Chapter 7 - chapter 7 part 2

When seven o' clock finally came around that evening, Draco was standing in his sitting room, perfectly still, dressed informally—he was going to a Weasley's house, there was no need for finery. Grey chinos, ivory cotton jumper, topped off with his beloved navy shirt-jacket—he was quite impressed with himself. Only he could make something so casual look so expensive, and yet no one could claim he was showing anyone up. 

And when he showed up three minutes late, no one would suspect he had been standing in his house, eyes glued to his watch, for the past half hour, determining the exact moment his arrival would be appropriate—not insultingly late, but not right on time as if he'd been itching to go, either (even though he definitely had been). He palmed his wand, and disapparated to the coordinates Weasley had given him.

The little cottage he appeared in front of was homely, and quite charming. They were closer to the Channel, here, than Draco's home was—he could feel it in the cool breeze, smell the faint hint of sea air. As he began his walk up the stone path towards the front door, his nerves returned in full force. What was he doing here? Did he really think he was going to be welcome at the home of Ronald Weasley? Draco had literally written a songjust to torment him in school—mostly because it had absolutely infuriated Pot—Harry, which was always a thrill, but still— 

Weasley opened the door before Draco could knock, grinning, for some unknown reason. He was nearly as tall as the door frame, making Draco's six feet of height feel insignificant. His long, red hair was tied back in another bun on the back of his head. Draco tried not to scowl. 

"Malfoy," he greeted, still grinning. Draco had no idea what was worth smiling about. "Come on in."

Draco didn't get the chance to return the greeting as he was ushered into a tight hallway. Weasley motioned vaguely to the hooks on the wall, moving on further into the house. Draco kept his beloved shirt-jacket on, for comfort. 

"Malfoy's here, 'Mione," Weasley called as Draco took in his surroundings. He heard some noises from what must be the kitchen, and then Granger walked in, toweling her hands dry. She smiled tentatively at Draco, who was still stunned. Why were Granger and Weasley smiling at him? 

"Granger," Draco nodded at her, "you have a lovely home." He glanced over at Weasley, to include him in the sentiment, which was true: the cottage was lovely, filled with warm colours and hand knit blankets and plenty of photographs. There was a gentle fire going in the hearth in the sitting room, and the whole thing felt rather comforting, soothing Draco's nerves a bit, even as his eyes darted around in his typical paranoia.

"Thank you, Malfoy," Granger smirked, raising her eyebrows. "And please, call me Hermione."

"Thank Merlin," Weasley suddenly let out a sharp exhale, as if he had been holding his breath. "That means you can call me Ron, now. There are too many Weasleys—it gets confusing, you know."

Draco huffed a weak laugh, trying to keep his face from looking too shocked. "Alright, Ron, Hermione," he said, out loud, and this was so fucking weird, "please, call me Draco."

Ron looked relieved. "Much better," he muttered, sharing a meaningful look with Hermione. 

The moment was interrupted by a soft noise from the hallway, and Draco spotted a small head of curly orange hair peeking out from behind a corner. He smiled softly, only just now remembering that Ron and Hermione have a child.

"Rose, come say hello," Hermione urged, and the girl walked slowly out from the hallway, half her face hidden by her hair. Draco was reminded of Camila, who was also terribly shy with strangers. She hid her face in her hair the exact same way.

Rose looked to be the same age as Camila. She was dressed in pink pyjamas, clutching two stuffed cartoonish creatures to her chest—one of them looked vaguely familiar. She stopped just behind her mother, hiding herself a little behind Hermione's leg, looking up at Draco with one wide, fearful eye. 

"Rose, this is Draco Malfoy," Hermione said, petting the girl's head. "He's, erm… an old schoolmate of ours. He's a friend."

Draco tried not to jump at the word "friend"—she was probably only saying it to show her daughter that Draco wasn't a threat. Which was still baffling, but he was rolling with it. He loved children, and he didn't want this little girl to be afraid of him, so he got down on his knees, sitting back on his heels—he could see Ron's eyebrows shooting up at the sight of Draco Malfoy on the floor—but he kept his eyes on Rose, smiling gently.

"Hello, Rose," Draco uttered, keeping his body relaxed. 

Hermione gave her daughter a gentle push, urging her out from behind her legs. Rose clutched the stuffed creatures closer to her face, looking down as she muttered, "'lo, Mr. Malfoy," so quietly Draco wasn't sure Ron or Hermione would have heard. Draco lowered his voice further. 

"You can call me Draco, if you like," he said. "Up to you."

She glanced up at him again, and moved her face just an inch out from behind the creatures. "'Kay," she replied in a whisper. Draco smiled again. 

"Is that Oscar the Grouch?" Draco asked, with a small gesture towards the fuzzy green creature. She looked up at him in surprise, both of her brown eyes now visible, little face framed by the full head of wild, curly hair. She nodded vigorously. 

"My goddaughter loves Oscar," he said with quiet excitement, "she says I'm like him, sometimes, when I'm being grumpy, or when I've just woken up." He rolled his eyes exaggeratedly, a friendly smirk on his face. Rose let out a tiny giggle. 

"I even got fuzzy Grouch slippers, for Christmas," he whispered, like a secret, and Rose's eyes widened with interest. "They look quite silly. Do you want to see them?" 

Rose's little smile was bright, and she nodded again with enthusiasm. 

Draco stood up, spared one moment of sorrow for his expensive shoes—Merlin, the things he would do for kids, when did Draco get so soft?—and pulled out his wand, slowly, aiming it at his feet, concentrating hard on the thought of his favourite slippers as he transfigured his shoes. 

Before long, the supple brown leather boots were transformed into outrageously fuzzy green slippers, each with two huge eyes under a ridiculous unibrow, and a wide, thin mouth. Rose let out a delighted giggle, clear as a bell, and bounced gently on the balls of her feet. She whirled around to her mother, who was watching the interaction with a face full of shock.

"Mum! Can I get Grouch slippers, too? Please, mum?" 

"Perhaps," Hermione replied, shaking herself. "You'll have to ask Draco where he found them."

Rose whipped her head back to Draco, her face shy but eager, curly hair flying in every direction with her sudden movements. 

"Don't worry, Rose. I'll investigate, and make sure that wherever Camila got them, they have them in your size." Draco wiggled his feet goofily, but his tone was serious, as if this was a life or death mission. It was true—he would absolutely tear down the city of London to find this little witch some Oscar the Grouch slippers. Because he was a pathetically tender-hearted fool around children, and they always made him want to spend all of his money on silly things to make them happy. Maybe he was just excited that they weren't growing up during a war, or that they weren't being bred to carry on a mantle of political and social power, or that they didn't lead angry mobs against him when he was still a teenager, or that they weren't like him at all… kids these days were fun, and nice. 

Rose let out another giggle, her face alight with simple joy, and Draco felt a wonderful sense of accomplishment. Hermione started to usher her out of the room, because it was apparently her bedtime. The girl called out a soft "Goodnight, Draco," as she left the room, looking back at him over her shoulder.

"Goodnight, Rose," he replied, giving her a little wave and smiling to himself, already planning his venture for Grouch slippers. Mother and daughter disappeared into the hallway, and suddenly he was alone with Ron Weasley. Draco looked over at the man nervously. 

Ron's face was torn between incredulity and glee. He looked like he wasn't sure if he wanted to laugh or not. 

"Fucking surreal, mate," Ron muttered quietly, shaking his head in disbelief, and Draco's nerves spilled over into a choked little laugh.

"You're telling me, Ron," Draco replied, chuckling, and then they were both quietly giggling at the absurdity of the situation. 

"Oh, Merlin," Ron breathed, his face red from suppressing his laughter. "Tea, yes, I think we need tea." He made his way toward the kitchen, and Draco, unsure of what else to do, followed him, still wearing his transfigured fuzzy slippers. It would feel wrong to change them back now. 

Ron put the kettle on, and started preparing three mugs for tea. Draco frowned at them, counting.

"Where's Ha—" he tried, but his gut twisted with discomfort and he nearly choked on the words. Honestly, he couldn't even mention Harry's name? Hadn't these people already gotten Harry's consent to know about his condition? Ron was looking at him oddly as Draco rubbed his stomach with a grimace, cleared his throat, and tried a different tactic.

"Aren't we expecting one more?" 

"Ah," Ron said, still puzzled, clearly trying to figure Draco out. "Yes. Harry'll be here soon, he was visiting Teddy and Andy." 

Draco nodded, feeling awkward. What were they supposed to do until then, sit around and reminisce about old times?

Hermione came into the kitchen after a few minutes of tense silence, and smiled at Draco again. Unreal. 

"I've never seen her take so quickly to a stranger," she said, apparently impressed, sharing another look with Ron, who only nodded in agreement. Draco shrugged with a smirk, unsure of how he was supposed to respond to that. Ron handed out the mugs of tea, and they made their way back to the sitting room. 

Hermione set her mug down on the coffee table. "I'll go get the Pensieve, I'm pretty sure Harry's pub memories are still in there." She walked away, and Ron took a seat on the sofa, sipping his tea. Draco frowned—they wouldn't be able to do anything until Harry arrived, why bother getting it out now? He shrugged it off and sat in the armchair, because it was closest to the corner, where the walls of bookshelves met, and from there, he could see everything in the room—the doorways, the windows, the hearth. He felt a little calmer. Hermione reentered the room, floating the Pensieve above the coffee table. 

"Right, so, we've been going through these for ages, and you've obviously seen them, but only once, and you know a lot more about the curse and the attacker and how it all worked—" Hermione was rambling, and the blood was draining from Draco's face, because why was she talking about this, when Harry wasn't here and he needed to be, "—we hoped you'd be able to go through it with us again, give us some more information on the curse, any theories you may have come up with since you've been working with Harry…" she trailed off, frowning at Draco, and he could tell from their concerned faces that he probably looked terrified. He glanced to the hearth. Ron had said soon, right? What time did Teddy go to bed? Would Harry stay longer to visit with Andromeda? 

"Harry knows you're here," Ron muttered, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. "He's been keeping us updated, as much as he can—which isn't much, you must know he's not much of a writer. But he told us to go ahead and get started, to not wait for him, since these are his own memories. He's obviously seen them already, and is still clueless as to who cursed him."

Draco was gripping the armrests of the chair. His heart was racing—were they going to make him? 

"I can't," Draco said, eyes pleading. Their confused frowns only deepened.

"Why not?" Hermione probed. 

Draco glanced at the hearth again, internally begging Harry to just get here. "I'm bound by patient confidentiality," he replied, trying for nonchalant, but his voice shook with nerves.

Hermione opened her mouth to argue, still perplexed, "But Harry already told—"

"Wait, what?" Ron interrupted, mouth hanging open with shock and indignation. To him, apparently, there was no doubt as to what Draco had meant—Draco was just surprised Ron thought it at all compelling. Hermione whipped her head to the side to stare at her husband in bewilderment. Draco thought privately this may have been one in only a handful of moments in history where Ron Weasley knew something Hermione Granger didn't. 

"By who?" Ron asked, oblivious to his wife's barrage of silent questions. 

"The Ministry, of course," Draco grumbled, looking back to the hearth again. Any minute now, right?

"What, what am I not getting, here?" Hermione nearly shouted, clearly frustrated with the lack of knowledge. Ron looked at her, the shock of the latest revelation still evident on his face, and cast a quick Muffliato on the room. 

"He's bound, 'Mione," Ron replied vehemently. Hermione searched his face, as if that would provide a better answer.

"You mean… magically?" She asked hesitantly.

"Of course," Draco tried not to scoff. "How else would I be?" 

Ron looked at him warily. "The Ministry bound you? Why?" 

Draco narrowed his eyes. Stupid question. "It was the only way they would give me my Healer License—if I would make the three basic tenets of Healers' Ethics magically binding. I took oaths to protect patient confidentiality, to do no intentional harm, and to maintain professional, 'ethical' relationships with those under my care, and they bound me to them. It's not exactly a secret, you can find it in the Ministry's records." He grit his teeth, feeling defensive. Did he really have to explain to war heroes why the Ministry didn't want to give an ex-Death Eater a Healer License?

"Oh," Hermione breathed, her eyes wide with shock and understanding. "That means… Does it mean that every time, to purebloods? When you say you're bound to something—you mean, literally, magically bound?"

Draco nodded, still tetchy. "What else would it mean?" 

Hermione looked back and forth between the two confused pureblood wizards. Draco could practically hear her brain whirring with comprehension behind her skull.

"Well, to witches and wizards who grew up with muggles, or at least heavy muggle influence," she explained, "it means something different. When we say we're bound to something, we don't usually mean it literally—unless the person is visibly, physically bound, of course. It usually means it's—it's like a value we live by, or a promise we made. I would say I'm bound to the vows I made to you, Ron, on our wedding day, and mean that I keep those promises, and stand by them. But not that I'm literally, magically bound to them."

It was Draco's turn to look shocked. Muggles loved a metaphor, apparently. Ron turned his face towards Draco. 

"Harry doesn't know this," he said flatly, simply stating a fact. 

"I've told—" Draco's throat closed up again, and he coughed into his fist. "I…" he stared up at the ceiling, finding his way around this, like a maze. He could do this, he was good at mazes.

"I tell people I'm bound by patient confidentiality," he said slowly, waiting for the harsh twist in his stomach. "I didn't realize that wasn't fully understood. I didn't think it was a big deal—it's annoying, yes, and painful, sometimes, but the Licensers insisted, and the Minister approved it, and no one questioned it. Now I have a career, doing what I love, what I'm good at, what I trained and studied for years to do. What's done is done."

"Kingsley approved this?" Hermione exclaimed. The couple still looked utterly appalled.

"Yes." Draco frowned and waved his hand dismissively, sneaking another look at the fireplace.

"Harry would want to know this," Ron said, with a meaningful look that Draco didn't have the patience to decipher. Draco took a moment to form the sentences that would hurt the least before speaking aloud. 

"In my work, I don't keep things from my patients," Draco began, trying to convince himself he was simply explaining his career to two strangers. "They are extremely vulnerable to me, during the process, so I allow myself to be vulnerable with them, as well. The balance is necessary for the work, and for the Legilimency to be comfortable. I tell all of my patients that anything they ask me will receive a full and honest answer, and nothing is off limits." He winced against the growing discomfort in his gut, and his arm moved to defensively cover his abdomen. "I don't answer what they don't ask."

Ron and Hermione were watching him with something between wariness and concern, and Draco really hoped it wasn't pity.

"There are some things that some patients are better off not knowing, especially if they do not ask," Draco forced through his teeth, he could feel a thin sheen of sweat building along his brow. His breathing was becoming more difficult by the second. "Some patients might decide that I need rescuing, or something, and take such a matter into their own hands—" Sweet Merlin, this was so vague, and it still hurt. He tried to hold back a grunt of pain, looking at Harry's friends intently, desperately trying to get his message across, "—which would probably endanger someone who was in a—a compromised state, while distracting them severely from their healing." 

Draco sagged, panting and clutching his torso, squeezing his eyes shut against the pain. He hadn't even been talking about Harry, specifically, just a hypothetical person, with an inconvenient hero complex—

The fireplace flared with green flames and Harry finally, finally stepped out of the floo. Thank fucking Merlin. 

Harry smiled in greeting to the three of them, but his face fell immediately upon taking in their silent expressions—Ron and Hermione with shock and maybe concern, and Draco looking ill, defensive, and in pain, and also wearing green, fuzzy slippers.

"Hi, Harry!" Hermione exclaimed, shaking herself out of the moment and smiling at her friend, who was glaring suspiciously at her. "Don't look at me like that—we just had a little disagreement, Draco here was quite determined to protect your privilege as his patient—we tried to tell him you tell us everything anyway, but here we are. So, does Draco have consent to discuss your condition and your healing with us, now?"

Draco looked at her gratefully, and her lip twitched in return. Her eyes were still anxious—she would hate keeping things from her best friend. Draco wondered how long it would hold up. 

Harry rolled his eyes and scoffed, oblivious to their nonverbal conversations, and nodded his consent firmly. Draco couldn't help his sigh of relief. "Thank you."

Harry's lips quirked in amusement as he looked from Draco's face, to his fuzzy-slipper-clad feet, and back, raising his eyebrows in a silent question. 

"I didn't wear them for you," Draco scoffed dramatically. "I wore them for Rose, of course." He flipped his hair and crossed one long leg over the other, putting the outrageous slippers on full display for the room. The trio chuckled at him, before Ron clapped his hands together and motioned toward the Pensieve. 

"Shall we?" Ron asked the room at large, itching to get to work. But Draco had just realized something—

"Wait a minute…" He frowned at Harry. "How did you use the floo if you couldn't call out the destination?"

Harry grinned at him, rolling his eyes again. He made a vague gesture to the other people in the room, then pointed at his mouth. 

"Someone else called it out for you?" Draco questioned, and Harry nodded. "Interesting."

"Andy has full floo access here, so as long as her, Teddy, or Harry calls out the name of the house, whoever's in the floo at the time can come through," Hermione explained. 

"Ah," Draco nodded, finally comprehending. "Right. Yes, I did the same thing with the floo from the Manor—as long as my mother is the one calling out the destination, she can come through, no problem. Except when a patient is present, of course," he said, looking at Harry, who only continued to grin at him. Draco wondered if it was as surreal to Harry as it was to himself, seeing a Malfoy here with Harry and his friends.

"Anyway, you said you wanted to know more about the curse, before watching all of that again, right?" Draco suggested. "I don't know how much Harry has told you, but I can tell you what we've learned so far."

At this, Harry's smile fell, and his face turned guarded. Draco gave him a meaningful look. "Not about the breadcrumbs themselves, Harry," he murmured. Ron and Hermione were watching the interaction sharply, wide eyes darting back and forth between Harry and Draco, probably shocked that there were parts of Harry's healing he wasn't keen on them knowing about—and at hearing Draco say Harry's name, soothing him, in that low, quiet voice.

Harry still looked hesitant, but he nodded anyway, and Draco understood that Harry trusted him enough to let him take the lead—even though he didn't have much of a choice. Draco turned back to the couple. 

"Harry wasn't exactly cursed, he was sort of… commanded. My guess is that a potion was slipped into his drinks that night, something that made his subconscious mind easier to manipulate. It also clearly had a physical effect, lowering his inhibitions significantly, making his body feel weighed down and sluggish—he could hardly move." 

Ron's eyes widened at this. Hermione was watching Harry carefully. Draco realized Harry probably hadn't explained how he was feeling that night—Draco only knew because he'd been forced to experience it. But Harry didn't really talk about things he felt, anyway, physically or otherwise. He had probably never told his friends what it felt like to be under Voldemort's possession, for instance, or what it felt like to be pierced with a Basilisk fang, or what it felt like to be locked in a cupboard and starved.

"The attacker then only had to magically command Harry's mind to hide his own voice, until such a time when he was 'truly known' for who he is, and not who he is to and for the Wizarding World. 'Speak only for yourself,' I believe, is what they'd invoked. Harry's subconscious mind then obeyed, and created a trail of breadcrumbs to follow, of what he had decided—unconsciously—were his most formative memories, the ones that shaped who Harry really is. We're a bit over halfway through the trail, now."

Ron and Hermione's jaws were hanging open, apparently dumbfounded. It was Ron who spoke first. 

"So then… the curse—command—agh, the problem, could only be solved by a Legilimens who would be able to see the right memories and follow the trail?" Ron asked, and Draco could tell he was several moves ahead, in his mind. Draco glanced at Harry, who was still looking cautious, where he sat on a large pouf on the floor next to Draco's armchair. His head was only inches from Draco's hand, which itched to reach out and touch that tumultuous hair, just to see if it was as soft as it looked. He clenched his fist on the armrest.

"Yes, it's highly likely that was the attacker's goal, but I'm stumped as to why. I don't see how this—" Draco gestured between himself and Harry, "—could be beneficial to any sort of agenda, other than getting Harry out of the way for a bit. But there are much simpler ways of getting him out of the way—Harry was pretty much defenseless, at the time. They could have done anything to him, but they did that." 

Ron hesitated before replying. He shot an appeasing look at Harry first. "I promise I'm not accusing you of anything, Draco, but I have to cover all angles, here—how do we know you had nothing to do with it, when they had essentially driven Harry to a Legilimens, and you are obviously the only Healer Legilimens in the country?"

Now it was Draco's turn to be shocked. Harry hadn't told…? He snapped his gaze to Harry, searching his wary face fruitlessly for an answer. Harry only pressed his lips together, and looked away, awkwardly scrubbing a hand through his dark hair. Draco didn't know if he was glad or not, that Harry had kept Draco's Veritaserum breakdown to himself—it was embarrassing, but it also cleared him of suspicion, and Ron was the Head Auror, leading the investigation… But he still felt a little grateful, as well, that Harry had given Draco the choice of revealing such private details to someone else. Harry had protected their sanctuary.

"You can trust that Harry knows I had absolutely nothing to do with it, which he learned during our first week, when I realized the suspicion the situation would place upon me. He questioned me under Veritaserum."

"He what?!" Hermione stood, shocked and enraged, and Ron joined her, shooting Harry a wide-eyed look. 

"Harry gave you Veritaserum?" Ron asked dangerously, not taking his eyes off of Harry, who was only staring straight at Draco. Draco raised his hands, conciliating. 

"Harry did not give me Veritaserum. I drank it myself, and had him write out his questions, which I had to answer truthfully as I read them. It works the same, no matter how the questions are delivered."

"You dosed yourself?" Hermione pressed, and Draco rolled his eyes. Were they just going to repeat his words all night?

"Yes, I did. I suggested it. I knew how it looked, once I realized the attacker had given him only one path forward. I needed him to believe me, to trust me."

The room was silent for a minute as Ron and Hermione digested his words, coming down from their indignation to return to their seats on the sofa. Once again, it was Ron who broke the silence. 

"Where did you get Veritaserum?" Ron asked, puzzled and still a little suspicious. Draco closed his eyes and sighed softly. Did he have to answer? Were these two people covered in his promise of honesty with Harry? Not technically, but… 

But he didn't want Harry to see him lie. Harry trusted his friends, and he trusted Draco, and he wouldn't object if Draco lied to his friends to keep his own secrets, but he wouldn't like it, either. Unless Harry communicated otherwise, Draco would assume that his policy of honest answers to questions asked extended to the company of Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger. He opened his eyes and looked at Harry, who simply stared back at him with an expression that felt like it was solely for Draco. It was almost soothing, encouraging. He saw Harry's hands twitch, then clasp together firmly in his lap. 

"Filched it," Draco finally spoke. "From the Ministry, when I was eighteen. It fell out of an Auror's pocket."

Ron scoffed quietly. "Heard that before," he mumbled. Draco glared at him, but kept his mouth shut. Draco didn't have to answer what they did not ask.

Unfortunately, Hermione Granger, brightest witch of her age, had picked up on this fact, and had caught on to Draco's methods much too quickly, darting her eyes back and forth between him, Ron and Harry. She was obviously thinking of what Draco had told them about honesty in front of his patients, but only when they asked, and possibly remembering the situation he had been in at eighteen. She looked at him shrewdly, and Draco thought he could see a little light of victory in her eyes, as she continued to solve the puzzle of Draco Malfoy in her head. 

"Draco, in what situation were you able to steal a vial of Veritaserum from an Auror?" She asked, and Draco scowled at her. She would have made an excellent Slytherin. Harry was looking at her with pride, and thoughtfulness. 

"It fell out of an Auror's pocket, when he bent over my cot to spit on me," Draco replied, through a clenched jaw. "My body was convulsing from an overdose, and covered it. He didn't notice. I kept it in my sock until I was freed." 

This must be a record, the number of times he'd astounded Head Auror Weasley tonight. For someone so well-respected, so strategically-minded, the youngest Head Auror in a century, he could be quite dense. Draco could at least admit to himself that he was the same, Pansy told him so all the time. "You're only a thick-headed idiot about things you don't try to know, Draco," she'd say. Auror corruption was probably something Ron hadn't particularly tried to know about—at least, when he was eighteen, and it concerned someone he'd loathed. Draco was sure things must be quite different now, under Ron's quintessentially Gryffindor leadership.

"Anyway," Draco said firmly, "point is, you can move past your suspicion of me. I had nothing to do with it, which Harry himself can vouch for. It's even likely that someone wanted to frame me for it, knowing that no one would refute the accusation. It would be so easy."

The three of them were all looking at Draco thoughtfully. He felt a little uncomfortable with it. 

"So before we spend all our time watching Harry get chatted up and stared at," Draco's voice drawled as he motioned toward the Pensieve, "why don't you tell me what you've already gathered from what you've seen, and share your theories?"

Ron seemed to appreciate the direction and swift subject change. 

"Well, honestly, it's mostly that: getting chatted up and stared at in a muggle pub. The only people he spoke to repeatedly were the staff, and maybe a couple other regulars, but they never expressed any distinct interest in who Harry was. I don't think any of them even knew his surname, nor did they care. Which is probably why Harry liked it so much," Ron smirked, and Draco and Harry only nodded in agreement. 

"But other than that, Harry didn't go very deep into conversations. Anyone that showed interest gave up after enough of Harry's evasions and rejections, and those people always had more people around to talk to. The only link I could find with any of them was that he was stared at, pretty frequently, by one person alone somewhere in the bar. But, it was always a different person. We think it may have been polyjuice, but there's nothing else to suggest they were all the same person—just the uncomfortable staring." Ron shuddered.

"How would you describe the staring?" Draco asked, frowning. 

"Uncomfortable," Ron repeated, taking a deep breath. "Piercing. Curious. Invasive. Not friendly, but not threatening, either. I wasn't even experiencing it, but it made me squirm."

Draco looked up at the ceiling, folding his hands in thought. "Did you notice anything about how they carried themselves? For instance, did a staring woman sit in a feminine way, did a staring man spread himself out in his seat? Did they slouch or sit rigidly upright? Did they fidget or move their face in any certain way? Any ticks?"

He looked back down at the room, where everyone had identical frowns of deep thought on their faces. Draco almost laughed. Ron opened his eyes, looking at Draco, and said simply, "I think you should see for yourself."

Draco tried not to sigh. They were going to be here for hours, if he couldn't go through the memories at Legilimency's speed. It had taken maybe twenty minutes to get all those memories out of Harry's head, at Draco's pace. Watching them all play out on their own time would take an age, but he nodded and stood, walking toward the Pensieve between them. Ron joined him, but no one else did. 

"Just us, then?" Draco asked, motioning between himself and Ron, who looked back at his wife in inquiry. 

"I'll hang back," Hermione said, "I've seen them all already." She darted a glance at Harry. "Harry has too, obviously." 

Harry, incomprehensibly, looked a bit resigned, and defeated. Draco felt like he was missing something, but Ron only shrugged, and looked back at Draco, gesturing toward the Pensieve. Draco took a deep breath, and they both plunged their faces in. They landed with a swirl of colour in the muggle pub, next to the bar.

"You're very mysterious," the dark-skinned man says to Harry, with a bright, curious smile. "I'm not trying to pull or anything. I find you interesting, I want to get to know you." 

Draco sighed. "We're looking for creepy staring, yeah?" 

"Yep," Ron replied, crossing his arms and relaxing his posture, readying himself for a long watch.

"Mind if I take over for a bit, then? It'll be a bit disorienting, but I'll get us to the right memories. I remember the feeling of them." Draco suggested. 

Ron frowned dubiously. "What do you mean? You can control these?"

"I can't control them, I can just filter them and steer them, if you'll allow it."

"Fine," Ron sighed, after a moment of thought. "I don't really trust that. But Harry trusts you, and we'll be here all bloody night if we have to watch everything."

"Good," Draco answered lamely—what else was he supposed to say? "Hang on."

Draco concentrated hard, connecting himself back to his body outside of the Pensieve, making himself put his hand on his wand in his pocket. Ron watched him curiously. 

Once he could feel the wood against his palm, distantly, he focused his magic inside the Pensieve, remembering the hair-raising feeling of being watched. He gently pushed, expending his energy in a search for more and pushing aside anything that wasn't. 

The memories jumped and swirled around them, flying through and against Draco's filters. He heard Ron gasp beside him as the floor disappeared and reappeared over and over. It didn't matter—they weren't really material, in here, they couldn't actually fall. 

The memories slowed, and finally stopped. The muggle pub surrounded them once again. Harry was alone at the bar, looking tense. Draco looked around—there she was, on the other side of the room, the blonde woman he remembered from the first time he glimpsed this memory. He nudged Ron with his elbow and pointed.

The woman sits rigidly at a high-top table, alone. She is nursing a drink, but the liquid never goes down. It looks like brandy, probably expensive. No one approaches her. Her posture is perfect—spine straight, shoulders back. Her legs are held close together, but her arms are held slightly out to the side. She watches Harry intently, hardly blinking. There is no emotion on her face—as if this is simply something she must do. She is confident.

After a moment, she turns her head slightly to the side, reaching behind her neck to grab the long blonde ponytail at her nape. She gently brings the hair over her shoulder and lays it against her chest, smoothing it out before returning to her careful vigil. 

The man sits alone at the opposite end of the bar. He looks rugged, and young, and a bit dirty—his dark hair is cropped short on his head, and his bright eyes are trained on Harry. His posture is perfect, even as his legs are splayed to take up space. He is confident, spinning his glass of brandy with an elegant, unwashed hand. He turns his head slightly to the side, reaching his hand up to his nape. 

And so it continued—over and over, Harry was stared at, watched vigilantly, by a different person each time. But Draco could spot the similarities, after a while: in the way they held themself, in the intensity of their gaze, in the glass of brandy in their hand. He looked over at Ron.

"Do you see it?" Draco asked. Ron looked back at him, brows furrowed in thought. He nodded, took Draco's elbow, and pulled them out of the Pensieve. 

Outside of the Pensieve, Draco removed his hand from his wand and took in the scene. Harry and Hermione hadn't moved, but they were glaring at each other in silence. Hermione's hand was raised in a vague gesture, and Harry's arms were crossed over his chest, looking petulant. They had clearly interrupted something. 

"Alright…?" Ron asked tentatively, darting looks back and forth between Harry and Hermione, trying desperately to catch up. Hermione's gaze snapped to Draco. 

"Draco, did you overdose on Veritaserum?" She demanded, and Draco rolled his eyes and scoffed in annoyance. 

"Some would have considered it an overdose. How is this important?"

"If you took as much as I think you did, it should have knocked you out, after long hours of painful convulsions. Why did you drink a whole vial?" 

Ron whirled around. "An entire vial?!" he asked, incredulous and apparently somewhat irritated. Draco felt like he was being chastised, which was stupid, because it was long over, and he was a grown man who made his own choices—these days. He bristled defensively.

"Yes, I drank the full vial, because that's how much the Aurors gave me when they were bored,so I thought maybe that was a standard dosage for the bloody Department of Magical Law, and I didn't want to risk Harry not believing me. If Harry Potter had accused me, I'd have been in Azkaban by nightfall, do you understand? Absolutely no onewould question it." Draco was trying so hard not to raise his voice, thinking of little Rose asleep down the hall, before remembering the Muffliato Ron had placed on the room. 

Harry was looking at him with those sad, concerned eyes again, and Draco did not have the patience for Gryffindor pity—

"But Draco, if you did take that much, you'd have been out for over a day—you wouldn't have been able to work. But according to Harry, you haven't gone a single session without Legilimency. I'm not doubting your story, but either something doesn't add up with it, or it was terribly irresponsible and unsafe to go into Harry's head in that kind of state—"

Harry's hand slammed down on the coffee table, interrupting Hermione's scolding. Draco couldn't tell who she was even angry at. Harry was glaring fiercely—he held up his hand in a fist, palm facing down, then opened it quickly. 

Hermione looked bewildered and indignant, her face lacking comprehension. 

"I think he's telling you to let it go, Hermione," Draco mumbled, and Harry glanced at him, nodding once, before returning his arms to their defensive, crossed position over his chest. Hermione scoffed at them both, opening her mouth to very much not let it go. Draco interrupted her before she could get into her stride. 

"I did take the full vial," he explained in a low, placating tone. "And we did get started on the breadcrumbs the same day. But I wasn't, erm… compromised." He could feel the hint of a blush creeping up his neck, remembering the flood of warmth and Harry's magic in his veins—

"But that's impossible—"

"He took care of it," Draco said quickly, quietly, darting glances at Harry, who couldn't seem to meet his eyes. He could see a faint blush on Harry's cheeks, too, and knew that for some reason, that moment was something Harry didn't particularly want his friends knowing about. Draco agreed wholeheartedly. It seemed too—intimate. Private... Those were Draco's own reasons, anyway. 

"'He took care of it,'" Hermione repeated flatly, entirely unimpressed, narrowing her eyes at him. 

"Yes. He just… took care of it." Draco's face was practically begging as he awkwardly stuffed his hands into his pockets. Please, let it go. 

Hermione dropped her face into her hands, muttering under her breath, apparently done with the lot of them. Ron took the opportunity to change the subject, to Harry's and Draco's great relief. 

"Okay, well, Draco and I were able to spot some similar characteristics in all those creepy watchers, Harry," he announced. 

"Yes, they're likely to be very wealthy," Draco added. "A pureblood, by my guess."

"Oh?" Ron frowned, looking a little offended. Draco rolled his eyes. 

"Old money, definitely. Their posture, the way their hands move—" Draco demonstrated, spinning an imaginary glass of brandy with his elegant fingers. Harry watched, apparently mesmerized. Draco stuffed his hand back into his pocket. "—people don't move like that unless they're trained to since birth. No one sits like that naturally, spine straighter than a wand. Even when that person was looking as relaxed as possible, they still practically oozed confidence, the confidence of status." 

Ron hummed thoughtfully, looking Draco over subtly. Draco raised an eyebrow at him. 

"Plus, they were drinking brandy." Draco rolled his eyes again, remembering the crystal decanters in his father's study in the Manor. In Draco's mind, no one drank brandy for fun. It was always a display of some sort, a move in an invisible chess game between two powerful, wealthy men. It was who Draco had been trained to be—someone who invited a political figure to the study after dinner, and offered them thousand-galleon elf-made brandy to kick off the manipulation—and it was utterly pretentious. It certainly didn't taste as good as firewhiskey, or an excellent muggle gin and tonic. 

"Right," Ron said after a moment. "I'm glad you noticed that. I was focused on their staring, and the annoying habit with their hand…" 

"What habit?" Draco frowned. Ron's lips quirked in the slightest smile, not too gloating, but obviously glad to have seen something Draco hadn't. 

"They kept moving their hand to the back of their neck, turning their head a little to reach their hair. They even did it when they were someone with short hair, they couldn't help it. My guess is probably a woman, with long hair. Hermione does that with her hair, sometimes—" Ron looked over at his wife, who subconsciously reached toward her tumbling, bushy curls. "—you reach behind your neck, and sweep it over your shoulder to the front." 

"Okay, so a wealthy pureblood with long hair—doesn't have to be a woman, I'll thank you to look in the mirror, Ronald Weasley, you mess with your hair all the time," Hermione summarized, frowning, unable to resist the jab. 

Ron rolled his eyes. "Five galleons, it's a woman," he mumbled.

"I'm not gambling, Ronald."

"Done," Draco muttered. He was thinking of the Death Eaters he'd known, and some of his father's old 'friends'—nearly all of them were in Azkaban by now, but several of the men did cherish their long hair, like it was a luxury. It was possible. Ron smirked at him, and stuck out his hand. Draco shook it briefly, and they carried on. 

"Harry once thought it might be an Unspeakable," Draco continued with their theorizing. "I don't know anything about them. This person clearly has access to an extensive store of Polyjuice Potion, and probably some more dangerous, experimental potions… They also sounded pretty prophetic, when they attacked him. What do you think?"

"Well, Polyjuice isn't exactly difficult to brew—" Hermione noted.

"Yes, I know, you brewed it in a bathroom when you were twelve," Draco flapped his hand, then inhaled sharply once he realized what he'd revealed. He cleared his throat at their amused expressions. "But the ingredients are rare, and the process is time consuming. They might be a brewer, or working with one—and again, they sounded like they were referencing some sort of vision or prophecy. Do any of you know anything about the Unspeakables?"

The trio all looked at each other uncomfortably. Ron coughed softly into his hand.

"We haven't been back down there since, erm, fifth year…" Ron muttered, with a quick glance at the others. "We're not exactly… welcome? We caused quite a bit of damage…" 

Draco smirked—that was an understatement. "So, no, you don't know anything about them?"

They all shook their heads. "No. We avoid Level Nine, and as far as I know, they want nothing to do with us," Ron explained. "But of course, no one knows what Unspeakables look like, or what they get up to down there nowadays. So, it's possible. They're generally assumed to be a bunch of swots, buried in their books and their secrets."

Draco sighed. "It's possible, then. I'll ask Shacklebolt, see what he knows about them."

"You'll ask Shacklebolt?" Ron raised his eyebrows at him, and Draco scoffed. 

"Yes, I'll ask him. He somehow found out I'm working with Harry, and will be glad to provide any information to speed up his healing—he's quite impatient." Draco rolled his eyes again. "We're well acquainted, I assure you," he muttered, with a quick glance at Harry, who was apparently very interested in something on the wall. 

Hermione narrowed her eyes at him, and then at Harry, so Draco quickly moved on to prevent another scolding tangent. 

"Anyone other than Unspeakables we have to consider?"

"Well, wealthy purebloods make up the majority of Harry's political opponents," Ron mentioned, frowning. Draco knit his brows in confusion. 

"Political opponents? For what? Harry's not a politician—are you?" Draco asked, looking at Harry, who only shrugged at him uncomfortably. 

"I mean, he kind of is, now," Ron muttered, "it's obviously not his job—he's the best Auror we have, and he hates politics. But he'll speak in Court, sometimes, he has a vote on the Wizengamot, whenever he wants to use it—he's not so much a politician as he is a person of influence, usually at Kingsley's request, or some other activist or political figure. Prat doesn't know when to say no," Ron smirked fondly, and Harry rolled his eyes. 

Draco sighed. Yes, that sounded like Harry. "That certainly explains Kingsley's impatience," he grumbled. "It also doesn't really narrow down the suspect pool. Now we have the entire Department of Mysteries, as well as every wealthy pureblood in politics."

"Every wealthy pureblood woman in politics, with long hair, and a history of or connection to potion brewing," Ron specified, ticking off his points on his fingers. 

"Perhaps," Draco replied, deep in thought. 

"Do you know anyone like that in your, erm… circles?" Ron asked tentatively. 

"Everyone I can think of is in Azkaban—thankfully," Draco replied. "And my 'circle,' as you call it, consists of Timsy, Narcissa, Shacklebolt, and Pansy—who's a private divorce lawyer, and doesn't give a shit about politics."

"Timsy?" Hermione frowned, confused.

"My house-elf," Draco replied nonchalantly, then widened his eyes, realizing what he'd said and the inevitable explosion it would cause—

"A free elf, 'Mione," Ron said quickly, hands up in surrender, because her mouth had opened for a fiery debate, "trust me on that. I've met him."

Hermione closed her mouth, mollified, but still disgruntled. Draco checked his watch and groaned internally at the lateness of the hour. Now would be a great time to escape. 

"On that note, I'm going home," Draco said, taking a deep breath and standing from his armchair. "Thank you both for having me. I hope this was helpful to you—call on me again, if you have questions I can answer." He left out with Harry's expressed consent, hoping they wouldn't forget that important detail. 

The trio stood, and he shook hands with Ron and Hermione, confirming that he would indeed find a pair of Grouch slippers for Rose. He turned to shake Harry's hand last. 

"See you Thursday, Harry," Draco smirked, and Harry returned it, nodding. His eyes were bright, twinkling with amusement and something like pride. Draco met his gaze for only a moment before turning away towards the front door. Ron walked him out. 

"Draco," Ron called from the doorway, as Draco pulled out his wand to disapparate. Draco looked up at him expectantly. "Thanks." 

Draco nodded, a little uncomfortable, and disapparated back to the comfort and solitude of his own home. 

***

Draco, not wanting to choose between hot chocolate and coffee on Thursday morning, asked Timsy for mochas, much to Harry's delight and Timsy's annoyance. The elf obliged, because he also hated denying Draco anything, but he complained under his breath the whole time, something about "Masters is asking Timsy to ruin Timsy's perfect coffee," and "Masters is having no respect for the flavour profile."

The drinks, however, were delicious, despite Draco's apparent slights.

"Seventh year," Draco sighed as they settled into the wingback chairs. "You feel ready for it?"

Harry shrugged and sipped his mocha, his fingers once again absently rubbing the edges of the ceramic mug. He watched Draco for a moment before setting down his mug and sitting up fully in his chair, rubbing the tops of his thighs nervously. He was ready to work, but obviously not excited about the prospect of reliving the War. Neither was Draco, but they had to. Hence, hot chocolate andcoffee. Comfort and motivation.

Draco led their meditation, strong and slow, as he always did. When they were finished, he raised his wand slowly, and waited. 

Harry stared warily at the wand, and took several more deep breaths before meeting Draco's gaze, and nodding. "Legilimens." 

Harry brought them back to the end of sixth year, past Dumbledore's funeral, and the uneventful summer at the Dursley's. The first breadcrumb came almost immediately. "Got one," Draco muttered, and latched on. 

Harry is flying through the air in the sidecar of Hagrid's motorcycle. The night is lighting up with curses around them, Harry's heart is racing. A jet of green light misses him by inches, hitting the metal birdcage at his feet. The owl screeches and falls to the floor of the cage.

"No—NO!" Harry yells. "Hedwig—"

…

"Mine!" Voldemort screams, and as the pain in his scar forces Harry's eyes shut, his wand acts of its own accord, dragging his hand around like a great magnet…

…

"You!" Harry shouts, reaching for his wand in his empty pocket.

"Your wand's here, son," the man says, "and that's my wife you're shouting at."

"Oh, I'm—I'm sorry," Harry says as Andromeda moves further into the room.

"Hagrid said you were ambushed—where's our daughter? Where's Nymphadora?" Andromeda demands.

…

Remus and George Weasley appear in a swirl of blue light in the garden of the Burrow. There is something wrong: Remus is supporting George, whose face is covered in blood.

…

"Mad-Eye's dead," Bill Weasley says, his scarred face grim. The room is silent with shock and grief.

The glow of the breadcrumb disappeared as it passed, and Draco withdrew calmly, aiming his wand at the chalkboard and labeling a new dot "Hedwig/Moody". Vague, but just specific enough. The only thing that connected those two beings was that they were Harry's friends, and they had apparently been murdered on the same night. 

Draco stuck the index finger of his right hand inside the collar of his shirt and idly traced the scar there. He was determined to keep his wits about him, today—they were literally reliving a war, and he knew Harry had endured the absolute worst of it. He wanted to be strong, for Harry. He wanted to be something Harry could lean on. Draco refused to fall apart under his own emotions, this time.

Harry had his eyes closed, and his face was grave. He looked like he was trying to strengthen himself just as Draco was—Draco wanted to touch him, to tell him that he didn't have to be the only one holding himself up all the time, especially in here, in their sanctuary. Harry opened his eyes, and Draco saw a hint of defeat among the grief in his face. 

"Was that the first time your friends died, while protecting you?" Draco asked softly, and Harry grimaced, closing his eyes and nodding slowly. 

"I'll bet you tried to give them the slip, not two minutes later," Draco said, and Harry opened his eyes again, watching Draco thoughtfully. He nodded again. "You were realizing the cost this would have to people who were close to you, the violence that would follow you, endangering those around you. But they were probably having none of that, were they?" 

Harry shook his head with a wry look, but the solemnity of his expression remained. Draco was rolling his wand between his hands, face creased in thought, digesting all he'd seen, connecting it to what he knew about Harry. 

"I had the same reaction, when I first saw Andromeda," Draco muttered, smirking gently, lightening the mood a fraction. "Thank Merlin she didn't see me, at first. It took me a moment to realize Bellatrix wouldn't have been caught dead in jeans, and her magic was the antithesis of Bella's."

The corners of Harry's lips twitched a little as he listened, a faint curiosity growing in his eyes. He tapped his nose with his finger, raising an eyebrow in silent query. 

"Yes, her magic smelled different, too. It's comforting, and soft—it smells like snow, and strong tea."

Harry huffed a weak laugh, and nodded—he probably knew exactly how Andromeda liked her tea. Draco, satisfied that Harry was feeling a little bit better, raised his wand again. 

"Ready for another?" he asked, and Harry took another deep breath before nodding and meeting Draco's eyes. "Legilimens."

"To Harry James Potter, I leave the Snitch he caught in his first Quidditch match at Hogwarts, as a reminder of the rewards of perseverance and skill." Scrimgeour reads from Dumbledore's will, and places a golden snitch in Harry's hand, frowning when nothing happens to it.

A lynx Patronus lands in the middle of the crowded dance floor. "The Ministry has fallen," it says in Kingsley Shacklebolt's voice. "Scrimgeour is dead. They are coming."

Harry stands in Sirius' room at Grimmauld place, holding a torn photograph and a partial letter, tracing Lily's handwriting with his finger, absently wiping tears from his face. 

A Death Eater is on the floor, in front of a fireplace, screaming and writhing in agony. A slighter figure stands over him, wand outstretched. Harry speaks in a high, cold, merciless voice: "Draco, give Rowle another taste of my displeasure… do it, or feel my wrath yourself!" A log falls in the fire, and the light falls on a terrified, gaunt, pale face—

Draco checked his Occlumency walls briefly—still strong, thank Merlin, what the fuck—

"I'd never have believed this," Harry is nearly snarling, "the man who taught me to fight Dementors—a coward." Remus' face is livid, his wand is drawn so fast Harry has no time to react before he is thrown backward into the wall. 

"Master Regulus took from his pocket a locket like the one the Dark Lord had, and he told Kreacher to take it and, when the basin was empty, to switch the lockets…" Kreacher is sobbing and shaking. "And he ordered—Kreacher to leave—without him…"

Umbridge looks down imperiously on a muggleborn witch from the stand in Courtroom Ten. Harry, Cloaked and Polyjuiced as a large man, stands right behind a woman, a Polyjuiced Hermione, he knows. He stuns Umbridge, Hermione grabs the locket from her neck, and Dementors swarm the floor. "Expecto Patronum!" 

Ron is pale and shaking on a forest floor. His arm and shoulder is covered in blood. "Splinched," Hermione says, her fingers busy at Ron's sleeve. "Harry, quickly in my bag…"

The memories felt vibrant and violent and Draco prepared himself for a potential breadcrumb, but the violent feeling quickly retreated, followed by a deep feeling of bitterness and despair in the next flow of memories. It was months in a tent, on the move, carrying a horrible locket, hungry and hopeless and miserable, and only getting worse—

"No, you don't understand! You have no family!" Ron yells, and Harry lunges at him, hurt and furious.

Harry stares at the Marauder's Map, following Ginny's footprints around the Gryffindor common room.

Harry gazes at the broken remains of the house he was born in. A decrepit old woman hobbles up to him and Hermione, feet making soft crunching sounds against the snow.

Nagini emerges from an old woman's skin, and strikes. Harry feels a leap of joy that is not his own. "Hermione! He's coming!" He fights desperately with the snake, Hermione's spells firing everywhere, and they finally reach each other—he hears the shatter of glass and a tightening sensation, before the rage and fury in his head—not his own—sends searing pain through his scar, knocking him unconscious.

"Okay, it's coming up," Draco murmured, spotting a slight glow on the edge of his vision, keeping his reactions carefully tucked away. "Here we go—"

Harry is reading a book, anger and confusion in his veins. He stares at a photograph of a young Albus Dumbledore with his arm over the shoulder of a young Gellert Grindelwald, and a copy of a letter—

'Gellert—

Your point about Wizard dominance being FOR THE MUGGLES' OWN GOOD—this, I think, is the crucial point. Yes, we have been given power, and that power gives us the right to rule, but it also gives us responsibilities over the ruled. We must stress this point, it will be the foundation stone upon which we build. Where we are opposed, as we surely will be, this must be the basis of all our counterarguments. We seize control FOR THE GREATER GOOD. And from this it follows that where we meet resistance, we must use only the force that is necessary and no more. (This was your mistake at Durmstrang! But I do not complain, because if you had not been expelled, we would never have met.)

Albus'

Draco retreated slowly, as calmly as he could. He could definitely see why Harry's mind chose thatparticular memory—he pointed his wand at the chalkboard, and labeled the fresh dot "Dumbledore & Grindelwald" before turning back to check on Harry. 

Harry had his head in one hand, eyes squeezed shut, rubbing his forehead. His expression was pained, and Draco panicked a little. 

"Did I hurt you?" he asked, worried. 

Harry's head snapped up to look at him, as if he had just remembered Draco was there. He shook his head hastily, removing his hand from his face. 

"You look like you're in pain," Draco remarked. "If I hurt you, I need to know."

Harry only shook his head again, and picked up his notebook and pen to write a response.

Memory of pain

"Oh," Draco said. "Yes, your head did hurt quite a lot that year. Voldemort's doing, I presume?"

Harry put his pen back on the paper. 

Unintentionally, he wrote.

"Hm." Draco hummed shortly, still worried. "If you're sure…" 

Harry set his notebook in his lap and looked at Draco expectantly. Draco sighed, watching Harry with wary eyes, and let his reactions trickle through slowly.

"How did you…" He tried, unsure of the real question he wanted to ask—how, or when, or why don't you hate me for what you saw? Harry seemed to pick up on something, anyway, as he bent to write again. 

Connected to Voldemort - could see/feel what he did, when he was emotional

"Hm," Draco hummed again, frowning. "So he was in charge of the Occlumency between you, then? Since it was agony for him to possess you?"

Harry nodded, and Draco took another deep breath, lightly rubbing the Mark on his left arm.

"I'm sorry you had to see that," he mumbled. Harry did nothing—simply watched him with that knowing, expectant gaze, and waited.

"Regulus Black…" Draco began again. "He found the first one. He died trying to bring Voldemort down…"

Harry nodded once. Draco leaned his head back on the chair and stared up at the ceiling, processing, learning.

"Nagini was nightmarish enough as a snake," Draco shuddered. "She had to go put on an old woman like a bloody coat," he muttered, grimacing in disgust. Harry's lips quirked at Draco's wording, but he shuddered as well. It had happened to him, after all. 

Draco frowned, thinking hard. "The Snitch…" he mused. "Why'd he give you a Snitch?"

Harry smirked, looking at him with those sad eyes again. He bent over his notebook, writing once more. 

You'll see

Draco huffed. "I'm sure I will," he said grimly, then furrowed his brows as his brain set to work. "I'm going to guess that breadcrumb was the moment you learned you didn't really know him as well as you'd thought," he speculated. "The man who had practically been your foundation in the Wizarding World, who'd supported you and helped you and then gave you this impossible mission, with hardly any tools or knowledge to aid you in it. He was a kind of hero, to you, right? Until you realized how little you actually knew him, how much he kept from you. As much as it clearly infuriated you, how much he expected from you with so little in return, it also made him more human—you were upset he'd told you none of that himself. It made him simply a man with a complicated history, and not just the most powerful wizard of his age, the one with all the answers… he got to know you so well, he knew practically everything about you, expected the world from you, and gave you almost nothing of himself in return… right?"

Harry was staring at him with wide eyes, lips parted—almost fearful. Draco frowned again.

"Did I say something wrong?" Draco asked quietly. Harry shook his head slowly, that alarmed expression remaining. Draco watched him for a moment, searching his face, before looking away and picking up his mug from the table. This seemed to shake Harry out of his daze, and he did the same. 

They sat in silence for a few minutes, enjoying the chocolatey warmth of their drinks. Draco glanced at his watch. Barely ten-thirty—they were definitely becoming more efficient. 

"We have time for one more, before our break," Draco said. "Do you feel up for it? Be honest."

Harry thought about it for barely two seconds before giving Draco a short nod. He put his mocha down and sat up straight, closing his eyes, taking some deep breaths to prepare himself. 

Draco watched him, absently twirling a lock of his hair around his finger. Even sitting still, Harry looked like a masterpiece, and he was only breathing. Pathetic, Draco.

When Harry finally deemed himself ready, Draco lifted his wand once more, and cast himself into Harry's head. 

Harry is following a silvery doe Patronus through a forest. It feels so familiar. The doe vanishes over a frozen pond, inside which Harry spots a glint of rubies. Harry sighs, understanding what he must do, and starts removing his clothes. 

Arms are dragging him out of the icy water onto the frozen ground, the chain of the locket has finally released his neck, he is gulping in air. His hand clings to the sword. "Why the hell," Ron pants, holding up the locket, "didn't you take this thing off before you dived?"

Ghostly figures of Harry and Hermione embrace above the locket, their lips meeting. Ron's face is filled with anguish. "Do it, Ron!" Harry yells, and Ron plunges the sword down into the locket. There is a clang of glass and metal, and a long, drawn-out scream.

Behind his walls, Draco was cheering, while also being quietly disgusted at the image of Harry and Hermione together. That just looked so wrong.Harry was guiding them along again, remembering it all on his own. Draco was glad to see he wasn't too tired from their earlier ventures. 

Hermione closes The Tales of Beedle the Bard. "Well, there you are," Xenophilius Lovegood says. "Those are the Deathly Hallows." He picks up a quill and parchment, drawing the odd symbol in thick, black ink. "Those of us who understand these matters recognize that the ancient story refers to three objects, or Hallows, which, if united, will make the possessor Master of Death."

"And what would you say to Harry if you knew he was listening, Romulus?" Lee Jordan's voice sounds from the wireless.

"I'd tell him we're all with him in spirit," Remus' voice replies, "and I'd tell him to follow his instincts, which are good and nearly always right."

"Come on, Hermione, why are you so determined not to admit it? Vol—"

"HARRY, NO!"

"—demort's after the Elder Wand!" The Sneakoscope on the table lights up and spins, voices are outside their tent—

"Come out of there with your hands up!" a rasping voice yells in the darkness. 

Draco's breathing was speeding up. Fuck, he thought. Here we go.

"I can't—I can't be sure," Draco says, wide grey eyes full of terror and recognition. Harry doesn't understand why Draco won't admit it. His chest feels tight.

"But look at him carefully, look! Come closer!" Harry has never heard Lucius so excited. "Draco, if we are the ones who hand Potter over to the Dark Lord, everything will be forgiven…"

"I don't know," Draco says.

"But then, that's the Weasley boy! Potter's friends—Draco look at him, isn't it Arthur Weasley's son—?" Lucius is practically beside himself.

"It could be," Draco shrugs.

Harry can hear Hermione's screams from the cellar. "We're in the cellar of Malfoy Manor, help us," he says desperately into a shard of broken mirror. A moment later, Dobby pops into the room.

"Harry Potter," Dobby squeaks in the tiniest quiver of a voice, "Dobby has come to rescue you."

"You're going to kill me?" Harry chokes. "After I saved your life? You owe me, Wormtail!" The fingers of the silver hand slacken and release him, and start moving inexorably towards Pettigrew's own throat. Pettigrew's eyes widen in terror.

Harry's scar is bursting with pain—Voldemort is coming. A bead of blood drips down Hermione's throat under Bellatrix's silver blade… 

Harry leaps over an armchair and wrests the three wands from Draco's grip, pointing them all at Greyback…

The silver hilt of the knife protrudes from the elf's heaving chest. Harry catches him as he falls. "Dobby, no, don't die, don't die—"

Dobby's eyes meet his. "Harry… Potter…" he says, lips trembling with the effort, before his body gives a little shudder, then goes still. 

Draco was shaking in his own body, from the adrenaline, from seeing his own memories through Harry's eyes, from watching the elf he'd once known die. He thought of Timsy, behind his Occlumency walls, and his shaking increased, but they were so close, Draco could feel it—no use stopping now. 

"Almost there, Harry," Draco murmured, his voice trembling. "You're doing great, we're so close—"

Harry buries Dobby the muggle way, with dirt and sweat. He feels Voldemort's fury, distantly—Harry is protected by his own grief. 

"Harry," whispers Hermione, "are you saying what I think you're saying? Are you saying there's a Horcrux in the Lestranges' vault?"

"Hawthorn and unicorn hair. Ten inches precisely. Reasonably springy. This was the wand of Draco Malfoy," Ollivander rasps.

"Was? Isn't it still his?" Harry asks. 

"It's a boy!" Remus shouts, utterly thrilled. Everyone cheers. "Teddy, after Dora's father. You'll be godfather, Harry?"

Harry stares at the Marauder's Map, by the light of the hawthorn wand. He opens a flap to continue watching Draco's footprints traverse a dungeon corridor.

"Alright, here it is," Draco said, after several memories of planning with the goblin, eating meals with Bill and Fleur, despairing that Voldemort now had the Elder Wand. He spotted the glow in the corner of his vision, finally, latching on tightly. "Hang on—"

Harry is under the Cloak, with a goblin on his back, standing in front of a tall desk at Gringotts with a barely recognizable Ron, Travers the Death Eater, and Bellatrix Lestrange—Hermione, on Polyjuice.

"Identification? I have never been asked for identification before!" says Hermione/Bellatrix.

"They know," Griphook the goblin whispers in Harry's ear. "They must have been warned."

"Your wand will do, madam," says the old goblin at the desk. They must have known that Bellatrix's wand was stolen—

"Act now, act now, quickly!" Griphook whispers urgently.

Harry raises the hawthorn wand beneath the Cloak, points it at the old goblin, and whispers, for the first time in his life, "Imperio."

A curious sensation shoots down Harry's arm, tingling warmth that seems to flow from his mind, down the veins and sinews connecting him to the wand. The old goblin takes Hermione/Bellatrix's wand, examines it closely, and says, "Ah, you have had a new wand made, Madam Lestrange!"

Draco withdrew, and lowered his wand. He closed his eyes and allowed his Occlumency barriers to fall, feeling precariously close to crashing. He was still shaking from adrenaline, a cold sweat dotting his forehead. His hands moved to his collar, his left forearm, his hair, over and over, as he concentrated on the breath moving in and out of his body, riding out the flood of emotions: fear, anxiety, grief, guilt, awe, even a little joy, swirling through and around him. He was caught like a little boat in a stormy sea, with no choice but to wait for it all to pass, and hope for the best. 

When Draco opened his eyes, Harry was watching him anxiously again. Draco gave him a tiny, reassuring smile. "Alright?"

A corner of Harry's lips twitched up, and he gave a short nod. Draco prepared to start his analysis, but Harry grabbed his notebook first, glancing at Draco once before writing. 

Why didn't you tell them?

Draco took a deep breath, knowing exactly what the vague question was referring to. Full honesty, he'd promised. 

"Because I didn't want you to die," he answered. "If I'd identified you, they'd have called him immediately, and he'd have killed you then and there. I wouldn't do it."

Harry was looking at him intently, face full of something Draco couldn't quite read. Draco waited for more questions, but they didn't come, so he decided to move on.

"Was that your first—successful—Unforgivable?" he asked. Harry nodded again, eyes still trained on Draco's face. 

"Probably the first time you caused harm to what was technically an innocent bystander, right? Must have completely thrown you…" Draco trailed off, thinking further, as Harry gave him another encouraging nod. 

"...and totally uprooted your concrete view of right and wrong," he murmured. "You needed to get into that vault, in order to defeat Voldemort. Morals were a luxury, at that point, one you couldn't afford. So you used Unforgivables on innocents, and robbed a bank, and if the rumours are true, you also stole a dragon. Right and wrong became irrelevant, in matters of survival."

Harry was looking at him meaningfully, with that maybe-pride again, and something like understanding. Draco felt like Harry was seeing right through him. With a jolt, Draco realized he had also just described his own experiences in sixth and seventh year—right and wrong became irrelevant, in matters of survival. Was that what Harry was thinking about? Was Harry understanding him, this time?

Draco searched Harry's face, but he didn't move to communicate—he just sat there, staring at Draco with knowing green eyes. Draco pointed his wand at the board, labeled a new dot "First Unforgivable", and moved on. 

"Where did the Patronus come from?" Draco asked. Harry looked at him for a moment more before picking up his notebook to write. 

Snape

Draco raised his eyebrows. "Severus' Patronus was a female deer?" Harry bent his head to write more. 

My mother's

Draco sighed deeply. This made absolutely no sense. 

"Merlin, Harry, I really wish you could talk," he breathed. "There's so much I want to talk to you about, so much I want to know about you, and I don't like learning it like this—where you have no control, no say in what I see. When you can't talkabout it." Draco pressed his lips together to keep himself from saying anything else. Harry only looked wryly at him, and shrugged. 

Draco patted the armrests of his chair, and stood up, effectively ending the odd confessional moment. 

Harry remained in his seat for a moment more. His wild, dark hair was curling softly over his forehead, and Draco could faintly see the tip of his lightning bolt scar where it cut through his right eyebrow. The light from the fire danced over the light stubble shadowing his jaw, accentuating his cheekbone. He sat so confidently, taking up the space of the wingback chair—his denim clad legs splayed slightly, strong arms laying across the armrests, like he belonged there. He looked up at Draco suddenly, through his glasses, too-bright green eyes piercing Draco from under thick, dark lashes, and Draco inhaled sharply, feeling a jolt of heat run up his spine. 

He turned away quickly, one arm raising to cover his stomach, where he could feel that twist of discomfort, of warning. 

"Come on, then, time for lunch," Draco said, voice coming out more hoarsely than he'd liked as he made his way to the door, not bothering to see if Harry would follow. 

***

Harry had wanted to visit the animals again, so they did. The sun was out, thankfully, so neither of them needed outerwear. Draco had even rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, allowing the mid-April sun to warm his skin, and fill him with contentment. 

The trail was easier to follow, with the sunlight dappling through the leaves. Harry's black t-shirt and dark hair stood out among the bright forest, like a harmony—something that wasn't quite the same, but supposed to be there regardless, adding to the trees to create something even more lovely. The earth around them was becoming greener by the day, and Draco couldn't help but compare the colours to those in Harry's eyes, noting the similarities accentuated with the variety of flora. He hoped, with his entire being, that if he was being this pathetic internally, he was at least being subtle about it. 

Harry looked at him as they approached the meeting place, smirking in amusement, and pursed his lips to whistle Celestina Warbeck's Curse Breaker. Draco huffed a laugh, shaking his head in disbelief. 

"So that's apparently the only sound you can make from your mouth," he chuckled quietly. "What will the papers say? 'Chosen One Chooses New Calling: Professional Whistling Pantomime...'"

Harry laughed silently at him, and Draco's lungs tightened at seeing him look so happy, so carefree, because of Draco.

Hera seemed happy to see Draco's strange companion again, and gladly took Harry's carrots and affections. As Bubo hopped down from his perch to land gently on Draco's bare arm, Draco saw the situation from a new perspective—Harry loved the doe and the owl, even though they reminded him of those he had lost. It certainly explained Harry's conflicting expressions from their last visit: delighted smile, with mournful eyes, which Draco could see again, now, as Harry took the pouch of owl treats from Draco and held it up to the eagle owl.

When they made it back to the house, enduring another of Timsy's discreet-yet-invasive hand cleaning charms, Draco decided to offer something he knew Harry wouldn't ask for. 

"I pulled out some memories, for you, a couple of weeks ago," Draco began tentatively, "of Dobby, when I was young. We can watch them, if you'd like."

Harry's smile was shy, but he looked eager, and curious. He gave a hesitant nod—as if showing too much excitement would make Draco retract his offer. Draco grinned at him. Adorable. 

Draco then turned away, leading the way back to the study, berating himself again for his wayward thoughts. 

Draco unlocked the secret cabinet and pulled out the Pensieve, floating it over towards where Harry stood, in the middle of the room. He plucked the vial labeled "Dobby" off the thin shelf, and made his way back to Harry. 

"There's two memories in here," he said, holding up the vial. "My favourites." Draco uncorked the vial, and carefully dumped the contents into the swirling magic-liquid-wind inside the Pensieve. He glanced once at Harry for confirmation, and they both bent over to lower their faces into the basin. 

They landed in Draco's childhood bedroom. The walls were covered in Quidditch and broomstick paraphernalia, and the shelves were stuffed with books and toy dragons. The furniture was ornate, the curtains around his bed were a deep, Slytherin green. Harry grinned at the sight.

A seven-year-old Draco is laying on the floor, wearing a set of blue, expensive, formal robes, and patent leather shoes. A set of tiny Quidditch player figurines are flying around above his head.

"Young Master Draco should not be laying on the floor in his formal robes, at this moment," Dobby says cautiously, meaningfully, from where he's apparated into the room, standing at the foot of the bed. He looks nervous, wringing his little hands.

"Why not?" Draco asks petulantly, not moving from his spot on the floor. Dobby only becomes more apprehensive, bouncing on the balls of his feet, his ears flapping with the movement.

"Because Dobby is seeing Mistress Narcissa walking in the corridor, at this moment," the elf replies quietly. Draco's eyes widen comically, and he shoots up from the floor and runs toward his desk, grabbing a book on the way. Dobby snaps his fingers, magically cleaning the toys from the air and the floor, and clearing any dust and wrinkles from little Draco's expensive robes. Draco straightens his spine, and Dobby disapparates the moment the door unlatches, disguising the sound.

Narcissa glides into the room, smiling fondly at the sight of her apparently-well-behaved son. "Draco, your father's guests will be arriving in an hour, and I expect you to be ready to greet them in the drawing room," she says softly, petting his hair affectionately. Draco looks up from his book, as if he'd just noticed she was there.

"Of course, Mother," he replies, in his best efforts at pureblood grace and maturity, which still seem ridiculous coming from a seven-year-old. "I look forward to meeting them, and welcoming them into our home."

Harry's hand moved to his mouth to cover his laughter, his eyes were dancing with mirth. They saw Narcissa's lips twitch with amusement, as well, and Draco was reminded suddenly of Teddy, bowing over Narcissa's hand. 

Narcissa kisses his head gently, and leaves the room. As the door closes, Draco lets out an exaggerated sigh of relief, closing the book with a snap. Dobby apparates back into the room, checking things over. Draco grins at him.

"Since Young Master Draco's presence is not being required for an hour, Young Master Draco could be using this moment to lay on the floor in his formal robes," the elf says, big, round eyes staring at Draco meaningfully again. Dobby snaps his fingers, and the Quidditch figurines return to the air, toy dragons prowl around on the floor. Little Draco laughs, and lays back down on the hard floor. 

The memory ended, and the scene swirled into another. The same bedroom surrounded them, but this time, with twice as many Slytherin decorations, and twice as many books, that mostly looked heavy and old, and quite boring. Night had fallen, and thick, fluffy snow was falling outside the window.

An eleven-year-old Draco sits on his bed, clad in black robes, knees curled up to his chest, staring out the window dramatically. He sighs dejectedly. Dobby quietly pops into the room, quickly looking Draco over, before turning to the shelves to pretend to clean them.

"Welcome home, Young Master Draco. Was the Young Master having a good time at school?"

"I want to go back," Draco replies, not looking away from the window. "Even with stupid, famous Harry Potter prancing about, it's better than here. I can't even go play in the snow. At Christmas!" 

Harry snorted at this, and Draco grinned.

"Is Young Master Draco being unhappy because Master Lucius is being punishing him, sir?" Dobby asks, side-eyeing the boy.

"Of course," Draco snaps petulantly. "Just because my marks aren't as good as… Professors playing favourites, obviously… only one semester…" he mutters to himself, under his breath.

"Master Lucius is forbidding Young Master Draco from crossing the threshold of his bedroom, sir, until Master Lucius is deciding the punishment is being sufficient," Dobby says, staring straight at Draco intently with his huge eyes. Draco scoffs.

"I'm well aware, Dobby, no need to rub it in," Draco snarls. Dobby is wringing his hands again, looking around nervously.

"Young Master Draco cannot cross the threshold of his bedroom, until Master Lucius is deciding the punishment is being sufficient, sir," Dobby says, emphasizing the words, bouncing gently on the balls of his feet. Draco picks his head up from his knees, looking shrewdly at the nervous elf.

"Are you saying that perhaps… there's a way out of my bedroom, without crossing the threshold?" Draco asks slowly. Dobby's face breaks out in an odd grin, and he nods vigorously, ears flapping wildly.

"Young Master Draco could be playing in the snow, sir, if Young Master is wanting to, and is telling Dobby to help him get there, sir," Dobby whispers, and Draco grins excitedly, jumping off of his bed to put on his shoes, pulling his Slytherin scarf out of his trunk. He runs back over to the elf, who is still wringing his hands nervously, but seems almost as excited at the prospect of mischief as Draco. The elf snaps his fingers, and a strong warming charm covers the boy.

"Dobby," Draco says quietly, "take me outside."

Dobby grins again, and grabs hold of Draco's sleeve, apparating them out of the room. 

As they landed in their own bodies outside of the Pensieve, Draco laughed. Harry joined him, laughing silently with bright, wet eyes, watching Draco. Draco felt something cold on his cheek, and wiped at it absently—a tear. Oh, well. 

"He was a wonderful elf," Draco said, laughter fading. "I was upset when you freed him, but I'm glad he could get away from the Manor, from my father. I'm glad he was happy." 

Harry's face was lit up with fondness—Draco didn't know to whom it was being directed, but it didn't matter. He was just happy to have brought Harry joy, to have shared something of himself that he actually liked with Harry. 

As they came down from their giddiness, Draco motioned towards the chairs by the small fire, sighing. "Let's finish up seventh year, shall we?"

Harry glanced briefly at the shelves of memories inside the Pensieve cabinet, before making his way to his chair. "Start meditating, I'll be over in a moment," Draco said, pulling out his wand to fish the memories out of the Pensieve, placing them carefully back into the glass vial. He brought the Pensieve back to its cabinet, replaced the vial on the shelf, and closed it up, locking it meticulously.

Draco settled himself in his chair, twirling his wand in his fingers, breathing deeply as he watched Harry meditate. He thought privately that the gentle, repetitive rise and fall of Harry's shoulders was calming enough for him to forgo his own meditation. Instead, he brought up his Occlumency shields again, stuffing his emotions and reactions behind the big, wooden door in his mind, preparing himself for the work ahead. 

Harry opened his eyes, quirked his lips, and nodded once at Draco. Draco raised his wand.

"The cup, for the sword!" Griphook yells, and Harry has no choice, they are drowning in burning treasure. He throws the Sword of Gryffindor to the goblin, who throws the golden cup back to him. It burns his skin and starts spitting out copies, but Harry doesn't let go. 

"Relashio!" Harry shouts, and the cuffs chaining the dragon to the floor break open. "This way!" Harry sprints towards the beast, firing stunning spells at the goblins and wizard guards.

"Harry—Harry—what are you doing?" Hermione cries.

"Get up, climb up, come on—" Harry climbs onto the dragon's back, stretches out an arm, hoists Hermione and Ron up behind him, and then the dragon realizes it is untethered, rearing up with an ear-splitting roar. 

"And they took?" His voice is high and cold, fury and fear burn inside him. "What did they take? Tell me!"

"A… A s-small golden cup, my Lord—" the goblin stammers, and he lets out a scream of rage, of denial. The Elder Wand slashes through the air, spellfire fills the room, bodies and blood cover the floor.

"We have to get going, Hermione," Harry says firmly, sparing a moment to mourn his lack of sleep. There was no time. "Can you imagine what he's going to do once he realizes the ring and the locket are gone? What if he moves the Hogwarts Horcrux, decides it isn't safe enough?"

Behind his walls, Draco cheered that the rumour of the stolen dragon was true—he had always hoped it was. Gringotts had always denied it. But the consequences of it… Bits and pieces were clicking together in Draco's mind, connecting the memories to his own. 

"I knew my brother, Potter. He learned secrecy at our mother's knee. Secrets and lies, that's how we grew up, and Albus… he was a natural." Aberforth's eyes travel to the portrait of the girl on the mantelpiece.

"I knew you'd come! I knew it, Harry!" Neville looks a mess, clambering out from behind the portrait on the mantelpiece.

"There's something we need to find," Harry says. "It's here at Hogwarts, but we don't know where. It might have belonged to Ravenclaw."

"Well, there's Rowena Ravenclaw's lost diadem," Luna pipes up. "I told you about it, Harry, remember?"

Amycus Carrow spits in McGonagall's face. Harry, furious, throws off his Cloak, aims the hawthorn wand. "Crucio!"

McGonagall's and Flitwick's wands slash through the air. Snape hurtles through a classroom door. "Coward!" McGonagall cries.

Inside his own body, Draco was vibrating with nerves. He did not want to relive this night, he really did not want to—

"Here, I've got a picture!" Remus says proudly to Fleur and Harry, pulling out a photograph of a tiny baby with a tuft of turquoise hair, waving fat fists at the camera. 

"Give me Harry Potter, and none shall be harmed. Give me Harry Potter, and you shall be rewarded. You have until midnight." Voldemort's voice dissipates, followed by a heavy silence in the Great Hall.

"But he's there!" Pansy shrieks, pointing with a shaking arm. "Someone grab him!"

Ron demonstrates an awful hissing sound, holding an armful of basilisk fangs.

"'S'what you said to open the locket," he explains, to Harry's dumbfounded look. "Took a few tries, but I got there."

"The house-elves, they'll all be down in the kitchens, won't they?" Ron says.

"You mean we ought to get them fighting?" Harry asks.

"No," Ron says. "I mean we should tell them to get out. We can't order them to die for us—"

A clatter as the basilisk fangs cascade out of Hermione's arms. She runs at Ron, flinging her arms around his neck, kissing him full on the mouth. 

"Don't kill him! DON'T KILL HIM!" Draco yells at Vince and Greg.