Chapter 6: Chapter SixChapter TextChapter Six"Pansy Parkinson!" Draco yelled into Pansy's sitting room from where his head floated in the fire. It was always uncomfortable, floo calling like this, on his knees in one place with his head halfway across the country. But he didn't have time to properly visit her, and he had questions.
Camila poked her head into the sitting room.
"Hi, Uncle Draco."
"Why, Pansy, you've shrunk!" Draco exclaimed, and Camila rolled her eyes, giggling at his bad joke. "Is your mother around, Camila?"
Camila nodded, her hair falling into her face. "I'll go get her," she said seriously. She loved being given important tasks. She dashed out of the room on her errand.
Pansy eventually showed up, hair tied messily on the top of her head, clad in a fluffy dressing gown. "You interrupted my bath, you pillock," she scowled at him. "What do you want?"
"Do you know what this is?" Draco asked, and pulled Harry's mysterious music rectangle through the floo, holding it up next to his head. Pansy frowned at it.
"It's a muggle cassette tape," she answered. "It holds music, but muggles don't use them much anymore—where'd you get it?"
"It was a gift," Draco explained vaguely. "How do you get the music out of it?"
Pansy smirked at him. "You put it in a tape player," she replied. "I'll get it out of you eventually, you know. You're shit at keeping things from me."
"Whatever," Draco waved the cassette tape dismissively. "Where can I find one of these 'tape players?'"
"Any muggle electronics store, but that would require you to talk to muggles, wouldn't it?" Pansy's smile was devious, and Draco knew he'd have to make a bargain. Slytherin habits never died.
"I'll let you listen to it, if you can help me figure out how to play it," he offered. Pansy rolled her eyes.
"Boring," she sighed. "I have a boombox in my attic somewhere—never liked it as much as the vinyls. I'll bring it over whenever I find it."
Draco raised his eyebrows. "Boombox?" he repeated. "Sounds dangerous. Why would the muggles require explosions to play music?"
Pansy laughed. "I thought the same thing, when the muggle at the shop sold it to me. I handled it like a volatile cauldron for weeks, before I realized it's quite benign. I think they call it that because it emphasizes the bass in the music, or something."
"Odd," Draco muttered. "Well, thank you. Enjoy your bath, I'm off to my mother's for tea."
"Good luck," Pansy said, widening her eyes. Draco huffed, and pulled himself out of his fireplace.
He stood up from where he knelt in front of the grate, and dusted off his knees. He placed the odd cassette tape back on the shelf next to his records, and adjusted his suit jacket, smoothing out nonexistent wrinkles in his waistcoat. It was a bit of a statement for him to wear anything other than robes to the Manor—it asserted his independence, and would hopefully reaffirm to his mother that he indeed did not belong there. He took deep breaths, trying to calm his racing pulse. I'm just visiting Mother, he reminded himself. It's just tea, and then it will be over.
He grabbed another handful of floo powder from a small pot on the mantle, and threw it into the fire. Green flames whooshed from the grate, and he stepped in. "Malfoy Manor," he called out, ignoring the sinking feeling in his stomach.
After a twisting journey of being pulled past hundreds of fireplaces, he finally landed gracefully in the receiving room of the Manor. He'd been taught early on how to use the floo without getting a speck of soot on him, and his parents had made him practice until he stopped stumbling out of it. He took another deep breath and made his way out of the room, taking the familiar path to the conservatory, where Narcissa always preferred to have tea.
His eyes darted around every corridor and doorway nervously. He would probably never stop feeling unsafe, in his childhood home, after what it had seen. They could scrub the blood out of the stone, but they couldn't scrub out the memories or the nightmares, or the unnatural, heavy weight of Dark Magic residue. Draco had only become more sensitive to it with his training—another thing his mother didn't understand.
As he neared the entrance to the conservatory, he saw that the door was cracked open, and he could hear multiple voices beyond it. Draco inhaled sharply—he had not agreed to additional guests.
He pushed open the door fully, disgruntled and tense, and nearly drew his wand on the woman he saw sitting across from his mother. She looked almost exactly like Bellatrix, and his instincts told him to run—but Draco paused, looking closer, and saw that her hair wasn't as dark, her eyes were softer. She held herself differently, calmer, and she was definitely wearing muggle jeans and a cable knit jumper, which Bellatrix wouldn't have been caught dead in. He let himself examine her magical aura, just in case—the woman's magic was gentle, probably a homemaker, definitely a mother, and it felt a little sad. It smelled like snow, and strong tea. Definitely not Bellatrix, Draco decided, shoulders relaxing. Andromeda, he realized.
The two women were deep in discussion, murmuring quietly. Draco moved further into the room, and they snapped their heads towards him as they noticed him.
"Draco," his mother smiled, standing from her seat and holding out her hands to him. Draco smiled and felt a tiny jolt of warmth as he went to her, kissing her cheek. Yes, it was worth it, the anxiety of visiting the Manor, as long as he could see his mother.
"Draco, this is your Aunt—my sister, Andromeda," Narcissa introduced, waving a graceful hand towards the other woman, who remained seated, watching their interaction with sad eyes and a soft smile. She held out her hand to him, and Draco took it and kissed it gingerly. She had the same slender hands as Narcissa—a gene that had passed to Draco, too.
"A pleasure, Aunt," Draco said quietly, still studying her face, marveling at the fact that this woman was family, and she wasn't sneering at him, or attacking him, or serving him up to the Dark Lord. He felt a little spark of hope in his chest.
"Likewise," Andromeda replied, studying him just as closely. "I've heard so much about you, nephew." Her brown eyes twinkled.
Draco had a brief moment of realization that she may have been hearing about him from Harry, as well as Narcissa, and felt a bit manic with how much he wanted to know what Harry would have told her. But he couldn't ask, would never say a word about it.
He didn't have time to dwell on it, however, because at that moment, a small human with a full head of turquoise hair came dashing around the fountain in the middle of the huge, plant-filled, glass room, stopping in front of Andromeda and holding up something wiggly and potato-shaped in his hand.
"Gran! I caught one! Look!" the boy exclaimed, panting. Draco stared at him in shock. It was a wonder he hadn't panicked or jumped at the sudden intrusion—Andromeda apparently had a very calming effect.
A tiny, grumpy garden gnome was struggling in the boy's grip. Draco assumed whatever it was communicating in its little grunts and squeaks was colourful language, not suitable for children, but no one could understand it anyway.
"You should give it to a house elf, Teddy," Andromeda instructed. "They'll know what to do with it, and your Aunt Cissy is probably hoping to avoid an infestation in her gardens."
"I am impressed you managed to catch one, Teddy," Narcissa commented, smiling fondly and snapping her fingers to summon one of the house elves. "They're always too quick for me."
Teddy, who couldn't have been more than eight years old, handed over his prize dejectedly. His turquoise hair fell in soft waves around his face—a face quite similar to Professor Lupin's, Draco noticed. His knees and hands were covered in dirt.
Teddy looked up, eyes widening as he finally realized Draco was there, and Draco noticed his eyes were the exact same shade of green as Harry's. He gave the boy a soft smile, surprisingly nervous.
"Teddy, this is your cousin, Draco," Andromeda motioned towards Draco with her hand. "Aunt Cissy's son."
Teddy schooled his little face into a serious expression, and thrust out his hand. Andromeda discreetly cast a cleaning charm on it from under the table. "Pleasure to meet you," he spoke clearly, in his best efforts at maturity, and Draco was terribly endeared. He took Teddy's hand and shook it gently.
"The pleasure is mine, Teddy," he grinned. "You must have excellent reflexes if you caught one of those wily gnomes. Do you play Quidditch?"
Teddy's face lit up, and his eye colour melted from leafy green to frosty grey, matching Draco's. Draco huffed a delighted laugh as he watched—he had never actually seen a Metamorphmagus change in person.
"Yeah! I want to be a Seeker, like my godfather, but Gran won't let me have a real broom yet, and the toy one I have really isn't quick enough to play Seeker, so I'm usually a Chaser when we play at the Weasley's, which is still fun of course, I'm really good at scoring goals, Aunt Ginny says I could definitely be a professional like her one day, but I wouldn't want to play for the Harpies like her, my favourite team is the Falmouth Falcons, what's your favourite team?"
Teddy spoke a mile a minute, practically bouncing with excitement, and Draco had the sudden urge to go out and buy him a broom, right then and there. He quelled it quickly. Andromeda was right, of course, eight was much too young for a real broom. But Teddy's energy was infectious, and Draco wanted to fuel his happiness.
"I'm a Falcons fan, myself," Draco said. "They're not doing too well, this season, but we know they'll turn it around." He gave Teddy a private grin.
"I know! Uncle Harry says it's because their new Chasers aren't in sync with—"
"Time to go, Teddy," Andromeda interrupted quietly. "Harry's coming over for tea, soon, remember?"
"Oh! Right!" Teddy jumped, and his hair swiftly morphed into chaotic black curls. His eyes remained a mirror image of Draco's. Draco was utterly charmed.
"It was lovely to meet you, Teddy," Draco said. "I'm sure we'll meet again—maybe we'll have time for a Seeker's game, next time." He was careful not to include any reference of when they would meet again, not entirely sure if it would actually happen, though he wanted it to. Teddy grinned up at him, nodding with excitement.
Draco looked over at Andromeda, who was watching the pair of them fondly. Teddy turned to Narcissa, schooling his face into that serious expression, and Narcissa's lips barely twitched in amusement. She held out her hand to Teddy, who took it in his own and bowed his little head over it. "Lovely to see you, Aunt Cissy," he said earnestly, and Draco pressed his lips together to hold back a giggle.
"I enjoyed our visit, Teddy," Narcissa smiled at him. "I look forward to the next one." She turned to her sister, holding out the hand Teddy had just released. Andromeda took it and squeezed it gently, and they grinned softly at each other. Narcissa seemed just as awed at the prospect of family as Draco did.
They walked Andromeda and Teddy to the floo, and Draco was bewildered by the carefree joy that was Teddy skipping down the dank, oppressive corridors of Malfoy Manor. The juxtaposition was absolutely baffling.
When the green flames had died down in the fireplace, Narcissa turned to Draco, amusement in her eyes.
"I know you're wondering, and yes, Draco, you did look just like that when you were showing off your manners at that age," she smirked at him.
"I charmed every adult in the room, you mean, while also amusing them with my efforts?"
"Most assuredly," Narcissa replied, her smirk widening into a full smile as she took his arm. "I'm sorry to have surprised you like that, I must have lost track of time."
"No need to apologize," Draco said, even though he hated being caught off guard. "I was happy to meet them."
"You were wonderful with him," Narcissa sighed wistfully. "You'll make an amazing father, one day."
Draco kept his mouth shut. And so it begins.
They settled back at the small table in the conservatory, which had been set for tea by the house elves in their absence. They chatted idly about their lives, Draco purposefully vague as always, Narcissa sneaking in hints about settling down and how lovely the Manor is lately.
"Draco," Narcissa began after a long pause. "You—you haven't heard from your father, lately, have you?"
Draco's eyebrows shot up. "You must know I haven't," he replied, "as you probably know I plan to keep it that way."
If Draco hadn't known her so well, he would have missed the way her shoulders sagged, ever so slightly, in disappointment. Narcissa was the perfect archetype of pureblood nobility—distant and cold, the epitome of grace and poise, never showing any signs of weakness. She was always difficult to read, even to her family, but Draco knew her better than anyone—except maybe Lucius.
"He's stopped responding to my letters," Narcissa said quietly, not meeting Draco's eyes. Draco set his teacup down on the table.
He knew that his parents loved each other—at least that Narcissa loved Lucius, even with everything he had put their family through. Draco was still unsure if Lucius was truly capable of love, but even if he wasn't, he had played the part of doting husband well, before the Dark Lord's return. Draco shuddered as he remembered experiencing Harry's memories of that night, of Lucius' jeers in the graveyard.
"How long ago?" Draco asked, unsure of what else to say, since good riddance was out of the question.
"Six months," Narcissa replied, and Draco raised his eyebrows again in shock, staring at his mother across the table.
That could have meant any number of things. Lucius had about twelve years left of his sentence. He may have finally lost his mind, in Azkaban—even with the dementors evicted, it was a horrible, hopeless place. He may have fallen ill, too ill to write a letter. Narcissa's letters might have been intercepted. Or, Lucius may have simply bored with their correspondence, and given up on it.
Whatever the reason, Draco gathered that only one aspect of this bit of news was important to him: his mother was grieving, and she had been grieving for months now, and she had kept it from him, knowing how he felt about his father.
Draco reached across the ornately wrought table, and carefully took his mother's hand in his, holding it gently. Narcissa managed a soft smile, but her eyes were wet.
"I'm sorry, Mother," he murmured, holding her gaze with his own. He wasn't sorry about Lucius, and Narcissa knew that. He was sorry that his mother was in pain, and hadn't felt she could confide in Draco.
Narcissa nodded shortly. "I know the chances of you hearing from him are slim, but if you do, will you…?" She trailed off, subtly wiping the corner of her eye, and Draco was slightly stunned by how disjointed she seemed, when she was normally so cool and collected.
"I will," Draco replied, though he knew the chances were less than slim. If Lucius wouldn't speak to his devoted wife, he certainly wouldn't deign to reach out to his disappointing, working, gay son. With a jolt, Draco realized Lucius would now classify him as a blood traitor, as well, with how he hadn't identified Harry at the Manor during the War, and the donations he made regularly to charities supporting Muggleborn integration and orphans of the War. The thought made him feel somewhat accomplished.
Narcissa changed the subject, back to the safe topic of their respective gardens, and they finished their visit without another mention of Lucius. Though he loved his mother, Draco still breathed a sigh of relief when he stepped out of his floo into his own sitting room.
***
"I met your godson, yesterday," Draco mentioned as they settled themselves in their usual chairs. He wondered idly if he'd ever see that chair as anything other than Harry's chair. He watched Harry for his reaction, still slightly worried that he would be angry at the thought of Teddy visiting Malfoy Manor. Draco certainly never wanted Camila to step foot there, but perhaps that was his own baggage. Harry's last visit there hadn't been a very long one, after all.
Harry only smiled, and looked at Draco curiously. Draco returned the grin.
"He's a very charming boy," he remarked. "My mother is smitten."
Harry huffed a gentle laugh, nodding, smiling affectionately at the thought of his godson.
Draco watched him for a moment. "I'll admit I was surprised to see him and Andromeda at the Manor," he said, trying to convey the rest of his thoughts nonverbally, hoping that he wouldn't have to say with my mother, Lucius' wife or after everything you went through there out loud.
Draco was successful, apparently, because Harry picked up his notebook and pen, opening it to a blank page to write.
I was nervous, but I trust your mother, and Andy
Draco raised his eyebrows—Harry trusted Narcissa Malfoy?—but didn't question it. Narcissa clearly loved visiting with her sister and grand-nephew, and without her husband's correspondence, Draco wanted her to have company whenever possible.
"Alright," Draco said. "I was delighted to meet them, regardless."
Harry grinned at him again, crossing his ankle over his knee. He looked so relaxed, here in Draco's study, and Draco felt another moment of incredulity, at the surreality of that fact. His life had changed so drastically over the past couple of weeks, even though he was only doing his job—but he was doing that job with Harry, and even the fact that Draco called him Harry now, when less than a month ago he was facing a furious Potter in a hospital bed for the first time after eight years, was enough to make him feel a bit dizzy.
"Ready to get to work?" Draco asked. Harry nodded, sitting up properly in his chair. Draco led him through his meditation, even though Harry already seemed plenty calm and content.
"Alright, fifth year," Draco mumbled, preparing himself. He raised his wand, waited for Harry's nod, and cast himself into Harry's head. Harry had brought him to the very end of fourth year, where they had left off last time.
A large, shaggy black dog holds vigilance by Harry's bedside in the hospital wing.
Molly Weasley is hugging him fiercely—like a mother. Harry's body is shaking with suppressed sobs.
"Take it," Harry says, handing his winnings to an appalled Fred and George. "Use it to start that joke shop. I have a feeling we'll all be needing some laughs, soon."
Harry receives no letters at Privet Drive. He scours the muggle newspapers for any scrap of news. He feels abandoned, and resentful.
Draco noticed that these memories felt a bit different than before—a little darker, a little angrier, a little… older. Which, of course, Harry felt older in these memories, because he was a little bit older. But Harry felt older than fifteen, somehow. Draco continued skimming.
A pair of dementors ambush him and his cousin. Harry has no choice. "Expecto Patronum!"
"We're sorry, Harry, but Dumbledore made us promise not to say anything to you," Hermione says, and Harry feels that sharp abandonment again.
"But I'm the one who saw Voldemort return, I'm the one who fought him!" he yells.
Harry sits in the chair on the floor of Courtroom Ten. The Wizengamot seems determined to expel him. Dumbledore defends him from a chintz armchair, and never looks at him. To Fudge's great distress, Harry is cleared of all charges.
Draco finally recognized the underlying emotion in these memories as that of opposition. Harry feels like he is fighting everyone and everything—fighting dementors to survive, fighting his friends about keeping him in the dark, fighting the adults for keeping him out of the Order of the Phoenix, fighting the Wizengamot to be able to go back to school, fighting Dumbledore for ignoring him, fighting the public for not believing him… Draco buckled down, knowing that Harry will probably feel this way for a long time. The memories flashed to Hogwarts, to Umbridge, to Harry yelling at her in the middle of class, until finally the silvery glow appeared in Draco's peripheral. "Here we go," Draco whispered, seizing the glow.
"You're going to do some lines for me, Mr. Potter. I want you to write, 'I must not tell lies.'" Umbridge's voice is sickly sweet. Harry hates it. He picks up the dark quill in front of him.
"How many times?" Harry asks.
"As many times as it takes for the message to… sink in."
Harry rolls his eyes behind her back. "You haven't given me any ink," he says.
"Oh, you won't need any ink," She replies, a hint of a laugh in her voice. Harry places the tip of the quill onto the parchment, and starts to write.
As he finishes the first line, he gasps with pain. The words appeared on the parchment, shiny and red, and at the same time, they had carved themselves into the skin on the back of Harry's right hand, as though traced by a scalpel. Seconds later, the cuts healed over, leaving the skin red and irritated, but smooth.
"Something wrong?" Umbridge smiles. Harry stares at her, astonished.
"No," he mumbles finally. "Nothing."
Harry looks down to the parchment, and continues to write, over and over. Blood drips down the back of his hand.
Draco pulled away as the memory ended, quickly labeling a new dot on the chalkboard "Umbridge's Punishment". He touched his hair, rubbed the tops of his thighs. When he looked up, Harry's face was grim, and he was absently rubbing the scars on the back of his right hand.
Draco took down his walls slowly, letting the rage and disgust and regret trickle through him gradually, which was easier than enduring it all at once.
"They tried you in front of the full court, in the Death Eater courtroom, for underage magic?" Draco asked.
Harry nodded, rolling his eyes faintly.
Draco shook his head slowly. He clenched his jaw to keep from speaking his honest thoughts—like when has the Ministry ever helped you, instead of using you or blaming you?
Draco sighed, and caught a glimpse of the thin, jagged scars on Harry's hand. He motioned toward them with his head, and met Harry's eyes. "May I?"
Harry slowly lifted his right hand off of his lap, and held it out in front of him. Draco took it gingerly with both of his hands, feeling the warmth and strength and chapped skin against his fingers, softer than he'd thought it would be. He examined the scars on the back of Harry's hand: I must not tell lies.
Draco gently ran his thumb over the raised lines, and was casually fascinated by the juxtaposition of their hands, together. Draco's fingers were long and slender, his skin pale and soft with only the occasional broom callous. Harry's fingers were shorter, but his hand was stronger, rougher. The skin of his palm was a slightly lighter shade than the rest of his hand, and there were more scars than Draco had seen, at first—all shapes and sizes, all over his arms, and Draco knew the stories of some of them, now. His hand moved to Harry's wrist, feeling the quickening pulse beneath his fingertips, the light dusting of dark hair on Harry's forearm, the muscle tensing beneath the bronze skin. A work of art, his brain supplied out of nowhere, and he felt a barely-there twist in his abdomen.
That effectively snapped Draco out of his daze, and he blinked, trying not to drop Harry's hand too quickly. He could feel a traitorous blush on his cheeks, spreading down his neck. What a ridiculous thing to think.
"She must have made you do that quite often, for it to scar like that," Draco said, finally. Harry nodded, his hand back in his lap, fidgeting awkwardly. Draco saw his own blush mirrored on Harry's face, and felt a little better.
"Why do you think your mind chose that memory specifically?"
Draco grabbed his own notebook and reading glasses, giving Harry time to think and write, and giving himself time to cool down. He had a feeling it would be a few minutes. He was right—he had filled a couple of pages with his own notes by the time Harry turned his notebook around, but the answer was shorter than he'd expected.
It wasn't simple anymore
"Oh," Draco breathed, the gears turning in his mind. He sat back for a moment, taking off his glasses, eyes closed as he worked on solving this particular puzzle.
"At that moment it was a private battle of wills, wasn't it? You wouldn't ever have given her the satisfaction of knowing she got to you. But you also knew it was bigger than that… because she was the hand of the Ministry. It wasn't just you versus Voldemort, anymore, or a simple matter of what was right or fair or not. It was bigger than just you—the fight became political. Is that what you mean?"
Harry nodded, and he seemed almost proud that Draco had understood it. Harry adjusted his pen in his hand, and wrote something else.
I don't lie
"That, I don't doubt," Draco muttered, shaking his head. "Though you obviously hadn't told a lie in the first place. To be fair, you never were much of a liar to begin with," he smirked. "You're a painfully honest person, Harry. It's a good thing you chose Gryffindor, Slytherin would have eaten you alive."
Harry scoffed, rolling his eyes again. Draco smiled. He was too easy to tease.
"Ready for one more?" he asked, raising his wand. He took a moment to build up his Occlumency defenses—he knew Lucius would make an appearance this year, and he refused to allow his own emotional turmoil to taint Harry's already-too-intense memories.
Harry sat up, taking a couple deep breaths, and gave Draco a meaningful look before he nodded. Draco took it as a warning. "Legilimens."
A dream but too real—Harry is a snake, attacking Arthur Weasley. He wakes with a shout, shaking and covered with sweat, and is rushed to the Headmaster's office.
Sirius is humming Christmas songs around Grimmauld Place, which is overflowing with decorations. Harry has never seen Sirius so happy.
"I'm so angry, all the time… what if, something went wrong with me? After everything… what if I'm becoming bad?" Harry asks, fumbling over his words.
"The world isn't split into good people and Death Eaters, Harry," Sirius answers. "We've all got light and dark inside of us. It's the part we choose to act on, that matters." He puts his hands on Harry's shoulders and meets his gaze intently, and Harry loves this man, his only family. "There is nothing wrong with you, Harry," Sirius says firmly.
Harry is watching a memory of Cho Chang kissing him under the mistletoe—he tries desperately to push Snape out of his head, and feels a sharp pain in his knee. He's fallen to the floor.
"You will need more discipline than this," Snape says coldly.
Draco continued his search. Snape's Occlumency lessons really were useless—did he really think Harry would understand just "disciplining the mind"? Harry had probably never learned anything by following a vague instruction. He was too kinetic, too tactile—he had to see it first, he learned by doing. But Snape hadn't seemed to care, even though he'd taught Harry for years.
Harry is watching a memory Snape had hidden from him. Harry's father is bullying Snape mercilessly after an exam… out of boredom. Harry is horrified—he knows exactly how Snape feels in this position, and apparently, Harry's father was every bit as arrogant as Snape had always told him.
Draco is stomping after him on the pitch, spitting insults. "Or maybe you can remember what yourmother's house stank like, and Weasley's pigsty reminds you of it—" He sneers venomously, and Harry lunges for him.
Harry falls asleep in the middle of an exam, and experiences another too-real dream, this time of Sirius—Voldemort is torturing him in a hall filled with glowing glass orbs.
"The Cruciatus ought to loosen your tongue," Umbridge murmurs.
"Filthy half-breeds!" Umbridge shrieks, and the centaurs charge, seizing her effortlessly, carrying her away. She's screaming at them.
"Tell them, Potter! Tell them I mean no harm!"
"I'm sorry, Professor," Harry says. "I must not tell lies."
The memories were becoming more rushed, more intense, more vibrant, and Draco knew that meant something particularly horrible was coming up. The images flashed past him on their own, now—Harry was remembering it all clearly, himself, without Draco's assistance. Draco held his Occlumency walls, maintained his presence as a spectator in Harry's head, and kept watch for the telltale glow.
"Harry, it's got your name on," Ron says, pointing at a shelf of glowing glass orbs. Harry picks up the dusty sphere, tagged with his name.
Lucius' drawling voice emerges suddenly, right behind them. "Very good, Potter. Now turn around, nice and slowly, and give that to me."
"So he wanted me to come and get it? Why?" Harry is stalling for time. He feels his friends tensing with adrenaline around him.
"Because the only people permitted to retrieve a prophecy from the Department of Mysteries, Potter, are those about whom it was made." Lucius sounds incredulously delighted.
"NOW!" Harry bellows, and six different Reductor curses hit the shelves of spheres. Shards of glass and shelves are thundering down on them.
A stunner hits a cabinet of time turners. It falls, shatters, rises up again, repairs itself, falls and shatters again…
A Death Eater slashes his wand across Hermione's chest in purple flame. She gasps, and crumples to the floor.
Harry runs, desperately trying to draw the Death Eaters away from his injured friends.
Neville screams under Bellatrix's Cruciatus.
Doors burst open—Sirius, Remus, Moody, Kingsley, and Tonks sprint into the room, joining the fray.
"Harry, take the prophecy, grab Neville, and run!" Sirius yells, running to face Bellatrix.
Dumbledore stands in a doorway, his wand aloft, his face white and furious.
"Come on, you can do better than that!" Sirius is laughing at Bellatrix. The next jet of green light hits him square in the chest. The laughter freezes on his face, his eyes are wide in shock—he falls backwards, through the ragged veil of the stone archway on the dais.
"SIRIUS!" Harry screams. Remus grabs hold of him. He doesn't stop screaming, struggling against Remus' arms.
Draco was panting and shaking with adrenaline—Occlumency couldn't protect from his own physical reactions. He felt something warm and strong in his left hand, gripping him and trembling, and knew he'd probably unconsciously reached for Harry's hand again. But he had a feeling Harry needed it, too, an anchor to the real world. Draco couldn't stop now—he could feel more than see the next breadcrumb, so close, nearly there. It couldn't get much worse than this, right?
Harry is chasing Bellatrix through the Ministry Atrium, grief and fury in his veins.
"So, you smashed my prophecy?" Voldemort says softly. "No, Bella, he is not lying… I see the truth looking at me from inside his worthless mind…"
"It was foolish to come here tonight, Tom," Dumbledore says calmly. The magic of their dueling makes Harry's hair stand on end.
Voldemort vanishes. Harry tries to move. "Stay where you are, Harry!" Dumbledore sounds frightened. Harry doesn't understand why—and then his scar bursts open.
It is pain beyond imagining. Harry is locked in the coils of a creature with red eyes, he doesn't know where he ends and the other begins. They are fused together by pain.
"Kill me now, Dumbledore," The creature speaks, Harry feels his mouth move. "If death is nothing, kill the boy…"
Harry begs internally for death, for the pain to stop, because surely death is nothing compared to this… and he'll see Sirius again…
As Harry's heart fills with emotion, the creature's coils loosen, the pain is gone.
"Hang on, Harry," Draco murmured, his voice wavering. He could feel their hands still gripping each other tightly, he could hear Harry's hoarse breaths. "We're almost there, you're doing great, here it is—" he latched on to the silvery glow, another group of smaller memories, tainted and hazy with grief.
Harry is in the Headmaster's office, filled with rage and grief like he's never known. He is destroying everything he can get his hands on, screaming at Dumbledore, who sits calmly behind his desk. He runs for the door, but it will not open.
"Let me out," Harry says coldly, panting.
"Not until I've had my say," Dumbledore says.
…
The figure of Sybill Trelawney floats above the Pensieve.
"The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches… Born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies… and the Dark Lord shall mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not… and either must die at the hand of the other, for neither can live while the other survives…" Her voice is harsh and hoarse.
…
Harry's breathing feels difficult. "It means—me?"
"The odd thing is, Harry, that it may not have meant you at all. Sybill's prophecy could have applied to two boys, both born at the end of July that year, both of whom had parents in the Order of the Phoenix, both sets of parents having narrowly escaped Voldemort three times. One, of course, was you. The other was Neville Longbottom."
"Then—it might not be me?"
"I am afraid that there is no doubt that it is you." Dumbledore looks pained.
"But you said—"
"You are forgetting the next part of the prophecy, the final identifying feature of the boy who could vanquish Voldemort… Voldemort himself would 'mark him as his equal.' And so he did, Harry. He chose you, not Neville. He gave you the scar that has proved both blessing and curse."
…
"He did not know that you would have 'power the Dark Lord knows not'—"
"But I don't!" says Harry in a strangled voice. "I haven't got any powers he hasn't got, I couldn't fight the way he did tonight, I can't possess people or—or kill them—"
"There is a room in the Department of Mysteries," Dumbledore interrupts, "that is kept locked at all times. It contains a force that is at once more wonderful and more terrible than death… It is the power held within this room that you possess in such quantities and which Voldemort has not at all. That power also saved you from possession by Voldemort, because he could not bear to reside in a body full of the force he detests. In the end, it mattered not that you could not close your mind. It was your heart that saved you."
Harry closes his eyes, filled with grief and guilt and regret. To stave off the moment when he'd have to think about Sirius again, Harry asks, "The end of the prophecy… it was something about 'neither can live…'"
"... while the other survives," Dumbledore finishes.
"So, does that mean that… that one of us has got to kill the other, in the end?"
"Yes," says Dumbledore. Harry sees a single tear rolling down his face into his long silver beard.
Draco gasped as the glow disappeared, and withdrew quickly from Harry's head. They both sagged heavily, breathing hard. Draco felt as if he had just swum the Channel. He knew that Harry would only feel worse, right now. He held tight to Harry's hand.
Draco laid his wand on the side table, and rubbed his thighs with his now-free hand, felt the Mark on his left forearm, traced the scar inside his collar. He felt his own breath moving in and out of his lungs, his own adrenaline slowly funneling out of his body, leaving cold sweat in its wake. His Occlumency barriers came down slowly—he still felt too much.
Harry was watching him, and Draco could so clearly see the grief and regret on his face, in the tear tracks tracing down his cheeks. He wanted nothing more than to reach out and take Harry's face in his hands, to hold him against his chest, to protect him from this pain—pain that Draco had dragged back to the surface, and made Harry feel all over again. Draco clamped his right hand down on his own leg, to keep it from reaching of its own accord.
Draco felt that being made to feel all of Harry's pain secondhand was a fitting punishment for having to put Harry through that again. His own emotions were combined with what he'd absorbed from Harry, and he couldn't tell what pain was his own—he felt a wetness on his cheeks, and when had that happened?
"Harry," Draco said, because he didn't know what else to say, but he had to say something, to try to bring Harry back to the present, alleviate his hurt. Harry let out a shaky breath, still gripping Draco's fingers tightly with his right hand, eyes intent on Draco's face. His left hand reached into the back pocket of his jeans, pulled out a silk handkerchief, and handed it to Draco.
Draco took it, and immediately recognized it as his own—the same handkerchief he'd given Harry at St. Mungo's, that very first day. He huffed with a weak laugh.
"You need this, too, you know," Draco muttered, but he wiped his face anyway. Harry blinked, bringing his free hand to his face and feeling the wetness there. He seemed surprised by it—Draco knew the feeling. He handed the handkerchief back to Harry, who wiped his own face and awkwardly tried to hand it back to Draco. Draco's lips quirked in quiet amusement.
"Keep it, Harry," Draco said. "It's yours."
And with that, Draco finally felt himself return to reality. He looked down at their joined hands. Harry looked, too—his face was curious. Draco carefully pulled his hand away, resting it in his own lap. He lightly rubbed the faint red marks on his fingers, left by the tight grip of Harry's hand.
Draco picked up his wand again, pointing it at the chalkboard. He made a new dot at the end of the line, and labeled it "Hearing the Prophecy".
"That one was pretty self-explanatory—pain and grief like that must have irrevocably changed you, and you finally got the answer you'd been looking for, why it was you that got stuck with being Voldemort's target… it gave you only one path forward, a grim one, at that…" Draco trailed off, frowning to himself as he looked back at Harry.
"Do you have anything to add to it?" Draco asked, and Harry thought for a moment before shaking his head in reply. Draco looked back at their progress on the chalkboard.
"Thirteen," Draco muttered. "We've found thirteen breadcrumbs, so far. Not bad."
Harry took a deep breath, shaking himself. He opened his notebook and picked up his pen.
How many more?
"I don't know, to be honest," Draco replied. "I know we've got the War to get through, now, and there will probably be several in the next two years. But I don't really know what you've been up to since then—only what I've seen in the papers. I can guess there will be much fewer breadcrumbs in the more recent years, because the most formative memories usually occur before full adulthood, and your mind has targeted only the memories that truly shaped who you are as a person."
Harry's mouth twisted in a grimace, and Draco didn't know which part of his answer was the most distasteful. The War memories? The ones after? The amount of work they had ahead of them?
"I'll do a basic mind-viewing, to see if our progress has revealed any sort of trail in your mind—I might be able to see how much of the path is left," Draco offered. "But not now. You need a break, we both do. You must feel as though you've just finished running across the country," he said, and Harry huffed, nodding.
Draco stood slowly. Every muscle in his body felt stiff and exhausted—there was no way they'd be able to fly today, but he knew they could use fresh air, and they both needed a dose of happiness. An idea began to form in his mind.
Draco led the way out of the study, straight to the kitchen, where he could hear Timsy cooking and humming something out of tune quietly to himself. It smelled incredible, and—Draco grinned with anticipation—luxurious. He summoned two water glasses and filled them with his ice-cold lemon aguamenti charm. Harry took a glass gratefully, sitting down across from Draco at the table.
When Timsy served them, it was not something expensive and French as Draco had thought: it was a simple cheese toasty, with sharp cheddar cheese, and a bowl of creamy tomato soup. Draco smiled—only Timsy could make something so simple feel so opulent.
They ate in silence, enjoying the warm, comforting food.
"Come for a walk with me?" Draco asked when they were finished, as Harry stood. Harry nodded, a small, tired grin on his face.
Looking outside, Draco saw a thick coat of fog on the ground. It would probably be chilly. He frowned, thinking. "Timsy," he called.
Timsy appeared next to him with a quiet pop."Yes, Master Draco?"
"Do you know where that—that shirt is, with the…" Draco trailed off, vaguely gesturing, unsure of the terminology to describe a piece of muggle clothing Pansy had made him buy last year, that he knew would be perfect for this weather. Timsy disapparated before he could try to finish his thought, and reappeared a second later with the shirt-jacket in question. It was a deep navy canvas, with large pockets and a sharp collar, lined with shearling wool. The muggle at the high-end menswear shop had called it a "chore shacket" which Draco thought sounded like something dirty, and refused to say aloud.
"Thank you, Timsy," Draco said fondly as he slipped it on, enjoying its warmth. The elf walked away, muttering under his breath, something about "Master has too many clothes, he is never knowing where anything is, never learning, he is filling the whole house…"
He looked back at Harry, who had summoned his own leather jacket while waiting. He was watching the interaction, eyes full of amusement. Draco jerked his head toward the back garden, and led the way outside, crossing the garden to the small trail that led into the old forest around his home.
"Would you like to meet a friend?" Draco asked.
Harry looked shocked and guarded immediately. Draco smirked and amended, "Not a human."
Harry thought it over for a moment, checking that his wand was secure in his pocket, just in case, then shrugged. Draco smiled. "Come on, then."
Draco led him along the narrow trail, deeper into the trees. They could only see a few feet in either direction through the fog, but Draco knew the way innately, and the trail was easy enough to follow. They walked on, over gnarled, weathered roots and a tiny, bubbling creek. The clouds on the ground gave off an eerie feeling, rolling over the bright green grass that sprouted from the undergrowth, the trunks of crooked, moss-covered trees emerging out of the cool grey mist with every step.
Draco soon saw the thick, bowed tree he thought of as "the meeting place," and began whistling a little tune. It was Celestina Warbeck's Curse Breaker, which was a little embarrassing, but it was the first thing he'd thought of, the first time he did this, and he couldn't change it now. Harry raised his eyebrows, cautiously amused.
Soon, he heard the soft patter of careful hooves, and Hera's face appeared around a tree nearby, silhouetted by the fog. The doe looked cautious at the sight of a stranger with Draco, which was understandable. He never brought anyone else with him. He wasn't even sure why he'd brought Harry. He reached into the pocket of his wonderfully warm shirt-jacket, rooting around its extended depths for a moment, before pulling out two carrots, pristine under preservation charms. Timsy must have known where he was headed. Hera's ears perked up, and she slowly began making her way towards them.
"This is Hera," Draco explained, not taking his eyes off of her. "She enjoys carrots and gentle scratches behind her ears." Draco gave her the carrot with a fond smile, and demonstrated the ear scratches. Hera leaned into his hand.
He chanced a look at Harry, expecting to be laughed at or silently ridiculed, but Harry only watched with a delighted smile and sad eyes.
"Honestly, where are your manners? Give the lady a carrot!" Draco teased, offering Harry the second carrot. Hera followed its path with her nose. Harry grinned, taking the carrot and holding it out for an eager Hera, all wariness forgotten between both parties. Harry slowly reached his other hand up to try scratching behind her ears, and almost laughed in disbelieving joy when she leaned into it. Draco wondered when the last time Harry had interacted with an animal was—at least one that wasn't an owl. Speaking of which…
Draco looked up, and sure enough, Bubo the eagle owl had silently appeared on a branch several feet above them, Draco's whistling having alerted him to impending snacks. Bubo was watching them, patiently waiting for his turn, as always. He was a patient bird, but the one time Draco had forgotten to look up after feeding Hera, Bubo had dived down and landed violently on his shoulder, clearly enraged. He still had the scars. Draco never forgot again.
He lifted his arm up, and Bubo gracefully dropped down onto it. Harry looked up in surprise. "This is Bubo," Draco introduced, rooting around in his extended pocket for the pouch of owl treats. "He delivers the post when he feels like it, which isn't often. He spends most of his time out here." Draco opened the pouch and held it up to the owl, who gave a quiet, grateful hoot and began rummaging inside it with his beak.
Harry was watching with another sad smile on his face, still absently petting Hera. Draco thought he was probably remembering his snowy owl—he wondered what had happened to the beautiful bird, but resolved not to ask. He'd most likely find out soon enough, in Harry's head.
Harry met his eyes, and his lips quirked. He mouthed clearly to Draco, Bubo?
Draco gave an embarrassed grin. "Yes, Bubo. I was stuck on what to name him, so I ended up researching as much about eagle owls as I could—the taxonomic name of the eagle owl is literally Bubo Bubo, which I found endlessly entertaining. So, Bubo."
Harry huffed a laugh at that. Bubo finished up his feast, hooted once, and flew back up to his perch. Hera looked back at him with her big, dark eyes, hoping for another carrot, but when he held up his two empty hands, Hera huffed and brushed past him to return to whatever she had been doing before. He gave her a soft pat on the back as she passed.
Draco grinned at Harry, and started walking back towards the house, hands stuffed in the pockets of his shirt-jacket. Harry walked next to him along the trail, which was narrow enough that their elbows kept brushing.
Draco subtly looked over at him occasionally, and each time, Harry's eyes were on the ground in front of him, lost in thought, that tiny, contented smile stuck to his face. It was the brightest thing around, among the heavy, rolling fog.
***
When they got back to the study, Draco decided to be proactive and ask for hot chocolates in preparation for the work. Sixth year had been a shitshow, for him, and he knew it probably would have been for Harry, too. They'd probably need the extra comfort.
Draco gestured to the chalkboard. "I'll do the mind-viewing, now, if you don't mind," he explained, "but while I'm in there, I'd like you to think of all the breadcrumbs we've seen so far, which, yes, I know, is a lot. But they may show themselves as you focus on them, which might help me see a pattern."
Harry gazed at the chalkboard with wide eyes, clearly daunted by the task of memorizing each breadcrumb, even though they were his own memories. Draco twirled his wand in his hand, the pale wood smooth under his fingers, and waited. After a moment, Harry turned back to him, clasping his hands together in his lap and nodding, once. Draco raised his wand.
"Liceat mihi ingressum." Draco's vision fell forward into Harry's head, where he existed somewhere outside of Harry's mind, seeing once more the writhing, glowing, gold and red and green web of thought and magic that made up Harry. Layers upon layers of iridescent strands of pure energy and emotion, shifting and swirling and growing in front of Draco's eyes, filling his vision. He wished Harry could see it, how utterly awe-inspiring the essence of him was. Draco sighed contentedly, enjoying the faint scents of treacle tart and thunderstorms.
As he watched, Harry began his task of focusing on each breadcrumb, and Draco saw miniscule flashes of silver light among the web. He focused on the whole, trying to memorize the image, to recognize a pattern in the bigger picture. Harry's breadcrumbs flashed intermittently.
Draco released the spell, his vision returning to Harry's face. He stood up and quickly walked over to the chalkboard, summoning the nearest piece of chalk.
The chalkboard still took up a large portion of Draco's wall where his bookshelves usually existed. Draco's feeble notes on Who? and Why?were in a small area of the top left corner, and next to that were the incantations of the attacker's curse. But underneath those, Draco had begun the map of breadcrumbs, a long row of labeled dots connected by a single line. There was still a significant amount of empty space beneath it, nearly the entire bottom half of the board, which is where Draco placed the tip of his piece of chalk. He transcribed the mess of glowing dots as closely as he could from his memory, crouched on one knee in front of the wall.
He stood and stepped back, looking at the larger picture again, but they still seemed entirely random, other than being more concentrated and closer together near the top, slightly more sparse and spread out near the bottom.
Harry stepped up next to him—Draco started, he hadn't even heard him move—and frowned at the jumble of thirteen white chalk dots, eyebrows furrowed in concentration. Draco watched him, wondering if he'd recognize any pattern of his own. It was his own mind, after all. But Harry looked as confused as Draco did, running a hand through his wild hair in frustration, pushing it up off of his forehead—
Draco did a double-take, and his head snapped back to the chalkboard—it couldn't be. Seriously?
"Oh, come on," Draco shook his head, his lips twitching in amusement and disbelief. He glanced once more at Harry's forehead—Harry looked even more confused, now. Draco knelt and started tracing the dots like a constellation on the chalkboard, in the pattern he really should have seen, because he knew it too well.
The lines were jagged—one path down from the top, a little diagonally toward the right, branching out once shortly on the left and twice more on the right side, the bottom path on the right just a little longer, further out, the middle path thicker, more uneven, tracing down…
Harry scoffed as he recognized the top half of his lightning bolt scar, and Draco started to laugh.
"Merlin, Harry, you're even a Scarhead in your subconscious mind," he teased. "Do you ever catch a break?"
Harry rolled his eyes at him, the corners of his lips twitching upwards.
"Now this, I don't understand," Draco said, laughter dying down as he stood fully to face Harry. "This curse—or command—was meant to silence you until someone truly knew you for who you are, and not who you are to the Wizarding World, if we take their words literally. Your scar—it's an integral part of you, but it's also the part of you the public sees most prominently. The scar has become a symbol of the Boy Who Lived, the Chosen One, the Saviour. Yet your mind arranged these breadcrumbs in a clear path along this symbol, that's apparently supposed to be separate from you, Harry, as a person…"
Harry watched Draco puzzle it out to himself, his arms crossed over his chest. He seemed to be waiting for something.
"...but the scar was yours, before it was theirs," Draco mumbled, frowning, pieces clicking together in his own mind. "And when it became a symbol of the Boy Who Lived, followed by the Chosen One, followed by the Saviour… you still took up the mantle, each time, even when it was thrust upon you. Because you had to—that's just who you are,how you've always been. You're the Chosen One and the Saviour, the same way you were the protector of the Sorcerer's Stone when you were eleven. You had to take up the role, own the scar and all it represented, because no one else would..."
Harry looked torn between anxious and impressed, staring up at Draco with wide eyes behind the round frames of his glasses. Draco's eyes were glued to his face, watching and even hoping for a denial, a debate. For some reason, it didn't feel good, confirming how deeply entrenched Harry was in the role of hero—yes, he felt he had to, but did he actually want to?
Harry said nothing, of course, didn't move his head an inch, didn't take his eyes off of Draco's—so fucking green, so intense, brimming with words he could not communicate. Draco cleared his throat after a moment, looking back to the board.
"Well, it's a little over halfway finished, which is great progress, considering this is only week three," Draco observed, shifting the mood. He put his chalk down, and walked back towards the wingback chairs.
"You may still be tired from earlier, so it's alright if you can't control your thoughts as well. Don't overextend yourself," Draco said, eyes closed, hands on his knees, breathing deeply. He didn't have to see Harry to know he was doing the same, nor did he need to see Harry nod to acknowledge Draco's prefacing.
Draco kept them meditating for much longer than before—it gave him time to strengthen his Occlumency barriers again, and prepare himself for what he knew he would see.
When he opened his eyes and met Harry's gaze, he saw that Harry's face was tense, but resigned. That was probably as good as Draco was going to get. He raised his wand, holding it delicately, and aimed it at Harry's head. "Legilimens."
"Draco, Draco, you are not a killer." Dumbledore smiles.
Draco heard himself gasp, a physical reaction he could not have prevented. This wasn't in order—Harry was indeed too tired to convey the memories chronologically. Draco quickly took the reins, pushing them back to the end of fifth year, where they had left off. With Draco in control, the memories played out efficiently and chronologically, which would at least allow Draco some warning before seeing something traumatic, in memories he shared with Harry.
"Professor Slughorn will try to collect you, Harry," Dumbledore says.
Harry is spying on Draco in Borgin and Burke's. "Why don't you bring it into the shop?" Borgin asks.
"I can't," Draco says. "It's got to stay put. I just need you to tell me how to fix it."
Draco stamps hard on Harry's face, breaking his nose.
"That's from my father. Enjoy the train ride back to London." He throws the Invisibility Cloak over Harry's frozen body.
Sweet Merlin, Draco hoped that Harry focused on something else this year, even though he knew, from experience, he probably wouldn't. There really was no way to prepare for seeing the worst of himself through someone else's eyes. Meditation and Occlumency could only do so much.
'This book is the property of the Half-Blood Prince,' the narrow handwriting on the inside cover of the potions textbook reads.
Harry and Dumbledore are watching someone else's memories in a Pensieve.
Katie Bell is floating six feet in the air, screaming. She falls to the ground with a heavy thud, and remains still.
"It was Malfoy," Harry says, and his friends sigh and inch away from him. The professors stare at him, shocked. No one believes him.
Draco could feel his left hand shaking in his lap, but carried on.
In Harry's bed in the Gryffindor dormitory, he is watching Draco's footprints traverse the seventh floor corridor on the Marauder's Map. The footprints suddenly turn and vanish, and Harry curses.
"So you're not 'the Chosen One'?" Scrimgeour asks.
"I thought you said it didn't matter either way?" Harry says, with a bitter laugh. "Not to you, anyway."
"I shouldn't have said that," Scrimgeour says quickly. "It was tactless—"
"No, it was honest," Harry interrupts. "One of the only honest things you've said to me. You don't care whether I live or die, but you do care that I help you convince everyone you're winning the war against Voldemort. I haven't forgotten, Minister…" he holds up his right fist, displaying the scars Umbridge had made him carve into his own flesh: I must not tell lies.
Ron is on the ground, twitching and frothing at the mouth. Harry shoves a bezoar down his throat, and he goes still.
Draco was piling up his mountain of regrets and guilt and fear behind his Occlumency barriers. He really wished they could have skipped this year.
Harry is staring at Draco across the Great Hall, again. Draco looks ill, lifeless. "You're obsessed, Harry," Ron sighs.
"Seven?" Memory-Slughorn is appalled. "Merlin's beard, Tom, the thought of killing one person is bad enough, but to rip the soul into seven pieces…"
"You think he succeeded then, sir?" Harry asks. "He made a Horcrux? And that's why he didn't die when he attacked me? A bit of his soul was safe?"
"A bit… or more," Dumbledore says.
"It is essential that you understand this!" Dumbledore says in agitation, standing up and striding about his office. "By attempting to kill you, Voldemort himself singled out the remarkable person who sits here in front of me, and gave him the tools for the job! ...and yet, Harry, despite your privileged insight into Voldemort's world, you have never been seduced by the Dark Arts, never, even for a second, shown the slightest desire to become one of Voldemort's followers!"
"Of course I haven't!" Harry says indignantly. "He killed my mum and dad!"
"You are protected, in short, by your ability to love!"
"I see it," Draco announced, grateful for the sight of a destination in the telltale glow in his peripheral vision. He pushed a bit more of his magic through his wand, forcing his right hand to remain steady. "Here we go—"
But as he tried to latch onto it, he felt a hard, intangible shove. The silvery glow vanished, and memories swirled around him haphazardly, almost desperately, disorienting him. Draco cursed under his breath. "Lost it," he grumbled. "Hang on, I'll find it…"
But he was pushed forward along the long line of memories, feeling as if he was being dragged along by a strong current. He couldn't get a grip on them anymore, not without hurting Harry, and had to resign himself to being carried along this frustrating mental river.
Ginny is running towards him, a fiery look in her eyes. Harry catches her in his arms, kissing her soundly.
In the middle of a dark cave, surrounded by water, Harry forces Dumbledore to drink the last of the potion. "Water," Dumbledore begs, barely conscious. Harry tries an aguamenti, but the goblet won't hold it—he has no choice. He walks to the edge of the water and dips the goblet in. A cold, slimy hand shoots out and grabs his wrist, and suddenly, the water is churning with Inferi.
Draco's wand hand is shaking terribly. Harry is still frozen in Dumbledore's body bind, under his Invisibility Cloak.
"No, Draco," Dumbledore says quietly. "It is my mercy, and not yours, that matters now."
Draco's face is full of terror. He lowers his wand a fraction—
And the door bursts open, four Death Eaters buffeting him out of the way.
"Avada Kedavra!" The jet of green light from Snape's wand hits Dumbledore in the chest, and he falls over the battlements and out of sight.
"Okay, I see another," Draco observed. This time, he had no trouble latching on to the silvery glow of the breadcrumb, and forcing it to play out in front of him:
Harry is kneeling next to Dumbledore's broken body. The gathering crowd is murmuring and crying around him. He feels something hard under his knee, and picks up the locket that they had gone through so much trouble to retrieve.
But something is wrong—this is not the locket Harry had seen in the Pensieve memories, and when he opens it, all he sees is a folded up piece of parchment. He opens it, and reads:
'To the Dark Lord
I know I will be dead long before you read this but I want you to know it was I who discovered your secret. I have stolen the real Horcrux and intend to destroy it as soon as I can. I face death in the hope that when you meet your match, you will be mortal once more.
R.A.B.'
Harry crumples the parchment in his hand, and his eyes burn with tears as behind him Fang begins to howl.
Draco finally, gratefully, withdrew from Harry's head. His left hand was still shaking in his lap, and his breathing was hoarse and shallow, but he pointed his wand at the chalkboard, adding two more dots to the long train of memories. He left the first one blank, for the moment, and labeled the second one "Dumbledore Death - Fake Locket" because he couldn't bring himself to write the word 'Horcrux'. Slowly, his Occlumency barriers came down, and his reactions and emotions came flooding through.
He nearly doubled over with the force of them, and dropped his head into his hands, his fingers gripping tightly to his hair. He tried to focus on his breathing, but the emotions had to run through him, first. His muscles were tensing randomly—he had no choice but to ride this out.
He had known that Harry had been there, that night on the astronomy tower, only because Harry himself had said so in his testimony—he had told the court that Draco couldn't kill, that he had lowered his wand. But it was one thing to hear about it, and quite another to have to watch it play out through Harry's eyes. Draco had been so unbelievably terrified—he knew he couldn't kill anyone, but he couldn't see any other way out of it.
Draco hadn't seen Dumbledore's body, afterward—broken and dead from the curse and subsequent fall. Harry had knelt there, next to him, for so long… and seeing the locket they had worked so hard for, that wasn't even a real Horcrux—
And Horcruxes? Draco had read something terribly vague about them in one of Lucius's old Dark Arts books, when he was younger. He hadn't really understood it. The thought of ripping his soul had nearly made him lose his lunch—he hadn't gone digging through Lucius' Dark texts again, after that. And Voldemort had shredded his soul into—
"Seven pieces…" Draco mumbled aloud. He loosened his grip on his hair, looking up at Harry, who looked anxious and in pain. "He ripped his soul into seven pieces…?"
Harry nodded shortly, eyes searching Draco's face again.
"That's sick," Draco said quietly, closing his eyes against the wave of nausea. "One Horcr—" Draco grimaced. "One of them is horrific enough, but six…"
Harry grabbed his notebook off of the table to write:
You know about them?
Draco nodded, mouth still twisted in disgust. "Read about them, once, in Lucius' library." Harry started writing again.
No one else can know
Draco frowned at him. "Obviously, Harry," he said. "The less people that know about them, the better… not to mention, I told you that nothing would leave this room. I'm bound by patient confidentiality, but even if I wasn't, I wouldn't betray your trust."
Harry's face was serious, but he gave a tentative nod. Draco decided to move on.
"Can I take a guess?" he asked, gesturing vaguely toward the new dots on the chalkboard. Harry shrugged at him, nonchalant—that was odd, but Draco decided not to mention it.
"I think your mind chose that moment because it illustrated the vastness of the task ahead of you," Draco tried, eyebrows furrowing as his brain worked. "It was the first time you realized the work it would take, the sacrifices you would have to make, and what it would cost not only you, but the people close to you. Is that it?"
Harry's face twisted in misery. He looked away from Draco, staring into the fireplace, but nodded eventually. Draco sighed deeply—that part of the work was over. Now, it was time to figure out that other breadcrumb he'd missed.
What had happened was so peculiar, he'd never been shoved around like that while in someone's head. Draco knew there were some parts of sixth year he hadn't seen in Harry's head, like the many times Draco knew Harry had been following him around, watching him. He'd had to work twice as hard just to avoid Harry, that year, but Harry always seemed to find him anyway—
Draco's eyes flew open, looking shrewdly at Harry, whose gaze was still on the fireplace, his chin propped in his hand, half-covering his pursed lips. Harry's entire body was tense, and though Draco could see grief in the lines of his face, his body language was agitated, and apprehensive. He was afraid, and his body was rigid, as if preparing for a fight. Even when he couldn't say a single word, even by omission, Harry was a terrible liar.
"Harry," he said in a low voice. Harry didn't look up, but he flinched, barely.
"We have to, Harry."
Harry closed his eyes. He didn't move.
Draco took a risk, and inched his right foot forward on the carpet, until the tip of his shoe touched Harry's. It was much less scary than surprise handholding—they could pretend it wasn't happening, if they wanted to, or they could take comfort from the modest contact. To each his own.
Harry opened his eyes, and turned reluctantly towards Draco, with an expression full of pain, regret, and wariness.
"I'm impressed," Draco murmured. "You've gained a lot of control over the past couple of weeks, if you were able to shove me around like that. Unless you've been an expert Occlumens all along, and you've been toying with me." Draco smirked weakly. Harry's face didn't change.
"But we have to, Harry. We need that breadcrumb—it's not enough that we both know what it is. It has to be seen, which marks it along the path, in your mind." He gestured toward the half-completed lightning bolt pattern on the bottom half of the chalkboard.
Harry's face was slowly morphing from apprehensive, to defensive, to pleading, softly shaking his head. Draco leaned forward a little in his chair, holding Harry's desperate eye contact.
"We'll be alright," he soothed quietly. "I forgave you a long time ago, you know—and I did deserve it."
Harry simply frowned back at him, letting out a harsh, shaky breath. Draco raised his eyebrows, rolling his wand between his hands, and waited.
Finally, after what felt like an age, Harry took a deep breath and gave Draco a miniscule nod. Draco raised his wand, raising his Occlumency barriers as much as he could, which wasn't much, after all the work they'd done. "Legilimens."
"I can't do it… I can't… he says he'll kill me…" Draco is crying, his back to the door, his hands gripping either side of the sink. Tears are streaming down his face into the grimy basin. Harry's shock is so powerful it seems to root him to the spot.
Draco gasps and shudders, and looks up—finally spotting Harry in the reflection in the cracked mirror. He wheels around, drawing his wand. Harry pulls out his own. Draco's hex misses Harry by inches, hitting the lamp on the wall by Harry's head; Harry throws himself sideways, flicks his wand with a Levicorpus. Draco blocks the jinx, and raises his wand for another—
"No! Stop it!" Moaning Myrtle is squealing, her voice is echoing around the tiled room.
With a loud bang, the bin behind Harry explodes; Harry attempts a Leg-Locker Curse that backfires off the wall behind Draco's ear and smashes the cistern beneath Moaning Myrtle, who screams loudly; water pours everywhere and Harry slips as Draco, his face contorted, cries "Cruci—"
"SECTUMSEMPRA!" Harry bellows from the floor, waving his wand wildly.
Blood spurts from Draco's chest and abdomen as though he had been slashed with an invisible sword. He staggers backward and collapses onto the waterlogged floor with a great splash, his wand falling from his limp right hand.
"No—" Harry gasps.
Slipping and staggering, Harry gets to his feet and plunges toward Draco, whose face is now splattered with shining scarlet, his white hands scrabbling at his blood soaked chest.
"No—I didn't—"
Harry falls to his knees beside Draco, who is shaking uncontrollably in a pool of his own blood. Moaning Myrtle is screaming.
Draco gasped as he retreated from Harry's head, panting and shaking. It felt so fresh, so raw—he could practically taste the metallic tang of blood in the back of his mouth, could nearly feel the ripping, slicing of the Dark magic against his body, could almost feel the warm wetness of blood soaking his front, icy cold water against his back. His left hand had made its way to his chest, without his knowledge, and was gripping the front of his shirt. His body was bent forward, heaving, unconsciously leaning into Harry's space, something warm was gripping his shoulders like a vice. His barriers had barely held until the end of the memory, and they were crashing, now. He didn't want to open his eyes, but he knew he had to.
Harry was right in front of him, so close. Too close, Draco thought, unsure if the maelstrom in his gut was of his own making, but he didn't move. Harry's eyes were wet, and wide with fear and guilt—the same face Draco remembered seeing above him when he was sixteen, clinging to consciousness in a puddle of blood and water. Harry's breathing was shallow and hoarse, and his hands were gripping Draco's shoulders tightly, as if he was afraid Draco would disappear.
Draco then recognized the pulling, tightening ache in his ribs, the same one he had felt laying on that bathroom floor, staring up at Harry. It made him want to scream, it made him wish the earth would swallow him whole—and even while he hated this peculiar anguish, he honoured it. He knew it was essential, somehow, a fundamental part of who he was, just like the scars.
Draco's head tipped forward, his neck failing to hold its weight completely, and he felt Harry's wayward curls brush his forehead. He could feel the soft puffs of Harry's sharp breaths on his face, and it was hurting, now, in his core, but not enough to make him stop.
"I'm sorry, Harry," he whispered, because he had never actually said it to him before, and he needed to. Draco lifted his hands, gently gripping Harry's wrists, holding him there, ignoring the twisting pain in his gut, which he could now differentiate as the bonds of the Ministry deciding Draco was beingunethical.
He felt Harry shake his head—a soft swish back and forth of his hair against Draco's forehead—and Draco finally made himself let go of Harry's wrists, and pull away. Harry sat back in his chair, his hands falling limply to his lap. The tips of their shoes were still touching on the carpet—something they both chose not to acknowledge.
Draco looked around the floor and saw his wand laying next to his feet—he had dropped it at some point. Very professional, Healer Malfoy. He held his hand out and summoned it wandlessly, feeling he had to do something slightly impressive in order to make up for his mess, even if he was sitting in front of someone already quite proficient in wandless magic. He pointed the wand at the chalkboard, finally labeling the empty dot "Sectumsempra".
Taking a deep breath, he looked at Harry again, and wordlessly charmed the hot chocolates Timsy had prepared to float over to them. Thank Merlin for foresight.
They sipped their hot chocolates, sighing with the warmth that flowed through them, drowning out the grief and adrenaline and cold sweat. Draco broke the silence—as he always did.
"I have ideas," Draco said quietly, "but I'm not sure exactly what it was about that fight that was so important to you."
Harry opened his notebook immediately, and began to write.
Worst thing I've ever done. I didn't know what that spell did. My biggest regret
Draco frowned. "That? That was the worst?" Harry pressed his lips together, and continued writing.
You were crying, I attacked you. I should have helped you
Draco shook his head. "I attacked you, Harry. You defended yourself. And I would not have accepted your help—I didn't even accept Dumbledore's help, when it was offered."
Harry stared at Draco for a moment, and his eyes darted to Draco's chest before returning to the notebook.
I scarred you
"You did."
Harry was looking at him expectantly, and Draco knew he was waiting for Draco to show him the scars that divided his chest. But Draco wouldn't, until he had to, and he would only have to if Harry asked him to, because Draco had promised him full honesty, had promised not to hide anything from Harry if he asked. Draco waited, but Harry didn't ask.
I'm sorry, Harry's notebook read.
Draco steadily held Harry's gaze with his own—grey against green, like fog above grass.
"I told you, I forgave you a long time ago," Draco said, his voice barely over a whisper. "It shaped me, as much as it shaped you. The scars are a part of me—I would not be who I am now without them." He clamped his hands on his mug of hot chocolate, to keep them from moving back to his chest.
They sat there, regarding each other for long moments, recovering from their darker memories with the help of Timsy's delectable hot chocolate. After a few minutes, Harry opened up his notebook again, clicking his pen, writing something carefully.
I forgave you, too
Draco felt a sharp burning sensation in his throat, and his eyes were wet, and honestly, when did he become so stupidly emotional? Had Harry always had this effect on him, making him feel things so strongly, more intensely? Was this why Draco had been so stuck on tormenting him in school, why they had been so ridiculously attached to their rivalry? What about Harry Potter made him throw his pureblood training out the window and react,every single time?
"Thank you, Harry," Draco whispered, knowing his voice would shake if he tried anything louder. He felt a massive weight lifting off of his shoulders, and he tried not to crumble with the subsequent rush of relief.
Harry's smile was a diminutive, tired thing, but he set down his mug and closed his eyes, beginning the meditation that would end their day.