Chapter EightDraco straightened his tie under his waistcoat as he knelt in front of his fireplace. He didn't have to dress formally for a floo call, but it certainly wouldn't hurt, in this particular case. Timsy was shaking his head in disapproval on the other side of the room at the sight of Draco practically ruining the knees of his expensive trousers, when they wouldn't even be seen.
He threw the floo powder into the fire, and called out "Minister Shacklebolt's Office!" before sticking his head into the flames, enduring the odd, twisting journey sending his head and shoulders away from his body.
His face popped up in another fireplace, and Draco recognized the office of the Minister for Magic. Shacklebolt was sitting at his large desk, writing something with a long quill. Draco internally thanked him for the full floo access, and cheered that he'd got him at a time when he wasn't too busy, doing Minister things.
"Minister," Draco greeted. Shacklebolt looked up from his desk, a barely concealed look of surprise on his face.
"Healer Malfoy," he replied calmly. "Do you have news?"
Draco couldn't control his eye roll. Not a good start. "Even if I did, you know I can't relay it, Shacklebolt," he muttered. "I need information."
Shacklebolt raised his eyebrows. He lowered his quill, sitting back in his ornate leather chair and motioning for Draco to continue.
"I need to know what you know of the Unspeakables' current projects, as well as a list of who works there and their backgrounds," Draco said, and Shacklebolt stared at him for a moment, dumbfounded, before throwing his head back and laughing.
"You can't be serious," Shacklebolt mumbled between chuckles.
"Quite serious," Draco replied firmly, glaring at the Minister, who finally got himself under control, folding his hands in his lap, a disbelieving smile on his face.
"That is information I cannot provide, not because you don't have clearance—which you don't, by the way—but because I don't know, myself. The Department of Mysteries is not under my jurisdiction. No one knows what those swots get up to except themselves. I've only been there once, in '96, with the Order, fighting Death Eaters. I didn't understand a whit of what I saw, and we certainly didn't run into any Unspeakables."
Draco's mouth opened in shock. "Not under your… then whose jurisdiction are they under?"
"Their own," Kingsley shrugged. "Have been for centuries." Draco just stared at him in disbelief.
"So you, the Minister for Magic, have absolutely no idea what goes on on an entire floor of the Ministry, nor who works there… and you don't care?"
"Of course I care," Kingsley scoffed. "But it is beyond the limit of my power. The DoM is practically its own entity. They keep to themselves, they hide in their books and their mysteries of life, they bother no one. I simply sign off a budget approval for Level Nine, every year, and leave them to their studies."
"Kingsley, you don't know that," Draco urged, shocking himself with the use of the Minister's first name, but too utterly bewildered by Kingsley's indifference to care. "You don't know if they keep to themselves and bother no one, because you've never seen them. What you're telling me is that they answer to no one, they're not held accountable for anything, they might even be above the law."
"No one is above the law, Draco, but any time I tried to find out what goes on down there, I hit hundreds of dead ends."
"And that seems normal to you, how hard they're working to hide from you? Weren't you an Aurorbefore this?"
"Why is this important, Draco?" Kingsley glared. "You think the bookworms down there had something to do with what happened to Harry?"
Draco opened his mouth to reply, but no words came out. He coughed softly, glaring back at the Minister, whose eyebrows were raising at what Draco's silence obviously meant.
"I'll see what I can find out, but like I said, they're near impossible to track down," Kingsley said. Draco sighed. Why did Kingsley Shacklebolt, the Minister for Magic, have such little faith in his own authority?
"Fine," Draco replied shortly, and hesitated before continuing, "I also require a favour, Shacklebolt."
Shacklebolt raised his eyebrows again, probably at the sheer audacity of Draco Malfoy, ex-Death Eater, mere Healer, asking the Minister for a favour, after telling him how to do his job. But Kingsley was a politician now, had been for eight years, and traded freely with the currency of favours.
"Go on," Shacklebolt muttered, clearly curious.
Draco hesitated again, but thought of his mother, and hardened his resolve.
"Have you had any word from Azkaban, lately, about Lucius?"
Shacklebolt tried not to wrinkle his nose in distaste, but Draco still saw it, and understood it too well.
"No, I haven't. Are you expecting news?"
"He stopped responding to my mother's letters, six months ago," Draco said quietly. His knees were starting to hurt from kneeling on the hard floor in front of the fire. "That could mean anything, but my mother… I'd appreciate it if you could just… check," he fumbled, cringing at his lack of eloquence.
"I see," Shacklebolt murmured, nodding. "I'll write the warden for an update, then."
Draco exhaled in relief. "Thank you. That's all I need. Good day, Minister."
Kingsley gave him a curious look before replying, "I'll be in touch, Draco."
Draco pulled his head out of the fire, comfortably back on his own body, and stood up, stretching his sore back and legs. He really needed to update the cushioning charms on the floor in front of the grate. He turned and walked to his study to pen a vague, disappointing letter to the Head Auror.
***
On Monday morning, Draco stood in front of his music shelf in the sitting room, rubbing his chin, scowling at the boombox again. Harry's cassette tape sat innocuously on the shelf, and Draco was dying to know what music Harry thought he would like. The curiosity was quickly overtaking his self-preservation, which was probably what Pansy had been counting on. If this thing exploded on him, he would be blaming her entirely—she'd definitely have to reimburse him for the damage, or buy him more records, or something. It'd be worth it, to her, the devious cow.
He took a deep breath, shook out his hands, and started pressing every single button on the device indiscriminately. It started whirring and making clicking noises, some things were lighting up, and Draco was worried, but not enough to stop. He pushed buttons that stayed down, some snapped back up, he flicked switches and turned dials until—
Click.
Draco froze as a small rectangular compartment opened in the front, barely the size of his palm, almost exactly the size of the cassette tape on the shelf. Holding his breath, Draco opened the plastic case of the tape, glancing at Harry's scrawled handwriting on the card inside. He took out the odd, smaller rectangle within, and carefully slid it into the compartment—it fit perfectly, and he whooped with accomplishment, startling Timsy in the hallway, who jumped and grumbled under his breath.
Draco delicately closed the compartment, buzzing with anticipation, and tried to return all the other buttons and switches and dials to their original positions, somehow, before finding the "play" triangle—
And then the wards wobbled, signaling Harry's arrival. Draco sighed, and pulled his hands away, resolving to listen to the tape right after their session today.
Harry entered the house, and Draco noticed he hadn't worn his leather jacket, deciding a thin green jumper was all the layering he required. Draco only missed it a little bit—the jumper brought out his eyes, which made up for it, and he smiled at Draco, which made his breath catch and caused him to choke, a bit, effectively wiping away all other preoccupations.
In the study, settled into the wingback chairs with their coffees—black, this time, to appease Timsy—Draco looked over their progress on the chalkboard.
"Twenty down," Draco mumbled. "If we were a bit over halfway through at thirteen, we must be getting close."
Harry looked up at the board, but he didn't look excited by this revelation. He stared at the long line of breadcrumbs, looking dejected. Draco wanted to ask about it, but he didn't. He figured he might get to ask Harry plenty of things, soon, when they solved this subconscious maze, and Harry would even be able to answer him, maybe. Perhaps. If he wanted to.
Draco shook his head quickly—no point getting ahead of himself. He summoned his notebook and reading glasses from his desk, and set them on the side table—hopefully he'd have time to update his notes today. He'd fallen asleep directly after their session last time, completely unproductive.
Harry looked back at him, setting down his mug and sitting up straight to start his meditation. He looked calm, on the surface—Draco wondered idly if he'd taken that mental holiday he had given him last time, and spent time in that memory on Draco's favourite beach. He wouldn't ask that, either, until Harry could really answer him. If he wanted to.
They finished their meditation, comfortable in their routine, now, and Draco raised his wand, waiting. Harry's eye contact seemed more intense than usual, but Draco went with it. "Legilimens."
Harry brought them back to the forest floor. Narcissa was walking away, Death Eaters were cheering, Harry's body was being thrown around, impervious to the pain of Voldemort's curses.
Hagrid's tears soak Harry's shirt.
"Harry Potter is dead!" Voldemort yells, and Harry hears screams, he wants to comfort them…
The glint of a sword through the air as Neville slices Nagini's head clean off…
Molly Weasley's curse hits Bellatrix in the chest, her face frozen in shock as she falls…
"Draco Malfoy was the Master of the Elder Wand—until I disarmed him at Malfoy Manor…"
"Try, Tom. Try for remorse."
"Avada Kedavra!"
"Expelliarmus!"
A wand flies in a high arc through the air…
Draco was only a little surprised that that duel wasn't a breadcrumb—but then again, dueling Voldemort was old hat to Harry Potter. It was simply something he had to do, at that point. He had just died, after all. Dueling must have seemed a chore, after that. Watching it happen, though, at the time—listening to a seventeen-year-old Harry's fierce arguments, hearing him say Draco's name among the reasons why he was going to win, talking to the Dark Lord like he was just another dueling partner, then taking him down with a disarming spell, completely confident in his ability—that was definitely a formative memory, to Draco. His own mind would have definitely chosen it as a breadcrumb.
People swarm him, shaking his hand, he just wants to sleep.
Aurors are escorting the Malfoys out of the Great Hall.
Harry lays in Ron's room at the Burrow, and doesn't leave for days.
"I see something coming up," Draco murmured, frowning. What was so important at this time? He'd have assumed Harry rested all summer, enjoying the freedom and the sunshine and Ginny. According to the papers, the only time he ever went out in public that summer was for the Death Eater Trials—oh. "Here we go—"
Harry barely makes it to the Courtroom in time. In typical Ministry fashion, they had changed the time last minute, but he'd told Kingsley to keep an ear out for it. He wouldn't miss this.
Draco is chained to the chair on the floor of Courtroom Ten. He looks sick, his face is gaunt. He is shaking, Harry assumes from hunger and cold—he recognizes it. He has no shoes on, only dirty socks, under his filthy prisoner's robes. Harry thinks it looks wrong—this is not how Draco Malfoy should ever look.
Draco looks up at him on the witness' stand with piercing grey eyes, defensive and resigned. Harry can't look away.
"Mr. Potter, you are here to testify in the trial against known Death Eater, Draco Malfoy—"
"No," Harry says firmly, the magistrate freezes. "I am here to testify for Draco Malfoy, in his defense."
A low hum of surprised murmurs fills the echoing room, and Draco's chapped lips part in shock.
"Very well," the magistrate mutters. "You may begin."
Harry clears his throat, looking at Draco again. Harry might have been talking to him, alone. His voice rings loud and clear.
"Draco Malfoy is a spoiled git and a bully. I've never known him to be a particularly nice person. He is indeed a Marked Death Eater, who was tasked with the murder of Albus Dumbledore, who did find a way to let Death Eaters into Hogwarts."
At this, Draco drops his head in defeat, but Harry still doesn't look away from him, and continues.
"However, Draco only took that Mark, and attempted the task, at the age of sixteen, because Voldemort had his family at wandpoint. Voldemort, out of sheer cruelty, gave a teenager an impossible task he knew he would fail at, to punish his family. Draco faced death on either side—fail, and be murdered with his mother by Voldemort; or die trying to bring down the most powerful wizard of our time. He had absolutely no other options, and not one person offered him a way out."
Draco raises his head, watching Harry with cautious disbelief.
"I was there, that night, on the Astronomy tower. I had just returned from a mission with Dumbledore, who was severely weakened. He knew what was going to happen, and told me to hide—he put me in a body-bind so I wouldn't interfere. I watched, as Draco had a defenseless Dumbledore at wandpoint. He couldn't do it, even when his own life was on the line. He was lowering his wand by the time Snape and the Death Eaters arrived. I only learned later that Dumbledore was dying anyway, and had told Snape to kill him, to spare Draco, and to prove Snape's loyalty to Voldemort—even though his true loyalties laid with us, all along."
Draco's face is white with fear and shock, his hands gripping the chair under his chains, shivering.
"When I was captured and taken to Malfoy Manor this spring, my face was swollen from Hermione's Stinging Jinx, but I could still be recognized by someone who knew me well—they asked Draco to identify me, and even though I knew he could recognize me, he wouldn't tell them it was me. He wouldn't identify Ron Weasley or Hermione Granger, either—he'd gone to school with us for six years, we'd taunted each other every day. He knew, and his silence kept me alive. I would not have lived to defeat Voldemort if he had said something."
Harry paused to look around the room at the faces hanging on his every word, before looking down to meet Draco's eyes again.
"Draco was a pawn in an adult's war, the same way I was. We played the same role, on opposite sides. He was raised to follow one path and one path only. He was sent on an impossible task, to kill the most powerful wizard alive, and he had no choice but to follow it, or die. He did what he had to do to keep himself and his mother safe. I was raised to follow only one path, thanks to a stupid prophecy. I was told I had to kill one of the most powerful wizards alive, or else he would kill me, and everyone I love—I had no choice. I did what I had to do to keep my friends safe. The only difference is that I succeeded in killing someone. Draco could not."
Draco's eyes widen further, he seems frozen to his chair.
"If you're going to throw Draco in Azkaban, for things he did as a teenager in an impossible situation, you'll have to throw me in there, with him. I've broken into the Ministry, twice. I've used Unforgivables, multiple times. I've robbed a bank and stolen a dragon. I've used a time turner illegally. I've used Polyjuice Potion illegally, many times. I've performed underage magic around muggles. I've been seen by muggles in a flying car. I've harbored fugitives. I've attacked Professors. I've stolen and cheated and hurt people who didn't deserve it. I did what I had to do to protect the people I love. Convict both of us, or neither of us. There is no good reason one pawn should be free while the other has to pay for their crimes."
The Courtroom is stunned into complete silence, Harry's last words echoing against the cold stone. Faintly, Harry can hear Draco's shallow, shuddering breaths, from the chair below. Draco's shining, grey eyes are rooting him to the spot—he feels an incomprehensible pulling, tightening sensation in his chest.
Draco carefully pulled himself out of Harry's head, pointed his wand at the board to label a new dot "DM Trial", and closed his eyes. He set his wand down in his lap, and let his Occlumency walls fall slowly.
He didn't know if the constricting feeling in his ribs was his or Harry's. He was not entirely sure if he wanted to know. His finger traced the scar on his collarbone, the Mark on his arm, rubbed the tops of his thighs.
"That was the last time I heard your voice, you know," Draco mused after a moment, opening his eyes. Harry had remembered that testimony exactly as Draco had, word for word, everything was exactly the same. He had just relived his own memory, from a different place in the room—from the eyes of the boy who truly saw him, the only person who spoke up for him.
Harry was simply looking at him again, seeinghim. His face was strained—he looked like he was trying to force words out through his eyes, through his pores, but they wouldn't come. Draco couldn't help but stare back at him for a moment, before making himself speak again.
"Why?"
Harry looked down at his hands, which were clamped firmly on his own legs. He prised his fingers off, opened his notebook slowly, and clicked his pen.
It was the right thing to do
Draco clicked his tongue. "That's why you do anything, Harry," he said. "That may be one of the reasons why, but that's not enough to make a formative memory, that's not enough to shape who you are. Doing the right thing isn't new, for you."
Harry pressed his lips together, eyes searching Draco's face for something, Draco didn't know what. He waited, but Harry wrote nothing else.
Draco realized he'd always been the one explaining the importance of Harry's memories, out loud, and he might be expected to do it now. He could—he had plenty of ideas, his mind was working a mile a minute, but none of it was anything he wanted to say out loud. So, he waited, in what felt increasingly like a staring contest.
"We can come back to that later," Draco muttered. "Ready for another?"
Harry took a deep breath, long and slow, still embroiled in the staring contest. He nodded once, and Draco raised his wand, falling once more into Harry's head.
"Then help me understand, Harry! He tormented you for years, he called Hermione slurs, he taunted our entire family, Luna and Dean were prisoners in his house! He let Death Eaters into the school—he's the reason Bill was mauled by Greyback! His father tried to kill both of us, Fred is dead because of Death Eaters like him! Why?!" Ginny is yelling in Diagon Alley, her face twisted in betrayal.
At Fred's funeral, Harry stands stoically beside the Weasley family.
At Remus' and Tonks' funeral, he doesn't have the strength to speak to Andromeda, who is holding onto a turquoise-haired baby like a lifeline.
"I need a favour, Kingsley," Harry says. "I need you to keep an eye on Draco Malfoy." Kingsley raises his eyebrows in disbelief.
"Not like that," Harry says quickly, fumbling over his words. "I just want you to check in on him, occasionally, make sure he's… the Ministry will try to hold him back, as will the public, whatever he decides to do… I want you to back him up, get to know him. Don't let them keep him under their boot. He's got a second chance now, at a proper life, away from Lucius' shadow—I don't want it all to go to waste."
Harry pauses a moment, in Kingsley's silence, before adding, "Please. I'll owe you, big time."
"Sure, I suppose I can do that for you, Harry, but I must ask: why not keep an eye on him, yourself?" Kingsley probes.
Harry scoffs. "Trust me, Kingsley—it'd be a lot more welcome, coming from you."
At Colin Creevey's funeral, Harry can't look Dennis Creevey in the eye.
"Okay, here comes another," Draco murmured, spotting another glow in his peripheral—this was apparently quite a formative year. He quickly latched on to the breadcrumb as it appeared.
Harry walks up to the cottage, through the garden he remembers crashing in with Hagrid. His palms are sweaty, he is shaking with nerves. It feels wrong, being here, but he has to—he wants to. He knocks on the door.
A moment later, Andromeda Tonks opens the door, her long, curly hair piled in a bun on top of her head, a turquoise-haired baby perched on her hip. Harry opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. He's terrified—he is the reason her grandson is an orphan, why should she let him be his godfather?
But Andromeda smiles softly, and sighs. "Took you long enough," she says, opening the door fully and stepping aside to let Harry in. He hesitates for only a moment, confused, before entering the cottage. He wipes his palms on his jeans as they enter the sitting room, and turns to face Andromeda, pain and guilt on his face.
"Mrs. Tonks, I—"
"Hush," she interrupts him. "Whatever nonsense you're about to spew—I can tell it'll be nonsense, from the look on your face, Harry—don't bother. I'm just glad you're here."
Harry is speechless. Andromeda takes advantage of it, and pushes baby Teddy into his arms. "Teddy needs his godfather, and I need a long, hot bath, and maybe a nap. There's formula bottles in the kitchen under a warming charm, and clean nappies on the changing table in the nursery—second door on the right. You'll figure it out." Andromeda looks and sounds exhausted, and she walks away from them. Before she enters her room, he hears her call, "By the way, just call me Andy. We're family now, you know." Harry's breath catches in his throat.
He looks back at the infant squirming in his arms, who is now pulling on Harry's wild, overgrown hair—he has no idea what he's doing, still stunned by the entire interaction. He sits on the sofa, and eventually maneuvers baby Teddy so that he's laying in the crook of Harry's arm, making quiet little sounds, staring at Harry curiously with big, brown eyes.
"Hello, Teddy," Harry murmurs quietly, smiling gently. He feels a little ridiculous, and completely out of his depth. "It's nice to meet you." Harry lifts Teddy's chubby little fist, and the tiny fingers immediately wrap around his finger, holding on tight. Harry chuckles at him, and Teddy seems pleased by that, making more little noises, kicking his legs in delight. Harry's smile is growing, and as he watches, Teddy's eyes melt from warm brown to bright green. Harry is utterly enchanted, and his next laugh comes out as a sob, though his cheeks hurt from smiling.
When Draco returned to his body, he realized he was smiling, and he hummed with a short, contented laugh. He quickly labeled the new dot on the board "Teddy", and turned back to Harry, who was smiling back at him.
"That was familiar," Draco said. "I felt the same way when I first held Camila. The weight of the responsibility, and the complete and utter joy of it—it feels like the most important thing you've ever done, the highest honour, to have such a special place in that child's life. To add to your family. It's wonderful, isn't it?"
Harry huffed, still smiling at him, watching him. He nodded, once. Draco basked in the warmth and contentment for a moment, before glancing at his watch. Barely ten-fifteen, amazing.
"We're getting good at this. Shall we do one more, before our break?"
Harry's grin remained as he nodded, leaning forward in his chair, meeting Draco's gaze. Draco raised his wand. "Legilimens."
"No need to bother with NEWTS, Harry, you've more than proved yourself. You'll be a fine addition to the Aurors." Kingsley waves a hand dismissively, smiling at him.
Harry is helping George reopen Weasley's Wizard Wheezes. The place feels darker without Fred. George hasn't spoken more than a few words in weeks.
Ginny is helping Harry move into Grimmauld Place. She leaves for Harpies training, soon. She gives him a blazing look as they put down his trunk—he picks her up swiftly, setting her on the countertop and kissing her soundly. Her laugh is bright and clear.
Draco felt something uncomfortable at the sight of Harry and Ginny—he pushed it aside, safe behind his barriers. He would probably have to see a lot more of that, soon.
Harry wakes with a shout, covered in sweat, his wand already in his hand, breathing hard. Ginny is next to him, touching his hair gingerly. She looks exhausted.
Harry puts on his Auror uniform for the first time, and looks at himself in the mirror, frowning. Something about it doesn't feel right, but it doesn't feel wrong, either.
Harry's floo flares, he doesn't look to see who it is. Hands touch his waist from behind, wrapping themselves around him tightly. He smells something light and floral. "Ginny," he grins, turning in her arms. She doesn't look happy—she holds him tighter.
The light of spells surrounds him in the darkness of the warehouse. Harry smells treacle tart, broom polish, and something else, a little smoky—Amortentia, though not exactly how he remembers it. It makes him feel lightheaded. He runs out from behind a barrel, sprinting toward the source of the cursefire, he hears his partner yelling something behind him, but Harry has him—
"Incarcerous!" he yells, and thick cords shoot from his wand, taking down the brewer, who struggles and growls against his bonds. Harry feels the rush of accomplishment, of finally stopping a criminal, putting away a man who deserves it.
"Got one," Draco said quietly, hooking his magic onto the approaching silvery glow.
"I don't think you actually want me, Harry," Ginny says softly. She doesn't sound upset, but Harry is. They're in Harry's bed, naked, but something is wrong, and Harry doesn't feel right at all, and he is so, so frustrated.
"I do," Harry replies, sitting up, scrubbing his hands through his hair. Why couldn't he have this? "Of course I do, Gin. I want this so fucking badly, and I don't understand what's wrong with me."
Ginny sits up next to him, holding the sheets to cover herself. She places a hand on his arm, rubbing it gently. "You don't love me, Harry," she murmurs, matter-of-factly. "I don't know why you keep trying to convince yourself that you do."
"But I do! Of course I want you, of course I love you, I thought about you all the time, I couldn't wait to get back to you, to start our life together. I want this so badly, Gin. Something's wrong with me, but I'm going to figure it out, I'm going to fix it—"
"You're not listening, Harry," she interrupts quietly, firmly, squeezing his arm. "You don't want this, and it's okay. Stop trying to force yourself into it. Your instincts are telling you something is wrong. You've never ignored them before, and you shouldn't ignore them now."
She pulls him gently back down to the bed, turning him onto his side to face her. She watches him carefully, running slim fingers delicately through his hair. He's nearly shaking with frustration and sadness.
"We'll be okay, you know," she whispers after a moment, laying her small, soft hand on his cheek. "Even if we're not lovers, we'll always be friends, and you'll always be a part of my family."
The grief and frustration spills over, and Harry curls into himself, crumbling into Ginny's arms.
Draco withdrew, and as Harry closed his eyes and sagged against his chair, Draco pointed his wand at the chalkboard. The next dot appeared, and he labeled it "Breakup", thinking idly to himself that that might be the most "normal" thing on the board.
Chapter EightDraco straightened his tie under his waistcoat as he knelt in front of his fireplace. He didn't have to dress formally for a floo call, but it certainly wouldn't hurt, in this particular case. Timsy was shaking his head in disapproval on the other side of the room at the sight of Draco practically ruining the knees of his expensive trousers, when they wouldn't even be seen.
He threw the floo powder into the fire, and called out "Minister Shacklebolt's Office!" before sticking his head into the flames, enduring the odd, twisting journey sending his head and shoulders away from his body.
His face popped up in another fireplace, and Draco recognized the office of the Minister for Magic. Shacklebolt was sitting at his large desk, writing something with a long quill. Draco internally thanked him for the full floo access, and cheered that he'd got him at a time when he wasn't too busy, doing Minister things.
"Minister," Draco greeted. Shacklebolt looked up from his desk, a barely concealed look of surprise on his face.
"Healer Malfoy," he replied calmly. "Do you have news?"
Draco couldn't control his eye roll. Not a good start. "Even if I did, you know I can't relay it, Shacklebolt," he muttered. "I need information."
Shacklebolt raised his eyebrows. He lowered his quill, sitting back in his ornate leather chair and motioning for Draco to continue.
"I need to know what you know of the Unspeakables' current projects, as well as a list of who works there and their backgrounds," Draco said, and Shacklebolt stared at him for a moment, dumbfounded, before throwing his head back and laughing.
"You can't be serious," Shacklebolt mumbled between chuckles.
"Quite serious," Draco replied firmly, glaring at the Minister, who finally got himself under control, folding his hands in his lap, a disbelieving smile on his face.
"That is information I cannot provide, not because you don't have clearance—which you don't, by the way—but because I don't know, myself. The Department of Mysteries is not under my jurisdiction. No one knows what those swots get up to except themselves. I've only been there once, in '96, with the Order, fighting Death Eaters. I didn't understand a whit of what I saw, and we certainly didn't run into any Unspeakables."
Draco's mouth opened in shock. "Not under your… then whose jurisdiction are they under?"
"Their own," Kingsley shrugged. "Have been for centuries." Draco just stared at him in disbelief.
"So you, the Minister for Magic, have absolutely no idea what goes on on an entire floor of the Ministry, nor who works there… and you don't care?"
"Of course I care," Kingsley scoffed. "But it is beyond the limit of my power. The DoM is practically its own entity. They keep to themselves, they hide in their books and their mysteries of life, they bother no one. I simply sign off a budget approval for Level Nine, every year, and leave them to their studies."
"Kingsley, you don't know that," Draco urged, shocking himself with the use of the Minister's first name, but too utterly bewildered by Kingsley's indifference to care. "You don't know if they keep to themselves and bother no one, because you've never seen them. What you're telling me is that they answer to no one, they're not held accountable for anything, they might even be above the law."
"No one is above the law, Draco, but any time I tried to find out what goes on down there, I hit hundreds of dead ends."
"And that seems normal to you, how hard they're working to hide from you? Weren't you an Aurorbefore this?"
"Why is this important, Draco?" Kingsley glared. "You think the bookworms down there had something to do with what happened to Harry?"
Draco opened his mouth to reply, but no words came out. He coughed softly, glaring back at the Minister, whose eyebrows were raising at what Draco's silence obviously meant.
"I'll see what I can find out, but like I said, they're near impossible to track down," Kingsley said. Draco sighed. Why did Kingsley Shacklebolt, the Minister for Magic, have such little faith in his own authority?
"Fine," Draco replied shortly, and hesitated before continuing, "I also require a favour, Shacklebolt."
Shacklebolt raised his eyebrows again, probably at the sheer audacity of Draco Malfoy, ex-Death Eater, mere Healer, asking the Minister for a favour, after telling him how to do his job. But Kingsley was a politician now, had been for eight years, and traded freely with the currency of favours.
"Go on," Shacklebolt muttered, clearly curious.
Draco hesitated again, but thought of his mother, and hardened his resolve.
"Have you had any word from Azkaban, lately, about Lucius?"
Shacklebolt tried not to wrinkle his nose in distaste, but Draco still saw it, and understood it too well.
"No, I haven't. Are you expecting news?"
"He stopped responding to my mother's letters, six months ago," Draco said quietly. His knees were starting to hurt from kneeling on the hard floor in front of the fire. "That could mean anything, but my mother… I'd appreciate it if you could just… check," he fumbled, cringing at his lack of eloquence.
"I see," Shacklebolt murmured, nodding. "I'll write the warden for an update, then."
Draco exhaled in relief. "Thank you. That's all I need. Good day, Minister."
Kingsley gave him a curious look before replying, "I'll be in touch, Draco."
Draco pulled his head out of the fire, comfortably back on his own body, and stood up, stretching his sore back and legs. He really needed to update the cushioning charms on the floor in front of the grate. He turned and walked to his study to pen a vague, disappointing letter to the Head Auror.
***
On Monday morning, Draco stood in front of his music shelf in the sitting room, rubbing his chin, scowling at the boombox again. Harry's cassette tape sat innocuously on the shelf, and Draco was dying to know what music Harry thought he would like. The curiosity was quickly overtaking his self-preservation, which was probably what Pansy had been counting on. If this thing exploded on him, he would be blaming her entirely—she'd definitely have to reimburse him for the damage, or buy him more records, or something. It'd be worth it, to her, the devious cow.
He took a deep breath, shook out his hands, and started pressing every single button on the device indiscriminately. It started whirring and making clicking noises, some things were lighting up, and Draco was worried, but not enough to stop. He pushed buttons that stayed down, some snapped back up, he flicked switches and turned dials until—
Click.
Draco froze as a small rectangular compartment opened in the front, barely the size of his palm, almost exactly the size of the cassette tape on the shelf. Holding his breath, Draco opened the plastic case of the tape, glancing at Harry's scrawled handwriting on the card inside. He took out the odd, smaller rectangle within, and carefully slid it into the compartment—it fit perfectly, and he whooped with accomplishment, startling Timsy in the hallway, who jumped and grumbled under his breath.
Draco delicately closed the compartment, buzzing with anticipation, and tried to return all the other buttons and switches and dials to their original positions, somehow, before finding the "play" triangle—
And then the wards wobbled, signaling Harry's arrival. Draco sighed, and pulled his hands away, resolving to listen to the tape right after their session today.
Harry entered the house, and Draco noticed he hadn't worn his leather jacket, deciding a thin green jumper was all the layering he required. Draco only missed it a little bit—the jumper brought out his eyes, which made up for it, and he smiled at Draco, which made his breath catch and caused him to choke, a bit, effectively wiping away all other preoccupations.
In the study, settled into the wingback chairs with their coffees—black, this time, to appease Timsy—Draco looked over their progress on the chalkboard.
"Twenty down," Draco mumbled. "If we were a bit over halfway through at thirteen, we must be getting close."
Harry looked up at the board, but he didn't look excited by this revelation. He stared at the long line of breadcrumbs, looking dejected. Draco wanted to ask about it, but he didn't. He figured he might get to ask Harry plenty of things, soon, when they solved this subconscious maze, and Harry would even be able to answer him, maybe. Perhaps. If he wanted to.
Draco shook his head quickly—no point getting ahead of himself. He summoned his notebook and reading glasses from his desk, and set them on the side table—hopefully he'd have time to update his notes today. He'd fallen asleep directly after their session last time, completely unproductive.
Harry looked back at him, setting down his mug and sitting up straight to start his meditation. He looked calm, on the surface—Draco wondered idly if he'd taken that mental holiday he had given him last time, and spent time in that memory on Draco's favourite beach. He wouldn't ask that, either, until Harry could really answer him. If he wanted to.
They finished their meditation, comfortable in their routine, now, and Draco raised his wand, waiting. Harry's eye contact seemed more intense than usual, but Draco went with it. "Legilimens."
Harry brought them back to the forest floor. Narcissa was walking away, Death Eaters were cheering, Harry's body was being thrown around, impervious to the pain of Voldemort's curses.
Hagrid's tears soak Harry's shirt.
"Harry Potter is dead!" Voldemort yells, and Harry hears screams, he wants to comfort them…
The glint of a sword through the air as Neville slices Nagini's head clean off…
Molly Weasley's curse hits Bellatrix in the chest, her face frozen in shock as she falls…
"Draco Malfoy was the Master of the Elder Wand—until I disarmed him at Malfoy Manor…"
"Try, Tom. Try for remorse."
"Avada Kedavra!"
"Expelliarmus!"
A wand flies in a high arc through the air…
Draco was only a little surprised that that duel wasn't a breadcrumb—but then again, dueling Voldemort was old hat to Harry Potter. It was simply something he had to do, at that point. He had just died, after all. Dueling must have seemed a chore, after that. Watching it happen, though, at the time—listening to a seventeen-year-old Harry's fierce arguments, hearing him say Draco's name among the reasons why he was going to win, talking to the Dark Lord like he was just another dueling partner, then taking him down with a disarming spell, completely confident in his ability—that was definitely a formative memory, to Draco. His own mind would have definitely chosen it as a breadcrumb.
People swarm him, shaking his hand, he just wants to sleep.
Aurors are escorting the Malfoys out of the Great Hall.
Harry lays in Ron's room at the Burrow, and doesn't leave for days.
"I see something coming up," Draco murmured, frowning. What was so important at this time? He'd have assumed Harry rested all summer, enjoying the freedom and the sunshine and Ginny. According to the papers, the only time he ever went out in public that summer was for the Death Eater Trials—oh. "Here we go—"
Harry barely makes it to the Courtroom in time. In typical Ministry fashion, they had changed the time last minute, but he'd told Kingsley to keep an ear out for it. He wouldn't miss this.
Draco is chained to the chair on the floor of Courtroom Ten. He looks sick, his face is gaunt. He is shaking, Harry assumes from hunger and cold—he recognizes it. He has no shoes on, only dirty socks, under his filthy prisoner's robes. Harry thinks it looks wrong—this is not how Draco Malfoy should ever look.
Draco looks up at him on the witness' stand with piercing grey eyes, defensive and resigned. Harry can't look away.
"Mr. Potter, you are here to testify in the trial against known Death Eater, Draco Malfoy—"
"No," Harry says firmly, the magistrate freezes. "I am here to testify for Draco Malfoy, in his defense."
A low hum of surprised murmurs fills the echoing room, and Draco's chapped lips part in shock.
"Very well," the magistrate mutters. "You may begin."
Harry clears his throat, looking at Draco again. Harry might have been talking to him, alone. His voice rings loud and clear.
"Draco Malfoy is a spoiled git and a bully. I've never known him to be a particularly nice person. He is indeed a Marked Death Eater, who was tasked with the murder of Albus Dumbledore, who did find a way to let Death Eaters into Hogwarts."
At this, Draco drops his head in defeat, but Harry still doesn't look away from him, and continues.
"However, Draco only took that Mark, and attempted the task, at the age of sixteen, because Voldemort had his family at wandpoint. Voldemort, out of sheer cruelty, gave a teenager an impossible task he knew he would fail at, to punish his family. Draco faced death on either side—fail, and be murdered with his mother by Voldemort; or die trying to bring down the most powerful wizard of our time. He had absolutely no other options, and not one person offered him a way out."
Draco raises his head, watching Harry with cautious disbelief.
"I was there, that night, on the Astronomy tower. I had just returned from a mission with Dumbledore, who was severely weakened. He knew what was going to happen, and told me to hide—he put me in a body-bind so I wouldn't interfere. I watched, as Draco had a defenseless Dumbledore at wandpoint. He couldn't do it, even when his own life was on the line. He was lowering his wand by the time Snape and the Death Eaters arrived. I only learned later that Dumbledore was dying anyway, and had told Snape to kill him, to spare Draco, and to prove Snape's loyalty to Voldemort—even though his true loyalties laid with us, all along."
Draco's face is white with fear and shock, his hands gripping the chair under his chains, shivering.
"When I was captured and taken to Malfoy Manor this spring, my face was swollen from Hermione's Stinging Jinx, but I could still be recognized by someone who knew me well—they asked Draco to identify me, and even though I knew he could recognize me, he wouldn't tell them it was me. He wouldn't identify Ron Weasley or Hermione Granger, either—he'd gone to school with us for six years, we'd taunted each other every day. He knew, and his silence kept me alive. I would not have lived to defeat Voldemort if he had said something."
Harry paused to look around the room at the faces hanging on his every word, before looking down to meet Draco's eyes again.
"Draco was a pawn in an adult's war, the same way I was. We played the same role, on opposite sides. He was raised to follow one path and one path only. He was sent on an impossible task, to kill the most powerful wizard alive, and he had no choice but to follow it, or die. He did what he had to do to keep himself and his mother safe. I was raised to follow only one path, thanks to a stupid prophecy. I was told I had to kill one of the most powerful wizards alive, or else he would kill me, and everyone I love—I had no choice. I did what I had to do to keep my friends safe. The only difference is that I succeeded in killing someone. Draco could not."
Draco's eyes widen further, he seems frozen to his chair.
"If you're going to throw Draco in Azkaban, for things he did as a teenager in an impossible situation, you'll have to throw me in there, with him. I've broken into the Ministry, twice. I've used Unforgivables, multiple times. I've robbed a bank and stolen a dragon. I've used a time turner illegally. I've used Polyjuice Potion illegally, many times. I've performed underage magic around muggles. I've been seen by muggles in a flying car. I've harbored fugitives. I've attacked Professors. I've stolen and cheated and hurt people who didn't deserve it. I did what I had to do to protect the people I love. Convict both of us, or neither of us. There is no good reason one pawn should be free while the other has to pay for their crimes."
The Courtroom is stunned into complete silence, Harry's last words echoing against the cold stone. Faintly, Harry can hear Draco's shallow, shuddering breaths, from the chair below. Draco's shining, grey eyes are rooting him to the spot—he feels an incomprehensible pulling, tightening sensation in his chest.
Draco carefully pulled himself out of Harry's head, pointed his wand at the board to label a new dot "DM Trial", and closed his eyes. He set his wand down in his lap, and let his Occlumency walls fall slowly.
He didn't know if the constricting feeling in his ribs was his or Harry's. He was not entirely sure if he wanted to know. His finger traced the scar on his collarbone, the Mark on his arm, rubbed the tops of his thighs.
"That was the last time I heard your voice, you know," Draco mused after a moment, opening his eyes. Harry had remembered that testimony exactly as Draco had, word for word, everything was exactly the same. He had just relived his own memory, from a different place in the room—from the eyes of the boy who truly saw him, the only person who spoke up for him.
Harry was simply looking at him again, seeinghim. His face was strained—he looked like he was trying to force words out through his eyes, through his pores, but they wouldn't come. Draco couldn't help but stare back at him for a moment, before making himself speak again.
"Why?"
Harry looked down at his hands, which were clamped firmly on his own legs. He prised his fingers off, opened his notebook slowly, and clicked his pen.
It was the right thing to do
Draco clicked his tongue. "That's why you do anything, Harry," he said. "That may be one of the reasons why, but that's not enough to make a formative memory, that's not enough to shape who you are. Doing the right thing isn't new, for you."
Harry pressed his lips together, eyes searching Draco's face for something, Draco didn't know what. He waited, but Harry wrote nothing else.
Draco realized he'd always been the one explaining the importance of Harry's memories, out loud, and he might be expected to do it now. He could—he had plenty of ideas, his mind was working a mile a minute, but none of it was anything he wanted to say out loud. So, he waited, in what felt increasingly like a staring contest.
"We can come back to that later," Draco muttered. "Ready for another?"
Harry took a deep breath, long and slow, still embroiled in the staring contest. He nodded once, and Draco raised his wand, falling once more into Harry's head.
"Then help me understand, Harry! He tormented you for years, he called Hermione slurs, he taunted our entire family, Luna and Dean were prisoners in his house! He let Death Eaters into the school—he's the reason Bill was mauled by Greyback! His father tried to kill both of us, Fred is dead because of Death Eaters like him! Why?!" Ginny is yelling in Diagon Alley, her face twisted in betrayal.
At Fred's funeral, Harry stands stoically beside the Weasley family.
At Remus' and Tonks' funeral, he doesn't have the strength to speak to Andromeda, who is holding onto a turquoise-haired baby like a lifeline.
"I need a favour, Kingsley," Harry says. "I need you to keep an eye on Draco Malfoy." Kingsley raises his eyebrows in disbelief.
"Not like that," Harry says quickly, fumbling over his words. "I just want you to check in on him, occasionally, make sure he's… the Ministry will try to hold him back, as will the public, whatever he decides to do… I want you to back him up, get to know him. Don't let them keep him under their boot. He's got a second chance now, at a proper life, away from Lucius' shadow—I don't want it all to go to waste."
Harry pauses a moment, in Kingsley's silence, before adding, "Please. I'll owe you, big time."
"Sure, I suppose I can do that for you, Harry, but I must ask: why not keep an eye on him, yourself?" Kingsley probes.
Harry scoffs. "Trust me, Kingsley—it'd be a lot more welcome, coming from you."
At Colin Creevey's funeral, Harry can't look Dennis Creevey in the eye.
"Okay, here comes another," Draco murmured, spotting another glow in his peripheral—this was apparently quite a formative year. He quickly latched on to the breadcrumb as it appeared.
Harry walks up to the cottage, through the garden he remembers crashing in with Hagrid. His palms are sweaty, he is shaking with nerves. It feels wrong, being here, but he has to—he wants to. He knocks on the door.
A moment later, Andromeda Tonks opens the door, her long, curly hair piled in a bun on top of her head, a turquoise-haired baby perched on her hip. Harry opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. He's terrified—he is the reason her grandson is an orphan, why should she let him be his godfather?
But Andromeda smiles softly, and sighs. "Took you long enough," she says, opening the door fully and stepping aside to let Harry in. He hesitates for only a moment, confused, before entering the cottage. He wipes his palms on his jeans as they enter the sitting room, and turns to face Andromeda, pain and guilt on his face.
"Mrs. Tonks, I—"
"Hush," she interrupts him. "Whatever nonsense you're about to spew—I can tell it'll be nonsense, from the look on your face, Harry—don't bother. I'm just glad you're here."
Harry is speechless. Andromeda takes advantage of it, and pushes baby Teddy into his arms. "Teddy needs his godfather, and I need a long, hot bath, and maybe a nap. There's formula bottles in the kitchen under a warming charm, and clean nappies on the changing table in the nursery—second door on the right. You'll figure it out." Andromeda looks and sounds exhausted, and she walks away from them. Before she enters her room, he hears her call, "By the way, just call me Andy. We're family now, you know." Harry's breath catches in his throat.
He looks back at the infant squirming in his arms, who is now pulling on Harry's wild, overgrown hair—he has no idea what he's doing, still stunned by the entire interaction. He sits on the sofa, and eventually maneuvers baby Teddy so that he's laying in the crook of Harry's arm, making quiet little sounds, staring at Harry curiously with big, brown eyes.
"Hello, Teddy," Harry murmurs quietly, smiling gently. He feels a little ridiculous, and completely out of his depth. "It's nice to meet you." Harry lifts Teddy's chubby little fist, and the tiny fingers immediately wrap around his finger, holding on tight. Harry chuckles at him, and Teddy seems pleased by that, making more little noises, kicking his legs in delight. Harry's smile is growing, and as he watches, Teddy's eyes melt from warm brown to bright green. Harry is utterly enchanted, and his next laugh comes out as a sob, though his cheeks hurt from smiling.
When Draco returned to his body, he realized he was smiling, and he hummed with a short, contented laugh. He quickly labeled the new dot on the board "Teddy", and turned back to Harry, who was smiling back at him.
"That was familiar," Draco said. "I felt the same way when I first held Camila. The weight of the responsibility, and the complete and utter joy of it—it feels like the most important thing you've ever done, the highest honour, to have such a special place in that child's life. To add to your family. It's wonderful, isn't it?"
Harry huffed, still smiling at him, watching him. He nodded, once. Draco basked in the warmth and contentment for a moment, before glancing at his watch. Barely ten-fifteen, amazing.
"We're getting good at this. Shall we do one more, before our break?"
Harry's grin remained as he nodded, leaning forward in his chair, meeting Draco's gaze. Draco raised his wand. "Legilimens."
"No need to bother with NEWTS, Harry, you've more than proved yourself. You'll be a fine addition to the Aurors." Kingsley waves a hand dismissively, smiling at him.
Harry is helping George reopen Weasley's Wizard Wheezes. The place feels darker without Fred. George hasn't spoken more than a few words in weeks.
Ginny is helping Harry move into Grimmauld Place. She leaves for Harpies training, soon. She gives him a blazing look as they put down his trunk—he picks her up swiftly, setting her on the countertop and kissing her soundly. Her laugh is bright and clear.
Draco felt something uncomfortable at the sight of Harry and Ginny—he pushed it aside, safe behind his barriers. He would probably have to see a lot more of that, soon.
Harry wakes with a shout, covered in sweat, his wand already in his hand, breathing hard. Ginny is next to him, touching his hair gingerly. She looks exhausted.
Harry puts on his Auror uniform for the first time, and looks at himself in the mirror, frowning. Something about it doesn't feel right, but it doesn't feel wrong, either.
Harry's floo flares, he doesn't look to see who it is. Hands touch his waist from behind, wrapping themselves around him tightly. He smells something light and floral. "Ginny," he grins, turning in her arms. She doesn't look happy—she holds him tighter.
The light of spells surrounds him in the darkness of the warehouse. Harry smells treacle tart, broom polish, and something else, a little smoky—Amortentia, though not exactly how he remembers it. It makes him feel lightheaded. He runs out from behind a barrel, sprinting toward the source of the cursefire, he hears his partner yelling something behind him, but Harry has him—
"Incarcerous!" he yells, and thick cords shoot from his wand, taking down the brewer, who struggles and growls against his bonds. Harry feels the rush of accomplishment, of finally stopping a criminal, putting away a man who deserves it.
"Got one," Draco said quietly, hooking his magic onto the approaching silvery glow.
"I don't think you actually want me, Harry," Ginny says softly. She doesn't sound upset, but Harry is. They're in Harry's bed, naked, but something is wrong, and Harry doesn't feel right at all, and he is so, so frustrated.
"I do," Harry replies, sitting up, scrubbing his hands through his hair. Why couldn't he have this? "Of course I do, Gin. I want this so fucking badly, and I don't understand what's wrong with me."
Ginny sits up next to him, holding the sheets to cover herself. She places a hand on his arm, rubbing it gently. "You don't love me, Harry," she murmurs, matter-of-factly. "I don't know why you keep trying to convince yourself that you do."
"But I do! Of course I want you, of course I love you, I thought about you all the time, I couldn't wait to get back to you, to start our life together. I want this so badly, Gin. Something's wrong with me, but I'm going to figure it out, I'm going to fix it—"
"You're not listening, Harry," she interrupts quietly, firmly, squeezing his arm. "You don't want this, and it's okay. Stop trying to force yourself into it. Your instincts are telling you something is wrong. You've never ignored them before, and you shouldn't ignore them now."
She pulls him gently back down to the bed, turning him onto his side to face her. She watches him carefully, running slim fingers delicately through his hair. He's nearly shaking with frustration and sadness.
"We'll be okay, you know," she whispers after a moment, laying her small, soft hand on his cheek. "Even if we're not lovers, we'll always be friends, and you'll always be a part of my family."
The grief and frustration spills over, and Harry curls into himself, crumbling into Ginny's arms.
Draco withdrew, and as Harry closed his eyes and sagged against his chair, Draco pointed his wand at the chalkboard. The next dot appeared, and he labeled it "Breakup", thinking idly to himself that that might be the most "normal" thing on the board.