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Chapter Text

Draco followed the lines as they crossed and wove into the diamond-shaped grid in front of him. Even in the darkness of his surroundings, he could see the faded yellow screen behind the pattern. He briefly thought about the hands that were responsible for the carved oak pattern. He envisioned the large and calloused hands of… perhaps an old Italian sculptor. Or maybe it was a local. He wondered how the sculptor felt, making something so significant, so beautiful, so... good.

“Whoever conceals their sins does not prosper, but the one who confesses and renounces them finds mercy.”

The voice nearly startled Draco, for he had become so engrossed in the carvings and patterns in front of him that he’d nearly forgotten there was somebody on the other side. He swallowed.

“I’ve been coming to this church since I was little,” he began with, because, truly, he didn’t know how else to. “And in all those years, I never thought I would have to come in here.”

“You never sought to confess your sins?”

“I never thought I would sin.”

There was a slight stretch of silence. “When anyone becomes aware that they are guilty in any of these matters, they must confess in what way they have sinned.”

Draco swallowed, staring down at his palms as they sat on his lap.

“God forgives everyone, right?”

“If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just and will forgive us our sins and purify us from all unrighteousness.”

“What if we didn’t? What if… if speaking about these things hurts? It makes us remember things we’d rather not?”

Again, the voice echoed from the other side of the narrow chamber. “Then we must remember Psalms... Because I kept silence, my bones waxed old, from my crying all the day…”

“Yes, but,” He worked his jaw, fighting through the lump that had formed in his throat. “I’m not sure if my sins are…” Draco stopped, closing his eyes for the briefest of moments. He thought of the scars on his left arm. He thought of the scars across his torso…

Draco took a breath, keeping his head down, and decided to start over.

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned…”

--------

“Hey, you got a minute?”

“If it means I get to stop doing all of this,” Harry gestured to the paperwork piling up beside him, “then by all means, what’s up?”

Ron went from leaning against the doorframe to taking the seat in front of Harry’s desk.

“I just wanted to talk to you about…” He ducked his head, despite them being alone in the office, and leaned forward. “You know…”

Harry sighed. “I’m sorry, mate, I just can’t do it anymore. And after last month…”

“I know, I just, this is going to be a big case. I can feel it, and we just can’t afford to lose people right now.”

Harry slumped backwards into his chair, bringing a hand up to scrub at his face as he sighed.

“How can you go on? Really. I want to know. That was…”

“I know, it’s terrible. And I won’t lie to you, Harry, It’s not easy. But there’s just this feeling inside me that forces me to keep going. Something that tells me… the world needs me. It needs us. I need to do this to serve the community because who else will? Not everyone is fit enough to do what we do.”

“I know, I know, it’s just…” Harry stopped speaking, at a loss for words. It’s just difficult to see more dead bodies, he almost wanted to say, but he wasn't sure if that was it. “Why are you bringing this up, anyway?”

Ron sucked in a breath, adjusting his position on the seat and reaching into his pocket to reveal in his hand a shrunken yellow file. He placed it on the table before tapping his wand to it, bringing it back to its original size.

The word CONFIDENTIAL bore lasers into Harry’s soul. He knew what was in the folder. His throat tightened up. He was unable to tear his gaze from it when he opened his mouth to speak, but before he could, Ron brought out another file and put it to its original size.

“He was found yesterday when you called in sick,” Ron began, tone cautious. “It’s worth noting the similarities, I think.”

Similarities. The word caught itself in Harry’s throat. He looked up to see Ron, concern written across his face. “There was another?” Ron nodded, moving to open it.

Harry had to blink quite a few times to register what he was seeing, the churn of his stomach began to make itself known in its threat to push last night’s dinner out.

The first thing Harry saw, some terrible mixture of red and black with a spot of yellow, skin flaked and scaled over, stiff and textured in ways skin should never be textured, was his arm, which was shackled to the floor, just like his other extremities. The next thing he noticed was the expanse of crimson that pooled beneath his body, which was dragged out into a circle around him. There were cuts along his bare torso, long and deep and left to bleed-

Harry thought he would be sick, and apparently it showed in his expression, because Ron sighed and closed the folder. It was only then that Harry could turn away, face in his hand.

“You know, we may have hated each other back in school, and sure, the bloke never knew when to stop eating and start thinking,” they both grimaced at Ron’s joke, poorly timed and terribly executed, “But Goyle didn’t deserve this.”

Harry licked his lips in an attempt to get his mouth working again, “No, he didn’t.”

The tension soon dissipated, though it left behind a sense that nothing was alright, not really. Ron spoke again.

“Did you notice the… the ring of blood? It’s the same.” He went and opened both folders again. Pansy Parkinson’s and Gregory Goyle’s dead and mangled bodies lay in their respective folders, side by side.

“Both had multiple lacerations, both had that ring of blood around them… They were both Slytherins in our year, friends with Malfoy… and the similarities don’t end there.”

“They were both left to bleed out,” Harry continued, finally gathering the courage to thumb through the files and multiple pictures of various gruesome wounds with trembling hands

“Their wounds may not be… exactly the same…” Ron chanced a glance at the pink and splattered red sockets where Pansy’s eyes had been, turning away immediately and pressing his fingers to his own now-closed eyes, grimacing as though he could feel it.

“But there are a few things that were similar at the crime scene. For one, both deaths were gruesome and bloody,” Harry continued. “And that- that ring of blood.”

“And,” Ron breathed, finally turning back to the files, “Both of them have a cut on their left forearms.”

Chapter Text

The smell of dew on a sunny day always calmed Draco down. He loved to stop and take in his surroundings on days like this, when flowers seemed to bloom just a bit brighter, when the grass seemed just a bit softer and greener, when the sky was just a bit bluer, only a few white wisps floating across it.

“I couldn’t help but notice there was a Malfoy at church.”

Draco kept his gaze forward, taking a deep breath. 

“Hello, Astoria.” 

“Hello… Beautiful day, isn’t it?” 

“Indeed it is,” he responded, turning to face her.

“And what brings you here?” He began, ”I’ve been attending for a few consecutive weeks now. I can’t say I noticed you.” 

“Hm, still observant as ever,” Astoria paused, coughing into a napkin, politely facing away from Draco, before continuing. “Let’s just say recent events brought me here.” 

Draco raised one pointed eyebrow. “Oh? And what are those?” 

“Why have you suddenly come back after so long? If I’m not mistaken, the last time I saw you here, we were bloody second and third years.” 

Draco’s lips pressed into a thin line, and he stepped back from the jibe, understanding when things were not to be spoken about. 

“I see. Well, the last time I saw you, you were at my trial.” 

“That I was,” she responded, a smile forming on her lips. “It was history in the making. Say, Harry Potter sure made a compelling case for you and your family. Defended by the Golden Boy. Quite remarkable. I guess the Malfoys never lost their flair for the dramatic.” 

Draco sniffed defensively, nose high. “We didn’t know he would be there. Let alone to defend us.” 

“Well,” Astoria waved her hand dismissively. “That was last year. What about now? What are you up to now that you’re a free man? Besides, of course, attending Sunday Mass?” 

“Yes, come to think of it, are you not meant to be at Hogwarts right now?” 

“We graduated last month. You know, the school felt rather empty, even with students in your year who returned for further study. Come to think of it,” and Draco knew she didn’t need to think about it, because they had kept semi-regular correspondence throughout her last year, Draco finding the time to send replies somewhere between mourning his mother and hating himself, “I didn’t see you last year. Why was that, again?” Before Draco could answer, Astoria turned away for another mild-mannered cough.

“Can’t a man live his life in peace? You and I both know there was no point in returning. Not for me.” 

“Hm… We can agree to disagree.” 

“If we must.” 

“Floo me some time, yes? I rather missed you, Draco. Don’t turn yourself into a stranger.” 

He raised an eyebrow at her again, a polite smile tugging at the corners of his lips. 

“Maybe I will floo you some time.” 

In the coming weeks, Draco found himself speaking to Astoria regularly, which is more than he could say for anybody else he knew at the moment. It began after the Sunday Mass following the first time they saw each other again. Draco admits it maybe wasn’t his smartest move, breaking down into tears when the priest told the story from Luke of the Prodigal Son. He couldn’t help but think about his father, and how terribly, cruelly different everything was from the story, how he knew he wouldn’t be welcomed back into the family by his father, not like the Prodigal Son was welcomed back. 

Draco asked the priest why people who preach the word of the Bible did not follow its morals. 

“Bad company corrupts good morals,” he responded. He turned around to find Astoria waiting patiently at the large oak double doors. 

They spoke extensively that afternoon, about life, death, and family… with a few shots of Firewhiskey in between.

“I don’t think you’re right about your father.”

Draco lifted his head from his hand, elbow resting on the counter. He blinked a few times to snap himself out of the haze that had slowly built up in him. The Firewhiskey was beginning to take effect, then. 

“No… He’s- he hasn’t changed, Astoria. I don’t think he ever will.”

“That doesn’t mean that he doesn’t still love you.” 

Draco stayed silent for several moments. The weight of what she said was perhaps a bit much for his alcohol-addled brain. There was a warmth blossoming in his chest and he almost wished Astoria would hug him. 

“I don’t have a floo. I live in a Muggle flat,” he blurted out, cheeks flushed bright pink with embarrassment, or perhaps nervousness. He couldn’t quite tell at that moment. 

Astoria simply smiled, turning her attention away from the napkin she’d been toying with. “Then we shall Owl each other.”

Draco didn’t understand why he suddenly wanted to make her smile like that again.

Since then, Draco found that he’d started writing owls to her, and she to him. The following Sunday Mass consisted of Astoria finding and sitting next to Draco. (They received looks for that, specifically from a ginger girl that sat a few seats away, but Draco didn’t mind it.) Then, Draco’s once-lonely Muggle flat began to face bi-weekly cleaning. After all, Draco concluded, Astoria couldn’t visit a filthy home, now could she?

Almost a month later, Draco asked Astoria to have dinner with him. That was the first time he tried cooking a full meal. It took him a lot longer than he anticipated. Astoria was welcomed by Draco holding a hot pan and a spatula instead of the glass of white he was planning on having ready for her. She simply laughed, sharing with him that beautiful smile that kept making his stomach go funny, and claiming it would be more entertaining to watch him finish cooking anyway. That night, they kissed for the first time. The feeling was akin to floating high in the air. Draco hadn’t ever fancied anybody before, not really. And the comfort he found in attending the Sunday Mass with her, in cooking and reading with her, was a breath of fresh air. He hadn’t realized how terribly holed up he’d been since the war, how much he had trapped himself. 

One day, Draco took her to brunch after Sunday Mass. They spent the afternoon chatting about little things, like how Astoria absolutely could not stand the smell of boiled broccoli even though it was her favorite food to eat, or how Draco is fascinated by listening to the different elements of the music at church, of feeling the layers of emotion as they get woven into each other to create something so beautiful, and… good .

Draco remembered the night the Daily Prophet snapped a picture of the two walking with their hands intertwined. Astoria laughed at the front-cover page with the nasty headline of “Death-Eater Drags Greengrass Family Into Affairs” and cut out the picture, framing it and putting it on Draco’s wall. 

“Your flat needed some decorating, anyway. The walls were too plain.” 

“And a Daily-Prophet article sure livens it up, doesn’t it?” Draco caught himself smiling despite his sarcastic remark. The two kissed before she left to go home, with Astoria declaring that tomorrow they shall have breakfast.

The next morning, however, she did not show. He flooed her and Owled her, neither of which bore a response. That evening, the knock at the door had Draco running to let her in, to ask where she’d been and what had happened. However, in her place stood a person Draco knew all too well, even despite having not seen him for more than a year, now. The first thing that came to his mind is that the brown robes did not suit him. Perhaps if they were more beige…

The second thing that came to his mind was; why the hell is he here? 

“Draco Malfoy,” Potter reached into his pocket to reveal what Draco knew to be an Auror badge to go with his ghastly uniform. “I’m here to discuss your relation to Astoria Greengrass.” 

As Potter practically pushed himself through the door Draco noticed that behind him stood Weasley with a grim face, arms folded in front of him. 

“May we have a seat?” Draco did everything in his power to not scowl, which wasn’t too difficult when he thought about why they might be here to discuss Astoria. Is she okay? Has something happened? 

“Yes, my couch works fine.” 

The truth was, Draco’s flat was not the largest or the nicest. It was small and bland, something Astoria had said was “out of character, but almost endearing. Now I get to tell you to decorate for me.” 

Potter was the first to sit down at the same time that Weasley placed a shrunken yellow folder on the coffee table in front before resizing it so the word CONFIDENTIAL could be seen, screaming in big, red letters. 

Potter took a deep breath, almost like a sigh as he folded his hands in front of him, leaning his arms onto his knees. 

“You may want to sit as well.” 

Draco summoned a chair, taking a seat in front of the two Aurors, the coffee table between them. 

“I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this, Mal-” he paused. “Draco… Astoria was found dead this morning.” 

Chapter Text

If it were possible for his stomach to drop out from under him, Draco was positive it felt a bit like this. Potter and Weasley were watching him carefully, scanning for any possible reactions. And Draco supposed maybe he should react. Cry, scream, curse them, accuse them of lying, kick them out, break something… but it seemed he only had the power to sit frozen. As if he wasn’t just told that the woman he was rapidly falling in love with was ripped from his grasp.

“…Malfoy?” 

Draco blinked. “Yes?”

Potter took in a breath. “We have reason to believe that you two were close. You were also the only person we could get a hold of.” 

Potter’s voice was muddled a bit, and Draco could have sworn he didn’t understand a word out of his mouth. Draco felt suddenly too dehydrated to respond, yet somehow, he did.

“Your assumptions are not incorrect, however, I’m sure you are aware that she has a sister…”

“Daphne is, for all intents and purposes, missing. We’ve reason to believe she fled after the war,” replied Weasley. 

“Listen, Malfoy- Draco. You’re the only person she has any relation to that’s alive and available,” said Potter. “If you don’t mind, we would like to go over the cause of death.” 

Leave it to Potter to be as insensitive as possible. And think that changing ‘Malfoy’ to ‘Draco’ softens the blow any. At least it wasn’t Potter who decided to open the file in his face, revealing a body that looked to have been burned by chemicals, chained to the floor, and with large gashes along her- completely naked- torso. There was a ring of what could only be described as her blood surrounding her.

Draco couldn’t look away. 

Her left forearm had one particularly long slash down it, and it was hissing bloody murder in Draco’s brain. The mass of flesh that had been reduced to pink, raw, glossy, and marred stretched across her face and neck, centered at the eyes. She also had a gash across her lower stomach, so deep it exposed her innards. The bile was crawling up Draco’s throat with increasing speed and he was suddenly seized by the aching need to look away, yet he was simply too shocked to move. Potter was the one who closed the file.

“He didn’t need to see that, Ron.”

“It’s been procedure to show them.”

“Ron…” Potter turned back to Draco. “She was murdered. Quite… gruesomely, as well. She’s the latest of several who have been found as of late- I’m sure you read about Pansy Parkinson and Gregory Goyle? In the Daily Prophet?”

He had. And he cried about it when he’d heard. Astoria comforted him every time he would lose his wits and think about it again. Absently he wondered who would hold him and stroke his hair saying that it would all be okay now that she was gone. Could her ghost come back to comfort him over her own death? What would the pastor say? That it’s all part of God’s plan?

“The biggest thread we’ve found between all of these murders is that they were all former Death Eaters. And they all had close relations with you.”

God’s plan seemed to be causing Draco as much suffering as possible. Penance for his part in the war.

“Because of this, we are here to offer you protection. We have reason to believe you are a target of this man. You would have one Auror with you at all times, to keep you safe.” Potter pulled out a different file. One that made Draco’s stomach turn a lot less than the previous. It was just a lot of writing on paper. That, he could deal with.

“Agreeing to this would place one in your home. And if you opposed those arrangements we would organize a living accommodation for you and the Auror assigned. Regardless of your chosen arrangement, any costs of living, such as food and water, would be compensated for by The Ministry. All you need to do is sign here, and first thing tomorrow, everything will be set.”

It seemed the Sahara Desert had recently made residence in Draco’s mouth. He swallowed in an attempt to get his tongue and mouth working again. After all, Potter and Weasley were waiting for his response. 

“But… you don’t know for sure if there really is somebody after me.”

“We have reasonable suspicion that somebody is,” began Ron. 

“We implore you to take this offer.” But you don’t need to right now. We can’t force you to choose right now, Harry almost said. But something inside of him told him not to. It’s an offer for safety, damn it, and Malfoy should take it. 

“I think I’ll be fine,” Draco said after what felt like a long, long time. His bones were settling weary, and he didn’t know whether he wanted to go get sloshed or take a nap that lasted the rest of eternity. “Thank you, Aurors, but I’ll pass.” Draco did not want to live under somebody’s shadow. He didn’t want anybody near him at all, for that matter. Not right now. 

“Are you sure, Mal- Draco… you might be in danger as we speak.” 

“I’m sure you won’t have a hard time finding the door, Auror Potter.” Draco had stood now, as had the other two. 

“Malfoy,” Draco was already pushing them towards the door by simply closing the distance between them.

“Listen. We’re going to leave the forms here, okay?” Weasley put them down on the coffee table as he stepped back, bumping into Harry who was, stubbornly, not moving like Weasley was. “If you change your mind at any point, all you need to do is send it. We have you on a priority list along with others we suspect are in danger, so we’ll get the Owl almost immediately, and your chosen arrangements will be set within 24 hours-” 

“Yes, thank you, but I won’t be needing them.” The moment that they were over the threshold of the front door, Draco closed and locked it, turning to rest his back against the door and sighing. 

The flat was silent. Too silent. Draco opened his eyes. 

That bloody picture dares mock my loss… nostrils flaring, Draco stomped up to the opposite wall, taking the framed Prophet photo from the wall and tearing it off. 

Astoria was so beautiful, Draco thought. That night was when she told him that she was happy for the first time in a long time, with him. And Draco had responded by giving her a kiss, and holding her tenderly. 

The glass shattered when the frame hit the floor on the other side of his small, dreary flat. Draco’s chest was heaving, now, and his breaths stuttered as tears sprung to his eyes. Draco was crouching on the floor, now. He didn’t know when he’d done that, but he had, and he was hugging his knees to his chest as pained sobs escaped him. 

Chapter Text

Harry was not happy. Not one bit.

How stupid did Malfoy have to be to deny Auror protection? How could he not take something like this seriously? Didn't he understand that his life might be on the line?

Harry tried not to let it bother him when Malfoy kicked him and Ron out of the house without signing the request form. He got back to the Ministry to punch out and went right to his flat in Diagon, tossing a pile of unfinished paperwork onto his desk, peeling off his work robes, and microwaving some leftovers from the icebox.

When he peeled back the adhesive foil of the box dinner, releasing the sour and rotten stench of old, soggy greens and aged cheese. Harry found himself with the urge to vomit, and tossed it in the trash, swapping dinner out for a glass and some Firewhiskey.

He sat down on his sofa with a sigh, throwing his head back an closing his eyes, his drink close at hand, and tried to decompress.

Why, why haven’t I figured this out, yet? Why can’t I stop people from dying? The weight of his failure was weighing him down. He felt no relief, no pride in any of his actions. He simply felt shame. Shame over his ineptitude to solve the case.

At least three bodies now, three mutilated, absolutely destroyed bodies, left to rot for us to find, almost as though the murderer wants to make a show of it.

And even after Draco Malfoy’s girlfriend becomes the latest in a string of victims, he still denies protection.

Harry can’t shake the feeling that he’s going to be the next victim.

Harry found the initial glass he’d served himself was empty, and he decided to accio the bottle over to him, pouring another glass.

Another terrible, gruesome murder. Another innocent life he couldn’t save. Another, and another,

and another… When they’d gotten the report of suspicious activity he didn’t think he’d find Astoria Greengrass slashed up in an abandoned warehouse.

And they weren’t getting any closer than they were when Pansy Parkinson, the first murdered, was found. What they thought was a one-off tragedy was quickly turning into a connected mass conspiracy coupled with absolute, utter hopelessness, to Harry.

Harry tossed back another drink, the bottle quickly losing volume.

And just when he’d decided he wanted to quit, too. How convenient.

At least he hadn’t told anybody of his plans. He hadn’t even requested the forms for his two weeks notice. Kingsley would have asked too many questions.

It didn’t take long for Harry to get absolutely sloshed.

He'd make Harry feel guilty enough to stay. Harry had to get Terry Boot to pick up an extra copy when he had quit six months ago. Terry Boot moved on to become a healer. Harry doesn't know what job he would get when he quit. Did he even need a job? He has more money than he knows what to do with, anyway.

What wanker can't even last one year doing a job that he was basically born to do?

Harry fell into a fitful sleep on the couch that night, and he woke up the next morning feeling no better as he dragged his feet to the Auror offices.

There was no Owl from Malfoy.

Harry had hoped that Malfoy might come to his senses by morning. Why was he even so bothered by this, anyway?

Three more days passed until Harry found it just infuriating that Malfoy was seemingly still stupid enough to not request protection. Especially when Ron came busting into the office with word of a dead body found in one family's basement, which seemingly appeared there while they were on holiday. Harry sprang up from his desk, only one thing on his mind. What if it was Malfoy?

Ron, Mordecai, and Harry apparated to the scene promptly, landing in front of a house where a scared family stood, faces crumpling with relief when they found the three Aurors. Mordecai was quick to approach and address the shaken family. Ron and Harry headed inside, wands out and on the defensive.

"They reported the body was in the basement?"

"Yes, but by the smell of it, we must be close."

Harry peered around the dimly lit home, quiet and seemingly untouched. The two of them cast a Lumos, continuing cautiously. The sitting room was quaint. Pictures lined the cream-colored walls, filled with the image of a happy, innocent family. Why did this man choose to murder someone in somebody else's home? Harry's brain was reeling with questions, drenched to the bone with apprehension. The floors creaked beneath him and Ron with every step, and the smell of rot only grew stronger. Past the sitting room was a hallway. Constant Vigilance, the phrase echoed through their brains in Mad-Eye's voice. Except now it didn't sound born out of paranoia. Harry especially felt that it was warranted, given now he knew what it was like living in constant danger, constantly hunting down the next psychopath.

"You take left, I take right."

Harry nodded at Ron, going to the left. "Call out if you find them."

To the left was the kitchen. Very small, not meant for more than one person, truly. All that could be heard was the soft hum of the icebox and Harry's slow, creaking steps. Dust lined the counters, and silently, he wondered how long this family's holiday was. Just as Harry was about to turn around and look for Ron to the right, he noticed it. Looked over if it weren't for the distinct lack of dust in one square on the counter. Harry furrowed his brows, using his wand to open the drawers in the kitchen. A distinct creak made him quickly look over his shoulder. Nothing. Harry turned back over to the drawers, scanning over their contents, and, just as he thought, there were no knives in this kitchen, and a knife block was missing.

Harry closed the drawers and turned around, headed right, past two bedrooms and a bathroom. At the end of the hall, an open door revealed a set of stairs leading down. He peered over, where the glow of a Lumos Maxima, presumably from Ron, shot up and lit the area. Harry started down the steps, heart in his throat, pulse roaring in his ears. He didn't let himself pause to think of the mantra that was Please, don't let it be Malfoy. Don't let it be Malfoy repeating over and over in his head. The idiotic bastard should have signed the forms. If only he'd-

Harry's breath hitched.

He was devoid of clothing, covered from head to toe in lacerations. The missing knife block was discarded, off to the side. The stench of rotted eggs and cabbage that violated Harry and Ron's nostrils was pungent as ever, and his paper-white skin looked as though it was going to flake right off if a gust of wind hit just right. Harry gulped, his breath having been properly stolen away thanks to the dark ugly stains of blood on the wooden floor and the flies that were surrounding his body.

"I already cast a spell to check his vitals," Ron croaked. "He's dead."

Theodore Nott appeared to have been killed by nothing other than the various slashes along his body. No chemical burns, like Goyle, or eye-gouging, like Parkinson. Even Greengrass had been discovered with poison in her system.

Now, of course, that's not to say that Nott left the same way. Labs would determine that.

Still, the sight was sickening.

"I'll get pictures of what we see. You go on and call the Auror office's healer branch to get the body." Harry nodded solemnly as Ron spoke. Harry's sights couldn't help but drift over to the symbol written in blood on the wall, just like at every scene they'd arrived at. The coagulated chunks stood out in the thick, crimson streaks that painted the stone into a shape that should never be depicted in such a substance. The Christogram.

That night, Harry did not sleep. His mind kept reeling with the possibility that Malfoy was next. It was frustrating for him to not know Malfoy's whereabouts or what he was doing or if he was even safe. No Aurors were protecting him, and there was no telling when this psychopath might strike next, and who he might pin next.

Work the next day didn't do much to ease his worries, sitting down with his team and filling out paperwork regarding the murder, evidence, and the poor Muggleborn family whose house had been defiled by such an act. One thing that did come out of it, though, is they learned that the family wasn't all it seemed. They were incomplete. The once-father, mother, son, and daughter were now only father, mother, and son. Their daughter had been killed by Nott's father during the war.

Ron and Mordecai wondered if it might be worth asking the family some questions. Though the connection was thin, it was all they had to go off of. Harry thought it wouldn't make sense for the guilty party to report their own crime, and went directly to Kingsley Shaklebolt with his own idea.

"I want my team to be notified of any missing persons until we catch this guy."

Kingsley looked up from what he was doing, facing Harry with a calm that put him on edge. Harry steeled himself, taking the opportunity to speak again.

"It might give us the seconds we need to catch him in the act. If somebody is reported missing and it turns out to be somebody of interest..."

"Yes, I see." Kingsley sighed, turning to open a drawer and pulling out several sheets of parchment. "I'll let you know what I can do. I'm trusting you, Potter."

"Thank you, sir."

However, even that did not ease his mind about Malfoy. Why couldn't he just stop thinking about him, for one bloody second? It was sickening, at this point. His mind never failed to point out the flaws in his actions. Who did Malfoy even have to report him missing if he did go missing? Surely not Astoria. His father is still in prison... his mother? Did they even speak, anymore? Something unsavory settled in his gut.

When he returned to the office, Mordecai and Ron were still looking over everything, trying to brainstorm, to look for connections they hadn't seen before, or to find anything, anything at all that might stop the pile of bodies from growing. Ron glanced up.

"Mate, you alright? You look a bit sick."

Harry gulped, trying his damnedest to push everything out of his mind. Out, out so they don't make his stomach twist and turn anymore.

The worst of it was that somehow, almost two days later, he could still smell the rot from Nott's body.

He thought perhaps it was the universe punishing him.

"I'm going home early, today. I think I just need to catch up on some sleep."

Ron nodded in understanding, giving Harry a wave and letting him be on his way. Harry took his things and made his way to the nearest apparition point, disappearing with a whizz and a pop.

I can't believe the building has no elevator, Harry thought as he climbed the now third flight of stairs, taking a left once he reached the landing and scanning for the right flat number.

307. Harry knocked on the door.

Chapter Text

Draco went to bed only a few hours after Potter and Weasley left his flat, feeling torn apart and raw, as though he’d been left to bleed out. He wondered if that was Potter and Weasley’s goal, just to make him utterly miserable. Then he thought of what the church would think if they heard his hateful thoughts. Draco tried to block them out, the voices. They told him that he was meant to suffer, that Potter and Weasley were complete and utter pricks for what they’d done, that God was a prick, for even letting something so terrible happen. 

Draco felt the boulder push down on his chest as he worked to avoid crying again. He felt the air vanish from his dark, drabby room, felt the night get darker and colder. He felt time pass and felt the pressure grow along with sudden and complete exhaustion. He didn’t feel it when the first bits of sorrow dripped down his cheeks, nor did he hear the sounds of agony that escaped him. All he could feel was that pressure, stifling, suffocating. Pressure, trying to wring him out, trying to crush him under its weight. 

Draco didn’t leave his room at all for the next few weeks. 

At least, not for any reason other than eating, which he was doing less and less of nowadays, and using the loo. 

Draco felt lost. He wondered if, perhaps, this was all a mistake. Maybe she wasn’t really gone, just missing- or perhaps they identified the wrong body. Maybe whoever was out there doing all of this would stop killing people upon realizing what an awful mistake he made, to have killed somebody innocent. Astoria was innocent. Innocent. She did nothing wrong. It was me, not her. It was me, all me.

A few days into his self-constructed cycle of misery, Draco got the news that Theodore Nott was found dead in the basement of a Muggleborn family. This shattered Draco’s little bubble. He canceled his subscription to the Daily Prophet. What use was the News, anyway? Draco had only been keeping his subscription active so he could stay up to date, but there was really no point if there was nothing he deemed worth knowing about anymore. 

It was also around that time Draco became convinced he was hearing things. It was as though somebody was knocking on his door. It happened at least a few times a week. Other times, Draco swore he could feel a twinge of magic in the air. Though he knew it wasn’t him. What was the point in practicing his magic right now, anyway? Life was cold, meaningless, and cruel. He had no reason to do anything and nothing to do anyway. So, he kept on with his dragging, ignoring the occasional knocks, and the shimmers of magic that kept falling around the stupid flat. His flat was so stupid, anyway. 

Sometimes his mind liked to be particularly cruel by letting him forget what had happened, causing him to think about sending her an Owl, or perhaps calling her via the floo network that he doesn’t even have in his stupid Muggle flat. 

Draco wondered if Daphne knew yet, wondered how she’d reacted. Was she as devastated as Draco was? 

Oh, Draco missed her terribly. He missed her smile, her laugh, how strongly she felt about the monopoly goblins had over the Wizarding banking system, how her arms felt around him…

He simply missed her . Everything about her.

Draco didn’t know what day it was when he received an Owl from Daphne inviting him to the funeral. However, it kicked a certain part of him. As he looked around his flat, he spotted blankets and cushions thrown, shorts, briefs, trousers… In the kitchen laid dishes uncleaned from days, almost a week ago, maybe more, Draco didn’t quite know. Particles of dust caught through cracks of sunlight beaming through the window shades. 

Astoria would never accept this.

That day, Draco began to clean. 

The Muggle way, of course, he reasoned. How else could he ensure that it took up as much time and mental space as possible? It began with the laundry. He picked up all of the clothes that had been strewn about and put that as well as all of the clothes from his laundry basket into the washer. Then, he began the dishes, which took him a lot longer than he expected. Old bits of sauce and residue dried and stuck firmly to his plates, bowls, and cups. It all took an obscene amount of scrubbing to remove. Then, came the floor. It needed a severe sweeping. And a vacuuming, and a mopping. 

After folding the laundry, Draco went ahead and put his carpets to wash. Then, he continued to give the floor its third mop-over. He put his clothes to dry, drained the dirty mop water, folded his clothes, dried the carpets and rugs, did his bed, put away the now-dry plates…

By the end of the day, Draco collapsed onto his bed with a sigh. His hands were dry and chalky from all of the cleaning products, and he couldn’t smell anything properly, but, he had managed to not think about anything the entire day. 

Draco liked that. He found he liked it a lot. 

So, the next day, he did some more. He put the curtains to wash, and he swept the floor again. He also went through his icebox and cupboards, throwing away anything that might be expired and rearranging their contents. 

The day after that, his flat still smelled strongly of cleaning products, and he only had four dirty articles of clothing. His floor was clean, and there were no dishes to do- Draco had now decided that if he truly lacked the appetite for food, he could at least serve plates and re-place the food in its original container if only to be able to wash dishes. Draco decided that perhaps, today could be his day to rest. He sat down on the couch, proud of how much more homely a simple cleaning made this flat. Astoria would be proud.

Astoria…

It began with a simple squeeze of his heart, then, his stomach dropped rather unpleasantly. When he attempted to take a breath, it felt as though the air had vanished from his little old flat. Astoria should be here. She should get to see how clean the flat was now. She should- she…

She should get to smile one last time, to take one last breath. 

Draco should get to see her again. 

He had had just about enough of it when an overwhelming surge of emotions threatened to bring tears to his eyes. He stood abruptly, His breath coming in small pants, and turned around, removing the wrinkles from the couch cushion where he’d just sat, with every wrinkle that smoothed itself out, with every pass of his fingers across the soft, smooth surface, Draco found he was able to breathe just a little bit easier. The couch would look prettier if there weren’t any wrinkles on it.

Draco decided to wash his bedsheets and put new ones on his bed. It took him an hour and a half to ensure that his bed looked like it was from a page ripped straight out of a magazine. Then, he deep-cleaned the bathroom, which took him the rest of the day.

The next day, Draco was finding it rather difficult to come up with new things that needed tidying. It was twenty minutes after he’d rearranged his extensive collection of books from genre order to alphabetical order that he’d become restless and fidgety, searching through his apartment frantically for something to occupy his mind, to stave away those thoughts that invaded him like a poison, sour and nearly unstoppable. When looking through his cupboard, he’d found a box of brownie mix. Perfect. 

He worked hard at the brownies. They took him about an hour to make, and they had come out delicious (Draco had to try them. After all, they were something new and of his own creation). But, he couldn’t help but wonder if perhaps making them from scratch would take more time, effort, and space in his brain. 

The space in his brain part was what he was aiming for the most, really. And what was perfect was that thanks to having reorganized all of his books, he had found one filled with over 100 pastry and dessert recipes. He found a page with directions for “Soft, Decadent Brownies” and made a note of the required ingredients. Draco found himself smiling widely, anticipation giving him a surge of energy he hadn’t felt in a long time, and went to find the ingredients in his cupboard. 

Draco frowned. He had almost none of what was required of him. He could sense the threat of those awful thoughts lingering, waiting for even a second of weakness to invade.

He figured he must find other ways to clean, then. He could start with the bowl, utensils, and pan used for the brownies. Then, from there, he could perhaps rearrange his wardrobe. 

The night before Astoria’s funeral, Draco was tossing and turning in bed, as had become his usual, by now. Because the awful thing was that despite Draco’s best and most successful efforts to stay busy during the day, he had yet to come up with what to do in the late hours of the night, when everything he’d worked so hard to keep away during the day had come crashing back, and relentlessly. 

He dreamt that Astoria was never dead, that she came to him, surrounded by the ethereal glow of a God, and told him she loved him. 

Draco only got three hours of sleep, that night. Maybe he could take up cleaning at night, as well. Only sometimes. Just when he couldn’t particularly take it, maybe. 

Draco spent the rest of the night considering it.

Chapter Text

Harry was sitting in his 1999 Volvo S70 with a styrofoam box balancing precariously in one hand while his other hand grasped at a sandwich firmly, trying to keep all of its contents put together while he raised it to his mouth. 

Malfoy had not answered him every single time that he came knocking on the door, which was at least every few days. Harry figured it was pretty safe to assume that he hasn’t left his flat at all since the news of Astoria was broken to him, especially because every time he came knocking, There was always some sound or other, clattering plates, a running vacuum, etc, that indicated he was home and simply ignoring Harry. 

Harry tried to ignore how much that bothered him. He also tried to ignore how long Malfoy might be planning to go all cooped up. His flat didn’t exactly look like the most homely place, last Harry saw. But he couldn’t judge him, either. At least Malfoy doesn’t have a leaning tower of paperwork and empty takeout boxes on a desk like Harry did. At least, Harry hadn’t seen one.

Harry had gotten into the habit of leaving the building and just sitting outside the complex in his car to watch the front door once he heard sounds that indicated Malfoy was alive and in there. If Harry didn’t hear anything on the other side of the door, he wouldn’t go to sit in his car. Luckily, though, that was happening less and less, so Harry could sit with his music and his sandwich comfortably most days. 

Harry and Ron had both gotten the invitation from Daphne to attend Astoria’s funeral. “As a thank you for finding and attending to her.” Ron was not shy in voicing his opinion about it. 

“How could she be thanking us? We had to get the news over to French Aurors who could find her and tell her that her younger sister was murdered.”

“Most Aurors wouldn’t have bothered to contact the French Aurors, though. They would have just left it to the nearest person they knew around here,” I countered. Mordecai shook his head. 

“Thank God I took a sick day when you two went to that scene, I don’t think I’d be able to go to a funeral where I found the body. At the same time, how do you decline something like that?”

Ron bowed his head. “Dunno.” 

“I’m going.” 

They both looked up at Harry when he’d said it, some parts confused and some parts unsurprised. 

“Let me guess,” began Ron. “You want to check on Malfoy.”

 Harry scoffed. “For all I know, the git isn’t even going. He’s been locked up in his flat every day anyways-”. Harry stopped abruptly, realizing he’d just revealed to Ron and Mordecai his not-so-ethical afternoon activities. Ron looked up at him, his face slowly falling from an expression of confusion to incredulity. 

“Oh… Oh, no. Harry, mate.” Ron huffed, pursing his lips and changing his position from standing to sitting on top of the desk behind him, turning away and murmuring something along the lines of “if Hermione heard this…”

“What?” Harry couldn’t help but defend himself. It was life or death, for Merlin’s sake! Malfoy needed some sort of protection. Supervision, at the very least. Harry would give anything to stop from having to see another body.  

“You’re stalking Malfoy? Again?” 

“What? No! I’m not- stalking him,” But Harry stumbled over his statement. If he wasn’t stalking Malfoy, what was he doing? Visiting him almost every day and not leaving until hours later even after Malfoy didn’t answer the door? Harry knew how bad it sounded. Ron huffed again, slapping his lap and shaking his head disapprovingly. 

“Kingsley would have your head if he knew.” 

“You aren’t going to tell him, right?”

“No, are you mad?” Harry glanced at Mordecai, who simply raised his hands in surrender and shook his head. 

“I’m not getting involved. I don’t know what you’re looking at me for.” 

Harry breathed a sigh of relief. “Thanks.” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Mordecai insisted. 

“Right,” said Harry. “Anyways, it’s not about Malfoy. It’s… I want to pay my respects.” The excuse was valid, but Ron gave Harry a look saying he knew that Harry was hoping to be able to properly check on Malfoy, too. And he couldn’t blame Ron. That was what he was hoping to do at this funeral, anyway. He hoped he would see that Malfoy actually left his flat, for once. 

The funeral was held at the cemetery by St. Jerome’s church in Godric’s Hollow.

There were not many people in attendance. There was an older man and woman who, Harry figured, were Astoria’s parents, and another man that Harry did not recognize, but who stood unusually close to Daphne, so Harry assumed he was a lover. There was another man who looked about the same age as her, but the family resemblance was uncanny. A brother, a cousin? With his wife? Harry didn’t know. He’d never remembered seeing them at Hogwarts, at least. 

Sitting front and center was Malfoy, who, from behind, didn’t look any different than Harry remembered. His white-blond hair, trimmed and styled to perfection as always, stood in sharp contrast to not only his black suit but to the dark brown hair of the rest of the Greengrass family. Something settled in Harry’s stomach, seeing Malfoy out and about. Harry decided to sit towards the back, as far away from Malfoy as possible. Today was not the day to upset the man.       

The service was quite lovely, considering everything. Several people cried and were open with it. Daphne spoke, and so did whom Harry learned was Gareth Greengrass, Astoria and Daphne’s cousin. The priest said some kind words and some uplifting ones, and everybody took turns placing flowers over her casket before she was lowered into the ground. Through it all, Harry took extra care to not be seen by Malfoy. At least, not yet. As soon as the service ended and most of those in attendance had cleared out, Daphne went up to Harry and gave him a hug, which was the last thing Harry had been expecting. 

“Thank you for getting the news to me, truly. And thank you for making sure she was properly taken care of.” 

Harry returned the hug, feeling beyond awkward. Peering behind Daphne’s shoulder, he could see that Malfoy had still not left. He was now standing at Astoria’s grave. Harry was beginning to get frustrated that he couldn’t see Malfoy’s face. Everything Harry could currently see about him from behind looked too robotic. Too cold. 

“Er, I was just doing my job…”

Daphne let go, wiping her eyes with a napkin she’d been holding throughout the entire ceremony. “We both know you take more care than the rest of the Aurors, Potter. So I am going to thank you again, and you will accept it.” 

Harry was stunned, unsure how else to respond besides “You’re welcome. I don’t take these things lightly.” Because he truly doesn’t, and the bastard that has been killing people needs to be stopped, and Harry feels like he’s losing it just a little bit more after each body- 

Daphne left after a curt nod and a goodbye. Soon, Harry found he was left with only one other person, standing far in front of him, head bowed in front of Astoria’s grave. When Harry squinted, he thought he could see Malfoy’s shoulders shake. 

Harry took tentative steps towards Malfoy. The man in front of him was stifling cries, Harry noticed when he got close enough. He paused, taking in the scene. 

How cruel was it that, on a day like this, there wasn’t even a cloud in the sky? 

The priest that spoke at the service could be seen approaching Malfoy from the side. Harry took a few steps backward, not wanting to be seen. Lest the priest tells Malfoy that another man was staring at them from behind. The priest’s hand came to rest on Malfoy’s shoulder. Malfoy flinched, before turning to face the man. Harry took one step forward. 

The priest was saying something, now. Harry took another step forward, trying to listen. The two looked familiar with each other. Harry wondered if Draco regularly came to this church, or if, perhaps, the priest knew of the entire Malfoy family. 

Though Lucius definitely didn’t strike Harry as a churchman. 

“Why would God allow this?” 

Malfoy’s voice came out small, broken. He gave Harry the impression of a young child who didn’t understand what was going on, who had just been told what death is. However, Harry knew that was far from the truth. They had both lived through a war. They couldn’t get much more familiar with the concept. Harry watched as Malfoy’s face turned up into a snarl. “I know people who deserve it far more.” Then his face dropped dejectedly and just as quick. 

“Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted. Remember, Draco. Her flesh and her heart may fail, but God is the strength of her heart and her portion forever. She may no longer remain with us here, but rest easy knowing she has made it to paradise. Astoria’s spirit now rests with God.” 

Something within Harry’s gut sank low. He suddenly felt as though he was intruding on something rather personal. He took several steps back, almost turning to leave. He watched as Malfoy gave the priest a short nod, his chest heaving as he tried to regain control of himself. Harry continued to step back until he was outside the cemetery, watching from a far distance, feeling guilty and terrible. Malfoy wiped his face, and when he turned to face Harry’s direction, Harry jumped behind the nearest tree. From there, he watched Malfoy make his leave, stepping into a hidden alcove before apparating away.

Chapter Text

Draco rubbed his eyes, resisting the urge to yawn in public. He felt utterly drained and absolutely exhausted. His fingers were rough and dry, and there was a small bit of skin peeling at his fingertip, just below the nail. He’d woken up early the day of Astoria’s funeral, unable to rest properly anyway, and gave his bathroom a thorough cleaning before taking a shower and putting on all-black formal dress robes.

Draco spent the entire service wishing he wasn’t there. The memories and emotions that kept crashing like waves against ocean rocks had him irritable. He wanted to get up and do something- move. The entire ordeal had left him so twitchy and restless that he decided to apparate to the nearest market and stock up on as many baking materials as he could. He did everything in his power to breathe slowly, to stop the trembling and push everything from the earlier events of the funeral out of his mind. When he arrived back at his flat, he felt a small rush of exhilaration at the prospect that he would now get to organize everything he’d purchased. He spent the next two hours sitting at his kitchen cupboard and placing everything in meticulous order. 

Then, he could finally clean less and bake more. 

A lot more. 

It started with those from-scratch Soft, Decadent Brownies that he’d wanted to make for at least a few days, now. The aroma that floated throughout his flat made it feel a little less sad, plain, and boring than it actually was. Draco had so many new utensils to clean, and so many more to remove price stickers from. He was getting a rush out of it, so much so that he moved on to a simple carrot cake, next. Easy and Moist Carrot Cake . Then Lemon Meringue Cupcakes.

Before Draco realized it, he had at least four desserts and pastries made fresh and sitting on his kitchen counter with a stasis charm. Draco had no room in his kitchen, and he surely could not eat all of the food he’d made himself. 

Draco began going to church again. It was his Priest, Father Swain, who had convinced him. He spoke to Draco at the funeral, and as successful as he was in avoiding all such thoughts and memories of what happened during the day, he was still losing more and more sleep over everything throughout the long, mind-numbing nights. The only good thing he’d gotten out of it was deciding to go back to church. 

And, he could bring his desserts, too. 

The first Sunday Mass without Astoria threatened to weigh heavily on Draco. He had grown used to having her next to him while he held her hand, a fuzzy feeling overtaking him as he registered her warmth every time. 

He sat alone, now, and it hurt to think of what he no longer had. Absently, he wondered if the ginger woman who always looked back at them was wondering where Astoria had gone. Draco vaguely recognized her and knew it was because of Hogwarts, but she didn’t seem like the friendly type, anyway, so Draco and Astoria had never approached her. Draco turned his head 45 degrees to see her staring back. They both promptly looked away. Despite all of this, he kept his head held up high and thought of the tray of Traditional Bakewell Pudding that he’d brought, which was sitting on a table in a reception room to be eaten by his fellow church members after the Mass. 

Draco felt like he’d been given a breath of fresh air, going back to church and having found a way to control the overflow of desserts that he continued to make. He continued this for four weeks. There was another funeral, and Draco refused to learn whose it was, he simply made more pastries. Then his pastry-making continued for at least 3 Sunday Masses after that. They were a massive hit each and every time. Draco had come to get to know several Muggles who swore that his pastries tasted “as though they were made with magic”. He simply smiled and thanked them. Then, he offered them another. Take some home, he would offer, and when they asked about a recipe, he’d say they were a family secret. He knew this was a flat-out lie, and that they could probably find Draco’s precise book at any store, but they were Muggles. They didn’t need to know anything. He found that the lifted weight allowed him to ignore the knocking that still occurred on his door, even if it had grown from every few days to every day at 6:00 pm. Things were good. Everything felt okay, for a while. 

Until they spoke about death, one Mass. 

The service itself was rather kind and uplifting, Draco supposed. Or at least, he would like to think it was. See, by the time they had mentioned Thessalonians 4:13, he was already halfway to losing the plot. 

“ Brothers and sisters, we do not want you to be uninformed about those who sleep in death, so that you do not grieve like the rest of mankind, who have no hope.” 

And, well, Draco supposed he has no hope, because there he was, his right hand clenched in a fist as he tried to force away the tears that welled up in his eyes and tried to not make his suddenly erratic breathing not so loud. He was trembling and there was some terrible force squeezing at his heart. And besides, he thought, what ever happened to “Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted”? Father Swain had told him that during her funeral and Draco supposed it had been a way for him to say that it was okay to cry when he was. He supposes he must have been wrong, and there was no hope, no hope.

Draco jumped at the feeling of a cold hand on his shoulder, turning to find a heavily lipsticked old woman with white, curly hair and large purple earrings dangling from her ears.

“Are you alright, dear?” 

Draco swiftly stood up and left, not caring if everybody saw him or recognized him, nor did he care that the Mass wasn’t even over yet. 

Draco spent the next week holed up in his flat, again. 

He stayed in his bed day in, and day out. He suddenly didn’t feel much like baking, which was just as good, anyway. He was running out of flour and sugar, and he didn’t have instant coffee or lady fingers, which he’d learned two weeks ago he needed to make Rustic Italian Tiramisu . 

The flat seemed to have a grey tinge to it, now that Draco wasn’t always running around to clean, wash, scrub, or bake anything. The knocking got annoying again, and walking around was tiresome, anyway. 

It was on Friday when Draco had to get out of bed and go to the kitchen to finally respond to the gnawing hunger that made his stomach ache. 

There wasn’t much food in his icebox, but there were frozen meatballs and jarred sauce. There was also a loaf of bread on the counter. At least it was something. Draco felt himself shake with hunger and sway from lightheadedness even as he prepared his meal. The sizzle of the pan was only slightly therapeutic. Draco tried to cheer up by thinking about cleaning the pan and the jar and the plate and the spatula, but any solace that would’ve been provided just didn’t quite reach him as he allowed his psyche to get swallowed up by what could only be described as pure grief. 

Then, the knocking began. 

And, oh, something about that knocking made Draco freeze, staring wild-eyed at his door. 

Silence encased the room for several moments. Draco dared that door to go off making noise again. 

It did. In a flash Draco was standing inches from it, fists shaking. Do it again. I dare you.

 The next knock was abruptly cut off by Draco’s own pounding. 

The silence that followed was now thick with tension. Draco, panting and with his nostrils flared, his blood rising quickly and fueling his manic rage, pounded again. 

“What do you want from me?!” He shouted, the vibrations pulsing through his fist. “Huh?! What do I need to do to stop hearing things?!” 

Draco paused, cutting himself off with a sharp gasp. His forehead landed on the door with a resolute thud, and he pounded again, and again, and again. 

“Is this what you want?!” He couldn’t stop. He didn’t care if his neighbors heard and complained, he didn’t care that his voice felt raw and that his stomach was churning with disappointment that Draco hadn’t eaten the meatballs in the kitchen. 

He didn’t know when he ended up crouched on the floor against his front door, fist still pounding, though it got weaker and weaker as his body was overcome by sorrow.

“Go away, go away, go, away! Stop it! ”  He felt like he was going mad. He wished he’d never met Astoria so that he didn’t need to deal with her loss. He wished he didn’t have such an awful life, that he had never done the things he did when he was younger. After all, this was all his fault for starting it, wasn’t it?

He spent Saturday contemplating whether he should go to church the next day. And he didn’t decide on it until the next morning when he arrived at its grand double doors despite the lethargy that tugged at him and the odd sense of unease that had decided to accompany him when he awoke. 

One of the frequent volunteers of the church, a Muggle mother of four with voluminous and short brown hair and a plump figure, gave Draco a wave as soon as he entered. Her name was Maggie.  

“Draco! Good to see you again. How’re things back at the old bakery?” She chuckled at her own joke of calling Draco’s flat a bakery, giving him a soft elbow to the side. However, her expression faltered as she eyed Draco. 

“No sweets today, love?” 

Draco masked his surprise at the realization. How could he forget to bring pastries to the church? What was he thinking? Everybody looked forward to his desserts every Sunday Mass. It was something he could live for, something that gave him meaning. It was something about him that wasn’t absolutely awful. That uneasy feeling returned. He swallowed it down.

“Not today, Maggie. I’ve run out of flour,” he responded, schooling himself and giving her a curt smile. “Next Sunday, I assure you. I’ll stop by the market during the week.” 

Just as quickly as her expression had faltered, it had perked right back up into its grin, fully displaying her slightly crooked and yellowing teeth. 

“Oh, yes! We look forward to it! Oh, go on inside, the service begins in a few minutes.” 

Draco made a mental note to return to the market immediately after service, and that was precisely what he did, the guilt at having forgotten the church’s pastries gnawing at the back of his mind. 

As Draco meandered through the aisles, he mentally listed off everything he would get today, thinking of the various desserts he’d gone marking off in his book. At one point when reaching up high for baking parchment, he was bumped into by a man in black with ginger hair. Draco made an oomph sound and glanced to his left just in time to see the man walking away. Prick , Draco thought sourly. 

He continued on his way, however, adding things he knew he needed and some things he was curious about applying to his baking. While in line to pay, that feeling of unease and discomfort came back. He supposed it was his sordid thoughts trying to intrude again. So, he allowed the prospect of all the new recipes he would try to float through his mind, taking place of any grief he had been feeling recently. He thought about his Flaming Traditional Baked Alaska , which required the utmost precision and focus. Which he was going to make, hopefully soon. He paid and thanked the cashier as he did so, hoisting his bags into his hands and making to leave the store so he could get to his alley and his apparition point. 

However, as he turned the corner of the alleyway there was a sudden profound lack of air he realized came from a cloth being held over his mouth. His back was suddenly pressed against a warm body. His stomach dropped, overwhelming dead filling his senses. Then there was a sharp prick like a needle in his neck, and the world went black.

Chapter Text

Harry was getting tired of the smell of rot. It was something he was getting too used to, and his gut turned before they even found the body.

He couldn’t believe that the day after Astoria’s funeral, they found her own sister dead in the same warehouse that they’d found her in. She must have been taken the day of the funeral, according to Mordecai. Ron didn’t hesitate in beginning the procedures they’d all grown used to at this point, but Harry thought he was going to be sick. 

On the bright side, he thought, if there even was a bright side, this was the first time their suspect had repeated a location. 

This meant they could flag it for potential future attacks, perhaps put up detection wards that will warn them the next time somebody stepped foot in there. 

“We should- guys, we…” Harry swallowed down the anxiety that crawled up his throat, attempting to speak again. “This is the first time he repeats a location. We should put up detection wards, and flag this place for any future encounters.”

“Good thinking, mate.” 

“I’m on it,” began Mordecai, his wand already out and pointed up. Harry’s jaw tensed as the shimmer of magic befell the place. 

“We should revisit all those at risk, offer them protection again.

“No need, mate, Robards is already speaking to Kingsley about sending them a memo.” Ron paused to look at Harry. Harry was staring at the wall where the Christogram was. He didn’t want to think about the chunks of soft blonde hair that’d been pulled out of her skull and the fact that she was missing a leg. 

Well, missing wasn’t quite right. Chunks of it were scattered around haphazardly. 

Her jaw was also missing. Harry tried not to imagine the brute force that was required if not done with magic. Either way was just as terribly gruesome. 

After another loss, another failure like that, Harry felt like he was just as bad as that monster if he didn’t try to check on Malfoy again. He shouldn’t have been surprised when Malfoy didn’t answer, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that each day that passed with the same result was another day closer to him possibly being next. 

Harry couldn’t handle that. Not him. He figured it was because, of all the people this monster has gone after, of all those on the list as at-risk, he knew Malfoy better. And he simply didn’t want to lose somebody else he knew. Not since the war. 

That motivation got Harry to visit Malfoy’s flat every day after work at the Ministry. He would knock to no avail, then he would wait for the quietest shuffle or murmur or clatter, then he would sit outside in his car and watch the entrance for hours until he was practically falling asleep on himself. He’d go home, take a shower, fall asleep, and do it all again the next day. 

When Daphne’s funeral came around Harry was shocked to see Malfoy working behind the scenes, serving pastries to those who came. How’s he managing to hold up when Harry could feel in his very bones that something was wrong? That he was in danger? 

Harry walked up to him, then, with all of the Gryffindor courage he could muster, and asked for a pastry, waiting for Malfoy to notice just who was asking for it. 

Malfoy didn’t. He simply put the raspberry puff turnover on a paper plate and thrust it in his hand, never once making eye contact as he chattered away to a woman apparently named Maggie, telling her to “Please grab more napkins for everybody.” 

Harry didn’t know what to say, so he simply left before Malfoy could have the opportunity to look up and actually see him.  

Almost a week later Harry was found standing at Malfoy’s door, 307 , and knocking as he always did after work. However, his heart leaped to his throat when he heard somebody knocking back. His hand flew to his wand, ready to take it out at any moment, until…

“What do you want from me, huh?! What do I need to do to stop hearing things?!”  

Harry’s eyes were stuck wide open, his heart pounding against his chest, shocked at just how raw and distressed Malf- Draco sounded. 

The pounding began again after only a brief pause and Harry glanced around, wary of any neighbors that might come out complaining. What do I do?  

“Is this what you want?!” The pounding continued, though they grew weaker after a moment, and also sounded as though traveling downward. Harry took a tentative step towards the door. 

…Draco?

His name was on the tip of his tongue, Harry forced it there after unsticking it like molasses against his throat, when suddenly,

“Go away, go away, go, away! Stop it!” 

The whole ordeal came like a bucket of iced water over his veins. He didn’t know what to do or what to say. With two shaky breaths, Harry apparated away on the spot, arriving right at the front door of Ron and Hermione’s house.

“Stalking Malfoy?!” Hermione was furious. Harry and Ron simply sat on the couch and took whatever lecture Hermione was about to give, knowing they both deserved it. “And Ron, you didn’t think to tell me?”

“In my defense,” began Ron, “Harry made me swear not to tell.” Hermione huffed angrily, her piercing gaze pinning them down.

“You’re officers of the law- Ron, you’re my boyfriend-” She turned back to Harry. 

“You are meant to be a symbol of public safety ! Ethics is not some optional thing like brownie points! You are meant to embody the philosophy and act on it!” She shook her head, turning away with a growl. “I cannot believe you two, honestly.” 

“I’m sorry Hermione, but-” Harry paused at Hermione’s look of warning. 

“Harry James, choose what you are going to say right now very carefully.”

Harry cleared his throat. “He doesn’t sound like he’s doing alright, and I’m worried about him.” 

The rest of that conversation went about as well as Harry could expect. But, at least he was able to get it off of his chest, and after Hermione calmed down, she suggested trying to go up to Malfoy like a normal person, and not exhibiting unethical, stalker-like behaviors. 

Harry told Hermione that he would, but as he arrived back at Malfoy’s complex to pick up his car and take it home, he figured there was nothing truly unethical about actually trying to visit Malfoy like he had been doing all this time. He also figured that Malfoy not answering the door was not Harry’s fault, and if Malfoy’s outburst was anything to go by, it seemed Malfoy was well aware of what Harry was trying to do. 

What was Harry trying to do, anyway? 

Talk?

Keep him safe. Convince him to hire protection. Yes. That was what he was trying to do.

Harry continued his procedural showing up at Malfoy’s house and knocking, then listening for signs of life behind the shabby door. This kept going for a long while, and Harry was beginning to fall into the monotony of it all, again. 

Then one day, Harry climbed up the three flights of stairs that he’d climbed every day. He walked down the hallway that had become so familiar, now, looking for Malfoy’s flat number, 307. 

He gave three short knocks. There was a creaking silence that followed. Harry sighed. Now, it was time to wait for that scuttle of dishes again, or the vacuum, again, or Malfoy’s own voice, again. 

Shoulders sagging, Harry waited, almost bored by it all. He knocked again. 

Nothing. 

Harry straightened up, brows furrowing in suspicion. He knocked again, this time louder. 

The only sounds that could be heard were of the joints of the Muggle flat moaning with their old age, and the soft hum of the complex’s central air conditioning unit. His heart began to speed up. He knocked again. 

“Malfoy?” Harry leaned in close, trying to listen to even the slightest sign that he was there. “Malfoy, are you in there?” 

Harry jumped when Ron’s Russel Tarrier flew into the room, his surroundings going dark save for the blue glow of the Patronus. 

“Harry, mate, you’ll never believe it. Mordecai’s wards went off. The bastard’s actually using that warehouse again. We might have a shot at catching him.” 

Chapter Text

The first thing Draco became aware of was his insides feeling cold. He didn’t think it was possible for his insides to feel so cold. 

Then was the stabbing pain that came with each gasp of a breath. Then, the unsettling warmth somewhere along his fingers that felt like it should reach the tips. It didn’t.

And why did he feel so… open? Hollow?

There were a lot of sounds surrounding him… Something that looked like a face, in front of him. Then, there was a sensation like a hook sinking its teeth into his stomach and twisting his gut. He passed out again, the pain too unbearable for consciousness. 

The next time Draco awoke, it was to a blank white view. Everything was fuzzy and he found he was too lethargic to move much. Where am I, anyway, he thought.

“You’re awake.” 

Draco let out a grunt. The voice sounded familiar, but he didn’t have it in him to see who was speaking to him, and he still wasn’t sure where he was. Everything made his head ache and spin. The face popped its head into his view and  Draco’s face instantly twisted into a scowl. Of course, Potter. 

“How’re you feeling?” 

Draco didn’t answer. Instead, he took a deep breath, noting he couldn’t feel it. His face remained in its warped and distasteful state. 

“I’d hope you’re not in too much pain. The healers said the pain relief potion should last at least a few hours…” Potter looked away, rubbing the back of his neck. “Should I get them?”

Draco’s nostrils flared as he grunted again, moving to sit properly. However, his arm quickly buckled beneath his weight, causing him to land back awkwardly and hiss at the stab of pain that suddenly shot through his arm. Potter scrambled to his side, though unhelpful in his stuttering and tripping about. 

“Healers?” It came out as a half-mumble half-growl. Draco tried to shift in his spot, getting tired of not being able to feel anything other than static and pain overloading his senses. 

“You’re in Saint Mungos.” Draco weakly turned to face Potter, who smiled bashfully. “We found you in time.” His face then fell, a sort of haunted look in his eyes. “You’re the only one who’s lived after encountering this guy…” 

Suddenly it all clicked in Draco’s brain. His gut turned and his heart began to race. He looked down at himself hurriedly, trying not to let the fact that he’d just nearly been killed actually process in his mind, lest he would have a nervous breakdown for Potter to watch. 

He seemed to have all of his body parts, though he couldn’t properly assess the damage considering he was clothed and bandaged. He held his hands in front of him, noting how they trembled with earth-shattering force. The tips of some of his fingers were bright pink with what appeared to be fresh skin. When Draco attempted to move each finger, a shock like lightning shot across his hand and arm. He gasped, allowing his fingers to rest back into their previous positions. What happened to me? What has he done? 

Had Astoria endured the same pain before she…

“I wouldn’t do much of that right now,” said Potter, reminding Draco of his presence. He huffed. “The healers had to grow some back. It’ll be a bit before you can move them without much pain.” 

Draco’s chest was heaving as he forced himself to calm down, to stop and recollect, to at least be more present within himself, to not bloody tear Potter a new one. 

“Is there anything I can do?” 

Draco’s head snapped to Potter, giving him a bout of dizziness. Couldn’t the imbecile see that Draco was clearly not in it, right now? Didn’t he have the sense to let Draco be? 

“Get out.” 

Potter faltered. “What?” 

“Get. Out,” he bit. He licked his chapped lips and continued to focus on breathing. Just breathe, breathe. “Leave me alone.”

“O-okay… Okay. Just- I’ll be back, okay?” 

Potter left before Draco could tell him not to come back. 

The potion they’d supposedly administered was beginning to wear off. Draco could tell with how his legs began to feel heavy with the weight of the damage he’d endured. Slowly, as each of his limbs came back to him, he began to feel the scars that marred his skin. Down his arms and legs, and his right foot seemed to have been- no, it had been crushed. 

“You think you deserve to walk the sacred grounds of St. Jeromes?” 

Draco blinked, wiping the memory away, trying to forget the feeling of the metal clamp pressing down and crushing-

Had Astoria’s feet been crushed, too? 

Draco blinked as the whisper of a voice made its way to the forefront of his mind, the distorted and disguised voice of the man who tried to kill him. Flashes of what occurred came in little by little, each more agonizing than the next. 

The cold steel ran across Draco’s abdomen threateningly, not yet having marred him as it was about to. “Your girlfriend screamed when I did this to her.” 

The worst part was that every time he willed himself to remember one aspect of the past several hours, the memory alone was enough to make him feel the pain all over again. 

A Mediwitch came and went, checking on him with minimal eye contact and conversation. 

“How long have I been here?” 

At first, she did not answer, making the unease in Draco’s stomach only grow. Until, finally, she spoke. 

“You’ve been out for at least twelve hours. Five of which were here.” 

Oh. “And… how long will I be staying?” 

“I’m not your healer, I’m just doing rounds.” 

Potter returned much sooner than Draco had hoped, though perhaps it wasn’t entirely fair that Draco’s hope was never. 

“Listen, Malfoy, er, Draco… Sorry. I need to know if you’re feeling alright enough to speak with me. We need your help.” 

Draco couldn’t help the bitter taste that formed in his mouth as Potter approached his bed and summoned a chair to sit down in. 

They sat in silence for at least a couple of minutes before Draco turned to him and raised an eyebrow. 

“Well?” 

This seemed to break Potter out of his stupor. “Oh, well- Uhm.” Draco rolled his eyes, wondering how Potter had managed to even become an Auror if he was stumbling over himself even now. “I know that what you’ve been through was… well…” It was evident enough he had a job to do with Draco, given his uniform. If he concentrated enough, he could just imagine the DMLE going absolutely mad given that Draco was an actual living witness. “I just, really, you’re our first witness…” Soon Draco got tired of waiting. He was feeling overwhelmed and quite morose and Potter was not making any of it better.

“Just take the bloody memories.”

“W-what?” 

Draco eyed him. “Isn’t that what you’re struggling so much to ask for?” 

“... You wouldn’t mind?” Potter winced. “It would help us a lot. We may be able to identify him, find clues.” 

“Be my guest, Potter. They’re not getting any fresher than they are right now.” 

He winced again, standing and getting a vial out of his pocket. “Right… I’m going to pull out my wand now.”

Draco nodded, and soon the warm press of a wand tip was at his temple and a cool, gentle stream of memories left that very spot. Draco found himself sighing. He felt lighter, even if only slightly, having let the memories leave him for even a day.

“I’m going to duplicate this at the ministry where it’s safe. And you’ll get them back tomorrow, hopefully. No later than Friday.” 

Potter stayed unmoving for several moments. Draco found himself getting tired. He enjoyed the relief of not having those memories, as unsafe as he knew that relief was. Tampering with memories was risky, even when professionally handled. The ramifications it would have on the affected wizard were yet to be explored. 

“Is there anything else you might need?” Draco’s eyes snapped open. It seemed he’d almost dozed off with Potter there. 

“No. Leave now.” 

“Alright.” 

Again, Potter was slow to leave. Draco closed his eyes and waited, his exhaustion from the night’s events fully catching up to him. Potter’s footsteps sounded across the hospital room. Draco heard the door handle click and open. Then, Potter was gone.

Chapter Text

Harry forced his lungs to function, his jaw clenching as he stood before Head Auror Robards with Ron and Mordecai. His hands were still covered in blood from when he’d found Malfoy, and he was still out of breath following everything that occurred. The flurry of events was a blur to him. The only thing Harry could really manage at the moment was staying there and catching his breath. 

“I don’t understand, sir.” 

“I need you three to keep an eye on Malfoy. He’s the first witness we’ve been able to obtain, and may well be the only one for a long while. We need to take advantage of the opportunity we’ve been granted.” 

“Do you mean protection, or questioning?” asked Ron.

“Anything you may deem necessary, Weasley. Berrycloth, ensure that he’s offered witness protection.” Mordecai nodded. 

“Do you think questioning him is the right thing to do at the moment, though?” 

“I never said you needed to question him, Potter. I said to use this rare opportunity to gather intel. Has he woken up yet?” 

Harry sighed. “No, not yet.”

Robards pursed his lips. “Let me know when he does, and ensure that by then you all have a plan for him. Report it to me so I can get it approved.” 

Harry nodded, and the three of them were dismissed from Robards’ office. 

Ron and Mordecai had both gone home while Harry decided to go to the hospital and deal with Malfoy. When he arrived, he couldn’t help the pang of guilt that hit him 

Malfoy- Draco… was pale. And despite the fact that he was now bandaged up and no longer in critical conditions or unstable and at immediate risk of dying, Harry was still seeing flashes of blood and gashes, of missing and disfigured body parts and what he initially thought was Draco’s dead body. 

Yes, it was going to be Draco, from now on, Harry determined. Such animosity just felt cruel, at this point. What with Malfoy-Draco… in the state he was in, the state Harry had found him in. 

He remembered the sinking of his gut when he thought he’d found Malfoy’s body too late, when he stopped breathing and got closer to assess the damage, when his lips formed a thin line as he forced himself to keep his composure and just run the procedure. 

He remembered when Malfoy suddenly opened his eyes. 

The rush to Mungo’s, watching them wheel him frantically into a room and promptly begin healing him, was just a surge of adrenalin, to Harry. Then they spoke to Robards, and now he was back in the room with Malfoy. Draco…

Harry had to admit that compared to earlier, Draco looked a lot more peaceful, now. His bright blond hair caught the light from the window and made him glow, like death had given him a gentle kiss before bringing him back.

Harry shook his head, wondering why his brain ever dared put the word kiss in the context of Draco Malfoy, anyway.

With a sigh, he brought up a chair and sat down, scrubbing a hand over his face and through his hair. Now, all that was left for him to do was wait for Malfoy to wake up. 

As he settled into his seat he took to glancing around the room, finding something to occupy his mind with that wasn’t how he’d nearly found Malfoy dead.

Draco. 

Anyway…

Time passed, and Harry still kept with his mindless observation of the room around him, from the blue trim along the walls to the difference between the white on the floor and the white on the ceiling. It didn’t take long for Draco’s patient chart to start looking rather tempting for Harry to flip through, the words Draco L. Malfoy seemingly staring daggers at Harry. Everything that had happened to Malfoy last night was just a simple reach away. Harry would know just how much he survived…

He would know if he was poisoned, if that was something he should start considering, now.

It would be an invasion of privacy, chimed one corner of Harry’s mind. You wouldn’t like it if someone you spent your life hating looked through your medical records, even less after such a traumatic experience.

Just to see if he was poisoned. That’s all I would look for , was the reasoning that had him reaching for the chart. 

There was a sound, then. Harry jumped and turned to see Malfoy seemingly waking up. He brought his hands back to himself, standing abruptly and stumbling despite himself in an attempt to look exceedingly not guilty. 

“You’re awake.” 

It was a stupid thing to say, Harry realized that much only after he’d said it. He watched as M- Draco… Draco shifted with a grunt, and Harry promptly walked up to where he could be seen by Draco with minimal effort. 

“How are you feeling?” 

Getting kicked out of the hospital room was not quite what Harry was expecting, though he had to admit he wasn’t surprised. He could only wonder what might be going through Draco’s head at the moment, given everything that had happened. 

With a sigh, he decided to head on over to the cafeteria and get something warm to drink, to ease his nerves. He ignored how everyone there stared and how he got a free cuppa “as a thank you.” He needed it anyway.

When he removed Malfoy’s memories of what’d occurred, Harry couldn’t help but notice how Draco seemed to relax, if only the slightest bit. He put them in a vial and left without as much as a word, though he exited rather slowly, in case of the off chance that Draco might have something else to say, something like ‘wait’, or perhaps even a ‘thank you’.

He arrived at the ministry feeling rather exhausted, having been up the entire night for Malfoy- Draco… 

Harry was just glad he’d finally managed to save somebody. 

Ron was in Harry’s office when he arrived, half asleep and nodding off over Harry’s desk, with his head resting on one arm he had propped up. He was startled awake when Harry opened the door. 

“Mate,” 

“Did you wait for me?” 

Ron stood, wiping his face and straightening out his robes. 

“Of course I did. Today’s been rough, especially for you.” He rounded the desk, stopping when he was in front and resting against its edge. “I know you were kind of dreading the day it was Malfoy we found,” he said with a slight shrug and a quirk of a smile. “Figured you could use a pint.” 

The offer was incredibly tempting, Harry admitted. A nice cold pint after such a tiring day. And, Merlin, the last time he’s had a pint with Ron was… he didn’t even know. It had been a while since going out in public guaranteed him to be gaped at by everyone and their mother, and his flat was in no way fit to hold guests. Harry was just about to accept when he remembered the vial sitting in his pocket. He frowned.

“Ron, you know how bloody amazing a pint sounds right now, but…” Harry revealed the memory, holding it gingerly in his hand. 

“Don’t we usually have almost a week to look at memories?” 

As per protocol, they had three days to look at memories they’d already obtained. Ron was right that they could leave the vial until tomorrow and call it a night. In fact, it was probably the most sound option, as well, given how drained they both were. But something tugged at Harry when he considered putting this off, almost like he was laughing in the face of Draco’s suffering. He glanced down at the memory, white and silver wisps floating ethereally in the vial.

“I get it,” Ron finally said, turning. “I’ll get the pensieve and stay here in case I need to pull you out.”

Chapter Text

Metal restraints around his wrists and ankles, tightening magically with every ounce of struggle and drawing blood as they did. Draco’s captor stood far, face and body cloaked in black, head tilted as he stared. 

“Scream. I dare you.”

Ron had to pull Harry out less than ten minutes into watching the memory on account of Harry having been twitching ‘like mad’. 

“I think I’ll have to pass up on that pint, Ron.” 

Harry was still blinking more rapidly than strictly normal, working to calm down and get his breathing back under control. Ron attempted a sort of smile that looked more like a pitiful grimace and clapped Harry on the back. 

“Alright. We’ll try again tomorrow.” 

“I’m sorry.” Harry didn’t know what else to say, really. He was still disoriented and quite shaken by the little he’d seen of the failed attempt at Draco’s murder. 

“Don’t sweat it. And hey, tomorrow Mordecai will be there too. We can take turns.” 

Harry nodded absently, following Ron out of the office and turning off the light behind them. 

Travelling home was a bit of a haze. Every moment that Harry had, he found his mind trailing back, thinking of all that he’d seen. 

And that wasn’t even close to halfway. Harry gathered that much because when he got pulled out, Draco still didn’t look as severely mauled as he had when he was found. 

Harry’s night was less than pleasant, having been filled with what-ifs and flashbacks of what had happened. He got out of bed and ready for the day earlier than necessary the next morning, feet dragging to the Ministry as he rubbed at his eyes and attempted to suppress the eighth yawn of the morning.

The quicker he sorted through the memory and duplicated it, the faster he could return it. 

But who would want to keep a memory like this?

When he arrived at the hospital, the first thing that happened was that he was gaped at by witches and wizards young and old, sick and healthy. He shook it off, making his way to the front desk and reporting as “the Auror assigned to patient Draco Malfoy’s case, may I see him?” That was followed by “but of course, Mr. Potter. Yes, absolutely. Right this way.” Harry, having not gotten nearly enough sleep to deal with this, dismissed her by stating “I know where his room is, thank you.”

Despite it being nearly noon when Harry opened the door to that small room, he found Malfoy asleep. Well, I’d probably spend as much time sleeping as possible, too. Maybe even too much, he summed, and walked over to Malfoy’s bed- Draco… Draco, Draco’s bed. Harry observed the contrast between his hair and the pillow beneath him, noting how the sun once again made it shine with an uplifting yellow glow. He blinked, then shook his- warm- shoulder gently to wake him. Draco woke softly, turning to see just who had made him. I didn’t think I’d ever associate Draco Malfoy with warmth.

His grey eyes still seemed a bit too dull, and his skin a bit too pale, for Harry. He swallowed, the realization that he really didn’t like seeing Draco so unwell being packed neatly away for the moment being. 

“Uhm…” Harry stammered, hastily pulling the now safely duplicated vial out from the pocket of his Auror robes and holding it up in front of the two of them. “It’s been duplicated. You can have it back, now. 

Harry told himself he was imagining things when he noted that Malfoy’s face had fallen slightly, his face losing even more colour- as though that were possible. His lips formed a thin line and his nostrils flared. He gave a short nod, his eyes glazing over as though he’d just put a wall up between himself and the rest of the world. 

“Get on with it, then.”

Harry left quickly after returning the memory, ignoring the sharp swoop in his belly and the guilt he felt rising within him at making Draco keep such a horrifying event in his mind. He also didn’t feel particular to sticking around and watching how Draco would react to the memory sweeping across the forefront of his mind as it slithered its way to its rightful place where it had been taken from.

Harry spent the rest of the week rotating between Ron and Mordecai watching the horror-drawn spectacle of Malfoy’s attempted murder. They realized rather quickly that Draco passed out seconds after the point that Harry stopped watching previously, effectively staggering the memory and making it rather difficult for any of the three Aurors to watch with any consistency. 

“I am God’s Wrath,” the distorted voice snarled, fury behind his slender frame, one that only looked menacing and gargantuan when seen in the perspective of a half-lucid and half-dead Draco Malfoy. Harry shuddered, watching as he brought a heated iron pipe down to his stomach. After several moments, the memory flickered away again. 

Harry thought he might hear those screams for the rest of his life.

“Maybe there’s something obviously distinctive about their voice, and that’s why they use a charm to distort it.” 

“It has to be Abscondita Orator ,” added Mordecai, shaking his head as he opened a drawer for a quill, ink, and parchment. “And that means we’re screwed. It’s basically an obscurious charm but on your voice. This guy knows what he’s doing,” he sighed in frustration. “You’re next, Ron.”

Sighing, Ron put down his last forkful of food and stood, making his way over to the pensive.

Friday night is the night in which Ron tries to convince Harry to go out and have a pint at the pub with some other friends. 

Every Friday. Harry sometimes wondered why Ron didn’t get tired of asking when he knew that most of the time (really, more like all the time) Harry declined. Harry supposed that was what made Ron so amazing. He stuck by Harry, and maybe, just maybe, he knew that it was Harry’s unwillingness to deal with society as The Saviour that made him avoid going. 

“Neville is going to be there, and he really wants to see us. Especially since he starts at Hogwarts soon and doesn’t know when he’ll be able to again.” 

Harry pursed his lips while Ron awaited a response. He truly hadn’t seen Neville in a long time, and he hadn’t taken up Ron’s weekly offer in almost as long. But Malfoy- Draco was in the hospital because of a deranged murderer that he still hadn’t managed to catch. He was alone, probably in pain, probably still grieving his girlfriend- 

Shit, he had a girlfriend. That’s right. 

Harry rubbed at his eyes, suddenly keenly aware of the strain they held from just how little rest he’d been getting. 

Maybe a drink at the pub wouldn’t hurt. 

Ron’s eyes widened and his mouth upturned into an astonished grin as Harry stood with a resigned sigh and gathered his cloak. 

“Let’s go to the pub, then.” 

The atmosphere of the Seven Swans by Godric’s Hollow was warm and bright. Left and right, patrons stood and sat with their companions, nursing drinks and talking, whether it be about their days or “my horrid ex-boyfriend who cheated on me Owled me saying he wants me back! Can you believe the twat?” 

When Harry entered with Ron, there were a fair few faces that turned and spotted him, eyes wide when they recognized their saviour. Some turned away to inform those they were with. Others just stared.

Neville spotted the two Aurors quickly, waving them over to a far booth in a corner. Harry huffed out a breath, thankful for the opportunity to go straight to a seat with brisk, hurried steps. Ron followed closely behind, awkwardly acknowledging the people whose eyes followed them to their seats unashamedly. 

Harry sighed in relief as soon as the three of them were seated, casting a disillusionment over the booth as soon as he could. He knew that it didn’t stop the patrons from knowing where he was sat, but he also knew that they would, at least, all eventually grow tired of the strain in their eyes caused by trying to make him out as more than a blurry outline that their vision just ached to pass over, and they would all go back to minding their own business. 

“I’m glad you could make it, Harry. Ron’s told me all about the case with Malfoy. Must be exhausting, eh?” 

Harry let out a rueful half-chuckle-half-scoff, smirking. “You’ve no idea.” 

“I swear Harry’s worked himself half mad on the case, Nev, and it hasn’t even been one week. Not even a week!” 

Neville let out a long, low whistle, eyes rolling downward as he pushed his half-finished drink toward Harry. 

“You need this more than me, mate.” 

Harry rolled his eyes and pushed it back, mild enjoyment playing on his expression.

“Thanks, but I think I’d rather have a full one. Ron, be a mate?” 

“O’course. Pint?”

“Yeah.” 

Ron stood, taking the blow of stepping out of the bubble of safety cast by Harry’s disillusionment charm. He probably half expected it if Harry was being totally honest, but Harry also knew that Ron had no problem with it. He understood how much the public attention overwhelmed Harry. 

Ron returned rather quickly with six pints levitating in front of him, which earned a small applause from Harry and Neville. He sat them down with a clunk, grinning. 

“This should be enough for at least a half hour.” He pushed two pints towards each of us, then took the handle of the one nearest to him. “To Neville, starting his job as a Hogwarts professor soon, and to me and Harry, for the most tiring fucking week of our lives,” he chuckled, Harry and Neville as well. 

“Bottoms up.”

Now there were nineteen empty pints on the table and three more half-full ones in front of each of the men. Harry was so delirious with fatigue and the alcohol flowing through his system that his face had taken a reddish tone. His right arm was spread across the table and his head rested on top of it. Neville was leaning heavily against the back of the booth, blinking a bit more often than was strictly acceptable for a sober person. The three of them were laughing wildly at a story Ron had told them about him and Hermione’s date night last week. 

“It, was, Hilarious… Speaking of dates,” Ron pointed his chin toward Nevllie, still smiling. “How’s it going with you and Hannah?” 

Neville rolled his eyes before closing them, letting out a loud groan as he moved from leaning against the back of the booth to leaning on his elbows which rested on the table. Harry chuckled. 

“Don’t even get me started… ” 

What followed was a long tirade about Neville’s love life, which, as Harry realized while listening to Neville, seemed to be quickly diminishing. Hannah had been practically ignoring Neville for the better part of the last three months, after a particularly explosive row. Neville admitted that maybe he had lost his temper unjustifiably, but in his defence, she was becoming increasingly distant anyway, no longer wanting to go out anywhere, cancelling dates, and leaving Neville no explanations as to why. According to Neville, she was also looking sicker and sicker, skin paling, figure slimming alarmingly, bags forming under her eyes, and she refused every last one of Neville’s attempts at nursing her.

“-We haven’t even shagged in, Merlin…” he let out a rueful chuckle. “I don’t even remember! It’s awful, mates… And the worst part is that I don’t entirely fault her. I mean, the war was hard for everyone.” Now, Harry and Ron were both leaning forward, also putting their weight on their elbows, listening intently and combating (failing to combat) the effects of their drunkenness. 

“I get that it’s a bit crushing, losing your parents. You both know I get that... Harry, mate,” Neville reached forward and clapped his hand over Harry’s “You get it too, don’t you? I’m not terrible just because I can’t stand her constantly bringing up her mum.” He brought his hands back, rubbing at his face dramatically. 

“Last week we had an at-home date- that’s another thing, she hates going out now- and I suggested we watch that Muggle film The Book Thief , and she just- burst into tears! Right there! Out of nowhere. ‘Mum used to love that one.’ And…” Neville sighed. 

“Mate,” Ron interjected warily. He was sitting up straight now, well, as straight as he could muster at the moment, and folded his hands together, face etched into a frown. “You’re fighting with Hannah because she’s grieving her mum?” 

“Wh- No… No, it’s nothing like that,” he began, huffing out a breath. “I-I get it. I get losing your family, but… That was about, what, two…? Three. Three years ago. She’s got to learn to live with it, at some point.” 

Ron started shaking his head, somewhat at a loss for words, or at least, at a loss for words at this moment. But Harry took the opportunity to jump in. He was nodding furiously, tapping his hand on the table. 

“I get it, Nev. Jeez… Three years and she’s still bursting into tears every time something slightly related to her mum comes up? That’s…” Harry began shaking his head. Ron looked between the two of them in abject horror, sobering up quite a bit. 

“Harry, if Mum died during the war, I reckon I’d be pretty crushed, too.” 

“But Ron, your mum didn’t die. And even if she had, you know you would have had to keep living either way. Do you think that it’s right to just sit there for the rest of your life unable to function just because you missed her? Do you think she would have wanted that?”

Ron stumbled over his words, his face flushing. “But… her mum died . She was murdered, Harry, by Voldemort.”

“And my parents weren’t?” 

That shut Ron up quickly. Neville was nodding, his eyes shining like Harry had just given him the key that unlocked the mysteries of the universe.

“Exactly. See, I knew you would get it, Harry. She’s just…” Neville sighed. “And it hurts, too, you know? I’m still working past things that happened in the war. We all are. I get it.” Neville kept repeating that statement, as though he had no other way to express his sentiments toward Hannah. “But I can’t sit here and watch her refuse to go out, refuse sex, not be able to watch certain movies or eat certain foods, and just become increasingly more distant all in the name of her mum, meanwhile I’m working on my own problems. It’s just- It- It’s too much. We haven’t had a single conversation that doesn’t involve her bringing up her mum in so long. I’m walking on eggshells around her. Really.” 

Ron sighed, gazing down at the polished wood table. “I get having too much on your plate, Nev, and maybe the two of you should talk about this. But… I still think it’s wrong for you to say that she’s grieving wrong . You get what I mean?”

“It’s not about grieving wrong, Ron,” Interjected Harry. “Not at all. Life continues with or without her. That’s the problem. And her refusal to come to terms with that is hurting Neville, now.” 

It was becoming difficult to conceal any anger Ron had bubbling up throughout the conversation. He turned to Harry, gaze sharp. 

“So now it's her fault that Neville is overwhelmed? No-” 

“-No,” interrupted Harry. “She’s being childish, is all. Do you think I had time to just stop everything and mourn Sirius when I watched him die?!” 

There was a silence that settled around the table, then, and Harry was sure that if it weren’t for the disillusionment, people would be staring. He ignored the way his heart rate sped up at the mention of Sirius’ name. He hadn’t even meant to bring him up. It had just… happened, and now Harry had stunned the table into such silence that he could have sworn all three of them became sober and quick. Ron cast his gaze back down, licking his lips before settling them into a straight line. 

“I’m not even going to get into how terribly you’ve coped with all of that . Especially because I know most of it isn’t your fault. Nev, you need to find a way to talk to Hannah . And stop complaining about her loss. I’m going home.” 

Ron grabbed his coat and was up and out quicker than Harry could blink.

Chapter Text

Draco looked between the three Aurors while trying his best to hide his annoyance. He had to be babysat by these buffoons?! Berrycloth looked like he would rather be anywhere else, Draco absolutely could not let himself be caught with Weasley, with the history their families had, and Potter…

Potter . 

Draco didn’t think words were needed as to why that was a bad idea. 

And all of this because, what, they were concerned about his safety? He had just survived a gruesome murder attempt. If anything, that should speak volumes about Draco’s strength. 

Because Draco was strong. He would not break. 

He stood with slightly wobbling legs as though somebody had half-heartedly cast a jelly legs jinx on him, and Potter reached out to grab Draco, thinking he would fall. Draco glared at him. He could stand just fine on his own, thank you very much. 

He was also pointedly ignoring how much his hands shook. They had been shaking since he first woke. 

“Nerve damage,” they said. “A side effect from having had to regrow your fingers.” Draco was furious. As though he needed another constant reminder of…

“There’s physical therapy, but it likely won’t be back to how it used to be.” 

Draco knew hospital speak. It was just formality. ‘Likely’ actually meant ‘certainly’.

“So, er…” Draco shook his head, coming back to the present. The three Aurors were still standing there dumbly. Potter was speaking to him. 

“Have you decided? If you want us to rotate or if you want just one of us assigned to you?” 

Ah, yes. That. 

Either be accosted by three people all day, rotating days, three people in his home, three people standing guard, three stupid Gryffindors. Or, just have one of them take the pleasure of breaking into his life. 

Perhaps he would get to choose which one Auror he had to tolerate. 

“Only one. I don’t need the added stress of having all three of you poking around my flat.” And he would choose Berrycloth, the one who seemed least likely to actually come barreling into Draco’s personal life. 

Weasley clapped Potter harshly on the shoulder, letting out a huff of breath. 

“He’s all yours, mate.” 

What?

“Thanks, Malfoy. I have a pregnant fiancee I don’t fancy leaving.” And with that, Weasley was out the door, and Berrycloth was following close behind. Draco just stood with wide eyes, watching the whole ordeal unfold, utterly speechless. 

And now he was alone in a room with Harry Potter. Again. 

And he would be alone with Harry Potter. For who knows how long, now. Until these three idiots caught Draco’s assailant, probably. 

Oh, Merlin… He’d be stuck with Potter forever. 

“Why you?” Draco was sneering because he could not have had worse luck, truly. But even as he spat the question, aiming daggers into Potter’s very soul, something inside was telling him just how lucky he was. Harry Potter defeated the Dark Lord. He was The Saviour. They couldn’t have assigned a safer person even if they tried. 

“Er, well-” 

“Nevermind,” Draco snapped. “Save it. I imagine you drew the shorter straw, didn’t you. It doesn’t matter.” Draco was looking pointedly away, now, looking at the clothes that were folded neatly on a chair waiting just for him. He looked at the absurd jumper with a hood and a large pocket stitched to its stomach. Ridiculous. What kind of monstrosity do they have me wearing? Draco glanced up sideways to see Potter standing there dumbly, still, shifting on his seat and fiddling with the sleeve of his Auror robes. Draco huffed. 

“Leave. I would like to get dressed and go home, now.” 

Potter let out a small breath. “Right, I just… Right.” He nodded, stepping out the door. 

Draco let out a deep sigh, reaching with thin, trembling hands to the pile of clothes. He had to admit they looked rather comfortable, no matter how uncouth they were. He was just glad to be out of the stingy hospital robes- they were more like a piece of cloth with some string to tie together, leaving his bum and his bits constantly exposed to the hospital’s cold- and, besides, he would be having himself a shower the second he got home and got rid of Potter for the rest of the day. Then he could burn the bloody things he was wearing, the impossibly soft jumper-with-pockets and the even softer stretchy trousers. Then, he would sleep away the rest of his miserable, utterly treacherous life. 

They got back to his flat relatively quickly after St. Mungo’s officially discharged him under strict directions to ‘take it easy’. As though Draco were planning on going dragon-riding any time soon, if ever. Draco scoffed at those instructions. At this point, the only daring thing he might ever do was pitch himself off a cliff. That didn’t sound too bad. All he’d have to worry about was making it to the nearest mountainside without being swept up again by…

Potter was stumbling and stuttering like an utter fool as Draco stepped over the threshold of his small, dingy flat. The smell of dust that tickled his nostrils was enough for him to twitch. It’s been too long since I cleaned.  

“So, er, I’m sure you’re aware of the Ministry’s offer to move the two of us to a more… remote, location. One with accommodations for the both of us to sleep, where, hopefully, you’re less likely to be found. I’m bringing all of my paperwork with us, so I only really need to leave if I’m with you or if there’s an, er… urgent situation-”

“Do you mean ‘if somebody else turns up dead’?”

“Yeah… That.” 

Draco pursed his lips. “Why do you need to sleep with me, though? Why not just be annoying by showing up every day, instead?” 

Potter’s face flushed a bright red, and it was at that moment that Draco realized what his words had sounded like. He kept his expression schooled. If Potter was going to be immature about this, then he could suit himself. Draco wouldn’t be caught in such a position, however.

“Not… I mean, attacks are statistically more likely to occur after nightfall-” 

“Then only show up in the evenings and stay sitting at my door-” 

“Malfoy, can you shut up?” Potter's voice had raised slightly, and Draco stood back, eyes widening slightly. He didn’t think Potter would finally snap. He’d spent every day visiting Draco so timid and silent that Draco almost thought he didn’t have it in him anymore.

“I’ve been trying to be nice, and patient. You went through something awful. And I know the last thing you want right now is to have to deal with me , but it’s what you’ve got, okay? We’re trying to keep you safe. I’m trying to keep you safe. Don’t you think that deserves at least an ounce of respect?” 

Draco felt as though he’d just been stunned, suddenly all too small to snap back and go on the defensive. Potter was panting slightly, looking at Draco like he had all of those years at Hogwarts. At least something is still the same. He clenched his jaw, feeling the slight pressure on his teeth as he clamped down. 

“Leave.” 

“What?”  Potter leaned forward in an attempt to hear what Draco had, admittedly, mumbled so low he didn’t even know if he’d said it right. 

“Leave.” He’d said it louder now, refusing to look at Potter. 

“I thought you understood by now that I kind of can’t do that-”

“Just bloody stand outside the front door, then, so you can protect me, oh saviour, ” he scowled.

To his relief, Potter stomped his way to the front door, huffing the whole way through. Draco took the liberty of slamming the door. He heard the thud of a body that signified Potter was sitting against the door. Good.  Despite his aching need to just be alone, right now, he didn’t exactly trust that he was really safe alone in his flat. And he would take that to his grave.

He let his hand slip to the deadbolt lock, turning until he heard a silent click. Just in case, he told himself. 

Draco took advantage of being home again to clean. He’d been itching to do it since the moment he got back. So, after a quick flex of his fingers, he grabbed his Muggle cleaning broom and got to sweeping. Then he would prepare to mop the house, dust the furniture, and replace his bedsheets.

While cleaning the house, he concluded that his assailant had to have been following him for enough time to know that he was in love with Astoria and to know where, exactly, he lived. Draco’s eyes kept straying towards the lock on his front door, assuring that it was locked, and , wait, if the knob is facing up and to the left, is it locked, or unlocked? Should I place a locking charm over the lock? Wizards can unlock Muggle locks easily. I know that he was a Wizard. What if he was watching me through the windows? Should I shut those, too? I should. I’ll do it right now so that I can be safe, then I’ll keep mopping… wait, how do I know they’re locked? I mean, actually? What if I think I locked it and I actually didn’t? Then he can come into the house and I won’t know until it’s too late and then I might actually die- I should try to open the doors and windows and see if they actually are locked. I wouldn’t know for sure, otherwise… wait- 

Four hours later, Draco was wiping the sweat from his forehead, his flat freshly cleaned and his trembling fingers looking rawer than they already were. He sighed. Now, for a nice, long, hot shower. 

But he couldn’t quite bring himself to do so until he checked, double-checked, triple-checked, and checked again that all of the doors and windows were locked- 

Then, in the bathroom, after he’d already locked the door, gone nude, and turned on the water, he had to make sure, again, that door was locked, just in case. 

And as he showered, he found he still couldn’t relax, because what if Potter was no longer standing at the door? What if he’d already been taken out and just lay there slumped against the wall? What if this time he couldn’t escape- 

He watched the door for the most subtle of movements through a gap between the shower curtain and the edge of the shower.

Chapter Text

After two hours of sitting outside his door, Harry thought he would be let in.

After four hours of waiting at his door, Harry thought he would have to sleep right where he sat.

It was at the five-hour mark that Malfoy swung the door open and stared, waiting silently for Harry to scramble back to his feet. They shared a rather tense eye contact for several moments before Malfoy allowed him entry.

“You sleep on the couch,” he said, then he locked the door behind Harry and went to the kitchen. Harry followed silently, wondering what he was up to.

“I thought I said you belong on the couch.”

“I’m not a dog, Malfoy. Besides, I plan to sleep on the couch. That doesn’t mean I’m confined to its space for the rest of my time here.” Harry watched as Malfoy put a kettle full of water to boil. Malfoy kept glancing over his shoulder as he made the tea, putting Harry on edge. He huffed, walking away and getting to work setting up wards around the flat.

Simple locking charms ought to do it, as well as several different detection charms that would alert them to any possible intruders. Then, a few privacy charms, to prevent anyone from watching through the windows. All in all, it took Harry as long as it took Malfoy to finish brewing his tea to activate the charms.

Malfoy came out of the kitchen with his singular cup in hand, and Harry knew he shouldn’t be surprised that Malfoy didn’t think to offer him any, but it still irritated him all the same. He decided to ignore him now, instead moving to set up the couch.

Harry had to admit the flat was spotless. Almost to the point where he was nervous to touch anything. He wondered briefly if that was what Malfoy was doing in the five hours that he’d been banished to the corridor. Then, he wondered why Malfoy would kick him out just so he could clean.

Soon he had transfigured the couch cushions into pillows and a blanket, which he did not initially see anywhere and was in no mood to ask Malfoy for. He pretended not to notice how Malfoy went with his cup of tea back to the front door to make sure it was locked and proceed to try forcing it open, then checking the lock again, and trying to force it open again. Then, he cast a locking charm over it. It seemed Malfoy had the special talent of insulting Harry even without speaking. That’s one way to doubt whether I’m doing my job, prick.

Seconds later, the door to the bedroom slammed, and Harry could faintly make out the sound of the lock clicking multiple times, along with several quite brutal attempts to force the door open. Arsehole.

Harry watched the night roll through as he lay in his little makeshift bed, staring at the ceiling. Now that the flat was empty and he wasn’t being bothered by Malfoy’s incessant jibes, his mind could begin to properly sort through all that had happened in the last week.

Malfoy could have died… Draco could have died. He didn’t deserve that no matter how much of a prick he was being.

Then, Harry supposed, he himself would be particularly shaken after such an event, too. Maybe now isn’t the best time to be judging Mal- Draco. Not after something so horrendous.

Harry mentally recapped the bits of memory he had watched already, trying to gauge if he might have missed something important, trying to see if, perhaps, he could recognize the monster that had done this.

God’s Wrath, he called himself. God sent me to deliver justice.

God only forgives those who repent.

A sound made Harry dart up from his position on the couch. His wand was out in an instant, the tip of his wand lighting up without the need for an incantation. He looked around the empty room, scanning for the source of the noise.

It came again and Harry whipped his head around behind him. The noise continued, and Harry quickly realized it was the sound of Malfoy’s bedroom door. The prick was actually fiddling with the lock again. Harry narrowed his eyes, stepping quietly towards the door. As soon as he got close enough, he let his Lumos go out. From the other side, Malfoy could be heard fiddling with his lock multiple times.

Harry frowned, this was far too much to be any silent insult of his. He wondered if Malfoy was scared he might be followed and found, if his assailant would finish him off in his own home-

Well, that’s what Harry was there for, wasn’t it?

He wondered if he should reassure him, and he was about to before the fiddling stopped. So close to the door, Harry could feel the wave of the locking charm that Malfoy had just placed over it. Harry exhaled, shoving thoughts of what Draco could possibly be up to in his mind firmly away and dragging back to the couch, wand in hand.

Harry took this time to look around the small flat for the first time, to really look at it. Draco had the place infuriatingly spotless. Harry felt awkward and out of place being in it, having his mess of blankets and pillows over the couch while the rest of the room, hell, the rest of the flat looked like it was ripped out of a magazine. Harry didn’t remember the last time he had cleaned his flat. He just didn’t have the time between hating the public, wanting to quit his job and tracking down a gruesome murderer. Well, that and trying to figure out what the hell he was supposed to do with life. If he wasn’t happy with his job, no matter how important, and he didn’t have a world in need of saving anymore, what else was there, really? Charity balls and political endorsements? Harry didn’t want to think about that.

At least his job gave him a few things, really, the only things that allowed him to wait so long to quit in the first place. He was salaried, meaning he could work as long as he needed or wanted to, and, now, he got to occupy his mind with work and nothing else. “I’m sorry, ‘Mione, I can’t go to dinner, I have to watch Malfoy now.’ and ‘No, Ginny, I can’t think about trying to fix things just yet, this case is really tiring, and we also just discovered that Malfoy wasn’t really killed.’

And it’s not like Harry was lying… maybe he was taking advantage of convenient excuses, but this case is important, anyway, and Draco’s protection is his job right now. He’s basically living in this case. And every time Harry remembered that he would likely miss the charity gala that was now held annually in honour of his parents, who he was certain would have thought such an event a total load of rubbish and a convoluted play for political favours, he was more than happy to take up the offer of diving head-first into this, now supremely complicated, case.

Just one more case, anyhow… right?

Harry sighed, turning to lie on his side. The flat was almost painfully silent. He wondered just how long it would take for somebody to go mad holed up in here, refusing to leave…

How was Draco feeling, after all of this? What is he thinking?

Who was supposed to watch him if another body got found?

Harry got the answer to that question precisely two weeks later when Ron’s Terrier flew in through the flat late at night and told him to meet him at the Ministry in less than five minutes.

Chapter Text

“Well it’s settled, then! Tomorrow we shall have breakfast at this Streetwise Maple place you seem to love so much.” Astoria smiled, and Draco couldn’t help but lean in and kiss her, because that smile was just so infectious, and wonderful. He loved it when she smiled like that. …

9:00, 9:30, 10:00… 12:00, 3:00, 7:00…

“Astoria was found dead this morning-”

Draco gasped as he woke, a cold sweat sticking to his pale skin. He blinked several times, trying to shake the feeling of overwhelming despair that was weighing over his chest. He looked around to see the room around him empty. Sighing, he laid back down, willing that heaviness away. It was then that the events of last night came to him. Being released from the hospital, being put under witness protection with Potter…

Potter.

Of all the people to now be sharing a flat with. Harry bloody Potter.

Draco could hear movement coming from the other side of his bedroom door and knew that it must be him. Well, maybe he hoped it a bit, too, lest he open the door to the black-veiled figure-

It must be Potter. It is Potter. Draco would know if something happened to Potter, Draco would know if he was in any danger. The locking charms and the alarm wards and…

Surely he would have heard something in his light and fitful sleep if he were in danger.

Draco got up from bed rather quickly following those thoughts, going to make his bed as neatly as possible, having o exert extra force on his fingers to stop the tremors as he pulled every corner taut and rid the sheets of any excess wrinkles. Just fix it, fix it, fix it, fix it…

He heard a crash come from the outside and jumped, his heart flying to his throat. It wasn’t until Potter’s soft cursing could be heard that he was able to force himself to relax. Breathe…

He would be there if something were to happen. It’s his job. That’s why he’s here.

Eventually, Draco decided that being in the main portion of his flat would reassure him enough since he could see out the windows and watch the door. Potter would be able to more easily protect him-

He doesn’t need protecting. He shouldn’t need Potter’s help. He shouldn’t, he…

Draco opened the door to see Potter serving up plates with eggs and bacon. He shuffled out the door.

“I see you made yourself comfortable with the kitchen.”

“Oh, I, well… I hope you don’t mind. I was getting hungry and you were asleep and…”

Draco sighed, noting that it was easier to forget about all of the danger he was in when he had Potter there to distract him. He moved toward the table fit for two and sat down in front of a plate. Potter could be heard rummaging around the kitchen and Draco forced himself to wonder what it would be like to be sitting here in complete silence, alone with his thoughts, like he had all this time…

He figured in that case that he probably wouldn’t be eating. Too much time to think, far too much. He would probably have resorted to more cleaning, or perhaps baking, or perhaps…

Perhaps he would be too scared to leave his room. More doors, more protection, in his room.

A gaping hole made itself present within Draco the moment he gathered a forkful of eggs with the intent to eat, and he found it felt terribly similar to scattered moments between waking and succumbing to unconsciousness on the cold, hard floor of the cellar. Too familiar, as if it were happening again, he felt open in a way that he should absolutely not feel. Like his insides were being exposed to the harsh, cold outside. Insides should never have the ability to feel outside. Draco reached to his stomach where jagged scar tissue could be felt beneath raw, trembling fingertips. He suddenly wanted to vomit.

“It can’t be that bad.”

Draco blinked, brought back to reality by Potter’s voice. He’d been speaking, but…

“Oh, I...”

“You can drop the look like you’re about to vomit,” he said, looking only slightly irritated. “Next time, I’ll just leave you to your own breakfast, if you want.”

Draco swallowed. Had he really looked sick, just then? He surely felt it, but…

He licked his chapped lips and moved his hand away from the jagged lines across his stomach.

“Since when do you cook?”

Potter faltered, as though he hadn’t been expecting Draco to ask that. And, well, yes. Draco from the past would have covered up with a snarky response- so much so that Draco wondered how the lines across his stomach had just rendered him so defenceless in the way of words that he changed the topic. They now burned, keeping that gaping, choking feeling of unnatural openness ever-present.

“I’ve always known how.”

Not always, Harry told himself. I had to teach myself, he added, but Malfoy didn’t need to know that.

It was another two minutes before Harry could hear the abrupt sound of chair legs scraping against the tiled floor. He turned just in time to watch Malfoy pass him and turn to the kitchen sink. He turned on the water and grabbed the soapy sponge. He began to scrub and Harry was too agitated with him to mention that he had planned on doing the dishes.

Soap, scrub, rinse, scrub, rinse, set aside. Draco repeated the pattern over and over, putting the utmost concentration into each movement, working to get his mind off of everything just for a second. It was barely working, not until he made the water go hotter, adding an element of physical sensation along with the mental preoccupation to distract him. When he finished, he almost wished there was more to wash. He peered over the serving hatch to see Potter with his wand against the far wall, probably checking on the wards. Off to the left, his couch-turned-Potter’s-bed sat a dishevelled mess. And that wouldn’t do.

By the 72-hour mark of living with Malfoy, Harry swore he might just explode.

The man was intolerable. The total neat freak spent his time cleaning and making messes to clean. And the worst part, he was finding every possible opportunity to start an argument with Harry.

“Get your feet off the coffee table.”

“You’re wrinkling the couch.”

“What are you doing in the kitchen?”

“Should you check on the wards again?”

“It’s no wonder you haven’t caught my assailant yet, with how messy your notes and files are.”

By then, Harry had just about had it. He slapped his notepad down onto the table and rose from his seat with gritted teeth.

“I’m going to take a shower.” Harry knew that if he didn’t walk away right that very second he’d end up yelling at Malfoy as he’d already done once before, and he didn’t fancy another argument less than 3 hours after the first.

And even the sodding bathroom was spotless, of course.

And then came the nighttime. Harry couldn’t stand the sound of shuffling and pacing coming from the bedroom and could only wonder what the hell Malfoy gets up to in there.

And the doors. The bloody doors. It’s almost like Malfoy doesn’t believe he locked them the first time. Or the second time, or even the tenth time. He was always double-checking them, and it got to the point where Harry could tell he wasn’t doing it to bother him, he just… did it. A lot.

And then was the baking… When Malfoy was in the kitchen, Harry was not allowed near him, not at all, not even for a question (what are you making?).

The answer was “Classic, Chewy Chocolate Chip cookies.” Malfoy showed him rather than told him, tossing his book down open to the recipe’s page and walking away to wash the bowls.

Draco was wondering why Potter couldn’t leave him alone.

Every minute he was fighting to keep his sanity, day in and day out he was doing everything and anything he could to get his mind off of things and… and he was running out of things to distract him. He could bake and clean and bake and clean but now he did it so often that he felt as though he had to. His mind went on autopilot when he did it and he’d be damned if he asked his mind to go more than a few hours without it.

He needed it. That’s what Potter didn’t understand. It numbed his mind and his heart and it allowed him to forget. He needed to forget. When he remembered, it was painful and took hold with a vice grip around his throat-

Just keep mopping.

And Draco had to admit that, for the most part, he guessed he must be managing half-alright, because here he was, and the security of having Potter there, no matter how annoying he may be, was keeping him in check. The nights were still rough. He would either wake up in a cold sweat or not fall asleep at all. But he could just clean and cook and make sure the doors were locked. Potter could do the rest. Potter was there.

And so when he had a particularly bad string of nights in which he couldn’t sleep at all, rotating between grieving Astoria and jumping at the slightest sound, worrying he hadn’t locked the door or that perhaps Potter’s wards hadn't held up and his assailant was about to burst through the window- when a few managed minutes of sleep were plagued with the image of being in the hospital, the feeling of such unnatural, grotesque openness- and he wakes up feeling his scars burn…

After four days of being stuck in that spiral of bad nights and difficult days, when he woke up shivering and with bile crawling up his throat, he repeated the mantra I’m safe, Potter is here. Potter is here. Potter won’t let me get hurt.

His heart dropped upon realizing he was alone in his flat. Alone, unguarded, and unsafe.

Chapter Text

Nott Sr, this time. 

The one responsible for Nott jr’s involvement with the Death Eaters, the one who killed in that Muggleborn family’s home. 

And so soon after Nott Jr. that one could wonder if perhaps the murderer is torturing them to death because he’s after something more than just a slow and painful death. 

He wants information. 

It was a different warehouse this time, not the one where Harry and they had found Astoria or Malfoy, and not the family basement where Nott Sr. was found. Probably, as Ron suggested, because the family was home now. 

Harry was dragging his feet back to the Auror offices feeling worn thin. The smell of death seemed to be following him now, and he was sick of it. 

“Mate!” 

Harry turned to see Ron sprinting up to him with his hand in the air. He clapped Harry’s shoulder when he got to him. 

“I completely forgot to tell you but,” he caught his breath “We’re having dinner at The Burrow this Sunday. Mum asked me if you wanted to come ‘round. Catch up.” 

“Oh,” Harry began, then paused. Sunday was in three days. And Harry would- “What about Malfoy?” 

“Harry, mate, you know that Robards can arrange for somebody else to watch Malfoy for one day, right? No one is expecting you to turn into some sort of nanny.” 

“I mean, I know, but-” 

“How about this,” Ron cut him off. “Think about it. Let us know. I know that mum would love to see you. Yeah?” 

Harry nodded, exhaling. “Yeah, okay. I’ll let you know. Thanks.” 

“No problem. Say, what are you planning on doing now?” 

“Going back to Malfoy’s,” Harry responded with a sigh. “What else?” Though Harry really wished that he could hole up in his own flat and ignore the universe right now. He didn’t find himself enjoying the situation he was in. Ron’s word choice stuck in his brain. Nanny. 

Why did Ministry witness protection consist of Harry staying in Malfoy’s flat anyway? It felt bloody awful, that was for sure. Harry felt like he’d just signed his life away to another person’s house and rules. That feeling was the worst, having to obey somebody else’s every rule-

“I’ll go with you.”

Harry hesitated, losing his previous train of thought. “Okay.”

As soon as they apparated to the flat, Harry could feel something was off. The area was dripping with magic that was not his. 

“D’you feel that, Ron?” 

“Doesn’t Malfoy live Muggle now?” Ron said at the same time. “This place is saturated with magic.”

Harry moved to open the door only to be blasted backwards into the opposite wall. Ron pulled out his wand. 

“Mate, you okay?” Ron offered Harry and hand and pulled him up.

“Fine,” he grunted, pulling his wand out as well. “I think Malfoy re-warded the place.” 

“Do you think something may have gone wrong? I don’t remember the feeling of magic like this last time I was here. 

Suddenly Harry was aware of Ron’s comment and the situation at hand. Why would Malfoy have warded his flat over Harry’s wards? Had something occurred? Was he injured in there? Harry had only gone to investigate another murder for the case- Malfoy’s case- Draco… Draco’s case. He had detection wards up as well, he should have heard something. What if they failed? Could Harry really not even spend a few hours away from Draco anymore? “You’re right.”

It took them just under five minutes to break through the wards using combined magic. What they were greeted with was a barrage of kitchen knives flying at them. 

“Immobulous,” Ron shouted, effectively stopping them in mid-air and watching as they clattered to the ground. Harry took a look around the flat to see nothing particularly out of the ordinary. 

“Malfoy? Draco?” Harry carefully stepped around each of the knives scattered across the hardwood, looking for any sign of Malfoy- Draco . Just then a loud screech pierced through the flat, causing both him and Ron to duck and cover their ears reflexively. 

“It’s a drone jinx,” Ron shouted over the noise. The two winced as it got louder. Harry’s head began to ache as he uncovered one ear to reach up with his wand and shout. 

“Finite.”  

As the drone faded and the two were able to relax, Harry took a breath, and headed for the bedroom door, summing that Draco must be there. He took several steps, reaching out to the door and being promptly snapped at by the handle. Harry retracted his hand with a hiss as he was bit. 

“Malfoy,” he shouted, making sure he was heard. “It’s me! What’s going on? Finite. ” Harry undid the jinx and turned the now Muggle doorhandle. It was locked. 

Mere moments later the handle clicked, turning slowly. The door opened to reveal Malfoy, eyes dark and cheeks tear-stained. 

“You left,” he bit. “You left and you didn’t say anything. What was I supposed to do?” 

“I-” Harry hesitated. Had Malfoy really done all of this just because he found himself alone? 

“Fuck You. Learn to do your bloody job.” 

The door slammed in Harry’s face. He turned to look at Ron, the silence of the area thick. 

“I’m going to head home… Mordecai’s dealing with documentation…. Good luck mate. Think about that dinner. Looks like you need it.” 

Ron was gone as soon as he finished speaking. Harry sighed. 

The knives were still strewn on the floor and Harry’s first order of business was to pick them up. 

After an hour of Malfoy not leaving his room, Harry took a nap on his couch bed. 

When Harry woke up, he went to knock on the bedroom door only to get no response. He decided to look at what books were on the shelves lining the living room. None of them were particularly interesting to him, so he took another nap. 

When Harry woke up again he felt groggy. It was nearly dark out and all he wanted to do was go back to sleep. He got up and checked on Malfoy again only to discover that the biting jinx had been reapplied. Harry decided to grab his files and start searching again for anything he may have missed regarding these murders. 

As Harry sat at the shabby little coffee table, he couldn't shake the feeling that something was off about the entire situation. It wasn't just the re-warded flat or the drone jinx or even the biting door handle. It was the fact that he was stuck here, in this flat, with Malfoy. Harry thought he might go mad if he went any longer without the privacy of being truly alone. 

Maybe Harry just wanted to stop existing for a moment, disappear into a hole otherwise known as his flat and then come out after an undefined period of time and discover that all was right with the world. People stopped dying, crime ceased to exist, and supremacist groups were eradicated. 

 Nobody needed him to save the day anymore. 

He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. Harry knew that he had to focus on the case, but it was difficult with Malfoy right there, in the other room. Draco… It’s Draco, damn it. He’s been through so much. Calling him Malfoy is only a disrespect at this point. Harry couldn't help but wonder what Draco was doing, if he was okay, if he needed anything. The thought made Harry roll his eyes at himself. Why was he even thinking that?

Maybe because Draco looked like he had been crying earlier when Harry arrived. 

Or maybe because Harry felt bad not having left a note…

But the more Harry thought about this situation, the more absurd it seemed. He needed to protect Draco- Hell, he wants to, but if Harry can’t even leave the flat to do his job or even have a family dinner…

No, there must be something more to this. There better be something more to this, otherwise Harry might explode-

The case, right.  

Harry sighed, scrubbing his face with his hand. He spared one more back toward Draco’s closed bedroom door. 

Harry shook his head and refocused himself. There were much more important things to look into. He went through the documents and photos, looking for any clues that he might have missed. As he flipped through the pages, he noticed something strange. There was a sentence nestled neatly in the paragraphs of notes from Goyle's file.

"Hair left at the scene. Collected and filed into evidence. Likely belonging to the victim."  

Harry stood, mind racing. Did they ever test that? He shut his eyes, attempting to remember what it had been like to find Goyle's body. He remembered the files, the photos, yes, but...

He never found Goyle's body.

Ron and Mordecai did.

Harry took out his wand and picked up his work in a single flourish. He needed to ask Ron and Mordecai about details regarding Goyle's case, gather memories, perhaps- yes.

Harry realized he was grasping at straws here, but he couldn't help it as he trembled with apprehension. There was a newly installed division of evidence collection and analysis that used some elements of Muggle forensic sciences. Perhaps they could send the hair and determine whether it was Goyle's or not. This could lead to a breakthrough in the case. The chances were slim, but they were there.

He hurriedly sent a patronus message to the two men asking them to meet at the ministry in ten minutes. Then, he moved toward the bedroom door. If he needed to leave, he couldn't leave Draco unaware again, not after earlier. 

"Draco?" he called out softly. "I need to go down to the Ministry and check something. I think we might be closer to catching the murderer."

Silence.

"Draco, please. Can you come out?"

Still nothing.

Harry was restless at the prospect that this hair might give him more information, maybe even an ID on the sick fuck who’s been-

Harry wrote a note and slid it under Draco’s door, then promptly apparated to his office at the Ministry.

Chapter Text

“We already cast detection and reversal charms on it. The hair hasn’t been tampered with magically. It’s curly and dirty-blond, just like Goyle’s.”

“Oh, Harry! Come on. In you get. We’re glad you could make it.”

Harry turned his attention to the present moment, pasting on a smile and greeting Molly Weasley with a hug. 

“Hello Molly, thank you for having me.”

“Of course, dear! Our home is your home.” She turned and began toward the kitchen. “The boys are in the sitting room, by the way. Go say hello.”

Harry began the walk to the sitting area, where he could see Ron, Hermione, Ginny, Percy, and Charlie.

“Hello.” 

“Harry, mate! Glad you were able to come. They approved having someone else watch Malfoy, right?” Harry smiled,  taking in a breath. 

“Yeah, just like you said.” Though the two of them had a nasty row over ‘neglecting your duty to protect’ just before he’d left.

Just then, Charlie and Percy stood to greet him. General smiles and courtesies going around. Harry turned to Ginny then, who merely gave him a smile and a wave, quietly greeting him. Harry did the same, not wanting to cause tension at dinner.

 Harry and Ginny had barely spoken since they broke up. They were not on bad terms by any means, but it hadn’t been quite long enough for them to pretend nothing was ever there. And if she wanted to be subtle about it for now, he was more than fine with following along.

“Andromeda and Teddy are in the dining room. She’s trying to get him to eat, if you want to say hi.” Hermione stood to guide Harry in the direction of the table, as though he hadn’t been there for many years before. She held him by the bicep as they walked away. 

“Ginny hasn’t quite been herself lately, With being rejected from the Magpies. Maybe you should give her some words of encouragement later. Don’t be ignorant,” she whispered. 

“Ah.” Harry had forgotten about that. He supposed that made him a bad ex-boyfriend, or a bad friend. Hermione had just saved him loads of torment by reminding him. Just then, Andromeda and Teddy were in their line of sight. Harry and Hermione arrived just in time to witness a plastic spoon flying across the table. Andromeda huffed, getting up from her seat to grab it. Hermione rushed after her, retrieving the spoon and handing it to her. 

“Here you go.” 

“Thank you, dear.” Then,  Andromeda looked up and saw Harry. “Oh, hello Harry. Fancy seeing you here.” 

Harry smiled shyly, waving hello. “Yeah, I haven’t been here in a bit,” he chuckled. 

“A bit? Try half of a year, at least!” She went over to him, arms wide for an embrace. “It’s good to see you. Would you like to say hello to Teddy?” 

“Yes, please.” Harry turned to Teddy, and it was then that he felt a genuine smile creeping across his face. 

“I’ll leave you three to catch up,” Hermione said, making her leave back to the sitting room. 

Two-year-old Teddy was grabbing fistfuls of yoghurt from a blue plastic bowl and smacking it into the table with utmost concentration. His hair was morphing from orange to a deep, brick red. Harry couldn’t help the feeling of joy at seeing him anyway. His smile broadened and he moved to sit in front of his Godson, attempting to push the case from his mind if just for a moment. 

“Hi, Teddy.” He spoke gently, attempting to get the young child’s attention. However, he was far too engrossed in the process of smearing yoghurt across the table. Andromeda brought out her wand to spell away the mess. 

“We don’t play with our food, Teddy. We eat it.” She put her wand down and moved to get a new spoonful of what remnants of the snack she could gather from the bowl. “Open up.” 

Teddy did not show any signs of acknowledgement until the spoon was against his mouth, which caused him to smack it away, yoghurt-covered hands flailing as his face scrunched itself up. Not a moment later, he was crying out loudly, banging his fists on the table. 

“Hey, hey, Ted,” Harry tried to calm him but to no avail, as Teddy was too lost in his frustration. Soon, Harry began to worry that he was possibly distressing the child. Andromeda swept in with a plush penguin toy that she seemed to have produced magically. As soon as Teddy caught sight of it, he immediately calmed down and stopped crying, his bright red face slowly regaining natural colour. 

“Here, have the penguin. Have your penguin.” She shook it a little bit, gesturing towards Teddy’s hands. He silently grabbed the penguin and began playing with it. Andromeda sighed. 

“Hannah says I’m supposed to allow him to play with his food. When I was a little girl you either ate what was offered or went to bed hungry. No nonsense, no tantrums…” 

Harry nodded in acknowledgement, glancing towards Teddy with his penguin toy, then turned his attention towards Andromeda. 

“How is that going, by the way?” 

“It seems to be going well. He sees her every day. Their sessions are four hours long and he usually seems to come out of it happy. Thank Merlin that Teddy inherited his mother’s abilities. I can’t imagine having to learn how he may be feeling or what he may be communicating without any sort of physical indication.” 

“So he still doesn’t speak, then? Is Hannah working on that as well?” 

“He rarely speaks, but he’s learned to call me mum. Just breaks my heart whenever he does. I told Hannah to teach him about his real mum, you understand. I’m his grandmother. He deserves to know that. Hannah said that she needs to start with him identifying the people in his life,  that he can learn the difference later. A load of rubbish if you ask me. All this Muggle healing is too confusing for an old woman like me. But enough on that. How are you doing, Harry?” 

“Oh, well… I’m sure you’ve heard about the murders, with it being in the paper. Erm… Other than that, not too much. Just a lot of stress, really.” Harry was still trying to wrap his head around Teddy, though. He didn’t want to talk about himself. He wanted to talk about Teddy and his progress with Hannah as his mind healer. He wanted to ask what where his toy penguin is from, and what flavour of yoghurt he liked to eat. 

“And you haven’t been locking yourself up in that dirty flat of yours again, right? Because I’ve been sending Owls-”

“Oh, uh, no, no… I’m in the middle of a witness protection round, actually. And I’ve been meaning to change the terms of it so that I could be in my own flat.” 

“I see. So you’ve just been ignoring my Owls,” she replied with a mischievous smile. 

Harry faltered, feeling flustered. “I’ve been busy, Andy, I-” 

“Oh, don’t fuss. I understand. I was just pushing your buttons.” She stood. “I’m not quite old enough to live a life of boredom. I’ll be right back. Watch Teddy for me?” 

“Alright,” he responded. Teddy was still playing with his plush. He no longer looked upset, though, and his hair had turned blue. Harry noticed the mess of yoghurt that was still on the table and now on Teddy’s plush. He pulled out his wand, casting a quick scourgify on it all. 

“How are you, Teddy?” 

The young child barely showed signs of responding. Harry shifted in his seat, then tried again. 

“What’s that you’ve got in your hand? May I see?” Harry reached out and put his hand on the plush, which did get Teddy’s attention. He looked straight at Harry, and Harry felt a certain warmth bloom in his chest. He smiled. 

“Hello. Do you remember me?” Teddy’s hair turned jet-black, and slowly, Harry noticed some curls forming. 

Harry knew he wasn’t going to get much of a response from Teddy, considering he barely speaks, and Harry also knew it was unlikely that Teddy remembered him to any extent. It had been almost half a year since he’d gone to visit, and he only minorly kept in touch with Andromeda, enough to let her know that he isn’t dead and still cares about Teddy. But Teddy’s hair changing to look like his, that was all the acknowledgement he needed. 

Andromeda returned and shortly after, the rest of the household piled in, taking their seats as Molly levitated a roast to the table. The room was filled with warmth and laughter, and dinner began promptly afterwards.

As the meal progressed, Harry couldn't help but notice the way Teddy's eyes darted around the table, taking in the faces of each member of the family. However, he seemed to be particularly interested in the lines that stretched across the table, running his fingers over them and occasionally looking away from the hustle and bustle of the dinner table to press his face up against it and get an extra close look. 

Harry watched as Teddy's hair changed colours, settling on a deep shade of purple. The child's fascination with the world around him was endearing, and Harry felt a sudden urge to protect him from the dangers of this life. He knew that Teddy had already lost so much in his young life, and he didn't want to see him suffer anymore.

As the dinner conversation turned towards the recent murders that had been occurring, the entire table began to listen acutely. It wasn't long before people started giving their two cents on the topic. Harry listened to the voices around him but couldn't bring himself to participate in the conversation. His thoughts kept drifting back to Teddy, and he couldn't shake the feeling of responsibility that came with being the godfather of a child who had lost both of his parents.

He watched as Teddy's hair turned yellow, a sign of his curiosity, and wondered what kind of world he was going to grow up in. Harry knew all too well the dangers that lurked in the shadows, waiting to strike at any moment. He had faced them himself, and he knew that Teddy would one day have to face them too.

As the conversation at the table continued, Harry's mind drifted back to everything that had been happening. He wondered about Draco, if he was treating the temporarily assigned Auror with the same coldness and volatility as he had treated him.

“-I don't care about how bad things may have been in the past. That gives him no right to be out killing people! He is no better than they used to be.” Molly was close to fuming, Aurthur’s hand on hers the only thing keeping her from practically boiling over. There were several nods and murmurs of agreement. 

“I agree, mum, I’m just saying,” Percy spoke between spoonfuls of food, “It’s not completely outlandish for all of those people to think that the murderer shouldn’t be persecuted.” 

“They’re hurt, and rightfully so. They just need help getting past it. Murder in our streets is not the way to go about things,” Andromeda chimed in. 

“They served their time. They have adjusted to society’s standards. A murderer chasing after them isn’t the best solution.”

One after another, everybody spoke, piggybacking off of each other’s commentary. Harry watched as Molly made futile attempts to stop their comments from affecting her- taking a forkful of mash, picking up a steak knife to cut up a piece of meat… Harry was silent, letting everybody get their opinions in, sighing and eating his own food. The chatter didn’t stop. It didn’t, until: 

“They’re getting a taste of their own medicine.” 

It was quiet. He said it under his breath. But that didn’t stop everybody at the table from hearing it. Heads turned. 

“George,” exclaimed Molly. 

He turned to face his mum “What? It’s true.” He cast wary glances at everyone sitting around him, then took another forkful of food. “You know Parkinson has her eyes gouged out-”

“George-” 

“-Malfoy had his feet crushed with a metal clamp.”

Thunk.

Everyone held their breath in reaction to the thunk that sounded across the room. Molly was heaving, white knuckles surrounding the handle of her steak knife, which had been jammed into the wooden table. 

“George Gideon Weasley! That’ll be enough from you… Get out of my sight!”

The table was stunned into silence. Molly was boring holes into George with her vision, and you could practically see the steam coming from her ears. George stood abruptly. 

“Fine. Good day to you all… Soon you’ll all see. They deserve it. Every last one of them-”

Harry stood from his seat abruptly, the chair being pushed back with such force that it tipped over. He stared silently at George, eyes wide. George held his gaze, leaving the room without another word. 

The rest of dinner went by in a blur. Harry’s heart was beating erratically in his chest, and all he could think was I need to talk to Ron. Now.  

It wasn’t until later, when dinner itself had ended and people were just lounging around, that Ron went to the backyard and Harry was able to slip out behind him. 

The air was warm and humid, yet a shiver went down Harry’s spine. What had happened at dinner with George had left a knot in his stomach, and a suspicion he wished he didn’t have. 

“Hey, mate.” Harry’s voice betrayed him in showing his nervousness. He paused and took a steadying breath, shoving his hands into his jean pockets. 

“Hey. I’m just out for a bit of fresh air,” he responded, looking out across the field into the distance. 

“Yeah.” The two of them went silent for a bit, only the sound of crickets humming could be heard. 

“Listen…” he finally said, his breath leaving him in one go, “About George.” 

“I know… I’m sorry about him, mate. You know how he’s been since… It’s just tough.” 

Harry’s throat suddenly went dry. He didn’t know how on earth he was supposed to say what he was thinking.

Hell, for all he knows he could be absolutely mad for thinking it. 

But he just had to say it. It was bothering him too much. 

“Erm, well, see, Ron. The things he said…” Ron turned to look at Harry, listening intently. “They sounded… well, they- they seemed a bit suspicious. Don’t you think?” 

Ron’s expression turned serious as he considered Harry’s words. Slowly, he turned to face him. Harry felt a chill run down his spine. “Do you think he’s involved in this?” Ron asked quietly.

Harry stayed silent for a moment. He could sense that he'd angered Ron, and he didn't quite know how to proceed.

“I... I don’t know, Ron. It’s just a feeling I have... I mean, he was practically justifying the murders back there, I...” Harry stumbled through his reply. Ron’s expression darkened with anger.

"Harry, George is my brother-"

"I know, I know. It's just..." Harry sighed in frustration, running a hand through his hair. 

"Y'know, Harry, I have no idea what has been going on with you lately. I mean, first my mother-"

"Your mother? What did I say about Molly?"

"That it would be bollocks to mourn her today if she died during the war? Or do you not remember?"

Harry felt his face go cold.

"You mean... at the bar with Neville? Ron that was- it... you didn't seem so mad, I mean- you walked away but you- afterwards you seemed fine."

"Yeah, because you're my best mate and sometimes you just say stupid shit. But now you are walking up to me and accusing my brother of murder?!" 

Harry took a step back, feeling Ron's anger like a physical blow. He hadn't meant to upset him, but the words were out of his mouth before he could stop them.

"I'm sorry, Ron. I really am. It's just that... I don't know, something doesn't feel right, you know?" Harry said, trying to keep his voice calm and even. He didn't want to upset Ron even more, lest he scream and have somebody inside the house hear him.

Ron let out a loud sigh, his anger dissipating slightly. "Yeah, I get it. It's just... George has been through a lot. Losing Fred, everything that happened during the war... but he's not a killer, Harry."

Harry couldn't tell if Ron had regained what little anger that had seemingly gone away. He trod carefully.

"I know," Harry said softly. "But we can't ignore the possibility that he might be involved in this. We've seen how gruesome these murders have been. We know they're driven by some sort of vengeance or... higher moral- something- just. I know that he's not the only one who is justifying the murders but you heard the way he said it!"

Ron took a deep breath, glancing away for a few moments, then turning back to Harry, who felt that Ron was simply masking his anger now."

"So then should we make Ginny a suspect, too?"

Harry took a step back, surprised.

"What?"

"Yeah. I mean, if George's feelings towards everything is enough to make him a suspect, then we should be doing the same to Ginny- hell, to just about half of Wizarding Britain. Yeah? Brilliant idea, Harry."

Harry shook his head. "Ginny? no. I... why?"

"Well haven't you heard, she's pretty much agreed with George on almost everything concerning whether the murderer is justified in their actions. The two of them have gotten in nasty rows with Mum... Oh, but wait, you wouldn't know, would you? Because you never care to visit. And the one time you do, you go and accuse George of being the murderer."

Harry felt a pang of guilt in his chest. Ron had a point. He had been distant for a long time, now. Too long. He stood there, silent, as Ron continued his tirade.

"You come here, expecting me to believe that my own brother is a murderer? That he's capable of doing something like this? Don't you think that I would know if something was up with him? George may have his issues, but he's not a killer, Harry."

Ron's voice was starting to crack, and Harry could see tears forming in his eyes. He felt terrible for upsetting Ron, but he couldn't shake the feeling that something was off.

"I'm sorry, Ron," Harry said quietly. "I don't know what to think. The murders have been getting worse, and I just can't shake the feeling that something's not right. I didn't mean to upset you."

Ron took a deep breath, composing himself. The air stilled, not a sound could be heard. When Harry squinted, he could see the film of unshed tears on Ron’s eyes reflecting in the moonlight. Neither of them acknowledged it. A breeze blew past them, allowing for the atmosphere to feel slightly less stiff.

In the distance, the burrow's back door could be heard opening. Hermione's voice called out.

"Ron, Harry, Molly's brought out some pudding!"

Ron sighed, moving to walk towards his girlfriend, back to the burrow. Before he did, though, he spoke.

"George is not the killer. And neither is Ginny." He pursed his lips, blinking a few times. "I know that the case is tough, and I'm sure living with one of the victims doesn't help your psyche, but making thoughtless accusations isn't the way to go about this... If you manage to find meaningful evidence that points to somebody, then I will take it seriously."

Harry watched silently as Ron walked away, back inside. 

Chapter Text

Sometimes, memories of the pain come back to him- phantoms of his suffering. It starts off as a dull, uneasy feeling. Starting in the deepest crevices of whatever scar has decided to make itself known at the moment, and it creeps its way outward until Draco feels as though he’s been carved open all over again.

"Do not judge, or you too will be judged. For in the same way you judge others, you will be judged, and with the measure you use, it will be measured to you… Do you recognize that one, Draco Malfoy? This is your judgment returning to you, Draco Malfoy. The same way you wished death upon others, the lord now wishes you dead-”

Draco was shaking, remembering how he was constricted until he felt bones shatter, remembering the feeling of the blade cold against his warm skin.

It had been one week since Potter left him with a new auror and Draco successfully managed to only see or hear from him twice a day. And most times Draco ignored him. Every time that The New Auror tried and failed to open the bedroom door, Draco found himself overcome by this aching and urgent need to make sure that the door was locked all over again. He’d developed a ritual for it. Lock the door ten times, cast two locking spells over the door, and attempt to pry it open four times. That’s how he knows the door is safe. Thankfully, The New Auror hadn't bothered him in four hours, so Draco hadn't needed to try locking the door for a while.

In the past week, Draco's sleep had declined sharply. He had been struggling to sleep before, but now he was lucky to get four hours in a night. He would often switch between thinking about all that had happened and fearing that he would be found, that he would be attacked and killed.

Draco hated feeling so helpless. He was scared, alone, and vulnerable. He felt like he had during the war again, except with one major difference. During the war, he could force himself into believing that he had some sort of control, that he was making his own choices, that he was doing what he needed... Now, he felt like he was at the mercy of whoever was out there, and he was scraping at the slightest bit of control that he could exert over his situation. He needed something just so he could feel like he wasn't being tossed around by the wind.

His bedroom was spotless the majority of the time, and since having been avoiding The New Auror (and by a consequence, the entire rest of his flat), he found himself looking for new distractions from his racing thoughts often.

At first, he tried reading, but his mind kept wandering. He tried to meditate, but his thoughts kept racing. He tried to exercise, but his muscles felt weak. He was trapped in his room and in his mind, unable to escape.

Then, there was a knock on the door. Draco froze, his heart racing. He knew he had locked the door, but what if someone had managed to get in? He reached for his wand, ready to defend himself if necessary.

"Draco?" It was Potter's voice. Relief flooded through Draco's veins at the sound of that voice. He didn't understand why it was so much more comforting to know that Potter was back, and that The New Auror would finally be going away. Possibly because as much as I hate him, I know he is the most capable of protecting me, a voice piped up in his head.

Draco hesitated before unlocking the door. The moment it opened, he was greeted by Potter standing there, looking sleep deprived and unkempt.

Draco was wary. Potter did not speak. "I thought you didn't want to watch me anymore, wanted to... 'change the terms of my witness protection'. What happened?"

Harry bit his lip, suddenly looking pained.

"I- I did, but... after careful consideration, I have determined that it is best I continue to protect you in your home."

However, Potter didn't sound right, and Draco noticed that he kept glancing around the flat. Draco had only caught a glimpse of the rest of his flat and had already determined that The New Auror had left it a mess, and Draco needed to clean it as soon as possible. The way Potter was looking made Draco anxious and all he could think of was beginning to clean as soon as possible. He attempted to hide this from Potter.

"...Why the sudden change of heart?"

Potter sighed. "Uhm... it's about your father."

Draco tried very hard to kick Potter out of his flat the second the news escaped his mouth, however, Potter was not having it. Draco didn't want to hear more about it. His mind was already taking him a million different directions and he needed to be rid of it all immediately.

"Get, out," Draco strained as he pushed Potter backwards. Potter was using all of his strength to resist, and it was making Draco's heart race with fear.

"I'm, not... leaving!"

Harry was determined to not be kicked out for Malfoy to spend four hours cleaning again. He was not going to have this be a repeat of his first night here. He came back to see Draco because Harry had responded to the attack. He saw what the murderer did to Lucius Malfoy with his own eyes, and he could only imagine that the idea of Lucius being dead would be difficult for Draco to process. He was not going to leave. He needed to speak to Draco about what was going on. Draco was Lucius' last living relative.

Draco felt his chest tighten as Potter put more force into resisting Draco's pushing. He finally had to let go, chest heaving. Attempting to physically push Harry Potter out of his front door was the most exercise he'd done since he was school-aged.

Potter brushed himself off, taking a step forward. Draco instinctively took several steps back. He didn't want to hear it. He didn't want to know anything about what happened to his father or how. He just wanted to forget about everything and move on. But Potter was here, and he wasn't leaving. Draco felt like he was trapped, suffocating under the weight of his emotions and the memories that seemed to resurface every time he tried to forget.

"I said get out," Draco repeated, his voice shaking with anger and fear.

Potter took a step forward, and Draco felt his back hit the wall behind him. He was trapped, with nowhere to go. Potter kept moving forward. Draco felt the walls and ceiling closing in on him. Potter's face was now inches away from his, and Draco wanted to scream.

"Listen to me, Draco, please," Potter said, his voice low and serious. "I know you're scared, and I know you're hurting. But you can't hide from this.”

Draco made one last attempt to get away from Potter. His mind scrambled for a way to get himself busy and to get Potter out, but he was too frenzied to think up anything of coherence.

Draco attempted to take a breath, but it caught in his throat. Suddenly, everything was spinning. His face grew hot and tense. He couldn't tell which would come first, death by suffocation, or death from spontaneous combustion.

Potter noticed the panic on Draco's face and quickly grabbed his shoulders, steadying him. "Hey, breathe with me. In and out. In, and out." Potter's voice was calm and even, however, everything was getting awy from Draco. He could not focus outside of the feeling of his brain being squeezed from every side. Green met grey, and Draco shut his eyes.

Suddenly, everything disappeared, and it was just him, his mind, and a piercing in his ears. The things he'd been shoving from his brain flooded back to him.

He found his first love and it was ripped away from him.

His attempts to find forgiveness with the church have gotten him nowhere.

He was taken, mauled, and nearly killed by God's Wrath.

He doesn't know how to live even a single normal day of life anymore. He's scared, lost, and losing control.

And now, his father is dead.

Draco shuddered, and distantly, he heard himself sob.

The instant that the tears escaped him, he became unable to stop. His chest ached and he found it difficult to breathe, each gasp of breath was painful and ragged. His entire body gave in to the helplessness. He could not stop the images of the last month flashing across his mind.

His heart ached now as he looked back on himself and everything he'd lost, and how much he'd changed as a result. He was truly falling into a pit of despair and did not know how he would find a way out.

The sensation of two hands on his biceps shocked him into reality. He kept his eyes firmly shut and tensed.

"Hey, it's me, it's okay. It's me, it's Harry... don't worry. I've got you. Just..." Draco found himself being leaned forward into Harry's chest. A soothing warmth surrounded him, and the up-and-down of Harry's breathing kept Draco from drifting back into his mind.

Draco felt like he was unravelling, but Harry was there, holding him together. He clung to Harry's shirt, his fingers digging into the fabric.

Harry held him like that for what felt like hours. His hand rubbed soothing circles on Draco's back. Draco cried until he could cry no more, until he was completely drained. He pulled away from Harry slowly, wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand.

"I'm sorry," he croaked.

"Don't be sorry," Harry replied softly. "You don't have anything to apologize for."

Draco just nodded, his eyes still watery. He didn't know what to do next. He didn't know how to move on from this. His surroundings and state of being felt foreign to him. However, one ting he knew was that Harry was there, and he seemed to care. That thought gave him a small measure of comfort.

It took the two of them a while to adjust to the unusual interaction they’d just had. Harry, even though he had initiated the hug, still could not believe that he had spent more than five seconds holding Draco Malfoy. Draco was still too stunned from his impromptu breakdown to process all of the things he was thinking and feeling.

Eventually, they both moved to the couch. Draco took in his surroundings and was immediately bothered by how messy the flat was. The books were not all put-away, and Draco was sure that some of the books were put away in the wrong spot. The floors hadn’t been tended to in a week, The kitchen sink had a used cup in it and the strainer had a dish in it… It was irking him, now. What if his unruly flat was a reflection of himself? What if him not cleaning enough was what led to this invasion of his feelings pouring out, and in front of Harry Potter, of all times? Draco began to fidget.

Harry cleared his throat awkwardly.

“So, uhm… If you think you are able to speak… Since you are Lucius’ last living relative… We need to discuss a few things.”

Draco turned to him, feeling dazed.

“He was killed by the same man who tried to kill me, no?”

“Well, yes, but-”

“Then there’s nothing more to discuss. If he mentioned me in his will then I’ll take what he’s left me. That’s it.” Draco felt empty. He didn’t quite understand everything that was going on in his mind or out in the world.

After what felt like an eternity, Harry spoke.

“How… how are you feeling? About all of this?”

Draco's eyes met Harry's, and he could see the genuine concern in them. He took a deep breath, trying to gather himself, however, his mind was still swimming with a million different thoughts and emotions. He opened his mouth to respond, but the words wouldn't come out. Instead, he settled on shrugging his shoulders.

This entire situation still felt quite foreign and... well, odd. He hadn't even begun to think about the line that had clearly been crossed in his acquaintanceship with Potter.

He glanced around the room again, and couldn't help the nagging in his head to get up and start cleaning. With a start, he stood, attending to his bookshelf, first and foremost. He could sense Harry Potter watching him, could sense the concern radiating off of him. Draco tried to ignore it, to begin resorting his bookshelf... Who did The New Auror think he was, anyway? To read my books off of my shelf and then put them back incorrectly?

Draco had already found books to place in their correct spots, and by the third book, he could feel the sense of control returning to him. His hands trembled as he grasped at the feeling, continuing with his task.

Harry watched as Draco moved around his apartment, tidying up his bookshelf, and taking care of other small tasks around the room. He could see the tension in Draco's movements, and he knew that the sudden shift to cleaning was a coping mechanism for him. He wanted to help, to do something to ease Draco's burden, but he didn't know how.

After a few moments, Harry decided to try and break the tension with some small talk. "So, what are you reading?" Harry asked, motioning to the books on Draco's shelf.

Draco stiffened momentarily before turning to face Harry. "Various things," he replied, his tone clipped.

Harry nodded, not wanting to push too hard. "Anything interesting?"

Draco paused, considering the question before answering. "A few things… poetry, novels, cookbooks…”

The room grew silent, and Harry quickly searched for something to settle the tension.

“Would you like me to help you tidy up?”

“No.” Draco’s response was immediate.

Harry wanted to show support. He felt the need to help Draco, now more than ever. He pushed gently. “I mean, it’s really no bother-”

“I want to do it.”

Harry was quiet for several moments after that. Draco was adamant about doing all of his sorting and tidying up on his own and Harry couldn’t quite puzzle out why. He had figured by now that cleaning was a sort of coping mechanism for him, but why do it alone? Why not accept any help?

Several hours later, it was about time for the two of them to go to sleep. Harry came to realize that this might have been the most peaceful the two of them had ever been towards each other, and he found that maybe this situation wouldn’t be so terrible if their tentative relationship went up from there.

Unfortunately, that thought lasted less time than Harry hoped. And it began when Draco’s door was left ajar and Harry happened by the man kneeled on the floor and with his hands folded over the side of the bed and- wait…

Was he praying?

Well, it made sense, Harry guessed. He had seen Draco at church more than once. Well, for funerals, but…

Still, it felt so odd to actually see that Draco was… praying.

Harry found himself stopping to watch as Draco softly mumbled to himself, eyes closed and with utmost concentration. Harry waited until Draco made the sign of the cross before speaking.

“What was it that you prayed for?”

Draco jumped, startled. His heart began racing and he whipped his head around to find Potter standing halfway into his room and

What was going through my mind that I left the door open? Why would I do that? I am not safe with the door open. I need to close it, now. Now! Do it, do it or you will lead the killer right to you-

He sprinted towards the door and shoved Potter away, not taking even a moment to process his wide eyes and hands in surrendered position. Draco slammed the door and turned to lean against it, panting.

Murderers can open doors, you know.

Draco turned to lock the door one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten times.

Well clearly this method hasn’t been working, since I still managed to forget one time and leave the door completely open.

Trembling fingers closed around the lock again.

Eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen…

Draco’s new method to locking his door is to lock the door twenty times, cast four locking spells over the door, and attempt to pry it open eight times.

It was only after he established his new routine that he was able to breathe a bit easier.

I can’t believe that I just let somebody in like that. What was I thinking? What if that was the murderer? What if I’d died?

Draco found himself spending the next fifteen minutes wondering if he should put new wards over the windows and walls or if he should trust Potter’s magic.

He put new wards over the windows and walls.

When he finally collapsed into bed for the night, he finally found a moment to slow down. An ache formed by his temples as he went over what had occurred.

He kicked Harry Potter out of his room… Not a stranger, not a murderer.

The most capable person to protect him. If anyone should be allowed to step foot in his room, it’s him, right?

But the more Draco thought about it, the more he determined that, even if that was Harry Potter, there’s no telling that it will be him in the future. And he cannot falter in locking his doors again, lest he wants to die.

It wasn’t until much later into the night, long past any reasonable time to have fallen asleep, that the reality of the days events began to haunt his conscious.

His friends are dead. His lover is dead.

His father is dead. His last parent is dead. He has nobody, now.

With a pang to his chest and a sinking in his stomach, it hit Draco.

He is completely and truly alone, now. 

Chapter Text

Harry left the Weasley burrow for his own flat in Diagon Alley. It would be his first night in his own place in about a month. Dinner had been exhausting, and he felt a bit like rubbish about it all, really. He had hoped that some time with the people he cared about most would be just what he needed, but it got all mucked up, didn’t it? George… it sent a shiver down Harry’s spine just thinking about it. 

On the bright side, Harry thought, if there even was one to look towards, was that he saw Teddy. 

Andromeda was kind enough to send him updates every few weeks, and a picture or two alongside it, but it wasn't the same. Harry felt like an absolute failure of a godfather, not being there for Teddy at all... if Harry were to bet money on it, he would bet that Teddy doesn't even recognize him, from how little he visits.

But... I'm an auror. I have a murderer to catch. I've been busy, he told himself.

"I'll do better," he mumbled under his breath as he entered the building to his flat. "I'll see him more. I promise."

Harry stumbled into his flat, the lights turning themselves on at the flat’s awareness of his presence. 

The place was horrid.

The first thing Harry was made aware of was a roach running frantically to hide as the lights went up. Gross. Harry looked up, examining his environment. The air in the room had long gone stagnant and stale. It smelt like rot. The white walls had a yellow tinge to them, as they were caked with layers of dirt and grime. 

Harry looked to the side, where his minimal kitchen was, and saw a pile of dirty dishes in the sink, forks, plates, and cups caked with old food. The trash was overflowing as well, stuffed with what Harry knew to be old takeout boxes and some old papers. When Harry paid attention, he could hear and see the flies and gnats that had entered his home. 

It was ghastly.

Draco wouldn't ever let his flat get this way. 

The thought hit Harry like a brick. It was true. Draco would probably have an aneurysm at the sight of his place. Harry's mind drifted to him and what it was like to be there.

Certainly cleaner, he told himself.

He wondered how Draco was fairing with the new Auror. Dawlish was fairly good- very by the book, unlike Harry. He imagined that Dawlish would just be standing around like a soldier, keeping contact to a minimum. 

The infernal buzz of an insect flying right past Harry's ear snapped him out of his thoughts. In an instant, he took out his wand and cast all of the cleaning and freshening charms he knew.

The flat at least seemed alright now. But the magic wasn't enough to get rid of the atmosphere of decay that was so everpresent. Harry sighed.

I don't want to be here. 

And to think, for an entire month living with Malfoy, the whole time I only thought about wanting to be back here.

And now that he was finally at his own place, alone, he remembered how easy it was previously to throw himself into work and drink his troubles away whenever he wasn't at work.

Some deadwood like me doesn't get to have anything easy, anyway.

Harry went to his bedroom, noting how the sheets were half-done and the room felt dusty and drabby. Well, it's what I've got. Harry cast whatever freshening charm she could muster, toed off his shoes, and flopped into his uncomfortably warm and slightly itchy bed.

—-------

The next day was spent hunched over notes regarding the murders. The last murder was of Theodore Nott, Sr. - had associations with blood supremacy, attended Hogwarts as a Slytherin, and had ties to Death Eaters. 

Just like every other victim. 

The real kicker, Harry supposed, was that, on paper, all of these murders sounded justified. It almost made Harry feel like he was chasing down some vigilante hero, trying to get rid of the last of Voldemort's followers and those associated. 

But then there are victims like Parkinson, the Greengrass sisters… They were never really Death eaters. There’s nothing to prove them as followers back then or today. They kept their noses clean. Especially the Greengrassees. 

Then there was Draco. The most ambiguous, church-going Death eater that could possibly exist. 

Harry couldn’t quite understand why any of them were on the list of victims.

Unless, of course, the killer is a Death Eater themselves.

Harry took his pen and twirled it absentmindedly, letting his thoughts wander.

None of this is adding up... Is this person going after bad people, or not? Or is everyone remotely associated with bad things just damned? 

And who is this person?

Harry went back to his notes, scanning again for any identifying clues. Maybe if I look at when each person was taken?

The only really concrete thing we could get from that was that this person is definitely magical, and definitely plans his murders. He had to have been watching everyone for some time in order to decide when to get them. 

Harry sighed, setting his papers down and momentarily taking off his glasses. His eyes hurt, and the words and pictures were starting to mesh together in his mind. He cast a tempus charm. 5:47pm .

He had been reading everything over for seven hours.

I need to take a break.

He rubbed his temples, feeling the onset of a headache. Maybe a shower would help.

Harry pushed himself away from his desk and stood, his body aching and sore.

…Maybe a nap, first.

—------

Harry woke with a start, his heart pounding.

He looked around, disoriented. What time is it? He reached for his wand on his nightstand, fumbling with it in his fingers.

Where are my glasses?

Harry cast a tempus with his wand. 3:45 am. He groaned.

Fuck.

As the initial shock of his abrupt awakening subsided, he could feel the stickiness of cold sweat causing his clothes to stick to him. His stomach grumbled. 

When was the last time I ate?  

Harry groaned as he realized he’d gone an entire day without eating. What the hell was wrong with him? 

He sat up, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.

It's too early.

Harry laid back down, closing his eyes and willing his racing heart to slow. His mind, however, refused to cooperate, and his thoughts kept drifting back to the case, and to Draco.

What would he think if he saw me like this?

Harry rolled over, pulling the blanket over his head.

I'm an idiot.

After a while, Harry's thoughts began to quiet and his eyelids grew heavy. He tried to relax his muscles and fall asleep, but it wasn't until his stomach growled painfully that he realized it was futile.

"Alright, alright. I'll eat," he said aloud, as though his body would respond.

He has no food in his flat, and it's three in the morning.

Before he could even get up, he willed himself to give up on the idea of food until at least six in the morning. The rest of his night was spent tossing and turning. At four thirty, he managed to slip into a light slumber, and at five thirty, he was counting the blades of his ceiling fan over and over. 

1, 2 Why is Draco the only survivor? 3, 4, And why did the killer have to fuck with his memory? 5.

1, 2, I would feel like complete rubbish if I were Draco. 3, 4, I would probably want to kill myself. 5.

1, 2 Draco has changed so much, 3, 4, I wish he didn't make it so difficult for me to get to know him better. 5.

1, I'm just trying to move past the way we used to be. 2, 3, 4, 5.

And what the Hell is his thing with cleaning? 1, 2, 3, And baking? 4, 5.

And the doors. 1, 2, and church? 3, 4, 5.

I want to get to know him better. I want to understand.

—-----

It was after around six days of feeling like a living corpse that Harry got called to Malfoy Manor. His stomach sank. What's Draco doing at Malfoy Manor? Is he alone? Alive? 

It wasn't Draco at Malfoy Manor.

When Harry left Malfoy Manor, he lost the breakfast he had had. He was half-glad it didn't come up all over the floors of the scene. 

All he could think of was how he needed to be the one protecting Draco. What if the murderer went after his father to try and get information about him? 

Harry couldn’t be dissuaded. He was going to reinstate his position as Draco’s protector immediately. He was going to go back to Draco’s flat within the next three hours at most. 

—-------

It felt like a breath of fresh air, being back at Draco's flat. The place was clean, as Harry remembered it to be. He thanked Dawlish for his week of work and walked him out the door. Then, he turned to greet Draco. "He hasn't left his room." Harry couldn't explain why he was suddenly slightly sweaty.

To say that Harry was surprised when Draco began to cry, curling into himself against the wall after trying to push away both Harry and his news of Lucius Malfoy's death, was an understatement. Harry's heart clenched as he did everything he could to calm him down and help him. He held Draco, shushed him, and told him it was going to be okay.

It felt nice, being there for Draco.

Harry supposed, at that moment, that they could get through this. They just needed to work together. He was determined now, to get Draco to open up to him, to bring this killer to justice, and to protect Draco at all costs.

Chapter Text

The next few days were fraught with tension and awkward silences between Draco and Harry. They often found themselves at a loss for how to interact with each other. 

Draco found himself constantly on edge. Half the time, he was watching his back, resisting checking the doors and windows constantly with Potter around. The other half, he was cleaning in a frenzy in order to ignore any and all unsavoury thoughts that popped into his mind.

Then there were the mundane moments, like brewing tea, reading a book, and eating a meal. Those were the moments in which Draco and Potter would often find themselves taking turns attempting and failing to have any sort of conversation. Draco noticed that, without having a Potter to fight with, there was nothing to do whenever he was around him. He certainly didn't want to have another mental breakdown in front of him, and even less did he want to have anything resembling a heart-to-heart. Draco found himself withdrawing into himself, retreating into the safety of his room. It was a way to protect himself, and it had worked for the past few days. But now, it felt suffocating. He wanted out, wanted to be around people, wanted to feel alive again.

He wanted to return to church. 

Unfortunately, now he was being babysat by Great Britain's most famous wizard, which meant he had to tell him that he was hoping to go to Sunday Mass in two days.

Potter insisted he accompanies him.

That night, he decided to try his hand at baking again. The recipe was something easy, something he had no chance of messing up. Soft, Fresh, Lemon Blueberry Cake Bars .

It was an extremely simple recipe built for even a beginner to accomplish, and, what appealed to Draco the most, the tremors in his fingers wouldn't affect the outcome of this dessert. 

He was doing this. He was going to get back to trying to live a normal life, not hiding in his flat. And even if something happened, he would have Potter there with him. Everything was going to be fine. Everything is going to be fine . He forced himself to believe it.

Sunday morning arrived and Draco felt the most anxious he'd ever felt to leave his flat. He spent an uncomfortable amount of time fixing his hair and clothing, and he nearly lost his appetite for breakfast over the thoughts that were racing through his head.

"Are you ready?" Potter opened the front door and waited for Draco to walk through. He was doing this. He was going to leave his flat. He was going to see the rest of the world for the first time in almost a month.

The first challenge Draco encountered was right outside his flat, locking the door. Potter closed and locked it behind the two of them, however, an itch came up in the back of Draco's mind. I need to lock the door.

Draco shook his head. The thought was ridiculous. There was nobody to be attacked in his flat. Why would he need to perform his locking ritual?

I am not safe if I don't lock the door.

Potter was about halfway down the first set of stairs when he noticed that Draco was stuck staring at his front door.

I will be attacked if I do not lock the door. I will die. I am putting myself in danger.

"What's wrong?"

Draco shook his head, refusing to meet Potter's gaze.

"I need to lock the door," Draco whispered, his voice shaking. He cursed himself for how menial it came out.

Potter frowned but didn't say anything. He simply reached into his pocket and retrieved the key he'd just used to hand it to Draco. Draco inserted it into the lock with his tremored fingers, then turned the key. One, two, three, four...

"I... I think you've locked the door a few times now, Draco."

...ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen...

"...Draco?"

...twenty. Draco removed the key from the lock, placed it in his pocket, and pulled out his wand.

"Calloportus-"

"You know that I have wards over the flat, right?" Potter spoke right over Draco's four locking charms. And it was when Draco began to violently use the door handle to force the door open eight times that Potter became alarmed and attempted to stop Draco, which did not work. Draco was determined to finish his ritual, so I can stay safe .

When the whole ordeal was finished, and Draco could feel the panic that threatened to come out subsiding when he could feel his breath returning to him, was when Potter spoke.

"Are you sure you're okay?" His voice was gentle, and Draco was surprised at how much he appreciated that.

Draco nodded, not trusting himself to speak. 

They left the apartment complex in silence, both of them at a loss for words. Draco was embarrassed that Potter had to watch that. He had done well to not do his rituals in front of him until now. He wondered if Potter thought Draco was mad, or worse, fit for an institution. They reached the apparation sight.

Draco felt... different than he had all of these weeks as he approached the grand double doors of St. Jerome's church in Godric's Hollow. Somehow, he felt a mixture of nervous and excited. He didn't know what to make of it.

The two of them entered the church and Draco knew that they were late. Father Swain could be heard speaking, and when Draco approached the entry room to put his cake bar on the table for guests to eat after the service, the table was full, with just barely enough room for the tray he'd baked.

Draco found a seat in the back for Potter and him to sit. When he was finally able to settle into his seat,  Draco was enveloped in the palpable peace of the church. He closed his eyes and finally allowed himself to relax, to feel something other than the endless anxiety that seemed to constantly plague him. He breathed in the scent of candles and listened to the sound of hymns, allowing himself to be enveloped in the moment.

As Father Swain spoke, Draco found himself captivated by the words, entranced by the way the priest's voice flowed over the congregation, filling the room with the warmth of the gospel. Potter didn’t participate, but Draco didn’t mind. He was here for himself. 

He listened to the words, feeling solace in them. Draco allowed himself to get lost in the stories. He felt himself uplifted by the church choir's singing.

He allowed himself to completely forget everything bad that was occurring in his life, even if for just an hour or so. 

When the service was finally over, and Draco and Potter were the last to get up from their seats. Draco found himself feeling emotionally drained. He was grateful for the moment, and for the peace and tranquility the church had brought him. He knew that he would need to go back soon, but for now, he wanted to savour the quiet of the church and the feeling of being at peace.

"Well, if it isn't our saviour, Harry Potter."

Draco opened his eyes, turning to see Potter as he moved to get up and shake the hand of a redhead, and- wait... do I know her?

"Hannah! hello! How are you doing?"

"I'm managing... Say, what brings you to church? I can't say I've seen you around."

"Oh, well, I came with Draco, he frequents the church, actually." Potter motioned to him, and he tensed. He had gotten to know people at the church, but he couldn't say that he'd been acquainted with her, no matter how familiar she looked to him.

Hannah... Abbott? No, she was a blonde.

"Oh," said Hannah, looking closely at Draco. "I have seen him around here, though not for several weeks, now." She took a full-scale look at him, and Draco shifted on his feet. The air became awkward.

"Er, I see you dyed your hair... You used to be blonde, no?" Harry tried to break the awkward atmosphere.

"Yes, I'm trying something new."

The blonde girl from a few seats forward!

Suddenly it hit Draco that yes, he did know her. He had for years, and it made perfect sense that she was casting wary glances toward him...

"I see. Brilliant! Well, it's been a while."

"It has..."

They all stood there awkwardly for a few moments, not knowing what to say, until finally, Harry spoke again.

"So, how are things between you and Neville?"

Draco hadn't realized that Hannah Abbott was dating Neville Longbottom. He glanced around just then, noting that he didn't see Longbottom anywhere near them.

Hannah pursed her lips. "Things are just fine," she tried. Draco could see right through the lie. He wondered what was going on.

"Teddy is making great progress, by the way."

"Really? I'm glad to hear it." Draco didn't miss the way that Potter's eyes lit up. There was an added enthusiasm to his voice that Draco had never heard before. "Last I saw him was at a Sunday dinner. He isn't much of a talker, eh?"

"Oh, but don't you worry about that. It's not uncommon for people like him to struggle with speaking. If you take the time to observe him closely and get to know him better, I promise you'll see how much he's improving."

Potter nodded, biting his bottom lip as he turned away. He seemed guilty of being called out by Hannah Abbott as unengaged in Teddy's life. The room grew tense. Draco tapped Potter's shoulder, unable to bear witness to such a stale conversation. It was clear to him that Abbott was both ignoring Draco and uninterested in speaking about herself. That, coupled with Potter's ineptitude for conversation was not appealing.

"We should get going if we want to taste any of the sweets on display."

"Oh, yes," Harry responded. Then he turned back to Abbott "Hannah, did you know that Draco bakes pastries for the Masses he attends?"

"I did."

"I can't wait to try one. I was there when he made today's batch. The place smelled incredible while it was in the oven." he said. And Draco felt an unexplainable sense of pride behind that. Potter likes my desserts... He wants to try the things that I make.

"Oh, you're... staying? With Draco Malfoy?"

It was more of a statement than a question, and Draco could see the bewilderment in Abbott's eyes. Draco kept his guard up.

"Yes. I'm sure you've heard about everything in the news... well, he's under witness protection."

"Ah, yes. The news...

Well, I best be going. I'll be late to going home. Goodbye, Harry." And Hannah gave Draco one more lookover as she walked away. Draco couldn't explain why exactly he felt so tense, now.

Chapter Text

Harry didn’t know what exactly possessed him to make breakfast for both him and Draco. The last time he attempted to do it- Draco did not take to it well- Harry wondered just how rude he was capable of being. 

But since having watched him at church, the way he was seemingly absorbed by the music, how he listened to what was said by the priest with utmost attention (which was something that Harry himself was not capable of, he found the droning voice a bit too easy to completely zone out to), the way he watched for people’s expressions as they tasted his lemon-blueberry bar, the look on his face when Harry told him he liked it a lot. 

“It’s brilliant! I might just ask you to make it again one day.” 

And so here Harry was, making breakfast for them both the next morning for no explainable reason other than having felt compelled to when he woke up. 

Draco hadn’t woken up yet, and Harry figured it would be fine as long as he woke up by the time that Harry served, and if he didn’t, then  Harry could place a stasis charm over the food. Eventually, Draco did venture from his room, and when he noticed Harry holding two plates of food and on his way to the table, he was surprised, to say the least. 

"Potter, what are you doing?" Draco asked, his eyes flickering between Harry and the plates of food. Harry placed the plates on the table and motioned for Draco to sit across from him.

"I made us breakfast," Harry said, trying to keep his tone casual. He didn't want to make it seem like a big deal, even though it sort of was. "I figured... since I was making something for myself anyway."

Harry hoped that Draco wouldn't put enough thought into it to realize that Harry rarely cooks since living in Draco's flat with him, even less so for him and Draco since he gave up after the first time.

Draco looked at Harry incredulously, as if he didn't quite believe what was happening. Harry could see the shock written all over his face, but he didn't say anything for a few moments. Instead, he sat down across from Harry and stared at the food in front of him, his eyes lingering on the scrambled eggs and bacon. 

Harry watched closely as Draco put a hand to his stomach. Harry wondered what he was thinking. He and Draco never really acknowledged each other at meal times. More often than not, they'd eat separately- Harry on the sofa bed, bent over piles of notes, and Draco in his room. Really, for all Harry knew, Draco didn't even eat every day. Only occasionally would Draco eat leaning against the kitchen sink, or, even less often, sitting at the actual table, the way he was about to now.

Harry couldn't help the anticipation that was building within him. Hell, he'd thought that now Draco might be a little bit more open to-

"This looks... good," Draco said finally, looking up at Harry. "Thank you." 

Harry smiled, feeling a sense of satisfaction at seeing Draco scoop up a bit of food in preparation for a bite.

The few times that Harry had observed Draco eating, he noticed how slow he was in doing so, and today was no different. He was holding the food up to his face, free hand still on his stomach. Harry wondered why it was taking so long for Draco to take his first bite.

"Is there something on my face?"

Harry blinked, abruptly sitting back in his own chair. Blimey, in all the time I spent watching Draco, I never began to eat either. Harry cleared his throat.

"No, uhm, no. I just-"

"I'd appreciate it if you stopped staring, then."

"Right. No-yes. Of course..." Harry avoided eye contact now, feeling heat rush to his face.

Harry began to eat, and soon, Draco finally took his first bite. The silence was tense.

"How is it?" Harry blurted out, unable to stop himself. Draco looked up at him.

"It tastes like eggs. And bacon."

"Well- Yes, but... I don't know, is it good?"

"As good as eggs and bacon can be, sure." 

Smartass.

Harry felt a twinge of disappointment. He had hoped for a more enthusiastic response. But he decided not to let it get to him. After all, he had made eggs and bacon. It doesn't take a genius. And the fact that Harry cooked for the two of them was odd enough. He took another bite of his own food and tried to keep the conversation going.

"Why do you hold your stomach when you eat?" 

Draco paused mid-chew and looked up at Harry, his expression guarded. "It's nothing," he said finally, his tone clipped and dismissive.

But Harry could tell there was more to it than that. He wanted to press, to ask what was really going on, but he knew Draco well enough by now to know that he wouldn't answer.

So, instead of pushing, Harry decided to change the subject. "I was thinking we could go out today. Maybe... I don't know... check out some of the shops in Diagon Alley?"

Draco raised an eyebrow, looking genuinely surprised. "You want to go out together?"

"Uh, yeah. I mean, we've been cooped up in here for a while. I thought it might be nice to get out for a bit."

Draco seemed to consider this for a moment before shaking his head.

"No thank you."

Harry deflated.

"But-"

"Don't you have a murderer to catch?" 

The room fell silent. Harry immediately felt bad. Why would he even think that he could pretend life was normal, for one second?

Harry was snapped out of his thoughts at the sound of a plate and utensils clattering. He watched as Draco stood and took his plate to the kitchen.

"Thank you for the food, but I've quite lost my appetite."

"What? you've barely even gotten 'round to half of it."

"Ah, yes. Shame. Until the next meal, yes?"

"Oh, shove off it, Malfoy. What did I do?"

Draco paused, his plate halfway into the sink. He turned around and looked at Harry, his expression unreadable.

"You didn't do anything, Potter. It's just... complicated."

"Complicated?" Harry repeated, feeling exasperated. "What's so complicated?"

Draco sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "It's just... everything. Us. Our situation. I can't just pretend like everything is normal, like we're two friends going out for a day of shopping. We're not. We never will be."

Harry felt a pang of sadness in his chest. He knew what Draco was getting at. They were two former enemies, now living together for their own safety. They had a lot of history between them, and none of it was good.

"I know," Harry said softly. "But it doesn't have to be like that forever. We can... try to make the best of it, can't we?" 

Draco looked at Harry, his eyes searching his face.

"I don't know, Potter," he said. "It's difficult for me to even be in the same room as you sometimes."

Prick. Harry shook the thought away. "I understand that," Harry said. "But we have to start somewhere, don't we?"

Draco didn't answer right away, and Harry could tell he was still mulling it over. Harry decided to give him some space and started clearing his own plate from the table. Why am I suddenly feeling nervous? Do I want to get along with him this badly? As he was doing so, he heard Draco speak up.

"I don't quite fancy going out. I don't want to risk being found... church was difficult enough. The only reason I actually went was because it was church and not something else."

Harry nodded. "That's understandable," he said. "But we need to do something to keep ourselves occupied. We can't just sit here all day, every day. And the case isn't being worked on all day, every day. Most of the time I'm working on it anyway while you're holed up in your room or cleaning the flat for the thousandth time."

Draco looked down at his hands, his fingers fidgeting with each other nervously. They still hadn't completely healed, Harry noted. They were a dull pink now, and Harry swore he caught his fingers trembling. I thought the nerve damage would have healed by now.

"I know," Draco said. "I just don't know what else to do."

The room stood silent, and Harry noted how Draco was turning in towards himself, withdrawing.

"I get it," Harry said. "We can stay in today. Maybe we can watch a movie or something?"

Draco looked at him, the corners of his mouth twitching slightly. "You want to watch a movie with me?"

Harry felt his cheeks flush, suddenly aware of how odd the request sounded. "I mean, yeah. Two... friends. Watching a movie."

Way to go, that made even less sense than than before.

Draco laughed, the sound rich and full-bodied. It was a sound Harry had never heard before, and it sent shivers down his spine.

"You know that I can’t work the Muggle Telly, right? And I don’t own any movies.”

Harry tried to salvage the situation, beginning to feel nervous, for some reason. “But you know about them?” 

“Yes, I’m not stupid… How about this: If you can figure out how to watch a Muggle movie, we’ll do it, yeah?” 

Harry nodded, nearly breathless, and holding back a smile. “Okay.”

Harry watched as Draco disappeared into the living room, his heart racing with anticipation.

What just happened?

Chapter Text

Harry was quite determined to find a way to watch a movie with Draco. He’d be damned if they spent another evening hissing at each other like feral cats in rival territories. So, Harry did what any sane person would do and left to the nearest store for a disc player and a movie recommended by the employee who helped him. 

“Do you need to go?” 

“I’ll only be a bit.” 

Draco opened his mouth as though to say something, but ultimately decided not to. The sound of repeated locking and unlocking was not lost on Harry as he left the flat. 

As he walked the store in search of an employee to help, Harry couldn't help but think about the strange dynamic between him and Draco. He never would have thought that they would be living together, let alone attempting to have a movie night. But something about the way Draco had looked at him earlier, the way he had laughed, had made Harry feel a sense of hope. Maybe they could move past their history and form some sort of friendship.

When he returned to the flat, Harry found Draco sitting in the living room, staring at the walls. A quick glance around the flat showed that it had been tidied up again.

"I got a disc player and a movie," Harry said, holding up the bag.

Draco looked up, his expression blank. "Great," he said monotonously.

Harry huffed a berath, trying not to feel put off by Draco's change in demeanour. "Come on, let's set it up."

Harry put the shopping bags down and went to the telly, repeating the directions of the store employee over in his head in preparation to set up the player. He pushed the furniture that held the telly away from the wall and shoved himself between the wall and the cabinet in search of connections. He could distantly hear Draco searching the bags.

"Potter, you complete dolt."

Harry removed himself from the gap between the telly and the wall, turning to face Draco. He was holding the three DVD boxes and reading.

"These movies say, and I quote, 'episode four, episode five, and episode six' respectively."

"-I know," Harry cut in, but Draco continued.

"How am I meant to watch a fourth, fifth, and sixth installation of a muggle film I've never heard of?"

"Well, the man at the store originally recommended the first one, it had recently been released and is apparently very popular- I asked him what good, popular film I could watch- until I made it apparent that I'd never heard of it. He took the film out of my hands and thrust those three into them, insisting I watch those first."

"And you actually took his word for it? This is clearly-"

"I asked him, and he said that those came out first. Before we were born, to be exact." Harry felt the need to prove his competence to Draco. He didn't feel like being talked down to over something so simple. "The movies were made- are being made- out of order. The employee told me that these came out first. Hell, he even said that they weren't called four, five, and six until almost ten years after they came out."

Draco stared down at the DVD cases sceptically before sighing and tossing them onto the couch. "Fine. Just... get it set up, will you?"

Harry quickly went back to work, unboxing the brand-new disc player and connecting it to the telly so he could insert the first DVD. After a few minutes of fumbling with the remote control, they were able to get the movie started.

They settled onto the couch, each trying to get comfortable whilst staying as far from each other as possible, ensuring that they didn't touch, which was rather difficult on the small sofa, but they managed.

Soon enough, the opening credits of the first movie, Star Wars Episode IV: A New Hope , began to roll.

They sat in silence for a few minutes, Harry unsure of what to say and Draco seemingly lost in his own thoughts. But as the movie progressed, Harry noticed that Draco was becoming more and more engrossed in the story. He leaned forward, his eyes glued to the screen. 

It filled Harry with a sort of warmth, similar to when he watched Draco at church- happy, enjoying himself. He looked solid and confident, an expression almost like the life was not being wrung from him by millions of thoughts constantly.

The movie ended and they both sat in silence for a few minutes before Harry finally spoke.

"That was really good," he said. "I liked it."

Draco didn't immediately respond, caught off guard, as though he'd forgotten that he was sharing this experience with Harry, of all people. "Yeah, me too." Draco nodded, his expression softening.

Harry felt a smile tug at the corner of his mouth, feeling oddly satisfied. Maybe, just maybe things were finally starting to look up.

"These are the next two movies, right?"

Harry snapped out of his thoughts and looked towards Draco, who was now standing and picking up the other two movies Harry had gotten.

"Yeah."

Draco made a curious face, before putting one of the movies back down on the coffee table and went towards the disc player.

"Tell me how to work this contraption, then." 

—-----

Draco’s eyes went glossy just around the time that Darth Vader revealed he was Luke Skywalker’s father. At the end of the movie, he was rushing to put the next disc in. Harry decided against commenting. He didn’t want to disrupt how candid Draco’s behaviour was. He simply went on with Draco as he declared “This stupid player hasn’t spit out the disc yet. What do I do?” 

“You aren’t pressing the right button, Draco.”

They spent the entire day watching the Star Wars trilogy and only got up occasionally for snacks or the loo. Overall, it was the most relaxed Harry had felt in years. He couldn’t believe that he was actually doing something that he wanted to do (without necessarily blowing off work or drowning himself in said work). And the fact that he was doing it with Draco Malfoy, of all people, was something that Harry didn’t even want to begin to think about. 

Harry pretended not to notice Draco crying when Darth Vader died. He simply kept his head forward and continued to watch the movie, ignoring the occasional sniffles followed by a weak-sounding “something is tickling my nose”

When the movie was over, Harry stood up to stretch his arms out. It had become dark already, as they'd spent the whole day watching a movie trilogy.

"I think I'll head to bed now."

"All right," Draco replied. He stood up too, and for a moment their eyes met, and something formed between the two of them- something that neither of them could describe. Only one thing was clear; they had well passed the threshold between hatred and tolerance. And whatever was going on, it was in new territory. Neither of them spoke, though.

Draco broke the eye contact first, turning to go to his bedroom without any words. Harry had entirely stopped thinking, frozen in his place by this changed atmosphere. He went to bed silently, choosing not to think about the things that were nagging at his mind, now.

—-------

Harry stirred in the darkness at the sound of a creaking door and soft footsteps padding across the floor. He opened his eyes, curious as to what was making that sound.

"I think that I want to hear about how father died."

Chapter Text

"I think that I want to hear about how father died."

It was around one in the morning and Harry was more than halfway to falling asleep for the night when Draco shuffled out of his bedroom looking like a kicked puppy and sat down on the edge of Harry's transfigured sofa bed, eyes cast to the floor.

Harry sat up promptly, hand reaching blindly for his glasses, all of his attention turned to Draco.

"Okay... What brought this on?"

Draco remained silent for a long while, and Harry wondered if going to him was Draco's first or even second idea. It had been eight days since Harry had gone to him with the news, and Draco had not asked about it once until now.

"I..." Draco's voice died out for a moment. "I just want to know," he bit in a whisper, turning his head slightly towards Harry. His chest was heaving. "I'm his last living relative, aren't I? I deserve to know."

Harry could swear that, in the reflection of the moonlight, he could see that Draco's eyes were red, puffy, and glossed over with a film of tears. It was at that moment that Harry realised the fragility of the situation. He decided to tread carefully, lest he scare Draco back into his room for a week with only the sound of him locking his door dozens of times as a sign of life.

"What do you want me to tell you?"

"...Where was he found... How was he found... Was he already dead when you arrived...?" 

"Okay... before I say anything, are you sure you want to hear this at one in the morning?"

Draco took a deep breath, seeming agitated. However, he paused.

"Just... just tell me. Where was he found?"

Harry took a deep breath. Of all of the murders, Lucius' was the most gruesome, and he didn't quite enjoy the idea of telling Draco all about it.

"He was found at Malfoy Manor."

Draco nodded, his eyes still directed toward the floor. He took another deep breath. 

“Okay. Okay, that’s-“

“He was the first one to get killed inside his own home. Everyone else including you was taken to a separate location.”

“Oh.”

The room fell silent, and Harry cringed as he remembered the sight of Malfoy Manor that day. It was difficult enough for him to stomach, he was thinking it wasn’t best to give Draco too many details.

“How- er… what was done to him?”

Harry hesitated. “A lot.”

“I want to know,” said Draco.

“It was… really a lot, Draco-“

“Was it the same as me? …Astoria?” The atmosphere took on a sombre tone, and Harry’s heart squeezed in his chest.

“It… not exactly. But no two murders have been executed the same, except-“

“Except what?” Draco had snapped his head in Harry’s direction now, red puffy eyes on full display. Harry stilled. Shit.  

“Tell me, Potter.”

“Er, well…” Harry motioned up and down his left arm. And before he could put it into words, Draco looked down to his own left arm, deflating. His right hand ghosted over the area where the dark mark is, Harry remembered seeing two long scars. He put his hand down.

“Oh.” 

Draco turned to the floor again, and Harry was wondering why now, of all times, Draco was so curious to know.

“He, uhm…” It wasn’t pretty. Harry decided not to finish that statement.

“What else was there?” 

‘Draco…” 

“Don’t I have a legal right to know?” Draco snapped. “I want to know. Stop tiptoeing around the subject as though I were a child-” 

“I never implied that you were a child-” 

“Then tell me.” 

Draco was electric, and Harry could only feel stunned by the whole thing. He took a deep breath, wiping at his face and adjusting to sit more comfortably in the bed. 

“He was strung up.” 

Draco glanced at Harry. Harry steeled himself, then continued.

“He… we found him hanging from the ceiling. And… his-” Harry paused. Reimagining it was making his stomach turn. 

“Well, he was kind of…” Harry struggled to put it lightly. He began making motions with his hands, avoiding seeing Draco’s expression. “Opened up. He- his entire torso, just… down the middle. And…” He made a spilling motion with his hands. “He- I hadn’t… everything-” Harry stopped, forcing himself to breathe and stop stuttering and stumbling over his words. He started over. 

“All of his innards were just, hanging. He- there was a puddle of blood beneath him, I… It was terrible.”  

Draco was still sitting there, perfectly still, eyes on the floor. It was as though Harry had been speaking to a wall, and he was worried that he had gone too far. Harry half wanted to ask how their relationship had been since the war, but he knew he’d be prying if he did ask. Draco spoke after a long pause.

“Thank you for telling me.”

Harry shifted uncomfortably. “You’re welcome,” was all that he could say.

Draco stood up abruptly, and Harry got the impression that he wanted to be alone. He nodded curtly before turning on his heel and walking back to his bedroom.

—-------

The next few days were difficult for both of them. Draco seemed lost and Harry didn't know how to make him feel better. He would stop by his room every so often, but Draco would always avoid eye contact or say something curt before retreating back to his bedroom.

On the fifth day, Draco came out of his bedroom without Harry having had to knock and walked into the living room, where Harry was lying on the couch.

"Potter."

Harry looked up from the book he was reading. Draco had his hands in his pockets and his head down, and there was an air of defeat about him.

"Draco."

"May I speak with you for a  moment?"

Harry nodded and set his book down, gesturing for Draco to take a seat. Draco did not sit.

"I want to go to church tomorrow."

Harry nodded.

"Okay."

"You will take me."

"Just like I did last time, yeah."

Harry looked up at Draco, whose expression was of steel.

"How has it been, catching my assailant?"

Draco's voice was cool and devoid of any emotion. He sounded distant. It made Harry wonder what he could be thinking behind that mask. 

"It's not been easy. I'm sorry."

"Hm." Draco didn't respond beyond that. Harry spoke again.

"What're you thinking?"

"Oh, nothing. Why is it difficult?"

"Oh," Harry responded, not expecting Draco to have asked that. "Well, he has been simultaneously making a show of all of his murders and also keeping everything we could use to identify him under wraps. We're basically looking at what we know and trying to make semi-accurate guesses." Harry sighed, the weight of everything coming back to him.

"And your Auror friends haven't made any revelations?"

"Mordecai helps at scenes and with filing."

"And Weasley?"

Harry looked up at Draco, hesitant.

"We haven't spoken in a few weeks."

"Well, that's not very professional of you."

"He would tell me if he got something new. He's wracking his brain over all of the same information that I am."

Draco remained silent, then went over to his bookshelf to retrieve his recipe book. Harry watched as he flicked his fingers across the pages, searching for something to make (for tomorrow’s service, no doubt). Harry felt the slightest of tugs at the corner of his mouth. 

He found himself wanting to know more. When did he start making desserts? Why does he like it? Which one is his favourite? What inspired him to contribute to the church in such a kind and wholesome way? These thoughts began swirling around in his mind and he didn’t stop to consider why he was becoming so vested in Draco Malfoy. Without thinking, he walked up to him in the kitchen while taking ingredients out of his cupboard.

Chapter Text

Draco was caught off guard, his mind having been on expelling thoughts of his father, when Potter began asking him about what he was going to make. 

It wasn’t the first time that Harry had done this. It had happened one other time, back during their first week stuck together. But this time felt… different. 

"So..." Potter meandered around the small kitchen, watching as Draco continued to retrieve ingredients. "What are you going to make?"

Draco hesitated for a few moments, confounded by the situation. For some reason, treating him with the same coldness as he did last time seemed to no longer be an option for him. Not after he had so stupidly let his guard down the other night. After a moment, he decided it wouldn’t hurt him to let Potter in on his activities. Besides, mayber it would help him further get his mind off things. And, today’s recipe was on the simpler side: Soft, Zesty, Gingersnaps . 

He showed the open page of the recipe book to Potter, voicing the name. “The church will be able to enjoy these with their tea.” 

Potter turned to the recipe page, looking at it intently, but Draco could have sworn he saw a smile overtake his face. One that he wiped away just as quickly as it came. Draco blinked and turned away, putting his focus on finding all of the tools and vessels he would need. 

"It's a good thing you'll be bringing them tomorrow," Potter said.

"Hm?" 

"They won't have a dessert with their tea."

"Well, I'm not the only one who brings pastries-"

"You're the only one baking. Everybody else buys pre-packaged market desserts."

Draco turned to look at Potter, who had a sincere look to him. Draco struggled to find a response.

"Er, No... Vanessa brings custard."

"Oh."

Draco wasn't going to tell Potter that he knew Vanessa's custard was from an instant mix, which would make Potter correct. He was uncomfortable with where Potter was going with this whole thing. Was he being… nice? And was Draco liking it?

"Well, even then, I doubt custard takes as much effort as this."

Draco was stunned.

"What I'm saying is, I really like these nice things you do."

Oh.

"Er, thank you."

Potter smiled again, and this time, it wasn't wiped away.

Draco caught himself entranced by the way Potter was looking at him. He shook his head promptly, turning to begin making the gingersnaps.

The two of them didn't speak much while preparation occurred. When Draco had formed the dough, Potter asked if he could shape the cookies with him, and Draco found himself saying yes without knowing why. Draco was still caught up in the moment earlier and was unsure how to handle Potter acting this way.

Draco watched as Potter rolled up his sleeves, taking a portion of the dough. As Draco watched, he couldn't help but notice how muscular Potter's arms were. He had to force himself to tear his eyes away, focusing his attention back on his work. Where did that thought even come from?

"How does this work?"

Draco looked down, noticing that Potter had begun working the dough in a very strange way.

"Oh- no. Don't do that, you'll make it all crumbly. You need to do it like this."

He walked around to Potter's side of the counter, reaching over him and guiding his hands in the correct manner. Potter seemed to tense up a bit, but soon relaxed, allowing Draco to teach him.

They were both silent, and the only sound was of the two of them making the cookies

"Like this?"

"Exactly."

As Draco watched Potter roll the dough into little balls, he was caught off guard by the feeling of butterflies in his stomach. He watched as Potter gladly helped him bake for church, and Draco was enjoying himself. For the first time in a while, he felt as though he could have himself a pleasant time without a frenzied storm of thoughts and anxieties being mangled together as he sorted himself out and kept the worst of them at bay.

Potter was somehow... relaxing. And that was exciting to Draco. What is happening to me?

"There," Potter said, satisfied.

Draco put the cookies in the oven, then closed the door.

"So..."

"So," responded Draco.

"Why baking?"

Draco didn't have an answer that he was fit to voice out loud, especially not to Potter.

"I just started, once."

"That's it?"

"Do you expect there to be something more?"

Potter shrugged.

“I don’t know, I guess? You seem to like it. I was just wondering how you got into it. You definitely weren’t doing this a few years ago.” 

"No, I wasn't. I... I just did it one day. To occupy time." Draco paused, feeling it all come to him. He hadn't really ever taken time to look at his actions in the past few months. He shook his head, feeling slightly edged out. "It's a long story."

"I'm listening."

Draco looked at Potter, and their eyes met. I hadn't meant to say that aloud. Draco could see the sincerity in his eyes, and his heart fluttered.

"It's nothing, really. I'll get us some tea."

"I want to know. How else will I understand you better?"

Draco's stomach tightened, and he felt his cheeks warm. Why was Potter saying these things?

"Well..."

"Is there something you'd rather talk about?"

"No, not exactly."

"Then what is it?"

"Nothing, I- it's not important." Draco could feel his anxiety building. He didn't know what to do. What had his life become as of late? Did it all start because of baking? 

Pathetic, he thought to himself. No wonder Father cut you off after the war.

"Okay. Then, please, tell me."

Draco took a deep breath. He wasn't sure where to begin. He wasn't even sure if this was a good idea.

"I... I need to occupy my time. I just..." Draco was becoming nervous. Weren't these thoughts exactly what he sought to avoid by baking? And cleaning?

Cleaning .

Draco turned to the rest of the kitchen. There were floured surfaces and dirty bowls. He egan by putting the bowls int he sink and turning on the faucet. 

"Oh, uh-"

"We have things to do," Draco said.

"I mean, we still have twenty-something minutes until the cookies are done."

"We can do other things."

Draco could feel Potter's gaze on him. He was worried that Potter was judging him. He didn't want that. He felt so exposed.

"Alright. Well, do you want help?"

"-No." Draco said it a bit too quickly, too... feverishly. Potter was watching him.

"You know, I've realised you can't stand to let things be messy for any amount of time... not even messy, really, just not-perfect..."

Draco didn't respond, trying his best to ignore Potter. He just needed to do this. If he did, his mind would calm. Everything would be fine.

"Draco-"

"I said I don't need your help, Potter." Draco's tone was cold and sharp, and he knew it.

"Okay."

Draco was relieved that Potter seemed to understand and backed off, and he went about his cleaning in silence, pushing everything from his mind, and trying his best to ignore the fact that Potter was just standing there . The tension was palpable, and Draco couldn't shake the feeling that Potter was judging him.

Scrub, scrub, scrub, scrub, rinse, inspect, scrub, rinse, inspect.

The timer on the stove went off, and Draco hurried to the oven, pulling out the tray of gingersnaps and setting them down to cool.

"Draco."

"What?"

"You're shaking."

"What?" Draco looked down, and noticed that his hands were trembling.

"Why are you shaking?"

Draco didn't have an answer for Potter, and he couldn't bear the idea of telling him the truth. I’m feverish. I need to keep going, keep moving. Distract myself. Occupy time.

"It's cold."

"It's not cold, Draco."

"Don't call me that,” he snapped.

"I'm just calling you by your name, like I have been all this time. What is the problem?"

Draco didn't know what to say. He felt trapped, like a cornered animal.

"What is the problem?"

"I don't know, okay?! There isn't a problem, it's nothing!"

"Draco, you're trembling and pale. Please, talk to me."

"There is nothing to say!"

"But there is."

"And what makes you say that?" Draco felt like he was going mad, and what was he even thinking, earlier, almost opening up? To Potter of all people?

He wasn't thinking. That was the only plausible answer.

Potter was looking at him with eyes that burned, and Draco's heart was beating wildly out of his chest.

Potter sighed.

"Look... It's difficult to not notice the way you do certain things. And, I can't lie, it makes me a bit worried about you."

"I don't need you worrying about me, Potter."

"You clearly do."

"Oh, and you're the expert now, aren't you? Mr. Auror, who has to worry about so many more important things than how I occupy my time. Like, oh, I don't know, catching a murderer? "

"That's not fair. I have been working tirelessly, and you know that. I'm not trying to offend you."

"Then don't."

Potter huffed.

"Look, just, tell me something."

"What is it?"

Draco's thoughts were all over the place. He was confused, scared, and didn't know what to make of the situation he'd so stupidly put himself in. He felt about ready to give up. Potter opened his mouth to speak.

"It's just something simple. Easy. I'm not going to ask why you lock doors an absurd amount of times, or why you clean like a maniac, or anything like that."

Draco watched him speak.

"Simple: You like baking... how did you get into it?"

Draco put his head down.

"That's not as simple of a question as you think."

Potter deflated, and Draco could feel a little bit of the tension dissipating.

"You just don't want to tell me."

Draco could only stand there stunned, watching as Potter's demeanour shrunk.

"That's alright. I understand. I'll leave you be." Potter sighed, and Draco turned to wipe down the floured countertop with a disinfectant. Slowly, he could feel his breath returning to him with each wipe.

Potter was still standing behind him, but for some reason, Draco no longer felt so threatened by it. He knew that Potter wouldn't push anymore.

When Draco finished his cleaning, the cookies were long-cooled to touch, and he could finally inspect them.

"This one's messed up," he said with a slight frown, pointing to one of the Gingersnaps, which had too-prominent of a crack down the middle. Draco knew that if he picked it up, it would break. He could sense Potter looking at it over his shoulder.

"Oh, so then that means we get to eat it," he said simply. Draco didn't have time to react and Potter carefully picked up the deformed gingersnap and offered one half to Draco, eating the other half.

"This is delicious. You have a real talent, you know.”

"Thank you,” he replied dryly. He still felt frazzled, out of place. He could still feel slight tremors through his body.

Draco tried to shake these feelings by taking his offered half of the dessert, and Potter was right, it was delicious. Draco knew that the church would appreciate his contribution.

Potter looked slightly more at peace, now. He would switch between looking at the gingersnaps and glancing towards Draco.

"Thank you. For letting me help make them. I had a lot of fun doing that. I don't typically have any fun in the kitchen."

Potter's voice was sincere. His smile was soft and warm. Draco couldn't help but reciprocate the smile.

—-------

Later that night, as Draco lay in bed, he couldn't help his racing thoughts on how everything had changed.

Knowing that other people were picking up on his behaviours irked him. It was bad enough that he did them.

but he had to, right? How else could he push down...

Draco closed his eyes tightly and pressed the heels of his palms to his eyelids. He couldn't go down this road. Not tonight. He was too tired to let himself lose sleep again.

He took a deep breath.

Draco thought of baking, and of Potter. Something had changed. Earlier, Draco almost told Potter about his compulsions. And later, after an argument, they shared a snack and Potter left him be.

Potter didn't continue to push. Draco felt a sense of safety from that.

His mind drifted back to that conversation with Potter, and how open he'd been willing to be.

How did Potter do that? How did he actually make Draco think, for even half a second, that he could open up to...

Draco didn't know if he could.

At least Potter stopped pushing him. He appreciated that.

And Harry Potter himself was a whole other situation.

Draco remembered how he had looked at him while he made dessert. How he watched him bake, and had a gentle smile on his face the whole time. How, for a split second, he smiled at Draco.

That smile...

Draco turned around in bed, trying hard to sweep away his thoughts.

Thoughts about preparing the gingersnaps, helping him knead the dough correctly How warm he was...

Draco squeezed his eyes shut and pushed his palms against his eyelids even harder.

Why did Potter's arms have to be so nice-looking?

What?

His thoughts drifted again, and Draco could feel a warmth deep within him, a sensation that he hadn't felt in a long time. He could feel himself beginning to get... excited.

Why does Harry Potter of all people have to have arms that nice?

Draco opened his eyes and looked around. It was dark and quiet. No one was there.

Potter wasn't there. He couldn't read his mind. He couldn't see Draco now. Draco looked down.

Merlin.

No. He couldn't let himself... no.

Draco got up, walking briskly to the bathroom and turning on the tap.

He splashed his face, breathing hard. He could feel the shame rushing through him. This wasn't right. He shouldn't have these thoughts, let alone have them about Harry bloody Potter.

Draco turned the faucet off and walked back to his room, sitting down on his bed and staring off.

It had been a long time since he'd felt anything sexual.

That's what this is, he told himself. It's just been so long that now the slightest thing...

Yes, precisely. Besides, this is Potter we're talking about. Just because he was kind and gentle and...

Draco took another deep breath.

I don't... want to think about Potter...

He closed his eyes tight, but the images were still there.

Him baking, smiling, offering Draco the deformed cookie. Draco smiled softly, thinking back to that moment.

It wasn't that big of a deal.

His heart was fluttering.

He began feeling that warmth again.

Oh no.

Just stop. Stop. Think of something else. Think about-

Draco was desperate now, searching his mind for something else, anything else. He grabbed his pillow and buried his face in it.

Chapter Text

The next morning, Draco did his best to keep his composure around Potter, but his thoughts the night prior were still swimming around his head, almost maliciously.

He found himself nervous to leave the house again, pressing the wrinkles on his shirt too many times in order to stall, brushing and re-brushing his hair, and taking a longer shower than usual.

Potter looked like he wanted to say something when Draco insisted he close the front door himself and then began his locking ritual. Draco tried his best to pretend he didn’t notice it. 

They got to church on time today, and Draco was happy to have his usual seat open to him, unlike last time, when he arrived late. He tensed only briefly and slightly when Potter slid into the seat beside him, inadvertently ending up in the same spot Astoria used to sit in. Draco distracted himself by taking the bible from the book rack attached to the pew bench in front of him and opening it to a random page. 

The church was abuzz with talk, and Draco was trying his best to pay attention to what the book said, but he could feel Potter's gaze on him. He didn't look up from the bible.

Maybe I should find out today's readings and turn to them in advance -

His thoughts were cut off by the sound of the church's music beginning to echo throughout the room. Draco sighed, feeling the tension pulled from his shoulders with each chord of the organ.

"In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit"

"Amen."

Draco noticed that Potter was participating this time. The faint sound of him speaking with Draco and the rest of the congregation brought him comfort. 

"Let us pray"

The room settled, and Draco joined the others in standing. He could see who he now knew to be Hannah Abbot thanks to his previous time here, who was now a soft brunette.

He wondered if Potter would strike up a conversation with her this time as he had last time.

“Heavenly Father, as we gather here on this blessed Sunday morning, As we reflect on your promise of hope and prosperity found in Jeremiah 29:11, open our hearts and minds to your guidance and grace. May this Mass strengthen our faith in your loving plans for each one of us. We ask this through Christ our Lord."

 “Amen.”

Draco could already feel himself breathing a bit lighter, seeing a bit clearer. He wondered if finding Jesus was what he’d needed all along, for all these years, a simple oath of good faith and some forgiveness. That was all. Just be good , that’s all. He closed his eyes. 

Sunday Mass was exactly what he’d needed, Draco decided as people filed out of the nave at the end of the sermon. His head was lighter now, settling with the idea that God and Jesus are there for him, watching him, making a good future for him, as long as he is good. 

All he has to do is be good.

The feel of a hand on his shoulder pulled him out of his thoughts. He was startled, but quickly relaxed upon realising that it was only Potter.

"You're really into it, huh?"

Draco's cheeks flushed slightly, and he shrugged.

"I guess I am," he responded.

"I can tell."

"What, have you become a legilimens now, Potter?"

Potter chuckled, and Draco could feel his heart skip a beat. He looked at him, and their eyes met.

"I just meant that I can see you're doing better when you're here."

"Oh." He supposed Potter was right. He just hoped it wasn't that noticeable.

After a beat of odd silence, Draco spoke again. "Let's go to the dessert table, I want to watch people try the gingersnaps."

"Sounds good."

Draco walked alongside Potter to the refreshments, where the rest of the parish were congregating. Draco was relieved to see a large portion of the gingersnaps were already gone.

Draco's mind drifted back to making them with Potter, the warmth of their proximity, sharing the deformed cookie...

"Neville!"

Draco was snapped from his thoughts at Potter's exclamation. One look in his direction and, sure enough, there was Neville Longbottom walking in tow of Hannah Abbott. Longbottom smiled when he saw Harry, walking towards him.

"Harry! How are you, mate?"

"I'm alright, and you?"

"I'm well, I'm well."

Harry nodded and turned to Hannah. "It's nice to see you, Hannah."

"You as well, Harry."

"Say, have either of you tried the gingersnaps? Draco made them."

Draco's eyes widened at that. He was half hoping that he'd just get to stay in the background and watch everything from a distance. Clearly, though, Harry had other plans.

"Oh, yes. They're excellent," said Hannah.

"Malfoy?” Longbottom asked. Harry brought the two of them closer to the table by the spot Draco was standing at. "Blimey, Hello Malfoy. I didn't know you came here."

"Hello. I didn't know you also frequented." Draco shook Longbottom's hand stiffly, shocked by his calm demeanour. He hadn't very well seen another Wizard in a long time, well, except for Harry, of course, and the one time that he identified Hannah Abbott as a churchgoer.

"Well, I don't really. This is more of Hannah's thing- I only come with her on occasion. "

Draco nodded.

"Oh, you haven't tried the gingersnaps yet, have you?"

"I'm afraid I haven't, no."

"Try one, then,” Harry insisted. They're very good. Draco makes pastries every time he comes to Mass." Draco could feel an intense blush creeping up his neck. 

Longbottom looked surprised at this information, then nodded, picking up a gingersnap and giving it a tentative bite. He chewed it, looking impressed.

"I'd be lying if I said these gingersnaps weren't fantastic. Say, Hannah, you hadn't told me that Malfoy frequents." Longbottom turned to his girlfriend, who was terribly stiff though the entire conversation.

"I don't pay much mind to him," she said, tone clipped. Draco understood what she was getting at. She doesn't like him, and rightfully so. He'd been an awful person for years. He didn't blame her. An awkward air fell over the four of them.

"Well, regardless," began Longbottom, shaking off the odd atmosphere, "I'd love to chat with you a bit, Harry. If that's alright with you all, of course."

"I don't see why not," said Harry. "It's been ages since we've had a good chat, hasn't it?"

Hannah's apprehension to Neville leaving with Potter wasn't lost on Draco, but, nonetheless, he gave Potter a stiff nod, watching as he and Longbottom went off to a corner on the other side of the room. He was left with Hannah Abbott.

"You have been attending for several months now, have you not?" she said stiffly.

"I have," replied Draco, feeling put off by the meager attempt at conversation.

"I noticed you stopped for a length of time. It didn't have something to do with the uh, vigilante?"

"I did," he said. "It did." Draco kept his expression still, not wanting to communicate more than necessary.

"Sad, isn't it? That you should wake up from such an experience."

Draco understood what she meant, however, it left a pit in his stomach all the same.

"Indeed."

"I would have wanted to die. Or stay hidden."

Draco slowly responded. "The Church is important to me.”

"I can empathize with that, of course. Say, what is it about Our Lord, exactly? Why do you come here? After all, I've been coming all my life and didn't see you until your adulthood."

"I..."

Draco was cut off by a loud sigh from Neville Longbottom. "Alright love, what do you say we go home and make some cheese toasties and tomato soup? Sound good?" Longbottom and Potter were back from their talk, and Draco was relieved that he wouldn't have to answer such a personal question to someone who clearly did not think favourably of him.

Hannah Abbott agreed to the plan Longbottom had concocted for the two of them, and she nodded curtly to Potter. "It was good to see you, Harry." She then turned to Draco. "Goodbye."

The two of them watched the couple walk out the church doors, then looked at each other.

"You ready?" asked Potter.

"Yeah."

Draco felt a bit uneasy. This was the first lengthy interaction he'd had outside of Harry Potter since the attack, and it wasn't with a person who necessarily seemed to like him. But, the worst of it was over, and Draco could leave and continue the week as normal.

"I would have stayed hidden."

Draco tried not to think much about his conversation, but it was proving rather difficult. She had had a point, really, with everything she said. Part of Draco wondered if, perhaps, having gone out wasn't the best idea, even if to church. Afterall, the killer could be watching, waiting to exact his revenge.

Draco shivered. He didn't like the thought. He looked to distract himself with a new topic.

"So, what did you and Longbottom speak of?"

"Oh, not much, he mentioned how he's enjoying teaching, talked about how he's doing. He and Hannah have been having a small bit of a rough patch. Apparently, she's still mourning her mother."

"Oh."

Well, that attempt didn't work out so well.

"Do you think they'll be alright?"

"Of course," Harry responded with an assured nod. "They always pull through. They've been together since the war, I think. Nothing like that to bring two people together."

Draco supposed Harry was right about that. They're among the kindest people from his year at Hogwarts. If they don't pull though, then nobody has a chance. Draco certainly doesn't have a chance with anybody.

He shook his head.

No. Stop thinking like that.

"Are you okay?"

"Hm?"

"You were shaking your head. You alright?"

"Yes, I'm fine."

They remained silent until arriving to the apparition point and apparating back to the street Draco’s flat was on. They began their walk to the flat. 

“The gingersnaps really were delicious. I wish I’d gotten a chance to have another one. Last night’s half of one simply wasn’t enough.” Draco heard the smallest of laughs escape Harry, and that combined with the memories of last night made his stomach flutter. 

No, stop.

"I'm glad you liked them," he responded, and genuinely, he was. There was something about hearing that Potter liked his desserts- he wasn't quite sure what- but it made him want to make more.

"You know, I could help again. I'd like to." Potter smiled, and Draco's stomach did another flip. He tried his best to ignore the sensation.

"Okay."

They walked into the flat, and Harry locked the door behind him. Draco felt his heart pick up. It's fine for me to let him lock the door... Right?

"Say, would you mind if I helped next time you bake as well?"

The question made Draco glance away from the door, taken aback by the request. "Why do you want to do that so bad?"

"It's a nice thing. Something to occupy time. Something to do."

Draco's mouth ran dry. He didn't know how to respond.

"Besides, you're not too bad to be around."

Draco could feel his heart pounding. He had to take a few deep breaths.

"I guess, yeah."

"Yeah? You'll let me help you again?"

Draco nodded, unable to speak.

"Excellent."

There was something about the way Potter was smiling that Draco found hard to resist. His mind was entirely occupied by Potter's smile, now.

"I think I'll go change."

"Alright. I'll make some tea."

It wasn't until Draco was alone in his bedroom that his mind went back to the front door. He hadn't locked it.

The feeling hit him like a bus, and Draco's chest tightened. He began to feel uncomfortably warm. He knew he should have locked it. He had no idea what could happen. The murderer could find him, and Draco wouldn't know a thing.

No, stop. You're being ridiculous.

Draco took a few deep breaths. It's fine. It's locked. Potter's there. Everything is fine.

Draco was breathing hard, his chest was tight, but he had to try and relax.

He could not relax.

Draco began pacing around the room, his heart hammering, and his breaths becoming shorter and shorter.

Stop. Stop this. I'm being ridiculous. Potter is there. I watched him lock the door. I watched-

Beads of sweat began to form under his arms, on his forehead; his hands were slick with it.

What if the murderer is already here? What if Potter is dead? What if I'm next?

Draco's heart was in his throat, and his vision was getting blurry. He felt as though he were drowning.

I might not be too late- I need to lock the door.

Lock the door. Lock the door.

With a start, Draco was tearing over to the front door, slamming straight into it- he'd been going to fast to properly stop in front of it. Frantically, his hand found the deadbolt, as he began to twist up and to the right. His heart was in his throat, the beat of it deafening in his ears.

-four, five, six, seven, eight...

Draco twisted and twisted and twisted, going through his ritual with more haste than he ever had. The drowning sensation was suffocating.

-seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty.

With each repetition, Draco could feel himself breathing just a bit easier. He stepped back, taking out his wand and pointing it at the door. He took a shaking breath.

"Colloportus..." 

He took another deep breath as his magic settled over the door. His hands were trembling wildly.

"Colloportus..."

After his third locking charm, he went back to the door, now feeling less frantic. Even as his breaths were still laboured, he felt himself getting through it. The pulse in his ears was subsiding, he was starting to become more aware of his surroundings. He yanked on the door hard, Attempting with all his strength to open the door without unlocking it. He did this eight times. 

As he finally stepped back for good, the noise in his ears had completely dissipated. He suddenly felt a presence behind him. He looked behind him, slightly to the left, only to come face-to-face with a very concerned Harry Potter.

"Draco... Are you okay?"

Draco was frozen in his spot. There was something in his chest that was beginning to burn. He couldn't find any words, his breathing still too erratic.

Potter's eyes were boring into him, and he couldn't look away. Draco felt so exposed.

"Please, say something..."

He was pleading.

"I'm..." Draco's words caught in his throat. "It's-it's fine. I'm fine."

And before Potter could respond, Draco turned around and went into his room, being sure to close and lock- and lock again, and again- the bedroom door behind him.

Chapter Text

“Stop, or we will open fire!”

His chest and feet ached from the exertion. His stomach ached, yet all he could think about as he tumbled through the woods was freedom. 

Freedom, I’m so close to it.

The Aurors were gaining on him, however. But that was no matter, all he needed to do was make it to the apparition point, then he would be free. 

He already knew a place where he’d be taken care of. He just needed to get there. 

A jet of red light flew past his face, singing some stray hairs. They were getting a little too close for comfort.

He put his head down and sprinted with every ounce of his being, running like his life depended on it.

He stumbled into a clearing, feeling a shiver run down his spine as he passed through the barrier of magic marking the area. The feeling of the magic soaking through him was invigorating.

Within seconds, his gut twisted, and the snap of apparation echoed through the area. 

—-------

When Draco walked into Church clutching Fresh, Vibrant Cranberry Scones , the atmosphere was slightly more abuzz than he was used to. Even Potter, who’d only been to a handful of Masses, noticed.

People were whispering to each other, eyes wide as they glanced around. It wasn’t until during the service that he found out why. 

“Dear Members of Our Church Family, We have an important and heartfelt announcement to share with you today. As a community guided by compassion and our faith's values, we have chosen to provide sanctuary to Agustus, a war veteran, who is facing persecution.

Augustus' journey has led him to our doors, seeking refuge within our church. They have come to us in a time of great need, and as followers of Christ's teachings, we have extended our hand in support and protection.

Augustus’ situation is a complex one, and we believe that offering sanctuary is in alignment with our commitment to compassion, justice, and solidarity. We invite you to join us in this act of compassion and advocacy. There are several ways you can help:

 Please keep Augustus in your prayers during these challenging times. We welcome those who wish to volunteer their time and expertise to assist Augustus during their stay with us, and we encourage our congregation to raise awareness about Augustus' situation within our wider community.

As some of you may already know, more details are already available in our church bulletin. We will also be holding a community meeting in the coming days to provide an opportunity for open discussion and to answer any questions you may have.

Let us come together, as a loving and caring community, to offer Augustus the support, compassion, and hope that they need during this trying period. Thank you for your understanding and your commitment to our shared values. Thank you.” 

Murmurs arose among the pews, but Draco’s attention peaked when he felt Harry tense up beside him. He turned to see his eyes wide. 

“What is it?” Draco asked, brows furrowed. 

“Augustus Rookwood escaped from Azkaban a few days ago, but the Aurors chasing him down lost him.” 

Draco’s heart clenched. 

“Well… there’s no guarantee that this is the same one… right?” 

“I don’t know.”

Draco swallowed.

After Mass, Neville showed up again, and he pulled Harry aside for yet another conversation, leaving Draco with Hannah Abbott again.

"I'm furious," she huffed. Draco could see that she was all nervous energy, bouncing off the tips of her toes, glancing around constantly. "It's Rookwood they've got back there, I know because he stumbled in on Friday. I thought they'd turn him away..."

Draco wasn't sure how to handle this. She was equal parts vehement and on the verge of tears. He thought of some way he could respond.

"Are... are you alright?"

"No," she snapped, looking him up and down. "Oh, please... you're one to speak. He's a death eater just like you... Don't play dumb with me."

"I wasn't playing anything. I-"

"Oh, shut it. The only difference between you and him is that he served time."

"What does that mean-"

"You're still a death eater. You should've rotted in Azkaban with him, too...only lord know why you're here instead. Both of you."

Before Draco could reply, Harry and Neville rejoined them.

Hannah's gaze snapped towards Potter, her lips curling.

"Harry, I hope you're very acutely aware of what's going on. I hope that you'll inform the auror offices immediately. I know I will..."

Harry nodded, not meeting her gaze.

"Of course. Thank you, Hannah."

She huffed, and spun on her heel, stomping away.

Neville let out a sigh, shaking his head.

"Well, that could've gone better. She's not wrong, though."

"Neville, don't be like that," Harry chastised.

"Why? You heard what she said, and you know it's true... Rookwood isn't earning of any sort of sanctuary."

Neville walked away with a sigh, jogging to catch up with Abbott. Potter suggested that he and Draco go back to the flat. 

The entire walk home, Draco's mind kept running itself in circles. He was stunned to hear Hannah's opinion of him.

Not that it isn't warranted… And Draco knew that there were bound to be people who still see him for the mark on his arm.

But hearing it out loud, in public, it struck Draco more than he expected.

When Draco was faced with the front door of his flat, a chill went up his spine as unease rose to the surface. He felt himself needing to look around for people in the area.

Was someone watching them? Was someone following them?

The killer? Waiting?

Draco suddenly felt unsafe. The hairs on the back of his neck rose up in apprehension.

They could be shortly behind me, waiting to strike, ready to attack-

"Hey, are you okay?"

Draco's vision went back into focus. He didn't realize that it had gone out of focus in the first place. Potter was standing at the doorway, the door open wide.

"I'm fine."

"You don't look fine," Potter replied. Draco simply walked past him into the flat. It took all of his composure to not take the door from Potter’s  hand and close it himself. As soon as it was closed, he gently pushed Potter out of the way to begin locking it. 

One, two, three...

"I don't understand your preoccupation with locking the door."

Draco paused, letting out a breath, then continued his ritual.

"I need to make sure the door is locked."

Four, five, six, seven...

"Because you're afraid you'll be broken into? That's why I'm here. To make sure nothing happens. I put wards over your flat to make sure you're safe. You don't need to lock the door, what? Twenty times?"

Draco huffed, pausing again. Potter, stop talking. Ignore me, please. Stop.

Fuck, where was I? How many times have I locked the door?

Fuck.  Draco could feel the anxiety slowly beginning to rise again. I need to start over. I can’t risk- I can’t- I need to make sure the door stays locked. 

"Draco, seriously, why do you keep locking the door?"

"Just leave me alone!" Draco shouted, spinning around and facing the wall, resting his forehead against it, breathing hard. He couldn't help the tears that threatened to fall from his eyes.

Why couldn't he remember how many times he had locked the door? How did he manage to forget?

"Please, just leave me alone. I need to- I need to make sure."

He felt a gentle hand on his back.

"I can't just leave you alone when you're so obviously distressed."

Draco's mind was racing with possibilities. 

The door's unlocked. He'll break in and kill me. I have to make sure- I have to start over.

"Just… let me finish locking the door, okay?"

"Alright," Harry responded gently.

"Thank you."

Draco wiped at the tears which had yet to fall and sniffled violently. He took a breath, then began again, starting at one.

By the time he finished, his hands were shaking. Images of a cloaked figure over him kept flashing through his mind, the memory of being swiped from the market, of sharp, cold metal skin raised with goosebumps, the feeling of gaping, unnatural openness, it was all flooding his brain. He did not feel safe, or calm. He could not leave from his position in front of the flat's door. His locking ritual had only barely helped. And every time he had a moment to stop thinking about the attack and start thinking about the door, self-doubt would creep in. 

What if you actually finished off with the door unlocked?

What if you didn't perform the spell correctly?

What if you didn't test the door with enough force?

You are in danger. You will die. You will be attacked again.  

"Are you done now?"

Draco's breath caught. He could not move. He could not respond.

"You don't deserve freedom," he hissed, just then, pain shot from Draco's hand up through his arm and to the rest of his body.

"Tell me everything you know about the remaining Death Eaters, or I'll continue to cut your fingers off, one by one."

"-Draco?" 

Draco startled. He'd forgotten about Potter. He looked down at his hand. He could see the tremors in his fingers that never quite went away. 

"Are you alright?"

"Fine," Draco managed to choke out.

"Did you finish locking the door?"

The door. Draco turned to look at the white wooden thing, unmoving. You can't be sure that he won't break in.

"I am God's Wrath."

Weakly, he shook his head, muttering a "no." He couldn't understand what was happening to him. All he knew was that he needed to ensure his safety. He needed to. 

He began locking the door again, no longer keeping count. He decided that he must do this until it felt right. Until the thoughts are completely and properly locked away. Until he could breathe properly again. Until he felt safe .

When he finished, he felt a sense of security wash over him. However, it was warped and twisted in a way that Draco did not enjoy. He was stuck perplexed by the idea that he no longer had a set way of establishing safety other than that sensation that came over him. The only active thoughts that were running through his head were I'm safe. I'm safe now. It's okay. Everything is going to be okay. Nobody can enter this flat.

And Draco hated that. Even as much as he let it comfort him, it felt artificial, and forced.

He felt trapped, like he couldn't even control the thoughts that were going through his head. Like his mind had been hijacked.

"Are you okay, now?" Harry's voice cut through the static. Draco was unable to look at him. He kept his eyes glued to the floor.

"Yes."

"Can you please tell me what's going on? Why do you need to keep the door locked so many times?"

Draco was still.

"I... I'm not sure."

"You don't have to lie to me. I... I get it if you don't really want to share, but at this point, It's... I'm concerned. For you."

Draco didn't move. He didn't say anything. What was he supposed to say?

"You know you can tell me if you need anything, right? I'll try my best to get it for you."

Draco did not know. And the more he thought about it, the more that reality set itself down on his shoulders, the worse he felt. Part of him wanted to ignore it. Part of him screamed to get up and clean something, bake, do anything to distract himself. Draco began to fidget, becoming bothered by the heaviness in his chest. He couldn't handle it.

He wasn't safe. He didn't feel safe. He didn't feel calm. He felt scared and small and exposed.

"I know," Draco forced out, feeling like a stone had lodged itself into his throat.

"Draco," Harry pleaded. "Just tell me. Please. You can trust me."

"I don't want to talk about it."

"Do you want me to talk about it?"

"No," he said all too quickly.

"Alright. I just- I worry. About you."

Draco didn't need this. He didn't need his problems to keep being pushed into the spotlight. "Don't."

"That's impossible."

Draco stood up and turned around, channelling everything he could into simulating some sort of fiery anger. It was easier to keep himself together that way.

"It's not impossible, Potter, because this isn't your job. Your job is to find the person who put us in this situation to begin with."

Harry was silent, his brows furrowed, his eyes searching. Draco's face began to heat up, a feeling of embarrassment spreading through his chest.

"Potter, stop looking at me like that," he snapped.

"Like what?"

"Like- I don't know. Just- stop soul searching or whatever bloody crap you think you're doing."

"You're clearly not fine, and we need to talk about it."

"There's nothing to talk about!"

"I can't help if you won't talk to me."

"I don't need your help!" Draco's voice continued to raise in volume as he forced the anger to build.

"You obviously do! Just talk to me."

"Fuck off!"

"Draco, please!"

"Stop fucking- stop fucking asking about it, Potter!" Draco breathed hard, feeling exasperated.

"You're the one who was standing there lost in your own world, locking and unlocking the door for more than a half-hour!"

"So, what?!"

"I just want to help you!"

"Then find my attacker and bloody kill him already, instead of playing mind healer with me!"

"I-" Potter nearly shouted. He huffed, scrubbing at his face with his hands. "I'm bloody trying! God, I'm trying! I'm sorry I haven't found him. I'm sorry that all of this shite has happened to you!" The air within the flat stood still. Draco could feel the heaviness in his chest returning, this time stronger. Potter spoke again. "But you are very clearly hurt. And damn me for caring. Lord knows I don't need the extra stress of being worried about you. But I do it anyway."

Draco's nostrils flared. He tried to come up with something, anything to snap back with, to keep his defences up. But they all died on his tongue.

"Fuck, Malfoy," Harry's voice softened. "You..."

Draco swallowed, looking down, trying to hide his face.

"I don't know what's going on in your head," Harry said gently, "but you need to tell me, or at least someone, what's going on. Don't let it eat you alive."

Draco couldn't breathe.

"What you're doing, the way you're living, isn't normal. It's compulsive and fear-driven and it scares me."

Draco clenched his jaw, the burning sensation behind his eyes threatening to spill over. He blinked hard.

"I don't know what's wrong with me," he choked out.

"That's fine. We'll figure it out. Together. Alright?"

"You can't fix me, Potter," he mumbled.

"I know."

"I don't even think it's fixable."

"That doesn't mean I'm not going to try."

Draco tried hard to breathe through his urge to break down. He could feel Potter looking at him.

"I'm scared."

"I know."

Draco let his shoulders relax. He pinched his eyes shut. Harry was quick to come to his side and pull him into a hug.

Draco had never been a particularly physical person. He'd never enjoyed the prospect of intimacy. Even now, his stomach squirmed and his hands tingled uncomfortably. He kept concentrating hard on his breaths. This- it was already too much. He didn't know why he was letting Potter hug him in the first place, but he felt too ragged to try and push him away.

And part of him didn't want the hug to end. He wanted the warmth. He wanted the comfort. He wanted the reassurance that he was not alone.

"You can cry, you know."

With that, Draco's carefully controlled breaths burst, and he found himself sobbing and trembling, holding onto Potter's embrace like a lifeline. He'd never been this close with someone. Never. And the realization made him cry even harder.

He'd never been shown genuine care or love. Not even in his family. Sure, he'd been cared for, loved, even…

He felt like he was falling in love with Astoria, but it had been too soon to tell. But this... This wasn't the same. And it was terrifying.

He could feel Potter passing his hand up and down Draco's back. He could feel warmth and softness and security all at once. His tears had wholly soaked through Potter's shirt, yet neither of them moved.

When Draco calmed, he was able to think, and suddenly, the intimacy he was sharing with Potter became all the more overwhelming.

"Okay," he said, sniffling. "You can let go of me now."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, Potter, I'm sure."

Harry slowly pulled away, and Draco could see the hefty tear stain across the shoulder of his shirt. Draco sniffled.

"Sorry, I got your shirt all wet."

Harry shrugged. "It's fine. It'll dry."

Draco nodded, not really sure what to say. He could still feel Potter's warmth all over. Part of him wanted to feel that again.

"How are you feeling?" Potter looked so sincere, so caring. Draco wondered briefly what possessed him to seem so.

"I'm okay."

Harry nodded.

"Would you like to talk about it?"

"Not right now."

"That's fine. But when you're ready, I'm here." And the sheer sincerity of it all made draco fully believe that. Potter would be there for him. And that might not be so bad.

"Thank you, Potter."

"Oh, and, can you do me a favor? Call me Harry."

"Oh..." Draco was caught off guard by the request. "Harry," he tested.

"Yeah?"

Draco nodded, his heart beating wildly in his chest. He'd never called Potter by his first name. He'd always kept it separate. But, he supposed Harry Potter had earned a first-name basis by now, right? He decided he would try, for him.

Draco smiled, despite the circumstances.

"Thank you, Harry."

Chapter Text

“The arguments are getting bad, mate,” Neville sighed, passing his fingers through his hair. “But anyway, Hannah suggested we see a mind healer about it- well, one that isn’t her, obviously. And he said that I should make an effort to come to church with her, since it’s so important to her, you know? Ah, I guess I’m just rambling, anyway. I’ll let you go now. See you next Sunday, yeah?” 

Harry could not sleep. He hadn’t been able to for several nights, now.

"Harry, I hope you're very acutely aware of what's going on. I hope that you'll inform the auror offices immediately.” 

If it wasn’t one thing keeping him up, then it was always something else. 

“Call me Harry."

"Oh… Harry." 

He found that, at this point, it was barely worth trying to sleep. There were simply too many things filling up his brain. He was frustrated, and he felt himself slowing down during the days, surely an effect of sleep deprivation. 

He wanted to figure out whether Rookwood was someone to be concerned about, hiding out at the very church that Draco goes to. He wanted to know exactly what was going through Draco’s mind. He wanted to understand why he cared about him so much. 

And, at the same time as all of that, there was a slowly mounting dread for the next time the killer may strike. 

He hadn’t gotten anyone since Lucius Malfoy, and that was upwards of a month ago. In the meantime, Harry has been occupying himself with getting to know Draco, wanting to get closer, feeling…

He wished that he’d caught the bastard to hurt him already. He wished it wasn’t so difficult. Harry reckoned it might be less difficult if he could leave the flat whenever he wanted, but he was the one assigned to keep Draco safe. And, honestly, he’s increasingly found that he rather wants to be the one to keep Draco safe. 

He was growing closer and closer to Draco, and Harry was starting to have a difficult time telling himself that he wasn't developing some sort of feeling...

No.

Harry didn't want to admit that. He knew that there was a certain level of emotional attachment, but that was inevitable, right? It wasn't as if he was actually falling for the man. He couldn't.

Besides, this was a mission. And Draco is extremely vulnerable, and, in all honesty, his mental state is scaring Harry. It was a dangerous place to be in. And Draco could not afford any more harm to come to him. Draco has become a victim of circumstance, and Harry is just a coping mechanism.

Draco was just using Harry as a coping mechanism, and he was okay with that. He was.

It was fine. 

Harry watched as the emerging sunlight filtered through the window of Draco’s flat. He sighed. That was another night gone with less than 6 hours of sleep. And he knew that at this point, there was no hope in him sleeping more today. Harry stood with a large stretch, yawning. He grabbed his wand off the coffee table and used it to turn his sleeping area back into Draco’s neat couch. Then, he levitated the coffee table back to its original position and padded over to the kitchen. 

Harry looked around for something to eat or prepare, and noticed how little there was. It made sense, considering that groceries hadn’t been done in a long while. He frowned. There must be something to eat for breakfast. 

Harry opened the overhead cupboard for some tea, grabbing the tin of black tea when he heard a tapping at the window. 

Harry walked over to the window, where he saw Ron’s owl tapping on the glass, asking to be let in. He slid the window open and took the letter. He read:

Harry,

I’m being put on Rookwood’s case, and I have a few questions about Malfoy. Meet me at the ministry.

-Ron

Harry was stunned, rereading the letter.

"What's that?”

Harry spun around, seeing Draco walking into the room, looking sleepy.

"What's going on?" Draco asked again.

"Er- something is going on with the Aurors."

"The Aurors?"

"The- er... well. I'm not sure, yet. I have to go."

Draco narrowed his eyes at Harry. "My assailant?"

"I don't know," Harry confessed. That's why I need to go. Oh, also, we need food. I can stop and get some things at the market, if you're alright with that?"

Draco stayed silent but nodded. When Harry stopped to pay attention, he could see the concern growing in Draco's eyes, despite his best attempts to conceal it. Harry's heart lurched. Harry nodded in return, and, acting before he could talk himself out of it, went up to Draco and hugged him. Draco was notably taken aback by the sudden display of affection, too struck by it to react.

"You're safe," Harry said. "You're safe here. Just, stay inside. I'll reapply the wards when I leave. If anything happens, I'll know immediately. I'll be back soon."

Harry let go of the hug, heart pounding wildly in his chest, and was out the door before Draco could respond. 

Harry couldn’t lie to himself about the fact that he was a bit nervous to see Ron. The last time that they had spoken really, other than the magical appearance of each other’s notes on shared files, was dinner. When Harry accused George of…

Harry supposed he was fully in the wrong that night, regardless of whether he is correct about his asssessment. And he felt bad, but he couldn’t help that nagging feeling that something was off about how vehemently he supports the deaths, how the corner of his lips lifted while speaking about Draco’s injuries-

Harry shoved the image from his mind, the memory making his stomach clench. 

Soon he was in front of Ron’s office, knocking on the door. Ron responded to come in, and so Harry let himself in. 

“Hey,” Harry greeted. Ron reciprocated it. “How are you?”

“I’ve got a boatload of work to do, that’s what. Take a look at what happened.” 

Harry sat down on the chair that was opposite Ron’s desk, relieved that Ron didn’t seem to be too miffed about the last dinner. Ron settled into his seat, folding his hands in front of him. 

“You know Rookwood escaped from Azkaban?” 

Harry nodded, the pastor’s announcement and Hannah’s complaints coming to the forefront of his mind.

“Well, he’s hiding out now at the church in Gordric’s Hollow, the one by the cemetery? The problem is, it’s a mostly Muggle-run church, and We have a centuries-old sanctuary agreement in place with them that’s been enforced with magic. We physically cannot arrest him in there, and he’s told the church that he’s escaping…” Ron pulled out a file with a sticky note attached to it. He read the words on the note. “Unjust Wizardring-Muggle persecution.” 

Harry furrowed his brows. “I haven’t a clue what that means. It sounds made up,” he confessed. 

“I asked ‘Mione. It’s the term used to enact the sanctuary agreement, which basically states that if a Wizard or Muggles are being persecuted on the basis of discrimination, law enforcement can’t arrest them under the sanctuary.” 

 Harry was silent for a moment, thinking.

"So what's going to happen now?"

"They'll have to figure out what to do with him," Ron explained. "Since they think he's not breaking any laws. But, he's a convicted Death Eater who's evaded capture, and he's in a half-wizarding half-muggle church under the enactment of a centuries-old bond."

"Doesn't there have to be some kind of proof that you need to provide? I mean, they can't just take someone's word for it, right?"

"There's no real requirement, as far as Hermione could find. It's an old law, and it was a big issue back then because they needed a way to keep wizarding kind safe from Muggles, but not at the expense of their human rights... You do need to show proof that you are in need of help, but I guess he managed to show just the right amount of information to fool them, and the magic did its own work."

"So, what? He can just waltz out of the church and be completely free?"

"No. The second he leaves that church, he's ours. That's why he's hiding there."

Harry sat, processing this information.

"Well, I can't leave the house. What's that got to do with me? And how does Malfoy come into this?"

"He goes to the church. I know you know this. When we ran intelligence, your name popped up too. But I figure it's just because of your job watching Malfoy. Anyway, we need to talk to you two. Some other people that came up were Neville, Hannah Abbott, Kevin Entwhistle, and Sophia Runcorn."

"I've not noticed other Wizards at the church."

"Probably because you don't know them. Don't worry about it."

"Okay."

"Now, there's a meeting at the ministry tonight, so be ready for that. I imagine you should be getting the memo on it soon. We need a recorded interview with Malfoy."

"Alright. Why?"

"Because we need to find out what his story is. All of you, really. We need to know if you feel safe in the church, we need to know if you've noticed any... off behaviour..."

"Well, you can record me now. I don't know almost anything about the situation. And I don't think anyone else does, either."

"We're hoping that if enough people say they feel unsafe, we'll be able to override the magic."

"And why can't evidence do that?"

"Because the sanctuary agreement was written to be resistant to outside influence. It's a pretty old form of magic. By the way, can you do Malfoy's for us and just send it over?"

Harry nodded. Ron pulled out his wand and cast a surveillance charm. A golden orb came out and positioned itself between the two of them.

"Alright, go ahead and begin your interview," Ron prompted.

--------

“Those who have a 'why' to live can bear with almost any 'how'”

Draco furrowed his brows, removing the cap of his Muggle highlighter and dragging the yellow felt tip across the phrase.

The book had been on Draco's bookshelf for several months, now. Draco had purchased it when he was first moved to the Muggle world on the standard of his probation, but it wasn't until recently that he'd opened it up and began reading.

The book was a non-fiction about a man's life during the Nazi occupation in France, and Draco was finding himself becoming quite invested in the stories. Draco found himself quite enjoying the content, and It wasn't long before he realized some of the quotes were worth marking. And when he arrived at this one, he read and reread the phrase several times. The words felt heavy and real and full. Draco wasn't sure how to handle the emotion in them, the truth and reality and depth.

Then, it happened- a small, menial voice in his head.

Did you ever lock the door?

Draco shook his head, wondering where the thought had come from. It had been just less than an hour since Potter- Harry, had left, and Draco could have sworn that he locked…

…Did he?

And just like that, Draco had gone from reading a book, something he hadn't been able to relax enough to do in months, to questioning himself incessantly.

Draco slammed the book shut and got up, leaving the book behind, and began pacing, trying to ignore the dread and the fear and the paranoia that was rising, rising.

He felt the scars across his body tingle with their memory of being open skin. Felt the pain as echoes of what occurred. 

“I am God’s Wrath.” 

Draco blinked, taking the few paces required to reach the front door. The knob of the deadbolt was up and to the left. Locked. 

Just as I thought. 

It was locked. I did lock the door . Draco walked to his bedroom now, no longer fancying the idea of reading. 

Did I, though?

Draco stopped in his tracks.

No, you didn't. You were distracted. You've become a mess and you can't even remember to lock the door properly.

"I did," Draco said to himself, walking the rest of the way to his room.

But how do you know?

Draco closed his eyes, feeling a headache coming on.

Too much warmth across his fingertips.  

 His heart rate was beginning to pick up.

You have to check.

Draco turned around again, back to his door. The knob was unchanged. He decided that he must put an end to the nagging in his mind by locking the door all over again. 

Fifteen minutes later, Draco was flopping down onto his bed, behind the safety of his locked flat and bedroom doors, (I’m sure of it) letting himself take a deep breath. 

His skin was crawling. He wondered if tidying up would help him stop thinking about it. 

You already clean too often. He shut his eyes tight. 

Don't start again. You're fine.

But he didn't feel fine. He felt achy and sore and restless. He could feel the tension throughout his entire body. Could feel the buzz of anxiety in his fingertips. He just wanted the thoughts to stop.

Why can't you just calm down?

Draco sighed, getting up and going over to his wardrobe, opening it up and looking over his clothing, thinking about how he would reorganize it this time. Perhaps by occasion. 

When the scar across his left forearm began to itch, he grabbed a fistful of hanging clothes and tossed it onto his bed. 

Then, the scar on his stomach began to burn.

Draco tried to ignore the sensation, knowing that it was just his mind playing tricks on him.

"Get over it," he hissed to himself, pulling out more clothes, trying to force his brain to concentrate on the task at hand.

His chest itched.

He began to organize the clothing on his bed according to how it would go into the wardrobe.

Then his fingers got unusually warm again, right at the spots where they'd been cut off.

He began to place a few garments into the wardrobe.

Then the scar across his stomach began to cramp.

Draco growled in frustration, removing his shirt and looking down at himself. He could see the scar tissue, irregular, raised, varying in colour, and angry. So very angry. The sight of it made him nauseous.

He could feel the cuts happening again, feel everything about the event, as though he were there again. The cold stone floor beneath him, the goosebumps all across his skin, the pain, the fear.

He pressed his hands firmly on each of the scarred areas, trying desperately to find some sort of relief. 

"God, get a hold of yourself," he hissed to himself, clenching his teeth.

No matter how firmly he pressed against his scars, as soon as he moved his hands to another area, the sensation would arise again, crawling throughout his skin.

He threw himself onto his bed belly first, wishing badly that he could put an enormous, crushing weight on top of himself, imagining that that would bring him the relief he needed.

Draco groaned, pressing his face into the pillow, trying to get away from the sensations.

He wanted them to go away.

He wanted everything to go away.

-----

Draco awoke in his bedroom, sprawled across a pile of robes and clothing, in the dark. He groaned, wondering what time it was. Draco stretched slightly, grasping at a bit of clothes.

Draco let out a sigh, feeling himself grow weary.

Then he heard it. A sound from the kitchen.

Draco was up like a bolt. Eyes glued to the door of his room.

Who is here? How did they get in?

I never locked the door?

He's found me. He's going to kill me. I'm dead.

Draco's heart pounded as he tried to remain as still and quiet as possible, straining his ears to hear anything beyond the walls of his bedroom.

What should I do?

Where is my wand?

He heard a rustle and a soft thump, then a low curse.

I recognise that voice…

Hesitantly, Draco called out. "Harry?"

"Yeah?"

"Is that you?"

"Yeah."

Draco breathed, letting his body relax. He opened the door, seeing Harry standing in the kitchen with various food items out.

"Merlin, you scared me."

"Oh, sorry. I got back a long while ago, but you weren't answering me when I called out for you. I used my wand to determine that you were in your room. I didn't want to disturb… I actually even went back to the ministry for a meeting and still returned before you woke.

Draco wiped at his face, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. "What time is it?"

"7:26."

"Oh."

"You fell asleep?"

"Yeah, I guess I did," Draco admitted.

"How was everything while I was gone?"

"I-" Draco paused, looking back into his room at the pile of clothing. He looked back up at Potter.

"I was doing some laundry."

Po- Harry followed Draco's line of sight to the pile of clothing.

"That's a lot of laundry."

"Er, well..."

Potter was silent, waiting for an answer.

"It was a really busy day."

"Right."

If the door was locked, how did he get in?

"Are we getting started on dinner, then?"

"Actually, I'm just about done. You woke up at a good time."

"Oh."

You left the door unlocked. Bloody lucky it was Potter who came home and not...

"You're welcome to eat with me. If you want."

"Sure, just... one second."

Draco walked over to the front door, seeing the deadbolt up and to the left. Odd.

"Remember, the wards are keyed to me."

Draco turned back to see Po- Harry… settling himself at the table. He flushed realizing that he knew what he was thinking. Harry let out a sympathetic smile. 

“Come eat.”

Chapter Text

Dinner was a quiet affair.

After, Harry offered to clean up, and Draco was only too happy to agree, feeling a strange sort of embarrassment and shame about his afternoon.

Now, as he sat on his bed, watching the shadows on the wall, he looked back on his day.

He'd been so preoccupied with wondering if he locked the door that he'd lost a chunk of his afternoon. He hated it. He hated how quickly he had lost his mind.

There was a knock on the bedroom door.

"Draco?"

"Yeah?"

"Can I talk to you?"

Draco got up, went to his bedroom door and opened it. "Let's sit in the living room."

They sat next to each other on the sofa, Draco feeling rather nervous for a reason he couldn't quite place. He noted the distance between them.

"The ministry is interviewing all magical folk that attend the church Rookwood is hiding in."

Draco's mind was immediately taken back to his morning.

"I imagine that means you want to do it now?"

"Only if you want. We can leave it for the morning, too."

"Might as well do it now," Draco reasoned.

"I'll turn on the charm."

Harry pulled out his wand and waved it in the air wordlessly. An orb of light appeared and floated between the two of them. Draco's stomach did a flip watching him do his wandless magic.

"This is Auror Harry Potter, conducting a recorded interview with Draco Malfoy. Are you aware of and consent to being recorded?"

"Yes."

"This interview will now begin. Do you attend St. Jerome's church in Godric's Hollow? If so, how often?"

"I do. I attend every Sunday morning," Draco responded.

"Are you aware that the church is in cooperation with the Ministry of Magic and the British Parliament to provide a safe place of worship for both Muggles and Wizardkind in an area known to be home to both populations?"

"Yes."

"Have you ever noticed anything suspicious about the church or its staff?"

"No."

"Are you aware of the church's most recent decision to provide sanctuary to a known Death Eater who has recently escaped Azkaban: Augustus Rookwood?"

"Yes."

Harry looked at Draco, his eyes sincere and full of an emotion Draco couldn't place. "Do you feel safe attending the church?"

Draco paused, remembering the morning and the nagging paranoia he felt.

"I..." Draco sighed, does he believe that Rookwood will do something?

"I'm not sure."

"Do you believe that he may hurt any of the people in or outside of the church, and should therefore be prosecuted?"

Draco locked eyes with Harry, his heart rate picking up. Harry was waiting for his response patiently. Draco couldn't help but get distracted by the look in Harry's eyes.

"Yes," Draco finally said. "I do believe that he will harm others, and should therefore be prosecuted."

"This concludes our recorded interview. Did you answer everything truthfully and to the best of your knowledge?"

Draco blinked, putting his mind back into the situation. "Yes," he said, watching the golden light dissipate. The two men sat in silence for a few moments.

"Are you alright?" Harry asked gently.

"I am."

"Really?"

Draco was silent, wondering why Harry seemed so concerned.

"Why?"

Harry sighed, shifting on the couch. "I have a feeling that pile of clothing wasn't laundry."

Draco flushed, averting his eyes. He didn't say anything.

"Were you doing your cleaning thing?"

"I guess."

"How did you fall asleep?"

Draco sighed. "I was... stressed. I... it's complicated. I fell asleep because I was tired."

Harry nodded, but Draco could see the concern on his face.

"You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to," Harry said softly.

"...Thank you."

"Would you like some tea? I'll make some."

"Sure."

"I bought some madeleines. I figured we could have them with our tea."

"I didn't know that you knew what those were," replied Draco, feeling a smile grow on his face. He got up and followed Harry to the kitchen.

"Well, I've never had them, but I'm willing to try them," Harry admitted.

"You know what they are but have never had one?"

Harry shrugged, pulling the packet out of the pantry. "Hermione loves them. She says they're better than biscuits for tea."

Draco nodded. "That's true."

"Do you like them?"

"They're okay."

"You've never had one, have you?"

"No."

The two smiled at each other, and Draco felt a fluttering in his chest.

--------

Harry could feel the butterflies in his stomach running rampant. Draco was smiling at him, joking about madeleines... It was stupid, but it made Harry want to...

He turned to the stovetop and made busy pouring water into the tea kettle and adding some loose-leaf Darjeeling tea. He could hear his heart beating loudly in his ears.

Harry has been having thoughts of kissing Draco for days now. He knew it was wrong. It was wrong to think about, especially considering their circumstances, and their history, and the fact that Harry would be so clearly taking advantage of him if anything like that were to happen.

It was wrong.

And Harry hated himself for having these thoughts. He was meant to be protecting Draco, not taking advantage of his vulnerability.

Harry sighed.

"What are you sighing about, Potter?"

Harry couldn't help but smile again.

"It's Harry, remember?"

"Right."

"And nothing, really."

"Sure... Don't worry, I won't pry. Did you enjoy grocery shopping?"

"It was nice. And now the kitchen is fully stocked."

"How much do I owe you?"

Harry looked at Draco. "Oh, no. Nothing. We both know I have more money than I know what to do with."

"So do I," he responded. "How much do I owe you?"

"You owe me nothing," Harry insisted. "Don't worry about it."

"But-"

"I insist."

"Headstrong Gryffindor you are."

Harry couldn't help the flush that grew across his cheeks. "Yeah, well. What can I say? I'm stubborn."

"That you are... But that's not all," Draco confessed.

"Then what else is it?"

Draco paused, a look on his face that Harry couldn't quite place.

"You're just a good person. You care about others, and you want them to be safe and happy... Even if you don't always get along with them."

Harry was silent.

"Even if you think they don't deserve it."

Harry could feel his stomach twisting. He wasn't sure what to say.

"Thank you," he whispered.

Draco smiled.

The whistle of the tea kettle drew Harry back from getting lost staring again. He removed the kettle from the stovetop and poured two cups of tea, then put madeleines on the saucers. He pushed one of the servings toward Draco. 

"Thank you," Draco said, taking a sip of his tea. Harry followed suit.

As they sipped their tea and nibbled on the madeleines, Harry couldn't help but feel a sense of contentment settle over him. It was strange, really, how easy it seemed to be around Draco. He had always been his enemy in school, but now... Now it was clear that their relationship had changed for the better.

"So, where are we going from here?" Draco asked, taking another sip of his tea.

"We wait for Ron to let us know what the ministry's decision is," Harry replied, finishing his madeleine and picking up another. "And we're getting to the stage where we rehash old evidence for things we may have missed. I have to start looking through your memory of the attack again. 

Draco nodded, his expression serious. "I understand. Anything to catch the person who did this."

Harry smiled faintly. "Yeah. We'll get them."

They fell into a silence, the only sound being that of teacups clinking against saucers. 

"I have a question."

Harry looked up at Draco, his tone serious.

"Yeah, what is it?"

"Why are you doing this? Why did you take this case?"

Harry was taken aback by Draco displaying his curiosity, but quickly composed himself. He thought for a moment about how to answer. Now that he was doing it, he realised that he hadn't very well thought of it at all, really. His mind was always on what was happening right in front of him, never wanting to slow down or look back...

"Because it's sickening... and upsetting. For people to treat each other like this. To treat anyone like this, really. It's disgusting. And I want to help people feel safe, and not have to live in fear."

Harry watched Draco, who was nodding, his eyes far away.

"I understand that."

Harry looked at Draco in the eyes, and he was looking back at him. In his eyes, Harry could see understanding, shining so truly and sincerely that it made Harry's heart squeeze in his chest. Draco spoke again.

"You know, I think I learned how that feels during the war. While... while Voldemort stayed in my home."

Harry's heart was pounding in his chest. The prospect of Draco being open was so rare. He didn't want to let it go.

"How was that for you?"

Draco was silent for a long time, and Harry thought he was going to say no more, and he'd be left to wonder what was happening inside his mind. But, after several minutes, Draco began.

"Terrifying."

He paused, his gaze downcast. Then, after a few moments, he spoke again.

"You know, he behaved as if he owned the Manor... No place was safe, or secure... not even my bedroom, or the washroom. Every corner, every shadow, had an air of foreboding and menace."

Harry was silent, not wanting to say anything and ruin the moment.

"I lived in fear... constantly. Always worrying if this would be the day he killed me, or my parents."

Harry nodded, and Draco continued.

"The worst part is, the more you fear, the more paranoid you become. I would jump at the sound of the walls creaking, or the wind whistling in the night. I feared he could be standing at the foot of my bed at night.

I find myself feeling that way again, now. With this... my attacker." Draco's brows knitted together. "The least I can do is lock my doors. I couldn't do that at the manor, he... Voldemort knew. He didn't want people hiding things from him."

Harry reached out his hand, gently placing it on Draco's forearm. "I'm sorry," he said.

Draco glanced at the spot where they were now touching, looking away just as quickly. "It's fine."

"It's not," Harry insisted. "What happened to you was not fine. It was wrong, and you didn't deserve it."

Draco scoffed, shaking his head. "Of course I deserved it. Don't pretend like you don't know that. I single-handedly started the second war... I-" Draco shook his head. "I am not good... I never was." Draco began to blink rapidly. "And now... now it's caught up to me."

Harry could see the tears brimming in Draco's eyes, and he could feel his own chest aching. He moved his hand up, squeezing Draco's shoulder.

"You did do a lot of bad things," he agreed. "But that doesn't mean you deserve to die."

Draco swallowed, turning his head away from Harry.

"I don't want to die. I don't want to feel the pain. I don't want to be scared that it will come back for me... But I can't help but wonder if it may be what I deserve."

Harry wanted to hold him. Hold him and run fingers through his hair and tell him to stop thinking such nasty thoughts. His grip on Draco's shoulder tightened. He knew he could not go further than that.

"Draco, you did not deserve what happened to you. And it's not what you deserve."

Draco didn't say anything. Instead, he turned and locked eyes with Harry, his gaze penetrating and full of an emotion that Harry couldn't quite place.

"I don't want to die."

"You won't."

"You can't know that."

Harry's stomach lurched. The image of Draco mauled and bleeding came into his mind. The thought of him being dead crept in. He shook his head, and responded with resolution. "You're right. But I can try my hardest."

"I hate living in fear," Draco confessed, his voice wavering. He screwed his eyes tight. "I hate what my brain is doing to me." Harry saw tears fall. He didn't know how to respond.

"I know," he responded, squeezing Draco's shoulder. "I'm sorry."

"I just want it to go away. I want to be normal. I just... I want it to end."

"I know."

"I'm afraid of him, Harry," Draco's voice was strained and choked, and Harry's throat felt thick. "I keep thinking that he's coming for me to finish the job. I... Today, I-" Draco cut himself off, a muted sob escaping him. He brought trembling hands up to his face, covering his eyes.

"I was reading. I was just reading, and minding my business, and trying not to think about things and, I just... images of him coming back, or... I had to check the door." Draco turned and faced Harry for the first time in a while, eyes bloodshot and puffy. "I- I had to. I needed to make sure. And even after I made sure, I... I don't know. I kept… not knowing if it was actually locked. I locked it all over again, I... I tried to stop myself from thinking about it, and it didn't work." He closed his eyes again, another wave of tears hitting him.

Harry decided that distance be damned. Draco needed comfort right now. He scooted over on the sofa, gently nudging Draco in his direction, wordlessly allowing him the opportunity to pull away. But Draco did not pull away, and instead let himself lean against Harry, who wrapped an arm around him, squeezing him gently.

"I can't control my own mind. I can't even understand it, anymore..."

"Draco..." Harry's voice was low and thick with emotion. He didn't know what to say. He rubbed Draco's shoulder gently.

"I hate being this way."

"I know."

Draco's tears began to fall steadily, and his shoulders shook. Harry could hear his breathing, shuddering and uneven. He felt his own chest aching, the sadness and sympathy welling up. He felt the overwhelming desire to do anything it took to wipe Draco's sorrows away. However, he simply squeezed gently, letting Draco fully lean into him.

"It'll be okay," Harry reassured.

Draco buried his face into the crook of Harry's neck. "I don't want to die. I don't want to live like this."

"You won't die," Harry whispered. "I promise. You won't die. You won't live like this. We'll find him. we'll find him and arrest him. He won't be able to hurt anybody anymore."

Draco's fingers dug into Harry's shirt.

"I want it to be over," Draco's voice was barely above a whisper.

Harry tried for his mind to not take that statement in the millions of directions it could go. He took a deep breath, holding him tighter. "I understand," he responded. 

After a long while, Draco calmed down. Harry remained passing a hand up and down his upper arm. Draco did not move or protest, so Harry figured he wanted it. 

He liked giving Draco comfort, helping him work through things… Learning more about him. 

Harry found himself wanting to learn a lot more about him. 

Finally, Draco sat up straight, and Harry withdrew his arms, leaving the space between them empty and cold.

"Sorry," he said, voice rough and nasally.

"No need."

"It's just been... rough."

"It's okay. Really."

They fell into a silence during which Harry watched as Draco recomposed himself, wondering just how close he could get before he was much too close to be considered appropriate; before Draco would stop sharing things with him. Maybe, Harry thought, he ought to start sharing things about himself with Draco, too. A sort of give-and-take, so that he could continue to grow closer to him.

"So," Draco began, clearing his throat and wiping his face. "How about that case, huh?"

Harry chuckled. "Yeah, it's a tough one."

Draco laughed too, wet and strangled. "Maybe God really is doing it. And that's why you can't catch him."

"Yeah? Well, God also has Rookwood hiding in one of his houses. I think he deserves to get caught just like the others."

"I don't know... God is... well, he's everything, isn't he? We are fearfully and wonderfully made by him... God can do what he wants, really, after everything else he's done for us."

Harry pursed his lips, not sure how to respond. He didn't understand too much about God, or Jesus, or any religion. He didn't understand what it was like to be Draco and to believe everything the church teaches. He wondered if it came down to how he was raised. He didn't know, though. Really, how could he?

"Well, the thing is, he's breaking the law. I have to put him in Azkaban, regardless of... whether he's a saint or a sinner."

Draco smiled faintly.

"Sinners deserve punishment. People like Rookwood, yes, but also people like me. We... We've done a lot of bad things. God decides who to save. And... I guess he's choosing to save Rookwood. I guess I still have a lot more repenting to do before I'm deemed worthy of saving."

"Draco..." Harry's chest ached. "You... You don't have to earn your life. No one has to. I... You deserve to be alive, regardless of what you did."

"I can't help but wonder sometimes," Draco said, looking into the distance. "I... I have so many regrets. If only I'd have done things differently, maybe I wouldn't have had to spend so many years hating my life and everyone around me."

Harry swallowed, nodding his head. "I know what you mean," he confessed.

"Really?"

"Yeah."

"But you're the chosen one, Harry. You were destined to defeat the Dark Lord... You're a hero."

Harry let out a rueful chuckle. "It's not that simple, is it."

"I suppose not."

"I mean, I was always destined to do that, and yet I was still responsible for my own actions. I... I did a lot of bad things, too."

Getting Sirius killed, slicing Draco up, murder, fraud... those were only the ones right off the top of his head. He knew there was more, though. All the things that keep him up, that he tries to forget, that he ignores...

"Do you think God hates you?"

Harry looked at Draco and found that he was looking right back.

"I mean... I don't know... I wouldn't blame him if he did. I've done a lot of messed up things."

"I think God loves you," Draco said. "I don't think he's too plussed about any of your wrongdoings. Not after all the good things you've done."

"Well, God's got a funny way of showing it," Harry said with a sigh. His mind went to the friends he was ignoring, his flat that he was allowing to rot, the murders he’s had to witness, the thoughts and dreams that haunt him.

"Yeah, I guess he does," Draco agreed, and Harry felt a sort of guilt. Draco has been through some things, such as Harry has, and he holds concepts like God in a much higher regard than Harry. He wondered if, perhaps, God's hatred is something Draco genuinely fears.

"Do you think God hates you?"

Draco was silent for several beats. For a moment, Harry wondered if his luck with sharing had run out for the evening. "I guess I wouldn't blame him if he does, either."

Harry nodded, choosing not to speak for the moment. Part of him wanted to know more of what Draco was thinking, how everything connected.

"I'm trying... to get him to forgive me... but lately, I've been wondering more if maybe somethings are just... not forgivable. Starting a war, having a hand in evil, allowing people to die in my home... those things don't sound very forgivable. Maybe that's why He's sent for my death.

"Well," Harry began. Part of him protested the idea of a response, but Draco thinking that this killer was a rightful force of God made his stomach lurch. "Draco, this killer, he hasn't been... sent by God. I mean, nobody even knows who God is. He may not even exist-"

"He exists," Draco began to protest.

"I- that's not what I meant," Harry retorted, treading along his next words carefully. "I mean, this man, he's acting of his own volition. There is no ultimate force of good who would send for this."

"God sent ten plagues to the Egyptians for not freeing the Israelites from slavery."

Harry furrowed his brows, wishing he knew what Drao was talking about.

"Ten plagues," Harry repeated.

"Yes," Draco said, his tone clipped.

"I'm not sure if this is the same."

"Why wouldn't it be?"

"It's a big difference, Draco. I mean, I know I haven't gone to church and read the bible all that much, but... this doesn't... isn't it about being good? Guiding morals? I... never mind.

"No, Harry, go on."

Harry sighed. "I'm not good at all of this religion stuff. I swore off it when I was young because I didn't like how my family was approaching it. I... Walk me through those... plagues. God sent plagues because..."

"The Egyptian Pharoah refused to free the Israelites from slavery. Those plagues killed people. Children, too."

"The Pharoah refused, you say."

"Yes."

"He kept refusing, every time? He chose to continue to do wrong."

At this point, Harry could see that Draco knew where he was going with this. Harry continued.

"You have chosen to do right, now. You are different. This is different."

Draco and Harry were looking at each other quite intently, now- Harry awaiting a response.

"I see your point. It's... worth thinking about."

Harry sighed, nodding his head.

"I can tell you, Draco, this man is not some divine force, not sent from God. He is a person, like you and me, and he is acting out his own will. He's using God as an excuse."

Draco was silent.

"I don't think God is trying to punish you," Harry continued, feeling bold. "I think He forgives you, and I think you've done the best that you can to make things right. You're a good person now, Draco."

Draco's attention was now fully on Harry. He did not dare look away. Harry felt his stomach go aflutter.

"...Do you mean that?"

"Yes. I mean it. You're a good person."

Draco blinked a few times, looking at Harry like he didn't know what to say. Harry smiled softly, hoping that this was something that would help Draco, that he played a part in helping Draco. His hand itched with the urge to reach out and touch him.

"Thanks," Draco said. Harry couldn't help but notice the redness creeping across his face.

Harry spent the rest of the night thinking only about Draco- Holding him, comforting him, seeing him smile, talking to him.

It was then that Harry realised that he was going absolutely mad for him. 

Chapter Text

Harry never liked the rain.

Growing up, the rain brought bugs into his cupboard. The rain never stopped Petunia from making him tend to the garden.

Then, he got to Hogwarts. He had a proper bed, in a real living space, and was not waking up with a roach inches away from his face. He didn’t have a garden to tend to, and, at night, he found that the sound of raindrops against his dormitory window helped him sleep just a bit better. 

In Draco’s Muggle flat, however, during this time of the year, the rain makes cold seep into the walls and floors constantly, and with the steadily declining temperatures of the outdoors, every rainfall has only fared worse for the flat. 

And yesterday, the radiator broke, and maintenance said it needs replacing, which means that Draco and Harry are going to stay cold through the week, at minimum. 

“They won’t be speedy with it, you know,” Draco grumbled, throwing on a second jumper. “The landlord doesn’t like me because he was forced to let me live here.” 

“Forced? What do you mean?” Today, the rain was so intense that the world looked dingy and depressed. Inside Draco’s flat, even with the windows open, it felt like it was evening despite being half-past noon. 

“This complex is one of a few that has been deemed by the Muggle government as rehabilitative housing in cooperation with our Ministry of Magic. And, just as any other landlord, this one doesn’t like to house criminals.” 

Harry wrapped himself up tighter in his blanket, attempting to bury himself impossibly deeper into the corner of the sofa. The storm raged on outside. You aren’t a criminal Harry wanted to say. But he knew that legally speaking, Draco was, for all intents and purposes, a criminal who merely avoided prison sentence on some technicality. Despite how important those technicalities seemed to Harry. 

“Isn’t that illegal?” 

“Isn’t murder illegal? Besides, this goes up with the ministry. It’s not like they’ll do anything about it.” 

“They will if you complain to the right people,” Harry countered. He dug his feet between the sofa’s cushions.

“Nobody at the ministry quite cares about a broken radiator in rehabilitative Muggle housing enough to stop what other important things they could be doing. 

Harry shifted, slightly put off by the fact that Draco had a point. Part of him wanted to suggest an owl to Hermione since just about half of her work is on being some sort of humanitarian warrior, but he was sure that something else, like Werewolves' rights or Ministry pay disparities, was a much more pressing matter in her mind than Draco Malfoy and his faulty Muggle heating system. He huffed.

“And why can’t we use magic to warm up, again?” 

Draco, who had just put the kettle on, turned to Harry with an incredulous look to him. “ Because of electrical interference? This is third-year knowledge, Potter.” 

“Harry,” he corrected. 

“Yes, Harry. It’s hard to refer to you by your first name when you don’t know the basics of Muggle-Wizarding electrical interference.”

“I know about it,” Harry retorted, “I just don’t think about it all that much. I don’t often get sent to work in the Muggle World. They keep me doing the bigger, in-world cases,” he explained.

“Oh, yes. I forgot. We mustn’t waste the value of having our saviour in the auror force.” 

“I’d rather be overworked than shoved onto the most mundane cases. Some aurors get stuck responding to disturbance calls from old witches in quiet neighbourhoods.” 

Draco pursed his lips, turning back to his tea cabinet, choosing which tea to steep.

“I suppose that is rather boring and demeaning,” he conceded. “I might actually agree with you. But,” he said, reaching for a canister further into the cabinet, “That doesn’t change the fact that, until a week from now, hopefully, we’re stuck dealing with the cold of an old, run-down Muggle flat. Tea?” 

“Yes, please. Maybe it’ll warm me up better than this blanket.” 

“It’ll certainly warm you better than ruining my sofa by digging your feet between the cushions.” 

Harry wondered how it was that Draco knew he was doing that until he looked down and saw that the cushion on top of his feet was awkwardly sticking out from the rest of the sofa. He changed his sitting position so that he could have his feet under his butt instead, and smoothed the cushion back into its place. 

“Sorry,” he responded. 

“Sure.”

A crack of thunder sounded outside the flat, lightning flashing across the window. The storm seemed to only be getting worse.

"Why did the heat have to die now, of all times?" Harry complained, though mostly to himself. Wizarding flats didn't have these problems.

Draco rolled his eyes, stirring honey into his tea. "Well, winter is coming rather quickly. At least it didn't die when it's below freezing out."

"I know, but..." Harry trailed off. "Never mind."

Draco seemed that he was just fine leaving the topic behind. He put a sieve with looseleaf over each teacup. The kettle began to whistle, and he poured the hot water over it, covering the cups to let them steep.

"You know, Ron thinks me a heathen for using teabags in the office."

"Teabags? You are a heathen. Regardless. It's normal for Purebloods to brew looseleaf. That must be one of the few things the Weasleys kept with them. Most tea in the Wizarding world is sold looseleaf. I don't know of a single Wizard who goes for the garbage in bags. Except maybe you, now. Heathen."

Harry stuck his tongue out at Draco.

"I suppose you are the exception, though," Draco began, taking his tea sieve out and setting it in the sink, "since you grew up Muggle."

Harry made a face. "I never drank tea while I was there."

"You didn't?"

Harry paused, realizing that, regardless of the simplicity of the remark, it had just put him in territory he was not expecting, nor was he welcome to tread.

"No," he confessed, not sure if it was right for him to say more.

"Why?" Draco was genuinely confused. And he supposed that was warranted. Tea wasn't a habit exclusive to Wizardkind, and Draco probably knew that rather well. Draco uncovered the cups and brought them over to the couch, setting Harry's on the coffee table and sitting with his own on the other end of the small couch.

"I just didn't." Harry hoped that Draco would deem that a sufficient explanation. 

"Tea is so ubiquitous that you'd think anyone who didn't drink it might have been locked away from society," Draco said with a chuckle. Harry did not laugh.

Draco turned to Harry, his expression unreadable. Harry did not know whether he should continue speaking or not. Slowly, very slowly, Draco spoke.

"Thankfully," he began. "That's not what happened to you." Draco's eyes were boring into Harry's and it was as though the wind had been taken from him. "Of course, nobody would have mistreated you. A hero."

The way Draco spoke, Harry could tell that he was half-asking if that might not be the case. Harry sat frozen, mind racing for how to respond.

"Right," was the word he finally decided upon. He felt the need to say something more.

"And, despite its ubiquity, there are still plenty of people in the UK who don't drink tea. Your family was, perhaps, quite untraditional."

"Quite," Harry responded. He swallowed down the voice that wanted to correct him and say that untraditional was perhaps the last word one could associate with the Dursleys. He reached over to grab his teacup before its contents could get cold.

Draco nodded, looking into the distance. He took a sip from his own cup.

"So," Harry began, deciding that he ought to break the silence. "The cold has reminded me; the holidays are coming."

Draco nodded, looking at Harry from over the rim of his teacup. Harry took a sip from his own. Harry waited for him to respond. He did not.

"Do you usually do anything? Are there decorations we should put up? Anything like that?"

"Do you mean all my life? Or over the past few years?"

"Both?"

"Well," Draco began, "Growing up, the House Elves did everything. The Manor was fully decorated on December 1st, they cooked all holiday feasts, and my parents would buy extravagant or generally expensive presents."

Harry, nodded, assuming as much from Draco's childhood.

"And... more recently?"

Draco sighed.

"Ever since complete severance from my family, a war, and a criminal trial... I haven't quite attempted to celebrate Christmas."

Draco's words struck Harry an odd way, as if the child within him wanted to cry out in understanding. Harry supposed he should have expected a response like this. Holidays since the war have been difficult. If it weren't for the Weasleys, he would to have celebrated since the war, either. And even then, celebrating with one less family member is difficult. No matter how many times you've done it before.

Harry imagines that celebrating alone would only feel pointless and depressing.

"Oh," Harry said. He took a sip of his tea. Draco did the same.

"Yeah."

"Would you be open to celebrating this year?"

"This year?" He asked between sips. "What makes this year different from the others? Besides, of course, being under witness protection and having a killer after me."

"Well, I don't know... I just wondered, I guess." I want to bake with you, perhaps even find a way to get you a Christmas present.

Harry would not say this out loud. He took another sip of tea.

"What would you be doing, this year?" Draco glanced at Harry, keeping the majority of his visual focus on his teacup.

"I'm sure the Weasleys will invite me over like they do each year... I need to shop for presents. But other than that, nothing. I don't take to festivities in my flat. I don't decorate, or anything like that."

"Seems a bit pointless, doesn't it? Decorating for a holiday about togetherness when you're alone."

"A bit, yeah," Harry admitted. The rain continued its torrent against the window. As if at all possible, the air seemed to get even colder.

"You know," Harry began. "Maybe we could do something, this year."

"Like what? Decorate?"

"We could decorate. And bake, maybe... I don't know. I figured since we'll probably still be stuck together by then."

Harry could swear he saw Draco hide a smile.

"That is a possibility."

The next two days were cold, grey, and dreary. 

And cold. 

During the second day of a cold flat, Harry and Draco spent a significant amount of time transfiguring blankets and charming them to be a bit warmer than they otherwise would. Harry pulled out his files and tried to see if there might be anything worth re-examining. He sent a note to Ron and Mordecai to start looking into any religious extremists that have been recorded in Wizarding history. 

The day after, Draco baked sweets for the next church service, relishing in the warmth the oven let off. He invited Harry to stand in front of the oven with him while the biscuits were baked. 

Harry would be a fool not to admit that he thought more than once about being closer to Draco as a means to get warm.

Only to get warm, of course.

Of course.

Hermione sent him an owl, too, saying that she wanted to see him soon. She was quite adamant about Harry not missing Christmas with the Weasleys., which, at the time of receiving the letter, was 24 days away.

Then it happened. Late at night, with thunderstorms continuing to rage on for the third day in a row, Harry was awoken by the soft blue light of a Patronus.

Chapter Text

“We must follow protocol.”

Ron has had enough of protocol. He is willing to bet money that waiting for a full team is the reason they keep finding people dead. 

This time, he was going to jump on the opportunity to save somebody. 

The warehouse that was used to kill Pansy Parkinson went off. This is now the second time the killer repeats a location, albeit not the same location as the last one he repeated. 

Thank Merlin he had the idea to throw up detection and alarm wards over all of the sites so long ago.

He stumbled out of bed, holding an outstretched hand to his wardrobe. His Auror uniform flew to him. He put it on in record time. 

“Love?” A groggy voice, a shuffle of bedsheets.

“Go back to sleep, ‘Mione.”

“What are you doing?” He could hear her moving to sit up in bed now. 

“The detection wards went off. I need to go.” 

“To the Ministry? I’ll call Harry for you.” 

“To the site. Go ahead and call Harry. I’ll call over for Mordecai. They should be there soon.” 

The soft glow of a Lumos appeared. 

“Ron, you could get in trouble for this.” 

“They’ll let me off if it saves somebody’s life.” Ron adjusted his belt and put his wand in-holster. “Call Harry for me, and go back to bed. Tell him to go to the site where Pansy Parkinson was murdered.” Ron made for his bedroom door. 

“Hey,” 

Ron turned back at the sound of Hermione’s voice, making out her figure in the dim glow of light. 

“I love you.” 

“I love you, too.” He pursed his lips, holding her words of affection close, and braced himself for what he was about to witness at the site. 

As soon as he landed, the first thing he was able to perceive was the smell of copper. However, the shock of that smell wore off almost immediately as his eyes settled over a black-cloaked figure. Behind the figure, Ron saw a body shackled to the floor. His wand was out in an instant.

The dark figure had their wand out just as quickly, and a jet of red shot straight towards Ron. In one swift motion, a blue shield came up as Ron deflected the spell.

Ron hurtled a binding spell towards his enemy, and just as he watched it bounce off another shield, the loud crack of apparation stole his attention. Mordecai appeared, and just as quickly, spells were being cast at them both. Mordecai threw up a chield before retaliating with what Ron guessed was a disarming spell. Ron made eye contact with him, subtly motioning towards the body on the floor. The figure shot spells in rapid-fire succession, and it was all they could do to deflect, unable to get an attack of their own in. Then, Mordecai took the opportunity to duck towards the floor.

Suddenly, a loud boom sounded and smoke filled the area. Ron immediately made to shield his eyes with his arm, and just barely saw blue lights appear near the floor. He raised his wand with his other hand to cast a finite , and the smoke cleared.

The figure and victim were gone. Mordecai could be seen standing up from a previous crouching position near some of the shackles. He was panting, looking at Ron with an expression of shock.

A crack made the two men jump. Harry appeared on the scene, looking dishevelled and a bit confused. 

“What happened?” Harry was studying the area, looking at his two partners.

"He has Blaise Zabini."

“Shit,” muttered Ron. 

“You saw them?”

“We fought with him,” replied Ron. “As soon as Mordecai showed up I told him to try and figure out something about the body chained to the floor, but then the guy threw up a ton of smoke and vanished with… well, I guess with Zabini.” 

Ron huffed a breath, frustrated. He looked around the room and at his partners, taking in his surroundings properly now. Mordecai was still looking at the floor where Zabini had been. Harry looked as though he was desperately trying to catch up with the situation. He walked up to an old wooden standing desk. 

“He left in a rush,” Harry commented. “Left a bag.”

Ron’s head snapped in Harry’s direction. Sure enough, there was a simple, sleek, black tool roll. Harry used his wand to open it up. The roll had various tools: knives, a spoon-like device, pliers, and several vials of liquid, as well as a syringe. Ron cringed. 

Mordecai walked up behind them. “Wouldn’t like to hazard a guess what those have been used for.” 

“These tools are Muggle,” Harry began. We need to start investigating Muggle Hardware stores and asking for receipts. We need to get the department to make us Muggle permits.”

“Good thinking,” said Mordecai. “We need to take this back to the Ministry.”

“We need to find Zabini and the killer,” continued Ron.

Mordecai stepped out to the middle of the room, wand out. “Appare Vestigium.”

Golden and green lights blasted themselves across the room, illuminating magical traces of both Zabini and the killer. As the traces settled, Ron, Harry, and Mordecai inspected it.

"Zabini didn't put up a lot of fight, it seems," commented Harry.

"Was probably knocked out like all the others. who knows if he'd even come to by the time we showed up."

Mordecai stepped in, looking closely at the golden tracks. "It all ends at the apparation point."

Ron tried not to swear, but his frustration with having been so close to the killer was evident on his face, he was sure of it. He turned to Mordecai.

"Get these tools to the ministry. See if it gives us any information. Harry and I will start tracking with the Four-Point charm."

"On it."

"Thanks."

Just as Mordecai left, Harry and Ron made their way out of the warehouse. As they stepped out into the rain- it had been raining quite a bit over the past week, now- Ron threw up an impervious charm for him and Harry. 

"Let's use our brooms, we'll cover more ground faster," said Harry. Ron nodded. The two summoned their brooms, which took a moment to reach them. They then mounted. before taking off, Harry held out his wand.

"Point me." Harry's wand swung him around, pointing due north. He turned to Ron, and they both nodded, kicking off the ground and taking flight. In the sky, it was a bit hard to see anything besides the sheets of rain and darkness. Ron stayed close to Harry, occasionally glancing down at the wand mounted onto the front of his broom. As the night dragged on, and the wand continued to point north, Ron couldn't help but notice the fact that they were getting further and further from the more well-known Wizarding areas.

"Do you think he already had a location in mind? Or might he be bouncing around?" asked Harry, shouting over the white noise of the rain. Seems he noticed the same thing.

"Dunno," Ron replied, "But we should assume the worst, that he's already at another location. That means the clock is ticking if we're going to save Zabini!" Just as he said that, Harry's wand twitched, then spun to a hard right turn.

"Wand's turned," he shouted, and the two changed directions.

"Say, Harry," Ron began, trying his best not to shout too loud, though the rain wasn't affording him that opportunity, "Why'd you arrive so late?" Ron was wondering if, perhaps, something was wrong with Malfoy, or if temporary protection arrangements couldn't be made.

"It was a bit of a mission to get out of the falt, sorry."

"Were you able to get another Auror to take your station?" 

"I just asked Dawlish to do it again, since he'd already done it once before, and I don't reckon Draco would take too kindly to being woken in the middle of the night and left with a stranger," The wand tilted towards the left, then. Ron was able to see it before Harry signalled, so they turned without speaking.

Draco, now? Interesting. The idea of saying his first name felt foreign on Ron's tongue. He wondered how Harry had gotten to saying it so casually. 

"Well, hopefully we catch the bastard today and this doesn't happen again. But if it does, I think the protocol of waiting for a full team is stupid. I'm sure that's how we've kept losing victims."

Harry looked back at Ron, nodding his head, and they continued.

"You're a better person than me, then. I'm about half sure that if I were the head of the case, I would have broken protocol about three murders ago."

"You broke protocol when you started stalking Malfoy," Ron said, one eyebrow raised. He couldn't help the slightest of smirks going over his expression. Harry gave a full-belly laugh.

"I guess you're right. Oh, the wand's going to the right, now. Let's turn."

Ron felt a dull ache in his chest. When was the last time Harry and I had a half-normal conversation?

Not since Harry accused George of murder. Ron soured. 

He had to admit, though, he missed his best mate. Yes, he was stupid and forgot to use his brain when matters were close to him, but he was still his best mate. Ron knew that Harry didn't ever mean anything with malice. Ron would take him back in a heartbeat.

"Hey," Ron began, "Have you been able to get any info out of Malfoy?"

Harry looked concentrated. "Yes, but no.... he's a lot more shaken up from everything than we anticipated, I think. Have you gotten to listen to our interview on Rookwood?"

"Yeah, bloke's scared to go to church. He's not the only one. Hermione is still looking to see if we can use the interviews to override his sanctuary."

"Good. Hopefully, we find something quick. Rookwood might be up to something. Anyway, Draco's, he's... a bit messed up in the head, I think. From the attack. He's got this thing about security, and it's obsessive. auror protection isn't enough for him, not in his mind."

"Only Malfoy would see the saviour of the Wizarding World as 'not enough protection'."

"Yeah," Harry responded, letting out a weak chuckle. He bore a face of concern. "I worry about him."

Ron thought about Harry's words, remembering some of what was going on in his own life. He wondered if it was alright to mention what he thought to Harry.

"Hermione's worried about you." So am I, I just don't get a lot of time to think on it.

Harry's eyes met Ron's. "She is?"

"She's just worried about how detached you've been for so long. She thinks that You protecting Malfoy is just another excuse to stay distant."

Harry's brows furrowed. Ron wasn't quite sure what that look meant.

"She's not the only one," Ron continued.

"Oh." Harry didn't say more. The white noise of the rain became more prominent. They continued to fly for a bit.

Soon, Harry's wand spun to the right. Harry called it out, and they turned. But very quickly, Harry stopped. Ron slowed to a stop beside him, and before he could ask what had happened, he caught a glance of his wand, which was now spinning quite rapidly, unable to find its way anymore.

"Bugger," said Harry. "Let me cast the charm again." He held his wand out, a wordless summoning charm allowing his wand to fly to him.

"Point me," he shouted. The wand began to whirl him around, at first, slowly, then more rapidly. If Harry didn't dispel the charm soon, Ron thought he might get flung from his broom. "Finite!"

Quickly, Harry's broom came to a stop. He held his head to combat dizziness.

"He's put up anti-tracking wards," Ron concluded.

"I don't suppose we can try to disable it? We must be close, no?"

"Haven't the slightest," Ron replied. "But we can disable it." Ron and Harry didn't often take to using the magic that only they were licenced to use as aurors, when there was so much other perfectly good magic out there, but in a situation like this, he didn't find he much cared. Typically, aurors needed advance permission to let off certain magic.

Ron found that he'd be fine with asking for forgiveness, in this case. He held his wand up. "Intrico, Dissolvum."

Harry took the incantation as cue to cast the four-point spell again.

"Point me." His wand whirled him over to his left, and then wobbled in a general direction. "It's not perfect, but he's definitely somewhere this way."

"Let's go, then." 

The two took off, heading straight for wherever the killer and Zabini were.

And they flew and flew.

The rain never let up and despite the impervious keeping them both dry, Ron knew that, for him as well as Harry, the spellwork wasn't doing much for the cold. eventually, though, Harry's wand began to point downwards, though still uneasy.

"Is that it?" Harry shouted, pointing downwards.

"It must be." Harry put his wand away, and they made to land.

They descended, the wind hitting their faces with increased intensity as they approached the ground.

As soon as his feet hit the floor, Ron felt an overwhelming sense of unease. This place, it seemed, was abandoned. The rain was pouring heavily, and it was difficult to see through the dark.

"Lumos," they both cast. Far in the distance, a wooden structure could be spotted, slightly obscured by fog and trees.

"Must be that," Harry said. The two approached with caution. The air was chilly, and the impervious over them was still holding strong.

Slowly, they made their way over. A large, wooden, run-down house emerged into view. The closer they got, the more it appeared that this place had seen its better days. The wood was rotting and the windows were dusty. Ron wondered if anybody had ever lived here. it seemed unlikely.

Ron was the first to walk up to the door. It was closed and seemed heavy, but he wasn't sure he wanted to risk making noise by pushing it open. He turned to Harry, motioning for him to be ready. Harry nodded. Ron held up his wand.

"Alohomora." The lock clicked open. Slowly, and without sound, Ron pushed the door open.

A foul smell hit his nose, and his face contorted. He heard a small gasp come from Harry and knew that he, too, had caught the scent.

He began scanning his surroundings, wand ready to strike.

The room was empty, save for a shackled Blaise Zabini, naked, bloody, and wounded.

"Fuck," Ron cursed loudly. They were too late. He stepped through the threshold of the front door.

"What if he's still alive?”

Ron took in the sight of his body, feeling sick. Zabini’s abdomen had a long vertical slash down its middle from where his intestines were spilling, and his skin looked severely damaged by burns and boils.

"He might be."

"The killer might have been in a rush, knowing we were on his tail. I'll check."

"Okay," Ron said. He watched Harry kneel by Zabini's head, his wand running over his body, the purple light of a diagnostic spell shimmering across.

"Oh, my God!"

"Is he alive?" Ron asked, his heart leaping to his throat.

Just then, Zabini gasped, eyes opening wide as he looked around frantically. Harry was quick to address.

"Blase Zabini, you're safe now. My name is Harry Potter. I'm here with Ronald Weasley. We are aurors. You're safe now. We are going to transport you to St. Mungo's hospital."

Chapter Text

Draco and Astoria were strolling along Daigon in the late evening. The streets were sparsely populated, and for that they were glad. It meant they could relax and truly focus on each other's company. After a delightful meal at a newly opened French restaurant, their stomachs were pleasantly stuffed and their hearts were warm with joy. The fresh breeze tousled Draco’s hair as they walked, but he couldn’t seem to care, relishing in Astoria’s presence soaking up the peace of the evening.

They spoke of everything and nothing at all, simply happy to be near each other. Time seemed to slow down as they walked. Draco looked to Astoria, taking in her features; her soft, brown hair and green eyes, a round face, and her beautiful lips.

A flash of white light and a shutter sounded. The two looked towards the other side of the street to catch a glimpse of a reporter running down a corner..

"I hope they got a good shot," Astoria said with a chuckle. Draco couldn’t help but smile at that.

"You're okay with them snooping like that?"

"It's not like they'll hurt us by writing about us walking down a street. We're better than the rubbish The Prophet publishes, anyway." Draco stopped their walking, then. Astoria said something, but Draco didn't hear her, as the beauty of her face pulled him in, making the rest of the world fuzzy. He leaned in, hand cupping her cheek. Then, in an instant her face was different. It was more bronze and less fair, more... structured. Draco was still leaning closer, though. As their lips connected, he tilted to move Harry's glasses out of the way. A hand landed on his shoulder-

"Draco, I need you to get up."

Draco blinked, mind hazy. Then, all at once, a million dots were connected in his head. His heart lept to his throat, pounding wildly. 

In my room. Someone is in my room, someone. I’m dead. I’m dying. I’m dead.

I thought the door was locked. 

“-did you hear? I need to go-” 

Draco couldn’t breathe, though, let alone listen. His mind kept racing ahead of him, making him unable to process the scene in front of him. 

“-Auror Dawlish-”

He began to scramble out of the sheets, trembling violently. He shook his head, trying desperately to gain his bearings. It was too dark for him to see through his haze.

“Draco? Hey, it’s just me. Bollocks, I didn’t mean to startle you so much.” 

Two hands grabbed at his shoulders. 

“Breathe for me. Breathe. Everything is alright… it was just a dream.” 

Dream? 

He dreamt of Harry… or Astoria. He dreamt…

“I need to leave. Something is going on with the case. I’ve called Auror Dawlish to watch you while I go work. 

Just then, Draco recognized Harry as the figure in front of him. He was clothed in the scarlet red and black of his auror uniform. Draco took a deep breath. Harry will keep me safe, he can.

“Harry,” 

“Yes. It’s me, Harry. I… I need to go, now, okay? As soon as Auror Dawlish arrives.”

Draco nodded. Harry moved his hands, but Draco stopped them. He didn't want Harry to go, not yet. Not like this. Draco needed him.

"Can't you wait for Dawlish?"

"I am," Harry responded. He kept his hands on Draco's shoulders, and Draco found the feeling comforting, now that he could properly process it. His heart rate gradually began to calm. "I can't leave you alone. Something is going on with the case."

"What is it?"

"Ron's detection wards went off on a warehouse. He's gone to the site alone. That's all I know."

Draco was still a bit shaken. He chose against responding. 

"I'll be back as soon as I can... I'm sorry to have woken you, I just... it's part of protocol. And I also thought it was just nicer, that way, making sure you're aware. You can go back to sleep. It’s the middle of the night, now.

Draco nodded, though he wasn't sure he'd be able to sleep any time soon.

"Okay," Draco said.

"Okay."

They looked at each other for a moment. Draco felt as though something should be done, but he couldn't fathom what. His mind drifted back to what he'd been dreaming. These green eyes were the same as those he'd just imagined, the bronze skin, the structured face...

A fearsome crack of apparation sounded, followed by the dull thud of footsteps. A middle-aged man with mousy hair and blue eyes made himself visible from Draco's bedroom door.

"You can go now, Potter."

Harry looked behind him and stood upright. The feeling of his hands leaving Draco's shoulders made cold rush across his body.

"Thanks, Dawlish. Sorry to wake you."

"Ah, it's no issue. It's what we signed up for, isn't it? All part of the job." 

Harry nodded and gave a small smile. Then, his gaze met Draco's again. "I'll be back."

"Bye,"

And with a final look, Harry was gone. He stayed gone for hours upon hours.

Draco closed the door and locked it several times before he was able to go back to bed, and even then it was difficult to go to sleep. Not only because of the slowly mounting anxiety over what on earth was going on that made Harry leave, but also the whirlwind that was his previous dream.

Astoria... Harry.

Draco swore that it must be some grotesque mixture of grief and loneliness. He hoped that was all it was. 

But when he did fall into brief fits of sleep, his dreams were plagued with blood, pain, loss, warmth... and those green eyes.

At another point in the dark night, Draco awoke after a particularly startling nightmare detailing what occurred to him while shackled to a cold stone floor, bleeding, delirious-

Where is your wand? 

Draco scrunched up his face, blinking. Why am I thinking of my wand?

You need to put your wand on your nightstand. Otherwise you can’t save yourself if the murderer appears. 

The thought was odd, but it stirred something like dread and fear into Draco’s gut, and suddenly, he needed to know exactly where his wand was. Now . 

I will die if I don’t keep my wand close.

He found it quickly, of course. In his nightstand drawer. Not much further than where he wanted- no, needed- to put it now. He grabbed it and put it on the nightstand. The action calmed something in his mind, in his gut. He felt less in-danger now. He went back to sleep.

He woke up again when pale yellow light was flitting though his windows, feeling frustratingly unrested. The sun was coming up now. He wondered if Harry might be back.

When he opened his bedroom door, he was met with a tired-looking Auror Dawlish drinking a cup of tea as he sat by the front door. Draco closed his bedroom door again.

Why hasn't Harry come back yet? What happened last night?

Who’s died?

Draco passed Dawlish, going for the kitchen, where an array of freshly baked sweets sat on a tray under a stasis charm.

I was supposed to go to church today, he remembered. Can I even go, now that Harry is gone? Can Dawlish take me? Would I even be okay with that?

Draco quickly decided that he did not want to share this personal part of his life with Auror Dawlish, nor did he want to risk going out when there was a situation that deemed it unsafe for him to be alone even for a bit, like he has been before.

Draco sighed. He would just have to miss the service. From the other room, he heard Auror Dawlish clear his throat accompanied by the creaking of the chair he'd been sat on.

"Malfoy, How're you doing?"

Draco didn't answer immediately. He stayed with his back facing away from the dining area. He moved to prepare himself a tea.

"Fine," he responded. As he scanned his looseleaf supply to determine what he wanted to brew, he wondered: He might as well take advantage while Dawlish was here. "Do you know why what's going on? How long until Harry comes back?"

"Not sure. But the fact that he hasn't returned means he's working. If the situation had been resolved, he would have returned by now."

Draco nodded, then, remembering Dawlish couldn't see him, "Right."

"Must be scary, being the only survivor. We're all a bit surprised he hasn't gone after you again."

"As am I," he responded, tension pulling his shoulders taut. 

 "You know, back in my day, it was a lot harder to do your job. I was an auror before and during the second war."

Draco made polite conversation with Dawlish for the next half hour before his mind began to trail back to Harry and to the murderer. He eventually excused himself to do some cleaning around the flat. It was the only way he reckoned he would be able to get his mind off of things. He cleaned and organised the kitchen, mopped floors, swept, vacuumed, changed his sheets, and did laundry. A few times, his brain would remind him of the danger outside his flat, taunt him with death threats until he ensured that the wards were up, that Dawlish was alert, and his doors were locked.  Eventually, the morning bled into the afternoon, and cleaning was slowly becoming less and less effective of a distractor for him.

He decided, then, to attempt to read. He grabbed a book and headed for the living room, sitting on the sofa and opening it.

He couldn't concentrate, though. He couldn't stop wondering about all of the things that could be going wrong, and his gaze kept trailing to the door of his flat. You should check the door. The killer could be on his way, being invited in by your negligence as you sit here.

Part of him wished that Harry hadn’t gone running into the face of danger in the middle of the night. He didn’t appreciate the nagging feeling that Harry might not come back in one piece afterwards. 

It was around one in the afternoon when Harry apparated straight into the living room, looking absolutely wrung out, his hair windswept, and his entire body just a bit dirty. He sighed.

"Thanks, Dawlish, you can go."

The two exchanged pleasantries, and Dawlish even bade Draco a farewell, but all Draco could think was Harry is alive, and he's back . Things might just be okay.

As soon as Dawlish was gone, Harry allowed his shoulders to sag, just a bit. He looked like he wanted to just be done with the situation.

"Get dressed quickly. Blaise Zabini was attacked, and he's alive. He wants to see you." 

—-------

Standing outside Blaise's hospital room door, Harry was hesitant to enter, as well as to let Draco enter. He wasn't sure the sight would be very good, if the memory of his mangled body was anything to go off of. As Draco put his arms out to push the door open, Harry put a hand on his shoulder.

"Er... Just so you know, he might not look the way you remember him," Harry said. He found himself not quite liking the idea of Draco having to see the effect his murderer has on a friend of his. Really, he was trying hard to ignore the urge to shield him from all that was happening around him.

"How bad is it?"

"Pretty bad," he responded.

After a moment, Draco gave a single nod, blinking as he steeled himself. He pushed the door open.

Blaise was lying half-lucid on the hospital bed, looking small and frail. The skin on his face was badly damaged and heavily scarred, and Harry knew that under the sheets were several magically healed gashes that stopped him from immediate death. He had a sickly yellow tinge to him. Ron was in a corner of the room, writing something down on a notepad. Harry decided to join him, giving Draco some space to see his friend.

"How're you holding up?" Ron asked quietly, still scribbling on the pad. "I got his memories in a vial, but it's fragmented. He's still very weak. The mediwitches want to properly heal him with magical surgery as soon as they find an available surgeon. They just left.

"I'm bloody knackered. Dunno how you've still got the composure to act professionally... Is he even lucid enough to properly give permission to take his memories?"

"Dunno, but I asked him clearly and I recorded it with a surveillance charm. We should be fine… Do you reckon he's even aware that Malfoy is next to him?"

That made Harry turn his attention to the scene in front of him. Blaise was lying down, his eyes glossed over and moving left and right. It looked like he was trying to speak.

"Mmh… Draco?"

"Blaise," Draco responded, his voice strained. He had a look of manufactured composure to him. Harry found himself wishing that he could see a more honest version of Draco, not this steel-expression and strings pulling him together.

"He wants to kill us all," Zabini croaked. "He kept trying to get- information-" Zabini's words were cut off by violent coughing and wheezing. Draco gestured for him to relax.

"I know."

"I hurt him."

At this, Harry's ears perked up. Ron was paying close attention, as well.

"What did you do?" Draco's tone was careful.

"Scatched him in the eye, almost got his hood... Draco, the killer..."

The room went silent. Blaise was moving still, though barely.

"Killer's..."

The silence was thick.

"Blaise?" Draco was leaning closer to the Blaise, nearly off of his seat. "What is it?"

"Hogwarts alum... Voldemort..."

The room grew silent once again, until the room flashed blue. Alarms began blaring, coming from every direction. In an instant, healers stormed through the door of the room, ushering Draco, Harry, and Ron out.

"What's going on?" Harry yelled over the noise, trying to get his voice through the chaos. One of the Mediwitches, however, had turned back around and was already closing the door behind her.

Harry and Ron both reached for the door handle simultaneously. The door would not budge.

"Bugger," Ron exclaimed. "It's charmed shut."

"Is he dying?" Harry asked, though to nobody in particular. Through the tiny door window, the healers were already rushing around the room, a flurry of activity, shouting spells and orders that could not be heard.

"They won't let us in, anyway. We can't do anything, now. Let's just hope that things will turn out alright." Ron sighed, turning around. Harry turned to do the same, catching sight of Draco, standing further into the hallway, expression unreadable. Harry’s brows furrowed. What’s going on in his head, right now?

Harry didn't say anything, though.

"Let's go," Ron said, walking past him and down the hall. Harry gave Draco one more glance before following. Draco turned to follow them to the waiting room without Harry having to signal to him. He supposed that was a good sign, if nothing else.

They spent forty minutes in silence in the waiting room before a mediwitch came to break the news. Blaise Zabini died due to complications from his injuries.

"We tried everything we could."

Draco did not react save for his lips, forming a thin line across his gravely pale face.

Ron stood, gesturing for Harry to follow him to a nearby corner.

"I'll write up the report. You go on out with Malfoy. I know it's not safe for him to be out long anyway. You'll see everything duplicated into the shared file in a few hours. I'll also follow up on Mordecai and see if we have anything regarding the tool roll."

The trip back to Draco's flat was quiet. The rain now had reduced itself to merely a drizzle for what felt like the first time in days. However, given the still-too-dark look of the sky and the whipping wind, Harry knew it was bound to get colder and wetter in due time.

As soon as they reached the flat, Harry felt his shoulders sag. He wished, not for the first time since the radiator broke, that he could feel something other than bone-deep cold. Having flown hours at night in the rain certainly hadn't helped. This was too much for even heating charms on his clothes to erase.

“I didn’t go to church, today.” 

Harry blinked, the tiredness heavy in his eyes. He turned to Draco, who was stood in front of the entrance door. He had yet to make a move to lock it.

"Sorry," he responded. "I know you look forward to that."

Draco didn't respond. He reached over to the door's lock, holding the deadbolt knob between his thumb and forefinger. The air in the flat fell stale. Harry watched as Draco, more slowly than he ever saw before, locked the front door. His fingers did not leave the knob after he did that, his gaze fixated on his grip.

"Do you think Blaise had his doors locked?

The question caught Harry off guard.

"I don't know," was all he could say. the words vanished into the cold air of the flat as he said it.

"What about the others? Pansy, Goyle... Theodore?"

Harry didn't respond. He felt an uncomfortable knot form in his gut, like a sense of dread was creeping up his spine.

"If he's Hogwarts alum, and he has a grudge against Slytherins... he may have not liked Voldemort very much, either."

Harry took a step towards Draco. He hadn't taken a moment to really think about what he'd heard Zabini say in the hospital. He supposed Draco's guess made a lot of sense.

"Is that what you think Blaise had been trying to say?"

Draco didn't answer. Harry watched as his hand changed from holding the deadbolt knob to gripping the doorknob. He tried to force the door open a few times, then he made for his fingers to ghost over the deadbolt knob. He then tried again to force the door open, before going again to the deadbolt knob. He forced the locked position, before unlocking and locking it again. Harry waited for a response. Draco tried forcing the door open again. After seemingly an eternity, though Harry knew it can't have been more than a moment, Draco's shoulders slumped, and he turned, leaning against the door, eyes closed. Harry inched closer. Draco's face was weary.

"...Draco?"

"I think... I'd like to be alone, for a while."

Harry nodded, though he knew Draco didn't see it. Draco, as though having actually awaited Hary's response, heaved himself from the door, going to his room. Harry heard the sound of his bedroom lock a few times, before the entire flat fell utterly silent.

Chapter Text

Every evening in the shower, Draco looks at them. He feels them, too. He doesn’t like how they tingle when he pays attention to them, but when he runs them under hot water, when he puts pressure on them with his hands, it helps him remember that everything is still real. It’s grounding. They are ugly. They are scars that remind him of everything constantly. They remind him of war. Of torture and pain, of loss, of near-death and regrets.

Draco doesn’t quite know how to describe or explain it to himself, but sometimes, he needs the sensation of almost-pain on the largest scar- across his stomach- for no reason other than to stop it from spontaneously itching. At least, he supposes it would nearly hurt, if it weren’t for the fact that a bit of his scar tissue holds no sensation. Any attempt at making his stomach feel like his stomach again only resulted in a dull and deep ache accompanied by a disconnect somewhere deep inside of him, as though his nerves were straining to function and mostly failing. 

And then there’re the two long scars along his left forearm. They aren’t nearly as deep. They only appear as pale-pink indents, distorting his sickly faded dark mark minorly where the thin lines pass over it. Part of him was surprised that the killer hadn’t tried reopening his older wound. Part of him was glad for it, if it meant marring the dark mark more. 

He wishes he could remember attaining the biggest of his scars, but he doesn't. No matter how hard he tries, all he can remember between lengthy periods of blacking out and blinding pain was milder injuries accompanied by intense questioning and preaching of the morals he lacked. He remembers his body feeling so awfully, grotesquely wrong...

He wonders if, perhaps, his dark mark was the reason for it all. No- he knows it is.

He wishes it were gone. 

He wishes he didn’t have to think about it, but he does, no matter how hard he tries to distract himself by cleaning or baking or reading...

Every time he goes to get dressed or bathe, he sees them. When he eats, his stomach becomes unsettled. When he cleans, Muggle chemicals sting his fingertips more than the rest of his hand. When he bakes or uses his wand, his hands tremble. When he showers, the hot water hits everything, making itself known in his mind. Sometimes, his brain will randomly just remind him of them, as if it were some amusing game to do so.

Draco hates his scars. He wants to cut them out. He doesn't like the way they feel or look. He doesn't want them. He wants, more than most things, for them to be gone.

But no magic can fix what has been done to him. Otherwise, St. Mungo's would have already taken care of it. And cutting out the scars will only create more. The only ones he appreciates are the ones on his left arm. Those are the only ones that fill him to the brim with an odd mix of sickness and palliation every time he thinks of them.

Now, standing under the too-hot water, doing all he can to stop thinking about Blaise, to just forget about him, to distract from what happened, he thinks that, perhaps, it's worth trying to ruin the dark mark some more, pay for his mistakes, show that he wishes, more than anything, to remove that part of his life from him.

It took Draco another twenty minutes to work up the confidence to do it.

He’d gotten himself out of the shower and dressed himself, then began pacing his room. Of course, his aim is not to die. No, he'd already been close to that enough times to know he didn't want to. At least, not like that, not while he’s aware of what's happening. Eventually, he kneeled on the floor, taking deep breaths.

A carefully measured slicing charm and a steady hand were all he needed. A cut just deep enough to scar and ruin his mark. He'd done it once before, and he'd survived as much twice before. This wouldn't be difficult. All he needed to do was steady himself.

Deep breaths.

He held his wand up and watched as he trembled. Bloody nerves. All he needed to do was be steady for a moment. Only a moment.  

He felt the sensation of unnaturally open again. He would never find comfort in that twisted feeling.

Blood beaded on his skin. I need to scar. He willed the spell to cut deeper. With a start, he realised the feeling of tightness in his chest. His head began to hurt, and his breathing became irregular as he tried to focus on the task at hand.

Deeper . 

He let the spell continue longer, the cold pale light of his magic slowly ripping at his skin, just to make sure. But, as the blood flowed from him, dark, warm and viscous, he became lightheaded.

That’s enough.

He pulled his wand back, staring down at his, now very red and warm, forearm. He could barely see his mark, now. The whole situation was achingly familar.

It wasn't until he took note of his severe lack of awareness and the need to manually focus his eyes (which was taking more and more effort) that he realised he may have cut too deep. It seemed he hadn’t been able to remain steady enough. 

Draco knew that somewhere, in the back of his head, he was very, very alarmed. His arm stung unpleasantly and the feeling of unnatual openness was perhaps much worse to experience all over again than he expected. That, coupled with the fact that there was now blood on the floor, and a deafening ringing in his ears, told him that he had made a grave mistake. The edges of his vision were going black and fuzzy. He seemed incapable of reacting. Distantly, Draco heard a thud.

He blinked.

He couldn't keep his eyes open, though. At least, that was what it felt like. The world was suddenly much darker. He began to get warmer. His whole body vibrated, static spreading everywhere. His arm began to sting more. He continued to blink, some corner of his brain begging for him to percieve his surroundings.

Then, he vomited.

All at once, his vision returned to him. A rush of feeling came through his body. His heart had been hammering wildly against his chest and his breathing was rapid. My body was fighting to keep me alive.

"-You hear?! Never again, you fucking arse- "

Harry?

Draco had not been prepared for his voice. Or the volume of it.

"H-Harry?" He asked weakly, vision focusing on the figure of his bright green eyes.

"What the fuck were you thinking, Draco? What- " Harry's eyes met his, and it was as though time froze.

Draco felt like he could cry, but his head still felt fuzzy around the edges.

"What have you done?"

Draco couldn't help but feel the tears coming on. He looked down. His arm was no longer open, or red. What blood had poured out was gone. He could see a bright, angry pink line swelling across his mark. The magic of the mark worked to make itself as visible as it could, though it was less apparent than it had been before Draco cut himself. He felt a hand on his cheek, compelling him to look back up.

"Why?" Harry's voice was softer, now.

Draco tried to speak, but his brain would not allow him to find words. His chest ached something awful as his breath trembled.

Instead of words, some infantile, warbled, strangled sound escaped him instead. Harry brought his arms around him, holding Draco's head to his chest. Draco felt himself shudder.

"It's okay. You're okay, now. Everything is okay."

Chapter Text

After returning from St. Mungo’s, after Draco had excused himself and retreated to his room, Harry couldn’t help but sag with the weight of exhaustion. Something in the back of his mind told him that he should make an effort to check of Draco was okay. He was behaving abnormally, and Harry didn’t fault him for it. But, Harry knew he wouldn’t be of much help in the state he was in- cold, weary, feeling defeated, and with a steadily strengthening headache. He sank into his unmade couch-transfigured-bed and tugged off his clothes. He fell asleep to the sound of the shower running. 

Harry rushed into the wooden shack, following closely behind Ron. He stopped abruptly at the sight before him. Zabini’s skin was splotchy with pink and red blistering burns. Along his lower abdomen was a long, deep, and imprecice cut that looked folded open, revealing zabini’s innards. The christogram of his blood was dripping down the wall. Harry felt sick. 

Every time Harry caught sight of the body again, it would be an entirely different one. Astoria Greengrass with crushed limbs, Gregory Goyle with a marred face, Pansy Parkinson with gaping, pink and red gaps where her eyes should have been, Draco, with missing fingers, crushed feet, and gashes pouring blood from his body-

Harry woke with a gasp, sitting up, his breathing erratic. As soon as he regained his bearings, he out his hand to his face, trying to wipe the images from his mind. As he forced himself to settle, swallowing breaths, he noticed his wand- lying haphazardly beside him in his sofa-transfigured-bed- vibrating. It was once briefly, at first, then constant. Harry sat up in bed, trying to come to awareness enough to piece together...

He thought he was wrong- He had to be wrong. His wand was alarming him to harm having come to Draco- paired to him at the start of his protection, it had never gone off. Harry had hoped it never would- he jumped up, taking in his surroundings instantly.

The flat was still.

Socked feet padded over to the front door.

Locked.

Harry held out his hand, accioing a T-shirt and putting it on. He went towards Draco's room, wand at the ready. He knocked.

"Draco?"

Nothing.

The wand vibrating loudly in his hand made dread form a deep, gargling in his stomach. Something was very, very wrong.

Harry put both hands to the door handle and mustered the strongest Alohamora he could muster. The door opened with a start. 

Illuminated by the glow of light filtering in from the rest of the flat, Draco was kneeled on the floor, his left forearm sliced open and limp in front of him. Draco swayed, unfocused.

All at once, Harry was on the floor beside him, wiping at the blood on his arm to clearly see the wound. He held his wand over the wound, feeling Draco sway more. Harry shut his eyes tight in concentration. He worked to recall the rhythm of the spell he was to cast.

"Vulnera Sanentur... Vulnera Sanentur... Vulnera Sanentur..."

When Harry looked again, the gash had knitted itself together, a bright pink, angry line joining two others on the same arm. Harry furrowed his brows.

"Draco-"

Just then, Draco threw up, vomit spilling across the floor and Harry's lap, mixing with his blood into a sickly brown. Harry vanished the sick and the blood just as quickly as it came out, his heart beat in his throat.

"Draco never do that again, you hear?! Never again, you fucking arse- " The words came out in a rush. Harry stopped himself, working to reign in his erratic breaths.

"H-Harry?"

Draco's eyes met his, glassy and wide. Harrte felt a rush of anger and confusion, his mind racing.

"What the fuck were you thinking, Draco? What- " He reeled himself in again, forced himself to breathe . He was of no use to anybody like this. He blinked, swallowing down his heartbeat. He looked Draco in the eyes.

"What have you done?" He asked, more softly, this time, watching as Draco's expression slowly shifted from dazed and confused, to crumpled, exposed. He looked down at his arm. Harry let go of it, letting Draco see what he'd done, giving him the chance to realize...

Harry's head was spinning with questions and concerns. He wanted to demand answers from Draco. He wanted to hold him and never let go. He wanted to scream. His eyes were stinging as they welled up with tears of utter overwhelm. He forced himself to keep his composure. He wanted to do something- anything. But, the sight of the blond man crumbling, his body shaking with the force of his tears, had him completely disarmed. He brought his hand to Draco's cheek, gently compelling him to look up at Harry.

The sight of his grey eyes, lost, distant, made the words on Harry's lips die. Why would you do this to yourself?

"..Why?"

It came out as a whisper, but the recognition in Draco's face told him he needn't repeat himself. His mouth opened as though to speak, but all that could escape him was incomprehensible- the sounds of frightened helplessness. Harry moved to hold Draco against him as he began to cry. Harry's own eyes burned fiercly. He felt the other man tremble in his arms.

"It's okay... You're okay, now. Everything is okay."

"I-I'm- I-... "

"Shh, Draco, shh... We can talk about this later, okay? Just relax. Everything is okay. It's going to be okay."

Draco's breaths shuddered, his body tense in Harry's hold. His fingers clenched into the fabric of Harry's shirt.

"Breathe. Breathe with me, okay?” And though he was able to do it just enough to lead by example, he felt his breaths hitch minutely. Soon, his own face was moist with the tears he’d held back. 

What made him…? 

Harry supposed it was rather dull of him to assume that Draco wouldn’t think to hurt himself. Even moreso when he remembered that, of the other two scars he had had on his left forearm, the healers confirmed that only one had been inflicted during the attack. The realization that the other man had harmed himself once before filled him with a deep sense of guilt. Harry should have known better. Harry had never been the sort of man who could ignore somebody in distress. Not even if it was someone like Draco. Not when the person was the kind of person Draco was becoming, to him. Not when he knew how shite it was to deal with things alone. Harry inhaled deeply, wiping at his face with one hand. He needed to be strong right now. 

"Draco... Do you need anything?" Harry asked. His voice was strained, but overall acceptable. He knew Draco would understand what he said. Draco shook his head, keeping his hold on Harry tight.

"Alright... Please, let me know if you do... I want to stay with you for now, if that's alright."

Draco nodded.

"Okay," Harry assured.

Draco took several moments to compose himself, breathing becoming slightly more controlled. He let go of Harry and sat up, wiping at his face, head down.

"Can I get you anything? Tea, water...?"

"... I'm- fine. I'm sorry, I... wasn't expecting it to turn out this way... I'm fine." Draco huffed, clearly attempting to force his composure despite his whole body trembling. Harry watched him carefully.

"It's alright. But, you're not- You just..."

"I'm fine," Draco stated more firmly. He didn't look at Harry. "Please, don't ask about it. I don't want to talk about it. I-..." Draco sighed.

Harry waited a moment, before nodding. How was he supposed to... not ask? His whole job is to keep Draco safe.

"I just want to be sure that you're safe. I..." I can see that you're not okay. I want to help you. I don't want to see you hurt again. 

Draco turned to him. "I'm sorry," he said.

"It's... It's not your fault. It's alright. I just want to know that you'll be okay." Harry allowed his hand to touch Draco's. The man looked down to where the touch was initiated. Harry pulled back.

"I'll be fine," he replied, quietly.

Harry nodded.

"I'll... get you some water."

“Fine.”

As Harry walked away, his mind raced. He wasn't entirely sure what he was doing or how to navigate the situation. All he knew was that he needed to figure out how it had happened. Once he prepared the glass of water and got it back to Draco, who now stood beside his bed, the two remained silent. Harry wanted to say something, but he didn't know quite what.

"If you-"

"Harry," Draco started, then stopped.

"Yes?"

Draco stared at the floor, jaw tense, as if debating what he was about to say.

"It's not... not what you think it was."

Harry looked at the blond intently.

"Then what was it?"

Draco shook his head. "Not..." 

Harry held his breath, hoping against hope that he would open up to him.

"It... I just needed to... It's fine. I did what I intended to do."

"What did you intend?"

Draco was silent for a few moments, looking down at his arm. “… The scars there distort the dark mark."

Harry furrowed his brows.

"You wanted to hurt yourself, so that your dark mark would look different?"

Draco remained still, his gaze cast to the floor. "Don't make me sound daft..."

"Draco..."

"I just couldn't..." He took a breath. "I couldn't remain steady enough to keep myself safe."

"Hurting yourself isn't ever safe."

Draco closed his eyes.

"I know," he replied.

"Please don't- Don't do that again, okay?" Harry ached with the urge to hold Draco against him once more. He was so ashamed of himself that he actually saw sense in cutting-

"I'm sorry, I... "

"Draco, look... If you need anything, you can tell me. I'll try my best to help... I just don't want to see you hurt."

"It's not about..." Draco huffed. "It's... The Mark... I-" 

Harry watched as Draco's breathing picked up again. He screwed his eyes shut. "It's the closest I'll ever get to being rid of it- and the damned mark is what's got me in this mess in the first place, it's what got every dead person into this mess, my mark- " His breath hitched. " My family's mark- People have died simply because they were associated with me and my mark... " Before Harry could process it all, Draco was crying again.

"Draco..."

" It's my fault, Harry, it's my fault that-"

"It's not."

“ It is, ” he yelled, face red with vehemence. “ Don't you understand?! This is my punishment. This is God's will! " 

“Draco, didn’t we-“

“God wants me dead,” Draco cried. “All I’m trying to do it be better. But He won’t allow it.”

“Draco, no. Listen to me.” Harry’s voice had taken an authoritative tone. Draco startled. “Gods will? He does not have the authority to deem people good or bad, deserving of life or death-“

Draco furrowed his brows. “Yes, he does. God is everything-“

“God is fuck all to me. If God is who we are to follow for all of this, then neither of us are deserving of any good. We’ll go to Hell and rot and suffer forever-“

“You? No you won’t-“

 “Yes,” he responded a bit too loudly. “If God’s will it to be trusted, then I am going to Hell- and so are you- for being magical. For practicing ‘satanic’ magic.”

“What? God doesn’t care about-“

“Tell that to my aunt and uncle, then!” 

Draco fell silent for a moment. Harry knew he was being a bit too passionate about it, and he knew things had derailed quite horribly. The matter was not others’perception of good or bad, it was meant to be about getting Draco to stop hurting himself, but this was too much. He couldn’t very well just stand by and let Draco get caught up in such flawed and harmful thinking-

“Your aunt and uncle sound a bit daft, if I’m being honest.”

“Well, they would punish me, in the name of God.”

And hatred towards my mum and dad, Harry thought distantly, but Draco didn't need to know that. The sentence was out before Harry could think to stop it. 

Draco paused, then, after a few seconds, spoke.

"What?"

Harry swallowed. He didn't enjoy speaking about his relatives. He tended to avoid it whenever possible. Part of him was wondering why he'd let something like that slip so carelessly. Then, he took a look at Draco's face, red and tear-streaked, with bloodshot eyes, a marred arm... and he understood.

He just wants Draco to be okay. Harry will do anything to make him understand that 'God's Will', this arbitrary term with no real definition, only ever used to hurt people... it's no way to determine worth or salvation.

"They... They would punish me. They said it was because I was... bad, evil, vile... Magical."

Draco was still, his breathing quiet. Harry suddenly wanted to change the conversation. He tried his best to hide it in his expression.

"Did..."

"It doesn't matter," Harry got out, steeling himself. He took a breath to remain calm. "The point is... Nobody gets to decide 'God's will'... What even is God's Will? It's certainly not what my aunt and uncle believed... So why does it have to be what a psychopathic murderer believes?"

Draco seemed to contemplate this. He sniffled. "...I don't know."

"Nobody does. Nobody can, because nobody is God."

"But if it's... Harry, you can't possibly deny that I've... I'm an awful person. I've done evil... I..."

"So have I," Harry responded.

"You- You didn't have a choice, you're- "

"Neither did you," Harry stated resolutely.

Draco shook his head. "I had choices. They... were utter bollocks, and I didn't-" Draco swallowed. "I don't deserve... I don't know why I thought I did."

"What is it you think that you don't deserve?"

Draco's silence rang loud in Harry's mind. The atmosphere had stilled and the electric fizzle of earlier's impassioned argument had died. Harry dared to move closer to him. He rested his hand on Draco's shoulder. Draco stiffened.

"Look," Harry began, "You've done awful things. I won't lie about that," Harry paused, thinking. "But... that doesn't change the present. You're trying, now. Hell, I've seen you trying for at least three years, now. I've seen you be better even at the height of a war. You deserve a good life. You deserve to live… You deserve forgiveness."

"I can't just- It doesn't work that way."

"How do you mean?"

"People don't... You can't just forgive things so easily, it doesn't happen. God doesn't seem to feel so easily forgiving."

Harry decided now he would change his tactic a bit. He needed to get through to Draco.

"And how about Jesus Christ?"

Draco remained silent. Harry understood that, in this moment, perhaps it was best to not make Draco answer. He let it go.

"Is there... anything I can do for you?"

Draco was silent still, for another moment, before speaking slowly.

"I am rather hungry," he responded.

"Yeah?"

"Mm," he confirmed. Harry allowed for the faintest of smiles to show on his lips. He gave Draco’s shoulder an affectionate squeeze, then..

"Right. Okay. Would you like to join me in the kitchen?"

Draco nodded.

Chapter Text

Harry realized rather abruptly that, at half-past noon, neither he nor Draco had eaten anything at all through to this moment. He hated missing meals. It was wholly unavoidable and extremely unhealthy. He’d managed to pay attention to all of his hunger cues since the war, eating when he was hungry regardless of the circumstance. Draco went to boil the kettle while Harry looked to see what food he could prepare quickly, so they could eat soon. Harry’s thoughts strayed as he scanned the pantry. The sight of Draco bleeding was not unfamiliar to him, and Harry was finding that fact to be deeply unsettling. A part of him was aching to hold the other man. He never wanted to see him bleed again.

"How did you know to come into my room?" Draco's voice startled him out of his reverie.

"Oh. Uh, the charm,” Harry rescinded, his brows furrowed and he bit his lip with worry. He tried to stop thinking about earlier, instead focusing on the food.

"What charm?"

"It's, er... standard, for protection detail in the auror department. The person being protected has a charm connecting them to their assigned auror's wand. It tells me if you're hurt. Helps me know to check on you."

"I didn't know about that."

"Oh. Sorry. It was in the official paperwork, the offer letters we kept sending you, before you were attacked..."

"Oh." Draco’s gaze was distant, coated with a sheen of some emotion Harry couldn’t quite place. Harry frowned, more aware of his heartbeat than he should be. 

"I was worried that perhaps you... But then I realized that you couldn’t have been taken. So, I decided to go into your room."

"How did you-"

"Just about the strongest unlocking charm I could muster."

"Oh."

The silence that fell between them was tense, and it made Harry slightly uncomfortable. It was an odd situation, and one that he had never faced before. His chest hurt every time he thought about it. He watched as Draco’s gaze fell to the front door. Neither of them said anything about it.

Harry had long realized that he cared about Draco more than was strictly allowed, and had more recently realized that his care and curiosity had evolved into something entirely unprofessional. He figured that, as long as nobody knew, though, he would be fine. He wasn't the lead on the case, anyway. Ron was, and, Harry surmised, caring about Draco only meant he would do his own job with more fervour. So what was the harm? Harry noted when Draco moved from the kitchen to the front of the flat, checking the door for several moments, and going back to the kitchen. He grabbed a kettle to fill it with water, then he put it on the range.

It was moments like this where Harry was acutely aware that he was, indeed, not the lead on the case. Harry felt helpless when it came to Draco, unable to think of what was right or wrong to say or do, unsure of what his boundaries were. All he knew was that he wanted, so badly that it hurt, to be able to treat Draco as a partner, to help him through his problems and comfort him and hold him and...

Harry needed to stop his train of thought before it became a problem.

Harry grabbed some bread and found beans in the pantry. Simple, and fast. Perfect.

As he stuck four slices of bread into Draco's Muggle toaster oven, he spared a glance at Draco, whose fingertips were ghosting over the scars on his left arm.

"Draco?"

He snapped his hand away from his arm, looking up. "What is it?"

"How are you feeling?"

Draco straightened, folding his arms over his chest.

"Fine."

Harry's lips formed a thin line. Draco was making it difficult for him to show care when he consistently builds walls around himself for everything. Harry opened a kitchen drawer, looking for a can opener.

"Do you... want to talk about anything?"

Draco sighed. "Not really."

"Are you sure?"

"You know,” Draco began, taking on a defensive tone, “whenever you close yourself off, I don't pry. Why is it that you can't do the same for me? Or should I press you until you tell me why the fuck I get the sneaking suspicion that you were the subject of child abuse?"

Harry's mouth snapped shut, any response he'd been considering had died in his throat. He snapped the can opener over the lid of the can, twisting.

"That's what I thought," Draco stated.

Harry remained silent, blinking a few times as he breathed, keeping himself as calm as he could. Draco's accusation was ringing loudly in his ears, making Harry's head hurt. Draco was right. Harry's chest was tight. He didn't want to think about it.

He opened the can and disposed of the lid. Then, he took bread out of the toaster and put it on plates. The kettle began to whistle, but Draco made no move to take it off the range.

"I... I'm sorry," Harry stated, face down at the toast on the counter. "I just... I worry about you." The kettle stopped whistling. "And I care about you." Harry heard the sound of the kettle being placed on the counter. "I haven't taken into acount how one-sided it's all been… I've just been worrying about you."

"Why?" Draco asked. Harry couldn't help but think his voice sounded different. He wasn't sure why.

"I... I just do," he responded lamely. "I don't know why."

"Well," Draco stated, "If it makes you feel any better... I appreciate you."

Harry looked up, then, turning to face Draco, who had two tea infusers in mugs of the boiled water. Harry licked his lips.

"Thanks," he responded.

Draco grabbed a nearby spoon and handed it to Harry.

"For the beans." 

 The two of them ate in semi-silence, the air tingling with something Harry couldn't place. Simply looking at Draco made his heart rate increase. The two were sat on opposite sides of the dining table, Occasionally making attempts to speak to each other about one thing or other. Harry watched Draco as he turned to look at the front door a few times without comment.

'Say," Harry began, swallowing his last bite of toast. "We should decorate for the holidays."

"What?" Draco was in the middle of taking his own bite of beans on toast, mouth full.

"I mean, yesterday, when we spoke about it, you said you don't tend to celebrate because you're always alone. But now..."

Draco raised an eyebrow. "You think he may not be caught before the holidays?"

"I- well... Even if he is, I think it would be rather dull of us both to pretend we aren't at least agreeable towards each other, now. We could do a little bit of celebrating together."

"That's... very thoughtful of you," Draco replied, eyes averted. "But it's really alright. I don't need... I'll be okay without all that."

"But that doesn't mean it wouldn't be nice," Harry tried. He caught a glance down at Draco's arm. "Maybe a bit of cheer is what we need around here." Harry was worrying his lips, nervous for a reason he couldn't quite place. "I mean," he began, "It's dark and stormy in the middle of the day for about the fourth time in a row." He let out a weak chuckle.

"I suppose that's true," Draco replied. "We might as well make the best of it."

Harry smiled, happy that Draco agreed.

"Brilliant," Harry exclaimed with a clap. "I'll transfigure something into a Christmas tree, then." And he could have sworn he saw Draco hiding a smile behind a sip of tea. 

The next few hours were spent making arrangements around the living room, decorating a Christmas tree which Draco transfigured out of a stool after watching Harry warp it into a tall, green bit of spikes that in no way qualified to be a tree “I was always pants at transfiguration, give me a break”. 

Harry insisted that they decorate as muggle as possible, striking up some festive music and conjuring any decorations he could think of. Draco looked at him incredulously, though he was struggling to hold back a smile as he set his wand down and joined Harry in sifting through all that had been conjured.

The two quickly discovered that neither of them were any good at decorating, between Draco always having had his home decorated for him and Harry not minding the intricacies of which coloured bauble belonged where. They worked together to hang up the baubles, with Harry teaching Draco how they get hooked onto the tree and Draco keeping his eye for decorative placement. They laughed together, and it felt good.

It was later, while they sat on the couch together, looking on at their decorative work, the warm glow of fairy lights and hot tea providing comfort and a sense of almost-peace, that Harry spoke. 

“You’re right, by the way.” Draco turned to look at him, silver eyes reflecting the small lights.

Harry had been nervous about saying it. Really, he’s spent the majority of the time decorating switching between enjoying his time with Draco and debating whether he should share these things with him. 

“About earlier, what you said… you were right.”

Draco took a moment to respond. Harry thought he might be remembering what he said earlier. He fought the urge to look away as Draco’s expression sobered. 

“Your Muggle relatives?” 

Harry nodded. Draco was quiet again.

Harry steeled himself, trying to organize his mind, to figure out how to speak. He knew that he should. He and Draco were in an odd spot, together. Harry knows things about Draco, is still learning about Draco, in ways nobody else does. The least he could do was return the favour. Draco deserved that, at least.

Harry took a deep breath.

"I'm sure you know, like everyone else, that I was sent to live with them after my parents were killed," Harry began. He couldn’t quite bring himself to look at Draco.

"My aunt was my mum's sister, but they never had a good relationship. And then I was just plopped onto their doorstep by Dumbledore." Harry saw Draco nod through his periphery. "Well... When I was a baby, they were already a little..." Harry swallowed.

"They were pricks," Harry let out a ruefull chuckle. "And then, as I grew, it quickly became apparent that I was magical, and they... panicked, I guess." Harry bit his lip. "I lived in their cupboard under the stairs. I'd get locked in there for having bursts of accidental magic, and for being any sort of imperfect, really." Harry suppressed a shiver, thinking about his cupboard, the dark stretches of imperceivable time during which he'd be trapped, cold and hungry. "They also took a liking to hitting me, when they wanted." Memories of being dragged, thrown, strangled, and swung at flashed through his mind. "And they made sure I knew that I deserved it... called me a freak, a waste of space... And they loved to remind me that I was going to Hell, for being different." A wave of emotion rushed over Harry, his face flushing. He spared a glance towards Draco, who was watching him with wide eyes. Harry swallowed. "It's fine now, though. Haven't seen them since the war began, and... It's just fine, now."

Harry heaved a breath, finding it more and more difficult now to keep his composure. Talking about it was bringing back memories that he'd done well to ignore and forget about for the better half of 15 years. He'd never told anyone and never planned on it- not even Ron or Hermione, though he was half-sure that they might have figured it out already. His chest tightened and his breathing became more difficult to keep steady. He realized that part of him might be scared for Draco's reaction.

Harry dared look directly at Draco, who looked pensive, sorting out how to respond.

"I... I'm so sorry."

Harry felt a twinge of guilt at the look in Draco's eyes.

"No- please, don't-"

"You deserved better than that."

"I don't like pity," Harry said, his expression stern.

"It's not pity," Draco countered. "I'm saying it as a fact. Nobody deserves that."

Harry's expression softened. He bowed his head.

"And, for what it's worth... Why would God damn the magical when he himself was magical? His power is nothing short of magic."

Harry found the corners of his lips upturning. "Wait'll my relatives hear…" he found himself saying.

"They'll be scandalized," joked Draco. Harry let out a breath of a laugh.

"Well, anyway," Harry said, feeling oddly lighter, "You can see why I never got into religion, much."

"How could you when what you were taught about it was complete rubbish?"

"Well," Harry started. "You've sort of been saying the same things, just differently... Why would God damn you if you're following his and Christ's path to forgiveness?"

Draco's brow furrowed.

"You're a good man, Draco. I can see it. And I can't say what God will do, but I can see that you are trying."

Draco met Harry's eyes.

"And I've seen people who are bad. People who are worse. And they've done nothing to redeem themselves. They aren’t even interested in it."

Draco was silent. Harry watched his face, taking note of every detail, his sharp nose, his thin, pale lips, and his silvery eyes... Harry abruptly realized that he and Draco were closer to each other than he remembered. When did we get so close? His heart skipped a beat. He swallowed.

"I can't speak for God, Draco. But... I forgive you. For everything."

Draco's eyes searched his face. "Really?"

Harry nodded.

"Yeah," he whispered, voice hoarse.

"Harry..."

Harry couldn't help himself. His gaze was pulled downward, to Draco's lips. They looked so soft. His chest tightened. His hand moved to gently rest against Draco's face.

"Draco..."

Harry's pulse was roaring in his ears.

Slowly, he leaned forward. Draco's eyes fell shut. Harry felt Draco's breath ghosting his skin.

Just as the two were close enough to brush their lips together, Draco jolted backwards.

"No," he uttered, getting off the sofa. Harry's hand fell limply to the seat. He was staring at the other man, eyes suddenly wide, the realization of what almost happened rushing through him.

"I-I'm sorry, I can't- I just can't." Draco's voice was thick with emotion. Harry's face felt hot. His stomach was tied into knots.

"No, I.. I'm sorry,” countered Harry, feeling frantic. “I don't know what I was thinking..." Harry pressed his hands against his face, the cold of them burning against his flaming cheeks. He watched as Draco retreated from the couch. "Draco I... I'm sorry- I didn't-"

"No, no, it's- I'm fine," he choked out.

"I'm so sorry," Harry managed, his throat tight.

"This isn't real." he responded, his voice wavering. He was trembling.

"I- What? Draco-"

"This isn't- No." Draco held out his arms as if to keep distance between them. Harry stayed back, worried about frightening the man. His heart was in his throat. He swallowed hard.

"Draco," he tried, his voice trembling, "I-I'm sorry..."

"It's okay, it's..." Draco walked backwards towards his bedroom. "It's... I'm just- I'm going to go to bed."

Harry was at a loss. everything had almost happened... so quickly. Why had he even allowed himself to- I messed up . "I... Okay."

Draco had his hand on his bedroom door, now. Harry couldn't help but catch sight of Draco's left arm. 

"Wait-" Draco paused at Harry's request. "I..." Harry's mind scrambled. "I... are you okay? I mean... With your... I just... You'll be okay?"

Draco's expression shifted marginally, and Harry wished he understood it. Draco nodded.

"I'll be okay."

And somehow, Harry knew it to be true.

"Okay," he responded, nodding. Draco opened his door. "Sleep well, then," Harry managed.

"Goodnight."

The thud of Draco's door closing made Harry flinch, and the sound of the locks made him wince.

Chapter Text

Draco’s mind was reeling. 

He collapsed onto his bed face-first, knocking the air out of his lungs in the process. His whole body was electric with what almost happened, his face burning as the memory of Harry’s breath ghosting across his lips ingrained itself into his skin. 

That was almost…

No. It was real . Yet, at the same time, it wasn't.

He had to force himself to stop thinking about it. It's not true . It's a terrible yet intoxicating amalgamation of his loneliness and their isolated cohabitation. That's all. It's not real.

The fact that it would be a terrible idea in any circumstance didn't make the fact that it was actually happening sting any less.

Draco's heart was racing. If Potter wasn't going to keep his head about this, then Draco had to be the one to do it, no matter how much his body was currently screaming at him for having stopped it.

Draco groaned, rolling over onto his back. He took a deep breath, exhaled slowly, then repeated the process a few times until he felt slightly calmer. His brain kept imagining what it would have been like if they'd actually kissed, or what it might be like if he marched out of his room, perhaps grabbing Harry by the shirt and-

No .

Draco shifted in bed, trying to make his pants comfortable again.

What is Harry thinking right now?

He was probably kicking himself, Draco thought, since he had jerked back as if stunned, leaving Harry confused and apologetic. Draco sighed, pressing his palms to his face. The last thing he needed was something like this to happen between him and Harry, or anybody else, really. He had too much shit spinning around in his brain for something as stupid as interhuman relationships to get mixed in with it all.

And yet, a part of him had felt excited, for a moment. He was almost touched, that Harry cared so much about him- that Harry was clearly into him.

He shook his head, clearing his thoughts.

Even if Harry was developing feelings, such as Draco was, it didn't change the severity of the situation, and the fact that Draco absolutely could not let himself fall for the tricks his mind was playing on him.  Draco spent the rest of the evening in his room, trying and failing to get any decent sleep, and the next morning, while brewing tea, he faked impassivity while Harry- dressed in his scarltet auror uniform and shifting constantly in his spot and wringing at his hands- explained that he had to meet Weasley and Berrycloth at the ministry, on account of having processed evidence from the previous day's crime scene.

"I'll be back as soon as I can, er... Dawlish is going to watch you again, while I'm gone."

Draco relaxed marginally at the information that he wouldn't have to spend the next few hours avoiding Harry, since the case was doing that for him. However, that did mean that he'd be beckoned to sit with a cuppa to hear about 'the old days' when things were different in the auror department.

"Will there be anything else?"

"No," Harry answered. "No, just... Just stay safe, and call if you need me."

"Alright."

The two spent the next several minutes awaiting Auror Dawlish's arrival in tense and awkward silence, and Draco wished he didn't find himself absently staring at Potter (while realizing that he was staring right back). The moment he arrived, Potter was out the door as quickly as possible, with rushed goodbyes and tired pleasantries.

"I'm sorry for your loss," was one of the first things Auror Dawlish told Draco as he settled into a chair, his blue eyes fraught with pity and a frown making the lines on his face more pronounced.

Draco spent the rest of the time cleaning his flat. He would not be affected by his fucked up brain, and all of the consuming, drowning thoughts it would throw at him. Auror Dawlish had acknowledged him with a simple “ah, cleaning day?” and a chuckle. Draco ignored him. 

His cleaning was thorough and harsh. He spent his time ensuring his flat was absolutely spotless- he swept, dusted, vacuumed, mopped, organised, washed, scrubbed, and wiped, cleaning chemicals burning at the skin of his hands, his eyes aching and head pounding from exhaustion. 

Cleaning only served as a minor reprieve, though. Nothing compared to what he needed to stop the carousel of haunting thoughts that his brain was stuck in. Astoria, Harry, Blaise, the door, his arm and scars; over, and over, and over.

Draco was on his knees scrubbing the bathroom’s tile walls when he heard Harry return. He listened as they exchanged quick words and as Auror Dawlish finally left. Then, the flat went mostly silent, save for small movements Harry would make. Draco focused on scrubbing, fixating on the fizz and bubbling of the cleaning products changed the color of the grout between the tiles from nearly black to light grey. 

Footsteps began to echo across the flat, the slow thud of boots vibrating across the floor and to Draco’s knees, reminding him of how sore they were becoming from all of the kneeling. They came nearer, and absently, Draco hoped Harry was not about to approach him. He sprayed more cleaner, the pungent smell burning his nostrils, making his head hurt and his eyes sting. He continued to scrub. 

Draco heard as the footsteps came closer, and became clearer, until they stopped. He could feel the presence of the other man in his tiny bathroom, standing by the doorway. Draco felt a shiver run down his spine. 

Scrub, scrub, scrub, scrub. 

There was an uncomfortable silence, a tension so palpable that Draco thought it may choke him. He didn't dare turn to look at Harry. He couldn't. He didn't want to think about things. He didn't want to give his thoughts the power to drown him if he so much as slowed down.

"I'm back."

Scrub, scrub, scrub, scrub.

"How long have you been cleaning?"

Scrub, scrub, scrub, scrub.

"Er, maybe you should take a break... Dawlish said you've been at it nearly the whole time I was gone. Did you ever have lunch?"

Draco ignored him, continuing his scrubbing.

"...Are you alright?"

Draco sighed, nostrils flaring. Memories of the past day were nagging at him, now. He found himself fighting the urge to feel Harry’s breath so close to him again. He shoved the urge away, zeroing in on a spot that was not cleaning the way the rest of the tiles were, maintaining a grey textured grime, and scrubbing harder. 

"Draco..."

"What?" Draco snapped. He didn't mean for his tone to be as sharp as it was, but it didn't seem as if Harry minded. Draco watched with irritation as Harry took a moment to study him.

"Are you feeling alright?"

Draco huffed. "Why do you keep asking me that?"

"Because I care about you."

There he was again, disarming Draco and tempting him to throw caution to the wind and just let things be...

Harry doesn't care, not really. He thinks he does because he has that stupid Gryffindor heart of gold and he's been stuck with Draco for at least four months, now. But Draco knows better. He knows because he understands what being stuck does to one's mind, understands how things can get mixed up and start to form false meanings.

"You don't really."

Draco felt as though the words were coming out of his mouth automatically, without him thinking to do so. But Harry wouldn't back down, and it needed to be said.

"You know I do..."

Draco turned to look at Harry in time to seeht at his expression had gone soft, and concerned. Draco had the sudden urge to wipe away the downturn of his lips and smooth the worry lines on his forehead. He swept the thoughts away, keeping his expression still. 

"Is this about Blaise? How have you been after that?"

Harry's question had caught Draco thoroughly off-guard. He'd been half expecting that Harry not bring it up, the same way he hadn't brought up the majority of the murders. Draco had begun to wonder if it was against the rules to discuss the victims of an open murder case.

"Blaise?"

"Yeah... I know you were close, and... I'm sure it wasn't great, seeing him the way you had."

A loud clank sounded as the brush Draco had been using fell out of his hand. He blinked, looking down at it. When he turned back to where Harry had been standing, he was startled to see that Harry was now much closer. He was kneeling next to Draco, now, brows knitted together.

"Draco," Harry began, placing his hand on Draco's shoulder. "Are you sure you're okay?"

Draco swallowed. Harry's hand found Draco's shoulder, the touch sending bolts of electricity through him. He did not want Harry to withdraw his hand.

"Draco, I need you to talk to me, please. You can tell me anything. Anything you're feeling, anything you need... Last night was-" 

"No-"

"-Let me finish... I messed up, okay? I shouldn't have... I'm sorry. Really, I am. I won't do that to you again." Harry bit his lip, Draco found himself transfixed by it. "But that doesn't change the fact that I care. I mean- really, really care. And I... I'm here, for you. You can talk to me."

Those words, coupled with the warm, striking green of Harry's eyes burst the shields Draco had been putting up around everything he'd wanted to avoid. He found himself sagging. Cleaning abandoned. Harry squeezed his shoulder affectionately. 

"It's... hard," he found himself saying. Harry was listening intently, his face a mix of concern and care. Draco shut his eyes tight, face down. "I don't know how to talk about it. I don't even entirely know what to talk about..."

"It's okay," Harry replied, his voice gentle.

"I... It's a lot," Draco managed.

"We can work through it, together."

The statement was so absurd, the words so unlike anything that anyone has ever said to him, and yet they filled Draco with a warmth and hope that he had never felt before. The thought of slamming Harry against a wall and kissing him entered Draco's mind again. He felt excitement blooming in his trousers. Draco brushed the thoughts away harshly, urging himself to calm down.

"Okay," Draco found himself whispering, the word sounding more vulnerable than he'd have liked. Harry nodded, smiling.

"Do you... want to talk about things, right now?"

Draco shook his head, then. "No... I'm- not quite there yet."

Harry nodded.

"Whenever you're ready."

Harry squeezed his shoulder again, and Draco leaned into the touch, relishing it. He was sure his body was screaming for the intimacy, for the connection... He was torn as to what to do.

"Thanks," Draco said, his voice coming out hoarse.

He cleared his throat, and Harry removed his hand from his shoulder, taking the warmth with him.

"Do you... want something to eat? I've had a long day, and could use a bite," Harry began.

"Sure," Draco said, allowing a minor smirk to befall him.

"Perfect," Harry stated, a grin breaking out across his face. Draco found himself wanting to make Harry smile more. 

Chapter Text

Harry’s mind was reeling. 

What was I thinking? The feel of Draco’s face in his hand, of their breaths intermingling, the electric fizzle as they nearly…

He can still feel that most minute brush of his lips against his.

Harry should have known not to advance on Draco, the way he did. But he couldn't help himself. Draco's presence had gone past the point of enthralling and was now wholly intoxicating, and Harry had been drawn in, and he couldn't bring himself to escape.

The memory of Draco pushing him away, the way his face looked when he was so close, the way he said "no" was burned into Harry's mind, making his chest tighten with guilt and shame.

And then there was the matter of Draco's arm...

Harry was worried for the man, and it was becoming increasingly clear that Draco had not been as well off as Harry had assumed (and even then, Harry didn't think he was doing well off in the first place). Harry didn't like the fact that Draco had been hurting. It's been difficult enough for Harry, seeing Draco clean when he's stressed, watching him obsess over the doors and drive himself into anxious frenzies over it- it was driving Harry a bit mad. part of him wanted to seize Draco by the shoulders and ask him to just talk to me, please. I want to help you.

But alas.

After a half hour of moping, Harry got word from Ron’s ministry owl that they were to meet at the ministry to go over details from the day's events. Harry sighed. All he wanted was to stay in Draco's flat, figure out what bloody mess he'd gotten himself into, and be near Draco.

Harry spent the night alternating between fits of restless sleep and lying awake, staring at the ceiling, wondering about Draco and what was going on inside his head, and whether he was okay, and whether Harry would even be welcome near him at the moment. By the time the sun was beginning to rise, Harry gave up on any sort of rest, no matter how sluggish he felt, and readied himself for work. Draco came out from his room when Harry was nearly ready to go, making him jolt, suddenly anxious to explain that he'd need to be gone, and that Draco would be watched by Auror Dawlish in the meantime, but he was able to get it out. Draco feigned disinterest and boredom. Harry's heart stuttered. After several minutes of awkward waiting, Harry was able to leave the flat certain that Draco would be safe, and he appeared straight into the ministry's auror department. 

As soon as the team gathered, Mordecai stood with a sigh. "There was no DNA on the tool roll. At all. But, we were able to get some more information on our murderer. The bottles in the tool roll had a Muggle drug called propofol in them. It can only be found in hospitals."

Harry furrowed his brows, absorbing the information.

"So," Ron began, "Our killer needs to have frequent access to hospitals?"

"A healer?" Harry couldn't help the face of disgust that came over him. The idea that people's lives might be entrusted to a psychopathic murderer. The thought that someone is saving lives during the day and taking them at night...

"Either that, or someone with connections to a healer," said Mordecai.

The room grew dark. Mordecai cleared his throat.

"Anyway, We need to sign off for our letter upstairs so we can get our Muggle police permits to investigate nearby Muggle hardware stores."

Mordecai revealed a parchment and a quill, offering it out to Harry and Ron. The two of them signed and Ron sent it off as a departmental memo.

The rest of the time at the Ministry went in a bit of a daze, to Harry. The tool roll's evidence reports had served useful, since the drug that was being used, presumably to sedate victims, was identified. However, it didn't prove useful past that. The three began to map out all of the Muggle hospitals and hardware stores in London, as well as how to approach gathering information from them.

"Do we know when Zabini's autopsy report is going to come in?" Harry asked, at one point, having remembered what Zabini said in St. Mungo's.

"Hopefully seven days, maybe a few more, if they don't work on the weekend," replied Mordecai. "Why?"

"Before he died, Zabini said that he'd scratched him. Maybe they'll find something under his fingernails-"

"I'll have it expedited," declared Ron. "They'll pull a weekend shift."

Harry smiled at Ron. "Brilliant." Ron nodded in affirmation.

By the time they were wrapping up, Harry was exhausted. His stomach was growling, and all he could think about was getting home. He wondered how Draco was doing. The thought of Draco made his stomach flutter.

When the group parted ways, Harry apparated straight to the front door of his flat. He knocked a few times.

"Dawlish?"

The auror opened the door with a grin.

"Potter! I was just finishing my cuppa."

"Oh, sorry for keeping you, Everything is well, I assume?" Harry replied.

"Oh, yes, nothing happened." Dawlish said, "However," he continued "Bloke hasn't stopped cleaning. Looks a bit barmy if you ask me. He also kept checking the locks on the doors. I couldn't get through to him, but maybe you can."

Harry's brow furrowed.

"Thanks," Harry replied, nodding. He was already heading toward the kitchen.

"See you!" Dawlish called, stepping out. Harry turned, waving, before shutting the door. As he stood silently at the entrance, he took in his surroundings.

Small streams of sunlight were filtering through grey clouds to the sitting room window. There was an air of sterility to the place. Harry knew that to be the work of cleaning products. Everything was orderly, not a hair out of place, and the surfaces were immaculate.

Harry pressed his attention, trying to puzzle out where Draco was, when he heard movement coming from the open bathroom door. He made his way over, stopping at the entryway to see Draco on his knees, using a brush and cleaning product to scrub at the tile walls in the shower. Harry cleared his throat.

"I'm back..."

Draco ignored Harry, concentrating on the task of scrubbing. Harry furrowed his brows.

"How long have you been cleaning?"

The man remained unresponsive, scrubbing the walls with unending fervour. the tips of his fingers were pink from the pressure he was exerting on the brush. Harry wanted Draco to stop pretending as though he couldn't hear him.

"Er, maybe you should take a break," Harry tried. "Dawlish said you've been at it nearly the whole time I was gone. Did you ever have lunch?"

No response. Harry pressed his lips into a thin line, concern washing over him.

"Are you alright?" At the lack of response, Harry sighed, trying again. "Draco,"

"What?" he snapped, nostrils flared in frustration.

"Are you feeling alright?"

Draco huffed. Harry could see his anger minutely simmering down.

"Why do you keep asking me that?"

Harry was taken aback by the question. He was acting as though last night... and really the last few months... hadn't happened. As though it wasn't obvious.

"Because I care about you."

Draco's expression wavered. The air grew thick with silence. "You don't really."

Harry couldn't help the feeling of concern that continued to stir itself up in his chest, making it tighten. His heart clenched. He didn't understand the urge, couldn't begin to comprehend the strength of his want to take away Draco's apprehension and distrust.

"You know I do..."

And Draco finally, finally turned to make eye contact. His mercury eyes made butterflies flutter about Harry's stomach. Harry huffed a breath, trying his best to subdue the emotions rising within him. Draco was going through a lot, right now. Harry needed to be there for him.

"Is this about Blaise? How have you been after that?"

"Blaise?"

"Yeah... I know you were close, and... I'm sure it wasn't great, seeing him the way you had."

Draco was staring at Harry, now, looking unguarded and a bit stunned. The brush he'd been holding slipped from his hand and clattered against the shower floor. He blinked down at it for a moment, staring at it as though confused.

"Draco..." Harry began, kneeling down next to the man. "Are you sure you're okay?"

Draco swallowed. Harry placed his hand on his shoulder. He'd be lying if he didn't admit the touch sent sparks up his arm and through his body. He put his thoughts away from that. Draco didn't need that.

"Draco, I need you to talk to me, please. You can tell me anything. Anything you're feeling, anything you need... Last night was-" 

“No-” 

“Let me finish,” Harry interrupted. He took a deep breath, organizing his thoughts, hoping they come out right. “I messed up, okay? I shouldn't have... I'm sorry. Really, I am. I won't do that to you again." Harry bit his lip, nervous, and hoping that he could get through to Draco. "But that doesn't change the fact that I care. I mean- really, really care. And I... I'm here, for you. You can talk to me."

Draco's eyes closed, his brows pinched together and his lips downturned slightly in a frown. Harry wondered what was going through his head at that moment, and hoped that he wasn't pushing him away. Then, he felt Draco sag.

"It's... hard. I don't know how to talk about it. I don't even entirely know what to talk about..."

"It's okay," Harry replied, his voice gentle.

Once Harry was able to coerce Draco out of the bathroom, away from his compulsive cleaning, sitting with a cup of tea while the two waited for frozen ravioli to finish boiling, he felt himself relax, if only marginally. 

"Where do I even start?" Draco whispered, so quiet Harry nearly didn't hear him. "I... It's a lot..."

"You don't need to talk about everything at once... let's go one thing at a time. Just talk to me about one thing. The first thing you think of."

Draco pursed his lips together in thought for a few moments, his eyes cast downward into his cup of tea, absently tracing the rim of it with his index finger. Harry sat next to him, feeling engulfed by the silence, waiting. He wouldn’t dare say anything that might make Draco choose not to talk to him. Harry would do anything to make sure Draco simply talks to him. 

It was a long while before a single word was uttered. The tea had long been finished. The ravioli was served and eaten, plates washed and put to dry.  They were back on the sofa, then, sitting close enough where their knees touched. Harry was mildly startled by it, a small breath that Draco let out. Immediately, all of his attention was on the blond man. 

“I have scars.” 

Harry’s first instinct was to reply I know , but he stopped himself. He thought it best to let Draco speak, even if it was about things he already knew. 

“I had, before. And after, I got more. A lot more. They’re bigger, and uglier… I think, God did it on purpose, to remind me of all of the evil-” Draco paused, biting his lip and furrowing his brow. You don’t deserve this, and God isnt trying to brand you for your past and stop telling yourself you deserve this all came to the forefront of Harry’s mind. He didn’t say any of it. It wasn’t the moment. He all but begged for Draco to just talk, to stop swallowing down all the things that make him feel like he’s gone mad. He wasn’t going to muck it up by interrupting him. 

Draco stayed silent for another moment before continuing.

"And so soon after turning to Him, for forgiveness." Draco donned a bitter sneer. "Who am I to think I can actually be better?"

Harry found himself frowning.

"Don't say that," Harry murmured, his voice sounding hoarse. He cleared his throat. "You are doing better. I know it. You know it."

"What's your definition of better? Obsessing over cleanliness and flat security?" Draco's tone was sour. He was making a face of disgust. "Nearly dying and watching everyone around me die only because they knew me?"

"That's not fair." Harry frowned, the words feeling foreign in his mouth.

"Not fair?" Draco tried. He glanced at Harry, before taking a steadying breath. "I guess we must agree to disagree. I'm lucky I avoided prison. This is what I get instead."

Harry decided against responding. As a result, the two men remained quiet for several long minutes. Harry wondered if it was bad that he thought of kissing Draco all over again. Maybe this time he would get more than just a brush of the lips. Harry would kiss him slow, first, then deeper, more intense, and Harry would show him just how much he doesn't deserve what's happened, just how unfair it is. 

Harry was snapped from his thoughts when Draco let out a breath of laughter. His expression was troubled, creating a sense of unease for Harry. 

“Astoria was beautiful," Draco stated, voice strangely amused. Okay, we’re talking about Astoria now… alright. Harry took in Draco's features carefully. His eyes were wide and glossy, and he had a strange, forced looking, half-smile. To Harry, he looked as though he was trying not to go mad. Harry felt his heart clench. Distantly, he felt guilty about the whole ordeal. "She had a wonderful smile."

Harry’s lips drew into a thin line, ignoring the heat climbing up his cheeks.

"You were happy with her?" Harry prompted gently, attempting to keep him talking.

Draco's expression softened, his eyes falling shut for a moment. "I was..." Draco took in a sharp breath. "She made me think I had a chance at being happy... at being good."

Harry remained silent and still, making sure he was a solid, sure presence for Draco. He needed this. He needed to understand that Harry was not going to leave, that Draco is good, now. He is.

Draco sighed, his head downturned and his expression troubled. Harry noticed he was worrying his hands. 

“I’d never… before her. She was everything. She made me want to care about my future.”

“Do you miss her?” 

Harry could see a slight twitch of Draco's nose.

"I... I've been trying to force myself not to think about it," Draco said. The room was tense. "But," he continued. "...I don't know, it's- It's hard." Draco sighed, worrying his hands some more. "Because then I see her in my sleep, and I dream of what it could have been like, had she... It's like a hole in my chest that never goes away."

Harry wanted to reach out, wanted to touch, and hold, and comfort. He stayed still, instead.

"And, then, I remember that she's gone." For a moment, Draco looked as though he was going to say more, but he didn't.

For a moment, Draco looked as though he was going to say more, but he didn't. His hands went limp and his head dipped down. He looked defeated.

Harry wasn't sure how long the two of them sat, together, in silence. He wondered if Draco was done sharing for now.

"Thank you for telling me." Harry began, voice soft. "Do you feel a little bit better, now?"

"Maybe," Draco answered. He was looking at his hands, and his expression was unreadable.

"Would you like to talk about something else, now? Or, perhaps, not talk at all, if you'd prefer."

"No, I'd... I think I'd like to talk, some more.

Harry felt himself smile.

"Okay," he said, changing his position on the couch to sit more comfortably, but still close. "Let's keep talking."

Chapter Text

With a whirl and a pop, Harry landed at the given apparition point, landing in a town in Falmouth. The streets were bustling with people doing their daily activities. Hermione said to be on the lookout for a cream-yellow building. 

“Harry James, you need to stop having your owls redirected!” Hermione’s voice through the ministry howler was shrill. “I’m lucky you aren’t allowed to redirect communications related to work. Ron was the one who gave me the idea since that’s the only way he ever gets to speak to you. Andromeda and Ginny have been trying to get a hold of you. Teddy needs you. I am going to be at Draco Malfoy’s door in ten minutes. You best open it!” 

Harry did open the door for Hermione, who entered in a flurry, clutching pamphlets and parchments, looking absolutely lethal. 

“Andromeda is sick. She needs help looking after Teddy. She tried getting a hold of you and when you wouldn’t answer, she called Ginny.” 

Harry furrowed his brows. “Why Ginny?” 

This earned him a whack with the pamphlets in her hand. 

“Because,” she huffed, “Ginny is his godmother. And his godfather ,” she continued pointedly, “is off solving murders and having his communications redirected.” 

“I mean,” Harry tried, albeit weakly. “I am off solving murders. I’m not sure exactly how to help.” 

“We all know you’ve taken up the mantle of much more than solving murders. If you would just visit Andromeda, and listen to her, you would know that you’re perfectly capable of helping. All you would need to do is sort something out with another auror or two, make some schedule… Your family needs you. Ginny understands that you’re busy. She’s already been more than happy to have Teddy in her home.” 

Harry happened upon the building rather quickly. Within ten minutes, he was standing in front of the doors of a creme-yellow facility with the name Willow Buds Behavioral Growth posted in blue letters across the face of the small building. 

“Anyway, you have an appointment to sit in on one of Teddy’s mind-healing sessions. Ginny has already been to yesterday’s. Now, it’s your turn. And afterwards, you get to take him to Ginny’s and work out a plan to help Andromeda.”

“What’s happened to her?” 

“She’s in St. Mungo’s with a bad case of Spattergroit. She can’t be near people without extreme precautions being taken at the hospital. When I went, I was covered head to toe in protection charms… Anyway, since she’s old, they’re struggling a bit to keep it from spreading more through her body.” 

With a deep breath, Harry stepped into the centre, a small chime announcing his entrance. Distantly, he wondered how Draco was doing with Auror Dawlish. Inside the facility, Harry was faced with an empty room, housing a few chairs, two doors, and a reception window. The window was charmed so that people could not see inside, but a witch promptly un-charmed it, smiling brightly at him. 

Harry was still for a moment, taking in the information. Then, “His Godmother?” Harry spoke. He knew it perhaps wasn’t the most pressing information of all that he’d heard, but it was nagging at his brain. “How? We aren’t together or even married.” 

Hermione simply shook her head with a scoff.

“Hello, how can I help you?” 

“Er… I’m here for Teddy?” Harry winced at his questioning tone. He knew what he was here for. And it was half past time that he became an involved Godfather, too. “Teddy. Lupin. Is he here?” 

“Oh, you’re here for the parent session? Yes! Have a seat and his healer will come right out and get you.” 

Just as quickly as she responded, the window was charmed again, leaving Harry in the empty, sterile room. He looked around, taking everything in. There was an illustration of a child under a willow tree, the name of the centre under it. Off to the side, pamphlets and brochures were decorating a section of the wall. Harry saw one for St. Mungos, one for Hogwarts (God, Hogwarts advertises? What for?), a few for various music lessons and duelling classes, one for summer school, several tutors, and a few for the Willow Buds facility itself. Briefly, he thought of Hermione smacking the pamphlets down onto his table “This is the facility he goes to every day.”  Harry remembers being astonished that Teddy was here every day and “Yes, Harry. Almost all day, every day. Except weekends. This isn’t the kind of mind healing you think it is.” 

Just then, one of the doors in the room opened. Harry was met with Hannah Abbott, dressed fully in healer’s robes. However, instead of the usual lime-green that Harry recognised healer robes to be, her robes were midnight-blue. He bit back his surprise. How uninvolved must he be to have nearly forgotten that Hannah has been Teddy’s mind healer for the past year? Silently, he chastised himself. He noticed that Hannah was holding a tiny hand. When he followed the sight of the tiny arm, he saw Teddy, all bright eyes and teal hair, clutching a plush penguin toy to his chest and looking off into some distance. 

“Hi, Teddy,” Harry began. He crouched down to Teddy’s level, and he could feel a smile tugging at his lips seeing his godson and God. It’s been too long, and-

“Teddy, somebody said hi to you,” Hannah said. Teddy waved his hand at the distance he’d been looking at, responding “hi”, and- 

“Teddy, who are you saying hi to?” Hannah used her hand to guide Teddy’s sight by his chin, turning him to face her. “Harry said hi,” she tried again. Teddy then waved at her and said hi. Hannah tried again. “Not me, Harry.” She pointed at Harry. Teddy waved at Hannah again, this time not verbalising a greeting. She guided his chin towards Harry, then. He waved at Harry. 

Harry’s heart just about burst into a million pieces, then, smiling widely, his brain big jumble of good job and how you’ve grown and I’m so, so sorry that I haven’t been here. He greeted Teddy again, the fondness threatening to swallow him whole. 

“Hi, Teddy.” Harry was sure he looked like a fool, with how wide he was grinning. Even as Teddy turned away again, putting his hand in his mouth-

“No, thank you,” Hannah responded to Teddy’s actions, trying to gently remove his hand from his mouth. Harry stood, then, and the two finally began to speak. 

“Hello, Harry. It’s good of you to come. Hermione had told me she would arrange for it today. Come inside. I’ll show you how everything works here.” 

The centre was abuzz with children and midnight-blue mind healers like Hannah. In the middle of the centre, there was a large, brightly lit room with paintings on the walls and all the toys a child could dream of. Harry caught a glimpse of one pair of children playing a card game with the help of their healers. One of them reminded Harry of Terry Boot. Surrounding this room were many other much smaller rooms, with three or four toddler-sized tables occupied by midnight-blue mind healers and their children, and in each one, a lesser amount of toys, and, in a few of those rooms, were adult-sized desks, some occupied by even more midnight-blue mind healers.

They’re called behavioural mind-healers chimed an awfully Hermione-sounding voice in his head. They help children with problems, just like Teddy. 

Harry continued down the narrow corridor, following Hannah and Teddy as she continued to point out rooms and healers and goings on. Harry’s glance caught a girl and her mind-healer cheering in celebration over something or other, when Harry was abruptly stopped by a sudden collision with a child. He paused, as did Hannah and Teddy. Harry looked down to see a boy with blond curls and bright green eyes. 

“Matthew, you bumped into someone,” began his the mind-healer. “What can you say?” 

“Excuuuuse me!” the blond boy, Matthew, had a large, toothy smile lighting up his face. Harry couldn’t help but smile back. 

“That’s alright, thank you!” His mind-healer gave him a high-five while telling him he did well, and conjured a paper with what seemed to be a path and a star. As Harry continued down the corridor with Hannah, who was gently ushering him to catch up, he watched as the star moved closer to the end of the path, which made the boy’s smile grow wider. 

In one room they passed, Harry could hear death-like screaming and cries of “help me, help me!” followed by a much more adult voice sternly speaking “You won’t get the doll unless you do your work!” Harry’s brows furrowed, his mouth half-open, unsure of what he wanted to say to Hannah, who continued to the end of a the corridor, to a green-coloured room. She seemed to notice his pause, though, waving him off with “That’s Rachel. Don’t worry. She tends to do that whenever she works on identifying household objects.” Harry snapped his mouth shut, eyes wide. 

The green-coloured room had two other midnight-blue healers in it. Hannah let go of Teddy’s hand and instructed him to sit “In this chair, right here”. Teddy did as she said, putting his penguin down at the table with him and making small, indiscernible noises as he did so. It reminded Harry of a happily babbling baby. Hannah sat next to him and used her wand to bring forth a chair for Harry. 

“Hello,” chimed the midnight-blue healer at the adult-sized desk. “I’m Mary; Hannah and Teddy’s supervisor. You must be Mr. Potter. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” 

“Eh, hello, likewise.” Harry took her proffered hand and shook it. “I’m glad I could be here to learn about Teddy and help Andromeda out.” 

“Yes, we heard about her Spattergroit. How is she?” 

Harry settled into the much-too-small toddler-sized chair that Hannah had put out for him, still facing Mary. “I’m not sure. With work, it’s been difficult to check on her.” 

“Of course, I understand. Well, we’re glad that you found the time to meet with us.” 

“Yeah,” Harry replied lamely. He turned to face the desk, sitting with Hannah and Teddy. Hannah was rifling through a folder to find picture cards and laid them out in a neat array on the table.. Each photo was of one person: Andromeda, Ginny, Ron, Hermione, Hannah, Mary, and, Harry was surprised to see, himself. 

“One of the goals he has in his program is identifying significant people in his life. This is important for him,” Hannah explained. “When he knows who matters, he’s less likely to get swept off with a stranger. He knows who to go to for help.” 

“How did you get a picture of me?” Harry recognized the photo, too. It was from the burrow, when he and Ron had gotten their auror jobs. Molly had thrown a party. 

“We requested it when Andromeda fell ill and we learned that they would be calling on you and Ginny to help,” she replied simply. Then, she turned to Teddy.

 “Do this.” Hannah began waving at Teddy. Teddy promptly stopped making sounds and waved. “Do this,” she put her finger on her nose. Teddy followed suit. “Perfect. Do you want to play with penguin?” Hannah accioed the stuffed toy penguin into her hand, holding it up for Teddy. He nodded. 

“Okay. For penguin,” Hannah directed Teddy’s attention to the table. “Show me grandmum.” 

Teddy was quickly able to plop his finger down on the photo of Andromeda, who was smiling up at the camera and waving.

“Perfect, now show me Hannah.” 

Again, Teddy quickly identified the photo of Hannah in her midnight-blue robes.

“Beautiful. Show me Ginny.” 

Teddy stilled for a moment, this time, his finger trailing towards Hermione, before correcting and landing on Ginny, with her flaming red hair blowing in the wind wherever she was when that picture was taken.

“Good job, Teddy! Show me Mary.” Teddy pointed to the photo of Hermione, this time, and Hannah switched a few of the photos around, then asked him again. He chose correctly that time.