same playmates available as he had when they had been on the mainland. 

Fortunately, Scorpius thought the world of all of his older cousins - especially Hugo and Tao – and Rosie was not quite so grown up as to disdain the opportunity to look for sea shells and build sand castles with her younger brother and a precocious three-year-old.  After all, her peers were not there to see her do anything that might be considered ‘babyish.’

The pavilion offered the perfect amount of shade, and Harry and Draco took a moment to retrieve some blankets from their tent so that they could create a nice sitting area.  Ron and Hermione seemed to be taking rather a long time in their own tent, so Harry felt free to stretch out while he waited for Draco to change out of his stifling formal robes.

“They are having a good time, sí?”  Séneca dropped onto the blanket next to him, his watchful gaze on where Scorpius and Rosie were industriously burying Hugo up to his neck in wet sand.  He, too, had changed clothes, and currently looked shabby and comfortable, which was exactly how he was when Harry had first met him.

“They really are,” Harry chuckled.  “We don’t have beaches like this back in England.”

The two of them sat in silence for a moment, listening to the sound of the children laughing over the crashing of the vibrantly blue waves against the shore.

“You are a lucky man, primo,” Séneca said, drawing his knees up to his chest in order to brush the sand off his feet.

“I know,” Harry replied simply.  It was nothing that Séneca hadn’t said before.  He believed his husband when Draco had described his past relationship with the captain.  It wasn’t difficult for anyone but Draco to see that Séneca’s feelings had gone a little deeper, and Harry hoped that eventually he would find a true partner, someone to share those long voyages with and who would cherish the Esperanza and her history as much as Séneca clearly did.

He didn’t say that, however.  It didn’t need to be said, since they both knew where they stood, and Séneca had no intention of interfering with the life that Draco had built with Harry.  And he truly adored Scorpius, and would never risk not being able to be a presence in the boy’s life.

The sound of soft footfalls made Harry look up, and his breath caught in his throat at the sight of Draco in navy swim trunks, one of his customary white shirts left unbuttoned, with the sleeves rolled up.  Harry reached out a hand, which Draco accepted, allowing himself to be tugged down to sit with his back to Harry’s chest.  Harry reveled in the feeling of Draco in his arms, and he couldn’t help but smooth his hands over every bit of exposed skin within reach. 

Draco was much less reluctant to uncover his arms now that the Mark he’d once borne was no more than a muddled white scar on his inner forearm, and Harry felt him shiver slightly when he traced the faint lines with the tip of one finger.

Eventually, Ron and Hermione emerged from their tent, seeming much more relaxed than they had when they’d gone in to ‘change clothes.’  Hermione’s skin had already gone darker just in the few days they’d been on the island, even with most of the conference taking place either inside the castillo or in shade.  Ron, of course, had freckles peppered all over his skin underneath the slight pink of the sunburn he’d incurred after forgetting to cast a sun shield charm on the first day.

The conversation naturally centered around the conference – what went well, what needed to change for next year, how absolutely insufferable some of the old guard scholars had been – though Harry noticed that Draco was quieter than he would have expected, given his husband’s propensity for strong opinions and the confidence to voice them.  Instead, Draco seemed to be in something of a pensive mood, and Harry wondered if he would be able to get him to talk about it later.

Draco still tended to keep some things close, especially when it involved feelings of anxiety.  Harry didn’t blame him for it – it had been a lifelong habit, not easily undone in just a few years.  But if there was a way to put his husband at ease, Harry wanted to know about it.

A sharp cry had Draco out of Harry’s arms and on his feet in the blink of an eye, and Harry watched as Draco strode down the beach to gather Scorpius into his arms.  While he was loud, their son generally wasn’t disposed to scream over nothing, and Harry jumped up and hurried toward them, his heart breaking slightly at the sight of fat tears rolling down Scorpius’s cheeks.

“It’s all right,” Draco was saying, as he gently pried open Scorpius’s fingers to reveal a shallow cut on his palm.  “That’s easily mended, mijo.  Accio!” 

Draco caught the jagged piece of a conch shell as it flew up from the sand toward him, the culprit responsible for Scorpius’s small wound.  He Vanished it with a casual flick of his fingers, and Harry took a moment to be proud of the way that Draco had expanded his capacity for wandless magic.

Harry crouched down and took Scorpius’s hand in his, brushing his thumb over the cut with a nonverbal Episkey.  The skin knit itself back together, fading into nothing but a faint pink line which would soon disappear.  “There we are.  All right, Scorp?”

Scorpius raised big, tear-filled green eyes to his and nodded, even though his lower lip was still trembling.  Harry pulled him close to wrap him in a tight hug.  “The salt from the water makes it sting a lot, I bet that hurt.  My brave boy.  Do you want to come back and sit with us for a while, or stay here with Hugo and Rosie?”

“Stay here,” Scorpius mumbled.  But his small hands tightened around the back of Harry’s neck, and Harry chuckled.

“How about Papi and I both stay here and play for a bit, how does that sound?”

A grin chased the remnants of Scorpius’s tears away, and he shrieked as Harry swung him up into his arms.

~ * ~

Harry opened the door to the slightly larger bedroom of Draco’s trusty two-bedroom tent to see his husband sitting up against the headboard, his knees drawn up and looking lost in thought.  Draco gave a start when he finally looked up to see Harry standing there, and a tentative smile crossed his face.

“Is Scorpius asleep this time?”  Draco asked teasingly, patting the bed beside him in invitation.

“Yes, finally,” Harry said, flopping down dramatically in such a way that Draco bounced a little on the mattress.  “That was very long time to take a small sip of water.”

“He’s just convinced that we’re having enormous amounts of fun without him,” Draco said.  “I don’t think he believes we actually sleep.”

“Are we, though?”  Harry grinned, waggling his eyebrows.  “Having enormous amounts of fun, I mean?”

Draco snorted, his amusement settling into fondness, and he reached out to run his fingers through the mess that was Harry’s hair.  There was a bit more gray in it these days, but Harry knew that Draco found that to be attractive, even if he didn’t want to inflate Harry’s ego by saying so. 

Harry caught his hand, dragging it down so that he could press a kiss to the inside of Draco’s wrist.  “What are you thinking about, love?”

“Was it that obvious?”  Draco said, his gaze darting off to the side.

“Probably just to me.”  Harry rolled up onto his knees, shifting around until he was facing Draco.  “Tell me.”

“I was thinking that we’re both in our forties now,” Draco said.

“Hang on,” Harry objected in a tone of mock offense.  “I’m not quite there yet.”

Draco gave him an unimpressed look.  “You will be in just over a month.”

“Still, I’d like to enjoy my youth while I can,” Harry said loftily, then yelped when he felt a pillow collide with the side of his head.

“Are you quite finished?”  Draco asked icily, holding the pillow threateningly.

“Absolutely,” Harry said.  “Please continue.”

“I was just…I think that if we want to have another child, then now is the best time.  They’d be relatively close to Scorpius in age, and you and I will still be able to keep up with them both.  Hopefully.”

The air rushed out of Harry’s lungs all at once, and he grabbed Draco’s hand, giving it a squeeze.  “Really?”

“Really,” Draco said firmly.  “I think that Scorpius would be an excellent older brother.  You’ve seen how he is with George’s twin girls.”

“I – yeah…”  Harry breathed, hardly daring to believe what he was hearing.  He had very deliberately not mentioned the possibility of trying for another child, since Scorpius’s conception had been such a shock, and Draco had not expressed any desire to go through another pregnancy.  Harry had briefly considered proposing that he be the one to carry this time, but the prospect was daunting, and he hadn’t wanted to pressure Draco in any way if it turned out that he felt that he was done having children altogether.  “So…were you thinking that we spend some time at the Manor, then?”

Draco shook his head.  “The bargain was for one heir, and I think from my family’s history it’s clear that the entity would not feel obligated to complete the Progenitus enchantment a second time for me.  No, I was thinking of using the same potion that George did.”

“For you, or for me?”  Harry wanted to clarify.  If Draco didn’t want to be pregnant again, he was willing to give it a go.

“For me,” Draco said softly.  He met Harry’s gaze, and Harry was captivated by those silver gray eyes, even though one of them was clouded over by scarring.  “It’s…different, this time.  Choosing it, instead of it being outside of my knowledge or control.”

Harry couldn’t help it.  He surged forward, taking Draco down flat on the bed and settling on top of him.  For a long moment they kissed, a languid connection and exploration of territory that was already well known, and Harry ground his hips down, letting out a satisfied noise when he felt Draco’s answering arousal.

“You’re sure?”  Harry asked, only retreating far enough for them both to breathe.  “Scorpius is…he’s everything, Draco.  Even if it doesn’t work for us a second time, I would never consider myself to be disappointed in what we have together.”

“I’m sure,” Draco whispered, raising his head slightly so that he could get another taste of Harry’s lips.  “I love you, Harry, and I love our family.  I think we have enough love for a slightly bigger one.  Though it will take a while to brew the potion.”

“Well,” Harry said, caging Draco in his arms.  “We can always get in some practice in the meantime.”

Notes:

Thank you all so much for reading along as I took almost a year to get this out of my brain and onto the page, so to speak. I really can’t say how much I appreciate and treasure every comment and kudo you’ve left, and I’m so happy that there are people out there who have enjoyed this story enough to stick with it through the end.

I only got back into the HP fandom because my close friend J recommended some excellent and transformative fics to me, and I want to thank her for beta reading the first chunk of this fic for me and giving me such good feedback (love you, J!).

If you’re like me and have become disillusioned with the source material, then I’m glad that you’ve also rediscovered the joy that can be found in playing in the sandbox.

And finally, I have a few ideas for short one-offs which might follow the events of this fic – nothing near as long, but there are some things that I have in mind that are further out and don’t fit well within the scope of this particular narrative. If any of you have questions about where Draco and Harry go from here, or things that you’d be interested in reading about, please feel free to leave them in the comments.

Thanks again.

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 1 of Living in the Present