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Chapter Text

Harry is fuming when he first sees Malfoy for the first time in three years. Or more specifically, he's in the middle of a one-sided shouting match with Robards in the Ministry lobby when Malfoy appears in a burst of green flames.

He really shouldn’t be surprised. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Harry counts back the years and months from the trials and knows this is around the time Malfoy would be let off probation. He’s probably here for paperwork or something, his rational side supplies. And yet...

His eyes follow Malfoy as he walks quickly and quietly, cloak wrapped tightly around him as he practically hugs the wall. His windblown hair rustles with the movement and his gaze is steady and sure, if not a bit tense. The pause in Harry’s shouting is just enough for Robards to put a steady hand on his shoulder and draw his attention back to their argument.

“Look,” Robards sighs, “I know you’re a workaholic and your need to distract yourself or whatever, but I stand by what I told you yesterday. Take a break. Go home. I don’t want to see you for a week alright?” Patting him on the same shoulder with his hand, he turns and walks away before Harry can retort.

Fuming, Harry stands there for a moment. It isn’t like he doesn’t want a break—by the gods, he wants one so badly. But how can he? How can he when memories from the war try to haunt him every day? How can he when the world refuses to reach that peace everyone had promised when Voldemort fell? How can he be at peace if the world isn’t at peace?

A new wave of irritation hits him all over again, and Harry storms back towards where the floo are located. The surrounding wizards—all on their way to work, Harry seethes—part around him, giving him a wide berth. They can no doubt sense the magic that pulses palpably in the air around him. Trying just the barest amount to reign it all in and smooth his face, he spins away with a sickening whirl.

* * *

Robards always gives the aurors a few days off after particularly long cases. To heal and recover their minds, he would state. That never stops Harry from trying to show up to work almost immediately after. Yet having just run into Robards, Harry knows he would be keeping an extra eye out for him that day and would kick him out the moment he sees his face. Might as well just go back and try again tomorrow.

But now that leaves Harry with the problem of having too much time on his hands. Time to overthink, to relive, to dig himself into the bottomless pit of despair and anger. He needs to be busy, to do something to distract himself.

Desperate, he wanders the halls of Grimmauld place, searching for books to sort, for furniture to be righted. But of course, Kreacher always fixes everything after Harry’s outbursts. Slowly, he can feel the agitation start to build underneath his skin.

No. No no no nonono. He will keep it under control. But there are people out there that need help. The world still needs help. And here he is, doing nothing but pacing. But he can’t stop pacing. If only the world would stop spinning for just one goddamn second. Then the neverending stream of problems would stop. There would be peace. And Harry would live within that one second forever. If only all these fucking criminals would—

Nono what would his therapist say? Breathe? Alright, he can do that. Closing his eyes, Harry takes a few deep breaths, willing his mind to empty. Now, think reasonably. What can he do right now? There’s nothing to do in Grimmauld and he hasn’t blown up a room in anger thankfully. So he has to get outside. But where? Does he need groceries? No, Kreacher had already gotten them yesterday. His friends? Everyone’s at work—oh, that’s right, Luna.

* * *

Luna greets him with a dazzling smile when he shows up at her cottage twenty minutes later with a bag of pastries.

“Oh, hello Harry! Are the nargles bothering you again? Come in and I’ll get you something to help with that.”

Harry grins and follows her into the kitchen. “No, I’m fine. I just came to see if you had some time to kill.”

“Well, certainly not. I was in the middle of writing an article about blibbering humdingers. But seeing as you’re my friend, I think I can squeeze in some time.” She sits down at the small table and gazes serenely up at him.

Shaking his head in amused exasperation, Harry sets the pastries down and looks around the kitchen. He always loves Luna’s place. Her cottage takes residence on the edges of Grasmere, and warded off from muggles, she has taken to growing all sorts of magical plants—inside and outside her house—which in turn attracts a number of magical creatures. Warm sunlight filters through the windows, and feeling more relaxed than he has in awhile, Harry allows himself to lower his guard.

“I tried to design this place like the Hufflepuff common room you know?”

Eyebrows lifting, he turns to regard her with questions evident on his face.

“A friend described it to me once,” she states simply. “Seemed nice with all the plants. We could never have all these plants in the Ravenclaw common room. It was bad for the books.”

Harry relaxes back into his chair and contents himself to listening to Luna talk and eating his treacle tarts. That's the thing with Luna. She always seems to know how Harry is feeling. And instead of questioning him, she rambles about whatever she wishes, allowing Harry to drift between her words and his thoughts, not settling on any particular thing.

More and more often, he starts finding himself in Luna’s kitchen when he needs a break from the world. The world that always needs him. Him as an auror and hero. Not him as Harry, just a broken and angry man who desperately wants it all the stop. Who wants to walk into the ministry and give Robards a piece of his—oh wait.

“Luna.”

Luna pauses mid-bite into a fruit tart to look at him. “Hm?”

“I saw Malfoy at the Ministry this morning.”

“Draco?” Her eyes light up. “Oh! His probation period ended.”

It’s Harry’s turn to pause. Is she friends with Malfoy? “Are… you friends with him?” he asks tentatively.

“Yup. He’s quite tame now. Would you like to see him? He lives across town.”

“...What?”

* * *

Harry isn't really too surprised to find out Malfoy is friends with Luna; they are two of a kind he supposes, he could see it. But finding out that Malfoy had told Luna where he lives, and even moved into the same small town… well that was a bit more shocking.

For a month after the trials, the media had kept vicious tabs on the Malfoys, from reporting the sale of the manor as war reparations to every, mundane activity. Criticisms and speculation of what they must be secretly plotting rang through the magical world. Harry remembers that month as one of the most irritating periods of his life. The moment he went anywhere, talks of the savior and whispers of the Malfoys rang in his ears. The din had only continued to grow, and Harry had been furious and agitated. He wanted to crawl out of his skin and tell the world to just shut up, shut up, shut up.

And while Harry had spent that time hiding within the confines of Grimmauld place, away from all the noise and chaos, the two remaining Malfoys had simply disappeared. For another while, the roar of public outrage rose to unprecedented heights. Then when weeks turned into months and still nothing new had emerged regarding the Malfoys, the world finally seemed to accept that this was just another thing that just is.

Harry himself had wondered a great deal about Malfoy’s whereabouts. While some part of Harry still thought of Malfoy as the Hogwarts git, the rest of him had been too tired to care. So why did he care? Harry supposed it was jealousy. He was jealous that Malfoy got to escape the world. That he got to escape from all the responsibilities while Harry was still out here, still required to maintain the appearance of peace. All at the expense of his own.

Now to find out that all along, Malfoy has been hiding away in some small rural town—probably having fun frolicking among the plants and trees with Luna—Harry can not and will not get over it. And indeed, he is still fuming two days later when a file lands on his desk regarding a sudden attack in the otherwise peaceful Grasmere.

* * *

When Harry finally feels his feet hit solid ground, he turns around only to see his auror partner already set on obliviating and warding off muggles from the scene of crime. He had had his doubts at first about the man, but Victor Walker turned out to be a solid-good auror, even if he is younger and inexperienced. He does his work wordlessly and efficiently, and makes up for shortcomings with sharp observation and intuition. He rather gives off Luna-vibes, Harry muses, albeit not as dreamy or… crazy.

Thanking whatever gods again for giving him such a chill partner—who never riles him up, he might add—Harry snaps himself back to attention and surveys the scene. He senses no lingering magic in the air, meaning no lasting curses or perpetrators; they would have to capture them later. As for the actual damage…

Harry gives out a low whistle as he stares at what was once a quaint cottage, not unlike Luna’s. Except now, all the windows and doors are shattered and half the roof is gone from presumably an explosion of some sort. He casts a few charms, just to make sure the building wouldn’t be in any danger of collapsing should he enter. Satisfied, he turns back.

“Walker!” he shouts in the man’s general direction. He then jerks his head towards the building.

Victor simply gives a thumbs up before going back to obliviating witnesses. Sighing, Harry walks through the gaping doorway, only to be greeted by the sight of what was probably every single object in the house, destroyed. Furniture overturned, scorch marks on the walls and the floors. Noting that this is the only house damaged, Harry is pretty sure there are probably personal grudges involved. How much must one be hated to bring such destruction upon themselves?

Moving carefully through the wreckage, Harry searches the house for anything out of the ordinary. The objects littering the rooms give hints as to what was there before—a library, the kitchen, a sitting room, bathroom, and, huh, a potions brewery.

Nonetheless, everything is what one might expect from an attack such as this one, so when Harry walks through the last doorway upstairs where the house now opens to the empty sky, he isn’t expecting the crumpled form of a body on the floor. And suddenly, fuck, because how had he not noticed the victim’s magical signature? There is a person, a human, possibly dying, and he—

No, focus. Step one, survey the damage. He rushes forward, dropping heavily to his knees besides the person. Now, look for injuries and check for a pulse and—

He has awfully bright blonde hair, though singed at the edges. His heart pounds. No, it can’t be Malfoy. Though in the back of his head, a voice whispers of things he knew the moment Robards handed him the file. Pushing the hair back, Harry stares at the person’s face, so unmistakably his.

And he can’t control it anymore. Because the nerve. The nerve of the world to assault Malfoy and leave him burned and bleeding on the floor of his home. His peaceful home in Grasmere with no one but Luna and the land and the sky for company. And how much had Harry wished for such a life? Because if the world couldn’t let Malfoy have his refuge, then how would Harry ever get his?

And, and this boy—the boy that taunted and teased Harry and stalked Hogwarts like a prince. What did the world know about him? What right did they have to torment this specific person like so? And now he is bleeding all over again, and the lights are reflecting harshly off the bathroom tiles and the blood, oh god, the blood. It is Harry’s fault. It is Harry’s fault he tried that spell, not knowing what it does. It is Harry’s fault Malfoy’s all wrong, lying there, without his stupid, smug grin or that calm gaze and he has to fix it. He has to—

“ Harry!” A strong shake brings him out of his thoughts. His eyes focus on Victor, who, Harry notices, actually has a real expression on his face. “Have you calmed down? You’re shaking the whole house man.”

Harry blinks. Shit. He obviously doesn’t want to cause the destruction of the rest of Malfoy’s house, so he breathes and does his best to reign his anger and magic in. If not for himself, he will at least try to control himself for Victor, for Malfoy. For the boy curled up on the ground, hurt and unconscious.

“Did you—” Harry takes a breath, his voice shaky. “Did you contact St. Mungo’s?” His eyes beg, pleading that Victor did the right thing when he was so out of it. Because it all wouldn’t matter if Malfoy were to die.

“Yeah. They should be here in a sec.”

Harry nods. Slumping down next to Malfoy to wait it out, he lets his emotions simmer, feeling the pent up anger turn into a sad, sad resignation.

When the healers arrive, Harry decidedly sits still, not trusting himself to do anything rash. He lets Victor take the lead, telling the healers what they’ve found and watching as they bundle Malfoy up and apparate away. And Harry can’t help but think that if they make it through this, perhaps he’ll take up Luna’s offer—“Start over, Harry. You can start over. And this time, you’ll find the ground solid beneath you.”

Chapter Text

Harry is not proud to admit that Ron has to drag him out of St. Mungo’s before he can blow up the hallway. The idea that anyone would block him , the chosen one, from seeing anyone he wishes is beyond him, and yet, those insufferable healers had done it. Perhaps Hermione is right—the fame is getting to him.

But for now, he decides to humor Ron and sits at the table quietly, if not irritably. As he stares out the window looking down on the rest of Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes, Ron flits around his office, no doubt busy making who-knows-what kind of tea. Eventually, a cup of light-brown liquid is set steaming in front of him. At Ron’s gesture, he takes a sip—vanilla and cinnamon.

With his own mug in hand, Ron sits down across from him, and for a moment, there’s no sound except for the quiet sipping and muffled noise from the store below.

Ron clears his throat, breaking the silence that always follows his teas. “So, care to enlighten me how we don’t see each other for a few days only for me to find you screaming ‘Malfoy’ and wreaking havoc in St. Mungo’s?”

Harry averts his eyes and shrugs.

“Mate,” Ron sighs, “Malfoy was injured. And you know the healers are trying their best—”

“Bullshit.”

“Okay okay fine. The healers are actually stuck up, prejudiced people who don’t give a shit about the Malfoys. But let them do their job! God knows how hard it is to deal with whining customers.” Harry has to strain to hear that last bit, but he hears it nonetheless.

“Excuse me , I’m an auror who has to deal with—”

“Anyways,” Ron cuts him off and gives him a pointed look. “I’m not going to question your sudden recurring interest in Malfoy, assuming we’re both responsible adults. But try to keep that temper in check, yeah?”

Harry glares daggers at Ron. For a while, no one speaks. Then Harry lowers his head back to his tea. “I swear to god you’re becoming more like Hermione every time I see you,” he mumbles.

Ron starts and gives a hearty laugh. “Well someone’s gotta be the mom friend when she isn’t around.” At that, the tension in the room fades and Malfoy is temporarily forgotten. They take turns ranting about their day, work, and Ron’s growing tea obsession. Harry takes the opportunity to calm down, immersing himself completely in the conversation.

Many cups of tea later, there’s a knock and George pokes his tired face through the door. “Hey Harry. Sorry, but I need Ron down in the store. Customer complaining about an exploding quill.”

Ron nods. “Be right down.” Then turning back to Harry, “Sorry mate, work calls.”

There’s a scrape of chairs as they both stand. “Yeah yeah, of course,” Harry nods. “Whiny customers and all that.” They share a smirk. “Anyways,” Harry continues, “I should probably get going too.”

“Alright. But visit Hermione some time will you? You know how she worries.”

“Sure thing.”

* * *

Harry did indeed visit Hermione right after he left. But he supposes he might not have thought it through and had barged into her office right in the middle of a meeting. He had then sheepishly backed through the door and sat at Hermione’s desk, licking his wounds. When she did get out of her meeting, she had gently scolded him, then explained apologetically that she wouldn’t have much time to talk. But would he mind dropping by for dinner some time?

Harry had hastily agreed and exited the ministry, eager to get away from all of Hermione’s coworkers’ judging stares. Yet the moment he had stepped out of the wretched building, Robards’ patronus had popped up, yelling about a pixie infestation.

And now here he is at St. Mungo’s, two days later, and he can’t care less about Hermione’s invitation to dinner. Because surely he would be able to see Malfoy by now? He still doesn’t know why exactly he needs to see Malfoy, and he tells the receptionist as much. But that seems to be the wrong answer as she then refuses to give out any more information. At his continuous prodding, she only gives him a noteworthy death glare, and tersely announces that “It’s a matter of privacy, sir.”

For a moment, Harry is in shock. Then he snaps right back at the presumptive woman. “That’s a lame ass excuse and you know it. Just shut it until your fucking administration actually starts caring about your patients’ privacy.” Ignoring her indignant sputtering, he storms into the lifts and follows his memory to where Malfoy’s room is.

Except where Malfoy should be is some old wizard who looks like he’s on the verge of death. And Harry balks. He knows he should get out. Right now, preferably. He knows that. Because the tension is building and vibrating under his skin, and just why can’t everything go nicely for once?

Logically, he knows it’s not a big deal. Really, truely. If he won’t believe himself, at least he’ll believe the therapist Hermione tried so hard for him to get. He was fine just a moment ago, but now he’s not, and Harry can’t control it, can’t control it. But he can’t help it because it’s stupid, the world is stupid, and he really really needs something to hold on to so his hands will stop their godamn shaking.

So he grabs his wand and apparates to Luna’s before he can think more about it. 

* * *

The door swings open almost immediately after Harry knocks, and at the sight of blonde hair, he splutters his grievances out.

“Luna, Luna I just—I went to St. Mungo’s and the fucking receptionist was being a total dick and going on about privacy, as if they actually care. I mean how many times have I been there and they leak all my injuries to the press, and anyways Malfoy isn’t there, so do you know where he is because I need—I mean I don’t really but—I mean I just—”

And he cuts off because the blonde hair waving in front of his face is short and grey eyes are staring curiously at him, and—that’s not Luna.

“Why the fuck are you here?” he blurts.

Malfoy raises an unimpressed eyebrow. “I could ask you the same.”

And thankfully Luna appears beside Malfoy right then, because Harry really doesn’t know how to reply to that.

“Harry? Oh, I was wondering when you’d show up. C’mon in. Tea?” She turns around and walks back towards her kitchen.

Harry and Draco stare at each other for a moment before following her in. Sitting at Luna’s table, the room always bathed in that golden glow, it’s as if Harry’s stepped into an alternate reality. The smell of breezes and herbs fill the air, and the sound of quiet domesticity stirs and awakens a quiet pain somewhere Harry didn’t know existed.

And Draco sits opposite him, the epitome of calm and grace. Harry lets his eyes roam, taking in the figure slumped down in his oversized hoodie, hair ungelled with strands caught floating in the air. The grey eyes, once piercing, are now quiet like the rest of their owner. They glance up, and Harry flinches, averting his gaze to watch as Luna carries over tea and biscuits.

Luna doesn’t speak, simply sets the things down and absorbs herself in her cup. When the silence continues, however, Harry starts to suspect that perhaps Luna is waiting for them to start the conversation themselves. But he refuses to be the one to do so, so he sits and wallows in his growing stress. 

He thinks that normally, he never really has any problem with small talk and starting conversations. But this is Malfoy . A Malfoy who is calm and withdrawn and Harry doesn’t actually know how to deal with such a strange occurrence. He’s used to the loud taunts, the smirks, the plotting and confidence that plows through everything in his way. But this, this is almost as bad as seeing Malfoy burnt and bleeding on the ground.

Eventually, it’s Malfoy who speaks first. “Why were you looking for me?” There’s no bite to his words. Just a neutral resignation.

Harry flinches again and green eyes meet grey. “Um…” He panics and looks to Luna, hoping for some kind of reassurance.

But Luna’s now going through a pile of articles and doesn’t give any indication to what she’s just heard. Turning back, he’s relieved to find those grey eyes waiting and staring unfocused into Malfoy’s tea.

So he takes the bait, glad that at least he’s allowed to flounder without any judging eyes. “I’m not sure.” It comes out like a question.

Malfoy frowns, just a slight downturn of his mouth, and still not looking at Harry. “Then why are you here?”

Harry shrugs. “Luna’s friends with you. Thought she’d know where you are after I couldn’t find you in the hospital.” He tosses in another mumble at the end for good measure, “—fucking receptionist.”

Then in a sudden moment of epiphany, Harry gets it. If he can’t understand this Malfoy, then this Malfoy might as well be a stranger, or a—or an acquaintance. That’s right, an acquaintance. He’d treat and talk to this person like he would one of his co-workers: with just enough respect and detachment. And while something doesn’t quite sit right with treating Malfoy in such a way, the tension leaves Harry. 

Meanwhile, Malfoy has set his cup down and is quietly observing Harry.

“Wait,” Harry suddenly asks, his first thought popping back into his head, “why are you here?”

Malfoy turns to stare at the wall. “My house got ruined if you haven’t noticed.” A pause. Then quietly, “But I loathe to leave my home so Luna offered to take me in while I figure things out.”

“Oh.”

And there. That sentence. That was more than Harry could handle because it was just a bit too close. It was more than acquaintances, more than he had asked for, more than he had decided on. Because he did not need to know that Malfoy was attached to Grasmere and all the implications that came with it. He did not need to know that perhaps Malfoy loved the lack of civilization and the sea of green and the vast expanse of sky. And he most certainly did not need more things to mess up the meticulous order of his life.

So he stands up abruptly, his chair scraping back with a harsh screech. Both Luna and Draco look up at him with varying levels of alarm.

“I, uh, I just remembered I have things to do. I gotta go.”

He grabs his things and ignores the questioning stares, only mumbling a “thanks for the tea” at Luna before whirling out of the room.

* * *

Harry spends the next few days throwing himself into auror missions and spending a record amount of time at Hermione and Ron’s place. It’s to the point where his friends simply offer him their guest room, which he takes gratefully. Harry knows they want to question him, ask if he’s ok, but they know by now to give Harry time to gather his thoughts and categorize where exactly everything stands in his life at the moment.

So instead, they chatter away about work and quidditch at dinner, and Harry is happy to let them distract him with talk of things that don’t matter. It’s relaxing and carefree, he thinks, to have his friends with him and dabble in topics that would make them seem quite shallow otherwise.

But Harry knows he’s only running away. He’s trying; he’s trying so hard to try and stuff Malfoy into the imaginary cabinet labeled “acquaintance.” But it doesn’t fit— he doesn’t fit. There are clashing memories and the familiarity that only comes with years of being together, and everything keeps overflowing into his other shelves and boxes and It. Doesn’t. Fit.

He only tells Ron and Hermione about his encounters with Malfoy and Luna after there’s a lull in the dinner conversation one evening and Harry can’t stand it anymore. How everything is so confusing and different and strange , and it makes him frustrated, oh so frustrated.

It’s Hermione who comforts him this time. With her little pats on the shoulder and whispers of “It’s ok, it’s ok. That’s perfectly fine, Harry.”

And Harry only looks helplessly at her as he feels his hands and feet start to jitter under the table. Ron quickly grabs his hand and gives a reaffirming squeeze.

“You know what?” says Hermione suddenly. “Maybe you should go visit Luna again. She knows Malfoy best after all, and then perhaps you can figure out where everything stands.”

Harry considers it for a moment, then nods hesitantly.

“Maybe you left too quickly last time, mate,” Ron adds after a moment. “Give it a chance this time, yeah?”

And Harry decides that yes, yes he will.

Chapter Text

When Harry knocks on Luna’s door, he’s greeted once again by short blonde hair and grey eyes. He’s considered this situation in his head about a hundred times before actually knocking, of course, yet he still can’t prevent the slight flinch that tremors through his body.

But he’s determined and has a purpose today, so he gathers his nerves and speaks up. “Hello, Malfoy. Is Luna there? I’d like to talk with her.”

Malfoy pauses, his mouth open with unsaid words before he had been cut off. Harry takes the moment to take in Malfoy’s appearance. Jeans, another oversized hoodie, and his disheveled hair gave indication to having just been woken up, if his sleepy gaze didn’t say anything.

Malfoy closes his mouth and shakes his head lightly. “No, she went on a spontaneous expedition through Brazil. I’m watching her plants—and house.”

“Oh…” Harry shifts his weight awkwardly. 

There’s a prolonged pause as Malfoy looks Harry up and down. Suddenly self-conscious, Harry regrets rushing out of Ron and Hermione’s house right after breakfast. He knows his hair is still a mess—a birdnest, as Ron calls it—and he’s still wearing the t-shirt and sweatpants he wore to sleep. At least he also has the hoodie Hermione had thrown at him as he left. He will have to thank her later.

“Um…” Malfoy clears his throat.

Harry’s eyes snap up to Malfoy’s face, only to quickly glance away to avoid the stare.

“Would you like to come in? I do have tea.”

Harry pauses. Well nothing was going according to his plan so far, so he might as well improvise. “Yeah, uh, sure. Thanks.”

It’s almost déjà vu, Harry thinks, when he walks down the hallway towards the kitchen with a quiet Malfoy at his side. He watches those careful movements as Malfoy flits about, eventually bringing back two cups of black tea. Except Luna isn’t there to settle the atmosphere, and a tension hums in the space she left behind.

When neither makes a move to start conversation, Harry starts to think that maybe all Malfoy and him will ever have between them is awkward silence. And while awkward silence is something Harry’s familiar and definitely comfortable with, he finds the idea here suffocating and unbearable.

So what is he supposed to say? He can’t very well discuss his relationship with Malfoy with the very person, and he honestly has no idea what he was originally going to talk about anyways. He was going to rely on Luna’s intuition and insight, but with that plan out the door, well…

Harry racks his brain desperately for a safe topic. But with the war being taboo and their Hogwarts days full of taunts and schemes, there is nothing else to talk about. All of a sudden, Harry realizes just how little he knows about Malfoy—how little he knows about this Malfoy. The one that’s quiet and collected and is currently looking at him with a detached gaze.

“Why are you so…” Harry frowns and gestures vaguely at Malfoy with his free hand.

“So what?” A quiet reply.

“I don’t know, so detached? Carefree? What were you even doing these past three years?”

Malfoy tilts his head and hums. “Hm, doing my own thing I suppose? Brewing potions and the like.”

Harry’s frown deepens until there’s a permanent scowl on his face.

“Does me doing my own thing upset you?” Malfoy looks him straight in the eyes this time, his glare holding Harry in place. “Is it so wrong for me to do what I wish?”

“No, just,” Harry huffs, “you, you’re running away! The world’s a mess and you just disappear and instead you’re here prancing among the flowers—”

“I am not running away, much less prancing through flowers!” Malfoy snaps. His calm demeanor breaks, and for a moment, there’s fury and frustration written in his eyes. He takes a breath. “I’m simply trying to live my life, Potter.”

“That’s not a life!”

“And who are you to tell me that?”

“I’m the Chosen One! The one person that the whole fucking world relies on to save its ass every time something goes wrong!”

“So?”

Harry pauses. He’s angry, of that he’s certain. But why? It’s always why? At this point, he’s simply yelling back whatever pops first into his mind, and nothing makes sense. What’s his argument? Why’s this wrong? Why’s it all wrong?

“Okay okay look,” Harry starts over, “it—no after the war—the world was messed up. Yeah? So now we gotta fix it.”

“And what are you trying to tell me with this?”

“Well, I—I’m an auror now, and I’m fixing it. Ron’s fixing it, and Hermione’s fixing it—”

“Weasley was an auror for all of six months, Potter.”

“Okay but he tried!”

“Are you saying I’m not trying? That I need to help fix the world?”

“Yes!”

Malfoy is openly glaring now, his arms crossed across his chest. “And why is this my problem? Why should I have to do it? I’m perfectly fine where I am, Potter. I don’t see the world flipping out over it.”

“But that’s the thing! You’re not trying so of course it’s all fine! There are people out there! People hurt by the war! By Death Eaters! By your people! So take some fucking responsibility and help!”

“Responsibility?!” Malfoy stands up. “You think I’m responsible for what the Death Eaters did? For what Voldemort did?” He laughs, a harsh sound that grates against Harry’s ears. “How laughable. Go ahead, blame me. Blame me for the thousands of deaths and whatever wrongdoings happened. Push them all onto me would you? After all, the rest of them are dead or in Azkaban!”

“I’m not blaming you!” By this time, Harry’s standing as well, their cups of tea forgotten on the table.

“You are! You’re the same as the lot of them! You’re thinking, why does this git get to run away and live peacefully while everyone else suffers! You’re thinking, it’s not right for me not to at least try to be out there, and do what? Help the masses? Who are you kidding?!”

All of a sudden, the cups on the table shatter, spilling tea across the table and dripping onto the floor. Malfoy flinches back, looking with horror from Harry to the shattered remains.

Harry is shaking again. He’s angry. And Frustrated. Why can’t Malfoy just understand? Everything is messed up, and he simply needs to fix it. But he’s stubbornly refusing to do so, and Harry thinks—no, he knows —that if everyone doesn’t work together, nothing will ever get fixed, and he’ll be left alone to deal with the aftermath and he simply can’t do that.

“Potter,” Malfoy’s voice is gentle now. Shaky, but gentler. “Even if I try, I can’t . You have to understand that. I’m sor—”

“That’s a pathetic excuse.”

“Wha—what?”

“That’s pathetic!” Harry screams. “If you don’t try, then all you’ll be is a Death Eater! You’ll always be a Death Eater!” He grabs Malfoy’s left arm and shoves the sleeve up. “This!” Still gripping Malfoy’s arm, he shakes the faded mark in front of Malfoy’s face. “This is all you will ever amount to!”

Harry doesn’t know when he started noticing, but there are tears rolling down Malfoy’s face now, and there’s a look of pure hurt and hatred directed towards him. Malfoy snaps his arm out of Harry’s grasp and steps back a few steps.

“I will not have you here just to insult me, Potter. Get the fuck out.”

* * *

Harry had gotten the fuck out. His instincts knew if he didn’t, Malfoy would have cursed him straight out of town. It was a good thing too, perhaps. An hour later, buried back under his covers at Ron and Hermione’s house, he knows he was in the wrong. Even if he was angry, he shouldn’t have grabbed Malfoy. Shouldn’t have flaunted Malfoy’s own mark in front of him. Something so evil. Something that was supposed to be in the past. He wallows in his guilt.

There’s a knock on his door. “Harry? Are you in there?” Hermione calls out.

Harry grunts.

The door opens and he hears it click shut. A second later, he feels the bed dip as Hermione sits, but he’s already resolved to never show his face again, so he stays curled up. 

“How’d it go with Luna?”

“Luna wasn’t there.”

There’s a pause and Harry can practically hear the gears turning in Hermione’s head.

“Did you talk with Malfoy then? You were gone for a while. How’d it go?”

Harry lets out a guttural groan as a reply.

“Not well then?”

Another groan.

“Oh Harry.”

Harry sits up, shoving his blankets to one side. He looks down and picks at his fingers and the loose threads. “I insulted him,” he whispers quietly. “I said he doesn’t try. I said he’d always be a Death Eater.”

Hermione stays silent, waiting for him to continue.

“I realized that I don’t know shit about him. I don’t even know what he’s been doing these past three years. And the first time we have a proper conversation, I call him a Death Eater. It’s just wrong. Why’s he like that? Why am I like this?”

He buries his face in his hands. “I think I’m getting worse again, Hermione. I don’t even know why I’m upset. And I hurt him too. What if I can’t control it?” His voice turns shaky at the end, tears threatening to spill out. And he remembers how Malfoy had cried and how he has never seen someone so hurt yet angry at the same time. And it was directed at him .

Hermione pats his back softly. “I can’t say much for Malfoy,” she says, “but it’s going to be ok, Harry. You’re trying. That’s all we ask. Take it one step at a time.”

She lets out a heavy breath. “And we know you worry. But we worry too. Let us take our share and we’ll figure it out together, the three of us, like always.”

“Always?”

“Always.”

Harry sniffles, wipes the rest of his tears away, and gives Hermione a tentative smile. “Thank you.”

She grins back. “Now, since it is a Saturday, would you like to join Ron and me in his hunt for more exotic tea?”

Chapter Text

Harry feels like he’s drifting. Drifting aimlessly and floating on clouds. Except it’s really not as nice as it sounds, because he’s also lost. There’s a void in his chest he doesn’t know how to fill and nothing he thinks of feels right. He needs to be grounded, he knows. But he’s known that for the past twenty-one years of his life and nothing has changed, so why would it be any different now?

But mostly, he’s just scared. Because feeling empty and not-grounded means he’s also isolated. And when he falls into that downward spiral, he can’t get out. While he knows Ron and Hermione have and will always be there, he walks his path of anger alone. And the farther he walks, the more he realizes that he has no one else to turn to. So the anger and fear keep piling up and he knows that one day, it’ll break the glass road he calls “a life.”

He’s gone back to Grimmauld place after the “Malfoy Incident,” as they come to call it, and he’s drowning again in the silence and gloom. But he hadn’t wished to overstay his welcome at Ron and Hermione’s so he had forced himself to say his goodbyes and leave.

He throws himself back into auror work—earnestly this time, he tells himself. No more excuses, no more Malfoy-distractions. He does his job and guides Victor through tough cases, attends meetings, and has lunch with his co-workers. It’s normal and orderly, and every bit of the calm he had wanted after the war. That’s right, had.

He tells himself that his steady job with his respected position is everything he ever wants. Enough to live a comfortable life, enough to have fun with his friends, and enough that he feels proud of himself. And that’s all that should really matter. Him and his friends. Them against the world. 

He tells himself this, and struggles to hold onto that belief.

* * *

It’s not a week later that Harry walks into the auror office to a flurry of panicked activity and the lights on the wall blaring red. An attack, or assault maybe. Always the worst, because red means people are involved, and hurting people is the worst kind of crime someone can commit. Yet just as he’s about to question someone, the lights turn off and the panic subsides.

Harry pauses for a moment, then turns around and heads towards his desk. Lights off mean the problem is being taken care of—or has already been taken care of—and he figures he’ll just drag the news out of someone at lunch. In the meantime, he has piles of paperwork to deal with, and he still needs to go over the last write-up with Victor.

In the end, it’s Hermione who promptly shows up at the office at twelve, Hermione who drags him off to lunch, and Hermione who, ever so gently, breaks the news to him. She sits him down and presents the crumpled newspaper to him, where, right at the top, in large bold letters, states, Malfoy Abducted .

For once, Harry doesn’t know if he’s mad. Doesn’t know if he’s sad or upset or in shock. He doesn’t know whether he is supposed to cry or yell or whatever the appropriate reaction is, so he settles for nothing and simply sits and stares.

Hermione’s openly observing him now, and Harry can feel her worrying gaze as she rakes over his face. She takes the paper and folds it neatly before filing it back into her bag. “Are you okay, Harry? I’m sure it’s kind of sudden, but I know you don’t read the paper and just in case you hadn’t heard yet…”

“Yeah, I’m okay. I think.”

“Ah, that’s good I guess. I wasn’t sure how you’d take it. Maybe I was expecting you to get angry.”

“There’s nothing to be angry over. And I’m not even that close with him.” A pause. “So I don’t really know how I feel. It’s just… empty.” He makes a vague gesture in the air.

Hermione nods. “I can understand that. Well whatever works for you is fine. Don’t stress it.”

“Yeah… thanks for telling me ’mione.”

* * *

It’s when Harry gets home from work that he turns into a worrying mess of tears and regret. Maybe he has a late reaction time—right, a really late reaction time, his mind supplies sarcastically. But work had kept him busy and his mind from overthinking and now he has all the time in the world.

He doesn’t think he’s crying for the right reason though. He figures most people who cry when someone they know gets abducted is crying because they’re either happy—since it’s Malfoy and all—or they’re worried for the person. Is he worried over Malfoy? He really doesn’t know. He doesn’t think so at least. But he hates not knowing exactly what he’s feeling so he turns in early for the night and overthinks in the comfort of his blankets rather than the kitchen.

Then suddenly, a thought hits him. Why is he crying over Malfoy at all in the first place? Why is it Malfoy? Would he cry in the same way over Hermione? Ron? Luna? Ginny? Hadn’t he decided what he has is enough? Just him and his friends and family? So who is this stranger that gets to turn his mind upside down while he scrambles for his thoughts?

But Harry thinks back on the argument with Malfoy and realizes that it isn’t enough. Maybe it’s enough for him, but it’s not enough for Malfoy. Never enough for Malfoy. Because it isn’t Harry and his friends against the world anymore. If anything, it’s Harry with the world and the world with Harry. He protects his place and the world gives him respect and places him on a pedestal that’s all too wobbly. 

And if Harry isn’t the antagonist anymore then someone would have taken his place. Someone the world is against and is forced to fight against it with every last breath of their being, just like how Harry had. And that someone is Malfoy now, and Harry finally understands why Malfoy was so mad, so hurt, so frustrated.

Because Malfoy was fighting, and it was a losing battle. It will always be a losing battle. He can’t just go out and try, because the world won’t accept his efforts. They chuck his good-intentions back at him and call it plotting. They take his calm and repentant demeanor and call it manipulation. The world has run out of second chances and Harry couldn’t just give up his.

And Harry understands that as long as Malfoy lives, the world will always fight him, even when the former has given up. It is obvious now. The attack and now the kidnapping—all when the war is supposed to be three years in the past and Malfoy has been hiding away.

So Harry cries over the sheer persistence of the world and the freedom Malfoy never had and may never get to have again. He cries with regret that he couldn’t have understood sooner, and he mostly cries for himself. He’s confused and muddled, and while he now understands the frustration, the anger, he can’t understand the calm, the escape, and peace with crystal skies and seas of green.

He wishes Malfoy was still there at Luna’s cottage. There with his pools of grey and golden sunlight, with the sounds of clinking porcelain and quietly asked questions that upend his soul. Because Harry’s ignorance doesn’t balance Malfoy getting abducted, and now he may never get to apologize and ask his own questions.

He’s selfish really. Harry knows. To want someone back for forgiveness, for understanding. But it’s enough for now, he thinks. It’s enough.

* * *

In the end, Harry hands in a notice for a week of leave. Robards takes it with a waggle of his eyebrows. “Am I finally seeing you — the Harry Potter, ultimate workaholic and protector of the people— willingly taking a break from work? Is the sky falling? Quick, check!”

Harry sighs. “No, I just need to, um, take some time to sort through some things. See how it goes.”

Robards eyes him for a second then sighs back. “Jokes aside, I’m glad you’re taking a break. That’s the whole point of them you know? To sort your thoughts so that when you come back, you’re set and ready to go. Make sure you take full advantage of it and rest well.”

“Yes sir.” Harry turns to leave, then pauses. “Wait, why didn’t you give me the Malfoy case this time? You know I had to deal with him last time, and I really would like to find him and get him back, and I—”

“Okay okay hold up,” Robards raises his hands then faceplants into them. “First of all, you weren’t here yet when the notice came in, so I gave it to the first group available. Second of all, you know this sort of thing is more for the detectives. And as an auror, you’re very… rash, impulsive, and loud .”

“What, no I’m not—”

“Not loud in volume, Potter. You just stand out a lot and your fame is not helping. This case needs subtlety and urgency. It’s best left to the experts who know what to look for alright? Then maybe later we can consider sending you in for the bust.”

“Oh. Alright. But—”

“No buts.” Robards folds his hands neatly and looks Harry straight in the eyes. Harry instinctively stands up straighter. “I’ve also been informed that you may have a certain history with Malfoy, and with all consideration, it may interfere with the investigation.”

Harry frowns. “Hermione?”

“Yes, Miss Granger.”

Harry opens his mouth, then closes it. He’s frustrated for sure, but if Hermione had reason to personally ask Robards to bar Harry from the case, who is he to go against it? Of course, that doesn’t mean he has to take it nicely. He spins back around with a sniff.

“Alright then. With all due respect, I will be taking my leave now.”

“Sure, sure. And really, don’t go investigating by yourself now. As head auror, I forbid it.”

Harry waves. “Sure, sure.” 

“Potter!”

He slams the door.

* * *

“Hermione!”

Harry hears a loud clatter and panicked muttering before a disheveled Hermione appears within his view from the fireplace.

“Merlin, Harry, you scared me. I almost dropped the entirety of Ron’s tea collection.” She rolls her eyes fondly. “So, is there anything you need?”

“Why did you tell Robards about Malfoy?! Wait and what did you tell him?”

Hermione manages to huff and sigh at the same time. “Oh don’t worry, I didn’t tell him about all the petty stalking. Just that you two have a bit of history from Hogwarts. Robards filled in the rest anyways.”

“But why?! I could’ve helped! And now he’s even using his ‘head auror’ authority to prevent me from helping! It doesn’t hurt to have more help and it’ll be over quicker!” He gestures wildly, even though he’s sure Hermione can’t see the movement.

“Harry,” she says firmly, “you need a break from all this Malfoy stuff. He appears after three years and you’re suddenly wrapped all around him!”

“I’m not! I’m just trying to help find him—”

“Yes you are. As someone who witnessed your sixth year at school, I believe I can firmly say it’s the same thing all over again! Plus, this is something that’s supposed to be left to the detective division isn’t it? Meanwhile, I suggest you take the time to clear your mind so that when they do find Malfoy, you can have a proper talk.”

Harry glares at Hermione, taking in the firm set of her mouth and her hardened stare. Knowing he isn’t going to get much else out of her, he lets out a breath. What was he even expecting? It’s not like ranting to her will actually change anything. He’s just complaining and being an overall git.

“Right, right, sorry,” he mumbles. “Whatever, I’ll just… go and leave you to your work or whatever.”

Her face softens. “Oh before you go, I heard Luna’s back from Brazil. If you want to go talk to her.”

Harry nods slowly. “Yeah, I guess I’ll go. Thanks. See you around.”

* * *

It takes Harry a good chunk of the day to gather himself and find the will to go face Luna. He’s not sure as to why he’s nervous. It’s not like he’s the one that kidnapped Malfoy. Maybe it’s just the fact that he had upset Malfoy to the point of tears. Maybe Malfoy told Luna how much of a dick he was. Or maybe it’s because you understand how stupid you were and regret it now, his brain whispers. Shut up, he says back.

Eventually, Kreacher gets annoyed of his ceaseless pacing and shoves him out of the house with a box of homemade pies. “Master is being in the way of cleaning. Kreacher is asking Master to do his walking somewhere else.” The door slams in his face, and Harry knows this is Kreacher’s way of saying “You’re being annoying. Fuck off and go solve your problems already.”

With no more excuses, Harry panics for a second. Then he decides to fuck it and just get it over with. He apparates over to Luna’s and raps on the door.

“Harry!” Luna’s head pops out from the kitchen window right next to the door. Harry almost drops his box. Almost.

“Let yourself in, the door’s open,” she says. “I’m in the middle of baking some alihotsy, and it does require the utmost attention, I’m afraid.”

Harry raises an eyebrow, but decides not to question it. When he enters the kitchen, he finds Luna sitting on a stool, staring intently into the oven at what looks like a few unassuming cookies. He sets the pies down on the table.

“You know,” Luna pipes up, eyes never leaving the cookies, “we did learn in school that alihotsy is used for laughing potions. But I figured that if I could tweak it just so, it would help with depression and the like.”

Harry stays silent.

“Of course, it wouldn’t help treat it directly. I think all those potions and spells that treat depression directly are kind of bad. They’re addicting and create a false sense of well-being. It’s quite dumb.”

She finally turns to look at Harry. “But if I can make something that will just make it easier for people to laugh—not forceful laughing, mind you, that’s also quite dumb—then it’ll make people happier about the little things, and it’ll stimulate the happy-chemicals, and they’ll find actual joy in the real things.”

Harry just stares at Luna, and Luna stares back. Distantly, a little ding goes off, and Luna breaks the eye contact.

“Ah they should be ready now.” She stands, dusting herself off before carefully floating the cookies out of the oven and onto a plate to cool.

“Would you like some tea as the cookies cool down?”

Harry starts to nod, before deciding against it. He clears his throat instead. “Ah, yes please,” he mumbles out, not wanting to stay silent the whole time.

Luna grins a bit before busying herself. They drink their tea in silence, and Harry flounders between panic and mild confusion. What is a person even supposed to say after such an announcement? Luna obviously has her reasons for whatever strange thing she’s always doing, and Harry really doesn’t know if he should read more into it or not.

But just as Harry drinks the last dregs of his tea, Luna declares her cookies cool enough and goes to grab her cloak. Harry stands, thinking she’s about to leave on some business and he really can’t be intruding, despite all his unanswered questions.

When Luna comes back and sees Harry about to leave, she waves a hand casually. “Oh no, I’m just going out on a quick errand. Would you like to come?”

And while the question is phrased and said quite simply, Harry knows that when Luna asks something, one doesn’t just refuse. So he manages out a “sure,” and follows her miserably out the door.

It’s golden hour now, and the streets are pleasantly quiet, with the occasional talk and laughter carried over on the wind. “It must be quite loud in London right now, especially during rush hour,” Luna muses.

“Yup.” Harry pops the “p.” Then after a second, he decides to ask, “Where are we going?”

“Oh you’ll see soon enough,” is the answer. At Harry’s constipated expression, Luna laughs brightly. “Don’t worry, it’s not that far. It’s a small town afterall.”

At least, Harry decides, it’s quite nice to walk around without all the rush and hustle of a big city. No reporters, no paparazzi, no one to judge his every action the moment he leaves his house. He takes a deep breath, taking in the rustling trees and cottages, all under that vast blue sky. He thinks he can appreciate it.

Finally, they stop in front of what Harry immediately recognizes to be Malfoy’s house. Or rather, Malfoy’s half-wrecked mess of a cottage. The burns are still there and many of the windows have yet to be fixed, but the hole in the roof seems to have shrunk.

Luna simply continues through the small garden, but Harry pauses at the front gate, feeling like he really shouldn’t be intruding on someone’s property. Especially when said property belongs to an ex-rival who isn’t even there to defend his place against the likes of Harry.

Luna turns around at the door and waits just long enough for Harry to catch up before unlocking and entering the small cottage. To some relief, the inside of the house has mostly been emptied or cleaned up, with just a few spare pieces of furniture here and there. Harry looks around curiously, before following Luna into what appears to be the kitchen.

It’s always the kitchen, he muses. He might as well just spend his life living in people’s kitchens. Yet it’s Malfoy’s kitchen this time, and there’s that golden light again, and, even with the lack of furniture, it’s comfortable and warm.

Luna stands and looks around for a while, then looks at Harry. She doesn’t say anything and it unnerves him, because he really thinks she’s somehow found a way to look through his soul and into the depths of his regret.

But Luna seems satisfied with whatever she was deciding and turns away. She waves her wand, and with a pop, a plate of the cookies she just baked appears, settling down on the dusty table.

“These are just trial cookies,” she says, and Harry opens his mouth to say something but is almost immediately cut off. “I’m sure they’re quite safe though, so please try them. You did agree to be my test subject and I’m holding you to your word.”

Harry knows at this point that she’s not talking to him. But then she walks over to him and grabs his hand, pressing a small object into it. When Harry looks, it’s one of those old, antique-looking keys, with a surprising and solidly comfortable weight that puts him at ease.

“It’s enough,” she says. “You being here is enough.”

Harry starts, as if he had been walking in a daze all day and feeling as if he's just woken. He looks at Luna. Then at the cookies. It’s glowing. Everything’s glowing. And Harry wonders if he, standing here under all this warm light in Malfoy’s home, is also glowing.

Chapter Text

It’s strange how quickly Harry reverts back to his sixth-year habits of stalking Malfoy. Only, this time around, Malfoy is really missing and Harry doesn’t have a map to point him. It’s all just ink on crinkled paper and the empty whispers of a man hated and lost.

He spreads countless newspaper articles across the floor of his kitchen, newspapers he hasn’t bothered to look at in ages. Magazine clippings, photos, printed speculations from the internet. He spends hours just staring at them, looking for something but not knowing what. He racks his brains, looks for the hidden clues he knows must be there. But his auror-mind had shut down when he handed Robards that form, and he’s no more detective than the average person.

Kreacher mumbles and shoots him glares the entire time Harry’s there. Yet with all the complaining, food and drink are set before him at regular intervals and Harry almost wants to curl up and cry. His life is empty yet full. His house is devoid of life and yet he lives. The shadows haunt him, and in that moment, he appreciates that Kreacher at least cares.

He eventually falls asleep late in the afternoon, sprawled across the floor in an undignified heap. But he can’t care less. He’s tired, and just wants to sleep. To sleep until he’s not tired, and he doesn’t know how that works.

Ron finds him some time later, and shakes him gently until he rouses. He blinks blurry eyes up at his friend.

“Ron?”

Ron frowns down at him and hands him his glasses. “Yeah, it’s me. What are you doing here?”

Harry looks around at the mess. He had crumpled many of the papers in his sleep, and he pulls them over to smooth them out. He feels like he’s drifting. Everything’s surreal and messy and how is this not a dream? Is it a dream? He’ll never know.

Ron takes his lack of answer in stride and simply sits down besides Harry. After a moment, he reaches for an article and helps smooth it out, before gently setting it back down. They go through most of the crumpled pieces of paper before Ron opts to speak.

“Malfoy, huh?”

Harry hums.

“I heard from Hermione about everything.” Ron hesitates. “And she would say you shouldn’t be doing this.”

Harry turns to look at Ron. At his best friend of over ten years. At the man who’s been at his side through thick and thin, the man who’s lost a brother, and the one who became his. He’s watched as the rash and energetic boy faded into something more gentle and serious, first for the war, then for Hermione. But he’s still the same. They are still the same. Ron will always be that bright orange ball of light, and Harry trusts no one more.

“What about you? What do you say?”

“I say… this is calming. I think this is your way of coping. And I think… that’s fine.”

Harry pauses. Then lets out a small grin. “Really? I’d think I was having a breakdown.”

“Maybe so, but if laying everything out where you can physically see it makes you feel better,” he waves a hand at the covered floor, “I can get that.”

And Harry thinks, oh right, because in some ways, he and Ron are one and the same. Except Ron prefers to stare at his jars of tea instead of newspapers. And Harry’s the one with the insane mood swings.

“Alright. If you say so.” Harry leans his arms over his legs, letting his eyes roam.

“Well not all of us can be Hermione, keeping everything in that big brain of hers.”

They share a small grin. Ron stretches and stands up abruptly. He offers Harry a hand. Harry just looks back at him with slight confusion.

“C’mon. Let’s go get some actual food. And then I think I ought to see what’s got you so fired up.”

* * *

They grab a quick bite from the Leaky, and before he knows it, Ron has convinced Harry to side-along him to Grasmere. He thinks he should be a bit frustrated with all the prodding, but it’s Ron, and he knows his best friend wouldn’t ask for something so unusual without wanting to help. So he agrees and lets Ron take his arm.

They land with a stumble and muttered curses, and as Harry looks around for any possible muggles, Ron gasps his way into life on the ground.

“Damn,” he finally says, still pulling air into his lungs with a desperation that’s almost entertaining. “How can you even apparate that far? How are you not—”

Harry looks away as Ron lets out a series of coughs. “Dammit mate. I never thought I’d get motion sick from apparating. We’re definitely going back in small leaps.”

Harry shrugs and gives Ron a smirk. “I guess the Chosen One just has a superior capacity for magic.”

“Oh shut up.” He swats Harry in the arm. “Now, lead the way, Chosen One .”

With a fond eye roll, Harry sets off. They walk the familiar streets, under that familiar sky, and suddenly, Harry feels a semblance of calm. Here, in this small town reserved for Luna and Malfoy, he can pretend nothing has changed. That he’s here to visit Luna and quarrel with Malfoy in that homey kitchen, where fights mean nothing more than a gentle tease.

But instead of the usual turn to Luna’s cottage, they continue on. And Harry starts to panic. Because the spell is broken now, and he’s not even sure of the way to Malfoy’s house, and why are they even going there? He stops walking abruptly.

Ron takes another few steps before realizing. He turns and walks back to Harry, ever the concerned friend, brother. “Hey, you ok?”

Harry takes a rattling breath. “Why are we here? And I don’t even know if I can find his house, and, and—”

“Hey, hey. It’s ok, it’s ok. We’re here because well, I wanted to get you out of your house and figure out how to help. So I thought I’d take a look at the situation. Is that ok?”

Harry nods, still shaking.

“And it’s totally fine if we get lost. We have plenty of time—hey, don’t give me that look, I took a day off work—so we can wander the whole village until we find it, and that’s ok.”

Ron waits, letting his words sink in and the shaking subside. When it does, Harry gives him an incredulous look. “Who the heck is willing to walk through an entire village house by house?”

Ron laughs then. “Me! I wouldn’t be your best friend otherwise.” He swings an arm around Harry and pulls him forward. “Now, let’s go!”

* * *

It doesn’t take as long as Harry thought it would for them to find Malfoy’s house. Turns out he still remembers most of the way, and then it’s just a matter of wandering around to find the one house with scorch marks and a roof open to the sky. Ron lets out a low whistle when they finally reach the front gate. Harry watches as his eyes rove over the building, knowing that, even after all this time, his six months of auror training must be kicking in.

“Half the roof is gone ,” Ron mutters after a while. “It’s just gone .”

“The hole used to be bigger.”

Harry creaks the gate open and walks towards the cottage, patting his pockets for the key.

“What, really? You sure?”

“Yup.”

Ron takes in the inside of the house just like the outside. With a calm gaze and curious eyes, Harry can practically see his mind spin as he catalogues everything. In the end, Ron doesn’t say anything. He simply trails along as Harry wanders the interior, following whatever catches his eyes.

Eventually, they find themselves in that last room. The one with the roof gone and Harry just sprawls himself across the ground, imagining himself hurt and burnt on the imaginary scorch mark. Ron stares at him for a second before joining. And they lie there, watching the sky go from gold and pink to a darker purple and their breath start to appear in tiny clouds of mist.

Harry thinks he’s comfortable here. No, he knows he’s comfortable here. For once, it’s peaceful. There’s a nice quiet that’s so different from the sickening silence of Grimmauld, and in this place so far from home, he wonders how it’s possible. There’s the sound of insects and the quiet chatter of far away conversations and Harry never wants to leave. Never wants to go back to the rushed life and social obligations waiting back at London. Never wants to leave this feeling of calm.

And Harry realizes just how much life has burdened him. How he’s always stressed over something. How there’s always some deadline to be met, someone who needs to be saved, people to talk to, chores to be done. But right now, right now he doesn’t need to worry about anything. In this one second of calm, he’ll forget everything. And he’ll simply drag this one second out to another, and another, until he can’t anymore and he loses this rare feeling.

So he closes his eyes and just lets himself exist. He breathes and listens to the air leaving his lungs, out of Ron’s next to him. He loses himself in the crisp air, and as thoughts of leaves waving in the wind and stars fill his mind, he drifts off to sleep.

* * *

Harry wakes with a sneeze and an itchy nose. He’s rubbing furiously at the offending appendage before stretching, and realizes that he’s sore from lying on something hard the entire time he’s been unconscious. He groans. Then opening a bleary eye, he takes in the bare walls, the cloud-covered sky, and the blanket draped over him.

It takes him a moment to recall everything that happened the previous night, but when he does, he drops his head back on the floor with a gentle thud. But where’s Ron? He turns his head around, not willing to get up quite yet, and spies the note on the ground next to his head. He shoves the rock holding the paper down away, and holds the note up in front of his face, squinting at it.

Hey, sorry had to leave for work. My turn to open up shop today. Didn’t want to wake you though. Send me a message when u wake up?

- Ron

It takes Harry a while to process it, but process it he does. Sighing and not wanting his friend to worry, he grudgingly scribbles a note, folds it into a paper airplane, flicks a few spells over, and chucks it through the open roof. He watches it zoom away until it's merely a speck in the sky and no more.

Then it’s just a matter of arguing with himself to actually get up or not, and it’s definitely a lost cause because he simply lies back and resigns himself to a morning staring at a grey sky. Not that he minds. In fact it’s the most useless and peaceful idea he thinks he’s had in a long time. So revel in it he will.

He’s staring at a particularly grey patch of cloud and wondering how much time has passed when the first drop of rain hits him in the face. Then fuck, because it’s raining and he guesses he really shouldn’t have been lying out in the open in the first place anyways. But he keeps cursing, because he’s also certain that normal houses would have blocked the rain. But there’s this fucking hole in Malfoy’s roof and it isn’t blocking shit. And then oh god there’s water in the house and the house is going to flood and then the floorboards are going to rot and Malfoy’s going to return and find that his house has become a pile of dirt and compost.

So Harry panics and is in a frenzy of pushing the sparse furniture and his blanket out of the way and back into the hall when he realizes that he’s a fucking wizard. A whole wizard with magic and a wand and he could totally block out the rain if he tried. So he tries and it takes a few wrong mumbles and swishes before he finally gets the right spell. And finally there’s no more water coming in. He stares at his water barrier in panicked satisfaction for a while before looking back at the room.

With his panic calming down, he sets about drying the water on the ground and the walls. And when that’s done, he drags his blanket back and arranges a nest on the ground, deciding to wait out the rain. Yet not five minutes pass before Harry realizes that it’ll be awhile before the rain stops, and he might as well find something to entertain himself with. 

He goes back out to the hallway, and looks at the furniture now blocking the walkway. A desk and a chair. Squeezing around them, he sets off, looking through room after room. Yet everything has really been cleared away and it’s all just tables and chairs now.

Each room he passes dumps its amount of frustration on Harry’s growing pile, and soon enough, he’s shaking with the effort to keep calm, to not punch his fist straight through the nearest wall. He’s resolved to keep Malfoy’s house dry, and he can’t keep his barrier up if he leaves, and god dammit if he has to sit and do nothing for who-knows-how-long for the rain to stop.

But eventually he comes across the room tucked away in the back of the house he recognizes as the brewery. And to his surprise, it looks fine. Better than fine actually, he decides again. It’s a fully furnished brewery with tables and stands and vials of ingredients and potions lining the walls, and Harry rather thinks it rivals Hogwarts’ potions classroom. He’s quite impressed.

But he turns and suddenly there’s a wall full of vials. All of them containing that shimmering silver liquid he recognizes to be memories. And all of a sudden Harry’s a bit creeped out. Because while it’s totally normal and common for people to have a brewery in their house, and less common yet still totally socially acceptable to have a professional brewery, it’s not normal to just have shelves and shelves of memories lining the walls.

So he backs away slowly and decides right then and there that whatever obsession Malfoy has with memories, he wants nothing to do with it. When he’s an acceptable distance away, Harry whirls around to look through the rest of the room. He’s not forgotten his goal of finding something to do, and to his utter satisfaction, he finds a small bookshelf crammed full of potion books in the corner.

It’s not his ideal choice of reading per se, but there’s honestly nothing else in the house, and books will at least take some time to read. So he grabs a few in his arms and stalks out, resolutely ignoring the silver glow coming from the other side of the room.

* * *

Harry gets through the entirety of one book before his stomach rumbles. He looks up blankly at the sky, and to his disappointment, it’s still raining. It doesn’t hit him that that’s actually a problem though, before his stomach rumbles again. And now he does have a problem because how is he supposed to get food in an empty house that requires constant supervision?

But then he remembers he’s on leave and he can technically do whatever the fuck he wants whenever he wants. So he ignores his stomach and decides to open another book. Perhaps the rain will stop soon, he’ll never know.

He’s halfway through the second book when Ron apparates into the room with a bang and a pop. Harry’s so invested in his reading at this point that he yelps and bangs his head against the wall behind him. Then he looks up with a frustrated glare.

Ron’s looking back at him with a frown and that same frustration. “Do you even know what time it is?” he demands.

Harry raises an eyebrow. “No?”

“It’s god damn six right now, Harry! Six! Merlin’s balls do you know how worried we were? I went to Grimmauld to check up on you during my lunch break only for Kreacher to tell me you’ve never even gone back! Were you here the whole time? Have you even had any food? What gives?”

Harry sighs and gestures at the water barrier. “It started raining and I couldn’t just leave and let the house flood!”

Ron squints at him for a long while before letting out a sigh. “Okay okay, fair. But you know you could have just let one of us know and we would have helped right? At least while you went off to get some food. For Merlin’s sake, Luna lives like right there!” He waves wildly in the general direction of Luna’s cottage.

Harry blinks. “Oh, I didn’t think of that.”

Ron pinches the bridge of his nose. “What am I even gonna do with you,” he sighs. “But luckily for you, I suspected as much and brought food with me.” He sits on the ground besides Harry and starts furiously pulling out takeout containers.

“Treacle tart?” Harry asks tentatively.

“It’s Thai food. But yes I did get a treacle tart. Thank your savior.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

* * *

Harry thanks the gods for Kreacher’s slightly-creepy intuition for making Ron bring him a sleeping bag and more blankets. He had been dreading the idea of sleeping on the floor again. Ron himself had left right after dinner, but not before promising to come back the next morning with breakfast and anything else Harry might need for his indefinite stay.

He finishes the second potions book that evening under the glowing orbs of light he’s conjured, and he really doesn’t know if his brain can handle any more reading after that. He feels like he’s learned more potions during this one day of reading than what Snape has taught him, all five years combined. But he also doesn’t want to sleep so he stretches and makes his way out of the sky-room, as he’s come to call it.

He ends up bumping right into that desk outside. He really ought to move it out of the hallway, he muses. So gathering his strength, he shoves it back into the room, the table legs making an ungodly screech against the floor that has his teeth chattering and skin trembling. Then he curses himself because why hadn’t he thought to just levitate the damn thing? So he levitates the chair over instead and unceremoniously dumps himself in it.

Bored, he then starts opening and closing all the drawers on the desk, looking for things of interest. When he finally comes across a small notebook, Harry pauses and considers the fact that perhaps he’s violating some sense of privacy here. He stares at the notebook in his hands and wars it over in his head. He really doesn’t want to snoop, but after all the other empty drawers he’s come across, he really wants to know why there’s just a notebook left in the desk. So eventually he tells himself he’s just going to flip to the very first page. And if it’s something private, he’ll put it back and never touch it again.

But then that thought seems to stick in his mind and he can’t get over the possibility that maybe this notebook is something Malfoy treasured. Something that’s genuine and real and maybe he has a piece of Malfoy here with him, right in his hands. Even if the real Malfoy is lost somewhere in the vast, vast world.

But really, there’s no use in dwelling in fantasies and false hopes when he could just confirm for himself. So he flips open the cover with his eyes squeezed shut and quickly cracks one eye open at the first page. And it’s blank.

So he squeezes his eyes shut again and flips to the next page and glances down. And his eyes land on the words “Architecture, 1800s.”

And now Harry’s confused so he opens his eyes properly and skims the page. And the next. And the next. He’s halfway through the notebook when he realizes that all he’s looking at is notes upon notes upon diagrams of the history and architecture of the buildings in Grasmere and the surrounding area. Of the types of wood used and the structural outlines of the houses, all the way down to the very last nails used to keep the house together.

Harry looks up at the hole in the roof—at the hole he’s sworn has shrunk since his last visit with Luna. 

And he laughs. He laughs and laughs until there’s tears at the edge of his eyes, and he wonders why he’s laughing so hard. But this is Malfoy, and of course Malfoy would do extensive research on architecture and construction just to fix his house. No one in their right minds would go to such lengths, and yet, here’s Malfoy doing just that.

But Harry understands he thinks. Just a little. That want to have the pristine peace and calm back. That want to fix what was already perfect. He wants it back.

He quiets down now, looking at this notebook. At the notebook that wasn’t quite what he was expecting, but gave him that piece of Malfoy anyways. In fact, it’s better. Because this is a part of Malfoy that’s more subtle. A part that Malfoy himself wouldn’t ever write down. It’s the perfection, the want, the lack, the shattered dream—it’s everything put into the quill that wrote these words, drew these diagrams. It’s the wish for a home, built and fixed, and Harry suddenly feels the desperate need to be a part of it.

Because his own dreams seem small and insignificant now, and he’s desperate for that glimpse of a whole perfection after having tasted his own piece of it. And he’s selfish. He’ll always be selfish. But he thinks that if his goal for this perfection helps push Malfoy towards his own, then, what’s the harm?

After all, he just wants to be there. To be there when Malfoy reaches that dream. To be there when the shards come together and bless him with that calm, that peace, that bit of Malfoy that has since shook him all those days ago.

So he’ll help, Harry decides. He’ll help with Malfoy’s reconstruction while he’s gone. He’ll watch over his home, his dream, and keep it safe and alive until Malfoy himself can come back to claim it. He’ll protect it.

He pockets the notebook.

Chapter Text

Harry realizes that it’s already the fifth day Malfoy’s been missing when he wakes the next morning; which is honestly pretty strange once he thinks about it, because time has flown for him. Is time supposed to fly when someone is missing? Probably not. But he can’t think of any reason for it to be otherwise.

Ron comes in the morning as promised, and he leaves after dropping off some pastries, a supply of coffee, and a trunk no doubt Kreacher packed. He rifles through it and is glad—and amazed—to see practically his entire wardrobe stuffed in it. He’s not sure he’ll even be staying long enough to get through all his clothes, but he guesses it’s better to be prepared—which reminds him that he’ll probably have to send in another notice of leave later.

He then spends the rest of the morning flipping meticulously through Malfoy’s notes, making his own notes in a separate journal. He would’ve just written in the margins of Malfoy’s, but he feels guilty enough for snooping as it is, and doing so would be a level of intimacy that thinly borders intrusion. Yet the more he reads through the journal, the more Harry’s amazed at the level of detail. There’s so much information—and extra history—that Harry doubts he’ll even have to do more research on his own. 

He ends up spending the better part of the day going through the entire thing, with his own journal full of random scribbles and drawings that serve no other purpose but to satisfy curious wonderment. But for all the information and detail, Malfoy’s handwriting remains neat and precise and constant, and Harry couldn’t help but to stop occasionally to compare that half-cursive handwriting to his own messy scrawl. He wonders what it would take to get his own handwriting to be considered “neat” and “pretty,” and decides quickly enough that it’s impossible.

After all, just as how speech is the voice of the mind, is writing not the voice of the soul? Harry, with his abrupt and spontaneous life, constantly stopping, changing directions, his rash and loud personality that defies structure yet upholds justice—does his handwriting not suit him well? Harry thinks it works anyways.

But this belief is interesting, because Malfoy’s writing is smooth and flowy. Harry thinks back to his last encounters with Malfoy, and eventually decides that perhaps it’s justified. Malfoy’s strangely soft now, and who’s he to decide if smooth handwriting describes him or not? He doesn’t know this Malfoy anymore. He certainly knows the Malfoy from Hogwarts, however, and if he had had this flowy handwriting back then too, well... Harry would think about that later if it ever comes up. Yet for now, Harry simply wonders if he will ever calm down enough for his handwriting to smooth over—to achieve that peace where every word need not be rushed; where nothing needs to be rushed.

By late afternoon, the rain has finally stopped long enough for Harry to release his water barrier and allow himself a well-needed break. He lies under that still-cloudy sky for a bit, enjoying the lack of magical strain before getting up and deciding that he should take the opportunity to get some work done. He grabs his jacket and heads out, apparating to the first address on Malfoy’s list.

* * *

Saturday dawns golden and misty, and Harry revels in the slanted beams of sunlight that filter through the clouds and into the sky-room. Everything’s white and grey and gold, and for a while, he simply allows himself to be fascinated by the dust motes floating through the air. Eventually though, he drags himself up to begin the day’s work.

So when Luna comes knocking at the gate around noon, Harry pokes his head over the edge of the roof and waves down at her.

“Luna! Up here!”

Luna looks up at him, then with a slight pop, apparates right up besides him. She settles down gracefully even while Harry gawks, as if finding one’s friend on the roof and sitting down with them up there is the most natural thing in the world. But perhaps it is.

“Hello, Harry. What are you doing up here?” 

“Um...” Harry searches for words while Luna looks around at the piles of wood and stone and shingles that sit all over the yard and roof.

“Well, it seems like you’ve found something to do.” Luna gives him a small nod and a smile. 

“Yeah, I suppose. I just figured I ought to fix the roof. What with the rain and all...”

“That works. Anyways would you like some lunch? We really should eat before the sprites get to it. I brought some cookies too.”

Right on cue, Harry’s stomach grumbles. He laughs. “Sure. You’re right on time.”

Luna pulls out a few homemade dishes that thankfully look pretty normal, and Harry immediately swipes a cookie and stuffs it into his mouth. “Ifs preffy ‘ood,” he says around his mouthful.

“Ah,” Luna tilts her head and squints at him a bit before continuing. “I probably should’ve told you that those are my test cookies.”

“Your test cookies?” Then, “Wait, the cookies from last time?”

“Yup.” Then at Harry’s horrified expression, “Oh don’t worry. They’re not harmful or anything. Just tell me if you feel anything you wouldn’t normally feel.”

“Well that’s not reassuring at all.” Luna laughs, and for some absurd reason that’s probably due to the cookies, Harry laughs too.

Lunch seems to fly by, with Harry feeling giddy and floaty the entire time, no thanks to the cookies. It’s a bit like being drunk, he thinks, and he tells Luna as much. She hums in response and whips out a small notepad to record it down.

And then he’s spilling his guts out and laughing and crying at the same time and at one point he almost rolls off the roof from laughing too hard.

“I just want—” He hiccups. “I just want some peace. And I’m gonna get it.”

Luna kneels besides him with her notepad as he lies facedown from where she had dragged him away from certain death. “Yes yes,” she says soothingly. “You’ll get it.”

Harry suddenly realizes that she’s treating him like a baby, and frustrated, he immediately flips over. “I’m not a baby!”

“No, you’re not.”

“Yes, I’m not.”

He huffs and watches as Luna continues her scribbling while mouthing words under her breath. He catches “drunk,” “suppresses rational thought,” and “prefrontal cortex” before tuning her out. She’s not paying attention so he refuses to pay attention.

“Gonna fix Malfoy’s house,” he mumbles to himself. “Gonna take his calm.”

Luna’s whips around to stare at him, and the sudden movement startles him into almost rolling off again. “Harry.” A sigh. “You can’t do that.”

“Why not?” He frowns. “He has calm so I’m just gonna take some.”

“You can’t just take it. Is that why you’re rebuilding his house?”

“Yes.” He blinks. “I’m helping.”

Luna just looks at him for a bit before putting everything away into her bag. “Harry, sometimes, people don’t feel safe so they create their own safe place.” She maneuvers Harry into a standing position, then apparates them to the ground. “And this safe place should remain a safe place. You can’t take it away.”

By now, they’re at the front gate, and Luna turns to look at him. “You can’t take it away. Do you understand?”

Even through the haze, Harry senses the gravity of the situation. He’s never seen Luna this serious before, and despite not quite understanding what she’s getting at, he knows he ought to be careful. So he nods and gives her what he hopes is a reassuring smile.

Luna searches his face for a moment before stepping back. “Don’t forget Harry, this isn’t your home to take.” Then she pauses and her face flits back into the Luna Harry knows and loves. “Oh wait, here’s some dried Billywig stings. Brew it with some tea and it’ll help get rid of the alcohol symptoms. Take care!”

And with a wave and a spin, she disappears down the street. Harry stands there for a while, still dazed, before looking down at the small package in his hands. Time to brew some tea.

* * *

He’s gone back to his place on the roof soon enough after Luna’s left. It’d been a miracle that Harry had even managed to get a cup of Billywig sting tea without burning the house down. As soon as he had upended the package into his cup, the thing had smoked and sprayed him in a shower of sparks, prompting him to dive under the table. But he couldn’t deny his relief when he felt the haze lift from his mind.

And now, he’s back to pouring over Malfoy’s diagrams, following the instructions as he slowly gets the boards and tiles down by hand. It’s a slow and tiring process, but there’s satisfaction in feeling his hands physically create something. He thinks he could get used to this feeling.

Harry’s never once regretted joining the magical world. Instead, he immerses himself fully in it, taking advantage of his magic and this new escape. He had used magic as often as he could, especially after first leaving the Dursleys and then after the war. It’s gotten to the point where he can’t understand why Hermione sorts her library by hand, why Ron brews his tea without magic, why Luna makes her absurd amount of baked goods and ends up with flour all over her hands and face.

But now, doing this, this repetitive motion of laying down the tiles and shingles, Harry might be feeling just the tiniest bit of regret. Not for joining the magical world, but regret for forgetting the joy of actually using his hands. He decides right then and there that he really ought to be reconsidering his priorities. Anything to live and feel this joy again.

It’s another hour or so before Harry suddenly recalls his lunch with Luna. By all means, he hadn’t intended to forget, but it was as if another veil had lifted from his mind and everything’s finally as clear as day. He sends a patronus off to Luna to inform her of this new development while snippets of words and conversation pour through his thoughts.

Luna had warned him of something. Told him to not take away... Malfoy’s safe place? His home? Harry isn’t taking his home away. Does Luna expect Harry to just... magic Malfoy’s house away? To steal his home and take up residence? He’s never been more confused in his life. He’s simply fixing Malfoy’s house... right?

The hole in the roof slowly inches itself shut, and as the sun starts to cast long shadows over his work, Harry gives himself a moment to sit back and admire his work—even if he’s still agonizing over Luna’s words. He doesn’t understand. He really, truly, and clearly does not understand what Luna meant. He’s racking his brains, and some sense of self-preservation leftover from the war keeps him on his toes. One misstep and Luna will have his head. One mistake and maybe he’ll ruin this thing with Malfoy. One small error in judgement and maybe Harry should have just kept to himself and not messed with someone else’s business.

Ron and Hermione come by around dinnertime to check on him and he’s glad for the distraction. They find him still on the roof—even if the sun’s set and he can’t see shit—and he’s curled into a ball with his chin on his knees, panicking and angry because he just can’t grasp the understanding right in front of his reach, waving its tail feathers in his face. Would it have hurt for Luna to just be a bit more clear? A bit less cryptic for once?

Ron decides for him that it’s impossible to get a straight answer out of Luna, ever. Having been comforted out of his mood, they drink to that. All the while, Hermione sits on the other side of their pile of food, watching with a knowing and exasperated smile.

A bit drunk now, Ron scooches back to Hermione, swinging an arm around her shoulder and squeezing her close. “So, got any insight, ’mione? Help these poor souls decipher Luna’s message?”

Hermione lightly swats at Ron’s arm but leans into the hug all the same. “I think it’s just the fact that you’re doing something without Malfoy’s permission.”

Harry frowns. “But I can’t . He’s kidnapped.”

“Doesn’t matter.” She waves a hand vaguely. “You have to respect people’s space. If you can’t ask now, then wait until he gets back.”

“But I... already fixed half his roof?”

“Well nothing to be done about that now, mate!” Ron jumps into the conversation and just as soon passes out on the floor. 

Hermione simply rearranges him into a more comfortable position before turning back to Harry. Was Ron always that much of a lightweight?

“Well just as Ron said, there’s not much you can do about that now. Unless you want to take it apart?”

“No!”

“Well then, just wait for Malfoy.”

Harry doesn’t answer.

* * *

It takes all of the next day for Harry to finish fixing the roof. He feels just a bit guilty for not listening to Hermione, but he’s already done so much. Would it hurt to just finish what he started? He’ll take responsibility for his actions anyways. If he isn’t sure of anything else, he’s now sure of this one thing. He’ll take responsibility.

 He secures the last shingle down and steps back to survey his work. He feels that new yet welcoming feeling of satisfaction well up within him, and he almost shouts in joy. But with much of the wards down due to the destruction of the house, he stops himself. It wouldn’t be good for the muggles to accidentally stumble onto the premises due to this whim.

Instead, he sits back and summons a bottle of butterbeer. After the incident with Luna, Harry’s found that he’s not as avid about getting drunk on a rooftop as he probably would have been before. It’s a romantic concept really, to sit under the sky with a drink, but he’d rather not risk rolling off the roof with no one to catch him this time. So he sips his butterbeer and enjoys his rationality as much as he can, which is to say, not a lot.

No one had visited today, and being a Sunday, it strikes Harry as a bit odd. But he doesn’t mind. It’s a rest day, he thinks. For once, it’s nice to be alone. His thoughts still run all over the place, but it’s harder to overthink in a place with no worries. So he doesn’t.

The sky goes from a yellow-orange to a pale purple and still, he sits. He sits until it’s dark and he can see the sporadic lights from the other houses illuminate the small patch of land that Grasmere occupies. And beyond that, it’s dark. It’s dark and black and it’s as if a void simply exists in the space between the horizon and the sky. It’s different from London. So different. London is like a galaxy of stars and comets, going as far as the eye could see. A city that never sleeps.

But Harry’s not in London right now, and he feels like he’s in the middle of nowhere, at the edge of the world. It’s not hard to imagine, and there’s a novelty in that idea. As if he were suddenly living in a fantasy. But it’s not scary at all, because his friends are still here. Luna lives in Grasmere, one of the speckled lights that dot the close landscape. Ron, Hermione, even Ginny—they’re a bit farther but with magic, they’re just a hop and a skip away.

So under the vast sky with stars he’s never seen before, in this town at the edge of the world, he doesn’t feel lonely at all.

* * *

Harry finally goes to sleep early in the morning, and when he waves a tempus, it’s 3 AM. He collapses into his sleeping bag and falls into a dreamless sleep.

But not for long, because it seems as if not a second later, he’s waking up to sporadic tremors of shivers not unlike passing through a ghost. When he opens his eyes, it’s to the disorienting view of a silver otter swimming around and through him.

It’s still dark outside so he grumbles, but nevertheless gives the otter his full attention. It’s not often Hermione uses her patronus. When he turns to look at it, the otter finally stills and speaks.

“Harry! Harry, are you there?”

“Yes, Hermione, I’m awake. What’s going on?”

“I was at the office late for my report because the interns weren’t doing their jobs, and when I was trying to get a point across to one of them—”

“Why were you at work on Sunday?”

“That’s not the point!”

“Well get on with it please. I’m tired.” Harry mumbles groggily and drags himself up, deciding that if he’s going to have a late-night conversation, he should probably have some coffee. Hermione tends to ramble excessively when she’s tired afterall. It could be a while. The otter swims alongside him.

“Okay anyways so I was trying to tell Aaron that he really ought to gather more testimonials and proof before he tries to do anything by himself , and then suddenly I hear that cursed alarm going off in the aurors’ department, and next thing you know, there’s a stampede going down the hall and insane amounts of screaming like you wouldn’t believe—”

“Hello, Harry,” Ron’s voice suddenly cuts in, and Harry turns from the coffee machine to look at the dog that’s appeared next to the otter.

“Since Hermione’s tired—no, Hermione I’ve got this, you’re ranting—anyways, they found Malfoy about half an hour ago and they have him isolated at St. Mungo’s right now.”

“They what? ” Harry spins abruptly. “ They found Malfoy? ”

“Yeah. Thought you’d like to know.”

“How? What? What did they—? When? How’s he right now? I’m going to go see him.”

Ron’s terrier runs in front of him and gives him a glare when Harry turns to run out the door.

“Mate, he’s isolated right now. No one can see him except the healers. The aurors who got him out aren’t even allowed to talk to him. So calm down, they won’t let you talk to him either. Give it a few days maybe.”

“What? What’s wrong with him?”

“I dunno.” A tired sigh. “Look, I’m just passing on what Hermione heard at the Ministry. It’s still early. I’m going back to sleep. I recommend you do the same.”

The dog disappears in a wisp of silver smoke, and Harry just stands there. When he finally turns back to walk up the stairs, the otter is gone too. Alone again. Alone again with his thoughts.

Coffee forgotten, he stumbles back to his sleeping bag to stare blankly at the ceiling. He stares long enough that the first rays of gray sunlight are peaking through the window before he realizes.

He’s been awake from sunset to sunrise. He’s lived from life, to now, and eventually to death. And finally, finally, his soul feels tired.

Malfoy’s back.

Chapter Text

Draco wakes, and for a moment he panics, because it’s dark and eerily silent and he can’t open his eyes. It takes a while for him to stop trying, and only because he realizes that the rest of him is bound and stuck too. The memories resurface soon enough, and he realizes with a sinking realization that he has been abducted—again.

While it’s certainly not the first time, Draco dreads it all the same. Each time comes as a surprise, a shock, and before the relief that comes with his rescue, he panics and panics and panics because his life dangles in the hands of strangers.

When his parents had been around, his father had been the one to find him; again and again in that relentless desperation. Each time, he had cut it close, pulling Draco out on the verge of death. Draco supposes this was his father’s way of repenting, of apologizing. But Draco is tired. He’s tired of lies and acts and his father’s silent apologies fell on deaf ears and unseeing eyes. He doesn’t care. He can’t care.

But now his father’s dead and his mother’s in France and no one will rescue him this time. He’s scared. He’s so very scared because he knows he’ll die this time. There’s only so many ways to avoid death. Each misfortune is a roll of the dice, and he’s run out of luck. He resigns himself to his fate, slowly but surely; yet even as he comes to understand this fact, he’s scared. He doesn’t want to die.

He doesn’t know how long he’s been existing in this dark plane of existence before he feels a blindfold being ripped off his face. His head is whipped to side at the force of it, and with another realization, he accepts that these are cruel people. That, or they just hate him.

He blinks a few times to clear his vision, and when they finally focus, there’s a man looking with clear disgust down at him. Draco’s tied to a chair, and from his viewpoint, he observes the man best he can in the dim lighting.

The man sneers. “Remember me, Malfoy?”

Draco just stares. Best not to say anything when there’s no right answer.

The man takes that as a no; not that he’s wrong. “I’m disappointed. What happened to daddy’s boy? Where’s the ‘My father will hear about this?’”

Silence.

“Fuck, fine be that way prick.” The man walks over and kicks his chair so that it skids back with a screech. Draco winces at the sound. 

“I’m Baker. You and your cronies messed with me a few times. Ring a bell?”

It doesn’t ring a bell, but Draco stays silent anyways, making sure his face is as blank as he can possibly make it.

“Ugh, fuck you. Is your brain messed up or something now? Dark lord drive you crazy? Well either way, I’ll get straight to the point.”

Draco snaps to attention, even if he doesn’t show it.

Baker starts pacing. “The war was supposed to get rid of all this pureblood supremacy. But guess the fuck what? It didn’t. The Dark Lord is certainly gone, I’ll give Potter credit for that, but purebloods still roam around asserting their fucking superiority shit over the rest of society. The Ministry is corrupt as ever, and poverty and discrimination still exist, so tell me why we fought and died for nothing. ”

Baker’s yelling and spitting everywhere at this point, and Draco’s starting to realize that he’s really, truly, run out of luck this time. Not only is Baker acting like a deranged, well, criminal, he’s spewing some nonsense that has Draco’s senses telling him he’s in some bigger shit than he initially thought.

“The blood of halfbloods and muggleborns flowed to save us! Not save you! We died for a better society! Not for the continuation of a flawed peace at the hands of people like you! There’s a blood debt the purebloods owe us, and we’re invoking it.”

Baker stops pacing to crouch in front of Draco. “We’re going to overthrow the Ministry, Malfoy. And you will either help us or die.”

* * *

Baker had left after telling him he had three days to decide his fate. What a joke. Draco’s fate had been sealed in death the moment he had been taken. If he refuses, he will die. If he cooperates, he will die. If the Ministry doesn’t find the traitors first, he’ll probably be killed by someone from the rebellion for being a Death Eater anyways. But there’s that slim chance. Maybe, just maybe, he’ll live. Anything to live. There’s a new dice in the mix, and he’ll throw it.

The room Draco’s in is dark and damp, and it’s impossible to tell time. His government-issued wand has obviously been taken away, so he can’t even check. He could’ve been there for a month already and he wouldn’t know. Three days? In a place where the neither sun nor moon shines? There is no time.

Another while later, there’s the clinking of the door rattling and opening. A person walks in towards him, and Draco tenses. They must have some kind of obscuring spell charmed on them, because when he tries to look at their face, it’s a mess of mist and blurred colors. Occasionally, he’ll get a solid glimpse, but the moment he flicks his eyes away, the images are forgotten, leaving him with a vague sense of discomfort and unease.

The person doesn’t speak. Simply waves their wand and frees Draco from his chair. The moment he’s staggering to his feet, there are shackles connecting his hands and feet together. So he can’t run away after all. Then there’s another pop as a small tray of food appears on the ground. The person turns and leaves without a word.

The tray contains a cup of water and a small bowl of some kind of soup. The lighting is too poor to tell. He eats every last bit. In the past, he would have worried over poison, but these people want something from him, so probably not. It wouldn’t be productive to starve out of spite either. Who knows when his next meal would be? Anything to live.

With more range of motion now, he slowly explores the room. The floor and walls are all made of rough concrete, and as he trails his hands in the air, he finds that there is no other furniture either; just the chair. The only bit of light coming into the room seems to be from the tiny window in the door, and when Draco jumps to try to look out of it, all he sees is an opposing wall a few feet away.

He staggers back to the chair and slumps down in it. It’s a rickety old thing, made of wood and probably on the verge of collapse. A fitting throne for the damned. How fate must be laughing at him.

There’s nothing to do except sit, so he does and lets his thoughts wander, desperately keeping them away from the possibility of death. He wonders how Luna must be doing. Luna, Luna, Luna. Luna, who had been caged in the Malfoy dungeons for months. Luna, who held no grudge but had indulged his request for forgiveness anyways. Luna who stayed with him and comforted him and offered to share her home even when his burned. Luna who only ever gave him the one request to keep her plants and home safe. One request and he couldn’t complete it. 

He hopes that her plants haven’t died. He can’t bear the idea of Luna coming home to find that her beloved work and pets have withered. He doesn’t want her last impression to be of a Draco who can’t even keep a simple promise. He hopes she knows he tried. He hopes she knows he’s sorry. For everything. Truly. 

Time passes slowly, or quickly. It’s not worth counting days by meals, he knows, because kidnappers really don’t care to be on time. He’s given food at random intervals, and in between, he dozes, daydreams, and tries to keep himself entertained. The only other person he sees is the person who delivers his food. He thinks it’s the same person anyways. The clothes are similar at least. Probably. 

He tries to make small talk. He asks about the weather, about their day, about their favorite colors and times of day and books they like to read. But whoever it is simply regards him with silence and walks away after setting down the tray of food.

So he pretends to have conversations with himself, with anyone. He imagines his mother, still pristine and neat in this dark and damp environment. She glows, and finally, she looks at him with comfort and understanding. Draco laughs and he cries. He talks and talks and talks until his throat is sore, but underneath it all, he’s not crazy. He knows he’s not crazy. It’s not real and he doesn’t really see his mother and his mother doesn’t really care. But he’s lonely and scared and just wants something .

Once, he imagines Harry sitting across from him. Harry, with his green eyes glaring at him behind glasses and messy hair. Hair he wishes he could comb his hand through, just for the sake of it. But no, this image of Harry he imagines is mad at him, and it’s the last memory of him he has. That fuming expression when Draco had tried to tell him he’d tried. He’d tried so hard.

But Harry only told him to try harder. Or be known as a Death Eater forever. And it had hurt. It’d hurt so much. Thinking about it now, it hurts the same all over again, and Draco’s choking back tears. He’s liked Harry for so long now, he doesn’t remember how it feels to not like him. But by the time he’d realized, it’d been to late to change their relationship. Misfortune after coincidence after fate; time and time again; and there was nothing Draco could do but act mean and arrogant. 

He watched as something impossible simply became more impossible, step by step, word by word. All by his own hand. And now, years after everything and having sealed away his feelings, Harry barges into his life again just to yell and berate him, and Draco can’t take it. He’d worked hard at first, trying to get a Ministry position, and when that didn’t work, set up his own potions business at Knockturn. But even there, the landlords were unwilling to offer him a space. He tried place after place and place and it was only after a full year and a half of rejection and homelessness that he gave up. And it was Luna who had found him after so long and helped him back up—

But Harry, it was and always is Harry. It’s Harry he looks for, Harry he worries over, and Harry he silently cheers for in the safe confines of his mind. In his dreams, it’s Harry who rescues him, Harry who smiles at him, Harry who saves him from the depths of his despair.

Draco thinks back to all the times he’d acted arrogant and a bully. Just to keep himself safe, away from the Dark Lord’s suspicion and the possible rejection of his friends. Was it worth it? Was it worth it, keeping himself alive at the cost of his love? Once upon a time, he would have answered, yes, it was worth it. Anything to keep himself alive. But the war’s over, now that he thinks about it properly, and what’s stopping him?

He looks back up at imaginary-Harry, who’s still glaring at him, and cries harder. He erases this angry Harry, and struggles to conjure up another memory of Harry. Harry when he was younger, back at school. A happy Harry who smiled and laughed, and Draco could pretend it was all directed at himself.

He closes his eyes and pretends Harry’s beside him, laughing and leaning against his shoulder. And as this Harry comforts him and strokes his hair, Draco slowly calms down to sniffles and hiccups.

“Thank you,” he whispers, more to himself than anything really. But he pretends nevertheless. “What would I do without you.”

When the tears have finally stopped, he looks up, straight ahead. Imaginary-Harry’s still beside him, arms wrapped around his neck, and Draco refuses to turn to look. Refuses to look at the empty space that’s actually there.

“Do you know Baker, Harry?”

Imaginary-Harry shakes his head. “Probably from Hogwarts though, since he remembers you and your friends.”

Draco gives a hum. “Probably. Smart of him not to give away his full name or year though. Just in case I escape and give him away.”

“But not smart of him to show his face,” Imaginary-Harry smirks.

“That’s true. I’ll have to pull memories out to get him.”

“Ooor you could just describe him or draw him.”

“Oh shut up, prick. Memories are a bit more reliable.”

Imaginary-Harry hums and repositions himself so he’s wrapped around Draco from behind. He rests his chin on Draco’s shoulder and hums softly. Draco shivers and closes his eyes again. He’s desperate to keep the image alive, and while he manages to produce a vague image, he can’t deny the lack of heat around him. He can’t imagine something he’s never had before either. So he gives up and settles for the image.

Imaginary-Harry gives Draco’s hair a last ruffle and sighs. “Go to sleep, Draco. You don’t know what’ll happen when Baker comes back. Get some rest.”

Draco allows himself a small whine. “Fine. Stay with me?”

“Always.”

* * *

Draco wakes when someone abruptly yanks the chain connecting his hands upwards. He groggily looks up, and although the person’s face is obscured, he instantly knows it’s Baker. Three days must have passed then.

Baker’s voice suddenly lashes out, and Draco flinches. “So, made your decision, Malfoy?”

Draco looks up with wide eyes. Shit. He tells himself he’s made this decision a long time ago already—anything to save himself. He just simply has to nod, say yes, and he’ll be safe. But now that he’s faced with the decision, he’s so incredibly scared. He wants to live. He wants to live so badly. He wants to live and gain Harry’s approval and maybe become his friend. But to do that, he can’t accept. And the alternative would be death.

He glances frantically away from Baker, and for a second, he thinks he sees Harry standing next to him. It’s just a glimpse, but Harry’s there, and he’s glaring and he’s mad and it’s almost like he’s challenging Draco. Challenging him to do wrong. To be a disappointment. Draco shudders, and against his will, a few tears leak out of his eyes. He’s hyperventilating now, and he gasps, even as he cries harder. There’s no way to express his fear, and it’s so so scary.

He wishes he could just disappear. Not to die. Just disappear. Then maybe it’d be the same as death without the dying part. He doesn’t know. But he wishes.

Baker yanks his chain upward again so that Draco’s on the same level as Baker. “What are you crying for?” he hisses. “Some coward you are. Don’t know why we need someone like you with us.”

Draco just hiccups in response as he tries—and fails—to calm down.

“So? Your answer?”

Draco ducks and trembles. And before he can regret his decision, he gives a quick shake of his head. “I refuse to join.”

Baker pauses for a moment. Whether in surprise or confirmation, it’s not clear. But then Baker snorts and throws him aside harshly. “Well I, for one, am glad. Don’t need some sniveling bitch working with me.” He walks back to the door, and with a last glance and a “Have fun,” he’s gone.

Draco collapses to the ground, shaking, but before he can get over his relief at not being immediately killed, he hears the command coming from down the hall.

“Give him to the Dementors.”

* * *

Someone comes back to his cell to grab him soon enough, and Draco’s trembling all over again from a different sort of fear. Dementors . He had spent a week in Azkaban after the war, and to say it was not pleasant would be an understatement. It was despair. Pure and unadulterated despair . Enough of it that Draco had wanted to just jump out of the building into the freezing sea below. Anything was better. Anything. But even then, Draco, with his fear of death, held on.

He doesn’t want to go back to that. Back to that dread and suffering. It was suffocating. He’d finally built himself a life, a home, and for a while, it’d been his own corner of bliss. But of course, nothing gold can stay.

Yet even while he’s being roughly shoved up and bundled out into the hall with the blindfold back on, Draco’s mind is whirring. He jumps between his fear and his curiosity and he almost misses the pop of apparition. Shit, well, if they’re moving him, it’d only be harder to find him—if anyone was looking in the first place. But still, he thinks. The Ministry had wiped Azkaban of Dementors, and at the time, that had been that. He supposes he hadn’t really considered what had happened to the Dementors themselves. But in some way, he knows where they are now—with the resistance—and it’s not a happy thought. What were they doing with Dementors?

But that’s all Draco gets to think, because as soon as his feet hit solid ground again, he’s hit with that familiar wave of despair and anguish and he immediately curls up into a ball on the ground. Whoever’s accompanying him let’s out a noise of annoyance and hauls him up by an arm, dragging him forward. The cold and sadness only grows, and eventually, just when it’s too much and he just wants to die, they stop. Draco’s on the ground again, and he listens to the rustling sounds and the murmur of low voices.

He catches “valuable asset,” “not to kiss,” and “pressure” before he feels the blindfold disappear and the clank of a door.

Draco doesn’t want to open his eyes. Doesn’t want to see where they left him, and the horrors waiting for him. He just wants to cry and sleep and cry. He wants to die and he wants to live and he wants to get out. He wants everything at once and he panics and suddenly there’s a cold thing touching his arm.

Draco flinches and immediately scrambles away , eyes snapping open. He regrets it immediately. There’s maybe five or so Dementors surrounding him, regarding him with that black void where their head is. Where their mouth is. Draco gasps and turns around, so that his own mouth is as far away from them as possible.

He cries.

* * *

Time is even more nonexistence in this place. His meals are more irregular, and the only thing that’s constant is the cold and suffocating feeling of his mind. The cold is unpleasant but not unbearable. But the dread, the fear, and the pain make him want to claw at his brain, to tell the neurons to stop firing, to just disconnect him from the world.

He starts seeing his mother and Harry more and more, and he’s not sure if that’s a good thing or not. They comfort him and berate him, and Draco finds himself alternating between imagined comfort and heartbreak. His mother only has gentle words. She whispers sweet nothings that he’s longed to hear. She caresses him and assures him of her presence. She’ll always be there, she tells him. She’ll protect him this time.

But Harry keeps switching between that smile and that fuming glare and Draco doesn’t want it. He can’t control it, and if this is the only way to have Harry, he doesn’t want it . All he’s wanted from Harry is just calm and quiet. He wants that gentle demeanor Harry gives his friends. He wants that smile, that trust, that companionship. His Imaginary-Harry was exactly that. And when he appears, Draco cries in his arms and lets himself dream.

But he knows his imagination and expectations don’t line up with reality, and when the more realistic Imaginary-Harry appears, Draco’s reminded of the impossibility of his wants. This Harry yells and screams at Draco, and he repeats Death Eater over and over until it’s all Draco hears. Until it’s all Draco is. He’s just a Death Eater in the end. That’s it.

There are few guards in this place, and occasionally, one will pace down the hall outside his cell, sneering at him with their patronuses trotting or swimming after them. Draco envies them. He envies their freedom and their bare arms and their magic. The only time he feels something other than despair is that infuriating frustration at his lack of magic. Since having his wand taken away, and given his government-issued wand that does the bare minimum, he’s never taken magic for granted. He misses the warmth underneath his fingers, that thrill of magic and smoothness that flows through him when a complicated spell goes right.

But there’s no time for envy in this place. The Dementors suck away any other feeling soon enough, and the guards have taken to using him for entertainment. They beat him and laugh at his pain, and there’s not a moment that he isn’t bleeding somewhere or another. They take up a sick game of pretending to rape him; never going all the way but enough so that Draco’s in pain and terrified and the Dementors surround them to revel in the blend of emotions.

The Dementors never come close to kissing him except once, for which he is glad. They seem to heed whatever instruction Draco had heard given to them, and it was only one incident where the realistic Imaginary-Harry had yelled such hurtful words that Draco had really just considered starving himself and dying. Immediately, a Dementor had swooped in and gripped his neck, lowering its hood with the other hand and coming closer. He couldn’t have moved away if he wanted to.

In the end, it was Baker who suddenly popped by and shooed the Dementor away with a wave of his wand. Baker simply stood and looked down with his usual disdain at Draco, who, by now, was filthy and ragged and really couldn’t care less about what Baker was planning to do.

Baker asks him if he’s changed his mind. Draco looks at him with disbelief, and when Baker makes no other move, Draco laughs and tells him to go fuck himself.

Baker comes by to ask the same thing every once in a while, and Draco can’t tell how often it even is. After all, there is no time. Yet every time, Draco spits out variations of the same thing: no.

The guards continue to poke and prod at him, and Draco cries and the Dementors suck his life away, and Harry and his mother comfort and scream. He dozes in between as much as possible, simply to escape it all, and even then, the cold seeps in and freezes his mind.

Draco thinks he’s been in this cruel place for at least a month now. His mother’s with him this time, and he’s glad for it. Nice Harry’s been appearing less and less, to be replaced with the more realistic one, and Draco doesn’t like him anymore. When the nice one does appear, Draco takes full advantage, crowding into his space and crying as Harry soothes him.

But his mother’s here right now and she’s petting his hair and combing through it. She’s whispering those sweet nothings again. Reassurance that no, Draco, I don’t hate you. Will always love you.

“Even if I’m gay and been raped and don’t have a proper job and have hurt people?”

“You haven’t hurt anyone Draco. Now hush. Sleep. I will always love you.”

Draco turns his face away back into the ground. He’ll take what he gets. He knows this isn’t real. He knows it’s better than nothing. And yet even his imaginary mother won’t address his being gay and raped. He supposes it’s because the knowledge of his real mother is still leaking into his wishful imagination. If anything, why can’t this be perfect? It’s not.

* * *

Draco’s dozing again when there’s shouting and clanging coming from down the hall. He rouses himself, and for once, his interest is piqued. He presses his face to the bars on his cell and strains to see the commotion. Clearly, the few other prisoners have the same idea, because he glimpses others also watching.

The shouting gets louder, and as he starts to see guards running down the hall, the words become clear.

“There’s been a leak! We need to leave now!”

“Now? What happened?”

“Yes now! Someone tipped the aurors off, we need to go! Tell the Dementors to follow!”

“What about the prisoners?”

A pause.

“Give them the kiss.”

Draco stumbles back. Shit. Shit shit shit. He’s lived this long, struggled this long, bore through the pain and the humiliation and the risks and he’s going to die after all. No, that’s not quite right. He won’t die. Dying is for souls. He’ll have his soul sucked out and eaten. He’ll probably just… disappear.

Draco gives a hoarse laugh. Seems like fate has granted his wish after all. But going this way… no. No, he can’t. He can’t .

There’s the clanging of the door and Draco whips around to see the Dementor coming towards him. No. No no no nononono.

“Go away!” he screams. “Go away! Please, please I’ll do anything. Just go away!”

The Dementor glides forward and reaches out a hand towards him. Draco backs into a corner and he’s shaking so hard he collapses to his knees. Tears are sliding down his face and he shuts his eyes.

“Draco, Draco, it’s okay.” It’s Harry. Nice Harry?

Draco opens his eyes and sees Harry next to him, smiling. “It’s going to be okay.”

It’s going to be okay? Nice Harry thinks it’s going to be okay for Draco to die? But no, this Harry is smiling and glaring and Draco doesn’t know which Harry it is anymore. Maybe both want him to die.

He’s scared. He’s so scared. If he’s going to die, he always wanted someone with him at least. He doesn’t want to be alone. He doesn’t want to go anywhere alone. He doesn’t want to die. He doesn’t want to die .

The Dementor’s holding him up by the chin now and the terrible head is coming for him, that gaping mouth sucking at the air and Draco feels his own mouth open, unbidden.

There’s a flash of white and then there’s nothing.

He doesn’t want to die .

Chapter Text

Harry returns to work Monday morning sleep deprived and jittery. He’s had about four cups of coffee already and he desperately wants to know what happened to Malfoy. But when he steps into the Auror department, everything’s operating smooth as can be and there’s no indication of the chaos Hermione had described. He tries asking around in the breakroom, but everyone he talks to seem to be either confused or just give him funny looks. So he stops and goes back to his work, keeping his ears peeled anyway for even the slightest mention of Malfoy.

He hears nothing all morning and into the early afternoon, so he takes Victor along on some minor cases to a local park, then someone’s house, and then a muggle museum where a niffler had gone loose. But he’s distracted the entire time, so he lets Victor take the lead. Excuses aside, he tells himself it’s good experience for the lad.

He’s just talking Victor through the reports back at the office when Robards and a small group of Aurors and Unspeakables walk by. He ignores them at first, but then one of them whispers “Malfoy” and suddenly, Harry’s all ears. Grabbing Victor’s shoulder, he ignores the startled look and whispers urgently.

“I just remembered something urgent I need to speak with Robards about. If I’m not back soon just turn in the report.”

Then with the slightest bit of guilt, Harry rushes after the group, leaving Victor to deal with the write-up. He’ll have to buy the boy a drink some time. 

He catches up with Robards just as the group is heading into his office, and he clings to the closing door panting. “Is this about Malfoy?” he demands.

The group turns to stare at him. Robards eyes him for a moment, then walks forward. “It’s not—”

“I heard them talking about Malfoy earlier when you guys were passing by!” He gestures at the assembled Aurors and Unspeakables. “Don’t lie to me. I want to know what’s going on. I asked around earlier and literally everyone looked at me like I was crazy!”

Robards groans and drags his hands slowly down his face. “Ugh, what am I going to do with you? Why did you ask people? This is a top-secret case!”

“It is? Nobody told me that.”

Robards groans again. “Ah, I guess I didn’t tell you. That’s on me.”

Then looking at Harry again, he seems to come to a decision. In one swift movement, he yanks Harry inside and quickly closes the door, putting a silencing charm around his office. “Okay, now sit.”

Everyone gathers around Robards enlarged table, and Harry takes a look around, noting the four Aurors and the three Unspeakables present. He doesn’t recognize any of the aurors, and why there are Unspeakables, he has no clue. He’s never seen them take part in a case before, and to say that they are now can't mean anything good.

He turns to look back at Robards, and notices rather belatedly that everyone’s staring at him, waiting for him to speak. So he speaks.

“So um, I want to know what’s going on.” He phrases it like a question. When no one says anything, he continues cautiously. “Why is this a top-secret case, and what happened to Malfoy? Ron and Hermione told me he’s being isolated at St. Mungos?”

There’s silence for a second, then Robards starts. “First, I’m warning you that if we are to answer your questions, we will have you swear an oath to secrecy. You will not be allowed to disclose this information to anyone outside of this room at any time until further notice. Not even Hermione. Is that clear?”

Harry nods.

“Good.” Then Robards addresses the group as a whole. “We’ll catch Harry up to speed real quick, then continue with the meeting as planned. Any objections?”

When no one answers, Robards turns back to Harry. “As you know, Mr. Malfoy was abducted about a week ago in Grasmere. Luna Lovegood reported him missing when she did not find him upon her return from Brazil. We intended to keep the entire thing quiet for now due to… public misconceptions. However, Rita Skeeter found out anyways, hence that article.” Everyone grimaces. Nobody at the Ministry was a fan of Skeeter. It was a miracle she was still employed even with all the complaints.

“Anyways, we have kept the investigation for his missing person secret. However, in the proceeding of this case, we were given a tip regarding a bigger issue.” Robards pauses for dramatic effect, and when Harry just gives him a blank stare, he deflates a little.

“It seems that the people who abducted Mr. Malfoy have also been planning to overthrow the Ministry. This meeting is to discuss this issue as well as any new findings.”

Harry raises his eyebrows. Overthrow the Ministry?  Even during the peak of his teenage hero-saving antics, he wasn’t stupid enough to try to overthrow the Ministry. The Ministry is huge, and it was only after joining the aurors that he realized the extent of its reach. Heck, there are still branches of the government he hasn’t discovered yet. Besides, why would someone want to overthrow the Ministry? It wasn’t the perfect system, but there have been pushes for reform, led by none other than Hermione. And reform has never been a quick overnight thing.

One of the aurors clears his throat then and Harry looks up. “Nice to meet you Mr. Potter. I’m the head of the Aurora Department. Calling me Owen is fine.”

Harry whips his head back to Robards in disbelief. “The Aurora Department?”

“The more top secret subdivision of the Auror Department,” Owen says pleasantly. “Applicants must be referred.”

“Oh.”

The woman next to Owen speaks up. “Hello, I’m Gale. Junior Aurora.”

“Mike. Junior Aurora.”

“David. Senior Aurora.”

“Unspeakable number One, head of the Department of Mysteries.”

“Unspeakable number Eleven.”

“Unspeakable number Thirty-nine.”

Harry gapes. “What. Are you seriously—”

Robards interrupts him, waving a hand carelessly. “Don’t mind them. That’s just what they all go by if you want to find them within the Ministry. Not their real names. Including the Auroras.”

Harry turns wide eyes back to the other seven people. “Not our real appearances either, so rest assured,” Owen says with another calm smile.

Harry is not assured. But it’s not like he can do anything about it so he sighs and nods.

With everyone introduced, the meeting progresses. They go over the finer details of Malfoy’s case, including the chase and tip-off that led to his finding. It’s new but already summarized by Robards. Then they move on to the newer findings and Harry sits up straighter.

“The tip-off led us to what seemed to be an abandoned manor belonging to the Lestrange family on the outskirts of London.” Owen taps his finger on the map that’s now covering the table. “We believe it used to belong to Radolphus Lestrange. We’re not sure how the resistance came to occupy the building.”

“Radolphus? He’s the prick who tried to shut down our Department years ago. He has yet to be forgiven,” the head Unspeakable seeths. Eleven and Thirty-nine nod along solemnly.

“Noted. We’ll look into any connections.”

“Unfortunately, we were not able to locate their headquarters. It seems the manor was simply a prison of sorts.”

“A sick prison, that’s what it is,” Gale mutters darkly. “Know what we found?” she turns towards Harry.

Harry shakes his head.

“Dementors!” she all but yells, slamming her hands down on the table.

“Dementors? Didn’t the Ministry get rid of them?”

“You can’t actually get rid of Dementors,” Eleven says. The woman rubs her temples. “You can only isolate them away from people and hope they disappear by themselves eventually. We have some of them kept in our department.”

“And we didn’t actually find any Dementors ourselves,” Mike cuts in. “We only found all the prisoners soul-less.”

“Dementors must’ve kissed the lot of them,” adds David.

“We’ll have to open another case for the Dementors then. But keep it connected since it’s with the resistance.”

“I’ll send word to Group C about that later.”

“We’ll also send some Unspeakables since the Dementors are currently under our jurisdiction.”

“That’s fine. Now regarding our last main issue here—”

“Malfoy?”

“Yes, Mr. Potter. Mr. Malfoy.”

“We say we found them all soul-less, but really, we found everyone soul-less except Malfoy.” Gale practically bounces in her seat with anticipation.

“He didn’t get the kiss?”

“We don’t know, that’s the thing,” Robards finally speaks.

“We suspect he was going to be kissed or may have been kissed,” Thirty-nine says. “And then in a last-ditch effort, he tried to produce a wandless patronus.”

“Wandless? ”

“Yes, wandless.”

“We all know it’s a difficult spell in and of itself. And wandless, well, needless to say it didn’t come out right.”

“This is the main reason, we’re here,” the head Unspeakable says. “Mr. Malfoy seems to have ejected his soul in the form of his patronus.”

* * *

After that shocking revelation, Harry had jumped more readily into the discussion, determined to find a way to see for himself just how Malfoy’s doing. He’d argued, and in the end, Robards and the Auroras granted him temporary but limited access to the Aurora Department, given he already knew the case. However, he is to strictly follow orders and barred from actual field work. The only thing really worth noting is his newfound permission to visit Malfoy with the purpose of extracting information.

“Listen Potter. While Mr. Malfoy is under isolation at St. Mungo’s, you will see him with the sole purpose of work, and work only.”

“Yes, Robards,” Harry sighs. 

“I’m serious here, okay? I don’t care what you do once Malfoy’s… cured and out of the hospital, but while he’s in there, you are not to do anything rash or uncalled for. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Oh relax,” Owen says with a hand on Robards’ shoulder. “I’m sure Harry here will be fine. Just do the best you can. That’s all we ask for. Any little bit of information may help.”

“God knows how many times I’ve already tried to ask him something only for him to just disappear,” Mike pouts miserably.

“Me too, me too,” Thirty-nine says. Harry watches them share the moment of solidarity. But their words are intriguing, and now Harry knows that Malfoy can disappear. It’s unexpectedly more patronus-y than he had thought, and suddenly, the task in front of him seems that much harder. Especially when he doubts Malfoy has the best impression of him.

“We also ask you to send Thirty-nine a message if you discover anything with souls,” One declares. “I will also send him personally on occaision to check on Mr. Malfoy’s condition. Know that Malfoy’s healers are aware of our investigation.”

“Noted,” Harry says.

“In that case, I believe this wraps up our meeting. Anything anyone would like to add?”

“We’re calm.”

“Calm.”

“Dismissed.”

* * *

Thirty-nine accompanies Harry to St. Mungo’s the next morning. Having been temporarily admitted into the Aurora department, Robards had also temporarily dismissed him from the Aurors. But he’d worried over Victor, and at least he’d managed to convince Robards to watch over Victor in his absence. So it’s without any lasting guilt that he follows Thirty-nine through hallway after hallway into a part of the hospital he’s never seen before.

At every turn and reception, Thirty-nine flashes his Unspeakable badge, and Harry follows suit with his Aurora one. They make small talk as they walk: how old Thirty-nine was when he joined the Unspeakables, Hogwarts, Auror work. But not once does Thirty-nine elaborate on what the Unspeakables do, and Harry knows not to press. It’s enough that he’s been allowed to join the case.

Thirty-nine eventually stops in front of a door somewhere deep within the compound. Harry’s pretty lost by now, and he figures he should have mapped out where they walked. The hallway they’re currently standing in is pristine and all-white, and it’s the brightest and cleanest place Harry has seen, ever. A window at the end of the hallway lets in light that only makes the place brighter, and the quiet is a sharp contrast to the bustle and noise of the rest of the building. This must be what heaven is like, Harry thinks absentmindedly.

Then Thirty-nine is pushing the door open, and a bright room not unlike the theme of the hallway spreads out before them. It’s not a large room, but it’s white and clean and simple, and there’s an open window letting in a cool breeze. Plants dot the area, and for a moment, Harry forgets where he is, his purpose. He closes his eyes tiredly, and just for a moment, Harry’s somewhere new, at the edge of the world, looking down at the sky.

Thirty-nine shakes him lightly out of his mind. “Yeah, I know. It’s kind of hypnotic in this wing of the hospital. Makes you want to stay.”

Harry nods dumbly. Yeah that’s it. He just wants to stay.

But then Thirty-nine is walking forward to the hospital bed occupying most of the room, and Harry recalls what they’re here for.

“Mr. Malfoy,” Thirty-nine starts. “If it’s okay with you, we’d like to talk?”

Well that was a rather blunt way to get straight to the point. Harry walks forward to sit down in the chair next to Thirty-nine, and as soon as he settles, he can’t move.

Malfoy’s lying in the bed, still and breathing, and unrecognizable if not for that shock of blond hair. When the head Unspeakable had diagnosed Malfoy with an ejected soul, that was all Harry had expected: an ejected soul. So he’s not at all prepared when he looks at Malfoy, bruised and battered with bandages wrapped around him so he’s almost like a mummy. He’s gotten skinnier as well, and Harry feels the sudden urge to reach out and run his hands over Malfoy’s hands and arms. There are heavy eyebags under Malfoy’s eyes, and suddenly Harry realizes that this here lies a fragile man; a fragile boy.

Harry continues to stare, and there’s turmoil in his chest and he’s trying to decide if it’s guilt or pity or something else. Malfoy looks dead. Harry doesn’t understand how he isn’t dead all messed up like this. Yet the white-blond hair waves gently in the breeze, and wrapped up in bandages and blankets like this, Harry thinks Malfoy rather fits. He fits in this place that’s like Heaven on Earth.

Thirty-nine speaks again, and Harry’s finally roused from his trance. “Mr. Malfoy? Are you there?” There’s a slight panic to his voice now, and Harry’s brain restarts.

He looks back at Malfoy again, but this time with the intent of work. He scans the body, and he’s confused because what does an ejected soul look like? He was told it was a patronus? There are no patronuses.

Then just as Harry’s starting to think he’ll go mad, a silver mist floats out of Malfoy’s chest. It swirls around before slowly condensing into a fox. A red fox? An arctic fox? Harry doesn’t know the particulars, but it’s a rather small fox and really fluffy-looking, and if he hadn't known it was Malfoy, he would be tempted to grab it and cuddle with it.

As it is though, the fox is Malfoy, so Harry sits on his hands and watches the fox settle on Malfoy’s chest and let out a yawn. When it finally spies Thirty-nine, the fox looks away resolutely. But to look away is to look at Harry, and as soon as the fox does, it yelps silently and disappears in a whiff of mist.

Thirty-nine sighs. “He’s been disappearing as soon as he sees any of us, so we can’t even have a proper conversation with him. We don’t even know if he understands us. And disappearing like that all the time is a problem for us, because we don’t have a way to tell if his soul is still there. For all we know, his soul could just disappear one day and we wouldn’t even know.”

Harry sees how that could be a problem. Obviously, not much is known about an ejected soul, and Malfoy’s the first.

“Well,” Thirty-nine stands and stretches. “I need to get back to the Ministry. You can stay for as long as the healers allow. If you find anything, shoot me a message.”

They give each other a quick wave, and Thirty-nine darts out the door. Harry turns back slowly, listening to the quiet breathing and watching the rise and fall of Malfoy’s chest. With the fox gone, Malfoy looks as if he could just be sleeping. Harry entertains that for a while. Malfoy looks peaceful sleeping; if not tired. But he looks younger and older at the same time, and it’s like he’s timeless. Time freezes around them, and Harry can only sit.

Then there’s a quiet knock at the door and a healer comes bustling in. She gives Harry a nod and proceeds to weave a complicated set of spells around Malfoy’s bed. And Harry remembers. Malfoy’s in a coma. Practically dead. No memories, no feelings, no control. The only thing that’s still Malfoy is the small fox, and even that is something shaky and not at all grounding.

Harry realizes this, and suddenly he gets the feeling that something important is flying out of his reach. A floaty and itchy feeling wells up in his chest, and Harry knows he’s getting anxious. He fights to keeps his hands and feet from jittering, but there’s something wrong and it’s not right and he doesn’t know exactly what it is and how to fix it. He’s starting to flex his fingers when there’s a gentle hand on his shoulder.

The healer smiles at him and passes him a calming draught. Harry downs it, and slowly relaxes as the potion works its magic. He watches the healer go back to her work, waving more spells into place and getting Malfoy to drink an assortment of potions.

“He’ll be ok,” the healers says suddenly, and Harry starts. “His body will be fine, and we’re just trying to find a way to get his soul back in. That’s it.”

She makes it sound so simple, and for Harry, that’s enough for now. One step at a time. It’s simple.

“And don’t worry about…” the healer waves a vague hand at Malfoy’s left arm. “The healers in this wing care more about research and their patients than reputation.” It’s said with an unfortunate yet factual tone, and Harry nods.

It’s not ideal that the healers care more about research, but it’s better than nothing. Better than the rest of the hospital where Harry’s seen first-hand how some patients are turned away or ignored because of some silly misconceptions.

The healer finishes up, and she tells Harry he’s allowed to stay between 8 AM and 8 PM before leaving.

As soon as the door quietly clicks shut, there’s mist shooting out of Malfoy’s chest again and there’s a silvery fox peeking at Harry from behind Malfoy’s body. It’s still and unmoving except for the occasional ear or tail flick, and Harry stares unmoving back. Eventually he tries to reach out a hand towards it, but immediately, the fox flinches back and growls silently.

Harry retracts his hand. “Malfoy?” he tries.

The fox stills. Then it gives a silent whimper and disappears.

Harry’s honestly a little hurt by the whole thing. He knows he probably shouldn’t be taking this personally, but he’s really trying right now, and it’s a bit frustrating when that sentiment isn’t being shared.

“Dammit, Malfoy.” He thumps his head down on the bed besides Malfoy’s hand. “I’m here for work you know. They’re trying to get your soul back into your body so you can wake up.”

Nothing. If anything, Harry hopes Malfoy’s somewhere, somewhere in the room listening. 

“I… promise not to yell.”

“I’m not mad this time, I swear.”

“And… I’m sorry for yelling last time.”

He turns his head to the side, still on the bed. Silver eyes stare back.

He sits up abruptly. “Malfoy—”

Nothing.

Harry stuffs his face back into the blankets. He feels like crying. It’s frustrating. Communicating has never been this hard. But then again, Harry has never had to try very hard. People have always come to him. But for once, he’s trying to reach out to someone and he’s faced with rejection after rejection. He can’t understand. It’s hard. It’s frustrating.

When lunch rolls around, Harry leaves for the small cafeteria on the ground floor of the building. He eats his food carelessly, not noticing what he’s putting into his mouth, and when he’s done, he steps outside for some air. He’s frustrated. He’s frustrated and sad and glad and angry, and he can’t go back quite yet because he knows it’ll show. And it can’t show because Malfoy’s a delicate creature now and Harry refuses to yell and say things he knows he’ll regret later. So he stays outside.

He goes back an hour and a coffee trip later, and he sits with the cooling beverage in his hand, staring off at the wall, out the window, at Malfoy. He talks occasionally. About anything and everything, and all of it is mindless chatter to fill the silence and maybe to get Malfoy to show up.

Malfoy appears a few times throughout the afternoon; usually after something Harry’s said, so he figures Malfoy can understand what he’s saying. He’s glad for it. But regardless of what Harry says before, as soon as he acknowledges the fox with a “Malfoy,” it disappears with a silent whimper or growl.

It’s late in the afternoon when Harry finally decides he should probably just leave and give Malfoy some space and come back tomorrow. He’s propping his head up on his arms on the bed, trying to convince himself to leave this heaven-like room. The window’s letting in yellowing rays of light now, and the room is bathed in a golden hue. From silver to gold, Harry thinks, watching Malfoy’s hair flutter around. Fascinating.

Finally, Harry stands and stretches. “You’re probably sick of me now, Malfoy, so I’ll get out of your hair and go home for today.”

The window curtain flutters.

“I honestly don’t know what you think of me. Are you mad at me still? If so, I’m sorry for last time.”

Malfoy sleeps on.

Harry sighs. “You know what, let’s start over. You’ve changed, and I’d like to think I’ve changed, so we’re strangers now.”

He sticks out a hand towards Malfoy, even though he knows there will be no hand-shaking today. “Hello, I’m Harry. Harry Potter. And you are?”

Leaves rustle, the wind blows, and still the sun sets.

Harry starts to lower his hand.

Then he sees the flash of silver from his peripheral, and the fox is there, sitting on the bed staring up at him. Harry holds his breath. But still, the fox sits and stares, and when it finally lets out a silent huff, Harry gets it.

“I’m—” Harry starts. Then he pauses. The fox is staring expectantly.

“I’m Draco,” Harry continues. “Draco Malfoy.”

The fox rises, and with all the grace in the world, it lowers its head in a bow.

And Harry remembers the Hippogriffs. How they stared and bowed when they acknowledged someone. He remembers Dumbledore, and his insistence on proper names. Harry remembers, and he understands.

“Nice to meet you, Draco.”

The fox nods and flicks its tail, and though it makes no sound, Harry knows: “Likewise. ”

Chapter Text

Harry doesn’t realize how strange it is to call someone by their last name on a normal basis until he’s trying not to. He’s never called Hermione or Ron by their last names. Nor Luna and Ginny and Dean and Thomas and Neville and literally every other person he knows. Except Robards. And the Hogwarts professors. But those don’t count.

Point is, Harry really doesn’t know how or why he started calling Malfoy—and all the other Slytherins for that matter—by their last names. Just imagining his eleven-year-old self, strutting around yelling last names like they had weight has him cringing. Maybe Malfoy—no, Draco now—wasn’t the only prat in school. Harry groans and ducks to hide his face in his hands. He’s getting secondhand embarrassment for himself now. How laughable.

He’s still having his existential crisis when he feels something cool and misty brush his arm. He looks up, just in time to catch the fox flick away from him towards the other side of the bed. Mal— Draco, tilts his head at him.

“It’s okay, I’m just… having a crisis.”

When Harry doesn’t elaborate, the fox sniffs delicately and settles down, attempting to dig into the bed sheets that aren’t actually moving.

The morning’s still young, and since Harry had arrived at St. Mungo’s promptly at 8, there’s time. So much time. But he doesn’t know where to start with Malfoy, so he’s been sitting here doing nothing for the past hour, and he can tell that Malfoy’s starting to get bored. He rolls around on the bed, whines silently out the window at the birds and trees, and occasionally prances through the air around the room, giving Harry a wide berth.

At least he’s not actively avoiding Harry now. He’d entered the room that morning determined to set things right. He’d greeted the fox that’d materialized in front of him with a smile and a “Draco,” and that’d been that. But now he doesn’t know what to do. He can talk to Malfoy, sure, and Malfoy will understand, but any conversation certainly won’t go both ways. If Harry’s gleaned nothing else, he knows  that Malfoy’s as silent as the mist that makes up his patronus.

So he sits and frowns as Malfoy does whatever he’s doing and tries to think of a way to make this work. Eventually, he produces a paper and a pen and scribbles the alphabet, making sure there’s sufficient spacing between each letter. Malfoy’s sitting calmly again, watching Harry with interest. When he finishes, he shoves the paper in the fox’s direction, the latter flinching back at the sudden movement.

“Mal—Draco.” The fox pauses just for a second, then cautiously looks at Harry. Harry lets out a breath. “I figured we could talk this way. You can point to the letters and I can read it out?”

Malfoy considers him for a moment, then settles on his stomach in front of the paper.

“Wait wait, let me get another piece of paper.” Harry quickly conjures another one, and when he’s properly set with his pen in hand, Malfoy carefully starts nosing at the paper.

“H-E-L-L-O,” Harry mumbles as he writes. “Hello!” He grins at the fox.

Malfoy continues nosing at the paper.

“G-O-O-D-M-O-R-N-I-N-G.”

Harry pauses and stares at his paper. He grimaces. That’s not quite right. He snatches the alphabet paper back from Malfoy, startling him, and quickly scrawls a “space” underneath the letters. Then as an afterthought, he adds some punctuation on the side. He hands the paper back.

Malfoy looks at him in what Harry thinks is annoyance for a second before glancing down at the paper. He lets out a huff. Then painstakingly, he goes back to nosing out letters, glancing at Harry’s paper every now and then to make sure he’s getting the words right.

how is luna?

Harry raises his eyebrows. Right. He’d almost forgotten that Malfoy’s friends with Luna.

“Luna’s fine. She’s still making those terrible cookies. She tested them out on me when you were gone,” he pouts.

Malfoy tries to laugh. Probably.

her plants? dead?

Her plants? Harry’s lost for a moment. Why do her plants matter? Then he remembers his last proper conversation with Malfoy. He’d mentioned something about house and plant-sitting.

“Um, I’m not quite sure actually.” Malfoy lowers his head in dejection. “I-I’m sure they’re fine,” Harry says quickly. “I can ask her later for you if you’d like.”

Malfoy’s tail wags a bit and Harry takes that as a yes.

There’s a knock at the door, and startled, Harry turns around. The same healer from yesterday bustles in with her array of potions, and Harry stands to move away. As he does, the healer gasps. He follows her line of sight to Malfoy, who’s frozen in his spot at the foot of the bed with the piece of paper. Harry quickly snatches the paper away in case the healer takes it.

But there’s no need for such worries. “Mr. Malfoy!” she gasps. “It’s nice to see you’re well!” Then she corrects herself. “Well, soul-wise anyways.”

Malfoy unfreezes and gives a jerky nod in acknowledgement. Then with a small swirl of mist, he disappears. Harry sighs. He feels like he’ll be sighing a lot. But hopefully Malfoy returns later. They were finally starting to get along so well.

The healer seems to share the same sentiment. She exchanges a disappointed look with Harry before going about her usual routine of spells and potions. Harry watches for a bit, but then she tells him that it might take a while and perhaps he could go grab a quick lunch while he waits?

So Harry takes the hint and hurries down to the cafeteria. There’s quite a line, and no matter how hard he tries to will it to move faster, it doesn’t. In the end, he grabs a random sandwich off the shelf, pays, and dashes back up to the peace of Malfoy’s room.

A quick survey tells him that the healer’s left, but the fox is still nowhere to be seen.

“Ma—Draco?” Harry carefully shuts the door behind him and walks tentatively in. “Draco?”

There’s no answer, and with each beat of silence, Harry grows more agitated. “Draco?”

He walks around the bed, staring over every inch of the still body lying in it as if he can will the fox out. He looks under the bed then, under the chairs, behind the plants, out the window, and still, there is no fox.

He walks back to his chair shakily, casts a cushioning charm on it, and flops down with as much force as he can. Leaning his head back over the top of the chair, he lets out a loud, guttural groan. After a beat, he looks back at the bed. No fox.

Harry stares at the ceiling. He stares long and hard, and lets his eyes roam over the tiny grooves and bumps until they all blend together into one big mess. Dust motes and light dance across his vision, and his frustration and anxiety drifts. He closes his eyes, sandwich having long since slid out of his hand and now lay forgotten on the floor.

When he opens his eyes again, the room is bathed in golds and greys and a darkening purple. He sits up slowly, groaning and trying to shrug the stiffness out of his neck and shoulders. Malfoy’s body still looks the same, suffering and painful but less pale than before. Or maybe that’s just the lighting. And he looks soft. So soft.

Filled with an inexplicable urge to just pet Malfoy’s hair, Harry quickly puts his hands under his thighs. He’s a bit horrified at the thought, but more than that, the idea of it sparks something in Harry’s chest that’s awfully similar to butterflies. It’s strange, and it’s new, and while it’s not a totally unwelcome feeling, Harry ignores it. His fingers tingle.

He thinks back instead. Back to their last actual conversation. Back to when Malfoy was still conscious and in full capacity of his body and didn’t run away, even in the face of Harry’s animosity. But now, Malfoy simply flits away as he pleases and it annoys Harry to no end. Yet perhaps, Malfoy lost a bit more that week than just his body.

He looks at Malfoy’s hands. Then he glances down at his, still tucked under his thighs. They’re getting numb. And before he can think more of it, he slides his hands out and tangles them with the limp hand lying closest to him. He picks at Malfoy’s fingers, marveling at the slender digits which are that much more elegant than his own callused hands. Perfect for that flowy handwriting, he thinks.

He’s still playing with Malfoy’s hand distractingly when he glances out the window to gauge the time. The sun’s almost set now, and the sky’s a brilliant splash of pinks and purples that fades into a darker blue. And just as he’s about to look away, he sees the gentle pulse of mist on the windowsill.

He stills, and as he waits, the mist slowly solidifies into the small fox. He’s facing away from Harry, looking out the window at the same sunset, at the same sky. And even as a breeze blows through the room, Malfoy’s mist sways and flows, blurring the image. He fades in and out of sight, and suddenly, Harry wonders how long Malfoy’s sat there, even if Harry couldn’t see him.

But then a more horrifying thought strikes him, and he gasps. Malfoy’s never been fading like this before. And if fading now means that Malfoy will just disappear for good one day—no, he can’t think about that. What’ll happen to his dream? To their dream?

He doesn’t think past that though, because his gasp draws Malfoy’s attention, and the fox turns to look at him. He solidifies fully this time, and then the fox is staring down at Harry’s hands. At his own hands. At their still-clasped hands, and Harry hastily pulls away.

He looks sheepishly at anything besides the fox and Malfoy’s body, and when he finally gets over his embarrassment, the fox is still staring at where their hands had been.

“Draco?” he cautiously ventures.

Malfoy doesn’t move.

“Draco?”

Malfoy snaps his head up, and when he sees Harry, he startles hard. He would have fallen from the window had it not been for the fact that he’s made of mist and physically can’t fall. Harry watches him flail and finally right himself. Malfoy blinks then, and he slowly floats over to settle on top of his own body, slowly rising up and down from the breathing.

Harry puts the alphabet paper back in front of the fox.

hello

“Hello,” Harry replies.

* * *

Harry soon realizes that it’s more normal for Malfoy to be zoning out than being consciously aware. He comes back to the room every day, and more often than not, he comes across the fox staring out the window or at a wall or simply floating mindlessly in the air. And when Malfoy’s zoning out, he fades in and out of view like a spectre haunting the edges of Harry’s mind.

It drives him a little crazy, that Malfoy’s like this. That anything can be like this for that matter. It’s not a solid thing, and Harry’s never handled uncertainties well. And right now, Malfoy’s an uncertainty.

But it’s just another day that Harry’s spending at St. Mungo’s now, and when Malfoy finally rouses himself to awareness and spots Harry, he floats over to spell out his customary greetings. Harry’s learned not to take his disappearances personally now, so when Malfoy disappears after lunch, Harry takes it in stride and just eats his sandwich.

He wonders what Malfoy thinks about, stuck in his patronus like this. He wonders what Malfoy thinks about in those long periods of silence and when he disappears, and it’s such a lonely thought that Harry has to leave for somewhere more crowded to take his mind off the matter.

When Malfoy is aware though, Harry talks. He talks and talks and fills him in on the news and the weather in Grasmere and the state of Luna’s plants. Malfoy listens attentively enough, and although he doesn’t contribute much to the conversation, he’ll occasionally jab out a question or two on the paper, and nod when answered. Otherwise, he seems content to just let Harry rant.

It’s times like these that fills Harry with a sense of nostalgia. He’s nostalgic for something he’s never had, and since he’s never had it, he also doesn’t know what it is. But it’s nostalgia all the same, and it’s nice, and it’s sad. 

He’s talking to Malfoy again one day, and Malfoy’s lying on the bed, chin resting on his body’s chest. He looks as if he’s about to drift off the sleep, but Harry doesn’t mind. Company is company, and Malfoy listening is more than he’d ever hoped for. And suddenly, Malfoy’s form dissolves into a larger cloud of mist and Harry stops to stare, nervous and apprehensive.

The cloud shifts for a bit into something vaguely more solid before finally compressing back into the familiar fox. Malfoy’s still in the same position, eyes closing and calm, and it’s almost like nothing had happened at all. But Harry’s eyes don’t lie, and he’s not about to question his sanity. So he pockets the memory somewhere in his mind and decides to visit it later.

It happens a few more times over the next few days, and with each occasion, the cloud shifts more and more into something less vague yet not concrete at all. But it’s the fox that always returns at the end of the day, and with it, the relief and peace.

Harry almost forgets to write his reports until Thirty-nine firecalls him one evening at Grimmauld a week later. Apologies spilling from his mouth, he updates the man, describing the fading, the bursts of mist, and Malfoy’s relative silence. Malfoy hasn’t said anything pertaining to the case, and Harry’s not about to push it. He tells Thirty-nine as much, and the latter nods, agreeing. But he reminds Harry anyways, that while the data the Unspeakables seek is not as urgent, it’s a different case with the resistance.

The next few days, Harry pushes just a bit more. He inserts some noninvasive questions into his conversations, and while Malfoy answers in short phrases, he doesn’t speak more. At first, Harry’s a bit exasperated. But then he can’t care less, because talking like this is fun and he forgets that the point of visiting Draco is to interrogate him in the end. So he goes home every night with a well of Draco’s likes and hobbies and nothing of his ordeal at all.

Asking Draco questions does seem to have at least opened him up a bit more. He starts disappearing and fading less, and fires back a few questions of his own. Harry’s rants finally turn into proper conversations, and though it’s rather slow-paced with Malfoy’s letter-pointing, Harry waits patiently and answers back as fully as he can. They jump from potions to auror work to muggle literature, and it’s with a hidden delight that Harry realizes it’s the first time in a long while that he’s had a conversation without feeling frustrated or annoyed. Rather, Draco provides the curiosity he himself is lacking, and through mutual interests, they fill each other in with words and music and things that nurture the mind and comfort the soul.

But Harry can’t help noticing that while the fading and disappearing has lessened, the spontaneous bursts into a giant cloud of mist has not. In fact, it seems to be happening more frequently, going from once every other day to one or more times a day. He worries. He worries and Draco catches his worry, and then it’s a chain of “are you okay” s and “I’m fine.” Because he can’t tell Draco when Draco himself doesn’t seem to be aware of what’s happening. So he worries and wallows alone.

* * *

how is my house? Draco asks one day.

Harry pauses in his discourse on Europe’s current Quidditch league to re-read what he’d just written on his own sheet of paper. Malfoy’s house? Oh shit, right. His house. His house. The house that he’d fixed and had Luna criticize his actions on even though he still doesn’t know what’s wrong. His HOUSE.

“Oh um,” he starts, and when Draco only gives him that ever patient look, he caves and decides to be truthful. “Well uh, Luna gave me your keys...”

He glances at Draco, and the fox tilts his head but otherwise makes no other movement.

“And I sort of found your notebook? And I flipped through it—I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have, I get that it’s an invasion of privacy—and I sort of took the liberty to help you fix your roof because it was a hole and it started raining and I couldn’t let your house just flood and—”

He pauses when he realizes he’s rambling, and sneaks another look at Draco. He stills, and though he’s not sure where he’s gone wrong, regret floods him anyway.

Draco’s tense and even more frozen than Harry, and for once, the mist around him is still and rigid and solid , outlining every strand of fur and whisker that now stands on end. Harry backtracks.

“I—I’m sorry,” he says quickly. “Hermione told me I had to get your permission and everything but you were gone and it was raining and—and I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I won’t do it again. I’m sorry if I was rude or anything, was I rude? I’m—”

no shit, Draco jabs out, and Harry only barely follows the movements with how furiously quick Draco’s pointing out the letters.

rude my ass invasion of privacy—

And Harry can’t follow along anymore after that, and he struggles to keep himself from simply trying to grab Draco and shake him and tell him to slow down.

But Draco isn’t slowing down and only seems to be getting more furious with every passing second, and Harry finally reaches out and shreds the paper. He tears it into halves and more halves, and because his fingers are still jittery, he crumples the pieces together and chucks the ball out the window as hard as he can.

Then he grabs his own paper and does the same, only, taking his time with this one because there’s nothing else in the room he can destroy. So he tears it ever so slowly, focusing on the ripping sounds, and when enough time has passed for him to stop shaking at least, he walks to the window and watches the pieces fall from his fingers.

For a while, he stands. He catches his breath and organizes his thoughts, and when he thinks he’s ready for a civilized conversation, he turns around.

Draco’s frozen. He’s been frozen the moment Harry snatched the alphabet paper, and he sits, in the same spot, in the same position. But he’s watching Harry, and when Harry looks at him, the fox is staring at him with enlarged eyes and a stillness that rivals statues.

And he disappears.

* * *

Harry fucked up. He fucked up big time, and it’s one of those times where Harry knows that he’s in the wrong. But as for what he did wrong, well, Luna won’t tell him and Hermione won’t tell him, so he’s left to figure it out for himself.

He’s aware of part of the problem though. He doubts his sudden outburst and shredding of paper would be fine with anyone, much less Draco, someone he’s still technically on shaky terms with and was just starting to build a budding friendship with. But he’d tried in that regard at least. He hadn’t run away, hadn’t destroyed anything important except this thing with Malfoy, and he hadn’t said anything else that would be cause for further regret. But it wasn’t enough. It’s still not enough.

It would be easiest to simply talk it out with Draco, to sit down and have a proper heart-to-heart instead of the shallow topics they’ve covered so far. It’s simple and it makes sense, and Harry sees no reason to not try it. So he visits and calls out to Draco from morning to evening, and days turn into nights, and it’s just him and Draco’s healing body.

There’s regret, there’s pain, and there’s loneliness. Harry realizes that for the first time since Draco’s been back, he’s lonely. Meaning he hasn’t been lonely in the time between then and now. It’s such a little thing, and now that it’s gone, he misses it. It’s not the same, being with Draco’s comatose body and being with Draco’s soul. Draco’s soul is life and mind and magic all in one, and without it, his body’s just an empty shell of potential lost and gone.

He sits besides Draco’s body anyway. He watches dazedly as the wind teases blond hair and light flickers over pale skin. He tangles the tips of his fingers with Draco’s hand, and imagines that this is Draco . But it’s not the same. He bows his head and cries over their hands. 

He feels regret, and he wants to feel remorse; there’s pain, and there’s a wish. And he wishes to understand. Because to understand is to sympathize, and to sympathize is to feel remorse, and to feel remorse is to repent. He wants to repent.

Anything to have Draco back.

* * *

For four days, Harry doesn’t see Draco. For four days, he doesn’t see so much as a wisp or whiff of mist. He spends each day by Draco’s body, fingers clasped and staring off with red eyes that has Draco’s healers worrying for him. And every night, he goes back to fend off reports and “suggestions” from his fellow Auroras and Unspeakables and then to spend a sleepless night crying and thinking and thinking and thinking.

He sees his therapist the third evening, and he tells her that he’s never thought this much in his life. For once, he’s thinking more than he talks or acts, and she simply tells him that it’s a positive thing; he’s moving in the right direction. And he knows. He knows. He’s not stupid.

It’s just not enough. It’s not fast enough. He needs to be in control. He needs other people to take him seriously. For Draco to take him seriously. And he wants it now or else that floating feeling will return and Harry will really lose something and not just imagine it.

So he really thinks, and he imagines himself as Draco. He runs through their Hogwarts years. He looks at Hogwarts, their school, their home, and he sees himself put proudly in Slytherin, making friends, and making childish jabs at Harry, Hermione, and Ron. He sees the pranks, the hexes, the name-calling, and he does them all. 

Sixth year comes with a bite and a jab, and Harry recalls that Draco got his Dark Mark then, so he puts himself once again in front of Voldemort, only this time as a supporter, as a scared child. He imagines his parents, alive and well, and he imagines their life on his shoulders. He crushes his own nose under his foot, struggles to fix the vanishing cabinet, smuggles in the necklace and the mead. And then he sees Harry, himself, pointing that wand in Myrtle’s bathroom, and he imagines his chest being ripped apart and bleeding on the floor with only Snape to heal him.

He spends seventh year haunting the halls of Hogwarts, watching the fruits of his labor blossom and spread its poison. And he lies to save Harry, Hermione, and Ron, and he panics even as flames threaten to catch him in the very same room where it all started.

And when the war ends, he sees his parents, alive but reflections of their past. He fills in the gaps of his knowledge, pretends a number of scenarios. He imagines his parents dying. He imagines his parents going away. Away to anywhere but here. He imagines himself alone, doing potions in the middle of nowhere, and being friends with Luna in a place that he finally makes for himself.

He looks for a house, and he lets Luna lead him around her quaint little town and decide that this is a place he can call home. So he finds the perfect cottage and brews his potions and bakes with Luna, and makes his house his home. It’s not perfect and it’s hard and half the world may hate him, but here, where no one knows him except Luna, it doesn’t matter. It’s all precious to him, and that’s enough.

But nothing lasts, and just as he’s beginning to think that he’s safe, his home is blasted open and he’s cruelly burned again and left to die in a place at the edge of the world. But it’s okay. He lived. He’s alive and well, and as long as that’s that, he can fix it. He will fix it. He’ll put the pieces together as lovingly as the first time, and it will all be fine. He has Luna and he has his home. It’ll be okay.

So he painstakingly pulls notes and books and interviews and he compiles the perfect guide. And even as he stays with Luna, he watches his home put itself back together.

And Harry barges in. He watches himself, the short conversation at Luna’s, and then the fight. He watches himself shout about Death Eaters and helping, and it all seems very trivial and stupid now. Because he never had a choice. Draco never had a choice.

Then Harry goes and fixes the house he had wanted to watch be fixed. While he’s been abducted no less. And he’s frustrated and mad, because suddenly, this precious experience was just taken away from him and he can’t even do anything about it. He has no say, and there’s no control over the one thing he had control over before, and it’s infuriating. Unspoken boundaries had been crossed, disrespected. And Harry hadn’t even understood.

But... he gets it now. He does.

So on the fifth day, he sits in Draco’s room and apologizes. He bends his head over again and keeps his hands in his lap and he cries. He apologizes and apologizes until his voice is hoarse and scratchy and the tears have drenched his sleeves.

Draco isn’t there, or at least Harry doesn’t know if Draco is there or not, and while he’s not sure, he’ll keep apologizing until he’s heard. And in the meantime, he keeps his head bowed towards Draco’s body, not daring to hold those pliant fingers in his own. He apologizes for taking apart something precious. He apologizes for the intrusion. He apologizes for being selfish and tainting Draco’s home in the hopes of making his own. He’s sorry. He’s so sorry.

He sits and trembles in that chair, in that room, in this beautiful wing of the hospital that’s also somewhere new and strange. If Grasmere’s at the edge of the world, then this place is above it. Somewhere high above between that horizon and the sky.

And it’s timeless.

* * *

When the sun starts to set, Harry’s still there. He’s spent his tears dry, and he sits, exhausted, determined to catch Draco should he choose to appear. It’s so much more tiring searching for forgiveness than anger and frustration in the heat of a moment. It’s long; it’s long and hard there’s never a sure way forward. Anger has always been easier for Harry. It’s simple, it makes sense, and if he’s going to feel angry anyways he might as well direct it in ways he can use.

But anger is destructive, and Harry sees that now. And when he’s angry, he acts rashly—not that he doesn’t act rashly normally—and it’s led to this. The consequences don’t outweigh the satisfaction of the moment, and it’s not worth it. It’s not worth it.

He’s just sitting now, letting his voice rest and thinking that maybe he’s beyond forgiveness. Perhaps he’s gone too far this time and there’s really no turning back. It’s a terrifying thought. It’s like dying. There is no turning back. Except there had for him, and Harry struggles to hold on to the hope that maybe, just maybe, Draco will hear him out, take pity, and accept his apologies. 

But of course, life doesn’t bend to his will, and when eight rolls around and Draco has yet to appear, Harry forces himself to stand and take his leave. He spends the night not thinking. In some ways, he craves to go over the day, review his apologies and maybe come up with something neater and more refined. But he’s tired in more ways than one, and as soon as he lies down, he falls asleep.

He takes his time the next morning. It’s a Sunday, and while weekends have come to have no meaning for him—what with visiting Draco all day, every day—he gives himself this short reprieve. He certainly doesn’t deserve it, by all means. Yet he simply can’t bring himself to wake at the usual seven. So he drags himself out of bed at nine, brews himself a cup of coffee, and has Kreacher hand him a croissant. And by the time he gets to St. Mungo’s at ten, the hustle and bustle throws him for a loop.

He skirts along the edges of the rooms and hallways, but he’s sure that the people he passes all stare, because, well one, he is Harry Potter, but also because of his swollen eyes he hasn’t managed to get down to a normal level. A healer stops him on his way to Draco’s room and passes him a potion to help with the swelling, and thanking him, he downs it in one gulp.

It’s with trepidation that he enters Draco’s room that day. He’s not excited for another day of apologies and crying per se, but it’s something that must be done, and Harry really would like to fix this thing with Draco. But yesterday had done nothing, and the idea of starting over is crushing yet sobering.

He shuffles to his chair, and glancing at Draco’s face on the pillow, he bows his head silently. He doesn’t know how long he sits, zoning out, when he finally lifts his head to get rid of the cricks in his neck. And there, on the windowsill, is the small misty form of Draco’s fox.

Harry gasps, and practically falls out of his chair in his endeavor to get to Draco. He scrambles, and by the time he’s standing cautiously next to the window, there are tears welling up in his eyes.

“Draco,” he gasps. “Draco, Draco, Draco.” He sniffs and hides his eyes behind his sleeves.

“I’m s-so so-sorry. I-I was wrong to do tha-that, and I w-won’t do it again and I pro—”

A cold tingle passes through his arm, and he looks up to see Draco sitting back on his hind legs, a paw raised in the air as if to swipe at Harry. 

“Wh-what?”

Draco paws at the surface and makes a few jabbing motions with his snout.

“Oh. Th-The p-paper?”

A nod.

“R-right.”

And when Harry’s produced another alphabet paper, he sets it down gently on the windowsill, weighing it down with a pen.

Draco immediately sets to pointing out letters, and Harry follows.

stop. heard you yesterday

“You did?” Harry asks, pleasantly surprised. “I really meant it, I’m sorry, I don’t know how much you heard—”

Another cold tingle as Draco swipes at him.

it’s okay. i forgive you

“You—you do?”

yes

Then, idiot

Harry lets out a small laugh. He’s too spent for retorts now. Too tired. Too old.

“I’m still sorry though.”

then repent until you die

Another laugh. “I think I’ll do that.”

Draco looks up at him then and flicks his tail in something like a wag. And as Harry smiles sheepishly, there’s the burst of mist and vague swirls before the fox is back again like nothing happened.

But under that late morning sun, Harry swears he sees something like two speckled ears that are decidedly un-fox-like flicking on top of the cloud.

Chapter Text

Being with Draco again is comforting and new at the same time. Harry’s glad they’re on good terms. He’s glad they talk and share the same space and air and it’s still the same. But Draco talks more now, floats around Harry more, and is all-around more active when he’s not zoning out.

And while these are supposed to be reassurances to their renewed friendship, Harry can’t shake the guilt that’s been stalking him since his epiphany. He’s always been an angry, frustrated person. He’s quick to anger, slow to appease. When he forgives, he doesn’t forget. So when Draco forgives and forgets in the span of one day and one night, Harry doesn’t process it.

If Draco senses the turmoil rolling off of him, he certainly gives no indication. Instead, Harry only watches as Draco sprints and jumps through the air, observing the fox as if to strip the mist down to pure thoughts and rational. And if Draco starts taking the decreasingly rare moments where Harry’s silent and thinking to cautiously perch on his head or shoulders, well, Harry lets him.

For a while after the “forgive and forget,” their conversations return to the shallow and willful topics that previously graced their companionship. It’s not ideal, Harry decides. Where he once rejoiced at the little tidbits of information he received, he now feels the need for something more solid, more real. Bricks and wood may decorate the house, but he wants the concrete foundation Draco’s rooted himself with. He wants it— needs it, before the next hurricane or tornado comes along and tears it all back down with nowhere to start from again.

But even with how desperate he is, Harry sits back for once and lets Draco steer their conversations. Perhaps his guilt plays a role, but he understands the fragility between them now. And he won’t be the one to ruin it. So he listens and watches as Draco painstakingly points out his letters.

It’s a few days later—Harry’s given up keeping track of the days now—that he stands up one afternoon to go grab a late lunch. Draco’s still perched on his shoulder as he had been all morning, and it isn’t until Harry’s halfway down the hallway that he realizes Draco’s still there. He can leave the hospital room. He can leave.

He stops abruptly and turns to look with wide eyes at the fox. Draco tilts his head and imitates Harry’s expression.

“You can leave the room!” he exclaims with shocked delight.

Draco rolls his eyes and huffs.

“Wait, hold on.” Harry runs back to Draco’s room and grabs the alphabet paper before heading back out again.

“Here.” He holds it up so that it’s in front of Draco.

of course. i’m a patronus. i’m literally made of mist and air and whatever else

“Yeah, I guess. I just never really thought about it. Since I always see you in the room.”

you always see my body in the room. i’ve left before

“You ha—” Then a muted thud as he crashes into a wall.

Draco snickers silently and wags his tail furiously as Harry rights himself.

“Oh shut up. You try walking and holding this paper in front of your face and holding a conversation all at the same time. Anyways, you have? Left I mean.”

The fox gives a small nod. sometimes when you can’t see me, i’m gone. also at night. it’s awfully boring here at night.

“I can imagine,” Harry says automatically. He fancies he wouldn’t like staying in a hospital alone all night either.

“Wait, don’t you sleep?”

A pause. i don’t get tired.

“You don't?”

no

“Weird.”

only the human body and mind needs rest. i have neither.

Harry ponders that. Draco doesn't have a mind? If he doesn't have a mind, how is he thinking? How is he communicating like this with Harry? How is he still very much, well, in his mind? Besides that, he's sure he's seen Draco dozing plenty of times on his bed or on top of his own chest.

He opens his mouth to voice his confusion when he feels the swipe across his neck. The fox gives a nod towards the now-bustling hallways, and when Harry gets the memo, Draco launches himself into the air to trot leisurely back towards his room.

* * *

Harry soon realizes that Draco's not so much dozing out of necessity but simply because he wants to and he can. And it's not so much dozing but resting and getting some quiet shut-eye. Harry respects it either way. So whenever the fox curls up on the bed, Harry takes the cue to stop talking and perhaps take a nap for an hour or so himself. And as he feels his eyes drift shut, he watches, without fail, as the fox slowly fades into that vague blob of mist.

It's also like some kind of barrier has been breached and broken, once they both realize Draco can freely leave the room. The day after, Harry leaves the hospital promptly at 8 PM, and doesn't question it when he feels the fox still clinging to his shoulder. Draco lets himself fade as they approach the crowds exiting the hospital and around the nearby apparition point, but as soon as Harry's landed properly at Number 12 Grimmauld Place, the fox is back in full force, tail wagging in excitement.

Harry rather expected it to be an awkward affair. He's never been one to invite people—or acquaintances—over, seeing as he's not really proud of his home. It's dusty and dark, and in the three or so years that he's lived there, he still hasn't found a calling in interior design or remodeling. Not to mention Kreacher's vehement protests whenever Harry so much as touches a Black heirloom or a piece of antique furniture. So he's pretty much left the house to its own—and Kreacher's—devices. 

But his worries are laid to rest almost immediately. As soon as Harry crosses the threshold, the fox is bounding off animatedly, leaving trails of mist in his wake. He swirls indiscriminately through walls and doors in a whirlwind of movement, and when he accidentally jumps through Kreacher, who’s bringing up a cup of tea and ends up yelping and dropping it instead, Harry nearly falls to the floor with laughter.

Kreacher's understandably slow to warm up to the fox after that, but when Harry finally tells him who the fox really is, having decided that Kreacher is trustworthy enough and deserves to know, the elf becomes the epitome of awe and admiration.

"A Black," the elf squeaks. And to Harry's utter astonishment, tears start flowing down the crinkled face. "It is Kreacher's honor to serve a master of the honorable House of Black." He gives a deep bow. "Kreacher shall prepare your quarters." Then with a crack, the elf leaves to do just that.

It's with relief that Harry finally turns to discover that Draco's taking it all in good stride and is actually rather amused at the whole situation. So Harry tucks his last bit of nervousness away and takes Draco's contentment as his own. He spends the evening lazing on a couch with his reports and letters and watches with quiet delight as the fox continues its brash exploration of the house. There's mist decorating the air and sparkles floating down, and Harry thinks his home has never been prettier; never been livelier.

And when the fox finally comes to settle down on the couch next to Harry, the air's long been receiving his yawns and his reports have all been sealed and sent on their way. With Draco once again clinging to his shoulder, he stands and gets ready for bed. His routine comes methodically, and he wonders the whole time through what the fox is going to do. Grimmauld can’t be more fun at night than St. Mungo’s, and he’s sure a sleeping Harry or Kreacher wouldn’t provide for much entertainment.

But as he climbs into bed, the fox jumps down to knead at the blankets before settling into a tight circle at Harry’s side. Harry stares. He stares and wonders at the normalcy and it’s almost like he has a pet cat. But this is Draco—as a small and fluffy fox, and before he can rethink, Harry reaches out a hand to pet the head tucked halfway under a poofy tail.

And even as his fingers graze the tips of Draco’s ears, the collection of mist swirls and disintegrates. The ears flick. The fox refuses to stir. And Harry sleeps.

* * *

Harry wakes to blinding light and refractions of tiny rainbows dancing across his squinted eyes. It’s never been this bright, and to say that Harry regrets getting rid of his horrid curtains is an understatement. But nothing stops the forces of nature, and when he’s finally rubbed his eyes open, it’s to the disorienting view of a misty paw batting at some floating strands of his hair.

He freezes. He lets himself still and continues his slow breathing, and until Draco notices that he’s awake, he simply watches the fox play with his hair. It takes a few minutes, but eventually, the fox stops nosing at his mess to curl up on Harry’s chest and stare. Harry stares back.

“Good morning?”

Draco gives an eye roll and shakes himself out before resettling. Harry huffs out a laugh in response and thumps his head back. He stares at the ceiling.

There’s no weight on his chest, but the cool tingle from Draco’s mist passes through the blankets well enough, and for a while he lies there and breathes. The cool tingle shifts up and down with the movement, and Harry doesn’t want to move.

He almost falls asleep again when the cold tingle moves. Then there’s a cool drizzle on his face, and Harry startles awake. Silver eyes stare down.

“Alright, alright,” he groans. “I’m getting up, I’m up.”

With much effort, he drags himself out of bed and to the bathroom. Draco floats leisurely behind him as he goes about getting dressed and brushing his teeth, and Harry almost inhales the toothpaste at how clearly distressed the fox standing on his shoulder is at the state of his hair. Misty paws bat relentlessly at his strands, and Harry lets himself be entertained with how Draco seems to be trying to use his puffs of mist and air to get it to lie flat. It’s a losing battle.

The fox is still at it when Harry migrates to the kitchen for some coffee and breakfast, and he really only stops when Harry starts speaking.

“So, what do you want to do today?”

Draco tilts his head.

“Well, I mean, since you can clearly leave the hospital, then that means we don’t have to stay there all day do we? I can be with you elsewhere?”

The fox lights up and starts sprinting excited circles around Harry. Harry laughs and remembers the alphabet paper. He sets it down on the table.

Draco flops down next to it and starts.

go home

“Home…? I… am home?”

grasmere

“Oooh,” Harry realizes. For a brief moment, he perks up at the idea of visiting the quaint town. Then just as soon, he deflates. “Ah, I’m really sorry about your house by the way—”

The fox swats him with his tail.

“Okay, okay, we’ll go. Let’s go. Just let me go grab my jacket.”

And once he has his jacket, they apparate away.

* * *

Harry walks through Grasmere for the first time since Draco’s been found. He doesn’t even realize how long it’s been until he’s walking the familiar streets and admiring the landscape. He misses it, but at the same time, he knows he doesn’t miss it. He’s been with Draco from day one, and being with Draco was as good as being in Grasmere. And he comes to the sudden understanding that perhaps his ties to this place has always been Draco, Draco, Draco.

It’s mid-morning now, and as people start to come out to enjoy the weather, Harry finds himself waving and greeting the muggles they pass. Draco’s a faded mist tucked in the crook of his neck on his shoulder, and even though he’s nervous someone will see the fox, no one gives any indication of having seen something strange.

Harry picks his way through the streets, and as they near Draco’s house, Harry grows increasingly nervous. His hands are clammy and jittery, and he shoves them in his pockets, which really only makes them more sweaty. He nods and smiles at the people they pass instead of waving now, and every time he does so, he feels Draco’s mist shift. Every movement feels heightened, and when they finally reach Draco’s gate, Harry feels like he could hurl himself across the sky.

But the gate opens smoothly as always, and as soon as Harry’s through, they freeze. Luna’s kneeling on the ground covered in dirt and leaves with a shovel in one hand and a plant in the other, and even though Harry’s surprised, he guesses he shouldn’t be.

“Luna? What—”

Luna looks up. “Harry!” she exclaims. “And Draco!”

She throws the shovel hazardly away and skips over. She skids to a stop a foot away from them.

“Draco!” she peers at the cloud of mist until Draco solidifies some and looks back. Blue-grey meets silver, and the fox launches himself across the gap to cling to Luna’s hair and yap silently.

Luna laughs, bright and clear, and Harry watches the scene unfold. The fox is jumping and weaving curtains of mist around Luna even as she continues to laugh and run after the blur of silver. It’s such a tranquil and… peacefully boring scene that Harry balks.

The two act like children, like teenagers, and although they’re all only in their early twenties—still young—Harry feels old. It seems like lifetimes have passed between his childhood and now. A whole war happened, seven years crammed full of action and fear, and never for a moment has there been a break. And all these events only seem to elongate the time in between so that Harry could wake up forty tomorrow and he wouldn’t be surprised. He feels forty.

But Draco and Luna could be sixteen again and running through the grounds of Hogwarts like they all should have done. Should have been able to. He wishes he could. And it’s not exactly the frustration he would usually have felt at such a thought. He’s… sad. And tired. That’s it.

But even so, his friends run around and smile at him and maybe he could be young again too, some day. He smiles back.

* * *

“I’m taking care of your plants, Draco,” Luna tells the fox.

Harry’s the one making them tea this time, and he listens to Luna’s chatter and the silent pauses in between as he focuses on the tea leaves.

“You took care of mine, and it’s only right to return the favor. And you need them for potions.”

The kettle whistles.

“My plants are fine. Same as I told you last time. The nargles have been keeping away too.”

Harry brings two cups over and sets them down on the table. Draco’s home hasn’t changed since Harry last came—except for the dust covering everything, which they had spelled away upon entering. Draco himself hadn’t seemed upset at seeing his house fixed and whole again, and with each passing minute where the fox wasn’t bristling in anger, Harry’s trepidation eased away. It did nothing for his guilt, though, so he stays silent and quietly lets Draco take the lead should he choose to do anything. But curiosity wins in the end so he asks.

“Draco, you’ve seen Luna?”

The fox bobs his head.

Harry gapes and splutters. “But y-you always asked me about the plants. And I asked.” With wide eyes, he takes in Luna’s serene smile and Draco’s pokerface. Except the corner of the fox’s mouth is tilting up and the tail is wagging.

“Were you guys playing with me this whole time?” he asks incredulously.

“Maybe.” Luna’s smile widens.

Harry drags his hands slowly down his face. “Ah, I feel so stupid now.”

The fox yelps silently and actually rolls off the table—onto air—in obvious amusement.

“So…”

“So?” Luna replies.

“Um, are we going to do anything…?”

Draco taps at the alphabet paper. we don’t have to do anything

Eyebrows furrow. “But thats… what?”

“We don’t have to do anything in particular,” Luna reiterates. “Being with people you like is perfectly fine.”

Harry sputters and almost spits his tea out. “I don’t—wait—”

Draco tilts his head and Luna gives Harry a secret grin. “But if you really want to do something, well, Draco what do you want to do?”

The fox pauses. Then takes a slow look around at the room, at the house. At his home.

refurnish. together.

* * *

“What’s it like, being a patronus?” Harry finally asks. He sets the last of the boxes down with a swish of his wand and surveys the piles already occupying the floor.

quiet

“Quiet?” Harry crosses his legs on the ground and moves the paper on top of a box so that it acts like a table.

“How can it be any more quiet than, well, being human?”

it’s, a pause, different

Harry waits for the fox to elaborate.

what i’m going to say next, i’m not sure if it’s because of being a patronus or a spirit

“There’s a difference?”

probably. i can’t… hear? or see? not in the way people do. i see in… splashes of color, in energy, in magic. i know that doesn’t really make sense but i can’t explain it. i see people in swirls of energy. and i can see their emotions to some extent. people look like patronuses

“You see us as our patronus? Do you see mine?”

no no, i don’t see your patronus. you just look like one. like if you were a patronus

“Oh. How do you hear?” Harry remembers something. “And how do you think? The other day you said you don’t have a mind?”

i don’t. it’s like… i think in concepts. in ideas. in emotions. there’s no inner monologue. everything just is and you understand it. it’s very simple. to talk like this, to put my concepts into letters… is hard. it’s not right. it’s not enough.

The fox pauses. And almost like an afterthought, i feel your ideas and emotions more than the words

In all honesty, Harry doesn’t get it. Doesn’t think he ever will because he’s not the one stripped down to a bare soul. He has his inner monologue, his “physical” thoughts and emotions, and he can put words to everything he thinks and does. He sees physical things and they have words, and descriptions. And it’s beautiful in the way that he understands it.

“Is it beautiful?”

yes

* * *

They have all of Draco’s boxes carried over from where they had been stored at Luna’s, and although there’s many of them, Harry has barely found any furniture. With Draco’s guidance, he unpacks and puts the various objects around the house. Pictures on the walls, books to line the shelves, and an endless supply of potions ingredients, cauldrons, and literally everything and some that Harry swears he’s seen at the Apothecary on Diagon.

He rearranges the potions room to Draco’s liking, and he almost startles at that silver glow coming from that one wall of shelves. The vials of memories are as glaring as always, and he’s sure the fox catches him standing and staring at some point. But Draco doesn’t elaborate and Harry doesn’t push.

By late evening, they’ve finished unloading all the boxes, and the house is rather starting to take on a cozy air. Despite the relative lack of furniture, the items Draco did have were personalized and varied. At eight, Luna magically—literally and figuratively—shows up as soon as Harry’s rolled out the last rug in the sitting area, and despite Harry’s weak protests, drags him off with promises of food and treacle tart. 

It’s an evening spent well, Harry eventually concludes. He doesn’t think he’s ever dined out with Luna like this, ever, and Draco simply dozes in the hood of his jacket the entire time, faded and small. It’s different from dining with Hermione and Ron, and Harry thinks it’s an interesting contrast that would be interesting to observe if melded together. Perhaps it’s because he’s known Luna for a shorter period of time. Maybe he’s not as close with her? But when Luna laughs loud enough that the other patrons of the restaurant turn to stare, he guesses it’s just because Luna is free in the way that others can’t restrain. And being with her rubs it off on him, so in a place where no one knows him, or Luna, or Draco, he also laughs.

The three of them return to Draco’s close to midnight, and the only one not tired is the fox. Yet when Luna pulls out two bottles of firewhiskey, Harry can’t refuse. He takes the bottle and settles himself on the ridiculously fluffy rug in the sitting room, leaning his back against a bookshelf. Draco floats over to plop himself onto Harry’s lap, and Harry hovers his hands over the foggy form.

Harry’s tired. Dead tired. It’s god-knows what time of night or early morning, but he wants to stay awake. So he dances with sleep and fights his eyes open every time he realizes they’re drooping. It’s a warm night. Warm with the cool drops of mist that is Draco and the night breeze that comes with Luna’s lilting voice.

Sleep’s almost won when the coolness shifts and turns. Harry hums and cracks an eye down at the fox. Large silver eyes look up at him.

“Harry,” Luna intones.

“Mm?”

“Will you help with the furniture tomorrow?”

“Mhm.”

The fox eyes soften and turn around. Ears flatten and fur trembles in a silent purr.

Harry surrenders. 

* * *

Night turns to day, and as always, the moon leaves the stage to the sun. Sleep relinquishes its hold, and Harry wakes. Another day, another life; to start and live as he pleases.

It’s cold in Grasmere. Colder than London, colder than he’s used to. But he’s buried in a rug with Luna and mist at his side, and it’s perfect either way. He’s not sure how long he’s slept, when he even fell asleep. But it doesn’t matter, and that’s an amazing fact in and of itself. It doesn’t matter.

He takes his time sitting up—takes in the room, the windows, and his friends at his side. He roves over Luna’s form in the corner, further over, and right at his feet—Harry sees a deer for the first time in years.

A doe.

Chapter Text

Harry doesn’t know how long he stares at the doe. Thoughts flit through his mind and disappear just as quick, and there are no actual thoughts as he simply stares . He stares and stares and stares, and he’s still staring at the sleeping doe when the fireplace beside him flares green and a fizzle shoots out, followed by a loud bang and sparks that fill the room.

Harry gives a startled shout and cracks his head on the wall in his effort to scoot away from whatever it is. As the bit of smoke clears, he sees Luna, awake now and backed into the opposite wall. The doe hasn’t moved.

His ears ring. It’s loud, but quiets soon enough, and it’s only when he’s starting to wonder if they’re being attacked that he hears the loud peals of laughter. He crawls back in front of the fireplace. Then gives an internal sigh of relief even as he glares at the faces.

“That was not funny guys.”

“It was,” Ron gasps, and wipes a tear that Harry cannot and does not see.

“How did you like our new, beta-version, indoor-fireworks?” George adds, squishing Ron out of the way. “Safe—if not a bit loud—won’t set things on fire, and completely child and indoor friendly—unlike the ones we launched at Umbridge back in the day of course.”

They all laugh at that one, and Harry hears a third person in the background that can only be Hermione. Then Luna settles besides him, giving a grin of her own. “I really liked the dragon one,” she says.

But her movement draws eyes, and as the two-and-a-half faces in the fireplace turn to look at her, Harry catches the moment they see the doe. 

“Harry,” Ron says, “is that your patronus? It looks a bit different… Wait, where are the antlers?” He pauses. Then, “Mate! Don’t tell me—! Did you turn into a girl? Are you secretly a girl? When did this happen? Why didn’t you tell me!” he all but wails.

George turns to Harry, eyes wide. “A girl? Harry, you’re a girl?”

Hermione moves into focus. “No, shush, Ron. I’m sure if Harry were a girl, he—or she’d—tell us, right?”

“Er, yeah, but that’s not—I’m not—”

“Right right, is that your patronus Harry?”

“No,” Harry and Luna say at the same time. Harry throws Luna a grateful glance, which she returns with an amused smile.

“Really?” Ron squishes himself between back in. “You sure? Are you absolutely—fucking merlin’s balls—seriously sure?”

“Yeah.” A sigh. “I am absolutely—fucking merlin’s balls—seriously sure.” Harry grimaces. “Man, why would you put those words together?”

Ron shrugs, but mid-movement, Harry’s vision turns white. And when he can see again, there are ears flicking in front of his chest. He screams and flinches himself away and almost into the fireplaces.

“Woah, what happened?”

“Are you okay, mate?”

“Harry?”

Harry rights himself and whirls around to face the doe, who’s now sitting right where Harry had been previously. The ears and tail are flicking furiously.

“Yeah, I’m alright,” he says slowly. “Draco just decided to stick his head through me to give me a scare.”

“Draco?” A chorus of voices.

“Malfoy, is that your patronus?” Ron shouts incredulously.

“His patronus is a doe? Interesting.”

“Hey, Harry, isn’t yours a stag?”

Yes, it’s mine. Harry’s is a stag? And what are you talking about? Mine’s a fox, obviously. You lot are blind.

Harry bites back a laugh and fails.

“Nice scare though,” George puts in, and Harry can practically feel Draco preening.

Yes, thank you. At least someone appreciates my efforts. I like this one.

“But why is his patronus here?” Ron continues, and everyone turns with questioning eyes.

It’s not just my patronus. It’s me, you dolt. Accidents happen. Draco gives a huff.

Harry nods. “Yeah, what he said.”

A pause. “Er, mate?” Ron starts. “What who said?”

Harry raises an eyebrow. “What Draco said?”

“Erm…”

Luna puts a sudden arm on Harry’s arm. “Harry, we can’t hear Draco.”

“But he clearly said…” He whirls to face the doe, who’s staring at him with eyes that must be as wide as his own. “You did say something right?”

Draco nods once.

“Well, whatever it is, we don’t hear anything,” George says. “And aren’t patronuses supposed to like, speak out of their mouths anyways?”

“Yeah,” Harry sighs. “But something happened when he got kidnapped, and now Draco is actually a patronus, so…”

“Oh, is that Draco himself? Most intriguing.”

Hermione always catches on the quickest. “Yeah,” Harry replies.

But then he adds quickly, “I can’t tell you anything beyond that though. Confidential stuff.”

Everyone nods in understanding, if not with a hint of dissatisfaction. Mostly just Ron.

“Okay, well, despite this… unanticipated piece of information, we have a reason for calling.”

“Ah yes, we did get sidetracked. Harry, have you seen the news this morning?”

“No?”

“Well, I guess it’s good you’re sitting down already for this…”

“Oh, just spit it out so we can get over it,” Harry finally sighs. 

The three in the fireplace exchange glances.

“Well,” Hermione starts, “About an hour ago now, there were a bunch of sudden and simultaneous attacks on a lot of businesses and stores. Most notably, many of these have been found to be belonging to the Sacred Twenty-Eight. We’re warning you guys just in case.”

Harry surges forward and Luna gasps. The doe scoots forward to sit right beside Harry and just as close to the fireplace.

“Who? Wait, the Weasleys are part of the Twenty-Eight right? Are you guys okay? Did they attack the store? Who did it?”

George speaks now. “Oh, yeah they attacked us, I guess.” 

“What?”

“Hey, hey, we’re perfectly fine though. Just a bit of minor damage. Why anyone would attack a joke shop is beyond me. Must be a bunch of idiots.”

Draco snorts. Harry frowns. “What happened?”

“Well you see, being a qualified and legal joke shop, we are also legally allowed to be in possession of a bunch of, ahem, minor explosives and potions. Not to mention our moat, pixies, snapping books, exploding quills, booby traps—”

Moat? Booby traps?

“Okay, wait, hold on,” Harry voices his—and well, Draco’s apparently—concerns. “The last I checked, you guys did not have a moat. Or booby traps.”

“Yeah well, we were thinking of something for April Fools’ or Halloween and decided to test stuff? And they gave us a perfect opportunity so why not? Anyways, we’re a-okay! The moat was a bit too sticky though. Gonna take forever to clean…”

“We should get the aurors to help,” Ron snorts.

And for a moment, Harry’s glad he’s not technically an auror anymore.

Dammit, I should’ve been there. Would’ve loved to see the moat and booby traps. And Draco sounds so upset that Harry actually laughs.

“It’s okay, I’ll take you there some time,” he says back to the doe. And then he says to his other friends, “Draco wanted to see the moat and booby traps.”

George grins. “You can test it for us next time. Maybe we’ll put it around your house.”

Yessss! But not around my house. I have plants.

“Hermione,” Luna pipes up suddenly, “do you know who did it?”

“No,” Hermione sighs. “They all had masks and illusion charms. The aurors won’t release any information either. Everything’s just a huge mess right now.”

Draco and Harry look at each other.

“Well, this has been a nice talk,” George yawns. “But it’s still early and we have to clean up and open shop, and… ugh.”

“Yeah, we gotta get the aurors outa our hair and Hermione still has work. Talk to you guys later? Maybe meet up some time for dinner?”

“Yeah, yeah, that’s good.”

Luna hums an assent.

“Alright then, see ya later. Be on the lookout, yeah? If you see anyone suspicious, get outa there. Bye!”

“Bye.”

“See you!”

Draco dips his head. And the flames die down.

* * *

“So…I can hear you now?” They sit at Draco’s kitchen table, a steaming cup of tea in Harry’s hand and Draco’s doe crouching on the other end of the table. Luna’s gone home after the firecall, but only so once she’s made them promise to eat out with her later.

I guess so…? Ears flick and the doe tilts its head.

“Do you think it’s because you’re a, um, doe now?”

A what? A doe? I’m a fox.

“Um…”

AM I a doe now? You guys all said that earlier too? But I looked in a mirror yesterday and I was a fox? Draco panics, and Harry startles at the intensity of the emotion he can almost feel palpitating off the patronus. Why? Is it supposed to change? No one told me that? Is it bad?

“No, no, it’s not… it’s not bad.” Harry scratches the back of his head.

But?

“People change,” he sighs. “And your patronus is a reflection of yourself. So if you change, your patronus can change.” Harry pauses, wondering if he should go on. If he should go on and say that usually people’s patronuses change for people. For that someone. In the end, he holds his mouth shut. He’s… scared.

Oh. That makes sense, I guess. Wonder why a doe though. I liked my fox.

Harry hums. “Me too.”

Draco stares at him for a while. Then looks away thoughtfully. I can’t really feel my form like this. So I guess it doesn’t really matter to me as much what I look like.

“You can’t?”

No. It’s just… me and my… soul.

* * *

Harry thinks it’s not so much Draco’s voice he’s hearing than his… thoughts. There is no actual voice to his words, and it’s only after much contemplation that he realizes what he actually hears is the whirlwind of concepts—and, pictures, for lack of a better word. But because he’s confined to this mind and this body, his brain automatically puts words to things he otherwise would not be able to comprehend.

And with this bulk of information, Harry also finds that Draco is a large ball of jumbled emotions. When Draco “speaks,” the ideas and words planting themselves in Harry’s mind, they drag along other pieces of Draco’s concept. Harry feels the little bits of emotions behind the words, and they paint a brighter picture than anything Harry’s ever seen. And when the little bits of joy and curiosity deposit other emotions—darker bits, ones that paint the world grey—he understands that Draco’s not all that fine. Not as free as his patronus would seem. But it’s temporary, he promises himself. It’s temporary. He’ll be with Draco until the greys fade away and the world is once again, bright and colorful.

When Robards and Owen crash the fireplace around noon, no one’s surprised. The doe glances at Harry, and when Harry rises to greet them, Draco trots behind him.

The four settle themselves around Draco’s living area, the doe squishing himself as close as possible to Harry’s legs without actually going through them.

“Mr. Malfoy?” Owen asks his greeting, and when Draco nods, the man raises an eyebrow. “Might want to report that to the Unspeakables.”

Harry nods. “Yes, I was planning on doing so later.”

“Right well, getting to the point, I assume you’ve heard of the attacks this morning?” Robards leans back against the sofa, the tenseness draining out of him as he sinks into the material.

“Yeah. Hermione, Ron, and George notified us.”

“Ah, yes, the joke shop. Gotta say, they put up quite the fight. Found all the attackers covered in pixies and books and facedown in a moat. It was a pleasant surprise,” Owen says with a chuckle. Then he frowns. “The other stores weren’t as lucky.”

“Anyways,” Robards cuts in, “I presume you know why we’re here?”

“The attacks are related to the revolt?”

“Yes, precisely. And being blunt, we’re getting quite desperate. It’s been almost a month since we found out, and we’ve run out of leads. If Malfoy knows anything, we really hope you’d speak now.”

Harry glances down at the doe. The doe looks back at him. In the time they’ve been together, Draco hasn’t once talked about what happened during his abduction. Draco withholds and Harry does the same, and the only thing Harry really knows is that it probably—more like definitely—wasn’t nice. Unless Draco zoning out all those times was a regular thing that happened even before, Harry thinks there might’ve been some kind of trauma.

He feels a bit guilty, now that he thinks about it. Should he have asked? He knows some people find comfort in telling others. And if Harry had known something, anything, perhaps he could have made it a bit better. Even if it was just a little.

But Harry himself found that he hadn’t and doesn’t particularly like telling other people his feelings. It’s annoying and frustrating, and when people don’t understand, it makes him all the more upset. They don’t understand what he’s been through, all the little events that led up to the explosive anger he has today. And explaining it over and over is tiresome, burdensome, and he just wishes they could just… understand . That’s all.

So perhaps he’s been projecting. Maybe he thought that Draco was the same. If he doesn’t want to talk about it, he doesn’t want to talk about it. But he’s never even asked about that, has he?

But now, Draco continues to look at Harry. And whatever the doe finds in him, it must be good, because Harry can actually feel the bright tidbits of satisfaction and… and comfort.

I… woke up in… it looked like the dungeons of a manor. It was similar in structure to the Malfoy Manor.

Harry startles a bit. Robards and Owen watch them, waiting. “He says he woke up in the dungeons of a manor. Or at least he thinks it’s a manor because it was similar in structure to the Malfoy Manor.”

Robards whips out a notebook and jots it down. Owen looks at them with wide eyes for a bit before nodding.

I’m assuming there were a bunch of people there, but I really only saw… two people. One with illusion charms.

Harry doesn’t miss the pause. He puts it away in the back of his mind.

One of them simply gave me food. Didn’t talk. The other… tried to convince me to… join them. Called himself Baker. Probably from Hogwarts. Ugly git.

Harry barks out a laugh. But quickly sobers himself. The situation. Right. He relays the information; except the git part.

“Hm, Baker, okay. Did you happen to catch any specifics of his appearance?” Owen asks.

Dull, cropped hair. I think it was brown, but the lighting wasn’t all that great… Looked kind of like Severus now that I think about it. But uglier. Maybe if you mixed Severus with just a bit of Umbridge.

Harry gets the image of a frown and a vague sense of dissatisfaction. Then a spark of amusement as he feels Draco settle on a crude picture of the man.

“Uh, dull, cropped hair, probably brown but not subject to lighting. Apparently he looks like Snape? Mixed with Umbridge?” He smiles uncertainly.

Robards breaks out in sudden laughter. “Snape? Severus Snape? And Umbridge? Oh merlin, what an image! This is the best thing to happen to me all week,” he gasps.

Owens smiles and pats Robards on the back. “He’s sleep deprived,” he explains, and Harry nods sagely. Nothing he can’t understand without a little of his own experience. Draco looks back and forth between the two before giving a mental laugh of his own. And Harry’s vision glows brighter ever so slightly.

“Well, anything else?” Owen takes Robards’ notebook, the latter still a gasping mess in the corner of the couch.

Not really. I was blindfolded when they moved me. Looked like another manor. One of the older, pureblooded ones. The dungeons were of a more medieval design. Still couldn’t recognize anyone, because of the charms. Baker came a few times then too.

Harry raises an eyebrow. Why Draco recognizes dungeon designs, he has no idea. But he’s starting to get an idea where Draco got his obsessiveness with house structures. He tells Owen what Draco said.

“Ah yes, that’s the building we found you in. Radolphus Lestrange seems to have been the last to be in ownership of it.”

Radolphus? Oh no wonder. That guy was crazy. I mean their whole family is crazy, but he practically tops the cake. Everyone knew him.

“Really?” Harry asks the doe. Owen looks back and forth at them.

Yeah, I mean, okay everyone knew him because he WAS Minister of Magic at some point, but it was an open secret among the pureblood families that was like, crazy-crazy. He did a lot of… messed up things as Minister and after.

“What’d he do?”

The Lestrange family is one that has consistently meddled in dark magic. Radolphus was apparently obsessed with runes and ritualistic burials. Mainly the Egyption rites. But there were rumors at the time that he was trying to level Ministry buildings and the surrounding muggle neighborhoods to build his own pyramid in their places. I’m not sure how much truth there is in that, but rumors generally have an ounce of it.

Draco pauses to let Harry take that in. And when Harry finally nods, Draco continues.

Course, even though the Minister is given a lot of power, you can’t just hide something like that. The Department of Mysteries found out, there was a nasty legal battle, and eventually he was forced to step down. Well the public was told he retired due to ill health, but that was just a cover-up. Then the man went home and continued his research anyways. Never got around to building a pyramid before he died, but there were also rumors that his will left the manor and his work to anyone willing to exact revenge on the Ministry.

Harry’s mind is spinning. It’s spinning and working overtime, and he lets out a breath. Then drags his hands down his face. Slowly.

“What the fuck,” he says.

“What? What’s the fuck about?” Robards asks, back in commission now.

“Uh… it’s a lot.”

“Well we’ve got time. So spit.”

And spit he does.

“Wow,” Robards finally says when Harry’s done telling the tale. “What the fuck indeed.”

“It’s a good thing he didn’t build that pyramid.” Owen frowns. “But if the resistance has his plans, that’s not much better.”

“What, why? What’s so bad about a pyramid?”

Pyramids are said to be connected to the afterlife, Harry. No one’s sure how they work exactly, but it’s rumored that they take the lives of those who built it and around it as sacrifice for the buried. Oh shit, maybe they’re going to use it against the purebloods. Sacrifice the purebloods. Harry! They want to get rid of the purebloods!

“Hold on, hold on, you’re saying the resistance wants to get rid of the purebloods?” He hears gasps.

Yes, Baker said their purpose was to get rid of the purebloods. Defeating the Dark Lord wasn’t good enough for them. Draco fumes, and the world tinges red.

“He says the resistance wants to get rid of the purebloods,” Harry repeats. “Defeating Voldemort wasn’t good enough?”

“Well that explains the attacks. And the ministry is chock full of purebloods,” Owen concludes. “So Radolphus’ goal and the resistance’s goal just happen to align. And we still don’t know what the Dementors are for or where they are. Ugh this is such a mess.”

The normally-calm and smiley man buries his face in his hands. It unsettles Harry a bit. That can’t be good. Meanwhile, Robards scribbles away.

“Well, anything else? ” Robards asks this time.

No.

“No.”

* * *

In the end, it takes Harry until late afternoon to remember to contact Thirty-nine about Draco’s change. He spends basically the entire afternoon before that curled on the couch, napping, with the doe on the rug beside him.

While he’s… happy—and a bit excited he supposes—that Draco’s a doe now, he certainly misses the fox’s smaller form. If only so Draco could curl up again beside him, on his chest, by his hair. He wouldn’t really be able to feel it either way, but it’s the thought that matters; the thought.

But then again, it’s not like he can just tell Draco to turn back into the fox he’s come to know and love. So he lies on his side and watches the doe try to twist its neck to look back at itself in between the periods of darkness that means he’s succumbed to sleep.

He wakes when something hard smacks into his face, knocking his glasses askew. He opens his eyes groggily and feels Draco laughing, the pulses of happiness hitting him in waves.

“Oh shut up,” he growls.

No.

Harry wakes up enough to see the doe prancing circles around his sofa. Then he stops to nose at a letter on the ground.

You’ve got a letter.

“I see.” No wonder his forehead hurt so much. The corner must’ve caught him. He leans down and tears the letter open.

“Thirty-nine wants to see us at the Ministry tomorrow morning,” he tells Draco.

Okay.

“You fine with that?”

Why not? And if it helps me get my body back, that’s all the better.  

* * *

“Hey, long time no see,” Thirty-nine calls, when they meet in the cafe that’s taken up residence in a corner of the Ministry lobby.

Harry nods and waves, and when the man has finally pushed through the crowd to their table, he looks around.

“Draco’s invisible right now,” he says.

“Ah right. Might as well. Let me go grab a coffee and then we’ll head out.”

The walk to the Department of Mysteries is… interesting to say the least. Despite having been there once back in fifth year—which he tells Thirty-nine about and the latter laughs—he doesn’t remember the way there at all now. So he follows Thirty-nine through hallways he’s sure were not there last time and greets the strangers that wave and call to him. And as the people they meet slowly trickle out, Harry watches the mist in his peripheral grow solidly brighter until the doe is there, trotting beside them.

Eventually, they reach a set of doors that spell open at Thirty-nine’s presence, and Harry gapes. Spread out before him is what could be the lobby of a muggle hotel. Rugs and sofas litter a large expanse of space, and two sets of spiral staircases spiral up and up and Harry isn’t sure he can even make out a ceiling. Occasionally, he sees someone walk across the lobby or up and down the staircases.

Wow. Draco turns large doe eyes around the room.

“Woah,” Harry says. “What brought about the floating chandelier?”

Thirty-nine shrugs and starts leading them towards the stairs. “We’ve been trying to improve the lighting among other things.”

And as soon as they’re on the first step, Thirty-nine holds out an arm to halt them. He swishes his wand, and with a slight jerk, the stairs start moving on their own. They go up and up, and Harry notices that every floor they pass is identical. It’s just doors and doors and doors, all spaced evenly around the circular walkway around the stairs. And despite the lack of artificial light, it never gets darker. Eventually, they stop on a floor that looks the same as all the others, and Thirty-nine leads them to one of numerous doors.

“Welcome to my office,” he says with a wave and a small bow, and he ushers them in.

It’s not all that different from a normal office, Harry’s surprised to see. Except for the fact that there’s definitely more space and it rather gives off the air of his therapist’s office. They sit on some of the armchairs, and Draco settles on the rug next to Harry.

“So, I’ll get straight to business,” Thirty-nine says. “You’ve told me that Mr. Malfoy here changed form some time between last night and this morning, and you can now hear his thoughts?”

Harry nods. “Not exactly his thoughts, but close enough.”

Draco nods along.

Thirty-nine hums. “Given this new piece of information, we do have a few theories, one of which we feel is most relevant. It’s also the one you will be testing today.”

At that, Harry and the doe sit up straight.

Today? How? Is it complicated? Will it work immediately?

“Is it complicated?” Harry settles with that.

“No, not at all. We just need you, Harry, to cast your patronus. It’s a stag, yes?”

“Well, yeah… I think. I… haven’t really cast one since the war. And how will that help?”

“Ah, okay, that’s something to think about… well we’ll see how it goes.” Thirty-nine pauses and gives them a calculating look. Then, “Can’t hurt for you guys to know a bit, I suppose… Having an ejected soul and still being present in the mortal realm is essentially like a ghost. With the added patronus bit here. Ghosts are ghosts, because they choose to stay while being cut off from their bodies due to the lack of life, if that makes sense. However, Mr. Malfoy here clearly still has life, meaning his patronus is keeping his soul in another sort of shell. We need something else to give his soul a path back out of his patronus and to his body. That’s all.”

That’s all? Sounds complicated to me. How am I supposed to just… eject myself out of a patronus?

Harry frowns. “And my stag is supposed to help with that?”

“Well, yes. Yours is a stag, and he’s…” Thirty-nine gestures at Draco vaguely.

Harry feels Malfoy raise a metaphorical eyebrow. And how does my doe relate to his stag? Besides being of the same species?

Harry… chooses to ignore that question for now. Maybe… one day he’ll tell.

“Alright, so do I just…” he takes out his wand and swishes it randomly.

Thirty-nine nods and folds his hands in front of his face like he’s spectating some kind of show. It does nothing for Harry’s nerves. “Yup, just cast your patronus at Mr. Malfoy here and it should do something. In theory.”

Harry glances at the doe. Draco looks back. He’s quivering, and Harry’s so muddled in his own thoughts that he can’t distinguish his own emotions from Draco’s anymore. Is he excited? Scared? Is Harry excited? Scared?

He’s excited, yes. If—and that’s the thing—if, this works, he’ll have Draco back in his body, and Harry will finally be able to give the man a hug. He wants to hold those fingers in his and ruffle that hair and bury his face in it and just breathe Draco in. He wants Draco. Solid and real and whole . All of him. The bright bits and the dark bits and all the colors in between, visible or invisible.

But he’s also scared. Because being with Draco has become so natural now. For merlin’s sake, he’s spent practically the entirety of the past month with him. From morning to evening, and more recently, from dawn to dawn and dusk to dusk. He doesn’t know when it started. Doesn’t know and doesn’t care to know. He simply wants Draco now, but doesn’t know what to do to get it. To get more. He doesn’t know what to do once he has gotten more. And that’s if Draco wants him back. If this even works.

It’s a lot of if’s to pass through, and if Harry’s being honest, he doesn’t think it’s going to work. Because through it all, he knows himself. And if this past month taught him anything, it’s to pay more attention to himself above all else first. And he has. He’s learned and tried, and though he doesn’t dare to broach the subject, he knows somewhere in his soul that he’s changed.

So he raises his wand with shaking fingers, and if Draco notices, the doe gives no indication. Familiar silver eyes simply watch him, and Harry lets himself drown in the gentle waves of peace and calm coming from the silver cloud. It’s safe, and it’s comforting. He’ll receive no judgement here; no resentment.

He closes his eyes. There’s silver mist and silver eyes and hair that flutters from gold to pink and back to silver-white. There’s the slender fingers and elegant confidence; the quiet that comes with a breeze and of emotions spoken and words written. There’s the sky and then its colors—and the world splashed across one single person.

Expecto patronum.

And when Harry opens his eyes, there’s a familiar form barreling recklessly through furniture, showers of mist flowing in its wake.

A fox.

Chapter Text

There are times of awakenings and times of dreaming. And for months after the war, Harry floated in a space somewhere in between, where time stood still and floated around him like a stream around a rock. People passed him by like flickers in his peripherals, and by the time he’d turned, there was only the empty space around him, void and questioning. His dreams became more real; the people, more corporeal. And for that while before Harry realized his status as the Master of Death, he walked memories that weren’t quite forgotten, and stories not yet told.

* * *

James Potter had always had a rash and abrasive personality. Just like his mother in her younger days, relatives told him. It was a fact he was rather proud of. His father, being the kind person he was, needed someone louder, more outspoken to balance that Potter lineage. And James Potter was determined to fill his mother’s shoes when the time came, personality balanced or not. And by the time Hogwarts rolled around, little James strutted off to school with his loving family behind him and the world at his feet.

Immediately, he attracted one Sirius Black. Sirius had the type of personality that matched James’, that typical Black personality nowhere in sight. Their energy bounced off each other in a seemingly endless way, and the two became fast friends. Peter and Remus in effect became the dampers for this energy, and the four of them created their own bubble–immune to the world, while letting everyone know of its existence.

Lily Evans was an anomaly. A smart and outgoing witch, muggleborn to boot, she flitted through the castle with a boundless cheer that attracted people like flies, as little James liked to believe. But James Potter was no exception. He drank in that energy, craved it, and felt it bounce off him in a way that Sirius couldn’t. He didn’t understand, grew frustrated at the multitude of others that stood in the way between him and the mystery he couldn’t solve. So when James noticed that constant anger that seemed to arise when Snape of all people clung to Lily, he had to remove that thorn.

It felt cathartic to release his anger towards the other boy, his friends egging him on in a way that could only be described as supportive. His mother had always told him to take care of himself, to put himself first, to not let that anger overrun him. And by releasing his frustration on this one boy, was he not taking care of himself? Putting himself first? Was he not letting the anger leave him in a way that left him feeling refreshed and accomplished? He was simply following what his mother had taught him.

It didn’t take long for Lily to find out what James and his little group had been doing to her friend. And James was once again left confused. For what reason was he doing this, Lily had demanded. Did he not have anything better to do than to torment innocents?

Snape wasn’t innocent at all, James had thought privately. But for what reason, other than to follow his mother’s teachings, he had no clue. He panicked. Why did he need to take it out on Snape? Was it for Lily? Was Lily happier? Clearly not, considering she’d stormed up to him in a fit of anger, magic trembling off her in furious waves. Then for what reason? For what purpose? James really didn’t know.

The question haunted him for years, had him questioning his actions even if it didn’t prevent the frustration and anger from exploding out of him. His friends continued to back his teasing, the taunts, the bullying–if only because they weren’t privy to the internal turmoil James shut inside his head. School sped past him. Homework and lectures became a secondary concern. Remus being a werewolf was not a secondary concern. He became an animagi. He learned some more, passed his exams, pressured Lily into dating him, made more friends…

When graduation rolled around and the ever-patient Lily had taught James to mellow his personality, to better express his frustration, James felt renewed. There may have been a war brewing on the horizon, but he had his friends, a loving girlfriend, and himself. He had himself. There was nothing he wouldn’t do for the people who had supported him, carried him, and allowed him to take those first steps in the right direction.

And if no one else knew, the little third-year sitting in the back of James’ mind would always remember that one night he cried over the first wisps of mist coming out of his wand hours after the rest of the castle was asleep. Because as he had discovered what seemed like an eternity ago, Lily had always been the doe first.

* * *

Harry didn’t often think about those months following the war. He knew Hermione had dragged their trio to every trial, every memorial, every event. They’d sat through hours of testimonials, fan meetings, speeches–heck, he even gave his own speeches. But realistically, Harry knew he had never been fully present for a single one. He struggled to push through the haze of memories from a time where being the Master of Death apparently meant reliving the dead’s memories, among other things. They blended into his own life until he couldn’t quite tell if he was walking with the dead, or the dead walked with him.

It took confiding in Hermione and Ron and hours upon hours of research that the resurrection stone was finally retrieved and hidden away beneath mountains of runes and wards, for Harry to feel the veil lift. With the sudden clarity, the full impact of the war finally hit him in a way that didn’t allow him to process things gradually as his friends had had the chance to. He was frustrated, overwhelmed. And the anger didn’t take long to settle and worm its way into his life like it had always been there, just waiting to spring up.

His new therapist had told him that this new calm in his life was allowing his brain to finally open that can of worms in a safe place. That it was a positive thing. That now he could address those problems instead of shoving them aside and move on. But Harry didn’t want his brain opening whatever can of worms he had. He’d been perfectly fine shoving any and all problems aside. Were they ever gonna come back to haunt him? Maybe. Was he ever going to run into the people who had been the cause of those problems again? Absolutely not. So if the physical manifestations of his issues were not going to trouble him again, why should he make himself care? He was doing so well before, so why not simply continue on as before?

But his friends begged and the therapist nagged, so Harry did try. Yet the anger and frustration grew, and not knowing why only fanned the flames until he was a walking inferno. He threw himself into Auror work, letting out his frustration at whatever pests or criminals plagued the London underground. He stalked Grimmauld Place with a frustration that sent Kreacher almost permanently into hiding. When the paparazzi and the journalists became too much, he ran back to Hogwarts where McGonagall took pity and allowed him to hide within the deepest chambers they had to offer.

But time always prevails, and slowly, Harry saw his flames flicker and retreat, until he had a small cookfire that was only slightly more manageable before. At least until that one day Draco swept past him in the Ministry Lobby and unwittingly sent a gust of wind over his flames, sparks lighting up every crevice of Harry’s mind.

* * *

The days after Thirty-nine’s appointment flew by in a state of disarray. Seemingly not at all disappointed–in fact, he’d seemed rather excited–Thirty-nine had quickly dismissed them in favor of more research, leaving them with more questions than answers. Harry found himself back at Luna’s, with Draco’s doe prancing in and out of rooms with a renewed energy that supported the waves of relief he emanated. This left Harry only more confused. Did Draco not wish to return to his body? In some distant way, he panicked at the possibility.

When Luna inevitably picked up on the cautious way Harry picked his way around the house, and especially around Draco, she pushed him to talk. At his refusals, she evidently gave up and eventually shoved them both into the sitting room–with some creative wind-blowing on Draco’s part–and tossed in some cookies for “extra support.” They did not touch the cookies.

“So…” Harry ventured at length. The doe turned towards him. “Guess we should talk, aye?” He chuckled awkwardly.

Draco dipped his head. Yeah, guess so. What’s up?

What’s up? What’s up??? Harry resisted the urge to just yell out his confusions and instead balled his fists. “Are you– I mean how– why are you relieved? Regarding the meeting with Thirty-nine I mean.” He resolutely looked out the nearest window. “Don’t you want to be back in your body?”

Ah.

Harry glanced back. The doe had its head tilted contemplatively.

I mean, I guess so… Draco started, then paused. Harry urged himself to wait patiently. To be patient.

It’s not like I can do anything as it is right now. I can’t live my life. I can’t die towards my death. But it’s… peaceful as it is. It’s quiet. It’s just me. The pure soul of me.

The doe looked out the window. Harry followed its gaze. The leaves outside rustled.

The memories, the trauma, it all becomes insignificant. They stay tied with my physical representation. They are still a part of me, but not the soul of me. I’m no longer tied to the burdens of the physical mind.

Distantly, the sound of cups clinking and humming could be heard.

He said I’m like a ghost, walking the lines between life and death. I’m supposed to be dead, Harry. I’d still return if given the chance, of course, but I’ve long accepted that. I hope you can accept that too.

Even further in the distance, Harry thought he could hear the first wards collapse.

* * *

The confirmation didn’t come until later that evening, when Hermione burst into Luna’s house unannounced, Ron in tow. “Harry!” she exclaimed, rushing to where he was lounging in front of the fireplace, Luna and Draco beside him. “The stone! It–”

Harry held up a hand. “Woah, woah. Calm down ’mione. The stone yeah? Wards down? Runes collapsed? Stone safe?”

Hermione paused, then glanced at Ron for confirmation. Ron, ever so helpful, simply shrugged. “Well, yes, I suppose. Wait! How did you know? Wait no, of course you’d know. But–!”

Ron gently interrupted her. “You’re rambling ’mione. Let’s sit first, yeah?”

“Right, right. Of course.” She turned towards Luna and Draco for the first time. “Hello Luna, Draco. Apologies for the sudden visit. Emergency of course, but thank you for the sudden hospitality.”

“Oh, no problem,” Luna mused. “I’ve got more tea in the kitchen. Take your time.”

There was a lull as Luna got up and quietly closed the sitting room door behind her. Draco looked at Harry curiously as Ron and Hermione settled down. He could practically feel Draco’s intrigue poking him repeatedly.

What’s this about? What stone? Wards? Runes?

“I’m getting there,” Harry muttered, voice low enough just for Draco. He felt the doe huff in amusement.

“Right well,” Ron started. He raised an eyebrow at Draco. “Do we need to start from the beginning?”

The doe turned and gave its best eyebrow raise back. Harry bit back a laugh.

“So, short story,” Harry began, “oh don’t give me that look, I can give you the long version later–ok so the short story , is that I united the Hallows during the war and accepted death and became the Master of Death. But then the resurrection stone started giving me issues–”

“Understatement of the year,” Ron whisper-yelled over to Draco.

“– well it started giving me issues , but we figured it out and locked it away nice and safe under some wards and runes–”

“That I worked on for a month thank you very much,” Hermione interjected.

“Guys, please let me just finish.”

“Right, yeah, carry on.”

“Okay so we locked it away and yay, no more problems. But earlier today, you–Draco–said he accepted his death, which made him willing , like I was back in the war, y’know, and then I felt the wards go down and it got me thinking. Didn’t Draco have the elder wand for a short period of time back then? Which maybe sort of connected him to the whole Hallows thing, and then he went and accepted his death which is sort of the most important part , and he’s now a whole–” Harry waved his hand wildly at Draco, “–he’s a whole doe, or deer, or something, and I had a deer–”

“Oh!” Hermione gasped. “You don’t think?” She looked between the two furiously. Then at Ron, who had his head in his hands. Then back at Draco. “Is that even possible?”

Is what possible? What do you mean the Hallows? Like the Deathly Hallows? From the children’s story? They’re real? You united them? You’re the Master of Death? But I–

Harry groaned. “Okay let’s slow down.” He turned to Draco. “Yes, they’re real, yes I united them, and yes I’m the Master of Death now apparently.” He turned back to Hermione. “I’m not totally sure. I’m going to be honest, I just pulled that out of my ass this afternoon, so anything could be possible. But with the wards going down, it makes the most sense sort of.”

“I mean it definitely needs more backing,” Hermione muttered, “but I don’t see why not. Hm…”

“We can figure that out later,” Ron dismissed. “But for now, what do you want to do with the stone? We sort of panicked and just took it with us here, but what should we do with it now?”

“Wait!” Hermione exclaimed. “Why don’t we just put it back under the same wards but just tweak it to include Draco now? Assuming he also owns it now, of course.”

I own what?

 “And if it works, then we have an answer. If not, well…”

WHAT ANSWER??

“I’ll fill you in later, Draco. I promise. Let me just–”

The door to the sitting room suddenly opened, revealing Luna holding a tray of tea and biscuits. “How’s it going everyone~” she sang out. Then she paused. She took in their expressions, frustration clear on the doe’s face, to Harry’s frazzled appearance, to excitement and tiredness on Hermione and Ron respectively. “Well, I think it’s been a long day and we can relax. I’ve got some chamomile and lavender that should calm us right down, and a fresh batch of cookies!”

Luna hummed as she started setting everything down, placing the cookies directly in front of Hermione and Ron. Harry–and Draco–shot them a quick warning glance–right as they each took a bite.

Harry groaned inwardly. Draco watched on in amusement, previous conversation forgotten and completely invested in this new development. Harry knew it was a lost cause. Resolved to having this conversation again the next day, he settled back to watch his friends descend into whatever madness Luna had concocted. Have fun, he told himself. Let go, Draco seemed to tell him. And just for this moment, he smiled.