Arthur sat hunched over his cluttered desk in the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office, the dim Ministry light casting long shadows across sheaves of parchment and crooked towers of tea-stained files. His foot tapped a restless rhythm against the worn floorboards, the hollow thud-thud echoing off the filing cabinets like a clock ticking too loudly. He had glanced up at the wall-mounted timepiece more times than he could count, but the hands seemed to inch forward just to mock him. Each passing minute only sharpened the weight in his chest.
Kingsley had promised word soon. Quickly, he'd said.
It had now been over an hour.
Arthur tried to turn his attention to a half-written report on a hexed lawnmower that had recently attempted to devour its owner's begonias, but the words slipped about uselessly on the parchment, dancing just out of focus. He blinked. Rubbed his eyes. Gave it another go. It was no good. The letters wouldn't stay still, and the only thing occupying his head was Harry.
He surrendered with a quiet sigh and leaned back, running a hand through his thinning hair. His thoughts circled with increasing desperation; Kingsley would not delay without reason. Who was he speaking to? Why hadn't he sent word? And most haunting of all, what had they found?
The boy's decline gnawed at Arthur. It wasn't just worry. It was grief in slow motion, creeping inch by inch, as if the very air was tightening its grip on them all.
A sharp, sudden breath escaped him as he pushed his chair back with a scrape. The stillness had grown unbearable. Shrugging on his coat with impatient fingers, he left the office without a backward glance, striding out into the corridor.
The Ministry corridors were their usual bustle of robes and clipped conversations, but Arthur saw none of it. Faces went by. He moved like a man with blinders on, his thoughts singular, his pulse pounding somewhere high in his throat. His path took him upwards first, past Level Four, where a gaggle of young witches were discussing a flying carpet scandal in hushed tones, and then down again, descending into the Ministry's deeper levels, where fewer people dared to linger without reason.
The lower corridors were quiet. Cold. Stone-echoed and grim, as if even magic itself held its breath here. Arthur's footsteps rang against the floor, unnervingly loud in the silence. It was like walking into a crypt.
He turned down the corridor towards the secure chambers, where old rock met reinforced steel. Two Aurors stood outside Interrogation Chamber Three, wands holstered but hands near them. They straightened slightly at his approach, eyes flicking to his face and then to the emblem stitched on his Ministry robes.
Arthur gave a curt nod and stepped forward, raising a hand to knock, but the door opened before his knuckles made contact.
Kingsley Shacklebolt filled the doorway. His usually composed features were drawn, lined with weariness that hadn't been there yesterday. His jaw was tight, his shoulders strained, and behind the cool surface of his dark eyes, Arthur saw it, a flicker of frustration.
Beyond him, he caught a flash of something pale and unmistakable.
Lucius Malfoy.
The sight of him was like a mouthful of bile. That cold, aristocratic sneer might have softened, but the man hadn't changed. Narcissa sat beside him, statuesque and unmoving, her expression carved from marble. A mother's pride tempered with a certain degree of coldness. Arthur's stomach clenched.
Kingsley stepped into the hall and shut the door firmly behind him.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The silence was heavier than any spell.
"Kingsley," Arthur said at last, his voice low and tight. "You kept me waiting."
"I know," he replied, dragging a hand down his face. "Lucius was being… tedious."
He let out a breath that was more of a scoff than a sigh. "He's always tiresome. What's he playing at now?"
"He says he wants to help," he stated in a flat tone. "He's offered names—those still in hiding, those pretending the war never happened. Contacts. Safe houses. It's a long list."
Arthur frowned, arms crossing. "And in return?"
Kingsley hesitated.
Arthur's expression darkened. "Well?"
"A full pardon," he announced at last. "For himself, Narcissa, and Draco. He wants the family name scrubbed clean officially, publicly."
He gave a dry, mirthless laugh. "He wishes the war erased. Typical Malfoy. They always rewrite the ending when they don't like how the story turns out."
"He's frightened. Truly terrified. That renders him dangerous, yes, but it also makes him… usable."
"Desperate men are," Arthur agreed. "You're right about that. But Lucius doesn't act unless he thinks he's got a net to fall into. What's he not telling you?"
Kingsley's mouth pulled tight. "He's clever and careful. But I made the terms painfully clear. If he withholds anything—anything—I will bring everything he's buried to the surface. Every document, all galleons, each memory concealed in the Department of Mysteries. I told him I'll drag the truth out of him if I have to tear it from his mind."
Arthur tilted his head, watching Kingsley with a flicker of reluctant approval. "And how did he take that?"
"Turned grey," he muttered. "He may continue wearing fine robes and polishing his cane, but the thought of true disgrace terrifies him more than Azkaban ever did."
Arthur's mouth twitched in something almost like a smirk, but it didn't last long. "He's still a snake. Don't start thinking you've tamed him. He'll slip out of your grasp the moment he smells weakness."
"I haven't forgotten who he is," Kingsley said grimly. "But if wringing him dry gets us what we need, and if it helps Harry, I'll bleed the bastard completely and mount his name above every cell door he kept others locked behind."
Arthur nodded once. No praise, no congratulations, just the grim solidarity of two men who had survived too much to trust simple answers.
"And Draco?" He asked after a pause.
Kingsley looked away, only briefly. "He sits quietly and doesn't interrupt. He won't look at Lucius. I think… I believe he regrets some things."
He exhaled. "Regret's no use if it does not lead to something better. But don't lose sight of what's urgent."
"I haven't."
The heavy wooden door groaned on its hinges as it opened, its echo threading through the corridor. Heads turned. The Aurors, clerks, and junior staff loitering on invented errands were all drawn to the sound with the same guilty curiosity.
The Malfoy family stepped out.
Lucius was first to emerge, pale and imperious as ever, his chin held high, as though daring the world to see how far he had fallen. His cane tapped sharply against the flagstone floor, his steps measured and rehearsed. His eyes didn't drift but straight ahead, unseeing, as if anything beyond the next corridor were beneath his notice.
Behind him came Narcissa, her voice low and hurried, almost too quiet to catch. Her tone, however, which was tight and clipped, betrayed the worry knotted into every word. She clutched her cloak a little too tightly at the throat. Her heels struck the floor in quick, anxious beats as she kept close to her husband's side.
And then, Draco.
He trailed behind them with his shoulders hunched, his complexion nearly translucent under the cold torchlight. The swagger he'd once worn like a second skin had long since crumbled. His hands were buried in his pockets, his footsteps dragging, and his eyes, when they lifted, flickered about the corridor with barely contained unease, as if someone expecting to be hexed at any moment.
Arthur stood near the far wall, arms crossed tightly over his chest, jaw set. There had been a time, not so long ago, when the mere sight of the Malfoys would have sent a rush of old fury burning through his veins. But now… now it was nothing more than another stone in his pocket, a weight pressing down on a day already too full of them.
As the trio passed, Lucius did not so much as glance at him. Narcissa's eyes flicked sideways briefly, coolly. Draco, however, hesitated mid-step just for a heartbeat, and looked back.
Kingsley turned beside Arthur, as quiet and solid as a shadow, his robes whispering against the stone. He didn't speak right away, but the question hung in the air between them.
"Harry?" he asked at last, voice low and steady.
He exhaled slowly. "He's… he's trying to be strong," he said, the words weighted with more than weariness. "But it's bad, Kingsley. Worse than we've let on. The pain's not easing. And he's barely holding himself together."
Kingsley's jaw tensed. He gave a single curt nod, more of an acknowledgement than an answer. The silence that followed was heavy.
Draco still lingered a few steps back. His uncertain and searching gaze met the minister for a second. There was something in it: doubt, perhaps… or guilt. Or the beginning of an emotion harder to name. Whatever it was, it left a faint chill in Kingsley's chest.
He spoke then, more to anchor himself than anything else. "That request for a fragment of the Veil stone," he drawled, watching Arthur from the corner of his eye, "That was… unexpected."
He nodded, rubbing the back of his neck, his expression weary. "Desperate times," he murmured. "We're clinging to anything that might help. Hermione found something in one of the older texts—a long-forgotten elixir. Don't ask me to explain it. Half the ingredients sound as though they came out of a ghost story."
Kingsley's brow creased. "The Unspeakables are retrieving it now, but I still do not understand what it does. And you'd have him drink a potion brewed with a piece of that stone? With that cursed magic stitched through it like bone rot?"
Arthur's silence was answer enough. His face was drawn, and his eyes were hollow. "You think I haven't had that thought?" he said quietly. "But he's slipping, Kingsley. We're losing him inch by inch. And this—this is the first time Hermione's sounded as if there might be a way back. We don't have the luxury of being cautious anymore."
Draco had finally turned, hurrying after his parents, his pale hair vanishing down the far corridor. But Arthur's stare remained fixed in that direction, thoughtful.
"You think he knows something?" he asked after a long pause.
Kingsley didn't answer immediately. His gaze narrowed slightly, his voice a murmur. "Hard to say. But he looked conflicted. That much I'm sure of."
He took a step closer to Arthur, tone lowering to a conspiratorial hush. "I'll take the Veil fragment to Harry myself. Quietly. He doesn't need a parade. Too many eyes are on him already."
Arthur's mouth twitched into a faint grimace. "I hope he's well enough to see you. He's been so—" He broke off, swallowing. "He trusts you. Looks up to you. If anyone can reach him, it's you."
That drew a glint of something warm from Kingsley. It was not quite a smile, but close. "He's one of the strongest young men I have ever met. And not just with a wand in hand. I've seen Aurors twice his age lose themselves to the things he's lived through."
Arthur gave a tired chuckle. "You tell him that, and he'll probably trip over his own feet trying to disappear."
He let out a soft laugh. "Harry does not need to be told. He's got a strength that doesn't shout. He leads because others follow, not because he asks them to."
He turned his face slightly, eyeing Kingsley with something between scepticism and pride. "Do you imagine him in the Auror Office someday?"
Kingsley's gaze was steady. "I see him leading it. In time."
Arthur blinked. "As head of the department?"
He didn't blink. "I mean as a minister."
That landed like a dropped stone between them.
He stared at him, taken aback. "Really?" he said, half in disbelief. "Merlin's beard, he'd hate that."
"Perhaps," Kingsley quietly agreed. "But the best leaders rarely seek power. And Harry—he doesn't want to rule. He wants to protect. There's a difference."
Arthur looked away, jaw tight. "All the same… Let's not get ahead of ourselves. Right now, he needs saving more than anything else."
He inclined his head, his voice quiet. "One step at a time."
Arthur rubbed the bridge of his nose, fingertips pressing against the corners of his eyes, as though he could will the day's tension to drain away with a bit of pressure. The lamplight was dim now, nearing its last flickers, casting long, restless shadows that danced across the piles of parchment, tangled quills, and the peculiar clutter of enchanted Muggle contraptions that filled the cramped little office. Somewhere, the ticking of an old wind-up alarm clock kept time with his headache.
He leaned back in his chair, which groaned in protest against him, and let out a breath that had been sitting in his lungs for far too long. The day had been gruelling with all the meetings, memos, whispers in corridors, and above it all, that nagging, unshakeable dread about Harry. And now, when all he wanted was to head home and see Molly, a movement in the doorway caught his tired eye.
Draco Malfoy.
The young man stood hesitating in the threshold, his frame still thin and adolescent, but with none of the swagger he'd once worn like a second skin. The sharp lines of his aristocratic features had softened into something far more haggard and less polished. His blond hair hung limply around his face, dishevelled and colourless in the lamplight. His eyes, which were sunken and guarded, flicked about the room, taking in the absurd array of rubber ducks, battery-powered fans, and tinkering wind-up soldiers without so much as a sneer.
Arthur felt a prickle of unease creep up his spine. There was no smirk, no smug comment. Whatever brought Draco here, it wasn't some petty excuse for provocation.
"You lost, boy?" he called across the room, his voice dry as parchment. He didn't bother hiding his irritation. "Need help finding your way out of the Ministry?"
He took a step inside slowly, as if wary of tripping some unseen wire. His gaze landed on a garish rubber duck, its bright yellow body jarring in the gloom, and lingered there for a moment. His expression was unreadable; it was neither amused nor disgusted. Just… blank.
"No," Draco said, barely above a murmur. "I know the way."
Arthur's eyes narrowed. He sat forward; the chair creaking again, more sharply this time. He wasn't in the mood for cryptic visits. "Then get on with it. If you've something to say, say it. Otherwise, I suggest you let me carry on. It's been a long, bloody day."
Draco shifted his weight, shoulders stiff beneath his cloak. He was silent for a moment. Then, with a reluctance that felt dragged from somewhere deep and jagged, he asked, "Is it true? About Potter. That he's… ill?"
The unexpected and unwanted question hung in the air.
Arthur's hand froze halfway to a stack of files. He looked at the young man more closely now, measuring. "Were you skulking outside the courtroom earlier?" he demanded, voice sharpening.
Draco did not flinch. "You said his name loud enough for half the corridor to hear. I didn't need to skulk."
Arthur made a silent, disbelieving sound through his nose. "Hmph. Listening in suits your lot just fine, doesn't it?"
Draco's reply was quiet, not quite defensive. "That isn't like him at all. Potter never gets sick. He throws himself into cursed tombs, picks fights with dark wizards, and walks out looking heroic."
There was no mockery in his tone. If anything, it was more similar to confusion. Disbelief, even. As if the idea of Harry, the indestructible, maddening, ever-lucky young man, could be unwell seemed to shake something in him.
Arthur stood slowly, bones creaking with the effort. His patience, never endless, was wearing thin. "Whatever's going on with him is none of your concern," he said, voice low and firm. "So unless you've got official matters, you'd best be on your way."
But Draco did not leave. He took another step forward instead, a brittle edge gaining in his tone. "It is my business."
He raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. "I don't recall asking for your opinion."
The young man didn't retreat. If anything, his shoulders squared, his jaw set. "Whether or not you like it," he said, "it matters to me."
For the briefest moment, something shifted in Arthur. Not enough to soften, but sufficient to pause. There was a certain raw quality flickering beneath the brittle formality in Draco's eyes.
"I owe him," Draco added, quieter now, but the words held a strange weight. "Potter. I am indebted to him."
He folded his arms, watching him with a mixture of suspicion and a mystery harder to place. "You owe him," he repeated. "That's a rather bold claim, coming from you."
He met his gaze directly. "It is not a statement. It's a fact. He saved me. In the Room of Requirement. When he could've left me to burn." His voice faltered slightly. "I haven't forgotten."
Arthur looked at him for a long while, searching for the lie, for the false modesty or ulterior motive that had always come with the Malfoy name. However, if deceit existed, exhaustion hid it, and perhaps genuine remorse did too.
"And what is it you're requesting, then?" He asked at last, his voice measured.
Draco swallowed visibly, gathering himself. "Just… let me Potter. That's all. I'm not asking to speak to him. I simply—I need to see him. To repay something that has been weighing on me for too long."
Arthur said nothing straightaway. The lamplight flickered again, and the silence in the room thickened, broken only by the slow tick of the clock on the wall. It wasn't a simple request. Not in times like these. But there were some debts, truths, and reckonings that refused to wait.
Eventually, he gave a curt nod. "All right. I will allow it. But on one condition."
Draco stilled. "What?"
"You don't speak a word of what you see. To anyone. Not your father, your friends, or even some simpering journalist trying to rebuild your family's reputation. You breathe a syllable of this, and I'll know."
He let out a dry, joyless laugh. "And what then? What happens when I slip up?"
Arthur didn't smile. His voice was cold iron. "Your family's standing is brittle, young man. It wouldn't take much pressure to shatter it. Many people in the ministry would be thrilled to investigate your father's old connections, and they have lots of paperwork to assist them. Don't give me a reason to let them."
Draco nodded once, without argument. "Understood."
He stepped aside then, allowing Arthur to pass him by. For a moment, the two stood close. Neither extended trust. But something passed between them.
He didn't speak again. He swept his cloak from the back of his chair and moved toward the door.
A cold draught swept through the Burrow the moment Arthur stepped out of the fireplace, his boots landing with a dull thud on the worn flagstone floor. He straightened, brushing soot from the shoulders of his travelling cloak, but paused almost at once.
The kitchen was unnervingly still. No enchanted pots rattled on the hob. No Wireless played softly in the corner. The air felt thick, suspended in a silence too heavy to be natural. A few candles flickered wearily in their sconces, casting long, spindly shadows across the walls.
At the scrubbed wooden table sat Ron, Hermione, and Ginny, but they might have been ghosts for all the colour left in them. None of them spoke. His son set his jaw and clenched his fists on the surface. She remained very straight, her hands knotted tightly in her lap, while his daughter stared at a fixed spot on the floorboards, unmoving, as though if she dared to blink, something would shatter.
Arthur's heart sank. He didn't need to ask what was wrong. His parental instincts, honed from decades of chaos, mischief, and more near-death experiences than he cared to count, immediately sensed what—or rather, who—was missing.
Harry.
He opened his mouth to speak, but the green flames of the Floo behind him flared up again, sweeping across the hearth with a sudden rush of heat and light.
A second figure stepped into the kitchen, movements as smooth and composed as ever. Draco emerged with his usual studied elegance, brushing invisible ash from his sleeve. His platinum-blond hair shimmered in the dim glow, his cloak billowing behind him with theatrical precision. He surveyed the room as if he'd just walked into a museum he didn't particularly care for.
A well-worn, familiar, and wildly out-of-place smirk curled at the edge of his mouth.
Ron was on his feet in an instant, his chair scraping violently across the flagstones. "What the bloody hell is he doing here?" he barked, already halfway through the room, fists clenched and ready for any target to punch.
Draco arched one pale eyebrow, entirely unfazed. "Good evening to you too, Weasley," he drawled, as if they were exchanging pleasantries at a Ministry gala rather than facing off in the middle of a crisis.
Hermione and Ginny shared a sharp glance. Neither moved, but something passed between them. This wasn't school anymore, nor about House rivalries or stolen wands. Malfoy wouldn't be here without a reason. And whatever that was, it was never simple.
Before anyone could say another word, a sound tore through the kitchen.
A ragged, primal, and heart-wrenching scream echoed from above.
It carried down the staircase. Ginny gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. Hermione went rigid, her breath caught in her throat. Ron staggered backwards a step, as though the noise itself had struck him.
The cry came again. It was higher, hoarser, and more broken than before. It sounded wrong, like something being torn in half from the inside.
Draco's head tilted slightly, almost curiously. "Merlin," he murmured, with a mix of amusement and detached interest. "Are you keeping a prisoner upstairs?"
Ron rounded on him with a snarl. "That's Harry, you sick bastard!"
Draco didn't flinch. "Yes, I rather gathered," he replied mildly. "I heard he's not been feeling himself."
"Shut your mouth!" he shouted, his voice cracking. "You think this is some kind of joke?"
"Ron—" Hermione started, but he was already charging forward.
"Do you find this amusing? You know nothing, Malfoy! You shouldn't be here! He doesn't want to see you! No one does!"
Arthur stepped swiftly between them, laying a firm hand on his son's chest to stop him. "That's enough," he stated quietly but commanding. "There's a reason he's here. Let's not make things worse."
His voice dropped to a low growl. "You can't seriously think that we would trust him."
"I don't," he said flatly. "But I do expect you to keep your head."
He turned to Ginny, who looked pale but composed. "Upstairs?"
She nodded once. "It's been—" she swallowed hard, "on and off for nearly an hour now."
Arthur's jaw tightened. "I see." He glanced back at Malfoy, eyes narrowing. "You'll behave?"
Draco smiled thinly, as if amused by the suggestion. "Always."
Arthur gave him a long, unreadable look, then turned on his heel and strode out of the kitchen, Harry's cries still faintly audible from above.
As he went upstairs, silence fell once more.
Ron stood shaking, jaw clenched, his chest heaving with unshed fury. Hermione hadn't moved. Her hands remained locked in her lap, but her knuckles were white. Ginny's eyes were glassy, fixed on the floor.
Draco, as ever, was a picture of insufferable calm. He leaned against the sink, arms folded, gaze drifting lazily about the room, as if he were considering how best to rearrange the furniture.
After a moment, he said airily, "You know, a Silencing Charm would do wonders. Not exactly the most inviting ambiance."
Ron's face turned scarlet.
"You absolute—"
He lunged again, wand half-raised, but Hermione's words cracked through the tension.
"Enough!"
She stood suddenly, her chair scraping behind her. Even though she didn't raise her voice, her tone was steely.
"Don't you dare act like this means nothing," she said, her eyes fixed on Malfoy with razor-sharp intensity. "You do not know what he's going through. None of us do. But we're here and not making cruel jokes while he screams upstairs!"
Draco let out a quiet, mirthless chuckle. It wasn't loud, but it cut through the kitchen. "Touchy, aren't we?" he said, his words laced with that familiar blend of smugness and superiority that had haunted so many of their school days.
Ginny shot to her feet, her chair scraping harshly against the stone floor. "You need to leave," she said, her voice sharp and unwavering. "Now. Or I'll hex you so hard you'll forget your own name."
Draco turned to face her properly then, his smirk deepening as if he relished her fury. "Temper, temper," he murmured, eyes glittering. "Didn't realise the Burrow's welcome committee included thinly veiled death threats."
"You're not invited," Ron said again, more quietly this time, but with far more weight. His voice had dropped to a cold, hard edge. "Not here. Not ever."
Draco pushed himself off the sink with casual grace, hands in his pockets, and began strolling slowly around the kitchen as if he had every right to be there. "Merlin's beard," he said lightly, nose wrinkling. "This place is worse than I imagined. Feels like I've wandered into a blood traitor's wake."
Ginny moved to block his path, fists clenched tightly at her sides. Her voice trembled not with fear, but with rage. "Get. Out."
Draco stopped and studied her. There was something behind his gaze now—curiosity, perhaps. Or simply more cruelty. "Is that how you speak to guests?" he asked, mock-innocent. "Didn't your dear old dad teach you any manners, or were those buried under all the Muggle junk he collects?"
Ron's hands were shaking, knuckles white around the back of a chair. "Another word, Malfoy," he growled. "Just one more, and I swear—"
Draco shrugged, utterly unconcerned. "If Potter's upstairs dying, I think I deserve to know," he said mildly, turning to glance up toward the ceiling. "After all, he has been such a radiant little beacon in my life. So dramatic… tragic. So—"
"That's enough!" Hermione's voice cracked through the room. She was on her feet now, eyes burning with fury. "He doesn't need your sarcasm or your games. You don't know what he has been through or what he's still going through!"
"No," Draco replied smoothly, without blinking, "but it seems you do not either. Sitting down here, twiddling your wands, while he screams himself hoarse upstairs?"
Ron lunged, but Ginny caught his arm with surprising strength, digging her nails into his forearm.
"Don't," she hissed. "That's what he wants."
Hermione's voice was quieter now, but heavier. Worn. "Why are you even here, Malfoy?"
Something shifted on Draco's face. The smirk faltered. For a moment, his expression lost its sharpness and turned guarded and unreadable.
"Because," he said at last, "like it or not, Harry and I have unfinished business."
Ron shook his head slowly, fury pulsing just beneath his skin. "He won't want to see you."
Draco didn't answer. The look he gave him was cool and dismissive, as if he'd already decided Harry's reaction did not matter.
And then it happened again.
Louder than before, a raw and ragged scream ripped through the ceiling. It was an inhuman sound, like something being torn apart. For a second, the entire room seemed to hold its breath.
Arthur appeared at the top of the stairs a moment later, his face pale, lips set in a thin line. He stepped down slowly, the weight of whatever he'd seen pressing heavily on his shoulders. But behind the tiredness in his eyes was something else; relief.
"Harry's stable," he said at last, voice quiet but firm. "For now."
Ginny moved quickly. "Is he asleep?"
Arthur shook his head. "No. But he's calm and resting. And," he paused, his stare flicking to the young man who remained by the fireplace, still as a statue, gaze unreadable. "He has agreed to see Draco."
The room turned to ice.
Ron stared at his father, stunned. "What?" he managed. "Harry's okay with… him? After all that—after this?" He faced Malfoy, voice rising. "He needs rest! Not more stress, not some smug git trying to provoke him into another breakdown!"
Arthur raised a hand, calm but unyielding. "Son, I asked. I didn't push him. He nodded. That's all."
Ron let out a strangled sound, half-growl, half-groan, and headed for the stairs, but his father stepped into his path without hesitation.
"No," he said. "Only Draco goes up. The rest of you stay here."
"But Dad—!"
"I know," Arthur whispered. "I understand you're worried. But Harry's made his choice. We respect that. We don't eavesdrop, and we do not interfere."
Ginny and Hermione shared another tense look. Neither spoke.
Ron looked as if he were about to combust. "He doesn't deserve to see Harry!"
Draco tilted his head, looking rather like a cat watching a mouse circle the trap. "I'd forgotten," he said, almost cheerfully, "how delightfully moral you all get when Harry's involved. It's touching, really."
He took a step forward. "Try anything—anything—and I'll—"
Malfoy scoffed. "Please. You think I would waste a hex on someone who can barely string a sentence together right now? He's not exactly in fighting shape, is he?"
The air snapped.
Ron lunged.
It wasn't a bluff this time, not a threat or a shout. He meant to strike. But his father caught him mid-motion, his grip vice-tight.
"Son. Let it go."
He breathed heavily through clenched teeth, chest heaving.
Arthur turned to Draco. His voice was cold steel. "You're here because I allowed it. If you speak to him with anything less than decency, I will haul you back to the Ministry. Do you understand?"
Draco's gaze dropped. The smirk was gone.
He didn't blink. "Am I clear?"
"Yes."
He gave a single nod. "Good. Upstairs. Now."
Draco cast one last glance across the room, his eyes sweeping to the people in the kitchen, and then turned, climbing the stairs without another word. His footsteps echoed overhead, one by one, like the ticking of a clock counting down to something none of them could predict.
Ron was still trembling.
"I swear," he muttered, "if he so much as breathes wrong—"
Ginny folded her arms tightly across her chest. "I'll hex him myself."
Hermione pressed her fingers to her temples as if warding off a headache. "Let's just… wait. Trust Harry knows what he's doing."
He paced, agitated, dragging his hand through his hair like he wanted to tear it out by the roots. "I bet there's still a box of Extendable Ears upstairs. I could—"
Arthur's look silenced him.
"I'm joking!" He blurted. "Mostly. Probably."
Ginny flopped down onto the settee with a huff. "This better not be one of those noble Potter moments. If he tries to forgive Malfoy just to be the bigger man, I'll throw something at him."
Hermione sat beside her, slower, her brow deeply furrowed. "Maybe he has a reason. He doesn't do things like this without a purpose."
Ron gave a short, bitter laugh. "No. He's not stupid. He is Harry. That's far more dangerous."
Malfoy ascended the stairs. The faint tap of polished shoes against worn wooden steps was barely audible, but Harry heard him anyway. He would've known it was him even if the house had gone dead quiet.
The dying sunlight filtered in through the crooked windowpanes, stretching long and gold across the bedroom floor. It felt at odds with the cold that clung to Harry's skin, a clammy chill that not even Mrs Weasley's blanket could chase off. He lay motionless beneath it, bones aching, limbs trembling every so often with pain that licked down his spine. Breathing was a chore. Thinking was worse.
The door creaked open, hesitant.
He didn't look. The weight of the stare that entered with Malfoy was enough.
Harry kept still, head turned slightly into the pillow, the scent of old laundry and blood lingering in his nose. The air shifted as he crossed the threshold, and though the room remained silent, it was no longer peaceful. It was waiting.
Mrs Weasley rose from her seat by the bed, quietly dignified. She didn't speak. The look she levelled at Malfoy as she passed was colder than the draught trailing in after him. She brushed a hand once, lightly, over Harry's shoulder, then left.
The door clicked shut behind her.
Now it was just the two of them.
Harry opened his eyes slowly. The light burnt, even filtered as it was. He blinked against it, catching the pale outline of him standing near the foot of the bed, arms stiff at his sides. He looked awkward. Out of place. As if he had not expected to make it this far.
Good. He wasn't sure he had it in him for another verbal duel.
Malfoy cleared his throat. The sound was uncertain, ill-fitting in his mouth, like he hadn't practised it.
"Potter."
Just the name. Nothing added. Not spat or twisted. Not even laced with irony.
Harry shifted slightly, every muscle protesting. "That's new," he rasped. "No insult?"
Malfoy's expression faltered, and for a heartbeat, an emotion flickered across his face—unease, maybe, or darker.
"What's happened to you?" he asked at last. But it wasn't said cruelly. His demeanour was clipped, and his voice was brittle. Not pitying—Malfoy had never pitied anyone in his life—but uncertain. Like he didn't recognise what he was seeing and hated that he cared.
Harry gave a weak cough that tore at his throat. "Sorry," he croaked, tone barely more than a whisper, "I'm not looking my best for you. You, on the other hand…" He blinked slowly. "Look a bit lost. Mourning the Dark Lord's absence, are you? Not the same without him?"
That did it.
Malfoy's face twisted, fury rising. "Are you seriously doing this? Now? When you can't even sit up?"
Harry let out a faint, breathy sound that could have been laughter. "Well, I'd stand," he said, eyes narrowing, "but I'm afraid I might fall dramatically and ruin the mood."
His jaw clenched. "Are you laughing at this?"
"I think you're funny," he murmured, the words slurred by fatigue. "Strutting in here as if you are owed something. Still wearing your father's confidence like it's a proper robe."
"You have no idea who I am," Malfoy snapped, stepping forward.
Harry did not flinch, but he simply watched him.
"I know enough," he said quietly but clearly. "You always acted like you were better because of who you are. You didn't need decency or courage; you just wanted money and a name. And now you're here—trying to rewrite the story?"
Malfoy's fists curled, knuckles pale. "I did things you are unaware of. What I've had to do."
"No?" Harry whispered. "Try me."
"I survived!" Malfoy hissed. "Without him and Crabbe and Goyle or anyone. I didn't hide behind robes and names—I crawled out!"
He watched him, gaze cool and detached. "And this is what crawling out looks to you? Storming into the Burrow like a peacock with a vendetta?"
"I came here for you," he said sharply, then froze. The words had escaped too fast, and he knew it.
Harry blinked. The room seemed still just for a moment.
"For me?" he echoed, faint amusement creeping into his voice. "Well, you shouldn't have."
Malfoy looked away. His shoulders were stiff, hands clenched at his sides. Then, more quietly:
"I'm here because I owe you."
He stared at him. "Come again?"
"You saved my life," he said, and although he spoke the words grudgingly, they were also honest. "In the Room of Requirement. You did not have to save me. You could've left me."
Harry swallowed, his throat dry, voice low. "I nearly did."
Malfoy's lips moved, but he couldn't tell if it was agreement or grim humour.
"But you didn't," he said simply. "So, whether or not I like it, I'm in your debt."
He gave a humourless laugh that turned quickly into a wince. "Right. And this is your idea of repayment—bursting into my sickroom to insult me until I forget I ever did anything noble."
Malfoy's mouth pressed into a hard line. "I did not come here for you to feel honourable."
"No," Harry said slowly, "you came because you don't know what to do with the fact that I didn't let you die."
That stopped him.
"You want this to be transactional," he went on, voice steadier now despite the pain that curled under every word. "Or pay it off like a bill. Cross it off the list so you never have to feel anything about it again."
Malfoy looked as though Harry had struck him with a wand. His posture stiffened, that ever-present sneer faltering just long enough to reveal something unguarded beneath.
"Tell me how to repay you," he said, clipped and cold, "so I can be done with this."
He stared at him through half-closed eyelids, every inch of his body heavy with exhaustion. Even lifting his head felt like hoisting stone.
"You really hate this, don't you?" he murmured, his voice raw and low. "Being indebted to me."
Malfoy gave a tight, bitter laugh that didn't reach his eyes. "I'd rather owe anyone else," he said plainly. "You'll only drag it out. Make it poetic."
Harry's lips twitched in a half-smile, but the effort of it ached. "I might, at that."
His vision blurred again; edges softening, colours dulling. The room pulsed faintly around him, like it was breathing too.
"If it bothers you so much," he rasped, "then fine. Here's your repayment. Stay away from me. Don't come back. Ever."
There was a beat of silence.
Malfoy's eyes narrowed, a faint crease forming between his brows. "That's it?"
Harry nodded slowly. "Simplest thing I could ask. And honestly, the most peaceful."
Malfoy didn't flinch. "No," he said flatly.
He blinked. "No?"
"I'm not leaving just because you told me to," he stated, his jaw set, defiant. "You don't get to decide who's in your life anymore, Potter. Not after everything. You'll simply have to put up with me."
Harry stared, and he wondered if he should feel furious or bewildered. For the first time since Malfoy had stepped into the room, he couldn't read him. The arrogance was there, but underneath it was something clenched and unsettled, hiding just behind his eyes.
And he wanted to tell him to bugger off. To storm out and stay gone. But the fight wasn't there anymore. It had ebbed out of him, slowly and steadily. His whole body was a battlefield; aching, burning, brittle. And in the hollow quiet that followed Malfoy's words, Harry realised something far more dangerous than anger.
He didn't want to be alone.
Not completely.
Even his grating voice and his bloody smirking meant there was still someone here in the room, breathing, speaking. Witnessing.
"Fine," he whispered, and he closed his eyes. "Stay. But don't expect me to be friendly."
He could almost hear the curl of Malfoy's lips. "Wouldn't dream of it."
The bedroom dimmed further behind Harry's eyelids. He let himself sink back into the mattress, the blanket stifling and damp against his skin. Every breath scraped at his throat. Each muscle trembled with strain. It was more than exhaustion; it was collapse.
A shallow gasp rattled out of him, barely audible.
"I can't do this anymore," he muttered, the words so thin they nearly vanished into the silence.
They'd torn their way up from somewhere deep, past pride and stubbornness. They hurt more than any spell could.
"I'm sick," he choked out, each syllable dragging over blistered nerves. "Exhausted."
He could feel that his body was shutting down. The ache in his chest wasn't just pain. It was grief, weight, and something that had never left since that last battle, the grave behind the forest, and how everyone expected him to keep saving the world when he could barely hold a wand upright some days.
He let his head roll to the side, hardly conscious of the sound of his own breathing. If he just kept still, maybe Malfoy would take the hint and sod off.
But of course, he didn't.
"Why are you sick?" His voice cut through the thick fog. Harry flinched, wincing as the noise drove nails into his skull. "People are talking," he added, quieter now. "There are rumours. They say you're dying."
Harry's heart gave a dull thud, then a more pointed one. The words twisted something in his gut.
Maybe I am.
"That's none of your business," he ground out, his fingers clenching at the blanket as another ripple of pain tore through him. "Don't start digging where you've no right."
Malfoy raised an eyebrow. "Judging by the screaming earlier, I'd say it's something nasty."
Harry forced one eye open, glaring at him through a film of sweat. "I have no idea what you're on about," he said hoarsely, though sarcasm barely clung to the words.
He stepped closer, arms crossed. "So? What is it, then?"
He turned his face away, jaw clenched so tightly it ached. "For Merlin's sake, just drop it. I've had enough this week to last me a lifetime. I don't need you poking around like some smug little—" He broke off, breath hitching, the effort too much.
But Malfoy didn't move. He only stared, chin raised.
"I'm not leaving until you tell me," he said.
And Harry, he wanted to laugh. Or scream. Or collapse into nothing. Anything to get away from the crawling pressure of being watched, analysed, and picked apart like some puzzle he thought he had the right to solve.
A fresh wave of nausea hit him. He gripped the mattress, knuckles white. His joints throbbed as though someone had hexed them from the inside, trying to prise him open.
His voice was thin but sharp. "I don't owe you anything."
Malfoy's lips parted slightly.
Harry pressed on, quieter now. "Not my time, my suffering, or whatever answer you think you deserve."
He did not want to let Malfoy see the tremor in his hands or the way his vision had slid sideways again or the truth.
"Why are you in pain?" He asked, stepping in closer, his voice not sharp exactly, but pressing, urgent tone he likely didn't mean to be. "Haven't you got anything that can heal you?"
Harry stayed silent at first. He sat there, head bowed, breath shallow, listening to the way the silence echoed around them. The answer clung to his chest, thick and reluctant, like everything else lately.
"There's a cure," he said at last, the words slow and dry on his tongue. "Or something similar. We're still working it out."
Malfoy narrowed his eyes, suspicious, as though he were being told half a truth, and perhaps he was. "Is this about that stone?" he asked. "The one from the Veil?"
Harry stiffened. His stomach twisted hard enough to make him nauseous. The pain in his chest flared.
He turned his head slowly, his gaze meeting Malfoy's. "How do you know about that?"
Malfoy gave a casual shrug, but his face didn't quite match the gesture. "I listen," he said. "Not all of us blurt out classified magical secrets over tea and toast. Now, what's the connection?"
Harry exhaled slowly, trying to stay upright as the ache in his spine surged. His fingers curled over his ribs, pressing as if that might somehow hold him together.
"You really want to know?" He rasped, jaw tightening. "Tough. I'm not explaining it to you."
Malfoy rolled his eyes, though there was no actual fire in them. "I could just ask your dear Mr Weasley. Say I overheard something. About the stone, the cure, and how close you are to falling apart."
Harry sat up too fast, and pain lanced through him. He clutched at his side, trying to breathe through the sudden, burning throb. "Drop it," he ground out, louder than he meant to, and instantly regretted it.
His throat caught. He coughed hard, a dry, splintering sound that tore its way out of him. His vision blurred, black dots swimming at the edges. Heat pulsed under his skin, sweat slicking the back of his neck.
"Honestly," Malfoy snapped, "what part of our conversation is so bleeding difficult for you to—"
"Stop!"
The word exploded from Harry before he could rein it in. His whole body spasmed with the force of it. Pain rippled through his chest like a Cruciatus Curse. He doubled over, arms wrapped around his middle, his lungs scraping for air like bellows gone brittle.
"Please," he croaked, barely more than a whisper. "Just… I can't take this. Not now."
The silence that followed was immediate and profound. It wasn't awkward or cold. It was something else, similar to the hush in a hospital wing or the weight of a graveyard at night.
Malfoy stood frozen, his expression unreadable.
Then, after a moment: "I'm tired too."
His voice had changed; gone quiet, almost subdued. It did not sound like a performance this time.
"I am not trying to make it worse."
Harry slumped back against the pillows, cradling his ribs as though they might shatter. He didn't look at Malfoy.
"You want to know?" he muttered. "Fine."
He drew a shallow breath. The truth was hard for him to say.
"We do not have the cure. Not yet. Something's still missing."
He tilted his head, curiosity flickering behind the tight line of his mouth. "What?"
Harry closed his eyes, forcing the answer out. "A wild Thestral."
There was a beat.
"A what?" Malfoy asked, brows lifting. "Why in Merlin's name—?"
"I don't know," he murmured. "Some of the magic needs it. Something to do with their connection to death… to the Veil. The only thing we realise is that we need it. And it has to be wild. Not tamed. Not touched."
He was watching him intently now. Less like an enemy. More of… an observer. "The Dark Lord required one once," he said slowly. "He told me where they hide."
Harry forced his eyes open, blinking against the sting. "Why?"
"No idea. Nobody ever informed us. That was enough."
He studied him. His voice was hoarse but steady. "Then tell me where."
Malfoy hesitated. His mouth twisted into something like a smirk. "Only if that pays the debt."
He let out a half-exasperated and half-relieved breath. "Fine," he said. "Say it."
He glanced away for a moment, as though checking the hallway for eavesdroppers. Then he stepped in close, lowering his voice.
"There's a cave. Deep in the Wicklow Mountains. You will never find it without knowing where to look. It's… old magic. Hidden. The Thestrals nest there when the moon wanes. But the place is cursed. You'll be walking into something you might not come back from."
Harry met his gaze steadily, despite the tremble in his hands. "Safe hasn't really been an option for me since I was eleven."
Malfoy looked at him for a long moment.
Then his eyes dropped just briefly to the way Harry's arms wrapped tight around his middle, the pallor in his skin, and the tremor in his breath.
His voice, when it came again, was quieter than before. Wary. Strange.
"Be careful, Potter," he said. "That place might finish what this sickness started."
Harry didn't reply.
He was already halfway there.