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It started small, as these things often do. As Potter turned and trudged down the Manor stairs, then nearly fell into a ditch carved into the driveway by Merlin-knows-what, Draco clutched his wand to his chest and let out a long breath he hadn’t known he was holding. Potter didn’t look back, and Draco shut the door carefully, unwilling to look at the burnt-out hedges and werewolf tracks gouged into the front lawn for any longer than necessary.
Potter giving him back his wand had been unexpected. Unexpected meant dangerous, usually, and Draco didn’t have the time or the nerve for it. Not now. But still, holding his wand again, feeling the heavy thrum of magic happy to see him in his hand, it was nice. Lovely, even.
As Draco retreated back into the house, leaving thoughts of Potter firmly behind, he missed the first sign, small as it was. The lantern above the Manor door had been smashed shortly before the battle, glittering shards of glass sprinkled across the doorstep in the sunshine. As Potter reached the gate and beyond, every piece of glass rose up, and slid back home with a quiet twinkle of light.
When his trial date arrived by Ministry owl, Draco was in the library, trying to convince several tall bookshelves that they much preferred being vertical, not horizontal. The books were scattered wildly across the room, the ones that hadn’t been stolen anyway, and no matter how much Draco willed it, the bookshelves stayed exactly where they’d been left. If his mother would just help him, maybe they’d listen to her, but she had retreated into her quarters when the aurors arrested father and was yet to come out, despite his pleading. The Ministry owl tapped briskly on the window, which never would have happened when he was a child, Merlin, all post came through the elves with breakfast, any junk already incinerated, and the idea that the Ministry could just send their missives straight to him, like he was a –
Anyway.
The trial date was soon – insultingly soon, and if it wasn’t for the fact that his family had solicitors on call since the dawn of the modern legal profession, he’d be fucked. Draco was vaguely aware he was crumpling the parchment, but he didn’t seem to be able to let go. Funny, how words like “treason” were so effective.
It couldn’t have been long after as Draco was still stood in the same spot (although his sense of time did seem… messy these days), when another owl knocked on the same window, this one with the dark sash of the postal service. Draco gave himself a shake as he opened the window, trying not to think about the first letter, trying not to wonder if this one was just letting him know he was going straight to Azkaban, thank you, and could he post the keys to the Manor on the way?
It was from Potter. Draco found himself sat in the window seat as he read the letter, which was bumbling and – apologetic, somehow, as if Potter should have warned him of the trial date, as if any of this was Potter’s bloody fault. And at the end, Potter’s awful heroism shining through – the fool wanted to testify on Draco’s behalf, about the business with Dumbledore and the – the incident at the Manor, which felt so long ago that it might have happened to a different Potter and Draco altogether.
He didn’t know he was crying until a drop fell on the letter, smearing Potter’s attempt at a greeting. Draco buried his face in his hands, throwing both letters away from him as he tried to breathe through it, he thought he was done with crying by now because what was the fucking point of it, but it came anyway, a great wave filling him and crashing out again and again.
The uncomfortable heat of the sun through the window on his back eventually brought him back to himself, when the misery and hopefulness had receded into little rock pools inside him instead of tidal waves. He looked up, feeling the crick in his neck.
Nearly every bookshelf in the library was stood tall, the last one tipping into place as he looked around. The sun poured in, sending beams of light through the space between the shelves, dust motes spinning in the gold.
The trial lasted six days, with the verdict on the seventh, no weekend to take a breather due to the overwhelming amount of death eaters, politicians and snatchers to get through. Draco wasn’t eating, except when his legal team – four of them, a formidable collection even by pureblood standards – forced him to during lunch, and he felt faint regardless, or maybe he just felt far-away, somewhere else, somewhere that wasn’t the bowels of the Ministry in a cold courtroom where his whole life was on trial.
On the seventh day, Potter spoke. He was the last person to give testimony, right before summaries and the verdict, which his barrister assured him was a coup de grâce. Draco hadn’t expected the other people his legal team had put on the stand to testify for him – McGonagall, for a start, who had been far fairer than he thought possible, talking absolute bollocks about how she felt that Hogwarts had failed him, failed several of the students of Slytherin house, which was absolutely insane. Memories were offered and shown, of McGonagall talking to Professor Snape about him in bloody fifth year, asking if Snape was doing anything to talk him out of being a little twat (her words exactly), talking to Dumbledore about whether Muggle Studies should be a mandatory OWL and using Draco as an example.
And then she talked about sixth year.
It was humiliating. It was infuriating. And through it all Draco felt – distant, because none of it mattered, did it? He’d still done the things he’d done, still tried to kill Dumbledore over and over, and did it matter that he’d been scared? Been so scared he’d vomited, been so scared he wasn’t eating, was only managing when Pansy or Blaise forced him to, had practised professional level silencing charms so no one would wake up from his nightmares? Dumbledore was still dead. Draco was still pathetic.
Seeing Potter walk in, with Granger and Weasley following him like some kind of guard, was surreal. It didn’t matter that Potter was dressed in a muggle t shirt and denim, or that he was wearing trainers and had a sweatband around his wrist. Everyone, all the Wizengamot, all the wizarding world, probably, wanted to hear the boy wonder speak. Draco wondered if he could just leave and no one would notice.
Potter wasn’t exactly a public speaker. He stumbled over his words, and Draco could see dark shadows under his eyes. Granger and Weasley sat in the front row of the spectator section, and it was clear they were conflicted, shifting in their seats and leaning forwards whenever Harry spoke.
“Mr Potter, I understand you wish to make a statement regarding an incident during Mr Malfoy’s sixth year at school? An incident which you were involved in?”
“Yes,” Potter took a deep breath, and Draco felt the blood run out of his face. “I believed Malfoy was working for Voldemort, in sixth year. No one else seemed to think that was true, and I’ve always kinda just…” here Potter shrugged and waved his hand, “acted impulsively, I guess. So when I saw Malfoy looking all upset and weird one day, I followed him. We ended up in the boys bathroom.”
Draco felt a hand on his hand, and looked down, surprised to see one of his solicitors had taken his hand in her own. It felt painful to unclench his fist, and he wondered how long he’d been digging his nails into his palm. His hands were throbbing. His temples too.
“When you followed Mr Malfoy into the bathroom, what happened next?” His barrister asked, and Draco could see how his eyes were flitting between Potter and the Wizengamot.
“I confronted him. We argued, I guess you’d call it, and threw a few hexes at each other,” Potter laughed suddenly, sounding bitter. “It wasn’t really a duel, because I could tell Malfoy was panicking. I don’t think his heart was really in it.” Potter looked at Draco then, and Draco looked back, helpless to do anything else. Potter’s eyes were so bright, even in this dark and dreary courtroom.
“Witches and Wizards of the Wizengamot, I’d like to present Mr Malfoy’s hospital records, courtesy of the Hospital Wing of Hogwarts School,” the barrister said, sending parchment floating through the air to the seated members. Draco closed his eyes as a quiet murmur arose.
Potter cleared his throat. “I don’t need you to ask me, if that’s alright with you. I did it. I… I used a curse that I shouldn’t have, and I cut Malfoy open. I probably nearly killed him, I think I could see his bones or something. It’s only because Snape was so close that he didn’t die.”
Draco couldn’t look. His solicitor squeezed his hand, her short fingers warm and steady.
“What happened afterwards, Mr Potter?”
“Nothing.” Draco opened his eyes.
“No auror interview, no suspension from school?”
“Nothing. I didn’t even get a detention,” Potter said, leaning forwards again, making eye contact with the Supreme Mugwump himself. “I guess no one cared enough about what happened to bother. Do you think Malfoy felt even more trapped, afterwards? Probably,” he continued, despite the prosecutor standing up to object. “I guess I’d feel trapped too, if I had Voldemort living in my house and sitting at the breakfast table with my mum, and the teachers, the adults didn’t seem to give a shit that I’d just nearly died. Makes me wonder what any of you would’ve done when you were sixteen. Makes me wonder if Malfoy would’ve done something different, if someone had just asked him if he was alright.”
Potter sat back in his chair. The prosecutor was arguing with Draco’s barrister. Draco wasn’t listening, didn’t see how it was important anyway. All he could do was watch Potter’s face as he turned back to look at Draco, and feel his heart thump as Potter flashed him a grim smile.
The rest of the testimony was a blur. And when Draco went home, not guilty ringing in his ears, the Manor shivered all over, the stones themselves shuddering in the June sun, and every bit of dirt and grime dropped to the ground like a blanket, and vanished. The Manor looked brighter than Draco had ever seen it, the stones shining white, and he felt something turn over in his mind, like a new book being opened.
The letters started after that. Or rather, Draco started them, in an uncharacteristic burst of impulsivity. Writing to Potter felt like the absolute least he could do, and then he added in Granger and Weasley too, and then it was everyone. He wrote to Katie Bell, and Madam Rosemerta, McGonagall and Longbottom. He gritted his teeth and wrote to that bloody fool Hagrid, and all of it felt huge, like he was letting something go and being left without anything in its place, like when those muggles use awful tools to pull out rotten teeth. He didn’t sleep, writing late into the night and the early hours, then taking a stack of parchment out to the patio and finishing the last letter in the pale light as the sun rose.
Potter turned up by the afternoon. Draco told himself he hadn’t been expecting it, but the chime of the gate’s spells announcing Potter’s presence still felt unsurprising. Potter didn’t say much, just looked around at the state of the rooms as Draco gave him a tour of the downstairs, and rolled up his sleeves.
They talked as they lifted furniture, spelled carpets clean and vanished broken plates by the armful. Potter described living at the Weasley’s this summer, and how many funerals he’d had to go to already, how Mrs Weasley had lost so much weight that the family was worried. Draco talked about how his mother had barely stepped foot out of her rooms, and the way Crabbe’s mother had grabbed him by the shoulders and shaken him hard at the graveside before they’d buried an empty coffin, where she’d sobbed into Draco’s handkerchief. Draco didn’t mention his father, and Potter didn’t ask.
The work went fast, armchairs righting themselves with only a nudge, books sending themselves back to the library, dust spiralling up into the air and streaming out the open windows. They stopped for lunch which they ate in the kitchen, sat at the big scrubbed block in the middle with sandwiches and chicken drumsticks which Draco found under a cooling spell in the pantry.
“Is it weird that this doesn’t feel that weird?”
“I’m just wondering if we should’ve tried this in like, second year.”
Draco was wiping grease from his mouth when one of the Manor elves popped into existence next to him. Potter yelped in surprise, which, honestly, what a wuss.
“Pandem! Merlin, I didn’t know where you’d gone!” Draco exclaimed, scrambling out of his chair.
The elf bowed, and shook his head. “Our apologies, Master Malfoy. The manor was not safe for elves, and the elves were not safe for the Malfoy family,” Pandem said solemnly, his dark eyes flitting between Draco and Potter. Draco felt his breath catch, and he crouched to be at the elf’s level.
“I’m doing my best to get the house back in order, Pandem, but sometimes it’s like the house is fighting against me. The others, they’re all gone,” Draco offered, aware of Potter’s gaze in his periphery.
“We know, Master Malfoy. That is the reason I am back. The others will follow, when they see there is a Master of the House again.”
Draco stood up as the elf bowed again and vanished.
“Purebloods are so goddamn weird.”
Draco snorted and turned back to the table. “You definitely cannot talk about weird, Chosen-One. Merlin, I’m glad to see Pandem. He’s been with the family for about two hundred years. He taught me which brandy I like.”
Potter leaned forward, a chicken leg in one hand and a grin on his face. “As I said. God. Damn. Weird.”
Draco found himself grinning back, feeling suddenly, stupidly breathless.
The house elves trickled in slowly, appearing and reappearing about the house. They cleaned and tidied and repaired, and the house seemed to sigh in relief, old doorways sliding back into existence that Draco hadn’t been able to access since the summer before sixth year, the night his father didn’t come back from the Department of Mysteries. Draco thought to ask the elves to just fix everything, the whole lot, but something about the way Pandem had looked at him when he began to ask made him shut his mouth again.
Potter was there, the night Draco received notice of his father’s trial date. He knew, the way he knew autumn would come and that the sun would rise, that his father’s verdict would not be the same one he had received. There would be no last-minute testimony to save Lucius from his own decisions. Still.
“You can’t be serious,” Potter said, mouth tightening as he watched Draco grab a quill.
Draco resisted the urge to punch him. “He’s my father.”
Potter scoffed. “He let Voldemort live in your fucking house, Malfoy. He tried to kill me, he tried to kill Ginny! Testifying on his behalf isn’t going to do anything!”
“It doesn’t matter! It doesn’t matter if it helps him or not – he’s my fucking father, Potter! I have to try!”
Draco knew his voice was rising, felt all the same old rage he’d always had bubbling up inside him and let it happen, glad for once to have someone to let it out at.
“I know you might find this hard to understand, but even if you hate him, even if the whole world hates him, I don’t. If me testifying about how shitty it was for him this last year can do anything, can take even a week off his sentence, I’m going to do it. You cannot possibly understand,” Draco continued, feeling the words come out hot and furious, unbearably grateful to not be alone with this feeling. The lamp above their heads flickered, dimming and brightening and throwing their shadows into sharp relief. Draco could feel his heartbeat high in his throat, could see the tension around Potter’s eyes.
Potter’s voice was low and mocking, and for a moment Draco could pretend they were back in fifth year, in second, maybe even in first year before everything went so badly wrong, when arguing with Potter felt far more important than anything else. “You’re right, how could I understand about fathers when mine’s dead, is that what you’re saying Draco? And your dad would have been happy about that too I bet, because he’s a fucking prick who - “
“Don’t you dare, this is my father’s house and - “
“No, Draco, this is your house! Are you going to be like your bloody dad or not?”
“I don’t know!” Draco shouted, the words tearing out of his mouth before he could even think about it. He had time to see Potter’s shocked, unhappy face before all the lights went out.
The darkness was entirely complete, even the moonlight from the windows in the drawing room snuffed out. The air in his lungs was gone, and Draco’s head swam as his eyes strained to adjust. He could hear a wretched, animal sound, and then an awareness as he realised he was panting for breath, panic tightening his chest and curling around his lungs, settling in heavy and hungry.
Suddenly, a hand landed on his shoulder, and Draco cried out, batting it away, but the hands came back and caught him by the elbows, pulled him into a body, and refused to let go. It was Harry, of course it was, and Draco pushed away the momentary fear that it could have been someone else. He tried to pull away again and felt Harry’s breath in his hair as Harry told him to try to breathe slowly and not to let go. Harry pulled him to the floor and Draco went, his knees folding under him as he gripped Harry’s shirt in numb fingers and tried to slow his racing heart.
“I think you’re having a panic attack. Hermione said it’s best to try and breath slowly and deeply, and focus on something else. Can you do that?” Harry said, and Draco couldn’t speak but he managed to pull one deep breath in then another.
Harry squeezed Draco’s arms and Draco felt the tremor in his fingers. “Okay. I’m just gonna, uh, I’m gonna talk so you can just listen, yeah, and you can focus on me instead of your creepy house. Alright?” Harry continued, and Draco felt the bands around his lungs loosen, just a little. “I’ve been having these too, where you can’t breathe and stuff, so I know it feels awful but it’ll ease up. And then we can talk about something else, about your poncy books, or about school, or something else pointless.”
Draco let out a breath with a shudder and tugged at Harry’s shirt. “You dress like shit,” he managed, talking feeling momentous right now. Harry laughed and Draco felt him shrug, shift closer even though Draco didn’t think that was possible. Harry’s knee was digging into Draco’s leg; he could feel the bones of it through his robes.
“I don’t have that many clothes. Never seemed very important, I guess, and I didn’t have any money when I was younger. I can’t imagine dressing like you do every day.”
Harry plucked at the elbow of Draco’s robes. The darkness was so absolute that Draco sort of felt like he was floating, except for where he could feel Harry’s body against his own. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had been this close to him.
Harry cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, by the way. I didn’t mean to lose my temper, I just… God, Draco, we should’ve realised there’s a whole mountain of shit we’re going to fight about.”
Draco didn’t know if his eyes were open or closed. It didn’t matter either way. “There’s no point, we’re never going to agree about my father.”
“Well, we still need to talk about this stuff though.”
“Why?” Draco managed, and the few seconds before Harry replied felt like years.
“Because we’re friends,” Harry said, and all the lights came on at once.
Harry came to the trial, and sat the row behind Draco and his mother after he gave his memories of his father that last year in the manor. Lucius sat stiff and still next to the family lawyers, and no amount of fresh robes and tie pins could hide the exhaustion in his face or the nervousness in his movements. The verdict of the trial was set in stone before Lucius Malfoy ever set foot in the courtroom, but Draco felt better, somehow, after he’d done what he could, tried to show how small his father had been compared to the Dark Lord.
Harry’s hand was on Draco’s shoulder as the Wizengamot delivered the verdict, and Draco felt a tinge of pride that his father did not waver as guilty rang across the packed room. The sentence, however, was a surprise – ten years, with the possibility of parole after seven, to take into account his father’s inaction during the last months of the war, and the clear threat of violence towards Draco and Narcissa. Lucius did slump, then, and Draco saw the relief on his father’s face as his mother clutched his hand tight.
Draco brought his mother home, leaving Harry to floo from the Ministry. Walking into the manor, knowing his father would not be home for seven birthdays, seven Christmases, felt almost impossible. But, as his mother cast an eye over the entrance hall and suggested they take tea together in the conservatory, he swallowed down his nerves and smiled at her.
Draco kissed Harry first, which came as a shock to both of them. Harry was trying to open up the back of an ancient grandfather clock, and Draco was insisting it was damaged beyond repair, and ugly to boot, and they should just vanish the whole bloody thing.
“You said your great, great grandmother brought it here from France, Draco, you’re not vanishing it.”
“It doesn’t matter, we’ve got ten others just like it and this is by far the ugliest one!” Draco said, crossing his arms then uncrossing them immediately as Harry did the same. “I do not understand why you care if we throw a clock away!”
“Because!” Harry exclaimed, looking annoyed and amused all at once, the way he so often did nowadays, in this strange, long summer. “If I had family antiques, I wouldn’t bloody vanish them, and you’re not either! You’re so ungrateful and –“
Draco moved without thinking, pulling Harry in by his sleeve and slotting his mouth neatly over Harry’s, shutting him up mid-word. He couldn’t explain why seeing Harry defend Draco’s ugly clock had been the moment everything clicked into place, but it did, Merlin it did, all the tension and uncertainty of the last few weeks just disappearing all at once as Harry’s lips pressed back against his own. He ended up pressing Harry up against the stupid clock and kissing him over and over, only stopping when the blasted thing started chiming the hour, just as nicely as you please, and Harry tipped his head back and laughed and laughed.
Draco’s splurge of letter writing had consequences, from the awkward to the formal to the bizarre. Weasley’s short note declaring Draco’s apology accepted felt rather like it had been poked out of him by a sharp stick, but it was preferable to the silence from Longbottom. Luna’s rambling response had been delivered in person when she showed up on the doorstep, the wards apparently deciding she was related enough to come marching right up to the front door, but she’d also brought blueberry and nettle scones, which made Draco’s mouth tingle and made him feel more awake than he’d been in weeks.
McGonagall’s reply was a formal invitation to attend a final NEWT year at Hogwarts, starting September, where the first month would be spent with all “eighth year” students supporting staff in their repairs of the castle. Her letter was bundled in with Hagrid’s, which suggested if Draco meant what he’d said, he should take the Care of Magical Creatures NEWT, which, no. But Harry elbowed him hard as they read the letters together, Luna having turned up with Harry in tow this time then promptly sought out Draco’s mother to corner her into trying a new scone recipe. Draco could see his mother frowning from clear across the gardens.
Draco said he’d think about it, and Harry pressed a kiss behind his ear as he left that afternoon for dinner with the Weasley clan. He felt… unmoored, somehow, and yet he’d known in his heart things would end up like this, an impossible summer coming to an end as the weather finally began to cool. With lives to go back to, and futures to figure out, where did that leave him? Empty-handed, with a faint promise of something with Harry, and a mother who was half of her normal self?
It was late in the night when his mother knocked on his bedroom door.
“Mother?” Draco said, opening the door and stepping aside. “It’s late, is everything alright?”
Narcissa stepped past him lightly, her long hair unbraided and loose for bed. He shut the door and turned to follow.
“I am fine, Draco, but I’ve come to question you, not the other way around. Sit,” his mother said briskly, taking a seat on the chaise longue by the fireplace.
“Your letter today. Miss Lovegood told me about Hogwarts, and I intend to know your thoughts on the subject.”
Draco sighed, bringing a hand to rub the back of his neck. “It isn’t that easy, mother.”
Narcissa tutted and Draco sat up straight. “Of course it isn’t easy. There will be comments, and unpleasantness from those beneath you.” The firelight cast his mother in shadow, but he could see her small smile as she watched him. “That doesn’t mean you should not go.”
“I do not wish to leave you by yourself.”
Narcissa shook her head. “It would be selfish to keep you. I am only a floo call away. I am… sorry, that I was not more present before. The work you have done to bring our family through this has meant to great deal to me, Draco, and you should continue it by being with your peers.”
Draco looked down, unable to meet her eyes. It was too much to stand, the thought of being back at the castle, unable to hide away from the world. Potter would be there, and Luna and Pansy, but so would a hundred others he’d rather never see again, who had every right to hate him.
He didn’t look up at his mother’s shadow moved, as she stood and came towards him, putting a hand on his back and stroking his hair from his face. “The choice is yours, my darling, and we shall make it through no matter what you decide. However, I think it is important you should know, that if it was Lucius…” his mother’s voice wavered and he looked up, meeting her face as she took a deep breath. “Your father would never, if he were in your shoes. Maybe that will help you make your decision.”
Draco stood and hugged his mother tightly as the fire crackled, and they stayed awake long hours, making plans and confessions late into the night. When he did fall asleep, he awoke to a clean sheet of parchment and a quill on his bedside table, and a vase of fresh flowers to greet him.
9 and ¾ was quiet, only eighth years and their families allowed, and many had chosen to come alone. Draco was one of them, Narcissa kissing him goodbye on the doorstep that morning, then slipping a small bar of chocolate into his pocket for good luck, as she had done every first of September. No one spoke to him as he walked through the barrier, but the apprehensive eyes of the other students felt like stinging hexes anyway.
“Draco!” a voice from behind him exclaimed, and suddenly Lovegood had flung her arms around him as she tumbled through the barrier, her hair filling his vision for a moment and smelling strongly of pineapples. “We saw you going through, you can sit with us. There’s a few of you, right?”
“Pansy isn’t here yet, Blaise and Theo are joining in a week. Is Harry…?”
“Here.”
Draco turned and smiled, unable to help it, as Harry followed Granger and Weasley through the barrier too, letting his suitcase slide to a stop as he came to meet him. The murmur of the other students rose a little, but Draco didn’t care. Harry stopped in front of him, giving Draco a long look up and down. “I can’t believe you dress like this to sit on a train for ten hours.”
Draco snorted, feeling impossibly fond, feeling impossible in general. “I can’t believe you dress like this at all, I assume these are your pyjamas?”
Harry’s grin was a sunbeam. “I bet you’d like to see my pyjamas, wouldn’t you?”
“Oh come on, that didn’t even mean anything. You’re no good at this whole… seduction thing,” Draco said wildly, throwing caution to the wind as Harry’s grin spread from his face to Draco’s own.
“Should I show you something I’m better at?” Harry said.
Draco paused, feeling the uptick of his heartbeat and shrugged. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt.”
As Harry kissed him, and the noise of the other students rose to a sharp clamour, Draco closed his eyes. It all felt magnificent, and terrifying, and a little bit of him wondered how quickly it would make the papers. But it didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered was right here.
Miles away in the Wiltshire countryside, Narcissa put quill to parchment and wrote to someone she hadn’t spoken to for many years. And the Manor flung every window open to welcome in the fresh air.