Harry Potter and the Welcome to the World of Grey

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/26364097.

Rating: Explicit
Archive Warning: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Category: M/M
Fandom: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Relationship: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Lucius
Malfoy/Narcissa Black Malfoy, Pansy Parkinson/Blaise Zabini,
Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Hedwig/Draco Malfoy's Owl
Character: Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy, Tom Riddle | Voldemort, Narcissa Black
Malfoy, Lucius Malfoy, Severus Snape, Albus Dumbledore, Nagini
(Harry Potter), Blaise Zabini, Theodore Nott, Pansy Parkinson, Ron
Weasley, Hermione Granger, Plenty of people you know
Additional Tags: Slow Burn, Harry Potter is a Horcrux, No one dies who doesn't in the
books, Sirius is sadly already gone, this is set literally right before Harry
almost kills Bellatrix, it goes very differently and spirals from there,
Harry struggles with Morality, Voldemort is still evil, but like, he's honest
about it at least, Use of the Killing Curse, Use of Imperio, Harry Potter is
Going Through It, he's struggling yall, He does some not so nice things,
but like its very theraputic tbh, Draco Malfoy is an asshole, that doesn't
change, he just gets schooled by Harry, The Malfoys are Complicated,
Narcissa Malfoy really takes on a life of her own, Lucius is that
character we all love to hate, Honestly yall this is gonna be a long one,
A lot of stuff happens, Harry being an oblivious idiot who we all adore,
Draco Malfoy being a repressed prat who we all cherish, Pining,
Literally so much pining oh my god, A deep look into how things are not
always black and white, No character bashing, Slytherins get a bad
reputation, which is partially their own fault, Soft moments over stars
and sweets, Harry can't catch a break sometimes honestly, Let him
liveeee, I don't think I can tag everything that happens in this fic, Harry
is technically a murderer, in the sense that he embodies that joke that
goes, if you kill one killer the number of killers stay the same, so just kill
two, he is doing his best ok, Angst, Grief, Fluff, Family Feels, Found
Family Dynamics, Accurate Depictions of Teenage Hormones, No
underage sexual activity, Just some reckless kissing and Harry being a
mess honestly, I just treat it seriously and authentically, so much
happens omg, Seriously there is just A LOT, Added Tags, Minor Implied
Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley/Daphne Greengrass, you will probably
end up liking Voldemort, that was a complete accident on my part,
whoops
Language: English
Series: Part 1 of Absence of Simplicity
Collections: Made Me Cry, Deliciously Delightful Drarry, all time favourites,
Drarry__Stuff, Fics I Could Read A Thousand More Times, talented
writing, Heartbreaking fics, my will to live, Lovely Drarry :]<3, Re-Re-Re-
Read, drarry fics i would die for, Radioactive_isotrope’s Bookshelf, hp
fics for when I need my fix, Faves of drarry, Attendez_la_creme ,
works i want to read, Drarry, Harry/Draco, The Best of HP, HP Fics that
are dear and special to me, the best fics I've read on ao3, great harry
potter fics, Favourite Harry Potter Fics, Best of Best, Harry Potter, To
read—-___HPFics, WildeFlowers Unforgettable HP Faves ft generally
 grey Harry, dead homos ew, Interesting stories by wonderful people
, Favorite, TopTier Drarry Fics, Completed, Lumos_liv,
PrintWaitinglist9792, Dark Magic Politics and Culture, the best works
i’ve ever read, beautiful works that made me cry, I WOULD DIE FOR
THESE, golden trio era favorites, super cool and awsome works to
show people, Fanfiction that just tickle my brain, AllmyBookmarks,
Favorite Harry Potter, He was rapidly becoming obsessed with Draco
Malfoy, sleep deprivation hits hard kinda like nyquil-pm, goldentrio,
You'reStuckInMyHead(and i never want you out), Will Never Stop
Obsessing Over These HP, Harry Potter Bests, Perfect Finished Works,
Drarry gives me 1000 years of life✨ , beckstubber’s to
be read, DrarryfavsLeonie, worth it, THIS this is IT THIS IS IT HARRY
POTTER THIS, orangee's all-time favs, harry potter - my faves, fanfic
and literature are not mutually exclusive
Stats: Published: 2020-09-08 Completed: 2020-12-17 Chapters: 30/30 Words:
456640

Harry Potter and the Welcome to the World of Grey

by sobsicles

Summary

When Harry fails to keep his anger at bay and Voldemort possesses his mind, the events
that follow lead him down a long road to realizing the world isn't as black and white as it
seems.

Chaos, hilarity, and tragedy ensue with a Dark Lord being honest all the time, a rival
becoming something else, and a world demanding to be saved. Featuring frightened Death
Eaters, deep conversations with a monster, Pureblood traditions being ridiculous, and the
fight to do the right thing with no true options.

Harry's life just gets more and more bizarre with each passing moment.

~~~

Or, the one where Harry's life gets split in half, and he has to figure out how to bring it back
together.

Notes

So, life has been pretty terrible for me recently, and I decided to revisit my very first OTP
for some comfort. Drarry was my first introduction to fandom life many years ago, and it's
basically responsible for sucking me into this life of writing fic.

With the way life was going, I just really wanted to write a fic where Harry got to give into
his anger--starting with Bellatrix--and it wasn't supposed to become a serious thing, but it
somehow grew out of control anyway. The next thing I knew, I had plot and deep dives into
characters and a lot of words. Just a heads up, this one gets long.
 I figured hey, why not post it, right? I've written so much, I might as well, so here we are.

This is not a "Dark Harry" fic, though it has its moments. It's just my take on what would
have happened if Harry did kill Bellatrix Lestrange. It's more of a walk through Harry
learning the world isn't just black and white. His welcome to the world of grey, hence the
title. Also, like, Drarry, so there's that.

It does get heavy at times, and I'll be sure to give warnings for major moments before each
chapter. This one kicks it off with Harry literally killing Bellatrix, so I mean, if that's not
your cup of tea, that's completely fair!

Anyway, this is just something I'm getting lost into because my life is very hard right now,
so enjoy it if you want!

See the end of the work for more notes

 Stranded

You know the Spell. Do it. Do it now!

Harry does know the Spell. It's haunted his dreams all his life. That spark of green, those two
words, the cut-off scream of the victims, his own mother. To cast the spell, one has to mean it, has
to want to kill. Has to be capable of it.

Bellatrix's curls are bouncing as she heaves for breath, her eyes wide. She looks unhinged, not
afraid. She's giggling before his wand because she doesn't think he can do it, doesn't think he wants
to do it, but she doesn't know. She can't possibly know just how much he wants to.

It makes him sick to think about it. He's just angry enough to ignore the coiling in his stomach, like
a snake preparing to strike. His skin feels hot and itchy, even if the air around him is ice-cold.

His grip on his wand is shaky.

You know the Spell, Harry...

He does. He knows it better than most, in fact. Knows it in ways no one else in the world will. The
sole survivor of such a Spell. He has no recollection of such a feat, but he can imagine that the
aftermath had been explosive. One doesn't simply survive the Killing Curse without repercussions.

"Is the itty, bitty baby sad about his Godfather?" Bellatrix mocks in a high-pitched babble, her eyes
boring into his. In the reflection of her dark gaze, he can see Sirius' body falling through the veil.

She took everything from you, Harry, the voice in his mind hisses, a coaxing edge to the words. She
killed the one person you felt closest to. The person you allowed yourself to feel safe with. Others
betrayed you, but never him. He wanted to treat you better than the rest, better than you've ever
been treated, and now he's dead. She killed him, Harry. Return the favor… You know you want to.
You know the Spell.

Harry feels a sharp shiver run up his back, making him roll his head to the side with a shudder.
Intense anger lashes out within him in response to the words in his mind. They sound bitter, sour,
egging him on. It scares him, but it spurs him on.
A step. Just one. Putting him closer to Bellatrix, who actually shrinks back with an exaggerated
pout. She's deranged, no doubt about it, but Harry can suddenly taste her fear on his tongue. It
tastes good, sweet. He can see it in the widening of her eyes, in the way she shuffles backwards.

Good. He wants her to be afraid. Sirius would want her to be afraid. It's nothing she doesn't
deserve, not after all that she's done. The people she's killed, those she's driven to madness, and
now the murder of the one person Harry desperately wishes were alive. It's Harry's own fault for
falling into the trap, and he knows it. That only serves to make him angrier, to want to take it out
on the woman foolish enough to cast the Spell.

She should know better, the voice declares sharply. You've come running just for him. You would
have done anything for him, to save him, and she took him from you anyway. You can only avenge
him now, Harry.

"Potter," Bellatrix croons, her eyes flashing again.

Harry grips his wand harder. "Shut up!"

Silence her, the voice orders harshly. Silence her for good. You know the Spell…

It's too much. The rising crescendo of his pain and anger. There are scents hitting his nose—the
smell of his own sweat, something distinctly familiar swirling around him, and the heady press of
Bellatrix's fear. He shudders again, so angry, so hurt and lost. His mind feels scrambled and
occupied, as if someone marched in and went searching through every thought he's ever had.

"Harry," comes the soft, tentative voice of the Headmaster.

Ultimately, that's what makes him snap. The way Dumbledore sounds. Not frightened, exactly, but
a touch wary to be sure. Like Harry's unstable, like Harry's losing it a bit, and he'd be right,
wouldn't he? Harry has tried telling him all of this, but he has refused to listen. He must know, must
be able to sense the problems Harry is having, and he must have given up on him.

It's not right. It's not fair. Harry has done everything he could. He's been doing his best. After last
year, he didn't think things could get worse, but now Dumbledore clearly doesn't trust him. Maybe
he's not right to. Sirius is dead because of him.
This time, there's no prompting from the voice in his head. He just explodes, "Shut up! Shut up,
shut up, shut up! Avada Kedavra!"

One has to mean the Spell to cast it, and Harry doesn't think he's ever meant anything more.
There's the familiar flash of green, accompanied by the strangest surge of something in the center
of his chest. It's warm, inviting, thrilling, enticing… He can feel it curling around his lungs and
heart, squeezing like a hug, making him breathless with it.

Bellatrix's body hits the floor with a thump.

"Oh, Harry," Dumbledore whispers hoarsely, and for Harry, everything goes dark.

The last thing he remembers is the cruel laugh of delight falling from his lips, sounding nothing
like himself, though it feels like his own.

Harry is running through a field, running as hard as he can, though he has no idea why. Is he
running from something? Towards something?

Why is he running?

He comes to a sudden halt, taking in a deep breath as he blinks dazedly. The air around him feels
wet and heavy, like the barest touch of mist is trying to suffocate him. Every inhale comes with the
touch of danger, just a faint hint of what drowning must be like. Oxygen feels muddled as he
breathes it in, sloshing around in his lungs.

"You didn't hate the Muggles?"

Harry turns, coughing up water that dribbles down his chin. The man isn't looking at him, and his
hood is up. "Hate them? Why would I hate them?" he asks, his words a surprised gurgle.

Six years old, Petunia yanking on his hair until he sobs. Many different ages, Dudley's fists hitting
him over and over, chasing him until he can barely breathe and chasing him some more. A regular
occurrence, Vernon's face turning purple in rage with explosive tangents and raised fists that make
him flinch before he can stop himself.

"Why wouldn't you?" the man says.

Harry doesn't know. Maybe he does. Maybe he always has. Maybe that's just another thing he's
scared to admit to himself.

"It's raining in my lungs," Harry says nonsensically.

The man hums. "I suppose it would. You should consider a boat. A boat in your throat."

Harry can feel oars tickle his windpipe. "I won't float away. I can't. I have somewhere to be. There
are people waiting."

"Who awaits you?" The man doesn't reveal his face, but his head carefully cocks to the side.

People lying to him. Well-meaning, trying to do their best for him, but there was no help.
Something is wrong, and they don't listen. They don't hear him. They don't give him a chance, and
they won't now. They see his seclusion, they allow it. He wants it, but he wants more for someone
to try. Why do they never try?

Harry opens his mouth to answer, but rivers run from his eyes, splashing on his tongue. The oars in
his throat paddle harder. "Please," he chokes out, desperate, "they only try their best!"

"Do they?" The man steps forward, his head ducked low. "You shouldn't hate them. You
shouldn't."

Burning anger for those who locked up the one who deserved to be free. Curt words said to those
he should have wanted to speak to the most. Eyes avoiding his as he glared at those he used to
smile at. A hatred in his chest for those who shouldn't have earned it, those who somehow did
anyway. Who's hatred? His?
"My heart is on fire," Harry gasps out.

The man nods. "Put it out. Just put it out."

The fire spreads, and Harry can't contain it, let alone douse it. The burning fills him up and spills
out of him. Steam escapes his throat as the man reaches up to push back his hood, and Harry finds
himself staring into his own face.

He tries to scream.

He can't.

With a gasp, Harry bolts up as his eyes snap open. His entire body is covered in sweat, trembling
despite the heat that seems to settle beneath his skin. He works to get his breathing under control.

A light breeze makes him shiver in relief. It ruffles his hair and cools the sweat clinging to him.
The meadow around him sways, and Harry slowly stands up with a frown.

This isn't a familiar place.

He seems to be standing in a meadow in between two rolling hills, a healthy green that stretches as
far as the eye can see. The sky above him is a calm blue, the clouds puffy and vaguely cheerful.
There are no trees or any landmarks of any kind. The only sound is of the rustling grass as the wind
eases around him. It's strangely peaceful out here.

Harry wraps his arms around himself and looks around, unsure what's going on. He has the
nagging feeling that something has happened. There's a memory tugging at his mind, something
involving boats and striking green eyes just like his own.

"Potter?"

Jolting, Harry whirls around so fast that he nearly topples over. He fumbles in his pocket for his
wand immediately, knowing the owner of that voice, recognizing as simply as he would his own.
He's heard it frequently enough in the last five years that he should know it, though he's never
heard it sound like this—careful, polite, hesitant.

Malfoy zones in on his wand immediately and visibly flinches, taking a solid step back. Harry feels
a vindictive spike at that, at the palpable fear on the other boy's face, even if it makes no sense.

Why would Malfoy be afraid of him? He never has been before, not really, not like this.

"Where am I?" Harry asks harshly. "What have you done to me, Malfoy?"

"I—I didn't do anything," Malfoy says slowly, his words stuttering—actually stuttering—out of
him.

Harry scowls and steps forward in vague threat, raising his wand. "Where am I?!"

Malfoy actually closes his eyes, flinching back violently, and it's like a slap to Harry's face. With
just that, just a flinch, Harry vividly recalls the way Bellatrix recoiled before—before—

Oh, Harry, Dumbledore had breathed out.

It's not that Harry forgot, exactly, but the memory has been lingering untouched in the back of his
mind, waiting to remind him. It does now, and he nearly drops his wand in pure shock.

He's killed someone. He actually—

"Oh no," Harry chokes out, his eyes bulging.

Malfoy's eyes snap open, his gaze sharp as he stares at Harry in silence. No wonder he was scared.
Harry would be scared, too. There's something heavily terrifying about knowing that someone who
has only disdain for you is capable of murder. Harry would know; he's been dealing with it for the
past five years.
For a long time, Harry just stands there and hyperventilates. Malfoy simply watches him, his hands
still held up like Harry might attack him at any moment. Would he do that?

No. No. Merlin, he hadn't even wanted to kill—

Actually, yes, yes he did. He remembers that with stark clarity, that strong pulse of desire to take
Bellatrix out of the world the same way she took Sirius out of it.

And Sirius. Harry chokes on air, feeling his eyes flood with a fresh wave of tears. What would
Sirius think? What does everyone else think? People must know. If Malfoy knows, everyone else
likely does as well. What will become of him?

"Potter," Malfoy says slowly, his tone soft.

Harry sucks in a sharp breath, his hands shaking hard. "I—I didn't mean to. I swear it."

"Yes, you did," Malfoy replies immediately. "You have to mean it to cast—"

"I know that!" Harry shouts, his anger flaring. Malfoy snaps his mouth shut, his chest expanding
on a hasty inhale, and Harry can't be bothered to care. "Don't you think I—I know that?"

Malfoy doesn't say anything for a long time, just looking at him, and Harry reaches up to grip his
forehead a little clumsily. It's clammy under his hand, but at least his scar doesn't hurt.

The thing is, Harry wants to be able to say he didn't mean to and let it be the truth. But he can't.
Because Malfoy is right, you do have to mean the curse, and Harry remembers meaning it. In fact,
he remembers relishing in it, in the rush of it.

The memory is terrifying and tantalizing in equal measure. Harry can barely breathe.

Malfoy seems to draw himself up, holding his head higher and giving a prim sniff. "Sit down,
Potter, now. With your sniveling, you'll pass out."
His voice is so stern that Harry actually stumbles back a step and sits down, mostly led by his
shock. Malfoy seems surprised that Harry actually listens, but he nods in approval. Harry stares
straight ahead with wide eyes, his heart beating a relentless tattoo against his sternum, a hot
thrumming in his chest that burns on every thump.

Malfoy swiftly moves over and shucks his outer robe, laying it out on the ground with a small
frown before lowering himself on it, sitting right next to Harry like he's not afraid. There's
something strangely comforting about that. Harry very nearly sobs in relief. Maybe if Malfoy isn't
scared of him, it means that Harry isn't capable of—

But he is. He's already proven that.

"Do they know?" Harry rasps, his gaze flicking over to Malfoy with a desperation he doesn't
understand.

Malfoy seems to get it because he nods. "Yes. They all do. Everyone does. The story was released
in The Prophet the following morning."

"D-Dumbledore… Did he—"

"He refused to give a statement. He's been recovering anyway, so people haven't really had the
time to pester him."

"Recovering?" Harry asks.

"You don't remember?" Malfoy looks at him with a small frown. "What do you remember,
Potter?"

Harry swallows. "The last thing I remember is—is killing… I killed her. Bellatrix Lestrange."

"My aunt," Malfoy informs him casually.

"Is she?" Harry mumbles, feeling numb.

Malfoy shoots him a look. "She was."

"What happened?"

"Well, you...er, you got into a duel with Dumbledore. No one knows how you managed to hold
your own, but it's not like he was aiming to hurt you. Father says that—that Dumbledore was
telling the Minister that you were possessed. He claims it wasn't you who...dueled him, which I'm
inclined to believe, because as adept at dueling you may be, you aren't nearly at the level as you
portrayed there."

"Did I hurt him?" Harry asks weakly, feeling his eyes prickle with heat. There's a steady strum of
anger fluttering at the dip in his throat.

Malfoy won't meet his eyes. "Multiple witnesses caught you using the Cruciatus Curse on him."

Harry presses his hands over his face, trying to smother the frustrated tears that spring from his
eyes. It wasn't him, he knows that. He must have been possessed. Who's fault is that? Harry's, for
allowing it, for not being strong enough to stop it? Snape's for failing to help him, for failing to
teach him better? Dumbledore's, for pulling away, for giving up on Harry when he needed him
most?

He shouldn't be angry, not when Dumbledore has been hurt because of him. And yet, he's still so
furious that it doesn't make sense. The rage simmers in his chest, making his temples throb.

"Malfoy," Harry chokes out at some point later when he can breathe again, "where are we? How
did I get here? How am I supposed to—"

At that, cuts himself off. He doesn't want to voice that, to ask that of Malfoy, who likely won't have
an answer for him, not for that question. How am I supposed to face them, to go home?

"You're on the grounds of my home," Malfoy explains casually. "Not too far from the Manor,
actually, and I'm not sure how you got here. I was just out for a fly when I saw you in the distance.
I thought I had lost the plot."
Harry rubs a hand over his face, completely and utterly exhausted. "I think I have."

"You really don't remember anything after k-killing her, Potter?" Malfoy asks quietly.

"Nothing," Harry admits.

Malfoy looks at him curiously. "People are looking for you everywhere, you know. After what
happened at the Ministry, you just...disappeared. From what Father said, you just vaporized into
smoke in the middle of the duel with Dumbledore. It's been a week and a half since, Potter."

"I don't know where I've been," Harry whispers, feeling the color drain from his face. "If I was
possessed, he could have been using me to—to do anything."

"He?"

"Voldemort."

"Don't say that name," Malfoy snaps, flinching in the same manner he had when Harry yelled at
him. Timid, frightened. He swallows and looks at Harry with a small frown. "Potter, don't ask me
how I know, but...you haven't been possessed in the last two days, at least. I can't say the same for
any of the days before, but I do know that."

"I already told you," Harry grits out, "I don't remember anything between killing Bellatrix and
waking up in this bloody meadow!"

"Alright," Malfoy says quickly, shuffling a little nervously and side-eyeing Harry warily.

Harry glares at him. "Relax, Malfoy, I'm not going to kill you. Not that I haven't considered it,
mind."

Malfoy blanches. "Merlin, Potter, I—"

"Shut up!" Harry snarls, shoving to his feet and feeling his whole body shake. "Stop being bloody
terrified of me, would you? I'm not—I'm still—"

I'm not evil. I'm still good.

Is he, though? Merlin, he doesn't know. Everything feels like a torrential storm in his mind, in his
chest. His palm itches around his wand, tingles running circuits around his wrist. It takes him a
moment to realize what it is. Desire. A strong desire to use his wand, to lash out, to—

You know the Spell…

No! Harry gives his head a violent shake, horrified at his own thoughts. Malfoy may be horrid, but
Harry won't kill him. He can't just—just kill people all because he killed Bellatrix. He doesn't want
to.

"Sit down," Malfoy says again, this time firmer than the last. He stares up at Harry with a sharp
gaze, prodding Harry to glare right back. They're locked into an intense stare-off until Harry
realizes that Malfoy has stopped being frightened of him, and he sits. Malfoy nods in satisfaction.
"Good. Now, breathe. Just...breathe, Potter."

So, for a while, that's what Harry does. He breathes. Just keeps on breathing until, eventually, his
grip on his wand slackens and the burning in his chest quells. Malfoy seems pleased.

"I'm going to Azkaban, aren't I?" Harry croaks miserably, shutting his eyes.

Malfoy makes a small noise in the back of his throat, almost amused. "I don't think so, Potter."

Harry starts to reply, to ask how Malfoy can sound so sure about that, but a sudden chill has him
snapping his mouth shut. He goes very still as a shudder rips through his body. There's a swirl of
shadows in front of him, black mist forming right in before him and Malfoy, swirling in a dark
vortex that Harry can almost feel brush against his skin. He knows who it is before they even
appear.

Voldemort peers at them with ruby red eyes, the slits where his nose should be flaring as he
audibly inhales. His stillness is otherworldly and threatening, exuding an easy power that would
put the strongest of men to their knees. Nothing in his expression gives anything away, and he
simply surveys the both of them closely.
Harry rubs at his scar, dead-silent. It doesn't hurt, exactly, merely itches faintly. In comparison to
how it usually reacts in Voldemort's presence, this is practically nothing. This is, however, the first
time that Voldemort has stood before him that Harry hasn't had his mind screeching at him with a
mixture of fear, anger, and disgust. Mostly because Harry doesn't know what to do or say.

Of course Voldemort has found him. He's not at home, under protection, safe behind his blood
connection to Petunia Dursley. And it's his own fault, even if he can't remember. Voldemort is here
now, and Harry's going to die.

Maybe he deserves to for what he did.

"Do you wish to kill the Malfoy boy?"

Harry feels another violent shiver rip through him at Voldemort's cold question. He can't breathe
yet again, but his hearing works very well. Malfoy has just sucked in a sharp breath and doesn't
appear to be exhaling, holding it in as he waits.

Waits for Harry to give his answer. Harry isn't sure what he's supposed to say. Voldemort doesn't
ask questions, especially not to Harry. No, he just tries to kill him, simple as that.

And what a stupid question to ask. As if Harry wants to kill anyone. He hadn't even wanted—

Yes, yes he had. Reminding himself that once more hurts just as much as the first time. He can
vividly recall the relish in which he took in killing Bellatrix. He had done it, had meant it, had
wanted it.

Maybe Harry still does. Something in him wishes he could go back in time and do it again. Live
through it again. Feel how it felt all over again.

But to do it to Malfoy? To kill him? Perhaps something twisted and broken in him wants to kill
Bellatrix again, possibly the grief over Sirius and the lingering anger from the year, but that doesn't
mean Harry wants to kill Malfoy.

"No," Harry says sharply.

Malfoy finally exhales.

Voldemort considers him. "Do you wish to kill me, Harry Potter?"

"Yes," Harry answers immediately.

"Try," Voldemort says.

Harry stares at him. Voldemort stares right back, expectant. So, with shaking legs and a weird
squirming in his chest, Harry pushes to his feet. He waits for Voldemort to react, to Crucio him, to
try to kill him first. He doesn't, and instead, he stands perfectly still and waits.

Licking his lips, Harry tries to stop the lurch of excitement he feels in his chest. It's more than an
eagerness to rid the world of Voldemort once and for all; no, it's an earnest desire to use the spell
again. He's practically trembling with the urge.

Harry lifts his wand and, strong as the breeze around them, declares, "Avada Kedavra."

It shouldn't be a pleasant experience. Killing shouldn't be. The flash of green shouldn't shoot a thrill
through him, especially after it has haunted his nightmares for years. The energy expelling from
his wand shouldn't split and travel up his arm, snaking warm and snug around his heart. It shouldn't
feel so good, but it does. It simply does, and Harry can't help but shudder and gasp in response.

Harry knows the Spell. He's used it. He's survived it. He knows it in and out, knows how it works,
knows what it looks like in action. It does not simply wrap around the target, then slip off.

And yet.

Voldemort reaches up with one long finger to flick a spec of lint off his robe, completely
unbothered. He stares right at Harry. "Do you see that your attempts are futile?"

Harry lowers his wand, because he does see that. "Are you going to kill me?"
"That would go against my current interest," Voldemort tells him. "You, Malfoy child, stand up."

Malfoy does, graceful even in his obvious fear.

"You have chocolate on your person. Offer it to Harry," Voldemort says, his voice soft, yet
deceptively so. There's power and threat in every single syllable.

Malfoy swallows, but he digs in his pocket to pull out a small, wrapped chocolate. "Here you are,
Potter," he says, his voice shaking.

"So cold and detached," Voldemort murmurs, a scolding edge to his tone that has Malfoy openly
trembling and terrified. "You should address him warmly. I expect you'll be spending a great deal
of time with each other from this day on."

"Take it, Harry," Malfoy whispers, staring at him with wide, pleading eyes.

Harry is alarmed by how utterly terrified Malfoy is at the moment, and he's a bit stunned that
Malfoy is addressing him by his first name. Though, with an evil Dark Wizard commanding him
to, Harry can't really blame him.

Slowly, Harry reaches over to grab the chocolate, opening it and popping it in his mouth. If he was
going to be killed, he severely doubts they'd go through the trouble of poisoning him. And, if they
do, at least the chocolate tastes good. Overall, though, Harry's a bit more stuck on what Voldemort
just casually said.

"I'm not going home, am I?" Harry asks flatly. He doesn't even know why he asks. Of course he
isn't. Voldemort has him now. He's not just going to let him go; that's not how these things work.

Voldemort flicks his harsh gaze to Harry. "You can't go home."

"Why?"
"What's the last spell you cast with your wand?"

Harry's throat positively closes up. He swallows thickly, twice. "It's not like—"

It's not like Bellatrix was anyone good. It's not like I'm suddenly evil. It's not like they won't be able
to forgive me. They'll understand. They will.

"They won't," Voldemort tells him. "You killed Bellatrix Lestrange of your own will, Harry Potter.
For revenge. You've taken a life, no matter who's life it was. The Wizarding World will not forgive
you."

Harry shakes his head. "Dumbledore—"

"Dumbledore," Voldemort spits, his lipless mouth curling in disgust, "will think you tainted, boy,
and he would be right. You certainly know that. You can feel it, can't you?"

"They'll just put me in Azkaban, then?" Harry snaps, that spark of rage igniting in him again. "Give
me the Dementor's Kiss, perhaps? For—for killing one of the most notorious Death Eaters? I'm a
boy! I didn't mean for any of this to happen!"

Voldemort continues to be unruffled. "I cannot say for sure what would happen to you if you
returned. I can tell you that the Wizarding World is no more on your side than they were in the
beginning of your year at Hogwarts. To the public, you remain the lunatic who believes I have
returned against all odds; now with the added benefit of being the boy driven mad by the thought.
Pity that they don't believe you. After all, you are correct."

"I hate you," Harry chokes out. "This is all your fault. Why won't you die?"

"You may go, if you wish," Voldemort offers coolly, gesturing lazily with his hand. "Give him
your broom, Malfoy child."

Harry practically vibrates out of his skin as Malfoy carefully takes a few steps back and picks up
his broom from the grass. He holds it out to Harry, staring at him with wide eyes. It's like he's
trying to say something without actually saying it, but Harry doesn't really care to parse out what it
is.
Stiffly, Harry snatches the broom and mounts it. He pauses, waiting, but Voldemort stares at him
impassively. He makes no move to stop him.

This should be where Harry kicks off the ground and flies as fast as he can as far as he can. The
chance to leave, to go home, is very inviting. To get as far away from Voldemort and all of this is
all he really wants at this point. Just fly as high as the clouds until he's safe again.

But where would he go?

What safety awaits him back home? It's not like the Wizarding World has been on his side all year.
That includes the Ministry. They tried to silence him, then tried to expel him when that didn't work,
and had it not been for Dumbledore—angry as he was even then—Harry would have been. What
could Dumbledore possibly do for him now?

Harry remembers how Dumbledore sounded. Oh, Harry, he'd whispered. Just that. So much shock
and pity and disappointment in those two words.

Even if Dumbledore could do a damn thing to help him now, Harry's not so sure that he would.

But to stay here? To stay in Voldemort's presence? That can't seriously be an option. If Harry can't
kill him with the one curse no one is supposed to survive, then there's nothing else he can do. How
can you defeat someone who doesn't die? Is that what Voldemort wonders about him?

Harry can't go home, can he? This isn't a choice. His options are limited to two. Fly off and try to
live out his life in secrecy, which likely won't work because he'll be discovered easily. Or, stay
here and see what the hell Voldemort is going to do to him.

With a sigh, Harry kicks off the broom and plants his feet, holding it out to Malfoy without a word.
Malfoy slowly takes it, and Voldemort hums.

"The offer to go will remain an option, Harry Potter," Voldemort tells him. "It is yours to take
whenever you wish. You are no prisoner."

Harry stares at him. "Why aren't you killing me?"

"I told you," Voldemort says, his voice soft and horrible, "it goes against my interests. Now, come
along, both of you. I believe you require nourishment, Harry. Do not let him faint, Malfoy child."

With that, Voldemort turns around and seemingly floats away. He doesn't actually glide or
anything, but it seems that way. His robes billow in a way that makes Snape's robes seem like a
joke.

Malfoy jerks his head, eyes wide, urging him to follow. Harry starts to send him an incredulous
look before he remembers that he can't actually go anywhere else. Well, he can, but what happens
if he does? He's not willing to find out.

So, with a deep breath, Harry starts walking.

 Rebellion
Chapter Notes

Warnings for: Honest Dark Lords, Harry being a little shit, The Malfoys being scared,
a brief panic attack, and Mixed Feelings from an angsty teenager

The scraping of cutlery is loud in the silence of the room. Harry stares at his full plate without
really seeing it, listening to Malfoy eat quietly from right beside him. Trust Malfoy to be a nearly
silent eater, pretentious in even that.

There is something utterly bizarre about sitting at the Malfoys dining table for a meal with
Voldemort sitting at the head, not eating at all. Mrs and Mr. Malfoy eat as quietly as their son does,
and when Harry braves a glance up, Mrs. Malfoy is taking very small bites without looking up.

Then, one time, Harry looks up and Mrs. Malfoy does at the same exact time. They meet each
other's gazes all at once, and Harry doesn't know how to react. He killed her sister. Is she
grieving?

She doesn't seem to be.

As quickly as he met her gaze, Mrs. Malfoy drops her own, demure and polite. It's with a sick jolt
that Harry realizes she's afraid of him, timid just like her son. Does she think he'll kill her? How
could she? You kill one person, and suddenly you're evil? It can't seriously be that way, can it?
Harry doesn't feel evil. He doesn't want to kill anyone!

Except you do, that voice whispers in his mind, taunting him. You like how it feels, don't you?

"Shut up," Harry grits out.

"What was that, Harry?" Voldemort asks.

Harry blinks and glances up to see everyone staring at him. Voldemort is the only one who doesn't
look at him like he's borderline insane.
"I haven't gone mad," Harry says sharply, glaring right at Mr. Malfoy. His flinch doesn't make
Harry feel nearly as uncomfortable.

"Do you think he has, Lucius?" Voldemort murmurs.

Mr. Malfoy pauses in cutting his meat on the plate, swallowing thickly. "The thought crossed my
mind, I admit, My Lord. Talking to yourself is usually a sign that someone has gone mad."

"He just said he hasn't," Voldemort says.

"Yes, My Lord," Mr. Malfoy agrees.

Harry feels numb all over. "This is enough to drive me mad. This is ridiculous."

With that, he stands up and shoves his chair back. No one makes a move to stop him. Mrs. Malfoy
continues eating like she is completely unaware of what's happening. Harry feels the irrational urge
to hex her. He wants her to look at him, to not be afraid, because he didn't—he's not—

"You need to eat," Voldemort tells him.

"Look at me," Harry demands harshly, staring right at Mrs. Malfoy.

After a long, tense moment, she looks up. "Yes?"

"Your sister—" Harry cuts himself off, watching Mrs. Malfoy for any reaction, but she gives none.

"Yes?" Mrs. Malfoy prompts quietly, that guarded look in her eyes. She's still afraid.

Harry takes a deep breath and slowly lets it out, trying his best to stomp out his anger. "Did you
mourn her? Are you—did her...death upset you?"
Mrs. Malfoy opens her mouth, then closes it. Harry's anger surges, and he slams a hand to the table,
making the dishes rattle.

"Answer me!" Harry bellows.

"N-Nothing as simple as that," Mrs. Malfoy says quickly, sitting up straight in her chair. She
flinches at the continued rattling of the dishes. "You must understand, Bellatrix lost her mind long
ago in many ways, and I mourned her then. She was my sister, so in some ways, it is upsetting that
she's gone. But no, I'm not fully grieving."

Harry drops back down in the chair helplessly, feeling his eyes itch with tears. "Then why are you
afraid of me?" he asks in a small voice.

Mrs. Malfoy's eyes grow wide, but again, she doesn't answer. Harry doesn't make her.

"You need to eat," Voldemort says again.

"You'll have to forgive me for not having an appetite," Harry bites out, glaring right into those red
eyed with reckless abandon. "Being a murderer tends to put me off my lunch."

Voldemort looks cruelly amused. "You are an insolent child, aren't you? Will you flip the table in
your next fit of anger, Harry?"

"What would happen to me if I did?" Harry stares defiantly at Voldemort as he grabs his plate and
tosses it right over his shoulder. It shatters when it hits the floor. "Going to kill me now?"

There's a distinct pop as a house-elf cleans up the mess. With a wave of his wand, Voldemort has a
new plate of food sitting right in front of him.

"No," Voldemort says.

Harry tosses that plate, too. "And now?"

"Stubborn," Voldemort notes absently, waving his wand yet again as another house-elf appears.
"No, again. I am not going to kill you."

"Alright." Harry grabs up his wand. "Stupefy!"

Voldemort easily defects it. "Manners dictate that one shouldn't cast Spells during a meal."

"Oh, pardon me," Harry says sarcastically, letting his wand clatter to the table with a harsh
chuckle. "I should have known better, I suppose. Because of course I've got manners."

Then, without hesitation, Harry grabs his glass of wine and overturns it right in Malfoy's lap. To
Malfoy's credit, he doesn't shout. He just jerks and hisses, then goes very still.

"That would suggest otherwise," Voldemort informs him calmly. He waves his wand at Malfoy,
who flinches, and the wine is gone. No mess.

"What do you want with me?" Harry growls out.

Voldemort narrows his eyes at him. "I want you to eat, Harry. You require nourishment."

"Oh, how human of you," Harry snaps. "What about you, Mr. Voldemort, Dark Lord, sir? Do you
require nourishment? Are you even human?"

"Do I look it?"

"Not at all. You look like a fucking snake."

"One tends to have an altered appearance when they do not die properly," Voldemort tells him.
"You got off rather light, as I understand it. A simple scar."

"Yeah, and you got off with no nose," Harry says, leaning forward, his whole body wired and
thrumming with anger. He wants to piss off Voldemort. He's eager for it. For what? Death?
Something. Anything. "Do you shed your skin, too, Mr. Voldemort, Dark Lord, sir?"

"No." Voldemort steeples his weirdly long, spindly fingers and watches Harry closely. "I should
tell you, Harry, that I'm aware of your attempt to anger me. You may continue to try, but I think
you'll be better off simply accepting that you won't achieve your goal. You will eventually eat, and
if you wish for any further answers, you will do so sooner rather than later. Either way, your
actions are your own."

"Oh, is that right?" Harry shoves his plate so hard that it skitters halfway across the table. He
clenches his fists. "So, if I decide to set fire to this place, that's just fine? What if I beat the
everloving shit out of Malfoy? The older one, I mean. What will he do? What will his son do?
What will you do?"

Voldemort waves a hand. "Do as you wish, Harry. As I said, your choices are your own. No one
will stop you. In fact, you could kill everyone at this table with the exception of me, and no one
would stop you. Do you want to know why?"

"I don't believe you," Harry says sharply.

"You are free to test my theory," Voldemort offers.

Harry picks up his wand again, turning it to Lucius Malfoy. First, he looks right at Mrs. Malfoy,
but she just continues to eat like nothing is going on. Mr. Malfoy makes no move to defend
himself, simply staring straight ahead with his jaw clenched. When Harry checks, Malfoy is staring
hard at his plate, blinking rapidly as he takes measured breaths.

Slowly, Harry turns his wand to Mrs. Malfoy. Mr. Malfoy's throat visibly bobs, but he says
nothing. Malfoy ducks his head farther, his breath hitching like he's lost control of it. Mrs. Malfoy
continues to eat.

Finally, Harry puts his wand on Malfoy. Mr. Malfoy goes rigid as his eyes flutter shut. Malfoy has
stopped breathing, his eyes so wide that Harry can see the watery quality to them. Mrs. Malfoy
continues to eat, but Harry can see her gripping her cloth napkin so hard that her knuckles turn
white.

"What is wrong with you people?" Harry breathes out, lowering his wand back to the table.
Voldemort hums. "They fear you, Harry Potter. More than that, however, they fear me. They are
also loyal to me. If it is my offer for you to kill them, they will allow it because I deem it so."

"Why?" Harry sputters in disbelief. "What good are they dead? What could you possibly offer them
that makes them willing to die just because you said so? All because you believe in the Pureblood
rhetoric? Because you hate Muggles like they do?"

"Because," Voldemort says seriously, "I have the power to kill them at any moment in their life,
and yet, I have chosen to spare them. Every breath they take is granted by my mercy."

Harry stares at him. "You're completely insane."

"Perhaps," Voldemort says. He tilts his head, his gaze piercing. "Long ago, Lucius and I used to be
friends before I became what I am now. I have no interest in such bonds anymore, but I still
consider him a friend. We've been through much together, and we've fought alongside each other.
It may be mostly fear that keeps him loyal, but it was once different. Now, what of your friends,
Harry? Can you honestly say they'd be loyal to you following your murderous habits?"

Harry feels his mouth snap shut so quickly that he's not surprised to hear the clack of his teeth echo
loudly in the silence. His heart gives a mournful pang in his chest. What Ron and Hermione must
think of him now. Do they hate him?

Would he hate either of them if roles were reversed? No. He can say that with assurance. Ron and
Hermione could make the same mistake he has, and he'd believe them when they said they're not
evil. He'd let them cry, and he'd try to comfort them, and he'd forgive them in a heartbeat. They're
his best friends, and he knows them.

Neither of them have a scar on their head and a connection to Voldemort, though. Can he blame
them if they wouldn't forgive him?

Would they forgive him?

He doesn't know.
Harry swallows thickly and reaches out to grab the plate that he shoved away. Slowly, he eats.

After dinner, the Malfoys are sent elsewhere, and Harry is made to follow Voldemort into a study.

It's an overly large room for a simple study, more space than needed for bookshelves and a desk.
There are cabinets the color of coal—so dark that they seem to glitter in the light from one of the
tall windows that opens up to the grounds outside. Even the chair behind the desk that Voldemort
lowers himself into is extravagant, looking to be dragonhide, which is just ridiculous. The two
chairs in front of the desk are only moderately better, a clean leather that Harry has the urge to slice
open.

"Sit," Voldemort orders, gesturing to one of the leather chairs Harry wants to gut.

Harry slowly walks over and lowers himself stiffly into it. He expects it to squeak and be
unrelenting, but it doesn't and it isn't. In fact, it's the kind of chair that's so comfortable you don't
want to leave. That only makes him more uncomfortable.

Voldemort watches him from across the desk, and Harry watches him right back. There's a thick
silence between them that seems stifling. It must be odd, Harry supposes, considering who they are
and the history they have. It's not every day a boy meets the man who has murdered his parents and
wants to murder him, just like it isn't every day the murderer meets the boy he has failed to murder
on multiple occasions. Probably a right sight, after all.

Harry has never envisioned a meeting like this between them. In his mind, they never do anything
like this—it's always instant attempts to kill him amidst evil mockery. Instead, here they sit, and
none of this makes any kind of sense.

"Why does it go against your interest to kill me?" Harry finally asks, the silence getting too heavy
for him to bear.

"Do you wish to die, Harry Potter?" Voldemort asks in a soft rasp, his eyes glittering blood.

"No one wants to die," Harry whispers, "not really."

"Some do. Some are forced to."

"Then no. No, I don't want to die."

Voldemort steeples his fingers again, his head tilting ever so slightly, just a small twitch. "Do you
wish to kill again?"

"No."

"Do not lie to me!"

"I'm not lying!" Harry shouts, his voice raising as he bristles at Voldemort's scolding tone—so full
of disgust, like the idea of Harry lying to him is abhorrent, like Harry is worth nothing if he lies,
and Harry almost feels it. Quiter, he says, "I'm not lying."

Voldemort watches him like a bird watches something that manages to hold its interest. "Perhaps I
should word the question another way. Do you like the way it felt to kill?"

Harry grits his teeth, his eyes fluttering shut. He could lie. He seriously could, and maybe if he
says it, the words will be the truth. The thing is, Harry already knows what the truth is, and it
sickens him. Killing should not feel good. That Curse should not feel good. It makes no sense.

"Answer me," Voldemort says softly, those two words spoken with poignant order.

Harry unlocks his jaw, shuddering out a quiet gasp at the pain in his chest as he admits, "Yes."

"And yet, you speak only the truth when you say you do not wish to do it again," Voldemort
muses.

"I don't want to kill," Harry snarls harshly, a curl of hope and relief in his chest at his own tone of
conviction. "Just because it feels like—just because that's how it feels doesn't mean it's alright or
acceptable. It's wrong!"
"That is your opinion."

"That's fact!"

Voldemort spreads his hands, a mock look of curiosity on his face. "Says who? What reliable
source has proven this?"

"That's just the way things are," Harry says through gritted teeth. "Killing, bad. Plain and simple!"

"So, you feel as if you're bad?"

"I'm not bad!"

Voldemort tilts his head again. "You just said—"

"I know what I just said!" Harry explodes in a fit of fury, standing up so quickly that the chair skids
back, though it's too heavy to fall over. Harry gives it a harsh kick, wanting to stick the point of a
blade against the smooth surface and push until it splits open and shows its insides. He whirls away
from the chair with a grimace, his panic rising as his mouth opens and begins to move, stringing
along sentences that fall out in a rush. "I know none of this makes sense! I know I've killed
someone, and I know how it feels, and I know you should have killed me by now! I don't—I don't
k-know…"

Harry presses the palm of his hand flat on his chest, hyperventilating. He waits for the tears, but
there are none. His ears ring, ring, and ring. He struggles for air, but there is none, and he can't
think. He can't bloody get a grasp on his thoughts.

His head hurts, yet he's numb all over. Sweaty and cold, the room spinning as he firmly hits his
knees to the floor, trying to ground himself. A boy in front of a murderer. A murderer watching a
boy.

Something cold and hard pings off his head. Harry jerks up, blinking rapidly at the small vial
hovering right in front of him, uncorked. Perhaps it is poison. Maybe Voldemort is already bored
of his ridiculous inability to make it through one conversation; Harry's certainly tired of it, at least.
It could be poison, and he almost welcomes the idea, already feeling like he's suffocating anyway
—this, fortunately, won't be so slow to act.
He grabs it with trembling fingers and downs it in one gulp, his body shuddering in response to the
taste. He recognizes it, though. Not a poison, just—

"Calming Draught," Voldemort confirms.

Harry feels only a bit better, his panic muted to a dull throb that he can mostly ignore. He stands up
and clenches his fists so his nails will dig into his palm, thankful for the bite of them.

"Why does it go against your interest to kill me?" Harry repeats as he moves the chair back in its
proper place, slowly sitting down in it.

"I have been in your mind, Harry Potter," Voldemort tells him. "I have seen your desires and your
horrors. I know your thoughts, your hopes, your dreams. I am well aware of your anger when
approached as a child, despite the actions you've portrayed today. I have an understanding for your
distaste for being lied to, so today, right now, I offer you something that not even Dumbledore has
granted you."

Harry stares at him. "And what's that?"

"Honesty," Voldemort murmurs.

"Ironic, considering I don't believe you."

"I have no reason to lie. Ask your questions and determine my honesty if you so wish, but I will not
lie to you."

"Did you possess me?" Harry asks sharply.

Voldemort nods. "I did."

"When? For how long?"

"Following your act of murder, I possessed you. I continued to do so for the following eight days.
The following two days you spent in that field, recovering from the possession."

Harry scowls at him. "What did you do? Who—"

"Nothing," Voldemort cuts him off, "and I harmed no one. I put your body in a stasis and explored
your mind for the time I had control over your body. Following my duel with Dumbledore, of
course."

"You tortured him, using me to do it."

"Yes."

"Bugger," Harry chokes out, turning his gaze away as his eyes fall shut. The Calming Draught
works harder to keep him stable, and he slowly releases an exhale before looking back at
Voldemort. "Well, you explored my mind. Brilliant. Anything interesting in there, Mr. Voldemort,
Dark Lord, sir?"

"There was, in fact," Voldemort tells him. "Multiple things. One more interesting than the others."

"And what was that?"

"I will answer you in a moment. First, I require you to answer a question of my own. You may call
it trading information, if you wish. Tell me, Harry, what did Dumbledore say about the night that I
attempted to kill you as an infant and failed?"

"He didn't say very much," Harry admits, vaguely suspicious now. "Just that you killed my parents,
then tried to kill me. My mum sacrificed her life for me, and it was her love that made the spell
rebound back onto you. Are you going to tell me that isn't it? That Dumbledore has it wrong?"

Voldemort hums. "I won't tell you that, for it is as good of a theory as any. He may be correct. My
question pertains more to what he didn't tell you."

"Which is?" Harry grits out.

"Has Dumbledore spoken to you about our connection, Harry?"

"Not very much. He doesn't seem to be eager to talk to me at all, actually."

"Ah," Voldemort says with a nod. "Yes, disappointing, isn't it? To be shunned by someone you
respect very much."

"Answer my question now," Harry says shortly, refusing to admit just how disappointing it is.

Voldemort dips his head. "Very well. Because I have explored your mind, I have come across
something of great value to me. Your knowledge of the Prophecy is sufficient enough to
understand that there is a belief among some who think you have the power to defeat me. It has
come to my attention that the Prophecy is further proof that perception matters on all subjects."

"You're saying that the Prophecy was lying?" Harry asks hollowly, his stomach dropping.

"No, I am not saying that. In fact, it is the exact opposite. The Prophecy was correct in that you
could defeat me, but I would first have to allow it. In short, to die, I would have to kill you, hence
why it goes against my interests to do so."

"Wait. What? For you to die...I have to die?"

"Precisely," Voldemort agrees.

Harry balks. "That makes no sense! It can't be true. That would mean Dumbledore knows I'll have
to die, and he wouldn't—that's not…"

Voldemort watches him as he trails off. Harry slowly closes his mouth. No, none of this makes
sense, he stands by that. It doesn't add up to him that he has to die so that Voldemort will, and he
doubts all the numbers in the world could make the equation work. But, sadly, this isn't what gives
Harry pause.
Would Dumbledore allow that to happen if there was such a world in which that was actually true?
Take care of Harry for years, excluding the last one, only for him to die? Treat him kindly, with
warmth, instilling hope and respect in him, all while aware that Harry will have to die someday?

Dumbledore wouldn't, would he? Surely not.

"The Prophecy matters to me no longer," Voldemort continues in the silence. "A long look in your
mind, deep in your mind, has told me all that I need to know. Long ago, Harry Potter, I was foolish
and arrogant. I went in search of an infant prophesied to bring upon my demise, and in doing so, I
handed that same infant the power to do so. Just as I've gifted that same power to other various
cherished objects. You are the first living one."

"I don't understand," Harry whispers, stiff in his seat, his heart beating wildly against his chest.

Voldemort stares right into his eyes. "I know you don't, but I will attempt to explain to you what
I'm willing to share. First, allow me to ask. Do you not find it curious that you can speak
Parseltongue? Hasn't it ever crossed your mind to wonder why your scar signals you when I'm
near? Have you ever asked yourself the reason behind your ability to enter my mind in your
dreams, or the mind of Nagini?"

Harry stares at him with wide eyes. "Of course I've wondered. I'm—no one could tell me, no one
knew what it meant, or how it—"

"On the night I attempted to take your life, something occurred that I did not plan. I was not aware
of it until I swept your mind and simply found it," Voldemort says softly, the cadence to his words
a chill-inducing melody. "When the spell rebounded on me, you could say a piece of me was
ripped away. In my absence, it chose you for a host. You, Harry Potter, cradle and unwittingly
protect a piece of myself within you—so infused with you that you would have to die to remove
it."

"No," Harry breathes out, the word punching out of him in a croak.

Voldemort merely nods. "Yes."

And, with that, Harry turns in the chair to lean over one arm and lose his dinner.
Voldemort waves his wand calmly and the mess is Vanished; another wave of his wand has a cup
with water floating in front of Harry, which Harry takes. He shakily swirls it around in his mouth,
ridding himself of the rancid taste lingering on his tongue. Carelessly, he spits the mouthful right
onto the floor, barely noticing that mess being Vanished, too. He focuses on drinking the cool
water, instead.

Harry thinks really hard about what Voldemort has just told him. It can't be true, can it?
Dumbledore would have told him. Right?

He doesn't know.

It makes a certain amount of sense, though. There has to be some reason for his connection to
Voldemort, and Dumbledore has said something close to the same thing before, though nothing as
elaborate as this. It explains why Harry has certain abilities, why he's so quick to anger, why he
dreams through Voldemort's eyes.

It's utterly disgusting if it is true. He just...what, carries around a piece of Voldemort somewhere?
Protects it? Against his will? He doesn't want that; it isn't fair, not at all. He'd give it up in a
heartbeat if he could, just lay down and let someone yank it out of him, remove him of the burden.

To do that, though, he'd have to die. For Voldemort to be able to die, Harry will have to die first.
That explains why Voldemort hasn't killed him yet and has no interest to, but that doesn't explain
why Dumbledore hasn't told him. It's horrible and terrifying, but Dumbledore has to know that
Harry would do it, would give his life if it would end Voldemort's. He knows that, doesn't he?

Dumbledore can trust that out of him, at least, surely? Harry can't have caused distrust that deep.

"Does he know?" Harry finds himself asking robotically. "Does Dumbledore know?"

Voldemort takes an audible pause, then makes a considering noise. "I daresay he has always
suspected it in some way. For him, it is merely a theory, but following the events of this year, I
imagine that it's a theory he believes to be fact."

Harry nods woodenly.

For a long time, it is silent in the room as Harry takes the time to process this. He thinks, and
thinks, and thinks. He doesn't know what to think. Still, his mind runs in circles. He flips through
so many emotions that he can barely keep up with them—anger prevails the most, unfortunately,
but at least Harry knows why.

There's something distinctly displeasing about the fact that Voldemort has sat him down to tell him
the truth when people he trusts wouldn't do the same. How could Dumbledore keep this from him,
theory or not? It's Harry's life! He's more inclined to the information than anyone else in the world,
and that's including Dumbledore himself!

Harry doesn't say anything for a long, long time. Voldemort doesn't interrupt his thoughts, simply
sitting there and watching him.

Finally, Harry plucks up the courage to lift his head and speak. "What does that mean for me, then?
In regards to what you will do to me, I mean."

"I will do nothing to you, Harry Potter, nothing but protect you as you protect me, willingly or not."
Voldemort smirks. "I have you to thank for my continued survival in some parts, at least. It would
be remiss of me to harm you now, don't you think?"

"You're going to protect me?" Harry asks in blatant disbelief.

Voldemort nods. "Your death will gain me nothing. Your survival gains me plenty. So, yes, I will
protect you. Do you have objections?"

"I could kill myself," Harry declares. "Or, if my offer to go really is open, I could go back and let
someone else kill me. You'll be able to die, then, even if I'm not the one to do it."

"You are incorrect," Voldemort tells him, clearly not offended or surprised by Harry's brazen
words. "I told you that you were a mistake. I never meant to make you a defense for me. However,
you are not the only defense I have made. I mentioned other objects earlier, if you recall."

Harry lets out a delirious laugh that contains no humor. "So, so even if I die...you still won't be able
to be killed? That's what you're saying."

"That is what I'm saying, yes."

"Someone could destroy those objects. If they do and I'm dead, maybe someone stands a chance."

"Maybe they do," Voldemort agrees. "There is, of course, the problem in finding out how to
destroy said objects. There are very few ways to do so, unknown by many great minds. You must
be aware that I haven't made it so simple."

Harry shakes his head, frustrated. He knows he's just arguing now because he doesn't want to admit
the truth—that Voldemort is nearly indestructible. It's a bloody terrifying thought.

"Stranger things have happened," Harry snaps.

Voldemort hums in wicked amusement. "They have, yes. Make no mistake, Harry, I will protect
you without fail, but I will make no move to stop you if you wish to take your own life in a
desperate and hopeless desire that I will be defeated. You are, after all, capable of making your
own choices—human, no matter what you hold within you—and I will not take away your free
will."

Harry almost wants to scream, to lash out again. No, don't tell me that, don't give me the option, he
begs. I'm not supposed to be a coward, but I am bred for survival; it is all I know. How can they be
one in the same now?

Maybe this is what the Sorting Hat meant when it suggested he would do well in Slytherin.

Harry gives into the urge to slump forward, putting his face in his hands. Calming Draught or no,
there is nothing stopping him from breaking down a bit now. People don't just learn what he has
and take it easily. Maybe it makes him weak, but he doesn't care. Voldemort is right there, and
Harry can't be arsed; he just cries, because what else can he do?

What is he supposed to do? Return home and beg for death? They'll think him mental, throw him
in St. Mungos, if not Azkaban, and Voldemort will continue to live on. Or, alternatively, what if he
was to return and Dumbledore actually fulfilled his wish? Just killed him. Would Dumbledore look
at him with dim eyes, no twinkle in sight, and do what should be done?

Harry doesn't want to die. That's the thing. He'd said it earlier, and he'd meant it. He's never wanted
to, especially when he learned that he was a target for the very monster sitting across from him
now.
He's not afraid to die, not when he's on the precipice of it—in the Chamber, in the Graveyard,
staring down a Werewolf, nearly Kissed by Dementors twice, falling from a high point in the sky.
There's something strangely peaceful about the embrace of death, just a little piece of him that goes
oh, here it comes, and it's accepted with detached calm. Because what can he do? How does he
cope? Death greets him so regularly that Harry has started to wonder when he'd be unable to
escape. Surely next time, he'd think. Next time, I won't be so lucky.

And now, here he is, learning that it's expected of him from the last person he would have
anticipated the request from. Being offered the opposite by the monster who has always, without
fail, wanted to take his life. It all boils down to the fact that it's his choice, and Harry doesn't want
to die.

"No one wants to die, not really."

"Some do. Some are forced to."

Harry is both. He doesn't and he does. He should, but he doesn't; he shouldn't, but he does. People
shouldn't want to die, no more than they should want to kill. But he's not just normal people, is he?
He's the Boy-Who-Lived, and now he knows why. The same people who have praised him for that
will expect him to be the Boy-Who-Died.

Is that fair?

None of this is fair. Harry doesn't know what he's supposed to do. He scrubs his hands over his
face and takes in a rattling breath, dropping his hands and leaning back in the chair. He's so
exhausted, and he's barely even realized it.

Voldemort looks at him expectantly.

"What is going to happen to me?" Harry rasps.

"If you choose to stay, you will remain here for the summer. You will be taken care of, far better
than those Muggles ever have done for you, and you needn't fear for your safety. You will have
your freedom to do whatever you wish."
"And after the summer?"

"You may attempt to return to Hogwarts, though I would advise against it, simply because you'll
likely be taken in by the Ministry. Your education would not fail, however, because I would teach
you."

"You would teach me?" Harry blurts out.

Voldemort hums, cruelly amused again. "Indeed, Harry, I would. Fear not, it would not be lessons
that could bring you harm—it would be those of which someone your age should learn. You are, of
course, within your right to refuse to be taught, though I will again advise against it because
education is very important for a young Wizard."

"The answer is no."

"Very well. Do let me know if you change your mind. Anymore questions?"

"Yeah, actually," Harry says forcefully. "What about all your little Death Eaters, Mr. Voldemort,
Dark Lord, sir? You don't think they'll try something?"

"I assure you, they will not. They are as much at your disposal as mine, Harry Potter. You are
under my protection, and they will be informed to treat you with the same loyalty, fear, and respect
that I have earned. To go against my order is their head, and they are very aware of that. As such, I
don't think they will be eager to procure your wrath if Bellatrix is an example of what happens
when they do. I daresay you are safe."

"I somehow doubt that. It's not like they haven't ever killed anyone before. They shouldn't be afraid
of me, not when they're the evil ones."

Voldemort laughs, a morbidly chilling sound that makes Harry cringe. "Oh, Harry Potter, you have
no idea, do you? Casting the Killing Curse is not as simple as I make it seem. One should not be
able to do it at a mere fifteen years old. Furthermore, those who have managed to achieve casting
the Killing Curse knows what it takes to do so—meaning they understand your base desire to see
people like them dead. What's stopping you if not I?"

"That's… It's wrong."

"Perhaps. Perhaps not."

Harry glares at him. "And you just don't care? What if I did get up and just kill all of them?"

"I cannot allow you to kill all of them. There is an amount I will eventually have to stop you at,"
Voldemort admits. "But your victims are your own, and I will not take responsibility for them. Do
with that what you will and know it is your choice."

"You're relying on my morals," Harry notes.

Voldemort arches a naked eyebrow. "To an extent, I suppose I am. You may surprise me, though I
doubt it. I know how each kill feels. The secret is in the Curse. There is a difference in a man
strangling another, than a man casting the Killing Curse. I suspect you already know what that
difference is."

Harry does. He wishes he didn't. It's that rush, that thrill, that jolt up his arm as warmth explodes
pleasantly in his chest, hugging his heart. That's purely the Spell, and it makes no sense for
something so evil to feel that way. It makes him want to do it again, and again, and again, even as
it scares him in equal measure.

"I don't want them at my disposal," Harry says hoarsely, averting his eyes.

"Nevertheless, they are there."

"Why?"

"Because, if you should ever need me, for any reason whatsoever, they will be able to call upon
me in ways no others can. However, I'll admit, I mostly offer them up to you to continue stroking
that urge within you that you seem to regret so deeply."

"Just my playthings, then? Like toys offered up to a child, only you hope I'll break them."
Voldemort watches him for a beat. "Harry, your choices here are your own. I hope not to
manipulate you into being someone you have no desire to become. I take much more pleasure in
seeing where you end up on your own."

"You think I'll kill them," Harry chokes out.

"No, I do not. I also do not think that you won't kill them. I do not expect anything," Voldemort
says. "I simply await what will happen."

Harry scoffs. "I'm like an experiment to you, aren't I?" he asks bitterly, that rage kicking up a fuss
within him all over again. "You'll just sit back and watch, waiting to see what I'll do, waiting for
me to dance like a pet monkey."

"You," Voldemort declares with a strangely pointed look, "have serious trust issues, Harry Potter,
though I cannot blame you. Believe me or don't, it is of no importance to me either way. I've said it
before, and I will say it once more: I am protecting you. You have your free will. I do not intend to
manipulate you. Those are not lies, and I do not require you to believe them for them to be true."

Harry resists the urge to squirm. Merlin, he can barely wrap his head around the fact that
Voldemort is psychoanalysing him right now, let alone that he's reassuring him. Harry doesn't
know what the fuck to do with that. The incredulity of this entire encounter is on par with Snape
suddenly laughing and being nice to children.

Snape.

Bloody hell. What about him? Harry's stomach cramps at the mere thought. Dumbledore has
insisted that Snape is to be trusted completely, somehow so sure that he's a Spy. For the first time
ever, Harry feels the exact opposite of what he's always used to—the hope that maybe Dumbledore
is wrong, rather than the scornful belief that he is.

If Snape is to be trusted, that means he could tell Dumbledore where Harry is and what he's being
offered. Dumbledore would trust him even less, possibly give up on him for good, if he hasn't
already. That's even if Snape is somehow not on Voldemort's side, which seems unlikely.

Still, the chances…

"Have you told Snape?" Harry asks abruptly.

Voldemort considers him curiously. "I have not."

"Don't," Harry whispers, shame rippling through him. He feels like he's keeping a secret, betraying
the people he cares about. And that's exactly what he's doing, isn't it? "Don't tell him anything
about me. I—I don't...trust him."

He doesn't, he never has. Now, Harry has no idea who he trusts Snape to be a Spy for, who he
hopes Snape is a Spy for. Fuck.

"Severus is loyal to—"

"I don't care."

"Harry," Voldemort begins.

Harry shakes his head firmly. "I don't care. Unless you can figure out a way to make sure he can
never breathe a word about—about me being here, then he doesn't know. That's my choice. You
said I could make my own choices, and that's one of them."

"Very well," Voldemort murmurs. "I will keep it hidden until I have a way, bound by magic, for
him to keep his silence."

"Good," Harry says shortly, still fuming.

Voldemort stares at him for a long time, then suddenly calls, "Tilly!"

A house-elf appears with a pop, bowing so low that her nose brushes the ground. "Yes, Master?"

"You are to escort Harry Potter to Draco Malfoy's room, understood?"

"Yes, Master."

Voldemort turns his gaze to Harry. "Go speak with someone your age, Harry. Sleep if you require
it. Request anything should you want it. Roam at your leisure, and of course, do as you please."

"Brilliant," Harry says sarcastically, shoving to his feet and giving a mock-salute. "Thank you oh
so much, Mr. Voldemort, Dark Lord, sir."

Voldemort does not deem that worthy of an answer and simply stares at him, and Harry begins to
feel stupid just standing there. With a scowl, he whirls around and marches out of the room.
 Consequences
Chapter Notes

Some of these chapters are long, y'all, sorry about that

No warnings. Just more of Harry going through it. Help this poor boy.

When Harry walks into Malfoy's room, he comes to a sudden halt. Of course Malfoy has a room
like this. Bigger than the sitting room at the Dursleys, full of books and posters and trinkets,
painted birds flying on the walls. His bed is larger than what any boy needs, and Harry guesses the
sheets are silk before he even looks to confirm it—and, of course, they are.

"I'd ask you not to set my bed on fire, but I'd much rather you do that to it rather than me."

Harry snaps his gaze over to Malfoy, narrowing his eyes. He's itching for a fight, but for once,
Malfoy seems in no mood to help him start one. He's just sitting on a chair, reading a book, some
of his hair falling into his eyes. He looks achingly normal, and Harry wants to punch him in the
face.

"Any rooms on this hall got a bed?" Harry snaps.

Malfoy doesn't even look at him, just gestures to the bed Harry was glaring at. "There's one."

"Yes, I can bloody see."

"Good to know."

Alright, fine. If Malfoy wants to be like that, all calm and collected, then Harry very well will use
his sodding bed, and he'll be sure to be an arse about it. He marches over and shoves a few pillows
to the floor with a scowl. Who even needs that many pillows anyway? Immediately after that, he
balls up the thickest duvet in a messy ball and drops it to the floor, waiting for Malfoy to snipe at
him.

Malfoy doesn't.
Frustrated, Harry slams himself down on the bed with absolutely no finesse whatsoever,
determined to annoy Malfoy's precious, pretentious sensibilities. Even putting his shoes on the bed
doesn't manage to get a reaction out of him, and Harry reaches up to pull his glasses off his face,
letting them drop somewhere on the other side of the bed. He then tosses his arm over his eyes and
huffs.

Again, Malfoy does not rise to the bait, which is a pity. Harry so desperately wants to lose his cool
on someone. If nothing else, Malfoy has always been easy to fight with.

Not that Harry fully trusts himself at the moment. Maybe it's for the best if he doesn't fight anyone.
It's with shame that he thinks he might not be able to control his anger once he gets started, and
according to Voldemort, no one will stop him when it's necessary. The mere thought that Harry
could lash out and do something unforgivable isn't one he wants to ponder, yet that's where his
mind turns to.

Like this, Harry doesn't think he'll be able to get to sleep. There's too much on his mind. He's too
angry, too wound up, too...everything, really.

Yet, he can feel the sun warm on his face from the window that Malfoy is sitting beside, and the
next thing he knows, he's jerking awake with the feeling like he lost time. He moves his arm from
his face, blinking blearily at the window—which no longer sheds sunlight in the room—and the
blurry image of Malfoy still sitting in that chair.

Harry sits up slowly, groaning as he reaches back to palm at the nape of his neck. He feels sore all
over, but thankfully less tired. Actually, he feels awfully rested for the first time in...well, a while.
It's then that he realizes that he didn't have a nightmare about Voldemort—his sleep went unbroken
by dreams of any kind, in fact.

Swallowing, Harry stares down at his lap for a long time, simply thinking about all that's happened.
He finds himself thinking about Sirius, missing him, grieving. His brain skitters around the idea of
what Sirius would think of him right now.

The world isn't split into good people and Death Eaters. We've all got both light and dark inside
us. What matters is the part we choose to act on. That's who we really are.

Sirius said that once. Harry wonders what Sirius would say to him right this second. Something
helpful, a decision in his best interest, the right thing. Or, perhaps, the thing that gets revenge the
quickest. Would Sirius sacrifice Harry just to avenge the dead? Is Harry going to do that?

There's a Muggle saying—cutting off your nose to spite your face, which is oddly fitting,
considering the circumstances. Harry thinks about that saying for a long time, and he thinks about
his Godfather, too. Thinks about how, out of everyone, Sirius is the person he doesn't want to
disappoint the most, but Sirius is gone. He's dead, and the person who killed him is dead because
Harry got his revenge.

Harry wonders if Sirius would have used the Killing Curse on Pettigrew that night.

Sighing, Harry pats around on the bed for his glasses, squinting as he tries to find any sign of the
weathered frames. Eventually, his fingers fumble over them, and he shoves them on his face in just
enough time to nearly jump out of his skin when a house-elf appears with a pop!

"Dipsy is to inform Masters Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy that dinner is being served," Dipsy
says with a low bow, his whole body shaking.

"Thank you, Dipsy," Malfoy says in a bored tone, standing up from his chair.

"Master Draco Malfoy is most welcome," Dipsy declares before disappearing the same way he
came.

Malfoy makes his way over to the door, pausing to look back at him with an unreadable expression
on his face. "Coming?"

"Do I have a choice?" Harry mutters, pushing to his feet and grabbing his wand.

Malfoy's gaze zeroes in on the action, his throat bobbing. It's clear that he thinks Harry has endless
choices, some that could end with him in a bad way, and it makes Harry feel ill to think that
Malfoy actually believes he's capable of that.

Well, he's capable enough to kill Bellatrix. Why not anyone else? Therein lies the problem, he
supposes. It still grates on his nerves, anyway.
"You might get lost, so I'll wait," Malfoy offers quietly, his gaze planted firmly on the floor.

"Stop it," Harry snaps, kicking a pillow aside as he moves closer to Malfoy. "Stop being scared of
me, Malfoy. I'm not going to kill you, alright? Merlin."

"My apologies, Harry," Malfoy says slowly, the words a little stiff like he's forcing them out.

"And stop that, too!" Harry snarls, reaching past Malfoy to yank open the door. "I don't care if
Merlin himself ordered you to treat me nicely, that's not how things work between us!"

Malfoy frowns at him. "Don't put me in this position, Po-Harry. I shouldn't disobey him."

"Bloody buggering hell," Harry grits out, reaching over to grab Malfoy's arm and drag him out into
the hall. Instead of going towards the dining room, which Harry would likely get lost at,
admittedly, he follows the path back to the study.

He remembers the walk in stark clarity, actually paying attention for once, mostly by choice. He'd
figured that Voldemort would spend most of his time there—seems like the place for Dark Lords to
linger, or whatever. He does reach a few halls that he forgets whether to take a left or right before
he recognizes a portrait, and then he's off again with Malfoy following him without a word.

However, once they get close to the study, Malfoy begins to dig his heels in. Harry yanks on his
arm, and he almost relishes in the way Malfoy resists him, pulling back and shaking his head.

"He shouldn't be disturbed," Malfoy hisses, his eyes bulging as Harry yanks on him harder.

Harry throws him a glare. "Well, I don't give a damn, Malfoy. You are coming in!"

"No, I most certainly am not going to—"

"Don't tell me you're scared, Malfoy!"

"I'd be a bloody idiot not to be! The Dark Lord does not like to be bothered!" Malfoy snaps, some
of that fire Harry's used to coming back to life in his gaze as he tries to slap Harry's hand off his
arm.

"In that case, he shouldn't have offered me refuge," Harry growls, pulling on Malfoy with a grunt
as he throws the door open and yanks them both in.

Malfoy immediately snaps his mouth shut, going still and ducking his head. Harry huffs and keeps
a firm grip on Malfoy's arm as he looks between Voldemort and Mr. Malfoy. They're both staring
at him and Malfoy with irritation.

"What is it?" Voldemort asks tersely.

Harry jabs a hand at Malfoy. "Tell this tosser to be how he used to be. I don't need you bloody
ordering people to be friends with me!"

Voldemort blinks. "Pardon?"

"Me and Malfoy?" Harry snaps, giving Malfoy's arm a rough shake. "We're not friends. We've
spent the better part of the last five years trying to rip each other's heads off. He'd sooner call me
Scarhead than call me by name, and he most certainly doesn't treat me warmly, the prat."

"And you wish for him to...resume treating you in such a manner?" Voldemort asks him slowly,
looking—for the very first time that Harry has ever seen—supremely confused.

"Yes! Well, no. I mean—" Harry groans and rubs a hand over his face before letting it drop limply
to his side as he sighs. "Look, Malfoy pretending to be nice is the last thing I want to deal with on
top of everything else. I would prefer it if he acted however he really wanted to, rather than faking
it all because you told him to. Make sense?"

"I see." Voldemort's gaze sweeps from Harry to Malfoy. "Draco, look at me."

Swallowing thickly, Malfoy does, barely hiding his flinch. "Yes?"

"You are free to treat Harry however you wish, call him whatever you wish, and do whatever to
him that you like. No one will interfere, and you will not be punished. Harry is free to act and react
however he wishes, do bear that in mind."

Malfoy nods, dipping his head respectfully.

"Good. Now, out, both of you. Dinner is served."

"Let me go," Malfoy says sharply, yanking his arm out of Harry's grip with such force that Harry
actually blinks. Malfoy arches an eyebrow before turning on his heel and heading right for the
door, his head held high. "Do keep up, Potter."

Harry stands there for a beat, blinking, then feels his lips curl up and break into a grin at Malfoy's
cool demeanor. If nothing else, that's familiar, and it suggests that Malfoy isn't afraid of him. It's
such a relief that Harry actually laughs and shakes his head before moving to follow Malfoy out of
the room.

"Children," Mr. Malfoy offers as they go.

Voldemort hums.

Once they reach the dining room, Malfoy instantly sweeps over to his mother, bowing his head
near her ear to whisper quietly. After a moment, she nods and gently touches his hand on her
shoulder, giving it a brief squeeze before Malfoy pulls away.

Harry sits down in the same spot he did for lunch, feeling very out of place, especially when
Malfoy moves to sit right next to him yet again. He wonders what Malfoy would do if he dumped a
glass of wine on him now, and he eyes the wine for a beat.

"Don't even think about it," Malfoy says coldly, making Harry jolt. "Make a move to do it, and I'll
hex the glass to bite you."

"Can you actually do that?" Harry asks.

Malfoy glares at him. "Try it and find out."

Stupidly, Harry grins again. It only grows when Malfoy scoffs in open disgust and rolls his eyes,
turning his attention to his plate. Harry watches him cut his meat in small bites, so small that he
probably doesn't even need to properly chew them.

"Hey, er, Mrs. Malfoy…" Harry murmurs hesitantly, looking at her cautiously.

Mrs. Malfoy smiles at him. "Call me Narcissa, Mr. Potter. What can I do for you?"

Harry feels his face explode with heat. "Oh no. I mean, just—just Harry, please. My name is
Harry."

"Alright, Harry," Mrs. Malfoy says, nodding with her kind smile still in place, seemingly unaware
of her son scoffing again from beside Harry.

"I just—I wanted to apologize for, erm, earlier when I...was rude," Harry manages to stutter out.
"And, um, about—about your...about…"

He can't say it. He can't force the words out, even though he would really like to for her benefit, no
matter if it is a lie. Every time he tries to push the words past the lump in his throat, it gets stuck.
Sorry about killing your sister, ma'am, really.

Except he's not. At all.

"No need to apologize, Harry," Mrs. Malfoy tells him softly. "As I said, I am not grieving her.
However, I do believe condolences are in order for your Godfather, Sirius Black. He was my
cousin."

The lump in Harry's throat seems to get larger, and he blinks hard. "Yes, I know. And thank you.
I'd rather not talk about him, though."

Mrs. Malfoy nods. "Of course. You should eat. The house-elves are delighted to have another
person to feed, and I do think they may have...shown off a bit. I hope you don't mind."
"No." Harry clears his throat and tries for a smile, knowing it's strained. "No, it's fine. It's, er,
brilliant. Thank them for me, please."

"I will indeed do that," Mrs. Malfoy tells him, her lips twitching a bit around her smile. He can't
tell if she wants to smile harder or frown, but neither option is acted on. "I should also tell you that
there is a room being made up for you across from Draco's. I've been told that you will be spending
the summer with us, and I would hope that your time here is comfortable. We wish to be gracious
hosts, so you need only ask for anything you wish."

Harry blinks at her, then slowly nods. After a beat, he frowns. "My things from Hogwarts. You
wouldn't happen to—to know where it is, would you? I don't suppose Voldemort could just fly off
and grab them on his next trip to burn helpless people alive?"

"Well...um," Mrs. Malfoy says, visibly startled as she stares at him, and there's a vindictive spike in
him that he's managed to crack her proper exterior. Good. "I actually believe that your things were
seized by the Ministry. I would have to check with Lucius to be absolutely sure."

"D'you think he'd be able to get them for me?" Harry asks, trying his absolute best not to perk up in
obvious hope.

Mrs. Malfoy seems to know anyway. "I will discuss it with him and inform you as soon as I
know."

Harry gives her a mocking smile and grabs his glass as he sarcastically says, "Cheers, Mrs. Malfoy.
It would be a great help to have something to remind me of my home, since this place only reminds
me of the opposite."

"Potter," Malfoy drawls, "leave my mother alone."

"Oh, and why should I?" Harry whips his head around to glare at Malfoy. "It's not as if you haven't
mocked my mother more times than I can count."

"It's not my fault you can't count very high."

"Piss off. You talked horribly of my mother, and she's dead. Killed by the monster having a bloody
meeting with your father in a stupidly lavish study. If all I do is make your mother uncomfortable,
you should consider yourself lucky."

Malfoy takes another small bite, narrowing his eyes at Harry. "Oh? Are you a bully now, Potter?
When we've welcomed you so kindly into our home?"

"A home housing the Darkest Wizard of his age. Such a kind welcome, Malfoy. Excuse me for not
feeling right at home here."

"I imagine you'd rather be in that shed the Weasleys call a home, would you?"

"Without a doubt," Harry snaps.

"So, go," Malfoy tells him simply, blinking at him with a smirk. "No one's stopping you."

Harry shuts his mouth with an audible clack and goes about viciously cutting his meat up with a
scowl. He has no rebuttal for that, and Malfoy knows it. It probably won't be the last time he'll say
something like that, so Harry should get used to it. Malfoy has always been good about exploiting
weaknesses that Harry has and using them to rile him up.

Mrs. Malfoy eats calmly like nothing is amiss.

At some point later, the silence is broken by Mr. Malfoy sweeping in the room. He immediately
moves over to the seat next to his wife, leaving the head seat empty, even though it doesn't seem
like Voldemort will be joining them. Mrs. Malfoy leans over and whispers in Mr. Malfoy's ear.

Harry feels an elbow nudging in his side, and he glances over at Malfoy with a scowl. Malfoy
minutely shakes his head and flicks his gaze down. Harry feels something brush his leg, and when
he glances down, Malfoy is waving his wand.

When Harry looks back up, the peas are disappearing from Malfoy's plate. Harry blinks.

Malfoy arches an eyebrow at him, and Harry can't believe he's actually agreeing, but he nods
anyway. Not because he doesn't want to eat the peas, but because he wants to see Malfoy do magic
so casually during the summer. It's so odd.
The peas disappear slowly off his plate, too, and Harry just watches. How is Malfoy doing magic
over the summer? He's underage. Well, it's probably some kind of magic that allows him to, or
maybe it's the fact that he's not in a house full of Muggles.

Harry feels a desperate grip of excitement take hold of his lungs, nearly leaving him breathless. He
reaches out with a shaky hand and points it at the dish containing the slices of meat.

"Wingardium Leviosa," he whispers.

It's such a simple Spell. A first-year Spell, but he's never had the luxury of even that before now,
nevermind the fact that he's already used his wand. He hadn't thought about it, then. The dish rises
in the air, hovering, and Harry just stares at it. It's at that moment that he realizes that he's sitting in
Malfoy Manor, eating supper with enemies, in the easy vicinity of the madman who killed his
parents and countless others.

The dish clatters back to the table, and Harry covers his face with his hands, trying to breathe.
What the hell is he doing? He has no bloody clue.

"Mr. Potter," Mr. Malfoy suddenly says, making Harry slowly pick up his head and glare at him, "I
will attempt to retrieve your possessions from the Ministry. Is there anything else you require? I
will be going out later this week."

"Yeah," Harry rasps, "see if you can't locate my damn mind, won't you? I seem to have lost it
somewhere in the past week and a half."

"As you wish," Mr. Malfoy says, not even twitching, giving nothing away except for the brief flash
of sadistic amusement in his eyes.

Harry sighs and falls silent, picking at his food and getting lost among his thoughts. The Malfoys
leave him alone to his brooding, for which he's thankful.

The next two days pass in a blur.

Also in silence. Harry hasn't spoken a word since the first dinner, and not even Malfoy's glib snark
manages to pull him out of his own head. All his interaction turns inward, his thoughts on a loop of
guilt, anger, uncertainty. There are questions he doesn't want answers to, and details he doesn't
want to ask after, not anymore.

He manages to forget for a little while what Voldemort told him. Instead, he focuses most of his
energy on simply thinking about Sirius. Crying, grieving, wishing he could go back and not make
the stupidest decision he's ever made.

Along with Sirius, thoughts of killing Bellatrix fills his head. She's the last person he wants to think
of and remember in stark clarity, but since he's killed her, it seems he's doomed to clear space for
her in his mind. He can remember her curls, the taste of her fear, the dying light in her eyes after
Harry said the Spell. He goes back and forth on his guilt and discomfort with it, justifying his own
actions in one breath and declaring himself a monster in the next.

He also spends a great deal of time thinking about his parents, about what they must think of him
now, if there is an afterlife to watch him from. Disappointed? Undoubtedly.

And, when he's not thinking of the dead, he's thinking of the living. His friends, what they're doing,
what they feel about him now. Dumbledore, why he didn't tell Harry the truth, whether he regrets
not doing so. Anyone, everyone in the Order, his housemates—do they hate him now, are they
worried, what would happen if he went back?

He almost leaves at ten different points, but he can't quite bring himself to. Out of fear, maybe,
expect that doesn't quite fit him, does it?

The truth is, yes, he's terrified of the idea of being handed over to Dementors—they are his worst
fear, after all—but it's more than that. He's mostly afraid of what he'll have to face from those he
trusts and loves. Would they cast him aside? Would they demand he die for the world? Would
they look at him differently because of what he did, maybe with fear the same way everyone else
has?

It's the unknown that keeps him here, and he wastes away in it, sitting in his room every time he's
not summoned to meals. He eats because he knows he has to, but he says not one word. He doesn't
respond to any of them, to no one, and it's harder to drown out his own thoughts that way.

But he deserves them.

"Killing, bad. Plain and simple!"

"So, you feel as if you are bad?"

Harry starts having nightmares after the first night. Every time he closes his eyes, he sees himself
killing Bellatrix again. Sometimes, she'll plead for her life and he'll still scream the Curse at her.
Sometimes, Voldemort will be there and he'll nod at Harry in approval. And, worst of all,
Dumbledore is always there, begging him not to do it, but he does it anyway every single time
without fail.

In short, Harry is having a hard time coping with this. He's getting to the point where he's thinking
he should take off and face the people who must feel completely betrayed by him.

If nothing else, he's earned their disdain.

Harry is planning just that on the third morning when he goes down to breakfast, padding down the
cold halls of the Manor. He almost wants to retreat to the room they've given him, even if it feels
as impersonal as the rest of the place. It is, however, where he's spent most of his time. The room is
as large as Malfoy's, and it seems like a guest room without a touch of anything of his—even his
wardrobe consists of generic wizarding clothes, though they fit much better than Dudley's second-
hand clothes ever have.

Still, if he's going to be leaving, he should probably plan it better in case he actually is a prisoner
here. So, he trudges into the dining room in utter silence, moving over to the chair next to Malfoy
on complete habit alone.

"Potter," Malfoy says the moment he sits down, "I think there's something you should see."

Harry's stomach clenches at the serious tone Malfoy has. He slowly looks up to see Mr and Mrs.
Malfoy watching him with small frowns, and Malfoy himself looks distinctly unhappy.

"At least let him have breakfast, Draco," Mrs. Malfoy says softly, her tone just on the edge of
scolding. Usually, when it comes to Harry, Malfoy's parents never interfere, just like Voldemort
ordered them not to.
Malfoy frowns harder. "Mother, I'm taking a chance here on what I do know about Potter, and my
guess is that he does not appreciate people withholding information about him from him." He looks
at Harry and passes up a folded paper that Harry instantly recognizes—The Prophet. Malfoy takes
a deep breath. "You may want to satiate your appetite before you do your curiosity, because there
is a good chance what you read will remove your appetite entirely. Up to you, Potter."

Harry swallows thickly and grabs the paper as each Malfoy watches him closely. Everything within
him wants to open the paper immediately, but if Malfoy is right, then Harry should probably eat
first.

So, that's what he does.

The mood around the table seems to relax a bit since he's not reading it first thing, and that only
makes him want to read it even less. He eats very slowly in silence and pretends like he can't feel
each Malfoy watching him like he might explode.

Harry eventually realizes that he's avoiding it. Somewhere deep down, he knows what he's going to
find in that paper. He just knows. And he doesn't want to see it. He doesn't want to have to face it,
not when he's so close to giving in to the urge to just go home, consequences be damned.

There's going to be consequences listed in that paper, Harry just knows it.

Once he's eaten all he can stomach, Harry pushes his plate away and grabs his wine, nursing it. In
the past three days here, that's about the only thing he's come to appreciate. The wine doesn't get
him drunk, but it does make him relax ever so slightly, sort of making his limbs feel just a bit
fuzzy, warming his stomach and chest. He's even learned that it works and tastes even better if he
sips it slowly over time, which helps him in this case.

Though it's clear that the Malfoys have finished their breakfast, they linger at the table, waiting.
Even Mr. Malfoy stays, not sweeping off the moment he's finished his meal like usual.

Eventually, Harry can't put it off any longer. His glass is empty, his plate is empty, and he has
nothing else to hide behind. It's the Gryffindor courage in him that gets him to reach out and pick
up the paper, his stomach twisting in anxious knots. He feels sick to his stomach even before he
opens the paper and begins reading, but that feeling only gets worse with every second that passes
after that.
Boy-Who-Lost-His-Mind Wanted! the headline reads.

Harry J. Potter, fifteen years of age, was once the sole beacon of hope for all Witches and Wizards
alike. It's with a heavy heart that we inform you this is no longer the case. Proceeding the events of
Harry Potter's disastrous outburst in the Ministry, putting Albus Dumbledore and other students
from Hogwarts in need of medical aid, a meeting took place to decide what would become of the
missing boy.

Minister Fudge (see the next page for his personal statement on the matter) sat with those of the
Wizengamot to decide the fate of Harry Potter, who has been missing for two weeks exactly. With
his destruction of parts of the Ministry and the added crime of Casting the Killing Curse to murder
Azkaban Escapee, Bellatrix Lestrange, it shouldn't come as any surprise that Harry Potter has
been deemed a threat.

The meeting lasted a total of six hours before a decision and sentence was reached. Witnesses were
called to make statements, and our sources say that Albus Dumbledore was not among them. His
opinion on the matter remains a mystery, but his silence tells it all.

Harry Potter has been declared Wanted for Arrest upon immediate interaction. Anyone with any
contact with the criminal in question should immediately report it to the Aurors. He is armed with
his wand and very dangerous.

Being the sole survivor of the Killing Curse seems to have damaged Harry Potter's mental state.
He has spread lies about He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named's return, as well as harmed a Ministry
Official (see Delores Umbridge's statement on page 3). What has driven Harry Potter to such
lunacy? Could it be a carnal urge to follow in his Godfather's footsteps? One must wonder at
Sirius Black's escape and ask themselves if, perhaps, Harry Potter has aligned himself with him out
of desperation for family. Sirius Black's whereabouts are still unknown, just as Harry Potter's, and
there is a very real chance they are together, laying in wait to terrorize the world.

Harry Potter's mental state has been in question for some time (see the last page for a quick
summary of previous articles on Harry Potter) and it brings no one any joy to see him completely
lose his mind. One might think he belongs in the Janus Thickey Ward rather than Azkaban, but
Minister Fudge has determined otherwise.

It's a dark day for many to face the very possible reality that the Hero they once adored might just
become the next insane Dark Lord.
(Pictured above, Harry Potter dueling Albus Dumbledore in the Ministry of Magic. Continue to
page 2 for more on the story.)

For a long time, Harry stares at the moving picture as it blurs in front of him. It's not the best
moving photo, but he can clearly see himself waving his wand and making the tiled walls in the
Ministry explode, pelting Dumbledore with the debris. Dumbledore is shouting, that much is
obvious, and he's not attacking Harry in return, merely defending himself against everything that
Harry throws at him.

Except that's not Harry. It's his face, his body, his wand...but that's not him. That's not his maniacal
glee in his eyes, not his cold sneer on his lips, not his harsh slashing of his wand. It's so clearly
Voldemort that Harry thinks he might hurl.

Surprisingly, what makes him feel the most ill is the dead body of Bellatrix in the background.
That had been him. All him on his own.

Witnesses were called to make statements, and our sources say that Albus Dumbledore was not
among them. His opinion on the matter remains a mystery, but his silence tells it all, the paper had
read.

Harry feels...numb.

He knows, of course, that there were consequences waiting in this paper, but he still struggles to
process it. Wanted? He's just a boy! It shouldn't surprise him, considering the Ministry tried to
have him killed last summer, but it does.

Why wasn't Dumbledore there? Didn't he have anything to say on Harry's behalf?

Does he?

The picture in the paper gets even blurrier, and it takes him a moment to realize why. Tears are
gathering in his eyes, hot and stinging. It only serves to anger him, and that's like un-stoppering a
flowing tap. As sudden as that, his rage swirls within him like a furious storm, making his tears fall
as his face twists. He glares so hard at the paper that he's not even really all that shocked when it
abruptly catches fire and goes up in flame, burning hot and shrinking under his tight grip.
Cool hands peel his own away from the paper carefully, the fingers trembling as they grip his
wrists. Harry stiffly drops the paper, watching it burn to ash right there on his empty plate. He
clenches his jaw and says nothing as Malfoy's wand waves over his burns, smoothing them over
and healing them. He barely even feels it.

Slowly, Harry looks up and pins his gaze on Lucius Malfoy. "Did you make a statement?" he asks
softly, each word falling out with an edge.

Mr. Malfoy swallows thickly. "I was expected to, but My Lord ordered me not to," he admits,
seeming very relieved of that fact. "I bribed the right people to get out of doing so."

"Were you there?" Harry demands.

"I wasn't," Mr. Malfoy whispers, looking as pale as the ash on the plate. "I did have someone
recount the meeting for me, if you're interested."

Harry leans forward just a bit. "I want to know what witnesses gave statements."

"Multiple Ministry workers who arrived on the scene to see you kill Bellatrix and then duel
Dumbledore. S-Severus Snape was called in for his knowledge of you breaking into the Ministry to
begin with. Dumbledore himself was requested, but the man refused," Mr. Malfoy says quietly.

"Were any of the Weasleys there?"

"The children present on the night of the events at the Ministry were not permitted by their parents
to give statements. No Weasleys were there."

"No, of course not," Harry whispers, releasing Mr. Malfoy from the weight of his gaze and
choosing instead to stare at the ashes. Ridiculously, he waits for a baby Phoenix to rise up, but it
doesn't. Of course it doesn't. "Brilliant. Well, you're all aiding a fugitive now. How does that
feel?"

No one answers him.

He doesn't really expect them to. He doesn't blame them for their silence. He wouldn't know what
to say if he was them, either. And it's not like he's in a good mood; he's so clearly furious that it's a
wonder Dumbledore himself can't feel it. Maybe he can. Harry pictures him sitting up in alarm,
looking around wherever he is, uneasy.

Why wouldn't he be uneasy? After all, it's Harry Potter. A criminal. Wanted. The murderous, lying
boy who believes Voldemort somehow returned from the dead. The next insane Dark Lord.

Harry feels like he's about to be sick.

"Potter," Malfoy says suddenly, making Harry snap his gaze over to him in a sharp look, but
Malfoy doesn't flinch or back down. "Come with me for a fly. I'll loan you a broom."

"I don't want to go for a fly, Malfoy," Harry snaps.

Malfoy stands up and looks down his nose at him, arching an eyebrow. "Do it anyway."

With that, Malfoy turns and exits the room with his usual pompous strut, except Harry can see just
the barest tremble in his fingers.

Harry gets up and follows him.

They fly all day. Up in the air until the sun starts to set. No meals, no Voldemort, no Malfoys
besides the one that's Harry's age. No games are played, they don't speak, and they don't chase each
other; they simply fly over the Manor, over the Gardens, over the rolling hills and the expansive
meadow Harry woke up in four days ago.

As it starts to get dark, Harry touches down in that meadow, wondering if the place he lands is
where he woke up. It's not likely, but that would be a bit poetic, wouldn't it? He puts his borrowed
broom down in the grass and sits next to it, staring out at the sun dipping below the hill.

Malfoy eventually joins him, sitting down next to him without even taking off his outer robe first.
The silence is heavy, but for once, it's not because of their familiar dislike for each other.
The flying has actually calmed him, though. Harry won't admit it to save his life, but it was a good
idea on Malfoy's part to get him in the air. Up there, all his problems seem so small and trivial.
Always has, even when his biggest problem was Voldemort wanting him dead. While flying, Harry
can push all that away and focus on the rushing wind brushing along his cheeks and through his
hair.

His problems are a lot different now. So much so that it's still hard to fathom. Voldemort no longer
wants him dead. Harry is a murderer. Malfoy is sitting next to him, not Ron or Hermione. Sirius is
dead because of him. And Dumbledore…

Harry doesn't know what to think. He really, truly doesn't. Yes, Dumbledore had been ignoring him
all year, unwilling to listen to him or even meet his gaze. Yes, Harry unintentionally got the man
sacked and nearly arrested, which was truly an accident that the Ministry jumped on quickly. And
yes, Harry failed to keep Voldemort out of his head, even though Snape only made that problem
worse.

He knows he's mucked it all up this year. He's very aware. But he's not—he isn't bad. Surely
Dumbledore can't think that?

So what if he does? a voice whispers in his mind, the same voice that reminds him how much he
liked killing. If he sees you in such a negative light, isn't that betrayal on his part? If he thinks you
capable of evil, is his faith something you should desire?

That's not fair. Dumbledore is many things, but he is a great Wizard. He is kind, and he helps
people. He's helped Harry countless times throughout the years.

Has he? the voice needles at him. Or has he lied to you? Has he kept your friends from contacting
you when you needed them the most? Has he failed to help you throughout the year, pawning you
off on Snape, who you aren't even sure you can trust? Has he forced you to stay with those
Muggles who treat you so horribly? Don't lie to yourself, Harry. You're angry at him, and you have
all rights to be. Great as he may be, he hasn't been any help to you this last year.

Maybe that's true, but that doesn't mean Harry wants to accept the rage he feels for the man. He
doesn't want to be angry with Dumbledore. He wants to feel safe enough to return to him, and he
wants to be able to trust him wholeheartedly.

Yet, he sits right there and doesn't move. That's a betrayal from him right there, and he knows it.
Someone innocent would return home as soon as they could, at whatever chance they got. But
Harry's not innocent, is he? What is he supposed to say if Dumbledore asks him why he killed
Bellatrix, if he regrets it, or worse, if he liked it? What is he supposed to say if Dumbledore asks
him where he's been, who he's been with? What would Dumbledore say if Harry asked him about
what Voldemort said?

Harry closes his eyes and inhales deeply, breathing in the crisp scent of fresh air. He exhales
slowly, trying to stay calm. It's going to be fine. He just has to accept it. He's a wanted criminal
now, and that's that, isn't it? He'd have to hide no matter who he did it with, and at least—

No, Harry cuts that thought off violently. He will not be thankful for a damn thing Voldemort
offers him. As if honesty and freedom is enough to garner Harry's gratitude, not when paired
against years of history where Voldemort has tried to kill him.

Inhale, exhale. Deep and slow. There we go.

Harry breathes for a while.

"What are you going to do?" Malfoy whispers, glancing over at him when Harry thinks to look.

"I don't know," Harry admits softly.

"It's—Potter, anyone with half a brain won't actually believe that you're dangerous. I mean, you are
dangerous, but it's quite clear that you don't want to be, and that counts for something. If I know
that, surely those who know you are aware of that."

"Unfortunately, Malfoy, I think many in the Wizarding World have less than half a brain. That
became quite obvious when they refused to believe me when I said Voldemort was back."

"Yes, well, what about your simpering admirers? Your group of friends and that bastard,
Dumbledore?" Malfoy looks over at him again, this time not quickly looking away when he sees
Harry already staring at him. "You can't possibly think that they believe you're...evil now, or
something."

Harry huffs a harsh breath. "You know what, Malfoy? They just might. After all, Dumbledore has
been ignoring me all year. I have been distant with all my friends, and I—I started
seeming...different. Then I killed Bellatrix and—well, maybe they do think I'm evil now. Maybe
they're right."
Malfoy snorts, making Harry blink. "You? Oh, please, Potter. You are dangerous, that's true. But
you're not evil. If you were, you would have killed me the moment you opened your eyes in this
meadow and saw me standing before you."

The world isn't split into good people and Death Eaters. We've all got both light and dark inside
us. What matters is the part we choose to act on. That's who we really are.

What matters is the part we choose to act on. That's who we really are…

Harry feels his eyes itch with a fresh wave of tears that he won't let surface. Still, those words echo
in his head in Sirius' voice. It soothes him, because for the first time, he understands what that
means.

Killing Bellatrix was the dark side of him, and yes, he chose to embrace that. He wanted to. But
that doesn't mean he can't choose differently today than he did then. Scary as the thought is, he
could choose differently each day, and it won't make the fact that he's capable of both go away. He
could be either, but the important thing is that he gets to choose.

Harry reaches up to grip his hair, tugging on the strands and letting out a wet breath. "Malfoy, how
does someone decide what to—to do when the two choices they have are equally...wrong?"

It hurts to admit that, but it's true. It's not just Light Side versus Dark Side anymore, and anyway,
that's for fairytales where the Light always wins. No, it's something different now. It involves the
fact that Harry's now wanted by the Ministry, and the way Dumbledore has kept things from him,
and how Harry feels farther from anyone he used to depend on than he ever has. It involves the fact
that Harry's now under protection, and the way Voldemort offers it even though he used to want
Harry dead, and how Harry feels about the Killing Curse.

It's all wrong, all of it in so many different ways, and it's also not. These are just things that are
happening to him, and he has to deal with them. The wrongness comes from how he doesn't want
to.

"Well, Potter," Malfoy muses, "I suppose if someone doesn't like the options they have, they'll just
have to...get more options."

"What if they can't?"

"In that case, they should choose whatever option will let them survive. Surely you know that.
Survival is sort of your thing, isn't it, Potter?"

"Yes," Harry whispers, "but betrayal and cowardice is not."

Malfoy hums. "Is it traitorous to want to live? Is it cowardly to adapt to the circumstances you
face?"

"If the price of those things is the safety of my friends and the world I've come to love, then yes."

"In that case, let me ask you this. How much is your survival worth to you, Potter?"

Harry stares at the side of Malfoy's face, taking in his content expression, the surprisingly soft
curve of his cheek that gives way to his sharp jaw. He stares, and without even meaning to, he
hears his answer fall from his lips.

"It's all I know."

"Do you intend to unlearn it?"

Harry feels something break and splinter inside his chest, and he chokes out, "I don't think I can."

"No, I imagine you can't," Malfoy agrees, looking over at him intently. "I don't even believe that's
your fault. You've been built for it from a mere infant, surviving something no one should. And
every year at Hogwarts tested you in that aspect, strengthening your instinctive need to survive. It
seems your choice has already been made for you, Potter."

"I can't do this, Malfoy," Harry gasps out, squeezing his eyes shut and wishing the tears would
come now, but they won't. Everything is so bloody still, inside him and around them. The wind has
stopped, and Harry feels absolutely nothing.

Malfoy's fingers gently prodding his hand makes Harry's eyes snap open, and for a long moment,
they simply stare at each other. Then, softly, Malfoy murmurs, "You're already doing it."

Yeah.

Yeah, he is.
 Metaphors
Chapter Notes

Confessionssssss. This is a long road. Strap in, folks. No real warnings for this chap,
y'all. Draco and Harry fight, but like, that's not new.

Two days later, Harry's no better off than the two days prior, still grieving his Godfather and
questioning everything relentlessly, but now there's the added pressure of Draco Malfoy.

They've gotten into a fight.

This, on its own, is not that surprising. He and Malfoy bicker almost constantly. They verbally spar
pretty much every time they speak to each other, and that's generally the only time that Harry
speaks at all. Even if they do go out flying at least once a day now—a silent, yet necessary ritual
that Harry won't be breaking anytime soon—they still have a go at each other any other time.
Verbally, at least.

They've both said harsh, cruel things. Not just here at the Manor, but for as long as they've known
each other. Harry knows the gobshite Malfoy spews like he knows his own name, unlikely to
forget it, and somehow it still riles him up every sodding time.

Deep down, it's the weirdest form of comfort Harry's got in this bizarre new world of his. For as
long as Malfoy is still being a prat to him, then he certainly can't be something formidable or evil,
no matter how Mr and Mrs. Malfoy reacts to him. So, Malfoy being a git is actually something that
Harry finds a bit of secret relief in.

And yet.

He doesn't even really remember what it is that Malfoy says. He's just especially pissed off today,
which has something to do with his reoccurring nightmare where he kills Bellatrix—the night
before, Sirius was there, shaking his head in disapproval.

So, Malfoy says something. Probably about his friends, or his hair, or glasses, or intelligence, or
any of the usual things Malfoy spouts off about with his trademark sneer. Harry says something
back, Malfoy responds, they start arguing, and the next thing Harry knows...they're swinging fists.
Someone should stop them. There's no doubt in Harry's mind that someone hears it, that someone
is aware of them beating the shite out of each other. But no one comes, and Harry only gets
angrier.

In fact, he's so angry that he barely notices they're both bloody in the face and the knuckles. He
doesn't hear what Malfoy snarls at him, doesn't even feel the pain from the hits that Malfoy does
land. It's just the roaring in his ears, the anger beating a steady drum in his head, growing into a
rapid tempo.

Then, quite suddenly, Harry is very aware.

He comes back to himself with a sensation like he's just been slapped. Because here is Draco
Malfoy, laying flat on his back and gasping for air as Harry holds his forearm against his throat.
Here is Draco Malfoy, normally so pale that he looks porcelain, turning a bright red as his eyes
flutter.

Here is Harry Potter, strangling the only person who has made him feel the least bit human in the
past week, mindless in his ruthless brutality.

Harry flings himself off of Malfoy so fast that he actually trips backwards. He hears Malfoy choke,
gasping for air, and Harry copies the sound because he feels like he's experiencing the same exact
thing. Malfoy stares at him, his chest heaving, his hand cradling his throat, his eyes oh so wide.

And Harry?

Harry runs.

So, no, he's no better off than he was before, and in fact, he's somehow much worse.

He avoids Malfoy after, roaming a long hall and slipping in through the first door that catches his
interest. He's still dripping with blood, his split knuckles and the cut near his eyebrow. He must
look a dreadful sight, but Voldemort doesn't seem to show much of a reaction to him.

Harry doesn't actually mean to come across Voldemort. According to Malfoy, the 'Dark Lord had
other matters to attend to, so he's away', which had suited Harry just fine. He, of course, spent
many hours contemplating what Voldemort was off doing and how much blood would be spilt, but
that didn't make Harry want him to come back any more.

In short, he's not expecting to find Voldemort, believing him to be away, and he's certainly ill-
prepared for the sight of him casually sitting in a chair with Nagini coiled up beside him.

Stupidly, the first thing Harry blurts is, "I thought you were out."

"I was," Voldemort confirms. He flicks his red gaze over Harry's haphazard state. "I have only just
returned a mere few hours ago."

"Did you kill people?"

"Do you actually want me to answer that?"

"I should hear it," Harry whispers harshly, awaiting the confirmation, ready for the brunt of yet
another load of shame and guilt.

Voldemort hums. "You seem to have plenty of other things going on at the moment. Are you
damaged?"

Harry blinks. "Excuse me?"

"Beyond superficially, I mean," Voldemort clarifies, flicking his fingers lazily and somehow
making it clear that he means Harry's injuries.

"Oh, er, no. Nothing broken or d-damaged," Harry mumbles, repressing a shudder.

"I take this to mean that you and the Malfoy child are not...getting along."

"You could say that."

"Did you kill him?" Voldemort asks, cocking his head to the side.

Swallow him, perhaps? says a hissing voice, soft yet grotesque, from near Nagini.

"No! I didn't kill him," Harry snarls defensively, throwing a glare at Voldemort and Nagini. "Nor
did I swallow him!"

It takes Harry a second to realize that he never switched over from English, then even longer to
realize that he's been talking to Voldemort in Parseltongue this whole time without even realizing
it. He blinks rapidly in surprise.

Voldemort smirks, though it's more of a flash of his teeth than anything. "Yes, you've been doing
that unconsciously from the moment your eyes landed on Nagini. It is a lot easier to speak when
there is a snake in the room, wouldn't you agree?"

"Am I still doing it?" Harry asks.

"Yes," Voldemort answers.

Harry sighs. "I don't actually know how to...turn it off, not when no one is speaking English around
me. Generally, I can note the difference between the two and switch between them."

Why speak English at all? Nagini hisses, somehow sounding unimpressed by the idea that anyone
would prefer to speak some other language than the one she knows.

"Would you like me to heal your head for you, Harry? You're losing quite a bit of blood."
Voldemort raises his wand patiently.

"No," Harry says sharply, frowning. "I'll be fine."

Voldemort looks irritated, scowling, but he only says, "Very well. Take this instead."
Bandages are Summoned and sent over to Harry, who takes them after a beat. Better than having
Voldemort turn his wand on Harry, at least. As anyone would guess, Harry's not exactly eager for
that. He just doesn't trust the man—monster, really—sitting across the room.

Your scent is sweet, calling to me, Nagini hisses, raising her large head, her tongue flicking.

Harry takes a solid step back. "Yeah, well, don't answer. I don't fancy myself your next meal,
thanks."

"Nagini will not harm you," Voldemort says with his head tipping to the other side.

Will not, Nagini agrees.

Her coiled body starts to spill over itself as she starts slithering across the floor, a lot faster than she
looks with her massive body. Harry is stepping back in alarm before he even realizes it, promises to
not harm him or no. Before he can properly run away, though, she's sliding in a slow circle around
his feet, making sure he can't move without stepping on her.

He can feel some of her scales brush along his ankle, and it causes him to shudder. A strange
ringing fills his ears, making him shut his eyes to try and hear it better. In the distance, somewhere
far, it sounds like a high-pitched shrill of a kettle. The longer he listens, however, the more that
sound shatters and softens into a strange hum, soft and melodic, almost soothing. Harry snaps his
eyes open once it fades and stares down at Nagini warily.

Do you hear the sound? Nagini hisses at him, her eyes flicking. The sound of our Master? I can
taste it.

"Nagini," Voldemort says softly, "I am not his Master, he is not my pet."

Can he be mine?

"No!" Harry bursts out, staring down at the snake incredulously.

Nagini wraps a little more snuggly around his feet, then goes still. Pity.
"Do not mind her," Voldemort tells Harry, seemingly very serious at the moment, despite the
madness of all of this. "Nagini is...mischievous at the best of times. She had, of course, taken a
natural dislike for you for the simple fact that I felt that way, and she did not appreciate knowing
that you were in her mind, however briefly. In light of recent events, she has taken it upon herself
to...reevaluate. It seems that she likes you, Harry Potter."

Harry doesn't really know what to say to that, and he's got a very heavy snake laying across his feet,
so he doesn't feel comfortable arguing that he doesn't want the snake in question to like him.

Instead, he says, "It's not—it wasn't like I was in her mind. It was like...I was her."

"Oh?" Voldemort eyes him in clear interest. "You felt as if you were Nagini?"

"Yeah. I—I didn't know that I wasn't...me. It felt like I was her, and she was me, and we both
wanted the same thing. To—"

"Yes?"

"You know what she did."

"And you felt as if it was you who did it?"

Harry swallows thickly. "Yeah."

"I see." Voldemort looks over to the window that shows sparse trees swaying in the wind outside.
It looks like there's a storm rolling in. Voldemort reaches up to tap his lipless mouth, his long
finger smoothing back and forth in a weirdly human gesture to show him deep in thought. After a
beat, he looks back at Harry and gestures to the chair right across from him. "Sit and wrap your
wounds."

For a moment, he resists listening to him on the fact that it's bloody Voldemort, but then he realizes
he actually is fairly tired after his fight with Malfoy. His head is throbbing so hard that his vision
goes in and out on the rare occasion. He sighs and carefully steps over Nagini's long length,
unwilling to step on her and risk her deciding to dislike him after all.
Harry eases into the chair opposite of Voldemort, feeling completely ridiculous as he does. Here he
goes, sitting across from his enemy, the maniac who killed his parents and tried to kill him on
multiple occasions, nothing bizarre about that, not at all.

He huffs. Everything about all of this is bizarre.

Voldemort doesn't say anything else, and Harry doesn't know what to say, so they both sit in
complete silence as Harry wraps his knuckles. He gets lost in doing so, distracted by the sight of
the bandage expanding over the blood, collecting it in little blots that spread. He can see his blood
drying and flaking off around his split knuckles, his skin already trying to mend itself. Carelessly,
he wraps his hand with detached interest, then does the other one the same exact way.

Stupidly, he just presses gauze to his head, holding it down over the small gash near his eyebrow
with a wince. It doesn't feel great, stings a bit, but he's certainly had worse—by the very man
watching him right now, in fact.

What a mad, mad world it is.

Nagini comes slithering by, nearly scaring Harry half to death to see her in his peripheral. She
brushes along his leg again, making that shrill noise pass in his mind until it turns to that wondrous
hum before it passes entirely. She keeps going, though, brushing past Voldemort, who actually
reaches out to pet her head as she goes by. Then she keeps on going until she's curled up in a shady
corner.

"Do you know?" Harry asks, his gaze fixed on Nagini. "Do you know why I—I felt like I was her
that night?"

"I do," Voldemort answers. He watches Harry closely, curiously. "Did Dumbledore have a theory?"

"Dumbledore…" Harry trails off, displeased by the tightness of his own voice, uncomfortable with
the harsh wave of anger that hits him. He doesn't want to be angry at Dumbledore, he really
doesn't, but he is. He is, and he doesn't know how to make it go away. It scares him. Remembering
that night doesn't exactly help matters. "If Dumbledore had one, he didn't tell me what it was. He
just—he sent me off with Snape, wouldn't explain anything. I was so angry, and he—he wouldn't
even look at me…"
"Do you think it was because he did not want you looking into his eyes, or that he did not wish to
look into yours?" Voldemort asks softly.

Harry shuts his eyes, his chest feeling tight, and he presses down harder on the gash to feel the
pain, just so he can breathe. "I don't know."

"The reason you felt as if you were Nagini was because, in a sense, you were." Voldemort gestures
to the corner where Nagini appears to be napping. "I told you that I have many defenses in place,
and she is one of them. As you do, she safeguards a piece of me, which means you two are
connected."

Harry's eyes snap open, and he feels a grip of distrust ensnare his heart. An ugly, harsh thing that
makes him feel irrationally betrayed. "You said I was the only living one! You lied to me."

"You are incorrect," Voldemort replies calmly, unaffected by Harry's obvious anger. "I said you
were the first living one, I did not say you were the last. I can tell you this, Harry Potter. You are
the only human, a one-of-a-kind, special…"

"A mistake," Harry argues sharply, that distrust receding but leaving a faint press of suspicion in
his mind. He narrows his eyes at Voldemort. "Are you going to try and make another human like
me?"

Voldemort simply shakes his head. "No. The process, as I'm sure you know, is quite...destructive. I
have no need for another, not when you exist already. A mistake you may be, but a wondrous one
all the same."

"Are you going to make more...defences?"

"All magic comes with a price, Harry. This is not one I'm willing to pay, not if I do not wish
to...lose something much greater. I have enough defenses."

"How many?"

"Including you? Seven."

Harry frowns. "Seems a bit excessive."

"Not at all. Two are with me, while two others are hidden away. But two are missing, and one is
already destroyed. It will take the destruction of all before I can ever be truly killed. Each of them
are equally important as the next."

"Three out of seven doesn't make your odds look good, Mr. Voldemort, Dark Lord, sir."

"Only one is destroyed, Harry," Voldemort tells him in cruel amusement. "And that was a fluke.
However, let's entertain the discussion of my odds. First, let us consider the two items I have
hidden away. Do you know where they are?"

"Well, no," Harry admits, scowling.

Voldemort hums. "And the other two that are under my protection. Even if you were to leave and
give yourself over to be killed, how easy do you think it would be for someone to kill Nagini,
especially when there are so few true ways to do it?"

Harry says nothing, clenching his jaw so hard that his teeth grind. Anger pulses hot in his chest.

"The remaining two that are missing are inconsequential. One is lost over decades of time, only
one other who knows of its whereabouts, and he is very much dead. The other...I believe that
Dumbledore himself has that one."

"You're not worried he'll destroy it?" Harry grits out, his heart slamming against his ribs. There's a
swirl of fear and hope—so at odds with each other—in the pit in his stomach.

Voldemort sneers. "He does not have the knowledge to do so; not yet, at least. He might very soon,
and he may destroy it. But...not before it destroys him."

Harry feels like he's been suddenly dunked in ice-cold water, frigid waves pressing in at all of his
sides. "You're going to kill Dumbledore?"

"No," Voldemort says with a glare as if he's actually annoyed by this, "I will not have the
pleasure."

"You just said—"

"I will not destroy him, he will destroy himself."

"No, he won't," Harry says, feeling himself relax in pure relief. "Dumbledore is too smart for that."

"Perhaps," Voldemort allows. His eyes seem to glitter in satisfaction. "We shall see."

Harry pulls his hand away from the gauze at his head, grateful that it just sticks there now. He
clears his throat. "Am I still talking in Parseltongue?"

"Yes."

"Bugger."

"You should go find Narcissa. She's quite exceptional at healing Spells. It's ironic, considering
Bellatrix was horrible at them."

"That's because she was horrid."

Voldemort eyes him in cruel amusement again, smiling thinly. "She was a sadist and a masochist
all at once, Harry Potter, but even she had her—" at this, he sneers, "—good qualities. Good by
Dumbledore's standards, even. That was long ago, but who is to say that she wouldn't have changed
into something better in the future? Who is to say that she did not have the potential to be
something worthy of forgiveness from those who believe themselves inherently good?"

"Stop it," Harry rasps.

"I have offered you honesty, and I will not back out on that promise for your comfort. The simple
truth is, despite her many faults in your eyes, she was a human capable of change. She may have.
That chance was as likely as her staying just as she was. And you killed her."
"She was a murderer! She killed Sirius, and—and tortured the Longbottoms, and—"

"And you killed her," Voldemort says simply, his words firm but not forceful.

Harry feels like he's about to vibrate right out of his chair, so angry and hurt and tightly wound that
he can barely breathe. "I—I—"

"She had life within her. Life comes with chances and choices, and no one knows the ones she
would have made. You took that life and you snuffed it out without hesitation."

"I didn't mean—"

"Yes, you did. Do not lie to me. You killed her for revenge, because you were angry, because she
killed your Godfather, because you wanted to. You don't even truly regret it, do you?"

"No, I fucking don't!" Harry shouts, exploding out of the chair in between one blink and the next,
his mind in an uproar. "I don't regret a damn thing! She deserved it, and given the bloody chance,
I'd do it again! I'd snuff out her life with my bare hands!"

This admission, of course, only makes Harry angrier once he registers it. Because it's true, and he's
utterly horrified by it. Because he knows it's wrong, and he doesn't want it to be true at all. But it
is.

Harry lashes out, barely even registering the wand in his hand before the chair he was just sitting in
goes sailing across the room. The rafters on the window start banging against the wall, and the
books on the shelves come flying off. Harry turns around, utterly furious, and lashes out at
Voldemort as well, even though he knows it's pointless.

It is, of course. Voldemort disappears and materializes across the room, watching him with intense,
ruby red eyes. Harry tosses a Spell at him, watches it get deflected, then tosses another. When it
becomes apparent that Voldemort is not going to duel him, Harry whirls away with a snarl and
takes his anger out on various items around the room.

Multiple pillows are exploded.

In the end, though, Harry finally comes to a stop. He's tired and weary, but his anger continues to
boil within him. He wishes it would run out, just spill over until all of it would be gone. It doesn't,
but in his stillness, the rage goes back to simmering right beneath the surface, manageable.

Now, he's just vaguely irritated and more than a little embarrassed. He wants to leave, but
Voldemort is standing by the door, and going seems like admitting defeat. So, instead, Harry
moves back over to his toppled chair, picking it back up and plopping down into it with a grunt.

Without a word, Voldemort flicks his wand. The mess around Harry snaps to life, going in reverse
and flying all around him, putting itself back together the way it was before he ever lashed out.
Despite everything, Harry watches the proceedings in a sense of awe—magic, no matter who casts
it, no matter how long he's gone with knowing about it, still manages to be amazing.

"Why did you not kill the Malfoy boy?" Voldemort asks him as he moves back over to the chair.

Or swallow him? Nagini adds, completely unmoved from her corner.

Harry ignores her and answers Voldemort instead, heaving a sigh. "Because I don't want to kill
him."

"He is Bellatrix's nephew."

"That's no fault of his own. I know better than most that you can't help who you're related to."

"Very true," Voldemort agrees. "But it was you who said that you've had disdain for each other for
the past five years. He has bullied you, has he not?"

"Well, yes, but I've given as much as I've gotten. And besides, just because he's horrible doesn't
mean I should kill him."

"Bellatrix was horrible."

Harry digs his nails into the leather arm of the chair, frustrated. "I know, alright? It—it doesn't
make sense. I get that. But it's just—it's different."

"I have a theory, if you wish to hear it," Voldemort offers, leaning back in his chair.

"Oh, I get to hear theories now, do I?" Harry mutters before he can think to stop himself, scoffing.
"That'll be a bloody first."

He blanches immediately after he registers his own bitter words. Harry doesn't want to
acknowledge the anger towards Dumbledore, let alone show it to Voldemort of all people. He
grimaces, shame coursing through him, clogging his throat.

"I told you, I offer something Dumbledore has never given you," Voldemort tells him. "Honesty
and freedom. I intend to keep my promise. Now, do you want to hear my theory or not?"

Harry sighs. "Alright, give it a go, then."

"I think," Voldemort muses, "you find it easier to lose your morals when it comes to people who
have wronged you in an inexcusable way. Bellatrix killed your Godfather, so you hated her, so it
was easy to kill her. I killed your parents and tried to kill you, so you hate me, so you wish you
could kill me. The Malfoy boy, however, is just that: a boy. He would have to do much more to get
you to hate him fully, so even with your history, you would not wish to harm him because, in your
mind, it is a reflection of you rather than him. Hating Bellatrix and hating me is acceptable, hating
him is not."

"So it really just boils down to how good I am, then?"

"I did not say that. Think of it as a spectrum. At one end, pure evil; at the other, pure good. Some
would say that people cannot land on the exact ends of said spectrum. Your morals or lack of,
however, dictate where, precisely, you land. That does not mean that you cannot move along that
scale, that your morals cannot shift, that you can be where you have always been on that spectrum
and still do, as you would call it, monstrous things."

We've all got both light and dark inside us. What matters is the part we choose to act on. That's
who we really are…
Harry releases a shaky breath, gripping the chair hard enough to hurt. "So, you don't think I'm—I'm
like you?" he whispers.

It's completely mental, but here he is, borderline in tears and asking Voldemort to sodding reassure
him that he's not evil. He shouldn't care about the word of a madman, but he needs to know, needs
the answer the way he needed it from Dumbledore. He feels like he'll splinter apart and melt away
to drift along the wind without it. Where Dumbledore wouldn't answer, Voldemort does.

"I think that you are your own person, Harry Potter," Voldemort tells him calmly, his gaze sharp
and intense on him. "All people are capable of many things, but very few are capable of great
things—no matter if they're good or bad. I may have unwittingly given you a piece of myself, but
you still have your free will to be who you are. I am me, and you are you. The similarities and
differences do not dictate what choices you'll make; you do that."

Harry exhales shakily, his eyelids fluttering. He doesn't know if that's a comfort or not, but he's
glad to have any answer. At least Voldemort answered.

"I don't want to be like you," Harry admits in a croak. It's one of his biggest fears, and he's just
laying it right at Voldemort's feet.

Voldemort hums. "I am aware. As I've just said, you decide for yourself who you will be. If you
have no desire to be like me, then you will not be."

That's the thing, that voice in his head whispers, taunting him. You already are like him in some
aspects, aren't you? Wanting to kill, liking how it felt. As much as it terrifies you, the desire for it
still remains.

Harry opens his eyes. "Are you capable of change?"

"I believe everyone is, so I must be as well. In fact, I've proven that to be true recently, as I've
changed in wishing you dead."

"But you'll always be…"

"I choose to be," Voldemort says.

"I think you land on the end of the spectrum," Harry croaks, blinking rapidly against the heat in his
eyes.

Voldemort watches him. "Perhaps."

"I want to leave, to go home."

"So, go."

Harry makes a small sound in the back of his throat, frustrated and scared and defeated. "I can't."

"I know," Voldemort says softly. "I am privy to your dreams. I see them when you sleep. Every
time, Dumbledore begs you not to kill Bellatrix, and every time, you cast the Curse anyway."

"You see my dreams now?" Harry blurts out, sitting up straighter in his seat, feeling...well,
violated.

Voldemort glares at him. "It is not my choice to do so. Do you think I wish to stand there, as you,
feeling your guilt and shame? It is not my own! It is not how I feel."

"Wait," Harry mutters, "you're in my dreams the same way I—I was in your mind?"

"Yes," Voldemort says tersely. "That is not all. By possessing you and looking deeply into your
mind, I seem to have...strengthened our connection. Where it affected me very little before, it does
so more frequently now. I feel your intense emotions, Harry. I know exactly how angry you are."

Harry freezes. "It's—it's not your anger?"

Voldemort is back to being cruelly amused again, borderline delighted, really. "Oh no, Harry, that
anger is all yours. I have little to be angry about as of right now. As I said, what you feel and what
you do are entirely yours. You'll know when it is me, I assure you. You'll be able to tell now."
"Can we close the connection?" Harry asks desperately, his eyes wide.

"Not without killing you, no."

"I don't want it."

"Unfortunately," Voldemort murmurs, "this is not something I can offer you freedom from. If
nothing else, take comfort that I have no choice in this matter, either."

"Will you see all of my dreams? Feel everything I do?" Harry asks, openly uncomfortable.

Voldemort shakes his head. "No, I will not, no more than you will in regards to me. As I've said,
you are one-of-a-kind. This has never happened before, so I do not know every detail." He looks a
little annoyed about that. "I do believe, however, that it is solely spikes of...vibrant emotions that
spill over. Anger, hatred, bursts of excessive joy. We can tell which is our own and which is the
other, and I do not believe that will change. Dreams, however… I am unsure how those work,
admittedly."

"Do you even sleep?" Harry blurts out.

"I meditate," Voldemort offers calmly.

Harry flops back in his chair, shoving his fingers through his hair, wrinkling the bandages around
his knuckles. He lets out a delirious huff of laughter and stares at Voldemort in disbelief.

"This is...mad."

"It is extraordinary, Harry. Nothing like this has ever happened, and likely never will again."

Harry stares at him. "You said you feel my guilt and shame in the dreams."

"I do," Voldemort admits with a sneer.

"Do you feel any of your own?"

"Not in a very, very long time."

Harry nods, averting his eyes. "I don't know if I can do this. Any of this. It's not...me."

Voldemort gestures to the door. "You may go whenever you wish. I will not keep you here."

"I want other options," Harry whispers, flicking his gaze around the room as he wracks his brain
for any idea, any plan. "I want—I…"

"Yes?" Voldemort presses.

"I want…" Harry trails off. He doesn't think there's anything he wants that Voldemort can give to
him. Instead, what he needs is a push. A reason to go, something that overrides everything else. "I
want you to tell me if you killed people."

Voldemort arches a naked eyebrow. "While I was away?" he clarifies.

"Yes," Harry says sharply. "Tell me h-how you did it, what their names were. That's what I want."

"Well, Harry, I can't give you what you want this time, unfortunately," Voldemort says simply.
"On this trip, I killed no one."

"I don't believe you."

"I am not lying."

Harry slams his hand down to the arm of the chair and surges forward. "Why do you hate them, the
Muggles? Why?"
"Why don't you?" Voldemort cocks his head, examining Harry curiously. "I saw what they did to
you, how it's affected you. You hate those Muggles. Why don't you hate them all?"

"They're not all bad," Harry grits out.

Voldemort hums. "Perhaps not. They are, however, inferior to us."

"How? Because they can't do magic? Isn't the fact that they live unhindered without magic a sign
of their strength?" Harry challenges.

"We are superior beings."

"Some of them have magical children. Can you explain that? How that happens if—if they're so
inferior? Or how some magical people have Squibs?"

Voldemort narrows his eyes. "Are you asking to debate with me, Harry Potter?"

Harry tilts his chin up. "Yeah. You know what? Yeah, I am. You know my beliefs are the opposite
of yours. Change my mind, if you can."

"Ah," Voldemort says, seeming to understand all of a sudden. He smirks. "I see. If you wish for a
debate, Harry, you shall have it. And I'll even offer you the same chance to change my mind, if you
can."

"I don't think you'll actually listen to me."

"I would not offer if I did not plan to do so. I have not lied to you, Harry Potter, and I will not."

"Fine," Harry snaps, irrationally angry that Voldemort won't lie to him, even angrier that he's
pleased by that. He leans forward some more, intending to debate his heart out.
Voldemort holds up a hand, halting him. "I have given you the opportunity to hold a discussion
with me on a topic I have no positive feelings for. We will have it when you are calmer and not a
moment before. For now, you should go rest."

Harry blinks. "What?"

"Go," Voldemort says shortly, flicking his wand towards the door. It flies open in such a clear
dismissal that Harry stands up in pure reflex.

In the end, it's the strangest feeling of disappointment he has that urges him to go. He should not
want to stay in Voldemort's presence, not even to argue with him. And yet, being dismissed feels
weirdly...well, Harry refuses to acknowledge how that feels to him.

At the doorway, he stares out into the hall and quietly asks, "Am I still speaking Parseltongue?"

"Yes," Voldemort confirms.

Yes, Nagini agrees.

Harry curses under his breath and marches out of the room, as frustrated as ever. The door slams
shut behind him, and he pretends that he doesn't care.

Running into Malfoy is an accident.

He's just marching up the hall to the room he's been staying in, only to collide right into Malfoy.
They back off and stare at each other for a long moment. Malfoy has clearly healed his face and
hands, but his throat has a distinct bruise on it that makes Harry's stomach lurch with guilt.

"Merlin, Potter," Malfoy snaps, "why didn't you heal yourself, you berk?"

"Didn't know the Spells," Harry mumbles.

Malfoy sighs and rolls his eyes, reaching out to snag Harry's arm and drag him into his room. Harry
hasn't been in here since the first day where he napped in Malfoy's bed, so he just awkwardly
hovers in the middle of the room while Malfoy grabs his wand from his nightstand.

Without a word, Malfoy invades his space and ruthlessly yanks the gauze right off Harry's brow,
grimacing as he Vanishes it before it hits the floor. He doesn't ask for permission, nor does he react
to Harry leaning back warily when he brandishes his wand. Instead, Malfoy just waves his wand.

"Episkey," he says sternly.

Harry feels the small gash on his eyebrow grow very warm, then very cold. When it feels normal,
he reaches up to touch it, and it feels healed. Malfoy reaches out to grab his hand, but Harry shakes
his head a little vigorously.

"Not the hands," Harry says quietly.

Malfoy stares into his eyes, searching his gaze, then finally says, "Alright."

Harry pulls his hand from Malfoy's grasp and gestures to his neck. "Why didn't you heal that?"

"Well, it serves as a reminder not to get into a fight with Harry Potter, I suppose," Malfoy drawls.
He smirks at Harry. "Relax, Potter, it doesn't hurt very much. You haven't killed me yet."

Harry frowns in response to Malfoy's words, feeling more guilt rise up and threaten to choke him.
Without much thought, he finds himself reaching with his fingers to touch the bruise, just lightly
brushing the pads of his fingers over it. Malfoy holds very still, not saying a word.

His skin is soft. Harry doesn't know why that surprises him, why he expected it to be hard like
glass. Usually, it's pale, but now it's decorated in one purple line—just where Harry's forearm
pressed against it for too long.

"Malfoy," Harry murmurs, "I'm—I'm sorry."

"Don't fret. I bruise easily," Malfoy replies, his voice just slightly strained.

Harry blinks, feeling like a Spell has been broken. He drops his hand and clears his throat. "Still, I
should have never—it shouldn't have gotten that far, Malfoy. I should have…"

"Don't be an idiot, though I am aware of how impossible that is for you," Malfoy tells him, his
voice smooth and snooty once again. "I'm fairly sure it was I who started it. Though, right now, I
can't really remember. But, knowing me, it was probably me. Nothing to worry about."

"Are you...trying to reassure me, Malfoy?" Harry asks incredulously, blinking in pure surprise.

Malfoy glares at him. "Yes, well, you try dealing with Harry Potter when he resembles a kicked
crup. What else am I supposed to do? You look like you're about to cry; over hurting me, no less."

"I'm not going to cry, you prat, I'm just…" Harry sighs and reaches up to rub at his forehead. "I
might've killed you, you know, and I suppose I'm not...dealing with it well, alright?"

"Alright, enough of this," Malfoy suddenly declares, whirling on the spot and marching over to his
bed. He gestures at the open end right across from him, his eyes narrowed into slits. "I will coddle
you no longer, Potter. Sit. Now."

Harry balks, his mouth dropping open. "Coddle me? When have you even come close to—"

"Sit!" Malfoy interrupts harshly.

"Prat," Harry grumbles, glaring at him as he moves over and plops down where Malfoy points to.

Malfoy nods, apparently satisfied, and he looks right at Harry. "Potter, did you want to kill me?"

"Well, er, no…"

"And Bellatrix?"
"I don't want to talk to you about this, Malfoy," Harry says shortly, his stomach dropping.

"How unfortunate. Humor me anyway."

"Yes, alright? I did. I wanted to."

Malfoy stares at him for a beat, then nods. "And that's my point. Bellatrix is dead, I am not. You
wanted to kill her, you didn't want to kill me. Simple, easy Arithmancy, Potter. You're not some
monster that's out of control, always on the verge of losing it and killing someone. You chose to
kill her, just like you chose to pull away from me, even when you were very angry."

"Is that supposed to make me feel better?" Harry asks weakly, feeling somehow worse. "You're
saying I just—just up and decided to become a murderer, like I sat down and thought about it in
length over tea that morning!"

"No, I know it's more complicated than that," Malfoy argues, though his tone is serious. "I'm only
saying you are in charge of your own actions, so if you don't want to kill me, you won't. You're not
a threat unless you make yourself one."

"But I'm so—I get so, so angry, Malfoy," Harry chokes out, his words escaping him in a plea. He
stares at Malfoy helplessly, desperate. "So angry that I can't think or—or control it, control me. I
nearly killed you because I was so angry, and that's dangerous. It is, I am, and it scares me!"

Malfoy opens his mouth, looking lost, then closes it. He can't help him, Harry knows that. Not that
he even would if he could. Malfoy is Harry's age and doesn't know a damn thing about what
Harry's life is like. He can't help. Maybe no one can.

"But why?" Malfoy blurts out, and Harry blinks in surprise. "Why are you so angry, Potter?"

"Because!" Harry shouts. "Sirius is dead because of me! Same with Cedric! My parents? Dead. My
Muggle relatives? They treat me like a bloody house-elf! Dumbledore? Apparently he's been lying
to me for who knows how long, and Voldemort is somehow the one who's being honest! I'm a
wanted criminal, even though I never—I wasn't supposed to be like this, Malfoy! I wasn't supposed
to be a murderer, or stay with your family, or—or...any of this. And I don't—I have no idea what
I'm doing."
"Potter," Malfoy says very, very carefully.

Harry shakes his head. "If you think that's all I have to be angry about, you're wrong. Did you
know that, to defeat Voldemort, I have to—to...die?"

Malfoy rears back, blinking in shock. "What? That can't be true. Make it make sense, Potter!"

"I—I can't explain it, exactly," Harry snaps, scowling at him, "but it's true. I know it is, somehow,
and Voldemort's all but confirmed it in every way possible. Don't you think there's a reason that
he's hiding me here, protecting me? If I die, there's a chance that he could—maybe, and that's a
really big maybe—be killed one day."

"Merlin and Morgana both, Potter," Malfoy breathes out, his eyes wide, "that's...it's…"

"Mental, I know." Harry tries to squash the rise of hurt and guilt in his chest, but it comes anyway,
joined with rage. "Want to know the most insane part, Malfoy? Dumbledore knows. He already
knows, and he hasn't told me, hasn't… It's like he didn't think I'd do it, but I would. I'd let him or
anyone else kill me—he'd only have to say the word, to say the truth, but he clearly didn't trust that
I would. He didn't—he saw something wrong in me, and he didn't trust me, Malfoy. It's like he
knew I wouldn't be strong enough, knew I'd kill Bellatrix, but if only he'd helped me and explained
it all...maybe…"

Malfoy lets out a slow breath. "You're just...scared."

"Yeah," Harry rasps, "yeah, I am."

For a long time, they sit in complete silence, not looking at each other. Malfoy stares hard at his
silk sheets, his expression smooth and open. Harry simply stares at him, not looking for anything,
just...looking. Because why not?

It's easy for Harry to forget how close to grown men they are now. Sometimes, in Harry's mind,
Malfoy is still that baby-faced, sneering eleven-year-old who wore his hair out of his face and
strutted around like a pillock—not that he still doesn't strut, mind. But now, looking at Malfoy, he's
reminded that they're a lot older than when they first met.
Malfoy is sixteen, and he certainly looks it. He's taller than Harry, always has been, the wanker.
There's something delicate about him, though, that Harry just doesn't have. Despite Malfoy's
insults and sneers, when he's not tossing them about, he looks...well, he looks a bit soft, actually.
His skin looks soft, his hair looks soft, his eyes look soft. If Harry didn't know him, if he thought
that Malfoy was a stranger, he'd probably expect Malfoy to offer a kind smile before a mean word
because that's how he looks. His hair may be the color of his father's, and his words may be as
harsh as his father's, but he's picked up his mother's seemingly gentle looks.

Harry sort of wants to see him smile, curious to see what that would look like. Pretty, probably, his
mind scoffs. Just like the rest of the prat.

"How did it feel?" Malfoy suddenly asks, making Harry blink. Malfoy takes a deep breath. "When
you killed Bellatrix, how did it feel?"

Harry feels like all of the air has been punched out of him. "Malfoy, I don't—"

"Again," Malfoy says softly, "indulge me."

"It—it felt…" The words get lodged in Harry's throat, and he chokes on them for a second while
Malfoy waits patiently, not pushing him. He has to close his eyes to force the words out. "Malfoy,
it felt like nothing you could ever imagine. It—it shouldn't feel the way it did. It was—it was—"

"Alright," Malfoy cuts in, saving him from trying to elaborate, "and how did it feel when you were
choking me, Potter?"

Harry jolts in alarm, blinking, frowning. "What? It wasn't like that. It was—I was just so angry. I
didn't even know I was choking you. Everything just went...blank, sort of."

Malfoy nods, humming. "That just proves my earlier point, you know. Maybe you are dangerous
when you get angry, fine, but that doesn't make you a monster. People just snap sometimes,
Potter."

"Most people can control it or calm down."

"Yes, well, you were always a bit dim, weren't you? And it's not like you don't have plenty to be
peeved off about, even I'll admit that."
"I don't want to be this angry," Harry growls out.

"And I don't want you to wear those stupid glasses, but we all have things to come to terms with,
don't we?" Malfoy arches an eyebrow at him. "It's like this, Potter. You're angry, you're going to
continue to be angry, but the sooner you realize that only you can control how you react to that
anger, the better off you will be. Trust me, I would know."

Harry scowls at him. "Would you?"

"Believe it or not," Malfoy drawls, "I've been scolded for my...outbursts, usually in regards to you.
Potter, I don't know if you know this, but you piss me off as much as I piss you off."

"I gathered that."

"One can never be sure. You are a bit of an oblivious idiot, you know."

"Yeah, well, you're an arse," Harry grumbles.

Malfoy shrugs. "I never said I wasn't."

"Hey, Malfoy?"

"What, Potter?"

"Thanks," Harry says, refusing to look over at him.

Malfoy doesn't say anything for a long time, at least not until Harry meets his gaze again. He's
looking at Harry almost curiously. "You're a bit like Exploding Snap, did you know?"

"What?" Harry blinks, startled. "How?"

"You're all the cards," Malfoy informs him seriously, not even blinking, not sounding mocking in
the least. "They're all capable of exploding, but no one really knows what sets them off, or which
card it's going to be. That's like you."

Harry snorts. "Oh, and in this metaphor for people being games, what's Voldemort?"

"A grand game of Wizarding Chess against Dumbledore, I think," Malfoy muses.

"Oh?" Harry swallows around the lump in his throat, his heart racing. "And who's winning?"

Malfoy looks at him, just looks at him. "Well, Potter, seeing as you're the Dark Lord's knight now,
I'd wager that it's not Dumbledore."

"I'm not Voldemort's knight."

"Aren't you?"

"I don't mean to be. I don't want to be," Harry whispers urgently, earnestly.

"Well, your only other option is being Dumbledore's pawn," Malfoy says slowly, squinting like he
can actually see the game of chess right in front of him. "You'd have to sacrifice yourself, of
course. Are you going to do that?"

Harry snaps his mouth shut. He hates how weirdly accurate this analogy is. Finally, he manages to
croak, "I don't want to talk about this anymore."

Malfoy seems to allow it this time. He hums and glances over at his window. "You know, in this
metaphor, I'm definitely Quidditch."

"What? No, you're not," Harry says with a snort, his lips curling up despite himself.
"I am," Malfoy argues, but he sees Harry's small smile, and one of his own graces his lips for the
barest of second, gone too quickly.

Pretty, Harry's mind muses. Just as I thought.

 Control
Chapter Notes

Draco and Harry are both argumentative little shits, okay? They drive me NUTS

Anyway, no warning, enjoy ;)

The next day passes sluggishly, though without much interference. Mr. Malfoy does stop by to
drop off the things he managed to steal from the Ministry, which Harry is thankful for.

It's his entire trunk, still locked. Mr. Malfoy must not have looked through it, as wild as that
thought is. If he had, he might have had something to say about the Invisibility Cloak in there. The
Marauders Map is carefully hidden, tucked beneath books and clothes. Even his Firebolt is in
there, shrunk down but there all the same.

For a long time, Harry just sits on the floor and looks at his things. Touches them, holds them,
stares at them. He picks up books he's held multiple times before, and he strokes their pages
carefully, wondering if he's the same person he was when he first touched them. He cradles the
Invisibility Cloak in his lap, pushing his face against the silky fabric, trying his hardest not to cry
and doing so anyway.

It's the photo album that gets him, though. Seeing his father and mother's smiling faces sets him
off. He's so angry all over again, but only at himself this time. He wonders if he can get furious
enough to burn himself alive, and he relishes in the thought.

Guilt, above all else, is the worst feeling in the world, second only to anger.

Harry feels an abundance of both.

He skips lunch, locking himself in his room with his things, alternating between crying and staring
blankly ahead, and no one disturbs him. It's a good thing they don't, because he's not so sure he
could control himself this time. Lashing out sounds brilliant right about now, actually, and it's a
wonder he doesn't tear this room apart in his rage.

But there's something else that demands his attention. It's this hollow feeling in his chest that seems
to suck him in. It dries up his tears, makes him feel nothing at all, and it seems to stop time. It
could be seconds or days—though, it's likely just hours—that he sits there, his Cloak laid over his
lap as he stares blankly ahead.

That's how he falls asleep.

When he wakes, it's to a gentle touch on his shoulder. He jerks, scrambling for his wand and lifting
it as he blinks blearily. It's in just enough time to see Mrs. Malfoy take a solid step back with pure
fear flashing across her face.

"Mrs. Malfoy," Harry mumbles, feeling foolish.

"Narcissa, dear," Mrs. Malfoy says softly, dragging her gaze away from Harry's wand to look at his
face. Her eyes flick to his Invisibility Cloak briefly, then jerk back up to meet his eyes. "I don't
mean to disturb you, but you've missed both Breakfast and Lunch. I'd hoped you would join us for
Dinner?"

Harry sighs. "Not really hungry, honestly."

Mrs. Malfoy purses her lips, something like displeasure flashing through her eyes for a mere
second, then she smiles. "Harry, if it is not so bold for me to say, I admit that it...upsets me to think
of you not eating."

"Pretty bold of you, actually," Harry muses with a snort, ignoring her small flinch. "Don't worry, I
like it. I'd prefer it, really."

"Then allow me to be bolder," Mrs. Malfoy says, taking a deep breath and drawing herself up to her
full height, suddenly seeming a lot more imposing than mere seconds before. "Frankly, Harry, your
behavior is cause for worry. You eat as little as you can get away with, seclude yourself in this
room, and spend far too little time outside. Now, you are in my home, under my care, and it upsets
me to think that you are wasting away in my presence."

Harry gapes up at her in shock. She truly is intimidating at this moment, nothing like the demure
woman who ate through multiple moments a mother would prefer to interrupt. She's never spoken
to him like this, blunt yet polite, straightforward yet careful.
He feels...well, he feels scolded, actually. It's not an entirely new feeling because Mrs. Weasley
tends to have that same effect, but he never expected it from Narcissa Malfoy of all people.

And he can tell she's being honest. She actually—bloody hell, she's actually upset that he's not
happy here or taking care of himself.

"Oh, er, sorry," Harry mumbles, scrambling to his feet as he reaches back to scratch his head in a
nervous gesture. "I'll...have dinner then, I suppose."

Mrs. Malfoy eyes him for a second, her gaze flicking over him critically. "If your wish is to not eat
in mine or Lucius' presence, you are more than welcome to eat in your room."

"Oh. That's—"

"On the condition that Draco eats with you."

Harry pauses, frowning at her. "Mrs. Malfoy, no offense, but I don't care about who I'm eating
around. It's not the food or the company. It's just that my appetite is practically gone these days."

"You must have a lot on your mind," Mrs. Malfoy muses, her eyes strangely softer.

"You could say that," Harry admits.

Mrs. Malfoy smiles, and it looks more real than any smile she's ever given him. "If you wish to
talk about anything at all, Harry, I will listen."

"I want to ask you why you're so scared of me," Harry whispers, holding her gaze.

"Ah," Mrs. Malfoy says delicately, "you lack general subtlety, Harry, did you know?"

"Malfoy has made me aware. Er, Draco, that is."

"Draco would. He also lacks subtlety, at least when it comes to you. Always has."

"Really?" Harry asks, surprised and strangely delighted by that.

Mrs. Malfoy's lips twitch. "Indeed. He's as subtle as a Hippogriff about how he feels about you."

"Well, dislike and hatred is very hard to hide, I've learned," Harry mutters.

"I suppose," Mrs. Malfoy allows, only looking more amused. "And you, Harry? Do you hate my
son?"

"No. I thought I did, but no."

"You just dislike him."

Harry eyes her warily. "I don't want to offend you."

"I assure you, you will not. Speak freely."

"Well, Malfoy—er, Draco has always been a prat to me. A bully, really. I mean, before all this, I
would have believed that I did hate him, that's how much we don't like each other. We always
fight, and he's always saying terrible things. He's a git."

"So you dislike him," Mrs. Malfoy repeats, her words almost a question but somehow...something
else.

"I—well, I mean…" Harry trails off, uncertain. Does he dislike Malfoy? Before, he would be able
to say he does, but as of right now...well, Malfoy is the only thing that makes some of these days
bearable, as mad as that is. If not for him, Harry probably wouldn't come out of this room at all,
and then he'd really just waste away.

Mrs. Malfoy hums. "I see."

Harry blinks. "What? See what? I didn't answer."

"You did. Now, to answer your earlier question, I was scared of you because you are a very
powerful, young Wizard who killed my sister and could, should you so wish, kill my son with
absolutely no one to stop you. That is why, Harry."

"Was?" Harry asks, his mouth going dry.

"Was," Mrs. Malfoy confirms, looking right at him with that calm, real smile of hers. "I find
myself suddenly sure that, no matter what you do from this point on, you will not kill Draco. Am I
wrong?"

Harry stares at her, releasing a breath that rattles out of him. "No," he rasps, "you're not wrong."

Mrs. Malfoy hums, pleased. "Thank you. Now, why don't we go down for Dinner, yes? After, I
could show you some very old pictures of Sirius when he was just a boy, if you wish."

"Yeah," Harry mumbles, "that's—I'd like that."

Sirius, as a child, was adorable. In most pictures, he's giggling or rolling his eyes. In some, he's
smiling at a younger boy—Regulus, Mrs. Malfoy tells him when he asks. But, as the boy in the
pictures grows up, the less pleased he seems, and the angrier he visibly gets—his giggles turn to
scowls, and his smiles turn to sneers that the younger boy returns.

Harry asks to see the pictures even after Sirius stops being in them. He watches Regulus grow up,
looking the perfect picture of a Pureblood son. In many pictures, his mother—and Sirius' mother—
looks extremely proud of him in a way she never did when she looked at Sirius. Harry comes to
hate this boy, pointless as it is to do so.

Alongside Regulus, there are pictures of Mrs. Malfoy when she was younger. She seems to try and
flip past pictures of a younger Bellatrix and another girl who looks just like her, but Harry reaches
out to catch her wrist, staring at the moving photo intently.
In it, Bellatrix is smiling. Laughing. Her eyes bright, her lips curling up sweetly, looking
heartbreakingly pretty, so much so that Harry almost can't recognize her. The beautiful younger
version of Bellatrix smiles and laughs brightly, turning her gaze right towards him, the happiness
plain in her eyes.

She had life within her. Life comes with chances and choices, and no one knows the ones she would
have made. You took that life and you snuffed it out without hesitation.

He can see it here in this version of her, that life that Voldemort was talking about. Bellatrix looks
positively vibrant in these photos, not so harsh and insane, not so wicked and careless. She looks
like a person, a real person, and somewhere along the way, Harry has forgotten that. The woman
he killed, in his memories, doesn't feel like a real person—just a caricature of her madness. But
this, looking at this, it reminds him that he has killed someone, a person, a human being who is
more than just what his mind has come up with as a defense.

And, horribly, he still doesn't regret it.

"Who is this?" Harry murmurs, letting his finger trail to the other girl in the picture.

Mrs. Malfoy releases a slow breath. "That is Andromeda, my other sister. She was disowned by the
family for falling in love with a Muggle-born. She chose to be with him rather than choosing her
family. It has been many years since I saw her."

"Do you miss her?" Harry asks curiously, looking up at her expectantly.

Malfoy, who has been quietly reading over in the chair across from them, looks up from his book.
There's a curious glint in his eyes as well.

"Sometimes, yes," Mrs. Malfoy says softly. "When we were very young, it was Dromeda who
looked after me. Bella was always too taken with other things to worry about me."

"That doesn't surprise me," Harry admits.

"Mm, well, I should tell you...as distant as she could seem, Bella was never cruel, not when we
were younger. She was kind to me. She stood up for me when people would say terrible things
about me. She did the same for Dromeda before she met Edward."

"He was the Muggle-born?"

"Yes," Mrs. Malfoy confirms.

Harry stares at her for a long beat. "Was he kind to her? Did he treat her well? Did he love her?"

There's a long, long pause. Malfoy shifts in his seat, giving up all pretenses of reading as he stares
right at his mother. Harry takes note of that in his peripheral, of Malfoy's curiosity. Mrs. Malfoy,
on the other hand, has gone very still and seems to be searching for some way to not answer this
question. But she doesn't really have a choice, does she? Harry asks, so she has to tell him unless
she can distract him, and it's apparent that he won't be, not now.

He knows how hard this must be for her, ridiculous as it is. She won't lie to him. Can't, not with his
current status in this household. Harry could do whatever he wanted to get the answers, even
demand Voldemort to do it for him if he is determined to know, and Mrs. Malfoy doesn't know
him well enough to realize that he'd never do that.

To tell him the truth, though, would be admitting something she would rather not, Harry suspects.

That Muggle-borns are capable of kindness, capable of treating Purebloods well, capable of loving.
Harry already knows this, and it's pure stupidity to think otherwise. That doesn't mean everyone
shares his belief. To say anything kind about this Muggle-born is to hint that perhaps her sister
didn't betray the family, but made a decision out of love while her family betrayed her.

"Yes," Mrs. Malfoy finally says, her words quiet and resigned. "Edward was a good man to her,
and I imagine he still is today."

Harry ducks his head to hide his grin.

"Don't look so pleased, Potter," Malfoy drawls, making Harry's head snap up. "The fact remains,
she still chose to cut all loyalties to her family by choosing a Mud—Muggle-born."
Wise choice, censoring your words there, Malfoy, Harry thinks, his eyes narrowing into slits.

"And choosing to be with the person you love is wrong, is it?" Harry asks tersely.

Malfoy purses his lips. "Would you betray your parents to be with someone you love if they told
you that you couldn't be?"

"My parents wouldn't tell me that."

"You can't actually know that, though, can you?"

"Okay," Harry grits out, "fine. Let's just say, for instance, that there was someone I loved that my
parents told me I couldn't be with. In this very impossible scenario, I would choose to be with the
person I love. Do you want to know why, Malfoy?"

"Oh, this should be good," Malfoy muses, smirking. He flicks his fingers lazily. "Go on, then,
spout off some heartwarming, Gryffindor nonsense about how love conquers all. Do tell, Potter."

Harry glares at him. "Well, take it from me, but people don't live with their parents forever.
Eventually, their parents die, and then it's just them and the choices they've made with their life.
Maybe it's just me, but I don't think I'd be comfortable choosing a family that would disown me
over someone who can make me happy far longer than my family can even be alive."

Malfoy blinks, his lips parting in pure shock. "You would turn your back on your family because, to
clarify, you'd outlive them anyway?"

"That's as good as a reason as any, I suppose. Frankly, if my family would cast me aside for my
choices with my life, I don't want them," Harry says boldly, brazenly, his heart racing in his chest
all of a sudden.

He doesn't even know what he's talking about anymore. No, he does, but he's painfully aware of
what other matters it might apply to.

"I could never," Malfoy whispers, even more pale than he usually is, unnaturally so.
Harry turns to look right at Mrs. Malfoy, watching her watch her son with a strange look in her eye,
something pity-filled and full of unbridled love. That expression makes his heart squeeze violently,
because that is the look of a mother who loves her son intensely, unconditionally, and Malfoy
likely doesn't even realize it. He glances back at Malfoy, who still looks unsettled.

"I don't think you'll ever have to," Harry says shortly, trying not to be bitter and envious, and
failing miserably. "It's clear that your mother wouldn't cast you aside. You should be thankful."

Malfoy's gaze flicks to his mother, then right back to Harry. "You should shut your mouth. You
don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh, I don't, do I? Mrs. Malfoy, say your son did the equivalent of what Andromeda did, would you
disown him?" Harry asks sharply.

"That is, unfortunately, not within my power to decide," Mrs. Malfoy answers him quietly.

Harry looks over at her, blinking. "What do you mean? Who's the one that—"

"My father, you twit," Malfoy snaps, making Harry glance at him—giving him whiplash. Malfoy
is scowling at him, furious. "How daft are you? My father is the Head of the Family, of the Malfoy
name, and I am the Heir. If I am u-unfit in his eyes in any way, it is solely his right to disown me."

"I...never knew that," Harry admits.

Malfoy scoffs. "Of course you don't. The only Purebloods you really know are the Weasleys, and
they certainly aren't the example."

Harry stares at him, holding his gaze. "Would your father do it? Would he disown you if—if you
did what Andromeda did?"

"He would," Malfoy says through clenched teeth, gripping his book so tight that his knuckles are
pure white. "As he should. If I were to do anything disgraceful, I deserve it."
"No, you don't," Harry whispers.

Malfoy snaps his mouth shut. For a long moment, he just sits there, staring at Harry, his face blank.
Then, without preamble, he sits his book aside and pushes to his feet quickly. Not another word
said, he marches out of the room.

Mrs. Malfoy sighs.

Harry stares after him, feeling...well, feeling something. He doesn't know what, exactly, but he
feels it, and he feels it deeply. It's not anger—he knows that feeling intimately—nor is it guilt or
shame, two other feelings he's used to. No, it's something else, and he doesn't like it, especially not
when it gives him the urge to go after Malfoy.

He won't, though, because the truth is...he doesn't like Malfoy. This entire conversation is only a
reminder of why. He's been ignoring it like a coward, but it's clear that he and Malfoy are from two
very different worlds.

Just because Malfoy has made some of this easier doesn't mean that Malfoy isn't...complicated.

They have two entirely different sets of values and expectations. Their belief systems are exactly
the opposite, and Harry has no interest in trying to sway Malfoy's stupid opinions. It's not like
they're friends. Harry wouldn't allow that—it's a small betrayal to Ron and Hermione that he can
avoid, and if that's the only good he can do now, then he'll do it.

But, well…

Harry fists his hands in his lap, physically forcing himself to stay in his seat and not run after
Malfoy. What would be the point? Why would he even want to? He doesn't care about Malfoy's
issues, not when he has enough of his own.

It's just that, well, no one should feel trapped, and Malfoy must feel that way, even if he doesn't
know it. To think that he's deserving of his family's scorn if he doesn't make the choices that's
expected of him is—well, it's just wrong. If they told Malfoy that he had to go fight a bloody
dragon lest he be cut off from his father, mother, home, and possessions, would that prat actually
attempt to do it?
Harry thinks he would, and sod it all, but he gets that in a really, really strange way. Because Harry
is sitting here in Malfoy Manor, agonizing day-in and day-out over what his dead parents and dead
Godfather must think of him right now.

Bloody hell.

"Harry," Mrs. Malfoy says gently, snagging his attention, "I understand that this all feels very
strange to you, our traditions, but this is how we are raised. It's all Draco knows."

Harry stares at her. "It's wrong. Some of it is, at least," he whispers heatedly. "You know it is."

Mrs. Malfoy opens her mouth, then closes it, then sighs again. "Before I had my son, I did not
know, as you say. Sometimes, it takes seeing what it does to someone you love to realize that
something you've grown up knowing the same way you know how to breathe isn't as simple as you
thought."

"He shouldn't—it's not right," Harry hisses fiercely, suddenly angry again.

"I have only ever wanted happiness for my son, Harry. That's all I ever wanted for him," Mrs.
Malfoy says quietly, her eyes sad. "Unfortunately, I am not in a position to give that to him. If he
wants it, he will have to be strong enough to take it. And, if he does, he will have my support."

"But not his father's."

"That, I cannot say. Before...certain things happened, I would have been able to say with absolute
certainty that, no, Lucius would not support Draco, and Draco is aware of that. However, change is
trust upon us, and what future awaits us is becoming increasingly unclear."

"You mean me," Harry mumbles.

Mrs. Malfoy gives a sharp nod, her gaze turning to him, serious. "You have given Draco something
that he has never had before, least of all in his father's presence, something he was not even aware
that he was lacking. By going over Lucius' head and having the Dark Lord grant Draco his freedom
to be however he wishes in your presence, Draco has been able to do and say things that would
have disastrous consequences for him otherwise. He is only just learning how that feels, Harry. You
have given Draco a chance to be who he is—who he really is—and he's only figuring out now that
he has no idea who that is. Please, be patient with him."

Harry swallows as he considers her words. They're said with intensity, heavy with something that
he doesn't fully understand. There's pleading in there, too. She truly does love her son.

He thinks about what she just said, about all of it, and he realizes that maybe...he is too hasty to
think that he shouldn't, can't, or won't sway Malfoy's stupid opinions. Maybe he should, only
because they might not even be Malfoy's stupid opinions. Just regurgitated words and beliefs that
Malfoy has had shoved down his throat all his life.

Not everyone is Sirius. Not everyone is that young boy who grew to hate the family he once
smiled at as a child. Not everyone realizes the wrong that surrounds them before it turns on them.
As Mrs. Malfoy said, it's sometimes hard to see it until it affects someone you love.

Harry wonders, vaguely, who it was that tipped Sirius off, or how he knew.

He'll likely never know.

Taking a deep breath, Harry looks up and stares at Mrs. Malfoy with a small frown. "I want to
know all of it, all the stupid traditions and expectations. I want you to tell me, to teach me."

"Why?" Mrs. Malfoy asks, blinking.

"That way I can prove how wrong it is," Harry says simply. "It'll be easier if I know what I'm
talking about. Hermione always said that you have to be able to argue for the opinion you don't
have as thoroughly as your own if you want to be sure that you're right."

Mrs. Malfoy releases a soft laugh. "Well, yes, I suppose that's true. This Hermione sounds like a
brilliant lady."

Harry smirks smugly, staring right at her. "Yeah, she is. She's Muggle-born, too."
It takes two days for Harry to realize that Malfoy is avoiding him. Harry doesn't even notice that
he's looking for the git until he goes out to fly the first time and he waits to kick off the ground,
expecting him to show, feeling strangely off-kilter when he doesn't. After that, he starts
subconsciously looking for Malfoy, but he's nowhere to be seen—he's not even in his room when
Harry checks—and he doesn't show up for meals.

Harry has taken to spending time with Mrs. Malfoy as she tends to the garden—though, it's more of
a greenhouse full of beautiful flowers that smell so lovely that Harry always leaves feeling a bit
lightheaded. In that time together, she teaches Harry about Purebloods. She's never rude about it,
not even when Harry bursts out how stupid certain things are—which is, admittedly, most of the
time.

She explains Pureblood traditions to him and how deeply they run in the inner circles of those who
believe themselves to be a part of it. Harry learns about the Sacred Twenty-Eight, and in doing so,
learns a bit about his own family in the process and ends up a bit uncomfortable. It seems that
pretty much all families in the Sacred Twenty-Eight are related in some way, and Harry's family is
related to some of them as well.

It's too confusing for him to work out, though, so he doesn't. Mrs. Malfoy answers questions about
families and people from the bloody late 1800s as if she finds it completely normal to know
information that far back. It's a bit extreme, but Harry is sort of thankful of all that she knows about
the Potters. He can't help but be interested, despite himself.

However, most of these little lessons leave Harry even more annoyed with Purebloods, now in a
way he wasn't before. Mostly because he didn't know they were like this. But now that he does
know, he's extremely displeased with it all.

Mrs. Malfoy doesn't seem annoyed with his outbursts of deep dislike for the way she was raised
and how she's raising her son. No, instead, she lets him tend to her flowers and tells him even
more, only stopping when Harry tells her to or they have to go in for Lunch. Where Malfoy isn't.

By the second day, Harry is actively looking for him. He's even more angry that the Manor has so
many rooms to explore when each one doesn't reveal the person he's trying to find. At least twice,
he's walked in on Mr. Malfoy, who simply stares at him until Harry grunts in frustration and
leaves. He's even walked in on Nagini in various places, who always talks to him for a bit before he
can get away. And, once, he walks in on Voldemort, but he quickly leaves before they can get into
conversation.

The thing is, two days without seeing Malfoy anywhere has...well, it's bothered him, admittedly.
It's then that Harry realizes that Malfoy really does help him feel a bit more sane.
It's a pure stroke of luck—which Harry really must have—that he finds Malfoy where he does on
the third day. Truly, this Manor is unnecessarily massive for no reason at all. Why does a family
of three need two libraries, anyway? However, it's in a small alcove that Harry finds Malfoy—a
little bay window tucked in the corner of the second Library, the glass panes pushing out and
showing the world outside.

It's raining, so it looks like tears are running down the glass, and Malfoy is watching it avidly. If he
notices Harry walking up to him, he doesn't say a word about it, or acknowledge him.

"Well, this is a tad dramatic, Malfoy, even for you," Harry murmurs as he shoves himself into the
space opposite of Malfoy.

There's enough room for Harry to sit with his back against the wall, but his knees knock into
Malfoy's as he gets comfortable. Malfoy still doesn't spare him a glance, just staring out the
window as if the outside world is all he yearns for. Maybe it is; it's not like Harry would know.
Still dramatic, though.

Harry sighs. "Malfoy. Hey, Malfoy," he says insistently, knocking his knee into Malfoy's and
going ignored. "Merlin, Malfoy, the one time I don't want you to shut up… Malfoy. Malfoy!
Draco!"

That, at least, gets a reaction. Malfoy jerks, his head snapping over to Harry in open surprise. Harry
blinks, then rolls his eyes. Trust Malfoy to react to that, of all things. Though, to be fair, it's not like
they've ever addressed each other by their first names. Sticking to last names suggests disinterest
and—in their case—disdain.

It's practically an unspoken rule of their rivalry to spit each other's last names like its poison. Harry
has been adhering to this rule, but desperate times and all that. If Malfoy is going to go to such
lengths to be a dramatic prat, then Harry's going to overrule that route as quickly as possible.

"What?" Malfoy snaps.

"I wanted to tell you something," Harry says.

Malfoy frowns at him. "What?" he repeats, just as harsh and flat as before.
"Well, I wanted to tell you something and ask you something, I suppose." Harry glances out the
window, watching the small tracks of rain run down the outside of it. "I somehow convinced
Voldemort to agree to have a...debate with me. We're going to discuss something he and I don't see
eye-to-eye on."

"Alright," Malfoy says blandly.

Harry takes a deep breath. "I want to, er, try discussing it with you first."

"I have no interest in debating with you, Potter," Malfoy says quietly. "It would only end in a fight,
and you know it. I have a bruise on my neck that cautions me against it, you understand."

"I—" Harry stops, grimacing. He heaves a sigh, reaching up to rub his forehead. "Alright, you've
earned that, I suppose. What if I promised we'd keep it...friendly? No fighting, I swear it."

"Not interested."

"Malfoy."

"No."

"Draco."

Malfoy looks at him again, visibly startled. He blinks, then scowls. "Surprising as that is, Potter, it
won't work every time. Take a hint and leave me to my avoiding you."

"Malfoy, come on," Harry needles at him, laughing a little at Malfoy's snooty tone. "We argue all
the time as it is, anyway. This is just a bit more...controlled. Besides, if you do it, I'll make your
dad get us a snitch so we can try and catch it when we go out flying. Up for some competition?"

"You'll make my father, will you?" Malfoy grumbles, glaring at him sullenly.
Harry pauses, then chuckles. "Yeah, sure. You and I both know I can, that he'll do it. Why
shouldn't I?"

"Exploitation. Nice, Potter."

"It's not like that, Malfoy. I just figured that, since he had a hand in getting my Godfather killed and
he's nearly succeeded in getting me killed and various other offenses of which I can assure you he
has, then he could spend a little bit of money that he surely won't miss to get me and his son
something to focus on when we go flying. That's all."

"Of all the things you could do to anyone," Malfoy mutters, turning back to look out the window
with a small frown on his face.

Harry considers him. "What would you do? If—if you could get away with the things I can, what
would you do, Malfoy?"

"I'd go to France," Malfoy says immediately. His face twists almost wistfully. "France, then Italy.
There's a Villa there that we own where you can step through a door and walk beneath the Grand
Canal. In France, there's a maze in Paris, solely for Witches and Wizards—no Muggles. They say
you go in and can only find your way out once you've felt pure joy, and that time stops in there.
People get lost among their happiness inside, did you know? I want—well, I suppose it would be
something I'd like to see."

Malfoy looks down, clearly not trying to show how much he wants those things, and Harry feels a
peculiar sense of pity for him. He ignores it, instead staring at his side-profile. From this angle,
with the way Malfoy is looking down, his pale eyelashes seem to kiss his cheeks, fluttering softly,
unnecessarily long for a boy who is already fit and doesn't really deserve to be with how rude he
is.

Harry releases a soft sigh. "I've never left England, you know, not really. I've barely been to places
that aren't Hogwarts or the Weasleys."

"There's a lot of world to see," Malfoy mumbles.

"You've seen a lot of it, then?"

"Some. Not nearly enough."

"Where do you like best?" Harry asks.

Malfoy's lips twitch down. He looks upset, uncertain. "I should say...here, I suppose. It's my home.
I don't want to move away or anything."

"But?" Harry prompts.

"But...France really is lovely," Malfoy says quietly.

"Would you move there?"

"I couldn't, even if I wanted to."

Harry frowns. "Why not?"

"My duty is here," Malfoy says simply, looking over at him with that same downward tick to his
lips, like it's his only tell of displeasure. "Besides, I'm not of age. Father would never move the
family there."

"You'll be of age soon, won't you? Just a year, really, then you can go wherever you want."

"No, no, I can't."

Harry knows that already. Mrs. Malfoy has explained a bit about that as well, how some Heirs are
bound to places by their expectations. Malfoy can't leave, not when he's expected to pick up
whatever Mr. Malfoy leaves behind and continue on. It's supposed to be a proud Malfoy name that
Malfoy will have to take over, ensuring it stays that way until he has a Heir who will be expected to
do the same thing. A vicious cycle that Malfoy can't get out of.

But he can. Of course he can. People shouldn't dream about mazes where happiness awaits them,
knowing they can't have it in real life. Not even Malfoy. He should have his freedom just like
everyone should, just like Harry has always wanted and only recently gotten.

It's like Harry is staring at a trapped boy and realizing how trapped he, himself had been this entire
time. How trapped he would have continued to be—with the Dursleys, with people keeping things
from him, with the world thinking him either insane or someone capable of saving them, dying for
them. How trapped he still is, in some ways, seen as a wanted criminal, stuck in this in-between of
not knowing who he is or what he's doing or who he's betraying or who's betraying him.

It's complete and utter bullocks! If Malfoy wants to go to France, he should damn well go! Live
there, if he wants, go to that maze and come out quickly because he's already happy. And Harry
should be able to mess up, to make mistakes, and not be cast aside for it. Kill someone and have
people tell him he can be forgiven, people who he's always trusted, go home and not have to die
when all he's ever wanted was to live normally.

Maybe Malfoy and I can run away to France, Harry thinks stupidly. We can get lost in that maze
and forget about what's going on outside of it.

Harry takes a deep breath, looking at Malfoy, feeling oddly tentative. "I could make them let you
go to France. You know I could. Do you want me to?"

"Don't," Malfoy says quickly, looking right at him with wide eyes. "Don't do that, Potter."

"Why?" Harry whispers.

Malfoy swallows thickly. "Just...don't. Please."

It's that, Harry supposes, the way Malfoy says please. The lilt to his voice that's clearly a plea,
though it's subtly begging for the opposite things. Please, Malfoy seems to say, don't do it. And, in
the same breath, it's please, please do it.

Harry suddenly gets what Mrs. Malfoy meant by saying that Malfoy will have to be strong enough
to take the happiness he wants.

"Alright," Harry says calmly. "What about the other, though? Will you help me?"
Malfoy scoffs, rolling his eyes. "Oh, please, you're terrible at manipulation, Potter. Fortunately for
you, I happen to want a snitch, so I'll go along with it."

"Brilliant," Harry says brightly, a smile playing at the corners of his lips. He stands up, looking at
Malfoy expectantly. "Come with me, then."

"Where are we going?"

"To find your father so I can make my demands, of course. Unless you don't want to watch me do
it?"

"No," Malfoy says slowly, "I'm coming."

Harry bites back a grin and heads for the door, Malfoy following along in silence. And so, the
search for Lucius Malfoy begins.

It's evening now, so Harry expects Mr. Malfoy to be in his study, but he isn't. He also isn't in the
study Voldemort has taken for himself, nor is Voldemort. In fact, Harry can't find either of them
where they usually are, so he starts looking for Mrs. Malfoy, too. She's nowhere to be found, either,
and that doesn't really make sense—she always frequents the same places; the garden, the sitting
room, or the dining room. It seems like everyone has just...disappeared.

Malfoy starts to get visibly uneasy, and Harry won't admit it to save his life, but so does he. What
does it mean if everyone is gone? Is there danger? Has something happened, and what will Harry
do if it has? What if it's the Order?

A slide of fear, shameful as it is, slithers down his back as he shares a look with Malfoy. They've
checked all of the usual haunts of each person in this house, even Mr and Mrs. Malfoy's room, as
invasive as that is. Everyone is just...gone.

With renewed energy, nervous, they start looking everywhere, going down halls people don't often
walk. At this point, Harry's even looking for Nagini, but she's nowhere to be found either. His
alarm spreads, along with something else, something he doesn't want to look at too closely. There's
some hope in there, too, hope that maybe the Order has come with a plan to rescue him, above all
odds. And that, shockingly enough, inspires the oddest sense of guilt Harry has experienced so far
—guilt that he'd want the Order to save him.
Bloody hell, it's all so confusing in his head, which only makes him panic a bit more, which only
makes him frustrated, which leads him to be angry. He feels like he's pumped on adrenaline as they
move through the halls, and he has the strangest urge to start fighting something, to do something.
The only problem is he has no idea what to do!

So, admittedly, he's a bit worked up. That's the only reason he yelps when he first sees Nagini
slithering up the hall towards them, that's all. He calms immediately after, though, because he's not
really afraid of her anymore. Malfoy, on the other hand, obviously is because he reaches out to grab
Harry's arm, the same forearm that pressed against his throat, nails digging in due to his panic.

Sensed your distress, Nagini hisses at him when she's close enough. Her tongue flicks out. The
pale boy calls to me; I so wish to swallow him…

"No one is swallowing anyone," Harry tells her firmly, wincing when Malfoy's fingers dig into his
skin even more—likely in response to Harry talking in Parseltongue. "You are to never, never harm
Draco Malfoy, do you understand, Nagini?"

You are not my Master, she replies, sounding put out and slightly offended.

Harry scowls at her. "No, I definitely am not, but I'm like you, right? I'm—I protect your Master,
yes?"

Yes.

"Right. Well, if I'm going to keep doing that, I need your promise not to—to hurt him."

I do not take too kindly to threats, boy.

"It's not a threat, it's a request."

Nagini picks up her head, her reptilian eyes flicking, and she hisses again. Very well, I shall agree
to this unless my Master tells me otherwise. His order is above yours, boy. Now, why are you
distressed?
"Where is everyone?" Harry asks in a strained voice, his heart thundering in his ears. He expects
her to say they're dueling or something, fighting for their lives, but she doesn't.

I will take you to them.

With that, she turns and starts slithering back up the hall, and Harry automatically follows her.
Malfoy yanks him to a halt, looking incredulous, his eyes wide. He looks so scared.

"What are you doing, Potter?" Malfoy says in a low, shaky voice. "I know you can have a
conversation with the snake, but not everyone can beg it not to eat them, you know! It's common
knowledge not to get too close to the snake when the Dark Lord isn't around. Are you mad?"

Harry rolls his eyes. "Relax, Malfoy, she's not going to hurt you. Besides, she's taking us to your
parents. Now, let's go already."

Malfoy makes a sound in the back of his throat that suggests he isn't on board with this at all, but
Harry just starts marching forward. He's depending on Malfoy's grip on his arm to drag him along,
and since Malfoy is seemingly too frightened to let go, it actually works. They follow Nagini in
silence.

Harry has never been down this hall before. It surprises him when it starts to look worse for wear
the further they go. The paint on the walls begins to look worn, certain spots flaking off. The doors
turn weathered and splintered with rusted doorknockers and broken doorknobs. The farther they
go, the worse it gets; dust everywhere.

When he looks, Malfoy doesn't seem to recognize this place either, so this must not be a hall he's
ever explored. He looks as surprised as Harry, though much more disgusted. Harry, however, finds
this hall reminding him a bit of Grimmauld Place.

Nagini eventually turns and slithers through a cracked door that slowly swings open with a creak.
Harry exchanges another look with Malfoy, then marches on without hesitation, only to come to a
screeching halt when they enter the room.

It's not the black-tiled floor, or the dusty grey and black walls, or the long marble table in the center
of the room that's lined with high-back chairs that stops him. Rather, it's the number of people
sitting at the table, all staring right at him and Malfoy with various expressions. Mr. Malfoy is
among those at this table, sitting right next to Mrs. Malfoy, and they're both looking at Malfoy with
wide eyes.

Voldemort sits calmly at the head seat, surveying him and Malfoy with polite curiosity. There he
sits, calm and patient, surrounded by what is and what can only be some of his Death Eaters. Harry
even recognizes a few of them, though some of the discomfort and fear they display is new.

"Harry," Voldemort greets in that deceptively soft rasp of his, "is there something you needed?"

Harry stares right into his eyes. He refuses to look away for more reasons than one. The main
reason, though, is that he can feel his hand wrapped around his wand heating up and tingling, a
familiar warmth urging him to—to…

No, not again.

"Is this all of them?" Harry asks sharply.

Voldemort needs no elaboration. "Not all. This is merely a few in my ranks. Very high ranks, you
understand. Some are even away right now."

"Who?"

"Wormtail, Severus. Others. But those two were the ones you were curious about, weren't they?
They have business elsewhere tonight."

Harry inhales slowly, then exhales slowly. In, out. Okay, alright. "Doing what?"

"Finding a solution for what we discussed." Voldemort tilts his head slightly. "I told you I would
handle it, so I am."

"Right," Harry says tersely. His gaze flicks over those at the table, unwilling to linger as more rage
spikes in him. Malfoy, at his side, grips his arm harder but is otherwise still. It somehow grounds
Harry a bit. "There is something I need, in fact, but not from you. From Lucius."
The man in question actually flinches at the way Harry says in his name in a taunting fashion.
Long ago, had Harry said that to him, in this way, in front of these people, Lucius would have
cursed him without thought. Now, he just sits there with his gaze planted on the table, his body so
tense that he looks like he'd shatter if someone breathed on him.

He's not worthy of a title. He shouldn't be referred to as Mr. Malfoy. He's just a man. A man named
Lucius who is weak and horrible enough to fight children, willing to kill them. A man named
Lucius who thinks his last name should earn him a step up in the world, giving him an edge. A
man named Lucius who will be called that by Harry, because it makes him flinch and feel small.

Good, the voice in Harry's mind praises, vindictively pleased. He deserves no better.

No, he doesn't, Harry agrees inwardly.

"I'm sure Lucius would be more than happy to help you, Harry," Voldemort says calmly, and it's
no secret that his words hold an edge of threat to them, but not to Harry...to Lucius.

Lucius nods shakily. "Yes, My Lord. H-How can I help you, P-Mr. Potter?"

"Don't call me that, first of all," Harry snaps, annoyed. "My name is Harry."

"I—yes, of course." Lucius blinks at him, looking confused and uncertain and terrified. "What can
I do for you...Harry?"

Harry scowls. He doesn't like that, either. "No, don't call me that. You don't get to call me that."

Lucius opens his mouth, then closes it, visibly unsure how to proceed. And Harry? Well, Harry
knows how he's being right now, contrary and confusing, harsh and a bit...well, cruel. Is this why
Voldemort likes it so much? This strange little rush that comes from watching someone squirm?

Harry doesn't have it in him to really care about how wrong it is. In his mind, he's just getting
flashes of that night in the Department of Mysteries, or when Lucius abused Dobby, or when
Lucius fought Mr. Weasley and then decided it was a brilliant idea to slip Tom Riddle's diary into
Ginny's young hands, leading her to being possessed and nearly killed. Lucius Malfoy is horrible.
So, so horrible.
That's not even including the things he expects of his son. Harry's even angry about that, too. About
all of it. And he wants—

He wants to watch Lucius squirm. He wants Lucius to be afraid of him. He likes it. Likes having
power over someone who saw him as nothing. That's horrible, too, Harry knows. Dumbledore
wouldn't like it, no one back home would, except for maybe Ron, who can get angry just like
Harry can. He bets Ron would stand beside him right now and laugh in glee to see Lucius Malfoy
looking like he's about to piss himself because he doesn't know how to properly address Harry.

It's terrible. It's wrong. And still, Harry feels it and likes it all the same.

However, he takes a deep breath and focuses on the bite of Malfoy's nails digging into his arm,
blinking past the smug fog in his brain. He doesn't want to be guilty about this later, not any more
than he's already going to be anyway, so he figures it's best if he doesn't make things any worse and
indulge himself any further with this...cruelty.

"Just don't call me anything," Harry says shortly, narrowing his eyes. "That, or call me what you
always have: Potter. Though, I could do without the brat on the end of it."

"Yes, Potter," Lucius says immediately. He blinks and straightens up. "What do you need?"

Harry eyes him in open disdain. "When are you going out again?"

"Tomorrow."

"You'll stop somewhere and get a snitch. Buy it with your own money."

"Pardon?" Lucius says, looking stunned. He flinches immediately after, his eyes widening.

"You heard Harry, Lucius," Voldemort murmurs, his tone sharp. "He wants a snitch. You will get
one for him, won't you?"
Lucius dips his head. "Yes, of course, My Lord."

Harry clears his throat, raising his eyebrows. "I need Polyjuice, too. A day's worth supply for two
people. With your own money, of course."

"Potter," Malfoy hisses, his tone low.

"Hush," Harry whispers, shooting him a look.

Malfoy narrows his eyes. "I will not hush, you—"

"I'll tell you later," Harry says firmly. He holds Malfoy's gaze, willing him to go along with this,
willing him to please, please back down just this once. Malfoy doesn't hide his glare, but he closes
his mouth, and that's enough for Harry. He turns back to the others. "You understand, Lucius?"

"Yes, Potter," Lucius says, his tone strained.

Voldemort hums, leaning forward. "And what do you require Polyjuice for, Harry?"

"Malfoy and I will be going out," Harry says, gesturing towards Malfoy—Draco, that is, as there
are so many in the room—with his hand.

"I see," Voldemort murmurs. "Do you require hair for the potion? I'm sure we have volunteers
here."

Harry curls his lip. "No. I'd rather not be any of these people, you understand, and I'm sure Malfoy
has higher standards than anyone here can meet."

Voldemort looks cruelly amused again. He even laughs quietly, a cold chilling laugh that makes
everyone in the room shudder. "I see your point, Harry. Tell me, if I may ask, where are you and
Draco going?"

"You may not ask," Harry says defiantly, holding his gaze, tilting his chin up. "I'm not going to tell
you or anyone else, and neither will Malfoy, mostly because he doesn't know either. Are you going
to try and stop me? Are you going to torture it out of us?"

Harry almost wants him to say yes. A part of him thinks all of this will be easier if Voldemort goes
back on his promise of freedom. He keeps waiting for Voldemort to go back on his word, to lose it
and Crucio him, to kill him in a fit of fury. That would make more sense than anything else.

It would certainly make more sense than what Voldemort actually does.

"No, of course not," Voldemort replies, at complete ease. "Your freedom is your own, as I've told
you multiple times before. And, in case I haven't made this clear, Draco is entirely yours to do
what you wish with—and vise versa, at your request. Though, I should warn you to err on the side
of caution when going out. Your discovery could end in your death, and I cannot protect you when
you are away."

Harry stares at him, barely standing upright. Those words seem to barrel him over, hitting him
square in his chest. Voldemort is just going to let him go? He's going to let Harry have his secrets
and trust him to do whatever it is that he wants? He's not going to demand that Harry stay shut
away and safe, or even offer people to shadow him and be willing to risk their lives for his life? He
doesn't know what to do with that. It's absolutely madness, it is!

And yet, there it is, simple as that. Something Harry has never had before. He almost doesn't trust
it, and he's going to test it, of course he is.

"Come on, Malfoy," Harry says softly, reaching out to grab Malfoy's arm and tug him from the
room.

Malfoy, for once, doesn't protest. No one in the room says a word as they walk out, and they both
jump when the door quietly closes behind them. Without a word, Harry starts walking swiftly up
the hall, and Malfoy follows.

For a long time, Harry is just walking briskly, nearly running, making Malfoy rush to keep up.
Then, quite abruptly, he's coming to a halt and folding in half as he vomits all over the floor.
Malfoy yelps and jumps back with a sound of disgust. Harry's head throbs with his dry heaves
afterwards.

It's silent for a beat.

"Scourgify," Malfoy mutters, cleaning the sick on the floor with a wave of his wand. "Potter, get
up."

Harry does, letting out a harsh breath. "Malfoy—"

"Scourgify," Malfoy repeats, pointing it at Harry this time, his nose wrinkled.

"Ergh!" Harry blurts out, the protest muffled as his mouth fills with soap that quickly turns to
strangely invasive water. In mere moments, Harry's mouth is clean and tasting vaguely of suds, but
that's an improvement of what it tasted like before. He huffs and wipes his mouth, glaring at
Malfoy. "You could have at least warned me."

Malfoy glances around with a frown. "Come on, we shouldn't linger here."

Harry can't argue with that, so he doesn't. He just falls into step with Malfoy as they finish their
trek out of the hall. It's oddly relieving to be back in a part of the Manor that Harry actually
recognizes. He climbs the stairs with Malfoy, heading for his room, and he doesn't protest when
Malfoy follows him in, slamming the door and facing him with a scowl.

"What?" Harry snaps, already on edge.

Malfoy waves a hand a little erratically. "Care to tell me what all of that was about? You did a lot
more than ask for a bloody snitch!"

"The Polyjuice is important. You agreed to help me, and we need to go out if we're going to do
that. I'd rather go out looking like someone else, wouldn't you? That way we'll be sure to be safe."

"You didn't think to ask me if I even wanted to go?!"

"Look, I can't tell you where we're going anyway. It would ruin the whole thing. Just—just—"
Harry falters, words on the tip of his tongue that he's said so many times before. It makes him miss
Ron and Hermione fiercely.
"Just what, Potter?" Malfoy snarls.

Harry scowls at him. "Just trust me, alright? I know you have no reason to, but just—just go along
with this, please? It's important!"

"Do I even have a bloody choice?" Malfoy hisses, looking utterly furious. "You heard the Dark
Lord, Potter. I'm yours. You can do anything to me, don't you realize that? You can make me walk
right off a bloody bridge if you wanted to, and I would have to do it! Can't you—do you even
understand—"

"That's not true, Malfoy, and you know it!" Harry shouts back, cutting him off ruthlessly. "Maybe
that's how your parents see it, how Voldemort sees it, but that's not how I see it, alright?! You have
your freedom with me! You can do whatever you want, and I won't stop you. I won't m ake you do
anything, ever! I'm asking you, Malfoy. I'm...asking."

Malfoy snaps his mouth shut, his fury draining away in a heartbeat. The tension around them
pulses for a long moment, and Harry feels like he's just run very far for a very long time, his chest
heaving, his skin feeling strangely warm.

"Okay," Malfoy rasps, blinking rapidly.

Harry swallows, deflating. "Yeah?"

"Yes," Malfoy whispers. "Alright, I'll go with you, so long as you know it's my choice."

"Yeah, I see that," Harry mutters, a wry grin tugging at his lips. He tries to stop it, but he can't, and
Malfoy rolls his eyes. A thought strikes Harry, and he clears his throat. "You know, Voldemort
doesn't just think you are, er, mine to do whatever I want with, you know. He also said that—that
it's the same in reverse. You realize that, don't you?"

Malfoy sends him a flat look, like Harry's the biggest idiot alive. "Yes, Potter, I caught that.
However, it's only true because you requested it. The Dark Lord expects you to—to change that
one day, to put me in my place, to handle it on your own. You realize that, don't you?"

Harry snorts. "If that's true, then he's more insane than I thought. As if you'd ever let me put you in
your place. I've been trying for years, and I haven't succeeded so far."
Malfoy's lips twitch and he looks away quickly, but Harry can see it, see that small smile playing
on his face. Harry ducks his head to hide the one on his own, feeling warm all the way down to his
toes.

"Why'd you sick up, Potter?" Malfoy asks quietly a few moments later.

"I don't know," Harry lies.

But he does know. He knows exactly why. Because of how he treated Lucius and how much he
liked it. Because of how scared he was that Voldemort wouldn't keep his promises, and how the
mere thought that he wouldn't felt like a betrayal when it shouldn't. Because Harry walked into a
room full of Death Eaters who were all terrified of him, and then he walked right back out without
doing a damn thing.

He doesn't know how he stomachs himself most of the time, as of late especially, but in that
moment… Well, to say the least, he literally couldn't.

"Are you going to be alright?" Malfoy asks him, his words quiet and unsure.

This time, when Harry says, "I don't know," it's not at all a lie.
 Forgiveness
Chapter Notes

No warnings for this chap, besides some thinky thoughts about religion. Did I imagine
a young Harry Potter praying to God in his cupboard and cry about it? Yes, yes I did.
So you must think and be sad about it, too, obviously. #NoRegrets

See the end of the chapter for more notes

"As requested, Potter."

Harry looks down into the flask, glancing over at the one Malfoy is holding. He knows a bit about
the potion, probably more than most considering his experience with it. He knows it's going to
taste awful, and he's not exactly eager for it.

Sighing, Harry reaches in his pocket, pulling out the folded parchment in his pocket. He'd gone out
the day before under his Invisibility Cloak, on his Firebolt, flying for hours before he found the
place he was looking for—the closest Muggle town to the Malfoy Manor. It's where they're going
today, but at that time, he'd been looking for something specific. Two strands of hair from people
around their age, preferably boys, just to make it easier.

In the end, though, his paranoia got the best of him and he'd grabbed two strands of hair from the
same boy. Well, actually, he'd flown by quickly and snatched a clump of hair before the boy could
even react, internally apologizing as he flew away while the boy yelped and rubbed his head.

He still feels a bit bad about that, actually.

Frowning, he pushes the guilt away and carefully unfolds the parchment to reveal the clump of hair
tucked away in the crease. Without looking at Lucius or Malfoy, he drops half into his flask, then
another half into Malfoy's.

"Who is it?" Malfoy mutters.

Harry shrugs. "No one you know. Don't drink too much. It has to last us all day."
With that, Harry tips back a deep swallow, grimacing and shuddering at the taste. It isn't so
horrible, he supposes. It certainly tastes better than what Goyle's did, at least. Still, feeling his skin
stretch and shift is as uncomfortable as it was the first time, and the sound of bones grinding is no
less disconcerting than it was back then, either.

From beside him, Malfoy is changing, too. He gets a bit taller, while Harry shoots up, leaving them
at the same exact height. Malfoy's hair darkens, while Harry's lightens, leaving them with brown
curls. Their faces shift and twitch, slowly forming into the same one, and then it comes to a halt.

"Twins," Lucius mutters.

Er, sure, let's go with that, Harry thinks.

"Who are they?" Malfoy asks again, looking down at himself. He frowns and waves his wand to
lengthen his pants that are just a touch too short, then does it to Harry's which is significantly
shorter, almost as an afterthought.

Harry clears his throat. "No one you know."

"I trust," Voldemort says, sweeping into the room so suddenly that Harry's scar prickles for a
second, almost like it's reminding him it still works, "that you will be careful, Harry. Unless, of
course, it is your intention to get caught and take Draco with you, as it is in your right to do. In
which case, I bid you a safe journey. Otherwise, if not, then I bid you a safe return."

"You could find me out there, couldn't you?" Harry asks him curiously. "Because I haven't been
with the Dursleys this summer."

"I could, yes, but I won't."

"Can...Dumbledore find me?"

"If you are not careful, yes, and using magic will have the Aurors on you in a second, regardless of
what you look like," Voldemort informs him.
Harry pauses, then swallows. "If I get caught…"

"Yes?" Voldemort stares at him, his gaze piercing.

"Don't harm Mal-Draco," Harry says.

Voldemort smiles thinly. "I will not. He is not mine to harm, or to not harm."

Harry nods jerkily, uncomfortable and worried despite himself. He's already left once before, but
this is somehow different. This is the first time Voldemort knows about it, and this is him leaving
with Malfoy in tow. Besides, he's not just flying by quickly while invisible.

"Draco," Lucius says, that one word cold and sharp, yet somehow strained, too.

Malfoy stands up straighter, apparently slouching, and Harry stares between father and son in
something akin to disbelief. That's it? That's all Lucius is going to say to send off his son, not
knowing if he'll return safely or not? Just a reprimand for not standing up straight enough?

Kill him, that voice in his mind whispers.

"No," Harry snaps, grimacing when all eyes turn to him. He hadn't meant to say that out loud.

"Harry?" Voldemort asks, watching him closely.

"Nothing." Harry jerks his head at Malfoy, reaching out to grab his broom leaning against the wall
as Malfoy does the same. "Let's go. We fly high. Follow me and don't go down until I do, yeah?"

Malfoy just gives a sharp nod.

With that and nothing else, they head out the front doors and push off into the air, not even looking
back. Harry does catch sight of Mrs. Malfoy standing at a window, watching them go, but he
doesn't slow down to see what she looks like.
Harry does fly high, taking off in the direction of the Muggle Town and keeping his eyes peeled.
He feels a lot more tense being out in the open like this, no Invisibility Cloak to hide under. It
hadn't even crossed his mind the day before that Dumbledore might have been able to find him.
And why would it? After all, it's not like Harry has ever been worried about something like that.

Is he worried now?

A bit, yeah. It makes him feel shame, but he does. He shouldn't be scared of Dumbledore. Is he?
Maybe. Does he have a right to be? Harry wouldn't say that he and Dumbledore are very, very
close, but before this last year, he'd been under the impression that they were a lot closer than
Dumbledore and any other student. He's certainly never been scared of the man—in awe of, yes;
amazed by, undoubtedly; even intimidated, understandably. But afraid?

No, he's never been afraid of Dumbledore, not the way he's been afraid of Voldemort. Yet,
somehow, he's living with Voldemort and hoping like hell that Dumbledore doesn't find him.

It's horrible.

Harry doesn't understand how it got to this point, and by now, he's tired of feeling like this. A
simple solution is to just hand himself over to Dumbledore and be done with it, just deal with what
comes next. Whether he lives or dies, at least guilt and shame won't eat away at him.

But that's not a simple solution at all, because first, he'd have to be brave enough to face them. To
face all of them. His friends, the Weasleys, Dumbledore himself. And, after that, he'd have to be
willing to either go to Azkaban or give his life, or both. Those things feel even more impossible
than living with Malfoys and having Voldemort protect him.

Then, there's how living with Malfoys and having Voldemort protect him is going to consider. It
has absolutely no business being this way.

With Mrs. Malfoy making sure he eats, walking in her garden with him as she patiently tells him
about her ridiculous lifestyle as he berates her for it, smiling at him sometimes like she's thankful
he's there, like she genuinely likes him. With Lucius Malfoy doing what Harry tells him to, never
saying a word against him or anything at all to upset him, visibly and wholeheartedly afraid of
him.
With Malfoy keeping him sane in a really bizarre way, somehow knowing what to say in the
moments that Harry doesn't know what he needs to hear, treating him like he's normal and not a
threat, flying with him, giving him space and being patient when Harry's own friends never did
that, blatantly trapped while unaware of it, reminding Harry of himself.

With Voldemort giving Harry freedom and honesty with complete ease, giving him what Harry
didn't even know he wanted all along, treating him like he's more than just some child, speaking
with him as if he's an equal, offering him things that Harry doesn't even really want or need and
still offering them anyway, never ignoring him, explaining things, answering his questions, willing
and never refusing to meet his gaze…

Harry knows what he's doing. Of course he does. He can feel it, can feel the shift in his mind, can
feel it with how his anger and fear betrays him.

Somehow, mad as it is, Harry doesn't trust Dumbledore anymore, and he feels absolutely miserable
about it. To make matters worse, he's actually scared of him, just a bit. Afraid of what will happen
if Dumbledore does find him.

Then, of course, there's Harry's struggles with his own bloody morality and twisted desires. He
doesn't want to kill, except he does sometimes. He should regret killing Bellatrix, but he just
doesn't. He thinks about what Sirius and his parents would think of him, and he lets that eat away
at him, too, even while he recalls how honest he was when he said what he did that day to Mrs.
Malfoy and Malfoy.

Frankly, if my family would cast me aside for my choices with my life, I don't want them.

Overall, Harry's just bloody exhausted with everything. He's so tired of feeling this way all the
time, tired of being angry and scared, tired of being tired. He's just...tired.

The flying helps, despite his tension, and it's not long before he's relaxing. He's flying right next to
Malfoy, so high that the puffy white clouds surround them. He reaches out a hand and lets it pass
through, smiling at the wetness of them, looking over to grin when he sees Malfoy do the same.

The air is thinner up here, so he's already breathless to begin with, but he has no idea why he
suddenly can't breathe at all when Malfoy sends him a broad grin in return, flashing white teeth.
He looks like some random boy, and Harry is suddenly very frustrated with that fact. The one
bloody time Malfoy smiles, he isn't even himself! Bastard.
For a few hours, they fly. They're not going as fast as they can, but they aren't being slow, either.
Harry's being careful, so Malfoy is.

Eventually, Harry starts dipping down to peek out of the clouds to search for the outline of the
town. It's a while before he sees it, but when he does, he flies back up and slows to a halt, waiting
for Malfoy to do the same. With them coming to a stop, no wind whipping past them, it's oddly
quiet and still. A few meters from them, birds fly by in a v-shape.

"What is it, Potter?" Malfoy calls.

Harry points down. "There are woods down there. We need to fly straight down as quickly as we
can and hope no one sees us."

Malfoy scowls. "Oh, brilliant."

"Race you?" Harry offers cheekily, suddenly dipping his broom and putting on a burst of speed as
he flies straight down as quick as he can.

So quickly, in fact, that the wind hits his face hard enough to sting, bringing tears to his eyes. The
tops of the trees rush up to greet him, and he's flattened as tight to his broom as possible. He grins.
It's amazing, completely and utterly exhilarating.

He points himself right through the gap between two trees, hastily yanking up as the ground gets
closer far too quickly. He barks a laugh as a branch slams into his arm, not hard enough to hurt, but
forceful enough to make him stumble a bit on the broom, making him right himself with a whoop.
He yanks on his broom, slowing down, stumbling a little on shaky legs as he dismounts.

Malfoy is panting when he lowers down beside him, getting off his broom and leaning on it a bit as
his chest heaves. A second later, he's releasing a delirious little huff of laughter that Harry echoes,
and then they just stand there and laugh for a while, shaky with adrenaline and excitement.

"Merlin, Potter," Malfoy chokes, "you're mental."

Harry wheezes a laugh. "I won, though."

"Piss off, you cheated."

"Sure, Malfoy, whatever helps you sleep at night."

Malfoy shakes his head at him, his smile draining as he glances around. "Where are we, Potter?"

"Oh, about a mile out from civilization," Harry tells him casually. He points to the right. "There's a
town a bit that way. Hope you don't mind a walk."

"I'm not very fond of forests," Malfoy mutters, glancing around with a frown before pinning a
pointed look on Harry. "I'm sure you can understand my reasoning behind that."

Harry snorts. "I do. I have more reason than you, actually, but this isn't so bad." He looks around
with a small smile. "The trees are smaller and farther apart, and the sun reaches us down here, so
it's fine. Come on, bring your broom."

Malfoy sighs, but he follows Harry along, and they start a calm pace. It is daylight out, so it's not as
tense as it could be. That doesn't mean Harry isn't on edge, waiting for someone to suddenly appear
with a crack, or for a Spell to suddenly fly at him. Nothing happens, though.

The path is easy. No roots to trip over, no low-hanging branches, nothing but the crunch of leaves
and the warmth of sunlight beating down on them. There are bugs, though, and Malfoy grumbles to
himself as he swats at them when they come too close. Harry watches in amusement.

It's a little bit into their trek that Malfoy says, "What do you mean you have more reason than me?
What else happened to you in the Forbidden Forest, Potter? Don't tell me you were nearly killed
again."

"Well...you see…"

And so, they talk. It's not like they've never done so before. It is only recently that they've had
conversations that weren't just fights, and sure, it's taking a little getting used to, but it's not so bad.
Harry knows exactly what topics to avoid by now, and Malfoy seems to know exactly what not to
say, and it's been working so far.
This is the first time, however, that they've actually talked about their years in Hogwarts like this.
Harry tells Malfoy about some of his other adventures in the Forbidden Forest, his tone fond,
which he knows is strange. Those were easier times, though, even if he was having his soul sucked
out or nearly being eaten by acromantulas. Malfoy seems absolutely blown away (and wary, like he
thinks Harry might be insane after all) by the fact that Harry can laugh and smile fondly about
these things.

"You're utterly ridiculous, you know that?"

Harry rolls his eyes. "How am I utterly ridiculous? Things just seem to...happen to me, Malfoy.
S'not always my fault, you know."

"Oh no, it most certainly is. You followed the spiders. You went running after your Godfather, right
into a swarm of Dementors. Those are things you did, Potter, so it is your fault."

"So I was just supposed to let Hagrid stay in Azkaban for something he didn't do? Let Sirius die
when he was innocent?"

"They say there is a very thin line between bravery and stupidity, and you are very much on the
side of the stupid," Malfoy tells him. "You just risk your life like it's not—like you're not scared to
die!"

Harry frowns. "But I am. I must be if I'm still here, rather than going back home."

"I don't think that's it at all," Malfoy replies, looking right at him. "I think it has nothing to do with
you not being willing to die. You would, you know you would, I know you would."

"Have me all figured out, do you?"

"Not everyone is as oblivious as you, Scarhead."

Harry chuckles. "Been a while since you called me that. You know, it's almost...nice, now."

"Nice? Nice?" Malfoy turns to stare at him, even while he walks. He looks at Harry like he's
suddenly sprouted a second head. "Why are you so odd? In what way is me mocking you nice,
Potter?"

"I can't explain it," Harry admits, shrugging sheepishly. "It's just… Well, it doesn't feel as much
like an insult as it used to. Probably because you've healed my burnt hands, healed the gash on my
head, cleaned up my vomit, and agreed to trust me enough to go somewhere with me without
knowing any details. I suppose mocking me seems kind of silly after all that, so it's just a bit funny
now."

Malfoy stares at him blankly. "Potter, you're giving Loony Lovegood a race for the biggest oddball
in the world, you know that?"

"Her name is Luna."

"I didn't actually know that. It's always been Loony."

"She fought Death Eaters, you know," Harry murmurs, his gaze distant as a lump forms in his
throat. "She's really nice, even when people are so cruel to her. Her mum died when she was eight,
and she doesn't even—she's just...kind."

"Potter," Malfoy says sharply, "stop it. She doesn't hate you, alright? Your friends don't hate you."

Harry shudders out a harsh breath. "Yeah? How do you know that, Malfoy?"

Malfoy sighs, looking forward again. "Because they're your friends. They… Just trust me when I
say that they don't hate you. They can't. There's no way that they hate you. I don't even hate you,
and this won't come as a surprise, but before all of this, I was fairly sure I hated you. I...wanted to
hate you."

"That's a lot of hate."

"Yes, well, my point is, no one hates you. Or, well, no one should hate you, anyway."

"But they might," Harry mumbles, his gaze falling to his feet. "They might, and you can't say that
they don't for sure, not even to reassure me. Because the truth is, you don't know and I don't know,
and they might hate me. That's all there is to it."

"Fine, so I can't be sure," Malfoy snaps. He looks extremely annoyed by this, which strangely
makes Harry feel a bit better. "Whatever. So what if they do hate you, then? That just means
they're not—it means they're stupid, alright? And I know you'll hate me saying it, but it's true. If
your friends decide to hate you because you killed Bellatrix Lestrange, then maybe they're not
good friends. My friends would never hate me for that."

"Yeah, but your friends are a bit...different. What about this?" Harry leans over to peer into his
face, trying to figure out Malfoy is going to take this, having no clue since Malfoy doesn't look like
himself at the moment. "Say you were to...hmm, would your friends hate you if you decided to be
friends with Hermione? Would they turn on you if you stood up for her?"

Malfoy's head whips over, his eyes brown, which startles Harry because they should be blue-grey;
he knows that for damn sure. Still, brown or not, Malfoy's gaze is intense, bright with anger.

"Of course they would turn on me for that! Granger is a Muggle-born. Standing up for her is
wrong."

"It's not, but that's not my point. My point is that my friends think killing people is wrong, no
matter who it is, and they're right. It is wrong, and I did it."

"That's so unrealistic, though."

Harry blinks. "How do you mean?"

"What about Aurors?" Malfoy challenges, raising his eyebrows, not pale like they should be.
"Sometimes seemingly good people kill people. Moody, for example. He's killed Witches and
Wizards as an Auror. And what about Lupin? He's a werewolf. There's a chance that he might have
accidentally killed someone during the full moon. What about self-defense? What about when
there's a Quidditch player who shoves another player too hard, and they fall to their death? I mean,
honestly, sometimes people kill people, and it's not always as black and white as it seems to be."

"Yes, yes, all of that is true, I suppose," Harry allows, frowning because Malfoy does have a point,
"but that's not the case with me. I—I killed Bellatrix because I wanted to. I used the Killing Curse,
and you have to—you already know what you have to be to do that, and so does everyone else. Just
like Voldemort walked into my house when I was a baby and killed my parents, I looked Bellatrix
right in the eyes and killed her. The same exact way."

Malfoy heaves a deep sigh. "Fine. Fine, but that doesn't mean you're—" He stops, takes a deep
breath, then shakes his head. His jaw is clenched, and he seems to be walking faster with restless
energy. "Potter, you're not evil, alright? You're just not. I don't really know what that makes you
after everything, but I do know that people shouldn't hate you for it, especially the people who've
loved you."

It's such a profound statement that Harry comes to a screeching halt. He just...stops. Blinks. Stares.
Malfoy swings around to look at him with a small frown, a wrinkle in his brow. Harry, very
stupidly, has the strangest (oddest) urge to fucking hug Malfoy for saying something so kind, so
thoughtful, and Malfoy probably doesn't even see it that way.

But Harry does. He really does. Malfoy has no idea what saying that means to him. Harry sort of,
maybe, just a bit wants to cry a little because he's needed to hear that. He really, really has.

"Potter?" Malfoy asks in exasperation.

Harry releases a slow breath, clearing his throat, forcing himself to relax before he does something
stupid like actually launch himself at Malfoy and hug him. No way in hell he's doing that.

"Nothing. Fine. I'm fine," Harry says quickly, clearing his throat again as he starts walking. "Sorry,
it's just… Thanks for saying that, Malfoy."

Malfoy rolls his eyes. "I'm only saying the truth. Don't look too much into it, git."

"You know," Harry says carefully, "your friends shouldn't hate you if you were to stand up for
Hermione. That's as unrealistic and stupid as my friends hating me—in your mind, at least."

"Tell me how it's unrealistic and stupid. Because, the way I see it, it's—"

"No, stop. You want me to tell you? I will. And you're going to listen. Hermione is brilliant, and
you may hate to admit it, but you can't deny it. Maybe she is a know-it-all, but what is so horrible
about that? About her taking interest in the world around her, Muggle and Wizard alike? You read
plenty, and you're full of knowledge, so why is it wrong for her? Just because she wants to tell
people what she knows? It's annoying sometimes, I get that, and she doesn't always know when to
stop, but she means well. She always, always means well. She'd kill me for saying this, and don't
you dare laugh, but she didn't have friends before me and Ron. She was the weird girl who other
Muggles didn't understand because she was different, so she read books. She told me once that
books and knowledge never hurt her feelings. So what if her parents are Muggles? She's still good
at magic, and you can't deny that either. So, tell me, Malfoy, how is it in any way realistic or smart
to be cruel to you for being kind to her?"

"Are you quite finished defending Granger's honor?" Malfoy drawls.

Harry sighs. "Nevermind. I don't want to hear your response. Save it."

With that, Harry starts forward, feeling the sharp sting of disappointment whip through him. A
hand catches his arm, swinging him around, and Malfoy looks frustrated. Conflicted. Harry's heart
dares to jolt and stammer with hope.

"No, you are going to listen to me now," Malfoy says tightly, his eyes blazing. "On the surface, it
seems like it's just about her blood, and it is in some ways. You don't have to agree with it, but
that's how I've been raised. No one says it, why we hate them, but Muggles are dangerous.
Granger having one foot in each world is a cauldron waiting to explode—maybe not her, but
possibly the next Mudblood, or the next. But that's not all it is, and you need to understand. I need
you to. It's—she's… Do you have any idea how hard I worked to beat her every single sodding
year? Of course not. But, maybe, in a different—if things were different, I'd be able to respect it
rather than resent it, but I can't. I'm literally not allowed, because Malfoys don't get bested by
Mudbloods. Except, now, because of me and because of her, they do. And I have to deal with that,
not her."

Harry's heart is hammering away in his chest, and there's something like excitement quivering in
his stomach, because he does understand. He really, truly does. He knows exactly what this means.

Malfoy doesn't necessarily hate Hermione, he's just...jealous. That, and he's angry because he has
to deal with his father's anger over Hermione being better than him in her studies. Except, maybe
Malfoy would respect her, if he could. Meaning he does, in some really twisted way that makes
Harry's brain hurt and rejoice in the same breath.

"Malfoy," Harry murmurs, "there's no one else here. There's just me and there's just you. Nothing
is going to happen if you say—if you admit anything."

"I can't," Malfoy spits, clearly agitated.

Harry takes a step closer, looking right into his darting eyes, holding his gaze. "She's smart. Say it.
You know it's true."

Malfoy clenches his jaw.

"Say it," Harry insists.

Malfoy glares at him. "Is that an order?"

Harry glares right back. "It's an opportunity. Say it, Malfoy. Just...say it."

"Yes, alright?!" Malfoy explodes, his chest heaving as his eyes bulge. "Granger is smart! And I
want to know her damn study-plan because I have no idea how she manages to get such high
marks!"

Harry grins. "Yeah?"

"Piss off," Malfoy snaps, his gaze darting around like he expects his father to suddenly appear from
behind the trees. "You got what you wanted, Potter."

"Yeah, I did," Harry agrees smugly. "I can tell you Hermione's study-plan, if you want."

Malfoy pauses, side-eyeing him. "Really?"

"Sure," Harry says easily. "It's actually rather simple. See, all you have to do is study every waking
moment, then you're doing it."

"You're joking."

"Not really. The only time Hermione isn't reading, at least, is when she's fussing at me and Ron,
following me around on deadly tasks, or in class."
"I hate her more and more," Malfoy says with a huff, shaking his head as he starts walking again,
adjusting his grip on his broom.

Harry snorts and moves forward to catch up with him. "I don't know, I think you two would get on
if things were different. Ron and I aren't really on her level when it comes to intellectual
conversation, but I think she'd enjoy it with you."

Malfoy sneers. "I somehow doubt that."

"Do you think she's pretty?" Harry asks him curiously, watching him closely.

"What?" Malfoy snaps, looking over at him in utter disbelief. "Don't be ridiculous."

"What about Parkinson?"

"Pansy? She's alright, I suppose."

"Hermione looks better than Parkinson, I think."

"You think?"

Harry shrugs. "Well, I've never actually thought about it. What do you think?"

Malfoy watches him suspiciously. "You're trying to trick me, Potter. Don't think I don't know what
you're doing."

"No idea what you're on about. You didn't answer my question, though. Scared?"

"Again, piss off. Just because Granger has better features than Pansy does not mean I—"
"Ha!" Harry bursts out, grinning like a loon as he reaches over and pokes Malfoy in the arm. "You
just said it. Hermione is smart and she's prettier than a Pureblood—one who's your friend, mind."

"I did not say—"

"But you did. Is it a lie?"

"No. Yes? Wait. Potter," Malfoy snaps, reaching over to shove him a few steps to the side.

Harry snorts. "Oh, come on, Malfoy. It's not going to kill you to admit that Hermione is pretty and
smart, no matter what blood is in her veins."

"Fine," Malfoy says grudgingly, heaving a sigh and rolling his eyes, "Granger is smart, and she
actually looked...not horrible at the Yule Ball. Happy?"

"A compromise. Fair enough." Harry tips an imaginary hat at Malfoy, snickering when Malfoy
flips him off. His laugh abruptly comes to a halt when a thought strikes him. "Er, Malfoy, you don't
secretly fancy Hermione, do you?"

"No, why would I?" Malfoy asks, looking at Harry in genuine confusion. "I don't know anything
about her, and honestly...no matter what you say or how smart she may be, I still don't actually like
her."

"Oh. Huh. Alright then, that's good."

"Good? Why? I'd rather thought you'd find some kind of heartwarming poetry in the idea of a
Pureblood Malfoy loving a Mudblood."

"Don't call her that. And no, there's nothing heartwarmingly poetic about you secretly fancying the
girl you've bullied and called slurs for five years. Also, she'd never give you the time of day. Also,
I think Ron has a thing for her."

Malfoy goes strangely quiet.

Harry glances at him, frowning. He's suddenly feeling an awkwardness he hasn't felt for a while.
Being at the Malfoys and under Voldemort's—well, not his nose because he doesn't have one, but
his supervision, perhaps, has made Harry oddly brave. Mostly in how he acts, just to cover up how
he feels usually, and sometimes spurred on by his anger. It's easy to feel confident when he's
thinking he's going to die anyway, which was what he thought at first, then it's easy when he
realizes that he can get away with—quite literally—murder where he's at.

This, though, is an awkward silence, and Harry has no idea why. Does Malfoy secretly fancy
Hermione? No, he's just said the opposite, and he was being sincere. Maybe it's the way Harry
reminds him how cruel he has always been, but that's not it either because Harry has reminded him
that plenty.

Harry's not really sure what the explanation is for Malfoy's abrupt silence or the way all the color
drains from his face. He looks like a stray wind could knock him over, which is just...odd.

"Malfoy?" Harry ventures cautiously.

Clearing his throat, Malfoy blinks rapidly. "Weasley has a thing for Granger, then? Their children
would be ghastly, you know."

"Maybe not," Harry says a little defensively, frowning. "I could see them being—no, this is
ridiculous. Hermione would kill me if she knew I was imagining her kids with Ron. I'm not
supposed to notice how she looks at him sometimes, I think. Probably more than I realize, because
yeah, I am a bit oblivious sometimes. But that's only because I usually have a lot on my mind."

"You have reason to, I'll grant you that," Malfoy mutters, rolling his eyes. "The great saint Harry
Potter can't have one normal year at Hogwarts, can he? Oh no, that's too simple for him."

Harry sighs. "Tell me about it. You know, I used to think I was cursed. Every time I wished for a
normal year, things somehow got worse every time I returned. I can't imagine what my Sixth Year
would have been like if I actually went."

"That's right." Malfoy blinks, looking a bit shocked. "You aren't going back next year."

"You forgot?"
"No. Well, sort of. I mean, I knew it, but I guess I just realized that you're not actually going to be
there."

"Mm, and what will the pompous prat Draco Malfoy do without me there to terrorize?" Harry
teases, wrinkling his nose and grinning when Malfoy looks over at him with an arched eyebrow.

"Have a relatively normal year at Hogwarts, I imagine. Finally," Malfoy retorts, smirking.

Harry feels his smile slip. "It'll be strange not going back. Hogwarts is… Well, it's the only home
I've ever known. Everyone I love is there."

"You don't love your Muggle relatives?" Malfoy asks.

"No," Harry says immediately, snorting at the mere insinuation. When he glances over, Malfoy
actually looks surprised. "Believe it or not, my Muggle relatives are horrible. I wasn't joking before
when I said they treat me like a house-elf. They're probably ecstatic that I never showed up this
summer."

Malfoy blinks rapidly. "But you're a Muggle-lover!"

"Sure, if that's what you want to call me. I don't love those Muggles, though. Actually, I don't really
love any Muggles. I don't have to love them to know that they aren't inferior to us or deserve to be
tortured, enslaved, and killed."

"I…"

"Do you think they deserve that?" Harry asks, tilting his head. "Do you hate them?"

"Well, I certainly don't like them."

"Why?"
"Why?" Malfoy sputters, his free hand flailing as he stares at Harry, aghast. "My father says—"

"No, no, Malfoy. Do you hate them?" Harry interrupts, raising his eyebrows.

Malfoy frowns at him. "Yes."

"Why?"

"Because."

"Because why?" Harry presses, side-stepping a bit closer, leaning over to look at Malfoy's
borrowed face closely, intently. Malfoy presses his lips into a thin line and looks away. Harry
hums, triumphant. "Just as I thought. You don't have reason to hate them because you don't actually
know anything about them. You just do it because you're told to."

"I hate them because they don't have magic, Potter. That's more than enough reason."

"It isn't. You don't see the things they can do. Besides, magic doesn't always make the man,
Malfoy. You don't hate a tree for where it grows, so it's a bit stupid to hate a person just because
they don't have magic."

"A tree isn't dangerous," Malfoy snaps.

Harry frowns. "How are Muggles dangerous?"

"They used to try and burn people alive for having magic, you know. I mean, it didn't work. People
with real magic didn't burn, but the Muggles still did it. Not only that, but we have to hide from
them. Why? Seriously, Potter, why do we hide from them if not to keep ourselves safe? They'd
either hunt us like before, hate us because we're better, find some way to steal our magic, or try and
weaponize us."

"I don't know if that's true, though."

"No? So why do we hide?" Malfoy asks sharply.

Harry opens his mouth, then closes it. "Alright, so I don't actually know. And let's say, for
argument's sake, that you're right and that's how Muggles would react to magic. Do you think every
Muggle would feel that way?"

"No, but that doesn't matter. Only enough need to, and then Witches and Wizards will find
themselves under threat," Malfoy murmurs, his tone strangely grave. "Their Muggle Governments
need only to realize our world actually exists, and then what can we do? There's nothing we can
do."

"Are you—Malfoy, are you actually scared of Muggles?" Harry asks in astonishment.

Malfoy sends him a scathing look. "You'd be an idiot if you weren't. Have you been listening to me
at all?"

"No, I have, I just… Well, I never realized that the source of all this hate was...fear."

"It's not!"

"Oh, but it is," Harry mumbles thoughtfully. "Just like my Muggle relatives fear me and anything to
do with magic. But they're not all like that."

"Perhaps not," Malfoy allows with a grimace like he's tasted something foul, "but you have to
admit that enough are that they're dangerous."

Harry hums. "Sure, but does that mean they deserve to be hated, tortured, enslaved, and killed?
Because if you say yes, I hope you realize that you'll be the same way you fear the Muggles would
be to you."

Malfoy opens his mouth, then closes it. He looks frustrated again. "Okay, say that's true. Say I
don't think they deserve it, fine. Tell me, oh wise one, what the solution is to the Muggle problem
I've presented you with?"
"I don't know," Harry admits honestly, shrugging.

"You don't?" Malfoy looks over at him.

Harry shrugs again. "No, I don't. What I do know is that the Muggles don't deserve what
Voldemort wants to do to them any more than what you're scared they'd do to magical people. And
you?"

"Me?"

"Yes, you. Do you think they do?"

"I…" Malfoy is back to looking confused and frustrated again. "Potter, I—"

"Think on it," Harry interrupts. "We'll circle back around to it. For now, there's the edge of the
town."

They leave their brooms on the edge of the forest behind an easily identifiable tree, and Malfoy
fusses about it the entire time, not seeming to realize why Harry is making him do this. Harry's
hoping Malfoy won't pick up on what's going on for a bit.

He does, though, very quickly.

Harry leads them into the outskirts of town, which is where Malfoy sees train tracks and comes to a
screeching halt. It's not the train tracks that gives him pause, though. It's the group of kids that are
playing beside them that makes him freeze.

They couldn't be more Muggle if they tried. Just small kids wearing cut-off trousers with their
skinned knees on display, their hands covered in dirt as they play with rocks and skip over the
tracks. They're young, that much is obvious, probably pre-teens and a bit younger. They're all
giggling, playing, and so obviously Muggle that it's mad.
"Potter," Malfoy says tightly, "where are we?"

Harry looks at him in amusement. "Are you scared of them?"

"Of course not."

"No? Hey! Hey, kids!"

"Harry!" Malfoy hisses, reaching out to grip Harry's arm and shake it hard, his eyes wide.

Harry blinks. "Oh, are we doing that now? I rather thought you'd given up on calling me that."

"Bloody hell," Malfoy mutters, ignoring him entirely as he shuffles back a step, "they're coming
over. Send them away, Potter. I'm not joking."

"They're not going to hurt you," Harry says, trying very hard to cover his laugh and failing.

"Hello!" A girl who seems to be the youngest and also the leader of this small group of five
children smiles at them, waving. "Are you lost? No one comes back here. Mummy says there's no
reason to."

"Oh, is that right?" Harry asks lightly. "But you are all back here. There must be some reason to."

The girl shrugs. "This is where we play. Are you two playing? You look too old to play."

"Do we?" Harry asks in amusement, his lips twitching. "And how old is too old to play?"

"Well, how old are you?" the girl asks.

"Fifteen," Harry answers promptly.

"Oh. My brother is fifteen. He doesn't really play like we do anymore, so I think you're too old."

"What about him?" asks a boy in the back, pointing at Malfoy.

"They're twins, stupid," a different boy says from right next to him, rolling his eyes. "They have to
be the same age. Do you know anything?"

"Shut up, Roger!"

"You shut up!"

"You both shut up!" the girl shouts shrilly, whirling around to glare at them. They shut up. She
smiles in a pleased fashion and turns back to Harry. "I'm sorry you can't play, and we're not
supposed to talk to you either. Mummy says we can't talk to strangers."

Harry nods seriously. "Yeah, that's right. Don't do that. Actually, I was hoping you might know
which way I could go to get to the Library."

The girl's face brightens. "Oh! I cycle there all the time. It's beside the Church. You know where
the Church is, don't you?"

"Not at all," Harry admits.

The girl's face falls. "Oh. Well… I can draw you a map in the dirt if you want?"

"Brilliant," Harry says.

So, she does. The little girl picks up a stick and puts a rock on the ground, declaring that to be all
her friends and the two strangers, then proceeds to draw the route she cycles to get to the Library.
Harry, of course, doesn't think he'll actually remember, but he studies it carefully anyway.
"Does that help?" she asks hopefully.

Harry nods at her. "Loads. Thank you. We're going to go now. Say bye, Malfoy."

"Bye," Malfoy grits out, sending him a sharp look.

"Bye!" the group of kids call after them, smiling wide and cheerful, waving as they go.

Harry can't help but chuckle as they walk along the road, even with Malfoy fuming silently beside
him. He doesn't mean to find it so funny, but the idea of Malfoy being afraid of children is
hilarious. He hadn't said one word throughout that entire exchange, not until Harry told him to, and
he'd been tense the whole time. Over children.

"That wasn't so bad, was it?" Harry teases.

Malfoy glares at him. "I don't know what you're playing at, Potter, but—"

"Don't be like that," Harry says softly, his amusement gone in a flash. "Just...have an open mind
about this, Malfoy. The kids? They were happy to help us in a way only kids can. Voldemort
would have them killed or tortured. You okay with that?"

"Stop it," Malfoy says harshly, his fists balling up and relaxing over and over.

Harry frowns at him. "I won't. Why are you afraid of them? They're kids."

"I wasn't afraid of them," Malfoy mutters. "I just… I don't particularly like kids anyway. And, you
know, I don't—I'm not like them. I don't know their ways. I can't just...play it off."

"Was there anything particularly Muggle about what they did back there?"

"Well...wait. What's cycling? And what's a Church?"

Harry grins.

So, as they walk, Harry starts telling Malfoy a bit about Muggles and how they do things. Well, as
much as he can, anyway. Malfoy doesn't actually seem to get most of it, and he asks a lot of
questions.

Questions like:

"But they can't actually see God?"

"What's a lightbulb?"

"You mean they don't use Quills?"

"Yes, but how does the toaster know the bread is ready to come out?"

"Oh, so automocars don't normally fly? And you just happened to end up in one that did?"

"No Quidditch?!"

"That's impossible, Potter. There's absolutely no way the Muggles can do that. It's—it's practically
magic! How? No, stop laughing. How?"

"Why don't they just get a Portkey?"

"No Portkeys?!"

Harry answers to the best of his abilities, though there are just some things he simply doesn't know.
It's at this moment that Harry wishes Hermione would just show up and explain everything,
because Hermione would know.
Malfoy, despite his earlier wariness, asks questions with undeniable interest. He doesn't seem to
realize just how animated he is, astonished at some of the things that Harry tells him about,
demanding to know how the Muggles do it. Though he'll never say it, the way he acts reminds
Harry of Mr. Weasley, just a bit. Malfoy doesn't have the wide-eyed wonder or delight, but he is
clearly hooked, to say the least.

However, Malfoy deems some things stupid, which Harry supposes is fair. No society is perfect,
after all. There are flaws in every world, Harry is sure of it. That doesn't mean it's not interesting to
know about, or discuss, and Malfoy—whether he realizes it or not—seems to feel the same.

Harry is pleased by this. He can't quite hide his smile as he answers Malfoy's questions, and there's
something distinctly victorious about seeing Malfoy come to a screeching halt the first time he sees
a TV in a shop window. They've just reached the edge of downtown, and Harry almost keeps
walking (and talking) until he sees Malfoy stop.

"That's the telly I was telling you about," Harry informs him, moving over to stand beside him.

Malfoy watches the program with wide eyes. "Potter, are the people in the box?" he hisses.

"What?" Harry blinks, then laughs. "No! Malfoy, no. It's like I said. They sort of, er, record the
people in the program and then somehow show it on the telly. I don't really know how it all works
and it involves electricity and technology that I just really don't know enough about to explain."

"It's a bit distracting, isn't it?" Malfoy muses, very obviously distracted as he watches the man and
woman on the telly argue—must be the soaps.

Harry hums, chuckling as Malfoy just stands there and watches. He shoves his hands in his pockets
and waits, simply smiling as he stares at Malfoy, who avidly stares at the telly.

They stand there for a long time until the program goes on break, and then Malfoy frowns. He
looks distinctly displeased to have the soap interrupted, and Harry busts out laughing, unable to
stop it. Still laughing uproariously, he grabs Malfoy's arm and drags him away, ignoring his
protests.

And that begins the tour of the Muggle town. Amidst regular pauses to drink their Polyjuice, Harry
spends the next few hours showing Malfoy as much as he can, everything from the local
playground they come across to a hotel they pass. He answers questions he never thought he'd be
asked, and he answers questions he's had to answer for others, like Ron and Neville.

Harry does locate the Library, but he keeps on walking past it, deciding to make that the last stop.
Instead, he walks around with Malfoy and shows him a Food Truck, how the phone-booths work
(which takes a while since someone left behind some coins and Malfoy wants to try it out, but
Harry makes him leave a coin because it's only polite, so they only call random people three times,
in which Malfoy hangs up quickly each time), and what exactly a petrol station looks like.

He even convinces Malfoy to go into a few different shops, even if they can't buy anything—a
clothing store, a bakery, and an antique shop. Malfoy thinks Muggle fashion is abhorrent until he
finds a hoodie and seems fascinated with—as he rather confidently calls it—the 'pocket-jumper'.
Malfoy doesn't really care about the bakery, and Harry isn't about to make him try, though Malfoy
does agree that it smells nice—grudgingly, but he does. The antique shop is a point of confusion
for Malfoy, mostly because he doesn't understand the point of some of the items, and Harry doesn't
either, really. He does get distracted by a lone keyboard on a shelf, apparently enjoying the
clicking sound it makes when he presses the keys, which sets him off on questions about why
Muggles need buttons to tell them the alphabet and how computers work.

The Church, though…

"Are you sure you want to go in there?" Harry checks one more time, looking up at the large white
building nervously.

Malfoy pauses on the step. "Pardon?"

"It's just…"

"What, Potter?"

"I don't know," Harry admits, glancing at the doors warily, swallowing thickly.

"Have you ever been?" Malfoy asks him, tilting his head and looking at him curiously.

Harry clears his throat. "A few times when I was younger. The Dursleys… Well, obviously they're
no saints, but they fancy themselves righteous and Christian—as if they're not all going straight to
Hell. Hypocrites, the lot of them."
Malfoy moves back off the steps, turning around to walk over and stand right in front of him. It's
only then that Harry realizes his own face has twisted into a dark scowl. "Potter," Malfoy says
softly, "if you don't want to go into the Church, you don't have to. It's fine."

"No, it's not that," Harry says hotly, irrationally angry for no reason. He casts his mind back,
stirring up memories he hasn't thought about in years. He gives a hollow, bitter laugh. "They told
me I was going to burn for eternity in Hell, you know. I was—well, I was only nine. Said I was a
freak, and that God didn't take freaks."

"How would they know? They've never met him," Malfoy says instantly, a bit stuck on that part.
As an afterthought, he adds, "And you're not a freak. You're just full of magic."

"I didn't know that at the time," Harry snaps, heat prickling at the back of his neck. "I was just a
boy. I was nine, and I—I used to pray every night not to go to Hell, pray that God would—would
take me. Can you believe that? They knew what I was, and they made me think—and I never even
—"

"Potter," Malfoy says sharply, that tone he uses when Harry's losing the plot a little.

But Harry can hear it now, and he doesn't want to settle down. He just keeps right on going. "Then,
when I learned what I was, they told me it was Devil Worship, that I'd set fire the moment I walked
into a Church. But they didn't know. They didn't understand that I used to pray. I used to pray,
Malfoy, every single night. Pray to God that my life could be different, that God would bring my
parents back or at least take me to them, pray that they were happy in Heaven, and—and that I'd be
able to see them again one day. I believed. I believed in God because he was all I had, and they
tried to take that away from me all the time."

Malfoy looks stricken. "Harry," he whispers.

Harry blinks, surprised to feel tears clinging to eyelashes that aren't his. "I—I—"

"Excuse me."

Harry jerks at the same exact time that Malfoy does, the both of them whirling around in alarm. A
man is standing a bit back from them, watching them, and he's in a black robe with a collar that
Harry recognizes instantly, even after all these years. A Priest, just standing there with a polite
smile.

"I—um, s-sorry," Harry stutters out, blinking rapidly as he pulls Malfoy to the side, giving the
Priest room to walk by.

"No need to apologize," the priest says, not budging an inch, still looking right at them.

Harry clears his throat. "We were just...looking, Father," he says carefully, the title falling off his
tongue clumsily, though he knows it's respectful to say it, even if he didn't understand why at five.

Malfoy shoots him a strange look.

"Father Ellis, please," he says, smiling at them calmly and moving forward to walk up the steps.
He opens the door and pauses, looking back at them patiently. "Aren't you coming in?"

"Well…" Harry hesitates, still unsure.

Father Ellis smiles even more kindly. "I assure you, you will not catch flame."

Harry blushes. "Right. Yeah, I know. Um, sure."

Malfoy makes a face like he wants to protest, but he says nothing and walks up the steps next to
Harry. Their shoulders bump as they go up, and Harry can't help but take a deep breath and grab
Malfoy's arm as they approach the door. Father Ellis gestures them to go in, so in they go.

Harry does not, as expected, burst into flame. Ridiculously, he'd somehow thought that he would. It
wouldn't be the first insane thing to happen to him, after all.

The Church already looked big from the outside, but it really shows it on the inside. There's a
statue of a woman that Harry is pretty sure is Mary. Rows of pews take up most of the space, and
there's a confession booth off to the side—he only remembers what that is because Aunt Petunia
once threatened to lock him inside it during a sermon because he had to use the bathroom and
couldn't sit still. At the front of the room, near the statue, there's an altar. Off to each side are two
large tables with candles flickering—the only source of light outside of the sun beaming in through
stained glass.

Malfoy looks around in surprise, his eyebrows flying up, and Harry knows he has a million
questions. Thankfully, he doesn't ask them, apparently subdued by the atmosphere and his own
appreciation.

"Votive candle," Father Ellis says softly, looking at Malfoy, who's staring at the candles with
curiosity written all over his face. Malfoy jolts, and Father Ellis smiles. "You've never been in
Church?"

Malfoy clears his throat. "Er, no. Sorry."

"That's quite alright. You are always welcome here, regardless if you know this place or not,"
Father Ellis murmurs. "Do you have questions?"

"What's a votive candle?" Malfoy asks immediately.

"A prayer candle," Father Ellis says. "To light a candle for someone indicates one's intention to say
a prayer for another person, and the candle symbolizes that prayer. Would you like to try?"

Malfoy's eyes go wide. "Oh, I—I don't know how."

Father Ellis shakes his head, the corners of his eyes crinkling. "It is not hard, I assure you. There is
always something to reflect on in the eyes of God. There is always someone to wish well by God's
mercy."

"I'm not religious," Malfoy blurts out.

"That's alright," Father Ellis says kindly. "Even if you do not know God, he knows you."

"How does God feel about freaks?" Harry asks quietly, his eyes locked on the candles flickering
across the room, his throat burning.
"God does not make mistakes, child," Father Ellis says gently, drawing Harry's gaze. "Who you are
is exactly who you're meant to be. We are made of sin, but that does not mean we are not worthy of
forgiveness."

Harry's throat positively closes up, and his eyes burn, burn, burn. He sees Uncle Vernon damning
him to Hell in his mind. He sees himself, young and so lost, kneeling in his cupboard, wishing God
would just take him to Heaven to see his parents.

"Do you want to...pray?" Malfoy asks him carefully, staring at the side of his face. Harry can't
speak right now, and he's scared he'll start crying if he reacts. Malfoy suddenly straightens up.
"Yes, we will, er, pray the candles, sir."

"Father," Harry chokes out weakly, a laugh falling out a little broken. "You call him Father."

"But he's not my father."

"It's—it's hard to explain, but it's like a title, yeah? A sign of respect."

Malfoy looks uncertain, but he nods. "Alright, then. Er, we'll pray...Father?"

Harry gives that weak laugh again.

"Come with me," Father Ellis says with a small smile, leading them away.

There's something about a Church, Harry supposes. When he was a child, he always liked going,
mostly because it was the few times he got to leave the house. Everyone knew the Durselys had a
nephew, much as they tried to pretend otherwise, and to not bring him would look too abnormal.
So, he got to go, and he always looked forward to it.

The sermons bored him, of course, as he was very young and didn't care to listen to Adults drone
on and on for hours. To be fair, he still doesn't and likely never will. Despite that, though, he loved
going to Sunday school. Yes, they sometimes got wacked on the knuckles with rulers for being
loud, but that was where he was told that God was someone he could talk to, almost like a friend.
He had no friends back then, and so, he latched onto that.
Now? Well, Harry doesn't even know if he believes in God. He doesn't feel particularly bad about
that, exactly, but it bothers him to think that Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon somehow managed to
succeed in taking God away from him, even inadvertently. He hasn't thought about God, or Hell,
or Heaven in a very long time.

He doesn't really want to start now, not really. He just wishes the one good thing he had in his
early childhood wasn't tainted. He couldn't yearn for Heaven without worrying he was going to
Hell, all because that's what he was told, even when he had no idea what he was doing wrong. He
couldn't pray to God without thinking that he was going ignored, all because he was a freak, even
though he didn't understand it half of the time.

And then, once he realized he was a Wizard, his Aunt and Uncle had to smear that, too. They
brought God into it as well, and Harry hated it.

He hasn't prayed in five years…

"Just...take one?" Malfoy suddenly says, making Harry blink and come back to himself. Malfoy is
looking at where Father Ellis gestures to the long sticks they use to light the candles.

Father Ellis smiles and nods. "Yes. There are methods for many different people for many different
forms of prayer, but I feel that God has led you both here for something. It seems most important
that you not know everything and do it all correctly—if there is such a thing—but that you both are
granted serenity from this experience."

Malfoy stares at him. "Bloody hell, that's a bit fanatical, isn't it?"

"Malfoy!" Harry hisses, reaching over to smack him on the arm.

"What?" Malfoy grumbles, rubbing his arm and shooting Harry a glare. "It's true."

"Sorry about him, Father," Harry says with a sigh, clearing his throat as he picks up the stick.

Father Ellis seems amused and still so, so unbearably kind. "Again, there is no need."
"How does one pray, exactly?" Malfoy mutters.

"You close your eyes," Harry says softly, staring down at his stick. "Sometimes, you kneel. But,
mostly, you close your eyes and you—you talk to God in your mind. Sometimes, you think he's
there, but when you open your eyes...he isn't."

Malfoy grabs a stick. "Odd, but alright. You go first, Potter. Show me how to pray."

Harry sends him a cross look, but steps forward. With a deep breath, he leans forward to put the
end of the stick into a flickering flame, then moves it over a candle that's gone out. In a way, they
are forever burning, someone always ready to light them over and over. There's something a bit
beautiful and magical about that, though Harry can't pinpoint what it is, exactly.

Taking a deep breath, Harry moves the flame down, watching it catch on the candle. The candle
that someone lit before him, belonging to them, holding their prayer until it eventually went out. In
a strange way, Harry feels like he's sparking that prayer back to life, even if it isn't his. He'll add his
to it, and later, someone will bring it back to life, too.

Harry closes his eyes and prays.

He's not entirely sure how to talk to God anymore. He hasn't done it since he was eleven. The last
time he'd prayed was in Hogwarts, sitting in front of the Mirror of Erised, thanking God that he
could see his family again. But that had just turned out to be magic.

Maybe God is magic. Maybe God is Merlin. Maybe Merlin is God. Maybe it doesn't matter and all
of this is about Harry, about unearthing something deep in the corners of his mind, something that
ties Muggles into Magic and the Dursleys into trauma. So, he takes a deep breath and addresses
God for the first time in five years.

I don't know if you're real, and don't be offended because I'm not sure. I'm a Wizard, so things are
only more confusing when it comes to religion. But, if you are real, thank you. For a long time,
you're all I had. I think this moment has made me realize that that isn't the case anymore. Whether
you answered my prayers or not, whether this is your doing or not, thank you for being there when
I had no one else.

Harry blinks open his eyes, pulling the stick back and blowing it out softly. His candle flickers just
like everyone else's, and he smiles.
Malfoy looks at him for a long moment, just looks at him, then steps forward as Harry steps back.
He does just as Harry did. Only, he uses the flame from Harry's candle to light another one, and
Harry feels something soft flutter within him at that. Then, Malfoy closes his eyes, and he looks
like he's concentrating, like he's actually doing it. He's praying. Harry wonders what he's praying
about, or who he's praying for.

A few seconds later, Malfoy opens his eyes and blows out the stick, then turns to Harry. "God
didn't answer. Rather rude of him, if you ask me."

Harry claps a hand over his mouth to try and muffle his bark of laughter, but it still echoes in the
silence. Malfoy grins at him. Father Ellis smiles down at the floor, then looks back up at them.

"Have you made your peace?" he asks.

"You know," Harry murmurs, "I think so."

They leave. Father Ellis walks them to the door and tells them they're welcome to come back
anytime, and Harry thanks him, even though he knows he won't be back. But, for the first time, it's
not because he's scared to, or traumatized.

Malfoy stands beside him out front, simply looking up at the Church with him, his head cocked.
Harry knows it must all be so bizarre to him, which is fair. It's bizarre that Draco Malfoy was even
in a Church to begin with, let alone prayed. To his credit, he's being a lot more gracious than Harry
expected.

"What a load of Hippogriff dung," Malfoy says, because no, Harry can't have nice things.

Harry rolls his eyes. "Malfoy, you are, without a doubt, a terrible person."

"Maybe, but at least I'm not religious," Malfoy replies with a derisive snort.

"I was, technically. I think?"

"Yes, well, you're very stupid, though."

"Thanks," Harry says dryly.

Malfoy sends him a sly look. "You're very welcome, Potter. You know, I wouldn't do this for just
anyone. While it's been...enlightening, I'd find much more joy at home. I require payment."

"Do you?"

"Indeed."

"And what would you like?" Harry asks, arching an eyebrow at him.

"The people in the box, have you seen them before?" Malfoy says immediately.

Harry's face twitches as he works very, very hard not to laugh. "Have I watched the program, you
mean?"

"Yes, that, whatever."

"I have."

"Does Julia forgive him?" Malfoy asks, staring at him intently, clearly very eager to know.

"Is this your payment, Malfoy, really?"

"Look, I need to know. Shut up about it."

Harry laughs. "Yeah," he says. "She forgives him."

 Malfoy's face lights up; it's not his face, and Harry desperately wishes it was. He's grinning, the
prat. "I knew it! Lovely. I mean, good for her and him," he says, overly pleased.

Julia didn't actually forgive him, but Harry can't really bring himself to tell Malfoy that. Maybe
Julia should have forgiven him. Maybe he needed forgiveness. Maybe he was different than Julia
thought he was.

Harry's not going to tell him. Ever.

"One last stop," Harry says.

Malfoy blinks. "Oh? Where?"

"The Library."

Chapter End Notes

Honestly, I haven't been to Church in some time, so this just might be slightly
inaccurate as to what Church is actually like. I apologize if so. It was more about
Harry's experience with it, anyway. Also, Draco thinking about God as an actual
person cracks me up every single time.

Anyhow, I hope you all enjoyed reading! Drop some kudos and come talk to me in the
comments!!! Thank youuuu ❤
 Affection
Chapter Notes

Couple of warnings for this chapter. There is comparison to Purebloods Society to

White Supremecy, as well as mention of racism, and Harry tackles the subject with
Draco. I want to say that Black Lives Matter, they will ALWAYS matter, and this
comparison between the two is in no way intended to offend anyone. I'd say it's more
about highlighting the wrongs of them. Also, side note bc I feel the need to, in light of
everything that went on a bit back, let me say that Trans Women are women, Trans
Men are men, and however anyone identifies is valid. If anything in this chapter is
offensive in any way, please educate me and i will change it.

Also, another warning, there is discussion about eating disorders. Brief mention of
Harry's eating situation with the Durselys, as well as mention of Draco not eating
enough when he was younger.

There's also talk about Draco not getting enough affection, but Harry's on it with that
one, I assure you.

Again, nothing in this chapter is meant to offend anyone. I just want to warn in case
anyone needs it.

With that being said, it is an overall light chapter, so enjoy if you'll be reading!

Muggle libraries aren't that much different than Wizard libraries, except they have no magical
books, and Malfoy tells him this. Harry responds by saying that, despite what Malfoy may think,
he didn't actually come to this Muggle town to show Malfoy around, that the Library was the
destination the whole time. Malfoy is notably put out by this.

If Harry has learned anything from Hermione, it's that books always have the answers you're
looking for. You just have to know what question you're asking, then find the right book.

Harry has been thinking a lot about his not-lessons about Pureblood traditions with Mrs. Malfoy. It
has been reminding him of something, and maybe it always has. The way Purebloods have a word
for people that aren't like them. The way Purebloods dislike someone without really knowing
them, all because of their lineage. The way Purebloods pass their, frankly, wrong beliefs to their
children in a cycle that seriously needs to stop.

It's racism, plain and simple. It's white supremacy, but for Purebloods, and it's wrong.

That realization has him thinking about Voldemort and their upcoming debate. He's started
thinking about what, exactly, Voldemort's goal is. What he aims to do. What he wants the world to
be. How he thinks people should be a certain way, or they're lesser than him, and how he's insane
enough to think that those without magic aren't worthy of life, or freedom, or anything at all,
really.

Well, Harry doesn't think he'll have to look very far to find those things in Muggle history. There's
always someone like that, someone who thinks the way Voldemort does.

Harry doesn't remember a lot from Muggle school, but he does remember first learning about
horrible things in history that didn't make sense to him then and still doesn't now. How people can
hate someone based on how they look, who they love, where they're from, what God they pray to,
and so on. But people do, and people probably always will, and it's completely ridiculous.

He can't make everyone see it the way he does. The chances that Voldemort will are practically
nonexistent. He's fairly sure that Voldemort won't go into this with an open mind, no matter what
he's promised, but that doesn't mean Harry isn't going to be prepared. Today, with Malfoy, has
actually helped, regardless if he has been swayed in either direction or not.

The Library, thankfully, does have the answers he's looking for. Malfoy follows him around
everywhere, so he has a front row seat to the conversation Harry has with the Librarian. When he
explains to the woman what he's looking for, lying that he has a school project, the woman jumps
up and starts recommending titles, hurrying to register him for a Library card in case he needs to
take the books home—Harry panics and gives Dudley's name because it's the first Muggle name
he can think of.

As Harry is going through the shelves to find the books, Malfoy stands beside him with a frown.
Harry glances at him, then looks away quickly when Malfoy catches him. Malfoy then sighs and
leans up against the shelf, staring at Harry blatantly.

"What?" Harry mutters.

Malfoy frowns harder. "What's racism?"

Harry takes a deep breath. "Well, it's—it's… You know your friend, Blaise Zabini, or even my
friend, Dean Thomas?"

"Yes. What about them?"

"Would you ever...hate them for the color of their skin?"

"Um...no?" Malfoy looks at him like he's gone mad, genuine confusion on his face, and it makes
Harry inexplicably angry. "Why would I?"

"Because, that's what racism is," Harry snaps. "It's people that hate someone without ever knowing
them, all because they have a different skin color."

"That's stupid. Why would they do that?"

"They think they're lesser than them. They think they're inferior because they're different. They
think that they deserve worse because they don't look like them, as if they're not even human."

"That's…" Malfoy's face scrunches up, and he shakes his head in disbelief. "Well, it's stupid. Blaise
is better than most people."

"And Dean?" Harry challenges.

Malfoy blinks. "Well, no, but not because of his skin color! That's just preposterous."

Harry grits his teeth. "As preposterous as hating people because of who their parents are, because
their blood is different."

"Potter, that's not even remotely the same," Malfoy mutters, narrowing his eyes.

"No?"

"It's not! I already told you, Muggle-borns are dangerous. They're—"

"You know," Harry cuts him off, viciously shoving a book back on the shelf, "racists claimed the
same things. People with different skin colors are dangerous. They're beasts, out of control, more
likely to do crime, won't grow up to amount to anything. That's what racists say, that and probably
more. The same exact bullshite you have said, that Purebloods say. Racists have slurs, too, did you
know? Just like you lot have Mudblood and blood-traitor and Muggle-lover."

Malfoy makes a small sound, something halfway between confusion and offense. Harry doesn't
care. He's angry. Furious, really. Peeved that Malfoy is the person he is, even if it's not entirely his
fault. So, so angry that Malfoy is a bloody racist white supremacist and can't seem to see it. Hating
and raging at the fact that this is all true, and Harry is living with his family and laughing with
him.

Harry's even more furious with himself.

"Here," Harry snarls, pushing a book into Malfoy's hand that covers a lot of horrors surrounding
racism and the American Civil War. "Read that, why don't you? See how it's like looking into a
mirror for you. Might do you some bloody good."

With that, Harry whirls away and marches off, leaving Malfoy alone in the stacks. He is thankful
that Malfoy doesn't follow him, mostly because he's angrier than he's been since he walked into
that room to see Voldemort having a meeting with his Death Eaters. Harry doesn't want to punch
Malfoy, but he also really does at the same time.

Given the current situation they're in and the things they've just discussed, Harry's fairly sure he'd
punch Malfoy in the face, given half the chance.

Harry doesn't know if it's better or worse that Malfoy doesn't realize how horrible he is, how
horrible the things he's been taught is. If he did know, it would be a lot easier for him to
understand, but it would mean that he's done it on purpose. Which, he has, and he's relished in it,
Harry knows that. But there is a difference in doing it because that's how you're taught, knowing no
better, and doing it because you like how you feel when you do.

He's not entirely sure which it is for Malfoy.

It takes Harry some time to cool down, but he eventually does. He calms as he gathers more books,
skimming a few to make sure they're what he needs. The subject puts him on edge, no doubt, but he
knows it's necessary.

It's once he's more relaxed that Harry realizes that he doesn't want Malfoy to be like this. It hits him
square in the chest, and he blinks rapidly down at a book about different wars throughout history.
He doesn't want Malfoy to be Lucius. He wants Malfoy to be better, to learn, to—to break the
cycle.

He actually cares if Malfoy is a horrible person or not, and isn't that like a bludger to the head?

Harry...doesn't actually know what to do with this new information. He doesn't really understand
why, even if he knows it's true. He contemplates it for a while, then shakes it away, pushing it to
the back of his mind. He's not going to give himself false hope.

He goes back to gather books, feeling a bit like Hermione, missing her. He always misses her and
Ron over the summer, but he knows it's going to hit him a lot harder when Hogwarts opens back up
for the term and Harry isn't with them. He wonders if they're going to miss him, too.

Harry feels less angry and more maudlin by the time the next few hours have passed. Malfoy has
left him alone, presumably, because Harry hasn't seen him since he stormed off. Sighing, he
gathers the books he's finally settled on and goes off in search of Malfoy, wondering where he got
off to.

He does not expect to find Malfoy in the same spot Harry left him, but there he is, sitting on the
floor with his nose in the book Harry shoved at him. His eyes are wide and horrified as he reads.

"Malfoy," Harry says carefully.

It's like someone hits him with a stinging jinx. He jolts and rams his head into the shelf behind him
as his head snaps up. Grimacing, he snaps the book closed and reaches back to rub at his head
before standing up. He won't quite meet Harry's eyes.

"Ready to go?" Malfoy asks quietly.

Harry hums. "Yeah. I'm getting these books."

Malfoy holds out the book to Harry, clearing his throat, still not looking at him. "Get that one, too,
would you? I—I'm reading it."
"Alright," Harry says after a brief pause.

They leave the Library in silence. Malfoy doesn't say anything, and Harry doesn't either. A part of
Harry wants to apologize, but he refuses to. It's not like anything he said was a lie; it's just a really,
really brutal truth. Malfoy needs to hear it.

As they walk back through the town, now laden with a bag of books each, Harry marvels at how
strange things have gotten. It's all so, so odd how things have turned out. Even today is really
unexpected. Overall, it really hasn't been that bad, and Harry had thought it would be horrible with
Malfoy. It's somehow been the exact opposite, which is probably the most bizarre thing that could
have happened.

There are some victories, though. No one found them and caught them, so that's...good? Harry's
still not entirely sure where he stands on that.

Malfoy doesn't say a word the entire walk to the train tracks. It's almost dark now, which makes
Harry a bit uneasy, but they're almost—

Home. Almost home. Harry was just about to think of it as—as home. Bloody hell, that's…

Harry doesn't know what that is.

Thankfully, he doesn't have to explore it and figure it out because the same children from before
are still playing at the tracks, despite the fact that it's getting late in the evening. As soon as the
kids see them, they stop skipping rocks and run over.

"Did you find the Library?" the girl asks brightly.

Harry chuckles, holding up his bag of books. "We did, yeah, all thanks to you. Your map helped."

The girl beams at him. "Yes!"

"Isn't it a little late?" Malfoy asks, making Harry blink over at him in shock. Malfoy is looking at
the kids with a small frown. "Shouldn't you all be at home? It's not—you shouldn't be out this
late."

"You sound like my mummy," the girl says with a tinkling laugh, grinning at Malfoy. "We're
allowed to stay out until the sun passes behind the trees. We've got a few more minutes, at least."

"My mum is gonna kill me," one of the boys says, heaving a sigh.

Malfoy frowns harder. "Just...go be safe, or something. You shouldn't be out."

"We have a few more minutes," the girl says stubbornly, crossing her arms.

"Alright." Malfoy huffs, arching an eyebrow. "I suppose we'll just have to stand here and wait with
you, then, won't we?"

"We're not babies," the girl mutters.

Malfoy's eyebrow somehow arches higher. "No, you're not. Babies are at home with their mothers,
safe. You are clearly a child too stubborn to listen to people who are older and wiser than you."

The girl glares at him.

Malfoy glares right back.

It's a bit awkward waiting with the children. Harry shuffles in place and watches the last blip of
sunlight slowly sink down behind the trees, willing it to go faster. Meanwhile, Malfoy is
apparently in the middle of a staredown with an eight-year-old. Harry keeps catching himself
smiling without even realizing it, forcing the grin away over and over.

Finally, once the sun falls behind the trees, the girl apparently gives in because Malfoy smirks as
she breaks eye contact. The children gather themselves, calling out goodbyes before they take off
running for, presumably, their homes. The girl sticks her tongue out at Malfoy, then smiles, then
she's gone.
Harry coughs to cover a laugh.

"Not a word, Potter."

"I didn't say anything," Harry says, practically chewing on his bottom lip to try and stifle his grin.

Malfoy grumbles and marches off towards the trees. Harry follows him, trying to muffle his
laughter in the crook of his arm, disguising it as coughing again. By the time they make it back to
their brooms, Harry's mostly calmed down. He wisely doesn't say a word as Malfoy takes one last
sip of his Polyjuice Potion for the journey h—to the Malfoy Manor. He has some of his own, then
mounts his broom as Malfoy does. They don't need to walk for coverage, not when it's this dark.

So, in perfect unison, with bags hanging off their arms, they take off to the sky.

(They'll never know that there's this little girl who is sitting in her room, looking out the window,
gasping as she watches two figures fly up on brooms. Her name is Madeline, and she will one day
tell the story of two very strange twins and how they made her believe in magic. People will laugh
at her, but for her, it will always remain true.)

The fly to the Manor is uneventful.

Until it isn't.

It's fairly dark out now, so they can fly a bit lower than before, and they do. They keep the same
pace they set on the way there, not too fast, not too slow. They're careful, watching, waiting. Or,
well, Malfoy is, because it's him that gives a shout of warning when a blur of something comes
right at Harry.

Surprised and little more than terrified, Harry reacts without thinking, doing something very stupid
that he'd never expected himself to do. He yanks his hands away from the broom to try and cover
his face, seeing as something is coming right at it. But the things about brooms are...you sort of
aren't supposed to let go of them.

Harry goes careening right off, the rush of wind and how fast he's going carrying him over. He falls
with a shout, stunned by it, even though he knows what this feeling is. He's been here before a few
times. This falling sensation, everything becoming weightless except him, a rush of wind in his
ears, everything going too fast. Death is there, surely, laying in wait, greeting him softly.

Then, with a harsh jerk, Harry is being yanked to a stop as a hand grabs his wrist and tugs. It feels
a bit like a Portkey, actually, gravity yanking at his center as Malfoy fights against it. There isn't
anything Harry can do but wait and see what will win.

Malfoy grunts and swoops down to get some leverage, sliding back on the broom and pulling
Harry up there with him. They blink at each other, facing each other, the world seeming to pause
for a moment because this is just insane. Harry's never straddled a broom like this before, and he
also hasn't had a boy this close to his face before.

"Your broom," Malfoy suddenly blurts, his eyes going wide. "Hold on, Potter!"

With that strangely forceful warning, Malfoy scoots forward and reaches around to grab the broom
handle properly, which puts them in a very strange embrace. Harry suddenly knows what Malfoy
means by holding on. His stomach swoops from underneath him as the broom dips forward, and
then he's scrambling to hold onto Malfoy as he feels his body tip back and start to slide.

His heart is thundering as the air whips around him, gravity trying to suck him down and fling him
off the broom as Malfoy makes a dive. If not for Malfoy's arms around him and his arms locked
around Malfoy, Harry probably would fall off. Malfoy doesn't seem to notice at the moment, his
face full of focus as he watches where he's going over Harry's shoulder, his eyes narrowed.

There's a frantic flap of wings near Harry's head, and Malfoy curses as he veers sharply to the left.
They wobble, the weight off with the both of them, and Malfoy straightens them out. Harry
struggles not to drop the bag of books that's still on his arm.

"Bloody bird!" Malfoy shouts. Then, seconds later, he's shouting again. "Potter, your broom! Get
it! It's right there, grab it!"

Blinking around, Harry looks for his broom, spotting it seconds later, falling through the air. He
has to lean over to reach out and snag it, only to nearly drop it again as a blur of white comes
barreling by, something sharp nipping his arm. He curses under his breath, but he manages to hold
onto his broom. Finally, thankfully, Malfoy pulls up, slowing them to a halt, letting them hover in
the air.

Harry pulls back, blinking in surprise to see Malfoy's face. Actual Malfoy, not some muggle Harry
stole hairs from. It seems, in the last few seconds, Malfoy's Polyjuice has worn off, which means
Harry's has to. That explains why everything else besides Malfoy's face is blurry right now. Harry
needs his glasses.

Actually, he really doesn't. He can see Malfoy just fine. More than fine, really. He's very close. His
face is very close, his face that Harry has been sort of looking for all day. He wants to see Malfoy
smile, but Malfoy isn't currently doing that. No, Malfoy is currently staring at him with wide eyes
and parted lips, like he's startled, but Harry can't imagine what has surprised him.

Harry feels like he's about to pass out.

You should breathe, his mind tells him.

Oh, right.

Harry should do that, and he's going to, just as soon as he remembers how. Because somewhere
between the falling and seeing Malfoy actually look like Malfoy, Harry's forgotten.

"Draco," Harry says, and he doesn't really know why he says that, except he says it, and that one
word escapes him on a shaky exhale, and that's not—

Twack!

Harry sputters as wings flap in his face, feathers blocking his vision. Malfoy yelps, the broom
teetering, and Harry raises his free hand to try and shove the—well, whatever it is away, trusting
Malfoy not to let him fall. It's as he does this that he gets a good look at the wings attacking him
and Malfoy, the wings that are the color of snow, the wings he'd know just about anywhere.

"Hedwig!" Harry bursts out in delight, only to rear back as her wings flap harder. "No! No,
Hedwig, it's okay! It's okay, I swear. Stop attacking Malfoy!"

She does. It's slow and with a reluctant click of her beak, but she does. She flies in a small arc, then
stares at him as she hovers in place for a minute, her wings flapping slowly. Her sharp gaze has
always been piercing, but in this moment, she seems to be looking at him in anger.
"Of course it's your bloody bird!" Malfoy snaps, trying to pat down his hair. Hedwig clicks her
beak at him in clear threat.

Harry sighs. "Oh, Hedwig, how did you find me?"

"She's your owl, Potter, and an intelligent one to boot. Of course she can find you," Malfoy says
with a roll of his eyes.

"Is it safe to—can I bring her back home with us?" Harry asks hopefully.

Malfoy sends him a strange look, but he says, "I suppose it can't hurt. She doesn't have any letters
with her, so no one sent her off."

"No," Harry agrees, smiling at Hedwig. "Before I left Hogwarts, she was out hunting. I just
assumed she'd go to the Weasleys."

"She must have been looking for you this whole time," Malfoy muses. "Can't find you inside our
wards, though."

"It's good to have you back, Hedwig," Harry says sincerely, reaching out with his free hand to
stroke the only place he can reach—her head. She nips his fingers affectionately.

"Hey, er, Potter," Malfoy says, clearing his throat, "you can get back on your broom now."

Harry blinks, dropping his hand and feeling his cheeks heat up. "Oh, right. Sorry. And, um, thanks
for catching me, by the way."

Malfoy coughs and nods.

Harry nudges Malfoy's arms out of the way and scoots back, fumbling for his glasses in his pocket
to shove them on his face, then reaches out to grip his broom with both hands. With a grin, Harry
lets himself fall to the side with a bright laugh, bringing the broom between his legs and shooting
up a few moments later. That feeling truly never gets old.
"Show off," Malfoy calls out to him.

Harry laughs, then circles back to Hedwig. "Just follow me and Malfoy. I'll explain everything
when we get back to the Manor, alright?"

Hedwig gives a hoot that Harry takes as an affirmative. He takes off flying with Malfoy, Hedwig
flying behind them. They do slow their pace a bit so she won't push herself too hard, but they're not
far from the Manor anyway.

Still, when they touch down, Hedwig flies down to perch on his arm that he offers like she does
when she's tired sometimes. Harry strokes her feathers as he and Malfoy amble up towards the
Manor.

"The answer is no," Malfoy says suddenly.

Harry looks up. "To what?"

"To what you asked me earlier," Malfoy murmurs, looking at him out of the corner of his eye. "The
Muggles don't deserve it."

"Oh," Harry breathes out, blinking rapidly.

Before he can say anything else, Malfoy is picking up the pace, practically running through the
front door of the Manor. Harry stares after him and doesn't move for a while.

The following day, Harry sleeps in. He only wakes up because the heat of the sun from the window
beams right into his eyes, and as he turns over to get away from it, his glasses smoosh up against
his face. He groans and hates himself for daring to fall asleep with his glasses on.

Hedwig is over on her perch that Malfoy got for her last night. Harry hadn't been expecting it, but
Malfoy just showed up at the door, levitated it in, and left before Harry could even thank him.
"Hey, Hedwig," Harry greets her, standing up from his bed and padding over to her—his feet stick
to the marble with each step, but he's used to that by now, and the cold doesn't even really bother
him anymore. "Are you still asleep?"

Hedwig pulls her head from where it's tucked into her wing, looking at him, then clicks her beak.

"Yeah," Harry agrees, "long day for me, too, yesterday. We were up late last night."

They were. Hedwig doesn't...hate the Manor, exactly, but it's clear that she's not used to it. Her
head had swiveled in circles for a while until Harry told her that she wouldn't have to be caged
here, then her head stopped as she stared right at him. Her gaze, as always, had been piercing and
knowing. He'd spent the next few hours after that, late into the night, talking to her about...well,
everything. As always, Hedwig did not judge him, and she nipped his fingers before bed like she
usually did, even though she knows he's a murderer now.

So, that's...nice.

Actually, it really is. Having her here is brilliant. It makes Harry feel better, at least. Hedwig was
sort of his first real friend—a bit different from Ron, on account of her being an Owl, of course.
She was also his first proper Wizarding gift, and he has adored her since he was eleven. She's
probably heard more thoughts in his head than anyone else in the world, and still, she's incredibly
loyal. Smart, too, as Malfoy said. She reminds him of who he used to be, of who he may still be,
but a bit different now.

Harry sighs and moves over to the window, twisting the latch and pushing it out. "You can go
hunting when you're ready. Or just out for a fly, I suppose. Try not to leave the Malfoy wards; I'm
not sure you'd be able to get back in if you did."

Hedwig hoots, staring at him.

"I think I missed breakfast," Harry mumbles, moving back over to his bed to make it up. He usually
wouldn't because he's only going to mess it up again, but he's learned that the house-elves do it
when he's out of his room, and he prefers it if they don't clean up after him in every single way.

It's a bit of a process, seeing as his bed is as big as Malfoy's is—an odd thing to know, but
regardless. His sheets are silk as well, and his duvet is just as thick and soft. Harry hasn't realized
it, but he's sleeping with five pillows, too.

Harry pauses and glances around his room.

His room. His.

Bullocks, he's doing it again. This, at least, makes a bit more sense. The room does seem to be
more his than a guest room, now. The books from his trunk and the ones from the Library are on
the shelves, ensuring they don't look empty at all. His Firebolt is leaning in the corner next to the
broom-cleaning set that Malfoy had given him. Harry had felt stupid to put his photo album of his
parents on his nightstand, but he'd still done it, and now even that looks like it belongs there. His
trunk is in front of his wardrobe, and his Invisibility Cloak is hanging off the brass hook on the
side of the wardrobe, making one whole side of it look invisible. Now, with Hedwig on her perch
beside the window, this room feels more like his own than his room at the Dursleys, and he's not
sure what to feel about that.

Harry sighs, shaking his head. "Dipsy!" he calls.

There's a sharp pop, and then Dipsy—Harry's favorite house-elf, actually—appears in the room
with a quick bow. "Yes, Master Harry Potter, sir?"

"Did I miss breakfast, Dipsy?"

"Yes, Master Harry Potter be missing breakfast, sir. Misses Narcissa Malfoy has Dipsy see if he
and Master Draco Malfoy is awake, sir, but they be asleep still, so Dipsy was ordered to leave them
be."

"Draco's still asleep?" Harry asks in surprise.

Dipsy wrings his little hands. "Dipsy do not be knowing, Master Harry Potter, sir. Dipsy will check
for Master—"

"No, no, it's alright," Harry says quickly. He clears his throat. "Is it almost lunch, Dipsy?"
"Lunch be happening in three hours and forty-seven minutes, Master Harry Potter, sir."

"Oh. Yeah, alright. Er, Dipsy, sorry to ask you, but could you put together a light lunch for me and
Malfoy? If you have the time, of course."

Dipsy bobs his head. "Of course, Master Harry Potter, sir. Dipsy will do this for Masters Harry
Potter and Draco Malfoy."

"Thank you, Dipsy," Harry says with a smile.

"Master Harry Potter is most welcome," Dipsy tells him with a little smile of his own before he's
gone in much the same way he came.

Harry sighs again. Hermione would kill him if she could see him now, honestly. Not that he isn't
already feeling guilty enough as it is. It's just that he has so much to be guilty about that he no
longer can settle on which part needs the full brunt of his shame first. Usually, it's his distrust of
Dumbledore or him being a murderer that beats everything else out, followed closely by what his
parents and Sirius would think of him now.

For a bit, Harry sits on the edge of his bed and thinks about Sirius. Just thinks about him.
Remembers what he looked like, how his laugh sounded, the way his eyes used to shine fiercely
when he was passionate about something. Harry misses him so damn much, all the time, and that
feeling is almost like a second heartbeat in his chest. Inhale, miss Sirius, exhale, miss Sirius.

It's grief, Harry knows that. He knows he's grieving. He'd grieved Cedric, though not nearly as
intensely as this. But Cedric wasn't family, and Sirius felt like the only family he really had. Harry's
heart gives a sharp pang for both of them.

A little bit later, Harry forces himself to get it together and keep going. He stands up from his bed,
then marches right out of the room and across the hall. Without knocking, he barges right into
Malfoy's room, a plan already knocking around in his brain for what they should do before Lunch.

However, as soon as Harry catches sight of Malfoy, he comes to a sudden stop.

Malfoy is still asleep. His blanket is pulled up to his chest, leaving only his shoulders and up
visible to the eye—his naked shoulders because, apparently, Malfoy sleeps shirtless, which is fine.
Really, really fine. Harry snatches his gaze to Malfoy's face, blinking in surprise to see that he
looks...well, he looks really peaceful in his sleep, actually.

Of course the tosser would be pretty even in his sleep. Most people drool, or snore, or have creases
on their faces from their pillows. Malfoy, instead, has a slack face that looks sweet, and his lips are
parted as he breathes soft and slow. His pale eyelashes lay on his cheekbones, and Harry has a
feeling they tickle and Malfoy just isn't aware of it.

The only thing keeping Malfoy from looking utterly perfect in this moment is his hair. Usually, it
has some sense of order to it. Now? Well, it's sticking up in all directions around his head, pushed
around by his pillows, still gleaming blond in the sunlight, still looking ridiculously soft. It should
be funny, Harry should laugh at his hair misfortune, but he can't because it's a bit...adorable,
really.

Harry flicks his gaze away quickly, catching sight of the book on Malfoy's nightstand. The same
book from the Library. It has a bookmark sticking out the edge of it, and Harry's heart squeezes
violently in his chest to see that Malfoy is more than halfway done. He must have been up all night
reading it.

"Malfoy," Harry whispers, moving over to stand beside the bed. He reaches out to poke Malfoy in
the arm, quickly pulling his hand back when he feels how warm Malfoy is. "Hey, er, Malfoy. Wake
up, Malfoy. Wake up!"

Groaning, Malfoy's nose scrunches as he cracks open one eye. "What do you want, Harry?" he
rasps, his voice sleep-thick and husky.

Harry coughs. "Er, I want you to get up."

"M'sleepin'," Malfoy informs him in a mumble.

"Yes," Harry agrees in amusement, his lips twitching, "I can see that. Stop doing so. Come on,
we're going to eat a light lunch and have a Seeker game. Wake up, Malfoy."

"Hate you," Malfoy declares with a groan, turning his head into his pillow and sighing.

"The feeling is mutual," Harry lies. "Now, get up!"

Malfoy huffs, turning to look at him with squinting blue-grey eyes, clearly irritated to be woken up.
Harry stares back defiantly until Malfoy grumbles and yawns, his eyes opening fully afterwards.
He blinks around, then sits up slowly.

Harry bites his lip. Malfoy's hair…

"What are you laughing at, Potter?" Malfoy mutters in a croak, eyeing him suspiciously.

"Your, um, hair is…" Harry trails off and reaches up to his own head to gesture that the sides are
all sticking up around his head. Malfoy's hair looks a bit like his own, actually.

Malfoy frowns, then reaches up with a scowl to pat his hair down. He gives up quickly and shoves
himself out of the bed, and Harry suddenly isn't laughing anymore as Malfoy heads towards the
loo. He snags his brush on the way, and Harry watches the way his shoulder blades move sharply
on his back. He's not as thin as he used to be; he really, really isn't. His shoulders are fairly broad,
actually, and he's taller, leaner, and—

And he's gone.

Harry blinks, feeling ridiculously rooted to the spot. He coughs hard and shakes it off. So what if
Malfoy looks older and more fit? Harry might get taller, too, and he's not really horrible-looking,
he doesn't think. No need to get jealous over Malfoy.

Rolling his eyes at himself, Harry moves back across the hall to his own room to get ready for the
day. The usual morning routine settles him. Get dressed, brush his teeth, fight with his hair (and
lose). By the time he's finished, Malfoy is waiting out in the hall, looking awake and far more put
together. Harry strangely misses his wild hair, even if his fixed hair looks soft and falls into his
eyes.

"Here, Potter, catch," Malfoy says, tossing him a leather box with a golden clasp.

Harry raises his eyebrows. "A gift? Really, Malfoy, you shouldn't have."

"I didn't," Malfoy says dryly. "That's the snitch. I figured you'd want to open it outside."
"Yeah, alright," Harry agrees.

A sudden pop makes Harry jump, but Malfoy doesn't. He looks bored. Dipsy bows before them,
holding a basket in his little hand that's bigger than his whole body.

"Dipsy be bringing Master Harry Potter a light lunch as requested," Dipsy says.

Harry groans. "Dipsy, you call this light?"

"You always have to be specific with house-elves, Potter, especially when it comes to food,"
Malfoy says in blatant amusement. He pushes away from the wall to grab the basket. "Thank you,
Dipsy."

Harry sighs as Dipsy leaves, shaking his head as he and Malfoy start down the hall, heading for the
stairs with their brooms in hand. "We'll be stuffed by the time Lunch is ready."

"We'll eat, then fly," Malfoy tells him. "We might work up an appetite."

"Your mother might just kill me if I don't eat Lunch, especially since I skipped breakfast," Harry
mumbles as they head down the stairs. "She worries about me, you know. Can you believe that?"

"I can, actually," Malfoy muses, his lips curling up. "She's a mother, Potter. Besides, I used to…
Well, there was a time when I was younger that I—I didn't eat very well."

Harry blinks. "You ate bad types of food, you mean?"

"I didn't eat at all if I could help it," Malfoy corrects flatly. "She was distraught when she
realized."

"Why didn't you eat?" Harry asks, his heart racing in his chest. There must be some reason. Who
kept him from eating if not his mother? Lucius?
Malfoy sighs heavily. "I didn't—well, I was younger, you know. I thought that I would get big like
Crabbe and Goyle if I ate, and I didn't think Malfoys were supposed to look like that, so I
just...didn't eat. I was only ten, you understand, and my father was giving me all these lessons
about who I was supposed to be, how I was supposed to act, that sort of thing. I didn't think Crabbe
and Goyle were ugly, I just thought my father did, so I—I tried to not eat like they did. Plus, I
mean, manners dictate that you don't eat like a wild animal anyway, and then it sort of...got worse.
I was very thin and they had to call a Mediwizard, then I had meal plans, and Mother and Father
were upset. So, Mother always made sure I ate, especially sweets to keep my weight up, and that's
probably why she worries about you, that's all."

Harry stops on the last step as Malfoy continues on. He stares. Malfoy seems to realize he's no
longer moving and turns around, blinking at him with a frown. They're almost the same height now
with Harry standing a step off the floor.

He's suddenly thinking about that young, pointy boy from Hogwarts with thin shoulders and high
cheekbones. Malfoy has always been healthily thin, not malnourished like Harry, but that doesn't
mean he didn't used to be malnourished. It just means that he had parents who cared to make sure
that he'd get healthy again, a mother to send him sweets by Owl, and Harry had the audacity to be
annoyed by it.

It just goes to show that people don't always know the real story. Harry certainly never would have
guessed that Malfoy struggled with eating, just like Harry, but in a very different way. And, even if
Malfoy didn't and Mrs. Malfoy sent him sweets to spoil him, so what? Harry was just envious.
That doesn't mean Draco is Dudley, even if that's what Harry thought at the time.

"Potter?" Malfoy asks, uncertain.

Harry clears his throat. "Do you still—I mean, do you have problems with it now?"

"Not as much anymore, no," Malfoy says, frowning at him. "Why?"

"I, um—" Harry snaps his mouth shut, then releases a shaky breath. "You know my Muggle
relatives I was telling you about?"

"Yes."

"They used to, er, make me skip meals. That, and they sort of fed me scraps. I never—I mean, they
didn't let me eat very well, is all. So, I get it. What that's like, I mean. To be hungry. To not eat."

Malfoy's face goes blank, his eyes sparking with the same exact anger Harry's seen in Mrs.
Weasley's eyes, or Ron's, or Hermione's when they see just how bad the Dursleys are. Harry
watches Malfoy's hand spasm at his side like he'd enjoy it very much if he could grab his wand and
hex the Dursleys to oblivion. Harry relates to that, but it worries him in the same breath. He doesn't
want whatever progress Malfoy has made in his opinion of Muggles to go away, not when the
Dursleys shouldn't be the representation of Muggles.

Malfoy takes a deep breath, then lets it out, nodding sharply. "Alright. Well, are you hungry?"

Harry relaxes. "Starving," he says with a grin.

"Then let's go have a light lunch," Malfoy says simply, turning around.

"Yeah, alright," Harry agrees, pleased.

It's nice that Malfoy isn't going to ask him questions about it, isn't going to rant about the Dursleys.
It always makes Harry uncomfortable when the Weasleys or Hermione do it. He just...doesn't want
to talk about it. He never wants to talk about it.

Thankfully, Malfoy doesn't seem to want to make him. He's altogether quiet as they head through
the foyer to the drawing room, which will eventually lead to the entrance hall where the doors to
outside awaits. Harry can practically feel the air rushing over his face already. Well, he can until
they make it into the drawing room and Mrs. Malfoy is sitting in her chair, working on embroidery,
and she looks up at them with raised eyebrows.

"Finally up, I see," she says lightly. "You boys had a late morning in."

Harry smiles sheepishly. "Sorry. We were up late last night. And we spent a lot of time walking
around yesterday. We're going to eat, though."

Malfoy holds up the basket as if showing proof.

Mrs. Malfoy hums. "I see. Well, you two have a good time flying. I'll send Dipsy out to fetch you
when Lunch is on the table."

"A bit before, Mother," Malfoy says, wrinkling his nose. "Showers."

"Of course, love," Mrs. Malfoy says, amused.

"Hey, um, Mrs. Malfoy—"

"Narcissa, dear. I've already told you this before, Harry, just call me Narcissa."

Harry smiles at her sheepishly again. "Sorry, Mrs. Malfoy. I mean—sorry," he mumbles.

Mrs. Malfoy sighs, her gaze fond and amused. "What did you want to ask, Harry?"

"Just, er, can we go into your garden after Lunch?" Harry asks, blinking at her.

"Certainly," Mrs. Malfoy agrees. "Now, off you go, the both of you. Enjoy your flying."

So, with smiles, that's what they do.

The snitch turns out to be one of Harry's more brilliant ideas. They have a great time chasing it, and
Malfoy rants the whole way back to the Manor about Harry catching the snitch. Harry, of course, is
feeling a lot better after getting to be a seeker again, and he's pleased to have won.

It puts him in a relatively good mood, so Lunch passes in a way it usually doesn't. He and Malfoy
bicker just like always, and at one point, Harry smacks Malfoy's knuckles with his fork for saying
something prat-ish, which leads to Malfoy smacking him over the head for lack of table manners,
which ends up with them glaring at each other as they hold the other at wand point. Mrs. Malfoy
and Lucius do not intervene, like they never do, but they do visibly lean back in case Spells go
flying.
In the end, though, they just go back to bickering, and Harry's in such a good mood from catching
the snitch that he actually talks. This, surprisingly, leads Mrs. Malfoy to talk, which even more
surprisingly, leads Lucius to speak up occasionally. Lucius usually never talks at meals, unless
spoken to, but he does answer the few questions Mrs. Malfoy aims at him and even exchanges a
few words with Malfoy.

It's strange. Harry can almost see how they're like a real family, odd and distant as they may be.
Even with Lucius' many, many flaws, it's apparent that he loves his son—he just shows it horribly.
It makes Harry wonder how Lucius' father treated him.

The Malfoys aren't like the Weasleys. There's no warmth and love and constant bustling
movement. Their words are short and borderline cold, always so prim and proper. Harry would bet
that Lucius and Mrs. Malfoy don't tell Malfoy they love him the way Mr and Mrs. Weasley tells
each of their children in an offhand, obvious way that the Weasley kids don't have to question
because they already know. Does Malfoy know that his parents love him? Really, really know with
absolutely no room for doubt?

Harry is still wondering this when he strolls through the garden with Mrs. Malfoy after lunch. She's
waving her wand, watering the flowers, pruning them. He watches her in silence for a while, then
clears his throat.

"Mrs. Malfoy," Harry murmurs, "you have been telling me about Pureblood traditions, and I still
don't agree with them, but can you tell me what the traditions are for...affection?"

"Affection?" Mrs. Malfoy echoes, turning to look at him in surprise. "Do you mean in a romantic
sense?"

"No, I mean...like family," Harry says carefully.

Mrs. Malfoy blinks. "Oh. Well, I suppose that Pureblood families show their affection in their
pride. That was always how my mother and father did it, at least. If they said they were proud of
me, or showed it, then I knew I'd done the right thing."

"What about hugs?"

"Hugs?"
Harry nods. "Yes. Hugs. When was the last time you hugged Draco?"

"I…" Mrs. Malfoy slowly lowers her wand, looking a bit flustered. "Well, he was very young. Ten,
I believe. Before he went to Hogwarts. He was very nervous, you understand."

"Was he?" Harry asks in surprise. "He didn't act like it. He seemed like a confident, little prat."

Mrs. Malfoy frowns at him, but her eyes smile. "Yes, well, Draco was very good at pretending. He
still is, in some ways. He also had an image to maintain at his father's demand."

"When was the last time Lucius hugged Draco?"

"That, I cannot tell you. Possibly when he was five? Perhaps a little younger."

"Merlin," Harry breathes out, grimacing. "You do realize how strange that is, don't you? That
parents don't give their only child any affection?"

"Draco is older now," Mrs. Malfoy says softly. She sighs and shakes her head. "It is not always that
I did not wish to embrace my son, Harry, it sometimes is that he would not allow it. He knows that
it is expected of him to be above such things."

"But that's only because his parents taught him that. Besides, why does he have to be the one to
allow it, or even want it? How do you know he doesn't want it, if he's been told that he shouldn't?"

"Has he told you this, Harry?"

Harry snorts. "I think you know your son better than that, Mrs. Malfoy. He'd rather chew off his
own tongue than admit he needs something like that. Which, I suppose, is Lucius' doing...and
yours."

"It's just not the way things are," Mrs. Malfoy says simply, watching him closely. "One doesn't
force hugs upon someone who does not want them."
"He's your son."

"Yes, he is."

"So, if he was—if you found him crying." Harry holds up a hand when Mrs. Malfoy opens her
mouth to protest. "Just say that you did. He's crying, upset, something like that. What are you
going to do? Just watch him, walk away and give him his privacy, tell him to stop and act better?
Or, are you going to hug your son because he needs a bloody hug?"

Mrs. Malfoy closes her mouth. Her nostrils flare as she exhales heavily through her nose. Looking
slightly uncomfortable, she says, "Of course I would comfort my son under those circumstances."

"Right," Harry agrees harshly. "Just, you should know that, sometimes, people feel that way on the
inside, even if they don't show it. Sometimes, they will smile at you and need a hug, even if they'll
never dare to ask for one."

"And you think that is the case with Draco?"

"I think that, if you were to hug him, he wouldn't be upset about it, that's all. I mean, if he told you
to stop, then you stop. That simple. Maybe a bit embarrassing, sure, but is that so important when
your son might need it?"

"I see," Mrs. Malfoy murmurs. She watches him for a long moment, then tilts her head slightly.
"And you, Harry? Is that the case with you?"

Harry stares at her. "Mrs. Malfoy, my life is pretty shit. I live with my schoolyard bully and the
man who killed my parents. I'm a wanted murderer, my Godfather has just recently died, and I
don't know if I can trust someone I have always trusted. If I didn't need a hug, I wouldn't be
human."

Mrs. Malfoy blinks rapidly in pure surprise, and Harry can't help but laugh at her shocked
expression. Really, he's not one for great bursts of affection, mostly because he didn't have it at all
before Hogwarts. But between Hermione and Mrs. Weasley, he's come to realize that he doesn't
actually hate hugs. They're nice, if not a bit disconcerting.
He likes them, in any case, and he doesn't think it's as weird as he did when he was younger.
Gryffindors are actually pretty affectionate in their own ways. Claps on the shoulder, bumping
elbows, shoving each other playfully, hugs in greeting and parting. He's not always the best about
it, about initiating it, about admitting that he wants it, but he knows now that he's worlds better
than the Malfoys. So, he's going to have to own up to it, as it were.

"Harry," Mrs. Malfoy says cautiously.

He silences her by stepping forward and wrapping his arms around her. It's the most awkward he's
ever felt in his entire life, and that's really saying something. Mrs. Malfoy is stiff as a board and
more petite than he expects her to be. She's only a bit taller than him, so he has to hook his chin on
her shoulder and wait for her to thaw out.

She does, eventually. She clearly hasn't hugged someone in a long time, not in this way or for this
long before. At first, she doesn't seem to know what to do with her arms, then finally finds a spot
for them around his shoulders. She clears her throat and awkwardly pats his shoulder.

"You know," Harry tells her conversationally, "it's really not so bad. Hermione says that hugs are
scientifically proven to make you happier."

Mrs. Malfoy huffs a quiet laugh, which ruffles his hair just a bit. "And to think I assumed this
Hermione was intelligent."

"She is."

"If you say so, Harry."

Harry chuckles and waits for her to relax before pulling away, grinning lopsidedly at her. "If you
think that was strange for you, just think about the fact that I just hugged Mrs. Malfoy, my
childhood bully's mother. I think I win."

"Yes, I think you do," Mrs. Malfoy agrees. She smiles at him softly. "You may have a point
about...affection. Perhaps…"

"Yeah?" Harry stuffs his hands in his pockets, his heart thundering away in his chest. "Does this
mean you'll give Malfoy—er, Draco a hug? Because, honestly, I think he'd appreciate one."
Mrs. Malfoy hums, looking at him intently. "And why haven't you given him one, then?"

Harry blinks. "Oh, no, I couldn't. We're not—well, he wouldn't appreciate it coming from me. His
mother, though? Everyone needs their mother to hug them sometimes. Not having that is… It can
be really horrible. Trust me, I would know."

"Yes, I suppose you would," Mrs. Malfoy says gently, her mouth set into an unhappy frown, as if
she's genuinely upset for him.

He thinks she wants to hug him again, and he smiles.

 Vulnerability
Chapter Notes

Heyooo, back again! Gotta couple warnings for this chapter! I don't want to spoil, not
really, so ima put the spoilers at the end of this note and those who don't wanna see
what's coming can scroll past!

First, though, we get to see some familiar faces in this chapter and learn a bit about the
other side of things! If Harry's life is split in half, we gotta see how the other half is
going in some ways, at least ;) now, onto the...

SPOILERS***

Harry does some killing again. It's pretty savage, actually, and (for me, personally)
cathartic afterwards, of course, he breaks down about it! Gets heavy, but no heavier
than what happened with Bellatrix.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

The next few days pass without incident. Harry is fine one day, upset the next. Cheerful, then
silent. Thinking fondly of Sirius, then grieving so hard that he cries himself to sleep. Smiling in
amusement at Malfoy's antics, then coming close to blows when they get in an argument. It ebbs
and it flows, and it becomes Harry's strange new normal.

He flies with Malfoy every day, sometimes with Hedwig flying with them, sometimes with the
snitch and sometimes without. He eats at meals, only occasionally skipping them when things seem
so very hard and he can't handle it all. He thinks a lot about his friends, about Dumbledore. He
looks for Voldemort to have his debate because he's read a lot of books and he feels ready, but
Voldemort is away again, which makes him sick with worry that there are people out there dying
somewhere.

Then, one day, he looks up and realizes that he's halfway into July. He has a month and a half until
Hogwarts reopens and he's not going to be there. It feels wrong. He doesn't know what to do about
it.

It's late in the evening on a day that he's mourning this fact deeply when Malfoy suddenly comes
barging into his room. Harry blinks as he marches over to the other side of the bed and flops down
with a huff, his hair splaying out on Harry's pillow in an unfairly graceful way. The bed is so big
that they don't even touch, but Harry is still shocked to find Malfoy sprawled out on his bed like
this.

"Er, can I help you, Malfoy?" Harry mutters.

Malfoy heaves a deep sigh. "Potter, my mother just hugged me."

"Did she?" Harry asks, beaming.

"It was very strange," Malfoy tells him. He glances over at Harry with a frown. "It came out of
nowhere with no warning. She just...hugged me."

"Is that a bad thing?"

"She hasn't hugged me since I was ten."

I know, Harry doesn't say. Instead, he murmurs, "I'm sure it was nice then, after all these years."

"It wasn't horrible, just unexpected. I let her, of course, in case she needed it. But, when I asked her
if she was alright, she said she was. Do you think she's going through a...woman thing?"

"I...wouldn't know. I don't think there is a woman thing that makes them suddenly hug you. Maybe
she just wanted to hug you, Malfoy."

Malfoy hums. "Perhaps. Oh, I'm also meant to escort you to, er, the Dark Lord. Back in that room
where… Well, you know the room."

"Yeah, I do," Harry mutters. "We're going now? Voldemort is back from his...trip?"

"Yes," Malfoy says, hopping up from the bed, not a hair out of place, not a wrinkle in his robes.

Harry shakes his head. "Alright, let's go, then."

The little wiggle of excitement and warmth Harry feels at the knowledge that Mrs. Malfoy hugged
her son is squashed as Malfoy leads him out of the room. He wishes he'd had a few more minutes
to appreciate it, because fixing some of the broken aspects of the Malfoys—Draco, in particular—
feels like the only good he's doing these days.

It's like a little project that he can focus on and forget how truly messed up everything is right now.
Changing Malfoy's viewpoints, changing Mrs. Malfoy's...it all feels like Harry is actually doing
some good in the world. After killing Bellatrix and semi-losing trust for Dumbledore, Harry is a bit
thankful to have that, at least.

If Malfoy notices his solemn state, he doesn't comment on it. He just keeps sending Harry quick,
furtive looks like he wants to say something but won't. Harry doesn't have it in him to hear
whatever is on Malfoy's mind, not right now.

The march to the Death Eater room—as Harry has dubbed it in his mind—is a slow one. It's very
quiet in the Manor, though it's rarely loud. It just feels quiet and sparse because he knows where
everyone is. He's not at all looking forward to going back in that room, nor is he very ready to find
out why Voldemort has asked for him.

To be honest, Harry doesn't like how he feels inside that room. The atmosphere was tense, he
remembers that, but it's being around all those Death Eaters that gets to him. It's odd because Harry
is around Lucius every day, and at this point, he doesn't feel like he's going to lose it and kill him at
every available opportunity—the urge rather comes and goes, actually, a bit like a tide of anger.

The others, though? All those Death Eaters? Harry wants to blow up the entire room. It only makes
it worse that Voldemort is there, sitting before all his followers, nearly indestructible.

It's all maddening.

As they start getting farther down the hall where it goes from looking pristine and cold to dusty
and dark, Harry takes measured breaths. He's calm. He is. And he's going to stay that way. He'll
just go in, see what Voldemort wants, then leave. He will likely sick up again because walking
away from a group of horrible, torturous murderers without doing anything goes against everything
he believes in.

The door is closed, but Harry knows that it will open as soon as he touches it. He doesn't, not for a
while, just standing there in complete silence. Malfoy looks at him a few times, then without a
word, he reaches out to touch Harry's wrist, just a brief squeeze that somehow makes Harry think
he'll get through this. He shoots Malfoy a shaky smile in thanks, and Malfoy gives a sharp nod
before dropping his hand.
Harry reaches up to touch the door, his stomach in knots as it slowly creaks open. There was a low
murmur that filtered out, but now it's quiet. Harry sets his shoulders and walks in, Malfoy right
beside him, keeping pace with him.

The first time he walked in this room, it was the sight of all the Death Eaters at the table that made
him come to a halt. This time, it's the sight of one.

Instantly, Harry feels a sharp sting of betrayal as he stares at Snape. He almost misses the very
quick flash of surprise on Snape's face and the barely perceptible widening of his eyes by just a
fraction. Harry stares at him, suddenly angry, so angry that Voldemort lied to him when Harry
dared to believe that he wouldn't. He snatches his furious gaze from Snape to glare at Voldemort,
who watches him.

"Explain," Harry grits out, waiting, giving him the benefit of doubt because it's an insane world and
Voldemort hasn't lied to him yet.

"I told you, Harry," Voldemort says softly, his red eyes glittering, "I was handling it. Rest assured,
Severus is unable to reveal anything. As much as I trust him, you do not, and I respect that."

Harry feels his nostrils flare. "How do you know? How can you be sure? He could—"

"He can't," Voldemort cuts him off sternly. "I have not lied to you, and I will not. Severus would
die before the words could ever leave his lips."

"Why am I here?" Harry asks, his gaze shifting back over to look at Snape, who is staring at him
with empty eyes and a blank expression.

Voldemort sweeps his hand towards Snape, his long fingers waving in a strangely grotesque way.
"I told you I would notify you when we found a solution. This is me doing so."

"I want to speak with him," Harry declares, the words falling from his mouth before he even makes
the decision. "Alone."

"Very well," Voldemort says. He turns to look at Snape with a thin smile. "Go with Harry, Severus.
Answer his questions honestly."
"Yes, My Lord," Snape says softly, silkily, standing up immediately. His robes billow out as he
sweeps around the table, coming to a halt as he stares right at Harry. "After you, Mr. Potter."

Harry glances at Malfoy. "I'll be right back."

Malfoy, in a great show of aloofness, smirks and waves a hand lazily. "And I'll be right here."

With that, Harry takes a deep breath and whirls around on the spot, marching right back out of the
room with his heart in his throat. He assumes that Snape is following him, but he doesn't look back
to check. He just keeps walking until a door catches his attention, feeling a little pull to it. He
doesn't even wait, his mind running in circles as he moves to the door and opens it, walking in.

It's a room on the dirty, dank hallway. It looks like it used to be a study, but the chairs are dusty
and the shelves lining the walls are empty. Harry notices immediately what pulled him here,
grimacing at the sight of Nagini curled up in the corner. He always finds his way to her somehow,
especially when he's distressed, but that makes sense if they're both the same sort of thing
Voldemort uses as a defense.

Distressed again, Nagini hisses at him, picking her head up to stare at him and Snape. Are you ever
anything else, boy?

"Shut up," Harry hisses back, huffing. He points a finger at her. "And no, you can't swallow
Snape."

Nagini lowers her head. I wouldn't. The master does not permit it, or encourage it.

Harry rolls his eyes. "Of course he doesn't."

With a sigh, Harry turns right back around and walks out of the room, brushing past Snape
lingering in the doorway with watchful eyes. Harry slams the door and goes farther up the hall,
finding yet another room that doesn't even have chairs. It's empty, so Harry nods to himself and
turns around.

Snape walks in behind him and closes the door, his robes dramatically flapping, just as always.
Strangely, it gives Harry a sharp pang for the way things used to be, reminding him of his times in
Hogwarts. Oh, to be eleven again and sure that your Potions Professor wants you killed.

Simpler times, really.

Black eyes watch him. Snape's gaze has always been harsh and forceful, full of scorn, at least when
it comes to Harry—though, also in general as well. There's a different type of hatred for Harry in
Snape's gaze, however, always has been, and Harry is aware of that. But it's not there now.

No, Snape's gaze is guarded now, intent. He's being careful, watching. His eyes flick over Harry
like he's checking for wounds, and the sharp curiosity in them is poorly hidden. Snape has not
expected this, and Harry understands that completely.

"Well?" Snape finally drawls.

Harry takes a deep breath, lets it out. "You—you really can't say anything about me being here?"

"Not unless you permit it," Snape replies, his gaze sharpening on Harry's face. "You have to be the
one to give me permission to say anything about you to anyone who is not the Dark Lord."

"Me?" Harry blurts out. "But why?"

Snape arches an eyebrow. "The Dark Lord has made it so. Only you can dictate what information I
give on you to anyone outside of the Dark Lord himself."

Harry gives a hollow laugh, reaching up to scrub a hand down the side of his face. Voldemort
would do this. It goes above and beyond what Harry asked of him, and in the same breath, it puts
him in yet another position to make choices that feel like a betrayal. Harry has the power to grant
Snape the permission to tell Dumbledore and the Order everything, but he has to decide to.

The thing is, Harry can't do that. Voldemort knows Harry can't. Knows he won't. That bastard.

On the other hand, Harry could tell Snape absolutely anything, and no one would be able to find
out except for Voldemort. Which, in truth, that isn't a huge deal, not really. Voldemort has already
seen his mind, and they have this weird connection anyway. Harry gets the feeling that he doesn't
really have a lot of secrets from Voldemort as it is, and it seems like Voldemort doesn't really care
either way what goes on in Harry's head.

"Of course," Harry whispers, dropping his hand and blinking slowly as he looks at Snape. "Of
course he'd do that. Yeah, makes sense."

Snape stares at him hard. "Does it?"

"Honestly, Professor, a lot of things don't really surprise me anymore," Harry admits with a weary
sigh. He feels so, so tired. "I have questions, so go ahead and try your best to shock me."

"I have been told to answer honestly. If something shocks you, it will be no fault of my own."

"Do you have questions?"

"Many," Snape admits.

Harry nods. "Yeah, I figured. Me first. Am I really a wanted criminal?"

"Yes, you are." Snape curls his lip. "A wanted criminal to be arrested immediately on sight."

"Dumbledore was wanted at the meeting as a witness, wasn't he?"

"Yes."

"He didn't go," Harry murmurs, and Snape doesn't answer because it's not a question, but he doesn't
have to. Harry already knows. What he really wants to know is, "Why?"

"I do not know," Snape says.

Harry clenches his fists. "You don't know? He didn't say anything?"

"Not to me."

"What did he say about me killing Bellatrix?"

Snape stares at him in complete silence, his face blank. There's something startling like pity in his
dark eyes. "Nothing. He said...nothing."

"Oh," Harry whispers. It's like a bludger to the chest, it hits so hard. He has to take a second to get
his breath back, blinking rapidly. "Has there been Order meetings since—since I went missing?"

"Yes."

"Was he there?"

"He attended three meetings out of five."

"And d-does the Order…"

Snape presses his lips in a thin line, waiting. Harry doesn't want to ask. He's terrified. Snape doesn't
blink, holding his gaze. "Speak, Potter."

"Do they know I—do they know it was me, and not V-Voldemort?" Harry stutters out, his chest
feeling too small, pressing in on his heart and lungs.

"There were some who would rather believe that it was the Dark Lord who possessed you and
killed Bellatrix Lestrange, but Dumbledore confirmed that it was you," Snape says in a short, sharp
tone.

Harry frowns. "You said he didn't say—"

"He did not. When the point was brought up, he merely shook his head. When asked if it was you
who cast the Killing Curse, he nodded."

"And he had nothing to say? Nothing?! He hasn't spoken one word about me? Not even to—"

"Not to me and not to anyone else, not to my knowledge," Snape murmurs when Harry cuts himself
off.

"So...so, everyone knows it was me, then?" Harry asks weakly, his heart thundering in his chest.

"Yes," Snape answers.

Harry stares at him. "Were you one of those who thought it wasn't?"

"Yes," Snape admits.

"You didn't think I would do it."

"No, I did not."

"Well," Harry says with a harsh, bitter laugh, "it was me. Looks like I finally did something you
thought I couldn't, Professor. Proud of me yet?"

Snape opens his mouth.

"Don't answer that," Harry says quickly, swallowing thickly. "The majority of the Order...how do
they feel about it? The adults, I mean."

"About you killing Bellatrix?"

"Yes."
"They are…" Snape trails off for a second, pausing, the sentence hanging there like he's giving
Harry the chance to stop him. Harry does not, and with a tightness around his eyes, Snape picks it
right back up. "They are divided. Some are notably angry, even betrayed. They know of the Spell,
just as everyone does, and they know how you have to feel and how you have to be to cast it. That
is undeniable, and some of them feel that you've...done something unforgivable. Some have even
left the Order."

"And the others?" Harry rasps.

Snape releases a deep breath. "They are conflicted. It's a regular debate at meetings about what it
means that you are capable of...that. Some still believe in you wholeheartedly. Some are more
concerned that you are missing. And a few think you've done a good thing, regardless of how you
did it and what that reflects back on you."

"And you?" Harry asks in a hoarse croak, staring up at Snape. "Do you think I'm evil, Professor?"

"No, Mr. Potter, I do not."

"My friends. Do they—"

"Yes?" Snape prompts when Harry chokes.

Harry closes his eyes, his hands fisting at his sides. He doesn't want to ask. He has to ask. "Do my
friends hate me?"

There's a long, long beat of silence, and Harry thinks he might cry. When he opens his eyes, Snape
is watching him with his lips pressed into a thin line. Harry knows he must look ridiculous, just
standing there, trembling, barely keeping it together.

"I do not think I have seen enough of your friends to know for sure, but from what I have seen...no,
Mr. Potter, they do not hate you," Snape says finally.

"Well, what are they, then?" Harry snaps, feeling wound tight, like he might explode. "They must
have reacted in some way. Maybe not hate, but…"
"As the adults of the Order, they are divided," Snape says softly. "The Weasley Twins, for
example, have stated on multiple occasions that they think what you did was, and I quote, wicked.
Ms. Granger has expressed disbelief as well as anger, but she is most outspoken in her concern for
your whereabouts. Mr. Weasley has not said much in my presence, but Ms. Granger has been
caught arguing with him about whether you may or may not be dangerous—from what I gathered,
he thought not, while she believed that your use of the Killing Curse is proof that you are, whether
you're a bad person or not."

Harry feels like a spring has been set loose in his chest, and he gives a very weak laugh. "Yeah,
that sounds about right for them. So, they're not…"

"Slandering your name and declaring you fit for Azkaban?" Snape suggests flatly. "No, they are
not. Most, if not all, are more focused on locating you first, rather than discussing your morals and
threat level. If the Aurors find you before the Order does, there will be absolutely nothing anyone
can do, not even Albus Dumbledore."

"Would he even try to do something?" Harry mumbles, his fists clenching again.

Snape's gaze flicks over him. "I believe he would, yes. I just don't know what that would be."

"Has he been looking for me?"

"He has. The Order has. It will not be long before they believe that you've been captured by the
Dark Lord due to the lack of protection from your relatives. As of right now, they are hoping that
you are just hiding somewhere."

"Not far off, actually," Harry mumbles. He grimaces when Snape arches an eyebrow. "And has
there been anything said about what would happen to me if the Order or Dumbledore found me?"

"Not to me," Snape says slowly.

Harry grits his teeth. "Right, of course not. So, Dumbledore hasn't told you what I am to
Voldemort, or what will have to happen to me?"
Snape stares at him, his lips twitching down. "What you...are to the Dark Lord? What will happen
to you? No, Potter, he hasn't. I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Bloody hell." Harry shakes his head, giving yet another harsh laugh. "And here I thought you
were his Spy, but he doesn't even trust you."

"Potter," Snape says sharply, his eyes flashing, narrowing, demanding information.

Harry isn't going to give it to him. "Well, I won't be the one to tell you. That'll just ruin the
surprise, and trust me, it's a great big bloody surprise." He scoffs, furious all over again, and he has
to breathe for a few moments before looking at Snape with a thoughtful expression. "You know,
Professor, I used to be scared that you weren't actually on Dumbledore's side, and now I'm worried
you might be. Isn't that insane? Don't answer that. But, the thing is, now I just don't know. I
suppose that's the thing about double-agents, isn't it? You've been honest so far. If I demand you
tell me whose side you're really on, will you actually tell me?"

"I'll have to. The magic demands it," Snape grits out. The flash in his eyes, a brief spot of fear, is
what tells Harry that it's true.

"Do you want me to ask you?"

"I do not."

Harry hums. "The thing is, I've gone long enough without answers, Professor. So, I'm going to ask
you, and you're going to answer honestly. Whose side are you really on?"

Snape's eyes are bright with fury, and his jaw is clenched so hard that it looks like it hurts. His
nostrils flare, then he spits out, "Harry Potter's."

"I'm sorry?" Harry blurts out, blinking rapidly. He frowns. "That can't be right."

"I cannot lie to you when you demand my honesty. The magic will not allow it," Snape snarls.

Harry stares at him incredulously. "So, so, you're on my side, are you?"
"Yes," Snape says with a sneer.

"I—I… That doesn't make any sense. You do realize that, don't you?" Harry mutters.

"It wouldn't, not to you."

"So you're...loyal to me?"

"Yes, Potter! How many times do I have to say so?" Snape growls out, his eyes flashing.

Harry holds up his hands. "Alright, alright. I suppose that's...er, I mean… It's brilliant. I just didn't
expect it. I'm not...upset about it, I don't think. You just have a really, really backwards way of
showing your loyalty, Professor. I thought you didn't like me."

"I don't," Snape declares immediately.

"Oh. Was that the truth?"

"Yes. I do not and have never liked you."

"Yeah, that makes more sense," Harry admits, oddly relieved by that for some reason. He pauses,
pursing his lips. "Professor, if I told Voldemort what you just told me, would he kill you?"

"It is very likely."

"Right. Let's keep that between us then, yeah?"

"If you do not mind," Snape mutters, looking very annoyed, indeed.
Harry clears his throat. "You said you have questions. Will I have to be honest?"

"No, but I will probably be able to tell when you are lying. I usually do," Snape admits.

"Yeah, well, we'll see," Harry mumbles. He takes a deep breath, then nods. "Ask away, then."

"What are you to the Dark Lord?" Snape asks immediately, his gaze sharp on Harry's face.

Harry shakes his head. "I'm not telling you that. Next question."

"You are not being held captive here."

"That's not a question."

"I would like confirmation," Snape says slowly.

"Then no, I'm not," Harry admits softly. "I can leave whenever I want. I just...don't."

Snape frowns at him. "Why?"

"I can't explain that, either."

"Very well. I feel I should ask, to be sure. You are not...a follower of the Dark Lord, are you,
Potter?"

"I don't agree with what he does, if that's what you mean," Harry says slowly. "I don't hate
Muggles, or Muggle-borns. I don't—I'm not like his little Dark Lord in training, no matter what the
Prophet would have people think. Why? If I was, would you try to stop me?"

"No," Snape says immediately.

Harry narrows his eyes. "You'd just...let me? Support my decision to ruin the world?"

Snape grits his teeth. "Yes."

"I—" Harry shakes his head. "I honestly don't know how to respond to that. Anymore questions?"

"One more, at least. You have displayed a certain mistrust and fear for Dumbledore, and this
surprised me," Snape says carefully, cautiously. "I cannot fathom what has made you feel this way.
I want to know if you do, and why?"

"I do," Harry whispers, averting his eyes. "Trust me, I don't feel bloody good about it. I don't want
to feel this way, but he—well, I can't explain that, either."

"Potter, with your swaying feelings," Snape says sharply, "I do not know where I stand."

Harry snorts. "Frankly, Snape, neither do I half the time. But, for now, it's Voldemort's protection
I'm under. And no, I can't explain that, either. Actually, I can, but I won't. I'll wait for Dumbledore
to tell you, and then you'll—I think you'll understand."

"I see," Snape says finally. "Shall I ask him?"

"No," Harry mutters, scowling. "No, don't tell anyone about this conversation."

Snape looks distinctly displeased, but he gives a sharp nod and says, "Very well."

Harry sighs. "We should go back."

"After you, Mr. Potter."

Leading Snape back to the Death Eater room feels really strange. There's not a word exchanged
between them, and Harry keeps waiting for Snape to suddenly swoop down on him like the
overgrown bat he is. Snape does not do that.

Talking with Snape has been...enlightening.

Mostly, it's been confusing. He's not sure what to do with all this new information. Snape is loyal to
him? It sounds like a load of hogwash, really. He doesn't understand it, but if it's true, Harry isn't
going to risk that changing. As of right now, he will take all the help he can get, even if it is from a
git like Snape. Horrid as he is, he's the only person who can tell Harry what's going on back home.

Not only that, but Harry's starting to look at things a bit differently. Snape is undeniably horrible,
that's no question. He's a grown man who is a bully, and there's no excuse for that—it's practically
abuse how he treats his students. Harry will never forgive him for that. Also, he's fairly sure that
Snape has done terrible, terrible things under Voldemort.

But Snape has also saved his life. Snape also informed the Order about Harry going after Sirius.
Snape also has protected him in the past, even if Harry is still suspicious as to why after all these
years. So, if Snape is now saying he's loyal to Harry, then brilliant. Things are a lot bigger than
docking house points and being a general menace right now, even Harry can acknowledge that.

He still can't fully trust Snape, though, which is almost amusing after everything.

It is nice to hear about his friends, though. They don't hate him. The amount of relief he feels from
that can't be explained. He knows they must be confused, concerned, cautious; he can't really
blame them for that, though. They wouldn't be wrong to question whether he's bad or a threat. He's
questioning the same thing, after all.

The information about Dumbledore has only made him angrier. If anything, the Headmaster's
silence and lack of defense or support has solidified Harry's mistrust and wariness a bit more, and
he hates it. Why would Dumbledore put him in this position? Why can't he just—

Why does it seem like he's given up on Harry? Why does it look, to Harry, like he's very aware that
Harry will have to die? Why does it seem like he'll demand it if he was to get a hold of Harry?

Why? Just...why?
Harry has thought himself in circles by the time he reaches the door again. He's worked up once
more, uneasy and angry, thinking hard about everything Snape has told him. Theories and
questions blur around in his mind, flitting about like a snitch he just can't get a grasp on. It
frustrates him.

When he walks in the room, he's frowning. It's quiet again, and Harry sighs. He looks over to see
Malfoy standing in the same exact spot Harry left him, examining his nails and looking bored.
When Harry comes in, however, he glances up and looks at him, his gaze sharp and soft all at once.
Harry feels himself relax a bit, thankful that Malfoy, as surprising as it may be, is a steady source
of comfort, at least.

"Ah," Voldemort says. "You're back. I trust that the conversation went well? Severus?"

"It was...enlightening, My Lord," Snape says calmly, sweeping back over to his seat.

Voldemort hums. "Harry?"

"It was fine," Harry says shortly. He reaches out to grab Malfoy's arm. "If there's nothing else, Mr.
Voldemort, Dark Lord, sir, we'll be going."

"You may go," Voldemort replies blandly with a flick of his hand.

Harry nods, then pauses. "Wait. You were gone."

"Yes," Voldemort agrees.

"Did you kill people this time?"

"I did not have the pleasure, unfortunately."

Something like relief swells in Harry, and he nods quickly. "Right. We're going. Come on,
Malfoy."
He starts to drag Malfoy away, turning away from the table with one last look at Snape. As he
does, something...no, someone catches his eye. They're sitting facing away from him, but
something about the patchy hair that he can see from this angle makes him freeze. He drops
Malfoy's arm.

One step. Another. Just a bit closer.

He knows who it is even before he sees for himself, and he still goes cold all over. He can feel the
swift change he goes through—the hardening of his jaw, the clench of his hand that's suddenly
holding his wand, the swell of his chest as he inhales sharply.

Anger, sharp and poignant, skitters down his spine. He can feel it sparking under his skin, a rush of
pure rage running along his nerves, silencing his mind and sending it into an uproar
simultaneously. There's a ringing in his ears.

Peter Pettigrew shrivels back in his chair, flinching under Harry's gaze, and the room had been
quiet before, but it suddenly goes dead silent. No one is breathing, no one is so much as twitching.

Harry shouldn't have looked. He really shouldn't have. But he has. He is. And he can't look away.
He can't breathe properly, can't shift his focus from the sniveling, cowardly rat right in front of
him. That tingle in his wrist that he knows so well, that roar in his head that he wishes would just
shut up, he knows what it is. He knows he should be scared of it, because he knows what it means,
but he isn't.

"Potter," Malfoy says, his tone sharp.

He goes ignored.

Harry takes another step closer, flexing his fingers around his wand. Pettigrew lets out a whimper
as he slinks farther down in his seat, and good. Very good. Harry wants him to be afraid. He wants
Pettigrew to shrink into himself and sodding disappear. He's shaking with it, with this rage.

He betrayed your parents, that familiar voice in his mind whispers, tantalizing, encouraging.

I know, Harry thinks back with a snarl.

"You," Harry snaps to the man sitting next to Pettigrew. "Your name?"

"Y-Yaxley," the man stutters out, not quite looking Harry in the eye. Harry might recognize him
for all he knows, but right now, he doesn't care.

Harry jerks his head. "Get out of the way, Yaxley."

"Harry," Malfoy says more urgently.

Again, he goes ignored. Harry doesn't want to acknowledge him, because he knows if he does, he'll
stop. And Harry doesn't want to stop. Yaxley stands up quickly and ushers away, abandoning his
chair to stand behind the other side of the table.

Harry doesn't even say a Spell. He's just crackling on the inside, and he flicks his wand at the chair
Yaxley left behind, wanting it gone. It goes sailing across the room, jerking away from the table
and flying into the farthest wall behind it with a crash, splintering apart. Harry ignores it, listening
to Pettigrew yelp and relishing in it, careless to the others who jolt in surprise at the table.

He can feel Voldemort watching him, and Harry doesn't care. He doesn't care. He can't, not when
he feels like this, not when there's a storm on the inside of him, rolling in and destroying everything
in its wake. Harry cares about nothing.

"Peter Pettigrew," Harry spits. "Get up."

"H-Harry, p-please," Pettigrew stutters, staring at him with wide, watery eyes.

Harry flicks his wand again, and Pettigrew's chair goes skidding back a bit. Pettigrew nearly falls
out of it, crying out, and Harry sneers at him. "Get up out of that chair, Pettigrew."

"I—I—" Pettigrew is trembling so hard that the chair rattles underneath him.

"I said get up!" Harry bellows, waving his wand in a harsh arc.
Pettigrew and the chair go flying apart. The chair hits the wall and shatters the same way the other
one did, and Pettigrew lands in a heap on the floor. He doesn't cry. Not tears, at least. He's
trembling and hyperventilating, though, his whole face twitching like he's seconds from sobbing.

"P-P-Please don't k-kill me," Pettigrew begs, bringing his hands up as if to shield his face.

Harry just sees his missing finger and is reminded of who Peter Pettigrew is. "Stand up. Stand up!"

He doesn't wait, too impatient for that. He just jerks his wand again, watching Pettigrew be yanked
to his feet in a harsh tug that makes him stumble. Harry's skin is itching, a feeling like tiny needles
poking him all over, and his anger spikes higher than it ever has. There's a warm tingle running
currents down his wrists and through his fingers that grips his wand.

You know the Spell, I know the Spell, the voice whispers, soft as a breeze, and Harry can't tell if it's
his own thoughts or not. Do it. Do it, do it, do it…

"I-I'm s-sorry," Pettigrew gasps out, fully crying now, real tears leaking from his eyes. "I—I—"

"Look at me!" Harry takes a step forward, pleased to find that he and Pettigrew are the same
height. Harry might even have an inch on him. "Look me in my eyes and tell me you don't deserve
to die. Tell me you're not a traitorous coward. Tell me you didn't betray my parents, you didn't
betray Remus Lupin and Sirius Black, you didn't cause all of this! You can't, can you, you slimy
worthless rat!"

"James and Lily were my—"

"Don't you dare speak their names! You ruined everything! Do you know that? Do you even
care?"

"I c-care!" Pettigrew sputters. "I—I was just so scared. I—they were going to—to kill—"

"And on the night of the full moon?!" Harry shouts, stepping closer, glaring at him. "On that night,
what's your excuse? It's your fault Sirius was in Azkaban! It's your fault he had to hide! If he had
been able to be free, he might still be alive today! You deserved to have the Dementor's Kiss for
what you did, Pettigrew, and you know it! Do you deny it?"

Pettigrew's face scrunches up, his chest heaving as he sobs. "I—I never w-wanted—"

"What about Voldemort's return, then?" Harry challenges coldly. "He would not be here, today,
without you. He would still be a wisp in the wind if not for you returning to him. Why did you
return to him? Tell me. Tell me why!"

"H-He promised to—to protect me!" Pettigrew bursts out, his eyes wide. "I didn't want to d-die. I
don't w-want to d-die, Harry, p-p-please!"

Harry steps forward again, putting the tip of his wand at Pettigrew's throat, and Pettigrew shivers
like he does before he turns into a rat. Harry reaches out to grab his collar and give him a harsh
shake, snarling as he roughly yanks at him.

"Don't, if you know what's good for you!" Harry hisses, staring at Pettigrew with his lip curled. "If
you even think about turning into a rat, I will stomp on you, do you understand?"

Pettigrew whimpers and shrinks back. "P-Please. What will you d-do? You don't want to—to kill
me, Harry, n-not really. You said it that night, that your p-parents wouldn't want you to b-be a
murderer!"

"Haven't you heard? It's a bit late for that." Harry gives Pettigrew another rough shake. "I killed
Bellatrix for less than you've done. And now, I'm going to ask you a question. You are going to
look me in my eyes when you answer." He leans forward, holding Pettigrew's gaze. "If your Lord
asked you, would you betray them again right now?"

"P-Please," Pettigrew wheezes, his eyes bulging.

"Answer me!"

"M-My Lord, p-please have mercy. Please, My Lord, p-please don't let him k-kill m-me!"

Harry shoves Pettigrew back, his head throbbing with his rage. "Answer me! ANSWER ME!"
"P-Please," Pettigrew stutters out, sobbing hard and reaching out for Harry, "I—I would have t-to. I
would have to betray them. P-Please, you have to understand. I don't want to d-die!"

Things get really, really quiet in Harry's mind. He feels a shiver ripple up his back, warmth
crawling down his arm at a slow pace. He meets Pettigrew halfway, grabbing his collar again and
dragging him forward until they're close enough that Harry can see all the details of his eyes.
They're blue, wide, watery, and there's fear in them, making his pupils contract and expand as he
holds his breath.

"You should have died long before now," Harry whispers. Softly, he says, "Avada Kedavra."

Harry watches the life die in Pettigrew's eyes, turning blank. His body goes slack, a dead weight,
and Harry drops him as he gasps out around a shudder. That feeling, that rush, that thrill… The
pulse of warmth and pleasure shoots up his arm and wraps around his heart, snuggling up to it,
making his head spin with how utterly good it is.

He takes a solid step back, lowering his wand as he blinks rapidly. The ringing in his ears gets
louder, then dims, and Harry stares down at Pettigrew's dead body, looking into his vacant eyes.

Harry's magic still feels alive in him, thrumming with power, coiled and waiting to be used again
and again. He feels like he could crumble this entire Manor and everyone in it like someone
crumbles parchment, all with the flick of his wand.

His mind is quiet.

The room is quiet.

Then, Voldemort says, "Yaxley, you're already standing. Dispose of Wormtail's body."

"Y-Yes, My Lord," Yaxley whispers, shuffling across the room with his head ducked. His hands
shake as he flicks his wand at Pettigrew's body, levitating it and walking out of the door quickly,
shutting it behind him and leaving everyone in silence.

"Harry," Voldemort says.

"We're going," Harry says calmly, though he doesn't budge an inch. "Draco, we're going."

"Alright, Harry," Draco says, his words as soft as a breath. His shoes can be heard clicking across
the floor as he walks over to Harry.

Harry jolts when Draco touches his arm gently, hesitantly. "We're going," he repeats.

"We are," Draco agrees, his fingers wrapping around Harry's arm and lightly pulling to get him to
move.

"We're going," Harry says once more, blinking and straightening up. He pulls away from Draco
and starts walking, putting one foot in front of the other.

The door is closed, and it shouldn't be. Harry doesn't want it to be, so he slashes his wand at it, that
way it won't be anymore. It slams open with a bang, and Harry walks right through it.

Draco follows.

It's a very quiet walk back to his room, and Harry doesn't remember most of it. He's not… There
aren't thoughts. Not in his head. He just thinks, over and over like a mantra, we're going we're
going we're going. Then, suddenly, they've gone, and Harry's standing by his bed, blinking down at
it.

He turns very slowly, looking at Draco, who has become Draco somewhere between Harry's first
murder and his second.

Draco stares at him, something very raw about his expression. He's just standing there in the
middle of Harry's room, looking at him, his eyes open wide with some kind of emotion. Harry
blinks at him, opens his mouth, then closes it. He hears the clatter of his wand as it hits the floor,
and he folds in half.

Thankfully, the bed is right there, and it catches him as he sits. He stares down at his wand,
surprised by how it looks like the wand he's had for years. He thinks it should look different after
he's killed two people. Merlin, he's killed two people.
Draco moves over slowly and sits on the bed next to him, just sitting there, not touching him. Harry
swallows thickly, staring at his wand. The wand that's responsible for the murder of Bellatrix
Lestrange and Peter Pettigrew. He wonders, vaguely, if his wand connected with Voldemort's
again like it did in the graveyard, what Bellatrix Lestrange and Peter Pettigrew would have to say
to him.

Peter Pettigrew had begged for his life.

Harry had snuffed it out anyway.

If there's an afterlife, is Peter Pettigrew there? Will he see Harry's parents and Sirius? Will he
explain? They might all sit down together, talking about how, in some way or another, Harry Potter
is the cause of their death. In Pettigrew's case, it's a bit more than that. Because Harry has killed
him, personally.

It's okay. Of course it is. Because Peter Pettigrew deserved it. He deserved to die. And that's that.
Harry's not a bad person. He's not. He isn't really a murderer, not deep down, no matter that the
evidence suggests otherwise. He isn't dangerous, and he—he won't do it again, really.

Really?

Harry blinks hard and shakes his head. No, no, that's not right. He is a murderer, has been since he
killed Bellatrix, and now he is two times over. The evidence doesn't lie. He is dangerous. He
knows that for sure now; he can't deny it. Who's next? There's going to be a next time, isn't there?
Maybe.

Maybe there always was going to be a next time from that very first time. Because, Merlin, it feels
so, so bloody good. There's still a tingle around his heart, a warmth pushing through his veins. He
feels like he can cup the world in his hands and crush it if he wants. He feels…

And, well, people don't whisper the Killing Curse. Voldemort doesn't even whisper it. Harry
shouldn't have been able to cast it anyway to begin with, not that first time, not if he's this good
person full of light and love. He shouldn't have meant it, but he did, and he meant it the second
time, too—meant it even more than the first.

I killed him, Harry thinks dumbly. I actually killed him.

He expects something. Anything, really. Tears, vomiting, self-hatred. There is none. He's just
really, really still. Time seems like an impossible concept, and maybe he's been sitting here on this
bed beside Draco for years. Maybe Pettigrew has been dead a long time anyway, and this is just a
memory.

Harry's prickling fingers suggest otherwise. There is something to the thought that Pettigrew has
been dead for a long time, though. In truth, his days have been numbered from the very beginning.
Maybe it wouldn't have been at Harry's hand, maybe it wouldn't have been today, but Peter
Pettigrew wasn't making it out of all of this alive, not after all that he's done.

"You said it that night, that your p-parents wouldn't want you to b-be a murderer!"

"Haven't you heard? It's a bit late for that."

Yeah. Yeah, that's exactly it, isn't it? He's known all this time, deep down, that he can't come back
from killing Bellatrix. It's too late for Harry to go back to who he used to be. And who's fault is
that? His? Dumbledore's? Voldemort's?

Maybe it's everyone's fault, or no one's. It's his, though, he knows that. He just doesn't want to
accept it. How does one look in the mirror and know they will never be the same? How does one
stand themself when they're like this? How does one make peace with being a murderer, with
enjoying the kill?

Harry releases a shuddering breath, blinking rapidly against the stinging in his eyes. Draco's hand
reaches out towards him, then drops just a few inches away, not touching. Probably afraid to. Harry
doesn't blame him if he's scared.

"Harry," Draco whispers.

"I'm sorry," Harry says in a rasp.

Draco takes a deep breath. "Harry, it's alright."

"It's not," Harry says instantly. He shakes his head from side-to-side, digging his nails into his
palm, making a wounded noise in the back of his throat.

"Harry, it is. I swear it's alright," Draco says softly.

"It isn't." Harry hesitantly raises his gaze to meet Draco's, his vision obscured by tears. It makes
Draco a bit blurry. "It's not, because I—I killed him, and I'd do it again. I would. I want to. I want to
bring him back just to kill him again, and—and I'm not… Draco, I'm wrong. Something about me
is wrong, and you shouldn't—you must be—"

Draco shakes his head. "Stop it, Harry. There's nothing wrong with you. You're just…"

"What am I?" Harry chokes out.

"You're Harry Potter," Draco whispers fiercely, leaning forward to stare into his eyes. "And that
means that—that you've got a horrible, shit life. That means your Godfather is dead, and you killed
the woman who made that happen. That means your parents are dead, and you killed the man who
made that happen. It—it means that...things aren't always as simple as you want them to be, and
you have to deal with that. You are Harry Potter, the one you were last year and yesterday, and the
one you'll be tomorrow. And I'm not… I'm not, alright?"

"You have to be," Harry gasps out, his whole body shaking. "Draco, you should be. I could—I can
kill you. I like how it feels, killing. I like it."

"Alright, so you like it," Draco says, his hand raising and pausing in the air. "Just another thing in
the wild life of Harry Potter. And you're not going to kill me. Maybe you can, but you won't. I
know you won't, Harry. I trust you." His fingers connect with Harry's cheek, brushing the tears
away. "I'm not scared of you."

Harry crumbles forward, something shattering like glass in his chest, in his mind. His hands come
forward and fist in Draco's shirt, holding on with all his might, holding on like he'll fall and meet
Death again if he lets go. Draco's arms come around him, holding on, letting Harry hold on.

Harry fumbles to yank his glasses off, carelessly tossing them aside and not trying to remember
where they land. He feels like all of his insides are splintering apart, and he needs something,
someone, to hold him together before he melts away. He shoves his face against Draco's throat, the
crook of his shoulder, only realizing that he's crying very hard when he hears it muffled.
He feels shorn apart and broken, reckless and horrible. A killer. A threat. And Draco holds onto
him like he's just a boy, a boy who doesn't know who he is anymore, a boy who needs to be held
onto.

Harry cries, cries, cries some more. Cries for all the things he's cried about before, cries about all
the new things, cries about the things that have yet to happen but surely will. Because he's Harry
Potter, and things happen. They always happen.

It's the first time he's ever done this, just broken down and let go. He didn't know it would be like
this, didn't know it could be like this. Like someone is pulling him apart and putting him back
together. Like he's very, very small and so, so safe. Like he's cherished by the hands that hold him,
forgiven for every act he's ever made or ever will make. Like it's okay if he just gives into the
weakness of it all, as if his vulnerability is still a secret because the person witnessing it doesn't see
it that way to begin with.

Harry sinks into it, into Draco, and he doesn't ever want to resurface again. He just wants to sit
here forever, holding onto Draco as tightly as he can while Draco keeps him from drifting away.

Maybe it won't be forever, but it will be for a while, at least, because Draco nudges him. Harry
thinks for a split second that he's being pushed away, and he panics because he can't, not now. He
won't be strong enough to handle it. But that's not it at all. Draco is pulling him up the length of the
bed, dragging him along until they can fall down against the pillows in a tangle. It's such a relief
that Harry cries a bit harder and clings all that tighter.

Draco's hand rubs in circles along his back, while his other ruffles Harry's hair. It's really, really
nice. Harry focuses on that for a while, thinking of nothing else, knowing nothing else. No flashes
of green, no light dying in eyes, no guilt, no shame.

It's just this. And it stays just this.

"Ça va," Draco croons, his words soft and soothing, even in what must be French. "Vous êtes juste
Harry Potter, et ça va. Nous irons à Paris, juste toi et moi. Nous nous perdrons ensemble dans ce
labyrinthe, et tout ira bien."

Draco repeats it, keeps repeating it, and Harry recognizes only his name. Thinks maybe names have
meaning, or his does, at least. It always has. Draco says it again and again, like a lullaby, and Harry
falls asleep to the melodic tune of his voice.
Chapter End Notes

Translation for the French: "It's okay. You're just Harry Potter, and you're okay. We'll
go to Paris, just you and me. We'll get lost in the maze together, and it will all be
okay."

So!!!! What did we think about this chapter, folks? Draco is *Draco* now, which is so
nice! It only took over 50k! Slow boys are slow Also, Harry did a thing again.
Poor babe. He's having a rough go of it.

Lemme know in the comments your thoughts! I love hearing them ❤

 Acceptance
Chapter Notes

No real warnings for this chapter. Just Harry being a sad boi. Hope you enjoy!

When Harry wakes, Draco is gone, and that's just as well. He could be anywhere, doing anything.
Harry gets up and locks his door, turns around, goes back to bed. He wakes up because of
nightmares, stares blearily at the wall for a few hours, goes back to sleep, then does it all over
again.

The next few days pass in that daze, softened by the small breaks of sleep he does get in between
the dreams that have him waking with screams. Trays of food appear on his nightstand—must be
Dipsy—and Harry eats just enough to make it, just enough that he can stomach. Between the lack
of sleep, the lack of proper food, and the way he stays in bed most of the time, Harry's usually
always tired.

No one bothers him, and that's good. Harry doesn't want to be bothered. He doesn't want to look at
anyone, to see their faces and their eyes, stare at them and know what they think of him.

Hedwig, at least, doesn't look at him as if he's any different. Sometimes, he drags himself from his
bed to feed her treats and stroke her feathers. She looks at him with the same strange intelligence
and adoration she always has, even after he gets brave enough to tell her what he did. When he
does, she clicks her beak in clear disdain at Peter Pettigrew's name, then just hoots softly after
Harry explains how he killed him and liked it.

What's murder to an owl, really? As intelligent as she may be, she likely doesn't understand the
very human concept of morals. She kills to eat, swoops down on her prey and never once feels
guilt for it.

It makes Harry wish he was an owl.

Most of the time, though, Harry just lays in bed and drifts in and out of sleep. He picks at the food
that some house-elf brings him, never finishing it. He stares at the door and hopes with everything
in him that no one will unlock it and come inside, relieved every second that goes by when they
don't.
The nightmares are the worst part. Twisted scenes of Peter Pettigrew begging him not to be killed,
and he does it anyway, laughing cruelly the same way Voldemort does. Bellatrix is there
sometimes, too, singing I killed Sirius Black, I killed Sirius Black, Harry Potter killed me, Harry
Potter killed me! Dumbledore begs and pleads, and on one memorable occasion, he stands up and
tries to kill Harry, but Harry kills him first. That night, Harry jerks awake and sicks up on the floor
beside the bed.

Harry is left alone to his isolation for four days. It helps, but it also doesn't. He comes to terms with
what he's done, thinking about it on a relentless loop, but he doesn't make peace with it. He doubts
he ever will. He eventually stops feeling like he's going to fall apart every time he thinks about it,
but that doesn't mean the guilt disappears. It's just there now, staying like a new limb that he has to
adjust to. And, just like with Bellatrix Lestrange, Harry's mind reorganizes itself to make a special
place just for Peter Pettigrew, ensuring he'll never be without the memory of the man—the anger
and guilt that comes with him will never escape Harry now.

On the fifth day, the lock slowly turns from the outside, and Harry sits up in bed, staring.

He doesn't know who he's expecting, but he wants it to be Draco. At the moment, he's about the
only person that Harry thinks he'll be able to handle. Maybe Draco will make him go flying, and
they can pretend like this never happened, like Harry isn't irreversibly different because of it now.

It's not Draco, though, or any other Malfoy. It's Voldemort, because of course it is, because that's
going to make this even worse, and that's how it always goes. Harry stares as Voldemort looks at
him on the other side of the threshold.

"Am I permitted entry?" Voldemort asks.

Harry makes a small sound. "Sure, why not?" he rasps, his voice cracking from disuse.

Voldemort sweeps into the room with a dip of his head, respectful, as if he's capable of such a
thing. He waves his wand, and Harry's door gently shuts. Then, for a long time, Voldemort surveys
him with his calculating red eyes, a monster in action and in flesh—he will always remain so. At
least it reflects with him; Harry looks normal, and he shouldn't. He should look as twisted as
Voldemort does.

"You are in need of a shower, Harry," Voldemort notes, flicking his gaze over him with distaste.
"No matter your emotional turmoil, that is no excuse for the lack of hygiene."
"Right," Harry whispers.

"Your nightmares are rather vivid."

"Yeah."

"You feel guilty."

"Yeah."

Voldemort narrows his eyes. "You liked it."

"Yeah," Harry agrees, his voice flat and empty.

"And you simply cannot...get over this?" Voldemort asks, his eyes narrowed into slits now. He
looks more displeased than Harry has seen recently.

Harry just shrugs.

Voldemort sighs, looking all for the world like he's dealing with a toddler he'd much rather pawn
off on someone else. "You are not angry."

"No, I'm not," Harry says, only just realizing this now. Usually, most of the time, he is. Especially
whenever Voldemort is near.

"Get up," Voldemort says. "Go take a shower. Meet me in my study when you are done. Do not
dally."

With that, he sweeps right back out of the room, leaving the door hanging open rather rudely.
Harry will have to get up to close it, so he does. Once he's on his feet, though, he finds himself
getting clothes and heading to the shower.
It's a wonder what being clean does to a person. He feels more awake and more alive than he has in
days. For a long time, he just stands in the shower, scrubbing at his skin harder than necessary with
the hot water turned as high as it will go, scalding him. He wants to wash it all away, scrub his
crimes off of him like he hasn't done them, but he can't.

After, he stares at himself in the foggy mirror. He examines his face and expects...something.
There should be a difference, he thinks. There isn't. He looks the same way he did the day before
he killed Peter Pettigrew, except there is exhaustion obvious in the pallor of his grey-tinged skin
and the puffy bags under his eyes, proof that he hasn't been sleeping or eating well at all.

He's still Harry Potter.

He thinks that's what gets him most of all. That he's still himself, that he doesn't feel different from
who he was two months ago, that Harry Potter—despite everything—is capable of what he's done.

Sighing, Harry brushes his teeth and leaves the loo. It's quiet in the Manor, just like it always is,
and he doesn't run into anyone on the way to the study Voldemort is always in. He knocks and
walks into the room when the door swings open. The chairs are the exact same as they have always
been, and he remembers the first time he saw them, remembers how he wanted to gut them. That
urge is long gone, and so is that anger he felt at that time.

"Who was the first person you killed?" Harry asks quietly as he sits behind the desk.

Voldemort sighs heavily. "My father, followed very quickly by his parents."

"Did you feel anything?"

"No. I planned it."

Harry closes his eyes. "And your next kill?"

"Myrtle Waren."

"Did you…"
"Not planned, but convenient," Voldemort admits.

"How old were you when you...when you first killed someone?" Harry rasps, his eyes slowly
opening.

Voldemort stares at him. "Sixteen."

Harry lets out a hollow laugh, looking down at his hands in his lap. They're shaking. "Older than
me. Isn't that just...just…"

"Harry," Voldemort says, "you are not me. Your kills are your own. Do not compare them to mine.
I certainly did not feel remorse, especially not to this degree. You feel more strongly than I ever
have, and you experience guilt of which I never have."

"But I still did it, though. I still liked it," Harry whispers harshly.

"That, I suspect, has more to do with the Curse than the desire to murder," Voldemort tells him, his
words cold and detached, but steady nonetheless. He nods when Harry looks up. "Dark Magic does
not claim people because it is merely interesting or because someone is inherently evil. There is an
allure to it, there is pleasure to be found in its depths. The Killing Curse is very Dark Magic, Harry,
and has an effect on anyone capable of casting it."

"It feels…"

"Yes, I know how it feels."

"Do you feel it every time?" Harry asks, horrified.

Voldemort hums. "I have not felt the effects in a long time due to the...defenses I have made. You
could say I feel impressions of it, the barest hint. It no longer is a pleasurable experience outside of
the rush of power that comes with it."
"So why do you do it?" Harry blurts out.

"Because, unlike you, I do not care about being a murderer. I kill because I can, because it does
give me power, because I wish to. I choose to."

"Will I do it again?"

"Only you can decide that for yourself," Voldemort says simply, waving a hand.

Harry feels his throat burn. "I can't believe I just…"

"But you did," Voldemort murmurs, his voice soft, gentle, dangerous. "You did, and that is not
something you can change. Why agonize over it when you cannot take it back?"

"Because I should want to take it back."

"And you don't."

"No, I don't. I—I want… I want to bring Peter Pettigrew back to life so I can do it again. And that's
not—I don't know how to deal with that. It's not who I'm supposed to be. I shouldn't…" Harry
shakes his head, taking in a rattling breath. "I'm so damn tired of all of this. I don't want to do it
anymore."

"The people you have murdered…" Voldemort pauses, reaching up to tap his lipless mouth, a
human gesture that Harry still has a hard time wrapping his mind around. "Bellatrix Lestrange and
Peter Pettigrew slighted you in an unforgivable way, Harry. As have I, and were you capable, you
would kill me as well. It is obvious, however, that you are not one to kill the innocent, or those
undeserving of death. Those you decide are neither of those things, you kill. That, at least, should
relieve you."

"I shouldn't be the one to decide, though," Harry says quietly, swallowing hard. "I don't just get to
choose who should—should live or die. No one should have that power, least of all me."

"Perhaps, perhaps not. Nonetheless, you have it, and you will continue to have it." Voldemort cocks
his head. "You should know that the urge to cast the Killing Curse does not go away, especially not
after one has indulged that urge. You will feel it again, possibly even more starkly than before, but
it will be your choice to do it again. If you do or do not, it is entirely up to you, and I will not allow
you to think it is because of what piece of me you protect, or some grip Dark Magic has on you. It
is not, nor will it ever be. Your freedom that you have always desired is here, and you will have to
deal with it."

"How?" Harry chokes out. "How can I? How do I just—just deal with who I am now? How do I
deal with the fact that I've killed two people and wanted to, liked it, would do it again if I could?"

Voldemort spreads his hands, sighing. "I do not know. I have never needed to know, as it is not
something I've ever had to face. Take comfort in the fact that you are not like me; I recall you
saying that you didn't want to be."

"Just because I'm not you doesn't mean I'm—I'm good. It's more than that now. The bar is set very
low when it comes to you, and I didn't know that before now. I didn't know that I could be better
than you and still be…"

"Evil? Bad? Irredeemable? Is that what you think you are now, Harry?"

"Aren't I?" Harry mumbles, feeling numb.

"How others perceive you does not matter. It is how you perceive yourself that dictates who you
want to be and who you will be. If you believe you are those things, Harry, you will be them."

"How do you perceive yourself?"

Voldemort hums. "I am...powerful. I implement fear where I reside. I know what I am. I always
have."

"Got it in one," Harry breathes out, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. He lets it out slowly,
then opens his eyes. "I care about how others perceive me, though. Certain people, at least."

"Such as?" Voldemort asks.

"Dumbledore," Harry says immediately, honest, and it feels like he's cracking open his soul and
letting Voldemort stare at it.

"Why? Is it because, in your mind, Dumbledore represents all that is good and light in this world?
Because you believe him to have earned power in a way that I never did, without fault?"

"Something like that. He's not—I'm supposed to be like him, I think. He's good. He's what I should
have been, and I'm just...not."

"You are wrong," Voldemort says, sneering. "Albus Dumbledore is not, as you believe, without
some faults of his own. You may be surprised to know, but he has done things you would be
horrified by. Long ago, in his youth, he might have even agreed with me. In fact, he did agree with
a man who's beliefs and search for power were not unlike my own. Dumbledore's thirst for power
was on par with mine, and he has dabbled in things you would not think him capable of."

"No," Harry whispers, "that's not true."

"I have not lied to you, Harry, and I will not start doing so now," Voldemort snaps, annoyed.
"Believe what you like, but the facts remain true. You have heard of Grindelwald, haven't you?"

"I—I—" Harry blinks, startled by the arc of this conversation. He thinks really hard, trying to
remember, and he thinks the name is familiar. "I think so? I don't really remember."

"He was the Dark Wizard before me," Voldemort says flatly, arching a naked eyebrow.

That vaguely rings a bell. Harry frowns. "Yeah, I think I know of him. Nothing about him, though.
Wait, so you're not the first Dark Lord?"

"In so many words, no, not really. To summarize, Grindelwald was as dangerous as I, and people
feared him very much."

"Alright. Did he die?"

"He resides in Azkaban to this day."

"Oh. What does this have to do with Dumbledore?" Harry asks, uncertain, unsure.

Voldemort tips his head to the side. "Dumbledore is the one who ensured that Grindelwald would
be imprisoned in Azkaban."

"That makes sense," Harry mutters.

"That is how he is remembered. People have conveniently forgotten that Dumbledore was
Grindelwald's best friend and—if some people are to be believed—his lover," Voldemort says.

Harry blinks. "What?" he sputters.

Voldemort hums, amused, wickedly pleased by Harry's disbelief. "Yes, Harry. Dumbledore worked
alongside Grindelwald for some time, in search of the same power as he was. His past is not as
clean as you would think. I cannot claim to know what caused Dumbledore's change, what made
him betray the man he loved, what made him take up the mantle of light. I simply know that he is
not as perfect as he seems."

"Dumbledore's gay?" Harry blurts out.

"Harry," Voldemort says sharply, scowling at him in open irritation, "that is not what's important. It
does not matter who he has or has not loved, or the gender of such a person. That's not the point."

Harry coughs, blinking. "Right. No, I know that. I just… I don't know; surprised me, is all."

"That surprised you, and nothing else?" Voldemort asks in open disbelief and vague disgust, like
the way Harry's mind works is a disappointment.

"I mean, it is surprising that Dumbledore was like that when he was younger," Harry admits with a
frown.

"He'd condemn others for the very things he's either done or wanted to do before."
"Alright, say it's true—"

Voldemort glares at him. "I'm not lying."

"Say it's true," Harry continues stubbornly, "what does that mean, exactly? Is it...shocking? Yes.
Does it make me angry to think that he's—that I don't even really know who—"

Harry suddenly can't say another word.

"Disappointing, I know," Voldemort says softly, watching him intently. "All the respect you have
for him, for all that you've believed in him, and he's nothing like you thought he was. He is not
perfect, and you wish he was."

Harry sucks in a sharp breath, his lungs screaming, his eyes burning. "Why is the world so
fucked?"

"It is not as black and white as you wish it was. It is not as simple as good and evil. You should be
thankful for that, considering what you've done," Voldemort murmurs, his anger gone entirely.

"I know that," Harry chokes out, "and I am. It's just… It would be so much easier if—if—"

It's silent for a long time after that. Voldemort watches him. Harry just breathes for a while, dealing
with yet another shocking bout of information. The world would be a lot simpler if it was just black
and white, good and evil, no intentions, only actions. Those who do bad things are bad people,
those who don't are good.

But it's not that simple. It isn't, and it leaves Harry not knowing where he lands. He knows he's
done horrible things, but he doesn't feel bad, not deep down. He's done lovely things, too, but he
also doesn't feel like a good person.

Voldemort had said to think of morality like a spectrum, pure good on one end and pure evil on the
other. Unknowingly, Harry had put Voldemort at the end of the evil and Dumbledore at the end of
the good. He'd thought for a long time that he was close to where Dumbledore was, then after
Bellatrix, he was scared that he was in the middle.
Now, he's sitting here, thinking that Dumbledore isn't on the end that's good after all, and Harry's
just sliding up and down the spectrum, never still, never stopping, pulled back and forth.

"Dumbledore once told me that life is like a path," Voldemort suddenly says, looking as thoughtful
as one who's horrid as him can. "There is the beginning of the path; birth. Depending on who you
are born to, or how you are born, decides what path you will walk. Then comes the splits in the
path; decisions in your life you have to make. Depending on what route you take, depending on
which way you choose to turn every time, decides what you will encounter and experience on this
path. But, he said, every path for every person has the same destination; death. He told me that
when we reach that destination, we will have walked a path that made us who we are, and our
destination—our death—will be molded by that."

Harry chokes out a weak laugh. It's borderline hysterical. "You've got to give it to him. No matter
what, you can't deny that he's rather wise."

"Mm, I wouldn't be so sure," Voldemort tells him softly. "See, he told me this to try and control
what path I would walk. He wanted to scare me into thinking that the turns I chose to take would
lead me to a destination I could not escape from."

Like Hell, Harry thinks. He says, "But he didn't."

"No, he did," Voldemort counters. "I chose each turn on my path, and I did not regret them, but his
words that day… They did scare me. They made me realize what the one thing I feared was."

"Which was?" Harry asks breathlessly.

Voldemort stares at him. "The destination. Death. Ending. In telling me this, he opened up another
turn for me to take, a chance to find a path that would never reach a destination. It remains, to this
day, his doing that has led me to avoid death. It means it is his doing, as well as mine, that I
searched out a child destined to hold the power to lead me to my destination and attempted to stop
him from doing so. And here we sit, Harry Potter. You have him to thank, just as much as me."

Harry stares at him. He just...stares at him.

It feels like his brain is melting. Shutting down. It's quiet in there. It's still.
Harry doesn't breathe, can't. He holds it in until he feels it scrabble for purchase in his lungs,
expanding and fighting valiantly to escape. He doesn't let it, watching dark spots dance in his
vision.

Then he exhales. It explodes out of him, and his ears ring. Everything stops, and Harry stops with
it. He feels like he's been reduced to a small child and aged far beyond his years all at once. He
doesn't know if he has the capacity to handle this on top of everything else, but he does. He just
swallows it down and lets it click into place, lets it join the rest of the mess that clings on him
through life.

Harry flexes his fingers, willing them to please, please stop shaking, but they don't. Softly, holding
Voldemort's gaze, he asks, "Does he know?"

"He's always known that, at least," Voldemort murmurs. "I imagine he feels guilty for it."

And Harry just slumps back in his chair, closing his eyes. He shouldn't blame Dumbledore. He
knows he shouldn't. That's not fair. But it's also not fair to blame Peter Pettigrew for his own death
when Harry is the one who killed him. It's also not fair to blame himself for how the Dursleys
treated him. It's also not fair to blame the Killing Curse for what it is, how it feels, what it does. It's
also not fair to blame the clouds for the rain, or the wand for the Spell, or the heart for how it
continues to beat or how it sometimes stops doing so.

But Harry does.

Harry blames it all anyway, and here he sits, blaming Dumbledore for the trajectory of shite in
Harry's life. Blaming him for putting the stone in the school in the first year, blaming him for not
doing more for Sirius, blaming him for not saving him from the Triwizard Tournament, blaming
him for giving up on him when Harry needed him the most. Blaming him for looking Tom Riddle
in the eyes and purposefully scaring him, manipulating him, unwittingly guiding him closer to what
he is today, even if it's not solely Dumbledore's fault.

He knows it's wrong. He knows there are a million factors for this situation. He knows. He's aware
that the real person—monster—to blame is sitting right across from him, and Harry blames him,
too. Harry does, and he always will.

But there's nothing Harry can do to Voldemort besides resent him. Nothing besides die to stop
him.
Harry blames Voldemort for all of it and more, but that doesn't mean he's not full of enough anger
and bitterness to blame others, too. He'd blame the shift in the wind if it could somehow be at
fault.

What Harry can't blame Voldemort for is lying, because Voldemort hasn't. He can't blame
Voldemort for keeping him here, because Voldemort isn't. He can't blame Voldemort for the
change happening in him and the choices he's made after he used the Killing Curse the very first
time, because that's not Voldemort's fault. It's Harry s.

That's not shocking. Harry blames himself as much as he blames anyone else, if not more. So many
things are his fault, and he knows it.

"I've decided…" Harry trails off, his thoughts slithering around in his brain. "I've decided I'm going
back to bed."

Voldemort hums. "Very well. You have today. Tomorrow, you will return to daily life, because
delaying it won't make it any easier."

"Yeah," Harry whispers, "I know."

He gets up and goes back to bed.

The next morning, Harry is late to breakfast. Honestly, he has to work up to it to get out of bed and
go, feeling lethargic down to his bones. He does go, though, trudging into the dining room with a
sigh. He stops when he enters because Lucius is already gone and Draco isn't there.

Mrs. Malfoy is actually walking around the table when she sees him, then she comes to a halt. She
meets his gaze, pauses, then smiles. "Good morning, Harry," she says calmly.

She's not afraid.

Harry tries to smile back, but he doesn't think he manages it. "Good morning, Mrs. Malfoy."

"Harry, dear, what would it take to get you to call me Narcissa?"

"A sudden deep lack of respect and manners."

"Ah," Mrs. Malfoy says, her hands fluttering in a vaguely pleased fashion that's kind of adorable,
actually. "Well, no need to insist on it, then. Come, you must be hungry. Sit."

Harry nods at her, even though he's not hungry and hasn't been for days, but he doesn't want her to
fuss over him. She won't be like Mrs. Weasley about it, but Harry gets the feeling that she will
somehow be more intimidating. He tries for another smile and it feels as strange on his face as the
first.

When he moves over to his seat, pulling it out, she halts him by putting her hand on his arm. He
blinks at her, surprised, and she seems to set her shoulders. Before he can so much as react, she's
stepping forward and hugging him.

Her hands slide around him, her grip still a bit gentle and loose like she isn't sure she's doing it
right. But her hair tickles his face and smells like lavender, and she's so small in his arms that it
almost feels like he's protecting her. Her gown is soft under his hands, soft like satin, and her touch
is gentle as her hand smooths over the back of his head.

It's such a motherly gesture that Harry feels his chest tighten, his breath plucked right from his
lungs. He stands there and hugs her, doesn't let go, closes his eyes and breathes. It's really nice.

When his stomach audibly rumbles, though, she takes a careful step back, her fingers squeezing his
shoulders a bit too tight as she pulls away. Her smile is kind, even if it is small, even if it lacks the
natural warmth Mrs. Weasley would display.

"Getting better at that," Harry mumbles, stupidly bashful as he clears his throat and sits down in his
chair. Mrs. Malfoy hums, sitting in the chair next to him, and he side-eyes her. "Draco told me that
you hugged him. He thought you might have needed it."

Mrs. Malfoy chuckles, waving her wand so food will load onto a plate and land in front of him.
"Yes, well, I was under the impression that he needed it. But, looking back, I suppose we both
did."

"It did you both some good, then?"

"It did. Thank you for suggesting it."

"Do you think Lucius would do it?" Harry muses, trying to picture Lucius hugging Draco.

"Lucius is…" Mrs. Malfoy takes a small breath, her face softening with genuine love. She actually
loves that git. "He is a very complicated man, Harry. I know it might not seem like it, but Lucius
loves Draco fiercely. He would hug Draco if you demanded it, as he has to listen to you, but he
would not...appreciate it."

"I think he's a git," Harry says bluntly.

"You would, wouldn't you?" Mrs. Malfoy asks with a small smile. She leans in, lowering her voice
as her eyes sparkle with mischief. "Between you and I, he is a bit of a git."

"And you love him?" Harry mumbles, his eyebrows furrowing because he is struggling to grasp
that.

Mrs. Malfoy chuckles, her mischief turning to fondness in a flash. "Yes, I do. He is my husband. I
would have had to marry him, regardless of whether I loved him or not, but I got lucky enough to
fall for him. Believe it or not, he loves me back."

"Yeah, but it would probably be easy to love you," Harry says with a roll of his eyes. "You're not a
git like him. I don't understand how you—you—"

"There is always more than meets the eye, Harry. I have the privilege of knowing Lucius in a way
no other ever will. That's not to say that he is perfect, because he most certainly isn't," Mrs. Malfoy
murmurs, her lips curling up, "but I love him anyway. Does that make sense?"

"Not really," Harry admits. He eats for a little while, and Mrs. Malfoy summons a glass of wine,
leaning back in her chair with her perfect posture and dainty hands. He frowns over at her. "Mrs.
Malfoy, what did you mean when you said you would have had to marry Lucius anyway?"

Mrs. Malfoy blinks and slowly lowers her glass. "Oh, well...that's another Pureblood tradition.
Nothing to worry about, Harry."

Harry can tell that she doesn't want him to know whatever this is, so he drops his fork, abandoning
his half-finished meal. "What's nothing to worry about? What stupid tradition is it this time?"

"Well…" Mrs. Malfoy sighs, her lips tipping down like she knows this isn't going to go over well.
"It's… It's completely commonplace for—for Pureblood families to arrange marriages for their
children."

"What?" Harry bursts out.

Mrs. Malfoy clears her throat. "Harry, it's just the way things are. My parents arranged for me to
marry Lucius with his parents. I knew we were to be married from a very young age."

"How young?"

"I fully understood what it meant when I was nine."

"Nine?!" Harry sputters, his eyes bulging. "But you were just a little girl! How could your family
decide who you were going to marry? What if you fell in love with someone else?!"

"Then I would have a choice to make, much like my sister, Andromeda," Mrs. Malfoy murmurs.

Harry stares at her. "Please tell me you—you can see how wrong that is."

"I've told you multiple times, Harry, these are the ways I was raised," Mrs. Malfoy tells him
firmly, arching an eyebrow. "In my case, it worked out perfectly fine. I'm very happy with Lucius,
and I love being Draco's mother. I do not regret or resent it."

"That's—that's…" Harry trails off, his mind suddenly coming to a stumbling halt as he realizes
something. His eyes bulge as he stares at her. "Merlin, who's Draco supposed to marry?!"

Mrs. Malfoy sighs, averting her eyes. "That would be Pansy Parkinson, unless she did something
deserving of scorn, and then it would be Astoria Greengrass."

"You have back up wives?!" Harry shouts.

"Harry," Mrs. Malfoy says with a wince.

Harry leans back in his chair, staring at her in astonishment and—and something else that makes
him feel like he's been slapped. "Does Draco know?"

"He is aware, yes."

"I… Are they—"

Mrs. Malfoy watches him curiously, her gaze sharp as she scans his face. "Are they together, you
mean? No, I do not believe so. From what I have gathered, Draco has been...putting it off."

"Putting what off?"

"Courting Pansy. He should have started this past year, but he didn't."

"He doesn't want to," Harry realizes, blinking in surprise.

"What makes you say that?" Mrs. Malfoy asks.

Harry opens his mouth to answer, then snaps it shut. He feels like he'll be telling one of Draco's
secrets if he does tell her, and for some reason, he just can't bring himself to betray Draco like that.

He knows Draco doesn't want to—like really, really doesn't want to—because every other thing
that's been expected of him has been fulfilled. Mrs. Malfoy herself has said it, that Draco never got
freedom until Harry accidentally gave it to him. Draco just doesn't go against what his father and
mother demands from him, so for him to rebel like this, he must really be dreading marrying
Parkinson.

Instead of explaining this, Harry stares at Mrs. Malfoy in open disapproval. "You say you want him
to be happy, then—then what if it makes him unhappy to marry her? What if he doesn't love her
like you love Lucius?"

"Then he will face a choice that I've never had to, that my sister did," Mrs. Malfoy whispers.

"You said you'd support him if—if he was strong enough to...reach out for his own happiness."

"Yes, and I will."

"He shouldn't have to lose everything in the process," Harry rasps, blinking hard.

Mrs. Malfoy's eyes look very sad. "No, he shouldn't, but that is not my decision to make."

"It's Lucius'."

"Yes."

"You know," Harry says with a sigh, "I actually thought that you—I guess I hoped you were
different. I didn't want you to disappoint me."

"Harry," Mrs. Malfoy says, her tone strained, her eyes blinking rapidly. There are tears in her eyes.

Harry raises his gaze to meet hers. "Can't you try and—and be different? Be better? For him. He's
your son. He's your only son."

"I…"
"Maybe it's Lucius' decision, but you are Draco's mother. You have some say. You have to. It's like
you said, isn't it? You know Lucius in a way no one else ever will, and he loves you. If anyone
stands a chance of—of making things better for Draco, it's you. And I can't understand how you're
just...letting it happen, just sitting back and waiting to see if Draco will be strong enough to lose
everything."

Mrs. Malfoy swallows. "It's not always so simple."

"Right," Harry mutters, scoffing. He stands up abruptly, shoving his chair back. Mrs. Malfoy tips
her head back to stare up at him with watery eyes, and he swallows harshly. "Where is Draco? Is he
out flying right now?"

"It's raining," Mrs. Malfoy whispers, stricken.

Harry immediately knows where Draco is. He takes a solid step back. "Think about it, what I
said."

"Harry," Mrs. Malfoy calls after him as he starts to walk away, and when he turns back, there's a
war of conflict and hurt on her face.

"Yes, Narcissa?" Harry says, meeting her eyes.

Mrs. Malfoy flinches and drops her gaze.

Harry walks away.

He's not pleased that this has happened on his reentry into meals, and he sort of wants to just go
back up to his room, slip under the blankets, and never resurface. He pushes that urge away,
though, taking the route to the second Library.

He tries to wrap his mind around the idea of knowing who you're going to marry even before you
fully grasp what romantic love is. It would be like him, as a child, being told he has to
marry...Ginny! Yeah, it would be like that. Harry doesn't dislike Ginny, mind, but he can easily
recall his discomfort with her crush on him when she was younger.
She's nothing like that anymore, of course. Actually, she's rather brilliant! Smart, funny, pretty. He
would be happy to marry her if he fell in love with her. That's the part that gets him. Love shouldn't
be reduced to some plan that your parents made before you even get a say in it. Love
just...happens, Harry thinks.

Not that he would actually know, as he's never been in love. He's only ever fancied Cho, and that
had been...well, disastrous, to say the least. He doesn't know about love in the romantic sense, not
really, but he thinks it's supposed to be like Mr and Mrs. Weasley—authentic, cherished, open. Or
even the way Mrs. Malfoy loves Lucius—forgiving, accepting, defiant. But it should happen
naturally, and it should be someone's choice!

What if Draco feels about Parkinson the way Harry feels about Hermione? Harry wouldn't marry
Hermione. He loves her, sure, but it's only as a friend. Their marriage would be… Honestly, to
think about it is mad, but he imagines that they would make do and be okay. They just wouldn't be
truly happy because they'll never fall in love. Sometimes, people just aren't going to. So, if it is like
that for Draco, how is that fair to him?

Harry pictures Draco standing with Parkinson, slipping a ring on her finger, leaning in to kiss
her…

He quickly banishes that thought, scowling, irrationally angry about the image. He supposes it's
fair to be angry, though, at least on Draco's behalf. That may very well become his future, and he
might not even want it!

Huffing and thoroughly worked up, Harry makes his way into the second Library with all
intentions to demand to know if Draco fancies Parkinson, because that's important somehow.

However, he comes to a stop as soon as his eyes land on the boy in question. He's sitting exactly
where Harry expects him to, staring out the window with focus, watching the rain run down the
glass. His hands are hanging loose from where they rest on his knees, and his pale collarbones are
on display with how his head is tilted back to rest against the wall. His hair falls into his eyes, not
getting in the way, just resting perfectly like aways.

Harry's fingers twitch.

He suddenly can't even remember what he came in here for, but it no longer matters. The last time
Harry saw Draco, they were reclining on his bed as Draco spoke soft French while Harry lost the
plot. It's odd to see him look like this, so relaxed, clearly lost in thought as he watches the rain.

Harry crosses the room and says, "Draco," as he plants himself on the other side of the window
seat, his knees and legs bumping into Draco's.

"Harry!" Draco blurts out, blinking at him in surprise as he sits down. "Oh, you're up. And out. I
thought you were going to waste away in that room, you know."

"Did you?" Harry says with a weak smile.

"Mm, it crossed my mind." Draco glances over at him as it falls quiet. "Do you want to talk about
it? About what happened with Pettigrew, I mean."

"I'd rather not," Harry admits, turning his head to watch the rain, too.

Draco clicks his tongue. "Never knew you to be one to avoid your problems, Potter."

"Oh, it's Potter now, is it?" Harry asks, his lips twitching. He risks a glance over to see Draco
rolling his eyes. "I rather thought we'd moved onto first names at this point."

"I thought you didn't like it when I called you by your first name."

"No, I said I didn't like that you were pretending to want to call me by my first name. There is a
difference. If you actually chose to, though…"

Draco shakes his head. "You're so odd."

Harry hums. "Yes, you've mentioned."

"So, what pushed you to gather your very few wits about you to rejoin general company?" Draco
asks him casually.
"You could say Voldemort gave me a reality check and more things to think about than just the
fact that I've killed twice."

"The Dark Lord talked you out of your room? Are you joking?"

"When you say it like that, it sounds bad," Harry muses, his lips twitching. "Well, it wasn't a great
conversation, really. More informational than I would have liked and lacking in jokes. He's not
very funny, you see."

Draco sends him a sharp look. "Don't mock the Dark Lord, because I'm not stupid enough to join
you. Unlike you, it seems."

"And yet, you mock me."

"I'm not scared of you."

"No, you're not," Harry says, stupidly pleased about that. He looks back at the rain again, the smile
that graces his face feeling more real than the others he's tried to force. "Thank you for that, by the
way. And thanks for, er…"

"Letting you drape all over me and sob like a damsel?" Draco suggests.

Harry scowls. "Yes, that."

"Not a problem, Harry. One should never pass up on a chance to obtain blackmail material," Draco
says easily, knocking his knee into Harry's.

Scoffing, Harry rolls his head to the side to look at Draco in mock-annoyance, but Draco isn't
looking at him as he expects him to. No, he's watching the rain again, his face softened into a small
smile that makes Harry lose his train of thought. What was he thinking about again? He doesn't
know.

Harry looks away with a small frown, turning his gaze to the tiny rivers that roll down the window.
There is something mesmerizing about it, he'll admit. He can see why Draco likes it here. It feels
like they're in a safe, little bubble.

A knee bumps into his, making him blink. Harry looks over and retaliates, knocking Draco's knee
back with his own. Draco snorts quietly and returns the favor. So, back and forth, they bump each
other until it gets heated enough for them to shove the other's legs down. Then they're sitting there,
knees pressed together where their legs are crossed.

Harry shakes his head. "Hey, Draco?"

"Yes, Harry?"

"You really like this spot in the Manor, don't you?"

"It's my favorite spot," Draco admits, confirming Harry's suspicions. "I used to come sit here when
I was really young, curl up with a book, nap in the sun. When it rains, I always come here. There's
something about it that's…"

"Soothing," Harry says.

Draco looks over at him in surprise. "Yes."

"I never… I didn't have a place like that at the Dursleys. When it rained, I was just…"

"Stuck."

Harry nods and sighs. "Yeah."

"You know, we've talked about traveling. Considering that you felt stuck, you must have wanted to
get out and go somewhere." Draco watches him curiously. "Where did you want to go? In the
world, where would you go?"

"Honestly? I didn't really have a specific place in mind. When I learned about Hogwarts, it was
always there that I wanted to be. Otherwise, I just...wanted to get out, I suppose," Harry mumbles.
He pauses, his lips ticking up in a crooked grin. "Now, though? I think I'd fancy going to France. I
hear there's this maze in Paris you can get lost in…"

Draco ducks his head, but not before Harry sees his eyes brighten with delight. He scoffs, in spite
of his obvious happiness. "How original, Harry. Your imagination is...very subpar, you know."

"Shut up," Harry says without heat. He looks back out the window again, sighing. "My
imagination works just fine, thanks."

"I don't agree," Draco tells him. "I rather think you're boring, actually."

"Piss off."

"You first."

They fall into comfortable silence, both watching the rain roll down the glass. Something about it
makes Harry feel a bit insignificant, like maybe he's not as impactful as he's scared he is. It's the
raindrops, he thinks. They run their paths, sometimes twining together, and then where do they go?
They collect on the windowsill, waiting to evaporate when the sun eventually comes back.

Being here doesn't make Harry's problems go away, not at all. But there is something about
watching the rain with his knees pressed against Draco's that makes it easier to handle. It doesn't all
feel so impossible when he's breathing perfectly fine, dealing with each minute that comes.

For once, he doesn't think about everything going on, even though it's all that has plagued his mind
this entire time. Instead, he just sits here with Draco in the quiet, feeling a bit lighter every passing
moment. He can relax, at least for now, so he does.

It's sort of ridiculous, actually. He's never really gone through things and had no one demanding he
talk (Hermione), or tiptoeing around the topics like they'll bite (Ron), or ignoring him
(Dumbledore). There's no Hermione here, pestering him, pushing him, making him angry because
she won't leave him alone when he needs it. There's no Ron here, talking about Quidditch like
everything is fine, writing off problems because he doesn't want to have to face them, sitting
awkwardly like the mere thought of feelings makes him uncomfortable. There's no Dumbledore
here, not listening to him, keeping secrets from him, refusing to meet his gaze…
And, in the same breath, there's not Hermione's laughter, or the fond roll of her eyes, or her genuine
concern. There's not Ron's unwavering support, or fumbling attempts to make Harry laugh, or the
loose grin of his unquestionable friendship. There's not Dumbledore's twinkling eyes, or his wise
words when Harry needs to hear them the most, or the reassurance he seems to exude in waves.

For all their faults, all of them, he misses them so much. It hurts how much he misses them.

So, right now, there's Draco. That's not bad at all. There's his smirks, his sneers, his insults, and his
playful jabs. There's his bony knees pressing into Harry's knobby ones. There's his perfect face and
his hidden smiles, his focus on rain and his desire to go to Paris, his offer to talk if Harry wants and
his patience when Harry doesn't.

And Harry? Well, he doesn't mind it at all. He may miss his friends, but that doesn't mean he can't
enjoy this. Because he does. It's peaceful and calm and easy. Harry feels like he can breathe in a
way he hasn't in a long time, and it's good. With everything going on, it's still good.

It should be ridiculous, considering everything in the past. Ron would explode if he knew. But
here Harry sits, and he doesn't want to move, or leave, or be alone. He doesn't know if that makes
Draco his friend now, or what it means, but he does know that they're in this very strange situation
together, and Harry can't help but be thankful for that.

"Hey, Harry," Draco says suddenly. "You know it will be your birthday soon."

Harry blinks. "Oh, that's right. I forgot."

"You forgot?" Draco blurts out incredulously.

"Yeah," Harry admits sheepishly. "I mean, my birthday has never been anything special, not really.
Well, after Hogwarts, my friends made it special, but it wasn't before that. It was usually just
another day, so I tend to forget it, honestly."

Draco stares at him in disbelief. "Just another day?! Harry, it's your birthday!"

"Yes, I know, but nothing ever happened before I was eleven," Harry mutters.
"Nothing?" Draco asks faintly.

Harry makes a thoughtful sound. "Well, sometimes, when Aunt Petunia was feeling
particularly...nice, she would let me have a sweet."

"A sweet?" Draco gapes at him. "Just one?"

"Yeah, just one," Harry confirms, looking out the window again. "Only sometimes, though. I never
knew when she'd do it. She always had a small dish of sweets on her nightstand, a green dish, and
she'd bring them out. She'd look at me and say, 'Well? Take one', and then she'd put them away. I
got my hopes up sometimes, because it was the only day of the year I could have one, and then
she'd just...not offer me any. I think that's why she did it, just to see me hope for it and not get one.
I thought it meant she didn't hate me, but that wasn't it at all."

"Harry," Draco says slowly, making Harry glance over and blink at the tightness around his eyes,
"this is going to seem rather insensitive, considering the recent events with Pettigrew, but if you'd
like, I wouldn't at all be opposed to going to where she is and stuffing all those sweets down her
throat and watching her choke on them. Just a thought."

Harry is so shocked by the laughter that springs from his lips that he actually claps his hand over
his mouth. Draco does not appear to be joking.

"Merlin, no, Draco, we can't do that," Harry chokes out, trying to stop laughing. "She wouldn't
choke, anyway. Her neck is unnaturally long. Besides, even if I wanted to kill her—and I really
don't—I couldn't go back there without the trace coming back, and then it would be a whole
mess."

"Yes, well, I think it's unfair that you're the only one who gets to indulge your murderous
tendencies around here," Draco says with a prim sniff. He presses his hand to his chest. "What
about me? What about my needs to wring unnaturally long necks like a bloody chicken?"

And it's mad because Harry shouldn't laugh at that. It should sober him right up, should make guilt
and shame wash over him like a ride crashing over him. Instead, he just cracks up more, laughing
so hard that he's shaking a bit. Draco's snooty facade lasts for a beat longer before he's snickering,
too, and then they're just laughing like a couple of idiots about the idea of murdering Harry's Aunt.

The world is just so, so bizarre.

It takes Harry a while to calm down, and he's panting when he does, a stitch in his side. He feels
utterly ridiculous, but giddy regardless. He holds his side and shakes his head at the madness of it
all, looking at Draco. Of course, Draco is smirking now, his eyes dancing with amusement, openly
smug like making Harry laugh is some kind of victory.

It makes Harry wish he would have come out of his room sooner. It makes him wish Draco would
have never left. The things that used to cause Harry alarm or piss him off, when it comes to Draco,
just really don't anymore. No one sees this side of him. They just see his mocking insults and
seemingly perfect life. The doting mother, not the woman who won't stand up for her son. The rich
and powerful father, not the man who would cast his son aside for not living up to expectations.
The boy who appears to have it all, not the boy who used to starve himself to try and please his
parents, or the boy who watches telly with wide eyes full of wonder, or the boy who lets someone
incredibly dangerous break down against him, holding on despite their history.

"You're not afraid of me," Harry whispers in the sudden quiet, the words hitting him like a bludger
because he's just now realizing it fully. He's said it, but this is the first time he accepts it.

Draco watches him. "No, Harry, I'm not."

"Why?" Harry rasps, blinking at him.

"Because I trust you," Draco says softly. "I think… I think I know something about you that you
don't. I can see it, you know, how this is—how it's tearing you apart. You think, because you've
killed, that I should be afraid of you, but I'm not."

"Does murder just not...scare you?" Harry mumbles, his eyebrows crumbling together in confusion.

Draco gives a soft laugh. "Harry, the Dark Lord lives in my home. Of course murder scares me."

"Do you think it's bad? Killing?"

"I think that it can be, yes. I think that it was, the way you did it and liked it. I just don't think
you're bad. You're dangerous, and it's—I can't deny it. But, Harry, I don't think there's something
wrong with you. How can I? You're just… You're doing all you can with what you've got, and
you've got a lot."
"You tried to stop me, Draco." Harry stares into his eyes, his throat thick. "When I was going for
Pettigrew, you tried to stop me."

"Not because I was scared. Not even because I thought he deserved to live. I tried to stop you for
you, because I knew what it would do to you."

"How can you just sit here and—and laugh with me like I haven't—like I'm not…"

Draco sighs and shifts forward, coming a little closer, a wrinkle in his brow. "I can't explain it,
alright? I know what you've done. I saw it, with Pettigrew. I know what you're capable of, and I
know you're safe. I just—I know."

"I'm not," Harry says quietly.

"You are," Draco murmurs. "It's like… It's what you said about the hate for Muggles really being
about fear, remember?" He lets out a long breath, blinking really slowly. "I used to hate you.
Something about you made me hate you, because I was scared of you."

"You were scared of me before I murdered two people, but not after?" Harry asks in shock.

Draco's lips curl up in a small, sardonic smile. "Yes, I was. You terrified me, Harry Potter, and I
never knew why. I never understood it."

"And you have the nerve to call me odd," Harry breathes out, his heart thundering in his chest for
reasons he can't fathom.

"But," Draco continues softly, "you're not so frightening anymore."

His hand suddenly rises from his lap to sweep across Harry's hairline, brushing some unruly
strands away. Harry's throat clamps shut and there's something really odd happening in his
stomach, a swooping sensation like he's just taken a sudden dive on a broom. His hands
immediately break out in a sweat, and when he swallows around his incredibly dry throat, it clicks
loudly into the silence.
Draco's fingers pause there for a beat, the soft pads of them pressing into the skin near his temple,
far away from his scar like that isn't what interests him. Then, just like that, he lets his hand drop
and leans back, looking out the window like Harry isn't struggling to breathe over here.

Harry blinks rapidly, waiting for his lungs to sort themselves out. They do, thankfully, and his
body is back in working order—no tight, dry throat; no swooping stomach; no sweating hands.

He has no idea what just happened, but he takes a wild shot in the dark and figures that he's just
nervous that Draco is lying. Yeah, that must be it. And, if that's the case, well...Harry's going to
reassure him as best as he can.

"Draco, no matter what I do, no matter what happens to me, I'll never hurt you," Harry says
seriously, holding Draco's surprised gaze when he looks over. "I won't hurt your mother because I
actually like her and have hope for her. I won't hurt your father because, well, because it would
hurt you. And I won't hurt you. I promise."

"Oh, is that all?" Draco's lips curl up, his eyes softening. "That's a very serious promise, you know,
especially when you have no idea what the future holds or what may happen."

Harry sets his shoulders. "Yeah, well, I promise anyway," he states a bit forcefully.

"Stubborn," Draco whispers, shaking his head. After a beat, he clears his throat and looks out the
window again. "Well, not to be outdone, I'll make you a promise, too. I… I read that book. All of
it. And I—I get it now, what you meant. I don't know how it will go, or even if—if I'll be able to
do it without looking like a ruddy fool, but I will be apologizing to Granger this year for what I've
done. I'll be needing to take that book, by the way, because she'll probably ask. I'll just—I'll show
it to her, if she's willing to listen, and I'll explain that I know I was wrong and will do better. And I
think I'll try to have the others see sense—Pansy, Blaise, Theo, Greg, and Vince, I mean. That's my
promise."

Joy so intense that Voldemort probably feels it wherever he is in the Manor hits Harry so hard that
he actually sucks in a sharp breath.

He thought the Killing Curse felt good? No, this is loads better. This is a high that Harry could live
off of for days. His heart practically squeezes, and his stomach is doing that swooping thing again,
this time in excitement and a rush of giddiness. He feels breathless with relief, and happiness, and
—and—
There's something else. Something. Harry doesn't know what it is, but it seems to hook right in the
center of his chest, tugging at him insistently. It's this pull, this demanding little tug that makes him
itch with something. In fact, his hands are itching with an urge so intense that he balls them into
fists, nearly baffled by what they could want right now when he's just staring at the side of Draco's
face. It's something, and he—he… He wants. He just wants…

He doesn't know, but Merlin, he feels it. And he doesn't know what to do with it, or how to escape
it, and a part of him doesn't even want to. He wants it to explode out of him and explain itself
because he bloody well doesn't get it.

Harry feels his lips part, purely stunned, and he has no idea how to express how utterly happy this
makes him. Draco just continues to stare out the window.

"Alright," Harry finally settles on, his words cracking out of him, "you win."

Not looking away from the rain, Draco's lips curl up, and he says, "I know."
 Paradise
Chapter Notes

No real warnings for this chapter. Just our 2 sweet bois being sweet

The days leading up to Harry's birthday are uneventful for the most part, despite everything. He
spends most of his time with Draco, flying or sitting in that window seat or getting into ridiculous
arguments that never, ever lead to fighting.

Lucius is back to being blatantly afraid of him after what happened with Pettigrew. Harry wasn't
even aware that he'd stopped, not really, but the swift change is very clear. He reacts to Harry more
like he's Voldemort in a rage than just some boy. It's infuriating, but Harry mostly ignores it.

Mrs. Malfoy isn't afraid of him again, but she won't quite meet his eyes anymore, and her smiles go
back to being slightly fake. He knows he's hurt her feelings by what he's said, but he can't bring
himself to regret it. What he told her was a harsh truth she needed to hear, and he won't apologize
for it. That doesn't mean he doesn't miss their walks in the garden, even with the topics they
discussed, because he strangely does. He calls her Mrs. Malfoy again, but it's like she can't forget
the one time he lost all respect (and manners) for her and called her Narcissa. He doesn't think he'll
forget, either.

Voldemort, on the other hand, is the same he has always been. Honest, cold, detached. He doesn't
speak with Harry again, but Harry does catch him walking through one of the halls once, and they
have a really odd stare-off. Well, Harry does the wary staring while Voldemort just stands there
like he's waiting for whatever Harry's going to say. Harry, after an uncomfortable beat, says
nothing and turns around so he can flee quickly.

It's not the worst days of his life, nor is it the best. Harry gets used to the fact that he killed Peter
Pettigrew, just like he did with Bellatrix Lestrange. They haunt his nightmares, still, and Harry
struggles with his morality more frequently than he ever has sometimes, but...he adjusts. Because
what else can he do? What else is there to do?

On the morning of his birthday, Harry wakes up to a pillow smacking him in the back of his head.
He sputters, lifting his face out of his own drool on the pillow he's had his face buried into.
Blinking around blearily, he jolts when the pillow smacks him in the head all over again.

"Up," Draco demands from behind him.

Harry groans. "G'away," he mutters, dropping his face back into his pillow.

"Get up, Harry," Draco insists, tossing the pillow at him with full force. "Come on, up!"

"I'm not a bloody broom!" Harry shouts in a muffled gurgle, reaching back to hold onto the pillow
and shove it around his head.

The pillow is snatched away. "Potter," Draco drawls, "your back is very naked and my hands are
very cold. Get up before I prove it."

"You only call me Potter when you're being an arse," Harry notes, turning his head to open one eye
and peek to the side. Draco's body is blurry. "Time?"

"Early," Draco says dryly. "Come on, I want to show you something."

"Later?" Harry mumbles, his eye drifting shut again as the sweet allure of sleep tugs at him again.

Cold fingers suddenly press flat on his very naked, very hot back. So cold that goosebumps break
out on Harry's skin, and he yelps as his eyes snap open. He automatically curls away from the
fingers, grabbing for the blanket to cover his chest because, in his sleep-addled brain, he thinks
Draco shouldn't see it.

Draco's blurry form approaches, leaning over him, and then Harry is suddenly having glasses
shoved onto his face. Draco looks unimpressed. "Not later, now. Are you awake?"

"I am now," Harry grumbles, sitting up and reaching back to scratch at his head, huffing.

"Good." Pleased, Draco smirks at him and waves his pale, delicate fingers at Harry. "Now, go take
a shower and get dressed. Tough luck about your hair, Harry. There's just no hope for it, is there?"

Harry sighs, miserable about Draco saying that for some reason. "No, there isn't."
There's a pause, then, "I don't know," Draco muses softly, "I think it suits you."

The same cold fingers from before abruptly push through his hair, running from the hairline to the
curve of his head, likely messing it all up even more. Harry feels a violent shiver run over him, and
he stares up at Draco's thoughtful expression with...well, he has no idea how he looks right now.
Gobsmacked, probably. Whatever it is, it makes Draco's lips twitch as he withdraws his hand from
Harry's hair and steps back.

"Er, thanks?" Harry chokes out.

Draco hums, then points at him sternly. "Get up. Don't make me have to come back in here."

"Yeah, alright," Harry mumbles.

"Good," Draco praises, pleased again. He heads for the door, but pauses before leaving, turning
back around to offer Harry a wide, dazzling smile. "Oh, and happy birthday, Harry."

Then, with that, he's sweeping out of the room, taking his rather brilliant smile with him. Harry sits
in his bed for a while, blinking, until Draco calls his name sharply from across the hall, then he
scrambles up and shakes off the effects of this really, really odd morning.

By the time he's ready for the day, Draco is being impatient in the hall, shifting restlessly as Harry
casually strolls out of the bathroom. Harry narrows his eyes, but Draco just grabs his arm and tugs
him forcefully down the hall.

"What's going on?" Harry asks suspiciously.

Draco doesn't answer him. He just pulls Harry down the stairs and into the dining room, letting
him go as soon as they're through the doors. Harry stops, blinking in surprise to see both Mrs.
Malfoy and Lucius up this early—usually, breakfast happens every morning at seven and ends half
an hour later, and Harry can't believe he's used to scheduled meals like this now. But it's barely
even six, and the table is laden with food just like always.

"Good morning, Harry," Mrs. Malfoy greets him, looking at him fully for the first time since their
disagreement. Her smile isn't fake this time.
Harry blinks. "Good morning, Mrs. Malfoy. It's a little early for breakfast, isn't it?"

"One does have to make adjustments when plans for the day demands it." Mrs. Malfoy gestures to
Harry's usual chair. "Sit, eat, and...happy birthday, Harry."

"Cheers," Harry mumbles awkwardly, shooting Draco a glance that goes ignored.

He sits and eats, Draco right next to him. Harry isn't sure what's going on, but he's very suspicious.
He hopes the Malfoys haven't planned anything for his birthday. He doesn't think he would handle
the mortification if they did something extravagant. Shower him in meaningless, expensive
presents; make him a cake that has levels to it; things like that. Harry's used to his birthday being a
quiet affair, and he's just fine with that. He's not Dudley.

But, whatever is going on, they're tight-lipped about it. Draco eats as quietly as always, taking very
small bites, prim and proper. Mrs. Malfoy eats much the same, and Lucius keeps his head ducked
like he isn't willing to meet Harry's gaze even now.

Once breakfast is over, Lucius gets up and sweeps off without a word, and there's nothing
abnormal about that. What is abnormal is how Mrs. Malfoy shoots to her feet almost instantly as
Draco does the same. Harry stares in surprise as they both explode into a flurry of movement, Mrs.
Malfoy walking quickly around the table, Draco shoving his own chair back to approach Harry's.

Wait, to approach—

Harry yelps in shock as his chair is suddenly yanked around, turning him towards Draco and Mrs.
Malfoy, who crowd in front of him with identical frowns of concentration.

"What," Harry begins.

"Hold still," Draco mutters, rolling his eyes.

Mrs. Malfoy lifts her wand. "This will feel a bit strange, Harry, I apologize. It won't hurt."
Before Harry can even think about protesting, Mrs. Malfoy waves her wand with a wrinkle in her
brow. She's focusing really hard, that much is obvious, and Harry has no idea what's happening. He
knows what she means about whatever this is feeling strange, though. His scalp is lightly prickling,
and his eyes tingle in the strangest way, and his nose actually feels a brief spot of vague discomfort
like someone has grabbed it a bit forcefully, and his mouth feels...off, swollen.

He blinks rapidly in surprise when he sees his hair fall into his eyes, no longer black but a rich
brown. From what he can see, it's curly now. Harry nearly chokes as Draco abruptly presses a vial
to his lips and tips its contents down his throat, forcing him to cough violently and swallow.
Almost immediately after, his vision gets watery and blurry, which makes him panic, only for him
to blink in shock as Draco snatches his glasses off his face. He can still see perfectly fine, and
that's…

"What is happening?!" Harry blurts out, alarmed.

Mrs. Malfoy lowers her wand a beat later and steps back in sync with Draco, tilting her head.
"Well?"

"It's perfect," Draco muses. He raises his eyebrows at his mother, openly impressed. "I didn't know
you were this good at transfiguration."

"It was my best subject, actually," Mrs. Malfoy tells him, her lips curling up in self-pride that she's
obviously trying and failing to hide.

Harry stands up from the chair with a scowl. "Does anyone want to tell me what that was all
about?"

Draco picks up a plate from the table and holds it out to his mother. "Well, you're the
transfiguration expert, Mother. Make it a mirror."

"Very well." Mrs. Malfoy turns her wand to the plate, her eyebrow furrowing again as she
transfigures it into a hand-mirror.

"Here," Draco says, holding the mirror out to Harry with a sigh, "see for yourself."

So, Harry does. And Harry doesn't look like...Harry. No, he looks like someone else entirely. His
eyes are dark blue, his nose is smaller, his hair is a bit longer, falling over his forehead in curls that
cover his scar. Even his lips are fuller, his top lip now matching the plumpness of his bottom lip.
Harry blinks at his reflection in surprise. No green eyes, no glasses, no messy hair. He looks…

Actually, he looks a bit handsome. His nose is upturned and sort of cute now. The curls actually
suit him, though it is a little odd. He misses his eyes, his mother's eyes, green and his most striking
feature outside of his messy, black hair. Now, he just looks like some sixteen year old boy.

"Well," Harry says with a sigh, "this is humbling."

Draco snorts.

"Oh, don't do that, dear," Mrs. Malfoy says, clicking her tongue. "You are very handsome the way
you look normally. A bit...of a ruffian, admittedly, but that's to be expected when no one has taught
you manners or provided you with proper clothes."

"Yes, because the way I hold my fork and how expensive my clothes are will make the girls
swoon," Harry says dryly, arching an eyebrow.

"You'd be surprised," Draco mutters, rolling his eyes, looking vaguely irritated.

Harry narrows his eyes at him. "What is that supposed to mean? You make loads of girls swoon,
do you, Malfoy?"

"You only call me Malfoy when you're being an arse," Draco says sharply, glaring at him. "And it
means that you could trip over your own feet and girls would swoon because you're you."

Mrs. Malfoy clears her throat.

"I don't ask them to swoon," Harry snaps.

Draco huffs and looks away. "No, but you don't have to ask, do you? You're Harry bloody Potter.
It's every bird's dream to be on your arm."
"Don't tell me you're jealous, Draco." Harry scowls and crosses his arms, angry for reasons he
doesn't understand, a hot pulse of it in his chest. "You're rich and—and, well, girls swoon you over
you plenty, even when you're a prat, so shove off."

"Of course girls swoon over me." Draco looks at him like he's gone mad. "They're not blind."

"You're—you…" Harry trails off, searching for some kind of rebuttal to that, but he doesn't
actually find one. This time, he's the one who looks away, frustrated. "Well, they turn a blind eye
to how much a git you are."

"Yes, and the girls ignore your stupidity."

"You know what, Draco, why don't you—"

"Are you two finished?" Lucius comes sweeping into the room, a very obvious frown on his face.
He's carrying two silver flasks and a book. "If you're done with your squabbling, we'll move this
along."

Draco jolts, his anger gone in a flash. "Oh! Yes, that will do nicely. How much, Father?"

"If you're careful, it will last for an evening." Lucius comes to a halt in front of them. He arches an
eyebrow and surveys them as he holds out the flasks to them. "You will be careful."

"Yes, Father," Draco agrees.

Lucius narrows his eyes. "You will not miss your Portkey. If you do, your mother and I will not
come. You'll both be stranded."

"Yes, Father," Draco repeats quieter.

"You will enjoy yourselves," Mrs. Malfoy speaks up, her tone gentle and fond. "Both of you."
Harry shuffles awkwardly. "Er, enjoy what? Why is there a Portkey? Don't you have to register—"

"Potter, when you have enough money to buy the Portkey division, you have enough money to
bribe someone into registering the Portkey under false names," Lucius says, looking right at him,
meeting his gaze for the first time in days. "The Portkey is scheduled for seven o'clock sharp. Do
not be late. The Dark Lord will not interfere if things go...awry. Remember, your wands are not to
be used."

"And what's this?" Harry asks, holding up his flask with a small frown.

"Polyjuice in the case of an emergency," Lucius says shortly. "Should your altered appearance fail,
or should you recognize anyone, you will both drink it if you wish to avoid suspicion."

"Who will we turn into?" Harry asks warily.

Lucius arches an eyebrow. "Narcissa and I have both provided hair for one of the flasks."

Harry blinks and looks down at his flask, his lips pursing. "And which one do I have?"

"I am unsure." Lucius smirks and spreads his hand loftily. "I seem to have...mixed them up."

"Let's hope you don't have to use them," Mrs. Malfoy says with a soft sigh. "In any case, if you do,
Draco, you have the bags, yes?"

"Yes, Mother," Draco says calmly, patting his pocket with a nod.

Lucius takes out his pocket-watch, frowning. He snaps it shut and passes Draco a book. "It is
almost time. Be cautious, Draco. And Potter?"

"Yes?" Harry asks warily.

"Harry birthday," Lucius says with a faint sneer, whirling on the spot and walking right back out of
the room with his hair flapping.
Harry stares after him dumbly. "Why is my life so bizarre?"

"Okay, be careful," Mrs. Malfoy says quickly, her hands fluttering around her nervously. "I will see
you both back here at seven, yes?"

"Yes, Mother," Draco says with a sigh. "We will be fine, I promise."

"I know, I know, I just…" Mrs. Malfoy trails off, and then steps forward rather abruptly to hug
them both at once, which is a bit awkward because she's so small. When she pulls away a beat
later, she touches a hand to each of their cheeks. "Do not be reckless. Simply be...careful, and have
fun."

"Mother," Draco says softly, "thank you."

Mrs. Malfoy glances at Harry briefly, then smiles at Draco. "I will always help you, Draco, and
support you, no matter what it is that you do. Please never forget that. Ever."

With that, she steps back and releases a slow breath. Draco blinks rapidly, visibly startled, and it
seems to be a mindless gesture for him to reach out and grab Harry's hand, pulling it to grab the
book. Then, just like that, there's a hook in Harry's navel, and he's closing his eyes tight until he
slams into the ground.

When he opens his eyes, he's not in the Manor anymore, which is to be expected. Instead, he's lying
flat on his back on what feels like hardwood floor, and he's staring up at a ceiling with half-naked
people painted on it. They're wearing togas, most of them, but he's pretty sure he sees a few
nipples.

He blinks, slowly sitting up and rubbing his elbow that slammed down on the floor. He feels that
dizziness that comes with Portkey travel, but his interest in where they are outweighs it. He's
clearly in some kind of palace because there are marble pillars lining each side of the room, and
there are various other statues that are even less-dressed than the people painted on the ceiling.

It looks a bit like a museum, actually, or what he imagines one would look like based on the small
amount of knowledge he has on them.
When Harry looks over, Draco is standing perfectly fine on his own two feet, looking all for the
world like he hasn't been snatched to...wherever they are. He's looking down at Harry in faint
amusement. Harry huffs and pushes to his feet with a roll of his eyes, glancing around in awe.

"Where are we?" Harry asks.

Draco clears his throat. "We're in France."

Harry's mouth drops open, and he looks over at Draco in astonishment. Are they really in France?
Harry's never been to France before...but Draco knows that. Of course he knows that, because
Harry told him that, just like he told him that he'd like to go. He huffs out a quiet laugh.

"You're joking," Harry says in disbelief.

"I'm really not," Draco replies, his lips twitching up in the corners. "Come on, follow me."

Harry does, his shoes clapping along the marble floor—not hardwood. He stares at the statues in
amazement, taking in the leather loveseats beside them and the liquor cabinet tucked behind a bar
towards the front of the room. Draco leads them away, though, directing them through massive
double-doors that open up to a large room with a grand, winding staircase in the middle of it.

Draco hops up the stairs with familiar ease, smiling a bit, looking comfortable. It hits Harry that
he's been here before, that he knows this place. This massive, extravagant place that must be worth
more money than Harry's even capable of imagining.

At the top of the stairs is a wrap-around balcony, white doors lining each side. There's probably
about six rooms on each side, the doors spaced apart far enough to make Harry think the rooms are
big as well. Little marble pedestals decorate along the front of the banister, vases or other various
objects—likely expensive heirlooms—on display. Harry is a little nervous he'll break something.

Draco takes a left, leading him along to the second door on the left side, opening it with a simple
twist of the handle. The room reminds Harry of Draco's room back home, but there's not as many
touches of him here—very few things that make Harry think Draco spends a lot of time here. But
the bed has a canopy and looks to be hanging from the ceiling, there is a door open that reveals a
very large closet with a lot of clothes inside, and the walls are painted like the sky—puffy clouds,
birds flying, and…
Harry blinks.

The strangest thing is the woman who appears to be the embodiment of the sun, orange-ish yellow
skin glowing as she looks towards the floor on the opposite side of the room with a forlorn
expression, her hair spun like gold letting off a bright, shimmering glow that lights up the wall
she's painted on. Harry follows her gaze and blinks in surprise to see a woman who obviously
represents the moon slumped down in a white dress that offsets her marble blue-ish white skin—
she's twisting her silver hair through her fingers and staring back at the sun-woman with unabashed
yearning.

Draco doesn't even stop. He just keeps leading Harry even further into the room, guiding him
towards yet another staircase that winds up through a gap in the ceiling.

Harry follows him up, shaking his head in exasperation and reluctant awe to see a room not unlike
the one below. It's painted the exact same, sun and moon still gazing at each other, and the only
difference is the double-doors towards the side of the room. The curtains on the other side are
fluttering in what must be the wind, and Harry can't help but be curious as Draco walks over to the
doors and yanks them open with a flourish.

He doesn't mean to gasp, he really doesn't, but he can't help it. Draco leads him out on a balcony
that overlooks a city. The architecture alone lets Harry know that he's not in England anymore. The
city below stretches out as far as the eye can see, and the Eiffel Tower can be seen in the distance.

"We're in Paris," Harry blurts out.

"We are," Draco agrees, walking over to lean against the railing of the balcony. Harry joins him,
staring out in surprise. "Look there. You see that?"

Harry flicks his gaze over to where Draco is pointing. It's a bit hard to spot in the distance, but
there's a long street in the middle of a bustling town. He can make out the people walking to and
from, moving like little ants. There seems to be a statue that Draco is pointing out.

Harry nods. "What is it?"

"That," Draco says, "is the entrance to Place Cachée. It's accessed through that statue, there. It's the
Paris equivalent to Diagon Alley."
"Oh," Harry breathes out. "Are we—"

"If you want," Draco says quietly. "That's what my parents think we're going to do."

"You have another idea?"

"Well...I know how you feel about Muggles. And, if you wanted, we could stay in Muggle Paris,
just experience it that way."

"Really?" Harry asks, surprised. "Have you ever been there? Place Catchy, I mean."

"Place Cachée," Draco corrects with a small smile, shaking his head. "And yes, I've been there. It's
different from London, but it's not… Honestly, Harry, you'd probably enjoy the Muggle parts just
as much as the magical."

"What makes you say that?" Harry murmurs.

Draco shrugs easily. "Because I know you. Anyway, it's your birthday. If you want to go into Place
Cachée, we will. It could be risky, though."

"Risky? How do you mean? You can't think that the Aurors are looking for me here, can you?"

"Father knows they're looking all over the place. There's a theory that you fled London and plan to,
er, become a Dark Lord in another country."

"People think I've abandoned them," Harry says flatly, his expression going blank.

"Harry," Draco says, turning towards him, his hair whipping around in the light breeze, "don't think
about all that mess today. It's your birthday."

Harry takes a deep breath and nods. "You did this, then? I somehow doubt Lucius came up with the
idea, and I don't think your mother did, either."
"I...might've mentioned that a trip away from everything would be more appreciated than gifts and
cake made my house-elves," Draco says slowly, looking back towards the city. The wind must
have picked up because his cheeks are tinged pink. "I just brought the idea up to my mother, that's
all. She helped me make it happen. Group effort, really."

"It's brilliant," Harry says, biting down on his bottom lip to stop from grinning. "Thank you, Draco,
seriously."

Draco nods and shrugs lazily. "Don't mention it. Ever. Besides, it's just as much for me as it is you.
Now, where do you want to go?"

"Where is the maze?" Harry asks.

"I don't think we can go there," Draco says, glancing at him with a frown. "Sorry, but all
enchantments are washed away before you're allowed entry. They'd know you were Harry Potter,
and it would—"

"It would be bad." Harry sighs, shaking his head. He pauses and looks out over the city, watching
the small dots of people move around. "Well, let's not risk it, then. Maybe Muggle Paris is as
magical as Place Catchy is on its own."

Draco laughs quietly. "Oh, Harry, it's Cachée."

No matter what Draco says, this day is not at all just as much for him as it is for Harry. No, it's all
undeniably for Harry and no one else.

Because, Harry has learned that Draco had woken up before the sun to come here with his mother
and prepare everything. Draco made his mother mirror the room above his own to look exactly the
same, that way Harry could have it. Draco took half of the money his Father gave him and went to
have it converted into Muggle money. Draco snuck off, alone, to go into Muggle Paris and find
schedules for tours that they could go on just in case Harry chose to go there instead.

Harry's feeling a lot of things about that, really, and he wants to express them, but he's not sure
how. Draco just explains it in an offhand way, like it doesn't matter, but it really, really does.

But, since they have a time limit, only a day, Draco ushers them off before Harry can work out how
to actively show Draco that there's a swooping in his stomach and a fluttering in his chest. By the
time they're outside, walking along Muggles, it's gone.

This is a new experience for Draco, too. It's clear that he's a bit nervous, but not nearly as nervous
as he was the first time Harry dragged him amidst Muggles. Draco has to get used to it fairly
quickly because he can speak French and Harry cannot. His obvious uncertainty with the Muggle
money doesn't seem to make the Muggles that confused; they peg Harry and Draco for tourists
almost instantly wherever they go, and it's not technically a lie, so that's the story Draco goes with.

The best part might be the way Draco doesn't have anything planned. He's given Harry a couple of
pamphlets that show scheduled tours, and he translates them, but he doesn't seem to mind when
Harry says he'd like to look at the shops instead.

So, that's what they do.

It's probably a bit mundane, in retrospect. Here they are, in Paris, and there are endless sights to
see. There must be things that everyone going to Paris for the first time wants to see, but Harry
doesn't know what those things are. He's rather taken with the large strip that has shops lining
either side, various restaurants and clothing stores. Rather than rushing to go see the Eiffel Tower,
or get on buses to have a tour guide take them to random places, Harry gets lost in what is the
equivalent of any shopping district in the world...just in Paris.

And yet, it's the most free Harry has felt in a long, long time. It's a different type of freedom than
what Voldemort offers him; this comes without guilt. Harry's simply happy to go in and out of
shops, looking at things, occasionally having conversations with the workers through Draco
translating.

Draco doesn't complain or protest, not once. He even buys pretty much anything Harry picks up for
more than five seconds, which keeps Harry from picking up most things unless they snag his
attention and he forgets, and at that point, Draco takes it right to the counter without batting an eye.
This includes two different snowglobes, a pair of sunglasses Harry will never be able to wear, a
leather journal, three different hoodies (or, as Draco still calls them, pocket-jumpers), a wrist-
watch, three different candles that Harry just had to smell, and a pair of trainers not unlike the ones
Harry's already wearing but, well, new.

"You've got to stop buying me things," Harry hisses as they leave yet another shop.
"It's your birthday," Draco says with a roll of his eyes. "Honestly, you should start asking for
things. What are these, by the way?"

Harry glances at the sunglasses Draco is waving in front of his nose. "Those are sunglasses. You
wear them like regular glasses, and they keep the sun from hurting your eyes. I just thought they
looked cool, but I won't be able to wear them, you rich git."

"Huh, neat," Draco says with a thoughtful expression. He shoves them on his face, his head
swiveling as he gives a little laugh of awe. "This is utterly brilliant, you know. Muggles. Honestly.
Well, if you don't want them..."

"Keep them," Harry says, snorting and shaking his head as Draco turns his face towards him.
"Don't wear them inside or at night, though. It's just not on. You'll look ridiculous if you do."

"If you say so, Harry."

It's disheartening how fast the day slips by. Harry doesn't want to go back. He wants to run up and
down this strip with Draco forever, getting lost in the shops and never coming out. Even with the
ridiculous way Draco is buying him absolutely everything, this whole day is still so, so nice.

Harry doesn't think he's laughed this much in… Well, not since before Cedric died, actually. He
doesn't mean to, and he's sure he'll be guilty about it later, but it just happens. Draco makes a
snarky comment, or darts out of reach when Harry tries to stop him from buying something, or
mutters something vaguely rude in Harry's ear about the Muggle he's talking to before smiling right
at them charmingly and speaking in fluent French...and Harry just laughs. It feels good, honestly.
It's all a bit silly, but he really enjoys it anyway.

He tries to ignore it when the sun starts setting, and Draco wisely doesn't mention it. Instead, he
drags Harry into a bustling restaurant that looks a bit busy but completely normal—he had
somehow been expecting something upscale because Draco had pulled him in. But, overall, it's
rather simple.

A man escorts them to a table out on a patio, and Draco translates the menu for Harry. There's no
point because cuisine really isn't Harry's strong suit, so he just shrugs and says Draco can order for
them both. So, Draco does.
As they're eating, Harry watches Draco across from the table and, not for the first time, tries to
wrap his mind around how they're like this. How they've gone from seething arguments almost
constantly to only having a few—none that ever comes to blows. How they've gone from sneers to
small smiles. How they've gone from Draco being visibly afraid of him to Draco not being scared
of him at all when he most definitely should be. How they've gone from unquestionable hatred
to...to friendship?

"Are we friends?"

Draco chokes on the bite he's just taken, his hand coming up to pound on his chest briefly as he
forces himself to swallow. When he blinks, his eyes are watering from the force of it. Harry can
feel his face heat up, and suddenly, he wishes he hasn't spoken at all. Honestly, who even says
that? Are we friends? He sounds like a bloody First Year.

Staring at him, Draco clears his throat. "Well, I wasn't expecting that, I admit."

"Sorry," Harry mutters, grimacing. "That was—I was just thinking about how we don't...how we're
not always fighting, that's all."

"I would still have a go at you," Draco says, his eyes dancing with humor. "There is something
very satisfying about hitting you in the face."

Harry snorts. "The thing is, Draco, I don't actually believe you. I think… I think that you like that
we're like...this, instead of what we were."

"It's a matter of convenience, that's all. You live in my home. Can't very well fight you every day,
can I? Why not be civil?"

"Oh, is that it?"

"Of course," Draco chirps lightly, smirking.

"In that case, why are you still such a prat?"

"You bring out the worst in me."

"I do not!" Harry protests.

Draco's lips twitch. "Truly, Harry, you do. It's not exactly a secret. I am...quick to react to you, I
always have been, just like you're quick to react to me. You've disliked me from the moment I
insulted your first friend, and I...well, I disliked you, too."

"No, no, finish that thought." Harry raises his eyebrows and leans forward, curious despite himself.
"When did you decide you didn't like me, Draco? When was the exact moment?"

"When I tried to be your friend, and you turned away from the offer." Draco shrugs, taking another
small bite.

Harry hums. "Is that why you're resisting saying we're friends now?"

Draco looks at him, sighs, then says, "No."

"Because we are, you know. It's mad, of course, but we somehow...are," Harry declares in
bemusement.

"Alright," Draco allows, shrugging again.

"You don't seem too pleased with that." Harry narrows his eyes. "Do you not want to be friends?"

Draco heaves a sigh. "Merlin, Harry, are you a Hufflepuff? Friends is… It's fine."

"Just fine."

"Yes. Is there something wrong with it being just fine? Are you expecting me to jump with joy
because you suddenly want to be my friend?"
"Well, no, but…" Harry trails off, strangely stung.

"Oh, great, I've hurt your feelings." Draco groans and puts his fork down, reaching up to rub at his
eyebrow and shake his head like he's exasperated and frustrated with everything right now.

Harry scoffs. "You haven't."

"No, I have," Draco mutters, dropping his hand and looking at Harry intently. "Harry, it's very hard
to explain, alright? I am pleased that we're...that we don't hate each other anymore. Actually,
you've become the best part of my summer."

"Really?" Harry blinks, surprised. Pleasantly surprised, actually. More than, in fact. "Well, I
mean...er, it's the same for me. You're the—you know. As well. For me."

Draco rolls his eyes. "Sure I am."

Harry coughs and looks down at his plate, moving around the little bit left over with his fork. "You
know, no one has ever done anything like this for me. Which, I mean, not everyone is as rich as
you, I know that. I just, it's not really about all the money and the things. It's nice because—
because I know how much thought you put into it."

"I thought we weren't mentioning it."

"Draco, I'm serious."

"Yes," Draco says with a sigh, "I see that. I just… You said your birthdays weren't— And I knew
that this would do you some good, that's all. Better than anything else Mother or Father could have
suggested. That's it. Nothing to it."

But that's the thing that Draco doesn't seem to be getting. It's not about coming to Paris, though
that's very nice. It's not about the things Draco has bought him, or the extravagant palace that his
family owns, or even that his father has enough money to throw all of this together at his son's
leisure. Harry could and would do without all of that.
It's about the fact that Draco knows that Harry would enjoy the Muggle parts just as much as the
magical parts. It's about the fact that they're in Paris and Draco doesn't mind that they can't go to
the maze he dreams about. It's about the fact that Draco went behind his parents' backs to get
Muggle money and Muggle tourist pamphlets, then let Harry decide what to do with it all. It's
about the fact that Draco cares, even if he acts like he doesn't. It's about all of that, and most of all,
it's about how Draco is just as happy to be here with him, doing practically nothing, as Harry is to
be here with Draco.

"Right. Nothing to it," Harry whispers, but he's smiling hard enough to hurt.

Draco scoffs. "Just finish your meal so we can go."

On the way back to the palace, Draco suddenly breaks the silence by grabbing Harry and shoving
him down behind a bench. Harry hits his knees, making a small sound of shock, and Draco
crouches down beside him. He frantically looks through all the bags he's been carrying, pulling out
a hoodie and shoving it towards Harry with wide eyes.

"Put that on quickly," Draco hisses, "and put your hood up. Mother's magic is fading."

"Bullocks," Harry curses, scrambling to do just that. "No wonder my eyes are starting to hurt. I'll
need my glasses soon, Draco, or I won't be able to see."

"No, that's too obvious. It's something everyone relates to you. That, your eyes, your scar, and your
hair. Keep your head ducked and pull the hood down as far as it will go."

"Okay, but how am I meant to walk if I can't see?!"

Draco glares at him, his head peeking over the bench before ducking right back down. He looks at
Harry, waiting for him to finish getting as covered as he can, then he takes a deep breath. Without
explanation, he grabs Harry's arm and yanks him to his feet, linking their arms together.

"Lean into me and put your head against my shoulder. Keep looking down. Don't walk too fast, and
don't look up," Draco whispers.
"Are we close to Place Catchy?"

"Cachée, Harry, and a bit too close for my liking, yes. I can see some Witches and Wizards out.
Just keep your head down, alright?"

"Alright," Harry breathes out, doing exactly as Draco says while his heart races in his chest.

He grips Draco's arm possibly too tight and works very hard to keep his breathing even. This isn't
good, not at all. If he gets recognized...what? What will happen? Here he is, out in the open,
looking like himself—a wanted criminal. Sometimes he forgets that part because it's absolute
madness.

Draco's stroll is calm, and Harry tries to focus on the sound of his quiet, even breathing. He
probably looks like he's escorting someone insane or plastered because it's a bit too hot to be
wearing a hoodie right now. Harry feels insane, honestly.

They can't be too far from the property of the palace now. They just have to make it there without
incident. Because, if not, Harry will be shipped off to Azkaban immediately, and he doesn't really
fancy that as a birthday present. Somehow, in the ease of this day, he's forgotten how utterly
horrible his life is at the moment, how much danger he's in, how dangerous he is.

Well, not now, he supposes. He can't use his wand, not even if he wants to defend himself. He'll
run if he has to, and he'll drag Draco along with him.

"Draco! Draco Malfoy!"

Draco goes rigid against him, their steps coming to a slow halt as Harry hears the sound of heels
clicking on the sidewalk. Draco's hand clamps down onto his arm as he grits out, "Bullocks."

"Draco," comes that smooth, sweet voice again. Harry doesn't recognize it, and he resists the urge
to look up. "Oh, I just knew it was you. I'd know that hair anywhere, I would."

"Mrs. Zabini," Draco says in a strained voice, "it's lovely to see you. What brings you to Paris?"
Mrs. Zabini clicks her tongue. "Oh, it's so unfortunate. My late husband's estate is being cleaned
out today. I'll collect everything, of course, but I just had to come and...part with his memory."

"I see. My condolences. Again," Draco murmurs rather stiffly. "And Blaise? How is he?"

"Doing well for himself, I imagine. He has mentioned that you've refused to allow him to visit this
summer, which is very unlike you. I rather suspected that you two were the best of friends!"

"Blaise is a wonderful friend, Mrs. Zabini. I've just been busy this summer, that's all."

"So it would seem," Mrs. Zabini says slowly, her tone curious. "And who is this young man? How
very rude of you, Draco, to not introduce me to your...friend?"

"Arius Fawley," Draco says immediately, his tone even and calm, lying smoothly. "From Fiji. We
met by chance recently, when his uncle sold a family heirloom through my father. A quick bite in
Paris seemed good until he suddenly got sick. He's not feeling well at all, can barely stand on his
own, you see. I must escort him home."

"Oh, how kind of you," Mrs. Zabini says softly, and Harry can hear the lie in her voice. "I wasn't
aware that there were any Fawleys in Fiji."

"Yes, well, they don't often go to London, you understand. Their relatives here have sullied their
name by their...disgraceful habits. Personally, I wouldn't want any contact with distant relatives
who acted in such a manner, either," Draco says with a prim sniff, scoffing in disgust, sounding
exactly like a Pureblood.

Mrs. Zabini hums in agreement. "I do not blame them. Well, it is good to know that there are some
Fawleys who don't disgrace their lineage."

"Isn't it?" Draco agrees with a polite laugh.

"You two seem rather close," Mrs. Zabini notes, a lilting edge to her voice that makes Harry want
to run in the opposite direction. "You said you've only met recently? Are you sure?"
Draco clears his throat. "At the beginning of summer. That seems recent to me."

"And is Arius Fawley the reason you've been too busy to entertain my son's company?" Mrs.
Zabini asks lightly, seemingly pleasant.

"Oh, not at all," Draco says sharply. "Now, we really must be going, Mrs. Zabini. Good day."

With that, Draco starts tugging Harry along again, and Mrs. Zabini hums and says, "Good day,
then."

Draco curses under his breath as they continue on, and Harry can't really understand why. She
didn't recognize him. Draco gave a wonderful lie that he sold perfectly! They are fine, perfectly
fine, and they'll make it back to the palace easily.

They do, in fact. Shockingly, nothing else goes wrong. They continue the walk with Draco picking
up the pace until they're climbing the hill to the palace and passing through the wards. Draco
doesn't fully let him go until they're inside with the doors shut and locked behind them.

"Bloody buggering fuck!" Draco explodes immediately, scrambling for Harry's glasses and shoving
them at him, practically ripping himself away from Harry after and marching up the steps.

Harry slips his glasses on and gapes after him in disbelief, blinking rapidly. He's never heard Draco
curse like that, and not with such force. Draco is undeniably furious, and Harry has no idea why.
He stands in the room in pure shock for a minute, then scrambles up the stairs when Draco
disappears to the left.

Moments later, Harry is walking hesitantly into the room that must be Draco's, unsure and uneasy.
Draco is laying down at the end of his bed, his legs hanging off, his hands covering his face.

"Er, Draco?"

No response. Right, then. Harry takes a deep breath and marches over to the open spot beside
Draco, flopping backwards right beside him. The bed sways from where it's hanging from the
ceiling, and Harry blinks in surprise to see stars woven into the sheer canopy above them. It's rather
pretty.
With a groan, Draco drops his hands from his face and lets them hit the covers with a dull thump.
Harry can feel the warmth of the back of his hand against his own. His fingers twitch.

"Draco," he ventures again, "what's wrong?"

"That was Blaise's mother," Draco says flatly. "The last person in the world you'd want to run into
with a literal secret hanging off your arm."

"You think she knew it was me?"

"No, I don't."

Harry frowns. "Oh. So...what's the problem? Is it because you made up Arius Fawley? He'd be a
Pureblood, wouldn't he, since he's a part of the Sacred Twenty-Eight?"

"I—" Draco cuts himself off and turns his head to look at him. "How do you know about that?"

"Your mother would tell me some things about Purebloods when we walked in the garden at
home," Harry mumbles, half-shrugging.

Draco blinks. "Oh. Well, no, that's not the issue, not really. You could just as easily be a distant
Fawley relative, and act like a proper Pureblood at that. The problem is… Well, Mrs. Zabini is
perhaps the biggest gossip in Pureblood society, and she'll spill a secret quicker than an idiot will
spill a cauldron, especially if you've wronged her in some way."

"And you have...wronged her?"

"In her eyes, I've snubbed her son. That's not the case, and Blaise knows that's not the case. But she
doesn't know. She sees it as an insult."

"Alright, but what secret is she going to spill? That you've dropped her son for some boy named
Arius Fawley?" Harry asks with a snort. "Doesn't that reflect more on her name than yours?
Malfoys have a higher status than Zabinis."

"Yes, that's true." Draco pauses and stares at him for a beat, surprise brightening his eyes. "Merlin,
Harry, how much did my mother tell you?"

"Er...enough?"

"And you actually listened?"

"I suppose I did," Harry says, a little stunned himself. He can't believe he retained that much
information, actually. "Anyway, what can she say or do to—to slander your reputation?"

Draco heaves a sigh. "Potter, you were hanging off my arm like a damsel."

"You're being an arse again, Malfoy. Besides, you said I had to. Better that than getting caught."

"Yes, I agree with you, but it didn't look entirely, er, innocent. Boys—especially Pureblood boys—
don't usually get so close, sick or not."

"Oh," Harry says. "Okay, so what does that—"

"Yeah," Draco mutters when Harry's eyes widen.

Harry stares at him in horror. "Wait! Purebloods are also homophobes on top of being racists?!"

"Homo-whats?"

"Homophobes. It means you don't like, or you even hate, gay people."

Draco sends him a funny look. "No, that's not a thing. Union between those of the same sex is
perfectly normal. In fact, I'm fairly sure Mrs. Zabini prefers the company of a woman."
"But she had a husband?"

"She's had five, and it won't be long before she's on her sixth. Likely before the summer is out."

"What?!" Harry bursts out, his eyes bulging. "But, if she prefers women, why does she…"

"Women, in Pureblood circles, tend not to be rich and powerful on their own. Mrs. Zabini thrives
on her husbands' fortunes."

"Until they leave her."

"Until they die," Draco corrects.

Harry's mouth drops open. "Die?! Every single one of them?"

"Purebloods rarely, if ever, leave their spouses, no matter how unhappy they are. Usually, the only
split accepted by Pureblood society is death."

"She kills them?"

"No one knows," Draco muses, pursing his lips. "Even Blaise has no idea if she does or not. It's a
bit of a running joke, actually. I think she poisons them. In any case, she's been investigated, and
no one has proven that she's done it yet."

"Bloody hell," Harry breathes out, blinking rapidly in shock. "Purebloods are insane, you know
that?"

"Thanks," Draco says dryly.

Harry snorts. "Not you, Draco. You're different."

"Not really."

"Different enough for me, how about that?"

Draco's lips curl up. "That works."

"So, if Purebloods don't care about who is with who, then what could telling people that you're
apparently dating Arius Fawley do? I mean, obviously it's not true, and people will think her mad,"
Harry muses, wrinkling his nose.

"It's not about that. It's… Well, I don't know if my mother has told you this or not, but I'm already
in an arranged marriage with Pansy," Draco says softly, averting his gaze from Harry's. "I'm meant
to be with her, so if Mrs. Zabini says I've been courting Arius Fawley, then it's...well, it's not a
good look. Some won't believe it out of respect for the Malfoy name, some will just because they
enjoy a scandal. Either way, word will eventually get back to my father, and he's going to be…"

Harry watches Draco's face rapidly pale even further than usual. His anger at the brief mention of
Draco marrying Pansy is gone in a flash, replaced with the urge to reassure Draco.

"Well, we'll just tell him," Harry says quietly. "He'll understand when we explain."

"Perhaps," Draco rasps, his throat bobbing, Adam's apple sliding up and then down. Harry watches
the motion of it, distracted, then Draco speaks again in a solemn tone. "Even if he understands
why, he will still be...displeased. It's a bad look for the Malfoy name, and he's already upset that I
—"

"That you...what?" Harry presses.

Draco clears his throat. "Last year, I should have started courting Pansy, but I...didn't."

Harry clenches his fist in the blanket on the other side of his body, the arm farthest from Draco's.
Softly, he asks, "Why didn't you?"
"I…" Draco trails off, his gaze slowly flicking over towards him, then quickly bouncing away.
Abruptly, he sits up straight as a board. "I have another gift for you. Stay here. I will return."

"Draco!" Harry blurts out, dumbfounded as Draco suddenly stands up and practically bolts from the
room. He stares after him in astonishment, then groans and flops back on the bed.

Why is Draco so...so complicated?

It's driving Harry a bit mad, really.

A few moments later, Draco's footsteps can be heard approaching, and Harry doesn't sit up. He just
sits there and looks up at the pale constellations up above him. With a sigh, Draco sits down beside
him again, looking down at him.

"Do you want your present or not, Potter?" Draco asks, arching an eyebrow.

Harry glares at him. "Prat."

Still, he holds out his hand, not even looking. Draco clears his throat and reaches to his other side,
putting something vaguely circular and cool in his hand. Curiosity gets the best of him, so Harry
chances a glance to see what it is.

Everything goes very still and very quiet. Harry is no longer angry. He doesn't care about Mrs.
Zabini, or Pansy, or Draco avoiding his questions. He doesn't care about any of it. He can't rip his
gaze away from what Draco just gave him, just sat in his hand.

A green bowl. Full of sweets.

"Well?" Draco whispers. "Take them all."

"Draco," Harry chokes out, his voice strangled.

Draco doesn't say anything. He just sits there and watches him, looking a little nervous and a lot
hopeful. He looks sodding perfect, just like always.

Harry's feeling that feeling again, and he doesn't know what to do with it now anymore than he did
then. Stomach swooping, flutters in his chest, that hook in his heart making him want something.
He feels like it's about to burst out of him, and again, he wishes it would so he could make sense of
it.

This time, it's even worse because Harry's fingers are tingling, and his mind is in a silent uproar,
and he can't really breathe all that well.

This is better than the Killing Curse, and somehow, it's even more terrifying this go around. He
doesn't know what to do, or what he wants to do. He can't speak; that ability has fled when he
needs it most. This is the time to say thank you, to say that Draco is really, really nice when he
wants to be, except all the words die in his horribly dry mouth, and he…

"Well?" Aunt Petunia would say, and what she always said next hurt, but not nearly as bad when a
year would pass when she didn't say it at all. "Take one."

"Well?" Draco had whispered. "Take them all."

Harry drops the bowl, the sweets spilling out between their bodies, and he surges up so fast that the
bowl goes clattering to the floor, rolling away. Draco lets out an audible oomph as Harry collides
into him, hugging him so hard that he can feel it when all the air escapes Draco's lungs in a rush.

It's not nearly enough. Harry wants something else, something more, and he has no idea what it is.
This will have to do, though, because it does help. Just a hug, a simple hug where he holds on
while he's not losing the plot. This isn't him breaking down and Draco being there for him; this is
just Harry Potter wanting to hug Draco Malfoy and, as absolutely mad as it is, doing it without
shame.

Harry presses his face into Draco's shoulder and lets out a shaky breath, his heart thumping heavily
and unevenly, tapping out a tune he can't quite make sense of. Draco, after a beat, clears his throat
and wraps his arms around Harry, hugging him back.

"Alright, Harry, no need to be a bloody Gryffindor about it," Draco mutters in his ear, though he
makes no move to push him away.
You smell like apples, Harry thinks. He mumbles, "Shut it, you. Let me have this."

Draco chuckles. "I don't seem to have a choice in the matter. You're holding on rather, er, tight."

"Draco?"

"Yes, Harry?"

"Shut up."

"Yeah, I'll do that."

He does, and Harry holds on for a bit longer. It's really nice. Draco is rather sturdy for someone so
thin. Though...Harry remembers the sight of his broad shoulders. Just because Draco looks soft
doesn't mean he is. He plays Quidditch just like Harry does, and seeker or not, you do gain a bit of
muscle with all those practices.

Harry pulls away a beat later, clearing his throat and willing away the blush in his cheeks. "Thanks
for that. It was… I appreciate it," he finally mumbles, an understatement if he's ever heard one.

"You'll appreciate it even more when you actually have all the sweets," Draco tells him in
amusement.

"I can't eat them all," Harry says, frowning down at the pile between them. He glances up at Draco
and grins. "Help me?"

Draco smirks. "If you insist. It would be remiss of me to refuse the birthday boy, wouldn't it?"

"Shut up and help me eat all these sweets, you prat," Harry says with a laugh, shoving at his
shoulder.

"I will, but first, wait just a moment." Draco holds up a finger and stands. "Want to see
something?"
"Dazzle me," Harry says, waiting patiently.

Draco nods and moves away from the bed, padding over to a spot on the wall beside the door.
There is a little dial that Harry hadn't noticed before, and Draco taps his finger against it. The dial
slowly turns, and the room starts getting dimmer.

Harry watches Draco rush back over to the bed, plopping down and pushing all the sweets in a
smaller pile. Then Draco grins at him, flashing that shocking smile of his. Harry blinks slowly.

"Lay back, Harry," Draco murmurs, winking at him before suddenly laying down.

Harry stares at him for a beat, then lays down as the room is slowly doused in darkness. As it gets
darker, the stars on the canopy above them grow brighter, lighting up and leaving the space around
them in a soft glow. It's much, much prettier like this.

"Oh," Harry breathes out, startled, most certainly dazzled. "This is…"

"I know," Draco murmurs. He raises a hand and traces one of the constellations. "That's Draco. It's
the eighth-largest constellation, and it literally snakes its way through the northern sky." His voice
softens. "Sometimes, it's nice being named after it, because it reminds me that—that I'm really
rather small in comparison to everything else."

Harry turns his head to look at him. "I don't know if that's true. I don't think you are."

"We all are, really," Draco says, his lips curling up. His hand shifts to the side to point at a bright
spot on the canopy. "That's the Sirius star. It's the brightest star visible from any part of Earth. It's
in the Canis Major constellation, and some people refer to it as the Dog Star, you know."

"You're joking," Harry says with a small laugh, turning to grin up at the star Draco is pointing at.
"The irony…"

"You miss him," Draco says softly.

Harry can feel his gaze on his face. "Yeah, I do."

Draco hums, and without missing a beat, continues to talk. "My favorite constellation, believe it or
not, isn't my own. It's actually a rather small one. It's this one, just here, see?"

"Why is it your favorite?" Harry murmurs, squinting to see Draco's hand trace it in the air, pointing
it out a few times before he can actually see it.

"It's the Apus constellation. It represents a bird-of-paradise, and its name means a bird with no
feet," Draco tells him quietly. "When I was a child, I thought it meant that birds could fly to
paradise, because they didn't have to stand in one place, you see. It was my favorite because I
wanted to be like the birds and find paradise…"

Harry feels such a sudden rush of something… It's not pity, not exactly, but it pinches his chest and
makes him feel a touch of sadness. Just for the small boy who dreamed of flying off to paradise
because he was trapped and didn't even know it. He probably still doesn't know it.

Draco suddenly laughs, his face lighting up, and Harry blinks in surprise as he chuckles warmly
and says, "You know, we used to come here a lot when I was younger. Mother would lay on the
bed with me and tell me all about the stars in the sky, and Merlin, I'd ask her if she could pull my
feet off so I could be like the birds in Apus."

"Draco," Harry says, his lips softening into a smile as Draco glances over at him, still snickering,
"you were a very dramatic child from what I can tell."

"Piss off, Harry," Draco teases, snorting as he picks up a sweet and lets it drop on Harry's
forehead.

Harry rolls his eyes. "You're still dramatic, I hope you're aware of that."

"Eat your damn sweets and let me tell you about all the stars in the sky," Draco says with a huff,
picking up a sweet and opening it, popping in his mouth.

"Alright," Harry mumbles, eating his sweet, too.

So, that's what they do. Until it's time for the Portkey to take them home, they lay right there on
that bed, shoulder-to-shoulder, eating sweets and talking about the stars.
 Improvement
Chapter Notes

No warnings. Just some semi-heavy moments. Nothing really serious, though. Also,
can I just say that I enjoy writing Voldemort very much.

The first week of August passes in less of a daze than the days leading up to his birthday.
Something happens on the night he turns sixteen, and it interrupts his nightmares. He wakes up
sweating and gasping for air, panicking for reasons unknown, so out of sorts that he gets up from
bed and stumbles around the Manor aimlessly. Only, it's not so aimless because he eventually ends
up in a room with Nagini who is either ignoring him or sleeping, and he watches her do that for a
while before he's calm enough to go back to sleep.

Other than that, though, everything is mostly fine for the first week of August.

He and Draco still go flying every day. Harry still goes to meals and eats with the Malfoys. He has
started walking in the garden again with Mrs. Malfoy, and though it's not exactly the same as
before, it's close enough to it. Lucius continues to avoid his eyes and not speak to him unless Harry
does first, which he just...doesn't.

Voldemort is away again. Harry frets about it again. Same old song, play it on a loop. He's
practically used to the anxiety he feels on a day-to-day basis when it comes to Voldemort.

He continues to be angry at Dumbledore and guilty about it in equal measure, wishing it was much
different. He continues to struggle with the fact that he's killed Bellatrix Lestrange and Peter
Pettigrew. He continues to miss his friends and marvel at how he feels about Draco Malfoy.

And so it goes, on and on.

On the first night of the second week, something happens, something Harry isn't at all prepared
for. It's late in the evening, and he and Draco are in the middle of a game of Wizard's Chess—
though, really, Harry doesn't know why he's even playing when Draco's skill is on the same level
as Ron's.

It's all fine until there's a crash in the sitting room. Harry is on his feet instantly, wand in hand, eyes
wide as he shares a look with Draco. A beat passes, another crash, and then they're racing out of
the second Library—where they're playing chess—and barreling towards the sitting room.

Harry isn't sure what, exactly, he's expecting when he bursts through the door. An intruder? Aurors
coming to find him? The Order? Whatever he had in mind, it's certainly not this.

Lucius is half-sprawled on the sofa as Mrs. Malfoy paces back and forth in front of the fireplace
while Snape and Voldemort wave their wands over Lucius' prone form. Lucius is shaking all over,
flailing, his eyes rolling back. His face looks locked into a silent scream, mouth opening wide.

"Draco!" Mrs. Malfoy bursts out, her eyes wide. "Oh, darling, you shouldn't see—"

"That's not for you to decide, Narcissa, if you recall," Voldemort says coldly, not even looking up
as he slams Lucius' shoulder back against the sofa.

"I need—" Snape grunts and leans back, his head snapping towards Mrs. Malfoy. "I know Lucius
has potion supplies. Where are they?"

"I—I—" Mrs. Malfoy's hands are fluttering and shaking something awful.

"Leave it." Voldemort stands to his feet, pulling his wand away. "I will take you to mine. Come,
Severus. Harry, come here and hold Lucius down. You, Draco, help him. Now. Narcissa, come."

There's no room for argument. Harry's blood is rushing in his veins, filled with adrenaline, and he's
moving before he thinks about it. He even brushes past Voldemort to get to Lucius, and his scar
gives a dull throb, not painful, just like a little hello. Harry ignores it, kneeling beside Lucius to
hold his shoulders down as Draco moves over to hold his legs. Everyone else sweeps out of the
room.

Lucius puts up a fight, but it's clear that it's not his fault. His veins are protruding, bulging,
twisting. It's grotesque and horrifying, honestly, and Harry stares helplessly. He feels, for the very
first time, genuine worry about Lucius Malfoy.

Mostly because of Draco, though. When Harry risks a glance, Draco is so pale he resembles snow.
He's staring at his father with wide, terrified eyes. Harry wants to hug him, to comfort him, but he
can't.
As if matters can't get any worse, the fireplace suddenly chimes with a floo call, pinging loudly in
the silence, and Harry stares at Draco with wide eyes. Why is the floo open? It's never open! The
Malfoys keep it closed to ensure that no one can come in and invade their privacy, but also because
Harry Potter is living in their home!

Draco sucks in a sharp breath. "They couldn't Apparate him here. They—they had to floo!"

"They left it open," Harry hisses, grimacing as Lucius bucks beneath him. "Go close it, Draco. I
will hold your father, I promise."

Draco nods and starts to slip off, but it's too late. Someone is bellowing from the other side of the
floo connection, and before they can do anything, a body comes darting out of the fireplace. Just a
man with wild eyes, who looks a bit worse for wear, his robes singed and his body twitching a bit.

"Malfoy!" the man bellows before he's even fully standing. "I know you were there tonight. I know
it! I'll have your h—"

Harry stares in horror as the man comes to a screeching halt, blinking at the sight of him, looking
utterly astonished. But Harry knows those robes. He's seen them before, and he—he knows what
he's looking at, what's looking at him. An Auror.

"Harry Potter," the man breathes out, seemingly not giving a shite about Lucius anymore.

"Please, wait," Harry starts, trying to raise his hand in warning.

The man's eyes flash, and he raises his wand. "You're due for a trip to Azkaban, boy!"

Quicker than Harry thought was possible, Draco suddenly sails from the couch, whipping his wand
through the air. The man goes sailing backwards with a shout, slamming up against the mantle.
Lucius' body flails harder, and Harry tries to hold him down and get up all at the same time.

The man picks himself up from the broken pieces of the mantle with a snarl, kicking away pieces
of wood. Draco shoots off another Spell, but the man deflects it, flicking his wand mere seconds
after. This time, it's Draco that goes flying backwards across the room, crashing into a glass cabinet
that shatters and wobbles before falling, landing right on Draco's body. Unlike the man, Draco
does not get back up, and he is very still.

Harry is on his feet in a second, abandoning Lucius' flopping body without hesitation. Lucius lands
on the floor with a thump, seizing, and Harry doesn't care. Right now, he doesn't care about
anything.

Pressure throbs relentlessly at Harry's temples, and he's never been furious like this before. Hot
rage burns on the inside of his skin, prickling from the top of his head to the bottom of his feet.
There's that same familiar tingle in his wrist and fingers, excitement pooling in his stomach. He
knows exactly what Voldemort meant when he said Harry could choose not to do it, not to give
into his rage, not to kill. Because he can choose, and he will.

He's angrier than he was when he killed both Bellatrix Lestrange and Peter Pettigrew. He's angrier
than he's ever been in his life.

And it only takes a second.

It's not even a breath after Draco's body slams into the cabinet that Harry's on his feet, mind blank
with a fury he's never felt before.

People are rushing in the room, and Mrs. Malfoy is shouting, "Draco!"

And Harry?

Well, Harry whirls on the man so fast that he can hear his trainers squeak on the floor. The man
turns to face him, raising his wand, and Harry just reacts. He's suddenly in a duel with a grown
man who has had much more training than him, and it shows. But he's just angry enough to get
back up when he gets knocked down, to keep on going when he's pushed back, to grow even more
pissed off by the second when he didn't think he could.

"Expelliarmus!" Harry shouts the moment the man's shield drops, and he watches in satisfaction as
the man's wand goes flying across the room, skittering on the floor. Before the man can say or do
anything else, Harry just keeps on going. "Stupefy!"

The man goes down in a flash of red, terror still in his eyes, and Harry doesn't care. Before the
body even hits the floor with a dull thump, Harry's darting towards where Draco is, freaking the
fuck out a little. He waves his wand without much thought, ignoring Mrs. Malfoy's little yelp of
surprise when the cabinet lifts off of Draco and slams against the opposite wall on the far side of
the room, leaving Draco uncovered.

"Is he…" Mrs. Malfoy is crying. "Harry, is he…"

Harry kneels down beside Draco's limp body, swallowing thickly as he points his shaking wand at
him. "Rennervate," he chokes out.

Draco's eyes immediately flutter and he surges up with a gasp, groaning. Harry slumps forward,
listening to Mrs. Malfoy cry in relief. As Draco shifts, there's the crunch of glass. He winces,
holding up his hands that drip with blood from cuts.

"Ouch," Draco mumbles, blinking.

"D-Don't get up," Harry stutters out, reaching out with shaking fingers to get Draco to be still.
"Don't move, just—just stay right there. Are you—does anything hurt? Draco, are you hurt?"

Draco blinks at him. "I'm alright. Father, is he…"

"Working on that now, Draco," Snape says sharply.

"Mrs. Malfoy, Voldemort says you're good with healing spells," Harry calls, still staring right at
Draco with his heart thundering away in his chest, so loud that it's nearly all he can hear. "If you
wouldn't mind, Draco needs your talent."

Mrs. Malfoy is there almost instantly, no longer crying but still looking shaken. She vanishes the
glass and starts healing Draco's cuts, looking him over for any other injuries. He appears, for all
that's happened, perfectly fine.

Draco blinks and looks over at the man lying on the floor, still. "Is he dead?"

"No," Harry mumbles.

"You didn't kill him?" Draco asks.

Harry sighs heavily. "I wanted to."

"Again, Harry?" Draco mumbles, his lips twitching in a weak attempt at a smile. "We talked about
this. What about my needs? His neck is unnaturally long, if you didn't notice."

"Yeah, well, you know me," Harry mutters, huffing out a harsh laugh. "I'm the only one who gets
to indulge their murderous tendencies between us."

Draco glances at the Stunned man and scoffs. "Pity. I would have rather liked that one."

Mrs. Malfoy stares between them with wide eyes.

"It's—it's an inside joke," Harry says.

"Joking is Harry's way of coping," Draco informs her, pushing to his feet with a groan. "Who am I
to refuse his need for someone funny when he most certainly is not himself?"

From behind them, there's a wheezing cough, and Lucius says, "What happened?"

Everyone talks about the quiet after a storm, but that's not really what happens. It's not actually
quiet. There's the sound of people getting back up and rebuilding after the destruction has left.

That's sort of how Harry feels on the inside.

Lucius is taken to his room to recover by Mrs. Malfoy, and Voldemort leaves again to go handle
something, which leaves Harry and Draco cleaning up the mess with Snape. Well, actually, Snape
does most of the work with a flick of his wand, but Harry does manage to levitate a tea-set out of
the remains of the mantle. Draco just picks blood from his nails with a small frown of disgust, but
Harry figures that counts as cleaning...technically.

After everything that can be recovered is, and the mess is gone, Harry sits down on the sofa with a
sigh, staring at the slumped body sprawled out in the middle of the sitting room. Draco eventually
joins him, sitting next to him and staring, too. Snape just stands and looks, his lips pressed into a
thin line. Harry sighs heavily again.

Snape has the man's wand. Snape has also taken it upon himself to bind the man's hands together
with a Spell. Snape has also been left to watch the man.

"What happens when he wakes up?" Harry asks.

"Well," Snape drawls, "there are a few ways the Dark Lord will handle this. I'm sure you can guess
one."

"Murder. Right." Harry takes a deep breath, then slowly lets it out. "And the other options?"

Snape sighs. "Memory alteration is an option. It can be tricky and, if determined, someone could
unravel it later by torturing him beyond recognition. The Dark Lord is fond of doing so."

"Of course he is," Harry mutters in disgust. "What else? Is that it?"

"The Imperius Curse. A servant to do his bidding."

"Like with Barty Crouch?"

"It needn't be taken that far, but it can be," Snape says stiffly, sneering.

Harry clears his throat. "He's going to make me choose, you know."

"I know," Snape murmurs.

"Why?" Draco asks, baffled.

"For the same reason he stood back and let me duel the man on my own," Harry says softly, taking
a deep breath. "He wants to see what I'll do."

Draco raises his eyebrows. "And what will you do?"

"What do you suggest?" Harry asks Snape.

"The quickest end would be death. Memory alteration is very...hard, and if you do it incorrectly,
your safety here will be in jeopardy. The Imperius Curse, while illegal, needn't be...harmful. While
under it, his memories will be easier to alter, and you can choose what you will make him do."

"So, Imperio it is, then."

"The choice is yours," Snape says.

Harry snorts. "The lesser evil."

"Is that what the Dark Lord is in your mind? Compared to Dumbledore?"

"He still hasn't told you, has he?"

"No," Snape grits out, "he hasn't."

"How is he?" Harry asks quietly, looking up to stare into Snape's dark eyes. "Have you seen him?"

"He is...unwell," Snape says slowly, his eyes narrowing. His jaw clenches, nostrils flaring, then he
lets out a snarl. "He has been Cursed."

Harry blinks. "Cursed? By what?"

"He refuses to tell me much on the matter. He said it was by his own doing," Snape mutters. "He
has not allowed me to study the Curse or interact with it. He says he will in due time."

"Oh." Harry frowns. "Merlin, Professor, I thought he trusted you."

"I believe, in his own strange way, he does. And, in the same breath, I believe he trusts no one."

"Yeah, that makes sense. Has he said anything about me yet? Anything at all?"

Snape holds his gaze, pausing, then shakes his head sharply. "No, he hasn't. He does not reply
when I bring you up in conversation. He simply looks off into the distance with a small frown. I
think he believes the Dark Lord has you."

"And you have to tell him that you know nothing of it, if he has," Harry says with a sigh.

"Indeed."

"I bet that's driving him barmy."

"Perhaps. I wouldn't know."

"What about the Order, then?"

"They remain divided, just as before. Less people are concerned that you are hiding now, and more
are worried that the Dark Lord has captured you," Snape mutters. "They continue to search for
you."

Harry frowns. "No one thinks I'm dead yet?"

"No one will entertain the possibility."

"That's nice of them. I think. What about my friends? How are they?"

"Much as the same as before," Snape answers. "You remain a topic of discussion amongst your
friends, as well as a steady source of arguments. No, they do not hate you. They seem to…miss
you."

"That's good. I miss them, too." Harry grins at the discomfort on Snape's face.

Snape flicks his gaze towards Draco. "You seem to have recovered quickly in that regard."

Harry goes stiff at the implication that he's replaced Hermione and Ron with Draco. He hasn't. He
knows he hasn't. He wishes with everything in him that he could be with his best friends again, and
that has nothing to do with Draco at all.

Draco is...different.

He's not sure how, exactly, but Draco is. To Harry, Draco doesn't feel like a best mate. He's just…
Well, he's all that Harry really has right now. That's all it is, it must be. Considering everything
going on, Harry can't just go day-to-day feeling how he felt from the beginning. It's like Draco
said; it would be inconvenient to dislike each other when they have to spend all their time together.

That's not true, a traitorous little voice in his head whispers—not the voice that encourages him to
kill, but a new one, which is worrying. You dislike Lucius perfectly fine on a daily basis.

Shut up, Harry thinks back harshly.

But it's too late. He knows it's true. Harry could have continued to dislike Draco. Actually, that was
the plan before Draco turned out to be so…

He thinks about Paris, about walking around for hours, about a green bowl full of sweets, about
stars lit up on a canopy. He thinks about injuries, about Draco healing his burnt hands, about Draco
healing the gash on his head that he put there, about Draco cleaning up his sick. He thinks about
flying, about racing down to the ground with whoops of laughter, about sharing the same broom as
Hedwig attacked, about how they go flying almost every day.
He thinks about Malfoy becoming Draco, about a book that Draco read, about the way Draco likes
watching the rain in a window seat, about his mild obsession with the telly and sunglasses, about
his rare smiles and the way his hair falls into his eyes.

He thinks about Draco being trapped.

No, Draco isn't anything like Ron and Hermione. He's something else entirely. Not important in
the way they are, but important in his own way. He has been the only relief Harry's had here this
entire time. Harry does want to be with his best friends, but now he's sure that he wants Draco
there, too.

"Don't be ridiculous," Draco says, rolling his eyes and sneering. "Professor, the day Harry cares
about me more than his friends is—"

"Shut up," Harry snaps, his tone stern as he shoots Draco a glare so intense that he actually snaps
his mouth shut. "You're not Hermione and Ron, and you'll never be, but you're important, too.
Don't say otherwise. I mean it."

Draco frowns at him.

"How touching," Snape drawls.

Harry is about to respond, properly annoyed with Snape being a right git, but he never gets the
chance. The door swings open, and Voldemort comes sweeping back in. He stops and flicks his
gaze between everyone, then settles it on the man passed out on the floor. His teeth bares in a
sneer.

"Do you know who he is?" Harry asks warily.

"I do not," Voldemort mutters. "Lucius does not, either. He recognized him, however. This man,
apparently, was in Diagon Alley tonight."

Harry blinks. "What happened in Diagon Alley?"

Voldemort turns to look at him, spreading his hands apart. "There was something I needed to
retrieve from there, so I had my Death Eaters...distract the masses as I obtained what I needed."

"Did you kill people?" Harry rasps, not for the first time and probably not for the last.

"Again, I did not have the pleasure. Believe it or not, I do not wish to reveal my turn before it is too
soon. As for whether my Death Eaters killed someone or not, well, I cannot speak for them,"
Voldemort says, tilting his head. "Why not ask Severus?"

Harry blinks at Snape. "You were there?"

"I was."

"Did you kill anyone?"

"No."

"Did Lucius?"

Snape sighs. "As far as I'm aware, no."

"I want to see the paper in the morning," Harry declares, looking between Snape and Voldemort.
He frowns at them. "I don't trust the Prophet to report on it properly, but Lucius can correct the lies
over breakfast. Get me the paper."

"Very well." Voldemort flicks his hand carelessly and turns to survey the man again. "Now…"

"Snape told me how you usually handle these things," Harry says quietly.

Voldemort hums. "I see. Are you aware that I will be leaving you to decide which route to take?"
"Yeah, I worked that out for myself. I already made the decision not to kill him."

"Yes, I see that. You face that choice again, and only you can make it."

Harry takes a deep breath and lets it out. "I won't kill him, and I don't trust myself to do the
memory charms the right way. I don't suppose you'll let Professor Snape do it for me?"

"I will not." Voldemort narrows his eyes at him, looking displeased. Harry, at first, thinks
Voldemort is upset that Harry won't kill the man, but he goes onto say something else entirely.
"You cannot learn if you do not try, Harry. You must have faith in your own abilities and rely on
no other's."

"Alright, Professor," Harry says with a snort.

Voldemort arches an unimpressed eyebrow. "You are just a boy, and you have much to learn. If
you first grasp that, you will be easily taught. Life is not all Quidditch and France, Harry."

Harry glares at him. "Yeah, and I'd know it better than anyone, thanks to you. It's really hard to
focus on studies when there's a murderer wishing you dead. I rather think I've earned Quidditch
and France, if I'm being honest."

"Yes, yes, you have it now." Voldemort doesn't seem like the type of person to get exasperated or
roll his eyes, and yet. "Now, what is your choice with this man? Am I to believe you wish to
Imperio him?"

"What happens if I—if I fail?" Harry asks, his throat bobbing as his confidence falters.

Voldemort waves a hand again. "It can cause him temporary or permanent mental damage. Or, if
his will is strong enough or your Spell is weak enough, he may be able to...throw it off. As you
have."

"Right. Right," Harry mumbles.

"You should know, Harry," Voldemort says, "this Spell is as dark as its sisters—the Killing Curse
and the Torture Curse. You have to mean what you force him to do. You have to want it, as
fiercely as you wanted to Cast the Killing Curse."

Harry nods. "Yeah, that's—that makes sense."

Voldemort moves over to the man, flicking his wand. The man immediately surges up with a gasp,
making a muffled sound of shock as Voldemort peers at him with a harsh grin of cruel delight. He
leans back in obvious fear, his mouth trembling around a shout that he can't seem to let out.
Voldemort appears to have magically shut his mouth somehow.

"Well?" Voldemort says, turning to Harry.

Taking a deep breath, Harry rubs his hands on his robe-covered legs before slowly standing up. His
heart is pounding in his ears. This is wrong, he knows it is, but at least the man gets to live.

But that's not the only reason Harry is doing it, and he knows it. He needs to do it, because he can't
have anyone knowing where he is. He just wants the man to make it out of this alive, with no
damage, and leave Harry alone. It's not as bad as the Killing Curse, but that doesn't really make it
okay, either.

Though, Harry can't help but be pleased that he didn't kill the man. He certainly wanted to, or the
urge was there, at least. It is his choice, and it feels good to choose the right thing for once. This
man might have a family. Yes, he nearly killed Draco, and even now, that thought fills Harry with
pure anger, but Draco is fine.

Harry doesn't want to think about what he would have done to this nameless man had Draco not
gotten back up. He doesn't have to think about it. He already knows what he would have done.

Releasing a slow breath, Harry stops in front of the man and stares into his eyes. The man looks
horrified, just as he did in response to Voldemort. It annoys Harry, because he knows exactly what
the man is thinking right now. That the rumor about Harry becoming a new Dark Lord is true.
Harry wonders if this man would have once shook his hand and thanked him for saving the world.

Shaking the thoughts away, Harry lifts his wand, ignoring the man's flinch, and he says,
"Imperio."
The feeling is instantaneous.

Harry's only ever been on the other side of this Spell, never casting it. He knows how good it feels
to be under it, and he knows how to resist it. What he didn't know was how Moody—well, Barty
Crouch, actually—and Voldemort were slipping into the surface of his thoughts when they Cast it
on him.

The man relaxes visibly, his fear gone, subdued. Harry skims his mind, feeling strange as he does.
The man feels perfectly content, at ease because of the Spell, and he starts thinking that's a bit
odd.

No, it isn't, Harry thinks. You're fine. You're perfectly safe, I swear it.

The man releases a soft sigh, his eyes fluttering shut as he smiles. I'm safe, he thinks happily.

That's right, Harry agrees. Stand up.

Immediately, the man pushes to his feet, doing it swiftly and without stumbling, despite the fact
that his hands are still bound and his balance must be off. All because that's what Harry makes him
do. Harry could make him do anything right now. He can feel the grip of his own control, knowing
exactly how much leash he's holding at the moment.

You were in Diagon Alley tonight, Harry thinks firmly, narrowing his eyes in concentration. You
thought one of the Death Eaters might have been Lucius Malfoy.

"I thought one of the Death Eaters might have been Lucius Malfoy," the man agrees, his tone soft
and airy, his ability to talk his own again.

Harry swallows thickly. You were wrong. Lucius Malfoy was not in Diagon Alley tonight. Say it.

"Lucius Malfoy was not in Diagon Alley tonight," the man murmurs, his eyelids fluttering.

You never came to the Malfoys home.

"I never came to the Malfoys home."

If someone asks, you tell them you did not come to Malfoy Manor.

"If someone asks, I did not come to Malfoy Manor."

If someone asks, you don't think You-Know-Who is back, and you still think Harry Potter is at
large.

"If someone asks, I don't think You-Know-Who is back, and I still think Harry Potter is at large."

You will return home, and you will fall asleep. When you wake up, you will recall what happened
in Diagon Alley, but nothing after.

"I'll remember what happened in Diagon Alley, but what happened after? Something happened
after."

Harry frowns, tightening his grip on the man's will, tugging on it sharply. All that happened is you
returned home and slept it off. That's all.

"Ah," the man hums, "I returned home and slept it off. That's all."

Yes, Harry agrees. Now, turn around and floo home. Go to your bed and fall asleep.

The man nods and smiles dreamily, turning on the spot and heading for the fireplace, humming
lightly as he goes. He passes by Voldemort and Snape without a word, not reacting to their
presence at all. Snape flicks his wand, and the man's hands fall free just as he grabs a handful of
floo powder and disappears through the roaring flames.

Harry lowers his wand.

There's a peculiar response to this wrongdoing. The Spell does give him a little boost of power, but
it pales in comparison to the Killing Curse. There's no hugging warmth around his heart, no swell
of crackling power under his skin, and the amount of guilt he feels is a lot less.

No, instead, there's something else. There's that slight worry that, despite his best efforts, the man
will somehow find a way to tell the truth or remember. If Harry's spell is too weak, or the man's
confusion grows too great… Well, his only option is to wait around and see what happens.

"I suppose we will have to wait and see if that works as you hope it will," Voldemort murmurs.

Harry nods. "It'll probably help if Lucius doesn't run into him at the Ministry. Could you…?"

"I'll inform Lucius to avoid him."

"Good."

"Is there anything else you need?" Voldemort asks.

"Nothing." Harry throws a quick look at Draco, jerking his head towards the door. "We're going."

So, without another word, that's what they do.

The paper following the attack on Diagon Alley does a pretty shoddy job of dancing around the
fact that it was the work of the Death Eaters. Anyone with half a brain would be able to tell what
the truth is, but as Harry has said before, most Witches and Wizards seem to have less than half a
brain. Because they're scared, they'll eat up the story instead of the truth.

Lucius does confirm what are lies and what are truths over breakfast the next morning. Lie: no
people were injured. Truth: no people were killed. Lie: it was not a planned attack. Truth:
Ollivander was kidnapped. Voldemort's doing, no doubt, and Harry is going to ask about that as
soon as he gets the chance.
He doesn't get the chance until two days later. Mrs. Malfoy and Lucius have plans to take Draco
shopping for the things he needs for his Sixth Year. Harry, of course, can't go.

It hits him hard. In a little over two weeks, Draco will be leaving for Hogwarts. Harry won't be
there. Harry won't be on the train, or at the first feast, or in classes. He won't get to walk up to the
Gryffindor common room, or play seeker for the team, or stroll with familiar ease down the halls
that have always felt like home. He won't sit between Ron and Hermione, won't have Ron
complain about having to study, won't have Hermione complain about them not studying. He won't
have any of it.

Harry's understandably upset about it. On top of the fact that he can't go to Hogwarts, he's now
going to be here at the Manor without Draco. He's been avoiding thinking about this, but the day
when Draco is gone for hours is a stark reminder.

Bored and out of sorts, he wanders the halls in the Manor. He remembers when he first came here,
when this place seemed so massive with its many wings. It's different now. He can almost navigate
it as easily as Draco can. He knows all the portraits and the heirlooms, knows what doors lead to
where, knows exactly where people will most likely be if he can't find them. But the people he's
looking for are out for half the day, and Harry is… He's lonely.

It should not surprise him that he ends up following the little pull into a room where Nagini is. It's
like she said—he's always seemingly distressed, isn't he? And, every single time, she always seems
to be where he ends up when he is. He doesn't really understand that.

Today, Nagini is not alone. She's with Voldemort, half-draped over his lap. Voldemort is…

He's reading?

For some reason, Harry has never thought of Voldemort doing seemingly human things. He's just
too far from an actual human. A while ago now, Harry had asked Voldemort if he shed his skin
like the snake he is. He'd only been half-sarcastic. It's a rather valid question, Harry thinks.

It's such a surprise to see the man reading, calmly flipping a page, that Harry blurts, "You read?"

"I do have that ability, yes," Voldemort replies, looking up from his book. "I take your entry to
assume that you wish to interrupt me."
Harry frowns. "Not exactly. I was just wandering. Is that a problem, Mr. Voldemort, Dark Lord,
sir?"

"Not at all. But you are here now." Voldemort closes his book with a snap and gestures to the chair
across from him. "Sit."

Shutting the door, Harry moves through the room and plops down in the chair gracelessly. Nagini
does not seem to be in a talkative mood today, but she does slither by Harry, brushing up against
his ankle. That ringing enters his ears at the contact, dulling to a lovely hum before disappearing
entirely.

"Nagini and I are both...defences of yours," Harry says, frowning down at Nagini.

Voldemort hums. "Yes. Your connection to her is not the same as it is to me. In short, you and her
are...alike. The same, even."

"What are we?" Harry asks. "You call us defences, but there must be a word for what we are."

"There is a word, yes." Voldemort surveys him for a long moment, one long finger stroking the
worn leather of the book resting on the arm of the chair. Finally, he hums. "I have promised not to
lie to you, to always be honest about the things I'm willing to share. I am...unwilling to share this."

"So you won't tell me?"

"Knowledge can be dangerous in the hands of the wrong person. One can never be too careful."

Harry narrows his eyes. "You don't trust me."

"Is there a reason I should?" Voldemort asks, tilting his head. "You would, if it were possible, kill
me."

"Shouldn't I know what I am?" Harry grits out, feeling that familiar swell of betrayal in his chest,
along with disappointment. "I should have known. You're just like Dumbledore."
Voldemort's nostrils flare as his eyes flash, glittering blood. "Do not compare me to him."

"You are!" Harry insists. "He kept things about me from me, just like you're doing! And you dared
to slander him for it!"

There's a long, long silence. Harry shifts restlessly, itching for a fight. He can't believe he actually
fell into the trap of thinking Voldemort would never lie to him. It was one of the few things that
kept him here, especially in the beginning. That Voldemort would give something what Harry
needs, what Dumbledore refused to offer.

"You...may...have a point," Voldemort says slowly, his eyes narrowed into slits.

Harry blinks. "What?"

"I will not repeat it." Voldemort looks annoyed, but he doesn't take it back. It's baffling to think
Voldemort is capable of being swayed like most adults refuse to be. It's like he doesn't think of
Harry as a child at all, like he actually listens to him. "Very well, I will tell you what you are,
besides human. That is all I will tell you. It is all I can offer, just one word. Does that seem...fair?"

"Why won't you tell me more about it?"

"The knowledge of what it is, Harry, is out there. You simply have to look for it. This is all I am
willing to grant you. If I am to make a compromise, you must as well."

"Alright," Harry says slowly, "yeah, that's fair. What is it, then? What am I?"

"A human," Voldemort murmurs, "and a Horcrux."

Harry frowns, wracking his brain, coming up with absolutely nothing on the subject. "I don't know
what that is."

"I did not think you would," Voldemort admits, smirking just a bit. "It is very rare magic."
"Dark Magic?"

"Very."

"Oh, brilliant," Harry mutters, grimacing. He heaves a sigh. "Is that why I'm—why the Killing
Curse comes so easily to me?"

"Dark Magic does not breed Dark Magic, Harry. One has to seek it out, to want it. Yes, it has an
allure that is very easy to fall into, but anyone can just as easily resist it."

"So, it's not because of this Horcrux thing?"

"No, it is not. You could have just as easily decided to do the opposite. But you did not."

"Yeah, I'm aware."

Voldemort hums. "I see your struggles with your morals have not...eased."

"They haven't, no, and they probably never will," Harry admits with a grimace. He sighs, shaking
his head. He no longer wants to talk about this. "Did you kidnap Ollivander?"

"I did," Voldemort answers promptly.

"Why?" Harry mutters in confusion.

"Do you recall our conversation on the subject of Death?" Voldemort waits for him to nod and
waves a hand calmly. "For a long time, it was my sole wish to avoid it. But, like others before me, I
wish to harness the power of it. Ollivander has knowledge that can help me do so, which is why I
took him."

Harry bites his lip. "Is he dead?"

"He is not."

"Is he...here?"

"He is. Malfoy Manor has dungeons," Voldemort says calmly, watching him.

"Where? I haven't seen them!" Harry blurts.

Voldemort sighs. "That is because you do not go further down the hall that I use to have meetings
with my followers."

"Oh. Are you going to kill Ollivander after he tells you what you want to know?"

"I have no desire to. He is talented when it comes to wands, after all. He should not be taken before
his time. However, if he continues to resist and anger me even further than he already has, I may."

Harry glares at him. "What do you mean by wanting to harness the power of Death? Isn't that the
Killing Curse, technically?"

"I suppose you could see it that way, but this involves another matter entirely. There is rumored to
be a wand that cannot be beaten in a duel. I wish to own this wand."

"But it's only a rumor?"

"Yes," Voldemort says.

"Then how do you know Ollivander knows about it?" Harry asks sharply.

Voldemort pauses, then looks cruelly amused in the way only he can. "Harry, I am sure Ollivander
knows something, as he would not resist as he is now. When one has been able to gather
information as I have for as long as I have, one tends to...know."
"You said that people have tried to find this wand before you, right?" Harry murmurs. "Who?"

"Ah, that would be none other than Grindelwald and Dumbledore, from what I know," Voldemort
says, humming in amusement when Harry's eyes get wide in shock. "Yes, I'm aware this will shock
you, but it is true. I do not know if they ever found it. I simply know they once searched for it. I
suppose it seems impossible to think that my mission was once one Dumbledore had himself."

Harry reaches up to rub at his temple, shaking his head. "Honestly, it does. I don't know why.
Things really should stop surprising me now."

Voldemort hums, and it's quiet between them again. Harry is left to his thoughts, no prodding at all
from the oddly polite Dark Lord sitting across from him. He's never going to get used to this
version of Voldemort, nor is he going to make sense of how he sort of...trusts him, at least in some
ways.

Harry trusts Voldemort to be honest. Even when Voldemort wanted to kill him, he was honest
about it. Just, these days, Voldemort doesn't want to torture him or kill him anymore. No, instead,
he sits down and has open discussions with Harry, he offers Harry freedom and theories, and he
treats him like he's more than just some child.

No one, no one, would have ever told Harry some of the things Voldemort has, not so openly or
bluntly. Because he's just a child. Because he needs to be protected. Because he might act rashly.

On one hand, Harry almost misses people caring so deeply for him that they just want to shield
him from everything. Voldemort isn't exactly one for warmth and praise, and Harry doesn't want
that from him. On the other hand, Harry is thankful that he's not being kept in the dark, even if
Voldemort doesn't always want to share certain things.

This information about Ollivander is...worrying. Harry has the urge to free him, but he knows that
Voldemort would just find him again, or catch him before he can get away. Voldemort would be
furious with Harry if he tried, and Harry…

Well, he doesn't want to examine why he shies away from the thought of angering Voldemort.

It's not fear. He wishes it was.

Well, if Harry can't free Ollivander, maybe he can visit him, at least. Make sure he's being treated
well. He's pretty sure Voldemort won't care to feed a prisoner. But, well, can Harry do that? What
would Ollivander think about Harry being here? What would Ollivander do if he did, by some
miracle, make it out alive? Would he tell people?

Maybe Harry can have Mrs. Malfoy transfigure him again. That's an easy solution until he can
work out what, exactly, he's supposed to do about this. Because he really, really wants to do
something about this. It doesn't sit right with him.

"You miss Draco," Voldemort abruptly says, a lightly curious undercurrent to his tone.

Harry blinks away his thoughts. "Oh, well, I suppose. Him and Mrs. Malfoy, at least. Not so much
Lucius, you understand."

"Mm." Voldemort looks amused again. "I did not expect you to become fond of this family,
excluding Lucius, of course. I did not expect you to find a home here. And yet, you have."

"Stranger things have happened," Harry mumbles, shrugging noncommittally.

Voldemort watches him. "Such as?"

"You already know, don't you?" Harry frowns at him, holding his gaze, waiting for Voldemort to
look away. But he doesn't. He doesn't. "You already know how strange it is for me to be sitting
here, across from you, perfectly alive and safe. How strange it is for you to be honest with me
instead of just torturing me when I piss you off. How strange it is that I—that…"

"Yes?" Voldemort prompts.

Harry looks away, ashamed, and it comes out in a whisper when he says, "That I chose you over
Dumbledore."

There's a long beat of silence, and Harry can't help but look over at Voldemort. He expects to see
cruel amusement again, or wicked glee, or even some sort of wild triumph. What he doesn't expect
is the surprise that flashes across Voldemort's face. It looks alien on his reptilian features.
"You didn't know that," Harry says hoarsely, only just now realizing this.

Voldemort picks up his wand, gripping it, but he doesn't use it. "No, Harry, I did not know that was
the case. I did not know you chose."

"I had to, didn't I?" Harry chokes out. "It wasn't like it was much of a choice. Dumbledore wouldn't
take me. He wouldn't want me."

"I do not believe that." Voldemort waves his wand, the book lifting and floating back over to the
bookcase behind him. "I believe that you would be Dumbledore's most cherished prize, even
now."

"But I've killed people."

"Yes. And he would ask you to die."

Harry closes his eyes, tilting his head back. "I get it, alright? I know you're saying he's not as
perfect as he seems. I just don't know if it's entirely wrong of him to ask me to die if it gets rid of
you."

"Harry," Voldemort says, pausing until Harry opens his eyes and looks at him, "you see yourself in
a way I cannot understand."

"How do you mean?"

"You ache to survive, to continue on, yet you do not believe yourself worthy enough to do so if
asked not to. You trust so very few people, yet those you do trust have it wholeheartedly, and it
hurts you when you think they've betrayed that trust. Your anger outweighs your guilt, yet it is
your guilt that weighs on you the most and the longest. You love fiercely enough to die and hate
strongly enough to live, yet you love strongly enough to live and hate fiercely enough to die. You
are comprised of...paradoxes."

"Well," Harry says with a hollow laugh, "maybe that has to do with me being a Horcrux and a
human."
Voldemort narrows his ruby-red eyes in consideration. "Perhaps that theory holds merit, but I am
unsure of how much."

"That was sarcasm."

"Yes, I know what sarcasm is, Harry. That does not mean there is no truth to be gleaned from it."

"Why do you listen to me?" Harry mumbles, his eyebrows furrowing. "You actually listen to me,
even my sarcasm. Adults don't really do that. There were even times when Dumbledore didn't."

"I do not listen to very many people, but there are some worth listening to." Voldemort gestures to
him lazily, his wand passing right over him, and Harry forgets to be wary of it. "Some minds hold
things in their depths that are of interest to me. You, Harry, seem to be just an angry sixteen-year-
old boy who enjoys flying and cares for his friends. However, that is not the case. You are a
Horcrux, and that has never happened before. There is knowledge to be gained from knowing you."
He pauses, tilting his head slightly. "Furthermore, I know more than most that there are some
children who have experienced things that make them worth listening to."

"Were you that child?"

"Yes."

"Did anyone listen?" Harry asks softly.

Voldemort holds his gaze. "Not until I made them, and by that point, I ensured they would never
hear anything else ever again."

"You don't feel love, do you?"

"I do not."

"Do you feel hate?"

"Hate is the absence of love, is it not?"

"No," Harry says immediately, shaking his head. "I have felt hatred, but I also feel love. Hate isn't
just something that takes up space. It's—it's something you have to feel. Like...like a fire, yeah?
The flames burn in you, and it's hard to put out, and sometimes you can direct the flames, you
know?" He blinks, clearing his throat and grimacing. "I'm not really sure if that metaphor made
sense because—"

"No, it did," Voldemort assures him. "In that case, if that is hate, what is love?"

Harry blows out a deep breath. "I think it's different for everyone."

"And for you?"

"It's… In this metaphor, I suppose it's like air. Like flying, yeah? I need air to breathe, and
sometimes, I feel most at peace and happiest when the wind is rushing past me."

"Did you know, Harry," Voldemort says softly, "that air will make a fire burn higher and hotter?"

"I…" Harry trails off, stunned.

Harry is just a sixteen-year-old boy made up of air and fire who has a horrible life, who sometimes
gets so angry over the people that matter to him that he kills the person stupid enough to hurt them,
who is really confused and doing all he can. And here Voldemort is, helping him figure it out.

"I believe that I promised you a debate," Voldemort says when he's quiet for a long time.

"Oh, yeah, you did," Harry agrees, leaning forward and latching onto this immediately. "Tell me,
Mr. Voldemort, Dark Lord, sir, do you know what racism is and, by chance, who Hitler is?"
 Departure
Chapter Notes

Ooft. This chapter. Y'all...

This might actually be one of my favorite Draco chapters, tbh. No warnings, I don't
think. Enjoy ❤️

See the end of the chapter for more notes

The debate with Voldemort goes as well as to be expected. His hatred for Muggles is blatant and
rather solid, and he did not at all appreciate Harry suggesting it was actually fear. However,
Voldemort's reasoning for being the Dark Lord has more to do with than just eradicating the world
of Muggles. Harry learned that during the debate, too. Apparently, Voldemort thinks it's high time
people be allowed to be Dark Wizards without being thrown in Azkaban for it.

In a way, Harry sort of gets that last point. As someone who has done Dark Magic—thrice—and
doesn't feel like he's completely evil, he can relate to it. But it's more than that, too.

Voldemort makes a strong argument, admittedly. Magic in itself is all about intent. If someone is
determined enough, they can harm you with a levitating Spell—the troll knocked out by his own
club in First Year is proof enough of that. Just the same, Imperio doesn't have to be used to harm
people—Voldemort made the point that it could be used to subdue someone having a seizure, or
someone could give consent beforehand, which made a strange amount of sense. Plus, apparently,
there are people who are more inclined and skilled in the Dark Arts, but that doesn't necessarily
make them evil—he'd used Snape for example, which Harry admitted wasn't a strong selling point,
but he got the gist of what he meant.

So, it's not like all of Voldemort's desires—Ministry reform is something Harry can get behind, at
least—is absolutely horrible. He's just going about it in the worst possible way, all while dragging
Muggles into it for practically no reason.

In the end, they come to an impasse, disagreeing so completely that Voldemort actually gets
annoyed and kicks him out. Harry goes, stomping away in a fit of rage, and he ends up taking a nap
so long that he sleeps right through the night.

Harry wakes up the next morning to find no one at breakfast. It startles him so much that he freezes
in the doorway, staring at the food on the table. Slowly, he turns around and goes off to start
searching for first, Draco, then Mrs. Malfoy, and when he doesn't find her, Lucius.
When he finds none of them, he's panicking just enough to hope that they're all in the Death Eater
room. Because if not, that means something has happened. His mind imagines many different
scenarios that he doesn't want to consider.

The Order, maybe? Aurors? Maybe Harry's Imperius Curse failed after all. What if—

Walking into the Death Eater room reveals that he needn't have worried. Mrs. Malfoy sits right
beside Lucius, perfectly fine. Harry is at first relieved, even if he hates this room, but that feeling
dries up and goes cold when he sees Draco sitting right next to Lucius with his gaze fixed on the
table.

Sitting there like that, he looks rather small. Not nearly as tall as usual. And, like this, he doesn't
look as soft, either. Harry is suddenly reminded of what pointy features he's always thought Draco
has. They're there now in the twist of his lips, in the flare of his nostrils, in the jutted jaw. The
downcast eyes. He won't look at Harry, won't look up.

Harry slowly drags his gaze to Voldemort, not even pausing to look at Snape, caring about no
others at the moment. Voldemort watches him patiently.

"Why," Harry starts calmly, "is Draco sitting there?"

"That would be because I've asked him to," Voldemort answers just as calmly.

Harry works very hard not to clench his fist. "And why have you asked him to?"

"I have received some information from Severus that has provided me with a...plan, of sorts."

"What does this have to do with Draco?"

"Well," Voldemort muses, "he would be helping me with this plan by—"

"No," Harry cuts him off firmly.

Voldemort raises his naked eyebrows and folds his long fingers together on top of the table. "No?"

Harry glares at him. "No."

"Why not? I'm sure Draco would be pleased to help me. His father is so proud that I've chosen him
for a mission," Voldemort says softly.

"I don't give a damn what his father thinks!" Harry shouts, ice in his veins. "I don't care what this
mission is, or—or what plans you have. The answer is no. Draco isn't doing it."

"Isn't he?" Voldemort asks.

Harry feels rattled to his core, raging in a heartbeat, and surprisingly scared. "He isn't. He's—you
can't make him. He's not yours, he's mine."

Voldemort gives a cold laugh, nodding and waving a hand carelessly. "Yes, yes, this is true.
However, what if Draco wishes to offer his services to me? I could mark him. He should be
proud."

"No," Harry says again, sharp and cold as Voldemort, standing his ground. "I won't let him."

"Ah," Voldemort says, looking wickedly pleased, "so you do have control over him. I was
beginning to wonder. Very well, Harry. You do realize, however, that if it is not Draco...I will
simply give this task to another, don't you?"

Harry grits his teeth. "I don't care. Not Draco."

"You will be forcing someone else to fulfill my mission, and those who fail me rarely live. If Draco
failed me, I would not be able to harm him," Voldemort says seriously. "Are you willing to
shoulder that burden?"

"I. Don't. Care." Harry holds his gaze resolutely, never wavering. "Not Draco."
Voldemort offers him a mock bow, his eyes flashing with sick delight. "As you wish."

"Draco," Harry says sharply, glancing over at him.

Eyes closed, Draco sits frozen in his seat. He looks so stiff, as if every muscle is tensed like he's
preparing to be attacked. Harry swings around and marches right around the table, stopping behind
Draco's chair. Without waiting, he grabs the top of it and pulls it back, swiveling it around until
Draco is facing him, his eyes wide open now.

Harry leans down and stares at him. "Get up. We're going, Draco. Now."

When he pulls away, Draco sways forward like he's been sucked in. He blinks once, twice, then
abruptly stands to his feet. Harry pivots so quickly that he can hear his robes flap, but he doesn't
care. He just marches out of the room, listening to the sounds of Draco's shoes following.

Harry leads Draco down the hall, to the stairs, then up them. He goes to his own room, opening the
door and pointing inside without a word. Draco doesn't meet his eyes as he slips past.

Closing the door, Harry takes a deep breath. Alright. It's alright. Well, it's not. Not really. Harry is
very aware of what he's just done, and he knows how horrible it is. Damning someone else,
someone who goes to Hogwarts, just so it won't be Draco. Why? Merlin, what was he thinking?

Not Draco, was what he was thinking. What he's still thinking. Harry doesn't even know the
mission, but it's from Voldemort, so it can't be good. No, Harry won't let Draco be subjected to
that.

"Harry," Draco whispers, slowly looking up at him. He doesn't look scared anymore, just...just…

"Explain," Harry says.

Draco swallows. "Father woke me up this morning, earlier than usual. He told me that—that the
Dark Lord required my help with something. I was told to sit at that table and—and wait for you.
The Dark Lord said he wouldn't inform me what I needed to do until you...gave me permission to
do it." He pauses, his gaze flicking away. "Because I'm yours, not his, and you decide what
happens to me."

"That's not—you're not—" Harry bites off each sentence, not sure how to make them the truth. He
takes a deep breath. "Draco, be honest with me, did you...want the mission?"

"Harry," Draco says, fear dancing in his eyes, "no one refuses the Dark Lord."

"Look at me," Harry whispers, stepping closer until they're merely inches apart. "Look at me and
tell me you wanted to refuse him."

"I can't," Draco chokes out, his pupils expanding as his breath hitches. "I can't, because I—I—"

Harry steps forward again, steady, calm. "You're mine, right? That means you're safe. You can say
anything to me, Draco. Anything at all."

Draco's breath stutters out of him, his eyes more pupil than blue-grey now. "My father wanted—"

"No, no," Harry says gently, "don't do that. Don't make this about your parents, Draco. I'm asking
you if you wanted to refuse him."

"I'm scared of him," Draco breathes out, one of his hands shooting out to grab Harry's hoodie,
fisting it.

"Voldemort or your father?" Harry asks.

"I—I don't know." Draco looks frazzled, baffled, dazed. "Both? Harry, I don't—"

Harry nods. "It's okay. Draco, it's okay. Just tell me. Did you want to refuse him?"

Draco's eyes shut slowly, and he looks like he's about to be tortured. "Yes," he says, his voice
cracking and shaking, "but I wanted to please Father, and I didn't want to anger you, and I didn't
want to make Mother worry, and I didn't want the Dark Lord to kill me. You weren't there, and I—
I—"
"Alright," Harry murmurs.

That's enough for him. He gets it. He understands, because he knows Draco. Knows that he's
terrified of Voldemort, but possibly even more terrified that he won't make his father proud. Knows
that he feels safe with Harry around, but doesn't know how to handle the reminder of his lack of
freedom from before. Knows that he sat right there in that chair, ready to take a mission if Harry
would have allowed it, hoping with everything in him that Harry cared enough not to. And Harry
did. Harry does.

Harry never envisioned that Draco would one day return the favor of breaking down, but here he
is, obviously struggling not to cry. It's clear that he's about to lose that battle, so Harry reaches
down to gently pry Draco's fingers from his hoodie.

This has the opposite of the desired effect. Draco's face immediately crumbles, and Harry's heart
clenches violently in his chest. He shushes Draco, finishing his motion, showing Draco what he
was trying to do, which was pull him closer.

With that, with just a small nudge, Draco crumbles forward and takes his turn in losing the plot.
Harry figures that's more than fair, considering everything. He just does what Draco did.

He holds him through it.

Draco has fallen asleep, which is… It's fine. It's better than him crying, most certainly. But Harry
sort of wants him to wake up, just because...well…

See, Harry thought it would be a good idea to lay down with Draco, seeing as Draco did that with
him. It turns out not to be a good idea because, apparently, Draco is a bit of a cuddler. Which is
fine! That's completely fine.

Except, well, Draco has his hands stuffed in the front pocket on Harry's hoodie, and his face is
buried against Harry's chest, and his hair is right below Harry's nose. Which, again, this is okay.
This is perfectly okay, and Harry is fine with it. He's actually appreciating the warm weight against
him and the smell of Draco's hair—apples.
The only problem is that Harry can hear Mrs. Malfoy's heels clicking up the hall towards their
rooms. And it's a bit strange that he knows the sound of her by just her heels now, but that's
something to worry about another day.

For now, Harry has to figure out how to untangle himself from Draco without waking him up. He
wants Draco to be awake, because that means this wouldn't be an issue, but he doesn't actually
want to wake him up. Draco looks so peaceful, and Harry can't bring himself to ruin that, not when
he looked so utterly broken before.

"Draco?" Mrs. Malfoy calls from across the hall.

And, well, Harry panics.

Without knowing what else to do, Harry shimmies right out of his hoodie and out from under
Draco, tossing himself off the side of his bed with a thump. He winces, rubbing his thigh as he sits
up. Warily, he glances back to the bed to see Draco still asleep, face smoothed out as he wraps
more firmly around the hoodie, bundling it up and pressing his face more into it with a small
snuffling noise.

Harry is fascinated by this, of course, but he can't appreciate it in length because he can hear Mrs.
Malfoy's heels clicking as she comes to investigate the noise, no doubt. Harry is on his feet so fast
that he nearly stumbles as he makes a break for the door. He wrenches it open and slips out into the
hall, panting as he blinks at Mrs. Malfoy, who lowers her hand from where she was about to
knock.

"Harry," she says slowly, her eyebrows jumping as she scans him from head-to-toe.

"Mrs. Malfoy," Harry says, then has to clear his throat when his voice cracks. "Hi. Hello."

"Hi," Mrs. Malfoy murmurs, her lips twitching as she glances to the door over his shoulder, "have
you seen my son?"

Harry pauses, coughs, then remembers that he's the one in control here. "Have you seen your son?"

"No…" Mrs. Malfoy stares at him intently, one eyebrow cocking. "Hence the reason I'm asking if
you have. I wish to speak with him."
"Oh, right. Er," Harry mumbles, blinking rapidly as he tries to come up with something.

Mrs. Malfoy smiles at him. "Yes, well, if you do speak with him, tell him I asked after him."

Harry can feel his cheeks getting hot. "Yeah, I'll—I will do that. If I, um...yeah."

"Oh, darling," Mrs. Malfoy says with a soft, tinkling laugh. She shakes her head and suddenly
steps forward, drawing him into a hug. When she speaks into his ear quietly, her words shake and
she sounds grave. "Thank you. Thank you so much, Harry."

With that, she presses a fleeting kiss to his temple and pulls away, turning around and heading
down the hall without another word, her heels clicking as she goes. Harry blinks after her.

No, not now. He'll deal with all of that later.

For now, he turns right back around and walks into his room, releasing an explosive breath. He
nearly jumps out of his skin to see Draco sitting up against Harry's pillows, wearing Harry's hoodie,
and looking like he's sodding pouting. So dramatic, always. Though, he looks… Well, seeing the
hoodie on him is doing funny things to Harry's stomach again.

"Did you send her away?" Draco mumbles.

Harry nods. "Yeah. Well, sort of. She thanked me, you know. I think she's grateful that I've...that I
made sure you couldn't do the mission."

"I knew she would worry." Draco takes a deep breath and stuffs his hands into the pocket, averting
his eyes. "I'm keeping this pocket-jumper."

"Alright," Harry agrees mildly.

"And…" Draco grimaces, clearing his throat. "Thanks for...you know."

Harry grins. "Letting you drape all over me and sob like a damsel?"

"Die," Draco says flatly.

"Not an ability I have, it seems." Harry snorts and pads over to the bed, plopping down across from
Draco. "And your welcome for keeping Voldemort from giving you a mission and marking you."

Taking a deep breath, Draco hesitantly lifts his gaze to Harry's. "About that…"

It's like someone has clamped an icy hand around his heart. Draco hasn't even said anything, but
Harry knows instantly what he's going to say. Harry doesn't want to hear it. He won't hear it.

"No," Harry says firmly.

"Harry," Draco whispers.

"No. No," Harry declares even more harshly. He shakes his head and fists his hands in his lap.
"You didn't want the mission, I know you didn't. You're not doing it. I'm—no."

Draco takes a deep breath, then leans forward, looking Harry dead in his eyes. "I'm taking the
mission. I am."

"You're not!"

"I am. Or, are you going to refuse to let me? Were you lying when you said I have my freedom
with you, when you said I can do whatever I want and you won't stop me, when you said you won't
make me do anything, ever? Was that a lie?"

"I—" Harry stares at him helplessly, feeling like he's about to fall over from the force of his—his
what? Is this fear? Is he scared right now? Of what? Whatever it is, it leaves him breathless and
stunned. "Not this. Please not this, Draco. Don't choose this."

"I have to," Draco whispers.

Harry shakes his head. "You don't. I promise you don't. Fuck what your father thinks, alright?"

"This isn't about my father," Draco tells him sharply, the outline of his hands in the pocket turning
into fists. "This is about something else entirely."

"What, then?" Harry challenges, irrationally furious that Draco is doing this, making him feel like
this. He can't just do this. "What is it about, Draco? Because it looks to me like you're too scared to
stand up to your father! Either that, or you're practically wetting yourself to make him proud!"

Draco's hand suddenly snaps out and grabs Harry's chin, giving his head a rough shake. "Listen to
me, you utter twit! Just, for once in your damn life, listen to someone else, alright?! I am taking this
mission, because if I do not, I know exactly who it's going to. It'll be Theo, and I can't let it be
Theo, because if he fails, his father might kill him before the Dark Lord ever gets a chance. Do you
understand? I have to help him, I have to do this, because I'm the only one who can fail without
dying at the end of it, all because I'm yours."

Harry takes that in for a beat, that stubborn refusal still pulsing in his chest. He reaches up and
grabs Draco's hand, peeling it away from his face, squeezing his fingers tight.

"You don't want to, though."

"No, I don't. But you would do it. If nothing else, you have to understand that. Besides, you need to
know what this mission is, and the Dark Lord won't tell you unless I'm doing it."

"I don't like it," Harry snaps.

Draco swallows. "I know. I don't, either. I really, really don't. And Harry, you should know that—
that anything could happen to me. Depending on how serious all of this is, if you're not there, the
Dark Lord might… He might torture me, or have Father do it. You need to be aware of that."

"No, he won't," Harry says instantly. "He can't. He's promised me that—that you're mine to do
whatever I want with, remember?"

"You trust him to keep his promises?"

"Honestly...I know it sounds absolutely bonkers, but yeah, I do."

"Alright," Draco says skeptically. "If you say so. There's only one more thing. I'll have to accept
this mission before I even know what I'm going to be doing. That could mean anything. That's… I
could be agreeing to—to anything, Harry. I might have to…"

Harry frowns. "Yeah, I know, but you have some space to avoid things, right?"

"I'll have to try," Draco murmurs. "He'll know if I don't, then he'll just enlist Theo to help me
anyway, and then I'll have to make sure we don't fail, or else Theo will undoubtedly be killed."

"You care about Theo," Harry notes, surprised by the flash of annoyance that passes through him
at the thought.

Draco sends him an odd look. "Yes, I do. He's my friend, Harry."

"Right. No, I know that," Harry says quickly, grimacing at himself and waving a hand. "Fine. I
can't stop you if—if you're determined to do this, but Draco, I'm not letting him give you the
Mark."

"Oh, Merlin, that's a relief," Draco breathes out, deflating a bit. "I don't want that ugly thing."

Harry releases a shocked bark of laughter. "Oh, it's how ugly it is that you oppose, is it?"

"Well, of course." Draco gives a prim sniff, tilting his chin up. "I do not accept less than the best if
I can help it."

"You're wearing my hoodie."

"Piss off. It's warm."

"Yeah, yeah." Harry grins at him for a beat, then sighs as it slips away. "Are you sure you want to
do this? Can you do this?"

Draco clears his throat. "Like I said, I have to. It's going to be alright. I'll—I'll handle it."

"I don't want you to do this," Harry admits in a whisper, unsure why he's so embarrassed by that.

"That makes two of us," Draco whispers back, "but it needs to be done."

Harry frowns. "Why do you think I need to know what Voldemort's plans are, Draco?"

"Because, if they're not… Let's just say, if there's a reason they need to be stopped, you'll see that
and figure out a way to do it."

"You think I'm trying to kill Voldemort? Still?"

"I didn't say that, Harry." Draco rolls his eyes and shakes their hands, which are still joined, which
Harry is distracted by until Draco continues to speak. "Maybe you're not trying to kill him anymore,
but you're Harry Potter. No matter how bad you think you are, you'll never stand by and let
horrible things happen if you can stop them. I know that about you for damn sure."

Harry blinks. "Oh."

That damn feeling again. The swooping in his stomach, the flutter in his chest, the tight and dry
throat. They're like symptoms of something, but Harry has no idea what it is. He tightens his grip
on Draco's fingers unconsciously, and Draco squeezes back immediately, flashing one of his rare
smiles. Yeah, Harry can't really breathe, so…

"Now," Draco continues, like Harry's brain isn't imploding, "let's go tell the Dark Lord that I've
begged you to take the mission, shall we?"

With that, Draco drops his hand and hops to his feet, pulling the hoodie off in one smooth move,
ruffling his hair. He squares his shoulders, takes a deep breath, and starts for the door. Harry
follows, struggling to breathe for an entirely new reason.
"What do you mean gone?"

Lucius arches an eyebrow at Harry, seemingly unimpressed with him. "I mean exactly what I have
said, Potter. The Dark Lord is gone, likely to visit Nott. I believe he intends to give his son the
mission Draco was meant to have."

Harry deflates, throwing a quick look at Draco, who is staring at the floor, his shoulders one tense
line. It's Lucius' tone, the disappointment in it. That certainly isn't helping matters, not when Draco
is now going to be worried about Theo.

"Fine," Harry bites out, taking a solid step back.

"Potter," Lucius says, "I would like a word with my son if you do not mind."

Harry does mind. In fact, Harry minds more than he minds most things. A surge of protectiveness
hits him so hard that he barely knows he's going for his wand until it's in his hand. There's no way
he's just going to leave Draco here to be lectured by Lucius.

"Actually, I—"

"It's fine, Harry," Draco cuts in, finally looking up to stare at him seriously. "Just go. Please."

Harry snaps his mouth shut, grinding his teeth. He doesn't want to go, but at the same time… Well,
he knows Draco will just be peeved if Harry refuses. Between Voldemort apparently being gone to
go hand off the mission this quickly—it must be important—and Lucius actually asking to speak
with him alone, Harry has the feeling that Draco's day is about to get a lot worse. It's not even
dinner.

Sighing, Harry sends Lucius a tight-lipped frown, literally holding back the warning he wants to
give. Instead, with a scowl, he turns and leaves. He doesn't go very far, just leaning against the wall
opposite of the closed door, waiting.
Whatever discussion they're having, it's very quiet.

Until it isn't.

For the lack of a better term, Harry gets an earful. He doesn't actually hear what's being said at
first. He just hears the sharp cut of Lucius' words getting louder, followed by Draco's doing the
same thing. From there, the yelling starts.

Again, he doesn't catch most of it, but what he does happen to hear… Well, Harry hears Arius
Fawley come up in the shouting match a couple of times, which means Mrs. Zabini didn't keep her
mouth shut. He hears Draco be called a disappointment at least three different times, which makes
Harry's blood boil. He'd probably be unable to stop himself from intervening if not for the way
Draco is actually yelling back, giving as good as he gets.

From the gist, though, it seems that Lucius thinks that Harry Potter has corrupted his son in more
ways than one, and Draco thinks Harry Potter has too, but he sees it as a good thing, whereas
Lucius absolutely does not. This, of course, has Harry ducking his head to hide his grin.

However, things go from bad-to-worse when Mrs. Malfoy approaches the door and happens to hear
the yelling. Harry can see how startled she looks for a moment, then her eyes narrow before she
barges in the room, slamming the door shut behind her. After that, there's just the sound of hissing,
like there's three really angry cats in there.

Then, just like that, Draco is slipping out of the room with a dark look. When the door shuts, the
angry hissing resumes.

"You were supposed to go," Draco snaps at him.

Harry shrugs. "You didn't specify how far. Come on, want to go for a fly?"

"Actually, yes," Draco says with a certain kind of ferociousness that makes Harry blink.

So, together, they go collect their brooms and head outside to fly around for a while. Harry knows
what good it does to be up in the air, the wind brushing through their hair. It loosens him up, but it
doesn't seem to do the same for Draco. He's flying tightly, taking sharp, erratic turns and sudden
dives that he yanks himself up from too harshly.
He's an angry flier, clearly, and Harry wants to calm him down. He just has no idea how. This isn't
Draco being angry in a normal way. This is Draco being angry at his father, who he never gets
angry at, or accepts that he gets angry at. He just ignores it, shoves it down, ducks his head and
does as his father says. Because that's all he knows.

On top of that, Draco now has to worry about his friend. Theodore Nott. Harry doesn't know much
about him, but he's fairly sure that he's the second smartest bloke in Slytherin—Draco being the
first.

It's nice that Draco tried to do a good thing for his friend, it really is, but Harry can't help but be
relieved. It's selfish, he knows that. He shouldn't wish this burden on anyone else, but his heart
seems pretty set on it being not Draco, not Draco, not Draco. He can't deny that he doesn't want
this to be Draco's issue, so some horrible part of him is thankful that Voldemort was gone before
they could change it.

Draco is still visibly angry, and honestly, his erratic flying is starting to make Harry a bit dizzy. So,
with a sigh, Harry touches down to the meadow below them, the one they've sat in so many times
before. Draco flies for a bit longer, then he slams down gracelessly beside Harry with a grunt.

"Alright?" Harry asks warily.

Draco glares out across the meadow, his hair flopping into his eyes in the way it does. His eyes are
hard as steel. "Oh, yes, Harry, I'm just brilliant. I'm having the absolute best day, can't you tell? Is
it not obvious that I'm just so, so pleased right now?"

"You're so dramatic all the time," Harry says in exasperation, rolling his eyes. "Don't get snippy
with me, you prat."

"You know," Draco says sharply, not even seeming to hear Harry, "my life is just bloody perfect. I
have everything I could possibly want! Riches, I'm incredibly fit, my name is powerful. My mother
is beautiful, my father is respected, everyone wishes they had my life."

"Do they?" Harry asks mildly.

Draco keeps right on going. "Honestly, I have everything I could ever want, and if I desire
anything, I simply ask for it. More clothes than I'll ever wear, better clothes than everyone else.
Books! So many books it would take me forever to read them all, and there isn't a book in the
world I can't buy. I can visit places all over the world, like Paris, I speak three languages, and I—"

Harry leans towards him curiously. "Three? Can you, really? What are they?"

"French, Latin, and English," Draco snarls, his eyes narrowing into slits. "That's not the point."

"Then what is?" Harry prompts with a sigh.

Draco fixes a harsh look on him. "The point is that my life should be—it is perfect! It has always
been perfect. And then...and then…" He grips a handful of grass and rips at it, his chest heaving as
he glares at Harry in unrepentant anger. "And then you. Harry fucking Potter has to come and—and
—"

"And what?" Harry mutters, arching an eyebrow. "Tell me, Draco, what did I do?"

"Forget it," Draco mumbles, shaking his head.

Harry blinks at him, then smiles. "Say something in Latin," he murmurs.

"Factus es mihi, amabo te," Draco whispers, his throat bobbing.

"What did you say?" Harry asks.

Draco grimaces and looks away. "It doesn't matter."

Harry heaves a sigh and leans forward, reaching out to give Draco's knee a little shove. "Don't be
like that, yeah? You want to know the truth?"

"I'm sure you're going to tell me."

"If your life was so perfect to begin with, nothing or no one would have been able to mess that up.
Not even Harry fucking Potter."

"My life was fine," Draco says forcefully, but he doesn't look so sure. He frowns.

Harry hums. "Was it, though? What were you arguing with your father about? I didn't hear much
of it, honestly. Your father's a git."

"Don't," Draco hisses, shaking his head. "Just...don't talk about my father, Harry."

"For now, fine." Harry rolls his eyes. "So, what were you two arguing about?"

Draco clears his throat and fixes his gaze towards the rolling hill in the distance. "Other than you,
me being a general disappointment, and his annoyance that I'm not taking the mission… Well, let's
just say I think my father's a homophone."

"A what?" Harry frowns at him in confusion, then blinks when he gets it. "Oh! A homophobe.
Wait. Really? Is he? That's horrid."

"I'm sure he doesn't hate people who prefer the company of their own gender," Draco mutters
slowly, like he's really thinking about it, "but he...he hates it for me, at least."

Harry snorts. "That makes no sense. Can I ask you something? If marriages are arranged when
Purebloods are children, what happens if the union is between two men or two women, but they
don't like each other like that?"

"They deal with it," Draco says flatly, still staring off into the distance in anger. "Just like someone
who's marrying a woman has to deal with it if they prefer the company of men, or the same in
reverse. You usually just...get married, do what needs to be done, and keep your, er, flings quiet so
there won't be a scandal. If you are the type of person to have others when you're married, I
mean."

"That's…"
"It's the way things are."

"So, you want to marry Pansy, then, do you?" Harry asks a little harsher than he means to.

Draco doesn't look away from the hill, but his jaw jumps from where he's visibly clenching it.
"Well, it's not about what I want, is it?"

"What do you want?" Harry mumbles.

"I don't want to disappoint Father," Draco rattles off rather quickly, as if it's the easiest thing in the
world to say, like that's his one purpose in life.

Harry huffs. "No, you prat, what do you want? Not what you're told to want!"

"Please stop talking, Harry."

"I won't."

"Why are you so stubborn?" Draco whispers, his eyes fluttering shut. His voice is strained.

"It's a natural trait of mine," Harry snaps, reaching over to poke him in the arm. "So, that's it, then?
You'll just do what daddy wants you to do? You're going to go to Hogwarts and—and what? Court
Pansy? Go on dates with her to Hogsmeade?"

Draco's eyes snap open and he looks over at Harry with anger flashing in his eyes. "What is it to
you, Potter? So what if I do?"

"Stop it. I hate when you call me that," Harry blurts out without much thought. He grimaces when
Draco blinks. "Look, I just don't think you should have to, er, court Pansy if you don't want to,
that's all."

"Harry," Draco amends with a pointed look, "why do you care? We have other things to think
about."
"I don't care," Harry says quickly, then frowns and clears his throat. "I mean, I do care. It's—I don't
know, alright? Do you even fancy Pansy?"

Draco stares at him. "Harry."

"What?"

"Harry."

"What?" Harry repeats. Draco is staring at him like he's the biggest idiot alive. "Is that a no,
or…?"

"Did you miss the part where I said that my father hates preferring the company of the same
gender for me?" Draco asks, raising his eyebrows significantly.

Harry frowns at him. "No, I heard it. What does that have to do with if you fancy—oh. Oh."

"You really are an idiot," Draco drawls with a sigh, shaking his head before staring out at the hill
yet again, not looking away.

"Oh," Harry whispers again, blinking rapidly.

It's not that Harry is an idiot, he doesn't think. He just thought that Draco meant the rumor about
him and Arius Fawley. He didn't think it was actually true. Not that there's anything wrong with
that.

Harry's stomach drops. Merlin. Draco is going to have to marry a girl, and he doesn't even fancy
girls! That's just… Well, it's rather sad, isn't it? No wonder the mere idea of Draco marrying Pansy
infuriates him. It should. Draco should be able to be with whoever he likes, and if that's not girls,
then that's his decision. Arranged marriage is just wrong in general, but in this case, it's cruel.

Maybe this is what Mrs. Malfoy was talking about when she said that Draco was learning things
about himself in his newfound freedom. When she said she'd support him, she meant this too,
right? She better have. Harry might just lose it if Draco's other parent lets him down. That's even if
Draco will actually be willing to—to...what? Not court Pansy? Court men instead? Get a
boyfriend?

Harry tries to imagine Draco with a boyfriend. Pansy swiftly turns into someone else in his head,
forming into none other than Theo Nott. Maybe Draco fancies him. He'd have to feel strongly for
someone to be willing to take a mission from Voldemort for them, Harry thinks.

That vague image in his mind of Draco leaning in to kiss Pansy swirls to change and leave Theo in
her place, and Harry doesn't like that, either.

"Harry, I don't think this requires that much thinking," Draco says, pulling him from his thoughts,
making him blink.

"If you don't fancy girls, you shouldn't be with them," Harry says firmly, because he doesn't have to
question that part, at least.

Draco shrugs. "We'd only need to produce an heir. Besides, it wouldn't be a completely loveless
marriage, I suppose. I'm quite fond of Pansy, sometimes. She's funny."

"You won't love her," Harry grits out.

"No," Draco agrees, "I won't. She probably won't love me, either. She's been in love with Blaise
since we were eleven, still is, and will likely always be."

Harry stares at him, stricken. "How can you say that so casually?! Draco, how is this fair to either
of you? Shouldn't you both just refuse to get married? What happens if you do that?"

"I...don't actually know," Draco admits, looking faintly amused. "That's never happened before. I
imagine it would make my father furious."

Harry can't help but chuckle about the delight that lights up Draco's eyes at that thought. "Yeah,
well, if that's not a good enough reason…"
He trails off. He doesn't want to say it, just in case he's wrong, just in case he has misunderstood.
But he also needs to be right about this. Because if it's just more than Harry, if it's Mrs. Malfoy as
well, then maybe Draco will actually do it.

"Yes?" Draco asks curiously, finally looking over at him once again.

"Talk to your mother about it." Harry holds up a hand when Draco instantly begins to protest. "No,
I'm serious, alright? Either you mention it to her and see where it goes, or I bring it to her attention
that she needs to talk to you."

Draco goes silent and swallows.

"She told me, once," Harry continues gently, "that she would support you if you ever thought to
reach out and grab your own happiness. I'm not saying it will be easy, any of it, but you should get
to be happy, Draco. You really should."

"Not everyone gets to be happy, Harry," Draco whispers, staring at him with some kind of raw
emotion in his gaze that Harry doesn't understand at all. "You should know that by now."

I do, Harry thinks a bit desperately, but I want you to be happy. It might drive me mad if you're
not.

Harry doesn't voice this thought. Instead, slaps on a smile and says, "There's a reason Apus is your
favorite star. Go off in search of paradise, why don't you? I think you might find it."

"Sometimes," Draco says softly, turning to look at the hill again with that rare, small smile of his,
"I think I'm already halfway there."

"Yeah," Harry mumbles, "I know what you mean."

No matter how hard Harry clings, the rest of August starts slipping away seemingly faster. He tries
to grip each day, only to feel the hours slip through his fingers, and he'll be one day closer to Draco
leaving.
They're not...handling it well.

Honestly, things have gotten turned upside down, so they're not handling much well. Draco's way
of dealing with the situation with Theo is to constantly make theories on what the mission may be,
which irritates Harry because he ends up mentioning Theo more than two times in a sentence. His
way of dealing with his father is to silently rebel by wearing his sunglasses around the house—
because Lucius somehow found out they're Muggle and doesn't like them—and slouching in his
father's presence. The way he's handling his situation with being forcibly engaged to a woman
when he likes blokes is that, well, he's not. He promises to, though, swearing to Harry that he will
talk to his mother...soon.

As for Harry? Well, he's dealing with too much to actually deal with it. He handles each most
prominent problem and shoves the rest away, and right now, the thing that carries that title is that
Draco will be leaving soon. He deals with this by spending nearly every waking moment with
Draco, from the moment they wake, well on into the night when they're staying up later than
normal and nodding off, trying to keep each day longer.

They fly for longer than they used to, bringing out the snitch more frequently than they did before.
Just as much, they sit out there in that meadow and talk for hours about anything and everything.
They go into the second Library to sit in that window seat, watching it rain the three times it does,
their legs bumping and the heavy quiet pressing down on them. They've also taken to sharing a
hoodie.

Harry doesn't actually know how the Shared Hoodie happens—and yes, he's given it a name now.
It's black with a glittery green cactus in a glittery gold pot. No words, no reasons for it, just a cactus
in a plant-pot. Draco gives it back to him the next day after he declares that he will be keeping it.

Actually, he shoves it at Harry and says, "Wear this."

So, Harry does, because why not? But then, it goes missing, and Draco is wearing it around the
Manor the very next day. And it rotates like that without Harry really knowing why. Mrs. Malfoy
has become obvious in her visibly biting back the questions she must want to ask when she sees
Draco wearing it.

Voldemort returns briefly, and Harry takes the rare few minutes away from Draco to go pester him
about what mission Theo might have. Voldemort, of course, is as cryptic as ever. Harry doesn't
really glean much information from anything he says, and he can't be convinced that Harry is
somehow entitled to the information. Which, honestly, Harry isn't. He knows that, because he's the
one who pulled Draco out of that situation so fast anyway.
In any case, Harry is feeling more down with each day that passes, and he tries to hide it so Draco
won't realize it. This goes about as well as expected because Draco can now apparently tell when
Harry's feeling any sort of way the same way Ron can see all possible routes to win Wizard's
Chess.

Draco ignores it for a while, which Harry appreciates, but then he suddenly brings it up. Harry
doesn't appreciate that nearly as much.

"You're not going to mope for days after, are you?" Draco asks him without preamble, sitting with
his back pressed against the wall in the window seat. His hands are shoved deep in the pocket of
the Shared Hoodie.

Harry scowls at him. "I won't be moping."

"I think you will be," Draco muses, looking over at him with a smirk. "I think you're going to miss
me."

"I think you should shut up," Harry retorts, looking out the window with a huff. His cheeks are
hot.

Draco snorts. "Relax, Harry, I won't tell anyone. Besides, I'll be back for the hols."

"Long way away," Harry mumbles, frowning.

"Doesn't seem that way in Hogwarts."

"It wouldn't, would it? You're not waiting for—"

"For?" Draco prompts when Harry cuts himself off.

You, Harry thinks but won't say. You're not waiting for you. "What do you want for Christmas?"
"You're planning ahead, I see." Draco rolls his eyes and shakes his head. He pulls one hand from
his pocket—technically, their pocket, Harry supposes—and taps his fingers along his knee as he
thinks it over. After a beat, his gaze slides to Harry, strangely warm. "Surprise me."

"What could I possibly give you when you have everything?" Harry mutters, his eyebrows
crumbling together in confusion. "That's not fair."

Draco shrugs. "Figure it out."

"Will you write?" Harry blurts out, keeping his eyes pinned firmly on the rain rolling on the
windows outside. He's been wanting to ask this, as the hope that they'll write each other has been
knocking around in his head and chest for days, but he's somehow been too scared to bring it up.

"Of course I'll write," Draco replies easily, apparently not bothered in the least. "We can't use
Hedwig, obviously, but Artimus is smart as well."

Harry clears his throat. "Oh. Brilliant."

"Don't do this," Draco says quietly. He shuffles forward a bit, grabbing Harry's arm and giving it a
sharp tug until Harry gives in and looks at him. Draco is frowning, his gaze serious. "Harry, I'm not
joking. Don't fret over me being gone. I'll be fine, and you'll be fine. Hogwarts is… Who cares,
yeah? If I didn't have to go, I wouldn't. And you'll be here. You'll have Mother, and maybe—well, I
think you should consider trying to do some studying of your own. At least read a few books,
alright?"

Harry's not even sure why he says it, but when he opens his mouth, what comes out is, "If you
didn't have to go, would you run away to France with me?"

"Yes," Draco says instantly, the answer falling out so quickly that Harry blinks. Draco clears his
throat, flashing one of his rare smiles. "You know I adore France, Harry."

"Right," Harry agrees, shaking his head fondly. "You know, I've actually… I mean, it has crossed
my mind. We could go. Just pack up and go, leave all this behind, never come back."

Draco laughs softly and shakes his head. "You're much too chivalrous and brave for all that. You
can't abandon the world. You'd never be able to make peace with it, and we both know it."
"I don't know…" Harry clears his throat, glancing back out the window, his next words coming out
softer than a whisper. "I could do it for you."

"That's a nice thought," Draco whispers just as softly. "Nevertheless, I'd never ask you to."

Harry swallows and looks at him. "You told me once that there is a very thin line between bravery
and stupidity, remember?"

"Yes, and you're very firmly on the side of the stupid. I stand by that, even now."

"Well, I think you are rather brave."

"In what way?" Draco asks incredulously.

"You don't see yourself the way I do," Harry mumbles, shrugging awkwardly. "It's like you told
me. I suppose I just… It's different when you don't hate someone. I can see all the things I didn't
even think to look for before, and you, Draco Malfoy, are a lot braver than I was expecting."

Draco swallows and looks away. "I'm a coward," he says softly, his criminally long eyelashes
sitting on his cheeks as he closes his eyes. "I've always been a coward, and I never even knew it
until… And now, I don't have the first clue as to how to stop."

"Well, if that's how you see it," Harry replies slowly, carefully, "the only way I've ever been brave
was to care about what I wanted or needed to do more than my own fear. And, well, I suppose I
have a bit of a leg up. The thing that scares me the most is being scared, and there's only one way
to beat the fear."

"Which is?"

"Do what scares you."

"Oh, Harry, don't tell me that," Draco chokes out, his eyes snapping open wide as he suddenly
looks right at Harry with an intensity. "You have no idea…"

"So...tell me," Harry offers, scooting closer, curiosity making him lean in. "What are you afraid
of?"

Draco stares at him. He doesn't say anything, just looks at him, and Harry waits patiently. Then, for
seemingly no reason, he lifts his hand and swipes his fingers gently over the hair at Harry's temple,
pushing a wayward strand away. Harry's heart flinches in his chest, not ready to be woken up quite
so abruptly, and his stomach does a somersault in solidarity. Draco's other hand is still holding his
forearm, and Harry knows he can feel it tense beneath his fingers as Harry clenches his fist.

"You," Draco whispers.

Harry blinks rapidly, forgetting for a moment what they're even talking about. Draco's fingers are
cool and gentle on the skin at his temple, and Harry's whole face tingles. Then Draco's answer
registers, and Harry remembers his question, and what? That doesn't make any sense! Why would
Draco be afraid of him? He thought Draco wasn't afraid of him? Draco had said that!

It hits Harry like a punch to the gut. "Oh. I don't—I thought you weren't—"

"I'm not," Draco murmurs, dropping his hand and leaning back. "At least not like that."

"Oh," Harry says again, instantly believing him. That doesn't clear things up, though. "Alright, but
how are you afraid of—"

Draco abruptly pushes to his feet and takes a deep breath, looking down at Harry. "Do what scares
you, yes? Then I suppose I should go speak with Mother, shouldn't I? Wish me luck, I'll likely need
it."

Harry is getting severe whiplash from this conversation, and he weakly says, "Good luck? But,
wait, I don't—"

Draco is already walking away.

"But," Harry mumbles, "I don't understand."

There is, of course, no one there to help make him understand. He wishes Hermione were here.
She would know. Or Ron. Even if he didn't know—and he wouldn't any more than Harry—he
would at least be confused with Harry. Merlin, he misses his friends.

Thinking about Ron and Hermione puts him in an even more maudlin state. They must be getting
ready for Hogwarts just how they do every year. Hermione packs and packs over and over, making
sure she has everything she needs, doing it almost to an obsessive point. Ron, on the other hand,
puts off packing until the last minute, which drives Hermione mad if she's around to see it. If she
isn't, she usually asks Ron on the train if he put it off again, even though she knows what he's going
to say. Ron always knows she'll ask, and he still answers her in a way that riles her up. And, every
year, they spend a while bickering about it, almost like it's routine.

They really are so very different and somehow still alike in the ways that matter. Harry doesn't
understand how two people who seem not to even really like each other sometimes clearly like
each other so much that it's painful.

Stupidly, he hopes they date this year. He thinks they'll be happier if they just…

Harry doesn't want them to be upset about him not being there, and at the same time, he really
does. Because it upsets him that he won't be there, that they'll go through the year without him.
He'll miss all the jokes, all the arguments, all the ridiculous things that comes with being their best
friend. He hopes Hermione has all the books she wants. He hopes Ron makes the Quidditch team.
He hopes they'll be okay, even if he selfishly wants them to miss him so badly that it makes his
stomach lurch with a harsh wave of guilt.

How is he going to deal with this? Draco's the only thing that's made it bearable, and he'll be at
Hogwarts, too. That just makes it so much worse.

He wonders how Draco's year will go. Will he decide to date Pansy after all? Where that used to
anger him, now it just makes Harry feel sad. What if he doesn't date Pansy? Better. That's much
better. That means he can be happier. He might even date a bloke, maybe Theo… Worse. Much
worse. Harry backtracks quickly from that thought, grimacing. He'll just...not think about that.

At least they'll write. That's a relief. Harry is pleased with that, more than Draco will ever know.
He'll probably be anxiously awaiting every letter. The hols can't get here fast enough, and the term
hasn't even started yet. How is Harry supposed to make it through about ten months without any of
the people he cares about? Sure, there's Mrs. Malfoy, but she's a bit...well, sort of a distant person,
really.

Harry groans and stands up, rubbing his hands over his face. Draco has only been gone for a few
minutes, and here he is, already losing the plot. Wincing at his own thoughts—and he calls Draco
dramatic—he heads to his room to wait for however long Draco will be speaking with his mother.

As it turns out, it's quite a long time.

They must have taken a stroll around the Manor because Harry can hear Mrs. Malfoy's heels
clicking slowly as she murmurs quietly, passing Harry's room with the timber of Draco's voice
joining hers. He hears Draco's door shut, and everything is quiet for a very, very long time.

He hopes that Mrs. Malfoy will do the right thing. He actually does have some faith in her, despite
everything, despite their mild argument they still have never acknowledged. Harry is sort of
banking on the memory of the pure love in Mrs. Malfoy's eyes as she looks at her son. Maybe she's
a bit distant, maybe she didn't know to hug her own son, but Harry would never question that she
loves him.

Unfortunately, love doesn't solve all problems, Harry's learned. Even though she clearly loves
Draco like a mother should, Mrs. Malfoy still has her own problems to handle. Harry doesn't have
the faintest clue of how she goes about doing that, if she does at all. He can only hope the few
conversations and moments they've had has...swayed her.

If it hasn't, well, he's not sure what he'll do. Maybe he'll just give into the urge to take Draco and
run away. Say sod it all and leave it all behind, let Lucius and Mrs. Malfoy lose everything while
Draco loses nothing, let Dumbledore and Voldemort have their pissing match in England.

But he won't. Of course he won't. Because Draco is right. Despite absolutely everything, all of the
madness that's happened, Harry won't abandon the world. He simply can't. He has a role to play,
even if he doesn't know what that is yet. To leave would be running away from the thing that
scares him, and that scares him more than anything else.

Harry's drawn out of his thoughts by the sound of Mrs. Malfoy's heels clicking out in the hall
again, this time alone. She seems to pause for a moment in between their doors, then she carries on.
Harry is shooting out of the bed so fast that he gets tangled up in the blankets and trips.

Once he rights himself, though, he's darting across the unnecessarily large room and peeling open
his door. He makes it across the hall in record time, only to come to a halt at Draco's door. Does he
knock? No, they don't really do any sort of knocking, do they? They've always just barged right in.

So, that's what Harry does.

He comes to a halt almost immediately. Draco is sitting on his bed, legs crossed, looking
impossibly small in the Shared Hoodie. His eyes are clearly red-rimmed, so there's no doubt that
he's been crying. Harry's heart gives a vicious pang.

Draco doesn't acknowledge him, just sits there on the bed, swallowed by the hoodie. For such a sad
picture, he looks sort of, well, adorable. It's the most ridiculous thing Harry could think in a
moment like this, so he pushes it away as he slowly pads over to the bed and sits across from
Draco, staring at him.

"Did she…" Harry can't finish that thought because Draco has obviously been crying, and that can
only mean one thing. He frowns. "Do you want me to hex her? I will, you know."

"What?" Draco rasps, blinking and looking up at him in confusion. "Why would you hex her? She
hasn't done anything wrong."

Harry frowns harder. "She made you cry."

"She didn't," Draco murmurs. "Well, she did, but not in the way you're thinking."

"In what way, then?"

"She said she… Harry, she told me she supported me in whatever I wanted to do, and that Father
would have to disown her right along with me. She said I don't have to court Pansy if I don't want
to, and—and that...that she…"

Harry's heart—which was previously swelling with pride and fluttering with relief—suddenly
pangs once more. Because Draco is crying again, and oh no, he doesn't like that at all. This should
be a good thing. Why is Draco upset?
"Alright," Harry says softly, scooting forward to peer at Draco in mild alarm. "Hey, it's alright.
This is a good thing, isn't it? Please don't—don't cry. Not about this."

Draco gives a wet laugh and shakes his head, taking in a shuddering breath. His shaking fingers
reach up to swipe at his pink cheeks, his eyes still watery. He's missed a tear further down the right
side of his face, and Harry's fingers twitch with the urge to wipe it away. It shouldn't be there.

"I'm fine. It's fine," Draco says hoarsely, blinking hard. "No, I'm relieved, really. I just…"

Harry gives in and darts his hand out, quickly batting away the tear. Draco blinks at him, and he
smiles slightly. "Sorry. Go on."

"I didn't think she'd say that," Draco admits.

"I knew she would," Harry says, even though it's a lie. Well, only half a lie. A part of him had
believed in Mrs. Malfoy, after all. "She loves you."

Draco huffs a soft laugh. "Yes, she does. More than I realized, it seems."

"So, this is good, yeah?" Harry checks warily.

"Yes, it's good." Draco's expression goes through a variety of emotions rather quickly.
"Complicated, but good. I have no idea what will happen now. I knew what my life would be like
before, and I expected Mother to—to insist I do it that way. Now, I have no way of knowing what
will come…"

Harry snorts. "I know a thing or two about the unexpected, Draco."

"It's terrifying."

"Yeah, it is."

"How do you do it?" Draco asks him quietly.

"Honestly?" Harry takes a deep breath, holding it, then lets it explode out of him. "I just...deal with
things as they come. I always have, I think. There are some things you just have to do, you know?"

Draco offers him a small smile. "No, I don't know. Or, well, I didn't know before you, at least."

"I'm a terrible influence," Harry teases, just to see Draco's smile grow a bit larger.

Draco's eyes are so bright. "You really, really are."

The night before Draco leaves for Hogwarts, Harry stays up with him in his room, sitting on his
bed and talking to him like they can pretend the morning will never come. Though they fight
valiantly against it, they do eventually succumb to sleep, slumping on the pillows beside each other
and falling into their respective dreams.

Harry wakes to a hand shaking his shoulder. He jolts, his eyes snapping open and blinking rapidly.
He fell asleep with his glasses on, so the first thing that he sees that morning is Draco's face. He
looks tired, but his gaze is clear and rather sad.

Don't go, Harry almost says but manages to hold it back at the last moment, for both their sakes.

"I'll be leaving soon," Draco whispers. "Mother and Father are escorting me to the platform. Give
me the pocket-jumper. I want to take it."

"Yeah, alright," Harry mumbles, his voice scratchy with sleep. He sits up with a sigh, pushing to
his feet to pull off the Shared Hoodie. As he holds it out to Draco, he looks at him. "Oh. You
look…"

Draco grabs the hoodie, arching an eyebrow when Harry's words stall out. "Yes?"

Clearing his throat, Harry forces himself to relax his fingers and let the Shared Hoodie go. Draco
has apparently taken it upon himself to dress...up. That's actually an understatement, really. He's
wearing what can only be expensive clothes—from his finely pressed trousers to his dragonhide
boots. Harry doesn't know why he's surprised; Draco has always dressed lavishly from what Harry
could tell when he caught glimpses of him on the train in previous years. Back then, though, Harry
had been annoyed by Draco flaunting his money. Now…

"You look, er, nice," Harry says weakly.

Draco glances down at himself, then looks up with a smirk. "Yes, I know."

"Your hair is different," Harry notes with a small frown. It is, sadly. Not falling into his eyes,
nothing loose about it.

"Yes?" Draco says again, this time unsure.

Harry finds himself reaching up to push at the strands, forcing them to fall a bit over his forehead,
less restrained. "I like it like this," he mumbles distractedly, not really noticing just how still Draco
is at the moment. "It sort of falls in your…"

He trails off, suddenly very sure that he should not be finishing that sentence. Thankfully, Draco
doesn't ask him to.

"Alright," he says rather abruptly, instead. "Sure. That's—it's fine. I'm—Mother is waiting."

"Right," Harry says, deflating. "I'll just see you off, then, I suppose."

"You don't have to," Draco tells him. "You're more than welcome to go back to sleep."

"Well, I'm going to anyway," Harry declares with a huff. He tosses up a hand. "Don't be a prat."

Draco's lips twitch. "If you insist. Come on, then."

The walk down to the entrance hall is a silent one. Harry thinks he should be saying something
because there are words and feelings clawing at the back of his throat, but all of them die on his
tongue. So, he chokes on them instead, feeling like utter shite. This feeling makes him want to go
right back up to Draco's bed and fall asleep.

As they're descending the stairs, Draco slips the Shared Hoodie on, stuffing his hands in the
pocket. It ruffles his hair even farther and sort of ruins the image of the classy, Pureblood son. The
Shared Hoodie looks at odds with his expensive trousers and boots, but Harry likes it more than
words can say. Despite what's about to happen, it manages to make him smile, and out of the
corner of his eye, he can see Draco reflecting one of his own.

When they reach the landing, Mrs. Malfoy and Lucius are standing side-by-side, watching them.
Mrs. Malfoy looks vaguely startled by Draco's new addition to his attire, but also a bit amused.
Lucius, however, looks downright dangerous.

"Absolutely not," he hisses immediately. "I will not have you seen looking like that. Take that
filthy Muggle garment off this instant, Draco."

"No," Draco says patiently.

Lucius' eyes bulge. "No? Are you—Draco, I do not know or care what rebellious stage you think
you've entered, but you will stop it now. Remove. The. Muggle. Garment."

Draco stares right at his father. "No."

"Do not test me," Lucius snaps, taking a solid step forward as he grabs the handle of his wand.

"That's enough," Harry says, his tone a lot colder than he ever thought possible. Lucius' gaze lands
on him, burning in fury, and Harry doesn't care. "He'll wear it if he likes, and you'll let him. If you
attempt to force him to remove it, I will personally ensure that your Lord knows you've disobeyed
me. Do you plan to disobey me, Lucius?"

There's a long beat of silence, then Lucius drops his hand from his wand and grits out, "No,
Potter."

Harry grins with all teeth. "Brilliant! Not a problem, then. Good morning, Mrs. Malfoy."
"Good morning, Harry," Mrs. Malfoy says softly, a small smile playing at the corner of her lips. "I
do hate to rush, but we must be going. Lucius and I will...wait outside the door, yes? Draco,
darling, don't be too long."

Lucius makes a vague sputtering noise as Mrs. Malfoy slips her arm smoothly through his and
marches him away without another word. Harry stares after her with a broad grin, amused and
somehow liking her even more.

The grin slips off his face, however, when the silence of the room becomes too heavy and he turns
to look at Draco. It would be rather stupid of Harry to cry, he feels, but the urge is there all the
same. Draco is looking at him with a small frown, and Harry clears his throat three times just so he
can speak without his voice cracking.

"It's fine," he says. "I'll be fine."

"I know," Draco murmurs.

Harry takes a deep breath and nods. "I'll...wait for your letter, then."

"I'll send it off quickly."

"And I'll see you for the hols."

"Yes," Draco agrees.

"Can you… Will you do me a favor?" Harry mumbles, unsure and wary. "It might be a lot to ask,
but—"

"Ask away," Draco interrupts.

"I—I know you plan to...apologize to Hermione, but if you would, try to be nice to Ron. Or, if
nothing else, just ignore him," Harry says.
 Draco's lips twitch again. "You know me very well, Potter. Fine, yes, I won't antagonize your best
mate."

"Good on you, Malfoy," Harry murmurs, and bugger, there goes the crack in his voice anyway.

"Harry." Draco's face softens. "It's—I'm—"

Harry shakes his head rapidly, blinking hard. "Don't. It's fine, Draco. It's fine."

"Alright," Draco agrees quietly. He takes a deep breath, straightening up, giving a sharp nod. "I
should be going, then."

"Yeah," Harry mumbles.

Draco takes a step back, and Harry takes a step forward, and then they both stop. The moment
seems to yawn between them, and Harry has that feeling he doesn't understand again, harsher and
more unforgiving than ever before. He doesn't know what to do with it, never does. It feels like it's
about to explode out of him, and the only thing that helped last time was a hug.

So, without warning, he shoves himself forward to slam into Draco and hug him rather fiercely.
Draco coughs a bit under the sudden assault, but he returns the hug quickly. Harry has his arms
thrown around Draco's shoulders, clinging to the warmth that falls off of him in waves from the
Shared Hoodie, and Draco's arms drape around his waist, squeezing a bit too tight.

They stand like that for a long beat, then Harry rips himself away before he can give into the
ridiculous urge to cry or ask Draco to stay.

"Bye, Harry," Draco whispers.

As he turns and walks swiftly from the room without looking back, Harry sighs and softly
murmurs, "Bye, Draco."

Chapter End Notes

No, I will not be providing a translation for the latin for one important reason. Because
not knowing that particular translation is like Harry's POV. However, google it if you
want some insight to what Draco's going through at the moment.

Also, Draco's gone :(

Don't worry, that's not the last we see of him, I assure you ;)
 September
Chapter Notes

Y'all are gonna be spoiled from here on out with long chapters. You're welcome ;)

Harry is, admittedly, moping.

He knows he shouldn't, but he really isn't dealing with this well at all. The day after Draco leaves,
Harry goes down to breakfast just like normal, half-expecting to see the back of a blond head, only
to get disappointed when he doesn't. Lucius and Mrs. Malfoy seem to pick up on his foul mood,
and they do not bother him, which is for the best.

Everything feels slower now. It's like the time was so fast before, but now it's come to a crawl.
Every day just drags. Harry gets up, goes to meals, agonizes over what his friends must be doing,
what Draco is doing. He tries to go flying, but that only helps half the time because he feels a tad
lonely with no one else up in the air with him.

Voldemort has left again, taking Nagini with him, and this bothers Harry for reasons he can't
fathom. Lucius isn't someone he wants to be around at all, and Mrs. Malfoy seems to be doing her
own form of moping—a lot of embroidery and soft sighs as she looks out the window. Misery does
love company, but Harry feels a little odd interrupting hers.

For the first week of September, Harry does nothing. Absolutely nothing. He stays in his room a
lot, staring at his ceiling with burning eyes from lack of sleep, or he talks to Hedwig when she isn't
out hunting. His nightmares come back in full force, and he only realizes they had been infrequent
when they become regular once more.

His guilt and shame rises yet again. It had, sadly enough, become muted with everything else, the
distractions taking his mind off of it. But now, it threatens to smother him on every inhale and
every exhale. He wishes Draco were here to tell him to stop being an idiot.

Harry spends a lot of time thinking about what's going on in Hogwarts. People must be talking
about his absence—of course they are; this is the biggest scandal surrounding him yet. He wonders
if Ron and Hermione will stand up for him against their peers, or if they'll simply agree with them.
He often closes his eyes and tries to pretend that none of this is real, that he's in the Gryffindor
common room, listening to Ron and Hermione bicker beside him, Seamus' booming laughter in the
background as Ginny snorts and teases Neville for something.
Sometimes, if he concentrates hard enough, he can hear the faint sounds of his family, of his house,
of his best friends. But then, when he inevitably opens his eyes, it gets very quiet again.

Idiot,

You would not believe the sheer amount of idiocy within the walls of Hogwarts. Well, actually, you
likely would. To inform you, half of these twits have already irritated me beyond forgiveness and
it's not even a month into term. It's not even a week!

To clarify, many of the students here think Harry Potter is dead. This annoys me because, as you
know, I don't believe the same. The git is too stubborn to die, I think.

So far, not much has happened. I have only briefly seen Granger and Weasley while I did my
Prefect duties, but as we were all rather busy, I did not get a chance to speak with Granger. She
did, however, do a double-take when she saw me wearing the sunglasses. I will update you more
on that when I have news.

Speaking of the sunglasses, you will be amused to know that many of my friends are very impressed
with them and think them the new height of fashion. They all want a pair. I have failed to inform
them that they are of Muggle design, but I intend to do that when I've broached the subject of our
less-than-pleasant behavior towards those who do not deserve it. Again, I will update you more on
that situation when I have news.

You should know that Blaise wishes for me to send his regards. It seems his mother informed him
of what transpired in France when you were sick, which has led Blaise to make unsavory jokes at
our expense. I have promised to hex his bullocks off if he does not cease his ridiculous mockery;
rightfully so, in my opinion.

I'm sure you will be happy to know that I have news on the subject of Pansy. On the train, she
draped upon my person, as she tends to do, and asked me rather bluntly if I would be courting her.
She seemed bored with the notion. She was offended when I told her that I would not, but quickly
recovered when I informed her that I was aware she wanted to shag Blaise and had my full support
in doing so. Strangely, she seems more inclined to be kinder to me now, which I do not understand.
Women, I imagine, will always be a mystery to me.
Also, stop moping. I can feel that you're doing it all the way over here. Don't be dramatic.

Wishing you well,

Draco

Harry does eventually come out of his room for more than just meals. He can't just sit around,
staring at the window, waiting for Artimus to show back up.

She's a rather terrifying bird. Intimidating with her beady eyes and sharp beak. Her gaze is even
more sharp than Hedwig's, but only because there seems to be threat gleaming in the black orbs.
Hedwig doesn't mind her, though, and they always look a bit ridiculous resting on the perch beside
each other.

He makes sure to give her a treat, though he isn't brave enough to pet her. She doesn't try to bite off
his fingers, so he assumes that means they're alright.

When Harry does emerge from his self-imposed isolation, he goes to the second Library to watch
the rain drip down the window. It's not really the same without Draco, but Harry's trying, at least.
He's only doing that because Draco has somehow figured out that he's moping and declared that he
should stop.

He'll make the effort because he figures he should.

So, he sits there and watches the rain, wondering when Draco will get his letter, what he'll be doing
as he reads it, when he'll write back.

Prat,

I don't think it's abnormal to assume Harry Potter is dead. He could be, for all we know. Any
theory is likely as the last. Don't be rude to First Years, I mean it.
I do look forward to what you will say about Granger. How did she seem? Or Weasley? You said
they're the best friends of Harry Potter, right? I'll admit, I'm curious to know how they're handling
a year without him.

I'm glad your friends like the sunglasses. Perhaps we could get them a pair each. You know, we
might just start something if we do that. Sounds brilliant to me. I wonder how they'll react to our
hoodie. Pocket-jumper, whatever.

Send Blaise my regards as well, I suppose. I don't know him, but I somehow doubt he'll be teasing
anyone with you threatening his bullocks. Maybe don't do that. Seems a bit harsh to me. I am
curious, though. Has his mother obtained another husband this year?

As for Pansy, I am happy to hear that for obvious reasons. Maybe she's being nicer because she's
just as happy not to have to marry you as you are not to have to marry her. You know my feelings
on the subject, so it shouldn't surprise you that I'm feeling a bit smug. I was right. Admit it. Also,
good on her for going after Blaise, if she does. She should be happy, too.

I'll have you know that I am not moping. It's just rather quiet here, that's all. I'm adjusting.

How are classes? How is your friend Theo?

Wishing you well,

The Idiot

Harry sighs as he wanders into the sitting room. Mrs. Malfoy is sitting primly in her chair, her
posture perfect as always, hands folded in her lap. She isn't even embroidering.

Mrs. Malfoy glances up when he comes to a halt beside her. She looks a bit sad, which shouldn't
surprise him, really. He doesn't know why he never thought of how Draco's absence might affect
her. She's done it for five years, already, so he thought she might be used to it. That does not appear
to be the case, and he can't help but feel a bit bad for her.
"Fancy a walk in the garden?" Harry asks lightly.

Mrs. Malfoy's face softens as she stands. "That would be lovely, Harry."

She reaches out and folds her small hand through the crook of his arm, and he pats it as they drift
outside together. It's a bit windy out, but Harry has always liked that sort of weather.

The sweet scent of the greenhouse wafts towards him as they enter. He inhales deeply, a little
lightheaded by the floral smell. He has come to love the smell of this place, and it truly is beautiful
with all the variety of flowers. Mrs. Malfoy leans into his side with a small smile as they wander
up the first row in comfortable silence.

"What do you usually do when Draco is at Hogwarts, Mrs. Malfoy?" Harry asks.

"Wait for him to come back," Mrs. Malfoy admits with a tight smile. "That, and I tend to this
garden. Sometimes, Lucius and I will travel if his work will allow him the chance for a break."

Harry hums. "Do you think he'll have any free time this year?"

"I highly doubt it. Lucius' work in the Ministry is very important. Not only to the Ministry, but also
to the Dark Lord, as you know."

"Yeah, I know. You could always travel on your own, couldn't you?"

"I suppose," Mrs. Malfoy murmurs.

"Do you like France, too?"

"I'm fond of it, yes. I don't love it as Draco does. Did you enjoy your visit there?"

"Yeah," Harry admits, his lips curling up. "Draco told me all about the stars and constellations, you
know. On his canopy, I mean."
Mrs. Malfoy laughs softly. "His favorite is—"

"Apus," Harry says. "I know."

"And your favorite?"

"I've never really thought about it before then, but I suppose, if I had to choose, it would be
Sirius."

"That's a star. What about a constellation?" Mrs. Malfoy asks, watching him closely.

Harry coughs. "I'm rather fond of the Draco constellation."

"Yes, I imagine you are," Mrs. Malfoy says lightly, her eyes dancing with delight and mirth. "We
have something in common then, Harry. That's my favorite as well, ever since I was a little girl."

"I don't want to offend you," Harry starts cautiously, "but it's a bit hard to imagine you as a little
girl."

"That's not offensive. I was...quiet. I think Draco gets his random bouts of silence from me. I was
rather mild, always proper and polite. I was perfect, exactly how my parents wanted me to be."

"And Bellatrix?"

"The opposite. She was brazen, loud, outspoken. This may shock you, but I think… Well, I believe
you and her would have gotten along if she was alive as her younger self now."

"I find that rather hard to believe."

Mrs. Malfoy hums. "I understand why you would. My sister… When we were younger, girls were
meant to act a certain way. We were supposed to be shadows for the men we married, doting on
them, providing them with children, at their whims at all times. It did not matter if we were smart;
it only mattered if we were beautiful and from a powerful family. Our thoughts and opinions were
not taken into consideration, and frankly, no one believed we were capable. Bella, being who she
was, despised this and simply did not conform to it."

"She married someone, though," Harry mumbles, horrified by what Mrs. Malfoy is saying about
women. Who thought things like that? Hermione would lose the plot.

"She did," Mrs. Malfoy agrees. "It was necessary to keep up appearances, to not disappoint the
family, but it was no secret that she cared nothing for Rodolphus. She would not provide him with
a child, either. She… Well, she cursed herself to ensure that she would be unable to."

Harry's eyes bulge. "She what? You're joking."

"I am not. It was her duty, and there were very few ways to get out of it," Mrs. Malfoy murmurs. "It
was her displeasure for how she was overlooked and treated as nothing more than a woman with no
training that had her so taken with the Dark Lord, Harry. He treated her as an equal to the men in
the ranks, possibly even above them. For this, she loved the Dark Lord and was loyal to him."

"That's…" Harry pauses, swallowing. "I honestly don't know what to say to that. I thought she just
—"

"That she simply enjoyed being cruel?" Mrs. Malfoy glances at him with a sad smile. "No, Bella
did not start out that way. She did, of course, think as any Pureblood did, hating Muggles and
Muggle-borns. However, it was her wish to be seen as a worthy opponent in the eyes of the enemy,
and her desire to be praised for her skills rather than her body, that pushed her to the Dark Arts. She
wanted to please the Dark Lord, so she was cruel, and she enjoyed how powerful she felt—a
woman feared, just as any man, as capable as any man. In the end, she went mad, but she did not
start out that way."

Harry shakes his head, trying to make sense of that. He's not so sure it's that insane for Mrs.
Malfoy to think that he and a younger Bellatrix Lestrange would have gotten on. They might have.

He tries to picture a world in which women were cast aside as nothing. Purebloods are undoubtedly
strange, but this is taking it a bit too far. Was it wrong for Bellatrix to fight against it? Certainly
not. She stood up for herself and what she believed, even going as far as to Curse herself to never
have children. She simply wanted...recognition, a chance to flourish, to prove herself as a woman.
And then, there goes Voldemort, giving her everything she wanted. Because he does that. He preys
on people's weaknesses, and he exploits them, and Bellatrix was no exception. Though, for all
Harry knows, Voldemort didn't care that Bellatrix was a woman, possibly believing her to be
capable as any man. Who knows? Stranger things have happened, that's without a doubt.

Harry wonders how different things would be if Bellatrix was his age now, in this world. She might
be someone else entirely. She might never thirst to prove herself because she wouldn't need to fight
so hard for it, not now, not in these times.

Well, Harry's not entirely sure of that. He hasn't really given much thought to what struggles
women may face in society—Pureblood or not. But he wouldn't have to, would he? Because he's a
bloke. Men have it easy, always have. Merlin, Harry's stomach rolls with the thought that he's been
ignorant to any issues that—

Has he, though? He sees how Ginny is treated by Mrs. Weasley, by all her brothers. Sometimes,
she can barely breathe without them having something to say about it. She mentioned once that she
thought Victor Krum was fit, and practically her whole family descended upon her for it, making
her lash out in anger, demanding they leave her to live her life. Yet, Ron has practically drooled
over Fleur, and no one so much as batted an eye.

And what about Hermione? Her wish to prove herself, to do well in her classes, to be...worthy? Is
that what that is? It can't be. Hermione is perfect! No matter how smart she is or isn't. But, the
thing is, it could be for all he knows. He's never thought to ask himself why Hermione is obsessive
about certain things, nor has he ever took the time to consider how horrible it is for people to have
been annoyed at her simply because she enjoys books and like sharing knowledge, nothing like
Parvati and Lavender, who are chased after by blokes who think they're the perfect girls.

Harry's heart drops.

It's something horrible to come to the realization that Hermione or Ginny could just as easily have
been Bellatrix if circumstances were different, as easily as Bellatrix could have been either one of
them if she had the same sort of life.

Just another slap in the face that the world isn't so simple. That people aren't purely evil or
perfectly good. That Harry doesn't really see everything the way it truly is. A harsh slap, in fact.

"I'm sorry," Harry whispers, blinking hard as he looks over at Mrs. Malfoy. "I'm sorry that
happened to her, and I'm sorry I—I—"
And still, to this day, he can't get the words out to apologize for killing her, because it would be a
lie.

Mrs. Malfoy smiles at him, patting his arm. "I am, too. She used to inspire me, but towards the
end…"

"What about Andromeda?" Harry asks.

"Well, Dromeda and I had a different sort of relationship," Mrs. Malfoy admits, her smile falling
into a frown. "We cared for each other deeply. She was, admittedly, my favorite sister. I believe
she favored Bellatrix. And Bellatrix claimed I was her favorite sister." Her lips twitch back up, a
nostalgic fondness in her gaze. "That changed by the week, depending on who stole whose dress
and which one of us was angriest at the time. Sisters. You'd have to have them to understand."

"I suppose. So, you and Andromeda were on good terms before she...left?"

"We were not, no. She told me and Bella what she was planning to do and asked for our support.
Bella immediately treated her with scorn. At that point, she was practically worshipping the Dark
Lord."

"And you? What did you do?" Harry asks warily.

"I…" Mrs. Malfoy's free hand flutters through the air, and she sighs sadly. "I begged her not to go
through with it. I did not want her to abandon the family, abandon me. I told her I would hate her
forever if she left me, and then she left anyway."

Harry frowns at her. "But you don't."

Mrs. Malfoy blinks, glancing at him. "Pardon?"

"You don't hate her," Harry clarifies.

"Oh. No, Harry," Mrs. Malfoy admits, "I don't."

"You haven't seen her since?"

"In passing, once or twice. If we ever happen to run into each other, one of us quickly leaves. It's
for the best if we don't have contact."

"Mrs. Malfoy," Harry says softly, "I don't think that's true. Draco told me what you said, you
know. You told him you'd support him no matter what. You were young when Andromeda left,
and you didn't want to lose her, but I can tell that you miss her. Maybe if you told her that you
understand now…"

"Harry," Mrs. Malfoy says with a choked laugh, blinking rapidly, "I wouldn't know where to begin.
The matter is...complicated, and it has been left alone for a very long time."

"Yes, but…" Harry pauses, trying to figure out what he needs to say. When she stares at him, he
offers her a kind smile. "Sisters, right? I don't understand them, but from what you've told me, I
think it's rather important. Maybe it is complicated, and it's been years, sure, but what could a letter
hurt? Just write her a letter and see what happens."

Mrs. Malfoy makes that choked laughing sound again, her eyes a little misty. "Oh, Lucius would
be furious if he found out I reached out to Dromeda."

"Well," Harry says slowly, "let a younger Bellatrix Black inspire you to not be a man's shadow and
make your own decisions, then." He throws her a lopsided grin. "And, if you'd like, you can tell
him I made you do it."

"Perhaps," Mrs. Malfoy says softly. She looks at him with gentle eyes. "Perhaps I will."

Harry pats her hand, and together, they continue to stroll through the rows of lovely flowers.

Idiot,
The rumors for what, exactly, happened to Harry Potter still continue to move through the castle.
Frankly, I am tired of hearing them. The sooner I don't have to think of Harry Potter, the better.

Speaking of him, however, I have noticed that Weasley and Granger do seem notably upset by his
absence. It's not so blatant to those who do not know where to look, but I see it fine. There seems to
be a natural gap between them at meals, as if they expect Harry Potter to suddenly sweep in and
resume his regular seat. They have also taken to abusing their Prefect ability to take points by
docking anyone who so much as breathes a negative word against Harry Potter in their presence.
Weasley is particularly nasty about it when he wants to be.

Blaise thanks you for standing up for his bullocks, and he demands I tell you that he would, if you
should ever need it, do the same for you. That earned him a stinging jinx, but after years of such
treatment, he simply laughed at me. He has also been panting after Pansy like a dog since I so
innocuously informed him that she is on the market, as it were. I do not look forward to them
snogging in my presence, but alas, better him than me.

Also, yes, his mother has a sixth husband. There is regular discussion on how she will off this one. I
still think it's poison. Any thoughts or theories on that?

Despite how obvious he is, Pansy has not noticed that Blaise returns her affections. In fact, she
spends a great deal of time chattering my ear off about whether or not he'll ever fancy her. She
does not believe me when I say he already does, which makes me wonder why she asks at all if
she's already decided for herself.

This may shock you, but Gregory (Goyle) has gone and scored himself a girlfriend. A Ravenclaw in
the year under us, who thinks he is sweet and funny, apparently. She is, if you would believe it, a
Muggle-born. This hasn't gone over well with Vincent (Crabbe). I believe he is more upset that his
best mate is spending time with someone else other than him, than he is that she's a Muggle-born.
It has become Greg's secret mission to get Vince to date his girlfriend's friend, also a Muggle-
born, and he has somehow enlisted my help in doing so.

Just curious, but how does one get girls to like them? It always just seemed to happen for me, but I
do not think it will be so simple for Vince.

Greg's recent girlfriend has sparked discussion amidst our friends, and they seemed to wait for my
scorn. I sincerely wish you could have been there to see their shock when I supported him and
snapped as Pansy for saying the M-word. It was a great bridge to the conversation about how our
actions have been wrong in the past. I also told them the truth about sunglasses.
As you can imagine, this is taking them some time to adjust to. I never told you this, but it is
extremely hard to admit and accept when you have done something wrong. Slytherins generally do
not take it well, in particular. I believe, with time, they will come around. Blaise already is, at
least, so that's reassuring.

I have news about my attempt to apologize to Granger. I say attempt because I failed entirely. I did
not get very far, you see. Weasley seems in a foul mood rather regularly these days, and he hexed
me before I could get one word in edgewise. Considering my promise to you, I took my leave. Any
ideas how I could approach Granger without any rabid redheads around?

Since you asked, classes are going well. They are as hard on us this year as they were last. We have
a competent DADA teacher this year, at least. It seems the Headmaster hired a new Potions
Professor; Horace Slughorn is his name. He seems old enough to have been here when my parents
were. Our old Potions Professor, Severus Snape, is now our DADA Professor. It's going well. For
the Slytherins, at least.

As for Theo, well, he has always been rather quiet, I'll admit. He and I have had many
conversations, though, so his demeanor this year is surprising. He doesn't seem to have much to
say and gets lost in his thoughts rather easily. I am worried about him.

You should mostly be done with your moping by now, I think. If you are, how are you passing the
time? Perhaps you should read a book.

Wishing you well,

Draco

Despite what Draco's letter suggested, Harry has not stopped moping entirely. The only time he
isn't is when he is spending time with Mrs. Malfoy, which seems to be most of the time these days.

They do a lot of walking in the garden, talking quietly amongst themselves. Mrs. Malfoy continues
to tell him about Pureblood things, and Harry continues to try and convince her that those things
are wrong. Sometimes, he thinks he succeeds. Other times, he thinks she'll never budge on it.

In his boredom, Harry has taken to wandering the halls of the Manor again, seeming to search for
something that isn't there. He knows what it is. Nagini is still gone with Voldemort, this being the
longest they've ever been away. Harry's beginning to get worried about it.

He starts exploring the grounds, too. He takes Hedwig out and watches her fly, walking around and
breathing in the evening air. This is how he finds the Peacocks. He is not expecting them, and it
gives him such a fright that he falls right on his arse when he sees them. They seem unimpressed
with his blunder, and he quickly leaves.

Finally, Harry can't put his thoughts off any longer, and they swirl in his head. He thinks a lot
about Hermione and Ron, how they're sticking up for him, even now. About how Draco said in his
letter that they're notably upset about his absence. It breaks his heart and mends it all at once.

He also spends a lot of time thinking about Draco and his friends. It's a bit strange to be seeing the
Slytherin side of things, but it's not so bad. He's weirdly happy that Goyle has himself a girlfriend,
and that Blaise fancies Pansy as much as she fancies him. He's hoping they'll be able to see how
they were wrong, just as Draco did.

He knew, technically, that it wasn't easy for Draco to admit it himself, but having it in writing is
something else entirely. A burst of pride has wiggled away in his chest and doesn't seem to be
going away, all because Draco's being halfway decent.

There is one thing bothering him, though, and in more ways than it should. Theo. Yes, it's
troublesome that he's apparently being more withdrawn this year, not that Harry would really
know. It does make him feel concern about what task Theo may have. However, Harry feels
something else, too.

I am worried about him, Draco had written.

Worried as a friend? As someone who knows that Theo has a task? Or worried differently? Does
Draco fancy Theo? Harry can't work out why the thought displeases him, but it does. Merlin, it
really does.

In an attempt to avoid thinking about all of this, Harry goes exploring again. He's actually
desperate enough to go down the wing he avoids because it has the Death Eater room on it. This is
how he remembers that Ollivander is here, and then he feels sick with guilt that he forgot.

Harry turns on his heel and runs as quickly as possible to where Mrs. Malfoy is. More embroidery.
She does indulge him in turning him back into Arius Fawley, though. She seems wary about it, but
again, she can't really refuse him, can she?

He is gone as soon as he's able, back to wandering the halls, only to stop and call for Dipsy to bring
him a sandwich and water, which Dipsy does.

And, with that, Harry goes off in search of the dungeons. Seeing as Voldemort practically told him
where it is, he finds it after a bit of wandering. He clambers down the steps, shining his wand
around warily. The dim lighting doesn't show much, but it reveals none other than Ollivander
sitting against the wall with his eyes closed.

"Er, hello, sir," Harry mumbles, slowly easing further into the room, pocketing his wand.

Ollivander's eyes open after a long beat, and he stares at Harry. "Hello, boy. Who might you be?"

"Arius Fawley," Harry lies. He walks further into the room, kneeling down in front of the clearly
exhausted man and holding out the food and drink with a small smile. "Thought you might be
hungry."

"You'd be correct," Ollivander whispers hoarsely, reaching out to take it with shaking hands.
"Thank you, Arius Fawley. Thank you very much."

Harry swallows his guilt. "No need to thank me. I'm sorry that you're…"

"Not your doing," Ollivander says, his smile trembling. "Are you aware of who resides in this place
right now, Arius Fawley?"

"V-the Dark Lord," Harry mumbles. "Yeah, I'm aware. He—he wants information from you."

"Yes. Information I shall not give him."

"Why don't you just tell him you don't know?"

"Because he knows that I do," Ollivander says simply. He takes a few bites in silence, his eyes
sinking shut.

Harry waits for him to swallow before saying, "Is it true? That it exists. What he's looking for."

Ollivander's snap open, his gaze sharp and intense, boring into Harry. "My boy, all myths hold a
touch of truth. It would be unwise to disregard any story, even a child's tale. There is only one
language older than magic itself, and it is that of stories passed down and reborn over and over."

"Er," Harry says awkwardly, "if you say so, sir. Does that mean that—that what he's looking for is
from a story? A child's story?"

"Surely you know of it," Ollivander rasps. "The Tales of Beedle the Bard."

"Can't say I've read that one," Harry admits.

Ollivander hums. "Well, all stories come from somewhere, Arius Fawley. If they are not born from
truth, they will often inspire someone to make it so."

Harry takes a deep breath, then slowly lets it out, his heart hammering in his chest. "Sir," he
mutters urgently, "if I freed you—"

"He would find me," Ollivander says immediately, peering at him curiously. "Unless you had a
secure escape for me, he would find me."

"Will you tell him what he wants to know?" Harry whispers, searching his gaze.

Ollivander's lips slowly curl up into a, frankly, creepy smile. "Oh, child, there are some things
worth dying for, wouldn't you say?"

Harry blinks, his throat thick. "Yeah," he chokes out softly, "yeah, I would."

"Thank you for this," Ollivander murmurs, gesturing to the sandwich and water.
"I'll come back," Harry promises, guilt and shame swelling within him. "I shouldn't stay too long,
but I swear I will be back."

Ollivander hums. "Then I will wait for your company. Thank you, Arius Fawley."

"Don't thank me, sir," Harry whispers, blinking tears from his eyes. "Please don't."

I don't deserve it, Harry thinks.

And, when he turns right back around to leave Ollivander behind, he knows he doesn't deserve any
gratitude. This time, when he sicks up in the hallway, Draco isn't there to clean it up.

Prat,

Do a lot of thinking about Harry Potter, do you? Tell me more about that. You could say I'm
curious.

It must be very hard for Granger and Weasley right now. I suppose it's very sad, what they must be
going through. They should sit with no gap between them, though I'm sure Harry Potter would
appreciate them defending him. Anyone would, I suspect.

Weasley hexing you does not surprise me. It gave me a good laugh, though. Well, you weren't hurt,
were you? No, you couldn't have been if you ran away. Or "took your leave", as you put it. Imagine
I'm laughing right now, because I most certainly am.

You said Granger is top of her class, yes? I imagine she's someone who spends a lot of time in the
Library. You probably could corner her there to apologize.

It's good to hear that Blaise returns Pansy's feelings. It sounds to me like Blaise might fancy her
and not fully realize it, while Pansy knows it and is too scared to act on it. I think she'll have to be
brave enough to make a move.
It also pleases me to hear that you've had the Muggle talk with them. Keep me updated on that. I
swear I will send all the sunglasses they want if they'll come around more quickly. I'm happy Blaise
already is. And, since you asked, I'll guess that his mother is smothering her husbands with
pillows.

As for Greg, it does shock me a bit, I'll admit. I recall thinking he was a bit stupid when you
described him, but I am happy for him. Good on him for getting a girlfriend, and a Muggle-born at
that! You should encourage him to be open with his relationship to the public, that way people see
what he's doing, otherwise people might not even notice or care.

Getting a girl to like you isn't really my thing, Draco. They always just did it for me, too. The only
girl I've ever gone on a date with probably hates me forever now because it ended in a disaster. I
still don't know what I did wrong, even to this day, but it's probably for the best.

I do think that Vince listens to you, though. Maybe explain that he'll be able to spend more time
with Greg if he dates the friend? I don't know. Wait, does Vince fancy Greg? You sound like you
got your hands full with all of that, honestly. I don't envy you.

The new Professors sound alright, I suppose. I got the feeling that Severus Snape was favorable to
Slytherins. I imagine the Gryffindors hate that.

You should know that, on my travels, I have encountered Peacocks! I did not expect them. Actually,
they scared the piss out of me and I "took my leave", as you say. They seemed unimpressed with
me. I'm passing my time by exploring and trying not to think. I'm not moping, I'm just bored, that's
all. Maybe I will read a book. Is there anything you want to suggest?

Theo. Right. I understand why you're worried about him. He's your friend, after all. You've known
each other for years. How close are you two, exactly?

Anyway, your owl is giving me a look like my time is up. Are you certain she won't bite me? My
owl likes her, did you know? It's actually rather cute.

Wishing you well,

The Idiot
Harry finds the book Ollivander was talking about in the first Library, not the second. He takes it to
the window seat anyway and reads it there. It isn't until he reads The Tale of the Three Brothers
that he realizes what, exactly, Voldemort is after.

A wand made by Death itself? Surely a thing like that can't actually exist. But, well, what about
the Cloak in the story? Harry doesn't actually think his Cloak is the Cloak, but such Cloaks might
exist because someone got the idea from the story. That is what Ollivander meant by saying that
stories come from truth or inspire people to make it so, right?

Whether it's true or not, this certainly isn't something Voldemort should pursue. A wand of that
power in his hands can't lead to anything good.

Harry takes the book from the Library and goes off in search of Lucius. He's kept himself as scarce
as always, which helps out Harry under usual circumstances. It means that he can get in and visit
Ollivander regularly for a few hours, as long as Mrs. Malfoy keeps turning him into Arius Fawley,
which she does because she can't really say no.

Lucius, as it turns out, is in a study. Not the one Voldemort is usually in, but another one entirely.
He's alone, sitting behind the desk with a tumbler of what appears to be Ogden's Finest. When
Harry pokes his head in, he arches an eyebrow, clearly expecting him to leave. When Harry walks
all the way in, he sits up with a frown, clearly put out that Harry has not left.

"Is there something you need, Potter?" Lucius asks coolly, his tone sharp as always.

Harry nods. "Voldemort. He told me that you would be able to call him if I ever need him. Well, I
need him, so call him."

"I…" Lucius pauses, then sighs as he sits his glass down with a hard thunk. "Very well."

Then, without a word, Lucius rolls up his sleeve to reveal his dark mark. Harry stares at it, barely
refraining from wrinkling his nose. It isn't actually ugly, not really—could be a cool Muggle tattoo
under different circumstances. But, with what it represents, it turns his stomach to see it.

Lucius takes a deep breath, then pushes his wand against the mark, flinching as he does. Harry can
tell that it hurts him, and he can't help but feels mildly guilty about asking. He didn't know it would
hurt. But of course it would. Voldemort is sadistic.
He is also appearing in the middle of his black mist, his robes swirling and forming as he clears up
right in front of their eyes. No Nagini, Harry notes, refusing to be disappointed about that. He
doesn't even like the bloody snake, but because of their weird Horcrux connection, he can't help but
be drawn to her anyway.

"Why have you called?" Voldemort asks Lucius briskly, his eyes narrowing.

"I told him to," Harry says. He flicks his gaze to Lucius as well. "Get out. I need a word with your
Lord, if you don't mind."

When Lucius hesitates, Voldemort flicks his wand towards the door, making it bang open. "Well?
You heard him. Out."

The door shuts behind Lucius, and Voldemort moves behind the desk, lowering into the seat that's
just been vacated. Harry moves over and slams the book down on the desk, leaning forward to peer
into Voldemort's eyes as he slides it toward him. Arching a naked eyebrow, Voldemort looks
unimpressed as he takes in the book.

"You want the wand from The Tale of the Three Brothers," Harry says firmly.

"You've been talking to Ollivander," Voldemort notes calmly. He looks up at Harry, his fingers
steepled in front of him. "Haven't you?"

"Yeah," Harry admits, unwilling to lie.

Voldemort hums. "Did you wish to free him?"

"I wanted to."

"But you did not."

"He said you would find him, and honestly, I can't help him escape efficiently enough," Harry
says, flopping down into the closest chair.

"The Elder Wand," Voldemort murmurs, reaching forward to tap the book, "is what it's called."

Harry sighs. "Look, I know you need to harness it, or whatever, but what happens if you do
actually get the wand? Did you even read the story?"

"I did, yes."

"That brother died because he was power-hungry. Shouldn't you—oh, I don't know—learn from
his mistakes, Mr. Voldemort, Dark Lord, sir?"

"That brother was not immortal," Voldemort says softly. "Only I can live forever, Harry."

"Oh, will I just die, then?" Harry asks, raising his eyebrows. "Doesn't me being a Horcrux mean I
can only be destroyed in certain ways?"

Voldemort is silent for a beat. "I have not considered it, admittedly, but you are...correct."

"Brilliant, so apparently we both get to live forever," Harry says sarcastically. He gives a very
fake-grin, then heaves a sigh. "That's besides the point. You're not immortal anymore than I am.
We're just a lot harder to kill than most."

"Are you willing to die to keep me from obtaining this wand, Harry?" Voldemort asks.

"Honestly, there are times I think I'm willing to die just to spite you," Harry tells him, snorting. His
amusement is gone in a flash with a feeling akin to a boulder being dropped in his gut. He
swallows thickly and rasps, "Then there are times where I think I'm willing to stay alive just to
spite him."

Voldemort hums. "Dumbledore."

"I hate you for making me feel the way I do about him," Harry murmurs, leaning back in his chair.
"May I ask you something, Harry?" Voldemort leans forward, peering at him. "I would require
your utmost honesty."

Harry narrows his eyes. "What do I get in return?"

"A question that I cannot refuse to answer, much the same as I am getting," Voldemort offers,
spreading his hands and watching him intently.

"Alright," Harry says carefully. "Fine. Go on, then."

"If Dumbledore were to walk in this very room right this moment and ask you to go with him,
offering you forgiveness and aid, what would you do?" Voldemort murmurs, staring at him with
sharp, red eyes that gleams bloody.

Harry feels his heart stumble in his chest. He can hear how his breath hitches. Something like
shame and fear tangles up in his mind, overlapping each other, so much of each other that they
can't be separated. This isn't a question he wants to answer, not honestly, not out loud. Because if he
does, he'll be admitting it to himself, making it true. He'll be accepting it, once and for all.

"I already said I chose you," Harry whispers.

"Answer me," Voldemort says coldly.

Harry closes his eyes. "I would—I would be angry. I'd feel guilt and fear. But I wouldn't—I'd beg
him to go, to get out before you could kill him."

"You would still try to save his life?"

"Yes."

"I see," Voldemort says, leaning back in his chair when Harry opens his eyes. "Your heart, though
tainted, remains disgustingly pure, Harry Potter. I wonder if that will last centuries."
"I don't think I'll live that long," Harry mumbles, clearing his throat. "One lifetime is enough for
me, I think. You'd—if I asked, would you…"

"Destroy you?" Voldemort suggests. When Harry nods, he pauses to consider it. "In that situation, I
suppose I would. It is understandable that not everyone wishes to live forever, and I would not try
to force you. Is that kindness?"

Harry frowns. "You don't know what kindness is?"

"No," Voldemort says, "I do not. I am aware of the concept, but I have never attempted to enact it,
or even provided it unwittingly."

"Has no one ever been kind to you?"

"Not without fault."

"What does that mean?" Harry asks, baffled.

Voldemort tilts his head. "It means that people are so rarely kind for the sake of being kind.
Certainly not to the orphan boy that frightened them."

"Oh." Harry blinks. "Are you trying to be kind to me right now?"

"I am unsure," Voldemort says shortly.

Harry...doesn't know what to do with that. He clears his throat. "Er, well, I suppose it's kindness to
destroy me if I asked you to when I'm...ready. Would you destroy me before then?"

"Before you are ready?" Voldemort narrows his eyes in consideration. "No."

"What if I really pissed you off?"

"You do so regularly."

"I do?" Harry blurts out. "What? How?"

Voldemort smirks. "You are a troublesome child, Harry. Do you think your random spikes of
emotions is something I enjoy experiencing? Your guilt and shame is revolting."

"Oh, I'm sorry. I'll just stop feeling, shall I?" Harry snaps, huffing.

"That would be preferable, admittedly."

"You must feel something. Even you."

"If I do," Voldemort muses, "it is very rare and very dull. I am not much of a man anymore, Harry,
and I wasn't truly one to begin with. I have always been and will always remain a conduit for Dark
Magic."

Harry purses his lips, then leans forward a bit forcefully, staring at Voldemort seriously. "For that
orphan boy who frightened everyone, I have kindness to give for no ulterior motive. People should
have done better by him, and people should have listened to him. Had they, maybe we wouldn't be
sitting where we are today. You think that you're meant to be the way you are now, but I don't. I
think life is less like a path you walk, and more like a train you ride. You can decide what stops to
get off at, but sometimes, you get lost and no one will give you directions. And death? Dying is
just another stop before you board a new train."

It's quiet.

Oh so quiet. So much so, in fact, that Harry can hear his own heartbeat thundering in his ears. He
doesn't know why he feels so scared after saying what he has, but he does. He's suddenly terrified.

Of what? Or offering kindness to the evil across from him now? Yes, he thinks in horror. I've just
offered the man who killed my parents compassion.
And he'd taken Dumbledore's manipulation and twisted it all around, trying to make it go away.
Because he hates the metaphor as much as Voldemort does. Because life isn't just some path. What
about the roots that stick up from the ground, making you trip? What about the monsters that growl
from behind you, chasing you through so many turns you don't even realize you're taking? What
about how easy it is to lose your sense of direction without a guide, without help?

Dumbledore's metaphor isn't fair. Not for Harry, not for an orphan boy people shunned out of fear.
It's a bit like Sirius said. The world isn't split into good people and Death Eaters. We've all got
both light and dark inside us. What matters is the part we choose to act on. That's who we really
are.

People never question why someone chooses what part to act on. Harry certainly never has, not
until he acted on parts he never expected to.

Harry knows that Voldemort is bad. He knows he's as evil as they come. He's also painfully aware
that Voldemort doesn't want to change that, and he won't. He'll do what he has been trying to do
this entire time, and Harry can't change his mind. He won't stop, and he won't care, and Harry
shouldn't feel an ounce of trust, or compassion, or appreciation for him in any way.

And yet, he does. He simply...does. But that's not the bad parts of him; it's the good, the undeniable
pulse of good in him that can manage to feel those things for the monster who has killed his
parents and tried to kill him. Harry won't feel guilty for it, not this.

"I find myself asking how I've been bound to you, Harry Potter," Voldemort says softly, his words
tinged with contemplation and something vaguely like...admiration? "You are the exact opposite of
me. You know compassion even without it being offered to you, simply a natural instinct; you love
without restraint, so fiercely that it does not waver even when it should; you do not fear death, but
calmly wait for when it will take you. I am none of those things, nor have I ever been, and now we
share a connection we cannot be free of."

"That's not all I am," Harry murmurs, looking at him with a small frown. "You know it's not. You
know what I've done, what I'm—what I struggle with. Maybe those things are true, but that's not all
I am made of."

"Do you think I am more than I say I am?"

"No. I think… I think maybe you could be. Either in a different life, or—or if you...if something
made you change."
Voldemort stares at him intently. "Do you wish for me to change? To be...better?"

"I don't think that's a decision I get to make," Harry says quietly. "You told me that my actions are
my own, that I get to dictate who I will be. I think that's the same for you. I do know—probably
better than most—that anyone is capable of being different than what they seem. I've seen it too
many times not to know it's true. You may think you're just some—some vial that Dark Magic is
poured into, but you are a person, and I don't think you really get to escape that. And all people,
even you, can change who they are and what they do. You just have to...have a reason, I suppose."

"And my choice to be how I am now," Voldemort begins quietly, "it doesn't withhold your hope, or
your compassion. How is that possible?"

Harry laughs a little weakly. "Well, I suppose I choose not to let it, don't I?"

"You...astound me," Voldemort says.

"Er, thanks?" Harry says, uncertain.

Voldemort blinks, then waves a hand. "You have not asked your question, Harry. Choose wisely."

"Right." Harry pauses, wracking his brain to think of what he needs to know. Stupidly, he opens his
mouth and blurts out the first thing that he happens to think of. "What are the ways Dumbledore
could destroy me?"

"There are very few ways to destroy a Horcrux," Voldemort tells him. "The person who created it
can destroy it; in short, I could cast the Killing Curse on you. The only two other options are
Fiendfyre or Basilisk Venom."

"That's it?" Harry blurts out, his eyes bulging. He pauses. "Wait, what's Fiendfyre? Wait! I've been
bitten by a Basilisk before."

"Yes, I know, but the Phoenix tears healed you, and in turn, healed the Horcrux. Fiendfyre is a
curse that produces enchanted flames of immense size and heat," Voldemort answers. He looks
cruelly amused again. "And yes, Harry, that's it."
Harry shakes his head. "Well, if I get to choose, when the time comes, give me the Killing Curse."

"As you wish," Voldemort says. He stands up suddenly, staring at Harry. "I must go. I have other
matters to attend to. I will return some time in October, likely. In that time, I request that you
reconsider my offer to teach you. Really, Harry, you should not go uneducated."

"I'll think about it," Harry mutters, uneasy at the notion and the truth in his words. "Wait!"

Voldemort glares at him. "What?"

"You're searching for the wand, aren't you?" Harry asks him curiously.

"Yes," Voldemort says promptly.

Harry grimaces. "Must you keep Ollivander? Even if he does know anything, he'll never tell you. I
mean, if anyone would know all about the wand, it would be someone who searched for it before,
right? But you're not going to go ask Dumbledore, are you? So why not let Ollivander go and
search the way everyone else did?"

Voldemort stares at him. "Harry."

"What?" Harry asks, surprised by the way Voldemort's fingers twitch towards him like he's about
to pet him or something, the same way he reaches out to touch Nagini.

"This," Voldemort declares with relish, "is why people should listen."

Then, without another word, he disappears into his puff of black mist, leaving Harry sitting there in
complete and utter confusion.

He hasn't the fainted clue what just happened.

 Idiot,

You could say Harry Potter has crossed my mind over the years. It's more complicated than it
sounds.

Artimus is an eagle-owl, you twit, and she is well trained. You are giving her treats, aren't you? I
do find it amusing that she has taken to your owl. I was wondering what she was so eager to fly
back to.

You should prepare to buy many pairs of sunglasses, because there is simultaneously a resistance
and a breakthrough with my friends on the subject of our past mistakes. Pansy, for example, is very
stubborn in believing that she is not wrong for her actions if she wasn't aware they were wrong.
Progress has been made, however, because she no longer says the M-word, or if she does, she
grimaces. That could be because I have taken to sending a stinging jinx at her when she does, as
well as Greg (shockingly enough). I didn't even know he could do that jinx, but I digress. She'll
come around eventually.

Blaise, at least, seems to agree with me. He has always been rather neutral on most subjects such
as these, and he simply says that his manners caution him against being snide to anyone. He hasn't
done very much wrong in the past, so this is easier for him. He has been bickering with Pansy
about it, which is rather exhausting. For him, it's enough that he's read the book and related to it
as a black boy. He also seems rather taken with the pocket-jumper, and he thinks it's "adorable"
that you let me bring it, which earned him a stinging jinx as well.

Their budding romance seems to be put on pause as they fight about this. I do not know whose will
is stronger between them, but I cannot help but hope it's Blaise's.

I spoke with Vince to try and convince him to date the girl, and it turns out that he doesn't like
anyone. As in, he doesn't have any feelings romantically for anyone of any gender. I did not know
this was a thing. Is it a thing? Either way, I now understand why he's so upset. He believes he is
losing the person he cares about the most to the one thing he does not relate to or understand.

I then explained this to Greg, but it had the opposite of the desired results. He broke up with his
girlfriend, which earned him a stinging jinx. He told me that she was nice, but he simply cared
more for Vince. He's still nice about Muggle-borns now, though, so it's fine. And, since he's
practically glued to his side now, Vince is more than happy to follow mine and Greg's lead in that
case. He has stopped backing Pansy up, at least.
I have news on Granger. I do hope you're sitting down for this one. I managed to, as you said,
corner her in the Library when she was alone. I brought the book with me so that I could make
sense, and she threatened to beat me over the head with it as soon as I walked up. Apparently, she
was very deep in her studies.

Anyway, I bravely and heroically sat down across from her despite her threat, and I tried to
explain. I don't think I started out doing so very well, as I felt very guilty. Honestly, how do you
manage so much of that? It's ghastly . She seemed rather annoyed with my attempts to speak with
her, so I finally just apologized and showed her the book. That surprised her.

When I explained that I did not want to be a racist or use slurs anymore, she stared at me like I'd
gone around the bend. I then tried to tell her about my experiences with Muggle things, and she
ended up answering a few questions I had that you could not. (Did you know that pens contain the
ink already inside them? Brilliant, isn't it? Why do we use quills again?) Then, for whatever
reason, she proceeded to ask me a lot of questions about the way I thought the way I did before.

She's very invasive, by the way.

I think we talked for hours, actually. I did not say one rude thing. Well, I insulted her hair, but
really, I couldn't help it. She forgave me when I apologized for that, too. So, yes, she has forgiven
me, even if she has made it clear that she wants to see me prove it, which I suppose is justified after
everything. I told her about my hope to sway my friends, and she thought it was a brilliant idea.
She thanked me before I left, which was unnecessary but kind all the same. I felt better afterwards.

Classes have continued to be draining. I think I do more studying than I do sleeping at this point.
There's an influx of Sixth Years going to Madam Pomfrey for Pepper-Up because Professor Snape
has all but matched all the other Professors with coursework, as in all of them combined. So, no,
he's not favoring Slytherins in this regard, which is a pity.

Potions is strange under Professor Slughorn. He's a portly man who chortles and picks favorites. I
am most certainly not a favorite of his, which is just as well. I do not like him, nor will I ever like
him. He seems to collect people, like they're trophies, and he had the audacity to think I'm not
worthy? Yes, I do hate him. No, don't you dare laugh.

As for Theo, yes, he is my friend. I am rather close to him. We've known each other since we were
children. He is calmer than Blaise, funnier than Pansy, and more put together than Vince and
Crabbe could ever dream to be. I'm beginning to grow really concerned for him, as he is more
withdrawn than ever, rarely talking to anyone. Even me , and he always talked to me! He barely
even eats at meals, and I don't think he sleeps much because he's always out of bed when I go to the
loo in the middle of the night. Perhaps I should approach him while he is in the common room and
offer him conversation.
And Peacocks, you say? They're very magnificent creatures, you know. Expensive, as well. I'd
advise you to steer clear of them, however, if they've already decided you're not impressive.

Otherwise, how are things? How are you?

Wishing you well,

Draco

Harry is in the second Library, deep in thought, when the door suddenly bursts open and Mrs.
Malfoy comes rushing in.

He's never seen her look so frazzled before. Her hair is a little unkempt as if she's been running her
fingers through it, and her dress is wrinkled for the first time he's ever seen for as long as he's
known her. There's a letter gripped in her hand that she waves around when she comes to a sudden
and rather abrupt halt in front of him.

"Everything alright?" Harry asks cautiously, unfurling his legs in the window seat and sitting up.

Mrs. Malfoy clears her throat and brings the letter up in front of her face. "Cissy," she begins
reading, her voice cracking, "I must admit that it was a surprise to get a letter from you. I never, in
all my years since leaving home for love, thought that I would hear from you again. The surprise is
not unwelcome, though. I think this is, however, a conversation to be discussed in person. Perhaps
over tea? If you're available, we should meet in the Leaky Cauldron later this week. It was good to
hear from you. Kind regards, Dromeda."

"Mrs. Malfoy, that's brilliant!" Harry explodes, hopping up from the seat to bound over to her and
hug her, yanking back almost immediately to beam at her. "I told you it would work out!"

"Harry," Mrs. Malfoy croaks, looking incredibly pale, "I haven't seen my sister in years."

"Oh. You're worried," Harry says as he realizes it, blinking in surprise. She flinches, and he's
alarmed almost instantly. "No, no, it will be fine! I'm sure it will be brilliant, Mrs. Malfoy. It's a
good thing that she wants to see you, yeah?"

Mrs. Malfoy swallows, looking very small, looking like she's about to faint. "It could go terribly,
Harry. We always used to have rather explosive arguments. If we disagree on something…"

Harry reaches out and squeezes her arm. "Mrs. Malfoy, don't take this the wrong way, but you're
probably going to disagree with her on a lot because you instinctively believe in something
wrong."

"I can't go," Mrs. Malfoy whispers. "I simply can't. I did not expect her to—to—"

"You know what I think?" Harry asks lightly, now gently rubbing her arm. "I think that you want
to see her because you miss her. And I think that she invited you because she feels the same way. If
you're honest with her, she'll see that you're trying. Besides, you can always tell her about Draco,
and how you've supported him, and maybe even apologize for not supporting her. And she'll
understand in ways that I just don't, because she's your sister and she knows what it was like."

Mrs. Malfoy stares at him. "What if—"

"You'll never know if you don't go, will you?" Harry raises his eyebrows at her. "If you don't go, it
will hurt her, and you don't want to do that, do you?"

"No," Mrs. Malfoy admits in a whisper.

Harry nods. "So, you'll go, and it will be fine."

"If this ends horribly," Mrs. Malfoy declares, "I'll have words with you."

"Alright," Harry agrees, amused, "that's fair."

Mrs. Malfoy clears her throat and reaches up with one hand to smooth her dress and hair. Crisis
apparently averted, thankfully. Her cheeks light up in a delicate blush, and her hands do that
fluttering thing again, except this time he knows it's out of embarrassment. Harry is ridiculously
fond in this moment, and he doesn't even mind.
"I shouldn't have interrupted your musings," Mrs. Malfoy tells him. "I apologize."

"It's alright. I was just reading Draco's letter," Harry admits. Rereading it, more like. Again.
"Actually, can I ask you something?"

"Of course," Mrs. Malfoy replies instantly.

Harry chews his lip for a brief moment, then blurts out, "How well do you know Theodore Nott?"

"Theo?" Mrs. Malfoy frowns at him in open confusion. "I know him quite well, I suppose. As well
as I know all of Draco's friends. Why?"

"Is he…" Harry pauses, clears his throat, then works up the courage to continue. "Do you know if
he's in an arranged marriage, too?"

Mrs. Malfoy seems to consider this for a moment, then hums. "No, I don't think so. As I've told
you, not every family does it or likes what options there are to pick from. I believe Theo is free to
choose who he will marry as long as they're not Muggle-born. Why? Is something wrong?"

"No, no, not at all," Harry says quickly. "I just… I was curious if he was, er, spoken for, that's all."

Selfishly, Harry had hoped he was.

"I see." Mrs. Malfoy scans his face with sharp, calculating eyes. "And why were you curious about
this, may I ask?"

Harry gives a half-shrug. "Just asking. I dunno. I mean, is he...is he a good bloke?"

"From what I know of him, yes," Mrs. Malfoy says slowly. "Draco is certainly fond of him."

"Oh," Harry says weakly, blanching.

Mrs. Malfoy stares at him for a beat, then her lips curl up. "You should know, Harry, that of all the
people Draco has ever been fond of, you're the one I am closest to. By choice, mind you."

"That means you like me best, right?" Harry checks, his lips twitching, secretly pleased.

"Yes, Harry, that means I like you best," Mrs. Malfoy confirms, reaching out to pat his shoulder.
She smiles at him sweetly. "You are, if I am to be so bold, exactly the perfect company for my
son."

Harry's heart flips in his chest. "Oh. Brilliant."

"Have you written him back?" Mrs. Malfoy asks.

"Yes," Harry admits with a sigh. "By the time he writes back, it will be October."

Mrs. Malfoy hums. "You miss him."

"Of course."

"They do say that distance makes the heart grow fonder, you know."

"I suppose," Harry mumbles awkwardly. He doesn't confirm or deny if this is true or not. It is, but
she doesn't necessarily need to know that he misses her son more every day.

"It goes the same in reverse," Mrs. Malfoy whispers to him, amusement in her eyes. She squeezes
his shoulder. "He misses you, too."

"How do you know?"

"A mother always knows, Harry."

Harry bobs his head, taking her word for it, because between her and Mrs. Weasley, he believes it
wholeheartedly. "Alright. Cheers, Mrs. Malfoy. Just in case you weren't sure, you're my favorite of
Draco's parents, by the way."

"Doesn't hurt to hear it," Mrs. Malfoy says with that tinkling laugh of hers. She drops her arm and
steps back. "I'll leave you to your...thoughts. Seek me out if you wish to talk."

"Alright," Harry agrees.

When she turns and walks away, he moves back over to the window seat to fold himself into it,
picking up Draco's letter to reread it once more.

Prat,

Artimus has allowed me to pet her this time. She is very soft. My owl really does like her, you
know. I don't think she realizes it yet, but she's starting to.

If it's of any interest to you, I have read a book. The Tales of Beedle the Bard. I'm sure you know it,
and before you laugh, it was rather informative. I'll tell you all about that in person, I promise. As
for the Peacocks, I have not encountered them again, and I don't plan to.

I'm sorry to hear that Pansy isn't coming around, but I think she will with time. Someone told me
once that sometimes people can't see things wrong until it affects someone they love. If she truly
loves Blaise, she'll understand eventually why he gets it. Don't give up on her, and don't let Blaise,
either.

I'm also sorry to hear that Greg has broken up with his girlfriend, though I am also not, in a
strange way? If he didn't like her very much and liked Vince more, then it makes sense, I suppose.
I'm glad they've sorted out their differences, at least, and they're taking your side now. I didn't
know it was a thing not to fancy, well, anyone. But it must be if that's how Vince feels, right?
Whatever makes him happy, that's what he should do.

As for Granger, I admit I'm delighted by it. I'm glad she's forgiven you, as well as answered some
questions I couldn't. I think you should make the effort to be her friend, Draco. Try studying with
her. She seems like the type who's always wanted to have someone to study with and have
intellectual conversations with. Take Blaise with you, why don't you? Maybe Pansy will come
around faster if she can see what you mean.

Actually, take everyone with you. Vince and Greg probably could use some help, anyway, and I'm
imagining one Gryffindor girl surrounded by a pack of Slytherins. It's very amusing. Just be nice. I
mean it.

(Also, yes, I knew that about pens. I don't know why we use quills, honestly. Sometimes, I think
Wizards are behind the times.)

As for classes, I'm sorry you're not getting enough rest. Do try and get some sleep, yeah? Professor
Snape sounds like a right git for putting that much work on everyone. And Professor Slughorn
sounds rather horrid, actually. Collecting people? That's disturbing, and you should be glad he
doesn't want to collect you. It is pretty funny that you're upset about it, though. I laughed, of
course.

I wasn't aware that you and Theo were so close. You speak rather highly of him. I understand why
you're worried about him, like I've said before, but maybe give him space. Certainly don't go
sneaking off to see him alone in the middle of the night. He probably wouldn't appreciate it, I
mean.

Anyway, keep me updated on everything. It's nice hearing from you, Draco.

Wishing you well,

The Idiot
 Reunion
Chapter Notes

Hehe y'all are gonna like this one

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Idiot,

Why are you reading a children's book? I mean, I know your reading comprehension is lacking,
but surely not that much? Admittedly, I am concerned.

Artimus is now annoyed with all the other owls in the school Owlery, so your bird has apparently
ruined her forever. Thanks for that, by the way. It seems she is well aware of her inclination for
your owl and no other and doesn't seem to be swaying from her position on that. I sort of admire
her tenacity, actually.

Blaise is currently being a prat, as in right now . He's sitting on his bed and mocking me for our
pocket-jumper, as well as being a general pain in my arse. If this concerns you, it shouldn't. They
will never admit it, but they all want pocket-jumpers as well. He has asked me no less than a
hundred times to try it on, but I won't let him, so in retaliation, he has taken to mocking it. As
Slytherins do, you understand.

In truth, he's currently in a good mood. Pansy has finally, thankfully come around. It resulted in a
major argument between her, Blaise, and I that ended in tears on her part, but it was resolved.
Since she does not do anything halfway, she immediately walked up to Granger and practically
snarled her apology in her face, then proceeded to break down into tears again. I don't think I've
ever seen Granger look so alarmed. I truly wish you could have seen it. Granger even awkwardly
patted Pansy on the arm and everything. It was magnificent !

With that, we have a majority of the Sixth Year Slytherins acting entirely different. It's changed
things a bit. Both for the better and the worse. Some of the Seventh Years do not like our new
stance on the subject, and they show this in the form of hexes and jinxes, but we manage well.
Younger students aren't idiotic enough to try anything, and Third Year students and younger are
impressionable enough to listen to what we try and tell them.

There is a noticeable shift in Hogwarts from this change, which I think you'll appreciate knowing.
Some of the other Sixth Years that I've never even really cared about made a point to ask us what
the hell we were doing. Daphne Greengrass is rather headstrong, so she has apparently felt this
way the entire time and simply kept it to herself to avoid being targeted. Millicent Bulstrode does
not seem to care one way or another, but she's a rather quiet girl anyway these days.

The other houses have realized that something is different, and they are very wary, which is fair, I
suppose. Some people think we are playing a cruel prank, while others are tentatively hoping we
have reformed.

You do know that we haven't changed, right? I don't want you to think we have. Any of us, even me.
We are still the same people we have always been, but we simply see the error in acting as we did
before. Back then, however, we did not know it was wrong. And we wouldn't, still, if not for you. I
remember you told me once that you wish you were at Hogwarts sometimes, and I think you should
know that, even if you aren't physically, your impact is very much present.

Meeting up with Granger to study has turned out to be a good choice. I did, in fact, drag everyone
along and corner her in the Library. She was alarmed to start with, especially wary of Pansy,
which was amusing. However, she came around when I explained that we simply wanted to sit with
her and study while having studious conversation. Honestly, it was like all of her dreams came
true, and she eventually seemed to stop minding that it was us who provided that for her.

Girl Weasley and Lovegood, however, were a surprise. They joined us in the Library about an hour
into it, apparently seeking Granger out for help with something she excelled in the previous year.
Lovegood was as odd as always. She smiled at us, which was nice, I suppose. Girl Weasley,
however, seemed to be as rabid as her brother at first. Her and Pansy nearly came to blows until
Granger calmed her down enough to explain.

And what do you know? Girl Weasley is not as rabid as her brother, shockingly enough. In fact,
once she realized what was going on, she sat down and proceeded to have an entire conversation
about Quidditch. Lovegood spoke about creatures that I am very sure do not exist, but Vince and
Greg didn't know that, so they were very interested. This seemed to delight her.

We have since planned to study together again, and Granger has hesitantly broached the subject of
bringing Weasley along. She seems to doubt that I can refrain from pissing him off. I do not blame
her, as the urge to do so is as strong as ever, but I have made a promise, so I assured her that it
would be fine. This is supposed to be happening tomorrow, so I might wait to send this.

I don't know if Theo is

Alright, so I fell asleep while writing this. You told me I should try to rest, and I truly am, but there
is just so much work to do. Everyone is feeling the strain of it. Even Granger's hair is starting to
look bigger. It's not even Quidditch season yet! How am I supposed to handle all of my studies, a
sudden rise in my number of acquaintances, and Quidditch? I'll go mad, I will.

Nevertheless, I will be fine. You may like to know that the study session with Weasley did not go as
horribly as it could have. He did punch me. Twice. But he seemed to be sheepish about it when I
did not return the favor. He said I am still a prat and will always be a prat, but if I'm making
people be nice to Granger, he won't stop me. I told him he looked very stupid, because I could not
resist, and he looked like he wanted to punch me again. Granger and Girl Weasley calmed him
enough to actually sit down and study with us, though he is as useless as Vince and Greg are.
Actually, they seemed to bond over it.

Would you believe it? Two semi-successful meetings between us all has led Granger to start
spewing nonsense about the importance of inner-house unity. Apparently, in her words, the sorting
is an archaic and barbaric practice of which teaches children to find differences within each other
instead of similarities. She has already requested her Head of House to be allowed to protest it,
and she has asked us to join.

I don't really want to, admittedly, but Granger is strangely hard to say no to? She is very insistent,
you know. She's even somehow convinced Pansy to stop believing in Divination, which I have been
trying to do since Third Year. I have no idea how she did it, either, and it's driving me a bit mad.
Don't laugh.

Blaise and Pansy are still not shagging or snogging, which I'm beginning to wish they would. They
are so very clearly dancing around their feelings for each other. I think it's a bit ridiculous, really.

Oh, and what I was going to say about Theo before was that I don't think he's okay. He's visibly
losing weight, and though he joins us in doing whatever it is we are doing, he stays very quiet. He's
starting to look pale as well, with bruises under his eyes as if he hasn't been sleeping well. I'm
starting to get really worried. Yes, I know I speak highly of him. I suppose I should, considering I
actually like him more than I like most of my friends. He's always been a calming influence.

This has gotten a bit long, hasn't it? I should go. Vince will no doubt need help with his DADA
essay, so it's better if I just get it over with.

We have a Hogsmeade trip coming up this month. The second weekend of October. I wish I could
take the day to come to you, or for you to visit me.

How are you?

Wishing you well,

Draco

The moment Voldemort is back with Nagini, Harry knows it. He can feel it in the center of his
chest, a small tug that has him on his feet before he even really thinks about it. Seeing as he needs
to speak with Voldemort anyway, he follows the pull.

They are in the study Voldemort usually resides in. Harry's starting to think he rarely goes into any
other rooms. Nagini is slithering across the floor when he enters, and she immediately starts for
him as soon as he walks in. She fully lifts up, brushing her head along his hand, as if asking to be
pet. There is that high-pitched shrill again, then the lovely hum that slowly fades. Something in
him settles.

Not distressed this time, she hisses at him, slithering and coiling around his feet.

"Not this time," Harry agrees as he carefully steps over her long body, moving over to one of the
chairs to sit down in.

You smell better when you are not distressed, she notes as she follows along behind him, snaking
her way up and over the chair, draping across his lap.

That noise again, louder and longer with her settling down on him. He blinks around it, waiting for
it to dim. When it finally does, he feels like he's been given a sedative. He's very relaxed, despite
the fact that there's a very large snake draped over him, who apparently likes how he smells when
he's calm.

Harry clears his throat. "Er, thanks?"

"Nagini," Voldemort says from his chair, "I do believe you're making Harry uncomfortable."

"No," Harry says quickly. "She isn't. It's fine."

Voldemort peers at him curiously. "Is there a reason you are suddenly comfortable with her
presence? Is there something else going on that might have to do with you two being connected?"

"I don't know. It's like… Whenever we touch, there's this shrill noise in my head, like a kettle, and
it sort of drifts off into a really nice hum? And when I'm, er, distressed, I get this...pull to wherever
she is? Not you, her. Since she was gone for so long, I felt a bit out of sorts—nothing terrible or
serious. It just feels a bit, well, calming that she's back and here. I know it's a Horcrux thing, even
if I don't know how," Harry explains haltingly.

"I do believe that your prolonged exposure to each other has...effects," Voldemort suggests.

Harry raises his eyebrows. "So I'm just going to be instantly relaxed all the time if a Horcrux is
near?"

"I didn't say that." Voldemort flicks his gaze from Nagini's scales to Harry's face. "I think each and
every Horcrux would affect each other differently. You and Nagini are the only two living ones, so
how you react to each other may be entirely different to how you two would react to another
Horcrux. For example, how did my diary make you feel, if you can recall that time?"

"I…" Harry casts his mind back, trying to remember, frowning. "I'm not… I mean, it was very, er,
deceptive. Tom was rather charming, actually."

Voldemort makes a small sound of amusement. "Yes, I had the face for it back then."

"You did, yeah," Harry agrees distractedly, still trying to remember. "I think I—well, I can't really
remember, but I'm pretty sure that it didn't have the same power over me that it did Ginny. Maybe
it didn't have enough time."

"Perhaps," Voldemort allows. "Or, perhaps that particular Horcrux could not affect you that way.
There is a theory I have, though I won't be able to test it without an experiment. I'm tempted,
admittedly, but as I do not have two of my Horcruxes, I am cautious to do so."

Harry frowns at him. "You really lost them? You?"

"After I possessed you, I felt the urge to go retrieve them, mostly because I knew that Dumbledore
would have his theories. That is when I learned that one of my own learned of what it was and took
one, while the other was stolen by Dumbledore."

"One of your own? Who?"

"Regulus Black," Voldemort says with a sneer.

"Sirius' brother," Harry breathes out in shock.

Voldemort hums. "Yes. Now, there is one Horcrux that I cannot retrieve, as it's placement is not
within my reach. However, I know it's hidden very well and will always remain so."

Harry blinks rapidly. "What's the experiment, then?"

"I believe that each Horcrux would react to each other differently. I have never kept them all in the
same place before you and Nagini, and I never considered how they might...interact." Voldemort
cocks his head, studying Harry and Nagini casually resting over his legs. "I believe that some
would affect each other differently, including you."

"Are you going to...try this experiment?" Harry asks warily, leaning back further in his chair.

"If you do not like the idea, I would ask Nagini."

Yes, Master, whatever you like, Nagini hisses from Harry's lap, rather agreeably.

Voldemort hums in approval. "She is very trusting."

"It's not that I don't trust you," Harry argues without thinking, "it's that I don't know what will
happen to me if—if it goes bad, that's all."

"I would let no harm come to you," Voldemort tells him calmly.
"Well, you're not going to destroy them, are you? If one of them just—just suddenly does
something, you're not going to destroy it. You'd let it destroy me first," Harry mumbles, frowning
down at Nagini. "I mean, what would you do if Nagini suddenly started, er, swallowing me?"

Would not, Nagini hisses instantly.

"Hush, I'm making a point," Harry mutters to her, reaching out to pat her scales, feeling them brush
against the skin of his hand, hard and powerful.

You say ridiculous things, Nagini insists. Master would not allow me to swallow you. Would not
swallow you, ever. Would not, boy.

Harry rolls his eyes. "Can I just make my point please? I'm going somewhere with this. Don't argue
with me about it, yeah?"

Nagini picks her head up to do the equivalent of a glare, or he assumes so. Her tongue flicks. Very
well, boy. Would not, will not, however.

"Yes, yes, I got that part," Harry mumbles, awkwardly patting her again, unwilling to actually
offend her. "And, um, thanks for that, really."

"If," Voldemort suddenly says, "any of my Horcruxes attempted to kill one another, I would stop
them in whatever way necessary. I could do so without destroying them, Harry, and that includes
you."

Harry frowns at him. "How can you be sure? What if the only way to make one stop is to destroy
it?"

"You...are not talking about yourself, are you?" Voldemort asks in some vague sense of surprise.
He tilts his head at Harry the other way. "This is not a threat. You are not hinting that you will one
day need to be stopped permanently; instead, you are asking me if you rank above my other
Horcruxes."

"You thought…" Harry gapes at him, then processes what else Voldemort says. Mortification
burns through him, and he can only weakly say, "I—I—"

Voldemort sits up a bit, waving a hand. "Each Horcrux is as important and necessary as the last.
There is, however, a difference in the Horcruxes that can talk to me, and those that cannot. You
and Nagini, at least, provide conversation—sometimes even ideas that are...invaluable to me. If,
for whatever ridiculous reason you've concocted in your head, there is a moment in which I had to
save certain Horcruxes first, you and Nagini would be the first. Does that...appease you, Harry?"

It shouldn't, it really shouldn't, but it strangely does, and Harry is so embarrassed by that. He clears
his throat and rubs Nagini's scales. "Well, that's good for me; survival-wise, I mean. It's fine. If
you, er, wanted to do your experiments, you could. But only if you do it to Nagini first."

"As I said, each Horcrux could affect each other differently. How Nagini reacts to one may not be
the same as you do," Voldemort warns.

Harry grimaces. "You know what? I'll let you know when the time comes, yeah? I have other
things to worry about right now."

"What things?" Voldemort asks instantly.

"Oh, I don't know," Harry says sarcastically, glaring down at Nagini's scales, his anger slowly
gaining steam within him. "Everything, I suppose. I still feel like I haven't recovered from killing
Bellatrix, and all that's come after doing it is just...worse, somehow. I have guilt to deal with daily
for her and Pettigrew, for Dumbledore as well, for...you, in some ways. A lot of shame, too. I'm
trying to help Draco and Mrs. Malfoy because that makes me feel better, but that is so complicated
sometimes. And now, Draco is gone, and Theo has some task, and you are after a wand more
powerful than any other, and Ollivander is in the dungeon where I can't free him, and Lucius is a
shite father, and I'm sodding jealous of—"

Harry cuts himself off, snapping his mouth shut so quickly that he can hear his teeth audibly clack
together. He doesn't want to let that sentence out. He really, really doesn't. Especially not now, in
front of Voldemort, who is watching him calmly.

"You are undoubtedly a teenager," Voldemort murmurs. He sighs and waves a hand. "You have
helped me in ways you don't understand, unwillingly and unwittingly, Harry. For that, I will listen
to you whinge and offer advice where I can, as I am not a teenager and may provide...perspective."
Harry snorts. "Honestly, I just have a lot going on. What I need is your help."

"Oh?" Voldemort arches a naked eyebrow. "What do you require my help on?"

"This is going to sound so stupid in comparison to everything else, and I—I know that," Harry
starts, wincing at his own idiocy, "but I...I…"

Voldemort stares at him intently. "Whatever it is, you needn't be ashamed. If I can help you, which
I likely can, I will."

"I want to go to Hogsmeade," Harry blurts out, groaning immediately after he says it. "There's a
trip for the Hogwarts students the second weekend of this month, and I—I want to go. I can't go as
Harry Potter, but I could go as Arius Fawley. Er, have you heard of who that is?"

"The sick boy in France, yes," Voldemort says. "I believe Narcissa oversaw the transfiguration."

Harry clears his throat. "Yeah, she did."

Voldemort looks at him curiously. "Harry, you have yet to ask for my permission to do anything.
Every plan you have enacted has been your own, and you did not fully discuss them with me
beforehand. If you wish to be transfigured into this faux Arius Fawley and have Lucius provide
you with a Portkey to and from Hogsmeade, then that is your decision. The risks remain on your
shoulders."

"I…" Harry blinks. Stops. Blinks again. "A Portkey! Brilliant. I assumed I would have to be
Apparated."

"All of that emotion simply because you had no ideas?" Voldemort heaves another sigh. "Yes, you
are very much a teenager, Harry Potter."

Harry gives a wry grin down at Nagini, idly stroking the back of her head. She appears to be
napping, though that could be false. "Yeah, well, I thought it would be a more complicated process.
I also sort of thought you would tell me I couldn't go because Dumbledore won't be so far away
from me."
"I would be...notably disappointed if you went to him and never returned to me," Voldemort admits
with a glare, though it doesn't seem to be at Harry at the moment, "but the decision is and will
always remain your own."

"Do you trust me to come back?" Harry asks quietly, glancing at him warily.

Voldemort watches him for a beat. "I can tell that you wish for me to trust you. There are very few
things I have trust for in this world, Harry, but I will make the effort to...include you in that."

"Oh. Alright," Harry mumbles. He clears his throat, then frowns as a sudden thought strikes him.
"If I was taken, or—or… What if Dumbledore—"

"That is your risk to take," Voldemort says softly. "Is it worth seeing Draco to take that risk?"

"Yeah," Harry answers bluntly.

"Very well," Voldemort replies simply.

Harry hums. "I've also been thinking about you, er, teaching me."

"Have you? And have you decided?"

"Almost, I think. You know teenagers, Mr. Voldemort, Dark Lord, sir. We have to agonize over it
for a while, at least."

"Yes, I suppose you do," Voldemort agrees, looking shockingly amused in a faint way, nothing
cruel about it at all.

Harry snorts. "I'll let you know."

Prat,

I have a lot to say about everything, I really do, but I think I'd rather say them in person. I'll find
some way to come see you, I promise. You know me, I'm resourceful.

I hope this reaches you in time.

Wishing you well,

The Idiot

Mrs. Malfoy pulls back with a small frown, her wand slowly lowering. She clicks her tongue, then
lifts her wand again. Harry watches the curls tumble a bit into his vision, then turn to a lighter
brown.

"I think it looks fine," Harry suggests.

"You haven't even seen yourself," Mrs. Malfoy says quietly, pushing a vial into his hands.

Harry downs it with a shudder, pulling his glasses off immediately after, blinking as he looks at her
with his eyebrows raised. "I'm sure it's fine, Mrs. Malfoy, really. And thank you, again."

"Here, take this, too," Lucius says, holding out yet another potion. "It's of Severus' own making,
and it should strengthen the transfiguration, ensuring that it lasts longer than usual."

"It already lasted all day in France," Harry mumbles.

Lucius arches an eyebrow and continues to hold the vial out. "One can never be too careful,
Potter."

"Right," Harry agrees with a sigh, grabbing the vial and downing that one, too.
"Remember," Mrs. Malfoy says, "you can't use magic at all, Harry. Draco can, but you can't."

Harry nods. "Got it."

"Your Portkey is scheduled to bring you back at four. Keep it on your person," Lucius says.

"Got it," Harry repeats.

"Tell Draco hello for me, won't you?" Mrs. Malfoy murmurs, her lips curling up. "Oh, and do have
fun."

"Er, yeah, sure," Harry agrees.

Lucius glances at his watch. "Less than a minute."

Harry takes a hasty step back. "Alright, well—"

A hook in his center yanks on him hard, and he slams his eyes closed, trying not to give into the
swirling sensation lest it make him dizzy. As always, he lands very ridiculously, sprawling out in
what can only be snow. He coughs and blinks up at the sky once he's sure he's not going to vomit.

He does not, so he counts that as a success. Groaning, he pushes to his feet and glances around. He
can see Hogsmeade in the distance, students milling around, loud bursts of laughter sounding out
from there. Harry freezes in place, suddenly terrified, his hands shaking. What if he sees—

"Are you alright?"

Harry yelps, nearly falling on his arse as he whirls around and gasps out, "Bloody hell!"

Of course it's them. It would be them, because that's just his life, isn't it? Besides, he wasn't the
only one capable of finding trouble in the past; they were in the thick of it just like him.
Hermione is looking at him in mild concern but with absolutely no recognition, and it takes
absolutely everything within him not to say her name or ask for a hug. Ron is staring at him with
his eyebrows raised, also no recognition whatsoever, and Harry hates how much that hurts. He's
not Harry Potter right now, though.

"You're not a student," Hermione notes, always a bit quick and now slightly suspicious.

Harry's stomach swoops with nerves as he clears his throat and steps forward, offering his hand,
hoping she'll just touch him. He misses her so much that it's taking everything in him not to cry
right now.

"No," he agrees in a croak, throat thick with emotion, "I'm not. I'm Arius Fawley, and I'm visiting a
student. You are?"

"Hermione Granger," Hermione says, stepping forward to shake his hand before gesturing to Ron.
"That's Ron Weasley."

Harry allows himself to smile softly. "Yes, I know who you are. Draco has mentioned you both in
his letters. He's who I'm coming to visit, by the way."

"Malfoy mentioned us in his letters?" Ron blurts out, looking incredulous. His expression darkens
rather quickly. "Probably saying horrid things, the prat. I told you, Hermione, I don't trust—"

"Oh, stop it, Ron," Hermione cuts him off with a huff. She immediately focuses her sharp gaze on
Harry. "Are you the one who introduced him to Muggle things and told him about racism?"

Harry offers an awkward smile. "That would be me, yes. He really was rather ignorant on the
subject. If you knew how utterly mad Pureblood society was, you'd understand why."

"I asked Malfoy a lot of questions, and well," Hermione says, grimacing, "you're not wrong."

"You're the one who gave him the pocket-jumper," Ron mumbles in realization. He rolls his eyes.
"The ferret rarely takes the bloody thing off."
"It's a hoodie. Oh, nevermind," Harry says with a sigh, shaking his head. "And I didn't give it to
him. We sort of...well, we share it, I suppose."

"You know," Hermione murmurs, looking at him oddly, "I never thought I'd see the day that
Malfoy was being half-way decent. If that's your doing, I think we have some things to discuss. I'm
trying to protest the sorting system, you see. Where did you say you go to school again?"

Harry stares at her with wide eyes. "Er, I didn't. It's, um, independent study. Personal tutor."

"Oh," Hermione says. "Well, I trust that I'll have your signature for the petition, in any case?"

"Yeah, sure," Harry says quickly, his heart pinching fondly. Whether it be S.P.E.W, or something
like this, she's always the woman with a plan. "Just, maybe later, yeah? Do either of you know
where Draco is at the moment?"

Ron snorts. "Probably in the Three Broomsticks with all his Slytherin friends."

"Theo?" Harry blurts out, then immediately wishes he hadn't. "And—and the rest, of course."

"I suppose Nott is there, yeah," Ron says. He glances at Harry carelessly. "You probably haven't
ever been to Hogsmeade, have you? Malfoy mentioned you're not from here."

"I haven't been," Harry lies, his heart thumping with anticipation in his chest. "Are you two
heading that way? Do you mind walking with me?"

Hermione elbows Ron in the side before he can even fully open his mouth. "No, of course we don't
mind. Come along, then. I have lots of questions."

Harry nods, trying not to seem so eager as he steps forward. They move on either side of him, and
it feels so much like it used to that Harry thinks he might actually cry. They fall into step with him
and everything, something he took for granted before.
As it turns out, Hermione doesn't give him time to cry. She asks him so many questions that he can
barely keep up with them, while Ron puts in vaguely derisive comments from Harry's other side.
Occasionally, though, Ron will ask a question or say something, and Harry will answer eagerly.

It's not like old times, but it sort of is. Somehow, Harry gets into conversation with Ron about
Quidditch, often interrupted by another question Hermione has, and it feels so familiar that he's
smiling easy in no time. They're not completely relaxed around him, seeing as they don't know who
he is exactly, but Harry doesn't mind. He's missed them so much that merely standing between
them makes him feel like the sun lives in his lungs.

It's all going fine until Ron says, "Are you, really? My best mate, Harry, is a seeker, too. Or...was."

Harry trips and falls on his damn face, so stunned to hear his name that he can't even keep his
footing. But Ron's just called him his best mate, still, and Harry sort of just lays in the snow and
almost cries. Hermione makes a small sound of shock and swoops down to help him up
immediately, though Ron does most of the work by hauling him up.

"Sorry," Harry chokes out, swiping snow off his trousers. "Sorry, I just—I—"

"Yeah," Ron says harshly, "we know. Everyone always has thoughts about Harry Potter, don't
they? Even foreigners, apparently."

"Ron," Hermione says gently, her eyes sad. "Please, not today. I can't do it today."

Ron sort of...deflates. "Yeah, alright."

Harry's heart throbs in his chest. "I'm sorry. I don't think anything, I swear it. I…" He trails off,
staring between them, and no. No. "Actually, I do have thoughts on Harry Potter. I think he must
miss you two something awful, and he's thankful that you two still have faith in him, even after
everything. It's terrible, what's happened, and he just wants to go home, but it's more complicated
than that." He stops when he sees how they're staring at him, then he coughs. "I think. Probably."

"What would you know about it?" Ron asks sharply, frowning at him.

"Nothing," Harry says quickly. He clears his throat and starts walking faster, heading right for the
Three Broomsticks. "Nothing at all."
"Arius," Hermione murmurs, her tone light, "I thought you said you've never been to the Three
Broomsticks?"

Harry comes to a screeching halt, ignoring the people moving around, some students that he
recognizes. "I—I don't. Where are we going?"

Hermione narrows her eyes at him. "It's this way."

"You're an odd bloke, you know that?" Ron asks slowly, looking at him in confusion. "I can't
believe Malfoy is friends with you."

"I can't either," Harry admits with a weak laugh.

"Why not?" Hermione challenges, leading him closer to the Three Broomsticks, her gaze sharp on
his face. "You're a Pureblood, aren't you? Why wouldn't he consider being your friend?"

Harry stares at her helplessly. "Hermione—"

"I think there's a Fawley a couple of years below us. A Hufflepuff," Ron muses, completely
oblivious to the way Hermione is staring at Harry with narrowed eyes right now. "Any relation to
him?"

"Yeah, I think so," Harry says slowly, which actually might be true, even as a Potter. "I've never
met him, though. Shame. I'm sure he's nice."

Ron snorts. "I think he's a bit of a troublemaker, actually," he mutters. "Lit the Boathouse on fire
last year, I heard."

Harry can't help but grin as they start towards the entrance to the Three Broomsticks. "Yeah, well,
I'd know a thing or two about trouble."

"Would you?" Hermione asks.

"You have no idea," Harry tells her with a sigh.

"Why don't you tell me about it?" Hermione stares at him closely, intensely. "You could say you've
piqued my curiosity, Arius."

Harry picks up his pace, suddenly very sure that he needs to get away from his best friends as soon
as possible. Fortunately, the moment they enter the Three Broomsticks, Harry's worry all but drains
away when he catches sight of the pack of Slytherins all crowded in a corner table, drinks in front
of them. He immediately spots Draco, and his heart is racing for another reason entirely.

Draco glances over towards them, then does a double-take, his eyes growing wide. He's out of his
seat in a flash, making his way over as he looks at Harry with an expression that clearly says, how
did you end up with them, you idiot?

Harry is staring right back with chagrin and maybe a bit of panic that most likely reads as, I haven't
a bloody clue, but please come save me?!

"Draco," Harry greets a little breathlessly as soon as he's close enough.

"Idiot," Draco hisses, staring at him with wide eyes.

Harry grins at him. "Yeah. Hi."

"Hi," Draco replies in an exasperated fashion, rolling his eyes. He sighs and shakes his head,
turning his gaze to Hermione and Ron. "I take it you heroic Gryffindors have escorted him to me,
then?"

"He asked us to!" Ron bursts out immediately.

"Did he?" Draco asks flatly.

"They found me when I got here," Harry protests, huffing a little. He clears his throat. "Besides,
when I found out who they were, I just had to meet them since you've spoken so highly of them."

"He's lying," Draco says immediately, shaking his head at Hermione. "I've done no such thing,
Granger. Certainly not about Weasley."

Harry hums. "I recall you saying Hermione was smart, and what was it? Pretty? Yeah, I think that's
what you told me."

"Pretty?!" Ron shouts, making nearby tables fall silent and stare at them. "That's bullocks!"

"Oh, it is, is it?" Hermione asks coldly, her gaze snapping over to Ron with such fury that Harry
instantly winces. "Tell me, Ronald, why is that so hard to believe? Am I not pretty?"

Ron turns as red as his hair. "Well, I—I mean, Hermione, you're… It's—it's Malfoy!"

"Yes, and apparently he's capable of admitting I'm pretty, which is more than I can say for you,"
Hermione snarls, twirling on her heel and marching off towards Ginny, who is apparently snogging
Dean Thomas right now. Hermione does not seem to care about this, shoving herself between
them, openly fuming while Ginny asks her what's wrong.

"This is your fault, Malfoy," Ron sputters, staring after Hermione helplessly.

Harry sighs and reaches over to pat Ron on the shoulder. "Mate, take it from me, that was entirely
your fault. Now, go get her a Butterbeer—remember the cinnamon because she likes it—and go tell
her that she's pretty, yeah?"

Ron stares at him, a furrow in his brow. "How do you know Hermione likes cinnamon with her
Butterbeer?"

"Er, I guessed," Harry says quickly, giving Ron a little forceful shove. "Go on, then."

Ron stumbles towards Madame Rosmerta, looking very confused as he goes, and Harry shakes his
head fondly. Merlin, he has desperately missed them. It was hard to pretend to be someone else
around them, but he'd do it a hundred times just to spend time with them. They're still as ridiculous
about each other as ever, though.

"Wipe that look off your face, Harry," Draco whispers in his ear. "I'll vomit if you keep looking at
them like you're happier than you've ever been."

"Shut it," Harry mumbles back, turning to peer at him with a small smile. He reaches out to hook
his fingers on the pocket of the Shared Hoodie. "Still wearing this, I see."

Draco smacks his hand away. "Stop looking so happy to see me as well. My friends will never let
me live it down."

Harry perks up even more. "Oh, do I get to meet them? This should be fun. And I am happy to see
you, Draco."

"No, none of that sickeningly heartfelt, Gryffindor nonsense," Draco says, pointing at him
seriously, holding his gaze. "I mean it."

"I'm going to hug you," Harry decides.

Draco takes a solid step back. "You will not. Restrain yourself, you twit. Now, come on. I can feel
Blaise boring a hole into my back with his eyes."

Harry ignores that odd twinge of disappointment in his chest as he follows Draco back to the
corner of the Slytherins. It's a bit odd going this way, putting more distance from his housemates
and best friends. It feels wrong to be going in the opposite direction of red and gold ties to join
green and silver.

He takes a quick look at the Slytherins before they reach them, trying to remind himself that there's
no reason for him to be uncomfortable. Arius Fawley wouldn't be uncomfortable. Pansy looks
mostly the same as she always has, though her hair is cut a bit shorter this year, actually framing
her face well. Blaise looks at complete ease in the booth, leaning back in such aloof relaxation that
it seems like he might melt right out of his seat. Vince and Greg are nowhere to be seen, which
relieves him.

And there, in the corner, is none other than Theo. Harry feels his heart drop from the first glance at
him. Because, yes, he does look exhausted and distracted as he stares out the window, but he also
looks...well, he's fit. His hair is a light brown, falling in sweet curls around his dimpled cheeks, and
his eyes are green—darker than Harry's—with long eyelashes to frame them. Merlin, he's
handsome.

Harry immediately, with no real reason, dislikes Theo with a furious passion he can't really
swallow. I actually like him more than I like most of my friends, Draco had written. Harry bets he
bloody does.

When they reach the table, Blaise is the first to stand up with a smirk to say, "You must be the boy
my mother informed me has stolen all of Draco's attention this previous summer."

"Yes, actually," Harry agrees bluntly, because it's technically true, because the thought pleases
him, as stupid as it is. "You must be the boy who takes Draco's stinging jinxes with a laugh."

"The very same," Blaise confirms, his smirk becoming a bit more genuine as he shakes Harry's
hand. "I must thank you for taking his attention. I try not to spend time with him if I can help it,
you see. He's a bit of a prat, but I'm sure you know that."

Harry chuckles as Blaise drops his hand. "Yeah, I'm more than aware."

"Piss off," Draco snaps from beside him.

"You have a lot to answer to, Fawley," Pansy says, standing up and curtseying at him rather
aggressively, her eyes narrowed as she stares at him with open annoyance. "You're the cause of
everyone thinking us reformed and nice. Which we aren't. We're just not—what's the word?"

"Racist, white-supremacists," Blaise tells her.

Pansy snaps her fingers. "Yes, that. As if we'd ever be anything such as that knowingly. It's
ridiculous to hate someone for the color of their skin!"

"Yes, it is," Harry agrees. "As ridiculous as hating someone for what blood runs in their veins, I
imagine. But you know that now."
"Yes, well…" Pansy seems to run out of steam as her words trail off. She gives a prim sniff. "Well,
we didn't know we were doing that, did we? In any case, when does the guilt go away? It's
horrid."

Harry's lips twitch. "I doubt it ever truly will, honestly. That's not a bad thing, though. It just means
you'll try better next time."

"I told you," Draco says with a sigh. "He's disgustingly nice, isn't he?"

"I see what you mean," Blaise murmurs with a nod.

Pansy scoffs. "As do I. How did you come to like him so much, Draco, if he's like this?"

"Anyway," Draco says hastily, ushering Harry down in a chair and taking one for himself. He leans
forward, looking at Theo, his face softening. "Theo. Theo. Stop staring out the window like a
damsel and meet Arius Fawley, Theo."

With a jolt, Theo blinks and glances over at them, looking very tired. His gaze immediately latches
onto Harry, and he holds his hand out. "Ah, yes, it's good to meet you. I appreciate the pocket-
jumper very much. Draco wears it well."

"Does he?" Harry asks flatly, clasping Theo's palm with his own far too tightly before he even
realizes it, letting it go when Theo winces. Harry clears his throat, nodding sharply at him. "I
wasn't expecting you. Draco doesn't speak of you often."

It's a lie, bold-faced and brazen, and Harry doesn't even know why he says it. Theo's gaze flickers
over towards Draco, his lips twitching down just a bit to show his displeasure, which somehow
pleases Harry. Then Theo hums and goes back to staring out the window, apparently done with the
conversation.

Harry doesn't want to be done with the conversation, though. He wants to keep talking until they're
arguing, that way he can punch Theo in the face. He would very much like to do that, in fact.

Draco elbows him in his side, making Harry rip his glare from Theo to pin it on him. Draco looks
confused, even as he raises his eyebrows in open disbelief, and embarrassment grips Harry so fast
that he looks away before his face can show it.
"Speaking of pocket-jumpers," Blaise says, leaning forward to peer at Harry, "where do you get
them?"

"They're called—" Harry cuts himself off with a sigh, knowing better by now than to try to change
their minds on what they're actually called. "You get them in Muggle shops."

Pansy clicks her tongue. "I bet there's no pocket-jumpers for girls."

"There is," Harry tells her. "You'd probably like some of them, actually. Draco and I will get you
one for Christmas, if you'll wear it."

"If it's worthy of being worn," Pansy says with a lazy flick of her fingers, "then wear it I shall."

"Get me one, too, why don't you?" Blaise drawls, rolling his eyes like he doesn't care. "Draco
always looks so blasted warm in his."

Draco smirks. "That's because I am."

Pansy suddenly shrinks down in her seat, making a small sound in the back of her throat. "Oh,
Merlin, don't look now, but there goes Professor Slughorn."

They all immediately look anyway, and Harry takes him in as he stands over a group of students
with a large grin. When he laughs, it booms out of him, and all the students in the immediate
vicinity shrink back like they're worried he'll notice them. Harry can't help but wince in sympathy.

"He's demanding we go to another Slug Club meeting, you know," Blaise mumbles, grimacing as
Professor Slughorn heads back for another fill up on his drink. "There's a party coming up near
Christmas. We're allowed to bring dates."

"We are," Pansy agrees with a mournful sigh.

Harry glances between them. "You're both in this weird club?"

"Sadly, yes," Blaise confirms. "So is Granger and Girl Weasley. Boy Weasley is unhappy about
that."

"You didn't tell me that," Harry accuses Draco, frowning over at him.

Draco pulls his gaze from Theo, frowning right back at Harry. "That's because I didn't know. I've
asked no one to tell me anything about Slug Club."

"Draco doesn't take kindly to rejection," Blaise tells Harry, his lips curling at the corners.

"Shut up," Draco grits out, and it's so vicious that Harry actually blinks at him. "I mean it, Blaise."

"Ah, Draco, what could it hurt?" Pansy teases, her eyes full of humor as she looks at him. "It's not
really a Hogsmeade trip if we don't tease you about Harry Potter, after all. It's just tradition."

"Wait, what?" Harry blurts out, leaning forward in immediate interest. "What's this about Harry
Potter? I'm listening."

"No, no, you're not listening," Draco hisses, taking out his wand and pointing at Blaise in clear
threat. "Because they have nothing to say."

"Draco, don't be so dramatic, darling," Pansy says with a lazy laugh. She rolls her eyes, then winks
at Harry playfully. "I'd expect you to know, actually. Draco rarely shuts up about Harry Potter.
This is the first year that he barely talks about him. Though, I suppose he's too busy talking about
you to do so."

Harry releases a delighted laugh. "Really?"

"Indeed," Blaise says. "He never shuts—ouch! Damn, Draco, that one actually hurt."

"The next will hurt worse if you don't shut it," Draco says stiffly, staring at them with murder in his
eyes.
Blaise lays his hand over his chest. "Have you been holding back all these years? For me? Aw, you
do care. How cute."

"Drop it," Draco says firmly. "I mean it."

"You're good for him, you know," Pansy tells Harry, still oh so amused. "Anyone who can get him
to move on from Harry Potter has to be. We've been trying for years."

Harry blinks. "Have you? I thought he hated Harry Potter. It sounds like he, er, didn't."

"Oh, he does," Blaise informs him. "Hates him more than he hates anything else. Almost to an
obsessive point, you see."

"Oh," Harry mumbles, feeling strangely disappointed by that. He doesn't know why. Of course he
knows Draco hated him. No wonder Draco doesn't want them to talk about this. He clears his
throat. "Yes, well, I don't really care to hear about someone Draco hates, honestly. It doesn't really
matter anymore, does it? Seeing as Harry Potter is missing."

"Probably dead," Blaise muses.

"He's not dead," Draco snaps.

Pansy smirks. "That's about the only thing that riles him up when it comes to Harry Potter these
days. He just can't seem to let go."

"You're a vile girl," Draco tells her. His eyes light up with malicious glee. "You know who isn't?
Lovegood is a lovely girl."

"Draco," Blaise says, and this time, it's him who has the strained voice, "stop it."

Draco blinks rather innocently. "Stop what? I'm not doing anything at all, Blaise. Just noting that
Lovegood is a rather lovely girl. Fanciable, I suppose. Wouldn't you agree?"
"You're vile," Blaise mutters.

Pansy tosses back her drink, slamming it down with more force than necessary. She shoves to her
feet with a scowl. "I'm getting another drink."

"Pansy," Blaise calls after her weakly, but she doesn't turn around. He sighs and fixes Draco with a
scorching glare. "Why are you terrible?"

Draco snorts. "If you'd just get over yourselves, none of this would be happening."

Blaise says nothing, looking away with a scowl of his own. Harry hasn't a clue what's going on, but
he feels a bit awkward. He turns his head to survey the room, looking at familiar faces.

He catches sight of Lavender and Parvati at a table with Neville and Seamus, giggling to each other
while Seamus glares at something across the room. Harry follows gaze to find, to his surprise, that
Seamus is glaring at the new corner where Dean and Ginny have relocated to, back to snogging.
Quickly snatching his gaze away, Harry glances around until he finds Luna, who seems to be
reading the Quibbler but actually isn't.

No, instead, her gaze is also pinned on Ginny and Dean, though it's wistful rather than angry, like
Seamus. Feeling a bit odd, Harry searches out his best friends, who are sitting where Ginny and
Dean used to be. They look terribly awkward, and Hermione has a ring of Butterbeer across her top
lip. Harry sees Ron's fingers twitch in a way that reminds him of something, though he has no idea
what it is. In the end, Ron balls his fist and must tell Hermione, because she hastily wipes her
mouth, turning red as she does.

Pansy is still at the bar, now glaring daggers at Luna, who is clearly oblivious to this. When Harry
checks again, Ginny and Dean are still snogging, and Seamus is still glaring. But now, Neville is
glancing over at Susan Bones nervously, seemingly unaware that Susan is looking at him when he
looks away.

"Merlin," Harry mutters.

"It's ghastly, isn't it?" Draco says with a sigh. "It's like everyone suddenly came into their hormones
all at once. I'm surrounded by pining."
Harry snorts. "It can't be that bad."

"Oh, really?" Draco arches an eyebrow and reaches out to grip Harry's chin in his hand, swiveling
his head to look at a younger Ravenclaw girl. "That is Greg's ex-girlfriend, who has been moping
since he dropped her. Weasley and Granger are being obtuse and disgusting, as per usual. Girl
Weasley is taking Thomas out for a spin, though it clearly won't last. In the meantime, though,
Finnegan is jealous because he's obviously been arse over tits for Thomas for years. Lovegood,
surprisingly, fancies Girl Weasley, who hasn't seemed to realize this yet, and Merlin knows how
she'll feel about that. Pansy is jealous of Lovegood because she happened to make Blaise laugh
once, and Blaise is too much of an idiot to pull his head out of his arse to realize that he actually
fancies Pansy properly, so they're also being obtuse and disgusting. Even Artimus is pining for
your owl, ridiculous as it may be."

"Oi!" Blaise protests in offense.

Harry doesn't care about any of that, though. He turns his head in Draco's hand, staring at him.
"And what about Theo?"

"Distracted at the moment, clearly," Draco drawls, arching an eyebrow at him.

"And...you?" Harry asks slowly, blinking at him.

"My options are rather limited," Draco tells him with a smirk, dropping his hand from Harry's face
and waving it around. "The students I have to put up with are all ridiculous. I'm above them all."

Harry chuckles, shaking his head. "You would say that. I don't believe you for a second, you
know."

"Believe what you will," Draco says simply. He pushes to his feet rather abruptly, just as Blaise
opens his mouth. "Come along. We'll be abandoning Blaise to Pansy's ire now. Fancy a walk?"

"Love to," Harry says immediately, hopping to his feet and following Draco through the room.

Before he goes, he catches sight of Hermione and Ron with their heads bent close together. It is
not, unfortunately, a new blossom in their relationship. Harry has seen that enough to know that
they're discussing something serious, plotting something, possibly. When their gazes flick towards
him all at once, he whips his head around and ushers Draco out of the door even faster.

"We'll be going to the lookout by the Shrieking Shack," Draco informs him quietly. "People rarely
go there, as you know. We'll be able to talk there."

Harry nods, walking along beside him. They're silent as they stroll along, and he spends time
looking around at everything. It's strange being here, so close to the castle, so close to Dumbledore.
The option to go there and explain everything is open. He has enough information on Voldemort
now that he might be welcomed back with open arms, regardless of the things he's done.

Welcomed back to what, though? A life imprisoned inside Grimmauld Place, just like Sirius?
People always assuming the worst of him, people that he's always trusted. Back to cryptic words
and secrets and lies, likely with the new addition of Dumbledore looking at him in disappointment.
Back in place, waiting for the moment that he'll be asked to die for a world that's abandoned him
yet again, a world he'd still die for anyway.

Harry can't go back, not after everything he's done. Besides, what information he does have doesn't
seem that earth-shattering. He knows Theo has a task, but not what task. He knows Voldemort is
after a wand, but not whether he's close to finding it. He knows how to destroy Horcruxes, but not
where they all are. What does he actually know, truly? Nothing.

Could he look Dumbledore in the face and admit that he's been under Voldemort's protection and
learned nothing this whole time? Could he admit that he trusts Voldemort, that he has compassion
for him in certain ways? Could he look Dumbledore in the eyes—if the man would actually look at
him—and say that he feels horrible things about him, despite the guilt he deals with for it?

No, Harry can't do that. So, he continues to walk with Draco, enjoying how normal all this feels,
making him feel a bit like he's actually here this year. It feels right.

When they break into the small clearing near the Shrieking Shack, Harry grins faintly at the utter
silence around them. No one is here. If anyone came, the crunch of their shoes in the snow would
alert them before they got close enough.

They're utterly alone.

Harry almost immediately shoves himself forward to throw himself at Draco and hug him with a
bark of laughter, knowing damn well that Draco is going to throw him off and scold him. Except,
well, Draco does not do that, because he never gets the chance. He clearly isn't expected to be
tackled like this, which is a bit ridiculous, really. Why wouldn't he think Harry would do this?

In any case, Draco goes down with a small yelp, slipping right down into the snow, bringing Harry
down with him. Their foreheads glance off each other, and Draco groans while Harry busts out
laughing. He gives Draco a tight squeeze and rolls off of him, lying on the snow beside him.

"Told you I was going to hug you," Harry declares with a breathless laugh. "It is really, really good
to see you, Draco, you have no idea."

Draco snorts. "Missed me, did you?"

"Yeah," Harry says honestly, sighing wistfully. "I did mope, you know. I'll do it again when I get
home."

"You're ridiculous."

"Maybe. You've missed me, too, haven't you?"

"Don't be daft," Draco mutters with a scoff.

Harry clicks his tongue and tears his gaze away from the sky to look at the side of Draco's face. "I
think you have."

"You're an idiot," Draco says softly. "Of course I've missed you. Use your brain for once."

Harry grins. "Mother's really do always know, I suppose. Yours says hello, by the way."

Draco hums. "Return the favor for me."

"Will do," Harry murmurs. He's a little distracted by the snow glittering on Draco's hair. "Do you
really not fancy anyone at Hogwarts?"

"I really don't," Draco says. "I wonder who you would pine over if you were here."

Harry blows out an explosive breath. "Merlin, I have no idea. There was only one person I fancied
last year, you know. We snogged once. It was…"

"Do finish that thought," Draco drawls.

"Well, it was rather, er, wet. She was crying at the time," Harry admits with a grimace. "Looking
back, it wasn't a very good snog."

Draco hums. "I've snogged Pansy before. We got trashed off the spiked punch at the Yule Ball,
then snogged rather sloppily. Fumbling Fourth Years, we were, but that's how I knew I'd never
fancy her, or any girls, really. A bad snog was all it took."

"Really?" Harry asks in surprise. "One bad snog? I had one bad snog, and I still fancy girls."

"Yes, well, I suppose my desire to snog boys rather than girls gave me an idea," Draco murmurs.

Harry glances over at him. "Who?"

"Pardon?"

"Who did you want to snog? The boy, I mean."

Draco gives a half-shrug in the snow. "Any boy, I suppose. Blaise, briefly, I think."

"Blaise?!" Harry blurts out incredulously, his head spinning. "Is he—does he—are you still—"

"Merlin, no," Draco says with a laugh. "If he wasn't so taken with Pansy, I imagine he'd give me a
spin, just to see. Nothing serious, you understand. We're really better off as mates."

Harry blinks. "Wait. He likes boys? I thought he liked girls!"

Draco shoots him a funny look. "You can like both, you know. You...do know that, don't you?"

"I...did...not…" Harry admits slowly, haltingly, his mind running in circles with this new
information. In horror, he turns to frown at Draco. "You don't like both, do you?"

Please don't like both, he pleads internally, being utterly ridiculous. That's too much. I can't handle
that, on top of Theo.

"No, no," Draco says with a grimace. "I'm as bent as they come, I suppose. If I wasn't, I probably
would have just dealt with marrying Pansy."

"Oh." Harry swallows his sigh of relief, feeling it might be a bit rude. "Well, that turned out alright,
didn't it? Aren't you so glad you listened to me?"

"Piss off," Draco says with a roll of his eyes.

Harry grins at him. "You never told me I was right, you know. I'm still waiting to hear it."

"Don't hold your breath." Draco shoots him a smirk, eyes lit up with humor. "You'll suffocate if
you do."

"Actually," Harry whispers, lifting his head as he glances around, then scoots closer to Draco, "I
won't. Merlin, I have loads to tell you."

Harry does, in fact, have quite a bit to catch Draco up on, so that's what he proceeds to do. He tells
him everything he's learned so far, even the information about Horcruxes—which, Draco doesn't
know what they are anymore than Harry does. He also tells him about Mrs. Malfoy and
Andromeda, which fascinates him and has him shooting off with questions and speculations.
He tells him, well, everything. He doesn't know why it comes flowing out now, but it does. Like a
spring suddenly bursting forth, Harry finally talks about all the things that he knows, the burdens
he's kept to himself, finally willing to share the weight of them. He wants to feel guilty for laying
this all on Draco when he has his own issues and things going on, but it's such a relief that he can't
stop once he's started.

It takes him a while to realize that this is partially Hermione and Ron's fault. Just seeing them has
made Harry want to spill everything, to open up and have someone he trusts know what he does.
They always knew his thoughts and secrets, right up until Fifth Year when he pushed them away.
And right when he wishes he could pull them back in, he simply can't.

Draco is what he's got now, and Harry is thankful that he has someone, at least. He trusts Draco as
fiercely as he trusts Ron and Hermione. Simply telling Draco everything makes him feel like he
can breathe a little easier.

Just as Hermione and Ron would, Draco has a lot to say about it all. Questions asked that Harry
can't answer. Theories and suspicions that can't be proven. Unlike them, however, he also makes
snarky comments that allows Harry to smile in the midst of all this mess, and that's the best part.

When Harry gets to the part about The Tale of the Three Brothers and Ollivander, Draco looks
horrified. "There's a dungeon in the Manor?!"

"Unfortunately, yes," Harry mutters. "I visit him as much as I can, but I always leave feeling
horrible. I wish I could free him."

"Perhaps you can," Draco says slowly. "All you'd need to do is open the floo, sneak him to it, and
you have your cloak, yes? Do it late at night."

"Draco," Harry whispers, "he'll find out where he is as soon as he walks through the Manor. I can't
endanger your mother like that. Besides, Voldemort would just find him again."

Draco shakes his head. "Not if he goes to Dumbledore. As much as I dislike the old coot, he's the
only one who could protect him from the Dark Lord. Tell Ollivander to floo to Hogsmeade and
stay in public. The Dark Lord won't reveal himself just yet, since he doesn't think it's time. All he
needs to do is get a message to Dumbledore, yes?"

"Well, I suppose," Harry says slowly, a plan taking shape in his mind. "What about the Manor,
though? If Ollivander told anyone—"

"Blindfold him," Draco suggests. "The Dark Lord surely took his wand. You could Spell the
blindfold so he can't take it off until someone does it for him when he gets to Hogsmeade."

Harry stares at him. "Draco, that's—it could go wrong, you do know that, yeah?"

"Yeah," Draco murmurs, looking at him with a strangely fond expression. "You're going to do it
anyway, aren't you?"

"I am," Harry admits. "Thank you. If it—Draco, if it goes wrong…"

"Plausible deniability," Draco says with an easy shrug, his lips twitching. "I assure you, my mother
and father would be able to get out of it. Besides, who's going to believe Ollivander when he says
the Dark Lord has kidnapped him?"

"Dumbledore."

"Well, yes, but who cares? Dumbledore's not going to be able to do anything, and I don't think he
would. He'll probably just help Ollivander, keep him safe, that's all. I'm more worried about what
the Dark Lord will do to you."

"I'll be fine," Harry says quickly, but it's too late.

Draco's face is already twisting into genuine fear, his breath hitching. "Merlin, I'm the idiot! I can't
believe I just gave you that idea. If—oh, he'll—"

"Hey," Harry murmurs gently, reaching over to grab Draco's hand, squeezing it, "I will be fine."

"Are you certain?" Draco asks, his voice cracking.

Harry's face softens. He can feel it. "I am."

Draco lets out a shuddering breath and flicks his gaze over Harry's face. "I wish you didn't look like
this," he says softly. "I want to see you."

"Close your eyes," Harry murmurs, swallowing when Draco does almost immediately. Shifting, he
scoots down in the snow, ignoring how cold it is, and he puts his cheek on Draco's shoulder,
ducking his head down and sighing softly. "I'm right here."

"For now," Draco mumbles. "You'll leave again."

"Are you going to ask me to stay?" Harry wonders out loud, the mere thought making his stomach
swoop and his heart squeeze.

Draco's swallow is audible in the quiet. "No, I'm not. Because you'll have to leave anyway."

"Yeah," Harry agrees miserably.

He knows exactly what that feels like. He remembers how it felt to stand in the room after Draco
walked out of it, back off to Hogwarts. It wasn't a good feeling, and he rarely revisits the memory.
Draco must be feeling that right now.

For a long time, they lay there together in the snow, getting drenched as it seeps into their clothes.
Harry doesn't look up to reveal a face that isn't his own, even with how badly he wants to look at
Draco's. Instead, he closes his eyes and breathes calmly, matching each inhale and every exhale to
the chest below his chin. It's very quiet.

Then, eventually, Draco heaves a sigh and nudges at him, urging him to get up. It likely has
something to do with how they're both shivering, and despite this, they're both reluctant to push to
their feet. Draco shoots drying and warming charms at Harry, then himself. He purses his lips, and
after a long beat, he reaches up and pulls the Shared Hoodie over his head, holding it out to Harry.

"Keep it," Draco mumbles. "Just until Christmas. Give me the one you're wearing."

Harry's lips twitch. "You know that means we'll have two Shared Hoodies, right?"
"Good," Draco says simply. "We'll rotate."

"Yeah, alright," Harry agrees, fond and amused.

Harry takes off his own pocket—er, hoodie, and swaps with Draco. The Shared Hoodie fits him
just as it always has, and it's very warm, but now it smells like Draco—like apples and the crisp
scent of Autumn. Harry's breathing deep almost immediately, not even realizing that he's doing it
until he decides he would like to do it again.

"Come on," Draco says easily, flashing one of his rare smiles, "I have galleons to spend. Want
anything from Honeydukes?"

Harry stumbles after Draco a bit helplessly, still a little fixated on the memory of his smile that was
there-and-gone far too soon. He hasn't seen it in a month and a half. Too long, in his opinion.

For the next few hours, they walk around Hogsmeade, going in and out of shops, talking amongst
themselves. Draco tells him more about the year so far, complaining frequently about how much
work they have to do for classes. Though, his eyes also light up when he talks about the challenge
of the new coursework, about all they're learning, and Harry feels a startling spike of envy. Merlin,
he knows it's bad if he's missing classes.

Draco does that ridiculous 'buying him whatever he touches for longer than five seconds' thing
again, which Harry protests, to no avail. They go in and out of various shops, running into other
students as they do. Twice, Harry actually bumps into people he knows, forcing him to physically
bite his tongue before he can say hello. It's particularly hard when he runs into Neville and Ginny,
but they just smile politely at him, the perfect stranger, and go back to what they're doing, none the
wiser.

He catches sight of Hermione and Ron again, once with Fred and George. Harry comes to a
screeching halt, wondering why the Weasley twins might be here, only to rush on when Hermione
catches sight of him looking and narrows her eyes. She's so ridiculously intuitive.

They also do eventually find Draco's friends again. Well, crowds of students are milling about,
whispering to themselves. Harry catches Katie Bell's name quite frequently, but he doesn't know
what they're talking about. When he and Draco meet back up with Blaise and Pansy—Theo has
apparently gone back to the castle, which is perfectly fine for Harry—they have information.
"They're saying someone Cursed her," Blaise whispers, his eyes a little wide. "Said she had a fit,
and that she might die. They'll probably ship her off to St. Mungos."

Harry swallows. "Who found her?"

"Who else?" Pansy says with a roll of her eyes. "It was Weasley and Granger, of course. They're in
the thick of it, as always, even without Harry Potter."

"Are they still here?" Harry asks.

"No, they went back up to the castle, we think," Blaise muses, shaking his head. "Merlin, nothing
can ever be normal at Hogwarts, can it?"

"You'd think, with Potter gone, it would be." Pansy snorts and shakes her head. "I thought he was
the Curse upon this school, but I guess not."

Blaise hums. "What if he Cursed her?"

"Don't be ridiculous," Pansy says immediately, waving a hand. "That would mean he was here, and
why would he be? Besides, even we have to admit that he's a goody Gryffindor. He'd never Curse
anyone; I just don't see it for him."

"Well, he did kill Bellatrix Lestrange," Blaise mutters, then frowns. "Though, who can blame him,
really? She was off, no denying it."

Pansy hums in amusement. "True. Do you think he's the Dark Lord's apprentice?"

"Maybe," Blaise whispers with a little grin. "Maybe he's out there somewhere right now, plotting
ways to destroy the world." He cuts himself off with a loud laugh, shaking his head. "Oh, please,
Pansy. It's like you said, he's just too good for that. No, if he's out of Dumbledore's clutches, there's
likely a good reason. I could be convinced to follow Potter, I think. I would join up with him if he
offers."
"Would you, really?" Pansy asks lightly.

Blaise nods solemnly. "Of course. He'd probably take over the world in the right way, unlike the
Dark Lord. Besides, it'll ensure I'll never have to see this prat again." He gestures to Draco.
"Because Draco would die before joining up with Harry Potter."

"You'd be surprised," Draco mutters, shooting worried looks at Harry.

"I don't think Harry Potter wants to take over the world," Harry rasps, his heart thudding in his
chest to hear people—two Slytherins—talk about him like he's good, even with knowing what he's
done.

Blaise clicks his tongue. "Maybe he should, honestly. He's better than Dumbledore and the Dark
Lord, in my opinion. He'd do it right."

"Wait," Harry says, blinking, "you think that the, er, Dark Lord is back?"

"Of course he is," Pansy murmurs, her voice growing quiet. "Potter said he was, and you'd have to
be an idiot to think Saint Potter was lying. He didn't kill Diggory, no matter what the papers say.
The Dark Lord is back, this I don't doubt. And with Potter gone, all we've got is Dumbledore,
meaning we have the Dark Lord."

Harry frowns at her. "How do you mean?"

Blaise sighs. "There's a war coming, Fawley. It would not do to be neutral, or on the losing side. If
it's a choice between Dumbledore and Voldemort, with who our families are, well, it's not a
choice."

"I wish we had more choices," Pansy says softly.

"Who knows?" Blaise asks breezily, offering her a quick but sweet smile. "Maybe Potter will come
back and swoop in."

Pansy rolls her eyes. "As if he can be a choice for us. He doesn't understand us, and he probably
won't ever be able to. All we can hope for is the war waiting until we're out of this school. I might
just take off to Hong Kong. I do love it there."

"Do you?" Blaise murmurs, his gaze flicking over her curiously. "Funny, I'm a fan of it myself."

"Oh," Pansy says, clearing her throat. She says nothing else, but she smooths down her hair, her
cheeks turning pink.

Blaise grins at her.

"Come on," Draco says with a sigh, "they're being disgusting again."

"Alright," Harry agrees quietly, his thoughts up in a tizzy in his mind as he follows Draco away.

As they stroll further up the path, Draco knocks his shoulder into Harry's. "Don't let that get to you.
They don't know the whole story, do they?"

"They're trapped, too," Harry mumbles.

"Yeah." Draco comes to a halt, swiveling around to face him with serious eyes, though there is a
sadness in them as well. "Honestly, you'll be hard-pressed to find a Pureblood Slytherin with
families like ours that isn't trapped, especially right now."

"It's wrong," Harry whispers fiercely.

"I know," Draco says. "You taught me that. But you can't save everyone, though you try."

Harry swallows thickly, staring at him. "Did I save you?" he asks, his words softer than a breath.

Draco's lips curl up in a faint smile. "You did. I dug my heels in the whole way, but you did."
"I won't apologize for it," Harry states strongly, staring at him defiantly. "I'd do it again. I'll keep
doing it."

"I know," Draco repeats, sighing softly. "Because that's who you are and what you do."

Harry's fingers twitch, and he suddenly can barely breathe as he whispers, "I've never wanted to
save anyone the way I want to save you, Draco."

Draco blinks at him, his lips parting.

He looks so, so damn soft. It's driving Harry a bit mad how his hair falls casually into his eyes,
never obstructing his vision, utterly perfect in every way. Harry thinks he's losing the plot, because
he can't stop sodding looking at Draco, and that feeling is back, making him want something. He
wants it so badly that he's ready to beg for it, even if he doesn't know what it is.

He steps forward almost desperately, willing this feeling to make sense. It always tries to explode
out of him, and he wants it to. He really, really does. But it doesn't, it never does, and maybe it's a
bit dramatic, but Harry is absolutely sure he'll go insane if he doesn't work this out. It just keeps
happening, getting worse every single time.

A hug isn't going to help this time. He somehow instinctively knows this. But he has no clue what
it is he needs, and the demand for it is making him nervous. He's so bloody nervous, and for what?
Eager, and nervous, and desperate, and scared. He wants something. Getting closer to Draco helps.

Draco blinks really, really slowly. His breath hitches. Right now, he looks so—

A hook snatches in Harry's center, and the last thing he sees before the world starts to swirl is
Draco blink rapidly in shock. Harry slams his eyes closed as he's pulled away, quiet literally, and
deposited on the marble floor he recognizes easily with a crash.

"No," Harry groans from the floor, bereft and utterly miserable. He didn't even get to say goodbye.

"Everything alright, darling?" Mrs. Malfoy asks him, looking down at him with a faint smile. "Did
you enjoy your trip? How is Draco?"
 Harry sighs and sits up, his heart deflating in his chest with disappointment. "Perfect," he whispers
sadly. "He's always so perfect."

Idiot,

How could you forget to tell me what time your Portkey was leaving? I would have kept a check on
the time, you git. I didn't even get to ⚫ say goodbye.

Nevertheless, I am over it. It's fine. I am out by the lake, currently. Pansy and Blaise are making
eyes at each other. In the distance, Girl Weasley and Thomas are fighting. I give them another two
months, or maybe four if they're enjoying the shagging.

I should tell you what I have learned about Katie Bell, I suppose. She has been escorted to St.
Mungos. It seems she really was Cursed. I asked Granger about it, and she was strangely
forthcoming. Apparently, she was given a Cursed Necklace and decided it was very important that
she take it to the Headmaster. I suspect foul play, as does Granger, and Weasley actually agreed
with me. He suggested it might be a Slytherin, though, so I don't take our agreement as a sign of
solidarity.

Pansy and Blaise have confided in me that they like you. They have plans to send you Christmas
gifts. I've informed them to send it to the Manor, telling them that you'll be visiting, because you
will.

About what we talked about with the blindfold, you'll be careful with that. Note that what I just said
wasn't a question. You will be careful. I mean it.

Otherwise, keep me updated, and I will for you as well. Also, don't mope. I do hate it when you
mope.

Wishing you well,

Draco

Chapter End Notes

I love Draco's friends. I love Harry's friends. ❤️
 November
Chapter Notes

Little warning for some angsty breakdowns and crying this chapter, but we've seen this
from Harry before, so no surprise there.

Otherwise, enjoy ;)

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Prat,

Sorry about that bit with the Portkey. I actually forgot. I guess I got so caught up in the day that I
didn't think. It was a nice day, though. Better not to say goodbye, I suppose, since those always
hurt a bit.

Anyway, Artimus is currently fluffing my owl's feathers? I'm fairly sure it's a sign of affection. My
owl is allowing this. In fact, her eyes are closed and she looks really peaceful. Needless to say, I
don't think Artimus is the only one pining, even if my owl doesn't seem to realize it yet. She's
usually more intelligent than this.

I'm happy to hear that Pansy and Blaise approve of me. I didn't expect it, but I like them as well. I'll
be getting Christmas presents soon, I think, just to have something to do. I'll get them pocket-
jumpers. What is Pansy's favorite color? Blaise? Should I get Vince and Greg presents? If so, give
me ideas.

What happened to Katie Bell sounds horrid. It also sounds, to me as well, like foul play. As if
someone wants to Curse the Headmaster, perhaps? Not to sound a bit like Ron Weasley, or
anything, but how can you be sure that it's not a Slytherin? You have to admit, it's a fair guess,
though it really could be anyone, couldn't it? Maybe even some adult in Hogsmeade. I do hope
Katie Bell recovers, in any case.

By the time this reaches you, it should be November, which is when I plan to do the thing with the
blindfold. I will be careful, I promise. You'll hear if it went well or not in my next letter, and
probably more details on the hols.

And, honestly, I am moping a bit. I've only been back for a week, and I already want it to be
Christmas. It's so quiet here.
Don't worry about it, though. I'll stay busy. Why don't you tell me more about classes? You'll still
study with Granger, won't you? Have Pansy and Blaise moved on to dating yet? I miss

Wishing you well,

The Idiot

October slips into November while Harry is moping even more than he did before he went to
Hogsmeade. He's spent a lot of time in the second Library, avoiding everyone. He wears the Shared
Hoodie practically every day, but it eventually stops smelling like Draco, which somehow makes
him mope more.

However, in the middle of the first week of November, Harry pulls himself together to get ready to
help Ollivander escape. It's going to have to be fast. Voldemort hasn't left again, not yet, but Harry
can't keep waiting for him to. Sneaking Ollivander food and human interaction has been a lot
harder to do with Voldemort in the Manor.

The first thing he has to do is wait until just before bed, lingering in the sitting room with Mrs.
Malfoy until the last possible second. She eventually puts away her book, standing to wish him a
good night, which is when he demands that she turn him into Arius Fawley once again. As always,
she looks like she wants to ask why, but she does it anyway.

After that, the Manor really is quiet. He hears it when Lucius' shoes click on the floor on the way
up the stairs to his and Mrs. Malfoy's room, then he hears nothing else for a while after that.

Past midnight, Harry stands and approaches the floo with his heart racing. Is he really going to do
this? Yes, yes he is. It's a risk, but he's all about those, isn't he? This is sort of what he does.

He opens the connection, then goes off to his room to grab his Invisibility Cloak. Even though he
doesn't actually need to sneak anywhere, Harry still puts it on. It makes him feel like he's in
Hogwarts again, avoiding Filch and Mrs. Norris, on some mission to do the right thing. His heart
races in his chest, and it's the first time he's felt this exhilarated since...since, well, Hogsmeade with
Draco.

The moment Harry reaches the dungeon without interruption, he yanks off his cloak and points his
wand at Ollivander, who looks startled. "Sorry about this, sir. Incarcerous."

Ollivander, understandably, jolts when cloth wraps around his head, covering his eyes. He
automatically lifts his hands like he might remove it, but Harry quickly throws a sticking charm at
it, weak enough that someone with a wand could remove it easily.

"What's happening?" Ollivander whispers.

"I'm getting you out of here, sir."

"He'll find me. He will. He's here. I know it."

Harry shushes him, moving closer. "It's fine, I swear. I have a—well, you know what an Invisibility
Cloak is, I think. And he won't find you, because you're going to floo to Hogsmeade and find
someone to get into contact with Dumbledore. Stay in public, where a lot of people are, and don't
leave until it's Dumbledore who's escorting you away. He'll protect you, sir, I promise."

"Dumbledore," Ollivander says faintly.

"I'm going to put the Cloak over you and lead you out. You can't look at anything. I'm sorry about
that, but trust me, it's better if you don't," Harry whispers to him. "Are you ready? Can you do
this?"

Ollivander lifts a shaking hand. "Yes, yes, I can do this. Death will come one day, whenever it is
time. We shall see if it is time for me."

Harry swallows thickly and drapes the Invisibility Cloak over him, tugging on it and urging him to
stoop down so it will cover him properly. He can no longer see Ollivander, but he can hear his
raspy breathing, which makes him wince.

"Sir, please, you have to be quiet," Harry pleads, leading him towards the stairs.

Thankfully, Ollivander is quieter from there. Harry carefully leads him out of the dungeons and
down the hall. It's not that far of a trip in retrospect, ten minutes at most, and yet it feels like years.
Harry's never been this cautious, quiet, or nervous in his life, which is saying something,
considering his life.

By some miracle, they do not run into anyone on the way to the fireplace. It's dark and quiet, and
Harry can hear his heartbeat in his ears as he reaches out and tugs the Invisibility Cloak off of
Ollivander. He's still blindfolded, and he jolts again when Harry shoves floo powder into his hand.

"Just walk forward, sir, the fireplace is there," Harry whispers urgently. "Go. Go."

Ollivander stands still for a beat, then he says, "I know every wand I've ever sold. I cannot begin to
wonder why you are here, why you are posing as someone else, but for this, I will tell no one.
Thank you, Harry Potter."

With that, Ollivander walks forward and throws down the powder, rasping out a destination before
going up in a flash of flames.

Harry's heart drops to his stomach, and he can't breathe. He can't breathe. The wand! His wand. Of
course Ollivander would know it, even with just a quick glance. Ollivander knows it's him, and
he'll be talking to Dumbledore soon. Tell no one? Not even the man who offers him protection,
who will ask with gentle kindness what he knows?

Dumbledore will find out. Tonight.

No, Harry most certainly isn't breathing. He can feel his face draining of color, and from there, he
starts to hyperventilate. What will Dumbledore think? What will he do? Will he come here? Harry
stumbles forward to quickly close the connection, breathing hard into the quiet. His hands are
shaking.

Alright. It's alright. Maybe Ollivander will actually keep his word. Harry did save his life, after all.
It's not bloody likely, but he can hope. Except, he can't, not really, because he's utterly terrified.
Dumbledore is going to know, and what then? What then?

Trying to breathe, or calm down, or something, Harry slowly turns around with gasping breaths.
This only succeeds in stealing his breath entirely. Because, through the darkness of the room, there
is a pair of glittering red eyes watching him.
For a long, long time, Harry just stands there and stares at a silent, still Voldemort. Then, finally, he
chokes out, "I'm sorry."

And he is, is the thing. Guilty because he's messed up, because he's betrayed Voldemort, because
he doesn't have it within him to be evil enough, because he can't quite be good enough, either.

Harry, very stupidly, feels like he's about to lose grasp on everything around him. Somehow,
somewhere along the way, he's come to appreciate everything Voldemort has done since the
beginning of the summer. Despite how utterly mad it is, he chose the sodding Dark Lord to trust, to
expect protection from.

He's traded Dumbledore in for Lord Voldemort.

The man who has tried to kill him multiple times. The man who actually killed his parents, who
killed Cedric, who only cares about Harry in whatever way he can because Harry is a Horcrux.
And Harry doesn't agree with his beliefs, or his actions, and he certainly doesn't want to follow him
or let him win.

This is all so, so complicated. Harry shouldn't be sorry, yet he is. He shouldn't be here, after losing
so much, thinking that Voldemort sending him away would be another loss, too. He is not that little
boy in a cupboard who just wants freedom, and acceptance, and protection. Not anymore. He isn't.

But he is, and he has always been, and he always will be. He can't escape that. He can't fix it, or
himself, and he doesn't know how not to be sorry. So damn sorry for all of it, for having too much
compassion or not enough, for being willing to die and utterly resistant all at once, for not knowing
what he should do and choosing wrong anyway.

"No," Voldemort says softly, "you're not."

"I am, I really am, and I don't want to be," Harry croaks, his voice cracking, his eyes itching. He
won't do this, not in front of him, not now. Voldemort will know; he'll see it, all of it.

Voldemort sweeps further into the room, jerking to a halt when Harry flinches. He pauses for a
beat, then glides closer, peering at Harry closely. "Do you regret your actions? Would you do it
again?"
"I don't, and I would," Harry admits hoarsely.

"Then how are you sorry?" Voldemort asks, seemingly genuinely confused.

Harry's breath hitches again, and he makes a frustrated sound in the back of his throat as he tries so,
so hard not to cry. "I just am, alright? I don't want you to—I don't want…I don't—I—"

"Harry," Voldemort says firmly, coming to a halt in front of him, his eyes narrowed, "I have not
possessed your mind since the very first time, as it is invasive. However, you make no sense
currently, and I will be tempted if you do not explain."

"Would you do it?" Harry rasps.

"Do you give me permission?"

"No."

"Then I would not," Voldemort says simply.

Harry feels a surge of pure anger grip him, making him do the last thing he would expect from
himself, the last thing Voldemort is expecting as well. Harry reaches out and shoves him, just
shoves him back with a deep gasping breath. Voldemort is surprisingly solid for him to be so
monstrous. He steps back like a man, though, no gliding about it, just a solid step back from where
Harry has pushed him. Voldemort looks surprised, so surprised that he doesn't even seem capable
of getting angry.

"Stop it!" Harry shouts. "Stop being like—like this. I've just let your prisoner go! The man you
needed answers from, freed before you could get them, and I knew you wouldn't want me to do it!
But I still did it. You should be angry; you should be lashing out. Do it. Go on, then. Take out your
wand and Crucio me, Tom! Do it!"

Voldemort does not do it. He simply stares at him. He doesn't even react to his name.

"I don't agree with anything you do!" Harry bursts out, rattling with rage. "I think your ideals are
stupid and pointless! I hate your Death Eaters, and I hate that you kill people, and I hate you. I
fucking hate you, do you understand that?! Why can't you hate me back, like you used to? That's
how it works. You're supposed to try and kill me!"

Again, nothing. Voldemort continues to watch him, utterly still, no reaction. Nothing.

Harry can feel it, the tears. They track hot paths down his cheeks. "Please," he chokes out, "just—
just stop it. Stop making this so hard. You're all making this so sodding hard, and I don't know
what is wrong or right anymore. Stop being better than him towards me; you're supposed to be
worse! I can't forgive you, I just can't, don't you get that? I shouldn't, but I do, and I don't, I don't
know. I don't know anymore, alright? I don't—"

Words will not come after that, for he is sobbing so hard that he can barely breathe with it.
Dumbledore, he thinks, would hug him. Maybe. Would he? Draco certainly would. Mrs. Malfoy,
Mrs. Weasley, Hermione, even Ron would. Sirius would. His parents would, wouldn't they? Even
in this moment of turmoil, losing control over right and wrong, pulled in so many different
directions, they would. He has to believe that, because this is how he holds onto them, in half-
wishes that they would just be here to prove what he hopes from them is true.

Voldemort does not hug him. Of course he wouldn't. That's to be expected, really. What Voldemort
does do is turn around and walk right out of the room without a word. Harry is somehow
simultaneously relieved and devastated by his departure.

In response, he cries harder. It hurts, as crying so very hard tends to do.

However, a few minutes later, Voldemort returns. Nagini is slithering in behind him, not
commenting on Harry's obvious distress for once. A tray is floating in behind them, carrying what
appears to be tea, a bowl of sugar, and a potion. With the hand not holding a wand, Voldemort
reaches out to grasp Harry's shoulder and lead him to the sofa in front of the fireplace, pushing him
to sit down on it.

It's the first time Voldemort has touched him in a long time. The last time, it hurt bad enough for
Harry to wish he was dead instead. This time, it doesn't hurt at all. It's rather frighteningly normal
—a steady weight on his shoulder, then more pressure as Voldemort silently urges him to sit
down.

Harry sits. He sits and he cries, because he apparently cannot stop. Voldemort flicks his wand,
making one of the chairs across the room skitter across the floor and stop behind him, right across
from the couch. He also sits.
The tray floats between them.

"Calming Draught," Voldemort says, gesturing to the vial on the tray.

Harry shakes his head. He doesn't want it.

"At your leisure," Voldemort murmurs.

So, while Voldemort sits there in silence, Harry cries. He covers his face with his hands because he
can barely stand it himself. There is no dignity to be found here, however, not in his shaking
shoulders and loud hyperventilating.

At some point, Harry's chest hurts and his eyes are itching and he's very, very exhausted. He
doesn't want to cry anymore, but he's strangely afraid to stop. Because when he does, he'll have to
face the things he's crying about to begin with.

Nonetheless, Harry is afraid of being afraid, so he takes in a rattling, wet breath and scrubs his
hands over his face under his glasses. He reaches out with fumbling, shaking hands to grab the vial
and down its contents before he can think too hard about it. The effect is instantaneous; he can
suddenly breathe easier, and his panic is dulled to a muted flutter in the back of his mind, easier to
ignore.

The first thing Harry says is, "Sorry."

Don't be distressed like that again, Nagini tells him rather simply, slithering her way up to the sofa
to deposit her head under his hand and in his lap.

"Sorry," Harry mumbles again, even more relaxed as the kettle sings at her touch. "I don't mean to
be."

"Harry," Voldemort says, "I'm not angry at you about Ollivander."

"You're not?"

"No."

Harry blinks at him. "Why?"

"We will get to that in a moment," Voldemort murmurs, flicking his wand again, making the tray
drift closer to Harry. "Have some tea."

"Alright." Harry makes himself some tea, using the sugar provided. That calms him even more,
and the first sip is heavenly.

Voldemort continues to watch him. "I would like to discuss your outburst. I have...queries."

"I don't want to talk about it."

"That is your choice, and I wish to respect it. However, I feel it is necessary to discuss it if you
wish to avoid this occurring again in the future. I would prefer it not to happen again."

"It probably will," Harry admits with a sigh. "I'm an angry person, haven't you heard?"

"That," Voldemort declares, "was not anger. Not on its own, at least. I know what anger is, and that
was not what you were feeling predominantly."

Harry swallows. "What do you want me to say?"

"The truth."

"I sometimes don't know what that is."

"Very well." Voldemort leans forward, looking into his eyes. "Let's start with this. You asked me
to harm you. Why?"

"Because you always have before," Harry answers.

"And I will never again."

"Because I'm a Horcrux."

"Yes." Voldemort cocks his head, his gaze flicking over Harry curiously. "This...displeases you?
Do you want me to harm you?"

Harry shakes his head. "No, I just…I wish…" He trails off, but Voldemort waits patiently. "I just
wish it wasn't because I was a Horcrux, alright? I never asked to be a target of yours. I never
wanted to be hurt by you, but that wasn't enough. It was never enough for you that I didn't want
any of it, not until you found out that I'm some—some thing that protects you."

"I see," Voldemort murmurs. "Would you like me to apologize?"

"Would you mean it?"

"I do not know."

"You don't...know?" Harry mutters, blinking. "What does that even mean?"

Voldemort hums thoughtfully. "I have never considered how you might have felt as my target,
therefore I did not know it was a point of issue for you. I will not apologize for the things I have
done to you in the past, as I had reasons for them. I do not feel guilt or remorse, not as you do, so I
cannot actually be sure if my apologies would be genuine. I will, however, admit that it displeases
me to know you are very upset about the strife I've caused you."

"Yeah, well, how would you feel?" Harry asks with a scoff. "It's more than just a bit of strife."

"I am seeing that," Voldemort notes mildly. "If it was me in your position, I would feel...anger."
Harry huffs. "I know. Trust me, I know."

"That is not all you feel, however," Voldemort says, staring at him intently. "You feel a great deal,
and I do not understand most of it. I want you to explain to me what you meant by asking me to
stop."

"You really don't know?" Harry whispers.

Voldemort steeples his fingers. "I do not. Explain."

"It's hard to explain. It's not just you; it's Mrs. Malfoy and Draco, too," Harry mumbles. He takes
another sip of his tea miserably. "I expected things of all of you, and it's not… It isn't going like I
thought it would. You, most of all. I don't know if you know this, but—but I've never had someone
be honest with me the way you are, not even Dumbledore. I've never had someone give me my
freedom with my own life. I've never had someone take me away from the Durselys, or let me
make my own decisions, or listen to me like you do. And you shouldn't, because you're you.
Despite everything, you're still you, and you haven't changed, not really, but I have, and I need you
to stop. You have to stop, because I—I don't want to feel like this anymore."

"Feel like what?" Voldemort asks softly.

Harry sits his tea down, staring blankly down at Nagini's head. "I feel like I've betrayed him.
Dumbledore, I mean. I feel like I've betrayed the whole world. All because I'm grateful for the way
you've treated me. I feel like I'm betraying my parents' memory. All because I'm trying so, so hard
not to trust you, but I do anyway."

"As I have said before, Harry," Voldemort murmurs, "when someone has earned your trust, you
give it wholeheartedly. And, when someone has lost it or betrayed it, you are hurt by it very
deeply, so much so that you take it back and are wary to offer it again. In fact, if you were to do so,
I suspect that it would not be wholehearted the second time."

"I don't want to feel this way," Harry whispers.

Voldemort hums. "And yet, you do. Dumbledore will not see it as betrayal, Harry. He will think
you have lost your way. Have you?"
"Maybe," Harry says. "It doesn't feel that way sometimes, and then other times it does."

"You should know, he would take you in," Voldemort tells him, his tone strangely...gentle? "He
would welcome you back, even right now. I want you to be aware of that."

Harry lets out a hollow laugh, shrugging. "What does that matter when I don't trust him?"

"Therein lies the problem." Voldemort sighs and leans back in his chair, tapping his lipless mouth,
his eyes red as always. "Your parents. Why have you never asked me about them?"

"What would you say?"

"Ask and you shall find out."

"My mother…" Harry feels like a splinter has lodged in his throat. "I shouldn't remember that
night, but I dream of it in flashes sometimes. I—I hear her screaming when Dementors are near.
Was she… When she pleaded with you, did she cry?"

"Yes," Voldemort answers.

Harry takes a deep breath. "Were they scared?"

"Yes," Voldemort murmurs. "That does not mean they were not brave. They were frightened for
their son, but they were brave enough to face me. It was very, very stupid of them, but brave."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Because it is true and you asked."

"You offered to spare her life," Harry murmurs, his heart thundering in his chest. "Would you
have?"
"Yes," Voldemort admits.

"She was a Muggle-born, though," Harry says.

Voldemort hums. "She was. She was also a notably talented Witch. Furthermore, there was
someone in my ranks who begged me to spare her life, and I told them I would if I could."

"Who?"

"Severus."

Harry blinks. "Snape? But...why?"

"He grew up with your mother and was her best friend," Voldemort tells him. "He loved her, and
he hated your father. In the end, your mother chose your father, but Severus always loved her. He
likely still does to this day."

"I…" Harry stares at him, baffled. His mind has to soak up this new information, then learn to
adjust to it. That's all it seems to be doing as of late. "I don't know what to say about that, honestly.
It's so...odd."

"It would be, from your perspective."

"I don't want to think about this anymore. I wonder if Professor Lupin knew that. Dumbledore
does, no doubt, and he kept that to himself, too. Why, why, why did he never tell me anything?"

"I believe that, as most things, was well-intended." Voldemort waves a hand. "They consider it
Severus' secret, his privacy, and it would be wrong of them to tell you. I have no such qualms."

Harry frowns. "But she's my mother, though. I'm the one who never got to know her. I don't care
whether Snape hated my father or not, if he actually loved my mother, he'd never treat me the way
he did as my Professor. All I've ever wanted was to know them; as people, as parents. And I never
will."

"No," Voldemort agrees, "you won't."

"Which is your fault."

"Yes."

"Can you understand now? Why I feel like I'm betraying them," Harry mumbles, heaving a sigh.

Voldemort pauses, tilting his head. "I do see your dilemma, yes. However, I will tell you something
I'm sure no one has. On the night that I killed your parents, Harry, I walked into their home with
one purpose. Your father fought me, for you. Because he wanted you to live. When you were
nothing more than a squalling infant, he gave his life with the hope that you would be able to live
yours. Your mother was kneeling before you when I entered the nursery. She was telling you that
she loved you, that she would always love you, no matter what. And, when I offered to spare her
life if she would grant me yours, she refused. Before she knew what choices you would make, or
who you would become, she loved you. They did not care that they would never see you grow up,
they did not care that they would never see what choices you would make, they simply wanted you
to be alive to make them. And here you are, alive to do so. Their dying wishes granted. I do not
think it matters what you do with your life, for it is your own, and they died hoping you would live
it."

Harry is silent for a beat, taking that in, holding it close to his heart. He needed that. It's like a
pulse of love and warmth right in his soul, and Voldemort is the one who offered it to him.

"Is that supposed to make me feel better?" Harry rasps, even though it does in some ways.

"I should think so," Voldemort says calmly, watching him. "To know that you cannot disappoint
them, no matter what you do, should. By simply breathing, you have given them what they wanted.
The rest, I believe, is your choice."

Harry closes his eyes. "That's not fair. I've asked you to stop. You—you can't do this to me."

"I have done nothing but be honest."

"Please."

"I do not know what you are asking for," Voldemort admits, his voice so soft, almost melodic.

"I don't want to forgive you," Harry chokes out.

"Then do not," Voldemort murmurs. "I do not expect you to."

Harry opens his eyes, feeling his face and heart twist sharply. "I already have."

Voldemort says nothing for a long moment, and Harry wants to cry again. He wants to, but he can't
because of the Calming Draught. The words he's just spoken and the truth in them make it a close
thing anyway.

How can he forgive him? How? What kind of person does it make him to forgive a monster? All
because that monster has given him things no one else has. All because things are so complicated
that he doesn't know what's right or wrong anymore. Does it mean that he is so good, down to his
core, that he can forgive, or does it mean he's horrible?

Harry doesn't know.

"I see," Voldemort says quietly. "I believe I understand your earlier outburst."

Harry gives a weak laugh. "Yeah, makes a strange bit of sense now, doesn't it?"

"It does," Voldemort agrees. He pauses, flexing his fingers and rubbing his chest. Finally, he sits
up straighter. "Do you wish to know why I am not angry about Ollivander now?"

It's clearly an opening to move on from the subject matter, and Harry jumps at it. "Yeah, actually."

"I was aware that you were doing it," Voldemort tells him. "I had Spells in place to notify me of
when anyone went in and out of the dungeon."

"You watched me help him escape?" Harry asks incredulously, blinking in shock.

Voldemort hums. "Yes."

"Why?"

"You made the choice to help him, and I did not stop you. I no longer needed him."

"I… Wait, you didn't need him anymore?"

"I can find answers elsewhere. Better answers than he could have provided me with. I will have to
be patient, but I will obtain them eventually."

"So you just...let me let him go," Harry murmurs.

"Yes," Voldemort says.

Harry releases a huff of sardonic laughter. "Yeah, alright, why not? It's not like any of this can get
more ridiculous. Brilliant. So, you heard that he knew it was me, then?"

"I did." Voldemort peers at him curiously. "You don't want Dumbledore to know you're here."

"Guilt, shame, anger," Harry says by way of explanation, sighing tiredly. "The usual. Or he—he
might try to save me."

"You do not wish to be saved."

"I figured that was obvious."

Voldemort hums. "It's becoming clearer. Are you calm enough now to sleep? It is late."

Harry sighs. "Thinking I'll get any sleep tonight is a joke, but sure, have a right laugh about it.
That, or join me in my nightmares when I do eventually pass out. I'll see you there, I suppose."

"Perhaps," Voldemort allows. "One can never be certain. I do not have control of when I am there
or not. Would you like me to tell you if I am?"

"At this point, I think I'd rather not know. Not about that, at least. Not unless I ask."

"Very well."

"Right." Harry gently pushes Nagini's head out of his lap, and she makes a low hissing noise that
might be a protest or a snore. He stands up, frowning at Voldemort. "I suppose this is as good of a
time as any to tell you that I've decided to let you teach me."

"This pleases me," Voldemort says simply. "On the days I am available, I will retrieve you after
breakfast. If you're open to it, I will ask Narcissa to teach you certain things as well."

Harry blinks. "Oh. Well, yeah, that's fine. Not Lucius, though. I might kill him after a lesson."

"I do not know if you're joking."

"Honestly? Neither do I."

"Go rest, Harry," Voldemort says, looking vaguely amused again.

"Goodnight," Harry says without thinking, grimacing as soon as he hears himself. He instantly
turns and starts for the door.

Voldemort hums in undeniable amusement from behind him. "Goodnight. Nagini, say goodnight."
Goodnight, Nagini says agreeably.

Harry does not respond.

Idiot,

Goodbyes are wretched.

Artimus is most certainly pining. It's getting to the point where she even gets sad being away from
your owl. I don't think my presence helps much. The monster actually snapped at me when I told
her to pull herself together and have some dignity. Snapped! Nonetheless, she gave a rather sad
trill and I could not help but pity her. Love, for all that it seems wonderful, is completely dreadful.

Pansy's favorite color is black, and no I am not joking or being ironic. She says it goes good with
her hair and her complexion. Her second favorite color, because I asked, is a slightly lighter black.
Again, I am not joking. Her least favorite color is grey. Do try and avoid that one.

Blaise's favorite color is pink, and that also is not a joke or me being ironic. He genuinely likes it.
What started as a joke he made when we were five has actually turned out to make him like the
color. His least favorite is purple. He claims it hurts his eyes, which I don't believe.

I think it is good to get them pocket-jumpers for Christmas, and sunglasses if you're feeling
generous. I'll just be telling them that we are sending them these gifts. Before you scream about the
injustice of it, you may do the same for the presents I get for Vince and Greg.

I noticed that you didn't bring up Theo at all. Strange. We'll be getting him a pocket-jumper too, of
course. For one, it's polite. Besides, I think he would look good in his own. Don't you? Anything
that might perk him up a bit is welcomed. He's become even more withdrawn since Hogsmeade,
and I'm growing more and more worried about him every day. He rarely even sleeps! I can tell
because he has bruises under his eyes and he's out of bed practically every night.

I am eagerly awaiting your next letter, for I am concerned about what's happened with the
blindfold. It is, admittedly, driving me a bit mad that I have to wait to find out if you're okay or not.
Please be You better be okay, or I swear to Merlin, I will murder you.

On a lighter note, I've adjusted to classes. Also, good news, I'm on the Quidditch team this year!
Seeker. Again. It will be strange not flying against Harry Potter this year, but Girl Weasley has
replaced his position, while Weasley is Gryffindor's new Keeper (which should be amusing), and
someone named Cormac McLaggen has replaced Girl Weasley's position.

I have been studying with Granger still, yes. Sometimes Pansy and Blaise will join me. I doubt
things will ever truly be easy between all of us, no matter what Granger thinks about inner-house
unity.

You should know, Weasley is no longer allowed within two feet of Granger, Pansy, or me. See, he
has gone and become even more of an idiot since he was previously. Apparently, after his first
match, Lavender Brown snogged him for the Gryffindor win, right in front of Granger, might I add.
She hexed him later when he found her crying, rightfully so in my opinion. He has since been
snogging Lavender Brown at every available opportunity. I do not think they even take time to
breathe. Granger is avoiding him, and in doing so, she has spent more time with Girl Weasley and
in the Library, where that pack of Slytherins you're so fond of will join her.

It took approximately three hours for Pansy to get what happened out of Granger, and since, we
have all taken turns insulting Weasley to lift her spirits. Pansy is especially ruthless and has
decided that Granger is too good, too smart, and too pretty for Weasley. Seeing as I can tell how
unhappy Granger is currently, I am inclined to agree. Vince and Greg offered to beat Weasley to a
pulp for her (which either means they noticed the tears she only just managed to hold back, which
is unlikely, or they actually like her), but she refused, though she actually paused to consider it.
Who knew Granger could be so vicious when she wanted to be? Blaise, however, has declared
Weasley an idiot and said not to be so hard on him, which I find preposterous. Theo, as always,
had very little to say on the matter.

Pansy and Blaise have not moved past pining yet, which is utterly ridiculous. It's starting to annoy
me. I wish they'd just get it over with already. All their romantic frustration is starting to make me
frustrated.

How are you? You better respond to this. I mean it. Also, do stop moping. I hate when you mope.

Wishing you well,

Draco
"We'll be starting with Potions."

Harry warily shifts from behind his desk, staring at Voldemort cautiously. He doesn't want to say
that starting with Potions will most likely ensure that this whole thing will end before it really
begins. Though things haven't been strange between them since his outburst, Harry can't help but
feel awkward around Voldemort.

He's also ever so slightly wary of the strange classroom atmosphere this room has. Voldemort has
provided him with a desk, a cauldron, and shelves full of ingredients. There's even some parchment
and a quill in an inkpot on the desk. This is, however, the first classroom of any sort that Harry has
been in that contains a snake the size of Nagini. She's currently curled up lazily in the back corner,
out of Harry's sight so he won't be speaking Parseltongue.

"Brilliant," Harry says flatly. "This should go well."

Voldemort stares at him for a beat. "You don't think so. Why?"

"Potions is my worst subject."

"Why?"

"Er, well, I'm not really good at it, I suppose," Harry admits, then grimaces. "It doesn't help that
Snape is the Professor. Or was. I have no idea how I would have worked under Slughorn."

"I am not Severus," Voldemort says. He hums and looks down into the cauldron he's standing
beside, smoke billowing from the top of it. "I imagine you wouldn't have liked Horace Slughorn.
He tends to play into his favoritism."

Harry blinks. "You know of him?"

"I was his student." Voldemort looks up at him, his red eyes glinting. "A favorite of his, in fact. I
do not think he would admit that to anyone today, nor would he tell a soul that he was the one who
informed me what Horcruxes were to begin with when I approached him and asked."
"Him?" Harry blurts out, stunned. "He seems so…"

Voldemort hums. "Looks can be deceiving, as mine were back then. To him, I was just a charming
boy with a curious mind."

"That was deceit?" Harry asks warily.

"No, perhaps not. I was capable of being charming, and I do, in fact, have a curious mind,"
Voldemort allows. "Now, come here and examine this Potion as it is supposed to look in its
finished product."

Harry rounds his desk, walking up to the cauldron to peer down at it with a small frown. "What is
it?"

"Do not worry about that just yet. Tell me what you see. Describe it."

"It's...a...potion…?"

"Harry, what color is it? What consistency does it appear to have? How does it smell?"

"Oh. Right. Sorry, Snape never had us do this."

Voldemort crooks a naked eyebrow. "As I said before, I am not Severus. Describe it."

"Alright. It's...er, sort of pale pink. Almost clear, actually." Harry leans closer, his brow furrowing
as he inhales. "It smells like...nothing. It doesn't have a smell. And it looks, well, thin. Like boiled
water."

"Yes," Voldemort agrees. "This is Draught of Living Death. It puts the person who drinks it in a
comatose state, close to death but not quite, hence the name. It is a very complex potion to brew."
Harry frowns. "I hate to tell you this, but I'm probably going to explode my cauldron."

"I will not let that happen. Take this, go retrieve the ingredients, but do nothing with them."

Harry takes the list Voldemort gives him and carries it off with a small frown. He recognizes some
of these ingredients. Snape asked him about a few in his First Year. Merlin, if it's such a complex
potion that even Voldemort says it is, Snape really must have had it out for him from the very
beginning! He's an even bigger git than Harry realized.

He gathers what's needed, distractedly throwing glances at Voldemort as he does. He doesn't really
know what to expect with Voldemort teaching him, but he can't see what it would hurt. Besides, in
a very strange way, he's sort of missed learning.

Once he gets everything needed on his desk, he looks up and says, "Alright, what now?"

"Now," Voldemort says, "you are going to read, out loud, the entire process for this potion from
start to finish. Every step. Twice. Slowly."

"Is there a point to this?" Harry asks with narrowed eyes, feeling strangely attacked, as if
Voldemort thinks he's an idiot. He isn't.

Voldemort sends parchment over to him that has the instructions already written in neat
handwriting. "Yes, there is a point to this, Harry. It is very easy to remember things you have not
only seen but heard, especially if it is repeated. You will also be saying each step out loud before
you do it and as you do it."

"And if I mess up?"

"Then you will try again."

"We'll be here all day," Harry declares with a sigh.

But that isn't the case. They are not, in fact, there all day. Harry messes up with the potion a total of
two times. When Voldemort notices that it hasn't turned a lilac color when it should, he simply
vanishes it and has Harry explain where and what he messed up, then makes him start again. The
second time he messes it up, it's because Harry didn't add enough stirs clockwise, and Voldemort
repeats the vanishing process before telling him to count all his stirs out loud. It makes Harry feel a
bit like a child, but he does it anyway.

On his third try, Harry's astonished to see that his potion looks just like the one Voldemort brewed
did. He blinks down at it in genuine surprise, a little startled that he actually managed to get it
right. It took a little over two hours, but he did.

That might have something to do with the fact that Voldemort never once yelled at him, or
swooped down on him like an overgrown bat, or showed an ounce of impatience. In fact, he's been
mostly calm and collected this entire time, simply asking Harry to tell him every step of the
process, never interrupting, even when he messed up. Voldemort could have stopped him, because
he surely knew Harry was messing up, but he didn't. No, instead, he let Harry do it, that way he'd
remember not to do it the next time, and Harry did. Actually, Harry's pretty sure he'll remember
this potion fairly well.

"I suggest you take a vial of it," Voldemort tells him, waving a hand lazily towards the empty vials
on one of the shelves. "If you are to be making potions, you should reap the rewards of your
efforts."

Harry raises his eyebrows. "I don't know what I'd do with a vial of Draught of Living Death,
though."

"Perhaps not today," Voldemort muses, "but that could change tomorrow. Take it."

"Alright," Harry says slowly, going to grab a vial. He glances at Voldemort as he carefully spoons
some of his potion that he's oddly proud of. "Don't you think it's a bit dangerous to give a sixteen-
year-old a vial of this stuff? No Professor would, you know."

Voldemort sends him a rather pointed look. "Children, when provided with trust, often have no
desire to break it without reason. Furthermore, I am not a Professor, and you are no regular
student."

"Fair enough," Harry agrees with a shrug, sitting the vial down. "What next?"

"I believe we will move onto Charms," Voldemort says simply, waving his wand and sending
Harry's cauldron floating away. "First, I want you to attempt to levitate your quill without actually
speaking the incantation aloud."

Harry frowns at him. "Wordless?"

Voldemort nods. "You have seen me do most, if not all, of my magic without saying a word. You
have done this as well, if you recall."

"I have?" Harry blurts out, surprised.

"Before you murdered Peter Pettigrew, you moved two different chairs across the room,"
Voldemort tells him bluntly. "Following after, you opened the door. You did all of this without
saying an incantation. Whether you realized it at the time or not, you were using Wordless Spells."

Harry swallows. "I was just...angry."

"Yes, it is easier to do magic based on intent when your emotions are spiking. Today, you will
attempt to do an easy Spell while calm."

"Oh. Do I just...think it?"

While Harry feels like an idiot for asking, Voldemort doesn't seem to think so. "You may, if it aids
you, but it is mostly about intent."

"Right," Harry mutters, turning to frown at the quill on his desk.

Wingardium Leviosa, he thinks at it.

The quill does not move. It continues to not move for the next thirty minutes, and Harry is
beginning to get frustrated, not to mention nauseous. He pauses in his efforts, sighing as he scrubs
a hand over his brow in irritation.

"Harry," Voldemort says patiently, "you cannot will yourself to do it, or else you will not be able
to."

Scowling, Harry huffs. "What does that even mean? How else am I supposed to do it if I'm not
expecting myself to? That doesn't make sense."

"This is a low-level Spell—"

"Yeah, I know. I'm an idiot, I got it."

"I did not say that." Voldemort peers at him, seemingly at complete ease behind his desk. "Listen
to what I am telling you, Harry. This is a low-level Spell, so you are very familiar with it. You
already know you can do it; you aren't relearning it. All you are doing is applying it in a new way.
Do not try to do something you don't know how to do; instead, do something you already know in
a different way."

"Can I whisper it first?" Harry asks.

Voldemort waves a hand. "If that will aid you, yes."

Harry turns back to the quill and whispers, "Wingardium Leviosa."

He thinks he gets what Voldemort means because the quill immediately lifts off the table. Harry
had barely breathed the incantation, and yet, it had worked because he expected to, because he
already knew he could do it. It does make sense, he supposes.

It still takes him another fifteen minutes to get the quill to levitate without uttering a word, but the
moment he does it, he lets it flutter back down so he can do it again. And again. And again.
Because he can do it now, just like that, all because he has already done it and knows he can.

"Good," Voldemort says simply, turning away to go to the other side of the room, utterly oblivious
to the way Harry beams at the praise. By the time Voldemort is walking back with a floating chunk
of stone, Harry has managed to get his face under control. Voldemort deposits the stone on Harry's
desk with a loud thunk. "There is another charm I will be teaching you. Repeat after me. Defodio."
Harry blinks. "Defodio."

"Again."

"Er… Defodio?"

"This is known as the gouging charm," Voldemort explains calmly. "It allows those who cast it to
carve rather harmlessly into stone, marble, hard earth, and other such materials as that. It can be
helpful to those who wish to retrieve something hidden, or those who wish to sculpt, and I have
heard a few stories of those who splinched themselves into the side of buildings getting out with
this Spell. In reverse, this Spell can be used to drop ceilings on people, or bury someone alive by
making a hole in the ground before covering those who have fallen into it, and I have watched
someone use this Spell to carve into someone's flesh."

"Bloody hell," Harry hisses, with feeling, shocked by the mere idea of all that. "Why would
someone—"

"That," Voldemort cuts in, "is not the point. The point, Harry, is that nearly all Spells can be used
in both a positive or negative manner, and they are important to know no matter your plans for
them. Do you understand?"

Harry blinks, pausing to actually think about that, sighing a moment later. "Right. Got it."

"What is the incantation?" Voldemort asks.

"Defodio," Harry rattles off immediately.

Voldemort nods in approval. "Yes. This Spell does require wand movement, but not in a specific
pattern. You guide the magic where you want it to go. Like so."

Just as always, Voldemort doesn't actually say the incantation as he points his wand at the stone,
but mere seconds later, a deep line cuts through the center of it. It's smooth, perfect, no cracked
edges or residue left over. Harry reaches out and touches it in surprise—it's the same temperature as
the rest of the stone, and the line is sharp and clean.
"Can I try?" Harry blurts out.

"I intend for you to, yes," Voldemort says.

So, Harry tries. His first attempt does absolutely nothing, which doesn't really surprise him.
Charms are all about making something happen, and while Harry is good at that, usually, it can be
a bit of a struggle when he isn't in the heat of the moment. He remembers how hard it was for him
to grasp Accio in fourth year, but how easy it came to him the moment he really needed his broom
to help him out-fly a sodding Dragon.

So, yes, Harry is at his best when he's in an environment where he has to be. That, or when he's
feeling all his loudest emotions bubbling to the surface, and then he's not really trying, he's
just...doing it. This takes more effort, but he doesn't really mind. Voldemort does not rush him, or
interrupt him, and there aren't people around him making attempts or getting it.

He bets Hermione could do this Spell. He wonders if she knows it already. He thinks about how
this Spell could have been helpful to him in the past. He can think of a few different situations,
honestly.

Finally, after an hour of attempts, Harry gets a crack in the stone. It splinters into a jagged line that
isn't as deep or neat as Voldemort's, but it's there. After that, he redoubles his efforts, happy to see
results. It takes him a bit, and he fumbles a few tries, but he eventually manages to spell out his
first name in harsh lines that look better towards the end.

"Good," Voldemort praises again. "Practice that Spell more. We will revisit it. For now, we will be
moving on to the subject of the Dark Arts and how one should go about defending them. This will,
I suspect, turn into a debate, which I will allow as long as you apply yourself to the Spells I teach."

Harry narrows his eyes at him. "I won't do anything I don't think is right. I just won't."

"As is your right," Voldemort muses, smirking just a bit. "We will start light, to begin with."

"Alright," Harry says warily. He pauses. "Who, er, will I be trying these Spells on?"

Voldemort looks amused. "Me. Who else?"

Harry stares at him. "You're going to let me?"

"Are you opposed?" Voldemort asks.

"No, no, definitely not," Harry says quickly, more than eager to be allowed to hex Voldemort.
Honestly, he's dreamed about something like this.

"First, repeat after me. Langlock."

"Langlock."

"Again."

"Langlock."

"This Spell was created by Severus," Voldemort informs him, holding up a hand with a sharp look
the moment Harry opens his mouth to protest. "Before you declare yourself unwilling, allow me to
explain what this Spell is. You will find that it can be quite useful. You have encountered it already
before, though you were unaware of it at the time."

Harry narrows his eyes suspiciously. "When?"

"On the Auror that you used the Imperius Curse on. Langlock ensured that he could not speak. This
Spell can be used for many different reasons. To keep someone from saying an incantation during
a duel; to keep a victim from screaming; to quiet someone who annoys you. It can also suffocate
someone if you intend for it to. It works on people as well as spirits." Voldemort opens his hands,
his wand aloft, an eyebrow arched. "Are you willing to learn it?"

"I suppose it can't hurt," Harry says after a beat of consideration. He flicks his gaze to Voldemort's
wand. "Are you going to demonstrate it on me?"

"If you are willing. It would be easier for you to learn if I did," Voldemort tells him, calm, not
demanding in the least. "But I will not force you."

Harry heaves a sigh. "Just don't suffocate me."

"I will not," Voldemort assures him. "The Spell feels like this. Do not be alarmed."

Despite this warning, Harry still is a bit alarmed when Voldemort points his wand at him. A beat
later, Harry can feel his tongue stick to the roof of his mouth, just the front half of it. He imagines
that Voldemort could easily make his whole tongue press up and back, blocking his airway, but he
hasn't. Harry simply can't speak, and he makes a small, muffled sound as he tries to get his tongue
back under his control.

When Voldemort moves his wand away, Harry coughs and clicks his tongue, muttering, "Well, it's
not the worst Spell you've ever used on me."

"Indeed, it is not," Voldemort agrees without an ounce of shame. "What's the incantation?"

"Langlock," Harry says promptly.

Voldemort nods and lowers his hands. "Good. Now, try for yourself. I will be able to overpower it,
so do not think that you can simply leave it on."

Harry, who was contemplating the merits of this, even for a simple joke, snorts and says, "What
are you talking about? I'd never. The thought didn't even cross my mind, Mr. Voldemort, Dark
Lord, sir."

"I'm sure it didn't," Voldemort murmurs, back to looking vaguely amused again. "At your leisure."

"Right," Harry mumbles, taking a deep breath. He raises his wand. "Langlock!"

It works instantly, and Harry knows it does because he can see Voldemort's jaw work just a bit.
When he hums, it comes out muffled and approving in a distorted way. Harry beams and drops his
wand. He just shut Voldemort up—only for a few seconds, but still. Merlin, his life is so bizarre.
"You grasped that Spell rather quickly, Harry," Voldemort notes.

Harry shrugs. "Defence Against the Dark Arts was always my best subject. I like it the best, and
it's different. More practical, you know? With Charms, you're making something happen. With
Transfiguration, you're making something change. Potions, you're making something. But this?
You're actually doing something, you know?"

"You are passionate about this subject," Voldemort says softly.

"Yeah, well, considering my life, it's lucky I'm so good at it," Harry mumbles, a bit awkward.

Voldemort just hums. "It was always my favorite subject as well, believe it or not."

"I believe you. It wouldn't be the first thing we've had in common. And it makes sense, considering
you like the Dark Arts so much."

"That's very true."

"So, what else?" Harry asks with a sigh.

"Narcissa will be teaching you a Transfiguration lesson," Voldemort informs him calmly. "She
should be waiting for you in the sitting room."

Harry blinks. "Really? Brilliant!"

"Before you go, what bean went into the Draught of Living Death?" Voldemort asks.

"Sopophorous," Harry answers without thought.

"How many times do you stir it about halfway before it turns a light shade of lilac?"
"Ten times. Clockwise."

"What is the incantation for the gouging charm?"

"Defodio."

"And to silence someone as you've learned today?"

"Langlock."

Voldemort hums. "I would like for you to silently levitate your vial of Draught of Living Death
into your palm, Harry."

"Oh," Harry says, glancing at it. He clears his throat. "Alright, if you say so."

So, that's exactly what he does. The vial does tremble in the air a bit, but it lands in his palm a few
moments later. He curls his fingers around it with a small smile, pleased despite himself.

"You are to continue practicing these things," Voldemort tells him calmly. "Take the instructions
on the Draught of Living Death and reread them once before sleep every night. I will have this
stone put in your room to practice on at your leisure. As for Langlock… Well, Lucius is always
available."

Harry slowly grins.

Prat,

I don't think I really like hellos any more than I do goodbyes, now that I'm thinking about it. Hello
is usually awkward or uncomfortable, or it goes terribly. I like everything in between, when you
know a person. Beginnings are necessary, endings are inevitable, but the middle is the best part.
Artimus is rather shy, did you know? My owl sort of tucked herself under Artimus' wing, and
Artimus looked as flustered as an eagle-owl could. My owl didn't notice, of course, because she's
apparently oblivious in the matters of the heart. It's getting to the point that I'm debating on
whether or not just to tell my owl what's going on. It was cute at first, but now it's a bit sad.

Wait, how do owls even show their love? What's the equivalent of owl snogging? Do I even want to
know that?

Thank you for telling me Pansy's and Blaise's favorite color. I'll be sure to get them proper pocket-
jumpers. What's your favorite color? Mine is red, for obvious reasons. Wipe that disgusted look off
your face.

I will get Theo a pocket-jumper as well. I don't think you should worry about him so much. I'm sure
he's fine.

As you can tell from this letter, I am fine after the blindfold incident. It did work, but there were
snags. I will have to tell you more about them in person. You're honestly not going to believe what
happened.

I'm happy to hear that you're adjusting to classes. You'll be happy to know I've started some of my
own. One of my Professors is more of a monster than a man, but he's shockingly good at teaching,
honestly. He doesn't make me feel stupid, at least. Actually, I feel rather smart. Is this what it's like
to be you? I can do some wordless magic now, and I'm weirdly proud of it? My other Professor is a
lovely, patient woman who is exceptionally talented at Transfiguration. She's taught me how to
change my own appearance, though she promises it will begin to last longer the more I practice.

As for Quidditch, good on you for making Seeker, though I didn't doubt that you would. I'm sure
the Gryffindor seeker will pose a challenge for you, and I imagine Harry Potter might miss flying
against you as well.

As for what's happened with Ron and Hermione. Honestly, Draco, I can't believe this. Lavender
Brown ? I didn't at all get that she fancied him when I saw them interact in Hogsmeade. They
rarely even spoke! I do feel bad for Hermione, though. She does sound like she can be quite vicious
when she wants to be, and maybe it has always been that way. It pleases me to know that you're all
being there for her. Despite what you think, it seems to me like you'll soon be friends with her.

However, I do have to agree with Blaise a bit, yeah? Ron seems like the type to appreciate being
liked openly and fiercely. Of course he's going to want Lavender, all because she wants him and
will show him attention. What's so wrong with that? Nothing, I don't think. No offense to
Hermione, but it's not like she ever made her feelings clear. How is Ron supposed to know, you
know?

Sorry to hear that Blaise and Pansy are still dancing around each other. Shove them in a broom
closet, I suppose? Lock them in an empty classroom? I don't know. I'm sure they'll come around
soon.

What do you mean that you're getting frustrated? Are you starting to come into your hormones as
well, like you mocked the others for? You said you didn't fancy anyone, but that could easily
change. Don't I think Maybe don't

You're right. Love sounds dreadful.

How are things with you? Are you managing to handle classes and Quidditch at the same time?

Wishing you well,

The Idiot

Lessons with Mrs. Malfoy and Voldemort turn out to be a good distraction for him. He actually
enjoys most, if not all, of them. Even Potions, though it's still his least favorite subject. In his free
time, he's generally practicing everything he's learned so far because Voldemort revisits everything
at the most random times. Once, he swept into the second Library and demanded Harry dye his
eyebrows like Mrs. Malfoy taught him to, and when he did, Voldemort nodded in approval and just
left.

Harry's favorite part of practicing is getting to try out most jinxes on Lucius. The man has never
looked more undignified than when Harry has Spelled his tongue to the roof of his mouth.

So, for a while, that takes up most of Harry's focus, though he does spend a lot of time thinking
about Hogwarts, Ron and Hermione, and Draco. His mind often runs in circles with worry about
how Ron and Hermione are doing with them being on outs, or if not that, it's fixating on whether
Draco fancies Theo or not. He really wishes he could stop thinking about that, but he can't.
However, he gets a break from classes and his agonizing over his friends when he approaches Mrs.
Malfoy and asks if she'll help him get access to his vault in Gringotts. This, as it turns out, requires
help from Lucius, rather than her.

"Goblins," Lucius says, "do not get into the affairs of Wizards. However, I do have some influence.
I should be able to get you a private meeting with the Goblin who oversees the Malfoy vaults."

"Brilliant," Harry says weakly. "When can we go?"

Lucius sighs. "Today, if we must. Narcissa?"

"Yes, love?" Mrs. Malfoy asks.

"If you will," Lucius murmurs, gesturing to Harry, even as his face softens as he looks at his wife.
"You are much better at Transfiguration than I."

Mrs. Malfoy smiles prettily. "Of course."

So, after Harry is made to look like Arius Fawley, Lucius leads him out of the wards and Apparates
them away with a sharp crack. Side-along with Lucius is uncomfortable, and Harry hates
stumbling in front of the man, but it's a necessary evil.

Harry is, admittedly, a little terrified. Lucius has told him that the Goblins will have to know it's
him to allow him into his vault, and he doesn't know how to feel about that. If they call the
Aurors… Lucius has assured them that they won't, but Harry can't help but stay close to Lucius,
matching his stride.

It's a bit ridiculous that he's safer with Lucius Malfoy than the general public, but such is his life.

However, despite his fears, getting into Gringotts and in his vaults goes off without a hitch. The
Goblin sitting behind a desk across from Lucius doesn't so much as bat an eye when Lucius
informs him that Harry Potter is actually here and would like access to his vault. He does grin
rather evilly, likely because he knows he has leverage, but Lucius simply hands over what must be
a priceless artifact of some kind, because the Goblin looks practically delighted to help them after
that.
Harry takes out a great sum from his vault, feeling a little ridiculous as he does. He knows he's rich.
He has always been rich in the Wizarding World. But he's not rich and poncy like the Malfoys are.
He just doesn't...flaunt it, and he likely never will.

Before they go, Harry demands that half of his money be turned into Muggle currency. Gringotts
apparently does this as well, and while Lucius sneers in disgust, it still gets done. And then, just
like that, it's over. It takes maybe two hours, at most.

Harry can't help but be relieved when they return to the Manor. He'd really been expecting things
to go differently or worse, but they hadn't. Lucius sweeps off almost immediately, leaving Harry to
ask Mrs. Malfoy if she'll go shopping with him. She agrees readily until he clarifies that he wants to
go to Muggle London, and then she hesitates. However, with some prodding (and pleading), she
eventually sighs and agrees.

So, off they go.

Harry's never actually been shopping in Muggle London like this, so he's just as nervous as she is,
but it's not so much different than Paris. Mrs. Malfoy stays quiet, mostly, but she does ask random
questions, some the same her son has voiced before. Her restraint is much better than Draco's,
though, but Harry can see the curiosity in her eyes.

Getting Pansy and Blaise a pocket—a hoodie each is rather simple. For Pansy, she gets a black one
with lips on the front, except the smile is sharp, and the sleeves have the word Girls bite back on
them. He's fairly sure she'll think that's worthy enough to wear. Blaise just gets a pale pink one that
says REAL MEN WEAR PINK on the front, which is mostly amusing, but Harry gets it anyway.
Theo gets a blank white hoodie, and Harry scowls at it, even as he picks it.

"Who is that one for?" Mrs. Malfoy asks lightly.

Harry sighs. "Draco insists we get Theo one."

"Ah," Mrs. Malfoy says, nodding like that makes all the sense in the world.

Because he really wants to and doesn't actually need an excuse, Harry also gets Hermione and Ron
hoodies. Hermione gets a blue one the same color of her dress at the Yule Ball with clouds all over
it, while Ron gets a darker blue hoodie that has an outline of pancakes on the front.
Harry also buys a lot of sunglasses of many different varieties. Because why not? If material things
will actually get Purebloods to take an interest in Muggles, rather than hating them, Harry will do
what's necessary. Whatever works, he doesn't care.

Everything is going smoothly when Harry catches Mrs. Malfoy eyeing a dress on a rack. He
watches her look at it, quickly look away, then look back like she can't help it. The dress itself isn't
anything like he's ever seen her wear. It's simple, but has thin straps and appears to be much shorter
than her usual floor-length gowns—it would probably come right around her knees. It's a pretty
dress, though, with its light shimmery silver color and flowing material. Harry clears his throat to
get her attention, then nods at it pointedly.

"Do you like it?" he asks.

Mrs. Malfoy's hands do that fluttering thing again, just like they always do when she's flustered.
"Oh, it's—it's fine, Harry, I'm sure."

"You should try it on," Harry tells her.

"I couldn't," Mrs. Malfoy says immediately, looking at the dress, aghast. "It is much too revealing.
And rather...short."

"It's pretty," Harry muses.

"It is," Mrs. Malfoy agrees softly, some kind of yearning flashing through her eyes as she looks at
it.

Harry flashes her a grin when she clears her throat and looks at him. "I think you'd look smashing
in it, Mrs. Malfoy, really."

A delicate blush lights her face, and she swats at his arm weakly. "Stop it, Harry. Thank you, truly,
but I simply couldn't."

"I think you'd be brave to wear it," Harry decides, nodding at her.
"Yes, well...there's no point," Mrs. Malfoy murmurs with a soft sigh. "Are you quite finished?"

Harry shakes his head. "Not yet. I still have to shop for a few others. Any ideas for Draco?"

Mrs. Malfoy's gaze sharpens on his face. "Do you have no ideas what he might want, Harry?"

"I don't. I haven't a bloody clue what to get the prat who already has everything," Harry grumbles,
scowling around the shop.

"No one has everything."

"Maybe. Do you know what he wants?"

"I believe I do," Mrs. Malfoy says slowly. "It is, as of now, not something he has ever received, no
matter how long he has desired it."

Harry frowns. "What is it? I'll get it for him, whatever it is. You know I will."

Mrs. Malfoy's face softens. "I believe you would, but it is not my place to tell you."

"Oh, bloody hell," Harry mutters, tossing up a hand. He makes a low sound and reaches out to grab
her arm, staring into her eyes. "Go on, give me a hint please. I really don't want to disappoint
him."

"It is something that only you can give to him, Harry," Mrs. Malfoy says gently. She smiles and
pats his hand. "I will say nothing more on the matter. Now, come along."

"That doesn't help," Harry calls after her, even more confused than he was before.

Mrs. Malfoy doesn't respond and sweeps off.

Harry takes that time to grab the dress and rush to the counter to pay for it and have it bagged
before Mrs. Malfoy manages to locate him. After that, they leave to go exploring other shops,
hoping Harry will find something for Draco, and no matter how many times he asks, Mrs. Malfoy
doesn't help anymore.

Getting Draco a gift is somehow a lot harder than getting anyone else anything. This is the person
who took him to France for his birthday, who gave him a green bowl of sweets, who made it so
special that Harry's always going to remember it. How do you get someone a gift that will be
special when they could buy anything they wanted?

Harry considers getting him a telly, but then decides against it when he remembers that the telly
won't work in the Manor. Magic and Muggle don't mix. He searches helplessly for hours, and he
even manages to get bloody Lucius a present before getting one for Draco. He doesn't even mean
to, really; he just sees the very expensive wristwatch and buys it with a roll of his eyes, mostly
because he wants to see Lucius wearing something Muggle. Then, he panics and thinks he might
have to get Voldemort something, but no, no, that's ridiculous. The idea of getting Voldemort a gift
is absolutely mad.

And yet, when he passes the book of maps in one of the shops, he comes to a screeching halt. It's
stupid, of course. Just a very old book by the look of things, called Antique Maps by Carl Moreland
and David Bannister. It's rather informative on older maps and the process of map-making, and
Harry doesn't even know if Voldemort would even care about something like this. But he recalls
Voldemort mentioning his curious mind, so he can't see what it would hurt, if he'll even read a
book written by Muggles. So, shaking his head at himself, he gets that, too.

It is now officially easier to buy gifts for Voldemort, Draco's mother, and his father, than it is to
buy for Draco. Harry is almost at his wits end, so he just buys him a whole sodding outfit, because
Draco likes clothes, doesn't he?

It's an expensive suit with nice cufflinks and a silk handkerchief. Mrs. Malfoy helps by telling him
and the Muggle tailor the sizes and measurements. And yet, even once he's bought it, Harry doesn't
feel like it's enough. It just doesn't feel...right.

"Finished?" Mrs. Malfoy asks calmly.

Harry frowns. "One more shop?"

"Of course, darling," Mrs. Malfoy says with a small smile, patting his shoulder.

"Cheers," Harry mumbles weakly, feeling his cheeks heat up, embarrassed for reasons he can't
fathom.

They do indeed go into another shop, and Harry searches for something, anything, that will jump
out at him as worthy of a gift for Draco.

Nothing does.

Until something does.

Harry almost trips when he sees the necklace. It's a locket, really, with a simple silver chain. The
locket portion has the sun and the moon engraved on the front, and Harry picks it up, running his
finger over it. The engraving reminds him of the Sun and Moon painted on the walls in France, the
girls who clearly ached for each other, wistful in their desire. When he opens the locket, he's
surprised to see nothing but flat, silver surfaces in them.

"We offer to engrave something for you," the man behind the counter says. "Is there an inscription
or design you have in mind, my boy?"

"Yeah," Harry says slowly, blinking. "Yeah, there is. Actually, I want to get this."

The man nods. "What engraving would you like? We'll have to schedule you to come pick it up
when it's done, mind, but it should be ready before Christmas, if that's what you're aiming for."

"No, just this," Harry murmurs, passing the locket over. "I'll, er, handle the rest."

"If you're sure," the man mutters, shooting him doubtful looks.

Harry grins. "I'm sure."

He really, really is. This, more than the clothes, feels right. It's actually rather perfect. Now, all he
has to do is get better at the gouging charm.

Mrs. Malfoy smiles at him indulgently as they leave the shop, holding bags. "Is it to your liking,
Harry? Whatever you have in mind, I mean."

"Yeah," Harry murmurs, "it is."

Idiot,

I think a promise to meet once again is far better than a goodbye, though the relief in returning to
someone cannot exist without first parting from them.

You most certainly are not to tell your owl about Artimus' affections. That is entirely Artimus' right
to make clear on her own, at her leisure. Be patient with her. It's not always easy to express what is
in one's heart, especially not when the fear of what you may lose is so very present.

I do not know what the owl equivalent of snogging is, nor do I want to. I am appalled that you've
asked about it.

Have you gone shopping yet? I, of course, did my shopping at Hogsmeade and before the
beginning of the term. I do so hope you've gotten worthy pocket-jumpers, as Blaise is very much
looking forward to his.

My favorite color is green, obviously.

And of course you would think that way about Weasley. I am not sure if it would be different if you
could actually see how upset Granger is about it. I know it is not fair to dislike Weasley for
reacting to Lavender Brown in this way, not when he seeks validation as he does (though, I have
disliked him for much less forever), but that does not mean it doesn't break Granger's very
irritatingly soft heart. Because it does. Very plainly, in fact. Whenever Weasley and Brown are
snogging (which is still practically all the time, and I am beginning to wonder when they come up
for air), Granger flips wildly between fury or deep hurt, both of which make her nearly cry.
 Nonetheless, I have very little to say on the matter, as it is not my business. I simply mock Weasley
relentlessly with Pansy, which does sometimes make Granger smile a bit, even if she defends him.
Pansy, it seems, has softened towards Granger in a way only girls can after such rivalry, and there
are many times that it is a joint effort between Girl Weasley and Pansy to comfort her.

As for Blaise and Pansy in particular, I have considered locking them in various rooms, admittedly,
but you do not seem to understand how terrible of an idea that is. I don't know if you realize this,
but it is not smart to cross any Slytherin, especially not those who happen to know a variety of your
secrets. Do keep that in mind, by the way.

I am frustrated, yes, because their desire to snog has, in fact, made me survey my own desires in
that respect. Unfortunately, there is no one in Hogwarts who is worthy of my affections, therefore I
will remain alone.

Love is a cruel mistress, this I know.

It is good, though surprising, to hear that you've begun classes of your own. I am pleased to hear
that your Professors are teaching you properly. I'm sure we'll talk more about that over the hols.
And yes, feeling intelligent is how it feels to be me frequently. Nice, isn't it?

I know you feel that I shouldn't worry about Theo, which is confusing for various reasons, but I do
nonetheless. He only seems to be getting worse, and I am beginning to wonder what will happen if
no one intervenes. It's reached the point that even Pansy and Blaise are expressing their concerns,
though all Slytherins know better than to pry when someone clearly does not wish to talk. Perhaps
it is your influence that pushes me to pry anyway, or simply the force of my concern for him.

By the time you write back, it will be the beginning of December. So very close to Christmas. I
can't wait I am eager to be free of this castle and the ridiculous people in it. You have no idea just
how much.

How are you?

Wishing you well,

Draco

Chapter End Notes

Y'all, I have done so much research for this story omg.
 Christmas
Chapter Notes

Y'all are gonna love this one ;)

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Prat,

I guess there is something to a promise to meet someone once again. They say that distance makes
the heart grow fonder, but it doesn't feel that way. It just means you can't be around the people you
want to be with.

I have now learned what the equivalent of owls snogging is, because finally , Artimus made her
move! She brought my owl some prey (which was disgusting, but sweet), and this apparently
notified my owl of what was going on. They sort of lean on each other and rub their cheeks
together all the time now? Also, Artimus seems rather obsessed with preening as my owl grooms
her feathers. It's all ridiculously adorable, and I imagine it will be hard to get Artimus to take this
letter. Good on her, though. Everyone should reach out and take the love they want.

I have gone shopping, yes. Everyone has their appropriate pocket-jumpers and such. I even got
Weasley and Granger one, and I will be sending theirs with this letter. It's early, but as we don't
know where they will be over the hols, I want them to have it before Christmas. You are to give it to
them, from us. I mean it, Draco.

Blaise and Pansy continuing to be ridiculous makes me smile, I admit. I still think Pansy will have
to make the first move, especially since she's the one who knows she fancies him. Loves him, even.
However, I suppose it makes sense not to lock friends in various rooms, though I think it would be
funny. What secrets they must know about you to make you wary to do it.

I didn't realize that the students to choose from aren't to your liking. No blokes at Hogwarts catch
your eye? You must have incredibly high standards, Draco, in that case. Actually, what are your
standards? I find the thought of what they may be absolutely amusing.

You say you know love is a cruel mistress. How can you possibly know that if you don't fancy
anyone? I am beginning to get suspicious of whether that might be true or not. Who do you Is it
Classes remain in session, and I find that I actually enjoy them. They give me something to do and
my Professors make it interesting. I think it helps that I'm technically the only student as well. Also,
you're so full of yourself that I can't handle it sometimes.

I suppose my influence isn't always the best if it urges you to bother those who might not want it.
Maybe it's best if you leave Theo alone, Draco, really.

Anyway, how are you? Have Weasley and Granger made up yet? I don't plan to express an opinion
on that subject either way because I won't pick sides. I'm sorry Granger is hurt, I really am, and
I'm glad that you are all being nice to her, maybe even making her a friend now, but I shouldn't
have an opinion.

Have you heard anything about Katie Bell yet?

Wishing you well,

The Idiot

Harry blinks as Mrs. Malfoy heaves yet another sigh. They're strolling through the gardens
together again, arm-in-arm like they so frequently do, and she hasn't said very much. But the
frequency of her sighs suggests there's something she wants to say.

"Mrs. Malfoy," Harry starts hesitantly, "is there something on your mind?"

"Dromeda has invited me for dinner with her and her husband and her daughter," Mrs. Malfoy says
immediately. "Our first meeting went well, all things considered, and we've been keeping up our
correspondence since, but I...I…"

Harry smiles at her. "You're worried?"

"I have yet to meet Nymphadora," Mrs. Malfoy murmurs. "My recent interactions with Edward—
or Ted, as Dromeda insists he be called—were infrequent and rarely...pleasant. I was not outright
horrible to him, but I was not polite either."
"Nymphadora?" Harry blurts out in surprise, blinking rapidly. "You mean Tonks?"

"That is her last name, yes," Mrs. Malfoy says, glancing over at him. "Do you know of her?"

"I've met her," Harry admits. "She's an Auror and a metamorphmagus. I can tell you that it angers
her to be called by her first name."

Mrs. Malfoy makes a small, nervous sound. "Oh, dear," she whispers faintly.

Harry chuckles and pats her hand. "Relax, if it's Tonks, it's fine. They're good people, I'd wager. I
never knew your sister was her mother. Small world, I suppose. Don't worry about it, though,
because I'm sure it will be fine."

"What if I accidentally offend them?" Mrs. Malfoy asks, looking at him with some kind of
desperate need for guidance that makes his heart pang.

"Well, if you do, I suppose you'll apologize," Harry assures her softly. "Honestly, do you think
your sister would have invited you if she thought it would go badly?"

Mrs. Malfoy clicks her tongue. "No, I suppose not. We have been...warmer towards each other than
we have been in years. Should I bring gifts?"

"If you want to," Harry says. "It's close enough to Christmas that you can get away with it."

"What does one bring to—to a Muggle-born?" Mrs. Malfoy asks slowly.

Harry shakes his head, correcting her automatically. "That's not the question you should be
asking."

"Oh, alright. What does one bring to a man married to her sister, who you've offended in the past?
And to the daughter of your sister you have never met because of misguided prejudice?"

"You agree that it's misguided?!"

"Harry," Mrs. Malfoy says sharply, glaring at his notable excitement, "I am very serious."

"Right, right. Still...progress," Harry mumbles with a cheeky grin. After a beat, he takes a deep
breath and slowly lets it out. "Well, from what I remember about Tonks, she's rather clumsy and
enjoys a good laugh. A skilled Auror, too. I don't know anything about her dad, though. But, from
experience, everyone tends to like sweets, so you could always get him that and tell him you
weren't sure what to get him, but you hope to know him better in the future so you'll know next
time."

Mrs. Malfoy comes to a screeching halt, half-turning towards him to stare at him. He blinks at her,
startled by her sudden stop. She's just looking at him, her eyes scanning his face.

Then, for seemingly no reason at all and without warning, she reaches up to cup his cheek with her
small hand. Her gaze is soft and fond, and her smile is gentle and loving, and Harry doesn't know
what to do with this. He can feel his cheek heat up under her palm, meaning she likely can as well.

"You," Mrs. Malfoy whispers, "may just be the kindest and most selfless boy I have ever met,
Harry Potter. I did not know what to expect from your entry into my home and life, and I admit that
I was scared of you. I was a fool to be. The size of your heart could encompass the world, which it
may very well already, and it still would have room."

"Mrs. Malfoy," Harry mumbles, blinking against the sudden and very rude stinging in his eyes.

Mrs. Malfoy shushes him, her thumb brushing under his eye. "You inspire people, Harry. You
ignite something within them that makes them want to do the right thing, because that is all you
ever do. Whatever doubts you may have about yourself, no matter how complicated life has
become and will get even more, please never forget that the love and forgiveness you give so
freely is impactful in ways you can never imagine. And, for the compassion you have shown me, I
will forever cherish you. I am grateful you exist, Harry. Thank you for doing so and being exactly
who you are."

Harry can't really say anything to that because his clogged throat will not let him. He has no idea
what spurred her to say what she has, but all he can do is make a weak sound and pull her into a
hug.

She returns it with ease.

Idiot,

I agree that distance does not make the heart grow fonder. Rather, I think, it makes the heart
yearn.

Artimus is in better spirits, it seems, and very eager to get back to your owl. I can tell that she hates
to be away. Though, she did something she has never done before, which was groom my hair when
I congratulated her on obtaining the owl she was after. It was highly undignified and happened
right in the Great Hall, too.

I did give Weasley his pocket-jumper. He almost punched me, but I could tell he was flustered,
likely because I tossed the package in his face. He unwrapped it as if it would bite him. You will be
pleased to know that he actually liked it, though. He asked me how I knew he enjoyed pancakes so
much. Granger seemed to want to know that as well, and though they have not made up, they
joined in rare solidarity to berate me with questions. You'll pay for that, by the way.

Also, Weasley did, in fact, separate from Brown for air and to stare in shock when Granger
declared that she had a date to the Slug Club Christmas party. I was interested in who this date
might have been, but Pansy pulled me away before I could ask. In retrospect, that worked out for
the best.

You see, Granger has asked me to join her at this party. Of course, I told her that I had no interest
in her or women at all, which she seemed to know already (how, I have no idea, but it's rather
terrifying), and she said that it was even better that I didn't. She asked me to go as a friend and to
make Weasley jealous, because whereas she is aware of my preferences, he is very much not.

I considered refusing, but then she admitted that she already told Weasley that I was her date,
mostly because she thought it would make him the angriest. I could not bring myself to embarrass
her by refusing, especially not with how I've treated her in the past, so I agreed. I plan to be the
perfect gentleman, don't you worry. Weasley, however, seems to glare at me wherever I go now
when he is not trying to swallow Brown. I would not be surprised if he burned the pocket-jumper in
his fury.

Blaise and Pansy think all of this is absolutely hilarious, of course, but they are happy that I will be
attending the party. You will be pleased to know that they are going together, though they haven't
quite called it a date yet. Blaise is most certainly flirting with Pansy now, though, and it's so gag-
worthy that I almost miss the days when they were wistfully pining after each other.

And no, there are no blokes within this castle that tick all my boxes, as it were. My standards are
high, though that is no fault of my own. They were cultivated through childhood experiences and
repressed emotions that I denied and did not understand at the time. There is only one who has
ever met these standards, and I suspect no one else ever will.

Love is a cruel mistress because I say it is. Because, though you may wish to, you cannot escape it.
You may remain trapped in it forevermore without any guarantee that it will ever be returned, or
even the knowledge that it never will, and how does one live with that? One learns, but it is never
easy.

I don't want to leave Theo alone, you twit. What is your problem with him anyway? I don't
understand why you're not as concerned as I am. I suppose it makes sense that I care about him
more, as he means more to me than to you, but you are usually kinder.

You'll explain in person, I imagine. By the time this letter reaches you, there will be no point in
replying, as I will be returning home before your reply could reach me. I will let you know how the
party goes then.

Also, no. Katie Bell is still in St. Mungos.

Wishing you well,

Draco

Harry's stomach has been in knots all day. He's been utterly useless during his lessons with
Voldemort, who finally just sighed and dismissed him. Mrs. Malfoy didn't even try.

Draco comes home today.

It's four days before Christmas, and Harry is about to die. He feels like he's going around the twist
waiting for Lucius to arrive with Draco in tow. It's been over two and half months since Harry has
laid eyes on Draco. The last words Harry said to him were, "I have never wanted to save anyone
the way I want to save you, Draco."
In the time since, Harry has done a lot of thinking. Not just about Draco, but about his friends,
about all the things he's been updated about through the letters, about how he feels about
Voldemort and Dumbledore, and as always, about Bellatrix Lestrange and Peter Pettigrew. Most of
it is easier to ignore, however, with the lessons he has under Voldemort and Mrs. Malfoy.

The one thing that plagues his mind whenever it damn well pleases and won't leave when he
shoves it away is the thought that Draco fancies Theo. Nothing puts him in a foul mood quite like
that does, and he can't really understand why. Except, well, Harry sort of knows.

He's jealous, of course. Jealous that Draco might care about Theo more than him. It makes sense,
as selfish as it is, because Draco is all Harry has right now. If Draco gets caught up with Theo, he'll
be too busy to write to Harry, and the thought that he might be spending so much time with Theo
when Harry wants that time for himself but can't have it is absolutely infuriating. He shouldn't be
like this, he knows, because he should want Draco to be happy and in love.

Which, according to his last letter, he might actually be in love with someone already. Possibly
Theo. This thought enrages Harry so much that he walks around in a right state for days afterwards.
He hexes Lucius on four different occasions, simply for speaking to him, and he snaps at
Voldemort repeatedly during the lessons for those days—despite this, Voldemort remains as
patient as ever.

Harry eventually calms enough to just resign himself to it. He should be happy for Draco, shouldn't
he? Isn't he the one who thought that Draco should be allowed to be with whoever he wants? It
shouldn't upset him so much, but Harry is apparently incapable of being mature about this.

In any case, he's not at all ready to talk about how Draco may or may not feel about Theo. This is
why, as he stands in the foyer waiting for Draco to come home for two weeks, he is very sodding
anxious.

Well, that, and Harry can't wait to see him. He's missed him something awful, truly.

Mrs. Malfoy watches him fidget with a small smile. She has also seemed to perk up with the
knowledge that Draco is coming home, though she obviously isn't as nervous as him. He wishes he
had her regal calm in this moment, but he doesn't.

The moment Draco appears in the room with a sharp crack, at Lucius' side, wearing the pocket—
the hoodie that Harry swapped with him at Hogsmeade, Harry's breath escapes him in one great
whoosh. All of his anxiety is gone in a flash, and he's barreling forward with a loud bark of laughter
to throw himself at Draco and hug him, propriety be damned.

"Ugh," Lucius says.

"Hello to you, too, Harry," Draco drawls in his ear, sounding amused.

Harry can feel his smile against his cheek, and he pulls back just enough to see it, breathing out a
very soft, "Hello. Hi. You're back."

"I am," Draco agrees, staring at him with bright eyes, his smile still small but oh so real. "And
you're here."

"Yeah," Harry says nonsensically. "Hi."

"You already said that," Draco teases, his smile shifting into a smirk.

Harry laughs, pulling back fully and giving Draco a light shove. "Shut up, you prat."

Draco hums, turning his gaze to Mrs. Malfoy. His smirk softens back into a quick smile. "Hello,
Mother, you look well."

"Draco," Mrs. Malfoy greets. "As do you."

"How have you been?" Draco asks politely.

Mrs. Malfoy indulges him with a smile of her own, her gaze fond. "Quite well. And you?"

"The same," Draco tells her simply.

Harry shakes his head, staring between them in utter exasperation. "I will never understand you
Malfoys. I really won't."

Mrs. Malfoy gives a soft, tinkling laugh. "Perhaps not, Harry, perhaps not. Now, off with you both.
Draco, you should be unpacking. Harry, I suspect you'll want to help him."

"Yes, Mother," Draco says immediately.

Harry nods. "Yeah, alright."

So, with that, they go off with Draco's trunk. Harry shows off by levitating it the whole way
without uttering a word, and Draco raises his eyebrows at him, clearly amused. Harry grins at him.

It's ridiculous, but Harry feels like he's about to rattle out of his skin. That hug wasn't long enough.
Harry already wants to do it again, and his whole body feels like he's itching with the urge, which
is just so bizarre. Because, as Harry doesn't often remind himself anymore, this is Draco Malfoy.

Harry will never be able to understand how they went from what they were to what they are,
whatever that may be, but he can't bring himself to regret it at all. Maybe distance really does make
the heart grow fonder, because Harry is having trouble remembering what Draco's sneers of the
past looked like, what his insults were, how horrid he used to be.

All he can remember now is France, and flying, and constellations on a canopy, and a green bowl
full of sweets, and lying in the snow, and lighting a candle in a church, and and and…

It all seems like it's swelling within him, and Draco is here, Draco is finally fucking here. It's no
wonder he wants to hug him again and for longer.

So, as soon as the door shuts after they enter Draco's room, Harry drops the trunk carelessly and
whirls around to step up and hug Draco again. Draco's body gives a startled twitch, and Harry can
feel his arms hesitate for a beat before they slowly reach up to respond. Harry releases a deep
breath, his eyes fluttering shut, and he presses his face to Draco's shoulder, probably holding on too
tight.

"You're such a Gryffindor, Harry," Draco says quietly.

"I missed you," Harry whispers.

Draco hums, his arms tightening around him. "I know. I can tell, as you're being rather obvious
about it. Do you plan to hug me for the next two weeks?"

"Depends," Harry muses. "Would you let me?"

"You're an idiot," Draco says softly.

Harry takes a deep breath, inhaling Autumn and apples. "Yeah, you've mentioned."

"I do have to unpack some time today," Draco tells him, sighing like this is a chore, but his arms
haven't loosened even a fraction.

"In a minute," Harry mumbles.

Draco clicks his tongue. "So demanding."

Harry doesn't respond. He simply hugs Draco for a little while longer. He only lets go when he
suddenly becomes aware all at once that he doesn't do this. He's not usually so open and eager for
contact like this, not where he drifts off in it and stops thinking.

Abruptly, he's rather mortified and it likely shows in his glowing cheeks and jerky movements as
he scrambles back. He does it so quickly that Draco blinks, his arms hanging in the air, only for
them to drop as he clears his throat and immediately starts to unpack his trunk.

"So," Harry says, rocking back on his heels, "how did the party go with Hermione?"

Draco looks at him with a frown. "It went well, mostly. I actually had to hex McLaggen for trying
to get a snog in with Granger. Had she wanted it, I'm sure it would have been fine, but she did not.
As she was my date, I had to defend her.

"That," Harry declares, "is adorable."

"Piss off," Draco mutters, rolling his eyes as he flicks his wand and sends clothes flying, already
folded neatly, to their proper places.

Harry grins at him. "Did you dance with her?"

"I did, yes." Draco sends him a look, narrowing his eyes. "She has had a rough few...months,
really. I thought she deserved at least one night to have fun."

"She does," Harry agrees, his face softening. "She really, really does. And did she?"

Draco hums. "She told me she did. In fact, she thanked me. She now insists on calling me Draco
and smiling at me in the halls. It's ridiculous."

"You two are friends!" Harry bursts out with glee, laughing brightly and marching over to plop on
the bed and stare up at Draco. "You are, and you can't deny it. This is—Merlin, tell me
everything."

"Well, she dressed nicely, I suppose. I could see that she made the effort with her hair."

"Draco. Not how she looked, you prat!"

"Alright, alright," Draco says with a roll of his eyes as he sends his trunk to the corner. "We arrived
on time. I was the perfect gentleman, as I promised I would be. We talked, we danced, I hexed
McLaggen. Blaise and I swapped partners, and Pansy told me I was getting soft. There was an
interruption…" He pauses, looking at Harry with a small frown. "Theo was caught by Filch,
wandering the halls. He says he was trying to get into the party, but I don't understand why he
would. He hasn't expressed any interest in Slug Club at all."

Harry is suddenly no longer smiling. "Oh. Why do you think he was trying to get in? To see
someone?"

"No idea," Draco admits, his eyebrow furrowing as he shakes his head. "Professor Snape escorted
him out, though, so I...well, I channeled you , I suppose. I left Granger with Girl Weasley and snuck
off after Theo and Professor Snape."
"You did what?" Harry blurts out, his chest seeming to constrict, suddenly too small. "Why?"

Draco frowns at him. "Well, because we know he has a task, Harry. And it's a good thing I did
follow him, you know. I overheard Snape telling him to be more careful, and—and then...Theo
started crying about how he had no choice, how scared he was." His eyes soften with sadness and
concern. "Snape promised him that—that he wouldn't let him fail, and Theo thanked him. I have no
idea what Theo has to do, but I think it's bad, Harry."

"Why do you care so much?" Harry snaps before he can swallow the words. They burn in the back
of his throat, souring on his tongue, and it makes him so angry that he clenches his fists.

"Harry!" Draco stares at him with narrowed eyes, openly annoyed. "What has gotten into you?
Can't you see that Theo has—"

"I can see perfectly well what Theo is doing, or how he looks, of how much he isn't sleeping,
because you bloody well talk about him all the time!" Harry shouts, shoving to his feet. "You seem
damn well obsessed with him, Draco!"

"I… What?" Draco stares at him incredulously, confused, annoyed. "What the hell are you on
about, Harry? I'm not obsessed with Theo!"

Harry glares at him. "Well, you sodding act like it, and I'm tired of it!"

"Tired of what?" Draco demands sharply. "Me caring because he might die? Have you forgotten
that the task was supposed to go to me? That could be me, don't you get that, you twit?!"

"But it's not!" Harry yells, tossing up his hands. "It's not you, Draco, and I'm thankful it isn't! So
stop trying to get involved just because Theo has pretty eyes and nice hair!"

Draco rears back. "Pretty—Harry, what?!"

"I don't know!" Harry snarls.

Then, with that, he shoves himself forward and marches right out of the room, slamming the door
shut behind him with a loud bang!

He goes into his own room across the hall and slams that door shut, too, pacing relentlessly. His
chest heaves, and he's so—he's just angry. He's angry, and he's upset because he wants to be
hugging Draco instead of thinking about fucking Theo again.

But alas.

The following morning, Harry is properly sorry for his outburst. He regrets it more than he regrets
most things, and he knows he has to apologize.

There's also the simple fact that Draco is, annoyingly enough, entirely right. Harry should be more
concerned with what task Theo has, rather than what Draco feels about him. If Draco fancies him,
then so be it. Fine, that's fine.

It's not, Harry's brain declares miserably.

Ignoring it, Harry trudges across the hall after using the loo to get ready for the day. He doesn't
knock because he and Draco have never knocked, odd as that may be, but this is the first time that
Harry wishes he did. Because Draco is awake, standing by his bed, shirtless and at ease.

Harry feels like someone has cast Langlock on him. He comes to a screeching halt, blinking at the
sight before him. At the way Draco's hair falls loose and pale gold into his eyes. At the line of
Draco's surprisingly broad shoulders—even broader than they were over the summer. At the
smooth planes of his stomach that dip down into hips that form a very sharp V, only visible
because his pajamas are riding a little low on his slim waist.

Making a small sound in the back of his throat, Harry turns to the side, snatching his gaze away
with force. He stares, wide-eyed, at the wall. Merlin.

"Alright, Potter?" Draco drawls. "Don't worry, being a poof isn't contagious, so you won't catch it
simply by looking at me. Merlin forbid."
Harry coughs. "What? And don't call me that. You only call me that—"

"When I'm being an arse," Draco agrees. "You've said. Which is why I'm calling you that, Potter.
It seems fitting since you've pissed me off."

"Stop it," Harry mumbles, risking a quick glance and just as quickly looking away. "Put on your
shirt, Draco, bloody hell."

Draco scoffs. "I can't believe you. And here I thought you were so bloody accepting. You called
my father horrid for being a homophone, and yet."

"Homophobe," Harry corrects idly, then jolts. "Wait, what does that mean? You think I—"

"Well," Draco interrupts icily, "since you think I can't care about blokes without wanting to shag
them, I don't know what else to think, do I? And you're so angry about it, even disgusted."

Harry swivels around, not giving a damn about Draco's half-dressed state, not now. "No, no, no.
Listen to me, you prat, I swear it's not that. I promise I am accepting, and you should be with
anyone you want. Whoever it is. They would be glad to have you, I know they would. It's just—
it's…"

"What?" Draco asks sharply, glaring at him.

"Please don't think I—I give a damn who you do or do not like," Harry whispers, even though he
actually does. He grimaces. "Well, I do, but not—not because it's blokes."

Draco tosses his shirt down on the bed and marches over to him, crossing his arms over his chest
and staring at him. Harry sucks in a sharp breath and leans back, his gaze dropping to Draco's
arms, and chest, and hips. Merlin. He forces his eyes back up, feeling jittery and a bit foggy-
minded.

"You're making no sense," Draco grits out.

"I would be just as upset if it was Pansy!" Harry blurts out, because he would, because he was.
Draco arches an eyebrow. "Oh, so you're not a homophone. Brilliant. That doesn't explain why
you're upset at the thought of me fancying Theo, which I don't."

"How can you be sure, though?" Harry mutters, lips tipping down. "You—you do seem
quite...aware of him, and he is a fit bloke."

"I think I would know who I do and do not fancy, wouldn't I?" Draco snaps.

Harry swallows. "I suppose."

Draco sighs, reaching up to rub at one of his temples with a grimace. "You're giving me a bloody
headache, Harry. I wanted to come back home and—and have fun spending time with you, not
argue about ridiculous things."

"I'm sorry," Harry says quietly. He really, really is. "I just… I don't like the idea, alright?"

"Why?" Draco asks, staring at him.

"I don't know," Harry whispers.

Draco scowls at him. "You wouldn't, would you? No, that would be too easy. You live to confuse
me, you know that? Fine. Fine. You let me know when you work it out, because I haven't any
more of an idea than you do. In the meantime, you and I are going to spend the holidays just like
we did the summer, because I only have two weeks, and I don't want to see them wasted. Alright?"

"Alright," Harry agrees sheepishly. "And I am sorry, you know. I really am."

"Yes, I know," Draco says with a roll of his eyes. "I will forgive it over some flying after breakfast.
You still have our snitch, don't you?"

Harry grins. "Yeah, I do!"

With that minor argument behind them, they ease back into the way they were over the summer.
For the next two days, they go back to the routine they've always had—breakfast, flying, lunch,
sitting in the window seat, dinner, staying up talking until they go their separate ways for bed. It is
so achingly familiar and lovely that Harry feels like he's walking around on clouds.

They catch up over the next two days, going into detail about the things they couldn't over their
letters. Harry explains what happened with Ollivander, and he even tells Draco about his tangled up
feelings about Voldemort and Dumbledore. He shows off the things he's learned as Voldemort and
Mrs. Malfoy's pupil, a little surprised to find out that it is much of the same that Draco is learning
in Hogwarts. And he asks Draco nonstop questions about how Hogwarts is going, how his friends
are, anything he may have missed.

They do not talk about Theo.

The morning of Christmas dawns bright and early for Harry, and he wakes up to a pillow smacking
him over the head. He groans, blinking blearily around until someone shoves his glasses on his
face.

"Morning, Harry!" Draco chirps, sounding supremely and uncharacteristically happy.

Harry squints at him. "Morning?" he ventures cautiously, a little dazed by Draco's wide grin.

"Happy Christmas," Draco says, beaming at him.

"Happy Christmas," Harry replies automatically, sitting up slowly and staring in awe at the near-
childlike joy on Draco's face. "Is this your favorite holiday, Draco?"

"How'd you know?"

"I… Just a guess."

Draco laughs at him. "Sure, sure. Anyway, come on, breakfast is always better on Christmas."
This turns out to be true, but not in the ways Harry is expecting. Breakfast isn't that different,
though he can tell the house-elves outdid themselves for the holiday. No, it's the atmosphere in the
Manor.

Things are actually decorated. There are floating lights all over the place, and bobbles of color
sway outside the windows. There's an extravagant tree in nearly every room. It's not warm and
cozy, but it certainly is pretty, and Harry can't help but stare around in shock wherever he goes.

That's not the only thing overloading his brain. It seems that Draco isn't the only one acting out of
character due to the holiday. Mrs. Malfoy and Lucius are significantly more pleasant than usual,
though Harry always knew she could be, but he is a bit more of a surprise. His eyes nearly roll out
of his head when Mrs. Malfoy gives Draco and him a hug and kiss on the cheek that morning in
greeting, saying Happy Christmas like that's the excuse. He almost loses the plot entirely when
Lucius actually graces Draco with a smile than makes him look less evil, and it's a wonder Harry
doesn't faint when Lucius gives him a smile that's not as warm but is undeniably cordial and polite.

Harry understands almost immediately why this is Draco's favorite holiday, and it makes his heart
squeeze violently in his chest.

It seems, on Christmas, Mrs. Malfoy and Lucius are more open about their love for their son.
They're even more warm to each other, his hand laying over hers on the table as they all eat
breakfast. They don't once have a comment about how Draco is sitting, or talking, or eating, as if
none of that matters today. It's like they've all shed their hard exteriors just for this one day, mad as
it is.

They should be like this all the time, Harry thinks. He wants them to be. Even Lucius. It's not full
and bursting with love like the Weasleys, definitely not, but this suddenly seems like the real
Malfoys. Like this is the one day of the year that they can be the softest parts of themselves.

It sort of breaks his heart.

Nevertheless, Harry gets caught up in the day with them. The routine is thrown right out the
window. After breakfast, the four of them all go to the gardens to take a stroll, which is apparently
tradition for Christmas because Draco doesn't even bat an eye. It makes Harry wonder if this is
why Mrs. Malfoy likes the gardens so much.

Instead of Harry, it's Lucius who Mrs. Malfoy leans into today. Her arm is curled through his as
they stroll along in front of Harry and Draco, and about halfway in, Mrs. Malfoy leans her head
over on his shoulder. They're murmuring to each other, but Harry has no idea what they're saying.

"She really does love him, doesn't she?" Harry asks Draco quietly, shaking his head.

"No matter what you think of my father," Draco tells him softly, "you don't truly know him. Not
like she does. I don't even know him like she does."

Harry chuckles. "She said something like that to me, once. It's just hard for me to wrap my head
around."

"I know you don't like him, but he's my father, Harry," Draco murmurs, looking at him with wide
eyes full of sadness and love. All for Lucius.

"I know," Harry whispers. "He's a git, but he's your father. I want to hate him, but for you, I can't."

Draco smiles at him. "Thank you."

Harry watches Lucius pick a flower and offer it to Mrs. Malfoy, who laughs and takes it. He blinks
at the sound of Lucius' calm laughter in response, smooth like flowing water. Happy.

The day continues on, as days tend to do, and Draco informs him that they will not be having lunch
because they'll need to be hungry for dinner. Instead, they all gather in the sitting room for a while,
where Mrs. Malfoy flicks her wand at the piano in the corner of the room, filling the space with a
soft melody.

They all talk, surprisingly, and it's mostly pleasant, even with Lucius' input. They mostly discuss
previous memories that Harry was not present for, but he has no qualms about asking questions,
which someone always answers. Occasionally, they'll talk about other Pureblood families, but
never for very long. Mrs. Malfoy eventually brings out a photo album containing Draco as a child
before he went to Hogwarts, all at Harry's request.

Draco grumbles about it, but he laughs over the pictures the same way Mrs. Malfoy does. Lucius
even puts in a few snarky, yet shockingly funny comments every few minutes. Harry mostly just
stares down at the moving pictures of the cute little boy who did more smiling than anything else,
and he can't help but smile back. After that, Draco and Lucius sit down to play a game of Wizard's
Chess, which is also apparently a tradition. What's funny is that Mrs. Malfoy commentates on the
game, teasing them each in turn, then only teasing Draco when Harry comes over to back him up.

They all do disperse for a few hours until dinner, going their separate ways. Harry goes out flying
with Draco, leaving Mrs. Malfoy and Lucius to do whatever it is that they plan to. Harry and Draco
make it back in time to shower and change, then they're heading down for dinner.

Harry sees almost immediately why they skipped Lunch. If he thought the house-elves were
showing off before, well, he was wrong. They have apparently taken it upon themselves to prepare
a bloody feast! It's not like a Hogwarts feast, mind, but it's surely more than four people can eat.

But it is so good.

Draco's mood has only increased throughout the day, and by the end of dinner, he's practically
glowing. Harry's just a bit drunk on it, stunned by his easy smile and free laughter, nearly barreled
over time and time again when he sees Draco looking so damn happy. He finishes eating first, and
he puts his cheek in his palm, simply watching Draco. He wants to hold these moments and never
let them go.

However, after supper, they all make their way back to the sitting room where the piano is still
playing and there's a mountain of presents waiting.

"This is my favorite part," Draco whispers to him as they sit down beside each other on the sofa.
"Every year, they try to buy better gifts for each other. It's actually ridiculously sweet, you know."

Harry snorts. "Who wins?"

"My father, every single time," Draco tells him with that smile of his.

"So, it's a challenge for them?" Harry asks.

Draco hums. "Yes. Tradition, really. I think it's carried over to me without them meaning to. My
gift-giving skills are unprecedented."
"Maybe not this year," Harry suggests lightly, raising his eyebrows at him. "I think I've got you
beat, in your case, at least."

"Oh, Potter, you really don't want to get into this challenge with me," Draco tells him, amused.

Harry grins at him. "Bring it on, Malfoy."

"A bet, then?" Draco suggests, leaning forward, his eyes flashing with excitement. "Whoever gives
the better gift...what?"

"Whatever they want, I suppose."

"You're on."

"Boys," Mrs. Malfoy calls, making them jerk back from each other and glance at her. She smiles at
them, shaking her head. "We should start with friends before family, I think."

So, that's what they do. Draco has gifts from Blaise, Pansy, Greg, Vince, and Theo. A variety of
books, sweets, and clothes—a pair of gloves, a scarf, and what appears to be a pair of pants as a
joke from Blaise. Harry, surprisingly, also receives gifts from every single one of them, though as
Arius Fawley, not himself. But it's a nice gesture all the same.

Mrs. Malfoy and Lucius go through the same process with friends of their own, various Purebloods
or those who work Lucius at the Ministry. Their presents are a bit different, though. More useful,
or decorative, or simple. Harry is in no rush to become an adult, not if it means you get no sweets
for Christmas.

Then they move onto trading gifts as a family, and Harry is stunned when he is included in this. It
actually moves him, emotionally speaking, because he hadn't once expected it. From the Weasleys,
something like this would be normal. From the Malfoys? Well, it pleasantly surprises him.

"For you, dear," Mrs. Malfoy says with a small smirk as she practically shoves her gift at Lucius.

"And for you, my love," Lucius replies, snapping her gift out to her with a triumphant gleam in his
eyes.

They stare each other down for a minute, then open their presents all at once. Mrs. Malfoy has
gotten him a new cane, a black one that's even nicer than the one he already has—jewels are
encrusted on the grip, and the bottom seems to be made of solid gold. Lucius stares at it in
satisfaction, enlargening it and clicking it to the floor with an oddly reverent motion. He looks
pleased.

"Oh, you're not playing fair this year, Mother," Draco notes in amusement.

Mrs. Malfoy shrugs with a smug smile, still unwrapping her gift. "Yes, well, I know my husband."

"It's lovely," Lucius tells her simply.

Mrs. Malfoy grins in victory and hums as she pulls out her own present, and then she's not smiling
at all. She's blinking hard, staring down at a stack of shimmering cloth that can only be used for
embroidery, but that's not what has caught her attention. No, there's a piece of parchment that
seems to have words on it, and she's reading it with tears in her eyes while everyone watches her.

"Lucius," Mrs. Malfoy says, her voice strangled.

"She is your sister, Narcissa," Lucius murmurs, just looking at her, gazing at her like he loves her.
"If you wish to accept her, you needn't hide it from me."

Mrs. Malfoy looks up at him, blinking. "How did you know she and I used to go here as children?"

"You told me when I offered to take you there on our second date," Lucius says. "I remembered."

"Dann you," Mrs. Malfoy whispers harshly, reaching up to swipe at her cheeks. "You win every
year."

Lucius smirks. "Yes, I do."

"What's happened?" Draco asks cautiously.

Mrs. Malfoy clears her throat. "Your father has apparently been aware of my recent...reconnection
with your aunt Andromeda. There was a restaurant that she and I used to frequent when we were
younger, just the two of us, and it requires reservations. I mentioned this to him once years ago, and
he remembered. It seems that he has bought out the restaurant so that I may take my sister again."

"Merlin," Harry blurts out, "that's…"

"Yes?" Lucius prompts, arching an eyebrow at him.

Harry gapes at him. "That's brilliant!"

Lucius blinks.

"It is," Mrs. Malfoy agrees with a soft sigh. She shakes her head at Lucius fondly. "I will beat you
next year, you know."

"You say that every year," Lucius tells her.

Mrs. Malfoy hums. "We shall see. Now, Draco, Harry, these are your presents."

Harry is surprised to find that Lucius has actually gotten him something. It's practical, a simple
pouch meant to hold his money without weighing too much. He thanks him in surprise, mostly out
of his manners and shock, but Lucius just waves him off. Mrs. Malfoy gifts him a decent scarf that
feels like water in his hands, so soft that he almost doesn't want to stop touching it, and she has also
provided him with a leather grip for his broom that apparently repels rain. He thanks her profusely,
which makes her smile at him.

Draco has gotten a cloak from his father with a silver clasp on the front, and it looks thick enough
to use as a blanket; the pockets are apparently Spelled to go much deeper than they seem. His
mother has gotten him a whole new set of sheets and blankets for his bed and a comb that's
supposed to help his hair shine even more, as if he even needs that. Draco thanks them happily,
seemingly pleased.
"Now, for you," Draco says, handing his father a package, then offering another to his mother,
"and for you, Mother."

Lucius hums in approval and smiles at Draco again when he uncovers the lid to his gift to reveal a
new handle for his wand, silver and shiny, thick enough for Lucius to hold onto with ease. He
screws the old one off and replaces it immediately, wrapping his fingers around it, testing it. He
seems to like it, and he thanks Draco calmly.

Mrs. Malfoy gasps out loud when she pulls out the necklace Draco has bought her. The ruby on it
glitters the same way Voldemort's eyes do, but there's something utterly gorgeous about this. She
puts it on, looking down at it with a smile, touching it where it lays at the base of her throat. Just as
her husband, she is also pleased and thanks her son.

It's really well thought out gifts, and it blows Harry's mind to realize that Draco apparently gets this
from his father. Merlin, that's bizarre.

"I actually got you something," Harry tells Lucius, holding out the box to him. Lucius stares at it,
then arches an eyebrow again. "Oh, don't look like that. You got me something, didn't you? Just
take it."

Lucius hums and takes it, pulling the lid free to lift up the wrist watch, blinking. "This is…"

"You wear it," Harry says with a snort. "On your wrist. I noticed you always have to pull out your
pocket watch to check the time, but this way, you can just look at your wrist."

"Practical," Lucius muses. "This is Muggle, isn't it?"

"Yeah."

"Aren't you going to make me wear it, Potter?"

Harry shakes his head. "It's a gift, Lucius. Wear it, throw it away, do whatever you want. It's
yours."
"Very well," Lucius says with a sigh, fiddling with the watch and working to clasp it on his wrist,
frowning at it. "Is it at least expensive?"

"Believe it or not, I know your limits," Harry says, rolling his eyes. "It was very expensive."

Lucius nods. "Good. Thank you."

Harry sighs and hands Mrs. Malfoy her bag, clearing his throat. "For you."

"Is this…" Mrs. Malfoy doesn't even look down into the bag, staring at him intently. She
swallows, then takes a deep breath. "Is this what I think it is?"

"Probably," Harry admits with a wry grin. "You don't have to wear it if you don't want to, but you
should have the option, I think."

Mrs. Malfoy stares at him for a beat, then nods sharply before turning on her heel and leaving the
room entirely. Two accusing glares immediately cut to him, almost identical.

"What did you do?" Draco hisses, his eyes wide.

"Nothing!" Harry protests. He shoots worried glances at the door. "I think… Well, I hope she's
going to change, actually."

That is, in fact, what she has done. They hear her heels before they see her, but when they do…

Mrs. Malfoy looks beautiful. She always has, but this is a bit different. Harry doesn't think he's
ever seen her show her arms or any of her legs before. The dress seems to flow on her form,
showing off her figure and revealing her pale skin. The red ruby at her throat somehow brings it all
together, and Harry's face softens at the sight of her. Draco, however, is blinking in pure shock.

Lucius, though…

Harry watches him do a double-take, his lips parting as he blinks really slowly like he doesn't really
want to close his eyes ever again. It's strangely adorable and very odd all at once, because Harry
does not really ponder how in love they might be. From this, though, the look on Lucius' face, well,
it's clear that the man who has never seemed capable of love is clearly besotted with his wife,
especially as she stands there in a beautiful Muggle dress.

Mrs. Malfoy's hands are doing that fluttering thing they do, and she looks increasingly nervous
every passing second when no one says anything. Harry starts to open his mouth to compliment
her, because he's kind like that, when Lucius clears his throat. Loudly. Twice.

"That is a...very nice dress," he states, a touch of rasp to his voice. "You look lovely."

"It's Muggle," Mrs. Malfoy says, staring at him.

Lucius hums. "Yes, well, they must be doing something right, in this case."

Draco snorts, then coughs. Harry grins at him.

"Thank you," Mrs. Malfoy says softly. She seems to gain her confidence back and sweeps into the
room, and Lucius' eyes follow her wherever she goes. She turns to them. "And your gifts?"

Harry jolts. "Oh, right."

"You have two," Draco tells him, his lips curling up into a secretive smile. "You'll get the second
later."

"Alright," Harry agrees. "Funnily enough, you also have two. I'll give you the second later."

Draco rolls his eyes. "Fine. Dazzle me, Potter."

"You first, Malfoy," Harry shoots back.

So, they swap gifts with narrowed eyes, staring at each other until they succumb to their curiosity.
Harry beats Draco to unwrapping his gift, and his eyebrows go shooting up his forehead when he
pulls out a...pouch of floo powder?

"The two gifts are connected," Draco tells him, watching him in amusement. "You'll understand
later, trust me."

Harry snorts. "I think I'm already winning."

"We'll see," Draco says airily, looking down into his bag with an arched eyebrow. "Muggle
clothes?"

"A complimentary gift," Harry says easily. "The second one is better. Besides, that's a very nice
suit, I'll have you know."

"I'm not very dazzled, Harry."

"We'll see."

Draco hums. "Later, though. My gift comes first, as it's scheduled."

Harry shrugs. "Alright."

"Is that...it?" Mrs. Malfoy asks them, glancing between them doubtfully. "Harry, didn't you—"

"Shh," Harry interrupts, "it's a surprise."

Mrs. Malfoy deflates, looking strangely disappointed like she wanted to see Draco's reaction. "Oh,
very well. Onward, then."

Harry's not entirely sure what comes next, but house-elves show up to take their gifts away, and
they're all still in the sitting room. That's where they stay, too, for the next few hours.
Mrs. Malfoy insists they all have some wine, which they do, and they all proceed to go back to
talking. However, after a few glasses, they're all a bit stuffed from supper and very relaxed. The
piano is playing in the background, and Lucius offers his hand to Mrs. Malfoy, who takes it with a
blush like they haven't been married for a number of years.

Harry and Draco relax on the sofa, watching Lucius twirl Mrs. Malfoy around. They dance
together fluidly, graceful, looking perfect in a way Harry doesn't think he'll ever fully fit into. But
there's something else, something he instantly seems to get. It's the way they appear to be in their
own personal bubble of happiness, eyes for nothing but each other, smiling at each other with
love.

It's the first time Harry sees them kiss, and it actually surprises him. Lucius dips Mrs. Malfoy,
actually smiling at her laughter, and when he tugs her back up, his lips meet hers like they're meant
to be there. It's a familiar gesture, as if they do it all the time, but today is the first time Harry has
ever seen them be like this to each other.

It's sweet, despite the fact that Harry doesn't like Lucius and probably never will. He likes that
Lucius loves Mrs. Malfoy, as well as Draco, and that has to be enough for him. Strangely, it is.

Draco makes an amused sound at his parents kissing in front of him, and when Harry looks over at
him, he rolls his eyes. "Love all around. Hogwarts, home. I just can't seem to escape it."

"Is that a bad thing?" Harry asks.

"It's sickening."

"Everyone needs a little love in their lives, Draco."

"Do you?" Draco murmurs, watching him.

Harry smiles at him. "You know, I feel shockingly loved today, despite everything."

Draco smiles back. "As you should."

And so it goes. When Harry and Draco look back, Mrs. Malfoy and Lucius are back to dancing
again. So, they sit there and watch in comfortable silence.

The wine must get to him, because he doesn't remember nodding off until his head is suddenly
jerking from Draco's shoulder. He doesn't recall resting it there, but he immediately wants to put it
back, still a little drowsy. He yawns.

"Wha's'it?" Harry mumbles, blinking slowly at Draco who just shot off the sofa like he was
abruptly hit with a stinging jinx.

Draco whirls around to him, his eyes wide with excitement. "Time for Part Two of your present,
Harry. Up, up, come on."

"Alright, alright," Harry says with a laugh, letting Draco yank him to his feet.

"Don't ask questions," Draco tells him seriously, snatching up the pouch of floo powder and taking
out a handful. "Just follow right behind me, okay?"

Harry raises his eyebrows. "If you say so."

Draco gives him a sharp nod before walking over to the fireplace. Mrs. Malfoy and Lucius are
gone, and the Manor is quiet like it gets when everyone should be in bed. Harry yawns again,
watching Draco open the floo connection and step in, turning to look at him. His lips curl up before
he throws down the powder with a steady voice ringing out.

"Shrieking Shack!"

And, just like that, Draco is gone in a swirl of flames. Harry blinks in surprise. The Shrieking
Shack has a floo? He knows it has a fireplace, one that had been deteriorating, but he didn't know it
had a floo connection. Since when? One that works?

Now very curious (and a bit cautious), Harry takes his own handful of powder and follows right
behind Draco, not once thinking about the fact that he still looks like Harry Potter as he goes.
As always, his exit from the floo is less than graceful. He stumbles out and lands right on his side,
which doesn't really surprise him. What does, however, is that he is, in fact, inside of the Shrieking
Shack, which looks as terrible as it did the last time he was in it. From his vantage point, at least.
He pushes to his feet with a groan.

And, immediately, right there in front of him is Hermione, and she's staring at him with tears
flooding her eyes. That's when he remembers he's him, and he freezes, choking on air, utterly
terrified.

Before he can say anything, she's launching herself at him with a sob, slamming into him so hard
that he very nearly falls again. It's exactly the hug he's been missing when it comes to her, and he
can't help but melt into it, wrapping his arms around her and not caring that her hair is trying to get
in his mouth. He just keeps holding on, and holding on, and holding on because he has missed her
so, so much.

"Harry," Hermione rasps, pulling back to stare at him. She leans forward and smacks a rather wet
kiss right on his forehead. "Oh, Harry."

"Hey, Hermione," Harry whispers, staring at her, his heart squirming in his chest. He can feel his
throat getting thicker with emotion.

Hermione gives a hard sniff, reaching up with a shaking hand to swipe her tears. "It's so, so good to
see you. Ron and I miss you so much, you know."

"Merlin, me too." Harry can't help but reach out to grab her hand and hold onto it, squeezing it.
"But how are you—how did you—"

"You're welcome," Draco drawls from off to the side. He arches an eyebrow when Harry's head
whips toward him. "I told you I'd win."

Harry blinks, his eyes itching. "You bastard. Did you—this is the gift?"

"In the flesh," Draco says, gesturing to Hermione.

"This is cheating," Harry chokes out.

Draco smirks. "Ah, Malfoys don't play fair, didn't you know? All that matters is that I won."

"Next year," Harry vows in a rasp.

"We'll see," Draco says simply.

Harry shakes his head, looking back at Hermione with his eyes itching again. "I can't even begin to
understand how—how this has happened, any of it, but I really don't care."

"It's actually quite simple, really," Hermione says weakly, her lips curling up. "Arius Fawley
certainly wasn't very good at being Arius Fawley, was he? At first, I didn't think it was possible,
but Draco was clearly lying about something. Whenever I talked about you around him, he always
had this look about him, like he knew something I didn't."

"I knew you'd figure it out," Harry whispers in awe, laughing quietly. "You know everything."

"She wasn't sure," Draco muses casually. "She came and asked me rather bluntly. I didn't tell her
anything, of course, not until she promised that she wouldn't ask questions or tell anyone. She
doesn't know all of it; she just knows I was bringing you here tonight at a certain time."

"Oh," Harry says softly. "Yeah, makes sense. You took the passage under the Whomping
Willow?"

"Yes," Hermione confirms.

"Ron?" Harry checks.

Hermione shakes her head. "He went back to the Burrow for Christmas. He would have stayed if
he knew, but I couldn't—I didn't know for sure, and he might have told...someone. I'm also not
speaking to him at the moment."

"Yeah, I know," Harry murmurs. "You'll forgive him eventually, won't you?"
"Eventually," Hermione agrees sourly.

Harry stares at her, eager just to see her. "I thought everyone hated me. I was so scared."

"Oh, Harry, we didn't hate you," Hermione whispers, drifting closer to him with more tears in her
eyes.

"I killed her. Bellatrix Lestrange. I killed her," Harry chokes out, his lips trembling around the
admission.

Hermione swallows and nods. "I know, but Harry, you didn't—you weren't…"

"I was, though. I was, Hermione. I wanted to do it. I did it again," Harry tells her, squeezing her
hand harder, scared she'll pull away from him.

"You…" Hermione takes in a shuddering breath, her eyes growing wider. "Who? Who did you—"

Harry makes a small sound, his chest feeling like it's caving in. "Wormtail. Peter Pettigrew."

"Oh, Harry," Hermione says, with feeling, her brown eyes soft and sad and not at all scared.

That could be because he's seconds from bursting into tears, but what does he know? In any case, it
takes less than three seconds before that prediction becomes a reality, and then she's pulling him
into another fierce hug that he's needed for a while now. And it's like he's not even dangerous, like
the fact that he's killed two people doesn't face up against the love she has for her best friend.

For a long time, he stands there and cries in a way that feels horrible and lovely all at once,
therapeutic overall. He buries his face against her shoulder and she strokes his hair and they stand
there like a beat hasn't passed between them.

When he pulls away to scrub at his face, he laughs at the questions he can see burning in her eyes.
"Oh, here we go. I tell you I murder two people, and you want to interrogate me about where I've
been."

"Well...yes," Hermione says with only just a touch of chagrin. "We don't have a lot of time as it is. I
already knew you killed Bellatrix, and I suppose Peter Pettigrew isn't that much of a surprise in the
grand scheme of things, not really."

Harry blinks at her. "You—you think it makes sense that I killed him? Hermione…"

"Listen, listen," she insists, staring at him seriously, her eyebrows drawing together, "you were
ready to kill Sirius in third year when you thought he was the one who betrayed your parents. Peter
Pettigrew is the one who actually did that, but he didn't stop there, did he? No, if there was anyone
you'd get angry enough to kill, it would be him."

"Oh, is that right?" Harry asks sharply. "Any other theories on who I might kill next?"

Hermione narrows her eyes at him. "I'm not saying you're evil, Harry, stop it. I'm just…"

"Trying to make sense of the situation," Harry mumbles with a sigh. "I know the feeling."

"Why haven't you come home?"

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

"Try me," Hermione says.

Harry blows out a deep breath. "At first, it was because I couldn't. Voldemort possessed me, you
see, for days after what happened in the Department of Mysteries. But after that, when I woke up, I
didn't come back because…because I was scared. I thought everyone would hate me for Bellatrix,
and then I became a wanted criminal, and then I started to learn things, and I just… It's
complicated, Hermione, you have no idea how complicated."

Hermione swallows. "Are you safe?"

"Yes," Harry whispers. "Possibly safer than I've ever been before."

"Why am I not telling Dumbledore about this?" Hermione asks him, searching his eyes.

Harry grimaces. "That's also...complicated. I want to tell you all of it, I really do, but there are
people that I—that I…" His gaze flicks over to Draco, who's staring at his nails, giving them
privacy. "There are people I can't put in danger. It's complicated."

"You've mentioned." Hermione sighs and cuts her gaze to Draco, then back to him. "And him?"

"What?"

"How did that happen?"

"Another complicated story, honestly," Harry admits, ignoring Draco's snort. "But he's—I… He's
important to me, Hermione."

"I've noticed," Hermione says. "Ron is going to kill you when he finds out, you know."

Harry gives her a wry grin. "I know."

"So, in short, you'll tell me nothing," Hermione concludes, frowning at him.

"I… Hermione, I'm sorry," Harry whispers urgently, trying not to cry again. "Don't you think I
want to? I've wanted to talk to you and—and—"

"Harry," Hermione says gently, "you can trust me, you have always been able to trust me. Give me
something, anything. I can help you."

"Horcrux." Harry stares into her eyes, waiting to see if her eyes light up with recognition. "Do you
know what those are? Have you ever read about them?"
"No, I haven't. What are they?"

"It's...complicated."

"Can I research it?"

"Can I stop you?"

Hermione's lips twitch. "No."

Harry smiles a bit in response. "Maybe that's a good thing, actually. I don't really know everything
there is to know about them myself, honestly. If anyone can figure it out, it will be you."

"I'll help, if you like," Draco adds.

"Thank you, Draco," Hermione says, not even looking away from Harry.

"You can't—Hermione, you absolutely can't tell Dumbledore anything," Harry tells her seriously,
scanning her face. "I know it seems mad, but he—I can't explain it, not now, but he can't know I've
been here, who brought me here, what I've told you. Do you understand? Tell me you understand."

Hermione's eyebrows crumble even more in concern, but she gives a tentative nod. "I understand. I
mean, I don't get it, but I'll do it for you. He's looking for you, Harry, still. You know that, don't
you? He could protect you."

"It's complicated," Harry says again, his tone weak at her visible frustration. "Look, it's all a bit
hard for everyone right now, and I'm sorry, but there are things I have to do, alright? Even I don't
know what everything is, but I know that it's—it's important. Just give me time, and trust me.
Please just keep trusting me, because I need you to."

"Alright, Harry," Hermione murmurs.

Draco makes a small sound. "We don't have much more time. We'll need to go back soon, and you
have to leave first, Granger."

Hermione blinks, her eyes suddenly filling with tears again. "Right. Oh, Harry, I wish—"

"I know," Harry cuts her off. "Me too."

"Promise you'll visit again," Hermione pleads, staring at him hopefully. "Plan it with Draco, and
I'll be here every time, I swear it."

"I believe you," Harry murmurs. "I'll try."

"I love you, Harry," Hermione chokes out, "and I'm so glad you're okay."

Harry can feel his tears hit him with full force yet again as well. "I love you, too. And I miss you
more than you'll ever know."

"Oh, Harry," Hermione gasps, her face crumbling.

Then, just like that, they're hugging each other again, clinging to it. Both crying a bit, yet again. It's
painful, but good. It's what Harry has been missing for some time now, and he never wants to let it
go. Not again, not after everything.

But he does. Because he has to. Hermione kisses his cheek fiercely and wrenches away, smiling at
him through her tears, even as she backs away. She reaches out to squeeze Draco's arm before
turning away, and then she's gone, her hair flying after her as she runs right out the door.

Harry stares after her for a while, his tears drying, his lips curling up in pure relief.

"Come on, Harry," Draco whispers, "let's go home."

So, that's what they do.

The ceiling is a very strange thing to stare at in the middle of the night after your whole world has
been tossed on its head so many times that the head is irreparably damaged and unrecognizable.

Nonetheless, Harry lays back on his bed and stares up at the ceiling, his feet dangling off the end
and brushing the floor. His hands are loosely threaded on his stomach, and here he sprawls, staring
up at the smooth ceiling, thinking about everything and absolutely nothing all at the same time.

He'd forgotten that Hermione always smells a bit like Libraries, that her fingers are generally
smudged with ink, that her hair is always thicker than it looks, which is really saying something.
He's been reminded, though, and that feels good in ways he can't describe.

The person responsible for this reminder is reclining on the bed beside him in complete silence,
staring up at the ceiling, too. Harry wonders what he's thinking about. Maybe how good of a
bloody prat he actually, truly is and how no one knows it.

Harry, very stupidly, wants to walk Draco through the world and show him off. Look, he'll shout,
look how good he actually is, deep down.

People would think him mad, but he wouldn't care. He'd just keep telling anyone who would listen,
because people should know. Everyone needs to know, they should, because Harry never knew; he
never fucking realized. Now, he can't forget.

"Tell me," Harry says finally.

They've been here for what feels like hours but is probably just one, not saying a word, but Draco
doesn't need him to clarify. "I knew you needed something, so when she came to me, I asked her if
there was any way she could ever get out of the castle in the middle of the night. She didn't want to
tell me at first for obvious reasons, but I convinced her. Then it was just a matter of fixing up the
fireplace in the Shrieking Shack and getting Granger there without expressing every single detail of
what was going on. I think that last bit was probably the hardest, honestly."

Harry huffs out a quiet laugh. "How long have you been working on this, Draco?"

"Since the first week of November," Draco admits.

"I can't believe you," Harry whispers.

Draco hums. "I know. I'm unbelievably perfect, rare, a never-seen-before phenomenon."

"You're a pompous, poncy prat who's an arse at the best of times, but I still—I…" Harry trails off,
slowly looking over at Draco. "Thank you."

"Whatever," Draco says breezily. He glances over at Harry, smiling. "Just because I have most
certainly won doesn't mean you can avoid giving me my other present. I'm still waiting to be
dazzled."

Harry jolts off of the bed in a flash. "Oh! I nearly forgot. Merlin, I should have gone first." He
nearly trips over his own feet as he stumbles to his nightstand, opening the little cabinet door to
pull out the black box with the green ribbon. "Here," he says as he moves back over to Draco,
who's now sitting up. "You still win, but...I think you'll like it."

"You think? Such confidence, Harry."

"I hope. How about that?"

"Disgusting," Draco says mildly.

Harry snorts. "Just open it, you git."

Draco rolls his eyes, but he does. With quick, nimble fingers, he plucks the green ribbon with a
neat tug, letting it fall to his lap. He pinches the sides, his eyebrows flying up the moment his eyes
catch sight of the locket inside.

Shooting Harry a suddenly unsure look, he tugs the locket out of its box, sitting it and the ribbon
aside as he runs his thumb over the sun and moon engraved on the surface. Harry wonders if he's
thinking about France. If he is, he doesn't voice his thoughts, and instead, he flicks open the locket
and proceeds to go very still.
The thing is, Harry worked really hard on this. He engraved it himself. Apus, thankfully, isn't a
very hard constellation to do, but the words took hours. But it would, because on the left side is the
constellation, and on the right reads:

So you don't have to search anymore

Carry a piece of Paradise with you

H.P.

It hits Harry just how utterly nervous he is about this, though he has no idea why. Before this very
second, he was fairly sure that it would go over well. But, as Draco sits there rigidly, he realizes
that he's actually worried if it's going over well at all.

He swallows, glancing at Draco's face, which is completely smooth and showing nothing . No
smile, no frown. There's no reaction at all, and Harry's heart is pounding so hard that he can barely
breathe. What if this is a really, really bad gift? What if—

"Harry," Draco suddenly says, his voice soft, "do you remember how we agreed that the winner
could have whatever they wanted?"

"Yes…" Harry agrees slowly, hesitantly.

"I won," Draco whispers.

"You did," Harry murmurs.

Draco swallows thickly and slowly puts the locket back in the box, gingerly closing the lid, and
Harry's heart drops for a second. If he doesn't want it, that's fine. It's a bit disappointing, yeah, but
Harry could understand why this might be a bit too personal.

It's then that Harry notices that Draco's hands are shaking, and oh, that's a bad sign, isn't it? Harry
tries not to frown as Draco slowly turns towards him, but he is worried. If he didn't like the gift—

Draco's right hand—which is still trembling—is suddenly rising through the air, his fingers gently
brushing Harry's hairline just at his temple. Harry's heart stutters in his chest, and he suddenly
doesn't care about the locket at all. Draco is looking at him, looking a bit dazed, his eyes so, so
wide and filled with some kind of emotion that Harry can't put a name to. It makes his stomach
swoop, though.

And there it is, yet again, that feeling that steals his breath and makes him want something. He
doesn't even know what, but he knows he's going to officially lose it if he doesn't get it. His whole
body thrums with the urge for something.

Then, suddenly, Draco's hand is cupping his cheek instead of hovering over it, and Harry's brain
short-circuits immediately. He has no idea what's going on, or why he feels like he does, but Draco
cradling his cheek sort of takes priority. He can't breathe; he actually genuinely cannot breathe.

Draco blinks, looking at him, his lips parting. He looks so, so damn pretty. From this close, his
eyes are utterly ridiculous and completely enrapturing, and with them slowly coming closer, they're
—

Harry's breath hitches the moment his brain catches up with that last realization, that Draco's eyes
are coming closer, but the catch of breath in his throat freezes in his lungs the moment Draco's lips
ever so gently touch his own, and Draco is kissing him.

Draco is kissing him.

It hits him a bit too late to react, and Draco pulls away just a bit before Harry can fully register it.
The smallest, sweetest brush of lips, then gone, just like that. But that's not bloody fair. Harry didn't
even realize what was happening, and he wants… He wants… Harry makes a small noise in the
back of his throat and sways forward, suddenly knowing exactly what he wants as he goes after it.

Draco's lips are as soft as lips can be, and Harry just melts into them with a sigh, bringing his hand
up to mirror Draco's, cradling his cheek, too. He kisses him softly, just a press of mouths that seems
to calm that feeling of want in him, but only briefly. Because Draco inhales sharply and his fingers
spasm against Harry's face, twitching a bit.

And then, Harry is being kissed like he's never been kissed before. Draco's lips move, gentle but
insistent, his head tilting just enough to give them the right angle, and oh. Oh, that's…

The feeling of want surges up in him so fast that he actually grunts quietly in surprise, and then he's
powerless to it. He curls in closer, his hand sliding around to hook on Draco's neck, trying to pull
him closer. He wants him closer.

Draco, who is very argumentative, especially with Harry, proceeds to oblige him. He does so by
leaning forward, his hand abandoning Harry's cheek in favor of his hair, and now they're fully
snogging. Harry feels a violent shudder run through him when Draco's fingers glide through his
forever-unkempt hair, carding up through it, firm and very effective.

Harry's making a wounded sound without even realizing it, his free hand reaching out to fist in
Draco's stupidly nice shirt to try and pull him closer. Because Draco should be a lot closer than he
is; he should be pressed right up against Harry, leaning into him, holding on. If they're doing this,
which they undeniably are, then Harry wants to do it right.

Draco does something with his tongue, and Harry doesn't even know what it is, but it's bloody
brilliant! Harry would like for him to do that again immediately, and he's pretty sure he conveys
this by whatever gutted noise escapes his throat that time, just for Draco to taste, just for Draco.

Harry feels Draco's fingers tighten in his hair, and he likes that quite a bit actually, only for Draco
to suddenly relax his fingers and turn his head, breaking the kiss. Or, the snog, really. Harry doesn't
like that nearly as much, and would like if they could go back to what they were just doing.

Which was kissing. Snogging.

Harry blinks.

Draco clears his throat, pulling his hand from Harry's hair, flexing his fingers. He leans back,
making Harry's hands fall away limply, landing into the space between them with a dull thump.
Draco presses a hand over his mouth, blinking rapidly, then drops his hand and clears his throat
again.

Draco, Harry learns, looks even better post-snog than he did before it.

"That," Draco croaks, "was what I wanted."

Oh, Harry's brain blurts, lighting up.

He suddenly understands a lot of things all at once. Like why he misses Draco so much. Why he
thinks Draco isn't like Ron and Hermione, different, but just as important. Why he gets a little
stupid every time he sees Draco smile, or laugh, or show any bit of skin that isn't shown every day.
Like why he absolutely despises the idea of Draco fancying Theo, or anyone, really. Like what,
exactly, he's been feeling all those times it has wanted to explode out of him, the desire and
yearning and want, all that he's been feeling for months.

"Oh," Harry says out loud this time.

"You… You…" Draco blinks at him, looking a little lost and maybe, just a bit, curious. He doesn't
seem to know what to say, so he settles on, "You."

"Me," Harry agrees dumbly.

Draco's throat bobs, and the motion of it distracts Harry. His neck is very nice, actually. "Harry,
you... You let me. Why did you let me?"

Harry doesn't even have to ask himself that question to know the answer to it. He just...knows. He
gets it now. He may be completely and utterly oblivious to most things, but his skill of learning to
deal with new information, accepting it, has been refined ever since he was eleven. It doesn't take
much to accept this, to get used to the idea of fancying Draco, to wanting him. The fact that they've
already snogged helps it a bit, and that had been bloody brilliant, so Harry is adjusted enough to
just want to do it again.

This is why he looks at Draco's lips, which does very little for his current state of mind. He's
moving forward and reaching out for Draco again before he even realizes it, fingers sliding around
that very nice neck of his to pull him in, and then they're kissing again, which is… It's…

Harry's breath is plucked right out of his lungs, and he presses in harder, eager for it. Draco makes
a small sound against his lips, then his whole body sort of unclicks as he sags forward, both arms
coming up and around Harry's shoulders.

Cho Chang is the only person Harry has ever kissed, and he knows for a fact that it didn't go well.
He also knows that he has no sodding idea what he's doing, how he's supposed to move his lips,
how to avoid bumping his nose into Draco's cold one, how to keep their teeth from clacking, or
even how to involve tongue at all. So, by all means, this should be a complete disaster with him in
the lead.
And, in some ways, it is. He really doesn't know what he's doing, so noses do bump and teeth do
glance off each other, but what he lacks in skill and experience, he makes up for in earnestness. He
just wants to, wants to put his mouth against Draco's and never move away, would give up the need
to breathe for it, and that alone seems to do it for Draco.

He makes a really, really soft sound, his fingers gripping Harry's shoulders like he needs something
to hold onto, and Harry's brain feels like it's exploding. All of his neurons are firing all at once,
pinging off each other and bursting like bangs of sparks from the end of a wand.

No matter how inexperienced he may be, practice makes perfect, because he eventually figures out
how to get some air to his lungs, only just a bit but enough, and he learns how exactly to slide his
lips over Draco's, which way to turn his head, how far to tilt his head back for better leverage. And
it all comes together so smoothly, adding up to a kiss that feels maddeningly good, making his skin
tingle and his toes curl and his stomach swoop.

He doesn't have the will to pull away, is the thing. For all his strength, he's rather weak in this
manner. So, it's Draco who has to break the kiss once again, pulling away with a sharp gasp,
practically shoving himself back and away. Harry's a little breathless, panting, his fingers curling
with the urge to grab Draco yet again, bereft now that he's gone.

Equally disheveled and dazed, Draco stares at him, his puffy lips parted, his eyes wide.

Harry coughs. His glasses are a bit lopsided, askew, and he reaches up to straighten them with
shaking fingers. "Why did you let me?"

"That wasn't a challenge, you idiot!" Draco bursts out, blinking rapidly in shock. "You let me
first!"

"Yeah," Harry agrees, "I did."

Draco makes a small sound of frustration, his hands fisting the blankets on the bed as he stares at
Harry in pure confusion. "Well? Tell me why, Harry."

"I, um, I…" Harry clears his throat, trying to get his mind under control. Merlin, hormones are a lot
more insistent than he thought they would be. "I… Actually, no, you're the one who did it. Why?"
"I told you," Draco snaps, "I wanted to."

"Yes, but why did you want to?" Harry insists, staring at him, his heart hammering away in his
chest. Draco says nothing, shrinking back like he's suddenly being attacked, and Harry feels
himself soften. "I thought… Draco, you said that—that your, er, standards were incredibly high."

"They are," Draco says defensively, his gaze shifting to the side.

Harry frowns. "You said only one person met them."

"Only one person has," Draco grits out.

"Yes, but you also said you don't—wait. Wait, I meet your standards?" Harry blurts out.

Draco's gaze snaps to him, flashing, angry. "You are my standards, you twit."

"Oh," Harry mumbles, blinking. "But—but you said you don't fancy anyone."

"I said I don't fancy anyone at Hogwarts," Draco corrects immediately, then grimaces.

Harry stares at him. "You… You…"

"Shut up," Draco snarls, glaring at him.

"You are utterly ridiculous, you know that?" Harry mutters, shaking his head. "Proud, stupid,
poncy prat. Why didn't you just—Draco, you're an idiot!"

Draco looks away and rasps, "Yes, I'm well aware."

Harry sucks on his teeth, reaching over to give his shoulder a light shove, which earns him a
scorching glare. "Oh, stop it. Really, you're supposed to be smart. Maybe if you'd told me all this
before—"

"What? What?" Draco challenges, his eyes narrowed into slits, lip curling. "What would you have
done, Harry? I told you that I'm a coward."

"You're not," Harry says immediately, frowning at him in disapproval. "I mean, you did it, didn't
you? And if you had told me all this before, I might have understood why I was so angry about
Theo! You did know the whole time. Well, technically."

Draco scowls at him. "What are you on about? I still don't know what that's all about!"

"Draco, you never get to call yourself intelligent ever again, because frankly, you'd be lying,"
Harry muses with a snort. "I was so angry about you possibly fancying Theo because I fancy you,
you git!"

"What?" Draco's face clears. "No, you don't."

"Pretty sure I do, yeah," Harry tells him, nodding rather seriously. "I mean, I didn't realize,
but...yeah."

Draco shakes his head. "Harry, you like girls."

"I know," Harry agrees. "I suppose I'm like Blaise, then. Huh. Didn't know that, either."

"Harry," Draco says softly, "you don't fancy me."

"I think I would know how I feel, wouldn't I?" Harry throws him a glare and lifts his hand, ticking
off his fingers. "I got jealous of Theo, I always want to be around you, I think you're fit, I sort of
miss you pretty much all the time, and I really enjoyed the snogging. Sounds like I fancy you,
doesn't it?"

"Stop it," Draco whispers. "You don't."

"Why?" Harry challenges defiantly. "Why don't I, then? Because I bloody well think it's my
decision, and I figure it's my choice to—"

"Because!" Draco explodes, his hands jerking at the blankets roughly. "Because I'm me, and you're
you, and I don't—you can't, Harry. I'm a prat, remember? I hate Muggles, and I say Mudblood, and
I mock your dead parents, and I—"

"Merlin," Harry mutters, "shut up."

Harry doesn't really give him a choice, scooting forward to snog him again, because he rather likes
doing that and Draco really should shut up. This action is very effective. Draco shuts up almost
immediately, sort of folding into the kiss with a whimper that Harry decides is very lovely.

This is all very simple for Harry. This is, at least. Because his life is so, so complicated in so many
other ways, and this solves at least two of his problems. The confusion and the yearning suddenly
makes a lot of sense, and it's such a relief that Harry doesn't really care how he reached this point.
He's here now, and really, it's such a nice place to be.

Kissing Draco is, and may always be, a very pleasant experience. It bears repeating, preferably
over and over, a simple loop of doing it and needing to do it again. He doesn't know if this loop
will ever be broken again, and not knowing this doesn't bother him the way most things do.
Besides, Draco is doing that thing with his tongue again, tracing Harry's bottom lip with it, and it's
all gotten so mind-numbingly wonderful that nothing else matters. Doesn't fancy him, Harry's arse.
Oh, please.

Draco, rather rudely, is once again the person who has to pull away. He does so slowly this time,
pausing to press his forehead against Harry's and breathe, the moment stretching between them.
Harry's lips are tingling and he's got this slow sort of fuzzy feeling sloshing around through his
chest, warm and unbothered, sweet.

"Harry," Draco mumbles.

"Your hair smells like apples, did you know?" Harry asks him softly, smiling at him when he pulls
away.

"It's my shampoo." Draco pauses and opens his mouth, then closes it. Finally, he speaks. "I don't
think you fully grasp the depth of this situation, Harry. You have no idea…"
"What?" Harry prompts.

Draco purses his lips. "You don't get it. I've—I…"

"Alright. I'm going to ask you something, and I want you to tell me the truth," Harry says, taking a
deep breath. Draco has gone rapidly pale. "How long have you...fancied me?"

"Do you remember when I told you that you used to terrify me?" Draco asks.

Harry raises his eyebrows. "Yeah. Since then?"

"Er, no." Draco winces, then looks away. "I told you that I used to be scared of you, which made
me hate you. And I was scared because I—I...felt...things. Things I shouldn't, things that I couldn't,
and it just made me hate you all that much more."

"Wait. You…" Harry blinks at him, astonished. "You fancied me even before this summer?!"

Draco frowns at him. "Well, I didn't know that's what it was, you know. It's like Pansy and Blaise
said. I was just… You were always just there, and I couldn't stop being so angry at you for—for
practically everything. And sometimes, you would look at me with your eyes, and I'd just—it
was… There were feelings that I didn't understand, and I hated you for making me feel them."

"Bloody hell," Harry breathes out in awe.

"I know," Draco agrees rather morosely. "I didn't even realize what was going on, or what any of it
meant, not until you swooped in and just...gave me my freedom. I could do anything, and there was
nothing Mother or Father could say about it. I could touch you as much as I liked, which turned out
to be a lot, apparently, and then we became...friendly."

"When did you know for sure?" Harry asks, staring at him curiously, watching him.

Draco huffs a small laugh. "That day, when we were talking about my father disowning me. I said
I would deserve it, and you just...you looked at me and said that I wouldn't. And that's—that's
when I understood. I was so angry at you for it, too."

"You avoided me for two days," Harry mutters, lips tipping down. "Merlin, Draco, that was months
ago! You talk about everyone else pining, but you…"

"Yes, well, I hoped I would get over it."

"You...didn't, right?"

"No, I did not," Draco drawls, sending him a flat look. "Obviously."

Harry purses his lips. "You know, you probably could have kissed me since France, and I would
have been more than fine with it."

"I told you, I'm a coward."

"You're dramatic, not a coward. Also, I think you struggle to accept that you should get to be
happy."

"Well, it's not like I knew anything about how you felt, did I?" Draco snaps.

"I didn't even know."

"Because you're an idiot."

Harry grins at him. "Yeah."

Draco huffs and suddenly pushes to his feet, staring down at Harry with narrowed eyes. "I'm going
to bed," he says, his tone clipped.
"Really? Now?" Harry scrambles to his feet, a disappointment he doesn't understand—actually, no,
he does understand the disappointment now.

"Yes, now," Draco hisses, glaring at him.

Harry frowns at him. "You're angry at me. Why are you angry at me? This is a good thing, isn't it?"

"It's lovely," Draco says flatly, "but you're still an idiot, and I'm going to bed. I'll leave you to sort
yourself out and revise your ridiculous statements this evening in the morning. Goodnight."

"Draco!" Harry blurts, staring at him incredulously as he turns away. And no, he isn't having that.
He surges forward to grab Draco's wrist, a tingle shooting up his arm immediately. "You can't
seriously think I'm—I'm joking, can you?"

Draco sighs. "No, I don't. You're much too good to joke about someone's feelings. But that doesn't
mean you're not a bit confused right now."

Harry's eyes bulge. "Confused? Are you mad?! I've never been less confused!"

"Sure, Harry," Draco agrees mildly.

"You're a prick," Harry notes, his voice faint.

"That's the spirit," Draco tells him, nodding. "You'll be back into a normal state in no time."

"Did you hate my gift?" Harry asks.

Draco frowns at him. "What? No. It's… Honestly, just because you know my stupid feelings
doesn't mean you can exploit them. Yes, I like the gift, and I will be keeping it. That's… If I hadn't
had Granger, you probably would have won."

"Do you not want me to fancy you?" Harry stares at him in disbelief. "I don't get it."
"Well, it's simple. Despite what you think, I am not an idiot," Draco murmurs, his eyes very sad. "I
won't fool myself into thinking that...that…"

Harry stares at him. "You are an idiot."

Draco starts to protest this very true declaration, so in the best way he knows how, Harry steps
forward to shut him up. Whatever Draco may think about Harry's feelings, he is apparently
helpless to resist a kiss, which Harry appreciates very much.

Snogging Draco while standing is new. He has to tilt his head back and stretch up just a bit, and it's
not exactly a bad thing. Like this, he can pull their bodies flush together, sliding his hands around
Draco's slim waist and holding him close.

This, as Harry thought it would be, is brilliant.

Rather quickly, Draco gives in with a soft sigh, the tension seeping out of his frame as he grips
Harry's shoulders tightly. Their lips connect and catch, sliding together, warm and soft. It's wet,
too, and Harry didn't know that could be a good thing, seeing as his past encounter wasn't, but
bloody hell, it's better than he could have ever imagined.

And Harry just wants… He wants, of course. Many things, some that he doesn't understand yet,
some that downright make him nervous. But this is okay, because one thing he wants isn't that
terrifying, he doesn't think. He just wants to know how Draco's bottom lip will feel between his
teeth, just once, just a tiny nibble to see if it's as plump as it feels against his own. It's ridiculous, it
must be, but it's the most persistent urge he has, so he gives into it.

He catches Draco's bottom lip between his teeth, giving a little experimental tug, biting down on it
to test its buoyancy. It's really nice, actually, and Harry wants to do it again almost immediately,
wants to suck on it, which is a bit odd, he thinks dazedly.

However, Draco makes this choked-off sound as he shudders, and Harry only belatedly realizes
that it's a groan—an approving one, at that. Harry likes this sound very much and wants to hear it
again, so he tugs a little harder and nips a bit more. Draco's body seems to stiffen and flinch, going
utterly still for a beat, and then he's pushing himself at Harry with force. Harry thought they were
pressed together before, but they apparently were not.
This is going very fast, Harry thinks. It's just a small whisper in his mind that's easy to bat away
and ignore, especially when Draco is suddenly digging his nails into his shoulder with one hand
while the other slides back up into his hair. Then Draco decides to retaliate with the lip-biting
thing, and Harry instantly understands why Draco made the sound that he did.

In fact, Harry makes a sound of his own.

See, the thing is, Harry's lip is very sensitive and a bit swollen right now, and Draco's teeth
plucking at it seems to send a jolt right through him. It's hot and sharp, making him dig his fingers
into Draco's hips to try and pull him closer. There's tingly heat running through Harry's veins,
pooling in his stomach, and he's so very light-headed.

He also happens to not be paying attention to much currently, so he's barely aware that they're
moving all of a sudden. He's tugging Draco back without making the decision to, and Draco's
tripping forward to follow along, and they're snogging rather fiercely now. It's intense.

Harry doesn't know where they're going, and he doesn't really care. Wherever they end up is fine,
just as long as they do not stop.

A moment later, Harry's bumping into the bed and stumbling a bit, making a muffled sound of
protest when gravity dares to try and pull him away. But Draco just pushes at him, helping gravity
along, following Harry down. They land on the bed in a heap, slipping along the silk blankets and
nearly falling right off the side.

Harry doesn't think that's where they're meant to go, so he plants one foot on the floor to catch
them, clamping his hands on Draco's hips as he hauls him up and over. Draco's back hits the bed
and he lets out another groan, which is a heavenly sound, and Harry falls down on top of him,
planting his hand by Draco's head and never breaking the kiss. Because they should not do that,
definitely not. Ever.

But they do. Somehow, they do. Well, actually, Harry breaks the kiss for the first time ever to see
what Draco's throat might taste like, and he feels like he gets oxygen to his brain for the first time.

Fast, fast, very fast! his brain shouts at him in alarm.

Harry blinks, staring down at a thoroughly disheveled Draco, whose pupils are blown so wide that
Harry can barely see the ring of silver-blue. Their chests are heaving, bumping into each other
where Harry is hovering over him, not even entirely sure how he got here. Draco is flushed a pretty
pink, his lips spit-slick and swollen, abused.

"Merlin," Draco chokes out, his voice raspy and thick, cracking and broken a bit.

Harry swallows thickly. "Yeah. Yeah. Bloody hell, that's—you…"

Draco blinks up at him rapidly, dazed. "Are we stopping? We should probably be stopping."

"We should, yeah," Harry agrees reasonably, even while his whole body protests it. He rolls off of
Draco, flopping down on the bed beside him, his breath shuddering out of him. "Merlin, I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize," Draco says with a choked-off, delirious laugh. "Do not apologize, Harry."

Harry coughs, staring up at the ceiling, his world all topsy-turvy yet again. "That was…"

"Yes, that was."

"Told you I fancied you."

Draco makes a small sound. "Yes, I see. Understood."

"Are you still going to bed?"

"That...might be the best course of action, yes."

"I really don't want you to," Harry admits.

"Yes, well, I don't either," Draco breathes out, then he clears his throat. "Which is why I probably
should. It's… I…"
Harry sighs. "Yeah. Yeah, alright. Goodnight, then?"

"Right. Goodnight," Draco agrees, slowly sitting up, blinking around like he expects the room to be
different, or the whole world, possibly.

"Wait," Harry says quickly, sitting up and scooting down to reach across Draco and grab his gift,
holding it out to him. "This is yours."

"Oh. Yes, it is," Draco agrees faintly, taking it and staring down at it. He blinks, then looks up,
gazing at Harry with wide eyes. "I think you win, actually."

"Okay, so we both did," Harry suggests with a grin, stupidly happy. "That means I get whatever I
want, doesn't it?"

Draco swallows. "Yes."

"Just...just one more," Harry mumbles, already swaying forward like he can't resist, blinking slow.
"It will be quick, I promise."

"Alright," Draco whispers, his eyes fluttering shut, "whatever you want, Harry."

This kiss is much, much sweeter than the last. It's a bit like the first, a warm press of mouths,
almost innocent in its entirety. It still makes Harry's head spin, and they both sigh softly as they
pull away.

"Goodnight, Draco," Harry breathes out.

Draco stares at him for a second, his eyes incredibly soft. "Goodnight, Harry."

And then, just like that, Draco stands up with his box and walks right out of the room without ever
looking back, shutting the door gently behind him. His steps pause in the hall, right outside the
door, and then they continue to his own room.
 Harry flops back on his bed with a ridiculous giddy feeling swelling in his chest, and if he smiles
like an idiot up at the ceiling, well there's no one there to see it anyway.

Chapter End Notes

FINALLY!!!! THROW A PARTY FOR THESE IDIOTS!!! it only took them over
100k

Couple of things:

The "December" chapter is broken up into 2 parts because, honestly, I couldn't post it
all at once lol.

Before anyone asks about Lucius' sudden change of heart, please let your mind be at
ease. He is still a huge jerk who we all love to hate and hate to love, but it is actual
canon that he loves his family more than anything and would do anything for them.

Also, before anyone asks, no Draco and Harry will not be having any smut scenes
while they are underage, simply bc I'm uncomfortable with that. However, they are 16
year old boys with an abundance of hormones, so I do accurately portray how very into
each other they are. This topic is expanded on in the future, I assure you.

And Hermione!!!! ❤️ I miss Ron and Hermione almost as much as Harry does at this
point. Looks like we'll be seeing more of them in the future ;)

Also, yes, Draco has known about his own feelings for Harry ever since chapter 5. Let
that settle in your hearts for a minute.

Hope you all enjoyed it! Lemme know what you thought in the comments down
below!
 Altered
Chapter Notes

Oh boy, let's get into it....

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Harry wakes to a pillow hitting him over the head, rather similar to the morning prior. He groans,
picking his head up obligingly, somehow knowing his glasses will be shoved onto his face. It's
almost like routine at this point, so he doesn't flinch when, seconds later, he can see again.

"What?" Harry mumbles, squinting at Draco.

Draco arches an eyebrow at him. "Get up, you lazy bafoon. You've already missed breakfast, and
you know how Mother worries."

"I missed breakfast?" Harry asks, slowly sitting up with a hiss of protest. He rolls his shoulders,
staring up at Draco in disbelief. "How long have I been sleeping? Why didn't you wake me up?!"

"It's nearly lunch," Draco tells him, examining his nails in a rather bored manner. "And I wouldn't
have woken you up at all if the Dark Lord hadn't requested me to do so. He wants to see you in his
Study, apparently. Good luck with that."

"Oh, Merlin, what did I do now?" Harry mutters, whipping the covers aside with a huff. "I can't
have one bloody day, can I?"

Draco clicks his tongue in mock-sympathy. "I know. Your life is so hard, what with you sleeping
in all the time. The pity I have is endless, truly."

Harry stands and scoffs. "Piss off."

"I plan to," Draco informs him with a smirk, taking a step back. His gaze flicks down to Harry's
naked chest, then right back up. "Again, good luck."
Harry suddenly remembers exactly what transpired the night before, and his whole body seems to
come alive with anticipation. "Draco," he says, taking a step forward, his fingers already
twitching.

Draco holds up a hand, leaning back. "Not on your life, Harry. You will come nowhere near me
without first brushing your teeth. Ever."

"But," Harry protests.

"No," Draco says, waggling a finger at him. "It's just uncouth, and I won't allow it. Now, go."

Harry frowns at him. "Why are you so…"

"Perfect?"

"Pompous."

"I have decorum, Harry," Draco tells him with a deep sigh, shaking his head. "You, however…
Well, there's really no help for you, I'm afraid. Really, it's like no one ever taught you—mmph!"

Draco's decision to not allow Harry near him apparently doesn't include his mouth, at least not
when it's already on his. Draco does allow it, shutting up rather nicely, his hand reaching out to
curl on Harry's arm.

"Good morning," Harry says pleasantly as soon as he pulls away, smiling at Draco.

"Never again, Potter," Draco mutters, clearing his throat and stepping back. "Your breath stinks."

Harry grins at him. "And you snogged me anyway, Malfoy."

"It was horrid, and I will never be doing it again."

"I don't believe you."

Draco gives a rather prim sniff and turns around, walking away without another word. Harry
watches him go, utterly delighted. He feels rather good, actually. He should, he supposes, because
he's gotten something he didn't even know he wanted. It's about damn time something goes right in
his life for once. He'll take it, gladly.

Harry leaves off to get ready for the day in the loo. He's already annoyed that he's missed nearly
half the day he could have been spending with Draco, so he wants to get his meeting with
Voldemort over as quickly as possible. He takes Voldemort's Christmas present with him, because
he should go ahead and get it over with, just give it and be done with it.

It's not until he's sweeping in the Study and standing in front of Voldemort's piercing gaze that he
ponders the idea that Voldemort might know.

Because Voldemort can feel his emotions sometimes, and he sees his dreams. Harry's emotions
certainly were all over the place last night, but towards the end… Well, whatever he was feeling
for Draco, he was feeling a lot of it, and he is suddenly horrified at the thought that Voldemort
might know what happened.

"Why are you flushing?" Voldemort narrows his eyes at him. "Are you embarrassed or angry? I
haven't even said anything. If you are not in a calm state, then this meeting should be postponed."

Harry swallows, shifting awkwardly. "Er, nothing. What's this meeting about? I'm fine."

"Very well." Voldemort waves a hand carelessly, impatiently, like he's too busy to really care about
Harry's emotional state at the moment. "I have something to give you."

"Oh. Really? I do, too." Harry blinks, then rolls his eyes at himself. "I mean, I have something for
you."

Voldemort pauses, staring at him. "Why?" he asks, then immediately after, "What is it?"

Harry snorts. "Well, Mr. Voldemort, Dark Lord, sir, it was just Christmas. I believe it's a gift."
"Ah." Voldemort nods and extends his long, weird fingers, waving them impatiently. "Well? Give
it to me, so that I may express facetious but expected gratitude for it."

"Don't bother," Harry mutters, holding out the book a touch warily. "I don't expect a thank you, or
even for you to read it. Just a nice gesture, is all."

Voldemort plucks the book from Harry's hand, staring down at the cover. After a beat, he flicks his
fingers to open it and quickly look through the pages. Harry sort of just kicks at the floor with his
trainers, awkwardly standing there, waiting.

"This could be useful, should I need to make a map," Voldemort finally says, closing the book with
a snap, staring at Harry. "Written by Muggles?"

Harry grins at him cheekily. "Yeah."

"Why?" Voldemort asks.

Harry's smile falls. "Why? Why what?"

"What was your thought process behind the gift? Or did you simply pick a book at random?"

"Oh, well, I...don't actually know what your hobbies are, if you even have any, but I figured you
might not know all about maps. I mean, who does, really? And you said you had a curious mind,
so…"

"A nice gesture," Voldemort muses. "Indeed. If it pleases you to know, I will read it."

"Really?" Harry blurts out, astonished and baffled.

"Yes."

"But it's written by Muggles."

"Yes."

"Why are you going to read it?"

Voldemort peers at him. "Because I do not, in fact, know all there is to know about maps."

"Oh," Harry mumbles, blinking. "Brilliant."

"Sit," Voldemort says, pointing to the chair in front of the desk. "I have something for you. A
gift."

"For Christmas?" Harry asks doubtfully, moving forward to sit down in the chair, staring at
Voldemort incredulously. "I didn't even know you celebrated the holiday."

"I do not. When I was younger, I participated in the festivities because it was expected." Voldemort
leans back in his chair, sitting the book down on the desk, and he steeples his fingers. "This gift
was chosen with the holiday in mind, however. This may shock you, but I was always very
particularly good at figuring out what people wanted, or needed, and giving it to them."

Harry snorts. "Actually, that doesn't surprise me at all. It makes sense. All your followers…you
didn't get their loyalty just off of fear alone."

"That is true."

"Bellatrix…"

"Yes?" Voldemort asks, staring at him, his red eyes glinting with curiosity.

"Did you actually think she was worthy? Or did you just let her think that because you knew that's
what she wanted?" Harry murmurs.
"Ah, you've been talking to Narcissa, I see. I did, in fact, see the brilliance Bellatrix had,"
Voldemort says softly, his gaze intent on Harry. "Her being a woman mattered little to me. She was
better and more talented than some men. I knew of her ambitions, and I accepted her. It was not
due to my need for her, but due to how skilled she was."

"Please tell me Dumbledore never thought women were lesser than him," Harry whispers. "I don't
think I could handle that on top of everything else."

Voldemort hums. "To my knowledge, he never mistreated women or thought them weak. Let your
mind be at ease in that regard."

"Brilliant." Harry deflates a bit in relief, happy to know that Dumbledore isn't like that. He sighs
and holds out a hand. "Alright, give me my gift, then."

"Very well."

With that, Voldemort flicks his wand, and a clear vial comes flying out of the desk drawer. He
passes it over, letting it drop in Harry's palm. Harry stares at it with raised eyebrows. It doesn't look
like a potion he's ever seen before. It's the color of blood; real blood that's drying, not like
Voldemort's eyes, a deep maroon that's nearly black. Harry glances at Voldemort curiously.

"What is it?"

"That," Voldemort says softly, "is Basilisk Venom."

Harry freezes, going still as his gaze immediately snatches back to the vial. The suddenly very
terrifying vial of Basilisk Venom. One of the few things in this world that can kill him. It seems so
innocent like this, in a corked vial, not harming a soul. And yet, Harry's heart is racing in one part
fear and one part excitement anyway.

"Why?" he rasps.

Voldemort watches him intently. "There are very few things in this world that I can offer you,
Harry Potter. I have already taken so much from you. All I have given is your freedom and my
honesty, and yet you returned that with your trust and forgiveness. Things that I, perhaps, should
not have earned. Regardless, you gave it. In return, I shall give you my trust and further the lengths
of your freedom. What you hold in your hand is something that could destroy you, and me. Do
with it what you will."

Harry swallows thickly. "I don't want this…"

"In part, you do," Voldemort tells him. "However, it is not because of your wants—known or
unknown to you alike—that I have gifted this to you. It is because this is what you need."

And Harry gets that. He really does. Because he stares down at this vial, knowing exactly what it
means. Voldemort trusts him. Trusts that Harry won't use the Venom, won't betray him, won't
destroy himself to escape all this madness.

Harry doesn't know if he trusts himself that much. He has no idea what he may or may not do with
this gift. What he does know, though, is that it's important. He curls his fingers around the vial,
holding onto it, staring at Voldemort. It shouldn't feel good to have earned his trust. It really
shouldn't, but like most mad things, it does anyway.

"Thank you," Harry says hoarsely.

Voldemort nods and flicks his fingers. "You may go. We will pick up lessons again when Draco
returns to Hogwarts. Until then."

"Alright," Harry whispers, standing up.

And, with that, Harry turns around and walks right back out of the room, vial in hand.

Lunch is a quiet affair.

Harry's slightly disappointed to see that the Malfoys are back to their neutral distance, and it's such
a difference to the day before, like night and day, that he glances around at all of them frequently
between bites. Why is everyone being so strange?
Mrs. Malfoy notices him looking at one point and offers him a small smile, nothing like the broad
grins from yesterday. "Is everything alright, Harry?"

"I miss yesterday," Harry mumbles.

Lucius rolls his eyes.

"That's understandable, dear," Mrs. Malfoy tells him, her eyes just a touch softer as she slowly
grabs her wine. "Everyone loves Christmas."

Draco clears his throat.

"Actually, I think the best part was how you and Lucius actually seemed like normal human
beings, a couple in love and snogging," Harry replies shortly.

This does not get the reaction he expects. Mrs. Malfoy snorts into her glass of wine, then chokes on
her swallow when she realizes what she did. She hastily sits it down and presses her hand to her
chest, blinking hard as her eyes water. Draco and Lucius are both staring at her in disbelief; for
once, Harry is on the same page. He doesn't think he's ever seen Mrs. Malfoy so undignified
before.

"Oh, yes, well," Mrs. Malfoy says, her voice faint as she grabs her cloth napkin to dab at her
mouth, "I don't believe those in love need to...kiss to prove so."

"But if you want to, you should," Harry argues.

Draco coughs. "Please don't. Not in front of me, at least. I'd rather not see it."

Harry tosses him a glare. "Shut up. They should be able to express their, er, love. Even Lucius."

"I assure you, Potter," Lucius says with a light sneer on his face, "my wife is very aware of the
love I have and always will have for her."
"Merlin," Draco mutters, grimacing.

"Stop it," Harry insists. "At least you have parents to be gross in front of you."

Draco rolls his eyes. "You can't play the parent card every time you wish to win an argument."

"Why not? It's compelling."

"It's very Slytherin of you, you know."

"Piss off," Harry tells him, turning back towards Lucius, raising his eyebrows. "And how do you
know Mrs. Malfoy is aware of your love if you're not expressing it to her?"

"Harry, I'm—I'm very aware," Mrs. Malfoy practically squeaks, her cheeks turning pink.

Draco makes a sound that's close to a whimper. "Harry, please, I'll lose my lunch."

Harry huffs. "That's not what I meant, and you both know it. If you think alluding to the fact that
you shag is going to shut me up, you're wrong. Draco exists, so this isn't ground-breaking
information."

"Merlin, Harry," Draco hisses.

It turns out that Lucius can blush, too, though he looks utterly horrified while he does it. "You
would do well to mind your tongue! That is incredibly ill-mannered and disrespectful to speak such
a way in front of Narcissa!"

"Wow. I don't think you've ever scolded me before. Interesting." Harry blinks, then shakes his
head. "Also, what century are you from? Mrs. Malfoy isn't going to faint if someone talks about
shagging in front of her. Actually, why do people think girls can't express themselves when it
comes to fancying someone or—or sex? Hermione and Ginny are allowed, so why do people think
they're not?! Ginny gets scolded if she even says a word, and Hermione won't admit she fancies
Ron because she likely thinks she can't, and he's emotionally constipated. I was, too, until you lot,
because you're all so repressed that someone has to—"
He stops. He's not entirely what he's even talking about anymore, or why he's so upset. He doesn't
even know if he's right, either, technically. This somehow became about his friends that are girls
and Mrs. Malfoy, and now he's strayed from the point.

"The point," Harry continues in the silence, "is that everything was rather lovely yesterday, and you
all know it, so why don't you just act like that all the time? Because of manners? It's like you all
put on masks. I didn't even hate you yesterday, Lucius, and that's really saying something!"

Draco sighs. "And you're back to being a Gryffindor. It's not being repressed, Harry. There is a
certain thing couples do sometimes, which is called keeping things private. Not everyone wishes to
sing their feelings from the rooftops, you know."

"Oh yeah?" Harry whirls towards him so fast that the cutlery rattles on the table. "Tell me, Draco,
where exactly did that route get you?"

"Do not," Draco starts, his eyes bulging.

Harry narrows his eyes. "I will if I like."

"This is not a challenge. Harry, this is not a challenge," Draco says quickly, shaking his head. "You
have absolutely nothing to prove here."

"I think I do," Harry says.

"I'm going," Draco replies immediately, standing up.

Harry grabs his arm and yanks him back down into his seat. "You are not. We are all having this
discussion. All of us. Right now."

"I can't believe I…" Draco trails off, shaking his head and looking mortified.

"I've had enough of this Pureblood nonsense," Harry declares fiercely, turning his gaze to Mrs.
Malfoy and Lucius. "All of it is completely and utterly ridiculous. The traditions, the restraints. It's
so cold, and no one should have to stuff down what they feel just because it's expected of them."

"Harry," Mrs. Malfoy says gently, "we have had this discussion many times."

"I don't care," Harry snaps. "I'm tired of having it. You, Lucius, you said yesterday that you
support Mrs. Malfoy in accepting her sister again, yeah?"

"Yes," Lucius says tersely. "What of it?"

Harry's nostrils flare. "Give me your wand."

"Pardon?" Lucius stares at him incredulously.

"Give me your wand," Harry repeats.

"Harry," Draco says in warning.

"Now." Harry holds out his hand, staring Lucius down. "Give it to me."

Lucius is still for a long time, just staring at him. His eyes are burning with anger and what just
might be hatred. Harry doesn't care; he just glares at him back with as much dislike. Finally, with
stiff movements, Lucius reaches down and slowly passes over his wand, his jaw working.

Mrs. Malfoy makes a small sound. "Harry…"

"Can you do wandless magic?" Harry asks Lucius, grabbing his wand and testing its weight.

Lucius' gaze is on his wand as he says, "No."

"Good," Harry says sharply, smacking the wand down on the table right next to his own. "That
means you don't get magic."

"Harry," Draco grits out, "you can't just take his bloody wand, you idiot! Give it back."

"He hates Muggles so much, doesn't he?" Harry asks, leaning back in his seat. "Let's see how well
he takes to living like one."

"He has a job!"

"So do Muggles, Draco."

"That's not—" Draco stares at him, his lips parting in pure shock. "You can't be serious."

Harry arches an eyebrow. "I'm very serious."

Draco glares at him. "And when will he get it back, then? After he loses his job at the Ministry? Or
his life, when he can't defend himself? When, Harry?"

"Do you see?" Harry turns to Lucius, gesturing to Draco with a huff. "Do you even know how
much he loves you? He just wants to make you proud, and nothing he does is ever enough for you!
You want him to be someone he just isn't, and that's—"

"Harry, stop it!" Draco shouts, slamming a hand down on the table.

"Do you even love him?" Harry asks Lucius.

Lucius finally looks away from his wand, his eyes flashing. "Of course I love my son."

"Have you ever told him that?" Harry challenges.

"He's aware," Lucius says, his tone clipped.

Harry shakes his head. "No, no, he isn't. Because you make him feel like he has to be someone he
isn't to get even a hint of pride from you. What would you do if you found out he had fallen in love
with some Muggle-born boy?"

"Harry, please," Draco rasps.

"Answer me," Harry whispers.

"He would do nothing," Mrs. Malfoy suddenly says, her tone sharp and firm. "Because he loves
Draco. Because he loves his son, and he doesn't want to lose him, or me. Which he would, if he did
something."

Draco makes a choked sound. "Mother!"

"Narcissa," Lucius breathes out, his gaze flicking over to her in pure shock.

Mrs. Malfoy takes a deep breath. "As horribly as he is going about it, Harry is right. Draco is our
child, and we will support him, no matter what he does, who he loves, or how he acts."

Lucius blinks at her. "Narcissa, it is not how—"

"Then perhaps we should change," Mrs. Malfoy snarls, leaning forward with a harsh look in her
eyes that actually makes Lucius shrink back a bit, looking stunned and...oh, bugger, gross.
Nonetheless, she continues. "Our son will have his happiness, and you will not stand in the way of
that. If you do, I will go with him when you force him out."

"I—I wouldn't force him out!" Lucius bursts out, his eyes bulging as he stares at her in disbelief.

"You wouldn't?" Draco asks, his voice heart-wrenchingly small and unsure.

Lucius' head whips towards Draco, and his disbelief does not falter. "No! Draco, you are my son. I
may not approve or even understand some of your actions, but nothing you do could make me… I
would never, never disown you. To think so is—is…"

"Oh," Draco whispers.

"Lucius," Mrs. Malfoy breathes, looking like she's about to cry. "Oh, Lucius, you have been
listening to me all this time."

"I always listen to you," Lucius tells her.

"Oh, Lucius," Mrs. Malfoy chokes out.

Then, rather abruptly, she pushes her chair back with a clatter and moves to the side to, well, sort of
throw herself into her husband's lap and arms, kissing him soundly right there at the dinner table.
Lucius looks frazzled and mildly appalled by this behavior, but he does not shove Mrs. Malfoy
away or break the kiss. Harry wrinkles his nose, despite his earlier ranting, because really...it's a bit
like watching parents snog.

"Look what you've done," Draco bemoans, staring in horror at his parents.

Harry grimaces. "I'd rather not."

"I've been so worried, so worried," Mrs. Malfoy says when she pulls back, staring at Lucius with
wide, watery eyes.

Lucius clears his throat. "Narcissa, this display is…"

"Oh, hush," Mrs. Malfoy whispers with a weak laugh, her hand coming up to cup his cheek. "I
couldn't very well wait until next Christmas, could I? You have no idea what this means to me."

"I rather think I do," Lucius murmurs, arching an eyebrow at her pointedly.

Mrs. Malfoy clicks her tongue. "You'll let him be happy, won't you? Without…"
Lucius sighs. "It seems I do not have a choice in the matter, as you've pointed out multiple times."

"Yes, but if you did…" Mrs. Malfoy whispers.

"He's our son," Lucius says simply.

"Yes, and we are proud of him," Mrs. Malfoy tells him, suddenly stern.

"I did not claim that I wasn't," Lucius mutters, seemingly offended by the insinuation.

Mrs. Malfoy gives him a nod, leans forward to kiss his cheek, then stands up. She clears her throat,
smoothing down her dress and blushing. As if none of that happened, she moves back over to her
chair, slides it back to the table, and picks up her wine to take a delicate sip, not meeting anyone's
eyes.

Harry picks up Lucius' wand and holds it out to him, a smile playing at the corner of his lips. "For
good behavior, I suppose."

Lucius immediately leans forward to snatch it out of Harry's hand without a word.

"You're ridiculous," Draco whispers to him.

Harry swivels in his seat and reaches out to grab the front of Draco's pocket-jumper, getting a good
grip and tugging. He barely gets to hear the start of Draco's yelp before he's muffling it with his
own lips, kissing him hard and quick right there in front of everyone, something sharp and
victorious curling hot and pulsing in his chest.

Draco, like every time before, sort of melts into it like he can't help it, his fingers coming up to
feebly grasp Harry's own pocket—no, his hoodie. Oh, hell, what's the point? Besides, who cares?
Kissing Draco is much more important right now.

He breaks it off when it toes the line between acceptable and behind-closed-doors-only. For a beat,
he just blinks at Draco, dazed. Kissing him gets better each time, and Harry doesn't understand how
that's possible, but he isn't complaining.

"No," Lucius whispers, horrified. When Harry looks over at him, he's pale and swaying like he
might actually faint. "No. Please, Draco, not him. Anyone, anyone, but him."

Mrs. Malfoy, however, looks pleased. Her eyes are dancing with amusement. "Darling, what did
we just agree on? It's him. Of course it's him."

"But…" Lucius looks at her helplessly.

"It's always been him," Mrs. Malfoy tells him simply, reaching out to pat his hand. "You know
that. You have always known that, deep down, because you know our son. Best just to accept it, I
think."

Lucius closes his eyes like he's just been given terrible news, but he whispers, "Anyone. Anyone,
though. It could have been…" He sighs, opening his eyes, shaking his head. "No. You are, as you
usually are, entirely correct. I'm not even that surprised."

"Father!" Draco blurts, aghast.

"No one else, Draco?" Lucius leans forward, almost eager, his eyes hopeful. "Absolutely no one?
What of that Zabini boy?"

"He has that thing with Pansy, dear," Mrs. Malfoy tells him, amused.

Lucius seems to be grasping at straws. "Theo? We always liked him. You liked him, Draco."

"No," Harry cuts in sharply, narrowing his eyes.

"No?" Lucius asks, still looking at Draco, hopeful.

Draco slowly shakes his head. "No, Father. Er, sorry? It's just—just Harry."
Lucius sort of...deflates. "Yes, I suppose it has always been. Very well. I cannot...stop you."

"No," Draco says sheepishly, "you really can't."

"I take it this means your gift went over well, then, Harry?" Mrs. Malfoy asks, smiling at him.

"You have no idea," Harry admits, laughter bubbling up in his chest and breaking free when Draco
smacks him on the arm hard.

Mrs. Malfoy perks up. "Are you wearing it, darling? Let me see. What does it say?"

Draco clears his throat and reaches in the neck of his pocket-jumper, slowly bringing out the
necklace he has around his neck. Mrs. Malfoy leans forward to peer at it eagerly when he opens it
for her. She reaches out to cup Draco's hand, holding it steady as she looks at it, and her face
softens almost instantly.

"It was me, wasn't it?" Harry blurts out, staring at her with wide eyes. "When I asked you...what I
asked you, it was me that—that he…"

"Yes," Mrs. Malfoy says softly, leaning back and watching him with fondness. "I told you only you
could provide it. What you got, though… It's certainly a close second. Lovely choice, Harry."

Harry can feel his face turn bright red. "Thanks."

"I've been, understandably, put off my lunch," Lucius drawls, standing up from his seat.

Despite his words, he does pause on his way out to stand by Draco's chair. He puts his hand on
Draco's shoulder, sighing like he's resigned himself to the torture of all of this, but proud
nonetheless, just as he promised. With that, he continues sweeping off.

"Such a complicated man," Mrs. Malfoy murmurs fondly, staring after her husband with pure love
in her eyes.
Harry snorts and Draco sighs.

The thing is, Harry is inexplicably nervous. It's the sort of nervousness that leaves someone a bit
breathless because there's excitement mixed in there, too. He can feel it quivering in his chest and
stomach, making him shake just a little bit.

It's hormones, of course. It just has to be.

Harry doesn't know what else it could be. This feeling like he's going to implode if he doesn't touch
Draco, while he simultaneously feels like he's going to shatter apart if he does. The strangest urges
are no help, either. One second, he wants to grab Draco and shove him up against whatever
available surface is closest, forgetting to breathe a little while. The next, he wants to gather Draco
up in his arms, hold him tenderly, breathe soft and slow and just feel.

It's ridiculous, whatever it is, and Harry really doesn't have the confidence for it. Sure, it comes at
the times he needs it—like over Lunch—but he's a bumbling fool otherwise. He swings wildly
between bickering with Draco before trying to kiss him again (with generally positive results), or
blushing a bright red and nearly tripping over his damn feet when Draco turns his most brilliant
smile on him.

It's just that Harry wants to touch him all the time, and this is a new kind of torture he didn't know
he would have to face when he snogged Draco back. He'd do it all over again, if he did know, but
that's beside the point.

This new torture is comprised of a frequently irregular heartbeat, hands that will sweat, stuttering,
nearly falling flat on his face due to distraction, and wandering eyes that he just can't control.

Draco, of course, appears unaffected entirely.

So, sadly, Harry's sort of dying after just one day of… Of what? Actually, no, that's a good
question. Because what, precisely, are they doing? Are they...dating? Oh, this is rather confusing.

Harry's very unsure about what's going on at the moment. After Lunch, Draco had demanded they
go for a fly, which was brilliant. The moment they touched down to the ground beside each other,
though, Harry was a blushing, stuttering mess. Draco found that incredibly amusing, but he never
commented on it, or pointed out how ridiculous Harry was being, considering that they've already
snogged multiple times.

Going back in for supper was fine, and they mostly just bickered at the table like they usually do.
That seemed to appease Lucius, at least, but Harry couldn't help but wish… Well, he still doesn't
know what he was wishing for; all he knows is that he didn't get it. In any case, he and Draco left
to go play Wizard's Chess in the second Library, which somehow turned into Harry dragging Draco
into the stacks and snogging him senseless—where he gathered the stones to do that, he still
doesn't know.

But, when it came time for bed, Harry was back to being flustered and unsure. There wasn't a need
for it, apparently, because Draco said goodnight and went into his room without a backwards
glance, leaving Harry to sigh after him rather mournfully.

And now, the following day, Harry feels like he's about to rattle out of his own skin. Mostly
because he has no idea what he's doing. Also because he wants Draco to sodding be still for more
than three seconds so they can actually talk, rather than keeping them so utterly busy that they
don't have one private moment between them. So far, they haven't had one meaningful
conversation between them, and it's almost supper.

Finally, Harry has had enough.

Draco is leading him to the second Library, chattering on about some book that Pansy got him, one
he plans to read so Harry musn't interrupt him. Harry isn't really listening, and he ignores the small
yelp Draco gives when he drags Draco over to the window seat and practically stuffs him down on
his side while Harry plops down on his own.

"Harry," Draco says, "my book."

"Sod the book," Harry snaps.

Draco glares at him. "I know you have the reading comprehension of a troll, but some of us
actually—"

"Shut up," Harry interrupts sharply. He reaches out and grabs Draco's dangling hand with his own,
threading their fingers together between them, despite his swooping stomach. He's pleased to find
that Draco does shut up, snapping his mouth shut almost immediately. "You've been avoiding
me."

"Don't be ridiculous, Harry," Draco blurts out, staring at him with wide eyes. "I've been with you
all day. Literally right next to you."

"Yes," Harry agrees, "but you won't talk to me."

"We've talked plenty!" Draco protests.

Harry sighs and squeezes his fingers, glancing down at them. He can feel his face soften as he
stares at them. Draco's hands have always been soft and smooth, while Harry's just...aren't. Their
fingers do look a bit nice tangled together like this, though. Brown threaded through pale.

"I miss you, you know," Harry says with another sigh, tilting his head back to lean on the wall
behind him, staring out the window. "I had hoped that I would be done with that feeling while you
were here, at least. Guess not."

"Harry," Draco mumbles.

"It's just…" Harry flicks his gaze over to him, frowning. Draco is looking down at their fingers,
seemingly enraptured by the sight of them. "I don't know. I really don't. I want..."

"What do you want?" Draco asks him, puzzled, finally glancing away from their fingers to meet his
gaze. His eyes are so pretty.

Harry swallows. "You. I always just want...you."

Draco's face goes through a variety of many expressions very quickly, his eyes flashing with some
kind of emotion. When he sighs, he sounds wistful and exasperated all at once. He clicks his tongue
and tugs on Harry's hand, pulling him insistently.

Harry goes with the motion, his heart picking up speed almost immediately because he has no idea
what's about to happen. But Draco is urging him to come closer, so really, that's enough to reduce
him to a mess of mixed emotions.

It turns out to be something even better than he imagined, though, because Draco urges him up and
around, pulling him down. Harry isn't really sure what he's doing, or where this is going, not until
Draco tugs him down to lay between his legs. Harry leans back, resting against Draco's chest,
Draco's knees bent on either side of him. Almost immediately, Draco's fingers find his hair, carding
through it, which is lovely, actually.

Harry relaxes back into him, blinking a little in surprise at how nice this feels. It's a bit like lying
on someone, but that's alright. Actually, it sort of feels like he's being wrapped up from the back
from Draco's body, and warmth, and smell. Between that and Draco's fingers in his hair, there's not
one thing he can think to complain about.

"Sometimes, I don't know how to look at you," Draco murmurs, his voice quiet and serious.

"What? Why?" Harry tilts his head back, looking up at Draco's face as he stares out the window.

"Because looking at you makes me feel," Draco says.

Feel what? Harry almost asks, then thinks, oh.

Harry reaches out and grabs Draco's free hand, pulling it to settle between his own hands. He traces
the soft, wrinkled skin of his knuckles. How his hands could be so soft after years of Quidditch,
Harry really doesn't know. Where are the rough calluses? Harry has those.

"I understand," Harry tells him, because he does, because he looks at Draco and feels a lot, too.

"You really don't," Draco whispers. "This is all new to you, but I—I've been dealing with wanting
you for what feels like forever. I'm…"

"Used to it?" Harry suggests miserably.

Draco snorts. "Merlin, no. I'll never be used to it. I'm just very good at hiding it, now."
"Don't hide it from me, you prat," Harry mutters with a huff, pinching the taught but smooth skin of
Draco's palm lightly.

"Force of habit," Draco admits with a rueful laugh, his fingers in Harry's hair giving a light tug.
"I've done it so long that I—that it's all I know, really."

Harry sighs. "Of course, just my bloody luck. Yet another thing Pureblood nonsense taught you."

"Harry," Draco says softly, "I didn't hide it because of anything to do with Purebloods, or—or
because it was expected of me. You heard Mother and Father. I wasn't very good at hiding it from
them, though I thought I was. I hid it from you, because I...I knew you would never feel the same."

"But I do, though," Harry mumbles.

"Why?"

"What do you mean why? Draco, I just—I know I do, alright? I don't know when, exactly, it
happened. Maybe somewhere between you becoming the best part of my summer and me missing
you like mad when you were gone, but probably around my birthday. I thought I was losing the
plot because I liked you so much, and I sort of wanted you to be better than you were, and I just…
There were times that I wanted you so badly that I felt like I had already lost the plot, because I had
absolutely no bloody clue what it meant."

"That was the worst part, I think," Draco says with a dramatic sigh. "Sometimes, you would look at
me a certain way, or say something, and I really thought you were being cruel on purpose. A bit
ridiculous, really, because you'd never do that."

"Like what?" Harry asks, pushing his fingers between Draco's, then pulling them out again,
holding Draco's hand between both of his and moving it around distractedly. Draco just lets him.

"Well," Draco drawls sarcastically, "you telling me to do what scares me and take my own
happiness like the sappy git you are, for a start."

Harry's lips twitch. "I was essentially telling you…"

"To go after you? Yes."

"So...why didn't you? I mean, it worked out, didn't it? Maybe if you'd have snogged me that
day…"

"I've already told you, Harry, I'm a bloody coward."

"You weren't when you kissed me."

Draco huffs, and Harry feels the burst of breath ruffle his hair. "I only did that because your gift
made me lose all sense. Briefly."

"Well, thank Merlin for that, then," Harry says, amused. "What else?"

"Pardon?"

"What other times was I being accidentally cruel?"

"Nearly every time you breathed, looked at me, touched me, hugged me. It's torture, really," Draco
tells him, teasing, but Harry can hear just a bit of truth in his words.

Harry swallows. "If it didn't—if I don't make you feel good or happy, why do you…"

"Oh, Harry, you're such an idiot," Draco murmurs softly, fondly. "It was torture because it did
make me feel good and happy. Just another sharp reminder of what I wanted and couldn't have."

"Then you don't feel that way now, do you?" Harry mumbles, half turning to look into his eyes,
staring at him curiously.

Draco blinks, his gaze flicking down to Harry's lips, then right back up. "I'm...adjusting…"
"Draco," Harry whispers, "you've got me. It's really rather simple, isn't it? You already have what
you want, so you should be—"

"What?" Draco asks quietly, his gaze flicking back and forth between his lips and eyes.

Draco doesn't take kindly to rejection, Blaise had said. And he doesn't, does he? Of any kind.
Harry snubbed him all of once when they were eleven, and it made Draco hate him. His father
snubbed who he really is, and it made Draco pretend to be someone else. His whole life has
snubbed him in so many ways, making him a boy instead of a bird that knows the route to Paradise,
and absolutely no amount of riches or friends or anything is going to make up for the way Draco
has been trapped until Harry unwittingly stumbled in and changed it.

"I'm not going anywhere." Harry searches his gaze, trying to understand the swirl of yearning and
something guarded in his gaze. "Draco, I'm here, and I won't—I promise I won't leave you."

Because, essentially, that's what it all boils down to, isn't it? Draco's so scared of his own
happiness, afraid it will get snatched away from him once he allows himself to have it, because he
was taught that he shouldn't and couldn't know it. Here he is, trying so hard to hold Harry at arm's
length, afraid he'll cling too tight if he lets himself, scared Harry will eventually walk away,
because he's never had his happiness like this before and he doesn't know how to handle it. How to
handle Harry.

But Harry isn't going anywhere. He won't. Can't. Because he really, really doesn't want to. He just
doesn't walk away from the things he feels he needs to do, and it feels like he needs Draco to
breathe sometimes. He just… Draco's so important to him that he can't even fathom not having
him, can't fathom losing him any more than he can wrap his mind around the concept of leaving
him.

Harry's words must have some effect because Draco cards his fingers through his hair and leans
forward to kiss him; it's the first time he's initiated a kiss since the one that started it all. It's so, so
soft, just like the very first one, and Harry sighs into it.

It's not merely a simple peck, however. It's soft, yes, and very slow. But there's something
rather...sensual about it? There's passion behind it, emotion, and Harry can feel it all the way down
to his curling toes. His heart skips a beat, and he doesn't realize he whimpers when Draco ever so
slowly pulls away until it is far too late to take it back.
"You are very much a sap," Draco says, looking at him fondly, "and oh so very responsive."

Harry clears his throat, blinking slow. "Should I, er, not be?"

"You can do anything you want, I suppose," Draco mutters, rolling his eyes. "Everything you do
makes me—well, you're bloody perfect. Of course you would be; Harry Potter can't be anything
else."

"I think you're biased," Harry decides, his lips curling up as he turns back around, settling down
against Draco, secretly pleased.

"Perhaps," Draco allows.

Harry goes back to playing with Draco's fingers, feeling lethargic and loosely happy as Draco goes
back to playing with his hair. It's nice. It's so nice, and he feels like he could stay just like this for
hours, leaning into Draco and soaking up the sun from outside that pours in from the window. He's
actually starting to get drowsy, so relaxed and happy, and Draco's still playing with his hair, which
just calls him to the abyss of sleep.

Sighing, Harry pushes his fingers through Draco's, linking their hands together. "Hey, Draco?"

"Hmm?"

"Is this… Are we dating?"

Draco's fingers still in his hair, then slowly resume, and he calmly says, "Do you want to be?"

"Yeah," Harry admits.

"Alright," Draco agrees easily.

Harry hums. "So, we are?"

"Don't be a Hufflepuff about it, Harry," Draco snips, sounding exasperated and fond all at once.

"That wasn't a yes, you know."

"Yes, Harry. Merlin, you're an idiot."

"Mm," Harry agrees, pleased, "you've mentioned."

Draco sighs. "Is it always going to be like this?"

Harry closes his eyes, relaxing into the calm moment, the warm and fuzzy feeling that seems to
envelope him from all sides. "I hope so," he mumbles sleepily.

Draco says something at some point later, and Harry thinks he says something back, and then there
might be lips brushing his forehead, but oh, Harry's already asleep before he can check.

This becomes Harry's new favorite thing to do, sleeping on Draco. Because, as it stands, it's the
best damn sleep he's ever gotten. Besides the fact that Draco always smells good and feels warm,
there's how Harry doesn't have any nightmares, and he can nap for however long he wants without
waking up even more tired than he was before he drifted off.

He hasn't felt rested like this in a long, long time.

Draco complains about him draping all over him, but he never stops it. He gets rather good at
lifting his arms to let Harry fall into him, fussing the whole time, then resuming what he was doing
to begin with. Harry always shushes him and finds whatever position he's most comfortable in,
then settles down to fall asleep as Draco—if his hands are free—cards his fingers through Harry's
hair.

They give up a lot of flying time, just so Harry can catch up on sleep, sprawling out on Draco, who
is quickly becoming his favorite pillow.
They also do a great deal of snogging, too. It's never like the kiss that had ended with them on the
bed, and Harry's a bit wary to snog in their bedrooms for that reason, which is odd because
something in him that aches to touch Draco sometimes wouldn't mind at all if he and Draco
snogged like that again. The more anxious and reasonable parts of his brain know this would be a
bad idea for a variety of different reasons, all that make him blush.

It was on December 27th that they came to the official agreement to date, and Harry only forces
himself to remember the exact day because Draco says he'll kill him if he forgets, which Harry
thinks is a bit funny. He still remembers, though, because he'll likely never forget and Draco has
sworn to have his head if he does. Harry's not good with dates, but two days after Christmas
shouldn't be hard to remember, he doesn't think.

It's on December 29th—not that Harry actually cares about the date—that their displays of
affection gets shown off without them actually attempting to show it. Harry has sprawled out on
the sofa with Draco in the second Library, lying on top of him with his face buried against the
crook of Draco's neck as he half-dozes. Draco has one hand lazily carding through his hair, while
the other holds the book he's reading, and he'll effortlessly turn a page with one flick of his thumb,
such a show-off, except Harry doesn't mind in this case because it means that Draco doesn't have to
stop playing with his hair.

Anyway, Harry's half-asleep. Well, he's in that in-between state that suggests he's just on the cusp
of dropping off into oblivion, and he likes this place. He likes being this calm and happy. He's in it
so deeply that he doesn't even react when he hears a very soft gasp in the room.

"Oh," Mrs. Malfoy says.

Draco sighs. "Don't, Mother."

"Darling," Mrs. Malfoy murmurs, sounding oddly emotional, and Harry almost lifts his head to ask
her why she's being strange this time, until she continues. "Oh, Draco, you'll never survive it."

"Mother," Draco hisses softly, "stop it."

"Look at you," she whispers, not stopping at all, her heels clicking as she steps closer. "Oh, look at
him, and look at you. Draco…"
"He likes naps. On me, apparently," Draco replies shortly, his tone clipped.

Mrs. Malfoy clicks her tongue. "That's not at all what I mean, and you know it."

Draco is silent for a beat. "Did you know? This whole time, did you know it was him?"

"I had my suspicions for a long time, yes," Mrs. Malfoy murmurs, "but you confirmed it when we
had that talk about you and Pansy breaking the marriage contract. I knew, in ways that you did not,
that we were not just talking about that."

"Yes, well...why did you never say anything?"

"You would not believe me if I tried to reassure you that Harry felt the same for you."

"No," Draco agrees, "I wouldn't."

Mrs. Malfoy sighs, the tone of it tragic. "Oh, Draco, I see it, you know. You won't survive it if…
You're like your father in that regard."

"Mother, please," Draco whispers. "I already know, alright? I'm very aware."

"Have you told him?" Mrs. Malfoy asks gently.

Draco runs his fingers through Harry's hair, never stopping. "No."

"You must, Draco. It will mean the world to him."

"Mother."

"His heart is so very strong and so very fragile, all at once. You have to be careful with it, Draco,
and telling him would—"
"Mother!"

Mrs. Malfoy sighs softly. "Oh, very well. You, my son, are so brave, did you know?"

"He told me that, too," Draco mutters with a snort, his nails lightly scratching at Harry's scalp,
which only makes Harry shiver involuntarily, all while escorting him closer to falling asleep. "I
don't think I am. I'm selfish, undoubtedly, not brave."

"Harry and I agree, so that must mean we're right, and you're not."

"Oh, and what makes you think so?"

"Our opinions matter the most to you," Mrs. Malfoy says simply. She is quiet for a moment, then
she clicks her tongue again. "What am I going to do with the both of you? It's improper to—"

"As improper as it is to throw yourself in Father's lap and kiss him at the table?" Draco cuts in, and
Harry wants to jump with glee that Draco's actually doing the arguing for once, pushing back,
taking Harry's stance on it. "Yes, I haven't forgotten."

Mrs. Malfoy snorts softly. "I was only going to say that it's improper to sleep in something other
than a bed, Draco, dear."

"Oh," Draco mumbles, then clears his throat. "And you're just alright with the idea of me taking
Harry to bed, are you? Oh, but Mother, what if he comes after my precious virtue?"

"Harry can barely hold your hand without turning red as my roses," Mrs. Malfoy says dryly. "I
rather think your virtue is safe. However, you are nearly an adult, as Harry is. I should hope that
you're both to be trusted in that regard."

Draco hums. "Yes, Mother, you needn't fret. I won't be shagging Harry Potter anytime soon, likely
because he will implode before I ever get the chance. Shame, that. I was rather looking forward to
it."
If Harry wasn't nearly asleep right now, he would be dying. As it is, he merely sighs softly as
Draco's fingers continue their lovely paths through his hair. This could all be a strange dream for
all Harry knows, though it doesn't feel like it.

"Manners, Draco," Mrs. Malfoy chides gently, but she sounds amused.

"Of course, Mother."

"You'll be careful, won't you? About all of it. Even the...sex, should that ever happen, but also—"

"Yes, yes," Draco chokes out, sounding utterly mortified. "Merlin, Mother, I am trying to read."

Mrs. Malfoy must be smirking, and she gives a hum of amusement. "Yes, I see that. I recognize
that book, I think. Of the romance genre, if I recall."

"Pansy got it for me for Christmas," Draco mumbles, sounding even more embarrassed.

"Sure," Mrs. Malfoy says mildly.

Draco coughs. "Is there something you needed, Mother?"

"No, actually," Mrs. Malfoy tells him. "I happened to be passing by and saw you both. But I will
take my leave and let you resume your...cuddling."

"Mother." Draco sounds like a wheezing cat, and Harry really wishes he could be awake to laugh
at him because this is hilarious.

Mrs. Malfoy sighs, soft and fond. "Oh, darling, I'm so very happy that you're happy, I hope you
know."

"Thank you, Mother," Draco murmurs.

And then, with that, her heels are clicking away, and Harry tries to will himself to sit up and say
something, but he can't. He can hear Draco sigh, hear the sound of a page turning, and then he
hears nothing else. He just...drifts off.

On the last day of December, Harry gets a brilliant idea. It mostly has to do with wanting to spend
more time with Draco doing something than the actual urge to go out and enact his idea. Either
way, he has a very good plan in place, and he goes to both Lucius and Mrs. Malfoy to let them
know what's going on.

"I think it's a lovely idea, Harry," Mrs. Malfoy tells him supportively.

Harry's lips curl up. "Thank you, Mrs. Malfoy."

"If this is an attempt to further...woo my son," Lucius says, sneering, "it is a very poor one."

Harry sighs. "Thank you for your input, Lucius, but I think I've got wooing Draco covered,
actually."

"Yes, well, I should think that you can do the transfiguration on your own, yes?" Mrs. Malfoy eyes
him shrewdly. "You've been practicing, as instructed, haven't you?"

"Yes, Professor," Harry teases.

"Good," Mrs. Malfoy says, pleased. "Then you do not need me to do it for you."

"I don't, no," Harry agrees. "I suppose I just wanted to tell Draco's parents that we'll be gone for a
few hours, is all. It's only polite."

Lucius sighs heavily. "Telling and not asking defeats the purpose, Potter, as you should know."

"Yeah, maybe," Harry concedes with a grimace. He shrugs a bit sheepishly. "At least I have the
decency to let you know. Anyway, we'll be back before supper, but we might eat while we're out."
"We'll set the table for both of you just in case, darling," Mrs. Malfoy tells him with a soft smile.

"Be careful," Lucius says sharply, watching him intently. "The risk of your discovery climbs
higher each day, Potter. There are people broadening their search, and I've been informed that
many Aurors have been assigned to follow known Witches and Wizards with a close affiliation to
Dumbledore."

"Brilliant," Harry says weakly. He sighs and offers Lucius a quick nod. "Alright, I'll...we will be
careful, I promise. And, er, thanks."

After that, Harry bids them goodbye and goes off in search of Draco, who has been flitting all
around the Manor a bit restlessly, like he's bored. Which Harry understands, and this is the main
reason he wants to do this. They're both in dire need of somewhere to go and something to do.

Besides, this is a bit like...well, like a date, Harry supposes. The mere thought fills him with
nervous energy and pulsing excitement. Even though he'll look like Arius Fawley, it will still be
him taking Draco out on a date. His money, his idea, his choice.

He finds Draco in his room, lazily flicking his wand to make objects fly around with no
destination. Yes, he's definitely bored, and Harry relates to that. As soon as he sees Harry, all the
objects go diving to the floor as he's properly distracted.

"Harry!" Draco blurts out, surging up with a smile. He immediately looks appalled at his own
response of excitement, attempting to stop smiling and failing rather miserably, which is cute.

"Draco," Harry teases, grinning at him. "Get up, you prat, I'm taking you on a date."

Blinking, Draco tilts his head. "You are? Where? Now? Wait, how did you—"

"Well, we can't go very far, and I'll have to go as Arius Fawley, but I think we'll both be happy to
get out of here, don't you?" Harry asks, raising his eyebrows pointedly.

"Yes, I should think so," Draco agrees, easing off his bed. "Are we going back to that Muggle
Town?"
"Do you want to?"

"I wouldn't mind it. We could eat at the bakery and stop by to watch the telly again."

Harry grins. "Perfect, because that's what we're going to do. Get up and dress more Muggle."

"I could wear the suit you bought me."

"You could, yes."

"Out," Draco mutters, rolling his eyes as he points to the door. "I'll change and meet you at the
door. Are we flying again?"

"Yeah."

"Alright. Now, go."

Harry darts forward and gives him a quick kiss, blushing to the roots of his hair. Then, before
Draco can tease him, he rushes away. He feels a bit silly, considering they live in the same house,
but he's very nervous and excited regardless.

His first and only date hadn't gone so smoothly, and Harry wants this one to be much better. He's as
nervous about this one as he was the one with Cho, actually a bit more, and he hopes with
everything in him that he doesn't mess this one up. He doesn't really know how he'd live with
himself if this date ended in a disaster.

So, Harry actually makes an attempt with his clothes. He doesn't wear a hoodie, though he's very
tempted, and instead puts on his best trousers and nicest shirt. He wars with himself about whether
or not to wear the very nice new trainers Draco got him in Paris and the scarf Mrs. Malfoy got him
for Christmas, and in the end, he puts both on with heat exploding in his face. Then he stands in
front of the mirror to turn himself into Arius Fawley, concentrating really hard to make sure the
change will last, seeing as he can't use his wand while away.
Arius Fawley looks better than he does, his hair curly instead of messy, his nose a bit smaller, his
eyes not covered with glasses. Harry frowns at his reflection, then rolls his eyes. He is not about to
get jealous over himself. Arius Fawley is him, for Merlin's sake. Besides, Draco has made it clear
that he likes Harry Potter very much.

Sighing, he goes down to wait by the door, and Mrs. Malfoy drifts out to join him. She has a small
smile on her face as she takes in his obvious effort, and Harry sort of wants to hide his face in his
hands, or simply die from the embarrassment.

"A date, then?" she asks lightly.

Harry groans. "Please, please don't make a big deal of it, Mrs. Malfoy, really."

"I think it's sweet," Mrs. Malfoy tells him anyway. She moves closer to flip his scarf over his
shoulder, idly stroking away all the wrinkles. "I have said it before, and I will say it now. You,
Harry, are the perfect company for my son."

"Thank you," Harry whispers, his face feeling like it's about to melt right off his skull.

"Treat him well," Mrs. Malfoy murmurs.

Harry gives her a small smile. "Of course."

She hums and steps forward to kiss his cheek, lingering for just a beat, making his face heat up all
over again. He can practically feel the motherly affection rolling off of her in waves, and he doesn't
really know what to do with it. He can't help but be ridiculously flustered by it, which she sees
perfectly fine, and it seems to make her happier.

When Draco comes down the steps, Harry almost swallows his tongue. Draco, it seems, can't look
bad in absolutely anything, certainly not a Muggle suit. The very sight of him makes Harry do a
double-take, his eyes widening and his heart stuttering in his chest. He's breathless almost
immediately, blinking at Draco and forgetting Mrs. Malfoy is there at all.

"You made an effort," Draco notes, pleased.

Harry makes a choking sound. "You—you…"

"Take your time," Draco says patiently, smirking.

"You look, um…" Harry swallows thickly, his fingers twitching. "That is to say that you—er,
you're…"

"Today, Harry," Draco tells him, now impatient and rolling his eyes, but still openly pleased.

"Don't be a prat," Harry mutters, huffing. Still, despite Draco's very prat-ish behaviour, Harry drifts
closer like there's a hook in his chest pulling him straight to Draco. "You look perfect, as always,
which is bloody annoying."

Draco laughs. "A backhanded compliment is still a compliment, Harry. For your first attempt, I'll
give you points for effort. It was miserable, though."

"Oh, be nice, Draco," Mrs. Malfoy says, tutting and moving forward to smooth out the lapels of
Draco's suit, which do not need smoothing. She's fussing, just like she did with Harry. "Have fun on
your date, darling, and be safe."

"Yes, Mother," Draco assures her dutifully.

Mrs. Malfoy leans forward to kiss his cheek, too. When she backs up, she's smiling. "Treat him
well."

Draco hums. "Of course."

Harry's having a hard time wrapping his mind around the fact that Mrs. Malfoy gave her son the
same treatment as she gave him, but he really doesn't know what to do with that. He doesn't have
time to find out either because she ushers them towards the door, still so damn pleased.

And, with that, they climb atop their brooms, and they take off to the skies.
Being back in the Muggle Town is strangely nice. Harry feels more in his element here, despite
everything. Draco is still a touch nervous when it comes to Muggles, so now it feels like they're on
the same level of nervousness, and it somehow soothes Harry to know that.

They get there the same way they did last time, walking with familiarity past the train tracks. There
are no children here today, but Harry catches Draco looking for them.

Despite everything, despite this being a date, they're still them. So, they talk and bicker as they
move through the town, no matter how nervous they both might be. Harry thinks he could be
anywhere in the world with Draco and still have fun, just as long as they're wrapped up in their own
little world. There's a comfort in how they still pick at each other; Draco is still a prat, and Harry is
still an idiot, and they still like each other ridiculous amounts anyway.

They go to the bakery first, just to end up waiting in line for half an hour. The girl in front of them
turns around a few times to talk about how the bakery needs more help, and Harry has a small
conversation with her. Draco makes a comment once or twice, tentative and unsure, but it goes
over well. The girl tells Draco that she likes his tie, and he tells her he likes her jumper (a gaudy
Christmas one, and Harry can tell Draco is lying, but still), and things are calm after that. They get
a pastry each, then sit down to eat them, ending up sitting in that small bakery full of people and
talking for an hour.

Then, Harry remembers something, and he blurts out, "So, wait, you knew you fancied me when
we came here the first time?"

"I was aware, yes," Draco admits. "I was trying very hard to stop. The trip did not help."

"You know," Harry muses, "that was when I sort of knew I wanted you to—to be better than you
were. I wanted you to be someone I could like. And then, I was sort of angry that I liked you
anyway, despite the fact that you hadn't really...changed."

Draco's lips curl up, and he leans forward on his elbows, watching Harry in delight. "Ah, so you
were fond of me before you made me realize the error of my ways. Only you could, you know. I
would have hated me without a thought."

I think you did, in some ways, Harry thinks but refuses to say. "I had hope for you, is all. Besides,
maybe you weren't the only one trying very hard to hate the other. This trip, as you said, didn't help
at all."
"How do you think it was for me?" Draco asks with an arched eyebrow. "You told me there was
nothing heartwarmingly poetic about me secretly fancying the girl I had bullied and called slurs for
years. Do you have any idea how that affected me? Knowing I was secretly fancying you after the
way I've—"

"Hey," Harry murmurs gently when Draco cuts himself off and looks away, "I didn't mean—well,
I did mean that. It's just that… Draco, you haven't changed. You're still a pompous, poncy, prat,
and I like those parts of you. I like all the best parts of you, alright? The worst parts, they're still
there; I didn't forget them, I just forgave them."

Draco shrugs a bit jerkily. "Perhaps you shouldn't have. Perhaps I don't deserve your forgiveness,
but you gave it because you're—you're good."

"That fact that you think you might not deserve it is how I know for sure that you do," Harry tells
him quietly, reaching out to grab Draco's hand, twining their fingers together. "Besides, isn't it a
good thing that I know all the worst parts of you and I still—I still want you? I think it's a good
thing that you know all my worst parts and still fancy me. Which, really, do I have any room to
judge? After the things I've done, the things you've seen me do, I still don't know how you've
forgiven me."

"I didn't," Draco mumbles, glancing down at their fingers, a pretty blush lighting his pale cheeks,
like a rose beneath snow. "There was nothing for me to forgive because I know you. Also, you're
being a sap again, and it's very stupid."

Harry grins at him, pulling his hand up to kiss the back of his fingers, then whispers, "You like it."

"I hate you," Draco whispers back, staring at his own fingers with even redder cheeks.

"Yeah?" Harry asks lightly. "I hate you, too. Glad that's settled. Now, come on, let's go stroll
around on our date."

So, that's what they do. They get up and throw their pastry wrappers in the rubbish bin, then head
out hand-in-hand. Harry likes that, likes how they're tethered together, likes that he can turn around
and tug on Draco's hand, staring at their arms stretched out and reaching for each other. It makes
almost all of the nervousness fall away in a heartbeat.
They stroll around the town, looking at the Christmas decorations, the strung-up lights that flicker
multiple colors. Draco is enthralled with how pretty some of the decorations are, and Harry is
enthralled by how pretty Draco is while enthralled. It's a lot of soft smiles and gazing, Draco
staring at things in awe while Harry stares at him in the same exact manner. It's sweet and
heartwarming, and Harry refuses to feel anything but happy about it.

When they pass the park, there are people standing all around. There seems to be some kind of
festivities going on for the New Year, the whole town celebrating. Harry and Draco just mean to
take a light stroll around the park track, but someone shoves small bags of candy into their free
hands and asks if they want to put their names in for a raffle.

So, for about half an hour, they sort of fend off rather pushy but well-meaning Muggles who give
them cake and make them string up balloons around the fence. As they're given a bag of balloons
not yet blown up, Draco sends Harry an incredulous look.

"I'll show you," Harry mumbles, tugging him towards the fence with a spool of ribbon resting
easily in his palm. "I had to help Aunt Petunia decorate for Dudley's birthday once when she wasn't
feeling well, so I know what to do."

Draco begins to strangle the bag of balloons as they stop by the first post. "Just once, Harry. I'd like
my go at them just once."

Harry laughs. "Oh, hush. We've talked about this, haven't we? It's fine."

"Just once," Draco repeats, giving the bag of balloons a rather violent shake.

"Give me that." Harry rolls his eyes and takes the bag of multicolored balloons. "Look, you put
your mouth at this end right here and blow. See?"

Draco waggles his eyebrows. "Suggestive."

Harry sighs and blows the balloon up in his face, which takes all of Draco's focus immediately. He
seems delighted by it, watching Harry tie off the end. When it floats, he taps his palm to it,
watching it raise up and slowly bob back down, his smile wide and utterly perfect.

"You're beautiful," Harry says, not even knowing what words were going to tumble out of his
mouth until they escape to exist in the air between them.

It's something about seeing Draco's face light up, his eyes sparkling with delight, his lips breaking
into the most dazzling smile Harry has ever seen. It's the childish joy and wonder on his face, how
he finds simple excitement from a balloon, so sodding sweet that Harry's heart squeezes. Draco is
just… He's so damn beautiful.

Draco blinks at him, forgetting about the balloon entirely. It goes drifting up in the sky, no fingers
to pull it back down, but neither of them notice. Even if they did, they wouldn't care.

What matters is that Draco's eyes are incredibly soft as he reaches out to grab both ends of Harry's
scarf, tugging and pulling him in until they can kiss. Harry hums into it, slipping his hands around
Draco's waist, right into his suit-jacket, idly thinking the silk undershirt was a good choice. Their
bodies seem to melt, clicking into place, and Harry feels a hand on his face, cupping his cheek. It's
a very slow, intimate kiss. Harry's never felt quite so cherished before.

Then Draco pulls away and says, "Your lips are different."

"That's because I'm Arius Fawley," Harry rasps, blinking open his eyes. "Who you just snogged. I
think your boyfriend might get jealous."

"If my boyfriend didn't say such things," Draco whispers, "I might not feel the need to snog him."

Harry smiles at him crookedly. "You are beautiful, though. You must know it."

"It's different when you say it," Draco tells him quietly, his eyes searching Harry's. "You will stop
saying it immediately, or I will be snogging you again. And, frankly, I'd rather snog my boyfriend."

"You're stuck on the boyfriend bit."

"You could say that I have a thing for it, yes."

"Yeah, well, you must like it even more because, technically, you have two boyfriends," Harry
says with a snort.
Draco's lips twitch. "I don't know if you know this, but you could look like anyone or anything, and
I would still know it was you. At the moment, you may look a bit different, but I see you."

"How?"

"The way you smile. Your eyes, no matter what color, always have this strange sort of strength in
them. I'd know your eyes anywhere. All I'd have to do is get close enough to see them."

"You fancy me so much," Harry declares with triumph, grinning in utter delight.

"As much as I hate you, I imagine," Draco mutters with a prim sniff, rolling his eyes and lightly
shoving Harry's face away from his own. He ignores it when Harry laughs at him. "Come on, we're
meant to be helping Muggles with bubloons."

"Balloons," Harry corrects immediately.

Draco sends him a funny look. "That's what I said."

So, for the next half hour, they go about doing just that, blowing up balloons and tying them to the
fence posts, doing so until they both get lightheaded. Eventually, thankfully, a man comes over to
relieve them of their duties, and they make their quick escape, laughing about the ridiculousness of
it all as they go.

They know they have to be home soon, but Harry figures it can't hurt to stroll leisurely back
towards their brooms, holding hands again. They talk and bicker much the same as they always
have, but no matter what's said, they don't let go of each other's fingers. In fact, even when Draco
stops in front of a telly with eagerness, he holds onto Harry's hand and makes him come to a halt.

It goes on break quickly, though, to Draco's protests and disappointment. Harry ushers him away
quickly, trying to hide a smile at Draco's obvious obsession with the Muggle telly. It's rather
adorable, really.

The plan to leave gets derailed when they stop between the Church and the Library. For a while,
Harry stares up at the Church, but he just shakes his head when Draco asks if he wants to go inside.
They go into the Library instead, just to get a little warm before they head back to their brooms. In
truth, they don't really want the date to be over, which is something that Harry is immensely
pleased about.

They walk down the stacks, but Draco gets distracted by a book, so Harry lets him go. Draco
waves him off, promising to come find him when he gets through perusing. So, with a smile, Harry
heads for the tables to wait.

Which is where he runs right smack into none other than Remus Lupin.

Quite literally, they collide as Harry rounds the corner to one of the tables, and he steps back with a
small gasp of surprise, only to choke on it when he sees his previous Professor. The man looks
startled, staring at him, and he clears his throat.

"I apologize," he says softly. "I almost ran you over. I should have been watching where I was
going."

Harry feels his lungs shrivel as his breath freezes up in his throat, and he has to blink a few times to
get the order to simply inhale from his brain. He takes a deep breath, lets it out, then coughs.

"No, no, you're fine," Harry says quickly. "I'm really sorry about that, sir."

Remus chuckles. "That's quite alright."

Draco comes rounding the corner, speaking before he even looks up. "Muggles are fascinating,
truly. Honestly, how they romanticize vampires is—oh."

Draco and Remus blink at each other.

"Mr. Malfoy," Remus finally says, "I must say, I did not expect to see you here."

"You know Draco?" Harry blurts out quickly.

"Arius, this is Remus Lupin, the Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor I had in Third Year,"
Draco says calmly, nodding at Remus. "Professor, this is Arius Fawley, my…"

"Boyfriend," Harry supplies.

Draco clears his throat. "Yes. That."

Harry smiles at Remus, holding out his hand as an offer, hoping Remus will take it. "Draco told me
that you were the best Defense Professor he's ever had."

"Did he?" Remus asks, looking briefly surprised as he reaches out to shake Harry's hand before
politely dropping it, smiling. "I must admit, I find that surprising as well. I rather thought you
didn't like me, Mr. Malfoy."

"Oh, er, you were the best we've ever had. Not that many of our options were great. First Year
was… Well, you know. Then Lockhart, who was a joke. You were rather practical in your lessons.
The next Professor turned me into a ferret. Umbridge's lessons were ridiculous. We have Professor
Snape this year, and he's practical like you, but...well, he's rather intense about it."

"Draco," Harry says, amused, "you're rambling."

"Right," Draco mutters, clearing his throat.

Remus looks slightly amused, too. "And you, Mr. Fawley? I believe I taught a Fawley; he was a
first year at the time. Any relation to him?"

"Probably," Harry admits with a snort. "I'm not from here, though, so I've never met him. I'm just
visiting Draco for the holidays."

"Ah," Remus says, "lovely."

"You know," Draco says slowly, "I didn't expect to see you here, Professor. You don't live in this
town, do you?"
Remus' smile becomes a bit tight. "I don't. I'm simply here for a book."

"Oh? What book?" Harry can't help but ask.

"Ah, it seems it's already been taken, unfortunately. By a boy named Dudley, who hasn't returned
it," Remus says lightly. "I'll have to look elsewhere."

Harry's heart freezes in his chest, and he can't help the choking sound he makes or the way he gets
stiff. He suddenly knows exactly why Remus is here. Investigating the mistake Harry made by
giving Dudley's name for the books, no doubt. How did Dumbledore find out? Who else is here?

Remus' eyes flick to him, curious.

"Sorry!" Draco suddenly blurts out, making Remus glance over at him in surprise. "I—I mean, I
should be saying sorry to you, Professor."

"Mr. Malfoy, I'm no longer your Professor, and I'm quite sure you have nothing to apologize for,"
Remus murmurs slowly, visibly confused.

"No, no, I do," Draco says quickly, shuffling his feet a bit. "I was a horrid student, I just know it."

"I think you were exceptionally talented, actually. You excelled in my classes."

"Not—not the lessons, sir. I was horrid to you."

Remus blinks at him, startled. "I'm...not sure if that requires an apology, Mr. Malfoy. It's quite
alright."

Draco shakes his head. "I treated you unfairly because you were obviously poor, which was wrong
and rude. I also thought horrible things about you because you're a werewolf. I shouldn't have
assumed that made you inferior, and I shouldn't have—er, what's the word I'm looking for?"
"Discriminated," Harry murmurs, watching him with a small smile, recovering rather quickly over
his fear with Draco being...this way.

"Yes! That!" Draco agrees, snapping his fingers as he nods at Remus. "I shouldn't have
discriminated against you all because of what you dressed like or what blood runs in your veins. It's
racism and wrong, and I am very sorry. I also should not have called you the slurs that I did. I will
never call you a half-breed, mutt, filthy—"

"I think he gets the point, Draco," Harry cuts in quickly with a wince.

Draco clears his throat. "Yes, well, I apologize."

Remus is staring at him in open disbelief and astonishment, his mouth opening and closing. He
looks like he's been stunned by hearing this, his eyes a little wide. It makes Harry's chest warm.

Harry reaches out to hook his hand on Draco's arm, smiling at Remus. "Excuse us, I tend to get
rather happy when Draco is being a good person, you see. I have to go snog him now, but it was
really, really good seeing you, P—Mr. Lupin."

With that, Harry tugs Draco away, practically sprinting through the Library and right out the front
doors, laughing at the bizarreness of what just happened. Remus does not chase after them,
probably still too shocked to do so.

"Oh, Merlin, that never gets any easier," Draco wheezes when they finally stop about a block from
the train tracks.

"You were bloody brilliant!" Harry bursts out, whirling on him with a grin. "The moment we get
home, I'm snogging you senseless."

Draco blinks at him. "Really?"

"Yes, really!" Harry hisses, beaming at him. "I know you only did it to—to distract him, but Draco,
what you did was incredibly good. For all you know, you've just made his whole day! And I—
well, I like it when you're kind to the people I care about. So, yes, I'm going to snog you."
"Promise?" Draco whispers, his lips curling up.

"Promise," Harry vows. "We should go, so I can."

Draco laughs. "Yes, we should."

So, with that, Harry grabs Draco's hand and starts marching him towards the train tracks, eager to
get home. He wants to get back for more reasons than snogging, though.

It's worrying that Remus is here. Harry is happy to see him, of course, and he almost wants to go
back and hug him. Just hug him and tell him everything, because the last time Harry saw Remus
was in the Department of Mysteries. He must miss Sirius as much as Harry does. It breaks his heart
to think of all they've lost, all that Remus must be dealing with alone, with Harry's disappearance to
worry about on top of it. Familiar guilt swells within him.

It's not that Harry hasn't been dealing with guilt and shame. He has. He never stopped. Being a
murderer is no easier today than it was months ago. His grief over Sirius hasn't really stopped, still
existing like a second heartbeat. The confusion that comes with Voldemort and Dumbledore seems
to have no end in sight. It's all still very much the same.

It's just that Harry can't do a damn thing about any of it. He's stuck. He's being jerked in so many
directions that he can only deal with one thing at a time without feeling like he'll be ill. Right now?

Well, Harry's just so happy to have Draco. It makes it easier to breathe, to get some reprieve from
everything that's wrong in the world right now. He's sixteen, terrified, confused, and he just wants
to have a sodding good time every once in a while. He doesn't want to be upset and angry all the
time.

This, though… It brings reality down on him in a way that Harry doesn't want to accept. The Order
is still looking for him. Dumbledore is still looking for him. What's he supposed to do with that?
Harry can't avoid him forever, or avoid what and who Voldemort truly is. There will come a day
when he'll have to face it, to make a choice.

Voldemort or Dumbledore. The Order or the Malfoys. Life or death.

Harry's not ready for this. He just isn't. So, instead, he's going to march his boyfriend into a little
forest, hop upon brooms, and go home to snog him. He has exactly four and a half more days until
Draco returns to Hogwarts, and he doesn't want to waste a second.

He's not going to, either.

Well, that's what he thinks until he walks into the small clearing he and Draco touched down in.
They're still holding hands, and Harry clenches his around Draco's in a death grip when a man
steps out from behind the tree their brooms are hiding at. In his hand, he has a grip on Harry's
broom. The man is wearing Auror robes.

I've been informed that many Aurors have been assigned to follow known Witches and Wizards
with a close affiliation to Dumbledore, Lucius had said.

Of course. Remus is here.

"I have some questions," the man says, looking at them with a small frown. He holds up Harry's
broom with an arched eyebrow. "For one, how exactly did you manage to come by a broom that's
supposed to be in the Ministry, belonging to Harry Potter?"

"We found it," Harry rasps.

The man's eyebrow climbs higher. "You found it. Who might you be, boy?"

"No one."

"Really?"

Harry nods. "Yes, sir."

"That's very funny," the man slowly says, "because everyone is someone. Even you."

Then, with reflexes only an Auror can have, the man whips his hand at Harry and shoots off a
Spell. He can feel his face tingle as the transfiguration shifts away, his vision growing blurry, his
hair losing curls. Harry immediately shoves Draco aside and takes out his wand, his heart
thundering in his chest.

"Accio Firebolt!" Draco suddenly shouts, and Harry watches the man stumble as the broom
instantly sails from his hand. "Don't use magic, you idiot!"

"You—" Harry cuts himself off as Draco shoves the broom at him, his eyes wide.

"Go, Harry!" Draco hisses at him. "I'll—"

He never gets to finish because the man flicks his wand and Draco goes flying backwards, encased
in rope in a flash. Harry immediately lifts his wand, but that goes flying out of his hand before he
can even use it. The man steps forward to glare at Draco.

"You little brat," the man spits. "What do you think this is? A joke? I'll take you in, too. Whoever
your parents are will have a right shock when they get the news, I imagine."

"No," Harry snaps. "I'll go with you willingly, just leave him out of it."

"Harry!" Draco protests.

"Shut up," Harry snarls at him before turning back to the man, holding his gaze. "You let him go.
Leave him here for all I care, and I go with you. If you don't…" He trails off, letting the pause
thicken as the man stares at him. "Well, you know what I've done. You know what I'm capable of.
I'll go with you, cooperate completely, as long as you take me alone."

The man shoots a Spell at Draco, a Stunner by the looks of it, by how Draco immediately slumps
and seems to be asleep. "I think bringing Harry Potter into the Ministry is going to be hectic
enough. Turn around. Slowly."

Harry does, feeling a bit ridiculous and a lot terrified. He doesn't like being treated like a threat. He
doesn't like anything about any of this. Draco's body remains still and slumped, and Harry's eyes
keep crawling back to it.
 He jolts when his hands are suddenly shackled, jerking forward, a long chain connecting them to
his now shackled feet. Just like Sirius… Then, a heavy hand lands on his shoulder, and Harry
closes his eyes just before they disappear with a sharp crack.

Looks like the date was ruined anyway.

Chapter End Notes

Heh, so uh...that happened. *smiles innocently*

 Loss
Chapter Notes

The first half of this is tense and sad, I'm so sorry :/

For the first time in a while, I have to actually add a little warning for this chap. It does
get pretty heavy, and something happens that I do not want to spoil. However, there
are some people who will want/need to know beforehand, which is entirely valid, so I
will be putting it briefly in the end notes if you want to go down there and be spoiled.

All I will say here is, there's loss this chapter.

Other than that, though, we get some pretty soft moments as well ❤️ enjoy?

See the end of the chapter for more notes

The ceiling in the cell is a lot different than the one back at Malfoy Manor, but Harry finds that he
can study it and contemplate the mad world he lives in.

It's cold in the cell, and they haven't provided him with any source of comfort. It's not dreadful or
anything, like he imagines Azkaban will be. His mind skitters around the idea of what it's going to
be like with all those Dementors. They'll feast on him, won't they? Possibly forever, because he can
only die in so many ways. He'll live forever in despair, surrounded by the thing he fears the most.

He has absolutely no idea how long he's been here. He's slept, but only in short dozes where he
jerked awake in regular intervals, alert, his heart racing. He feels like he's been here forever. For
days. He misses Draco. He wants to go home, except he doesn't really know where that is
anymore, and he can't.

Harry's not even really sure why they bother with a holding cell. There isn't a doubt in his mind that
he'll be shipped off to Azkaban as soon as people are done discussing it. Fudge is probably having
a right laugh about it right now, possibly gleeful that he's going to get Harry Potter back for all the
times he refused to side with him.

I hope Voldemort kills him, Harry thinks, then wishes he didn't. He's horrified by the thought.

It doesn't really surprise him, though, and he knows it isn't actually true. He's just so angry right
now, sitting in the corner of a cell in a fit of fury that everything is going to end like this. After
everything that's happened, this is how it ends.
That makes him sit and take a long look at how, precisely, he thought this was going to end to
begin with. Surely it comes down to a battle between Dumbledore and Voldemort, and Harry
knows he will have to choose a side. Just because he's choosing to stay with Voldemort now
doesn't mean that won't change in the future.

Harry sort of always thought that it would change, really. Voldemort is still Voldemort, and he can't
win. He can't, not with how the world would turn out. It's just that… Well, Harry doesn't expect the
thought to hurt so much.

Not that Voldemort might lose, not at all. Just the thought that he will be betrayed, and Harry will
be the one who does it to him. That they may be face-to-face when Voldemort goes down for
good.

But that's ridiculous, because Harry has to die before Voldemort does. So, he won't be there to see
the downfall. He'll likely die knowing that he's betrayed Voldemort, knowing that Voldemort hates
him for it. The thought shouldn't hurt as much as it does, but it simply does.

What other option is there, though? Betray Dumbledore and let Voldemort win? Harry can't do
that, no matter how much he wants to live, no matter all those he wishes to live for.

But it seems that Harry won't have to make that decision at all, won't have to face it, because here
he sits, awaiting his trip to Azkaban.

Are they even going to give him a trial?

The sound of quick, sharp footsteps coming up the otherwise silent hall makes him sit up. His eyes
snap open as he peers out through the bars, his heart racing. Is this it? What's going to happen to
him? Merlin, how did he get here?

Harry expects an Auror, or even the Minister. He fears it might have been Kingsley, or even
Dumbledore, coming to visit. But who stops in front of his cell is the last person he expects to see.
It shouldn't really surprise him that much. Had he been paying proper attention, he might have
recognized the unpleasant sound of clunky heels with the gait belonging to stumpy legs.

Umbridge smiles at him. "Hello, Mr. Potter."

"Here to escort me away, Delores?" Harry asks dryly, staring at her with blatant defiance, knowing
damn well how much she hates it.

"Oh, oh no, Mr. Potter," Umbridge says with her stupid, sickening little giggle. "Not just yet. I
thought I might pop over for a quick visit."

"Come to gloat, have you?"

"Nothing such as that. I merely thought I'd stop by and see what's become of my worst student."

Harry glares at her. "And I've seen what's become of my worst Professor. Still rather toad-like, it
seems."

Umbridge flushes an angry red, but she clears her throat and tries to seem taller. "You, Mr. Potter,
are in no position to make unseemly comments. I should think you'd be a bit more polite, even
pleading for help, perhaps."

"I'd rather die," Harry admits blandly.

"Do you know what's going to happen to you, Mr. Potter?" Umbridge's eyes flash with glee, and
she takes a few eager steps forward, staring at him. "I should tell you what Azkaban is like. It's the
coldest, darkest place on the earth. You will rot in a cell where no one will be able to find you, and
every day, Dementors will steal just a bit more of your soul. You'll feel a sadness like no other."
She gives that little giggle again, sickeningly sweet and pink all over, still smiling. "It is there, I
think, that you will learn what I always tried to teach you. Because there, Mr. Potter, you will wish
you were dead."

"I think that's quite enough, Ms. Umbridge."

Harry's heart, which had been sinking in his chest, suddenly shoots up to lodge in his throat. He
goes very still, his hands spasming weakly in his lap. Umbridge jerks away from the bars, blinking
rapidly as she turns to watch Dumbledore sweep into view, peering at her in a way he so rarely
looks at anyone.
"Headmaster," Umbridge simpers, faux polite, "I must ask, whatever are you doing here?"

"Visiting a former student of mine," Dumbledore says promptly, suddenly back to pleasant as he
stares at her over his glasses. "Much like you, it seems. I think Minister Fudge would be most
interested in what you and Harry have spoken about, wouldn't you say?"

Umbridge's smile flickers for a second, then tightens and stays firmly in place. "The Minister has a
lot on his hands at the moment, Headmaster. I think it best that we leave him be, don't you?"

"Perhaps," Dumbledore says vaguely.

"Well, good day," Umbridge says finally, backing down under Dumbledore's gaze. She pauses
before walking away, glancing at Harry with a mock-look of disappointment, then she looks at
Dumbledore, seemingly gleeful again. "Such a shame, isn't it? I know you had such high hopes for
him, but even you can't help him now. Pity."

With her little giggle that grates on all of Harry's nerves, she makes her way back up the hall, her
heels clicking as she goes. She's taking her sweet time, but Harry instantly dismisses her.

I know you had such high hopes for him, but even you can't help him now.

Harry's heart is racing so hard that he thinks it might try and break free from his chest. He's not
really breathing, and his gaze has landed on his shaking hands as Dumbledore started to turn to
him. Harry's scared he'll look up and Dumbledore won't meet his eyes yet again; he's even more
terrified that he will.

Dumbledore will know. He'll instantly know that Harry is bad, that Harry's done horrible things.
He'll know all the shame and anger and guilt. He'll see all the things Harry has wanted to show him
since last year, and he'll see everything Harry has wanted to keep hidden since he murdered
Bellatrix.

"Harry," Dumbledore says softly.

Closing his eyes, Harry shakes his head, ducking it as his chest pinches and twists. He's going to
cry. Now is the time for it, considering everything. But he can still hear Umbridge's heels slowly
clicking up the hall, and he can feel his chest caving in, and he can see the dark spots in his vision
from where he's squeezing his eyes shut so hard. He can't do this.

"Harry," Dumbledore says again, "look at me."

A flash of rage hits him square in his chest, and it drowns out the guilt and shame. Now
Dumbledore wants Harry to look at him? After all this time? After everything that's happened?

That's not fair. Harry wanted Dumbledore to speak to him all Fifth Year. He needed him, and
Dumbledore didn't care. Dumbledore ignored him, gave up on him, saw in him all the things that
Harry wishes weren't true. Dumbledore has lied to him, has been aware that, one day, he will ask
Harry to die. And now, right now, Dumbledore is looking at him in a cell, sitting possibly where he
belongs, enroute to Azkaban, and he's telling Harry to look at him?

Harry slowly raises his head, lifting his gaze until it meets Dumbledore's, and it's…

The hatred is gone. Harry doesn't feel it. What was once there when it confused him the most is
just gone. Instead, in its place, there's just his own anger, and hurt, and fear, and so many other
things that he can't begin untangling them all. Respect. Hope. All of it so mixed up that he can't
breathe around it.

In Dumbledore's hands is the sorting hat. Harry doesn't understand why he's holding it, the ratty
cloth just rolled up in both hands that are folded over each other, serene and relaxed. One of the
hands is rotting, charred skin wrapping around weathered fingers and swollen knuckles.

"Sir," Harry chokes out thoughtlessly, "your hand—"

"Nothing to worry about now, Harry," Dumbledore says gently.

Harry blinks at him, swallowing, not knowing what to say. What does one say after all of this? He
looks into Dumbledore's eyes, surprised by the great sadness in them, like he's mourning. Is he
mourning? What has he lost?

"I'm scared, Professor," Harry admits in a whisper.

Dumbledore takes a small breath, short but quick, then releases it carefully. His beard twitches
down as he frowns. "Oh, I know, my boy. I know."

"I killed Bellatrix Lestrange," Harry says, tears flooding his eyes, itching hotly. Dumbledore hasn't
called him my boy in some time, and it's said in such a solemn, grave tone that Harry's heart
breaks.

"Yes," Dumbledore agrees, "you did."

Harry makes a small sound, feeling like he's being picked apart slowly. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry,
I'm—"

He can't say much else because, if he opens his mouth, he might scream. Tears run ruthlessly hot
down his cheeks, down the bridge of his nose, thick and real and painful. He cries, staring at
Dumbledore, not making a sound.

"Harry," Dumbledore whispers, the sadness only growing in his eyes by the second.

Umbridge's heels have stopped, and a beat later, Harry hears her let out a piercing scream that has
both him and Dumbledore jolting in surprise. In a flash, Harry is on his feet as Dumbledore whirls
to look down the hall, freezing in place.

Very suddenly, Dumbledore is calm. His wand is somehow in his hand, but otherwise, he looks
like Umbridge's scream of utter terror doesn't bother him in the least. Her scream doesn't last much
longer, however, and her heels suddenly start clicking again very quickly, heading back up the
hall. Harry stares, wide-eyed, as her stumpy body comes stumbling back into view as she looks at
something in front of her in utter terror.

Distressed again. Always so distressed, boy.

Harry jumps, startled, and watches as Nagini comes slithering into his cell, ignoring when
Umbridge shrinks back as she goes by. Mere seconds later, Voldemort is coming into view,
standing at one end of Harry's cell as Dumbledore stands at the other. They stare at each other in
silence, wands in hand.

"Nagini?" Harry blurts out, looking at her in pure shock as she raises up to brush against his arm,
the kettle—as always—singing at her touch. Just seeing her is enough to have him speaking
Parseltongue.

"Hello, Tom," Dumbledore greets calmly.

Voldemort glares at him. "Old man."

"Indeed I am," Dumbledore agrees. "What brings you to the Ministry today, Tom? Surely you
haven't come to take the boy."

"I do not take," Voldemort says, flicking his wand at the cell door, which opens with a sharp
clang.

Harry jumps in response, his heart racing at his sudden freedom. He stares between Dumbledore
and Voldemort. Umbridge has plastered herself against the wall, her smile gone for once.

"Then what is your purpose here today?" Dumbledore finally asks.

Voldemort, without ever looking away from Dumbledore, reaches in the fold of his robe and tosses
a wand through the open door of the cell. His wand, Harry finds out a moment later as it clatters to
the floor in front of him, achingly familiar. He reaches out to grab it almost immediately, reassured
by having his wand in hand again.

"I do not take," Voldemort repeats, his voice laced with threat like poison. "I offer."

Harry's breath freezes in his lungs, and he stands there helplessly as those words play through his
mind, as much for him as they are to mock Dumbledore. I offer. He does. He has. This whole time,
from the moment he learned what Harry is, he has done nothing but offer, and here he is once
again, offering freedom and something else.

Something else that involves Harry walking out of this cell and turning towards Voldemort instead
of Dumbledore. Something else that ends with Harry back with Draco. Something else that will
further earn him nothing but guilt and shame.
Harry didn't think he'd have to choose now. How can he?! It's too soon. He's not ready.

Slowly, so very slowly, Dumbledore breaks his gaze with Voldemort to look at Harry. Just looks at
him. There's that grave sadness from before, but there's now a nakedness to his gaze. Fear?
Because of Harry? That can't be it. Can't be.

Because Harry won't choose what he shouldn't. Maybe he just won't choose at all. Voldemort
would let him stay here and go off to Azkaban, wouldn't he? Just like he'd let Harry walk right out
of this cell and go with Dumbledore. He'd let him.

He's come here to free him, literally, to protect him if need be, and he'd let Harry walk away. He's
going to let Harry have that choice, because he always has.

Come with Master, Nagini declares, like it's the simplest thing in the world.

It's not.

Harry looks down at her helplessly and says the only thing he can think to say in that moment.
"Nagini, I'm scared."

Distressed, Nagini hisses at him. She lifts up even further, gliding over his shaking hands. Always
so distressed, boy. Don't be. You smell better when you are not. Just don't be. Master and I will
protect—

The glint of metal catches his eye, and he recognizes it. He's seen it before, seen it reflect off scales
when he was only twelve years old, and he knows what's happening, except he doesn't at all.
Nagini isn't finishing her sentence. There's a sword that halves her where she drapes over Harry's
hands, and then she's in two pieces, bleeding.

Harry doesn't understand, even though he's looking right at it. He didn't even know snakes bled.
Nagini should not be bleeding, not this dark, murky blood that seeps out of her, glinting on her
scales, getting all over his hands. She's been sliced clean through, and Harry feels it, too.

He feels it.
It's like she's hissing inside his mind, screaming so shrilly that the kettle threatens to explode his
brain. Snakes twitch when they've been cut in half, which Harry didn't know, and he tries to put her
back together. He tries, and tries, and tries.

"What have you done?!" Voldemort suddenly snarls in the silence, only broken by the sword
hitting the floor with a clang.

"H-Hold on," Harry stutters, still speaking Parseltongue as if she can hear him, trying so very hard
to push Nagini back together. The kettle is going soft in his mind, almost a croon now, but it is the
most tragic sound he's ever heard in his life. He blinks hard, moved by it, his heart hurting for it.
He stares down at her limp head. "Just h-hold on, I'll—I'll fix you. I'll—I'll—"

The truth is, Nagini has been dead for some time now, and no amount of trying to put her back
together will take that back. The hum goes silent in his mind, and he knows he'll never hear it
again.

There's a sudden flap of robes, and Nagini lands to the floor with a grotesque splat, in two pieces.
Harry tries to gather her up again, shaking hands still attempting to put her back together, even if
some part of his brain knows it's impossible. He means to lean down for her, but there's a sudden
black mist enveloping him, tugging him up as a flurry of black fabric folds around him.

The last thing he sees before he's being yanked right off his feet is Dumbledore peering at him,
Gryffindor Sword in his hand.

Then, just like that, Harry's sailing through the air, fabric wrapping all around him like a cocoon.
He feels like he's being swaddled, cloth squeezing him tight in a vaguely comforting way. He can't
see anything but black smoke and mist and the occasional flash of ruby-red eyes.

The world seems to come into focus a few moments later, and the black fabric, mist, and smoke all
recede. He blinks rapidly, staring at Voldemort, realizing that they're back in the Manor, back in
the study Voldemort always frequents.

"Nagini," Harry whispers, looking down at his hands, still covered in her blood. "She—she—"

"Harry," Voldemort says, his tone uncharacteristically soft. "Look at me, Harry."
Immediately, Harry looks up into his eyes, almost desperate to. "Is she—"

"You need to sit," Voldemort murmurs, one skeletal hand draping over Harry's shoulder and
guiding him over to a chair, strangely gentle.

"She can't be—"

"Harry."

"Get it off," Harry rasps, shoving his hands at Voldemort, his breath escaping him in rough, painful
bursts. "Get it off of me. Please, please get it off. Get her blood off! Get it off!"

"I need it anyway," Voldemort tells him, calm and steady as he points his wand at a cabinet, an
empty vial flying into his palm. "Hold still."

Harry can't actually do that because he's shaking rather violently, but he tries his best. He sits there
in silence and watches Voldemort point his wand at his hands. The blood starts lifting off his palms
one droplet at a time, then slowly siphoning off quicker, swirling in the air before landing in the
vial.

"Can you bring her back?" Harry chokes out, not even sure if that's a good thing or not.

Voldemort watches him closely. "No, Harry, I can't. I can, however, use her blood. She would want
me to."

"I don't understand," Harry whispers.

"It can be used as an ingredient in some potions. I can also use it personally," Voldemort says,
holding up the vial. The blood swishes thickly. "I would have to do so quickly."

Harry swallows. "What happens if you do?"

"There are magical properties in her blood, due to her being a Horcrux. If I used it, I could be
strengthened or weakened," Voldemort replies.

"Are you going to?" Harry asks in a croak.

Voldemort pauses, seeming to consider it. "She would wish for me to, but the results of what will
happen if I do are unknown."

"Do it," Harry says, staring at him. His voice grows stronger. "Do it."

"You may wish to look away," Voldemort murmurs, watching him with a sharp gaze. "It will
disgust you."

Harry doesn't look away, just repeats, "Do it."

Voldemort almost immediately brings the vial to his mouth and drinks it down in one gulp, the
dark blood staining his teeth. The vial hits the floor with a crash, shattering, and Voldemort takes a
solid step back. He blinks at Harry, just once, then crumbles to the floor in a way monsters aren't
meant to.

Alarmed, Harry surges forward and hits his knees by Voldemort, not sure what he can even do.
There doesn't seem to be anything wrong; Voldemort is just very still, his eyes shut. Harry's hands
flutter nervously over Voldemort's frame, his hands shaking still, his heart beating so hard that he
can hear the thump, thump, thump in his ears.

A beat passes, then Voldemort's eyes snap open. He immediately sails up, back to his gliding
movements and back to being more monster than man. He doesn't look different at all, but he
reaches up at rubs at his chest, red eyes gleaming down at Harry.

"Were you concerned?" Voldemort asks.

"Don't do that!" Harry snaps, bolting to his feet and glaring at Voldemort, irrationally angry. "What
happened to you?"

Voldemort is silent for a beat, then he says, "I believe the effects resulted in very little. Her being
my Horcrux didn't seem to do much."

"Can you do that to me when I die?" Harry mutters.

"When?" Voldemort repeats.

Harry scowls at him. "Yes. Because I will, one day. Because I don't want to live forever.
Remember?"

Voldemort hums, but he looks displeased. "I do not know if I could do that, in your case. You are
altogether unique."

"Is she…" Harry swallows thickly. "Did you take any of her in you, or whatever?"

"No, Harry," Voldemort says softly. "She's gone."

Harry closes his eyes. "How? How?"

"The Sword of Gryffindor takes in that of which makes it stronger." Voldemort has his eyes
narrowed when Harry opens his own eyes to check. "You stabbed a Basilisk, if I recall, so the
blade was impregnated with its venom."

"It's my fault?" Harry blurts out, and his voice cracks. He takes a stumbling step back, horrified,
and he somehow ends up plopping back down in the chair. His heart feels mashed up the wrong
way in his chest. "It's my fault…"

Voldemort stares at him intently. "No, it is not. It was Dumbledore who pulled the sword from the
hat and used his wand to send it through Nagini. You did nothing. You did not even know it was
going to happen, nor did I."

Harry stares at him, his whole body feeling numb, his hands still shaking anyway. "Why did you
bring her? Why did you even come? You said that—that you wouldn't come for me if I got
caught."
"I know what I said," Voldemort murmurs. "I did not think it a lie at the time, and I still do not. I
have also said that I grant you the offer of protection and your freedom. The circumstances you
faced made both of those truths at odds with each other, and I had to decide which to act upon. If
you wished to return to the Ministry or Dumbledore, you may go back. But, in this case, you did
not make the decision, not according to Draco. When I decided to go, Nagini insisted that she
come. She thought you would be distressed."

Harry makes a harsh choking sound in the back of his throat and reaches up to cover his mouth,
trying to smother it. He shouldn't mourn her, a snake, Voldemort's snake, one that's killed people.
And yet, here he is, in pain because she's gone.

"Fuck," Harry whimpers.

"Harry," Voldemort says, his tone almost hesitant, borderline gentle, "I understand."

Harry shakes his head. "No. You don't. You don't, because you don't—you're not going to care that
she's gone. You're not."

"I do," Voldemort murmurs simply.

"Only because she's a bloody Horcrux!" Harry shouts, his stupid voice cracking again.

Voldemort meets his gaze, because of course he does, and there is no sadness there or fear, red
instead of twinkling blue, and it's somehow more familiar now. "It is not that she was a Horcrux
that angers me with her being gone, it is because she was Nagini."

"Will you miss her?" Harry whispers, his vision blurry with tears. He doesn't even know which
answer will hurt more.

"Yes," Voldemort says as simply as he says most things, never lying, not to Harry.

Harry closes his eyes, because that hurts, but not nearly as bad as it would have hurt if he said the
opposite. "Me too."
"You should go see Draco. Rest. And...grieve."

"How do you grieve?"

"I will be angry," Voldemort tells him.

"Yeah," Harry rasps, "I get that."

Voldemort hums. "I know you do."

Harry takes a deep, shuddering breath and starts to push up out of the chair, only to abruptly fall
back into it when a realization hits him square in the chest. He can feel all the color drain from his
face, and he must look bad because Voldemort makes an aborted movement towards him like he's
going to catch him if he falls out of the chair.

"He had it before," Harry mumbles.

"What was that?" Voldemort looks down at him, his gaze sharp and intent. "Harry?"

"He—he—" Harry has to take a few moments just to breathe, clasping his hands together in hopes
that they'll stop shaking. Horrified, terrified, his stomach squirming and his heart breaking, Harry
looks up at Voldemort, lost and betrayed. "He had the hat the whole time, even before you showed
up, and he didn't know you'd come. He had it before."

Voldemort goes very still. "Harry…"

"Was he aiming at Nagini?" Harry asks, his chest heaving, his eyes darting around wildly.

"Yes," Voldemort replies instantly.

Harry pins his gaze on him. "Just Nagini?"

"Harry," Voldemort says again, looking at him, watching him, reluctant to tell the truth for once, as
if he wants to spare Harry this discovery.

"Answer me," Harry whispers hoarsely.

Voldemort presses his lipless mouth into a thin line, then says, "I don't know."

"He had it before," Harry says again, the words falling out hollow and numb. "He brought the hat
to see me. He was going to—"

"Perhaps not," Voldemort suggests.

Harry stands up swiftly, leaning forward to glare at Voldemort, green boring into red. "Don't. Don't
you dare try to defend him for my sake."

"I am not." Voldemort looks displeased at the notion. "The chances that he was planning to kill
you with that sword are the exact same of him not planning to, Harry."

"Then why did he have it?" Harry asks harshly.

Voldemort stares at him. "I do not know."

Harry can feel it, that curdle of stinging betrayal in his chest, that dying whisper of hope snuffed
out like a candle. It hurts more than anything ever has, and Harry has experienced a variety of pain
that no sixteen-year-old should have to. Some of that pain was sourced by the man right in front of
him now.

But Harry expects it out of him.

Not Dumbledore.
"On this path of life," Harry whispers, looking at Voldemort hopelessly, lost, astray, "I have taken
a turn somewhere along the way, and I can't seem to find my way back."

Voldemort looks at him with something startlingly close to pity. "That," he says softly, "is how it
always happens, Harry."

"I don't know what to do," Harry gasps out.

Voldemort looks down at him, just surveying him, eyes glittering blood as always. "You cannot
find your way back, so you can only move forward."

"I'm scared."

"I know."

Despite Voldemort telling him to go rest, Harry sits in that chair for a long time in complete
silence, staring down at his hands that never stop shaking. Voldemort doesn't rush him, doesn't
press him to talk, doesn't do anything but sit behind the desk and watch Harry patiently. And, when
Harry gets up and leaves, Voldemort does not stop him.

It feels like this is something Harry isn't going to be able to adjust to. Nagini is dead, Voldemort
just broke him out of the Ministry, and Dumbledore was going to kill him.

Harry doesn't know how to adjust to this.

So, he walks through the Manor, expecting it to be somehow different, but it isn't. It's the same as it
has always been, only Harry sees it differently now. He thought this place was cold and life-
altering, but nothing compares to the Ministry and what just happened inside of it.

Wandering the halls of the Manor is what Harry thinks he's doing. Just walking, going somewhere,
his feet leading the way to nothing. But, in fact, he's apparently been going to Draco this whole
time, because he finds himself walking up the hall towards where their rooms are across from each
other. He doesn't even realize it's happening.
However, he comes to a screeching halt when he sees Mrs. Malfoy slipping out of Draco's room.
When she turns and sees him, she draws up short, blinking in first surprise then relief. She sweeps
forward almost immediately, her breath punching out of her as she reaches out for him, her arms
sliding around him and drawing him in.

He barely gets to appreciate how nice it feels to be hugged by her before she's pulling back to cup
his cheeks, then his neck, then his shoulders. Her hands flutter anxiously over him, her eyes
scanning him without really seeing him, looking for injuries.

"Harry," she whispers, "are you alright?"

"No," Harry chokes out.

Mrs. Malfoy is alarmed instantly. "What is it? Where are you hurt? Harry, where are you—"

She comes to a halt the moment she sees his face, taking in his expression properly for the very
first time. She knows instantly where he's hurt. On the inside, worse and worse every time things
go wrong, and they always go wrong. He can see her realize that something has happened, and
maybe it's because she's a mother, but she somehow instantly knows what he needs.

Her near-frantic check for injuries reminds him of Mrs. Weasley, but the way she draws him into
her arms a beat later, without a word, is all her.

The thing is, Harry doesn't have a mum. This is just a simple fact about him—he doesn't and he
never has. The closest he's ever gotten is Mrs. Weasley and, in some confusing ways, Hermione.
Mrs. Malfoy is somehow not included in that, though. She is someone who knows him in all the
ways that Hermione and Mrs. Weasley don't, just like they know him in ways that she never will.
Even if she is a mother, she feels more like a friend, to him. But, between the three of them, and the
things they give him, the way they treat him, Harry thinks he can pretend—or at least imagine—
what having a mum is like.

And nothing Mrs. Weasley, or Hermione, or Mrs. Malfoy can ever do will change the fact that he
doesn't have a mother, not to call his own, and he never has. He never will, no matter how much he
aches for one nearly all the time.

But. But…
Harry folds into Mrs. Malfoy anyway, sinking into her and clinging like a small child would,
because he needs a mum right now. Just...a mum. No one will ever replace Lily, never fix that little
broken part of Harry that's just out of place because he doesn't have her. All either of them can do
—Mrs. Weasley, Hermione—is be there for him in the ways Lily can't be, in the ways she would
have wanted to. And they are. They always are. They always have been.

His breath shudders out of him, and he wraps his arms around Mrs. Malfoy, squeezing too tight. He
knows his fists that hold onto the fabric at her back are wrinkling her dress, but he doesn't care, and
she doesn't either. She just guides his forehead to her shoulder, smoothing her incredibly small
hand over the back of his hair, not making demands or trying to get him to let go or anything.

So, he holds on and he cries. Stupid as it is, as embarrassed as he'll be later, Harry just presses his
face into her tiny shoulder and cries. It doesn't matter that she's smaller than him; he's still breaking
down while she holds him up. He's crying about a lot of things—Nagini, Dumbledore, the absolute
shite his life is.

And then, he stops. He stops crying and he breathes wetly into her shoulder. She continues to pet
his hair, gentle and calm, and she rubs her hand in small, soothing circles over his back, which is
nice. He can't exist here forever, however, no matter how much he wishes to. So, he pulls back
slowly.

Mrs. Malfoy immediately looks at him, her hands coming around to cup his cheeks, thumbs gently
swiping the tears away. She doesn't say a word, won't push him to talk, won't ask questions.

"What day is it?" Harry rasps. "Is Draco—"

"The first of January," Mrs. Malfoy tells him, staring into his eyes, her own incredibly sad. "He's
here, darling. He's still here."

Harry thinks, rather simply, that he loves her. Not the way he would have loved Lily, not the way
he loves Mrs. Weasley, but as family nonetheless. "Thank you, Mrs. Malfoy. I want—"

He doesn't get to finish saying what he wants, which he likely doesn't need to because she probably
already knows. Either way, he cuts himself off as Draco's door wrenches open, revealing Draco
himself as he steps out into the hall. Harry stares at him, that sharp sting of want easing slightly, as
if just the sight of Draco makes all of this better.
"Harry," Draco breathes out.

Mrs. Malfoy suddenly pulls back and sweeps out of the way, which turns out to be a good thing,
because she gets out of the way in just enough time for Draco to launch himself at Harry, slamming
into him with force and a breathless sound.

Draco feels tangible and real. Solid. Harry holds onto him with all his might, not crying again, just
holding on. He can smell apples and the crisp scent of Autumn, and the warmth that falls off of
Draco seems to wrap him up from all sides. Harry closes his eyes and relaxes, sagging into Draco
with a long, drawn-out sigh of pure relief.

"I'll have a tray sent up to Harry's room," Mrs. Malfoy whispers.

Harry thinks she might be touching his arm or Draco's, but he doesn't look up to check. He stays
right here, his face pressed against Draco's throat, calm in the circle of his arms. There's something
oddly wonderful about a person being able to make things bearable—not okay, not better,
just...easier to endure. Easier to breathe.

Draco doesn't say anything, and Mrs. Malfoy's heels click away after a pause. Without a word,
Draco starts ushering Harry up the hall, both of them stumbling over their own feet because Harry
stubbornly doesn't want to let go, not yet.

"Come on, we're just going to bed, that's all," Draco murmurs in his ear. "You have to let me help
you, Harry. I can't just drag you along after me."

"I'm not tired," Harry mumbles, picking up his feet and leaning away from Draco to actually walk.
He follows Draco into the room, the door shutting behind them with a soft click.

"You're laying down anyway," Draco informs him, turning around to grab Harry's hands and lead
him towards the bed.

Harry swallows, letting Draco pull him onto the bed, the both of them easing on their sides, staring
at each other. "I'm sorry."
"I'll fuss at you later," Draco tells him softly, reaching out to brush some of Harry's messy hair off
his forehead. "I'm so, so very angry at you, Harry."

"Please don't be." Harry shakes his head, his throat feeling tight and achy. "I can't. Not right now."

"I told you to go. Why didn't you go?"

"I couldn't. It was all happening so fast, and then I couldn't let him take you. He didn't know who
you were, and I don't even think he told anyone that you were there. I couldn't—Draco, I couldn't
put your family in danger like that."

Draco sighs, his face softening. "Always the bloody savior. I came straight home, of course. I went
to the Dark Lord and—and I told him you'd been taken. I didn't know he was going to get you. I
thought—"

"Me too," Harry whispers, staring at him, scanning his face. "I thought I was going to Azkaban."

"It's—it's fine. You're back now."

"Nagini is dead, Draco."

"What?" Draco goes still, his eyes widening, and he shifts forward with a small gasp. "How? You
said she can only be killed by the Dark Lord, Basilisk Venom, or Fiendfyre!"

"The sword of Gryffindor." Harry takes in a deep breath, and he closes his eyes when Draco
reaches across the small space between them to grab his hand, stopping it from shaking. "It takes in
that of which makes it stronger, and I—I used it to stab a Basilisk through the sodding mouth when
I was twelve. It took in the venom."

Draco sucks in a sharp breath. "Bloody hell. How did the sword of Gryffindor even get there, and
what idiot was brave enough to use it on Nagini?!"

"Dumbledore was there, Draco," Harry says, his voice cracking.

"Oh." Draco squeezes his hand, making him open his eyes. There's a careful concern in Draco's
gaze as he looks at Harry's face. "Harry, are you—"

"I think he was going to kill me," Harry chokes out, saying the words for the very first time, his
heart flinching at what feels like the truth in them. "He had the—the hat, which is where you get
the sword, you see? He had it before. He brought it to see me, and he didn't know that—that
Voldemort was going to be coming, or that Nagini would be there, and—"

"Harry. Harry," Draco says fiercely, reaching up with his free hand to touch Harry's cheek, leaning
forward to stare into his eyes. "Maybe he—"

Harry shakes his head, heaving a deep breath. "Stop. Everyone needs to stop saying that, like
you're all trying to—to make me feel better. I won't break! I already know, alright? I—I…"

"Fine," Draco murmurs. He scoots forward and shoves his legs in between Harry's, his arms
coming around Harry's midsection, bringing them flush together with their faces so close together
that their noses brush. "Fine. Alright, so he planned to kill you. He didn't. He won't get another
chance."

"Why is everything so backwards?" Harry asks, knowing Draco won't have the answer. "He isn't
supposed to be—I never thought he'd actually… Do you think he would have asked first?"

Draco frowns at him, looking displeased. "Harry, I don't think it matters if he would have asked or
not. The fact that he would even want you to is…"

"He can't want it." Harry shoves his hands in the pocket of Draco's pocket-jumper, pulling him
closer, feeling oddly safer. "He can't. I have to believe that he doesn't want it, because if I don't, I
really will go mad. It's... It's something he knows I have to do."

"Harry," Draco says sharply, a warning in his tone, eyes flashing with a brief spot of fear, "it's—it's
not something you have to do. You—you know that, right? You're not… Harry, you don't plan to
—"

"Please don't," Harry breathes out, looking at him helplessly, his heart feeling mangled in his chest.
He tugs one hand out of Draco's pocket to rub the jutted hipbone that peeks out from where the
pocket-jumper has ridden up, because Draco is suddenly shaking all over. "Just don't. Not right
now, Draco. We don't need to talk about it now."

"We do need to," Draco argues, staring at him with wide eyes. "Y-You can't, Harry. You just can't!
The fact that he's even considering that you need to is… It's mad. Preposterous! You're just a boy;
you can't just—just die. Tell me you won't. Harry, tell me—"

Harry leans forward and kisses him. Just presses their lips together, because he knows that will
shut Draco up the quickest. Harry doesn't want to talk about this, or think about it, or have to see
Draco's reaction to it. He just wants it all to go away. He wants to lay here and not have to feel
anything but how good it is to be this close to Draco.

That's it. That's all he wants.

Draco makes a small sound against his lips, starting to pull away, but Harry clamps his hand down
on Draco's hip and tugs him closer.

Rather abruptly, Harry doesn't have a thought in his head at all, because Draco gives in and snogs
him back. And it feels good. Really, really good. It's the easiest thing in the world for Harry to get
lost in it, to lose his mind about how good Draco feels rather than Dumbledore, or Horcruxes, or
dead snakes and maybe a dead Harry Potter in the future.

The skin of Draco's hip is really warm, and Harry's fingers seem to have a curious mind of their
own, sliding further up under the pocket-jumper to see how much more of Draco is warm and soft.
His palm drifts up Draco's side, an innocent touch, and Draco shakes all over again. Harry likes
that quite a bit, likes that Draco quivers under his touch.

Fingers clamp down on Harry's shoulders, pushing him, slamming his back down to the bed. The
kiss never breaks, so Harry doesn't see anything wrong with it. There's also nothing wrong with
how Draco surges up, following the motion, throwing a leg over Harry's waist and sitting in his
lap. That's bloody perfect, actually, because Harry can now run both hands underneath Draco's
pocket-jumper, fingers sliding over the warm skin of his stomach and back, counting ribs. Draco
fully just moans into the kiss, which is a rather filthy sound Harry's never heard before but would
like to hear again, please.

Draco suddenly starts to lean back, pulling up, and Harry follows like they're tied together and he
doesn't have a choice, chasing his lips. He sits up straight, hands sliding under Draco's pocket-
jumper, over his naked back, so damn pleased that Draco doesn't wear shirts beneath them. He
makes a weak, yet eager sound when Draco's arms come around his shoulders, hands crawling up
into his hair, fingers tugging at the strands.
Gasping, Draco breaks the kiss, only to choke out a very strangled, "Oh," when Harry's lips latch
onto his neck. Harry doesn't have a clue what he's doing, but he knows that he wants to taste
Draco's skin, wants to kiss it and bite it. By the sounds Draco's making, he likes whatever's going
on at the moment.

There's a very pleasant fog in Harry's mind, and he's not even really sure what he was so upset
about before all of this. In fact, he's not sure why he gets upset about anything, ever, when he
could just be doing this with Draco. He should always be doing this with Draco, actually.

"Mm," Harry hums, and his voice comes out thick and scratchy and a bit slurred, sounding like it
never has before.

Draco's head falls back, and his chest heaves as his fingers clench in Harry's hair, still quivering so
bad that it seems like he might fall over. Harry doesn't think that's going to go well, so he just tugs
Draco to the side, switching their positions with no care to their knocking knees and elbows, still
feasting at Draco's neck. He falls down between Draco's legs, leaning over him just like last time
when they stopped, which was clearly a mistake.

Harry pulls his lips away from Draco's throat to snog him again, buzzing all over, not a thought in
his head. The kiss is actually a bit sloppy and rushed, heated, but no less intense. Harry likes this
type just as much as the rest, curling into it and bunching up Draco's pocket-jumper to take it off,
because really, more skin on display is ideal right now. But, to take it off, they'll have to stop
snogging, and Harry's foggy mind doesn't really pick up on that at this particular moment.

Draco does break the kiss again, which Harry thinks is fine because he can latch back onto his
neck. That's just as good, and the way Draco lets out a hiss of pleasure and arches up into it is even
better.

But then, Draco is saying, "Harry. Merlin, Harry, wait. Wait, wait, wait," and that pierces through
the fog in Harry's mind, giving him pause.

"Sorry, sorry," Harry chokes out, jerking back almost immediately, his eyes wide as he stares down
at Draco. His usually pale neck is decorated in blots of red and purple, like bruises, and bloody hell,
Harry did that to him. "Fucking hell."

"It's alright, it's—Oh, Merlin," Draco blurts out, panting as he stares up at him with wide eyes.
"I—I'm sorry," Harry stutters, yanking his hands out of Draco's pocket—fuck, hoodie. His face is
on fire, and he feels like he's going to die of embarrassment.

Draco clears his throat, equally red as he disentangles his fingers from Harry's hair, still shaking
from head-to-toe. "No, it's fine. Really. Don't apologize, Harry. Merlin, please don't. I just… I
think it's—I think you've had a, um, few rough hours, and perhaps it's best if we—if we don't—"

"No, no, of course," Harry says quickly, trying to shove himself back from Draco as fast as
physically possible, mortified by his own actions.

"Wait, just—" Draco's hands snap out to grab him by the shoulders, stilling him. His face softens
again, gaze fond, lips curling up. "You don't have to go far. Just don't try to maul me, yes?"

Harry's already hot face gets hotter, and he flops down on Draco with a groan, dropping his
forehead to the middle of Draco's chest. "I didn't mean to maul you, Draco, I swear it. I just…"

"Got carried away?" Draco suggests lightly, sounding amused as he cards his fingers through
Harry's hair. He clicks his tongue. "Don't be like that, you idiot. I've always given as much as I've
gotten when it comes to you, and this wasn't an exception. Not by far, trust me. Honestly, I think
I've wrecked your hair beyond help."

"Have you?" Harry asks with a weak snort. "Might be an improvement, actually."

Draco coughs. "Well, I certainly like it better like this."

"I bet you do," Harry says dryly, even though he's blushing very hard yet again. It's alright, though,
because he's still hiding his face against Draco's chest. No one has to know.

"You're heavy, you know," Draco mutters, knocking his legs into Harry's hips, squeezing them.
"Why do I never get to lay on you?"

Harry reaches down to grab Draco's thighs, stilling them, digging his nails in. "I can't think when
you do that, Draco."
"All those hormones," Draco teases.

"I'm sixteen," Harry mumbles, resigning himself to his semi-permanent blush.

Draco hums in agreement. "As am I. Yet, you see that I have some decorum."

"You crawled in my lap," Harry reminds him, lifting his head to arch a pointed eyebrow.

"I…" Draco is the one blushing this time, and he lifts his free hand to poke Harry in the cheek
hard. "Yes, well, I'm only human. Shut up."

Harry's lips twitch. "Yeah, you're just so classy."

"I am," Draco agrees immediately, sending him a weak glare, his own lips curling up.

The finger he was using to poke Harry's cheek is now pushing Harry's glasses up his nose from
where they've slipped down. A beat later, that finger slides up to trace his face, gently smoothing
under and around his eyes, brushing over his eyebrows. It's almost curious, and Draco is watching
him intently, transfixed. He has a furrow between his eyebrows that Harry wants to lean forward
and kiss.

Instead, he says, "Like my face, do you?"

"No, of course not," Draco mumbles distractedly, shooting out the reply as if it's scripted. "You're
not very fit to be Harry Potter, you know."

"I think you're lying."

"Well, obviously. I wouldn't just let anyone maul me."

"I don't think I'm fit," Harry murmurs.

Draco blinks, startled. "You're joking. Harry, you can't be serious. You—you don't? Merlin, you
really are blind, aren't you?! Harry, you're annoyingly handsome without even trying to be!"

"You could be biased," Harry suggests.

"I assure you I am not. And, if I were, what does it matter? Who exactly do you want to be
attractive to besides me?" Draco challenges, narrowing his eyes.

Harry rolls his eyes. "You prat, there's no one else. I just wish I was… Well, I mean, look at you.
Draco, you're the most attractive bloke I've ever seen!"

Draco preens, smirking up at him. "Yes, thank you. I know."

"The point is…" Harry takes a deep breath and rolls his eyes at himself. "I know I'm no troll, but
I'm not—I have ugly glasses, and I'm short, and I'm rather thin, and my hair is just—"

"Stop." Draco flicks his nose. "Merlin, you are an idiot. I can't believe I'm about to argue with you
about this, because it's utterly embarrassing, but this is truly an injustice. Your hair—though very
messy—really doesn't look that bad, and it suits you just fine. You're thin, yes, but Quidditch has
done very good things for you; I don't know if you've noticed, but you're quite strong. Also, you
have a very, very nice smile, which is so bloody annoying that I want to hex you. And your eyes…"
Draco pauses, his breath escaping him in a little huff as he suddenly flicks his gaze between each
of Harry's eyes. "You don't even know, do you? Of course not, because you're utterly oblivious.
You're gorgeous, Harry, which is something I used to hate you for."

"You don't hate me for it now?" Harry asks.

"I rather appreciate it, actually," Draco admits, arching an eyebrow, eyes alight with mirth.

"But don't you think I'm a—a… What was it that your mother said? A...ruffian! Yes, that," Harry
mumbles, looking at Draco curiously.

Draco bites his lip, pink tinting his cheeks. "I… Oh, Harry, you are a bit of a ruffian, but it's—
it's… There's something, um, attractive about it? You're sort of...effortless and a bit, well, messy. It
has no business being so...so…"

"So…" Harry presses, raising his eyebrows at him.

Draco chews his lip harder, blushing harder, his eyes darting to the side as he mumbles, "Well, it's
a bit exciting, you know. Because you're not like me. You're not polished and—and perfectly put
together, but it's so…" He pauses, letting out a little weak sound, gazing off into the distance with
unfocused eyes, bloody well daydreaming. "There's something sort of wild about it, I suppose,
which should put me off because I'm not supposed to like those things, but I really, really do. And
you're just—you're maddeningly magnetizing, which is just rude, honestly, because I can't help but
—"

He snaps his mouth shut abruptly, his words cutting off so sharply that Harry hears in stark clarity
the way his breath shudders out of him.

Harry blinks down at him in pure surprise.

Draco is the one looking mortified now, which Harry thinks is amusing in some distant part of his
mind, vaguely aware of it. But what has his attention the most is how deeply Draco is apparently
affected by him. Visibly so, in fact. Harry has never once felt as fit as he does in this moment, all
because Draco undeniably wants him.

"I'm going to snog you again," Harry tells him.

"Might be best," Draco agrees breathlessly.

Harry does, leaning forward to press their lips together again. The urge to get back to what they
were doing before is there almost immediately, and he has all plans to resist it. He means to, of
course, but Draco's lips are apparently his weakness, and Harry finds his hands dragging down
Draco's thighs without much thought.

It's only the way Draco jerks a bit, making a soft sound into the kiss, that derails Harry's mindless
hands. He yanks out of the kiss in a flash, clamping his hands down on Draco's thighs in a death
grip, swallowing whatever sound was just crawling up his throat. He presses his face against
Draco's chest, breathing heavily again.
"I think I'm a bit, um, easily distracted by you sometimes," Harry croaks.

Draco wheezes a choked-off laugh. "I've noticed."

"I don't know what happens...after."

"After?"

Harry's face burns. "After snogging."

"Shagging, I imagine," Draco says with a snort.

"Yeah, but—" Harry's heart gives a painful thump as he looks up at Draco. "Have you ever—"

Draco arches an eyebrow. "Shagged someone?"

"Have you?" Harry mumbles.

"Have you?" Draco retorts, frowning.

Harry shakes his head quickly. "No."

"Oh. Well, I haven't. Who would I shag, honestly? Being a repressed Pureblood engaged to a
woman when I prefer the company of men, I mean."

"I dunno. I haven't a clue what Slytherins get up to in their rooms."

"What do Gryffindors get up to, Harry?"

"Er, nothing?"

"And why would Slytherins be doing things that Gryffindors aren't?" Draco murmurs, narrowing
his eyes suspiciously.

Harry gives a feeble half-shrug. "I was just asking, Draco. If you haven't, you haven't."

"You thought I did something with Theo, didn't you?" Draco asks flatly.

"I—well, I…" Harry can feel his face heating up again, and he now feels bad as well. "Yes,
alright? I can't help it. I just—I get…"

"Jealous," Draco notes, lips twitching as his face relaxes. "I've noticed."

Harry clears his throat. "You, er, haven't done anything with Theo, have you?"

"And if I have?" Draco arches an eyebrow, simply watching him.

"Nothing," Harry says, defeated, his heart dropping to his stomach.

Draco sighs. "Harry, you're grabbing my legs even tighter than you were before. You're going to
have to get over your Theo issue."

Harry instantly relaxes his hands, not even realizing that he was clenching them, digging his fingers
bluntly into Draco's thighs. "Sorry. Do I have to get over it because you two have done
something?"

"You've snogged Chang, haven't you?"

"How'd you know it was her?"

"Because I was well aware of you fancying her last year," Draco mutters, his lip curling. "I hated
you for that, too, even if it didn't make any sense."

"Were you jealous?"

"Obviously."

Harry snorts. "Yes, well, you know how well my snog with her went, and our date was horrible,
honestly."

"Yes, I'm no longer jealous, Harry, because it's ridiculous to be," Draco tells him with a pointed
look. "Theo and I…"

"Oh, Merlin, you did fancy him, didn't you?" Harry whispers in horror, feeling like a bludger is
hitting him square in the chest.

Draco rolls his eyes. "Harry, stop. Don't be an idiot. The only person I've ever snogged besides you
is Pansy, which wasn't very good, as you know. But briefly, in Fifth Year, I…well, I considered
Theo."

"You fancied him!" Harry blurts out immediately.

"No, you twit, I was raging about how unfair everything was for me, not even knowing why I was
so angry about it—about having to marry Pansy, who I was rather horrid to that year, and about
you fancying Chang, which bloody well hurt, I'll have you know, and about how I—I preferred
blokes. I couldn't, but I did anyway, and sometimes I just…" Draco pauses, swallowing thickly and
averting his suddenly very sad gaze. "Sometimes, Harry, I just looked at the blokes around me and
wanted to be able to want them instead of you, and I didn't even know that I wanted you to begin
with. I wanted to be able to fancy whoever I wanted, and I would, on occasion, look at Theo and
wonder what it would be like if I was free to like him more than a friend."

Harry feels guilty instantly. "Oh. Draco, I'm sorry. I know that must have been… I'm sorry."

"I never fancied him," Draco says, looking at him again with a sigh. "Actually, Blaise was the only
bloke I actually ever considered snogging. I figured he would be open to it, at least. The thing is,
Harry, Theo is very, very firmly in the box of fancying girls only. You're the only person I've ever
wanted who didn't at least consider boys, just because I was smart enough to know it would hurt
otherwise. And it did with you, but I couldn't really...help it."

"But I do consider blokes," Harry blurts out, frowning slightly.

Draco arches an eyebrow. "You consider me."

"That's not true!" Harry declares without much thought, huffing. "I think Dean is fit, you know!
And I'm only more jealous because Theo is attractive!"

"Are you trying to make me jealous?" Draco asks, his other eyebrow raising to join the first.

Harry blushes yet again, deflating a bit. "Sorry, it's just sort of...new for me. I didn't know, you
see."

"Because you're an idiot."

"Yeah."

Draco rolls his eyes and darts forward to kiss Harry on the lips, pulling away quickly. "I sometimes
don't know why I fancy you at all."

"Why do you?" Harry asks curiously.

"I'm clearly insane," Draco decides sagely. "Now, I do believe we've officially pushed away your
bad mood. I can berate you now."

Harry frowns at him. "Draco, I really don't want to talk about this, alright? What happened at the
Ministry was… It was…"

Draco's face softens. "If you really don't want to talk about it, fine, but I… Harry, I was so
worried."
"I was holding her, you know," Harry whispers, sort of slumping down on Draco with everything
he was successful in forgetting coming back in full force. He feels Draco's arms come up around
him. "Nagini was talking to me, and she had sort of slithered up over my hands. Then she just… I
saw it, the sword, and then she was dead. He just killed her. And I know I shouldn't be so upset, but
I am."

"You two had that connection, yes? You were telling me that she—she sort of looked out for you in
a strange Horcrux-related way," Draco murmurs, squeezing him closer. "I don't think anyone can
tell you if you should be upset or not, because only you know what it felt like to be connected to
her. I mean, she bloody terrified the piss out of me, but…"

Harry sighs sadly. "I made her promise not to swallow you. She really wanted to."

"That's even more terrifying," Draco mutters.

"She wanted me to swallow you, too," Harry says, his lips curling up at the ridiculousness of it.

Draco hums. "Well, I think what she had in mind was a bit off, but we could be inspired."

Harry chokes out a weak laugh. "Merlin, Draco, don't make me laugh, you prat! That's not funny!"

"Just a thought," Draco says mildly.

"Is it ridiculous that I'll miss her?"

"Yes, but it's also not."

"Voldemort does, you know," Harry whispers, reaching up with one hand to idly tug at a loose
thread on Draco's pocket-jumper. "I can feel it in the back of my mind. He's angry."

Draco's thick swallow is audible. "Does it...hurt?"

"His anger?" Harry frowns at the thread, considering Draco's question. "Actually, no, not really. It
used to, I think. It confused me before because I didn't know his anger wasn't mine, but now I can
tell. I know it's his, so I sort of just...push it back and try to give him privacy, I suppose."

"You ignore it?"

"Pretty much."

Draco sighs heavily, his breath ruffling Harry's hair a bit. "Your life is…"

"So, so bizarre," Harry mumbles. "Trust me, I know."

"It's hard, too. You don't deserve it," Draco whispers. "You deserve a happy life."

Harry swallows and closes his eyes. "It's so strange. I believe everyone should have a happy life, a
better life without cruelty or pain, but I—I don't…"

"You don't believe it for yourself," Draco surmises.

"No," Harry rasps, "I don't."

"You're too good for this horrible world, Harry Potter," Draco says softly, speaking into his hair,
kissing the top of his head. "It doesn't deserve you."

And yet, Harry thinks, it'll take me anyway, and I'm going to let it.

The acknowledgement is heartbreaking.

The following morning, Harry wakes to a hand gently shaking his shoulder. He jerks, whipping his
head around with a startled sound, heart racing as he tugs whatever he's holding closer to him.
Mrs. Malfoy smiles at him softly. "Sorry to startle you, darling. The Dark Lord wants a word with
you. Have Draco come down for breakfast."

"Mmurgh?" Harry says groggily, blinking at her, but she's already pulling away and heading
towards the door, leaving his brain in one big question mark.

He doesn't actually remember falling asleep last night, to be fair. He and Draco just talked about
meaningless things for all afternoon, leaving the heavier topics alone when Harry grew too morose.
Between one word and the next, he must have fallen asleep, but he doesn't remember.

Apparently, he did, and Draco stayed.

Harry glances down in bleary surprise to see that what he has in his arms is, in fact, his boyfriend.
Draco's turned away from him, his back to Harry's chest, and their legs are all tangled up. Are they
cuddling right now? Yes, it appears they are.

The realization makes Harry's lips curl up, and he lets out a soft sigh, looking down at Draco with
warmth pulsing in his chest. Like this, Draco looks soft and open, his features smooth and slack
with sleep, still perfect as he always is. Harry sort of wants to stare at him like this forever, but the
urge to lean forward and kiss his forehead overpowers it. He's aware that it's a tender gesture. He
knows; he just doesn't care how it might seem.

Curling over Draco's shoulder, Harry brushes his lips over Draco's forehead, his heart squeezing in
his chest. He didn't know it was possible to feel like this when everything going on in life is so
complicated, and confusing, and hard.

"Draco," Harry whispers, reaching out to swipe strands of hair to the side, enjoying the silky-soft
texture of his hair. "Draco."

"Mm," Draco hums, his nose twitching as he half-turns towards Harry. His eyes flutter, a sliver-
blue and sleepy-sweet warmth that makes him look even more pretty than he usually does.

Harry brushes his fingers through more of his hair, watching Draco stretch like a cat, his whole
body trembling before settling, loose and sated. He blinks slowly, then stops blinking as his eyes
drift shut again, and his lips part around a sigh as he visibly falls asleep again. Harry just… Oh, he
feels a lot of things, all of which that are an improvement to what he's been feeling when things go
wrong.

Harry leans down again and kisses his forehead once more, pulling away with a small smile. He
leaves Draco to sleep, no matter what Mrs. Malfoy says, because he just doesn't have the heart to
wake him. With that, he goes to the loo to get cleaned up and dressed for the day.

He's back in an unsettled mood by the time he heads towards Voldemort. He's not particularly
happy to have to speak with the man, especially considering the events that took place at the
Ministry the day before. Voldemort is going to want to have a deep discussion, because they
always end up doing that, and those tend to leave Harry feeling like he's been cracked open and
scraped raw, a bit broken and hollow after all things are said.

Nonetheless, Harry goes. He tries to stop himself from looking for Nagini, but he does it anyway.
It's a rather rude reminder of the morning: oh, right, she's dead and Dumbledore killed her.

"Ah, good," Voldemort greets as soon as Harry walks in the room. He gestures to the same chair
Harry always sits in. "Have a seat, Harry. Have you rested well?"

Harry sighs and sits. "What little sleep I did get was alright. How was your, er, meditating?"

"Quiet." Voldemort leans back in his chair, watching Harry closely. "Are you… Is your mental
state more settled after rest?"

"You can just ask if I'm alright, you know," Harry mumbles, giving a half-shrug. "I mean, I'm not,
but you can ask. It won't kill you, after all."

"Do you want me to ask you if you're alright?"

"Can we...not?"

Voldemort blinks at him. "I don't know what you are referring to, Harry."

"We always do this thing where we sit here and have these strangely deep conversations. I cry
sometimes, and you offer advice that's almost...not horrible, and honestly? I just don't have the
energy for it today. No offense," Harry tells him.

"I see," Voldemort murmurs. He gives a sharp nod and leans forward. "Straight to the point, then.
There are a few things we need to discuss."

"Alright."

"First, the world is now aware of my presence. In freeing you yesterday, I had to reveal myself."

"Er, sorry?" Harry says, unsure. "Was it time for that? I don't really know…"

Voldemort bares his teeth in a grimace. "I did not want to reveal myself so soon, but it will be
tolerable. It is not a matter of importance for you. Unless you wish to ask questions?"

"Well, now with everyone knowing you're back, what are you going to do?" Harry asks instantly.

"I am free to enact my plan in receiving more information on the Elder Wand, so I will be doing
that at some point soon. I will need to begin traveling to gather more supporters, and my influence
in the Ministry will be tested very shortly. I believe I will have to replace the Minister," Voldemort
says simply.

Harry swallows. "Are you going to kill him?"

"Most likely," Voldemort answers.

"If I ask you not to," Harry whispers, staring into his red eyes, "will you spare him?"

Voldemort pauses, watching him. "Harry, I cannot spare everyone you would ask of me, for that
would be the whole world. I will kill people to get where I intend to. You know this."

Harry closes his eyes. "I'm not ready for this."

"Though I may seem it, I am not unreasonable. I offer everyone the chance to live. They need only
take it."

"You didn't offer me that."

"Not upon our first meeting, no, and not for many years in the past, but I believe I have done so
recently. Here you sit, further proof of that."

"You'll kill them if they don't side with you."

"Yes," Voldemort agrees.

"You're going to start a war," Harry rasps.

Voldemort tilts his head. "I will finish it if I find myself caught up in one, but I do not intend to
start it. There is the flow of a river, but it is on the blocks that form to take responsibility for the
resistance to the current. Meaning, should no one fight, there will be no war. No death."

"People will fight you," Harry tells him. "They'll always fight you for as long as you're alive to be
wrong. Don't you understand that? Are you going to fight a war forever? Is that how you want to
live?"

"Enough," Voldemort says curtly, his eyes flashing with undeniable anger. "This is not a debate. It
is simply as it is. You cannot stop me, and if you wish to leave, you may go."

Harry presses his lips into a thin line, his nostrils flaring as he gets as angry as the horrid man in
front of him. He looks away, glaring out the window.

Voldemort sighs. "Harry, that is not the most pressing matter at the moment. I think you'll find
more interest in how the public is reacting to your breakout from the Ministry, as well as you being
correct in knowing I'm back."

"This should be good." Harry scoffs and drags his gaze to Voldemort. "Well?"
"There is a notable outcry from the public and the media on your behalf," Voldemort tells him, a
mocking smirk flashing across his face. "It seems that you are no longer a lunatic in their eyes, and
they have deemed you as their savior. I believe they are referring to you as the Chosen One."

Harry stares at him. "You're joking."

"I do not joke," Voldemort says. "There are people demanding that you be excused of all your
crimes, believing you to be a hero for killing Bellatrix. Parents who previously were relieved that
you did not return to Hogwarts demand that you be allowed reentry. It seems you are caught within
the changing tide of the public; it has apparently shifted in your favor now. Does this please you?"

"I was a lunatic killer worthy of Azkaban just yesterday!" Harry bursts out incredulously.

Voldemort nods. "Yes, and a week from now, you may be excused of all crimes. A week from
then, you may be hated once more. The following week, you may be adored. It shifts; it always has
and always will. There is nothing you can do, right or wrong, because everyone will have an
opinion and deem their own reactions as what is reality."

Harry slumps back in his seat with a groan, reaching up to rub his hands over his face. "Does that
mean I'll be able to—to go out without being arrested?"

"I believe that will be the case soon, yes."

"What about the Order?"

"Ah," Voldemort says, humming. "Yes, those fools. I spoke with Severus this morning.
Dumbledore plans to give an official statement that says you are allowed to return to Hogwarts. He
has also informed Severus that you are to be found as quickly as possible, as it is of utmost
importance."

"What does that mean?" Harry whispers.

Voldemort peers at him intently. "It means that you could return to the life you have been aching
for. Back with your friends, back in Hogwarts. But you will also be back under
Dumbledore's...thumb."

"He'll kill me if I go back, won't he?" Harry stares at Voldemort, searching his eyes.

"If he has any intentions of stopping me, yes. He will have to do it soon, however, as his death
rapidly approaches," Voldemort murmurs.

Harry sighs. "You have to get to him to kill him."

"I will not be killing him," Voldemort says, still watching him, curious. "Harry, he is already
dying."

"What?" Harry breathes out, tensing up in his seat, his heart immediately picking up speed. "No,
that's not true. He's a bit old, yeah, but he must have at least another ten or twenty years!"

Voldemort stares at him, then sighs. "You saw his hand; I know you did. When I told you that
Dumbledore would be the cause of his own death in his search for power and his weakness to the
allure of Dark Magic, I was not lying. He is Cursed."

Harry's eyes are very wide. "Snape told me that, but I—I thought… He can't be dying. What
happened?!"

"I told you he would attempt to destroy the Horcrux he stole, and in doing so, he would inevitably
end up destroying himself. Each Horcrux has a defense; that one knew one's deepest desires and
weaknesses, offered it to them, lured them into the Curse. Dumbledore essentially chose his own
death. He could have resisted it if he did not want power, but he does," Voldemort explains
calmly.

"What's my defense, then?" Harry shouts, shoving to his feet. "How will I keep Dumbledore from
destroying me, you bastard?!"

Voldemort doesn't react to his anger. "I do not know, as you are unique."

"This isn't right!" Harry shouts, pacing in a sharp circle, his chest heaving. "None of this is—" He
comes to a sudden halt, whirling around to stare at Voldemort with wide eyes. "How long does he
have? When will the Curse take him?"

"He could live for another year from now, possibly two," Voldemort says quietly. "There is the
small chance that he could have the Curse broken. However, Severus has informed me that he has
no plans to—he is indeed choosing to die. He will be dead before the school year is out,
hopefully."

"What? You said he had more time!" Harry explodes, his hands shaking again. They keep doing
that.

"I hope to change that," Voldemort says.

Harry lets out a harsh breath. "You won't."

Voldemort hums. "There is the possibility that my endeavor to do so will fail, yes, just as there is
the possibility that it will not."

"Why is he choosing to die?" Harry asks softly, suddenly sitting in the chair like all of his strings
have been cut. "If he has the choice, why?"

"I believe that he does not wish to live with the choices he has made and will make," Voldemort
muses, waving a hand lazily. "That is just a theory, but to know for sure, you would have to ask
him."

Harry glares at him. "Oh, I'll just pop over to have a cuppa and check in with him, will I?"

"Does that mean you do not intend to return to him?" Voldemort asks.

"Don't you think I want to?" Harry chokes out. "Just as much as want to stay here with you? Can
you even comprehend what this feels like for me? To be yanked in so many directions that—that
choosing feels like betrayal and regret no matter what I do? And it's not just between you and him!
If I leave, I'm leaving the Malfoys. If I leave, I'm deciding to die! I can't just—just make that
decision!"
Harry leans back, the gravity of that truth weighing on him. Voldemort just watches him, his red
eyes flashing with something that Harry has only ever seen on rare occasions—pure surprise. Harry
knows how mad all of this is, how tangled and complicated it is. He just doesn't think anyone else
can fully grasp how much true turmoil he's in right now.

"Harry," Voldemort says softly, "in not choosing, you have made a choice. You know this, yes?"

"It feels wrong."

"Would leaving feel the same?"

"Yes," Harry rasps, that word wrenching out of him.

Voldemort reaches up to rub at his chest, long fingers pressing in. "And I am a...factor in that?"

"What do you want me to say?" Harry whispers, feeling his eyes flood with tears. "You know you
have my forgiveness and trust. You know already."

"Do you...care for me, Harry?" Voldemort asks, the words as soft as a light breeze.

Harry looks away, clenching his jaw. There's the tears. Damn. He knew this would happen; it
always sodding happens whenever he talks to Voldemort. And yet, he keeps coming back, keeps
staying. Reaching up, Harry swipes furiously at his cheeks, angry about the swirling emotion in his
chest.

"Answer me," Voldemort demands.

Harry wants to lie, but something in him just can't. Voldemort hasn't lied to him, and Harry doesn't
have the will to try doing so now.

"Yes," Harry murmurs, still looking away, still staring out the window. He's quiet, not moving. "I
do care for you. I don't really understand it most of the time, but I do. I know why, and I also don't.
It makes sense, but it doesn't. You're horrible, absolutely evil, and I care for you anyway."
"This...upsets you."

"It would be like you suddenly caring for Dumbledore, I imagine."

Voldemort is silent for a long pause, then he slowly says, "That comparison is founded on
impossibility. It simply would never happen."

Harry turns to look at him, giving a weak, tragic smile that is more hollow than anything. "And
yet."

"You should know, Harry, that your conflicting emotions towards me are not alone. I did not
expect anything with your presence outside of providing you protection," Voldemort murmurs,
turning his head to gaze out the window. "However, I have found myself invested in the
continuation of your life; not simply because of what piece of me you hold within yourself, but
more...purely because of my growing belief that you should get to live."

"Do…" Harry trails off as the words get lodged in his throat, and he's suddenly terrified to hear the
answer. Either option scares him in equal measure.

Voldemort continues, regardless. "Do I care for you? Is that your question?"

"Yes," Harry croaks, flinching immediately after he says it, balling his fists up in his lap.

"You care for me in ways I have seen, though not yet believed until confirmed. In that you trust
me, that you forgive me, that you do not take pleasure in seeing me injured or in pain, that you
heed my advice and listen when I speak." Voldemort turns his head back to look at him, holding
his gaze. "That is how you care for me, and that is how I've come to care for you. So, yes, I do care
for you, Harry Potter."

Harry stares at him, and stares at him, and stares at him. He takes a breath, releases it, then another.
That exists in the world now, just like that. It finds a home in Harry's mind, curling up
unnecessarily warm and comfortable. It shouldn't please him.

It does anyway.
"You're going to hurt me," Harry says softly, because he knows it's true.

"If I do," Voldemort tells him, "trust that I do not take pleasure from it."

Harry swallows. "Remember that for me, too."

Voldemort nods, just once. "I will."

"Was that all?" Harry starts to stand. "May I go?"

"Not quite." Voldemort holds up a hand, making Harry sit back down with a sigh. "There is one
last thing to discuss. The trip to free you from the Ministry was successful for more than one
reason. While I was there, I found the Horcrux lost to me."

Harry blinks. "What? Where?"

"It was around Delores Umbridge's neck," Voldemort tells him. "If you agree, I will bring it out
and show it to you. To see how you react."

"How many is that now?" Harry murmurs, his eyebrows wrinkling. "The diary and the one
Dumbledore had is destroyed. Nagini is… That means you have two with you, and the other two
are hidden. Right?"

"Yes. Do you agree or not?"

"Oh. Er, sure. What is it?"

"This," Voldemort says, leaning down to pull out a locket from the desk drawer, "is the Slytherin
locket. Would you like to hold it?"

Harry frowns. "I think you want me to."

"Curious minds would like to know how you will react to it," Voldemort says, waving his free
hand. He offers Harry the locket. "Do you have a curious mind, Harry?"

"If this tries to kill me," Harry mutters in warning, even as he reaches out to grab the locket.

The moment he wraps his hand around it, taking it and getting a closer look, Harry's mood takes a
sharp dive. His anger spikes, a burning sensation underneath his skin as if he's been standing next
to a fire too long. There's no kettle singing, just a dark sense of anger and despair.

Harry grits his teeth, violence rearing its head as if he's buried it down. In this moment, he wants to
take the locket and beat Voldemort over the head with it, beat him until he's bloody. Even more
than that, he wants to get his wand and find someone to cast the Killing Curse on. He hasn't done
that in a while, has he? And he misses it.

Lucius could be good, Harry thinks viciously.

Maybe he'll kill him, watch him sprawl out all undignified over breakfast. But won't Draco hate
him? Draco will. Maybe Draco should. Maybe everyone should; he certainly deserves it. Deserves
to be hated by all, feared because he's wrong. He's bad, and dangerous, and a threat.

Dumbledore knows it. Maybe he's always known it. Why hadn't he said anything? Who is he to lie
to Harry about his own life? Who made him the one to play with people like they're pieces on a
chessboard? He's dying, and maybe Harry can help him along, can revisit how good the Killing
Curse feels and—

Harry drops the locket with a gasp, scrambling away from it with wide eyes, his whole body
shaking from pure self-disgust and fear.

"Harry?" Voldemort asks calmly, flicking his wand to have the locket sailing into his hand.

"Keep that away from me," Harry hisses, taking in deep breaths, digging his nails into the arms of
the chair. "I—I never want to be near it again."

Voldemort arches a naked eyebrow. "This Horcrux preys on your deepest fears and insecurities,
Harry. Has that just happened to you?"

"Y-Yeah," Harry stutters out, wrapping his arms around himself. "I—I think s-so."

"I believe it affects you more intensely than most. Had you not known you were a Horcrux, you
might have not felt it so deeply, as you wouldn't be looking for it," Voldemort tells him, putting the
locket away and surveying Harry. "What did you feel?"

"Angry," Harry whispers harshly. "So angry. Enough to—to kill. And afraid that I was evil. I
thought I deserved to be hated."

Voldemort hums. "You are a very conflicted young man. I do not believe you deserve to be hated."

"Does Dumbledore?"

"Does his opinion matter so much to you?"

"Yes," Harry admits in a rasp.

"I do not think he believes you should be hated, Harry," Voldemort tells him, "nor do I think he
hates you at all."

Harry lets out a shuddering breath. "I think, if that's true, that just makes all of this more
complicated."

"Yes," Voldemort agrees. He pauses, then waves a hand. "You may go now. I believe they are
serving breakfast, and you require nourishment."

Swallowing and feeling unsettled still, Harry slowly climbs to his feet and leaves, feeling as
cracked open and scraped raw as he expected to. Voldemort, as always, lets him go without
comment.
The time leading up to Draco leaving back for Hogwarts is spent with Harry refusing to entertain
anyone else, stubbornly sticking to Draco's side. It's a bit ridiculous, he knows, but Harry isn't
really eager to miss even a second with him.

The night before Draco has to leave, Harry slips out of his room and pads across the hall, feeling a
bit awkward as he sort of portrays sneaky behavior, even though he isn't trying to do anything
wrong. It's not like he and Draco haven't slept in the same bed before, even through the night, so
it's not like Harry has nefarious plans or anything.

He blushes the entire walk over anyway.

Draco appears to be asleep when Harry gently opens the door and quietly walks it back, shutting it
with a near-silent click. His back is to Harry, blanket wrapped around him, just his head visible
with blond hair bright even in the moonlight. Harry swallows and eases across the room, shuffling
to the other side of the bed.

Harry very nearly jumps out of his skin when Draco murmurs, "Well? Are you going to stand there
all night or get in the bed with me?"

"You're awake?" Harry asks, peeling the blanket back and scrambling into bed with him. Their
knees bump as he scoots close. He fumbles to take his glasses off, not needing them in the dark.

"Clearly," Draco drawls. He slips his hand over Harry's waist and drags him closer with a hum.
"You could say I'm not very tired at all."

"Excited to get back to Hogwarts?" Harry mumbles, taking a purposefully steady breath as Draco's
cool fingers slip under the edge of his shirt, nails lightly scraping over his hip and around to his
back.

"The opposite," Draco tells him.

Harry clears his throat. Draco's cold toes are gently rubbing his ankle, almost mindless. "Are you
going to tell people you have a boyfriend?"
"Well, Blaise and Pansy have already been teasing me about Aurius Fawley, you know," Draco
says, leaning forward to drag the tip of his nose over Harry's very slowly. "I certainly won't tell
them I'm dating Harry Potter, but I could tell them I'm dating Arius, if you like."

"I don't want you to be dating Arius Fawley, though," Harry says, almost petulant.

"I can't say I'm dating Harry Potter, though, can I?"

"Would you if you could?"

Draco chuckles against his cheek, his lips pressing almost innocently against Harry's jaw. "If you
think I wouldn't boast about you, then you're even more of an idiot than I thought."

"Do they know you like men?"

"Pansy suspects, I think. Actually, I'm fairly sure she's known since we were bloody thirteen.
Blaise probably didn't think so before Arius Fawley, but he has certainly made some...suggestive
remarks that leads me to think he's curious, at least. Vince and Greg are, as always, completely
clueless, and I don't think Theo cares either way."

"Well," Harry murmurs, "I think you should tell them if you want to. I just wish you could tell
them the truth, that's all."

"How are you jealous of yourself?" Draco asks, clicking his tongue.

Harry sighs. "No idea. It's annoying, though."

"Mm, I'll them," Draco whispers. He presses a kiss to Harry's cheek, then his jaw. "Just so that…"
He trails off, his lips dragging over the line of Harry's face to dip in at his throat. "So that they
know…" He pauses, lips parting over Harry's pulse point, hot breath fanning out. "They know I'm
taken…"

"G-Good idea," Harry chokes out, his head falling back just a bit without his permission, eyes
fluttering shut. "That's—yeah, so good."
Draco makes an amused sound. "Is it?"

"Yeah," Harry agrees, not even sure what he's agreeing to at the moment. "It's brilliant."

"You are a mess, Harry," Draco says softly, his hand sliding from around Harry's back, trailing
back over his hip, his touch feather-light. "I'm not even really doing anything, and you're still…"

Harry makes a strangled sound that may be a laugh or a whimper. "I know. Bloody hell, I know.
Sorry. I didn't come in here to maul you or anything."

"Pity," Draco muses. "What did you come in here for, then, if not late night escapades?"

"To sleep with you," Harry mumbles, then jolts when Draco's lips spread slow and wet on his
throat. He hums, and Harry can feel it in his vocal cords. "I meant—you know, like we have
before. Because you're leaving tomorrow, and I, um, I—"

Harry's ability to speak, as well as his ability to function properly, goes flying out the window the
moment Draco sucks at his throat, gently nipping at it. He sucks in a sharp breath, his hand
clamping down on Draco's arm, nails digging in. His heart is beating very hard and very fast.

Draco pulls back minutely. "Continue," he says softly. "I assure you, I am listening."

"Right," Harry wheezes, squeezing his eyes closed and holding onto Draco's arm with all his might.
Lips begin teasing at his throat again, and Harry's brain is scrambled, his thoughts pinging all over
the place, running into each other. "I thought that we could—ah, that's… Um, see, I was...I was
thinking that we could sleep—just sleep—together tonight because, because, um...to just have the
time to—"

Harry can't formulate a sentence for a minute, too distracted by how Draco's lips have moved to
wrap around his earlobe, teeth tugging at it. Harry didn't even know ears could be this sensitive; it
almost tickles, not in the way that makes him want to laugh or push Draco away, but in the way
that makes tingles tapdance down his spine. He gives a full body shiver, his breath hitching.

No one told him it was like this. No one ever told him that he'd be sixteen, in the arms of the last
boy he'd ever expect to want to hold onto, eager to never let him go. No one ever sat him down and
explained that he'd feel this way, like his whole body has woken up, alert and alive, as if he's mere
flesh and bones for the sodding hormones that suddenly grip him all the time now.

It's as terrifying as it is exhilarating. Harry doesn't want to stop, but he also has no clue what's
happening or why any of it feels the way it does. He's not a complete idiot, no matter what Draco
thinks, so he's aware of what it all means; it's just that wrapping his brain around how it can feel
like this seems impossible. He's never been yanked out of his own head so simply before, feeling
every single part of his own body, hot all over and very present in the moment.

The thing is, he's not sure what's right or wrong, or if any of that matters. He doesn't want to do the
wrong thing, or take things too far, or get carried away. He's sixteen and hormonal, but he knows
better at least. Snogging is safe, most of the time, and Harry thinks anything else should happen in
the future when it can be special, when they've been together long enough that Harry can laugh
instead of dying on the inside if he messes up, when they're old enough to be sure in the way
sixteen year olds just can't be. He has enough mind to be sure of that, no matter what his hormones
say.

"I'm still listening," Draco murmurs in his ear.

Harry shudders, squeezing his eyes shut, and he somehow manages to speak, strangled as the
words are when they come out. "Draco. Ah, Draco, you should know that I'm—that we can't, um,
do anything because, oh, because I want to wait."

"Alright," Draco says, sounding amused. He nips at Harry's earlobe again. "I'm already planning to
wait, Harry. You don't think I'm easy, do you?"

"No! No, Merlin, no," Harry says quickly, hissing out between his teeth when Draco's nails bite
into his hip almost playfully. "I just want to—to tell you that I think it might be, um, best if we
don't...do anything. That's all."

Draco snorts quietly against his cheek. "Don't tell me this is one of those Gryffindor things. You're
not thinking our first shag has to be special or anything, are you?"

Harry's face heats up so fast that it feels like he contains flames in his cheeks. "Well...er…"

"Oh, Harry," Draco says with a laugh, "you're such an idiot. The biggest idiot, really."
"Piss off," Harry breathes out, his fingers clenching on Draco's arm as Draco's breath wafts over the
wet spots on his neck. Goosebumps break out on every inch of his skin. "Why do you want to wait,
then?"

"Because I'm not a slag," Draco replies instantly. "If you want it, you'll have to work for it. You
think I'm going to shag you when we haven't even dated for a month? No, no, Potter, you've got a
long way to go."

Harry feels a ridiculous giggle bubble up behind his lips, and it falls out breathlessly. "You and
your bloody challenges, Malfoy."

Draco hums. "Up for it?"

"I always am, aren't I?"

"You are."

"So, what am I supposed to do, exactly?" Harry asks, his head falling back even farther as Draco
drags his lips over his neck again.

"Well," Draco murmurs against his skin, "when one is courting someone, they generally get to
know each other. They give them thought out gifts."

Harry swallows. "We've already done that."

"They do it repeatedly, Harry."

"Right, right. Go on."

"And they're patient," Draco continues. "No one wants to be with someone who grows angry when
they have to wait for more."
"I'm usually impatient," Harry admits, "but not about this. We never have to do anything, you
know. Everything we've already been doing is enough. More than enough, actually."

Draco pauses, his hand clamping down on Harry's hip, and when he sighs, it's very soft and very,
very fond. "You can be very sweet sometimes, Harry, did you know? Though, sweet as that is, we'll
probably both explode if we never do anything else. I may have decorum, but I am human."

"You have more decorum than I do," Harry tells him sheepishly. "I can't really, er, think when
you're like this. I don't mean to get carried away."

"It's fine," Draco says easily. "A mindless brute you may be, but a chivalrous one. Now that you're
aware that we won't be doing too much, you'll stop."

Harry coughs as Draco's hand gingerly slides up under his shirt again, drifting up his side. "How
much is too much, exactly? You haven't specified."

"No shagging means no getting off, Harry," Draco murmurs, snickering at him.

"Ever?" Harry blurts out, jerking back in alarm.

Draco snickers harder. "No getting off together. Merlin, you really are hopeless, you know. How
am I supposed to tell you if you can or cannot wank?"

"Please don't talk about wanking," Harry says instantly, clearing his throat. He flexes his fingers on
Draco's arm, taking a steadying breath. "But alright. No...doing that together. Brilliant."

"I can't believe you thought I was going to shag you. Did you know that Purebloods almost always
wait to shag the person they're betrothed to until they're married? Some don't, but most do. Well,
they tend to because they don't actually like who they're marrying, but my point still stands," Draco
explains.

Harry blinks open his eyes. "Really? I thought Slytherins were more, er...open."

"Just because we're crude sometimes doesn't mean we're getting off with various people," Draco
tells him with a prim sniff. "Many of us have standards."

"Yes, but I meet all yours," Harry says cheekily.

Draco scoffs. "Yes, well, my standards just happen to be low. Anyway, aren't Gryffindors the ones
who are all over each other all the time? Really, how Slytherins came by the reputation that they
have is beyond me, especially when Gryffindors are all so...touchy with each other."

"There's nothing wrong with showing affection, Draco. It doesn't mean we're all shagging each
other," Harry mutters, rolling his eyes.

"You know what house I think really does?" Draco asks, and Harry can feel his smile against the
curve of his neck. "Hufflepuffs. They seem so innocent and sweet, you know, but I bet they have
orgies."

Harry chokes on a laugh, his head falling forward as he relaxes and eases closer. "You're joking!
Hufflepuffs are not having orgies!"

"Who says they're not? They're all so bloody comfortable with each other, almost too comfortable.
I'm telling you, there's something there."

"Draco, you prat, there's nothing wrong with being comfortable with friends!"

"Yes, but there's a different comfort level you have when you're with someone you've snogged, at
the least," Draco insists, his smile growing wider against Harry's skin, his laugh warm and throaty.

"Is there?" Harry muses, easing his hand up and down Draco's arm slowly. "Go on, then. Tell me
about this different comfort level."

Draco hums, leaning into him. "Well, you wouldn't mind me doing what we're doing right now
with a friend, would you? Blaise? Theo, perhaps?"

Harry tenses all over, his hand clenching on Draco's arm. He frowns. "No, no, don't do that."
"Who are you protesting to? Blaise or Theo?"

"Both, but Theo especially. Also, just don't do this with any friends."

"So you think I should only do this with you?"

"Well, yeah."

"There you go," Draco says easily. "You've just confirmed what I said about comfort levels.
Conclusion, the Hufflepuffs are all snogging each other, at the very least."

"I still don't think so," Harry mumbles, pulling Draco closer, his mind a bit stuck on the image of
Draco being curled up with anyone like this.

"You're being jealous again," Draco tells him, openly amused.

Harry huffs. "I'm not."

"You needn't be." Draco noses at Harry's chin, tilting his head back to kiss at his neck again. "If I
wanted someone else, Harry, I would be with them and not you. It's rather simple."

"Oh, in that case, I'll just go cuddling up with—with, er, someone."

"I'm not jealous of your friends, Harry."

"Why not?" Harry asks, a bit put out by the fact that he's the one being jealous while Draco isn't.

Draco snorts. "You're not in Hogwarts, are you? I don't have to be jealous, do I?"
"So, if I was…"

"Oh, I'd be out for blood, I imagine."

"That makes me feel better in a really, really strange way," Harry admits, his eyes drifting closed
again as Draco takes a moment to press quick kisses against his throat, short and sweet.

"This year would be a nightmare," Draco whispers against his neck. "Girls would be throwing
themselves at you. I'd probably get a lot of detentions trying to ward them off."

"Like girls aren't throwing themselves at you."

"Yes, but you know I don't want them."

"Draco," Harry whispers, "you can't possibly think I want anyone other than you, can you? Because
I don't. I really, really don't."

"Is that right?" Draco murmurs, his teeth dragging and catching at the bend of Harry's neck where
it meets his shoulder.

"I—I always...oh! Draco, that's—" Harry sucks in a deep breath as teeth pluck at his throat, going
lower, lips sucking a warm path down. "Draco."

Draco pauses, humming. "Go on. I'm listening."

"I always want you, I think," Harry blurts out with a nervous laugh, his fingers clinging to Draco's
arm as his toes curl. "You're just so—you always make me feel so… Draco, I can't fucking think,
let me just—"

Draco gives a laugh, low and rough, and Harry's hands are flying up to grab the sides of his head
without thought. He tugs Draco's head up and surges forward to kiss him, the intensity of it making
him struggle to breathe. His fingers tangle in Draco's hair, and he's pressing in closer before he
even realizes it, leaning up on his elbow and pushing Draco backwards.
Harry's brain has been a mess this entire time, really, so he doesn't bother trying to sort out any
other thoughts he has. He just leans over Draco and snogs him fiercely, enjoying the way Draco
gasps into his lips, hands coming up to slide around Harry's shoulders to pull him in closer.

Somewhere in the distant parts of Harry's mind, he is very aware that they're not going to do
anything, and this knowledge doesn't disappoint him. Actually, it relieves him and makes him feel
bolder, giving him the reassurance that he'll know exactly where to draw the line. It lets him suck
at Draco's bottom lip, teeth wrapping around it and tugging, listening with satisfaction as Draco
gives a muffled moan in response.

Harry just wants to do this for a while. It's safe and intense, clouding his mind, letting his body fold
into Draco like it always wants to. He feels like he's been wound up this whole night, and this eases
some of the tension, at least. Kissing Draco does, touching Draco's hair does, pressing their bodies
together just to feel how well they fit does.

And it's just two sixteen year olds fumbling in the dark, almost innocent in the grand scheme of
things.

The snogging goes on for a while, but it eventually tapers out into something soothing and sweet.
Draco's fingers stop clawing at his shoulders and start kneading them. Harry eases back onto his
side rather than leaning into Draco. Their tongues go back in their mouths, and the kiss turns slow
and lethargic. All the tension drains away, and Harry likes this, too. He hums in approval when
they break apart, still close enough that their noses brush.

"See? Chivalrous," Draco murmurs.

Harry clicks his tongue. "Despite what you think, I do have some manners, Draco."

"Do you?"

"Yes. Besides, you riled me up."

"I'm very good at that, aren't I?" Draco asks, sounding amused.
"You're perfect for it," Harry mutters. He settles a bit closer, letting out a sigh and relaxing. He's
not eager to go to sleep and wake up to the day Draco will leave, but he is very comfortable. "You
always smell nice, did you know? Like apples and Autumn."

"Autumn?" Draco blurts out incredulously. "How do I smell like a bloody season?"

Harry laughs quietly. "Sort of...crisp. Cool, but not cold. I don't know how to explain it, but you do.
I actually really love it."

Draco is silent for a long beat, then he clears his throat. "Oh. Well, thank you, I suppose."

"Oh? What was that? You're saying thank you when I pay you a compliment? The world won't
know how to react to such a thing."

"Did you know, Harry, that I hate you?"

"I don't believe you," Harry tells him. "I think you like me quite a bit."

"Which is why I call you an idiot," Draco says.

"I like you quite a bit," Harry murmurs. "A lot more than I expected to. Probably more than I
should."

Draco makes an offended noise. "What's that supposed to mean?'

"Well, you're a prat."

"Piss off."

"You first," Harry shoots back, but the moment Draco tries to pull away, he clamps his arms
around him and tugs him back in. "Wait, no, I was joking. I'm getting tired and you're warm."
"I'm just a pillow to you, aren't I?"

"Well, what else are you good for?"

Draco swats his head. "I will break up with you, Harry Potter or not. Don't think I won't."

"Would you, really?" Harry asks curiously.

"Well, sometimes people go their separate ways when they're not working out, I hear. I do believe
that is an option we have," Draco drawls.

Harry frowns. "But I—"

"You...what?" Draco asks slowly, seemingly surprised by Harry's abrupt silence.

"Nothing," Harry mumbles. "We'll work out, though, I think. I don't want to...er…"

Draco presses their lips together for a brief kiss, then he hums. "Go on."

I don't want to break up, ever. I don't want to lose you, Harry thinks, but he can't bring himself to
say it, terrified Draco might not agree. Instead, he changes the subject by asking, "Can I ask you
something?"

"This should be good. Ask away, Harry."

"Do you think we could have been...like this without me ending up here?"

There's a long beat of silence, then Draco quietly asks, "Honestly?"

"Yeah," Harry breathes out.

"No." Draco sighs and scoots a bit closer, going still as he releases a deep breath. "I think we
would have continued to have problems. You'd likely end up with some pretty girl who has good
morals, and I would have resigned myself to marrying Pansy or Astoria, and that would have been
that."

Harry doesn't at all like how that makes him feel, and he swallows thickly. "Oh."

"So," Draco muses, "in a way, it was a good thing that you became a murderer, really."

"Draco!" Harry blurts out, startled into laughing, giving Draco a harsh shake. "You're horrible."

Draco hums. "I'd think you'd appreciate that there is some good to come from that situation. I have
provided you with comfort, Harry. The least you could do is thank me for my efforts."

"More horrible than anyone I know," Harry says, heaving a fond sigh. "Thank you. I think. You're
the only person who would be able to laugh about me being a murderer, you know."

"I rather think you've made the world a better place. She was a killer, after all."

"Yes, but in killing her, I also became a killer. So, really, there's still a killer in the world."

"A kinder one, then." Draco pauses, then lets out a soft laugh. "Well, Pettigrew killed people, didn't
he? So, technically, by killing him, you took a killer out of the world. You really did make it a
better place."

Harry groans. "Draco, that's not how it works."

"You can't fault my logic, though, can you?" Draco teases, humming in a pleased fashion.

"This is why Slytherins and Gryffindors don't get on, you know," Harry says flatly.
Draco laughs. "I think we get on just fine, if our snogging habits are anything to go by."

"Well, I was almost a Slytherin, so I don't really know if that counts," Harry replies without
thinking.

"What did you just say?" Draco asks sharply, his head yanking up so quickly that their chins knock
into each other. "What do you mean you were—"

Harry chokes out a shocked sound. "Merlin, I've never told anyone that. I… Well, the sorting hat
wanted to put me in Slytherin, but I begged it to put me in Gryffindor instead."

"What? Why?" Draco blurts out incredulously.

"Well, people told me that there wasn't a Wizard or Witch who went bad that didn't come from
Slytherin," Harry admits with a sigh. "That's not true, obviously. I mean, Pettigrew. Me,
technically. Besides, what really pushed me to not want Slytherin was that this little prat with blond
hair who strutted around like he owned the castle had already gone there. I was eleven, mind, so I
couldn't imagine being in the same house as you or the Wizard who had apparently killed my
parents."

"Merlin and Morgana both," Draco whispers. "I can't believe you were almost a Slytherin. That's…
Honestly, I just can't picture it. You're missing out, though. Slytherin really is the best house."

Harry snorts. "You wish."

"We might've been best friends, you know," Draco muses, chuckling like the idea is hilarious.
"Could you imagine? No, I'm so glad that didn't happen."

"What?" Harry's frowning now. "Draco, why do you not want to be my friend? That's rude."

"Can you stop being an idiot for five seconds?" Draco heaves a sigh, tapping his forehead to
Harry's. "I'm rather happy not being your friend and dating instead. Besides, could you imagine me
being your best mate and going on all your adventures with you? Absolutely not. I'd abandon you
in a second."
Harry rolls his eyes. "Wow, thanks."

"I know who I am," Draco says without an ounce of apology in his voice. "No, it's better this way,
I think. I prefer it."

"What? Starting out as enemies?" Harry mutters.

"Indeed." Draco leans close and kisses his cheek, then his lips. The kiss stretches out, slow and
warm, and Harry can feel Draco's smirk against his lips. "There just seems to be something
so...sensual about it. We know how to rile each other up. Bickering as flirting is a lot more fun than
just normal filtering."

Harry bites his bottom lip, then softly says, "Yeah, well, they say there's a thin line between love
and hate, you know."

"I suppose," Draco says evenly.

"But I think you're wrong about us not being good as friends," Harry continues shakily. "I think we
are already friends who just happen to, er, date. And enemies, too. Anyway, the point is, we'd be
good as friends. I mean, you already know a secret I've never told Hermione or Ron."

"A secret you would not have told me if we were not dating. Face facts, Harry, we're just not
friends."

"But we could be!"

Draco snickers. "Do you want to be my friend?"

"Yes," Harry snaps stubbornly. "That, and your boyfriend. Both. All of it. Whatever, you know
what I mean, Draco, stop laughing!"

"Alright, alright," Draco murmurs, his chuckles slowly filtering out. He leans up to kiss Harry's
forehead. "Fine. I'll be your friend, Harry."
 "You're being an arse again."

"Yes, but I can't help it."

Harry sighs. "You're a terrible friend."

"Literally any of my friends could have told you that," Draco informs him casually. "However, I
am a good boyfriend, so you'll have to live with that."

"I think I'll manage," Harry mumbles, lips curling up against his will.

"Go to sleep, Harry," Draco says quietly.

Harry hums. "Every other weekend, right?"

"Every other weekend."

"And you'll still write?"

"Of course," Draco tells him.

"Alright," Harry agrees, closing his eyes and shamelessly cuddling up to Draco. "Goodnight."

Draco tightens his arms around him. "Goodnight."

And, just like that, tangled up together and feeling at peace, they drift off into unhindered sleep.

Chapter End Notes

SPOILER!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I won't go into too much detail, but Nagini is killed. It's pretty grotesque, actually.
She's cut in half, just like in the books, except it's much sadder in this AU. She will be
missed.

END SPOILER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

So, um, I'm sorry? Wanna tell at me? That's fair. That's valid. Drop a comment below,
if you like ❤️
 Complicated
Chapter Notes

No warnings for this one, y'all. Enjoy!

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Idiot,

The return to Hogwarts is rather dull. I would much rather be at home, admittedly.

Artimus is back to being in a sour mood. I believe she was spoiled by being with your owl all of
Christmas break. She's taken to flying high out of the way in the Owlery, ignoring all the other
owls, who seem too frightened to go near her. It's oddly amusing.

The pocket-jumpers went over well. Pansy is wearing hers, as is Blaise. Theo as well, though I
notice his is rather blank. How very childish of you. However, you will be pleased to know that
other students have taken notice of a group of Slytherins wearing them and some Muggle-borns
have started to wear theirs as well. People are beginning to ask where to get them. You will also be
pleased to know that I have caught Granger wearing hers as well, though Weasley seems notably
annoyed by it.

Speaking of Granger, her spirits have seemed to lift, though her curiosity hasn't. She's already
demanding when she and I can go off and talk to each other alone, and I told her what you and I
agreed upon.

Weasley, it seems, is starting to grow visibly annoyed by Lavender Brown. I don't think he's noticed
yet, but he's instinctively leaning away when she sits next to him. Granger hasn't realized this, so
she has resumed her anger at that whole situation with relish. Pansy encourages her, because
apparently there's nothing like the idiocy of men for women to bond over.

There is a development with Blaise and Pansy. Blaise told me they visited each other on Christmas
break, and apparently Pansy proceeded to snog him within an inch of his life. Those were his
words, mind. He's ridiculously pleased about it and spends most of his time giving her all of his
attention, which she pretends not to like, even though she obviously loves it. I will admit that I do
not mind their disgusting behavior as much I might have if what transpired between us never did.
At the very least, I understand what it's like.
Speaking of, Pansy and Blaise laughed at me when I told them you were my boyfriend. Laughed!
They told me that they knew it was only a matter of time, then teased me relentlessly about whether
or not we shagged. Vince and Greg were very awkward during my telling them, as they were still
under the impression that I was supposed to marry Pansy. They've always been very slow. Theo
simply said that he didn't think my boyfriend liked him very much. You are not subtle.

Vince and Greg's confusion did spark conversation, though. We somehow broached the subject of
our Pureblood upbringing and what things might be right or wrong. It eventually grew out of
control with multiple Slytherins in the discussion. There were lots of arguments, and it got so bad
that Snape had to come into the Common Room and demand what was happening.

You're not going to believe this. Instead of being angry that we were all up debating past midnight,
he thought it would be a good idea to SCHEDULE times for regular debates. Schedule ! He thinks
the topic should be expanded on further in the future, made a few good points of his own, then
swept off before anyone could argue with him. It was utterly mad, I tell you.

Classes are starting back with the same amount of stress as before. I really should have done more
studying over Christmas break. There's been a few separate disasters that has happened since my
return.

Longbottom somehow managed to transfigure his ear into a mouth that barked insults at people all
day, including Professor McGonagall. Theo dropped his Potions book into a cauldron because his
hands were shaking so bad and had to get a replacement that's falling apart horribly. Finnegan
managed to blow up his desk in DADA in ways I will never understand, which sent four different
students to the Hospital Wing, including Granger and Lavender Brown. Apparently, from what
Girl Weasley said, Weasley went to visit Granger first to check on her before his girlfriend, which
has apparently sent Lavender Brown into a fit of fury. So now Weasley's girlfriend is fighting with
him or avoiding him, which he seems to actually prefer the avoiding bit.

Overall, it's been ridiculous and I want to return home. Nevertheless, here I remain. How are you?
You're moping, aren't you?

Wishing you well,

Draco

Harry sighs as he plops down in the chair behind his desk, putting his chin in his hand. He stares at
Voldemort, who stares back, and they do a full minute of just staring at each other. Voldemort does
not appear enthused about his moping.

He can't help it. Harry doesn't want to be moping, it's just that he can't really stop. Missing
someone truly might be the worst kind of pain in the world, he thinks. Dramatic as it may be, Harry
feels as if Draco's absence is weighing down on him. He doesn't even really want to go back to
lessons.

Nonetheless, he is back at lessons. He won't just stop going, no matter how much he wants to stay
in bed while moping. He has plenty to mope about, in fairness. When Draco is gone, Harry always
feels the mess of his life a bit more starkly. He sometimes doesn't know how he's still standing
with how utterly heavy all of it is.

Voldemort has left him to his moping, apparently unimpressed with it. There hasn't been any other
deep discussions, just lessons. He teaches Harry and says nothing else, not about Nagini, or
Dumbledore, or the other Horcrux that's still here. Harry wants to ask questions, but he doesn't
know where to start.

"We will begin with a new potion," Voldemort says calmly. "This one isn't something I will allow
you to take a vial of. Come over and examine it."

Harry frowns as he slowly pushes to his feet, shuffling closer to the cauldron Voldemort has a lid
on. "Why can't I take a vial? You always make me take a vial of what I brew, no matter what it
is."

"I will explain after you examine it," Voldemort tells him. He whisks the lid off and waves his
hand towards it. "Proceed."

"Well, it's a bit...pink. But like a pearl. The steam is rising in a spiral, which is interesting," Harry
muses, drifting closer to the cauldron. He leans closer, inhaling deeply. "It smells like—like—"

"Yes?" Voldemort prompts.

Harry's faltering, though, because this potion smells absolutely amazing. He leans in closer, his
eyes fluttering shut as he grips the side of the table, his head feeling fuzzy. "Merlin," he whispers.
"It smells like Treacle Tart, a bit like a broom, and like—like apples and Autumn. How did you get
a potion to smell like Draco?"
The lid falls back over the top, making Harry blink and jerk back. Voldemort stares at him for a
beat, then says, "This is Amortentia. It is the most powerful love potion in the world, and it smells
different to each person, depending on what attracts them. However, it's reputation is misleading,
as no potion can truly fabricate love—it only induces infatuation and obsession with who
administers it."

"Oh," Harry blurts out, his entire face exploding with heat as he averts his eyes. "Right. Er…"

"I do not need or care for your explanation in your personal, romantic exploits," Voldemort says
flatly, looking seconds from rolling his eyes when Harry takes a quick, wary glance. "You have
your freedom, even in love, weak as it may be."

Harry clears his throat and reaches up to rub the back of his neck. "It's not—I mean, we're dating."

"I do not care."

"Right, but I mean...it makes sense for it to smell like Draco because of that, is all. It doesn't mean
I, er, love him. Or does it?"

"Are you romantically in love with Treacle Tart?"

"Well...no."

Voldemort hums. "The potion does not expose the things you love, simply what attracts you,
though those things tend to be attributed to each other. Shouldn't you know?"

"How would I know?!" Harry blurts, flinging up a hand a bit restlessly. "I didn't even know I
fancied him, honestly!"

"You were unaware?" Voldemort asks, looking at him in blatant confusion.

Harry chokes on air. "You knew?"

"It was rather obvious." Voldemort arches a naked eyebrow at him. "Again, I do not care about
your romantic entanglements. They have nothing to do with me, and I do not wish to discuss them.
I believe that's more suited for Narcissa."

"Yeah," Harry mumbles with a small frown. He glances back at the potion, then clears his throat.
"What do you smell?"

"Nothing," Voldemort says simply.

Harry blinks. "Nothing? So you don't…"

"The reason that I will not allow you to have a vial is because this is a potion that is dangerous in
ways that should not be explored," Voldemort declares shortly, pausing briefly before narrowing
his eyes and flicking his fingers in agitation. "It is to be believed that those conceived while under
the effects of this potion cannot feel love."

"Is that true?" Harry asks with a frown.

Voldemort peers at him intently. "Yes. I'm curious to know what you think about that."

Harry purses his lips. "Well, it makes me think that the potion shouldn't exist, actually. What good
can it do, really? Besides, what about the child who can't love? That's not fair to them, I think.
They didn't ask for that to happen to them."

"When I come to power," Voldemort says, gesturing to the cauldron, "I will ban it."

"Wait. Really? You agree with me?" Harry blurts out, stunned. "Why? I rather thought you'd find
some horrible uses for the potion, actually."

Voldemort narrows his eyes at him. "I am capable of achieving my plans without resorting to such
—" his lip curls in a sneer, "—foolishness. I have not and will not ever use this potion for anything,
and while you are under my protection, I will ensure that you do not either."

"What about my freedom?"

"Do not be contrary. In this particular matter, I will not be swayed."

"You really hate it," Harry mumbles in surprise, his eyebrows jerking up. He can actually feel
Voldemort's anger towards it. "Why?"

"Because it is useless and abhorrent," Voldemort tells him sharply.

Harry narrows his eyes. "Well, yes, but that's not it. If you're going to be taking away my freedom
to choose whether or not—"

"Do you wish to have a vial?"

"No, but—"

"Then I am not taking away your freedom." Voldemort glares at him. "I am simply aware of what
you will do."

"I want to know why you hate it so much," Harry insists, frowning at him. "Is it because it has
something to do with love?"

"The potion doesn't truly have anything to do with love, Harry. However, love does not matter to
me. It's a disgusting weakness, but I am aware that others feel it as I never have and never will,"
Voldemort explains, his eyes practically slits now.

Harry opens his mouth, then closes it. He glances at the potion. After a beat of staring at it, he
slowly looks back at Voldemort. "You don't and won't. Were you conceived under this potion?"

"My mother was a Witch rather taken with a worthless Muggle man, and he did not return her
affections," Voldemort hisses, looking sickened and angry by the mere words he's saying. "She
used this potion and believed once she was with child that he would stay with her, but he did not.
The ridiculous notion that a Muggle was worth breeding with is—"
"Wait, wait, wait," Harry cuts in, horrified. "You can't feel love because of this potion?!"

Voldemort stares at him. "I do not care about that. It is not something that angers me."

"But I thought—"

"What angers me is that my mother was obsessed with a Muggle. She loved him until her last
breath, using it to name her child after the man who would never love her. She was a fool."

"I…" Harry gapes at him, trying to wrap his mind around that but failing to. "That's horrid. You do
know that, don't you? Without that potion, you might have had an entirely different life!"

"Without that potion, I would not exist."

"Alright, but my point still stands! People shouldn't be allowed to use this potion if it's capable of
—of forcing children to never feel love. It's not that your mum loved a Muggle that's a problem, it's
that she used the potion when she shouldn't have!"

"She should not have loved a Muggle to begin with, but I agree that the potion should be banned."

"Merlin, that's… Well, it explains some things, I suppose. Bloody hell, you were born from…"

"A lie," Voldemort muses. "Yes."

Harry blinks rapidly. "Does Dumbledore know?"

"He is aware, yes."

"Bloody hell."

Voldemort sighs and holds out a parchment with written ingredients on them. "Begin."
"Yeah, alright," Harry says faintly.

With that and nothing else, the lessons continue.

Prat,

I wish we could go back to Christmas break, Draco. I miss you quite a bit, you know. Not to be
overly romantic or anything, but I've been sort of useless ever since you've gone back to Hogwarts.

My owl misses Artimus when she's gone. It's sad, actually. She keeps bringing extra catches when
she goes hunting as if she expects Artimus to be there when she gets back. When Artimus isn't, she
tries to give the catches to me. Yes, it's as disgusting and heartbreaking as it sounds.

I'm glad the hoodies went over well. It seems we accidentally set a trend. Good, I'm glad we have.
Maybe Weasley will understand things soon and come around. Maybe the whole world will,
someday.

I'm glad you told people you have a boyfriend. I also think it's interesting that it somehow sparked
conversation about ridiculous Pureblood traditions. It surprises me that Snape encourages the
discussion, actually. From what you've told me about him, that seems out of character. I'm not
complaining, though.

Again, on the subject of Weasley, Lavender Brown, and Granger, I don't have an opinion. I do
hope Weasley and Granger forgive each other soon, though.

As for Blaise and Pansy, I'm very happy to hear that they're dating! Good for them. Pansy was the
one to do it, then? That's brilliant! I think it means she's starting to see things differently. I told you
she would have to be the one to do it, you know. Tell me I'm right anytime.

I'm sorry classes have been stressful again. In a way, my lessons have been draining as well. I was
recently taught about a potion called Amortentia. Have you been taught a lesson on that yet? Mine
smelled like you.
Yes, I'm moping. It's fine. I just can't wait to see you again, that's all.

Wishing you well,

Your idiot

Harry catches sight of her in the distance. At first, he thinks he's just seeing things—a trick of the
light or taking a turn too fast in the air. When he looks again, he finds that he hasn't been
hallucinating at all. He frowns and squints towards the distance, then slowly lowers down to the
ground.

He doesn't think he's ever seen Mrs. Malfoy this far outside the Manor. It's still within the wards,
of course, but this is usually where he and Draco come for a fly. Mrs. Malfoy has never come out
here.

She doesn't look harried or anything, just strolling through the meadow with her hands draped over
the front of her long skirt.

Is it lunch? Has he somehow accidentally skipped a meal? She'll scold him if he has, which is still
intimidating to this day. He's still scrambling for some sort of excuse when she comes to a halt in
front of him, smiling gently.

"You're a natural in the air, Harry," she says.

Harry tries to stop himself from flushing with pride and embarrassment, but he fails. "Er, thanks,
Mrs. Malfoy. Is everything alright?"

"Perfectly fine, I think," Mrs. Malfoy tells him. "I just returned from lunch with Dromeda. Did you
eat here while I was away?"

"Ah, no," Harry admits with a wince, "but I wasn't trying to skip a meal, I swear it. I was just
enjoying a fly and lost track of time."
Mrs. Malfoy tuts at him, but she seems to accept it with a nod. "You should have something put on
your stomach before Dinner."

"Sure," Harry says quickly. "How was your lunch with your sister?"

"It went very well. She seemed surprised that Lucius was supportive enough to buy out the
restaurant."

"So am I, honestly. I thought you said he'd be furious about it if he ever found out."

"I think he was," Mrs. Malfoy muses. "I didn't know it at the time, but when Andromeda and I first
started our correspondence, Lucius became very cross with me. I believed it had to do with the
things I was telling him about Draco, but it apparently did not. For whatever reason, he came
around in the end, though I doubt he fully agrees with my choice."

Harry scoffs. "Well, you do what you want, Mrs. Malfoy. Whatever makes you happy."

Mrs. Malfoy's face softens as she looks at him, her gaze amused. "Lucius makes me happy,
Harry."

"I don't think I'll ever understand that."

"I rather think you'd be the only one who could."

"What?!" Harry sputters, gaping at her in open disbelief. "Why would I understand that? Lucius is
a git; I've been saying that forever!"

"And I have told you that no one knows him the way I do," Mrs. Malfoy murmurs, her lips curling
up as she peers at him with a knowing gleam in her eyes, still oh so amused. "If I recall, you told
me my son was also a 'git', and a 'prat', and a variety of other descriptions. Draco, to me and
everyone else, doesn't seem to have changed."
Harry blinks at her. "Well, I mean… Draco still is a git and a prat, but that's not all he is. I…"

"You know him in ways others never will," Mrs. Malfoy suggests, raising her eyebrows.

"I—I… Bloody hell," Harry blurts out, staring at her in astonishment. "You're actually right."

Mrs. Malfoy hums, her amusement draining away as she looks troubled instead. "You have an
option that I never did, Harry. I could not leave Lucius if his flaws weren't something I could
understand. Fortunately, this was not the case for me, but I didn't really have the option if it was.
You, however, do have the option to leave my son."

"Do you think I'm going to?" Harry asks her with a small frown, leaning against his broom.

"What I think does not matter, as I am not you or my son," Mrs. Malfoy says simply. "What
choices you make with him, or he makes with you, are entirely up to the both of you."

Harry shakes his head. "Mrs. Malfoy, I have seen and heard some of Draco's worst, alright? If there
was going to be anything stopping me from being with him, it would be the things we've said and
done to each other already."

"What of your friends?" Mrs. Malfoy asks, her hands twitching in front of her. "Surely they won't
approve. The Weasleys certainly won't. Will you be able to choose him when those you love and
miss demand that you do not?"

"No offense, but I think you're just fretting now," Harry admits with a snort. "My friends and the
Weasleys can't tell me who I can and cannot love, no more than you can, or anyone can. They'll
just have to get used to it."

Mrs. Malfoy's face clears of all strain. "You love him."

Harry blinks. He opens his mouth, then closes it, then blows out a deep breath so explosive that it
puffs up his cheeks. "I—I didn't… I just meant—"

He gives up rather quickly, well aware that he's stuttering. His hand clenches around his broom,
and he looks away as he swallows thickly. He can feel his heart thundering away in his chest while
his stomach squirms with nerves.

The thing is, yeah, Harry does. It's completely and utterly mad, but he knows he does. He can feel
it every time he looks at Draco, that warm pulse of unconditional love that comes from a depth of
him that he wasn't even aware existed. It's exciting, and sweet, and firmly immobile. It is, of
course, very new, but it's also incredibly real. Harry feels like it has been putting roots within him
every single day, growing more and more, even before he noticed.

It's just like he thought. Love just happens, and it's something that comes along naturally. So very
simple, as easy as breathing, so much so that he almost didn't realize it. He sort of wants to stand
up and tell the whole world while simultaneously wanting to keep it close to his chest and never
tell another soul. He's not ashamed of it; he just wants to keep the feeling for himself, a selfish
desire to simply feel something so amazing.

So, he says nothing, but Mrs. Malfoy just smiles at him and reaches out to pat his arm. "It's alright,
darling. I think you and Draco will be fine."

"I could have told you that," Harry mutters, clearing his throat. He shoots Mrs. Malfoy an odd
look. "You know, Draco could always leave me."

"Ah," Mrs. Malfoy says delicately, her eyebrows doing some kind of intricate twitching thing that
Harry can't make sense of. She purses her lips, then coughs quietly. "Yes, well, I don't think he
will. In any case, I should be going in. I'll have Dipsy bring you up a tray before Dinner."

"Hey, Mrs. Malfoy?" Harry says quickly as she turns to leave.

She turns back to blink at him. "Yes?"

"Why don't you invite your sister and her husband to the Manor?" Harry murmurs, searching her
gaze, holding it. "Surely Lucius can play nice, can't he?"

"Even if he would, I couldn't invite them." Mrs. Malfoy offers him a small, sad smile. "We house
the Dark Lord, Harry. There are just some things that one knows not to do when that happens."

Harry swallows. "You and Lucius are trapped in all this, too, aren't you?"
Mrs. Malfoy stares at him for a long, long moment. There's a brief flash of fear in her eyes before
she steps forward to whisper, "Some of us simply do not have choices, Harry. Before you, I never
ached for them. After, I have never ached for anything more."

With that, she jerks back and starts a brisk walk back towards the Manor, her hands shaking as she
goes. Harry stares after her, his heart clenching in his chest to a violent degree.

You can't save everyone, though you try, Draco had said.

But, the thing is, Harry can.

Idiot,

Everyone is watching me write this in the Great Hall. Artimus has made a scene by snapping at my
fingers and attacking my hair so I will hurry with a reply. She seems to be in a rush to get back to
your owl.

Blaise thinks this is hilarious. I assure you, it is not.

We have started a trend, actually. The Muggle Studies teacher actually summoned me and my
friends to her office this past week. She was delighted that we have taken to Muggle fashion, and
she asked if we would be comfortable coming to her class to show off our pocket-jumpers. Blaise
agreed for everyone before we could refuse, and Pansy and I both hexed him for that. The
Professor has actually taken to giving out sunglasses as well in the halls, so now everyone is
wearing them, even some of the staff. The Headmaster looks utterly ridiculous in them, I'll have
you know.

The debates on Pureblood society take place twice a week in the common room, overseen by Snape
himself, and more students continue to join in. It's a very odd occurrence because there are some
points I agree with while there are others that I do not. Pansy, like me, has multiple opinions that
contradict each other, but Blaise thinks that most of Pureblood society is nonsense. His argument
for that is his mother, which is fair, honestly.
Weasley and Granger have been seen together sometimes, but they also haven't fully made up, I
think. Weasley and Lavender Brown have apparently overcome their differences and are back to
snogging often, though Weasley frequently slips into study sessions. When asked why by Pansy
(rather scathingly, might I add), he admitted that he was avoiding his girlfriend, then proceeded to
show everyone that his lips were getting chapped. Granger, of course, had a small smile the entire
time this happened, though she still ignores him most of the time. Weasley is truly stupid, did you
know?

Blaise and Pansy's relationship is going well, it seems. People are watching them walk around
with awe, as if they're the best couple in the castle right now. You have absolutely no idea how
much this angers me because I just know it would be different if you were here. Nonetheless, I'm
glad they're not nearly as stupid as Granger and Weasley are.

We actually have gone over Amortentia. Mine smelled of rain, silk, and you.

Stop moping.

Yours,

Draco

Harry creeps through the halls in the middle of the night, his heart racing in his chest. There's
nothing anyone could really do if he were to be caught, but he doesn't really want to explain
himself if he doesn't have to. The less people to know about this, the better, really. He quickly
ducks into the fireplace as soon as he reaches it, opening the connection and grabbing floo
powder.

"Shrieking Shack," Harry says clearly but quietly, keeping a firm grip on his Invisibility Cloak.

He stumbles out as he always does, hitting the floor with a dull thump, groaning quietly to himself.
At least if Draco and Hermione are already here, they didn't see it. When he looks up, he finds that
no one is here yet, which is disappointing.

He can't help but be eager to see them. Both for very different reasons, but regardless. He wants to
hug Hermione again, to talk to her, to know that he still has his best friend after everything. His
fingers practically ache with the wish to touch Draco again, as it has already been a few weeks.
Agreeing to meet up late at night every other weekend makes all of this bearable. They agreed to
wait until the last weekend of January, then pick it up on the second weekend of February. It just
feels like it has been forever.

Harry knows it's hard getting out of the castle after curfew, so he doesn't know how long he has to
wait. That's fine. He'll wait all night if he has to; Voldemort will have to deal with him being
grumpy at lessons tomorrow, but Harry thinks that sounds like Voldemort's problem, really.

He pushes himself to his feet, adjusting his Cloak, preparing to whisk it off. He stops, however,
when he hears steps outside the door. Mere seconds later, Draco and Hermione are marching into
the room, both of them looking on edge. Draco sweeps the room with his gaze, then immediately
whirls around on Hermione with a glare.

"I'm not talking about this anymore, Granger," Draco hisses, pointing a finger at her.

Hermione purses her lips in disapproval. "I think you should tell Harry. He should know!"

"It's nothing," Draco snaps. "There isn't anything to tell, so I won't be informing Harry of
anything."

Harry almost immediately rips the Cloak off and asks, "What aren't we telling me?"

"Bugger!" Draco shouts, yelping as he jumps and whips back around towards him. He presses his
hand over his heart. "Merlin, Harry, don't do that!"

"Hello, Harry," Hermione says with a grin, a triumphant gleam in her eye.

"What aren't we telling me?" Harry repeats.

Draco scowls at him. "It's nothing."

"Hermione will tell me, you know," Harry says.

"I will," Hermione agrees.

Harry walks over and hangs his Cloak on the mantle of the fireplace, raising his eyebrows at Draco
pointedly. "I didn't know we were keeping secrets from each other. We can start that, if you like."

"You're an arse," Draco grits out.

"I'm giving you the chance to tell me," Harry murmurs, crossing his arms and looking at him
seriously. "Because if you don't, Hermione will. Depending on what it is depends on how angry at
you I'll be. So, what is it?"

"It really isn't anything," Draco insists, jerking a hand towards Hermione with a huff. "Granger is
just jealous, that's all."

"I'm not jealous!" Hermione squawks.

Draco scoffs. "Theo has been doing exceptionally well in Potions ever since he replaced his book,
that's all. He's even better than her in the class."

"He's better than you, too," Hermione snaps, her nostrils flaring. "You honestly can't tell me you're
not the least bit curious how he's doing it. I think you should talk to him."

"No, don't do that," Harry blurts out.

Hermione looks betrayed instantly, her head whipping towards him. "But Harry, it makes no sense.
He's not horrible at Potions usually, but he's been absolutely rubbish this year! Then, suddenly, he's
better than everyone? It's a bit suspicious, I think. Draco is always around him, so I don't see why
he shouldn't try to speak to him alone!"

"Er," Harry says weakly, cutting his gaze over to Draco, who looks amused now. "Well, Hermione,
I'm sure Theo just...cares about his studies, is all."
"No, no, that's not it all," Hermione insists fiercely, her eyes narrowing. "He's struggling in all his
classes right now! Always distracted. He looks a bit ill, actually. There's something going on."

Draco hums. "Well, Harry? Should I speak with him? Get him alone in a quiet alcove, perhaps?"

"I'd rather you didn't," Harry mutters, feeling his face twist into a scowl without meaning to.

"There you have it, Granger," Draco says breezily, smirking. "Nothing to worry about, just as I
said."

"Harry, you can't be serious," Hermione chokes out, staring at him with wide eyes. "Draco has the
perfect opportunity to talk to him! Nott seems to like him better than all his other friends!"

Harry stares at her. "Does he?"

"Yes, they—" Hermione cuts herself off, blinking rapidly as she stares at him. Her mouth opens,
then closes, then her eyes grow wide. "Harry, are you jealous of Nott?!"

"Well, er, I don't mean to be," Harry retorts with a borderline whine. He reaches up and drags a
hand down the side of his face with a groan. "It's just that...well, I sort of convinced myself that
Draco might fancy him, and I can't just—just—"

Hermione rears back, her eyebrows jumping up her forehead. "What does it matter if Draco does
fancy him, Harry?"

Harry freezes, staring at her, startled and just a bit shaken by the way Hermione is looking at him
right now. His fingers twitch as he slowly drags his gaze to Draco, who is looking up at the ceiling
like there might be something of interest there. Harry knows for a fact that there isn't.

"You—you didn't tell her," Harry stutters out.

Draco waves a lazy hand at Hermione. "She's your friend, Harry, not mine."
"Oh my god," Hermione whispers, her eyes getting impossibly wider.

"Hermione," Harry mumbles, trying for a smile and failing spectacularly.

"Harry, you didn't," Hermione breathes out.

Harry frowns at her. "Yes, actually, I did. I know it seems mad, but he's—you don't know him like
I do. Besides, it's my choice who I—I date, you know."

Hermione blinks a lot. "Friends is one thing, Harry, but this is… Oh, Ron really is going to kill
you! I can't believe you actually fancy him! It's Malfoy!"

"Thanks, Granger, truly," Draco drawls.

"Well, I do," Harry snaps, glaring at her. "I know how it seems, but he's—he's a complicated
person, alright? I'm happy. Isn't that what matters?"

Harry realizes, belatedly, that he sounds a lot like Mrs. Malfoy at the moment, and he doesn't really
know what to do with that, honestly. Still, he holds his ground. He doesn't want to fight about this,
not with anyone, but he will. Because that's what you do when you love someone, Harry thinks.
He's already made up his mind, and he won't be changing it for anyone. Everyone will just have to
deal with it.

"I honestly don't know what to say," Hermione says, staring at him. "Did you—I mean, was he still
as horrible as he was before when you…"

He gets what she's asking almost immediately. He can see the faint start of hurt in her eyes at the
mere thought that Harry could fancy someone who was still in the state of mind to call her slurs
and bully her. It would feel like a betrayal like that, Harry supposes. His face softens against his
will.

"It's a long story," Harry tells her softly. "I didn't even know I fancied him until Christmas. But no,
Hermione, I wouldn't have forgiven him if he didn't change, just like you wouldn't have."
"Well, that's true," Hermione admits, the hurt receding almost instantly. She pauses, then wrinkles
her nose. "He's still a prat, though."

Harry hums and nods. "Yeah, I know."

Hermione releases a small, ridiculous laugh. "As long as you're aware, then. I'm… It doesn't
matter, I suppose. I'm happy that you're happy, and I suppose Draco isn't that bad anymore. Ron
really is going to kill you, though."

"Yeah, I know," Harry repeats with a sigh. "He'll just have to get used to it. He's still my best
mate."

"He'll come around; you know he will." Hermione sighs and puts her hands on her hips, her eyes
narrowing as she looks at him. "And just because you're jealous doesn't mean Draco shouldn't
investigate Nott, Harry."

Harry grimaces. "Are you sure you're not just, er…"

"I'm not jealous!" Hermione explodes.

"Alright, alright, you're not jealous," Harry says quickly, his eyes bulging. He clears his throat and
holds up his hands in surrender. "I suppose Draco could, er, ask Theo in a very public setting why
he's doing so well in Potions."

"Subtle," Draco says, rolling his eyes.

"Piss off," Harry grumbles.

Hermione smiles in victory. "Thank you, Harry."

Harry smiles back fondly. "You're welcome."

"Oh, Harry, I've missed you," Hermione says with a sigh, moving forward to hug him.
"I've missed you, too," Harry replies softly, wrapping his arms around her and squeezing. "One
day, I'm going to answer all of your questions. Every single one, I promise."

"I have so many."

"You always do."

Hermione chuckles and pulls back to look at him, her gaze sweeping over his face. "You seem
good. Healthy. You're still safe, aren't you?"

"Yeah."

"Good. I wanted to talk to you about Ron. I haven't told him about you yet, but I was thinking he
should come with us on the next visit."

"There are still so many things I can't say," Harry whispers, swallowing thickly. "Dumbledore still
can't know anything, Hermione. Actually, I've been meaning to ask you. Did you ever hear
anything about Ollivander from the Order?"

Hermione frowns at him. "Actually, Ron told me that his dad was talking about it with Professor
Lupin. Apparently, You-Know-Who kidnapped him because he's looking for some sort of wand
that's supposed to be more powerful than others. They said that some boy helped Ollivander
escape, but Ollivander didn't say who it was. I think the Headmaster has him at Gr—Gr… I can't
actually say, but you know where I'm talking about."

"Brilliant," Harry breathes out, nodding at her in relief. "That was me who helped him escape."

"What? Harry, how did you do that?"

"Draco gave me the idea, actually."

"He did?" Hermione asks incredulously.

Harry nods, grinning when Draco makes an offended noise behind Hermione. "Yes, he did."

"Oh. Well, that's good," Hermione says, her lips curling up. After a beat, her face clears and she
suddenly swats him on the arm hard. "Harry James!"

"Ouch, Hermione! What was that for?" Harry bursts out, rubbing his arm and frowning at her.

"You got arrested!" Hermione hisses, glaring at him, her hair seeming to get bushier in her anger.
"Are you mad? There's so many rumors that I don't know the truth! I had to read about it in the
paper, Harry, and I don't know what actually happened! Some people are saying that You-Know-
Who kidnapped you right out of the Ministry!"

Harry opens his mouth, then closes it. He presses his lips into a thin line before taking a step back,
clearing his throat. "This is going to be a very complicated conversation to have, so what I'm going
to do first is go kiss my boyfriend."

"Harry," Hermione grits out, impatient and furious.

He doesn't wait, just grabbing her by her shoulders and gently moving her stiff body to the side.
Blowing out an explosive breath, Harry moves over to Draco, reaching out with familiarity, sliding
his hands around a waist he knows better than his own by now. Draco frowns at him, leaning
away.

"Don't do that," Harry says tiredly. "It's just Hermione, Draco. Really, you should get used to this if
we're going to be dating."

"You're such a Gryffindor," Draco declares mournfully, not for the first time and probably not for
the last. He gives a resigned sigh, but his body betrays him by relaxing into Harry.

"Hello," Harry greets with a small smile.

Draco flicks his nose. "Don't be a sap. It's disgusting."

Harry sighs. "You like it, shut up. I've been moping. Don't you care about that at all?"

"Not in the least," Draco replies promptly. "I hope you've been utterly miserable. Nothing else
gives me such joy, Harry."

"Why are you terrible?"

"Why do you like it so much?"

"I'm a lunatic, obviously," Harry mumbles, leaning forward to kiss the corner of Draco's mouth
with a small smile. "Only a mad person could l-like you."

Draco hums. "And you lost the plot long ago."

"So long ago," Harry agrees with a soft sigh, pressing a firmer kiss to Draco's lips this time,
humming in a pleased fashion. That always feels so, so nice. Harry wants to do it every day.

"Have some manners, Harry," Draco murmurs, turning his head away. "There's a guest present."

"You like my lack of manners."

"I do not."

Harry laughs against his cheek, pulling back a moment later to grin at him. "Oh, but you do. You
wouldn't have let me do it, otherwise."

"Don't you have a best friend to explain things to?" Draco asks, arching an eyebrow.

"I don't know where to begin," Harry whispers, leaning his forehead against Draco's. "There's too
much. There's always too much."
"I don't know about Weasley, but I think… I think Granger is the one you'd want to risk telling
everything to," Draco says softly. "She can help if it goes...well. And, if she tells, well, what can
actually happen, Harry?"

"Anything."

"Anything could happen as it is. Anything could have happened with Ollivander, remember? With
that Auror, too. Perhaps you're just lucky, or perhaps there are plans in place to ensure nothing
goes wrong. You know he will handle things."

"What about your…"

"I already told you they'll be fine. They always are."

Harry releases a deep breath, squeezing Draco a little closer. "I trust her and Ron. I always have."

"Alright. Do so now, then," Draco murmurs.

"What if they are put in danger, though?" Harry whispers. "How am I supposed to handle that?"

Draco leans in and kisses his cheek, speaking softly in his ear. "You can't do all of this alone, and I
can't give you the things that they can and always have. I'm not them and I never will be,
remember?"

"You're just as important," Harry mumbles, pulling back to look Draco in the eyes, warily
searching to see if he's offended. He doesn't appear to be. "You give me things that they can't."

"I'm sure you didn't mean that the way it sounded," Draco says with a smirk.

Harry groans, smacking his shoulder and giving him a rough shove, laughing despite himself. "I
hate you so very much, Draco," he declares, even though he feels the exact opposite.

Draco's eyes are smiling. "I hate you, too."

Harry's heart gives a traitorous thump, heavy with wonder and excitement in his chest, all because
Draco might hate him the same way Harry hates Draco—meaning not at all and the exact opposite.
He tries to stop himself from smiling, but he can't, so he takes a step back, pulling away and
clearing his throat. He actually does have a best friend to talk to, after all, wary as he is to do it.

When he turns, Hermione is watching them with narrowed eyes and a tilted head, just like she
looks at puzzles she can't solve. He likes that, though, oddly enough. It pleases him to know that
him and Draco have something of their own, something no one else can really understand. It's
special.

"Well," Hermione says weakly, "whatever makes you happy, Harry. And you're obviously happy."

"With Draco, yeah," Harry agrees, moving over to the wall beside the fireplace, leaning up against
it with a sigh and sliding down. "My life, otherwise? Well, you could say I'm more confused than
anything else. You might want to sit. We're going to be here for a while."

Hermione scrambles forward to sink down beside him, eager, her eyes wide as she stares at him.
"Are you going to tell me how you escaped the Ministry?"

"Hermione," Harry murmurs, "I'm going to tell you everything."

"Harry, that's ridiculous!" Hermione bursts out for what might be the fifty-third time.

Groaning, Harry leans to the side and lets his head sink down on Draco's shoulder. Draco lightly
clicks his tongue and reaches up to pat his head in some semblance of consolidation.

This is going just as Harry expected it to. A lot of what has happened is ridiculous, he knows that,
but that doesn't stop it from being true. And that doesn't stop Hermione from being appalled,
angry, disbelieving, or horrified by it—sometimes all at once. Harry picks his head back up with a
sigh, turning to look at Hermione.

"Don't you think I know that, Hermione?" Harry asks, exhausted and drained.
Hermione looks stubborn. "I know last year was hard, Harry, but Dumbledore did not give up on
you. He doesn't want you dead!"

"I don't think he does," Harry agrees. "I think he just knows that it's necessary if Voldemort is
going to be defeated. I'm a Horcrux, remember?"

"I still have no information on that," Hermione snaps, looking furious about it. "What do you know
about them?"

Harry shrugs. "Not very much. Just that I protect Voldemort from being killed against my will, and
I'd have to die so he can. I know he has seven—three are destroyed, two are hidden, and he has the
other two where he is. The diary, something else and Nagini are the ones destroyed. He has the
Slytherin locket and me with him, but I don't know where or what the other two are. He just says
he can't get to one."

"Yes, but what are they?"

"I don't know. He has only told me that they can be destroyed by who created them, Basilisk
Venom, and Fiendfyre. The Gryffindor Sword now, too. He also said Professor Slughorn was the
one who told him about Horcruxes in the first place."

Hermione reaches up to press her palm to her forehead, staring at him. "Harry, this is all so…"

"What do you want me to say?" Harry swallows and stares at her, his heart clenching in his chest.
"Tell me what I'm supposed to do."

"Come back," Hermione whispers. "Leave the Malfoys. Let Dumbledore help you."

"Hermione…"

"You've already been pardoned from your crimes! You can come back to Hogwarts, and I'll—I'll
help you get caught back up in classes, I swear it," Hermione pleads, tears flooding her eyes. "Don't
stay with him. Don't be…"
"What?" Harry asks sharply. "Don't be a little Dark Lord in training? Is that what you think of
me?"

Hermione makes a small sound. "No, Harry, it's just that—that you shouldn't be with him! Can't
you see that? He's playing on your fears that—"

"He hasn't done anything but be honest!" Harry shouts, making her snap her mouth shut. "I know
he's evil, Hermione. I don't want him to win any more than you do!"

"Then why stay with him?" Hermione whispers.

"Because I don't know what else to do!" Harry explodes, his whole body rattling with rage. "If I
leave, Dumbledore will ask me to die! Don't you understand that? I'm not ready for that, alright?!"

"You can't know that, Harry."

"I do know that. I think he was going to kill me at the Ministry."

Hermione immediately shakes her head. "He wouldn't! Dumbledore wouldn't just kill you."

"What makes you so sure?" Harry grits out, glaring at her. "Tell me, Hermione, how do you know?
Do you know him? Really, truly know him? The way you know me, the way you trust me? Why
can't you trust me on this?!"

"I think You-Know-Who has—has done something to you," Hermione mumbles, her throat
working. "This isn't you, Harry. You would never—"

"I also wouldn't kill people," Harry snarls. "I also wouldn't like it. Harry Potter is good, isn't he?
He'd never care about posh, horrible people like the Malfoys, would he? He'd never trust the
terrible Dark Lord who killed his parents. How could he?"

Hermione's eyes have grown wide and watery, her hands shaking in her lap. "Harry…"
Harry holds her gaze. "Just like Dumbledore is good. He'd never ignore a boy begging for his help.
Never have a hand in isolating him, or lying to him. Never give up on him. Never, never look at
that same boy he manipulated and ask him to die. Right?"

"Harry," Hermione rasps, "it's not like that. It can't be. You must know it isn't!"

"The world isn't as simple as we think it is, Hermione," Harry says firmly. "I'm not stupid, no
matter what you think. Voldemort isn't doing anything to me. If I wanted to leave, I would. If I
trusted Dumbledore enough, I would come back."

"How can you think this way?" Hermione searches his eyes, a tear slipping down her cheek.
"You're my best friend, but I—I don't know who you are anymore. You don't act like this."

Harry gives a sharp nod, pushing to his feet, not looking at her. "Well, now you know what's been
going on. You should know, if you tell Dumbledore, you could be putting Draco and his family in
danger. But it's your choice."

"Where are you going?" Hermione chokes out, scrambling to her feet to stare at him, her eyes wide
and still filled with tears. "Harry, you can't just—"

"Have you taken one moment to think that maybe this is all confusing for me, too?" Harry asks,
whirling around to stare at her. "Do you have any idea how this all has made me feel? I don't want
to be a part of this, but I don't have a choice. Don't you get that? Right now, I don't know what I'm
doing, or what I will do, but I have hoped this entire time that those I love wouldn't stop trusting
me."

Hermione reaches out towards him. "Harry, I—"

"I don't blame you, you know," Harry whispers, his own eyes flooding with tears. "I hate me, too,
sometimes. I never asked for any of this, and I'm doing the best I can, but I understand why you
can't trust me. I understand, Hermione; I just can't sit here and watch it happen."

With that, he marches over to grab his Invisibility Cloak to slip it around his shoulders. He
crouches down beside Draco, staring into his eyes for a beat, and Draco stares at him with such
heart-wrenching sadness that it makes Harry ache. He tries for a smile, but it's wobbly, barely
managing to grace his face. Draco leans forward to cup his cheek, pressing in closer to brush their
lips together.

"It's alright, Harry," Draco whispers in his ear when they break away from each other just a bit.
"It's going to be alright."

Harry swallows thickly and nods jerkily, unable to speak. He leans away with a shuddering breath
and takes one last look at Hermione, who is watching him with tears sliding down her cheeks. He
looks away, tugging the Cloak up and around his head.

Without another word, he ducks into the fireplace and goes home, his heart feeling beaten and
bruised.

Prat,

I don't know what I'm supposed to say. I don't know what there is to say. Do you think that what
she said was true? I don't really know anymore.

Honestly, sometimes I look back on the beginning and wonder at what made me stay. Mostly fear, I
think, and shame. But I think, rather quickly, it was you that helped me get through it. I don't know
if that makes me brave or weak. I don't know what it means at all.

It's funny. You say you can feel my moping from Hogwarts, but I can feel your concern from here.
You'll deny it, of course, but I think it's cute. It makes me smile, at least. I don't want you to worry,
though. I'll handle this like I handle everything else. You told me that they give me something you
can't, and maybe that's true, but you give me something that makes up for what they won't.

Please don't be angry with her, Draco. It's a lot to process, and you know it. Whatever her
decision, who she tells or doesn't, whether she hates me or doesn't, that's her choice. It just hurts.

Anyway, don't worry about it. If anything happens, I'll do whatever I need to.

Wishing you well,

 Your Idiot

Chapter End Notes

Lemme just go on ahead and say that this is not the last we see of Hermione (and Ron),
but as much as I wish the opposite, it's too unrealistic to have Hermione (and Ron) just
instantly comfortable with what Harry is doing. Sadly, there will need to be time
periods to adjust, but things WILL ease soon enough.

Also, you may think it's odd that Harry already knows he's in love, but hear me out. 1)
I sincerely think he's the BIGGEST simp, like even in Canon towards Ginny, and I
respect that so much. 2) I think love is possibly the easiest thing for him to come to
terms with, especially sweet love like this, because it doesn't hurt. 3) He and Draco
have been having ~moments~ for a while now, so it's not really a stretch tbh. And 4)
Harry 100% takes after his father in regards to Loving One Person Without Wavering
and Doing So Very Quickly—unfortunately, he did not get his father's ability to talk
and flirt smoothly, but that's endearing in a way.

In any case, I hope you all enjoyed. We'll be seeing February next chapter ;)
 February
Chapter Notes

This is one of my favorite Voldemort chapters. No warnings, just some things you all
are expecting anyway.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Idiot,

You call me dramatic. Honestly, I thought you couldn't get more ridiculous, and yet you strive to
prove me wrong.

You need to stop acting like you're the bad person in this situation. The truth is, you're a sixteen
year old boy with too much to handle, and I personally don't believe anyone has a right to judge
your decisions.

Besides, what can you do? Think about it realistically. Your options are rather limited, and how
can you be expected to choose? Anyone who would ask you to do what no one should have to is
selfish. If it was them, I hardly think they'd be handling it with as much grace as you have. If it was
me , I wouldn't be struggling as you are because I am much weaker and not nearly as brave.

You might be interested to know that Granger has been awfully quiet lately. She can be found
usually in the Library. She's been asking various Professors about Grindelwald, which leads me to
believe that she's doing some investigating of her own, almost as if someone has opened her eyes
recently. She even asked the Headmaster if he knew Grindelwald well. It seemed to unsettle him.

The Pureblood debates have resulted in four different fights now. It seems people get heated when
their way of life is being called to question with flaws being pointed out. I don't resort to anything
further than stinging hexes while Snape is there, but others are angry enough to.

It's starting to bleed out into the halls. Slytherins, as a rule, do not target one another. Being the
house that is usually treated with scorn, we have a general understanding of looking out for one
another, but there are a lot of friendships under strain right now.

I should tell you that Theo is only getting worse with each passing day. The only subject he's
passing is Potions. He's even failing Charms, which was his favorite subject. He almost never
comes to meals anymore, and he's taken to being rude to Pansy and I every time we check on him.
Blaise, like you, thinks he should be left alone. Whether you like it or not, I will be looking after my
friend. It's clear he needs help, and I intend to give it to him, so you can swallow your jealousy or
have me cross with you. This isn't something I'll budge on, not even to spare you your feelings on
the matter.

Only Yours,

Draco

Harry blows out an explosive breath and drops his fork to the table with a clatter. He reaches up to
rub at his temple, glaring down at his food. It's barely even halfway finished, but right now, his
appetite is practically gone entirely.

"Are you alright?" Mrs. Malfoy asks him.

"No." Harry looks up and glances between her and Lucius, his lips tipping down. "I have a lot
going on right now, that's all."

Lucius looks like he wants to roll his eyes, but he doesn't. "Well, you should be glad to know that
all formal paperwork to remove you as a person of interest has been filed within the Ministry.
There is a lot of pressure on the Minister to resign currently, so he's trying to appease the public as
much as he can at this point."

"So...no more Aurors?"

"You're a free man, Potter."

"Brilliant," Harry mumbles, staring down at his fork, not even really seeing it.

Mrs. Malfoy sighs. "What's on your mind, darling?"

Oh, you know, loads of things, Harry thinks sarcastically. My best friend doesn't trust me and thinks
I'm siding with Voldemort. I'm not, even if I have confusing feelings for the monster. Dumbledore
knows I have to die, but I don't know if I'll ever be ready for that. I'm jealous of a boy I should be
worried about, I don't know my own morality, and I still can't erase the mixed feelings I have about
being a murderer.

"Nothing," Harry lies.

"Is this about Valentine's Day?" Mrs. Malfoy looks at him with sympathy. "I'm sure Draco will
appreciate any gift you send him."

Harry can feel the color draining out of his face as his head snaps up. "Oh no."

Mrs. Malfoy's eyes widen with alarm. "You forgot?"

"I forgot!" Harry blurts out, horrified. "Merlin, I didn't even think—"

"My son can do much better than you," Lucius mutters, sneering behind his cup of tea.

"Sod off!" Harry shouts at him. "I'm sorry I'm not keeping track of every single damn thing that
needs to be done, alright? I'm not bloody perfect!"

Lucius arches an eyebrow at him. "Clearly."

"Stop it," Mrs. Malfoy chides her husband, heaving a sigh as she looks back at Harry. "It's alright.
You still have time to get him a gift."

Harry sinks lower in his seat. "It'll be disingenuous, won't it? I should have remembered, but—"

"But you are a human being," Mrs. Malfoy cuts in softly, "who forgets things. Do not let Lucius
fool you. He forgot our seventh anniversary because he had an important meeting at work to focus
on."

"Narcissa," Lucius hisses, frowning at her.

Mrs. Malfoy arches an eyebrow at him. "Yes, I haven't forgotten."

Lucius scowls down at his cup of tea as he grudgingly mutters, "You'll never forget."

"How could I have forgotten?" Harry groans, smacking a hand to his forehead. "This is my first
time dating on Valentine's day! I should have remembered. Draco's going to kill me."

"Harry," Mrs. Malfoy says gently, "it's really not something you should feel guilty over. He need
not know. Simply get him a gift."

"I have to tell him."

"Why?"

"It's wrong if I don't, isn't it? A bit like lying," Harry mumbles, wrinkling his nose.

Mrs. Malfoy's face softens. "You treat him very well. Do you have an idea of what gift to get
him?"

Harry grimaces. "I'll think on it."

"You know, a romantic letter is always good on Valentine's day," Mrs. Malfoy suggests, her smile
turning a bit wistful as her eyes dart towards Lucius.

"Don't tell him to do as I did," Lucius drawls, curling his lip in a sneer. "Potter claims to know
Draco so well, yes? He should work it out for himself, if he can."

"I can't believe I'm saying this," Harry mutters with a scowl, "but Lucius is right. I'll handle it, Mrs.
Malfoy, and...er, thank you for reminding me."

Mrs. Malfoy gives him a pretty smile. "Of course."

Harry smacks the paper bag down on the counter in front of Voldemort with a clunk, frowning at
him. The cauldron bubbling on the desk goes ignored by Harry, and Voldemort flicks his gaze
between the bag and Harry's determined expression.

"Well?" Voldemort finally asks.

Harry grits his teeth. "I need you to help me."

"Ah." Voldemort sweeps out a hand. "Make your request. Are you in need of ideas again?"

"No, I have one," Harry snaps. "I just need you to teach me some Spells. Consider it an extended
lesson if you have to."

Voldemort narrows his eyes. "What Spells?"

"I have to be the one to do it," Harry tells him sharply. He reaches in the bag to pull out a glass
sphere—like a crystal ball. "I want to Spell it to rain on the inside. Can you do that?"

"May I?" Voldemort holds out a hand.

Harry shakes his head. "No. You can't touch it."

Voldemort retracts his hand. "Very well. It would be simpler if I could feel its dimensions, but as
you wish. The Spells are complicated."

"I don't care."

"You'll want to try it on something else first. Go retrieve an empty vial."

The Spells really are complicated, but Harry works at them diligently. He's mostly silent as he gets
a grasp on the charms, frowning when he makes a miniature tornado accidentally, shattering the
vial. He replaces it and starts again, trying to make calm rain that slides along the inside of the
glass.

It takes a while. Harry doesn't say a word during the whole process. He hasn't said very much to
Voldemort at all, on edge every time they're in the same room for lessons. Voldemort never seems
affected by this, which only serves to anger Harry even more. He's used to that by now, though.

Ever since his disagreement with Hermione, Harry's been in a perpetual state of anger. Not just at
Voldemort, but at Lucius and Mrs. Malfoy as well. He snaps at them, harsh and distant, barely
tolerating being near them. He can't help it. Just like he knew it would, it feels like a betrayal that
he's still here, still making these choices, still doing the wrong thing. It comes across even more
starkly because Hermione has pointed it out.

You're my best friend, but I—I don't know who you are anymore. You don't act like this, she had
said.

Is she wrong? No, he doesn't think so. Maybe she doesn't know who he is anymore, maybe no one
does. Why would they? He certainly doesn't. Harry feels like he lost himself from the moment he
killed Bellatrix Lestrange, and everything that's come after has been a long process of change. He
can't be who he once was; that person is long gone.

Harry's been agonizing over it ever since. It makes him want to get up and go to Dumbledore right
now, just sit in front of him and let him decide what to do from there. He's tired of being the one
who makes the choices, especially when it makes him feel like this. He never expected there to
come a day when he actually missed people running his life. Right about now, he would appreciate
someone lying to him, shielding him, trying to take some of his burden.

Hindsight is many things, but people fail to mention how it's cruel irony above all else. Harry's
always been blind enough to miss what's right in front of his face. This is no exception.

"I think I've got it," Harry murmurs when he finally does, in fact, have the Spells.

Voldemort hums. "I believe so."

The sphere is Spelled to have rain fall on the inside of the glass, dripping down the sides. Harry
stares at it for a few beats, watching. It's soothing. Peaceful. His lips curl up just a bit as he rubs his
finger over the smooth surface, his heart softening at the mere thought of Draco.

"Thanks," Harry says quietly, putting the sphere away. He glances up at Voldemort. "Lessons?"

Prat,

Artimus has assured me that she'll get this to you in time, and she's also assured me that she'll stop
you from opening your gift before you read this letter. Sorry if she's nipped your fingers.

First, sorry for being dramatic. You could say I'm rather upset, given the circumstances. I'm fine,
though. I told you I'll handle it, so I will. Thank you for being kind. It was sweet. I didn't know you
could be sweet, Draco. Are you quite well after such strain?

I'm not going to talk about anything else in this letter, though, as it's a bit more important to say
other things. I've never actually dated someone on Valentine's day. Not like this, I mean. It's rather
nerve-wracking, honestly. You really must matter to me if I'm so worried about what you think of
me and my gifts.

You do. You know that, don't you?

I know you think I'm a "sap", but I prefer the term romantic . You said I'm courting you, right? So,
what's the point of it if I can't say nice things about you? I have a lot of nice things I could say,
honestly.

I don't know if you know this, but you do this thing where you'll smile sometimes, a very brilliant
smile that is rare, and it always shocks me. For a long time, I didn't even know you could smile like
that. It's my favorite smile of yours. Also, when you play Chess, you tap your lips to the tune of
"You Charmed the Heart Right Out of Me" by Celestina Warbeck. You hum it, too. Usually when
you're reading, but you'll do it sometimes when I'm napping on you. And, when you sleep, you don't
look like a prat at all. You look rather soft, actually.

I find all these things charming about you, did you know? You probably don't, which isn't really
nice, is it? In any case, I like a lot of things about you, but I'm no poet. I don't speak or write as
elegantly as you do. Normally, I'm fine with this, but I now wish I had the proper skill to eloquently
put into words just how much I lo you mean to me. I don't, and I'm sorry for that.

I should tell you. I completely forgot about the holiday before I was reminded. I know, I'm an idiot,
you don't have to say it. Sorry about that. I'm just glad I was reminded, or else I might not have
remembered. But I handled all the gifts on my own. The one in the box I Spelled myself, and the
other is self-explanatory. I hope you enjoy them.

Happy Valentine's day,

Your Idiot

The moment Harry comes falling out of the fireplace into the Shrieking Shack, hands are yanking
the Cloak away and hauling him up. Before the dizzy feeling from the trip even goes away, or
before he gathers his wits about him, there are lips pressed to his and arms coming around his
shoulders.

Harry makes a small sound of surprise as he blinks rapidly at Draco kissing him, but his eyes flutter
shut rather quickly. He melts into it, into Draco, sighing happily and snogging him back. It truly
never gets old and only continues to get better each time they do it, still in that lovely cycle of
wanting to do it again and again, possibly forever.

Draco's hands slide into his hair, mussing up the strands even farther, and he leans into Harry with
absolutely no hesitation. Harry has to plant his feet so they don't go stumbling back, trying to focus
as Draco's lips grow more insistent against his. There's the slip of tongue, and Harry's breathing
becomes erratic almost immediately.

Harry can feel that Draco's wearing the shirt—the silk one that Harry bought and wore for long
enough to smell like him. It fits Draco much better, and Harry slides his palms up Draco's sides,
feeling the smooth silk under his hands like flowing water. He doesn't have to see to know what it
looks like. Blue with black buttons; Mrs. Malfoy had complimented him while he wore it,
swearing that it went well with his skin tone.

He sort of likes how thin the shirt feels. The warmth from Draco's skin usually surprises him, as
Harry's always expects him to be so cold, but it's only his hands that feel like ice sometimes. The
shirt makes it easy to feel how warm Draco is, and Harry wants to sink into it and never leave. He
wants to gather it and Draco up, holding on, leaving the cold world around them behind for a
while.
This may have something to do with how fiercely Draco is kissing him at the moment. Harry takes
this with enthusiasm, overly pleased by these turn of events. He'll stand here forever and snog
Draco like this, given half the chance. He wants to.

Eventually, though, far too soon, Draco breaks the kiss with a sharp inhale that immediately rattles
out of him. Harry blinks open his eyes slowly, dizzy all over again, though not from the floo. Draco
flashes him that rare smile of his, the really bright one that always scatters all of Harry's thoughts.

"Hello," Harry chokes out.

Draco hums, lightly tugging at Harry's hair, a gentle pull that makes Harry even more mindless.
"Thank you for the gifts."

"I take it you liked them, then?" Harry murmurs, his voice faint. He brushes his hands over Draco's
side again, cupping the shirt rather pointedly.

"Hated them," Draco replies instantly, but his eyes are dancing with a delight that betrays him, a
simple joy that steals Harry's breath. "Did you really Spell the rain yourself?"

Harry swallows, trying to breathe, struggling immensely with Draco looking at him with such
unguarded happiness. "Yes. I made Voldemort teach me how to do it, but he couldn't help or
touch."

Draco flashes that smile of his again, which is doing things to Harry's poor heart. His fingers lazily
card through Harry's hair. "Only you, Harry Potter, could make the Dark Lord help you."

"I thought you might like having a reminder of your favorite spot at home, but at Hogwarts." Harry
blinks rapidly, staring into Draco's unnecessarily pretty eyes. "I know how you like to watch the
rain."

"I do," Draco agrees, one of his hands coming down to cup Harry's cheek with the softest of
touches, the pads of his fingers brushing his skin.

Harry feels like he's been given a concussion. "I'm sorry I forgot Valentine's day, Draco."
"You've been busy," Draco murmurs easily. His gaze is warm and fond. "I think you get a pass.
Besides, you're terrible with dates. You're good at many things, but not that. I'll have to get used to
that, I suppose, seeing as I'll have to be the one to remind you. I can see it now; you'll forget our
anniversary every year if I don't tell you a few days beforehand. This doesn't surprise me, you see,
because you're the boy who forgot his own birthday, you idiot."

It's the way Draco sounds right now, so gentle and adoring, open to his own feelings for Harry like
they don't scare him at all. It's how he's looking at Harry like he never wants to look away, like he
could stare at him forever and still not get enough, like the intimacy of holding his gaze enraptures
him rather than frightens him. It's what he says.

I can see it now; you'll forget our anniversary every year if I don't tell you a few days beforehand.

Draco can see it, can't he? Because he wants to see it, because he's looking forward to it, because
there's years ahead of them that Draco is eager to be a part of. It's like the future is unsure in every
other way, but he already knows that he and Harry will have years to form these little nuances that
he's imagining. And Harry can imagine it, too. Craves it, even.

It's all of that and how close Draco is standing, how he flashes that smile of his one more time,
how his fingers play loosely in Harry's hair. It's the way their chests are pressed together, letting
Harry feel Draco's heartbeat along with his own. It's how Harry's brain is an utter mess, no oxygen
getting to it because he can barely breathe, all his thoughts scattered, drifting away like an
untethered balloon.

That's what brings Harry to breathe out, "Merlin, I love you."

Draco blinks, going still in Harry's arms, his lips parting. He looks startled, his eyes going wide, his
breath hitching. His fingers clench in Harry's hair, flexing, spasming. Harry really isn't breathing
now, forgetting how to as he processes his own words.

There's no reply, but Harry doesn't have time to be worried about that, because Draco surges
forward to kiss him. The force of it is so impactful that Harry can't save them from stumbling back
this time, and they go crashing into the wall. Harry's back slams into it hard, and he sucks in a deep
breath as Draco immediately pulls away, looking dazed.

"Sorry, sorry," Draco blurts, blinking at him, cupping the back of his head. "Did you hit your—"
"No, I'm fine," Harry says quickly, staring at him with wide eyes, his heart beating heavy in his
chest.

Draco smiles again, and it's not a flash of it this time. It lights up his whole face. It stays. Harry
really has no hope of getting his breath back or sorting out his thoughts, and he's not really
complaining.

They're standing in the middle of the sodding Shrieking Shack, pressed up against a wall with
chipped wood and paint, staring at each other without saying a word. There's nothing romantic
about this place. This isn't France, or the Manor, or the window seat. There's just the two of them,
wrapped up in their own bubble, the setting mattering very little when nothing around them seems
to exist. There is, quite literally, nowhere else Harry wants to be right now.

"Your eyes," Draco whispers, but he doesn't elaborate further than that.

Harry huffs a quiet laugh. "What about them?"

"Green is my favorite color," Draco tells him, flicking his gaze between Harry's eyes, his lips still
curled up, almost like he can't stop smiling.

"I thought it was because you're a Slytherin."

"So did I for a long time. But it's the shade of your eyes that's my favorite. Always has been."

"Draco," Harry says softly, "do you love me?"

With a laugh, quiet and sweet, Draco curls into him and presses closer, putting his lips next to
Harry's ear to murmur, "You're such an idiot."

Harry opens his mouth to ask for elaboration because he would very much like that, but he's
interrupted by Draco pulling back to snog him again. One of Draco's hands cup the back of his
head while the other slides down to rest against his chest, thumb stroking near his collarbone.
Stupidly eager, Harry snogs him back. He's earnest about it, happy to be two fumbling teenagers in
the last place they should be, kissing after a love confession. He may not be good with dates, but
this is a memory he knows he'll cherish forever.

"Oh!"

Draco doesn't immediately pull away, which Harry is too dazed to be pleased by. He does a
moment later with a series of short kisses to Harry's lips, almost as if he's dragging the ending out,
not really ready to stop. Harry relates to that.

Nonetheless, they do ease back enough to turn their heads and stare at the doorway, staying
otherwise entangled. Hermione is looking between them with wide eyes, her mouth in a circle of
surprise. Even her impromptu visit after what occurred last time can't ruin Harry's mood at the
moment. He feels like he's up in the air on a broom, light as the wind that rushes through his hair,
so happy he can't even imagine being the opposite ever again.

"I—I'm sorry," Hermione blurts out, clearing her throat and averting her eyes. She's lightly tugging
on her hair like she does when she's nervous. "I didn't mean to interrupt. I just…"

"I wasn't aware you were coming tonight, Granger," Draco says lightly.

Hermione's cheeks darken as she blushes. "I was hoping that I could talk to Harry. I can, er, come
back if you two are…"

"It's fine," Draco says, looking back towards Harry with a small smile. "He's happy to listen."

"Mhm," Harry agrees rather happily.

"Shall I go?" Draco offers. "I can wait outside the door if—"

Harry clamps his hands down on Draco's waist, shaking his head. "No. Stay, please."

"Since you've asked so nicely," Draco teases, leaning forward enough to press a lingering kiss to
Harry's cheek, pulling away with a small laugh when Harry's face heats up with a blush in
response. Draco shakes his head fondly. "You're a sap."

"Yeah," Harry agrees breathlessly.

Draco hums, leaning back and stepping away. He just rolls his eyes when Harry catches his hand,
threading their fingers together, unwilling to let him move away entirely. Harry can't tear his eyes
away from him, simply looking at him with what must be pure joy, his smile so wide that it hurts.

"Granger's waiting," Draco informs him, amused.

Harry tries to stop smiling, biting his bottom lip to try and wipe it away, but it's no use. It must
seem so inappropriate for him to turn a blinding grin to Hermione right now, considering their last
talk, but he can't help it. He's surprised when her eyes soften as she looks at him and her lips
twitch.

"I can be quick," Hermione murmurs. "I just wanted to—to tell you that I've been looking into
some of the things you told me. About Dumbledore, I mean. I even asked him about Grindelwald,
and I think I made him uncomfortable, but he didn't lie. He told me they were close a long time
ago."

Harry nods. "I know that already."

Hermione tugs on her hair more furiously. "I also asked Professor Slughorn about Horcruxes."

"You did what?" Harry blurts out, so shocked by this that his smile finally drops.

"Well, you said he told You-Know-Who, right? So he must know something about them,"
Hermione mutters, her anxious expression melting into a dark scowl. "He was furious with me for
asking, Harry. He said I had no business having such an interest in Dark Magic like that, and he
was offended that I assumed he would know about them. But he—he also looked a little scared. He
wouldn't tell me anything!"

Harry's heart starts speeding up just a bit. "You're still trying to learn about Horcruxes?"
"Oh, Harry," Hermione whispers, her eyes flooding with tears, "I didn't mean to hurt you. I trust
you, of course I do! You're my best friend."

"Hermione," Harry mumbles.

He drops Draco's hand to walk over to her and wrap her in a hug, so utterly thankful for her that he
can barely breathe around it. He feels like a weight has been lifted off his shoulders, giving him
just a bit of reprieve. He wasn't aware how much he needed her trust until he almost lost it, and to
have her swearing that he still has it makes a wave of emotion hit him.

"I still think You-Know-Who is manipulating you, Harry, and I still want you to come back,"
Hermione tells him seriously as they break apart.

Harry searches her gaze. "But?"

"But I think we should find a solution to all of this mess first," Hermione says with a deep breath.
She gives him a firm nod and sets her shoulders. "I—I need to know what you want out of all this,
Harry."

"What do you mean?"

"Do you want...You-Know-Who to—to win?"

"No," Harry admits softly. "It's complicated with him, but he's doing wrong. I know he is. He has
to be stopped, but I'm just…"

Hermione squeezes his arms, nodding. "Alright, that's—that's good. So, we'll figure out a way to
stop him without you having to die. I just need time."

"If there's a way, you'll figure it out," Harry murmurs with a fond smile. He takes a deep breath. "I
think I've been biding my time, too. Hermione, if—if… If there's no other way, you must know I'll
—"

"Shut up," Draco snaps from behind him. "Don't you dare finish that idiotic sentence, Harry."
"We'll find another way," Hermione rasps. "The first thing I have to do is get Professor Slughorn to
tell me about Horcruxes. I'm not really sure how, actually. He won't look me in the eyes anymore,
and I think I've been kicked out of Slug Club, which is just as well." She pauses, rolling her eyes
and giving a weak laugh. "Ron's happy about that, at least."

Harry's lips twitch. "Are you two still…"

"When aren't we fighting, Harry?" Hermione asks, heaving a sigh. "He's with his Lav Lav."

"Lav Lav?" Harry repeats incredulously.

Hermione narrows her eyes. "Yes, Lavender, who loves her Won Won so very much. Ugh."

"Oh, Merlin." Harry can't help but laugh a bit, and her lips curl up as well. "That's terrible."

"Isn't it?"

"You could just tell him you're jealous, Hermione."

"What?" Hermione blinks at him. "How did you—"

Harry rolls his eyes. "You know, I'm really not that much of an idiot. You and Ron are pretty
obvious about it, honestly. Don't be an idiot like I was about Draco. Just tell him."

Hermione snorts. "No, we're fighting at the moment. He needs to apologize."

"For?"

"He was so busy flirting with Lav Lav that he spilled ink all over my notes. He didn't even
apologize!"
"I'm not getting in the middle of it," Harry declares, holding up a hand in surrender. "And you're
going to hate this, Hermione, but I think you'll need his help with this. He might have some good
ideas on how to get Slughorn to tell you about Horcruxes."

"I can figure it out on my own," Hermione snaps. Her eyebrows drop low in anger. "Draco will
help me. Won't you, Draco?"

"I'm rather busy with Theo at the moment," Draco drawls.

Harry jolts, his head whipping towards him. "Oh? How is that, er, going?"

"Don't get your knickers in a twist." Draco sends him a scolding look. "I won't put up with your
jealousy forever, you know."

"No, I know," Harry says quickly, sort of deflating a bit with a sigh. "I'm sorry. I don't mean to be
like this. I—I know it's serious. Really, how is he?"

Draco's face softens with concern. "Worse. Harry, I think he's going to waste away soon. He's taken
to outbursts when I so much as try to talk to him. Theo isn't usually angry like this. All he does is
avoid everyone and read his Potions book almost religiously. That, and he never eats, and he's up
all hours of the night. I followed him last week, and he's leaving the common room, but I lost him
near the Seventh Floor. Got detention for it, too."

"You followed him?" Harry asks weakly, his hand clenching on Hermione's arm. When she makes
a small sound of protest, he rapidly lets go and winces, trying to get his jealousy and hurt under
control. He takes a deep breath, shoving it away. "No, nevermind. It's—you're worried. Alright.
Has anything happened?"

"Nothing that I can see," Draco admits with a frown, shaking his head. "He seemed rather jumpy
when he was sneaking out. It's almost like he's hiding something, and I think—Harry, I think it has
to do with the mission the Dark Lord gave him."

"What mission?" Hermione asks instantly.

Harry frowns. "We don't know. It was meant to go to Draco, but I wouldn't let Voldemort give it to
him."

"You wouldn't let him?" Hermione blurts.

"Er, well, Draco's sort of…mine?" Harry grimaces, offering her a shrug. "It's hard to explain.
Voldemort sort of just gave him to me, I suppose. I believe he thinks I'll treat Draco like he treats
his Death Eaters, but of course I don't. Besides, Draco is his own person and I'd never try to control
him, even if I could, which I wouldn't be able to. The point is, Theo has a mission from Voldemort,
but we don't have any idea what it is."

Hermione gapes at him. "Harry! That's rather important, don't you think?! To try and avoid it just
because you're jealous is ridiculous!"

"That's what I said," Draco mutters.

"Piss off, both of you," Harry grumbles. "I know, alright? I didn't mean to, but I just… Whatever.
The point is, I think…" He pauses, taking a deep breath as he turns to look at Draco, holding his
gaze. "I think you should try to figure out what he's up to."

Draco smirks at him. "Yes, well, I've already been doing that. Like you said, you can't actually
control me. I'll do what I damn well please."

"Yeah, I know," Harry mumbles, feeling stupidly chastised, feeling stupid all the way around.

"It's easier said than done, though," Draco continues, frowning at him. "I can't get him to talk to
me, and I never know where he's disappearing off to. He's always just gone."

"If only you were here, Harry," Hermione murmurs, a furrow in her brow. "You'd always be able to
find him where he was."

"Why?" Draco asks, arching an eyebrow.

"I have a—" Harry stops, blinking. He turns towards Hermione and leans down to kiss her cheek,
utterly delighted. "Hermione, you're a genius! The Map. Of course. Draco, when I come back on
the last weekend of this month, I'm bringing you a map that will be able to tell you wherever Theo
is at any given time. I'll show you how it works."

Hermione blinks at him. "Harry, you're going to give him the Map?"

"Why wouldn't I?" Harry asks, frowning at her in confusion. "It will help him find Theo."

"It's just… Well, the Map means a lot to you."

"Yes. What's your point?"

"I just didn't think you'd give it away to him so easily, that's all," Hermione says slowly.

Harry snorts. "You have your mission with Slughorn; Draco has his with Theo. I'm going to give
you both something to help."

Hermione arches an eyebrow. "And what are you going to give me?"

"The Cloak," Harry murmurs, his lips twitching when her mouth drops open. "Oh, come off it,
Hermione. Don't you think I trust the people I love with my things? You can use the Cloak to get in
the Restricted Section of the Library. There might be something on Horcruxes there." He looks
between her and Draco seriously. "Neither of you can be caught with the Cloak or the Map, or else
Dumbledore will know where you've gotten them. If Snape catches either of you, tell him to speak
with me before speaking with Dumbledore."

"I don't even know what this Map is," Draco says, raising his eyebrows.

Harry waves a hand carelessly. "You will. Snape will recognize it at first glance, so be careful.
Dumbledore will as well. You two should work together if you can." He turns back to look at
Hermione seriously. "And you should ask Ron for help, even if you're angry with him."

Hermione sighs, but she nods. "Fine. I still haven't told him about you yet. I haven't told anyone."
"Bring him next time," Harry mumbles, anxiety immediately cramping his stomach. "He's my best
mate. He should know all of this. I just… I don't really know how he's going to take it."

"Horribly," Draco says simply.

"Yes, he will," Hermione agrees. "He'll come around, though. I'll make sure of it."

Harry grins at her. "You always do."

"And I promise I won't let him tell anyone," Hermione says softly. "I really do trust you, Harry. I'm
just… I'm afraid."

"Me too," Harry admits. "But I'm still going to do what needs to be done. Thank you for helping
me."

"Oh, Harry, I'll always help you," Hermione whispers, leaning into him with a sigh.

"And what's your mission, oh saintly one?" Draco murmurs, staring at Harry, holding his gaze as
Harry turns to look at him. "Surely the great Harry Potter has some grand plan of his own, yes?"

Harry hums and nods. "While you two are doing all of this, I will be talking to Voldemort to try
and work out what his unknown Horcruxes are and where they are. Because they'll need to be
destroyed if anyone stands a fighting chance."

"What about you?" Draco whispers, his eyes boring into Harry's, a wariness in them.

Harry says nothing.

"I'll be working on that part," Hermione cuts in, the brilliant angel that she is. She pulls away from
Harry to smile at Draco. "We'll find another way."
Draco nods sharply and averts his eyes. "Alright."

"For now," Harry says with forced cheer, "why don't you two tell me everything that's been going
on?"

Idiot,

You chew on the end of your Quills, which is bloody distracting. I don't think you realize you do it.
You also sort of brush the feather on your face when you're deep in thought. And Merlin, don't get
me started on your fidgeting. You're never still, really, not even in your sleep.

When you're angry, your eyes get really bright. When you're happy, you smile broadly, but you
only smile with all your teeth when you're being cheeky. When you're just amused, your smile is
lop-sided and crooked, which is sickeningly attractive, did you know? When you're trying not to
laugh because you think you shouldn't, your eyes get a little squinty and crinkle a bit at the
corners.

You have a scar on the back of your right elbow, and I really want to know where you got it. Also,
when you're cold, you scrunch up your nose a lot. And you tilt your head like an owl when you're
curious, which shouldn't be as endearing as it is, but there you have it. Oh, and because you're not
white and cursed with a pale complexion like me, your blushes are never as obvious as mine, but
you show them with your facial expression. It's hilarious, actually.

You like Celestina Warbeck, too, if you must know. Sometimes, though, you hum Muggle songs
under your breath. The ones we heard on our date, especially. And you walk on your toes like
you're sneaking when you first wake up, but I don't think you seem to realize it. You always seem to
instinctively correct yourself when you fully wake up.

I like that you use the same jellymint toothpaste that I do, but you've asked for the same brand of
shampoo you've always used before. I like that you wear pocket-jumpers more often than you don't,
because you always look rather cozy. I also like that you always forget to bookmark any book
you've started reading, but you never fold the corners of the pages, even though you always get
annoyed when you have to find the page you last left off of. I'm sure that's Granger's influence. And
it's stupidly charming that you use the wrong utensils at meals and never swirl your wine.

I'm rather fond of your hair, and the way my mother likes you, and the way my father doesn't.
Idiocy aside, your disgusting earnestness can sometimes be compelling, and the way you overcome
your fears never fails to amaze me. You're reckless, brash, and confident in very ridiculous ways,
all while being a clumsy, unsure mess in so many other ways. And yet, as hopeless and idiotic as
you are, I'm horrifically taken with you, rather against my will, it seems. It's your fault, of course,
and I'd ask you to stop at once if I was willing to lose it.

I am not.

So, with all of that being said, thank you for Valentine's day. I've never cared very much for the
holiday, admittedly, but I suppose it's different when you have someone to celebrate it with.

Moving right along, Hogwarts continues to be dull in most ways. Classes remain horrid, but I've
been spending a good amount of time with Granger. We have a mutual project we're working on,
as you know, so we usually take some time to actually study together on top of that.

Weasley has become increasingly more aggressive towards me because he's noticed that Granger
and I have been spending more time together, but I can't be arsed, honestly. He and Granger got
into a rather explosive row in the Great Hall, and it was so bad that Girl Weasley actually had to
hex Granger to get her to calm down, but she hexed her brother for good measure, too, so at least
she's fair. In response to this, Weasley is back to trying to swallow Lavender Brown again, though
he only seems to want to do it whenever Granger and I are near.

Blaise and Pansy have been rather coupled-up ever since Valentine's day. He took her out for a
dinner date at the Astronomy Tower, where they must have agreed to marry or something, because
they're certainly even closer than before. They're rather distracted by each other, which is fine. I
leave them to it, mostly, or hex them for snogging in front of me.

I have a ridiculous Arithmancy essay to write, loathe as I am to do so. Granger is here now. She
says for me to tell you hello. Otherwise, how are you? How's your project?

By the way, if you ever mention the first half of this letter to another soul, I will murder you.

Yours,

Draco
Harry flops down on the sofa with a small sigh, staring up at the ceiling with a broad smile. He can
hear the letter he keeps on him at all times now crinkle a bit in his pocket. He imagines what it will
be like five, ten, twenty years from now. Wrinkled parchment, smudged ink, well-worn and
cherished.

It's ridiculous, really. Harry knows it is. He's acting like a love-struck First Year or something,
walking around on metaphorical clouds. All because Draco wrote him a sweet letter. He's
ridiculous.

Oh, but he loves it. He loves how this feels. How nothing can pop the bubble of happiness that
wraps around him all the time. How he can feel the giddy joy of his first love tingling in his fingers
and toes. How everything else is always so, so wrong, but this makes it all better because it's so, so
right.

He wonders if this is how his parents felt together. Is he more like his dad or his mum when it
comes to love? Perhaps he's like Sirius, not that he'd know. Was Sirius ever in love?

Even that, just thinking about people who are gone and never coming back, it doesn't hurt so badly
in this context. He thinks they'd look at him now, being arse over tits for the supreme prat Draco
Malfoy, and they'd likely be amused and fond. He imagines his mother would smile indulgently,
and perhaps his father would wink and crack jokes, and maybe Sirius would whine about his
choice of partner, even as he teased him for being a fool in love. It's a nice thought.

His imagination is a much safer place to be than reality. Because, in the real world, the three adults
he actually has are nothing like those he frequently thinks about. Voldemort sneers at him
regularly whenever he sighs happily or beams like nothing can get him down. Lucius is still very
firmly in the corner of hoping Draco will come to his senses or something. Mrs. Malfoy is the only
truly supportive one, and she's amused and kind about it all, but he always feels a bit shy and
embarrassed showing her just how much he loves her son.

As if summoned, Harry hears Mrs. Malfoy's heels click into the room, and she gives an amused
hum when she sees him grinning idiotically up at the ceiling. His grin turns a bit sheepish.

"You don't usually lay down for our lessons, Harry," she says, looking down at him. "Either your
lessons with the Dark Lord went well, or you're still very happy about Draco's letter."

"Well, both, I suppose," Harry mumbles, sitting up quickly and clearing his throat. "Sorry."
Mrs. Malfoy calmly sits next to him, her back straight and her appearance perfect as always. She
smiles at him. "Young love. It's very sweet."

"Can I ask you something?" Harry waits for Mrs. Malfoy to nod, then clears his throat. "Do you
know if Sirius was ever with someone?"

"Ah," Mrs. Malfoy says delicately, taking a deep breath and slowly letting it out. She folds her
hands over each other in her lap. "I admit, I didn't often hear much about Sirius once he abandoned
the family, not unless he did something worth talking about. Though, in his case, that was often.
He was very...reckless and brazen, you understand."

Harry snorts. "Yeah, that sounds like him. I was just wondering if it was love that made him...you
know."

"Change?" Mrs. Malfoy suggests. "Well, Sirius began having issues with the Pureblood lifestyle
from an early age; it was partially his mother's fault, of course, even if she never saw it that way. In
her eyes, he did everything wrong, so I imagine that he eventually stopped caring to please her. I
believe, however, that it was love that made him officially give up on the family and everything to
do with it."

"Really?" Harry asks, perking up immediately. He leans forward, interest piqued. "Was he in an
arranged marriage, too?"

"Yes, he was. I recall that he often complained about it when it was brought up. I heard he outright
refused to marry when he was fifteen, and I found out later that he faced the same choice that
Dromeda did. His partner of choice—if the gossip back then was correct—was someone that he'd
be disowned for loving, though he expressed no shame. He ran away as it was, but his mother often
raged about her deviant child at events."

"So...a bit like Draco, then?"

Mrs. Malfoy hums, tilting her head just a bit. "Only a bit. Draco got lucky. To love you
isn't...shameful, no matter your blood. The Dark Lord has declared you to be respected, so Draco
actually chose as wisely as possible, in that regard."

"But Lucius hates me," Harry says flatly.

"He doesn't hate you. Old habits are hard to change and he is a very stubborn man. It would go
against his previous beliefs to say that he approves of you, and he would never tell you that he
does. I won't claim that Lucius likes you for you, or that he thinks you are right for his son, but
your current status is very high. That alone gains some approval, though he won't ever admit it."

"But Draco didn't choose me because of who I am to Voldemort."

"I'm glad you know that," Mrs. Malfoy says with a soft smile. "He didn't choose you for that, no,
but that matters very little to Lucius, who often sees the world like a web of connections woven
with power. Draco was caught in your web, so to speak, and it just happens to be a very strong web.
If nothing else, Lucius can respect that."

Harry sighs. "Sirius wasn't lucky, I'm guessing. Do you know who it was that he...you know?"

"I never saw it firsthand, and it's all just old rumors, but I believe it was Remus Lupin," Mrs.
Malfoy says casually, not even seeming to notice Harry jolt in pure surprise. "It was a source of
discontent for my Aunt Walburga, of course. No one knew he was a werewolf back then, but he
was a poor boy with a Muggle mother, and that was enough for Sirius to face issues with the
family."

"I...did not know that," Harry mumbles weakly, blinking at her in shock.

Mrs. Malfoy smiles slightly. "It was quite the scandal. I didn't understand, all those years ago, how
he could be so reckless and defiant."

"Do you understand now?" Harry asks, raising his eyebrows at her.

"Sirius could not help who he loved no more than I can help but love Lucius, no more than you
can help loving Draco. If your status were to suddenly change and he would lose everything for
being with you, I know that Draco would still choose you, just as Sirius chose to leave his family—
whether for love or his beliefs, or both." Mrs. Malfoy reaches over to pat his arm and sigh. "I
understand better than I ever have, and you are to blame."

Harry grins at her wryly. "You're welcome."

"You have shaken our lives, Harry, so very much," Mrs. Malfoy tells him.
"Do you ever wish...I hadn't come here?" Harry murmurs, searching her eyes.

Mrs. Malfoy hums. "To begin with, yes. I worried for my son's safety, but once I learned you posed
no harm to him, I felt more at ease. Now, I'm so very thankful that you came and that you are still
here."

Harry frowns slightly. "And if my status were to suddenly change? I know what Lucius would feel
and do, but you...I have no idea."

"Loyalty and devotion are two very different things, Harry. Sometimes, those things can be
entwined, but they can also be separate for various different people and situations. To be loyal does
not require devotion, nor does devotion demand loyalty."

"That didn't at all answer my question."

"I know," Mrs. Malfoy says, amused.

"Well," Harry declares with a small smile, "I should tell you that you and Draco have shaken my
life, too. In ways I didn't expect, ways I wasn't prepared for."

"Malfoys tend to leave impressions, yes."

"Lucius wasn't included in that. He's still a git."

"You do realize," Mrs. Malfoy muses, her eyes bright with humor, "that you will be in close
company of Lucius for as long as you are with Draco, don't you? Eventually, you two will have to
find common ground. Unless, of course, you don't plan to be with Draco for very long?"

Harry rolls his eyes. "Honestly, Mrs. Malfoy, I think Lucius and I will spend years hating each
other. We'll never get on."

"Years," Mrs. Malfoy repeats gently.

Harry touches the letter in his pocket and smiles brightly. "Yeah. Years."

Prat,

So you can be sweet, Draco. I'll admit it, your last letter has brightened my mood considerably.
You needn't worry I'll share the contents of your previous letter to anyone because I think I prefer
to keep that to myself. Honestly, I don't think I want anyone else to know you can be romantic like
this. Will I let you live it down? Absolutely not. But it's for me alone, I think.

I'm sorry to hear classes are as dreadful as ever for you, but I'm sure working with Hermione has
helped. From what you've told me, her study plans are mental, but it seems like something you'd
enjoy. How is your project coming along, by the way?

My project hasn't come along at all. Try as I might, I can't quite figure out where to start. Recently,
I've been angry about the topic. I am unsure how to approach this, but I assure you that I will.

I'm sorry to hear about Ron. Do try and give him the benefit of the doubt, will you? He really
seemed like a good bloke when I met him. Have you ever considered just talking to him?

I'm glad that Pansy and Blaise seem to be happy. Do you think they've actually promised to marry
each other? Is that something people our age actually do? It seems a bit young, doesn't it? Not that
I wouldn't support them, because I would, but I suppose it's a bit odd. Is this one of those
Pureblood things?

Classes for me continue, and it's grown a bit complicated. One of my Professors is a lovely woman
who I always look forward to seeing, but the other is someone who angers me. Considering my last
conversation with Hermione, I've only grown angrier in his presence. Our lessons are generally
held in silence.

In any case, how are the Pureblood discussions coming along? Is Snape still a part of them? Tell
Hermione hello for me as well, please. By the way, have you heard anything about Katie Bell yet?
Also, how is Theo?
With love,

Your Idiot

The flobberworm gives a sickening squelch as it slides across the table and lands on the floor with
a splat. Harry closes his eyes, taking a deep breath. Bloody hell, he's mangled it again. He doesn't
mean to; his hands are using more force than necessary.

"Harry," Voldemort says.

Holding up a trembling hand, Harry ducks his head, taking a deep breath. It's fine. He can do this.
He will do this. His emotions are always more volatile around Voldemort as it is, mostly because
he's just a regular reminder of how confusing things are, but it's currently making things extra
difficult for him.

"I've got it," Harry says tersely, picking up his wand and wordlessly Vanishing the mess. It doesn't
even take effort like it usually does, likely because he's so bloody emotional right now.

Again, Voldemort says, "Harry."

"What?" Harry snarls, his head snapping up to glare into red eyes. Oh, he bloody hates Voldemort's
eyes.

"You're butchering ingredients," Voldemort points out rather patiently.

"Oh, am I?" Harry asks flatly. "Didn't notice. I'll be sure to stop that right away, Mr. Voldemort,
Dark Lord, sir. Apologies all around."

Voldemort narrows his eyes. "You have been particularly testy as of late. Why?"

"Piss off," Harry snaps.

"Harry."

"I said piss off!"

"You cannot excel in your lessons if you're overtaken by your own emotions," Voldemort hisses. "I
assure you, whatever life-altering thing you're going through this week will not be the end of the
world. You'd do well to get over it as quickly—"

"Shut up!" Harry explodes, taking his hand and shoving the cauldron over on his desk, the boiling
water spilling out on the table. It scalds his hands and arms, making him jerk back with a sharp
shout as his anger peaks. "Fuck! Bloody buggering fu—"

"Do you see?" Voldemort sneers, swinging around his desk with a scowl. "Your anger is—"

"I SAID SHUT UP!" Harry shouts at top volume, one searing hand wrapping around his wand and
flicking through the air without much thought.

The boiling water that's still steaming goes splashing through the air, connecting with Voldemort's
face so quickly that Harry barely even realizes it's happening. Voldemort recoils with a hiss,
jerking back, one eye squinting as the water hits it. His pale, spindly fingers go up to clutch at his
face, and Harry drops his wand with a sharp curse, his skin burning from his own wounds.

His foot catches in the water that's spilled over the side, and he reaches out with heated fingers to
try and catch himself as he goes down, but he only manages to grab the cauldron. That only
succeeds in bringing it down with him, right on him.

His head, specifically.

There's a starburst of pain in his temple and he hears his nose crunch, but it's the sound of
Voldemort still hissing in vague pain—almost a bit like Nagini, really—that Harry hears last before
everything goes dark and he passes out.

Harry wakes to a sharp stinging jinx in his side that makes him bolt up with a yelp. He clutches his
side with a scowl, rubbing at it as the pain radiates out, lingering in the way it does when the jinx
is a particularly strong one.

Who the fu—

Oh.

Blinking, Harry stares at Voldemort, who's staring at him with narrowed eyes from a chair he's
casually sitting in. He makes no move to turn his wand away from Harry, making it very clear who
is responsible for the pain in his side. Harry huffs quietly and sits up, glancing around the study
he's used to sitting in with Voldemort, though he's never once sprawled out on the sofa in the
corner of the room.

Harry wants to hit Voldemort with a stinging jinx in retaliation, but he refrains. Instead, he
childishly looks away from Voldemort and glares at the wall.

At least he didn't have to make that damn potion.

Determined not to speak first, Harry leans back against the stupidly plush throw pillows on the sofa
and stares resolutely at the wall. Maybe he'll just never speak to Voldemort again. Well, no, he
can't do that, considering he's got a mission and all, but he can't be arsed to care about that right
now.

"The next jinx won't be so painless," Voldemort says sharply, his words cold. "Turn and speak with
me like an adult, Harry, rather than the child you're acting as now."

"Painless," Harry mutters sarcastically, pointedly rubbing his side. "What's next? Crucio?"

"You're giving me the urge," Voldemort grits out.

Harry snorts derisively. "Do it, then. Go on."

"If you insist."

There's a long beat where Harry waits. He just sits there, staring at the far wall, waiting. His body
should be tensing up, his heart racing, a natural response of fear from what he already knows is the
most painful Spell in the world. Instead, he's calm, because he somehow knows it's not coming.

"Yeah, some Dark Lord you are."

"Must you test me?" Voldemort hisses, sounding increasingly angry by the second. "I have made
tremendous effort to be patient with you during your most recent bout of immaturity, but my
patience is worn thin. You are sixteen, not six."

"I hope the boiling water hurt," Harry replies flatly.

Voldemort is silent for a beat, then he says, "You are very lucky you are you, Harry Potter."

"Lucky," Harry echoes sharply, whipping his head towards Voldemort to glare at him. "Oh, I'm so
lucky, am I? Have you ever considered that I just might be the least lucky person on the planet?"

"I will not indulge your anger," Voldemort declares. He points his wand at Harry and shoots
another stinging jinx at him, making him yelp and rub his arm. The reaction makes Voldemort's
lips twist with sadistic amusement. "When you've gotten over whatever it is this time, we will
resume lessons."

"What's next?" Harry asks flatly. "Are you going to start rinsing my mouth out with soap when I
curse, too? Just how far does your corporate punishment go, Mr. Voldemort, Dark Lord, sir? Filch
has an obsession with hanging kids from the ceiling by their toes and giving them lashings. That
seems like something you'd agree with. Actually, what's your stance on Blood Quills?"

Voldemort stares at him. "Punishment. You think I am...punishing you."

"Are you?"

"Do I have the authority to?"

"As my Professor?"

"I am not your Professor, Harry."

Harry snorts. "Well, what are you? No, actually, that's a brilliant question! Let's talk about that."

"I'm not sure where this conversation is going," Voldemort admits, arching a naked eyebrow.

"Me neither. Let's find out, shall we?" Harry swings around to brace his elbows on his knees,
glaring at Voldemort. "Tell me, were you punishing me?"

"I did not call myself doing that."

"Why not?"

"When I punish someone, I tend to be more…"

"Heavy-handed?"

Voldemort smirks. "Yes, you could say that. I also tend to punish people for far less than what you
have done."

"Oh, well I'm so charmed," Harry says with a fake gasp, laying his hand over his chest. "I truly
must be lucky to have such favor with the great Lord Voldemort, so much so that he's stopped
trying to kill me after five years of attempts!" Voldemort narrows his eyes, but Harry clicks his
tongue and waves his hand lazily. "Ah, but I've already forgiven that, haven't I? So, what have you
done since? A couple of crying sessions, which I'm to blame for as much as you, and some stinging
jinxes. Merlin, I really am getting off light, aren't I?"

"I wasn't punishing you," Voldemort says.

"What were you doing, then?"

"You were acting as a child, so I was reprimanding you as one. For your cheek, as well as scalding
my face. It's nothing you didn't earn."

"Are you going to make me serve detention next? Or make me stay in my room and take away my
flying time?" Harry deadpans.

Voldemort's slitted nostrils flare, and his fingers twitch around his wand. After a beat, he points
towards the door. "Get out."

"If I don't, will you give me a list of chores?"

"Out!"

"I think you've adopted me," Harry tells him, leaning back on the sofa and most certainly not going
out as instructed. "You're a terrible guardian, did you know? That's alright, I'm a very troubled
child. We're well-suited."

"I have not—"

"Don't protest. It's rude. If even you don't want me, I'll never survive the shame."

"I'm beginning to understand why Severus believes you to be arrogant," Voldemort murmurs.

"Snape can choke for all I care," Harry says flippantly, shrugging. "Actually, I hope he is right
now, right this very second."

"Violent," Voldemort notes.

Harry widens his eyes mockingly and waves a hand around. "I tend to be, didn't you know?"

"This conversation is pointless." Voldemort looks away dismissively. "I will not entertain it."
"Well, I can't be sure, but when you adopt a child, you have to entertain them sometimes," Harry
muses, raising his eyebrows when Voldemort looks back at him with a glare. "Though, what do I
know? I was stuffed in a cupboard for the first eleven years of my life, after all. I would have
preferred to be adopted, I think. Even by you. Funny how that worked out."

Voldemort peers at him, his icy glare thawing out slowly. After a beat, he says, "I resided in an
orphanage until I went to Hogwarts, and I spent my summers there. Adoption is not as...promising
as it may seem to some."

"You weren't adopted?" Harry asks, some of his anger evening out as his curiosity spikes.

"I was not wanted," Voldemort says simply, that statement spoken so calmly and with such ease, as
if a normal comment on the weather.

Harry sighs. "Can we talk about this later? I'm trying to be angry right now."

"I see your efforts. I will not indulge them."

"See? A terrible guardian."

"I'm not your—" Voldemort stops, his nostrils flaring again. He seems to take a moment to calm,
relaxing his grip on his wand. "Harry, do not make jokes about such a thing. I know you, I know
how your mind works, and I know how simple it would be for you to lean into that joke."

"Oh, I'm leaning. I'm leaning hard," Harry says, bobbing his head. He glances down at his hands,
humming. "You healed my burns."

"Yes."

"Now, that is what good guardians do."

Voldemort bares his teeth in a grimace. "If anything, Lucius and Narcissa are more your guardians
than I am. Lean into that."

"So, what does that make you? The uncle? No, no, that can't be it. Mrs. Malfoy does have a
mother's touch, I'll give you that, but she's Draco's mum. I'm just like a really close son-in-law,"
Harry muses, blushing immediately after he says it. "Oh, that's not a road I want to go down right
now. Anyway, you're the one who brought me here. Besides, the Malfoys have to listen to me and
such, but guardians don't do that—they have the authority, don't they? Really, the only person who
has authority over me now is you, so it seems you have adopted me. Terribly inconvenient for you,
isn't it?"

"You're doing it," Voldemort says with a sigh. "The thing I just told you not to do. You're
rationalizing it. Don't do it, Harry; you'll just cry again and be angry about it for a week."

Harry scowls at him. "Yeah, well, wouldn't you be upset if you had you for a guardian?"

"I'm not your—"

"You could always make me leave, I suppose. It's a bit like turning kids over to an orphanage. If
you don't want to keep the kid, that is."

"You've earned this," Voldemort informs him, then sends another stinging jinx his way.

"More punishment," Harry grits out, rubbing his arm again. "How very adoptive-parent of you.
Really, though, you can send me away. I've been forced on people before, and frankly, the feeling
gets old. You don't have to keep me, you know."

Voldemort suddenly looks at him, his gaze pensive as he cocks his head just a bit. "Would you like
me to want to keep you, Harry?"

Harry chokes, suddenly feeling unsettled. He hadn't expected Voldemort to turn this all around on
him so fast, but he doesn't know why he's surprised. Annoying Voldemort is only easy for so long.
Now, here he sits, being asked a question that he should never have to think about in length, except
he's brought it on himself.

Him and his stupid mouth. Him and his childhood trauma. Bloody hell, Voldemort's right; he really
does rationalize and lean into ridiculous things.
"Alright," Harry sputters, "I'm done leaning."

"You've brought this on yourself." Voldemort sweeps out a hand. "Here's my theory. You've spent
most of your life feeling unwanted, and now you fear that you're unwanted by those who wanted
you first in life, or that they only wanted you for certain things that no one should have to give.
Sarcastic as you may have sounded, I do believe you would have preferred to be adopted and cared
for by anyone who wasn't your Muggle relatives. You believed you had that connection with your
godfather, but that was taken away from you. Dumbledore wants you, but it frightens you to think
that it is a want bred from what you can do, rather than simply who you are. I am the first to ever
offer you the things you've always wanted, and I cannot be killed, so perhaps it is an instinctive
desire to wish that I would want you with no ulterior motives."

"I hate you," Harry whispers.

Voldemort hums. "I hear it is common for teenagers to say that to their guardians."

"Don't say things like that," Harry rasps, shaking his head. "When I say it, I can easily convince
myself that I said it out of anger and the desire to annoy you. When you say it, I...I…"

"Hope," Voldemort suggests.

Harry swallows. "You know what it's like to not be wanted, don't you? Did it ever hurt?"

"When I was young...yes," Voldemort admits, grimacing a bit. "I did not understand what was
wrong with me."

"A freak," Harry whispers, his throat tight.

"Yes."

"Does it ever...go away? The hurt."

Voldemort watches him intently. "For me, it did not until I became more Dark Magic than man.
The hurt was mostly anger, admittedly. I did not have the capacity to feel the way you do, but in
this regard, I believe I came very close. One does not ever stop being an orphan, Harry."

"Do all orphans go bad?" Harry asks softly.

"Have you?"

"I still don't have an answer for you on that."

"I see." Voldemort hums and looks at Harry for a beat, his red eyes sharp and shrewd. His hand has
relaxed around his wand fully. "You are a troubled child, Harry, very much so. With good reason,
some of which is my own fault."

"Yeah," Harry agrees solemnly. "I'm fucked up."

"Indeed," Voldemort murmurs. He flicks his fingers like he's batting away the issue. "Nevertheless,
all things are wanted in some way or another, even those that are broken. You should have hope. It
makes you happier."

Harry snorts inelegantly. "And what, you want me to be happier?"

"As I have to deal with your presence without treating you as I would anyone else who angers me, I
would much prefer your mood to be elevated. It's easier," Voldemort admits.

"You don't want anything," Harry mumbles.

"I want many things."

"Like what?"

"Immortality. Power." Voldemort pauses, his eyes narrowing as he looks at Harry closely. "I have
only one ulterior motive for wanting to keep you, Harry, and that is merely a reason for the desire,
not the desire itself. To begin with, you being a Horcrux was the only reason you lived and
remained safe under my care. You have, rather stubbornly, made that only a small factor for me
among other things."

Harry wraps his arms around himself, frowning at the monster in front of him. "Like what?"

"As much as you anger me, I have no true desire to cause you any more pain. As we've already
discussed, I care for you in the same ways you care for me. Just as you have the potential to want
to be kept by even me, I have the same potential to want to keep even you. It is the same potential I
had in regards to Nagini; however, she was my pet. You are a human, and there are intricacies in
maintaining any relationship with a person. As you are here and you consistently...prod those
intricacies, our relationship has changed over time."

"Does it bother you that I, er, prod it?"

"It often angers me."

"Why?"

Voldemort gives him a rather pointed look. "I do not maintain relationships, Harry. Even when I
pretended to, it was a false notion."

"You've really never cared for another person?" Harry asks weakly.

"Not in a manner such as this, no."

"I feel sorry for you."

"I know," Voldemort says with a sigh. "Just as I feel sorry for you."

Harry blinks. "What? Why do you—"

"You tear yourself to pieces about things that matter so very little. You feel a grandiose amount for
someone with such trauma. Your poor, pure heart beats for things it should not." Voldemort stares
at him seriously. "You feel sorry that I do not know love and never will. I feel sorry that you do
know it and all its many burdens."

"I'd rather feel too much, rather than nothing, I think," Harry admits softly.

Voldemort hums. "You have your preferences, I have mine. For all our similarities, we are
opposites in many ways."

Harry huffs a quiet laugh. "If you think about it, this is all just bizarre enough to be almost...funny.
If we were a soap on a telly, people would tune in every week. The evil Dark Lord who
accidentally adopted the morally questionable, but well-meaning child with enough trauma to
compensate for them both. People would love it."

"Yes, well, Muggles are brainless slaves to their own base desires," Voldemort says with a sneer,
his lipless mouth pulling back to flash his teeth.

"Aren't we all?" Harry mumbles.

Voldemort makes a sound of disgust. "I'm not."

"Immortality. Power," Harry lists off pointedly.

"You've earned this one as well," Voldemort says, flicking his wand lazily.

Harry claps a hand over his arm with a growl, glaring at Voldemort. "Stop doing that!"

"Tell me why you're so angry," Voldemort continues, as if Harry hasn't spoken at all.

"You don't want to know," Harry mumbles.

Voldemort arches a naked eyebrow. "Why would I have asked if I did not want to know?"
Harry grits his teeth. "It's nothing."

"Your complex feelings are not nothing."

"Ha, you do entertain me."

"It's either that, or kill you and be done with it." Voldemort waves a hand pointedly. "Go on."

"I…" Harry pauses, then lets out an explosive sigh. He can barely fathom that he's about to talk
about this with Voldemort, but it's not like things can get any more bizarre at this point.
Swallowing around a lump in his throat, Harry mutters, "I suppose I have, er, mixed feelings
about...Horcruxes."

"Why?" Voldemort asks simply.

Harry frowns. "Well, with Nagini, I started to think that maybe, uh, not all of them are like the
Locket, or perhaps the Locket isn't so bad after all."

"You said you had no desire to see—"

"I know, I just… I've just been thinking about it, and it's been confusing me, so I've been...you
know."

"Angry?" Voldemort narrows his eyes like he really doesn't know either way.

"I—well, yeah, I suppose," Harry says slowly, his eyebrows crumbling together. He pauses,
looking at Voldemort curiously. "Doesn't it anger you when you're not sure of something?"

"I wouldn't know anything about that," Voldemort tells him, never one to lie to Harry. He looks
like he's thinking about it, though, because things apparently can get more bizarre. "I rarely feel
unsure of anything. There are some situations that I have no knowledge on that I wish I did and that
angered me, but one should always seek the knowledge they're after. I advise you to do the same."
Harry swallows. "This is different. This is your Horcruxes, in case you've forgotten. I don't know if
I should have mixed emotions about something evil."

"You're not evil, yet you are one of my Horcruxes," Voldemort tells him, all sensible-like. "Do you
wish to try experimenting with them again?"

"Maybe not the Locket. What about the others?" Harry asks.

Voldemort watches him curiously. "Do you have a sudden curiosity for all my Horcruxes, Harry?"

"Don't make this about me."

"I am genuinely curious."

"I know. I can tell," Harry mutters, grimacing as he looks away. His heart is racing traitorously,
feeling a little sick at his blatant attempts at betrayal, though he knows it must be done. "I think I'm
interested in all of them, even the Locket. Is there a chance that I could understand myself better by
understanding them? Should I even try?"

"That is for you to decide," Voldemort murmurs.

Harry heaves a sigh, his eyes sinking closed. "I'm asking for your perspective on this."

"I see that."

"Well?"

"I'm sure I could retrieve the Horcruxes I can access. I already have the Locket and you. One
remains hidden away in a place I cannot go. The others are destroyed, as you know," Voldemort
muses. He tilts his head. "I should ask you, Harry… Is your sudden interest in my Horcruxes a part
of some other ulterior motive?
"Don't," Harry says as sharply as possible, his heart dropping. His eyes snap open, gaze locking
with Voldemort's. "Don't think what I'm trying to do is something you should—"

"Well-meaning," Voldemort cuts in calmly, "does not always breed positive results. Learn from the
lessons around you, from your own life."

Harry shifts restlessly. "Do you think I'm the type of person who would do something like that?"

"I do, but you should know that it matters to me very little, Harry Potter. You have my trust. If you
break it, you will have to live with that." Voldemort's gaze is intense and sharp. "But you are most
certainly capable, if not very likely to do so. The guilt, however, will eat you alive."

Harry's heart is rioting in his chest, and he doesn't know what he's supposed to do with this. He
suddenly understands why he's so angry around Voldemort. It's more than just Voldemort being
horrible, more than Hermione hitting him with reality; it's how Voldemort is the type of person
that Harry has to betray, even when he secretly doesn't want to. His reply, when it comes a moment
later, is for only one part of what Voldemort had said, but he himself has no idea which part it is.

"I see why you'd think that," Harry whispers, blinking rapidly, "but you're wrong."

"If I am," Voldemort says slowly, "then both you and I have nothing to worry about, do we?"

Harry stares at him for a long moment, then releases a shaky exhale. "Sound logic."

"Indeed." Voldemort arches an eyebrow, naked as it always is. "Has the pattern remained intact?
Have I provided the proper perspective?"

"You know," Harry mumbles, "I think it's just that you always have the wrong perspective and I'm
determined to prove you wrong."

"Spite is as good of a motivator as anything else, Harry; sometimes even better."

"Now you sound proud."

Voldemort looks vaguely amused in that way he does when he's not being cruel about it. "Troubled
children can be surprising."

"I give you a hard time, don't I?" Harry asks, watching him curiously. "I really do piss you off."

"Yes, you do."

"And you still...want…"

"Yes, I do," Voldemort says.

Harry coughs, averting his eyes. "Yeah, well, you've earned it. The hard time, I mean."

"Yes," Voldemort agrees with a hum, "I have."

Idiot,

These past few days have been horrid, so you'll have to listen to me complain for a bit. As my
boyfriend, I think that's your job, right?

First of all, I got detention. With Harry Potter being absent this year, I assumed that I would avoid
trouble for the most part, but that appears not to be the case. I got into a spat with a Seventh Year
Ravenclaw. Vicious buggers, the lot of them. In any case, Professor Sprout caught us in the hall
and assigned us detention. It wasn't my fault, however. I'll have to tell you more about it in person
when I next see you, but worry not, he got what was coming to him.

The problem is, he's a Muggle-born, so people think I've fought with him because of that. Even
Granger asked, which peeved me off more than I expected it to. Will I always be known for my past
actions? Will all Slytherins? Other students don't see what we have to deal with when we're in the
common room. Many Purebloods—mostly Slytherins, but some others—have an issue with the
changes that Blaise, Pansy, and I have displayed. Greg and Vince are known for their lack of
intelligence and willingness to beat people to a bloody pulp, so they're not often targeted. It just
becomes draining after some time.

I know you'd say that not everything that is right is easy, but I hope you don't hate me for saying
that it was much easier being who I used to be. I don't know if you understand just how difficult it
is to be different than the way I was raised. It's constant self-correction and an amass of guilt I'd
rather not feel.

Admittedly, I've been cold towards Granger since she asked me if I targeted the Ravenclaw boy
because he's Muggle-born. It's as if she thinks all that I've done and apologized for was a lie. I am
many things, but I'm no liar, not about serious things; not to anyone but myself.

The Pureblood meetings have grown even more ruthless, and Snape's presence is starting to have
little effect. He keeps everyone from fighting, at most, but the tension often lingers once he's gone.
Just yesterday, a Fifth Year and Pansy got into a fight after the meeting was over. Pansy nearly
scratched the girl's eyes out. I wish I could say I was proud of her, but in this, Pansy was angry for
something I believe she was wrong about.

I hope you don't think less of her for this, but Pansy doesn't think house-elves are mistreated by
Wizarding Society. It's hard for me to disagree with her, and I probably wouldn't if you and I
hadn't had discussions about it. I'm certainly not Granger about the issue, but I'm not my father
either. Regardless, I've been cautious about letting that particular topic come up when Pansy and
Granger are around each other.

However, on the topic of her and Blaise being too young to agree to marriage, it isn't particularly
uncommon in Pureblood circles. Her and I were meant to be married shortly after we graduated
Hogwarts, just as her parents and mine were. Do I personally think it's right? I'm unsure. I haven't
given much thought to the issue since I was given my freedom not to marry Pansy. Did you know
that Harry Potter's parents married very young? I believe they were nineteen years old.

As for Weasley, I will not be speaking with him. He and I have a very antagonistic history, and it's
hard for us to be near each other without arguing. I know you wish for me to make an effort. I will
when the time is right, when he understands things that he simply doesn't now.

Your project is undoubtedly harder than mine, and I haven't the faintest clue how to help you there.
The only thing I can tell you is, don't rush. Be careful.

Theo is much the same as he has been all year, only worse. He is outright irritable now. I'll have
more information for you when I see you again.
I've heard nothing on Katie Bell.

I miss you

Yours,

Draco

Harry nervously paces in front of the fireplace in the Shrieking Shack, his heart lodged somewhere
around his clavicle. It thumps heavily, and he just keeps going over different versions of Ron's
angriest faces. He has no idea which version he'll be met with when Ron finds out the truth about,
well, everything. All he knows is that he misses his best mate and he desperately wants this to
work out.

Tonight, he's knackered before the encounter even begins. Voldemort had given him bloody
homework for the first time ever, all because Harry couldn't do a stupid charm. So he's been up late
nearly every night trying to perfect it with no such luck.

On top of that, Harry's been worrying about Draco. His previous letter makes Harry's heart clench
every time he remembers it. He knows it's complicated for Draco and his friends, but Draco is right
to say that Harry doesn't entirely understand what it's like. For him, some things that are right come
as easy as breathing. But, in retrospect, there are certain things that are undeniably right that are
hard for him. His mind flashes to Bellatrix Lestrange and Peter Pettigrew—not for the first time
and not for the last. What Harry does understand is how things aren't always as simple as they
seem.

Sighing, Harry hangs up the Invisibility Cloak on the mantle and rests the Map on top of it. He's
just bringing his arms down when there are steps out on the stairs, and his heart begins racing
immediately. The door opens a moment later, letting Draco walk in, seemingly alone.

"Draco," Harry greets cautiously.

"Harry," Draco murmurs, his head ducked, hair falling into his face. "Don't worry, Granger is
giving us some time. She's bringing Weasley soon."
Harry's stomach quivers with anxiety, wanting to get it over with, but he nods. "Brilliant. How are
y—"

The moment Draco cranes his head and looks up, Harry's words cut off. His breath gets trapped in
his chest and there's an immediate prickling in his fingertips. A spattering of pale purple and
yellow dashes around Draco's right eye, streaking close to the bridge of his nose. Harry instantly
forgets his worries and marches forward to catch Draco's face in his hands, swiveling his head to
try and see the bruises in the moonlight.

"Stop it, Harry, I'm fine," Draco grumbles, trying to wrench his head out of Harry's grip.

"Who did this to you?" Harry asks quietly, his voice as even as possible. Draco tries to avoid his
eyes, but Harry leans forward, making him meet his gaze.

Draco rolls his eyes. "I said I was fine, didn't I? I just didn't heal my bruises because he didn't,
that's all. A pride thing, of course."

"That wasn't what I asked." Despite Harry's sharp, harsh tone, his fingers are gentle as they
carefully brush across the bruise. To Draco's credit, he doesn't flinch. He simply looks annoyed
and not at all like he plans to answer, so Harry asks again, this time firmer. "Who did it?"

"It doesn't matter."

"It does to me."

"What will you do? Don't tell me you'll go off galavanting into Hogwarts to satisfy your hero
complex and defend my honor," Draco drawls, arching an eyebrow, unimpressed.

Harry, who had wanted to do exactly that, scoffs and mumbles, "I'm not an idiot. I just… I want to
know."

"Don't fret. You'll get wrinkles." Draco's lips twitch up into a smirk as he reaches out to smooth his
thumb over Harry's wrinkled eyebrows, making them relax with one touch. "Anyway, you should
see him. If nothing else, years of fighting you taught me two things: how to take a punch and how
to throw one, or five. His lip still bleeds if he smiles."

"The Ravenclaw boy?"

"Mhm."

"Name?"

"Absolutely not, Harry."

Harry huffs in frustration, lips tipping down. He gingerly slides his fingers away from the bruise,
then leans forward to ghost his lips over it slowly, just a gentle brush. When he pulls away, Draco's
eyes flutter open, his gaze warm.

"I don't like it," Harry admits gruffly, his voice low with anger and annoyance. "I don't like that I'm
not there to—to keep people from—"

"I don't need you to keep people from anything, Harry. I can and have always been capable of
handling myself. I don't need saving and I certainly don't need protecting."

"I know that, I really do, but I can't help feeling it anyway. I'm very aware that you're a hostile prat
with a quick draw on your wand, who just so happens to know how to hurt someone. That doesn't
mean I don't want to hurt people who hurt you."

Draco hums, apparently pleased by the acknowledgement that he can handle himself. His eyes are
bright with laughter. "You feel utterly helpless, don't you?"

"You have no bloody idea."

"Well, no need to get so worked up about it. The great Harry Potter wrath can relax for this. If I
need someone dead, I'll let you know."

"That's not at all funny," Harry mutters, even though his lips are curling up because Draco is
teasing.

"Isn't it?" Draco drifts forward a bit, his hands easing around Harry's waist. His lips are warm on
Harry's cheek, just in front of his ear. "Would you actually kill for me, Harry?"

Harry's stomach cramps as his breath escapes him on a shaky exhale, heart fluttering madly in his
chest. His eyes shut slowly, and he reaches out to clamp his hands on Draco's hips, trying to steady
himself as all of his thoughts skitter in multiple, endless directions.

It's a very morbid question, in reality, and Harry should know instantly what his answer is. But, to
actually think about it, he realizes his answer might even be more morbid than the question itself.
Would he kill for Draco? In the same breath that he killed Bellatrix for Sirius, that he killed
Pettigrew for his parents, Harry knows that he'd kill for Draco. He'd kill for Ron and Hermione,
too. It's wrong, he knows that, but it doesn't make it any less true.

"Yes," Harry whispers, feeling a strange mixture of shame and headiness.

Draco's fingers tighten at his back, pulling him closer. "We could be a very dangerous couple if we
wanted to, did you know?" he murmurs, his words breezing warm and soft over Harry's ear. "A
dangerous, powerful couple, indeed."

Harry's head spins, and right about now, he feels like a glob of putty in Draco's hands. He melts a
bit, despite the topic. There's a surge of something in Harry's chest, a little spark that makes him
breathless, and he can easily see what Draco means. They truly could be a dangerous couple if they
wanted to. They're both powerful in different ways, both capable of terrible things, both in positions
that they could easily take advantage of. If they ever truly desired it, they could wreak havoc and
demand absolutely anything of the world.

It makes Harry wonder, briefly, if this is how Dumbledore felt with Grindelwald, or even just a
fraction of it. There is an allure to the thought, just like there's a pull to Dark Magic once explored,
and Harry can understand in some ways how simply Dumbledore would fall prey to that. If Draco
were different, if Harry was, they could just as easily end up going the route that Dumbledore
almost did. When love and attraction meets power and wickedness, there's something enthralling
about it.

The thing is, that's just not who they are.

Draco goes on to prove this by pulling back slightly with an amused smirk as he says, "Too bad
you're just a pure soul and murder puts me off."

"Does it?" Harry muses, releasing a slow breath as his mind works to sort itself out. "When I do it,
you never really seem to mind."

"Well, there's always an exception to every rule. You can murder me if you like. I'd be into that, I
think," Draco teases, raising his eyebrows.

Harry snorts. "Kinky."

"Remember that when we shag," Draco says casually, and Harry has no idea if he's serious or not.
Either way, it makes him blush, and Dracos smirk turns into a broad grin as he chuckles. "Oh,
Potter, you're just too easy."

"Piss off," Harry mumbles, averting his eyes as his blush decides to take up residence in his
cheeks.

Draco darts forward unexpectedly to kiss Harry's cheek, then immediately shoves Harry back a
step like he's the one who did it. He doesn't blush, the prat, but his throat bobs. "Shut it."

"I didn't even say anything."

"You were going to."

"Yeah," Harry agrees, his smile wide. His heart is doing strange jumps in his chest from a simple
peck on his cheek, even though he and Draco have snogged multiple times. "You really are sweet,
you know. I like it."

"Now you piss off."

"I mean it, Draco. I like that you're not sweet to anyone else, but you are to me."
"Aren't you special enough to the whole world? Why do you want to be special to me, too?" Draco
grumbles, heaving a sigh and reaching up to try and pat his hair down, even though it's perfect
already.

Harry reaches up and smacks his hand away, fixing his hair to let it fall looser, clicking his tongue.
"I don't care to be special to the whole world. I don't want to be loved and adored by them, I want
to be loved and adored by you."

"Is that right?" Draco asks quietly, standing still and simply letting Harry do whatever he wants.
When Harry checks, Draco is staring right at him, and when their eyes lock, Harry's hands go still.
Draco's voice gets even softer. "I know the feeling."

"Well…" Harry trails off, then smiles as brightly as he's capable. "You already know I love you. I
said it, didn't I?"

"You can't possibly know that. We've barely even been dating for long, Harry," Draco mutters.

Harry shrugs, perfectly at ease. "I'm not sure it works like that. People sometimes start falling in
love before they date, don't they? I've probably been falling arse over head for you ever since
France. I'm not saying that it's not new, because it is, but it's real. Trust me, once I'm sure of
something I've deemed important, I usually don't change my mind. When you know, you know.
You know?"

"So you've just decided to love me, then?"

"Mm, no. It just happened. I have decided to continue loving you, though. That was a conscious
decision I made."

"Why?" Draco breathes out, openly baffled.

"Why shouldn't I?" Harry asks.

Draco snaps his hands out, catching Harry's wrists, staring at him with wide, startled eyes. He
brings both of Harry's hands down and draws him in with a sharp tug, crashing their lips together
without much warning. Harry makes a small sound of surprise, genuinely caught off guard by the
ferocity in which Draco snogs him. He barely even gets to enjoy it in length before Draco yanks
back and coughs.

"Harry," Draco says roughly, "I—"

The abrupt sound of overly loud steps outside on the stairs has them freezing for a beat, then
scrambling away from each other with wide eyes. Though it's never said out loud, they don't
actually have to discuss the fact that Ron will lose his collective shite if he walks in to find them
entangled in any way.

Moments later, the door creaks open, and Harry feels his heart leap in his chest as Hermione enters
with a frowning Ron in tow. The moment that Ron catches sight of him, however, his face gets
slack and his eyes go wide.

"Harry?!" Ron bursts out.

"Ron," Harry replies on a wheeze, his throat tight.

"Bloody hell," Ron breathes, his eyes as wide as they'll go as he surges forward without much
fanfare, colliding into Harry to hug him.

Harry swallows thickly, clapping Ron on the shoulder at the same exact time that Ron does it to
him, a strange synchronization that they've never practiced but always instinctively had. The fact
that they still have it feels like a kick to Harry's chest, but oddly enough, it's a good kind of kick—
if such a thing even exists to begin with.

For a split second, all is right in the world. There's Draco behind him, Hermione behind Ron, and
Harry is completely surrounded by those who matter the most to him. There are others, of course,
but it's these people who've offered him something that no other person ever can. So, for this one
second, Harry basks in it as he and Ron break apart.

Then Ron blurts, "Where have you been, mate? Why are we in the Shrieking Shack, and why the
bloody buggering fuck is Malfoy here?"

"Ah, here we go," Draco mutters, heaving a sigh as he moves over to the wall at Harry's right,
crossing his arms and leaning up against it. He looks good doing it, too.
"Did you tell him anything?" Harry asks Hermione warily, staring at her with wide eyes.

Hermione grimaces. "No, Harry. I figured it best if he hears it from you. I'll...help, if you like?"

"Please," Harry mumbles.

"Hears what from you?" Ron asks sharply, his eyes narrowing as he glances between Hermione
and Harry suspiciously. "Are you two keeping secrets from me? How long have you known where
Harry was, Hermione, and why didn't you tell me?!"

"It's complicated," Harry says as calmly as possible. He wants to keep his anger in check because
this will just be explosive otherwise. "We're going to tell you everything, but you have to promise
to listen to all of it. And Ron...you can't tell anyone."

Ron stares at him for a beat, then flicks his gaze to where Draco is. "Alright, but why is he here?
Hermione, did you bring him here? I know you're all about fraternizing with the enemy, but I think
bringing Malfoy near Harry is a bit much."

"I'm not—" Hermione inhales sharply, her lips pressing into a thin line as she glares at Ron. Her
fingers twitch like she wants to go for her wand, but she only whirls towards Harry with fury
burning in her gaze. "Tell him, Harry. Tell him that first!"

Harry absolutely does not want to tell the Draco part first, so he clears his throat and holds up his
hands in surrender. "Whatever fight you two are having, I have no part in it."

"Harry, Hermione's with Malfoy, mate!" Ron declares immediately, his ears going red as he sends
a sharp look of disgust towards Draco. "It's mad, I tell you! They're practically all over each other,
have been nearly all year!"

"Have they?" Harry asks awkwardly.

"We have not!" Hermione says hotly, her hands clenching into fists.
Harry leans back as Ron shouts, "Oh, don't lie! Look, even Malfoy isn't trying to deny it!"

Draco snickers.

"Argh!" Hermione makes a loud sound of frustration, her hand going for her wand.

"See?!" Ron howls, pointing at Draco as if his smirks and laughter is somehow proof.

"Ron. Ron!" Harry calls, watching as everyone in the room goes silent at his sudden shout.
Fortunately, Hermione doesn't use her wand and Draco stops laughing. Ron is still very red in the
face, though. Harry sighs. "Ron, Hermione isn't dating him."

"No offense, mate, but how would you know?" Ron mutters with a wince. "You're not here, are
you? I know it's hard to believe, Harry. I barely believed it myself, but I have no doubts that they're
—"

"I'm gay, Weasley," Draco drawls, staring down at his nails with an air of indifference.

Ron positively chokes on his own spit, his eyes wide as he gapes at Draco. Hermione watches him,
satisfied, and he wheezes, "You're bent?"

"As bent as your wand in second year," Draco says flatly, rolling his eyes. "All broken inside,
too."

"Oh," Ron murmurs, going from angry to sheepish in a second as his gaze slowly slides to
Hermione. He coughs. "So… Well… But why'd you take him to the Slug Club party, then?!"

"He's my friend, Ronald!" Hermione shrieks.

Draco wrinkles his nose. "I've told you to stop telling people that, Granger."

"Well, that's just as bad! See, Harry?" Ron whips back towards Harry, practically clawing for some
sense of comradery. Harry almost pities him. "She just said it! She's friends with Malfoy. Tell her
how absolutely mad that is!"

"Yes, do tell her how mad that is," Draco murmurs, raising his eyebrows at Harry, his eyes as
bright as the moon with laughter.

Harry sighs again, then straightens his shoulders and meets Ron's hopeful gaze with a steady one of
his own. "It's not mad, Ron, because Draco has changed. I know you've seen it, even if you don't
want to admit it. And if you have a problem with someone dating Draco, then...you have a problem
with me. Because I am. Dating him, I mean."

"No, you're not," Ron denies instantly. He snorts and shakes his head. "You fancy girls, and I know
you do because you fancy Cho."

"Past tense," Harry blurts out frantically, whipping his head towards Draco. "Fancied. I—I don't
anymore, obviously."

"Obviously," Draco says loftily.

Harry clears his throat and looks back at Ron. "Mate, I have fancied girls, yes. Well, only Cho,
briefly, but girls are attractive. Just so happens, I think blokes are, too. Er, Draco, specifically.
We've been dating since Christmas, really. Well, technically it was a bit after Christmas, but
Christmas was when we—"

"Harry," Draco cuts in hastily, "they don't need all the sordid details, you twit. Get to the point."

"Right," Harry mumbles, grimacing. "So, er, the point is...Draco and I are dating. We're going to
continue dating, and you're just going to have to get used to it because I am not breaking up with
him. And alright, I know it's confusing considering everything, so I promise to explain as much of
all this I can, but it's all so tangled up that it's best to get this part out of the way first. You don't
have to be his best mate, obviously, but you're mine, so all I'm asking is that you—you...support
me, that's all."

Hermione reaches out and snags Ron's arm, leaning up to hiss in his ear. "Do not muck this up,
Ron. He's your best mate and we're not in Fourth Year anymore. Things are too serious to really
care about who loves who at this point, so just...think before you speak. I mean it."
Ron, for his part, just looks like he's been hit in the head with a bludger. His mouth dangles open as
he slowly peels his gaze from Harry, moves it to Draco, then lets it crawl back to Harry. He looks
stunned, frozen in complete and utter disbelief.

Harry frowns. "Ron?"

Finally, Ron rasps, "Harry, mate, please tell me you're joking. This has to be a joke. It—it—"

"It's not a joke," Harry murmurs.

For all of five more seconds, things are vaguely calm. Then, moments later, Ron is whirling around
to Draco with something that can only be described as a warcry, his hand reaching out to grab
Draco's collar and give it a rough shake. He shoves Draco back against the wall, his face as red as
his hair.

"What did you do to him?! You've done something to him, you complete waste of—"

"Ron, stop it!"

Amidst Ron and Hermione's yelling, Harry lunges forward to grapple at Ron's arms, heaving him
backwards before his hit can land. Draco stays leaning against the wall, sneering like he's caught a
whiff of something disgusting. He brushes off imaginary dust, as if Ron's mere presence is dirty,
and Ron gives a strangled cry as he tries to shove forward again, still shouting expletives.

"That's enough!" Harry shouts, whirling Ron around and shoving him back a step, keeping a hand
against his chest. "I'm not going to let you attack him."

"Harry!" Ron looks utterly betrayed and far more pissed than he ever has. "Wasn't too long ago
that you would have helped me attack him!"

"And if he were the same Draco he was then, I still would, but he's changed! You don't know him
like I do! Honestly, do you think Hermione would ever associate with him if he wasn't better?!"

"You've both been tricked or something! Hermione wants to help anyone with a sob story, you
know that, Harry! He could be lying!"

"And what about me, then?" Harry demands, continuously pushing Ron back. "You know me,
mate. I wouldn't trust him if he hadn't earned it!"

Ron's face contorts and twists, eyes bulging with anger, and he spits, "Well, if you like him so
much, who knows what you'd do for his co—"

Harry does not, in fact, punch his best mate in the mouth. Oh how he wants to in that moment, but
he does not. Instead, he gives Ron a rough shove, so rough that Ron actually tumbles back into the
wall behind him. He looks stunned, as if he can't believe that Harry's just done that. He splays
there, his mouth open in blatant shock.

"Do not finish that sentence," Harry grits out, holding his gaze. "You'll regret it if you do. Because
if you imply in any way that you hate someone who happens to like the same gender as their own,
then you'll hate me. And I know you don't hate me. So just don't say it."

"You're right, I don't hate anyone who feels that way. My own bloody brother likes blokes," Ron
snarls, shoving away from the wall. "Unlike you, though, Charlie wouldn't get with someone as
evil and horrible as Malfoy. I don't know what's happened to you since you've been gone, but you're
not the same Harry Potter I know, not if you're willing to be with him."

Harry's nostrils flare as he exhales heavily through his nose. "I've told you that he's not—"

"And you can just forgive everything he's done? He's a bully, Harry. He has hurt so many people,
not just you. Hermione, too. And you know the things he's said about me and my family! You're
acting like I'm mad for hating him when you're the mad one for being able to forgive him in the
first place!"

"I know, alright?! I know exactly who he was, and I know exactly who he is, and I also know that,
if it wasn't for him, I don't know how I would have survived these past seven months! I'm not going
to fucking apologize for loving him!"

Ron snaps his mouth shut, his chest heaving as his cheeks blow out with the force of his exhales.
He stares at Harry like he's never seen him before. "How can you say you love him? How?"
"Because I do, Ron," Harry snaps, trying to stomp out his anger, trying to stay calm and alert. This
is only the first hurtle, and he has absolutely no idea how they're meant to get past it. He takes a
deep breath, then slowly lets it out. "You're my best mate, so I need you to please just—"

"No," Ron says coldly, drawing himself up to full height. "I'm not doing it, Harry. This is Malfoy,
the same bloke who insulted my whole family for years. Just because he hasn't recently doesn't
mean he gets forgiveness. And—and I won't be friends with him, or friends with his friends...nor
will I be best mates with his sodding boyfriend."

Harry rears back like he's been slapped. "Excuse me?"

"Ron," Hermione chokes out, stricken.

Ron stubbornly shakes his head, holding Harry's gaze, his jaw clenched. "Takes you back to First
Year, doesn't it? You knew he was the wrong sort then, and you should know it now."

"I…" Harry blinks rapidly, absolutely shaken by the seriousness on Ron's face. Slowly, he glances
back to Draco, who's simply staring at Harry with a blank expression, passive. Harry swallows and
turns back to Ron, his heart clenching violently in his chest. He can't believe he's about to say this,
to do this, but he somehow gathers the strength to whisper, "I think I can tell who the wrong sort
are for myself, thanks."

Ron blinks.

"Ron, you can't just demand he choose!" Hermione bursts out. "You're his family, and Draco is his
—"

"Choice," Ron cuts in, his voice a bit mystified like he's actually shocked. He blinks again, then his
face goes dark with a scowl. "He's Harry's choice, after everything. Enjoy it, then, but don't expect
me to forgive you when it all goes to shite. Because it will, because he's the worst choice you've
ever made."

"Take some time," Harry croaks. "Think on it. If you change your mind, talk to Hermione. If
not...well, I suppose that's that, then."

"I suppose it is," Ron agrees harshly, "because I don't need to think on it at all."
With that and nothing else, Ron whirls on the spot and marches right out the door, slamming it shut
so hard that the already splintered wood cracks some more and rains down weathered chunks.
There's a beat of silence before Harry slowly turns to Hermione, heaving a sigh.

"Make sure he gets back to the Castle alright, Hermione," Harry murmurs. "Take my Cloak on the
mantle, yeah?"

Eyes sad, Hermione moves forward to wrap him in a tight hug, squeezing him gently. "Alright,"
she says gently as she pulls back. "He'll come around, Harry, he just needs time. Until then, I won't
tell him anything and I'll keep trying with Professor Slughorn, I promise. I—you know I'm happy
for you and Draco, don't you?"

Harry quirks the biggest smile he can muster, but it's barely a twitch. "Thanks, Hermione."

"I'll see you later, Draco," Hermione says, walking over to pat his shoulder and grab the Cloak
before heading for the door.

Draco doesn't reply, just nods. His gaze is fixed on Harry, intense, not wavering. He doesn't say a
word, but he does sigh quietly and hold out his hand as an offer. Harry shuffles over to him with a
sigh of his own, taking Draco's hand, letting Draco pull him into the circle of his arms. Harry leans
into him, pressing his mouth against Draco's shoulder, breathing him in, taking a moment.

For a long time, they stand like that, holding onto each other. Eventually, Harry wraps both arms all
the way around Draco's torso, closing his eyes as he feels Draco's arms ease over his shoulders, one
hand lazily ruffling Harry's hair. It's easier to be upset like this, Harry has learned. Easier to mourn
things, to lose things, just as long as he knows he has this.

No, Draco isn't Ron. Draco will never be Ron, not even a substitute. No one can be what Ron has
always been for Harry, what he'll always be, even if it's just in a memory. But Draco didn't ask him
to choose, not since the very first time, and he never will, which tells Harry all he needs to know.

It hurts, of course, but Harry doesn't actually think that he's genuinely lost his best mate. This isn't
the first time he's fought with Ron; it probably won't be the last. He hopes it's not the last, honestly.
Ron is many things—quick to anger, envious, protective, rash, and stubborn—but one thing Harry
never really doubts about him is his loyalty and his bravery. He's a genuinely good person. This is
just one of those things that comes along that they'll have to work through. They always have
before, and Harry can only hope that they will again.
"You didn't have to do that," Draco murmurs in his ear, his tone subdued.

Harry sighs and leans back, looking into his gaze, searching it. "You didn't ask me to, so don't go
thinking my fight with him is your fault."

"It, quite literally, is," Draco says. "None of that would have happened if—"

"Draco, stop it, alright? He thinks I've made a choice, but I haven't. I love you. He's my best mate.
Those things are both true. It's his choice if he never wants to have anything to do with me again,
and that's not your fault," Harry says firmly.

"Stop saying you love me."

"Why?"

"It gets you in trouble," Draco whispers. "That's all it will ever do."

Harry smiles at him. "Ah, so it was inevitable, then? You know me and trouble, Draco. It's all I
know."

Draco sighs and averts his eyes. "I am sorry, Harry. I know you think of him like a brother. Merlin
knows why, because he's a complete—"

"Don't," Harry interrupts quickly, reaching up to smack a hand over Draco's mouth. "Just as quickly
as I'd defend you, I'd defend him."

"I thought he was the wrong sort," Draco mutters after pushing Harry's hand away.

Harry arches an eyebrow. "No, I said I can tell the wrong sort for myself. He's not. He's just being
a prat at the moment, is all."
"So I'm still the wrong sort?" Draco asks.

"Undoubtedly," Harry says sagely, lips curling up as Draco huffs. "You're the worst sort, of
course."

"And yet," Draco drawls, arching an eyebrow and glancing down pointedly where they're holding
onto each other still, even now.

Harry grins. "And yet."

Prat,

Please avoid fighting in the future. It has been weighing on my mind quite frequently as of late. I
know you're very capable, but it grates on my nerves that I can't be around you to have your back,
as it were.

I know we didn't get to discuss the situation with Hermione, but my opinion might surprise you. I
think you should forgive her, of course, but I also think you should speak with her first. Tell her
why you're upset. She considers you as a friend, doesn't she? I think it's important that she knows
how you feel about it.

If I didn't make it clear, I trust that you've changed. I have no doubts that your fight with that bloke
had nothing to do with him being a Muggle-born. In any case, I don't often feel that I have any
right to pass judgement. You and I have both done horrid things, so perhaps it's easier for me to
see how complicated the world can truly be. If nothing else, you always have me.

Keep me updated about Ron, if you can. Everything I said was true and will always remain so. I
actually can't wait for Easter hols. I look forward to seeing you.

Good luck with your project. I will continue to work on mine. I trust that you'll look after the
parchment I've given you. Tell Hermione hello for me.

With love,
 Your Idiot

Chapter End Notes

Not Voldemort lowkey being Harry's guardian after all this time they're so fucking
complicated, I love it.

Also, yes, I did slip some Wolfstar into this story. It's only mentioned a few times and
very under the radar, so it's easy to ignore if that's not your cuppa.

As for Ron...well, did we expect anything less? Bless him, he's just had a pretty big
shock. He'll come around, though, promise!

As always, feel free to drop some comments at your leisure! I enjoy them so much
☺️❤️
 Translations
Chapter Notes

Okay, so this chapter comes with some warnings. Lemme break it down.

First, we've got Greyback being gross. He's like, literally terrible. He gets what's
coming to him, though.

Second, we have some very Voldemort-esque behavior from Voldemort, of likes we

haven't quite seen in all this time, and this is a hella long fic. There is use of Crucio
(not on Harry), and it's exactly what you'd think a Dark Lord would do, because ya
know, Voldemort is still Voldemort, after all.

Again, if you've read up to this point, you're likely not gonna be put off by some of the
heavier stuff, because we've seen heavy before. And of course, for all the heavy, there
is some funny and even...sweet? Complicated, you'll see lol.

Also, side note, sorry for the delay but I've been sick and kinda still am, but here I am,
trudging along. Enjoy!

(Another side note: I talk in the end notes about something I want to make clear. If
you read it, thanks!)

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Idiot,

I've enclosed a photograph in this letter at Blaise and Pansy's insistence. They think that you
should know that they're making very good use of their pocket-jumpers. Greg and Vince took the
photo, by the way. Colin Creevey had to help them with the camera, which was as amusing as it
was annoying. He talks quite a bit, did you know?

In reference to Granger, I did not have a conversation with her. After our last encounter, there
truly was no point. She and I have spent a lot of time avoiding Weasley's wrath, for he seems to
want to attack me in the halls at any available opportunity. As for Granger, he's mostly avoiding
her, though she does try and speak with him. As far as I know, he's told no one what he's learned.

Nevertheless, our mutual avoidance of Weasley has put Granger and I back on good terms. We
mostly study and discuss our various projects, but people are beginning to watch us curiously. For
a long time, it was only Weasley who suspected romantic relations between Granger and I, but it
seems that other students are starting to think the same, just as he finds out the truth. The irony, of
course, is not lost on me. It never really is.

I have been avoiding fighting. Not because you've asked me to, but because I have no interest in
doing so. I have far too many other things to worry about at the moment.

Hermione says hello.

Yours,

Draco

Harry asks Mrs. Malfoy to take him out to Muggle London to pick up a picture frame for the photo
that Draco sent in his letter. It deserves a spot on his nightstand, honestly, as it's quickly becoming
one of his favorite pictures to look at.

In it, Blaise and Pansy stand side-by-side, smirking and looking effortless, only for one of Pansy's
hands to reach out and yank Draco into the frame. He looks startled for a split second, which
makes them all laugh, and then they all slap on smirks complete with sparkling eyes. They're all
wearing hoodies, and Draco's in the Shared Hoodie. Honestly, they all look gorgeous, but that's not
why it's Harry's favorite thing to look at every morning.

It's the fact that there are students moving around in the background, that it's taken out by the lake
with the Castle in the background, that Neville and Luna make a brief appearance in the corner as
they walk by. It almost feels like Harry's there, or that he has a piece of Hogwarts with him.

Merlin, he misses Hogwarts. He misses his friends. He misses so very many things.

Sighing, Harry hangs back as Mrs. Malfoy leads him down an alley to Apparate back home. She's
been doing a lot of fluttering of her hands ever since Harry bought her a thin, silver bracelet that he
saw her eyeing in the shop. Shed told him not to, but he wouldn't hear a word of it, of course.

It's as he's following along that he happens to catch sight of a man ducking around a corner. His
brain stalls out for a moment as it works to process what he instantly knows. The tatty robes, the
greying hair, the hunched shoulders—Harry would know who that was absolutely anywhere.

"Mrs. Malfoy," Harry says hastily, picking up the pace, "take off my transfiguration."
"Pardon?" Mrs. Malfoy blinks at him, looking genuinely surprised. "Harry, you—"

"Just do it, please, and quickly!"

"Alright, alright."

Harry turns around after she's done it and he starts backing up, tossing up a hand to halt her. "Stay
here, Mrs. Malfoy. I'll be back, alright? Just—just stay here."

With that, he whirls away from her baffled and wary expression to take off sprinting, whipping
around the same corner that Remus had. He doesn't know where Remus went, where he's going,
but he doesn't really care. He just needs to see him.

Harry usually is, of course, transfigured to look like Arius Fawley. Sure, he's been cleared of all
charges, but that doesn't mean he wants the Order to know about his association with the Malfoys.
It could put everyone he cares about in danger, everyone from both sides. Oh how he hates that
there are sides.

For now, he only goes out as Arius Fawley, and he will continue to do so until Voldemort no longer
poses a threat to those he loves. He's not sure how long that will be, but he's just resigned himself
to it at this point. Only, for this, he wants to be himself.

So, he pulls up his hood, ducks his head, and tries to find Remus without anyone noticing him.
There aren't that many people in the alleys, mostly Muggles, yet Harry is cautious anyway. If he
can't find Remus soon, hell just give up.

Just as he's thinking he'll have to, he whips around a corner and catches sight of Remus up ahead.
Harry puts on a burst of speed, breathless, his heart racing. As he catches up to him, he reaches out
to grab Remus by the arm, tugging him around.

The reaction is almost instantaneous. Remus turns, a slight frown of confusion in place, then he
sucks in a sharp breath as his eyes go wide. "Harry!"

"Shh!" Harry hisses, shuffling closer and looking around with a frown. No one seems to be looking
at them twice, but Harry still ushers closer to the wall, keeping his head ducked. "Sorry, Professor,
but I'd rather not have people notice me."
For once, Remus lets the Professor thing go. Instead, he stares at Harry with parted lips as he rasps,
"We thought you were—"

"What?" Harry asks warily, a little startled by the genuine emotion in Remus' eyes.

"Harry, you were kidnapped out of the Ministry by You-Know-Who," Remus whispers. "Everyone
thought you were dead!"

Harry blinks. Oh. Right. He might have forgotten that, for so many people, that's the last update
they've had on him. For Harry, so much has happened since that he struggles to keep up. Nagini's
death feels like a lifetime ago, now, though the mere thought of it still stings, just as everything
else that happened that day does.

"Er, well, I'm not," Harry mumbles.

Remus makes a small sound of shock. "Yes, I see that. Where have you been? How did you get
away? Come, I can take you to—"

"No," Harry cuts in frantically. He swallows and glances around warily again. "I'm—I can't go
with you. There's something I need to do, but I'm safe, alright? Besides, I'm not here to talk about
that."

"Harry, you need to be hidden, now," Remus says fiercely, almost a growl. "If you've escaped You-
Know-Who, we cannot risk you being captured again. Dumbledore is certain that he'll—"

"Dumbledore," Harry grits out, "should be well aware of what I'm doing, and you can tell him I told
you that, if you like. Sir, please, I don't have a lot of time and I want to talk about Sirius."

Remus' face goes slack immediately. "Sirius… Oh, Harry, you—you…"

Harry grimaces and shakes his head. "No, I'm—it's fine. I have a question for you. You two loved
each other, didn't you?"
"I—I—" Remus has never looked this confused, flustered, and worried in front of Harry before.
His eyes have somehow gotten wider. "Well, yes, I suppose we did. We were best friends, you
know."

"No, not like that," Harry snaps impatiently, rolling his eyes. "You were in love , I mean. Right?"

"Er, well…" Remus trails off, blinking. After a long beat, he quietly continues, his breath hitching
just a bit to be noticable. "How did you know? Did Sirius tell you that we—"

"Sirius didn't, no," Harry mutters, glancing around yet again, the back of his neck prickling despite
the fact that no one else is in the alley with them. "How I know doesn't matter. What I want to
know is if you're the reason he sort of fucked off from the way he grew up. The Pureblood way,
that is."

Remus stares at him, baffled. "I—well, I do believe I was a factor in it, yes, but Sirius' issues with
his family and how he was raised started early in his childhood. For him, it was about what was
right and what was wrong more so than...me."

Harry grunts in frustration. "Alright, but how did he know what was wrong and what was right?
How did he learn? Who told him?"

"I'm not entirely sure what you mean," Remus says slowly, glancing around conspicuously. He
takes a small breath and steps closer, lowering his voice considerably. "Harry, we can continue this
conversation elsewhere. Somewhere safe for you."

"I mean exactly what I said," Harry mutters, barrelling right over Remus' insistence that they leave.
"He was raised a certain way, wasn't he? How did he find out that it was wrong?"

"I...think he simply disagreed with it." Remus frowns at him, looking absurdly concerned. "That,
and I'm sure it was bred from a natural rebellion. His mother was never...fair to him, so he
instinctively went against her wishes. What is this about? You must know that there are people
looking for you, trying to bring you home, and you should—"

Harry cuts him off with, "I miss him."

Remus' face freezes, then softens. "As do I."

"I'm sorry for your loss, sir. I know it must be hard to—to lose the person you love like that. And
I'm sorry I'm not around to help."

"I think, for right now, I'm much more concerned about your own grief and where, exactly, you've
been. Frankly, Harry, things have been tense ever since you…"

"Killed Bellatrix Lestrange?" Harry suggests quietly.

"Yes," Remus says softly, searching his expression with calm, amber eyes.

Harry swallows. "D'you think Sirius would forgive me for it? She was his cousin, and I—"

"Harry," Remus cuts in firmly, his entire demeanor changing into something grave and intense.
"Sirius would not blame you for what you've done. He would understand. He would love you the
same as he did moments before it happened."

"I should be blamed, though," Harry mumbles, hesitantly looking up into Remus' eyes. "I did it on
purpose. I wanted to do it."

Remus seems to hold his breath for a moment, then slowly lets it out. "Yes, well, lesser men than
you have wanted to do the same."

"What about greater men than me?"

"I don't think there are many of those out there."

"Oh." Harry has a lump in his throat. He has to take a second to clear it away, averting his eyes
from Remus' genuinely kind expression. "I'm not sure if I agree, sir, but thank you."

"Harry," Remus says gently, "I have intimate experience in what it feels like to believe yourself
nothing more than a monster. I have met many monsters in my life of being one, and I can say
undoubtedly that you are not among them."
Harry takes in a deep breath. "What makes a monster out of a man?"

"Choices, usually," Remus murmurs. "Circumstance, occasionally. But, mostly, it's about heart, I
think. Good or bad intentions aside, only you can judge what's in your heart."

"And if I find it lacking?"

"Surely you don't."

"A lot of things can change in the time I've been gone," Harry whispers.

Remus pauses, then sighs. "Well, if you find it lacking, you can decide to change it. As I said, it's
usually choices that makes a man a monster."

"What choices have you made that make you believe you're a monster?" Harry asks.

"In my case, it's a mixture of choices and circumstances. There's very little I can do to change my
situation, Harry."

"I don't believe that. If you can't, then neither can I. Either anyone can change, or there are those
who can't, which means that I am perhaps among them. Which will it be, sir?"

I—well…" Remus looks startled, staring at Harry like he's never quite seen him before. Harry gets
that; he has gotten better at intense debates because of his regular discussions with Voldemort.
Now, it's all about what Remus will say, which ends up being a very soft, "Anyone can, then."

"Even you. Even me."

"Yes, Harry, even us."

Harry's lips twitch. "Brilliant. That's lovely to hear, honestly. Now I've just got to figure out how."
"Why do you think you need to change? What happened to Bellatrix—"

"I happened to Bellatrix, sir. Unlike some, I already knew what was right and what was wrong, and
I still made the choice to do wrong. Sometimes, I still do. Things aren't always simple."

"No, they're not," Remus agrees. He clears his throat as he takes another quick look around. "I can
help you. The Order can, Dumbledore can, your friends can. You've been pardoned for your
crimes, Harry. You can come home."

"Unfortunately, sir, those aren't the only crimes I've committed," Harry rasps, clenching his fists.
"And, for me, there's a bit of circumstantial monstrosity as well. I can't come home, no matter how
much I want to, not until I've fixed things."

Remus' face twists with something like frustration and confusion. "Harry, whatever penance you
believe you have to endure, you don't. You're just a boy. You should be with people who care for
you."

I am, ironically enough, Harry thinks. He doesn't voice it, instead saying, "It's not that, or just that,
as it were. There is something I have to do, so I can't come back." Remus opens his mouth as if he's
about to protest, and Harry shakes his head quickly. "Trust me, sir, it's more complicated than it
seems. If nothing else, Dumbledore will understand. I know you'll tell him you've met with me, so
just—just tell him that I understood what he meant to do. I should go now, but...I really am sorry
about, well, everything. And I hope it helps to know that I miss Sirius, too, because it helped me to
know that he was loved by you before he was killed."

"Harry," Remus starts, looking displeased.

"We may not see each other again," Harry finds himself saying, a little heartbroken to realize it. He
shuffles back a step, swallowing thickly.

Remus now looks overly concerned, and he steps forward, his fingers twitching towards his pocket
like he's about to go for his wand. "Harry, you shouldn't leave. Just come with me and—"

"Sorry about this, sir," Harry says with a wince, darting forward to shove at Remus' chest before he
can say another word.
Remus goes stumbling back, clearly surprised by Harry being so abrasive. Though, in fairness, the
last few months of his life has been so mad that he's learned very quickly how to use surprise as a
weapon. It's been a Curse cast on him frequently, so he's well-acquainted with how it works.

For example, it works in his favor now. Shoving Remus back throws him off-kilter, giving Harry
enough time to turn around and start sprinting away. He ducks around the corner and runs as fast as
humanly possible, his heart racing in his chest. He doesn't look back, unsure how he'll feel if he
finds Remus chasing him, or how he'll feel if Remus isn't.

He doesn't encounter very many people as he takes the route back to Mrs. Malfoy, but those he
happens upon all watch him go by in baffled silence. He pays them no mind, keeping his head
down and running as fast as his feet will take him.

The moment he scrambles down the alley where Mrs. Malfoy is still dutifully waiting, Harry puts
on his last burst of speed and nearly collides right into her. She gasps, reaching out to grasp his
arm, and Harry clamps his hand down over hers, glancing back over his shoulder as he pants. He
doesn't see Remus anywhere.

"Apparate us home, now," Harry declares urgently.

Mrs. Malfoy sucks in a sharp breath, tugging him to the side of the alley by a bin, barely sparing
any Muggles on the way a glance. Within seconds, without a care to anyone who might see, they
disappear with a sharp crack.

Prat,

I love the photograph. I look at it every day, honestly. You Slytherins and your posturing. You look
fit, though, which can only be proof that the universe has specific intentions to mock me
relentlessly. Draco, I miss you. I just miss you a lot, practically all the time, which is ridiculous, I
know, but I can't very well help it, can I?

Artimus seems to realize that I miss you because she's being peculiarly sweet to me as I write this.
She keeps sort of pushing her head against my cheek. I think my owl is getting jealous, honestly.
Speaking of jealousy, how is Theo? (I think I'm funny.)

I'm glad you and Hermione have made up, though I still think you should tell her that you were
upset. I'm very sure that she had no intentions to make you feel that way, and I think she'd want to
apologize if she knew. Tell her hello for me as well, of course.

As for Ron, I don't know what advice I can give you. Avoid him as much as possible, of course. I
don't want you two fighting at all. I think it's best if he's given time to come to terms with the truth.
In any case, leave Hermione to deal with him. I get the impression that if anyone can , it's her.

Tell Blaise and Pansy that they look great in their pocket-jumpers hoodies. I noticed that some of
the other students had sunglasses on in the background, despite the obviously dreary weather. I'm
still pleased that we started that trend, you know.

Recently, I've gotten into a spat with a mate. I've been thinking about it a lot, but I stand by the
decision I made at the time. He's a bit unreasonable about some things, but I understand why he is,
even if I don't agree with it. Long ago, I would have agreed with it. You've changed me as much as
I've changed you, I hope you know. Before you even think it, you've changed me for the better .

Merlin, I really do miss you.

With love,

Your Idiot

Harry feels ever so slightly uncomfortable entering the Shrieking Shack without his Invisibility
Cloak. He now has to fall flat on his face in front of anyone who happens to be here. Just so
happens, Draco has once again shown up early. Harry knows this because he hears Draco's rude
snort of amusement as he's picking himself up off the floor.

"Piss off," Harry mutters as he brushes dust off his trousers, sending Draco a half-hearted glare.

"You never look as handsome as you do when you're faceplanting before a fireplace," Draco muses
with false sweetness, his eyes sparkling with humor.
Harry flips him off. "You know I'm shite with Wizard travel. I'd like to take you on the tube just
once. You'd have a fit, I just know it."

"I have something you don't, my dear Harry. It's called poise," Draco says slowly, smirking.

"You're about to have my foot up your arse if you don't shut up."

"Don't threaten me with a good time, darling."

"You're horrible, love."

"I am very aware, muffin."

Harry narrows his eyes. "Is this flirting? Are we flirting right now? I actually can't tell."

"I think the word you're looking for is teasing, pet. Really, what would you do without me?" Draco
murmurs, lips twitching.

"Pet?" Harry wrinkles his nose. "I think I prefer muffin, honestly."

"Noted," Draco drawls, rolling his eyes. He sighs and leans back against what is the cleanest
portion of the wall in this place. "Now, why don't we get caught up on all the horrible things that
have happened since we saw each other last? You first."

"Nothing too horrible for me, which is surprising. I went out to get a frame for the photograph you
sent me, and I happened to spot Remus. I spoke with him, you know, as myself. It
was...complicated, but it certainly wasn't horrible. He'll be telling Dumbledore about it, I'm sure,
but no one will know where I'm at. Er, Voldemort is away again. Your father alluded to him
retrieving something, so I think he's going to get a Horcrux. Otherwise, I've been working on the
homework I've had set by him and spending time with your mum. Your turn."

"No, no, were not blowing past the Remus thing or the Horcrux thing. Elaborate."
Harry rolls his eyes. "I just wanted to speak with Remus, that's all. We talked about Sirius, mostly.
And I can't be sure about the Horcrux until Voldemort returns. I'm fairly sure that's what he's
doing, though, because I sort of lied and told him that I want to see how I react to each Horcrux. It's
best if they're all in one place, I think. There's still that last one that I have no sodding idea where it
is, but I'll worry about that later. Now, your turn."

"You won't be in danger with the Horcruxes, will you? Do you have connections to them like you
did with Nagini?"

"I don't think they'll pose any threat, honestly, but they will affect me. Not like Nagini, mind. I
think she only did because we were both, er, alive."

"I see." Draco hums and looks away, a considering expression on his face, deep in thought. After a
long moment, he sighs and looks back at Harry. "Well, things have been horrible for me. Do you
want the good news first or the bad news?"

"Bad news," Harry replies instantly.

Draco grimaces. "Theo is becoming increasingly hostile. He is practically skin and bones now, and
he snaps at anyone who tries to ask him if he's alright. He's usually gone, as I've told you, but when
he isn't, he's reading his Potions book. I've found out by following him that he spends time in
bathrooms, talking to ghosts with a pension to take peeks of unsuspecting bloke's cocks, so I've
concluded that he has officially lost it. As for Granger, she's made absolutely no progress with
Weasley, so he's still trying to hex me in the halls. Not only that, but Slughorn was recently
poisoned and hospitalized under Pomfrey's care. This means that Granger can't pester him about
Horcruxes. The story is that he went to share a drink with Dumbledore, only it turned out to be
poisoned. So, now, Dumbledore is covering Potions class until Slughorn is cleared again, which
honestly, the Headmaster is a complete nutter, but he's not too bad with Potions."

"Oh. Wow. That's...a lot of bad news," Harry says weakly. He swallows. "And the good news?"

"Ah, well, your Map works beautifully, I'll have you know." Draco pats his robes where the Map
must be at the moment. "Because of it, I've found out where Theo has been going. At first, I
thought it was malfunctioning because Theo's name would just disappear, but then, Granger told
me about the Room of Requirement. She and I have taken the Cloak and tried to get inside with no
such luck, but we have plans to keep trying. Oh, and Weasley is clearly fighting with his
girlfriend."
Harry frowns. "How is Ron fighting with Lavender good news, Draco?"

"Because I don't like him and I am firmly on Granger's side in this particular situation, that's why.
Keep up, Harry."

"Oh, whatever. Back to the other good news. Why do you think Theo had been going into the
Room of Requirement? Do you think it's for him to get time alone, or does it have something to do
with his mission from Voldemort?"

"I have absolutely no idea." Draco frowns, openly frustrated. "It's driving me a bit mad. I feel like,
if we knew what he was up to, we could help him. I don't understand why he won't let me help
him."

"Would you let anyone help you if it were you?"

"You would help me."

"Say I never came to the Manor and we were still, er, on outs. Would you let me help you then?"
Harry asks, genuinely curious.

Draco doesn't even need to think about it, apparently, because he instantly says, "Oh, in that case,
absolutely not."

"What? Why?" Harry blurts out, offended.

"Why would I? Besides, in that situation, would you even want to help me?" Draco challenges,
arching an eyebrow pointedly.

Harry pauses, then grimaces. "Alright, fair point. I'm glad we're not...you know. This is better."

"You're being rather...sweet lately, Harry." Draco raises his eyebrows and tilts his head, looking an
absolute vision leaning up against the wall like that, almost ethereal in the moonlight. "Saying you
love me, writing that you miss me. Why?"
"I'm only being honest. I do love you. I do miss you. Should I not tell you those things? I was under
the impression that you're meant to tell your boyfriend those sorts of things," Harry muses.

Draco narrows his eyes suspiciously. "You want to shag me, don't you? I already told you that—"

"What? Draco, no! I mean, yes, but no. One day! Not now, obviously. Just—Merlin, I'm not doing
any of this because I'm trying to shag you. I just don't see the point in not telling someone the
things you'll regret not telling them if—if…"

"If…?"

"Well, er, you know…" Harry trails off, then takes a deep breath, looking away. "There are a lot of
things that I wish I could say to Sirius, but he's gone. Every single day, I think about all the
moments I'm missing with my friends, with the Weasleys, and I just… I suppose I want to get this
right with you, is all. I don't want to muck it up."

"Oh." Draco is quiet for a long time. Harry eventually works up the courage to glance at him, and
Draco's throat is working around a thick swallow. His arms drop and he rasps, "I'd like it if you
would come snog me now."

"Yeah, alright," Harry whispers.

So, that's what Harry does, and that's what he keeps doing until the door opens with a creak. They
break apart to watch Hermione come in with a weary sigh, looking absolutely knackered. Her hair
is pulled back, stray curls falling around her face. Harry's heart immediately clenches with sweet
affection.

"Sorry I'm late," Hermione says, waltzing right over to the fireplace to hang the Cloak up. She
throws Harry a wry grin. "I had to sneak out of the Hospital Wing, which is very hard to do when
Madame Pomfrey is fluttering about everywhere."

Draco's eyebrows fly up. "You went to the Hospital Wing? Again, Granger?"

Hermione huffs, throwing him a frown. "I'm doing what I can, alright? Professor Slughorn never
wakes up as it is, but my method will work. I know it will."

"I still doubt that," Draco says.

"You shouldn't," Harry mutters with a snort. "I don't even know what you two are on about, but I
do know better than to doubt Hermione. What are you two on about, actually?"

"Hello, Harry," Hermione greets with a warm smile, her eyes bright with affection of her own.
"Draco hasn't learned not to doubt me yet, but he'll see. As of now, I'm using basic psychological
manipulation to get Professor Slughorn to tell me everything he knows about Horcruxes."

Harry blinks. "You're using what?!"

"She's ruthless, I tell you," Draco mumbles.

"It's not, er, bad or anything," Hermione says with an awkward chuckle. She clears her throat and
shrugs a bit sheepishly. "I'm just manipulating his subconscious to get what I need. I've been
sneaking off to heavily suggest that he tell me the truth."

"Hermione," Harry says slowly, "don't you think that's a bit...much?"

Hermione sighs. "It won't hurt him. Besides, I wouldn't have to do it if he'd just tell me."

"Ruthless," Draco says again.

"Yeah, she can be quite scary sometimes," Harry agrees, shaking his head.

"Oh, stop it, both of you. Just you wait, you'll both be thanking me soon enough." Hermione rolls
her eyes as she moves forward to give Harry a brief hug, squeezing him. "It's good to see you.
How've you been? Draco, have you told Harry about Theo and the Room of Requirement?"

"Yes, Granger, he's already caught up on all our foiled attempts to catch the ever-elusive Theo,"
Draco drawls, flicking his fingers lazily.
Harry smiles crookedly at Hermione. "I've been alright. I hear you're dating my boyfriend,
Hermione. Should I be worried?"

"Oh, absolutely," Hermione says with a snort. "It's all around the school, you know. We're in love,
haven't you heard?"

"The students here are all idiots," Draco comments rather mournfully.

"You're too good for him, Hermione," Harry informs her solemnly, working very hard not to
outright grin when her lips twitch. "Honestly, you could do much better than the likes of Draco
Malfoy."

Draco makes a small sound of offense. "Do you remember what I said earlier about you being
sweet? I take it back."

"I don't know," Hermione muses with a gleam of humor in her eyes as she shoots Draco a quick,
friendly glance, "I think he's alright. I could certainly do worse, at the very least."

"I disagree," Harry says, snickering when Draco swipes out at him. He chuckles and holds up a
hand in surrender. "Alright, alright, we were only joking, Draco. It's called teasing, pet."

"Fuck off," Draco says flatly.

Hermione laughs softly. "How romantic."

"Speaking of, I hear that Lavender and, er, Ron are having a domestic," Harry murmurs, raising his
eyebrows at Hermione. "Would that be your doing?"

"Who do you take me for?" Hermione protests, contrite and irritated almost immediately. "I've had
nothing to do with their relationship. When it falls apart—and it will—I won't take any
responsibility for it, no matter how I feel about...er, you know."
"Now, Weasley is undoubtedly someone you're too good for," Draco mutters snidely. "Why you're
after that idiot, I'll never know."

"Shut up, Draco," Hermione and Harry say in perfect unison. A beat later, Hermione continues
with a sigh. "I'll have you know, Ron is a lovely person, no matter what you think of him, Draco.
Harry can attest to this. Poor table manners, lack of intellectual motivation, and easily angered are
just flaws that don't really matter when you genuinely know a person. I've accepted them, and all of
his good qualities are more than enough to make him fanciable, thank you very much."

"She's got a point," Harry agrees, nodding. "After all, I also have poor table manners, a lack of
intellectual motivation, and I'm easily angered. I'm also an actual murderer, you know, and you
still fancy me perfectly well. Do you have any room to judge her? No, I don't think so."

Draco grimaces. "Please never compare yourself to Weasley ever again."

Harry shrugs carelessly. "We really are quite alike in some ways, honestly. We're best mates for a
reason."

"Still with that, are you?" Hermione asks with a small smile playing at the corner of her lips.
"Good on you, Harry. Don't give up on him."

"Never," Harry says immediately.

"Ugh," Draco scoffs, "Gryffindors."

Hermione ignores him entirely. "I haven't either, of course. I've been talking to him any chance I
get, but he always storms off. I think it has been on his mind, though, because he does a lot of
brooding. Mark my words, he'll be over it by April. Despite his anger, he hasn't told anyone
anything."

"He promised not to," Harry says simply. "Besides, even if he does hate me, he doesn't hate you,
and he'd never do anything to get you in trouble."

Hermione ducks her head, utterly delighted.

"Okay, enough of this. You'll both make my teeth rot," Draco snaps, rolling his eyes. "What else is
there to be caught up on?"

"Oh, right!" Hermione looks up, her gaze snapping towards Harry. "I spoke with Ginny yesterday,
Harry, and she heard that her dad told Fred, who told Ron, who told her, that there's confirmation
within the Order that you're alive. Apparently, Professor Lupin actually spoke with you. Is this
true? Have you seen him?"

Harry nods. "I did, yes. I spoke with him briefly, mostly about Sirius. What did Ginny say?"

"Honestly? Not very much. Though, that could be because she was upset at the time. Her and Dean
have been fighting, you see," Hermione tells him casually. "She just said that there's now new hope
within the Order, seeing as you're alive. Ginny said Ron said that Fred said that Mr. Weasley said
that Professor Lupin spoke with Dumbledore alone about something. Any idea what that was
about?"

"Er, possibly? I may have hinted to Professor Lupin about my mission in hopes that he'd tell
Dumbledore, that way Dumbledore would at least be aware that I know what I'm doing," Harry
says.

"Do you know what you're doing?" Draco challenges, narrowing his eyes at Harry.

"I know enough," Harry grumbles.

Hermione shakes her head. "They won't release the news to the public, of course. The Prophet is
still writing that you're likely off doing heroic things, or slaughtering villages, depending on the
day of the week. No one actually knows why you haven't returned to Hogwarts yet."

"Merlin, I really want to," Harry says softly.

Draco exchanges a look with Hermione. "You know, you could. If you get all the Horcruxes,
Hogwarts will be the safest place for you to be."

"He's right, Harry," Hermione murmurs.

Harry clears his throat. "I still don't know where the last one is."

"That's true," Hermione agrees calmly. "I'm still searching for an alternative to you dying anyhow,
which is why my method with Professor Slughorn is so important. We all need to be careful right
now."

"But...after that," Draco says, "you'll come back. As much as I like that you're just drifting through
the Manor, aching for my presence, you really can't hide there forever. You'll be lucky if you don't
have to do Sixth Year over."

Harry frowns. "Oh, I'm not doing it over. I'll take my exams just like everyone else, and once I
pass, they can't make me do it over."

"Harry, you haven't been here all year!" Hermione bursts out, her eye twitching. "How are you
meant to pass the exams if you haven't learned anything?"

"Independent study," Harry says pointedly, raising his eyebrows. "If nothing else, Voldemort is a
diligent Professor. Actually, I think he's starting to teach me some Seventh Year things as well,
now."

Hermione blinks in shock. "You're actually getting lessons from You-Know-Who?!"

"And Mrs. Malfoy," Harry mumbles defensively.

"Oh, Harry," Hermione groans, "only you."

Draco clicks his tongue. "In his defense, what else was he supposed to do? He couldn't very well
shirk his studies all year, could he? You can't be mad at him for not learning, then be mad at him
for learning, Granger. That's not how it works."

"I love you," Harry tells him, because he really does, especially in this moment. He beams at
Draco, which earns him an eye-roll.

Hermione sighs, tossing up a hand. "No, you know what? It's fine. Just—just never tell anyone
else, alright? That's not the most pressing matter. Before I forget, we need to talk about the Easter
Holiday. I'll be going home, so neither of you should worry about visiting me here, but I want to be
clear that we will meet here the first weekend of May. Are we in agreement with that?"

Harry shares a looked with Draco, who shrugs, then he smiles and says, "Sounds brilliant,
Hermione."

The following days leading up to Easter hols seems to take forever in Harry's mind. He and Draco
had decided not to write, knowing there'd be no point, so the days feel like they're moving as slow
as a rolling fog without even a letter to look forward to.

In the time that Harry has to wait, he goes to lessons and actually allows it to distract him. The
novelty of having sodding Voldemort as a surprisingly good Professor has worn off, even if he
never thought it would, but that doesn't mean the lessons are less intriguing. They remain
something that Harry can apply himself to, and he always leaves each class feeling like a better
Wizard. Of course, they still bicker quite frequently about the difference of opinion between them
—or, rather, Harry gripes at Voldemort, who tolerates it until he gets enough and they glare at each
other in stilted silence.

On the matter of Horcruxes, Harry hasn't brought them up, though he is very aware that he needs
to. He thinks that Voldemort might have retrieved one while he was away, but he isn't quite sure
how to ask without seeming...suspicious. He's hoping Voldemort will eventually broach the topic
for him.

In his free time, he flies and enjoys Mrs. Malfoy's company. Of course, even in those brief
moments, his mind consistently turns back to Ron. That subject takes up a lot of Harry's thoughts,
often leaving him in dull silence as he ponders just how his relationship with his best mate will end
up. Mrs. Malfoy says he's brooding, which isn't at all accurate in any way, but he's too polite (and
too busy being lost in thought) to correct her.

The day before Draco is due to return home, Voldemort actively seeks Harry out. It's the second
time he's ever shown up at Harry's door, and he handles the situation the same way he did the first.

"Am I permitted entry?" Voldemort asks, lingering calmly in the doorway, ridiculously patient.

Harry, who had been sprawling on his stupidly extravagant bed, watching his and Draco's Snitch
flit about above his head, immediately scrambles up and darts his hand out to catch said Snitch.
Absurdly, he blurts, "I've already practiced the Draught Charm!"

Voldemort stares at him for a beat, then says, "Good. Am I permitted entry?"

"Oh, right." Harry blinks, clearing his throat. He scoots forward to sit at the end of the bed, still
clutching the now-still Snitch in his hand. "Yeah, sure. Is this about the Draught Charm? Because I
haven't quite got it just yet, but I think I will soon."

"It's not about the Draught Charm, Harry," Voldemort tells him, sweeping into the room. He comes
to a halt in the center, standing tall and domineering right across from Harry. "I am going
somewhere today, and I would like for you to come with me, if you're agreeable."

Harry instantly narrows his eyes. "Where? Why? With who? Just you? For what?"

"There is something I want to show you. Two places will be visited today, if you agree. It will be
with just me, and I want you to come for more reasons than I care to actually express."

"You must be mad to think I'm just going to leave with you without knowing where I'm going, or
who we might see."

"Very well," Voldemort declares simply, turning around without any hesitation whatsoever and
heading right for the door.

"Wait!" Harry blurts, bolting to his feet without thinking. Voldemort pauses, and Harry huffs as he
crosses his arms. "You're not taking me to see Dumbledore, are you?"

Voldemort swivels around to stare at him. "Why would I do that, Harry?"

"Er...I dunno, actually. I just…"

"You truly have no desire to see the man, do you?"

"Not particularly," Harry admits grudgingly, averting his eyes. His tone is bitter. He doesn't
elaborate that his disinterest in seeing Dumbledore again is bred from fear and anger and hurt, but
he likely doesn't have to, not to Voldemort. "If you're thinking of taking me along to go burn
Muggle towns or something, you must know I'll make a scene. I'll fight you if I have to, even if I
lose."

"Yes, Harry, I'm very aware," Voldemort mutters, looking seconds from rolling his eyes, if he were
capable of such an action. Instead, he sighs very quietly. "I'm not taking you to see Dumbledore,
nor am I planning to dispose the world of filth today."

"Muggles aren't filth, you—"

"Don't start. I'm in no mood."

Harry grunts, fighting the urge to make a very rude gesture at the unusually tolerant Dark Lord in
front of him. "Fortunately for you, Mr. Voldemort, Dark Lord, sir, I am also in no mood to argue,
not today. I am right, though, just so you're aware."

"Childish," Voldemort notes with a faint sneer.

Harry makes the rude gesture, which presses Voldemort to flick his wand with a small twitch like
he can't actually help it. Expecting this very thing, Harry quickly flicks his wand as well, shielding
himself from the incoming stinging jinx. Because, for all that Voldemort is tolerant in some ways,
he is extremely quick to respond to what he deems as Harry being childish, leading him to scold
Harry like a child in stinging jinxes that should probably hurt a lot more coming from such a
powerful, dark Wizard.

"See?" Harry smiles cheekily. "I'm learning."

Voldemort narrows his eyes into slits. "Mhm. Your reflexes are noteworthy. Now, are you
coming?"

"Are you planning to cause trouble?" Harry asks, raising his eyebrows.

"If I was," Voldemort murmurs, "wouldn't you rather be there? Would your guilt-ridden conscience
allow you to avoid such circumstances if that were the case, Harry, or would it demand that you be
present to try and stop me?"

Harry opens his mouth, then closes it as his face contorts into a scowl. "Oh, bloody hell," he
grumbles, even as he moves to put on his trainers.

Voldemort smirks.

It is raining, because it usually is, and Harry is more than happy to have an excuse to keep his hood
up as he follows Voldemort along at a brisk pace. The sound of the sky falling in pelts of water hits
leaves that squelch under their boots, and the forest around them is bleak, smelling of rotted trees
and musky soil. Voldemort's sweeping Cloak looks right at home here, floating out behind him
with his stride.

In Harry's mind, Voldemort only exists in certain places. Just snapshots from the past—leaning
over a dead Unicorn, sneering in the Chamber of Secrets, rising from a bubbling cauldron, floating
through the Department of Mysteries—and then whole memories of the present where he takes up
space in the Manor, in the study that is practically his, in that first chair in the Death Eater room.
Voldemort being outside, out in the open, is...bizarre.

"Aren't you worried someone will see?" Harry asks softly, though he doesn't actually think that's a
concern out here in some deserted forest, but he's curious if that's a worry Voldemort has at all.

"No," Voldemort says simply, because it apparently isn't.

Harry sighs and shuts up, scanning their surroundings, trying very hard not to feel like an idiot.
Right now, he's trailing after Voldemort like a little tyke who's never strayed from home, nearly
slipping on wet clumps of leaves and dirt. More than once, he has snapped his hand out to grab the
fabric of Voldemort's robe that dangles from his arm to keep from falling right on his arse. It's
embarrassing. Voldemort has dutifully refrained from mentioning it, which is yet another thing
Harry has to be thankful for.

There's a layer of fog that surrounds them as they walk along, making it hard to see too far ahead.
Without it, Harry thinks, he might have seen the gates from farther away. As it is, he doesn't notice
the tall, iron-wrought gate that gives way to cobblestone walls until they're drawing to a halt in
front of it. Voldemort flicks his wand, and the strange fixture of a Graphorn melts away like mist,
leaving the gates to swing open with a creak.
"Is this another Manor?" Harry mumbles, frowning as Voldemort sweeps in, leading Harry to
follow.

Glancing over his shoulder, Voldemort flicks his red eyes over Harry's face. "Not quite. Come
along."

"Is anyone here?" Harry asks, craning his head as Voldemort leads him up a long dirt path.

"Yes," Voldemort says. "You needn't worry about them. They are here under my orders, and they
will not harm you."

Harry arches an eyebrow at Voldemort's back, but he doesn't try to argue. "If you say so."

Voldemort merely hums and continues his strange stride-floating without breaking pace. Harry
stuffs his hands in the pocket of his hoodie, gaze darting about as the fog starts to clear up the
farther they go. It feels like they're climbing a hill.

As it turns out, they are. Harry soon can see the distant stretches of it as the fog dissipates almost
entirely. It is not the only thing he sees, however.

Despite himself, Harry comes to a screeching halt.

If Ron were here, he'd have an absolute fit.

In the distance, Harry can now make out the scuttling forms of what can only be—at the very least
—a hundred Acromantulas. Some are small, just babies, which means they're half Harry's size.
Others are much bigger, grotesquely bigger, meaning they're double Harry's size. None, however,
are bigger than Aragog, which isn't as much of a comfort as he wishes it was.

They are, after all, man-eating spiders with a strange and bone-chilling sentience. To act as if
they're anything other than absolutely terrifying would be a lie, and Harry's not scared to be honest
about this.
The distress of taking in the surroundings does not stop there, because there's a large courtyard
directly to the left of where all the Acromantulas are accumulating. In that courtyard, there are
upsetting amounts of people dressed in black cloaks and Death Eater masks, though some are
going without their masks as well, but Harry can't make out any of their features. The small vapors
of the fog lights up with bursts of light from various wands, and the wind carries malicious laughter
and vulgar words echoing straight to Harry's ears.

"Harry," Voldemort says from a few steps ahead of him, staring back at him curiously.

Harry swallows. "This is…"

"People and creatures I appeal to in some form or another," Voldemort answers his unasked
question, flippant and careless. "I told you that I would be gathering more supporters. Did you
doubt me?"

"No," Harry whispers, "I just doubted that there would be so much cruelty in the world."

"Your own life should have swayed you from believing in something as ridiculous as that."

"It should have."

Voldemort stares at him for a long, tense moment. He blinks just once, then his lips tick down in
the faintest frown Harry has ever seen. "The world is cruel, Harry, as are most people in it. You
should harden your heart to it."

"The world itself can't be cruel; it's only a chunk of rock floating about in space that people just
happen to inhabit," Harry murmurs. He shakes his head, heaving a small sigh. "Inhabiting it
poorly, mind. The people, however...well, for everyone that is cruel, there is someone that isn't.
I've met a few."

"Such as?" Voldemort challenges, arching a naked eyebrow. "Can you name someone with a nature
that upholds true purity without the stain of mistakes?"

"No one is perfect," Harry rasps, blinking hard, "but not everyone has the nature you think them
capable of. Some people are kind, and caring, and without fault in both. They're braver than anyone
who isn't, because it is much harder to be."
"You've named no one," Voldemort points out.

Harry takes a deep breath, then slowly lets it out, his lips curling up just a bit. "Luna Lovegood.
Neville Longbottom. Remus Lupin. Hermione Granger. Ron Weasley. Ginny Weasley. Mrs.
Weasley. Mr. Weasley. Fred Weasley. George Weasley. Professor Mcgonagall. Professor Flitwick.
Cedric Diggory."

Harry means to continue, but Voldemort stops him, raising a hand. "Diggory. That is the boy I—"

"The spare," Harry says calmly, his tone even. His chest burns, burns, burns.

"You thought him kind?"

"I knew him to be. I perceived him to be. He was certainly capable of it, and he might have been
the one to uphold everything you believe no one in the world ever will. But he's dead now, so we'll
never know."

"No, we will not," Voldemort agrees, not apologetic, never remorseful. He just looks at Harry
patiently, and when Harry says nothing, he hums. "Did you notice, Harry, that you did not mention
the Malfoys in that list, not even Draco? Furthermore, do you realize that you didn't include
yourself?"

"Mrs. Malfoy and Draco belong on a separate, more complicated list."

"And what list might that be?"

Harry blows out a deep breath, tearing his gaze from Voldemort's to scan the literal army that litters
the grounds in front of him. Softly, he says, "The list of people who are not naturally kind and
caring in blatant ways, but those of which who are capable of changing. The list of those who can
learn how."

"Ah." Voldemort is silent for a moment, then he makes another curious sound. "That must be a
very special, very short list."
"It isn't," Harry whispers, slowly turning his gaze back to Voldemort's. He knows his eyes have
softened, and as much as he wishes they wouldn't, he can't help it. "This list is the longest of them
all. It contains everyone in the world."

The wind is a soft breeze around them, but the rain still comes in from the side, hitting Harry's
cheeks before his eyes. It's like nature is trying to reverse his tears that he's shed for so long, and
the rain tastes sweet on his tongue. It's refreshing, this weather, even if the setting falls short, even
if the conversation is on the knife's edge of excruciating.

Yet, what matters more than the rain, more than the breeze, more than the army around them, is
the flicker of surprise that crosses Voldemort's inhuman face. It lasts longer than he seems capable
of, but once it is gone, there's no traces left behind.

Harry saw it, though. He saw it.

"Everyone," Voldemort muses, like that concept has never before crossed his mind. There's a
question that Harry can make out in the flash of his ruby-red eyes, a question that Harry knows
Voldemort will never ask or admit to wanting answered.

Harry answers it anyway. "Everyone. Even me. Even you."

Voldemort says nothing. For once, he seems to be rendered completely silent, and this just might
be the first discussion they've ever had where Harry feels like he's somehow won. He can't help but
grin in triumph when Voldemort abruptly and silently whips around, beginning his trek up the
path.

Harry follows him, inwardly patting himself on the back. He's not entirely sure what they've
accomplished with this latest conversation, but he knows a victory when he sees one. Every
discussion with Voldemort is like a verbal spar, like an endless duel, and Voldemort wins every
single time without fail, often leaving Harry wounded.

It's nice, Harry thinks, to be the one turning Voldemort's world on its head for once.

Knowing how hard it is to get your bearings after such a thing, Harry kindly doesn't try to talk to
Voldemort, not even when the path eventually breaks through the last tendrils of the fog to show a
looming cottage at the top of the hill.
It reminds Harry of the Shrieking Shack, only it doesn't look like it's falling apart. It has the same
gloomy atmosphere and the same grungy build, but no doors or windows are falling from the
hinges.

"Come," Voldemort says sharply, apparently wounded in his own way. Harry doesn't actually
know how he's managed it, but he clearly has.

"Alright," Harry agrees mildly, walking forward as Voldemort opens the door and holds it open.

The inside of the cottage reflects the outside. It's not decrepit, nor is it abandoned, but it is sparse
and dark. There's a very dim fire, mostly just embers flickering, but there's no other source of light
besides what sunlight barely reaches through the treetops outside. There's not much furniture, just a
few chairs and a small table between them, plus a dark green rug that nearly covers the entire
wooden floorboards. Off to the side, there's what is clearly a Potion's Master station, complete with
a Potion Master standing behind a bubbling cauldron.

"My Lord," Snape greets, dipping his head in respect before his gaze flicks over to Harry. "Mr.
Potter."

"Severus," Voldemort replies coolly, "do you happen to know where Nott is?"

Snape is silent for a second, then he says, "No, I do not, My Lord. Has he been...evading you?"

"Foolishly, yes," Voldemort hisses, sneering. He flicks his fingers impatiently. "Retrieve him."

"Yes, My Lord," Snape says, flicking his wand towards the cauldron and departing immediately,
moving to the fireplace to disappear into a bright burst of flame.

Harry glances towards Voldemort. "Can I have a word alone with him when he gets back?"

"Do you wish to speak to him about your mother?"

"Yeah. Can I?"

Voldemort peers at him, a curious glint in his eye that Harry doesn't understand until he very, very
slowly says, "Harry, you do not...usually ask me for permission. Recently, however, you have been
doing it frequently. Why?"

"I—" Harry stops and blanches, utterly horrified to realize that Voldemort is right. "I—I—"

"You may speak with Severus alone when he returns, yes," Voldemort abruptly says, dipping his
head with his visible agreement and permission.

Harry feels like he's going to throw up.

"My Lord," comes a harsh growl, the title somehow rude and respectful all at once, "you've finally
returned. There's been a problem with—"

The...man—only, not just a man—stops talking and stops walking, freezing in the doorway the
moment his gaze lands upon Harry. He's tall and broad, his teeth sharp, his scars visible and vast.
His grey, matted hair sways as a slow grin forms on his face.

"Well, what do we have here?" the man practically snarls, his fingers curling around the
doorframe. The long, yellowed nails almost puncture the wood with the force he uses to slam the
door shut. "You're already keeping on your promise so soon, I see, My Lord. What's your name,
boy?"

Harry blinks, too startled to actually be frightened. For a second, he thinks he might have
accidentally transfigured himself into Arius Fawley at some point, though he has no recollection of
it. Of course, he hasn't done that, but it would make more sense than someone not recognizing him.
Everyone recognizes him. To be fair, though, his hood is up, so his scar is covered and his hair isn't
on display.

Whatever fear he should have been feeling at the blatant leer on the man's face doesn't so much as
flood in as it trickles along the rising tide of adrenaline that hits him as the man prowls forward a
step. Harry instinctively takes a step back, his fingers wrapping tight around the wand in his pocket
as his heartbeat instantly picks up pace. The man's nostrils flare as he gives a deep throaty laugh,
seemingly pleased by Harry automatically backing away, instead of offended.
"Greyback," Voldemort says, that one word sharp and cold, an order if Harry's ever heard one.

The man—this Greyback—does not seem to catch the order. He only chuckles more harshly and
moves closer to Harry, saying, "Oh, thank you, My Lord. This one is so grateful for a treat, My
Lord."

Greyback says My Lord the same way someone might say shitestain, only if they're somehow
thankful for it. Strangely, it's like Greyback hates addressing Voldemort by such a title, but at the
same time acknowledges him as a higher status. It doesn't make sense, and honestly, it's blatant
disrespect that Harry is sure not very many people get away with.

It's oddly infuriating.

Harry's not sure why, exactly, he's offended on Voldemort's behalf, especially when he, himself has
never addressed Voldemort with any kind of respect. He doesn't plan to, either. Still, it's an instant
reaction that's mortifying and intense in equal measure. Harry sort of wants to smack this man.

As if this reflexive response isn't embarrassing enough, there's the tiniest flicker of jealousy that
churns in Harry's gut. He smothers it as soon as he notices it, but in doing so, he has to admit that it
is there. That he, Harry Potter, is moronically a bit jealous that someone else in the world talks to
Voldemort in such a way and gets to live after.

"Harry Potter," Harry snaps, forcing himself to stop taking small, involuntary steps backwards. He
stares right at Greyback, his stomach recoiling at the gleam of hunger in the man's eyes. "My name
is Harry Potter."

The gleam does not diminish at his name, but in fact, it brightens. Greyback tosses his head back
and crows with delight, almost howling. When he stops, he looks right at Harry and says, "Well, I
didn't know I'd have such fine dining today, Harry Potter. It seems I'm being treated to luxury
cuisine."

Ew, Harry can't help but think.

"Greyback," Voldemort says softly, and that is somehow much more dangerous than his frigid,
cutting tone from moments ago, "you will not touch Harry Potter."
Harry wants to smirk smugly and hates that he does. He manages not to, but it is a close thing.
Merlin, this is a mad, mad world. So bizarre.

"But My Lord," Greyback growls in that taunting way of his, "what could one...little...taste…
hurt?"

There are very few things in this world that Harry isn't willing to question, most of them revolving
around the people he loves. Long ago—or it feels like a long time ago, anyway—Harry wasn't one
to question certain things he instinctively believed to be true. That was before everything got so
complicated and messy and the only thing Harry could be sure of was that he couldn't be sure of
much. In any case, there's not much his mind won't ponder over these days.

However, Voldemort stating that Greyback will not touch him isn't something he doubts for a
second, which is bizarre in a way that Harry won't examine, simply because he doesn't think he'll
be comfortable getting to the root of such a strange assurance.

That's why, as Greyback mocks and moves forward, Harry resolutely does not back away. He does
not pull out his wand. He does not flinch. Even with Greyback close enough that Harry can smell
the rancid stench of his hot breath and his horribly maintained nails—claws, really—curling out
towards Harry's cheek with obvious malicious intent, Harry does absolutely nothing.

He doesn't have to, is the thing.

Before Greyback can so much as graze Harry's skin with his own, there's a pale hand darting from
Harry's peripheral. Equally pale fingers, long and spindly, wrap around Greyback's neck, tight
enough that Greyback makes a snarling-choking noise. That noise cuts off as those fingers tighten,
and Harry watches as Voldemort picks Greyback up off the floor by his throat without showing any
strain.

Greyback is a very large man, taller even than Voldemort, much broader than him, too. Still, it's
with apparent ease that Voldemort lifts him clean off the floor, Greyback's legs dangling like he's
nothing more than a doll.

"You will not touch him," Voldemort repeats harshly, his eyes narrowed into slits, lipless mouth
bared back into a sneer. "I will kill you if you do."

Then, with that, Voldemort tosses Greyback aside like he weighs nothing. Greyback goes sailing
across the room, growling the whole way, and he lands in a heap at the door. The dismissal is
clear.

"You," Greyback snarls, his teeth bared as he hauls himself up. His chest heaves and seems to be
vibrating with growls.

"Out. Now," Voldemort hisses, the words so sinister that they drip with threat, reminding Harry yet
again of Nagini. It sends a cold shiver down his back, a pulse of warmth in his chest, and the
faintest lump of grief in his throat.

Moments later, Greyback is a snarling, furious whirlwind as he bangs his way out the door,
slamming it shut behind him so hard that the whole cottage seems to tremble. It is possibly the
biggest tantrum Harry has ever witnessed, and the most threatening, too. It shouldn't be faintly
comical, but it is. He shouldn't be vaguely smug, but he is.

A mad, bizarre world, indeed.

"Nice friend you've got there," Harry says.

Voldemort cuts him a sharp look. "Greyback is not a friend; he is an ally, at most. Your jokes are
poor at the moment. Are you frightened?"

Harry glances down at his own body, taking stock of himself, trying to work out if he's afraid. He
should be, he thinks, but he isn't. He's just… "Unsettled, actually. Your friend is a bit creepy, Mr.
Voldemort, Dark Lord, sir."

"Those that I associate with can be and often are, yes. Just as I am, wouldn't you say?"

"Seeing as you have no nose, that would be correct. Seeing as I've gotten used to it, I wouldn't say
it."

"He is a Werewolf," Voldemort says. "He has a deep-seated disdain for Wizard-kind."

"Are you not a Wizard?"

"I am. However, we have a...common goal."

"Ah," Harry murmurs, nodding as understanding washes over him. "The enemy of my enemy, and
all that, I suppose. Is that why he speaks to you like that? And why you let him?"

"He is a means to an end," Voldemort declares, a bit agitated. His slitted nostrils flare as he glares
at the door, his fingers twitching before coming to rub at his chest. "An end that is approaching
more swiftly than I planned for. He's a fool."

Harry pauses, glancing between Voldemort's eyes that are bright with open anger and his fingers
that rub almost mindlessly at the center of his chest. Cautiously, Harry closes his eyes and tries to
search inwards somehow, feeling like an idiot as he does. He knows he and Voldemort have a
connection, one they've skirted by purposefully ever since Voldemort possessed his mind, but now
Harry actively seeks it out. He's curious. He wants to know what, precisely, Voldemort is feeling at
the moment.

When he finds it, he instinctively flinches back from it. There's so much rage. He's not prepared for
such a strong wave of pure fury, and he scuttles back from it in his mind. He remembers
Voldemort's "grief" over Nagini, how that had been anger, but even that anger can't amount to this.
It's only a fraction of what Voldemort is feeling right now, and Harry blinks open his eyes, startled
beyond words.

It's like Voldemort feels everything through anger, every emotion filtered into that. Even his
delight is cruel and malicious, nothing truly happy about it, but delight nonetheless. Right now,
Voldemort is feeling quite a bit, all of it translated into rage, leaving Harry to work out what it was
to begin with.

"Er, can I ask you something?" Harry starts hesitantly, trepidation hitting him square in the chest.
He has his suspicions, and he doesn't know whether he wants them to be right or not.

Voldemort is still glaring at the door Greyback disappeared through, but he says, "You may."

Harry clears his throat. "You weren't angry before Greyback came in, were you?"

"No." Voldemort continues to try and melt the door with the force of glare.
"Right." Harry coughs and swings his hands awkwardly, looking up at the ceiling. "You're angry
now, though. When, er, did you get angry, exactly?"

Voldemort lets out a low hiss like he might actually be a snake, but he dutifully responds with
honesty, just as always. "I became angry when he attempted to touch you, even as I told him he
would not."

Harry bobs his head, blinking slow. "Right, yeah, right. Just, um, one thing… Has he ever defied
you before? In any way, I mean."

"He has." Voldemort's lip curls in blatant distaste, eyes narrowing further. "Never has it angered
me like this, which is why he is still alive. I know he is a beast with no control and his place here is
helpful to my cause. This, however, I will not excuse."

Never has it angered me like this…

Harry holds his breath as he turns these new clues over in his mind, trying to make sense of them.
They're like puzzle pieces that come with locks, little things he has to pick open and click together
just to make sense of. It's like learning a new language just to translate one thing, and it's no easy
task. Fortunately—or unfortunately, depending on how one looks at it—Harry has been listening to
the language he doesn't speak for long enough that learning it isn't as hard as it could be.

"Oh," Harry mumbles, once he gets it. Because he does get it, now. His suspicions are confirmed.

Under all that anger, that fury, that unbridled rage, there is a peculiar protectiveness. Voldemort is
being protective of Harry, and not—as one would assume—just because he's a Horcrux. If that
were the case, Voldemort would not be angry like this, like he's about to burn the whole world
down, all because some poor, unfortunate fool had even dared to try and threaten Harry, despite
the fact that Harry cannot die, despite the fact that Harry can protect himself, despite the fact that—
under what used to be normal circumstances—Voldemort generally prefers to stand back and watch
to see what will happen without his interference.

It's being protective out of care. The same way that Sirius attacked Lucius Malfoy for making the
mistake of threatening his godson. The same way Hermione almost didn't sleep for days trying to
help Harry with tasks in Fourth Year. The same way Ron threw his own body in front of Harry's to
declare that Sirius would have to kill him first if he wanted to get to Harry. The same way Harry
went into the Chamber of Secrets to save Ginny. The same way Dumbledore sat at Harry's bedside
in First Year and offered him the first bit of pride and respect he'd ever genuinely gotten in his life.

It's the wild simplicity in caring about someone else enough to act irrationally, to go on the
defensive with so much determination that it feels like the world couldn't hold up against it, to do
the right thing—not necessarily because it is right, but because someone you care about needs it.

Voldemort feels that. Right now. Furiously.

Harry...doesn't know what to do with that, how to react, almost can't believe it. A part of him
doesn't believe it, thinks perhaps he's making it up, or possibly mistranslating. But no, no, because
Harry understands in the ways that Voldemort can't what this means, indicating that Voldemort
himself isn't even aware of such a thing. If he were, he'd do his absolutely best to snuff it out, and
Harry knows that.

It's strange to be aware of such a thing. It almost feels...invasive. Harry doesn't dare speak it out
loud or make Voldemort aware of it, somehow knowing that its existence is far more imperative
than trying to prove a point.

Still, knowing that Voldemort has unironically and unknowingly reacted the way a Dragon would
for their egg is...a lot.

It's an almost painful throb of warmth in his chest that makes his skin prickle with both concern
and relief, and it swells within him until his lungs feel far too full. No matter how much he
exhales, he still feels like he can breathe out without ever stopping. It's the oddest thing, Harry's
sure, because it feels good and hurts all at once.

He wants to catch the knowledge and grip it in his hands, holding it close to his chest, let it linger
calmly in his mind. And yet, at the same time, he wants to crush it in his grip and set it aflame so
he won't ever have to think about it again.

Harry had told Voldemort before to stop.

It seems he had barely begun.

"Harry?"
Blinking, Harry lets his breath rattle out of him as he meets Voldemort's gaze. "Sorry, what?"

"You went quiet." Voldemort is no longer rubbing his chest, but his fingers are still twitching like
he wishes there was a windpipe to crush.

"Er, yeah, thinking," Harry admits. He pauses, wondering just how far this has gone. "Are you
going to kill Greyback?"

Voldemort audibly grits his teeth. "I do not particularly want to. As I said, his position in my ranks
is necessary for the cause."

Harry nods, more relieved than hurt. "Right. And what, exactly, is his position?"

"Most of the Werewolves here hold the same disdain for Witches and Wizards that he does.
Greyback has their loyalty, more so than I, and to lose him would be to lose a great number of
supporters that join him. Some would stay. Most would not."

"Why does he stay?"

"He stays because I have offered him something that he has always wanted."

"It's...not actually letting him eat children, is it?"

"If it were?" Voldemort asks, tilting his head.

"Tell me it isn't," Harry whispers, "and mean it."

Voldemort, as always, appears unbothered. "He takes children and turns them, then raises them to
hate Wizards. I do not agree with his...lessons. However, it is useful to have the numbers that he
comes with. I do not approve of any Wizard blood turning to filth, tainted by a beast, but as I
said...a means to an end. When it is time, his end will come."
"Until then, you allow it," Harry says, his hands slowly balling into fists. "You—you stand by and
let him turn children into Werewolves. That makes you as filthy as him."

"Harry," Voldemort starts, his tone a warning.

"No!" Harry bursts out. "Absolutely not! There is so much wrong with—with all of this that I don't
even know where to begin! There's nothing wrong with Werewolves as a whole; they're not just
some beasts, and they deserve lives just like the rest of us! But Greyback takes children. Literal
children! He takes them and inflicts a life of pain on them, and you're just okay with that? Are
you?!"

Voldemort sighs. "I won't begin a debate, not here."

"Sod your fucking debates, you prick! He'd have gnawed on me like a bloody chew toy if you
hadn't tossed him out, and maybe he'll do it tomorrow to some other child who doesn't have you to
toss him out. A Pureblood, or a Muggle-born, it doesn't matter. What he's doing is wrong! It's
wrong, and you know it. Admit it's wrong!"

"Do you think I care about the lives of others, Harry? I don't know when I gave you such an
impression, but allow me to make it clear. What havoc Greyback wreaks is allowed because I do
not feel the urge to stop him. It will remain so."

Harry practically rattles in rage, and he's so stupidly hurt by Voldemort's words. They feel like a
slap to the face, even if he's known them. "Is that right?" he spits, his face contorting in his anger.
"In that case, what makes me so bloody special?"

With that and nothing else, Harry practically flies to the door, throwing it open and sprinting
outside without much warning whatsoever. He nearly skids in the soggy soil as he puts on a burst
of speed, fueled by how utterly upset he is at the moment. It doesn't take him very long to spot his
target, especially since his target is larger than most of the things moving about outside.

"Harry!" Voldemort hisses from behind him, sounding ludicrously scolding.

Ignoring him, Harry swivels on his heel and takes off running, waving his arms like a lunatic.
"Hey! Hey, you, Greyback! Yeah, I'm talking to you, ugly!"
It's probably a ridiculous sight from an outside perspective, Harry thinks. Here he is, barreling full-
speed ahead at a man who genuinely wants to eat him, with a Dark Lord chasing after him—likely
floating rather than actually running, because he's always dangerously regal. Said Dark Lord
probably has all plans to incapacitate him with a flick of his wand, but he won't make it in time,
because Greyback has spotted him and let loose a snarl of pure rage before taking off running right
for Harry.

Of course, this is a very mad plan, and not exactly a plan that Harry's actually made, to be fair. He's
just reacting, so sodding angry and disappointed that he isn't thinking past this one thing.

That's why he is ill-prepared for the moment that he and Greyback collide into each other. Harry's
not entirely sure what he thought would come of this, so he's internally baffled by his own
bemusement at his back hitting the ground with a thud. He's a little dazed by the impact,
admittedly, and he can only blink as Greyback hovers over him and roars in his face, mouth
splitting into a terrifying grin as he throws his head back. Mere seconds after, he's ducking forward
to go for Harry's throat.

Distantly, Harry feels the pinch of pain in his shoulder, and he waits for it to spread to his neck as
Greyback bites, except it never comes. There's a flash of green light, a loud clap of thunder, then
things go strangely quiet as Greyback abruptly slumps off to the side, landing on the ground beside
Harry with a dull thump.

Harry blinks, then he screams.

He doesn't really mean to, but the force of anger that floods into Harry's mind in the sudden quiet
hurts worse than anything ever has, hurts worse than Voldemort's Crucios. He wants to crawl out of
his own skull to escape it, very willing—in that delirious moment of pain—to claw his own head
off his shoulders to try and relieve himself of it.

He has no idea how long the torture lasts, but he's very aware of when it stops. The moment
Voldemort dips down beside him and grabs his chin, wrenching it to the side to see if he was
bitten, the rush of fury that burns worse than any fire recedes. It fizzles out to a point that Harry
can slam the door on it, trembling in the aftershocks of it.

But just because he can shove it away from himself doesn't mean that Voldemort isn't still feeling
it. After all, it's his rage. He glares down at Harry with wide, red eyes. There's so much going on in
his expression that Harry can't dream of translating it right now. Voldemort clenches Harry's chin
in a harsh grip, then he lets it go as he fists his hand in Harry's hoodie, yanking him to his feet.
"Inside, now!" Voldemort shouts—he actually shouts, the boom of his voice almost as loud as the
rolling thunder that claps a few beats later.

Harry scrambles towards the house, his eyes bulging, and he has no clue what he's feeling at the
moment. All he knows is that there's a twinge in his shoulder and his heart is racing. Well, that, and
Voldemort is overtaking his steps, his hand still gripping Harry's hoodie, dragging him along.

The door bangs open, and Harry's shoved unceremoniously inside with such force that he actually
stumbles. The door slams shut at the same time that Harry whirls around, and the first thing he sees
is a chair go sailing across the room. It shatters like glass against the wall, raining down in small
splinters of cloth, stuffing, and wood.

Windows crack. The whole cottage shakes like it's about to fall over. All the chairs in the room are
reduced to lumpy piles by the walls. The rug on the floor is set on fire, burnt and charred, and the
embers from before spark to an angry red wave of heat that makes Harry's skin tight.

Throughout, Voldemort moves around the room like a tornado, raging at random objects,
destroying each and every single thing that he crosses on his path.

Harry stands, numb, in the middle of the room, watching the chaos that never touches him.

And, finally, when there is nothing left for Voldemort to turn to, there's pause. In that pause, there's
Harry, staring at Voldemort's wand, which is now pointing right at him. He's the last thing in this
room capable of being destroyed, and he waits in numb silence to see if he will be.

Voldemort has never quite looked like this before, not even in Harry's most horrifying dreams, not
even in the dreams from Fifth Year where he watched Voldemort get angry through Nagini's eyes.
Right now, Voldemort looks brittle, as if he'll break apart and explode everything within range.

"I want to kill you," Voldemort says, his voice hoarse and harsh and heavy.

No, you don't, Harry thinks, a strange sense of pity filling him to the brim. You want to protect me.

He wonders, vaguely, if this is what it feels like to be Voldemort, to know something so deep about
the person across from you, something that has power, something that can wound them in ways
most things cannot. For all the times that Voldemort was across from him, telling him truths that
sent his life spiralling further and further, Harry is intimately familiar with how it feels to have
someone understand things about you that you can't even begin to understand yourself. It's almost
liberating, and it is most certainly sad.

"So do it," Harry says.

Voldemort looks like he wants another cottage to rip apart. He lowers his wand anyway. "Sit
down. You are bleeding."

"There's no chairs," Harry tells him pointedly.

"Sit," Voldemort repeats, flicking his wand at one of those lumpy piles, making it shake and slowly
morph back into a chair.

Harry sits. "Why am I bleeding?"

"Greyback used his nails to pin you to the ground. They punctured your shoulder." Voldemort
sweeps forward, his words clipped, his tone sharp. "Remove your outer garment and reveal the
wound."

"I'd rather not," Harry grumbles, even as he does as he's told. He's not about to argue with
Voldemort, not right now.

Voldemort waits for Harry to pull off his hoodie and tug the collar of his t-shirt aside to reveal the
puncture wounds. Harry stares down at it in faint surprise. There's five medium-sized holes that
blood sluggishly leaks from, and strangely enough, Harry doesn't recall them hurting. They do now
as he looks at them, and he frowns.

"It will scar," Voldemort says shortly, then starts waving his wand, healing the wounds slowly.

Harry is silent for a while, looking down at his lap, and then he clears his throat. "So...do you want
to, er, talk about it?"

"No."
"Alright."

Voldemort is silent.

Harry is, too, until, "I'm sorry."

"No, you are not."

"I'm not sorry for what you want me to be sorry for, but I am sorry."

Again, Voldemort is silent, and he remains that way even as he pulls his wand away. Harry glances
down to see the scars, and they're not too terrible. They're just crescent half-moons, slightly raised
in his skin. Draco will ask about them if he sees them, and Harry has no idea how he's going to
break this to him. Merlin, Voldemort might not be willing to kill Harry, but it'll be a miracle if
Draco doesn't.

"Draco's going to murder me," Harry whispers, utterly horrified.

"Draco cannot murder you," Voldemort says.

Harry clears his throat. "Yeah, I know."

Draco does not have the Sword of Gryffindor, nor does he have the skill to make Fiendfyre, and he
certainly doesn't have any spare Basilisks laying about. Harry still very firmly believes that Draco
would find a way, despite that.

Voldemort is back to being silent again, and what's worse, he's not even looking at Harry.
Something strange is happening inside Harry's chest, a small pinching, the same kind he used to get
when he was small and he'd made breakfast perfectly, hoping Aunt Petunia would be kind to him
for once, only for her to find something else to yell at him about.

That odd feeling of inadequacy. That strange, tremulous feeling of not being good enough for
someone you want to please.

Harry hates that he feels it, but that does not make the feeling go away. He looks down at his slack
fists that rest in his lap, and in a rare show of vulnerability, he whispers, "I don't want you to look
at me the way Dumbledore does."

There's a long beat of silence that's so thick with tension that it's smothering, then Voldemort sighs
quietly and asks, "How does Dumbledore look at you, Harry?"

"With—with disappointment," Harry rasps.

"He looked at me that way, too, when I was younger, even before I earned it," Voldemort
murmurs. His gaze flicks to Harry's, less angry now. "I despised it."

Despised it, or hurt by it? Harry wonders. Just how many years of Voldemort's anger went
untranslated, went without exploration, and does that make everything horrible he's ever done
worse or more understandable? Neither, really. It's still as horrible as it would be if Voldemort felt
absolutely nothing as he did it, and nothing will change that.

Harry swallows thickly. "I've earned it, though. From both of you now, I suppose."

"I do not believe Dumbledore looks at you with disappointment. I assume he feels as if he has
failed you," Voldemort muses. "Has he?"

"I don't know," Harry replies softly, because he still doesn't, and maybe he never will.

Voldemort takes a small breath, then lets it out, suddenly back to his calm demeanor like the mess
around them isn't his doing. He peers at Harry curiously. "Do you think I'm disappointed in you?"

"Yeah," Harry admits hoarsely.

"The thought...hurts you?"

"...Yeah."

"I see." Voldemort watches him for a long moment, his fingers lax around his wand. "Harry, I'm
not disappointed in you. I am angry with you, as I often am. What you just did…"

Harry winces at the immediate spark of fury in Voldemort's eyes. "Sorry, sorry, I was just…"

"Being a troublesome child," Voldemort cuts in, heaving a sigh. He looks very annoyed, but not
overly so. It's like he thinks all troublesome children go throwing themselves at Werewolves just to
prove a point. "You will never do what you just did again, Harry. Do you understand? If you do, I
will allow you to harm yourself as you see fit."

No, you won't, Harry knows but won't say. Instead, he nods and mutters, "Yeah, alright. I'm not
sorry that he's dead, though. Which...that's technically my fault, isn't it? Merlin, I'm responsible for
the murder of two people and now indirectly responsible for the murder of another."

"Not technically," Voldemort says. "I told him if he touched you, I would kill him. He touched
you. I killed him. He was warned."

"And the other Werewolves?"

"At least half started vacating the premises immediately, and I imagine more will go eventually.
As I said, few will remain."

"Does this mean you'll lose the war?" Harry asks slowly, eyeing Voldemort cautiously.

"No," Voldemort replies, watching him shrewdly, his gaze assessing. "Was that your intention?"

Harry sheepishly smiles. "Honestly? No, not really. But, if that actually worked out that way, I'll
admit that I'd be pleased by it."

Voldemort is annoyed again. "You oppose me."

"Of course."

"This also angers me, I hope you're aware. One day, my patience will run out."

"We'll see, I suppose," Harry says, amused. "And yes, I'm aware it angers you, but I find it a bit
funny. It sort of is, don't you think? The morally questionable child opposing his own guardian
who's out to start a, frankly, stupid war. I'm telling you, it'd make for a great soap on the telly."

The stinging jinx that hits his arm furthest away from his injury is to be expected, really, but Harry
can't help but yelp anyway. Voldemort smirks faintly, turning his head away like he means to hide
it while Harry glares at him without real anger.

In the next moment, the fireplace flares.

Snape only falters at the destruction for a split second, a mere breath, and then he continues like
this cottage has always looked like this and hasn't changed one bit. Behind him, the man that
follows doesn't have the same solid expression, and he can't quite save face. He looks around with
wide eyes and instantly begins trembling.

"My Lord, My Lord," the man chokes out, hitting his knees almost immediately, the words
escaping him on a shaky exhale. He sounds so scared, and it's so humiliating to witness that Harry
can't help but grimace. "Please, My Lord, I haven't been avoiding you. I would never, My Lord.
I've had no updates, and I—I just thought that—"

"You thought," Voldemort interrupts coldly, "that you'd go unpunished for your lack of updates if
you simply...didn't show up. Is that correct?"

The man's eyes sink shut. "No, My Lord, I simply didn't want to trouble you with—with nothing."

"I wouldn't say nothing," Voldemort declares. He turns and begins a calm pace in front of the man,
the one who must be Nott, even if he looks thinner than Harry last saw him. "Severus keeps me
informed, as you know, and he takes whatever reaction I deem fit. Do you believe you are above
that?"

"No, My Lord," Nott rasps, his eyes still shut like none of this might be real if he can't see it.
Voldemort flicks his wand, and Nott immediately goes crumbling to the floor, letting out a piercing
wail so loud that Harry's first instinct is to cover his ears. No human being should sound like that,
like the raw pain of an animal undiscovered, trapped in the jaw of its predator. The sound of it is
wrong, and horrible, and Harry wants it to stop, wants to never hear it again, not even from people
he doesn't like.

Harry can only stand there in dull shock, frozen in place, watching Nott squirm on the floor,
clawing at his own skin like he wishes to rip it off. He wants to stop it, but he's too stunned and
horrified to do so. He's not even sure why, exactly.

He knows this is a Crucio. He's been under it. He's seen it. And, sadly, he's all too aware of
Voldemort's fondness for torture. None of this should be surprising, and yet, he's still shaken by it.

Moments later, Voldemort moves his wand away, and Nott stops screaming. Instead, he whimpers
and shakes violently on the floor. Voldemort turns around, appearing calm and aloof, and he flicks
his gaze between Snape and Harry.

"Severus, there is a body that needs to be disposed of outside, if you will. Harry will accompany
you, as he wishes to speak to you alone."

"Yes, My Lord."

Harry's very eager to get as far away from this nightmare as possible, hating that he's witnessing it
with his own eyes. He's not entirely sure what his reaction is supposed to be. Pleased that a Death
Eater is getting hurt? No, because ultimately, that's a human being. Disappointed that Voldemort is
the one doing the torture? No, because sadly, Harry expects that out of him. Uncomfortable that he
has absolutely no idea what to feel, even if he's feeling quite a bit? Yes, that's the one, as usual.

The door shuts behind them with a dull thunk, and as they head up the path, the echoes of screams
start back up. Harry grimaces and picks up his pace, overtaking Snape's steps and wrapping his
arms around himself. He wishes he had brought his discarded hoodie because it is still raining, but
he can't make himself go back and get it.

"This way," Harry mumbles to Snape, stepping off the path in the direction of Greyback's body.

"You know where we are going," Snape notes in that pointed, naseley drawl of his. A beat of
silence, then, "Are you responsible for this body as well?"

Harry heaves a sigh and glances over his shoulder to look at Snape, knowing his face is drawn and
weary, unable to help it. "I didn't cast the Spell, so I didn't murder him, but it's my fault he isn't
alive."

"And who—" Snape cuts himself off as they approach Greyback's body. He peers down at it with a
blatant sneer, only to delicately say, "Ah."

"I can't say I'm too terribly sorry about it," Harry admits, only a bit chagrined, but mostly
disgusted. He watches Snape with a half-grimace, half-smile.

Snape sweeps the ends of his robes back like he doesn't even want the hem to touch Greyback's
body, his lips turning down in open and shameless disgust of his own. "Neither can I, Potter,
neither can I. This explains the lack of Werewolves who were here prior. Am I to take it that you
were here all of an hour before you managed to cut a third of the Dark Lord's numbers down?"

"A third?" Harry blurts out, wondering why he isn't dead if that's actually true, then remembering
oh, right, Voldemort cares about me.

"Indeed," Snape confirms. "Possibly a bit more, if new supporters were frightened by the display
and decided to flee. I will have to count later."

Harry clears his throat, blinking rapidly. "Merlin, I really do cause trouble wherever I go, don't I?"

"Yes," Snape answers promptly, sneering.

"Well, again, I can't say I'm too terribly sorry about it," Harry mutters, crossing his arms, rubbing
his wet skin, trying to get warm. He jolts when Snape flicks his wand at him, casting a Warming
Charm and something else that makes the rain slide away from him, never touching. Harry very
carefully does not mention it. "In any case, this isn't entirely my fault. Greyback tried to bite me.
Twice."

Snape goes rapidly pale, his black eyes darting to Harry, then darting away. He stares back down at
the body and mutters, "Foolish."
"Yeah," Harry can't help but agree. "Voldemort warned him after the first time, and he...didn't
listen. As you can see, Voldemort wasn't too happy about it."

"Obviously," Snape drawls, but he still looks distinctly uncomfortable.

After a beat, he takes a solid step back and spreads his hands, his wand drifting over the husk that
used to be a person but isn't anymore. A trail of fire follows the direction of the wand, and it isn't
long before Greyback's whole body is burning. They step back further and further to escape the
waves of heat and the smell of burning flesh.

In the distance, there are forms shifting in the fog, Werewolves stopping to stare at the flames.
Some break off from the group, running into the trees with howls that sound mournful and angry,
leaving the cause without a second look back. Harry shifts uncomfortably, not entirely sure what to
feel about that either. A part of him wonders if there's an efficient way to piss off Acromantulas
that won't end up with him nearly eaten. He decides not to find out; not today, at least.

Harry waits for the flames to nearly die out entirely before he says, "Has Dumbledore told you
yet?"

"No," Snape replies, sounding as frustrated as he always does when Harry asks him this.

"Right," Harry mutters, shaking his head. "You'd think he'd confide in someone. Well, did he say
anything after Professor Lupin told him about our meeting? Were you there?"

Snape sends him a sharp look. "I was not. Lupin spoke only with Dumbledore at first, and I am not
someone people easily trust within the Order, seeing as my position is...delicate. In the end,
however, Dumbledore decided the knowledge that you're alive would encourage more people to
find you. Some had already given up."

"Oh," Harry says, frowning. "Well, who can blame them, really? It had been two months since I
went missing. You couldn't tell them I was alive without my permission, so I imagine they were
starting to believe Voldemort took me away and killed me."

"That is precisely what they thought."

"Did Dumbledore?"

"No. He believed you were alive, but he also believed that the Dark Lord had you as a captive.
Learning that you were free clearly...relieved him," Snape says.

Harry's eyebrows shoot up. "Really? He was relieved by my, er, escape?"

"Relieved," Snape agrees, "as well as troubled. He did not say it in so many words, but he admitted
that something Lupin told him made him worry for you. He wouldn't elaborate very much, but he
did express concern that you might be misguided."

"Misguided," Harry echoes flatly, a surge of anger sparking in his chest. "Misguided. He thinks I'm
bloody misguided! He's—I—this is ridiculous! I can't do anything right for anyone!"

Snape's gaze is shrewd and searching. "Are you attempting to do something right for the
Headmaster, Potter, or for the Dark Lord?"

Harry glares at him and snaps, "Both, and what of it?! Do you wish to stop me, sir?"

"No," Snape says simply, the word short and clipped, but honest nonetheless. He can't lie to
Harry.

"Is that because—" Harry stops, snapping his mouth shut with an audible click. He stares at Snape,
who stares back passively, and he has no idea how to broach this conversation. He's not even sure
if he wants to. He doesn't say anything else.

Snape arches an eyebrow. "Speak, Potter."

"You knew my father," Harry starts, swallowing thickly. Snape's expression immediately wipes
clean, empty and blank. Harry continues. "Did you know my mother as well?"

"Yes," Snape grits out.

"What was she like?" Harry whispers.

Snape's face twitches, contorts, slowly smooths out again. "Fiercely kind and just as righteous. She
believed in the good of people, even of those who did not deserve it, like your father, like me. Her
mind was sharp, and her wit was cutting, but her heart was soft. She was beautiful."

Snape can't lie, he's not allowed, and that means this is how he perceived Harry's mother. No one
has ever spoken about her like this, not to Harry, not with such a tender tone. Harry didn't think
Snape was capable of such a thing. There's no doubt in Harry's mind that Snape loved Harry's
mother, likely still does love her, just as Voldemort said.

"Did she ever...make mistakes?" Harry blurts out, staring down at the ground, blinking hard as his
eyes prickle.

"Mistakes," Snape repeats, sounding absurdly surprised, almost as if he wasn't expecting Harry to
ask this question at all. He pauses, then slowly starts speaking again, apparently thinking about it.
"We all make mistakes, Potter, and your mother was no exception. The mistakes I believed she
made likely aren't ones that she'd agree with, so I'm not sure if my answer would be an honest
one."

"Alright," Harry allows carefully, "so what mistakes do you think she made?"

"Loving your father," Snape replies instantly.

Harry mulls that over, distantly annoyed that Snape is such a git. "And you think she wouldn't
agree."

"I know she wouldn't," Snape says.

"Why?" Harry asks.

"Because she loved him and she loved you. Even when things became...complicated, she did not
waver on either of those things. Her love was unconditional, even for those who should not have
earned it, and no one could sway her from feeling it. Her own fear or hurt could not stop her love,
and that is why she was stronger than anyone, strong enough to save you."
"Oh. So...you're saying she would still love me, even now after all I've done, even if I don't deserve
it."

Snape's eyes are dark and glinting when they cut to Harry, his gaze sharp and calculating. Harry
almost shrinks back beneath it, the moment so heavy that he holds his breath, and Snape very
slowly, very harshly declares, "Your mother would love you with as much ferocity and purity right
now as the day she died for you, just as she would on any day of your life, and no one would be
able to stop her."

"Is that why you're loyal to me?" Harry croaks, blinking slowly at Snape. "Because she would be?"

"Yes," Snape answers honestly.

Cautiously, Harry breathes out, "Why?"

He is expecting Snape to say it is because he loves Lily. He is not expecting Snape to say,
"Because I could not help her or her family when I should have, but I can help you now, just as she
would want me to. I owe her that, at least."

"You...owe her?" Harry repeats, baffled. "I thought you—well, why do you owe her?"

"I—" Snape snaps his mouth shut, grinding his teeth, and a strange choking noise emits from his
throat. His expression is stony and stoic, right up until it isn't. Pain flashes across his face, and with
a low gasp, his lips split apart as soft words escape on an agonized wheeze. "I am to blame for her
death."

"What?" Harry blinks up at the man who looks like that one sentence was wrenched from his soul,
staring at him incredulously. "Sir, last I checked, it was Voldemort who killed my parents, and it
was Pettigrew who betrayed them. How are you at fault for my mother's death?"

Snape looks like he'd rather cut his own tongue out than answer, but alas, he cannot fight the will
of whatever magic forces him to speak. His eyes are burning with fury as he rasps, "The Dark Lord
only targeted your family because he was informed of a Prophecy stating that a child could
vanquish him. At the time, no one knew which families qualified as targets, not even the one who
informed him. A young Death Eater trying to prove himself by spying on a Headmaster
interviewing Divination Professors, one who ran back to his master's side with information that
would lead to the biggest regret of his life. That Death Eater was me."

Harry stares at him.

He just...stares at Snape, stares and stares and stares. The world around them is quiet and still.
Even the breeze seems to be frozen in this moment, and with no rain hitting him, Harry feels like
time has come to an abrupt standstill.

Harry thinks about his mother, thinks about the tender way Snape spoke of her, thinks about a flash
of green light and the way his mother refused to move aside as it approached her.

She believed in the good of people, even of those who did not deserve it, like your father, like me.

No, Harry doesn't know his mother. He doesn't know the nuances of her relationship with Snape.
He has no idea how she would feel if it were her standing before Snape right this second. He only
knows this moment and those who are in it, Snape and himself, both wronged in inconceivable
ways, and wrong on their own. He thinks, if what he's ever been told about his mother is true, that
Lily would not hate Snape for this, or love him less.

We all make mistakes, Potter, Snape had said, and he has, hasn't he? He's made a very big one, a
mistake that correlates directly with Harry's life. A mistake he honestly declares as the biggest
regret of his life, one that he can never, ever take back.

It is true, then, the theory that a simple flap of a butterflies' wing can change anything. A young
boy striving to prove himself makes a small mistake that cascades into endless ones, some that
Harry himself has made and has to live with. There is a world out there where Snape doesn't make
that mistake, and it is a world that Harry can't even imagine properly, simply because it is so
different to his own.

Blaming Snape is easy. Hating him is easier. And Harry does. He looks at Snape and knows he
will never forget this mistake, knows he will never have the capacity to care for him, no matter if
his mother used to or not. Perhaps he has too much of his father in him to manage it.

In any case, Harry also knows that forgiveness and forgetting are two very different things.
Perhaps Snape has not earned forgiveness and never will, but in the same breath, neither has
Voldemort. Just as Voldemort is at fault, yet forgiven, Snape will be, too. Harry likes to think that
he takes after his mother in regards to kindness.
For as angry as Harry is in this moment, he is also defeated. He's tired of learning things that shake
his foundation. He's exhausted from the weight of past mistakes that shape the downhill arc of his
life. The only reprieve is that Harry hasn't liked or trusted Snape to begin with, so this doesn't feel
like a betrayal on top of everything else.

"A few months ago," Harry murmurs, "I would have killed you for that."

Snape stares at him and says, "But not now?"

"No, not now." Harry takes a deep breath, closing his eyes, adjusting to this fresh pain, a feeling he
is all too familiar with. He exhales slowly, letting his eyes stay shut. "To be honest, I've come to
realize that things aren't as simple as we wish they were, or could be. If this was simple, you would
be evil and fit for Azkaban, just as I would. If this was simple, I would have never made the
mistakes I have, just as you wouldn't have. But, here we both are, and my parents are still dead for
so many different reasons; one of those reasons now includes you, but it has always included me."

"You are not at fault," Snape says.

Harry's eyes snap open. "Yes, I am. Do I wish to be? No, obviously not, which is why things aren't
simple. Do you wish to be? Perhaps for my father, but obviously not for my mother, which is yet
another reason things aren't. This is just how things are, you know. In the world, especially in my
life, and the sooner I accept it...the sooner I can move on and try to make mistakes my parents
would be proud of, rather than the mistakes that I know they'd be ashamed of. This is just how it
is."

"Your mother…" Snape trails off for a beat, his gaze softening just a fraction. He looks wretched
and a bit broken as he whispers, "She would be so proud of you. She would."

Harry swallows around the lump in his throat, blinking hard, and he smiles bitterly. "Well, I can't
be sure of that, can I? Because she's dead. I never knew her and I never will, and you're among the
many who are at fault for that, just like I am."

Snape flinches before his face goes blank, hardening into a pinched stoicism that Harry can see
through with ease. If he were kinder, Harry would apologize. If his heart was softer, Harry would
offer better forgiveness than he has.
But, these days, when it comes to things such as this, Harry is not as kind as he could be, and his
heart is tougher from the bruises it has accumulated throughout his entire life up to this point.

So, without another word, Harry swivels on the spot and makes his way back to the cottage, his
trek as slow as his breathing. He does not cry, though he would like to, and he does not allow his
anger to escape him as it wishes to. Maybe one day, Harry muses, he won't feel as he does now, not
since this information is so fresh and new.

Dumbledore undoubtedly knew this, too. He must have, just as he knows most things, and yet.

Harry's not angry, really; he's just...disappointed.

Sighing, he makes his way back into the cottage, forgetting for a moment that there is a man being
tortured inside. He comes to a screeching halt, blinking rapidly at the sight of Nott squirming
around on the floor, breathing heavily and openly crying. Harry feels a rising sense of discomfort.

Voldemort is pacing in slow circles, seemingly lost in thought, possibly letting Nott catch his
breath. Harry watches the form of Nott twist about like he's still in pain, even if he's not screaming
anymore.

Seeing him in the doorway, Voldemort pauses to glance at him, then with his usual unbothered air,
he continues on. He's starting to close in on Nott now, who flinches back as his breath shudders out
of him, his eyes slamming shut. He's bracing himself. He should, because Voldemort lifts his wand
with clear intentions to give yet another round of torture.

Only, the thing is, well…

Harry isn't having it.

There's a lesson to be learned in that moment, and it's a lesson that doesn't take much study, not for
him. Later, he'll be proud of himself for moving before he even realizes it, but for now, he doesn't
think twice about it. He just moves.

He doesn't know Nott. He doesn't know what horror Nott has turned on the world, why the man
follows Voldemort at all, or even what he's actually being punished for. He doesn't really care, is
the thing. There's a simplicity in stepping forward to put his own body in front of Nott's, staring
down the length of Voldemort's wand without flinching.

The lesson is this, and it hits Harry like a Stunner to the chest: saving only those one believes is
worthy isn't heroism; saving those who need it, regardless of who they are or aren't, is.

It's doing the right thing, not because someone you care about needs it, but simply because it is
right. Harry is capable of this, too. He wants to be. Taking a stance in front of wrong, because it is
wrong, is what Harry knows like second-nature. Yes, he has murdered. Yes, he has done wrong.
And yes, he cares for the very person inflicting the wrong that he has to face. But that does not
mean Harry should stand by and do nothing, when the option to do right is there, and he won't. He
never will.

That's just not who he is.

There's a duality in the world; an earth filled with cruelty and horror, an earth so beautiful and
home to depths of love that can't be denied. That same duality exists in everyone. It exists in
Harry.

"Move," Voldemort says sharply.

Harry shakes his head and sighs. "I won't. I'm tired, I've just had a very exhausting conversation
with Professor Snape, and all I want is to go home. You said we're supposed to go somewhere else,
aren't we? Can we just go, please? Leave him be. I'm fairly sure he got whatever lesson you're
trying to teach."

"Don't whinge." Voldemort peers at him with narrowed eyes, flicking his gaze over Harry. After a
beat, when it becomes clear that Harry actually won't move and is genuinely exhausted, he lets out
a quiet sigh and lowers his wand. "Very well. We will go, but never come between my wand and
another person again. I will not stop the next time."

"Sure, sure," Harry mumbles tiredly, waving a hand and turning his head to frown over his
shoulder at Nott, who is blinking in a dazed fashion. "Will he be alright?"

"He will live," Voldemort says placidly. "Come, we will be flooing to our next destination."

"Yeah, alright," Harry agrees, moving forward to follow Voldemort to the fireplace.
Voldemort glances down at Nott as he sweeps past, and all he says is, "Do remember that there is
nowhere in the world you can hide from me. Next time, come with or without information."

"Yes, My Lord," Nott rasps, his throat raw, the words coming out cracked and weak. As soon as
Voldemort continues on, his gaze flicks to Harry, and he looks vaguely...astonished.

Harry ducks his head and follows Voldemort without another word.

After the trajectory of the day, this should not be funny.

Harry's not entirely sure what he's expecting when he and Voldemort sweep out of the floo—and
he only doesn't fall because Voldemort rights him as he stumbles—but it's certainly not stepping
out into a sitting room where one Cornelius Fudge is sitting, drinking tea.

The moment they move into the room, Fudge drops his teacup and lets out a rather unmanly shriek,
nearly falling to the floor in his haste to get out of his chair. He scrambles over himself, nearly
tripping, still screaming as he puts his body behind the chair. He grips the top of it, staring at Harry
and Voldemort with wide eyes, trembling all over.

Again, Harry should not be amused.

It's just… Well, he hasn't really liked Fudge all that much, honestly. Seeing him hiding behind a
chair and moving about so ridiculously is, objectively, hilarious. It takes work to keep his face
fixed calmly, but Harry somehow manages.

"Minister," Voldemort greets in a would-be cordial way if he wasn't who he is.

Fudge does stop screaming when it becomes apparent that there's no point. He stutters out, "H-
How did y-you get in? M-My wards are—"

"Your wards are humiliating," Voldemort interrupts, still sounding so polite, as if he's giving
friendly advice. "One would think that the Minister would have better protection than this."

"Y-You shouldn't be able t-to get in," Fudge declares, his fingers flexing on his chair.

"Nonetheless, I am here," Voldemort says rather simply.

"Why?" Fudge asks. His gaze cuts over to the coffee table in front of the chair where his wand is
sitting.

Harry clears his throat. "I wouldn't, sir. You really won't reach it in time."

"Mr. P-Potter," Fudge blurts out, his gaze finally passing over him for the first time. His eyes grow
impossibly wider, and for a split second, he looks almost hopeful. "Y-You are also h-here."

"Yeah, seems like," Harry agrees, risking a glance at Voldemort. "Haven't quite worked out why
myself, but I think we'll be finding out soon enough."

Fudge clenches the chair harder, looking very small and very scared, even as he attempts to tilt his
chin up at Voldemort imperiously. "They'll have you in Azkaban f-for this. I'm the M-Minister!
You can't just—just come in here and—"

"I can," Voldemort cuts in, "and I have."

"If you k-kill me," Fudge chokes out, "they'll find you! They will, and you'll be hunted to your last
breath. I'm the Minister; they'll n-never stop!"

Voldemort tilts his head, his gaze slowly crawling over to Harry. "He holds himself in high regard,
doesn't he?"

"Er, yes," Harry admits awkwardly. "He always has, or as far as I know."

"Potter!" Fudge hisses, sounding ridiculously betrayed, which shouldn't be as comical as it is.
Harry keeps his face straight. "Minister," he replies, raising his eyebrows.

"And you don't want him dead?" Voldemort asks, regarding Fudge the same way a God might look
at a smudge of dirt on their shoe.

"Not particularly," Harry mutters, shooting Voldemort a frown, unsure what's happening. At the
moment, Voldemort isn't being very discreet about the ease they have between them, almost as if
Fudge knowing it doesn't matter, or won't matter. "You're going to kill him, aren't you?"

"What is this? What is this?" Fudge sputters, half-standing from his crouch as his face nearly turns
purple in his rage. "You've gone and done it, haven't you, Potter?! The rumors are true! You've
sided with You-Know-Who!"

Harry stares at him blankly. "Honestly, sir, would you believe me if I said the opposite? You've
already made your mind up about me, haven't you?"

"You're here with him!" Fudge bursts out.

"Well-spotted. Brilliant, you have eyes," Harry says sarcastically. "Think what you like. You
always have. After all, it was you that decided to run a Ministry so idiotic that no one noticed the
mistreatment of children, or the misconduct of using Dementors for the sole purpose of either
killing a child or having him expelled to ruin his reputation beyond repair."

"You were lying!" Fudge practically screeches.

Harry waves a hand towards Voldemort. "Was I?"

At this, Fudge falters. He seems to realize, all at once, what position he's in at the moment. He has
no allies, no argument, no protection. The purple in his face seeps away, and he goes so pale that
he looks like he might faint.

"W-What do you want from me?" Fudge asks hoarsely, his eyes wide, his words shaky.
Voldemort takes one step forward, and Fudge flinches back like he's being attacked, but Voldemort
only says one word. "Resign."

"R-Resign," Fudge repeats. His nails are digging into the chair in an unforgiving grip. "You want
me to resign so that y-you can have someone come in, and—and run it how you see fit."

"Ministry reform is important when it is in dire need of it," Voldemort murmurs, his tone silk and
satin, danger and warning. "You will resign, or you will die. Do you understand?"

Fudge swallows thickly. "It won't matter what you do, you know. Everyone will know why I've
resigned. Any replacement w-will be considered corrupt!"

"Believe what you will." Voldemort waves a hand, showing the wand in his grip, making Fudge
shrink back with a whimper. "What is your decision?"

"I'll resign," Fudge answers almost immediately, his gaze flicking between Harry and Voldemort in
blatant disbelief. "This is—it is…"

Harry steps forward curiously, startled when Fudge flinches back as well. He blinks. "You're afraid
of me the same way you're afraid of him."

Fudge says nothing, just trembles.

"Doesn't he have a right to be?" Voldemort asks Harry curiously, a naked eyebrow arching up.

"Oh, bloody hell," Harry mutters, glaring at Voldemort. "You're using me as an intimidation tactic,
aren't you?"

Smirking, Voldemort lazily waves his hand again, making Fudge flinch once more. "As it stands,
Harry, you remain the hope of the Wizarding World, the one people secretly or openly believe will
fight against me, even the Minister. I only allow him to see that such hope is futile, and in doing so,
he is even less willing to give his life and resistance for something that clearly isn't true."

"Is that your big plan?" Harry asks hotly, annoyed more than words can say. "You'll just flaunt me
around like a prize pony to anyone with hope, then? Have you considered that I might not want
that?!"

"Not anyone, just the Minister. I did consider that you might be reluctant for such a thing, but
always remember, Harry, it is best to achieve your goals with repercussions, rather than ask for
permission and not achieve your goals at all," Voldemort informs him sagely, being genuinely
serious.

Harry wants to strangle him, and he also wants to let out a delirious huff of laughter, because that's
such a troublemaker way to be. Best to do and get scolded rather than ask for permission and not
get to do at all. It's Slytherin, and it's also Marauders, and it's also Harry. This isn't something he
needs to be taught or told, because it is a method he has been using for as long as he can
remember.

He sighs and shakes his head, turning his gaze back to Fudge, mumbling, "He'll tell the whole
world, you know. This is more than your repercussions."

"We can silence him indefinitely, if you like," Voldemort suggests patiently. "Just how important is
your privacy to you, Harry?"

"No, no, no," Fudge pleads, shaking his head rapidly and staring at Harry with wide eyes. "Please,
please, Mr. Potter. I won't tell anyone, I swear it."

"I don't actually believe you," Harry admits grudgingly, frowning at him.

Fudge makes a small sound of utter terror, his hands shaking. "Please, Mr. Potter, please believe
me! Why would I tell? You'd only have my head for it, wouldn't you? I won't breathe a word of this
to anyone, absolutely none of it! My reputation is in tatters as it is and everyone thinks you're dead,
so no one will believe me anyway. Please, please—"

"Stop it," Harry mutters, grimacing. He feels dirty all over to have a grown man pleading with him
like this, even if he doesn't like the man in question. He heaves a sigh and glances at Voldemort.
"My privacy is pretty damn important, you know, but he doesn't need to be killed. Just—just
Imperio him."

"I have no need to Imperio him," Voldemort replies calmly. "My presence is known to the world,
and I do not care who he informs that it was my demand that has made him resign."
Harry glares at him. "Well, I can't use my wand, seeing as I'm underage. Will you Imperio him for
me, at least?"

Voldemort seems to consider this, then hums quietly. "Very well. I do endeavor to help you, Harry,
as I've said in the past."

"Oh, piss off." Harry scoffs and rolls his eyes, turning away as Voldemort smirks and points his
wand at Fudge. "Just make him think I never came with you, alright? Nothing ridiculous."

"As you wish," Voldemort says, amused. Then, amidst Fudge's whimpers, a quiet, "Imperio."

It's nice being back in the Manor. Less stressful. More comfortable. It makes Harry realize just
how much this place has become his home.

He settles into the ease of it, of being back here, of knowing who he can be and how he can act.
Here, there is no Snape, there are no Werewolves with an appetite for him, and there are no
snivelling Ministers who've lost hope. There's only him and Voldemort, sitting across from each
other in a study that Harry could maneuver with his eyes closed.

Today has been...an experience.

"Remind me not to go on trips with you," Harry mutters as he fiddles with his wand.

Voldemort eyes him in that vaguely amused way he has when he's not being horrible. "Did you not
enjoy our time together, Harry?"

"Did you?" Harry challenges.

"Towards the end, yes," Voldemort says. "You've helped me achieve something with little effort."
"You manipulated me."

"I did not."

"Alright, you used me to manipulate Fudge."

"I did do that, yes. Thank you for your assistance."

Harry scowls. "I don't appreciate it. You shouldn't have done it. You won't do it again, you know,
because I won't let you. After all that you've talked about honesty and—"

"I did not lie to you today, Harry," Voldemort cuts in, watching him patiently. "I've caused you no
harm. Today, after the trouble you've caused me, I do not believe you get to be angry about my
considerably less harmful actions."

"I didn't make you kill Greyback."

"You forced my hand."

"I did not!" Harry snaps.

Voldemort narrows his eyes. "Was I to let him attack you, Harry? What choices did I have?"

"You could have," Harry mutters, jabbing his wand in Voldemort's direction vigorously. "You
didn't, but you could have."

"And you could have told Fudge that there was still hope, rather than let me use you to strip it from
him, but you did not," Voldemort retorts pointedly.

Harry huffs. "I won't help you fight this war. I'm not a bloody weapon. Not yours and not
Dumbledore's."
"What will you do? Remain neutral? Allow us to fight among ourselves? In doing so, you are
aware that those opposing me will consider you against them if you are not with them, yes?"
Voldemort asks, threading his fingers together.

"I know, alright?!" Harry shouts, nearly poking his own eye out as he waves his wand around
madly. He lets out a noise of frustration. "It's not like this is easy for me! To be with them, I'll have
to fight you, and I'll have to die. To be with you, I'll have to fight them, and I'll have to be someone
I'm not. Where does that leave me, then? What choice is that? Tell me, oh wise one, what am I
supposed to do?"

Voldemort watches him in the resounding silence, his lipless mouth one thin line. After a long beat,
he says, "I will offer you something that Dumbledore has not, yet again. In this, Harry, you have a
choice. You may remain here. With the Malfoys, with Draco, with no obligations to the world. Just
as you are now, you can always be, if you so wish. I will not ask you to fight, nor will I demand
you to act in the world after I've taken proper control. You can, if you so desire, live your life
comfortably and with no interference to your happiness."

Harry's breath catches.

In the silence, Voldemort looks away and lifts a hand to rub at his chest. Harry stares at him and
feels like his heart is breaking.

I will offer you something that Dumbledore has not, yet again.

But that's just the thing, isn't it? That's exactly what Dumbledore has offered him this entire time
these past years. A space away from all the madness, in whatever way he can. Shielding Harry
from all this grief and pain, trying to grant him a comfortable life to the best of his abilities. Never
asking Harry to give his life, even if he knows it must be done, trying not to interfere with whatever
happiness he's gained from the lack of such a request.

It hits Harry just then that, possibly, Dumbledore might have been doing all that he could for him.
In all the ways that Dumbledore has failed him, there's one way he has not. He's not honest, he
doesn't grant freedom, and he doesn't consult Harry about his own life...but he has always, always
pushed Harry to be happy. Always.

In that, Harry cannot fault him.

 Seeing Voldemort do the same, knowing that Voldemort does it out of care that he's not even
aware of yet, not this type of care, it breaks Harry's heart. It does, because Harry knows that he
won't be able to take what they've both offered him.

"You know it won't happen like that," Harry croaks, blinking a fresh wave of tears out of his eyes.

Voldemort's head whips towards him inhumanly fast, his eyes blazing. "Is that what you want?"

"I want to live in a world where no one has to fight," Harry whispers. Tragically, honestly, he goes
on to speak the truth as he continues, "And to get it, I will have to fight for it."

Voldemort rubs his chest harder.

Harry gets up and walks away.

Chapter End Notes

So, that chapter was a lot. Very Voldemort and Harry centric, which I hope no one
minds. It did get heavier, yes, but we're dealing with a horrible Dark Lord here, so it's
to be expected.

I do want to say something that I feel is rather important, though, which is:

This fic is ONLY for fun. When I started writing it, it was only supposed to be a little
ficlet about Harry killing Bellatrix to avenge Sirius because I wanted some cathartic
semi-dark self indulgence, that's all. I wasn't actually planning to post it, and I
probably wouldn't have if it hadn't taken a life of its own and got to be over 70k. Now
we are well into 200k, and I honestly have NO IDEA how it happened, but it did.

I enjoy the challenge of this fic. I like exploring morals and the forever complicated
concept of black and white and grey. It's a concept that I fully believe has no right
answer, not even my own take on it, and not everyone will agree, which is okay.
Writing this fic and posting it makes me happy, which is why I do it—I would still do
it, even if no one read it, simply because it's fun.

These characters have taken a life of their own and formed a shape that only comes
from veering off canon so sharply, which I did on purpose. I do try, of course, to keep
the characters as true to their barebones as possible, as likened to the original or our
favorite parts of them, but that doesn't mean they're going to be the same. Which,
again, totally okay. Writing is fun, and so is fanon.

That being said, I would like to reiterate that I am in NO WAY excusing the horrible
actions of characters that have done horrible things. Highlighting their possible
humanity makes for fun, challenging writing, which is why I do it. Not everyone will
agree with it, which is—again—totally valid and okay.

Let's be honest, Canon!Voldemort is a piece of shit we all want to punch in the face.
Draco is a little snot who we'd probably all want to stab in real life. They ALL have
their faults—Harry and Dumbledore and Hermione and Ron and yada yada yada, too.
It's just a sandbox that I'm playing in, and I'm in no way trying to romanticize or
excuse anything. They're literally just characters in a book by a terrible author, and I'm
writing this fic because I enjoy it. That's all.

I felt it necessary to say this now because there is a constant push-and-pull with
Harry's morality in this fic. He does things we're not all gonna like, while some will,
just like he does things some will love, while others won't. Either way, if you're
enjoying it and want to see where it ends up, stick around and have fun. I absolutely
LOVE having you here. But if you're not having fun, or it upsets you in anyway,
please take care of yourselves first and do what you gotta do. It's all respect and love
from me, I promise ❤️

Now that the rambling is out of the way, I do so hope you enjoyed the chapter. Would
love to hear your thoughts on it! And thank you.
 Reconciliation
Chapter Notes

Not any serious warnings for this chapter. Bit of arguing. Resolved, though.

Enjoy ☺️

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Harry does not wake up so much as he becomes aware very slowly, yet all at once. There are cool
fingers smoothing over his forehead, brushing aside his fringe, and quiet words being spoken.

"—and you mustn't tell anyone what I've just confessed to you. It would be terribly inconvenient
for me if others were to know that I'm capable of such ridiculousness. Though, I believe very few
who truly know me would be surprised. After all, Harry, you have always made me very
ridiculous."

Groaning a bit, Harry cracks open one eye to peer up at the blurry image of Draco. His movement
makes Draco go abruptly silent, his whole body tensing.

"You're home?" Harry mumbles sleepily, a hand fumbling out to grasp Draco's shirt, lightly fisting
it with an instinctual resistance to Draco moving away. "What were you talking about?"

Draco's body relaxes in increments. "Nothing worthy of being repeated. Do you want your glasses?
You're drooling on my shoulder, you know."

"Mm," Harry grunts carelessly, letting his eye fall shut and sinking further into Draco's embrace.
He exhales slowly. "I'm fine. Let's stay like this. I didn't mean to sleep in and miss you arriving."

"A dreadful boyfriend, you are."

"Piss off. I had a long day yesterday."

"Did you?" Draco muses. "Tell me about it?"

Harry rubs his cheek against the pointy part of Draco's shoulder, humming. "You have to promise
me you won't be angry. I'm in no mood to argue. If you try to kill me, I'll just go back to sleep."

"Harry, what have you done now?" Draco asks with an exasperated sigh.

"In fairness, I don't plan for these things to happen. They just...do."

"Well? Get on with it? It's been some time since we've fought. Might as well get it out of the way
now. Just so you know, if you've somehow put your life in danger again, I will ensure you'll never
get another chance to do so. Because you'll be dead."

"How sweet," Harry murmurs with a faint smile.

Like this, wrapped up with Draco, Harry proceeds to recount the events of the day before. It's very
strange how easy it is to talk about things when he's inhaling the smell of Draco, laying curled into
Draco's side, listening to Draco breathe. Even revealing the truth about Snape barely stings, almost
like no pain can touch him here.

Draco, as expected, scolds him furiously for his actions with Greyback. Harry saves that
information for last, automatically understanding that Draco will shove him away as soon as he
explains. And, as predicted, Harry gets pushed aside after admitting just how close he came to
being bitten.

The collar of his shirt gets yanked to the side, no doubt revealing his new scars, and Draco spits,
"You absolute idiot! Do you have no sense of self-preservation, Harry?!"

Harry blinks open his eyes with a sigh, frowning at the fuzzy outline of his boyfriend. "What do
you want me to say, Draco? Voldemort pissed me off and Greyback had a desire to bite and kidnap
kids. Do you honestly think I would just stand by and do nothing about that?"

"And what would you have done if he had bit you?! Or killed you?" Draco demands harshly.

"He didn't," Harry mutters, reaching over on the nightstand to fumble for his glasses, bringing them
to rest on his face so he can see Draco's anger more clearly. Even angry, he is beautiful.
"But he could have!"

"But he didn't."

Draco glares at him, scrambling up from the bed with his fists clenched at his sides. "That's not the
point! You have absolutely no regard for your own life, and in doing so, you have no regard for the
people you would leave behind if one of your stupid decisions actually went wrong!"

"It's not like a Werewolf bite would kill me," Harry snaps, his nostrils flaring as his irritation spikes
almost against his will. "At the worst, I would have been horribly injured, but that's all. I wouldn't
have died, Draco. Voldemort wouldn't let me."

"You are rash to the point of arrogance," Draco grits out, his eyes narrowed to slits. "You can't just
take injury and risk as if it doesn't matter because you'll still live. These things can still affect your
life, Harry, and the lives around you. Grow the fuck up!"

Harry rears back as if he's been slapped. "Excuse me? Are you saying that I'm—"

"Stupid? Brash and hot-headed? Yes and yes," Draco snarls, leaning forward to invade Harry's
space, glaring down at him. "You can't be the bloody hero all the time! Don't you get that? It
affects everyone!"

"What would you have done, then?" Harry challenges, his voice rising to a yell as he slides off the
bed and walks Draco back a few steps, invading his space this time. "You mean to tell me that you
would have hunkered down and done nothing? That you would have stood aside and gave no
reaction or comment to what was obviously wrong?"

"Yes!" Draco explodes, his hands flying up in a wide arc. His eyes are wide. His chest is heaving.
"Yes, Harry, I would have made no moves and kept my mouth shut. I'm a coward! Most people
are."

Harry exhales sharply through his nose. "Well, I'm not! You might be able to close your eyes and
hide away from the wrong in front of you, but I can't. I won't, and if that makes me a brash idiot
with little regard for my own life, then so be it! You'll just have to deal with it!"
"Until what? Until when?" Draco jabs a finger at him, his shout so loud that it carries. "Until
you've saved everyone but yourself?!"

This time, it's Harry's turn to burst out a very loud, very harsh, "Yes! Because it's my choice, isn't
it? I've made the choice to do the right thing, and I had hoped that you'd expect nothing less of me.
You already know I'm not like you!"

Draco freezes, his hand caught mid-air from where he'd pointed at Harry moments ago. In slow
motion, Harry actually watches as Draco's face pales, the red tint of anger seeping away. He looks
ashen, ghostly.

"What," Draco whispers icily, "is that supposed to mean, Harry?"

The thing is, Harry...doesn't actually know. He has no idea what he meant by that. He was just so
angry, so willing to lash out in frustration, and now he feels as if he's misstepped somewhere. His
rage fizzles into vague alarm, and he swallows thickly.

"Wait," Harry rasps, "I—I didn't mean to—"

"You've said enough," Draco cuts him off, his tone sharp as a dagger and frigid as snow. "I think
it's best if you don't elaborate. I have the feeling that if you try, you'll only say something that I
won't be able to—to forgive you for."

Harry blinks, strangely stung by that. "Draco…"

"I'm going," Draco declares, immediately swiveling on his heel to do just that.

"Draco," Harry says again, lunging forward to grasp his arm, "wait, I—"

With a harsh yank, Draco pulls his arm from Harry's grip, his head snapping around to pin Harry
with a look so intense that he actually goes silent and still. His gaze is blazing. "Not now, Harry."

With that and nothing else, Draco whips back around and marches out of the room without another
look back, his head held high.
The door slams as he goes.

For the next three days, Draco does not speak to, touch, or look at Harry. Seeing as they live in the
same place, this should be incredibly hard to do. Seeing as it's Draco, this is a feat managed with
frightening accuracy and poise.

When they sit down in the dining room, Draco takes the seat next to his father, never looking up
from his plate. Mrs. Malfoy has hinted multiple times at his behavior, but he sidesteps her verbal
pointedness with practiced ease. Lucius is very obviously relishing in this, if the frequent smug
glances he sends Harry's way is anything to go by.

When they usually go out for a fly, Draco goes into his room with the door locked, and he does not
open it for anyone. He does not reply when Harry knocks and calls for him. He doesn't even
respond when Mrs. Malfoy makes her attempts, and when she eventually tries to force the door
open, it remains closed and impenetrable.

Draco is like a prisoner in his own home. He doesn't go into the second Library, not even to watch
the rain. He only speaks to his father and occasionally his mother, but only when she isn't hinting at
Harry's existence. It's like he's not even here.

Because of this, Harry is absolutely miserable.

He knows that he's done something wrong, but he's having trouble narrowing the list of offenses
down to which takes priority. In the time that Draco has been ignoring him, Harry has given much
thought to the things he said, and he quickly comes to the conclusion that most of it was terrible.

It's not as if Draco was wrong to be upset that Harry can be careless with his own well-being. In
fact, that's kindness. Harry would be—and has been—just as upset at Draco being hurt.

Practically throwing Draco's disdain for him being hurt back in his face is not very good boyfriend
behavior, Harry has realized. That's not what he called himself doing at the time, of course, and his
anger had gotten the best of him. Still, that's basically what he'd done, and it's most certainly
something he'll need to apologize for.
However, unfortunately, that might not be the worst of it. Harry's almost positive that he may have
accidentally declared that Draco is a coward, who willingly does wrong.

I've made the choice to do the right thing, and I had hoped that you'd expect nothing less of me.
You already know I'm not like you!

How does one come back from saying such a thing?

The thing is, Harry knows that Draco isn't brave the same way he is. He's aware of that and has
been this entire time. It doesn't bother him. Draco may not be brave the way that Harry
instinctively is, but he is undoubtedly brave in his own way. The courage he has does not involve
running into danger; it consists of trials and change, as well as self-reflection. It's bravery that very
few people have in the world.

Harry sometimes fears that he doesn't have it, and he's certain that he doesn't possess the strength
that Draco does in that department. Yes, he can fight Death Eaters and approach Werewolves and
stand up after he's been tortured, but he is in constant turmoil about his wrongdoings. He doesn't
have the will to look inside himself and find where he's gone astray, to acknowledge it, to change
it.

Draco is hyper-aware of his own self, knowing his morality and nuances and misgivings. He's
capable of looking deep, understanding things that many people would naturally shy away from.
He's laid himself bare for his own eyes, simply because he trusts himself most in the world, and
very few people actually do that because it takes a level of courage to judge yourself without bias,
but Draco does. He does, and when he found himself lacking, he made the decision to change it.

Harry can't do that. He's afraid to. He thinks that, if he attempts to search deep, he will find himself
unworthy of existence, let alone metamorphosis.

To even hint that Draco is a coward with a desire to do wrong is absurd, even in a fit of anger, and
yet Harry has done that very thing. All because Draco would close his eyes and tremble to pieces as
horror cascaded around him, all because Draco knows he isn't the type of person to try and stop it.

That in itself is wrong, but it also is not. At some point, self-preservation can turn into willingly
turning a blind eye to someone else's misfortune. Where is the line? Harry does not know. Yet, in
the same breath, the desire to survive is an instinct that everyone holds—not everyone in the world
is capable or willing to laugh in the face of such a thing, and that in itself is not wrong. The
problem is in the horror, in the circumstances that force people to be brave and do the right thing.
Not everyone can. Not everyone will. But...what is certain is that no one should have to.

How Draco would have reacted to Greyback is not similar to how Pettigrew gave up Harry's
parents. There is being a coward who survives and there is being a coward who betrays.

Draco is a coward, and he is brave, just as Harry is brave, and also a coward.

On the fourth day, Harry finds Draco in the second Library, sitting in the window seat and
watching the rain with a blank expression.

Harry's heart tumbles in his chest.

He feels such a sudden rush of genuine fear that he is frozen in place with it. Generally speaking,
his fight, flight, or freeze response usually leans to the former. Faced with the person he loves, who
he does not want to lose, it is—for what might actually be the first time in his life—the latter.

It remains the latter until Draco's head slowly turns, his gaze locking on Harry's, and then it is
flight. Without making the decision to, Harry turns on his heel with all preparations to bolt right out
of the room. It goes against who he is as a person to run away, but in that moment, he cannot
breathe and he isn't thinking at all.

"Harry, wait!" Draco calls, before he can take even one step.

Sucking in a sharp breath, Harry cautiously turns back around, heart rate skyrocketing to alarming
levels. He swallows thickly and croaks, "Yes?"

Draco sighs. "Come sit."

"Alright," Harry whispers.

He hesitantly moves across the room, his pulse fluttering like a trapped bird in his veins. Carefully,
he sinks down into his usual spot in the window seat, clearing his throat when their legs bump into
each other. He feels awkward in his body, and he has a knot of dread in his stomach.

Draco is staring out the window, watching the rain, and he is as heartrendingly pretty as he always
is. Harry's fingers itch with the urge to reach out and touch him, brush some of his hair down into
his eyes just the way he likes, press the pad of his thumbs over the bruises underneath Draco's eyes
from the visible lack of sleep. Bloody hell, Harry is yearning.

"Listen very closely," Draco says quietly, "because I will only say this once."

Harry closes his eyes, utterly devastated. Draco's going to break up with him, he just knows it, and
the knowledge feels like the most tragic thing that he's ever come to understand. Which, really,
that's saying a lot, considering all the things he's learned since the beginning of the summer.

"I need to apologize."

Harry's eyes snap open, and he's so startled that he blurts, "You need to what?"

"Apologize," Draco repeats. He takes a deep breath and sort of goes solid all over, as if he's bracing
himself for something. His gaze slowly slides to Harry's, latching on. "I should not treat you like
glass simply because I worry you might be broken. We live very dangerous lives, the both of us,
and how could we not, with who we are surrounded by? I am aware of this, and I have been aware
of this, just as I'm equally aware of who you are and have always been. I know you, Harry, and I
can't fault you for being who you are, especially when I went into a relationship with you with that
knowledge. The more I have you, the less I want to let you go, and that leads me to lash out at
anything that could take you away—including you, apparently. For that, for reacting so harshly in
anger, I am sorry."

Like this declaration is the equivalent to a casual comment about the weather, or something
equally dull and not at all profound, Draco eases his gaze back to the rain and goes silent.

And, well, what is Harry supposed to do with that?

Oh no, oh Merlin, Harry's ruined forever now, isn't he? Nothing or no one will ever compare to this
moment, to Draco, to how much Harry sodding loves him. He doesn't know how he's supposed to
simply exist in a world where those words have joined the air, etched in Harry's mind forever.
Like the sap he is, Harry thinks very stupid things in very quick succession, which are: I'm in love
with you, let's run away to France, please marry me, we can adopt enough children to have our
own Quidditch team, and we'll both just be happy together forever.

Because he is working very hard not to be an idiot right now, Harry swallows all of these words
and picks his response very carefully. Because it is clear that Draco has chosen what he was going
to say with a blatant desire to say the right thing, to be honest, to handle this maturely.

Harry wants to do the same.

So, after a long silence where Harry works valiantly not to melt into a puddle of love right at
Draco's feet, he slowly says, "You have the right to be concerned for me, and I shouldn't have
suggested that you don't. My well-being does affect you. I honestly didn't consider that before I did
the stupid things I did. And—and Draco, I'll probably always regret that I insinuated that, just
because you are not brave like I am, you are not brave at all. Because you are. You are so brave,
and I have known that this whole time. I was also angry and defensive, which made me lash out
when I shouldn't have. I'm sorry, alright? For all of it. I really am. And I love you. I do, very much,
more than I can express, because you are absolutely wonderful and lovely and—"

"Alright, stop it!" Draco bursts out, his head whipping around as his hand darts out to clap over
Harry's mouth, silencing him. He huffs, glaring, but he's blushing. "Merlin, that's enough out of
you."

"Mmph," Harry says against Draco's palm.

Draco shakes his head, heaving a sigh. "You're an idiot, Harry Potter."

Harry licks Draco's palm, beaming when his hand jerks back. He folds forward, resting his chin on
Draco's knee, peering up at him through his eyelashes. He is utterly delighted.

"Yes," Harry agrees happily, "but I'm your idiot."

"Unfortunately," Draco drawls.

"We haven't fought like that in a while," Harry murmurs, fingers twitching as they reach out and
drape over Draco's thigh. "Did you want to hex me or punch me?"

"Both, obviously," Draco replies instantly.

Harry nods slightly, his chin digging into Draco's bony knee with the movement of his head.
"Yeah, me too. I do appreciate your face, Draco, but it is extremely punchable when you're
sneering at me."

"Your face is extremely punchable all the time."

"I am sorry, you know."

"I know," Draco mutters. He rolls his eyes before flicking his gaze over Harry's face with an
expression that suggests he does not want to punch it. "I won't repeat my apology, Harry. As I
mentioned, I was willing to do it only once."

"That's alright," Harry says, because it is. "I heard it the first time. It was very sweet."

Draco scoffs. "I'm still angry with you."

"Of course," Harry agrees. "You have all rights to be. Your boyfriend finds himself in lots of
trouble, usually by accident, and he struggles to understand why that might upset you. He's
learning, though."

"Alright, alright," Draco snaps, "no more. You've got my forgiveness, no need to grovel. It's
embarrassing."

"You have mine, too, you know," Harry murmurs. He dips his head and kisses Draco's knee,
practically hugging his leg now.

"Of course I do," Draco says with a prim sniff. He clicks his tongue and reaches out to lightly
pinch Harry's fingers. "Let me go, you git. You're clinging. It really is humiliating to witness."
Harry grins at him. "Ah, but I humble myself only to you, love. No shame in humiliation as long as
it makes you happy."

Draco looks appalled. "Stop it, Harry! I'll tell everyone that you're weak for me, if you don't.
You'll be the laughing stock of all your friends."

"Tell them," Harry teases, genuinely enjoying this, watching Draco look increasingly more
horrified by the second. "I am weak for you."

"Harry!" Draco sputters, blushing so hard that he looks a little ridiculous, the bright red clashing
with his hair. Ironically enough, for all his mockery, he's the only one embarrassed right now.

There's also a spark of utter delight in his eyes, and for that, Harry would humiliate himself in front
of the entire world.

"I truly do love you," Harry muses, pleased by it, pleased by this entire moment.

"Shut up," Draco chokes out, dropping his leg and catching Harry's face in his hands in one smooth
motion. He darts forward to kiss him, likely to reinforce his command.

Harry is more than eager to comply.

"It's ridiculous."

"I think it's sweet."

Draco sends Harry a flat look, an eyebrow sweeping up in what can only be an insulting way. Harry
rolls his eyes and turns his gaze back to the sky. Hedwig and Artimus are flying in lazy circles,
trilling and hooting at each other, probably doing the owl equivalent of confessing their love. In
Artimus' claw, there is a very tiny rodent that Hedwig had brought to her, looking strangely smug
as she did.
"She's gone soft," Draco says with a mournful sigh, staring up at his eagle-owl in open betrayal.
"Just look at her, Harry. Do you know that she used to try and peck my eyes out when I first got
her?"

Harry grimaces. "Merlin. And you kept her?"

Draco snorts. "Of course. She was challenging me, obviously, and I couldn't let her win."

"Did you win?"

"Clearly, or else she would not be here."

"How did you manage that?" Harry asks.

"Mm, well, I endured quite a bit of scratching and biting," Draco admits with a lazy shrug. He
leans back on Harry's leg, releasing a soft sigh and closing his eyes. "With time, though, she
eventually started realizing that I was the only one who would give her treats, and I only gave them
to her by hand. That, coupled with time and attention led us to forming quite the bond, you know.
Now, she will claw out the eyes of the people I don't like."

"Really?" Harry chuckles, looking down at Draco fondly. "She didn't claw my eyes out."

"I like you."

"Do you? I didn't notice."

Draco's lips curl up just a bit. "In any case, she has gotten soft. For your owl, no less! Though, I
must applaud her taste in partner. Hedwig is a truly beautiful owl, and there's no denying it."

"Hagrid bought her for me," Harry says softly, reaching out to grab Draco's hand that rests on his
stomach, threading their fingers together. "She was a birthday present, even though he brought me
a slightly squished cake on my eleventh birthday."
"Did he?" Draco asks carefully.

Harry hums. "I didn't get any of it, though. Dudley ate it while Hagrid was telling me I was a
Wizard. Hagrid gave him a pig's tail for that. Actually, that might have been the first bit of magic I
ever saw from someone else. It was brilliant."

"I imagine it was," Draco says. He's quiet for a long beat, then he sighs. "Harry, you do know that I
don't like Hagrid, don't you?"

"Why not?" Harry blurts out, offended. He glances down at Draco's face, watching it twitch
through complicated expressions, though his eyes never open. "Draco, why don't you—"

"It's confusing," Draco interrupts with a small frown, his nose wrinkling just a bit. "I didn't like him
before because he's a half-giant, but I'm...not like that anymore, or I try not to be. I assumed that it
would make me more...open to positive feelings for those that I carried disdain for, but as much as
I try, I still don't like him."

Harry considers this, doing his best not to get angry and defend Hagrid to his last breath. "Alright,
tell me why you don't, then. I won't get angry."

"I can see now that he wants to be a good Professor, which is a pity because he's horrid at it, Harry.
It's a joke. His heart is almost as big as him, and that would be fine if it didn't lead him to endanger
students. I could have died, you know, in Third Year. He's negligent and he favors Gryffindors."

"We might fight if we bring up Buckbeak, but let's give it a try anyway. First of all, you're being
dramatic. Buckbeak only scratched you, and you acted as if your heart had been ripped from your
chest, which was ridiculous by the way. If you would have listened to Hagrid's instructions, you
would have approached Buckbeak properly, and you wouldn't have been hurt to begin with."

Draco scowls, his eyes still shut, and it shouldn't be as adorable as it is. "Who brings a bloody
Hippogriff to a class of Third Years?! Anything could have gone wrong whether it was me or
anyone else, but because it was me, you and your lot wrote it off as entirely my fault. How would
you have felt if it was Weasley who goofed off in front of the overgrown chicken and ended up
getting savagely attacked?"

Savagely attacked, Harry mouths to himself, shaking his head incredulously. He loves the most
dramatic prat in the world, no contest required. "Alright, fine, say that makes any sense at all. With
that, you also have to admit that it was partially your fault for ignoring your Professor's
instructions. Had you listened, you wouldn't have been—" Harry coughs, trying not to laugh. "—
savagely attacked."

"Let's say that's true, then," Draco mutters, bringing their joined hands up to his mouth, pausing to
bite one of Harry's knuckles. As if he did not do that at all, he continues speaking. "You have to at
least admit that Hagrid has no guide for what's too dangerous for those unqualified."

"I...well…" Harry grimaces, despite himself. He thinks about Fluffy, about Aragog, about
Norbert(a), about Grawp. Sighing in defeat, he mumbles, "You do have a point there, I'll give you
that, but he has absolutely no desire to harm anyone. He's just… He sees the good in the creatures,
that's all."

"I see that now when I did not before," Draco allows, pressing a kiss to the back of Harry's hand.
His scowl has smoothed out. "Unfortunately, his good intentions aren't enough to save me from
disliking his bad decisions."

"Why not? Mine are."

"You're my exception, Harry."

Harry's lips twitch. "Yeah, I'm seeing that. Fine, you don't have to like him, I suppose. You just
have to be cordial or, at the very least, tolerant. Preferably both. I like him quite a bit."

"You do realize that I'm not going to get on with most of the people in your life, right?" Draco
squeezes Harry's hand, his voice softening. "Some people just aren't well-suited. Those that you
love, that you consider family...they won't like me. Your own best mate despises me."

"Ron is...stubborn," Harry murmurs. "Even if you don't think so, trust me when I say he'll come
around. I don't know if he'll ever actually get on with you, but he won't try and kill you anymore. I
think, at some point, everyone will just have to come to terms with it. What other choice do they
have, really, especially if they want me to be happy?"

Draco bites his lip for a moment, face twisting and contorting, then he blows out a soft sigh.
"You'll be unhappy if they're upset with you, though. I know you will. If—if you wanted to...to…"
So brave, Harry thinks fondly. "I want to kiss you," he says, ducking down immediately after to do
so.

With a small sound, Draco goes lax and lets himself be kissed sweetly. From this angle, with Harry
leaning over him like this, they can't actually snog heatedly or anything, but this is just as good. It's
a leisurely snog with Harry kissing him sideways, a bit of tongue involved as well as bumping
noses. It's sort of terrible, and it's perfect.

"No, no, come back," Draco mumbles the moment he pushes Harry away, as if he hasn't just done
so. His eyes are still shut, just as they have been for a while now, and he reaches up to hook his
hand around the back of Harry's neck. "That was just terrible, so you have to do it properly."

"Do I?" Harry asks, amused.

Draco hums, tugging him down and scooting to the side to shift his position just a bit. "Do it right
or not at all, Harry. Otherwise, what's the point?"

"So needy," Harry teases.

"This is a very crucial lesson for your sense of character, you know. I'm only trying to make you a
better person. If at first you do not succeed, then try, try again. It's called perseverance."

"Oh, is that what it is? And here I thought you simply wanted to snog me some more."

"Not at all," Draco says, lips twitching with the obvious lie. "It's just become apparent that you
need more practice, and I've graciously decided to offer my help. I'm very kind like that."

Harry snickers. "You're really not."

Draco grins, then, unable to hold it back anymore, and oh, that knocks all the breath from Harry's
lungs. He surges forward, tipping down at the same time that Draco tugs on the back of his neck,
and then they're snogging properly.

Perseverance, as it turns out, is quite lovely.

Harry is more than happy to sprawl out in this meadow, their respective birds flying above them,
snogging to their heart's content. He wants to do this all day. Just get lost into the movement of
their lips and their shared exhales. It is so very easy to lose himself in this, the world shriveling
down to a fixed point, forever encased in just a second.

However, as their luck would have it, there's the sound of steps quickly approaching in the
distance, so they reluctantly break apart and sit up. Draco clears his throat and pats down his hair
with his free hand while Harry licks his lips and hopes they don't look as just-kissed as they feel.

In unison, they turn to watch as a figure comes rushing towards them. Very quickly, it becomes
clear that Mrs. Malfoy is the one that's making a beeline straight for them. The speed in which she
moves leads them to scramble to their feet in alarm, staring at her warily when she stops in front of
them with a small gasp, her eyes wide.

"Mother?" Draco asks hesitantly.

Mrs. Malfoy glances between them, then swallows, her hands fluttering nervously. "Draco, darling,
you have guests."

"Guests?" Draco echoes, blinking.

"Uninvited," Mrs. Malfoy mutters. She's not usually one to show displeasure on her face, but she
looks downright irritated right now. "They're not quite taking no for an answer. Apparently, there's
a crisis that needs your...attention. It is lucky that the Dark Lord is away for a few days, as is your
father."

"Who is it? What crisis?" Draco looks as confused as Harry feels. "How did they even get here?
The floo—"

Mrs. Malfoy huffs lightly. "I was expecting a floo call from my sister, but instead, two of your
friends bombarded my fireplace before I could close it. They won't tell me what's so important, but
I don't think you'll be surprised to hear that it's Blaise and Pansy awaiting your arrival."

"Oh, bugger," Draco mutters, heaving a sigh.

"Indeed," Mrs. Malfoy agrees.

Harry clears his throat. "Should I, er, wait out here? Or just go as Arius?"

"Arius will do," Mrs. Malfoy says, flicking her wand and tossing a vial at him at the same time.
She's gotten quite adept at this process with all the times Harry has asked her to do it in the past.
He usually handles it now, but she seems to be in no mood to wait. Between each Spell, she gives
Draco a firm order. "Do away with them quickly, Draco. They shouldn't stay too long, Draco.
Inform them to never intrude so rudely again, Draco."

To each of these orders, Draco sighs and simply says, "Yes, Mother."

"Go on," Mrs. Malfoy says once Harry is officially Arius. "I'll be waiting outside in case I need to
intercept the Dark Lord or my husband if they return before schedule."

Draco nods. "Yes, Mother."

Huffing, Draco tugs sharply on Harry's hand and leads them into not-quite-sprinting towards the
Manor. Harry doesn't protest, picking up his pace. He's very aware how dangerous it is for Blaise
and Pansy to be here, but he's struggling to understand what's so bloody important that they'd
ignore all Pureblood rules for propriety and just barge in unannounced, uninvited, and unwanted.

He's strangely excited to see them again, nonetheless. He remembers how surprising it was not to
absolutely despise them when he 'met' them in October. That feels like ages ago, now, but the point
still stands. Perhaps it was because they weren't being they're usual horrid selves because, like
Draco, they have started changing, too.

Whatever the case is, he plasters on a tiny, polite smile as he follows Draco into the Manor,
heading into the sitting room. He expects to get smiles in return, or even for Blaise to make a joke,
possibly Pansy teasing him about dating Draco. What he does not expect is for Blaise's expression
to go cold and withdrawn the moment he sees Harry, and he's not at all prepared for the way Pansy
actually lets out a hiss like she's suddenly been burned.

"He's here?" Pansy snarls, her hand darting out to clench on Blaise's arm.

Blaise pats her hand distractedly, but his eyes never stray from Harry. "So he is. Draco, may Pansy
and I have a word with you in private?"

"Piss off," Draco says flatly, heaving a sigh. "You've upset my mother, you twit. The both of you
should know better than to force yourselves into my residence. Where are your manners?"

"Chide us later," Pansy grits out. "Draco, we need to talk to you. Now. It's important."

Draco looks at Harry, and Harry looks at Draco, and there's a whole conversation shared between
their gazes. It's more than obvious that something is going on, and it doesn't take a genius to
realize that it might be best if Draco and Harry remain in the same room. With the way things go
for them, they're really not willing to risk it, at this point.

"Speak, then," Draco murmurs flippantly, flapping his free hand lazily. "Go on. Anything you want
to tell me, you can tell Arius."

"Is that right?" Blaise asks coldly.

Pansy makes a frustrated sound in the back of her throat, her nails digging into Blaise's arm.
"Draco, darling, now really isn't the time to flaunt your relationship, trust me. Just...spare a moment
to speak with us alone, alright?"

Draco cocks his hip up against Harry and leans into him, the motion speaking volumes on the fact
that he is not planning on budging an inch. To clarify it, he flatly says, "No."

"I don't mean to intrude," Harry says slowly. "You really shouldn't worry about me. I'm just, er,
here. Besides, I'm good at keeping secrets."

"I bet you are," Blaise drawls, sneering at him.

Harry frowns. "What's that supposed to—"

"Shut it, you spineless fraud!" Pansy screeches, and oh, there's the girl Harry remembers genuinely
not liking. She looks terrifying at the moment, so much so that he actually jerks back in shock.
"Pansy!" Draco hisses, scolding her, his fingers squeezing Harry's tighter.

Blaise pats Pansy's hand again. "Might want to control that temper, love. This could go many
different ways, and I'd prefer not to have to fight."

"I don't need you to fight for me," Pansy declares sharply, tilting her chin up. She steps forward,
glaring at Harry with nothing short of loathing and disgust in her eyes. "Whatever you're playing at,
it's in your best interest to stop. If you think, even for a second, that we'll stand by and let you fool
Draco, you're barking. I'll have your head to use as a stepping stool before you can even reach for
your wand, so don't try anything rash."

Harry blinks rapidly. "I'm sorry, what?" he asks mildly, then immediately swivels to look at an
equally confused Draco. "I—I swear I'm not doing anything. I haven't a clue what she's on about
Draco, but you know I'm not—"

"Stop lying!" Pansy shouts.

"I'm not lying!" Harry shouts right back.

Draco tugs Harry back a step, moving forward to glare at his friends. "Alright, that's enough. What
are you two blathering on about, and what does it have to do with Arius?!"

"Nothing," Blaise says, his tone silky-soft and layered with threat, "because Arius does not exist."

There's a long beat of silence.

"Oh," Harry breathes out, glancing at Draco the same time that Draco turns to look at him.

"Yes, oh," Pansy agrees with savage delight. "Did you not think that someone would eventually
notice? Blaise and I just so happened to take a look at some family trees to make sure you and
Draco weren't somehow related, only Arius Fawley isn't actually real. I don't know who you are,
but you won't deceive Draco a second longer!"
"You know," Draco muses, "I never really told you just how invasive my friends are."

"No," Harry says flatly, "you did not."

Blaise narrows his eyes. "You're not shocked. Why aren't you shocked? Did you know about
this?"

"Obviously," Draco says, rolling his eyes. "Do you honestly think I would let myself be deceived
like that? You should know better, the both of you!"

"Wait," Pansy mutters, all the fury in her faltering in the face of her rising confusion, "so who is he,
then, if not some—some sort of imposter?"

Draco and Harry exchange another long look, communicating without saying a word. There's a lot
of back and forth between them, even in the silence, but this isn't something to be taken lightly.
Telling Hermione and Ron is one thing; telling them is another. However, Harry is really in no
position to refuse. If Draco trusts them, he will as well, partially because Draco trusted him enough
to risk his own family and partially because Harry already knows how hard it is to keep such heavy
secrets from those you're so used to confiding in.

The problem lies in the fact that telling them who he is means telling them how he got here, why
he's still here, and going into detail that could, quite frankly, put them in dangerous positions. Not
telling them could lead to issues as well. Ultimately, though, Harry finds relief in not having to be
the one to make the decision this time.

"It's up to you, Draco," Harry says simply.

Draco exhales heavily and mutters, "They'll never let it go if we don't explain. I loathe to think
what they'd do in their endeavor to get information."

"They're your friends," Harry reminds him. "It's up to you to decide if you trust them or not."

"I do trust them," Draco grumbles.

"You'd be an idiot not to!" Pansy snaps, offended.

Blaise is staring at Harry hard. "Who are you?"

Draco clicks his tongue. "No, not yet. First, I want agreements not to breathe a word of this to
anyone. If you break it, you'll both owe me a great debt. And, frankly, I will make both of your
lives miserable; trust me when I say I have the means."

"He does," Harry agrees.

This time, it's Blaise and Pansy that share a look. They tilt their heads together, whispering heatedly
between them. After a few minutes of this, they break apart and stare at Draco with frowns.

"Alright," Blaise announces seriously. "We promise to treat everything you tell us today with the
utmost secrecy. Now...explain it already."

"Best just to show them, I think," Draco tells Harry, his lips twitching a bit.

Harry snorts and goes for a wand, shaking his head in fond exasperation. "You just want to shock
them, is all. You really are a prat, you know that?"

Draco smirks. "Your prat."

"Mm, the very same," Harry agrees with a grin, then he proceeds to remove the transfiguration. It's
a bit of a process that eventually ends when he's slipping his glasses back on his face, but there he
stands, most definitely Harry Potter.

"Draco," Pansy gasps, "you didn't."

"You'll have to be more specific, Pansy, dear." Draco pauses, then chuckles. "Though, to be
entirely fair, I probably did."

"That's Harry Potter," Blaise tells Draco.

"Congratulations, you're not blind. Unfortunately, you have the horrible infliction of pointing out
the obvious," Draco replies promptly.

"Why is that Harry Potter?" Blaise asks.

"Well, it all started when one James Potter met his future wife and fell in love," Draco says flatly.
"It's a tragic tale, I'm afraid. They die in the end."

Pansy makes a choking sound. "How is that Harry Potter?!"

Harry lightly smacks Draco's arm. "Stop teasing them, would you? If you don't explain, I'll try, and
you know I'm terrible at it."

"That you are, Harry, that you are." Draco sighs softly and focuses on his friends. "So, it's like
this…"

In the end, Mrs. Malfoy gets tired of waiting and demands that they all go lock themselves in
Draco's room and check before they decide to leave it. So, right in the middle of their very
important conversation, that's exactly what they do because they are all teenagers and Mrs. Malfoy
is still visibly irritated and no one wants to face her wrath.

The break turns out to be a good thing, because Blaise and Pansy have mostly composed
themselves by the time they're sitting across from Harry and Draco on the bed. The conversation
continues.

Harry's...surprised, you could say.

He expects an entirely different reaction than what he's given. Blaise and Pansy do not yell. They
don't accuse Draco of being a liar, nor do they try to make him guilty for keeping secrets. They
don't get up and pace, they don't interrupt, and they do not spare even a moment to insult or attack
Harry.
In fact, they don't really do much of anything. They sit there and they listen, and they occasionally
make a quiet comment that tends to send Draco into giving more detail and elaboration about what
he's saying. Outside of that, their faces remain smooth and impassive, and Harry can't even begin to
guess what they're thinking behind their blank expressions.

It makes Harry realize, very quickly, how happy he is that Hermione and Ron are his best friends
while Blaise and Pansy are not.

Nothing against them, of course, but Harry is very grateful to be friends with people he doesn't
have to guess about. Hermione and Ron are blunt. They don't really hold in their emotions, and no
matter what the subject is, they're always honest in their reactions. Harry doesn't have to wonder
what they're thinking, because they tell him. There's no doubt, or anxiety, or anything but simple
trust in knowing exactly who they are.

While Blaise's casual sprawling on the bed and Pansy's perfectly solid expression bothers Harry
just a bit, Draco seems unfazed by it. Actually, it's like this is normal for him, like he sees right
through all their smoke and mirrors. Maybe he does.

It takes quite a bit of time to explain the sheer amount of everything that's happened, and that's
even with skipping certain key details. To be fair, it's around nine months worth of events, which
blows Harry away to think about, so he doesn't.

Draco doesn't tell them about Horcruxes. He doesn't revisit how Harry killed Peter Pettigrew,
doesn't talk about the trips to the Shrieking Shack, and doesn't really go into depth about Harry's
relationship with Voldemort. In short, he explains how Harry got here, how he's been staying here,
how they eventually got into a relationship, and how they're planning to try avoiding a war.

Also, Draco talks about Theo.

This, at least, gets a bit of reaction. Blaise is not loose like flowing water through this part of the
discussion, but rather tense and still. Pansy's expression cracks and twitches, though Harry still
can't quite make out what she's feeling. Even Draco's voice has gotten softer, more serious, and
there's no teasing in this.

And, once it's over, there is heavy silence left behind. Blaise is looking at Draco with shrewd eyes.
Pansy is staring out into the middle distance, her gaze a bit foggy and her face blank. Draco sits
calmly, just waiting, and Harry awkwardly fiddles with his fingers in his lap.
Then, Pansy murmurs, "Katie Bell."

"Hmm?" Draco turns his head to look at her, his eyebrows furrowing. "What's that?"

"She's still in St. Mungos, but I've heard rumors that she might be released soon," Pansy says
slowly, sharing a quick look with Blaise. "We've all heard the rumors, and so has Theo. Have you
noticed how he gets a bit...shifty about it?"

"Shifty," Draco echoes carefully.

Blaise frowns at Pansy. "You don't think…"

"I do think," Pansy replies sharply. "We lost sight of him that day, didn't we? Back then, we
weren't too worried about him, not yet, but he was especially distant that day. I remember he
looked slightly sick when he found out she'd been Cursed."

"None of that is proof," Blaise murmurs.

Pansy dips her head in acknowledgement. "Of course it isn't, but that doesn't mean we shouldn't
consider it. I just don't know how it connects."

"I don't either," Draco says. "It makes no sense."

Harry clears his throat. "Er, I'm sorry, but what are we talking about?"

"Suspicion that Theo might have Cursed Katie Bell. Keep up, Potter," Pansy tells him flatly.

"Y-You're suspicious of him?" Harry blurts out, his eyes bulging. The mere thought that they're
calmly discussing the intentions of someone they consider a friend is mad to him. It's the
equivalent of him suddenly doubting Ginny.

Blaise clicks his tongue. "It's an option to explore, at the very least. Can't imagine why he would,
though, or even why the Dark Lord would want him to."
Pansy hums, then sighs. "Oh, Blaise, we should have never gone snooping in the bloodlines."

"We really shouldn't have," Blaise agrees dryly.

"Only leads to disappointment," Draco muses, giving a mock-sigh of sympathy. He raises his
eyebrows at them pointedly. "You've brought this on yourselves, you know, getting involved in my
business. More than what you bargained for, isn't it? Bet you'll think twice next time."

"I don't want to know this," Pansy groans, suddenly splaying out across the middle of the bed,
tossing her arm over her eyes rather dramatically, like a swooning maiden. She doesn't seem to care
that she wacks Harry in the nose as she does. "This is all just too much. Obliviate me, please."

Blaise hums, watching her fondly. "Yes, if that's an option, I'll take that one as well."

"It is not an option," Draco informs them.

"I should have known," Pansy continues to bemoan, her hair puddling over Draco's knee. She
reaches out with her free hand to wack him lightly on the chest, black nails sticking out in a
startling way against his pristine, white shirt. "As cautious as you are, you never could avoid
trouble when it comes to Potter. You've always been arse over tits for him. I should have known
something was off when you didn't rant about him with every breath this year!"

"Honestly, we should have known Arius Fawley was actually Harry Potter," Blaise muses, flicking
his gaze to Harry, lips twitching down. "As if Draco would be so enamored with anyone else."

"Piss off, the both of you," Draco snaps, glaring at each of them in turn, "or else I'll have Harry
feed you to the Dark Lord."

"I will not do that," Harry says kindly. "Besides, I don't think he eats anything."

Pansy heaves a sigh and moves her arm, looking up at Draco seriously. "You understand what a
burden this is. What are we meant to do now, Draco?"
"Nothing," Draco says quietly. "You'll do absolutely nothing. You'll act as if you know nothing,
and should I ever tell you both to—to flee, you'll do that with no questions asked. Understand?"

Harry feels something horrible and painful twinge in his chest. Both Blaise and Pansy are looking
at Draco like they expect him to evaporate before their very eyes. They care about him, even if
they show it in ways that Harry struggles to make sense of.

This is a serious situation, Harry knows that. He also knows that if it were Ron and Hermione he
was demanding to do nothing besides wait for his command to save themselves, they would laugh
in his face and stick by his side, turbulence and all. Perhaps that is the Gryffindor in them, or
perhaps that is the strength of their friendship. Either way, it surprises him when Blaise and Pansy
do not react as Hermione and Ron would and have.

"Alright," Blaise says simply, while Pansy nods.

"Let Granger and I handle Theo," Draco tells him, not batting an eye at their easy acceptance,
seemingly unsurprised and not at all hurt by it. He purses his lips, narrowing his eyes. "If you do
come across any information, however, let me or Granger know. Just be careful about it."

Pansy nods again. "That," she declares, "we can do."

"And you," Blaise murmurs, jerking his chin at Harry. His expression is stony again, but his eyes
flash with some kind of emotion that gleams like a knife. Threatening, dangerous. "He best come
out of all this alive and well, or you'll be to blame."

Harry jerks like he's been sliced open, his breath catching in his lungs. The words are ruthless,
hitting him and picking him apart with an accuracy that Harry can only expect out of Slytherins.
They've always been scarily good at hitting a person where it hurts, knowing the soft underbelly of
each person and how to expose it before a deadly attack.

For Harry, the mere thought that Draco might not survive this hurts more than words can express,
but that it would be his fault is exponentially worse.

It is, stupidly, the first time the thought ever crosses his mind that something bad could happen to
Draco in all of this. It simply hasn't so far because Harry loves him fiercely, giving him the
instinctual knowledge that he'll never let anything happen to Draco. But, for the first time, he
thinks about how he can't be absolutely sure of that, and it sends his mind reeling. Because he
wants to ensure the exact opposite, if something does happen to Draco, it will be—just as Blaise
said—entirely Harry's fault.

Harry's thoughts start spiralling almost immediately with no direction, and he's thinking about how
much danger Draco is already in, how that's solely his fault, too. To put it plainly, he outright
panics.

Without warning, he scrambles off the bed, fingers shaking as he fumbles for his wand. He's
marching out the door before anyone can even get up to follow, ignoring Draco calling out to him.

He has no idea where he's going, of course, or what he plans to do. He just needs to go, to do
something, to try and apply himself somewhere that he can actually do good. Because, as it stands,
Harry has accidentally done something horrible and unforgivable. He's put Draco at risk.

It's the weekend, and even though it's not quite late enough in the evening, Harry decides that he
would like to speak with Hermione. He misses her, and she's always been good at coming up with
helpful ideas. He needs more than a few of those at the moment. So, he practically sprints to the
floo and goes through without a second thought.

It's not until he's being spit out on the floor of the Shrieking Shack that he remembers that
Hermione went home for the holidays.

"Bugger," Harry mumbles.

Sighing, he slaps the floor with his palm and considers never moving again. All of this is terrible,
and Harry wishes his life were less complicated. In an easier world, he and Draco could fall in love
without a war looming over their shoulders, without Harry being at the center of it.

It's not an easier world, so what is he supposed to do, exactly? He can't just leave Draco. That
wouldn't save him; if it could, Harry would accept the heartbreak with the same strength that his
mother accepted her own death. Because that's another form of selfless and selfish love—giving up
something for the other, knowing they'll be hurt by it, but at least they'll be okay.

Harry hasn't the faintest clue how he's supposed to protect Draco in all of this. It turns his stomach
to think about what sort of mess Draco would be in if he wasn't here at all. How is it that Harry
endangers him and defends him all at the same time?
With a groan, he pushes himself slowly to his feet, brushing dirt and soot off his clothes. He looks
a mess and feels like an idiot. Who just goes running to the first exit available? Who does that?
Though, to be fair, Harry really does want to see Hermione. Blaise and Pansy's visit makes him
miss his own friends and the comfort in understanding them.

Frowning at his own, admittedly, maudlin thoughts, Harry glances up and instantly goes still.

Standing by the doorway is Ron, who looks like he's been caught stealing snacks. His entire face is
bright red, and he's shifting a bit restlessly like he wants to bolt out of the door. There's a long beat
of awkward silence as they stare at each other.

Harry doesn't know why Ron is here. He hadn't even known that Ron wasn't going home for the
holidays. Seeing him is like a splash of cold water, and Harry's inexplicably nervous by it.

"Ron," Harry mumbles hesitantly.

"Harry," Ron replies in much the same way. He clears his throat. "You aren't supposed to be here."

"Yeah, I didn't plan it," Harry admits. He frowns after a second of silence. "Wait, how did you
know I wasn't coming here over the hols?"

Somehow, Ron blushes even harder, his ears a vibrant red. "Hermione might've mentioned it.
Besides, I've been here plenty, and you never once showed up. Sort of obvious, I suppose."

"You've been here? Why?" Harry blurts out.

"I—no reason," Ron says stiffly. He crosses his arms and averts his eyes. "Anyway, I'll be going
now. Er, Happy Easter, or whatever."

"Happy—wait!" Harry nearly trips over his own feet as he trips over his words, and his heart is
rioting in his chest with something like hope. "Don't go just yet, yeah? I should—we should—"

"Why are you here?" Ron interrupts, narrowing his eyes as he looks at Harry again. "Come from
the Malfoys, did you?"
Harry pauses, taking a deep breath and slowly, very slowly, letting it out. Okay. They can have this
conversation without explosions and the complete erosion of their friendship. They can. Harry just
has to work very hard not to get angry.

"Yeah," Harry says as calmly as possible.

"Are you coming to see Dumbledore or something?"

"No."

"Oh. Did you come to get away from your prat of a boyfriend?" Ron asks. It's a bit derisive, a bit
pointed, and his tone is still stiff, but he isn't completely losing his cool, so it's a win.

Harry sighs and looks away. "Yes and no."

Ron snorts. "Told you so. What'd he do?"

"He didn't do anything besides decide to date me, like a prat," Harry mutters, his face crumbling
into a scowl. "He calls me an idiot, but he's the one who has made the decision to be in a
relationship with someone who—and can you believe that he has the nerve to act like it's just
alright? None of this is alright, mate, none of it!"

"Mm," Ron agrees, nodding sagely. "Just as I thought. You can tell me I was right anytime."

Harry throws him a distracted glare. "Oh, piss off, you couldn't be farther from right if you tried.
Anyway, who does he think he is? Why anyone associates with me is beyond me, but to go as far
as dating me? Merlin, he's mad!"

Ron makes a sputtering noise. "Harry!"

"Ron," Harry retorts.

"Just, can't you break up with him?" Ron practically whines, looking seconds from throwing a fit
like a toddler. He shakes out his arms and pouts. Harry is very sure that he thinks he's scowling, but
he really isn't. "I don't know why you think he's too good for you, because he really isn't, mate!"

Now it's Harry's turn to snort. "Oh, I don't think that at all. He's great, don't get me wrong, but he
isn't without fault. None of us are, really. I just think that I'm too dangerous for him."

"Because you…" Ron trails off, and he looks like he wants to keep going, whilst seeming as if he's
never wanted to stop more, but all at once. His conflict is simultaneously amusing and frustrating.
Finally, he scoffs and mutters, "Because you killed Bellatrix."

"Yes and no," Harry says again with a heavy sigh, the reminder as exhausting as it always is, even
if he never forgets. "It's complicated, Ron. That was the start of it, yeah, but so much has happened
since."

"I wouldn't know about any of that, though, would I?" Ron says, his tone bitter, his words an
accusation, and Harry is so endlessly glad that Ron is his best mate. He's just so...open.

Harry thinks that he would take every single fight they've ever had or ever will have, as well as all
the hurt that comes with it, just as long as Ron never stops being himself. Because Harry never has
to guess what Ron is really feeling. Even when he's confused and upset about it, Harry knows deep
down what the crux of their issues are.

It hits Harry then that he has never actually told Ron this, so he says, "You're the only person I
want as my best mate, Ron. Thank you for being you."

"What?" Ron chokes out, his ears going red yet again as his face immediately floods with a very
prominent blush. He looks furious about it. "Shove off, Harry. You can't just—"

"Do you want to know?" Harry cuts him off, raising his eyebrows. "I'll tell you all of it, and maybe
then you'll understand why you didn't know to begin with. Maybe you'll understand that I don't
know much of anything myself."

Ron glares at him. "But you know that you love Malfoy, do you?"

"Without a doubt," Harry confirms. "That won't stop. I can't help it, and I don't want to. Love isn't
supposed to be like this, though. It shouldn't make you lose the other people you care about."

"Don't you dare try and make me feel guilty. You went off and fell in love with the ferret!"

"Yeah, I did, and you're dating Lavender. Do you think I particularly like her, Ron? No, honestly,
not really. But, if she makes you happy, then I'd be kind to her because I want you to be happy."

"I'm not in love with her!" Ron bursts out, his blush seemingly endless. It almost looks painful.

Harry is aware of this. "Oh, you're not?"

"No, we're just—well, you know," Ron mumbles, shifting awkwardly as he flaps a hand to vaguely
encompass what, exactly, he and Lavender are doing. It doesn't explain it, but Harry's not really
eager for elaboration. "Besides, Lavender isn't horrid like Malfoy is, and you know that!"

"So she's never once bullied someone?" Harry challenges. "She's never hurt someone's feelings,
accident or not, or started rumors about people who didn't deserve it? She hasn't lied, or made a
mistake, or used someone else's misfortune for her own personal gain? None of that, right?"

Ron is doing that sputtering thing again, red out of fury and embarrassment. "Harry, that's—"

"Stop," Harry interrupts sharply, and oh, there he goes, getting angry like he'd promised himself he
wouldn't. "You don't have to tell me, alright? He mocked me for having dead parents. He fought
me with both hexes and his fists, tormented me in and outside of class, and made my sometimes-
miserable life even a bit more miserable for five consecutive years. He insulted my friends, treated
people who I care about like dirt, and never once—not one time—thought about anyone other than
himself. He was spiteful, hateful, and spoiled. If you think I've forgotten, Ron, you're wrong."

"So, so why do you—how can you just—"

"Because we're human, mate. We're not sodding perfect, none of us. Not you, not me, not Draco.
He did all of those things, yes, and he was wrong. I know that. More importantly, most
importantly, he knows that. He knows he fucked up, and he tries to be better every single day, and
that's why and how. Because, when he learned, he made the choice to change and do right. Not me.
I didn't make him. He could have continued to be just as he was, and if he had, I would have
continued to dislike him. But he didn't, and I got to know him, and I fell in love."
Ron stares at him, and his face is going through a myriad of expressions, twisting and twitching.
He's so stubborn, so fierce in his need to hold onto what he believes is the honorable thing,
clutching grudges close to his chest like that proves his loyalty and love. Hating someone who
disrespects or hurts those he loves and cares for is second-nature to him. Trying to get him to stop
won't be easy.

He doesn't know, Harry thinks, how this world is not so simple. For Ron, things can be reduced to
good and evil, to black and white. His perception is the most important variable, because he judges
based on what he sees, what he believes. It is staring at a portrait and only seeing the figure, never
once glancing at the framework.

Harry loves him for that, even as it disappoints him. No one in this world can escape the fact that
every being is flawed, not even Ron. In truth, Harry has always adored him and likely always will.
He's Harry's first true friend, the first exposure to happiness after eleven years of the opposite. But
that does not mean that Ron can't afford to have some change and growth of his own. Just like
everyone else, just like Harry, he can.

"You're really going to choose him, aren't you?" Ron whispers, and he's hurt by it. Harry can see
that.

Harry sighs wearily, very tired. "Mate, it's not my choice if you're the one making it. I can't force
you to be my best friend. If you—whatever choices are made, they'll be yours. I'm here. I'm always
going to be here. It's up to you."

That…

That does something. Harry's not sure what, exactly, those words achieve, but it's something.
There's just the tiniest shift in Ron's shoulders, a loose roll of them, but that's all. Still, it is enough.

"I'll never like him," Ron grouses, and Harry's heart practically soars. "He's still a prat. If he does
something to piss me off, I'll still punch him. And if he—Harry, if he hurts you, I'll—"

Ron stops speaking the moment that Harry starts crying, and it's a really awkward time for that to
happen, but Harry can't actually help it.

The tears assault him without much warning, but he doesn't mind these so much. They're tears of
relief rather than pain, and he gives a little wet laugh as he reaches up to cover his face with both
hands. He even muffles a quick, little shout into his palms, feeling like this squirming joy in his
chest might barrel him over completely if he doesn't have an outlet of some sort.

"Bloody hell, Harry, don't do that," Ron mumbles, shuffling over to pat his arm with jerky
movements. He's never been one to be comfortable with crying of any sort, least of all Harry and
Hermione. "It's, er—you know, this is alright, really. I mean, I'm still very angry, obviously, and I
think you should be with literally anyone else, but you can be, er, happy. So, no need to cry, yeah?
Could you not do that? Just—"

"I am happy," Harry chokes out, scrubbing his hands over his face before dropping them, smiling
at Ron tiredly. "Why do you think I'm sodding crying? I'm properly happy for the first time in
months, and frankly, you'd cry too if you knew how good this feels. It's like—honestly, mate, it's
like the most stressful parts of all this have eased. I've been beside myself wondering how I was
going to manage to get through all this without you and Hermione."

Ron blinks. "Have you? Well, I mean, you aren't. You'd have to be off your head to think Hermione
would stay out of it, and I have to be here to make sure Malfoy doesn't infect your mind with his
rubbish. Actually, if this is the first time you're happy, he must be a terrible boyfriend. Might be in
your best interest to get a new one, mate."

"Piss off," Harry says with a laugh, shaking his head and drawing in a wet breath. It feels like he's
breathing just a bit easier. "He makes me happy, he really does. It's just that everything is such a
mess, and I'm used to having you and Hermione, too. I've really missed you both."

"Alright, alright, enough of that," Ron grumbles, clearly flustered, back to blushing again.

Harry grins at him. "Are you going to tell me why you're here now?"

"Oh, that." Ron purses his lips, looking around the Shrieking Shack, then he sighs. "I don't know
what's all going on, but I've heard a few things from Hermione. It's like she's trying to tell me, even
while not telling me. In any case, I found out that she's been trying to get information from
Slughorn."

"Did she tell you why?" Harry asks.

"Well, she doesn't actually know that I know. She's been sneaking out to visit him under the Cloak,
so I've been...er, following her. Don't know what she's whispering to him about, seeing as he's
asleep and all, but I've caught a few things. Anyway, I figured it couldn't hurt to take a look in his
office."

"You broke into a Professor's office?"

Ron puffs up in pride, eyes sparkling with mischief. It's clear that he's been aching to tell someone
about this. "Of course. Hermione must think he's hiding something, so I went to check."

Harry huffs out a delirious laugh. "Here I was thinking all the trouble you and Hermione got into
over the last five years was entirely my fault, but I was bloody wrong, wasn't I? So, what did you
find?"

"Not much, not at first," Ron admits. He takes a step back and walks over to the wall that he'd been
standing beside when Harry originally saw him. He bends down, reaching through a gaping hole in
the plaster and wood before pulling back. "But, you know, I thought he must have some secrets if
Hermione's after him. So, I might have, uh, gathered some of the things he had hidden around his
office, just for us to look at—well, you and Hermione, 'cause I hadn't actually decided to forgive
you yet, you see. Anyway, I'll take it back, o'course, but I thought it couldn't hurt, is all."

"You—" Harry stops.

He stops and watches his best mate pull various pouches, books, and small boxes from the large
cubby in the wall. He stops and thinks about how, in Fourth Year, Ron found a ridiculous way to
tell Harry that dragons were the first task. He stops and thinks about how endlessly loyal Ron is,
even when he's at his angriest, because he cares so much for a person who struggles to show it.

"This is all I've got so far," Ron continues, like this isn't a big deal or anything. He claps his hands
to his thighs and stands up, all casual-like. "Are you going to tell me what Slughorn has to do with
this?"

"Ron," Harry says softly, "I'm going to tell you everything."

Because it is a very long conversation to have, the faint light outside darkens as Harry explains, as
Ron asks endless questions or puts in opinions—some are amused, some are hurt, most are angry.
They fight again, heated arguments spilling between them because they're both very stubborn, but
that is to be expected. Ron frequently gets up to stomp around and pace, snarling at Harry for
something or another, and Harry often snarls back.

In the same breath, there are quiet moments of poignant sadness that rustles between them like
falling leaves, noticed but not acknowledged. They sit on the floor, going through Slughorn's
things, and they trip into abrupt bouts of silence as the heaviest bits of information smothers them.

Ron has thoughts about most things, rebuttals or fierce agreements, but he says nothing when
Harry makes it clear that he could possibly die.

He blinks a lot, eyes red-rimmed.

Harry's probably done a horrible job of telling Ron everything. It's certainly not like Draco telling
his friends. For a start, there's a lot more emotion, even negative ones. But what sticks out the most
is how, at the end of his explanation, Ron's shoulders become one firm line, his back going ramrod
straight, face setting into determination, and Harry knows exactly what that means.

"I'll help Hermione find another way," Ron says, very predictably. "And—and I'll help her with
Slughorn, too. Suppose I could help with Nott as well, but only if Malfoy isn't a prat about it."

"Thanks, mate," Harry murmurs, lips curling up.

Ron glances at Harry, the skin around his eyes tight. "It's just…"

"What?" Harry looks at him, his heart squeezing violently in his chest. He doesn't like the look on
Ron's face right now.

"If there was another way, wouldn't Dumbledore already know it by now? He would have looked
at every other option first," Ron says softly.

Harry presses his lips into a thin line and looks away. He'd hoped—oh, how he'd hoped—that no
one would point that out. He's been aware of that this entire time, but some secretive part of him
that never wants to hurt the people he loves has been shoving that knowledge down, trying to
cauterize it before it could flow out and cause chaos. If Draco and Hermione realize this, Harry's
not sure how they'll react, or what they'll do.

It doesn't really surprise Harry that Ron has already thought of this. Ron sees things differently
than most people do, and there's an unfortunate amount of people in the world who think he's an
idiot when he isn't. Ron is strategic, and he's good at looking right at the worst possible option and
working out if it holds any merit whatsoever.

This is why he's good at Wizard's Chess. This is why he's as important as Hermione when it comes
to planning. This is why he is him.

"Are you going to do it?" Ron holds Harry's gaze, his face set seriously.

Harry takes a deep breath, then oh so slowly lets it out. "Yeah."

There's a long, long swell of silence between them. Harry looks at Ron while he looks away,
blinking hard, adjusting to the serious confirmation. It must be hard, Harry thinks, to come to terms
with the fact that your best friend is going to die one day, possibly soon, way too young.

Because, the thing is, Ron's right. If there was some other way, Dumbledore would have found it.
Hermione searching for it is more for comfort than anything else, because there's nothing to find.

It's the first time he's admitted it out loud, at least this bluntly, and it's not as hard as Harry expects
it to be. Maybe because it's Ron; if it were Draco or Hermione, he's not sure he could get the
admission out. But there's a relief to saying it, to admitting it, to committing to it.

It feels like the starts of change, like he's found the right thing to do and all he has to do now is
wait for the moment that he obtains redemption.

"Mate," Ron mutters, "you know this is mad, don't you? Staying at the Malfoys, with You-Know-
Who? You should come back."

"I've already explained everything," Harry says, leaning his head back with a tired sigh. "I have a
plan I'm working on, as it is. Besides, I don't… I'm not sure how to—to be...who I was."
"Who you were?" Ron protests.

Harry tosses up a lazy hand. "I've killed two people, Ron. I don't think anyone would be the same
after that, would they?"

"I think you're justified," Ron says sharply, his scowl growing darker. "They'd have killed you,
wouldn't they? Besides, they deserved it!"

"I don't know," Harry says faintly, looking away, staring down at the floor they're sitting on. He
tries to let Ron's words soothe him, but they don't.

Ron scoffs. "You're not evil, Harry! It's not like you're going to start killing people all the time!"

"I liked it," Harry rasps. "How it felt, I mean. I wanted to do it again."

"Of course you did!" Ron leans forward to catch his gaze, his own blue eyes snapping fiercely. "To
them, though, right? You don't want to kill me or Hermione, or anyone else! The people you killed
weren't innocent, and it's not like they wouldn't kill you, because they would!"

"Dumbledore would kill me, too," Harry says.

Ron frowns, leaning back. "That's… It's different, isn't it? He's not…"

"Is it different?" Harry whispers.

"I…" Ron's face twists and contorts through so many emotions that Harry can barely register them
all—he can easily see the wariness, confusion, hurt, and regret, though. In the end, all he says is, "I
don't know, mate, I really don't."

Harry nods wearily. "Now you know how I've been feeling since the beginning of summer."

"I don't want You-Know-Who to win, obviously, but I don't—Harry, I don't want you to die for it,
either. It's just...mad. Mom'll go mental, and Hermione won't ever recover, and it's not—it isn't
right, you know. You're sixteen!"

"You can't tell Hermione or Draco, Ron. Promise me you won't tell them."

"I—Harry…" Ron says warily.

"Ron," Harry insists, his voice trembling, "please promise me, mate."

Ron heaves a sigh and closes his eyes. "Alright, Harry, I promise."

"Thank you," Harry exhales.

There's silence after that. It's not a comfort, but it doesn't hurt, either. Harry is so, so relieved that
Ron knows everything now, and despite knowing, he's clearly made the choice to stick by Harry's
side. It makes everything that feels impossible about all of this just a bit easier. He exhales softly.

Going through Slughorn's things proves not to be as fruitful as Ron had hoped. There's a lot of
books, but nothing on Horcruxes. Harry feels discomfort when he finds random letters or gifts from
students of the past, things that Slughorn has been collecting like trophies, just the same way he
collects people. It's actually quite creepy when Harry thinks about it, so he does his absolute best
not to.

Harry is pretty sure that they're not going to find anything that will help, right up until he pulls out
a vial that catches his attention. Frowning, he uncorks it and sniffs it, eyebrows rising.

He recognizes this.

"What is it?" Ron asks, looking up and catching Harry's peculiar expression.

"Felix Felicis," Harry murmurs, eyebrows furrowing as he stares at the vial. "Voldemort has me
brewing it, but it takes six months, so it's not done. But I've seen the end result, and it's this."

"Liquid Luck," Ron says slowly, blinking. When Harry glances at him in surprise, he snorts. "I
happened to pay attention in class when Slughorn brought it up. I knew I wouldn't win it, but I sort
of wanted to. Everyone did, I think. Slughorn was giving a vial to whoever brewed the best
Draught of Living Death."

Harry raises his eyebrows. "Who won?"

"A girl from Slytherin," Ron mutters, grimacing. "Greengrass, I think. Hermione was livid,
o'course. Her potion was almost good enough, but Greengrass somehow managed to have the
better shade. I've never seen Hermione's hair so frizzy, mate."

"I can imagine," Harry says, because he can. He stares down at the vial and then, after a moment of
deliberation, holds it out to Ron. "Here."

Ron stares at the vial. "You're mental. I think you could use that more than anyone else."

"Give it to Hermione. She'll be able to get what information she needs from Slughorn that way."

"And you honestly think she'll take it?"

"For me?" Harry smiles sadly. "Yeah, I do."

"You should take it," Ron insists, frowning a bit now. "You could use it to get information out of
You-Know-Who. Besides, it could… Maybe it'll save your life or something."

Harry shakes his head. "That's not how it works, Ron. It's nothing against powerful enchantments,
and you'd have to be mad to think Voldemort doesn't have loads of protection around the things he
wants to keep hidden. This won't help me, but it can help you and Hermione. If she refuses to take
it, then you should. Just—just be careful."

"If you're sure?" Ron checks, hesitantly reaching out to grab the vial. When Harry pushes it into his
hand, he sighs and nods. "Alright. I'll wait until she's back, but I can already tell you she won't like
it."

"Just remind her it will help save my life, possibly, and she'll come around."
"A bit manipulative of you, mate."

"You pick up a few things when you're dating a Slytherin," Harry murmurs idly, his tone mild and
fond, lips curling up.

Ron grimaces, but he doesn't immediately spit out an insult, so that's better than nothing. In fact, he
clears his throat and shifts a bit restlessly. Eyes on the floor, he mumbles, "It's sort of, er, strange.
Dating, I mean. Isn't it?"

"What do you mean?" Harry blinks and looks up in vague surprise. "Are you talking about you and
Lavender, or about—"

"Just in general, I suppose. Ginny's with Dean, you know. It's driving me mad."

"Why?"

"She's my sister!" Ron bursts out.

Harry arches an eyebrow. "And?"

"And—and he should keep his grimey paws off her, shouldn't he?!" Ron sputters, clearly fed up
with the injustice of it all.

"Ron, we've known Dean for years. He's brilliant. There's literally nothing grimey about him, and
Ginny is more than capable of handling herself."

"But—but—"

"Ron," Harry says firmly, "you can't control her life, you know. I know you do it because you care,
but I don't think Ginny really needs protecting."
"She's fifteen, Harry! She shouldn't be thinking about snogging boys!"

"You're only a year older than her, and I've heard all about how you and Lav Lav snog at every
available opportunity. Besides, you were going on and on about girls back in Fourth Year, so I
don't really think that's fair of you. Anyway, she'll be sixteen in less than six months."

Ron blushes at Harry saying Lav Lav, then he frowns at the rest. "You can't seriously approve,
Harry!"

"It's not my business to," Harry says sagely, inwardly smug at his easy display of someone wise,
though he suspects that's not as true as he wishes it were. He chuckles when Ron flails a bit. "No,
seriously, it's not my business. As long as she's happy, then it's good. Shouldn't you be happy if she
is?"

"Don't go all sensible on me, mate. It'll make me lose the plot," Ron grumbles, scowl-pouting like
acknowledging Ginny's independence has soured his mood indefinitely. "What do you suppose
Dean sees in her?"

Harry considers that for a moment, pursing his lips. He thinks about Ginny, about how bright she
is. From her hair, to her skills in the air, to how she lights up a room as soon as she enters it. Her
hair is a beacon of warmth, always looking rather silky. Her smile is beautiful, her skin looks soft,
and she's so ridiculously funny that Harry can't help but miss her right there on the spot.

He remembers Draco asking him once who he might've fancied if he'd been in Hogwarts and hadn't
fallen for him, and Harry thinks he has his answer. It amuses him because he can imagine how well
that would go over with Ron. It's also a bit hilarious to think about in this context, because Harry
loves Draco so much that the idea of even glancing at anyone else is laughable. Nonetheless, if
anyone could have caught his rather oblivious eye, it would have undoubtedly been someone as
fierce and lovely as Ginny Weasley.

Harry's pretty sure he shouldn't inform Ron of this, nor should he express the long list of Ginny's
luxurious attributes, so he goes with the safest compliment that he can think of.

"She has nice skin," he says, which is true.

"Nice...skin?" Ron echoes incredulously.

Harry hums. "Sure. You know, her skin is nice. Looks soft, I mean."

"Oh." Ron blinks, then his gaze goes unfocused and distant as he seems to ponder something. After
a long pause, he murmurs, almost dreamily, "Hermione has nice skin, doesn't she?"

"I… I haven't ever actually thought about it," Harry admits, very carefully swallowing a laugh.

"Right, right," Ron says, clearing his throat, seeming to shake himself out of his stupor. His ears
are very red as he averts his eyes. "Anyway, they've been fighting a lot—Ginny and Dean. So has
Seamus and Dean; it's odd because they've never fought. Don't know what that's all about."

Harry has an idea, mostly based on the observations Draco has made, but he doesn't voice them.
"I'm sure it'll all work itself out."

"Do you—" Ron stops, tries to start again, gags and has to take a deep breath. He looks a little
green as he eventually forces himself to keep talking. "Do you think Malfoy has nice skin?"

"The nicest," Harry declares immediately, grinning.

"Harry!"

"You asked."

Ron shudders, actually shudders. "Right. Shouldn't have done that. Ergh."

"Can I get your opinion without you trying to get me to break up with him?" Harry asks
cautiously.

"If… If you must," Ron groans, acting as if he's being tortured right this very moment.

Harry rolls his eyes, but by the time he gets ready to speak, his nerves have taken over again. He
stares at his limp hands and swallows. "You know all of it now, and—and you know how
dangerous this all will get. He could be hurt. He might be, and what if I can't stop it? Just being
with me is a risk, and now, being without me would be a risk. I don't—Ron, I have no idea what
I'm supposed to do, mate."

"Break up with him," Ron says immediately, only to huff and hold up a hand. "No, sorry, that was
a reflex. Er, I don't really know what to tell you, I suppose. I think you're too good for him. Way I
see it, if he gets hurt, then he does. That's not your fault, though, is it? I mean, unless you're the one
hurting him, then it would be."

"I promised I wouldn't leave him," Harry whispers mournfully, all tangled up inside with anxiety
and worry for the unknown future ahead of them.

Ron makes a choking sound in the back of his throat. "Why would you do something like that?"

"Because I don't want to leave him," Harry says.

"Harry, you—" Ron cuts himself off, and there's a complicated expression that crosses his face.
Harry can't make sense of it. As if it can only get worse, there's something startlingly like pity in
Ron's blue eyes, something like he's seeing a tragic accident in motion. When he speaks, there's a
dry quality to his voice, raspy and raw. "So don't leave him."

Harry's face softens. "That's your advice?"

"You don't make promises you intend to break," Ron says, his voice oddly sad. Harry doesn't
understand why. "There isn't anything else I can say."

"Yeah, alright," Harry mumbles, and that's that.

They start packing up Slughorn's things, talking amongst themselves. It's a very normal
conversation about Quidditch, about things inside Hogwarts, about their friends. Harry has missed
this more than he can express, and it highlights how upside-down his life has become.

Harry has memories of sitting around with Ron, talking for hours about meaningless things, about
topics that don't weigh on his chest and send his mind into hysterics. It's always been a relief, a bit
like home, just existing in the simplicity of having calm, casual discussions with his best mate.
Ron is—and usually always was—a breath of fresh air. There's a laziness to the way they talk, as if
they have all the time in the world, as if they can stop at any moment and still have tomorrow. It's
like an illusion, something lethargic draping over the mess of their lives, giving Harry the vague
sense that maybe things aren't always easy or alright, but in this moment, things are perfect. Even if
it's not.

That's not to say that things aren't just a touch awkward and stilted. It breaks Harry's heart a bit
when they stumble, when certain things they say don't coincide with how they used to be. Harry
says something nice about Draco, or Ron praises Dumbledore, or even a hint at something they
don't agree on anymore—when they always used to—and there's just the slightest fumble in the
conversation.

But they're adjusting. They are, because they want to, and Harry always knew they'd reach this
point again. It was definitely a struggle, but Harry's proud to know that he never once doubted his
best mate.

They just need time, is all.

Because the world is rarely kind, their newfound balance—shaky as it is—gets tested before
they've fully hammered down the foundation.

It's as they're standing to depart, going their separate ways because Ron needs to get back to the
Castle and Harry needs to get back to the Manor, that the fireplace flares. Draco steps out
smoothly, and the expression on his face can only be described as stormy. Harry knows almost
instantly that he's in trouble, and the thing is, he's very sure that he's earned it this time.

In reuniting with his best mate, Harry might have pushed back the memory of sprinting out of the
Manor at full speed, disappearing through the fireplace with absolutely no one around to see him
go. It's late now, meaning hours have passed, and there's a very good chance that Draco just spent
all of them fretting about where Harry's been.

"Ah," Harry says delicately, going very still.

Draco narrows his eyes.

Yeah, this isn't going to go over well at all. Harry risks a glance at Ron, only to wince at the
reflexive scowl on Ron's face. Not good, not good at all.
"Oh, you're not dead," Draco drawls, his eyes absolutely blazing, despite the cold emptiness to the
rest of his features. "Pity."

Harry winces. "Draco, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have left like that. I was just—"

"Listen at you," Ron hisses, staring at Harry in blatant disbelief. "You sound like you're pleading
with your overly severe wife, mate! Can't you go as you please, or don't tell me you have to notify
him of every move you make?"

"Ron," Harry breathes out, closing his eyes, "please, please shut up. Just, for me, stop talking."

"You're bloody well afraid of him!" Ron squawks, gaping at Harry in horror.

"I'm not," Harry grits out, heaving a sigh. "It's my fault. I just sort of, er, left without telling anyone
where I was going."

"So?" Ron challenges.

"Yes, Harry," Draco says icily, "so?"

Harry opens his eyes, sighing. "So, I'm sorry I worried you, alright? I didn't mean to stay gone so
long, honest. I probably would have gone back as soon as I got here if I hadn't found Ron. But look,
he and I are alright now. Isn't that good?"

"Just lovely," Draco says, his tone sharp. He has his arms crossed and his lips pinched, which
Harry knows means that he's working very hard not to go for his wand and start hexing people.
He's very dramatic, and Harry loves him so much.

"Shove off, Malfoy," Ron snaps. "Harry can do what he damn well pleases, you know, and he
doesn't need permission from the likes of you."

"Ron," Harry hisses, reaching out to grasp his arm, digging his nails in with warning.
Ron isn't very good at caution, never has been, especially when he's angry. "And just because I'm
alright with Harry doesn't mean I'm alright with you. If I had my way, and he wasn't a bit of an
idiot, he'd never go back to stay with you."

"Is that right?" Draco asks, his eyebrows slowly crawling up his forehead. He looks abruptly at
complete ease, as if he's not angry at all, which is scarier than if he was spitting mad.

"That's right!" Ron declares. "He doesn't need you, and he'd be alright staying far away from you,
your family, and that dreadful home of yours!"

Harry wrenches on Ron's arm, willing him to please stop talking, though he does not. Helplessly, he
looks between Ron and Draco with wide eyes, unsure how to clean up this mess. Might be best to
soothe the boyfriend before the best mate, Harry thinks, because as furious as Ron can get, it's
Draco's wrath that Harry would rather avoid. Besides, Ron isn't the one who snogs him and cuddles
him at night, so.

"Draco," Harry starts, "that's not—"

"No, no, let him have this one, Harry," Draco says, now sounding cruelly amused. It must be a
Slytherin thing. "After all, you two are alright now, aren't you? He's your best mate, so I suppose
I'll have to start taking his opinions seriously. Why don't I start doing so now?" Draco gives a
mock-bow, his lips twisting almost bitterly, seemingly amused and upset all at once. He tips an
imaginary hat at Ron, because he is dramatic, then takes a solid step back towards the fireplace.
"Message received, Weasley. I'll take it under advisement."

"W-What?" Ron stutters, startled.

"Wait, wait, hold on," Harry says frantically, eyes bulging as he watches Draco head right for the
fireplace with his most prat-ish strut.

Draco offers a lazy, aloof wave over his shoulder as he glances back at Harry. "Enjoy your night
far away from me, dear. I'll be back in the morning. That is if you haven't run off somewhere
without a word to anyone else, of course."

And then, with a smirk and a ridiculous amount of flourish, Draco snags a handful of floo powder
and disappears into a burst of flames. Harry wilts, not even needing to try and floo to the Manor to
know that Draco has closed the connection.

It is quite possibly the firmest 'you're sleeping on the couch tonight' that Harry has ever
encountered, and frankly, it is so over the top that he can't even be properly mad about it. He also
expects nothing less from his prat of a boyfriend, who he still loves very much, despite this.

"What just happened?" Ron asks.

Harry wacks him on the arm, fuming. "You just ruined my bloody night is what happened! I could
be at home with him, but no, now I have to sleep here all night. Thanks a lot, Ron!"

Ron rubs his arm, a little sheepish. "Sorry, mate. I didn't know he'd do that. Bit much, if you ask
me."

"He's dramatic," Harry mumbles sullenly.

"Is he really going to make you sleep here?"

"He absolutely is, and it's your fault, you know."

"Why do you fancy him again?" Ron asks.

Harry huffs. "Piss off. And next time you feel the urge to have a go at my boyfriend, remember that
I'm the one who has to deal with his moods, yeah? Believe it or not, I don't actually like it when
we're fighting."

"Alright, alright," Ron mumbles, rolling his eyes and offering Harry an apologetic shrug. He
shuffles his feet and clears his throat. "Do you want me to stay with you? Can't be too terrible, can
it?"

"It's fine." Harry shakes his head and waves towards the door wearily. "You've already got to get
those things back to Slughorn's office, and besides, someone might notice if you don't go back."
Ron bobs his head and claps him on the shoulder. "Tough luck, mate. See you in May."

"Yeah, alright, see you," Harry says, shaking his head fondly, despite himself. He loves his best
mate, too, regardless.

Ron heads out, not at all smothering his snickers as he goes, and Harry heaves a sigh as he moves
over to the wall beside the fireplace. He shoves his hands in his trouser pockets, wishing he wore
robes or something, at the very least, because it's already cold and will only get colder. He hunkers
down, leaning his head on his knees and shutting his eyes.

It's going to be a long night.

When Harry wakes, his teeth are chattering.

He's disoriented instantly in that way someone only can be when they're in a place they're not used
to being in, at least in such a state of vulnerability. Harry's no stranger to discomfort, seeing as he's
literally slept in a cupboard under some stairs before—consecutively, for years—and he's been in
more than enough uncomfortable environments.

Despite this, he's very cold, very sore, and very tired. There's a crick in his neck. It strains as he
picks his head up in general confusion, startled out of sleep by something. Not that his sleep has
been very restful, which he's also used to, though he has come to immensely enjoy the easy rest he
gets when sleeping with Draco. On top of that, his back has a cramp from leaning up against the
rotting wood on the wall, and his arse has gone numb from not moving from the cold floor. He
shivers.

He blinks blearily, lifting a trembling hand to push his slipping glasses further up his nose, trying to
distinguish what has woken him in the dark.

"Pitiful."

Harry perks up, some of the exhaustion fading as Draco's face looms closer to his. "Draco, you're
here. Is it morning already?"
"It's not," Draco mutters. "Get up. You'll catch your death if you stay out here."

"I won't, actually," Harry reminds him, even as he readily clamors to his feet. Perhaps he can't die,
but that doesn't mean he isn't freezing.

"Come on, then, or I'll leave you here," Draco says, exasperated, and heads for the fireplace.

Harry follows him eagerly, nearly stumbling over his own feet, and he's so cold that he can't stop
shaking long enough to grasp a proper handful of floo powder. Draco must see, because he gently
helps him cup it in his palm, pulling him into the fireplace and tucking him into his side.

Even like this, with Draco keeping him upright, there's no defense against gravity. Harry goes
falling right out of the fireplace as soon as the flames stop swirling, and he drags Draco down with
him.

"Sorry," Harry groans.

"So undignified," Draco complains, but his voice is strangely tender, uncharacteristically soft.

It makes Harry want to immediately kiss him, or hug him, or hold his hand, because he's never
heard Draco sound like this before. Sugar-sweet with sincere compassion, and it seems to hold a
clinking tremble of a croon, like a small bell has just been rung, those notes fading out and nearly
gone, only to remain trapped in the shape of Draco's words.

It's so posh and absolutely perfect. Harry wants to lick the words right out of his mouth and see if
they taste as sweet as they sound, and then the desire to do so makes his cheeks heat up so fast that
his entire face stings at the swift temperature change.

In the dark, sprawled in front of the fireplace that's gone out, Draco does not see this, for which
Harry is grateful. It makes him feel less like an idiot when Draco stands up and helps him to his
feet with careful movements, his hands cupping Harry's, not warm like the rest of him. Draco's
hands are never warm, and usually, it's Harry trying to heat them up.

Seeing as his own fingers are numb at the moment, he can't actually do that, but he wishes he
could.
In silence, Draco ushers them out of the room and up the stairs. He's quiet, just as the Manor is.
Mrs. Malfoy must be in bed, and Harry wonders what time it actually is. He's still tired, but he
usually is, and time always seems like an impossible concept to him these days anyway. He's sure
it's after midnight, though, because there's always a peculiar stillness to the Manor after that, like
the home itself has finally succumbed to its slumber.

Harry's mildly surprised when Draco leads him into the loo, flicking his wand with his free hand to
make a sconce on the wall light up. The candlelight casts the room in flickering shadows and a
warm glow that reminds Harry vaguely of Hogwarts.

"What are you doing?" Harry murmurs, watching as Draco pulls away from him and heads to the
large cabinet in the corner by the mirror.

Draco doesn't answer. Instead, he opens the cabinet and rummages around, eventually pulling out a
large, fluffy towel—the ones that that are always stocked in the Manor and are undoubtedly
expensive, a stitched Malfoy family crest in the corner of every towel, and so wonderful against his
skin that Harry can't help but appreciate it, even if he'll never admit it out loud.

Draping the towel over his shoulder, Draco picks through the cabinet again. Harry watches
curiously as he pulls out two small bottles, popping the lid to sniff them, then makes a face of fine,
acceptable before closing the cabinet back.

In the very lavish loo at the Manor, the one that Harry's been sharing with Draco this entire time,
there is an unnecessarily large stall for a shower, which includes fancy wall-showerheads and a
variety of different options for the flow of water. Harry is always simplistic when it comes to this,
using the shower as he would if he were at the Weasleys or Hogwarts, and he genuinely doesn't
care for the embellished uses of it.

However, the shower is all he uses.

In the corner, behind a privacy screen with painted landscapes too beautiful to describe, there's a
large tub that looks made of porcelain and feels sturdy and heavy as steel. It's black, and most tubs
—in Harry's experience, anyway—are not, but there's something that feels very...elitist about it.
The taps are clearly made of silver, and it's as deep as it is wide—not as large as the tub in the
Prefect bathroom, but very close.

Harry does not, as a rule, use this tub. Mostly because he sort of hates it. The taps have snakes
carved on them, reminding Harry a bit too much of both Grimmauld Place and the Chamber of
Secrets. Not only that, but Harry generally prefers a shower, as bathing is too slow.

So, seeing Draco stride to the aforementioned tub with confidence has Harry, very quickly, blurting
out, "No, seriously, what are you doing?"

"Drawing you a bath, what does it look like?" Draco replies calmly, crouching by the tub to turn
the taps, testing the temperature with ease.

"What?" Harry asks dumbly.

Draco sighs. "You're cold, Harry."

And, well, yeah. That's very true. From the tips of his fingers to the bottoms of his toes, Harry is
cold. He's still shivering with it. There's different types of cold, and this might just be Harry's least
favorite. It's the dry sort of cold, harsh and unpleasant, seeping into skin and piercing bone.

That doesn't actually answer Harry's question, though. More rise up to join the first. Like, why is
Draco drawing him a bath if he's angry with him? Like, is Draco still angry with him?

It's hard to tell. Draco isn't really looking at him, and his insults have barely passed the cusp of
what they usually are. He's still speaking in that tone of voice that makes Harry want to suck on his
tongue, and none of this is making sense.

"What," Harry repeats, and he's so confused and cold that it's not even a question this time.

Draco ignores him, pulling one of the bottles over the lip of the tub, popping the lid and letting the
substance seep out. Harry can just make out the fragrance of it—the sweet curl of rain and the
steady scent of wet leaves, environmental and heady. Once that bottle gets set aside, Draco does
the second, and this one doesn't have a particular smell, but bubbles do immediately start filling the
tub just as the rising water and steam do.

After that, Draco stands and lets the water run until the tub is full, then cuts it off before turning
back towards Harry. He's not smiling, but he isn't frowning, and Harry can barely make out the
nuances of his expression in the flickering light.
"Get undressed and get in," Draco tells him, voice still soft and sweet, driving Harry a bit mad.
"I'm bringing you clothes to change into. Hurry up before I return, or else I'll watch you get nude."

Harry jolts like he's been slapped, and he doesn't at all think it's legal for Draco to say things like
that in that tone, but he does not say so. Some offenses are meant to be ignored, he thinks.

Draco hangs the towel over the privacy screen, then sweeps out of the room without a glance back,
and Harry stares after him in complete stillness for a long moment. However, that moment passes
when he realizes that it won't take Draco very long to get him pajamas, and then he's ducking
behind the screen to fumble at his clothes.

The problem is, his fingers are still a bit numb, and he's so flustered that he's clumsy. He's barely
got his hoodie off by the time Draco gets back, and in fact, it slips off his head the moment that
Draco returns with a pile of pajamas. Harry stares at him with wide eyes, caught out.

"Er," Harry chokes.

Draco sits the clothes down on the small stand by the screen and shuffles closer to Harry with a
small sigh. "Are you struggling?"

"A bit," Harry admits.

"I'll help," Draco murmurs.

And he does. He grabs Harry's hands and brings them close to his mouth, breathing on them,
helping them unthaw. It works, just a bit, and Draco continues on without missing a beat. He tucks
his cold fingers under the hem of Harry's shirt and gently eases it up, making a small sound that
somehow signals Harry to lift his arms. The shirt comes up and off with ease.

Coincidentally, Harry is getting warmer. It's either from blushing, or from the fact that he's no
longer outside, but it's likely a mixture of both.

Draco does not stutter or stop. His cold fingers dip into the waistband of Harry's trousers, flicking
open the button in a move so quick and nimble that Harry would cry if he couldn't do the same—it
comes with the territory of being a seeker, Harry's sure.

"I—I can do it from here," Harry says quickly.

"If you're sure." Draco withdraws his hands and swivels on the spot, marching around the privacy
screen and staying there. Apparently watching Harry get nude had been a lie. "Let me know once
you're in the bath."

For the next few minutes, Harry fumbles out of his clothes and stares resolutely at the shadowed
outline of Draco through the privacy screen, waiting for even the smallest bit of movement. It's
both a relief and peculiar sense of disappointment when Draco remains still and on his side.

Easing into the bath is...well, it's an experience. He's very sure that Draco knows he's doing it
because he must be able to hear the way Harry hisses in both pain and pleasure. The sting of the
warmth hurts very good, and he bites his lip as he lowers himself into the bubbles. He shudders
with it, finally realizing just how cold he actually was. Merlin, getting warm afterwards is bliss.

"I'm in," Harry announces with a relaxed hum, removing his glasses and tossing them on his stack
of pajamas. They land lopsidedly, but at least they don't fall to the floor.

Draco doesn't immediately come around the privacy screen. No, instead, Harry listens to him pad
all around the bathroom, catching glimpses of him as he moves about. There's something
inherently romantic about the way he looks in candlelight, and Harry's more than happy just to
watch him move around in it. He looks divine.

When he does make his way to Harry, he's carrying two things—Harry's shampoo, which he must
have gone through the trouble of getting out of the shower, and a stool. He proceeds to sit the stool
down behind the tub, near Harry's shoulder and back, then goes on to sit on it, even though Harry's
very sure it's meant as a footstool.

"Wet your hair," Draco murmurs.

Harry glances hesitantly over his shoulder, but Draco does not appear to be joking, and he's still
being infuriatingly...passive at the moment.

There's nothing else for it, Harry thinks, and then slithers down in the tub, past the bubbles,
dunking his head back to do as he's asked. He's half-worried that the mass of bubbles will shift or
dissipate, but they must be magical of some kind because they move fluidly as he does, strangely
sturdy.

When he comes back up and settles back against the curve of the tub, he only briefly relaxes before
there are fingers in his hair. He jolts a bit and murmurs a hushed, "Are you really about to shampoo
my hair?"

"Do you want me to stop?"

"...Not really."

"Then yes, I am," Draco says, still speaking honey-soft like it isn't making Harry lose at least half
of the functions in his brain. His fingers go back to smoothing through Harry's hair, which actually
feels very nice. "Blaise and Pansy stayed for a few hours after you left. It was nice talking with
them, especially since they know everything now. They'll stay out of it, of course, but they'll also
give me any information they find. As you could tell by their detection of Arius, they're scarily
good at obtaining information."

Harry hums, his eyes drifting closed. "I'm glad you have friends that know. It must be a relief, one
I know all too well. Besides, Blaise and Pansy are good to you—maybe not anyone else, but that's
good enough for me."

"They mocked you for running, you know. Said it wasn't very Gryffindor of you."

"In all honesty, it wasn't. I suppose I can't be my best Gryffindor self at every moment."

"Mm, that's a relief."

"Is it? Why?"

"Because Gryffindors appall me," Draco says simply, his fingers kneading a bit at Harry's skull,
scrubbing in the shampoo. "I don't know if I'd be able to put up with you if you were like that all
the time."
"Do you ever take a break from being a Slytherin?"

"No. There's always a situation that requires cunning, and true ambition never quiets."

"It's okay to fail sometimes," Harry tells him softly, tipping his head back a bit so Draco can reach
forward farther.

Draco makes a small, amused sound. "A fact that helps me sleep at night, I assure you. Some
would say that each failure is the next step to success."

"And you? Do you agree?"

"It'd be hypocritical of me not to."

"Why?" Harry asks, curious.

"Because I'm all too aware of what failures led me to you," Draco murmurs, "and shameful as they
are, I am endlessly grateful for them."

It's very quiet in the bathroom outside of the slick sounds of Draco smoothing shampoo into his
hair and the smooth lapping of the water trickling and hitting the tub as Harry shifts. It feels really
calm and really still, as if they're in a bubble that exists only for the both of them. Harry does not
want to pop it, so he holds his breath rather than inhaling sharply like his urges push him to.

Draco's words are very impressionable, but more than that, they leave an impact on Harry that he
can't dream of articulating. It makes his heart stop and start racing all at once, makes his fingers
tingle with startled delight, makes his head a bit fuzzy with simple joy. The words are as sweet as
the tone he uses to speak them, and Harry has the absurd urge to pick them out of the air like
plucking flowers, wishing to carry them with him always.

"I have many failures of my own," Harry whispers, "but my most recent was running without
letting you know. I should have. I was just—Blaise really got to me, I suppose."

"You're worried about me."

"Of course I am. I love you."

Draco's fingers tighten through his hair, spasming, only to loosen quickly after. He sighs, and even
that sounds like spun sugar. "Try not to fret. I imagine my life would be even more dangerous had
you not swept in and changed everything. Whatever happens to me—good or bad—is my own
fault. I've made my choice just as you have, and I did so knowing precisely what risk was
involved."

"I'm still sorry, though."

"I know."

"Draco," Harry says softly, "you know that, no matter what, I'll do whatever I can to—to make sure
nothing bad happens. Not to you and not to anyone else, if I can help it."

"I'm aware, Harry," Draco tells him. His thumb sweeps across Harry's hairline, gentle and adoring,
the faintest caress. "Rinse your hair now."

Harry smiles slightly. "Alright."

He leans forward and scoots down to tip his head back, the water splashing around him like a
smooth melody. He feels Draco's hands dunk in the water, rinsing away the shampoo from both
Harry's hair and his hands. It feels heavenly.

When Harry comes back up, Draco flicks his fingers to spray droplets back into the tub, then his
left hand comes down to Harry's bare shoulder. He brushes the pads of his fingers over the scars
Greyback left behind, and Harry closes his eyes again, letting his head thunk back against the tub.

"Tell me how it went with Weasley," Draco prompts into the soft quiet.

So, that's what Harry does.

There's something about this entire moment that weighs on Harry as intensely important. Every
breath feels spooled out and evaporated, soft as clouds surrounding them. The water is warm, the
lilt of Draco's voice is candied, and the press of Draco's fingers against his skin feels like home.

In this, there is intimacy, something domestic and only for them to share. It's so sublime that Harry
aches, even as he experiences it in real time. It's being acutely aware that each second of this will
forevermore remain a memory that he'll hold close, a juncture in his life where he'll come out the
other side just slightly different, as if his soul has been wrung out and built upon. It is not life-
altering, but it is life-shaping, and Harry gives into it, just sinks in with no hesitation, malleable and
ready to add new divots and rest stops to the map of his life.

Harry is not sure why he's been gifted such a treasured moment, but he vows to take care of it. He
does, in fact, never speaking too loud or moving too much or acknowledging how special all this
is.

Instead, he quietly talks about Ron while Draco listens, equally quiet outside of his hums or soft,
saccharine questions. Draco's fingers rest on his shoulders, brushing his scars and the dips of his
collarbone, fleeting touches that do not sear Harry open but soothe him instead.

They talk until the water gets cool, and the end to the moment approaches calmly. It is not
something one fights, and Harry does not try. He accepts it like the gift it is, simply humming as
Draco pulls back and makes to stand, silently signalling that he'll leave so Harry can finish and get
dressed.

That's exactly what he does.

After, as he walks to Draco's room, he realizes that he feels lethargic and unraveled. It's like hair
being brushed out, all the knots carefully tugged away, leaving the easy path of strands for fingers
to run through. He's smiling when he enters the room, and Draco is already in bed, under the
blankets.

Harry crawls in with him, barely managing to lay down properly before Draco is curling into his
side, shoving his face up against Harry's neck, breathing him in, clinging. Harry wraps his arms
around Draco's shoulders and hums.

"Thank you," he says.

 Draco sighs softly. "I've never ran a bath for someone before, not even myself. The house-elves
always took care of it."

Harry's heart almost hurts with that knowledge, and he doesn't know why it moves him so much,
but it does. He presses a fierce kiss to Draco's forehead, so in love that he almost can't breathe
around it.

"I love you," Harry tells him.

"Harry," Draco mumbles, and it's just one word, just his name, but it's reverent.

Harry's not entirely sure why Draco is being like this, so sweet and soft and clingy, especially
when he was angry before, but he's fairly sure that it doesn't matter. He doesn't need to know. It's
enough for him to simply be here, he thinks, so he is.

He holds Draco as close as possible and shuts his eyes. It's as he drifts off that he realizes he's
never felt as warm as he does now.

Chapter End Notes

That freaking bath scene is my lifeblood. It's so soft, my teeth ached when I wrote it.

Also yay, Ron has come around (mostly)! If anyone cares to know his POV or
technically my thoughts on it, it sort of boils down to Ron's insecurities. Harry is his
friend, and he's proud of that—not even just because he's Harry Potter, or whatever.
Not only is Draco Malfoy someone Ron has a lot of issues with, there was also the
added fact that now he had to deal with the idea/chance that Draco would or even
could steal Harry away from him. Ron is jealous, he always has been, and I think the
only thing that would make him okay with it was Harry vowing that he was always
going to be there, no matter what Ron did. Harry didn't even really know how much
that would mean to Ron, but considering Ron's insecurities, you can't deny that it
would mean a lot. Idk, sometimes I get soft about how much Ron means to Harry and
how much Harry means to Ron, even with all their stupid problems and many fights.
But, realistically, they're dumb teenagers with a lot of emotions, and Ron already has a
lot of insecurities with his own inadequacy to begin with. In a serious situation,
though, I think he does come through for Harry.

Sorry, I'm rambling. I have a lot of thinky thoughts lol. Don't mind me.

However, I love hearing all of your thoughts, so don't hesitate to drop a comment to let
me know what you think about the chapter! ❤️
 April
Chapter Notes

Ooh, buddy, are we in for a ride with this one. Gotta couple of warnings for this
chapter!

~~SPOILERS~~

1) References to past child abuse—in relation to how the Dursleys treated Harry, both
in regards to their dislike for him as well as keeping him in a cupboard.

2) Panic attack, due to Harry finding himself in a cupboard once more. Kinda heavy,
but he gets help.

3) Relationship drama. It was only a matter of time, really. Harry and Draco fight.
It's...not pretty, but it does not drag out past this chapter.

4) Harry drinks while underage, but rest assured, he comes to the very quick
conclusion that it is stupid and that he will not be doing it again.

5) Talk of death.

6) Just...general feels and heavy moments. Angst. Sorry, it had to be done :/

See the end of the chapter for more notes

April rushes in while Harry is still trying to hold onto March, but time waits for no one.

It's time well-spent, however.

Harry and Draco fall into an easy rhythm, one they've been used to ever since summer. It's flying
together, watching the rain together, lazing about together, and eating meals together. All of it is
side-by-side, and Harry realizes how much he's missed this. To be fair, a good portion of the first
week of Easter hols were unfortunately spent with Draco and him fighting, so this is an
improvement in every sense of the word.

On the third day of April, Voldemort returns back to the Manor. Harry only knows he's arrived
because Voldemort just happens to be sweeping down the hall to his study as Harry is dragging
Draco up the hall, away from the First Library—they'd gone together to get Draco another book.

"You're back," Harry blurts out.

Voldemort pauses, glancing at each of them in turn, then looking down at their joined hands. His
lip curls into a faint sneer, but all he says is, "Yes."

"Where were you?" Harry asks.

"Hollow Hill," Voldemort replies.

Harry's eyebrows shoot up. "Is that what it's called? Morbid, but fitting. What were you doing?"

"Electing a new Minister," Voldemort tells him.

"Were you?" Harry mumbles, grimacing at the reminder of how quickly things are moving. He lets
out a quiet sigh. "Who'd you settle on, then?"

"You do not know him."

"But he's one of yours, isn't he?"

Voldemort hums. "You could say that. What are you doing?"

Harry narrows his eyes. "Getting Draco a book. Don't change the subject. Who is it?"

"Pius Thicknesse," Voldemort answers dutifully. He tilts his head when Draco twitches. "Do you
know of him, Draco?"

There's a beat of silence before Draco very calmly says, "I've heard my father mention him
before."

"Who is he?" Harry asks bluntly, now turning his focus to Draco.
"He was promoted to head the Department of Magical Law Enforcement after the death of Amelia
Bones," Draco says woodenly.

"Bones," Harry murmurs, blinking. "As in...Susan Bones? That's her aunt, right? She died?
When?"

Draco's hand is tightening around Harry's, but his face remains calm and collected. "I'm not
entirely sure the exact time, but it was before Hogwarts opened again. Sometime this previous
summer."

Harry slowly looks at Voldemort. "Did you have anything to do with that?"

"Yes," Voldemort replies instantly.

"Did—" Harry goes cold all over, and oh, he doesn't want to ask this question. He doesn't, but he
has to. He has to. "You had her killed, didn't you?"

"I did," Voldemort confirms.

It's like a solid punch to the gut, and it hurts. Harry has no idea why it does, but it does. It's not like
he isn't aware of who stands before him, of what Voldemort is capable of and willing to do.

But he hadn't known this. Amelia Bones has been dead for months, and Harry's had no clue. It
makes him wonder what else he's missed, what else he hasn't seen while no one tells him. Even
Draco has known this, but he's never brought it up. Why would he? How is he to know that it's best
to be suspicious of Voldemort's involvement always?

Harry squeezes Draco's hand. "Why don't you go read your book, Draco? I—I'll join you soon; I
just need a few minutes with our resident Dark Lord."

"Alright, Harry," Draco says softly, extracting his hand and walking away without another word.

In the silence, Harry and Voldemort stand opposite of each other, staring at one another, not
speaking. Harry's never heard silence quite so loud. There's a solid weight in his gut and a
heaviness to his heart that betrays what his mind is trying to tell him. That he already knew this
was how things are, that it should not hurt him like this, that he shouldn't allow himself to be
broken by it.

But, the thing is, Harry knew Amelia Bones. He remembers her. She was at his meeting at the
Ministry before Fifth Year, and he can recall her with stark clarity. In his memory, she is alive, but
here and now in reality, she is not. Just like Cedric, and Sirius, and his parents.

"Is this going to be a fight?" Voldemort asks.

"Yes," Harry admits.

Voldemort nods. "Follow me, then."

Harry does, clenching his jaw to keep from saying all the different things that he wants to.
Voldemort leads him on to the Study and leaves the door to be shut by Harry, moving fluidly to
settle behind the desk as always. For a long moment, Harry stands in the middle of the room and
simply looks at him.

It is true, Harry thinks, that he's grown used to Voldemort's appearance. He no longer shudders or
cringes in disgust, and there's nothing overly odd to Harry about his slitted nostrils, lipless mouth,
and strange reptilian features. Not anymore.

He's become at ease with it.

Harry wonders if that's not all he's gotten accustomed to. He recalls his actions and feelings when
he first arrived here, reciprocating to anyone and everyone like a caged animal who was feral and
scared to be, but especially Voldemort. They could barely be in the same room without Harry
wishing him dead, even as the desire frightened him.

He hasn't been afraid of himself in quite some time, he realizes. Mostly because he's made the
choice not to kill, and he knows he won't. He surely can, is more than capable of it, and he'd enjoy
it, but that's the duality of right and wrong—anyone can be good if they've never been exposed to
bad, and everyone can be bad if they have no reason to be good. There's something inherently
different about someone who's experienced and enacted both, who hopes to prevail in choosing
good. It makes him think of Sirius, and about the words he once said that Harry is still moved by to
this day.
We've all got both light and dark inside us. What matters is the part we choose to act on. That's
who we really are…

Maybe he no longer scares himself, but he does have a wariness towards his own actions and
thoughts these days. He's already made too many mistakes to go and stumble into the next. The
thing is, he's not sure how to go about avoiding them.

This, right here, feels like a mistake.

The worst part is that some selfish part of Harry doesn't want to know. He doesn't want to ask, or
hear it, or have to adjust to it. It's some horribly twisted urge to just look away, to close his ears to
it all—what he doesn't know can't hurt him.

There are so many reasons for such an impulse, none that he wishes to explore. What will it matter
anyway? To think he's been setting himself up for anything other than disappointment is a joke. He
already knows what's going to come out of Voldemort's mouth; he just has to be brave enough to
hear it. Because, once he does, there's no taking it back, and then all he can do is act accordingly.

"When I said that you were going to hurt me," Harry whispers, "this is what I meant."

Voldemort watches him move forward and sit down in his usual chair, his gaze sharp but not harsh,
and he quietly says, "Remember that I take no pleasure from it."

"Yeah." Harry has to clear the rasp from his throat and take a deep breath. After that, he steels
himself to be brave. "When did you kill her?"

"I did not. I was offered information that told me about her position in the Ministry, which led me
to believe that she would one day be a problem for me if I ever wished to have control. Nine days
before September, I sent someone to dispose of her."

"Who gave you information about her?"

"Severus," Voldemort murmurs.

Harry lets out a weak laugh, but there is absolutely no humor in it. "The irony. Some mistakes bear
repeating, it seems. Alright, so you—you had her killed. Why?"

"Her position within the Ministry was unshakable, and she was not easily swayed. Her death was
the swiftest, most inconspicuous way to remove her from it and have someone more susceptible to
my power in her place," Voldemort explains calmly.

"Every time I ask you if you've killed someone, you always tell me you haven't." Harry swallows
and averts his eyes. "I suppose I didn't think about how much you could ruin with that still being
true."

"You haven't asked me that question in a long time."

"Have you killed people since the last time I did?"

"Yes."

"Besides Greyback?"

Voldemort pauses, then says, "Yes."

"Right, of course," Harry chokes out, closing his eyes slowly. "Who?"

"Nameless, worthless Muggles. Emmaline Vance, who was attempting to protect the Muggle
Prime Minister. Also the Muggle Prime Minister, who was not protected very well. Three of my
newest recruits, though I cannot tell you their names. At least two Azkaban guards, likely more,
though I can't sure. Those are my direct murders; would you like the indirect ones as well?"
Voldemort asks, still so patient, his tone smooth like flowing water.

Harry does not open his eyes. He feels cold all over in the worst way possible, and it's very hard to
speak or breathe through a tight throat. "Go on."
"I am indirectly responsible for the death of masses, Muggle and Wizard alike. I have recently
broken into Azkaban, as well as...encouraged Giants to attack various parts of England, and I have
allowed my Death Eaters to collapse a bridge that resulted in many Muggle casualties."

There are a million questions that Harry wants to ask, things involving politics and reasons, things
that teeter like building-blocks in his mind, threatening to collapse.

He doesn't ask them.

No point. Any answer Voldemort could give won't calm the storm of hurt and betrayal in Harry's
chest. And it's hurt he should not feel, that he set himself up for. This information does not surprise
him; he'd been expecting it. That is why, no matter how hard he tries not to, he feels betrayed.

Foolishly, some part of him—deep down, but somehow skirting the surface all at once—had
hoped. He'd allowed himself to settle in the thought that Voldemort is horrible, sure, but he hasn't
actively killed anyone. Stupidly, he'd even granted himself the permission to believe that it was his
presence and influence that stopped Voldemort from doing so, even if he'd never acknowledged
that belief. Having all of that refuted manages to shatter those hopes and beliefs, ones that were
already so brittle to begin with.

Why hadn't he known? Why didn't he ask and keep asking? Why wasn't he better prepared, better at
defending himself from this very thing?

No one told him. Not Draco, or Mrs. Malfoy, not even Hermione and Ron. Surely they must have
all known it, either through the papers or rumors spread about. And no one said a word.

Harry opens his eyes and looks at Voldemort. He tries to hate him, but he can no longer do so, just
as he's never quite learned to stop. He doesn't try to forgive him, knowing he will never be able to,
just as he'll never work out how to stop being hurt by this. Here it is, he's facing it, and all he can
do is react.

Voldemort is watching him, almost curious, but there's a stiffness to his shoulders that there almost
never is. It's like he's bracing himself, preparing for an attack, ready with rebuttals and arguments.

And Harry just...can't.

He lowers his gaze, dipping his head, and he starts crying with no build-up whatsoever. He needs
none. This is a phantom ache that's existed in him the whole time, and he needs no flaring emotions
to prod it. As simply as one might drift off into sleep, Harry cries—open and honest and soul-
deep.

It's the quiet sort of crying. Weeping. The kind you associate with pain that can't be healed, pain
that lasts until the tortured soul saddled with it learns to deal with it. The kind that comes out in
tragic moments of grief and loss, in departure that will not eventually turn into reunion.

Harry has cried many times in front of Voldemort, but never quite like this. It's naked and true, like
he's splitting himself open and showing something that should be his secret and no one else's. Tears
like this are reserved for the stuffy silence of a cupboard, or the fabric of his pillow on Halloween
night; it's never been out in the open.

"Harry," Voldemort says, quiet, subdued.

"Don't," Harry breathes, his breath shuddering out of him, the word hitching on a sob. "Just don't."

Voldemort is silent for a long time, but he doesn't remain so. "Harry," he starts again, "you knew
all of this would happen. You knew there would be a war. You knew what I would do. I never lied
to you."

"I did know," Harry agrees through his tears. His whole body shakes with the attempts at stalling
his sobs, though there's no use for it. He sounds like a small child, hiccupping softly and trying to
right his balance as the world stretches and tips all around him. "I did know. I knew."

Harry picks up his head and looks at Voldemort, just looks at him. He lets Voldemort see him like
this, lets him witness yet another thing he's broken, lets him take it in with shrewd, ruby red eyes.
And, in this look, he knows that Voldemort will see that, despite everything, Harry does not hate
him.

Just like he can't hate Dumbledore.

Voldemort isn't moving. He's very still, as if frozen in place, trapped in that chair. Harry wishes he
were stuck there where he can't hurt anyone, always waiting in his seat for Harry to come sit across
from him. But that is not reality, and it's time for Harry to wake up, to face what he's been
avoiding.
In his avoidance, he's allowed himself to get hurt. That is his own fault. It's just as Voldemort said,
isn't it? He never lied to Harry, not once.

"Will you go?" Voldemort asks, and there's something strange to his tone, the tiniest quiver,
wavering on the curve of the last word. He reaches up and rubs at his chest harshly.

Harry sniffles and gives a very faint, very weak laugh. He shakes his head. "No, not for this. I
can't."

He can't. That's the truth. There's far too much to be done. Running now, after already knowing
this, won't help save anyone.

"I see," Voldemort says softly. His fingers twitch against his chest, then rub harder. "You said this
would be a fight."

"I'm tired," Harry whispers, because he is. So very, very tired of all this.

Voldemort's face is blank, but Harry watches his hand grow more vigorous in how he rubs at his
chest, almost like he's trying to rub something away. "What would you ask of me, Harry?"

And it comes, unbidden and agonizing, to Harry's mind before he can properly stop it. The
thoughts careen into each other, spiralling around in their whimsy, for they are dreams that will
never be obtainable. They exist anyway.

I would ask you to stop, to let the war rest, to choose me over your thirst for power. I would ask
that, for once, I could be enough. That someone, anyone, you would be willing to live for me. That
you wouldn't be just another disappointment, just another person I will never be able to hold onto,
just another Dumbledore. That, perhaps, we could go on as the unlikely pair we are—child and
reluctant guardian—discussing the matters of the world without adding to the pain of it. I would
ask that we could have peace, and that I could be yours.

It is foolish, and impossible, and all too real. Harry is very sure that Voldemort can see it in his
eyes. The regret, the shattered hopes, the childish fervor for something he has lacked his whole
life.
These aren't requests that can ever be fulfilled, so Harry does not dare to voice them. He murmurs,
instead, "I'd ask for some time to—to adjust, that's all. Just some time, then I'll handle it like I've
handled everything else."

"You have it," Voldemort replies instantly.

Harry nods and gets up out of his chair, slowly walking away, feeling as if he's been knocked off
his broom. There's a freefall in leaving, in furthering the steps away from the one behind him. It
feels like change, and mistakes, and loss.

And, just as he said, he'll handle it as he's handled everything else so far. He'll keep breathing, and
he'll do what needs to be done.

At the door, Harry pauses to look back, just a glance. He isn't sure why, or what he expects to see.
Is it unfounded hope or just the desire to hold onto what can no longer be? He isn't sure. What he
sees does not help him decide.

Voldemort is just rubbing his chest.

Draco watches him with carefully concealed trepidation, and Harry can only make it out because he
knows Draco so well.

There's something about that, and it's really nice, but Harry can't actually feel that at the moment.
He lowers himself into the window seat in his unofficial, designated spot across from Draco, their
legs bumping. Apropos of nothing, Draco picks his legs up and slings them over Harry's knees,
resting them in his lap, his feet hooking on Harry's sides. It's more comfortable and less cramped
this way, but Harry can't help but feel a bit trapped.

"Not like this," Harry mumbles, pushing lightly at Draco's legs.

"Mm, like this?" Draco offers, scooting back and around, leaning up against the glass so that his
legs fall over Harry's sideways.
Harry rests his hands on Draco's legs, lightly rubbing an ankle, and he nods. "Yeah, like this. It's
better. You just won't be able to look out the window this way."

"It's not raining." Draco shrugs lazily, idly playing with his own fingers as he searches Harry's face.
There's some hidden concern in his blue-grey eyes, only for Harry to see. "Besides, you're a better
view."

"Am I?" Harry murmurs, lips twitching. He barely smiles. He can't right now.

Draco sighs and reaches out to lay one hand over Harry's, thumb sweeping over the back of it. A
gentle gesture. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"You knew, didn't you?" Harry asks.

"About Bones? Well, I didn't know that—"

"Not just about Bones, but I'm sure that you had your suspicions about who did it. Don't lie to me,
Draco. It's not only that, though. You knew about the Giants, and Voldemort breaking into
Azkaban, and the Death Eaters attacking the Muggle bridge, and every other shite thing they've
done. You knew, and you're not the only one who did—your mum, Hermione, even Ron. Everyone
knew, and absolutely none of you said anything."

"Harry." Draco grimaces, his gaze cutting away as his fingers spasm over the back of Harry's hand,
clenching and fluttering. He opens his mouth, then closes it. He doesn't say anything.

Harry takes a deep breath. "Answer me, Draco. You and everyone else knew, didn't you?"

"We knew," Draco whispers. The admission seems like it pains him. "Of course we knew. But
Harry—"

"Stop," Harry says, and Draco does.

Slowly, Harry pushes Draco's legs off his own and slides out of the window seat. He gets up and
walks away, not entirely sure where he's going, where he even wants to go at all. He maps the
Manor out in his head, mentally seeking out some place he can go that will make any of this better.

Harry has walked nearly every inch of this Manor, seeing as he's spent months here. He's not one
for being still as it is, so in his boredom, he would wander around. There's plenty to look at, to be
fair, most of it ridiculous and extravagant. The Malfoys are not short on heirlooms and expensive
pieces littered around to flaunt their wealth. The only place that isn't like the rest is the Death Eater
Wing—as aptly named as can be, given the circumstances. It's where the Death Eater room is and
where the dungeon resides, and it's where Harry goes the least.

Leaving Draco sitting alone, that's where Harry goes today, because he knows it will take someone
a long time to find him there.

A part of Harry aches for Nagini, almost an instinctive response to his distress. There should be a
faint tug in his chest that he would unconsciously follow, leading him straight to her, but she's
dead. There's no tug, and not for the first time, or the last, he mourns that feeling.

He reaches the hall unhindered, and he carefully moves down it, passing doors that he's never
opened. This entire area simply creeps him out, making his skin crawl and his stomach twist. He
has every urge to get away, to pretend like the place he calls home doesn't have this section at all,
but that's the problem, isn't it? He hasn't been facing the reality of all this, of any of it, avoiding
every aspect that makes him uncomfortable and unsettles him.

It's so different to how it started out, and Harry has no idea how he got here. He doesn't recall how
he went from seeking out the discomfort just so he could remind himself that he wasn't a part of it,
to actively avoiding it because he grew to care about those who are. The realization makes him feel
like a fraud, like he's condoning the very things he used to hate and fight against.

Breathing unevenly, Harry passes the Death Eater room, unable to stop and enter it. He killed Peter
Pettigrew in that room. He's sure that if he opens that door, he'll watch it play out in front of his
eyes, witnessing himself turn further and further away from the morals he used to uphold without
struggling. He doesn't know who that person is anymore. That Harry Potter has been long gone.

The thought feels like a punch to the solar plexus, and he wraps his arms around himself as tightly
as he can. Ridiculously, he wants his dad. He wants his mum. He wants his parents. They're
supposed to be the ones who teach him, who help him grow, who correct his mistakes and praise
his victories. They're meant to love him and be here, but they're not, and Harry wants them with a
yearning ache that pierces through him, a visceral feeling he can't escape.

Now, Harry starts to pick up his pace, feeling like he's running from something. Maybe he is.
Maybe he's running from reality, from all of it.

He careens to the left, stumbling into a door without even caring what's behind it, and he fumbles
his way inside, ducking down, slamming the door behind him without much thought. It becomes
clear almost instantly that this is a horrendous mistake.

It's a cupboard. It's a sodding cupboard, and Harry would laugh at the irony of his life if he was
capable of breathing at the moment. He is not, so he doesn't laugh. Instead, frantically, he reaches
out and feels at the four walls that are incredibly close to him. The top of his head is pressed
against the roof of the room, and he can feel cobwebs brushing his skin.

"Fuck," Harry chokes out, then drops down and curls into a tight ball, shutting down entirely.

It's a stupid, stupid mistake. He shouldn't have come in here. He didn't know, though. He never
knew what was behind these doors, as he never came down here. He's always, always aware of
where the cupboards and small closets are in whatever building he's staying in—that includes the
Manor. He knows where all twelve of them are, and he's never opened the doors after he
discovered what was behind them the first time.

Harry's not...afraid of small spaces, exactly, but he's certainly uncomfortable with being trapped.
He thinks that he'd be alright if he were in a better state, but as he came into this cupboard in a
tizzy, there's really no hope for him now.

He closes his eyes in the dark and presses his face to his knees. Breathing is...difficult. The silence
is loud and ringing in his ears, timed perfectly with the deep, heaving breaths of someone who can't
be him, because he doesn't feel like he's breathing at all. His fingers clutch at his trousers in a
death-grip, like a small child holding onto the fabric of their father's clothes so they won't get swept
away in a crowd.

Only, Harry's father is dead.

When he was younger, Harry used to curl into the tightest ball inside his cupboard, especially those
first few years he was forced inside—so young, only just graduating out of a bassinet to a small
cot, one that took up most of the space in the cupboard. He can't remember, to be sure, but he
thinks he was three or four. He was tiny, so tiny, and he'd scream and squall to be let out, begging
to play with Dudley and be held in the safety of Aunt Petunia's arms. He stopped doing that when
Aunt Petunia told him that the spiders and monsters in the cupboard would eat children who didn't
know how to be silent.
After that, Harry was quiet. So quiet and so still, curling up on his cot and clutching onto broken,
tossed-aside toys that Dudley didn't want anymore, holding onto them like they were treasure. He
remembers going to sleep every night radiating tension and terror, rendered stiff and silent, fearing
that he'd open his eyes and see the shadows shift. If his hair tickled his neck, or the sheets brushed
his skin a certain way, he'd freeze as his heart pounded in immediate response, worried it was
spiders or monsters coming to eat him.

And then, after some time, Harry just...adapted.

His fear didn't go away, exactly, but there was adrenaline in it. He'd breathlessly laugh and wait to
see if this time, this time, something would finally happen. It never did, and the cynical part of him
that started to take root from a mere six years old would roll his eyes and whisper into the darkness
that even the monsters didn't want him.

He made the spiders his friends, and he lined up his toys, and he started turning towards the
shadows. He found security in the thought of God, praying before bed, then reaching out in the
dark with hopes that something would grab his hand and pull him away, but nothing ever did.

It shaped him, and why wouldn't it? He grew up locked away and alone, hated by his own relatives
and unwanted by every person he'd ever gotten to know. Always the strange, tiny kid. Perfect for
bullying. Defiant and sarcastic, almost blatantly rude with no manners, and no one ever asked why.
No one ever cared, or took him away, or wanted him.

The first person—the first world, really—that did gained all his devotion and gratitude. Hagrid,
Hogwarts, Dumbledore, Ron and Hermione, the Weasleys, Sirius.

But, until they came, he was this. Just a boy trapped in a cupboard, struggling until he adapts,
because what else can he do?

Right now, Harry doesn't think he'll adapt. He doesn't think he can. He hasn't been in a cupboard
like this in years, and he's distantly stunned that it's affecting him this way. Reducing him to a tiny
ball, scared to take up space, working so hard to breathe and not managing at all—even with gasps
and choked-out breaths echoing around him.

The door is suddenly snatched open, dim light flooding in, and Harry's head snaps up. He has no
idea how long he's been here, but he's sure that Draco hasn't had the time to find him.
He's right.

Voldemort peers down at him for a long beat, just looking at him, and Harry stares up at him
through a veil of tears. He hadn't even realized that he was crying, but he can suddenly feel the hot
tears wetting the tight skin of his cheeks. They feel scalding, hot and searing; he's ashamed
instantly.

In a slow move, careful and telegraphed with intent, Voldemort crouches down outside the door.
His robes billow out and settle, pooling around him but never getting dirty. He looks like he's
floating, even now, and he threads his long, skeletal fingers together. They're pale and disgusting
and probably cold to the touch, and Harry wants them to swipe the tears off his cheeks.

"Harry," Voldemort says, "get out of there."

If only it was that simple. Harry can barely move, even to shake his head, but he manages just a bit.
His whole head creaks with it, with the tension, and he struggles to gasp out, "I—I can't."

"You can," Voldemort insists.

"I can't," Harry chokes, gagging just a bit on the admission, and his chest is heaving even though
he's sure that there's no air getting to his parched lungs.

Voldemort's gaze is critical and sharp, sweeping over Harry like he's looking for the reason Harry
might be incapacitated at the moment. He's not going to find anything, Harry knows. There's no
rhyme or reason to this. It doesn't make sense.

"Harry," Voldemort repeats, his tone just a touch softer, melodic like a temptation, "come to me."

A whimper falls out of Harry's mouth without his permission, and his whole body shakes like a
loose piece of shrapnel in a storm. He's ashamed of it, of himself, and he just wants to be left alone.
He wants the door to shut on him again, leaving him to have his breakdown in peace. Maybe he'll
figure out how to get it together on his own, because he always has before, because no one has ever
helped him with this. He had no choice but to figure it out.
Mr. H Potter. The Cupboard under the Stairs. 4 Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey.

He'd felt important, then, getting that letter. Addressed directly to him, and no one could deny it.
Later, though, just once, Harry had wondered if Mcgonagall and Dumbledore looked at the letters
before they were sent out. Did they wonder? Did they care? He never asked, too afraid to know,
too afraid to be that boy in the cupboard under the stairs again. He made the conscious decision to
pack the thoughts away, far too grateful for the Wizarding World and those who helped introduce
him to it to dare have doubts about something as miniscule as that; he'd been fine, he'd adapted.

And then, afterwards, he got an actual room. He'd allowed himself to believe that made up for the
first eleven years of his life—in some ways, it did. In others, in the ways that lead to moments like
this, nothing can make up for it.

That's not even anyone's fault, not really. Just the Dursleys. Their distaste for him stopped hurting
so much long ago anyway. In that as well, he'd been fine and he'd adapted.

Mr. H Potter. The Cupboard under the Stairs.

His first brush with the Wizarding World and all that comes with it was that. Two worlds colliding
in a horrible twist of sparks and flame. Harry had chosen before the options were even presented to
him, because it wasn't ever really a choice. There's nothing in the world that could ever make him
give up magic, nothing short of dying for it.

He's just not sure how to shed the broken, cracked skin of the other world.

"Harry," Voldemort murmurs once again.

"I can't, I can't, I can't," Harry chants, shivering violently and locked in place.

The first person to ever save Harry from this was a kind giant of a man who Harry immediately
pegged for a heart of pure gold. A man taller than doorways with hands big enough to crush cruel
cousins should they want to. A man with more beard than face who showed wide smiles of delight
and warmth despite that. Harry wholeheartedly loves that man, and he will always love that man,
just for that.

This time, it's the man who murdered his parents and countless others. It's the man who scolds him
and sneers at him for being in love. It's the man who has no morals and no compassion, who wants
to literally rule the world and start a war, who has tried to kill Harry and still doesn't know that he's
come to care for him, despite all of it.

"Do not be alarmed," Voldemort warns, which is a ridiculous thing to say. Harry couldn't be more
alarmed at the moment. The way he says it, tempered and calm, is like he's trying to be soothing
without showing that he's making the effort. "You can, Harry, and you are."

With that, Voldemort reaches out and splays his hands over Harry's arms, his grip firm but not
hard. Harry doesn't move, doesn't even twitch, but he also doesn't freak out, either.

Not saying a word, Voldemort inches him out of the cupboard slowly, lightly pulling on his arms.
He could use his wand, but he doesn't. He could even yank Harry out all at once, but he doesn't. It's
the fact that he doesn't and he won't that puts Harry at ease to begin with, and that fact alone is
what keeps him from spiralling even further. He's trying so very hard to catch his breath, and that
takes up enough of his mental facilities right now; he doesn't need to worry about anything else on
top of it.

Voldemort, oddly enough, ensures that he doesn't.

It's awkward and ungraceful—from Harry's end, at least—but Voldemort doesn't seem to mind. He
just continues to pull Harry out of the cupboard, working with his stiff body rather than against,
and he doesn't try to force Harry to speak. He doesn't try to make Harry do anything, actually.

The space is rather small and, though the journey is perilous, they don't have very far to go. Rather
quickly, Harry is at the edge of the doorway, peeking out into the hall. He sucks in a sharp breath,
his body relaxing so quickly that he sags a bit, just as Voldemort tugs on him for that final inch to
freedom. Harry rocks forward now that he's not made of stone, stumbling a bit and falling right out
of the cupboard with no dignity whatsoever.

In the unexpected motion, he slumps into Voldemort, practically bouncing back off him like a
pebble hitting marble, as if Voldemort is the one made of stone after all. Harry can't go very far,
though, because he feels weak all over and he has absolutely no balance right now. So, like an
idiot, he just gives up before he's really begun, too busy sucking in deep breathes and rattling all
over to care that he's leaning into a monster.

He feels very small. Voldemort is still holding onto his arms, but he'd naturally turned to the side
as Harry fell forward. It creates this tiny space between his side and his arm that Harry sort of
just...slumps into, going lax as he presses his forehead to Voldemort's surprisingly solid shoulder.
Small and child-like—that's what it reminds him of.

A bit deliriously, Harry huffs out a wheezing laugh and blurts, "This is ridiculous."

"Mm," Voldemort hums, "that it is. Do you plan on removing yourself from my person?"

"At the moment?" Harry chokes out, half-crying and half-laughing. "No, not quite. Get back to me
in a few minutes, yeah?"

Voldemort sighs. "Such a troubled child."

"I know," Harry whispers.

And, for a while, that's that. In the hall that represents the worst parts of so many things, Harry
leans against Voldemort like it's not the most bizarre thing that could possibly occur in the world,
even though it is. He closes his eyes and breathes, waiting for the trembles to pass, waiting for the
tears to dry, waiting for the strength to pull away and push down the thought of cupboards and a
past that he hates being weak against.

Voldemort simply lets him. He doesn't move. He's not comforting Harry, not exactly, but he's
obviously aware that Harry is drawing comfort from him, and he makes no move to stop it.

Eventually, he doesn't even seem made of stone. It's easier for Harry to slump against him, at least,
like Voldemort suddenly became aware that he was too stiff and inhuman and worked to fix that.
Now, instead, he's a bit like the harsh waves of the ocean—not soft and yielding, but something
Harry can succumb to, letting himself relax against. Even like this, Voldemort is maddeningly
powerful.

Swallowing thickly, Harry hesitantly seeks inward, trepidation filling him to the brim. Anxiety
holds him back for a moment, worried what he may find, and then his ridiculously rash courage
forces him to take the plunge. He searches and searches, following the line of their connection,
wondering what he might discover at the end of it.

What awaits him is a surprise.

Voldemort feels everything through anger, but not this. For the first time, there is no rage. In place
of it, there is only the slightest brush of something that Harry associates with flying—a breeze of
fondness, the shifting wind of contentment. It's so faint that it could be non-existent if Harry wasn't
open to finding it. Voldemort probably doesn't even know that it's there, likely wouldn't even
recognize what it was if he happened to sense it.

Harry's chest hurts when he opens his eyes, blinking hard. He closes the connection gently, almost
reluctant, and he finally pulls away.

"You're done now?" Voldemort asks.

Harry snorts weakly. "Something like that. Thanks."

"Why did you come crawling into a cupboard?" Voldemort looks at him like he's an idiot, his
expression clearly pointing out that he doesn't understand why Harry would actively seek out
something so harmful.

"Didn't actually mean to," Harry admits. "I just, er, fell in. Then I couldn't get out."

"Yes, you could." Voldemort narrows his eyes just a bit. "You did. Do not forget that."

"I couldn't do it myself." Harry stares at him, daring him to look away, but he doesn't. "I couldn't
do it alone, and you didn't make me."

Voldemort arches a naked eyebrow. "Should I have? What is the proper response to such a thing?"

"I don't know," Harry says, lips twitching. "I think you did alright, though. Terrible guardian that
you are and all."

"Mm," Voldemort hums, a non-answer. "Do you know, Harry, that you were so distraught that it
flooded our connection?"
Harry's eyebrows jerk up. "Really? So that's how you knew where I was?"

"Yes."

"And you came right away."

Voldemort pauses, then, "...Yes."

"Oh." Harry is stupidly pleased by that, but he doesn't dare to say so. "Well, Nagini would be
proud of you, at least. Again...er, thanks."

"Do not speak on it again," Voldemort murmurs, leaning back and floating easily to normal height,
tugging Harry up on his own two feet. Only then does he let Harry go and step back. "I will need to
be leaving soon for a few days, though I will return once Draco is back at Hogwarts. Until then, do
not go tripping into any cupboards."

Harry risks a quiet, "Would you come if I did?"

"Simply do not."

"But if I did?"

Voldemort glares at him, but he says, "Yes, but do not force me to. I'm busy."

And, with that, he turns around and sweeps off down the hall, floating away. Harry's lips curl up as
he watches him go, and he shakes his head in the silence after his departure.

What a mad, mad world it is.

Draco gives him space. For the rest of the day, he doesn't seek Harry out, doesn't even try and drag
him to lunch or dinner. Harry's grateful for it.

The next day, however, Harry feels the distance ache within him. He regrets not going back to
Draco and trying to talk it out. It's not just Draco's fault—he wasn't the only one who kept the
knowledge to himself. Harry is angry with him for it, though more hurt than anything, but that
doesn't mean he's unwilling to forgive him.

Well, that, and Harry misses him.

It's strange. This feeling of yearning for someone he already has. He never knew it could be like
this, like there's a deep chasm of tragic want in him that only Draco can fill. The itch in his palms to
seek comfort from the one he loves, a small prying thing that forces him out of bed, beating out his
anger.

He walks across the hall, still tired from a night full of nightmares. He and Draco usually sleep in
the same bed, ever since that last night during Christmas hols, which he's never really thought
about in length. It's not like they do anything, and there's nothing overly romantic about it.

Most of the time, they elbow and kick each other in their sleep, rarely even cuddling, though they
usually fall asleep that way. If they do wake up wrapped together, it's rarely anything beautiful.
Harry is the one who drools on Draco, which Draco complains about, and Draco's the one who
clings to Harry like Devil's Snare, making him sweat, which Harry complains about. It's not sweet,
but Harry wants to do it for the rest of his life anyway.

But Draco doesn't know that sleeping beside Harry is enough to halt his nightmares. Or, maybe he
does, even if he doesn't mention it. Either way, sleeping with someone helps.

When Draco is at Hogwarts, Harry has regular nightmares. The ones about Bellatrix Lestrange and
Peter Pettigrew persist, and they're as horrible as they were when they first started. He still dreams
about Sirius, about Cedric, about Voldemort's cold, cruel hiss of laughter before a flash of green.
Now, though, Dumbledore invades his nightmares as well, wielding a sword and asking a question,
never taking no for an answer.

Last night, however, Harry had dreamed of the shifting shadows in his cupboard, dreamed of being
swallowed by them. The mere memory of it makes him feel wrung out and exhausted.

When he opens the door to Draco's room, he's slightly relieved to see him still sleeping, his
eyebrow wrinkled as if he might not be having the best dreams himself. Harry sighs softly and pads
over to the bed, pulling off his glasses and sitting them aside, turning down the blankets and sliding
in, scooting close to him.

Draco's nose wrinkles, but he immediately begins clinging, even in his sleep. For once, Harry's
eager to cling back. He wraps around Draco as much as Draco wraps around him, burying his face
against Draco's throat and letting out a deep breath.

"Mmph, Harry?" Draco mumbles, twitching and moving about as he almost instantly wakes up.

Harry nods against his neck. "Mhm. Don't get up just yet. We can nap."

"Didn't sleep well?" Draco asks around a yawn.

"Not at all," Harry admits miserably.

Draco lightly clicks his tongue and settles, running lazy fingers through Harry's hair. "Alright, we
can skip breakfast. Mother will understand."

Gratefully, Harry curls in closer to Draco and relaxes, letting himself drift off to sleep.

It comes as no surprise to him when he wakes up at some point later to find that they're not
wrapped around each other. Draco has turned on his back in his sleep, his head craning away so
that Harry has to spend at least a minute utterly fascinated by the cut of his jaw and the span of his
throat as soon as he opens his eyes. They are touching, though. Draco's hand is splayed casually
over his stomach, like he's reaching back, even in his sleep.

Harry yawns and strains to grab his glasses, then blinks blearily at that hand, simply pleased to see
it. He is very much in love and he knows it. Who even gets soft about hands?

Lips curling up just a bit, he reaches down to trace the veins on the back of Draco's hand. They're a
translucent blue-green that only emphasizes how pale Draco is. His own hand—brown and much
rougher—somehow looks even more beautiful next to Draco's. He's never really thought about it in
length, what they may look like beside each other, but some part of him that wants to make Draco
happy hopes that they don't look like idiots to the general populace. They are, obviously, but Draco
would hate for people to see it.
Snorting at his own inner-joke, Harry shifts and slides his fingers under Draco's, threading them
together. It's clear that Draco is still asleep because his fingers stay lax and limp, not automatically
squeezing back like they do when he's awake.

His smile drains away after a while, thoughts of everything crowding in his head. For a long time,
he simply lays in the very comfortable bed and thinks about how Amelia Bones and countless
others, including the Muggle Prime Minister apparently, won't get to do that anymore. Because
they're dead.

Voldemort either killed them or had them killed, and he feels absolutely no remorse for it. How can
someone capable of that also be the one to help Harry climb out of a cupboard? How can the
monster who builds an army to stand for the wrong side in a war he wants to start also be the man
who lets Harry lean into him and cry?

That's a duality that Harry doesn't want to explore. It shouldn't be enough to forgive him, and it
isn't. Harry doesn't. Unfortunately, it's enough for Harry to wish he was different, to wish he was
better, to think about things he shouldn't.

It's not like Harry wants Voldemort to be his dad. That's not it at all. He just wants… It's
complicated. Even to him, to his own mind, it's a mess of conflicted feelings and soul-deep
yearning that he can't even begin to explain to himself.

No, he's not looking for a father figure in Voldemort, certainly not. But there's something to their
dynamic that breaks Harry's heart. Not a mentor, exactly, but a—

Bloody hell, it's actually a sodding guardian, isn't it? He sort of Stunned himself with that one,
didn't he? Not a parental role, no, but someone stepping in to help guide him, to care for him, to be
there when he needs them. What Sirius tried to do properly, what Dumbledore has done, sort of.

"Harry?"

With a jolt, Harry jerks out of his thoughts, turning his gaze to his boyfriend. Draco is awake now,
fully awake by the looks of it, and he's holding Harry's hand, thumb stroking Harry's almost
nervously. There's a wariness to his gaze, but he doesn't look apologetic. Harry wishes he did.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Harry asks.

Draco sighs heavily and turns his head away, staring up at the ceiling with a small frown. "How
could I? How could anyone? You're already so—so bloody guilty all the time, aren't you? It's not
your fault, you know, and telling you would just—just—"

"That's not an excuse," Harry says sharply, his words taking an edge as his temper flares. "You
should have kept me informed—all of you, any of you, but no one did. Do you think me finding
out months after the fact makes it any better? Now I just feel like everyone I trust has lied to me!"

"What good would it have done, Harry?" Draco hisses, whipping his head over to glare at him, eyes
narrowing. "You can't make the Dark Lord stop, no matter how hard you try. Telling you would
only make you more eager to—to sacrifice yourself!"

Harry tries to rip his hand from Draco's, but he doesn't let go. Fine, Harry will just do this while
they're holding hands. "I should have known, Draco! That's the point! I can't be kept in the dark
simply because those who care about me are scared I'll do something rash in response!"

"You've been in a right state ever since you found out!" Draco squeezes Harry's hand tight, almost
too tight, and he lifts up on his elbow to glare at him from a higher vantage point. "This is exactly
what everyone was avoiding. No one talked about it, Harry! It's not like we came together and
decided to keep it from you; it's just that we knew it would hurt you if you found out."

"So let it!" Harry shouts, finally yanking his hand free and shooting up on the bed to wave both
hands around wildly and lean in Draco's space. "Let it bloody hurt me, because it damn well
should!"

"Why? Why? Tell me, Harry, why should you be hurt by it when it's not your fault?! What could
you have done to prevent it? What can you do now to stop it?"

"That doesn't matter! That's not what we're talking about, you absolute arse! We're talking about
the fact that you deliberately chose to keep important matters away from me, just because—
because what? Because you're afraid I'll run off to Dumbledore and beg him to slice me down?"

"Yes, you idiot!" Draco shouts, scrambling up on the bed to reach out and grasp Harry's shoulders,
shaking him almost violently. "You'll do anything with that stupid, stupid hero-complex of yours,
and maybe no one wants to see the result, alright?!"
Harry knocks Draco's hands away, genuinely angry now, and he snarls, "It's not that simple!"

"How isn't it?"

"There's more to it than that! Do you think I can just go begging for death before Voldemort's
Horcruxes are found, at least? I have things I need to do, Draco, and I can't just go off to save
everyone until it's done! Don't you understand that?"

"So you're on borrowed time, then?" Draco's voice is chilly, laced with threat. "You're just waiting,
aren't you? And after—after you've done what needs to be done, what will you do? Tell me,
Harry."

"Don't do that," Harry snaps, shaking his head and standing his ground. "Don't make this my fault.
That's not even what this conversation is about."

Draco tilts his chin up. "Maybe it should be."

"No, I think I'd rather discuss how you've left me out of important news on purpose, actually,"
Harry declares, tilting his chin up, too.

"Fine. Fine," Draco spits. "You want to talk about it? We shall. What do you want me to say? Yes,
I knew all of it, either from the papers, or what information Granger told me that she learned from
the Order. Even some things I've heard and learned from my parents. I chose not to tell you,
purposefully and with no regret, because I knew it would hurt you. Because I know it's only going
to make you feel like you have to sacrifice yourself when you don't. If you think I'll apologize for
it, you're sorely mistaken."

"How are you so—so cold about this?" Harry asks, leaning back on his heels, feeling as if he's
going to fall over from his own disbelief. "It's like you don't care about the world at all!"

"I don't," Draco grits out.

Harry blinks at him, startled. "What? Draco, how can you just—"
"How would you feel, Harry?!" Draco explodes, his hand snapping out to grab Harry's arm, nails
digging in. His face twists, eyes wide with hurt and a bit of panic, and Harry has no idea why.
"How would you feel if the person you—if I was the one who was in your position? If the world
needed me to go off and die for it? Would you care about the world then, or would you be angry
with it? Would you hand me more reason to do it, or try and hide it? Would you help send me off
to my death, or be terrified every moment leading up to it? Tell me, what would you do?" He drops
his hand and swallows thickly, blinking tears out of his eyes, releasing a shuddering exhale. "What
am I supposed to do?"

Oh.

That's why.

Harry tucks his lips in and looks down at his hands, his heart absolutely mashed up the wrong way
in his chest, twisted from what Draco's just said.

He understands, quite suddenly, the reasons Draco kept information from him. It doesn't make it
any less wrong, but now he gets why, at least. His intentions weren't bad—not good, either, and
most certainly selfish, but not horrible and cruel. It's the kind of selfish that Harry understands, the
kind bred from the depth of how much you care about someone else, and there's a strange purity in
that.

It makes all the fight leave him in a heartbeat. He's still upset, mind, and he's sure he has all rights
to be, but it makes the path to forgiving Draco much easier to transverse. He gets it.

"You can't do it again," Harry whispers. "Draco, promise me. No matter what you're worried I'll
do, you have to keep me updated."

Draco closes his eyes for a moment, swallows, then opens his eyes and breathes out, "Do I have a
reason to be worried, Harry?"

"Just—just promise me." Harry tries so very hard not to avert his eyes, but they slide to the left
against his will, and he's so… He's not sure how to face this, not yet, maybe not ever.

This is all so, so complicated.

"Please don't say it's true, that you've made that choice," Draco says softly, sounding so small,
sounding so scared. "Harry, please, please don't."

He's moving closer then, shaking hands sliding up Harry's arms, lips coming close enough to press
against his jaw. He leans into Harry, pleading, "Don't, please don't," and branding the words on
Harry's skin with his lips. He kisses him, and it's the first kiss they've ever shared that causes Harry
pain rather than joy, and yet he's still too weak to stop it.

Draco's hands tremble as they wrap around Harry's shoulders, tugging them together until their
chests meet, until their racing hearts are straining towards each other. He makes a small sound, a
whimper, and Harry can easily hear the begging in even that. It breaks his fucking heart.

Somehow, the kiss is fierce and so painstakingly gentle that Harry can barely wrap his mind around
it. He's helpless to do anything but get lost in it, and he does, his hands reaching out with minds of
their own to curl around Draco's hips, holding on. He fully just succumbs to it, groaning and
snogging Draco back, weak through-and-through.

There's tension in the air around them, feelings dancing on their skin, so palpable that it only urges
them on. It's a turbulent thing, this tender wild that claims them. Harry's sucked in almost instantly,
broken inside and out by it, choking on his breath and happy to suffocate in it.

In this moment, Harry would give absolutely anything to Draco, anything he wants. All his money,
any of his possessions, whatever action that Draco demanded him to do. Whatever he wants.

Except.

Just one thing. The one thing that Draco seems to want the most, Harry can't give to him. Even
right now, Harry can't promise not to save the world, can't vow to live for Draco instead. He
simply can't, because that's not what he's meant to do, because he has to. For his life—every single
part of it—to mean something, for his redemption to be obtainable, for the right thing and the path
of the good, Harry has to do the very thing Draco is begging him not to.

And that, that shatters him. He cracks like glass under the strain of such a realization. The one he
wants to love the most in the world, and Harry's going to hurt him in ways no one else can.

Draco pulls back suddenly, panting, and his hands come up to cradle Harry's cheeks. His fingers
brush under Harry's eyes as he says, "You're crying."
"Draco," Harry rasps, holding onto him so tight, scared to let him go, scared of what comes next.

And it comes. Of course it does.

"You—" Draco's words choke off, and he actually rears back like he's been slapped. Harry stares at
his horrified expression, aching. "It doesn't matter what I say or do, does it? You've made up your
mind."

"Please don't," Harry whispers, and he knows how selfish it is to be the one begging now, after
everything, but he can't help it.

Draco is—predictably—angry in a flash, his hands dropping away as he shuffles back. "Why
shouldn't I? Don't I have a right to hear it? Well, go on. Say it, Harry. Make it final."

"I'm sorry," is all Harry can say.

"Are you?" Draco snarls, reaching out to shove at his chest. "Well, if you're not going to say it, then
I'll choose to believe differently. We don't know the future. We just don't, so I'll decide to be—for
the first time in my life—bloody hopeful. I'd think you'd be happy to do the same, as hope and
optimism is more for your sort than mine."

"I don't want to hurt you," Harry mumbles, his heart clenching in his chest. "And I don't know how
to stop it from happening."

"Don't die," Draco says rather simply.

Harry takes a deep breath, then slowly lets it out. His throat works around a harsh swallow. "Draco,
I can't promise you that."

"Promise me that you won't make that choice," Draco breathes out, his voice cracking.

"I—I can't," Harry croaks. "I'm sorry."

Draco looks away quickly, his whole head swiveling to the side, though his body doesn't move.
Harry can see his jaw clench. Draco's eyelashes flutter, and his hands have balled into fists. Harry
wants to reach out and hug him, or make promises that he can't keep, but he stands there like a limp
fish, his heart thundering away in his chest.

When Draco finally looks back at him, his eyes are suspiciously bright. "I see," he says evenly. "Is
that you admitting it, then? I can't say I'm surprised."

Harry finds it very hard to breathe through a throat that's closing up. "I'm sorry, Draco, Im—"

"You and your bloody hero-complex," Draco snaps, huffing out a harsh, hollow laugh. "You would
think this is a good idea. Probably think it will be helping me, too, don't you?"

"You know me very well," Harry mumbles, ashamed.

Draco shakes his head. "No, no, I don't. I thought I knew you were someone who kept their
promises."

Harry frowns. "I do."

"You promised you wouldn't leave me," Draco tells him, his fingers flexing in the curve of his
elbow like he wishes he had his wand.

"That's not fair," Harry chokes out. "This isn't—it's not like I want to, alright?"

Draco's face seems made of stone. "I don't want you to be an idiot with a death-wish, yet here we
are. Why didn't you tell me? You preach about me keeping information from you, but here you are,
keeping this from me."

"It's not like that, alright?" Harry snaps, his anger now mounting with his fear and hurt. "I never
wanted to hurt you, but—"
"A little late for that, Potter," Draco snarls. "Who do you think you are? I'm not just some thing
that you can control! You can't make this decision and then decide to leave me out of it!"

"Stop calling me that," Harry says sharply. "I'm not trying to control anything, Draco, I'm just—I
was trying to help!"

"Stop!" Draco explodes, glaring at him with snapping eyes full of fury. "Just, for once in your
sodding life, stop trying to help, Harry! That's all you ever do, and how have you helped anyone?!
You've only succeeded in ruining your own damn life to the point where you're so bloody eager to
toss it aside, and then what? Then what?! Who has to deal with that? Me!"

"That's not fair!" Harry shouts, his ire rising with each word. "I was doing everything to avoid that!
Don't you get that? I'm doing everything I can!"

"You're doing too much! How can you care so little about your own life?!" Draco reaches out to
poke Harry in the chest. "You get to fucking die while the rest of us have to live on! And for what?
For a world that would dare ask you to?"

"What else am I supposed to do?! Voldemort—"

"I don't give a damn about Voldemort!"

Harry rears back in shock to hear Draco spit Voldemort's name with such vehemence. "Draco, you
just said—"

"I bloody well know what I said!" Draco cuts in loudly, his words harsh and echoing through the
otherwise silent room. "I meant it, too!"

"So, what? What? You'd ask me to let the world go to shite under Voldemort?" Harry growls.

Draco fists his hand in Harry's shirt and yanks on it roughly. "It shouldn't be on you to fix it! You're
just a fucking sixteen year old boy, for Merlin's sake! You don't have to save the world all the
time!"
"I'm the only one who can!" Harry shouts, grabbing Draco's wrist and shoving his hand away.
"Don't you think I want to live? Don't you think I have things I want to do, people I want to grow
up with? I want to be with my best friends again, and I want to go back to Hogwarts, and I want to
be in love with you without ever having to hurt you!"

"So choose that," Draco hisses.

"I can't!" Harry roars, shoving his hands out in a wide arc, his chest heaving. "I don't have a
choice! I have to do this!"

"Then what was the point?!" Draco roars right back, his eyes wide. "What was the point of any of
it? Why even stay? Why do anything with me?!"

Harry tosses up a hand, his blood rushing through his veins rapidly, making him speak before he
even thinks. "I don't know, Draco! No bloody idea!"

"You know what?" Draco leans back with a genuine sneer, his gaze sharp and hardened. "I thought
you weren't cruel, but I was wrong. Fuck you, Potter."

"No, fuck you, Malfoy!" Harry spits out.

Draco whirls around to slide off the bed, his whole body trembling with open rage, and Harry feels
like he's being suffocated from the inside out. He chokes on his own fury, so sodding angry that he
can feel it souring in his throat. He stumbles forward off the bed as well, darting a hand out to
catch Draco's wrist to halt him, and Draco whips around so fast that Harry almost recoils.

"Do not touch me," Draco seethes, leaning forward to get in his face, his eyes so very hard and
bright.

Harry clamps his hand down on Draco's wrist, not letting him pull away. "Or what? Go on, then,
Draco. What will you do? Punch me? Mock me? No, you've done all that before. Try something
new for a change, why don't you?!"

"Oh, there's a lot of things I could say to you right now," Draco whispers harshly, leaning forward
until they're almost nose-to-nose. "But unlike you, I don't willingly hurt the person I love."
Harry flinches like he's been slapped, and he feels his fingers go slack as his heart shrinks
approximately eighty-three sizes. The words hit him so hard that all the breath in his lungs escapes
him in one wheeze. He stares at Draco helplessly, stricken, frozen in place.

It is the first time that Draco tells him he loves him, and it looks like it might be the last.

Draco wrenches his hand away and whirls around, marching to the door to yank it open and leave
through it, shutting it with a harsh slam.

Harry stares after him, feeling a tad numb. His mouth is dangling open, just hanging there, and he's
not really breathing all that well.

It's a bit ridiculous, Harry thinks dazedly. Draco has said so many hurtful things for so many years,
things that have infuriated Harry or hurt enough to actually stick, but this is undoubtedly the most
painful thing he's ever said to Harry. The words feel etched into his brain, like they'll never go
away.

But unlike you, I don't willingly hurt the person I love.

It hurts so badly that Harry's fairly sure that Voldemort must feel it. Harry doesn't think he'll ever
stop feeling it himself. It feels like one of those things that crawl up inside his heart, throbbing the
rest of forever, the same way the memory of Sirius' death does, the same way all tragic things do.

But this is a tad different than everything else. This is Draco. If Harry had any doubts about his
love for Draco, he certainly doesn't anymore. Because it's only a heart that loves that can be
broken, and Harry's sure that his already battered heart has just taken a blow that might not fully
heal.

Did they just...break up? Is that what happened? Harry's a little unclear on that part. That was never
confirmed, but Harry's not sure Draco's declaration of love was meant as a sign of anything good,
not in this context. It should make Harry happy to hear Draco say that, but he's just...devastated.

Harry doesn't want to lose Draco. But that's not really fair, is it? After all, Harry's telling Draco to
prepare to lose him. Maybe, in this situation, it's not about right or wrong; maybe it's just about the
unfairness of it all for both of them.
It seems Mrs. Malfoy was wrong, too. She thought Draco would never leave him.

That doesn't seem to be the case.

Harry feels his face crumble, and he turns away, reaching up to clap a hand over his mouth to try
and muffle the very stupid sound of his sob. He will not cry. He won't. Because crying makes
everything more real, and he's so very tired of crying.

He just… He needs a moment to collect himself, that's all. He'll deal with it later. Just two seconds
is all he needs. A gulp of air and a brief moment of silence, that's all he asks.

Instead, his mind proceeds to present him with memories of France, of flying, of blowing up
balloons, of stars and green bowls and cuddling in the snow and a bath with hands in his hair. This
does the opposite of helping him collect himself, and there he goes, bloody crying again.

It's not even just about Draco anymore, though that is the main factor here. It's also about all of it,
all the Hippogriff dung that's smeared his life ever since he made that stupid fucking decision to
kill Bellatrix Lestrange. It's about his anger, and guilt, and shame. It's about Peter Pettigrew's
vacant gaze, and Voldemort sprawled out on the floor while Harry instinctively hopes he's alright,
and Dumbledore holding the sorting hat. It's about Draco loving him, then walking out without a
backwards glance.

The thing about crying is, there's always a point where it stops. It's exhausting, and there's a
prominent throb in his temples once the tears halt, but after that...what? Harry always feels so
incredibly awkward afterwards, like all of his dignity has fled and he's not as strong as people
pretend he is, as he pretends he is.

Harry cries for a bit with his head ducked and his hands covering his face. He tries so very hard to
smother the sounds, but he does a horrible job. He's making the most disgusting, choked-off noises
that he hates hearing from himself, and the point where it comes to a halt doesn't seem to be
approaching anytime soon. He just can't stop.

And he doesn't, not for a very long time.

Harry sweeps into the Study without knocking, the door banging open loudly. He catches sight of
Voldemort immediately, and apparently Snape is here for some reason. So, that's brilliant.

"Harry," Voldemort greets.

"Thought you were leaving," Harry says.

Voldemort hums. "I am. I had a meeting with Severus first. We will depart soon."

He gets no reply, because Harry hasn't come in here to talk. He's come for one thing and one thing
only. The cabinet at the side of the room contains a bottle of whiskey that Harry has seen for
months but never once considered before. Works perfect for now.

"Then off you pop, Mr. Voldemort, Dark Lord, sir. Enjoy your trip," Harry says loudly, snatching
open the cabinet doors with fervor. He snatches up a glass, slamming it down on the shelf harshly.
"Don't mind me. I'm just stopping by to get a drink. Want one? Do you drink?"

"No," Voldemort says.

Harry hums. "And you, Professor? Want some?"

There's a long pause, then Snape murmurs, "No."

"Brilliant!" Harry exclaims brightly, shoving the glass back on the tray with a clatter. He grabs the
neck of the bottle and yanks it out, unscrewing the lid and tossing it over his shoulder, listening to
it skitter away somewhere. "I'll just drink from the bottle, then. I'll be taking this; bye now."

"Harry," Voldemort says slowly, "you are not of age."

"Ah! Shocking information I did not know about myself!" Harry declares, whirling around to look
at Voldemort and laugh. "I wasn't of age anytime you tried to kill me either, was I? I'm almost
certain that you don't get to lecture me on the abuse of alcohol while underage. Didn't you say I get
to make my own choices? Are you going to stop me?"
Voldemort watches him with narrowed eyes, looking severely displeased. "I disapprove, but I will
not stop you. I should tell you that drowning your sorrows will not rid you of them; they will
resurface."

"I almost drowned once, you know," Harry informs him casually. "I was six. Aunt Petunia left me
in the bath because her precious Dudders was screaming his head off in the living room about
wanting a toy that was right next to him. Such neglect, wouldn't you say?" He clicks his tongue and
shakes his head, mock-sympathetic. "I'm so fucked up."

"Has something...happened?" Voldemort asks slowly, watching him intently.

Harry barks out a laugh, thinking of all the times Sirius laughed just like this. He brings the bottle
to his mouth and takes a long pull, sputtering and coughing almost as soon as he swallows. It
burns, oh how it burns, and Harry's never had anything this strong before. Why do people drink it?
It hurts.

"What a strange question," Harry wheezes, blinking hard as he looks between Snape and
Voldemort. "I can't believe people drink this stuff. It's terrible."

"Then perhaps you should not drink it," Voldemort suggests calmly.

"No, I'm going to," Harry announces with a snort, punctuating his words with another swallow.

It burns again, but that's alright. Harry almost prefers this burn to the one he's so very eager to
replace right now. And actually, he's starting to get a bit warm. It's not so bad, he supposes.

"You are being exceptionally self-destructive at the moment," Voldemort notes. "More so than
usual. I'm assuming this has something to do with Draco."

Harry grins at him with all teeth. "Oh, you know me so well, do you, Mr. Voldemort, Dark Lord,
sir? Who's to say that I don't have plenty of other things to worry about at the moment?"

Voldemort hums. "You had the same things to worry about last week that you do today, but I did
not see you making a fool of yourself then. Draco is the only variable that could change. That, and
it is said that love can make anyone a fool."

"So smart. So wise," Harry muses, pausing to take another thick swallow, coughing and grimacing
around it after. He tilts the neck of the bottle towards Snape, snorting. "Were you a fool after my
mother died, Professor?"

Snape's face drains of all color.

"It's unlike you to be cruel," Voldemort says.

Harry flips him off. "Yeah, well, it's unlike you to be mildly polite, isn't it? I think you have no
room to judge." He flicks his gaze back to Snape. "Oh, don't look like that, sir. I've known for some
time time now. Your evil boss outed your secret. It's alright, I don't mind you loving my mother, I
don't think. I didn't really know her, did I?" He takes another deep gulp from the bottle, only
coughing a bit. "That's another thing! You just don't know people like you think you do. It's very
confusing, isn't it? I mean, why do people hide so many things and—and try to keep so many
secrets? I think there's only one person in my whole life who has never lied to me, and it's the
strange snake-man who has tried to kill me on multiple occasions! How odd is that?"

Voldemort sighs. "You are being immature and reckless. I do not have the time for you to spiral out
of control in front of me right now. Leave."

"Oh, have I interrupted?" Harry asks lightly, pressing his hand flat to his chest as he takes another
pull from the bottle. It's actually not burning the way it did before. "Oh dear, how very rude of me.
My mistake, really. I know I'm better not seen, nor heard—just like Uncle Vernon says! Like a
ghost people can't actually get rid of. Oh, wouldn't that be a laugh? What if I was like Myrtle,
hmm? When I die, I'm just so stubborn that I come back as a ghost. Wouldn't that be hilarious?"

"Severus," Voldemort says softly, "go collect Narcissa and have her escort Harry to his room."

"Yes, My Lord," Snape murmurs, sweeping out of the room without looking at Harry at all.

Harry watches him go, then hiccups. "Oh, Mrs. Malfoy isn't going to like this."

"No," Voldemort agrees, "she will not."

"It's alright," Harry mumbles, blinking down at the bottle in slight surprise. It's almost halfway
gone. He's not sure if that's actually real or not, so he has another gulp to try and measure it that
way—shockingly, it doesn't work. "Oh, I think I'm starting to get—"

"Intoxicated?" Voldemort asks. "Yes. Give me the bottle, Harry. You shouldn't have more."

Harry rolls his eyes at him, then grimaces because that makes the room tilt, just a little. He curls
the bottle closer to his chest. "Your disappointment is noted, Mr. Voldemort, Dark Lord, sir. It was
only a matter of time anyway. I disappoint everyone, you see, so I believe it was your turn."

"You do not disappoint me, Harry."

"Lie. Is that the first one you've ever told me?"

"It's not a lie," Voldemort tells him patiently.

"That's right, you don't lie to me, strangely enough," Harry mutters. He takes another heavy pull
from the bottle, blinking slow. "You shouldn't say things like that, you know. It doesn't make sense
and it makes me feel guilty because it makes me happy. It's all very confusing and complicated.
Remember when we used to hate each other? Good times."

Voldemort watches him, no expression on his face, his eyes red and bright. "I have been reliably
informed by you multiple times that it was not, as you just said, good times. Furthermore, it makes
you happy because you seek compassion from others on the same level that you are naturally built
to give. It is also spurred on by your childhood, which makes you instinctively desperate for
approval, acceptance, and unwavering support in the ways that the filthy Muggles who raised you
never offered."

Harry squints at him. "I don't actually know what you just said, which is probably a good thing.
You're likely right about it, no matter what it is."

"I am," Voldemort confirms with a sigh.

"I don't remember what we were talking about," Harry admits, smacking his lips and taking another
pull from the bottle.

Voldemort is abruptly right in front of him, glaring at him as he reaches out and plucks the bottle
from Harry's hands. "That's enough. You're done."

"What?!" Harry makes a loud sound of protest and tries to swipe the bottle back, but Voldemort
merely holds it up and away, and Harry nearly trips over his own feet. The room is spinning this
time, and he blinks rapidly. "Who do you think you are? You said you'd let me make my own
choices!"

"Yes," Voldemort agrees shortly. "However, when you are acting like a child, I shall treat you as
one. You will go to your room and sleep this off, and no, you may not be cured of any ails or
symptoms from your hangover in the morning. You have nearly consumed this entire bottle, so I
assure you that it will be painful enough to teach you a valuable lesson."

"Piss off," Harry grumbles, glaring at him. "I'm not acting like a child. And you can't just—"

"I can," Voldemort interrupts sharply, glaring at him just as harshly, "and I have. That's the end of
the discussion, Harry, I mean it."

Harry scowls at him for a few minutes, then snorts quietly. This dissolves very quickly into
laughter, which only makes Voldemort glare at him harder. With that, Harry can't help but nearly
fold over in half with laughter, wheezing with it. Because this is just so, so funny. And bizarre.
Always so bizarre.

"Sorry, sorry, just…" Harry has to pause to choke on more laughter for a few minutes, and his next
words come out in between ridiculous giggles. "It's just that—oh, Merlin—you're saying something
that my father might have—ha! Something that my father might have said to me if he was alive, but
he isn't! Because of you." Harry busts out laughing again, pressing his hand against the stitch in his
side as he tries to pull himself together. It takes a moment, but he does, and he just snorts. "Oh, life
is so bizarre, you know? The irony, honestly."

"When you are vomiting in the morning," Voldemort tells him rather seriously, "remember why
you are."

"Have you ever gotten drunk?" Harry asks curiously.

Voldemort frowns. "Yes."

"Really?!" Harry blurts out, astonished.

"Yes."

"That's… You know what? Good for you, Mr. Voldemort, Dark Lord, sir. You get drunk as much
as you like and let no one stop you!"

"I don't drink," Voldemort tells him again.

Harry waves him off. "Maybe you should spend the rest of forever perpetually drunk. Actually,
have you considered retirement? How does a Dark Lord quit being a Dark Lord? Maybe you could
just stop all this nonsense and get a castle full of cats. Books, too. You can spend the rest of your
life learning all there is to learn in the world, and you'd still never learn it all. Did you know that?"

"Harry."

"There's a lot of world to see. Draco told me that, once. We were sitting in the window seat in the
second Library when he did. I like it when he sits there because he's pretty when he watches the
rain."

Voldemort visibly grimaces. "Harry—"

"He was telling me that he likes France," Harry continues rather sadly. "There's a maze there that
people get lost in. We should go, me and him. Just never come out to see what's going on outside
of it. I don't think he wants to go there with me anymore, though. I don't really blame him."

"Harry," Voldemort snaps, making Harry jolt and blink at him. "I do not need or want to hear you
spew your feelings about Draco Malfoy."

Harry frowns at him. "But you listen to me."

"I do when you say things worth listening to."

"That's not how this works! You—you have to listen to me, even about the things you don't want to
hear, or else you don't actually care!"

"I do not see it that way," Voldemort murmurs.

"I don't care. That's how I see it, and I'm the one who's talking, aren't I? If you came to me to
complain about the sodding weather, even if I didn't agree or want to hear it, I would still listen.
That's what caring about someone is," Harry rants, wishing he had the bottle back to wave it around
wildly, but he sadly just has his hands; they'll do. "And you said you care, so now you have to
listen, or else it wasn't true and you're lying!"

Voldemort looks at him blankly for a few moments, and Harry vaguely thinks he's about at his
wits end. It shows in how he grits out, "Very well. Proceed."

Harry nods at him with relish, victorious. "Right! What was I saying? Right. Draco. Right…"

Before Harry can really organize his scrambled thoughts, the door swings open and Mrs. Malfoy is
led in by Snape. Mrs. Malfoy curtsies at Voldemort, her head dipping, and Harry has the urge to
walk over and tilt her chin up so she'll never have to bow her head to anyone ever again.

"Ah, good," Voldemort says quickly, actually looking and sounding relieved. "Narcissa, escort
Harry to his room. He is intoxicated."

Mrs. Malfoy's head immediately whips towards Harry, and he gives her a little sheepish wave. She
turns back to Voldemort. "Yes, My Lord."

"You're very pretty," Harry tells her as she sweeps towards him.

"Thank you, Harry," Mrs. Malfoy replies calmly, putting her arm around his shoulders and gently
ushering him towards the door.

Harry leans into her hard, his hands reaching out to try and counterbalance the waves rocking the
floor beneath him. "How odd. Mrs. Malfoy, your floor seems to be very wobbly. I think you should
get that checked out."

"I will do that, Harry," Mrs. Malfoy says softly, helping him out the room and down the hall.
"That's it. One foot in front of the other."

"I love you, you know," Harry informs her casually, doing just as she says, one foot in front of the
other, even as the hall tilts. "Do you know? You should know. You're so very kind to me."

Mrs. Malfoy pats his arm and sighs. "Do stop talking, darling. If you remember this in the
morning, you'll be very embarrassed."

"Voldemort says I'll sick up."

"You likely will."

"Gross," Harry declares, wrinkling his nose. "I'll wait to do it when you're away."

"That would be best," Mrs. Malfoy agrees.

"Do you know that I love your son?" Harry whispers as they start up the stairs, which seem much
farther apart than usual. "I really, really do. So very much. I love him so much sometimes that I
can't really breathe. He takes my breath away."

Mrs. Malfoy sighs, and it sounds sad. "Oh, Harry, I know. How well I know."

Harry hums. "Can I marry him?"

"Oh!" Mrs. Malfoy exclaims, her hands spasming as she nearly drops him. When he turns to look at
her, she's blinking at him rapidly. "Sorry, dear, I—you took me by surprise. Let's continue up."

"You're not answering me," Harry mumbles, his shoulders slumping. "That's alright. I don't think
Draco would marry me anyway."
Mrs. Malfoy clears her throat. "Are you two having a fight?"

"We broke up," Harry tells her, and he's a little startled to hear his voice crack.

"I… Are you certain?" Mrs. Malfoy asks, sounding unsure, full of disbelief.

Harry swallows thickly. "I think we have."

Oh no. No, no, no. This is all going so wrong! This is why he drank in the first place; to not feel
like this. It's not working, and somehow, drinking has only made it worse. What a load of hogwash!
This isn't what he signed up for at all.

"Oh, darling," Mrs. Malfoy murmurs.

"He's very pretty," Harry says. "And he smells like apples and Autumn. He also has really nice
smiles, rare as they are. I like the way his hair falls into his eyes, did you know? I think—" He
suddenly comes to a screeching halt, wobbling in place as he looks over at Mrs. Malfoy. "I think he
might have loved me first, but I love him the most. Isn't that sad?"

Mrs. Malfoy certainly looks sad. "Harry, I don't think that's true at all. I think… Well, I think it's
best if we get you to your room, yes?"

"Alright," Harry says, nodding.

He goes back to talking about Draco because he finds that he can't stop, though some small part of
him is pleading that he will. He doesn't, though, and Mrs. Malfoy listens to him yammer about her
son without comment. She just leads him towards his room, only coming to a halt when Draco
himself comes out of his room, staring at them with a frown. Harry finally stops talking.

"Mother?" Draco flicks his gaze between them, lips ticking down. "Is everything alright?"

"Autumn wasn't even my favorite season," Harry blurts out, then finds himself crying very hard
rather abruptly, which is no doubt a major betrayal from the Whiskey that he trusted in. He's never
drinking ever again, and he means that.

Mrs. Malfoy tries to shush him, rubbing his arm, but she finally just sighs and addresses Draco. "If
you couldn't guess, Harry is…"

"Sloshed," Draco notes faintly.

"I'm meant to be taking him to his room," Mrs. Malfoy says. She pauses. Keeps pausing. "If…"

"I'll take him," Draco murmurs, and Harry hears him sigh as he walks forward. "You should sleep,
Mother, it's late."

"Yes," Mrs. Malfoy says instantly, helping pass Harry over to Draco.

"Oh, hello," Harry chokes out, blinking through blurry eyes to see Draco looking at him, gaze
flicking over his face. "You're so beautiful."

Draco sighs as his gaze darts away, possibly back to his mum. "Go on, I'll deal with him."

"Goodnight," Mrs. Malfoy murmurs, her heels clicking up the hall a few beats later.

Harry's too busy staring at Draco's face to really remember to say goodnight.

"What am I going to do with you, Harry?" Draco asks softly, sliding his arm more firmly around
Harry's waist and helping him stumble towards his room, holding him up.

"Whatever you want," Harry tells him.

Draco snorts as he pauses to open Harry's door, hip-checking it to swing it in, readjusting his grip
on Harry's arm over his shoulders. "Come on, I'm taking you to bed, you idiot."
"Alright," Harry says agreeably. "That sounds lovely. I don't really think I'll be any good at the
moment, but I'm more than willing to try."

"Harry," Draco mutters, "I wasn't talking about shagging. We're not shagging."

Harry hangs his head forward. "Why not? I think we'd like it very much."

"You're plastered."

"Tomorrow?"

"I don't know if you recall, but we're not in any position to be shagging right now," Draco tells him,
his voice soft and a bit sad, too. He dumps Harry down on the bed, leaning down to pull off his
trainers. "You and I aren't…"

"I am, though," Harry admits, watching Draco gently place his shoes by the foot of the bed. He
blinks blearily as Draco sidles around the bed to pull him further back on the pillows. "Draco. I
am."

Draco's hands go still and he takes a very long, very deep breath before slowly letting it out.
"Harry, you should rest. Just...go to sleep."

"I don't want you to leave," Harry mumbles, reaching out to grab Draco's wrist. "Stay? Please."

"Harry," Draco whispers, "we're in the middle of a fight. A very, very serious fight. We can't just
—"

"Draco," Harry says softly, gripping Draco's wrist and giving it a little tug, "stay with me tonight.
We don't have to fight, not now."

Draco gazes down at him, his throat bobbing up and then down. "You're sloshed right now."

"Yes," Harry agrees. "And, right now, all I want is you. That's all I ever want, but especially right
now. So, just—just please get in bed and lay with me."

A wrinkle forms in Draco's eyebrow. He's still for a long moment, then he sighs and puts his knee
on the bed. Harry immediately scrambles to the side to make room, a pulse of warmth in his chest.
Draco has barely laid down fully before Harry is scooting closer, tangling their legs and sliding an
arm over Draco's waist, curling into his side.

"Harry," Draco says in warning.

"Nothing, nothing," Harry assures him stupidly, tilting his head back to look up at him. "Nothing at
all. I won't even snog you, I swear it."

He immediately stretches up to do exactly that, making that the quickest lie he's ever told and gave
away yet. Draco makes a muffled sound and pulls away slightly just to stare at him.

"You said you wouldn't," Draco whispers accusingly, his voice strangled.

Harry swallows. "I know. I'm not going to again."

He makes that a lie, too, kissing Draco for a bit longer, sighing and melting into it, his mind fuzzy
with how utterly good it feels. Draco inhales sharply, a hand coming up to cup his cheek. The
moment Harry slips his tongue into Draco's mouth, Draco groans and slides his hand into Harry's
hair. Then they're snogging fiercely, and Harry never wants to stop. It does, however, when
Draco's fingers clench in his hair and yanks his head up and back.

"Harry," Draco says, his voice thick.

"Oh, that's—" Harry's heart is thumping painfully, and there are tingles running all over his body.
He makes a small, strangled noise—a moan—when his head starts to dip forward and Draco
snatches it back up by his hair. "I like—we should—"

Draco coughs, clearing his throat. "No, Harry, you're very drunk and I—I… You should sleep. Just
sleep, or I swear I'll leave."
"Alright," Harry mumbles petulantly, fully just pouting at Draco about it, which earns him a sigh.
Draco takes his hand out of Harry's hair and eases his glasses off his face. Harry hums and blinks
slow, letting his head droop back down into the crook of Draco's neck. "I'll sleep. I always sleep
best when you're beside me, you know."

"I know," Draco whispers.

"I love you," Harry breathes out, his eyes fluttering shut as sleep digs its claws into him to drag him
under against his will.

He's out before he hears Draco's reply.

Groaning, Harry leans his head against his arm that's curling around the toilet, his other lifting
shakily to flush. The hand rubbing soothing circles in his back is somehow making him dizzy, but
he really doesn't want it to stop.

"It's your own fault, you know," Draco tells him, not for the first time and probably not for the
last.

"Piss off," Harry rasps weakly.

For a while, he slumps against the toilet and waits for the waves of nausea to pass. It eventually
does, but probably because he has nothing else to give. The Whiskey had burned coming back up
as much as it did going down, and the swift exit has solidified Harry's vow to never drink again.

He imagines that this is what death feels like.

Outside of a weak, churning stomach, he also has to put up with a throbbing head and some rather
staunch sweating that makes him feel clammy. That is not, unfortunately, all the penance he has to
deal with. As if matters can't get worse, Harry doesn't even have the decency to forget the events of
the previous night and all the very stupid things he did whilst intoxicated. To top it all off,
everyone within the Manor—including the house-elves, which is just rude, actually—have been
informed by Voldemort that Harry can't get any relief from his hangover.
It's probably meant to teach him some sort of lesson, but Harry's very sure there's no need. Even
without the hangover, the memories are enough to make him regret everything.

There's also the tragedy that Draco is witnessing all of this, because of course he is. He looks a
mixture of disgusted and faintly amused every time he so much as looks at Harry, and it's not fair.
He's listened to Harry sick up, grumbled about his sweating, and tutted at him for complaining
about his headache.

If this isn't death, Harry wishes it was.

"You're a mess, Harry," Draco informs him.

Harry groans again. "I want to brush my teeth."

"Come on, then." Draco's fingers curl over his shoulders, tugging gently. "Up you get, you numpty.
You'll need a shower after, too."

Draco has been surprisingly helpful from the very moment that Harry sailed out of bed this morning
and rushed to hug the toilet. He has not, however, brought up the many unsaid things between
them. They have both been avoiding the topic.

And, in fact, they continue to do so for the next two hours. Draco truly is wonderful because he
helps Harry brush his teeth, then helps him get mostly undressed for a shower—which is not at all
sensual since Harry is a sweating, pitiful mess. He even goes off to retrieve Harry fresh clothes to
change into, sweeping back in while Harry's showering to inform him to hurry up and get out.

As for Harry, he feels only slightly more alive after a shower. The symptoms remain, but they have
decreased a bit. His head goes from feeling like it's about to split open to a dull throb that he can
mostly ignore, seeing as he's certainly had worse, and that will just have to do.

Unfortunately, his churning stomach comes back with full force when he drags his feet back into
his room to find Draco sitting at one of the chairs behind the desk in the corner, a tray of food
waiting before him. Harry almost immediately recoils.

"I'll never keep it down," Harry admits solemnly.

Draco fixes him with a serious look. "You need to eat something, Harry, even just a bit. Sit."

Harry does, warily. He tries not to fidget and breathes through his mouth so he won't smell the
food. "I seriously won't drink again. No need to torture me further, Draco."

"I don't care that you had some Whiskey, Harry."

"You're not happy about it. I can tell."

"Well…" Draco trails off, lips pursing as he goes about fixing Harry a small portion. When he
slides the dish in front of Harry, Draco sighs. "I don't like that you drank so much on purpose.
There's a difference in doing it for fun and doing it to…"

"To drown my sorrows?" Harry suggests, cherry-picking Voldemort's wordage from the night
before. When Draco averts his eyes, Harry looks down at his lap. "I know. I'm sorry."

"It was incredibly stupid."

"Yeah, it was. Have you ever…"

Draco blinks, looking back at him. "What? Oh, yes, loads of times. Practically every summer after
third year when Blaise, Theo, and Pansy came over when my parents were hosting events—well,
not this previous summer for obvious reasons. Anyway, we'd all sneak off and see who could get
the most intoxicated the quickest, then made a game out of trying to fool our parents into believing
we were sober. Mother always saw right through me, of course, but she never told Father. Nice of
her."

"Sounds like...fun," Harry says weakly, clearing his throat. "What about Crabbe and Goyle?"

"Vince doesn't drink," Draco murmurs, a furrow lining his eyebrow. "His father…does, very much
so, and it never goes well. Puts Vince off, so he just doesn't. Greg isn't allowed because every time
he has, he always ends up injured. He tried to fight a peacock once, but it didn't end well for him."
Harry nods. "I imagine it didn't. So...you just had easy, relaxing summers with friends, then?"

"Mostly," Draco confirms.

For a full minute, Harry stares down at the desk and feels an intense wave of bitterness for the boy
Draco used to be. If not for the fact that he no longer is that boy, Harry knows he would hate
hearing how Draco's summers were filled with laughter and ease, especially for those who were so
cruel.

After a bit, though, he reminds himself that—above all—Draco has changed. Knowingly, on
purpose. No one deserves summers like Harry has experienced, and he won't even wish it on a
past-version of Draco Malfoy, who he used to consider a rival.

Merlin, how times have changed.

Because Harry has not responded, the thread of conversation unravels, leaving them in stilted
silence. He has no choice but to eat, so he chokes down the few bites he can manage while Draco
takes his normal, small bites without a word. The tension around them grows thicker by the
moment, all the previous disagreements almost seeming palpable in the air. He's sure that he could
reach out and touch it if he wanted to, and he thinks that it would feel like oil, slick and black and
fretful.

They're going to have to talk about it, and soon. Draco returns to Hogwarts in just a few days. Harry
knows he'll never be able to live with himself if things aren't clear before he goes.

His main worry is that clearing things up won't result in anything good. Knowing Draco loves him
doesn't make any of this easier—in fact, it makes it all that more difficult. What if they can't come
to an agreement? What if this fight will be one they'll never be able to come to terms with? What if
they won't ever be them again?

The mere thought makes Harry's churning stomach quiver in a distasteful way, and he puts his fork
down—he had no appetite to begin with, but now he can't even try to eat.

Looking up from his dish warily, he finds Draco already watching him. Draco's face is impassive,
a cold mask that seems frozen, unlikely to shatter. He's giving absolutely nothing away in his
expression. Harry hates seeing that, wishing that he could work out any of his feelings or thoughts,
but Draco is all Malfoy right now—practically embodying the family knack for shielding
everything real from the world.

"We should talk," Harry mumbles.

"That we should," Draco agrees neutrally, sitting his fork down and leaning back in his chair,
ramrod straight and full of poise.

Harry hates it. "Draco, we don't have to fight. I don't want to fight with you."

"Why ever not? We're so terribly good at it," Draco muses, arching an eyebrow.

"I'm serious," Harry whispers. "Your sarcasm is noted, but not helpful. Just—just talk to me. Do
you think you're the only one who's angry or—or hurt?"

Draco looks away. "What are your favorite flowers, Harry?" he asks.

"Er, what?" Harry blinks, genuinely thrown for a moment by the abrupt question, but Draco waits
patiently, so he considers it seriously. "Well, I've never actually thought about it, actually, but I
suppose...lilies would be."

"Sentimental," Draco says softly, lips curling up just a bit. Even from the side, though, Harry can
see how utterly sad his expression is for a brief moment, like ice over a lake cracking. He covers it
quickly and pins Harry with a serious look. "I'll be sure to place some at your grave."

Harry flinches. He averts his eyes immediately, throat working around a dry swallow. "Draco…"

"Do you think I'll cry at your funeral?" Draco continues, his voice still soft, though there's no
unearthing the tone of it.

"Stop it," Harry rasps.

Draco just lets out a quiet breath and says, "Why should I, Harry? I rather think I've got all rights
to. I have to get used to it, don't I? You wanted me to face the reality of it, so I am."
"I never wanted to—I didn't mean—" Harry struggles for a minute, bowing his head. He doesn't
know how to speak the tremulous emotions that writhe around inside him. He doesn't think it's a
feat anyone could manage. "What do you want me to say, Draco?"

"I want…" Draco trails off, and then he's silent for a long, long time. So long, in fact, that Harry
glances up in trepidation, only to find Draco with his eyes closed, breathing slow. His face remains
blank, as if he doesn't know how to do anything else. Finally, he speaks again. "I am sorry for
keeping information from you, Harry. Now, I am, at least. Knowing that giving you that
information wouldn't have changed anything anyway, I see the error in keeping it from you. It was
wrong. I know that now."

"I know why you did it," Harry admits, scanning Draco's face. Eyes closed, no emotion, and still so
sodding pretty that it hurts. "You won't do it again."

"No," Draco agrees, "I won't."

Harry swallows when Draco's eyes slowly open, and then he finds that he can't meet that gaze head
on. Like a coward, he looks down at his tangled fingers, as tangled as the strings of his heart. "I
should have told you sooner about my—my decision."

"How long have you known?"

"I—I didn't really make the choice at a definite time, Draco. It was just something that I knew I'd
do, even from the beginning. It never really set in until Dumbledore killed Nagini, I think."

"So, since January, you've been fully aware that you're going to give your life for the world?"

"I didn't—it wasn't like I sat down and thought it all out. I still don't know how it will go, and I'm
not ready for it. I'm not ready to die, not yet. I just… I know there will be a day when I will be,
because one day I will have to be."

Draco says nothing for some time, then he murmurs, "There are many horrible things in this world,
Harry, but by far one of the worst is whatever has you compelled to believe such a thing."
"Draco," Harry croaks, grimacing.

"No, no, I know," Draco says, lifting a hand to halt Harry's protests. He takes a deep breath. "I
know you, so I'm aware that you do not see it as I do. I just want to ask something. Throughout all
of this, did you ever consider that, perhaps, you were being immeasurably selfish by—by partaking
in a relationship with me?"

Harry's throat positively closes up, ensuring that he wouldn't be able to reply even if he had one to
give, which he most certainly does not.

Because no, he had not considered that.

Not once had he paused to think about how truly selfish it would be to get with Draco, to love him
only to leave him, to imagine a future he'd never be a part of. He hadn't slowed down for one
moment to think about how much this was going to hurt when it inevitably came to a head, when it
all spiralled out of control, just as it is now.

Instead, he'd craved the joy, turning to it like a flower grows towards the sun. He'd taken it, willing
and desperate, too caught up in it to ponder how unfair it might be. Even knowing that pain from
the sacrifice his mother made, he'd still never stopped, never slowed down, never considered it at
all.

And now, Draco will experience the same pain that Harry breathes in and out every single day for
the loss of his mother, but—arguably—much worse. After all, Harry only aches for the idea of the
mother he lost; Draco will ache for the love he knew.

"I'm sorry," Harry chokes out, and it comes out as cracked and broken as his heart, softer than a
breath because he cannot properly breathe.

Draco releases a soft sigh. "I have another question. Do you think, Harry, that I regret any of it?
That I'd go back and save myself from it?"

"I don't blame you if you do and would," Harry manages to wheeze, his eyes stinging and burning.

"I don't, and I wouldn't," Draco murmurs, and Harry brings his hands up to cover his face to hide
the tears that he can't keep a grip on. He can't see Draco anymore, but he listens as Draco continues
to talk in that smooth, gentle voice. "If you think I'm anything other than grateful for what I've
gotten, you are wrong. Whether we want to admit it or not, there is always a threat that exists
alongside us. We are all, unfortunately, a step away from death at any given time. People die; that's
all they can be guaranteed to do. I could, right this very second, and that did not stop you from
loving me. It isn't because you will die that I'm upset, Harry."

Harry weakly drops his hands, letting his tears fall, knowing there's no use in trying to stop them or
hide them. He stares at Draco a bit helplessly and admits, "I thought that's what you're angry
about."

"It is not your death that angers me, because you'll die, just as I will," Draco says, grimacing like
the admission displeases him. "It's the manner in which you intend to do so that upsets me. It's that
you won't get to live before doing so that angers me. It's how you believe you have to do it that
hurts me."

"I'm sorry," is all he can say, because what else is there to say? Harry doesn't know how to explain,
but he tries. Fumbling and helpless, he tries. "Draco, it's not something I want, alright? I'll do it
because I must, not because it is my wish. If there was any other solution, any at all, I would—in a
heartbeat, Draco, I would take it. I would live, and love, and never have to hurt you, I swear it."

"The tragic thing is," Draco murmurs, "I already know that. It just makes it worse."

"Would it not be immeasurably selfish of me to refuse to do it?" Harry whispers. "I—I have
considered it, I'll admit. Just saying sod it all and live anyway, but how can I? Draco, you know I
can't do that. I'd never be able to live with myself."

Draco nods, just once. "I know. You're brave, and good, and made of guilt. Even more than that,
you want to make up for your mistakes—all of them, any of them, even ones that aren't your fault.
And you just… You just don't know how to be anything other than a hero, Harry, because that's all
everyone has forced you to be. The-Boy-Who-Lived, the Chosen One, the survivor of the Killing
Curse. Slaying basilisks and winning Triwizard Tournaments, standing up to bullies and offering
kindness to the weak, absolutely perfectly crafted by your own upbringing and Dumbledore's
simple guidance. Your most selfish act will be the most selfless thing you'll ever do, all for the
world that may not even deserve it, and I love you so much, Harry, so much—"

And Draco's the one who's suddenly crying, nearly tripping out of the chair to stumble unsteadily
to his feet. Harry's out of his seat on reflex alone, alarmed and breathless and feeling so much that
he can barely think around it all.
They sort of just...fall into each other.

Harry's not sure how it happens, really, because everything is going so fast. Draco's speech
unraveled so quickly, going from calm and collected to absolutely heartbreaking with no warning.
Each and every sentence had been the truth, just blunt honesty that had felt like a knife twisting in
his heart. The last part, though, where Draco was choking on his own love, still rings heavy in
Harry's ears.

And from there, they've shot out of their seats to collide into each other and just hold on, because
there's a particular brand of agony that comes with the knowledge that they won't get to hold onto
each other forever.

For a long time, they hug each other and cry. It's sort of...nice? It hurts, of course, and it's full of
ugly sounds and wet shirts and harsh, unrelenting grips of their hands. But there is something
strangely freeing in it, in the simple desire to hold each other up while they break down.

After, when they've cried all they can and their grips have slackened and their breathing has turned
relatively normal, they break apart. Just a bit. Just to look at the mess of each other. Just…

Just for Harry to rasp, "I hope you don't mind me saying that you make all of this so, so much
harder. And thank you for that, for giving me something that makes dying feel impossible."

"You live to do the impossible, after all," Draco says, his voice cracking. "Do you remember me
saying how it can be a comfort being named after a constellation, because it reminds me how
insignificant we all are?"

"I remember," Harry murmurs.

"I was wrong to think so." Draco reaches out to straighten Harry's glasses a bit, swallowing thickly
as he pauses to swipe under his eye. "Constellations can be used to tell a story, or they can be used
to guide someone home. And you, Harry, you're—fuck, you're as significant as one. You'd be my
favorite, you know, not—not Apus, because you'd be paradise itself rather than a path to it. And
when you—when you go out, what am I… Harry, what do I—"

Harry leans forward and kisses him.

Just kisses him.

Because he cannot bear to hear the words that he knows Draco will say. Hearing what he already
has is enough to make him want to fade away into nothingness.

Harry doesn't want to be Draco's whole world. He doesn't want to make Draco so happy that all his
joy can be tied back to him. He doesn't want to own Draco's softest smiles, or claim his bright
laughter, or be the sole person to ever hold his heart.

He doesn't, because he's going to make a mess of it all, and he'll never be able to clean it up. He'll
be gone, and how will he fix it, then? How?

He won't, and he can't, and Harry isn't sure how he's ever going to be ready for death if it means
doing this to Draco. He'll absolutely ruin him, won't he? He can see it in the way Draco has
changed so much because of his influence, can hear it in the tremble of his voice as he'd
proclaimed his love, can understand it in how Harry knows Draco in ways that no other does, can
feel it now in this kiss.

It's a wet kiss. Draco is crying. And yet, it's the most tender and torturous thing Harry has ever
experienced in his entire life. Harry's eyes flutter shut as the world narrows to this one swelling
moment that hurts more than dying ever could. He feels like they're suspended here for forever,
their lips brushing so soft over each other, a preemptive goodbye that Harry feels in every cell he
has. Harry never wanted to say goodbye. He hates goodbyes.

When Draco breaks away, he breathes out, "I haven't asked. I haven't said the words."

"Don't," Harry whispers, staring into Draco's eyes, holding his gaze. "Please don't."

Draco swallows. "If I asked—"

"Yes," Harry answers immediately, stepping forward to get closer, unable to help himself. "Yes,
Draco. If you asked, I'd choose you over the world."

It's the truth, and it falls out unbidden, ripping right from his very soul. He should be ashamed, he
thinks, to have something matter more than the countless lives that will be lost if he doesn't do this,
but he isn't. Because, looking at Draco, he can never be ashamed of the precious thing that he's
given Harry.

The only problem with that is...one life doesn't outweigh the whole world, and Harry can't find it
within himself to ever fault that logic. Not doing this will make him hate every breath he takes
where he could have helped save someone, could have stepped in to ensure an innocent lived. He's
not refuting that he deserves to live; it's just that there are endless people who do as well, and he
can make that happen with one simple, heartbreaking sacrifice.

"You don't want me to ask," Draco says. He blinks rapidly for a second, his hands falling to his
side.

"I'm begging you not to," Harry croaks, "because I will. Right this very second, I will. We'll go to
France and never look back; all you have to do is ask." He takes a deep breath, smiling sadly. "But
you won't."

Draco shakes his head jerkily. "You don't know what I'll do. You don't."

"Yes, I do." Harry reaches out to grab his hand, squeezing it hard. "You won't because you're
brave."

"I'm a coward."

"You're not."

"You know I'm not a good person, Harry. You know I care more about you than the world. Don't
assume what I will do, because all I can think about is your promise," Draco whispers harshly, his
voice cracking, and Harry can see the sheen of tears forming in his eyes yet again. "You said you
wouldn't leave me, Harry. You—you…"

"I'm not," Harry murmurs, tugging Draco a step closer, swallowing. "Not really. I've lost so many
people that I've loved, Draco, and I can say with utmost certainty that I won't leave you. Because
the ones who truly love you are always with you, and I love you more than the whole world."

Draco makes a muffled sound, ducking his head as his shoulders jerk, and one of his hands dart out
to grab Harry's shirt, fisting it. He holds it tight, taking in a shuddering breath. Harry doesn't
interrupt him, just watches him with burning eyes of his own.
"I don't want you to do this," Draco chokes out.

Harry can feel his lips trembling, and he presses them together until he thinks he won't fall apart
when he speaks, then he says, "So, ask me not to."

"I can't!" Draco cries out, his head snapping up as he yanks weakly on Harry's shirt. "You know I
fucking can't, and I—I hate you so much. Choose me instead. Don't make me ask, please."

"I am choosing you, Draco," Harry says softly, reaching up with shaking fingers to grab the chain
around his neck, pulling the locket out. Draco has worn it since Christmas, never taking it off, and
Harry has always known it was there. "You can be happy. No fear, no war, just...life. A chance at
life to live it however you want."

"I want to live it with you," Draco hisses, glaring at him through his tears. "What am I supposed to
do?"

Harry sighs, his heart flinching and writhing around in his chest. "Go to France. Buy a telly. Watch
the rain. Find Paradise."

"I already found it," Draco breathes, staring at him with wide, pained eyes. "And it's going to leave
me."

"Don't do this to me," Harry whispers.

Draco yanks at his shirt a bit more forcefully, bringing him a step closer. "Did you think I would
make it simple for you? You're an idiot, Harry Potter. An idiot to think I was ever going to let you
walk away without knowing that you don't have to do this. You deserve to live, too! What about
your life? What about your Paradise?!"

"I was dead the day Voldemort tried to kill me when I was an infant," Harry tells him sadly,
reaching down to grab his wrist and gently tug it from his shirt. "Every day after that was a gift. It
wasn't perfect, it wasn't all very good, but there were people who made it so, so special. My friends,
my family. You. And that's enough for me, Draco. You've all given me something I can never
express enough gratitude for; you, especially. I've had my Paradise, and now I have to go. You have
to let me go."
"I won't ask you," Draco murmurs, sagging in defeat, eyes sinking closed. "I can't, because I know
you'll—it would eat you alive. But I can't—Harry, I don't know how to let you go, alright?"

"It only hurts you," Harry whispers, shuddering out a deep breath. "I don't want to hurt you."

"But you have and you do, and so what?" Draco's eyes snap open, blazing with sincerity. "Let it.
I'll handle it and be with you until—until…"

Harry grabs Draco's hand and brings it up to his mouth, pressing a soft kiss to his fingers. He closes
his eyes and breathes in the smell of apples and Autumn, letting himself picture the life he might
have had if things were different. A life where Draco has a ring on his finger. Maybe they have
children, maybe they don't. They visit France often, and they're nothing like the sun and moon on
the walls that never get to keep each other. They don't have to search for Paradise because they
cradle it between them.

He takes a deep breath, seeing it all, craving it so desperately that he can feel the yearning threaten
to strangle him. Then he lets the breath out, letting the dream go, letting it wash away.

Harry drops Draco's hand.

"I can't let that happen," Harry whispers, opening his eyes to stare at Draco steadily.

"You don't get to make that choice for me," Draco declares. "It's mine and mine alone."

Harry swallows. "You do get to choose if you want to be hurt by me, yeah, and that's—it's your
right. But I get to decide to stop prolonging that pain. No matter how it happens, or how long we
wait, it's going to happen anyway. I just think it's best to not make it worse on you. I refuse."

Draco lets out a wet chuckle, not at all amused, and he tosses up a hand. "Merlin, how can you find
heroics even in sodding breaking up with me?"

"I have a knack for it, I suppose," Harry says weakly, trying to crack a smile and failing
spectacularly.
"You know," Draco rasps, "I was always aware that if we ever broke up, it'd be you who did it, but
this wasn't really how I imagined it happening."

"No?" Harry whispers. "How did you picture it?"

"If anything, I expected there to be a fight that would cause it, and I thought there would be a lot
more fighting involved," Draco admits.

Harry's precarious sanity is hanging on by a thread as it is, but he somehow maintains it. "I didn't
picture it at all, because I knew that nothing short of my own death would make me leave you."

"Why would you say that?" Draco whimpers, his breath hitching as his whole body twitches.

"I'm sorry," Harry says instantly, chastised, "I shouldn't have s—"

Draco surges forward to cut Harry's words off with his lips, which Harry's very sure he shouldn't be
doing, seeing as they're in the middle of breaking up. He should probably stop this, because
snogging right now seems to be counterproductive to doing everything he can to make all of this as
painless as possible for Draco. The only problem with that is, Harry's very weak and he hasn't once
—not once throughout this entire relationship—figured out how to be strong enough to stop a kiss.

It's an inappropriately good kiss, too.

Harry's emotions are all over the place right now as it is, to the point that he's getting whiplash.
Everything hurts, but at the same time, Draco's lips parting his own is the best thing he's ever felt.

Despite the crying, despite the breaking up they're in the middle of, despite all of it, Harry feels a
weak sense of pleasure flutter at the base of his throat in the shape of a moan. It catches as it crawls
up, forming into a choked-off whimper, and Draco's hands are sliding up into his hair now.

Draco's fingers are tugging at the strands. Harry's trying his absolute best not to reach out and yank
him closer, and he's failing.
Draco licks into the seam of his lips, his whole body shuddering, releasing a punched out breath
when Harry helplessly reciprocates. What else can he do? He's not thinking, just feeling, and there's
so much relief in sensation when pitted against everything that waits outside of it.

Harry's not sure precisely how they end up stumbling into the desk, making the cutlery rattle and
tinkle, but they do. It seems to be his doing because Draco's the one who's backed up against it with
Harry leaning into him. He braces his hands on Draco's hips, straining forward to snog him
mindlessly and fiercely.

One of Draco's hands falls out of Harry's hair to land on the desk, and the next thing Harry knows,
Draco is hauling himself up to sit on the desk. Because he is helpful, Harry reaches back to swipe
all the dishes off the table, careless to the sound of them crashing loudly to the floor.

He's not thinking, he really isn't, because he doesn't make the active decision to slide his hands
down Draco's thighs, hooking under his knees, to jerk him forward a bit so that his legs will fall
open and give Harry space to step between them. No, he doesn't decide to do that, but he's very
thankful that his hands carry out the action nonetheless.

Draco has to hold himself up with one hand so he won't fall back, but he doesn't seem to mind.
Even goes as far as clamping his legs all the way around Harry and crossing his ankles like he
means to trap him there. Pointless, really, because Harry isn't trying to get away or anything.

"Merlin, Morgana, fucking hell," Draco chokes out when he throws his head back to gulp in some
air.

Huh, that would explain why Harry's a bit light-headed like he might faint any second.

"Sorry, wait, I—" Harry tries really hard to breathe, literally shaking his head as if it will help clear
the fog in his brain—to no luck, of course. "I'm—we—"

Draco's lips spread into a ridiculously sensual smile, and he ducks his head to look at Harry with
bright eyes and flushed cheeks. "See? We can't break up, Harry. We'll just end up snogging."

"No, that's not—" Harry blinks rapidly, choking on the rest of his words as Draco's cool fingers of
his free hand slide up under his shirt, tracing up his jumping stomach slowly. "Hold on, we were
just… This is a bad idea. Maybe we shouldn't—"
"Personally," Draco drawls, "I love a bad idea. You're my favorite bad idea, always have been."

Harry swallows and licks his lips. "You are not about to convince me to stop saving you from
further pain by snogging me, Draco. You're just not."

"Is that right?" Draco pushes himself up, crowding close enough that their noses brush, holding his
gaze. His hand underneath Harry's shirt slides further up, just a bit above his stomach, his touch a
tantalizing caress. "Are you going to stop me?"

Draco closes that small sliver between their mouths yet again, and Harry absolutely is not going to
stop him. He just can't.

He's so weak.

Humming in approval against his mouth, Draco leans into him, snogging him rather filthily, all
things considered. They've only ever kissed like this a few times, and Harry always gets carried
away in the violent current of want that surges through him, and this is no exception. He's lost to it
instantly, giving in with a groan.

Helplessly, Harry drags his hands back up Draco's legs to hold onto his waist again, trying to
steady himself. Draco is being very brazen, which is… It's new, in a way, because it's always
Draco who's stopped before, mostly due to the fact that Harry sort of just gets swept up in it and
accidentally mauls him a bit. This time, however, Draco seems to encourage it, curling into Harry
and snogging with tongue and teeth and very, very naughty intentions.

Harry is a sixteen year old boy who is very in love with his boyfriend. His boyfriend who he was
trying to break up with, which was the last thing he wanted to do anyway, and now that attempt
almost seems laughable. He gave valiant effort, sure, but when met with this? Yeah, no, Harry's
many things, but he's not strong enough to beat this into submission.

Draco breaks away for more air again, pulling out of the snog with a breathless laugh. "I take it
you're not going to stop me, then?"

"Piss off," Harry snaps gruffly.

"We're not breaking up," Draco informs him, pleased and—and, oh Merlin, there's a spark of
heated delight in his eyes that actually makes Harry's knees a bit weak. He thought such things
were reserved for those romance novels Draco pretends he doesn't read, but apparently not.

Draco suddenly tugs his hand out of Harry's shirt, only to use both hands to grip the bottom of it
and pull insistently. Helpless, Harry groans, "No, we are not," and helps Draco yank his shirt off.

"Lovely," Draco says, tossing Harry's shirt carelessly to the side, gaze already drifting down to his
chest. He's smirking, so sodding smug, such a prat. Bloody hell, Harry loves him so much. "Happy
to know we're in agreement. On with the snogging, then."

"Wait," Harry says quickly, "why did we just remove my shirt? I didn't—I thought you said—"

"I'm not stopping unless you are," Draco murmurs.

Harry blinks at him, then chokes out, "But, but what about courting and—and—"

"Right now, at this moment, I do not give a damn about Pureblood traditions," Draco tells him, a
hand coming out to settle on Harry's chest, sliding up in a rather curious manner before gripping his
shoulder, brushing the scars Greyback left behind. "They can all go burn in a fire for all I care."

That might be the single most attractive thing Draco Malfoy has ever said to him, and Harry feels
like an idiot for the visceral reaction he has to it.

"So...on with the snogging, then?" Harry asks a bit stupidly, entirely breathless.

Draco's answer comes in the form of a sharp pull on his shoulders to drag him close, their lips
meeting in the middle, which is always so good. They've got snogging down to a fine art at this
point, familiar territory that they never get tired of exploring. It's everything else that's uncharted,
and it's as alluring as it is nerve-wracking.

Harry's not scared, exactly, just apprehensive. He's more worried that he'll do something wrong
than anything else, but most of his concerns are waved aside by the distraction that is Draco's
mouth, and hands, and smell, and taste.
They get caught up in it rather quickly. Must be the hormones and peaks of emotion, Harry's sure.
Either way, he's happy to go along with it as long as Draco is, and Draco...well, he definitely is.

However, they don't get very far.

Harry's barely just sliding his hands underneath Draco's shirt when there's a sharp knock on the
door. They both freeze for a split second, only to wrench away from each other with wide eyes. All
at once, they realize what this looks like.

There are various dishes broken on the floor, a scattered graveyard of glass and bits of food. Harry
all but has Draco wrapped around him and pinned down on the top of the desk. That's not even
considering the fact that Harry's shirtless.

"We are not breaking up," Draco hisses, pointing at him seriously as he scrambles to let Harry go
and push him back.

Harry fumbles for his shirt, which had been tossed a few steps away from his feet, and he throws
Draco a quick glare as he mutters, "Yeah, yeah, I got it."

"I'll just snog you again," Draco warns.

"You're such a prat."

"Until death do we part, git."

"That's not at all funny!" Harry squawks, wincing immediately when the knock comes at the door
again. He lowers his voice. "Don't make jokes about my death, you arse, and don't relate it to
marriage. We won't be able to get married."

"Pity, that," Draco muses, trying to fix his hair and wave his wand to clean up the mess on the floor
all at once. "Everyone would have been dripping with jealousy, you know. It would be a grand
wedding, of course, possibly on the moon."

Harry sighs, shaking his head. "You're ridiculous, you know that? It's sad, Draco. Do you know
how to properly filter your emotions at all?"

"Not having to marry you is not sad, Harry, it's what one would call dodging a Curse," Draco
informs him, smirking. But there it is, underneath it all, a deep sadness that pinches around his
eyes, only for Harry to see. "You would have stepped on my feet throughout the dances, and
frankly, I value my toes."

"Draco," Harry says gently, heart feeling swollen and shriveled all at once. He stuffs himself back
into his shirt and marches forward to reach out, cupping Draco's face in his hands. "Hey, it's
alright. I'm—it upsets me, too."

"We would have had treacle tart for dessert, and you would let me pick out the wine," Draco
whispers, smirk falling away in an instant.

Harry swallows thickly. "I would have tried my best with the dancing. Just for you."

Draco closes his eyes and turns his face away to try and hide the sharp twist of pain that steals over
his expression, but Harry sees it. He reflects it, too.

Heaving a deep sigh, Draco steps back, making Harry's hands fall limply from his face. He goes
back to cleaning up the mess without another word, and Harry takes a moment to scrub a hand over
his face. This has all been...a lot. They've argued, cried, snogged, tried to break up, then couldn't.

It's all so bloody hard.

It's going to continue to be.

"Draco, Harry, I know you're both awake in there," Mrs. Malfoy calls through the door, her voice
muffled. "You've missed breakfast, but you'll both be having Lunch. Open the door."

"Go on," Draco murmurs, waving a hand towards the door. "See to her. She won't go away
otherwise."

"You can't be angry that she interrupted," Harry mumbles, frowning at him.
"We could be shagging right now," Draco hisses at him, narrowing his eyes. "Instead, I'm upset
about a wedding I won't get to have. So, yes, Harry, I can be angry at her rudely interrupting."

Harry grimaces, then blushes. "Well, maybe it's best. We did agree to wait, you know."

Draco arches an eyebrow at him. "As you wish, love. Sure, let's wait. You'll die a virgin, which is
just as well. I'll be sure to tell everyone."

"Oh, how will I ever survive the shame?" Harry mocks sarcastically as he heads for the door.

"You won't," Draco says, "obviously."

"Back to joking," Harry grumbles, flipping Draco off over his shoulder, then plastering on a smile
as he opens the door. "Morning, Mrs. Malfoy."

"It's afternoon, now," Mrs. Malfoy informs him, shrewd gaze sweeping over his shoulder to take in
the room and, presumably, her son. "Am I interrupting?"

"No, 'course not," Harry mumbles, blushing.

Draco scoffs from behind him and mutters, "Yes."

"I see." Mrs. Malfoy's pointed look lets Harry know that she does, in fact, see. He has no idea how
she knows that they were in the midst of an, er, intimate moment, but she clearly does. She's not
visibly angry by it, and she just sighs. "Well, I'm pleased that you two have...sorted your
differences. Lunch is being served in five minutes. I'll walk you both down."

"Right, yeah, sure," Harry says quickly, absolutely mortified at the moment.

Mrs. Malfoy arches an eyebrow at him and calmly says, "Your shirt is on backwards, Harry."
Death can't come soon enough.

By the time Draco has to go back to Hogwarts, Harry has already attempted to break up with him
approximately four more times because the guilt got to be too much, only to abandon the idea
halfway through when Draco made a valid argument against it by shutting him up for a while.

They're in this strange sort of...bickering war about it, and it's far more enticing than it has any
right to be. Harry always goes into the conversation very sure that breaking up will only benefit
Draco in the end, considering what's going to happen in the future, and by the time they're too
preoccupied to talk, he's utterly convinced that Draco can make his own choices and Harry should
respect them.

It's a very complicated thing.

Weakly—to the point that his efforts are almost laughable—Harry tries just one more time as
Draco says goodbye in the foyer. "Maybe it's best we—"

"I'm telling Granger, by the way," Draco cuts him off, tilting his chin up. "All of it. Perhaps she'll
smack some sense into you."

"Ah, uh, Draco," Harry mumbles, heart dropping in pure fear instantly. He tosses a glance at Mrs.
Malfoy and Lucius, who are both watching them and eavesdropping shamelessly. "Could you, er,
possibly not do that? She's going to—"

"Murder you?" Draco suggests, arching an eyebrow at him. "Yes, that is the goal. Perhaps I'll
wrangle Weasley in as well, if I can. After all, he and I will have to play nice eventually, and what
better way to bond than find mutual desire to have a go at Harry Potter? I think we'll get on quite
nicely when it comes to that, don't you?"

"Weasley?!" Lucius sputters.

"Not now, Father," Draco snaps, tone clipped.

Harry winces. "You're going to tell on me. You really are, Draco. So bloody dramatic."

"Someone has to," Draco says with a sniff.

"Don't be a prat," Harry grumbles, only to take a steady breath. "No, actually, keep doing that.
Might help me get through this. You're going back to Hogwarts, and I think we should—"

Draco reaches out to put his hand on Harry's shoulder, sighing as if he's dealing with a toddler
prone to tantrums. Slowly, he shakes his head and says very simply, "No."

"No?" Harry echoes incredulously. For all they've bickered about this, Draco's argument usually
comes in the form of a snog—this is unexpected and, in a way, slightly humiliating.

"No," Draco repeats calmly. "I just...don't accept it today, so you'll have to wait to try when you
see me again. Sorry to bother, dear."

Harry opens and closes his mouth soundlessly for a moment, then sputters, "You can't just—"

"I'll be sure to write," Draco cuts him off once more, smooth and simple, leaning forward to press a
kiss to Harry's cheek. As he pulls back, he smiles and declares, "Ignore my letters, and I'll kill
you."

"I—what?" Harry blinks rapidly as Draco pulls away like he's just going to leave, and that doesn't
really sit right with him. He stumbles forward a bit quickly, without even making the decision to do
so, and grabs Draco's arm. "Wait, I—"

Draco does wait, and for a second, he looks so tired. In that moment, Harry can see just how much
all of this weighs on him, and Harry regularly trying to break things off seems to be making it
worse. Even if staying is worse in the long-run, Harry doesn't have the will to leave when it makes
Draco look like that. His words falter in his throat.

"Yes?" Draco asks wearily, though it's clear that he's ready to stand here and fight for as long as he
needs to. It sort of breaks Harry's heart.
Harry swallows. "Nothing. I just—I love you."

"Harry," Draco snaps, going tense all over, and Harry's immediately reminded that Draco's parents
are watching and listening to this whole exchange. They must be so confused, as well as appalled
at Harry's sudden declaration.

"Sorry," Harry mumbles. "I do, though."

"I know," Draco murmurs, his voice softening—not with something sweet, but something sad. He
pauses, looking over his shoulder to glance at his parents, only to look back at Harry and roll his
eyes. His lips curl up, just a bit. "I love you, too."

The reactions from Mrs. Malfoy and Lucius could probably fuel Harry's delight for years to come,
if he had that many. Mrs. Malfoy looks properly stunned, hands fluttering in front of her, blinking
slowly as her lips part. Lucius, however, looks one part disappointed and one part scandalized,
which shouldn't be as funny as it is. In fairness, it isn't that much of a shock to think Harry would
say such a thing in front of people, but Draco? It's clearly the last thing they're expecting from their
son.

Harry almost immediately perks up, breaking out into a bright grin and feeling a warm pulse of
pure joy in his chest, right around his heart. Draco has only told him that out of anger and through
tears, and he hasn't repeated it since. Harry hadn't expected him to, or required it from him,
especially not in front of others.

"Brilliant," Harry breathes out, struck stupid with awe and simple happiness. He darts forward to
kiss Draco, just a quick press of mouths, a small peck if you will. When Draco pulls away, they're
both smiling—Harry's smile is wide and cheeky, while Draco's is small and pleased.

"I'm going," Draco informs him, stepping back to do just that. "Wait for my letter."

"I will," Harry says automatically. "Enjoy the rest of the term, and don't—Draco, try not to go
provoking anyone, yeah?"

"Me?" Draco lays a hand over his chest, smirking now. "I'd never."

Harry snorts. "Right, I'm sure."

"Come along, Draco," Mrs. Malfoy murmurs, glancing between her son and Harry with a
speculative gleam in her eye.

"You'll be telling us why, exactly, Potter's friends know of his identity, I'm sure," Lucius says with
a sneer, eyes narrowed into slits.

"Er, that would be my fault, I'm afraid," Harry blurts out quickly. "They found me out in October.
Arius knew too much about them, is all. They don't know anything, of course."

"They know of you and Draco," Mrs. Malfoy accuses, raising her eyebrows.

Harry blinks innocently. "Of course. I wouldn't hide my love for him, would I?"

Mrs. Malfoy narrows her eyes now as well, but there is the slightest twitch of frustration around her
lips, as if she actually can't work out if Harry's being completely honest or not. "I suppose you
wouldn't."

"Is the Dark Lord aware of this?" Lucius asks.

"I didn't think he'd care to know," Harry lies.

Lucius arches an eyebrow. "He would."

"I'll be sure to tell him, then," Harry says with a roll of his eyes, even though it's the last thing he
wants to do. He's not sure how this will go over.

"You do that," Lucius murmurs, and the rest of the sentence goes unsaid but not unheard. Or I
will.

Draco grimaces, but he makes no comment. In his defence, it's not like he could have known that
his parents were listening into their conversation. It's the first time either of them have ever let this
secret slip, and after months of keeping it hidden, Harry isn't too upset about it—honestly, he
expected the adults to find out sooner. Not only that, no one knows the depth of the entire thing, so
Harry's sure that Draco will keep it dismissive and lie his way through most of the entire
conversation.

Harry plans to do the same.

Voldemort is back only a few days after Draco has gone, and Harry has been keeping a regular
check for his return. One day, he pokes his head in the Study, and there he is.

"Good, you're back," Harry announces, stomping inside the room to throw himself in his regular
seat, heaving a sigh. "What were you doing?"

"Due to your ridiculous actions involving Greyback, I had to travel and pander to more people to
join my cause," Voldemort informs him.

Harry sighs. "Making up for those numbers, are you? Sorry to have made you do double the
work."

"No, you're not."

"Yeah, I'm really not. Did you kill anyone?"

"Not this time."

"Did you have anyone killed?"

"No," Voldemort says.

"Alright," Harry murmurs, a knot loosening in his chest, though the reassurance doesn't make up
for what Voldemort has done already. "Well, Lucius says I should tell you something."
"Lucius says," Voldemort repeats, one naked eyebrow sweeping up. "Do you listen to him now,
Harry?"

"Not at all, but he'll just tell you if I don't, and I'd rather you hear it from me," Harry admits. "I
didn't actually think you'd care, honestly."

That is a lie.

Voldemort straightens in his seat. "What is it?"

"I have friends," Harry says slowly, unwilling to draw attention to their names. "In October, when I
visited Draco at Hogsmeade, my friends...figured out that Arius is actually me. They don't know
anything, just that Draco and I are together."

Voldemort doesn't immediately respond. He looks away, seemingly mulling that over, staring out
the window with gleaming eyes. Harry can't imagine what he's thinking, and he doesn't really want
to.

"I see," Voldemort says finally, turning back to regard him curiously. "You thought this would not
be of interest to me?"

"Is it?" Harry asks, feigning confusion.

"Not in the way you would believe," Voldemort murmurs. "I have no particular desire to harm
children, though I am not above it if necessary. Your friends pose no threat to me, but they could
you."

Harry blinks, genuinely confused now. "Sorry, what? You think my friends would, er, hurt me?"

"Not fatally, of course, but you're very easy to hurt, Harry," Voldemort tells him. "They need only
to try and take you from Draco, and your trust in them would be gone. As we've mentioned, once
your trust is broken, you do not trust the individual the same. Can you truly be sure that they won't
resort to feeding Dumbledore information?"
"I…" Harry coughs, trying to wrap his mind around the fact that Voldemort is being oddly rational
about all of this. "Well, they don't have much information, do they? All they know is that Arius is
Harry, and that Draco is with Arius."

"You've had correspondence with them through Draco, I presume?"

"Sort of. Mostly just a hello through a letter. Knowing I'm alive is all I can give to reassure them,
but that seems to be enough."

"They're worried for you," Voldemort muses.

Harry pauses, then nods hesitantly. "They're my friends. That's what they do."

"Mm," Voldemort hums, reaching up to tap his lipless mouth, deep in thought once again.

"You told me once that you and Lucius were friends, or something like it, before you became...this.
Was it back when you went to Hogwarts?"

"Harry, I graduated from Hogwarts nine years before Lucius was born. We did not attend together.
How young do you think I am?"

"Oh." Harry opens his mouth, then closes it. He blinks. "I...don't know why I thought you went to
Hogwarts with him."

"Because you associate friendship with that place."

"Yeah, I suppose so. Wait, so—so how old are you?"

"I am sixty-nine, technically. I was born on the thirty-first of December in 1926," Voldemort
murmurs, watching Harry closely.

"Bloody hell, you're old," Harry blurts out.

Voldemort doesn't seem offended by Harry's outburst. "Mm, and to think I wasn't corporal for
thirteen years of my life."

"Right," Harry mutters, "because of me. What was that like?"

"Slow," Voldemort says.

Harry huffs a soft laugh. "I'll bet. Well, I won't apologize for it, obviously. You brought it on
yourself."

"You are free to see it that way." Voldemort flicks his fingers carelessly. After a beat, he tilts his
head to the side. "If I am old, Harry, what does that make Dumbledore in your mind?"

"Oh, he's ancient," Harry admits, snorting. "Really, I've already said this before, you know. He has
to be over hundred years old. Just has to be."

"He is."

"You know his age? What is it?!"

"Either one hundred and fifteen, or one hundred and sixteen," Voldemort informs him. "He was
born in 1881, I believe."

Harry makes a small huh sound. "Merlin, that's bonkers. Imagine living that long."

"Why wouldn't he? Witches and Wizards do tend to live for that long and far longer."

"Really?"

"Our life expectancy is far greater than a Muggle's," Voldemort tells him.
Harry snaps his mouth shut, inexplicably upset in a flash. He won't even make it to twenty, he's
sure. He'll be frozen in memories and never changing while all of his friends and Draco will grow
older. He imagines Draco as an older man, trying to picture what he'll look like and act like, but he
simply can't. He won't get to see it in person, either.

"You have the other Horcrux, don't you?" Harry asks softly, lifting his gaze to Voldemort's.

The subject change is abrupt and necessary. It's time. If he's already facing the repercussions of his
choice, then he may as well start putting it in action. Besides, he doesn't want to talk to Voldemort
anymore, not about anything besides what he has to.

"I do," Voldemort admits. "How did you know?"

Harry frowns. "I didn't. I just...asked. Is it here?"

"Yes."

"With the Locket."

"Yes."

"And you want to do further experiments."

Voldemort peers at him intently. "Do you?"

"I am curious about them after—after Nagini," Harry says slowly, careful to keep his story straight.
He holds Voldemort's gaze. "I just don't know if I'm open to feeling the way the Locket made me
feel."

"It frightens you."

"It made me want to hurt you. It made me want to hurt everyone."

"I see," Voldemort says softly, his gaze piercing and heavy, boring right into Harry's.

And Harry knows—he just knows—that Voldemort is going to be irrevocably paranoid about his
Horcruxes, no matter what Harry says or does. There will always be that suspicion, that simple
knowledge that Harry can break his trust—and might.

Just the same, Harry's also aware that Voldemort is going to do it anyway. For reasons unknown.
For thoughts that Harry can't access. For trust, perhaps, or for the belief that Harry won't be able to.
Maybe even for the fact that he probably has all sorts of protections surrounding his Horcruxes.

Harry has his work cut out for him.

"If you promise not to let them kill me, or me do anything drastic, I'll agree to experiments," Harry
declares, as if this is all Voldemort's idea.

"I have told you before, Harry, I will allow no harm to come to you."

"Alright, but you have to make sure I don't do harm. Just—just Stun me and knock me out if you
have to."

Voldemort blinks at him, just once. "You...are asking me to incapacitate you."

"If necessary, yeah," Harry says, blinking back at him more than once. "Why shouldn't I?"

"I forget sometimes that, on your list of people to trust, I am somehow among them," Voldemort
muses, staring at him curiously.

What comes out of Harry's mouth next is manipulative and very, very Slytherin...but also
worryingly true, nonetheless. "Well, I never forget that you trust me. It's a nice thing to earn."

"Is that so?" Voldemort seems to look at him for a moment, probably trying to detect a lie, but he
won't find one. And he doesn't. After a beat, he offers a small nod. "Am I to take it that you have
no intentions of losing that trust?"

"I don't even know how I could," Harry murmurs, swallowing thickly and looking down at his lap.
It's a lie, a bold one, but it's something Voldemort will take as fact. "The only way you won't trust
me is if I run off to try and die, isn't it? I'm not ready to die."

There's enough truth in there for that to come across as genuine, and it's likely the very thing that
Voldemort wants to hear.

Harry feels dirty.

"You should not have to," Voldemort says.

"Coming from the man who tried to kill me multiple times," Harry mutters with a roll of his eyes,
falling easily back into his usual sarcasm.

Voldemort releases a quiet sigh. "Things change."

"Yeah," Harry says softly, "they really do."

"I have the Horcruxes here, if you're ready," Voldemort suddenly declares, leaning forward with
his wand, brushing off the moment.

"Wait, wait, wait!" Harry protests quickly, just as he would if he weren't planning to betray
Voldemort at some point in the future. The reminder makes him feel sick to his stomach. "Just—
you didn't promise. I'll only do this once if it goes horribly wrong, so you have to promise not to let
it."

Harry can see the way Voldemort is looking at him, trying to survey him for sincerity, poking over
every interaction leading up to this point to look for any ulterior motives. He won't find any,
because this decision has only recently been solidified. Harry knows about the fine art of not
revealing intentions simply because you don't know what yours will be yet. It works in his favor
now.
 Quiet, resolute, Voldemort says, "I promise."

And that, as the saying goes, is the end of the beginning and the beginning of the end. Everything
after won't be the same, and Harry knows it.

He just wishes it didn't hurt so much.

Chapter End Notes

This chapter was so hard to get through when I was writing it because, frankly, it hurt.
But I always, ALWAYS promise a happy ending. We'll get there, I swear it ❤️

Thanks for sticking around, if you have.

 Metamorphosis
Chapter Notes

It's a tough one again, y'all, I'm so sorry.

Warnings:

~SPOILERS~

1) Top-shelf angst. You'll probably cry. I did, and I wrote the damn thing.

2) Description of blood, though we have seen worse, but I'm just giving the warning
anyway.

3) Discussions of Death and Sacrifice that will likely break your heart/infuriate
you/both.

4) Reference to past miscarriages, not explicitly described, just mentioned once.

5) Harry being a fictional character in a fanfic, because you're gonna wanna hug him, I
promise.

Enjoy?

See the end of the chapter for more notes

It is on the second day of May that Harry sneaks into Voldemort's Study, knowing he's away again,
and then proceeds to break into the drawer housing both Horcruxes. It is not—as anyone would
expect—a simple task.

There are so many protective Spells surrounding the damn things that Harry can feel magic wafting
off of the drawer like a wave of heat. One of his fingers is nearly sliced clean off when he
accidentally activates one of the Spells, but he comes away fine, so he'll take it as a win. He's
watched Voldemort retrieve the Horcruxes from this drawer so many times that he knows precisely
how he moves his wand, as well as the slight fizzle-pop of magic that occurs when the defenses fall
away. For Harry, it takes a lot of fumbling attempts, as well as a couple of bruises and cuts, before
that fizzle-pop happens.

Heaving a sigh, Harry swallows and levitates them out to gently settle them on the desk, staring at
the Locket and Cup in turn. Finally, after a beat, he screws his face up and reaches out to grab each
Horcrux in one hand.

The effect is instantaneous.

The Locket, of course, preys on anger and insecurities. The one Dumbledore destroyed—a ring, if
Voldemort is to be believed—had a defense consisting of temptation and power. The Diary—as
Voldemort explained it—focused entirely on manipulation and possession, and he won't tell Harry
anything about the one they can't access. There was Nagini as well, whose main defense was her
own striking fangs, a brutal force of their own. Then there's Harry, and neither of them have even
discussed what defense he may have, if he even does.

The Cup, however… Well, Harry's not exactly eager to be touching this one, either. It seems
involved in particular with illness—both of the physical and mental kind—as well as blatant
falsehood.

Just touching the damn thing makes him feel sick, as in literally ill. Not only that, but it makes his
head fuzzy and full of confusion, as if he's forgetting something terribly important. The way the
Cup works is that it urges him to drink from it, promising to heal him, both in mind and body.
Instead, it will undoubtedly poison him—not that it would work on him, but still.

The Cup, paired with the Locket, is a bad combination that makes him feel, well, horrible.

And yet, he sits right there in Voldemort's chair, cradling each Horcrux in his hands, eyes shut as he
waits. He knows what he's doing, or he has an idea at least, but he has to be patient.

Ah, there.

Harry can distantly make out the slight shift in the air that signals Voldemort's abrupt arrival, likely
appearing in a swirl of black mist and eyes that glitter blood. He very pointedly doesn't open his
eyes to check, instead holding the Horcruxes without budging an inch, a furrow in his brow.

Voldemort is silent for so long that Harry is about to ruin the whole point of this by peeking open
an eye to check if he really is there. But then, "Harry, what are you doing?"

"Bugger!" Harry blurts out, dropping the Horcruxes as his eyes snap open. He scrambles back in
the chair, blinking at Voldemort, who is watching him intently. "Bloody hell, when did you get
back?!"

"Just now," Voldemort murmurs.

Harry sags just a bit, rubbing the back of his neck, feeling a bit agitated and peaky—leftover
effects from the Horcruxes. "Sorry, I was just… Er, you're back because I took out the Horcruxes,
aren't you?"

"I'm alerted when anyone attempts to take them out. You made mistakes in the process. Otherwise,
I might not have been notified."

"I've watched you do it enough, haven't I?"

"You don't know the amount of Spells you've blundered past by what I assume is pure luck,"
Voldemort informs him, eyes narrowing. "You are very lucky that you are uninjured."

"Ha, right," Harry says quickly, very carefully not glancing down at his bleeding leg. It's not a very
big cut, after all. He'll be fine.

Voldemort is watching him closely, seriously, not angry...but suspicious. "Do you intend to tell me
why you've forced your way to my Horcruxes? As I understand it, you only expose yourself to
them when I am present."

"I thought, maybe—if I'm careful—I can eventually be in contact with them without wanting to
vomit or go on a rampage." Harry glances down at the Horcruxes with a small frown. "It's like with
Quidditch, yeah? At first, being on the broom is odd and a bit painful, but then you just...get used
to it. I was thinking if I sort of, er, sat with 'em a bit, then maybe it wouldn't be so bad. You
know?"

"Prolonged exposure," Voldemort muses.

Harry bobs his head. "Something like that. Sorry, I should have asked. I just—I didn't think you'd
get my Quidditch analogy, honestly."

"I understand well enough," Voldemort says slowly, his head tipping to the side. "You removed
them at your leisure, not to take them, but to sit with them."

"Yeah, 'course," Harry replies, and it is not a lie. His next words are. "I don't want to take them at
all. I just needed a few minutes with them."

"You do realize," Voldemort murmurs, "you will have to continuously expose yourself to them to
grow used to them, if you even can."

Harry frowns at the Horcruxes. "Bullocks. Should I do it every night, then?"

"Do you wish to?"

"It is an experiment, Mr. Voldemort, Dark Lord, sir."

"A very risky one," Voldemort tells him, and Harry can hear the double meaning in his words,
even if he's not supposed to. Risky because it requires Voldemort to trust him with the Horcruxes.

"I'm all for some risk, you know that," Harry chirps with false bravado, grinning cheekily.

Voldemort narrows his eyes. "You will require me to add you into the wards."

"What? No." Harry snorts, all sixteen-year-old teenager at the moment, rolling his eyes and
flapping a lazy hand, pretending to miss the absolute seriousness of this exchange. "There's no need
for that. I'll just bust my way in like I did this time. It was sort of fun."

"You are very much a child," Voldemort mutters, rather predictably. He sighs and sweeps around
the desk, only to come to a halt when he sees Harry's leg bleeding. "You said you—"

"It's fine," Harry mumbles.

"You're bleeding."

"Yeah, I do that sometimes."

"Lean back," Voldemort orders, his wand appearing as he crouches down with billowing robes.

Harry rolls his eyes, but he does as he's told, scooting back and sticking his leg out so Voldemort
can heal it. "Alright, no need to fuss about it. I've had worse, you know. From you, might I add."

"Yes, I am aware." Voldemort waves his wand, weird fingers curled grotesquely around the
handle, and when he looks up at Harry, his eyes are red and sharp. "Will I always exist in my past
actions?"

Harry freezes, his mouth shutting with a harsh click. Voldemort holds his gaze, and Harry can't
bring himself to break it, a sudden tension existing between them when it didn't moments ago.

Will I always exist in my past actions?

Will he? Shouldn't he? When his present actions are equally bad, when he feels no remorse for the
past actions in question, what does it matter if he's judged through them? Harry can't think of one
reason why he shouldn't tie the Voldemort who killed his parents to the Voldemort who had
Amelia Bones killed. They're one in the same in their cold, merciless cruelty. This moment here,
with Voldemort healing his knee, cannot make up for Cedric, or some nameless Muggle he'll never
know.

Caring for Harry does not make up for him caring for no one else.

"Do you regret them?" Harry asks quietly.

Voldemort pauses briefly, the smallest wrinkle forming between his naked eyebrows. It looks odd
on him, this tiny exposure to confusion, like he's more human than he actually is.

"What would you classify as regret?" Voldemort finishes with Harry's knee, but he doesn't stand up
and close the conversation. He remains.

"Regret is…" Harry pauses, swallowing thickly as a wave of regret hits him at the mere thought of
it—a feeling that always simmers beneath the surface. He knows it intimately. "It's looking back on
something you've done, or something you didn't do, and wishing that you'd done differently."
"I have experienced this feeling through your nightmares. It haunts you." Voldemort stares at him,
just stares, then he sneers faintly. "I do not feel it as you would. My choices and actions are my
own, and to regret them would do little good."

Harry swallows. "But?" he prompts.

"Do you believe I have more to say?"

"I know you do."

Voldemort is silent for a long beat, just crouching there, his eyes red and his nose gone and
something about him seeming...lost. For a man with the power to start a war, he looks—at this very
moment—as if he's facing something he never has. Change, possibly, if Harry dares to hope for
that.

"I do not regret as you do," Voldemort says again, quiet and serious. "However, I think there is
something to be said about my wish to absolve you of any pain—past or present or future. I am in
large part the reason behind some of your greatest agony, and if my present wish is to erase it, that
must mean I have the desire to go back and undo it. That is what you consider regret, is it not?"

Sometimes, Harry thinks about the way Voldemort thinks. How his mind works. Methodical and
rational, unless it applies to his rage, and then it's cruel instinct. But there is a quiet process to how
he approaches other matters, like caring about Harry. It's almost cold and distant, but there's an
undercurrent of innocence beneath it, as if Voldemort can only think logically because he knows
no other way, because he's never had to think about things like that before.

Only Harry would think to look for the inexperience underneath and see it as something tender
rather than sad, like a newborn Thestral stumbling to stand for the very first time, just learning to
walk. There's a faint glimmer of hope in the thought, and Harry wants to entertain it so badly that it
hurts, but it's too late. There's no time.

It's not enough.

"You're not a bad guardian, you know," Harry whispers, because it is the kindest thing he can say
in that moment. You're just bad when it comes to everything else, he thinks, devastated by the
truth.
Voldemort hums and stands up swiftly, looking down at him. "You're not as much of a troubled
child as you think you are."

"Well just have to agree to disagree."

"So we will."

"Right." Harry clears his throat and reaches down to tap his knee. "Thanks for that."

"Again, you are lucky that was all the injury you obtained," Voldemort murmurs. He glances down
at the drawer, eyes narrowing. "I will give you access, but you must promise not to touch them
unless I am here to supervise. The moment you do, I will move them and you will never see them
again."

Harry snorts. "Alright, relax. I'm not that interested in them. I'm mostly doing it for your benefit—
and Nagini's, honestly. I still miss her, sometimes."

"What do you hope to achieve in her absence?"

"Do you remember that sound I told you about hearing whenever she and I touched?"

"I do."

"They sort of have sounds, too, but they're not nearly as pleasant. I'm hoping, with time, they'll
sound like she did. It relaxed me."

"I see," Voldemort muses, seeming to consider this seriously, believing it to be true.

It isn't.

"You don't mind, right?" Harry asks, feeling hollowed out and horrible, staring up at Voldemort
like he's not being manipulative.
Voldemort, the man who falls for no tricks, the man who cares for no one, has made the mistake
of doing both in relation to Harry. He tips his head, eyes gleaming without an ounce of suspicion,
and he very calmly says, "I do not."

"Harry, you're not focusing, darling."

Grimacing, Harry drops his wand and pokes miserably at the misshapen form of glass on the table.
It's somewhere between a dinner plate and a mirror, and he's not sure how to get it where it should
be or revert it back to its original state.

"Sorry, Mrs. Malfoy," Harry mumbles, sighing as he ruffles his hair in frustration. "You're so good
at Transfiguration. How did you learn?"

"Through practice," Mrs. Malfoy says pointedly, but her lips curl up as she joins him on sitting on
the couch. Her dinner plate is a perfect mirror, of course, because it would be. "It helped that I had
reason to be good at it."

Harry blinks at her. "What reason?"

"Well…" Mrs. Malfoy's hands flutter for a moment, and she considers him almost nervously. He's
wary instantly, but she straightens her posture even more and takes a deep breath. "There were
times when my skills could be applied to help the Dark Lord, so I worked to ensure they would be
worthy."

"You...got better for Voldemort," Harry says slowly.

"Yes," Mrs. Malfoy murmurs, glancing towards the doorway. Her voice lowers. "I made myself
useful."

"Because you wanted to be sure he wouldn't kill you or harm you," Harry murmurs.
Mrs. Malfoy, surprisingly, swallows thickly and shakes her head. "No, Harry. I did it because I—I
wanted to please him. No matter my skills, if the Dark Lord deems it, I will be killed or harmed. I
did not get better with survival in mind."

"You—you wanted to please him," Harry echoes incredulously, eyes widening.

"I did," Mrs. Malfoy confirms softly, holding his gaze, her own sad and serious.

"Why?" Harry whispers.

"Harry," Mrs. Malfoy says gently, "you must not forget my place in all of this. You believe Lucius
is not innocent, and he is not. In the same regard, you should consider my guilt as well. There are
things that I have been given by the Dark Lord, things that once ensured my following. I may not
be marked as a Death Eater, but I have stood—as Lucius does—with the Dark Lord."

Harry sags back into the couch, staring at her. "What did he give you?"

"My child, even before I had him. Lucius and I tried for a number of years before I was lucky with
Draco, but in the time that led up to that pregnancy, I lost three children," Mrs. Malfoy informs
him.

"Oh," Harry whispers, his heart clenching in his chest. He doesn't decide to reach out and grab
Mrs. Malfoy's hand, but it happens anyway. "You don't have to tell me about—"

"I am making a very important point, and you would do well to listen," Mrs. Malfoy says sharply,
her only sign that this is a point of pain for her being the way she grips Harry's hand in return. "The
Dark Lord saw our plight for a child, and he—he chose to sit down with Severus. At that time,
Severus was young, but he was no less brilliant. Together, they created a potion that would help. It
was a potion that I took at great risk to my own health that very nearly killed me, but it did work. I
am aware that the Dark Lord cared very little about my wish to be a mother. He spoke of the
respect in Purebloods having heirs, and how the Malfoys should as well, but I knew—even then, as
much as now—that he did it to coax further servitude from us, either from debt or devotion. That
does not mean, Harry, that I am not thankful anyway, even to this day."

Harry is silent for a long time.

He's not really sure what to say, what he can say. He understands, oddly enough. He probably
wouldn't if he didn't know Mrs. Malfoy the way he does now, if he didn't love her. He knows how
much she loves Draco, what lengths she would go for him.

The fact that Voldemort is responsible for Draco's mere existence is something that Harry's never
really considered before. Why would he? It's not like it's something Voldemort would do, for it
seems endlessly kind. But Voldemort did not do it out of kindness, and Harry knows it just as Mrs.
Malfoy does. Voldemort did it to—just as she said—give them further reason to remain loyal to
him, and it very likely worked through the years.

Draco's only about a month and a few weeks older than Harry. Voldemort would have been in the
midst of the first war, seeking the utmost devotion from his followers, demanding riskier and
riskier things from them. When things got too hard, torture and fear would not make them stay. It
was the things such as this, giving them their deepest desires.

Every breath Draco takes and has ever taken, Voldemort is—in a rather obscure way—partially
responsible, as is Snape. Harry supposes he could be thankful for that as well, but he knows he
won't be. The intentions behind it smears the point.

But that doesn't matter to Mrs. Malfoy, and possibly even Lucius. Mrs. Malfoy certainly loves her
son more than anything, and no matter why or how that gift was delivered to her, she's always
going to be thankful for it. Harry understands that, just as he slowly comes to grasp the fact that
Mrs. Malfoy has likely served Voldemort in ways he's never considered, ways that don't change
anything.

She is not innocent, no, but he never thought she was. The way she's looking at him now, hesitant
and worried, makes it clear that she believes he's come to see her in a certain way. It makes him
smile, just a bit, because she's very wrong.

"Mrs. Malfoy," Harry says, just as gentle, "if you think I'm not aware of what you may have done
in the past, you couldn't be more wrong. There's the possibility that you've killed people, and I
have considered it. That doesn't mean the way I have treated you is based on lies or secrets,
because it's not. I care for you—not because of my ignorance to what you may or may not have
done, but in spite of the knowledge of it. Telling me this now will not change that, and in fact, it
makes me adore you a bit more. I understand why now, you know. The fact that you're trying to
remind me of your fault will only make me want to help you seek and earn forgiveness. Ask Draco.
It's sort of what I do."

Mrs. Malfoy blinks at him, and there's suddenly a tinge of red rimming her eyes. He barely has a
second to realize what it means before there are tears forming and falling, all at once, swift.
It is the first time she actually cries in front of him, and he absolutely has no idea what to do.

Helplessly, he pats her hand and shifts closer, trying to be comforting and likely only succeeding in
being an awkward mess. She cries silently, beautifully, without ever looking away from him. No
one should be so pretty and elegant when they are crying, but of course she is. She's never been
anything else.

"Harry," Mrs. Malfoy whispers, her voice small, almost childlike. In a strange juxtapose to the
moment, it reminds him of Bellatrix's baby voice, calling to the fact that they're sisters, only this
voice is sincere and heartbreaking. "Harry, you silly boy. You silly, lovely boy."

"I'm sorry?" Harry says, and it comes out a question, hesitant and unsure. Apologetic. He doesn't
mean to make her cry, he really doesn't.

Mrs. Malfoy leans in, reaching out with both hands to hold his shoulders and tug him into a hug.
She's always so composed, so it's startling to hear her sniffling in his ear. What she says next,
however, shocks him to his core.

"One day, a time will come," Mrs. Malfoy breathes out, "and when it does, know that you have
what the Dark Lord once earned. You need only ask, Harry, and just as for Draco, I would do
anything."

Harry's heart pounds loud and heavy in his chest, echoing in his ears. His eyes are wide, lips
parting. He's hugging her back on instinct alone, but he's frozen in place by her words.

How does she know?

Does she know, or is she guessing? She's all but declaring her loyalty to him when the person who
will kill her for such a thing is in her home right this very second. It is bold, and it is brave, and it is
dangerous. It is also, undeniably, honest.

"Why?" Harry chokes out, because he has no idea what else he can say.

Mrs. Malfoy pulls back just a bit, looking at him, and she's grave as she whispers, "Because
everything you have given is out of love, especially for my son. You've earned it."

"I—I—" Harry stares at her, stunned, a bit shaken by the moment. He never expected this. He
doesn't know what to do with it. In the end, though, all he can say is, "Thank you, Mrs. Malfoy."

"For what?" Mrs. Malfoy murmurs, snapping up straight and wiping away her tears like they never
existed in the first place. She looks at him in genuine confusion, as if this conversation has never
happened, but there is a weight to her gaze, a pointed look that tells him she's very skilled in
keeping secrets. She's all but demanding that he confirms nothing, so he doesn't try and fight her on
it. Slytherins—they are all the same.

Harry bites back a smile and says, "No idea."

It's all because he's practising transfiguration late in the evening the next day, determined still to
get that plate into a mirror, failing each time. Later, he will be endlessly grateful at his own
inadequacy. In the moment, however, he's utterly furious by it, and Mrs. Malfoy is pretending not
to be amused.

An envelope abruptly sails through the fireplace, hovering in the air like Howlers do, and Harry
tenses immediately. He remembers very quickly, however, that the Malfoys have wards to keep
people from finding him, meaning the envelope can't be for him. And it isn't. Besides, only certain
people can send things through those wards anyway, so he relaxes and shares a perplexed look with
Mrs. Malfoy as the envelope forms into a strange paper-face that's not very appealing to look at.

A moment later, Snape's drawl sounds through to say, "Narcissa, open the floo connection at once.
It is very urgent that I speak with you."

The envelope puffs into smoke immediately after, disappearing before their very eyes, and Harry
raises his eyebrows. Mrs. Malfoy frowns, but after a beat, she stands to move to the fireplace. She
does as requested, and it's only moments later that Snape is stepping through with his robes
swirling.

"What is it, Severus?" Mrs. Malfoy asks, cool and clipped. "It is late."

Snape opens his mouth, then makes the mistake of looking at Harry, only to quickly look away.
"We should speak alone."

It's been a while since Harry's flexed his position on anyone, but he's not above it. After all,
Voldemort is likely still in his study, meditating.

"Absolutely not," Harry says, careless to the way Snape sneers at him in open distaste for such
arrogance. The man will believe him to be no matter what he does, so he might as well give him
reason, he supposes. "I'm sure Mrs. Malfoy won't mind me joining the conversation, would she?
We could even get your Lord involved, if you like."

"It is urgent and a matter involving Lucius and Narcissa only," Snape says sharply.

"Lucius is away on business, Severus, you know that," Mrs. Malfoy murmurs.

Harry's heart drops. "Lucius and Mrs. Malfoy only, you said? Draco. It's Draco, isn't it?"

Snape is audibly gritting his teeth to try and hold back the answer that magic is trying to pry from
his throat. Harry feels his palms immediately begin to sweat, concern creeping through him like
pricks of panic all over his skin.

"Severus?" Mrs. Malfoy asks, wary now and tense, staring at him seriously.

"What's happened?" Harry demands. "Was it another fight? It must be bad if you've come for a
visit. Is he—"

He can't say much else, because his heart has lodged in his throat, and his train of thought skitters
off the rails when Snape actually softens as he turns his gaze to Narcissa. Oh, it is bad. It must be.

"There was an altercation between another student and Draco," Snape murmurs, avoiding looking
at Harry at all. "He was...badly injured and resides in the Hospital Wing now. You may wish to see
him, and the Headmaster has demanded Draco's Head of House notify his parents."

Harry's knees almost buckle. "Badly injured? How badly? What happened to him?"
"Yes, badly. Very badly," Snape grits out, glaring at him as his honesty comes out harsh and
unrelenting, magically induced. "An altercation happened."

"Take me to him, now," Mrs. Malfoy demands.

Snape nods sharply. "Come," he says and swiftly turns to the fireplace. "Not you, Potter."

"You're joking," Harry snarls, following without another thought, tumbling into the swirl of flames
after them with little care to his well-being.

When he falls out, Snape and Mrs. Malfoy are already sweeping to the door of the office they've
found themselves in, and Harry scrambles to his feet to follow. Snape actually hisses at him in
disdain, but he leads Mrs. Malfoy out into the hall anyway. Harry rushes to join her.

"Potter, you shouldn't be here," Snape growls.

Harry doesn't actually listen, nor does he have any plans to. He's moving as quickly up the halls as
Mrs. Malfoy is, both of them overtaking Snape's steps. He probably thinks himself above such
things as running, even in situations as serious as this. It makes Harry wonder if Snape ran when he
found out Lily was going to die, and the thought makes him sick to his stomach.

"Severus," Mrs. Malfoy says tightly, "with all due respect—"

"He hasn't earned any," Harry bites out, the words snarling and accusatory. "How could you let this
happen? You're meant to be his Head of House!"

"Potter," Snape hisses.

Harry whirls around on him to jab a finger at him, making Snape come to an abrupt halt to avoid
being poked. "No, shut up! Don't say another word to me, not right now."

Mrs. Malfoy hasn't stopped for even a second, so Harry whips around and runs to catch up with
her, his heart beating erratically in his chest. It's late at night, and the halls echo ominously. Ghosts
and portraits watch them go by, whispering among themselves—Harry hears his name a few times,
but he can't be bothered to care. It's Hogwarts; he won't be surprised if everyone's heard of his
presence already, even with him being here for a mere few minutes.

Under different circumstances, Harry would be incredibly nervous being back in this Castle,
walking in the walls he's always felt was home. It still feels that way, even now. He can navigate it
the same way he can the Manor, already knowing which corners to take and what's around them,
recognizing everywhere he goes with a familiarity that would likely make him smile if he didn't
feel like he was about to implode with concern.

It's rather quickly that they reach the Hospital Wing, and the both of them are ever so slightly out
of breath. Mrs. Malfoy falters at the doors, her hands fluttering madly in a way they never have
before, and Harry wants to be sympathetic, but he can't wait. He doesn't have a moment to spare,
not when he knows Draco is hurt on the other side of those doors. He keeps right on going.

The doors burst open with a bang, and Harry's met with immediate activity. The room is lit up as it
always is, and it makes it much easier to see the rather large group of people standing in a circle
around what can only be a bed. The people in question are a mixture of students and two adults,
and they all come to a screeching halt the moment that Harry barges his way in.

"Oh, bugger," Ron says.

"What happened?" Harry demands, marching forward without a second glance to anyone.

He doesn't care that Dumbledore is staring at him in a vaguely startled way, or that Madame
Pomfrey looks like she might faint, or even that Blaise and Pansy are standing beside Hermione
and Ron like they've never once had fights before. Nothing else matters besides that one person
Harry just knows is laying on the bed they're all blocking.

"Harry," Hermione murmurs hesitantly, shifting a bit, her face screwed up, pained.

Harry's heart positively drops. "Is he—he's alright, isn't he? Hermione, is he alright?"

No one says anything. Mrs. Malfoy makes a small sound in the back of her throat and pushes
forward, brave enough to go first this time. Blaise and Ron break apart to let her through, and
Harry sees the first glimpse of Draco on the bed.
His whole body goes numb.

Draco's face is paler than it ever has been before, so pale that he could be likened to a ghost. His
shirt has been cut away, opened wide and littered with bloodstains, big red blots that don't seem
real as Harry takes them in. His chest is bandaged from the bottom of his throat to the top of his
trousers, what had to have been white bandages now completely red. There's so much blood.

"Draco," Mrs. Malfoy whispers, sounding gutted as she kneels down beside the bed, careless to her
image or the state of her dress. With trembling fingers, she gently takes one of his limp hands in
both of her own. "Oh, Draco, how did this happen to you, darling? You've been so careless."

Harry's chest feels entirely too tight. He feels like all the blood in his body is rushing to his head,
making it pound, roaring in his ears. In such a short amount of time, he's started to feel weak, as in
physically so. His knees almost buckle when he takes his first step forward, and that's when he
realizes he's been holding his breath since he laid eyes on Draco.

People are watching him, he knows that. Namely Dumbledore, one of the only ones in the room
who has no idea where Harry has been, what he's been doing, and who he's been with. He must
have so many questions, but he does not voice them. He simply watches, and Harry barely notices.

With tremendous effort, Harry eventually manages to stumble to the side of the bed, standing
beside Mrs. Malfoy's kneeling form. As soon as he makes it, he can't ever imagine not being here.
He should always be here. By Draco's side.

Harry stares down at Draco. He looks so small. He's pale and overly still, as if he's lost too much
blood and may never move again. It's a possibility, but one Harry can't quite make sense of.

"Mrs. Malfoy," Madame Pomfrey murmurs, suddenly all business again like Harry Potter bursting
into her Hospital Wing won't even keep her from doing her job. "You needn't worry too much for
your son, I assure you. He lost quite a bit of blood, and there will be scarring, but he will wake
under perfect health. He's been given a Blood Replenishing Potion, as well as something to help
him sleep. He should be awake and mobile very soon, fully healed."

"I see," Mrs. Malfoy says, frigidly polite, cordial and distant—all Malfoy at the moment. "Thank
you."
Harry reaches up and out, leaning forward a bit to brush a strand of Draco's hair off his forehead.
He feels warm, almost feverish, even if he looks carved from ice. Without even meaning to, Harry
smooths his thumb down Draco's cheek, a tender gesture. If Mrs. Malfoy weren't in the way, he's
sure he'd lean down to follow his finger with his lips.

Someone from behind him makes a small sound, sweet and sad. Must be Hermione. Harry almost
wants to reassure her, but he can't tear his gaze away from Draco. Knowing that he'll be alright
doesn't make any of this easier. It only soothes him a bit.

"The scar will be on his chest?" Mrs. Malfoy asks after a long, long silence.

Madame Pomfrey clears her throat. "Unfortunately, yes. It—it reads as a Curse scar, though it has
no effects, but it can't be healed. I'm sorry."

"What Spell did this to him?" Harry asks, picking his head up and addressing Snape, the only one
guaranteed to have to tell the truth.

Snape answers immediately, coolly, his voice its usual drawl. "Sectumsempra."

"I've never heard of it," Harry admits, still staring right at Snape. "What is it?"

"A very dark curse that causes a cut that will never heal, leaving the victim to perpetually bleed
until death," Snape informs him.

Harry jerks like he's been slapped, stomach twisting and knotting up. He grabs Draco's other limp
hand, needing something to hold onto. "If that's the case, how was it stopped, then?"

"I knew the counter-Spell and acted very quickly with the Essence of Dittany."

"And who did this to him?"

Snape opens his mouth, then snaps it shut, face smoothing out and going impassive in mere
seconds. Mrs. Malfoy slowly lifts her head, looking right at him, waiting. Everyone in the room
seems to be holding their breath, and Harry's gaze bores unflinchingly into Snape's. He will have
his answer. Snape can't resist the magic forever.

"Harry!" Hermione bursts out, skittering forward to step in front of him, making his gaze break
away from Snape. "Don't worry about that now, alright?"

When Harry tries to glance back past Hermione, all he can see is Snape quietly murmuring into his
sleeve. Harry starts to pull away, to advance on the man and demand information, but Hermione
reaches out to grab his arm, distracting him.

"She's right, mate," Ron says quietly, sharing a quick look with Blaise. "Just—just be here with
Malfoy now, yeah? No need to get worked up about it. You know the prat is too spiteful to die. It's
a pity, really, because the world might be better off—"

"Ronald Weasley!" Hermione screeches, doing a fair impression of Ron's mum, swirling around
with such a livid look that even Blaise takes a solid step back. Ron, for his part, actually flinches.

"Ha! Er, just a joke, just a—I would never mean that, not really," Ron sputters, turning red as Mrs.
Malfoy slowly turns her head to look at him. His ears are practically glowing the longer she looks
at him, and he eventually seems too embarrassed to go on. He swallows and averts his eyes.
"Sorry, er, ma'am. I'm sure that Malfoy—your son—will be just fine, which is brilliant! It is.
Couldn't be, ah, happier about that, really. Just a joke, is all. Sorry about that."

"Weasley," Blaise murmurs, "shut up."

Ron nods gratefully like he's never wanted to do anything more. "Yeah, o'course. Doing that."

"See to it that I'm kept informed," Mrs. Malfoy says softly, sweeping to her feet with grace, tearing
her gaze away from Ron to look right at Dumbledore, staring down the Headmaster without so
much as blinking. "I want updates on any change in his condition and to be informed when he
wakes."

"You'll have both, Narcissa," Dumbledore promises placidly, polite and friendly, his smile soft.

To anyone else, he must look and seem completely unfazed by all of this. But Harry can see the
lack of twinkle in his eyes, the way his gaze flits towards Harry intermittently, curious and
confused, though he'd never show such a thing so blatantly. How can he be anything else, though?
The last time he saw Harry, they were in the Ministry; now, Harry's showing up with Mrs. Malfoy
of all people to rush to Draco's bedside, questioning Snape like he has the right to the answers. He
must feel out of the loop, kept in the dark, and some vindictive part of Harry absolutely relishes in
that.

Mrs. Malfoy does not grant his response with one of her own. She turns to Harry, a strange worry
dancing in her gaze. She lightly touches his wrist, murmuring, "Come. We should—"

"No," Harry says firmly, and Mrs. Malfoy's eyes slowly sink shut like she's just heard terrible
news. He doesn't care. "You're mad if you think I'm leaving. I'm not."

"Harry," Mrs. Malfoy says softly, eyes snapping open, peering at him a bit helplessly, "don't do
anything rash. You mustn't do—"

"Who did this to Draco?" Harry cuts her off, whirling around to pin Snape with a serious look.

"Theodore Nott," Snape rattles off without even seeming to mean to, which becomes blatantly clear
when he pales past his normal shade.

"Severus," Dumbledore says sharply, the firmest he's ever sounded as long as Harry's known him.

Harry nods jerkily. "Theo. Where is he?"

"Waiting in—" Snape cuts himself off, audibly and visibly gritting his teeth.

"Where. Is. He?" Harry snarls, enunciating every word, every syllable, putting as much force and
order as he can into it.

"Harry, stop it!" Hermione bursts out. "Don't do anything. Draco wouldn't want—"

"Draco's unable to tell me what he would or wouldn't want, isn't he?" Harry snaps, throwing her a
warning look. "Isn't he, Hermione?!"
"Oi!" Ron protests, clearly not at all appreciating the way Harry's speaking to her. Unfortunately,
Harry doesn't give a shite about that right now.

"Nott is his friend!" Hermione insists.

"Doesn't bloody well look like it!" Harry shouts back, gesturing emphatically towards Draco's
prone form. He focuses back on Snape. "Where is he?!"

Snape glares at him, glares and glares and glares, until, "He should still be waiting at the scene of
the incident. Waiting for me."

"Where did the incident happen, sir?" Harry grits out, beyond frustrated now. "Stop talking in
bloody circles and just answer me!"

"Sixth floor, boy's bathroom," Snape hisses.

Harry's moving the moment the words leave his mouth, and multiple people lunge for him at once.
He has his wand out in seconds, heart beating a steady tempo in his chest, fast and loud. Mrs.
Malfoy's hands on his arm are as cold as Draco's usually are. It makes his chest ache.

"Move!" Harry bellows, shoving his wand in Blaise's face without a care in the world.

At the movement, Blaise and Pansy immediately fall back, flinching away in genuine fear. Mrs.
Malfoy hesitates, but when Harry turns his wand towards her as well, she takes a solid step back
and stares at him with wide eyes. Only Hermione and Ron remain in front of him, holding him
back.

"Think about this mate," Ron says urgently, gripping him by his shoulders. "Malfoy would have
your head if you went for his friend, wouldn't he? Just—bloody hell, just stop for a sodding
minute!"

"Geroff!" Harry sputters, shoving at him without stopping at all. "Ron, move."

"What will you do, Harry?!" Hermione demands, tugging furiously on his arm. "Draco won't like
it, whatever you're planning. Leave it be! Nott will be punished, you know he will."

"Harry," comes Dumbledore's quiet voice, and that's about all Harry can take at the moment.

"I said get off!" Harry explodes, swinging his hand in a wide arc, bringing his wand slashing
down.

Ron and Hermione go stumbling back immediately, nearly falling over each other, simultaneously
gasping as if they've been punched in the chest. Later, Harry will regret that very much. Now? He
can't be arsed. He marches forward without a second look back, his whole body itching with rage
that demands to be unleashed on one person in particular. For once, it's an urge he wholeheartedly
agrees with, and it does not scare him.

Still calm, always so calm, Dumbledore calls out to him again. "Harry."

"Do not!" Harry shouts, whirling around to stare at Dumbledore, his expression fierce and his eyes
snapping. There's a lot that Harry feels for the man, things that he wants to say, but this is more
important. "Just don't."

"I cannot allow you to harm a student within my school, Harry," Dumbledore tells him.

"Try and stop me," Harry declares, brazen and furious, untamed like the force of a storm.

Carelessly, he turns back around and starts for the doors again. His magic is crackling within him,
around him, just like it does when he's aching to use the Killing Curse. That urge has been dormant
for some time, and he's forgotten how heady it can be. Addictive, alluring. He won't, though. He
won't.

He's angry enough to, but he won't.

Perhaps there's some sound, or maybe Harry's just lucky, but there seems to be a fizzle in the air,
like the static from a telly. On pure reflex, he pivots and puts up a Shielding Charm, his heart
racing in his chest as he watches sparks dance off of it. He exhales heavily, unable to grasp the
audacity happening at the moment.
It's Dumbledore. It can only be Dumbledore, and there's no sodding way this man is trying to duel
with him! There can't be. Except, well, what else can it be? Dumbledore doesn't look particularly
happy about it either, seemingly perturbed and bemused, but he stands his ground. Whatever else
about him, he does uphold his vow to protect the students within his school, and Harry usually
respects that.

Just, now, bizarrely, it's Harry that Dumbledore needs to protect one of them from.

Harry breathes out a soft laugh of pure shock, simply stunned for a split second. Dumbledore has
never, not once, turned his wand on Harry, not even to subdue him. He's not even really attacking
him now, from what Harry can tell, just trying to incapacitate him. If Harry weren't so angry, so
driven, and Dumbledore wasn't clearly weak from his Cursed hand, this wouldn't even be a serious
moment. As it stands, Harry's not stopping, so it seems they'll find out who has the strongest will
out of the two of them. Right now, Harry is more than willing to bet on himself.

"I can't allow you to harm anyone, Harry," Dumbledore says softly. "Please, return to us and let us
give you a Calming Draught."

"No," Harry replies defiantly.

He swivels back around and makes for the doors again, this time on high alert. He gets a bit further
before, once again, there's a Spell aimed at his back. Harry wonders what it is, but he doesn't linger
on the thought. He simply shields against it again, whipping around with a scowl.

"Harry," Dumbledore murmurs, so gentle, so sad.

This time, Harry says nothing and gives no warning. He just flicks his wand in a quick little move,
watching with vague satisfaction as Dumbledore's wand goes plucking from his fingers. It sails
through the air, clattering to the floor in the sudden silence that feels as vast and heavy as the
ocean.

Dumbledore does not look alarmed, or betrayed, or even appalled as others in the room do. That's
just as well. Harry doesn't think he'd care if Dumbledore did, not right now. Instead, for the first
time, Harry can't glean absolutely anything from Dumbledore's expression outside of a nearly
ominous calm. It's not dangerous, but it is unsettling that nothing ever seems to break through his
relaxed demeanor.
Harry stares at him for a beat, then turns around and bolts for the doors, not above running. When
he slides out of them, nearly falling on his arse, he turns back to wave his wand, making the doors
shut with an abrupt slam. He puts as much anger behind the motion, willing the doors to stay shut,
using Draco's method on his own door back at the Manor. He can only hope it works.

With that, Harry turns around and runs at full-speed for the sixth floor, one destination on his
mind.

Theo Nott looks like shite.

Harry hasn't seen him since October, and he'd looked off then, but he's infinitely worse now. He's
thin, too thin, his cheekbones sticking out like they're trying to cut through the air. His robes hang
off his frame, there are dark bruises under his eyes, and his hair is messy and greasy like he's been
furiously running his hands through it. There is still something delicately handsome about him, but
it seems more tragic now with him looking like this.

Harry doesn't actually care. All that he knows is his own rage at seeing Draco on that bed, covered
in blood, now with a scar that he'll never be free from. He's so sodding angry about it, about how it
all happened, because it shouldn't have. It wouldn't have if Harry were here. He's sure it wouldn't.

The moment Theo looks up and sees him, he goes still like a startled animal, eyes widening.
"Potter," he breathes out, like he's seeing a ghost.

Harry raises his wand, and Theo... Well, Theo immediately skitters back and starts running. He
nearly falls all over himself to do so, slipping in the layer of pink water—pink from Draco's blood,
which just makes Harry's boil even more—and then he's ducking behind the stalls, forcing Harry to
give chase. So, that's exactly what he does.

Theo makes a break for it, surprisingly fast, if not a bit clumsy. Harry follows after him, mind
focused on only one thing, and he throws hexes and jinxes without much forethought. Perhaps
Theo is the truly lucky one, because he doesn't get hit once.

"I can find you anywhere, you know!" Harry calls after him with a loud huff, watching in disgust
and anger as Theo careens right out of the bathroom, busting through the door with terror on his
face.
Again, Harry races after him. His trainers clap against the floor, echoing in the halls, and Theo's
own steps are echoed back. He zig-zags, throwing his body from side-to-side to avoid the Spells
Harry throws at him. He's breathing heavily. Harry can hear it, can hear the fear in it.

Horribly, he thrives on the sound.

One of his Spells connects, and Theo cries out as he goes stumbling, but he doesn't allow that to
stop him. He just keeps going, only he's now throwing Spells haphazardly over his shoulder, trying
to force Harry to defend himself. His aim is pretty shite because he's not looking back, but it does
make Harry have to move around a bit and use Shields whenever Theo gets lucky.

Portraits are grumbling and yelling at them, threatening to go get Professors, but they're ignored.
Various statues and armor pieces come alive as they pass, reaching out to try and stop them, and
Harry just knows that this is Dumbledore's doing. Like everything else besides Theo's penance,
none of it really matters.

At first, Harry's not entirely sure where Theo is trying to go, but when they reach the seventh floor,
he knows immediately. He puts on a burst of speed as his suspicions are confirmed, as the Room of
Requirement comes into view, the wall already shifting and forming into a door as Theo sprints
right for it. If he gets in, Harry loses him.

Harry has absolutely no intentions of doing that, so he points his wand at the ceiling above Theo
and barks out, "Defodio!"

It's quick thinking and it works. A quaffle-sized chunk of the stone ceiling carves itself out and
drops down on Theo's shoulder as if designed for that one purpose. He cries out again, stumbling.
It gives Harry the gain he needs.

Theo keeps going, but he's not fast enough to go alone, and they both slam into the Room of
Requirement at the same time, colliding into each other with grunts, landing in a heap on the floor.

"No, no, stop it!" Theo shouts, scrambling backwards and doing his best to get to his feet. He kicks
Harry in the side to do it, but he manages.

Harry swipes at him from his knees, trying to get to his feet, and Theo takes off running again. It's
at this time that Harry realizes what the room looks like. The room before him is a clustered mess
of so many things that they nearly stack to the ceiling. The rows would be easy to disappear into,
so Harry hasn't the faintest where Theo's just gone.

"I will find you, Theo." Harry scowls and pushes to his feet, marching forward into the leaning
towers of various trinkets and broken, useless objects. He can hear Theo gasping deep, heaving
breaths from somewhere, but this place is so expansive and full that Harry can't make out where
the sounds are coming from. "Best not to hide! Why'd you do it? Didn't think you had it in you,
attacking Draco like that. He's done nothing but try and look out for you all year, and you—"

"Shut up! Shut up!" Theo yells from somewhere, his voice hoarse and loud, cracking. "What would
you know of it, Potter? Heard rumors you're the Dark Lord's plaything now. Come to kill me
because I haven't succeeded? I'm doing my fucking best!"

"You worthless, spineless little—" Harry bites off the rest of his insult, grinding his teeth. He
whirls around a stack and goes in a random direction, picking up his pace. "You could have killed
him, you know that? Some friend you are! Why'd you do it?!"

"Fuck off!" Theo bellows, his whole voice shaking with what must be anger. This time, Harry can
hear it, can pinpoint where it's coming from, and he zones in on it as Theo keeps shouting. "It's too
much! It's all too much! How am I meant to—and he wasn't supposed to be there! He—I—"

Harry whirls around another stack, lowering his wand and shouting, "Sectumsempra!"

It hits its intended target. Theo immediately trips and crumbles to the floor, gracelessly sagging
over into the stack he falls into, making various things sail to the floor and on top of him. Things
glitter and clink as he shoves them aside, curling in on himself with a gasp, ducking his head as he
fumbles to cradle his leg. There's a slice in his trousers, opening to show the cut that spans on his
leg, all the way from a bit below his knee to halfway down, not nearly the size of Draco's and
certainly not punishment enough for Harry's tastes.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," Theo chokes out, still making those horrible gasping noises, heaving for breath.
He rocks back and forth and trembles, no doubt so angry that he can't be still. His wand is
discarded behind him from where he dropped it.

Harry crouches down in front of him, glaring at the top of his head, just as angry as Theo must be,
but winning. "Tell me why you did it. What did Draco ever do to you, hmm? He was trying to help
—"
"I can't be helped!" Theo explodes, his head snapping up, chest heaving as he exhales shakily. His
fingers are slick with his own blood and he's not angry. No, he's crying. Sobbing. Broken. "No one
can help me, Potter! He shouldn't have been there, should have backed off like I asked! If he got
involved, he'd only be hurt, and—and then he was! I—I told him to leave, to just go, but he
wouldn't. He wouldn't, and I—" Theo shudders, his whole body wracking with sobs. "I didn't know
the Spell did that. I didn't know, Potter, I didn't—"

Harry feels his anger evaporate, all at once, leaving him absolutely shocked. At the moment, Theo
is bleeding out before him and breaking down, gasping for air like he's never learned to breathe,
crying so hard that his face twists with it. Harry's too stunned to move, trying to process everything
happening around him, happening in front of him.

In the absence of his anger, there is self-disgust and shame. It becomes vividly clear almost
instantly that he chased Theo down like a bully, proceeded to cast a very dark Spell on him as
punishment, and then berated him like he's not a sixteen year old boy under an immense amount of
pressure. He hadn't forgotten that Theo has some sort of task from Voldemort; he just hadn't cared.

Harry thinks he might throw up.

"I—I'm sorry," Harry breathes out, eyes wide. He hesitantly reaches out to touch Theo on the
shoulder, relieved when he doesn't jerk away. "Theo, I didn't—I shouldn't have done that."

Theo shoots a hand out, bloodied fingers sliding across Harry's shirt as he fists it, holding him in
place as he looks up and at Harry, gaze pleading and full of tears. "Let it be. Let me bleed out,
Potter. He'll kill me. He's going to kill me anyway."

"What are you supposed to do?" Harry whispers, covering Theo's fist with his free hand, trying to
steady him. "Theo, what's the task?"

"I can't. I can't, I—" Theo whimpers, his shoulders hiking up around his ears as he breaks down
further and starts crying in earnest. He only manages to choke out, "I don't know how I can do it.
Why me? Why did it have to be me? Snape's promised to help, but my father—fuck, fuck!"

Why me? Why did it have to be me?

Harry comes dangerously close to vomiting all over them both as those punched-out words leave
Theo's mouth. Because I deemed it so, he thinks, guilt and horror swelling in him. He did this. This,
particularly, to Theo—and, in turn, that led to what's happened to Draco. He chose this without a
second thought because he selfishly wanted it to be anyone other than Draco, anyone in the world,
and who better than some random Slytherin boy who he already disliked out of jealousy anyway?

He stood by and let it happen, was thankful for it, and then never worked hard enough to care or
put a stop to it. He didn't interrogate Voldemort as much as he could have, he frequently fought
against Draco trying to help Theo, all because he was jealous, and he didn't feel an ounce of regret
in the slightest.

Harry Potter failed Theodore Nott, and that's something he will never be able to take back.

He's horrified with himself instantly. It rattles him to his core to realize that he's capable of such
selfish, horrible things. He hadn't, not once, felt that he wasn't doing enough, or wasn't doing the
right thing, but he wasn't. There is a broken, bleeding boy in front of him that he's mostly
responsible for ruining, and it had never crossed his mind.

"I'm sorry," Harry whispers again, swallowing thickly as he scoots closer to curl his arm behind
Theo's shoulders. "I'm so sorry. I never realized that I'd—Theo, I'm sorry. I'm going to help you
now, alright? I—I need you to trust me. Let me help you up, yeah? Come on, we have to get you to
Snape."

Harry tugs and Theo sort of tries to rock forward, but that only succeeds in making more objects
rain down on them both.

Abruptly, Theo just shoves Harry's hands away. With a strangely tranquil expression, he looks
Harry dead in his eyes and says, "Leave me."

"I won't," Harry snarls fiercely, which is when something pings off his head. Huffing in frustration,
he grabs whatever it is and goes to push it aside, still insisting, "I won't leave you, Theo. I'm going
to help you, I promise. Just—"

He stops talking when he sees what's in his hand.

In the resounding silence, he can hear it whispering to him. Soft, melodic voices as careful as the
wind, almost harmonizing in their indistinct conversation. His fingers curl around it, around the
crown. Tiara? Diadem? Doesn't matter, because it is beautiful and regal, and it also happens to be
warm to the touch like a real, living thing rather than an object.
Most importantly, the longer Harry holds it, the more it calls out to him. It's soothing his mind,
trying to invade it stealthily, and he wants—

Bizarrely, Harry wants to put it on.

Wait, no. No, he doesn't. It wants him to put it on. It's distracting and solid, calling to him,
whispering things he'll never hear. He knows what this is, and he's so stunned that he can only
blink at it.

Why would Voldemort have a Horcrux here? It's absolutely mad, it is! Isn't it?

Isn't it?

Unless, maybe it isn't mad at all. Harry can actually see it making a lot of sense. He remembers the
way Voldemort spoke of Hogwarts, never saying the Castle felt like a home to him long ago, too,
but Harry could tell—from one orphan to another. If Voldemort were one for sentiment, or even
irony, he would undoubtedly put a Horcrux here. Besides, it would explain the last Horcrux he
couldn't get to.

Harry exhales for a moment, blinking rapidly in disbelief. He has it. He has the thing that—that can
end all of this. It just fell into his hands like fate.

"Leave me," Theo says again.

"No," Harry replies softly, shaking his head. He drops the Horcrux into the discarded case it must
have fallen out of, snapping the lid shut before tucking the case into the deep pocket of his hoodie,
thankful for it now more than ever. "I'm getting you out of here, and I'm going to help you."

Theo peers at his face, pale and tired, cheeks stained with teartracks. "Why?" he whispers.

"Because you need it," Harry tells him, severely honest and endlessly guilt-ridden. "Because this is
all my fault, and I never meant to—I was careless and selfish, and I'm sorry. I am, Theo."
"I don't understand," Theo admits, blinking slowly, and he doesn't, does he? Why would he?

He has no idea that his terrible year is all Harry's fault, that he could have had a relatively normal
one if not for Harry's selfishness. He has no idea that Harry's been aware that he had a task this
whole time, that Harry's not cared enough about him out of jealousy and simple ignorance. He has
absolutely no idea that Harry is the reason he's like he is right now, and Harry has to be brave
enough to tell him.

Theo stares at him and, mystified, like he's just realizing that he's in Harry Potter's arms, he repeats
a baffled, "I don't understand."

Harry swallows and prepares to haul him to his feet, where they will stumble back to the Hospital
Wing, and all he can reply is, "You will."

Getting back to the Hospital Wing takes a while. For one, Theo is limping and bleeding profusely
as they go, dripping a long trail of red behind them. Harry's doing his best, holding him up with
both arms like he's a damsel—distantly, he thinks that Draco would tease him for this, for looking
like a hero, half-carrying a victim to aid. And, in that distance, Harry realizes that he's not the hero;
he's the one who made Theo the victim.

Remorse, as always, hurts very much.

When Theo starts slumping a bit, his weight getting heavier, his steps faltering, Harry panics. He
reaches over and lightly smacks Theo's cheek, making him huff. "Don't pass out on me, Theo. Talk
to me. Just, I don't know, talk about something."

"Anything in particular?" Theo drawls, though it's a bit slurred. Still Slytherin, even now. They
really are a different breed. Harry sort of adores them.

"Whatever you want. Just talk."

"Why are you doing this?"

"Let's not talk about that now. I'll explain, I promise, but it might be best to do once you're healed.
You'll want to hex me."

"Will I? And you're going to let me be healed before I get the urge, Potter?"

Harry sighs. "Yeah, I am. You should get to hex me at full health, I think."

"You want to duel with me?" Theo asks incredulously, his head lulling a bit over on Harry's
shoulder, likely because he can't help it.

"I won't be fighting back," Harry mumbles. He swallows thickly. "Theo, I am sorry about—"

"Shut up about it," Theo snaps. "I did the same to Draco, didn't I? Even worse, in fact. Is he—he's
alright, isn't he?"

"Yeah," Harry admits. "He has a scar, though. You will, too. It can't be healed."

Theo clicks his tongue. "Lovely. Draco won't let me forget that one. Merlin, he's such a prat."

"He is," Harry agrees softly, his tone fond.

"Why did you defend him? Don't you hate him? None of this makes any sense, you know."

"I—er, it's complicated. No use in hiding it now, I don't think. Draco is my boyfriend."

"Your what?!" Theo sputters, nearly falling over and gasping in pain when he accidentally jostles
his leg. For a few moments, he curses Merlin and Morgana and speaks so vulgarly that Harry
actually blinks in surprise, and then he continues on like he hasn't just spoken such...colorful filth.
Even Ron doesn't talk like that, and Harry's certainly never heard a Pureblood do it. In a way, it's
strangely satisfying. Theo doesn't seem to even notice. "You mean to tell me that Draco is dating
Harry Potter? You're having me on. He's with—no. Absolutely not. Are you Arius Fawley? I
should have bloody known."
Harry raises his eyebrows at him as they start down more stairs, straining together as they go.
"You're rather quick, aren't you?"

"The Dark Lord didn't choose me for nothing," Theo says with a derisive snort. "Now, I know why
he didn't choose Draco. You stopped that, didn't you, Potter? That would make sense."

"Wouldn't you rather talk about this when you can hex me, or at least punch me in the face?" Harry
asks warily, clearing his throat.

"As if I'd punch anyone. So savage, so unseemly, so Muggle," Theo mutters with a sneer. After a
beat, he huffs. "You think I'm going to be angry that you got the Dark Lord to give me the task
instead of Draco?"

"Aren't you?"

"Obviously not."

Harry stares at him in astonishment. "Why?"

"Should I wish this on a friend, Potter? Besides, I would have done the same to you—as in, I would
have gladly forced that task on you rather than myself, or even someone I care about," Theo says
plainly. "I wouldn't even feel guilty for it."

"Slytherins," Harry murmurs faintly, shaking his head in disbelief and a strange sense of
understanding. He gets it.

"I'll hate you for it, though, you know," Theo informs him without missing a beat.

Harry nods, his throat tight. "You should."

"You ruined my fucking life, Harry Potter. Draco can't be the one to claim that anymore. Some
hero you are," Theo mutters.
"I know," Harry whispers.

Theo scoffs. "Why is he with you? Merlin knows he's fancied you for years, but why was he
foolish enough to actually pursue it?"

"I don't know," Harry admits, ducking his head as he tugs Theo along. "He deserves better."

"And fuck, you're a murderer to boot. Draco is weak-willed in that area, you know. Not good with
torture—witnessing it or getting it. He was good at hurting people, but not the way the war
demands. He'll be terrible at it, and it'll get him killed."

"Draco doesn't have to do anything. He's—he can stay out of it and be safe."

"That's right," Theo muses. "You're good at giving him that, aren't you? Like he's a doll you want
to put in a case, only meant to look at. Is he a good shag? Is that why you're with him?"

"Don't insult him." Harry fixes him with a serious look, shaking his head. "I love him."

Theo raises his eyebrows, looking cruelly amused as all Slytherins can, even with him being so
pale and weak. "Do you? Now I know why you didn't like me from the start, Potter."

"It's not what you think," Harry starts, because he's very sure that Theo doesn't know.

"So, it's not because I could easily have Draco if I wanted him?" Theo asks, and he grins with all
teeth when Harry comes to a screeching halt. "I really could, you know. I've always been good to
him, and he's always looked at me longer than the rest. I imagine I could have him begging for it if
I—"

"Shut up!" Harry snaps, his temperature rising at the same time that his anger does. He tightens his
grip on Theo and starts dragging him more forcefully, relishing in his pained wince, then hating
himself for doing so. "Are you trying to piss me off? I know you're Draco's friend, alright? I know
you haven't done anything wrong, and I know your life is mucked up because of me, but I promise
you that I won't stand idly by and let you try to chase Draco. His choice, of course, but you'll have
competition."
"You're aware he deserves better, and yet you'll still insist on being with him?" Theo asks with a
grunt.

Harry exhales sharply through his nose. "Yes, because—for some sodding reason—I make him
happy. Because, despite everything, he wants me. Unless that changes, I'll stay with him and fight
for it. You're welcome to try and sway him, but know that I'll never give him a reason to be
unhappy."

It's a very stupid thing to say, considering that he's going to die and Draco will definitely be
unhappy about it, but jealousy fuels him to roar like a lion in any case. All brash Gryffindor—
people really are their houses, and it's ridiculous.

"Mm," Theo hums, all casual-like, then goes on to say, "that's good. You'll do. Just remember,
Potter, if you do make him unhappy, I'll hit you where it hurts. Not really one for blokes, myself,
but I will fuck him if you fuck up. Keep that in mind."

"I—what?" Harry sputters, slowing a bit and relaxing his grip in pure surprise. "Were you just
testing me, Theo? Was that what that was?"

"Of course," Theo says. "Blaise and Pansy haven't? Well, I can understand why they wouldn't. You
are, after all, a murderer. Bit intimidating, I suppose. Just, for me, you're not the worst thing I've
ever faced, so why wouldn't I test you? Draco is our friend. Don't your friends threaten to harm
each other's partners?"

"Er, not—not really." Harry blinks and picks up his pace again. "Did I...pass?"

"You failed correctly."

"Oh…"

"Potter," Theo says, and he sounds very serious all of a sudden, "if—if you can actually help me, I
won't hate you. It'll make up for it."

That's a cry for help if Harry's ever heard one, but in a very Slytherin-fashion. He lightly squeezes
Theo's side, lips curling up. "I was going to help you whether you hated me or not, Theo, but I'll
hold you to that. Oh, and call me Harry."
"Don't get too friendly," Theo murmurs, sighing in obvious exhaustion. "You think you're jealous?
Draco will have both our heads."

"So much for that doll to put up."

"He'd never go for it, you know. He isn't brave, not really, but he likes being capable. For you, I
suspect, he'll let himself be scared."

"Draco's braver than you think," Harry says.

Theo snickers, faint and weak and tired. "No, no, he's just proud. And contrary. I'm sure his father
is close to death whenever you two are together. Draco never really liked his father; loves him, of
course, but that's it. Just like the rest of us."

"Your father was tortured in front of me, once," Harry blurts out. "I—I stopped Voldemort from
continuing. I'm not—I don't know what your father is like, but if things get...complicated, I could
make him stop, couldn't I? Say he owes me a debt. I know how you Purebloods feel about debts. If
you wanted me to, I could make him—"

"Potter," Theo cuts in, sounding haggard, slumping even more now, "my father has made his
choices. He'd kill me as fast as the Dark Lord for failing, you know. Why do you think saving him
would be a kindness to me?"

"Because he's your father," Harry whispers. "It's like with Draco, isn't it? You might not like him,
but you love him. For you, after all I've done, I could be kind in this way. I will, if you want."

"So noble," Theo slurs, snorting weakly. "No, no, don't do that, Potter. Unlike Draco, I can hate my
father and love him at the same time. I've learned how recently. Let him rot, if he's meant to."

Harry swallows. "If you're sure?"

"I'm sure," Theo rasps, the words coming out gutted and aching. Harry's very sure it's not because
of his wounded leg.
And Harry… Merlin help him, he wants to save Theo. He wants to help him the same way he's
helped Draco, as well as saving him from Voldemort. He wants to be his bloody friend, and that's
the strangest thing that's happened to him today.

These Slytherins. These complicated, Pureblood teenagers with Death Eaters for parents and a
childhood filled with spiels of hate. They're like stray cats in alleys who hiss and claw, not knowing
warmth and having no memory of compassion, believing themselves to be tigers, mighty and
capable of surviving alone. They're not. They're as broken as Harry is, and he wants to fix them.

Like fixing them will make all his missing pieces matter less. As if helping those that don't seem
worthy of it makes him kinder, softer, and worthy himself. Even with how horrible they've been,
how horrible they're capable of being, because perhaps if someone can care for them and want to
protect them, maybe someone will feel the same for him.

It would be terrible and deceitful if Harry didn't sincerely feel it, if he weren't wholeheartedly
wishing to help, but he does and he is.

"Alright," Harry says, finally. "Keep talking, Theo. You've gone quiet."

"Mmphmurg," Theo mumbles, head lulling from side-to-side, eyes rolling back.

Then, just like that, Theo goes slack and slumps entirely, fully just dead-weight, and Harry panics.
They're not too far off from the Hospital Wing now, so without thought, Harry reaches down
frantically to scoop Theo up into his arms. Before Theo lost so much weight, this might have been
hard to do. Now? Harry barely has any strain.

Like that, carrying Theo the way someone might carry a bride, Harry rushes as quickly as he can to
the Hospital Wing. He's struggling to hold onto the student who's taller than him, but he somehow
manages. With just a simple, frantic flick of his wand, Harry has the doors opening with a bang.

All movement inside the room comes to a halt. Harry only has a split second to take it in. The
horrified faces of Ron, Hermione, Blaise, and Pansy as they all see him carrying Theo's slumped
body. The fluttering of Mrs. Malfoy's hands. The pause in pacing from Dumbledore as he looks up,
staring right at Harry without a twinkle in his eye. Madame Pomfrey putting her hand to her chest,
looking to Snape, who is already going for his wand.
And then, Draco. Who is awake now. Who is staring at Harry with absolutely no expression.

"He's alive!" Harry blurts out defensively. He practically shoves Theo at Snape as soon as he
sweeps closer. "Just—just bleeding from the leg, is all. He'll be fine."

"I'll see to that," Snape says, words clipped and his wand already working to levitate Theo to a
bed.

Harry shifts nervously behind him. "We were talking just a moment ago. He will be fine, right?"

"How long has he been losing blood?"

"Not too long, I don't think. We—we came from the seventh floor. I've been quick."

"Poppy," Snape barks, "I need—"

"Blood Replenishing Potion, yes, I know," Madame Pomfrey declares, already ushering over to
press a vial into his palm. "Severus, is he—"

"As Potter said," Snape murmurs, closing the cut on Theo's leg with no problem, "he will be fine.
He'll recover even more quickly than Draco has."

"Brilliant," Harry breathes out, shoulders slumping in relief. "Er, how soon? I sort of need to speak
with him about—about something important."

"Half an hour, at most," Snape murmurs.

Harry bobs his head. "Alright. Good. Yeah."

In the aftermath of the frenzy, Harry suddenly doesn't know what to do. He turns around slowly,
not knowing who to face first. There's Dumbledore, who Harry doesn't think he ever wants to face.
There's his friends, who he can only feel guilt now for his earlier actions as he looks at them. But
it's Draco who he's the most wary of approaching, even willing to put Voldemort and Dumbledore
in the same room at once and deal with them rather than meet Draco's wrath head on.

Cautiously, Harry looks at him, immediately wincing when his gaze finds the scar. The bandages
have been removed, but he clearly hasn't been awake long enough to get a new shirt. There's a pale
line straight down his chest, and Harry wants to kiss it in the most tender way because he is a
lovesick fool.

"Potter," Draco snaps, and yeah, Harry's not going to be kissing him anywhere anytime soon.

Harry coughs, shifting a bit restlessly. "In my defense, he bloody scarred you."

"Scars are all the rage these days, all because of you, you absolute idiot," Draco hisses, whipping
off the blanket and slipping from the bed. He swats away Mrs. Malfoy's hands. "Not now,
Mother!"

"Oi, don't be rude to your mum," Harry grumbles, almost as a reflex. "She was very worried for
you, you know. I—I was, too, obviously. You can't really blame me for, er, going after Theo, can
you?"

"Yes, yes, I can. And I do." Draco brushes past his mum, shouldering Ron aside a bit roughly, and
he's absolutely seething by the time he marches up to Harry. He pokes him in the chest, hard. "You
deliberately chased after him with all intentions to hurt him, knowing he's my friend, knowing that I
would not want you to. Not only that, but you're aware of other things as well, and you
purposefully made the decision to harm him when he looks like a stray wind could knock him
over! You're despicable and selfish, and I can very well blame you—as I should, just as an aside—
and you absolutely will be hearing of this until the end of your days!"

Harry sighs, eyes slowly sinking shut. "I know. Draco, I know, alright? I—"

"No, no, none of that," Draco continues, slicing a hand through the air when Harry opens his eyes.
His lips purse in displeasure, and he doesn't seem to be losing steam. "On top of everything else,
you rushed after him to use the same Spell on him that he used on me, and as I understand it, you
were told what it would do. That's attempted murder, Potter, you know that? You could have killed
him, on purpose, when he only used that Spell on accident. You didn't even know my side of the
story. Do you want to hear it now? I'll tell you."

"Draco," Harry says, only to snap his mouth shut when Draco jabs a finger in his face, pointing at
him in threat. He shuts up quickly.

"I followed after Theo when he was distraught, and I pushed him when he was dealing with...an
amass of feelings, and I was the one who goaded him into a duel," Draco snaps. "It was my fault.
He threw the first Curse, yes, but I practically bullied him into it. Now, what would you do if it was
you, Potter?"

"First of all," Harry mutters, "stop calling me that. Second, I wouldn't have given you a bloody
scar!"

"You very well could have, if our lives were a bit different," Draco snarls, reaching out to poke
Harry in the chest again. "Did you forget how easily that could have been me? Who's to say you
wouldn't have? Would that make you a horrible person?"

Harry grimaces. "Alright, alright! Stop it, already. You don't have to tell me, Draco, because I
know. Theo and I have...talked."

"Talked," Draco repeats flatly. "Before or after you tried to murder him?"

"Piss off," Harry growls, smacking Draco's hand from his chest with a scowl. "If I wanted to
murder him, he'd be dead, and you know it. Besides, I've already come to realize my...part in all
this, and how I was wrong. I plan to fix it."

Draco narrows his eyes. "Oh, do you? Another great, heroic plan of yours, I take it?"

"Can you just back off?" Harry asks, heaving a sigh and reaching up to rub at his temple. "I really
was worried about you, you know."

"I don't need you to defend my honor!"

"And I don't need you to have a go at me every time I do something you don't like!"

"You always do something I don't like," Draco declares, sniffing primly and looking away.
Harry scoffs. "Oh, we're back to fighting, are we? Lovely. In that case, why don't we solve this by
—"

"If you even suggest breaking up," Draco hisses, head snapping towards him with frightening
speed, "I will hex your bullocks off, Harry. I'm not joking."

"I'm not scared of you," Harry tells him rather seriously, though his stomach knots at the threat. It's
not a very kind one, after all.

Draco lifts his arm, likely to be dramatic, but his face rapidly pales. He cringes, hissing through his
teeth and reaching out to curl his hand around his chest. "Bloody buggering hell!"

"Are you alright?" Harry barks instantly, surging forward to grab his arms and force him to be still,
worry spiking. "Don't move, you prat!"

"That would be the scar tissue," Madame Pomfrey pipes up faintly from behind them, gently
reminding them that other people exist and are in the room with them. "The twinges will fade
within a few days, Mr. Malfoy, but you shouldn't try to stretch your arms over your head until
then."

"Lovely," Draco drawls, scowling as he drops his arms, glaring down at his chest. He flicks his
gaze to Theo's sprawled body. "I cannot believe that prick gave me a bloody scar. When he wakes
up, I'm going to kill him. You'll hold him down for me, won't you, Harry? His neck is rather long,
isn't it?"

"Sorry, I've already promised to help him," Harry says, lips twitching.

Draco side-eyes him. "Have you? What of your raging jealousy problem?"

"Cured."

"Liar."
"Yeah, alright, but it seems my morals and hero complex outweigh it," Harry admits, reaching out
hesitantly to touch the pads of his fingers to Draco's scar, just in the middle of his chest. "Does it
hurt?"

"It's fine, but don't touch me," Draco says tersely, smacking his fingers away. "You're not
forgiven."

Harry sighs and rolls his eyes. "Fine, whatever, be a prat if you want. Happy to know you're alive
and well. It's not like I was going out of my mind or anything, not at all."

"The medicine you administer doesn't taste so good, does it?" Draco asks sarcastically.

"Prat," Harry mumbles sullenly.

Draco glares at him. "Idiot."

"Did you expect literally anything else?" Harry finally snaps, tossing up his hands. "What did I say,
Draco? I told you not to go provoking anyone!"

"Oh, it's my fault now, is it?" Draco asks, eyes narrowing dangerously.

Harry should backtrack, but he does not. "Yes, you absolute pillock! You just said it was, didn't
you?! You could have died, do you know that? And what would I have done, then?"

Draco leans forward to glare at him from up close, their noses nearly bumping. "Now you know
how I feel. It's not very nice, is it?"

"That's different," Harry croaks immediately.

"Is it?" Draco asks softly, dangerously.

"Did you—" Harry swallows, his heart racing wildly in his chest. "Draco, did you do this on
purpose, just to—to prove a point?"
Draco watches him curiously. "If I did, what would you do?"

"I'd leave you," Harry whispers.

"No, you wouldn't," Draco replies, equally soft, so confident that it hurts. Because he's right.

Harry sort of just...deflates. "Fine. You're right, always, and I'm wrong. I'm sorry."

"Oh, don't do that," Draco mutters, rolling his eyes as he heaves a sigh. "You've gone all kicked-
crup on me, Harry. Obviously, I did not do this to prove a point, because I am not an idiot like you.
But I'm happy you've learned your lesson all the same."

"Just...don't do it again," Harry says. He reaches out again, lightly touching the scar as his throat
works around a swallow. "I am sorry for—for...you know."

"I do know. Stop apologizing for it. There's no point, and we'll just both be upset about it all the
time. I'd rather not." Draco sighs and glances down at where Harry's fingers drift along the scar,
and he looks back up with his eyebrows raised. "What, you don't like it? I rather thought you
would."

"You're beautiful," Harry tells him, like stating fact, and he is. His eyebrows furrow anyway,
completely ignoring what sounds like multiple coughs from the people in the room they're
pretending doesn't actually exist. "Do you really think that, in some other world, I would have done
it?"

Draco gives an unbothered shrug. "Just as likely as it isn't, I presume. Why not? You'd surely hate
me enough, wouldn't you?"

"Yeah," Harry admits somberly.

"It's alright. I'd hate you, too." Draco makes a considering expression. "I still do, sometimes."
"H-Harry?"

The atmosphere in the room changes in a heartbeat, and Harry freezes in pure surprise. Draco's
eyes flash as his head whips to the side, gaze landing on a steadily waking Theo. For a split second,
Harry's utterly fascinated by the way Draco stares at his friend through slitted eyes like he's about
to hex him for simply saying Harry's name.

"Er," Harry says awkwardly, coughing as he turns around cautiously to glance down at Theo, "you
alright there, Theo?"

Theo smiles at him, pretty and soft, which is such a surprise that Harry feels a frisson of alarm jolt
through him. "All thanks to you, Harry," Theo says warmly, reaching out with a hand to brush his
fingers over Harry's arm. "My hero."

Draco's there in a flash, slapping Theo's fingers with a sharp sound that reverberates through the
otherwise silent room. "No," he hisses. "I will carve out your entrails and use them for a noose for
Harry. I know what you're doing, Theo."

"Whatever do you mean, Draco?" Theo asks, blinking innocently, a small frown crossing his face.
"I'm simply thankful that the Chosen One has deemed me worthy to be saved. I can only hope to
show my gratitude in the future."

"Harry, go away, go reunite with your friends or something," Draco practically spits, tone cold and
not at all amused.

Harry awkwardly scratches his eyebrow. "Actually, Draco, I do need to have a word with him.
Preferably in private if...I...could…"

He trails off the moment Draco looks at him with such ferocity that his tongue no longer works. It
should not be as attractive as it is.

"You need to what?" Draco asks icily.

"It can wait," Harry decides, bobbing his head and clearing his throat as he starts backing up.
Draco gives him a fake smile that drips malice, eyes sharp. "Might be best."

Harry flees, because no matter what Draco thinks, he is not actually an idiot. Besides, he does have
friends to reunite with, friends that he should apologize to. He's sheepish before he even fully
makes it over to them, watching Hermione and Ron look at him without a word.

Blaise and Pansy have moved back to stand beside a silent Mrs. Malfoy, and Dumbledore
continues to watch from the sidelines with Snape and Madame Pomfrey. Harry is doing a
spectacular job of pretending like they don't exist.

The moment Harry comes to a halt in front of his best friends, Ron and Hermione reach out to
whack him on one arm each. He takes it with a wince, knowing he deserves it. Somewhere deep
down, it pleases him that they're not frightened of him.

"You deserved that," Ron informs him.

Harry nods. "I know. Sorry."

"If you try that again, I'll have you on your arse, Harry," Hermione says sharply.

Both Ron and Harry jolt in surprise, gaping at her. She's not one for cursing usually, not unless
she's absolutely furious or supremely flustered. She tilts her chin up, eyebrows knitted together, and
Harry knows her well enough to read in her expression that it's the former. She is furious, but it's
clear that Harry's actions from earlier aren't the only reason.

"I'm sorry," Harry whispers, and he knows he's apologizing for something greater.

Looks like Draco did tell Hermione, after all.

Tears flood her eyes, but she looks to the side, blinking them away as she rasps, "I'm glad Theo's
alright. You said you're going to help him?"

"I plan to," Harry admits. He takes a deep breath and throws a cautious glance to Dumbledore,
stomach cramping when those blue eyes readily meet his own. He swallows and looks back to his
friends. "There's something I have to do first."

Ron follows his gaze to Dumbledore, then back. He frowns. "You're not going back, are you?"

"I am," Harry admits. "Just...not for very long."

"Harry," Hermione whispers, her eyes widening when she looks at him, "you're coming home?"

Harry looks down at his trainers. "I'm leaving one home for another. Again."

"But what about the last...you know?" Hermione asks frantically, reaching out to grasp his arm, her
nails digging in. "You said you—"

"I can explain after, but the less anyone knows about it, the better," Harry murmurs. He throws
another glance at Dumbledore, heart growing heavier by the second. "I—I have to talk to him."

"We can go with you," Ron offers awkwardly, lowering his voice. "We know how you feel
about...well, all of it. Especially him."

Hermione nods seriously. "We can."

"Thank you, but I don't—there isn't a lot of time, now that I'm thinking about it," Harry murmurs.
He looks over at Mrs. Malfoy, gesturing her over with his hand.

She moves instantly, regal and perfect as she fits herself into their circle like she has always owned
a spot there. "Yes, Harry?"

"You said, only yesterday, that I need only ask," Harry murmurs, holding her gaze.

"I did," Mrs. Malfoy agrees. "What would you ask of me? I will do it."
"Don't go home," Harry says, heart twisting violently in his chest. Her face twitches for a moment,
and he knows his words hurt her, but he can't take them back. "Leave, and don't come back until
Draco writes to you and says that you can. Try to—to convince Lucius, if you can. Lie to him, if
you have to, or—or bloody kidnap him if you must, but just...just don't go home."

"So soon?" Mrs. Malfoy asks hoarsely, paler than usual, her hands fluttering madly.

Harry can only say, "I'm sorry."

"We will have to run," Mrs. Malfoy tells him, drawing herself up, strong with poise.

"Not if I can help it," Harry murmurs. He flicks his gaze towards Dumbledore yet again, quickly
ripping his eyes away when he sees the man watching him intently. "I'll do my best to ensure that
you're both safe, I promise."

"Nowhere is safe, Harry, not really," Mrs. Malfoy says, her hands still fluttering away.

"Fidelius," Harry tells her, by way of explanation, and he watches some of the strain leave her face.
He nods. "You'll be alright. I swear it."

Mrs. Malfoy glances over his shoulder, her throat working around a swallow. "Draco," she breathes
out, and she says so much in just voicing his name, her concern and desperation for him to be
alright bleeding through with heartbreaking sincerity.

"I won't let anything happen to him," Harry vows, even though this is not a promise he can be sure
to keep. His next words are, however. "I'll die before I let him get hurt, Mrs. Malfoy."

"I know." She reaches out to touch his shoulder, and he thinks she would hug him if they were
alone at the Manor, but she won't now—too much of a Malfoy to ever do so, and he's only more
fond of her for it. "He will always choose you, Harry."

"I'm seeing that," Harry mumbles, lips trembling around a timid smile.

"Of all the things to ask for," Mrs. Malfoy says softly, squeezing his shoulder. "Silly boy."
Harry shrugs helplessly. "What else?"

"I will wait until it is time," Mrs. Malfoy tells him, taking a deep breath and dropping her hand.
She nods politely to Hermione and Ron, distant as always but forever about her manners. Without
another word, she sweeps off back to Blaise and Pansy, her head held high.

"Malfoys," Ron says, as if they're a different species.

"Yeah," Harry agrees fondly.

Hermione is watching him warily. "Harry, you can't possibly mean that—that…"

"I need to talk to Dumbledore," Harry cuts her off. He grimaces apologetically when her eyes water
with unshed tears again. "It's okay, Hermione. There's still so much to do. There's still time."

"You're sixteen," Hermione whimpers, pitiful and absolutely devastated. She reaches up to cover
her eyes, her head ducking.

Ron looks panicked when Harry nudges him, gesturing to Hermione, but he releases a slow breath
and awkwardly pats her shoulder. "It's alright, Hermione. Harry's coming home, isn't he? So...so,
we'll see him before he, er…"

Harry almost facepalms.

"Oh, Harry," Hermione chokes out, breaking down right then and there, curling into Ron as she
sobs. Her head falls onto his shoulder and doesn't move.

Hug her, mate, Harry mouths, giving more motions and pointed looks. Because he's now somehow
the skilled one when it comes to love. Funny, that.

Ron swallows and turns red, but he heeds Harry's advice, hugging Hermione. It seems to soothe
her, because her cries do quiet down, but she practically throws herself at him. Harry watches
fondly for a moment, sure that they'll be alright, and then he leaves them to it.

He makes his way to Draco instead, suddenly desperate for his own love, putting off what he
knows will come after. He spots Draco and Theo talking, no longer looking angry, which is the
perfect time for him to slip in.

"Sorry to interrupt," he says, even though he isn't, "but I need to borrow Draco."

"Take him," Theo says dryly, "please. I've had enough of him."

Draco sends him a scorching glare. "I'll slice open your leg again."

"Don't forget," Harry murmurs, staring at Theo seriously. "I'll need to talk to you eventually."

"Oh, lovely," Theo breathes out, suddenly simpering, fluttering his long eyelashes. "I cannot wait to
have my time accosted by the Harry Potter."

"Where's my wand?" Draco snaps, patting his own pockets a bit furiously.

Harry shakes his head and rolls his eyes, carefully tugging Draco a few beds down, farther away
from everyone. He knows there are people watching them, but he doesn't really care. Things are
about to get extremely tough, and Harry knows it. He just wants one moment of relief first.

Draco either senses something in him, or he's just happy to be tugged away, because he doesn't
complain past his usual huffing. He gives up his search for his wand, simply watching Harry
closely, likely reading every stress line in his face. Before Harry can so much as open his mouth to
utter a word, Draco reaches up to smooth his thumb over the wrinkle between Harry's eyebrows,
making the small tension there relax in a way only he can.

"Don't stretch, remember?" Harry reminds him, easing his hand down.

"What is it?" Draco asks, straight to the point.

Harry swallows. "I—I have to talk to Dumbledore."

"You're not going to try and leave without doing that?" Draco asks, arching an eyebrow.

"You don't understand, Draco." Harry licks his lips and holds his gaze. "I have to talk to him."

Draco's face goes slack with understanding. "Oh. You're not...going home, are you?"

"I do have to go back, but only long enough to—to grab a few things," Harry murmurs. "And
then… Well, I'll be back here."

"For how long?" Draco whispers.

"I don't know," Harry admits. "I suppose that's up to Dumbledore, isn't it? He's the one who will
have to handle the rest after I'm—you know."

"Dead," Draco says, the word flat but not harsh with accusation. Just simple fact.

Harry nods slowly. "Yeah...that."

He's so glad that they're far enough away that no one can hear their low voices, because this is
already a conversation he never wants to have to explain. With how tense things are, Harry
suspects that no one will dare to ask for details.

"Mother," Draco breathes out, his head craning to look at her, panic flashing in his eyes.

"No, no, it's fine," Harry soothes quickly, grabbing Draco's face, cradling his cheeks and forcing
Draco to look at him. "I've already handled it. I'm going to talk to Dumbledore, and she's going to
get your father, and they'll be safe somewhere until it's okay for them to—to come out. You'll be
safe here, just like your friends and my friends will be."

Draco's tension drains, but only by half. He searches Harry's gaze with his own. "You've got it all
figured out, do you? You're ready, then?"
"Not really," Harry says with more honesty than he should. He smiles sadly. "Because of you, no,
not really. But...I have to be, don't I?"

"When I tell you that you don't, you never listen."

"I'm rather stubborn like that, yeah."

"I would have never followed Theo into the loo if I had known it would lead to this," Draco rasps.

Harry sighs softly. "Don't think like that, alright? Whatever happens, it's going to be fine. I've never
been happier, all because of you."

"We've been fighting recently, though."

"Yes, we have, and I love that, too. I love every single second with you, no matter what we're
doing."

"Don't you dare give a speech, Harry."

"Sorry. That's the Gryffindor in me, I think."

"Yes, it is." Draco lets out a slow breath and rocks forward, pressing his forehead to Harry's, caring
none for those who are watching them. His hands ease up Harry's arms, squeezing like he wants to
imprint the feel of them in his memory. "Save your goodbyes for when I'll actually care."

"Will do," Harry murmurs, choking out a soft laugh.

"For now, a snog should suffice," Draco whispers.

Harry hums. "You're so smart, Draco, so smart."

And so, in front of everyone and in their own world, they lean into each other until their lips meet.
It must be strange, Harry thinks distantly. Just earlier, he and Draco were spitting words at each
other like they contained poison, and now they kiss so sweetly. They've been enemies, and now
they are in love, and Harry has seen every facet of Draco, all except the ones he won't be around
for.

It is not so bad, he thinks, to have seen what he has. To have kept what he has. He does not take it
for granted, any of it, because he has experienced so very much with the person he holds close
now. He has hated Draco, and loved him, and there's something about that. Something he can't
quite put his finger on. Something like their worst parts being known and knowing the best as well,
overcoming so much and finding purpose past the forgiveness, reaching the depths of feelings
from both ends of the spectrum, but for one person.

Harry has grown quite a bit with Draco, just as Draco has with him, both in very different ways. For
the better, all the same.

As always, it is Draco who breaks the kiss, pulling away minutely because he probably knows
Harry doesn't have the strength to—he never has the strength to. Their eyes flutter open at the
same time, gazes locking, and Harry doesn't know how to express that Draco owns his heart. He
probably doesn't have to. Anyone with eyes can see.

"Go on, then," Draco murmurs, lips curling up. "Go be the bloody hero that you are."

"I love you," Harry tells him, speaking loudly on purpose, letting anyone who cares to listen hear
it.

Draco leans forward to brush his lips over Harry's cheek, whispering in his ear. "I love you, too.
Just as much," he continues as he pulls away, raising his voice to say, "as I hate you."

Harry laughs, because he is fond, and he is happy, and he is in love. "I know," he says.

"Now, go," Draco urges, pulling back.

So, Harry does, stepping past him to walk on. Hermione is still leaning into Ron, but they're no
longer hugging. They're watching Harry with matching frowns, just as everyone in the room is.
The frown Mrs. Malfoy wears is suspicious, and he refuses to meet her gaze. She is someone he
can't imagine saying goodbye to, and he has no idea why. She would be angry, he's sure, and he's
so very tired of all the anger surrounding this, even his own.

When he approaches, Dumbledore is watching him as seriously as he has this whole time, but there
is something knowing in his gaze. Something that tells Harry all he needs to know about
Dumbledore's understanding of what's going on.

Dumbledore always knows. He always has.

"Sir," Harry says quietly, his words echoing in the room, "I think we should talk in your office."

"Right you are, my boy, right you are," Dumbledore murmurs, uncharacteristically grave.

Harry flicks his gaze to Snape, then back to the Headmaster. "Him, too."

"That might be best," Dumbledore agrees mildly.

"After you," Harry whispers, his voice cracking as he sweeps out a hand.

And, with that, they go.

Being back in Dumbledore's office is...surreal. It hasn't changed at all. There's a bowl of Lemon
Drops on his desk. Fawkes is asleep on his perch, head tucked into his wing. Portraits blink open
their eyes to see who has entered, only to quickly pretend to sleep once more, eager to eavesdrop.

Harry stands behind the chair he's always sat in before, simply looking around for a full minute.

There's a strange sense of deja-vu in this, but not in the way he expects. It comes from the creeping
sense he gets when he's about to have a very deep, very emotional conversation with Voldemort. At
this point, Harry can simply feel them coming on, like he's got a sixth sense for it, and he has the
notion that he's about to experience the same thing with Dumbledore. What a mad, bizarre world it
is.
They're all standing up, and it's awkward. Harry didn't know that Dumbledore could be awkward,
and he isn't sure if the man realizes the tension at all. He looks as pleasant and calm as always, but
he does not take a seat. He simply stands and looks at Harry, waiting. Always waiting.

"I'm going to sit, if that's alright," Harry mumbles warily, clearing his throat.

Dumbledore nods. "Of course, of course."

"Why am I here?" Snape asks coldly.

"Well, you always seemed frustrated when you didn't know what Dumbledore hasn't told you, so I
thought you might want to know now." Harry glances at him as he takes his seat. "That, and...well,
you're the one who's played both sides."

"Am I?" Snape murmurs, sneering.

Harry nods, just once. "You asked, once, where I stood. You're about to find out."

"You've had contact with him," Dumbledore notes, looking at Snape with curious eyes as he
continues to stand. His words are not unkind or accusatory, merely curious. Even relieved.

Snape says nothing, because he can't.

"He can't actually tell you without my permission. Voldemort did some sort of magic," Harry tells
Dumbledore, shrugging slightly.

"Ah." Dumbledore strokes his beard, seemingly thinking hard about this. "Strong magic, I suspect.
I assume it forces Severus to be honest with you as well. He has been quite frequently recently,
seemingly against his will."

Harry clears his throat. "Yeah, that's true as well. Learned quite a bit that way, you know. What
wonders you find when people can't lie."
"Indeed," Dumbledore says softly, his hand falling away from his beard as his gaze latches onto
Harry and softens. "You've grown, Harry. Taller. The differences are stark after you've been
away."

"Are you going to ask me where I've been?"

"Will you tell me?"

"I have to," Harry murmurs.

Dumbledore watches him sadly. "But you do not wish to, do you?"

"Can I ask questions first?" Harry asks weakly, his eyes sinking shut. He feels small, folded into
the guilt that's been overshadowed by anger for so long. He knows the anger will come, and he
almost welcomes it. Anything other than this, other than feeling like a stain under Dumbledore's
gaze.

"You may, Harry," Dumbledore murmurs, gentle and coaxing, calm like a flowing river.

"I need you to be honest with me," Harry pleads, his eyes snapping open. He's far used to honesty,
now, and Dumbledore's lies will cut deep.

Dumbledore looks at him, then quietly says, "I always do my best to be honest with you, Harry."

And, just as Harry expects, the lie cuts deep. It stirs up the anger that has been within him since the
beginning of summer. It burns inside of him, demanding to be let out, and he tries to smother it.

"That's a lie," Harry declares sharply. "Do not lie to me. Not now. We haven't the time for it."

"I see," Dumbledore murmurs. "Go on."

"You know what happened that night when Voldemort tried to kill me, don't you?" Harry asks
quietly, his temper easing at the weight of his own words. He looks into Dumbledore's eyes,
meeting his gaze, not looking away after so long. "You know what happened to—to me."

Dumbledore stares at him. Just...stares at him. The silence stretches on for so long that Harry
doesn't even need him to answer. He can feel the hot burst of rage and disappointment wash
through him, making tears spring to his eyes. He blinks them back, letting out a shuddering breath
and giving a terse nod.

It shouldn't hurt so much to have it confirmed, because Harry has known. He has known this whole
time, and Dumbledore's silence is as loud as any answer he could have given. It practically screams
'Voldemort was right, Voldemort was right, Voldemort was right' in the tension around them, and
Harry wishes Dumbledore could tell him a lie once more and somehow make it the truth.

"Harry, my boy," Dumbledore whispers.

"Don't," Harry croaks, shaking his head. "Just...don't. This means you know what I am."

Dumbledore peers at him over his glasses, looking increasingly grave with each passing second.
He gives a small nod. "For many years, I could only suspect. When Tom returned, I knew I had to
be sure. Your...actions in your Fifth Year solidified the theory, but still, I could not be sure."

"Not until you found one, right?" Harry asks hoarsely. "You destroyed it on the night of my
birthday, but by then, you'd already been Cursed. What was it?"

"A ring. The Gaunt family ring," Dumbledore says quietly, still holding his gaze.

Harry swallows. "How did you destroy it?"

"The Sword of Gryffindor," Dumbledore says.

"Right." Harry blinks really hard again, then nods once more. He squares his shoulders, sitting up
taller. "When you killed Nagini, were you aiming for her or me? Or both?"
Dumbledore takes a step forward. "Harry, you must know that I wish you no harm."

"Don't lie!" Harry explodes, suddenly coming out of his seat as his anger spikes without much
warning. It surprises even him, but he doesn't particularly care. "You don't get to lie to me! All
you've done is lie to me, and I won't have it!"

"You are just a boy," Dumbledore says gently, his eyes so, so sad. "Such a brave boy."

Harry drops back into the seat a bit helplessly, staring at him. "Answer me."

"I was aiming for the snake."

"But you brought the hat before you knew Nagini would be there. You brought the hat to see me."

"I did," Dumbledore admits, remorseful like Voldemort never is, and Harry finds that he doesn't
like this much more.

"You may have aimed for her," Harry rasps, "but you were already planning to aim for me, right?"

Dumbledore is silent for a long time, but he finally murmurs, "I thought it best to be prepared for
any situation. I did not wish to use it."

"I believe you," Harry says, because he does. He looks down at his tangled fingers. "Do you know
that I mourned her? Nagini, I mean."

"I'm sorry for your loss," Dumbledore offers, and he actually sounds it.

Harry hates that, but he just shakes his head and shakes it off. His temper is flaring again, and that's
what pushes him to look up and meet Dumbledore's gaze steadily as he says, "Ask me."

"Harry," Dumbledore says gently.

"Sir," Harry whispers in response. "Ask me. Just do it. Because, really, that's what you were going
to do eventually anyway, right?"

"How does one ask a child to give their life for the destruction of the person who has already
ruined it?" Dumbledore asks, spreading his hands. One is rotted, clearly Cursed. "Tell me how, and
I will ask. Because I don't understand how to do it."

"What?" Snape breathes out.

"See, the thing is," Harry chokes out, "I would have done it. I would have closed my eyes and
thanked you for doing it, had you just told me, had you just asked. Instead, you gave up on me."

And he's trying so very hard not to cry, then. He's struggling with it, choking on the sobs, face
screwing up as he ducks his head. He has a sudden intense desire to be anywhere else, to simply
pop out of existence and get as far away from this moment as he can. Only, he has to face it, for it
has been a long time coming, and he cannot escape it.

"Harry," Dumbledore says, gentle as a breeze, "I never gave up on you."

Lifting his head, Harry stares at him through bleary eyes, weakly mumbling, "You ignored me.
You turned me away when I needed you the most. When I felt Voldemort's grip on me get
stronger, the one person I expected to help me fight it wouldn't even look me in the eye. What else
would you call it?"

It has taken some time for Harry to learn what to say, to figure out how to use his own pain as a
weapon against those who allow themselves to be hurt by it. Saying this makes him feel weak, but
it is worth it for the stricken expression that flashes across Dumbledore's usually delighted
demeanor.

It is worth it to make the man understand, to make him realize just how much Harry needed him at
that time. Fifteen years old and terrified, going through changes that had nothing to do with
puberty, feeling himself slip actively into evil, and he'd believed Dumbledore could save him.
Except Dumbledore didn't even put forth the effort to try.

"I thought, rather foolishly, that I was aiding you in avoiding you," Dumbledore tells him quietly,
unusually subdued. He looks down at his rotted hand, considering it with a faint frown. "I am
aware and have always been aware of Voldemort's hatred for me. I feared that any interaction with
me would only cause you pain and allow his anger to grow fiercer. Even the sight of me seemed
like a risk at the time, and perhaps I did not properly trust in the love you are capable of, as well as
the strength that gives you. Had I known, had I taken more care to try and involve you, perhaps
you would have fought him with my aid. Another way I failed you, it seems."

"I trusted you, completely," Harry whispers, and the admission hurts coming out. It dances in the
air, painful and past-tense, and no one breathes for a split second as they process it.

"I know," Dumbledore replies, finally.

Harry clenches his jaw, biting back endless things he wishes to say, swallowing them all down
because they are pointless now. There's too much to get through. "I'm a murderer now, Professor.
You were there. You saw it."

"Voldemort's grip on you that day was beyond helping," Dumbledore murmurs. "You are not
entirely at fault for killing Bellatrix Lestrange. Your mind was under siege."

"Yes, it was. I didn't stop there, though. I killed Peter Pettigrew as well. Voldemort was not
possessing me when I did. I was just angry, and so I killed him, because I wanted to."

"Do you feel remorse, Harry?"

"Should I?" Harry asks softly, bitterly amused and sharply stung that he's being asked such a
question, a question that Harry asked Voldemort not too long ago. The irony. Always with the
irony.

"Anger, to the mind, is a curse much the same as the one I am enduring," Dumbledore says softly,
lifting his rotting hand. "It will tear at you if you let it, and influence your actions if you do not
control it. Your mind will not be at ease if you do not learn to forgive; not for the other person, but
for yourself."

"I've worked that out for myself, thanks," Harry whispers, guilt swelling in him. He looks at
Dumbledore a little helplessly. "I've already seen what my anger can cause, and believe it or not, I
know what forgiveness can bring."

Dumbledore watches him sadly, still. "You are what I always wished I was. Compassionate
without restraint, unabashed in your will to always try and do the right thing. You are so very
human, Harry, and you represent the best parts of it."

"How can you say that when I've just told you that I'm a murderer twice over?"

"Because I know your heart, and I know your capacity to love. I have no illusions of your
capability to hate alongside it, just as I know your pure desire to do right. I have witnessed it inside
of you for years, and my faith has not wavered. You are no more perfect than I, my boy. I have
made mistakes that haunt me, that always will, just as you have now, it seems."

"Did you spend the rest of your life trying to make up for it?" Harry asks.

"Yes," Dumbledore answers, turning his head to stare at one of the snoozing portraits, looking
troubled. "And I always will, because I never believe that I will achieve such a thing. I have found
that attempting to do better in plight to make up for past mistakes ensures that I always try to do
what is best in the end." He glances at Harry then, sighing and fluttering his hand through the air.
"It does not always mean that I actually do so, sadly. In many ways, I fail. With you, I have failed.
And I will continue, anyway, to try and do better once more."

It is exactly what Harry expects out of a man like him, and it is—painfully—not enough to make
up for anything. Dumbledore can drape himself in the glow of the light, trying forever to drown out
the shadows of his mistakes, but his mistakes have hurt Harry now. He doesn't get to decide if he
can do better past that—only Harry does—and in this moment, Harry can't imagine that he ever
will.

"When I told you I was sorry at the Ministry, I meant it. When I said I was scared, I was honest.
All of this, all of it, isn't something I wanted. I never asked for this," Harry croaks. "I never asked
to be a target, and I never asked to be a martyr. I don't want to be killed, and I don't want to give my
life."

"I know," Dumbledore says simply.

"Tell me I have a choice," Harry demands, holding his gaze, suddenly not at all afraid to. When
Dumbledore says nothing, when his gaze falls like he cannot bear the weight of it any longer,
Harry nods sharply. "Then ask me."

Dumbledore looks up, staring at him, and he breathes out a quiet, "Harry, you brave boy…"
"The things I've done...those actions are my own," Harry says quietly. "I accept them. It's time,
Professor, for you to accept yours."

And it is, because Dumbledore's actions have led him to this point. It's all led up to this moment,
and they're both suspended here, hanging over a freefall that will send them and the whole world
tumbling into whatever comes next. But they must get there, and Harry refuses to be the one who
takes that leap, not when Dumbledore has guided him to the edge. It starts with a question, and
they will both go down together, hurting for the entire plummet, because there is no other way to
get to the bottom.

"What will you have me do?" Dumbledore's voice comes out in a rasp. "I do not think an apology
will suffice. You no longer trust me."

"Can you blame me?" Harry whispers.

Dumbledore sighs. "No, I cannot."

"I want you to ask me," Harry says, his voice shaking, pleading. "Just ask me, please."

"Harry," Dumbledore says again, strained.

"Please, sir," Harry begs, leaning forward as tears gather in his eyes. He needs to know. He needs to
hear it. He needs the question, because it can only be asked by the one man who was always going
to demand it of him anyway. "Just ask."

For a long time, Dumbledore simply looks at him, the words dangling in the air between them. He
need only say them. Harry knows he will, eventually, because he has been in so many ways
otherwise. He wishes desperately that Dumbledore won't.

But Dumbledore will, because he is trying to better, and in his plight to make up for his past
mistakes, he has a chance to save the world. It will only cost him Harry, and how can he be worth
more? It's all Harry has ever wanted, he has come to realize, to be worth more than war and death,
worth more than sacrifice and loss. He is born and raised from it, his own mother and father taken
because of it, and neither Voldemort and Dumbledore will ever choose him.
The boy in him—the young boy from the cupboard who prayed to God and hoped someone would
love him—wants either of them, or both of them, to consider him worth choosing. And they won't.

Dumbledore proves it by looking at Harry right in the eyes, like he doesn't dare shy away from this
moment, as if it is respectable, as if it makes Harry more of a man. But he is a boy, a boy who is
never chosen, and Dumbledore simply doesn't see it. He sees only the bravery in Harry, respecting
him for it, caring for him because of his heroism. If Harry weren't that, if he did not do the things
he did, would Dumbledore hesitate to ask as he does now?

He does not know, and he will never know, and he will have to live with that. Just as he will have
to live with never being enough, with never being chosen.

Because, soft and solemn and steady, Dumbledore holds his gaze and asks, "Harry, will you give
your life so that Voldemort may be vanquished?"

Snape sucks in a sharp breath.

Harry holds his, playing that sentence over and over in his head. It hurts. Oh, how it hurts. He
knew, logically, that this is what it all boiled down to, but to hear it for himself…

He feels like he's going to be sick. He's angry, so angry. At all of it. At everything. At Dumbledore,
at Voldemort, at the unfairness of the situation. Harry wants to get up, find Draco, and fly to
France without looking back. Let Voldemort and Dumbledore have their pissing match in England.

But he won't, because he cares, doesn't he? He's going to care, he's always going to. No matter who
he has killed, he is still the same boy who would die to save the world. It's the biggest conundrum
to ever exist, that someone capable of such horrible things will do the purest act without hesitation.
He doesn't understand it, either.

He knew Dumbledore would say it, but it tears at him regardless. He does not hide how much it
hurts, for there is no point. He was always the boy from the Prophecy, chosen only by fate and
never by those he's come to wish would ignore it. He breathes all of it in, all that pain and anger
and that endless longing for something he will never get to have, and then he breathes out.

Just as he does in all things, now. Just as he has done since the beginning of the summer. Breathe
in, alter, breathe out. Keep breathing, until it is time to stop.
Harry lets out a hollow laugh, not even caring about the tears on his cheeks. He simply looks at
Dumbledore, gives a watery smile, and says, "Yes."

"No," Snape spits with such venom that Harry's actually startled. He stalks forward to stare at
Dumbledore furiously. "Do not tell me that you have been raising him up like a pig for slaughter!"

Snape's always had such a way with words.

Dumbledore peers at him sadly. "Severus, it is not something I revel in. If there was any other
way…"

"There isn't," Harry says softly, and then he cries.

He just cries.

He breaks down and he cries like he used to when things were so overwhelming that he couldn't do
anything else. He's come to associate it with Voldemort's presence, and right now, he wishes that
he was with him instead. At least, then, Harry would know that—underneath it all—Voldemort
cares about him, not for what he's fated to do, but simply because of who he is, even if he's not
aware of that feeling himself. Harry would prefer his brutal honesty, as well as his simple desires.

It hits him what he's going to do next, and he sobs into the freefall. He doubts it is easy to face, so
he doesn't hold it against himself. Anyone would cry, he's sure. He's only sixteen, and he's in love,
and neither of the guardians this life has provided him with will choose him, and it's not fair.

None of this is fair.

So, for a bit, he cries about it, because he's earned that, he thinks. He folds into himself and sobs
into the silence, aware of nothing else as he does so, weeping so hard that his face is hot and his
eyes ache. He cries and cries, right up until he doesn't.

Because, as always, there comes the point when crying solves nothing. There comes the moment
when sobbing can't fix what comes after, and he can only meet it feeling scraped from the inside
out, hollow and light as the air. Purged of emotion from letting it all out in one go. That time comes
at some point later, and he lifts his head, breathing through it, opening his eyes and staring straight
ahead.
"Harry," Dumbledore says, sounding absolutely heartbroken, and he has no right. He doesn't.

Ignoring him, Harry slips his hand into the pocket of his hoodie, easing the case free and leaning
forward to sit it on Dumbledore's desk. He opens it with a deafening click, whispers immediately
filling his empty mind, easily ignored when he feels blank in every other possible way.

"Do you know what that is, sir?" Harry asks, his voice void of emotion, lifeless.

There's a long beat of silence before Dumbledore sweeps forward to peer into the case, staring
down at it. Harry can see his non-existent twinkle spark back to life in his eyes as he looks at
Harry, something like hope flaring behind his glasses.

"Wherever did you find it?" Dumbledore murmurs.

Harry looks down at it. "Room of Requirement. Voldemort probably thought he was being ironic.
In any case, he has two more at ho—" He cuts himself off, swallowing the words. Voice softening
but still rather bland, he amends, "He has two others somewhere else. I'll go retrieve them tonight.
Other than this one and those two, there's only me, and then you're free to kill him."

"I will need time to be healthy enough to face him," Dumbledore admits, glancing down at his
hand. "I refused treatment. Perhaps it was rash of me."

"Don't give up your life so easily, sir," Harry murmurs, looking up at him blankly. "Not everyone
has the luxury of a choice."

"How long will you need?" Snape asks, his words still trembling with fury.

Dumbledore rips his gaze from Harry's with a soft sigh full of regret. "A month, perhaps. In that
time, Voldemort will be weakened by his Horcruxes being destroyed. Not you, Harry. Not
until…"

"Why delay?" Harry asks, flat and toneless.

"Do not give up your life before it is time, my boy," Dumbledore murmurs, repeating his words
back to him, but manipulating them.

He's good at manipulating things.

"When I take them tonight, he will be…" Harry swallows and looks down at his lap. "He's going to
be furious because I'll—I will be betraying him. There's no telling what he will do afterwards."

"How will you get them?" Snape murmurs.

Harry glances at him. "You might help me with my idea. What would Draught of Living Death do
to him, do you think?"

"It won't affect him as it would others," Snape replies immediately, shaking his head. "He will
possibly be stalled for only a few minutes, at most, but he will wake shortly after."

"And if he's injured?"

"It could buy you more time. Very little."

"It will be enough," Harry says softly.

Snape nods, his dark eyes still snapping with burning anger, but he has no right either. It's all for
Lily, not Harry. "Unfortunately, Potter, I do not believe we have Draught of Living Death in stores.
Unless you are willing to wait for it to be brewed…"

"No need," Harry tells him. "I have some. I have lots of things. I'll handle it."

"And what would you have us do?" Dumbledore asks him, watching him intently, curious and
clearly concerned.

Harry gestures lazily to the Horcrux sitting innocuously on the desk. "Destroy it at some point after
I've gone. Give me some—some time to…"
"To gather your things," Snape suggests rather helpfully, as if he's trying to do something right for
a change, because he knows Harry's going to die now.

"To say goodbye," Harry corrects carelessly, looking right at Dumbledore and feeling no shame.

"To...Voldemort," Dumbledore says slowly.

"Yes, to Voldemort," Harry confirms.

Dumbledore looks at him for a long moment, almost hesitant, but he doesn't seem to think he
should voice his concerns. Good. He shouldn't. All he says is, "I was not aware you were close
with him."

"Where do you think I've been all this time, Mr. Dumbledore, Headmaster, sir?" Harry asks, and it
is vindictive and harsh and bitter, and he does not care in the least. Not right now.

Snape, who knows what those words mean, makes a soft sound of acknowledgement—not quite a
laugh, but as close as he can get to one, Harry thinks.

"Harry," Dumbledore says, genuinely concerned now.

"You'll protect the Malfoys," Harry interrupts, pushing to his feet. "Even Lucius. Put them in
Grimmauld Place with Ollivander. Yes, I know about him. Yes, it was me who saved him. Don't
ask. I've been rather busy, as you can imagine, and it's not important. What I ask of you is that you
keep Mrs. Malfoy and Lucius out of this until Voldemort is—until it's over. It's my dying wish, if
that makes you more inclined to do it."

Dumbledore is looking at him with such sadness that it's infuriating, but all he does is dip his head
calmly and say, "Of course."

"I'm coming back to Hogwarts until it's time for me to die, right?" Harry checks, just staring at
Dumbledore without feeling anything at all. "I'll be here until you're ready to face him."
"Yes, Harry, you will," Dumbledore answers. "Whatever help you require in classes—"

"I need none," Harry cuts in yet again. "Voldemort taught me, and I imagine he did quite a good
job of it, in fact. I think I'll manage until I'm dead, sir."

Dumbledore, for once, doesn't seem to know how to respond. His twinkle is long gone once again.
A terrible part of Harry hopes it never comes back, even though softer parts of him has always
loved it. The feelings war within him, and he lets them, too exhausted to actually care.

"You will have to be careful," Snape murmurs.

Harry hums. "I know what I have to do. After all, I'm prophesied to do it, aren't I? You both heard
it first, quite literally, and who are we to question such a thing? I'm sure I'll be fine."

"Harry," Dumbledore says, gentle once more, watching him so carefully, so tenderly, like maybe
he loves him, "when the time comes…"

"I have a way," Harry murmurs, offering him a small, humorless smile. "You won't have my death
on your soul, sir. I know what that's like."

"Oh, but I will, my boy. I will," Dumbledore breathes, crossing his hands over his robes, looking
rather frail and old and lost.

"You can't keep things from me, not this time," Harry warns seriously.

Dumbledore nods. "I assure you, I will not."

"Good." Harry turns to face Snape, taking a deep breath. "Can I use the floo in your office again,
sir? You'll want to wait by it as I come through, so you can close the connection as soon as I
have."

"Very well," Snape murmurs.

Harry glances back at Dumbledore. "When I bring the Horcruxes back, you can't destroy them all
at once. He'll recover too quickly. It has to be paced with your own recovery, or he'll just make
more. I'm not even sure how he does it, but—but it has to be timed right. You know that, don't
you?"

"I know," Dumbledore says. "We've got it from here, Harry. You can… My boy, you can rest
now."

"I can't rest until I'm dead," Harry replies emotionlessly, robotic and wooden. "He made sure of
that, and so did you."

For the first time, Harry gets to see Dumbledore visibly flinch as if he's been wounded, and it hurts
to witness, almost as much as it soothes him. Harry stares at the twist of pain for a moment, and
then he turns to stare at Snape, waiting.

Moments later, they leave the office in silence.

Harry stands outside the Study for a few seconds, taking a deep breath before letting it out. He only
has so much time. He never really realized how much time he's wasted on so many different things
until it's all running out. He wants more time.

He can't have it.

Voldemort is, as always, in the Study. He's sitting behind the desk, reading the book Harry got him
for Christmas. For a beat, Harry stops in the middle of the room and stares at Voldemort. Just looks
at him. He hasn't changed, but Harry has. Harry can look at him without guilt now.

Voldemort doesn't look up as he says, "Do you wish to speak with me?"

"Yes," Harry whispers, shuffling forward to come stand by the edge of the desk, leaning against it.

"Have you and Draco broken up again?" Voldemort asks with a sneer, looking up at Harry with
narrowed eyes. "I can feel your heartache."
Harry gives a sad smile. It's not true, technically, but his death will one day make it so, and it's as
good of an excuse as any. "Yeah, we did. It's over for good this time."

Voldemort pauses, his sneer clearing. He shuts his book and leans back with a sigh. "You may
express your woes if you wish."

"Can we just talk?" Harry asks.

"About?"

"Anything. Take my mind off of it."

"What would you like to discuss?" Voldemort murmurs, watching him intently.

Harry takes a deep breath and it shudders out of him as he shrugs. "Tell me something about you.
Something...nice."

Voldemort arches a naked eyebrow. "Nice?"

"Yeah," Harry says seriously. "Something nice. Light, happy. Anything. There has to be
something."

"Do you wish to be sentimental, Harry?" Voldemort murmurs, his lip curling in open displeasure.

Harry gives a weak laugh. "Yes. Please get as sentimental as you're able. Shock me, Mr.
Voldemort, Dark Lord, sir."

"Very well," Voldemort says slowly, looking vaguely amused, waving a hand. "Have a seat."

"I'm going to stand right here," Harry tells him, patting the side of the desk he's leaning against. "I
don't think you care that I'm closer, do you?"
"I don't." Voldemort flicks his fingers lazily, dismissing the notion immediately. He reaches up to
tap his lipless mouth, such a human gesture that Harry appreciates now. "Something disgustingly
sentimental, yes? I'll indulge you this once for your heartbreak, but never ask me of this again."

Harry swallows through a tight throat. "I won't."

"When I was younger, I wanted to learn about anything I could get my hands on. It was mostly
Dark Arts, yes, but it was not limited to just that. I was willing to study most of anything,"
Voldemort tells him, tilting his head to the side. "There was something, however, that nothing
could teach me. No books, or people, or anything could."

"Which was?" Harry prompts.

Voldemort turns his head away to stare out the window. It's night, so there is nothing to see, yet he
still pretends to look. "Emotion. Kindness, compassion, and genuine care, specifically. I knew how
to mock it, how it was supposed to sound and look, but I could not be taught to feel it, and no one
truly felt it for me."

Harry grips the side of the desk, his heart clenching in his chest. "I told you to tell me something
nice."

"I wasn't finished." Voldemort slowly turns to look at him, staring into his eyes. "I believed and
accepted that I would never receive these things from anyone, and I did not wish to. I did horrible
things and knew that no one would offer them to me. I no longer tried to learn it." He hums,
waving his hand at Harry pointedly. "Until, when I was not paying attention, a boy who knew all of
these things instinctively, whose life I ruined time and time again, offered it to me anyway, despite
the fact that I did not deserve it and still do not. And, in doing so, he unwittingly taught me the very
thing I believed I would be unable to learn."

Harry blinks hard. "Oh."

He knows. Somehow, he knows what Harry has assumed that he didn't. That he cares for Harry,
despite everything. How long he has known, Harry can't be sure, and he'll never get to find out. It
makes every second of this torturous.

Voldemort hums. "Sentimental enough for you?"

"Yes," Harry chokes out, looking away as he feels his face spasm in reaction to the pain in his
chest.

"I will not be doing it again," Voldemort informs him seriously.

Harry has to take a deep breath, closing his eyes as he relaxes his grip on the desk. He tries to sort
out his thoughts, tries to make sense of all the pain and guilt and loss. Then...he stops. He lets it be
a mess, lets himself be uncertain and confused, because all of this has always been complicated and
will continue to be until the last second.

That doesn't matter right now. None of it does. Because Harry sits here, and he thinks about all the
things he and Voldemort have talked about. He thinks about where they started and where they've
ended up. He thinks about how horrible he felt for forgiving Voldemort, for trusting him.

"I'll do you one better," Harry rasps, lifting his head and looking at Voldemort with a watery smile.
"I want you to know that—that I was struggling with the things I've felt for you throughout all this
time. It was confusing and most of it hurt. But...do you remember when I told you that hate isn't
the absence of love? That I know both?"

"Yes," Voldemort says, looking at him, his gaze sharp and intent on his face.

Harry nods at him. "You're a prime example of how I can feel both. I have hated you more than I
hated anyone on this earth. I think there are parts of me that will always hate you. But you should
know that I—I love you, too. I can love you in spite of everything, and I do, because I somehow
know that as an instinct, too. So, monster and all, you're loved."

"Your love cannot change me, Harry Potter," Voldemort says, his hand coming up to rub his chest.
His eyes are just a bit wide with surprise.

"I know," Harry murmurs. "That's not why I offer it. You just...have it. That's all."

Voldemort stares at him. "I am not capable of love."

"Maybe. Maybe not," Harry says softly. "I don't require it in return."
"You, Harry Potter, are a boy unlike any other," Voldemort whispers. "A boy with a heart that has
no guard, that sets itself aflame in hatred, that beats for others who may not always deserve it, even
the whole world. I think, if I were capable of such a thing, you would earn it."

Harry smiles at him. "Sentimental."

"Yes."

"I want to tell you something."

Voldemort dips his head. "You may."

"Don't forget it, what I've said," Harry whispers sadly, "because it will be true, even when you hate
me again. It's not going to go away.

Voldemort blinks at him, then his red eyes grow a bit wider, and he says, "Harry, you—"

Harry knew it was coming, but he still isn't prepared to see it. Voldemort's words choke off as he
lets out a gasp, his shoulders bowing in like he's been pierced right through his chest. His hand
claws at it, his whole body trembling as he stares at Harry in a way he's never looked before.

"I know, I know," Harry says softly, pushing away from the side of the desk and bringing out the
vial of Draught of Living Death from his hoodie pocket with shaking hands. He reaches out to
press the vial to Voldemort's lipless mouth, and when Voldemort feebly tries to turn his head,
flinching away, Harry uses his other hand to cup his cheek. "It's still true, even now."

"Harry," Voldemort chokes out, gurgling as the potion slips down his throat. Harry sees him
swallow.

Harry pulls the vial back, blinking as tears fall from his eyelashes. "I'm sorry...and thank you."

For the first time in what must be years, Voldemort falls asleep. A potion-induced sleep, but sleep
 nonetheless. Harry knows he doesn't have much time, but he spares one second to look at him a bit
longer, heart aching in his chest.

And then, he leans down and opens the drawer, reaching in to grab the Cup and the Locket, things
that Voldemort has given him easy access to out of trust. Harry doesn't close the drawer back,
because he knows there is no point. Voldemort will wake and know immediately what has
happened. He will be furious, because he will be hurt.

Harry always knew they'd hurt each other, because perhaps that is all they're destined to do.

The Horcruxes are stuffed haphazardly in his pocket, clinking against the only other item he
allowed himself to take. A gift. One that he can't leave behind, not with what comes after.

Just like that, without so much as a scratch, Harry walks right back out with the Horcruxes like it's
the easiest thing in the world. If people knew—when people find out, they will spin it as heroism,
as him being so strong that he took Voldemort down on his own with no effort at all.

But, the truth is, it took months of tears and compassion and the intricate trial of learning to love
the person who arguably deserves it the least. It took trust and betrayal and murder. It took things
that Harry will never speak of again, memories he will hold to his last breath, and pain that
reverberates and echoes through him. It took forgiveness, and Harry's all that more hurt for it.

No one will understand, truly, what this is like.

No one but the monster he walks away from.

And yet, Harry keeps walking.

Dumbledore would be proud, Harry thinks as he walks away without another glance behind him,
and he hates himself for the thought.

Chapter End Notes

Yeah, I'm sad, too

Angst-galore, I know, but it's...necessary? Worth it? God, getting to the happy ending
can be such a hard road to walk. But if you're sticking around, the journey is worth it, I
think. Thank you all for reading, and drop a comment with your thoughts. I love to see
them! ❤️ Be well.
 Adjustment
Chapter Notes

No real warning for this chapter. Some angst thrown in, sure, as to be expected. Some
vulgar Slytherins, which shouldn't be a surprise. Oh, also, Harry almost combusts from
embarrassment, which I find great humor in. Enjoy :)

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Harry wakes with a jolt, disoriented by the stillness around him, only vaguely aware of his own
body. Things come to him in flashes, in fractured memories that don't make any sense yet.

There is walking away, then there is screaming, and then there is nothing.

Harry doesn't understand.

He's in a bed that he doesn't recognize, and for a moment, he panics because he isn't at home in the
Manor. But the faint scent of potions in the air, paired with the itchy blanket tucked in around his
legs, all brought together by the high ceiling of a room he's spent a great deal of time in...it all
makes him realize rather quickly where he is.

Hospital Wing. But why? And how? He doesn't recall making the trip here. His last memory is one
he'd rather forget, filling his mind with swirling flames and a monster left behind.

He tries to sit up, only to freeze when he glances in the corner of the small sectioned-off space—
complete with a curtain drawn around his cot—and sees who is sitting there. He meets calm, blue
eyes and slowly falls back into the bed, staring at Dumbledore without saying a word.

"How do you feel, Harry?" Dumbledore asks lightly.

Harry doesn't want to know, so he doesn't dare check. "What happened to me, sir?"

"You retrieved the items you meant to, but Voldemort woke as you returned to Severus' office. As
soon as you came out, you fell and began screaming," Dumbledore explains gently. "Your scar
bled. He was angry, and it caused you great pain, so great that you passed out."
"Oh," Harry murmurs.

That makes sense. He was expecting it, after all. It's exactly what Voldemort would do, wake up
after a betrayal and be unrelenting in his fury. His rage would burn through them both, and it would
not stop, not for anything. Harry remembers just how much anger Voldemort is capable of, and
how much it hurts, and he suspects that this was even worse.

He recalls, now, the searing agony in his mind. So intense that he couldn't exist in it or outside of
it. He could only pass out, unable to handle it.

"We have the Horcruxes now," Dumbledore assures him. "The Diadem has been destroyed. Did
that affect you any, Harry?"

"Yeah," Harry admits. "They all do. The Locket and Cup have some sort of...connection with me,
but it's not pleasant. It doesn't hurt me when they're destroyed, though, not like—not the way
Nagini did. I don't know why she was different."

Dumbledore watches him closely, intently. "You spent a great deal of time with her, I presume. The
pieces of Voldemort's soul in you and her are closely related, likely cut from the same strip, if you
will."

Harry blinks at him. "Sorry, what? Did you say soul?"

"Indeed, I did, my boy." Dumbledore stares at him in faint curiosity. "Did he not tell you?"

Oh no, Harry thinks. Not this again. Not another round of one mentor-guardian-disappointment
trying to upheave the trust in the other, like ruthlessly digging it out by the root. Harry doesn't want
to experience this again. Voldemort has been honest—that, Harry has always believed. But if that
turns out not to be true...he's not sure how he'll handle that on top of everything else.

"Tell me what?" Harry asks anyway, too curious for his own good, helpless to do anything but
soak it all up like a sponge and let it hurt him.

"To create a Horcrux is to remove a portion of your soul and entrap it in an object—or a living
thing, as we've learned through you, even accidentally. It ensures the person cannot truly be killed,
as parts of their soul exists elsewhere," Dumbledore tells him calmly. "It is very Dark Magic,
Harry, very Dark Magic. The act is unspeakable."

Harry frowns, but he nods against his pillow. That doesn't particularly surprise him, not when it
comes to Voldemort. "That doesn't seem like a process you do by accident, sir. How did he make
me one by mistake? I never understood that."

"To split your soul, one has to…" Dumbledore pauses, seeming to weigh his words, but then he
sighs and continues. "One has to commit an abominable act, such as killing another living being
with no remorse. That night, Harry, he killed your mother, and it split his soul further. Her love
protected you and caused the Killing Curse to rebound back into him, destroying his body, leaving
that piece of soul to latch on the only living thing around it—you."

"Oh," Harry whispers, yet again. He blinks and looks at the dancing shadows on the curtains from
the candlelight. "Is my soul split, sir?"

Dumbledore sighs quietly. "That is not how it works, Harry. Intent matters, as well as purpose.
Every Horcrux Voldemort ever made was a choice made carefully, all except you. Had your
mother's sacrifice not completely destroyed him in efforts to save you, I think you would have
come out of it differently."

"It was my mum, then," Harry murmurs, easing his fingers over the itchy blanket, lost in thought.
"She was the one who destroyed him, not me."

"The first time, yes, I believe so. It goes to show that love will always be stronger than any other
force."

"And the next time? It'll be you, won't it?"

"It will," Dumbledore says.

Harry glances over at him, blinking slowly. "Who will you love so you won't lose?"

"You, my boy," Dumbledore murmurs. "You."

"Why could you never love him?" Harry asks. No, he demands to know, staring Dumbledore down
without flinching. Dumbledore looks startled, and Harry does not care. "If you'd only loved him,
sir, things might be so very different. Do you know that?"

"Harry," Dumbledore says, calm as always, very rarely ruffled, "Tom Riddle was born from—"

"Amortentia," Harry cuts in. "I know. He told me."

"Did he?" Dumbledore asks mildly. "Did he tell you what comes of those born from the potion?
Are you aware that he isn't capable of love?"

"That's bullocks!" Harry barks, the anger surging like a well-rehearsed verse that he can recite in
his sleep. It feels familiar, and he latches onto it. "He wasn't at fault for it, for what his mother did.
Love is so powerful, you say, so what makes you think it couldn't overcome a sodding potion? Just
because he didn't feel it the way he was expected to, because he was different. What did you
expect?! He was an orphan, cast aside for being a freak, and no one chose to love him! No one
wanted him, or tried to make sense of his anger, because why would you, right? Why would you
when he was so cold and charming and fake, and born from something he had no control over?
You could have loved him, in spite of it all, and tried harder...but you didn't, because he didn't have
a Prophecy behind him, because love didn't come to him instinctively, because he scared you. It's
all bullocks, the lot of it—Prophecies, and potions, and your own measurement of love!"

Dumbledore stares at him in the silence.

For a long time, he simply looks at Harry, sweeping his gaze over Harry's face, taking him in. He's
quiet and calm, as he always is, and Harry's sure he's drawing comparisons between the boy
Voldemort once was and the boy Harry has become.

Let him, if he is, Harry thinks. Long ago, the thought that he would be like Voldemort frightened
him. Now, he exists in the simple knowledge that they're very alike in so many ways.

"Harry," Dumbledore murmurs, "you mustn't forget that Voldemort made his choices knowingly.
He could have, just as anyone, chose differently."

"I know," Harry chokes out. "Don't you think I'm aware, even more than you? I know who he is,
and what he's done, but that doesn't excuse your part in it, either. You saw him for who he would
become, and you weren't wrong. I wish you would have done something else to try and stop it.
Something with love that you're so faithful in. For all that you believe in it, you never tried to use it
with him. Why?"

"That young boy, Tom, did scare me," Dumbledore admits, looking away. "I saw in him things that
I witnessed from my greatest adversary at the time. Tom went to Hogwarts during Gellert
Grindelwald's rise and fall, and I did not want to make the same mistakes with Tom that I had with
Gellert. Tom was already working to become Voldemort before I had defeated Gellert, and I did not
know how to—I could not find the way to save either of them. There are some people, Harry, that
we simply cannot."

"Then love is not a force stronger than them all, and you can't claim it is," Harry rasps, staring at
the Headmaster's weathered, weary expression. "It is—as with all things, I've learned—just not as
simple as we wish it was."

"I do not believe that," Dumbledore insists, now looking right at Harry, very serious. "Love is
powerful, Harry. Your mother has proven that."

"Do you think you simply did not love Grindelwald enough, then?" Harry challenges.

Dumbledore's eyes flutter shut, aged pain lining his face. His lips part, and his beard twitches, and
he breathes out softly as he whispers, "I know I did not. I could not after—after I lost the will to
forgive him. My love for him had fractured, and it remains to this day why I could not save him."

"And you love him, still," Harry muses.

"I do," Dumbledore admits hoarsely, opening his eyes to look at Harry.

"Maybe you're right. Maybe you're wrong. Maybe you loved him too much, or not enough, and
maybe there are no right answers to any of this. Maybe it's just all unfair and complicated, and
maybe it's always going to be," Harry suggests quietly, staring down at his lap, solemn. "I don't
think it matters, not really. Because here we are, anyway."

"Yes, Harry, here we are," Dumbledore agrees, "and there is still hope. There is always hope."

Harry swallows. "Thank you for saying so, sir."

"Do you wish to save him, Harry?" Dumbledore asks, soft and careful like it is a grave secret.

"Yes," Harry whispers, eyes stinging.

Dumbledore is silent, but the pause is weighted with so many unsaid things, until, "Through
love?"

"No, sir," Harry tells him, glancing up to stare through bleary eyes, heart aching in his chest. "That
isn't something I give to save anyone."

"Then, through what?" Dumbledore murmurs.

Harry smiles, sad and small. "Through hope."

"—doesn't seem all that frightening when he's sleeping, does he?"

"Leave him be, already!"

"I'm just saying. For the boy who killed Bellatrix Lestrange, he looks rather innocent, doesn't he?"

"Oh, shove off, Parkinson!"

"Stop it! Harry's waking up."

Harry is, in fact, waking up. He doesn't particularly want to be, but there are a great number of
voices yelling around his bed. He's quite sure that it's early in the morning, and he distantly regrets
all those times he slept in at the Manor. He's grown rather used to the extra hours, to be honest.
Eyebrow wrinkling, he grunts and squints at the blurry figures surrounding his bed. Still in the
Hospital Wing, then, which means none of this was a horrible dream. Only, now, it seems he's
been abandoned to what he's very sure counts as numerous friends—or those that are close to all of
this in some way. He lets his head fall back onto the pillow with a groan. Not being awake seems
like the best option at the moment.

Something pokes his nose.

"Oh, sorry, Harry," Hermione says from his right, clearing her throat. "It's just your glasses, if you
want them. Which you will want them, because you'll be getting up now."

"Will I?" Harry rasps, grimacing as he reaches up to grab his glasses and shove them on his face,
pushing himself to sit back on the pillows.

There are...a lot of people in here.

Closest to him is Ron and Hermione, hovering at his bedside with expectant expressions, watching
him with their usual eagerness to know things. Further back is Blaise, Pansy, and Theo, seeming
rather bored. That's a farse, though, and Harry knows that simply because he's figured out
Slytherins as much as anyone can—which isn't very much. At the foot of his bed is Ginny and
Luna, staring at him with large eyes, as if they can't believe it is him. Even further, at the edge of
the open curtain, Neville and Seamus shift restlessly in a small cluster with Dean, and behind them
is Greg and Vince—both of them seeming to want to stay at the edge of all this.

"Where's Draco?" Harry asks instantly, because one person is very obviously missing.

"Oh, it is true, then?" Ginny breathes out, leaning forward to stare at him in shock. "You're actually
with Malfoy, Harry?"

"Yeah." Harry glances at Ron and Hermione, expectant in his own way. "Where is he?"

"Well," Pansy drawls, flicking her hair and rolling her eyes, "our job here is done. Let's leave the
Gryffindors to it, boys."

"Wait," Harry starts, whipping the covers aside to try and get up, but she's already sweeping away
without a backwards glance, taking all the Slytherin boys with her. "Bloody—Pansy, where's—"
He gives up quickly, because she is gone.

Ginny sighs and leans back, shaking her head and crossing her arms. "This is going to be one of
those things, isn't it? One where only Ron and Hermione are going to know the full extent of it."

"Yeah, sorry," Harry admits, glancing at her sheepishly. He flicks his gaze around all of his oldest
friends, watching them size him up curiously, watching them be delighted that he's back. His heart
seems to soften and swell. "I'd love to be able to tell everyone everything, but it's...complicated."

"It always is, with you," Ginny tells him.

Harry's lips twitch. "Yeah, I know."

"But you're actually with, er, Malfoy?" Dean pipes up, shuffling closer to the bed to peer at him
with a furrow in his brow. "Willingly? On purpose?"

Ron snorts.

"Yes, willingly and on purpose, and no, I won't be breaking up with him. Yes, I still remember all
the shite he's done to all of us, and no, I didn't decide to date him when he was still terrible. Yes, I
know none of you like him, and no, I don't actually care. I love him, simple as that, and you can
feel however you want to about it," Harry explains, straight to the point, not nearly as gentle as he
could be.

There's only so much time he has left, and he won't waste it by trying to worry himself with who
might approve of his relationship and who won't. Of course, he wants everyone to agree and
understand, but it's not a requirement—it never was. Now, though, he can't be as careful about it;
he has to be blunt, because he'll just lose time otherwise.

He raises his eyebrows, solidifying his point with a simple, no-nonsense expression. He's very
stubborn, and has been in the past, so this is no surprise. It must hurt, in a way, for his friends to
look at him and see that he won't budge, not even for their comfort, but he simply doesn't have the
time.
"Malfoy is a prat," Ginny reminds Harry, as if he has possibly forgotten.

Harry nods. "Yeah, he is. Still love him, though."

"I think it's sweet of you, Harry," Luna says dreamily, smiling at him with her cloudy eyes and
gentle exuberance. He's missed her fiercely. "There is something rather special about you coming
to love him, once he's changed, despite everything."

"Thank you, Luna," Harry murmurs, lips curling up.

"Oi," Seamus declares, tilting his chin up, "does this mean we can't 'ave a go at 'im anymore?"

"What?" Harry blinks, startled. "Oh, no, do as you please, really. He'll give as good as he gets, I
suspect. Just don't expect me to stop dating him."

"Might be best not to, mate," Ron suggests with a grimace, making a slicing motion across his
throat and jabbing his thumb towards Harry. "He gets all protective over Malfoy, you know. S'a bit
mad, really, but what can you expect? He almost killed Nott, did I mention that? Nearly cut his leg
clean off."

"I did not," Harry protests hotly, glancing at Hermione for support. "Tell them, Hermione. We
sorted out our differences!"

Hermione bites her lip for a moment, then clears her throat. "Well, Harry, it was a bit of an
overreaction."

"Nott's a Slytherin, though," Dean muses.

"Oh, that doesn't matter anymore," Ron mutters, wrinkling his nose. "Harry's good with the
Slytherins now, seeing as his boyfriend's one."

"I've already said it so many times," Hermione cuts in furiously. "The sorting system is absolutely
barbaric! The fact that we've all got it ingrained to believe that simply because someone belongs to
a certain house perfectly represents their character and intentions is—is—"
Harry pats her arm sympathetically as she sputters in her fury. "You're right, of course, but
Slytherins do have a certain...way about them. Trust me, I've spent a lot of time with plenty
recently, and really, they're all very bizarre."

Hermione sniffs in obvious offense. "Yes, well, Gryffindors have their ways as well, you know."

"Oh, I do know," Harry assures her.

"How long have you been dating Draco?" Luna asks him curiously, blinking big, blue eyes at him.

Harry smiles at her. "Since Christmas, really. Just a few days after, technically."

"Merlin, four months?" Ginny asks incredulously.

"Is that only four months?" Harry wonders, his smile dropping as that knowledge settles within
him. It feels like a lot longer. It feels like no time at all. They won't even have a year together.

Some of Ginny's shock slips away as she looks at his face, and her eyes soften, just a bit. "Well, I
suppose it's not that much of a difference than all of us thinking Hermione was with Malfoy."

"You didn't actually think that, did you?" Hermione asks warily, glancing around at everyone.

"Sorry, Hermione," Dean offers, "but you were with him all the time, weren't you? Not only that,
but the whole school thought you two were, and there was that rumor that someone caught you two
sneaking around the halls at night together."

"Ah," Hermione mumbles, "that's...actually true, to be fair. But obviously Draco and I aren't
together. That's preposterous."

"As preposterous as Harry being with him," Ginny says flatly, arching an eyebrow.
"Not really," Harry mutters. "Hermione doesn't like that he's cryptic. Intelligent as she is, she
doesn't want to try and deduce extra complexities on top of a bloody relationship."

"And you do?" Dean asks, looking at Harry as if he's absolutely mad if he does.

Harry shrugs. "I like mysteries."

"And challenges," Hermione adds. "Draco's too much of...everything, really, for me. Great for
friendship, but we'd tear each other to pieces if we tried to date. I can't believe anyone thought we
did."

"That's Ron's doing, of course," Ginny says with a tiny smirk. "He was complaining and whining
about the mere chance that you were with Malfoy practically anytime he talked to someone.
Honestly, he couldn't shut up about it."

Ron turns red almost instantly. "Shut it, Gin, I did not! I—it wasn't like that all the time."

"It was," Seamus confirms, shamelessly betraying Ron with a grin while he does it.

"Well—well, what was I supposed to think?! How was I supposed to know that Draco's gay.
Bugger. Malfoy," Ron sputters, tripping over his words, flustered in an instant as he goes redder by
the second. He looks rather helpless.

"It was pretty obvious, though," Neville murmurs, speaking up for the very first time. He's looking
down at his hands, but his quiet voice makes everyone instantly turn to listen. "Malfoy has fancied
Harry for years."

Harry blinks. "You knew that, Neville?"

"You...didn't?" Neville asks, raising his head to look at him in genuine confusion.

"Mate, I didn't even know I liked blokes until four months ago," Harry admits sheepishly.
"Oh." Neville glances around a little warily, shrinking back just a bit with everyone staring at him
in pure surprise, even Hermione. "Sorry, I—I thought we all already knew this."

"No, we didn't," Hermione says, turning her gaze back to Harry. "I didn't. For years, Harry?"

"Mhm," Harry confirms. "Something to do with Purebloods being repressed and the thin line
between love and hate. It was a lot, to be fair. He didn't really know, either."

"But he—he made buttons," Neville tells him, eyebrows knitting together in what appears to be
serious distress. "He did everything to get your attention. He always wanted to rile you up, didn't
he? And I mean—well, he was going about it terribly, but he sort of did everything he could to
remind you he existed."

"Huh," Harry grunts, distantly surprised by this. He raises his eyebrows. "Merlin, he really was
repressed. Good thing he changed before he tried anything, or I probably would have punched
him."

"I can't believe you didn't punch him," Ginny says in wonder, blinking at him. "Was he the one
who tried something first? Oh! Did he snog you?"

Harry snorts. "Yes, actually."

"Stop, please stop," Ron immediately declares, gagging a bit. He is no longer red, but rather pale
with a tinge of green. "I'd rather not hear about it."

"Let's not talk about it, then," Harry says quickly, nodding. "No need to. Draco and I are dating,
and everyone will just have to get used to it. Besides, I'll be nice about whoever you're all with,
won't I? Like Lavender, right, Ron? And Dean, you're with Ginny, I've heard. How's that going?"

"Oh no," Neville whispers.

There is a sudden silence as everyone averts their eyes from each other, including Luna. She's
looking up at the ceiling like there's something of interest there, seemingly lost in thought, but
Harry can see the faintest line of tension in her shoulders. Seamus and Dean have gone very still,
staring down at the floor without moving a muscle, and Ginny is studying her nails rather closely.
Hermione and Ron are very pointedly not looking at each other.
"What?" Harry stares around at everyone, frowning slightly. "What did I miss?"

Hermione clears her throat. "Quite a bit, actually. It's all, er, rather recent."

"Ron and Lavender broke up," Ginny says.

"So did Ginny and Dean," Ron sputters.

Harry actually takes a step back, a little lost and a lot confused. "I'm sorry, what happened?"

"Ron and Lavender have been fighting for ages anyway, and they broke up about a week ago,"
Ginny informs him. "Almost two days after Dean and I did, which we did amicably, while Ron and
Lavender did not."

"Lavender was furious," Neville murmurs with a shudder, his gaze a bit haunted.

"Right, well, forget I asked," Harry mutters, grimacing a bit. "Anyway, is there anything else I
should know before I go face the masses?"

Ron looks completely relieved, and he jumps onto the next topic with vigor. "Oh, all the students
know you're back, so everyone's going to be whispering about you again."

"What else is new?" Ginny asks with a snort.

"They're going to be talking about you killing Bellatrix Lestrange and getting kidnapped from the
Ministry, you know," Hermione adds.

"D-Did you actually…"

Neville's soft tone makes Harry pause to look at him, and he suddenly remembers what he learned
only last year. That Bellatrix Lestrange tortured Neville's parents until they were truly beyond help,
sentencing them to a life in a Hospital Ward where they'll never recognize their son, where Neville
will never truly get his parents.

Harry recalls that he and Neville were both candidates for the Prophecy, and for a split second, he
tries to imagine how Neville would handle the things Harry has. A small, terrible part of him
briefly wishes that it had been Neville instead, but only a tiny, squirming part that flares to life and
shrivels immediately after, crushed underfoot, because Harry knows he doesn't truly feel that way
anyway. His friend has suffered enough, in his own ways, and Harry would not wish more pain on
him.

Through that pain, though, Harry's very sure there must be anger as well. He's seen spots of
Neville's unrelenting bravery all through the years, quick but impressionable appearances that
somehow feel surprising and just right all at once. Shy and inadequate as Neville may seem, he has
his purpose just as everyone does—Harry knows he wishes to make his parents proud, the parents
from a memory he never got to be a part of, because those parents are gone. Harry knows all too
well what that feels like and how it can cause you to be driven in the most shocking ways, for he is
the same.

Neville seems to gather that strength right now, drawing on it and standing taller as he looks right
at Harry, holding his gaze. "You killed her, didn't you? Not—not You-Know-Who."

"It was me, yes," Harry admits quietly, refusing to look at anyone else's reactions. "Voldemort
hadn't possessed me until...after."

"Was she scared?" Neville asks, the question nearly stern, his face twisting into something
complicated.

"She didn't think I would do it, at first," Harry tells him. "But when it became obvious that I was
going to, she was scared. Only for a moment, but she was."

"Good," Neville whispers, that one word falling into the silence like a pebble hitting the lake,
causing palpable shock to ripple out from everyone.

Everyone except Harry, who understands.

Harry walks forward, easing past Ginny, and he reaches out to grab Neville's shoulder. He squeezes
it, simply being there, trying to offer him some sort of solace in this situation. Neville ducks his
head and says nothing else, but he doesn't have to.

No, Harry didn't kill Bellatrix because she tortured the Longbottoms. He never once considered
that a reason to do it, focused only on his own grief, on his own loss, the memory of Sirius' body
slipping away still so fresh in his mind. But that does not matter, not really, not when it affects
Neville as well. Whether it is good or not isn't for Harry to decide, not when it comes to Neville's
own grief and loss, and he won't disrespect him by trying to be guilty about it—especially when he
isn't.

The creak of the doors breaks the moment, getting everyone's attention. Harry drops his arm from
Neville, perking up in immediate hope, only to frown as Professor McGonagall comes ushering
into the room without breaking her stride. She does not halt or falter, not until she is standing
before everyone with her usual severe demeanor.

Harry has been subconsciously cataloguing the changes of every single person he hasn't properly
seen in months, and all his friends do look a bit different, yeah. Ginny is taller and curvier. Luna's
hair has gotten longer, and she has also filled out in her figure. Seamus is only a bit taller than
Harry remembers, but he's not nearly as thin, more stocky and sturdy than before. Dean, of course,
shot up even more, all while getting even more attractive somehow, which is unfair, really. The
pudginess Neville usually carries has gone, leaving him slimmer and taller, though still visibly
awkward.

And yet, somehow, it is Professor McGonagall who makes the passage of time startlingly clear.
Despite the added lines to her face and more grey hair, Harry is very sure that Professor
McGonagall has been frozen in time and not changed a bit.

It is because she looks so much like she does in his memory, pursed lips and arched eyebrows and
all, that he becomes genuinely aware of how much he and his friends have grown and changed.

It's a bit ridiculous, really.

"Mr. Potter," she greets coolly, as if not a day has passed since he was her student, "you are to
come with me."

"But Professor," Ron instantly protests.

Professor McGonagall silences him with one quelling look. "I am aware, Mr. Weasley, that you all
wish to accompany Mr. Potter to the Great Hall for breakfast, but I am quite sure he hasn't
forgotten the way. He'll be on his way soon, rest assured."

With that, she turns around with one last expectant look towards Harry, and she starts off the way
she came. Harry glances at all his friends helplessly, but even after all this time, he knows better
than to oppose her. He follows her, because what else can he do? He's nervous almost as soon as he
gets six feet away from his friends, but she doesn't seem to care about his rising anxiety.

It really is early because there aren't that many people moving through the halls. Just a few
students who still have sleep in their eyes, which means his friends and the pack of Slytherins who
woke him up made sure to be up early enough to bypass the mass of students that would eventually
flood the halls. It's sort of nice, if he thinks about it. He wonders if they all planned it, or if none of
them could sleep.

What students that are in the hall come to a screeching halt as soon as they notice him, mouths
dangling open, eyes wide. Anywhere from the random First Year from any house, to a Seventh
Year Gryffindor he's known from years. Whispers follow after him, his name bouncing around
behind him, and he grimaces as he ducks his head.

He's never really cared for attention to begin with, all because he was taught from a young age not
to want what he could never have, especially not in a positive way. It's only worse now, though.

Fifth Year, in that respect, was absolute hell. He's always been the talk of the Castle, even when he
feebly wished he wouldn't be, but last year… Merlin, it had gotten as bad as if ever had, and
Umbridge had only made it worse. His only reprieve had been the DA, and that had ended horribly.
So much has changed since then, too much. Harry feels like an entirely different person.

But, in regards to attention, he is very much the same. He shies away from it, wincing underneath
gazes, trying very hard not to listen to the sound of his name on others lips.

Harry is very relieved when they finally reach their destination, which just so happens to be
Professor McGonagall's office. He offers her what he hopes is a smile, but might actually be a bit
of a grimace.

"I'm the talk of the school, it seems," Harry mumbles awkwardly. "Er...again."

"Did you expect anything else, Mr. Potter?" Professor McGonagall asks in her no-nonsense way,
peering at him over her glasses.

"No, I suppose not," Harry admits, rubbing the back of his neck with his sweating palm.

"Your return has been long anticipated by many. This year has been relatively quiet, otherwise.
Something to do with your absence, I imagine."

"What about Katie Bell, though?"

Professor McGonagall pauses, just staring at him for a brief moment, then she quietly sighs and
shuffles some parchment on her desk. "It seems the rumor mill goes further than I thought. We
tried very hard to keep her private information out of the papers."

"I was, er, in Hogsmeade when it happened." Harry blanches at her flat expression, and he just
shrugs helplessly. "It's a long story, Professor."

"I'm sure it is."

"I'm glad you could relax a bit this year, though."

"I never said your absence was relaxing," Professor McGonagall says in a clipped tone, looking
down at a piece of parchment. Her voice warms by only a bit, only just noticeably softer when she
continues. "It was a weight felt by all, Mr. Potter. Lifted, now."

"Oh." Harry flushes in pleased embarrassment. He rubs the back of his neck more. "Thanks,
Professor."

Professor McGonagall simply hums, brushing past the moment briskly, brandishing the parchment
at him. "Your timetable, Mr. Potter. I've been informed that you will not be needing help catching
up in classes, as you've apparently had independent study while away. I commend you on focusing
on your studies amidst everything else, and with that, please be aware that I will treat you as any
other student. If you fall behind, ask for help, but do not expect special treatment."

Harry can't help but grin wryly, settling into the ease of her normalcy. "Of course not, Professor."
"This, as well," Professor McGonagall says, lifting her wand from her desk and flicking it towards
a cabinet in the corner of the room. "You'll be needing it, I presume."

The door swings open, and Harry watches as a small stack of folded black cloth comes floating out,
a line of red and gold draped on the very top. He holds out his hands just as the robes fall into
them, simple Hogwarts robes with Gryffindor ties laid over them, almost innocent after
everything.

Harry lifts a shaking hand, throat very nearly closing up out of nowhere, with no warning
whatsoever. He's not sure why he's emotional all of a sudden, but stroking his thumb over one of
the ties almost ends in tears. It is humiliating in a very strange way, because he almost wants to
laugh, too.

"Thanks, Professor," Harry manages to say, the words just a bit strangled.

Professor McGonagall nods curtly. "That will be all, Mr. Potter. Go get changed into the proper
attire, settle back into the dorms, then have breakfast."

"Yeah," Harry whispers, "alright."

"Mr. Potter," Professor McGonagall calls when he turns to leave.

Harry glances back at her warily. "Yes, Professor?"

"If you ever find the need to speak with me about anything," Professor McGonagall says, holding
his gaze, "do not hesitate to do so."

He stares at her for a beat, just taking her in. He wonders what she actually thinks about it, how she
reacted when she heard news surrounding him, if she was one of the ones in the Order who looked
for him and hoped he was alive. Did she ever look at his empty seat and worry? Did she care at all?
Did she know his letter was addressed to the boy in the cupboard under the stairs, and does she
ever think about what his parents would think of him now?

As with most adults, Harry doesn't know. With her, though, he honestly doesn't mind. She is not
perfect, he's sure, but he has always respected her.

"Thank you," Harry says sincerely, then turns around and leaves, knowing he'll never breathe a
word to her about the thoughts in his head.

He tried, once, in First Year. She didn't listen then, and he's never really trusted her to again.
Voldemort was right to say that trust lost from him is rarely earned again, but Professor
McGonagall has in a strange way. But, just as Voldemort said, it's not the same kind of trust, and it
likely never will be.

That doesn't mean it's not a strong trust, just not as strong and innocent as it first started out.
Everyone is capable of letting each other down, that is simple fact, and Professor McGonagall is no
exception. There is relief in that, in not putting her up on a pedestal, because it makes him like her
even more.

Pedestals fall. They always fall.

Dumbledore proved that.

More students are moving through the halls by the time Harry's changed and heading for the Great
Hall. As Professor McGonagall predicted, he remembers the way without even a stutter, his feet
taking him there mindlessly.

He won't meet anyone's eyes, and the volume of whispers that follow him only gets louder. It
makes him keep his head down and pick up his pace, eager to get back to his friends. Hermione
and Ron, at least, have always supported him throughout things such as this. Ron's a bit more
abrasive, snapping at people stupid enough to say something too loud, and Hermione's glares are as
sharp as her mind.

As he walks, he finds his mind turning to Voldemort. He doesn't want it to. He's done a wonderful
job of ignoring that subject, but it's not the first time he's walked these halls and agonized over the
Dark Lord who hates him. He's just doing it in a very different way, now.

Admittedly, Harry had expected Voldemort's anger to last much longer. He'd thought that it would
be weaponized, that Voldemort would use their connection to torture him. Except that hasn't
happened, and Harry hasn't gotten anything from him at all. In fact, it's a bit...worrying.

Perhaps he's recovering?

Harry's far too wary to seek out the connection in his mind. He doubts distance does very much,
and he doesn't want to fall out if he does happen to come across murderous rage again. He's had
enough fits within Hogwarts due to Voldemort to last him a lifetime, honestly.

He wonders what Voldemort is doing right now. Can he feel Harry's heartache, still? Does he
remember what Harry said to him before the betrayal? Does he believe it?

Harry is so deep in thought that he's not really paying attention, and he takes a corner rather
sharply, only to immediately bump into someone coming around the opposite way. He blinks,
thoughts scattering, and he's thrown into silence for a moment when he realizes that it's Cho
Chang.

"Oh!" she blurts, equally startled as she blinks up at him. "Hello, Harry."

"Cho," Harry says in surprise. He's not sure why he is, but he honestly didn't expect to run into her.
He hasn't seen her in a very long time, now, and she is as pretty as he recalls. There's also a pair of
sunglasses holding the bangs back from her heart-shaped face. "Sorry, I was just—"

"No, it was my fault," Cho cuts in quickly, smiling slightly. "Wasn't watching where I was going.
It's—it's good to see you, Harry."

It's very strange to be standing here and talking to her without feeling nervous at all. He remembers
how tongue-tied she made him, how he could barely look at her without his face feeling hot, how
he'd so innocently fancied her with almost adorable earnestness. Of course, he'd been a terrible
date. He knows that now, and she didn't exactly do her best, either. To be fair, she was still
mourning Cedric, and it wasn't like Harry had any bloody clue what he was doing. Funny, that.
Because he does now, just not for her. Dating Draco has been loads better, honestly, but Harry's
very sure Cho is lovely all the same.

"It's good to see you, too," Harry tells her, because it is. She doesn't look as sad as she did in Fifth
Year. He wonders if she's happier now, hopes she is. Must not be easy to have one boyfriend die
and the other bloke she tried to date turn out to be a murderer. Rather complicated, that. "How are
you?"
"Good. Yeah, good. Better," Cho tells him with a small sigh, smiling at him with sincerity. "Or
getting there, at least. You?"

Harry huffs a quiet laugh. "Getting there, too."

"I heard—" Cho cuts herself off, smile falling, blinking rapidly. Harry knows why instantly.

Out of nowhere, Draco sort of just...materializes out of thin air, just suddenly there. Harry would
suspect his Cloak if he didn't know better, but he does. It's like Draco just appears at his side, all at
once, and Harry's immediately distracted by his presence.

For a long moment, Harry is stunned into utter silence at the sight of Draco in Hogwarts robes,
wearing a Slytherin tie, looking just as he always has in Harry's memories of him being a bully.
Draco has always changed out of his robes before coming home or to visit in the Shrieking Shack,
so Harry hasn't seen him dressed like this since Fifth Year, back when Draco only sneered at him,
said horrible things, and had a go at him every chance he got.

Even back then, Harry had known that Draco was unfairly fit—unfair because he was a prat. He
was always pointy and snooty, sure, but he was also undeniably pretty, even to a Harry who hated
him.

Harry no longer hates him, and he needs only a second to adjust from the past Draco to this one,
and then he's rather captivated. Something about Draco in these robes, wearing that tie...it's
absolutely working for Harry, which is slightly mortifying, but nevertheless true. Nothing gets to
Harry like seeing Draco be a better version of himself, and to get to do that when Draco looks like
this, like the worst version of himself in Harry's memories...well, the mere chance leaves Harry just
a bit breathless. He would like that very much.

Also, where has Draco been, anyway? Harry's a bit peeved about that one, but he's willing to let it
go now that Draco's here.

"Am I interrupting?" Draco asks politely, looking between Cho and Harry with an arched
eyebrow.

Harry blinks. "Interrupting what?"

"I'll—I'll just go," Cho says, nodding once and whirling around to continue around the corner
without looking back.

"Have a great day," Draco drawls after her, leaning around the corner to wave and everything, his
smile full of teeth—very fake, but very pretty.

"Be nice," Harry admonishes half-heartedly, reaching out to swat Draco's arm. If he ends up sliding
his hand down the shape of it, caressing the robes with an odd reverence, then that's no one's
business but his own. "Where have you been?"

"Off being busy," Draco tells him, letting him touch without comment. He frowns faintly,
however, glancing over his shoulder. When he looks back at Harry, he narrows his eyes. "And you?
Did you—"

"Went home, got what I had to, came back and passed out. You know, normal things."

"Of course. I saw Mother off yesterday. She is heartbroken about not being able to go home,
obviously, but she intends to do as you asked. Thank you for that, by the way."

"I did it for you as much as I did it for me," Harry murmurs, lips curling up. Then he wrinkles his
nose a bit. "Well, not so much your father, you understand, but you know what I mean."

Draco hums, nodding. "I do, yes. What now, then? You're in robes and that horrid tie again, which
suggests you'll be taking classes once more. When is your own personal expiration date?"

"It's not narrowed down to an exact day, but in a month's time, as I understand it." Harry sighs,
rolling his eyes. "You've got to stop joking about it, Draco. It makes you seem callous."

"Well," Draco drawls, "I am."

Harry snorts. "Sure you are."

"I wasn't joking," Draco insists. He reaches out to tug on Harry's tie with deft fingers. "That really
is horrid. You would have looked better in green."

"And you would have looked better in blue, but you don't see me pointing that out."

"I know you just did not."

"It really does suit you best," Harry says sheepishly.

Draco sniffs and sneers, visibly and immensely offended. "That would require me to be a
Ravenclaw, and I'd rather die."

"I probably would die," Harry muses. "Luna says they have to answer riddles to get to their dorms.
I'd go mad and die from exhaustion."

"Because you're—"

"—an idiot. Yes, I know."

"As long as you're aware." Draco is still fiddling with Harry's tie, loosening the knot, his knuckles
brushing against Harry's throat. He seems rather distracted for someone who doesn't like the tie at
all, eyes fixed on it.

Harry smiles, amused. "It's odd to see you dressed like this again. You're more attractive than I
remember, but still as much of a prat."

Draco's gaze flicks up to his, catching and holding there. "Oh, is this going to be a thing?"

"I have no idea what you're on about."

"You like me like this, do you?"

"A bit, yeah. So?" Harry challenges, even though it's more than just a bit.

"You're hopeless," Draco murmurs, lips twitching as he shakes his head and drops his hand. He
arches an eyebrow rather pointedly. "You're going to maul me at every chance, I can tell. It's
hilarious."

"Piss off." Harry's words lack heat, and he leans forward to try and peer down Draco's collar, only
catching a glimpse of the necklace Harry got him for Christmas before Draco is jerking back. "Oh,
relax, I'm not trying to maul you now, you prat. I was only trying to see your scar. Has it faded at
all? Less irritated? You're not lifting your hands above your head, are you? Remember you're not
supposed—"

"Harry, as touching as your concern is, do shut up. I'm fine," Draco says in exasperation. "I'm
capable of doing as Madame Pomfrey instructed without you making sure of it."

Harry chuckles and reaches out to slide his hands underneath Draco's collar, tracing the chain of the
necklace. "Do you ever take this off?"

"No," Draco answers promptly. "They took it off when they were fussing over me in the Hospital
Wing, but that's the only time."

"Sweet," Harry says softly.

Draco scoffs and smacks Harry's hand away, pivoting on the spot. "Don't start, not this morning.
I'm in no mood. I need coffee."

"You have coffee at the Slytherin table?" Harry asks with a frown at such unfairness. He falls
easily into step beside Draco, staring at the side of his face, genuinely oblivious and careless to any
students who may be whispering about him now.

"Of course," Draco says, throwing him an incredulous look. "Any Slytherin who drinks coffee
won't do without, and Merlin knows you don't want to see them without it during exam time. Why?
Do Gryffindors not have coffee?"

"No, actually. We have Pumpkin Juice."

"What it must be like to live such aimless, deplorable lives that you Gryffindors do."

"Oi!" Harry barks in offense, reaching over to lightly shove at Draco's shoulder. "Slytherins are the
ones who throw tantrums childish enough to require coffee at their tables."

"We do not accept less than we deserve," Draco declares, glaring at him with a haughty
expression.

Harry scoffs. "Pretentious, prideful prats, the lot of you. I bet you take your coffee black as well,
don't you? You did at home, if I remember correctly."

"As black as your hair, Potter. How do you take it, and why have I never seen you drink it?"

"I take it as light as your hair and as sweet as possible. I...don't drink it because I sort of forget that
I can. I used to sneak it from the Dursleys, you see, only when I knew I could get away with it. The
Weasleys don't drink it that I've seen, and they don't have it at our table, so that's my only chance."

"Oh." Draco frowns, glancing at him out the corner of his eye. "Harry, why does your life have to
consist of one tragedy after the next?"

"Draco," Harry says with a loud laugh, "I've been asking myself that for years."

"Poor, traumatized Harry Potter," Draco coos, smirking at him, though his eyes have softened
considerably. "How broken you must be."

"Anyone without coffee would be."

"Right you are, Harry."

"Oh, yeah, I've been meaning to ask. Why did you send your friends to look over me this morning
instead of coming to see me yourself?"
"I sent them to make sure you were alive. I didn't go because I was busy, as I've mentioned."

Harry purses his lips, inching closer to Draco so their arms will brush. "Busy doing what?"

"Is it any business of yours?"

"I'd think so."

"On what grounds?" Draco demands, head turning in a flash, making some of his hair shift and fall
into his eyes. It makes him look even more divine than he already does—which, again, unfair.

"On the grounds that I'm your boyfriend and I want to know," Harry says, raising his eyebrows.
"I'm also going to die one day, and I'm not above using that."

Draco rolls his eyes. "Everyone's going to die one day, Harry. You're not special. It's very Slytherin
of you to try and use that, though."

"I have my moments. Also, my boyfriend is a terrible influence," Harry teases, nudging Draco
persistently with his elbow now.

"I thought we agreed you were the bad influence?"

"We both are, really. Don't change the subject."

"Fine. Stop with the nudging. You're like an annoying child," Draco snaps, reaching over to shove
Harry's arm down and away. He heaves a sigh and lowers his voice. "In light of Professor Snape's
notable absence—by which I mean, everyone knew he was preoccupied—there were quite a few
fights that broke out between those with lasting grudges from those Pureblood meetings I was
telling you about. I'm good at healing, because Mother taught me, so I put it to good use."

Harry reaches out to snag Draco's arm, pulling them to a halt in the middle of the hallway. He
stares at Draco, simply looking at him in complete silence, and Draco frowns at him with visible
annoyance and confusion. Harry takes a steadying breath.
"You—you were healing classmates from their injuries so they wouldn't be in pain, or to avoid
detection, or both," Harry states, and it's not a question. He already knows. "Not only that, but you
sent your closest friends to make sure that I was alright as well, even if you couldn't come."

"You're going to be ridiculous about this, aren't you? I can see it in your face, you know."

"Yes, I'm going to be ridiculous about it, Draco! That's just—it's so nice of you, and—"

"Do not," Draco hisses, narrowing his eyes at Harry, reacting as if Harry's just insulted him. "I
wasn't being nice, you git. Slytherins look out for each other; I've already told you that."

Harry shakes his head fiercely, squeezing Draco's arm. "It's not only that, and I know it because I
know you. Merlin, Draco, you're just—you can be really sodding amazing sometimes, you know
that? I love you very, very much."

"Merlin and Morgana both, help me," Draco groans, snatching his arm from Harry's grip and
sweeping back into his stride, shaking his head as he goes. He's muttering to himself when Harry
rushes to join him. "—why I thought dating you here would be anything other than a headache."

"Be rude if you want," Harry allows, grinning over at him, "but I know better."

Draco glares straight ahead at nothing. "This is going to be a very, very long month."

"Let's hope so," Harry says cheerfully, knocking his shoulder into Draco's. A beat later, his smile
falls and he ushers a step away. "Er, I never actually asked. You are okay with dating me here,
aren't you? I just assumed, but if you—if it isn't—"

"You're supposed to be dying at the end of this month, Harry," Draco cuts him off tersely, glancing
at him with sudden seriousness. "I'd date you anywhere, no matter who was watching."

Harry does not actually melt, but he feels like he could. His whole face brightens into a smile. "Oh.
Brilliant! I suppose there's something good that's come out of it, then."
"Even if you weren't," Draco mutters, then cuts himself off, glancing away.

"Oh," Harry whispers. Okay, that time, he sort of does melt, sagging to the side with a soft sigh as
he leans into Draco helplessly, feeling absolutely boneless with joy. "Come here, let me snog you."

Draco reaches out to flick his nose, squirming out of his grip and pressing forward. "No."

"Prat," Harry grumbles as he follows after him.

"Idiot," Draco replies reflexively.

Harry lets it rest, not needing to get the last word this time. Besides, they're getting closer to the
waves of students pouring into the Great Hall, and the whispers that have been following him all
this time get so loud that he actually can't ignore them any longer. He hears his name so many
times that he has to tense his head and neck so he won't swivel to look in case someone is calling
for him.

Draco appears aloof entirely, unbothered as he walks beside Harry, spinning his wand deftly
between his fingers without a care in the world. It's a mesmerizing little twirl, and Harry chooses to
focus on that instead. It's hard to drown out the voices saying his name, but he suspects ignoring it
will eventually get them to quiet down at some point. It's a theory that has never worked before,
but he's faintly hoping it will this time.

Because Harry's friends are lovely, they're hovering in the doorway of the Great Hall, craning their
heads as he and Draco approach. It's only Ron and Hermione now, but they're more than enough.
His rising anxiety soothes just a bit more, and he breaks out into a grin the same time that
Hermione does. Ron does as well, and it falters for a split second when he sees Draco, but he
seems to force it back on his face with determination.

"Harry, Draco!" Hermione calls out happily, practically glowing as they come to a halt before her.
"Oh, it's so nice that we're all here together, isn't it? It's just—oh, it's—"

And, with that, Hermione flings herself forward with a breathless laugh to wrap her arms around
both Draco and Harry, squeezing them into a tight hug. Harry, who knows all about her hugs,
quickly tilts his head back so her afro won't try and climb in his mouth. Draco isn't as lucky, and
Harry can hear him choking from beside him.
There's whispers that may as well be shouts in response to that. Things like: Harry Potter approves
of Hermione Granger's relationship with Draco Malfoy? Or: Isn't she afraid? Doesn't she know
he's a murderer? And even: It seems Draco Malfoy really has changed if Harry Potter isn't trying
to kill him!

"Alright, Hermione, let them breathe," Ron says lightly, reaching forward to help peel her away.

She comes back with a glare, eyes narrowed into slits as she looks around, and some of the
mutterings go quieter. With a huff, she crosses her arms and cocks her hip. "It's like nothing has
changed. Harry's back, and suddenly no one knows how to mind their business."

"It's a curse," Harry agrees wearily. "They'll never stop talking about me."

"And here I thought you'd be basking in the attention," Draco muses, smirking at him.

Ron snorts. "Do you know Harry at all, Malfoy?"

"Quite a bit," Draco says mildly. "You could say I know him intimately, in fact."

"Ergh," Ron announces, with feeling.

"Don't start, either of you, please," Harry mutters, reaching up to shove his hand through his hair in
rising frustration. "I'm literally going to have to listen to people talk about—about Bellatrix, and
that's the last thing I want to do."

"It's not like they know the real story, Harry," Hermione says gently, her eyes softening with real
concern now, just like back in Fifth Year, back when Harry was so angry that he pushed her and
everyone away at every turn. And yet, here she is, still, offering her support. "Just don't listen to
them."

"I can yell at them if you want," Ron offers, seeming very ready to do just that. He probably
practices shouting in the mirror.

"Or," Draco suggests, drawing the word out like they're all idiots, "you could just give everyone
something else to talk about, you know."

Harry frowns at him. "Like what?"

"No idea. Not my problem. Figure it out; I'm going to have my coffee," Draco says with a shrug,
turning without another word and strutting away.

"Why do you fancy him again?" Ron asks, not for the first time and probably not for the last.

"Leave it, Ron," Harry mumbles, shaking his head in both amusement and exhaustion.

Merlin, he's been back less than an hour, and he's already tired beyond words. This really is going
to be a long month. Though, in retrospect, he sort of welcomes that. He plans to cherish each
second.

Harry makes his way over to the Gryffindor table with Ron and Hermione, easily falling back into
the old routine of doing practically everything with them. He even slides into the space between
them without a stutter, all because it's shaped just for him. They seem relaxed to have him there,
beaming in pure delight in ways that they can't—and won't—hide from anyone who looks.

A lot of people are looking.

There's whispers even in his own house, of course, which doesn't really surprise him. There's others
as well who call down from the table to welcome him back, who say it's good to see him, who start
asking him questions he doesn't want to answer. When the latter starts happening, Ron or Ginny
cuts in with that famous Weasley protectiveness, bluntly telling people to piss off, even people
they're friendly with under different circumstances.

The only person who doesn't say a word to him who he expected to is, surprisingly, Lavender.
She's a bit too busy glaring daggers at Ron or Hermione, which goes ignored by both. Parvati
makes up for her best friend's sullen silence, however, readily being nosy in her stead until Ron and
Ginny gang up on her at once to get her to shut up.

Throughout, Harry eats. He sinks into the familiarity of this, feeling right at home despite the many
stares and endless rumors. This was his first home, so it is only fitting that it be his last, and he
absolutely wouldn't have it any other way.
The whispers do turn out to be a good alarm system, though, because right in the middle of the very
good breakfast—as Harry is calmly lying to Hermione about promising not to slack off on classes
because of...well—there's a sudden spike in volume from the voices all around the room. It has
Harry, Hermione, and Ron breaking apart and looking up, the bubble containing them abruptly
popping for some reason they're not privy to yet.

People are, in fact, focused on him, but he can't quite work out why. Not until there's cold fingers
he'd know anywhere brushing the back of his neck and a pale hand reaching between him and Ron
to sit down a mug of what appears to be very pale, very blond, and probably very sweet coffee.
Harry tilts his head back in pure surprise, looking up at Draco.

"For you," Draco says, soft, not trying to raise his voice and not actually needing to.

Harry's lips curl up. "Thank you."

And then, without so much as batting an eye, Draco's cold fingers crawl up into his hair at the back
of his head, tilting his head further back, and he leans down to kiss Harry right there in front of
absolutely everyone.

Which, you know, that's not how Harry has expected his morning to go, but he's not really going to
complain, either. He reciprocates as easily as breathing, because of course he does. He's snogged
Draco often, and it's always good, even through tears, even when they're laughing, even if they
have an audience. It's not even a really innocent snog, either. There's definitely tongue, and Harry
literally doesn't give a fuck who notices.

As always, it's Draco who has to pull away, and he does with a hum—a throaty one that echoes
through the very silent hall. It's a very large room, and there are no sounds at all. No one is eating,
or talking, or moving. Draco ignores this entirely, ruffling Harry's hair in a rare show of affection,
then leans close to whisper in Harry's ear.

"Give them something else to talk about," Draco breathes, only to pull away entirely and smirk at
him. At normal volume, he says, "You're welcome."

With that and nothing else, he turns right back around and makes the trip back to the Slytherin
table with an air of someone who doesn't even realize other people exist and are staring at him. He
settles back in his seat, sliding in between Greg and Vince, picking up his fork and taking one of
his customary small bites, not even looking up.
Mere seconds later, the Great Hall explodes with talk, and Bellatrix Lestrange's name isn't
mentioned once. Harry coughs and picks up his coffee, sipping it and hiding a smile behind the
rim.

It tastes perfect.

Adjusting back to life at Hogwarts consists of coming to terms with the fact that he's grown rather
used to a life of leisure. Ever since last summer, he hasn't had an ounce of structure or a strict
schedule that he had to follow, nor has he had to bend to the will of authority from anyone.

He doesn't realize just how much he's come to relax into that until he no longer has it.

In some ways, it's not so bad. Voldemort actually did do a great job at being his Professor, because
Harry hasn't gone to one lesson he wasn't prepared for in some way already, not yet. His timetable
matches Ron's perfectly, which makes sense if he thinks about it, because he's very sure it would
have if he was here for the full term. Being back in classes with Ron—and Hermione, when she's in
them—is absolutely fantastic, especially now that he's a step ahead always and doesn't feel like an
idiot.

When Draco just so happens to be in the class with him, Harry spends a great deal of time trying to
get his attention, tossing parchment at him, or wordlessly flicking his wand so his chair will jolt or
the ends of his robes will float up or his quill will try to get up and walk off his desk. Harry thinks
it's rather funny after the years of not-so-harmless torment he had to endure from Draco, and Ron
has a great laugh every time, but Hermione—if she's there—disapproves, and Draco ignores him
like he doesn't even exist.

That...might be the reason Harry's doing it, but he'll be taking that information to the grave. No one
needs to know he has a crush on his boyfriend.

Some of the Professors don't seem to know what to make of him, which is fair. A few try to help
him because he's been gone, only to be visibly surprised when he obviously doesn't need it. Others
ignore him entirely. Very few scold him for his antics in class, seemingly wary to. Professor
McGonagall is an exception, of course, and she embarrasses him so badly in Transfiguration that
he actually shuts up and listens to her lecture without interference.
And then, of course, there's Snape.

He is, predictably, a way that is bad. Not only is he teaching Harry's favorite subject, but he also
seems to have recovered from the shock of information that he got only just the day before. Either
that, or he's good at hiding it. In any case, he treats Harry just like he always has in Hogwarts, and
it's...not really going well at all.

It goes off the rails the moment that Snape catches Harry levitating Draco's book from his hands.
Snape halts right in the middle of his demonstration, then sweeps all the way from the front of the
class to snatch Draco's book and slam it shut, letting it drop to the desk with a harsh thud before
whirling around to glare right at Harry.

"Mr. Potter," Snape says with a sneer, lip curling, voice silky and dripping with disdain.

Harry had stupidly hoped that they were past this, but it appears that isn't the case.

"Professor," Harry replies calmly.

"Here we go," Draco mutters, leaning back in his seat with a sigh and tilting his head back to stare
up at the ceiling like it can grant him patience.

Snape drifts over to halt in front of Harry and Ron's desk, glaring down his nose at him. "I
understand that you believe yourself superior to all the feeble minds in this classroom, Potter, but
students have come here to learn. Perhaps you could survive any situation thrown at you, but the
same cannot be said for everyone. You would not want to disrupt a lesson and be the cause of
someone's future misfortune, would you? Unless...do you not care?"

Harry realizes rather quickly that he doesn't have a Dark Lord to threaten Snape with, and for a
second, that actually makes his chest twinge with pain. Not only that, but Snape does have the
authority here, and Harry would not be wise to test it when he doesn't have Voldemort behind him
anymore.

Sighing, he says, "That's not it at all, sir."

"Do not disrupt my class again. Ten points from Gryffindor. Detention as well," Snape orders.
"What?" Harry blurts, balking. "Are you joking?"

Snape scowls at him. "No, obviously not. Your return does not grant you permission to strut about
as if you are—"

Harry, absolutely furious, stops listening. He just checks out, in a way he never has before, cutting
his gaze away carelessly. Used to, he would argue with Snape out of deep dislike and distrust, but
Harry doesn't dare to fall into that trap now, not here. If he gets angry enough, there's so many
endless things he could say to try and cause Snape pain. Not only that, but Harry's very sure that
Snape still has to tell him the truth, and there are some things that the other students in class
shouldn't hear.

So, being self-aware, Harry turns his gaze to something that will actually distract him and calm
him down, which just so happens to be Draco. Well, technically it's the line of his neck, pale and
pretty and very good at being distracting. It works a treat, and Harry's actually halfway to being
happy—as well as swallowing the saliva gathering rather quickly in his mouth—when Snape
smacks a hand down on the desk before him.

Harry jolts, blinking. "What?"

"Oh, am I boring you, Potter?" Snape snarls, only seeming to get angrier when Blaise and Ron—
both of which had been watching Harry completely ignore Snape—snort simultaneously. "Tell me,
what's so distracting that you can't even spare what little brain capacity you have to pay
attention?"

"Er," Harry says awkwardly, "Draco, sir?"

Snape stares at him. "Draco."

"Yes, sir," Harry confirms, completely straight-faced, not batting at eye. "His throat, specifically, if
you care to know. It's rather—"

"Ten more points from Gryffindor," Snape cuts in sharply, looking as if he'd like to kill Harry
himself and also as if he's swallowed a lemon whole.
"But sir," Harry needles, "you asked! And really, if you're going to punish me, you should punish
Draco as well for having a very nice, very distracting—"

"Ten more," Snape barks, practically trembling with rage now, and yes, Harry feels a lot better
having this way to provoke him. "Do you wish to make it fifty at once for your insolence? You will
control yourself!"

When Harry risks a glance, Draco is watching him with an eyebrow arched and a faint smirk on his
lips. It almost instantly urges Harry to keep poking at Snape, and it actually does bring a grin to his
own face, no matter how inappropriate it is.

"Sorry, sir," Harry says, not sorry at all, "it really can't be helped. I simply can't be held responsible
for where my eyes go."

"Is that so?" Snape narrows his eyes, and then he looks cruelly amused in the way only Slytherins
can. "In that case, I think you'll be spending your detention with a guest. Madame Pomfrey will be
more than happy to give you a lesson on consent and respect, seeing as you so clearly can't take
responsibility for your own feelings. In the meantime, however, I have a solution."

Harry, at present, would like to crawl under the desk and die. Everyone—even his own sodding
friends and boyfriend, the traitors—start snickering at Snape's obvious ridicule. Harry's clever plan
to mock Snape has backfired rather quickly, and now he wishes none of this would have happened
at all.

As if matters can't get worse, Snape flicks his wand and Harry's glasses ease off his face, folding
and landing gently on the desk, before a thick black ribbon wraps firmly around his eyes. Harry
starts in surprise, reaching up automatically to try and tug the ribbon away, but it is very firmly
stuck.

"How will I see, Professor?" Harry grits out.

"You will not," comes Snape's nasally, smug drawl. He's already walking away. "You cannot
control your eyes, as you've said. This will do. Pay attention."

Slumping, Harry sighs and keeps his eyes closed under the ribbon, feeling very much like a fool as
soft laughter sounds out around him. He recognizes Draco's laughter easily, his the loudest of them
all. Even Ron is chuckling, so Harry fumbles out a hand to whack him on what feels like his arm.
The ribbon stays on for the rest of the class, even when the students have to pair off and practice
Spells. Draco all but demands to be Harry's partner, leading him out to a spot in the room by the
hands, then repeatedly putting Harry on his arse because he can't actually see the Spells coming.

Harry eventually just sighs and resigns himself to his fate, remembering the times he could have a
go at Snape without repercussions and missing them. Just as he misses the man who provided him
that chance, but that's much more complicated and painful to think about, so he doesn't.

Another source of problems is Slughorn.

The man swings wildly between being absolutely fascinated by Harry and being visibly put off by
him. Between one second and the next, he can go from schmoozing up to Harry, to flinching and
stuttering as he firmly pulls away. There's a pattern to it, thankfully, and Harry's worked out in just
a day that the Potions Professor gets squeamish at any hint or reminder that Harry may or may not
be a murderer.

There are still quite a few people saying that Harry was possessed when he killed Bellatrix
Lestrange, and that seems to be the general consensus from the public, and Harry doesn't see the
point in trying to set the record straight. Everyone who matters, who he cares about, knows the
truth—and then only those who were there and who he trusts not to tell a soul know about
Pettigrew. Besides, he was pardoned on the grounds that he was in sound mind when he did it, just
to be careful, all because Fudge wanted to appease the public and likely because they had no actual
way to prove if Harry was possessed or not, short of Veritaserum. So, it's not like it really matters if
he confirms anything or not.

He suspects that, if he did, the public would still have their ever-changing opinion of him. No
matter what he does, everyone will think what they like about him, and there's nothing he can do
about it.

Either way, Slughorn clearly does want Harry to be a star student with a squeaky clean record, just
so he can collect the Harry Potter. But Harry doesn't actually come with a clean record, and the
chance that he might be more trouble than he's worth seems to frighten Slughorn when he's
reminded.

Harry doesn't actually...help, to be fair.

It's just that he doesn't like the way the man treats him. Slughorn sees the world the same way Mrs.
Malfoy said Lucius did—a web of endless connections—and that's bad enough. Not only that,
though, he also isn't above fostering his own connections early to children, all the while caring
nothing about those who have no connections of their own. To make matters worse, Slughorn
hasn't been very quiet about the fact that Harry's mother was his favorite, which is just…

Harry's not sure what it is. As much as he loves hearing about his mother, he can't help but wish
that the information wasn't flaunted out to him like currency, like Harry isn't absolutely bankrupt in
that regard. It all feels rather show-y, and it infuriates him often enough that Ron or Hermione have
to hiss warnings under their breaths to calm him.

All-in-all, by the time dinner rolls around on his first day back, Harry's had such an onslaught of a
day that he sort of just wants to retreat back to the dorms and hide away in his bed. The only reason
he doesn't is because leaving early would make his friends worry, and he has to talk to someone.

He enters the Great Hall between Ron and Hermione, and they're not even really paying attention
as they furiously bicker back and forth behind Harry, which is just as well. He uses that to his
advantage, taking a sudden right when he should be taking a left. None-the-wiser, they trail along
beside him without even seeing where they're going.

The Slytherin table is distinctly different from the Gryffindor table. Not in shape or size, but
certainly in the atmosphere. Slytherins are a bit more subdued where Gryffindors are generally
more rowdy, and there seems to be a strange hive-like mind to upper years at the Slytherin table, as
if they can all communicate without so much as opening their mouths. It's disconcerting, honestly.

The younger Slytherins are different, a bit more lively and open about what they're feeling. But,
from the way it looks, by the time a Slytherin makes it to Third Year, they've taken to a more
reserved way of action—quieter, more calculating, intuitive.

It's almost enough to send Harry tucking tail and running when he approaches the table and a wave
of heads all turn towards him. He's watched shrewdly, as is his friends, and Ron and Hermione
quickly realize that there's tension at all and finally stop bickering, stiffening and throwing him
betrayed looks, even if they're silent.

"Hello, Potter," Blaise drawls, then flicks his gaze to Hermione and Ron, "and company. Whatever
has made you grace us with your presence?"

"Er," Harry says, gesturing a little helplessly to the boy beside Blaise, "him."
Theo blinks at him. "Me? What do you want me with me now, Potter? Isn't it enough that you
almost killed me?"

"Come off it," Harry mumbles, grimacing in both genuine regret and open apology. "I just want to
have a word with you, is all. Whenever you can, if you have the free time."

"Oh, this should be good," Pansy suddenly murmurs, giggling and leaning forward with sparkling
eyes.

"Oh, Harry," Theo says, his voice abruptly a lot sweeter and his eyelashes fluttering, "I'd just love
to talk with you. I'll make the time for you, of course. Will we be alone?"

Harry scratches the back of his head, a rising sense of dread filling his stomach, though he can't
actually pinpoint why. He just has the feeling the Slytherins are all currently laughing at him and
not in a friendly way. Blaise and Pansy are certainly cruelly amused, at least, which is sending
alarm bells ringing through his mind.

"Actually, yeah," Harry admits slowly, frowning when Theo's eyes practically light up. "What?
What did I just say? I can tell you're all up to something, but I can't work out what it is."

"Oh, you are hopeless, aren't you?" Blaise muses, looking delighted.

Pansy snorts elegantly, because apparently there is an elegant way to do so and she has clearly
perfected it. "He's adorable, isn't he? I can almost see why Draco's so taken with him."

"Makes you want to have your way with him, yeah," Theo declares, smirking a bit.

"You know," Blaise drawls suggestively, leaning forward a bit with a very, very attractive smile in
place, "if you ever wish to—how should I say this?—broaden your repertoire of fit Slytherins to
find pleasure in, Pansy dearest and I would be more than willing."

"It's double the fun, darling," Pansy purrs, leering at him with dark eyes and a smirk.

Harry is frozen in place for a second, absolutely bowled over as he comes to realize that he's just
been offered a three-way shag by two of Draco's best friends—a couple as it is. It takes him a
second to wrap his mind around it because he just never expected it to be a thing that happens. Ron
and Hermione would never suggest such a thing to Draco, not even to tease him. Blaise and Pansy
don't even seem to be teasing at all.

His face and ears are absolutely on fire, and he's so very mortified. He wants to fold in half and
crawl under the table to hide away from the unfortunate amount of eyes on him at the moment. He
cannot believe that Blaise and Pansy just offered him that without so much as batting an eye, crude
and oddly open to it, like shagging is just a fun activity they do together—drawing people in
whenever they want to.

It reminds Harry that he hasn't gotten to shag his own boyfriend, and probably won't get to.

"Three's a party, four's an orgy," comes an achingly familiar drawl from behind him as Draco
walks up, easing up beside Harry with an amused look. He arches an eyebrow at his friends as he
presses the back of his cold hand to Harry's very hot face. "Look what you've done to him. You
broke him. Don't you know he has delicate Gryffindor sensibilities and he has to be eased into such
things?"

Pansy throws her head back and cackles, looking utterly delighted, and Blaise hums in visible
amusement as he says, "The art of subtlety, of course. We know of it. I suppose we just thought the
Chosen One would be a bit open-minded."

"He's innocent," Draco teases. "Be gentle."

Irritated, Harry huffs and smacks Draco's hand from his face with a scowl. "This is why everyone
thinks all Slytherins are a bunch of slags, you know. If you keep acting like you're all shagging
each other, people are going to believe it."

"Oh, don't be stuffy, darling," Pansy coos at him, flicking her fingers lazily. "We're just teasing.
You didn't mind so much when you were Arius, you know. I do miss him, really."

"I was him!" Harry squawks in offense.

"He was better suited for Draco," Blaise agrees blithely, tutting and shaking his head.
"Stop it," Draco says with a faint smile. "Harry has full abilities to get jealous of himself, so trust
that he will. I just said to be gentle."

Harry throws him a glare. "I'm so glad you're enjoying yourself. Don't expect me to come back
over here ever again."

"Do whatever you want," Draco says carelessly, reaching up to flick Harry's nose. He's unbothered.
"I don't care. Why are you here, though?"

"To flirt with Theo," says a nameless Slytherin who's a few seats down from Vince.

Draco stiffens. "Is that so?"

Harry starts to deny this, because it's not true, but multiple Slytherins at the table begin nodding in
complete seriousness. He blinks in astonishment, well and truly confused at how they unanimously
decided to absolutely ruin his life without so much as talking to each other. As if to make matters
worse, Theo—the fucking traitor—is nodding right along with them, smiling sweetly.

"He was not," Hermione cuts in hotly, jumping to his defense immediately.

"You have to say that," a girl who may or may not be Daphne Greengrass murmurs. "You're his
best friend. That means you and the tall, red one aren't reliable sources, lover."

Hermione gets flustered almost instantly at the endearment, and though—like Harry—she can't
show a blush the way Draco and Ron can, she exudes it in her actions, also like Harry. Honestly,
they could probably get away with so much more if they weren't so obvious in their
embarrassment, and Harry wonders if that's something they could work on as a unit. It would
benefit situations such as this when unnecessarily attractive Slytherins speak suggestively and
without restraint.

"I only asked to speak with him," Harry protests, glancing at Draco helplessly. "How is that
flirting?"

Draco sighs and scans the Slytherins lining the table, seemingly exasperated. "You know, if he was
a Slytherin, I would actually believe all of you. But he is a Gryffindor, and he is also an idiot, so
there's the very likely chance that he completely missed whatever trap Theo set for him and fell
into it. There's also the fact that Theo is a whore, who I will personally bleed like a nogtail if he
doesn't stop trying to shag my boyfriend!"

Multiple Slytherins deflate all at once as if their games have been ruined, like the evening
entertainment had to be cancelled. It's dramatic, frankly, and Harry decides then and there that he's
so thankful he was never a Slytherin. Also, Draco calling his own friend a whore is just… No,
Harry definitely doesn't belong here.

"I'm not trying to shag Harry," Theo says insistently. "We have a connection, Draco."

"I will slice you in half to help you sever it," Draco grits out. "If you start your antics again, I'll—"

"I didn't do anything," Theo cuts in, affronted. "Harry is the one who couldn't stay away from
me."

"I—what? What?" Harry blurts out, actually rearing back as a sharp stab takes up place in his
temple. He swears his eye twitches. "You know why I need to talk to you, you absolute pillock! I'm
with Draco; everyone already knows that!"

"Yes," Theo agrees, "for now."

Harry doesn't like that at all. He narrows his eyes and snaps, "He's all I'll want for the rest of my
life, and that won't change."

Pansy lets out a soft, exaggerated sigh. "Oh, how sweet. Bold, too, of course. And to think that
Potter of all people wants to chain himself to Draco; he's so brave."

"Harry," Draco says, amused, "they're riling you up. You're letting them."

"The rest of your life is a long time, you know," Blaise muses, tilting his head. "Draco must suck
cock wonderfully if you're so devoted."

Ron gags. Hermione actually gasps. And Harry? Well, he's still for a split second before he has his
wand out and Spell flying without much thought. Blaise goes sailing off the bench, landing with an
undignified grunt a few feet back. The entire hall has grown even more silent and still, and multiple
Slytherins are now holding their wands. Draco heaves a sigh like he is being inconvenienced.

Harry is very angry, all on Draco's behalf, and he's not entirely sure why. He knows that Draco's
friends are just teasing, and he usually enjoys it, but he has had a very long day and he doesn't at all
enjoy the jokes at the expense of his relationship. Least of all, he doesn't like anyone to remind him
of how little time he has left—the rest of Harry's life is not a long time, and so very few people
actually know it.

"What did I just say?" Draco mutters.

"Bit uncalled for, that," Blaise groans, slowly easing to his feet. He brushes dust off his robes and
lets Pansy fuss over him as he slides back into his seat. He is remarkably calm, considering what
just happened. "So he doesn't suck co—"

"Zabini," Ron cuts in harshly, "shut up, will you?"

"You're all so easy to tease," the girl who could be Daphne Greengrass muses. Her eyes drift to
Hermione again. "I see why Draco's always enjoyed it. What about you, sweetling? What riles you
up?"

Harry huffs and stows his wand. "Look, I've had a very long day. I'm just here to tell Theo to find
me when he's got the time. Now, I'm going to bed."

"If you skip dinner," Draco says, "I'll tell Mother."

"You wouldn't," Harry retorts sharply, though he knows very well that Draco would.

"Crabbe, Goyle, budge over," Draco snaps, gesturing to the hulking figures on the bench before
them. They've been eating this whole time, but they break and slide apart at Draco's command like
a unit. Draco waves his hand at Harry, as well as Ron and Hermione. "Sit, all of you."

"You're joking," Ron chokes out.

Draco arches an eyebrow at him. "I'm not."

"But—" Hermione glances wistfully towards the Gryffindor table, then bites her lip.

"For the sake of defiance towards the barbaric sorting system?" Draco offers suggestively, raising
his eyebrows. He's very manipulative, this one.

Harry knows already that Draco's going to get what he wants anyway. Draco usually does, because
he is an entitled, spoiled brat. If Harry didn't love him so much, he would hate him.

Sighing, he throws a sheepish look at his friends and clamors on the bench rather awkwardly.
Could be his imagination, but he's sure that it's colder than the ones at the Gryffindor table. Vince
grunts at him in greeting and slides a plate of sliced meat towards him, then goes right back to
eating. Moments later, Ron and Hermione hesitantly join him in sitting on his other side, and Draco
shoves Vince aside some more to fit in next to Harry.

"Blimey, I think I'm the first Weasley to ever be at the Slytherin table," Ron mutters, dazed.

"You aren't," Harry says in perfect unison with Draco, Blaise, Pansy, Theo, and about five other
Slytherins within close range.

For a beat, there's utter silence, and then Ron just whispers, "What?"

"Alcott Weasley," Draco drawls. "Sorted in 1857. Seven years a Slytherin and proud of it, only to
be shamed and forgotten by his own family when they...opposed the Pureblood ways in the
following decades."

"That's bullocks, isn't it?" Ron asks weakly, looking helplessly at Harry, a bit desperate.

Harry shakes his head apologetically. "Afraid not, mate. Mrs. Malfoy taught me quite a bit of
history about Purebloods, as well as the Sacred Twenty-Eight. Obviously, in the later years, the
Weasley family chose to stand correctly, even if it made them out to be called blood-traitors, but it
didn't start out that way. It was a different time, I think. You shouldn't worry about it."
"I shouldn't—" Ron makes a deep, wheezing noise. His eyes are wide. "How didn't I know this?!
Never heard of a Weasley being in Slytherin. It's just not done! Mum always said—"

"Your mother was a Prewett," Draco cuts in, staring at Ron with a smirk. "There was a Slytherin
one of those as well. Mafalda Prewett, sorted in 1839, who turned out to be quite the curse-breaker.
Would have been famous, I imagine, if she hadn't died so young." He pauses, looking down into
his cup with cruel amusement, then he looks right back at Ron, very clearly enjoying this. "She
married a Malfoy."

Ron pales very quickly.

"Sorry, just, can I—" Hermione huffs, leaning forward to address everyone, clearly in a mood to
say something. "I just want to say how utterly preposterous it is that Purebloods act like Muggle-
borns aren't necessary when they are! Do you know, without us, your family lines would be all
muddled and tangled, to the point that you'd have to marry cousins or even siblings eventually.
There's already so much incestuous relations involved now, all because you're all so determined not
to have dirty blood in your family. But, statistically, it's impossible not to have that in there
somewhere, or else you'd all be inbred, and I wouldn't be surprised if some of you are. Which,
frankly, that's a lot more disgusting than having Muggles for parents, if you ask me."

Harry winces, then can't help but smile. Honestly, Hermione can be utterly ruthless when she
wants to be. She also has a point. He's known this ever since Mrs. Malfoy started explaining
Purebloods and such, and she'd all but admitted to inbreeding, even in the Malfoy family.
It's...stupid, really.

"No one asked, Granger," Pansy snaps, flicking her hair over her shoulder with a sniff. She pauses,
then deflates a little. "We already know."

"It's true, they do," Harry confirms. "They went poking around the bloodlines to make sure Draco
and I aren't actually related."

"Yes, for Arius," Blaise agrees pointedly. "Not Harry Potter. Sadly, you still could be related."

"Oh, piss off, like all of you aren't related in some way. The Purebloods and the Sacred Twenty-
Eight is a complete mess," Harry grumbles, wincing.

Draco pats his arm in consolidation. "It's alright, Harry. We're a lot less related than Pansy and I
are, and I was supposed to marry her."

"I don't want to talk about this anymore," Harry says sadly. "I don't want to be related to my
boyfriend."

"Technically," Draco says, "we only share the same great aunt, but only by marriage. Not by blood.
It could certainly be worse, I assure you."

"That's a bit disgusting, mate," Ron tells Harry, piling food onto a plate.

Harry sighs. "Thanks, Ron."

"I think it's alright," Hermione says hesitantly, staring off into the distance with narrowed eyes.
She's thinking very hard. "What can you do when families are so tangled, in any case? You'd all
need Muggle-borns to fix the mess your ancestors left you with at this point, and really, you can't
all be guaranteed to fall in love with one."

"Especially not when it's practically a guarantee to get you disowned," Harry agrees with a huff.

The girl who must be Daphne Greengrass leans forward, staring right at Hermione. "I could be
convinced, darling," she says softly, sensually.

Hermione makes a small noise and ducks her head, picking something up from Ron's plate—
ignoring his protests all the while—and shoving it into her mouth. She's flustered, and Harry hides
a smile into the cup Draco passes him.

It's funny, almost, how things unfurl after that—and it really shouldn't be.

Harry's never really given much thought to how Slytherins and Gryffindors would get on, mostly
because he's always been sure that they just wouldn't. They've never had a reason to, and this isn't
that, not really, but it is something. It's absolutely nothing short of bizarre, but there's a certain
feeling to what transpires next in slow intervals.

It's seeing Slytherins in a way Harry never has past Draco, a way that he should have known they
were capable of because of his interactions with Draco. It should not be surprising, but perhaps the
sorting system really is barbaric, because it shocks him.

He'd expected the Slytherins to be a certain way, especially with how they've acted so far since he
arrived at the table, but they eventually—well, they sort of just...loosen up, really.

It's in the way Pansy silently piles food onto Theo's plate, even while mocking Greg for something.
It's how Blaise actually does take up conversation with Ron, willingly, discussing Quidditch
uniforms—all because Blaise likes fashion and Ron likes Quidditch. It's Hermione awkwardly
talking to Daphne Greengrass—who has been confirmed to be her for certain, thanks to a passing
comment from Draco—and it's immediately clear that the girls have never once given each other a
spare glance or thought before this very moment, but they just so happen to share a hatred for
Divination. It's the slow rise in volume as the surrounding Slytherins go back to eating and talking
amongst themselves, relaxing in increments, flashing quick smiles and teasing one another as
children often do.

Of course, there are more than quite a few Slytherins who glare at them, who look as if disgusted
that there are three Gryffindors at their table, one who just happens to be a Muggle-born. Some
people don't relax at all, not even enough to eat, and others look ready to start a fight, but they do
not for whatever reason.

But—despite this—there are a number of Slytherins who just seem...normal. There's no hive-like
mind. They're not being cruel. They're just teenagers, eating a meal, enjoying time with friends.

It makes Harry wonder how preconceived notions actually help anyone. All this time, the houses
have treated the other houses like foreign beings they'll never understand—creating problems
where it should not exist. In truth, they're all stupid kids shoved into a castle, learning about magic
and love and friendship, and they shouldn't have to worry about fighting amongst themselves on
top of it.

There must be a way that the Slytherins see the Gryffindors. Harry's never given much thought to
that, either. Perhaps they see them as brash, and stupid, and loud, and unnecessarily outgoing—
when in reality, they're just teens who happened to value bravery and courage over everything else.
It's like Gryffindors seeing Slytherins as crude, distant, ruthless, and cold—when in reality, they
simply have more appreciation for ambition and resourcefulness.

Neither of those things are wrong, exactly, but they've allowed that to shape the hostility between
each other, just as each house is guilty for. It's not even their fault, is the thing. Harry's starting to
think about it in depth, and his head is beginning to ache at the surrealism in it.
Students take on personalities from their own houses, molding themselves to fit, because they've
been told that's who they are. Houses really do influence the person, and while it's not all so bad, it
can become an issue when there are clear divides that wouldn't exist otherwise. It shouldn't be
about fitting into specific values related to one house; everyone should want to uphold the values
from every house. Harry is Gryffindor, yes, and he's always proud to be, but that does not mean he
doesn't belong at the Slytherin table, or the Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff tables for that matter. They
all do, they all should. They all belong everywhere.

"Bloody hell," Harry mumbles, "the sorting system is barbaric, Hermione."

"Yes, well, I told you," Hermione says with a huff, breaking her conversation with Daphne
Greengrass.

"I think it has some merit to it," Draco muses, tilting his head towards Harry in amusement. "Do I
enjoy being taught and told that I won't like Gryffindors? Not particularly. Was the system actually
wrong? No, as it turns out, I do not like Gryffindors. Can't fault the system there."

"Shut up," Harry snaps. "You like me."

"Debatable, honestly," Draco drawls.

Pansy snorts in that elegant way of hers. "Oh, darling, it's really not. You've been obsessed with
Potter for years."

"Yeah," Harry agrees with vicious delight, "you made me buttons."

"Oh, the irony," Ron says, snickering. "You were such a little snot because you had feelings."

"You're one to talk, Weasley," Draco retorts coldly, his tone cutting, going right for the jugular as
all Slytherins tend to do. "Shall I mention just how many times you've had a go at Granger, or
would your feelings threaten to swallow you whole, leaving you to inevitably lash out at her again
because you haven't quite worked out how to tell her that you have a wittle cwush?"

Hermione—who is engrossed in conversation with Daphne Greengrass—thankfully misses this

comment, which means Ron does not completely lose it. He does blush, however, profusely. "Piss
off, Malfoy. You don't know what you're on about."
"I do, unfortunately," Draco drawls. "My advice? Granger seems the type to value someone who
will actually talk to her honestly, so perhaps you should do that. But, of course, what do I know?"

"Leave him alone," Harry mutters, defending his best mate, even if he's sure that his boyfriend is
right. To be fair, Draco's not actually being nice about pointing out all of this with Hermione only a
seat away. It's just not on. "Not everyone has to have everything figured out so quickly, you know.
It took us a bit, didn't it?"

"We didn't start out as friends," Draco says.

Harry pauses, then sighs. "Yeah, alright, you've got me there. Still, since France, Draco. France!"

"What happened in France?" Theo asks. "Rumor has it Draco took Arius there. Well, Harry,
actually."

"It's where Draco should have kissed me," Harry declares bluntly. He doesn't even wince when
Draco swats him on the arm. "What? You should have. That was the only way it could have been
better."

"Why was it my responsibility to start this relationship?" Draco sniffs, glaring down at the plate
he's sliding towards Harry. "You could have kissed me, you git."

"Well, you fancied me longer, and you knew about it before I did," Harry tells him, shrugging.

Ron makes a weak sound and turns further away, leaning closer to Hermione to join that
conversation instead. Daphne Greengrass allows him to barge his way into the talking with cool
eyes, glancing between Ron and Hermione with something like consideration. Harry quickly looks
away.

"That's the same thing I told Pans." Blaise gestures to his girlfriend, eyes softening when he looks
at her, though he's smirking. "It wasn't very traditional, mind you, but it was fun."

Pansy shares a look with Draco, one full of solidarity, as if they've both been subjected to ridiculous
boyfriends. Perhaps they have. Like Blaise, Harry doesn't really mind the thought.
"Stop stalling," Draco demands, gesturing to the plate he's pushed insistently in front of Harry.
"Eat, already, or I really will tell Mother."

"I hate you," Harry lies in a grumble.

Draco hums. "And I hate you. Look at that, we're finally in agreement about something."

"It only took six years," Harry says dryly.

"Better late than never," Draco muses, lips twitching before he ducks his head to hide it.

Harry flicks his gaze around the absolute bizarre scene in front of him now, somehow finding
peace in it despite the oddness of it, and he allows himself to smile without hiding it at all. "Better
to have what you can, when you can, for however long you can, rather than not have at all."

"Gryffindors," Draco scoffs, sharing disgusted looks with his friends, a large group of Slytherins
looking appalled or amused.

Yet, Harry feels cold fingers slide over his hand underneath the table, threading through and
interlocking, squeezing just a bit.

Harry squeezes back.

His first day comes to a close as he says goodnight to Ron and slips into the cold bed he hasn't
slept in since Fifth Year. In a distant, abstract way, he'd thought that the last time he did would be
the last time he ever would, and the sad part is that he could not—still cannot—remember his last
time at all.

He closes the hangings, blinking into the darkness, breathing slowly. He can pick out the sounds he
has only just forgotten—the creak of Neville's bed as he tosses and turns, Seamus's deep sighs, the
onslaught of Ron's light snores as he falls asleep almost instantly, and Dean's too-slow breathing
that used to alarm him long ago before he realized that it was simply normal for him. He hasn't
realized how much he's missed it until he has it again, and there's a particular kind of guilt that
comes with the knowledge that he'd give it up to sleep with Draco instead. He forgives himself for
it, however, aware that nightmares will reach him tonight.

He doesn't want to sleep. He also doesn't want to think. He's terrified that both will lead to
Voldemort.

He has done a wonderful job of not thinking of Voldemort today, distracting himself in classes,
trying to cherish each moment with his friends and his boyfriend, even going as far as listening to
the rumors bouncing around the halls to keep his mind off it. It's easier, in a way, to worry about
Houses, and friendships, and relationships, and various Professors, than to worry about him.

Because Harry is worried.

There's been no spikes of anger, no unfiltered rage in his mind, no attempts at possession or even a
blasted twinge in his scar. There's just...nothing. If there is something, he's going to have to go in
search of it, or it will invade his dreams, and Harry's not really eager for either option.

Deep down, he is guilty. Even deeper, he aches with something simple—missing someone,
missing an idea and a distant dream. Deeper than all of that, there is fear of disappointment, of
rejection, of hatred in the place of what once was tentative care. Harry knows it will all be there,
laying in wait, and he just...doesn't want to have it confirmed.

So, Harry tries not to sleep, and he tries not to think, but is absolutely knackered after the last two
days he's had, and he only succeeds in the latter. After all, he can't think very much if he's falling
asleep.

He dreams, alright, though it is a nightmare unlike any other. In it, there is a cliff. On the edge,
Voldemort and Dumbledore are falling backwards off it, hands reaching out. They never say a
word, both simply waiting, and Harry is running. He's running so fast, trying so hard to make it in
time, desperate to get to—to...who? He's reaching out, picking one to save, and he doesn't know
who it is, not until his fingers curl around—

When he jerks awake, there's tears on his cheeks.

The rest of the week is much like the first day, confusing and hard and mundane and also
everything in between.

People gossip wherever he goes, and likely wherever he isn't, whispering amongst themselves
about his relationship with Draco. As Harry understands it, people think they're dating, or they
think they're pulling some sort of prank, or they think Draco is with both Hermione and Harry, or
they think Harry is evil now, or maybe Draco is good, or or or…

The rumors do not stop, and Harry's sure they never will. He's resigned himself to it at any rate,
thankful in part that people aren't talking about him killing Bellatrix Lestrange anymore.

A problem outside of all the rest crops up in the form of Theo. At first, Harry's determined to give
him time. After all, it's not an easy thing to talk about his task, is it? But it soon becomes clear that
Theo is actively avoiding the conversation for whatever reason, either leaving entirely whenever
Harry attempts to approach him or turning to aggressively flirting until Harry's annoyed enough to
make a quick escape—or Draco is.

That's something that is entirely different from Fifth Year—the odd mixture of friends that can
either feel simple or like walking a tightrope. Harry wastes absolutely no chance to be around
Draco, and he refuses to separate from his friends to get it. Seeing as he's going to die, Ron and
Hermione indulge him without argument, sacrificing their own comfort to give him what he wants.

In some ways, it's not so bad. Hermione has already spent time with Draco, Pansy, and Blaise. Ron
has, too, though not nearly as much and not with the active decision to try and give them the benefit
of the doubt. Theo, however, isn't one they're entirely comfortable with, and Daphne's sudden
appearance in the group is disconcerting.

Personally, Harry doesn't mind so much. He has no problems with any of them, and maybe he
would have done well in Slytherin because he can easily fall into their banter. That could be
Draco's influence, though, to be fair. It takes a few days before Ron and Hermione are comfortable
enough to even try to joke back, and even then, they seem uncertain by it.

The rest of the students watch all of their interactions with incredulity and sometimes judgement.
Younger Years are more impressionable, so they don't have much to say about it, but there's not a
Fourth Year and up who doesn't have an opinion on it. Some of those opinions are curious, few are
even supportive, and an unfortunate amount are derisive and dismissive.

Harry doesn't care. Every single day he wakes, he knows he comes a day closer to his last, and he
doesn't have time to give a shite what others think about it all. He takes every single scrap of joy he
can from those he loves, and he lets himself be selfish, because he feels that he has earned it.

The Professors, of course, have little to say on the matter—or they simply do not voice their
opinions, much like they usually don't. That includes the Headmaster. Harry can often feel
Dumbledore's gaze on him during meals, but he hasn't looked at the man once since the first
morning in the Hospital Wing. He's almost hoping that he can get through the rest of this month
without having to speak to the man.

Almost.

In any case, things are...continuing. That's just what things do. Days keep going, and people keep
talking, and there's always another conversation to have or a class to get to or something. No rest
for the wicked, nor the pure, and Harry still doesn't know which he is. He doubts he ever will and
thinks that, perhaps, he is a mixture of both.

As the week comes to a close, Harry has a detention with Snape to get to, and he's not at all looking
forward to it. He tells Draco and his friends as much, but they have no sympathy for him.

"Even I think you earned that, mate," Ron tells him, kicking back in his chair where they're all
sitting around a table in the Library.

Harry huffs. "You only think that because you don't like to hear me talk about Draco."

"You were being rather ridiculous, Harry," Hermione chides, raising her eyebrows.

"I approved," Blaise informs him.

"In his defence," Theo says softly, turning a smirk to Draco, "it is very easy to get distracted by
Draco."

"It's like you want either of them or both of them to kill you," Pansy mutters, rolling her eyes.

"Or shag you," Blaise adds.

Theo shrugs, eyes glinting with amusement. "Either option would do, or perhaps both, if they were
interested. Are you interested, Harry, Draco?"

"Yes, of course," Draco drawls, not even looking up from his book. "It will be an orgasmic moment
where Harry and I will writhe in your blood. You'll transcend from the sheer force of your awe."

"No thanks," Harry declares flatly.

"Come now, Harry, don't tell me you wouldn't want to snog me while covered in Theo's blood."
Draco glances up from his book then with a smirk.

Harry sighs. "I would not."

"Liar," Draco whispers, like he's telling a very naughty secret. "You enjoyed it last time."

"Piss off," Harry wheezes, blood rushing to his face and trying to leave it all at once, "I was only
covered in his blood because—well, I wasn't planning to kill him. You're all horrible and I hate
you. I'm going to go because an evening with Snape would be better than being with you lot."

Ron immediately puts his quill down, looking relieved. "Oh, yeah, let's just leave. I'll walk you as
far as I can. About time you started back on hating the Slytherins, Harry. I was starting to think you
never would."

Daphne presses her hand to his arm. "You haven't finished your essay. Stay."

"I—what?" Ron blinks, eyes a little wide, looking spooked like Daphne touching him is something
to be afraid of. It might be. "Er…"

"Do as she says, Ron," Hermione murmurs, pouring over books and parchment, her hair a bit wild
like always and a blot of ink on her nose. She looks adorable and scary, frankly, and not at all
threatened by Daphne touching Ron so casually.
Ron, gobsmacked, deflates in his chair and glances at Harry a bit helplessly, but he says, "Yeah,
alright. Er, see you later, mate?"

"Yeah," Harry says simply, swallowing a small laugh. He gathers his things and stands from his
chair, craning down to kiss Draco's forehead before he can be swatted away. "See you at breakfast.
Why don't you sit with us this time?"

"I'd rather die," Draco replies blandly, but he does tilt his head back to accept an actual kiss to
smoothe over the backhanded insult to Harry's House.

"You're a prat," Harry informs him, then kisses him on the nose.

This time, Draco swats at him, scowling and sneering like it can take away the fact that he is also
blushing. "Get out of my sight, you idiot."

Harry snorts and waves before heading away, leaving his eclectic group of friends behind with a
shake of his head. It is strange, really, because it shouldn't work as well as it does. But it
just...does.

Of course, there are some complications, like with all things. Harry doesn't get to see Draco nearly
as much as he wants to. In the past, he used to despise how often Draco just used to always be there
when he never wanted him to be, but now he wishes he could have a little more of that.

But, unfortunately, classes really do make them all rather busy. Without Voldemort as a Professor,
Harry's sure he would be drowning underneath the strain of it. As it is, it does take up some of his
time when he allows it. There's really no point, he often argues, seeing as he's going to die soon
anyway, so he allows himself to slack off some. Even still, he manages to do well enough in classes
so that no one can fuss at him about it. The others, though...they have a future to look forward to,
and they can't just make more time.

So, Harry's devised some solutions of his own. It mostly consists of drifting to Draco's side
whenever he sees him and dragging whatever friends he has with him at the time along. Ginny and
Luna are two who come without complaint, and sometimes it's not even so bad, but Dean, Seamus,
and Neville often excuse themselves as quickly as possible. Harry doesn't blame them; they don't
know that he's losing time with each passing second. Not many people do, actually. Just Draco,
Hermione, Ron, Snape, and Dumbledore.
He refuses to tell anyone else.

Anyway, his determination to have both worlds collide and shape around his bonds with both has
only worked in bits. It's not often, but Harry can sometimes convince Ron and Hermione—as well
Ginny and Luna once, which had been...tense—to join him at the Slytherin table for at least one
meal in a day. It always leads to whispers and derisive comments from the other Houses, or even
some Slytherins who seem to want to protest, but again...Harry really doesn't care. He can't get
Draco to come back to the Gryffindor table for anything, and not even using his dying excuse will
work, so he just bridges the gap with the bravery he's had in him for years. It helps if they plan it
beforehand, to give their friends some warning, and they usually always settle on breakfast. Just
like this time.

All he has to do is get through this detention with Snape, get some sleep, then breakfast will be
here. He's never eager to lose time, not unless it gets him closer to the moments he wants to
cherish.

He definitely wants to rush past the sleeping portion. Every single night, he has that same dream
that he did on his first night, and he always wakes with tears and a frustrated scream crawling up
his throat. He never knows which hand he grabbed in the dream, only aware that he did make a
choice, because he had to. That's where the frustration comes from, and he has no choice but to
swallow it down. Often, he wonders if Voldemort is there in the dreams and what he makes of it, if
he is.

In regards to him, Harry still has felt nothing. With each passing day, the unease and guilt rises.
Voldemort isn't responding, and Harry doesn't know what to do about that. He's not sure there's
anything he can do. So, again, with no other choice, he just deals with it and tries not to hate
himself for it.

It seems like he doesn't have many choices as of late, and he hates that he would if he were with
Voldemort instead. How dare he be so—so—

Harry misses him terribly and hates that he does. It would be easier if he could be angry with him,
like he was angry with Dumbledore, but it's Harry who has done the betraying this time.

Sighing, Harry tries to shove his thoughts away as he makes it to Snape's stupid sodding classroom,
where he's being a stupid sodding Professor, ready to force Harry to partake in a stupid sodding
detention. Yes, Harry is still bitter about it. Of all the things he expected after Snape learned the
whole truth, it was not that Snape would still hate him so deeply. Lily would be disappointed,
Harry thinks, and he's tempted to tell Snape this, if only to be cruel.
When he's waved inside, Harry's a little mortified to see Madame Pomfrey actually inside as well.
He approaches warily, meeting the medi-witch's eyes and not at all liking the sharp amusement in
her gaze. Snape's face is perfectly blank.

"As I understand it," Madame Pomfrey starts, by way of greeting, "you're apparently sorely
mistaken, or lacking, in sex education, Mr. Potter, yes?"

It is something of a wonder that Harry does not spontaneously combust right then and there. As it
is, he simply lets out what may or may not be a humiliating whimper and wishes for death. It only
proceeds to spiral and get worse.

What comes next is a very, very long and clinical conversation about things that no child wants to
hear from any adult, least of all the woman who has treated his wounds, in the presence the man
who used to be in love with his mother—possibly still is—and hated his father and bullies him
because of it. It is informative, no-nonsense, and embarrassing.

There's explanation of consent, as well as everything from sodding snogging to—to lubricant, and
Harry wants to crawl under a table. His face is on fire the entire time, likely displaying his utter
horror against his will as Madame Pomfrey professionally and without missing a beat gives him a
very thorough lesson on how one should be respectful of their partner, including their pleasure. It
is, quite frankly, the worst kind of torture Harry has ever endured, and that's saying a lot
considering everything he's been through.

Distantly, he ponders who would have had this conversation with him otherwise. His father, likely,
if he'd been alive. He wonders if it's pathetic to mourn even that experience, humiliating as it surely
would be, but he'd rather it from his dad. If not him, though, what about Sirius? Harry tries to
imagine how that would have gone, and he can't actually picture it, which is both tragic and a
relief. Mrs. Malfoy is out of the question, as is Lucius, and the idea of Dumbledore or Voldemort
even daring to try would drive anyone mad from the hysterical ridiculousness, since it is so
farfetched.

Harry's almost half-sure that these are the sorts of things you learn from friends, just so you can
escape this sort of situation where you'd rather die than ever get the information at all. But even
that isn't something he can conjure in his mind—a conversation like that with Hermione or Ron
would be...equally horrible. Frankly, though, they're only friends he would be able to survive the
conversation with, if only because they'd all be mortified together.

The point is, this isn't the type of thing that happens with Snape, and Harry knows from the very
beginning that this is just literal torture. It's just rude, is what it is, and Harry hates him so much.
"Any questions?" Madame Pomfrey asks approximately half an hour later, watching him with
raised eyebrows.

Harry, who is doing his best to shove his subconscious from his body, chokes out, "N-No."

"Good," Madame Pomfrey says easily. "Now, as I said, you can come to me for protection and—"

"Thanks, b-but I'm alright," Harry stutters, practically vibrating the deep-seated need to get as far
away from this conversation as possible.

"Very well. With that, I'll leave you to the remainder of your detention." She turns to nod at Snape,
stern and serious and fucking laughing a little. "Thank you for consulting me, Professor."

Snape hums, continuing his fair impression of someone bored. "Goodnight, Madame Pomfrey."

"Goodnight," Madame Pomfrey echoes, turning to Harry to ensure he knows he's included in that.

He thinks that's a bit ridiculous, seeing as he's never going to have another good night ever again.
This is going to haunt him until his last breath, and they're both cruel for it. Voldemort would have
never put him through such a thing.

Without another word, Madame Pomfrey takes her leave, probably heading back to the Hospital
Wing.

The sad part about all of this is that Harry's not even going to be able to shag his sodding boyfriend
anyway! He won't ever have the time for it, and if he did, they'd still wait a while to do it the right
way, so it's not like this conversation was in any way necessary. It's just...there now, in his brain,
one of the most disastrous memories he'll have to endure for the rest of his very short life.

"I hate you," Harry whispers into the silence.

Snape stands up from behind the desk, arching an eyebrow. "I'm aware. Come with me, Potter."
Because he can't go crawling back to Voldemort now, Harry has no other choice but to follow
Snape out of the classroom. He does it in pressing silence, mentally trying to scrub his brain the
way he would a cauldron, but like all terrible things, the memory stubbornly clings. It's going to be
in his nightmares, he's sure of it, and a ridiculous part of him wonders what Voldemort would think
of that.

They move through the quiet halls together. Most students are heading to their Common Rooms,
seeing as it's getting closer to curfew, so it's fairly silent the whole trip. Harry's not even sure where
they're going, not until he catches the gargoyle in the distance, and then he wishes he could go back
to the conversation with Madame Pomfrey. Even that would be better than this.

"Ice Mice," Snape mutters.

The gargoyle jumps out of the way, and Harry warily follows Snape up the winding staircase. He
doesn't want to see Dumbledore, not so soon, but he doesn't seem to have a choice in the matter—
once again, he's reminded of the freedom he lost in betraying Voldemort. No, that's not enough to
make him change his mind, but it does annoy him.

The thing is, Harry sort of does want to see Dumbledore again. He's trying not to, forcing himself
not to give into ridiculous hope once more, but the man has meant so much to him for so long. It's
not like Harry doesn't get it, after all, because he does. He understands what Dumbledore is doing.
And it hurts, it really does, but Harry can't truly hate him, no more than he can Voldemort.

Inside the office, Dumbledore is sitting, fiddling with the bowl of lemon drops like he's thinking
about whether he wants one or not. When he sees them come in, he glances up with a benign smile,
eyes twinkling behind his glasses once more.

The impact that image has on Harry nearly steals his breath. For a moment, he's eleven and twelve
and thirteen and fourteen again, something in him quivering with awe and excitement and hope
because Albus Dumbledore is looking at him like that, like simply seeing Harry has brought him a
small slice of joy, like Harry actually matters.

"Ah, thank you, Severus," Dumbledore murmurs, peering at Snape over his glasses. "I thought the
detention was set for earlier. Were you delayed?"

"Briefly," Snape replies in that slow, naseley drawl of his, a small smirk flashing across his face. "I
hope you do not mind, Headmaster."
Dumbledore looks faintly curious. "Not at all. You didn't actually have him punished, did you?"

"No," Snape lies, because that is a lie. "I merely provided him with...imperative information that he
seemed to be lacking."

"I—you—" Harry gapes at Snape, several things clicking in his mind all at once. "You didn't even
give me detention because I had to serve detention! You did it to get me to Dumbledore!"

"Yes," Snape answers, though it wasn't a question. He's apparently happy to be honest about this.

Harry wants to actually physically attack Snape, but he refrains. Barely. "Why couldn't he summon
me himself?! And—and you did punish me!"

"Did I?" Snape looks at him coolly, arching an eyebrow. "How so?"

"You—you—" Harry sputters for a second, then realizes he never wants to think or talk about what
happened ever again. He grits his teeth and looks away, ignoring Snape's victorious smirk.

"If that will be all?" Snape asks Dumbledore.

"Of course, Severus. Thank you," Dumbledore says, then is silent as Snape leaves and for long
after. Until, "It seems Severus took advantage of my request for him to escort you here. I apologize,
Harry, I should have anticipated it. I thought it best not to draw attention to us meeting."

"Who would care?" Harry mutters, staring at Fawkes rather than look at Dumbledore. "It's not like
we never did before."

"When it comes to the fall of Lord Voldemort, it is best to be careful in every way we can."
Dumbledore pauses, the silence weighted with something Harry can't quite make sense of yet, and
he doesn't want to. Then, Dumbledore goes on to speak, careful about it. "We can't trust everyone
we hope to, Harry, no matter what we wish to believe they're capable of. You must be cautious."

Ah.
Harry gets it now. That thing he wasn't getting before. It suddenly becomes very clear.

For a moment, Harry thinks about a memory from what feels like ages ago, back when Draco was
Malfoy and Harry was scared of himself. Draco had said that Harry would either be Dumbledore's
pawn or Voldemort's knight in the grand game of Wizard's Chess they are locked into, and thinking
about it now, Harry can't help but agree. He didn't want to acknowledge it then, and now he's faced
with the reality of it where he can't brush it off.

Harry is reminded rather quickly that Dumbledore has already been in wars like this, with both
Grindelwald and Voldemort. He knows what he's doing, and he knows each player on the board, as
well as the best ways to manipulate them. Up until recently, Harry was a piece he could manipulate
flawlessly, but things have changed now. Dumbledore can't do it so easily anymore, having lost
Harry's trust, and he has to tread lightly, even though Harry's already made his choice.

Being a pawn for the world isn't so bad, not really, but he refuses to be manipulated any further.

It feels akin to being slapped in the face.

Harry slowly turns to look at Dumbledore, wondering what he expresses on his face to cover all the
carefully twined threads of his plans, trying to see what vaneer he provides to veil the tight grip of
his control he cradles so close to his chest. All he is met with is...nothing, really. Patience and calm,
twinkling blue eyes, the ease of a person who can command a room but chooses not to, someone
who finds the delights in living and being odd but fights wars and wins duels. A duality, even in
him, Harry notes. Nothing is so simple, nor is anybody.

"Why did you trust Snape, sir?" Harry asks calmly, staring right at Dumbledore without faltering.

There is some kind of serenity in having made his choice already, a sense of freedom in what he
says and does. He won't stray, or be swayed, but that does not mean he can't be open and honest to
anyone he feels he couldn't before. In the past, he wouldn't have faced Dumbledore like this. But
Harry is going to die, and he's going to help save the world, and Dumbledore is just the man who's
going to let him.

"Severus, though he may not seem to, has a good heart," Dumbledore tells him. "He loves, and he
does so fiercely. I trusted him and still do because I know that I can."
"Snape became a Death Eater, though."

"He was young and misguided. With time, he came to see the error of—"

"Yes," Harry cuts him off, rudely and without an ounce of respect, "and that's when you looked at
him twice, not a moment before. When he was just that idiot child who liked the Dark Arts and
wanted to prove himself to Voldemort, you did not know his heart. You didn't care to, did you? Not
until he showed it to you."

Dumbledore looks pensive now, though he's still calm, and his answers are coming slower. "He did
show it to me, yes. I am thankful to have seen it."

"It was for my mum, wasn't it?" Harry asks.

"Ah," Dumbledore replies, his face softening just a bit as he looks at Harry, "yes it was, my boy.
When he heard that your mother and her family would be targeted because of the Prophecy, he
asked me to protect them, to protect you."

Harry shakes his head. "It was never about me or my father, and I don't have to ask him to know
the truth. You don't have to lie on his behalf, sir. When Voldemort did what he did, when he killed
my mum, that's when Snape came to you officially, wasn't it?"

"Yes."

"How old was he?"

"Twenty-one," Dumbledore answers softly.

Harry swallows thickly, nodding sharply. "And what did you tell him to gain his loyalty?"

"I did not demand his loyalty, Harry."

"No, maybe not, but you wanted it. After all, you knew Voldemort would come back one day, and
having a spy couldn't hurt. So, what did you say?"

Dumbledore has lost his twinkle and he looks sad once more, frowning faintly. "I never intended to
use him. He wanted to help because of his love. You still remained, and I reminded him of that,
and he made the choice to do what he could for you. He cares for you, whether you know it or
not."

"Maybe," Harry allows, though the possibility makes his heart clench just a bit. "Maybe not.
Maybe it's for me, or just for my mother, and I don't actually care which it is. That's not the point."

"What is?" Dumbledore asks simply.

"He was twenty-one. He was young and misguided and grieving the woman he loved," Harry
murmurs, holding Dumbledore's gaze. "Before he could mourn, before he could move on and
make a life for himself, you encouraged him to always carry his mistake and try to make up for it.
You gave him a mission in the name of my mother, and you think that you never intended to use
him?"

Dumbledore stares at him. His voice, when he finally speaks, wavers just a little. "Severus made
the choices he did through love, Harry."

"Yeah," Harry rasps, "I know all about those. It doesn't make it right or fair, and you know it. I
don't have to wonder why he's treated me how he always has anymore, and now I know why you
usually allowed it. I suppose, if it was me in his position, I'd be angry at me, too." He smiles
slightly, bitter and harsh, humorless. "But you should know, sir, that I trust Draco for the same
reasons you trust Snape, except I cared enough to look at his heart before it could be broken and
used."

Dumbledore drops his gaze. It's not from shame, Harry knows that. Possibly just to bide his time,
or just to think on his response.

The thing is, Harry knows what Dumbledore meant by being cautious. It's not even...terrible,
really, in the grand scheme of things. Treading carefully when you're planning to take down the
Dark Lord isn't bad advice or anything, so it's not like Dumbledore is being particularly malicious.
He's not.

Suggesting that Draco—a sixteen-year-old boy—is someone to be cautious of, however, might just
be the most ridiculous thing Harry has ever witnessed from the man. It's not unfounded, entirely,
because of who Draco's parents are and where their loyalties are said to be pointed. Any threat to
this plan is one to consider carefully, one to avoid at all costs, and Harry knows why Dumbledore
would see it that way.

Unfortunately, Harry is mildly disgusted by the insinuation anyway. Because Dumbledore would
not say that about Ron or Hermione, because Draco is just a sixteen-year-old boy, because Harry
knows why Dumbledore even considers him.

Dumbledore sees all the pieces on the board, and because of Harry, Draco happens to be one. Just
not one that Dumbledore can make sense of or control in any capacity. In the same way that
Dumbledore recognized Snape's love for Lily as an opportunity, he's aware that Draco's love for
Harry could be a problem. He knows what lengths people of any age would go for love, and he
doesn't trust Draco as Harry does, because he has not witnessed his heart or cared to look before.

It's not wrong, but it is far from right, and that can't be the first time such a notion has been a
motivation for Dumbledore. Doing what he thinks he has to, even if it isn't quite right, but not
wrong enough that he can afford to stay out of it.

That's why Harry almost asks why Dumbledore let him be put with the Dursleys right then and
there. Almost opens his mouth and demands to know, almost voices his agonized suspicion that
Dumbledore knew about their mistreatment and allowed it, for more than just blood protection. But
he doesn't, because the mere chance that Dumbledore will actually tell him, and what he might say,
makes him swallow the words.

If Dumbledore were to admit to such a thing, Harry knows that he would go back to Voldemort
tonight. He knows it, deep in his bones, like it's a fact sewn by the strings of his heart into his very
soul. It would be wrong and selfish and completely unfair to the entire world, and Harry would still
do it.

So he doesn't ask.

"If you trust him, I will do the same," Dumbledore says, quiet and with finality, which is good. It's
the least he could do, after all. He glances back up to meet Harry's gaze. "You should sit. There are
things I would like to discuss with you."

"Alright," Harry mumbles, moving forward to sit down, awkwardly fiddling with his fingers.
Dumbledore smiles at him kindly. "First, I would like to assure you of the safety of Mr and Mrs.
Malfoy. They are both protected, just as you asked. Mr. Malfoy was...resistant, as I understand it,
but they have settled in. Andromeda Tonks has helped them to do so."

"Excellent," Harry blurts in genuine relief and delight, perking up in his seat. "Thank you, sir."

"It was the least I could do," Dumbledore murmurs, because apparently he is self-aware. "There is
another pressing matter that I wanted to discuss with you. Severus has informed me that Voldemort
has left the Malfoy Manor."

"You knew he was there?"

"I did. I didn't know you were."

Harry sighs. "Have been since the beginning of the summer. I left my things behind."

"If they're important to you, I don't think Severus would mind retrieving them for you,"
Dumbledore offers. "The Manor is empty, though it is not wise for anyone to linger for very long."

"There's no point, is there?" Harry shrugs lazily and averts his eyes. "I'll be dead soon. Anything I
have can just—just be there, I suppose. I'll tell Draco who can have what. It's fine."

Dumbledore draws in a short breath, quick, like the reminder of Harry's approaching death steals it
before he can catch it. But, when Harry looks up, he seems as composed as ever. "Yes, well, it
seems that Voldemort has...disappeared entirely. It is apparently not to wherever he goes that
Severus can't give me the location to."

"H—" Before Harry can actually say Hollow Hill, the words die in his throat, and he blinks. For a
second, he's just thankful that he didn't accidentally blurt the name, then he understands why he
didn't. "Oh. Fidelius, is it?"

"So it would seem," Dumbledore says, peering at him with light curiosity. "I am quite surprised
that you were informed of the location, Harry. Only Voldemort himself can do so, if Severus is
correct."
"Voldemort told me," Harry admits. And Draco, he realizes, frowning slightly. He'd said it so
casually, as if them knowing doesn't matter. "I've been."

Dumbledore blinks at him. "He took you there."

"Yes," Harry answers, even if it wasn't a question. The slight discomfort on Dumbledore's face is
both hilarious and disheartening. "Don't worry, sir. I didn't start training to be his apprentice or
anything. I imagine he would have been okay with that, but the idea of it put me off. I'm sure you
know why."

"I do," Dumbledore says, and it sounds like he really does. "You may have come to care for him,
but you have always been true to what is right."

"Have I?" Harry wonders. "I mean, I set a rather large snake after my cousin when I was just
eleven, sir. That's sort of a cruel thing to do, isn't it? I'm almost sure he pissed himself, and I
thought it was hilarious. I blew up my aunt, literally, all because I couldn't control my anger, and
I've never regretted that at all. I've spent years sneaking, avoiding rules, being terrible to my own
friends sometimes. I've done all sorts of things that weren't right, even before I ever lifted my wand
to murder someone, and I've done that twice."

"Is this how you wish for me to see you, Harry, through the wrongs you have done?" Dumbledore
asks softly. "Is there a way to list all your mistakes and negative actions against your victories and
positive ones? Should that decide my opinion of you, or should your intentions? Or, is this
something you feel you should be blamed for?"

"It's all about perception, then?" Harry challenges, tilting his chin up. "Does no one get true
judgement for their actions?"

"Not when love is involved, I don't think so," Dumbledore murmurs. "It is a rather complicated
concept, isn't it? How you see yourself is not as I see you, and so it begs the question; which
version is correct?"

"None of them are," Harry decides. "There's no way to actually judge someone unless you are
them, and when it comes to yourself, it depends on what kind of person you are if your judgement
is correct. Some might get close, I think, but I've never met someone who truly ever understood
themselves."
"That is your perception," Dumbledore gently reminds him. "The way I see it, Harry, is that all
versions are correct, even the ones we wish were not. Perhaps you may not see yourself as the best,
but someone else surely does. And it is, I think, most honorable to try and live up to that best
version."

Harry swallows. "And how do you see me, sir?"

"With a heart that loves you immensely," Dumbledore says without hesitation. He peers at Harry
with a small smile. "Do you think that makes me biased?"

"I think so," Harry admits through a tight throat, blinking hard around stinging eyes.

"I do not. Both perceptions are true if my theory is correct, and neither are if yours is,"
Dumbledore muses, seemingly pleased with both options. He hums, watching Harry with rapt
attention. "How do you see Voldemort, Harry?"

"As a monster," Harry replies quietly.

"And you care for him."

"Yeah, I do."

Dumbledore softens, as if he's melting back into his chair just a bit. "You are so full of love, my
boy, and you cannot even see it. The world will be a dimmer place without you in it, and I have no
true desire to remain when you've gone."

Harry glances at Dumbledore's hand, strangled by the lump in his throat. It's still Cursed and rotted
and weathered, but it's not so dark anymore after just a week. Soon, Harry imagines, it will start to
look somewhat alive. He wonders what treatment has helped, but he doesn't dare ask.

"You will, though, won't you?" Harry rasps. "You'll stay after I'm gone."

"Would you ask me to?" Dumbledore says softly.

Blinking really hard now, Harry nods jerkily, his movements curt from emotion. "Yes, sir. I don't
—I never wanted—"

"Harry," Dumbledore whispers when Harry chokes.

"I'm only so angry and so hurt because I feel the same, you know that," Harry manages to say, the
words coming out around a strangled gasp. They feel like they've been ripped from his very skin,
each syllable plucked from the marrow of his bones, and he still can't force himself to say all of it.
To say it's because I love you that you can make me feel this way.

He doesn't have to say it.

"I know," Dumbledore says, kind and sad and watching him with such tender care that Harry wants
to go back in time, back to when things were simpler. "I know, my boy, I know."

He does know, because he always does.

"I'm sorry," Harry gasps, and then proceeds to break, words flowing out so quickly that he can't
really make sense of them. "I'm so sorry, sir, I'm—I didn't mean for any of this to happen. I could
have come back, but I never did because I was scared you didn't trust me, and that was the worst
thing I could ever imagine. And I'm sorry I stopped trusting you, and started trusting him, and
things are so messed up now. I don't—I can't stop it, any of it, and I'm going to die. I'm so scared
and I'm so sorry, I'm—I—"

Harry nearly folds in half and tumbles out of the chair, his shoulders jerking, and there are
suddenly hands sliding around his trembling back. The touch is featherlight and firm all at once, an
embrace that hurts as much as it helps. Voldemort would never hold him. Dumbledore doesn't even
ask if he shouldn't; he simply does.

"Harry, it's alright," Dumbledore murmurs, kneeling before him, a relic in the flesh and seeming so
wise except for how he's just said the most ridiculous thing. Another lie, perhaps.

"It's not alright!" Harry chokes out, shuddering as he sags into Dumbledore without much care. "It's
not, because I miss him! Do you understand that? Do you know that—that I care about him the
way I care about you? Do you know that I never stopped caring about you, and I'm so—I am so
angry with you, all the time, and it's my anger, not his. You let me down and it's not even your
fault! You've both—I can't—"

"You needn't forgive me, Harry," Dumbledore soothes. "You only need to forgive yourself. Your
capacity to care for so much, for the world, for even those who may not deserve it is not something
you require penance for. You are a brave young man with so much love, so much, and you feel so
much because of it. In spite of it. And, for that, you have suffered and known joy to lengths others
never will. It is both a blessing, and a curse, and you should not punish yourself for it, my boy."

Harry whimpers, screwing his eyes shut, and he feels Dumbledore's wiry beard scrape like a breeze
over his cheek. Words fall out, against his will, words that he's been desperately trying to smother
for so long now, just a simple plea.

"Don't make me do this. Please don't," he begs, without even meaning to.

As soon as the admission frees itself from his lips, he stiffens, his breath catching. He hadn't meant
for it to slip out, but he can't take it back now. He has been brave this whole time, not necessarily
taking his rapidly approaching end in stride, but coming to terms with it on a surface level
nonetheless.

But not deep down, not in the hollow crevices of his heart where Draco's smile shines, where
Hermione's laughter sounds, where Ron's touch soothes, where so many people and things he
wants to live for and with resides. Not there, never there.

Dumbledore, unlike Voldemort, is very easy to lean into. He's soft and human, warm and
welcoming, and it is not bizarre to think the man is willing to hug him. Despite this, Harry is very
sure that this embrace is something he should be trying to escape, because he feels as if he has not
earned this comfort. Even gaining relief from Dumbledore feels like a betrayal—to Voldemort for
obvious reasons, to Dumbledore for how he's said something he knows doesn't help either of them,
and to himself for how he still has mixed emotions about the man in question.

Something warm and wet hits his cheek, and it's enough to have Harry wrenching away, jerking
back to stare at Dumbledore in horror. He stays kneeling before Harry, doing nothing to hide his
own tears, and Harry feels empty in an instant.

Don't make me do this. Please don't, he'd begged.

I have to, Dumbledore won't say, but his tears make it clear. A child requesting the chance to live,
to be chosen over fate and Prophecy and war, and Dumbledore isn't going to be able to give it to
him.

"Such a brave boy," Dumbledore whispers hoarsely, reaching up with his healthy hand to cup
Harry's cheek, staring into his eyes.

Perhaps that is all Dumbledore can say, because perhaps that is all Harry is. A brave boy doing
what must be done, and maybe—just maybe—he deserves a different outcome. He will not have it
unless he wishes to one day be a cowardly man, which he refuses to be, if only for the lives that
will be lost if he gives into the urge. Such a brave boy, indeed, far more brave than those who
demand him to be.

"Where has he gone?" Harry croaks.

Dumbledore stays just where he is and says, "I don't know, Harry. No one knows. I worry that he
may be planning to use you, or to harm you. If you feel anything, no matter what it is, I implore
you to come to me at once. I failed to help you before, and I do not wish to make that mistake
twice."

"He's not going to hurt me," Harry whispers, crying about that and so much more.

"How can you be certain?" Dumbledore asks.

"Because he never lied to me." Harry swallows, eyes fluttering shut as his heart twists sharply in
his chest. He recalls the way Voldemort kneeled before him, almost just like this, and said he had
no desire to cause Harry pain. He knows now, in this moment, that it wasn't the type of truth that
could one day be morphed into a lie—the realization hurts in ways only certain tragic things can.
He opens his eyes and stares at Dumbledore, feeling something startlingly like pity, mixed with the
odd combination of anger and hurt. "And, sir, you've already made that mistake twice. You're
making it right now."

This time, it's Dumbledore's eyes that close, his lined face looking weary and pained. He rasps a
broken, "I know," because he always does.

"I shouldn't have said what I did," Harry says, leaning out of Dumbledore's space, watching his
hand fall away from his cheek. He feels exhausted and shattered, through and through. "I won't
ever ask you that again. I'm sorry."
 "Don't be," Dumbledore whispers, blue eyes showing themselves once more, and Harry's suddenly
sure that they'll never twinkle again. "You deserve so much more than what you have been given,
Harry, and I am sorry for my part in that."

"Me too," Harry tells him, averting his eyes.

It is an apology that Harry should have perhaps gotten sooner, despite the fact that he wouldn't and
still doesn't accept it. Or forgive. He doesn't do that either, and he's not sure he ever will.

"Such a brave boy," Dumbledore murmurs yet again.

"Just as you intended," Harry agrees softly, the gentle tone of his voice doing nothing to take away
the barbed attack of the words, the careful way they're delivered doing nothing to stop them from
cutting as deep as Dumbledore's lies do.

Voldemort would be proud, Harry thinks as he watches Dumbledore lose grip on more tears once
again, and he hates himself for the thought.

Chapter End Notes

Dumbledore's a complicated man. Ooft. Y'all, we're getting closer and closer to the
nitty and gritty. Also, is it weird of me to say I miss Voldemort? Whoops.

Also, yes, our boy is back at Hogwarts...for a time. Bet y'all didn't see that coming

Drop some comments with your thinky-thoughts. I do adore them ❤️

 Information
Chapter Notes

No real warnings for this chapter, I think. Harry does get cut on his hand. Also, more
friend shenanigans. Teenagers being crude because, like, they're teenagers???

You'll note that I have the final chapter count up. That IS subject to change because
I've been toying the the idea of doing something or not doing something, but you'll all
see that when we get there. And yes, that means we're 4 chapters out from the official
end of all this.

Enjoy :)

See the end of the chapter for more notes

"Don't even think about it."

Theo scowls for a split second, then he splays back in the alcove in a rather seductive manner,
batting his eyelashes. "Oh, Harry," he simpers, "have you finally come to ravish me?"

"Draco's right outside, and I'll let him come in here and hex you, so you might want to be serious
about this," Harry says dryly, vaguely exasperated that he's using his boyfriend as a threat when he
is the one known for being a murderer.

"Can't this wait?" Theo drawls, snapping up straight and dropping the act rather quickly. "I am
busy, you know, and not really in the mood to—"

"I told you I would help you," Harry interrupts sharply, narrowing his eyes. "You have to let me."

Theo's jaw clenches, his cheek jumping, dark green eyes flitting about in what seems to be nerves
and anger. "Potter, you do realize that the Dark Lord isn't someone you just escape from
unscathed, don't you? Try as you might, honorable as you may be, there's some people you just
can't save."

"Everyone always thinks that, right up until they're saved," Harry murmurs. "It's my fault you're in
this mess. You asked me for help."
"I was all but on my deathbed, bleeding out!"

"Theo! Just—for once—can one Slytherin be open and honest about their sodding feelings?
Bloody hell, just tell me what the task is!"

"Impossible, for a start," Theo snaps, lip curling in genuine disdain. "It's not a task anyone is
actually meant to achieve. I'm supposed to fail."

"But you'd be killed if you fail," Harry says.

Theo looks at him like he's stupid. "Obviously. All the more reason for me to succeed."

Harry frowns. "Your father—"

"My father," Theo cuts in, "is a sadistic bastard who wants enough power to steal multiple plots of
land from those who won't let him have it. The Dark Lord has promised him the land if I succeed,
and when I fail, my father will kill me because I've kept him from the very thing that he's spent his
whole life working towards."

"Land," Harry repeats flatly, full of disbelief. "Your father would kill you over land?!"

Theo arches an eyebrow. "How naïve are you, Potter? People will kill anyone over anything."

"His own son, though?"

"Yes, no need to point it out. We all have shite fathers, we know."

"Lucius isn't that bad!"

"Well, he could certainly be worse, sure. In any case, it's not just land. The Notts have been
fighting for these properties for decades. Centuries ago, it is to be believed that the land was stolen
from us, and every generation following has been tasked with getting it back. We are taught before
we can even walk that it's our main purpose in life, the one thing we should care about doing.
I...never actually cared, honestly, so my father wasn't too happy with me to begin with. Now, with
the Dark Lord promising to fulfill his life's purpose, he's not going to simply turn a blind eye when
I inevitably fuck it up."

"What is wrong with Purebloods?!" Harry bursts out, unable to hold it in. "You're all mad!"

"In light of recent events," Theo mutters, "I can't actually argue with you on that."

"Over some sodding land," Harry repeats faintly, shaking his head.

Theo hums, looking thoughtful. "I know, and I'm quite sure that the land was never ours to begin
with. We keep records of everything, as you know, and there's none to be found. It's all based on
tradition and hearsay passed down. Father didn't care to hear it when I pointed that out, however."

"I bet he didn't." Harry grimaces and reaches up to shove his hand through his hair. "Listen, Theo, I
don't have all the time in the world to make this right. I want to make this right. I don't want to have
to do this, but if you don't tell me, I'll go to Snape. He will tell me, because he has to."

"That desperate to know, are you?" Theo purses his lips, rolling his eyes, but he's gone pale and
won't quite meet Harry's eyes. He's scared. Worried. Harry can't even blame him. "Potter, when he
came to me, it—it wasn't a request. You don't refuse—"

"I know," Harry says softly. "Theo, I know."

"I can't do it, but I—I tried," Theo says, his voice dropping an octave. Now, he's actively working
not to meet Harry's gaze. "I Cursed Katie Bell and poisoned Slughorn."

Harry frowns. "We—I...well, the thought crossed my mind. Did you—it all had to do with
Dumbledore, didn't it?"

"Yes," Theo admits. "Bell was never supposed to touch the necklace. I used Imperio on Rosemerta
to make her Imperio Bell, that way it would be harder to trace back to me if anyone tried to. She
was only supposed to deliver it to Dumbledore and might have if—well. As for Slughorn, that
almost worked perfectly. They did drink together, but Slughorn drank first. Dumbledore must not
have had any before Slughorn passed out, and I suspect Slughorn would have died if Dumbledore
hadn't helped in time. He almost couldn't help at all. Slughorn nearly died, you know. It was
close."

"Because...you're trying to kill Dumbledore," Harry says slowly, testing the words out.

Theo glances at him, swallowing. "Still want to save me, Potter?"

"Oh, Merlin, you're ridiculous." Harry snorts and shakes his head. "If you think that your attempts
at killing Dumbledore is going to put me off, you're wrong. Yes, you obviously shouldn't have
done the things you did, and I'm glad you didn't succeed. But that doesn't mean you don't need help
in all this. So, that's your task? Kill Dumbledore?"

"Yes," Theo says.

Harry nods. "Alright, stop trying to do that."

"Oh, certainly, Potter, and I'll be sure to fling myself off the top of the Astronomy Tower while I'm
at it, rather than give the Dark Lord or my father the satisfaction of killing me," Theo hisses.

"Is it a Slytherin thing or a Pureblood thing to always be this dramatic?" Harry asks, heaving a
sigh. "Don't worry about Voldemort, I have—"

"Did you just tell me not to worry about the Dark Lord?" Theo snarls in a low voice, staring at
Harry incredulously. "Not everyone is you, Potter. We can't all have the luck to survive him!"

"Theo," Harry says gently, "as long as you are here, he can't get to you, right?"

"I do have to go home sometime."

"Before the summer, Voldemort will be—he won't be a problem for anyone. You'll just have to
take my word for it because I can't explain."

"You're asking me to trust you," Theo states, nostrils flaring as he stares at Harry with rage in his
eyes.
Harry doesn't falter. "Yeah, I am, and I'm only asking because I'm absolutely certain that he won't
be a problem, so just—just do it. As for your father, would you feel safest with him in Azkaban, or
do you think me invoking that debt would work? I can ask him to never kill you, and he'd have to
listen to me, wouldn't he?"

Theo narrows his eyes. "Did you save his life?"

"I...might have done," Harry murmurs hesitantly, eyebrows crumbling together. "I don't know if
Voldemort was planning to kill him, but he was definitely about to torture him past the point that
your father would be able to walk away normally."

"It's not enough. A life-debt is entirely different than just owing someone for their kindness." Theo
shakes his head, his shoulders rigid. "It would have to be Azkaban."

Harry purses his lips. "When do you turn seventeen?"

"You missed my birthday, Potter, but do feel free to give me a gift to make up for it," Theo replies
easily, flicking his fingers lazily.

"Alright, so don't go home," Harry says.

Theo stares at him. "Don't...go home."

"Look, I know you Purebloods put a lot of, well, everything into your Manors and social image and
family upstanding, but I'd like to think you value your own life more than that," Harry tells him,
raising his eyebrows. "When you graduate, if your father isn't taken to Azkaban or...er, dead, then
leave the sodding family! Get a ruddy flat somewhere and make sure your father can't get to you
until you're sure he's handled. So, yeah, don't go home."

"That's your big plan to save me?" Theo asks sharply. "Take me away from my life and my
possessions and my position in society?"

"Well, no, that's the last plan in case all the other plans fall through," Harry admits. He pauses,
then grimaces. "Er, well, if—if you...want, I can talk to the Malfoys about you staying with them
before Seventh Year, just over the summer. Just—just a thought."

Theo sees his rising discomfort immediately and smirks. "All summer with Draco? Honestly,
Potter, it's a dream come true. I think he and I would find all sorts of things to do to pass the time."

"Yeah, you do that," Harry mumbles, frowning. The sad thing is, they actually might, and Harry
can't even argue because he'll be dead. "Fine, I'll see what I can do about that. But, for me, you've
got to stop trying to kill the Headmaster, mate."

"Well, it's not like I could actually manage to do it anyway, could I?" Theo rolls his eyes and sighs
like this is all torture for him, but Harry notes that his shoulders have relaxed a bit. "It's far easier to
stop than to keep trying."

Harry grunts so he won't laugh. It seems like an inappropriate time for it. "Alright, tell me about
the Room of Requirement. What does that have to do with killing Dumbledore?"

"Nothing." Theo's face clears, going blank in seconds, and his shoulders are back to being rigid all
over again. "That's—it has nothing to do with it."

"So what does it have to do with?" Harry asks slowly, eyebrows raising yet again.

Theo pauses, then keeps pausing, then looks away with a small frown. "It's a task that I can
actually succeed in doing, Potter. If that's all it was, I wouldn't need help. I'm—I've almost got it."

"What is it?"

"Why do you think the Dark Lord wanted the Headmaster dead?"

"Because he hates him," Harry replies instantly.

"Perhaps," Theo allows, "but why now? What's so important that he needs it done this year, and
done before whatever Curse is on Dumbledore's hand can actually take him?"
Harry blinks, and he thinks about the recently destroyed Horcrux, his heart starting to pick up
speed in his chest. "He—he wants to get inside."

"Quick," Theo praises, nodding. He looks serious now, nothing like the stringy boy with pretty
eyes and floppy hair—suddenly seeming taller, his rabbity features going from cute bunny to
something much more grave. "The Castle has all sorts of protections around it, most requiring the
removal of them from the inside, and just as many needing the Headmaster himself to remove
them. For the Dark Lord to get inside without starting a war , Death Eaters would have to invade
first, ensure the Headmaster is dead, then strip certain protections away. But it's not like many
Death Eaters can just stroll through the gates."

"You're supposed to help them get in," Harry whispers, horrified and—and there's something else,
something terrible like hope. He squashes it as quickly as it crops up. "And you've almost managed
it? Theo, you can't!"

"Actually, I can, given I had some more time," Theo muses. "If that were my only task, I'd do it,
too. Seeing as killing the Headmaster is a part of it, though, I might as well give up on all
accounts."

Harry relaxes instantly. "You—you mean that, don't you? Theo, if you let them into the Castle,
they—"

"I know what they would do," Theo snaps, shoving out his arm and jerking up his sleeve. Harry
blinks down at the Dark Mark in astonishment, and once Theo's sure that Harry's noted it, he slides
his sleeve back down. "I didn't ask for that, and I never wanted it. That's your fault as well, Potter. I
don't know if you know this, but I never wanted to be involved in the things my father is. I was
never like Draco. I prefer to be mostly alone, even if I have friends, and though it may seem it, I
don't actually give a shite about Pureblood traditions. All those have ever done for me is give me a
fucking father who would kill me over some land, so yes, I mean that."

"Alright, alright," Harry murmurs quickly, softening despite himself. He swallows and reaches out
to grab Theo's arm that's slowly lowering. "Can I—"

"It's rather intimate, isn't it? At least snog me first," Theo says softly, but he's grimacing, clearly
uncomfortable with what Harry's asking.

Harry drops his hands immediately. "Sorry, I—I shouldn't have… Just, sorry, I didn't—"
"Shut up," Theo declares harshly, then rolls up his sleeve and shoves his arm at Harry while
looking away, jaw clenched.

"Theo, you don't have to—"

"I know it disgusts you, but—"

"It doesn't," Harry cuts him off fiercely. He reaches out to grab Theo's arm from underneath,
fingers curling around and brushing the edges of the Mark. Theo is still so thin, uncomfortably so,
even if he's been eating more recently. "Theo, this isn't—I know you hate it, and I know why, but
you have no reason to be ashamed of it. No more than I for the scar on my forehead, right? We—
we didn't ask to be branded by him, but he's horrible and does what he wants anyway."

Theo's eyes cut to him, shrewd. "You sound like Draco," he whispers.

"Like...Draco?" Harry asks, startled.

"Yes." Theo is watching him closely, scanning his face, looking perplexed. "The way Draco talks
about his father, like he doesn't like him but he loves him, and he tries so hard to hate him...but
can't."

Harry doesn't know how to reply to that, so he doesn't. He ducks his head, focusing on the Dark
Mark instead, letting the thick silence sit between them. What is he supposed to say to that
observation when it's so...complicatedly, complexly accurate and inaccurate all at once?

Swallowing thickly, Harry lifts his free hand and carefully brushes his fingers over the Dark Mark.
His scar prickles as soon as his fingers touch it, but it does not hurt as it once might have. All it
succeeds in doing is making his chest ache.

"I'm sorry," Harry whispers.

"You can make it up to me by finding some way to put my father in Azkaban, Potter."

"I'll do my best. Got any ideas?"

"Expose him for being a Death Eater?" Theo drawls sarcastically.

Harry snorts. "If only it was that simple. Look at Lucius Malfoy. Plausible deniability is a thing,
for sure; Draco taught me that."

"What if none of this works? Are you prepared to have my death on your hands?"

"You have no idea just how far I'll go to keep people alive, Theo, so I'm not going to be angry that
you just asked me that."

"Oh, I'm so relieved," Theo mutters.

"Are you absolutely sure that there's no other way Voldemort can get into the Castle?" Harry asks,
stroking the Dark Mark with gentle fingers, tracing it carefully.

Theo hums. "Well, I don't think it would be so simple, honestly. He is powerful, but there are
limitations to everyone, even him. With Dumbledore alive, it would only make it harder for him to
get inside. That's not to say that he won't manage it, somehow, but he wouldn't be able to do it
quietly without me sneaking the Death Eaters in first."

"Alright," Harry whispers, refusing to feel dejected about it. He hates that he wants to.

"You really aren't disgusted by it, are you?" Theo murmurs, eyebrows raised when Harry risks a
glance at his face.

Harry shakes his head. "No, I'm not. I—I used to be, but I was a different person then."

"Well, if the great Harry Potter doesn't mind it, then I suppose I shouldn't either," Theo breathes
out, smirking just a bit, but he doesn't seem as uncomfortable with Harry touching it as before.

"You can touch my scar, if you want," Harry offers, because that seems like the kind thing to do.
Theo shoots him an odd look. "Potter, as much as I joke, I'm not actually interested in men.
Whatever mating ritual surrounds men touching each other's scars, I want no part in it. The only
time I'll ever be involved with a bloke is if you muck up things with Draco, and...well, he's pretty
enough that I suspect I might actually enjoy it."

"I don't know why we're friends," Harry says with a huff, shoving Theo's arm away and shaking
his head.

"Are we?" Theo asks mildly.

"Friends can touch each other's scars," Harry says pointedly, even if he's not entirely sure if that's
true. He's never actually touched someone else's scar besides Draco's, and bullocks, Theo might
have had a point. No, he's sticking to his argument now; he sort of has to. "Besides, if you're
planning to shag my boyfriend someday, I think I'd rather be your friend to try and convince you
not to."

Theo tosses his head back and laughs. "Oh, Potter, it's adorable that you think you can."

"You'd be surprised what I can pull off," Harry says, then immediately gets flustered when Theo
leers at him in response. "Oh, that's not what I meant!"

"You're something of a mess, aren't you?" Theo asks, amused and a lot more carefree than he has
been this whole time.

Harry grins at him wryly. "You have no idea."

There's…

Well, there is pudding. And a spoon. Definitely a spoon. There should not be pudding and a spoon,
because this is the courtyard and it isn't the place for pudding and spoons. But there is, without a
shadow of a doubt, pudding and a spoon.

Harry simultaneously is very thankful for this whilst also wishing that it was not a thing allowed to
happen in the universe.

He's having thoughts about things, and these thoughts take a rather mortifying turn to other things,
and those things are things he wouldn't have even known about if Madame Pomfrey wouldn't have
been so blasted thorough in her, er, lesson. So, now, there's pudding and a spoon and Draco making
rather distracting sounds as he enjoys the mixture of the two, where he most definitely should not
because this is the courtyard and people are here, and Harry has thoughts about things.

"Your face is doing something, mate," Ron informs him in a low hiss.

Harry is aware of his own twitching face, thank you very much. "Shut up, Ron," he says, and it
comes out rather hoarse. "Just don't talk. Ever again. Please."

I'm sixteen and I'm going to die and I haven't snogged my boyfriend properly in what feels like
forever, he thinks mournfully and a touch dramatically.

It's almost worse being around Draco at Hogwarts all the time because, even though he can easily
see him every day, he can't get as much access as he wishes. Just holding hands and simply talking
with him is a joyful thing, and he's thankful for it, but it's almost physically painful because he
knows that Draco is equally frustrated at the constraints surrounding being a student. Short of
sneaking out at night, they never get time alone or even a chance to take a break from friends or
schoolwork to indulge themselves in any sort of...shameless activity.

They've never done anything outside of snogging, but the sudden loss of that alone tells Harry that
hormones are not to be trifled with. He hasn't had one clear, sensible thought for three days.

And now there's pudding and a spoon.

Draco's making a great show of it, because of course he is, the prat. The way he eats it, that
pudding better be infused with gold or magic or both. It's borderline obscene, really, and Pansy is
watching with rapt attention while Blaise watches with delight. Even fucking Ginny is getting
distracted, though her ears do turn pink whenever her gaze slides towards Draco whenever he
sensually hums in blatant approval...of the pudding.

Ron is utterly oblivious to this because he is unfair and stupid. Hermione is engrossed in yet
another conversation Daphne, which Harry reminds himself to be curious about later—they do
spend a lot of time talking, those two, even though Daphne hasn't at all stopped her rather loud and
oddly compelling flirting that she does. Theo is half-listening to whatever conversation Ginny has
tried to strike up with him, though not listening enough to notice or care when she gets distracted
by Draco. And Luna is… Oh. Well, she appears to be trying to catch something in front of her own
face that she probably already knows no one else can see.

Harry's flimsy thread of sanity abruptly snaps when Draco parts his lips around a soft, honey-sweet
sigh as his tongue darts out to delicately scoop up some pudding from the spoon and retract it back
into his mouth, leading to him giving something that could be called a moan, except Harry actually
would explode if it was, and perhaps Draco knows that.

"Give me that!" Harry barks, nearly falling all over himself to snatch the spoon and the pudding,
his chest tight and his heart beating way too fast.

Draco blinks, all innocent-like, which proves to Harry that he's been doing all of this with express
intentions to torture him. "I was enjoying that."

"You were performing, you absolute prat," Harry spits, surging to his feet and glaring down at
Draco.

Their friends seem to sense all at once that Harry is apparently pissed off, and at Draco no less, and
they all sit up and pay attention in interest. It is not often that Harry blows up at Draco, after all, so
his visceral reaction must be surprising. Draco, of course, doesn't look worried.

"Did it work?" Draco asks mildly, amused, his eyes bright with amusement. And some heat, too,
honestly, which is doing Harry no favors.

Harry flings the spoon and pudding aside, narrowing his eyes. Multiple people around them draw
in cautious breaths through their teeth, grimacing. Still, Draco doesn't seem perturbed.

"Get up," Harry snaps, not even waiting for Draco to do as he says before he's stepping forward
and leaning down to roughly haul him to his feet.

Draco laughs, actually laughs. The audacity. "Oohoo, and where are we going? An adventure?
You should know, Harry, I will abandon you at the very first sign of trouble."

"Shut up," Harry grits out and proceeds to drag him farther and farther away from their friends.
"Don't kill him!" Pansy calls out.

"No, do kill him, mate," Ron counters loudly.

Pansy laughs just the way Draco did, knowing and delighted. "Oh, I wasn't talking to Potter."

As Ron starts sputtering, Harry can just make out the faint sounds of Daphne soothing him, but he
doesn't care to turn back. He has a boyfriend to drag into the first available room that just so
happens to be empty, which is precisely what he does.

"Not much of an adventure, if I'm honest," Draco drawls, looking around the empty room housing
nothing but desks and cobwebs in the corners of the ceiling, seemingly unimpressed.

"Shut up," Harry says again, roughly, and then shoves Draco back against the door to snog him
mindlessly.

Draco laughs into the kiss at first, clearly triumphant, happy to have gotten what he obviously
wanted, but it's not very long before nothing about this is amusing at all. Victorious, still, of course
because he's a smug prick, but there's no room for laughter when Harry's snogging him like this.

It feels like it's been ages since they've gotten to do this. He's so used to being able to snog Draco
whenever and however he wants, but it's different at Hogwarts. It must be some kind of joke the
Professors play on the students, loading them with coursework to keep their hands off each other,
because Harry's sure that he and Draco aren't the only couple around this age that's frustrated.

At least he won't have to spend the entirety of Seventh Year in complete and utter torture. Though,
he reminds himself that if he had a chance to be here during Seventh Year, he'd spend it in
frustration anyway, because he wouldn't want their first time shagging to be...well, like this,
honestly—hidden away in some dusty classroom, too rushed, and not nearly what Draco deserves.

Harry hates that he can't trap forever in this moment for the both of them. They deserve forever,
even for just a second.

"Yes," Draco says, pulling back just to say it, breathing that one word out like he's answering a
question no one has even asked.

Harry is trying very hard to get his head to stop spinning, but he is failing. "Ah, Draco, I'm sorry.
I'm mauling you again, aren't I?"

"Please do," Draco murmurs, sounding a little drunk, actually. He practically throws himself at
Harry, arms flinging around his shoulders and tugging them as close as possible. They go
stumbling back a few steps away from the door, but he doesn't seem to care all that much. "Don't
apologize for it, Harry, I won't hear it. I've—Merlin, I want—"

He doesn't finish, choosing instead to just snog Harry again, which is just as well. Harry already
has an idea of what Draco wants, and as much as he'd like to, he won't even be able to give it to
him. They never have enough sodding time.

For a second, just a split second, he gives into it a bit helplessly. He's breathless by it, sucked into
the heady sensation of dragging shaking hands down Draco's robes, lightly tugging the fabric and
imagining what it would be like to remove it. He's a bumbling mess about the mere idea almost
instantly, squeaking in both alarm and surreal desire when Draco leans into him and bites at his
bottom lip.

Why shouldn't they, really? They could. Harry is going to die, after all. Harry wants to be Draco's
everything, his only, but he could settle for being Draco's first since he most certainly can't be
Draco's last. It's a weak compromise, unfair to the both of them, but what other choices do they
have?

So, sure, maybe Harry's on board entirely in less than a minute, but he thinks he can't be blamed for
it. After all, hormones really are a force to be reckoned with, and Harry's no match for them.

"Can I—can we—" Harry chokes on the words as soon as Draco turns his lips to Harry's neck. He
blinks slowly, fists curling in Draco's robes as his knees threaten to buckle. "Draco, ah, can—"

"Yes, whatever you want, anything you want," Draco replies, and his voice sounds...strange.
Pitched high and a bit breathy. A needy waver to the tone.

Harry groans and drops his head forward, getting distracted by Draco's throat almost immediately
after. His skin is prickling all over with the most pleasant sensation, pooling through his entire
body, and his thoughts have scattered in all directions. He's just bloody going along with all this, so
he figures it can't hurt to turn his lips to the side of Draco's neck and suck at the warm skin there.

He does that for quite some time, actually, completely and utterly distracted by it, pulling back in a
dazed fashion to see the skin colored purple and deep red. He's leaving marks, which is just…

Well, he likes that, in any case.

This is, of course, what they're in the middle of doing when the doorknob rattles behind them. In a
move so truly smooth that Harry will never actually forget it, Draco slips out of Harry's hands like
water, disappearing behind the door as it opens with a little twirl that's somehow elegant and
beautiful. Harry blinks in mystified shock as Draco fits himself behind the door without making a
sound, just as it swings open, out of sight and absolutely abandoning Harry at the first sign of
trouble, the bastard!

What he abandons Harry to is, unfortunately, the last sort of trouble that Harry wants to deal with
when his thoughts are all scrambled up. Of all people, why did it have to be him?

Snape arches an eyebrow, sneering as he flicks his gaze over Harry's form, which must be
disastrous and telling. "Mr. Potter, you seem to be making it your life's mission to end up in
unseemly situations of the embarrassing variety."

"Tell me about it," Harry croaks, then clears his throat and makes a valiant attempt at patting his
hair down and straightening his collar. "You know me, sir, I can't do anything correctly, even live
my last few weeks with dignity."

"Clearly," Snape drawls. His lip curls in genuine disdain and distaste. "Ten points from Gryffindor.
Detention, tomorrow, just as curfew starts. Do not be late, or I will delay it once more."

Harry coughs. "Right. Of course."

Without ever looking away from Harry, Snape continues by saying, with no derision or
disappointment, "I am going to the Hospital Wing, and I expect you there five minutes after I've
arrived, no later. You seem in need of a very important lesson that Madame Pomfrey will provide.
Do not make me have to come back here and retrieve you, Mr. Malfoy."

And, with that, Snape whirls back around with a flap of his robes and continues up the hall. Harry
stares after him for a beat, then heaves a sigh and reaches out to grab the door, swinging it shut.

Behind it, Draco has his hands covering his face, his shoulders hunched. Harry winces in
sympathy. Yes, what just occurred was humiliating, to be fair, and it would hurt anyone's pride, but
he suspects Draco's going to overreact. Draco actually likes Snape, or he mostly does, Harry's sure.
They've never actually talked about it, really, but now certainly doesn't seem like the appropriate
time to broach the topic.

Sighing, Harry steps forward to peel Draco's hands away from his face, preparing for a scowl or
even a pout, but what he isn't ready for is the tears.

Draco is crying, and he looks...well, he seems absolutely furious about it. Frustration snaps in his
eyes, even through the watery film over them, and though tears trail down his cheeks, he looks
angry enough to hex someone. Harry's alarmed instantly, shuffling closer with a small frown.

"What's wrong?" Harry asks a bit helplessly.

Draco makes a small sound of pure irritation, shamelessly vexed. "What's wrong? Harry, what
isn't?! We can't even—we don't get to—"

"You—you're upset because we got interrupted again?" Harry mumbles, hesitant and unsure. He
won't laugh, but the idea that Draco's that annoyed because they haven't gotten to shag is sort of
amusing in a way he'd appreciate if Draco wasn't still crying at the moment.

"It's not about the shagging!" Draco snarls, only to get angrier as soon as he's said it. "Actually, you
know what? It is about the shagging! It's about the shagging, and it's about—about all of it! I feel
rushed, Harry, do you know that? I feel like I have to do and say things because my chances to do
them with you are decreasing every single day!"

Harry swallows. "Draco, I'm—I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault," Draco hisses. "It's truly not. I see the way the Headmaster looks at you, Harry.
He could have told you not to do it, but he didn't. The Dark Lord is no better. He's the reason why
you feel the need to do it. You're sixteen. It's not even—I can't even be properly furious at you for
this, and I am anyway. I'm so angry with you, Harry."
"I know," Harry whispers, because he does know.

"I don't mean to be," Draco says, his voice softening and turning small, and now he just looks
broken and sad with the tears on his cheeks. "It's complicated, you know, because I—I understand
why you feel like you have to do this. But I know you're wrong, except my feelings on the matter
can't change what Dumbledore and the Dark Lord are forcing you to do. It's not fair. It's just...not
fair, Harry."

"It's alright that you're angry with me, Draco. I'm angry with me, too, sometimes." Harry sighs and
moves to stand beside him, their shoulders brushing from where they lean up against the wall.
"Does it make you feel better or worse to know that—that I've started to think I shouldn't have to
do it?"

"Both, definitely both." Draco reaches out with shaking fingers and curls them around Harry's, just
holding on, a cold touch cradling warm skin. "Why would you tell me that?"

Harry shrugs awkwardly. "I tell you everything, I think. Like with Ron and Hermione, but I'm
never scared to be honest with you."

"I am," Draco murmurs. "It terrifies me sometimes. I don't want you to see me like—like—"

"Like what?" Harry prompts.

Draco's swallow is audible. It clicks into the thick silence, deafening. "I'm not good enough for
you. I never have been, you know."

"Maybe not," Harry allows, even if he doesn't actually agree, "but I want you anyway."

"It would take me years to work out why, and I'll never get to have them," Draco rasps, sounding
absolutely gutted. "You'll never—it's enough to drive anyone mad, I'm sure. How are you so calm
about it? Every single time we're together, I can only think about all the things we'll never get to
do."

"I think," Harry says carefully, "that you're supposed to experience every moment you get in your
life as fully and deeply as you can. Be present, you know, because you're a different person than
you were the second before, and you have to—to live every second in case you miss something. It's
not even about the future or if we'll get to have it, but it is easy to miss what you've got if you're
thinking about what you'll never get to have. Like—like with Sirius, yeah? I was so focused on the
fact that I'd probably never get to live with him as a free man that sometimes I...well, I sort of took
for granted the time we did have."

"So just—just be thankful for what I've already gotten, then? That's it?" Draco asks, clearly not
mollified by the advice.

Harry sighs and leans his head over on Draco's shoulder, eyes closing. "I don't have all the answers,
Draco. I've dealt with a lot of loss, but the truth is, I've never really worked out how to deal with it
at all. I still ache every Halloween, and I still cry if I happen to see a black dog, and I still think
about people that are gone. I can't save you from that, and I'm sorry. I really am."

Draco is silent for a long time, then he sniffs hard and exhales shakily, muttering, "You're terrible
at comforting someone, you know."

"It's not what I'm good at, no."

"If it was me, do you know what I'd tell you?"

"Er, don't be a sap and get over it?" Harry suggests weakly, though he knows—deep down—that
Draco would never actually mean that.

"At some point, possibly," Draco mutters, snorting quietly. "But what I'd tell you first is that—that
not everyone gets happiness, though I am very grateful to be a part of yours, and I hope to remain
so even after I'm gone."

"You have such a lovely way with words," Harry compliments softly, sincerely, then smiles just a
little. "Draco, you deserve happiness, and I can only hope that you'll always have it. I'd consider
myself lucky if I could be included in that even after I'm not here anymore."

"It's like you just copied my essay and changed the words around," Draco mutters flatly.

Harry snorts. "I've had to do it a few times with Hermione, so you could say I got quite good at it.
But I've never meant anything the way I mean that. I don't think saying something someone else
has said makes it any less true if you actually mean it."
"I believe you," Draco whispers. "And thank you."

"Besides," Harry murmurs gently, "I'd like to think that I've made your life a little better, at least."

"All you ever do is come into my life in the worst way possible and ruin it, Harry Potter," Draco
tells him, but Harry can hear the smile in his voice.

"Me? What did I do?" Harry teases, falling into the ease of this split second where he knows Draco
feels just a bit of unquestionable happiness, despite all the many reasons he could feel the
opposite.

Draco sighs, sweet and soft, and says, "Factus es mihi, amabo te."

"That's—" Harry blinks, lifting his head to look at Draco's face up close. A distant memory tugs at
him, like a nudging in his mind. Sitting outside in a meadow, Draco talking about how perfect his
life was, except perhaps it never has been, angry at Harry for mucking it up and angry at his father
for being the man that he is. Draco showing pride in materialistic things, flaunting his ability to
speak Latin, and he'd never told Harry what those words meant. That was in August, towards the
end. "You said that to me, once. What does it mean?"

"You made me love you," Draco tells him, just looking at him with the most patient, the most
accepting expression he ever has. His eyes are open and expressive and vulnerable, and he doesn't
look like he's scared of it at all.

"Oh," Harry chokes out.

Draco's lips curl up, just a bit. "That's what you do, you know. You sweep in and you make people
love you, and it—it ruined me. It's alright, though, because I was hoping you would."

"Even then, Draco?" Harry doesn't know how he's not crying right now. "That was in August! All
this time, you've just—you—"

"I loved you, yes," Draco admits, gaze flicking as he takes in Harry's face with simple delight, as if
merely looking at him is enough. "I've loved you for quite some time, I think, long before I ever
realized it. When you were just the hero in the stories the house-elves read to me as a child, and
when you refused to shake my hand, and every single year that you glared at me wherever I went,
and then every single second that you've been in my home. I loved you then, I love you right now,
and I'll love you even when you're gone."

Harry sucks in a deep gulp of air, and oh, he is most definitely crying now. He curls around to press
himself against Draco, crowding him up against the wall and simply hugging him as tightly as he
can. For his troubles, Draco kisses his forehead.

It is sweet, and it is tender, and Harry doesn't know what to do with it. He doesn't know if he's ever
been loved in such a way, in both hate and adoration, with such ferocity and gentle resolve.

There's something magical about it.

Draco is always so quiet in his love, almost reserved about it, careful like showing it might make it
break. That does not mean it isn't there, nonetheless, a steady force of something that has a soft
brutality to it. His love is unrepentant and shrouded in various ways—not hidden, but...protected,
almost. It's precious, in a way, and to have apparently had it so long makes Harry feel like an
unworthy, bumbling fool. He hasn't cradled it cautiously, treating it with tender hands, and he
regrets that immensely.

Ironically, Harry's love is almost the direct opposite. It is loud, and flaunting, and easy to show to
the world. He can't really hide it if he wants to, and though it is brazen and blundering, it is so soft
in the way it cherishes the recipient. He can regret certain aspects of it, including where it
sometimes goes, because he cannot always control it—like a loose threat in the wind that only hurts
himself. Draco has questioned Harry's love more than once, not understanding it, which is foolish,
because Harry's love is stubborn and resolute.

There's a certain kind of bravery in sharing their love with each other to begin with, a deep need for
trust between them, subconsciously; more than that, however, it is courageous and ambitious to
share it when they know it cannot last forever.

"You're the best thing that's happened to me, Draco Malfoy," Harry breathes out, pressing his
forehead against Draco's cheek and simply leaning into him.

Draco huffs a quiet laugh. "No, I'm not."

"I would rather what little time I have left with you than forever without," Harry tries, because that
is true, and he's trying to say something here.

"Is that right?"

"I can't—I'm usually better at this. There are—it's feelings, obviously, and it's complicated. But
Draco, you don't know what you mean to me. I love you. Quite a bit. More than a bit. So much so
that—that I've started to think that I deserve better than what I've gotten, all because I want more
with you, all because you make me feel… You just—I can't—"

"I know," Draco murmurs. "Harry, I know."

And maybe that's what it is. Maybe that's enough. Just those unspoken things that Harry can't
figure out how to say correctly, but Draco hears them anyway. He needs no elaboration, picking
through Harry's struggles to find the depth of them, of him.

"I'd let the world burn for you," Harry whispers, and his voice cracks because it is the truth.

Draco sighs, his whole body seeming to unclick and sag in relief, all at once. His lips brush Harry's
cheek, affectionate and sweet, like he is only when it matters and when they're alone. This is both.

"For you, I won't demand it of you," Draco replies, "but know that I wish to."

They stand there together, breathing quietly, just holding onto each other. There's a shift in the
silence around them, a tension easing, like a taut chord finally snapping. Harry knows, in this
moment, that the anger has been calmed, that they've come to some sort of peace with what they'll
eventually have to face. It will not be easy, he is aware of that, but there is an underlying certainty
that exists because of this conversation.

For Draco, Harry would live when he knows his death could save the world.

For Harry, Draco would never ask him to when he knows that the request would break Harry in
ways that living could not make up for.
For each other, though, they'll love as simply and fiercely as they would if this wasn't a horror
they'll eventually have to face. No restraint or regret, no ignorance to the approaching pain and
loss, just thankful and pleased with the here and now.

It feels like trapping forever in a second, just for them, because they've earned that.

Harry feels like he's going to vomit.

He stands in the middle of the Headmaster's office and tries to make sense of what's happening.
Fawkes trills a quiet croon from his perch, getting older now, but that does nothing to soothe him.
The glint of steel shines from Dumbledore's desk, and the refracted light makes his head throb. He
remembers what it looked like bouncing off Nagini's scales.

"Is—is this a joke, sir?" Harry asks, his mouth dry and something rioting in his chest.

Dumbledore seems to realize all at once that he might have miscalculated this particular avenue of
questioning. His gaze flicks to the sword, then back to Harry. "I apologize, Harry, I shouldn't have
—"

"You shouldn't have!" Harry bellows, that slow explosion inside him finally bursting free. There's a
shrill ringing in his ears, and it has nothing to do with the Locket hovering in the air. "What led you
to believe that I—I'd ever want to do this?!'

"I assumed—incorrectly, it seems—that it would help you in some way," Dumbledore says softly,
watching him with a small frown. His beard mostly hides it, but Harry knows it's there. "For
closure, perhaps, or in hopes that it would help you feel more severed from the connection you
have to him."

"Poor choice of words, that," Harry snarls, glaring at Dumbledore with careless contempt. "If you
think I'm going to destroy it, then you're as off your head as everyone claims you are! You know
how I feel about him, and now you want me to—to—"

"Everything I do and offer, it is only an endeavor to prepare you or aid you for the future, my boy,"
Dumbledore murmurs.
Harry stares at him incredulously. "You don't need me for this! I'm not—this isn't my part in it!"

"You mean you only wish to be a sacrifice, Harry?"

"Yes, and I don't care what that seems like! Should I? Do you want me to—to fight him, to betray
him further? I'm already doing more than I—"

"More than you want to?" Dumbledore suggests when Harry cuts himself off. "You have no desire
to harm him, do you?"

"No," Harry rasps, "I don't."

Dumbledore looks away, hands crossing in front of his robes. The Cursed hand is starting to look
better with every passing day. "This troubles me, Harry. I worry that Voldemort's grip on you has
somehow manipulated what you think about—"

"That's rich, coming from you," Harry spits, "and it's absolute rubbish! I think I'd notice if
Voldemort was in my mind somehow, and trust me, I've been waiting for it. But you'll be glad to
know that he abandoned me to my cause, likely respecting my choices, because he always gave me
my freedom."

"When this Horcrux is destroyed, it will affect him. How do you think he'll react?" Dumbledore
asks.

"I don't know," Harry grits out.

"The closer you are to your feelings for him, the harder it will be for you to protect yourself. I
know it is easy in the midst of many complicated moments to look past who someone is, but—"

"Do not! Don't you dare suggest that I don't know! I tell you I miss him, and care for him, and now
you're acting as if I've just forgotten all he's done. I haven't! Why do you think it hurts so much?
Because I can't forget or look past who he is! Why do you think I'm here at all?! Do you think, if I
could have done what you're suggesting now, I'd come back? That I'd just throw myself on the
sword for the sake of it?! It's about what is right, isn't it? And it's right for me to sacrifice myself,
but I—I can't do this!"

"You can't destroy a piece of his soul," Dumbledore says, clarifying it, making it simple. The
corrupt piece of his soul that he stuck inside an object after murdering someone, just another
chance to save the world; that's what you can't destroy? he doesn't say, but he doesn't have to.
Harry can hear the words well enough.

"It kills him," Harry chokes out, and he closes his eyes against the shame that washes through
him.

Harry has murdered before, murdered those who have done less than Voldemort has, so this is not
about the killing itself. Dumbledore knows that.

"Harry," Dumbledore says, gentle and coaxing, "I know it seems insensitive to say, but what of
when it comes time for you?"

"That's different," Harry whispers. "That's for the whole world. I—I can do it for the world."

"Is this not for the world?" Dumbledore asks, gesturing to the Locket. "Would sacrificing yourself
not be killing him?"

Harry takes a step back, feeling physically ill, his heart thumping heavy and hard in his chest. "You
don't need to test me, alright? I could go do it now, if you like? Or—or, if you doubt me, then do it
yourself. You have the sword, don't you?"

"That's not what I meant," Dumbledore says, actually looking vaguely alarmed.

"Then say what you mean."

"Harry, I worry that whatever feelings you have fostered for Lord Voldemort will not aid you in
protecting yourself from him. If he sees even a small chance that he can use you or manipulate you
to get his way, he will not hesitate to do so. Destroying a Horcrux yourself will be taxing, to be
sure, but I also believe it will help you protect yourself should the time come that you need to."
"He won't harm me. Even if it's just because I'm a Horcrux. Killing me would only—it doesn't do
anything for him but get him closer to death."

"He could harm you in other ways. Voldemort shares a connection with you. If he ever becomes
aware of the fact that you care for him, he will use that to his advantage in whatever way
necessary."

"He already knows," Harry declares viciously, his eyes stinging, hands balling into fists. "No
offense, but all I have to do is die, yeah? Just—just between now and when I'm the only one left, I
only have to die. What could he possibly do to stop me? I'll never see him again. I'll die knowing
he'll be following me shortly after, because you'll win, won't you? I know you think that this is
protecting me in some way, but it's just...making this worse. I can't do it. I won't."

"Harry, I'm simply being cautious and—"

"I said no!"

Dumbledore falls silent instantly, calm like still waters, peering at Harry without showing anything
in his face. He hasn't even flinched at Harry's abrupt shout, nor does he complain about the various
objects that rattle around the room. Harry feels like he's about to fly apart and shatter everything
around him, as if his body is a weapon in and of itself.

There's a tension in the room that threatens to smother Harry, but Dumbledore seems untouched by
it all. It's like he's never ruffled, but that's not true. Harry has seen him cry, has seen him lie, has
come to recognize his manipulations and slowly started to realize the depth of his love. Because he
does love Harry, which makes all of this that much more complicated. It's like with Voldemort, but
not, and Harry knows that neither of them would appreciate the comparison.

They make him feel the same, though, most of the time. It's different with Dumbledore—harder
than it should be. Dumbledore is the good one; he's the one Harry should be able to forgive.
Perhaps it is because he is the good one that Harry cannot.

Harry feels oddly hollow and broken inside, like those children on the telly who would cry when
they met their heroes in real life, all because it wasn't what they thought it would be. That's because
it's just a person in a costume, not the actual hero.

It feels a bit like that with Dumbledore. Like he's been wearing a cape of lies and secrecy, and now
that it's truly gone, Harry can see him as he is. And what he sees breaks his heart.

"Harry," Dumbledore says calmly, gently, "life is like a path. There is a beginning of that path;
birth. There is the—"

Harry releases a loud bark of laughter, so like Sirius that it makes him ache for the man for a
moment. It's an abrupt gasp of laughter that rips from his throat, raw and painful, full of hysterics
and disbelief. This can't be happening to him.

Dumbledore can't actually be saying this to him, now, right here towards the end. That's just… It's
bleak and unfair, really. After everything, for Dumbledore to lose faith in him now, when he
honestly has no real reason to...it feels like he's being stabbed through the heart, honestly. It's
painful. Harry has feared this one thing; it was the main reason he never returned home, all because
he hoped to avoid this very thing. And here it is, just like that, a spiel of words that Dumbledore
once said to Voldemort so long ago, with the hope that it would scare him into being a better
person.

Harry knows he's not a good person, not really, but he's the person who's going to step up and die
to stop someone he cares about because they're an even worse person.

He thinks, after everything, he deserves a bit more than a speech about life and destinations
reserved for those who have lost their way.

"Every path for every person has the same destination; death," Harry says in the sudden silence,
staring at Dumbledore, looking into his dim eyes, his heart twisting violently in his chest.
Dumbledore has stopped speaking at Harry's harsh laugh. "Yeah, I know that one, and I know what
it means. I got the message, thanks."

"No, my boy," Dumbledore murmurs, "it is never a message of your misgivings. I'm trying to tell
you that you have walked a path shrouded in darkness and still found your way. I'm proud of you."

Harry blinks hard, at that. Sadly, it softens him very little. He's too angry and brittle right now. "If
I'm being honest, that metaphor is pretty shit. I hate it. He hated it, too, you know. It doesn't matter
how you wrap the message; the contents are still the same. You're proud of me for dying, and he'd
be proud of me for living, and both of you are wrong for it. I know my place in all this, and you've
both left me there, so I'd appreciate it if you'd stop acting like there's anything you can say that will
make any of this easier for me. There isn't. Especially not about how life is a path and I'm so close
to my destination, lucky enough to fumble up to it in the dark."
"I see. I'm sorry," Dumbledore murmurs, and it is weak at best, but it's written all over his face that
he wishes he could do more. He simply can't. He seems to realize this and dips his head slightly.
"You should go to the Hospital Wing in preparation for whatever Voldemort's response will be
when I destroy this one. I doubt it will be pleasant."

"So do I," Harry whispers. "Dying rarely is."

Dumbledore has the sword. He's not meant to have it. He's never had it before, not on this cliff's
edge, and Harry doesn't really understand why he knows this for certain. It just feels as real as the
harsh wind whipping his hair around—an unshakable knowledge that Dumbledore never has the
sword here, that it's not supposed to be here.

"No!" Harry shouts in protest, somehow already aware of what's about to happen before it does.

He's running, now, sprinting as fast as his feet will take him. The sword gleams as it swings in an
arc, reflecting in the glimmering red of Voldemort's eyes. Voldemort only stands there, not moving,
stuck in place like a wax fixture of himself.

Please, Harry thinks a little desperately, charging forward as he watches the sword come down in
what feels like slow motion. Dumbledore's Cursed hand grips the hilt, and he pays no attention to
Harry's rapid approach. It's like he can only see the monster before him, the one he's determined to
cut down.

Flinging himself forward with a gasp, the sword cuts into Harry's hand as he shoves it out to protect
himself and the person he's thrown himself in front of without much thought. It stings; burns, even.
He doesn't care. Dumbledore drops the sword instantly, and that's all that matters.

The wind shifts, swirling all around them so that Dumbledore's beard is caught in the turbulent
gale, and Harry sees the billow of Voldemort's robes in his peripheral. He turns, his chest heaving,
and he's trying to stand between them, trying to stop something from happening.

"Harry," Dumbledore whispers, eyes watery with tears, his glasses perched perfectly on his nose.
Before Harry can so much as try to answer, he catches sight of the form behind him tipping
backwards. He whirls around in just enough time to see Voldemort ease over the edge, his hand
outstretched. Harry's breath catches.

He's surging forward without hesitation, practically sailing over the side right behind him, bloody
fingers wrapping around Voldemort's pale wrist. He's no match for gravity, however, and he tips
over the side, too. What awaits below is a dark abyss, a void unlike Harry's ever imagined, an
oppressive darkness that reaches up to meet them with claws at the ready to sink into them and
drag them down. He can feel it threatening to swallow him whole.

With a gasp, he stops falling with a sudden jerk, warm fingers clasping his other hand to halt his
descent. His body splays wide, one arm stretched upwards where Dumbledore has a firm grip on
him, the other tugged down from where he holds onto Voldemort. They dangle over the chasm of
overflowing emptiness, and Harry breathes hard as his heart races wildly in his chest.

"Wait," Harry chokes out, "my grip—"

"You have to let him go, Harry," Dumbledore whispers from above, his voice carrying softly along
the breeze. "I can't lift the both of you. I can only bring you back, my boy, but you have to let him
go."

"He'll fall," Harry gasps, straining to keep a grip on this uncertain chain that sways in the air. The
weight of gravity and unrelenting beat of the wind threatens to split him in half.

Dumbledore peers down at him patiently. "Let him."

Harry whimpers, a harsh ripping sensation branding his chest and back, as if he really is being torn
apart. He flings his head to the side, looking down at Voldemort, staring into his eyes. He's not
holding onto Harry, not even trying to get back up. He's just swinging there, at the mercy of Harry's
slippery grip. His eyes are sharp, but he has no expression on his face, as if he's not even here at
all.

He's slipping. They all are. It's up to Harry now, his grip keeping them all tethered, and he has no
choice but to let go of one. But which one?

Harry screws his eyes shut and relaxes his hand, about to open one of them, letting go of—
With a jolt, Harry wakes in the stiff sheets of a bed in the Hospital Wing, his heart in his throat.
He's disoriented for a second, perturbed by the lack of wind and the absence of Voldemort and
Dumbledore. That felt so real.

"Harry," comes a gentle voice beside him.

"H'mione?" Harry mumbles, blinking blearily as he looks at his bedside.

There are two chairs, and Hermione is the occupant of one. She looks tired, her gaze weary, hair
haphazardly pulled back from her face. She's holding onto one of his hands in both of hers, the
hand that was cut in his dream, and it has a phantom twinge even if there's no wound.

In the other chair, there's a peculiar sight. Harry blinks at Ron's floating head, the rest of his body
gone entirely except for his feet poking out towards the bottom where the legs of the chair are.
He's asleep. Hermione follows his gaze and sighs, lips twitching fondly, eyes softening.

"He got cold and covered himself with your Cloak," Hermione murmurs, turning back to peer at
him.

"You snuck in to see me?" Harry asks, because that's the only explanation he can think of.

Hermione nods. "You never came back after your detention with Snape, so we—well, we were
worried, Harry. You've got your Cloak and the Map back, so we knew it was in your dorm. Ron
went and found it, and we came here. We thought—"

When she cuts herself off and averts her eyes, Harry swallows past the sudden lump in his throat.
He knows what they thought. "I'd say goodbye, Hermione. If—if I get the chance, I will."

"You don't often get the chances you should, Harry. Really, you shouldn't have to say goodbye at
all." Hermione sighs quietly and squeezes his hand, leaning forward to brace her elbows on the
bed, staring at him. "We'll miss you."

"I'm sorry," Harry whispers.

"You're our best friend, Harry. It's always been the three of us. I don't—my life wouldn't be what it
is if not for you, and I know Ron would say the same. Fate isn't something I put a lot of thought
into, and I've come to hate it if it's responsible for the direction your life has gone, but I can't help
but be grateful for it allowing me to know you."

"Hermione… Please don't cry. I don't want to hurt you, any of you. I know it's not—it's going to be
alright, no matter what happens, yeah? You'll have each other. You always have each other."

Hermione makes a small sound and brings his hand up to her face, lowering her head to press her
forehead against the back of his bent fingers. He can see her eyes shut and two, wet blots fall on the
sheets. It makes his heart ache, but all he can do is watch helplessly as she cries for him.

"I tried so hard," Hermione breathes out shakily, her voice soft and trembling. "I did everything I
could, and it still wasn't enough. I even took the Liquid Luck you gave Ron, you know, and—and
Professor Slughorn did tell me the truth, but what good did it do when Draco tells me the very next
day that you've already decided to sacrifice yourself? What was the point of it all, Harry? What
could I have done when you'd already made your decision?"

"I—I didn't want to face it, Hermione." Harry stretches his thumb up to gently brush along her
hairline, swallowing thickly. "I didn't want to admit that I was going to die and that I was scared to.
I still don't, sometimes, but that's not—that doesn't make up for me giving you false hope. I'm
sorry. I should have never told you that you could find another way. I just didn't want to tell you or
Draco because—because, well."

Hermione sniffles, giving a weak, wet laugh. She turns her head just a bit to peer at him past his
fingers, still holding onto him. "We do come on a little strong, don't we? Draco's...angry, and I'm
obviously devastated about it. I understand."

"He's not so angry anymore, I don't think," Harry muses with cautious hope.

"We talk, sometimes, me and him." Hermione averts her gaze, lips tipping down. "There's a reason
people assumed we were together, you know. It's because Draco and I...well, we've come to form
something of a friendship, even if he'll never admit it out loud. He doesn't show what he actually
feels, but if you look deep enough, it's easy to see how much he feels, isn't it? About this, he's…
Oh, Harry, you know he's heartbroken over it, don't you?"

Harry nods, releasing a soft sigh. "I know, Hermione. I never planned to hurt him. I didn't mean to.
I love him."
"I know," Hermione says gently. "Ron and I have talked about it. About...after. Well, I've told Ron
what we're going to do, and he's agreed."

"Is that right?" Harry asks, lips twitching.

Hermione hums. "We won't leave him alone, Harry. We can't make up for it, but we can—we can
be there for him. And it's—it'll be nice to have him around as well, I think. As much as it hurts, we
all do love you. You know that, don't you?"

"If I tried to doubt it, I'd be an even bigger idiot than I am," Harry murmurs. He taps his thumb
gently against her forehead, trying to smooth away the tension. Draco would admonish her for the
wrinkles. Harry just releases a deep breath. "Hermione, I should—I never really apologized to you,
or even Ron, for being a shite friend sometimes. Especially last year. I lashed out at both of you
when you two have always been the best parts of my life, ever since I was eleven. I should have
treated you better, the both of you, and now I can't—I don't get to make up for it. I'm sorry."

"Harry, you have nothing to make up for," Hermione whispers fiercely. "It was never about being
friends with Harry Potter, not for us. Your fame, or money, or differential treatment didn't make us
stay. If it was, quite frankly, your attitude was enough to make anyone go at times. But we were no
better, honestly. It was always about Harry—just Harry—for us, and it always will be. That's
enough for us, and it always has been."

"It's going to be alright," Harry tells her, watching her eyes flicker shut as more tears fall. "It will,
Hermione, because you're both strong and stubborn and flawed and ridiculously lovely. Merlin, I'm
almost glad I won't have to see you as an adult. Can you imagine? You'll take the world by storm."

Hermione laughs weakly. "And Ron?"

"Oh, I have no idea, but I'm sure whatever he ends up doing, he'll still be there for you and his
family and friends. Those are the most important things to him, you know. I've always admired him
for that."

"So have I."

"What do you think I'd be doing?" Harry asks, tentative about it, unwilling to make her cry again.
"Ah, likely trailing after Draco and trying to save the world, still," Hermione says, lips curling up.

Harry clicks his tongue. "Do you know everything?"

"I'm glad I don't," Hermione murmurs. She sighs and brushes her thumbs over his fingers. "I wish
you had one year, Harry. Just one year to be normal."

Harry looks at her fondly and says, "My life was never going to be normal, and I'm glad it hasn't
been. It's been better than I could have ever imagined, you know."

"Because of magic?" Hermione asks, opening her eyes to peek past his fingers again, curious.

He gets what she means by that. In a way that Ron just doesn't, Hermione understands the miracle
that is magic, as well as how utterly awe-inspiring it is to those who were not born into it. It does,
in so many ways, make life so much better.

But no, that's not all there is. It's a huge part of it, woven in through the years of his life, a staple to
who he's become. There's just magic in other things as well, in the friends he's found along the
way, in the love he's felt in various forms. He's thankful for it all, every single bit of it.

"That," Harry allows, "and so much more."

The small gathering of students in the stands out on the pitch explode with shrieks of delight as
Ron raises the Snitch into the air, laughing in utter delight as Daphne shakes her head in
exasperation.

Harry covers his mouth to hide a laugh, tapping the Beater stick to the handle of his broom,
watching his friends flit about in the air around him. It had seemed like a good idea to play a casual
game of Quidditch when Ginny—who missed playing with Harry—proposed the idea. Harry had
been immediately on board, of course, but it wasn't like they could just round up the whole
Gryffindor team, and besides, he wanted to play with Draco, too.
It was Luna who suggested that they all switch positions from what they're used to playing to make
it a bit more fun, and Harry had all but jumped on that idea as soon as he heard it. They'd all picked
positions out of Luna's lion hat—that she insisted on wearing, despite the teams being broken up
without House affiliation—and Harry had nearly laughed himself silly when he got Beater. He's a
shite Beater, honestly, but he went with it anyway.

Ron and Daphne—who had agreed to play when Hermione asked her to—both got Seeker and
seemed equally incredulous at their luck. The game lasted quite a while because neither of them
could catch the blasted Snitch for some time, though Harry had to regularly refrain from doing so.

Draco and Blaise both got Keeper, and they bickered for a while which team they'd play for, before
Blaise finally succumbed to Draco and Harry both ganging up on him since they both wanted to be
on opposing teams. In fairness, Harry and Draco have never been anything other than competitive
before, so it makes sense to carry that streak now.

Ginny, Pansy, and Dean—who had opted to play when Seamus did—all got Chaser for Harry's
team. Meanwhile, Theo, Seamus, and Andrew Kirke—a third year Beater for the Gryffindor
Quidditch team, who had been ushered rather quickly into the position Hermione was supposed to
play, because she resisted as soon as she could—all got Chaser for Draco's team. Andrew, who was
also a shite Beater in actual matches, actually did better as a Chaser than he did in his usual
position.

Honestly, it was a casual game more for fun than anything, and Harry had enjoyed himself
immensely. He'd had a great laugh at his own mistakes as a Beater, and he spent a great deal of
time just watching Draco dive out of the way of Ginny's incoming quaffles, practically letting her
score to save his own skin. She carried Harry's whole team, honestly, because she's just that wicked
of a player, no matter her position.

Astoria Greengrass, Daphne's little sister, had been roped into playing as well, and she'd gotten
Beater for Draco's team. They'd all opted to have one Beater each, since they didn't have enough
people for two, and she was as bad as Harry. They both spent a great deal of time trying to outfly
bludgers rather than smack them at people, but it had made for good entertainment, at least.

Harry shakes his head with a small laugh as Ron waves around the Snitch, grinning ridiculously
before offering it to Daphne with a loud laugh. She takes it and half-bows on her broom, blowing
him a kiss before flying to the stands where Hermione is, giving her the Snitch instead. Harry's
quite sure he sees Ron nearly fall off his broom.

"I can't believe I had the worse Weasley on my team and he still won," Draco mutters, suddenly
hovering in the air right next to Harry, looking appalled.
"Aren't you happy about your victory, Draco?" Harry teases, waggling his eyebrows.

Draco huffs, tilting his chin up. "There are better ways I could be spending my weekend, you
know. Weasley will never shut up about this, as if beating a girl who's never played Quidditch in
her life is something to be proud of."

"Oh, let him have this," Harry says, rolling his eyes. He jerks his broom, drifting close enough to
elbow Draco roughly in the side. "As if you haven't gloated about your stupid victories in the past.
It's not like you can ever beat me fair and square, not on the pitch, and you know it."

"You don't have your Firebolt anymore, Harry, so tread carefully with your words," Draco drawls,
arching an eyebrow.

Harry grins. "Is that so? Alright, then."

With that, he turns in the air, darting forward to the stands. As he approaches, he sees what looks
like Hermione trying to crawl under a bench while Ron and Daphne seem to be locked in a rather
heated discussion. They're not arguing, exactly, but it seems fairly intense. Luna, who is next to
Hermione and blocking her from a quick retreat, is watching all of this with amusement.

The other students who had heard about the relaxed game and wanted to come watch are waiting in
trepidation, as if they think a fight is about to break out between Ron and Daphne. As Harry eases
to a stop beside them, his eyebrows shoot up when he hears their words.

"—all I'm saying is that you can't have given her the Snitch, seeing as I caught it!" Ron is saying
rather loudly, blushing brightly but still firm to his point.

Daphne arches a blonde eyebrow. "Yes, but you gave it to me, didn't you?"

"As a nice gesture!" Ron shouts, looking horrified by his own past actions as soon as he's come to
realize why he'd done them. So clueless, this one.

"And so I gave it to her," Daphne declares simply, flashing Hermione a quick smile.
Hermione is sinking further down in her seat, looking increasingly distressed. "Ron, it's—it's really
fine. You caught the Snitch; of course it's yours to give to whomever you wish. It's really—"

"But," Ron starts helplessly, "I didn't—"

"It's a gift from us, Hermione," Daphne says softly, blinking at her, then turning to stare at Ron
with an odd look. "Obviously, we both want you to have it. Don't we, Ron?"

Harry's not sure when Daphne started calling them by their first names, but neither of them seem
surprised to hear it. He doesn't think he's ever heard her address either of them without some sort
of sensual or sweet endearment, which has been a curious thing. In any case, Ron is blushing
profusely and not looking at either of the girls, just staring down at his broom like it holds the
answers to the universe, but he's still nodding nonetheless.

"Yeah, er, yeah," he declares weakly. "I—I want you to have it. Er, both of you, I suppose."

"Merlin," Harry breathes out, not even meaning to. He's sure that Ron just used up his emotional
range in one whack, and they'll likely never see him be as open as he is in this moment for another
year. Or two. Or three, possibly.

"Oh, that's sweet," Daphne says, flashing Ron a smile when he glances up at her. She turns to
Hermione then, sighing softly. "Isn't it, love?"

"It's—I'm—" Hermione gives up as quickly as she starts, clenching the Snitch in her hands like a
lifeline. Her eyes are very wide.

Harry's not sure what's happening here, but something clearly is. However, he loves his friends
dearly, and they both look like they're going to combust from...feelings, possibly, so he swoops in
to save them. Because he's the Savior, and all that.

"Brilliant," he announces cheerfully, flying forward to hover in front of Hermione. "Romantic as all
this is, the Snitch actually does have to go back where we got it, unfortunately. I'll take it,
Hermione."
"R-Romantic?!" Ron sputters, because his emotional range has snapped back to him like elastic,
and his blush has possibly overheated his brain.

"Take it." Hermione practically shoves the Snitch into his hand, whimpering just a bit.

With a bark of laughter, Harry holds the Snitch firmly and shoots off, leaving his friends to their
complicated situation. Perhaps not the Savior he's expected to be, after all.

Draco is still mostly in the same spot he was when Harry left him a few moments ago. He watches
Harry fly closer with narrowed eyes, suspicious, as he should be. Harry grins at him and circles
closer, getting right next to him, leaning in his space.

Harry holds up the Snitch, watching Draco's gaze latch onto it. "Scared, Malfoy?" he teases.

"I'm not going to fall for your antics," Draco says, but his gaze does not move from the Snitch.

"So, you are scared then, Malfoy?" Harry taunts, not even swallowing the chuckle that rises up his
throat when Draco's lip curls into a faint sneer. He looks sort of like he used to when he was
terrible, which isn't actually all that attractive, but it's really funny because he's...well, he's not that
terrible anymore.

Draco gives in, because he is dramatic, and he snaps, "You wish, Potter."

Harry opens his hand, letting the Snitch flit away, and he darts forward to kiss the sneer right off
Draco's face. He nearly overbalances to do it, scrambling to hold onto Draco's broom as well so he
won't fall off his own. He grins into the kiss, heart giving a delightful little flip when Draco's cool
fingers cup his jaw, sliding around to grip the back of his neck and hold him in place.

They lean into each other like that, hovering in the air and snogging properly. Draco hums, his
broom swaying as he leans in close, and Harry's half-sure that they're both about to fall in a tangled
heap to the ground, too busy snogging to care about actually flying correctly. Madame Hooch
would have their heads if she caught them disregarding such safety precautions just to snog.

Fortunately—or unfortunately, depending on who's asked—the Snitch whips around their head
with a low buzz, making Draco break away with a small huff. He blinks slowly, as if dazed, but his
gaze sharpens as he catches sight of the Snitch in the distance. Harry follows the line of his sight,
going still when he sees the flash of gold as it flits all about. Slowly, he and Draco lean away from
each other, righting themselves on their brooms.

"If you catch it—"

"When I catch it, Harry."

Snorting, Harry continues, "If you catch it, I'll do my Charms essay like you asked me to. But, if
you don't, you have to sacrifice at least an hour of your time studying come Monday to spend it
with me."

"A bet?" Draco raises his eyebrows, looking thoughtful, then he smirks. "You're on."

Before Harry can so much as agree, Draco shoots off with his laughter trailing after him. Harry
makes a loud sound of protest, even if he's grinning, and he gives chase. The other players clear the
air, going to the stands to watch, and it isn't long before people are calling out in support for him or
Draco, or both.

They've done this before at the Manor, and many times on this exact pitch, though not after
snogging and not with laughter sounding out between them. Either way, Harry feels full to the brim
with adrenaline and happiness, not thinking about one terrible thing for once.

For right now, chasing a blur of blond and snarky comments, Harry feels utter joy.

It gets close at the end. Harry doesn't have his Firebolt anymore, having left it at the Manor, so he's
just using the brooms provided by the school. They all are, to keep it fair, so he and Draco are
evenly matched in this regard. Though, quite honestly, Harry's always been better than Draco in the
air, and they both know it. That doesn't mean Draco isn't good, really good, when he wants to be
and when he's trying to prove something.

It's clear that he's proving something now. Harry's mildly stunned when he realizes that Draco is
actually going to get to the Snitch first. He's got longer arms, and he's not holding back in lining up
right next to Harry and slamming into his side, just like any respectable Quidditch player would.
As much as Hooch likes to preach about keeping the games clean, Quidditch isn't a very clean
sport to begin with, so it's not even done out of malice.
Harry gives as good as he gets, elbowing his boyfriend in the side roughly without much thought,
the rush of the wind as they fly making them wobble dangerously. But that's all a part of the thrill.

Then, just as Draco's fingers close around the Snitch, he turns to look at Harry with a faint smile,
his softest most dazzling one. Before Harry can make sense of that, he feels the Snitch get pushed
into his hand and automatically grips it on reflex alone, blinking rapidly as Draco's hand falls
away.

The crowd in the stands roar his name, cheering happily, and Harry draws to a halt in the air,
utterly confused. Draco swivels back towards him, his blue-grey eyes bright and dancing with
amusement as he stops right next to him.

"What?" Harry asks dumbly.

Draco leans in close, lowering his voice to say, "It's so terrible, isn't it? I'll have to give up an hour
just to spend it with you."

"But—Draco, you—" Harry huffs a small laugh as Draco pulls back, lips curling up, and then he
flies away without another word.

Flustered, Harry sort of just hovers there in the air, holding onto the Snitch while his friends flood
the pitch and try to wave him down. He watches Draco fly to the ground, fussing half-heartedly to
his friends about his loss, but Harry knows better. Draco could have won that— should have won
that.

And yet, Draco—the most competitive, prideful prat Harry's ever known, who doesn't forfeit
anything for anyone—just...lost on purpose. Lost willingly, despite knowing that he'll be teased for
it—and people are already starting that, Ron specifically. He lost because...why, exactly?

Because, in his mind, he's still winning. Time with Harry is winning, to him. It shouldn't be as
sappy and romantic as it is, but Harry feels his heart go warm and swell in his chest anyway.

Merlin, he's so stupidly in love. So much so that he's going to do that stupid Charms essay anyway,
even though he's won. Can it even be called a win, really?

Well, yes, actually. After all, he gets time with Draco, and that's the win he was seeking anyway.
Harry walks around the corner and comes to a very abrupt halt, blinking at the sight before him.

He's heading to the Gryffindor Common Room after being held back by Slughorn, and all he wants
to do is spend some time with his friends. It's inching closer and closer to the end of the third week
when Dumbledore will inevitably destroy the Cup, and then it will be his turn. He likes spending
whatever free time he has now with his friends, or his boyfriend, or both.

However, it seems he is being delayed in reaching his friends by the sight of a different friend, one
he does not expect to find in such a position like this.

He doesn't think he's ever seen Pansy look so small.

There's a taller boy standing in front of her, his wand out, and he's hissing words that Harry can't
actually hear. Pansy is leaning back against the wall without saying a word, her jaw tilted up,
looking all for the world like she's full of pride except for the wariness flashing in her gaze. She's
holding her side and favoring her left foot.

"Pans?" Harry says, the affectionate nickname that only Blaise ever uses—and Draco, on rare and
random occasions—slipping out before he can think twice about it.

"Harry?" Pansy blurts out, her gaze snapping over to him and softening in relief for a split second.
Then she sneers at him. "What do you want?"

"Well, at the moment, I'm quite interested in what's going on here," Harry admits, sliding his wand
out of his pocket and lazily flicking it between them with a slow blink. "Who's this?"

"Ronan Bole, what's it to you, Potter?" Bole spits, eyes narrowing into slits. He glares at Harry with
nothing but contempt.

"Are you bothering her?" Harry asks.

"Oh, bloody hell," Pansy mutters, shifting a bit, then wincing at the movement. She huffs and
glares at Harry, too. "Move along, Potter, your heroics aren't needed. Rest assured, no one needs
your help."

"It rather looks like you do," Harry says mildly. He flicks his gaze to Bole. "I think you should go.
Pansy doesn't need an escort to bed."

Pansy gives a prim sniff, like she agrees.

"Stuff it," Bole snarls. "This is between me and her. She knows what she's done."

"And what's that?" Harry tips his head to the side, not even really curious but asking all the same.
He doesn't doubt that Pansy might have done something, but he does doubt she deserves whatever
Bole is doing in retaliation. "Does Blaise know what she's done, and what you're doing now? You
know, Blaise Zabini, her boyfriend whose mother oversees the Bole family accounts outside of
Gringotts. Unless that's just a rumor, of course."

It is a rumor, one Harry only knows because of his boyfriend and his close relationship with Mrs.
Malfoy, but knowing Pureblood gossip comes with a certain amount of power-play. He's not
exactly comfortable using it, but seeing Pansy like this ensures that he's not above it. Purebloods
are all ridiculous, and it gives them a rather easily accessible weak spot.

"Piss off, Potter," Bole snaps. "Trust me, if Blaise's mother knew what rubbish his darling
girlfriend was spouting off about, she wouldn't make a move to protect her. You don't slander a
Bole and get away with it, and Parkinson is learning that lesson now."

"It's been a very informative lesson," Pansy grits out, wincing again as she shifts against the wall.

Harry frowns. "She slandered you? That's it? That's what made you attack her out in the halls?"

"Make one joke about the Bole family shagging their house-elves, and it's suddenly slander,"
Pansy hisses, rolling her eyes.

"Pansy," Harry says, "that's not funny."

"Yes, well, I simply didn't understand what else they could be doing," Pansy replies, blinking
innocently, a smirk dancing at the edge of her lips. "We were all discussing the idea of paying
house-elves, and Bole here seemed particularly resistant to the idea, so I assumed his family has
been servicing them. I praised him for it, of course. They don't have very much money in their
accounts, you see, so I just thought that they found a better way to pay their house-elves by
bending over for—"

She's cut off with a sharp gasp as Bole reaches out and slams her roughly back against the wall. He
draws his hand back, but before he can so much as move forward, Harry has his wand out.

"Stupefy!" he bellows, watching with satisfaction as Bole goes flying to the side.

Pansy gasps again and folds forward, grumbling under her breath, even as she laughs and sinks
down to the ground. Harry swallows and darts forward, frowning as he kneels down before her,
hesitantly gripping the side of her arms. He expects her to shove him off, but she doesn't.

"I think his family finding an alternative payment method to their house-elves is rather honorable,
really," Pansy wheezes, tilting her head back and blinking rapidly.

"I see you've come around to the house-elves' cause, then," Harry says dryly.

Pansy smirks faintly. "Granger might have gotten ahold of me, and Draco's sadly determined to
have morals lately, so you could say I was convinced."

"You're going about it in an unconventional way, almost horribly, but...I'll take it," Harry informs
her, because he will take it. A win is a win is a win, though he wishes it wouldn't lead to her being
so crude about those she's standing up for, especially when it ends up with her getting injured. He
sighs and shakes his head. "Come on, let me get you to the Hospital Wing."

"No, no, you mustn't do that, Potter," Pansy says, glaring at him. "Take me to the Slytherin
Common Room. Draco will fix me up."

"Will he?" Harry asks, uncertain. "Are you sure you don't need Madame Pomfrey?"

"I'm telling Draco you doubt his abilities."

"No, don't do that."

Pansy huffs a soft laugh. "Then take me to the Common Room. I'm assuming you know where it
is, or do I need to direct you?"

"I know where it is," Harry says.

"Lovely." Pansy heaves a sigh and grimaces. With that, she tips to the side and splays out in
Harry's arms, closing her eyes and going limp. "I'm your damsel now, Potter. Save me, oh Chosen
One."

"And Bole?"

"He'll wake up eventually, but he won't be a problem. He only was this time because he caught me
off guard. I'll turn his bones into soup if he tries anything again, so don't you fret your pretty little
head over it, darling."

Harry shakes his head, biting back a ridiculous smile. So dramatic, the lot of them. "Alright, get
ready, I'm about to lift you."

"Whisk me away, my heroic idiot," Pansy drawls, her face staying lax.

Harry curls his arms and grunts as he heaves to his feet, almost stumbling as he stands. He sees her
features tighten, hears her suck in a sharp breath of pain, then she's silent once more. He adjusts his
grip with a wince of apology and starts down the hall.

"You're not as light as you look, you know," Harry tells her, huffing and puffing a little.

"Or, perhaps you're just smaller than than the average boy, Potter," Pansy argues.

"Piss off." Harry rolls his eyes, only to look down at her with a small frown. "Where is Blaise,
anyway? You two are always together."
"We got into an argument at the Pureblood meeting, so I took a walk," Pansy murmurs, her lips
twitching down at the corners. "I suppose no one saw Bole slipping out after me, likely still too
busy arguing amongst themselves and hexing each other."

Harry blinks. "The Pureblood meetings. Those are still going on, aren't they? Are they as bad as
Draco made them out to be, or worse?"

"Probably worse."

"What did you and Blaise argue about?"

"Adoption," Pansy says flatly.

"Oh." Harry purses his lips, then coughs. "I know most Purebloods are against it because of, you
know, blood lines and heirs and such. What about you; for or against?"

"For," Pansy whispers, her nose twitching.

Harry swallows thickly. "And Blaise is...against?"

"Not as an idea, exactly, but not for us." Pansy's eyes slowly open, and she blinks up at him. "He
supports the idea of it, but he doesn't think it's suited for us. He wants an heir."

"You don't?" Harry asks in vague surprise.

"An adopted child would be an heir," Pansy argues, like he might not agree with her.

"No, no, I'm not arguing with you," Harry says quickly. "I just—I suppose I thought you'd agree
with the Pureblood tradition, is all."

Pansy scowls slightly, though it's clear that it's not at him. "In some things, I do, but in this… Well,
it's because of this that I'm open to changing my mind about other things. I don't want to produce
an heir. My body will change, and I'll feel terrible for months, and I'll be praised for it like it's all
I'm good at. I'd love to raise a child with Blaise, of course, but why does it have to be a child we
make? In Pureblood society, it's the name that matters. No one would know the child wasn't blood-
related unless we decided to tell, and even then, the child would still be a Zabini in every single
way. No one could argue it, so why not do it that way?"

"I agree," Harry says simply, because he does. He grunts a little as she slips in his grip, and she
hisses in pain as he hefts her back up. "Blood lines don't really matter in all things anyway, you
know. My blood-relatives are pretty shite, but the family I've made for myself is better. Besides,
Pureblood society is a load of hogwash, really."

"Perhaps," Pansy allows stiffly, "but even you have to admit that it's influential in the Wizarding
World. Purebloods are so ingrained in all society that they have standings in every facet of it. You
wouldn't believe the avenues open to you as a Pureblood. Or, well, you probably would because of
the Malfoys."

"I have an idea, yeah," Harry admits, "but that doesn't make it right. It's all about the galleons
under the table, isn't it? Rich people influencing the greedy, which only hurts the poor. Frankly,
society would be a better place if Purebloods didn't have the weight that they do."

"The benefits are lovely, though," Pansy's practically whines, pouting up at him.

Harry sends her a sharp look of reprimand. "Yes, for you. For the Purebloods benefitting from it.
You know it's not honest, and you need only look at some of the scorned to see how it affects
them. Take the Weasleys, for example. They've been snubbed by the Malfoys so much now that it's
a bit ridiculous. Everyone knows Mr. Weasley's position at the Ministry has been threatened by
Lucius multiple times—lack of promotions, the loss of proper wage, forcing him to overwork
himself. He doesn't complain and he's a better dad than Lucius could ever dream to be. The
Weasleys live a simple, honest life and perhaps they are poor, but what does that truly matter when
they're lovely people? Not only that, but they're also lacking in wealth because of Purebloods—
Lucius, in particular—and then their children come here and get mocked by the children of those
who are at fault for the things they're being mocked for! The benefits are lovely, sure, right up
until they're not, and I wish that all Purebloods had to know what it's like to live without them."

"You have all the benefits, too, Potter. Everyone knows you're rich, so don't act as if you aren't.
Just because you associate with the poor doesn't make you one of them, and you can sympathize all
you like, but if we can't understand, you can't either. Your name holds more weight than any
Pureblood's ever could," Pansy mutters with a healthy dose of judgement. "Nice try, though."

"Until I was eleven, Pansy, I didn't have anything to my name, and I was treated like those house-
elves that you've only just decided to stand up for," Harry snaps, staring down at her with a harsh
gaze. "I didn't ask for any of the benefits I've gotten."

Pansy arches an eyebrow. "Neither did we."

"Alright, fine," Harry grits out, "but you're not using them for anything good, either."

"What good would it do, Potter? You know what the world's like. You've seen it now, haven't
you?"

"You've got to start somewhere, though."

"And where would you suggest?" Pansy snaps, her nails digging into his arms. "Shall I start
throwing my name around in efforts I agree with—adoption and house-elves? Risk everything my
family has worked for just to—to what, fight the system?! That's utter madness. My bloody name
and family and position in society will be smeared, just like the Blacks. Look what Sirius Black
did, and what do they have left? Look at the Weasleys—they rejected the Pureblood society and
now they're poor. People don't just fight it and win, Potter! You do know that, don't you? Draco's
skirting the line already, and has been since the beginning of this year, and if he loses everything, it
will be your fault."

Harry has to work very hard not to open his arms and dump her in the middle of the cold hall, and it
takes a lot of effort not to. He keeps walking, breathing slow and steady to stay calm, thinking
about her words as objectively as possible. He has to remind himself that not everyone just does the
right thing, no matter the consequences, and it doesn't necessarily make them bad people.

"As simply as Purebloods found position in society, they could lose it," Harry says seriously. "It's
just a bunch of people who had wealth and told everyone else that their name meant something.
Who's to say that those same people can't come together and stand for something else, something
better? Why not try and fight for rights that you believe in, especially if you've got help from
friends? You have connections, Pansy; you need only use them. The problem is you and so many
others are scared of what you'll lose to do something to help others gain. So, yes, take the risk, but
do it the Slytherin way if you have to! Every person who fought it and lost did it the Gryffindor
way, didn't they? Maybe Purebloods need Slytherins to best them, and why shouldn't it be you and
your friends?"

"As rousing as that speech was, we'd need more than just—just a few friends," Pansy says, but her
tone has taken on a thoughtful pitch. "Public opinion matters, too."
"Talk to people." Harry sends her a significant glance. "Luna's dad owns the Quibbler, you know,
and more people read it since I gave an interview in Fifth Year. I'd give another one, if you like.
And, er, depending on the cause and when exactly you were to get started, I'd be more than happy
to help throw my name around, as it were. If—if I'm...available. Also, talk to Hermione. Seriously.
She knows a thing or two about how to get her way."

Pansy is silent for a long time, but she eventually closes her eyes and says, "I don't know."

Harry grins because he is well-versed in what that means when it comes to Slytherins. Maybe she
actually doesn't know, but she's clearly thinking about it, and that's enough for him.

"Alright," he says mildly.

They don't say another word between them until they reach the blank stretch of stone wall. Harry's
only ever been down here once, so he almost misses it before Pansy lightly smacks his arm and
waves a manicured hand in front of them.

"Boomslang," Pansy drawls, waiting as the entrance opens up to them both. "Sorry, Potter, you're
going to have to let this damsel go now. Only Slytherins allowed, you understand."

"You're joking," Harry says flatly, then tightens his grip on her and marches inside.

It's just as he remembers it back in his Second Year. The same low, green lighting with the lake
surrounding the outside and crackling fire under the mantle of the serpent portrait. There are
multiple Slytherins scattered around in the quiet, and a lot of them have various visible injuries.
Harry immediately spots Draco kneeling in front of who looks to be Astoria Greengrass, waving
his wand over a small cut on her forehead.

"Harry?" Theo blurts out in surprise from Harry's right, lowering the book he's reading to blink at
him and Pansy in vague astonishment.

"Pans?" Blaise says, equally startled as he shoots to his feet and marches forward, eyes a little wide
as he looks only at her. "Merlin and Morgana both, what the bloody hell did you do, love?"
Pansy sniffs and turns her face away from him, slamming her eyes shut once more. "I didn't do
anything. Where's Draco? I want Draco!"

"Me too," Harry says warily, shifting Pansy's weight. More eyes are turning to them, people
looking utterly furious when they realize he's standing at their door. "Er, Blaise, can you take your
girlfriend, mate? She's a bit hurt, so be careful."

"No!" Pansy shrieks, clinging to Harry like she can meld into his arms. "No, I won't go to him! I
want Draco! I want Draco!"

It's at this exact moment that Draco finishes healing Astoria and glances over to see what all the
fuss is about, and he goes rapidly pale as soon as his gaze lands on Harry. He's on his feet in an
instant, eyes wide as he rushes forward.

"What are you doing here?!" Draco snarls. "Get out, you utter imbecile! You can't be here!"

Harry huffs in offense and holds Pansy out like a peace-offering. "She's hurt, Draco! What was I
supposed to do? Let her crawl in here?"

"I tried to tell him," Pansy declares sharply, smacking Blaise's hands away from her as he tries to
reach out and touch her. "Draco, darling, I tried to make him go, but he just barged right in. No
manners, none at all. You see to him before everyone else sees to us. But see to me first!"

Draco throws a strained look around the room, wincing at the quiet muttering that's slowly starting
to rise. "Bloody buggering hell. Alright, alright. Tell me what happened. What's your injuries?"

"I'm pretty sure I hurt my right ankle, and I think he cracked a rib," Pansy says stiffly, gesturing to
the side she's been cradling this whole time.

"Who?" Blaise asks sharply.

Pansy says nothing, so Harry says, "Ronan Bole. I left him Stupefied in the hallway if you want to
go have a word with him. Just...don't kill him. They'll probably find a way to blame me."
"This is because you joked about his whole family getting buggered by house-elves," Draco drawls
without an ounce of sympathy as he points his wand at her side, his eyebrows furrowing.

"I'll see to him," Blaise says coldly, taking a solid step back, his face blank.

"I don't need you to defend me," Pansy snaps, her hand darting out to grasp his wrist.

Blaise pauses, looking down at her, and his eyes soften just a bit. "What do you need from me?"

"Tell me I'm right and fuss over my injuries," Pansy replies simply, arching an eyebrow.

"Take a deep breath," Draco orders, then waves his wand as soon as Pansy does. There's a faint
crack, and she starts howling immediately, squirming in Harry's arms as tears spring to her eyes.

Harry stares down at her in horror, realizing rather abruptly that something just got shoved
unceremoniously back into place somewhere in her body. Draco doesn't even bat an eye, and
multiple people around the room only grimace or wince. Blaise, however, sucks in a sharp breath
and shuffles forward, reaching out to grab Pansy's hands, not seeming to care that he's leaning into
Harry's side to be able to reach her.

"Oh, you're too pretty for pain, lovely," Blaise tells her, his tone soft as he smooths her hair back
from her face.

Pansy hums, blinking the tears out of her eyes. "I'm too pretty for everything, aren't I?"

"Most certainly," Blaise agrees.

"Even children," Pansy says.

Blaise presses his lips into a thin line, then releases a small sigh. "Even children, if you do not want
them. I can't tell you what to do with your body, after all, but you should know… Well, I get to
pick the child, since we'll be compromising."
"Very well," Pansy says with a sharp nod, as if they've just come to a business agreement.

Harry stares between them incredulously. "It's not like going to a bloody supermarket and picking a
child up off the shelf, you know!"

"Shut up, Harry, they've finally stopped arguing," Draco snaps, reaching down to lift Pansy's leg,
frowning at her foot.

"Just fix my foot!" Pansy snarls, only to squawk as Draco does just that. She lets out a groan,
fingers digging into both Blaise and Harry, and then she sags in relief. Then she winces again. "Oh,
that smarts a bit, doesn't it?"

"It's going to," Draco informs her with a roll of his eyes. "You'll be alright. When you wake up
tomorrow, you should feel well enough. Now get out of my boyfriend's arms and into your own."

"Yes, do carry me, darling," Pansy teases, her lips curling up as she holds her arms out to Blaise.
He scoops her up with ease, and she tilts her head back to laugh in delight. "You're so strong, did
you know? Take me somewhere and ravish me."

"As you wish," Blaise muses, eyes dancing with good humor and adoration as he turns around and
walks over to the closest chair to flop down in without any grace whatsoever, just to snog her.

Harry averts his eyes, clearing his throat as he looks at Draco, who is scowling at him. "You know,
I thought you'd be happier to see me."

"No outsider has been inside here in the past seven centuries, Harry," Draco hisses, crossing his
arms and glaring at him. "You should not be here. You need to leave. Now."

Harry very wisely does not bring up his Second Year, though the younger Harry in him desperately
wants to. He is older and wiser now, however, and he just so happens to enjoy snogging his
boyfriend, so he thinks it's best if he keeps this bit of information to himself so as not to risk said
snogging.

"Ah," Harry says delicately, darting his gaze around to the various Slytherins who look just a
second away from forming a mob to attack him, "I'll be going, then. You'll be alright?"
Draco sighs and rolls his eyes. "I'm the one who heals everyone, no matter what their opinions
were in the Pureblood meetings. They'd be stupid to target me, and if any of them are, I'll handle it
or Vince and Greg will. Now, go already."

"Alright, alright," Harry says with a small huff of laughter, holding up his hands in surrender. He
nods at various Slytherins as he starts backing up towards the door. "Goodnight, then."

He makes it a few steps out the entrance and up the hallway before there are quick steps from
behind him, and he whirls around in surprise. It's in just enough time for Draco to fling himself in
his arms, their mouths connecting a bit off-center, making Harry grunt in shock. He blinks as Draco
fixes their lips, lining them up properly, and then his eyes flutter shut and he forgets to be stunned.

Now he's really thankful that he didn't bring up his trip to the Slytherin Common Room in Second
Year.

For just a bit, he's being snogged rather thoroughly, making him lose all brain function. His arms
wrap all the way around Draco, pulling him in close, and he hums in approval when Draco lightly
tugs at his hair. Draco huffs a quiet laugh when he pulls away, and they both open their eyes and
stare at each other in the soft shadows of the dungeon corridor.

"Thank you for helping her," is all Draco whispers, leaning in again to press a warm, lingering kiss
to Harry's cheek.

"You don't have to thank me," Harry mumbles, stupidly flustered and strangely shy.

Draco hums, pulling back to smirk at him, though his eyes are soft. "No, I didn't, but I wanted to."

"Oh, thanks," Harry says, ducking his head a little.

"Always the hero," Draco murmurs with a soft chuckle. He leans back, squeezing Harry's arms
gently to urge them to let go. "I've got to get back now. Merlin only knows what they'll get up to if
I'm not there to stop them."

"And you call me the hero."

"Oh, I'm definitely not. I'm just a glorified nanny to a bunch of prideful toddlers with access to
magic that can hurt each other. I don't even get paid. I'm actually pretty sure that's Professor
Snape's way of showing distaste for my choice of partner."

"While all of that is objectively hilarious," Harry declares, "you should know that it's more than
that. What you're doing is—it's amazing, Draco. I mean, it's pretty ridiculous that you have to, but
you're quite good. You've been studying Healing Magic, haven't you? We haven't learned all the
things you know, and I'm sure your Mother hasn't taught you that much."

"It's interesting," Draco says carefully.

Harry raises his eyebrows. "You like it."

"Obviously, or I wouldn't do it," Draco replies, staring at Harry like he's an idiot, which—well, you
know. "What's your point?"

"It's just…" Harry bites his lip, palming Draco's sides in a soothing manner, mostly to settle
himself. He presses on, bravely. "I know your father wants you to work at the Ministry, Draco, but
—"

"Harry," Draco mutters, pulling away from both the conversation and Harry's hands, frowning,
"let's not talk about this."

"Draco, listen to me," Harry insists, reaching out to grab Draco's hips and reel him back in slowly,
holding his gaze. "I know he wants you to do as he's done—keeping place in society and such. The
work at the Ministry isn't even a position; it's just him showing up and fostering connections and
corruption with his money. And if you wanted to do that, truly, I would say do as you please, but
possibly better than he does it. But it's not what you want, is it? You won't be happy, will you?"

"I'm not talking about this, Harry."

"Why? Are you telling me you'll spend the rest of your life doing what he wants you to do, just to
make him proud, even if you hate every second of it?"
Draco won't hold his gaze, frequently breaking away to look to the side, his jaw clenched. "Leave
it, Harry. There's no point in—it doesn't matter, alright? If I don't take over, the Malfoy name won't
hold the same weight. My father will never stand for it, and besides...no matter what I do, I'm not
going to get what I really want, nor will I be happy."

"You could be anything you want to be," Harry whispers. "Anything at all. Just—just think about
it, yeah? Think about what you like doing, that's all."

"I'm going," Draco says sharply, stiffly pulling back, eyes averted.

"Alright, just—Draco, wait a moment." Harry jerks forward to reach out and halt him, dipping his
head to force Draco to meet his gaze. He smiles a little sheepishly, waiting until Draco's body
relaxes and his frigid tension thaws out. Then, very softly, he murmurs, "I love you."

Draco's entire face softens, but he only smirks and says, with an unnecessary amount of snark,
"Yes, so you've mentioned. You never shut up about it."

"Prat," Harry mumbles fondly.

"Idiot," Draco replies much the same way.

With that, Draco darts forward to give him another kiss on the cheek, quicker this time, and he's
blushing when he pulls away and makes his way back to his Common Room. Harry watches him
go with a small smile, shaking his head in both exasperation and pure love, then he turns around
and heads back to his own Common Room.

If, on the way, he kicks the passed out Ronan Bole in the side, then that's no one's business but his
own.

A shrieking Hermione is never a good thing, especially in the distance. Harry shares a mildly
horrified look with Ron, and they both pick up the pace to stumble down the steps and get outside
the Castle. They can make Hermione out with what appears to be three others, but Harry's more
concerned with all the yelling.
When he and Ron draw closer, they see who it is immediately. Harry barely even needs to spare a
glance to see that his boyfriend is present—the shock of his blond hair gives him away rather
quickly. Upon further inspection, though, Theo and Daphne are also here, and it seems that Theo
alone is facing Hermione's wrath.

"Hermione?" Ron asks hesitantly.

Draco is making faces at Harry that convey multiple things, but it's too late now. Hermione whips
around with blazing eyes, her gaze latching onto Harry without faltering.

"Tell him, Harry!" Hermione demands shrilly, pointing at Theo. "Tell him to get rid of it! Draco
isn't agreeing with me and—and Theo is being stubborn! Tell him!"

"Get rid of what?" Harry murmurs warily. For a split second, he has the absurd thought that
Hermione is talking about the Dark Mark, but that's ridiculous because she obviously knows people
can't just get rid of it.

"This," Theo drawls, lifting his arm and showing off what appears to be a regular Potions book.

Harry glances at Hermione with a frown. "Should he not have books for classes, or…?"

"Don't be a fool, Harry," Hermione snaps. "That's the book that gave Theo the Spell to—to harm
Draco. That's where he learned it, and it's been helping him cheat in Potions!"

"Personally, I don't hold it against him," Draco says lightly. "I think he should keep the book. I
certainly would. What's the point in tossing it in the Lake if it can be useful? It's not like it's evil."

"A book containing evil is evil!" Hermione shouts, turning her glare to Draco.

"I already promised not to try any spells out on any unsuspecting students," Theo says with a roll of
his eyes, lips twitching when Draco snickers.

"That's not funny!" Hermione insists.

Harry clears his throat. "Best not to try any spells out on anyone at all, mate. Do it on one of
Hagrid's pumpkins, or maybe the targets outside the courtyard. Just—just don't try anything on a
student first, yeah?"

"Harry!" Hermione bellows, eyes wide.

"Hermione," Harry says gently, "it's a book. A book you and Draco have already determined not to
be possessed. So, it has some Spells that can lead to some...not-so-good things, but if he's careful
about it, where's the harm?"

"It's teaching him the Dark Arts!" Hermione reaches out and snatches the book from Theo without
hesitation, shoving it at Harry. "You can't actually agree with a book that's teaching anyone Dark
Magic, Harry! It's ridiculous!"

"It's in how he uses it," Harry replies, holding his ground when Hermione's jaw drops. "I know the
same Spell he does, don't I? You're not worried I will do anything with it, are you?" He grips the
book and waves it around carelessly. "Again, it's just a book. Whatever Theo decides to do with it
is on him, and he will have to live with that. He could toss it in the Lake, yeah, or he could keep it
and use it in class and nothing would come of it. He's the one with the wand, Hermione, not the
book."

"You're actually agreeing with—"

"I'm not. I'm just saying, is all. It doesn't matter if he tosses it in the Lake now or not, because it's
not like he's just going to forget what he's read."

"I won't," Theo agrees with a smirk.

Hermione looks like her head is about to explode. Her fingers are curled into tight fists. "So you're
just comfortable with the idea that Theo is walking around with the knowledge of at least some
Dark Magic in his hands?"

"Well, it would be a bit hypocritical if he wasn't, Granger," Draco says in amusement. "After all,
Harry also has the same knowledge, as well as a bit more. But it's okay if he does, right? Just not
Theo, because he's a Slytherin?"
"Because he's learning it from a book that gives him a chance to cheat!" Hermione argues
defiantly.

"How does it help him cheat? Let me see it." Harry grasps the book firmly and tugs it from
Hermione's grip, opening it. He reads that it's the property of the Half-blood Prince inside the
cover, then starts flipping through the pages with a small frown. He goes to a Potion he remembers
in perfect clarity—the very first one Voldemort had him do. Draught of Living Death. "Alright,
let's see…"

The thing is, Voldemort really was an excellent Professor, all things considered. Harry hasn't really
forgotten a potion he's made under his tutelage, even if he doesn't recall every single detail of
every single one. He need only look at a book with instructions, however, to remember the
alternative way that Voldemort had him do the potion.

When it comes to Draught of Living Death, specifically, there's a stark difference in the way
Voldemort had him do it and the way the Potion texts instruct students to. Even starting with the
ingredients, Voldemort had him crush instead of cut. In the margins of this book, the same
instructions are there, and Harry blinks in faint surprise at seeing it.

For a moment, he wonders if this book was Voldemort's book. He never actually gave much
thought to it, but Voldemort is a half-blood, isn't he? The irony of that isn't lost on him, even if this
is the first time he considers it. He wonders, briefly, what all the Purebloods that follow him would
think to find out that he's a half-blood.

And, well, labelling it as property of the Half-blood Prince is something Harry could picture
Voldemort doing. It's certainly dramatic enough.

Well, no, that's not it at all. As soon as Harry's thought that, he brushes it aside. Voldemort isn't
proud of being a half-blood, so he wouldn't claim it in any form, not even as a small script in a
Potions book. Still, it's clear that the book is old and belonged to someone with skills in Potions, so
Harry entertains the thought for a bit anyway.

Maybe he's just missing him more than he wants to admit to, which is...upsetting.

In any case, if Hermione thinks this is cheating, she's very far off the mark. How can this be that
when it's simply correct? There's not a particularly wrong way to make a potion, as long as one
ends at the proper result. Taking a simpler path isn't cheating, or even cutting corners. It just has to
do with being skilled and interested in the subject.

Technically, Theo is sort of taking credit for work that isn't his own, but Harry isn't sure if that's
really a problem. In his defense, he was given instruction and simply followed it. Just because it
was better instruction than what everyone else got doesn't make it Theo's fault. Or Harry's, in
retrospect, because if he was asked right this second to brew the same potion, he'd do it as
Voldemort taught him to without a second thought.

"Look at that," Draco murmurs, peering over Harry's shoulder and pointing out a scribbled note in
the margin of a page over for an entirely different potion. "You know that Spell."

Harry blinks.

He does know the Spell that Draco is pointing out to him. Draco has seen him use it multiple times
on Lucius and scolded him for it, even if he looked terribly amused about the entire ordeal.
Langlock. The Spell Voldemort taught Harry in their very first lesson, the one that Snape created.

Snape.

Harry's mouth drops open as he snaps the book closed and looks at Draco helplessly. No one else
is going to understand his suspicion on this, but Harry's almost certain that this book belonged to
Snape of all people. Is he a half-blood? Would anyone know that?

After all, Snape is rather skilled with potions—even Harry can acknowledge that. You'd have to be
an idiot to suggest the opposite. Snape also knew what Sectumsempra was as well as its counter-
Spell. If anyone could be as good at potions as Voldemort, or even be skilled enough to teach him
certain things, it would be Snape, wouldn't it?

Well, there's only one way to find out.

"Theo," Harry says apologetically, "I'm going to have to take this, mate. Not—not because you're
cheating or because it's evil."

Hermione looks smug for about two seconds, then she snaps, "But it is cheating, Harry. It's—"
"It's not," Harry retorts just as sharply. "He was given instructions and he followed them."

"He's excelling in class based on knowledge that isn't his own!" Hermione argues. "What else do
you call that besides cheating?!"

Harry sighs and raises a hand to rub at his forehead, shaking his head. "Alright, so Theo exists in
the middle-ground. Yes, but also no. Some grey area, if you will. It's not wrong and it's not right.
Does it actually matter, Hermione? After the year he's had, isn't it a little nice that he didn't have to
worry about Potions on top of everything else?"

Hermione isn't one for pouting. She just...doesn't do it. In all the years he's known her, she hasn't
once done so, and he didn't think a time would come when she would. She's not Pansy, who pouts
at least three times a day. She's not Ron, who pouts through his scowls, likely not even realizing
he's doing it. She just doesn't, because people pout when they don't get their way, and Hermione's
never not gotten her way in things she believes she's wholeheartedly correct about—in fairness,
she's usually correct. Even if things are hard for a bit, like Harry and Ron stupidly avoiding her in
Third Year, people eventually come to realize that she was either right or that she felt the way she
did for good reason.

She's pouting right now.

It's actually sort of adorable. There's a tiny furrow between her eyebrows, and her lip pokes out just
a little, cheeks puffing up slightly. Harry feels like a doting brother, like one of the Weasleys when
Ginny whines to them about something and they coo over her to make her smile. Harry has to
actively work not to do some cooing of his own, quite sure that Hermione would hex him for it.

Draco almost instantly bursts out laughing, tossing his head back in the gleaming sun, leaning on
Harry as he completely loses it. Theo sighs mournfully and stares at his book as if he'd like to take
it back, but won't. Ron is staring at Hermione in something akin to fascination, and Daphne looks
equally enamored.

"It's not funny, Draco," Hermione hisses, her eyes narrowing as she looks away from everyone in
both defiance and anger.

Draco hiccups a small laugh and reaches out with a shaking hand to grab Hermione's shoulder,
dipping his head to stare at her. "Let me tell you something that someone wise once told me. It's
okay to fail sometimes," he says. "Really, it is."
Someone wise, Harry thinks with a faint smile. I thought I was an idiot.

With a huff, Hermione knocks Draco's hand from her shoulder and whirls around, marching off
with her arms crossed—fully just throwing a tantrum, and Harry's so glad that he's alive to see such
a marvel. Draco starts laughing again, and Harry works very hard as Hermione's best friend not to
join him.

The thing is, he knows Hermione is sensible. As competitive as she is—especially when it comes
to studies—she has never been one to put someone's well-being below anything else. She would
fail every class she's in if it meant that everyone else could be healthy and happy, even though
failing is her biggest fear. She's lovely all the way around, really.

Her perception of Dark Magic is a bit skewed and possibly biased, but Harry understands why.
After all, he was much the same before—well, everything.

Maybe Gryffindors need to start having meetings about morals and how things aren't always as
simple as everyone wishes they were.

It's odd to think that Slytherins need to learn to be better, while Gryffindors need to learn to be a bit
more lax on what better is.

Harry doesn't even want to think about what lessons Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs could do with.

"Come along, lover," Daphne murmurs, reaching out to slide her hand in the crook of Ron's arm.
"We should go soothe our darling, no?"

"W-What?" Ron chokes out as he's promptly dragged away in the direction Hermione went.

Draco sighs, still smiling, and announces, "I almost pity him, you know."

"Don't," Theo says dryly. "If he ever complains about his cock being worn out between them both,
he's an idiot who deserves no pity at all."

"Oi!" Harry bursts out, his wand out in a flash, throwing a stinging jinx before he can even think
twice about it. "Don't talk about Hermione like that! Or Daphne, for that matter!"

Theo curses vibrantly as rubs his arm and scowls at Harry. "I'm only being honest, Potter!"

"You're being crude and jealous," Harry snaps. "Is your own love-life so empty that you feel the
need to have opinions on everyone else's?"

"Well," Theo mutters, "it's certainly more fun."

"Pathetic," Draco drawls. "Go chase after Astoria. She's had eyes for you since her First Year."

Theo blinks. "Has she?"

"Merlin." Draco looks at Harry with a sigh, shaking his head. "Why is everyone so hopeless in the
matters of the heart? Am I just more romantically inclined than everyone else? Smarter, perhaps?"

"Perhaps," Harry muses, lips twitching.

"You two sicken me," Theo declares, only to smile coyly and slink closer. "Oh, what I would not
give to be used by Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy."

"For someone with no interest in men," Harry says mildly, "you seem to have quite a bit."

"I'm sure Blaise and Pansy would entertain your needs," Draco mutters, rolling his eyes. "Harry
and I don't share, you see, so you're flying on the wrong broom. Need I remind you: Astoria."

"She is quite pretty," Harry agrees.

Theo coughs, is silent for a long beat, then he flicks his gaze to the book in Harry's hand. He
changes the subject rather quickly. "Are you really taking it?"
"I'll give it back if it's not confiscated," Harry informs him sheepishly. "I'm pretty sure it will be,
though. Sorry about that."

"Just another way Harry Potter decides to ruin my life," Theo declares with a fair amount of
dramatics, heaving a soft sigh of faux sadness.

Draco smirks. "He's quite good at that, isn't he?"

Harry rolls his eyes. "Oh, yes, it's my main purpose in life—ruining the both of yours."

"We know," Theo says, wiping a fake tear.

"Unavoidable, really." Draco flashes Harry a small, warm smile. "Personally, I don't mind."

Harry grins.

The door to Snape's office opens with a sharp click, and the man himself peers down his nose at
Harry without hiding his disdain at all.

Harry, once again, tries to put himself in Snape's position. It's more than empathy; it's trying to
make sense of something he doesn't fully understand. He thinks about how much he's despised this
man, all for various reasons, and then tries to imagine a miniature Snape showing up in front of
him. It's not a pleasant thought, to be fair, but he's almost positive that he wouldn't relentlessly
bully the child on his very first day. That's not to say he wouldn't want to, but still. Perhaps Snape
is crueler than he is. Or, perhaps Snape just didn't care to face the mistakes of his past—Harry sort
of gets that, at least.

"It's the weekend, Potter," Snape says sharply, eyes glinting with unhinged dislike. "Don't you have
other things you could be doing other than turning up to my door?"

"I need to speak with you. Alone." Harry gives a half-shrug in chagrin.
Snape looks like he's going to protest for a long moment, then he sneers and mutters, "Very well."

It's as close to an invitation as Harry's going to get. Snape abandons his place at the door and
sweeps into his office, presumably taking his seat once again with his usual dramatic flair. Harry
hedges inside, easing the door shut behind him before taking the seat on the other side of the desk.

Snape's gaze flickers over Harry, pausing on the book. He's not immediately suspicious from what
Harry can tell, but he wouldn't be. Theo had gone through the trouble of getting the book a better
cover that would hide the shabby state of the pages.

"Do you still have to be honest with me?" Harry asks cautiously, determined not to have a fight.

"Unfortunately." Snape grimaces slightly as if the reminder actually pains him, but his gaze latches
onto the book yet again. "Are you here with a question related to Potions? I assure you, whatever
help you require can be offered by Professor Slughorn, as he is your Potions Professor."

"He's good, but not good as you," Harry says, because he figures it can't hurt to say something nice
before diving into the rest. Unfortunately, Snape doesn't seem softened up in the least. Harry clears
his throat. "In any case, Slughorn can't actually answer me about...this."

"What is this, Potter?" Snape asks sharply.

Harry purses his lips, then heaves a sigh. This is going to go terribly, he just knows it. "Sir, I don't
mean to pry, but are you—well, you're a half-blood, aren't you?"

Snape's jaw works briefly, but he doesn't seem to mind this question as much as Harry expected
him to. He answers simply with, "Yes."

"And—and you're the Half-blood Prince, aren't you?" Harry continues hesitantly, slowly putting
the book flat down on the desk.

There's a long beat of silence before Snape carefully reaches out to grab the book, sliding it closer
to him. His lips are pressed into a thin line, a faint strain around his eyes as he resists answering.
He thumbs through the pages without the reverence or care Harry would expect him to, as if the
book means nothing to him. Perhaps it doesn't.
"Yes," Snape finally answers, lip curling as he closes the book with a snap. He glances up, meeting
Harry's gaze. "How did you know?"

"Voldemort taught me Potions the same way you wrote in this book. This is the book Theo got
Sectumsempra from. And, well, Voldemort taught me Langlock, too, and he told me you created
the Spell. It's in there, too," Harry explains. He clears his throat and frowns. "I was curious, I
suppose."

"I see." Snape flicks his gaze back to the book, calculating and sharp. "You wished to...return this
to me, Mr. Potter?"

"If you want it, sure," Harry says easily. "Theo could keep it if you didn't care."

"I think Mr. Nott has shown what he can and will do with this book in his hands."

"It's not like he knew, sir."

"Are you defending him?"

"Yeah."

Snape sneers at him. "Do you believe yourself the Savior of even Slytherins now?"

"Honestly, I haven't the time to be," Harry retorts sharply. "I'm dying in a week. I can save
everyone from Voldemort, but I can't save people from the other things I wish I could, and that
includes the Slytherins."

"How honorable of you," Snape drawls.

"I do my best," Harry replies sarcastically.

"If that will be all, Potter," Snape hisses, clearly agitated, "then see yourself out of my office."

Harry, who is also irritated, doesn't budge an inch. Because that's not all. He can't move, even if
there's something deep inside begging him to just let it go. There's a question clawing at the back
of his throat, one he's almost afraid to have answered, and he can feel it rising the longer Snape
glares at him.

And then, rather harshly, it falls out into the tension between them. Harry practically spits out,
"Does me dying feel like you're failing my mother?"

"Yes," Snape answers promptly, without an ounce of hesitation, his face completely blank.

"I know why you hate me," Harry whispers, staring at him without feeling much at all. "It's—it's
alright, I think. I don't blame you, I suppose. I wish you would have been a bit more professional in
spite of it, because I don't actually hate Potions when you're not teaching it, ironically enough. You
could have done so many different things. I was only eleven, you know. Had you shown me
kindness that I suspect my mother only ever got from you, I would have adored you. You would
have been my favorite Professor… But that's not how it went."

"That was never going to happen," Snape tells him, watching him with sharp, black eyes. He's not
sneering, but he's clearly not pleased either.

Harry nods. "I know."

"You do not," Snape replies shortly, his gaze suddenly darting away. His face twists, almost
sneering and almost...pained. "You are too much like your father for my peace of mind, but you are
also too much of your mother for me to ignore. I am not a kind man to begin with, Potter, if that
was not obvious. Even if I were, even if I wanted, I couldn't treat you in any other way than I
have."

"Why?" Harry blurts out incredulously.

Snape won't meet his eyes, and he's quieter when he answers this time. "Just as you feel you have a
role to play, so do I. There was no pretending that there wouldn't come a day when I would need to
return to the Dark Lord's side. My treatment of you only endeared myself to him more. Do you
understand?"
"So—so you treated me the way you did because you're the Spy?" Harry asks, swallowing thickly.

"In part," Snape replies. He looks at Harry then, arching an eyebrow. "I also truly do not like you,
so I did find relish in it."

Harry huffs a short laugh. "Of course you did. You can be a hateful man, you know that?"

"I do," Snape confirms.

"Do you know that I forgive you?" Harry holds his breath as soon as the words are out, and Snape
seems to be doing the same.

"I did not know. Why?" Snape asks on his exhale.

"I suppose it's what I'm good at." Harry shakes his head and averts his eyes. "I have found that I
can make sense of anyone's horrible nature, and it's not like I have the moral high ground. I'm not
perfect, either. Besides, you were only twenty-one when everything got so mucked up. Older than
me, yes, but still young. As a sixteen-year-old just a little over a week out from dying for the whole
world, I know a thing or two about being the product of your mistakes. After all, I forgave
Voldemort, and that might be the biggest mistake I've ever made."

"You forgave him?"

"Yeah. I know you don't."

"I never will," Snape says, far too honest, brutally so.

Harry nods. "You don't have to. No one does. No one should. Am I terrible because I have?"

"The opposite, for being capable of such a thing. I knew you two had formed an unlikely
relationship, but I was not aware that it was…"

"As close as it is? Was, I mean."

"Precisely," Snape agrees, watching Harry closely, eyes narrowed just a bit. Not judging him,
exactly, but clearly trying to make sense of it all.

"He's truly a monster," Harry murmurs. "I know that. You'll never admit it, and I'll never ask, but
I'm sure that you were probably frightened for your life and well-being as a Spy. He'd kill you on a
whim, no matter how much he values your talents, and you just...had to deal with that every day."

"The Dark Lord is not someone that anyone would dare to consider capable of caring about another
human being," Snape says carefully, "but I will not claim that it didn't appear that way with you.
He spoke of you often."

Harry blinks. "He did?"

"Yes." Snape presses his lips into a thin line, one eyebrow twitching as if he's troubled, then he
sighs quietly. "I did not understand why he was suddenly determined to have me do an
Unbreakable Vow with him last summer, swearing to my silence in regards to you unless express
permission from you, as well as forcing my hand in being honest. If I refused, I would die. I could
not tell the Headmaster because of the magic, and Pettigrew did not seem to know the purpose
behind it either."

"An Unbreakable Vow, sir?" Harry mumbles, frowning now. "It's...unbreakable, I'd wager."

"Indeed," Snape confirms. "I had very little choice in the matter if I wanted to keep my life, so I
agreed. I was...notably surprised to find that the Dark Lord had all intentions of protecting you. I
did not understand why. I do now. However, there was a shift with time how he spoke of you,
when he did."

Harry clenches his fists in his lap. "A shift?"

"When talking about you in the beginning, he always addressed you as the boy," Snape tells him,
very still, simply watching Harry. "Over time, he called you by name, and not out of faux respect.
His mood, as I'm sure you're very aware, is extremely volatile and rarely calm. However, I noticed
an improvement in it—if such a thing truly can claim to exist—as your relationship with
him...evolved."

"He started to care about me," Harry croaks, unsurprised to feel his eyes stinging.
"I have seen him in the midst of his most grotesque torture, and I have done things under his
command that no human should inflict on another," Snape tells him in a clipped, harsh tone. "I do
not think he has ever cared about anything but power."

Harry ducks his head, feeling his heart plummet to his stomach. Stupid, stupid, he chastises
himself. How dare he let himself hope again? After everything? Even if Voldemort did care about
him, that was all before Harry betrayed him.

"Until you," Snape continues stiffly. "It may be foolish, but I believe he has never cared about
anything outside of power...until you."

Harry's head snaps up in an instant. "You think he—but what does that even change?"

"I'm not sure if it changes anything," Snape says, holding Harry's gaze steadily. He's not
uncomfortable with this subject like Dumbledore is, and it's a relief.

"But it could change something," Harry insists, ridiculously hopeful despite everything telling him
he shouldn't be. "Or—or it could've, before."

Snape hums. "Perhaps."

As quickly as Harry had perked up, he deflates back into his chair as he realizes something. "It
doesn't matter, does it? He—he made his choices."

"I made many choices in spite of the love I had for your mother, and it was not until she was gone
that I learned to regret them," Snape murmurs, speaking in a way he never really has, almost as if
this is more important than his own feelings. "It was in her absence that I devoted myself to
making different choices, because of the love I had for her. I will not claim that the Dark Lord
would ever do the same, but I cannot claim that he wouldn't."

"He told me that my love couldn't change him," Harry rasps, his mouth incredibly dry.

"If your mother is proof of anything, it is that love doesn't always change someone. However, it
was not her love that changed me; it was mine." Snape stares at him with dark eyes, watching him
like he might startle and run away at any second, nothing cruel about him in this moment at all. "It
would not be your love for him that would bring change, but his love for you, if he has that."

"Does he, though?" Harry asks, his nails digging into his palms, his heart racing in his chest.

Snape smirks, but there is absolutely no humor in it, and he looks rather...weary, actually. "That is
the question, isn't it?"

Harry looks down at his lap and tries to breathe.

As the beginning of the last week approaches, another "detention" comes around, and Harry finds
himself in Dumbledore's office once more.

The Cup and the Sword of Gryffindor sit side-by-side on Dumbledore's desk, almost innocent, as if
one isn't about to destroy the other. Harry stares at them for a long time, his stomach laden with
knots and regret. As horrible as that piece of soul in the Cup is, Harry can't help but see it as yet
another step towards Voldemort's demise.

"Are you going to ask me to destroy this one as well?" Harry murmurs hoarsely.

Dumbledore peers at him over his glasses. "No. I see that you have no desire to do so."

"Are you tempted by the Horcruxes, sir?" Harry asks quietly, gaze trailing from the Cup to
Dumbledore's hand. It's nearly healed entirely now, just looking bruised and weathered.

"They do not have an effect until I begin to destroy them," Dumbledore says. "I succumbed to one
and have prepared myself not to do so again."

"The Ring's defense was the temptation of power," Harry notes, looking up into Dumbledore's
eyes.

"Yes, it was," Dumbledore admits.

"What did it show you?"

"Gellert and I, achieving what we worked so very hard for. A victory without regret is what it
proposed, and I...reaped the repercussions of it."

Harry swallows. "You truly do love Grindelwald, don't you, sir?"

"More than I can say," Dumbledore replies calmly, his gaze gentle with old fondness.

"Right." Harry clears his throat and nods sharply, taking a step back. "I'll be off to the Hospital
Wing, then. His anger is worse when he's hurt."

"Before you go," Dumbledore says, "there are things I must tell you, Harry."

Resisting the urge to heave a sigh, Harry nods jerkily and crosses his arms. "What is it?"

"You might wish to sit."

"I don't. Go on."

"Voldemort's whereabouts are still unknown. Severus has informed me that he's given no orders
since you took the Horcruxes. The Ministry is on pause without him there to give the new Minister
fresh orders, and I've been told that there have been no new disappearances or murders."
Dumbledore dips his head, casually curious. "Why do you think that is, Harry?"

"Why would I know, sir? The only thing I could suggest is that...maybe he's wounded?"

"Did it take him very long to recover after Nagini?"

Harry frowns. "I don't recall him recovering at all. He seemed...fine, honestly."
"The less soul he has left, the weaker he is," Dumbledore says. "I do believe destroying the
Horcruxes in part has delayed him, but I don't think that's all there is. I believe he has all intentions
of getting to you, my boy. You must be on guard, and no matter what, you must stay away from
him."

"Can he get inside the Castle?" Harry demands, shifting restlessly in his spot.

"With enough determination," Dumbledore murmurs, "I believe so. I suspect that is what he is
planning to do. Destroying the Horcruxes fit a pattern, and he must realize that the last remaining
one will happen in just a week's time."

"You mean me," Harry says.

Dumbledore nods, always looking so very sad about it. "Yes, my boy, I mean you."

"You think he'll attack before then."

"I think whatever he plans to do will happen before then, yes. We must be cautious."

"You have the Order ready, don't you?" Harry asks warily. "And—and a way to get the students
out."

"Every Head of House has been informed what to do should the time come that students need to
evacuate. The Order is ready as well," Dumbledore informs him, nodding.

Harry takes a deep breath, blinking hard. "So this is the war, I take it? The—the last battle."

"I believe so."

"Are you ready, sir?"

"That is another thing I wish to discuss with you, Harry," Dumbledore murmurs, turning his gaze to
Fawkes, who is now just a small bird since he apparently died recently. "First, I must ask you.
When you freed Ollivander, did he happen to tell you what Voldemort wanted with him?"

"Information on the Elder Wand," Harry answers, tapping his fingers on the inside of his elbow
impatiently. "Voldemort said you and Grindelwald were in search of it when you were younger."

"He was correct," Dumbledore admits solemnly. "I believe that is why he broke into Azkaban."

Harry's finger stills. "Sorry, what? You—you think he went in to see Grindelwald?"

"Yes," Dumbledore murmurs.

"And Grindelwald is still alive?"

"I believe that is...my fault. Gellert either insinuated that keeping him alive would give Voldemort
leverage, or Voldemort himself believes that he can use Gellert against me."

"Can...he?" Harry asks hesitantly.

"If there wasn't so much at stake and so many lives sacrificed, including yours, he would be able
to," Dumbledore says without an ounce of shame. "Love is not a weakness, not unless we let it
be."

Harry hums, pondering that as he looks away in some hopeless attempt at giving Dumbledore
privacy when it comes to his love tryst with the Dark Lord that came before Voldemort. Honestly,
for all that Dumbledore seems uncomfortable with the notion that Harry cares for Voldemort, he
really has no room to judge. Well, maybe that's why he's uncomfortable with it, because he has his
own internal issues with caring for a Dark Lord.

"Wait," Harry mumbles as a thought hits him, "he went in to see Grindelwald to—to ask from
someone who knew more about it than Ollivander. Oh, bloody hell. That absolute vile, piece of—"

"Harry?" Dumbledore cuts in mildly, his white, wiry eyebrows slowly rising.
Harry huffs. "He used my idea! Er, I mean, I didn't realize that he'd actually do it. I was being
sarcastic, really, just saying that it wasn't like he could ask you about the Elder Wand. But I
suppose he took it to mean that he could ask Grindelwald. That prick!"

"Ah," Dumbledore says delicately, "I see."

"Er, sorry about that," Harry murmurs sheepishly.

Dumbledore gives him a faint, forgiving smile. "It's alright, Harry. I'm sure your intentions were
not bad. I do find myself wondering, however… Do you not wish to ask me about the Elder
Wand?"

"No. Why would I?" Harry asks in genuine confusion, wrinkling his nose. "Whoever has that wand
shouldn't have it. No one should have that sort of power, sir."

"Mm," Dumbledore hums, and he looks vaguely amused in the direct opposite of how Voldemort
does—no cruelty, all kindness, practically dripping with genuine joy. "I must confess, Harry. I find
humor in that because you are the current master of the Elder Wand."

Harry gapes at him for a solid second in pure shock, then blinks rapidly and tugs his wand out of
his pocket to stare at it warily. It looks the same, all things considered. At this point, with how
everything else goes in his life, Harry wouldn't put it past being some ancient wand with power he
never even noticed. It wouldn't even be that big of a stretch, in light of everything else.

"It, er, doesn't look all that powerful, sir," Harry says, finally, holding his wand out as if it might
suddenly start sparking.

Dumbledore chuckles. "No, my boy, you misunderstand me. Your wand remains as it is, but you
have the loyalty of the Elder Wand."

"According to the story, you get it by defeating the previous owner," Harry says slowly. He stares
at Dumbledore incredulously. "You mean to tell me that Peter Pettigrew owned the Elder
Wand?!"
Okay, now that would be a surprise.

"No, Harry," Dumbledore says gently, "I was."

Harry pauses, blinking, trying to make sense of that. It takes him an embarrassingly long moment
to work it out. "In the Hospital Wing when I—when I disarmed you."

"Yes." Dumbledore holds up his wand, showing it to Harry with a faint smile. "This hasn't worked
quite right for me ever since."

"That's the…"

"It is the Elder Wand, yes."

"Oh," Harry whispers. He rolls his shoulders, trying to shake the surreality of this moment away.
"So you and Grindelwald did find what you were looking for after all, then?"

Dumbledore levels him with a grave look. "We were not just looking for the Elder Wand, Harry.
Gellert and I… We wanted all the Hallows. We wanted to be the Masters of Death, but we found
the Elder Wand, yes. A power like that…" He trails off, sighing softly and shaking his head,
looking strangely abashed and nostalgic all at once. "Well, you are correct to say that no one
should have that power. Gellert did, briefly, before I took it from him. Once I had it, I no longer
wanted it. I still wish, to this day, that I could go back and stop us from ever searching to begin
with. But I cannot, and the only thing I can do is ensure that such a power never falls into the
wrong hands again."

Harry feels as if all the air has been punched from his lungs. "That's—that's why Voldemort
wanted in the Castle, why he wanted you dead. It was never about his Horcrux; it was about the
wand."

"Yes," Dumbledore says simply.

"Bloody hell," Harry breathes out. "He knows he can't beat you because you have the Elder Wand,
so he was going to have Theo kill you, just to kill Theo! That's madness!"
"Voldemort is not known for his mental stability," Dumbledore says lightly. "Ease your mind,
Harry. I would not have allowed Mr. Nott to face that. He is no killer, as I'm sure you're aware."

"I am, but he would have died if you didn't."

"I was going to, if you recall."

"Not in time," Harry mutters, grimacing.

Dumbledore sighs and looks away. "I had a plan for that as well. Severus agreed to take over
where Mr. Nott would be unable to finish, in hopes that my death would cement his loyalty to
Voldemort."

Harry blanches. "That—that would mean Voldemort killing Snape for the Elder Wand!"

"I would allow someone to disarm me before my death. Voldemort would still not be able to get
the wand. That, I am sure of."

"Alright, but you're just skipping over the fact that Voldemort would kill Snape for it! Did he know
that? Did you tell him that?!"

Dumbledore says nothing.

"You're—you're actually serious," Harry chokes out, rearing back in shock, blinking rapidly at the
man who won't meet his eyes. "You planned to have him killed and didn't even have the decency to
tell him?!"

"Harry," Dumbledore whispers, tone heavy with grief, "the greater good—"

"Don't!" Harry explodes, his wand hot and vibrating in his hand. "He was always just a pawn to
you, wasn't he?! You just—you—"

And, in a plot twist he never saw coming, Harry absolutely loses it on Snape's behalf. In a fashion
very similar to what Harry did to Voldemort's study in the Manor towards the beginning, and like
the way Voldemort did to the cabin in Hollow Hill, Harry proceeds to lash out at various objects
around the room with rather explosive magic.

It takes him a while before he's calm, and once he mostly is, the whole office is nearly trashed.
Harry stands in the middle of it all, chest heaving as he stares at Dumbledore, feeling like he's
rattling in his own skin. Overall, Dumbledore doesn't look upset or afraid; he just seems...tired and
sad, as always.

"There's no use dwelling on it, Harry," Dumbledore murmurs after the silence threatens to smother
them for too long. "That isn't the plan any longer."

"Easy for you to say, sir," Harry snarls viciously, his hand clenching around his wand. "Your plan
ended up with two people needlessly dead!"

"Sacrifices must—"

"Do not!"

Dumbledore splays his hands wide and dips his head, heaving a sigh. "Of course. I am relieved that
there are alternative paths to take now, for which I am more grateful than I can ever express. I
never wished for things to be so bleak."

"You just planned for it," Harry says sourly, only to scoff and shake his head. "Alright, so what's
the plan now? Surely you'll need the loyalty of the wand back to defeat Voldemort."

"Not at all," Dumbledore tells him. "I told you that the power of the Elder Wand should not fall
into the wrong hands. If, for whatever reason, Voldemort defeated me while I had that power, it
would be his. It is best if I do not have it when I duel him."

"And you're sure you'll win?"

"I believe so, but I can only hope and wait to see."
"So you just...let me have that power? It's not like you couldn't have shielded against it, even with
having been Cursed."

"I said I could not let it fall into the wrong hands, Harry. I know yours are not."

"Yes, but...sir, I'll be dying soon."

"And who will be killing you?"

Harry opens his mouth, then closes it. He swallows thickly. "I will, sir."

"So the power of the Elder Wand will die with you," Dumbledore murmurs, looking serene and at
peace with the idea.

"Is that how it works?"

"Whomever defeats the owner of the Elder Wand has the loyalty of the Elder Wand. You will be,
as I understand it, defeating yourself in effort to defeat the part of Voldemort's soul inside you. The
loyalty will remain with you and only you, and no one will be able to use it."

"Poetic," Harry says softly, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. He slowly lets it out and
opens his eyes to look up at the ceiling. "Sure, why not? Group that in with the sacrifice. What's
another way I can save the world?"

"Harry," Dumbledore murmurs, weary and apologetic, his gaze so dim it's almost tragic.

"Is that everything?" Harry asks tersely.

Dumbledore gazes at him for a long, long time. There's something in his eyes, something Harry
can't quite make sense of. It's like he has more to say, only he hasn't worked out if he should or not.
In the look, there's familiar uncertainty, as if he's been thinking about this for a long time and
simply can't decide what to do.
 He finally seems to have settled on an option, because he quietly says, "That's everything, Harry."

"Brilliant," Harry mutters, "I'll be in the Hospital Wing, then. Thanks so much for this lovely talk,
and maybe don't keep things from me so long next time, yeah? But who am I kidding? You've
always done that, haven't you?"

Before Dumbledore can so much as answer, he turns around and marches out of the destroyed
office without looking back, Fawkes' quiet trill following him out, a sad song that plays loudly in
his head.

Harry doesn't go back to apologize.

He doubts he ever will.

Chapter End Notes

Me to me: why'd you go and have to make things so complicated

Y'all to me: just keep it trill, that's how we deal, sometimes you feel like giving
up

(not a stray kids reference in MY Harry Potter fanfiction pfft, iykyk)

So anyways, it seems like our best boi is gonna...*drags finger across my throat* soon,
and is that what I want you to think is going to happen or is it actually going to
happen? Thoughts? Anyone picking up the hints I've dropped?

We're getting real close, now. Like uh...super close, haha.

 Solomon
Chapter Notes

Okay, folks and friends. This is the big one. This chapter has been written for quite
some time, and it comes with a few warnings.

Now, I'm going to give unspecified, slightly vague warnings up here to keep spoilers
to a minimum, because I know some people don't really want anything spoiled. I will,
however, go into depth in the end notes if you want to skip down there before reading.

Let's get into it. Warnings for this chapter:

1) Discussions of death/sacrifice

2) Use of the Killing Curse

3) Use of the Torture Curse (not on Harry)

4) Description of someone having their arm cut off and bleeding out

5) Description of various injuries, ranging from bruises to burns to cuts

6) "On-screen" Deaths, though not anyone who didn't die in the books, as my tags
promised...

7) Pretty in-depth description of someone being stabbed

I'm going to tell you now, this chapter lulls you into a false sense of security. The first
half isn't bad at all, really. If you wanna take a break before the nitty-gritty, I suggest
stopping at the end of the greenhouse scene, because it all goes downhill from there.

Enjoy :D

See the end of the chapter for more notes

On the edge of the cliff, a lone figure waits, surrounded by billowing robes. The wind is howling,
whipping around like the beginnings of the storm, so strong it presses in like unrelenting fingers
into the skin. The sky is grey without a cloud in sight, as if the color has been drained away.

Harry's breath catches as he starts running, trying to get closer, needing to get there sooner. He's
terrified he won't make it, heart pounding a steady tempo in his chest, threatening to burst. He
doesn't care. He pushes himself faster, crying out, but his voice is ripped away by the turbulent
wind. Words are lost among the soulless sky above them.

The figure tips and falls out of sight. Harry feels the scream leave his throat as he lunges forward,
afraid he won't make it, but—
Yes!

Gasping, Harry lands on his front at the cliff's edge, arm dangling over the side as he grasps the
cold, pale hand of Voldemort. He braces his free hand on the hard stone beneath him to keep from
slipping forward, staring down into bright, red eyes.

"It's alright, it's alright," Harry chokes, gripping Voldemort's wrist so hard that his fingers go numb.
He tries for a wobbly smile. "I've got you. Help me pull you up. Give me your other hand."

A shadow falls over them both, but Voldemort never looks away from Harry, simply staring up at
him. Harry, however, jerks his head to the side, looking up helplessly. He's immediately relieved
when he sees Dumbledore peering down at him, sure that he's got help now, right up until
Dumbledore opens his mouth and speaks.

"You've got to let him go, Harry," Dumbledore tells him softly, his voice somehow a whisper
among the wind. "He'll only pull you down."

Harry grimaces when he feels himself slide forward, but he doesn't let go. "Don't be ridiculous! We
can save him! Just—just help me pull him up, please."

"I can't do that, Harry," Dumbledore says. "You have to let him go. You have to let him fall, or else
you'll fall with him. Do you understand?"

"No," Harry gasps out, his eyes burning with a fresh wave of very intense tears. "No, sir, I don't
understand! I don't. I've got him now, and you can reach down and grab him! Use your wand, or—
or something, please! He doesn't have to fall!"

"You're going to fall, Harry," Dumbledore warns, watching him slip forward over the edge even
more without moving to help at all. "He's pulling you down. You have to let him go."

Harry grits his teeth and braces his hand against the cliff's edge, screaming through clenched teeth
as he tries with all the strength he has in him to pull Voldemort up on his own. He could do it, he
really thinks he could, but the dark abyss below releases slivers of shadows to snake around
Voldemort and drag him further down. Harry can feel the tug in his arm, can feel himself slipping
closer and closer to falling as well. He's trying so hard, but he can't just—
"Harry," Voldemort says, red eyes gleaming as he looks right at him with a piercing gaze.

"Help me," Harry pleads brokenly.

Voldemort flicks his gaze to the hand holding his wrist, then looks at Harry once more. "Why do
you keep doing this?"

Harry stares down at him incredulously, every muscle in his body straining. "What? Are you
joking?! Can we talk about whatever you're on about later?! Bloody hell, you're dangling over the
side of a cliff, and you want to talk? Can't you fly? Do some wandless magic or something and
help me!"

"Harry," Voldemort says again. "Wake up."

With a jolt, Harry does, sucking in a sharp breath as his eyes fly open. He's curled around his
pillow, holding on so hard that his fingers ache when he gently peels them away. Swallowing
thickly, he sits up in bed and rubs at his mildly itchy scar.

It hasn't hurt in so long that Harry doesn't know what to think about it, honestly. He used to hate it
just because it frequently burned and bled, but now it only gets irritated, at best. Sighing, he traces
it and frowns down at his other hand that's still throbbing a bit from his grip on the pillow.

His mind turns back to the dream, a shudder rippling through him at the vividness of it. He's never
had that particular one before, but it's familiar. There's always that cliff, and Voldemort is always
falling off of it. In the beginning, Dumbledore did as well, but it hasn't been that first dream since
the first week. After that, he had the same dream where was dangling over the cliff as well and
Dumbledore could only save him if he let go of Voldemort, only he always woke up before finding
out which hand he let go of.

This one, though…

This one is new. It feels as real and detrimental as all the rest while he's in them, but he always
feels a bit ridiculous when he wakes up. Shouldn't he know they're dreams—well, nightmares?
Lightly pushing his thumb against his scar, Harry shakes his head and allows his eyes to sink
closed. Whatever joke his subconscious is playing on him, he'd rather not be a part of it. Missing
Voldemort is bad enough without nightly nightmares that, bizarrely enough, only make him miss
Voldemort more. As much as he tries not to, he just can't help it.

Harry wonders where he is. It's been two days since the Cup was destroyed, and Harry spent the
entirety of the first one after in the Hospital Wing, apparently under potions to keep him in a deep
sleep because he kept screaming whenever he woke up. He remembers flashes of the pain, of the
searing rage and hatred in his mind, but even just recalling it makes him shrink into himself. He
tries anyway because that's Voldemort, and Harry—very stupidly—misses him, regardless of all
the very good reasons that he should not.

In any case, Voldemort apparently got calm enough wherever he was by the second day, because
he didn't give anything else. Just like before, he went back to radio silence and no response.
Just...nothing. Harry's disappointed by that, hates that he is, and doesn't dare tell a soul how he
feels.

Sighing, Harry shoves his hand through his hair and pushes to his feet, ignoring the disarray of
blankets he leaves behind, tangled and drenched in sweat. He has three more days until he's meant
to die, so he can't be arsed to care about the bloody sheets.

A shower sounds nice, though.

"Do you think it gets any easier?"

Harry swallows and picks his head slightly up off the grass to turn and look at Ron and Hermione.
They're both staring out at the lake with a strangely similar expression of blank bleakness.

"What do you mean, Hermione?" Harry asks cautiously, sitting up as he realizes that both of his
best friends—at once, together, rather than because of each other—are genuinely upset.

"Do you think it gets any easier?" Hermione repeats, quiet and flat. "Do you think there's a point
that hating the world, just a little, isn't so hard?"

Harry falls silent, bringing his knees up to his chest and wrapping his arms around them. Ron
doesn't contradict her words, which is his silent agreement with them, and Harry doesn't know
what to say.

He'd ask them not to hate the world, even a little, but he thinks they're allowed. The same way
Draco is allowed, so are they. But they'll do it differently, Harry knows. They'll hate the world and
work to change it, to form it into something good enough for him to have died for.

"I hate today," Ron says, and he doesn't clarify why. He doesn't have to. Every day is just another
one closer to Harry's last.

"Does any of this ever get easier?" Hermione whispers, soft as a breeze, sad and hollow.

Harry rests his chin on his knees and says, "I really don't think it does."

"Merlin's beard," Ginny comments, "you're all acting like someone's dead."

Draco—rather predictably and understandably—is on his feet in a second, standing up and walking
away without another word. Harry watches him go helplessly, lips pressing into a thin line. Even
Blaise, Theo, and Pansy look worried as they stare after their friend, sharing poorly hidden glances
of blatant concern. Harry can't even blame them.

Draco's not...taking this well. He looks very tired, and he's much more subdued than he was just a
few days prior. He doesn't snark or snicker at jokes, and Harry's caught him pushing his plate away
at meals more than once, looking a bit peaky. There's steadily darkening bruises underneath his
eyes, and he's started to drift off in classes, only to jerk awake and force himself to pay attention—
or at least pretend he's paying attention, so that the Professors don't notice anything is amiss.

Towards Harry, he's a conundrum of complexities. Sometimes he won't even look at Harry, or talk
to him, acting as if he's not even there. Other times, he's practically plastered to Harry's side,
hovering and clinging. Either way, he's quiet and unwilling to meet Harry's gaze for very long.

"I've got it," Hermione says gently as Harry stands up to go after Draco. She waves him away with
a small, sad smile. "I'll talk to him."
"Alright," Harry mumbles, "thanks."

Ron pushes to his feet and heaves a sigh, clapping Harry on the shoulder. "Come on, mate. We
should take a walk around the lake, I think."

"Yeah, alright," Harry says softly, letting Ron drag him away from their group of friends.

For a long time, there's nothing but comfortable silence between them. They've both stuffed their
hands in their pockets as they slowly drift around in a wide arc, breathing in the crisp air and
watching other groups of students enjoy their free time or rush to their next class. In the distance,
Harry can make out Hagrid's hut, his heart twisting sharply in his chest to see it dark and closed.

According to Hermione, Hagrid has been gone for most of the year yet again. Harry suspects more
missions for Dumbledore. It hits him pretty hard to think that he won't get to say goodbye to
Hagrid.

"Er, Harry," Ron says finally, after a silence so long that it left awkward and settled into relaxed.

"Hmm?" Harry hums, glancing over at Ron curiously, surprised to see his best mate looking down
at the ground with a small frown.

"Just...you know." Ron doesn't elaborate for a long time and seems slightly more frustrated by his
own silence, as well as the blush that splatters across his cheeks and ears. Finally, he manages to
say something that comes out low and strangled, as if it's painful. "You're my best mate."

Harry feels himself soften, lips curling up. "I know. You know you're mine, too, yeah?"

"S'a bit more than that, though. For—for me, I mean," Ron says, coming to an abrupt halt right
where he stands. His shoulders straighten, his back stiffening as he stands up taller. "I know the
Weasleys aren't the Malfoys, and we don't have—well, we don't have much of anything, really, but
if there's anything that I do know, it's that we always considered you family, mate. For all of us,
o'course, but—but for me, first."

Harry doesn't know how to explain to Ron that he loves the Weasley family with every single cell
in his body. It's in his chemical makeup at this point. He can't figure out how to say that the
Weasleys have things that the Malfoys' money will never be able to compete with—warmth, and
acceptance, and family values that are shown without shame. It's everything Harry always wanted
when he was a child, and even now, and the Weasleys took him into their home and hearts without
batting an eye. He can't ever thank them enough for that, and he doesn't know how to tell Ron that
he's always been so, so endlessly grateful for him.

He's not sure there are words for it.

So, he just steps forward and hugs his best mate, because that's enough of a profound statement in
its own right. It hits Harry then that he and Ron do not hug often. He's never really thought about
it, actually, but they just don't. Possibly because Harry feels small in comparison to Ron's height
and also because Ron struggles with feelings, too.

In any case, it's a nice hug. Ron gives good ones, apparently, which isn't really a surprise. This one
in particular is tight and stretching on long enough that will probably lead to them clearing their
throats and avoiding each other's eyes afterwards, if only to hide the tears it invokes.

Still, Harry has something he wants to say—or needs to, at least. When he pulls back, he makes
sure to force Ron to look at him as he murmurs, "Just being your best mate has always been enough
for me, Ron, but you gave me so much more than that. I can't—I don't think I can ever thank you
enough."

"Harry," Ron complains in a croak, clearing his throat and dropping his gaze.

"It's alright," Harry says with a weak laugh. "You know I love you, right?"

Ron's face twists and flies through a variety of complicated expressions. His shoulders droop and
he sniffles. "You don't have to say it, mate. And you know that I—well, I do, too. Right? You
know that, don't you, Harry?"

"I know," Harry mumbles, squeezing Ron's shoulder. He can't even doubt it. He's never been able
to.

They don't say anything else after that, but they don't really have to. In comfortable silence once
more, they finish their walk until it leads them back to their group of friends. Their shoulders bump
and brush the whole way, and Harry's heart feels soft and mushy in his chest.
Draco and Hermione are back when they return. She's sitting next to him quietly, watching Harry
and Ron approach with a soft smile. Draco, however, is staring only at Harry with hungry eyes, as
if he's scared Harry will disappear in just a second.

Harry swallows thickly and breaks off from Ron, carefully walking up to where Draco's sitting. He
hesitates for all of one second before he splays out carelessly in the grass, depositing his head in
Draco's lap with a quiet sigh. He gazes up at Draco, who gazes down at him, and it seems like the
world has narrowed down to them for a split second.

Not caring that their friends are watching, Draco folds forward with a small hum, pressing his
forehead to Harry's. His hands frame Harry's face, cold and gentle, holding on like what's in his
grip is cherished by his touch. Harry's heart squeezes, and he closes his eyes, melting into Draco.

Blaise gives a soft, derisive snort and drawls, "What's all this, then? Draco's gone soft. Look at
him, he's practically—"

"Shut the fuck up, Zabini," Ron snaps, cutting him off harshly. "Leave him alone."

Harry's lips curl up when Draco's breath escapes him in a small whoosh, wafting over Harry's face.
His heart swells in his chest for his best friend.

"What is the world coming to if Weasley is defending me?" Draco whispers, brushing his nose
along Harry's with gentle adoration.

"I think it's coming to a turning point," Harry muses fondly. "A better one."

"I suppose I'll see, won't I?" Draco asks, and his voice cracks. The 'but you won't' goes unsaid, but
Harry hears it all the same.

"I suppose you will," Harry agrees, not unkindly, not out of malice. "As you should. Do something
good with it, why don't you?"

Draco huffs a quiet laugh. "Since you're asking, perhaps I will."

"Thank you." Harry hums in a pleased fashion, reaching up to brush the pads of his fingers over
Draco's cheek. "You make me very happy, you know. Have I ever told you that?"

Instead of answering, Draco just murmurs, "I love you," and then tips his head to kiss him.

The tension in the office is palpable. Even Snape seems affected by it, and he looks like he'd rather
be anywhere other than here. Harry understands that, because he feels the same way.

Dumbledore looks very tired. He's sitting behind his desk, staring listlessly into the bowl of Lemon
Drops like it holds all the answers to the universe. The twinkle that's been blown out of his eyes for
some time now can't ever dream of coming back in the dull glaze of blue that's been left behind.
Harry can't help but feel a rise of pity in his chest.

It makes him think, briefly, what this all must feel like for the man. Harry can't just feel what he
does for Voldemort and not also have tender feelings for Dumbledore. He's helpless to it. Perhaps
it's stupid, or perhaps it proves his own goodness, but Harry wants to look at Dumbledore and
smile and promise that everything is going to be alright.

It's not as if Dumbledore is getting any enjoyment out of this. Anyone could tell that he's not. It's
clear that all of this has broken him, and Harry wonders if it's the first thing that ever has. Thinking
about Grindelwald, he sincerely doubts it.

That makes him wonder how Dumbledore will go on afterwards. Will he act as he did before? Will
he smile at students and give odd speeches at the opening feast of every year? Will he talk about
his fondness for socks and drift along the halls in his quirky robes that make people see him as
ever so slightly insane? Will he look at the Gryffindor table and remember where Harry once sat,
and will he take out the Sword of Gryffindor to simply hold it and think about different times, and
will he ever look at Harry's friends and boyfriend without feeling a rise of guilt in his throat?

Dumbledore isn't a bad man, not really. Harry knows that. It would be hypocritical to see the good
in so many others and only see the bad in him, and Harry doesn't. He sees all of Dumbledore, more
than he's ever truly wanted to see, and maybe that's why it hurts so much. None of it stops him
from loving the man fiercely, because he does. He still does.

"Sir," Harry murmurs, gently prodding him.

"Ah, yes," Dumbledore rasps, his eyes sinking shut for a split second before popping right back
open. He takes a deep breath and sits up straighter in his chair, nodding at him. "This will be the
last meeting you and I have before the next step is taken."

He can't even say it, Harry thinks with a harsh slam of sadness in his chest. He can't help but feel
bad for Dumbledore, his heart aching for him. It seems even the Headmaster himself isn't safe
from Harry's needs to save things, despite everything.

"Yes, sir," Harry says.

"Do you—" Dumbledore stops, uncharacteristically struggling to say what he needs to. His beard
trembles as his mouth opens and closes, and he audibly swallows. "Do you have a plan, my boy?"

Harry nods. "I do. Tomorrow night, I'll—you will find me somewhere. I don't want to be found in
my bed because the others shouldn't—they shouldn't have to see it. Maybe the Astronomy
Tower?"

"Will you do it alone?"

"I will. Draco might be there for some time, but I won't let him watch it."

"Do you have a—a specific time?" Dumbledore rasps, the lines on his face seeming suddenly
deeper, as if this conversation is aging him in a rush.

"Midnight should do," Harry mumbles. "Make sure we don't get in trouble for sneaking out."

Dumbledore peers at him with such bleak sadness, displaying it all on his face. "Do you wish for
me to be there, Harry? I will, if you wish."

"No," Harry says, shaking his head. "And don't—sir, don't show my body to Voldemort, if he
comes."

"When he comes," Snape corrects sharply, his tone harsh and heavy, likely dealing with his own
emotions surrounding all this.
"You both think he will," Harry notes.

Dumbledore glances at Snape, then lets out a soft sigh. "We have heard news."

"News," Harry repeats, standing taller as his heart races in his chest. "About—what is it?!"

"He called a meeting." Snape nods, just once, when Harry glances at him. "He did not show
himself to those he gathered, not even me. We're meant to be gathering in the Forbidden Forest
tomorrow, but his plans will be...too late. By the time he leads the attack, you will be…"

"We're staging a coup. Severus is playing an important role," Dumbledore informs him. "He's
supposed to be giving me the wrong time for everything so I will be ill-prepared. The Order will
arrive tomorrow and I'll have the students escorted out after Lunch."

"Where are they going?" Harry asks.

"A visit to Beauxbatons Academy of Magic for the evening. Parents would be upset at an
unplanned trip such as this, but I doubt they will mind when a battle breaks out on the grounds.
Madame Maxime has so graciously agreed to take all the students."

"Draco's never going to fall for that. Nor is Hermione and Ron, honestly. They know too much to
think it's just a trip."

Dumbledore hums. "I have informed your Head of House to escort them all last. Can you task them
with getting to her office that night?"

"Yeah," Harry murmurs, "I can do that. So—so everyone will be safe? You have enough people to
fight the Death Eaters?"

"I have given him the numbers," Snape declares. "The Dark Lord has not brought his entire force. I
believe he wishes to get in and out as quickly as possible. This is not supposed to win the war; this
is just a battle to prolong it."
"The Order will arrive in the Forest after midnight before the battle is meant to take place, and with
Severus' help, the Death Eaters will be occupied. I will deal with Voldemort then," Dumbledore
explains calmly, but his eyes are still so sad.

"It sounds like everything should go smoothly," Harry says hesitantly, wary to be hopeful. "I just
don't understand why he's coming."

"For you," Snape says.

"And for the wand," Dumbledore adds.

Harry takes a deep, steadying breath. He slowly lets it out and sets his shoulders, nodding. "Well, I
suppose I only have to worry about one thing, right? Shouldn't be possible to muck it up. The rest
is up to everyone else."

"Yes," Dumbledore agrees gravely, "it is."

"All I can say is…" Harry trails off, the gravity of this situation bearing down on him for a
moment. He struggles not to let his knees buckle under it, then he forces himself to stand steady
and strong. He looks between Snape and Dumbledore with unflinching resolve. "Good luck."

Harry's running.

It's with desperation clawing at his chest that he pushes himself forward, screaming uselessly
against the howling wind. No one can hear him. He can't even hear what he's saying. The figure
still tips over the side of the cliff, and Harry feels as if his heart stops in his chest and his blood
turns to ice in his veins. With a cry, he lunges forward to grasp the hand outstretched towards him.

He slams down into the stone of the cliff, gasping as he peers down into red eyes. Past that, there's
a sentient darkness that demands the one thing Harry refuses to let go of. He can feel himself
slipping forward, but he scrambles for purchase against the cliff side, gritting his teeth as he tries to
haul both himself and Voldemort up.
He's not strong enough.

"Harry," Voldemort says, his voice carrying along the roaring wind, "why do you keep doing
this?"

Harry whimpers, digging his fingers into Voldemort's cold wrist, heart pounding heavy in his chest
and loud in his ears. "Please, please help me."

"Harry," Voldemort whispers yet again, looking up at him, swaying above the void.

"I can't let you go." Harry feels himself choke on the admission, hot tears running down his nose,
dropping into the shadows until they disappear forever. "I won't let you go."

Voldemort glances down at the abyss waiting below him, then up at Harry. He says, "You'll fall."

Harry feels himself slip forward a few more inches, and his whole body rattles with the strain and
fear that threatens to rip him apart. He's holding on so hard that his nails are causing the unmarred
skin of Voldemort's wrist to crease and turn a ghostly white. If he bleeds, smoke will pour out, and
Harry's not sure how he knows that.

"So be it," is what Harry gasps out, going lax with a sudden decision as he jerks forward some
more.

"Harry," Voldemort says once more, a strange knowing glint in his red eyes, calculating and
intuitive and real.

Then, before Harry can do or say anything else, Voldemort flexes his fingers and rips his arm from
Harry's grip, slipping away with bright, red eyes. The void reaches up to swallow him whole, and
Harry stares at him as he falls, screaming in loss and horror and grief as Voldemort goes.

He's still screaming when he wakes up, and his throat is raw as his eyes snap open. He's once again
holding onto his pillow so hard that his hand aches. His scar is throbbing, a dull pain that's only a
shadow of the agony it used to be.
Heart racing in his throat, Harry peels his hand from the pillow and sits up, his chest heaving. His
whole body shakes with tremors, and he turns his gaze to the window in the dorm, trying to breathe
past the tight grip that something has on his lungs.

It's sunny outside.

The thought brushes across his mind, bizarre and ridiculous. I'm going to die today, so shouldn't it
be raining? But perhaps he prefers this.

Still shaken, he slides out of bed, breaking the silencing Spell as he pushes the hangings apart. He
can see that Neville is already up, despite the fact that it's the weekend. He's humming quietly,
putting socks on, and he smiles when he notices Harry watching him. He doesn't know that it's
going to be their last morning together, and he still smiles.

"Morning, Harry," Neville murmurs, mindful of those still asleep.

Harry cracks a small smile of his own. "Morning, Neville. Big plans for today?"

"I'm going down to the greenhouse," Neville answers, eyes lighting up. "A plot of Leaping
Toadstools got out, so Professor Sprout and I will be wrangling them up all day. Should have them
back where they belong by Lunch. What about you, Harry? Big plans?"

"You know...not really," Harry replies, huffing a quiet laugh.

Neville finishes stuffing his feet in his shoes and scratches the back of his head, eyeing Harry with
awkward happiness. "You could come help us in the greenhouse, if you want."

Harry opens his mouth, then slowly closes it. He smiles crookedly. "Sure, Neville. Why not?"

"Really?" Neville blinks, as if stunned that Harry actually agreed. His eyes are bright and his smile
is wider than it really ever is. "I'll wait for you, then!"

And he does. He waits patiently for Harry to get ready, chattering about Leaping Toadstools and
various other plants that he's taken a more recent interest in. He's still talking in a rush of genuine
excitement when he and Harry leave the dorms and walk through the quiet Common Room.

It's at this point that Harry realizes he's awake before most students are. He's up before breakfast,
just in the early corners of the morning where the sun is starting to peek past the drape of night,
lighting up the sky. He's not upset about it for once, secretly pleased that he has more time this
way.

He and Neville walk through the strangely quiet Castle, talking amongst themselves. Well, Neville
does most of the talking, seeing as Herbology is his passion and not Harry's. But still, Harry is
happy to hear about it in a way he never really has been before. He feels an abrupt sense of guilt
that he never really took the time to care about Neville's interests. Now, he wishes he had endless
days to do so. Hindsight and all that. Oh, the irony.

When they reach the doors leading outside, Luna is waiting there. She's smiling at one of the suits
of armor like it's a real person, her hair falling in pretty waves and her gaze cloudy with thoughts
no one else will understand. As they approach her, she turns and looks right at Harry, her gaze
warm.

"Hello, Harry, Neville," she greets in that soft, airy tone of hers. "Are you two off to go hunt Moon
Frogs? I'm afraid they only come out at night."

"Maybe next time, Luna," Neville answers indulgently, lips curling up. "We're going to catch the
Leaping Toadstools that got loose in the greenhouse, actually."

"Did you want to come?" Harry offers.

Luna smiles at them. "I would love to."

And so, the three of them head outside. Luna listens to Neville talk about plants, adding her own
odd comment here and there. Harry goes quiet, listening in a strange tranquil state, just...peaceful.
They might just be the most gentle people he knows, really. He adores them and thinks about
telling them that, but he doesn't want to break the easy atmosphere they create. He's too calm.

Professor Sprout looks utterly delighted when she sees that two other students have elected to join
Neville, and she leads them into the greenhouse with a boisterous laugh. She gives each of them
ten points for initiative and praises them for agreeing to work as a team. Then, apparently deciding
that they can handle it under Neville's guidance, she leads them towards a separate section of the
greenhouse and leaves them alone so she can deal with plants towards the front.

The Leaping Toadstools are… Well, they're leaping. The plot they were in must have gotten
overturned somehow, because multiple mushroom-like plants with red tops and white spots are
leaping about the room. They bounce around with no aim, careening off various other plots and
crashing into walls, only to hop away. Harry blinks as one sails past him, then can only laugh as
Neville tries—and fails—to catch it. Ridiculously, Harry thinks this might be fun.

As it turns out, it is.

A few hours later, Harry is laughing uproariously as Neville slips and falls while trying to dive for
one of the Leaping Toadstools. Between the three of them, they've only managed to catch about
four, and Luna is mostly the one catching them, only to let them go when they wriggle in her grip.
She's decided that holding them would be rude.

He's laughing so hard that he doesn't notice the presence of others in the room. Luna and Neville
don't, either. Luna's too busy giggling and crooning at a Leaping Toadstool that keeps hopping in
place on her foot, while Neville is sheepishly chuckling as he swipes at a Leaping Toadstool that's
dancing out of his grip in a strangely mocking way.

"What is happening here?"

That gets their attention. Harry's head snaps up in perfect sync with Neville's. Luna, of course,
doesn't look surprised at all and continues to coo at the Leaping Toadstool.

"Draco," Harry blurts out in surprise, blinking rapidly as he stares at the group hovering in the
doorway, all of which that are watching the proceedings in various stages of incredulity.

It's a rather large group, actually. Draco is there, obviously, but so is Ron and Hermione. Harry just
makes out the tip of the Marauder's Map poking out of Ron's robes, able to recognize that
parchment anywhere. A little behind them is Ginny, Daphne, Blaise, Pansy, and Theo.

"Have you come to help us?" Luna asks lightly, holding out her palm just as the Leaping Toadstool
hops up into it. She smiles at the group, her gaze soft. "We could use the help, I think."

"Is this how you're planning to spend your day?" Draco asks, arching an eyebrow at Harry.
Harry flashes him a grin. "At least until Lunch. Why not? You'll stay, won't you?"

"Draco, drag your boyfriend away from this monstrosity," Pansy hisses, glaring at the Leaping
Toadstools that bounce around her.

Draco only sighs and says, "I'll stay."

"Oh, bloody hell," Theo mutters. "He's whipped."

Blaise flings out his hand and makes a whip-crack sound, which earns him a light smack on the
arm from a distracted Hermione. He gapes at her, appalled, but she doesn't seem to notice.

"Of course we'll stay, Harry," Hermione declares with a fierce nod. She takes out her wand, clearly
about to use magic to wrangle the Leaping Toadstools, but Neville makes a distressed sound.

"No, Hermione!" he bellows. "You can't use magic on them or their properties might change and
mess up whatever potion they're used in. We have to catch them by hand!"

Hermione slowly lowers her wand, grimacing slightly, and she weakly mutters, "Oh."

"Well," Ginny announces cheerfully, "we best get started then. Shall we?"

Harry can't help but grin as everyone proceeds to join in the attempts at catching the ever elusive
Leaping Toadstools. And it's fun. Even with the Slytherins complaining and barely trying, even
with being covered in dirt, it's so wonderful. Harry loves and cherishes every second of it.

He's not really sure who starts it—Ginny, if he had to guess—but someone throws the first handful
of dirt at Ron, which leads to him retaliating with a squawk, only he miscalculates and ends up
hitting Hermione right in the face with a glob of soil.

For a second, everything is still and silent—even the Leaping Toadstools pause—and then
Hermione is scraping the dirt off her face and laughing as she tries to shove it in Ron's mouth.
It spirals from there.

In a truly delightful turn of events, an all out war breaks out and it's every man and woman for
themselves. Dirt starts flying amidst the Leaping Toadstools, which seem oddly pleased to bounce
around throughout, and Ginny hoards an entire bag of soil to herself so she can throw handfuls at
everyone who dares to dart past her.

Pansy is squealing loudly, but she's also shoving mounds of dirt down Theo's shirt, so there's that.
Blaise is remarkably untouched for a while until Harry manages to smear soil across the back of
his neck, which Blaise responds to by overturning a pot of dirt over his head. Daphne comendeers
another bag of soil on the other side of the room and flicks heaps of it at Neville, who's trying his
absolute best to catch Leaping Toadstools and avoid dirt.

Luna dances around without a smudge of soil on her, somehow, and catches all the Leaping
Toadstools that Neville fails to. Draco is fully just shrieking as Hermione piles dirt into his hair,
and Ron has started launching soil at Ginny with wild abandon.

This is how Professor Sprout finds them.

Just as Luna eases the last of the Leaping Toadstools into their proper containment, Professor
Sprout sweeps in with a curious expression and gasps loud enough that everyone freezes in place.
She stares at them with her mouth dangling open, her hand pressed to her chest as if she might
faint.

"What," she starts, her voice trembling, "have you done to—to my greenhouse?!"

Neville moans and hangs his head.

Needless to say, they're all severely scolded and lose the points they made in the first place, as well
as forced to clean up the mess by hand. Harry honestly wouldn't have it any other way.

They make it out just a bit before lunch, looking ridiculous as they march up to the Castle whilst
covered in dirt. They all look a mess, frankly, but Harry's beaming. Even while the Slytherins are
complaining, he's just...happy.
"Look at me," Draco bemoans, trying fruitlessly to fling dirt out of his hair. "I'm ruined."

"You're perfect," Harry argues instantly, staring at him with a grin. "I don't think you've ever
looked as beautiful as you do in this moment."

"That's sweet," Luna comments, just as Blaise and Theo fake-gags. Ron actually gags.

Draco's smudged with dirt, his eyes bright, blushing underneath it all. He's trying to hide his smile
and failing. "Shut up, you idiot. This is your fault, you know. We could have been at breakfast like
the rest of the sensible students, but you wanted to do something stupid instead."

"Give it up, darling," Pansy drawls. "You're smitten."

"You are," Hermione agrees. "You both are."

"It's disgusting," Ron mutters.

"Thank you!" Blaise says loudly, nodding vigorously. "You're worse than Pans and I are, and we're
engaged already!"

Harry blinks, glancing at them. "Are you?"

Pansy sniffs. "Of course we are. You'll be at the wedding, obviously, seeing as you'll be Draco's
date. If you don't cry at the beauty of it, I'll pull all your fingernails off." She pauses, sweeping her
gaze around everyone else. With the air of a woman doing everyone else a great favor, she
announces, "You're all welcome to come, I suppose."

"Only if you bring gifts," Blaise adds quickly.

"Oh," Neville mumbles, "that's nice of you two."

"Nice," Pansy hisses in offense.

Theo sighs. "Gryffindors."

Harry tosses his head back and laughs.

They do start escorting the students out after Lunch. The Professors come together after
Dumbledore's surprise announcement of the trip to start leading the Students out by Year and
House. All First Years from each house goes first, led out by various Professors to various offices
with an open floo.

Snape is suspiciously absent.

Harry had insisted on sitting at the Slytherin table, right next to Draco, so Hermione and Ron are
right next to him. They're all throwing him glances, but he just stares down at his plate.

The Order is here as well, keeping the chaos to a minimum. Harry doesn't recognize most of them,
but he does pick out Mad-Eye Moody and Kingsley among the rush of students.

It's a very slow process and will likely take the rest of the afternoon. It takes nearly an hour to get
through the First and Second years from each house, but the Great Hall is quieter and emptier after
that. Thankfully, the chatter around the room is mostly excited, seeing as an impromptu trip in the
midst of everything seems like an adventure.

Harry just feels like he's going to be sick.

He has less than twelve hours until he's going to die. The reminder makes him brush the vial in his
pocket with his thumb, heart beating heavily in his chest. He wonders if it's a stupid thing to be
nervous about his own death, then figures he's allowed to feel however he likes about it.

Through the Third and Fourth Years being led out, Harry doesn't say one word or look up from the
table. Things slowly start getting quieter in the room, more sparse as students are taken out, and
Harry's reminded why. Voldemort's out there somewhere right now, possibly in the Forbidden
Forest already. The thought makes Harry's heart pound in his ears.
As the Fifth Years are being ushered away, Harry tentatively closes his eyes and searches inwards
for the very first time since he left Voldemort. He's been anxious to do so after betraying him, but
he suddenly desperately needs to know.

He's not sure what he's expecting. Rage, perhaps. Fury towards Harry, specifically. Even cruel glee
for what's to come, because Voldemort would be excited for an attack on Hogwarts.

He's not expecting Voldemort to be smug.

Harry's on his feet in an instant, heart dropping to his stomach. He almost tumbles in his haste to
step over the bench, craning his head as he looks for Dumbledore. Something— something has
gone wrong somewhere, somehow, and Voldemort is pleased about it. Beyond pleased.

"Harry?" Draco calls out in alarm.

Shaking his head, Harry starts pushing forward through the various lines of Fifth Years still being
led out. He shoves his way to the front, ignoring his friends and boyfriend calling out for him,
going straight for Mad-Eye Moody. If anyone will know where Dumbledore is, it's him.

"Sir," Harry gasps out as soon as he's within range, reaching out to grab Mad-Eye's arm without a
second thought. "Where's Dumbledore? I have to see Dumbledore. It's important!"

Mad-Eye's fake eye swivels to land on him, and he's glaring, but he does say, "I believe he's in his
office, Potter. I can have someone fetch him for—"

"No time!" Harry bursts out, already pulling away as he starts tripping past more students. "Might
want to put a rush on getting the students out, sir! Hurry!"

Distantly, he hears people calling out for him, some he doesn't recognize and others that he does.
He just turns on his heel and runs, heart in his throat. Behind him, he can hear Mad-Eye banging
his staff and snarling at students to get a move on.

The halls are filled with Fifth Years being led to different points around the Castle, but they're
being ushered out quickly. He can only hope Ginny and Luna are already gone.
Harry throws himself forward with all the speed he has in him, pounding down the halls towards
Dumbledore's office. He has to get there, as soon as possible, because something is wrong. It's all
wrong. Why would Voldemort be feeling like—

Due to his haste to get to Dumbledore's office, he's not paying attention as he rounds corners, and
it's because of this that he slams right into someone as he takes one too fast. He and whoever it is
go sprawling to the floor with groans, and his head spins for a second as he picks it up off the floor
to see who he ran into.

"Wotcher, Harry," Tonks mutters, rubbing her head as she blinks at him from the floor.

Harry blinks right back. "Tonks?"

"You were moving rather fast there," Tonks tells him, flashing him a smile as she pushes to her
feet. She offers him a hand and hauls him up when he takes it. "Got somewhere you need to be?"

"I—yes, well, I—" Harry falters once again once he gets a good look at the people behind Tonks,
not that her short stature hides them at all. It's an odd grouping of people he's not expecting.

Remus is here, watching Harry with a small frown of concern, and on either side of him is Mr and
Mrs. Weasley. She, of course, is flushed and close to tears from simply looking at him, so he
distractedly flashes her a sheepish smile. However, it's the two women standing right next to Mrs.
Weasley that manage to send his already scattered thoughts into many different directions.

First, there is a woman who looks startlingly like Bellatrix Lestrange, which honestly makes his
heart stop in a mixture of dread and terror before he realizes that no, it's not her. The woman's
features are more stern, not as soft as Bellatrix's were, and there's no glaze of madness in her eyes.
His soul, which had previously been trying to escape his body, settles in pure relief.

It makes its second escape attempt as soon as his gaze lands on Mrs. Malfoy. She shouldn't be here.
He's not sure why he's initially surprised that she is. If she even heard a whisper that Voldemort
was in range of Draco, of course she would come.

And maybe—just maybe—for him, too.

Only, he doesn't want her here, risking her life. She's going to learn of his death eventually, but he
didn't want to have the chance to say goodbye. Somehow, she means so much to him in too many
complicated ways. She's his friend, and something of a mother-in-law, and seeing her makes his
heart ache.

"Harry," Mr. Weasley prompts, looking at him with a warm, concerned gaze.

Coughing, Harry snaps himself out of it. This isn't the time for it. "Sorry, I—I have to find
Dumbledore. It's important that I speak to him right now."

"Are you heading to his office?" Not-Bellatrix asks in a smooth tone. "It would do little good to go
there. He was supposed to meet Cissy and I when we came through the floo, but he was gone.
Fortunately, we happened upon this group, who also seem to be in search of the Headmaster."

"He told us not only an hour ago to meet him in his office," Remus says. "Andromeda and Narcissa
were waiting when we got there, but he's gone."

"Come on, not now," Harry growls out in frustration, whirling around on the spot and marching off
back towards the Great Hall. "Bloody brilliant time to disappear!"

"Is everything alright, Harry?" Mrs. Malfoy asks.

"Is—of course not!" Harry snaps, then immediately regrets it. He throws a look of apology over his
shoulder to the six adults who are following after him. "Sorry, that's—it's not your fault. You
should—they're getting the students to safety. Maybe you could all help with that."

"You should be among the students!" Mrs. Weasley protests immediately. "What are you doing out
and about the halls, Harry?"

"Nothing, apparently," Harry grumbles, scowling as he takes another corner and comes to a halt.

More students are being led away, and it looks like a mixture of Fifth, Sixth, and Seventh Years
now. Unfortunately, it seems all his friends have grouped up together for the most part, including
Ginny and Luna. Draco is standing next to Theo and Hermione, while Ron and Daphne seem to be
mediating between what looks to be a mild argument between Neville, Pansy, and Blaise.
"Potter!" Mad-Eye barks over the crowd.

Harry jolts forward in an instant, grimacing when all the heads of his friends swivel towards him.
The entire group immediately starts breaking away from the crowd, and Harry wants to beg them
not to. He wants them to get to safety, even if he doesn't get to say goodbye, because something is
wrong.

"Dumbledore!" Harry shouts to Mad-Eye, trying to shove past the clusters of students. Really,
there's only about fifty or sixty around the hall, which means that most have already gotten out. It's
still too many packed in one hallway. "Have you seen Dumbledore?! Do you know where—"

The whole Castle suddenly shakes, a deep rumble in the foundation that has everyone falling silent.
Harry freezes in place, locking eyes with Ron as they both seem to realize all at once that this is a
very, very bad sign. For a moment, no one moves or even seems to be breathing, and various
members of the Order and some Professors are exchanging pained glances, clearly worried.

"C-Come on, then, ch-children," Professor Trelawney stutters out, waving a group of about eight
closest to her in motion.

Professors Flitwick and Slughorn do the same, but Professor McGonagall waves her group over to
join Professor Sprout's, breaking off to sweep over towards Harry. On her trek over, she pauses as
the whole Castle shifts and trembles once more.

"Potter," she hisses once she finally reaches him, her eyes a little wide behind her glasses, "what
are you doing away from the Great Hall now?"

Harry shakes his head fiercely. "I need to see Dumbledore. I must see him, Professor."

She regards him carefully for a moment, searching his face, then she does what she did not do in
First Year. "He went out the front, Potter. He instructed us to stay inside while he reinforced the
protection around the Castle."

"They're coming," Harry says, his breath escaping him in one great whoosh.
And then, apropos of nothing, Mrs. Malfoy whispers, "Lucius," and breaks away to make for the
doors at a run he would never expect from her.

"Cissy, don't!" Andromeda cries out, taking a few helpless steps forward.

The Castle shakes once more, rougher this time, and there's the sound of splitting earth from
outside. Harry's heart catches in his throat, and all he can do is turn to look at Andromeda in pure
confusion as Mrs. Malfoy bursts out the front doors.

"I don't understand," Harry chokes out.

Andromeda's expression tightens. "Lucius is with Severus, working to help fight from within.
Cissy would never abandon her husband or her son."

Harry's eyes widen with realization. "They're already here!" he bursts out, nearly tripping as he
starts backing up rapidly. "Professor McGonagall, you have to get the Order outside now! Put
someone with the remaining students, but the rest of you have to go now. The battle has already
—"

The rest of that sentence freezes in his throat when he catches the sight of blond hair he'd know
anywhere in his peripheral. His head whips around just in time to watch Draco disappear through
the doors, calling out after his mother.

Harry feels like the whole world stops for a second.

Realistically, this is where Harry is supposed to take out the Basilisk Venom in his pocket and
down it, because Dumbledore might be outside fighting Voldemort right now. The only way
Dumbledore can win is if Harry dies, and it's a lot sooner than planned, but it's what he's supposed
to do.

The only problem is, Draco just dived outside after his mother, possibly right into the fray. It's
something he'd only ever do for his parents, and probably Harry. And just like that, he's as far from
safety as he can get, not even needing Harry's interference to make it so.

Harry can't die before he's made sure that Draco hasn't. Gasping on the fear that threatens to choke
him, he launches himself forward, practically shoving Professor McGonagall to the side in his
haste to rush for the entrance. He's barely made it halfway before there are arms circling around
him, tugging him back.

"Don't do this, mate!" Ron shouts. "You can't go out there. It's what You-Know-Who wants!"

"That fucking idiot!" Theo all but screams, helping Ron tug Harry back. "Draco is so fucking—"

"Let me go," Harry wheezes, his words softer than a breath, voice faint as everything seems to
come crashing down around him at once. "Please let me go. Draco's—he's—"

Hermione is suddenly right in front of him, hands framing his face as she looks into his eyes.
"We'll go, Harry. Ron and I—we'll go get him, alright? You have to stay here, do you understand?"

"We've got him," Pansy whispers, easing her hands around Harry's chest as Blaise replaces Ron's
grip with his own. "Go."

Ron and Hermione immediately start backing away, jostled by the students that are now moving
around in their obvious anxiety as the Castle shakes without stopping. They stare at Harry, sorrow
in their eyes, like they think they'll never see him again—not alive, at least. Maybe they won't.

"I'm coming with you," Daphne declares, stumbling forward with hard eyes and her wand raised.
She stares between Ron and Hermione defiantly.

After a beat, Ron and Hermione share a look, then they both nod at her. With that, the three of
them shove forward into the crowd, disappearing. Harry doesn't even realize he's crying until he
whimpers and hears how it sounds coming out of his mouth. Wounded, terrified, broken.

"It's alright, Harry," Pansy whispers in his ear, but her whole body is shaking. She's scared, too.

"Harry!" Ginny shouts, dragging Luna behind her as she pushes past Neville. "Ron just—"

The rest of her sentence is swallowed by a loud boom that rattles the whole Castle, and the doors
burst open immediately after. People come flooding in almost instantly, trailing smoke and loud
cackles as Spells light up the dim hallway. Students scream and scatter in all different directions as
Death Eaters swoop in, only for various members of the Order to dart forward and automatically
start dueling.

Harry has his wand out in a second, shoving the hands holding him away as he grips Ginny's wrist
and yanks her to the side just as a masked Death Eater settles behind her with his wand raised. The
Spell he casts bounces off the Shield that Luna hastily throws up, but it sends her sprawling back.

There's chaos all around, students shrieking and running, some fighting. Professors are dueling,
just as the members of the Order are, but multiple Death Eaters seem to be holding their own.

The one in front of them now starts advancing, flicking his wand, and Harry feels his blood surge
in his veins, his heart lurching in his chest. He and Ginny both shout Curses at the same time—
Stupefy and Expelliarmus, respectively—but the man bats them away like they're nothing.

"Now would be a brilliant time for help!" Neville snarls, stepping forward with his wand as well,
and Harry doesn't have to look to know he's talking to the Slytherins who've done nothing.

It's not exactly a request. It's a command, and Harry's never heard Neville sound like that before.
Whatever it is, it works, because Blaise and Pansy stumble forward along with Theo to help. In
mere seconds, the man is cast aside, sprawled out on the floor, being trampled. Blaise flicks his
wand and ensures the man is encased in rope for good measure.

Harry doesn't wait a second longer. No one is holding onto him, and the only thing playing on his
mind is the memory of Draco disappearing through the doors that now hang open wide. Ignoring
his friends' protests, he starts rushing forward through the moving crowd, one destination in mind.

As he goes, he gets regularly stopped by the random Death Eater. Flashes of red and green and
gold and purple fly around him, almost pretty if it weren't the sole reason so many people are in
danger. Most of the Death Eaters seem to be already in the midst of duels, so he offers help
wherever he can.

He can hear his friends calling out after him, following him, but he doesn't look back.

He doesn't until there's a scream.

Harry whirls around and chokes when he sees Blaise sail up into the air, his feet kicking, and
there's no doubt in Harry's mind that the Death Eater who's got him is about to send him flinging
into a wall. With such force, he'll die.

Thoughtlessly, Harry zones in on the man with his wand trained on Blaise and says, rather calmly,
"Avada Kedavra."

He's practically right behind the man, so there's a flash of green, and then Blaise is dropping to the
ground as the Death Eater's body does the same. Blaise gets back up. The Death Eater does not.

"Bugger," Blaise chokes out, gaping at him. He's trembling from head-to-toe, staring at Harry in
what can only be described as awe. "Thanks, mate."

"Don't mention it." Harry swallows. "Please."

The damage is done, however. There's that long lost burst of warmth in Harry's chest, pure pleasure
and relief curling up around his heart. He feels on top of the world, as if he's capable of anything. A
lot of his anxiety and fear just...drains away, and he whirls back around to begin marching on.

His magic is crackling around and in him, making him light-headed with that heady feeling of
power. He flicks his wand as he continues, sending Death Eaters crashing into walls, Summoning
portraits and various suits of armor towards him to block flashes of green light. The only people
using the Killing Curse today are the Death Eaters and him.

He kills another without even batting an eye when he sees the Death Eater dueling Mrs. Weasley.
She's bleeding from a cut from above her eye, but still fighting furiously, doing quite well, too.
Ginny makes a pained noise as soon as she sees her, though, and Harry is infuriated by the wound
she's gotten. Without hesitation, the Killing Curse slips out yet again, and the man goes down
instantly.

Mrs. Weasley blinks, looking around in confusion, but Ginny shoves Harry down and forward so
she won't see. She'll never know, and Harry will never get to thank Ginny for that.

"Are we just killing people now?" Theo asks, his voice trembling.

"Harry is," Luna replies calmly.

Theo releases a small, delirious huff of laughter. "Oh, in that case, do carry on!"

Harry shudders, the effect from the Curse coursing through him as he moves faster. People are
running around him in a blur, and he's trying so hard to get outside. He sees Mad-Eye fighting with
three Death Eaters at once, Remus and Tonks taking on four, and Andromeda paired with Mr.
Weasley as they duel one each side-by-side.

Professor Flitwick is absolutely doing spectacular with Professor Slughorn, sending Death Eaters
flying as they protect a group of students behind them. There's even students fighting back as well,
some from the DA and some not. Dean and Seamus are with Lavender and Parvati, the four of
them obviously weary as they fight back two Death Eaters. Before Harry can even be worried
about them, Fred and George pop up with bright bursts of laughter as they send the two Death
Eaters crashing to the side.

Fighting the whole way, Harry works with his friends to help in any way he can, the seven of them
throwing Spells wherever they go. And, when Harry has a clear shot and is close enough, he uses
the Killing Curse if it's necessary. Not one of his friends say a word against him; some even praise
him for it.

In total, in the span of the last twenty minutes, Harry has killed four Death Eaters—two others
besides the first two he did to protect Blaise and Mrs. Weasley. If he's going to be guilty about it,
he decides to save it for later, possibly right before he's dying—eventually, that still has to happen,
too.

"Pans!" Blaise suddenly shouts.

Harry whips around in just enough time to see their group get cut off by a Death Eater who has
Pansy by the hair, flinging her roughly from side-to-side. With a raw, animalistic shriek, she turns
further in the man's grip and bites down so hard on the inside of his wrist that blood pours out.

The Death Eater practically shoves her away with a howl, curling his injured hand to his chest
while Pansy grins with blood in her teeth, looking quite feral. He has his wand up and moving in a
second, a flash of green lighting up the space between him and those rushing around, aiming right
for Pansy.

It's going to get to her before anyone can do anything about it, and Harry knows it. He knows it.
Because, for just a second, it seems like time slows down as horror uncurls slow and harsh
throughout the group, multiple people crying out in alarm.

And then, right there at the last second, Pansy folds in half with a scream, the jolt of green
whipping past her and connecting with a student running by behind her. The body lands with a
thump, and Pansy screams again, this time in horror.

The Death Eater falters. He just freezes there, wand poised to strike, and stares at the slumped
body that various people are running around. Pansy is sobbing loudly, sinking into Blaise's arms,
and Harry would bet a lot of money that the Death Eater in question is Crabbe, because only a
father unwittingly killing his child could make someone stop like that right in the middle of a war.

A well-timed Spell from Ginny has the Death Eater going down, knocked unconscious and encased
in rope. Before anyone can actually do anything, Pansy rips herself from Blaise's arms and begins
kicking the Death Eater while shrieking, tears streaming down her face. It takes the conjoined
effort of Blaise and Theo to pull her back and get everyone moving again, leaving Vince's body
behind.

What else can they do?

Harry wants to scream. He wants to beg for all of this to just stop. This isn't even the worst of it;
this isn't even all that Voldemort is capable of.

It's all going so fast, too fast, in fragments of moments and then blurry seconds where he doesn't
even exist at all. Running and jerking to a halt in turn, over and over, fighting anyone who's a
Death Eater and experiencing the harsh, unrelenting grip of fear as his friends get various injuries.

People are dying, and perhaps they wouldn't have to if Harry was already dead, but he has to get to
Draco. He has to get to—

Just as they're drawing closer to the doors, Harry goes stumbling back as Professor McGonagall is
shoved in front of him, stumbling into a wall. The Death Eater in front of her grabs her by the
throat and proceeds to spit on her.

A rage unlike Harry has felt in some time takes him by storm as he watches her flinch in disgust.
Before he even knows what he's doing, he's marching forward and lifting his wand to—
"Crucio!" Harry snarls, in sound mind, having made the decision to do it. And he's never truly
succeeded before, failing to do so with Bellatrix, but for some reason, it works perfectly now.

The man is wrenched into the air by the force of it, his head thrashing back and forth as he
screams, and they still can't see his face as his back is to them. The only person that can see his
face in the midst of his agony is Professor McGonagall, and she's staring up at the man with her
mouth slightly parted, eyes wide in—in shock.

Harry stops a mere second later for three reasons. One, Professor McGonagall's shock works a treat
to shock him. Two, he's bloody well torturing someone, and perhaps he should not be whilst riding
the high of the Killing Curses he's already cast. And three, he recognizes those screams.

The man crumbles to the ground as soon as Harry releases the Spell, falling to the floor in a
disgraceful slump. He seems to have passed out.

"Potter," Professor McGonagall blurts, clutching her throat like she might faint. "You—you—"

"He spit on you," Harry says.

Professor McGonagall blinks. "I—yes, well, that's very...valorous of you, Potter, but—"

Harry shakes his head, whipping around to look at Theo, swallowing thickly. "That's—"

"—my father," Theo cuts in, staring down at the slumped figure of his father. He looks pale, but
his gaze cuts to Harry in the next second. "Will you kill him, Harry?"

"Do you want me to?" Harry asks.

Theo's face twitches and twists, and all he manages to say is, "Please don't."

Harry nods sharply and turns back around to Professor McGonagall. "Bind him. Make sure he
doesn't get away at all. He has to go to Azkaban, Professor. Alright?"
"I—of course, Potter," Professor McGonagall replies, still looking dazed, "but you—"

"Sorry," Harry says politely, "but I have to go."

With that and nothing else, he takes off running once more, feeling steadier than he has since the
beginning of the summer. It might be the combination of the rush from the Killing Curse and the
Torture Curse, but he somehow finds himself at complete ease. The only thing that he's worried
about is his friends and Draco.

He's close enough now that he can launch himself out the doors. It's no better outside than inside,
and Harry quickly spots Hermione, Daphne, and Ron in the middle of an intense duel with three
Death Eaters. Ginny rushes forward immediately, and Luna follows right after her.

Before Harry can do the same, a flash of blond darts past him, and he's surging forward to latch
onto it. His heart is racing as the figure jerks to an abrupt halt, only it's the last blond he wants to
see.

"Potter?!" Lucius spits incredulously.

"Draco," Harry chokes out immediately, "where is he? Where's—"

Lucius goes pale instantly. "Draco's here? Where?!"

"I don't know," Harry whimpers, yanking on Lucius' arm roughly like a child begging for candy.
"He followed Mrs. Malfoy out here. You haven't seen them? Please tell me you—"

"Narcissa?!" Lucius barks, and Harry didn't know he could get paler, but he does. His gaze
sharpens and flicks over Harry quickly. "With me, Potter."

With that, Lucius pivots on the spot and starts marching onward. People are dueling all around
them, various Order members and Death Eaters. Lucius seems to be on a rampage at the moment
after hearing that his family is out here somewhere. He flicks his wand wherever he goes, casting
the Killing Curse and whatever else fits his fancy with cold detachment, taking down Death Eaters
that call him a coward without a second thought.
Harry is relieved, and he yanks Lucius in the direction of his best friends. His other friends are
following, doing their own fair share of tossing Spells, and Ron actually whoops the moment that
he sees them approaching. He doesn't even seem to care that Lucius is among them.

"Really, Carrow?" Lucius drawls at one of the masked Death Eaters. "Bested by children?"

"Traitor! Traitor!" the Death Eater snarls in response, instantly focusing on Lucius. "Traitor just
like that blasted Snape! The Dark Lord will have your heads for it!"

"Avada Kedavra!" Harry shouts, watching the Death Eater crumble to the ground seconds after.

Lucius arches an eyebrow at the dead body. "Well, I outlived you." Then, with a lazy air about
him, he turns to the other Death Eaters that Hermione, Ron, and Daphne are still fighting. "Avada
Kedavra!"

One down, then Lucius spares no second to do the same to the next. It gives Hermione, Ron, and
Daphne the chance to rush over to them.

"Where's Draco?" Harry blurts instantly. "You were following him. Did you find him?"

"I—we—" Hermione bites her lip.

"Where is my wife and son?" Lucius snaps, his tone cold and sharp.

"We lost them in the crowd," Daphne answers just as coldly. "They're fighting together."

Ron nods vigorously. "They should be around here somewhere. We can find them, I'm sure of it!"

"Why are they even out here?" Lucius demands.

Harry glares at him. "Because of you. Mrs. Malfoy came as soon as she realized that the Death
Eaters reached the Castle, and Draco ran after her."
"That idiot boy!" Lucius snarls.

"That's what I said!" Theo agrees loudly.

"Wait!" Harry catches Lucius' arm as he goes to turn away, scowling at him. "What happened?
Voldemort wasn't supposed to attack until much later."

Lucius curls his lip. "Something changed, Potter."

With that, he whirls around and stalks off, and Harry runs after him. He doesn't know what else to
do. There's chaos all around him here as well, Spells and bodies flying all around. Every time he
sees someone, his heart lurches with equal parts fear and hope that it might be Draco, but it never
is.

They're on the outskirts of the entrance yard, pushing towards the center. There seems to be a ring
of duels happening all around, but Harry can't see past that. In tandem with his friends and Lucius,
they take down as many Death Eaters that they can. Lucius never shies away from using the
Killing Curse or any other Dark Magic that he wishes to, but Harry's almost floating from the five
people he's already killed, so he doesn't do it again.

Any other time, that feeling would sicken him.

There's a loud shout from his left, and Harry watches in horror as all his friends scatter. Swirls of
black whip around above their heads like a dark tornado, bright bursts of laughter sounding out
above them. Harry can make out indistinct features as they slow, wands poking out of the cloak of
darkness, and he tries to yell a warning.

He tries, but it's far too late. There's a sudden jet of fire crawling like an agile snake over and
around them, heat circling the entire group up like they're nothing but sheep. Lucius curses sharply
from the other side, already engaged in a duel with a different Death Eater, one who seems to be
holding their own against him for once.

Ginny is wailing loudly, burning in different spots, and Ron shouts her name helplessly from
another divide of the flames. The heat is so intense that Harry feels like his skin is melting off
without even being in the fire at all. It hurts, and every human instinct in him is demanding that he
run as quickly as he can to get as far away from it as possible.
Except there's no escape. He's caught. Trapped.

As sudden as the fire cropped up, it goes out in one large gust of wind. Ginny sobs in relief, letting
Luna hold her up as she shakily presses her robes to her burnt, bleeding skin. Harry whirls around
in time to see Snape stalking forward, his gaze fixed on the black vortex above them.

With a sneer, Snape disappears into black smoke of his own with a distinct flap of his robes. Harry
watches in surprise as Snape just launches himself at the Death Eaters, sending them all scattering,
rising up and away to drag them off from the students. Harry shakes his head and hastily pats the
singed parts of his robes, heart thudding wildly in his chest as he rushes back to Lucius' side, aiding
him in fighting the Death Eater that seems to be giving him actual trouble.

With Harry's help, though, the duel ends rather quickly, and then they're back to looking for Mrs.
Malfoy and Draco. They've got to be here somewhere, and Harry would give just about anything to
find them right now.

It's not until Harry hears a distant shout of, "Mother!" that he gets an idea of where Draco might be.
However, due to the piercing wail that accompanies the knowledge, Harry can't help but wish that
he'd found out some other way.

In unison with Lucius, Harry whips towards the sound of Draco's scream, relying on Ron and
Pansy to Shield them from incoming Spells. They both suck in a sharp breath at the same time.
Through the folds of robes and the rush of people, not too far off, there is Draco on the ground
beside his mother, half-covering her body with his own.

Even from here, Harry can tell that she is far too still, laying in a pool of blood.

The split second after Lucius does, Harry takes off running, shoving people aside carelessly, no
matter which side they are fighting for. He and Lucius are tossing people with slashes of their
wands, almost as if they practiced it, though they never have. It only takes seconds for them to
reach Draco and Mrs. Malfoy, but it feels like forever.

"No, no, no," Draco is chanting, absolutely drenched in blood, some that seems to be his own
because his neck has a deep gash on the side.

Most of the blood is Mrs. Malfoy's, though. Harry can tell because she's in pieces where she should
not be. Her arm is—it's just gone, and the mound left behind is gushing blood. She's so white that
she could be transparent, lips parted and eyes closed. She's beautiful, even now.

"Draco," Harry mumbles, falling to his knees right next to him, shaking all the way down to the
bone.

"It's—it's alright, Mother," Draco chokes out, trembling hands cradling her cheeks. It leaves streaks
of blood on her face, making her look even more pale than she is, as if she's dead already and just a
ghost. "Just—just stay still, Mother. D-Don't move, alright? There's—your arm is—"

"Narcissa," Lucius breathes like a whisper, kneeling down on her other side, his hands trembling as
he reaches out towards her as if he's scared to touch her. Blood clings to his robes.

"No!" Draco snarls, his arms curling around Mrs. Malfoy and drawing her up into his lap, snatching
her away from Lucius with wild eyes. "No, don't touch her! She's not dead. She's not!"

Harry puts his hand on Draco's arm, feeling numb, something strangling him. He can barely speak,
and he can't tear his eyes away from all the blood. "Draco, it's—"

"I can't heal her," Draco whimpers. "I need Snape. I need Snape. Please find Snape. Please!"

Almost instantly, shouts of Professor Snape and Snape sound out around them, the semi-circle of
Harry's friends screaming for him without thought. Death Eaters are attracted to it quickly, and
Lucius nearly trips over himself to stand up and defend not only his wife's prone body but everyone
else as well.

Stupidly, Harry can't force himself to budge. He's just kneeling there, staring as Draco cups the
gushing wound where Mrs. Malfoy's arm has been sliced clean off. He realizes belatedly that he's
shaking so hard his teeth are chattering.

Draco has gone back to chanting, rocking his mother in his arms, saying no over and over like that
can change anything. Harry doesn't know how to face this without jumping to the worst possible
conclusion. Mrs. Malfoy is actively bleeding out right in front of him, which means she must still
be alive, but he's somehow sure that she's dead.

Harry makes a small sound and scoots closer to Draco, fingers slipping over Draco's blood-slick
sleeve. "Draco," he rasps.

"It was meant for me," Draco gasps out almost instantly, head jerking up as he looks at Harry with
tears in his eyes. "The Spell was coming right for me, Harry, and she—she pushed me aside and
took it. Before she fell, she killed him. Why? Why did she do that? It was supposed to be me."

"Snape, you slimy git!" Ron bellows, his voice so loud that it carries, and multiple Death Eaters
start cackling and calling Snape a traitor.

Harry doesn't know what to say or do. He's not sure what he can say or do. He never wanted this
for Draco. This, in particular. To have a sacrificial mother, to lose people in this war, to have to
experience what Harry feels in regards to his own mother—only worse. He knows that this isn't
something that words can fix.

It is, however, something that Snape can, and he comes descending down on them rather abruptly
in a flash of billowing robes. He looks terrible, covered in bruises and cuts and blood, but his eyes
are sharp and his hand is steady on his wand.

"Severus, Severus, can you—" Lucius kills whomever he is fighting and drops to his knees next to
Snape, a note of devastation and pleading in his tone. He's crying and seemingly not ashamed of it.

"Shut up!" Draco barks at Lucius, ignoring the way he rears back in shock. Draco is suddenly all
business, snapping up straight and lifting Mrs. Malfoy's severed arm with careful fingers. "It was
Sectumsempra, sir. I need you to—"

"Even if I do, it will not staunch the blood flow," Snape interrupts quickly, straight to the point. "I
am no Healer, Draco. We would need Madame Pomfrey to ensure that Narcissa doesn't…"

"Just do the fucking counter-Spell!" Draco snarls at him. "I can handle the rest!"

Snape, unlike Lucius, does not react to Draco's harsh words or tone. He simply leans forward and
does as he's asked, working right there in the middle of the battle like Death Eaters aren't attacking
from all sides. Every single one that gets through the ring of Harry's friends drop as Lucius kills
them without a second of hesitation.

"I've done all I can," Snape says tersely, once he has.

"Harry, give me your hoodie," Draco snaps, and continues when Harry doesn't immediately move.
"Give it to me now. Now, Harry!"

Harry scrambles to do as he's told, yanking the hoodie off as Draco presses his palm flat to Mrs.
Malfoy's wound. As soon as Harry passes over the hoodie, he removes his hand and begins waving
his wand. The rush of blood becomes a trickle, sluggish, and then it stops. A light sheen of blue,
like a gummy bubble, forms on the outside, halfway up her arm. Draco wraps Harry's hoodie
around her arm, tying the sleeves tight with a grimace that Mrs. Malfoy reflects, even in her
unconscious state.

"She's alive," Harry breathes out.

"Of course she is!" Draco hisses, tossing him a harsh glare. "She's—I said she was."

"Draco," Lucius whispers, "she's—is she going to be alright? Will she—"

Draco flinches, shoulders bowing in, but his tone is clipped when he responds. "She will be alright
for a bit, but not if—if we can't get her the potions she needs. She—she can't stay here. She has to
be moved. But if this goes on—"

"Alright," Harry says, and Draco's head snaps up. They stare at each other for a beat. Harry
swallows and nods. "It's alright. I'm going."

"Harry." Draco almost folds in half trying to reach him without letting go of his mother. His face
contorts, fresh tears falling in an instant. "Harry, please, I can't—I don't want—"

"Shh," Harry murmurs, easing close enough that he can press his forehead to Draco's. They lean on
each other, both trembling as the world lights up and crumbles all around them. Harry takes a deep
breath and says, "It's alright, Draco. It's alright. I love you."

Draco sucks in a ragged, agonized breath before pressing in close to kiss him. Around them, people
are dying. They're both covered in blood, sporting injuries, cradling Mrs. Malfoy's limp body. This
is war, and they are snogging in the middle of it, tossed in the midst of suffering and horror that
they never wanted to be a part of.
For the very first time, Harry is the one who pulls away from the kiss. He can taste Draco's tears on
his tongue, salty and tangy with blood. He doesn't care.

"I love you, too," Draco whispers, his voice cracking.

And, with that, he lets Harry go.

Harry pushes to his feet, sparing no one else a look before shoving forward into the writhing mass
of bodies as people duel each other. For every person that he passes that has a flash of green escape
their wand, Harry whirls towards them and kills them. No hesitation, not even a thought—just
giving them the same thing they attempted to give someone else.

The ring of duels are like this for a reason. The closer Harry gets to the center, the more charged
the air around him becomes. He can feel it, whatever waits at the heart of this battle. It's like a
wave of heat that prickles along his skin. From within, sparks of light dance along the afternoon
sky, flashing among the rolling, grey clouds.

He already knows what awaits him.

Adrenaline coursing through his veins, heart thumping wildly in his chest, Harry bursts through the
final throng of people that separates him from what's waiting on the other side. He's wounded,
even if he's not entirely sure where, only vaguely aware of pain in a distant way, as if he barely
feels it at all. He doesn't, really.

In the middle of the clearing, in the middle of everything, Voldemort and Dumbledore are locked in
a duel. There's a wide gap of open area around them, as if no one dares to come too close, and the
entire space is trashed. There's fires burning in various spots, cracks in the earth, shards of glass
everywhere, and the air itself is harsh and heavy like its pressing in around them and smothering
them.

Dumbledore is bleeding, but his eyes are bright. Next to him, by his feet, is the Sword of
Gryffindor poking out of the Sorting Hat, the hilt gleaming in the refracting lights around it.
Overhead, Fawkes is circling and trilling shrilly, though he doesn't come down to attack—that's
wise, because if he did, Voldemort would kill him in a heartbeat. Would he still rise from the ashes
after being murdered, Harry wonders, or is that exclusive only to his natural cycle of life and death?
It's a conundrum for another time, except Harry will likely never get to know.
Like in the Ministry when all of this started, Voldemort and Dumbledore appear to be battling it
out over the collision of their Spells. It's blue from Dumbledore and red from Voldemort, and the
shivering crackle of magic explodes out in regular increments. Dumbledore isn't winning. He can't
win because Harry isn't dead yet.

Harry starts running.

It's like his dream, except there is no cliff and no one is falling. The desperation is there, and he's
not even sure why.

"Stop it!" Harry shouts as he rushes forward, shamelessly begging. "Please stop it!"

In perfect sync, Voldemort and Dumbledore do the same exact thing in a move that seems almost
choreographed, which would be hilarious under any other circumstances. They both fling their
hands out towards Harry, shoving him back with and out of the way with their magic, sending him
sprawling. Harry lays there on the ground for a split second, watching the hues of the Spells light
up above him, and then he's right back on his feet. He runs once again.

As he does, he allows himself to wonder what he's doing. This is not the plan. This is very far from
the plan. Though, to be fair, the plan had gone to shite before he ever got the chance to muck it up
himself.

He can't explain the rising tide of desperation and relentless hope that churns in his veins, the very
reason his heart beats. He doesn't know what he's expecting to happen, because he already knows
how this goes. He already knows how this ends.

Yet, he still launches himself forward and cuts through the connected Spells anyway, diving in the
middle as if he's ever been enough of a reason for them to stop anything. He's not. He never has
been, and he never will be.

As if agreeing with him, the world explodes.

Harry's on the cliff, staring down at the void below. It whispers to him, offers him comfort. It's
death. He knows it is, and he's tempted by it.
I could fall, he thinks.

"Don't."

Harry turns around slowly, calm, blinking at Voldemort. He is not running and he does not move,
but there is a guarded look in his eyes. He's staring at Harry intently, fingers clasped together too
tightly to suggest anything other than wariness. Harry didn't even know that Voldemort could be
wary. His lips curl up at the thought.

"I have to," is what Harry says.

Voldemort's eyes narrow. "Do you?"

"Come with me?" Harry asks.

"There?" Voldemort flicks his gaze towards the cliff's edge, fingers twitching. "I have never
wanted to go there, Harry. I will not."

"Is this—" Harry cuts himself off, glancing down into the abyss, feeling the evil and despair
wafting out from it like a breeze. "Oh. This was never my dream. It was yours."

"You never let me fall," Voldemort murmurs.

Harry nods at him. "No one should have to, not if they can be pulled back up. Is this how you see
dying? You make it rather frightening, don't you?"

"It frightens me," Voldemort says simply.

"Does it?" Harry takes a step back, watching Voldemort go still and stiff. "I think it might be
peaceful. The fall, I mean. And who knows what waits on the other side of it?"
"We do not have to find out," Voldemort snaps, his eyes burning with fury. "Move back from
there, Harry. I will not encourage your childishness."

Harry takes another step back, feeling the stone dig in along the middle of the bottom of his
trainers. He's teetering on the edge. "You fell, once. In our last dream. You let go. Why?"

"You were going to fall if I did not," Voldemort hisses, taking a sudden step forward. "Harry, move
from there at once!"

"You found something that frightens you more than your own death," Harry tells him softly.

Voldemort's gaze latches onto his, something flashing in his ruby red eyes. "What?"

"Mine," Harry says, and then falls back.

There is no wind this time, and Harry hears the way Voldemort sucks in a sharp breath as he falls.
He hears him run, even if he can't see it, feet hitting the stone. He stretches his hand out, knowing
what's coming, and yet he still gasps when Voldemort's hand flings out to grab his wrist, jerking his
descent to a sudden halt. Voldemort's eyes are wide, his free hand curling over the cliff's edge, and
he looks—in a way he never has—utterly terrified.

"What have you done?!" Voldemort demands, trying to pull him up and failing.

Harry smiles up at him. "Love you. That's all. You can let me go, you know. It's what I'm meant
for; the falling. It's my purpose."

"You foolish, troublesome child!" Voldemort snarls, but he does not let go.

"You have to let me go," Harry whispers. "You're the one who pushed me to the edge, so you have
to watch me fall. Do you understand?"

Voldemort's eyes flutter. Red flickering, something flashing in it once more. "If I let you go, I will
fall with you."
"You're going to have to let me go, because you're the one forcing me to fall. The only way to stop
it is to pull me up. But you can't."

"I can."

"You won't," Harry murmurs sadly.

And, with that, he wrenches his hand from Voldemort's grip, his stomach dropping out from
beneath him as he falls. Voldemort does not scream, but as he seems to get farther away, he looks
like he wants to. Harry closes his eyes.

Harry's eyes snap open before he ever reaches the bottom. It takes him a second to realize that he's
not at the cliff, that he's lying flat on his back on the ground in front of Hogwarts. His ears are
ringing.

His brain feels rattled around in his skull, and every single part of his body aches. Still, he forces
himself to his feet. His glasses are bent and digging into his nose, but he doesn't actually care at the
moment. Trembling, he stands up with a groan, blinking rapidly as he looks up.

Across from him, Voldemort is slowly pushing to his feet, looking oddly dazed. He's blinking, red
eyes flickering as he grasps his wand and gets steady. When Harry glances over his shoulder,
Dumbledore is also getting to his feet, beard stained red and brown with blood and dirt.

Alright, so no one died. Brilliant.

Harry takes a deep breath and reaches in the pocket of his trousers, easing the vial of Basilisk
Venom out. He stares at it for a second, then looks around.

The fighting has been blocked by what looks like a swirl of black mist, a rising enclosure that
makes it impossible to see into or out of. No one has a clue what's happening inside, and Harry has
no idea what's happening outside.
This is it, Harry realizes, unstoppering the vial and lifting it. The thick Venom sways inside,
flashing almost black in the light. Harry wonders what it will taste like. At least it looks like it will
go down smoothly, which is a weird thing to be thankful for while on the precipice of death.

"Harry."

Pausing with the vial halfway to his mouth, Harry raises his gaze to meet Voldemort's. He looks…
Well, he looks strikingly similar to the way he did in that last dream—or was it a vision? Harry's
not sure, but either way, he recognizes the way Voldemort is radiating tension right now.

"I forgive you," Harry tells him, his voice ringing clear in the silence. "And what I said...it was
true. It's still true now."

"Harry," Voldemort says again, soft, "don't."

"I have to," Harry murmurs.

He doesn't close his eyes as he lifts the vial. If he's going to die, he'll do it looking the reason that
he is right in the eyes. And, really, he doesn't mind Voldemort being the last thing he sees.
Selfishly, he hopes that he's the last thought that passes through Voldemort's mind before he meets
his own demise.

Perhaps, in death, they can find a way to be at peace. Maybe they will dangle their legs over the
cliff forever, never exchanging a word but content nonetheless. Maybe they'll sit in a train station,
waiting before boarding the next. Maybe Dumbledore's right and they'll meet their destination
together.

No matter what, Harry realizes that he doesn't want Voldemort to face his end alone. Not the one
thing that frightens him. Harry cannot help but want to save him, though he does not deserve it.

Just...not this time.

It's not in it for them, not in this life. Harry accepts that, because he has always known it. He cannot
be chosen over anything. That's just as well.
Harry takes a deep breath and hovers the rim of the vial over his lips, looking right into
Voldemort's eyes. He wants him to watch, to see what his choices have led to. If Voldemort even
feels one ounce of remorse after everything, Harry will selfishly declare it as a personal victory,
though he won't get to see it.

And there, right there, he thinks about everything he's giving up to save the world—the man
behind him and the monster in front of him included, even if they're forcing him into it. He hopes
they see. He hopes it hurts them and changes them irrevocably. He's going to do it, and it's on
them, because he's never, in fact, been the Chosen One for anything other than Prophecy and fate,
and never what he truly wants. He stares into Voldemort's eyes and lets him see all that he wants,
all that he's never dared to ask for, because he's about to die and it scares him. But he's going to do
it anyway, and he blinks slow before gripping the vial to tip it back, and—

With a sharp jolt, Harry feels himself being yanked clear across the field, sailing straight over to
Voldemort so quickly that he barely gets to blink in shock. His toes only just scrape the ground on
the ride over, and he gets deposited gently on his feet by whatever force snatched him to begin
with.

Voldemort is right in front of him, clearly angry, and he plucks the vial from Harry's hands with no
warning. Harry sucks in a sharp breath and—too late. The vial is slammed to the ground, shattering
loudly in the sudden stillness.

"You will not give your life for the undeserving, profligate people who defile and stain this world
we live in," Voldemort hisses, glaring at him in savage fury, red eyes blazing. "Every single person
shall die before you do it for them, Harry Potter. I will see to it myself, if I must."

"You gave me that," Harry notes faintly, staring down at the broken vial. "You—you—"

Before he can finish or gather the scattered remains of his thoughts, he's abruptly shoved harshly to
the side by yet another outside force. He gasps as he's ripped away from Voldemort, and there's
Dumbledore, ready to duel yet again.

For a second, Harry is just tossed around by them both like a rag-doll. They yank on him with their
magic, moving him like he has no control over his own body, and a distant part of him thinks that's
awfully fitting. Here he is, tugged like rope by Voldemort and Dumbledore, neither of them willing
to let him go. He's used and abused by both, head jerking on his neck, limps snatched with such
strength that he'll have phantom bruises for days.

Then, it all comes to a halt when Voldemort flicks his wand and hisses, "Avada Kedavra," in a
chilling tone that makes Harry shudder.

With effort, Harry raises his wand just as he's yanked in front of the Killing Curse—likely by
Dumbledore, and Harry can't even blame him for it. In fact, if Harry were being smart about this,
he'd let the Spell hit him, seeing as it's Voldemort and it would kill him. Instead, because he is an
idiot, Harry only thinks about the fact that it was going right for Dumbledore and raises his wand to
try and block it, just to protect the man.

It works, because of course it does. Harry's wand and Voldemort's wand share a core—he's known
this for quite a bit now. Like in the graveyard, their Spells connect and tangle, red and green
exploding and flickering between them. Harry's hair whips back from his face, his scar burning,
and Dumbledore is yelling behind him.

Yelling, "Let go, Harry! Let go!"

Harry realizes all at once that when he lets go, the Killing Curse is going to connect and he's going
to die. And, well, that's the entire point, isn't it?

With a gasp, he lets go.

It does very little good because, seconds before Harry does, Voldemort lets go as well. There's a
loud boom like the roar of thunder and yet another explosion of magic that ripples around them,
shaking the very foundation of the earth. Harry gets blasted back, practically flying through the air
limply before jerking as two different forces of magic slow him, gingerly laying him down.

He can feel the difference in the magic, like a tangible touch on his skin. He'd think that
Voldemort's would be cold and Dumbledore's would be hot, but it's the opposite, oddly enough.
Voldemort's magic is hot like feverish skin, nearly burning, the kind of heat that would sting after
going numb in snow. Dumbledore's is a cool breeze, is rippling water of a stream touched only by
the elements, the kind of cold you apply to bruises.

Together, those sensations lap over each other, a collision on his skin, and he shudders as the
feeling of the two fight for control.

"Stop it," Harry says again, weakly, gasping as he struggles to push to his feet.
"Stay out of this; it doesn't concern you any longer," Voldemort hisses, drifting closer as he raises
his wand, red eyes gleaming with threat.

Harry chokes and stumbles to his feet, fighting valiantly to stand his ground. He sways in place,
feeling overbalanced like someone has made his bones hollow and filled them with water. He's
pushed aside just a step, opening up a path between Voldemort and Dumbledore, and the magic
falls away—he can breathe, he's abruptly weightless and in control once more—and there's a glint
of…

The thing about his thoughts on his death is this:

He had expected to die for the world, on his own terms, being a hero. He thought that he would get
to say better goodbyes, and he thought that it would be quick and altogether painless. He had
assumed that, when the time came, it would be in consideration of those he was saving, and there
would be no regret.

The facts about his death is that:

There is a sword, and it has taken quite a bit into its essence, and he's watched it sail through the air
just like this. He remembers that day, remembers how the Sword of Gryffindor had struck with a
precision likened to the very snake it was destroying, and remembers trying to put Nagini back
together long after she was already gone.

He doesn't know how he knows for sure—he learned it in a dream—but Voldemort will bleed
smoke if he's sliced, and it's such a bothersome thing to think that Harry will have to try and put
him back together, too. Really, in retrospect, it's only a little piece of trauma, but it's just enough to
have him reacting before he can properly think.

Harry doesn't think about how Voldemort can't die. He doesn't even think about how he's the one
who's supposed to. It never crosses his mind to block the sword with a Spell, or to try and tackle
Voldemort out of the way, or any other equally viable solution that anyone would think up if they
had the time.

Only, Harry doesn't have the time, because his life is one big, cruel, ironic joke.

There's only the flash of steel as a warning, just in Harry's peripheral—Dumbledore is so quick, so
sneaky about it, disguising the sword before it's even moving—and there's no time for anything
other than what comes next, which is—

The truth about Harry's death is:

It's not for the world.

He doesn't take a step to the side for any of those who are dying today, or any of those who might
die later if he's not going to sacrifice himself, or even those who might escape unscathed. He
doesn't do it for his friends, or even his boyfriend, and not the man he's all but worshipped for five
consecutive years. He doesn't even make the decision to do it.

That's the thing. It's not some grand sacrifice, or some broad gesture in the name of what is right.
Harry sees the sword and can't fathom the thought that it might take Voldemort away, like it did
Nagini. And it is a childish, selfish desire to be against such a thing happening—not to mention
completely baseless because it isn't true; Voldemort cannot die, after all, not until Harry does. Yet,
Harry simply has one split second of cold, suffocating panic that grips him before it brands him hot
and flings him into motion.

And then—

"Oh," Harry says, stupidly.

It's an odd thing, being stabbed. The pain is instantaneous, so quick that his brain can't properly
process it. Almost at once, there is a sharp wave of fire and cutting agony that pierces through him,
so intense that he's scared to move. He stays very still, all except for the arm that's reaching up to
feel the blade that pokes through his chest. It's rather absurd to think about, that there's a sword
through him, and he blinks really slowly.

He looks down, shaking fingers dumbly pressing against the edges of his wound, and he gags
around the surge of pain that flares in response. Alright, then. Best not to go poking at the skin that
a sword stabs out of, he realizes. Distantly, there's a faint shrill sound in his ears, like a tea kettle,
and he wonders if it will take long to die.

Voldemort is suddenly right there, standing right before him with hands outstretched halfway, eyes
wider than they ever have been. He looks startled, and not pleasantly so. He's—oh, well, he looks
angry. When is he anything else, though?
"You foolish boy," Voldemort croaks, and his voice is hoarse. Raspy. Grating with—with—

Don't cry, Harry wants to say, which is ridiculous because Voldemort isn't crying at all.

"This hurts," Harry tells him, reaching out to grasp Voldemort's arm. His knees feel like they're
about to buckle, but the searing white-hot agony of having both an entrance and exit for a sword is
what takes up most of his thoughts. He says, "This is quite painful, actually. Dying is—is—"

"Do not. You will not," Voldemort murmurs, soft, sweeping closer as his wand appears. "I will not
allow you to."

Harry coughs around a laugh, and there's blood that comes out, spraying past his lips and hitting
the front of Voldemort's robes. "I am, though. It's—it's alright. I was always going to."

"Harry," Voldemort hisses, and Harry knows instantly that it's Parseltongue. It makes him jolt and
go still, likely just as Voldemort intends. The sudden motion makes him whimper in pain, and
Voldemort makes an aborted move forward. There is something sharp and almost desperate in his
eyes—fear. "Don't. You can survive if you wish to."

Harry knows he's going to reply in Parseltongue, because he never learned how to switch to it and
away from it. Nagini would be proud, he thinks.

"I can't. You won't let me," Harry says, and then he closes his eyes.

"Wait," Voldemort says, sweeping forward just a step, his fingers flexing around his wand. He
makes a horrible sound, almost like he's being choked, and all he says is, "You claim that I won't. I
will."

Harry's eyes snap open. "You promised not to lie to me," he whispers, heartbroken, and his hand
finally grasps the blade that stabs him through from behind. It cuts into his palm when he gets a
good hold on it, and his vision blurs from the absolute maddeningly powerful wave of agony that
merely jostling the blade causes him. Blood is everywhere, and he feels so close to losing grip on
everything around him, but he can do this. He can, and he will. "I wish you wouldn't lie to me now,
after everything."

"I'm not," Voldemort says, a strange trembling quality to his voice as if he's shaking on the inside if
 not the outside. "It's not a lie. I would not—"

"I'm falling," Harry interrupts thickly, blood choking him, settling and gurgling in his throat.
Something in him is fundamentally broken, sliced by the sword, and he really is about to fall. He
can't hold himself up anymore. "It hurts."

"I will not let you fall," Voldemort says. "I will pull you back up. I will."

"I've already let go," Harry chokes.

Then he yanks the blade from his body.

In the second after, agony splits Harry's body in half, his vision and brain whiting-out, and the
Sword of Gryffindor hits the ground as he crumbles.

Chapter End Notes

~SPOILERS/WARNINGS~

For those of you who want an in-depth warning of what happens, I'll give you a small
list of what to expect, like above but with more details:

1) Harry talks about how he's going to sacrifice himself

2) People do, in fact, use the Killing Curse in this chapter. Death Eaters, mostly,
including Lucius (yes, he's here too, but not in the way you're expecting). HARRY is
also using the Killing Curse once again in this chapter in the midst of battle

3) The person who uses the Torture Curse is none other than Harry also. It's the exact
same situation as what happens in Deathly Hallows when he uses it, mostly because I
love that scene quite a bit. I did change a few things in there, of course.

4) Well, to put it plainly, Mrs. Malfoy has her arm cut off. She does NOT die. She's
just gravely injured, and Draco is a wreck about it. There's descriptions of the blood
and her missing arm. (yes, she's also here; it's a wild chapter, okay?)

5) Harry's friends get various injuries, and people are described to be wounded with
bruises and blood and such, as one would expect out of a battle. Pansy gets yanked
around by her hair and bites someone so hard she gets blood in her teeth. Ginny gets
burned on the arm, but she is fine!!!

6) Vince dies on screen. His own father kills him by accident. It's...a pretty sad
moment tbh

7) Harry gets stabbed through the back by the Sword of Gryffindor, then rips it out of
himself a few moments later. It's a whole thing, and it's not really pretty. Mentions of
the pain and how there's a literal blade sticking out of his chest and all the blood.

~END OF SPOILERS/WARNINGS~

Yeah, so...that happened. Fun times I feel like I should

apologize or something.

Also, the title of this chapter is in reference to The Judgement of Solomon—a story
about a king and two mothers fighting over one child. Go look it up if you haven't
heard of it, because I find it extremely fitting for Harry's situation in some ways.
Anywho...

*laughs nervously*

Thoughts...?
 Waiting
Chapter Notes

Warnings for this chapter:

Mentions of Minor Characters being dead that died in the books. Im gonna be honest
and say that I doubt it's anyone that will make you get too sad, but I'll spoil it in the
bottom notes in case you want to check.

Other than that, no warnings! Enjoy :)

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Harry wakes slowly.

His first thought is, why is it always the Hospital Wing, followed very quickly by, ouch, which
ends up shifting into, oh, that's why I'm in the Hospital Wing.

Everything hurts. Absolutely everything. It's how he knows he's not dead, because surely you do
not feel these sorts of aches when you're dead. Thinking back, though, he was pretty certain that he
was dying. His last memory is of yanking a sword out of his own body, and he's got the thought
that such a thing would kill anyone. Even him, Horcrux or not. No one survives that, he's sure of it.

Moving is completely off the table, so Harry just flicks his gaze to the right. He can feel someone
watching him. It is, of course, Dumbledore.

"Finally awake?" Dumbledore asks softly.

Harry grunts and rasps, "Unfortunately."

"Your injuries are quite...extensive," Dumbledore murmurs, peering at him with a small smile.
"Madame Pomfrey was very upset about it, as I'm sure you can imagine. She thinks one more of
anything would do you in."

"I think I have one more of everything in me, at least," Harry croaks, swallowing around a dry
throat.
"Let's hope not." Dumbledore sweeps to his feet and comes closer, picking up a small cup off a
tray. There's a metal straw sticking out of it. "Thirsty?"

If Harry wasn't absolutely parched right now, he'd be utterly mortified by this. As it is, his mouth
feels like he's lined it with parchment and breathed in nothing but salt for hours. Yes, he's thirsty,
desperately so. That's the only reason he parts his lips and lets Dumbledore help him drink.

Harry coughs after, and his whole body protests that entirely. Through a wince, he still manages to
mumble a weak, "Thank you, sir."

"It's my pleasure," Dumbledore says, like perhaps it is, as if taking care of Harry genuinely makes
him happy. Maybe it does.

"Sir," Harry murmurs, hesitant and careful like he can't actually be sure of what he's about to say,
"why am I...not dead?"

Dumbledore takes a small breath, his eyebrows rising, then he releases a small chuckle that Harry
never expected from him. "Well, Harry, you're not dead for the very reason you almost died."

"Which is?" Harry prompts.

"Being a Horcrux."

"It saved my life?"

"It did," Dumbledore answers, "with the joint efforts of Fawkes, Draco Malfoy, and Madame
Pomfrey."

Harry swallows thickly. "I don't understand. Why am I—what happened to me after?"

"Harry, have you ever asked yourself why your Horcrux remained even after you were poisoned by
Basilisk Venom at a mere twelve years old?"
"Er...honestly? I never thought about it, but now that you mention it… How did that work?"

"The way I understand it, for the Horcrux to be destroyed, it has to be broken beyond repair—in
ways it cannot come back from. Basilisk Venom is capable of that, yes, but it's possible to be
healed before it reaches that point."

"So—so Fawkes' tears…"

"Yes, they healed you and, in turn, stopped the destruction of the Horcrux in you both times."
Dumbledore looks thoughtful for a moment, eyes twinkling in a way Harry never thought they
would again. "I do believe he was affronted at having to cry for you twice, Harry. He seemed
rather annoyed that you could not stay out of trouble."

Stupidly, Harry blurts, "He remembers his past lives?"

"He does." Dumbledore hums and flicks his gaze down to Harry's chest, eyes softening. "You have
quite the scar. A new one, I mean."

"You said that—that Draco and Madame Pomfrey helped save my life, too."

"They did. Fawkes could wash the Basilisk Venom from within you by simply crying and letting
the tears get in your bloodstream. Unfortunately, that did not heal your wound or stop you from
bleeding out profusely. Draco Malfoy kept you alive while you were ushered to Madame
Pomfrey."

"What do you mean he kept me alive?" Harry asks, his voice going thready with alarm.

"I mean exactly as I said. He climbed atop your body and kept your heart beating. Actually, he did
quite a lot." Dumbledore's lips curl up, and it's clear he's making an effort to put Harry at ease. "He
yelled at everyone around you and him, including me. I believe he called me an old bastard
because I was not putting enough pressure on your wound."

"That must have been horrible for him," Harry whispers, not feeling calmer at all.
Dumbledore's gaze drifts to the side. "It was...very close. There was—there were moments when
your heart gave out on its own without his help. You died. Twice, technically. It was horrible for
everyone."

"Oh, bugger." Harry sighs, eyes fluttering closed briefly. "Draco's going to murder me."

"That would undo all his hard work at keeping you alive, so I sincerely doubt that," Dumbledore
tells him, making a small sound of weak amusement.

Harry opens his eyes, grimacing at the starburst of pain that crashes through him when he shifts on
the bed. Groaning quietly, he looks down at his chest. He's not sure why he's looking, really,
because there's bandages...everywhere, quite frankly, and he only sees that there's no blood spots
on them.

"Sir," Harry ventures carefully, "who—who died? I know that there were some...Death Eaters who
didn't make it, but what about everyone else?"

"Ah," Dumbledore murmurs, looking down at his hands that are resting, crossed, against his robes.
He looks grave and full of grief. "We had thirty-six casualties—most weren't students. Those that
did not make it that I ever saw you interact with were Alastor Moody, Colin Creevey, and Vincent
Crabbe. There were many more injured."

Harry is silent for a long time. He thinks about the last time he saw Mad-Eye Moody. The man had
been fighting three Death Eaters at once and doing quite good at it, too. If Harry had stopped to
help him, would he still be alive now?

Harry recalls in perfect clarity how and when Vince died. It makes him wonder why Greg wasn't
around. It makes him think about how Pansy is handling it, seeing as that Spell was meant for her.
It makes him question whether the man who killed him was actually his father or not.

Harry doesn't even remember the last time he saw Colin Creevey, or what he said to him.
Somehow, that makes this hurt so much worse.

"Who was injured?" Harry rasps, blinking hard and caring very little about the hot tears that fall.
"Most of everyone," Dumbledore admits. "No one got out without at least one scar. Some were hurt
worse than others. Severus, Molly, and Narcissa among them."

"How is Mrs. Malfoy?" Harry asks cautiously.

"Quite well," Dumbledore replies calmly. "She has complained that her embroidery will be
difficult to manage with the prosthetic, but she seems pleased that it was not her wand hand she
lost. I believe Mr. Malfoy has provided a good bit of money to fit her with the best prosthetic
available."

Harry's lips twitch. "Sounds like him. Er, did you say Snape and Mrs. Weasley were injured?"

"Molly's injuries were quickly remedied, but she used a strained knee as an excuse to hover over
her children in the Hospital Wing for some time. You, included," Dumbledore whispers, as if he's
telling a secret. He even winks. Then, mere seconds after, his eyes grow solemn. "Severus,
however… Well, he was hit with a rather Dark Curse."

"Will he be alright?" Harry mumbles.

Dumbledore's gaze drops. Quietly, he says, "His health will deteriorate within three years. I've
attempted to express my...feelings on the matter, but he won't have it."

"So he's dying?" Harry asks flatly, something strange happening in his chest.

"Slowly, but yes," Dumbledore answers.

Harry's breath rattles out of him. He closes his eyes and just...doesn't think for a moment. Just for a
second, he wants to live in a world where he doesn't have to adjust to Severus Snape's death. After
everything that the man's done, and this.

No, he won't say that Snape is truly a good man. He can't claim that he isn't, either. What he does
know is that no matter his feelings for him, Snape doesn't deserve to die. It's just...not fair.

"There's nothing that can be done?" Harry checks, his tone hollow and empty.
"I'm afraid not," Dumbledore murmurs, staring down at the floor, troubled by the
acknowledgement in his own way. Harry suspects that, despite everything, Dumbledore does care
for Snape.

"Can I—will he let me see him?" Harry mumbles.

Dumbledore hums. "Perhaps after rest."

"Alright, so what about my friends?"

"All safe and healthy, though many of them had injuries of their own. Healed or healing, now."

"And Draco?"

"Perfectly safe and with his parents."

"Good. That's good." Harry releases a sigh of relief, only for his eyes to snap open. "What about
the Death Eaters?"

"Ah," Dumbledore says delicately, "those that were alive were rounded up and taken in by the
Aurors. There's a bit of a hiccup at the Ministry at the moment, but the trials are nearly finished."

Harry blinks. "Sir, how long have I been asleep?"

"Just a little over two months," Dumbledore says.

"Bloody hell," Harry breathes out, stunned. "That's… That means it's almost September!"

"Indeed. Two weeks out from it, in fact," Dumbledore murmurs, calm and not at all as flustered by
someone sleeping so long the way Harry is. He even smiles slightly. "My boy, it took some time to
heal you. For the first month, you were under potion-induced sleep. After that, you were adjusting
from the trauma your body went through. Madame Pomfrey thought you might not wake up until
September, quite honestly. You're early."

"That would explain the pain," Harry mutters with a wince. He blows out a deep breath. "So, I must
have missed quite a bit, then. What did you mean about a hiccup at the Ministry?"

"It seems that the Minister, ah, woke up following the battle, as it were. As I understand it, he was
under the Imperius Curse and had no recollection of ever becoming Minister," Dumbledore
explains, seemingly delighted by this. "The Ministry is still scrambling to fill the position whilst
dealing with the fact that a good portion of their employees are now in Azkaban. They asked me to
take the position, but I refused and suggested Kingsley instead. He's always been an honest man."

"And you're...not?" Harry challenges.

Dumbledore's lips twitch, making his beard tremble a bit. "My duty is to the school, Harry."

"Right." Harry swallows and averts his eyes, licking his lips. Here comes the next part—the part
he's been avoiding. "And, er...Voldemort?"

"Yes, that is the question, isn't it?" Dumbledore murmurs, once again looking troubled.

"Sir?" Harry stares at him, his heart thumping unevenly in his chest.

Is it over? Harry wants to ask. Am I stupid to hope? Did he mean what he said?

I will, Voldemort had said, only moments after Harry told him, You won't.

"Defeat thoroughly." Dumbledore swings his gaze to meet Harry's, holding it. "That is what
vanquish means. One would assume that means death."

"Does it?" Harry asks.

"I always thought so," Dumbledore admits, "but perhaps I was wrong. Defeating Voldemort
thoroughly without resorting to killing him would be...what, if you had to guess?"

Harry snorts weakly. "Him retiring somewhere and giving up the war, I imagine. Never showing
his face again. Leaving everything he worked for behind."

"Indeed," Dumbledore agrees, peering at him.

"Wait." Harry blinks. "He—he didn't actually…"

"After you pulled the sword from your body, you fell. You—you fell directly into his arms,"
Dumbledore tells him, clearing his throat. It's like he doesn't want to say this, but has to. "He knew
that you would not survive without Fawkes, and he—he…"

Harry takes in a deep breath. "What did he do?"

"He asked that I save you," Dumbledore whispers, eyebrows coming together, his eyes slowly
lifting to look at Harry. He seems, for the very first time, openly confused and very much ruffled.
"He requested that I would, snapped his own wand to lay at your side, and then he disappeared."

"He did what?!" Harry bursts out, then gasps as his whole body jerks from his shock, causing
everything within him to ache and throb and hurt.

"That is not all he did."

"There's more?"

"Mere moments after Voldemort disappeared, every single person with a Dark Mark fell to the
ground in agony," Dumbledore says quietly. "They all screamed as the Dark Mark burned itself
from their arms, leaving only a blackened scar behind. Everyone under Voldemort's control due to
the Imperius Curse was freed from it. Severus' unbreakable vow is no longer in effect, and he was
free to give me every location he knew of that Voldemort ever hid, including Hollow Hill."

"Is he—he didn't die, did he, sir?" Harry sputters, jolting in the bed yet again and wincing as a
fresh wave of pain slices through him. "It's impossible—"
"Defeated thoroughly," Dumbledore says again, watching Harry closely. "Vanquished. He is out
there, alive, but I would not say that he is living or surviving by any respectable standards. Living
and surviving things eat and sleep and function in society. That, too, is the Prophecy fulfilled—
neither can live while the other survives. It seems, my boy, that you get to live now."

"But—but why?" Harry chokes out, his eyes betraying him and stinging before he can blink the
sensation away.

Dumbledore dips his head and stares at Harry, something grave and curious and serious in his gaze
all at once. "I had rather hoped you could answer that question, Harry. What did he say to you
before he disappeared?"

It is not what he said, but rather what he did, that has hot tears welling up in Harry's eyes. He
realizes many things at once, things he feels like he's known for some time now, at least since the
moment Voldemort flung himself from Harry's grip in the dream and let himself fall so Harry
wouldn't.

Harry hadn't been wrong to say that Voldemort had come to fear Harry's death more than his own.
He'd proven that the moment he faced his own greatest fear so that Harry would not have to. Even
in a dream. Especially in the dream.

Of course, there was the risk that he'd die if Harry did as well, but that was a risk he was always
willing to take anyway. He might have if not for the care he came to have for Harry. That was the
tipping point. That's the one thing that made him step back—not the destruction of his other
Horcruxes, not the knowledge that Dumbledore had the Elder Wand, not even his own fear of
death. Harry living ensures his immortality, the one thing he always wanted, but even that was not
what made him give up.

It was Harry.

"He chose me," Harry chokes out, closing his eyes as his tears fall, his heart swelling and shrinking
and pulsing and flinching and everything inside his chest.

He feels so much, too much, and it all threatens to strangle him. It's the one thing he's wanted for
so long, given to him by the one he expected it from the least. In a strange turn of events, just as
Harry did the impossible and came to love Voldemort enough to forgive him, Voldemort came to
care for Harry enough to choose him.
From there, Harry breaks down—hard. He slumps back into the bed as if all his strings have been
cut and sobs, a tremendous weight lifting off his chest and something inside him—deep down
where he's scared to move and breathe and hope for things he's never gotten—just shatters. Every
single inch of him feels like he's been a press-and-release trigger this whole time, and someone
finally lifted their finger away so he could get to the release part.

It's relief, sweeping in hard-hitting and drowning, all but pinning him to where he is and
demanding he finally feel it in all its glory.

And it is glorious. He's trembling from it. He's in so much pain from a fight he's finally been freed
from, so alive that everything hurts, and happy to be, breathing and breathing and getting to breathe
for the sake of it rather than waiting for the moment he has to stop. The air tastes sweeter on his
tongue, somehow, and he sucks in deep gasps of it as his entire being rattles and shakes while he
lays right there on that bed and cries harder and longer than he ever has.

It's bizarre, is the thing. It's baffling and ridiculous and so far from the realm of possibility that
Harry almost doesn't dare to believe it. You can't be woven into fate's plans and come out on the
other side with a happy ending. No one gets that, certainly not when that all rides on someone like
Voldemort.

Are you sure? Harry wants to ask the universe, and the thought makes him laugh through his tears.
Because all of this is so, so fucking mad and bizarre and ironic that it's almost senseless.

Why would Voldemort do it? Sure, he has the surface-level reasons—keeping Harry alive ensures
he lives for many, many more years—but to give in so elaborately is just... He gave up everything.
His Death Eaters, abandoned. His grip on the Ministry, removed. His desire for the Elder Wand,
halted. His plan to sort of take over the Wizarding World, erased and evaporated. To keep all that,
to keep fighting for all those things, all he had to do was let his last Horcrux be destroyed, except
that Horcrux turned out to be a human who he ended up caring about more than everything else.

But why? It just makes no sense. He chose Harry, but why, and for what reason, and with no
regrets?

And it's not—it isn't good. Deep down, Harry knows that. Even weeping in relief, he knows it.
Knows that Voldemort is out there somewhere, living no better than he did in the ten years
following his first demise, drifting along as nothing and going absolutely nowhere. He doesn't
deserve better than that, but Harry wants it for him anyway.
"Harry," Dumbledore prods gently, careful about it, even when Harry's cries have softened.

"Where is he?" Harry gasps out, his entire body flinching on the bed with the wish to get up and
find him, to simply see him and talk to him.

Dumbledore watches him calmly, but there is the slightest twitch in his eyebrow that suggests he's
troubled by this response, too. "No one knows, my boy. Gone. People have been searching and
likely will continue to for a long time, but he seems to have vanished." He pauses and steps closer,
peering down at Harry with a warm, kind gaze. "I think, if I am so bold to say, that he's found
himself somewhere to go where no one can reach him. And Harry, I do not think you should try."

"But he—"

"This is not a gift he has given you, Harry. This is something you should have had all along. The
chance to live. He has come in between that this whole time, and removing himself does not mean
he is not dangerous, or cruel, or someone incapable of being saved. This was not his redemption;
you must know this. Do you understand?"

"With all due respect, sir," Harry rasps, "I don't think you get to tell me how I should feel or think
about him. It has absolutely nothing to do with you."

"I do not wish for you to feel indebted to him," Dumbledore murmurs, watching him carefully. "I
fear that you may expect him to be what and who he is not, and it will only hurt you."

Harry stares at him. "Maybe he isn't what or who you think he is. After all, he did surrender, didn't
he? You never expected him to."

"I did not," Dumbledore admits.

"Don't worry, sir," Harry whispers. "I haven't forgotten what he's done. I don't think I'll ever be
able to. Things would be easier if I could, especially now, but things are never easy for me, are
they?"

"Perhaps they will be easier." Dumbledore dares to look hopeful, that twinkle in his eyes hesitantly
making an appearance, flashing quickly before going away again. "That being said, I think it is
best if you never see him again."
"I don't," Harry says simply.

He'll wait. He will. However long he needs to, he'll wait for a chance to see him again. It is a
ridiculous thought, but perhaps he will one day walk into that Study in the Manor, and Voldemort
will simply be sitting there as if a day hasn't passed.

Dumbledore sighs, apparently deciding to let it go for now. "You should get some rest, my boy."

"That's something I can agree with, for once," Harry mumbles, because he feels wrung out and sore
like someone has tossed around his body.

"Oh, and Harry," Dumbledore says as he starts to back away and leave, pausing to look at him.

Harry blinks slowly, his eyelashes fluttering. "Hm?"

"Thank you," Dumbledore tells him, intensely serious, each syllable of the words weighted with
immense honesty and straightforward gratitude.

"For what?" Harry mutters, confused.

Dumbledore smiles at him. "For everything."

There's a lot in those two words, and Harry hears it all. For blocking the Killing Curse, for facing
your death head-on just to save the world, for fighting not to live but for others to, for doing the
right thing.

"Don't thank me, sir," Harry croaks, his eyelids fluttering as sleep wraps around him snuggly,
taking him in its embrace. "I don't need it. I never did."

"And that, my boy, is why you deserve it the most. You have done so much for the world without
asking for anything in return."
"Anyone would have."

"No, Harry," Dumbledore murmurs, "anyone wouldn't have."

Harry smacks his lips and turns his head away, grimacing as pain reverberates through his whole
body due to the movement, but still, he only flippantly says, "You told me, once, that every version
of every person is correct and we can only hope to live up to the best version someone sees us as.
So I've chosen to believe the best in everyone, because we all deserve that, I think."

"And if they don't?" Dumbledore asks.

"Then they don't," Harry replies quietly, sleepily. His eyes are shut and he's so, so tired. "Nothing
is ever as simple as it seems, and no one is, either. If all of this has taught me anything, it's that. No
one is purely good or evil, sir. Choices matter. I've seen enough of the worst that I think I have the
right to hope for the best."

"Such a brave boy," Dumbledore whispers, sounding absolutely capsized by emotion. Harry
doesn't respond because he can't, drifting into the lull of sleep that drags him under. "Rest now,
Harry."

And so, Harry does.

When Harry next wakes up, he hesitantly tests his limbs for the level of pain he has to endure this
time. It's not wonderful, admittedly, but it's not the worst he's ever felt. He can handle it, at least.

"No, no, none of that, Mr. Potter," comes Madame Pomfrey's severe tone. "You lift even a finger
off that bed again, and I'll have you in a magical coma for another month."

"Yes, ma'am," Harry replies immediately, going still and squinting helplessly at the ceiling. He
wishes he had his glasses on.

As if someone has heard his thoughts, his glasses are being slipped rather gingerly on his face, and
the first thing he sees clearly is Draco.
Harry's heart positively jumps to his throat, and he sucks in a sharp breath. The first thing he
notices is the pale scar across Draco's neck, almost blending in with the regular shade of his skin.
It's only obvious because Harry's very aware of Draco, often without even meaning to be. That's not
his only scar, though. There's one on his cheek, right where a dimple would be, and it's ridiculously
attractive—it isn't the thoughts he should be having, but it's the first thing that pops into his head
when he sees it. He sort of wants to lick it.

Draco isn't quite meeting his eyes, not at first. He's frowning at vials in his hand, holding them up
to some light to rearrange them, and then he's popping the stopper out to lean over Harry, getting
closer, hovering his face over Harry's, and—

Harry chokes as the first vial is pushed unceremoniously against his lips, the liquid rushing into his
mouth without any warning whatsoever. It tastes awful, and he can't stop himself from gagging and
shuddering a bit. He goes from staring at Draco with wide eyes to glaring at with narrowed ones,
nostrils flaring in offense.

"Don't look at me like that, Harry," Draco murmurs, lips twitching. "You'll have your potions, and I
won't hear you arguing about it. Madame Pomfrey says you're a terrible patient, but I won't have it.
Drink this one next; they go in a certain order."

"Why do I have to have them?" Harry snaps, almost petulant about it. "I feel fine."

"Well, if you don't want to vomit up your intestines the next time you try to walk, you'll have the
sodding potions," Draco retorts just as sharply, crooking an eyebrow and holding out the next vial.

"People can't actually vomit up their intestines," Harry denies instantly, only to cut his eyes over to
Madame Pomfrey, who looks vaguely amused. "Er, they can't, right?"

"You'll likely be the first if you don't have this, but you do live to do the impossible," Draco
drawls, hovering the vial closer. "Open your mouth."

Harry does after mild grumbling under his breath, but he's mostly just thriving on the fact that
Draco is here. He looks different and the same, but all at once. His hair is longer, falling a bit into
his eyes every time he leans over Harry. There's faint scars on his hands now that there never were
before. Whenever he speaks or makes any expression, his dimple-scar deepens and does rather
devastating things to Harry's heart and thought process.
"You were right, Draco," Madame Pomfrey says, sounding a lot more casual with him than Harry
expects her to. "I think I'll be leaving him to your care for now, seeing as he doesn't argue with you
as much as he does with me. I do wish to check in with your mother. Shall I tell her Mr. Potter is
awake?"

Draco hums. "Please. Let her know to wait a bit. I'll change his bandages while he's still awake.
It'll be easier with his help, I think."

"Indeed," Madame's Pomfrey agrees. She flicks a shrewd look over Harry, then nods at Draco, her
face softening just a bit. With that and nothing else, she sweeps out of the curtain closed around his
bed.

"Madame Pomfrey— Madame Pomfrey —is letting someone else look after one of her patients?"
Harry asks incredulously, mouth hanging open, only to choke when the last vial gets tipped back,
the potion hitting his throat. It's just as awful as the rest.

"I helped her with quite a few of those injured in the battle," Draco replies as he sputters, still not
meeting his eyes, keeping his hands busy and his tone calm. "She had little choice in letting me
help, as there weren't nearly enough here skilled in Healing. The wounded couldn't travel and it
took quite some time before the Medi-Witches and Wizards arrived."

"Alright, that makes sense, but why is she letting you do it now?" Harry mumbles.

Draco sighs and sits the vials aside, taking out his wand. "I have visited often in the last two
months, Harry, with and without others. When you required anything, I just...did it. She let me
because it calmed me, and I believe that she wants me to study underneath her in Seventh Year."

"Oh." Harry blinks. "Draco, that's brilliant!"

"It's something," Draco mutters with a grimace.

Harry snorts, then smiles softly. "Did you really come and visit me?"

"Many people did," Draco answers, narrowing his eyes as he peels back the robe only half-
covering Harry's bandaged chest. "I'm about to help you sit up. It's going to hurt."

"Lovely," Harry says dryly.

"There's a lot of pain in Healing," Draco murmurs as he leans down and gently, oh so gently, slides
his hands around Harry's shoulders. His nose brushes Harry's cheek, and the smell of him—apples
and Autumn, as always—makes Harry's head spin. He pauses there for a second, then clears his
throat and keeps talking. "Alright, I'm going to slowly sit you up. Don't try to go faster. All I need
you to do is brace your hands and slide your hips back."

Harry closes his eyes. "You smell nice."

"Focus, Harry."

"I—what? Yes. Oh, yes, I heard you. On with it, then. I'll, er, mind my hips and such."

Draco huffs a quiet laugh that nearly gets swallowed by Harry's grunt of pain seconds later when
he's slowly leveraged up. Draco was not joking about it hurting. It does, quite a bit, and Harry grits
his teeth and breathes exclusively through his nose so he won't shout. It feels like someone's
tugging a branding iron right through his chest.

And Draco goes slow, too, which is just… Well, Harry thinks he knows why he does it that way.
Can't go too fast, can he? Something could rip or tear. Merlin, why hasn't the wound healed
already?

"There you are," Draco says a few moments later when Harry is officially sitting up.

Harry, panting a little and very tired, finally manages to ask, "Why hasn't it healed yet?"

"You were stabbed through the chest, Harry," Draco says, flat and hard. "Not only that, but you
were stabbed by a magical sword. Not only that, but you also had Basilisk Venom in your wound
because of said sword—no matter what tears ensured the poison was cleaned out, it still
fundamentally changed the wound itself."
"Oh," Harry mumbles. "Alright, that's fair."

Draco sighs yet again and shakes his head, flicking his wand. Harry glances down warily when the
bandages loosen carefully and painlessly, going slack and uncurling from his chest. He flinches as
soon as he sees the wound.

Predictably, it's not...great.

Harry never really thought about the placement and such while he was, er, stabbed. Why would
he? He was fucking stabbed. That being said, he's very surprised to see the wound where it is. For
some reason, he thought it was higher. But no, right towards the bottom of his chest, a bit above
his belly button, there's a thick scar. It's red and appears to be firm, the raised flesh a tender looking
thing, and he grimaces as he looks at it.

"It has looked worse," Draco says softly. He holds Harry's gaze for a second, for the very first time,
then he averts his eyes. "Trust me, this is nothing. In just a week, you'll be cleared to walk. There's
potions we can give you now that you're awake."

Harry clears his throat. "Who knew there were so many rules when it came to Healing?"

"I thought you might, seeing as you're injured so often." Draco sends him a quick, pointed look
before leaning over to grab something off the tray at his bedside. He twists off the lid, dipping his
fingers inside, then steps closer towards Harry's back, leaning around him. "This is going to be just
a little cold. Try not to jerk, alright?"

"Alright," Harry mumbles, then sucks in a sharp breath when a cool gel-like substance touches his
warm skin where it's hottest around his wound. It makes sense for him to have a scar on his back as
well; that's where the sword pierced him. "Bloody hell, that's—that's not pleasant."

"Mm." Draco reaches out with his free hand to absentmindedly brush his thumb over Harry's
cheek, as if wiping away tears that aren't there. "It's not going to be to begin with, but once it starts
working, you'll feel better. It'll help with the scarring, too."

"Dittany?"

"That, among other things."

Harry nods carefully, but his reply gets stuck in his throat when Draco pulls away—apparently
done with his entrance wound. He has backed up a little as if to go for the exit wound on Harry's
chest, but he's stuck with one hand still on Harry's cheek, their faces rather close together. Now he's
meeting Harry's gaze, almost as if he can't look away, and his lips part ever so slowly.

"Hi," Harry whispers stupidly.

Inexplicably, Draco's blue eyes flood with sudden tears, and his throat rises and falls around a
swallow that Harry hears click into the silence. His fingers tremble when he moves them from
Harry's face, and he lets out a shaky breath, ducking his head as he carefully scoops up more gel
with trembling fingers.

"By tomorrow, you should already be feeling an improvement," Draco says, and his voice cracks
towards the end, but he seems determined to go on as he spreads the gel around Harry's wound.
"There is a whole theory around Healing and how it involves the patient's connection with their
own magic, and now you're awake to embrace that connection, so if that theory is true—which I
believe it is, personally—then you'll be healing even more quickly than we originally—"

Harry is careful about it, using his hands mostly rather than trying to lean forward himself. He
reaches up and grips Draco's pointy chin. He curls him in, tugging mid-sentence without a thought
in his mind, and Draco comes with a small sound in the back of his throat. The container holding
the gel goes clattering to the floor, and Draco's whole body is shaking violently when he lifts his
hands to cradle Harry's cheeks, smearing the right one with gel.

Then they're kissing, rather abruptly, not even leading up to it. Harry's reeled him in, and Draco's
been caught, and now here they are.

It's a gentle kiss, despite everything. Draco tastes like the wine that the house-elves serve at the
Manor, bubbly and sharp with a hint of something sweet. Harry wants to ask him how his day has
been, what he ate for breakfast, how well he's been sleeping. He wants to keep kissing him even
more, so that's what he does, leaning in as far as he dares—which is barely an inch.

Draco cups his jaw and shuffles closer with a small sigh, prying Harry's lips ever so gently apart,
only to sweep in and wreck him in a way that Harry can't quite comprehend. It's so layered and
convoluted that Harry feels like a bloody neanderthal when he even dares to try and make sense of
it.
In short, it's like the kiss is more Malfoy than Draco, and the distinction is the only way Harry can
think to describe it. The kiss is meticulous and precise, unraveling Harry's greater common sense in
less than two seconds. He feels like he's being manipulated by the kiss, almost, because there's not
much he wouldn't give or do in response to it. His mind has been wiped clean on purpose, all with
the confident swipe and curl of Draco's tongue, brushing hot and wet and sensitive against his
own.

It's still so, so gentle and tender, as if Harry is precious. Draco's just giving his absolute all with
this kiss, and Harry going to die. He is, he really is, because he can't breathe, or move like he wants
to, or wrap Draco up and stop the way he's trembling from head-to-toe like he might fly apart the
moment he realizes nothing is holding him together.

It's ridiculous, really, because they've kissed so many times before. Recently, though, all of their
kisses have come with the knowledge that it was getting closer to their last. This kiss is different.
There's freedom in it, a leisurely feeling to it, unrushed because Harry's not going anywhere. It's
deep and sultry and so full of emotion that it's the kind of kiss that can't be replicated. All that time
they never thought they were going to have, it unfolds before them now, waiting.

Before now, the last time Harry saw Draco, they were saying goodbye. Draco had sat there,
covered in blood, and let Harry go. Harry had broken away from a kiss to walk away.

Now, here, this is a hello. This is coming back together with the knowledge that they're not going
to have to lose each other. No letting go, no walking away. They have time, so much more than
they were expecting to get, and it is the most liberating feeling Harry has ever felt. He wants to
drown in it. He thinks might be already.

Stupidly, he tries to get closer, forgetting all about his own wounds. It makes him groan and not in
pleasure or relief. Draco breaks away instantly, gasping a little as he stands there and rattles in
place, holding Harry's cheek and jaw, his eyes still shut. Harry grits his teeth through the wave of
pain until it slowly passes.

Then he says, "Please tell me you weren't this friendly with all the other patients."

The words succeed in making Draco laugh—albeit a quiet huff of one, but still—just as they were
meant to. He carefully lowers his trembling hands that don't look to be stopping any time soon,
then steps away to reach down and scoop up the container of gel. Back to not meeting Harry's eyes,
it seems.

"Only a few," Draco says, obviously lying. "Now, be still, I need to finish."
Harry falls silent and stays still, being the model patient. Mostly, his mind is running in circles to
make sense of Draco's behavior. He knows it can't have been easy, what Draco went through—
which was quite a lot, actually.

It's also been two months. Harry has missed his own seventeenth birthday. He has missed an entire
summer. Gone, just like that, time that he'll never get back. He'd give it again, though, if it meant
he got to keep these years in exchange.

That doesn't mean that Draco hasn't spent the last two months missing him. If roles were reversed,
Harry knows he'd be a blubbering mess, especially if he'd been the one on top of his boyfriend,
keeping him alive after doing the same for his mother.

That's not even including what sort of healing he's done himself, both mentally and physically. For
him, it's been two months since everything happened. For Harry, it feels like it only just happened.
They're at two different points, and Harry has the absurd urge to catch up, only he can't. There's
certain things you can't and don't rush—grieving is one of them, and there's a lot of that waiting for
him.

Harry sighs and comforts himself by staring at Draco's focused expression. Draco is wrapping his
wound again now, careful about it, even if it does smart when he makes sure the bandage is snug.
Harry does note—with a ridiculous amount of pride—that Draco seems terribly good at this, very
much in his element. He wonders what it's going to take to convince him to go for Healing
seriously.

"Draco," Harry says the moment the bandages are finished and Draco doesn't seem to know what
to do with his hands.

"I should tell Mother that it's alright if she comes in to visit," Draco whispers, ducking his head.
"I'll—"

"Look at me," Harry mumbles. "Please. Just—I'd really like it if you'd look at me."

For a long time, Draco simply doesn't. He stares down at the floor, then seems focused on his
hands that he holds out in front of him, then looks away entirely with his jaw clenched and his
throat working. Finally, after what feels like hours, Draco's gaze bounces to him and doesn't
immediately scurry away, latching on and staying.
"Harry," Draco rasps, blinking hard.

"Hi," Harry says again, breathless, and he smiles crookedly in pure relief and delight to have
Draco's eyes on him now.

Again, Draco's eyes flood with abrupt tears, and his chin wobbles for a split second before he
presses the palm of his hand over his mouth to smother a sob. He ducks his head, his shoulders
hitching up around his shoulders, and Harry can see the tears falling from his eyes and dropping to
the floor.

Though everything within Harry (and his whole body) protests it, he starts carefully maneuvering
his way off the bed. It hurts a lot. Frankly, if not for how much he loves Draco, he'd give up
halfway through his mission to stand up.

But, right now, he knows that he needs to get on his feet. He just… It hurts more than he'd
anticipated to see Draco crying like this. He wants to soothe him, and to do that, he has to get to
him. It's going fairly well—ignoring the excruciating agony that comes with every strain and tug
on his wound—right up until he actually has his feet planted on the floor and decides to try and
stand.

Needless to say, he thinks he might have actually vomited up his intestines if he didn't have that
potion.

"What are you doing, you idiot?" Draco hisses through his tears, darting over quickly when he
hears Harry's sharp intake of breath. "Stop trying to get up! Do you have no sense to—"

"I want to hug you," Harry interrupts firmly, clenching a fist in the blanket he's long since tugged
off of himself. He looks up at Draco stubbornly, pushing past the pain. "Can I?"

Draco sniffs haughtily, tilting his chin up, but there are still tears brimming his eyes. "Whatever
for?"

"Just come hug me, prat," Harry says with a huff, opening his arms as carefully as he can.
"You'll keep trying if I don't indulge you, right?"

"How'd you know?"

"Because you're a stubborn git," Draco whispers, then shuffles closer with a small sigh. "Be careful
not to move too much."

"I won't. You can, though." Harry reaches out and curls his hands on Draco's hips, tugging him in to
step between his legs, wrapping his arms around him and pressing his forehead to the center of
Draco's chest. Fingers immediately start carding through his hair, gentle and slow. Harry releases a
slow breath. "Dumbledore said you saved my life."

"You kept trying to die. We argued about it."

"You and Dumbledore?"

"Me and your heart, actually," Draco says.

Harry tilts his head back slowly, pressing his chin into Draco's stomach, staring up at him. "You
were too stubborn to let me die, then?"

"You're the Boy-Who- Lived, Harry. I only made sure you kept up your reputation."

"Sure, but...thank you. I'm glad you didn't—well, you could have given up, but you didn't. So,
thanks."

"The Headmaster was pressing down on your wound," Draco says, his gaze a little distant like he
can still see it so clearly. "Father had already left with Mother, and I was—I couldn't leave without
knowing if you were… And then everyone was screaming, but Snape got up and said he knew
what it meant. Just took off running, no word to anyone, and then—" He pauses, words cutting off
as he balls his hands into fists on Harry's shoulders. "They brought you right past me, and that
ruddy bird was crying into your wound. You looked dead, Harry. There was so much blood. I
didn't—I started losing it a bit, I think. I made them put you down so I could check a pulse. There
wasn't one. You were dead."
"Couldn't have been," Harry argues softly, lips tipping down. "The Horcrux is—"

"—the only thing that kept you alive," Draco cuts in harshly, glaring down at him. "Your heart
stopped beating, Harry, for longer than a minute. Twice. I had to shock your heart and get the blood
flowing again to get it to work. If you weren't a Horcrux, do you think you would have had your
heart restart more than once? It was—you were—"

"Alright," Harry murmurs when he falters. "Alright, Draco, I'm—I'm sorry. I know it wasn't easy
on you. If I could save you from that, I—"

"I want you to stop trying to save people, Harry," Draco blurts out, then seems to gather some sort
of resolve. He blinks hard, eyes watering yet again. "If you're planning to—to become an Auror,
please don't. For my sodding peace of mind, just don't."

"I haven't—I didn't really think about it because I thought I'd be—"

"Dead. Yes, I know, but please don't. Just—just, for me, can you do something safe? I'll just worry
otherwise. And I know that's unfair of me to ask when it's your life, but—but—"

"Stop, Draco, stop," Harry says in a low, urgent tone. He risks tugging Draco closer, pressing his
palms flat to the small of his back. "We don't have to worry about this now, not when emotions are
high and everything is so fresh, alright? We have time. Plenty of it. For now, we can breathe for a
bit, yeah?"

"I feel like I haven't been able to properly breathe for two months," Draco rasps.

"Well, let's try doing that for a while before we worry about anything else," Harry suggests.

Draco closes his eyes, heaving a sigh as he ducks his head down and curls in, pressing his forehead
to Harry's without ever jostling him. "It has been very hard, you know, without you. There was
always that chance that you wouldn't wake up at all, and I just—I worried each day that you
wouldn't. I never really thought about how human we all are, Harry, but—but we truly are. And
you're no exception, no matter what's inside your head."

"Dumbledore said I was expected to wake up in September," Harry protests weakly.

"Being frivolous with the truth again, I see. He's a horrid twit, you know." Draco huffs in anger, his
breath wafting across Harry's lips, warm and intimate. "It was said that if you didn't wake up by
September, then you probably wouldn't at all."

"Well...nothing to worry about," Harry says awkwardly, wrinkling his nose. "I was just catching up
on my sleep, is all. Speaking of being frivolous with the truth, can I get your version of the events I
missed during my...overextended kip?"

"If you insist," Draco replies dryly, then proceeds to do exactly as he's asked.

It is mostly the same that Dumbledore said, though the old man clearly embellished certain aspects
and downplayed others, likely for no other reason than because he could.

Draco goes into more detail, too. Harry almost wishes he wouldn't.

The general idea surrounding the battle is that Voldemort was, once again, defeated and forcibly
banished for some endless space of time. People think he's dead, in any case, because his wand is
snapped and no one can come up with any other reason why he'd just...forfeit the war. Harry
understands that and he is the reason Voldemort forfeited the war.

All Death Eaters on the grounds were pretty much caught and rounded up the moment they fell to
the ground screaming as their Dark Marks burned off their skin—Theo, Lucius, and Snape
included. However, Dumbledore had vouched for Snape rather fiercely and Lucius...strongly
enough, who both had in turn spoken for Theo, and all three were safe from having to wait in
holding cells for their trials.

All three have had their trials already and with Dumbledore speaking on their behalf—as well as
various other war heroes, some of Harry's friends included—they all escaped with positive
judgement.

Lucius had to spend a month in Azkaban and a lot of money to help with reparations from the
battle, such as the damage done outside and inside Hogwarts, all of which Harry had slept through.
Theo had gotten off pretty light seeing as he didn't actually kill anyone, but he does have detention
with Dumbledore all year, which Dumbledore himself had declared was punishment enough, and
since he was technically the target of the boy on trial, no one could really question him. Snape had
a month in Azkaban as well, then was sentenced to helping stock various potions for the Ministry
—a thing they had apparently wanted from him for years and could never force him to do until
now.

Various other Death Eaters and those following Voldemort's cause we're found at the places that
Snape apparently had the sudden freedom to reveal. With his word and Dumbledore's help, Aurors
went out to get those that they could, and it could be considered quite similar to shooting fish in a
barrel.

The Ministry—as Draco explains it—is in absolute shambles. The Minister himself had woken out
of a daze and claimed not to know how he became Minister at all, and the Wizengamot itself had
found a good portion of its members on trial. Apparently, Ex-Minister Fudge had tried to swoop in
and take his position back, but his public name had been absolutely defaced beyond help already,
so various members of those in the Ministry turned to Dumbledore for guidance since he did
technically lead the charge in the war.

As Dumbledore said, he suggested Kingsley step in until all the mess is sorted out, and Harry
doesn't doubt the man will be Minister for years to come. From all the ruckus and chaos that Draco
had described, he thinks it will take quite a long time to get the mess even close to being sorted, let
alone sorted out. Draco thinks all of this is hilarious and has declared in no uncertain terms that the
Ministry would be better if everyone over thirty were kicked out, which had made Harry laugh so
hard that he'd cried a little from how much that hurt.

As for the world itself, it had apparently responded to Voldemort's second "defeat" the same way it
did the first. There was a week-long celebration, then a brief break, and then another week-long
celebration. People are still talking about it, two months later.

The story is, as always, not quite true to what actually happened. The papers, of course, tell it as
Dumbledore and Harry fighting righteously beside each other to vanquish evil, a fight that had
nearly cost Harry his life—which, in truth, this is objectively hilarious, except Harry can't force
himself to laugh about it at all. As far as anyone is concerned, Harry fulfilled his role as Chosen
One.

The only thing that rankles with the public—or everyone, to hear Draco tell it—is that there's not a
body. It seems that the world had learned its lesson the first time, believing Voldemort to be dead
with no proof, only to pop up a little over a decade later. So, people who don't believe he's fully
gone yet have come together to find him whilst weak and wandless and without forces to back him
up, and Harry can't actually blame anyone for this line of reasoning.

He just doesn't think that Voldemort's the type of person who would be found by just anyone.
He tries not to think about that now.

"What about our friends?" Harry asks cautiously, when Draco's words have tapered off and grown
calmer. He keeps his head pressed against Draco's stomach, enjoying the feel of fingers running
through his hair.

"Things are...different," Draco replies carefully.

Harry skeptically says, "Different? Different how?"

"We've all seen each other quite a bit these last two months, you know," Draco tells him, almost
defensive about it. "We're all seventeen, mostly, and it's not like we wouldn't just sneak in if they
tried to stop us, so they gave us permission. We just so happen to cross each other on unfortunately
regular occurrences, or we all just visit as a group. So, you could say that, since the battle, we've all
grown…"

"Grown…?" Harry hedges, raising his head to look at him with an arched eyebrow.

Draco sneers faintly, but it's clear his heart isn't in it. He still has tear-tracks on his face. "As we've
all been through quite a bit with one another, it is no surprise that they resorted to friendship in the
aftermath of it all. I, of course, have done no such thing, outside of my original friends."

"Friendship," Harry repeats, biting back a laugh, lips curling up. "Draco, we've all been friends for
a bit now. Some longer than others, like you and Hermione. But, I mean, yeah...a battle like that
would make everyone closer. Doesn't surprise me."

"Then why did you ask?" Draco mutters. He grimaces a beat later. "Also, Hermione and I are not
friends."

Harry perks up in delight. "You just—"

"I know I said her name," Draco interrupts, rolling his eyes and heaving a sigh. "It became a thing
on your birthday. We were all here, and Hermione was crying because she thought you'd be happy
that we were all here, and then we all somehow got on the topic of your weird obsession to have
both groups of your friends be friends. It was...a lot. Everyone was already emotional because you
were lying there, looking dead, and it was—anyway. I'm not sure how, exactly, but we all sort of
came to an agreement to address each other properly. It seemed pointless not to after—well, you
know. And also Ginny made a bet with Ron to see who would fail first in sticking to the proper
names. It sort of became a challenge, then we all got used to it. The point is, calling each other by
our first names does not make us friends."

"What an elaborate way to make friends," Harry says, mystified.

Draco sighs. "You honestly don't listen to me."

"I am glad you were all here on my birthday," Harry murmurs, because the thought fills him with
warmth. He presses a kiss to Draco's shirt-clad stomach with a small smile. "But, to be honest, I
wasn't asking about our friends as friends, Draco. I meant their health, their injuries, things such as
that. Everyone's alright, yeah?"

"Everyone is alive," Draco says. "We all have scars. Ginny, for example, has a burn scar on her
arm. Daphne's knee makes this awful creaking sound when she bends it too quickly. Neville's nose
is crooked from where it was broken in three different places. Pansy is relatively unharmed outside
of the normal scars we all have, but she can't look at Greg without crying. So, we're all wounded
but well."

"Blaise, Luna, and Theo? Hermione and Ron?"

"Luna broke her foot in a rather odd way, so now it pops when she swivels it, but she seems to like
that. Blaise looks like he didn't go to battle at all, except he has a thin scar across his back—he
stepped in front of a Spell meant for Ron, you know. It was very brave. Do tease him about it.
Theo… He's mostly fine outside of his scars, but both his Mother and Father are in Azkaban, so
he's been dealing with that as well as being the new head of the Nott family. It's a lot of
responsibility. My father's helped him quite a bit. As for Ron and Hermione… Well, it's scars,
mostly. Ron has one along his jaw and visible ones on his arms. Hermione has nerve damage in her
leg, so it will randomly buckle with no warning, and she has her fair share of scars, too."

"And—and the others?" Harry prompts, still anxious, though he is relieved to hear that his friends
are well—he would rather that they weren't hurt at all, but it's good to hear that they're all mostly
fine. "Those in the Order, I mean. Remus, Tonks, Andromeda? I—I heard about Mad-Eye…"

"Yes, they held a funeral for him already," Draco murmurs, cool fingers sliding up the sides of
Harry's warm neck, kneading carefully as if he can push the tension away by force. "Remus and
Dora are well. They visit you often, usually together. I can't tell if they're falling in love or if
they're both gay. Aunt Dromeda has spent a lot of time with Mother, as she has been grieving her
husband's death. He did not survive the battle, unfortunately."

Harry feels his heart lurch. "Oh, that's awful. I'm—I hate that it—well, I hate all of it, really."

"Aunt Dromeda had her dramatic scene about it already, so she's well into healing now." Draco
makes a face like he's trying not to be amused because it would be rude. "I almost wish you could
have seen it, Harry. She shouted at Father for nearly two hours about how her husband was three
times the man he'd ever be, and how it should have been him that died instead, all while making it
clear that Mother deserved much better than him. Oh, and she said I was a spoiled brat as well.
Mother was supremely embarrassed. We had guests."

"Draco," Harry whispers, "that sounds terrible. She must have been hurting deeply."

"Mm," Draco hums in agreement. He gently pushes his fingers back into Harry's hair. "She has
since apologized to me and seemed to warm to me when I only laughed and assured her she did no
wrong. She reminds me a bit of you, actually. I think spending time with Mother and I, as well as
Dora when she's available, has helped her quite a bit."

Harry sighs and closes his eyes, letting his face rub against Draco's stomach. "And the Weasleys?"

"Ah, all alive," Draco replies quickly. "Mrs. Weasley did have a knee injury that will likely always
smart a bit, especially when it rains, but she's well. One of those troublesome Weasley twins lost
an ear, but they've yet to inform anyone which one it was, and their own mother can't tell.
Originally, everyone thought it was Fred, and now everyone thinks it might be George. I find this
absolutely hilarious, but you mustn't tell them so."

"That...sounds like them," Harry says slowly, huffing a weak laugh. "They'd never want anyone to
be able to tell them apart."

"You know," Draco murmurs, "the studious one with the glasses—what's his name?"

"Percy?"

"Yes, that one. Ron was ranting about him only last week. He said that he was complaining about
his work at the Ministry. Something about it being awfully hypocritical of him."
"That's a long story," Harry grumbles, wrinkling his nose.

Draco hums. "Yes, Hermione mentioned. She said she'd tell me eventually. Outside of that, though,
they're all fine. They visit you often."

"Are they kind to you and Mrs. Malfoy?"

"Well, we're seen as those who were on the right side of the war, so the good Slytherins, as
inaccurate as that is. They're more polite now, at least. Mrs. Weasley never seems to realize when
I'm being rude or sarcastic. It makes Ron lose the plot."

"Good Slytherins," Harry echoes, bemused. He pulls his head back carefully to stare up at Draco
incredulously. "Because you fought alongside them in the battle?"

"I know," Draco mutters, clicking his tongue. "As if that makes us any good at all."

Harry huffs. "No, you prat. I'm saying you lot were good before that. All Slytherins are capable of
it!"

"Ah, let's not discuss it." Draco waves him off and slides a hand around to brush his finger down
the length of Harry's nose. "You should be getting tired soon. You need rest."

"I'm not tired," Harry lies.

Draco's lips curl up, just a bit. "You're leaning into me quite a bit and your blinks are rather long."

"I'd like to stay awake long enough to see your mother, Draco."

"Allow me to go get her."

"That requires me to let you go, and frankly, I'm just not inclined to do that."
"Yes, well, you must. I need to lay you back down as it is, which will hurt."

"Alright, if you insist." Harry huffs and tilts his head back farther, making his intentions clear. Or,
rather, he thinks he is, but Draco doesn't immediately indulge him, so perhaps not. "I can't reach
you, Draco. Don't make me try. It just hurts when I do."

Sighing, seemingly aggrieved except for the soft shine to his eyes, Draco dips down to kiss him,
hands gently resting on his the curve of his neck, one thumb bursting over his fluttering pulse
while the other lightly presses into the oddly sensitive spot beneath the bolt of his jaw.

Harry doesn't even mean to make the small sound he does, hands sliding up Draco's chest to try
and reach around his shoulders. The motion makes his back arch, just a bit, and he breaks away
from the kiss to curse sharply. Oh, that doesn't feel good at all.

"You idiot," Draco says, fond.

Harry grumbles under his breath, mildly frustrated that he can't even properly snog his boyfriend
after sleeping for two solid months. The universe likes to laugh at him, he's sure.

He's still fussing when Draco helps him lay back down, and the journey back to the pillows is
perilous, but it's certainly not as treacherous as the trip away from them. He's exhausted by the time
he slumps back into the bed anyway, and Draco smirks at him faintly, gently smoothing his hair
back from his forehead. Harry is still mumbling vague obscenities about magical swords when
Draco sweeps off to go locate his mother.

It's not very long before she comes in through the curtain alone, her eyes falling to him
immediately.

Mrs. Malfoy is, as always, utterly beautiful. She's wearing a gown like she would any other day,
and the only difference is the right sleeve for her left arm is gone entirely. Until just a bit above her
elbow, there is pale skin on display, which Harry is sure made her blush at first. Beneath that,
however, there's the prosthetic.

He's never really given much thought to prosthetics, honestly. Mad-Eye had used a wooden one for
his leg and a magical one for his eye. But there, attached to Mrs. Malfoy's residual limb, is what
appears to be a porcelain prosthetic. It's pale and pretty and covered in painted flowers, all accented
by the undertone of a rosy gold that the prosthetic has. Despite looking like fine-china, it moves
fluidly in mirrored gestures of her right arm, both of them fluttering like she has always done. The
only difference is that the fingers on her prosthetic seem a bit more stiff, but that's it.

Harry has no doubt in his mind that it's the best money can buy. It looks like it's worth more than
Harry's whole body, honestly, and the thought makes him grin as she moves to stand at his bedside,
looking down at him with a tiny smile of her own.

"Mrs. Malfoy," Harry greets happily, getting a bit drowsy, but mostly warm.

"Harry," Mrs. Malfoy replies gently, "it is good to see you awake, darling."

Before he can say or do anything else, she's bending down to kiss his forehead, her hands reaching
out to hold his head still. Her prosthetic is cold to the warmth of his skin, but he suspects she likes
it that way. Malfoys and their obsession with icy beauty.

Harry closes his eyes, his throat feeling clogged. He remembers her lying on the ground, too still,
surrounded by and covered in blood. It's a memory that he doubts he'll ever forget. He'd thought
she was dead, and a part of him is still terrified that she is, even though she's in front of him now.

"I'm really happy to see you," Harry chokes out when she pulls back to stare at him.

Mrs. Malfoy blesses him with a small smile, porcelain hand cupping his cheek, stiff and cold and
lovely. "I'm happy to see you, Harry. Draco mentioned that you were recovering, and I'm glad to
see that you are."

"And you?" Harry flicks his gaze to the prosthetic. "You're alright, aren't you?"

"Oh, yes, I am," Mrs. Malfoy replies, laughing softly. She pulls her hand from his cheek and looks
at it with strangely adorable confusion. "I'm still getting used to it. Lucius spent a fortune on it, you
know, and he's promised to get me a new one whenever I want. Soon, I suspect I'll be able to
coordinate them with my dresses."

Harry bites back a laugh. "That's lovely, Mrs. Malfoy, really."

"Lucius has all sorts of opinions on the designs," Mrs. Malfoy informs him, looking slightly
amused.

"He loves you," Harry tells her, "very much. So does Draco. So—so do I, frankly. We were—you
scared us. We'd tear each other apart without you."

Mrs. Malfoy's face softens. "Yes, well, I don't remember much after the Spell took my arm. I killed
someone, I think."

"I did, too," Harry admits quietly. "A lot of people, actually. I...should feel bad about it, I
suppose."

"I don't believe so," Mrs. Malfoy replies carefully, watching him intently. "We were in the midst of
battle, Harry. If it comforts you at all, allow yourself to think that killing those that you did saved
the lives of others they would have taken."

"We can't know that's true, though."

"Perhaps, but we can't know that it's not."

"Slytherins." Harry huffs a weak laugh and rolls his eyes. "Thank you, Mrs. Malfoy. And never,
ever do something like that to us again. Draco was—it was bad, for everyone. So just don't."

"I'll do my best." Mrs. Malfoy takes a step back, her arms slowly lowering. She wraps her fingers
around her prosthetic wrist, crossing her hands in front of her dress, regal and elegant as always.
"How are you feeling? I was told your scar is quite something. Considering you nearly died, I'd
expect no less."

Harry grimaces at the veiled look of unhappiness in her gaze. "Er...I'm sorry?"

"Are you?" Mrs. Malfoy murmurs.

"I truly am," Harry offers. Her eyes narrow. "Alright, I know. I've—I already know, I swear it. I am
sorry, I really am. It didn't happen, though, yeah?"
"My son...was very distressed, Harry, to put it mildly. He would have never survived it if you did
not, you know. It would have changed him."

"Mrs. Malfoy, please, I don't need the guilt."

Mrs. Malfoy shakes her head. "I am not trying to guilt you, darling. This is something you should
know. Draco is very much like his father—and me, to a degree, in this regard. I am aware that
Lucius would not ever be the same if anything were to ever happen to me. He would not be able to
go on normally, and it would break him. Draco is the same. Do you know this?"

"He—he would have healed, eventually," Harry rasps. "One day, he'd move on."

"No," Mrs. Malfoy murmurs gently, sadly, "he would not. He loves you, Harry, selfishly and
immeasurably and unconditionally. Like his father, he will only ever love one other in such a
devastating way."

Harry swallows around a tight throat. "He would have never been happy, would he?"

"Unfortunately not," Mrs. Malfoy says simply. She tilts her chin up, suddenly stern. "Fortunately,
we will never have to know what that would look like, do we? Because you will not ever do
something so foolish again, will you?"

"N-No," Harry stutters out quickly, shrinking back under her sharp glare. "Merlin, Mrs. Malfoy, I
never wanted to hurt him, I swear it."

"Yes, I'm aware." Mrs. Malfoy softens again, lips curling up just a bit. "We Malfoys tend to love
very intensely, wholly, and with little regard to restraint. It is very hard to live with, sometimes, and
we often keep it from prying eyes. You've been given the gift of not only receiving it but seeing it.
Please do not waste that gift, nor endanger it."

Harry exhales shakily and nods. "Oh, you can trust that I won't. I'm—well, I intend to marry him
one day, now that I can. I'll be around for a long time."

"Lovely," Mrs. Malfoy says, eyes brightening. "I thought that was where it was heading."
"How long have you known?"

"I had my suspicions for him since the moment he healed your burnt hands the morning you read
the Prophet and found out you were wanted. For you, I suspected you felt the same when you
refused to allow the Dark Lord to use him."

"That was long before Christmas," Harry mumbles, slightly abashed. He huffs a quiet laugh when
she arches an eyebrow at him. "He said he thinks he's always loved me."

"Love can feel that way sometimes, yes." Mrs. Malfoy purses her lips for a moment, then sighs
softly. "He always did have strong emotions about you, and I can't deny that."

"I didn't always love him," Harry says. "I do now, though. A lot, quite frankly. I want him to be
happy. I want him to get everything out of life that he can. You've seen him Healing, haven't you?
He likes it, Mrs. Malfoy. He truly does."

Mrs. Malfoy glances at him, looking amused and utterly exasperated all at once. "You've been
awake for all of a day, only an hour at a time, and you're already trying to conspire with me to help
save Draco from the future his father has planned for him. Draco was entirely right; you do have an
obsession with saving people."

"Especially him," Harry says, not even denying it. He'd shrug if it wouldn't hurt. "Are you going to
help me or not?"

"Oh, darling," Mrs. Malfoy murmurs, "I've already seen to it. Lucius is rather distracted by helping
Theo, and I've talked Madame Pomfrey into allowing Draco to study underneath her. He need only
show up, and I have faith that he will."

Harry's eyebrows jerk up in surprise. "And how is Lucius going to feel about it when he eventually
realizes Draco isn't going to do what he wants?"

"He will feel quite a bit because he is a prideful man with sometimes selfish desires," Mrs. Malfoy
answers promptly, "but he will not do anything. He will be too late to do anything, as it were. He
will simply have to deal with it."
"That's not going to go over well," Harry mumbles with a small grimace.

Mrs. Malfoy gives a half-shrug, her chilly expression warming just a bit. "Perhaps not, but I will
see to him when it is necessary."

"Best of luck."

"I look forward to it."

"Absolutely mental," Harry murmurs, staring at her incredulously. "I still don't understand how
you love that git. He's just...dreadful, honestly."

"He's been rather doting as of late," Mrs. Malfoy tells him, gesturing to her prosthetic. If she were
the type to roll her eyes, he's absolutely sure that she would at this moment. "I allow him because it
puts him at ease. There are moments that he looks at me like he still sees me when I was close to
death. You'll learn quickly to adapt to such an expression and the mood that comes along with it. If
I can bestow any advice to you, Harry, no matter how frustrating or infuriating it may become,
please do not begrudge Draco those moments where he feels fear and recalls how close he came to
losing you. He will cling and fuss, all with intentions to cherish you, and you should let him. It will
soothe him."

"I don't want him to be scared of losing me, though," Harry admits quietly, a little hurt by the
thought. "I have no intentions of leaving him in any capacity if I can help it."

"If you can help it," Mrs. Malfoy echoes. "You cannot, no more than anyone else can. It is not
necessarily a terrible thing to be reminded of our impermanence, as well as those we love. It is a
scary, painful thing to accept, but it aids us in appreciating one another while we have the chance.
Give it time and it will get easier, but do not see it negatively when it is not."

Harry releases a soft sigh, looking up at her fondly as he feels his features relax. "I'll keep it in
mind, Mrs. Malfoy, thank you."

"You should rest. Draco is likely dealing with his father at the moment, but I—"

"Lucius is here? Forgive me, I shouldn't have interrupted, but he's here?"
"He is." Mrs. Malfoy waves him off with her prosthetic, the flick of her wrist causing a low whir
and cranking noise, like a clockwork engine. It's oddly soothing, somehow reminding Harry of
Nagini, that low hum not close but similar enough that it makes his heart twinge with sad and
happy nostalgia all at once. "He doubted you would care to see him, but he accompanied Draco and
I here."

"He could have said hello. Merlin, it's not like I would have been rude to him."

"Wouldn't you?"

At Mrs. Malfoy's mild tone, Harry relents rather quickly. "Yeah, alright, I probably would have,
but regardless! I was asleep for two months. If roles were reversed, I would have at least said hello
to him."

"Yes, because you love his son."

"Who loves me back."

"He's very good at pretending otherwise," Mrs. Malfoy says, lips twitching. Her eyes practically
sparkle for a second. "You'll have to convince him to approve of it if you ever wish to marry
Draco, you know. You'll require permission from us both."

"Sorry, what?" Harry wheezes, working very hard not to jerk in alarm. "I—I have to get Lucius to
agree to it? It's a must?"

"As per tradition, and I suspect this is one Draco will wish to uphold."

"Bloody hell, we'll never get married. Mrs. Malfoy, this is awful! Why are you laughing?"

Mrs. Malfoy swallows her laughter, a soft lilting chuckle that reminds him of wind chimes. Her
expression rearranges into something contrite with obvious effort. "I have complete faith that you'll
figure it out with time, Harry. I suspect the challenge is considered a thrill, however, for you."
"Yeah, maybe a small bit," Harry admits, flashing her a quick grin. "I've got time, anyhow, either
to win Lucius over enough to get his permission or to convince Draco your permission is enough."

"They'll both be equally stubborn, so we shall see how determined you are when the time comes.
Sooner rather than later, I hope."

"There's no rush, Mrs. Malfoy. Draco and I—well, we have plenty of time."

"As you should," Mrs. Malfoy says rather simply, her face softening. She reaches out and smooths
her hand over his forehead once again, then takes another step back. "I'll go retrieve Draco so you
can speak with him before you fall asleep."

"Thank you," Harry murmurs, closing his eyes and smiling slightly.

He hears Mrs. Malfoy leave, but he's asleep before he ever hears anyone come back.

The next time Harry wakes up, it's to someone bustling about around his bed. He cracks open an
eye to see the blurry figure of who he is sure is Madame Pomfrey. To confirm it, she tuts at him
and presses a vial to his lips.

Harry chokes it down and squints at her, inwardly yelling at her even if he'd never do it outwardly.
The potions truly are awful, and he tells her this as she forces him to drink them down in order. He
complains frequently and loudly, distantly aware that he's only a bit more irritated because it's her
administering them and not Draco.

After, she holds his glasses out to him, then sternly says, "We'll be doing some stretching today. It
won't feel very nice, but it's necessary. It will help you get your range of motion back, however,
and reignite the use of dormant muscles."

"Oh, bloody hell," Harry blurts in alarm.

He's right to do so. The stretching lasts for half an hour and is far from pleasant. It involves
Madame Pomfrey slowly but dutifully sitting him up, then moving his arms at different angles.
Harry does note that the pain is a bit more tolerable today, and he's not as wary to do any moving.
He can still feel the discomfort of something tugging at his wound, which makes him burn all the
way through, but it's not nearly as bad. Madame Pomfrey assures him that the exercises will help
him heal, though she does tell him—in an incredibly dry tone—that he'll likely never be able to
play a proper game of limbo or do a backbend, but Harry honestly can't think of one reason why he
would ever need to.

She allows him to stay sitting up in his bed and removes his bandages entirely, after practically
threatening his life if he doesn't prove to be careful and keep the wound from opening again.

Harry thinks that's a bit unfair, really. He's the one who is viscerally aware of that tugging inside of
him and how far he can go before it turns into tearing. No, he has no desire to rip the would open.

In any case, she's accommodating and talks to him about the state of the Wizarding World
following the battle, saying much of the same things that Draco and Dumbledore did. She answers
his questions, then leaves him with a few books and a set of generic Wizard's Chess that he can
play to keep himself occupied.

He's in the middle of one such game—getting absolutely demolished, too—when Hermione's head
comes poking through the curtain, followed rather quickly by Ron's. Harry immediately perks up
when he sees them, lips spreading into a grin.

"You're losing, mate," Ron says, first thing, and he puts his hand on Hermione's shoulder to gently
march her inside.

He soaks them up for a long beat, just thoroughly pleased to see them. Ron does, in fact, have a
scar along his right jaw, one that curls up a bit into his bottom lip. It's pale but deep, noticeable,
and somehow a bit roguish—he looks rather cool, actually. Hermione has scars on her arms, small
ones and one large one right down the middle of her inner forearm. He's so happy to see them
both.

Harry huffs a weak laugh. "Yeah, I know. I was bored, really. What are you two doing here?"

"Draco floo-called the Burrow yesterday to let us know you were awake," Hermione murmurs, her
gaze fixed on the visible scar on his chest. "Ron and I agreed to come see you first before the rest
of the Weasleys came flooding in."
"Mum's going spare about seeing you again," Ron says, rolling his eyes. They come to a halt and
look down at him, both just staring at the scar now. Finally, Ron clears his throat to speak again. "I
can't believe you got fucking stabbed, Harry."

"Honestly?" Harry carefully lifts one hand in the what can you do gesture. "Neither can I, mate."

"How did you get stabbed?" Hermione asks, narrowing her eyes at him. "Everyone just assumed it
was V-V-Voldemort—" She huffs a little at her own stuttering, seeming determined to say the
name. "—but why would he try and destroy his last Horcrux? That never made any sense to me!"

"It wasn't him," Harry murmurs.

Hermione gasps. "Dumbledore?!"

"He didn't," Ron protests, eyes bulging.

"It wasn't like that. I mean, yes, he was sort of encouraging me to die, but you know why he was
doing that." Harry does the same hand-tossing thing again. "He wasn't aiming at me with the
sword. I just—well, I sort of stepped in front of it."

Ron cringes in both sympathy and disbelief, staring at Harry like he actually thinks he's an idiot,
for once. "Why in the bloody hell would you go and do something like that?"

"Wasn't thinking, honestly," Harry admits, smiling sheepishly as Hermione makes a small sound
like she wants to scream, just a little. He averts his eyes, clearing his throat. "It's fine, now."

"You were unconscious for two months," Hermione says, clearly distressed. "It's almost the
beginning of the term for our Seventh Year!"

Harry sighs. "Yes, I'm aware."

"We—" Hermione's words catch in her throat and she takes a deep breath. "We've been so
worried."

"Hermione's been off her head for a while about it, mate," Ron informs him. It's as close to
scolding as Harry expects he'll ever get.

"Isn't this better, though?" Harry looks between them a bit helplessly. "I was supposed to die. I was
meant to. I'm—I should be dead now."

Hermione sucks in a sharp breath and shuffles closer to the bed, hesitantly reaching out to lay her
hand over his, careful like he might break. "Harry, you should not be dead. It isn't healthy to think
like that. I know you were prepared to sacrifice your own life, but you never should have felt the
need to at all. No one's meant for death. No one."

"We're glad you're not dead," Ron says rather bluntly, frowning a bit. "It's not like we really liked
that plan to begin with."

"Yes, but—but that was the whole point," Harry tries again, slipping his hand out from Hermione's
and twisting the blanket between his fingers. "I should have died that day. That was how it was
meant to end. I'm—I'm still a Horcrux. Voldemort still can't die until I do. I just—I don't know if
any of this happened like it should have, like it was meant to."

"Harry," Hermione murmurs, looking pained, "I don't think that's—well, it can't be good to see it
that way. What you felt the need to do was never right. You sacrificing your life isn't your purpose.
I just don't believe that."

Ron, in a rare moment of being shockingly profound, says, "We're not born just to die, mate. It's in
the name, isn't it? Life. Living. Maybe sacrifice is how you die, but you're supposed to live until
you're gone, and it seems it wasn't your time to go."

"And Voldemort?" Harry challenges.

"Dumbledore said…" Hermione pauses, biting her lip and exchanging a look with Ron before
seeming to collect herself and press on. "He said that you defeated him. That you...won, against all
odds, and you did it in a way no one could have anticipated."

"I didn't," Harry denies immediately. "Hermione, I didn't do anything. I just—I wanted everything
to stop. I didn't want to die."

"And you bloody well didn't," Ron mutters, "so why don't you seem happier about that?"

"Because that's not how my life works!" Harry explodes, fisting the blankets as a tirade suddenly
pours out of him, unprompted. "It just doesn't happen like this for me! It's always stupid luck, or
something miraculous that I never asked for. I don't get out of this alive, not after all I've done and
all those that died already. People don't choose me! Don't you understand that? Why did he—"

Harry sucks in a sharp breath and slams his eyes shut, ducking his head as silence thickens the
room.

And that's it, isn't it? A pool of insecurity just boiling in the pit of his chest, scalding and
unforgiving. He can't breathe past it, almost. Why did Voldemort choose him? Why would he do
that?

This isn't how it was meant to go. Harry's sure that he should have died. He has known with
absolute certainty that there was only one way this could go, and he can't understand how it didn't.
He's not worth what Voldemort has done for him.

It's not that he thinks Voldemort did something wrong, of course. It's quite possibly the best
outcome—less carnage, an easier end to war, fewer lives lost in the grand scheme of things. It's
everything Harry could have ever wanted, which is precisely why he knew it would never happen.
It just doesn't make sense. It's so…

It's bizarre.

What Voldemort has done is so out of character that Harry can barely fathom it. He knows there
are underlying reasons—selfish ones—such as Voldemort surrendering just to stay alive longer.
But, deep down, he also knows that it's not the main reason. Harry is—his continued existence, to
be precise, and Voldemort's uncharacteristic investment in such a thing.

It's too…much, really. Or, is it? Harry thinks about all the things he had forced himself not to think
about since betraying Voldemort. There's something to be said about the fact that he had the
opportunity to betray Voldemort at all.
Voldemort trusted him. Voldemort was honest with him, curious about him and his thoughts,
willing to spend hours just talking with him. Voldemort offered to shelter him away from the war,
to give him a life to call his own. He protected Harry, and learned to feel—in whatever way that he
does—because of Harry. He read the stupid book Harry got him, and kept his promise not to harm
Draco even when he could have, and taught him lessons without ever looking down on him
throughout. He eased Harry out of a cupboard in the midst of a panic attack, and killed one of his
own important allies for Harry, and told Harry that if he were capable of love, Harry would be the
one who would earn his.

Voldemort chose Harry.

It's all there. All the little pieces of a puzzle that should add up to a full picture, except Harry is
almost too scared to put them together. He wonders when Voldemort's need to keep Harry alive
shifted from an obligation in terms of his own safety because Harry is a Horcrux, to a simple desire
that outweighs his biggest fear.

Harry feels like someone has cracked open his chest and rummaged around inside, which is
horrifically fitting due to his stab wound.

The worst part is that Harry knows Voldemort is out there somewhere, not even living. He's only
just surviving, so that Harry can do the living now. And why? For what? Because he cares?

That's not Voldemort. It's not. Voldemort slaughters innocents and tortures his own followers. He
invites fear and dread into every room he walks into. He feels nothing and loves no one and cares
only about his own grasp of power. He's selfish, and cruel, and a merciless murderer responsible
for taking countless people away from Harry.

And yet, still, there is that puzzle. There's that picture. Because that is not all Voldemort is, not in
regards to Harry, not anymore. Somewhere along the way, for some ridiculous reason, Voldemort
added one simple thing to his character—a bizarre, ironic, near impossible, yet undeniable concern
for Harry Potter; the boy he wanted dead only a year ago.

Harry still doesn't know why.

"What are you going to do?" Hermione asks softly, staring at him with such sadness when he dares
to look up. "It's not like you're going to go sacrifice yourself now when you don't need to, are you?
What good would that do? You-Know-Who is gone. He abandoned his army and snapped his
wand, then just vanished. Dumbledore seems certain that he won't return, and even if he did, he
wouldn't have anything to come back to. All of his followers are imprisoned, and you're the one
thing that stands between him and his death. He's smart, isn't he? The only thing he has left to do is
stay away for good, or else… Well, it would happen the way you think it was meant to, I imagine,
and he clearly left to ensure that it wouldn't go that way. It's over, Harry. Let it be, please."

"He's not coming back," Harry whispers, that sudden realization hitting him all at once.

"No, he's not," Ron says with relish, as if that's a comfort. To him, to everyone, it probably is.

To Harry, it's...not.

"I'm tired," Harry croaks, averting his eyes. He carefully leans back against the pillows,
swallowing thickly around the lump in his throat that threatens to choke him. "Can you just—can
you sit with me? Just until everyone else gets here?"

"Of course we will," Hermione replies instantly, waving Ron off to grab the chairs off to the side.

Harry stares at them blankly. "How have you two been? I must have missed a lot."

As they sit, the launch into what they've been doing the last two months. It's a soothing rendition of
what they always did when they all spent time apart during the summer. Harry listens in silence,
soaking it all up quietly, trying not to let his mind wander.

It's nice to hear them speaking so freely. They both look more relaxed than they have for months.
He never really thought about how all this might have been weighing on them, all because they'd
endured it in silence, carrying the burden of their own grief and fear. All of that is relieved now
because Harry is alive and Voldemort is gone.

Hermione has apparently been staying at the Burrow all summer so that she could regularly visit
Harry, which is kind of her. Ron's done a lot of arguing with his mum about her apparent
frustration that her youngest children were also involved in the battle when they should not have
been. Ginny has been staying at Luna's a lot to avoid Mrs. Weasley's wrath that still hasn't relaxed.
Hermione grimly admits that she's been subject to some of that wrath as well, though she smiles a
little as she recounts the way Ron always came to her defense, usually with Fred and George
supporting them.

As per what Draco said, they explain how everyone's been coming to visit him, despite him being
unconscious throughout. There were apparently a lot of hours where a large group of Harry's
friends just sat around his bed and talked to each other.

According to Ron, they all came together to do something ridiculously stupid and brave, which
actually manages to distract Harry from the complex thoughts swirling in his head about
Voldemort.

"You don't have to worry about anyone saying anything about you, er, killing people during the
battle," Ron tells him cheerfully.

"Yes," Hermione agrees readily. "We all got together and went to Professor McGonagall about it.
As far as we knew, she was the only one besides all of us who saw you do anything illegal. No one
else can prove it. When we tried to talk to her about it, she pretended she had no idea what we were
talking about at all. I think it's safe to say she's not telling anyone, either."

"Right." Ron nods vigorously. "So you don't need to worry about it. Not that you should be
because I think you're the last thing the Ministry cares about right now. All those trials. Percy's
going spare."

"Oh! Draco took your wand and we all took turns casting Spells on it," Hermione exclaims. "I think
the last Spell you cast was the Killing Curse, so just to be safe, it was best to, er, get rid of that.
Your wand is rather responsive, Harry, did you know? It surprisingly liked Pansy quite a bit."

"Wasn't too fond of Draco, though," Ron says with a crooked grin. He is obviously utterly
delighted by this. "Maybe it remembered all the fights you and him had. Funny how that worked
out, isn't it?"

Harry stares between them.

Here they are, trying so hard to reassure him that they won't let him get in trouble for literal
murder. They've gone out of their way to keep him out of trouble, even gathering as a group
without him there to try bullying Professor McGonagall into not saying anything about it—which,
that's mad, really.

The fact that Professor McGonagall apparently has no intentions to tell anyone either is equally
startling, but it stirs something warm in his chest.
His friends, however…

There was a time that he never thought they'd realize how the world is seeped in complications.
Long ago, he himself had thought the way they always have. He remembers it. Killing, bad, he'd
said, because it is. It really is. Any way you slice it, murder just isn't something that can be brushed
aside. It weighs on people. Changes them. Most of the time, at least, depending on the person and
their morals.

Ron and Hermione have always had a righteous set of morals, nearly inflexible in moments, though
they're capable of doing wrong just as anyone else. They've never been the type to excuse
grievances such as this, however, and he would have never expected them to.

Maybe it's because it was a battle. Maybe it's because they've started to see that things aren't so
simple the way they wish it was, the way it would be easier if it was. Maybe it's just because they
love him and want to protect him.

Whatever the reason, it breaks his heart a little bit and mends it all at once. It's a bit like witnessing
a small spark of innocence go out, but there's nothing inherently wrong that replaces it. They're not
bad, they never have been, but they can grow and change and shift their understanding of the world
just like everyone can. Just like Harry has.

"I love you guys," Harry says, and he's rewarded with a beaming smile from Hermione and a bright
blush from Ron.

Later, the Weasleys come fluttering in with their usual chaos, warm and worried and loud and so
full of love that Harry could cry.

He lets Mrs. Weasley scold him and tut over him as much as she likes, eating the food she brings
and watching her with adoration as she rakes him over the coals for daring to nearly die, all while
petting his hair. He pokes at Ginny's burn scar on her arm while she pokes gently at the one on his
chest, and they grin stupidly at each other for no other reason than because they can. Fred and
George pretend to be each other throughout, alternating names and cackling as they hand Harry a
toilet seat, which takes him back to First Year so viscerally that he has to blink tears out of his eyes.
Mr. Weasley is a calm, warm presence all the while.

And for now, for just this moment, Harry shoves all thoughts of Voldemort to the back of his mind
and just basks in this.
Harry sleeps for a while again, and he knows he's doing a lot of it, but he suspects that comes with
healing. In any case, the next time he wakes up, he's a little groggy and supremely pleased to find
that his pain has lessened some more.

It takes him a bit to realize what woke him up.

There's a clinking sound from beside him, and he turns his head slowly, squinting as he tries to
make out the blurry image of who's a few steps away from his bed. A black, tall blur is sifting
through the cabinet of potions. Harry feels dread crawl through him as his suspicion of who that
blur is steadily rises, and he carefully pushes himself to sit up in the bed, fumbling for his glasses.

"Oh," Harry breathes out the moment that blur comes into focus.

Snape glances at him with a sneer. "Potter."

Harry slams his eyes shut.

It's stupid, possibly, but Harry's almost wary to face this. Snape has never been his favorite person
and likely never will be. In fact, he's one of the few people in the world that Harry can be angry
with by just looking at him.

The thing is, Harry doesn't want to be angry with him anymore. Not after everything. Snape is
dying, will die soon, and Harry doesn't… He's not handling it well. His feelings for Snape are
complicated, but he's never wished the man dead. It's cruel irony that Harry is now the one dealing
with all these emotions because Snape is dying, like roles have reversed.

Eventually, after some deep breaths, Harry opens his eyes. His palms are sweating.

"Professor," Harry starts carefully.

"Not anymore," Snape cuts in quickly, throwing him a sharp look. "I'm only here to replenish the
supply of potions you'll need until you're fully healed."
"You resigned, sir?" Harry blurts out.

"Yes," Snape answers, tone clipped.

For a long moment, Harry awkwardly stares at him and tries to make sense of that. Snape has
always been his least favorite Professor, and all his classes were torture, honestly. That being said,
he's been here every year. Coming back to Hogwarts always included the knowledge that Snape
would be waiting when he did, which had always been something he detested with everything in
him.

Knowing that he'll return next term and Snape won't be here is...new. It's odd and complicated, and
Harry doesn't know how to feel about it. This is something he would have rejoiced just last year,
but because of all that's happened, Harry can't muster up that response. He doesn't know what he
feels, but he knows it isn't relief or delight.

"Why?" is all Harry can think to say.

"I rather thought you'd be ushering me out the doors, Potter," Snape murmurs.

That's fair. Harry replies to that with honesty, since he thinks he probably should. "It's complicated.
You've always been here. Does this mean the position really is Cursed?"

"Perhaps. If the rumors that the Dark Lord did it are to be believed, then the position is Cursed no
longer. It seems that died with me," Snape says.

Harry flinches and looks down.

"Ah," Snape continues in the heavy silence, "I see the Headmaster told you of my predicament."

"Yeah," Harry mumbles. "Er, sorry."

Snape is sneering faintly when Harry looks up at him. "You needn't express your opinion on the
matter. It does not concern you."

"Right." Harry clears his throat and lifts his head, staring at Snape with a frown. "You said the
position isn't Cursed any longer if Voldemort is the one who did it. How can you be sure?"

"The Dark Lord has always been a powerful Wizard, Potter," Snape says sharply. "However, it is
not easy to pick and choose what magic of yours you strip from the world. If he made the active
decision to remove his hold on anything, he likely had to snap his magic on everything. There was
magic in the Dark Mark, and it is gone. There was magic over every location he had hidden, and it
is gone. All those under his Imperius Curses have been freed from it. He removed himself and all
of his magic from the world, likely at once. If the position was Cursed by him, I'm sure it no longer
is."

"He still has his magic, though, doesn't he?"

"As far as I know. He need not remove it to do as he did, and I can't imagine why he would."

"And you don't—you don't know where he is?" Harry asks hesitantly.

"No," Snape says, "I do not."

"So he really wiped himself from—from everything, then?" Harry mumbles, mostly talking to
himself.

"Yes."

"Oh. Do you know why?"

Snape looks at him for a second, and there's no malice in his gaze. He looks, very briefly, as if he's
merely thoughtful. However, all he says is, "I can't say why for sure."

"Yeah, me neither," Harry admits, swallowing thickly. He shifts in place, clears his throat, then
looks at Snape a touch warily. "Er, where will you go, sir? Since you're leaving, I mean."
"Wherever I wish," Snape answers, narrowing his eyes, lip curling. "I have three years to claim as
my own with no obligation to ensure the continued survival of foolish, arrogant brats."

Harry doesn't mean to, but his lips part around the laugh that breaks out of him. He quickly
swallows it and forces his face into something contrite. "Right, sorry about that. I suppose you
have something of a vacation, then?"

"As I will be free of dunderheads, I would say so," Snape replies, tone dry as dirt, one eyebrow
arching up. He's not being funny, Harry tells himself, trying not to laugh. It's just wit. That's all.

"That's…" Harry trails off, turning serious as his repressed smile vanishes entirely. He thinks about
the young man chained to his mistakes, taken in by Dumbledore who never enjoyed using him but
felt the need to all the same. His heart hurts. "You deserve that, at least, sir."

"Don't," Snape practically snarls, sending him a sharp, hard look. His black eyes are staring at
Harry harshly, saying more than his mouth ever will, demanding Harry not to get emotional.

Harry doesn't really know how to stop, though. Not after everything. He feels. A lot. He just does,
and now—bizarre as it is—that includes Snape. He never expected to have mixed emotions about
this man. Dumbledore and Voldemort are bad enough.

"You don't have to be honest with me anymore, do you, Professor?" Harry asks, a swell of nerves
and tangled emotion taking over as he builds up to something that his mind is skittering around,
trying to avoid out of fear. But Harry's always faced his fears in some way or another.

"I do not," Snape announces, and if he were the type to show relief or smugness on his face, he
seems like he would about this.

"That's—I'm glad," Harry admits, and it's the truth. He is glad, and he proceeds to tell him why. "It
took me a long time to realize it, but for all that honesty is praised to be good and right, it can do
quite a bit of harm. There are just some things that it's simply best not to know."

Snape pauses again, then says, "That is surprisingly wise of you, Mr. Potter."
"Then it's wise of me to wait to ask you this until now," Harry murmurs, and his voice has gone
faint with fear and endless other things that he's sure Snape can hear in his tone. Hope, reluctance,
worry. Bravely, he pushes on anyway. "Honestly, I never asked you this because I—I think I was
scared to know. You had to tell me the truth, and I had no idea what that would be if I asked this
question. You don't—you're not forced to tell me the truth now, and I'll never be able to tell if
you're lying, and I think that's how it should be. About this. Because it—whatever you answer is
going to… It'll mean something if I know it's true, and I think I don't want it to since you're...going
on vacation. So—so, don't tell me if your answer is honest or a lie. I don't want to know."

"What is your question?" Snape is staring at him with sharp, intent black eyes. He must be curious
and wary all at once, and Harry relates to those feelings more now than ever.

"Did you—" Harry halts, the words trapped in his throat. He has to swallow twice and blink hard
just to get back to regular breathing. He forces the words out through clenched teeth, hating how
much the question hurts on the way out. "Did you...ever come to—to care about me, not for my
mother, but because I'm just...me?"

That question hangs in the silence between them, and Harry exhales. He feels like he's just been
running for too long, shaky and ready to drop. Here he is, yet again, asking yet another adult if he
was ever enough for them. And he's so messed up that the mere idea of having that question
answered honestly in a way he couldn't refute would hurt him in a way he couldn't brush off. He's
waited until he can choose to believe Snape's words are a lie or the truth, never really knowing,
because honesty really can do great harm sometimes.

Harry doesn't want to be harmed in this way.

The silence stretches for a bit longer, and Harry forces himself to meet Snape's eyes. They're not as
harsh. Snape doesn't soften, not really, but he does manage to look less severe in this moment.
Harry doesn't know if that's for his benefit, or out of pity, or because Snape does feel a touch of
fondness for him. He doesn't want to know which it is, either.

"You're right," Snape says, finally, his tone smooth and perfectly controlled. He stares at Harry
without blinking or faltering. "There are just some things it's best not to know."

Harry exhales in a rush, feeling a ridiculous laugh bubble up in his chest. It's… It's exactly what
Harry would expect of Snape—cryptic and close to his chest at the end, keeping his answers to
himself likely just because he can.

It's better this way, though. Harry doesn't have to know either way, and he doesn't have to convince
himself it was a lie if Snape answered yes, or the truth if he answered no, and vise versa. Because,
no matter what his answer would be, Harry was always going to hope it was a lie and the truth.
Snape is going to die, and Harry doesn't want to know if Snape cares about him for him.

"I think that's the first time you've ever told me I was right about something by your own choice,
sir," Harry breathes out.

Snape hums. "That is very likely. You are often wrong about many things."

"Seventh Year is going to be odd without you stalking about everywhere," Harry admits.

"Good luck surviving without me," Snape drawls, looking down at the vials in his hand before
putting them away in the cabinet. "I have a strong suspicion that you might not, but that's not my
problem any longer. I'm leaving."

Harry grins, even though Snape isn't looking at him as he turns around and walks away. Harry
watches him stalk off, only to abruptly blurt, "Professor!"

He doesn't...feel better. There's still something unsettled within him, and he doesn't really know
what it is. Snape halts and turns, staring blankly at him. Harry feels close to tears all of a sudden,
actually. It takes him an embarrassingly long time to work out why.

"Professor Snape," Harry repeats, aware of the tremble in his voice.

"What, Potter?" Snape hisses, looking up at him with a glare, eyes narrowed. He can likely sense
the incoming emotions, but that's just as well. He should be prepared for it, at least.

Harry knows his eyes are watering, knows that his voice will crack when he speaks, knows that he
is showing his heart and how much it hurts in this very moment, but he doesn't care.

"Everyone always gave you missions. You never—you always did things for my mother, and never
for yourself, and I—" Harry chokes on the rest, then is helpless to keep it down. It escapes him in a
rush, all at once. "It's incredibly selfish of me, sir, but I—I'm going to request you do something for
me now. Not—not for my mother, and not for Voldemort or Dumbledore or the war, and not for
any other reason than because I want you to do it. You are talented, and anyone would be stupid to
deny it. You create Spells and potions and you're—you're brilliant, honestly. So, can you just—for
me, can you try and find something to fix you, so you can live? Can you try to do that, sir?"

Harry holds his breath after, thoughts scattering in all directions as he stares at the man he's
practically begging to live. Snape has gone still where he stands, his head bowed as he looks down
at nothing. He doesn't seem to be breathing, either.

The thing is, Harry's not even sure if it's possible. He doesn't know what Curse Snape is under. He
doesn't know if there's any sort of cure at all. That doesn't really matter, though, because Harry was
prepared to die for the world and then didn't have to. Snape is brilliant, as horrible of a man as he
can be, and if anyone can find a way to survive whatever is killing him, it will be him.

Harry's asking him to. Giving him a reason to. Sadly, he doesn't think Snape would do it for
himself. Harry's just not sure if he'll do it for him.

When Snape speaks, his words are soft like he's trying to hide the lightly strangled quality to them,
to no avail. He says, "I will do what I can, Potter."

And there, there. That unease settles, and something in Harry smooths over. He relaxes, all at once,
exhaling slowly. He knows how ridiculous it must be for him to sit here and plead with Snape to
last for more than three years, especially after years of hating the man. More bizarre things have
happened, though, so Harry doesn't do anything but smile.

He realizes, belatedly, that Snape would have a clear, honest, undeniable answer if he was the one
who asked the question Harry had.

There are some things it's best not to know, yes, but Harry thinks Snape knowing that he's cared
for, as complicated as it may be, isn't one of them.

Snape gives a curt nod and walks away without glancing back, his robes billowing dramatically as
always, an odd comfort amidst everything.

"Thank you, Professor," Harry murmurs as he goes, knowing he'll get no reply. He doesn't need
one.

He feels better now.

Walking is…

Well, it's a lot more painful than he thought it could be. He's struggled with it before, in certain
moments, but never quite like this.

You don't really become aware of how your whole body moves when you walk, not until there's a
hole inside of you still mending back together. It's the shift of weight, the harsh tug of each
swiveling hip, the pressure that radiates all over with each step. It burns, it hurts, and Harry walks
anyway.

His friends are lovely about it. Hermione is his favorite person to walk with. She holds her arms
out so he can brace himself against her and huff through each weak shuffle of his feet. Ron's
clumsy about it, but he's also the first to stop when Harry's in pain, as if he senses it before anyone
else can.

The Weasleys range from either too gentle or too harsh. Mrs. Weasley frets terribly and
accidentally distracts him by talking, and he actually needs focus to walk, so it's not the best. Fred
and George usually stand on either side of him and tease him for his slow progress, which always
makes him laugh, and that hurts quite a bit while standing. Ginny is too harsh without even
meaning to be, treating it like Quidditch practice and pushing him harder than everyone else,
which makes Harry think he'd marry her if he wasn't already so in love with Draco.

Speaking of, Draco is his next favorite person to walk with, but only because Harry gets to look at
his face throughout. Draco is temperamental to begin with, but when it comes to Harry's healing,
he's downright ridiculous. He swings wildly between treating Harry like he'll shatter apart if he
does too much, doting on him and fussing in clear concern, or getting into what Harry has bitterly
and fondly dubbed as 'Healer mode'—this is where Draco is serious and methodical, treating Harry
like he's a patient rather than his boyfriend.

Mrs. Malfoy only walks with him twice over the next few days, but in fairness, she's more petite
than most and holding his weight can be difficult for her. She does her best, however, and usually
threads her prosthetic through Harry's arm, keeping him steady for however long she can.

Blaise, Pansy, and Theo have made appearances a few times. They mostly just snark at him, but
Harry can tell they are relieved to see him awake and moving—albeit slowly, but still. They've
changed, but he is just as relieved to see them, nonetheless.
Dumbledore does not walk with him. He doesn't come to visit Harry again at all.

In fact, it's not until a few days later when Harry can walk on his own that he sees the man. He's
been improving each day and can now get out of and into bed without help. He's also recently
started walking more frequently and farther than he has so far, venturing out of the Hospital Wing.
His scar barely even twinges if he touches it, and a sharp pain only cuts through him half the time
if he moves too fast.

It's late at night when Harry slips out of bed and starts his trek. He's a bit slower than he'd like to
be, but it has almost been a week since he first woke up. With the regular exercise and the potions,
he's gotten so much better that he can't really complain. It's mildly frustrating, but he's mostly just
thankful that he'll be back to normal—or close to it—by the time his Seventh Year starts.

At night, Harry doesn't do a lot of sleeping if he can help it. He's always scared he'll share another
dream with Voldemort, then intrinsically disappointed each time he wakes and finds that he hasn't.
There's no dreams, no flood of emotion through the connection, nothing. Back to radio silence,
almost like Voldemort has vanished.

So, to avoid this, Harry walks.

He's doing exactly that, carefully meandering through the corridors of the empty Castle. He's never
spent time in Hogwarts when there were no students here. It's odd, but not unwelcome. He knows
he's a special case because of the battle that took place, as well as being a war hero. That's what the
Prophet calls him anyway, him and his friends, which they all snicker about.

In any case, he's thankful to have been looked after here. Hogwarts has always been his home. He's
glad he was never moved to St. Mungos. He learned from Hermione that he wasn't because of
Dumbledore and the fact that he was underage when he was put in the Hospital Wing. Dumbledore
claimed to have taken Harry in under his care, and because he's also considered a war hero, no one
argued.

Harry wonders what the world would think if they knew that it was Dumbledore who stabbed him.
He's not upset about it, not really. He knows Dumbledore wasn't aiming for him. He even knows
that Dumbledore sending the sword to Voldemort wasn't meant to do anything besides anger and
distract him. It was a battle, a harsh duel, and Dumbledore was using all his resources, no matter
what they were or how effective they might have been.
Rather Slytherin of him, actually.

Still, even if Harry's not upset about that, he's… Well, you could say he's mildly discomfited about
the fact that Dumbledore was telling him to let go of the Killing Curse with all intentions of him
dying.

It doesn't make him angry, which shocks him a bit, but he is a little...something by it. Not hurt,
exactly, or even morose. Just quietly uneasy about it.

It's not because Dumbledore was doing anything wrong. To win the battle and subsequently save
lives, Harry had to die—originally. He didn't know that Voldemort would do what he did. How
could he? Even Harry didn't know. So, the only logical route was for the plan to take place, and
perhaps the Killing Curse would have been kinder than the Basilisk Venom. Quicker and more
painless, if not a bit ironic. Dumbledore's not evil for alluding to Harry's purpose of dying in that
moment.

It's decidedly not good, though. He just… He literally encouraged a boy to die. That's it. That's the
thing that has Harry just slightly troubled.

Dumbledore's not a bad man. He's not. He's a good man, a great man, even. Always has been. In
some ways, he's a sodding hero. But it all really comes down to the fact that Dumbledore is—at the
core of everything—a man. A person capable of mistakes and willing to do what needs to be done,
just as long as that need aligns with the right thing to do. Or what he perceives as the right thing to
do, at least.

Whether it is inherently right or not...well, that's another thing entirely, and Harry suspects that he
could argue for and against Dumbledore's choices all at once. It's complicated. He's complicated.

Nonetheless, Harry can't quite shake the knowledge that Voldemort did the thing Dumbledore
refused to. It's unsettling, just a bit, because it seems out of character for him, too. Only, there's
countless pieces to put together to suggest otherwise, and Harry will always likely wonder whether
those pieces would have revealed themselves if he never ended up at the Malfoys and found out the
truth.

"Ah, I didn't expect to find you here, Harry."

Harry blinks and comes to a halt, staring at Dumbledore in surprise. He's only just now leaving the
corridor away from the Hospital Wing—because he is slow—and he's ridiculously startled to have
the quiet around him broken.

Dumbledore is standing in front of him with a patient smile on his face. His robes are fuschia. He
has his hands crossed in front of them, and Harry just now realizes that his Cursed hand is fully
healed. He looks calm, as always.

"Hello, sir." Harry flicks his gaze to Dumbledore's hand again. "I just noticed your hand is healed.
You're...alright now?"

"Indeed I am. Healthy as a horse, as the Muggles say. Though, why do they say that?"

"I'm not actually sure, sir. Er, is it healed because Voldemort sort of took all his magic away?"

Dumbledore hums pensively. "No. I still had to do treatment until it was fully healed. The Curse
came from his Horcrux, which could be argued to be him, but with you in mind, I would not
agree."

"Because I don't have a defense as a Horcrux?" Harry asks, raising his eyebrows.

"Don't you?" Dumbledore glances at him as he sweeps forward to fall into a slow pace with Harry,
joining him on his walk. "I'm quite sure you do have a defense, my boy."

Harry blinks. "Sorry, what? You think I—well, what could it be? My wand?"

"No, I rather think it's something with much deeper meaning than that. A powerful force that
Voldemort knew not, as the Prophecy said." Dumbledore is watching him closely now. "Do you
know what I am referencing, Harry?"

"Love," Harry says softly. "You think it's love."

"I do," Dumbledore admits, "and just as I fell prey to the Ring's defense, Voldemort fell prey to
yours. Many people have fallen prey to yours, in fact, myself included."
Harry comes to a halt in the middle of the corridor and thinks about that for a second.

Dumbledore talks about love like it is a force, like it is a power that can be harnessed, and Harry
can't deny that it has its effects—trying to refute it would be ignoring his own mother's sacrifice. It
was through her love that he could survive a Curse that no one else ever has or ever will again.

The idea that Harry's defense—his weapon, even—is love is just… Part of him appreciates the
idea. It's nice, in abstract, to think that the corrupted part of Voldemort's soul pushed him to create
a defense of pure love, a defense that Voldemort himself lost to.

A different, more realistic part of him knows that it simply can't be that way. It's not nice, when
looking deeper, because that would mean Harry was only able to do certain things because he's a
Horcrux. He doesn't believe that at all. And what sort of relief comes with the idea that his defense
is what made people love him, and not himself?

Dumbledore clearly thinks this would be a comfort, but it very much isn't. He wants love and
goodness and light to be enough to save the world, but the truth is that it's just not.

Harry has murdered multiple people, both out of anger and out of necessity. He's hated as fiercely
as he's loved, with the same passion in both. He's made terrible mistakes and willingly hurt people,
sometimes by accident and sometimes on purpose. Perhaps it was his mother's love that saved him,
a wondrous thing in its own right, but Harry's love to save the whole world was his choice,
something he worked and fought for, not just some force that he crafted due to the corrupt piece of
soul in him.

As much as Dumbledore wants it to, none of this can go in a neat, little box that can be chalked up
to some grander thing such as love. He wants to put Harry in that slot because he loves him,
because he believes mistakes can be fixed by doing the right thing. But it's not the way the world
works. Mistakes are mistakes for a reason—you don't fix them; you learn from them.

Dumbledore has spent too much time trying to make sense of his own mistakes and do good where
he can, rather than accepting that things aren't easy. The "greater good" doesn't actually exist, and
that's just another excuse Dumbledore uses to get through each day where his mistakes threaten to
drown him.

Really, it's a question of perception and everyone's own morals. Not that long ago, though it feels
like it has been ages since, Harry's own feelings would fall in line with Dumbledore's, like a perfect
little soldier taught one way to be.

But here he is, alive, a Horcrux, and he has been taught many different lessons that Dumbledore
never expected him to learn.

Dumbledore can pretend that things are as simple as love and evil, that people exist in parameters
of black and white, but Harry no longer can.

It's grey. It's all so very grey, and complicated, and hard. He could sit down and debate on it for
decades, going back and forth, never settling as his mind and mood and life changes. But he's quite
sure that's how it's supposed to be.

He wouldn't have it any other way.

"You're wrong," Harry says steadily, turning to look Dumbledore dead in the eye. "Do you want to
know what my defense is, sir?"

Dumbledore looks vaguely startled and vibrantly curious. "I do. What do you believe it is?"

"I don't believe it is; I know it is," Harry declares, his words strong and inarguable. "My defense
has always been that I'm human. It's not love. It's that I'm a human capable of it, as well as hate, as
well as so many other things. It's my free will and my choices. It's that I'm human."

With that, Harry turns right back around and heads back to the Hospital Wing. Alone.

There is an unfortunate amount of distance between Harry's arse and the ground. He looks down at
it, pursing his lips. This should be...fun.

"Do you think I could get down there on my own?" Harry asks, then immediately tries without
waiting for any sort of help.

It's not fun.

Although, he suspects that it could be a lot worse. He folds his legs beneath him, lowering himself
into a cross-legged position, and he tries his absolute best to do it slowly. Gravity, however, cares
for no one and tugs him down rather quickly. It doesn't hurt in the way it would have only days
prior. All it does is give him the sensation that the air has been knocked from his lungs and the
faintest burn in his chest.

Once he's settled, though, he's utterly pleased about it. He beams out at the lake he's sitting beside,
feeling quite proud of himself. His recovery is starting to reach a point where he can do most—if
not all—things that he could before.

There's a quiet sigh followed by perfect, overly expensive shoes stepping into his field of vision.
Without laying a robe out, as he always does, Draco settles down beside Harry, staring out at the
lake with a small frown on his face.

They're silent for a long time.

Harry's mind drifts as it often does, turning back to the grief over those lost in the battle. He's still
adjusting to it, still mourning, still trying to come to terms with everything that's happened.

"What are you thinking about?" Draco asks.

"Colin Creevey," Harry mumbles.

Draco glances at him, blinking. "Who?"

"The—the kid who always carried around a camera. He was petrified in our Second Year. He
helped take that photo of you, Blaise, and Pansy." Harry stares at Draco, feeling a slow twist of
anger inside him. "He died in the battle, Draco. Surely you remember him."

"Only just," Draco says, narrowing his eyes in concentration. He frowns after a beat, then
flippantly waves his hand. "Ah, doesn't matter. Why are you thinking about him?"

"Because he—" Harry cuts himself off and swivels slowly to stare at Draco incredulously. "Draco,
he died. He practically worshipped me and followed me around whenever he could, and now he's
dead. He took that photo for you and your friends, and now he's dead. How can you be so—so
careless about it?"

Draco sighs heavily and shakes his head. "Alright, let's have a row, then," he predicts in a mutter.
"I'm so careless about it because I have no actual relationship with him. I didn't know him before
he died, or not enough to care about him, so his death doesn't affect me as it would...say, his
brother or father or lover or friends. He never crossed my mind before and I won't pretend he does
now. Do I think it's terrible that he's dead? Yes, I do, especially since he died fighting in the battle,
but that's my only feelings on the matter, Harry."

"So you must feel quite a lot for Vince, then?" Harry snaps, nostrils flaring as his frustration
peaks.

"I do, in fact," Draco murmurs, his gaze sliding to the side as he looks away. His throat bobs just
once, and Harry sees his fingers twitch in his lap. He looks like someone does when they've cried
all they can and can't cry anymore, a little bit empty and a whole lot of exhaustion. "He's my—he
was my friend. It has ruined Greg, and Pansy hasn't truly been the same since. Of course I feel
quite a lot."

As quickly as Harry's anger rushed in, it seeps out. He reaches out to carefully take Draco's hand,
frowning when the pale fingers stay limp in his grasp. "Draco, I am sorry about Vince, you know.
And I'm sorry I called you careless."

"It's because you feel quite a lot for everyone," Draco says quietly, flicking his gaze over to search
Harry's face, lips ticking up at the corners in a sad smile. "You see people individually and believe
in their worth. You'd mourn a nameless, faceless person, so it's worse when you know them. My
feelings are centered around those who directly affect my life, but your feelings are strong and vast
enough to include the whole world. But we already knew that, didn't we?"

"I don't mean to be this way. Is it bad?"

"I don't think so. You just get guilty when you shouldn't. You're kind, Harry, too kind. Hermione
told me what Pansy has—it's called Survivor's Guilt. You have it to, I suspect, but it's not limited to
one person. Because you've been shaped to be some sort of hero, and because you felt you had to
die to save the world, you feel responsible for people dying. You're not at fault, though. You must
know that. It's what Hermione tells Pansy all the time."

Harry sighs, deflating a little and staring down at the grass he's twisting between his anxious
fingers. There's something vaguely soothing about the motion, but it's actually destructive without
even meaning to be. He's tearing up the grass, pulling at it, and it's done subconsciously. He
wonders then if it's instinctive to ruin things—perhaps people cannot help but stumble and make a
mess of things.

If that's the case, Harry thinks there's a special kind of loveliness that comes with people still trying
to bring beauty in the world through art, and laughter, and family, and friendship.

He stills his fingers, taking a deep breath and slowly letting it out. Grief and guilt are two things he
hasn't gone without in a long time, at least since the end of Fourth Year. As Voldemort once said, it
haunts him. He decides to be thankful for it, no matter how unbearable it can seem at times. It
reminds him that he is human, that he cares about things and other people, that he has made
mistakes and still wants to do better.

"I'm afraid," Harry whispers into the quiet, hesitantly raising his gaze to meet Draco's.

"We all are, I think," Draco murmurs in reply.

Harry swallows thickly. "We're going to be alright, aren't we? It's—it gets easier, doesn't it?"

"I don't know." Draco squeezes his hand, gentle but firm. "I suppose we'll find out. Time is the
greatest Healer in the world, Harry."

"We have a lot of it now."

"Make good use of it."

"I intend to."

Harry decides that there's no time like the present and tugs at Draco's hand, reaching out to grasp
his entire arm and pull him over. Draco comes without much fuss, pressing against his side gently,
still so careful with him. Harry doesn't bother arguing with him because he knows it puts Draco at
ease, and he really does try following Mrs. Malfoy's advice.

With silent nudging, he manages to get his arm around Draco's back and his cheek pillowed on
Draco's shoulder. He closes his eyes and relaxes, releasing a slow breath.

Lips brush his forehead tenderly.

"I love you," Harry tells him, then reaches up to poke Draco's dimple-scar. He adores it, really. "I
love you and this scar."

Draco smacks his hand away. "Stop it. Yes, I get it, you're alive and happy to be a sap, but I won't
stand for it."

"Tell me you love me, too," Harry murmurs, picking his head up to stare at him, drinking him in.
He feels like he's soaring, though his feet never leave the ground. "I know you do. Say it."

"If you know, why should I have to?" Draco challenges, even as his tone gets softer and he melts a
bit when Harry brushes his thumb over Draco's cheek, caressing his face.

"Because I'm alive, in love, and happy to be. The only thing that would make that better is if I hear
you feel the same," Harry whispers.

Draco hums and leans into him, lips twitching, that dimple-scar doing dangerous things to Harry's
sensibilities. "You're the biggest idiot I know, Harry Potter. Of course I feel the same, or else I
would not tolerate you at all."

"So you love me?"

"Yes, I love you. There, happy? Shut up about it."

"I am happy, yeah. I love you, too. Let's get married and have enough children to make a Quidditch
team and also live forever in that maze in France," Harry says, closing his eyes and letting his
forehead settle against Draco's with a quiet tap.

"Who's going to birth the children?"

"I was rather hoping you would, actually."

"I had the most embarrassing conversation with Madame Pomfrey about anatomy and various
other things, so I can say with utmost certainty that I will not be able to birth your children."

"That's a shame. D'you think Hermione would? Oh, each of our female friends could give us a
child. They probably would, you know. We might get lucky and get twins from Ginny."

Draco snorts quietly. "Weasleys breed like rabbits, so I'd be careful with that one. Though, aren't
you getting a bit ahead of yourself? You have a long way to go before you can dare ask for my
hand in marriage. And who knows if I'll even say yes, honestly?"

Harry huffs. "You're awful."

"I never claimed to be anything else," Draco says, pulling away so they can look at each other. He
blinks, then smiles. "Why do you love me?"

"Why wouldn't I?" Harry retorts instantly.

Draco closes his eyes, melting forward a bit, and he hums in approval the moment he gets close
enough for their lips to meet. Harry echoes the sound, sighing into the kiss, eyes fluttering closed.

It feels so, so nice. Harry gets lost in it instantly, sucked into sensation alone. The brush of Draco's
fingers along his cheek. The slight catch of their lips against each other, warm and slightly wet in
the best way. The feeling of Draco's hair beneath his fingers as he traces his hand back to push into
the soft, silky strands waiting for him. All of it wipes his mind clean of any thoughts, inhibitions, or
pain. He feels free and floaty and light, almost as if he's weightless.

Draco pulls away to suck in a sharp breath, fingers slipping over Harry's shoulder now, and he
chokes out, "I'm so glad you exist. I'm so thankful you're alive."

"I won't leave you, Draco. I won't. I'll keep my promise, I swear it," Harry breathes out in response,
cupping the back of his neck.
"I love you, you absolute brilliant, horrible, wonderful idiot," Draco whispers, brushing his lips
over Harry's yet again, just a soft touch. "I hate you, and I love you, and you're not allowed to ever
do anything like this again. I'll murder if you try and die, Harry, I swear I will."

Harry's lips curl up. "So dramatic."

"Die," Draco mumbles, then kisses him again.

It's rather perfect, actually. Harry doesn't know how they'd be anything other than what they are
right now. Ridiculously wrapped up in each other, bickering and clinging all at once, contradictions
lost in their words in a strange conversation that only they really understand.

They've been through quite a bit this last year, and they're still them. That's what Harry finds most
miraculous. For all their changes and growth and differences, they still have things about them that
will never change. Harry finds home in these things, and he loves it as fiercely as he loves
everything else about Draco and them.

"Found them!"

"Oh, lovely, they're sucking face."

With a huff, Draco pulls back and turns his head, glaring at the approaching group with a scowl to
rival all his worst. Harry tries not to laugh because it hurts slightly, but he can't help it. He briefly
hides his face against Draco's shoulder as the ridiculous giggles subside, then picks his head up to
watch his friends walk over to them.

They've all come to part ways for the last week before their last term. Harry won't see any of them
again after today until the opening feast.

Pansy is walking with Blaise, tucked under his arm, the both of them swaying their hips in a rather
sinuous way. Ron and Hermione walk beside them, not touching, though there is a closeness to
them that Harry finds incredibly amusing. Daphne's right behind them, staring at them without
blinking. Ginny's marching along with a skipping Luna a few paces back, and behind them is
Neville and Theo—they seem to be enjoying a comfortable silence together, at least.

"Don't be so jealous, darling," Pansy says to Ron, smirking at him. "You're only offended because
you wish you could have someone to snog. Or perhaps two someone's."

"Pans, you're so cruel," Blaise comments lovingly as Ron turns bright red and sputters.

"Look at you, Draco," Theo mutters when they all finally reach them. He looks down his nose at
Draco, clicking his tongue. "You're sprawling out in the dirt like a common person."

"Piss off," Draco snaps, turning his head away with a sneer, which makes Harry want to coo at
him.

"So whipped," Ginny says, snickering. She proceeds to plop down in the grass, yanking Pansy
down with her as she does. She ignores her shriek, grinning wide and winking at Harry. "Who
wouldn't be for the Chosen One, though? We all are, really. Come, let's all spread out in the dirt
like common people, because pretending to be otherwise is absurd."

"Speak for yourself," Blaise says, sidestepping Pansy's hands as she tries to get back off the
ground.

"Don't be such a prat, Blaise." Ron has clearly recovered from Pansy's teasing and seems to be on a
mission to make the rich, spoiled Slytherins vastly uncomfortable, because he yanks on Blaise's
arm to shove him to the ground. "You too, Theo, or Ginny will just get up and drag you down. It'll
be embarrassing for you, mate."

"Common people believe that dirt is meant for plants," Luna says wisely, then carelessly lowers
herself to the ground beside Ginny, humming.

"Oh, I see what we're doing," Hermione mutters before also sitting down carefully in the grass.

Daphne says nothing as she also sits.

Harry watches in a vague amusement as everyone finds themselves sprawled out on the bank by
the lake, one-by-one and with varying degrees of fuss and disgust. There's a lot of bickering
involved, Slytherins who feel the need to posture and pretend they're better than sitting on the
ground, Gryffindors mocking them for being stupid.
Eventually, though, things go rather quiet. They all just sit beside each other, watching the lake.
The Giant Squid randomly pokes one purple tentacle out of the water to splash, sending ripples out
that induces a rather calming atmosphere. No one says anything for a while, just watching.

It's peaceful.

It should be, Harry thinks. It's not necessarily that they've earned it. That's never what it was about.
He just thinks that everyone should be at peace, that everyone should know happiness, that
everyone should be cradled gently in a world where things don't go terribly wrong.

Unfortunately, that's not reality. People don't always get that. There's hatred and cruelty in this
world, and many of those who deserve it the least have the greatest burdens to bear. If anything,
that's only more reason for everyone to embrace the best parts of their lives when and where they
can.

Harry leans his head over on Draco's shoulder and embraces this one.

Three days before the term begins, Harry's allowed to move out of the Hospital Wing. He's been
given permission to go ahead and get set up in the dorms, seeing as there's really no point in
leaving anywhere only to come back in a few days.

He enjoys being the only student in Hogwarts. It reminds him of Christmas time when he had no
home to go back to. The Dursleys were certainly never that. In the midst of everything, Hogwarts
has always been his home, and there's an odd sense of intimacy that comes with staying in the
Castle when even no Professors are here just yet.

Mrs. Malfoy had apparently sent over his things from the Manor, the belongings he left behind
when he was prepared to die. He now has all his own clothes back from his trunk, as well as the
pictures of his parents and the framed one of Draco and his friends, and his Firebolt as well.
Hedwig is here as well already, and he has visited with her every day outside, just enjoying her
quiet presence. She doesn't seem to mind too terribly much that she'll be away from Artimus for a
few days.

That first night in the dorms, Harry lays in his regular four-poster bed and thinks about the world as
it is now, as well as those in it.
He thinks about his friends. Thinks about the way Pansy gets quiet sometimes out of nowhere, her
smile or teasing just draining away, and thinks about how Blaise always notices and takes her hand
to draw a small smile from her. Thinks about how Theo goes pale whenever someone mentions
Azkaban or the fact that he's fully responsible for the Nott family bloodline now, and thinks about
how Draco tells him not to worry about it. Thinks about Hermione's leg randomly giving out,
causing her to stumble and grimace in pain, and thinks about how Ron and Daphne dart forward
without fail every time to help her stand up again.

He thinks about Snape out there somewhere, living for the very first time on his own terms, likely
still recovering from his time in Azkaban and possibly trying to find a cure for himself that might
not even be attainable. Thinks about Mrs. Malfoy being visibly frustrated with her prosthetic at
times, and thinks about how she coordinates different ones with her dresses, and how Lucius loops
her prosthetic through his arm without ever batting an eye. Thinks about Dumbledore in his office,
staring at that bowl of Lemon Drops while agonizing over where he went wrong, and thinks about
the relief he must feel from no longer having to fight a war.

He thinks about Draco. Thinks about how he sometimes looks at Harry like he doesn't dare to
blink, like he has to memorize him in every moment lest it be his last. Thinks about how he carries
around books about Healing, keeping them hidden like Harry isn't observant enough to notice
them. Thinks about the way he smiles a little bit more these days, and thinks about how he fiddles
with the necklace Harry gave him, eyes soft as he absentmindedly strokes it like he's found paradise
without needing the stars to guide him.

Harry thinks about Voldemort.

He thinks about him, and thinks about him, and can't stop thinking about him. Thinks and wonders
where he is, what he's doing, if he will ever show himself to Harry again. Thinks about the way he
looked at Harry when he realized he'd been stabbed. Thinks about how he snapped his own wand
and let himself be vanquished.

He's still thinking about it, and thinking about it hard, when he falls asleep.

Perhaps that is why he dreams of the cliff.

It's the first time he does since waking up, but just as any other dream, he has no idea that he's
asleep at all. One second, he is lying in bed; the next, he's standing on a cliff.

He blinks around slowly, searching for something. There's nothing. It's quiet. No wind. When he
peers over the edge of the cliff, there's a ravine at the bottom, just rushing water that makes no
 sound. There's no void there, no death to be frightened of.

Harry turns in slow circles, looking hopefully, waiting for something. Waiting for someone.

No one comes.

What feels like only seconds later, Harry's eyes snap open to see the sun slanting into the room. He
releases a deep breath, sitting up slowly and pressing his hand to his cheeks. There's tears drying
on his skin. Swallowing, he reaches down and traces the healed scar on his chest, heart flinching
with the reminder of the last time he saw Voldemort.

Closing his eyes, Harry tilts his head back and does something perhaps very stupid. He searches
inward, seeking out the connection he shares with Voldemort, expecting rage and finding none.

There's nothing.

Wherever Voldemort is, whatever he's doing, he's not angry. Not cruelly delighted or
immeasurably furious. Harry can feel the connection, but he gets nothing from it. Whether
Voldemort isn't feeling anything at all remains to be seen, because Harry simply doesn't know.

Where are you? Harry thinks, almost desperately. He stops searching the connection, opening his
eyes with a quiet sigh. It's alright. He'll wait. He'll keep waiting, if he has to. He can do that, and he
will.

Hey gets out of bed, firm in his decision.

Unbeknownst to him, however, for all the time that he waits, he'll never see Voldemort again.

Chapter End Notes

WARNING/SPOILER:

The ones who died that are mentioned were Mad-Eye Moody, Colin Creevey, Vincent
Crabbe, and Andromeda's husband—Ted Tonks.
~~~

So yeah, that's that on that. Thoughts? :D

 Elapse
Chapter Notes

Okie dokie, friends! No warnings for this chapter, only an apology. It's so LONG,
y'all. Longer than all my other chapters, I think. But I just couldn't find a place to split
it (plus I like having 30 rounds chapters, sue me).

Also, you should note, there's a time jump! We do not see Harry's Seventh Year, and
this chapter starts towards the end of it. Hence the title: Elapse.

With that being said...enjoy ;)

See the end of the chapter for more notes

(A little under) 1 Year Later…

Harry stares at the Sword of Gryffindor. It's glinting in the case up on the wall, the flashing hilt
and unmarred steel showing a sheen that radiates strength. There's no blood on it, though there
hasn't been since he first saw it after he was stabbed. He cannot help but wonder who wiped his
blood away.

He has never asked.

Lips pressed into a thin line, Harry rips his gaze from the Sword of Gryffindor and turns to look at
Dumbledore. The Headmaster has been quiet, not saying a word while Harry drifted around his
office and slowly took everything in, committing it to memory. He has said and done a lot of things
inside this office, and he doesn't really want to forget them.

"Lemon Drop?" Dumbledore asks with that damned twinkle in his eye, gesturing to the bowl on his
desk.

"No, thank you," Harry says quickly. He clears his throat and walks over to the chairs on the other
side of the desk, bracing his arms on the back of the one he usually sat in. "You wanted to see me,
sir?"

"Yes, yes I did," Dumbledore tells him, and then falls silent as he simply looks at him.
Harry refrains from sighing heavily. He stands there and tries not to feel absolutely, dreadfully
awkward, but he fails miserably.

It's not as if he and Dumbledore haven't seen each other all year. They never went out of their way
to avoid each other, but they also didn't seek each other out. If Dumbledore saw him in a hall, he
always spoke and made sure to check in with him. If Harry caught his eye in the Great Hall, he was
always sure to nod respectfully before looking away. And, when Harry ended up in the Hospital
Wing again (briefly, because it's tradition, really), Dumbledore visited him and ate all his Bertie
Bott's Beans like Harry was a First Year again.

Harry has only had one—a record!—deep conversation with the man during his Seventh Year so
far, and that mostly sprouted from Harry's part in breaking up the illegal potions distribution the
new Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor was a part of (accidentally, of course).

This feels like an incoming Deep Conversation. He can still see them approaching from afar, can
sense it like that's a special skill he's honed. It makes him feel like he's going to break out in hives.

"So?" Harry finally prompts, because standing here in silence is only making him anxious.

Dumbledore's eyes sparkle with amusement like he knows, which he probably does, because he
always does. "You've done well this year in all your classes, Harry. Professor McGonagall
informed me that you weren't quite sure which career path you wanted to take once you've
graduated."

"Ah, er, no," Harry admits sheepishly, feeling a bit like an idiot as he awkwardly pinches the skin
of his wrist, keeping his grip light as he rolls the small piece of skin between his fingers. "I thought
perhaps Quidditch, but maybe not. I was settled on Auror for quite a bit, but—well, I spent many
years fighting dark forces and mostly hating it, so I don't know why I'd make a career out of it.
Ministry work sounds dreadful anyway, even though I suspect Hermione's going to get in there and
do something about the mess that place is. If Kingsley lets her."

"I imagine he will," Dumbledore muses, seemingly delighted by the thought. "He swears by fresh
faces and young minds, as I understand it." He pauses, looking thoughtful for a brief moment.
"Harry, have you given any thought to...teaching?"

"Teaching," Harry echoes.

"You did some of that in your Fifth Year, if I recall. You had a club," Dumbledore says, smiling
slightly like the club in question was adorably thrown together by children. If Harry were fifteen,
that would offend him, but Harry's only a few months out from eighteen, so he manages to hold
back his comment that the club actually helped teach people to defend themselves when they
needed to. He's sure Dumbledore doesn't mean it that way, and in fact, he looks quite proud of the
club. "If I remember correctly, you were the one who taught the members of that club, and you did
so exceptionally. Did you enjoy it at all?"

"I did," Harry admits hesitantly. He feels like he's being led into a trap. "Teaching is something I
enjoyed, sir, but I don't know where I'd…"

"Professor Mumty has all intentions of staying here if I can't find her a replacement," Dumbledore
starts carefully, "but due to her embarrassment at being manipulated into nearly drugging the entire
school, as well as a recent letter from a long-lost lover in Brighton, she's asked me if I could
replace her. The position is open for those interested."

And the sad thing is, Harry is interested. He really did enjoy teaching and DADA is his favorite
subject. Not only that, but Hogwarts is his home, so he'd be comfortable here, even teaching those
who remember him as a student. It's something he would have immediately agreed to doing if
things were…

If things were different.

There's a flutter of excitement in his chest, and his fingers twitch with a deep wish to reach out and
take what he wants. It's at this exact moment that Harry finally realizes what he wants to do. It's the
very thing Dumbledore just offered him, but he won't take it. He can't work alongside Dumbledore
for years and years, facing their complicated relationship day-in and day-out.

Besides, there are things he wants to do before diving right into his career that will demand his
permanent attention and focus.

"I hope you find someone, sir," Harry murmurs, swallowing and looking down at his hands. When
he risks a glance back up a few moments later, Dumbledore's face has softened.

"I do as well, Harry." Dumbledore tilts his head forward in acceptance. "The position, if ever open
again, will be offered to you. I believe you would do well in it, but that is your choice to make, of
course."
Harry clears his throat and twists his fingers together. "Thank you, sir. Was that all?"

"Not quite." Dumbledore flicks his warm gaze to Harry's, and it's abruptly piercing. "I believe I've
heard that you'll be traveling post-graduation."

"Have you?" Harry asks stiffly.

"I could be wrong. Am I?"

"No, sir. I do intend to travel."

Dumbledore watches him, lightly curious. "You'll be going alone, is that right?"

"Yeah. My friends are going to be quite busy after graduation, you understand. Everyone's so eager
to snatch up the hot commodity that is war heroes. Even you, it seems. The offer was terribly kind
of you, though, sir."

"I think people see the potential in you and your closest friends, Harry. You're all truly remarkable
in your own ways. I can understand why they'll be busy, but I must admit that I'm quite surprised
you and Mr. Malfoy won't be traveling together. Is everything alright?"

Harry stiffens. "That's none of your business."

"Ah, that it is not," Dumbledore agrees, relenting almost immediately with a raised hand of
apology. He sighs quietly. "May I ask where you're planning to go, Harry?"

"Wherever I'd like, honestly," Harry says.

Dumbledore looks faintly amused. "Severus told me that when he insisted on resigning."

"Did he?" Harry perks up despite himself, just a little. "Have you, er, heard from him, sir?"
"I have, actually," Dumbledore says, like this is surprising. "I received a letter from him some
months ago. He was apparently in Indonesia, gathering something from a Lethifold. He consulted
with me about how it would counteract other ingredients in a potion, though I can't imagine why.
I've never heard of anyone using anything from a Lethifold in a potion—they are quite rare, quite
dangerous creatures as you know." He pauses, looking thoughtful yet again, then he shakes his
head and smiles. "Whatever he is doing, he seems to be enjoying himself. As much as Severus ever
does."

Harry ducks his head to hide his smile, and all he says is, "That's good."

Dumbledore hums and looks to the side when Harry looks up, his gaze distant and soft. "Gellert
liked to travel, even when he...lost his way. In the year of 1906, he became briefly impressed with
a muggle friend he had made on one simple, profound quote he had written." His nose twitches as
he takes a slow breath. "All journeys have secret destinations of which the traveler is unaware. He
sent me that quote in a letter, and I found that it always stuck with me. Does it resonate with you
now, Harry?"

Harry knows what he's being asked, even if it's done in a roundabout way. He's not particularly
interested in answering, though.

"It's a lovely quote, sir," Harry says blandly, then raises his eyebrows when Dumbledore looks at
him with the quickest flash of a frown. "Since we're on the subject, why don't you go see him?"

Dumbledore blinks. "See who, Harry?"

"Grindelwald," Harry replies bluntly, distantly amused by the brief look of pure shock that flashes
in Dumbledore's eyes. "He's in Azkaban, still. You can arrange a visit; I know you can. You told
me yourself you still love him. Go say hello."

"Go...say...hello," Dumbledore repeats slowly, staring at Harry without blinking at all now. He
doesn't very often look startled, but when he does, Harry absolutely relishes in it. "You believe I
should go visit one of the darkest Wizards in history."

"Yeah," Harry tells him with a half-shrug. "If I'm honest, sir, I'd go see Draco in Azkaban. I'd
berate him for being evil, o'course, but I'd still see him if I could. Love is powerful, isn't it? If you
still love him, perhaps there's a reason for it."
Dumbledore still isn't blinking. "It has been...many years since I last spoke with Gellert. I doubt his
mental facilities are still in tact."

"There's only one way to find out," Harry mutters, arching an eyebrow. "It's not as if you visiting
him will change his predicament, will it? He'll still be imprisoned. But...maybe he'll be happier,
too. Maybe you will be as well. There's nothing wrong with that, you know. You—you do know
that, don't you, sir? You're not terrible for loving him and maybe him loving you is a part of
whatever goodness he has in him, if he does. Well, I'm mostly just speculating at this point—rather
gossip-y of me, I think. Only, I just want you to know that you gain nothing by punishing yourself
for your past mistakes. Trying to do better is all well and good, but you shouldn't leave your
happiness behind for it."

"Ah," Dumbledore rasps, blinking rather rapidly now, and then he's silent for a long time. Harry
waits patiently, not saying a word, and he's rewarded by the surprisingly gruff sound of
Dumbledore clearing his throat before speaking. "I must say, Harry, it is no small thing when an
old man learns something new in his life, especially from a young man he has taught himself."

"You know what they say, sir," Harry murmurs with a small smile. "Teach what you know."

"Hmm," Dumbledore hums, gaze clearing and going shrewd, staring at Harry. After a beat, he
finally stops dancing around the point and speaks plainly. "Are you planning to visit Voldemort,
Harry?"

Harry blinks. "How could I, sir? He's been gone without a trace for nearly a year. I haven't a clue
where he might be."

"You're going to travel."

"Yeah."

"Are you going to look for him?" Dumbledore asks.

"I'm always looking for him," Harry says, reaching up to tap his scar, holding Dumbledore's gaze.
Dumbledore says nothing for a long time, just looking at him without wavering. Harry doesn't fold
or give in. He's of age, and there's nothing Dumbledore can do to stop him from whatever he wants
to do in the world, whatever that may be. He can try and sway him, but Harry simply won't be, and
it seems Dumbledore is slowly realizing that.

Finally, in the end, all Dumbledore says is, "I can only hope your life is as kind to you as you are to
the world. Should you ever need anything…"

"I'll be fine, sir," Harry tells him, because he will be, because the one thing he needed from
Dumbledore was never granted, and it's far too late to change that now. He offers a weak smile and
pulls back from the chair. "I should get to bed. I hope the years here following mine are more
relaxed."

"It was an adventure," Dumbledore murmurs, blue eyes twinkling. "The best of my life, in some
moments. The worst, in others."

Harry glances at the Sword of Gryffindor displayed in a lovely case on the wall, then flashes
Dumbledore a rare smile of warmth. "Me too, sir."

"This is gobshite!"

Harry grimaces as he lowers himself on the bench beside Draco, watching Pansy smack a letter
down on the table with a fierce snarl, seemingly out for blood about something or the other. When
isn't she, though? She often is, these days.

"Pans," Blaise starts with a sigh, "it's only breakfast. Can't we be good people later?"

Pansy sniffs. "It's not being good, Blaise, it's handling these good-for-nothing, stuck-in-the-past
fools with their wands up their arse. I'm going to help them remove them, by force if necessary,
and I'll have breakfast when I've responded to the letter! Where's Luna and Hermione? I need Luna
and Hermione right now."

"Bloody hell, who's got your knickers in a twist this morning?" Theo mutters, reaching over to pry
the letter from her hands, scanning it carefully. After a beat, he raises his eyebrows and whistles
loudly, shaking his head. "Well, they've gone and done it now. The Head of the department of
Magical Creatures has denied Pansy's formal request to require people to pay their house-elves."

"It's only a galleon a month! One! And it's only if the house-elf sees it as kindness and not
disrespect!" Pansy squawks. "My requests aren't unreasonable!"

"No, they aren't," Blaise agrees soothingly, piling food onto a plate and passing it over to her. "Eat
before writing the letter. There's no rush, lovely. Remember, we'll all be free of this creaky, old
Castle in just a week. You and Hermione can go storming the Ministry then, alright?"

Pansy narrows her eyes, but she allows Blaise to push the plate closer to her. "You're right, of
course. I can't imagine what Pureblood in the department is paying off the Head to refuse our very
reasonable requests, or if the man himself has no interest in paying his own house-elf, but I
imagine he'll be changing his mind when Hermione and I get through with him. How soon do you
think she'll want to go?"

"Probably as soon as she can," Draco mutters, rolling his eyes. "We all know Hermione is a woman
of action. She'll be preparing at least thirty pages to put in a file to share with him in regards to why
your requests should be met."

"If one more person suggests I have no cause to be making suggestions at the Ministry when I
haven't even left Hogwarts yet," Pansy hisses, jabbing her food with more vigor than necessary,
"I'm going to stuff their limbs into the Sorting Hat one-by-one."

Blaise gazes at her, absolutely smitten.

"You're doing brilliant, Pansy," Harry says supportively, because she truly is.

He never really thought her to be the type for activism of any sort, seeing as she enjoys the finer
things in life and isn't scared to flaunt it. However, there's a very ruthless, cut-throat side to
activism that Pansy apparently relishes in. She gets to be as harsh and manipulative and cruel as she
likes, but swears it's okay because it's for good causes.

Harry...can't actually argue with her, honestly.

Besides, Hermione is usually right there along with her, and Harry trusts that she won't allow
anyone to actually get hurt. Otherwise, he suspects that Pansy might actually slice up one of those
people who treat her like she's just some cold, heartless, snobby bitch. She can be those things—
which Harry's allowed to think as her friend, according to her—but she's not when it comes to the
causes she applies herself to. She's ruthless and unrelenting, yes, but that's all.

"Thank you, Harry." Pansy swivels in her seat to stare at the person next to her. "You'll come too,
won't you, Greg? You can stand there menacingly and intimidate him."

Greg peers at her for a moment, then hums. "Yeah, s'pose I could an' all. Haven't got anyth'n better
to do, do I? Just come by or I'll forget."

Pansy pats his arm. "Will do."

Harry feels a pinch of pity tug at his chest like it always does when he hears Greg being a little
hard on himself. He's the only other person besides Harry who hasn't found something he wants to
do after graduating. His options are rather limited as it is, seeing as his marks have never been high
and still aren't this year. His dad is in Azkaban, and his mum doesn't want him to come home since
he didn't help the Death Eaters fight in the war.

He's sort of just...drifting along, at the moment. He has been since Vince. The poor bloke hadn't
dealt with that well at all. Over the course of the first half of Seventh Year, he lost a considerable
amount of weight and did a whole lot of random crying that no one was ever prepared for. He's
gotten much better recently, back to eating properly, and he hasn't burst into tears without warning
in at least two months.

Everyone sort of took him in. Harry's not sure how, exactly, but Greg's treated almost like a child
between everyone, despite him being the same age as them. Harry's guilty of it, too. He often finds
himself sitting down with Greg to play Exploding Snap just to entertain him so he won't be sad that
his best friend is dead. Pansy's the worst about it, always doting on him and giving him nearly
anything he wants, finding moments she can include him in things. If Greg hated it, they'd probably
stop, but he seems to enjoy the kind attention and has improved vastly under it, so no one does.

"Ah, there she is," Theo suddenly says, face splitting into a brilliant smile. "My lovely wife to be."

"I never said yes," Astoria murmurs, sitting down on the bench next to Theo with all the grace
Harry has only ever seen Mrs. Malfoy radiate.

Theo hums, leaning to the side to stare at her with a self-satisfied smirk. "You didn't say no, either."
"You've yet to get my mother to agree," Astoria informs him coolly, carefully and elegantly stirring
her coffee, one eyebrow arched.

"She will," Theo says confidently.

Astoria's lips twitch just a little, then she's blushing slightly and turning her face away as she
murmurs, "Yes, well, if she does, you're free to court me."

"Why shouldn't I start now?" Theo asks.

"I shouldn't get involved if it's not a sure thing. It's not proper," Astoria says, soft and tentative.

Theo gasps theatrically and cups his palms to his chest. "Oh no, you'll never be able to turn me
away if you have me, will you? We'll fall in love and run away together when your parents scold
you for daring to ever get involved with a handsome, ridiculous man such as myself." He pauses,
waggling his eyebrows at her. "It sounds terribly romantic, if you ask me. Don't you want to have a
love such as that, Astoria? My darling, I'll sweep you off your feet if you let me. You need only let
me."

Astoria giggles, shaking her head slightly, openly charmed. "You're shameless."

"For you," Theo says, "I'll be anything."

"Ergh," Blaise mutters, with feeling, because he's picked up a few of Ron's mannerisms. He looks
like he's going to vomit. "You two are sickening."

Harry snorts quietly and looks down at his plate, trying not to show his grin. Blaise is entirely
right. Theo and Astoria are absolutely sickening, even more than Harry and Draco are,
miraculously enough. They have the sort of romance going on where they're practically on the edge
of their seats, just waiting for the moment they can actually begin dating. All they need is Astoria's
mother to agree.

Theo has a lot of responsibilities as the Head of the Nott family bloodline, and he has pretty much
evaporated most of them, all because he hates them. He gives up on trying to get that land that his
family has been stuck on for centuries, and he's already hired Daphne—a literal genius when it
comes to balancing finances—to handle all finances involved with his responsibilities. He has
asked that Draco, Pansy, and Astoria help him throw the required events that Purebloods are
unofficially required to do for the Ministry—at least until Hermione takes over at some point.

The only thing he's willing to do as all the Heads of the Nott family bloodline has is get married
and have a child, because when Lucius carefully explained that Gwinnette Greengrass wants to
marry off both her daughters and brought up Astoria's name, Theo all but jumped at the chance to
fall in love with her.

It's odd. For all that Theo is crude and harsh sometimes, he is ridiculously soft when it comes to
Astoria. He'll mock anyone else for anything, then do endless mildly embarrassing things just to
watch Astoria giggle about it.

It reminds Harry strangely of Mrs. Malfoy and Lucius, but when he pointed this out to Draco, the
comparison wasn't appreciated. He hasn't risked bringing it up again.

"Are they being disgusting again?" Daphne asks quietly as she sweeps in with Ron and Hermione,
taking her spot across from them on the bench.

Draco grimaces. "Unfortunately."

"It benefits me, at least," Daphne says, tilting her head as she smiles fondly at her sister, eyes
warmer than they usually are. "Mother is busy worrying about you, which I prefer. She was just
starting to get earnest about finding me a husband."

"Purebloods," Hermione scoffs.

"You're all mental," Ron mutters.

Harry notes with some amusement that both Hermione and Ron seem displeased about the idea of
Daphne getting married off to someone. It's only even more amusing because Daphne seems to
notice it as well, lips curling up at the corners.

"She'll eventually set her sights on me before allowing Theo and Astoria to marry," Daphne
murmurs, reaching out with a soft sigh to smooth her hand down Astoria's hair. "I suppose I'll
either have to find myself a husband before then, or...or allow her to choose for me. The only other
option is being disowned, because Mother certainly would, and I'd never abandon Astoria like
that."

Harry's heart squeezes violently for a second, recalling Mrs. Malfoy's history with Andromeda.
Purebloods really are terrible sometimes, and though he suspects there will be massive changes in
the Pureblood society in due time, there aren't quite enough now. It's dreadful.

"That's dreadful," Hermione whispers, unknowingly echoing Harry's thoughts.

"That's life," Daphne replies.

Hermione frowns, averting her eyes, and Harry can practically see the cogs turning in her mind.
Whatever her plans are, he wants no part of it. She's brilliant, and scary, and entirely on her own
with this one. Though...well, Ron will probably be involved somehow. Harry has to swallow down
a bark of laughter at the thought.

"Yes, yes, mourn the loss of the many three-way shags you could have all had if Daphne weren't
cursed to be a Pureblood later," Pansy cuts in, practically slicing the solemn moment in half. She
ignores Ron's sputtering and smacks the letter down on the table in front of Hermione. "Look who
decided to reply. My request was denied."

"Denied?!" Hermione hisses, recovering from the mention of three-way shagging in an instant. Her
eyes narrow as she snatches up the letter, her hair seeming to get fluffier in anger as she reads along
quickly. Finally, she slams the letter down in fury and declares, "This is ridiculous! Your request
was more than reasonable! It was accommodating, frankly, and denying it is—oh, this is not over.
Have you already sent a reply?"

"Blaise is making me eat first," Pansy says, clearly sour about it. She perks up quickly, though.
"He did give me the most brilliant suggestion, though. Don't you think a trip to the Ministry would
be absolutely lovely after we've graduated?"

"I do think, in fact," Hermione agrees with relish, pointing her fork at Pansy. "I want to be there
when you write that letter. I'll start on a file to—"

"What did I tell you?" Draco whispers, rolling his eyes and shaking his head.
"—discredit every reason they've given for denying your request and draw attention to every
reason that they should accept," Hermione continues brazenly.

"Lovely," Pansy says. "I'll get a haircut to look more intimidating. Do you think Ginny would do
it?"

"She'd probably love to," Hermione assures her.

Harry swivels on the bench to stare at Draco, quietly murmuring, "D'you know how utterly
frightening we are as a group, Draco? Slytherins and Gryffindors banding together to get the things
we want. We could take over the whole world, you know."

"Don't be naughty at the table, Harry," Draco says with a quiet laugh. "You know how I get when
you ponder world domination."

"I'm being entirely serious."

"It's getting increasingly harder not to shag you."

"I—what? Is it really? You know…"

"Don't start."

Harry swallows a small laugh and scoots closer to Draco, leaning into him, digging his chin into
Draco's shoulder. "No, seriously, I might've changed a rather huge thing, getting everyone to be
such good friends. Don't even try to deny that we all aren't, because we obviously are. All I'm
saying is, we're all about to be set loose on the world, and...I feel a little bad for the world,
honestly."

"I pity the fools who don't bow to our will," Draco tells him, turning his head to give Harry a quick
kiss on his nose. "It'll be a better world once we've gotten through with it."

"Isn't that what everyone who tries to take over and rule thinks?" Harry asks pensively.
"Have you ever heard of a joke? Merlin, it's not like we're actually going to take over the world."
Draco pauses, then waves a lazy hand. "Perhaps a small bit, but that's all. Why? Is this you being
mildly intimidated by our own friends, or are you thinking about the Dark Lord again?"

"Which one do you think it is?"

"You agreed not to drive yourself mad thinking about him, at least not before dinner. I know it
makes you frustrated not knowing where he is, Harry, but you'll get in one of your moods if you
think about it all day."

"I hate not knowing," Harry complains, dropping his head onto Draco's shoulder entirely. "Why
doesn't he just bloody write or something?"

Draco hums indulgently, reaching up to pat Harry's head. "Don't worry about it now. Eat."

"I'm not actually hungry anymore."

"If you don't eat, I'm telling Mother."

"Prat," Harry grumbles, sitting up to eat almost as soon as Draco's threat lands.

Draco flashes him a quick smile. "Idiot."

Hermione's not actually violent. Yes, she punched Draco in the face once, and she sent birds flying
with force at Ron's head, and she tends to occasionally wack people on the arms when she—

Okay, she might get a little violent in her anger, which is doing Harry no favors now. He shrinks
back in his chair as Hermione paces furiously in front of him, eyes blazing. Her hair is fluffier than
it has ever been.
"What do you mean you haven't told him?" she snarls, rounding on him with rage in every single
syllable that leaves her mouth.

Harry cringes. "Just what I said. I—I haven't told him. I still don't know how Dumbledore knew.
I've only told you and Ron."

"We haven't said anything." Hermione harrumphs and crosses her arms, glaring at him. "You have
to tell him, Harry. It's bad enough that you won't tell me and Ron where you're going, or what
you're doing, plus you're planning to leave without a proper goodbye to everyone!"

"I can't tell you where I'm going," Harry says with a huff. "I already told you, I don't actually
know. I'll just go wherever I end up next, I suppose. And I'm not doing anything! I'm just going to
travel around the world for a bit. Muggles do it all the time after they graduate, so why can't I?
There's no need for me to get everyone together and say goodbye if I'll be coming back eventually,
Hermione."

"Yes, but you don't know when!"

"Well, I don't think there's a time frame for this sort of thing. I'll be done traveling when I'm ready
to come home. It's not that big of a deal."

Hermione's nostrils flare. "It's not the traveling I'm upset about, Harry. I'm not...pleased about it, or
how you don't know when you'll be back, but I can understand why you'd want to get away for a
bit. I'm upset because you haven't told Draco. Harry, you absolutely have to tell Draco."

"I know, I will," Harry mumbles, reaching up to scratch the back of his head in frustration. He
grimaces when she glares at him harder. "I said I will, Hermione. Leave it alone already!"

"Just…" Hermione sighs, softening a little as she drops her arms from her defensive stance. "He
loves you, Harry. He truly does, and I know you love him, too. Just think about how you would
feel if he was doing what you are."

Harry swallows and drops his gaze, ashamed. "I know, Hermione. Trust me, I know."
On the Fourth Floor in Hogwarts, down a curved corridor, there is a rather cozy alcove with a
stained glass window where a mermaid splashes about on a rock in the middle of the ocean. Ships
pass by, and she eventually splashes off towards them, her figure getting smaller as she drags men
into the water and drowns them. It's a morbidly delightful thing to watch, sort of terrible but
beautiful in the different colors and shifting shapes.

Harry had discovered this little spot about two months into the Seventh Year after a particularly
explosive argument with Draco. He can't actually remember what the fight was about now, so it
wasn't something serious, but it was the first fight they had after Harry nearly died.

It was rather vicious, honestly.

He and Draco didn't speak to each other for four days, which made all their friends visibly
uncomfortable. Even Ron—one of the strongest advocates for Harry to break up with Draco, still—
was warily dropping hints by day three to Harry that perhaps they should make up.

In any case, Harry had found this small alcove and sat in it for hours on the large stone seat cut out
around the stained glass. It reminded him of the window seat back at the Manor, except he had
more room. And, after thinking about all the memories in the window seat at the Manor, Harry
found himself back on his feet and seeking out his boyfriend to reconcile and move past it.

They did, because of course they did, and Harry had almost instantly shown Draco the alcove. It's
completely hidden away from the corridor, though someone could peer around the corner and see
them at any given moment, but this hall tends to stay empty. Due to the privacy outside of the
mermaid watching them from the stained glass, Harry and Draco keep coming here.

They've discovered that one of them can lean back against the stone wall while the other can either
sprawl between their legs or crawl into their lap.

They make good use of this. Frequently.

They're doing just that now, leaning into each other and snogging to their heart's content, as if
they're not three days out from graduating. Harry knows it's a little ridiculous to still be carving
time out of their day to sneak off and go snog in some sheltered alcove, but it makes him feel light
and giddy anyway.

Besides, Seventh Year has been torture in the hormone department, just as the year before it, just
as he expected it to be. Due to the fact that they have plenty of time, Harry had come to the
executive decision to not shag his boyfriend in some dusty classroom or anywhere in the Castle
where anyone could find them and interrupt. He does respect Draco, after all, and he doesn't really
mind the wait now that he's not going to die for the world.

Harry had gone to stay at the Weasleys for half of each break, then was picked up by the Malfoys
to stay at the Manor, only to realize that Theo was staying with the Malfoys, too. Any and all
activities they would have been happy to do at the Manor got put on hold because Theo teased
them relentlessly, always interrupting or trying to join them, and frankly, Harry was close to
committing murder again. He didn't, thankfully, but it was close.

In any case, he's at peace with just snogging Draco for now, having him pressed close or in his lap,
their hands roaming almost innocently over their clothes.

Today, Harry's the one who crawled into Draco's lap—a rare occurrence, honestly, because Draco's
usually the one who gets eager the quickest; it's all that repression, Harry thinks—and he's settled
in like he may never move again. His socked-feet (because he already shucked his trainers) are
tucked beneath his arse, resting above Draco's bony knees. His legs and knees are braced and
straddling Draco's surprisingly not bony thighs, and he can lift up and lean back at his own will.

It's perfect because Harry doesn't want to talk, not today. There's something he needs to say,
something he has to say, because he's already put it off too long.

Delaying it now won't save him later, but he's pretending it will. Besides, snogging Draco soothes
the guilt and distracts him from his worries. He cards his fingers through Draco's hair, leaning into
him with a muffled sound of urgency, and he's rewarded by Draco's cold fingers gently plucking
beneath his hoodie to brush along hot skin.

He shivers from head to toe, swallowing a curse and sucking on Draco's bottom lip without even
really thinking about it. There are moments such as these where things are really heady and intense
and dizzying, and Harry thinks he's absolutely going to die if it keeps going. He also thinks he will
die if it stops, so he's a mess of tangled emotions, really.

"Harry," Draco mumbles against his mouth.

"No, shh," Harry responds a bit breathlessly.

Draco tilts his head back with a huff, clearing his throat and blinking incredibly bright eyes, licking
his swollen lips as he gazes at Harry. "I feel like you're trying to distract me."

Bloody hell, he knows me too well, Harry thinks helplessly, freezing in place before he can stop
himself. Draco takes note of it instantly, arching an eyebrow at him, eyes narrowing.

"Can we go back to snogging?" Harry asks weakly.

"When you're ready to do it for some other reason than wanting to keep something from me, yes,"
Draco drawls, lazily smoothing his thumbs over Harry's sides, cooling a small area of hot skin.

Harry sighs and deflates like all his strings have been cut, settling back on his haunches in Draco's
lap. He reaches out to fiddle with Draco's discarded Slytherin tie between them, not even entirely
sure when he tugged it off. It's soft to the touch, and Harry pushes it between anxious fingers.

"I have to tell you something," Harry rasps, finally.

"I gathered that," Draco replies. "Go on, then."

"I—I, um. It's—I've—" Harry stops for a second, mortified to hear himself stutter that badly. He's
more nervous than he has been in some time, his stomach swooping with anxiety, dread cording
through his muscles at an agonizing crawl. He releases a slow breath and lifts his gaze to meet
Draco's. "After graduation, I—I have plans to travel. To...go wherever I end up, for however long I
want to. I didn't—ah, Draco, I didn't tell you because… I just—I don't know why I kept it from
you, and I'm sorry. I should have told you before now."

"Yes, you should have," Draco agrees, seeming genuinely calm and relaxed, which is baffling.
Seconds later, it makes sense when he speaks again, lips curling up. "Fortunately for you, I already
knew about this. I figured it out months ago."

Harry blinks. "What?"

"You fell asleep here in March," Draco says softly, waving around to gesture to the alcove. "You
talk in your sleep, did you know?"
"Why didn't you—" Harry blinks some more, absolutely astonished. "Draco, you never said
anything! You didn't…"

Draco hums. "I couldn't be entirely sure, could I? After all, you were only muttering in your sleep.
But I started looking for the signs, and I saw them. Why didn't you tell me?"

"I don't know," Harry admits, frowning. "Afraid to, maybe? You have—well, you've got the spot at
St. Mungos, and I know you're excited about it, even if you're pretending not to be. I didn't want
you to give that up, and I didn't want you to be upset that I was planning to leave for a while."

"Harry, I'm not stupid, you know," Draco murmurs, rolling his eyes and reaching out to gently peel
the tie away from Harry's worried pulling on it. "There is a reason you couldn't decide what career
you wanted to try after graduation. It's not because you don't have a passion for anything; it's
because there's something you feel you need to do first. And, as much as I love you, I'm not going
to give up my spot at St. Mungos to go gallivanting off with you while you chase Dark Lords."

Harry's mouth drops open. "How did you—did I say that's what I was going to do in my sleep?!"

"Well, no, but why else are you going to go traveling for some indefinite amount of time?" Draco
asks with a soft snort. "It's not because you need time away from home. I'm your home. You don't
want to be away from me unless you're an irredeemable idiot with no hope, but fortunately for you,
that fate has missed you by just a margin."

"Do you...disapprove?" Harry murmurs hesitantly, feeling the tie drift over his hands and wrists as
Draco carelessly drags it along his skin.

"I hate that you'll be away for however long it takes," Draco says slowly, lips puckering into a
thoughtful pout. "And I know you'll want to keep this quiet and separate from our friends, so you
won't be writing to anyone, even me, which is something else I hate. But do I disapprove of you
going off to find the evil, murderous Dark Lord who ruined countless lives? Mmm, no."

"You don't?" Harry checks doubtfully.

Draco smiles at him, just a bit, carefully weaving the tie around Harry's wrists, the loose fabric
brushing his skin. "I know you care about him, Harry. I know you miss him. I even know that you
see him as some sort of guardian. He's vile and terrible, and I won't pretend he's not. He is,
however, the thing that forfeited the war so you could live. If you want to go find him and—I don't
know—do whatever you feel you need to do, then who am I to stop you?"

"My boyfriend, who I love and respect very much," Harry whispers, leaning close enough that their
noses brush. "If you didn't want me to go, I probably wouldn't. Do you know that?"

"I do know that." Draco's dimple-scar faded only a little with time, but it deepens and flashes in a
way that makes Harry's heart stutter. "It's probably one of the biggest reasons I'm not going to ask
you to stay. You have things you want and need to do, and those things don't always have to
involve me. I'm alright with that. We'll be fine to be apart for a while. I'm not afraid you'll go away
and never come back, not anymore. Just promise me you'll be safe."

Harry breathes out in shock, thoroughly stunned by Draco's response, though he has no idea why he
is. It's not like they haven't come so far in just this last year, because they have. The both of them
have grown and changed and expanded on their different perception of love, finding ease with time,
finding what fits them best as they get older and face the next stages of their life.

"I'll do my absolute best," Harry croaks. "You're a marvel, Draco Malfoy. Have I ever told you
that?"

"Might have done, but it doesn't hurt to hear again."

"Are you going to miss me?"

"Of course not. Frankly, Harry, I can't wait to be rid of you," Draco says without missing a beat,
though the fact that he's currently holding Harry close in his lap sort of ruins the words.

"Draco," Harry murmurs with a small laugh, "are you going to miss me, really?"

"Terribly," Draco admits, wrinkling his nose a bit like the thought displeases him. "I'll be maudlin
about it, you know. Perhaps some moping. Maybe I'll drift around the Manor all dramatically like
Mother does, sighing and doing embroidery to pass the time. I'll be a sad shell of a man without
you, Harry Potter, truly."

Harry snorts. "Why does our love have to be a tragic romance? It's just not on."
"Because heroes don't get happy endings," Draco tells him, glancing down at the tie he's still
curling around Harry's wrists with no direction.

"Good thing I'm not a hero, then," Harry chirps rather cheerfully, beaming when Draco glances up
at him in sardonic amusement. "What? I'm not. Heroes don't kill people out of hatred or anger.
Heroes probably don't love the villain like a guardian, and if they do, they can likely choose the
better guardian on the good side. Heroes also don't fall in love with their rival, I'm pretty sure, and
I'm positive that heroes don't daydream about taking over the world every once in a while."

Draco shakes his head, lips twitching. "Heroes do save the day and sacrifice themselves for
others."

"Just because things just sort of happen to me and I go along with them does not make me a hero.
The moment I got an ounce of free will, I fell in love with my bully and decided to get on with the
monster that murdered my parents. And I don't regret it at all. If there was a club, and heroes were
invited, I would be kicked out of the club on principle."

"You're utterly ridiculous. I can't wait until I don't have to hear you yammering on about whatever
moronic things pass through your mind."

"Oh, in that case, I'll leave you to your wondrous silence now, shall I?" Harry asks, arching an
eyebrow, moving to lift off Draco and leave.

Harry had been under the impression that the tie wasn't A Thing, but he has never been more
wrong. Draco does something fancy with the end of it, folding it deftly underneath Harry's wrists,
then he's suddenly yanking up on the end and—

Harry's wrists snap together as the tie's loose wrap suddenly becomes tight. He blinks down at it in
surprise, raising his eyebrows in something that may or may not be interest when he tries to
wriggle his wrists free and finds that he can't.

"I could kidnap you if I really wanted to," Draco muses, watching Harry in thoughtful
consideration, like he's actually thinking about it.

"Please do," Harry says, only half-joking. He'd let Draco kidnap him, he thinks. Actually, he'd
probably let Draco do whatever he wanted to him. "On the way to wherever you take me, you have
to show me how you did that with the tie. It's brilliant."
Draco rolls his eyes, but his lips curl into a reflexive smirk. "You're so easily entertained, you
know."

"You're very entertaining," Harry says, grinning at him crookedly.

"Are you trying to flatter me? You're trying to shag me, aren't you?"

"Honestly, I'm not opposed."

"In front of our guest, Harry? How rude." Draco gestures with his free hand to the mermaid who's
simply watching them with blushing cheeks and soundless giggles.

She looks like she'd enjoy it if they did shag in front of her, honestly, and Harry suspects it's
because all those men in those ships always call after her and try to steal her because of her beauty.
She's probably just delighted to see two men interested in each other instead of her, which he can't
blame her for. Draco doesn't seem to care to give this that much thought because he huffs and
yanks sharply on Harry's tied hands again. Pay attention to me, he doesn't say but it's quite obvious
all the same.

"She doesn't seem to care," Harry admits.

"I'm not giving her a show." Draco rolls his eyes when Harry sends her an apologetic look.
"Besides, you're the one who wants to go chasing Dark Lords around the world, so you'll just have
to wait until you get back for any shagging."

Harry purses his lips. "Is this punishment for me leaving, or for me waiting so long to tell you?"

"A little bit of both," Draco says.

"Yeah, alright, that's fair." Harry shakes his head and smiles, folding closer to brush the tip of his
nose over Draco's. "You can't tell anyone what I'm doing when they ask. You won't actually know
where I am, but they'll ask that, too. I don't want this getting back to anyone here, if I can help it."
"I know," Draco murmurs, voice softening. "You'll have wards and such up to keep people from
sending you letters, won't you?"

"Yeah."

"Make an exception?"

"Draco," Harry mumbles, frowning.

"No, no, listen," Draco says, his voice turning sweet with inquiry. His eyes are the epitome of high
hopes and gentle dreams, so soft and lovely that Harry's entire being protests the mere idea of
disappointing him and not giving him what he wants—which is, he knows, entirely the point. He's
still weak for it anyway, melting a little as Draco's eyes flutter, a pleading lilt to his tone when he
continues. "Just, if you're still gone on your birthday, I'd hope to write to you. I wouldn't want you
to be alone on your birthday, Harry. I won't tell anyone, and you'd only need to let one ward down
—the one that will keep Hedwig out. Leave her here with me, and I'll send her with the letter.
She'll find you, and you can keep her, and you don't even have to respond."

Harry feels like he'd prop a ladder against the moon to climb up and gather Draco all the stars, so of
course he says, "Yeah, fine, that can be my exception, you persuasive bastard."

"Oh, lovely," Draco murmurs, smirking now as his very obvious and very well-executed act slips
away in a flash. Sometimes, Draco is just genuinely like that, and other times, he plays at it. Either
way, it blows Harry's common sense to smithereens every single time, which Draco's always
pleased by. "Here, I'll be nice. Let me show you how to do the tie."

He proceeds to do exactly that, releasing Harry's wrists with nimble fingers, then carefully walking
Harry through each step with the tie interwoven through his own wrists. Harry pays attention
because it's strangely interesting, and he finds that once he has it, he can do it quickly. It just takes
him a few tries to get it right, which he spends giggling and trying to raise the end of the tie up to
tickle Draco's nose without unraveling it from his wrists.

Finally, after some fumbling attempts, Harry manages to yank the little handle of the tie that draws
Draco's wrists together, and he decides he likes this tie thing very much.

"Where did you learn how to do this?" Harry asks, gently guiding Draco's hands around.
"Don't laugh," Draco murmurs, "but I learned during the Christmas break of my Third Year.
Mother had gotten Father this ostentatiously lavish dresser to put in their room. The golden rods
were supposed to come already on the dresser, but they did not, so Mother had me learn how to tie
the knots to hold them at the right distance in place. I had to tie it over and over for hours, all
because Mother didn't like the placement of the rods. Finally, I just got fed up and left her to do it
alone. I never forgot the knot, though. And, well, I've done others in my own time, you know."

Harry is definitely not going to laugh because, "You're rambling, Draco. You only do that when
you're nervous. Why are you nervous?"

"I'm not," Draco says, lying.

"You're not?" Harry arches an eyebrow, then yanks on Draco's hands a little roughly with no
warning, distantly satisfied when Draco makes a small sound and sucks in a sharp breath. "Is it the
tie? I can take it off if you want me to."

Draco just stares at him, not blinking now, and there's a slow spread of red in his cheeks, and—

"Oh," Harry blurts once he realizes, his other eyebrow raising to join the first. "You don't want me
to take it off. I see. Well, why didn't you just say so? It feels rather nice, doesn't it? To the touch, I
mean. The skin. You know what I mean."

"You only ramble when you're nervous, or excited," Draco whispers, still refusing to blink.

"Yeah, I know," Harry murmurs, scooting closer with purpose, jerking Draco's hands up by the tie
to lift above their heads. "Take a guess as to which one I am right now."

"I'd feel a lot better if you were nervous, I think."

"I'm not."

And, with that, Harry folds in with a small hum, going right back to snogging like they never
stopped at all. His hand holding Draco's hands up slides carefully higher, threading their fingers
together above their heads, and Draco makes a small sound that seems to be punched out of him.
Beside them, the mermaid looks down and watches them in utter delight.

Ron's laughter is loud in the night, booming off the empty alleyway as the large group moves
along in various stages of being absolutely pissed.

Harry looks on fondly.

"I can't believe we're free!" Neville bellows, throwing his arms out wide and nearly smacking Theo
in the face whilst doing so. "I'm going to get my own greenhouse. That's first. I have to do that
first."

"You're going to have so many plants," Pansy decides, listing to the side and wobbling on her heels.
Because Neville is closest to her, he reaches out to steady her, and she thanks him by
enthusiastically kissing his cheek. "You should have all the plants, Neville!"

"I wish Luna and Ginny could be here," Draco whispers, leaning heavily into Harry's side,
stumbling along as his words slur.

"Me, too," Harry reassures, rubbing his hands in soothing circles over Draco's back.

"They haven't graduated yet," Draco says sadly. "They're still stuck in that drafty, old Castle."

Harry bites back a laugh, nodding indulgently at the sincere upset on Draco's face. "Not for the
summer, at least, and they'll only return for one more year. I know you're fond of them, but they'll
be fine."

"I am fond of them," Draco tells him, earnest and blinking slowly. His eyes are a cloudy silver-
blue, like rainstorms shifting in on mid-day. "Hogwarts will be safe, won't it? Professor Mumty
will be cautious after what happened."

"I'm sure she will," Harry soothes, a ridiculous bubble of warmth in his chest as he eases Draco
back into a semi-stroll.
"I'll handle those three," Blaise announces, rubbing his hands together as he jerks his chin at Pansy,
Theo, and Neville. "Get Draco home safely."

"I'll worry about Ron and Hermione," Daphne says gently, lips curling up as she watches them
giggle and stumble along the alley ahead of them.

Harry hesitates because he is a good best friend, gaze stuck on Ron and Hermione. "Mrs. Weasley
will lose the plot if you drop them at the Burrow like this. They can come back with me and Draco,
I think. Lucius might raise some hairs about it, but Mrs. Malfoy will handle it."

"It's alright," Daphne murmurs. She shoots Harry a small smile. "They can rest at my place for
tonight. I know how to get in without alerting my mother."

"If you're sure," Harry mumbles, frowning at her. She nods, and he narrows his eyes. "Daphne,
they're both sloshed, so you best not—"

"I'll put them to bed," Daphne cuts in sharply, seemingly affronted by his insinuation. It's not a
slight on her, though; it's a testament of how much Harry cares about his friends. Daphne just
happens to be one of those, and he trusts her, so he lets it go with a small nod. She seems inclined
to reassure him, despite this. "I won't allow them to do anything harmful or embarrassing to me or
each other. They're going to be fine."

"Alright, I believe you," Harry tells her, because he does. He offers a small smile and does not get
one in return because she's already distracted by Ron and Hermione again, which is why he likes
her anyway.

Harry jolts at the feeling of warm, wet lips parting over his pulse. He freezes in place, hands
clamping down around Draco as he briefly forgets where he is and what he's doing. Draco, who is
also highly intoxicated, has apparently taken it upon himself to lavish at Harry's throat right there in
front of everyone, shamelessly humming in approval, too.

"Good luck with him," Blaise declares with a snort, his eyes sparkling with mirth as he breaks off
to go wrangle his girlfriend, who is currently trying to seduce Neville.

Harry never gets to find out if Pansy succeeds because Blaise all but shoves his designated group
into the waiting pub, likely to use the floo one at a time. Daphne usheres a highly-spirited Ron and
Hermione in behind them, smirking at their rather obvious attempts at touching her while trying
not to seem like they want to touch her.

Draco's breath puffs over the shell of Harry's ear, and it's not long before his teeth catch on Harry's
earlobe. It sends a jolt through him, making him suck in a sharp breath. He's dizzy in an instant,
almost forgetting that he's not the drunk one at the moment. He clears his throat. Twice.

"Draco," Harry says, cautious and hesitant because Merlin, his teeth have started skating down the
side of Harry's neck, his tongue soon to follow. "Ah, Draco, could you possibly, um, not do that for
two ticks? I have to get us home."

"What?" Draco asks fuzzily, pulling back briefly to rub his nose over Harry's cheek with a soft
reverence that makes Harry's chest go tight with emotion, and then he's right back to latching onto
Harry's neck.

Harry takes a deep, fortifying breath. He sweeps his hand up and down Draco's back in a soothing
gesture, even as he carefully extracts himself from Draco's space, leaning back a bit. This earns
him an offended glare, Draco squinting at him in reproach as he tries to scoot in close again.

"We need to go home," Harry tells him firmly, holding his gaze, trying to break through the
alcohol-induced stupor Draco has put himself into. "You need to sleep, yeah?"

"I'm not really tired," Draco admits in that snooty, posh tone that means he's posturing to cover up
a blatant lie. "I'm wide awake, Potter, so just—just—"

Harry shakes his head with a small smile. "Alright, Malfoy, you'd know your own sleepiness,
wouldn't you? I'm tired, though. Let's go home."

"If we must." Draco turns his head, fully just pouting now, and Harry can't help but find it terribly
endearing.

Getting back to the Manor is something of an adventure in and of itself. Side-along Apparation is
already something Harry's nervous about, and that's not even considering the fact that he would
have to carry along a very sloshed Draco Malfoy.

He had learned in Seventh Year during Apparation lessons that he just...doesn't enjoy Wizard
travel. Maybe that's his Muggle roots, or maybe he'd rather not defeat all laws of physics by
swirling in flames or squeezing himself through non-existent tubes as he goes hurling through
space. It's utterly mad, really, but it's also awfully convenient. Sort of like the Knight Bus,
honestly, and that's yet another unpleasant form of Wizard travel.

Still, he does want to get them home as soon as possible and as safely as possible, so the floo is the
safest bet. He can just stand in the fireplace with Draco and drag him along when they get spit out,
like mother's do with fussy children too young to floo on their own.

By the time he enters the pub, Blaise and Daphne have already apparently escorted their assigned
idiots out. Harry feels a small twinge in his chest that he didn't get to say goodbye to any of his
friends, but he brushes it off and starts towards the fireplace with Draco in tow.

Once they're finally back in the Manor, it's so quiet that they're being too loud by accident. Draco
keeps bumping into things, sneering at them, then apologizing politely. Harry is struggling not to
pin him up against the stupid, judgemental portraits of his ancestors and snog him for hours. It's
just cute, is all, and the way Draco's sliding curious fingers underneath Harry's jumper isn't
helping.

It's as they're making their way up the staircase that Harry sees they have an audience. Mrs. Malfoy
and Lucius both are standing on the landing, wearing stupidly extravagant pajamas and both
looking flawless despite having been in bed. Mrs. Malfoy has her silk robe pulled tight around her
petite body, and the sleeve where her arm no longer is has a deflated swish to it, meaning her
prosthetic isn't on. Lucius is glaring at Draco in faint disgust.

"He's tired," Harry says mildly, knowing there's no use in pretending that Draco's not absolutely
pissed right now, because he is—visibly so.

"I'm not!" Draco hisses, leaning into Harry hard and bumping his nose against his temple as he
apparently tries to speak and kiss Harry's cheek at the same time. "I'm very awake."

Harry chuckles nervously when both Mrs. Malfoy and Lucius regard him with ice-cold,
emotionless expressions. "It's fine. He's fine. I'm just taking him to bed, that's all."

Draco hums low in his throat. "Oh, yes, let's do that. You're not the idiot I thought you were, after
all."
"Thanks," Harry mutters dryly, rolling his eyes as he starts heaving Draco up the steps again. He
throws Mrs. Malfoy a shy smile. "I'll take care of him, I swear it. We just celebrated a bit."

That's an understatement. They'd all gotten together two days after getting home from Hogwarts for
good, deciding to get appropriately pissed as legal adults who have finished seven years of school.
Seven long years, of which were all varying degrees of horrible, wonderful, and life-altering.

Because Hermione is the responsible one, she made everyone draw straws on who would be sober
and looking after friends. Harry was relieved when he drew a short one—Blaise and Daphne, less
so. Hermione looked mildly uncomfortable to start with, then she got three Firewhiskeys in and fell
into giggles. Pansy, Theo, and Draco drank with no reservations, as did Ron and Neville.

Harry thinks that it's been a brilliant night, personally. He's had a lot of fun watching his friends be
ridiculous, and well...he enjoys taking care of them, too. Especially Draco.

"Celebrated...a bit," Mrs. Malfoy repeats, staring at her son, who sways vigorously in place.

"Just a bit," Harry says with a crooked, cheeky smile. He sees the flash of amused fondness in Mrs.
Malfoy's eyes, and that's enough for him. "Well, goodnight. Come along, Draco."

"The stairs are very steep," Draco notes in a slurring tone as Harry hauls him further away.

Behind him, he can hear Lucius hissing in a displeased tone and Mrs. Malfoy murmuring in a
soothing one, and he chuckles to himself as he goes.

When they enter the room, Harry carefully shuts the door and starts dragging Draco towards the
bed. Halfway there, Draco starts mouthing at his throat again, humming and skating his hands
beneath Harry's jumper once more.

It's doing terrible things to Harry's righteous sensibilities. He wishes desperately that Draco wasn't
drunk at the moment, but he is. He just is, and Harry will have to do the right thing, which is not
falling into bed with his boyfriend whilst he's not in a clear state of mind. It's hard in some ways
because Draco is apparently determined to get him riled up, but it's also not hard because no part of
Harry ever wants to take advantage of Draco at all.

Harry finally manages to dump Draco on the bed, lips twitching when Draco releases a delighted
little giggle when he bounces a bit. Draco continues to try and pull Harry's clothes off, and Harry
expertly dodges his hands and starts getting Draco ready for bed. He removes his shoes, helps him
out of his hoodie, arranges his pillows, and finally tucks the blankets up around him. Draco's eyes
have fallen shut in the process, face smoothing out as his hands go still, dropping away from
Harry.

"Sleep," Harry murmurs, bending down to press a kiss to the corner of Draco's mouth, only to blink
in shock when Draco yanks his head away.

"I'm taken," Draco says in a rather prissy voice, wrinkling his nose and screwing his eyes shut even
tighter. He reaches a lazy hand out and shoves Harry's face away. "You're lovely, I'm sure, but I
have a boyfriend. I love him."

"Do you?" Harry asks softly, a warm smile stealing over his face.

Draco hums. "I do, very much. I'm sure you like me and all, because why wouldn't you, but I have
to tell you that you simply won't compare to him."

"He sounds like a very special bloke," Harry muses, kicking off his trainers and slipping out of his
jumper, watching Draco with easy fondness.

"Yes" Draco declares dreamily, then he smiles. "He's an idiot."

Harry snorts. "Draco, open your eyes."

"Are they closed, really?" Draco looks surprised, his eyebrows raising, and he slowly cracks open
one eye. His smile immediately blooms. "Oh, it's you. Are you watching me sleep, Harry? That's
creepy."

"Shove over, I'm getting in," Harry mumbles, biting back a laugh when Draco's eyes fly open.

"Are you?" Draco asks, interest evident in his tone as he scrambles to the side.

"To sleep," Harry clarifies, because he has a strong will. He slips under the blankets with a sigh.
Draco frowns at him, blinking sleepily. "No, we mustn't do that. It'll be morning if we do that."

"Draco," Harry murmurs, his smile slipping.

"You're going to leave in the morning," Draco whispers, scooting closer until their noses are almost
brushing. "Why didn't you tell our friends? Or Mother? They're going to be so cross with you."

"I'll be back. Besides, they'll ask me endless questions I can't answer."

"They're going to ask me those questions when you're gone."

"Yeah," Harry agrees sheepishly, "but it's not like you know anything. And, well, you're good at
being rude to people and telling them to piss off."

"I'll tell the whole world to piss off for you," Draco mumbles, fitting his head in the crook of
Harry's shoulder with a soft sigh, his hand reaching out to lay over the scar on his chest. His fingers
trace it loosely, rubbing over the raised flesh. "The world should piss off forever, I think."

"Yeah, maybe," Harry murmurs, amused.

Draco kisses his jaw distractedly. "What if you can't find him, Harry?"

"I will."

"Will you come home if you can't?"

"I won't be gone forever. Even I have my limits."

"Because you love me?"

Harry presses a kiss to the top of Draco's head, eyes fluttering shut as he breathes him in. "Because
I love you," he confirms.

"Don't stay gone too long."

"I won't."

Draco hums and falls silent, his fingers eventually going still as his breathing evens out. Harry
holds him close, sinking slowly into sleep, well aware that he'll dream of a cliff where no one will
be waiting.

But that's alright. Harry's done waiting, too.

He's gone for days. Those days turn into a week, turn into two, then three. He's all around the
world, searching for anything that could lead to something, but nothing ever does.

He misses his friends. He misses Draco. He wants to go home. And yet, he keeps going.

Harry's birthday comes, and with it, Hedwig turns up with a letter from Draco. It makes him smile
as soon as he sees it. He strokes Hedwig's feathers as he carefully unfurls the parchment with one
hand, his heart already picking up speed in his chest. He misses Draco fiercely.

Prat, the letter begins—Harry is hit with a sharp bout of nostalgia at that.

I know you're off on some grand search, but it's absolutely absurd that you're not here with me on
your birthday. You were the last two years, and it's a tradition I had hoped to keep. I demand
compensation in the form of your presence next year.

However, because it is the day you decided to curse the world with your presence, I will be kind to
you. As much as I despise us being reduced to distance once more, I am annoyingly familiar with
the sensation, so I already know what the contents of this letter should be. Allow me to catch you
up on all that you've missed, as I once did frequently so long ago.
Or, it feels like a long time ago, now.

Since your departure, Mother has demanded me to tell her where you are at least daily, as if I
could. As promised, I have told no one what you're off doing, which means various people are
generally frustrated with me because I pretend I do not know. I do not pretend very well,
apparently. Mrs. Weasley has told me multiple times that I am a very bad liar (which is
ridiculous), and she seems to think that I am far too calm for someone with a lover that's run off
without saying anything. She is correct, to be fair. If you did such a stupid thing, I would have been
absolutely furious.

But you are an idiot by tolerant standards, and you did not, so I will not dwell on how I would have
felt if you had. Also, yes, you did read that correctly.

Mrs. Weasley invited me over to share a meal with all the Weasleys, with all intentions of
questioning me about your whereabouts. I had planned to politely refuse, but my mother betrayed
me by informing her sister and niece of the invitation. Dora then took it upon herself to inform Mr.
Lupin, and since they were invited as well, they both made sure to escort me there in a way I
simply could not refuse without seeming rude. Ron mocked me relentlessly and Hermione mostly
allowed it, because they're both still clearly annoyed that you disappeared without warning. The
dinner was good only in food and stilted otherwise, even more so when I told everyone that I had
no idea where you were, even though that's the truth. Yet, Mrs. Weasley had demanded that I come
back over for dinner, and now it is a regular occurrence I still haven't quite worked out how to
escape from. It's torture, I tell you.

You won't be surprised to know that Hermione and Ron have been coming and going in my life as
they please, pushy Gryffindors that they are. Ron somehow swindled a good bit of money out of me
to help invest prematurely in Fred and George's Joke Shop, allowing them to start a chain. It's
quite a big risk and Father was furious , of course, which is part of the reason I did it. Also, Ron
manipulated me, just a bit, with old guilt about my rude comments about his family and how it was
only fair that I make up for it in some way. It was very Slytherin of him, and I told him so. What I
did not tell him was that I was slightly proud, and I will not.

In any case, Fred and George have decided rather thoroughly that I am, in their words, a lovely
investor. Apparently, their first investor was much better and someone I can't dream of comparing
to, but they refuse to tell me who it was. Something about swearing never to tell a soul. But,
because I have invested, they did me a favor by hiring Greg on at the new shop. He seems quite
pleased with his new job, which is just as well.

Also, you should know, Pansy and Blaise have set a date for their wedding. They keep telling me to
inform you that you be there or else, no matter how many times I tell them that I have had no
contact with you. This is me informing you, by the way. If you do not make it back in time, I will
take someone else as my date.

When I visited Hogsmeade with Fred and George to look into a shop there, it coincided with a trip
from the Hogwarts students. We ran into Luna and Ginny. They were snogging, so it seems they've
finally figured things out between them. About time, I say. It was nice to see them again, though.
Luna told me some nonsense about us looking upon the same stars at night and yearning across
the distance. It was very romantic and sickening. Ginny, however, expressed surprising support in
my defense, vowing to hex you whenever you "get back from wherever you are with your head up
your arse" because, apparently, she thinks you're wrong for leaving me. I always knew she was the
smartest Weasley.

Oh, Hermione is currently trying to talk me into getting a flat of my own in hopes that I will leave
the Manor. She thinks it would teach me skills to live on my own, or at least with a flatmate until
you inevitably show your face again, as she puts it. A bit presumptuous of her to think you'll want
to live in a flat with me, but she seems firm in her argument. She's dragging me out every weekend
when she's not working to look at flats, and she's taken to flooing Pansy and demanding she join us
as well.

I think it's because she, Daphne, and Ron have a flat now. She claims that Ron has settled a lot at
having his own space, as well training to be an Auror. I think that Ron's just playing adult at the
moment and will be reduced to his former idiocy once you've returned to bring out the worst in
him. Meanwhile, Daphne just seems pleased to be there. They are happy, however, which I'm
informing you because you would care to know, not because I do.

If it matters to you (which it will, because everything always does), I've heard whispers that
Thomas and Finnegan have gotten a flat together as well. No one can say for definite what their
relationship is, but I sincerely doubt it's as innocent as some believe. I ran into Neville at St.
Mungos when he was visiting his parents, and he told me that he's enjoying his current study
underneath an esteemed Herbologist in Italy. He was only visiting for a short bit, but he happened
to run into Susan Bones, so I think his visits will be a bit more frequent now.

As for me, I have been doing well in both work and social circles. Theo and Ron have convened to
have regular "pub nights" that I am apparently required to attend, so I see our conjoined group of
friends more often than I truly wish to. At least once a week. It's dreadful because they are all as
ridiculous as ever. They do miss you, of course, and they regularly bring you up in conversation.
You've only been gone for a month so far, but they act as if you've uprooted from our lives for
years. St. Mungos, at least, is a reprieve if nothing else. There's always a challenge in training to
be a Healer, but I do like those, as you know.

Of course, you can't actually reply to this letter, but I assume you'll be happy to know that you
remain the center of so many people's lives. Your friends miss you. I miss you. Find him already,
Harry, and then come home.

Yours,

Draco

With a soft sigh, Harry folds up the letter and smiles at Hedwig, his heart pulsing warmth in his
chest. It's so nice to hear from Draco, especially on his birthday. He'd bargained for that one
exception, and Harry's glad now that he gave into it.

He leans forward and opens the window of the room, giving Hedwig the option to go when she
pleases. It's night, and she prefers hunting during this time, but she seems to need a rest. He can't
blame her, really. She did fly quite a bit.

"It's good to see you," Harry tells her.

Hedwig looks at him in faint reproach, and he knows she's not happy about him being gone as
well. He'd hoped that her getting to stay with Artimus would soothe her, but it appears not.

"Oh, don't look at me like that. I've already decided I have to do this, so you know I won't give up
until I have. I'm close now, I think. You can go back to Artimus if you want."

Hedwig hoots at him, and he somehow understands that she'll be staying with him until he's ready
to return him, even if it means she won't see her love until some time. It's sweet and loyal, and he
loves her. Smiling, he strokes her feathers and picks up the letter again, happy to re-read it.

For the next two weeks, Harry sees the inside of many Inns, pokes his nose into business that he
shouldn't, and he still doesn't get any worthwhile information. He does end up getting kicked out of
a pub in Greece, though, for antagonizing customers. He's only asking questions, but the further
away from cities he gets, the less people seem to want to help him. People living in small towns or
villages all seem to know each other and do not care for outsiders, and his name doesn't have the
same weight as it does inside England.

What humility he's learned by mere travel.

Nonetheless, he steadily keeps making his way towards any place that might have even a hint of
rumors involving Dark Magic or Dark Lords. And it's in the third week of August that Harry finally
gets something that could be everything.

He's in Tirana, starting out in the major cities first as always, before making his way to smaller
areas. The city is vast, enclosed by mountains and hills with an interesting looking valley that
points out at the sea. It's beautiful and warm, and Harry doesn't at all expect to find anything of
interest here.

The locals all seem to speak English when they find out he does, and they're more than eager to
help answer his questions when they see his coin pouch, just like in any bigger city. Money talks,
as always, and he isn't above letting it.

There's a pub called the Draining Merchant, and it is just as outdated and boisterous as the Leaky
Cauldron, just as all Wizarding establishments seem to be. The woman tending the bar offers him
ale the moment he sits down, and he doesn't say no because buying drinks is a good way to make
any owner happy enough to talk. She tells him her name is Bora, and she doesn't seem to know
who he is, nor does she bat an eye when he informs her.

"Look like you're traveling, Harry," Bora says in stiff English, though he's heard worse.

"All around, yeah," Harry confirms.

Bora grunts, pushing his ale closer to him. "Running from or to? After someone?"

"Something like that." Harry smiles at her faintly and takes a swallow of the drink just to appease
her, though it's a bit too heavy for his tastes. When he puts the glass down, he leans closer.
"Actually, I was wondering if you've heard of anything strange around here? Maybe in surrounding
towns?"

"Strange?" Bora repeats, eyebrows furrowing.

"Yeah," Harry confirms. "Any signs of Dark Magic, or—I don't know—anything notably
different."
"Mm." Bora grunts, considering, then she shakes her head. "Just the usual."

Where Harry's heart had been sinking, it suddenly jumps with one sharp beat. "The usual?"

And so, that's how Harry finds himself traveling to a much smaller village to the south, following
rumors that this particular place is practically home to enough ghost stories to scare even the
bravest soul. That seems strange enough for him.

He ends up in a wayside inn, getting a room and opening the window so Hedwig can make her
appearance whenever she's ready, and then he goes out in search of the closest pub. If he's learned
nothing else on his travels, it's that a pub is where to gather information in the Wizarding world.
Besides, drunk people have loose tongues.

The one he finds here doesn't even seem to have a name, and it's shabbier than any he's ever been
in, which is saying quite a bit. He tucks his hood down as soon as he enters, looking around
curiously. It's not a very big place, and there's a broom sweeping by itself in the corner, but all the
other occupants are tucked into booths and having very quiet conversations. Some people look up
when he comes in, but no one really meets his eyes for long.

It reminds him vaguely of Hog's Head, and he suspects he's got his work cut out for him if he
wants to get any information out of anyone tonight.

But, in the end, it's pure luck that gets him the clue he needs. A young, short girl ushers him into a
corner booth, directly behind a group of men who glare when he passes them. He gets a drink, the
girl scuttles off, and then the men resume talking.

They aren't talking in English, but he recognizes the tone that means it's serious and possibly a
secret. It's rather rude of him, but he catches the girl's hand after she sits the drink down and leans
up to quietly whisper in her ear.

"Do you know what they're talking about?"

The girl glances where he points almost nervously, but she nods, just once. "It's the Injurious
Jungle. You know of it, yes?"

"I don't," Harry admits awkwardly, inwardly exasperated at the apparent global need all Wizards
have to name places ridiculous things.

"Old Magic, bad, bad," the girl whispers furiously, shaking her head with vigor. "Centuries of
death and malevolence. Tales of blood."

"Like what?" Harry presses, holding her gaze. "What's the worst story?"

"The man in chains and the lost princess."

"What happened to them?"

"The girl came from very far. Fled far with her crown. They tried to take her back, but she would
not go. She hid her possessions in the earth, and the man in chains killed her because she would not
dig them up or return home. He killed himself after. It's been blood and darkness ever since."

"A crown? Was it ever found?"

The girl shakes her head. "People go look, but they never come back. Just death, there."

"Is that right?" Harry asks faintly. He purses his lips, then nods sharply. "Where is this Injurious
Jungle?"

She doesn't want to tell him, not at first, but he manages to wiggle the location out of her. Just an
hour to the west, she says, and so he finishes his drink and gets ready to go back to the inn so he
can retrieve his broom and go for a fly.

An Albanian forest awaits.

Harry thought the Forbidden Forest was bad, but it has nothing on the Injurious Jungle. The place
practically oozes evil, like a rolling fog of darkness, the scent of rust like blood in the air, heavy on
the tongue. He shudders even before he touches down between the tall trees.
This place is suffocating. The trees are too close, thick despite being rotted and cracked, and the
roots break out of the earth, snaking outwards like they're reaching for him. It's cold, despite the
fact that it's warm outside of it, and the chill is so brittle that it makes his skin break out into
goosebumps.

"This should be fun," Harry mutters sarcastically.

Spoiler alert, it is not.

He's not even an hour into his trek before he smells something so foul that he has to pause to gag.
It's the sort of vile smell that comes with dead things, and it would send anyone else running in a
heartbeat. Unfortunately, Harry's seeking out things associated with Dark Magic, which generally
includes dead things. So, like he knows he shouldn't, he goes towards the horrible smell.

He breaks through a clearing where the smell is the strongest, and he knows instantly that this was
a huge mistake on his part.

There are currently three very large, very grotesque trolls kneeling in a semi-circle around a mound
of rotted fish. It seems to be their meal at the moment, and Harry truly doesn't mean to interrupt.
He has all plans not to do that, except all three of the trolls take notice of him almost immediately.

"Oh, bloody hell," Harry curses, backing up as his blood turns to ice in his veins.

The three trolls share one simultaneous grunt before they all raise in what seems to be perfect sync,
and then they're charging right at him as fast as their twelve-foot statures will let them. As stupid as
they are, they're nonetheless very dangerous, and there's not a lot of space between them and him.

Harry—for all his bravery—can only turn around and take off running.

This, as it turns out, doesn't really help him very much. The trolls are large and slower than him,
yes, but they all seem to know the area quite well. He does not. Also, the land itself seems to be
turning against him. He stumbles over roots, slips on uneven ground, and gets blocked by clusters
of trees that even he can't dream of squeezing through.
So, Harry does the only thing he can. He slashes his wand and starts fighting back. He fought a
troll once, technically. He was eleven at the time, and it was one particularly stupid troll that wasn't
even fully grown, but still. How hard can it be?

The answer: very.

The darkness gets lit up with the Spells he uses, and he uses any in his arsenal, even trying the
same moves he saw when he was eleven. These trolls don't have clubs, though. One has a sodding
boulder, while another brandishes an actual tree, and the last one seems content just to swipe at
him with its hands.

He does his very best, however, and he manages to knock one of the trolls out on his own, slicing a
tree in half to have it come crashing down on the troll. Works a treat, really, but that still leaves
two.

They're particularly furious now that one has been taken down for the count, and Harry's somehow
been trapped between the two trolls and a long wall of trees that have no break in them. He's
working on adrenaline simply to hold them back. It's not as simple to fight two trolls by himself,
but he thinks he's doing alright. In the midst of it, there's even some thrill to it—that stupid,
reckless, enthralling Gryffindor desire for adventure.

It's not going perfect or anything, but he doesn't think he's doing too bad, not until one large hand
suddenly comes swiping from his peripheral. He gets swatted back like a gnat, sailing through the
air and connecting with one of the trees behind him so hard that everything instantly goes black.

When Harry's eyes flutter open, he smells tea.

It automatically reminds him of home. Like scent memory or something, he simply knows without
even having to look that there's tea nearby, specifically tea one would find in England. A sharp
sting of homesick stabs at him, and for one second, he considers just giving up on all of this and
going back. But no, he won't do that. He can't.

With that renewed determination comes a wave of curiosity, and Harry cranes his head to try and
figure where the fuck he is and why he wasn't food for trolls. He doesn't figure out much by simply
looking around. It seems he's in a cabin—a small one that's cold and decrepit, a dim fire burning in
the furnace, shelves of books lining every wall. He's laying down on a lumpy sofa, under a thin
blanket, and his body is only faintly sore.

Right, well, that's good enough for him.

Harry slowly sits up, easing the blanket aside and looking around with a frown. The place seems
rather empty, save for the fire burning and what appears to be a tray of tea—complete with a bowl
of sugar cubes and a small spoon—sitting directly on the tiny table in front of him.

"Hello?" Harry calls out, not actually expecting an answer, despite seeking one.

That's not how it works on the telly, or in books, or even from life experience. He doesn't usually
just get answers right away. If there's a mystery, he always ends up having to go figure it out on his
own, letting his curiosity guide him. He assumes that will happen now, that he won't get an
answer, that he'll have to get up and find who or what saved him from trolls and brought him here.

But, without much fanfare, a door off to the side opens with a soft creak, and Voldemort comes
sweeping into the room. It shouldn't be a surprise, because mystery never really surrounded
Voldemort; he always answered Harry, after all.

Harry has given a lot of thought to this very moment, to what he'd say if he ever got to meet
Voldemort once again. He'd had plans, alright? A speech, perhaps, or maybe even endless
questions. Because it's been over a year since Harry last saw him, and there's a lot of things to be
said.

And yet, Harry's mouth snaps shut and all thoughts flee his head as Voldemort comes to a stop in
the center of the room, just looking at him. He looks the exact same. His eyes are red and
gleaming, his nose is gone and left with slits like a snake, and he's still monstrous with his pale
skin and lack of hair and long, spindly fingers

"Harry," Voldemort greets, giving absolutely nothing away in his eyes or expression or tone. "You
should have some tea."

"You're here," Harry says, rather stupidly.

Voldemort hums. "I am. As are you."

Which, yeah, Harry is. He is, and he doesn't know why he's slightly embarrassed about that. He
feels younger than he actually is, like he's lost two years off his age by simply being in the same
room with Voldemort. He's not sixteen anymore, of course, but Merlin if he doesn't feel like he is
for a second.

It's an odd feeling, like being transported back in time briefly. If he closes his eyes, he can imagine
that they're gazing at each other across the desk in the Study at the Manor. If he focuses
particularly hard, he can still recall in perfect clarity the way Voldemort looked at him while there
was a sword sticking out of his chest.

Clearing his throat, Harry reaches out to fix his tea, suddenly not able to look at Voldemort at all.
He's been searching for him relentlessly, and now that he's here, Harry has no idea what to do or
say.

He settles on a quietly awkward, "Thanks," as he lifts the tea and drinks it.

"Do you wish to tell me why you were fighting three trolls, Harry?" Voldemort asks.

"Er, I sort of just...came across them, I suppose. Didn't mean to," Harry admits sheepishly, slowly
putting the tea back down. He glances at Voldemort cautiously. "You saved me, then?"

"Just in time," Voldemort says. "You were nearly swallowed whole."

"Can't imagine that would have gone over well, what with me being a Horcrux and all," Harry
muses, raising his eyebrows. "I don't actually want to know what would have happened to me in
that case."

"That's for the best. It wouldn't be pleasant."

"Thanks for saving me, then."

"Not an issue," Voldemort says calmly, seeming all for the world like someone polite.
It takes Harry a few moments to realize this is Voldemort's way of being awkward, or as close to it
as he can get, if he's capable of such a thing. Tone mild, distantly polite, speaking without
elaboration and offering no further commentary. It's rather strange because Harry vividly
remembers the verbal spars they had in the past, and Voldemort always had a thing about
monologuing, really.

"So…" Harry coughs. "What brings you to Albania? Have you been here ever since you left?"

Voldemort looks at him for a long time, long enough that Harry thinks he won't answer, but then he
lets out a quiet sigh and speaks. "Yes, I have been here this whole time. This is where I go
following all my defeats. This is where I came after the night I attempted to kill you and failed; this
is where I came after you separated me from Quirrell in your First Year; and this is where I came
following my final defeat, also by you—again. A pattern."

"Well, it was Prophecized and all that," Harry says weakly, trying for a joke and failing
spectacularly. He sighs and shakes his head. "The last wasn't really a defeat, was it? More of
a...quiet retreat?"

"In the stead of victory can only be loss. I did not win, so I was defeated."

"Calling it a surrender sounds nicer."

"I do not agree," Voldemort says simply. "They are equally weak, though equally true."

Harry frowns. "You're not—what you did wasn't weak. Not—not to me."

It definitely wasn't, never has been, and it never will be. Harry doesn't say that it meant the world
to him back then, that it still does, that it probably will always. Voldemort watches him as intent
and focused as he was a year ago, and Harry has forgotten how utterly intense that gaze is. It's like
he's baring his soul for Voldemort to see, only he doesn't recall giving the permission to do that.

Voldemort hasn't changed at all, and maybe he never will. Maybe he'll always exist this way. If
that's the case, Harry doesn't think he'd mind so much. There's something timeless about
Voldemort, like the world around him could rise and fall through millions of years, and he would
still remain as untouchable and permanent as he is now.
"Have you been looking for me, Harry?" Voldemort asks quietly, waiting patiently for an answer.

"Yeah," Harry says.

Voldemort's eyes narrow, just a bit. "How long?"

"Since I graduated from Hogwarts. Just a little over a month, really. I didn't actually know where to
start, so I just went anywhere. I got as much information about you as I could and started looking,
mostly searching for anything to do with Dark Magic, but I found you by luck."

"What luck?"

"I just came from Greece and decided to stop in the capital of Albania. Nice woman there told me
about some strange stuff around here, then I heard about the tale of the man in chains and the lost
princess. It was the Diadem, wasn't it?"

"Ah, yes, it was. Did the residents of the village not warn you away? It's very dangerous here, as
I'm sure you realize after your fight with three trolls."

Harry snorts. "Yeah, they made it clear, but when has that ever stopped me before?"

"Why did you come here to find me?"

"Why wouldn't I?"

"Harry," Voldemort says sharply, almost scolding, visible annoyance and frustration flashing
through his ruby-red eyes.

"Yes, Mr. Voldemort, Retired Dark Lord, sir?" Harry retorts, raising his eyebrows, a strange
fondness warming his chest. It is good to be able to say that again, amended and all. It is good
simply to be annoying Voldemort again, after so much time. And, most of all, it is good just to see
him.
Voldemort sighs, soft and short, and he turns his head away to stare at the hearth. Now he's
refusing to look at Harry, which is—objectively—both hilarious and sad in equal measure. After all
this time, he cannot meet Harry's eyes. It's...intriguing, at the very least, if not a bit devastating.

"You have grown," Voldemort notes into the quiet, his lipless mouth twisting into a faint sneer.
"Taller, perhaps, but still shorter than average."

"Thanks," Harry says flatly. "So glad you've pointed that out to me, really."

Voldemort still doesn't look at him, but the sneer fades as he murmurs, "I am always honest with
you, perhaps even in the things you wish I wouldn't be."

"I'll take advantage, then," Harry warns, sitting up a bit straighter. "Why won't you look at me?"

"Harry," Voldemort snaps, but doesn't elaborate.

"Look at me," Harry says softly, staring at Voldemort and waiting, refusing to budge.

Eventually, Voldemort does, turning his head to fix his gaze right on Harry's, holding it with no
hesitation or expression. All he says is, "Yes?"

"Have you made any more?" Harry asks. He hasn't planned to ask, but he's suddenly very sure that
he wants to know. Needs to know.

"No," Voldemort answers, tone clipped. "You remain my only and my last."

Harry nods carefully. "So, when I die…"

"As will I."

"Oh."
"What purpose could you possibly have to seek me out?" Voldemort demands, eyes narrowing into
angry slits. "To ask that of me? To monitor what I have done or will do while you're—"

"Stop," Harry snaps, pushing to his feet rather abruptly. He doesn't actually expect that to work, but
Voldemort does press his lips into a thin line the moment Harry stands up. "Don't do that."

Voldemort tilts his head, curious and also furious, all at once. "Did Dumbledore send you?"

"Dumbledore," Harry says, the name escaping him cold and blunt, "would have tried to stop me if
he knew for sure, but I didn't ask for permission."

"Ah." Voldemort arches a naked eyebrow, cruelly amused in the way only he can be, flipping
through his emotions quickly and with ease. "I take it you and the old man never...reconciled."

Harry scoffs. "Did you think we would?"

"I see no reason why you would not. You chose him in the end, did you not?" Voldemort says, the
words harsh and accusatory.

"No," Harry answers promptly. "No, I didn't. I chose the world, and so did he. But you chose me,
and I'm here with you now, aren't I?"

It's what has been sitting between them all this time. Maybe even for the last year. Maybe from the
moment Voldemort broke his wand and disappeared without a word. It just exists for them now,
possibly in the place of their silent connection, a current between them that they can't really escape.
Harry doesn't particularly want to, is the thing.

He isn't lying to Voldemort. He won't. He only did when he thought he had to, and the guilt from
that betrayal has frayed for a year, worn and weary and heavier than it should be with so long to
temper it. Even just looking at Voldemort makes it flare within him. He recalls so easily the way
Voldemort said his name before Harry reached out to cup his cheek and force Draught of Living
Death down his throat. He remembers the indescribable agony of rage afterwards, all that force of
anger translating into pain that Harry couldn't possibly misunderstand.

And, despite that, Voldemort had done what Dumbledore would not—could not. He chose Harry,
in the end. Chose him in the ways he's always wanted, and then disappeared without a trace. He'd
have to be mad to think Harry wouldn't find him after all that. Did he think that?

Voldemort looks away again, grimacing as he reaches up with his free hand to rub at his chest, a
gesture Harry hasn't seen in a year. "You should go."

"Go?" Harry echoes incredulously.

"Yes, take your leave," Voldemort insists, still refusing to look at him. "The Injurious Jungle is no
place for a boy. You should not be here."

"I'm not just a boy, though, am I?" Harry challenges, gesturing to his scar pointedly. "Your
argument is a bit shite, sorry to say. Besides, you're here, and I don't think you'd let anything
happen to me."

"I would not," Voldemort confirms, like the admission is being pried from his lips, but he still
doesn't lie. "That is not the point. You should be… Harry, you have a life to live, and you should
not waste time being here."

Harry snorts. "I have loads of time, now. Trust me, compared to what I had before, I really can't
complain about it. And, well, it's my life, isn't it? I sort of decide what to do with it, I think, and I've
decided to find you."

"For what purpose?" Voldemort snarls, his neutral distance snapping into cold fury in a flash, head
whipping around so he can pin Harry with a glare, his fingers still rubbing furiously away. "What
could you possibly hope to achieve by finding me?"

"Well," Harry says slowly, drawing the word out as he gathers what he wants to say, what he's
wanted to say for years, "I suppose I want to apologize."

Voldemort stares at him. "Apologize," he repeats emotionlessly. "You wish to apologize."

"Yeah," Harry admits, earnest about it. "It's never in the way you want, I don't think. I'm never
sorry for what you want me to be sorry for, but you should know I am sorry. I never—it wasn't
easy, betraying you, and maybe it shouldn't have been so hard. But it was. And it—it was painful,
but not just for me, and I'm sorry about that, alright? I am."
"You came all this way, after searching for months, to apologize," Voldemort says.

"Well, er, sort of? That's part of it, yeah."

"Harry, I do not need or want your apology. If I required it, I would have demanded it. I already
know of your guilt. You are not granted my forgiveness, for there is nothing you have to be sorry
for. I know your reasonings and your motives, and I know how much it hurt you to do what you
did. I told you, once, that you were capable of it, and I knew then in ways you wouldn't accept that
the possibility was there. If I ever was going to hate you for it, I would have done so the moment I
realized that you could and possibly would do it, but I did not. I do not."

"But it hurt you," Harry mumbles weakly, resisting the urge to duck his head and hide from the
moment like a little child. He has not felt so young and so small in so long. It's an odd sensation.

Voldemort doesn't deny it. "Yes," he agrees, "it did."

"Did you know I would do it?"

"The chance that you would was as likely as the chance that you wouldn't. It was your choice, and I
could only wait to see what you would do."

"Did you even try to prevent it?" Harry asks, wrapping his arms around himself.

"I trusted you," Voldemort says, and it's like a blow directly to Harry's chest.

Harry's eyes sink shut in shame. "I know. Merlin, how well I know. I'm sorry."

"Do not be," Voldemort declares simply. "It is done now, and there is no use dwelling on it."

"Says you," Harry mutters, eyes snapping open. He frowns. "After all, you're someone who holds a
grudge quite well, aren't you? Dwelling is sort of your thing, you know. It led you to target me for
years, even though I was only a baby when I first crossed you. That wasn't done for you, not even
eleven years later, so why is this?"

"I told you I no longer wished you harm," Voldemort murmurs. "I'm always honest with you."

Harry can feel his eyes stinging. "So, so that's just it, then? Doesn't matter what I do; you're just—
you don't care. I can hurt you all I want, and you'll just take it? Is that it?"

"I do not make choices lightly, Harry," Voldemort says, the words soft and weighted and serious.

There's a lot in that one sentence, and Harry hears it all. This conversation is a verbal spar in its
own way, except it's heavier—old wounds that still bleed are raw and exposed, and it hurts just as
it did a year ago. In every declaration and demand, in every question and answer, there is meaning.

Voldemort does not make choices lightly. He never has. When he chose Harry, he did so in sound
mind, solidified in his decision, no plans to change it after the fact. Voldemort is not one for regret,
and all that he's ever had of that pertains to Harry, but not this. It's clear as day—not this.

It is not fair, Harry thinks. After everything, Voldemort is still so very complex and complicated,
including the feelings Harry has for him. He suspects that it always will be that way. What is one
supposed to feel for the monster powerful enough to murder the world, who chose to lay his
weapon down and surrender instead, all for one person? All for Harry, who wanted only that for so
long, who feels thankful and like he doesn't deserve it all in one breath. For someone who is not
capable of love, Voldemort has quite a bit for Harry—that is undeniable after everything that has
happened.

Only, Voldemort does not feel that way for anyone else. He does not care about the lives of others.
He still hates Muggles, and he would still kill someone without hesitation, and he's still firmly
towards the end of evil on the moral spectrum. Harry is his one exception, somehow, despite
everything. It does not redeem him, not at all, because he did not do the right thing because it was
right; he did it for Harry, out of his love—whatever shape it comes in and however he feels it,
possibly unique to him but poignant all the same, firm and immobile.

And it's...a lot.

It's just a lot to adjust to. Harry knew it, but seeing it firsthand and having Voldemort claim it
without wavering is something else entirely. Knowing he could use it to his own personal gain,
could hurt Voldemort with it, and Voldemort would let him…
It's a lot, all of it, and Harry feels so very much in all the ways Voldemort feels so little, like he
spills over and fills the crevices that Voldemort used to find home in. Harry just invaded it, so
young and stupid and reckless, and then he used love like a weapon to save the world. And it
worked.

Perhaps Dumbledore has something on the idea that love is the most powerful force in the world.
It certainly is in this case, and Harry had brandished his own like a sword, cutting Voldemort with
it ruthlessly without even realizing it. He wiggled his fucking way into Voldemort's heart and then
ripped himself from it in the harshest way possible, and Voldemort claimed that space for him
anyway, never letting it fill with hatred. It is a conundrum for a man who feels hate the way Harry
feels love.

Harry taught him that, he's sure. Unwittingly, perhaps, but it was him. He's the one who whirled in
like a storm and wrecked Voldemort's whole world, and though Voldemort decided he liked the
destruction, Harry will never truly forgive himself for setting it on fire on top of everything else.
He absolutely destroyed Voldemort and everything he stood for, well and truly vanquishing him,
just as he was always meant to do. Except, the thing is, Harry knows love in his own way, and he
never wanted to hurt him the way he did.

But, perhaps, that is all they were destined for. Pain and hatred and love, forces meant to collide
and break each other, neither truly living while the other survives. It's just that, now, Voldemort
has made the active decision to let Harry be the one to live.

"Who will you tell?" Voldemort asks.

Harry sits, picking up his teacup with a small frown. It takes him a minute to come to a decision,
but once he has, he simply says, "That's up to you, I think. Your privacy is your own, and I'll
respect it. If you want someone to know, I can tell them for you, but if you want no one to know,
then I'll never breathe a word of it."

Voldemort arches a naked eyebrow. "You won't take this information to Dumbledore?"

"Oh, bugger." Harry rolls his eyes and sits the tea down with a sigh, leaning his elbows on his
knees and looking at Voldemort steadily. "Listen to me, alright? I know you don't—I know you're
never going to trust me the way you did before, and that's fine. I've earned that. But—and let me be
clear about this—as of right now, you and I have a better relationship than Dumbledore and I do. I
might have lost your trust, but you never lost mine, and he did. He also… Well, it doesn't matter.
Just don't worry about it, yeah?"
"No," Voldemort murmurs, "elaborate on what you were going to say."

"It's just…" Harry grimaces and looks down at his hands, which are clasped together. "You did
what he wouldn't, you know. Out of the two of you, I wanted it from both, but I expected that, if
either of you could, it would be him. But it wasn't. You wanted to end the world, and he wanted to
save it, and I was selfish enough to wish that maybe one of you would give up your mission to let
me live, because I only wanted to live. He asked me to die, said the words and everything, and I
don't know how people come back from things like that. He couldn't do what you did, and I don't
blame him; in fact, I understand. But I still—I don't know how to…"

"Forgive," Voldemort suggests quietly.

Harry closes his eyes, hanging his head. "I was only a boy," he rasps.

"Yes, you were," Voldemort tells him. "You still are. It was not selfish of you to want such
things."

"I was just a boy," Harry insists, lifting his head and opening his eyes to stare at Voldemort sadly.
"In the way you mean it, and also in the sense that my one life could not and does not outweigh
countless others. You would have slaughtered innocents, and I only had to die to stop it. I didn't
want to have to, but I was prepared to. I can't fault him for asking me to, and I won't. I just wish
that—that things were different. The world seems so backwards when the man who stands for
everything good would ask you to die, while the man who stands for everything evil would stop so
you could live."

"This is why you can't forgive him?" Voldemort muses, watching him intently.

"No," Harry admits. "I—I can forgive his hope to save the world, even at the cost of my life,
because I know why he was doing it. I even know he wasn't happy about it, and it—it hurt him.
What I can't forgive is...well, it's a lot of things, really. Small things, ironically enough. Stupid
things that someone should be forgiven for."

"Such as?"

"He didn't try harder with you. I know he was busy back then with Grindelwald, and you were
pretty set in your choices anyway, but still. That, and he tried very hard with me, but only because
of the Prophecy. Had he never heard it, he would have treated me entirely different. And it was
him who put me with my Muggle relatives. I know now that there were alternatives—there are
always alternatives—but he ultimately decided to leave me there, and I still don't know if he was
aware of the way they treated me. I'm too scared to find out, which is something else I can't
forgive, no matter how much I'd like to. There's the way he didn't help Sirius more, the way he lied
to me for years, and the way he allowed and even encouraged me to be biased about certain things
in preparation for my own death one day. It's how he was going to let himself die, and it's how he
told me to stay away from you, and it's how he sat me down and told me that life was like a path.
It's all of that and none of it and more, and it's so complicated that it hurts whenever I look at him,
because I still love him despite everything."

It's an outpouring of truth that only Voldemort could garner from him, but Harry doesn't really
mind so much. It's almost nostalgic, talking about Dumbledore's misgivings. Painful as always,
though.

"Ah," Voldemort says finally, almost delicate about the subject. He sighs. "Well, I am surprised
you've made no attempt to reconcile with him. After all, I've done far worse things than him, and
yet you forgave me."

Harry shrugs helplessly. "I don't know how to explain it. Everything surrounding how he treated
me in the past, especially as I was growing up, feels so very different now. It feels like lies. You
never lied, not even when you just wanted to kill me. I can always trust you to be honest with me,
but with him, I still haven't figured out when he is or isn't."

"And that is enough to differentiate between me and him? Out of the two of us, surely he is the
more comforting option," Voldemort says.

"Maybe he should be, yeah," Harry allows, nodding slowly. "Just, I don't know… I'm pretty fucked
up, remember? Maybe some wires are crossed in my brain because, to me, you're the comforting
option. I know what to expect from you, I suppose. You've only ever truly, deeply shocked me
once to a point that I couldn't make sense of it."

Voldemort frowns at him, narrowing his eyes. "When was this?"

"When you chose me," Harry whispers.

"You did not think that I would," Voldemort says as he realizes it, blinking just the once.
Harry swallows and averts his eyes. "I didn't."

"Harry," Voldemort murmurs, making Harry look over at him, "you are indeed...a traumatized
child."

"Yeah, I know," Harry agrees with a weak laugh. He shakes his head at the ridiculousness of it all.
"It still feels surreal sometimes. No one else could figure it out either, and I still don't know,
really."

Voldemort sighs, and he doesn't look...soft, exactly, but he's not necessarily as hardened as he
usually is. It's a shade from fond, sort of. His eyes remind Harry of Mrs. Malfoy's ruby necklace
that Draco got her for Christmas back when things were just getting started, looking nothing like
blood at the moment. It could almost be considered pretty.

"It is because you wished to be chosen that I chose you," Voldemort informs him,
uncharacteristically gentle, which makes Harry's head spin.

"That doesn't make any sense," Harry says, because it really doesn't.

"In your own way, you asked," Voldemort murmurs, holding his gaze, clearly being very serious at
the moment. "In spite of your fear that I had come to hate you once more, you stood before me and
hoped that I would want you. Not enough to save the world, just in the simple desire to be wanted
by me. I had—rather by accident—chosen you long before that moment, but it became clear to me
then that I could not refuse your unspoken request. I am not sure how, precisely, you managed
to...invoke such a thing from me, but you did. I told you, once, that I wanted things, and I told you
what they were, but they shifted. And so, I chose it instead."

Harry holds his breath for a moment, taking those words in, processing them. It all boils down to
Harry daring to want to be wanted by the man who only wanted immortality and power, except
against all odds, that same man learned to want him instead. Guardian and child. Monster and
Horcrux. The most complicated relationship the world will never know.

It's still very bizarre, and it seems impossible, but there it is anyway. It just happened, somehow,
through so many different moments that led up to this simple point. Looking back, it never seemed
like it was going in that direction, but now that they're here, Harry's not sure how he didn't see it
coming.
Nothing is ever black and white, not the good things or the bad, not any relationship he's ever
maintained. Harry's world is tinged in grey, and he's come to find peace in it.

Exhaling, Harry says, "I want to hug you."

"Do not," Voldemort snaps immediately.

"Affection is important for troublesome children, Mr. Voldemort, Retired Dark Lord, sir. You're a
terrible guardian, of course, but surely you can make an exception," Harry teases, his heart feeling
full and warm in his chest.

Voldemort glares at him. "Do not be cheeky. You are of age now, but I am not above punishing
you like a child when you act as one."

Harry shakes his head and grins. No, Voldemort is not a good person. He never was and never will
be. He's terrible and he's done terrible things, and Harry hates him for every single one. But, just
the same, Harry loves him for other, more complex reasons. Now, Voldemort has surrendered and
retreated to a horrible forest with no interaction and no intent to harm another soul. In his defeat,
Harry can be grateful for him. He always planned to, even back when his defeat was supposed to
be death.

"What are you going to do? Kill me?"

"Do not tempt me, Harry."

"But I'm so good at it."

"Yes, you are."

The cottage in the Injurious Jungle has exactly two rooms. The one Harry woke up in consists of
barely passable furniture and a ridiculous amount of books. The one Voldemort came out of is
apparently what would have been the kitchen if he had to eat, but instead is a little, lackluster
Potions station. All the ingredients in the cabinet seem to be gathered from the Injurious Jungle.
Harry looks around in vague disappointment for a bit, even poking his head out the front door to
peer around, but there's not very much to see. The cabin itself is nestled between two tall, arching
trees and has only the endless sight of many more clustered trees to look at. Frankly, the place is
shite.

Voldemort really isn't living. He has books and a chair to sit in and a cauldron to brew things in.
That's it.

"Do you have anything published after 1909?" Harry asks incredulously, snapping an old,
weathered book shut and whirling around to look at Voldemort.

Voldemort has just been watching him walk around in silence, not saying a word. "I do not."

Harry frowns at him. "You didn't bring the book about maps that I got you."

"I did not," Voldemort confirms.

"Rather rude of you," Harry notes sullenly, sliding the dusty book back on the equally dusty shelf.
He sighs and shakes his head. "This is terrible, you know. Why don't you—I don't know—find
something different? You could. I know you could."

Voldemort arches a naked eyebrow. "What does it matter where I exist in my seclusion? My choice
will remain whether I am in luxury or squalor."

"I—yes, brilliant, alright. That's not at all the point, and you know it," Harry mutters, crossing his
arms and narrowing his eyes. "You could at least get better accommodations."

"There is no reason to," Voldemort says.

Harry scowls at him. "Oh, now you wish to be stubborn. Just what I need. You know, I don't think
you need an actual reason."
"I have removed myself from the world in every sense of the word outside of death, Harry. I do not
venture from here, and I will not," Voldemort tells him rather simply.

"You still could have gotten rid of some of the dust, at least," Harry mumbles weakly, already
forming plans in his mind to start bringing different books and conveniently forgetting them when
he leaves. "I know you don't have your wand, but I'm not an idiot. You're too powerful to not be
able to do wandless magic."

Voldemort hums, a quiet agreement—not smug, just simple fact. "I can do wandless magic. I just
don't."

"Right." Harry awkwardly shuffles in place, reaching up to rub at the back of his neck. "You—you
snapped your own wand, which is… It's ridiculous, obviously, but I don't—just, why did you do
that?"

"Dumbledore could not doubt my choice," Voldemort answers, gaze sliding away as he looks at the
titles on the shelves. "If he thought that I would resurface in the world once more, he might go as
far as not doing everything he could to save your life. My wand stayed with me throughout my
entire time as a Wizard, even after the events that took place on Halloween night in 1981. I would
not go without it and never wished to replace it with anything other than the Elder Wand. Snapping
it was defeat in many ways, as required for you to live."

Harry swallows thickly, feeling an odd sense of pity. He never thought of it that way. "They have
the pieces displayed at the Ministry, you know. It's supposed to remind people that you're gone and
the world is a better place now."

"Foolish," Voldemort murmurs.

"I could steal it for you," Harry offers.

Voldemort sends him a sharp look. "Do not. It is only a wand, Harry. It was significant because it
was mine, but that is all."

"Did you replace it?" Harry asks curiously.

"I did not," Voldemort admits.

Harry hums. "So you're limited to wandless magic, I take it. That must be boring."

"It's...new."

"You've spent an entire year here, all alone, doing absolutely nothing, and you're not going mad
with rage?"

"I have told you, Harry. I do not make my choices lightly," Voldemort tells him, almost insistent
about it. "There would be no point in my anger when I knew precisely what would happen to me.
My fury would only affect your life. I am not angry with my choices. I do not wish to have done
differently."

Harry sighs, shaking his head and looking away. Apparently, once Voldemort has a cause to stick
to, he does not get swayed from it very easily. That's in line to who he is so far, seeing as his first
cause was to control the Wizarding World, and that only just got packed away because of one
bespectacled git with a pension for running his mouth when he perhaps should not.

Aforementioned bespectacled git resigns himself to simply finding small ways to enrich
Voldemort's life in the future. It'll never be a really good life, not at all, but it's better than nothing.

A life of seclusion where he can't even reach his full potential must be torture, Harry's sure. He's
living like any Muggle would, except way worse, and Harry very wisely does not bring that up.
After all that Voldemort has done, though, he doesn't know if this is just karma or justice or
penance or what. He can only hope to offer some kindness where he can, where Voldemort will
allow him to.

"Alright, do what you like," Harry says finally, inwardly prepared to do just the same. He'll come
in and wreck Voldemort's life again all he wants. "Speaking of, is there anyone you want me to tell
where I found you?"

"You'll tell Draco, won't you?" Voldemort asks, arching an eyebrow when Harry shuffles and jolts
at the name.

"How do you know he and I are—"

"You love too fiercely to simply let him go. Call it an educated guess, or perhaps I know you too
well."

Harry can feel the heat in his face and also feels utterly stupid about it. He huffs and barrels on.
"Yes, I'm with Draco and plan to be for the rest of our lives. But, if you don't want me to, I won't
tell him exactly where you are. He's the only person who knows I'm looking for you at all,
actually. I can just tell him I found you and plan to visit, and he'll accept it because he...doesn't
actually care. No offense, of course."

"I am not offended by Draco's lack of interest in anything to do with me. He's only ever been truly
devoted to you, and you to him. You may tell him as little or as much as you like, as I cannot
imagine a scenario in which he'd ever betray your trust by telling anyone the things you confide in
him."

"That's surprisingly...trustful of you."

"It is not trust."

"Draco's not going to do anything to put you in Azkaban, you know. That would only hurt me, and
he never really wants to do that anymore."

"Something he and I have in common," Voldemort notes, watching Harry squirm in cruel
amusement.

"You're really bloody complicated, you know that?"

"I could say the same about you."

"Me?!" Harry sputters, gaping at him. "What have I done that's complicated?"

"You fought against me. You were prepared to die, even when you did not wish to. Yet, despite
these things, the moment Dumbledore flicked a sword at me—one that would not even kill me—
you stepped in front of it without a thought."
"It was—it was a split-second sort of decision, you know. Besides, the sword would have killed me
and the Horcrux inside me. I had ulterior motives."

Voldemort peers at him knowingly, and he tips his head in acknowledgement. "Perhaps. We both
had our ulterior motives for the choices we settled on in the end. For example, mine was keeping
you alive to prolong my own life. That was not, as you know, the main purpose behind the choice I
made, however. Just as your willingness to die on that sword was not why you originally stepped in
front of it."

"What do you want me to say?" Harry mumbles, glancing down at his hands. "You already know I
care for you. I saw the sword, and I saw you, and I remembered Nagini, and I just…"

"Reacted," Voldemort says.

Harry exhales explosively. "Yeah, that."

"You've always been very impulsive, Harry."

"You're talking about the thing with Greyback again, aren't you?"

"Perhaps."

"I'll never live that down."

Voldemort hums in agreement and says, "You won't. It was very foolish."

"Yeah, yeah, alright. I act before thinking most of the time, I know. It's a flaw." Harry rolls his eyes
and brushes his fingers along the dust gathered on the shelf he's standing beside. "I'm working on
it. I thought it might be best to, because acting without thinking got me stabbed."

"Such a small, insignificant thing," Voldemort muses, tilting his head a little. "Nagini's death was
so long ago, yet it weighed on you for long after. Dumbledore killed her. It was because of his
actions that you felt the instinctive need to step in front of the sword. He is at fault, at least
partially."
Harry shakes his head, clearing his throat and averting his eyes. He's about to clarify something a
little embarrassing, and it's just easier to say when he isn't looking at Voldemort head-on.

"Actually," he says weakly, "I'm the one responsible, really, and it was because of my...care for
you that I felt the need to move at all. Just the same way I tried to stop the Killing Curse you cast at
Dumbledore."

"Complicated," Voldemort murmurs.

Harry smiles weakly. "Yeah, I suppose so. I was just acting. I never knew what you would do. I
still can't really believe that you...you know."

"With you dying," Voldemort says bluntly, "my probability of winning was cut by a rather large
margin. The chance that I would die as well had become likely rather than impossible. I was going
to lose, but I felt that I already had when I was faced with you dying. I was not just acting; my
choices were thought through carefully and meticulously."

"That somehow makes it even more unbelievable," Harry admits, shrugging sheepishly when
Voldemort narrows his eyes at him. "What? You had other things that were important to you! The
Elder Wand was, if I recall. And you just gave up on it?"

"I think, with enough time and effort, I would have been able to win the duel with Dumbledore. I
cannot be certain, however. He is powerful in his own right, but even more so because he had the
Elder Wand in his possession," Voldemort says, and he only pauses when he sees Harry cough and
avert his eyes.

When it becomes clear that Voldemort is just going to peer at him, he says, "Actually, during the
battle, Dumbledore didn't have the loyalty of the Elder Wand. Er...I did, technically."

"You did," Voldemort repeats, words hard as marble and cold as ice.

"Yeah," Harry admits, grimacing. "He cornered me into it, really. I was furious at him, and we
were sort of...dueling—it's complicated—and I disarmed him. He thought it best not to have the
loyalty of the Elder Wand in case you actually did defeat him, and who better to give it to than me?
I was supposed to kill myself, technically, so the power of the Elder Wand would die with me.
Besides, it's not like you were going to destroy your own Horcrux, as far as Dumbledore was
concerned, so it was rather smart of him to give me the Elder Wand."

Voldemort's fingers twitch, then they flex slowly, and he looks like he wants to kill something. His
eyes are bright with fury, lipless mouth parting into an automatic sneer. It can't be a good feeling,
realizing that Dumbledore had a nearly fool-proof plan to keep the Elder Wand away from
Voldemort at all costs. It had been a rather brilliant plan, honestly, as underhanded to Harry that it
was.

"Smart," Voldemort echoes, spitting the word like it's poison.

Harry doesn't laugh, but it's a close thing. "I can't believe you still hate him enough to despise the
idea of losing to him in such a small way. I know you wanted the Elder Wand, but honestly,
Dumbledore has spent a long time making sure that wand doesn't get into the wrong hands. No
offense, but you're definitely the wrong hands. Besides, what does it matter now? Are you going to
try and get the Elder Wand again? Maybe fight a war over it?"

Voldemort sends him a sharp glare, but he seems to relax just a bit. "No, Harry, I have no
intentions of chasing the Elder Wand. In order for you to live, I have to be defeated, and so I am.
To seek the wand again would only eventually lead to you being in harm's way once more, and
there is no point."

"Well," Harry says lightly, "I wouldn't worry about it if I were you. When Dumbledore stabbed me
—by accident, mind you—I technically died. The wand's loyalty shifted to him, and when I
eventually woke up, I asked him to disarm me to be sure. I don't want that power. No one should
have it."

"But you wished for him to."

"It's—that's complicated. It's sort of punishment for him, you know. Having the Elder Wand is his
burden to bear because Grindelwald nearly ruined everything over it. Dumbledore doesn't want the
power, either, but he forces himself to keep it as penance for his part in Grindelwald's mistakes."

"Grindelwald's mistakes are his own," Voldemort declares, simple and to the point, as if that's that.

"Not to Dumbledore. That's not how it feels when there's love involved, especially if it's romantic.
I don't really know the whole story, and I don't want to know, honestly," Harry explains, "but
everything he does is through and because of love. He's a wise man, you can't deny it, but he hasn't
quite worked out that love is not black and white either. It's ironic, isn't it? Love is supposed to be
the purest side of the white, but it's just as grey as everything else in this world, and Dumbledore
has been letting it run his life without even knowing it. He's not a bad man, you know. He's
just...grey by accident."

"And yet," Voldemort says, "you do not forgive him.

"No," Harry breathes out. "No, I don't. Does that make me a terrible person?"

Voldemort steeples his fingers. "Perhaps. If it did, would that be enough to make you forgive
him?"

"The only black and white thing in this world is your emotions as you feel them," Harry mumbles,
drawing idle shapes in the dust on the shelf, mind adrift in the conversation. "You can't help your
first immediate feeling in response to something. You find out you've been lied to—there is anger.
A stranger bumps into you on the street—there is irritation. All these first responses are real, and
you can't help them. You can change them with some thought later—understanding why you're
lied to, reasoning that the stranger simply didn't see you at all—but, in that first moment, what you
feel is the realest thing you can experience. There's no grey area for those first feelings. They just
are. My first feelings when I look at Dumbledore is always, always distrust. It's immediate. I just…
don't trust him, and as much as I try and reason with myself later, I can't stop feeling that way,
either. So, to answer your question, I don't know if anything is enough to make me forgive him."

"He has caused a deep mistrust in you. As I've said multiple times before, once your trust is lost, it
is very hard to gain back and, if it is, it is never the same as it was originally. I did not know your
forgiveness was so interwoven with your trust, but I am unsure how I didn't realize. It is through
your trust with me that I gained your forgiveness."

"Well, if you didn't realize, at least that means you didn't manipulate me."

Voldemort makes a low sound of amusement. "For the sake of honesty, I will say that I had all
original intentions of manipulating you. That endeavor ended rather quickly when you began to
show signs of trust that I did not set out to earn. I had learned by that point not to lose your trust if I
could help it, because it would be foolish to do so. In the end, you're the one who manipulated
me."

"I'm sorry, what?" Harry bursts out, blinking rapidly in pure shock. "I manipulated you? Me?! I—I
—"
"At some point, your actions became falsehoods. You eventually made the decision to betray my
trust, and every action after that was manipulation, even if you did not call yourself doing that.
When did you decide to betray me? I'm curious."

"It's...complicated. You know me. I know you do. You had to know that I wasn't going to just stand
idly by while you ruined the world, not if there was something I could do. I sort of just always
knew, deep down, that I'd have to do something about it eventually. But...I made the active
decision in April, in the Study when I asked to see your Horcruxes."

"That long?" Voldemort narrows his eyes at him, almost disbelieving. "It took you that long to
decide? I had assumed it was when you saw Hollow Hill."

Harry snorts. "That day was sort of overshadowed by the fact that I just realized you actually cared
about me, and not just because I was some Horcrux."

Voldemort says nothing, yet again, unwilling to voice the truth in such a statement. Harry is almost
amused by it. The constantly furious Dark Lord is too good to tell anyone he cares.

Well, he only cares about one person, so really, it's not that funny.

"Can I ask you something?" Harry prompts, changing the subject because he's usually kind and he
doesn't want Voldemort to get too uncomfortable.

"You may."

"That day… The day of the battle, I mean. Just, you weren't supposed to come until much later.
Snape told Dumbledore that you and your Death Eaters were going to attack after midnight."

Voldemort waves his hand through the air, flicking his spindly fingers in vague irritation. "Yes,
yes, Severus was fulfilling his last action as my Spy. He was meant to give Dumbledore the wrong
time so that Dumbledore would be ill-prepared."

"I know that, but—" Harry abruptly stops talking, mouth snapping shut as he realizes something.
He was meant to give Dumbledore the wrong time…

Harry already knows that. Dumbledore said that, didn't he? And, if the time Voldemort told Snape
to tell Dumbledore was after midnight, that means…

That means Snape actually betrayed Dumbledore, in the end. That means Snape gave the wrong
time, knowing when Voldemort would actually attack.

But that doesn't make any sense.

"Didn't—didn't Snape betray you?" Harry asks a little helplessly, staring at Voldemort with wide
eyes, his mind spinning with endless thoughts.

"Yes." Voldemort is watching him intently, clearly curious at Harry's state at the moment. "He
seemed to grow a heart right there at the end. He fought his fellow Death Eaters once we reached
the Castle, right along with Lucius."

"That—that was the coup. That was the whole point, really," Harry mumbles, shaking his head and
turning to stare at the shelf with a frown. "He—why would he just…"

A conversation, long ago, brushes across Harry's mind like a cool breeze:

Whose side are you really on?

Harry Potter's.

And that's true, isn't it? The most honest the man has ever been, magically induced. He really was
on Harry's side the entire time, even to the last second, not Voldemort's and not even
Dumbledore's.

He gave the wrong time to Dumbledore on purpose. He let Voldemort march on the Castle and still
fought against him when the time came. He did everything he did to keep Harry alive for as long as
he could, and his actions led to Harry still being alive today. He likely didn't even do it thinking
that he'd win, not like Dumbledore does things. He did it out of unwavering loyalty, out of a
mission to make up for past mistakes, out of love—all for Lily, maybe even for Harry.

"Harry," Voldemort says.

"Yeah? I'm—it's nothing," Harry blurts, blinking rapidly and turning away from the shelf. He stares
at Voldemort, releasing a deep breath. "Sorry, just...er, thinking about Snape hurts a bit. He got hit
with Dark Magic, you know. Supposedly, he's only got two more years to live."

Voldemort arches a naked eyebrow. "Supposedly?"

"Yeah," Harry answers simply.

"And this...hurts you?" Voldemort asks.

Harry waves a lazy hand, clearing his throat. "Oh, you know, he and I had a rather complicated
relationship. Nothing on the level of me and you and me and Dumbledore, of course, but it's...up
there. I don't want him dead. I never did."

"Did you inform him of this during your last year?"

"I couldn't have, even if I wanted to. Snape resigned. He's not a Professor anymore. He decided to
spend his last three years doing whatever he wanted, so I suppose he's off traveling and such."

"Ah," Voldemort murmurs. "I was beginning to think he was a permanent fixture in the Castle."

"Yeah, me too," Harry says, grinning, then he blinks. He looks at Voldemort incredulously. "Did
you just make a joke?"

Voldemort stares at him. "I do not joke."

"That was definitely a joke," Harry decides, absolutely astonished. "It wasn't even that terrible of
one, either. Merlin, my life is so bizarre."

"It hasn't calmed in my absence?"

"No, of course not. Why would it? Do you think I had a normal year just because you were gone?"

"You really never had one normal year at Hogwarts, did you?" Voldemort muses, staring at him in
his unique, cruel amusement.

Harry grins wryly. "Not one. That's alright. Thinking back on it, I don't mind so much."

Voldemort just hums.

Harry stays two more hours. He sort of has to, since he has to help install a floo connection in
Voldemort's terrible fireplace to get home in the first place—at least the quickest, anyway, and
Voldemort is indulging him for some reason. Voldemort doesn't leave his stupid, shoddy cabin, so
Harry has to be the one to go into the closest city and get the proper things to handle the situation.
He hasn't the first clue about how to make a fireplace floo accessible, but Voldemort apparently
does.

In any case, it's a very odd two hours.

Harry cleans up. He goes around and gets rid of all the dust and busies himself rearranging the
books on the shelves. He cleans the furniture and uses magic to better their current state. He even
goes outside and yanks the weeds out near the door by hand. Because there isn't a whole lot
of...anything, really, it doesn't take long to tidy up.

Voldemort calls him all colorful versions of stubborn, foolish, and ridiculous for doing so. If
anything, that just spurs Harry on more.

While Voldemort is fixing the floo connection, Harry stacks the books he picked up from in the
city on the now-clean table by the sofa. Harry watches Voldemort wave his hands inside the
fireplace, red eyes narrowed in concentration, and he can't help the curiosity that slithers through
him.

"Don't you have to register a floo connection through the Ministry? I'd think so," Harry mutters,
and now he's wondering how the bloody hell Draco ever got the fireplace in the Shrieking Shack to
work. The thought makes him narrow his eyes.

"Not if there was once a floo connection already established," Voldemort answers quietly. "Even
one with its connection being closed can have it opened once again. The pathway is never removed
from the Ministry, only simply closed off. Not always properly, either. It was one of the things I
planned to change, seeing as people—children, especially—have been known to be lost through
floo connections not properly removed."

Harry thinks about his Second Year when he first used the floo, grimacing. "Yeah, alright, can't
fault you on that one. But it works in your favor now, I take it? This place had a floo connection?"

"It did. The Injurious Jungle has not always been this way, just as the Forbidden Forest was once
just a few trees," Voldemort murmurs.

"Right." Harry grunts, pulling the tray of food he'd picked up on the way back—since Voldemort
literally has no food here and doesn't need any because he doesn't eat—and fiddling with the
plastic set of silverware. "So, are you going to be able to do it without a wand?"

The glare that Voldemort tosses him over his shoulder is so cutting that Harry almost drops his
spoon. "Yes, I will manage without a wand."

"Oh. I was only going to say you could use mine, if you wanted. You'll probably be able to—twin
cores and all that." Harry gestures to his wand with his spoon, which is sitting carelessly on a stack
of books on the table. "It's there if you want it."

Harry proceeds to shovel a large bite into his mouth, watching Voldemort watch him
expressionlessly. He's just staring at Harry, and Harry hasn't the faintest idea why. He chews and
waits, having already gotten used to Voldemort once again. He knows it's best to just wait him out.

It has only been two hours, but Voldemort hasn't changed. He just...doesn't. He is still the same as
he was a year ago, mostly horrible and shockingly indulgent to Harry only.
And, for all that he refused to go out and make it possible, he didn't refuse Harry the permission to
go out and get started on retrieving the things Voldemort needed to make the floo connection
happen. Here he is, working on the fireplace now.

Harry shies away from the thought that he's a bit spoiled, because that's utterly ridiculous, but there
is something to the phenomenon of a Dark Lord who cares for no one or nothing giving you
whatever you want because he cares for you. Harry doesn't really know what to do with it, and it
usually manages to fluster or confuse him. He wonders if this is Voldemort's way of doting on
him.

Unbidden, the image of Aunt Petunia pinching Dudley's cheeks and calling him her precious boy
flashes through Harry's mind. It makes him want to giggle a little hysterically, because he would
absolutely vomit if anyone—Voldemort or Dumbledore or Sirius or literally anyone at all—did that
to him. Getting spoiled by Voldemort is new and very well-hidden, barely noticeable if Harry
weren't looking for it, but it's best that way.

Finally, Voldemort says, "You would grant me access to your wand. Willingly."

"Sure," Harry says as he chews, not bothering to be polite enough to swallow. "My friend Pansy—
she's a Slytherin—grabs my wand and uses it all the time whenever she wants, all because it
bloody likes her for some reason. In any case, it's not like I'll care if you use it. Why? Should I?"

"I could kill you," Voldemort tells him.

Harry points his spoon at Voldemort and raises his eyebrows. "If you were determined enough, you
could kill me without a wand. Doesn't matter, really, because I already know you won't kill me.
Sort of defeats the purpose behind everything, doesn't it?"

"At any moment, I could change my decision."

"No, I don't think so. Honestly, I don't think you can, even if you want to. You said it best: you
don't make choices lightly."

"I've never had someone accuse me of being incapable of murder," Voldemort notes, a touch
surprised, almost bemused.
"There's a first time for everything." Harry snorts and shakes his head. "D'you think Dumbledore
would have ever given up on the war and eased if you hadn't made it clear that you can't change
your mind? It wasn't you giving up your followers, or snapping your wand, or even disappearing."

Voldemort narrows his eyes. "Oh? What was it?"

Harry lowers his spoon and stares at Voldemort steadily, a strange warmth in his chest. "It was the
fact that you asked him to save my life. You asked him. Knowing that he never would unless you
retreated from the world for good, you still asked. Knowing that we'd just do it all over again if
you changed your mind, you still asked. You asked because you made your choice, and as
ridiculous and bizarre as it was, you couldn't choose otherwise."

"No," Voldemort murmurs, regarding him with sharp, shrewd eyes, "I cannot."

"I know." Harry smiles and nods his head towards his wand. "Use it."

So, Voldemort does.

Seeing Voldemort use his wand is something of a marvel. It's strange. He never expected to see
such a thing, but it's not some spectacle. Voldemort just scoops it up, flexing his fingers around it
for a moment, then he goes back to working in the fireplace like he never stopped.

Harry goes back to eating.

There must be something slightly mad about how easy it is to be around Voldemort. Harry is quite
sure that, if he told anyone, they would think he's taking the piss. It sounds like the start of a really
bad joke—a Dark Lord and the boy he tried to kill, only to eventually grow to care about, are
coexisting in a horrible cabin…

Draco's going to think it's hilarious. Harry sort of does himself, really. It's not like he and
Voldemort hadn't gotten comfortable with each other. They actually did, which was the source of a
lot of Harry's guilt from a year ago. Still, it's absolutely absurd that they can simply stay two hours
in close quarters without problems after betrayal, near-deaths, and a year without a word between
them.

It all really comes down to these simple facts:

Voldemort is out in the middle of nowhere, and he's not going to go anywhere else. He's in
seclusion, and he's not going to change that. He's defeated, technically, and will be officially when
Harry one day escapes Horcrux-induced immortality and they—presumably—die together.
Whatever, that's a problem for the future. For now, it's as simple as Harry's wish from long ago
being fulfilled—to have Voldemort somewhere and keep him there so he'll never leave.

Is it good for Voldemort? No, it's not. It's a prison sentence, frankly. He doesn't have his wand, or
followers, or a purpose to focus on. He's in exile, and he'll never truly be living.

However, Harry can't fix that. Voldemort made his choices. Voldemort killed the people he did.
Harry couldn't stop him before it was all too late, and there's nothing Harry can do to save him
now. All he can offer is himself.

He hasn't offered yet, technically, and he's not sure how to. Maybe he can just casually mention
that he'll eventually be back, and Voldemort will accept it without comment.

"It's done," Voldemort informs him, walking over and carefully sitting Harry's wand down.

Harry hums. "I'll use it to go through to the Manor. I've missed Draco quite a bit, you know."

"I did not tell you to abandon him."

"Oi! I didn't abandon him! He supported me in finding you, if you must know."

"I didn't care to know," Voldemort says simply. He flicks his gaze to the door he randomly
disappears through—the kitchen, but not. In silence, he sweeps off towards it.

"Hey," Harry calls out, sitting his half-eaten supper aside and shooting to his feet to follow
Voldemort through the door, "what are you working on in here, anyway? It's not some sort of evil
potion, is it?"

"If it were?" Voldemort challenges, sweeping behind the cauldron and curling his fingers through
the air around the ladle, making it stir without ever touching it.
"I'd ruin your plans, obviously," Harry says cheekily, which earns him a harsh glare that doesn't at
all frighten him. "So? What is it?"

Voldemort narrows his eyes, staring down into the bubbling liquid. It's a dark yellow, so thick that
it's almost brown. "I am experimenting."

"Oh. Er, brilliant," Harry mumbles weakly, only it's not brilliant at all. "Actually, it's really not.
Have to admit, Mr. Voldemort, Retired Dark Lord, sir, it is not a comfort to hear that you're
experimenting. Whatever for, is all." Voldemort doesn't answer him, and Harry feels a bit more on
edge without even really meaning to be. "No, seriously, whatever for?"

"I wonder," Voldemort murmurs, mostly to himself, "would your blood provide adequate
composition?"

"My blood?!" Harry sputters.

"Yes, your blood," Voldemort tells him sharply, glaring at him through the smoke wafting up from
the cauldron. "I have already added mine. It is the main ingredient."

Harry stares at him incredulously. "What are you trying to do now?"

"There is a snake egg in the cauldron, Harry."

"A—sorry, what?"

"A snake egg," Voldemort repeats. "Unhatched."

"Alright," Harry says carefully, "why?"

Voldemort arches a naked eyebrow at him. "Nagini," is what he says, and Harry sucks in a sharp
breath.
"Nagini! You can—I thought you said you can't bring her back! Is that what you're trying to do? Is
it working?" Harry stumbles forward a few steps and stares wide-eyed into the cauldron. "How will
you know? When will you know? Will she be—"

"Harry," Voldemort cuts in sharply, making him snap his mouth shut, "it is not what you think. I
am not resurrecting Nagini. At least not her as she was. She will not be the same size or breed, nor
will she be a Horcrux. She may not even have all her memories. This is merely experimental, and I
will not know if it works until the unhatched snake is old enough to talk and understand."

"Oh," Harry breathes out. "Right. Sorry. But, I mean, there is a chance, isn't there?"

"I believe so," Voldemort says. "I shall see."

"Brilliant! You'll have a pet either way. That's nice."

"I will not indulge your childish ramblings."

"Acknowledging them is indulging them," Harry teases, then reaches out and his hand to
Voldemort, offering it. "If you think my blood would help with this, you're free to use it. Only for
Nagini, though."

Voldemort flicks his gaze to Harry's hand, then to the cauldron in consideration. After a beat, he
slowly admits, "I am unsure if your blood will stabilize the process further or upset it. I consumed
Nagini's blood, her essence, and though you two were in some ways similar or even related by
being a Horcrux...I don't know if your blood will enrich the potion or ruin it."

"Best not risk it, then," Harry decides, pulling his hand back. "If you figure out a way to know for
sure either way, the offer stands."

"There would be no point," Voldemort tells him, his red eyes turning back to the cauldron, a
strange tension in his shoulders that Harry's never once seen from him before.

"Still, it's there." Harry flicks his gaze to the cauldron. "It's Dark Magic, isn't it?"
"Very," Voldemort confirms.

"Well," Harry mutters, whirling around and marching back out of the room, "I know nothing of it.
Come on, then. I should finish my supper."

"You should return to England," Voldemort says, following him out.

"I will do that when I finish my supper," Harry declares, marching over to the sofa and grabbing up
his plate to do just that. As he grasps his spoon, he waves it at Voldemort.

Voldemort sneers at him in distaste.

Harry snorts and shakes his head as he goes back to eating his supper. They drop off into
comfortable silence, and it's not the first they've ever had, especially in the last two hours. Often,
when the silences stretch on too long, Voldemort will just go into this odd meditative state. He's
always very still and very quiet, barely breathing, and it makes him look even less human than
usual.

His mind wanders over the future, and how he's going to approach the very uncomfortable decision
he's come to about sort of just fitting himself into Voldemort's life. How does one go about telling
the Dark Lord who hasn't earned it that he'll just be forced to be a part of Harry's future, if Harry
has any say about it? It's not exactly an easy conversation to have, to be fair, especially since
Voldemort will be bound to his empty husk of a cabin and this wasteland of a jungle, and Harry
will have to come here time and time again in the years to come.

It comes to him then that Voldemort will not be at his wedding. Voldemort will not know his
children. Well, actually, will he? Harry tries to picture bringing future children here and letting
them grow up around a horrible murderer. They'd be children, so they'd probably ask a billion
questions about why Voldemort has no nose, all while running around or hanging off his arms.
Trying to picture such a thing boggles Harry's mind, but he can't stop.

Voldemort is going to be a part of Harry's life, but removed from it. How removed? Will he bring
Draco here on visits? Will he visit and bring gifts on holidays and birthdays? Is he going to floo-
call if something comes up and he can't make a visit, scheduling another time?

And seriously, would he actually bring children around Voldemort? That idea is so ludicrous that
Harry doesn't know what to do with it. He pictures Voldemort sitting very still as messy toddlers
crawl all over him and talk to him in lisping voices. Then, horribly, he pictures Voldemort glaring
at kids who hide behind Harry's legs and never want to be around the scary snake-man.

The future is uncertain and overwhelming, and Harry thinks most people who aren't absolutely
mental would just leave it alone. Most people wouldn't find the murderous Dark Lord responsible
for so much death and torture, especially after they nearly died because of said murderous Dark
Lord. Most people wouldn't spend time with him and then decide to keep visiting, likely for the rest
of their lives, even when they have absolutely no idea what the rest of their lives will look like.

Most people wouldn't love the Dark Lord to begin with. Harry's not most people, though.

He never was.

"Will you do me a favor?" Harry asks softly.

"That rests entirely on what the favor is."

"Stop doing whatever it is you do that keeps you from feeling anything, even anger. I've looked for
ages on our connection and there's always nothing. It's disconcerting. I don't like it."

"Ah," Voldemort muses, "I had wondered if you'd noticed. We cannot break our connection, Harry,
but I found that you can lengthen it. I've tucked things far away so that it seems like there is
nothing there because you don't think to go deep enough."

"Well, you don't have to do that. It's not like I go looking on your side of things as it is. I did this
past year, trying to see if you were...you know, but I never found anything," Harry admits in
frustration. "I get if you want privacy, but it's—I—"

Harry doesn't know how to say that he's spent the last year actively missing Voldemort, which is
bloody ridiculous, but he doesn't have to.

Voldemort interrupts with, "I will remedy it if it irritates you that much. It helped me from seeing
your dreams, but it requires intense focus during meditation, which used to pull me into a dream-
like state that you eventually barged into."
"Barged into," Harry repeats slowly. "The cliff."

"The cliff," Voldemort confirms. "I don't sleep, but that is not to say that I do not dream. When you
betrayed me, I worked to ensure my side of the connection reflected nothing. It often requires me
to meditate, which leads to those dreams. Because of our connection, you found ways in, even
unconsciously. I never understood why you kept falling right into it when you slept, and you never
seemed to realize the dreams were not real."

Harry blinks slowly, trying to wrap his mind around that. He's had the same dream for a year now
—the one where he stands at a cliff and searches for someone who never comes. It's not every
night, but it happens often. It's haunted him so long now that he's started to think of the dream as a
nightmare.

"You knew they weren't real?" Harry asks.

"It never took long for me to figure it out," Voldemort answers. "The mind is a mysterious thing,
Harry, even more so while resting. You came into my dream and then never let me fall. It
was...intriguing, I admit, as well as infuriating."

"I—I still—" Harry swallows around a thick throat, working very hard not to cry. "I dream about
the cliff, still. You never—I look, but you don't…"

"I know," Voldemort says simply.

Harry makes a small sound, looking down at his plastic spoon, losing his appetite. "So, that's your
doing, then? You—you know that I've...that I wanted to see you, and you never showed yourself."

"What difference does the dream have that it did not have before?"

"I—I don't know. It's quiet, no wind, and the darkness representing death is gone. There's just a
ravine at the bottom. You're not there. Dumbledore's not there. That's it."

"Have you asked why that dream was what it was to begin with?" Voldemort challenges, watching
him intently, clearly waiting for him to figure it out.
Harry shakes his head. "Not really, honestly. I sort of know already, I think. It's not really a dream,
is it? It's your nightmare, what scares you."

"Scared," Voldemort corrects, tilting his head just a bit. "If desires can shift, so can fears. One
outweighs the rest now, reflected in the new dream."

"I don't get it," Harry murmurs. "It was just me showing up and you never being there."

Voldemort simply stares at him.

Oh, Harry thinks.

And then, well, he's crying a little because none of this would be just right if Harry's not losing the
plot in front of the Dark Lord who always makes him feel the most of everything, no matter what it
is.

He's eighteen and sobbing like he's still sixteen, but he's not really sure how to stop. Voldemort
can't just do shite like that…

It takes him just a bit to gather his wits about him. He's gotten incredibly good about not crying or
exploding in rage in the last year, which is some lovely growth he's proud of. With a huff of
hysterical judgement at his own ridiculousness, Harry swipes a hand underneath his eyes, briefly
upsetting his glasses, and then he shakes his head.

"Well, I'm tired of looking at that sodding cliff when I go to sleep, so do me a bloody favor and
stop meditating so hard, yeah?"

"You could try practicing Occlumency to counter—"

"Absolutely not. I'm pants at it."

"I see," Voldemort says.

"You could always teach me. Oh, that sounds like a terrible idea," Harry admits, laughing a little
wetly, still blinking tears out of his eyes. "It didn't go well with Snape, you know. But, if you
agreed, I can't say I'm opposed to you being my Professor again."

"I was never technically your Professor," Voldemort reminds him coldly.

Harry rolls his eyes. "You basically were, and you weren't pants at it at all. Speaking of,
Dumbledore offered me the Defense Against the Dark Arts position at Hogwarts, you know."

"Did he?" Voldemort asks, looking vaguely amused, though there's a cruel disdain in his eyes. "He
refused me many years ago."

"That's alright," Harry says, "I refused him. Probably for the same reason he refused you."

"What reason is that?"

"He didn't trust you and didn't want to work with you in close quarters."

Voldemort now looks genuinely amused, smirking, delighted in that cruel way of his. "And you
felt the same for him. I will admit, there is some sort of poetic justice to that, or perhaps cruel
irony."

"Both?" Harry suggests, pursing his lips.

"Both," Voldemort allows, waving his fingers lazily through the air. A beat later, his gaze sharpens
on Harry's face. "Outside of the reasons you refused him, did you wish to take the position?"

"Yeah," Harry admits quietly. "I want to teach, I think. I just don't know how I will."

"Hogwarts is not the only school in the world, Harry. Even still, you don't have to leave England to
teach. There are other ways to do so. Find them."

"I suppose I'll have to, won't I? At least until Dumbledore either retires or, er…"
"Dies," Voldemort says with all the glee he can muster, not even caring about Harry's grimace.

Harry cuts him a sharp look. "Yes. Peacefully, having lived a long time, as he should. Don't be
horrid about it," he snaps, only to scoff a moment later. "What am I saying? Of course you'll be
horrid about it."

"I can only hope he dies in pain," Voldemort says, going on and being horrid about it, as predicted.
"I would like to recall the exact day and details, seeing as I won't have the pleasure of ending his
life myself, but that is unfortunately not a luxury I'll have."

"You're vile," Harry mutters, huffing and closing up his plate to toss the half-eaten meal back in the
bag. He shakes his head and scoops up his wand, flicking it towards Voldemort, feeling inspired.
The stinging jinx gets absolutely no reaction outside of Voldemort turning a cold gaze to him.
Harry arches an eyebrow. "What? I got the idea from you. If you're going to act like a child, I'll
scold you as one."

"You were right to say that I can kill you without a wand, Harry Potter," Voldemort reminds him in
a hiss, so close to Parseltongue that it might just be it.

"Kill me on my way out," Harry suggests lightly, pushing to his feet. He flicks his gaze between
the fireplace and Voldemort. "I should be going."

"So, go," Voldemort says.

"Alright," Harry tells him, moving towards the fireplace with his eyebrows furrowed. The mantle
holding the new set of floo powder looks better after Harry cleaned it. "Those books are yours

Voldemort isn't someone who rolls his eyes, but if he were, this would be the moment for it. "There
was no need, but you do as you like anyway."

"Yeah," Harry agrees wryly, grinning.

"Get out," Voldemort says flatly, flicking his fingers in clear dismissal.
Harry pauses at the edge of the fireplace, simply looking at Voldemort for a moment. It's utterly
astonishing that they're here, after everything. Just a boy and his homicidal enemy, who turned out
to be something of a guardian. It's a mad, mad world, it is.

He adores it immensely.

Voldemort narrows his eyes, very obviously about to say something, and Harry holds up his hand
to cut him off. For a second, he looks at the monster-man in front of him.

"I really did miss you," Harry whispers, the vulnerable admission slipping out into the silence.

He'll be walking away from him yet again, and this time it will not be in betrayal. It's in the
aftermath of the repercussions of his betrayal. Voldemort lost. He lost in a devastating finality.
Harry is guilty for being relieved by that, for the selfish parts of him that are thankful that
Voldemort is sheltered away from the world, unharmed and unable to do harm. Voldemort chose
him, and this is where it got him, and Harry is stupidly, irreparably sorry as well as grateful. He
can't help it.

He chose Harry, ready to give up everything, expecting to gain nothing for it.

"Harry," Voldemort says, something flashing in his eyes, something startlingly like pity, and he
sweeps to his feet to stand in the center of the room.

Harry releases a shuddering breath and shakes his head. "It's alright because I'm thinking once a
week for a visit, even if just to pop in for Nagini Junior—

"It will not be Nagini junior," Voldemort cuts in harshly, visibly offended and displeased.

"—and to make sure you haven't gone mad from loneliness," Harry continues brazenly.

Voldemort glares at him. "I do not get lonely."

Harry's not entirely sure if that's true. Everyone gets lonely, even surrounded by loved ones—he'd
know. Orphans know loneliness better than most, and no matter what emotions Voldemort never
cared to have, he's no exception to the rule.

It will be hard, Harry thinks, to come here and know that things have changed so drastically. Life
will go on, and Voldemort will stay hidden in this little corner of the world, no longer a threat but
always dangerous. Harry can't give him a family, can't go back in time and fix all the wrongs that
Voldemort did, but he can offer him something else. He can give him love, and presence, and a
simple understanding that loneliness can't reach him when Harry is there, if only Voldemort will
let him.

And, for just a split second, Harry can't help but look at Voldemort and be thankful. Dumbledore
has said he shouldn't be, and perhaps that's true, but it hits him square in the chest anyway.
Voldemort gave up everything for him.

"Thank you," Harry says firmly, fiercely, the words almost trembling with how much he means
them.

And then, before Voldemort can so much as respond, Harry drops his arms from where he wrapped
them around himself, and he marches forward to fling them around Voldemort instead.

It's a rather small cabin, so the distance from the fireplace to where Voldemort stands is only three
large steps, and Harry takes them quickly before Voldemort can properly react. He doesn't give
Voldemort the chance to back away or stop him, simply walking up to him and hugging him like
that's not the most bizarre thing in the world.

Distantly, Harry's aware that it is.

He knows; he just doesn't care. It'll be awkward and tense afterwards, but that'll just have to do,
because maybe they could do with some of that. For now, he focuses on his own intent. Voldemort
is not one for affection, Harry is very aware of this, but that's not what this hug is really about.

It's a statement more than anything. A simple fact that Harry doesn't care that he's a monster, that
he's done so many horrible things, that they'll never truly see eye-to-eye. They don't have to, not
anymore, because Voldemort has chosen to render all of that obsolete. He's chosen Harry, over
everything else, and Harry is grateful—so very grateful and showing it in the form of a hug
because he is affectionate.
Voldemort does not hug him back. Harry doesn't actually expect him to. It doesn't hurt his feelings
or anything. That's not the point of this, anyway. The hug is alien because Voldemort is stiff like
stone, just like he was the day he helped Harry out of a cupboard in the Manor, the day Harry
leaned into him. Voldemort, to most, is repulsive at least, but Harry has long since gotten used to
it.

He's cold and stiff and taller than Harry, which makes the hug a bit uncomfortable, but Harry
wraps his arms around him tight and holds on anyway. He keeps holding on until Voldemort
eventually gives just a little, just like he did outside the cupboard, not carved out of marble, forcing
himself to be a bit more human to the touch, relenting only enough to be likened to the crashing
power of the ocean. And then, once Harry's proven a point he can't really explain, even to himself,
he pulls away.

"Do not do that again," Voldemort says instantly.

Harry chuckles wetly, crying just a little, and he shakes his head in exasperation. "If you piss me
off, I might. And you'll let me."

Voldemort stares at him, very still, and there's that flash of pity again. "I have no plans to anger
you, as I will not be in touch to do so."

"You can run," Harry says, "but I'll just find you again. There's really no point."

"Harry," Voldemort murmurs, almost soft about it, like that will withhold the pain from the blow
of his next words, "you will be unable to visit me again. The fireplace will be dismantled the
moment you step through it. I will implement wards to make this place unplottable to anyone,
especially you, so that you may never locate it again. I will properly disappear this time, and you
may look, but I assure you that you will not find me again."

Harry stares at him, surprisingly numb to that statement. All he says is, "I can find you again. I
will. Even if I just—"

"No," Voldemort cuts in sharply, "this is not a time for you to be stubborn. I'm telling you that you
will not find me. I'm telling you that I will not allow it."

"Why not?" Harry spits, hands clenching into fists at his sides as his chest pinches uncomfortably.
"You will not waste time here with me, Harry. There will be no visits. You will live your life, as
you should, with no interference from me."

"But you chose to—"

Voldemort glares at him with such fury that his words get locked in his throat, and then Voldemort
is snarling, "Do you not understand, you insolent child?! For me to be defeated, I must be removed
from your life entirely. The Prophecy—"

"I don't give a damn about the sodding Prophecy!" Harry explodes, taking a step forward and
jabbing his finger towards Voldemort with vigor. "You don't get to do this, not to me! After all
you've done, all that you've taken from me, you don't get to—"

Harry rears back, reaching up with a shaking hand to rub it over his mouth. His chest is burning
and his eyes are itching, and Voldemort should not be capable of the pity that keeps flashing in his
eyes, but there it is anyway. There it is. Harry hates it.

"I did not make the choice I did for you to throw any part of your life away," Voldemort says
quietly, holding his gaze. "The Prophecy states that neither of us can live while the other survives.
Survival is continuing to live, usually in spite of a hardship, and I do no such thing on my own
here. That grants you a life far removed from me, a life that you have deserved far longer than I
ever thought to allow you to have. You visiting would be…more than survival, for me. You cannot
return. I will not let you."

"What about your dream?" Harry rasps, his vision blurring as the tears build up. "It's your biggest
fear now, isn't it? Not being here for me. I—I don't think you should have to be frightened for the
rest of your life. I want—it's not—"

"It is not your job to be concerned for my well-being or what existence I will carry out," Voldemort
tells him. "I will do what I must, and you will do nothing besides live however you wish to."

Harry gives a harsh, trembling laugh. "Really? The whole 'I am the adult, you're the child, let me
handle the decisions' thing? Are you having me on? What happened to my freedom? What
happened to—"

"This is not up for discussion!" Voldemort cuts in, and he's louder than Harry's ever heard him get
in the middle of a moment like this. He's angry, and Harry can feel it in his chest. "You are a child!
One who I have—against all odds and my own better judgement—decided to protect!"

"I don't need protecting!" Harry explodes. "You're the only thing I've ever needed protection from,
and you've made your choice, haven't you?!"

"I have, and that includes this," Voldemort hisses, his own hands twitching like he wants to hurt
someone—not Harry, though, never Harry. "I disappeared from the world for a reason, you foolish
boy! I cannot be tied to it, not even through you, and you must live on without my presence if you
ever wish to have a fulfilled life at all!"

"So I'm just supposed to leave and never see you again?!" Harry demands furiously.

"Yes," Voldemort grits out, "that is exactly what you're meant to do. The fact that you've even
visited me today is a risk of untold proportions. Have you considered what will happen if I did
allow you to visit and Dumbledore somehow found out? Have you considered the consequences of
a Prophecy unfulfilled? Most of all, have you even thought in that narrow-minded head of yours
what would become of your own life if you wasted a portion of it on me? I made my choice, and
you will respect it."

"I don't care about the Prophecy, or Dumbledore, or any of that," Harry snaps, drawing himself up
to full height. "If I want to waste some of my shite life visiting a shite person, that's my damn
choice! How about you respect mine?"

"I have been honest with you. I have granted you trust, and freedom, and done more for you than
I've ever done for anyone else that has stained this earth," Voldemort says, tone cold and harsh, so
sinister that it makes Harry's skin crawl. "You, in return, have betrayed my trust and defeated me.
In this, I will make the decision, and you will comply."

Harry clenches his jaw, trying to breathe around the burn in his chest, trying to stop from blinking
the tears out of his eyes. "You are a bastard."

"Thankfully," Voldemort responds, sneering.

"Is this your redemption, then?" Harry spits, glaring at him with all the fury he can feel crackling
away in him—both his own and Voldemort's. "Is this your show of remorse? You've decided to
finally, for sodding once, do the right thing? Is that it?"
"I do not feel remorse," Voldemort tells him without batting an eye, and he doesn't. Harry can see
that doesn't, that he never will. "I seek no redemption, nor do I feel that I need to be redeemed at
all. It is, perhaps, the right thing to do now, but only in the sense that it is the right thing for you.
Do not be foolish, Harry, not about this. Think about your life, about the many years to come. I
will not be a part of that, not only because I have no desire to but also because—for your protection
and continued well-being that I've decided to dedicate myself to—I simply cannot be. When I left, I
did so having no plans to ever see you again. And I will not from this day forward. Do you
understand?"

Harry does, is the thing.

He gets it, what Voldemort is trying to tell him. He thinks about the Prophecy, even if he doesn't
care for it at all. He thinks about how he was musing how to mesh his own future to include
Voldemort only a little bit ago, uncertain how to do so.

In his heart of hearts, he knows that their lives have been entwined for so long that he can't
properly live if they remain that way. He knows that Voldemort is here, and will remain here,
wasting away. He even knows what Voldemort's not saying, that he doesn't want Harry to be a part
of that.

Voldemort is powerful and prideful. What existence he's chained himself to now is his own
choosing, and he won't change his mind. That includes protecting Harry from both the Prophecy
and whatever could happen if Dumbledore did find out, as well as keeping him away from the
empty nothingness that Voldemort has chosen for himself.

It's not fair.

Because this is another sacrifice—Voldemort for Harry. Because this is what guardians do, what
they're supposed to do, and Voldemort is the one—out of everyone—to do it. Because Harry can
feel it all the way in his bones that Voldemort is right, and he's never hated anything more.

Harry's choking a little when he pleads, "Don't do this to me."

"I am doing this for you," Voldemort says simply.

"I never asked for it!" Harry shouts, and his grip on his tears is lost as his vision blurs past help.
"You killed my parents! My godfather is dead because of you! I stopped trusting Dumbledore
because of you! I've killed, and changed, and hurt people because of you! You've already made me
suffer, and you've already taken so many people from me! And you're taking yourself from me,
too!"

Voldemort's eyes gleam bloody, even through the blurry tears, and all he says is, "I know."

"I hate you," Harry whispers, and his voice cracks.

"I know," Voldemort repeats.

Harry stands there and rattles all over, feeling like he's falling apart. "You're the worst thing that
has ever happened to me," he rasps.

Again, all Voldemort says is, "I know."

"I don't ask for much. I'm not—I know you didn't want to give up the war. I know you lost
everything choosing me, and I'm—" Harry bites off the instinctive I'm sorry because it's a lie as
much as it isn't. His breath shudders out of him. "You can't just do everything you've done to and
for me, only to do this. It's not fair. Don't you understand that? Maybe it's selfish, but I want—I
don't want—"

"Stop crying," Voldemort cuts in. "Wipe your tears. Look at me, Harry."

Mechanically, Harry does as he's told, reaching up with shaking fingers to clear his vision. He
blinks helplessly at Voldemort. "If—"

"Stop talking and listen to me," Voldemort snaps, making Harry fall silent. He narrows his ruby red
eyes and reaches out, his spindly fingers gripping Harry's chin, cold and unrelenting grasp tilting
his head up just a bit. "Because of me, you have suffered. Because of me, you always will. That is
not something you would have escaped, no matter what way it would have gone. Because of you, I
have been defeated. Because of you, I will always remain so. That is something beyond our control,
foretold in Prophecy, no matter how much the both of us despise it. You are—"

"But I—"
"Be silent! Listen. Pay attention, for I will only say this to you once. You are my Horcrux, my last
remaining one. When the time comes, you will find a way to end your immortality, likely through
the Basilisk Venom. In doing so, I will perish here. I will not be afraid, Harry. You have relieved
me of my one fear, seemingly without even trying. In the time before this, however, I will not
begrudge you of the life you deserve."

"But you deserve to—"

"I said be silent! Do you know what I spent my life seeking before you came? Power. Rule. But,
most of all, the ability to escape death. The only way I can obtain those things is through your ruin,
and as unwise as it may be, I find myself with no desire to achieve it as that cost. You matter more
than those things, and I hate you for it. I have only the regret that I did not kill you before I learned,
because of you, the meaning of solicitude."

"I don't know what that means," Harry says stupidly, chin wobbling beneath Voldemort's thumb
because he thinks he has an idea of what it means.

"It means that I found myself believing you to be my responsibility," Voldemort murmurs.
"Through such a senseless notion, I made the grandiose mistake of revising what approach I
wanted to take on this world. It became prudent that what I applied myself to never reflected
negatively on you, and I failed to realize—until the moment you left—that my actions would
always reflect on you. We are bound, Harry Potter, and we cannot change that. The only thing I
could change was my own choices, and so I did. You gave me something that no other in this
world ever has or ever will again. Do you know what it is?"

"Love?" Harry asks, and he's shaking from head-to-toe now, unable to stop it.

"Reason," Voldemort corrects.

Harry tries to turn his head, making a small sound in the back of his throat, but Voldemort keeps a
firm grip on his chin so he can't look away. "Please," he whispers, "don't say—"

"I will say it, because it needs to be said," Voldemort says. "You wanted to be wanted, Harry, and
you've got it. Unfortunately, even that cannot be simple or black and white as you wish. There is
grey here, too. I cannot want you as I've come to without wanting you safe. I cannot care for you as
I do without caring for your future. And I cannot be defeated if you remain a part of my life,
because that will not be a defeat to me. I have lost nothing in my life, because I've never had
anything to lose. It is my first and only time, and it will be my last. You, however, have more than
just me, and I will not take those things away from you as I have already taken so much."
"I don't want to lose you, though," Harry chokes out, helpless to how small and broken he feels in
this moment, unable to stop the pain that sweeps in. "I never wanted to care about you, but I do. I
—I can't change that, or stop it, and now it's—I—"

"You may stay," Voldemort offers. "I will not force you to leave. If you wish to have no life, to
remain here with me forever, I will respect your decision. You will give up those you love,
however, if you do not leave. But, if you go, you will be unable to return, and you will respect my
decision."

Harry stares at him, wide-eyed, his heart skipping a beat in his chest. He knows what Voldemort is
offering. If Harry's so determined, Voldemort won't stop him from wasting away alongside him if
that's what he wants to do. They'd remain here in this empty shell of a place until Harry was ready
to die, neither of them living because they'd both be surviving. That's an option.

It's just not one that Harry will take, and Voldemort knows that. He's cruel. He's undeniably cruel,
and evil, and he can make Harry suffer with such ease.

Voldemort had chosen him over everything, and Harry will not do the same in return. He can't.

"It's not right," Harry says nonsensically, because they both know what his choice will be.

"Perhaps not," Voldemort allows, pressing his thumb a bit more to Harry's chin. Then he drops his
his hand. "Nevertheless, my decision is final."

"You should know," Harry hisses, "there's nothing right about abandoning me!"

Voldemort's expression goes blank, and his fingers flutter to his chest in an absentminded motion,
rubbing there harder than ever. "I will not explain past what I already have. You claim you are not
that much of a fool, so you must be aware of why this is necessary. I know you want—"

"No, shut up!" Harry snarls. "You're going to listen to me now! One thing I've wanted, what I've
always wanted, was family. It's what I saw in the Mirror of Erised, it's what I had in Sirius, it's what
I felt when Dumbledore cared for me. Family. Someone to call my own. Not my friend's family,
not my blood relatives who treat me like dirt, but someone—anyone—to claim for myself, who
wanted me more than anything else. I shouldn't have hoped for it from you, because you're terrible.
You're worse than the filthiest rubbish on this earth, ridden with such evil that you can't make
anything right however hard you try, not even if you lived forever. But—but I did. For some stupid,
stupid reason, I did."

"Harry," Voldemort murmurs.

"I'm talking," Harry snaps, glaring at him. "I hoped for it from you, and you—you actually gave it
to me. You! Of all people, you're the one who fucking did it! Who gave me someone. And now—
now you...you want to take that away from me. You've taken it from me every time, and now…"
He has to stop as his breath hitches, and there goes the tears gathering ruthlessly in his eyes again.
Helpless to do anything else, he begs. "Please don't. Just—please."

Voldemort stands there, tall and imposing, red-eyed and ruthless, and he says—for possibly the
very first time in his life—with unmarred and simple honesty, "I am sorry."

And that's it. That's really it.

Harry feels all of his breath escape him in a deep exhale as those words settle between them. It is
not a lie. Voldemort does not lie to him. The words knock around in his head and his heart, and he
didn't know how much he needed to hear them, how much he needed them to be true, until this
moment.

"I don't forgive you, not for this," Harry whispers.

Voldemort only looks at him and says, "I know."

For a long time, they're silent and still, just staring at each other. It feels like there's a chasm
between them, and Harry has no idea how to cross it. He's a reckless force that can't be stopped, but
Voldemort is a powerful object that can't be moved.

It's an impasse, and Harry doesn't know if they'll ever get around it. He hasn't the faintest clue
about how he's supposed to get what he wants. A part of him is ashamed that he wants this at all.
Everything is always so complicated. Always.

It takes him a long time of being lost in his thoughts before he realizes that, perhaps, he is not
meant to get what he wants.
"I'm always going to be an orphan, aren't I?" Harry asks quietly.

"Yes," Voldemort says, "because an orphan is only a person whose parents are dead. It is not, as
you have come to believe, someone who has no one."

"I don't have you," Harry croaks.

Voldemort peers at him, the intensity of his gaze nearly making Harry flinch. "Harry, I remain with
you always. We are bound. Whether or not I am there in flesh, I will claim a part of you that no one
will be able to take away. You safeguard a sliver of my soul. You are my choice over the world.
You have me. You're the only one who ever has."

Harry hates feeling like a child, truly. He hates feeling small and broken, hates folding into himself,
hates the whining parts of himself that wants to stomp his feet and pitch a fit. He hates that he can
feel what he does for Voldemort because of his trauma, because of his own selfish desire to want
someone to claim as his own, because of his need to be enough for someone.

He hates the fact that Voldemort can look at him and say these things, and he hates that it can send
a rush of emotion through him.

Harry hates most of all that he can hate and love all at once with the same intensity and unrelenting
force, as if he consists of nothing else.

There's always a new lesson to learn, and Harry shouldn't be surprised that Voldemort has taught
him this one, too. This lesson is painful, as most are. It is simply and ineffably this:

Life itself is grey—every single facet of it. Every day, there is choice and emotion. People around
the world face moments of morality from the smallest interaction to the biggest well-executed
decisions. There is something to be gained in every breath, and there is loss around every corner.
Loving is not always easy, and hating is not that hard. What is good does not always go well, and
what is bad is not always weighed with inexcusable intentions. To cherish the depths of great joy,
one must have sorrow to compare it to, for there would be no way to understand the meaning of
happiness if there was not comprehension of sadness.

And, painfully, no one's meant to make sense of it. There's no right answer. There's no guide for
why anything happens the way it does. People are awful, and people are lovely, and neither is
 false. Change exists everywhere, in everyone, and there is no promise of what change that may be.

Harry can forever try to make sense of his own choices, of his own mistakes, of whatever decisions
he's made that's led him to here. He never will. Because he simply does not know what everything
means, why things happen, what's irrevocably right and what's irredeemably wrong.

He knows only what he feels, and sometimes not even that. But, in this moment, his feelings open
the door to a sense of clarity.

"Even if I never see you again," Harry starts in a hoarse whisper, "you'll always be with me, won't
you?"

"Yes," Voldemort answers promptly. "You are a troublesome child of which I will not abandon.
You have me, Harry. You always will."

Harry takes a deep breath, letting that settle somewhere around his heart. It's enough. Quietly, he
says, "I can't say if this is what you deserve for all that you've done. I can't say if it's what I
deserve. I can't stop hating you, and I can't stop loving you, and I can't go back and fix everything
that ended with us here. The only thing I can do is choose what to do next."

"And what will you choose?" Voldemort asks.

Harry smiles through his tears. "I'm going home."

"So," Voldemort murmurs, "go."

And Harry does.

Chapter End Notes

Come on, did y'all really think Harry was going to just let Voldemort go after he
disappeared the first time? That's not our brash, troublesome boi, is it?

But we got our answers, and now we know the whole depth of everything and why
Voldemort made his choices.
I know some of you might be upset about him living in seclusion for the rest of
however long Harry lives, without even Harry to visit him, and like... Honestly? I'm
sad about it, too, which I was NOT expecting because he's, you know, evil and stuff.
That being said, he did what he did for Harry, and I think that's possibly the most
admirable thing to come out of all this. Instead of Harry having to sacrifice, Voldemort
did it for him.

Also, like, I had this written for a while.

Just remember, like he said, Harry always has him, even if he's not right there.
 Home
Chapter Notes

*takes a deep breath*

Okay, this is it, everyone. I don't really know what to say, honestly. This has been a
very long journey, from start to finish. I didn't expect to get all the wonderful feedback
that I did when I started this. It was only supposed to be a small fic where Harry got to
kill some people because it seemed therapeutic at the time—don't judge me. Then,
suddenly, I was 100k in and juggling plot and character dynamics and themes. It was a
lot, but I don't regret it for a second.

I want to say thank you to everyone who has read and commented and to those who
may in the future. This fic deals with a lot of topics that can be controversial, and not
everyone will like or enjoy the way I handled the fic, which is perfectly valid. For
those of you who enjoyed the journey, I thank you for joining me on it. Honestly, it's
been a wild ride, and here we are at the end...

Without further ado, enjoy ;)

See the end of the chapter for more notes

The Manor is quiet when Harry falls flat on his face, traveling very far in a rush of swirling flames
that sends his head spinning and his stomach churning. People just aren't meant to be deposited
around the world so quickly, he's sure of it.

Nonetheless, the almost sharp smell of the Manor hits his senses and he's glad to be back. He
pushes himself up with a groan, expecting to see sunlight pouring into the sitting room, but it's
rather dim. It would make sense—time difference and all.

"Harry?!"

Glancing up, Harry freezes in place to see Mrs. Malfoy slowly rising from her usual armchair, eyes
wide. She's sitting aside a white blanket she seems to be knitting, as apparently that's easier to do
with a prosthetic than embroidery. As soon as she takes a swift step towards him, Harry is beaming
at her.

"Mrs. Malfoy," he blurts in greeting, utterly delighted to see her.

He moves forward with purpose to hug her, simply pleased by the very sight of her. It's only been
two months, really, but it feels like far too long. Today, her prosthetic is a pale shade of lavender
and has various swirling shapes embedded into it. He doesn't recognize it, so it must be new.

As always, though, it's cold to the touch and he sinks into the familiarity of it when she cups his
warm cheek, staring up at him. She looks happy to see him, too, which is so sweet that Harry can't
help but grin at her stupidly.

Then, her features harden and she drops her hand, tilting her chin up. "Where have you been?" she
asks coldly, eyes narrowing.

Ah, right, that.

"Traveling," Harry says carefully, staring at her without faltering. "I know I should have...told you
I was leaving and such, and I'm sorry."

"You're sorry?" Mrs. Malfoy hisses, sounding absolutely furious with him in a way she never
really has. It's the most uncomposed he's ever seen her, and it's rather frightening. "Harry, you left
without a goodbye to anyone. Draco didn't know where you went, when you would be back, what
you were doing. He could only say that you felt the need to go. Do you have any idea how worried
—"

She draws herself up short, inhaling sharply and stiffening in place. Harry realizes all at once that
she's hurt, as she has all rights to be.

"I know it was incredibly selfish of me," Harry murmurs, because it was. He would do it again, he
knows, but that doesn't mean he isn't aware of how it would make everyone else feel. It's not
something he could help, not really. All he can do is take responsibility for it, as he planned to do
the entire time. "I know it hurt you and caused you to worry. I'm sorry, Mrs. Malfoy. I had to go,
and that's all I can really say about it."

Mrs. Malfoy does not soften. "I do not keep company with those who prove themselves
unreliable."

"Is that right?" Harry asks, arching an eyebrow pointedly, because he's quite sure of the sort of
company Mrs. Malfoy keeps—or kept.
"Anymore," Mrs. Malfoy amends tersely, the skin around her lips tightening severely. "I do not
entertain such people anymore, and you will be no exception, Harry Potter. Kindly see yourself
out."

Harry blinks. "You're kicking me out?"

"Yes."

"I only just got back!"

"I'm aware," Mrs. Malfoy says, words sharp and clipped, her eyes cold.

"Mrs. Malfoy," Harry murmurs gently, "you can kick me out, sure, but it seems a bit
counterproductive to do it just because you missed me, doesn't it?"

"Your absence was notable," Mrs. Malfoy acknowledges, and there's only the tiniest flutter to her
hands to suggest she's distressed at the moment.

"I can't explain," Harry whispers, stepping closer and reaching out with his hands to hold both of
hers, staring into her eyes so she'll see his complete sincerity. "There's nothing I can say to make
you understand why I had to go, but know that I had to. You know how much I love your son. I
would not leave him with no intentions of returning, and I certainly wouldn't go to get away from
him or the family I've come to adore, which includes you. I'm sorry you were worried, and I missed
you as much as you missed me. I'll go if that's what you really want."

Mrs. Malfoy surveys him for a long, tense moment. Stupidly, he'd forgotten how bloody
intimidating she could be when she truly tried at it. The way she stares at him now, as if he's just an
insect pinned to a board, is unnerving and has him holding his breath. Even now, as always, she's
beautiful.

She's so much more than that, though. She has been for a long time. Harry cannot help but be
simply thankful to know her as he does. He even knows that most of her defensiveness now sprouts
from her own hurt and the ferocity in which she protects Draco.

Finally, after Harry's seconds from all-out begging, she gives in with an almost imperceptible
release of tension in her shoulders—small, but there. She arches an eyebrow and says, "You will
spend a considerable amount of time making up for this."

It is not a request.

"I know," Harry agrees, smiling a little. "It's good to see you again. Can I have another hug?"

Sighing, she sweeps in and hugs him again, which is how he knows he's forgiven. He knows
flouncing off without saying goodbye was in bad taste, but he'd been avoiding it at all costs. He'd
worried that people would ask questions, or even try and sway him to stay. Even worse than all
that, though, he'd rather hoped to avoid anyone's wrath or tears or anything else they would have
done on his way out.

It was selfish. He knows that. He's not perfect. He knows that, too. Everyone else does as well, or
they wouldn't love him as they do, he's sure.

"Draco was distraught," Mrs. Malfoy tells him when they finally break apart, and she's so cruel. So
cruel. Such a bloody Slytherin. "He missed you terribly, Harry. The distance weighed on him every
second."

Harry sighs. "Yes, brilliant, thank you for the guilt. You've made your point. I'm terrible, I know."

Mrs. Malfoy doesn't apologize, but he honestly doesn't expect her to. "You didn't even write."

"I know, Mrs. Malfoy."

"Draco could not even enter your room. Neither could I, if I'm to be frank."

"I didn't die."

"It felt as though you had, and with you gone, there was no assurance that you hadn't. And so soon
after nearly losing you, too…"

"Mrs. Malfoy," Harry mumbles, properly chastised. Cruel, malicious Slytherins, always going for
the most cutting attack. Unrelenting, the lot of them, and Mrs. Malfoy is no exception.

"You've come to mean so much to us, Harry, and to have you gone from our lives…" Mrs. Malfoy
lightly clicks her tongue, staring at him with such heart-wrenching sadness that he feels himself
wilt just a bit. "No one was the same."

Bloody hell, he knows where Draco gets his dramatic attribute from. He thinks himself foolish for
ever believing that he got it from Lucius.

"Alright, alright," Harry mutters, huffing. He glares at her, having heard enough, and she relents
because she knows she's won. "I promise to never do it again, yeah? No more traveling. I'm
home."

"You may travel, of course," Mrs. Malfoy says, a touch gentler now. She smiles, a quick flash of it,
and she pats his arm. "Just do it properly next time, darling. I'm glad you're back."

Harry softens, grinning wryly at her. "Are you? Because I'm sure you almost kicked me out of your
own home, then proceeded to drown me in guilt. I thought Draco got his evil streak from his
father."

"Your mistake," Mrs. Malfoy murmurs primly, gracing him with a sharp smile. Her hands flutter
again and she sighs. "May I ask where you've been?"

"I've been around," Harry admits. "Can I tell you about it, if you have the time?"

"Of course," Mrs. Malfoy agrees, as if a day has not passed between them.

And it's nice, it really is. Harry joins her on the sofa, telling her about a few of the places he's been
and some of the experiences he's had. In truth, he's seen lovely things on his travels. There are
sights and people and whole other worlds in his memory now, and it's exciting to get to talk about
it.

Mrs. Malfoy has done her own fair share of traveling, so she listens with intent, nodding when she
knows of a place he's been. She adds her own stories here and there, things she's seen and places
she's gone, and he relaxes into it.
She doesn't mention Voldemort, and Harry has no idea if she has her suspicions and simply doesn't
care to know, or if she has no idea at all. He'll never know, with her. He likes it that way, though.

In the end, though, he's restless and very eager for something else that he can't wait for any longer,
so he finally blurts, "Is Draco at work or in his room?"

"Ah," Mrs. Malfoy murmurs, a flash of amusement flaring in her eyes, "neither. I believe Draco's
shift ended about three hours ago."

"He's out?" Harry asks.

"I believe so," Mrs. Malfoy tells him, looking distinctly pleased now. "It's Thursday, so I do
believe this is when he goes out with his friends, but I have no idea if that's the case today."

Harry stares at her. "So...he's just not at home?"

"He may be."

"You just said he's not in his room."

"Draco will always have a room here at the Manor, but it is no longer one he resides in," Mrs.
Malfoy says, smirking and looking delighted in a muted way, like she's trying to hide how badly
she wishes to laugh at him right now.

"You mean…" Harry frowns slightly, staring at her in bemusement. He clears his throat. "That
means he has his own flat, right?"

Mrs. Malfoy hums. She smiles slightly. "It does."

"Oh," Harry whispers, struck dumb by the thought. He'd known from Draco's letter that Hermione
was trying to get him to do such a thing, but he never suspected that Draco actually would. He's
inexplicably nervous about it. "That's—that's brilliant, Mrs. Malfoy. Does he have a flatmate?"
"No," Mrs. Malfoy says, watching him in blatant humor, clearly enjoying this.

Harry coughs. "Oh," he mumbles again, stupidly. He rolls his shoulders. "Right. So, er, can I go see
him?"

Mrs. Malfoy instantly adopts an expression of apology that's so heavy that it can only be fake, and
the slightest twitch at the corner of her mouth is what gives her away. "Ah, Harry, I simply can't
give out Draco's address without permission. What sort of mother would I be if I did?"

"I'm his boyfriend," Harry blurts, aghast.

"And I am his mother," Mrs. Malfoy counters, not even hiding her smirk now. "I respect my son's
privacy, darling. I'm sure you understand."

Harry feels his eye twitch. "This is because I left, isn't it? My punishment, I take it?"

"If you were here, I'm sure he would have given you access to his flat," Mrs. Malfoy continues
calmly, mock-sympathetic, bloody well having a grand time at his expense. "Pity that you
weren't."

"I do love you, you know, but this is just…"

"Do go on, darling."

"Nothing," Harry settles on with a sigh, shaking his head. He's earned it, he supposes. He's always
known it would go badly if he ever upset Mrs. Malfoy, and Draco did warn him that she'd be cross
with him about this. In a way, he's stupidly charmed by it, ridiculous as it is. "You said he goes out
with friends on Thursday, right? Do you at least know where they meet at?"

Mrs. Malfoy gazes at him fondly. "They alternate between different pubs, as I understand it. I
know it's Wizarding ones, at least, except when they meet on Saturdays to go to Muggle places."
"They go to Muggle places?"

"I believe that is due to Miss Granger's insisting. Draco claims that she is very...assertive."

"She can be, yeah," Harry admits with a small smile, fond despite himself. "Alright, well, if you
don't mind, I'll just go popping about all night in hopes that I eventually find my boyfriend."

"Very romantic," Mrs. Malfoy murmurs, obviously pleased. "Draco deserves nothing less."

"I know," Harry says, because she doesn't have to convince him of that. He stands with a small
chuckle, shaking his head as he looks at her with a warmth pulsing in his chest. She's about to send
him off on a wild-goose chase for Draco, all because Harry's the idiot who up and left for two
months, and he sort of adores her for it. He squeezes her hand gently. "Thank you, Mrs. Malfoy."

"Whatever for?" Mrs. Malfoy asks.

"For trusting me with what you love the most," Harry says softly.

Mrs. Malfoy's gaze turns warm. "And thank you, Harry, for being someone I can trust him to."

"Alright, I'm off, then," Harry murmurs, bending down to press a quick kiss to her forehead
because this might be the only time he can properly get away with it. She blushes in response, and
he grins. "It really was brilliant seeing you."

"As it was for me to see you," Mrs. Malfoy replies in kind, elegantly dipping her head, still
blushing in her demure way. Always so pristine and lovely, no matter what's going on.

Harry shakes his head and makes for the floo.

Again.
Two hours later, Harry's at his wits end.

He's been everywhere. He doesn't know of all the pubs in London, but he knows how to find them
from his travels, and he puts his new skills to good use. So far, he's been to five different pubs in
hopes of finding his boyfriend, and none of them have proven to be fruitful in the least.

There's an itch under his skin just to see Draco again. He's missed him. Terribly so. Being away
from him isn't impossible, but it's not his favorite thing to do, and now that he's home…

He just wants to see Draco again.

It's a bit pathetic, and he's starting to get a little angry about it. How many pubs does London need?
Why did his friends decide to go to different ones all the bloody time instead of getting comfortable
at one like normal people? What has he done in his life to be laughed at by the universe so
frequently?

That last thought follows him through Apparation, and when he lands at his next destination, he
feels like he's going to be sick. The sensation of being squeezed through a tight tube isn't ever
pleasant, but he's somewhat gotten used to it. No, this sudden bout of nausea comes from
something else.

Harry thinks he's a terrible person to ever question what lot he's got in life, as if he hasn't earned
much worse.

He has to press himself up against the side of the alley he's landed in, closing his eyes tight to
breathe as his head spins. This happens sometimes when he least expects, either from a passing
thought, or an innocent comment from someone else, or if he catches the sight of glinting steel, or
—

It comes back to him in flashes, sometimes, all of it. The whole journey. The murders he's
committed, the people he's lied to, the slow unraveling of his own grip on right and wrong. And
he's there, suddenly fifteen again, appalled and despising the person he turned out to be.

Forgiving Dark Lords, murdering Death Eaters without a thought, unable to muster trust for a man
who always tried to do the right thing.
His parents—what would they think? And Sirius. Merlin, how did he end up like this? How did he
—

It takes a long moment to wrangle the thoughts and the rising guilt and shame that threatens to
strangle him. He has passing thoughts, briefly, that he should have died. It was what he was meant
for. But no, no, that's not right. He's dealt with this before.

This happened a lot during the first half of Seventh Year. Without his friends and Draco, he thinks
it would have spiralled into something much worse. Instead, because of them, he had people to
look at him and tell him that it's alright.

That's the thing. It's alright.

He's human. He was a boy then, and he's a young man now, and so many things were outside of
his control. He's done things, terrible things, that's true. They know it, he knows it. They still love
him, he still tries to do good where he can. It's an ebb and flow of humanity and perplex morals that
he doubts he'll ever understand.

One thing that has always weighed on his mind is his unapologetic decision to care for one of the
worst people in the world. To forgive him, to find him, to miss him. He fights with himself often
about whether that makes him worse, or if the fact that he can manage it makes him better. Is it that
he's excusing such behavior, or that he has compassion so strong that he can offer love in spite of
it?

It's a fine line, one he's trampled over for some time now. He wakes up in the middle of the night
sometimes and vomits at the thought of all the Muggles Voldemort has killed. He sometimes cries
in the shower thinking about his parents, and how fucking unforgivable it is that he dares to care
for the man who killed them. There are moments that anger and hatred floods in and overwhelms
him, all for the fact that he's so weak, so fucked up, that all it took for him to care was Voldemort
to care about him. It's a burden he has chosen to bear, one he doubts he will ever escape.

Perhaps he's earned it. If so, he will take it. Things are not easy. They are not perfect, or simple, or
black and white. He cannot bask in the relief and joy all the time, and he does not.

Just, at the moment, Harry doesn't particularly want to be having a breakdown in the middle of an
alley all because of a careless thought he had.
In this, he doesn't have a choice.

With time, his breathing evens out and the urge to sick up slowly fades. He opens his eyes and
stares at the bricks across from him, trying to get his shaking limbs under his control once more.
He reminds himself, as he often needs to, that he is no more perfect than the world is or those that
are in it.

Harry exhales, waiting for that release to loosen his chest. It does, eventually. He's in London. He's
trying to find his boyfriend. He doesn't have to die, and there's no sword in his back, and things
aren't always painful and confusing all the time anymore. Voldemort is not coming back.

There, Harry thinks as he carefully pushes away from the wall. Sometimes, he has to remind
himself to exist. To simply exist. There is a reason he does, and perhaps he is not privy to it, but
there is meaning to every moment he has.

Sighing, Harry forces himself to walk and keep walking, to keep going. He does slowly, gathering
his wits about him. He turns his focus back to finding Draco, because he wants to see him even
more now than he did before, which he thought wasn't possible. But alas.

However, the next pub shows no signs of Draco or his friends either. Harry realizes rather
belatedly that he could have missed them, or maybe they rescheduled and Draco really is just at his
flat. Going back to the Manor seems a bit like defeat now, humiliating in ways he can't fathom, and
so he decides he just won't.

Maybe he can pop into St. Mungos tomorrow and see Draco there. It's not as soon as he wishes, but
it will have to do. He sits down with a pint at the Draco-less pub, then pays to use the floo. If
nothing else, the Leaky Cauldron will put him up in a room for a night, so that's where he goes
next.

He makes an arse of himself as soon as he stumbles out of the fireplace, and there's a few
boisterous laughs in response. He picks himself off the floor and throws the group of rowdy men at
the table a flat look. As soon as they realize who, precisely, he is, they clam up and gape at him.
Harry rolls his eyes and turns away, only to freeze in place.

Draco, his mind declares, baffled and delighted.

And it is.
There, under the dim lighting, Draco's hair shines almost like a beacon. He's sprawled lazily in a
chair next to a bloke Harry has never seen before in his life, a glass of what looks to be brandy in
front of him, laughing as Ron gesticulates wildly in front of him. The flash of amusement in his
eyes is bright all the way across from the room, and Harry stands there dumbly for a moment, just
taking him in.

He's so pretty. So pretty. He's just sitting there, dressed rather nicely in what's clearly expensive
robes, his hair falling in that perfect way it does.

Harry notes that his other friends are here, too. Hermione and Daphne are on either side of Ron,
who seems to be regaling a very interesting story that everyone is clearly listening to. Pansy and
Blaise are tucked in the corner beside them, his arm thrown possessively over her shoulders, and
they're both watching him with a smirk. On the other side of Draco is Theo, who looks bored
except Harry knows that he's obviously paying attention to Ron.

And then there's the other bloke. Harry doesn't know why he's familiar. His hair is dark and shiny,
and even from here Harry can see the freckles on his rather cute nose. He has a heart-shaped face
and sharp, brown eyes. He seems comfortable sitting exactly where he is, rather close to Draco,
actually. He's smiling, and Harry knows that smile, but he can't really pinpoint how.

Either way, Harry feels he needs to know who this bloke is when he suddenly starts laughing with
everyone as Ron finally reaches the point of his story. The bloke reaches out and touches Draco's
arm, leaning into him a bit, both of them chuckling.

For a moment, just a brief flash, Harry feels a spot of insecurity. There's all his friends, together
without him, and they seem to be having a great time. There's even someone else, some random
bloke who's sitting beside Draco like it's his seat. It eats at him for a second, because he is human.

And then, because he is him and he's good at facing fears head on, he finds his feet moving. He
weaves through the tables, listening to the indistinct voices of his friends come into focus, catching
snippets. It warms him all the way through, and he's suddenly eager to get where he's going.

Before he knows it, he's slipping around the table behind theirs, and Ron snaps his mouth shut as
soon as he sees him. His eyes bulge at the same time that Hermione all but topples from her chair
in her haste to stand up. Before anyone else can react, Harry comes to a stop and dips down to
place his head right next to Draco's, murmuring in his ear.
"In all my travels," Harry says, "you are undoubtedly the most beautiful thing this world has to
offer."

Draco whips around in the chair so quickly that it scrapes loudly into the small bubble of silence
surrounding their group of friends. Harry doesn't move, watching Draco from up close, his breath
caught from where their noses brush.

"Harry," Draco says breathlessly, blinking ridiculously wide eyes at him, "what are you—"

"Who's this?" Harry asks, lazily gesturing to the bloke beside Draco without ever breaking his
gaze.

"You're here," Draco murmurs, ignoring his question entirely, apparently too stunned to care about
answering.

Harry smiles slightly. "Yeah. Who is that?"

"What?" A brief flash of irritation crosses Draco's face, as if he's peeved that Harry cares. "Merlin,
what does it matter? You're—you just—"

"Eloquent," Harry teases, lips curling up further as Draco releases a shuddering breath. "I told you
I'd be back. Here I am."

Draco huffs a quiet laugh and says, "Here you are," in an awed tone before surging forward to kiss
him.

Harry grins into it, stupidly pleased by the response, and he can't stop smiling for the kiss to really
go anywhere. He's not too terribly upset about it because Draco is laughing a little against his
mouth, cold fingers reaching up to cup his cheeks, gentle about it. Harry pulls back minutely to
kiss him on the lips, then the nose, then wherever else he can get to before Draco lightly shoves
him away.

Draco gets up out of his chair in the next second, practically plastering himself to Harry's side,
simply staring at him. Harry's all too happy to stare back.
"Oi!" Ron bellows. "We're here, too, you know!"

"Right," Harry says, blinking. He clears his throat and breaks his gaze from Draco's, only to catch
sight of the bloke watching them with a small frown. Harry tightens his hands around Draco,
drawing him a bit closer. Again, he asks, "Who are you?"

"Chen," the bloke says, holding his hand out with his frown disappearing. A smile takes its place,
and his eyes sparkle with delight. "Hello, Harry."

Harry stops himself from saying he doesn't know him, even if he is familiar, and he reaches out his
hand to shake Chen's. It's only polite. "I'm sorry, have we met before?"

"We have," Chen confirms, looking amused. "It's Chen Chang, Harry."

"I don't know a Chen Chang," Harry admits sheepishly, trying not to feel guilty. He can't be
expected to remember everyone he meets, can he? It rankles, though, because Chen looks so
familiar.

"But you knew a Cho Chang," Chen says.

Harry blinks. "Well, yes, but—"

He cuts himself off when it clicks. Draco's shaking against him with restrained laughter, and oh.
Harry is an idiot, an oblivious idiot to the highest degree.

"It's good to see you again," Chen tells him, smiling widely, and Harry's brain does a record-scratch
as he tries to figure out how he didn't realize.

And, stupidly, he blurts, "You make a handsome bloke," which probably isn't the first thing he
should have said, especially with his boyfriend leaning into him, but there it is anyway.

Chen does make a handsome bloke, is the thing. Harry's pretty sure that's what this is. He thinks he
gets it, especially in the way Chen had said but you knew a Cho Chang.
Knew.

He's the tosser who's shown up out of nowhere, admittedly a little jealous to find his boyfriend
within two feet of a handsome bloke, so he can't help but feel stupid. The last thing he wants to do
is make it worse, but he's somehow sure that he has by complete accident. You make a handsome
bloke. Honestly, who says things like that?

Except, Chen's smile only grows larger, and all he says is, "Thanks, Harry. I think so, too."

"Yes, yes, Chen is beautiful and has always been beautiful. This is old news," Pansy cuts in,
leaning forward to peer at Harry with a gleam in her eye. "But now, you're back. About time, you
wanker! Draco's been dreadful without you!"

"Slag," Draco grouses, glaring at her.

Pansy blows him a kiss and winks.

"Oh, move over, Ron!" Hermione suddenly shouts, whirling around the table in a flash. Before
anyone can stop her, she weaves around Chen and peels Draco from Harry, replacing his body with
the harsh slam of her own as she hugs him fiercely. "Oh, Harry, we're so glad you're back!"

Harry chuckles into her hair, smoothing a hand down her back. "I'm glad to be back."

"You're in so much trouble!" Hermione shrieks, wrenching back to glare at him. "Where do you get
off on leaving without any goodbyes?! Do you have any idea how worried we all were?"

"Hermione, you knew I was going to travel."

"Yes, but we thought you'd at least let everyone know when you were leaving! You complete arse,
Harry Potter. I should hex your—"

"Alright, Hermione, ease up on the poor bloke," Ron says, reaching across the table to tug lightly
on her arm. He grins at Harry. "Glad you're back, mate. Hermione's been in a right state over you."

"When isn't she?" Harry asks, sharing a grin with his best mate.

That earns him a swat on the arm from Hermione, but he supposes he's earned it. He can't help but
beam at his best friends, just pleased to see them.

"I think this calls for a round," Theo drawls, standing up from his chair. "On Harry, I think."

Harry laughs.

It becomes very apparent very quickly why pub night is something his friends decided to keep to.
It's something of a marvel that Harry doesn't really want to escape, honestly.

It's nice to get to see them all out together in a setting other than Hogwarts. There's a shift to the
dynamic now. They're all adults. Well, technically, even if it doesn't always quite feel that way.
But they have jobs and flats and schedules to keep to, and it's just so new. It's overwhelming, just a
bit, and Harry has to get his footing, but he manages.

Hermione and Pansy do a lot of their work together, which Harry had expected but still finds
himself surprised by. They make a startlingly good team—a scary one—and it shows as they talk
about a project they're getting moved up in the Ministry, mostly surrounding the expectations of
Purebloods and the undertones of blatant discrimination against Muggle-borns. They've clearly
worked their arses off for this and still are, and they have loads of various people at the Ministry to
complain about, absolutely no shortage of people who are trying to halt their progress. Fortunately,
they have the implied support of the acting Minister, and it's not like anyone can actually face up
against their headstrong ferocity to do what they need to and win.

Ron does a lot of complaining about the Ministry, too—specifically the Auror department.
Apparently, Robards is a prick and doesn't care about the corruption in his own department. Ron
has taken it upon himself—with Seamus' help—to weed out whatever corruption they can. It's
Draco who brings up Tonks—or Dora, as he calls her—and Ron jumps onto the idea like it's the
answer to all his problems.

Harry didn't know it until now, but Blaise has apparently taken an interest in a certain type of
Muggle club—one they'd all accidentally ended up in one night a month ago, and Harry's assured
by a winking Blaise that the experience had been lovely. He's going for business, wanting to
incorporate that type of club into the Wizarding World, if he can. There's a whole list of logistics
that comes with owning a business, and while Harry understands absolutely none of it, Blaise
seems to like it.

Theo is currently courting Astoria, and Daphne is overseeing his financials—as well as various
other families, some even Muggle-borns and half-bloods, because Hermione had given her the
idea.

Chen is a Quidditch player—no surprise there, really. He does a lot of traveling and just happened
to be in London for the week. He'd run into Ron, who had invited him out to pub night to catch up.
For a solid hour, Harry sits there in deep discussion on Quidditch plays and such with Chen, Ron,
and Draco. It's absolutely delightful.

And then, of course, there's Draco. He's apparently doing well at St. Mungos when Harry asks. Just
shrugs and waves a lazy hand, saying he's only training and doesn't have to worry about being
responsible for patients for another six months. He likes what he's learning, though, and apparently
the Healer he's shadowing is a nice person, so that's good. Harry vows to ask about details later.

They ask him about his travels, and he tells them. He talks about the interchangeable pubs around
the world, about the differences in Wizarding society outside of London, about the beautiful sights
he's seen. He tells them which countries he went to, what cities he stayed in, and who he met that
stuck with him. He doesn't say a word about Voldemort or the Injurious Jungle, and he doubts he
ever will to anyone other than Draco.

In the end, though, they're all just a group of semi-adults who are friends. It's an odd balance of
talking about work as if they're grown up and making Ron's Butterbeer explode in his face just so
everyone at the table will roar with laughter. It's lighthearted, lovely, and perfect.

Harry's just going a little mad, though. Draco keeps looking at him. Just a glance, their gazes
meeting and catching as their friends laugh and jeer all around them. Harry feels like the air around
them is charged, and he can't stop shifting, can't stop tugging his collar away from his throat and
trying to breathe. He's so hot, and why does no one else seem to feel the same as him?

"Oi!" Ron blurts out when he's about five pints in, pointing at Harry with wide eyes. "You didn't
know because you're not here!"

"I'm here now, Ron," Harry tells him, because he's been saying that a lot tonight. He nods at his
best mate, amused. "What is it?"

Ron leans forward, eyebrows raising. "I'm going to get married, mate."

Harry spits out his drink, hacking and beating on his chest as he gapes at Ron. Everyone around
them is snickering, and Hermione is hiding a smile behind her glass. Daphne is, too, actually.
Harry flicks his gaze between them both, uncertain.

"I—I don't—" Harry throws a helpless glance to Draco and only gets a smirk in response. He turns
back to Ron, careful and slow. "To...who?"

"We're not actually getting married," Daphne pipes up, sharing a look of amusement with
Hermione over Ron. "Hermione came up with the idea to tell my mother I've picked out my
husband, and Ron's pretending to be him until Astoria's officially a Nott and can't be banned from
seeing me. I'll be disowned when my mother realizes it's fake, but at least I won't have to marry
someone I don't love."

Harry flicks his gaze to Hermione. "You came up with the idea?"

"O'course she did!" Ron declares. "It's brilliant and a bit mental, innit? Only Hermione could come
up with it. Wasn't too sure about it myself, mind, but it's going well so far."

"Quite," Daphne agrees, smiling prettily and draping her fingers over Ron's arm, which causes him
to grin loosely.

Hermione watches them with a strangely focused look, her gaze sharp and intent, as if they're an
exam she's very excited to study for.

"So you're not getting married?" Harry checks.

Ron guffaws, waving a hand, unbothered. "Not at all, mate. We're just pretending we are, is all."

"And what's your role in all this?" Harry asks, swinging his gaze back to Hermione.
She blinks at him, then smiles. "Oh, I'm just here."

"She's our mistress," Daphne says with a smirk, a tinkling laugh escaping her when both Hermione
and Ron jolt, nearly knocking over their glasses.

"I know how this ends, if you want me to tell you later," Draco murmurs in his ear, and Harry
nods.

"Speaking of marriage," Pansy cuts in, leaning forward to narrow her eyes at Harry. "My wedding
is being planned as we speak. Draco is going to be my Chief Bridesmaid, obviously, and Theo is
Blaise's Head Usher. Since you'll be Draco's date, you'll need to get dancing lessons."

Harry shrinks back, swallowing. "Oh, that's—Pans, I'm not a good dancer. I'm pants at it."

"With the right partner, you'll be fine," Pansy says, waving him off. "Draco won't let you
embarrass me on my wedding day. Will you, darling?"

"Of course not, my love," Draco assures her, flashing her that rare smile of his, warm and
affectionate. His face softens as he glances at her. "It is your special day, after all. Harry can
trample my toes if he must, all for you."

"Your sacrifice is noted," Pansy tells him, tipping her glass at him before knocking it back.

"Are you excited?" Harry can't help but ask, looking between Blaise and Pansy. "To be married, I
mean."

"Oh, I'm just chuffed," Blaise drawls, his gaze flicking over Pansy in consideration, like he's
already picturing her as his wife. His hand eases out to cover hers, fingers tangling together in a
rare show of genuine love that they often don't portray to the world so willingly. It's soft, and
Harry's heart clenches in his chest. Then, Blaise goes on to ruin it by saying, "We're going to sneak
off and shag and see who catches us first."

Ron snorts into his drink and everyone cracks up right after, watching Pansy smirk and lean into
Blaise's side. They're very well-suited, honestly.
Harry risks a glance at Draco, and his breath catches in his chest to find Draco already watching
him. It takes approximately one second for the rest of the world to fade away, leaving only Draco
sitting right beside him. The sharp bolt of his jaw, the faded dimple-scar on his cheek, the slip of
the dim lighting over his high cheekbones and slant of his throat. He looks ethereal, and the patient
desire in his eyes—a clear awareness that hides nothing, no shame—has Harry struggling not to
reach out and touch him. He can't, not now, because he's quite sure that once he starts, he's never
going to stop.

He's useless after that.

Try as he might, Harry can't recover from that one look. He fidgets and fusses with his glass, his
eyes crawling back to Draco over and over, who's always there to meet his gaze head on. Harry's
heart and mind is a wreck, and he can't focus for anything.

It's good to see his friends, of course. Good to watch Hermione and Daphne lean into Ron's sides as
they all laugh together. Good to hear Theo dreamily go on and on about Astoria and how she's
doing in her last year of Hogwarts. Good to listen to discussions about Greg, and Neville, and
Dean, and Seamus, and Ginny, and Luna. Good to see Blaise and Pansy unsubtly try and seduce
Hermione, who bats away their attempts with practiced ease, like she's gotten used to it. Because
she works with Pansy, Harry suspects she has, and it hits him how close they all are.

That's all well and good, truly, but Harry feels like he's going to crawl out of his skin. Draco's gaze
feels weighted and hot and real on him, and Harry can feel where it traces over him, taking him in
leisurely. He's barely breathing as it is, his legs jumping in place underneath the table, and when
Draco's hand comes down on his thigh to, presumably, calm his moving leg, Harry can't take it
anymore.

"You're mum wouldn't give me the address to your flat," Harry blurts, interrupting at least three
different conversations as he swivels rapidly in his chair. Draco is watching him steadily, lips
twitching, but he only arches an eyebrow. Harry can hear how strangled and breathless he sounds
right now, but he can't help it. "She wanted to protect your privacy."

"She wanted to punish you for leaving without saying goodbye," Draco corrects knowingly.

"Yeah, that too," Harry admits.

Draco smirks at him. "Well? Feeling punished?"

"I—" Harry's breath punches out of him, and he has to clear his throat so he won't make an
embarrassing noise in front of all his friends. "Can I see it?"

"My flat?" Draco asks, amused.

Harry's face burns as multiple of his friends snicker or make vague sounds of disgust, or both. "Yes,
your flat, you arsehole. Can I, or not?"

"I suppose." Draco heaves a sigh like this is all a big inconvenience for him and stands lazily out of
his chair, waving Harry to his feet. "Come on, then."

"Bye," Harry says quickly, distractedly waving to his friends as he scrambles after Draco, who
does not say goodbye to anyone.

They barely make it out the door before Draco is whirling around and pulling Harry into his arms.
With no warning, Draco yanks them into forceful and sudden Apparation, which isn't very safe,
mind. Harry nearly falls when they finally land, and Draco actually stumbles. It's a miracle they
don't get splinched, frankly.

Harry blinks around, trying to take in his surroundings. They're in the middle of a flat he's never
seen before, standing in the middle of a sitting room with very nice furniture.

It's all very crisp and clean, the sofa and armchairs a lovely cream color that offsets the black rug
beneath rather nicely. There's a glass coffee table in front of the leather sofa—cream to match the
armchairs—and a few paintings of landscapes litter the walls. There's one with a field of reeds
blowing in the wind, and one of a Unicorn galloping through a meadow, and one where a man and
woman dance around in circles without ever stopping, seemingly never getting dizzy.

There's a warmth to it, though. Harry doesn't know why he didn't expect it, but his heart flutters
when he catches books leaning on the floating bookshelves—quite literally floating—and when he
sees various framed pictures of friends and Draco's parents on different stands and cabinets.

Harry wants to comment, to tell Draco that it's lovely, but he can't because Draco tugs at him. Just
pulls him in and sighs into a kiss that very quickly unravels into a fierce snog. Harry thinks sod the
flat, which will embarrass him later, and folds into the kiss with a groan.
Draco starts pulling him back, his cold hands fisting Harry's hoodie and yanking him along. They
go stumbling through the room, briefly bumping into things, though they can't be arsed to care.
Harry's too busy trying not to pass out to care about the clatter of things falling over and to the floor
when they run into them.

They make it to a short hallway, and then they don't get much farther because there's a wall and
Harry finds himself pushing Draco back up against it for leverage, leaning into him. Their kiss
never breaks, lips catching as their tongues slide together, warm and wet and sensual, their teeth
biting on lips and tugging in the most maddening way.

"Merlin, fuck," Draco chokes out when Harry pulls back only enough to get his shaking hands on
the buttons of Draco's shirt.

Harry's head is positively spinning. Around and around it goes, making it hard to focus outside of
the tunnel that has shrank to Draco right in front of him. The world could be burning right outside
at the moment and he wouldn't even know it.

Eventually, Harry manages to fumble at the buttons, and he surges forward again to get his lips on
Draco's once more. He can't quite stop, unsure how he's meant to, really. It's just so good, so
entrancing, and he feels like he's going to explode if he doesn't get Draco out of his shirt right this
second.

He pushes the shirt off Draco's shoulders, tugging it down his arms and letting it drop to the floor.
He barely gets to touch before Draco starts shoving at his shoulders, walking him back down the
hall until they both crash into a closed door.

"Ouch, fuck," Harry gasps as his elbow rams into the doorknob. He shuffles, reaching out to run
his fingers over Draco's arm. "Are you alright? Did you—"

"Fine, fine. Shut up, Harry, you idiot," Draco says breathlessly, twisting the doorknob so they'll
both go stumbling into the room.

Harry feels the cold fingers grabbing the hem of his hoodie and shirt and has just enough time to
lift his arms before they're being yanked over his head and tossed away. His glasses go flying, too.
That's brilliant, actually, because it's skin-on-skin when they push back together.
They've never really gotten farther than this. Almost, just once, they'd gotten very close to breaking
their own rule. It was in the alcove at Hogwarts, Draco in Harry's lap, and he'd squirmed a certain
way that had ripped moans from them both. It had felt incredibly, overwhelmingly good, so much
so that Harry had startled from the shock of it and sent them both sprawling to the floor. Draco had
laughed for ten minutes about it, and Harry had hid his face in his hands while nearly combusting
from the mortification. But that was it.

They've always skirted a fine line, mostly by necessity. It's not like they've ever been alone, not
like this. But there's no one else in this flat, no one to interrupt or stop them, and this isn't a Castle
with cobwebs in every corridor. This is Draco's flat, his lovely flat that opens up options that Harry
can feel singing in his veins. He shouldn't presume, really, or even jump straight to the idea of
shagging at all. It's a bit rude, he thinks, but he's always had a terrible habit of mauling Draco
without meaning to. He'll stop, of course, when it's time.

He's trying to gather his wits about him to do that when Draco murmurs into his mouth, "Bed,"
which wipes Harry's mind clean of all thoughts as they go stumbling back again.

Draco's mouth covers his own, soft and hot and inviting, and Harry can hear how loud he's panting
into the kiss. He doesn't mean to, but he really thinks he might faint at this rate. Draco nips at
Harry's lip, teeth catching, and he shoves at Harry's hips, pushing him back more urgently, and
Harry is absolutely going to die. All that worry about his own death, and this is how he goes.
Bloody hell, he's not even scared. He'd be delighted to go like this.

Then, quite abruptly, Harry is crashing into something in the middle of the room, making them
both careen to the side before they latch onto each other and get their bearings. They break apart in
equal parts surprise, because it makes no sense for anything to be in the middle of the room.

"Oh," Harry whispers as soon as he sees his own things stacked neatly behind him, his possessions
from the Manor—his trunk, Hedwig's perch, his broom and photos and books—all just sitting
there.

Draco huffs out a soft laugh. "Mother," he mutters, shaking his head.

Harry turns to stare at Draco, taking in his flushed face and bright eyes. "Bit presumptuous of her,
isn't it?" he asks carefully.

"It is," Draco replies, holding his gaze.

"It's not like—like I have a right to just…" Harry trails off, trying to figure out how to put it into
words without showing his own wants. He clears his throat, tries again. "I don't have to stay. I have
Grimmauld Place. You're not—you don't have to—"

Softly, Draco says, "I miss sleeping with you."

Harry deflates in relief instantly. "Oh, good. I mean—well, I just mean...if you wanted, if you were
alright with it, I could stay. Only if you want—"

"Harry," Draco murmurs, shuffling closer so he can stare at him from up close, "I want. I've always
wanted. Don't you know that by now?"

"I—I—" Harry swallows thickly, trying to beat down the emotion that threatens to strangle him. It
takes him a minute to confess, but he eventually does. "I struggle to—to accept or believe that
I'm...that anyone wants me. It's—I'm working on it. Sort of complicated, honestly."

"Alright," Draco says easily. "Well, I'll help. To start, I do want you to stay if you'd like."

Harry feels the grin stretch across his face, and he wraps himself further around Draco, breathless
with joy as he winds his arms around Draco's shoulders. He just breathes out, "I'd like, very much."

Draco hums. "You can unpack later."

"Brilliant," Harry declares, feeling untethered from this moment, light enough to float away.

Draco's mouth on his own smacks him back down to earth, a lovely little wake up call that drowns
him in sensation rather quickly. He sinks into it, delighted, and Draco expertly twirls them away
from the obstacles between them and the bed Harry has registered waits behind them.

Harry has a distant memory of Madame Pomfrey giving him a long lecture on sex, and as
humiliating as it was at the time, he finds himself very thankful for the knowledge now. He doesn't
want to go into this blind, no matter where it ends up.

He's still slightly unsure if that's where it's going at all, and he forces himself to ask, but Draco
wrenches back to stare at him with bright eyes and a heaving chest, saying, "Unless you have any
objections, Harry, I'm not stopping," and that's that on that.

They make it to the bed, falling gracelessly into it, but they don't make it much farther, honestly.
They've had over a year of build-up, and it's not Harry's plan, but they don't even make it out of
their sodding trousers. Draco's in his lap again, bearing down on him and squirming, moaning into
his mouth, so responsive, and Harry's got free reign to touch him everywhere. His warm chest,
tracing the thin, pale scar down the middle of it. His hair, so soft and silky, perfect cradles for
Harry to fit his fingers into. His arms, and hips, and back. Everywhere, anywhere he wants, and
Draco lets him, encourages it with moans and arches and—

It's a blur, but a strangely lazy one. Everything feels so slow and so fast at the same time. He can
feel every single detail and sensation, even as he loses himself to the moment entirely.

Draco's hands never break from him, sliding all over him with eagerness to match Harry's own.
Squeezing at his shoulders, pressing into the scar from the sword, tracing the happy trail of hair,
gliding back up to curl around his neck and push into his messy hair. His cold fingers press over his
scalp, nails scraping in a way that sends goosebumps over Harry's skin, and then his knuckles
tangle into the wayward strands, lightly tugging.

Harry groans into Draco's mouth, clutching at him, trying to get him to be fucking still, because
he's just squirming all about and Harry can't sodding think. Draco does it again, tugging on Harry's
hair just a bit harder, and Harry shudders without even meaning to, sucking on Draco's lip a bit
frantically. A second later, Draco rolls his hips in another squirming motion and yanks on Harry's
hair and—

"Oh god," Harry chokes out.

It's the first time he's ever made a mess in his trousers, and he thought that was a myth, or just
something that happened to unfortunate teenagers with no control over themselves, but apparently
not. Draco laughs softly into his mouth, still squirming about all over him, and Harry can only gasp
and tremble and fall apart a bit.

"Look at you," Draco says, soft and honey-sweet, and Harry licks into his mouth, which makes him
break off into a moan. He hums, pulling back to nose at Harry's throat, practically radiating delight
and smugness. He keeps talking, whispering loving things that makes Harry's head spin, things
like, "You're rather gorgeous, aren't you? I like to make a mess of you. I should do it all the time."

"All the time," Harry echoes stupidly, "yes."

"Look at you," Draco repeats, pressing a smile against his cheek as he scoots in and rocks down yet
again, laughing breathlessly when Harry makes a pathetic sound and claws at his hips. "I've riled
you up so much, haven't I? It is my specialty, after all, and now I know how to do it best. You're a
mess, Harry. What are you going to do about it?"

Harry sucks in a sharp breath, hearing it for the challenge it is, and heat surges in his blood. He
clasps Draco's wrists in his hands and tips them to the side, flipping them. Draco goes down with
another breathless laugh, still squirming like he just can't be still, and Harry holds him down,
laying his body over him, which makes Draco's breath stutter as his eyes go a little unfocused.

He kisses Draco, deep and hard, settling between his legs and not giving a sodding shite about the
uncomfortable mess in his own trousers. It's just as well; he's far too distracted as it is. Like that,
holding Draco down and snogging him with searing intensity, Harry does something about it.

It's a bit messy, all of it, heated and fumbling and desperate, but so reverent and overwhelmingly
perfect. Harry wouldn't do it differently if he could. He'd envisioned romance, perhaps, maybe after
a sweet date, curling into each other with love confessions and soft touches. This is better. This is
them. It's a reunion, and there's traces of youth in this, the first awkward encounter that gets dashed
aside with small laughs and gentle teasing because it feels right no matter what they do.

After, they kiss warm and lazy, sated despite the sweat cooling their skin and the mess in their
trousers. Harry doesn't even mind so much, but Draco eventually gets fussy and drags him off to
the shower, stripping him along the way.

They curl into each other under the spray of hot water, hands roaming, humming as they get mighty
comfortable with this new aspect of them.

It's lovely, and Harry was an idiot to ever think it would be anything else between them.

"Do you like it?"

Harry glances at Ron and Hermione's expectant faces, a fondness curling in his chest. They're so
lovely. He loves them so much, and he loves their flat that's a little small and cramped and warm,
full of things between the three people who live inside it. There's something in every spot, like the
place is spilling over with every part of themselves, and Harry can detect traces of his best friends
and the girl they've decided to settle with in everything.

They'd invited him over the next afternoon after the pub night while Draco's at St. Mungos, and
apparently Daphne is doing some shopping in Diagon Alley. Harry had jumped at the chance to
come, and he's more than glad that he did.

"I love it," he tells them honestly, chest clenching when they beam at him. They're so proud of it,
of this flat that they scraped the money together to get, only letting Daphne match what they had
and give absolutely no more. "It's perfect."

"We looked at other flats," Hermione admits, glancing around her own home with a sparkle in her
eye, "but this one had more room. Since we're all living together, it was necessary."

"How did you decide to get Daphne here?" Harry asks, watching them shift a little in their seats.

Ron scratches the back of his head. "Well, Hermione came up with the idea for Daphne to tell her
mum she's decided to marry me. I'm a blood-traitor, sure, but I'm technically a Pureblood and
bloody war hero on top of that. Mrs. Greengrass would be an idiot to refuse, Daphne said, and I
suppose she's not because she kept her comments to herself. I'm not rich or anything, but it's more
about status and tradition, I think, because Mrs. Greengrass actually went with it. She doesn't know
Hermione's here, o'course."

"Daphne says we'll tell her when Astoria and Theo get married," Hermione murmurs. "I don't really
want to tell her at all, honestly. She's not—she doesn't seem like a terrible woman, but she treated
me worse than she treated Ron, honestly. I don't know why Daphne insists on revealing everything
when the time comes."

Harry snorts. "To show she's not ashamed of you. Either of you. Obviously."

Hermione looks vaguely panicked. "It's just—it's only a plan to save her, Harry. It's not—"

"How many bedrooms are here?" Harry cuts in, staring at them with raised eyebrows.

Ron's whole face goes bright red. "Only one, but we've got a small bed I sleep on in the bedroom.
They share the other one because, er, they're girls."
"So you're all just flatmates?" Harry asks flatly.

"Of course," Hermione replies, her fingers anxiously wringing together as she darts very obvious
looks of wariness towards Ron.

Harry hums. "I didn't expect you and Ron to get a flat together. What made that happen?"

"We—we just—" Ron shrinks back a little, going from bright red to pale so quickly that it just
leaves him a bit splotchy. "Well, you were gone, weren't you, Harry? We knew you'd eventually
come back and stay wherever Draco was. I didn't want to stay at the Burrow forever, and Hermione
said—well, she said it'd be good to put our money together to get a better place, especially if we
were going through with the plan with Daphne."

"Right," Harry says airily, and it takes every bit of strength in him not to laugh or grin. He shakes
his head and sighs. "I always thought it was me getting you two into trouble and mad situations,
but you really don't need my help, do you?"

Ron and Hermione both glare at him, and he laughs.

"Okay, what about Muggle-borns?"

Harry blinks, pulling his head back to look at the side of Draco's face. His fingers halt on the
middle of Draco's chest, pausing in tracing small, distracted shapes on his skin. Draco is staring at
him, eyelids drooping a bit from where he leans back, sated and unspooled, watching Harry with an
almost lazy appreciation. Harry frowns slightly.

Post-shag conversations are lovely, he's learning, but he can't help but be confused now. Draco's
been back from work for all of three hours—which they'd spent most of not actually talking—and
this is the first time that Harry's not sure what they're even talking about.

"Muggle-borns?" he echoes.
"Yes," Draco confirms. "You mentioned to me that you never knew about magic or the Wizarding
World before you got your Hogwarts letter. You didn't say it, but I could tell it bothered you."

"Yeah...and?" Harry says slowly, still not understanding what this has to do with what they were
talking about only moments before.

Draco rolls his eyes, sighing. "You just said you wanted to teach, but not at Hogwarts, and not in
the Ministry. You didn't specify an age range or a subject, and I already know you're passionate
about helping Muggle-borns where you can. Why not the children? Teaching them about the
Wizarding World before they get into it can help them more than people often realize, and that's
not including how helpful it would be for their parents. I can only imagine the number of Muggle
parents who treat their kids unfairly all because they're magical."

" Oh," Harry whispers.

His throat positively closes up, and for a second, he can barely handle the sudden pressure he feels
swelling in his chest. He lays there, frozen, moved beyond words by this idea that Draco has given
him. An idea that is taking shape in his mind, forming and solidifying into an actual desire, and
he's suddenly so desperate to do it that he wants to get out of bed and get started now.

He thinks back to his own childhood, never knowing why weird things happened to him. He thinks
about how the Dursleys treated him, called him a freak. He thinks about arriving at Diagon Alley
and knowing nothing about the world waiting for him. He thinks about how much easier it would
have if someone—anyone—could have given him lessons, or could have looked to see if he was
being mistreated by his family simply for who he was, or both. And no, Harry doesn't blame
Hagrid, never will, but he still wishes he had a better adjustment period and maybe a bit more
information.

He still, to this day, learns things about the Wizarding World that others who aren't Muggle-borns
instinctively know. It's infuriating, sometimes, but mostly…

It can be hard, is all.

"That's it, isn't it?" Draco's eyes flick up and down, surveying his face, lips curling up. "You've
found it, then? What you want to do, I mean."

"Yeah," Harry rasps, "yeah, I—thank you. That's—I want to do that. How do I—"
"We'll figure it out," Draco assures him.

Harry sighs and dips his head, mouthing at Draco's bare shoulder. This earns him a hum. When he
nips at the skin, the hum turns into a small hiss, and Draco shifts a little. It's only a quick move, but
Harry can read what it means easily.

"So soon?" Harry murmurs into his neck, scooting forward to curl above him, leaning into him.
"From just a small nip to your shoulder, Draco? A bit desperate for it, aren't you?"

"You've been good for me," Draco says, smirking when Harry goes slack above him like all his
strings have been cut. "I like it when you are."

Harry breathes, pressing his face into Draco's neck, trying to get his mind in working order.
"Good," he chokes out. "I'm—I've—"

"Tut tut, love," Draco murmurs in his ear, hands easing up Harry's sides. "I may be desperate
enough to go again, but you're desperate for praise, so I don't think you get to tease."

"Piss off," Harry grumbles halfheartedly, skipping his hands down Draco's warm arms to press his
fingers through the crevices of Draco's cold ones. He snaps his hands forward, pinning Draco's
hands to the pillows behind his head, then leans back to regard him with unfocused eyes. "You're
going to be begging in less than ten minutes, so you can shut it, I think. Prideful as you are, you've
got no right to tease either, Draco."

"You'll beg, too."

"Let's see who begs first."

Draco smirks at him. "There's a good lad. I'm all about a challenge, as you know. Let's see, then."

"You're on," Harry mutters, dipping his head to start sucking more marks into Draco's neck,
breathing in the scent of him. Apples and Autumn. Always apples and Autumn.
"No rules?" Draco asks.

"Can't imagine why we'd need them. Unless… Scared, Malfoy?" Harry teases.

Draco huffs out a quiet laugh when Harry pulls back to watch him intently, a spark in their gazes,
breaths mingling as the tension rises. Harry feels the hair on the back of his neck stand on end,
goosebumps spreading over his skin, and there's a pleasant tingle of heat skittering through all his
nerves.

Draco says, "You wish," and surges up to kiss him.

Harry stares at the door in front of him.

He doesn't think a door has ever looked so ominous. Well, perhaps some in the Department of
Mysteries, but this is a different sort of imposing. He almost can't get his feet to move from the
sidewalk.

For a split second, Harry considers returning back to the flat, even if Draco's going to be working
later than he did the day before. Coming here is such a stupid, stupid idea.

He's so nervous that he closes his eyes and searches inwards, following that line of connection in
his own head, tracing over it as he searches for something. He finds what he's found since the day
he came home just two days ago—that odd sense of contentment, the absence of anger, not quite
peace but not too terribly far from it. He's always felt it like the shifting wind, and it soothes him
now. He wonders if Voldemort knows what he's doing. The thought makes him smile slightly as he
withdraws and opens his eyes.

The door is still there.

He doesn't know what he's doing here. Well, no, he does, but he has no idea what he expects from
this. He thinks he knows what's going to happen, but on the off chance that it goes differently…

He just has to know.

Slowly, Harry forces himself to approach the door. He can hear the sounds of life inside the house,
can see the signs of it from the light that filters through the window and the moving shadows from
those inside as they bustle around. It makes him falter on the stoop, staring at those moving
shadows, and it takes him a long time to get the courage to knock.

There's the muffled sound of movement, of voices, and Harry almost Apparates away on the spot.
He can hear steps padding to the door. He takes a step back, his heart racing, and just as he goes to
leave—

"Harry," Dudley says, blinking at him.

For a split second, Harry considers punching him. Or hexing him. Just that knee-jerk reaction to
seeing his lumbering cousin standing in the doorway, gaping at him in dumb shock. It passes,
though, rather quickly. Harry just feels stupid now.

What is he doing? What does he expect from this? Merlin, Voldemort would kill them if he was
around, honestly. Harry's not entirely sure if he would be too angry if he did, relatives or not.

Except, well, Dudley is just standing there, looking very confused. Harry stares at him and waits
for some sense of hatred to match his perception of them, and there is none. He just feels sort
of...out of step, as if he's come across a stranger that he can't work out if he has a good impression
of or not.

The fact that his cousin feels like a stranger to him says quite a lot about this family and his role in
it. The thing is, he's not even bitter.

"Dudley," Harry says.

"Have you come back now?" Dudley asks. "Where did you go?"

Harry raises his eyebrows. "No, I haven't come back, Dudley. Er, I was...away. You know, magical
world and all that."

"Mum said you might have died," Dudley tells him, face contorting like he doesn't understand why
his mother would lie. He looks vaguely offended about it, actually. "I didn't think you had."

"No, not dead," Harry mumbles.

Dudley frowns. "You're not coming back?"

"No. I'm just here for something."

"You've been gone for two years. You were underage. How'd you manage that?"

"Long story," Harry admits awkwardly. "Doesn't really matter now. I have a flat. I don't need to be
here anymore, and I left as soon as I could."

"You have a flat?" Dudley asks, eyes widening a little bit. "How'd you manage that? Mum won't
let me get my own flat yet!"

Harry has never felt so off-kilter as he does in this moment when he realizes that his cousin
actually thinks Aunt Petunia has any sort of authority over him. "Yes, well, she actually wants you
in her home, Dudley. She couldn't wait for me to get out of it."

"But you have a room here," Dudley says.

"And now I have a flat," Harry replies.

Dudley leans out the door a bit, his eyes wide once again. "How'd you get the money? I've been
looking in Manchester when Mum's out at her book club, but I haven't got the pounds to afford
anything. It's all a bit expensive, isn't it?"

"I...have money from my parents," Harry says slowly, trying to make sense of this very surreal
conversation. "Er, it might help if you got a flatmate, maybe? What about Piers?"

"Moved away last year," Dudley informs him, lips turning down in blatant upset at the admission.
He shifts and clears his throat. "He would've gotten a flat with me, though. I think."
Harry resists the urge to reach out and awkwardly pat Dudley's shoulder. "I'm sure he would."

"You got a flatmate?" Dudley asks.

"Of a sort," Harry says very carefully, mulling over the merits of admitting to Dudley that all his
jibes about Harry liking blokes were sort of right.

"D'ya hate him?" Dudley makes another strange expression, eyebrows crumbling together. "I hear
some flatmates can be nightmares."

"No, he's—well, I love him, actually," Harry tells him, because it's true.

Dudley stares at him, mouth twisting. "You love your...flatmate?"

"Well, he's my boyfriend," Harry declares steadily, without faltering, "so I should hope so."

"Boyfriend," Dudley echoes, and then—out of nowhere—his eyes brighten. "Is it that Cedric
fellow, then? I teased you an awful lot about that, didn't I? Was rather nasty about it, but now
you've gone and got a flat before I have. I reckon the bloke's rich."

"It's not Cedric," Harry says quickly, clearing his throat and wincing. "It's—his name is...well, I
don't suppose that matters, does it? Anyway—"

"Where is he?" Dudley flicks his gaze around like Harry's mysterious boyfriend will suddenly
appear out of thin air. "Is that why you've come? Mum wants to meet anyone I'm dating, too. It's
right annoying, isn't it?"

It's in this split second that Harry truly understands the power of perception. No one is the villain in
their own story, and so few people realize that they might be in someone else's. Dudley can look
back and see his own actions as being nasty to his sarcastic outcast of a cousin, and he might not
even see how horrible some of things he did actually were, nor the effect on Harry they had.
It's so bad that he doesn't even see where Harry doesn't fit, doesn't see how Harry isn't held to the
same standards as him, doesn't understand how absolutely abnormal it was for Harry to be treated
the way he was. For him, it just...is.

Harry's the cousin the family always tried to hide. The freak, the lunatic, the one responsible for all
the odd things that happened to them. But he's always been there, right up until he wasn't, and
Dudley can't seem to grasp that Harry's not a permanent fixture in the family, even with how he
was treated.

"Dudley," Harry says, "Aunt Petunia doesn't care who I'm dating. She wouldn't want to meet them.
She wants me as far away from here as possible, just like Uncle Vernon."

Dudley frowns. "But you have a room here."

Harry sighs. "Yeah, and now I have a flat. Aunt Petunia's going to be ecstatic."

"She just doesn't like the magic, I think," Dudley says, lowering his voice and darting his gaze
around like someone might hear them. He's clearly more self-aware than Harry gave him credit for
if he knows how Aunt Petunia feels about magic, though Harry thinks it was rather obvious. What
Dudley says next, however, comes as a shock. "You know, I always thought it was a bit cool.
Scared the piss out of me, but I always wished I could do it. What you did with your stick, I mean."

"You—you did?" Harry stutters out in disbelief, face twisting up in pure shock.

"Yeah." Dudley nods his head dutifully, as if this isn't turning Harry's world on its head.
"Especially after the night that you—well, you know what you did that summer, the last one you
spent here. I thought if I could have a stick that kept me from feeling the way I did that night, I'd be
better off for it. Suppose I'm too normal for it, though."

Harry blinks rapidly, working very hard not to gape at his cousin, who—shockingly enough—looks
a little disappointed about being 'too normal'. Aunt Petunia would have an absolute fit if she heard
this conversation right now.

"Right," Harry chokes out, "too normal."

"I reckon I was always a bit jealous of it," Dudley muses, wrinkling his nose. "Got over it rather
quickly, though, when Mum said you probably died because of it all. Wouldn't trade my life for
sticks and tricks, I don't think."

"Sensible," Harry wheezes, and tries not to break down laughing.

The sound of quick, harried steps inside the house behind Dudley steals all the ridiculous humor
out of this moment. The steps are too light to be Uncle Vernon, and Harry goes stiff when he hears
Aunt Petunia's familiar tittering.

"Duddikins, who's at the door, sweet boy? You shouldn't hang out the front door too long if—"

Aunt Petunia draws up short the moment she steps up beside Dudley and sees Harry. In an instant,
she snaps up straight and goes tight all over, as if she's suddenly been stretched to her limit. She
looks like she's actively sucking on the most sour lemon in the world, her lips pinched tight as she
glares at him.

"Mum!" Dudley hisses, apparently oblivious to Aunt Petunia's tension. "I told you to stop calling
me that! It's just Dudley! I'm too old for—"

"Hush now, Dudders," Aunt Petunia cuts in, reaching out to smooth a hand over his hair like he's
the most precious thing in this world. "Let Mummy see to—to the boy, alright? You go in and—"

"Harry's got a flat," Dudley declares, scowling at her in undeniable judgement. "He's got himself
his own flat now, him and his boyfriend. Why can't I—"

"What nonsense have you been putting in my baby's head?!" Aunt Petunia practically screeches,
trying to curl Dudley protectively in her grip, though he just leans away from her. "Get out! Get
away from here. I won't have your sort fluttering about my doorstep!"

"Because he's gay?" Dudley blurts out, looking supremely confused. "Mum, you know Piers called
me and came out! It's not nice—"

"Not actually gay," Harry interrupts. "I just happen to have a boyfriend. And anyway, she's talking
about the fact that I'm a Wizard, Dudley."
"You just had to be a freak in every sense, didn't you, boy?" Aunt Petunia spits, lip curling as she
sneers at him, openly and shamelessly disgusted. "It's not enough that you had to have magic; no,
you had to take it a step farther and disgrace yourself by fancying men. Always the wrong sort,
through and through, and now you've come here to infect my son with your ridiculous—"

"Mum!" Dudley blurts, aghast. "You said Piers—"

"Piers is your friend, dear," Aunt Petunia soothes, trying to push Dudley back inside. "Go on,
Duddikins, I will—"

"It's alright that you're gay, Harry," Dudley rushes to say, batting his mother's hands away. "I was a
right snot about it to you for years, I know. Piers said he was always too scared to be himself
because of how I talked, but he's my best mate. I shouldn't have done it. That goes for you, too, I
swear it does."

Harry tries for a wobbly smile. "Thanks, Big D. Actually, er, can you go inside, though? I'm here
to talk to Aunt Petunia anyway."

"Yeah, alright." Dudley doesn't immediately back away, though. He shuffles in place, looking
contrite and uncertain. "I wouldn't mind meeting your boyfriend, Harry, if you wanted. Just reach
out to me if you do. You have those owls, don't you? Don't suspect you've got a cell."

Harry realizes that he's got his feet a bit farther into the Wizarding World than he thought, because
for a second, he forgets what the hell a cell is. Then he has to take a second to wrap his mind
around Dudley's apparent mission of being pro-gay because his best mate just so happens to be,
and that somehow extends to Harry now. Then he has to process the ludicrous idea that Draco and
Dudley might ever meet, and it nearly makes him bust out laughing.

All of this leaves Harry looking as gobsmacked as Aunt Petunia, but he rallies before she does and
says, "Yeah, I have an owl. If I ever decide to get in contact, I'll...er, send you a letter, I suppose."

"Sure," Dudley agrees easily. He jerks his big, broad hand out at Harry. "It's good you've come
by."

Harry feels like he's been hoodwinked, absolutely bamboozled. Despite this, the horror on Aunt
Petunia's face makes the confusion worth it. With a grin, Harry reaches out and shakes Dudley's
hand, and it's a moment he's likely never going to forget, if only for the soft gasp Aunt Petunia lets
out, as if she's watching a trainwreck.

Dudley ignores his mother entirely and goes back into the house, lumbering frame fading as he
moves away. Distantly, Harry can hear his feet clomp up the steps, and all he can think about is the
cupboard beneath them.

He wonders, vaguely, what's worthy of residing inside it now that he no longer does. Or maybe it's
empty, because only the freak nephew that Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon never wanted goes in
there. He's almost tempted to check.

Aunt Petunia is still glaring at him, lips pinched as her eyes trail over him in poorly hidden disdain,
or she doesn't care to disguise it. Her hand is tight to her chest, shoulders curling in on themselves,
and the length of her neck is on display more easily when she tilts up her chin.

"I don't know what we ever did to deserve you coming back here," Aunt Petunia hisses, "but you're
of age now, boy. Out with you! Vernon won't allow you back, and neither will I!"

"I'm only here to ask you a question," Harry says mildly, raising his eyebrows.

Aunt Petunia's nostrils flare. "I don't have to answer to you. I've done more than enough for you,
you ungrateful brat, and demanding more is—"

"Yes," Harry cuts in while pulling out his wand, and he's gratified to hear Aunt Petunia's words
choke off as she snaps her mouth shut, "but I thought after years of never wanting me, you could
tell me what it was like while I was away. People came here in the beginning, didn't they? Looking
for me, doing things to protect you lot. Was there a man with colorful robes, a long white beard,
and half—"

"Dumbledore," Aunt Petunia snarls, lip curling in distaste. Her head bobbles on her neck, and she
digs her nails into her own chest. "Yes, I know of him. He came. He barged his way into my house
and looked everywhere for you! No manners, no—"

"Shut up," Harry snaps, and he twists his wrist with the wand to reinforce his command. She leans
back, going rapidly pale, and he resists the urge to roll his eyes. "When he came, did he—" He has
to pause to swallow past the lump in his throat, his nerves making him quiver in place. "Did he
check the cupboard at all?"
Aunt Petunia says nothing for a long time, just staring at him with slightly wide eyes. It's like she
never expected to have her mistreatment of him thrown back in her face so bluntly. The cupboard
has gone mostly unmentioned for years.

She knows it's not right. Dudley may have been an idiot boy, but she was an adult. Her and Vernon
knew it was abuse. They knew and probably still know that the way they treated him was not
normal, for all that they do their best to be.

He wonders what she's thinking. He could hex her. He could wreck this entire house and ruin their
perfect image, could hurt them with just a flick of his wand, and he can see it in her eyes that she
knows it. She looks scared, as she should, and a part of him relishes in it. Another part, however,
just feels absolutely nothing at all.

Fortunately for them, Harry has no desire to hurt or traumatize them. Retaliation doesn't even seem
like an idea that he could give into.

"Did he check the cupboard?" Harry repeats flatly.

Aunt Petunia's lips tremble when she says, "It's the first place he looked."

Harry lowers his wand and takes a solid step back, his heart dropping to the pit of his stomach. He
thinks—for just a second—that he might vomit, but he breathes carefully and the moment passes.

It shouldn't disappoint him because he'd known, deep down, that Dumbledore was always aware of
his situation. Harry was always too involved with everything for Dumbledore not to be. It
disappoints him anyway, no matter what Dumbledore did it for. Whatever his reasons—the greater
good, most likely—it still wasn't right.

"I'm going now," Harry says, staring at her. "Don't worry, Aunt Petunia, I'll never come back
here."

"Good riddance," Aunt Petunia spits. "We don't want your kind here. A freak, on my doorstep! All
that we've ever done for you, and—"

Harry turns and flicks his wand toward the flowerbeds he knows Aunt Petunia displays with pride.
The white-rimmed, purple flowers all wilt in an instant, and Aunt Petunia gasps as her namesakes
die before her very eyes.

She shrieks after him, calling him all versions of freak, ungrateful, and the wrong sort. He just
walks away, listening to her bellow like it's coming from a tunnel. He can hear Vernon marching
through the house to investigate, but Harry doesn't turn around until he's back on the sidewalk.

There they are, his aunt and uncle, standing in the doorway. They're both various shades of angry
and disdainful, hissing at him from their house, never raising their voices to alert the neighbors—
no, they'd never do that. Can't let anyone know that they're not normal. Can't make a scene.

Harry doesn't actually care, is the thing. They're staring out at him like he's the worst thing that's
ever happened to them, and he'd agree in the reverse. Through it all, though, he feels practically
nothing. No anger, no hurt, just...an easy dullness that comes from not caring at all.

He learns another lesson in this moment, and this one—unlike most—does not hurt at all. It's this:

It is better to be hated for who you are, than to be loved for who you aren't.

Harry doesn't want to be anyone else than who he has become, not even if it would be easier. He
palms his wand and smiles. In the midst of their insults and obscenities, he disappears with a sharp
crack.

It's a week after Harry returns that Draco apparently decides to stop being patient.

He's in the midst of cooking dinner. He had thought that after years of being away from the
Dursleys, this little skill of his would have fled him. But, as he moves around the kitchen, he finds
that it's easy to fall back into it. Actually, it doesn't even bother him like he expects it to. As it turns
out, cooking for fun and for himself and boyfriend is something he enjoys, rather than it being a
chore for a family who never even wanted him.

Yorkshire pudding is something he cooked rather regularly for the Dursleys, and he's all too eager
to replace those memories with better ones. He thinks Draco might even say thank you, as he
sometimes does when he comes home from work and finds a meal waiting, hot and on the table.
Draco's home early today and apparently in the midst of a rather long floo-call with Pansy about
something, right up until he isn't. Harry doesn't even hear him, so he startles when cold hands wrap
around him, a pointy chin digging into his shoulder as a warm chest presses into his back.

"Don't drop that," Draco murmurs, catching Harry's wrist before the knife in his hand can go
clattering recklessly to their feet.

"Sorry," Harry says sheepishly, hastily putting the knife down and leaning back into Draco with a
soft sigh. "Supper's almost ready. What did Pansy want to fuss about?"

"Her and Blaise are having a domestic over the Charms at their wedding. She wants the lights to
shimmer, while he wants them to fade in and out. She wanted my opinion," Draco says.

Harry snorts quietly. "And? Did you help them settle it? Who'd you agree with?"

"I helped them settle it by agreeing with neither. I told them the lights should sparkle or flicker,
and they turned on me in a heartbeat for my apparent lack of taste," Draco muses, lips curling up
against Harry's ear. "Worked a treat, really. Nothing brings them two together like giving them a
target to have a go at. They decided to have both their Charms."

"Diabolical," Harry teases, turning in his arms to grin at him. "Absolutely mad, you are."

"Yes, well, I know them," Draco says easily. His gaze flickers to the dishes on the table. "You
know, I could get used to you cooking for me all the time."

"You should," Harry tells him, "because you're shite at cooking, and I'm not going through that
torture."

Draco huffs in offense. "You git, I only meant we could get a house-elf. Mother suggested Dipsy,
since you're so fond of him. We could pay him."

"I don't want a house-elf, though," Harry admits.

"You enjoy it, then?" Draco nods towards the oven and the knives. "Cooking, I mean. You want
to?"

"I like it, yeah."

"And you know how to do it because of those Muggles, I take it?"

"Yeah." Harry leans forward and bites at Draco's chin, grinning when he jerks back, utterly
appalled by the action. "It's alright, though. I like doing it for us. It's...nice."

"Well, if you insist," Draco says wearily.

"I do," Harry replies simply, pulling back slightly to go back to what he was doing, but Draco
clamps his hands down on his hips and halts him. Harry blinks at him. "What is it?"

Draco watches him carefully, lips slightly pursed. Then he sighs. "I've waited for you to tell me,
but you haven't mentioned it once, so I'll just ask. Harry, did you find him?"

Harry doesn't have to ask to know what Draco means. He turns his head, looking down at the floor
with a small frown. He doesn't know why he hasn't told Draco anything about Voldemort yet. A
part of him wants to pretend like it never happened, if only to avoid thinking about how it makes
him feel.

Draco has been incredibly patient, all things considered. He must have endless questions, and yet
he's kept them to himself. Harry can't say he'd be able to hold out as long as Draco has.

"I found him," Harry whispers, never lifting his gaze from the floor.

"Oh." Draco's fingers spasm on Harry's hips, then go still. "How did that go?"

Harry coughs. "Well, he saved me from trolls."

"Trolls?!" Draco blurts out in alarm. "Merlin, Harry, what the bloody buggering fuck were you
doing with trolls? Plural? How many?!"
"Three," Harry says weakly, grimacing when Draco hisses through his teeth. "Hey, I handled one
on my own before, er, Voldemort stepped in. Anyway, he saw to it and took me back to where he
was staying. I visited for a few hours, then...came home."

"You visited for a few hours," Draco echoes. "And how did that go, Harry?"

"It…" Harry swallows as the words are blocked through a clogged throat. He hesitantly turns his
gaze to Draco, feeling rather stupid and ashamed by his own emotion as Draco stares at him. "It
was good, mostly. Good to see him again."

Draco nods slowly. "Alright, if you say so. I'll take your word for it. Will you visit him again?"

"Would you advise me against it?"

"No."

"Why?" Harry can't help but ask.

"Because I can see that you want to," Draco says simply, as if Harry's wants and wishes matter
more than what the world would think of him if anyone ever found out he dares to care about the
terrible Dark Lord. "I won't go, though. No offense. I'm sure he's… Ah, well, I just don't care for
it."

Harry lets out a weak laugh. "Don't worry about it, Draco. I can't go back, even if I wanted to.
Which, honestly, I do."

"You miss him," Draco murmurs.

"Yeah." Harry's breath shudders out of him, and he leans back against the counter, tugging Draco
in closer. "We still have the connection because I'm his Horcrux, but it's—that's all I have. I'm
never going to see him again."
Draco stares at him, then says, "Tell me everything."

And so, Harry does.

Out of everyone in the world, Draco's the only one who understands Harry's situation with
Voldemort. In fairness, he saw it. He watched it all happen, and Harry had always confided in him
about his own emotions towards Voldemort. If anyone knows most of the truth of everything, it's
Draco.

Harry's not sure how Draco feels about it personally. He's never given an opinion. He will
occasionally make jokes about Harry being the Dark Lord's underling, or tease about how Harry
managed to bewitch the Dark Lord by being an idiot. But, in truth, he has never once voiced his
own thoughts about how Harry feels about him.

Maybe it's because he doesn't approve and doesn't want Harry to know that. Maybe it's because he
doesn't want to be involved at all. Or maybe he actually doesn't have an opinion to begin with.

Either way, it makes it very easy for Harry to talk about this without shame or worry. Draco
already knows Harry cares about Voldemort, and he hasn't judged him for it. Making it clear now
that Harry's hurt that he'll never see him again isn't that much worse on top of that, really.

It's a relief to be able to talk about it, honestly.

They stand there in the kitchen as Harry explains how he found Voldemort, and then they move to
eat supper while Harry explains how the visit went and what was said, and by the time they've
finished eating and moved to the sofa, Harry's still talking about it, having moved on to how he
feels about it all. Draco listens dutifully, and Harry is so helplessly grateful for him because of it.

"And yeah, that's pretty much it," Harry finishes, admittedly feeling solemn now.

"Wow," Draco says, "I can't believe you went and made the Dark Lord your father, Harry."

Harry balks. "Draco!"

"What? It's true. Bloody hell, he did what any sensible parent would do."

"Guardian, Draco! Don't call it anything else. The man sodding murdered my parents, you prat!"

"There's some cruel irony in there somewhere," Draco muses, reaching out to grab Harry's hand,
pinching the skin of his knuckles lightly. "The man killed your parents, only to end up adopting
you and caring about you enough to give up everything. It's what parents swear they'd do for their
child, isn't it? Die for them, give up everything for them. Not many get to prove it, but Harry,
you've had all your guardians prove it now."

"Great, bloody brilliant, thank you for saying so," Harry snaps. "It's lovely that I'm—I'm some
fucking curse on the adults who care about me."

Draco rolls his eyes. "You call me dramatic. You're not a curse. I'm only trying to tell you how
loved you are, even by the Dark Lord himself."

Harry ducks his head, clenching his jaw against the sensation of tears pricking his eyes. He croaks
a rather weak, "Shut up, Draco."

"Harry," Draco says, soft and serious, "I know you hate that you'll never see him again. I know that
you want to have a relationship with him, as mad as that may be. But… But please don't let the fact
that he's not here to show it make you think he doesn't care. You can't deny it now, not after all he
did. That means something to you. I know it does."

"It does," Harry admits in a rasp. "It's just…"

"I told you once that not everyone gets happiness, and that's true," Draco murmurs, "but he worked
rather hard for you to have yours. So many people have—guardian types, I mean. I'm not saying
it's easy or fair or right, but you're loved and wanted more than you even seemed to realize. Now
you have tangible proof of that."

The words strike Harry right in the chest, sucking all the air from his lungs, and he stares wide-
eyed at Draco as that settles within his mind.

It hits Harry then that the one thing he always wanted in the world...he had the whole time.
Through his parents, who gave their lives for his out of pure love. Through Sirius, who wanted to
be there for Harry and was taken too soon. Through Dumbledore, who tried to give Harry his
version of protection, as skewed and misguided as it was. Through Voldemort, who took absolutely
everything from Harry, including himself in the end, in the hopes that he could give him a life he
deserved.

They want him. All of them, in some way or another. It doesn't come without its faults, or the
highs and lows of life, but it's undeniable.

I'm only trying to tell you how loved you are, Draco had said, and he's absolutely right, isn't he?

Voldemort had told him he was an orphan only in name, only because his parents are dead, but not
because Harry's alone. He never has been, not from the moment his parents died to the moment
Voldemort watched him walk away.

He's not abandoned. He never was.

Harry closes his eyes, searching inward like he does sometimes when things get rather quiet,
feeling along the connection that tethers him to Voldemort. What he finds is what always awaits
him, never changing. That shifting wind, a bare calm that doesn't seem real, not contentment and
not resignation, no regret and no rage. It's reason.

Raison dêtre. Harry has heard those words before. Mrs. Malfoy had said them to him, once, trying
to explain to him what it felt like to care for Draco the way she does. She'd said that it was an
emotion not easily explained in English, so beyond the language that she couldn't describe it any
other way.

"It means: most important reason or purpose for someone's existence," Mrs. Malfoy had explained,
and Harry had smiled warmly at her for it, proud to know just how much she loves her son.

That's the force in which Harry's own parents cared for him, and that's the thing that Voldemort
feels every single day when Harry checks.

When Harry opens his eyes, Draco's calmly wiping the tears from his cheeks, simply looking at
him.
Harry says, "Yeah, you're right," and it's true.

A month after Harry's return finds him nervously flattening his hair as he leaves the meeting in the
Ministry, his hopes up more than he's willing to admit. It had gone well—just as all his friends said
it would—but he's still unsure how everything is going to go from here.

He has ideas now. Aspirations that send him jolting awake at two in the morning to fly to the desk,
scribbling down something lest he forget, waving off Draco's disgruntled protests from the bed.
Plans are unfurling slowly, and having permission from the proper people in charge to actually do
them is a new feeling but an exciting one.

The first form of action is finding the proper place to start, and he's already stuck between options.
He could get a new place, possibly in Diagon Alley, or he could transform Grimmauld Place into
something better than what it was used for. Merlin, he'll have to ask everyone at pub night—his
friends and boyfriend are sure to have opinions that will help. If nothing else, he can count on them
for it.

"Harry!"

Head snapping up, Harry comes to a screeching halt in the hall as his best mate comes rushing
towards him with wide eyes. "Ron? Is everything—"

"Thank Merlin you're here," Ron gasps out, sailing past him and snagging his arm, tugging him
along none too gently. "It's Hermione, mate."

"What?" Harry blanches and reroutes quickly, picking up his pace to follow Ron. "Is she alright?
What happened to her?"

"It's not what happened to her; it's what she's doing to someone else," Ron hisses. "You know
Reginald has had it out for her for a while, but he's taken it too far this time. I just got notice from
Robards I might have to arrest her!"

Harry goggles at Ron in disbelief, unable to imagine a scenario in which Hermione gets arrested
for anything. He has no idea where he's going, but he starts sprinting the moment Ron does,
careening through Ministry halls like they're children again.

In fairness, it is distressing to hear that Hermione's off her head. Reginald is an old, stuffy
Pureblood who has been blocking Hermione and Pansy at every turn whenever they try to change
things at the Ministry. Honestly, Harry always suspected that Pansy would be the one to go round
the bend about it and Hermione would be the one trying to calm her, but thinking about Hermione,
he feels like a sodding idiot for ever coming to that conclusion.

It takes Harry approximately ten seconds to realize just how bad this is when Ron informs him that
they're near Hermione and Pansy's office, and the first thing he hears is Hermione yelling.

For a split second, as they skid to a stop outside the door, Ron looks absolutely terrified, Auror or
not.

Harry has to be brave enough to open the door, and he winces the moment they walk in. Hermione
has who Harry assumes is Reginald by the front of his robes, shrieking at him as she shakes him,
and the man is doing his best to shrink back. He, too, looks absolutely terrified, and with good
reason.

Pansy is fluttering about on the sidelines, looking nervous herself in a way she never does,
hesitantly reaching out one hand, only to grimace and pull it back. The moment she sees them,
however, her whole body sags with relief.

"—and if you ever, ever think about doing such a foul, depraved thing such as this again, I will
curse your own tongue so far up your own arse—"

"Hermione!" Ron bellows, his tone coming out sharp and loud, far sterner than Harry's ever heard
it.

"What, Ronald?!" Hermione snarls, head whipping around to glare at Ron with such ferocity that
Harry shrinks back on instinct.

Ron, brave soul that he is, doesn't even flinch, which is highly surprising. "Hermione, let Mr.
Bellthirn go. Whatever he's done, you can't assault a Ministry official," he says firmly.
"What he's done," Hermione hisses, her wand flashing in her hand as she presses it into Reginald's
throat, ignoring his whimpers, "is—"

"Expelliarmus!" Ron shouts, flicking his wand through the air to successfully disarm Hermione for
what might be the very first time.

Harry instinctively catches the wand as it comes right for him, only to take a few stumbling steps
back as Hermione finally releases Reginald and rounds on him instead.

"Give me my wand!" Hermione spits, advancing on him quickly. "Harry, my wand!"

"Floo Daphne," Ron tells Pansy, reaching out to catch Hermione by the middle and bodily lift her
out of Harry's range. "Hermione, stop it! What's gotten into you? Mr. Bellthirn—"

"Mr. Bellthirn can rot in all circles of Hell!" Hermione shrieks, shoving at Ron's arm and turning
her attention back to him again.

Harry stands in place helplessly as he watches all of this dissolve rather quickly, very alarmed.
Pansy is already at the fireplace in the office, scrambling back as Daphne comes through. Ron is
steadily trying to hold Hermione back, while she's trying to throw herself at Reginald, who looks
ready to piss himself at the moment.

"Hermione," Daphne says sharply, sweeping in without even knowing what's going on. She plants
herself right in front of Hermione, reaching out to touch her arm. "Calm down."

"Calm down!" Hermione echoes harshly, her chest heaving as she glares with genuine hatred in her
eyes right at Reginald. "Don't you tell me to calm down! This horrible excuse for a daft—"

"Hermione!" Daphne cuts in, her tone as stern as Ron's was, and her hand comes up to land on her
shoulder this time. "Stop for a moment and explain to me what happened."

"What happened," Pansy says, "is Mr. Bellthirn here decided it would be a good idea to slip his
hand underneath Hermione's skirt while she was professionally explaining how utterly small-
minded he is when it comes to the procedures of what constitutes as proper Werewolf rights."
The whole room seems to freeze in place.

Harry has only had such a rush of unbridled rage hit him this quickly once, and that had ended with
the senior Nott squirming under his wand. In mere seconds, Harry's ready to have Reginald
Bellthirn doing the same.

The man in question shrinks back further, going rapidly pale as all eyes turn to him and the room
seems to drop in temperature. Hermione seems to realize at once that everyone is angry as she is,
and she pauses in her momentary decision to shrivel him into nothing. The worst reaction,
however, comes from Ron and Daphne.

Ron immediately releases Hermione, face twisting in righteous rage, and Daphne pivots on the
spot with absolutely no expression on her face at all.

Softly, she says, "Is this true, Mr. Bellthirn?"

"Ms. Greengrass," Reginald stammers, "you know me well, don't you? I—I come to all your
mother's events! You'd believe the word of a Muggle-born over mine? She's pushing her nose in
business where it doesn't belong, getting involved with rights of beasts, and it's not as if she can
expect me to give in if I'm not getting anything out—"

Reginald does not get to say another word because Daphne sweeps forward in one elegant step and
proceeds to punch the living daylights out of him. She hits him so hard that he goes crashing back
into the desk behind him with a curse, clutching his face as he stares at her, aghast. Pansy makes a
mad dash for the fireplace yet again, disappearing through it entirely, while Ron and Hermione
both make the same exact sound of alarm as they surge forward to try and reel Daphne in.

"Let me make one thing very clear, Mr. Bellthirn," Daphne declares, her words cold as ice, "I do
not work for or at the Ministry, and I care very little about what may come of me if I happened to
turn your skin inside out. You would sooner kiss the heels this Muggle-born wears than touch her
ever again, am I understood?"

Reginald sputters, clutching his bleeding mouth as he gapes at Daphne, only for his eyes to cut
towards Ron. "Don't just stand there! Do something, lad! You're an Auror, or aren't you? I've been
assaulted before your very eyes!"

"I blinked," Ron snarls.

"You're a Weasley," Reginald hisses, as if everything makes sense at that name. "Just like your
father! A stain on the Ministry, and a stain to society! You—"

Daphne sails forward and hauls off with another hit that shuts Reginald up quite nicely, and this
time, he goes slumping over the corner of the desk. He lands to the floor in an undignified heap,
now clutching his bloody nose and howling obscenities.

"You dare speak ill of my fiance." Daphne towers over him, her eyes flashing. "You will soon find
your cushion in society upheaved, Mr. Bellthirn, for having the audacity to besmirch Ron Weasley
and Hermione Granger. Furthermore—"

The fireplace flares again, and Harry startles to see Draco step into the room behind Pansy. They
pause, taking in the scene. Harry is briefly distracted by how utterly handsome Draco looks in his
Healer robes, but his anger creeps back in and steals the limelight. Harry is rattling place, only not
moving because he can't be sure he won't do something unforgivable if he gets ahold of Reginald
himself.

"Mr. Bellthirn," Draco says calmly, sweeping forward and easing Daphne aside as he kneels in
front of him, "I hear you're in need of aide."

Reginald looks relieved in a flash, sagging back against the desk with a stuffy sigh. "Mr. Malfoy,
I'm pleased you've come. These ingrates—"

"Do you know my father, Mr. Bellthirn?" Draco asks lightly, reaching out and gently peeling
Reginald's hand from his face. He waves his wand and the blood flow eases, but the clear break in
his nose and split in his lip doesn't go away.

"Of course," Reginald declares, trying to sit taller, grimacing a little. "Lucius is an upstanding—"

"My father," Draco continues, "happens to be quite proud of me, you understand, seeing as I'm a
war hero and the top Healer trainee at St. Mungos. He is too honorable a man to praise me while
he... influences the greatest names of the Ministry, including Mr. Wellworth. Your boss, isn't he?"

Reginald falters, blinking at Draco. "Yes, Mr. Malfoy. He's my superior, but—"
"And Mr. Wellworth is quite fond of my father, who is quite fond of me," Draco cuts in coolly,
arching an imperious eyebrow. "In fact, Mr. Wellworth has mentioned often that the events held at
my family's Manor is the highlight of his year, and my mother oversees the guests who are allowed
to grace the premises. My mother is also proud of me, and she gives into my many whims."

"Mr. Malfoy," Reginald blurts, "what are you—"

"It would be terribly remiss of me if I happened to mention to my father that you've slighted me in
some way, wouldn't it?" Draco asks softly, staring at Reginald with hard eyes. "For you have, you
see, because every person who is in this room besides yourself matters a great deal to me. You,
however, do not. I care very little what comes of your life if I decide to ruin it, and I very well can
if that desire ever so casually passes my mind."

Reginald gawks at Draco in betrayal. "Mr. Malfoy, you can't actually—you… What would you
have me do?!" he bursts out, wincing as his face contorts.

"Me?" Draco lightly presses a hand to his chest, feigning innocence. "Nothing at all, Mr. Bellthirn.
I have been reliably informed, however, that you so rudely touched Hermione Granger without
permission, and that is a grave mistake only you can repay by doing whatever she wants. As I
understand it, she happens to be applying for changes in the procedures surrounding Werewolves,
yes?"

"Indeed!" Reginald shouts. "It's preposterous! Surely you do not agree with the demands she's
made for those—those half-breeds."

"I agree with her demands, even the ones she didn't try and push for because you'd never
compromise otherwise," Draco replies stiffly. "However, I do believe that's about to change, isn't it,
Mr. Bellthirn? You will comply with her request, as well as any additions she makes, and you will
correspond with her through assistants only. You will not formulate a complaint against her for her
actions today. If you do not agree with me, you will be facing a case for misconduct on Hermione,
and my boyfriend, Harry Potter, will ensure that Minister Shacklebolt—who is very fond of Harry
Potter, you see—oversees the aforementioned case. If that is not enough incentive, my father will
be more than happy to have a word with Mr. Wellworth about your abysmal work in the Ministry
as of late. Because, yes, my father will be hearing about this."

Reginald, by the end of this, is pale as a ghost and trembling in place. His nose has started bleeding
again, and the muted fury in his eyes is overshadowed by how utterly intimidated he clearly is at
the moment.
"Mr. Malfoy," Reginald starts, only to flinch when Draco waves his wand again. His nose
straightens with a sick crack and his lip closes over. However, his weakness has already been
displayed, and he clearly knows he's lost. In the end, he just clenches his jaw and very quietly says,
"Very well."

"Lovely," Draco drawls. "Now get out."

Reginald does, stumbling to his feet and making for the door without looking back, beating a hasty
retreat. He's no doubt humiliated, on top of fearing for not only his job but his social standing in
Pureblood society. The door closes with a gentle click behind him, and things are quiet.

"I'm fine," Hermione says instantly when Ron and Daphne turn to her. "He barely got his fingers
under the hem before I nearly broke them."

Ron's shoulders relax, and he reaches out to gently push one of her wild curls behind her ear. "I'm
sorry I disarmed you. I should have let you squash him like the bug he is."

"Yes, well, it's all handled now, isn't it?" Hermione is doing a terrible job of hiding her grin, her
eyes bright with undeniable smugness. "I will have to review my list of requests for Mr. Bellthirn
because I've come to think it's too short."

Pansy tips her head back and cackles.

"Throwing punches like a Muggle, Daphne?" Draco teases, stepping in front of her to take her
bruised hand and inspect it. He tuts. "You've only busted a knuckle. Such dainty hands, darling.
Not meant for faces as sour as his."

"He's lucky he has a face at all," Daphne murmurs, tilting her chin up and not even flinching when
Draco goes about healing her hand.

Harry steps forward and offers Hermione her wand, smiling tightly. "Here you go, Hermione. I
didn't mean to catch it, you know. Are you alright? I'll kill him. I will. I'm not actually joking."

"I see that," Hermione says, flicking her gaze over his face critically as she takes her wand. Her lips
curl up. "You really aren't, are you?"
"No," Harry admits, completely serious.

Hermione's face softens. "I'm alright, Harry. Thank you for the offer, though."

Thank you for being willing to kill someone for me, she basically says, like that's not something
horrible. Harry can't help but smile anyway.

"That'll do it," Draco declares, gingerly letting Daphne's hand go, sighing as he shakes his head.
"You know, it's lucky Pansy caught me at the end of my shift. Lucky for Mr. Bellthirn, I mean,
seeing as I might have been informed of his untimely demise if I hadn't come when I did."

"You were lovely, darling," Pansy says, smiling sharply in open pleasure. "It's been some time
since you've used your father as a threat. Lucky that Mr. Bellthirn doesn't know just how proud of
you Lucius isn't. Very manipulative of you, though. I like it."

Draco rolls his eyes. "Thank you, truly. I do love throwing my name at people. That's precisely
why I followed in my father's footsteps and decided to influence those at the Ministry and—oh,
wait."

"Draco," Hermione murmurs sincerely, reaching out to squeeze his arm, "thank you. I know you
hate it, but you still did it."

"Just cut his fingers off next time," Draco tells her, but his words lack heat. He turns his head, gaze
falling on Harry, and his eyes light up instantly. "Ah, yes, there's my murderous savior of a
boyfriend. How did the meeting go?"

"Brilliant," Harry says weakly, watching Draco saunter over, trying very hard not to be
inappropriately aroused by what he just witnessed Draco do. "That was—what you just did was, er,
very… It was, um, nice."

Draco arches an eyebrow, amused and knowing, seeing through him immediately. "Oh, you liked
it. Look at you, Harry, it's all over your face."

"Shut up," Harry snaps, because all of his friends are snickering at him now. "We're going,
Draco."

"So it seems," Draco chirps cheerfully, giving a jaunty wave as Harry catches his wrist and starts
marching him towards the fireplace. "Ta, everyone! Harry has to ravish me now, you see, because
—"

Harry yanks him into the swirling flames before he can finish the sentence, and the sound of their
friends' laughter follows them as they go.

Merlin, Harry thinks as soon as he steps up to the door in front of him, how am I back here
already?

He has to pause and take a deep breath, despite his current audience. There's an itch beneath his
skin that he can't quite get rid of, an absurd urge to just turn on his heel and never come back. It's
necessary, though. He supposes this is what being an adult is, if he dares to think of himself as
such. He barely feels it, barely feels capable of being a mature adult, but if he's planning to do this
and do it cordially, then he can't really be anything else, can he?

Refusing to look to his right, Harry reaches up and knocks on the door. It swings open before his
knuckles can even brush it twice, and he almost doesn't enter, until—

"Coming, Mr. Potter?" Professor McGonagall asks, watching him shrewdly.

Harry still feels like a Seventh Year, and he's not technically too far from it now, graduated or not.
He's only five months out from leaving Hogwarts for good, so he stupidly feels like he's about to
get points taken by his Head of House.

"Yes, Professor," Harry mumbles awkwardly, shuffling inside.

Entering the Headmaster's office shows that much hasn't changed within. Harry's eyes immediately
go to the displayed Sword of Gryffindor, only to bounce away quickly to Fawkes sitting on his
perch, surveying Harry as he walks in. Dumbledore is at his desk, head bent over parchment as he
dips his quill and goes back to writing something.
As if he doesn't know they're there. Harry nearly scoffs or rolls his eyes, but catches himself
quickly.

Professor McGonagall clears her throat gently. "Albus," she says simply.

"Ah, Minerva," Dumbledore replies genially, lifting his head with a soft smile, "and Harry, of
course. Yes, yes, I've been expecting you. Come in."

"Hello, sir," Harry greets politely, because he is planning to be as cordial as possible and also
because he can't help the fond twinge in his chest at the twinkle in his old mentor's eyes.

"It is good to see you," Dumbledore says in what seems to be complete sincerity. "Did you enjoy
your travels?"

Harry smiles slightly as he sinks down into the chair to the right of the one Professor McGonagall
sits in, relaxing back into it. "Yes, sir. It was nice to get away, honestly. How is, er, this year
treating you?"

"Remarkably quiet," Dumbledore admits, sharing an amused look with Professor McGonagall.

"Can't imagine why that is," Harry murmurs, fighting the urge to grin like an idiot.

Professor McGonagall hums. "Give it time," she says tersely, though there's humor in her sharp
gaze. "If nothing else, young Ms. Ginny Weasley still has much of the year to make trouble."

"She might," Harry admits with a snort. "I always thought it was me that trouble followed, but I've
learned Hermione and Ron can get up to it on their own. Suspect the same for Luna and Ginny."

"How are Mr. Weasley and Ms. Granger?" Professor McGonagall inquires, glancing at him with
genuine curiosity and perhaps a touch of fondness.

Harry wonders if Professor McGonagall misses some of her students through the years, maybe
even those she's particularly fond of, even if she's possibly the most fair Professor Harry has ever
studied under. He imagines that fostering bonds with children you literally watch grow up and help
teach for most of their years for seven consecutive ones in a row tends to...well, leave an
impression. Maybe he's included in that.

"Doing well," Harry tells her, smile softening on his face. "Hermione's working at the Ministry.
She recently got a new procedure instated for Werewolves, you know, to help fight their registry
and ensure that their status can't allow for discrimination in their careers. I don't know if you keep
in touch with Remus Lupin, but he thought what she's doing is brilliant work."

"It sounds it," Professor McGonagall says, a hint of pride leaking in her voice. She always did have
a certain gleam in her eye when it came to Hermione's success, always proud to have Hermione be
a Gryffindor. "And Mr. Weasley?"

"Just graduated from the Auror program," Harry tells her, pride evident in his voice, and he's not
ashamed in the least. "He thinks the department is shite, and he's going to fix it from the inside."

Professor McGonagall blinks. "Oh," she murmurs faintly, "well, that's—that's

certainly...honorable."

Harry smiles at her wryly. "It's all corrupt in the Ministry, you know. The newer ones are having
their crack at it, I think. It's safe to say the new generation you taught has higher standards for what
classifies as right and wrong, Professor."

"Ah," Professor McGonagall murmurs, her spine snapping straight as she instantly gets a little
misty-eyed, pride in every line of her face that she can't even try to hide. "Yes, honorable indeed to
fight to fix the injustices of the world."

"Quite right," Dumbledore agrees mildly, gently inserting himself back in the conversation. He
looks as proud as she does, only in the brightness of his eyes. "May I ask after Mr. Malfoy? I recall
he had plans to train at St. Mungos, correct?"

Harry can't help the way he softens all over at the mere mention of Draco. "Yes, sir, he is still in
training, but he should be out soon. He's done quite a lot of good there, you know. He's tried to
downplay it, I think, but I've heard he's introduced at least three alternative methods of extensive
healing to at least two Dark Curses. I think it helps, you know, having had access to all that Dark
Magic and such, and he's a bit of a darker Wizard himself, but… Well, in any case, he's bloody
brilliant!"
"That's lovely to hear, Harry," Dumbledore murmurs, once again sharing an amused look with
Professor McGonagall, and Harry can't help but blush a little at how transparent he is when it
comes to Draco sodding Malfoy. Dumbledore seems genuine at least, which is nice. "And how
have you been?"

"Fine," Harry replies, his eyes crawling back to the Sword of Gryffindor against his will. He
snatches his gaze from it as soon as he's able, but he can tell that Dumbledore caught the glance.
"I've spoken to the board and had a meeting at the Department of Magical Education. I've got
license to go through with this, and I've already set up the building."

Professor McGonagall leans forward, obviously curious and hiding it poorly. "May I ask what you
thought suited the program best?"

"I've got it all sorted out," Harry says, and he just knows his eyes are lighting up. All his friends
tease him for how excited about this he is, even as they've helped in their free time. "I've got the go
ahead to have a place connect through Diagon Alley to Muggle London. For all purposes to
Muggles not involved, it'll just be a place where children are taking karate classes. I thought it best
to put the Muggles at ease with a normal place before introducing them and their children to the
magical world. Wouldn't want to shock them too early."

"Will you require a list of the influx of Muggle-borns each year?" Dumbledore asks.

Harry nods, trying not to stiffen. "Yes, if only to know their names. I know you send out Professors
to explain, which is still required from the board, but I've been added as an option for the Muggles.
We can't actually force them to come, but you can explain what it is I'll be doing and give them the
address to my place."

"I think it's marvelous," Professor McGonagall declares with a rare fierceness. She sits up even
straighter in her chair. "It's just that I've spoken to many Muggles who were never certain and even
sometimes wary of the magical world. I've known Muggle-borns to adjust poorly because of their
parents not making sense of it, and we don't have the proper permission from the board to give
more extensively than we already do. Too many Muggle-born children come in a step behind with
no one to properly prepare them, and for you to do that is—it's astounding. No one has ever done
it, and I think it's high time someone be allowed to."

"It is, indeed," Dumbledore agrees softly. "I will see to it that the list be sent every year in
preparation for what class you may have. May I ask about your lesson plans and what they
involve?"
Harry can't help but perk up. "The most important thing I'll go over is Hogwarts. Of course I won't
tell everything, as some things are best meant to be a surprise. I'll give class trips as well, and if the
parents like, I'll bring them along. I know the Professors help the Muggle-borns get their lists and
such at Diagon Alley, but I'm more than aware that the guardians don't always go. I'll be open from
July 24th—when the lists are sent out—up to September 1st, escorting anyone who wishes through
the barrier at King's Cross. I'll also be open during the hols, excluding the actual Holiday, just to
help the children who might need more advice and such as they adjust to their First Year."

"Your schedule will be the opposite of ours," Professor McGonagall realizes, blinking. "You'll
have free time. Plenty of it."

"Yeah," Harry agrees, bobbing his head. "That will be spent corresponding with those who need it,
the students and their parents if they choose. I will also be using that time to help any Muggle-
borns out from Seventh Year. I don't suspect it's always easy coming from Hogwarts and making it
in the Wizarding World, especially if you don't have a support system anywhere but the Muggle
World."

"That's a very good idea," Dumbledore says softly, his head tilting up in visible approval. "Are
there any other goals you hope to achieve with this?"

Harry shifts a bit restlessly, avoiding Professor McGonagall, who is staring at him patiently.
Instead, he looks Dumbledore right in the eye and says, "I've been given permission to partner with
the counselors who oversee wards of the state and handle special cases. From personal experience,
I know what it's like to be mistreated and abused simply for having magic, and I hope to spare any
other children of the same fate."

There's a long, long beat of silence. Harry holds Dumbledore's gaze steadily until it is Dumbledore
who can no longer look at him. His blue eyes break to the side, flicking away and then down to his
desk. Harry does not yell at him, does not demand to know why, does not even hold it against him.
He came here to do something today, and do it he shall.

"That," Dumbledore murmurs, "is wondrous, Harry. Your ambition—as always—is something to
behold. I am eager to work with you on this in the beginning of the next year."

Harry hums. "Actually, I was told that the person I'll be interacting with on this is the Deputy
Headmistress, as it is her duties that most pertain to my goals. I'm more than eager to have what
little interactions I do have be with her." He turns his head and smiles at Professor McGonagall as
brightly as possible, and it's not even that hard. "Don't worry, Professor, I won't have a lot of free
time on my hands to do much besides write letters. I don't suspect I'll be seeing either of you much
at all over the years, unfortunately."
"That is unfortunate," Professor McGonagall agrees, and she looks like she means it. Her smile is
faint and flickering, passing in the curl of her lips before he can make it out properly. "I suspect we
will see you again in seven years. You'll want to see your students graduate—that, I can assure
you."

"Maybe," is all Harry says.

Things continue on this way for the next hour, the three of them going over the particulars of
Harry's position. They have a lot of questions, but he doesn't mind answering them. It only gets
awkward when Harry references his own problems with the Dursleys, and in those moments,
Dumbledore himself doesn't seem to know what to say. Harry doesn't take pity on him, because
seeing him so wrong-footed is rather rare, but he does move it along quickly since he wants to get
home some time today. He imagines Dumbledore sitting in that cowed, uncertain silence for hours,
and the thought only urges him to move to the next topic.

At the end of the second hour, they're close to an end, and Professor McGonagall has to take her
leave. She stands up swiftly and reaches out to gently touch Harry's shoulder, looking down at him
with a warmth in her eyes she rarely ever had. He recalls looking up at her as a First Year, terrified
and in awe, growing up slowly before her very eyes. It must have felt like blinking, to her. One day
he was tiny and shorter than her, the next he was as tall as her and making the first big steps in his
career.

Harry gives her a blinding smile, as big and bright as he can get it, and she squeezes his shoulder
before saying her goodbyes and going.

After, there's a beat of silence, then—

"I'm very proud that such a program exists now, Harry, and I must thank you for it," Dumbledore
tells him, watching him with those twinkling eyes.

"Draco gave me the idea," Harry admits quietly, shifting in his seat. "Well, sort of. We talked
about it, is all, and I wanted to do it. You know it's only because I'm Harry Potter that the board
agreed to it. They assumed I'd have your support."

"You do," Dumbledore murmurs. "No matter what led you to being able to do this, your intentions
are good. You'll help countless individuals, Harry."
"Help them in the way I wasn't helped," Harry says before he can stop himself.

Dumbledore regards him in the resounding silence, his gaze weighted and sure, like the steady rock
of waves against a boat. His beard ticks down, the only sign of his frown. "Yes," he whispers, "so
it is."

"Do you have—" Harry swallows around the bitter burn on the back of his tongue, acid clinging to
his throat. "Is that all you have to say? That's it?"

"Would an apology suffice?"

"No, sir."

"You have it, regardless," Dumbledore tells him gently, gaze weary and leaden with regrets of his
biggest mistakes. "I am sorry, Harry. You deserve—you have always deserved better than the
horrors you had to face as a child, both at Hogwarts and at home."

"Yeah," Harry mumbles, "I know that now."

It's quiet between them for a long time after that. Harry waits for a surge of anger or rage, waits for
an old spike of distrust and disappointment, waits for that block that halts any sign of forgiveness
when he first raises his eyes to meet Dumbledore's own.

None of it comes.

Perhaps there is forgiveness to be found on the other side of lies and mystique. Harry couldn't
forgive Dumbledore before, not when he had that one thing unsolved and left without closure.

He knows now. Knows that Dumbledore had a hand in encouraging the very horrors of Harry's
childhood, whether by complete accident or in part out of simple manipulation. Ignore the
mistreatment from the Dursleys so that Harry can live safely whilst away from Hogwarts—doing
the right thing with the worst consequences. He tries to imagine what his life would have been like
if Dumbledore had done the right thing differently.
In any case, Dumbledore is steeped in mistakes and expectations. Harry relates to that in a lot of
ways, and now knowing everything he does about the man, knowing his part in the Dursleys…

Harry's no longer angry with him, not anymore.

His life has unraveled before him the way that it has, and maybe it's not all perfect, but he doesn't
regret it. He doesn't want to do it differently. He doesn't want to change the good he's found now to
try and fix the bad from before, and maybe that's the difference between him and Dumbledore.
Maybe it's not. Everything could have gone so differently, and might have in some other world, but
in this one—in this one, Harry accepts what joy he has and copes with the pain that surfaces. He's
many things, but mostly, thankfully, he's happy and alive.

"Will you be traveling again in your time off?" Dumbledore asks, mild and polite, the true meaning
of his question an obvious undercurrent.

Harry answers him with no hesitation, not hiding a thing. "Not unless it's with friends, family, or
Draco. A planned trip, I mean. No more secret destinations for me, sir."

Dumbledore pauses, curiosity flashing in his eyes, and Harry knows he wants to ask about
Voldemort. Wants to ask if Harry found him. Wants to ask what happened, if he did. Wants to
know and wants to be trusted enough to be told. But, in the lines of his face, he seems to
understand that he has no right to ask. He hums and smiles slightly.

"I took your...advice," Dumbledore says, instead. He tilts his head a bit, crooked nose twitching. "I
visited Gellert in Azkaban."

Harry blinks. "Really? Er, how was it, sir? Well, I mean, you don't have to—"

"His mental state is in tact," Dumbledore interrupts calmly. "As much as it can be. Remarkably
well, in fact, for how many years he's been there. He's always had a brilliant mind, Gellert…"

His eyes fog over just a bit, and Harry is a little uncomfortable to hear Dumbledore complimenting
a Dark Lord who just so happens to be his past lover. For a split second, he can understand
Dumbledore's discomfort with him caring for Voldemort, though Harry suspects his own unease
comes from the fact that he doesn't really want to imagine his old mentor who is rather ancient
being in love. Rather rude of him, really. Old people feel love, too. Harry knows that, but it's still
odd to picture that for Dumbledore, especially with Gellert Grindelwald.

Still, Harry kindly says, "That's...nice."

"I haven't been back," Dumbledore admits, blinking just once, rather violently, like he's pulling
himself away from something—possibly a memory.

"Why not?" Harry asks.

Dumbledore pauses, then levels Harry with a straightforward look that he's never shown before in
all the time that Harry has known him. It's naked and honest and blunt. His words, when he speaks
next, are as well. His voice is hoarse, a bit weighted with emotion he doesn't really show, and
Harry's rather stunned by it, almost as much as he is by what he actually says.

"I wanted to break him out," is what he admits, like the words are being ripped out of his very
soul.

"Break him out...of Azkaban," Harry says slowly.

"Yes," Dumbledore confirms.

"You...didn't, right?" Harry checks, because he's quite sure that Dumbledore could have found a
way to do so, and do it quietly.

Dumbledore sighs softly. "No, Harry, I did not. It is a selfish desire. Gellert is where he belongs,
where he must stay, and that I even wanted to…"

Harry watches in fascination as Dumbledore gives a jerk of his head and averts his eyes. Bloody
hell, Dumbledore is so human. He's just...a man. Just like everyone else. Feeling and feeling and
feeling, full of emotion and wants and mistakes and so many things that make this world
dysfunctional and flawed and absolutely wonderful. Harry's heart squeezes violently in his chest,
and he can suddenly see how similar he and Dumbledore are in so many ways.

"Sir," Harry says gently, waiting for Dumbledore to look him in the eye, "there's nothing wrong
with, er, feeling that way. I mean, you love him. If it were Draco, I'd probably actually break him
out, if I'm honest. And I don't—I'm in no position to judge, am I? You know I care for Voldemort.
I don't want him in Azkaban, either."

"Gellert did unforgivable things, Harry…"

"And you still love him, despite that. Does that make you as terrible as him, sir?"

"I don't know," Dumbledore says.

Harry smiles a bit. "Neither do I, but you said to me that all the versions of who we are can be true,
and we should hope to be the best that people see us as. I don't see you as terrible for what you feel.
I've forgiven myself, you know, for how I care for Voldemort. I love him like a guardian, even
after he's taken so many of my guardians away. It's horrible, isn't it, that I can do that? Is it? I don't
know any more than you do, and I don't think we're supposed to know, because we're just going to
feel what we feel anyway. Grindelwald's shite, that's true. You love him, that's also true. I suppose
that's just how things go sometimes. I think you should forgive yourself for it, sir."

"There is always that question of if there is something wrong with me, in me, that I can feel for
him what I do, with him being who he is," Dumbledore murmurs. "It is a question that has haunted
me for a long time. The day that I faced him and defeated him, I loved him as fiercely as I did
before he ever became who he is. I never—Harry, I never wanted you to be haunted with such a
question. It is no life."

"It doesn't haunt me," Harry tells him. "It shouldn't haunt you, either. What good does that question
do anyone, especially when they've been defeated?"

"I always wanted to be better than I was."

"We all do, I think. Even them. They just…well, they obviously wanted to be better versions of
their worst selves. How well do you think that would have gone for either of them, if they got what
they actually wanted? You said that you couldn't save Grindelwald, that I couldn't save Voldemort,
but sir, I think...in a way, we did."

"Saved them from themselves?" Dumbledore prompts, a curious light to his tone, like there's a
tingle of hope in his mouth.
Harry softens, because he can't help it. "Maybe. I don't know. Can't be sure. Neither of us can, and
neither can they. It's the way it is now, and we have to deal with it, deal with how we feel about it.
You should go see him again, sir."

"You're suggesting it again, after what I just told you?" Dumbledore asks, visibly startled.

"Yeah, of course. You do want to see him again, don't you?" Harry raises his eyebrows in
challenge.

Dumbledore tilts his head, considering. "Yes, but I do not appreciate the guilt that comes with the
inherently wrong desire to break him out."

"Is it wrong, though?" Harry rolls his eyes when Dumbledore tenses in his seat. "Relax, sir, I'm not
telling you that you should break him out. I'm only saying that it's not wrong for you to feel that
way. You only miss him. You only want him with you. It's not that you want him out and about,
burning the world down and such. Your wants aren't malicious, you know. They're just...normal."

"You are so incredibly young, Harry," Dumbledore says softly, "but you can be rather wise."

"I think I might have gotten that from you," Harry admits sheepishly, grinning wryly. "Well, you
and Voldemort, I suspect. In any case, visit Grindelwald all you like and stop feeling like shite for
it. He's the evil one, sir. You're just the one who loves him in spite of it."

"And you don't think I'll give into temptation?" Dumbledore asks, gaze flicking towards his hand
that has long since been healed.

"You know, I really don't," Harry murmurs. "It's not just that you're a good man, though you are.
You have your faults, just like me and everyone else, but I know you won't. You may want to, you
may always want to, but you won't."

"What makes you so sure?" Dumbledore says, staring at him with clear eyes, waiting patiently,
curious and openly hopeful.

"Because you're you," Harry replies, simple as that.

He doesn't say that he's sure because Dumbledore would never forgive himself. He doesn't say he
knows because Dumbledore was ready to sacrifice Harry for the whole world, no matter how much
he loved him, no matter how much it would break him. He doesn't say that he's certain because
Dumbledore is very much like his phoenix, burning and rising over and over from the ashes of his
mistakes, terrified to add another to the pile.

His guilt won't let him be selfish. His past won't let him give into temptation. He won't. He's grey
by accident, never on purpose.

"Perhaps, my boy, perhaps," Dumbledore whispers.

"Forgive yourself, sir." Harry smiles, something tender breaking loose in his chest as the next
words rise to his lips, as much for himself as the man across from him. "I already have."

A month later finds Harry stepping on Draco's toes.

"Sorry, sorry," Harry mumbles yet again, undeniably self-conscious as Draco winces. "I told you,
I'm terrible with dancing. Merlin, I'm so—"

"You idiot," Draco mutters, wrinkling his nose. He huffs and shuffles a little closer. "Alright, you
are not fucking this up for Pansy or making me look like a fool. Step on my feet on purpose. I'll
handle the rest."

Harry frowns, but at Draco's insistent look, he hastily steps forward and places his feet over Draco's
ridiculously shiny shoes. In the next second, he's being pulled closer by a firm arm around his
waist, his weight lifting and distributing forward as Draco easily situates him. Then, before Harry
can get his next breath in, they're whirling off in a smooth, gliding circle.

"Oh," Harry breathes out, stupidly charmed.

Draco smirks at him, the smug bastard. "I know, I'm rather dashing, aren't I?"

"Your ego probably doesn't need to hear it," Harry says, "but you really are."
Draco just chuckles warmly, flashing that smile of his, and Harry lets himself be pulled around on
the dancefloor. People are whirling all around them, flashes of lovely dresses and sharp robes. He
thinks he catches sight of Ron's bright hair.

Harry is getting rather dizzy, admittedly. He never danced like this at the Yule Ball. All he can
focus on is the softened lines of Draco's sharpest features, the aristocratic angles of his face that
have shifted into warmth with regularity. The room around them blurs as they twist and glide, and
Harry's stupidly breathless as he stares at Draco and sees absolutely nothing else. This must be
what those heroines in those romance novels feel like, Harry thinks dumbly, then has to fight not to
laugh at himself for it.

"Are you alright?" Draco asks, an eyebrow sweeping up, sounding so posh—he's so fucking posh,
isn't he, absolutely lordly for no sodding reason, all his vowels clear and sharp and spoken so
vainly.

Harry wants to bite his lips until he moans.

"Fine," Harry mutters, averting his eyes to keep the wayward thoughts from getting any farther in
the direction they shouldn't.

Sometimes—most of the time, honestly—Harry has a visceral reaction to Draco when he's like this.
When he's in his element, flashing like the brightest star in the room, coming from high-status and
endless money. When he's untouchable and undeterred, his clothes crisp and exorbitant, looking
the perfect, posh, Pureblood son that everyone cannot help but envy—either wanting him for
themselves, or wanting to be him, or both.

When he's like this, Harry wants to make an absolute mess of him. He wants to ruin his perfect
hair, and he wants to take off his stupid clothes, and he wants to make Draco stutter and gasp and—

"Harry," Draco says, "your breathing has gotten a bit wonky. Are you sure you're alright?"

"You're such a pillock," Harry grumbles at him. "Do you know that? No better than those damn
peacocks at the Manor, strutting about like they're the most beautiful creatures on the grounds and
they know it."

Draco narrows his eyes. "What are you on about?"

"I know this is Pansy and Blaise's wedding, but we're going to have to leave early if you don't want
me to make a scene," Harry tells him, being completely serious.

"What?" Draco wrenches back a little, aghast. "Harry, are you still peeved about me throwing out
your shoes? They had holes in them."

For a moment, Harry's distracted. "Those were my favorite pair, you prat. Also no, that's not at all
what I'm talking about."

Draco glares at him, just a little. "Well, what are you being ridiculous about now?"

"Your face, obviously," Harry mutters. "That, and everything about you. I'm—I can't stop thinking
about how I want to—"

Harry stops, but he doesn't really have to say anymore. Draco's face clears with sudden
understanding, and his lip pulls up into a smirk at the corner, eyes lighting up. His gaze sweeps
around the dancefloor, the ballroom, then he looks right at Harry with searing intensity.

"We don't have to leave early," Draco says. "I know the location, and I know a few places to go.
We'll sneak off, then show back up. No one will notice."

Harry huffs out a quiet laugh. "How rebellious. What if someone finds out?"

"Let them," Draco says, then starts tugging him away from the swirling mass of people around
them.

It's manful restraint that keeps Harry from giggling with giddy anticipation, and only just. He keeps
his head down, letting Draco tug him away from the main room. It's utterly beautiful inside, just as
majestic as the wedding itself had been. Seeing Blaise and Pansy get married had brought Harry
near to tears, ridiculously enough.

They had looked so happy.

Everyone has looked so happy tonight. All of his friends, with the exception of those at Hogwarts,
had shown up. A lot of Purebloods had as well. Harry had stumbled around on the dancefloor with
Mrs. Malfoy before Lucius stepped in with a sneer and swept her away like he was actively saving
her life, and then he'd danced with Daphne for a bit, while Ron and Hermione twirled around
awkwardly but with bright smiles. Now, when he thinks to look, he can see Ron and Daphne
dancing, and she seems to be leading better than he does, while Hermione takes her turn with
Neville.

In truth, Harry can't help but think about his own wedding in the future. He has the idea that he
wants it, badly, but Lucius is going to be the first obstacle to getting it. He should perhaps start on
that.

When they stumble out into a quiet corridor only moments later, Harry can't keep a hold on his
ridiculously high-pitched laugh of utter excitement. His fingers are clasped through Draco's, and
they're sneaking away from a wedding. It's all very scandalous and lovely, honestly.

Ah, to be young and in love, says a voice in Harry's head, sounding suspiciously like Dumbledore.
But yes, indeed, quite right. It's a wondrous feeling.

Draco keeps tugging him around corners until they're suddenly in front of a door, and he whirls
around, eyes bright. He looks so good. Harry wants to wreck him and hold him close after.

He doesn't know what it is about Draco Malfoy, precisely, that gets to him. Even when Draco is
just at home, wearing his stupidly lavish silk pajamas with his hair loose and falling into his eyes,
reading and sprawling on the sofa, or writing out reports for work. Even then, Harry's fingers itch
to touch him with a yearning that makes no sense for all that he's allowed and has been allowed for
some time to get his hands on the prat. Merlin, he loves him.

"It might be the wedding," Harry whispers nonsensically. "I rather think I want one."

Draco's lips twitch as he starts backing up towards the door, reaching back to twist the handle. "Do
you?" he asks softly, reaching out to catch Harry's hand and lead him into the room. "Are you
being sappy? The romance is getting to you, isn't it?"

"You saw them tonight," Harry murmurs. "Pansy and Blaise, I mean. They were glowing. They're
so in love, aren't they?"
"They are," Draco agrees.

Harry sighs as Draco tugs him closer. "I feel like that with you every day."

"So lets get married," Draco says, easy as you please.

"Your father—"

"You could torture him, if you like. Kill him, possibly. I'd only be angry for a week, I think."

"Your mother would never forgive me," Harry mutters with a quiet snort. "Maybe we'll just have to
wait. He'll make us wait for years, probably. It'll take a while for Mrs. Malfoy to wear him down."

Draco just hums thoughtfully, then smiles a little and slides his arms around Harry. "Don't worry
about it. I'll handle it."

"Plotting something evil, are you?" Harry teases, tilting his head back as Draco's lips find his jaw
in the dark, teeth catching against skin.

"When am I not?" Draco quips back, his voice gone a little hoarse and rough now.

Harry sighs softly, easing his arms around Draco's neck, letting his fingers crawl into Draco's hair.
He arches into Draco, into his touch and mouth, eyes fluttering shut. When Draco's lips latch onto
the patch of skin above his hummingbird pulse, he can't help but let out a low moan.

There's a thump.

Draco and Harry freeze instantly, then have their wands raised in the next second, tips alight as
they seek out the cause of that sound across the room.

In the corner, Pansy and her new husband are wrapped around each other, Blaise's hands up her
dress between her spread legs. Harry's seeing a lot more than he actually cares to at the moment,
and he can only gape at the other couple as they stare at them with wide eyes in return.
"Ah," Harry chokes out stupidly, "the room's occupied, it seems."

"So it does," Draco agrees in a drawl, amused.

"Really, Draco?" Blaise hisses. "On my wedding day? You couldn't keep your hands off of the
Chosen One for just a few hours?"

Harry coughs. "Actually, it's the other way around. It's my fault. Sorry."

"Nothing to apologize for, darling," Pansy says with a sharp grin that gleams in the dark. "We're
having the same problem, as you can see. No need to fret. Actually, don't mind us at all. The room
is big enough for the four of us."

Blaise makes a low sound of amusement. "You're more the welcome to join us."

Harry squeaks, taking a step back. "Draco, we should—we should go. Let's just go."

"Alright," Draco murmurs, smiling at him as he starts towards the door. Pansy starts moaning, and
Harry feels like he's going to die from mortification, and Draco guides him out the door. "You and
your Gryffindor sensibilities, Harry. Why do you let them rile you up so much?"

"I don't think they were actually joking that time," Harry mumbles, throwing cautious glances
towards the door like Pansy and Blaise might suddenly reach out and dragging them back in.

"Oh, they weren't," Draco tells him.

"Would you have been alright with us joining them, Draco?" Harry asks.

Draco gives a half-shrug. "Only partly. I am horrendously possessive, you know, but I've been
conditioned to think they don't count. They're too in love to care about you except for what your
hands and cock might do for them."
Harry blinks. "Oh. Well, I'm possessive, too. I haven't been conditioned to think that yet."

"Give them time," Draco says, "they'll get you there."

"And when they do?"

"Whatever you want."

"We'll talk about it when that actually happens," Harry says, finally, shaking his head and letting
out a ridiculous laugh.

Draco smiles again, light and teasing, and he darts forward to kiss Harry's temple. "Come on, then.
We should get back to the dancing if we're not going to be shagging my best friends."

"Why is everything so bizarre?" Harry mumbles, letting Draco lead him back the way they came,
Blaise and Pansy's moans sounding out as they go.

"Because everything always is," Draco assures him, threading their fingers together.

A few moments later finds Harry stepping on Draco's toes yet again, but it's on purpose this time.
They whirl around as the world blurs around them, breathless and dizzy on the sight of each other.

Christmas is always a busy time of year. Harry has to go to the Burrow and the Manor, which splits
his day in half. It's fairly accommodating, at least, because Draco accompanies him to the Burrow
for the first half of the day before they'll leave for the evening to the Manor, where Christmas will
start when they officially arrive.

It's funny being at the Burrow now. All the Weasleys are there, of course, but so is Draco and
Daphne. Mrs. Weasley is terrible at hiding how little she likes her, but Daphne takes it with grace,
always kind and polite no matter what comments Mrs. Weasley makes. It's easy to see that Mrs.
Weasley had wanted Ron to be with Hermione, especially with her unsubtle hints and very obvious
doting on the girl in question. Ron's mortified by it, of course, as is Hermione, but Daphne seems to
find it incredibly amusing. She's always smiling like she knows a secret that no one else does.
After a rather large lunch, they're all exchanging presents in the warmth of the sitting room,
crowded around lumpy and beaten furniture that has home in the stitching. Harry leans into Draco,
lightly holding his hand, and Ginny sits on his other side, socked feet kicked over their laps.

Draco gets a sweater this year, which he smiles politely at, even though Harry can see how little he
actually cares for it. He knows what it means, though, that he's included in the family because of
Harry. That makes his smile a little more genuine, even a touch awkward, which is ridiculously
endearing. Harry wants to snog him for hours.

Daphne doesn't get a sweater.

No, instead, she gets something that Harry thinks might be a bit better. It nearly gives Mrs.
Weasley a heart attack, but that can't be helped.

"Er," is Ron's introduction to said gift, and Hermione fidgets beside him, "we never—I didn't get
you a, um…" He blushes fiercely in the silence of the room, throwing glances at Hermione, and
she nods at him in nervous encouragement. He takes a deep breath and braves on. "When we
decided to get married, I never got you a ring. I'm sorry. I should have, but—well, you know. You
bloody handle our finances, don't you? In any case, Hermione and I picked it out and bought it
together. We have—you don't have to keep it, or wear it, not if you don't want to, but...well…"

His rambling comes to a sudden stop as Daphne carefully opens the small box, peering inside. She
stares in silence for a long moment, then flicks her gaze up to Hermione and Ron, glancing between
them with a certain light in her eyes. Without a word, a small smile curling her lips, she plucks the
ring out and slips it on her finger.

"It's lovely," she says softly.

Ron and Hermione are utter messes about this, obviously. Ron is tense, staring at the ring on her
finger with wide eyes. Hermione is gripping Ron's arm so hard that the indentation of her nails is
obvious, chewing her lip as she fixates on the same exact sight. Daphne lifts her hand, flashing her
ring like she's proud of it, and she seems to be.

Mrs. Weasley almost faints in the next second, nearly brought to tears about Ron getting married,
and to Daphne no less, though she doesn't outright say it. Ginny and Percy usher close to titter over
the ring, and Harry watches Hermione and Ron both relax at the same exact time.
"You never did tell me what the end of that will be, Draco," Harry murmurs in Draco's ear.

"Oh, it's obvious, isn't it?" Draco lowers his voice to a whisper, leaning into him. "Ron and Daphne
are pretending to be in a relationship, all the while they actually want to be in one. Hermione is a
fixture in their lives because the three of them want each other so badly they can't see straight.
Only Daphne knows how to make it work, but for all that she seems cool and collected, she
considers them too precious to muck things up with them. I'd bet that Hermione will have to be the
one to make it happen. But, rest assured, it will happen."

"Mrs. Weasley will hit the roof," Harry notes.

Draco snickers.

The rest of the visit goes rather smoothly. Mr. Weasley regularly soothes Mrs. Weasley's frayed
nerves, and the twins—who are still, to this day, trading off on who lost the ear so no one actually
ever knows which is which—tease Ron mercilessly, then try and tease Hermione, but she's not
having it. Daphne keeps looking at her ring with a reverent gaze, only to look at Hermione and Ron
with the same exact devotion. Harry likes her so much.

Draco and Harry floo back to the Manor just a little late, apologizing profusely under Mrs.
Malfoy's shrewd gaze. She lets it go when they all go for a walk in the garden, as tradition requires.
She threads her prosthetic through Lucius' arm, leaning into his side and laughing warmly while he
smiles broad and sweet—a never-ending sight that induces shock to Harry every time.

He always likes the Manor—and, by extension, the Malfoys—better on Christmas. They're so

much softer, like their masks have melted away for just one holiday in the year. Even after all this
time, after Voldemort is gone, the Malfoys can seem so very frigid and untouchable—to the
outward world, at least. Harry, however, has them all figured out by now. Well, not Lucius, but
Harry doesn't actually care about him that much.

When they go back inside, they all take to the sitting room and drink wine while soft music pours
through the room. Lucius twirls Mrs. Malfoy around, the two of them an immaculate pair, so
pristine that it's almost too hard to look at them. More often than not, Harry doesn't. He's too busy
sitting next to Draco and staring at him, warm and comfortable from the wine, a happy tingle over
his skin from Draco's easy smiles that always come much more regularly on this day.

Then, of course, there comes the presents and the usual challenge of them. Another tradition, even
between Draco and Harry now.

"I'm beating you this year," Harry informs Draco, grinning with all teeth.

Draco just smirks. "Believe what you like, Potter, but you haven't won once, and you won't."

"We tied the first time!"

"Yes, but I won first."

"You cheated with Hermione the first time, and I have no bloody idea how you found all those old
letters and photos of Sirius and my parents last year. That wasn't fair," Harry grumbles.

"Malfoys don't play fair, darling," Mrs. Malfoy says simply, smirking at her husband with a flash
of something intense in her eyes. "You'd do well to remember that, Lucius, because I'm winning
this year. Just you wait."

"You married into the Malfoy name," Lucius replies mildly, lips twitching at her affronted huff. "I,
however, was born into it. I win every year, and I will again this year. Let there be no illusions."

"Get on with it, then," Draco declares.

"Fancy a gamble?" Harry mutters in his ear.

Draco arches an eyebrow at him while his parents exchange presents. "A bet? Of course. As much
I'd rather not, I have faith my father will win."

"I think Mrs. Malfoy has it this year," Harry says loyally, even if he's not actually sure.

He feels like he has to say that, honestly. Lucius is a git, and he's only gotten worse recently. With
Voldemort gone, he has no shame in showing how little he cares for Harry. To make matters
worse, he's always making snide remarks about Draco's choices in life, never quite proud of him,
even if he'd never disown him. While it's nice that he loves his son enough to never kick him aside,
it's less nice that he doesn't love him enough to accept him and his route in life fully. Harry hates
him, most of the time.

On top of that, Lucius is rather vicious towards Harry—with the exception of Christmas,
apparently. He calls Harry a layabout and expresses genuine dislike for his choice in career, as
much as he complains about how Harry has so much free time to do nothing. Which, yeah, alright,
Harry does have a lot of free time, but it's not doing nothing.

Harry does quite a lot, actually. Outside of him getting ready to start his lessons with the Muggle-
borns next year, he regularly goes into meetings at the Ministry because of the formal requests that
want him to stromp about and put his opinion in things he'd never have access to if he weren't the
Savior of the Wizarding World—twice. Between that, cleaning up Grimmauld Place—which is
very time-consuming, mind—and spending time between family and friends, Harry also enjoys
time at the flat. There, he cooks for him and Draco every day, cleaning when the mood strikes and
it's necessary, just being...at home.

Harry likes it, having his little projects as well as his free time. He even likes the little routine he
and Draco have. Kissing him and sending him off to work, welcoming him home with another kiss
and food on the table. Draco's eyes always light up when he steps into the room to see him, like
Harry's the one thing he's been waiting to get to all day.

It reminds him, strangely enough, of Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia. The only thing is, it's really
not so bad. There's something sickeningly normal about it, about the routine and the domesticity,
but it feels like taking something his horrid aunt and uncle smeared and ruined, only to repurpose it
and make it so much better. Harry loves it.

In any case, he doesn't give a fuck what Lucius thinks of him. The only thing that peeves him off is
how Lucius acts towards Draco. It visibly angers and hurts Draco, and Harry doesn't have the
faintest idea how to fix it. Maybe it's one of those things he simply can't, but he likes to think that
it's all worth it. Draco is openly and shamelessly happy, no matter what his father thinks, and his
mother's support seems to matter more to him anyway.

That's why it doesn't surprise him when Draco grimaces as he says, "My father has truly
impressive gift-giving skills. I'd be an idiot to bet against him."

"Well," Harry says, "good thing I'm an idiot, then."

"Terms?" Draco prompts.

Harry's lips curl up. "Same as always. Whoever wins gets whatever they want."

They turn away to watch the gift exchange of his parents, and it's much like it always is. Mrs.
Malfoy is confident she has won, right up until she opens up her own present. She got Lucius
candescent gold figurines snakes with jade eyes that stretch out to wrap around his cane, an
accessory that is no doubt very expensive—even Harry has to admit that it looks rather wicked,
though he'd never say so out loud. Lucius is stupidly pleased with it because he's a materialistic git.
He looks even more pleased, however, when Mrs. Malfoy opens her present with a small gasp, and
oh, bloody hell, he wins again.

"Is this—" Mrs. Malfoy cuts herself off, lips parted in pure surprise.

Lucius nods smugly. "Yes."

It's a golden embroidery kit, complete with golden needles and hoops and frames. But, most
importantly, it's been charmed to work with her prosthetic instead of against. In other words, Mrs.
Malfoy will be able to do embroidery again, which Harry knows she genuinely misses.

"I did tell you," Draco murmurs with a small smile while Mrs. Malfoy beams, then, "you idiot."

"Piss off," Harry grumbles. "Fine, whatever you want. Let me know when you decide."

"Oh, Lucius," Mrs. Malfoy says with a soft, delighted sigh. "Every year. You win every year. Not
next year."

"We shall see," Lucius replies simply, watching her with undeniable adoration.

Mrs. Malfoy gingerly sits her kit aside, then turns to Draco and Harry. "Very well. On with it,
then."

"Me first," Harry says quickly, feeling rather confident this year. He simply reaches into his pocket
and pulls out the envelope he's been carrying with him for the last week. "There you are."
"This is it?" Draco asks, arching an eyebrow as he takes the envelope slowly.

Harry purses his lips. "It's an...extended gift. You'll understand when you see it. Open it, already."

Draco shoots a look at his parents, then narrows his eyes at Harry. After a beat, he carefully opens
the envelope and gingerly pulls out what's inside. Harry breaks out into a grin the moment Draco's
eyes bulge and he sucks in a sharp breath.

"Harry!" Draco half-shouts, reaching out to smack his arm in an undignified manner. "This is—"

"Yes, it is," Harry agrees with a laugh.

"I can't believe you—but, but how?" Draco stares at him, eyes wide, lips parted. His grip on Harry's
arm is unrelenting, and he's shaking, trembling, truly and properly stunned.

"Well," Harry says lightly, "I did a little research. It turns out that the maze is very expensive and
requires tickets, but I just so happen to be very rich. Besides, I looked into it, and apparently you
can actually get lost in the maze, so it's usually escorted groups. High-brow, big money, things
such as that. I think my name has a little bit of weight in France, too, because they were more than
happy to help me get the tickets and ensure we'd be escorted alone. Maybe my name, or maybe
that I didn't show up and turn into the next Dark Lord like all the rumors said, I can't be sure.
Either way, there you have it."

Mrs. Malfoy lets out a soft gasp. "Oh, darling, is it that maze in France you were obsessed with as a
child? We always feared if we took you, you'd never come out. They say you can't leave until you
feel pure joy, that time stops inside it."

"It's a bit true, actually," Harry tells her. "People have been known to get lost and never come out
again, which is why they started having escorts and such. Draco told me he'd like to go, so I—"

Harry doesn't get to finish his explanation because Draco is suddenly on him. Right there in front
of his parents, just surging forward to all but climb in his lap and kiss him like a lunatic. Harry's not
complaining, of course, sucking in a sharp breath and kissing him back as he always has. He's
getting rather caught up in it, in fact, when Draco rips away with a gasp, blinking rapidly, dazed.

"Thank you," Draco breathes out, blushing profusely now as his father makes upset sounds behind
them. He doesn't look away from Harry, though. "I've always wanted to go. I've—I didn't think
you'd remember. It's been so long since I told you."

"I remembered," Harry admits simply, grinning at him. "Does this mean I won?"

"I don't—maybe?" Draco huffs a quiet laugh and looks down at the tickets, stroking them lovingly
before gingerly pushing them back into the envelope. His eyes are bright and shining with joy that
he can't seem to hide. "When can we go?"

"Whenever you want," Harry says. "I was thinking after you graduate from training at St. Mungos.
You have a month off, then."

Draco nods and swallows. "Yes, that's—we'll do that. Thank you. I love you."

Harry laughs, because he can't not. He's utterly delighted by the response, pleased all the way
down to the bone. He reaches out and catches Draco's hand, holding it and saying, "I love you, too.
Now give me my present, you prat."

Mrs. Malfoy sighs fondly from their peripheral, while Lucius grunts in obvious discontent. Draco
ignores them both and proceeds to do the same exact thing Harry did, reaching into his robes and
holding out—not an envelope, but a scroll.

Harry blinks. "A...scroll? Is this a Dark Magic thing, Draco?" he asks.

"What?" Draco wrinkles his nose, then rolls his eyes, sighing. "No, of course not. You'll get that on
your next birthday. This is...something else. I'll have to explain after you open it."

Okay, well, Harry's definitely curious now. He reaches out and takes the scroll, carefully tugging
the soft, shiny ribbon from the middle. He's gentle as he peels the curled parchment apart, slowly
unveiling the words written there. The calligraphy is what Harry imagines perfection is, nothing
like his own chicken-scratch, easily readable and undeniably elegant. It's a rather short statement,
but Harry's almost nervous to read it because it's so nice. He does anyway, frowning in confusion.

It reads:
Permission granted with all requests upheld. Tradition fulfilled as required, only accountable if
the recipient finds themselves in agreement with implied relation. Dismissible, if not. All terms of
the suitor agreed upon with promise of consequence if not maintained. Consequence: death.

Harry reads it once, then twice, then a third time. That last word seems to jump out at him, and he
has no idea how anything related to death can be a Christmas present. Sincerely unsure now, he
looks up at Draco helplessly in askance.

"What the fuck?" Harry says, because that seems about the most appropriate response.

"Harry," Mrs. Malfoy chides.

"Sorry," Harry mumbles reflexively, then goes back to frowning at Draco. "But also, what?"

"My gift is also...extended," Draco says carefully, very carefully. He clears his throat. "I visited
Godric's Hollow last week. Talked to your parents, left flowers, things like that."

Harry frowns. "My parents? Draco, what are you—"

"They're buried there," Draco tells him, then frowns when Harry jolts. "You—you know that,
right?"

"No," Harry rasps. "No, I didn't."

Draco's face softens. "Alright. Okay, Harry. I'll take you when we leave here, I promise. That's not
really a part of the gift, though. I thought you knew. Of course not. Those blasted Muggles and
fucking—"

"Draco," Harry cuts in quickly, before Mrs. Malfoy can scold him, "what's the gift? I don't—I don't
really understand about the, er, scroll. But you'll take me to see my parents, so it's—that's
brilliant."

"Right." Draco takes in a deep breath, then lets it explode out of him. "I knew where your parents
were buried, so I stopped by for a quick chat. They didn't have much to say back. Rather rude of
them, if you ask me, but I—"

"Draco," Harry says, aggrieved.

Draco grimaces. "Right, sorry, that was...in poor taste. Moving along. I spoke with them, then
popped over to Grimmauld Place to have a chat with your godfather. Went to the tapestry to do it,
since he doesn't have a grave. He didn't have much to say, either." Draco pauses, then huffs
quietly. "Again, sorry, I'm just—anyway, after that, I spoke with Lupin. Just a—a chat. He's the
only one alive who knew them all, and in some ways, he's—well, he's important to you, too. I sent
off a letter to Dumbledore as well and got one in return, but—"

"Draco," Harry interrupts, deeply unsettled now, "what are you on about? Why did you—"

"Don't interrupt, it's rude," Draco says with a prim sniff. "I'm getting to that. Before all of that, I
went to—I went where the Dark Lord is."

Mrs. Malfoy sucks in a sharp breath at the same time that Lucius does, and Harry's eyes fly open
wide with shock. He stares at Draco in disbelief.

"You did what?!" Mrs. Malfoy demands harshly.

"You know where he is?" Lucius hisses.

Draco glances at them, sighs, then rolls his eyes. He's fidgeting, though. Nervous. "Well, I don't
actually know where he is. I know the, um, area. He found me, in any case, and he's forbade me to
tell anyone anything, so—so don't ask."

"Of all the foolish things to do," Mrs. Malfoy whispers, staring at her son with wide eyes.

Lucius is pale, swaying in place. "Draco, what could have possibly possessed you to—"

"I'm getting to that," Draco snaps, swiveling his head to stare at Harry again, taking another deep
breath.
Harry swallows. "Tell me you didn't. Tell me you did not go and—and risk—"

"Shut up, will you?" Draco fidgets a little more, clearing his throat yet again. "I did something
rather brave, actually. Not cowardly at all. Very unlike me, you understand. He wasn't going to do
anything to me, was he? I'm yours, Harry, remember? He said as much when I spoke with him."

"When you spoke with him," Harry echoes in a dazed whisper, feeling rather numb and stunned.

Draco lets out a small, delirious laugh. "Yes, he and I had a rather, ah, long discussion."

"About what?" Harry prompts.

Here, Draco licks his lips, seemingly more nervous by the second. "I went to everyone that—that
could have ever been considered a guardian to you with a request, dead or alive. Only some could
give me permission. The Dark Lord is among them, and he actually—he gave it. Permission, I
mean. It's there, in writing, the terms and consequences for me being allowed to—to marry you."

Harry jolts, his fingers tightening on the parchment as all the air gets plucked from his lungs.
There's a ringing in his ears, drowning out Mrs. Malfoy's soft gasp and Lucius' sound of dismay.
Harry stares at Draco, stares at him and stares at him, taking in the way he's watching right back,
chewing his lip.

"What?" Harry whispers.

"Dumbledore and Lupin gave permission as well, though neither of them really thought that they
were in any position to," Draco says softly. "The Dark Lord—ah, well, he was...shameless about
the terms he set. It's—he said that you could deny the implied relationship of him being your
guardian if you wanted and that would make his terms and consequences null, but… Well, you're
not going to do that, and we both know it."

"Terms," Harry says woodenly.

"It's not so bad," Draco tells him, twisting his fingers together. "It's nothing I wasn't planning to do
anyway. Stay faithful, do my best to make you happy, try every day to be someone worthy of you,
even though I'll never actually achieve it—the last were his words, mind you."

Harry stares at him. "Death. Draco, the consequences of you not doing those things are death. It
says it. Right here. It—"

"Yes, well, the Dark Lord isn't really known for being...altruistic," Draco mutters, lips twitching. "I
agreed to it, obviously, because I have no plans to break those terms. He was only being protective.
You know, like guardians do."

Harry, very stupidly, feels a flash of pure joy at that. Feels something warm squirm in him to know
that Voldemort set these terms, that he said—out of his own mouth—that Draco would never be
worthy of him. It's not true, of course, but the fact that Voldemort believes that is… It does
something rather soft and constricting to his heart.

Still.

"Draco," Harry murmurs, "why did you do this?"

Smiling weakly, Draco shrugs slightly, still very openly nervous. "Well, he gave me to you from
the beginning, didn't he? I was always yours. I'm always going to be yours. I just thought—I hoped
that you could be mine, too, with his...not approval, but maybe permission. And you can, if you
want."

"You're—I—" Harry has a few false starts, his tongue feeling too big for his mouth.

There's a lot to wrap his head around with this, honestly. Draco— Draco —went to Voldemort,
probably stumbling around the Injurious Jungle until Voldemort decided to greet him, just to get
permission to ask for Harry's hand in marriage. And Voldemort gave it.

He can't decide if it's the dumbest thing anyone has ever done for him, or if it's the most amazing
thing. Maybe both. Definitely both.

Draco likely did it for multiple reasons. To rebel against his father even more, because it's not like
Lucius can fight it now with Voldemort's support. Being opposed to it would be...well, frankly, it
wouldn't go over well. It's such a Slytherin thing to do, so cunning and zealous, leaving Lucius
backed into a corner he can't get out of.
But, overall, Harry knows why Draco actually did it. Why he went out and faced one of the most
terrifying, monstrous men in the world. Why he faced his own fear, doing something a bit reckless
and ridiculously brave. Why he agreed to terms that could technically end with him dead—because
of course Voldemort would set that consequence, retired or not.

He did it for Harry, because he loves him, because he wants him. Wants to marry him and meet
Voldemort's terms, wants Harry in every way that he can get him, just wants…

And oh, oh, this is something that Harry can't help but fall into. Furious and fierce elation slams
through him like a cutting wave, sinking into his skin and sweeping through his veins. It hits him
so hard that he trembles with it, blinking tears out of his eyes and trying not to burst out laughing in
pure, unadulterated delight and relief.

He knows Voldemort can feel it. He's feeling too much for him not to be able to. It must be
flooding the connection, spilling over, undeniable even without Voldemort knowing why the
emotion is happening. He closes his eyes, seeking inward, chasing his own joy to see what
Voldemort will feel in response, if he feels anything at all beside his usual contentment that comes
from reason.

Briefly, there's a flicker of something. It's light and buoyant, something tinged with sharpness like
a blade, there-and-gone but burning bright for however long it stays. Harry couldn't misinterpret it
if he tried.

Amusement.

Fucking Voldemort thinks his happiness is amusing. The bastard. He knows. Of course he knows,
because he gave permission in the first place. He spoke with Draco and decided that he could
marry Harry, if he wanted, if he was willing to do right by him and die if he failed to. He wrote that
note and all but declared his relationship with Harry, a guardian giving permission, fulfilling a
tradition that doesn't apply to either of them because they're both half-bloods. And he did it, all of
it, because he knew it would make Harry happy.

Harry opens his eyes, letting the happiness spread, hoping it bombards Voldemort, like maybe he
can soak some of it up for himself.

"You're so dramatic, Draco," Harry rasps. "Most people just elope."

"Is that what you want to do?" Draco asks.

"No," Harry admits.

Draco smiles, bright and beautiful. "And now we don't have to. I told you I'd handle it."

"I thought that I'd be the one to—" Harry sits the scroll aside, swallowing. "I figured I'd have to get
the permission and—and—"

"Ah, but it wouldn't be your life if things didn't surprise you all the time, would it?" Draco teases.

Harry huffs a quiet laugh. "No, no it wouldn't. Come here, you prat, I can't believe you—I can't—"

He doesn't say much else, folding into Draco and kissing him as deep and slow as he likes, the
world around them melting away. He sighs into it, breathing out and losing himself to soft motion
of Draco's lips against his own. He might be crying, just a little, and maybe laughing happily, but
Draco clutches him close and hums into his mouth.

When they break apart at some undetermined time later, Draco whispers, "Do I win?"

"Of course you fucking win," Harry mumbles, clinging to him. "You prat, you horrible, horrible
excuse for—Merlin, I love you so much. Where is my ring? I want it. I want you. Can we—"

"Harry. Harry." Draco laughs softly, ghosting his lips over Harry's cheek, nuzzling at him. "Don't
embarrass yourself. I told you, the present is extended. We have time. I'll propose properly later."

"You better," Harry declares, leaning into Draco and refusing to let go, even as Draco tries to lean
back, laughing and no longer nervous, clearly pleased.

Lucius makes a small sound that draws their attention. It's a weak, hopeless thing. There's a certain
kind of quiet defeat to it, like he's finally just fully come to terms with losing his son to all the
things he never planned for him. Harry looks him dead in the eye and knows he's won.
"Draco, that was incredibly—" Mrs. Malfoy seems to be at a loss for words for a moment, her
hands fluttering madly like she's envisioning all the ways that her son could have died. "It was so
foolish, darling, how could you—"

"You knew," Lucius cuts in, staring right at Draco, his back ramrod straight. "You were aware that
I would never give Potter permission to marry you. You undermined me."

Draco arches an eyebrow. "Yes, Father, that is precisely what happened."

"Lucius," Mrs. Malfoy says gently.

Lucius just holds up a hand to silence her, then gives Draco a sharp nod. It's not pride, it's—bloody
hell, it's respect. "I have tried to teach you many things throughout your life, Draco, and I feared
you simply could never be taught. It seems, however, that one lesson managed to stick—likely the
most important. You used your connections and power to get what you wanted, even against your
own father. I cannot say that I agree with your...desires, but I am pleased to know you managed to
at least take something in."

His words are bitter and sharp, but clearly somewhat true, and then he's sneering before turning on
his heel and walking out of the room.

"Well," Mrs. Malfoy says with a sigh, "he can't say you're nothing like him, at least."

"Oh, yes, just like my father, I am," Draco mutters, rolling his eyes.

Mrs. Malfoy walks over and reaches out to touch his cheek, her gaze warm and fond. "I am proud
of you, my darling, and so very happy for you. What you did, while immeasurably foolish,
was...artful."

"Thank you, Mother," Draco says simply.

"I shall give you two a moment alone while I go wrangle your father," Mrs. Malfoy informs him,
then glances at Harry and smiles. "I look forward to you joining the family in marriage, darling. I
daresay you will make a good Malfoy."
Harry laughs, then sees that she's being entirely serious, then freezes and blurts, "Oh, no, that's
never going to happen."

"Isn't it?" Mrs. Malfoy asks.

"Er…" Harry glances at Draco, then coughs when he sees Draco's expression—it's unreadable.
"We haven't talked about it."

"Think about it," Mrs. Malfoy says lightly. "You'll have an excuse, then, to never have to play
fair."

With that and a small smile, she sweeps away, leaving them alone in the sudden quiet. Harry turns
his gaze back to Draco, fingers itching to snatch him up and take him home and take him apart and
—

"I thought Potter-Malfoy," Draco muses. "It would be a compromise. Malfoy-Potter?"

"You don't want to be a Potter?" Harry asks, perturbed slightly by the thought.

Draco frowns. "It's not so much as that as I don't want the family name to die out with me. Same as
the thought you're having, I suspect."

"Won't our names die out anyway if we just combine them?" Harry asks.

"Mm, not quite. When—if we have children, our new line will carry on and remain. I rather think
that happened often in the old times of the Purebloods. Too prideful to drop the names entirely, so
they combined them, and then through the centuries they just became one name over time.
Parkinson, for example. I think, originally, that was a line descended from the combination of
Parkwell-Vinson. By the time our combined name becomes either Potfoy or Malter, we'll be gone
way too long to actually care."

"Our combined names sound like shite."

"Yes, but that won't be our problem, will it?"

Harry snorts, then smiles. "You said when. About having children, you said when, at first."

"I did," Draco agrees. "Presumptuous."

"I like it better than if," Harry murmurs.

"Alright." Draco presses a quick, warm kiss to his lips, lingering there. When he pulls back, his lips
are curled up into a soft smile. "We have a lot of future to look forward to."

"I know," Harry whispers.

"Ready for it?" Draco asks.

"I'm never properly ready for anything, don't you know? Things just happen to me, and I go along
with it, and then everything turns out alright." Harry gives him a crooked grin. "I'm rather excited
to see what happens next."

Draco laughs warmly and murmurs, "You're an idiot, Harry Potter."

"And you're a prat, Draco Malfoy." Harry curls into him closer. "I can't believe you went to
Voldemort for me. That's so—you're so…"

"He asked after you," Draco says softly, searching his eyes. "Wanted to know if you'd been—if
you're living well. I think—I don't really know. He's irredeemable, you know, but…well. Harry, if
he's capable of it, the only thing he loves is you."

Harry smiles. "I know."

 That night, Harry dreams.

He is on a cliff, a light breeze rustling his hair. Peering down over the edge, he can see the distant
rush of water at the bottom. He stands there for a while, waiting and waiting, and it takes him a
long time to realize that no one is coming.

A funny thought crosses his mind. One that suggests that whatever or whoever he's waiting on is
already here, even if he cannot see them. He has the deepest urge to tell them something, and so he
does.

Quiet, honest, he says, "Thank you," and the wind shifts gently around him like a brush of reason.

Chapter End Notes

Well, there it is. Over 450k. Jesus, I've never written that much before, holy hell.

A part of me doesn't really accept that I've finished, so who knows if I'll write
companion fics. I might because ideas have been banging around in my head for a
while now. But, as of right now, this is finished. I hope that everyone enjoyed it.

I look forward to any thoughts you may share with me! Again, thank you all so much
for the lovely feedback and engagement. I adore all of it more than I can say.

So, for now...

Ta!

-SOBS

End Notes

Thank you so much for reading! If you enjoyed, don't hesitate to drop off some kudos and
leave a comment; I adore every single one!

Ta!

-SOBS

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