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"To be worth a fig" - This phrase means something is worthless or of little value. It suggests that the object or situation being described is not valuable, just like a fig, which may not be highly prized compared to other fruits.

***

It’s warm, is the first thought that comes to his mind. 

Encapsulating, the embrace he is in, a vice grip that reminds him of his mother, terrified after the Battle of Hogwarts. Clutching him and roaming her dainty hands all over his body. 

“I’m okay,” He croaks weakly, but Narcissa is in hysterics, sobbing as if he’s among the rows of dead bodies. 

I’m safe, he thinks, but she doesn't hear him. Her eyes were frantic and wide, holding him as if he were the tether to life itself. 

Years later he will understand, that there is no greater fear for a parent than to lose their child. Fear is a mad thing that will make a slave lie to her master, a mortal stand before a Killing Curse, and a father do whatever it takes to bring you home. 

*** 

Draco drapes on white robes lined by the sleeves and edge in deep purple and gold. Runes inscribed the ancient oaths of knowledge and secrecy. Devotion to magic’s many mysteries. Underneath he’s wearing a single-breasted purple vest, collared white sleeves and his favourite lilac silver tie to match. Lined trousers, pressed with spells that would not let it crease no matter how long he sat and black cap-toe oxfords, shined to impress. 

A taper haircut reveals the darker roots of his platinum blond hair. It’s styled, casual yet still professional. And as he carries his matching briefcase from the Floo to his office, he spies his reflection from the metal doors of the lift and he knows, he knows he looks good. 

Handsome (his vanity can’t take anything else).

Well done (as he was raised to be). 

Smart (if he’s generous with compliments today). 

If he’s honest, a little lonely. 

Draco has friends, make no doubt about it. After the war, the Slytherins banded together and in a show of unity, helped each other through the change of tides and future with new reforms. Many chose to work their family estate or continue their businesses abroad, though Pansy does occasionally drop by every month or so for tea. Some like Greg, focused on magical carpentry, using their hands instead of their mouths to not get in further trouble. Draco also visits his mother every Sunday. 

But there’s still a loneliness that haunches on his shoulders. And as Draco’s footsteps echo through the Hall of Mysteries, tap tap tap, it feels heavier today than it does in years. 

His office is decorated in his taste, little indulgences he allows himself. His accomplishments that no one has ever heard of-framed and nailed on the wall, photos of his friends and family. A single work table with stacks of parchment- some marked read, annotated and sorted for his use. Shelves filled with old tomes and books. A tea set by the wall, under a large corkboard filled with memos and to-do lists. Draco allows the door to his office to close, and the silence follows him to the adjacent door in his office, revealing his laboratory. 

“Hello Glory,” Draco always checks the magical plant, nicknamed ‘Glory’, (it was difficult figuring out a suitable name for a plant, having run through twenty names before Glory stuck). He takes out a muggle notepad and pen (muggle inventions he begrudgingly admits are dead useful) and begins scribbling his morning observations. 

His laboratory is filled with tomes and trinkets for his work. Glory is behind a large glass class under a yellow spotlight, spelt to change the level of brightness according to the time of day. 

The silence can be thick enough that Draco hears sound emitting from the magical plant. Almost human whispers, yes, touch, adore, adore. 

Later he will dismiss it as the heaviness he carries in his heart, the thoughts that cross through him as he works. Draco has done many experiments and found no indication the plant has any ability to speak or convey any such message. It’s all in his head. 

I miss you. 

*** 

It was four years after the war, Draco completed his NEWTs and Mastery in Magical History. No one was more surprised by his choice of work than he. His younger self, before the war, would have sneered at how plain and boring Magical History was. But after the trials, the struggle to secure his NEWTs and monthly check-ins with his parole officer, Auror Jenkins, Draco decided, he had enough of his life in danger. 

During the aftermath, he spent months holed in a cottage with his mother, staying away from any major wizardry village (because the Malfoy name was scum now). His friends, those who barely escaped prosecution but were still being sidelined by the wizarding community, were barely holding themselves up. There was guilt shared, worry amplified for each other and a lot of reforming. 

He couldn’t bring himself to smile during those months, even after his mother repeated meaninglessly, that everything would be better. 

It wasn't. 

His friends tried to rope him into alcohol and partying, but he couldn’t bear to forget. 

The guilt was real, another entity that shared his bed every night. Those months, he remembers thinking, he doesn’t deserve to be happy, not with those buried in the ground, were the result of his involvement or cowardice. 

Books were his accidental safe place. Stories that transported him to a past where he did not exist and life seemed much better because of it. He’s always loved Magical History, but kept the interest to himself, partly because he did not want to be mocked as the House swot; he had an image to maintain (political, influential, a pureblood heir). 

The guilt was still there, but it felt like a third arm that he could manage when he tricked himself he was keeping himself from hurting others, from taking things he did not deserve. 

History was no one to own, and he could never mess it up. Subconsciously, it was also a way for him to grieve his father’s sentence and forced absence. 

Lucius Malfoy, Draco grew to learn, was a man of many masks. Many were unsavoury, political, cunning, and sleazy, and some he was ashamed to see with his own eyes, Death Eater, bigot, muggle hater. 

But Lucius Malfoy was also a safe place, his best advisor…a father and he, still in Draco’s small childish mind, is a great one. 

Lucius was always busy with work, and difficult to praise or show affection. But his father would make a point to spend every breakfast telling Draco grand stories of their world, your world he would say. Providing him with elaborate enticing tales and instilling an ambition and promise it was his to rule. 

As a young child, it had been the best part of his day- waking up eager to dress and be early for breakfast. His father was always ready with his morning tea and paper, greeting him with a warm hand on his head. 

Malfoy's wealth is able to provide a fruit of any season. His father had a liking to the Mediterranean dishes, occasionally, Draco recalls the sight of a small plate of figs. 

The figs had unique shapes and vibrant colours, creating an appealing display. Each fig is plump and rounded, adorned with smooth and delicate skin. The colours vary, ranging from deep purples and velvety blacks to shades of green and even golden hues.

Their skins exhibit a gentle sheen, hinting at their juiciness. The figs are arranged gracefully, in a circular pattern, inviting exploration. Their soft flesh, when his father cuts them open, reveals a tender and succulent interior. The vibrant hue of their flesh, ranging from pale pink to deep crimson, contrasts beautifully with the skin. 

This here is ours, Lucius would say. Any fruit of the season.

A core part of Draco's treasures is the bond he has with his father. I pass this legacy to you now, Draco. The importance of those quiet mornings they shared. The vision his father had for him. 

The love Draco felt. 

Lucius Malfoy was sentenced to twenty-five years in Azkaban. A generous sentence, compared to his other colleagues, and Azkaban was better now without the Dementors (the new era thankfully wanted them gone). His father deserved it, and Draco accepted it, for colluding with murderers, kidnappers, looters and rapists. For not doing the right thing. For leading his family to danger. 

But Draco refuses to taint the memory of those stories, the tradition of their breakfast mornings. In Lucius’s absence, they were his only solace. 

The moment Aurors rounded on them, Draco refused to talk to his father. He was so angry– how could you have left us, led us here? The solitary in a ministry cell allowed Draco his chance to finally stew and blame. They were put on trial separately, Draco’s was swift, he wasn’t the main concern of the Wizengamot. They were allowed to meet before his father was to be carted to Azkaban and Draco had been ready to give him a final verbal lashing Lucius deserved. 

But as soon as Draco saw him his anger deflated. Shackled and in simple grey robes, unbefitting of a man of his upbringing, embracing Draco roughly–forcing the Malfoy signet ring in his palm, surrendering his most coveted position–eyes glassy with an apology he was too weak to say. 

I pass this legacy to you now, Draco. 

Draco could do nothing but sob and embrace him back. 

For all Lucius was, he was Draco’s father still. 

And beyond the guilt, Draco loves him. 

Draco misses him more than he did when he was at Hogwarts. His morning lacked the eagerness he once had, the tradition and union he was accustomed to. 

It took him nearly four years after his Mastery, to work as an assistant filing clerk for Magical Historian Ava Genora (documenting Magical Wars), then later another job as a junior Archivist (carefully collecting and documenting dark magic activities from 1970 to the present times) to finally land an interview as an Unspeakable. 

Draco had mixed feelings about working with the Ministry, the same institution that locked his father (rightfully, but it didn’t make Draco happy) and a yearning to fulfil his ambitious side. 

The missive had confidential spells that made it impossible for Draco to tell anyone. Without another’s advice, naturally, his Slytherin instinct was too tempted not to take the opportunity. 

“What would your interest in research be, Draco?” 

He was prepared for the question, but his answer (compelled by versiterium) still made his cheeks warm, “Magical lineage, legacy, life,” 

Those words felt like they were exposing more than he intended. 

The interviewer looked up, a brief look of pity crossed her face but she did not comment. The quill scratched his answer onto the floating parchment beside them. 

“That will be all, Mr. Malfoy,” 

And his life as an Unspeakable, hidden in research under the sub-department of Life, began. 

*** 

It creeps at first, the sensation of being wrapped in thin strings, curling and covering him. Beginning from his toes, unassuming, ticklish even. His vision was enraptured by a dimmed purplish glow. That warmth was too much, yet difficult for him to stop. 

Then the coils thicken and his body is submerged in a tight vein of something he cannot escape. 

He wants to panic, to do something as it continues to grow, ever rapidly, up his chest, his neck and later over his face. But he can’t move, has no sensation except to be limp and allow it to take from him. 

He thinks of his father, the memory of him, standing helplessly by the Dark Lord’s feet. There is guilt, anguish and fear. True fear Draco has never seen Lucius Malfoy display before, right there in his quivering eyes as sixteen-year-old Draco lays on the floor. Shaking and twitching from the aftermath of a Cruciatus Curse. 

“Worthless,” The Dark Lord spat. 

His father flinched, and Draco remembers thinking, those words pained his father more than they did him. His father was begging the Dark lord on bended knee, to spare his son. 

"Crucio!" 

“You are everything,” 

His father's eyes are far away and his body twitching in similar pain. Mouthing the words in silence. Only Draco could hear.

Draco was so tired. He closed his eyes. 

*** 

A paper aeroplane flies into his office. Draco, seeker’s reflexes ingrained in him, caught it with one hand and eagerly rips it open and scans the missive. A small smile on his face. 

He signs the forms from the Department of Magical Transportation (DOMAT), spinning in his seat feeling giddy in his legs. 

His shipment has arrived and now he can finally get to the next part of his research: studying the ficus magical legatum up close and personal. 

It had been such a pain to find (two years of his head permanently stuck in the Ministry Archives and Mythology section just for a location, a pain to identify (he’s searched countries, identifying millions of Fig Trees, disappointment after each trip for another two years), and a pain to get approval and funding. 

The Department of Mysteries prides itself on the independent study of all things Magical, with one non-negotiable condition, whatever researched had to be a mystery one could justify worth committing one life to. 

“You may never find the answers to what you are looking for,” his Department Head, Unspeakable Yonya, warned him. “There were others before you, attempting to find and later uncover the magic behind the myth of this Fig Tree. All have passed with nothing to show,” 

His proposal laid innocently between them, a thick envelope with the title of his research plastered on it in cursive black ink. 

Ficus Magicae Legatum: The answer to legacy and life

Draco licked his lips, keeping his nerves under control. Unspeakable Yonya has been nothing but respectful when it came to his work. Draco has spent enough years interning at each department to know with conviction, his place is in the study of Life. He has a goal, a drive to find answers. In his obscured, infamous life, he's blown enough candles of ambition to protect his heart from the disappointment of where his future lays… but, this one thing cannot be taken from him. 

It just…cannot. 

"I want this," he announces with calm conviction. 

I need this. 

*** 

His world is dark. 

Draco laments in his head, how the story of his life does not seem to change. 

He grows up knowing people envy his status, his family, and his wealth. How he was born having. 

But he lives and ages with it all being taken, one by one, from him. 

Draco knew, that after the Battle of Hogwarts, his life would never be the same again. He thought himself prepared as he was interrogated, as his life was splashed through the papers, put on trial for all to judge and scorn. He knew he deserved to be punished, but he was still scared. 

Utterly pissing terrified for himself, his parents, and his future. 

Everything he grew up knowing was upended ever since the Dark Lord returned. His father was not the omnipotent man, Draco once thought he was. His mother was not able to protect him forever. And his beliefs were wrong, all wrong, and now he was paying for it. 

He wished it was a curse, an attack, someone’s doing. So he could put the blame somewhere, other than the apparent exposure to dark magic and the probability of his pure blood genetics–that was not helping in his case–the cause of the latest diagnosis he received through a standard pre-marriage health check-up. 

A standard custom purebloods do before an arranged meeting. Eight years after Hogwarts, his mother was finally able to convince him to give a meeting with Astoria Greengrass, his prospective intended, a try. 

A family Draco, someone to love, don’t you want that? 

Draco thought of his father then. In his pictures growing up, he was always present. Stiff and a little upstuck and pompously dressed, but present. 

The healer was a kind woman, with foxy grey hair and a warm smile, entering the room with his results with a tight smile. Draco's heart dropped by her news. News that would slowly suck out the very soul and purpose of him. A heavyweight that would match the pain of longing he still feels every time he has breakfast with his mother and they sit with another empty chair between them.

"Infertile?" Draco parrots incredulously, "What do you mean–I–I can’t be–?" 

He was twenty-six, almost finished with his Mastery, and had only been through a handful of parties (his friends thought him boring now). Living as a scholar (his mother had sighed at that but it was his life), meeting a prospective bride. 

For a family. 

“I regret to say it is so,” the Healer says apologetically. 

Draco reread his report, stunned on his feet. His mother was outside, waiting to get lunch together. It was supposed to be a routine check. A boring day. 

His lips trembled, “What can I do?” 

The Healer winces, “There are some illnesses, even magic cannot cure,” 

Draco shakes his head, “I’m young, there has to be some potion- a test!” He was a pureblood, his father had drilled into him for years, the importance of family, he hadn’t thought about it really…but to think he would never be able to…

“Find a way,” Draco orders weakly, almost forgetting who he is, and where he is. “This can’t be it,” 

His mother is outside, waiting to eat lunch. To discuss his possible bride, his wedding, in hopes of a…

The Healer looks at him with pity. 

His mother will accept the news stoically, but later Draco will see her eyes rimmed red. He will beg her not to tell Lucius. 

Worthless, the Dark Lord had said. 

Draco can’t see anything.

*** 

Something penetrates the skin on his back. He tries to twitch and react, but every limb, every nerve is immobile. 

Arms bound around him, eyes closed by the same thing. He’s not breathing, but he’s not dead, in the silence he can hear the loud beating of his heartbeat. His magic zapped up and down his spine. He moans but his mouth is covered and he realises… almost too belatedly. 

The tree. 

***

Draco had lost interest in everything Hogwarts after the war. Although he kept in touch with his friends, his initial desire to be the centre of attention quickly lost its appeal. He didn’t want people to recognize him. He knew what they thought of him, and although he worked hard to stay out of trouble, on either side of the war, he was still scorned. 

Not to be dramatic, no one dared to do anything, especially with the influx of recruits. Hermione Granger was the voice for change, insisting on tolerance and acceptance in all forms. Her famous words: ‘If Only, were repeated everywhere, demanding compassion in all forms, whether it be muggle born or purebloods. 

If only I had been introduced to the wizardry world sooner, it would have soothed my nerves as a newly discovered witch, ready to immerse myself into the culture of magic.   If only they  had comprehended that a muggle-born child possesses an equal measure of magic within, with a fervent love for the mystical arts, perhaps they would have viewed us not as adversaries but as invaluable allies, propelling our community towards progress in the twenty-first century.

The wizardry community was too small to remain in a state of war, words of reconciliation and rebuilding, and messages of hope were constantly on replay.  Other issues, such as economic stability, the changing political climate, the advances of muggle technology and the alarming deterioration rate of magical child births took fore forefront. 

Trivial things such as old-school rivalries were the last thing on Draco’s mind. 

Draco’s journey to Turkey was a year-long preparation. Aydin was situated in the fertile Büyük Menderes River Valley, surrounded by picturesque landscapes, and mountains filled with fig orchids that captivated Draco upon first arrival. Lush rolling hills, carpeted with olive groves and vineyards, paint a scenic backdrop against the azure sky. The region's Mediterranean climate blesses Aydın with long, warm summers and mild winters, creating an inviting atmosphere for visitors and locals alike.

Draco stood still for a full minute just staring. 

There was a blend of ancient ruins and modern developments, magical and muggle elements. The city proudly showcases remnants of its past, offering a glimpse into its historical significance. Remnants of the Temple of Aphrodite, a testament to the city's ancient Greek heritage. The ancient city of Tralles, which once thrived during the Roman period, and so much more, Draco wished he had more time to explore. 

The city centre of Aydın is a bustling hub of activity, with vibrant markets, shops, and restaurants lining the streets. Draco was quickly immersing himself in local culture, sampling traditional Turkish cuisine or shopping for handicrafts Pansy would never want. The warmth and hospitality of the residents added to the city's charm, and made him feel welcomed. Embraced. 

He was on a mission in search of a mythical magical fig tree that may or may not exist. He planned to connect with the local orchids, access the local wizard village and gather information, hopeful that his research would bear fruit. 

It was June, a week after his twenty-ninth birthday. His mother insisted he celebrated with her before he left for ‘who knows how long’. He wasn’t able to share anything with her, but he assured her that he was working with kind magic. Narcissa still assumed he was working as a historian. He did not bother to correct her. His friends had long lost interest in his field of work. 

He still worked closely with magical history, but over the last few years, his interest was in mythical stories. Currently, the one he is obsessed with is a magical fig tree Turkish wizards write about in their annals as the: Fig of Life. 

Long ago, nestled in a quiet village embraced by rolling hills, there lived a barren couple named Eamon and Ayse. Their hearts ached with a deep longing for a child, yet despite their prayers and hopes, their home remained devoid of the laughter and joy that only a child could bring.

One fateful evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, a mysterious figure appeared before Eamon and Ayse. It was an ethereal being, clothed in robes the colour of twilight, with eyes that sparkled like the stars. The figure revealed itself as an ancient spirit, the guardian of the sacred fig tree that stood tall at the edge of their village.

The spirit spoke with a voice that echoed like a gentle breeze through the trees. "Eamon and Ayse," it whispered, "your fervent desire for a child has touched the roots of the fig tree, and it has heard your plea. I shall grant you the gift of parenthood, but only if you promise to care for and love the child that springs forth from the sacred tree."

Eamon and Ayse, overcome with both disbelief and hope, eagerly accepted the spirit's condition. They followed the spirit through the meandering paths until they reached the fig tree, its branches spreading wide, adorned with luscious, ripe figs. With a gentle touch, the spirit gestured towards a single fig that glowed with a warm, golden hue.

"Consume this fig together, and your deepest longing shall be fulfilled," the spirit whispered.

Eamon and Ayse, trembling with anticipation, shared the magical fig, savouring each bite. As the last morsel dissolved on their tongues, a radiant light bathed the couple. They clasped each other's hands and felt an enchanting warmth surge through their bodies.

Days turned into weeks, and weeks into months. Soon, a small bud appeared on the fig tree, blossoming into a tender shoot. It grew steadily, stretching towards the heavens. The villagers marvelled at the miracle unfolding before their eyes, for the fig tree had indeed borne the gift of a child for Eamon and Ayse.

Wizardry myth usually originated from previous warlocks discovering bouts of magic and recording them as tales (a major example is the Deathly Hallows). Draco spent months searching for more resources and multiple other stories that shared the same message. 

It felt like a lifeline, a way out of the dark tunnel he found himself in. 

Draco never thought he would be someone who would be obsessed about having a child of his own, but after months of the same verdict from multiple Healers–he just couldn’t let it go. 

His arranged meeting with Astoria Greengrass broke apart. Despite his mother’s protest, Draco did not feel comfortable burdening another witch with his shortcomings. 

It was difficult to share with his friends, who have paired off themselves–Pansy wedded a French wizard who owned a vineyard in France. Theo married Daphne and had twins. Blaise mentioned about putting his bachelor days behind him for a sweet bird named, Ayla. 

Even Greg, beefy stumbling Greg, found himself a kind Ravenclaw and was expecting a daughter later in September. 

Draco refused to be the pitiful one in their group. So he swallowed the pain, kept it silenced and muffled deep within him and repurposed it into focus and drive for his research. 

When the Dark Lord took over his house, Draco had been helpless and young. Draco refuses to remain so.

Here he stands, in a foreign country, far away from home, years later, in search of a fabled fig tree, with a glimmer of hope that, just maybe, it holds the answers he seeks.

What he got instead, was a surprise encounter…with Harry bloody Potter. 

*** 
Draco can hear the vines moving, unlike a snake, it creeps across the ground, around him. 

The leaves quivering, the wood groaning with a small twist. Everything in Draco burns. 

The roots part the soil, deep between the marbles and the ground. 

Draco’s throats expands, but his mouth is clamped shut. He lets out a silent scream. 

*** 

The sight of Harry Potter, dressed in a moss green thobe, his signature wild hair, golden hexagon framed glasses tinted black, sun-kissed skin and pearly teeth that shone white- left Draco breathless. His head was flung back as he laughed heartily at a vendor. 

Draco stopped in his tracks, hiding behind colourful hand-crafted bags, unsure of what to do. It was his first week in, and he had only trekked one orchard that produced no results. The language barrier was an unforeseen challenge. Translating spells was not as accurate as Draco hoped (though it could directly translate, there was a lot of cultural context lost). He was struggling to navigate the muggle-populated areas, Aydin was enormous. He was hopeful at first, but he was quick to be impatient and at the sight of the thousands of mountains he would need to cover, a little intimidated. 

He’s a historian, used to spending hours searching for documents and opening tomes for cross reference. He’s never scavenged or unearthed anything in sight. Never actually went out in search of clues or artefacts himself. 

He thought exploring the city would be a fun way to relieve his stress. A new mission to help from his sense of helplessness and despair. Instead, he wished he stayed in his hotel and did the sensible thing, such as reading a book. He thought taking on a new challenge would help him turn his fate. 

It seems his fate is still set on an unlucky path, of all people he had to stumble upon- why, oh why did it have to be Harry the git Potter?

Draco has heard the rumours, who hasn’t? Potter leaves the Aurors, breaks up with Ginny Weasley, throws a tantrum and is not seen in Britain in years. The occasional- where is he now? - run by the Daily Prophet, every Halloween or second of May, with his face plastered on front pages, grim and angry. 

Watching him now though, Potter looks the furthest away from anger, in fact, Draco who’s forgotten what the look is, dares to assume, the man is happy . 

Harry was speaking fluent Turkish with a vendor, baklava sweets and a small plate of dried figs in his hand. 

“Abi, sana köydeki en iyi tatlılar olduğunu bedava incirler karşılığında söylemedim!” 

(Brother, I didn't tell you that we have the best desserts in the village in exchange for free figs!)

“Ve işte bu yüzden kardeşim, daha fazlası için gelebilirsin,”

(And that’s why brother, you can come for more,”

Draco hesitated. He wasn’t doing anything wrong, he was a Ministry employee! But Potter had a way of resurrecting the guilt and shame Draco tried so hard to bury. What if Potter thought he was up to something? What if he was wrongly accused? Sent to jail and his research dismissed? Draco knew what it felt like to be at the mercy of Potter’s wand, the scars on his chest giving him phantom pain, he swallows, once, twice. 

As if his worries were broadcasted to the mountains, Harry’s face turns slightly to the left and his eyes catch his. Potter froze, brows furrowed and eyes narrowed before it widens. It’s apparent that he too was not expecting to see Draco so far away from home. 

Draco does the most sensible thing he could do for a man at that moment. 

He runs. 

*** 

Draco takes residence in the lord Butik Otel & cafe Bistro, the walls are black with windows rimmed orange. His room is small and simple, but it’s surrounded by local shops and is at the bottom of the mountain of four main fig orchards. 

The cafe owner, Leena, was a nice squib who either did not know his family name or didn’t care for it. Ayding does not have a magical village as large as Hogsmeade, instead magical folk blend seamlessly with muggles. Going about their day like any other Turkish local. 

Draco agonized for days about the best place for his stay, magical, at the heart of everything and with an owner who was friendly enough not to be a bother. After his almost run-in with Potter, he’s seriously contemplating leaving, pacing in his room, as if waiting for Potter to burst through the door and catch him off guard. 

Draco scolds himself for letting The major insufferable Saviour-Potter dissuade him from his mission, his research. He has a magical tree to find. He is a harmless historian-now-Unspeakable, he isn’t breaking the law. (Draco repeats this out loud a few times to convince himself). Potter probably doesn’t even care about him, and has probably forgotten he ever saw him. Yes, yes, Draco was no one to Potter. 

After a restless sleep, Draco tried to go about his day as normally as possible (I’m not doing anything wrong!) and focus on his work, speaking to locals and making plans to visit more orchards. Trekking up hills, riding muggle vehicles, munching on dried figs and noting his observations in his muggle notepad with his muggle pen. 

Everything is okay. 

Aydin was beautiful, the morning colourful and bright with so many smells, Turkish cuisine, sweets and ranches laughter “Gule Gule!”. The night was pleasantly festive and alive, it was summer and everyone was eating out, strolling the beach, dancing and playing with small fireworks. It was not too loud that it ruined the calm serenity, enough for Draco to form an unconscious smile. 

There was so much culture to explore, but Draco, out of some misplaced fear, stayed holed in his room, re-reading his notes and tomes. Trying not to think of a Harry Potter wandering the bustling nights, (looking for him?). 

Potter’s laughter, mouth in an open smile, was constantly on replay in the back of his mind. 

It took him five days later for Draco to finally be able to relax and stroll around the colourful market again, convinced Potter had left or was better yet, just a figment of his imagination (did you see that?). It was sunny out, too tempting for Draco to stay in. He was curious about a clothing shop he remembers passing by a few days ago, contemplating on trying on one of those local thobes. 

Local children were playing on the streets, one with a blindfold and hands outstretched running around as the others squealed and jumped in obvious delight. Ebe! Ebe! They shouted. Whenever Draco spots children, his heart can’t help but betray a small twinge, his mind always pitiously forming useless unbidden thoughts. 

There’s still hope. 

Out of the blue, a strong hand wrapped around his bicep, pulling his attention to face the Boy Who Lived. 

“Thought I saw you,” 

Spending all his years after the war surrounded by books has really dulled Draco’s reflexes. Draco’s eyes widened behind his sunglasses, his palms open (wand in pocket) and his mind drawing a blank. 

Up close, Potter looked like he hadn’t aged a day. His style and change of glasses made his eye colour pop out even more. But he looked exactly how Draco remembered him. An inch shorter, shoulders squared, eyes ready for confrontation. 

Draco has never been this close to seeing every spot on the man’s face. Maybe it was the sun, the weather or just Potter’s natural complexion but the man has a new scar under his chin and a small mole- almost obscured by his thick hair, just above his left ear. 

Potter’s grip was firm but non-threatening. Draco has no idea why his neck feels alarmingly warm.  

“Potter,” His brain stuttered out loud, trying to make him do something other than stare at the wizard. 

“Malfoy,” Draco was surprised to hear no malice or judgement in his voice, Potter cocked his head and lips twitched a half grin. “Fancy seeing you here,” 

“I have every right to be wherever I please,” Draco snapped, regaining the process of his brain. He pulled his arm from Potter’s hold, scowling, “I wasn’t trying to bother your holiday,” 

“How do you know I’m on holiday?” 

“Are you working?” 

“No,” 

“So, a holiday,” Draco guesses flatly. 

“Maybe,” Potter evades. 

Potter’s eyes were scanning him quite intently, Draco cleared his throat and tried to step back. “Rest assured, there is no foul play happening here… you may go on with your not holiday and I'll be going on with mine. We don’t need to bother each other,” 

“So you’re not on a holiday?” Potter asks. 

Draco internally berates himself for the slip, “Again, none of your business, Potter,” 

Potter doesn’t look like he's listening. He’s always been a nosy prick. 

“Are you an Auror?” Draco can’t help but ask.

Potter shrugs, “Don’t need to be to know you’re up to something,” 

Draco scoffs, a little relief the wizard has no authority by law at least, “Of course. I forgot how brilliant you were at juvenile deduction,” 

“I was right about Sixth year,” 

Draco reeled back, stung at the casual reminder. “You don’t know anything about me!” He swirls around and stomps away. 

His arm shaking, upset at being reminded of the worst moment in his life. 

He came to Aydin for a new hope, a new future. 

It seems like the past won’t ever leave him alone. 

*** 

Draco’s hopes of going incognito were dashed as soon as he realized Potter was still popping up everywhere he was. Draco studiously ignored him the first few times they ‘accidentally’ crossed paths again. 

But the git was sitting two tables behind him in whatever restaurant Draco dined in. 

Draco caught Potter shaking hands with a man who, two days ago,  promised a tour of their orchard to Draco. 

He can’t shake the feeling he’s being watched, glancing over his shoulder every few hours, waiting for Potter’s wild hair to give him the slip. 

It got to the point where Draco couldn’t concentrate, by this rate he’d get nothing done and his chances of finding the magical fig tree were dwindling. 

Righteous anger at the injustice of it, Draco confronts the Saviour of the Wizardry World. 

“This is wrong, I could have you arrested!” 

They were in front of a large shoe shop, displays of muggle trainers, what Draco learnt to be branded goods and rows and rows of boxed shelves. A lot of foreigners were in Aydin this time of the year, the sidewalk where he confronted the wizard was filled with tourists and they were giving them odd looks and trying to walk around them. 

Potter had the good sense to look sheepish. Rubbing a hand behind his neck, “You made me curious,” 

“I don’t understand how that is my problem?” Draco glowered. If the table swerve turned he’d be locked up. 

“Oh, it's not,” Potter says it so casually as if he isn’t caught stalking, “Was hoping you’d make it one,”

Draco blinks at his audacity. “What, you want me to have a problem with you?” 

Potter shrugs, “Old time's sake?” 

The worst possible reason, is “No thank you,” 

Potter exhales roughly through his nose, “Come on Malfoy, tell me, why are you here?” 

Draco tries to leave but Potter has his arm against the wall, blocking his exit. 

“Are we doing this?” 

“Did they send you?" Potter accuses, eyes a little mad. 

“They?” Draco repeats, perplexed. 

“Hermione and Ron,” Potter says in a rush, “Did they send you?”

“Why would they need to send me?” 

“To make me leave Aydin,” 

Hands in the air, “I can't even convince you to let me leave!”

Potter at least looks guilty. 

“Why are you here then?” 

Draco loses his temper, “For a reason that has nothing to do with you! Honestly, do you think everything I do revolves around you? Some of us have moved on from childhood rivalries. I don’t need nor want to pick a fight with you! Why I am here is none of your business!” 

Draco shoulders past Potter, and marches through the parted sea of tourists. 

*** 

The next day, Draco skipped breakfast, too worked up over his outburst with Potter. He didn’t do anything wrong, Potter was the one acting unhinged, following him, interrogating him like a criminal for no reason. 

Draco has an appointment with a young man in one of the bread shops. Hopefully, he would be able to be Draco’s middleman and help him connect with the locals. It’s been difficult convincing them he does not want to steal their farming techniques, or that he has any nefarious intention to ruin their crops. It was close to harvest, so everyone was protective over their figs. 

He still has a tree to find. 

His hopes of having a normal, Potter-less day, seem to quickly wither when he spots. Potter was accompanying his ‘middle man’, making jokes and sipping his tea as if he had every right to be there. 

Potter spotted him and at least had the decency to pretend to look surprised. The middle man whispered a few words and Potter was nervously whispering back. The middle man wanted to say more, before his phone (Draco feels a little proud at knowing what the muggle technology is) and holds out a finger to ask to be excused. 

“Potter, what the hell?” Draco hisses as the man leaves to take his call. He needs to find that damn tree, a sign that his research is leading him in the right direction. He doesn’t need Potter mucking this up for him. 

“I didn’t know Zubayr was meeting you!” Potter defensively claims. “He told me he was nervous about meeting a Brit, he’s still practicing his English, and I thought I’d accompany him as a show of support,” 

“Is there anyone around here who doesn’t know you?” 

Potter rolls his eyes, “No one knows me here,” Unconsciously covering his scar. “Everything was perfect before you showed up.” 

Draco gaped at him, feeling wrong-footed, “For the last time, I’m not here to ruin that for you! I told you, I’m quiet glad to part ways and never speak to you again, I’m here for work!” 

“In Aydin, Turkey, millions of miles from Britain?” 

“Yes!” Draco nearly shouts indignantly. The middle man, Zubayr, returns, his eyes fleeting at both of them nervously. 

“Everything okay?” 

Draco is suddenly in no mood to discuss anything with someone who is chums with the git who lived to torment Draco’s life. 

“I’m sorry Zubayr, maybe we should reschedule,” 

Draco knows he can reach Zubayr again through Leena, so he hastily makes his exit. Sadly, unsurprised that Potter follows him out. 

“Wait! Wait! Draco, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to ruin your meeting,” 

Draco swirls around so fast, that Potter nearly stumbles into him. 

Probably because of Draco’s fuming stare, (Draco wants to believe) Potter raises his hands in mock surrender, “Alright, alright, you’re right, I apologize, I was out of line. I’m not an Auror, I had no right to stalk you or make you uncomfortable,” 

Draco waits with one brow raised. Potter sighs. 

“Nor did I have the right to know what you are up to and nose about,” 

“Damn right you don’t,” Draco gruffed. 

Potter massages his neck again, a nervous habit, Draco realizes, “I’d like to make it up to you,” 

“No thank you,” Was his swift reply. 

“I know a lot about this place–” 

“What part of no, do you not understand?” 

Potte’s shoulders dropped, and Draco’s inner child made a small skip. 

“Can you at least come back and meet Zubayr, he’s a nice chap and I feel like I’ve ruined things with him. He was excited to practice his English with a Brit besides me,” Potter ended his little speech with what almost looked like puppy eyes. 

Draco wanted to leave, he did not want to deal with Potter. 

But he needed more information if he was to ever make a dent in his search. 

Draco returned, with Potter following meekly behind him. Zubayr ordered them tea and a plate of dried figs and other Turkish delicacies. He glanced at them both, Draco tried to smile and hide his irritation as Potter sat beside him, oblivious to his intrusion. He pointedly stared at Potter to leave him but either Potter was obtuse or he blatantly ignored him. 

Potter casually introduced Draco in Turkish, cementing his part in today's meeting, the obnoxious prick. 

Fine, Draco wasn’t keeping secrets. If Potter wanted to desperately know what Draco was doing, Draco was unable to stop him. 

A small part of him would have thrilled at the idea that Potter was so invested in him. Another still hated his guts. 

Zubayr spoke a mixture of broken English and turkish, too fast for Draco to decipher. He tried to mark the farm on his map but Zubayr shook his head every few seconds, making Draco even more confused. 

It was probably the Saviour instinct ingrained in Potter’s bloated head, after fifteen minutes of gesturing and attempting to communicate with Zubayr, Potter intervened. 

He clapped the Zubayr’s shoulder, said a few things in Turkish and later nabbed the pen from Draco’s fingers. 

“This here is his family spot,” 

Draco gave Potter a dirty look before he examined the marking. 

“Thanks,” Draco murmured, hopeful Potter was deaf as he was blind. 

Potter hummed, finishing his cup of tea, blatantly studying him. 

“You look a little different,” Potter looks just as confused as Draco is by that question. “I mean, your hair, it's a different cut. And well, you’re wearing knee-length shorts…” 

“I was told this was the height of muggle fashion,” Draco insists, feeling prickly, his irritation steadily growing and spoiling for a fight. 

‘Who told you that? Your friends?” 

“A muggle poster,”. Draco doesn’t admit he rarely sees his friends. 

“Oh,” Potter repeats dumbly. 

Draco rolls his eyes, surely if anyone should be given a pass to entertain the boy wonder, it would be Draco. 

Draco stood, shaking Zubayr’s hand. “Thank you, you’ve been an immense help,” 

The man grinned, “Sorry, I try English speaking with you,” 

“You were very helpful,” 

Draco pushed his chair to slot under the table when Potter raised his hand to shake. 

A flash of memory comes unbidden, of an eleven-year-old boy whose handshake gets rejected. Draco squares his shoulders, he’s changed, he can be the bigger man, and he returns Potter’s handshake with a firm grip. 

The spark of magic might be his imagination, Potter’s eyes were too intense up close. 

Draco releases his hand and quickly bade them goodbye. 

Potter ran after him a second time, hands raised apologetically, but eyes determined, “You’re looking for a fig tree?” 

Draco accepts the inevitable, “Yes,” 

“I can, well, I don’t mind looking at some. I don’t have much to do, and they're preparing for a harvest right?” 

Draco blinked. “You want… to visit fig farms with me?” 

Potter shrugs again, “Yeah, sure,”

He doesn’t trust Potter’s sudden interest in him. Scrutinizing the wizard before him. 

Potter was wearing a jacket and white cotton shirt underneath, hands slipping into his jeans. Draco has seen muggle jeans before, but he’s never seen them on Potter and his eyes trace along the outlines of it before he could stop himself. 

“Why?” 

Potter messes his hair pointlessly. “Got nothing better to do,”

“Following me around is better, is it?” Draco sneers. 

Potter shrugs again (Draco’s eyes twitch, at the habit), a hand rubbing his neck, “Yeah, you’ve only just got here right? I could help you show the best places, I’ve been here a while and I know how to talk to the locals, Zubayr is nice, but you two seem to struggle to communicate…” 

Now, Draco was in another reality altogether. Why the hell was Potter offering his help with all things? Rivalries aside, they weren’t even friends. Let alone on speaking terms. He was caught off guard by how eager Potter was to find an excuse to spend time with him.

During the trials Draco found out that Potter testified for him and his mother, and on top of saving his life, Draco’s pride couldn’t take the thought of not acknowledging it. He had sent one letter apologising to Potter, convinced Potter wouldn’t open it, let alone accept it.

Potter did, and he replied the same day, requesting Draco to apologise to his friends as well. Draco agreed, but he never spoke to Potter or any of them after that, they didn’t suddenly become friends or cross paths.  

But now…

“I’m not here on holiday,” Draco reiterated. “I have work to do.” 

“So you’ve said.” 

Awkward silence. 

Draco thought it better if he nodded and left, he could turn around and ignore Potter if he knew what was best. But the way Potter was loitering around, the slight drop in his demeanour, the weird hopeful (?) lingers in his eyes… 

“You like an annoying fly I can’t swat away,” Draco complained. 

Potter frowns as if he is hurt by Draco’s statement. 

What is this? 

Draco recalls Potter’s ranchos laughter nearly a week ago. He thought Potter was happy, but maybe he was mistaken. 

Maybe he’s as lost as Draco, and what do they say about two lost souls?

Draco pretends he’s more annoyed than he feels, drawing it out, “Maybe you can be useful,” He clears his throat, grateful for his muggle shades. Draco crosses his arms, against his better judgement, “I didn’t have time to properly master the language, I could use a spell, but you right, it’s hard to communicate with the locals–” 

“Say no more! I’d be glad to help.” 

Harry’s smile is as blinding as the sun and for a second time, Draco is too stunned to speak.

***

At first, it was meeting for lunch every three days. Draco always insisted they eat in Yesil Vadi, a small cafe two blocks from his hotel. It’s not too pricey for frequent meals in, cosy enough for two wizards who are not friends but are not enemies to meet up and talk, and it’s not too close to his living space, which gives some much-needed boundaries. 

Potter was unfettered, he managed to figure out where his hotel was (Draco suspects he’s been spying on him under that blasted cloak, but doesn’t press on it). Potter unashamedly insists on lunch every day at his hotel’s Cafe. Much tastier options, he excuses. Draco frowns, feeling cornered, but he’s too polite to say anything. 

Leena, the hotel owner has been giving Draco a particular look whenever Draco comes down from his room. Potter is sitting in their corner (how did that happen)- waiting for him. 

He wonders how Potter’s friends put up with his constant need to barge into their lives, which might be why Potter is here instead of with them. 

For Potter to help, Draco has to explain a bit about his work. Draco leaves the Unspeakable part but freely shares about Magical History and the myths he’s researching. 

“You think this mythical fig exists?” 

“I don’t think it, I know it, ” Draco says a little frustrated, “Tracing the origin of the story and the many anecdotes from Plantae Superfictures and Crossed Magical Histories of the world, there is substantial evidence–”

“Ah, so you were a hidden swot all those years,” Potter comments casually, but it’s not mocking, more of fondly amused. It’s harder, Draco finds, to talk to a Potter that is so nice. He’s used to their snarky exchange. 

This was new territory. 

He isn’t sure if Potter is genuinely interested, or if he is playing with him and all this is an elaborate prank. But the wizard always leans in and listens without ever interrupting Draco, his green eyes intently focused (sometimes he wishes his muggle shades would cover the blush he feels) as Draco discusses lists of tomes and myths and the lists of historians he knows. 

When Draco goes on a rant about some misplaced archive or the barbaric way some documents have been preserved, Potter responds appropriately, meeting his passion with maintained interest, managing to recall obscure details from their previous conversation. 

Draco doesn’t remember when was the last time he enjoyed such companionship, feeling a little lighter (probably the alcohol) after each meeting. 

“I’ve never known you to be interested in Magical History,” Draco can’t help feeling a little suspicious. It’s been three weeks and Potter still wants to hang out with him. What gives?

Potter slabs on the jammed fig on his bread with beyaz peynir (Turkish version of white cheese), before dipping it into his tomato soup. 

“I’ve never had a reason to be interested in it before,” 

Draco tsked unimpressed, “Magical History is the essence of our culture, a documentation of life and conquest and achievements, to forget history is to forget our legacy,” 

Harry hums, he’s wearing a thobe again, dark blue, with a turban on his head. Draco hopes Potter hasn’t suddenly mastered Legilimency because the sight of his head under those silken wraps makes Draco think of baby crups. Which is mortifying. 

Potter stares at a wall blankly, “Maybe some legacies are best left forgotten,” 

Draco’s too curious not to ask why Potter is in Turkey. He tries to be subtle, abandoning the strategy as time passes and he gets impatient. Potter's mind not master mind magic, but he’s mastered the Slytherin talent to answer while not answering. 

“I needed the space,” 

“What? Britain wasn’t big enough for you?”

Potter shrugs, sipping his cola, “People don’t gawk at me here or ask annoying questions.” 

“Yes, one wonders what that feels like,” Draco drawls. 

Potter grins, amused, Draco swallows. Honestly, he’s stopped minding Potter’s interference. Back home, people wanted to spend time with him, but no one was incessant on his company the way Potter was (unless you include his mother, which he doesn't). 

Draco has forgotten how good it is to feel wanted. 

Potter continues, oblivious to Draco’s thoughts, “Weather’s nice, and the food is great, people are friendly enough, nothing ever goes on, what more do you need?” 

“So you live here indefinitely?” Draco can’t help asking. 

“I’ve been back to see my family (Teddy, Hermione and Ron Draco assumes from Potter’s stories), but I have everything I need here–why leave?” 

Draco doesn’t know what to say to that. 

It was July, and the summer heat was making itself known, Draco wore a short-sleeved collared shirt in light blue with Turkey-themed patterns on the sides. He didn’t think much about his exposed arms, waving instinctively at the sight of Potter sitting at their spot. 

Potter’s eyes zeroed in on his Dark mark, faded, but obvious against his pale skin, Draco mentally berated himself for the faux pass, wondering if Potter would finally get up and leave now he remembered who has been spending his time with. Draco tells himself he’s changed, but a small part of him will always be that boy- who made the mistake of believing his parents and almost murdered Albus Dumbledore and was branded at sixteen– 

Draco stands awkwardly, until he sees that Potter’s head titled sideways, eyes leaving his Dark Mark but now on Draco’s chest. 

It’s not a look of disgust, it looks like Potter wants , more than what Draco is ready to give.

*** 

Potter, true to his word, helped Draco connect with the locals, speaking fluent Turkish, accompanying him on visits to the farmer’s homes. It was odd how well acquainted Potter was with the culture, knowing what bread came with the tea, and what phrases to say to make the mothers blush but respectful enough that the fathers implored for them to visit again. Potter ate like them, sometimes with his right hand (which Draco thought was scandalous but made no comment). Turkish people took meals seriously, it was a calm and serene affair. There was talk about other things, and Potter didn’t seem perturbed to spend the time feeding the conversation until they reached their point. The men sometimes took cigarette breaks, which Potter joined (Draco respectfully did not) and the ladies wanted to show them everything, clothes, plates, more food. 

He was comfortable with opening his shoes in their home, and wearing their clothes. He even knew about the ‘Evil Eye’ and had bought Draco one to wear on his wrist. As a sign of ‘protection’ he explained, the locals used to ward off dark spirits. 

Draco was pretending to examine the blue eye pendant longer than necessary. He thinks that a spirit has already possessed him because now his stomach is doing weird tumbles that Draco cannot explain. 

“How long have you been here?” Draco can’t help but wonder everytime Potter showed him a new shop that tourists would never stumble upon by accident. Or after he easily joked around with the locals and haggled for a cheaper price on merchandise (Draco’s galleons were grateful). 

“Long enough,” Was Potter’s reply. 

Draco couldn’t understand. Potter spoke about his family with obvious yearning. Whenever he shows Draco Teddy’s picture, there is pride. He keeps tabs on his friends, and writes them letters. So why was he still here? 

Draco theorized that Potter, like Draco, was on a mission of his own. There was something he was looking for. An answer to his problems. 

Draco didn’t reveal why he was looking for the magical fig tree. Only his mother knows, and Draco couldn’t stand being in her presence longer than necessary. She used to drop hints on healing practices, potions and treatments. He knew she was concerned, but sometimes Draco felt suffocated and a little scared that she was disappointed in him. 

She claims she loves him the same, but they were pureblood were they not? The purpose of an heir was to carry on the name, their family legacy. 

What was the point if they couldn’t?

Draco trekked the terrains himself, marking an X on his map. The search was narrowing, and Draco trusted his source. Call it a hunch or a magical pull, but Draco had faith that Aydin would give him answers. 

He was getting nowhere in finding the magical fig tree, but his road was leading him somewhere…with Potter.

Potter and he were becoming a routine, a comfortable companionship in the middle of a foreign country far away from home. 

Potter has dropped the pretence of wanting to help Draco and asks him to swim at Befa Lake. Ride jet skis (Draco was a bundle of nerves through the whole thing) and hike across the beautiful mountains- for fun. 

Draco’s body is showing the care of good food and routine exercise. He wakes up every absent mindedly perusing his notes but anticipating what next he would get to do with Potter.  

It was like riding a train, before Draco could stop himself, the little excursions turned into sharing breakfast, lunches and dinners. Enjoying Balik Ekmek (grilled fried fish he would never have indulged in if it wasn’t for Potter’s insistence), hearty Hunkar Begendi, plates of Karniyark and sweet Ayran yoghurt later in the night. 

Potter took him to visit the Aydin Archaeological Museum, this time he was the one droning on and on about history. And something deep down in Draco was impressed with the amount of knowledge Potter had. Potter was his tour guide on this almost vacation he was on. 

“You know Aydin,” Draco exclaimed, staring at one of the marble artefacts in wonder. 

Potter shrugs, “I told you, I’ve been here for a while,” 

Draco knows he should ask: why? But his insides are squirming, wondering, when this almost vacation would end. 

*** 

Draco was wound tight and anxious as Potter's birthday loomed closer. 

He didn't know if Potter was expecting something elaborate or if he should just pass the day with a simple ‘happy wishes’ and a bottle of beer. 

The thing is, whatever that was brewing between them, Draco felt the need to cherish it. To nurture and see it grow. He was no herbologist, but he’s picked up one or two things when it comes to plant care. 

In his research, Aydin was the best place for an obscured magical fig tree- the best location, access to water and traditional methods that can cultivate thousands of acres of figs all year round. 

A certain type of magic in the atmosphere that nurtured and hummed good vibes between two unlikely people. 

Potter here, in Aydin, was nothing like who he was in Hogwarts. Draco sometimes wonder if this was a doppelganger, because was Potter in school ever this funny? Draco doesn’t remember laughing until he cries because of a slug joke. He’s always imagined Potter to be uncouth and classless. But he pulls Draco’s chairs, dresses well and knows how to charm people with his words. 

He is the one who remembers how Draco likes his tea (splash of lemon and honey), surprisingly suave and gentlemanly when it comes to dinners and wine. 

He’s figured out Draco’s taste buds and is responsible for Draco’s nightly obsession with a special fig dessert (fig in cold pudding). 

The touches don't come until much later. Draco thinks his mind is playing tricks on him again. But he notices and takes note. A friendly hand at first, on his shoulder, introducing him to others. The casual arm around the shoulder, after they’ve had one of Potter’s short adventures. A hand on his back, as they enjoy the sunset. A lingering finger here and there. 

Draco was split into two. His head was filled with so many more locations and pictures of hundreds of fig trees, he worried of never finding the tree of new ways he could narrow the search. But his heart was being pinched, snagged, pulled towards a boy in a thobe who acted as if Aydin was his palace. 

What was happening? Draco was losing control, he had no idea what to say or how to stop.  All he could do was sit on the back seat of the jet ski and let Potter drive the muggle contraption, as they bobbed up and down along the waves in his heart. 

Draco fretted over nothing,  Potter took matters into his own hands and announced that Draco was ready to be introduced to the local dances. 

“I’ve watched them dance before,” Draco says, he does explore the city without Potter. How could he not? The city was beautiful, a dream almost. Draco was slowly figuring out why Potter loved his stay. 

“Yes, but you haven’t seen one with me,” Potter atrociously wiggled his eyebrows, making Draco snort. His stomach was a confusing buzz. 

 “What difference would that make?” 

Potter pretends to be wounded by his comment. 

Draco fumbles in his hotel room, filled with parchments and ruffled clothes. Suddenly anxious, he has nothing to wear! But it’s just Potter, and tonight is his birthday, but again, just Potter.  Draco has to practice breathing exercises to get himself to calm down. It’s nothing new, just another activity that Potter has roped him into. 

On his birthday.  

The crowd was already forming a circle when Draco arrived, he settled on a v cut grey shirt (something Potter hadn’t seen him in, Draco does not contemplate why it is important), and muggle jeans (because he saw Potter wear them and they look so comfortable he has to try a pair). 

He styled his hair, feeling silly to be so concerned over a dance he wasn’t even participating in. Potter might just wear his blasted thobe or a common shirt and jeans again. 

Draco searches the crowd for Potter, the night lights are turned on, did they agree to meet at the square? Or was Potter at the cafe? Did Draco miss him?

Draco rubs his bare forearms feeling cold and exposed. 

“Draco!” Potter hollered another weird habit of his, randomly calling his first name. Familiar, as if they were friends, were they already? Draco wasn’t sure. 

Draco was right to dress up because Potter was in traditional garments again. Something Draco has never seen him in, a fitted yellow salwar, that highlighted his build, his slim waist. His face, was oddly young in the night light, hair combed back and tamed with a metal headband, his glasses shining against the festive lights. 

His arm automatically sought Draco’s shoulders, holding him close as if it was the most natural gesture in the world, Draco’s heart made a confused leap, “You made it,” 

Potter’s eyes were green. 

The Kasik Dance (spoon dance) began with a circle of women wearing red hats under white scarves, and traditional velvety clothing, tapping their spoons in a specific happy rhythm. Music accompanied soon after, a sad thrum of a violin, coupled with the upbeat clarinet. 

People were tapping their feet and smiling, and one of the men began singing their folk songs. Potter nodded along. Draco, wishing to participate and not be the only dumb clueless foreigner around, pressed his shoulders to Potter. The music was catchy and melodious, curious, he tugged Potter’s sleeves. Lowering his head. 

Potter leaned into Draco’s ear, his breath hot and tingling, as he whispered the translation. 

I sell oil I sell sweet fig

My master is dead, I sell

You will get it, you will find it

A spoonful of butter fig

Tomorrow morning feast.

I sell oil, I sell sweet figs,

My master is dead, I’ll sell it.

My master’s fur is black.

If I sell it is fifteen liars

Zam-bak Zum-bak

Turn back take care

Draco giggled, he couldn’t help it. Folk songs usually were filled with historical connotations and lessons, but it was still amusing that the song they were dancing to was for oil and figs. 

Potter’s chest jittering as he followed and laughed with Draco. Humming to the beat, repeating the Turkish verses rather confidently. His arm was still around Draco’s shoulder. 

Draco and Potter were both clapping their hands to the beat of the spoons. The circle of woman were tapping their feet in a complicated manner now, enticing the crowd. 

Draco had the sudden urge to place a hand on Potter’s arm. Potter fully turned his attention to him. 

Potter’s cheeks were flushed with the ridiculous jiggling he was doing, they were in public, the song jarred with the thoughts in his brain. 

Draco found clarity in that moment. 

Potter was bloody handsome. Draco was vain enough to believe his looks were above par (for a man who has lost a lot, his looks were something he prided in). Draco never noticed women before, maybe he once thought Pansy was pretty in an intellectual way. His mother was beautiful, she was effortless. 

But Potter was eye-catching, masculine energy, effortless style and confidence that caught Draco’s attention. His mind reeled at the sudden intrusive thought- he’d never thought about this about any man, anyone before. 

He thinks Potter is attractive. Attractive enough Draco’s brain urges him to do things. Previous interactions are reviewed in a new light. The reason why he’s eager to wake up, why he feels a little bereft every time he sees Potter walk away. 

The tingling warmth formed in his abdomen. 

The said man was staring at Draco's back, Draco tried to keep his face as normal as possible, but Potter catches the change anyway. His eyes transform from earnest to something much heavier. 

The crowd was chanting now, something exciting and playful, Draco and Potter were slowly being pushed back by the excited crowd. The music was upbeat and loud, but Draco’s mind was quiet. 

So quiet. 

They were behind a bush.  

Their gazes are still locked. Potter’s arm still keeping him close. 

None of the Sytherins talk about it, but being forced to trade his beliefs, a doctrine he was raised in, had him unmoored for years afterwards. It was a bloody process to figure out what was right, and what was wrong again. Losing the power of his family name, his identity had Draco drowning in a sea of doubt. Who was he now? He goes through his days, trying to figure it out, hopeful he doesn’t make another blunder. Trying to uncover the real person beneath all the anger and sadness he buries udner the tomes and hours stuck in the past, in a world without him. 

Being told he could not perform the most basic of their duties had him grappling straws, questioning the purpose of his existence. 

The sudden realization that he has a harbouring crush for another wizard, Potter of all things, was turning his world upside down. 

The weight of Potter’s arm held him down. His eyes, gravity to the lost soul he was. 

He’s lost functions in all his senses, he wasn’t even sure he was breathing because Potter was there and he was so close. His lips were pink, slightly opened, a pink tongue peeking. 

Potter casts a silent Notice-Me-Not charm around them. Draco swallows, unable to break eye contact. 

“What’s happening?” He asks, his heart thudding wildly in his chest. Draco’s hands automatically grip Potter’s shoulder, pulling him or pushing him away, he wasn’t sure. 

Potter’s lashes are half closed, murmuring, “Something good I hope,” 

The kiss was soft and careful. Press of tender skin and heat that brought their world to a slow spin. 

His mind conjured a fresh fig. Velvety smooth, easily crushed open with a slight rip, freeing moist sweet goodness. It’s what he felt in the moment, his innards ripped open, exposed, free. 

Draco gasped, tightening his grip. Scared like he’s never been before. Potter’s eyes were closed as if he too was savouring the moment. Oblivious to the turmoil threatening to break Draco. 

He cups Draco’s cheeks, affectionately, a stupid smirk on his face that makes Draco’s heart fall weirdly. 

Magic hides them as they kiss again. 

*** 

Draco spends most of his time outside now, for an excuse to visit acres of orchards, searching for a mythical fig tree, Potter proposes they offer their services and help. Draco begrudgingly admits it is a sound idea. 

The Ficus Magicae Legatum, is a tree mentioned in whispered myths and legends written in small commentary across the notes of pureblood archives. They denote the story of a tree that has magic that originates life. 

Figs have magical properties that are commonly used to boost fertility, Healers use them to heal wounds or illnesses of the womb and in many cultures, they use the leaves to symbolise wealth and new life. 

Draco knew this was the answer. 

Based on the lore, the tree is revealed by a spirit that deems a person worthy of such a gift. 

Despite his mother’s constant reminders, that he is loved, that his father would never think less of him if Draco tells him… Draco can’t help the small self-doubt, the sense of worthlessness. 

And still, he wishes the spirit would still choose him.

*** 

Potter joins him to volunteer at the fig farms. He comes early for breakfast, wearing cotton shirts and work jeans. His hair mused and too much for such an early morning. 

Potter was in high spirits, and now they’ve admitted their attraction for each other, he flirts with no shame. If it was not for respect for local culture, Draco would have kissed his smile off his face. 

Draco is pretty new at the thought of being so thoroughly entranced by a man. For it to be Potter made his legs wobble unsteadily. Potter laughed and talked seemingly unaffected.  

The locals only see two British men joking around as they walk and inspect their orchards. Draco isn’t sure they would let them continue to dally through their fields if they knew Potter took chances to bump into him at every corner, that their hands linger close and that he’s tasted one too many sweet figs from Potter’s mouth. 

August was the month for ripe picking, so more people were tending to the fields. Potter mingles with them seamlessly. Draco learns a few phrases and is close to being the new favourite. 

They gather the plastic tarps filled with naturally fallen and ripe figs. Draco cuts the bottom leaves and helps pull the filled tarps, later filling the sacks. Carefully do not bruise the precious fruits. 

Most of the orchids were owned by muggles. A few were owned by squibs. After careful study, he knew that magic tampered with a lot of the much-needed natural growth of these beautiful plants. 

“You don’t mind, working without magic?” Potter joked. 

“It’s not my favourite activity,” Draco admits, wiping sweat from his forehead, taking out his notebook from his back pocket and marking X over another area. “But there is a sense of calm from strenuous hard work, I see why locals are so content,” 

Potter has that faraway look again, “Yeah.” 

The figs were round and plump, Draco spies Potter bending to help an old lady carry a basket of fallen fresh figs. The lady pats his arm in fake protest. Potter carries two sacks on his back without a preamble. 

Draco chances a longer look,  noting Potter’s ass and its shape. Draco palms two figs in his hand, they look almost similar. 

Draco has never thought an arse could be… so inviting. Before he can help himself his mind wonders what else is similar to these figs and his cheeks warm. 

He bursts out a laugh throwing the figs in his sack. 

Potter turns around, eyes narrow suspiciously. 

Draco smirks.

*** 

After months holed in his office, quietly lost in his research of the Ficus Magicae Legatum… until one day, he noticed the tree bark had split in half. 

Slytherin preservation made him hesitant, but Slytherin ambition also made him eager to explore. 

Draco peeked through the gaping slit, staring at the faint purplish glow in awe. His hand scribbled a mile a minute into his notepad…he stepped closer. 

Now, he was stuck inside the tree. An ancient magical plant that was–Draco cannot stop the panic–smother him? Consume him? Alive. 

He tries to struggle, to move even a finger, but the binds are too tight. 

Tries to shout or say something, to no avail. 

Tries to direct his magic, to cut, to protect. But the sharp root nestled into his spine–painless but to Draco’s horror, very present–had full control of it. 

I am going to die. 

It was ironic, was his last thought, that he thought in searching for a way to continue life, he would get to live a life worth living. 

He will die in his research, missed by a few, but forgotten by many. 

No impact, no legacy. 

No worth. 

*** 

They were dining by the seaside. Potter is looking at him with that heavy want again. 

Draco’s too much of a coward to ask what it means. 

Aydın’s çine meatballs are a local specialty. They are especially scrumptious accompanied by the local yayık ayran (a spicy, frothy ayran). Draco has to suppress the moan at how perfect the combination is. Tangy, cold, moist, a touch of heat. 

Delicious. 

Fresh figs were nearly always served as a complimentary dish. Potter warned him that although figs were tasty, they had to take them sparingly. Something about the high content of fibre causing them diarrhoea. Draco couldn’t help himself, the plump shape of it, doing things to his mind, the bite into the soft flesh, reminded him of Potter’s lips, the taste, smooth and richly sweet. 

Just like they’re kisses. 

The way the fruit is both sticky and tender enough to swallow in two, or three bites. Paired with meat, with cheese, with yoghurt. Draco was in fig heaven. 

Potter’s mouth always tasted of figs. Draco has never kissed someone as much as he kisses Potter, and he’s both nervous and thrilled by the mere idea of it. These past few months felt like a dream–a chance meeting in a foreign country, a different Potter who did not scorn him but who would gaze at him with that look that made Draco’s chest warm. 

Those tender touches show Draco discovering new things about himself.  

Potter pushed him to lie on the sand. Draco would normally protest, he hates getting sand in his hair, but they were alone, Potter was straddling his chest and- Draco’s breathing quickens as he watches Potter’s face - in apparent awe that Draco can’t fathom why- staring back.

Potter lowers his face to Draco’s, murmuring, in a wistful tone.  

“I feel so alive,” 

*** 

It’s September when Draco feels daring enough to let Potter inside his hotel room. 

It was after a day spent in Didim, strolling the seaside, enjoying the small magical village there. Potter whined they needed a break after the heavy work volunteering to harvest. Draco still hasn’t found the tree. They ate and haggled jewellery and clothing. Watched summer dances and listened to local music. 

Potter’s kisses were more purposeful. Before, it was always a careful hello, an invitation to connect and explore. Now, his eyes were bright, magic thrumming between them, whispering, I feel so alive, in between wet kissing sounds. 

Draco apparated them to his room, mentally apologising to Leena for the loud crack that must startle the muggles. Draco shakily grabs his wand and casts silencing charms. He’s never done this before, but his instincts seem to lead him fine. 

Hands roving over Potter's solid form. The heat of their touch made him moan with newfound lust. He's hard, rutting his body on Potter's, craving more contact. Pressing Potter to a wall with a dull thud, nose grazing across his neck, his jaw. He wants to bite, to devour the skin, the flesh in front of him. Inhaling Harry's musk, kissing there and up the sides of his face, giving attention to the mole hidden above his ear, appreciating the red blush on Potter’s face. 

They’ve always kept things innocent, today, now, Draco’s intentions are anything but that. A surge of courage helps him pull off his shirt without a thought. Potter licks his lips and his hair is so wild, it's obscene. Pressing his hands on Potter's groin and grinning at the hardness there. Convinced now they are on the same page. 

Draco’s heart beats wildly in his chest, oh God, he’s so aroused, it's starting to feel uncomfortable. 

Hastily undoing his belt buckle, without a thought, Draco frees his strained cock. Potter’s breath hitches, fingers digging into Draco’s waist.  Draco tugs Potter’s damned cotton shirt, hoping to entice him to take it off. 

Potter halts, his face torn. 

Draco freezes, feeling a little stupid, and he steps back. 

“What?” 

Potter turns his head away. Their breathing was still heavy. 

Draco, unsure what to do, swipes a frustrated hand in his hair. “We don’t have to, I apologise, if I got carried away–” 

“No, it’s not that, I want to.” 

Draco tries his best not to snap. He spies his exposed Dark Mark and regrets his forward actions. “But?” he prompts, a little vulnerable. 

This thing between them is new but oh so precious, Draco hopes against hope that Potter isn’t calling it off. His pride won't let him grovel, but if Potter tells him to stop, that he doesn’t feel the same, or he’s changed his mind…

Potter rubs his neck, gazing at Draco sheepishly from under his eyelashes, all confidence in approaching Draco and making him fall for the git replaced by a sad and hesitant wizard in his arms. 

Draco mentally gasps, that’s right, he’s fallen for Potter, or at least he’s at the front door, and is about to.

Worthless, the Dark Lord said. Draco drops his arms with a sudden urge to cry. 

Potter places his hand on Draco’s waist, startling him. His hands are shaking. Draco furrows his brows, confused. Potter swallows, “I have to tell you something,” 

*** 

Potter tells Draco what happened during the Battle of Hogwarts. The Dark Lord cast the Killing curse, but Potter didn’t defend himself. Draco shivers, holding Potter’s hand, sitting on his hotel bed. 

He’s still half clothed and they both lay comfortably on top of the bed. Potter’s fingers trailing his bare chest. 

“You were so brave,” Draco could never do what Potter did, accept death so readily, even if it was for people he loved. 

Look at him now, even though he knows he has nothing left, his selfishness won’t let him give up. He wants to live, wants to be worth something again. 

“I was scared,” Potter whispers. Draco’s left the nightlight on, but the night is too dark for him to make out his expression. “My parents, Remus and Sirius, followed me. I didn’t go alone,” 

“Still, if there was a measurement for bravery…” 

Potter goes on to talk about what happened after. Draco remembers, that his nightmares won't let him forget. Still, he listens as Potter painfully relays, playing dead, Draco’s mother lying for him, being carried by Hagrid and later finishing the deed with an Expelliarmus. 

Then Potter revealed to him a horrifying truth, apparently when the Dark Lord cast the killing curse, Potter’s heart stopped beating. He died. 

“But mother…” 

“She sensed my magic,” Potter explains, “And I’m not that good at playing dead,” 

No one had bothered to properly check him after the Battle of Hogwarts. Potter talked about the funerals, the grief, the trials…Potter noticed a change in himself, but he hadn’t thought of the repercussion, of what it meant.  

Ginny Weasley was the first to notice something wrong. 

Draco presses his hand over Potter’s very warm chest. His palm pressed on his left breast, feeling nothing. “But…how?” 

There were speculations of course, about the deathly hallows, the Elder Wand, him being the only living Hocrux and how it affected his soul. 

Panicked, “What does it mean?” 

“We don’t know,” Potter says, and Draco hears the despair. The man has almost nine years to agonize over it. “I don’t age, I can eat, but I don’t need to. And although I can move, I’m losing sensation…I’ve lost feelings on my feet, my hands.” 

Potter’s voice shakes and Draco, similarly helpless gathers him in his arms. “But you alive,” Draco questions, a little hesitant. 

“I’m not dead,” he retorts. Draco is horrified when Potter admits he tried to for several years. His friends, the ministry, no one knows if he is alive or dead. What it means when he can’t die but is losing sensations to live. 

“I don’t want to scare you…but I can’t hide this anymore. Not if we’re becoming serious.”

“Are we?” Draco asks, hidden in the dark. “Are we serious?” 

Harry raises his head and presses a small kiss to his cheek. “When I saw you that day in the market, it sparked something in me–these months, these days have been, hell Malfoy, you make me…” 

I feel so alive.  

Draco embraces Potter, wrapping their legs together, wanting to feel Potter’s still body against his. Relieved and a mixture of nervous, scared and hopeful. Draco wants to return the sentiment, but he holds Potter tight instead.  

They kiss and make out long into the night. Potter looks exhausted after baring his soul and Draco stops his attempt to resume their earlier activity. 

This was enough. Draco learns, that what he has with Potter, alive or dead, is more than just mere attraction. 

A thought occurs to him, “Is that why you’re here? In Aydin?” 

Potter shrugs sleepily. “I was looking for answers…but I found something else,” 

Draco understands. 

***  

Draco asks Potter for a few days, promising him that he’s not breaking whatever it is they have, but pleads for some time to process. 

Potter accepts, returning to his apartment (he’s managed to truly make a living here, investing his inheritance), leaving Draco to his thoughts. 

In the quiet of his hotel room, Draco sits by the window sill and his eyes gaze around the bustling city. Small cars and bicycles and a lot of foreigners walk under his window. He hears the Turkish language, probably Leena, tending her new patrons. The weather has cooled down a bit, but it's still too warm for a coat. 

Draco thinks and thinks firstly about his father who in Azkaban has sent a hundred letters imploring Draco to visit, Draco’s too cowardly to face him, and disappoint him. About his mother who promises he is loved, and how difficult it is for Draco to believe it. About his friends, and all their new families and futures to look forward to.

About his life and Potter’s and how they’ve both had to deal with unfortunate hands from fate. 

He recalls the first time he saw Potter, that hearty laugh and Draco’s heart twists. 

What was life without happiness? 

He needs answers.

*** 

It’s the last orchard. Probably the three thousandth fig tree Draco has inspected. 

One would not think it magical if one did not have an eye for the patterns of the veins and the scratches on the barks. Or be able to interpret the musical hum between plants. Delicate subtle magic that only a trained Unspeakable, supposedly him, would notice. 

The first time he laid eyes on it, he was trekking alone. The summer had dwindled the trees were almost bare. Draco has passed and inspected hundreds of others, trying in vain to find the tree. He was starting to lose hope after each inspection failed to pass the test. 

The fig trees were no doubt beautiful. And there were so many memories of trekking these hills, passing through similar orchids with Potter’s smiles and jest. 

Up the hill the sun was setting, breaking red with curtains of deep purple. A gentle breeze brushes his face. 

Draco placed his feet on a rock, closing his eyes. 

A ripple of magic, ever soft, was tingling, it felt new, like the sensation of falling in love. Draco opened his eyes and raised the palm of his hand. Letting the wind, the trees, the magic guide him. 

He feels heavier protective magic in front of him, his breathing quickens and he breaks into a small jog. Eyes searching everywhere, the trees all sway against the push and pull of the wind. 

Draco stopped in his tracks, actually straining his muscles to move in the direction of the magic. Reaching for his wand, he casts a spell that would reveal the presence of magic. 

Make me worthy, he wishes. 

He has to grit his teeth and push against the magic, it slowly gives and parts for him. Revealing a lone tree at the top of the hill. 

Its size was modest against the others, but there was a strong force emanating from the tree. He glances at the trunk, appreciating its sturdy presence, and if one were to look closer, the herringbone design is unusual. The bark, weathered by time, instead of a surface of insignificance, held tales of years of magic weaving through its veins. A luminous shimmer on its surface.  

Draco's gaze rises, briefly acknowledging the green leaves that sway with meaning. The tree was magical, he could feel the conviction in his bones. The shape of its leaves is serrated with intricate details none share. 

Draco held a leaf between his two fingers, and the tree shuddered in reaction. Relenting to his touch and the magic around it ‘surrendered’, no longer fighting him. It was as if he had been granted permission, the tree seemed to ‘bow’ closer to him. 

Clusters of figs, adorning the branches like tokens of abundance. A hint of a smile tugs at Draco’s lips as he observes their varying hues, from vibrant greens to deep purples. Before he thinks too much about it, Draco plucks one and bites into it, barely able to suppress a moan. They were sparkling round sacs of rich sweetness, nothing like he had tasted before. 

“Thank you,” He whispers with relief. He found it.“Thank you,” 

*** 

Draco's gaze follows the branches as they intertwine, forming an intricate network. On the journey back to his hotel Draco has formulated a plan on how to transport the magical fig.

Unspeakable Yanya will be pleased to hear his progress, from here on he’d be able to study the tree's properties and hopefully find the cure he was looking for. 

“Hey,” 

Potter was waiting for him, in their spot. Draco smiles, genuinely pleased to see him. Potter however looked tense. 

“Can we go somewhere private?” 

Draco raises a brow but leads him to his room. Noticing Potter cast a locking and silencing spell. 

“What’s wrong?” For a fearful second Draco thinks Potter is breaking up with him. 

Potter his cheek and Draco’s worry evaporates. They sit on his bed. 

“I was bored out of my mind waiting for you to ‘think’. Not that I’m pressuring you or anything, but well, you’ve been my main activity every day now and–” 

Draco snorts. “We get it, you were bored,” 

“Yeah, and I was asking myself, what would Draco do? That’s when I remembered there was a hidden magical library in Nysa–” 

“What?” Draco interjects, a little betrayed, “You made me ride a muggle jet ski when you knew there was a perfectly magical and safer place I, the historian, would rather be?” 

“Well,” Potter rubs his neck, embarrassed. “You enjoyed it though,” 

“Not the point, Potter,” Draco drawls, unimpressed. 

“Right, well, I can take you next time–anyway, as I was saying, I was visiting there and I thought I’d look for that story you told me about Eemon and Ayse and the magical fig tree and I few records,” 

Draco stands, surprised, “Really?” All this time, this time their search could have been shortened if Potter had the brain cells to introduce the bloody magical library to him in the first place. “Ugh Potter, what use are the records to me now, that I’ve found it!” 

“Yeah, sorry–wha– what do you mean you found it?” 

“I went trekking by myself this morning and happened to stumble upon it,” Draco reveals with smug pride, “It was the last area of our search anyway, and I’m sure it’s the one, I could feel the magic,” 

“No, Draco, you don’t understand, from the records, it claims to be a dangerous dark spirit! You have to stay away from it!” 

Draco’s jaw dropped, “I’ve researched the story thoroughly and it never mentions any trace of dark magic–” 

Potter takes an ancient book, tattered and holding by the thread with spells, almost shoving it into his face. “No, no, look, it says here, the spirit gives a child to the couple and later the child sucks them of their magic, killing them!” 

“I’ve never read this before,” Draco studies the text and reads it again. His heart twists painfully. 

“I’ll take this with me and study it some more, one document doesn’t cancel out the hundreds that discuss the possibility of the magic–” 

“Draco, it’s dangerous, we should leave it alone,” 

He feels close to fainting, all this hard work, to be told to leave the tree now he knows where it is.

He was so close to finding an answer. He touched the tree, watched the leaves bow for him, tasted the fruit it bore. 

The tree was no harm to him. Draco knew dark arts and this wasn’t it. 

“Potter, it’s okay, I’m not a fool, I need to do more reading, this is invaluable, but I can’t  dismiss my whole research because of one book you happened to read.” 

“it's authentic, you said it yourself!” 

“Yes, well, there are ways to protect oneself against ancient magic, it could be a warning, a way to put people off looking for it–” Potter blinks, not buying his reasoning, Draco pats his arm consolingly, “I will take precaution of course, don’t worry, there are standards protocols–” 

“Why don’t you check these sources before you try and relocate a possibly dangerous tree? I mean, there’s no harm in making sure right?”

The thought of waiting with the tree just newly discovered and within his grasp made Draco frown. He knew going into this research that the possibility of finding a cure was small, but life was moving on without him– his father was waiting for his visit. 

And Draco was desperate to be worthy of life. 

He clasped Potter’s hand in his, “I’ll be careful, but this is– I can’t miss this opportunity to try. I have to do this Potter,” 

Draco proceeds to explain his infertility, stumbling with the words. His voice cracking by the end of his confession, how he’s searching for a cure. 

“Oh Draco,” Potter doesn’t say he is sorry or that he doesn’t care if Draco can sire children or not. He simply holds Draco, empathising with how difficult it was for Draco to endure this by himself. Rocking his body on the bed and kissing his cheek. Draco exhales slowly, grateful not to be alone. 

“I’m worried,” And it feels like Potter wants to say something else. “What if it all backfires? Is it worth the risk?” 

Draco looks up, “Potter, living is always worth the risk,” 

Potter’s breath hitches. 

*** 

Draco doesn’t need to ask to know that Potter won’t return with him. 

Draco has contacted the Department of Mysteries and the tree has been carefully procured by Herbalogist specialists and Unspeakable Yanya, who pats his back and congratulates him on finding an important magical resource. 

Draco has no other reason to stay in Aydin. 

They put off talking about it, spending their time, and hanging out. Potter stays over in his hotel room, mumbling about Leena’s cooking. Draco’s heart is heavy by his decision to leave him. 

“What can I say to change your mind?” Draco asks brokenly. 

Potter shakes his head, unable to face him. “There’s nothing for me there… if I stay and watch others move on… it's worse than being dead,” 

Draco shakes his head, denying Potter’s words. “If you stay here you’ll still lose those parts! Potter, you can’t give up on living!” 

“There’s nothing I can do,” Potter replies dully. “We’ve tried everything! This is how it is! I’m not dead…nor am I alive…I’m just here…” 

Draco can’t believe Potter’s so ready to throw the towel. He was right, this wasn’t the Potter he knew, who would have given his all to defeat a Dark Lord. This was a Potter who lost his purpose after the battle of Hogwarts. 

Draco might be a fool for putting his hope in a possible cure, but at least he won’t stop trying. 

“Potter, I’ll help–” 

“No,” Potter stands, “I don’t need you to fix me too,” 

“What do you need from me then?” 

“You could stay,” Potter turns, his eyes hopeful, alight. I feel so alive. 

Draco gapes. “It’s not possible, I keep telling you, my research–” 

“You can be happy here, you are happy here aren’t you?” 

Draco thinks about Potter and his life, he shakes his head. 

“I can’t stay like this, Potter, Harry. Aydin is beautiful, but I– I have a responsibility, a legacy to continue,” 

“A legacy you may or may not want, is more important than what we have here?” 

“Don’t!” Draco snaps, anger surging through him, “You DON’T understand!” 

How could he? A small part of Draco knows it's not Potter’s fault. He doesn't know what the love of a father is like, that hope, to be worthy and fulfil parents' wish. To be worthy. 

Potter’s face crumples. “Maybe I understand more than you,” 

Draco leaves the next day, waiting until the last minute and the Portkey Attendant calls his name twice, hoping in vain for Potter to at least send him off with a last goodbye. 

He doesn’t. 

*** 

Draco was about to finish his morning observation. The book Potter found from Nyse library on his table. Draco hasn’t figured out how the spirit chooses the person to gift with a child. It’s been two months and his excitement has dimmed. 

His yearning for Potter intensifies. 

The magical fig, for all intent and purposes, seems to act like any other fig. Draco has measured the length, the number of leaves, and the roots. The casing mimics the exact environment of Aydin. Still, no results. 

“Why won’t you share with me your secrets?” 

Glory, the tree, is ever silent. 

Draco caresses the bark and that’s when he notices a slight ridge along the wood. 

Draco caresses the bark and the tree shudders. He sees the pendant with the ‘evil eye’ a gift from Potter many months ago. 

Draco slips it off and places it on the table, eying the tree with renewed interest. 

Upon closer inspection, Draco can push his finger inside, later his hand– the tree gives and reveals a single fig fruit, presented enticingly at the base.

Draco steps into the exposed cavern, then he hears the leaves rustle. The bark closes. 

And he’s trapped inside. 

*** 

Draco doesn’t know how long it’s been. His consciousness flows in between dreams and a state of lucidity. He was unable to move, to speak, to see, anything. 

He feels his magic draining. He cries, unable to do anything but let it happen. 

He thinks about his father and his mother. 

He thinks about Harry, and how he’s afraid others move on except for him. The a slight betrayal in his tone when Draco insists he must return to Britain. Potter will think he left him, just like everyone else does. The thought hurts Draco, almost as much as the thought of Potter refusing to consider that Draco was worth living again. 

Now, he’ll die a fool, loving Potter who won’t die. 

He should have known he was not worthy. 

Depressingly, he wonders, what was the point of it all– of his fate, of Aydin, of love? 

Draco still sees nothing. 

The vein in his spine heats up, he struggles uselessly. 

Images come, unbidden in his head. Of a future –Draco can make out himself, aged, with another witch and a boy, no man, who looks exactly like he does. 

The man is a boy, a mini version of himself, a child that Draco thought he’d never live to see. 

The child opens its mouth and a million wasps leave its orifice. Draco watches in helpless terror as the wasps grow in large numbers and cover the sky.

The dark spirit. 

Potter was right, there was no gift, no life. Just a sentient dark being, trapped in a fig tree. 

With a loud burst of magic, Draco is drenched to the left with a forceful yank. Light and commotion assault his senses. He automatically coughs when the tendril covering his mouth is violently ripped off of him. 

His lungs heave painfully. His limbs were a puddle. 

“He’s here! He’s here! He’s in the tree!” 

Difindos are being cast without regard and Draco falls to the ground, covered in sap in a tight bound. He groans. 

“Draco!” 

Potter is the one pulling Draco upright, holding him, as others are cutting the tendrils around him.

“Oh my god, Draco!” 

Draco sees Granger and Weasley behind him, and wands ready. Unspeakable Yanya accompanied them with a grim frown. 

“Unspeakable Malfoy, are you alright?” 

He opens his mouth but no words leave him. Potter is here, by some miracle he is holding a wet and slimy Draco with such tender relief… Draco could almost cry. 

“God, if I didn’t think about coming back…if I didn’t dare to come…oh God, I was looking for you–and I didn’t know you were working for Mysteries– I had this feeling that something wasn’t right—” 

I miss you. 

The fig tree shakes and Draco weakly pushes Potter aside. Someone screams as a hoard of wasps burst out of the tree. 

“What the hell?” Weasley shouts, an arm out to protect Granger- or was it Weasley too now?

Potter casts Stupefy while Unspeakable Yanya blocks the exit. Granger and Weasley are flanking Potter trying in vain to contain the unknown threat. 

The wasps gather in front of Draco, Potter stands in front of him. 

The wasps form and transfigure before their eyes. A cruel replica of the boy in his dreams. 

Potter’s wand is aimed at it, chancing a glance at Draco. Draco's heart clenches, and Potter worries uselessly for Draco. The conjuration is nothing Draco wants. 

“Do it,” he orders hoarsely. 

Potter casts a spell, and the wasps- the dark spirits scream and swarm towards them. 

“Harry!” 

No! 

Potter pushes Draco aside and the dark spirit of wasps covers him, engulfing him mercilessly. 

Draco’s gut twists with wrenching dread as his silent mouth screams for Harry. 

Weasley and Granger are casting spell after spell. 

Draco takes his wand from his pocket robe, he sees the evil eye on the table and tries to summon it. 

Grasping it, he crawls weakly towards the dark spirit and Potter. 

“Get away!” 

In his many readings, it is said the fig tree, holds the key magic to life. 

The dark culmination of wasps swarm away from Draco’s outstretched hand. Potter is on the floor, limbs spread, lifeless. 

“No!” 

Draco covers his weak body over Potter’s. This wasn’t supposed to be the end. 

Potter doesn't die. He can't. 

If it was a choice between a chance he has yet to have and Potter, of course, he chose Potter. 

Magic, please... 

Draco initially saw an odd glinting by the root of the magical tree. In a second of desperate madness, Draco presses the evil eye pendant inside the fleshy fruit and throws it back at the magical tree. 

The wasps- dark spirit- wails and spins and violently shudders. 

An explosion of magic erupts inside his laboratory. 

Draco holds onto Potter, and they are both flung to the edge of the room. 

It’s dark again. 

Draco openly sobs with a limp Potter in his arms. His head was on Potter’s chest. 

He feels a soft thud. Hears a rhythm that chants a miracle. 

Potter weakly groans. 

“Harry!” Draco gasps, holding his face, wincing with his pain. 

“Draco,” Potter whispers, weakly clutching his chest. 

Both stared at the other in apparent wonder. 

*** 

They aren’t sure what magic transpired that day, but Draco won’t stop until he finds an answer. A type of magical transference? Enough that it gave Potter his heartbeat again? Potter claims he can feel his legs again, his senses returning. Was he truly alive now? No one wanted to test the theory and find out. Draco was just glad to see his eyes open again. The sight of Potter lying on the ground, unmoving because of his actions, again, would haunt his nightmares, Draco was sure. 

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Draco is in Azkaban, visiting his father. 

“Draco,” 

His father greets him with surprising enthusiasm. The Azkaban walls have made him weary and his ego bruised. Hair and skin greying to match his prisoner suit. Shackles on his wrist and legs, new additions to keep occupants in check. 

After ten years, even though Draco is well-practised at this, his heart still clenches with a deep unsettling longing. 

“Father, are you well?” 

His father smiles, “My son is here…of course I am.”