Chapter Text
Prologue
── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ──
“I just hope that one day, all this will be a memory, a vague, distant echo that we’ll barely recall, a cloud, a wisp of smoke, a mist that will fade away without us noticing. I hope we’ll run down that hill as fast as we can, not because we’re being hunted, but because we’re free.”
December 1980
Wind and rain battered the window, rattling it as though some wild creature were trying to wrench it open. Yet on this stormy night, in the small bathroom lit only by the guttering candles along the wall, Narcissa had eyes for nothing but her son. Draco lay stretched out in the shallow, round wooden tub, exhausted after his long bout of crying. His cheeks still bore the marks of his tears, reddened and raw, stark against the pallor of his skin. He had never cried like this before, and his distress had gone on for hours, leaving his mother feeling ever more helpless.
Alone, frightened, and still so inexperienced, she had first tried to soothe Draco by rocking and nursing him, before rushing to the bathroom and drawing a warm bath, all the while singing lullabies she could only half remember — songs her mother must have sung to her and her sisters once upon a time. Her sisters. At times like this, Narcissa felt the absence of their support most keenly; if only her family had not already fallen to pieces. Bellatrix had been arrested a mere two months after Draco's birth, and as far as the family was concerned, Andromeda had long since become nothing more than a distant memory. A disappointment, as her parents preferred to put it.
Draco yawned, and a small sigh escaped his half-open mouth, prompting her to gently lift him from the tub and wrap him in a thick towel. She smiled with relief at the sight of him drifting off to a well-earned sleep. He was only six months old, but she could already note the blond of his hair, similar to Lucius’ and slightly lighter and finer than her own. It was sometimes difficult for her to see any resemblance between her baby and herself; he was the spitting image of his father. But when she really took the time to look at him, as she had every moment since he took his first breath in this world, she enjoyed observing the little details on his face that reminded her that she was indeed his mother. She loved the way his nose was slightly upturned, just like hers, or the way the corners of his lips ended in a thin, curved line, just like hers.
She moved her hand to his face, slowly enough not to wake him, and caressed his cheek with her thumb. He was small—too light, too thin—in her eyes. She had always hoped that her son would be a chubby baby, to be able to tell just by looking at him that his life would be easy. Instead, he carried his mother’s anxiety like a burden he hadn’t asked for or deserved. While her husband was away serving the Dark Lord, whose influence and importance in her family were growing dramatically, she went into her son’s bedroom every morning and evening, and she prayed that Draco would be spared from that sort of life. Every day, she hoped that he would never have to fight, that he would never have to live in fear and domination. She only wanted him to be happy.
A gust of wind suddenly blew a pine branch against the pane of a window in the adjoining room, rousing Draco from his light sleep.
“Shhhh,” she whispered, leaning over him and putting her lips to his forehead. “It’s all right, Mama’s here.”
Draco let out a low, content coo, the most beautiful music to her ears. He was her everything.
“I love you, Draco, and Papa loves you,” she whispered. “You are so loved, and we’ll always protect you.”
She planted several kisses on his face—his forehead, his closed eyelids, his cheeks. He was so beautiful, so precious, so perfect. She would never love anyone as much as she loved her son, yet the fear that he would never be loved enough, that he would be alone and unhappy, never stopped gnawing at her. Her little boy deserved the world, not to live in a family so torn apart, so isolated, so steeped in blood and vice. If she had to, she’d rip her heart out of her chest to give him the life of a happy man.
“You’ll be strong, my little angel. Strong and beautiful.”
⋆⋅☼⋅⋆
“I’ll get some hot water.”
James planted a kiss on Lily’s cheek before getting out of bed. As soon as she heard the door close behind her husband, followed by the silence of his departure, she rolled onto her side to face Harry: her baby, her son, her world. Lying on his back in his blue pyjamas, he wiggled his little legs and arms in a choreography that only babies mastered, opening and closing his little hands at a steady pace. His black, curly hair, already far too long and thick for his young age, bounced with every movement, a lone strand tickling his forehead. She brushed it away with a gentle caress. As with James’ hair, she loved to run her fingers through his dark curls, and from the look on his face when she did, she knew he enjoyed it as much as his father.
When Harry closed his eyes, he was the spitting image of James. His hair, his skin tone—though slightly lighter—his eyebrows, his smile, which ended in a dimple in the middle of his cheek. It was sometimes difficult to see the Evans bloodline in him. And yet, Lily’s features were hidden in the small details that required a little more attention to catch. Besides his green eyes, which were undeniably hers, Harry had slight freckles on his cheekbones and the same relatively short, thin nose. And though only Lily knew it, Harry carried with him the distant memory of his late aunt Petunia, who, though she would never be here to see it, had passed on to her nephew a small birthmark behind his ear.
It had been almost nine years since her sister’s passing, yet Lily still felt the same sense of guilt, a nagging thought that her death had not been an accident, but a final cry for help that no one had answered. Lily couldn’t help but think that if her sister had been accepted at Hogwarts, things might have been different, and that perhaps, all these years later, she would have met her nephew and held him in her arms.
The rain outside suddenly intensified, falling in gusts on the roof tiles in a din that made Harry all the more alert. Lily and James had been trying to get him to sleep for several hours, but to no avail. Harry hated the sound of thunder. Harry hated sudden loud noises, no matter the source or the context. He was also a very light sleeper, something he undoubtedly didn’t get from James, which led to his parents spending late evenings with him, never quite knowing what to do to get him to sleep, other than waiting with him, singing lullabies and rocking him in their arms. He never cried or fussed. Days and nights were a playground for him, a universe to be explored with his big, curious eyes. He observed things in the air that his parents were also trying to perceive, but which seemed to be visible only to those who were still too innocent. Then, he spoke a language reserved for babies, under the attentive ears of adults who pretended to understand.
Although these regular sleepless nights were both frustrating and tiring, Lily loved the hours spent together at night, just the three of them and the stars struggling to light up the bedroom. Perhaps it was because it meant she got extra hours for looking at her son, talking to him, and remembering how much she loved him. The truth was that Lily was afraid; a fear she nurtured every day, because, in the outside world beyond the bubble the three of them had built for themselves, there was a constant threat of danger in which they were not only involved, but also one of the primary targets of. The fear that, one day, everything would fall apart, that her son’s life would be on a tightrope, threatening to snap, never left her. She dreamed of a world where peace would reign, where spending time with the people she loved most wouldn’t feel like it ended with a final goodbye each time. She dreamed of putting her son to bed at night in his room, in his cot, without the nagging fear of letting him spend the night without her and not seeing him the next morning.
Harry turned to meet Lily’s gaze, and she smiled instinctively, causing him to smile back, revealing his only two tiny teeth, standing alone in the middle of his mouth. Lily brought her hand to his stomach and stroked it clockwise, as it was yet another thing she knew he liked.
“Hey, little angel.”
His little feet began to wiggle as if he were trying to hop.
“You’re my beautiful boy,” Lily whispered with a smile. “The most beautiful in the whole world.”
The stairs in the hallway creaked as James made his way back up to the bedroom. Lily took a deep breath and moved closer to her son, resting her forehead against his.
“You are so loved, Harry. Mama loves you, Dada loves you, and we will always protect you.”
── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ──
2 May 1998 - present
“We just want to understand, mate.”
Draco’s eyes dart to the boy sitting in front of him on the right. His red hair is covered in dust and blood. The pronounced bags under his eyes make it look like they are protruding from his skull, giving him a frightening appearance. The girl doesn’t look much better; her wild, curly hair looks almost white, and a long, deep red wound crosses her cheek beneath her tired eyes. They keep their intense gaze on him for a while, dissecting him from head to toe in complete silence as Draco feels every limb tremble with both exhaustion and anxiety. His wrists still ache where the ties have nicked his skin, his forearm stings like hell where the burn is struggling to heal, but most of all, his chest contracts under the heavy weight of his desire to finally climb the stairs and take him again in his arms. He needs to see him, talk to him, feel his breath, hear his voice, take in every inch of his face and etch it into his veins. It’s been eight years of waiting, and yet he feels he can’t spend another minute without him.
“Isak?” the girl tries again. “Ron, give him the blanket; he’s shaking,” she adds quietly. The boy stands up with a sigh and picks up a red throw from the armchair.
He approaches Draco and hands it to him, keeping a safe distance between their bodies, as if Draco might jump on him and slit his throat. Draco stares at the blanket without moving an inch, leaving the boy to wait, his leg bouncing impatiently, but instead of accepting, Draco turns his head to look at the girl in complete silence. He doesn’t know what to say, he doesn’t know what to think—he’s so tired.
The boy, Ron, lets out a slight grunt of annoyance and finally drops the blanket next to Draco before walking back to his chair, where he sits back with a weary sigh. Draco doesn’t take his eyes off the girl. She is waiting, her gaze intense, though if he looks closely, he can see a lot of vulnerability behind her armour. She’s the one who needs convincing, he’s sure of it.
Without a word, she suddenly stands and walks towards him, causing him to flinch. He watches as she picks up the blanket Ron has left rolled up on the arm of the sofa before wrapping it around Draco’s shoulders. He hadn’t realised how cold he was until he felt the wool enveloping his trembling arms. Still completely silent, she then kneels before him, her hands sliding from his shoulders to his hands, and both Draco and Ron look at her with their mouths agape.
“Hermione…” Ron warns.
She ignores him. Her lips pressed together, she nods her head at Draco.
“I’m sorry for the way you were treated earlier, and I’m sorry for what we’re asking you to do now,” she whispers.
She’s holding Draco’s hand now, and for some reason that he can’t quite understand, he’s letting her.
“But you must understand how unsettling this whole thing is for us, too…”
She pauses, probably expecting him to respond verbally or with a nod, but he doesn’t.
“Harry is our best friend,” she adds, and this time her words provoke a small wince on Draco’s face.
She seems to have noticed because she gives him a sympathetic smile. Now that they’re so close to each other, he notices tears in the corners of her brown eyes, which must have been there for a while, as red pinprick marks colour her skin all around.
“Harry’s my friend too,” Draco whispers so quietly that only she can hear him. He means to say that Harry is more than a friend, that he is everything. He’s the reason Draco is here, the reason he’s survived, the reason he’s held on for so long. But he closes his trembling mouth and breaks eye contact with Hermione to stare at his legs.
“I know. I mean, we pretty much figured that out earlier. Harry made it very clear,” she says with a faint, sad chuckle before falling silent, trying to collect her thoughts. After staring into space for a long minute, she finally lets out a sigh. “Look. I’ll be honest with you. I’ve never seen Harry like this before. When he saw you? The way he spoke to us, almost threatening us because he wanted to protect you? It was the first time I’d seen that side of him, and we’ve been through a lot together.” Her fingers start to shake a little, but she doesn’t let go of Draco’s hand. “So I know in my heart that he’s not lying, I know you’re not either, and I know there’s a lot we don’t know and could never imagine. But the fact is... we all care about Harry and we all want to protect him. He—he never told us anything about you, no-one in the Order seems to know who you are, and... you said you were from Norway?”
At this point, Draco struggles to hold back his tears. The lump in his throat is so big that the mere act of swallowing hurts.
“We want—no, we need to trust you as much as we need you to trust us. If you could tell us about yourself, so that we finally understand how you—Isak Dahlem, who comes from abroad—are friends with Harry, and after that, I promise you, we’ll leave you alone.”
“Will they?” Draco mutters, jerking his head towards the door to the common room.
She squeezes his palms to get him to meet her gaze, which he finally does reluctantly.
“Yes. I promise.”
She looks genuine, with no malice in her eyes. He ventures another look at the boy behind her. He is still sitting in his chair, hands crossed over his stomach, looking at him through the dusty strands of hair that stick to his forehead. Through the large windows that surround them, the moon pours out a pale trail of light. Draco takes a shaky breath, filling his aching lungs with air and a little courage, before turning his attention back to the young girl crouching before him.
“My name is not Isak,” he finally admits, and her eyes widen, her eyebrows disappearing behind her fringe. “My name is Draco. And Harry isn’t just a friend; he’s my whole life.”