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Draco Malfoy walks the cobblestone streets of Diagon Alley, and it’s different now. The way it had bustled with a vibrant vivacity in his younger years is long gone now, replaced by the mediocrities that come with running errands and making stops for work. It had been repaired, for the most part, after the war, but something about the shadows of buildings that used to be constructed just a little bit different haunts Malfoy in his steps.
He turns to glance over his shoulder when the sound of a child laughing fills the spaces between bustling bodies and adult feet. A familiar tuft of blue hair comes dashing forward, and Draco feels a momentary reprieve from his own hollow dissonance. His face lights up as the boy throws his arms around his neck, crying “Cousin Draco! What are you doing here?”
And behind the vivacious grin is the humble one of Harry Potter, the boy who really did end up saving the world. Draco doesn’t hate him; how could he? If it weren’t for the testimony of the man standing there now casually in his Muggle plaid shirt and ripped-up jeans, Draco wouldn’t be walking these streets.
“Malfoy,” he puts his hands in his pockets, rocking back and forth a bit on his feet. “What sort of business are you up to these days?”
“Oh, just... dropping off a package for the boss. You know.” He shrugs, suddenly vacant. His momentary reprieve shrinks into a daunting reality.
“Wanna come get ice cream with us?” Teddy’s toothy grin eats at the edges of his impending monotony.
“Oh, well, I wasn’t-“ he starts, but Harry Potter has stepped his foot forward.
“No, please. If you’re not too busy, we’d love to catch up. Teddy misses you.” And, allowing the package to feel a bit lighter in his coat pocket, Draco turns on one heel and heads to the parlor with them both.
***
Having Teddy Lupin run through his life is like chasing a tiny piece of dynamite. You never know just when it will explode, and when you’ve got it in your fingers it seems to roll invariably to the floor. Draco’s been waiting now for quite some time for his own destruction, but his regularly timed meetings with Harry (wow- really on a first name basis now) and his cousin had brightened his steps countably.
It seemed that the sparking fire may just never come.
***
Draco Malfoy doesn’t visit Malfoy manor, and its empty rooms are surely hung with cob webs and dust mites and other small creatures that have made it home. The stone exterior is beginning to succumb to a green vine that twists its way up the foundation, and apparently small children dare each other to knock on the door of the “Death Eater House.”
Draco doesn’t have to visit Malfoy Manor to know which ghosts roam its halls, apparitions of tortured souls and the results of his own mistakes. If only he’d stood up to his father. If only he’d run. If only...
Draco swallows, once, then twice, before straightening his stare ahead. Harry’s coming over soon, and this time Teddy is at the Burrow. They’ve never hung out like this, quite alone and unsupervised by Teddy’s string of home-made knock knock jokes. He’s not sure why, but he’s nervous.
***
After the war, Draco had considered himself a work-in-progress. He’d ventured through the stages of grief, mourning his losses and wishing he could change the past. He’d also picked himself up off of the floor, vowing to start new. None of this was easy. Panic followed him around every corner, but around every corner was the reassuring laugh of Teddy; smile of Harry. If he’s honest with himself, he’ll admit their great assistance in his own healing.
But that doesn’t stop the nightmares. Or the constant feeling of dread. And when Draco Malfoy is alone, his guilt consumes him. Why hadn’t he done the right thing? Why hadn’t he stood up to his father?
***
When Draco was eight, he’d drawn a portrait of his family. It was an assignment by his private tutor, a sort of busy-work while she prepared more practice for magical theory. He’d drawn them, stoic and cold, using shades of gray and black to fill in the spaces between them. They didn’t touch, didn’t love. Lucius told him that artists didn’t make any money in the Wizarding World. Draco ripped up the drawing and threw it in the rubbish bin.
***
When Draco’s lease on his London apartment is near its end, Harry finds him with a nervous twitch of his lips.
“You know, Draco, you don’t have to move into another building. I know you hate your neighbors because they remind you of your family. Our flat is large enough for a third member.”
Draco had almost immediately rejected- his first instinct was to scoff at any such attempts at pity. But Teddy’s eyes had met his, bright and foretelling- and his pleas almost melted Draco’s shoes to the asphalt.
“If you really want me to,” Draco smiles, “I’m sure that can be arranged.”
***
Draco hadn’t realized that his ghosts would follow him here. But as he watches the shadows dance upon the walls of his very own room, he knows he’s not dreaming. It’s his father, reminding him that he will never be good enough.
It’s his mother, watching with irrefutable silence.
It’s himself, pointing a wand at Dumbledore. Leaving with Snape. And abandoning his dreams to follow in his father’s foot steps.
It’s a portrait of Draco’s family, stone cold and frozen against the frosted window pane.
He doesn’t realize he’s screaming.
Not until the door is thrown open, and Harry’s there, sporting nothing but a pair of boxer shorts and a concerned purse of his lips.
He’s on the bed, and now Draco is crying. Yelling. Laughing hysterically. Because he’s fucking insane, sitting in a bed half-naked with Harry Potter and telling himself to shut his fucking mouth before Teddy wakes up.
But Harry is gentle. He wraps his arms around his shoulders and whispers “I know. But it’s not true. None of it is real.”
And Draco sobs, without really knowing how to stop, and Harry’s skin is warm against his own. It’s the first time he’s ever really felt whole.
Hours pass, though the clock reads otherwise. And Draco tells him that he needs to go back to bed. That they’ve both got work in the morning, and Teddy is visiting Andromeda...
But, no, Harry whispers, this is more important. You are more important. When had their relationship morphed into this... whatever this is?
Draco Malfoy allows himself to be held, and it is surprisingly wonderful.
***
Working for the ministry is like working in one of those Muggle cubicles. He should be grateful for the opportunity, but Draco hates his job. His boss is monstrous, a poised figure that reminds him far too much of his father.
He gets a bit panicky when requests are made, unable to say no. Draco Malfoy never thought he’d become a push over, but his inherent desire to please, to win, to have a second chance is tumultuous.
He doesn’t know how to live without it.
***
Teddy is spending the night at the Burrow, and Draco and Harry are doing their usual dance of washing and putting away the dishes.
“Fancy a movie?” Harry asks, and something soft flutters in Draco’s chest.
“Sure.”
***
It’s midnight when Draco feels the gentle presence of Harry slumped against his shoulder, his quiet snores a rhythm that he begins to memorize.
He doesn’t move, and the stillness is what allows him to feel the sporadic twitches that begin to ripple through Harry’s body.
“No, no,” he murmurs, “Please, no. Hermione... Cruciatus...”
Draco freezes, and he immediately understands the inner workings of Harry’s psyche.
He was there when his aunt Bella inflicted near irreparable damage to Hermione Granger. He didn’t stand up. He didn’t stop her.
There’s a tightness in his chest, and it fluctuates with his heart rate. Harry is having a nightmare, and it’s all his fault.
“You’ll never make up for what you’ve done,” he hears his father say, and the words are a gun to his head.
“Harry,” he whispers, desperately running his fingers along the side of his arm to calm him. If he couldn’t go back, the least he could do is aid his sleep.
Harry settles, and Draco breathes a sigh of relief. His father is laughing at him.
Ghostly shadows dance along the walls, flickering in the dim light of the TV. The world seems to grow around him, and he is infintismal.
His palms are sweaty as the guilt settles, rotting a hole in his stomach. And then there’s a whisper, a subtle word that shifts everything: “Draco.”
He glances at Harry’s face twice to make sure he’s not imagining the slight tug at the corner of his mouth. He said Draco’s name. And, from the depths of his slumber, he’s smiling.
Draco’s eyes are prickly, and he’s not sure why there are tears surfacing at such an inopportune moment. Perhaps he’s gone completely insane... or maybe...
“Not your father, Draco... amazing... need you... love you...”
A light seems to dissipate the shadows, which morph and expand into unidentifiable shapes before they slowly vanish. Draco’s hands are still clammy, but his mind is on overdrive.
The Savior of the Wizarding World is dreaming about him. Believes in him. Maybe, even...loves him?
And the remaining shadows come crashing down, spirits that find rest in redemption. If Harry Potter, with his stupid scar, and his stupid broomstick, could think highly of Draco Malfoy, the ex-death eater... maybe he could forgive himself.
Maybe... and then there are images flashing through his mind. Of stone family drawings and cruel and unjust punishment.
Of the desire to please, so much, that if his father pointed a wand at his throat he’d beg for forgiveness. Of pretending to have dignity for so long that he’d lost his own along the way.
And then, another sleepy rasp from Potter: “not your fault...”
And something snaps inside him.
“Not my fault,” he repeats, barely audible, yet it rattles an earthquake that cracks the floor. The ground faults, and everything he’s ever know crumbles before him.
“You are pathetic.” The voice of his father shakes the walls, breaks the foundation. Rips open the fortress of his solitude, jagged lines coursing through his very being and down to his core.
There’s a wand at his throat.
Harry isn’t here. Here, it’s a Malfoy’s paradise, and Draco’s skin crawls at the realistic image of his father before him. He’s so fucking life-like, the drawl of his criticism dripping with the poison of a basilisk. He’s smiling, and that hurts. It’s malicious.
But then, another whisper. A distant proclamation that rings through the periphery of his hearing. “Draco... always... good enough...”
Fuck. Harry?
“Good enough,” he repeats, the syllables a solid reality, just like the man before him. And, in a sudden fit of realization, Draco realizes the epitome of his salvation.
“You’re not real,” he says, and the words are a bit shaky as they permeate the air. His father’s face twists into something unreadable, a cross between a scowl and utter shock.
“You’re not real.” The wand lowers. His brow narrows.
“You were never real. My father is in Azkaban. You are just the ghost of what he did to me.”
His hands are drifting into the atmosphere, like grains of sand dissipating toward the floor. His expression morphs into utter fear, and, for once, Draco feels powerful.
It was never about defeating him. He could have dualed his fractured subconscious for years, constantly bettering himself, only to fall again. And the wand would always be pointed at his throat
But Harry, Harry said he was good enough. And he can hear the distant titter of Teddy’s amusement, the padding of his socks as they bounce along the hardwood floor of their flat. Of their home.
Harry cares. Loves. And so Draco must love himself.
“You could never kill me,” he says to the air, as the whisp of Lucius Malfoy’s presence fades into nothing. “It was just me, all along. Hurting myself because you trained me to. It wasn’t my fault. It wasn’t my fucking fault.”
There’s a sudden whoosh, and the room is spinning. And then it’s not. And Draco Malfoy is sitting next to a blissfully sleeping Harry Potter in a London flat.
The movie is over, and all that remains of the last few minutes is a line of scrolling credits.
The shadows, they’re gone. And somehow, Draco is no longer haunted. The house is peaceful, and a serenity seems to fill it’s every crevice, binding the cracks that once cleaved the walls. He pulls Harry closer, wrapping an arm around his shoulder. Taking a risk he’d never had the confidence to execute.
Harry smiles, stirring a bit before turning his green gaze upward. “That’s nice,” he says, and Draco chuckles.
“Yeah, it is, hm?”
“Hey Draco?”
He doesn’t reply, but meets that vibrant stare of his with irrefutable honesty.
“Thanks for being a part of our family.”
“Family?” The word nervously slips his lips. He’s never done this before.
Harry nods. “You, me, and Teddy.”
His eyes are prickly again, and he swallows a hard lump in the back of his throat. “I love the sound of that. Of family.”
“Good. Because I’ll hex you if you go anywhere. Old habits do die hard, you know.”
Draco laughs, hearty. Whole. Harry snuggles into his shoulder, falling asleep lightly as he thoughtfully plans his next project.
***
The next day, Teddy enters to find Draco drawing a picture of his family at the kitchen table.
“Whatcha doin’?” He asks curiously, hopping onto Draco’s lap as he sketches.
The picture before them is a family, a blonde, a brunette, and a tuft or blue hair between them. There are no spaces, no empty holes between their bodies, and the sky is a vibrant array of purples and oranges.
“Let’s hang it on the fridge!” Teddy exclaims, grasping it and running to attach it to the front of the surface.
Draco eyes the picture smiling, and it is the best he’s ever felt.
***