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Chapter Text

Draco decided he needed to talk less. In fact, he had a feeling his entire life would go a lot better if he just shut up entirely.

Talking had never served him well. He’d spent years talking, just talking, talking, talking. Talking shit about Muggles. Talking shit about half-bloods. Talking shit about people without status, without power, without money. Talking shit about Harry Potter. Especially talking shit about Harry Potter. And, good god, how he’d boasted about his father, about the Dark Lord, about how there was going to be a fucking revolution, how they were going to take back the wizarding world. How things were going to change.

They’d changed, all right. The kind of change that saw his mother under house arrest, his father sitting in Azkaban awaiting sentencing, and Draco himself sitting in front of the Wizengamot, the Dark Mark on his arm – his arm, which, by the way, still had a slight tremor, a parting gift from the Dark Lord, a token of his fondness for the Cruciatus curse – and a list of charges against him longer than his scarred, trembling arm being read to the court.

“Draco Abraxus Malfoy, you are charged with one count of being a Death Eater, one count of conspiring in the death of Albus Dumbledore, two counts of abetting in the attacks on Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, twenty-seven counts of casting the Unforgivable Cruciatus, six counts of casting the Unforgivable Imperius, one count of attempted murder of Katherine Bell, one count of attempted murder of Ronald Weasley...”

His family advisor had discouraged him from claiming to be under the effect of the Imperius curse. While it had been a good defence after Voldemort’s first reign of terror, this time around it was eliciting anger that bordered on fury. The few Death Eaters who had tried it had not only been found guilty, but had also been given harsher sentences than anyone had anticipated. Instead, he’d been advised to play up his youth, the threat to his family, and the “coercive” nature of the Dark Lord. Draco, however, had opted to do none of those things. There seemed very little point; he had no hope that the Wizengamot would be sympathetic. He knew what he’d done. He knew he’d have to answer for it, no matter what his reasons were at the time.

“Mr Malfoy, do you understand the charges that have been brought against you?”

Draco couldn’t bring himself to look at the Interrogator. Keeping his eyes fixed on the wood-grain of the floor in front of him, he nodded.

His gaze stayed on the floor and he listened dispassionately as the gathered witnesses came forward, one by one detailing his crimes. Rosemerta and Katie Bell speaking about his disastrous plan with the cursed necklace. Fleur Weasley giving an impact statement about the injuries her husband suffered when Draco let Fenrir Greyback into the school. A whole line-up of witches and wizards detailing how Draco had held them under Cruciatus, torturing them on Voldemort’s command during Death Eater raids. There were even two Muggles who had been found in the Manor dungeons, kept purely for the Dark Lord’s pleasure. Draco had tortured them several times. They all had.

Draco didn’t feel shame or regret as he listened. He was too far beyond that. The last two years he’d felt it all – shame, regret, fury, humiliation, terror, panic, guilt, sadness – it had all lived in a tangled ball that burned cold in his chest every second of every day and night. But now, he felt nothing. He hadn’t felt anything since he’d seen Voldemort fall at last, seen Potter lower his arm, two wands clenched in his fist, and known it was all finally over. In that moment, he’d actually stumbled with relief, and then the fog had found him and it had held him ever since.

When the Interrogator asked if he had anything to say on his own behalf, Draco shook his head, his lips pressed tight in a thin line. There was nothing to say that wouldn’t sound like an excuse.

The Interrogator asked if anyone would like to speak on his behalf. The room went silent, the background hum of whispers and shifting bodies that had been present for hours suddenly gone. Draco looked up and saw hundreds of eyes, all locked on him, all hungry, all hard.

“I’d like to say something.”

The entire courtroom turned as one to stare at Harry Potter.

Draco had known he was there of course. Rumour had it that Potter had been at every Death Eater trial so far. He’d certainly been at Draco’s father’s trial. He’d provided testimony against him. Potter had spoken against some of the others, too, giving his statement in calm, clear tones, his expression fixed and hard. If reports were correct, he never stayed after he’d spoken. The other witnesses tended to stay to hear the verdict. Potter would just rise from his seat at the front of the room and walk steadily towards the door, Granger and Weasley closing rank around him if they were with him, on his own if they weren’t.

They weren’t today, as it happened. Potter made his way along the row of onlookers where he’d been seated and walked towards the front of the room with the same purposeful stride he had when he walked onto the Quidditch pitch.

Draco watched, stunned, as Potter sat himself in the wooden chair assigned to witnesses. Potter waited for permission to begin. When the Interrogator nodded at him, he began to speak. His voice was quiet, but firm; it carried easily into every corner of the room.

“I want to speak for Draco Malfoy. As most of you probably know by now, during the war I had a connection to Voldemort that let me see things no one else outside of the Death Eaters could have seen. Based on what I saw, I believe Malfoy was forced into service as a Death Eater –
Voldemort threatened to kill him and his family. Despite this threat, he did not kill Dumbledore as he had been ordered to do. As well, there were two separate times when my life was in danger and I only escaped because of Malfoy.”

Potter expanded on this opening statement in great detail. Draco listened but found it hard to process Potter’s words. Of all the people Draco had imagined coming to his defence, he had never once thought it would be Potter. Draco stared, barely even blinking, as Potter talked. He wasn’t an eloquent speaker, but he was compelling. There wasn’t a sound in the room other than Potter’s voice. Every now and then, Potter would look over at him, his expression stern, his eyes dark and flashing, making Draco’s pulse jump. It was a look Draco knew well. He’d seen it on Potter’s face that day in the Great Hall, right before he cast his final spell. Conviction. Resolution. Unyielding determination. That look had seared itself into Draco’s memory. He suspected that for the rest of his life, whenever he thought of Potter, he would picture that look.

There was a sudden silence and Draco realised Potter had stopped talking. The Interrogator was saying something, Potter was nodding, and then he rose and walked back down the aisle toward the doors.

But he didn’t leave. Instead, he went back to his original seat. He didn’t talk to anyone, didn’t look at anyone as he shuffled back along the row. He found his chair, sat, and faced the front of the room expectantly. His eyes cut to Draco and his expression shifted somehow, but Draco didn’t know how to interpret it. Then Potter turned his attention back to the front of the room and Draco did the same. Behind him, he could hear the hissing whispers, hushed voices all asking the same question he was: Why?

Draco stood outside the entrance to the Leaky Cauldron turning a cream-coloured envelope around and around in his hands.

He could do this. He could. He was going to go in there and knock on Potter’s door and say “Thank you” and Potter was probably just going to stare at him, but that was what the letter was for. He could just push it into Potter’s hands and go. It was a simple thing, really. He just had to do it. He’d left it too long already. It had been sixteen days since his trial and Draco knew full well the only reason he was standing there on the streets of wizarding London rather than rotting in Azkaban was Potter’s testimony. So he would go in and say thank you. Right now.

Taking a deep breath, Draco opened the door and stepped in. Compared to the sun and heat of Diagon Alley, the inside of the Leaky Cauldron was cool and so dark it took a moment for Draco’s eyes to adjust. He blinked a few times and faces swam into focus, all turned towards him. Some turned away again, indifferent, but many more kept looking. And frowning. Or scowling. A few even crinkled in disgust.

Draco’s heart sped. It had been like this the last few months. People’s post-war reactions to Death Eaters weren’t exactly friendly. He’d noticed that his acquittal – or, more likely, Potter’s testimony – had reduced the animosity somewhat, but people were still unpredictable, still angry, still grieving. And there were still many who felt Draco should be in Azkaban until he died.

Draco’s eyes darted around the room, but no one was getting out of his seat, no hands were clenched into fists. Draco breathed an inward sigh of relief and started across the room, heading towards the staircase that led away from the pub and up to the rooms for let. Rooms where Harry Potter was staying, if Draco’s information was correct.

His foot had not quite landed on the first step when he felt a hand on his shoulder, pulling him around. Draco recognised the man’s face – he was the pub’s owner - but he couldn’t recall his name.

“Where do you think you’re going?” the man asked, threat unmistakable in his tone.

“I’m calling on one of your guests,” Draco said, grateful when his voice came out smooth and cool. He hated it when they saw him get flustered.

“Oh no, you’re not. There’s only one guest up there right now, and I know for a fact he is not expecting you, Mr Malfoy.”

“He may not be expecting me, but I do have business with him and I’d appreciate it if you’d let me pass.”

“That’s not going to happen.”

“I only want to deliver this letter to him.”

“I’ll deliver it.”

“I’d really prefer to give it to him myself.”

“I’m sure you would. But, like I said, that’s not going to happen. My pub, my rules. Now, I suggest you hand that over to me and be on your way.”

A million insults were bubbling up, begging to be let loose. Draco forced them back down. Arguing would get him nowhere except tossed out, letter undelivered. Or maybe some of the patrons who were looking on with undisguised contempt would decide that glaring wasn’t enough anymore. Draco bit his tongue so hard he tasted blood, and he hated, he hated, the smug look on the landlord’s face as he watched Draco grapple with his self-control. Draco thrust the letter towards the other man, who took it with a smirk.

“There’s a good lad,” the man said as he tucked the letter into the pocket of his apron. It would never reach Potter. Draco would bet every Galleon he had on it.

He turned and left, striding across the sticky floor of the pub with as much dignity as he could muster. He let the door close too hard behind him, his one concession to the anger churning in his gut. That was happening more and more since the trial, the fog lifting, the emotions bleeding back in. Draco couldn’t say it was a change for the better. He knew it probably wasn’t healthy but the fog had made things... easier...

He walked out into Diagon Alley, but came to a dead halt after only a few metres. He squinted; the midday sun was too bright after the gloom of the pub and it made his eyes water. He rubbed at them trying to decide what to do next. He wasn’t sure he could handle another unpleasant encounter. One more rude clerk or bump from a random stranger and Draco was quite sure his whole talk less mantra was going to fly straight out the window. But the thought of home was no better, his mother drifting through the hallways, pale and tense, his father’s absence heavy around them, memories of the Dark Lord still shadowing every wall and corner.

The longer Draco stood there, stock still as people flowed around him, the more foolish he felt. It wasn’t that hard. He just had to pick a place and go there. Anywhere would be better than the middle of the street. He just had to pick a place. Any place.

His eyes pricked and stung and he ground at them with the heels of his hands. When he opened them again, another pair of eyes was looking at him, green and curious and only a foot or two away.

“Merlin’s tits!” Draco gasped, stumbling back a step.

He found his footing quickly, but he still felt unsteady, shaken by Potter’s sudden appearance. Back at the pub he’d been prepared for Potter, had braced himself for the conversation. Even though only minutes had passed, now, out on the street, he wasn’t expecting it, wasn’t ready, especially not on the heels of his altercation with the landlord.

“Sorry.” Potter gave him an apologetic smile. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“Did you want something?” Draco asked, his discomfort making him blunt when he knew he should be conciliatory. He had been looking to thank Potter for his freedom, after all.

“I was just coming down the stairs as you were leaving,” Potter said, seemingly unconcerned with Draco’s lack of manners, which, Draco supposed, wasn’t surprising given their history. “Sorry about Tom. He takes my privacy pretty seriously.”

Merlin, how many times was Potter going to be witness to his moments of humiliation?

Draco covered his embarrassment with a smirk. “Must be fun for the other lodgers, having all their guests interrogated before they’re allowed to visit.”

Potter’s lips twisted into something that was edging towards a grin but ended up as a frown and his eyes dropped to his shoes, ratty trainers with scribbles inked onto them in pen. “Oh, well, there aren’t any other lodgers. I rented the whole floor. It was just... easier...”

“I can imagine.”

And he could. Once word got out that Harry Potter had taken a room at the Leaky Cauldron, every reporter and groupie in a hundred mile radius must have been angling to acquire lodging.

Potter looked up and pushed his fringe out of his eyes. “Anyway, Tom said you were looking for me?”

Now it was Draco’s turn to feel awkward. Only moments ago, he’d been furious not to be able to thank Potter in person. Now he wished he had any excuse to be elsewhere. “I left a letter for you.”

“I got it, but, well, he made it sound like you wanted to talk to me in person.”

Potter’s eyes flicked up to catch Draco’s. To Draco’s shame, he wasn’t able to hold the look, instead pretending be distracted by the bright display of a nearby storefront. It was only then he noticed the small crowd gathering around them, taking in the spectacle of the Saviour of the Wizarding World talking to the Death Eater he’d saved from Azkaban. It figured that he couldn’t be allowed any dignity as he did this.

He set his jaw and forced himself to meet Potter’s eye. “I wanted to say thank you. For speaking on my behalf at the trial. I’m certain they would have convicted me if it weren’t for you. So, thank you.”

Potter looked at him blankly for a moment and then he smiled, open and warm and with something like amusement hiding there, too. “You’re welcome. But you don’t have to thank me. I didn’t do it for you.”

Draco’s breath left him in a horrifying rush and he wondered if everyone could see that it felt like Potter had just batted a Bludger at his gut.

It must have been obvious because Potter flushed and hurriedly added, “I mean, it wasn’t a special favour or something. I did it because it was the right thing to do.” Then the smile came back and yes, there was definitely amusement in it now. “You might be a spoilt git, but you don’t deserve Azkaban.”

“Thanks. I think.”

“Any time.”

And then there was nothing else to say, really. They just stood there not quite looking at each other, the pressure of dozens of pairs of eyes bearing down on them. Draco was just drawing a breath, getting ready to say good-bye and get out of there, when Potter rocked forward on his feet and shot Draco a strange, almost hopeful look from underneath his fringe.

“So what are you up to now?”

Draco blinked. “Hm?”

Potter’s eyes darted away. He looked embarrassed, but he repeated the question. “Right now, what are you doing?”

“Not much,” Draco replied as he recovered his composure. “Shockingly, my social obligations seem to have dropped off somewhat in recent weeks.”

Potter nodded down Diagon Alley. “I was going to wander over to Quality Quidditch and check out the brooms. Want to come with me?”

Draco gaped. So did several of the onlookers crowded around them.

Potter laughed, though it was thin, almost nervous. “Come on. It’ll be... Well, I don’t know what it will be. Very weird, most likely. Probably awkward as arse, too.”

A startled laugh escaped Draco before he could stop it. “Really, Potter, don’t oversell it.”

Potter grinned and started walking. Draco fell into step beside him.

Potter was right, it was weird. Draco was all too aware of the eyes on them as they made their way down the thoroughfare. He was also very aware of Potter beside him, of the movement of his body and the quiet footfalls of his trainers on the cobblestone street. Every now and then the crowd would thicken and Potter would tuck in nearer to Draco, their shoulders and hands brushing. Draco felt a strange swooping sensation in his stomach every time.

Potter was right about the other part, too. It was awkward as arse. Apparently extending an invitation to Draco had maxed out Potter’s conversational abilities and Draco himself was doing no better. The silence stretched between them, the weight of it pressing down on Draco as if trying to push words from his mouth. But he didn’t trust himself to speak because all he could think was, Why did you save me? Why are you here with me? Why are you living alone in a musty old room above a pub? Where are your friends? and a hundred other questions that likely had no easy answers. So Draco held to his mantra and said nothing, however uncomfortable it made him feel.

They rounded a corner and Draco could see Quality Quidditch Supplies at the end of street, could just make out the outline of a broom in its window. He wondered if they’d get there without a word passing between them.

Potter must have had a similar thought because he drew a sharp breath and said, “So did you get your letter?”

Draco shot him a questioning look.

“Your Hogwarts letter,” Potter clarified. “Did you get it?”

Draco nodded, suddenly wishing they could go back to the silence.

But Potter, apparently, had difficult questions on his mind, too. “Are you going?”

Draco stopped and turned to fix Potter with an incredulous look. “Are you joking? There was a war. I was on the side trying to destroy the world. I hardly think I’ll be welcome at Hogwarts.”

Potter’s brow furrowed. “If you got a letter, then you’re welcome.”

Draco shook his head in disbelief. “You can’t possibly be that naive.”

“I’m not saying it will be easy. But it will be worth it.”

“And you’re basing this on what, exactly?”

Then Potter was staring at him hard and he had that look on his face again, the same one he’d worn in the courtroom. The same one he’d worn with Voldemort. Draco felt pinned beneath it.

“I believe what I said at your trial, you know,” Potter said. “I believe you were coerced. I believe you didn’t want to do things you did, that you felt like you had no choice.”

As much as Draco wanted to accept Potter’s justification of his behaviour – and he very much wanted to – he knew it was a lie. “There’s always a choice,” he countered, and was surprised by the bitterness in his own voice.

Right. Time to shut up.

He started to walk on but Potter’s hand shot out, closing around his arm – his left arm – stopping him. Draco’s arm trembled at the touch.

“What?” he snapped, embarrassed that his arm had chosen now to act up.

But if Potter noticed, he didn’t say anything. Instead he just kept looking at Draco with that fierce, determined look. His hand stayed curled around Draco’s forearm, his fingers separated from Draco’s Dark Mark only by the material of Draco’s robes.

“A lot of people went through the war without having to make any choices,” Potter said, his voice low and firm like it had been in the courtroom. Compelling. His eyes burned into Draco. “A lot of people just sat back and waited to see what was going to happen. And then when things got bad, they threw up their hands and waited for someone to make it better. You and I didn’t get to do that. We had to make choices. Hard choices, the kind where people could die. Where we could die.”

Draco pulled his arm from Harry’s grasp and scowled. “I doubt people will see me trying to murder Dumbledore to save my family on par with you sacrificing yourself to save the whole world.”

But Potter shook his head. “I’m not talking about ‘people’. I’m talking about you and me. I know what it’s like when the hard choices come. And I know that, yeah, other people might look at your situation and say, ‘Well, that was his choice.’ But when you’re there, living it, and it’s the people you love on the line, it doesn’t feel like a choice. It feels really clear what you have to do.”

For a long moment, they just stared at each other. Draco’s heart thudded against his ribs and his arm continued to tremble, minute twitches that Draco knew no one could see but that he could feel and could not control.

Draco was on the verge of making a break for it, because, gratitude or no, this was just too much, when Potter turned away and started walking towards the Quidditch shop again. Draco stared after him, and then strode forward to once more fall in step beside him.

They reached the shop quickly, but Potter didn’t go inside, instead drifting over to the window where the new Firebolt A-700 was displayed.

Potter’s eyes gleamed as he looked at it. “Bloody hell, would you look at that thing. That is a beautiful broom.”

Draco nodded, because, really, it was.

“Do you think they’ll let us play on the house teams?”

Draco didn’t answer. He hadn’t given it any thought. School teams and the Quidditch Cup seemed as though they belonged to another time. Another life. And he supposed, in a way, they did.

Potter had a hand against the glass now, fingers pressing on it as though they could push through the window to grip the broom. “God, I miss it. Being up there, the wind whipping around you, broom surging beneath you, and for that moment, there’s nothing in the world except you and the Snitch. Everything else just disappears.”

Draco knew what he meant. He missed it, too, the easy joy of it. He wanted to return to that simplicity, that innocence, so badly it put a lump in his throat. He pushed away the thought because he couldn’t, he wouldn’t, lose his shit here in front of Potter. Instead, he aimed for a drawl and said, “Why, Potter, that was almost poetic.”

Potter turned to look at him, the expression on his face telling Draco he hadn’t fooled him for a second. “You’re going to tell me you don’t feel the same way? I’ve seen you fly. I’ve seen the look you get when you’re diving for the Snitch.” He turned back to the window, his eyes moving hungrily over the broom. “You miss it.”

“I suppose,” Draco conceded. There was no harm in admitting that much.

“It feels like it’s been forever. I can’t wait to get back out there, see if I can still hold my own against the other Seekers.”

Draco nodded toward the Firebolt. “It’s not exactly going to be fair with you on that broom.”

“Point. Maybe I should get four. One for each Seeker. What size do you take?” Potter slanted him a cheeky grin.

Draco sniffed. “I can buy my own broom, thanks.”

“Fine, three then. And you’d better hope you pick something that can keep up.” Potter’s expression grew sober again as he turned to face Draco. “I’m serious, Malfoy. Come back to Hogwarts.”

Draco kept his eyes on the display. “Why do you care whether or not I go back?”

“Because if you don’t come back, it’s like he won. Voldemort. If we let fear or hatred or whatever else keep us from doing things, then he’s won. Because that’s what he wanted, for Muggle-borns and purebloods to hate each other. He wanted us to see each other as enemies. He wanted to fracture our community, turn us on each other. And I’ll be damned if I’m going to let that happen. I didn’t – I didn’t go through everything I did just to see the same shit still happening.”

Draco did look at Potter then. He looked at him for a long time, taking in the resolute set of his jaw and the fiery look in his eyes. Then he nodded. “I’ll think about it.”

Potter nodded in return, some of the ferocity leaving his face. He gestured towards the shop entrance. “So, let’s go inside. I need to get my hands on this broom.”

***