Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"I loved you more than angels and God, thus, I am farther away from you than from both of them.” — J.Brodskiy"

"Just because somebody's dead, you don't just stop liking them, for God's sake - especially if they were about a thousand times nicer than the people you know that're alive and all.” —J.D.Salinger “The Catcher in the Rye"

"I love you and I will love you until I stop breathing. I know that for sure. You are my horizon, and all my thoughts come down to you. Let it be anything, everything always closes on you. And it's always been that way." — E.M.Remarque “Arch of Triumph"

Draco Malfoy died at the beginning of November.

Harry heard the news at breakfast; Hermione was so at ease and perfectly composed when she told him that he didn’t understand what it was about at first.

“What?” he asked, lifting his head up from his plate, which he’d been drowsily staring at, hypnotised. “What are you saying?”

“Draco’s dead,” Hermione repeated, eyes running over a page of  the “Witch Weekly” that she was holding.

Just like this. Shares on the racing broom market continue to decline; the Minister Shacklebolt is planning to implement reforms in Wizengamot; the galleon’s rate to pound is rising.

And Draco Malfoy is dead.

“It can’t be,” Harry said confidently, putting his spoon away. “I saw him on the Friday evening, he was fine.”

Hermione threw a quick glance at him and focused on her paper again. Ron, who was sitting closely to Hermione, stopped stuffing his face with a Cornish pasty and looked over her shoulder to read the article.

“He’s really dead, mate,” he stated, sounding muffled, and returned to the food right after.

Hermione sighed and flipped the page, most likely moving on to the next article.

“It can’t be,” Harry parroted.

His hands dropped to his knees. The Great Hall was a faint background noise. Everything was so vivid, so mundane: the dim sunlight peeked through a thick layer of clouds into the tall windows; cutlery clattered against plates; someone gave their neighbour a friendly nudge; someone untied a from an owl’s leg.

Harry felt as though a bucket of cold, icy water was turned over his head and the back of his neck inflamed, burning.

“How?” he managed to utter a word.

"Took his own life,” she sighed, folding the paper. Her lips were pressed disapprovingly. “Professor McGonagall allowed him to leave the castle on the weekends, but he never returned on Monday. She notified the Ministry about his disappearance—I imagine she was not thrilled about the idea of losing a student on probation—and, yesterday evening, following his magical signature, they found his body in Wiltshire. Near him was laying a vial of poison. At least that’s what the paper says.”

“No great lose, I say,” Ron mumbled.

“Ronald,” Hermione shot him a meaningful look.

“What? Are you going to say that you pity him?”

“You can’t just say that, it’s unethical…”

“Why?” Harry interrupted. Both of them fell silent and turned to his side. “Why did he? He… He couldn’t.”

The Great Hall yet again dimmed around him, the memory of Friday night was starkly bright. Harry trudged towards the Gryffindor common room—he had been flying until long after the dusk had fallen, just to exhaust himself into a dreamless sleep. He wanted nothing more than to escape a bleak, tangled mess of bitter memories. That’s when he met Malfoy by the steep staircase, descending in warm robes.

They didn’t talk at all this year. Old animosity had long faded and nothing had changed between them since then. Harry threw a nod at him, but something hurried him to stop in his tracks, and he didn’t know what exactly. Something within him, some gnawing intuitive feeling. Malfoy appeared as thin and pale, but was he ever anything but? He knew that he was, once upon a time, yet he couldn’t remember.

Malfoy stopped, too, perhaps noticing his scrutinising gaze, so he asked: “What?”

Harry did not say a thing for several seconds. The gnawing feeling only grew worse, but he looked thoroughly run down and everything was confusing to him. It was only Malfoy. Did they ever have at least one reason to talk like normal people?

So he replied: “Nothing.”

Nothing. Then, he left.

“Why?” he repeated, being present in the Great Hall again.

Hermione looked at him with this specific look a child with a scraped knee receives.

“I think he had enough reasons,” she said softly. “His family… everything that happened to them… besides, he struggled here a lot, too, I suppose. He’s the only Slytherin from the last year. Didn’t even have anyone to talk to.”

“Now, don’t tell me you’re pitying him!” Ron chimed in, sounding indignant. “After everything Malfoy did…”

“No one’s pitying him,” Hermione said, exasperated. “I’m just stating the obvious reasons. It wouldn’t hurt not to badmouth a dead man’s name. Even if he happens to be a Malfoy.”

As she finished scolding Ron, she turned to face Harry. The latter sat, looking pensively at his plate as though it could offer him some closure to his never ending questions. Was he the last person to witness Malfoy alive? Was his “nothing” the determining factor, the turning point? Or had he already decided when he took the weekends off?

“Harry,” she called him quietly. “How are you feeling?”

He only grunted as he lifted his eyes to look at her. “I… don’t know? Fine, I guess?”

He wasn’t sure about his words let alone his feelings. What was he supposed to feel? Malfoy wasn’t anyone to him. Not even an enemy anymore—just another face in the crowd. And yet…

He had always been there, all these years—even if the meaning behind it was strongly negative, and even if all he ever invoked was nothing but the urge to hex him right in his pointy face.

Harry felt as though a part of him had been torn away. Not a big part, not something fundamental, but prominent. The void in its absence made you look at it, beckoned your attention, and clawed at your insides.

“Fine,” he said firmly, reaching for the spoon once more. Either way, he didn’t see the point of dwelling on this topic with his friends, especially knowing the heated temper of Ron’s. “I’m fine.”

Hermione assessed him with suspicious eyes, but did not comment. Ron finally relaxed and carried on with demolishing Cornish pasty. The Great Hall continued to buzz around him.

Nothing changed.

***

Kreacher appeared before Harry as he was rummaging through the chest, looking for the match to a lone red sock with embroidered snitch on it. The crack broke the silence of the empty Gryffindor dorm so suddenly that Harry jumped, threatening to hit the bedpost with his forehead.

“Kreacher!” he exclaimed, pressing his palm against his sternum, where his heart was hammering in panic. “Merlin, help me!”

“Master Harry,” he said, twanging out the words, and bowed—not too deeply, furrowing his bushy eyebrows together. His tolerance towards Harry increased significantly after he gave the Slytherin Locket back—the one that served to remind Kreacher of Regulus—but that didn’t change his prickly attitude.

“What happened?” Harry lowered himself to the floor to be on the same level with Kreacher, his heart kept beating relentlessly. “What happened on Grimmauld?”

Kreacher straightened his back and shook his head. Wide ears slapped him across the face and he slightly winced.

“The house is in acceptable condition, Master Harry, Kreacher looks after it. Actually, Kreacher is supposed to deliver you something. Master Draco ordered him.”

Something dropped in the pit of Harry’s stomach, then curled into a frozen ball. He tried not to let his thoughts wander into Malfoy’s direction all day and he almost succeeded. Only almost—because thoughts about him kept circling somewhere on the edge of his mind, like moving dots caught by peripheral vision. It wasn’t as surprising, though, given that Malfoy’s suicide had been quite the topic among the students. Harry still couldn’t bring himself to believe it. Possibly, he didn’t even want to start.

“Master Draco?” he clarified. “Since when is he your Master?”

Kreacher threw a judging look, then explained with a didactic intonation: “Master Draco was half Black, Kreacher had always served the House of Black. When Master Draco called Kreacher, he decided to answer him.” He looked at Harry as if daring him to say anything against it.

“I understand,” slowly said Harry. “Okay. Fine. And what, er, did he want from you?”

Kreacher nodded, clearly satisfied with his response, and reached under the folds of the snow-white pillowcase draped toga-like over his body. Harry didn’t know what to expect; to be honest, he’d braced himself for anything, even a cursed artefact, and was rather taken aback when the elf stretched out a neat stack of envelopes.

Harry accepted them warily from his knobby hands. Only belatedly did the thought of casting diagnostic charms came to him, but the situation was so bizarre that any sense of caution was thrown aside. Anyhow, nothing happened when his fingers touched the cream-coloured paper. Harry turned it over in his hands and found not a single word—nothing but a gracefully written number one and a wax seal bearing the Malfoy crest.

He smiled weakly. What a posh bastard.

“You’re sure it’s addressed to me?” Harry asked, looking up at Kreacher.

“Master Draco said to give them to Master Harry.” The elf repeated, grumpily.

“Okay,” Harry replied dumbly. Then, he frowned. “When did he call you?”

“Friday,” he rasped. “He said that Kreacher was to give them exactly today.”

Harry heavily sighed. Friday. The Friday, onceagain. The memory on a steep staircase flashed before his eyes, leaving a bitter aftertaste on his tongue. He shouldn’t blame himself, but for some reason, he did so anyway. The growing feeling was taking root in the depths of his heart, persistent like a weed.

It must be Draco wanted Harry to have those envelopes long after his death. It was strange, just like everything else. Harry tipped his head back and made himself comfortable, setting the stack of paper aside, except for the top one he was still holding. Kreacher heaved a sigh—deep and sudden, drawing Harry’s attention to himself.

“What?” he asked, cautiously.

He hadn’t expected the elf to look so… sad. He did not look grumpy or displeased as he usually did, but rather heavy-hearted.

“The Blacks are dying out.” Kreacher muttered, not meeting Harry’s eyes. “There are only Mistress Andromeda and young Master left.”

“Yeah,” he quietly agreed. “Yes, that is true. Are you alright?”

He didn’t reply. Bowing, he vanished with a loud crack, leaving him in turmoil and elusive longing at his words.

“Well,” Harry muttered into the silence. “What had you left for me?”

Setting the envelope aside, he reached for the next, and saw number two written with the same ink. Quickly scanning each one, Harry realised that all were marked with numbers—from one to eight. Most likely, he intended the numeration as an order in which he should open them. Harry turned to the light falling from the window, lifting the envelope for it to turn translucent. Inside, there was a folded piece of paper. A letter? Malfoy left letters for him, not just a couple, but eight?

It was so…

The door creaked ajar, catching his attention. A read head peeked from the crevice between the door and the room.

“Harry!” Ron impatiently looked at him. “Are you going? Everyone’s going to get their brooms… What are those?”

He nodded in the direction of the envelopes, that were scattered all around Harry who remained sat on the floor.

“Letters, I think,” he answered, looking uncertainly at Ron.

“Letters?” Ron moved the door wider, standing on the threshold. “From whom? I thought you redirected the post to Grimmauld for Kreacher to burn your crazy fans’ messages.”

“I did, but… well, those weren’t delivered by an owl. Never mind. They’re from Malfoy.”

Ron’s eyebrows flew upward, lost in his red bangs: “What?”

“I know!” he exclaimed, shrugging. “I’m shocked myself.”

“Mate,” Ron’s face shifted to a serious expression. “Let’s show them to ‘Mione, I wouldn’t be surprised if he wanted to curse you good and proper before his death.”

“No,” Harry immediately said. Noticing a grimace of discontent, he hastily added: “I will manage. Seriously, I had to learn how to cast diagnostic charms on my post.”

He didn’t know why he felt so defensive about these letters regarding anyone—even Hermione. Maybe he wanted to finish reading them as soon as possible. Curiosity gnawed at him more insistently with each passing second.

“Right,” Ron acquiesced, stepping forward. “Let’s skip through this and then finally go flying.”

“Er, no,” Harry didn’t even notice himself moving back, childishly grabbing the envelopes closer to his space.

“No?”

“No,” he repeated more confidently. “I meant… listen, Ron, I think it’s his last wish for me to have them. It’d be wrong to make something so personal shared, you know?”

Ron stopped, looking at Harry skeptically. His face has always been an open book to read, so Harry could see how his resentment towards Malfoy conflicted with the common decency that reminded him: Malfoy was a person who had just died.

Finally, he gave up, and compromised begrudgingly:

“I’ll be waiting for you in the common room.”

“Okay,” Harry said, mouth crooked in a drawn grin. “Thanks, I’ll be quick.”

He waited until Ron left, then gathered the letters scattered around, and moved to his bed. He probably shouldn’t read everything at once—Ron was still waiting for him outside—but he knew that he won’t be patient enough to do it later. After making himself comfortable, Harry cast some revealing and identifying spells on the first letter (more out of obligation to Ron than tangible reservations), and broke the wax seal. Nothing but a letter lay inside: cream-coloured paper inscribed with the pointy, compact handwriting. Harry recognised it just fine.

Leaning on his pillow down, he began to read.

***

“Hello, Harry.

I hope you will forgive my blatant use of your given name; and even if you won’t, well—you can no longer reproach me, so I shall permit myself this small indulgence of addressing you as I have always wished. I know this is rather atypical of me, but… just endure this brazenness a little while longer. After all, you’ve got a short ride ahead of you—just eight rather insignificant messages.

So, if you’re reading this, it means I have died. I apologise for using your house-elf. It wasn’t a very dignified move of mine; however, alternatives weren’t available for me. There were several reasons: I wouldn’t want them to get lost in the stack of another dozens of letters, and it was of vital importance to me that you not read these until after I’m gone.

I assume you have millions of questions, the majority of which can be summarised with the laconic 'what the fuck'. I was dwelling on that question myself for the past few weeks, trying to talk some sense into myself about this treacherous escapade. In the end, I realised that this is what I truly want. And, again, you can’t judge me, so what’s the matter, really?

Here’s what: I want you to know why. I want you to know my story. I like the idea of turning into a ghost, forgotten by everyone; lines carved on a tombstone that no one bothers about, but behind it all, I still want you to see me. Why you? It’s painfully simple, terribly clichéd, and at the same time, devastatingly frightening — of all the people who surrounded me through the years you were the most significant.

By all means, laugh, Harry. I’m sure you’re doing just that.

Well then, you have eight letters. Eight reasons. Even if you abruptly stop right now, quitting at these words (or not concerning yourself with the letter altogether), I will never have a chance to find out.

I suggest we begin, excuse me if the introduction tired you out.

My childhood was happy. Some disturbances were caused by my father—he was always rather detached and strict, but Mother always softened the anxious edges of my mind.

It’s a true a pity you never saw the Manor before its fall: completely different from the wreckage Voldemort caused, it once gleamed with sunlight coming through the tall windows casting vibrant mosaics from the stained glass across the floor. I used to hop from rhombus to triangle or square on one leg, when no one was watching. It was always filled with air.

I could play hide and seek for hours with house-elves; I could roam through meandering paths, noticing every corner; and I could sit in the attic with Crabbe, Goyle, and Pansy, making up creepy tales. In the gardens, there were peacocks—sometimes I had to run away from them—and roses that my Mother personally tended, along with several small fountains that, however, seemed big enough to serve as swimming-pools for a five-year-old kid.

None of that could compare to the fields and hills of Wiltshire. I ran away from home to scamper in the tender grass; my shirts were covered in green stains and my hair, wet with sweat, stuck to my forehead. I could play there alone for hours, imagining myself as a Merlin’s warrior or the great wizard himself. The start of summer always got me ridiculously excited—that’s when the rapeseed would bloom. The season the yellow fields brightened so much that it blinded my eyes just to look at them on a sunny day. I’d drop on my back and lay, nuzzling into the warmth, trying to catch butterflies hovering over me.

Among those fields, sloping up to the edge of the vast grounds of Malfoy Manor, grew a beech tree. Back then, the tree seemed grand and impressive in size. I adored it. Slipping away from my father’s stern gaze—who, once again, had sent me off to study in the dusty library—I climbed up the twisting branches, hiding in the tree’s broad crown. My Mother oftentimes joined me, watching me from below. Putting on a sun hat, she would bring sweets and a good book; later, she would read aloud while I sat on one of those branches, swaying my legs, listening to her soothing voice. We spent a lot of time under the beech, from the first spring shoots to the coming of winter, and every hour we spent there was filled with the enrapturing gentleness my Mother so generously showered upon me.

Once, a lightning struck the beech, splitting it in two and burning nearly half its canopy. When I found it in that state, I almost cried that day—only true Malfoy pride held the tears back. I thought our story had come to an end—it had lasted all the years I could remember—until Mother saved it. Merlin knows how many charms she cast to bring the two halves together into an intact trunk and make the leaves curve around branches again. I was so grateful I clung to her neck for a good fifteen minutes, as if I were five instead of ten.

At the beginning of the next summer, when rapeseed covered the fields with its yellow camouflage, I received a letter from Hogwarts—something that every young wizard with any sense of heritage longed for. Of course, I knew it was going to happen; nevertheless, the moment itself was awaited with no less agitation. When the owl (I still remember its dark brown wings) dropped the anticipated envelope on the dining table right before me, I was so close to starting to dance right then and there. However, father was right in front of me and I had to maintain my composure. It was an amazing day either way.

Here, Harry, at this very point, our shared story begins. It’s amusing if you think about it—you were only some part of my life, but it felt like you filled it to the bridge with your presence.

Do you remember the day at Madam Malkin’s? Probably not; you’ve most likely long forgotten our very first meeting. I do remember, though, and I won’t ever forget it, not until my eyes close forever.

Ironically—you will find it hard to believe—but I took an immediate and rather ridiculous fancy to your hair. They were so odd-looking—I wanted to touch them at once, but that would be completely off-putting and unmannered, so… I decided to acquaintance myself with you. I know I was a complete nightmare, but here’s what you should know about me, Harry: I was trying to impress you in the best way I had a grasp on. You see, children are highly susceptible. They’re practically a clean state that absorbs everything from their surroundings. I’m going to put a warning right here: in no way does this excuse me or my beliefs, yet I still want you to be open to my perspective.

In the light of this, I did everything I could to make you like me, but naturally ruined it by spewing some rather unpleasant remarks about the first wizard to introduce you to our world—Hagrid, naturally. A fantastic disaster began shortly after this moment.

The thing is, Harry, I’ve always wanted you. Differently in separate periods of time. I’ve always been a self-centred child and always wanted to have you—the boy with odd hair. You’ve probably held the belief that I offered my hand to you because you’re Harry Potter, but, I assure you, it had begun long before that.

And then you rejected me. I’m not trying to accuse you with this assertion (I would lie if I said I have let the grudge go), really, weren’t you fully justified? I understand now how it looked from your side: I insulted the two people you actually liked. You have to understand, though, that I merely followed the rules. I tried so hard to show-off my colourful tail to earn your favour. Granted, it backfired.

After that I resolved to hate you, for hatred was far better than yearning and bitter resentment. You must think I hated your friends, too, but that’s not true. I just couldn’t make peace with the fact that they had you, and I didn’t. Oh, Harry, I was so hurt! Could you imagine, the Weasley and the muggle-born are Harry Potter’s friends? And I, Draco Malfoy, am not! Funny, isn’t it? Still, those were my thoughts at the time.

I can’t let go of the “what if”. What if I apologised to you that day? What if you took a seat in my compartment? I want to hope that you would show me what my convictions were worth of before it collapsed; that you would take my hand and show me a better path.

We could have been friends.

We could have been happy.

But it could go off the course, too. Maybe you would sink in my darkness just like me; then, the world would have ceased its existence the moment Voldemort was resurrected. We will never know for sure. It might be for the best.

Now, when I’ve finished telling you about the origin of my longing for a certain boy-whose-hair-cannot-be-normal, I will have to go back to the beginning.

The reason is the beech. In June of this year, the Aurors turned the Manor upside down, searching for dark magical artefacts. They followed every magical trail, dismantling the house brick by brick. It didn’t hurt. The Manor had been besmirched, and I no longer could deem it my childhood shelter. The beech, though, remained the same; it was mine and mine alone—the last anchor of happy memories, of Mother’s gentleness, of warmth, and the days lost in branching paths.

It still oozed with magical signature—its very existence was thanks to the charms that held for years. The Aurors knew that too.

There was nothing but the ripped, damaged residues left.

I think this is it for now. See you soon,

D.L.M.”

***

Harry gawked at the words before him, unable to avert his eyes. His heartbeat slowed down, beating inconsistently with a dull sound. He couldn’t comprehend the meaning behind it all, and even if he did, he wouldn’t be convinced of its truth. He quickly skimmed over the page: up and down and repeat, examining the handwriting undeniably owned by Malfoy. Harry knew the sharpness of his characters because of all the stupid notes Malfoy had sent him.

It still didn’t make any sense. Not this and not the tale about the boy with odd hair.

“I’ve always wanted you.” Harry murmured, dragging the tip of his ink-coloured finger over the neat lines. “I’ve always…”

The door swung open with a yank, dissipating the trance Harry was in. He jerked suddenly. Seamus was standing at the door, worked up and slightly annoyed.

“Are you finished yet?” he asked. “Preferably before the dusk.”

“Yes,” Harry said, coming to his senses and shoving the letter back into the envelope. “You go, I’ll catch up.”

“We’ll be waiting at the main entrance.” Seamus said, slamming the door shut.

Waiting for the steps to recede before, he gleaned the rest of the letters into a single stack. After a brief moment of thought, he put them into the bottom drawer of his nightstand and cast several locking charms on it. Not that his friends were in the habit of invading his personal belongings, but he wanted to be absolutely sure the letters wouldn’t fall into anyone else’s hands. At that moment he was certain: he’ll finish reading all of them.

Exiting the dormitory, he acknowledged Ron who sat on the couch of the common room with a nod, and quickened his pace as to leave the Gryffindor Tower sooner without exposing his bewildered state. Ron inquired relentlessly about the matter of the letter, but Harry kept dismissing all of it with a hollow promise to tell him later.

He desperately needed his privacy to process Malfoy’s message, yet wanted to avoid drawing attention: Ron’s inquisitiveness was easily ignited.

An improvised Quidditch team formed by the eighth years for unofficial matches had gathered in the Great Hall. When he arrived he successfully fixed the look on his face with a semblance of ease.

Belatedly, he was shot with an ordinary yet frightening epiphany: Malfoy loved flying.

Malfoy loved flying and he won’t ever fly again.

A sting pricked at the corners of his eyes, and, dazedly, he pushed, leaving the ground behind.

Chapter Text

Harry opened the second letter before sunrise—he didn’t sleep a wink that night.

Having returned to the tower in the evening—they were still playing as the sun hid behind the horizon—exhausted and covered in dirt he threw off his clothes and took a shower. He collapsed onto the bed, ignoring Hermione’s voice reminding him to write a Transfiguration essay. Having decided to start in the morning, he knew he would need to wake earlier, but couldn’t find the energy sit in the common room, hunched over the textbooks. The same words written with that sharp, pointy handwriting pulsed and rippled in his mind.

I’ve always wanted you.

The reason is the beech.

We will never know for sure.

And then you rejected me.

Again and again, like a broken record.

Harry knew Ron’s worried, but couldn’t bring himself to explain anything, thinking he would run over to Hermione who, naturally, would nag him at breakfast. All of this, however, was a problem for tomorrow’s him, so he futilely hoped to make it out somehow.

Now… now he needed to sleep.

He couldn’t, though. The words washed over his head and the feeling of something cracked, nestled in Harry’s soul when he heard the terrible news, only worsened by the time he read the first letter. He felt dreadful about the implications of unwanted honesty and what it would do to his well-being, but, as expected, he couldn’t repudiate himself to put the letters aside.

Finally, half-asleep and with visions of fluttering white birds and the beech thriving in the midst of rapeseed fields, he sat up and reached into the lower section of the drawer; it was quiet: faint whistling, even breathing, light snoring. Just like the night before.

The world continued to carry on, while the debris of an old tree fell apart somewhere in Wiltshire.

Harry lay against the sheets, closed the drapes, and cast lumos. For a single moment his fingers froze next to the wax seal, unable to rip it. The Inky black number “2”, gracefully arched like a swan, watched him, inviting.

He made a deep inhale. It’s just Malfoy. His memories, his last words he decided to dedicate to Harry. Despite the unfair sadness of it all, despite the content of the first envelope that he’d never guess in a million years, Harry could take it. It wasn’t the end of the world—not even Voldemort this time.

He unsealed the letter whilst his heart pounded against his ribcage.

“Hi, Harry.

I hope you weren’t too ennuied by the previous part of my story; I won’t prolong this any further, we shall begin.

The summer of the second year was not as flowery and sunny. It was the time I was met with the force of my father’s disappointment. The words “The mudblood beat you to every single subject” echoed in the Manor nearly every day. My sheepish remark about my upper hand in potions was countered with a single look—I immediately shut my mouth.

Please, don’t get the idea of my father being the worst parent. It wasn’t that way. At the time father wanted the best for me, which sounds deranged, given the context—everything he warped about me, everything he’d done to me—including him a separate reason for me committing suicide—and knowing what I am about to reveal subsequently… Well, I won’t get ahead of myself. Either way, you should know there are fathers worse than mine, and I still love him even now. Maybe my love is not normal, but, well, it is the way it is.

I think you’ll be entertained by the notion of your name being pronounced only a fraction less frequently than my father’s disappointment. Merlin knows, Harry, I couldn’t get keep my mouth shut to save my life! Your surname wouldn’t get off of my tongue. Don’t get flattered, the things I said, naturally, meant to put you in the worst light: how unbearably dense you are, how all fingers and thumbs you are, how repugnant your whole persona is, how presumptuous for Gryffindor it was to make you their seeker (obviously, you had nothing but luck), how sick I was to see your face every single day… The list went on. Eventually even my mother admitted I caused her a headache.

You know what? Laying in the darkness and tranquility of my warm bed, I indulged myself in reverie of you having a nasty argument with Weasley and Granger, realising they’re not your equals, me granting you my forgiveness, and us becoming friends. Needless to say, I never acknowledged those fantasies even to myself, and each morning I fed the belief that I only dreamed of it.

It’s interesting to note how death alters the mindset. At one point of my life I was ashamed by these memories; I loathed my childish mind and took an oath to never let it become known. Now, however, as I write this letter by the window in the middle of the night, while the essence of belladonna—poised to kill me in an instant—simmers slowly in the Manor, I feel no shame; rather, I find it amusing and just a bit pitiful. You must see this proclamation as pathetic, and you’ll be justified for it, but I’m still glad to tell you that.

I apologise for this lyrical digression; I find it funny how much I’ve changed.

So, by the end of the summer my father stated: I have to get myself a position in a quidditch team. However, as he strongly opined, with the poor excuse for my flying skills I shouldn’t even hope to get in fairly, therefore he’ll have to secure me a place himself.

Are you caught off guard? I’m guessing you thought that it was my initiative, but, alas, I’m afraid you are to be disappointed. Regardless, I wanted to be there. What kind of child who adored flying doesn’t dream about playing quidditch? I planned to try my best next year, though, when older students would leave the school. Simultaneously, I wasn’t going to rebel against my father. He bought the new Nimbuses, and I, inadvertently, replaced the former seeker.

I felt humiliation, but drowned the feeling with excitement: just a little while longer and you and I were going to meet in a competition. In my imagination I was holding the Quidditch Cup, and you, dishonoured and defeated, lay on the floor, bawling your eyes. Of course, I would relish the moment of my victory, and, skeptical, I would reluctantly offer you my hand… Alright, you got the idea. I was a dreamy child.

Naturally, none of that came true: the snitch was in your hands, and I, sprawled on the ground, choked after the collision that sucked the air out of my lungs. After that match father hadn’t responded to my letters until the beginning of new term. He also didn’t visit my games anymore, which was insulting, really. I was brilliant against any other seeker.

Remember our first duel? I beg you to tell me you do. You are supposed to be the good one, so the least you could do is to remember it. I put my best effort into conjuring that bloody snake—just to impress you. But you, you little shit, wouldn’t be yourself if you didn’t beat me to it there, too! Parseltongue! A bloody parseltongue! Oh, you’ll be pleased to know I almost passed away out of sheer fear. Obviously, when the rumours of you being the heir of Slytherin spread like plague, I wasn’t all that gullible to believe it (common, take a look at yourself, Harry), although the curiosity ate me alive. I still have no inclination as to which bloodline had granted you this ability, and I even think of approaching and asking you directly right now, but with all the determination I have in my body (rather, the paucity of it), it still wouldn’t be enough for me to actually do it.

About the supernatural activity gone that year—murders that were spurred out of will of some divine providence. Now, I suppose, is the time to apologise, though I doubt the death wish to your friend could have justice with a single apology. Nonetheless, this is all I have: I’m sorry, Harry. Don’t you think I truly wanted deaths of every muggle-born, for Merlin’s sake, I was twelve, not a psychopath! Just like every pubertal, healthy adolescent, I tried to create this cool persona to my peers. I truly considered it “cool” to talk like that (now is the time to remind you about my first warning: the world around me screwed with my head). Additionally, I wanted to rankle with you. If you, by some miracle, missed this detail, it used to be my greatest goal to achieve.

In reality I was scared. When you are a twelve-year-old kid walking in the dungeons, hurrying to get to the dormitory of your house before curfew, the idea of a large snake slithering around does wonders. Even if you are a pureblood wizard from who knows how many generations back (father tried to make me memorise my whole bloodline, but I failed—like many other tasks too).

After… well, after you dramatically strode into the infirmary covered in blood and dirt I panicked even more. After that, fear ultimately rooted itself in me and I worried for your life since then. What happened in first year could be written off as a single case, but I noted the methodical way you hanged on a verge of death consistently each year. My anger was so consuming I was gnashing my teeth, while you strut with a merry look on your face; bloody hell, Harry, how can you be so frivolous regarding your own life?

Then you stole our house elf and my father became even more furious than ever. During the trials I was informed with the revelation of his fail with the diary that nearly caused yours and a little girl’s demises. I speculate that the anger masked the fear of not fulfilling Voldemort’s will, but that hardly excuses him. Was I scared of my father? Did I feel disappointed? Alas, no: the cup was already filled to the brim.

Let’s finish this on a good note. Remember the huge box with treacle tarts on the infirmary bedside table? Definitely not. I think you’ll find it funny to know that I had to sneak behind Madam Pomfrey’s dead at night just to leave it for you. This is another episode that I preferred to pretend never existed and that I now remember with a smile.

DLM.”

No essay was written that morning. Speaking truthfully, Harry wouldn’t be able to articulate even two words: his mind was a detached mess. He was especially affected by the last paragraph. He did not, in fact, remember receiving any box with treacle tart that day—there were too many people who gifted him sweets—but he wasn’t questioning the validity of Malfoy’s words. Why would he lie? That act did not succeed in making Malfoy any better than he was in Harry’s eyes. It was a harmless story full of hidden warmth.

Merlin, Malfoy cared for him. Malfoy was scared for him.

His head was ready to burst at this point. Being in a somnambulant space the whole morning, he managed to come to his senses only in the Great Hall. Stunning realisation occurred in him the moment his gaze wandered to the Slytherin table and stopped on the seat Malfoy always occupied: isolated from others, near the right edge of the table.

it was empty. Of course it was empty. Looking at it brought up another important issue in Harry’s mind.

“Who’s gonna pay for his funeral?” he asked Hermione and Ron who sat by each of his sides. It was the first coherent thought he uttered this morning.

His friends, speechless, stared at him. Hermione awkwardly pushed the leftover bods of red beans with her fork, and replied:

“The Ministry, I presume. The Malfoys don’t have any relatives. In Britain, at least.”

Harry flinched, the picture of the burial place for Death Eaters without any family was in the “Witch Weekly” a few months ago. It was a row of identical, gloomy graves on the outskirts of Little Dropping—the abandoned village. There was nothing but tiny tombstones blackened with grime and a dead bush.

Harry felt queasy, and put the toast he managed to bite only once away. Apparently, something was reflected on his face that made Hermione hastily adjust her words:

“Perhaps Andromeda will take the matter into her hands? I mean… she bothered with Narcissa and Lucius’ funerals.”

Her words worsened it for him: a lump in his throat swelled and tightened, making it harder to breathe. Harry coughed. He vaguely remembered the day she died. It seems right after Lucius—the beginning of june. The paper wrote she died of a broken heart that couldn’t take the loss of her husband whose own death met him in Azkaban. Harry wanted to attend her funeral; Merlin knows, he was grateful for her courage in the Forbidden Forest, but life spun him around like a muggle washing machine, and he got lost in the whirpool of unending trials, mourning, and the Weasleys, shattered and grieving their loss.

He felt terribly, sickeningly ashamed.

“I must visit Andromeda,” Harry said, convinced. “I think the financial support will be welcomed. Any kind of help, at this point. “She’s already buried her husband, daughter, and now her sister and brother-in-law.”

“Wait,” Ron, who was silent before, interfered. “You’re, what, gonna pay for Malfoy’s funeral?”

“Have a problem with that?” Harry said through clenched teeth, immersed in anger at the unfairness of it all.

In truth, he was angry at himself.

“It’s just weird is all i’m saying, mate!” he said with a hardened look, stabbing his fork into a piece of fried bacon; it weakly crunched under the pressure of fork tines. “What the hell is going on with you? Is it the letters?”

“I just want him to have a funeral he deserves,” Harry announced, unwavering. He got up from his seat with an abrupt jolt. “He deserves to be buried with his parents… not Death Eaters.”

“He is a Death Eater. You’re not—“

Harry didn’t pretend to listen—it was too much. Everything within him ignited with unfiltered wrath, and he, grabbing his bag, quickly left, ignoring everyone: the questioning eyes of his classmates, the worried exclamation that was Hermione’s, and let it blur as the distance settled.

He landed in front of Andromeda’s house with a loud pop on the same day. Having barely sat through the lessons till the end and thanking gods for only having to sit three, he immediately showed up at McGonagal’s to inform her about his departure, mentally noting that he would leave any way: with or without permission, not even sparing a glance at rules and consequences. McGonagal looked at Harry over the top of her glasses in surprise when he burst through the doors like a blast: erratic and nervous. She didn’t ask questions when he then declared that he will be busy organising Malfoy’s funeral, for which Harry was grateful.

Knocking at the door of a small cottage—a composition of weathered white boards, worn out by time—belatedly came the thought of sending her an owl or patronus, but he was already at the door, so there was nothing to do now. If she’s not home, he’ll simply wait by the porch. Time shifted to an invaluable resource in an instant as he realised no one will do him a favour of waiting, resulting The Ministry burying Malfoy like an underground dog. Harry couldn’t leave it the way it is, moreover, he wasn’t sure he’d ever been able to leave the matter of Malfoy alone even before the letters.

Andromeda answered the door fairly quickly, much to his great relief. Noticeably tired and having lost weight, she regarded Harry with a peep. Teddy shoved her curly lock in his mouth with a meticulous attention, sitting on her hip and unconcerned with a guest’s presence.

“Harry!” she repositioned Teddy more comfortably, holding the door with her foot. “What are you doing here? Has something happened?”

“Ah, no,” he shook his head, wanting to reassure her at first, halfway realising the absurdity of his words, and changing the tone: “Actually, yes, but not with me, don’t worry. I- Can I come in?”

“Of course,” she moved to the side.

Harry took of his school robes, not bothering to change into more appropriate clothing for going out, and pressed onto his heels to pull his feet off his boots. As soon as he did, Teddy was transported into his hands. Andromeda handed the baby with an unhidden relief.

“Your turn to carry him,” she said, going further into the hall. “My back’s killing me. Tea?”

“Er, yes,” Harry held Teddy closer to his chest, perturbed with the idea of his delicacy, despite having enough practice within the last six months. “What’s with the muggle thing Hermione gave you? Is it uncomfortable?”

“Sling?” Andromeda distractedly asked, turning to the kitchen. “Teddy refuses to sit in it recently, as well as in his crib. He’s very clingy these days.”

She sat heavily on the chair and with a swing of her wand in teapot’s direction added: “Don’t get the wrong idea, I love him dearly, but sometimes the desire to have two working arms and a healthy back is overwhelming, you know?”

“Yes, I guess so.” Harry replied, reaching the shell with cups. “If you get tired just let me know, I’ll look after him. No prob here.”

“I fear you’ll be too busy with the NEWTS.” she made a dismissing gesture with her hand. “Though, if you’ll have a spare time on weekends, I wouldn’t mind.”

“It’s about Draco,” Harry’s heart clenched, unused to the sound of the name.

Gripping both of the cups with his fingers, he turned to face Andromeda. The corners of her lips immediately turned down, deepening her wrinkles and worsening her exhausted look.

“Yes, of course,” she said quietly. “I found out from the papers, The Ministry didn’t even send me a letter.”

“How could they not tell you?” his eyebrows furrowed and he slightly adjusted Teddy, giving him a lift. He chirped happily.

“Harry, they can do whatever they wish when it comes to Voldemort’s followers.” she smiled ruefully. “Terrible tragedy, indeed. I really will miss him.”

“You were talking to each other?”

“Yes, of course. Ever since the trials. He often came to visit. Wonderful, kind boy. Teddy adored him even more than you, to be honest.”

Harry almost dropped his cup; no one ever talked about Draco this way.

“Yeah?” his foolish tongue produced, and he put the dishes down on the table, out of harm’s way.

Andromeda only grunted, stretching her hand to the teapot. Harry perched himself on a chair right next to her. Teddy’s hand pulled his school tie, and he was going to let him salivate over it: it was easier than resisting the small act of vandalism.

“In short, I wanted to ask about the funeral.” Harry said as he watched the tea being poured into his cup, relishing the honey aroma. “Were you planning to organise it?”

She winced so deeply as though the question physically hurt her. With another wave of her wand she sent the teapot on the stove, and, placing her hand under her chin, said:

“I would want to, dear, had I any resources left, I…” she swallowed thickly. “I’ve done a lot of funerals. Sometimes it seems as though It’s the only thing I did the last six months. I can’t stand the idea of him being buried in Little Dropping, but I have no alternatives.”

“I’ll pay,” he affirmed. “The funeral and anything else. Andy, really, I told you I will help you out with anything.”

“There wasn’t a need for that, we’re managing. But the funeral… Yes, I’ll be happy to accept.”

“Okay. Have you got a place in your mind?

“Oh, maybe the place under the Castle Combe—cemetry of sacred twenty eight.” she paused for a few seconds, sipped her tea, then resumed with a hoarse voice. “This is where Narcissa and Lucius are resting. Bella too, though Draco wouldn’t be ecstatic at the idea of neighbouring with her there’s nothing I could do now. All ancient families buried their relatives there, and Potters are there too from those old times when they were included in the list. The last three decades your family preferred Godric Hollow.”

Harry felt the morning lamp creeping up his throat. Some part of him still refused to believe they discussed Draco’s funeral placement.

He mindlessly caressed Teddy’s back—Teddy was still occupied with Harry’s tie—and succinctly, softly responded:

“Okay.”

“The body needs to be taken tomorrow. Can you take time off of your lessons?”

“I’d prioritise leaving than…” he grimaced at the thought. Seeing the strict look on Andromeda’s face he corrected himself: “Don’t worry, I’ll catch up. You know Hermione.”

“True,” the corner of her lips twitched. “Well then, do you know where the wizarding area of Bermondsey is?”

“Yeah, heard about it.”

“Apparate there by ten o’clock. I’ll be waiting by the entrance. It’s a small arch with ivy near the Southwark Park. The morgue is right behind.”

“Okay.”

He couldn’t say anything else, nothing could make sense in the midst of their situation.

They drank the tea in silence that no one had any intention to break for some time. Harry felt how he slowly descended into drowning the grief in tea. He didn’t know whose at this point: his or Andromeda’s.

She started talking first.

“Why are you doing this? Were you close?”

“We…”

Harry broke off, thinking about the treacle tart, about the offered hand, and about the dreams of a twelve-year-old boy with a pointy face. He thought of the beech, of the rapeseed, and the cup of Quidditch. The essence of belladonna.

“To some extent,” he finally settled down.

Maybe, in another universe where things went differently.

Chapter Text

Right from the morning Harry felt as though stupefied. The world kept spinning around, shocking with the mundanity even greater than that of the day Draco was announced dead. The silverware clattered around; Seamus and Dean rattled on; somewhere in the far end of the Gryffindor table Ginny laughed; Ron and Hermione quietly conspired between each other, throwing wary looks at Harry. He ignored them, not finding it in himself to discuss his decision.

London was just as unremarkable as Bermondsey, or Southwark—filled with muggles on this unusually fine day of November, and the chewing cabbage seller who was beckoning to his shop in the wizarding area. Even the morgue seemed to be extra plain, completely unaffected by the gloom of grief: small-sized hall surrounded with marble pillars; hired workers carried a black wooden coffin into the fireplace to transfer it to the graveyard; permeating flowery smell of air refreshing charms; sunlight falling into the window. Nothing else. Nothing more.

The world doesn’t halt when someone dies, he tried to remind himself on every funeral he attended; in early may funerals went right after each other, linked in a chain, but that thought never helped then and doesn’t help now either.

As soon as they sorted out the bureaucratic aspects, Harry and Andromeda apparated to the cemetery under the Castle Combe—It turned out to be much bigger than Godric Hollow; it took about a good half-mile of territory within the short distance of the muggle chapel that was located on the skirts of the town. The gravestones stood tightly next to each other, distinguished by the figurines made of white marble—mostly sorrowful angels with the silhouettes of a thestral and a mermaid Harry succeeded to spot. Not far from where he stood naked branches of the tress were swaying, and Harry thought Malfoy would like this place. The cemetry sloped up, leading to the first hints of hills and fields that would most likely  be covered with greenery and colourful flecks of flowers in spring. Maybe even rapeseed.

Andromeda made a step forward, going to the wrought iron gates, and sighed when the cool magic of anti-muggle charms washed over her. Harry turned around from his path to have a look at her face. She looked wearied down, and Harry once again thought how tragic it was to still be haunted by death even after the end of the war. He even suggested her to stay home, but she only shook her head, and tied her greying hair up.

The Alley where the Malfoys were buried was one of the longest. Symbolically, it ran into the gates and curved around the graveyard of three tombstones, the last of this generation, and three dates marked with the same year. Just now, when Harry numbly looked at the carved names of Lucius and Narcissa, he was hit with the revelation that there are no Malfoys left. Many pureblood lines died out after the end of the war, and he didn’t feel much regret about it, but now the notion gnawed at him with long, sharp teeth.

Swallowing, he averted his eyes to the white marble tombstone with an engraved Draco’s name on it. Sleek, pointy, with a flourish. Scarily reminiscent of his handwriting. The coffin lay in the dug hole. The worker was standing with a bored look on the right side, dressed in grey robes the edges of which were stained with dirt. He was tapping his right hip with a lowered wand, and the gesture only added to the casual mood of this day. Harry felt nauseous at the sight.

He walked over to the edge of the coffin and stared at its lid, almost indistinguishable in the wet, dark earth. He didn’t see Malfoy—there was no point of goodbye ceremony for two people—yet felt a painful urge to take a last look at his face. What would he feel? Would he feel better, accepting the truth of the reality? Or would he feel worse, the shadowy ache in his chest growing?

“Any final words?” Andromeda’s faint voice broke through Harry’s fog.

He slowly shook his head. What is there to say? How he spent five years hating the person who now lays six foot under the ground? Or about the letters that he left and that irrevocably touched something within Harry’s soul, occupying a significant space in his head? Should he say that he’s actually sorry that it ended the way it did?

Maybe the last version that would still sound clipped and inadequate.

“No,” Harry said gently yet firmly.

Andromeda nodded, taking a handful of earth in her graceful, narrow hand. Harry detachedly thought about how similar Sirius’ and Malfoy’s hands were, something the Blacks shared.

The earth hit the wooden lid with a muted, dampened noise. Harry gulped, and, leaning over, took a handful of earth, too. Sending it down into the hole, he realised that the pain in his chest fossilised, having more semblance to a stone resting on his heart.

Andromeda gave an approving nod, and the bored worker, noticeably relieved, made a swift movement with his wand, sending it under the ground. Watching the vanishing under the surface lid, Harry felt a pang of regret for not digging out the addresses of the remaining Slytherins that left the country. Logically he knew that Malfoy couldn’t care less—being dead and all—but his heart roared, demanding more, bigger, and grander. Not just two pathetic tosses of dirt and a nod.

But this is all he could offer Malfoy.

When the worker left, Harry crouched down next to the newly made grave and conjured a crown of white narcissuses. The gesture reminded him of the last Christmas—the Godric Hollow, Hermione’s small hand in his, and the burning in the corners of his eyes, identical to that he had now.

Straightening his back, he stepped back and stood beside Andromeda. She took his hand to comfort him, as though he needed it more than her, and they silently stood side to side for another ten minutes.

The stone in Harry’s heart grew a heavy burden, crashing him down as he passed Andromeda’s threshold.

“The bloody war,” she muttered, taking out a bottle of Firewhisky. “Ended six months ago, yet the death never stopped.”

“Maybe this was the last,” Harry said softly.

Inwardly, he was far away in his Gryffindor dormitory where six other letters awaited him.

“Hello, Harry

Sometimes I truly pity my own state, where I am doomed to ask questions without receiving any answers. I genuinely wonder how it is going. Have you decided to not open the letters, or have you given up under the pressure of your curiosity? Have you read the first letter? The second? And if you have, did you read all at once or did you take breaks in between? Did you need time to process my honesty? Perhaps you’re not even affected, taking it without a hint of discomfort and even laughing at the irony of this?

What happened to my body? Am I already buried? If yes, then where? I guess it would be the cemetery in Little Dropping. I am not thrilled at the idea of lying next to Rookwood or Macnair (there’s going to be a lot to unravel about those two), but, in the end, a corpse couldn’t care less. I ruminated about leaving the meagre amount of money left after paying the war reparations so that Andromeda would bury me next to my parents but decided against it. Andy went through a lot of funerals, and I wouldn’t wish for her to burden herself with mine, too. We knew each other for too short a period of time anyway.

Alright, less with the pointless questions and more with the real deal you came here for.

Initially, I planned to sort the letters by year, dedicating the content on the year it’s based on, because, you see, I like to organise things. Lists, tables, diagrams—I find a great delight in those, and the concept “one year equals one letter” suits my tastes perfectly. Later, though, I grasped a very simple realisation: there’s no point in dividing the third and fourth years, because the reason and the message in those years are the same.

This is a story about you.

Now, look closely here, and remember that you as a whole were never one of the reasons. Harry, I know you like to take over the accountability for everything, so I insist: read carefully through the words I chose. It’s not really about you as it is about my feelings towards you, which you are in no way responsible for. In the end, I did everything to push you as far away as I could, so if we’re looking for someone to blame, you could blame me.

If you’re not counting some events, this year could be categorised as a harbour of peace and adolescence, not even remotely close to the topic of war. I’d say it was the same for you, well, excluding the fact that you had a near-death experience practically every year.

By the third year, I had cultivated a defence mechanism against my father’s dissatisfied expression given away by his pursed lips. I learnt to seek unconditional love from my dear mother, finding comfort for my ego, when I was humiliated and trampled on once again. Taking this into account, the end of 1993 had every chance of being summed up as pleasant, if not for one ‘but’.

The hormones messed with my head and my mind started to operate a little differently. The light poured lazily through the big window of the Great Hall on the day of late September, when I, looking at your sleepy, dishevelled head, gained a great epiphany that all this time I was in love.

My terror then could not be contained in mere words. It felt as though the world crashed down. The world build on my hatred towards you was a lie. I was aware that I lied all the time to everyone, myself included, before (the evidence being the endless fantasies and the treacle tart incident), but it’s easier to deny yourself the craving for friendship rather than your heart crying for love. Oh, the traitorous heart! It was wearing me down. My heart skipped a beat every time you were in my sight, not to mention the sweet pull in my chest. And those stupid butterflies in the middle of my stomach—just like in the cheap romance novels Millicent Bulstrode loved leaving everywhere.

I hated the butterflies. I wanted to tear them apart from my flesh, to vomit them up along with all my insides.

It would be easier if you were a girl. I would, undeniably, suffer in despair from unrequited feelings and the fact that I will never be able to win you over, but at least I wouldn’t be dying from the feeling of disappointment in myself. Don’t get the thought I was prejudiced in that matter, too; I had a great acquaintance with Theodore Nott, who spent a whole fifth year running on Blaise Zabini’s trail. But this was about me, not him. I was scared just imagining my father’s face had he known my terrible secret. However, what hit me below the belt was the clear understanding that any hope of a married life with some pretty pureblood woman who would bear me a child was ruined. Ever since that day, I envisioned me looking at my wife, not feeling even an ounce of love I felt for you.

You might think of me as overly dramatic, but I was absolutely out of my depth. Moreover, as the years went by, life showed me I was right in that regard. My love for you never dimmed—it grew stronger. I could never get rid of you in my head, Harry. You nestled in my heart then, and you live there now, too, when I’m a week shy of ceasing my existence.

Thus, after this revelation, I had only one course of action: I should hit harder, sting deeper, and reshape my love into hatred using any means I could. I suppose I made only a half-hearted attempt, since I was also keen on getting your attention, even if I didn’t understand this at that time. This is the time for me to apologise for that stunt with the dementor on the Quidditch field; It seemed hilarious to dress in black robes and spook you a little. As we already found out, I was an idiot.

Oh, do you remember the hippogriff incident? I would have never, never in a million years walked over to him if not for you. Merlin, I still have common sense, and I am an overly cautious person, but the moment you touched the ground after flying over half the territory of the castle, my eyes were blinded with red. I didn’t think, and I didn’t feel anything but the primal urge to impress you.

It was an unmitigated failure, just like everything I tried to accomplish.

You should’ve known how furious my father was. He didn’t care about my hand, it’s the reputation he truly valued. He organised a whole campaign just to persuade everyone that it wasn’t my mistake but the school’s incompetence. To be fair, it’s not something I disagree with him about… Execution was unnecessary, but, really, is it appropriate to let students walk freely around the dangerous beast? Although even the hippogriff is acceptable in comparison with blast-ended skrewts. You can disagree, I’m ready to defend myself.

Overall, I could end the story of the third year right here. If we’re not mentioning the incident with the beast, the never-ending fear for your life (the little routine of the day, isn’t it?), the limitless disappointment of my father, and my complete terror of my feelings, the year went smoothly; there were even good moments.

By the way, pass Granger my regards. Her hook is admirable. At that time I felt debased, but now I can only laugh at myself.

About the fourth year… Well, things get worse.

The summer was intense. I saw how agitated my father was: rumours about Voldemort spread slowly in the small circles of Death Eaters. The marks activated from time to time, I didn’t know then, but sometimes I caught my father clutching onto his forearm. The episode on the Quidditch championship has dark enough nuances behind it. There, I assumed my father, along with the people he was conversant with, wanted to indulge himself in sadistic tendencies towards muggles (again, I want to remind you I was young and cruel; at that age I didn’t know what empathy for muggles was), but now I see it as it is: he was trying to prove his loyalty to Voldemort. He understood very well that Voldemort will find out about this performance of his, so he decided to guarantee himself a contingency plan. It didn’t save him in the end, but, I have to acknowledge the attempt.

As a result, the championship turned out a complete nightmare for me. On the holidays I almost succeeded in making myself think the feelings were gone like a long, exhausting fever, but one look at your face and I knew it was a lie. Everything in me shone and shook when we met on the stands. I was so crashed, I blurted out insults to you and your friends. Another apology to the list, yeah? I hope you’re not tired of them yet as they are a crucial part of this confession.

Going back to school, I expected a lot from the tournament. I floated in the purblind faith that if something will finally help me to distract myself from thoughts of you, it will be the triwizard tournament—a show that happens one can watch once in a decade, that is, if he is lucky. Additionally, I hoped that some of the international students will interest me. Merlin knows, I was open to falling in love with any guy if it meant that it won’t be you. Naturally, that didn’t happen.

To tell the truth, four years after, I’m most definitely sure no one and no thing could ever shake you off of my bloody head.

Everything has fallen to ashes. Your name was announced by the goblet of fire and I knew two crystal clear things: I will be dying from fear, while watching you going through the tasks, and, from now on, even the slowest person in the room could figure out that you won’t be out of the circle of my attention. You will everywhere—wherever I’d go, whatever poster I’d land my eyes on, whatever chant I’d hear, whatever cheap newspaper published that day I’d stumble upon. And I was right. Your name chased me day and night, your face scowling at me from multiple pictures.

I was doing my best—the jibes, the posters, and the badges. Specifically the badges! For your information, that was an advanced magic, so endeavour to appreciate my efforts at least now. I spent two days and two nights and earned myself ridiculous amount of teasing by Pansy, who already put the puzzle together.

The fear did not leave me day and night; I saw you, dodging the dragon’s fire, and I was passing away because of fear. My lips couldn’t even form the daily portion of sneers. I saw you, coming out of the water, choking, and thought that no one, no one should live like this. Not this young, not under qualification. It looked like a cruel prank on you, like Dumbledor’s personal failure—he was the greatest wizard alive yet he wasn’t capable enough to save you from possible painful end.

And then I saw the way you looked at Chang—everything in me was ablaze.

I hated her—violently and loyally, till there was nothing but red flashing before my eyes. While observing your from afar, the only thing I wanted was to approach you, grab your shoulders, and shake, screaming a plea to see me. The same thoughts clashed in my mind: I’m better than her, I’m smarter, I’m more attractive, I, ultimately, actually love you, while she turns away to hang herself at Cedric Diggory’s shoulder. That year was a real struggle for me: Chang, then Patil. I was dying internally, seeing you looking so bloody good, even when you stumbled on your own robes. And your hair! Your terrible hair! I wanted to touch them badly, to disrupt the mess even further, to bury my fingers in the locks, maybe even pull slightly if you liked it.

Oh, how I wanted you, Harry, how I wanted you. To my biggest disadvantage, the want didn’t limit itself on your body, and I loathed myself for it every day. I was pathetic, pitiful, jealous, and egregiously miserable knowing you will never look at me.

Now, I don’t have such thoughts. As I previously brought up, a lot changes as you are a step away from death. In the present moment of my life, I love my love for you. My love for you is the lightest thing about me, and It’s the best thing that could ever occur to my black heart.

I think it’s time to stop torturing you with reflections on my hopeless love, instead, it’ll be more fitting to tell you the moment my peaceful (yes, despite spectrum of painful feelings I went through, I still deem them as peaceful) days have come to an end.

They ended the moment you, covered in blood, thrashed around the Quidditch field in uncontrollable hysteria. The moment I saw your wild eyes and heard your feral cries, I wanted to run over and throw my lies, my mask, off. I wanted to hold you closer and to never ever again hear that terrible cry of a scared, grieving person out of your lips.

When I saw Diggory’s body, I knew what was coming even before your words, “He’s back,” reached every corner of the field that was engulfed in silence.

That’s how the peaceful days ended. Yours and my youth, and many others’, was interrupted in the green labyrinth, in the midst of bright posters and muted orchestra; in the sound of your scream, filled with despair, in the sight of your tears, mixed with dirt.

I’m so sorry, Harry. I’m sorry it happened to you. I’m not grieving for myself—only you.

DLM”

Ron and Hermione’s patience snapped the day after the funeral.

He arrived back from Andromeda’s in the late evening (they spent the rest of the day slowly sipping the firewhisky, eating a stepherd’s pie Andromeda cooked, and distracting each other with inane chatting), read the third letter, and didn’t even come out to talk with his friends. Closing the drapes, he curled into a foetal position, threw a duvet over himself, and swam in blurry dreams the whole night, waking up with visions of Draco imprinted behind his eyelids.

He knew what to expect when he read the first letter, what the story about Draco’s feelings would lead towards. It was fairly obvious after the words “I’ve always wanted you,” but it was different to receive the truth so blatantly and to stumble on the word “love.” The sheer honesty pierced Harry right through, raising the alarm in his heart that was squeezed from every angle.

How could he not know? Was Draco hiding it so well, or was Harry so blind that he missed every ambiguous sign, every wistful sigh lost to the air? He tried to remember what Draco was like in third and fourth years, but all he could recall was twisting jibes, sneers, and stupid notes with caricatures—and weren’t those a sign themselves?

Naturally, he looked worse than ever in the morning. His sleeping habits were erratic since the first letter, but now, after the funeral, Harry looked utterly lost. His own pale face and hollow eyes with growing shadows looked at him from the bathroom mirror.

He couldn’t avoid the conversation any longer, though. Merlin sees, he ran away from breakfast before Hermione could even wish him a good morning.

They caught him after potions lesson, which went disastrously: Harry nearly blew his cauldron up, messing up the petals of white and red lilies. Harry tried to resist when Ron and Hermione grabbed him by the armpits, but quickly gave up while they were carrying him outside, away from prying eyes and ears.

They chose a place by the lake. The weather was miserable: a fine rain kept drizzling, tapping on their heads, so students preferred to have their break indoors, in the castle. Harry grumpily stared at the lake surface when Ron and Hermione finally let him go. He felt a small desire to spring into running, but Harry knew it was pointless—he can’t hide it forever.

“Harry,” Hermione carefully started.

“What the bloody hell is going on with you?” Ron exclaimed simultaneously with Hermione.

Harry pressed his lips into a thin line, putting his hands into the pockets of his robes. A huge droplet fell onto his head, but he didn’t even shiver—his feelings detached and the unwelcoming world distant.

“It’s fine,” he uttered. “I’m just… upset, okay? It’s fine to feel upset when someone dies.”

“It’s Malfoy who died,” Ron argued.

Anger lit up in him instantly. He lifted his eyes to his friend, who awkwardly shifted from leg to leg, saying:

“So what? Is he not a person?”

“I didn’t…” he backed away, bringing his palms in front of himself. “I didn’t mean that, Harry. Of course he is a person, but, Harry, why are you fussing over this? You weren’t exactly friends with him.”

Harry didn’t know what to counter it with. He could say a lot, but he didn’t want to give away anything. It was personal.

“Harry,” Hermione chimed in, touching him on his shoulder. He turned around with a jolt and immediately felt a surge of shame as he took in her concerned face. “We’re just worried for you. Is it because of the letters? What’s in them?”

He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to choose his words. It was difficult—they layered upon each other and refused to create a single line.

“I can’t tell you,” he finally said. “Those are not my secrets to tell.”

“Are you saying that not even we are allowed to know?” Ron asked, coming closer.

“Even you. It’s between me and Draco, okay?”

“Between you and Draco?” Ron looked entirely baffled. “Since when has he become ‘Draco’?”

Harry broke off, not knowing what to say. He didn’t know when it happened—one day he woke up with a strange name on his lips. It felt right.

Realising that Harry won’t say anything else, Hermione said softly:

“Please, Harry, explain it to us. Look from our perspective, how odd it looks. I understand that the news about Malfoy’s death could affect you, but not this much. You’re not eating, you look terrible, and you’re always somewhere else in your head. Are you sure there wasn’t a curse on them?”

Harry laughed bitterly. It would be easier if it was indeed cursed. It was an easier problem to get over with than the fact the person you spent so many years thinking as bad was not, in fact, bad. It was easier than to process the notion of being loved by the person who you gave nothing but hatred and scorn.

“Yes, I am.” he sighed. “They’re… He just talks about himself. About why he… did that to himself.”

Ron huffed in annoyance, seemingly restraining himself from dropping some unflattering comments. Hermione, on the other hand, gave him a flicker of hope when her eyes flashed with a small understanding. For a second he felt relieved, but then she started talking again, and the words ruined it:

“You don’t blame yourself, right?”

…He did. Draco asked him not to, but how could he not? The memory of their last encounter replayed in Harry’s head all the time. Now he was sure he could prevent his death. If only he listened to his intuition, If only stayed, If only knew what’s on his mind… The big, tenacious realisation of his mistake mixed with his regret and something that already resembled grief into a killing combination.

“I could help him,” Harry exhaled, turning away to the lake.

The water stirred, disturbed either by a Giant Squid or by a mermaid nearing the surface.

“Harry, no,” Hermione shook her head, touching him on the shoulder again. “You couldn’t, he wouldn’t listen. You weren’t close…”

“That’s the thing,” Harry gave a tense laugh full of pain. "I was the only one who could do it. I... he... It’s not what it looks like, okay? I know that now.”

“He could lie to you!” Ron snapped, earning himself another bristled look from Harry. “Common, mate, the goal of his life was to rankle with you. He probably just decided to mess with you in the end.”

“Stop,” Harry interrupted. “Please, Ron, just stop. There was no point to lie, not what he wrote about. You don’t get it.”

“So explain!”

“I can’t! Those are not my secrets to tell, I told you!”

In despair, he turned to Hermione, seeking support, but she stayed quiet, hugging herself and looking anxious. Harry exhaled through his nose, calming himself down; he didn’t want to conflict with his friends, who were his backbone and strength, but he still shouldn’t tell them Draco’s story. It would be a betrayal, and Harry didn’t want to think about when exactly he started caring about it.

“Please,” Harry asked, taking a step towards them. “Just let me finish with it, alright? Five more. I have to read them, and it’s over. Five more.”

As he said that, he hastily left, not giving them a chance for protesting. With his peripheral vision, he caught Ron moving after him, but Hermione grabbed his hand to make him stay—Harry was never as grateful for her.

He quickened his pace, walking along the water’s edge. The rain intensified, sending icy droplets down his sensitive neck, but he didn’t pull up his hood. The grief grew and grew, drowning him from head to toes, and his eyes prickled while the words were circling in his head.

“I’m so sorry, Harry. I’m sorry it happened to you. I’m not grieving for myself—only you.

DLM”

Chapter Text

As he woke up the next morning, he automatically reached to grab the fourth letter from his bedside table. His sleep-induced state stirred, reminding him on which note the previous letter had ended. It was apparent that the next letters grew darker and darker in their tone, deprived of even the smallest happiness that, rarely, could be found in the lines he’d read.

Replaying that thought in his head, Harry leaned back and directed his gaze onto the ceiling. Perhaps he should give himself a break before diving into the implacable darkness. He didn’t doubt the following heaviness of the remaining stories Draco planned to tell him. The war period was hardly a time one could find positive aspects in, and Draco, surely, wasn’t going to list everything good about his life.

He came to breakfast, reassuring himself as he inferred that sooner or later he’ll be out of the human crowd, droning on around him, and he’ll vanish from the watchful eyes, away in London. Barely being able to breathe under the internal and external pressures, he needed the tranquillity of seclusion and silence to process the words dumped onto him from the pages of inscribed parchment. He even pondered over the idea of taking time off from the lessons, making up some incredible story for McGonagal—anything so she would let him out. The thought of attending the lessons, trying to maintain his attention, sends a surge of nausea. He needed to run, run, and run. Run, so that even his shadow receded from the horizon. Pity he couldn’t outrun his own mind.

However, he was hit with frustration as soon as he informed Ron and Hermione about his plans:

“Mate, have you gone bonkers?” Ron asked, his fork stopping halfway to his mouth. “We have lessons with Snape today.”

“Today?” Harry said stupidly. “Is it Friday already?”

“Well, yes,” Hermione mumbled, not turning away from a scarily large tome of advanced arithmancy; she was so engrossed that her portion of porridge stayed untouched.

Harry pushed his toast away, crossed his arms, and dropped his head on his forearms. He could brush the idea of leaving away, unless he preferred to spend his next week entertaining Snape on detention; being turned into a portrait, the latter became even nastier.

“Can’t believe he ruins our lives even after dying,” Ron vocalised his thoughts. “I thought he’d be less of a nuisance after realising his old dream of teaching DADA. Anyone still wants to bathe his portrait in turpentine?”

“I won’t be anywhere near him.” Harry heard Neville’s rueful voice.

“Are you still scared of him?” Hermione asked, surprised. “Neville, you severed a head of fourteen-foot length snake. This is just a portrait.”

“It’s Snape’s portrait.” Neville muttered sheepishly.

Ron, Hermione, and Seamus, who sat beside Neville, laughed. Harry quietly snickered, not raising his head, but the mirth died without a chance of blooming as the belated thought crossed his head like stone cracking his nape.

Friday.

Friday already.

It’s been one week since the last time he had seen Draco alive. Likely a week since his death.

Harry slowly straightened, floating in the waves of different voices filled with joy that kept teasing Neville. The fleeting moment he allowed himself to slip melted away like a first snowflake on bare skin. Hermione, who turned to check on him, instantly furrowed her eyebrows in a grimace of concern, but Harry let it pass through him, numbly staring into the void.

Draco loved him. Loved, loved, loved.

Draco is dead. Dead, dead, dead. No double back. Irreversibly dead.

Merlin.

“I’ll see you on potions.” He rasped, standing up from his seat.

Several questioning looks were sent his way. He didn’t once turn back.

It was an absolute disaster.

The first half of the double lecture Harry spent crouching over his notes. His hand was sluggishly moving back and forth over his parchment, writing down some words and leaving dozens of blobs. He was aware that he would regret this and would be compelled to convince Hermione to share her notes, but it seemed to be constantly drifting away. The life where studying played any part in it was a part of normalcy anyone else but Harry had been in. His consciousness was stuck, carried away into the past, going through the time from 1991 to 1994, in a whirlpool again and again. Sometimes he was even glad for these thoughts—they distracted him from the epicentre of his pain, the tight bundle of his nerves, tangled around his unresting heart.

The second part of the lesson turned out to be worse. Snape demanded they move desks and divide into pairs to practice their duelling skills—unlike his predecessors, he paid a significant part to the practice, which usually enthused Harry; usually, but certainly not now: his movements were slowed, languid, and thinking even worse.

Ron sneaked away to Hermione’s side right before his eyes, as he always did this year, and Harry, resigned, had to approach Neville. He was so used to the ease with which he passed DADA that, even through the haze of indifference, he managed to shock himself by finding his body sprawled on the floor—for the fourth time after a simple stupefy—and was forced to listen as Snape’s cutting remarks spun around the class: he was hopping onto different portraits.

When the bell rang, Neville stunned him for the fifth time.

Dismissing his messed-up apologies, Harry gestured for Ron and Hermione to go without him, reminding them about his intent to leave the castle. The queue of students quickly cleared—everyone still wanted to escape Snape as soon as they could; now, there was no one left from Slytherin that used to be under his patronage.

No one, no one, no one.

Harry shivered from this cold truth and hastily grabbed his bag but didn’t get to leave; Snape’s strict voice stopped him dead in his tracks.

“Potter, stay.”

Harry closed his eyes for a couple of minutes, slowly sighing. He was desperate to get out of this castle, and the least thing he’d prefer to do was listen to the rant about his pathetic duel with Neville. Nevertheless, he had no choice, and, turning, he willed himself to sound as civilised as possible:

“Yes, sir?”

While the students were trotting out of the class, Snape moved back to his original place: a big canvas six feet in length hung above the table that, despite its uselessness, was left to be.

Snape’s black eyes, sophisticatedly depicted with oil paints, fixed their glare on Harry. To decipher the message of it was decidedly impossible even when he was alive, let alone painted.

“What’s the matter?” Snape asked with a distinct pang of annoyance. “I never expected brilliance from you, but it hadn’t occurred to me that all it took was Longbottom.”

“Neville proved to be brilliant enough in the war,” Harry interjected, easily provoked to anger.

It seemed Snape was a second away from rolling his eyes.

“Longbottom is passable, perhaps only at waving a sword. Now, answer my question.”

Harry wanted to comment that they’re not on a test for him to be inspected, but the sharp jibe got stuck in his throat. He was submerged in a wave of fatigue that slammed onto him at once with all its weight. There was no energy for obstinacy and no desire to hide behind excuses about the suddenly appearing headache. All he wanted was to leave as soon as he could.

He dropped his bag, hanging a dead weight on his shoulder, and bluntly said:

“Draco’s dead.”

Sounds were drowned in silence. Harry, not breaking it, stared at Snape’s impenetrable mask. He sat at the painted table, intertwining his fingers covered with yellowish nail plates, all while none of the muscles on his face wavered.

“He killed himself.” Harry said, feeling a need to add anything.

“I know,” Snape replied. “Foolish boy.”

“Don’t talk about him like that!” Harry roared. Anger swelled in him in a second recently when it came to Draco. “You’re just like the others; even you can’t care less!” He choked out.

To his astonishment, Snape’s eyes lost their impassibility right after his words. Irritation inflamed in them, not affecting the perfect mask only by a miracle. Harry was almost glad to it.

“You still believe you can converse with me in such a tone?” he hissed. “I’m not one of your little friends or Dumbledore, who indulged you in anything.”

He paused, his nostrils angrily flared. Harry lowered his head, breathing deeply. When Snape resumed, his voice gained an exhausted edge, which Harry never encountered; only, perhaps, in May, in the pensive memory, a whole lifetime ago.

“Unfortunately, those who cared for Draco either passed away or left the country as fast as they could. I’m considered the first category, so stop your whining in an instant.”

Lifting his head, Harry froze on the spot. A frank misery flashed on Snape’s expression, so subtly that he almost missed it. Yet he saw it: the way it flickered from his eyebrows to his chin.

Anger faded out without a chance of igniting into a real fire. Harry moved a chair and slowly descended on it. A weak relief poked at his soul—he could feel that he was not going insane, that there was nothing wrong with him but with the uncaring world.

Perhaps that feeling was what spurred him into blurting out:

“He left me letters. Eight letters. Eight reasons why he did it.”

Snape wasn’t surprised; he only scoffed and arched his eyebrow and asked:

“Did you expect anything less?”

“Of course I did!” Then, thinking a little, he retreated. “Before. I didn’t expect it before the letters. I’ve already read three.”

“And what do you think of him now?”

Harry thoughtfully examined his hands, laying on his knees. He had no clue as to what to do. Nothing he found out helped him to sort out the mess in his tortured, worrying mind.

“I don’t know,” Harry frustratedly said. “Certainly nothing what I’d thought before.”

He raised his head, looking in Snape’s eyes, and asked, confused:

“And you? Did you expect this?”

“I would be more surprised had he not done it.” Snape practically snorted, gobsmacking Harry with his insufferable tone. Although it got lost in the air as every emotion on this sickeningly grey face did. “You may go.”

Harry eagerly obliged, glad for the gained freedom. In his thoughts he was already rehearsing his talk with McGonagal and then hurrying to the gates to apparate away. The conversation he had just been a part of—the affection he had witnessed from Snape—seemed unfathomable even in hindsight, but he had truly no energy to dwell on it.

He picked up his bag, threw something vaguely resembling a goodbye over his shoulder, and left the classroom.

London didn’t make him feel better.

In the beginning it helped slightly: fleeing the mob, where every single one knew his face and paid increased attention to him, escaping his friends’ worried looks, he could breathe more easily. But then it came all over again: the stone burdening his heart, the unbreakable chain of thoughts circling around the same words, around the same week-old evening, when he saw Malfoy’s pointy face for the last time.

The rain kept drizzling, dotting the streets and the random faces with tiny prickles, but Harry ignored it, making himself step forward. He did not see the path he was walking on, turning on the unfamiliar streets, his eyes lingering on the flowing streams of cars and walking, walking, walking, as though mechanical movements could relieve him. He pondered over the alternative outcome if Malfoy hadn’t left the letters. Would he be grieving just as clearly? Likely not. Likely, the empty feeling Harry felt in the first seconds of Tuesday morning that he memorised for the rest of his life would not evolve into this pain that was living in his sternum, pressing into the ribs.

But the most nonplussing thing was that he wasn’t sure what he would decide if someone offered him to erase the content of the letters. Harry felt that it wasn’t worth it; it wasn’t worth losing a whole story that Draco was still telling him. It was maddeningly confusing to connect the jigsaws into a heart-wrenching puzzle, but with that Harry felt an obligation to finish it, as though it could endow Draco with freedom that, he, as a matter of fact, already achieved.

Late in the evening, sitting in the dining room of Grimmauld Place, Harry asked Kreacher, who was putting a plate of roast beef on the table:

“What was Draco like when he gave you the letters? Was he afraid?”

The plate clattered softly on the worn wooden table. Kreacher blinked slowly, straightening up, and croaked:

“Master was okay. Master smiled at Kreacher.”

“Smiled.” Harry whispered, looking fixedly at his plate and feeling the familiar lump forming in his throat.

That night he dreamt of Draco. For the first time the picture was clear, not from the shattered fragments. Draco, dressed in warm robes, was going down the steep stairs but stopped, noticing Harry.

“What?” he asked.

“Draco,” Harry breathed out, moving a step closer. “You’re here.”

When he woke up, his eyes were burning from unshed tears.

On the next day he pointlessly wandered onto Hyde Park, where he met Luna Lovegood. He noticed her light blonde head from afar but didn’t pay any mind to it, thinking that Luna had better things to do than skittering in muggle London on Saturday morning. However, as he crept closer, he realised it was really Luna: her long, colourful skirt peeked from under the brown short coat lined with something moderately resembling purple fur. Her light, misty eyes opened widely as Harry neared her.

She cheerfully waved her hand, shifting from leg to leg. Translucent ice crust silently crunched under the heels of her boots.

“Hi,” he greeted her, stopping beside her. “What are you doing here?”

“Hullo, Harry,” Luna smiled dreamily as she always did. “We were tasked with an additional task on Muggle Studies to have a trip to a Muggle store and buy something with pounds. It was optional, but I still wanted to try. It’s so nice in here, isn’t it?”

“Ah,” Harry said. “Yes, it is nice. Have you got it yet?”

Her smile became even wider. She waved the hand she was holding her bread with. Only now Harry noticed a cluster of ducks on the pond they were standing next to. The birds teemed at the coastline, quacking and pushing each other.

Harry found himself smiling too. He was happy to see Luna. She never judged, never tried to get into his soul, and never tried to analyse his actions. She was just there, distracting with her carefree gentleness. Harry was seeing her more often this year: older students that went through the war unashamedly visited each other’s dormitories, ignoring the rules, but Harry was so deep inside his head since last week that he barely noticed people around.

“I got confused with the money, but the cashier helped me. It’s rather amusing that muggles draw each other’s faces on their money, isn’t it?”

“Maybe?” Harry said, half asking, then ran his hand through his hair. “I never thought about it. Your look is… fancy.”

“Oh, thanks,” she brightened, tearing off a piece of bread without looking. “I attempted to dress as less magically as possible. Do you want to feed the ducks with me?”

“Yeah. Let’s do it.”

He really didn't mind. They spent some time in comfortable silence, throwing pieces of bread into the pond. Luna didn't seem to care at all what Harry himself had forgotten in the Muggle part of London.

When a particularly brazen fat drake came ashore and began to move its webbed paws frequently in their direction, she suddenly asked:

“You are upset, right?”

“I…” Harry hesitated. He could lie to her, he could say it’s fine, and he could dodge the prodding and painful topics that he tried to escape all morning. But it was only Luna, and she made it a tiny bit better, so he carried on: “Yes.”

“I understand,” she nodded, leaning forward and stretching her hand with a bread on it to the drake. “I miss him too.”

“Who?”

She turned to him without straightening up. A thin strand of white hair slipped out from behind her ear, falling over her face.

“Draco, of course.”

Harry could only blink, speechless. The piece of bread crumbled in his hand.

“Were you close?” he asked, perplexed.

“A little,” Luna replied, turning to the drake, who was slow and clumsy in his movement, aiming at the food. “In September he helped me to take my boots off the ceiling. The nargles stuck them there again.”

“Er… What about… I thought you wouldn’t want anything to do with him after the dungeons. I mean, in the manor.”

Harry was really caught off balance. He knew that Dean Thomas, who, like Luna, went through a couple of terrifying months in, barely hidden the disgust at Draco’s direction. It wasn’t too fair—Draco wasn’t the one holding them captive—but Harry couldn’t blame him. Helpless anger needed a target at which it could be unleashed. He understood too well how it can eat you from the inside out otherwise.

But Luna did not seem to think so:

“Actually, it wasn’t too bad. Sometimes he brought us water at night. Once we even talked, and it was fun. At some point I stopped understanding who’s actually the prisoner there.”

The drake stole the bread from her open hand and hurried to leave, almost choking on it. Luna didn’t make a move; she continued crouching down, stretching her hand. Her gaze seemed even more afar than usual.

Harry didn’t say a thing, thinking whether Draco would mention that later in the letters. A few weeks ago, Harry would have been surprised by Luna’s story, but now he accepted it unreservedly. He could imagine it clearly: Draco, scared, looking around but stubbornly remaining on the spot on the floor next to the bars.

Maybe he needed a drop of humanity when everything was swimming in blood and smoke. l

“Do you think…” Harry’s mouth produced quicker than he could think about it. “Draco could love me?

“Of course,” she responded, standing up. “Didn’t you notice?”

She threw the last piece of bread in the pond. Harry followed her example. The drake quacked, going down on the water.

The words weren’t forming.

“I would be more surprised had he not done it.”

Was Harry this blind? Or were it Luna and Snape who knew too much about Draco?

“Don’t worry, Harry.” Luna’s voice interrupted his brooding. “Maybe he hasn't boarded the train yet.”

Harry stared at her.

“The train? What train?”

“The one you missed, of course.”

Harry stood frozen for several seconds, trying to process Luna’s words. He was ready to write it off as another of her quirks but suddenly remembered about their conversation after the end of the war about King’s Cross station Harry appeared at when he died. No one except Ron, Hermione, and Luna knew. That day he, buoyed in the mist of losses, decided to share with it for some reason.

“Or,” Luna continued, not minding his unresponsiveness. “There might be a universe where Draco’s still alive.”

Harry sighed, closing his eyes. Pain returned all at once, covering his body wholly.

“Maybe.” He said not to offend Luna. “Maybe.”

Obviously, it was impossible.

Harry came back to Hogwarts on Sunday evening. By that time the need for seclusion dimmed, and he could even spend some time in the common room, having inane conversations the memory of which flew out of his head as soon as he ascended to his quarters with Ron and Hermione.

The box that held the letters Harry opened as though planning to dive into freezing cold water—with bated breath and taut muscles. He knew that nothing good awaited him in the letter “4,” but the urge spurred him: the faster he sorts this out, the quicker it ends.

Harry wasn’t sure the end exists, though. Here in November evening he thought that none of those words would ever leave his head or his heart.

He was going to hide behind the drapes once again but suddenly found a small space enclosed by a heavy scarlet cloth suffocating. Then, after a moment's hesitation, Harry pulled the invisibility cloak out of his trunk and, wrapping himself in it, went downstairs.

The noisy common room soon stayed out of his reach; Harry skipped dozens of empty halls until he found a deserted, cramped room, dimly lit with torches. Taking the hood of his cloak off, he sat by the window, trying not to think how Draco must have sat the same way, writing the letters. Taking a deep breath, Harry broke the seal.

“Hello, Harry.

I’m glad you’re still here, knowing the dark tones my story is developing. I suppose there’s no need to hold you back with the introduction. Let’s begin.

The summer of my fourth year was full of sweltering heat and fear that was destined to remain in my heart forever. I liked hot days before: at that age, scouring the plains, tangling my legs in the high grass, was unbecoming for me, but I still liked to leisurely walk, stroking the yellow rapeseed field with my hand, and settle with a book under the cool shadow of the beech. That summer was different. The heat sucked the air out, becoming unbearable as it was accompanied with fear that made home at the Manor.

Throughout the four years, I wished my father would leave me alone: to stop reminding me that I won’t succeed without his guidance. But that summer all I wanted was to go back in time, when grades still mattered. I saw my father’s nerves fraying every day. An outsider might not have picked it up, but I saw them clearly: the slight trembling of his fingers when he held a quill or an utensil, deep wrinkles in the space between his eyebrows. Father was terrified and spread his terror onto me. Mother was holding better—believe me, she was stronger than both of us—but I saw changes in her, too. Our only consolation was the fact that Voldemort found his refuge at Lestrange cottage, not at the Manor. Unfortunately, it didn’t last.

Not sure if you’re interested, but let me explicate the system set in those years. You must think all Death Eaters are mad like Aunt Bella, Greyback, or Dolohov, but it’s not entirely correct. By the time Voldemort was resurrected (and by the time he turned into a beast), many of his followers had split up, realising that behind a charming leader with tempting ideas was a blood thirsty psychopath. Lamentably, there wasn’t an option of publicly defying his methods unless you wanted a premature death after a long session of torture. Therefore, the disillusioned followers had to suck it up and continue the service, kneeling and pleading for forgiveness of their dubiety. I’m not claiming the impossibility of breaking out—my godfather Severus is a prime example—but none of us had enough courage.

Another part of Death Eaters entailed the moral degenerates, sometimes just as unhinged as Voldemort. They couldn’t care less what aim they followed in the end if it meant that they could implement their sadistic tendencies, and they trailed behind a strong leader who allowed them murder, assault, and thievery. There were a lot of halfbloods among them, and Voldemort viewed them as no more than pigs for slaughter, but they were too dense for the simple truth to get into their heads.

I’m telling you this to clear the circumstances at the Manor. Believe me, father, like many others, was not thrilled at his return. He might have even secretly rooted for you to defeat that monster. I can't guarantee that, of course, but I think I might be right.

But the terror for you tortured me even more slowly than the terror for the future. I knew that whilst Voldemort was alive, you would never be safe, and that thought made me break out in a cold sweat. I hardly remember the morning I heard the rumour about the dementors attack on you. Everything was swimming before my eyes, while my heart restlessly pumped blood.

During that time I was still struggling against my feelings, mixing them in an amalgamation of hatred and love, of the desire to hurt you and the desire for you to be safe, but even that combination couldn’t eradicate my fear. I may have hated you, but I wanted you to live so feverishly that I was ready to sacrifice myself. I’m certain you don’t understand how it is possible to feel two contradictory emotions, but I assure you, I didn’t understand either and miraculously kept my sanity together.

Overall, you can picture what atmosphere surrounded the manor. Never have I ever been so excited for school. Hogwarts couldn’t save me from ineluctably nearing future, but it gave me a false sense of safety. It also gave me an opportunity to keep an eye on you, which relieved some of the fear for your life.

Now, it’s for another remark. I hope you didn’t seriously think I was awed by Umbridge. I swear, Potter, I don’t know how brainless you have to be to view her policy and teaching methods as anything appealing. Nonetheless, as you already knew, I wasn’t above working for her. That decision has a trivial reasoning behind it: I desperately needed any semblance of controlling the havoc around me, so I clung onto any available resources. The Inquisitorial Squad supported the simulation of control, and it also provided me tools to make it harder for you—yes, I did it simultaneously bursting with unwanted feelings for you. It was especially bad when it came to Chang; I couldn’t tolerate a sight of you two together.

Here I am moving to the apology part. No, I won’t apologise for the squad: I’ve never caused you real problems; for instance, I knew where your little club gathered even before Umbridge but decided against informing her, knowing it will cause bigger problems than I imagined. I was, undeniably, ecstatic when the friend of Chang’s was caught, but none of it was about you—not directly, at least. The squad helped me to stay sane, so I don’t feel particularly guilty about participation in that idiotic circus.

Instead, I want to apologise for that incident on the Quidditch field and for every word I spewed out. I was on edge from the rumours about Voldemort’s plan to release his servants that day; unlike the cowards from the Ministry, Slytherins never hesitated to excitedly discuss the third-hand news all day. I didn’t care about the match’s aftermath, but it was a good excuse (not a reason) to get under your skin again. I didn’t expect it to end with your fist in the direction of my stomach, but it turned out to be a sort of epiphany for me. That day I realised that sometimes pain takes a form of release, knocking out all undesirable thoughts.

I regret that you were deprived of the right to play. I know that Quidditch is your type of release.

Then rumours came true. I remember that day well, when the article by “Witch Weekly” about the mass escape from Azkaban was published. I remember pretending to feel triumphant with my naive housemates to avoid suspicions, and I remember sicking up in the bathroom after. I knew it was the start. I knew that nothing would ever be the same.

I understood the real hardship of the imminent when I arrived at the Manor for Eastern holidays. Dolohov, Rookwood, Jugson, and Mulciber—they were already there. My mother warned me, of course (in the most equivocal way possible,) but the knowledge couldn’t prepare me for reality. I felt their eyes, I heard their terrifying, mad laughter; I noticed my father’s paleness, how the house elves were shaking in fear. I heard cries of a muggle they brought, I saw her naked, immobile body that they, as soon as they satiated themselves with it, left in the middle of the main hall.

It was the worst week of my life (I didn’t know yet that I would recall it with less contempt than what follows next), but I couldn’t return to Hogwarts early. I ate at the same table as them, I lay in my bed, listening to the scraping of their steps, trembling with no chance of falling asleep, and pretended I didn’t want to spring into running to the edge of the earth.

Like that, the chain of nightmares had begun. And it grew and grew, flowing poison in my veins, ending at my father’s failure. Even now I’m troubled with giving a definite answer as to what scared me more: my father’s imprisonment, Voldemort’s wrath, or the mortal danger you miraculously escaped again. My hands were controlled by an external force when they held the newspaper, the first page of which was your bloodied face with your eyes full of void.

The school year had ended. I didn’t know yet that Voldemort moved to the Manor.

I won’t tell you about my feelings when I saw him for the first time. I think we both know you understand it better than anyone—the inhuman nature of his movements and the feeling of red eyes on you that slither into your head with a single flick. I’m lucky he didn’t deem it necessary to read my mind. I’m sure my feelings for you would be written in a huge, red lining across my consciousness, and I can’t fathom the consequences I would have had to face.

I knew that my father’s failure wouldn’t be forgiven. Of course I knew. But even then I couldn’t think of the punishment being embroidered on my left forearm. In that moment I felt the full potential of Voldemort’s sick mind. He could have killed me but chose another path of slow elimination using fear. The path of humiliation, the path that resulted in shattering my soul had I succeeded in accomplishing his order. Naturally, I had a choice: either do anything possible to drown in corruption or suffer death not until after witnessing my mother’s agony.

But the choice of whether to accept the mark or not—I didn’t have that. I hope you understand, Harry, but my hope is faint.

It hurt, Harry. It hurt so much that even the Cruciatus would be more appealing to you. It’s the kind of pain you would chew your arm off for, just so the agony of the injury would distract you from the torture of getting it onto your arm.

In that moment I tried to think of you. Some part of my feverish mind that hadn’t passed out yet clutched onto you, finally accepting the love I felt wholly and utterly. Maybe Dumbledore was right all this time: Love is the only force capable of vanquishing the evil.

The fourth reason for my suicide is marked on my hand right now. It will stay till the moment the worms devour it bare.

DLM”

Chapter Text

When the tears came, there was no stopping them.

They just appeared: two droplets fell on the parchment while Harry was sitting by the window and finishing the fourth letter; then it happened when he woke up from his restless sleep, breathing erratically; finally, in the DADA lesson under Snape’s scrutinising gaze. Harry didn’t bawl—salty tears just collected in the corners of his eyes, blurring his vision, and all he could do was to blink it away, frantically wiping the tears with the back of his hand when no one saw, which shifted his glasses up.

Harry didn’t know what exactly devastated him about the fourth letter, which part was the most terrifying. Perhaps it was the terror of the hot summer. Perhaps the love. Perhaps the mark.

“But the choice of whether to accept the mark or not—I didn’t have that. I hope you understand, Harry, but my hope is faint.”

He didn’t understand. He never ruminated about it, thinking that Draco only showed his own unimaginable arrogance. He never even thought to think of the mark as a punishment.

Maybe Harry could not have understood. Maybe he was just terribly blind.

The tears came once again when he was sitting in the common room the next evening.

There was a pile of parchments and several textbooks in front of him—Harry had collected a lot of homework over the past week. He was listlessly scratching at the parchment with a quill, vaguely understanding what he was writing. Seamus, Dean, and Neville were playing Exploding Snap nearby. Ron was sitting across from them, with one arm around Hermione's shoulders and the other, like Harry’s, scribbling.

Harry didn’t listen to the conversations around him, but something caught his attention:

“No, really, the fifth year wasn’t so bad.” Dean said, quickly assessing the cards he put into a fan in his big hands.

“Are you saying you miss Umbridge?” Neville repeated, shocked, as if to sum up the said.

“Oh, no, course not.” Dean snorted. “But, common, remember her mug when she was walking around the halls back and worth with no clue where the D.A. was hiding?”

Harry’s eyes prickled.

“Priceless…” Seamus chuckled. “And the squad of hers…”

Harry forcefully shut his eyes, swallowing the saliva flooding his mouth, and sprung up, knocking the inkpot. A black splotch spread all over the parchment, but he didn’t even attempt to save his work, only rushed to exit, colliding with the portrait’s lower part that covered the entrance. He thought the room drowned in silence but couldn’t be certain—there was a ringing noise in his ears.

He moved further, step by step, without any understanding as to where, while new waves of tears came, setting his eyes on fire. By the moment he arrived at the staircase leading to the Astronomy tower, his face had been wet. Taking his glasses off, he wiped his face with the cloth of his shirt.

He cried because of Malfoy, and it was sheer madness.

He cried because of Malfoy, and it felt as natural as his disordered breathing, ripping his ribcage apart after running for so long.

Slowing his pace, he ascended upward, not knowing where to go now. The tower was almost completely repaired, except for the giant dial and the glass behind it that were crossed with a huge crack. Harry sat right on the dirty ground, leaning against the wooden pillar that rested against the ceiling just below the roof. The clock's pendulum swung rhythmically twenty feet away. The orange rays of the setting sun seeped through a crack in the glass, casting peculiar reflections on the floor.

Harry didn’t know how long he had sat like this, calming from the pendulum’s repetitive swaying side to side. It was immutable and eternal; nothing touched the thick, metal parts; no one’s death could sway it off the track.

By the time he heard hesitating steps, the sun had fully hidden from the horizon, and Harry’s legs started to fall asleep.

“Harry?”

Hermione’s voice did not catch him by surprise, did not make him flinch. Everything inside him gradually fossilised, leaving no place for surprise or irritation. The bright light of lumos lit the tower up and fell down on his face, making him squint.

“Sorry,” Hermione hurried to say, extinguishing the light and moving her wand away.

She went down next to him. Harry reluctantly shifted, giving her space to lean back against the pillar.

“How’d you find me?” Harry asked, pulling his knees to his chest and locking his arms around them.

“I took your map,” she said, guiltily. “Sorry. You were absent for too long, and we started to worry.”

She put her wand between them, with a measured movement, as though Harry was a skittish animal ready to jump on her for any wrong action. But he didn’t even twitch, didn’t even feel anger—of course they worried. He was sorry he couldn’t do anything to make them stop worrying. He barely had any means to calm himself. Each letter tightened something in him; the steel spring that squeezed with an unknown limit. Harry didn’t know what would happen when the limit was crossed.

“How’re you?” Hermione asked.

He grunted miserably. There was no point in lying; even a complete stranger would have figured it out.

“Awful.”

“How many left?”

“Four.” Harry winced. “I planned to read the fifth tonight.”

Hermione sighed. He didn’t look at her face, but he was sure she was nervously tearing her lower lip.

“Maybe you need a break?”

“No,” Harry shook his head. “I tried, but it’s not helping. Maybe it’s making it even worse. Perhaps I should read all at once, but I… I’m not sure I can take it.”

“Is it that bad?” she asked, lowering her voice.

He nodded tiredly. The large arrow on the dial shifted with a loud clack.

“I…” Hermione broke off, trying to find the words. “I’m really sorry, Harry.”

“For me or for him?” He let out a bitter laugh.

“For you both, to be honest.”

Harry blinked away another wave of tears, preventing them from rolling down, and still he turned to look at Hermione. Her face looked sorrowful and completely pale under the cool light of lumos.

“I didn’t notice much caring on his behalf.” Harry couldn’t hold the ounce of venom in his tone.

Hermione’s cheeks coloured. Her voice sounded guilty when she said:

“Harry, I am really sorry he died, especially the way he did, but… But he is… It’s not like he was nice to me, was he? I know the war changed him—it changed us all, in the end—but we went through so many losses even before Draco that I just didn’t even have the energy to be shocked by the news. I would want it to be different; truly, I would want for him to live and to get another chance, but…”

She paused, not finishing her sentence. Her right hand, resting on her knee hidden under her robe, shut tightly, clutching at the fabric. Taking a deep breath, Hermione continued:

“Please, don’t hold grudges against Ron. It’s more complicated for him—I mean, it’s harder to realise that death is always a tragedy. He still blames Draco for Bill, for Dumbledore, and I think for George, too, because who else is there to blame? Other Death Eaters are either rotting in Azkaban or died, and Draco was just there to receive the whole spectrum of pain and anger. That’s why he didn’t even feel pity. I know it sounds unfair, but that’s how it is.

“Draco wasn’t a Death Eater,” Harry said hoarsely.

“But…”

“He wasn’t a Death Eater!” he yelled, which caused Hermione to flinch and pull away. “He…”

Harry had to squeeze his eyes shut for a moment, suppressing the anger that flared up in his chest. It wasn't Hermione's fault—she didn't know . None of them knew.

“Draco didn’t want the mark,” he continued after a short pause, when his eyelids fluttered open. “No one gave him a choice. He could either take it… or die along with his mum.”

His voice broke at the last words, quietly shaking like a leaf. Hermione’s lips parted; her eyes flashed bewildered. She said nothing for some seconds before leaning closer to Harry.

“You found this out from the letters?”

Harry nodded, tired, and turned away from her again. Laying his chin on his knees, he stared at the pendulum. Left. Right. Left. Right. Ruthless flow of time.

The arrow clicked.

Time. Time…

“If only there was a time-turner left,” Harry sighed, letting himself think about the topic anchored on the edge of his mind, buoyed up. “Just one. Isn’t there at least one left somewhere?”

Hermione’s small palm covered his shoulder. Her warmth was astonishing—he was that frozen from the inside out. He didn’t realise how cold he really was.

“Even if there is, it wouldn’t help.” Hermione said softly.

“Why?” He frowned, looking at her.

“I read a lot about it after we saved Buckbeak," she settled back, without taking her hand off his shoulder. “Although time is a rather malleable thing, it still has fixed points. Moments that cannot be physically altered. And death is just one of them.”

“But we saved Buckbeak, you said it yourself.”

“That’s the thing,” she licked her lips nervously, as if she was afraid of his reaction, which, however, was justified—Harry exploded from anything these days. “We helped him escape before his death became a fixed point. No one saw his body. And with Draco… There were people who found his body, people who prepared him for the funeral. He is a fixed point. Even if we assume you did find a time-turner and used it, you still wouldn’t be able to save Draco. Anything will happen accordingly, any events that will thwart your attempts. The time will mend itself from destruction.”

Harry felt something inside him flickering before completely dying out. He didn’t consider the idea seriously, but it nestled a hope in him—this fragile, ubiquitous creature like warmth in the pit of his heart that didn’t let him believe in finality of what happened.

“It's going to be okay," she muttered into Harry's hair, her voice breaking. “Everything is going to be okay.”

Of course, he didn't believe her.

They stayed in the tower until it was dead at night, but when they returned to the Gryffindor dormitory, Harry didn’t go to bed. Taking out another letter, he went downstairs to the empty common room and, curling up on the sofa, broke the seal.

“Hello, Harry.

I want to ask pointless questions again. How do you feel? If you’re reading these with breaks, then how are your days going? I really regret that I can’t get the answers. I can only hope you’re alright, though I doubt my story could affect your well-being. Still, I’m so used to worrying about your life that I feel it’s impossible to get rid of the need to know everything there is to know.

For your information, today was a wonderful day. I think you could recall it: the sun shone really bright that day, impossibly bright for a chilly November in Scotland. I was glad to see it one more time. It’s a little laughable—I always had to cover my skin so that it didn’t burn in the sun or get freckled (appalling, isn’t it?), but I still love the warmth of it. Today I had a chance to enjoy it. I went out of the castle, reached the far edge of the lake, and just stood, leaning my head back. I hope you enjoyed it, too.

Let’s not prolong the inevitable; I can’t keep stalling the next part, can I?

To be frank, that summer I often caught myself thinking that I wouldn’t be alive till the autumn. Everything that agonised my mind was enhanced a hundred times more—every day there were new “guests” that filled the manor with terror and rot. I don’t know why that smell stuck to me—the rot, the blood, and the wet earth—maybe I was only imagining all of it. I tried to minimise my movements outside my room, but even there I could still hear the steady rustle of Nagini’s scales when she slithered in the halls. Sometimes, when I went outside my room, I saw bloody stains—I can only hope you understand that Voldemort didn’t feed her rabbits. Sometimes I could hear screams downstairs, more often female than male. Even then, I stopped going down to the dungeons, scared of what I might find in them.

Only my dear mother, who sometimes came only to silently sit beside me, held my sanity intact. But, in truth, every time I looked at her, my passionate desire to flee to Hogwarts weakened—the thought of leaving her behind, alone, surrounded by a bunch of madmen in the place that had been our home discouraged me.

Either way, as I said, the choice was meagre. I have no idea how Voldemort found out about the existence of the cabinet; the only other thing I was instructed with is that, other than assassinating Dumbledore, I had to fix it. Gladly, not by Voldemort himself, ever since he hasn’t blessed me with his personal presence again.

I spent time reading the books from the library at the Manor and strengthening my Occlumency shields. I knew my attempts were futile—Voldemort was capable of ripping any shields I would ever use if he needed it. But I couldn’t sit, doing nothing. The secret I have held in my heart was akin to a muggle bom (that’s how it’s called, right?) ready to explode with a single touch.

One of the hardest ordeals I had to go through was maintaining my face. Maybe it doesn’t sound as bad, but when you’re a step away from snapping, it becomes problematic to keep the cool mask, because in that time I was surrounded only by the people connected with Death Eaters—the Parkinsons, the Goyles, the Crabbes, and the Notts families, all were under Voldemort’s service just like mine. I couldn’t risk exposing my weakness and fear. Even Zabini couldn’t be trusted: I never understood what was going on in his head.

All this cautiousness lead to me having conversations similar to what you’ve eavesdropped.

I suppose you are expecting another apology, but guess what? There will be none. Bloody hell, Harry, what did you think going on that shelf? The only thing required of you that year was to sit quietly and not. interfere. You managed to get yourself into a snake’s nest on the first day, even before the school started, giving yourself away so blatantly. Had you ever thought what would happen if I was, indeed, on his side? I could kill you right there; I could bring you straight to his arms, so why the bloody hell did you have to orchestrate that farce?

Okay, now that I have said this to you, I feel slightly remorseful for your nose. It was, in fact, excessive, but I was enraged. I was furious the moment I saw you on the platform—you should have stayed in the safety of the Order under a million protective charms instead of going to school, but you outdid yourself by going straight to my arms that afternoon.

When I got off the train, I had the weakest hope that you would take the hint and hide in London before the train driver, who always checks every compartment before sending the train to the depot, would find you. Merlin, of course it didn’t go as intended. You could never take a hint, could you?

I have to say, Harry: if you put aside all the unpleasant moments, that year could have been quite interesting. Just think for a moment what a mockery of fate it was. I've been trying my best to get your attention for so many years, and finally I got it. Days and nights under your meticulous observation; your footsteps echoing in the dark, you breathing down my neck. How funny life can be. How grandiose its irony is.

I would have never imagined befriending a moaning ghost of a little girl. Still, it happened—I sobbed my eyes out there once, and I couldn’t stop coming back. It’s not like I talked with Myrtle much; I was too busy crying my soul out, full of terror and despair, but it was enough for me to feel an ounce better. The weight of the burden returned as soon as I stepped out of that bathroom, but I suppose that those minutes spent in the company of a crying ghost alongside me helped me to keep myself together.

However, there was one thing stronger than my fear or despair: self-loathing. Every time I overstepped the morality, committing a deed that only closed the distance between me and turning into a killer, who outright harmed innocent people, I sank deeper into the chasm of self-hatred. By the start of the winter, I could barely look at my reflection—my own face caused a rise of nausea in me.

Right after the near-death Weasley miraculously escaped, having drunk the oak-matured mead, I locked myself in the showers. Then, prematurely undressed, I spent another half hour sitting on a cold floor and trying to scratch the mark out of my forearm. If you had a look at my mark now—which would never happen in any universes—you would see a crisscross pattern of scars. I torn my skin apart, clenching my shirt between my teeth, until the blood flooded the floor.

It didn’t help. The ink seeped through the injuries with my blood. The action was bound to be useless anyway; I was irrevocably connected with Voldemort.

The peak of my hatred was reached the day Katie Bell returned to school.

It happened when I saw a reflection of your face in the bathroom mirror.

Harry, you… You will probably laugh at this when I tell you that even then, in the most darkest years, I had a part of me, an endlessly naive and eternally light part of me, that hoped for you to look at me with love. It was a fruitless, completely foolish hope, but I couldn’t force myself to deny it.

It broke the moment when I turned and saw your eyes. Your eyes, full of hatred and contempt, wrecked me in a flash. In that moment, I understood fully and deeply, in the edges of my soul, that never in any case will you ever let me close to you.

I only wanted you to leave when I cast the first spell—a light, stunning one—but, naturally, you could never take a hint.

Then, instinctively shielding myself from your curses, I suddenly found the way. Of course, of course It was so simple! I just had to make you hate me a little more to make you cross the line you were already bordering on. You have to see, I couldn’t kill myself—it would equal a failure, and it would lose my family a chance to live; Voldemort would set the punishment without batting an eye—but I could force you to defend yourself. I could force you to fight me seriously, and I don’t mean any Unforgivable, but a maiming curse that would eventually kill me, however painful that would be.

Naturally, I wouldn’t have finished the incantation. I would have moved the wand away in the last seconds like I did the first time. I still couldn’t bring myself to hurt you—it would have been a finishing blow.

It worked. It worked better than I envisioned.

It didn’t hurt, if you must know. It was a wonderful feeling: the life slowly dripping away with my blood and water; nothing but your face, hovering over my body. Merlin, I would have smiled at you if only I could.

It couldn’t have ended so easily, however. I still find myself hating Severus for appearing in the last moment. On the other hand, remembering this impulsive decision, I can't help but wonder how you would feel if everything went the way I anticipated. In the heat of the moment, seeing your twisted, hateful expression, I concluded that you wouldn’t feel much remorse for killing a Death Eater that nearly ended your best friend’s life. I was sure you would have reached my forearm first thing after my death, confirming your theories altogether. Now, though, I’m left with a lack of certainty. In the end, you always felt guilty for things unrelated to you in every aspect, which never failed to astonish me.

Either way, I survived. I’m not sure if it was a blessing. It could’ve ended long before it turned hell.

I survived, but something inside me was broken. I didn’t see a way out anymore, not even a hypothetical one. I didn’t see a path that would lead me to you anymore.

It was over quite quickly. Surprisingly short days of recovery, which I spent barely breathing, half relishing the way the physical pain replaced the other, deeper, and more vulnerable pain. Then I opened the entrance of the cabinet, resigned to the fact that I’m doomed, not having even started to live.

Sometimes I wonder what could have been had they not gotten into the tower in time. I was very close to believing Dumbledore. I had thoughts of asking for his protection before, but, you see, I never quite trusted your side, and I really don’t think he was capable of freeing my mother from the very centre where all Death Eaters were concentrated.

Still, I lowered the wand. You saw it yourself; I still remember to the smallest detail how your voice sounded on my trials. I lowered my wand, controlled by a mind edging on a verge of instability with its fear and pain.

But Severus…

He offered me help before, but I couldn’t allow myself to trust him. I hardly trusted anyone but my mother. But now I know that he could have helped me, and he did, in the end. Although he had known me since my childhood, I refused to believe him till the very end. It was a game of important people, and if you were a key figure, I remained to be a pawn.

We neared the reason, yes?

That night, running away from the castle, I left my home. My first home was destroyed; my second was falling apart before my eyes.

I destroyed it myself, with my own hands. You can ponder over the topic of whether I had a choice or not for a long time, but in reality, there is always a choice, isn’t there? Dignified death was always an option.

DLM”

Harry went outside the gates when the first signs of sunrise began to colour the sky lighter shades of blue. The apparition was spontaneous; he didn’t think his final destination through and didn’t even get the time to panic about splinching. He had no thoughts whatsoever.

Landing, he felt a salty breeze caressing his skin, and, quickly looking around, realised that he apparated to Sidmouth, where the fields stretching to the horizon, submerged in greenery in summer, turned into a coastal strip. It was a town near Ottery St. Catchpole where Harry broke up with Ginny one chilly day in July. It was difficult—unshed tears in her eyes and the unending guilt for feelings that faded somewhere along the path. The spark died out, and the feelings transformed into a platonic, almost brotherly love.

Now that memory seemed far away, covered with fog, as though one that happened in a past life—the bittersweet life, full of losses, yet poles apart from the present.

Harry slowly shuffled along the path, each step bringing him closer to the waves lapping at the coastline. The south wind, gusty, whistled gently in the bare treetops.

Harry stopped at the shore, amongst rattling pebbles under his feet, not even trying to cover himself in his robes that he hadn’t changed since yesterday’s evening. The finished letter, clumsily folded, lay in his pocket, crumpled from rush movements.

“I never hated you,” Harry whispered helplessly, digging his fingers into his hair; he didn’t know whether it was a lie or the truth. “I never hated you, I never…”

He took a compulsive breath, salty air cutting the inside of his lungs.

“Why didn’t you tell me?!” He raised his voice. “Why didn’t you tell me?!”

His scream was swallowed in the sound of a wave crashing against the shore. The horizon slowly cleared, letting time move onto another day.

Chapter Text

Harry managed to force himself to return to Hogwarts before breakfast—only because Ron and Hermione would have gone out of their heads had they not found him in school, especially knowing the state he’s been in recently. By the time he apparated to the gates, his hands were icy, but he ignored the prickling in his red fingers.

He didn’t go to breakfast as well as the lessons, excusing himself with sickness (which wasn’t hard; his paleness and irritated eyes could be noticed from a mile away). Harry curled into a foetus position and fell into restless dreams. He thought he’d already been seeing the dreams about Draco for an eternity: the growing, and then destroyed beech, the dark halls, the smell of rot, blood, and wet earth, then, again and again, the steep staircase and the pale face, and “What?”; “Nothing.”

His voluntary confinement was interrupted in the evening (at least Harry thought it was the evening, if he could trust his internal clock), when the drapes opened, disrupting the silencing charms and letting in the light. The light was dim, emitted by the oil lantern, but Harry still squinted, covering his eyes.

“Common, mate, wake up,” Ron’s voice invaded his hearing, too loud after the whole day in silence. “You need to eat.”

Harry threw the duvet over himself, mumbling something inarticulate. He realised he didn’t undress, falling into bed as soon as he came—his wrinkled shirt stuck to his sweaty skin.

Ron unashamedly took the cover off. Harry lifted himself on his elbow, bristling:

“What the fuck?”

His tone didn’t impress Ron. Shaking his head, he pointed in the direction of the food on the tray that was left on the bedside table.

“You need to eat. We sneaked into kitchens after dinner. I’m sure you don’t want Hermione to become upset over the fact she had to watch the house-elves being exploited for nothing.”

“Hey!” an indignant voice came from outside of the bed that was covered with curtains. “They’re not exploited; they get paid! It’s just that the wage is inadequate for the amount of work they do…”

Harry weakly groaned, hiding his face in the pillow.

“Who else is here?” he muttered.

“Just us and Luna.” Ron replied. “The others left for a friendly match against Hufflepuff. I reckon the dormitory’s free for another hour and a half.”

Harry tiredly lifted his body to reach his glasses he carelessly left next to his pillow. The smell of a baked meat tickled his nose, and he realised how hungry he was. When had he eaten the last time? Without having to force himself? Without having his stomach cramp in protest as a wave of nausea washes over him? Harry couldn’t recall it.

Accepting the defeat, he opened the drapes fully. Hermione sat on Dean’s bed, crossing her legs and looking at Harry with a worried look. Luna stood a little farther away, carefully studying the branching pink plant on Neville’s bedside table. Harry couldn’t remember its name.

Turning to the sound of opening drapes, she smiled and, gently caressing the plant’s leaves, said:

“Good morning, Harry. Did you have a good sleep?”

“Mm, not really,” he said, his voice muffled. He lifted his glasses up, rubbing his eyes, feeling as though someone filled them with sand.

“How bizarre,” she said, carefree. “Maybe it’s the Nuer?”

“Nu… What?” Harry asked. Then, realising that he was risking listening to a story about another non-existent creature, he hurriedly added, “Never mind…”

Luna put the flower down and sat next to Hermione. Harry took the tray to settle it on his knees. There was too much food—orange juice in a foggy cup, roast beef, potatoes, stepherd’s pie, and some treacle tart—but Harry, resigned, started to pick at his plate with his fork.

It was uncomfortable to eat under the scrutiny of two pairs of probing (and one dreamy) eyes, but Harry was able to finish the meat, potatoes, juice, and half a cake. The spasms that threatened to take a full form finally stopped—his stomach relieved. Harry returned the tray to the bedside table. In the periphery of his eyes, Harry noticed that Ron had already taken a deep breath, preparing to say something, and hurried to interrupt him:

“I need a shower.”

Having taken the first pair of clothes he could find, while also clumsily stumbling on his feet, Harry vanished behind the bathroom door as quickly as he could. He wasn’t bluffing—he needed to sort himself out—but he still hoped Hermione and Luna would leave, or at least Hermione. Luna wasn’t unnerving like she wasn’t back then, at the park.

Water droplets fell off of Harry's hair as he pulled a Weasley sweater over his head, which was a monstrous combination of bright red and green. His ripped jeans strangely hung on his knees due to the stretched fabric, and he vaguely remembered they should’ve been thrown away a long time ago.

Harry avoided looking at the mirror.

He sat on the edge of the bed; his head was beginning to ache as the first waves of pain surged over his head.

Ron coughed.

“Um. Mate, perhaps a break?”

“No,” he shook his head.

“Harry,” Hermione chimed in. “Are you sure it’s worth it? It won’t bring Draco back.”

He winced. The thoughts of Draco nothing bringing back cut deeper, making it harder to breathe.

“I know, but I really need to finish this. It’s all I can do now.”

As he said that, he looked at his friends, expecting them to leave him to his own devices, yet nothing of such happened. Even Luna, who was swaying her leg, only thoughtfully stared at the ceiling. Harry arched his eyebrow.

“Can we stay?” Hermione asked quietly.

“Why?” he said, voice laced with confusion.

Ron coughed and awkwardly fidgeted, which was unlike him when it came to Draco.

“Your behaviour is really concerning, mate. Maybe we need to go through it together.”

“I’m not reading them out loud! I told you: those are not my secrets…”

“No, no,” Hermione waved her hands frantically, looking helpless. “We’re not asking that; we’ll just… be there for you.”

Harry deflated. Gratitude spilt over his heart, slow and fragile, yet undeniably real. He didn’t think they were able to help him—bloody hell, nothing could help him—but he thought he should let them, if not for himself, then for their own sake.

“Oh, the letters,” Luna’s voice allowed Harry to avoid reacting to Hermione’s words.

To be fair, he already forgot them as soon as he looked in surprise at carefree Luna, maybe slightly rueful, too, but there was always a subtle melancholy about her, wasn’t there?

“You knew he was gonna write the letters?” Harry asked with a weak voice.

“Ah, not really. Draco asked me in Herbology whether it was mad to dedicate letters to someone who hates you. I said there wasn’t an ounce of madness. He didn’t specify the person, but who else if not you?”

“Draco was hated by many this year,” Hermione interjected.

Luna smiled with an understanding, patronising kind of smile.

“Not the way Harry did.”

Harry closed his eyes, trying to calm the sudden surge of pain, raising up his chest. He recalled the way his voice trembled with emotion directed at the waves, scratchy and hoarse after insistent yelling. Noisy waves absorbed the sound of his pointless words.

“I didn’t hate him…” He said more to himself than to others. “At least not the way he thought.”

He opened his eyes, ignoring Ron and Hermione’s surprised looks.

“Hello, Harry.

Yesterday I apparated to the Manor and took the essence. I could have left it there, but I found myself calmer with a vial of poison in my pocket. I get the sense of control, knowing I can end it anytime if anything goes wrong. Granted, I’ve been much calmer this year—the clear understanding of the deadline, after which the pain stops, helps me to feel much, much better. At present I have four days left—I need to finish some finishing touches, one of which is the remaining three letters, of course. The closer I am the harder it is to write these, but I can’t stop now. I don’t want to either; I knew what I was going for. Let’s begin?

Looking back, I find it difficult to answer which part of my seventh year I found the worst: my time in the Manor or in Hogwarts, where I was forced to pretend to torture first-years (yes, Harry, you didn’t truly believe I was properly torturing them, instead of whispering to act as convincingly as possible, did you?). I’d say the Manor wins, so I’ll be focusing mainly on the time there, because the letter’s going to be long enough without me reciting everything.

I witnessed death for the first time when Dumbledore died, and that incident was more than enough to put me into a cycle of nightmares. Admittedly, waking up in the middle of the night drenched in sweat (when I could even allow myself to sleep), I couldn’t stop thinking how the bloody hell you live like this. I mean, your life consistently added more material for nightmares each year, and by my calculations, you should’ve stopped sleeping altogether by the fourth year.

The second death I saw happen before my eyes happened in the same place I received my Hogwarts letter seven years ago. Do you remember Charity Burbage? I hardly knew her, catching glimpses of her in the corridors or in the Great Hall. Granted, I didn’t have any reasons to pay attention to a Muggle Studies professor. But even if the moment I saw her breathless after hours of torture, covered in blood and tears, hovering above the table I spent many meals on, was the first time I acquainted myself with her face, it wouldn’t change a thing. My recognition was only another drop in the ocean of terror.

Do you exactly know how snakes feed? If no, let me tell you: their jaws are not only capable of opening widely but also of shifting to the sides—their flexible skin allows them to stretch to an unimaginable extent. Thanks to this ability even large snakes like Nagini don’t need to tear the victim apart. And if I’m honest, I don’t know what’s worse: witnessing the demolition or the way the body slowly vanishes behind the beast’s jaws.

Well, as you can guess, I spewed my insides out more than a dozen times, and the visions of Dumbledore were superseded by more gripping, graphic images.

Was my father’s return to the house a relief? I’m not sure—Azkaban provided some semblance of protection, and my mother and I had fewer reasons to worry about him. My own worry, though, was entangled with bouts of rage. Occasionally I wanted to approach him, grab his shoulders, and shake, shake, and shake, throwing endless accusations of leaving us in hell, all because of his own actions.

And when I say hell, I truly mean it, without using literary exaggeration. I’m not going to compete over whether my time there was worse; I’m pretty certain you had it no less than I, but here we’re putting a light on my life, so let me name it accordingly to my feelings, yeah?

The amount of people killed before me multiplied by days. For some reason, Voldemort’s inner circle just loved to bring me with them when they went down to the dungeons where the unfortunate people, often muggles, and, rarer, the muggleborns, who were in the wrong place in the wrong time to get captured. Rowley, Yaxsley, Mulciber, Lestranges, Dolohov, and Macnair—all of them got a weird sense of satisfaction by bringing me there. When my wand couldn’t produce a single Crucio (let alone cutting, burning, and ripping the skin off kind of curses), they felt immense pressure; moreover, when they had a fit of laughter when they saw another bout of nausea in me the next day.

Ickle Death Eater, they called me. I find amusing the fact that this nickname did not leave me even after you defeated Voldemort, as though numerous strangers collectively decided to call me it. Perhaps it was truly on the surface. Either way, I’ll tell you about that later.

A decent Unforgivable came out of my wand the day you escaped Rowley. I don’t know why Voldemort decided to take part in the common entertainment, but it is what it is. By the time Rowley was bonelessly lying before my feet with Voldemort hovering over my shoulder, the hatred devoid of any pity to that human had grown in my heart. Although with a quivering, weak hand, I had succeeded at casting it.

I could’ve omitted this detail, having an understanding that you’re likely disgusted by such brutal honesty, but this is a part of my story, and I’m not going to paint myself a saint. There is no point in that, but there’s a point for honesty.

By the end of the summer I had stopped feeling nauseous. Only a strange numbness was palpable each time I saw blood, heard a soul-shattering scream, or smelt rot in the air. Humans can adapt to anything, can’t they?

When I came back to the Manor on winter holidays I calmed myself with the thought that nothing could be worse. I witnessed assaults, death; I was already plagued by the absence of news about you; the bloody snake kept creeping in the halls; aunt Bella became the picture of madness, and my father was a walking dead man… What else could fucking happen?

However, I suppose you’re aware that when you let yourself think that nothing could be worse, life takes a sudden turn.

It started with Rookwood, who broke into my room in the dead of night. He was drunk; he could barely hold his own weight on his legs. I guess I could sort him out with a couple of stunners, but my body froze with fear. I lay motionlessly, my whole body shaking with revulsion, while he, sitting on top of me, rubbed off of me. The forgotten nausea immediately surfaced. The mix of smells—cheap alcohol, sweat, and blood (I smelt it even when their hands were clean)—sent painful cramps into my stomach.

He didn’t touch me directly, and I could only thank the universe for that. When he nodded off, nearly falling off the bed, I had the smallest energy that was spent of levitating his body out of my room. Strangely enough, I didn’t cry, only scrubbed my skin until it hurt, chafed, and red.

After a couple of days it happened again, only with Macnair. In the midst of the day, in the corridor, he pinned me down. I don’t know what he expected shoving his hand into my pants, but at least it was the only time either of them tried to touch my skin directly, instead of just rubbing through the cloth.

It’s such a weird feeling of your body being out of your possession, as though you’re a doll. In some aspects you are, indeed, a doll: your mind detaches itself from your body, all your insides become unfamiliarly strange, and your eyes simply unseeing. Here you are, standing trapped against the wall, or perhaps you are lying poisoned with your own helplessness on your own bed; meanwhile, your “I” is nowhere close. It becomes a cheap staged action or a poorly taken fuzzy picture.

Then you go to the shower and scrub, scrub, scrub with the loofah.

Overall, if you’ll recall the third letter, you might remember that I said I wasn’t keen on the idea of being buried next to Rookwood or Macnair. I swear their company then was more than enough.

Now, I have to go back to the beginning. The second reason, as I said, was my father. It didn’t limit itself with a realisation of the lack of love from his side. The thing is—any hint of his humanity in him blurred for me the day Rookwood had an idea to have his ways with me in the parlour. Nothing too obscene, but the scene couldn’t be interpreted incorrectly. Once again my mind was far away; he grabbed me by the hips, setting me on his knees. I had to come back to reality, though, when I saw a silhouette of my father, hovering in the crease of the door. He just looked at me with his hollow, dead eyes, his hand twitched in the direction of his wand, and…

He did nothing. He left. He just left, Harry, because he was too busy with his own survival to even attempt to stun a Death Eater who was respected by Voldemort.

It hurt even more than what Rookwood and Macnair did to me.

Perhaps I truly thought it was the only way—to freeze, to not attract attention, to not make sudden moves. But it hurt so much I could barely breathe.

On the other hand, I’m glad Mother never got to know. I’m afraid she’d leave nothing but ashes from Rookwood, which could not have positively impacted her survival. At least it’s nice to have a reassurance in that.

So, I figured it wouldn't get any worse now. Naturally, there’s always a room for creativity—you can have lots of “fun” with a person—but I hoped that nothing fundamentally new would happen in my life.

As you can imagine, the nightmare became even more grotesque when I returned home for the Easter holidays. To be fair, that month I thought of stopping pretending I didn’t desire to run with all fibres of my body (Voldemort was getting madder and, therefore, sought out any signs of disloyalty) and staying in school, but I’m glad I didn’t act on this foolishly brave thought.

Because I don’t know what would have happened had they not had a person to recognise you.

At first, I was overwhelmed by the relief I felt that I barely managed to hold my shocked sigh. You were alive, seemingly healthy, all limbs intact, no bleeding anywhere—Merlin knows, those trivial things as akin to a gift from above. The relief was quickly suppressed with terror, which I was already intimately familiar with.

You know, you’re very, very lucky, Harry. Only a couple of days ago he was at the Manor, and only sheer fear of the intensity of his madness held them back from calling him in an instant.

The remaining time I spent feverishly trying to figure out how to get you out of the Manor. My head was empty for ideas, and Granger’s screaming did not aid me in any way. When I had already decided that I would just go down and unlock the dungeons, giving you at least a small chance of survival, you handled everything on your own. As you always do.

Thank you for returning my wand, by the way. I’m ridiculously sentimental regarding it.

Should I mention what happened after you left? Or maybe the massacre he performed when he found out about your stunt in Gringotts, when you flew away on a dragon (seriously, you’re insane!)? I think not; all of these details are starting to bore me just as much as you. Let’s just move on to the second May.

When everything started, I had an opportunity to hide away from everything, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t because you were there. Naturally, I had some lingering doubts that, however, dissipated the moment Crabbe and Goyle decided to go to the room of hidden things. The idiots were obsessed with the idea of serving Voldemort by bringing you to them, so I had to tag along with them to see if anything went out of control (which was laughable since I had been in no control whatsoever). By then, my authority had been lost, so all I could do was aim at their backs, hoping that once we were out of the Death Eaters' sight, I could throw a stunner strong enough to knock them out for a long time. My mother’s wand did not always bend to my will, and I had trouble with simple combat spells.

Honestly, it was going terribly: I tried to distract them both with excuses about me wanting my wand back (which was partly true, but we both knew you needed it more) and the diadem, the purpose of which is still unknown to me. In the end, I could do nothing but yell at them hysterically when they started to throw unforgivables at you, and throw some Confundus at the end. I’m not sure you noticed, so I wouldn’t blame you for not believing me.

I still can’t fathom how Crabbe managed to conjure fiendfyre. It’s an incredibly advanced charm, so difficult that not just anyone could teach it to him it. Still, he did it. He mastered it, being a great idiot he was. It's a little embarrassing for me to talk about a dead person like that, but I am as good as dead in only four days, so I think I have a right to be bitter.

I remember everything within those minutes, and I can even visualise where each thing lay in that pile of trash I was climbing onto. And not only because of impending death breathing down my neck—the painful and terrifying one, I must say—but also because it was the moment you returned for me. I understand that you would do the same for anyone, but the feeling of your hand that didn’t intend to hurt me, the feeling of your erratic breathing from all the smoke and heat surrounding us, the feeling of clutching onto you, pulling you closer—it was more than I could have asked for. You can deem me out of my mind; still, it was more than I ever imagined.

I was even sad it ended so quickly. Everything was gone, and I was left lying on the ground, coughing until I sickened up and realising that the person who had been with me since my earliest childhood was dead. I've never considered Crabbe and Goyle my friends—I didn't have any friends at all, and it's not tragic, I just don’t believe in the concept of friendship—but only one without a heart would remain indifferent.

Merlin, I hadn’t known it was only the beginning.

You lost so many people, Harry. Unfortunately, you are familiar with that first feeling when you finally realise that you lost someone. Piercing disbelief, your heart trying to break through the cage of your ribs, and an icy cold wave crashing down your spine, and a stunning understanding that nothing can be changed. At some point you realise that it’s the finale; it’s irreversible. All that is left for you is pain, pain, and pain.

I didn’t care that Voldemort had won. For the first time, though he was right there before my eyes, I didn’t see him. All I could do was look at the fragility and twisted lines of your body and mindlessly repeat your name. Harry, Harry, Harry. For the first time those five letters came out of my lips instead of staying inward. I couldn’t care less about someone overhearing. In that moment I knew that no matter the outcome, I wouldn’t cross the line and join them on the other side. The only thing I regretted was finding the courage this late.

But you wouldn't be yourself, Harry, if this was the end. You've always liked spectacular appearances, haven't you?

At first, I honestly thought I had finally gone mental, but right after that I didn't think about anything anymore—I just stepped back, dodging indiscriminately flying curses, and, damn it, I was smiling. I was covered in soot, in someone's blood; I smelt of smoke, sweat, loss, and fear, but the smile did not leave my lips. I don't know if the feeling is familiar to you just as the bitterness of loss is—it's the feeling of realisation that the most terrible and irreparable part was done.

You’ve done it. You’ve really, really done it. I allowed myself to shiver in my mother hands, when you called my name—for the first and the last time.

I think, Harry, that while reading this ridiculously long message (I'm sorry, I really tried to shorten it, but I wasn't very successful in my attempts), you’ve got confused about what exactly was the sixth reason. To put it bluntly, there were quite a few events that could claim this title.

It’s not the blood and ashes, not the snake, not Rookwood or Macnair, not the torture, not the fear, not even the loss of Crabbe, and not the feeling of a small death blooming in me when I thought your heart had stopped.

It’s the feeling of shackles on my hands fifteen minutes after you disappeared from the Great Hall.

The thing is—the war that had ended for all of you had never ended for me. It’s with me now, too. You will understand why when you read the last letter.

I apologise again for the size of this letter. I promise the last two letters are going to be shorter if only you give them a chance.

I hope I didn’t ruin a pleasant day with my confession.

DLM”

Harry crumpled the letter thoroughly, his fingers gripping the parchment tightly. When he finished reading, he just stared at the straight, sharp-angled lines with unseeing eyes for a few seconds, and then sprung up from his bed.

“Fuck!” he shouted, startling his friends at once. "Fuck, fuck, fuck!"

Grabbing an empty juice glass from the bedside table, Harry threw it against the wall. The broken pieces fell to the floor, without bringing any relief.

Hermione gasped, and Ron tried to grab his arm, but he pulled away, abruptly sitting back down on the bed. Resting his elbows on his knees, Harry bowed his head, clutching his hair with his fingers. He wanted to fight, howl, and kill those who had died long ago and were buried in the cemetery of Little Dropping.

The mattress next to Harry sagged. He caught a glimpse of blond strands of hair, but he didn't move. The hand that fell on his shoulder did not bring him comfort.

"Is it that bad?"  Ron's hoarse voice only made the trembling worse.

Harry didn't say anything, just clutched his hair tighter in his fingers. He had nothing to say.

Harry apparated to the Manor the next day. He knew he was going against all rules and regulations, even those established specifically for eighth years (you couldn’t disappear from the castle without at least a verbal permission from McGonagal), but he didn’t care. It seemed impossible to keep pretending as though everything was normal. It seemed impossible to pretend as though he was normal after everything he found out—after Draco died. With each day, his feelings blurred with the hell he sank into after Sirius died, with the difference that he couldn’t share the grief with someone. 

The Manor seemed as dead. The black holes of the windows looked ahead; the walls, forever devoid of owners, hung over the neglected garden, which was destined to turn into an uncontrollable riot of greenery next summer. The charms let Harry through without interference—the ancestral protection died along with the last Malfoy.

Harry searched for the beech tree for quite a long time—Draco did not describe the way, and he had to wander along the paths branching through the vast territory of the manor, but he found it anyway. It was a strangely greyed trunk, split in half. Harry slowly sank to the ground next to it. He was sure that it had happened here—Draco had been found on the grounds of the manor, and there was hardly any other place he would have chosen for himself.

Numb, Harry slowly lay down on the ground, staring up at the darkening sky. The clouds were slowly filling up, promising rain. Harry tried to imagine what it would have been like to be here ten years ago, when the dense canopy rustled overhead and a small blond boy climbed higher and higher through the thick branches. He climbed, knowing neither pain, nor fear, nor the smell of blood, nor the impossible love that was repeatedly crushing his heart to pieces. 

It wasn't supposed to end like this. 

Harry found himself wishing he could have gotten to know the Draco who was hiding behind the carefully built facade, but all he could do now was choke on another surge of nausea, staring at the pitch-black sky.

“At some point you realise that it’s the finale; it’s irreversible. All that is left for you is pain, pain, and pain.”

Chapter Text

Harry’s tanned fingers with a couple of irritated nails that he’d bitten sometime halfway and ink dots contrasted next to a cream beige paper with a number seven—Draco elegantly curled its tail.

Seven.

Seven, seven, seven—echoed in Harry’s empty and mildly aching head.

Ron gently, to Harry’s surprise, coughed:

“Common, mate. The sooner, the quicker it ends. Like ripping off a band-aid.”

Harry’s lip twitched in almost a smile as he raised his head towards his friends. Just as the day before, they gathered on the lake’s shore, sitting on a wilted grass. The warming charms faintly crackled, covering all four in a comfortably heated cupola. Hermione nervously chewed her lip. Luna averted her eyes to the lake, watching the water lapping at the shore, even though it was not windy. Ron, scowling, looked at Harry.

None of them could really help, but Harry felt a precious gratitude to all of them, as strongly as he could feel anything besides pain and rage. Most likely, yesterday, the destruction of the room was avoided purely because of them. Them and a bottle of firewhiskey that Harry assumed Ron sneaked from Seamus’ trunk; he couldn’t be sure, though—all he focused on was restraining himself from screaming nonstop, clutching his hair with his fingers.

In the distance on the clock tower, the bell chimed four times. Harry didn’t remember yesterday well—he lay under the beech until very late evening—but today he even managed to visit lectures. He couldn’t comprehend a word the professors said, though; their words blended like an inane humming. Harry would have stayed in his room if not for the threat of making it up for the missed lessons. The least thing he wanted now was sorting out absolutely useless detentions and additional essay inches.

“Okay,” Harry said, exhaling. “You’re right.”

The seal familiarly crunched under his fingers.

“Hello, Harry.

I was always fascinated by how malleable and flexible the time is. Strict and solid in its visible state, it’s dependent exclusively on the perception. Days could be perceived as years or mere hours—nothing but your mind determines its pace.

The time moved ridiculously slowly in the holding cell. I think it was impacted by the absence of a clock and windows. It was extremely difficult to follow the changes of day and night relying on the moment when the food was brought and your own subjective sensations, especially when your only entertainment was sleeping. The cell was tiny, maybe sixteen by ten feet in size, as for the filling of it: a single bed, a bucket, and a malfunctioning sink—the water came in a thin stream that was warm, which was rather good in those freezing conditions of the dungeons. I spent nineteen days in that place, as it was revealed later when I had access to a calendar. Overall, I’m not complaining, since there’s a solid foundation for assuming that the conditions in Azkaban (even without the Dementors) are even worse. At least I wasn’t chained by my hands and legs and could kill the time by exercising: push-ups, squats, and endless pacing from wall to wall. Anything to tire myself out and then sleep.

It turned out that out of the three of us, my fate was debated for the longest time. Mother was freed on the same day—she wasn’t marked, nor did she have any contribution to the raids, so they couldn’t charge her with anything. My father was sentenced, as you might remember (I’m not exactly sure, knowing you attended dozens of trials in that period), on the fifth day. Since we were separated from the very beginning, I haven’t seen him. I still have mixed feelings about that fact.

The half of the reason for my prolonged presence in the walls of the ministry was the indecision of the court when it came to my case (he is a Death Eater, but claims to have been recruited against his will; he says he didn’t want to kill Dumbledore, but had a significant contribution to the cause, and et cetera, down to the list), and also the fact that I turned out to be an irreplaceable witness. You see, the thing is, I was a trailing shadow who witnessed every second war crime. I was capable of revealing to the ministry a lot of nuances, including some events they would have never known about otherwise. The habit of the inner circle to include me in their endeavours, in order to have a good laugh, backfired on them. Well, at me, too, since the interrogations weren’t exactly pleasant.

In the very beginning of my incarceration, on the second day, I made a big mistake. Remember I told you I practiced occlumency to keep my paranoia about someone rummaging through my mind subdued? Well, I made a palpable progress. Aunt Bella had an unpleasant habit of painfully attacking those who were unprepared with her piercing, mind-reading presence, and at some point I developed my own habit of shielding my thoughts as soon as I felt someone's invasion. I did exactly that, and I did it masterfully, when some of the aurors banged into my mind (yes, Harry, it’s illegal; and no, even you are not that naive to believe someone bothered about the law at the time).

The logic of the investigation was simple: If he shielded, then he has something to hide. Later I suggested viewing my memories, but they countered it with the unreliability of them, since I was skilled at occlumency and, therefore, could easily distort the memories. So, none of the investigators believed a single word I said, and that might have been fair.

Then they started applying veritaserum to the interrogations.

Do you know what an overdose with this harmless, from the potionery point of view, potion looks like? It begins with sweat—your clothes get so drenched in it you can practically squeeze the liquid out of it. Then comes the unbearable headache, the nausea, and the vomit; finally, the convulsion and the seizure, during which you are fully awake, alone with the thought that your tongue will, probably, fall back into your throat.

In general, those were a couple of thoughtful nineteen days.

I have a very strong ground to suspect, knowing your righteous personality, that you, bewildered and angry, are waiting for me to name those aurors, but, alas, I won’t. Having decided to use legilimency, the aurors began to take their badges off before entering the interrogation room. To be honest, I’m not entirely convinced they would have gotten the punishment anyway. Merlin knows, no one favoured Death Eaters, and I am not the one who can make conclusions about the justice of it all.

By the time the trials began, I was wearied down, both physically and mentally. The obligation to go through dozens of rounds recalling the unpleasant memories would do that to anyone. When they seated me on the chair in the middle of the room, I couldn’t care less about the outcome of the trial. I remember neither the faces nor what the prosecution entailed, and neither do I remember the coldness of the shackles nor the back pain that stuck to me days before. The only one I memorised was you.

You and your dishevelled hair and your hollow eyes that yet were just as bright; the band-aid on your right cheek, your gesticulation, the distinct sound of your voice. I remember every single word: about what happened in the Manor, the fact that I lowered my wand, your thoughts about my fate, and your opinion about me deserving a second chance.

“He’s just a boy.” Were your words, and for some reason, it deeply touched me.

I think that, if not for your testimony, I would have been sentenced to Azkaban. Maybe not for long: three or four years, but enough to know that I wouldn’t have come out of it. Most likely I would have ended up the same way my father did. Regardless, I was able to walk away as a relatively free person: prohibited to move from the country for the next six years and continuous inspection that included monthly visitation to the ministry with subsequent overview of all spells cast using my wand. Telling you this just in case, I doubt you remember my verdict.

Here I think I need to apologise again—for the last time. I’m sorry for throwing away the chance to live that you gifted me. I really wanted—I tried—to make use of this gift, but in the end, as always, I failed.

And thank you for my wand, Harry. There, after the trials, still shocked by the way it ended, I hardly could articulate the word. I remember your eyes when they quickly looked at me: tired and unarmed by the numerous losses; then we parted without a goodbye.

Funny, but as I returned to the Manor the same day, I didn’t feel any pain or regret. Only the desire to get away as far as I could. As I wrote in the first letter, by that moment I didn’t have a home. I didn't see any childhood memories or a possible future among its walls. Just a shell that has been sucked out of its original destiny. Nevertheless, it was already better inside—my mom and a couple of house-elves, who hadn't been killed by Death Eaters out of perverse pleasure, tried to clean the house up, but it didn't help much. Sadly, we couldn’t move out—most of our accounts had been frozen, the money transferred to the war reparations. I suppose it was a pretty fair decision. In the evening, in the silence of the south living room, which was hardly used for meetings, we discussed listlessly and quietly how prudent it would be to try to sell the manor. Mother was against the idea—the ancestral home should have stayed with us—but I couldn’t share the same sentiment. I wouldn't have been able to live in it any longer anyway, so there was no point in keeping those bloodstained walls. Perhaps my desire to move on also played a role—I sincerely wanted my life to change. In those days, I still believed, albeit rather weakly, that there was a future for me.

My father died on the sixth of June. The owl was sent to us the next day.

I’m struggling to say what I felt hearing this news. I kept loving him, but loving doesn’t mean forgiving. Perhaps the fact that I expected his death also influenced such simple acceptance. While still in custody, I overheard a conversation between two aurors, from which I learnt that my father was put in a public cell. I'm not sure you understand why this event is equivalent to an impending death, so I’ll explain: in cells like these are imprisoned criminals with lower ranks—the thugs and the huntsmen. All of them hold a grudge against Death Eaters who, in their opinion, pathetically lost to a seventeen-year-old boy. Being sent to them, while marked, was practically a death sentence. I don't know if my father was put there on purpose, in an attempt to somehow compensate for the lack of a dementor kiss, or if they simply didn't have enough space—it didn't affect the result. So, yes, I knew clearly where it was headed.

For Mother it’s been a great shock. She didn’t know, in the end, that father left me to Rookwood’s mercy; despite the flaws he possessed, she loved that person who was always gentle with her with an intensity not lesser than the day they married. Never, not once in my life had I seen my mother cry—she went through the war without a single tear, but she broke down on a cold summer morning when a brown owl flew in through the half-open window of the south living room.

Her heart stopped on the fifteenth. She's stopped getting out of bed altogether those days, and, as a rule to follow, I’ve made it a habit to bring her breakfast on a tray. I liked the tiny smile she gave me every time I appeared in the room instead of an elf; my sleeves were rolled up, and my shirt was always stained with at least a couple of jam stains. I think I knew immediately. She didn’t move. She didn’t lean on her elbows to lift her body and give me that smile. She lay on her side, her back facing me. Leaving the tray on the floor, I got onto the bed and started shaking her shoulder. I shook and I shook, and I continued to shake her. And, for the first time in a while, my expressionless face was twisted with tears.

I could have counted my mother’s death as a separate reason but decided to choose different wording. The helplessness. I was helpless when they took me away from Hogwarts that drowned in the celebration of victory; I was helpless when they overdosed me with veritaserum till I lay in my own vomit; I was helpless on the trials because I knew none of the elders would hear a single word of mine; I was helpless when I held my mother’s cool body, hit with the realisation that I had no one. There was no one left but me.

Helplessness kills you, Harry. Until you are able to fight, you’ll live. When you realise you are bound by hands and feet, the will in you dies, because there’s no point anymore.

Keep holding on, just for a little while longer.

DLM”

Harry strode with long steps through the halls of the Ministry. Next to him was Hermione, who followed him without batting an eye, despite Harry giving no explanation whatsoever. The anger reflected on his face and the gust of wind due to his magical outburst were, most likely, self-explanatory.

“Harry,” Hermione caught up with him on another turn, panting. “Perhaps you need…”

“Later,” he said, not glancing back and quickening his pace, almost running.

Dodging a dozen hovering memos and almost bumping into an old woman, who was carrying a pile of folders that was towering over her, Harry burst into the reception room.

The secretary lifted his head from a parchment spread across a weird, five-angled desk, visibly tired; the quill kept scribbling something without the wizard noticing.

“Mr. Potter,” he greeted in surprise. “How can I help you?”

“I need to see Kingsley,” Harry growled, walking around the protruding corners.

The wizard hurried to stand up.

“Wait a moment; I need to check the lists. Do you have an appointment?”

“No,” Harry said, his hand on the knob. “To hell with your lists.”

Vaguely he heard Hermione frantically apologising as he passed the threshold of the room. Harry stood in the middle of the red, fluffy carpet and tightly clenched his hands into fists. His breathing uneven, he felt air rushing through his chest in rapid, abrupt bursts. The rumpled letter burnt a hole in his trousers.

Kingsley, who sat on a big oak desk, lifted his head. Being a minister didn’t deprive him of the habit of dressing in colourful robes and, of course, the earring. Some time before, he liked that particular detail about him; now, however, he couldn’t care less—the rage burnt and churned, running hot in his tightened throat, looking for an outlet.

“Harry?” Kingsley lifted his pitch-black eyebrow. “Hermione? To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Tell me you didn’t know how Aurors treated Draco Malfoy.”

Kingsley’s face remained an impenetrable mask. His eyebrow dropped; he leaned forward with his whole bulky physique, settling his hands on the table, fingers interlacing.

“I’m not exactly understanding what you are implying.”

The door opened, allowing the panic-stricken secretary in, who had opened his mouth before Kingsley waved his hand dismissively, letting him know it’s okay. The secretary ushered himself out just as quickly as he appeared, after which Harry yelled:

“Legilimency in interrogations,” Hermione beside him quietly gasped, but he didn’t pay it any mind, continuing: “Veritaserum overdoses every single day for nineteen days! Nineteen bloody days!”

“It’s prohibited!” Hermione chimed in, making a step forward. “The International Convention dated from nineteen thirty…”

“So this is the reason you barged in?” Kingsley interjected her. His face was shadowed with exhaustion, and he sighed, gesturing his hand towards two chairs beside his desk. “Sit down, please.”

Harry didn’t move an inch, only gritting his teeth with such force it popped a vein in his jaw.

“You knew?” he hissed through his teeth.

In his peripheral view he caught Hermione pressing her arms to her chest. Now her face changed into a righteous disapproval.

“At that time, no, I didn’t,” Kingsley had paused, then said. “Harry, the ministry was on the verge of breaking apart then. The regime shift, the iniquity out there, the political schemes in the quantity you can’t even imagine, not to mention the hundreds of criminals…”

“I don’t care!” Harry snapped. “I don’t care about your political games! You tortured a seventeen-year-old boy!”

“I assure you,” Kingsley insisted. “Head Auror Gawain was informed. Everyone involved got their punishment.”

“Which is?”

His nostrils perked out, exhaling an air, and, judging by the imperturbable look of his face, Kingsley looked for an optimal response, which only worsened Harry’s anger.

“A memorandum of admonishment.” He finally replied, and Harry knew it was the truth just by the sheer absurdity of the punishment. He opened his mouth to give another heated tirade, but Kingsley beat him to it: “Harry, you should understand that we were in need of any assistance; we couldn’t afford to lose several employees just because they…”

“Tortured a kid?” Hermione interrupted.

“Exceeded their authority. And Mr. Malfoy had been an adult by that time.”

“Exceeded authority,” Harry was surprised by the way his voice sounded: raspy and low, filled with anger. “Exceeded authority—is it the way we call it now? And Lucius Malfoy’s imprisonment in the shared cell, knowing what it would lead to, is also an act of exceeded authority?”

“Enough.” Kingsley straightened his back, his voice growing colder. “Azkaban was packed to the brim; what are you suggesting we had to do?”

“Anything, dammit! Bloody anything! Build a new fucking prison for all I care! You killed all three of them!”

“Mrs. Malfoy passed away from a heart condition,” he cruelly countered. “And Mr. Malfoy…”

“Narcissa couldn’t take it!” Harry yelled at the top of his lungs; it seemed his screaming could be heard from the halls. “And Draco killed himself, Kingsley, he killed himself because of you and your goddamned justice!”

Harry shortened the distance between them in mere seconds, pressing his palms against the wooden surface. Leaning forward, he looked straight at Kingley’s eyes, not at all impressed by the steel in his gaze, and hissed:

“They took off their badges, so Draco couldn’t give me their names, but, rest assured, I will turn this place upside down if I have to. You know that I never use my name, but for this I can overstep my own principles, and if you think no one’s gonna pity a Death Eater, believe me, I will make a bloody martyr out of him. I will contact every single godforsaken reporter, I will be everywhere, and I will exploit the name Harry Potter to the point none of you will ever forget what you’ve done. Never.”

He jerked his hands off the table and marched to the door, banging it closed before Kingsley could utter a word.

“Are you sure you want this?” Hermione asked. “Alone?”

Harry nodded, his eyes on the gates of the cemetry of Sacred Twenty-Eight.

“Yes. I… just want to finish this with him, you know? It’s childish, maybe, but…”

She sighed softly.

“Okay. Yes, alright.”

Harry turned around, smiling at her weakly. Hermione’s fizzy hair fluffed up more than usual, and her cheeks flushed from all the running.

“Thank you,” he simply said, thankful for everything at once.

She gave him a nod and reached her hands to hug him. He accepted her touch with a welcome, putting his arms around her small figure and snorting quietly when her curly hair got into his nose.

“What you said in Kingsley’s,” she muttered on his shoulder. “It’s terrible.”

Harry retreated slowly, her words extinguishing the last remnants of anger, turning it into ashes. It was replaced with the burden he’d been carrying from last Tuesday.

“Unfortunately, it’s not the worst thing I’ve found out.”

Hermione pursed her lips and, inhaling deeply, turned to the gates. The mist sprawled on the earth with pale tendrils.

“I really am sorry,” she said.

“I know.” Harry nodded. “I need to go while it’s not too dark.”

“We’ll wait for you,” she said, smiling slightly. “Return as soon as you can.”

She disappeared with a pop that echoed in the silence and twilight. Harry went forward on the path and pushed the entrance. A cozy, sweet smell of baked goods, which couldn’t fit into the stillness of the graveyard, trailed from the village.

The flowers he put on Draco’s grave have wilted, undisturbed by any bypassers. Without a single thought, Harry flicked his wand and vanished them. This time he conjured white lilies—they always appeared when he didn’t think of anything specific. Looking at Narcissa’s tombstone, he did the same, then lowered himself down on the left side of the unsmoothened mound of earth that covered Draco’s coffin.

“Well, hello,” Harry said quietly. “I think I botched up my relationship with Kingsley because of you.”

He grunted and reached to put his hand directly on the wet earth. It was cold to sit like this, but Harry, who’d lost all energy in one sitting, didn’t cast warming charms. It was minor. Everything was: the mundanity, living.

“Why haven’t you told me?” he continued in a low voice, burying his feet in the ground. “We could… well, you know, we could be friends. I would have liked that.”

He emitted an approving sound, then let out a nervous laugh, and shook his head. Those were unfamiliar, strange words. But they were real.

“I mean, I would’ve actually liked that.” he carried on. “The way you are in those letters… I wouldn’t’ve minded knowing you better. Your mind, your irony, your… smile. Yes, your bloody smile. I…”

He broke off, his saliva thick, his mouth dry, and, swallowed with effort, Harry tried to smother the unpleasant tickle in the back of his throat. His chest burnt with pain, pain, and pain.

He remembered the steep staircase.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“I’m sorry,” Harry choked out, looking at the curves carved on the stone. “I’m so sorry. If only I could, I’d go back. I’d do anything. Because… because no one should live like that. No one should kill themselves with such ease.”

Taking a ragged breath, Harry pulled his hand off the earth, and, adjusting his glasses, he rubbed his fingers on his flushed face, staining his cheeks. His eyes prickled, but he was used to it. He looked up at the sky and took another deep breath, trying to calm himself. He'll have all the time in the world to grieve.

Bringing his eyes down, he felt the eighth letter in his pocket that he had been carrying with himself the whole day, unsure of when he would decide to read it. As he took a hold of the beige, tender surface of the letter, which was slightly wrinkled in his pocket, he chuckled weakly at the thought that Draco would have probably scolded him for his carelessness. He would have probably even slightly crunched his thin nose.

“For the last time, yeah?” Harry said to the void. “Together?”

And then he broke the seal.

Chapter Text

“Hello, Harry.

I suppose the proximity of death made me rather like Longbottom; only fifteen minutes ago, I nearly destroyed the most precious thing of the little I’ve left. I’m talking about the vial, of course. The thing is, you won’t find it anywhere for purchase for obvious reasons—even the delicately grown sprouts of belladonna are tricky to obtain, so I had to brew the poison myself. Today I almost shattered the vial with one careless move. I swear I’ve never been one to trip over my feet; however, I suppose it’s the fact I’ve been caught in my own reveries. If not for my seeker reflexes, I would have to start all over again; it’s not too complicated, but it takes three weeks for the essence to mature, and, to be frank, the least I would have wanted is to remain alive for that long.

Excuse me for this lyrical digression; it’s just that my hands are still shaking, you see? Let’s move onto the next part of the story.

I seriously considered the thought of ending it for the first time the day, as you can expect, my mother died. Naturally, I’d had those thoughts for a while—beginning with the middle of sixth year, to be exact—but I always shook with fear and buried them in my head as far away as I could. But that day, in June, they gained a painfully distinct silhouette. I have all the evidence to suspect I would have prepared the poison back then, if not for my Aunt Andromeda and my wonderful nephew.

We started conversing in late May, when I returned back to the Manor. In the time of my absence, Mother had written a huge letter with apologies in attempt to mend the forsaken relationship. I can’t say that they’ve come to a happy reunion, but (to my shock) it didn’t seem to affect her feelings regarding me, so I’ve taken it as a habit to visit my aunt. After my mother passed away, my presence in Andy’s house gained a permanent ground. I think I would have lived there, pitifully taking a place on her sofa, If not for the fear of her eventually getting tired of me.

Teddy came as a revelation to me. I’ve always adored kids and I knew I’d have my own in the near future—maybe too near even for my own standards. I thought I’d have a boy whom I’d love and take care of, making sure he grows up nothing like his father, or maybe a daughter who would have me wrapped around her finger, because I would have treated her like a princess. I don’t know why I’m telling you about this, knowing it can never happen, but, well, now you know this funny thing about me: I love kids, and Teddy’s been a great pleasure to have. Kiss the baby for me when you see him; I had my quiet goodbye with him, as good as my circumstances allowed it, a couple of weeks ago, but I already miss him.

In short, as you can understand, my newfound aunt and nephew were the reason I had made it until autumn.

I made the decision to return to Hogwarts belatedly, sending the owl on the first August—the last day when it was yet possible to do so. The choice was hard: I knew my life wouldn’t be easy in the last year, but I also knew that there was no room for me in the future without an education. I’m not you to be able to land a job on name alone—quite the opposite, actually; it would most likely get me thrown out. If not for the ban of leaving the country, I would have continued my studies elsewhere—France or maybe America, where no one cares about the outside world—but my possibilities are limited for the next six years.

So, yes, reassured with Andy’s encouragement, I sent the owl to McGonagal, then took a polyjuice potion to have a peaceful walk on Diagon Alley. Really, Harry, you didn’t seriously think I could go shopping with my own face?

As I arrived at school, I realised that my worst expectations were far from reality—it was much more grim than I had imagined. I reckoned at least someone from Slytherin would return, but even Blaise, who came out untouched by all of it, preferred to flee abroad. There were also Davies and Greengrasses, but they were smarter and left Britain right after the ministry fell. So, yes, I was the only one to come back for the eighth year.

A short lyrical digression: have you noticed less fewer students were sorted into Slytherin this year? I have a strong feeling the hat can be negotiable; nonsense, I know, but it seemed as though every second student who sat on that chair pleaded to be sorted anywhere but Slytherin. Well, I wouldn’t blame them had it been true.

Regarding my time in my own house… Well, It wasn’t too bad. Every single one of them chose the route of putting a blind eye on me, preferring to avoid being seen to be accidentally exchanging a word with a Death Eater, and most of the time I could spend time in the room that had been mine alone. Despite the absolute loneliness, I found that time quite alright—living in the dungeons, having locked the door of my room, was way better than staying at the blood-reeking manor.

The only person who talked to me was Lovegood. To be honest, when she approached me, I expected some nasty curse thrown at my face, but, Merlin, that girl was always mad. Don’t make a face at me, Harry; I note that with exclusive admiration for her. I can’t say we’ve been all chummy with each other, but it was nice to just share a few words when we would bump into each other in the late evenings in the deserted halls. Perhaps she will be the second person after Aunt Andy who’d regret my death. I didn’t—and won’t now—indulge in tragic goodbyes, so, if you wouldn’t mind terribly, pass Lovegood my gratitude for her company.

Now, about the other part… Well, it’s quite unpleasant, but it’s the last part, so, Harry, please use the last of your patience left.

If you remember, I mentioned before that the nickname Ickle Death Eater stuck with me through the entire time. In the end, I was haunted by those three words even in my dreams. I don’t know if the decision to call me that was the result of collective thinking or if one person started it and everyone else just went along with it, but either way it stung—not because of the nickname itself—Merlin knows, I had problems worse than some stupid words—but because of the memories it triggered. The past had already trailed after me like a shadow: the nightmares, memories resurfacing by a specific sound or smell, the papers mulling over the crimes over and over again even now. Another reason to remind me of that hell. Breaking into a cold sweat in the middle of Transfigurations did not excite me in the slightest.

Maybe it could stop at that—a couple of words, stupid rhymes (that was a punishment for sure, for all of my poems I dedicated to Weasley), cold glances, and childish antics like a spilt ink on my shirt—if not for some people who had a better idea.

I pondered over the thought of telling you their names for a long time. On one hand, the last thing I want is to be the reason for a conflict between you and your classmates, maybe even friends. On the other, I know that you would tear the castle apart to find them for the sake of your goddamned justice, so why would I create a pointless obstacle? There’s also a third possibility—you’ll decide that their actions are the justice delivered to me. In that case, it’s even more pointless to conceal anything from you.

So, here’s the story, Harry. Dean Thomas had his own rather obvious issues with me—just remember whose dungeons he’d spent several torturous months in. I suppose Seamus Finnigan was ignited with a righteous anger for his best friend (likely more than a friend, but to hell with it; it doesn’t matter) and was dispirited by the events of seventh year. Ernie Macmillian lost his sister—at the hands of Death Eaters—in the last month of the war. What was happening in Anthony Goldstein’s head is still beyond my comprehension, but, I guess, he had his own bone to pick with me.

The ministry’s intention in inspecting my wand for the spells I cast was reasoned, succinct, and understandable—no dark magic, a slipped Sectumsempra, or an Unforgivable from the back. A perfect move that, however, had a single flaw—I couldn’t use even the weakest duelling spells without condemning myself to a one-way ticket to Azkaban. Maybe you remember that I was pardoned from the lessons due to this reason, and I was sent away to study by a well-known method of our dear Dolores—books, books, and books only.

This flaw was inconvenient for me only. For those four people I mentioned, it was a real serendipity.

Hogwarts is a spacious castle with enough dark corners that are fit for practicing throwing a suffocating curse on one’s neck. Did you know, Harry, that you can modify it? Slightly changing the wand movement in the end, you can make the victim choke very slowly. It’s similar to a gradual oxygen deprivation—slowly draining it from your lungs until the strain causes the blood vessels in your eyes to burst. Then you can lift the spell, allowing the victim to take a desperate breath and start all over again. The Death Eaters loved this modification quite a lot, too.

There are a lot of cutting, burning, and simply nasty curses that, without leaving visible marks, can make a wreck of all your internal organs. To be honest, I was quite impressed by the creativity of these four.

Could I defend myself in a muggle way? Well, I could, and even tried the first time, but they explained it in a very clear manner that if I break a nose to one of them again, then they’ll inform the ministry about my aggressive behaviour with great satisfaction. Who do you think they’d believe: me or the three veterans of opposition, claiming to be defending themselves from an unpredictable Death Eater?

Could I tell the teachers? Check the point above. Snape might have believed me, but, damn it, Harry, he’s just a portrait. No one in the Wizengamot is going to count a portrait as a witness.

Overall, that’s the way it happened. Once upon a time, at the end of September, I was left to lie in the dead end of the hall on the third floor, clutching at my stomach that was hit with Finnegan’s boot, and somewhere in between my attempts to breathe without spewing my guts, I realised that, I guess, I am too tired.

Don’t blame them for the way it ended. If it was just them, I could have handled it. If there were at least one reason less, I might have even survived this year.

But there were eight. Exactly eight reasons.

The eighth reason was the realisation that I will never be able to live a normal life.

You can do whatever you wish with this information. Keep it in your memory or ask Granger to obliviate you. Burn the letters or hide them in the bottom of your trunk. Come to look at my grave or don’t even bother finding the row it’s in. It’s only your decision. I can only be grateful you gave me an opportunity to tell my story to the person, the love for whom has helped me move forward all these years.

I truly wish you to be happy, Harry. If you ever feel like you’ve had enough—don’t look back, pack your things, and leave. Be loved, do what gives you that feeling of being alive, and keep that feeling for as long as you can.

And as for me, I have to go, and I’ll do so with much relief. The end of everything, my love.

DLM”

Harry burst through the entrance to the common room so vigorously that the Fat Lady let out an indignant yelp behind his back—he didn’t notice slamming the portrait against the wall as he swung it open. Several faces turned to him, and he roared not to anyone in particular:

“Where are Seamus and Dean?”

Soft humming of dozens of voices quietened, alarmed by his shout.

“Er…” Neville uneasily stared at Harry, straightening his back. “Still at dinner, maybe? What happened?”

Harry didn’t bother to reply, rushing back and almost knocking some shrieking girl off her feet. When he reached the corridor and the staircase he was nearly running; his heart pounding against his ribcage, his breathing coming out in frequent gusts with a slight whistle, and Harry wasn’t sure it was only because of the speed he moved around the castle with.

Downstairs, he joined the crowd, steadily moving toward the hall—most of the students that finished their meal retreated into their common room. Harry finally caught Seamus—who was walking with Parvati, babbling about something—with his eyes when he neared the doorway of the Great Hall. His frivolous expression only seemed to fuel Harry’s anger, even though Harry thought that it was already at its peak. Dean wasn’t there. It wasn’t so important, though. He could start with one person.

“Finnegan!” Harry yelled, unabashedly pushing people aside with his elbows. “Oi! Finnegan!”

“Harry?” Seamus stopped, holding Parvati by her elbow. “Is something the ma—“

He didn’t finish the sentence. Harry pulled him by his robes closer to himself, and the next moment he was slamming his fist against his cheekbone. Parvati let out a high-pitched cry, stepping back; the crowd receded; someone screamed. Harry barely heard any of that—taking him down on the floor, he sat sat on his hips, then, swinging his fist again, he was almost astonished by the surge of satisfaction that was terrifying in its nature when he heard the delicate nose cracking. Seamus, crying out loud, tried to get Harry off of him, but his grip was tight. He didn’t know how long it lasted until someone grabbed him by his waist and forcefully pulled away. Probably not for long, since Seamus, who was convulsively spitting blood, still breathed.

In that moment Harry wished he didn’t have the strength for that.

Harry lunged forward, kicking, pushing, and biting, but he was held firmly by the familiar hands. Growling, he booted the person in the knee; somewhere along he recognised Ron’s voice screaming in his ear:

“Control yourself, Harry, dammit, calm down!”

“Let go off me! Let go! I’m gonna fucking kill him!”

Seamus lifted himself up on his elbows, staining his shirt with blood. Harry managed to twist himself out of Ron’s tight grip, took one step further, and it ended. Someone’s spell came directly into his chest, knocking him off. The stone floor that Harry collided with sucked the last of the air out of him.

The sounds returned slowly, while he was wheezing, trying to take a breath. The first were the voices—the roaring crowd, buzzing, vibrating, gasping. Then he heard the pained moan, someone’s crying, and, finally, Ron’s voice whose hands enveloped his shoulders the second the oxygen finally filled his lungs.

“Like this, mate, stand up.” Ron muttered, helping Harry to gain his footing. “What the hell were you doing?”

Did you know, Harry, that you can modify it? Slightly changing the wand movement in the end, you can make the victim choke very slowly.

“What they did to Draco.” Harry exhaled, pushing Ron’s big hand off his shoulder.

He was ready to rush forward again, but McGonagall blocked his way. Thin strands of hair escaped from her usually perfect hairstyle, and her eyes widened in surprise. Behind her, one of the Hufflepuffs was pulling Seamus to his feet.

“Mr. Potter!” McGonagall exclaimed, spreading her arms wide—either out of bewilderment or to stop Harry if he decided to lunge at Seamus again. “What is the meaning of this?”

Under her disappointed eyes he would have felt like an insolent child who broke the rules, but now he couldn’t care less. Everything blurred into the flow of normalcy that didn’t belong in him. Not here, not now.

“A tiny execution of justice.” Harry replied, his eyes unconsciously wandering away to find Ernie, Dean, or Anthony. His blood boiled, thumping against the flexible walls of his veins, whispering for more.

“You must come with me. I will have to deduct at least fifty points from Gryffindor…”

Something snapped in Harry’s head. Something reasonable, the last piece of his clear judgement with its futile attempts to hold him back from descending into a spiral. Everything exploded in his sternum; the swirl of hellish fire, his burning heart, and his adequacy.

“Fuck your points!” Harry shouted, focusing everyone’s attention on himself again. “It doesn’t matter anymore! None of it matters anymore! And you, you fucking hypocrites, are so kind and caring until you drive someone into KILLING HIMSELF!”

He ran into the crowd that cleared out of the way before him. He must have been a sight: absolutely mad, covered in someone’s blood. A heavy weight of the doors against his hands, the steps that lead outside against the soles of his boots. Something leaked from above—not snowing yet, and the raining stopped beforehand—for some reason the chill of the droplets cut sharper than usually. The smell of blood was so vibrant that he waited for the rot to come next—the stink the manor was drenched in.

He ran to the point his stomach began to ache and he felt himself choking. Crouching down, Harry rested his elbows on his knees and covered his face with his hands, knocking off his glasses. Tears fell down, mixing with a dirt on his right palm and the dried blood. When Ron came he sensed it rather than heard. The large, freckled hand touched his shoulder again; Hermione’s distressed voice followed next.

“It’s the end,” Harry sobbed, raising his head. “It’s the end, it ended, and I had done nothing. I could have saved him, but I hadn’t done nothing.”

“Harry,” Hermione sat down next to him and put her hands around him, her voice trembling with uncertainty. “We've already talked about this, you couldn't’ve…”

“I could! Because he loved me! He loved me so much, and all I said was ‘Nothing,’ and now he’s gone, gone forever now, and I…”

He choked on his words, and he fell down on the wilted grass, his knees weakening, barely feeling the hands around him. The aroma of Hermione’s flowery perfume mixed with earthy smell and iron, creating something disgusting and appalling.

“He’s gone, he’s gone, he’s gone,” Harry murmured feverishly. “He’s gone forever.”

Harry placed the third parchment from the huge pile of ungraded assignments in front of himself and stared blankly at it. It was a bloody pointless punishment—Snape’s essays were written with special ink composed of oil mixture and charmed with ton of spells, which allowed the homework to appear within the portrait. But, overall, Harry couldn’t care less about the pointlessness of it all. He could have skipped the detention altogether, could have left the school for good, gone somewhere…

If you ever feel like you’ve had enough—don’t look back, pack your things, and leave

Harry let out a pained snort under his breath. Maybe he really should get out of England for a while, but was there any point? He wasn’t even sure he could find meaning in anything right now, and that was probably why he was sitting in the empty classroom under Snape’s silent watch, the man’s black eyes boring into him. A pointless way to pass the time and block out his thoughts.

The thoughts, however, wallowed weakly, sluggishly, perhaps because of his emotions burning themselves out, or maybe it was the five calming potions that had been practically forced down his throat yesterday. He’d slept through the entire night and most of the next day, lost in the blessed darkness of dreamless sleep.

According to Ron, neither Seamus nor Dean had come back to the dorm.

Snape’s voice sliced through the silence, reaching Harry’s ears:

“I heard about the little tantrum you threw, Mr. Potter.”

Harry didn’t even lift his head. Let Snape humiliate him as much as he wanted—it didn’t matter. He had no energy for retorts, no willpower for outwitting him in an exchange of sarcasm, no anger left. It didn’t matter. It didn’t matter, just like...

"Mr. Potter, look at me."

Harry didn’t even notice when he shook his head. His eyes aimlessly drifted over the parchment—the third year was writing about boggarts. Where they lived and...

"Potter," Snape’s voice took on sharp, irritated tones.

Harry sighed heavily and looked up. Someone had thrown sand in his eyes again, but the tears were gone—he had probably cried everything back there, tangled in the arms of his shocked friends.

"Yes, sir?" Harry asked indifferently, meeting the unshakable gaze of Snape's oil painted eyes.

It went for so long that he started to forget why he even raised his head—thoughts weren’t staying in his mind unless they had Draco in them. Draco, Draco, Draco. When had Harry completely lost it? Was it on the fifth letter? Maybe the sixth?

"Would you do anything to save him?"

Harry blinked, returning to reality. He stared at Snape, dumbfounded.

"What?"

Snape pressed his lips together.

"You heard my question."

"Would I…"

Harry didn’t finish. The words he had heard slowly rolled through his mind, stirring everything buried beneath the weight of overwhelming grief. Still, he didn’t understand. He just couldn’t make sense of why Snape was talking about this. Maybe he wasn’t even talking about Draco? Or was this some ridiculous test? Or...

"Anything." Harry exhaled, before his mind could fully catch up with the scattered thoughts.

For several long seconds, the class was devoid of sounds with silence. The quill Harry still gripped in his hand cracked under the pressure of his fingers. Then Snape spoke:

"In my office."

And vanished from within the frame before Harry could blink—his black cloak's hem slid across the edge, disappearing, leaving behind only the gloomy background of bookshelves. For another moment, Harry continued to stare at the empty space, then jumped to his feet and rushed toward the door, leaving his cloak and bag lying on the floor.

Instead of occupying the office that had been occupied by countless DADA professors, Snape had opted for his old one, so Harry had to sprint down to the dungeons. Never before had he gotten there as quickly, running as though Snape might change his mind and kick him out if Harry wasn’t there in mere minutes. He shove the door open with a bang, disheveled and out of breath.

Everything had been left unchanged—bookshelves and bottles lined the walls, the black wooden desk, and the heavy chair with curved legs. The only new addition was a large portrait attached to the wall behind the desk. In the dim dungeon light, the painted figure of Snape looked even darker and more anguished than usual.

"Shut the door," Snape ordered, sitting at the desk drawn on the canvas—the same as one that stood in his office. "And cast the silencing charms."

Harry quickly obeyed, grimacing slightly at the annoyed sigh that escaped Snape as Muffliato emerged from his wand. He shouldn’t have provoked Snape right now, but Merlin, Harry was just incapable of thinking. Everything inside him spun and twisted in a shapeless feeling of hope. He wasn’t sure he could handle the disappointment coming if the hope was crushed. On the other hand, Shape couldn’t have said what he said for nothing, could he? He wasn’t that cruel.

Putting his wand away, Harry turned to the portrait, holding his breath. Snape took another unbearable pause, staring intently at Harry as if he were examining his thoughts and feelings, trying to determine whether he was worthy of a chance to change everything. Perhaps that was exactly what was happening.

“Death cannot be reversed once it became a fixed point.” Snape began slowly. Harry parted his lips to say that he was well aware of it, but a single, fiery glare, strikingly alive with intensity, made him fall silent. “Even a time-turner can’t offer much help. Have you ever considered the existence of places where Draco's death hasn't happened yet?”

“I… What?”

“Your eloquence is astounding, Potter,” Shape snorted and leaned forward, placing his elbows on the desk and interlacing his fingers. His eyes seemed to creep into Harry’s soul. “Do you understand the mechanics of a time-turner?”

“Well… It sends the person into the past.”

“Yet another impressive display of your intelligence,” Snape said, and Harry barely restrained himself from rolling his eyes. But Snape continued without delving into a new round of insults: “Time, being a single line divided by the chronological order of events, is a segment on which the time-turner can posit itself at any given point. What many don't realise is that there are, in fact, multiple parallel lines—each with identical temporal laws, but with the events unfolding in a different sequence. Time travel, then, isn't always necessary.”

He fell silent, watching Harry expectantly. Harry stood frozen, staring blankly ahead—his thoughts, recently fossilised, were now unravelling, trying to piece themselves into a cohesive picture. Finally, it dawned on him.

"You're talking about parallel worlds?"

"Surprisingly accurate," Snape replied sourly.

"But…" Harry frowned. "Do they even exist?"

"Many years ago," Snape said, as if he hadn't heard the question, "I found a need to take an interest in this theory. You cannot begin to imagine how much time I dedicated to its study—the information available is pitifully scarce, amounting at best to half a dozen works. If not for an Unspeakable acquaintance of mine, who owed me a life debt by sheer coincidence, I would never have progressed far enough in my research. Go to the right-hand wall."

Still nervously glancing back at Snape, Harry obeyed. He stopped by a small section of wall visible between two dusty bookshelves stretching from floor to ceiling, then looked back over his shoulder, his expression questioning.

"The fifth stone from the bottom, closest to the shelf. Tap it three times with your wand. The password is aeternae veritates."

With slightly shaky hands, and barely managing to keep his tongue from tangling around the Latin, Harry did as instructed. The designated stone shifted aside, making room for a hidden niche behind it. Inside sat a small, palm-sized box made of mahogany.

Harry reached for it but hesitated at the last moment, shooting Snape another questioning glance—he wasn’t keen on triggering any unpleasant protective charms. Snape merely nodded.

Carefully retrieving the box, Harry carried it to the desk. It appeared utterly ordinary—no strange symbols on the lid, no intricate carvings.

"Open it," Snape ordered from above him. "And, for the love of Merlin, don’t touch what’s inside."

Harry nodded without looking up and resolutely pried the lid open. His heart began to pound loudly in his chest—a strange excitement swept over him, making his head spin. His thoughts swirled with a thousand strange ideas about what Snape might have hidden away, but…

Inside, resting on a timeworn lining, was a time-turner.

"But that's…" Harry straightened, bewildered, lifting his gaze to meet Snape’s. "You said a time-turner wouldn’t help."

"If you’d learned to hold your tongue and let me finish, you wouldn’t have so many questions."

Harry couldn’t help but let out a soft snort—apparently, even after the full truth about Snape had come to light, the man still couldn’t manage a normal conversation. Not even death had changed him. But none of that mattered now.

Crossing his arms over his chest, Harry glanced back at the time-turner, studying it more closely. Now that he looked properly, he realized it was different from the one Hermione had held a lifetime ago. This one didn’t have just a single axis—it had several.

“It took me nearly fifteen years, but I managed to make the time-turner perceive not only the coordinate of time for travel but also the coordinate of reality.”

And then it hit Harry—all at once, he understood exactly when Snape had delved into his research. Something twisted in his chest, sharp and painful, as he lifted his head, meeting the eyes that seemed to pull him into their black depths.

"But then… why didn’t you… Or did you use it?"

He caught a heavy sigh, soundless but unmistakable, slipping out beneath Snape’s hooked nose—an almost imperceptible movement of his chest as it expanded briefly.

“It was too late. The universe is stretching towards chaos, endlessly expanding—every single choice people make creates a new branch of coordinates. In the worlds closest to ours, the changes are minuscule," Snape continued, his voice steady and deliberate. "But in those further away, the differences are far greater. By the time I managed to create this version of the time-turner, the line I needed had drifted far too distant. I wouldn’t have been able to calculate the necessary coordinates. Even five months is a considerable gap, and my distance spanned fifteen years."

Disappointment weighed heavily on Harry’s shoulders, pressing down like a familiar ache. So much time had passed—he had grown up, two wars had ended—and yet the lingering hope of bringing his parents back still struck like a blow to the gut. He wasn’t sure that would ever change.

But now, he had something else. Or rather, someone else—someone he could save.

"So," Harry began slowly, his gaze drifting to the faintly gleaming axes of the time-turner in the torchlight, "you’re saying there’s a world where Draco didn’t—where he hasn’t—taken his own life?"

"Not yet," Snape corrected sharply. "The branches in which his life unfolded so differently that he never made that fateful decision are far too distant."

"Then maybe a world where he accidentally broke the vial of poison and had to spend another three weeks making a new batch?" Harry asked, recalling the beginning of the letter.

"Yes. That scenario will suffice."

Harry’s thoughts raced faster, tangling with the taut threads of his nerves. Unable to remain still, he began pacing the office, ignoring the irritated look Snape shot his way.

"Fine. But what happens to me? And to the Harry who exists in that world? Do we switch places?"

"No." Snape’s tone was clipped, matter-of-fact. "Your body will be destroyed in the process of transference. Only your consciousness will remain. It will merge with the consciousness of your alternate self. You will still be yourself, retaining all the memories of this reality while gaining a few new ones—events shaped by Draco’s broken vial. I doubt they’ll be significant, given the proximity of that universe to ours."

Harry stopped pacing, turning to stare at the portrait. Suddenly, the meaning of Snape’s opening question—the one that had launched this insane conversation—hit him like a physical blow.

"I’ll have to leave my friends behind."

Snape grimaced, as though the very word friendship offended him to his core.

“To be precise, your friends will remain with you—or rather, their versions. The only differences might be as trivial as choosing toast for breakfast yesterday instead of porridge. But yes, in this world, they will lose you forever. Moreover, the time-turner has only been tested with diagnostic spells, and the coordinates will need to be calibrated almost blindly. I cannot guarantee a successful outcome. It’s entirely possible this will be for nothing, and you’ll simply remain trapped in an alternate reality, unable to help Draco at all.

Additionally, I strongly advise against attempting a second transfer. Your consciousness might shatter, becoming forever entombed between universes. Which brings me back to my original question—what are you willing to sacrifice to save him?"

Harry froze; the room blurred around the edges of his sight.

He thought of Ron, who had Hermione, and Hermione, who had Ron. Of the wedding band on her finger and the ceremony planned for next summer, a quiet joy they’d been piecing together since the war’s end. He thought of the Weasleys, a family that remained a big, close-knit group that never let each other drift apart, even as they mourned an unspeakable loss. He thought of Andromeda, who, despite the horrors she had endured, still had Teddy—the light in her eyes whenever she held him was warm and steadfast, a beacon through the darkness.

He thought of Draco. Of coldness, of blood, and rot; of suffocation, of veritaserum, and helplessness. Of the beech, of rapeseed, of “My love,” “I’ve always wanted you,” of “What?”, and “Nothing.”

He thought of his own desire to look at that pale face once again to understand what it was that appeared in his chest now, after everything.

The room gained clarity again.

“The answer is the same,” Harry said. “Anything.”

Chapter Text

“But… Harry, this is just a theory.” Hermione said, lost.

They were standing on the wooden bridge—it looked as though it barely stood even with the help of magic, despite being rebuilt after the battle—crooked, supported by uneven pilings, creaking with each gust of wind. There was no one in the middle of the lessons. Harry spent the whole night trying to come up with the way to tell his friends about his decision, but couldn’t get an idea better than the blatant truth. Now, Ron and Hermione looked at him with bewildered dismay.

“So, you’ve read about this too?” Ron finally recovered.

“Not a lot. There’s little information about parallel universes theory. Speaking of which, muggles have it too, but they derive it from quantum physics.”

“Quant… What?”

“It’s a branch of science that…” Hermione made a dismissive gesture, and turned to Harry. “Later,” In that moment, Harry understood that the conversation took a serious turn if Hermione passed the opportunity to share her knowledge. Her voice gained a concerned tone: “Harry, it’s too dangerous. Snape literally admitted he has no idea how the time-turner works.”

“Well, actually,” Harry anxiously ran his hand through his hair; it’s not that he wasn’t worried about that in particular but there wasn’t any alternative. “He said that he’ll have to pick up the coordinates blindly, but that it’s not undoable since that universe is in close proximity yet.”

Hermione didn’t comment, pursing her lips. Ron, who hardly understood Harry’s clumsy explanation, looked alarmed. His hair shone under the rare sunlight peeking through the layers of thick clouds, looking even brighter than usually.

“Listen, I know how this sounds,” Harry took a breath. “But there will be no opportunity like this. Nothing as safe too.”

“But,” Hermione’s voice sounded strangled now, with bitterness on the edge. She still couldn’t bring herself to look at Harry. “Does it mean we’ll never see you again?”

He sighed and lowered his eyes, too. The feeling of loss crawled up his heart, sending prickles across the back of his head. Naturally, it was easy for him to make up his mind regarding the universe hopping—he wasn’t losing anyone—but at the thought of hurting his friends a part of him died. And still…

Still…

“You’ll have each other,” he said softly. “And I’m sure you’ll always have.”

“We need you too,” Ron mumbled. “I mean, if you ever felt like a third wheel…”

“No,” Harry shook his head, slipping a weak smile. “No, Ron, I’ve never. I meant that you won’t be alone. You have families, Andromeda has Teddy, all of my friends has someone . But Draco…”

He broke off, smile vanishing from his face, leaving a bitter aftertaste. Ron and Hermione fell silent. Harry still haven’t told them about the content of the letters, but had to explain the outburst on Seamus, he was also sure Hermione recited what happened in the ministry to Ron.

“I understand if you won’t be able to forgive me,” he said, wincing as though it physically hurt. “I really do.”

Hermione let out a sigh and looked at him again. Her eyes were wet, and the sight made Harry’s throat tense, forming a lump.

“There’s nothing to forgive,” she said ruefully. “I had known that you won’t let it go and move on long before I found out he…”

She stumbled on her words, unable to utter the sentence that was woven with red thread within every layer of Draco’s story—loved you. In the haze of his memory, Harry recalled the darkness of that November evening, when he sat, sobbing on Hermione’s shoulder, whispering them to himself.

Ron took a hold of her hand, bringing her closer to put his arms around her, enveloping in a hug. She pressed her cheek to his chest, lowering her eyelashes. He caressed her back, turned to Harry, and asked:

“When are you leaving?”

“Snape said the earlier the better. That universe goes further away, so I’ll have to hurry. I, uh, need to inform McGonagall that I’m quitting, sort out my bank accounts and the ownership of Grimmauld place, also to visit the Burrow and Andromeda…”

“You’d have make up a very convincing lie if you don’t want Mom to lock you up.” Ron grunted, resuming gently rubbing Hermione’s back.

“Yes.” Harry snorted. “Yeah, I know. Would be no surprise to anyone if I wanted to go abroad, after everything.”

“If so, you’ll have to find a way to send Mom letters from another universe, for sure.”

Hermione chuckled, hiding her face in Ron’s chest, who also laughed quietly, and Harry felt how the weight, pressing on his shoulders all morning, lightened up with a few stones.

His friends were…

“You’re the best,” Harry said, feeling the love and pain tangling in his sternum, creating a tight knot. “I love you so much.”

“Come here,” Hermione murmured, still burying her face in the wrinkles of Ron’s robes, stretching her hand in a random direction.

He hurried to her side, joining their squeezing hug. Ron half-heartedly grumbled at his back “For Malfoy, Merlin’s pants, if I you told me this a week ago…” and Hermione clutched at his waist, holding him closer.

In that moment, he felt himself more whole than during the past six months.

He visited Andromeda the next day, having dealt with McGonagall, who was appalled, and tried to change his mind for a good half an hour (“Harry, you won’t be able to get into Auror Academy!”, ha! As if he still wanted that after everything he got to know!) and with Gringotts. One half was transferred to the Weasley family’s accounts, another to Teddy. As he was looking at the gleaming of an early sunrise seeping through the curtains of Andromeda’s homely kitchen he stirred the sugar in his tea, forming the facade of lie in his head.

“I’m gonna leave.” Harry said when Andromeda put down a jar with biscuits on the table.

“Leave?” She lifted her eyebrows, sitting down on the chair and throwing an side way glance at Teddy. Teddy was laying on the lush carpet, breathing softly, focused solely on biting on his toy. “For how long?”

“To put it bluntly, forever.”

“But… Why? Where?”

Harry wanted to cut it short and say what he’d told Neville yesterday evening and McGonagall this morning, but stumbled on the disappointment flooding Andromeda’s dark eyes. She was upset. Really upset. For some reason he didn’t think she’d be this upset over him leaving.

He opened his mouth in attempt to find some reassuring words, but closed it again. For god’s sake why couldn’t he tell her the truth? She deserved it. Moreover, her grief over Draco was tangible on the funeral.

Harry cleared his throat.

“To he honest,” he started tentatively. “I’m gonna use a questionable and definitely illegally created artefact to hop into parallel universe and save Draco. And I understand how this sounds, but no, I am not insane.”

In the following silence Andromeda gaped at him for a long time, her lips a little parted. Then Teddy weakly complained, demanding attention, and she stood up to take him to then unapologetically dump him into Harry’s arms. He accepted him without complaint, absentmindedly stroking his head, now covered in hair that shifted between blue and violet, and back again.

“Okay,” she said with surprising calmness, perching on the chair again. “I truly hope you’re not. Insane, that is.”

Harry chuckled, Teddy began to chew his hair, and he was going to let him.

“I’m not, promise. It’s… Snape. He’d made an updated version of the time-turner years ago, so…”

Harry shrugged, as though it explained it all.

“And it’s really possible? You can save Draco?”

“Well,” Harry said thoughtfully, but then decided to not tell Andromeda about the possibility to mess up the coordinates. “Yes. I’ll do my best.”

“Wonderful, Harry,” she said quietly.

“I left Teddy a bank account from Gringotts,” he continued, moving into more mundane details. “You’ll be able to use it too as his guardian, if necessary. And about the Grimmauld place…” He broke off, biting his lips. He was well aware Andromeda didn’t favour the generational house of Black just like Sirius, despite the fact that she only visited rather than lived for years there. Harry couldn’t exactly blame her for that. “If you don’t mind, I will leave it for you. I would be glad if Teddy inherited it, but even if not…”

He shrugged, trying to empathise the fact that Andromeda can do whatever she wishes. After all, he wasn’t entirely sure himself with the decision regarding the house. It was hard to live there, but selling wasn’t an option—just because the walls were drenched in decades of misery didn’t mean they weren’t keeping a bit of Sirius in there.

“Also,” he carried on. “Kreacher’s living there. I can suggest him to move into Hogwarts or I can ask him to help you two. I think he’d prefer Blacks, but, again, it’s up to you.”

“My own house-elf?” Andromeda smiled, tilting her head to the side. “I would lie if I said I didn’t miss having one, especially when Teddy was born.”

“To be honest, he is old, a little grumpy, and touched in the head.” Harry admitted. “But one thing is true: he is loyal to Blacks.”

“Touched in the head like we all are,” she made a dismissive gesture. “Let him decide however he likes.”

Teddy let out a chewed piece of Harry’s hair, and turned to Andromeda, making a happy bubbly sound as if proud of his work. She gave him a gentle smile, and her cheered up  eyes gazed at Harry as she said softly:

“Very well then, how do you feel about spending our—or, rather, my—last evening together watching muggle goods? Arthur hooked up TV for us just recently.”

Harry chuckled and Teddy, happily, followed his example.

“Yes, Andy,” he said, grinning. “It’s my pleasure.”

Mrs. Weasley was the hardest to say goodbye to. Harry dragged the moment away as much as he could, even having gotten all the paperwork for the Grimmauld place done before he finally realised he can’t hide forever.

It turned out even worse than he’d thought. Having to explain why he suddenly felt interest in south America and why he couldn’t send any letters from there, Mrs. Weasley stood, hands on her hips, looking at him with concerned eyes. Ron, who decided to tag along with Harry to visit his parents, didn’t help—stuffing his mouth with food, he only hummed, leaving his friend face to face with the problem. It ended up sucking Harry dry, leaving him tired and burdened with the weight of guilt over his heart and five pounds of biscuits, wrapped in a parchment. He wasn’t sure now that Ron joked about finding a way to send letters across the multiverse.

He was ashamed of his lie, and he wanted to repeat endlessly “I am sorry,” but, truly, what else could he have done? Hermione was right—Harry couldn’t live with himself, knowing he let to slip the only opportunity to save the one who long gave up the idea of being saved away.

He met Luna, having arrived at Hogwarts. Ron gladly accepted the biscuits, heading ahead to, as he reasoned, drag Hermione away from the library where she buried herself in to dig out more about your parallel universes, therefore Harry was loitering in the hall alone when he noticed the familiar flash of pale hair. He barely held himself from smacking his forehead as he realised that, with all the hassle, he’d forgot about another person he needed to say goodbye to.

He called Luna, leading her aside to stop by the window where the starless sky had already began to darken, and hastily told her the truth. In the end, if there was a person capable of accepting something so mental without batting an eye, it was Luna. That was exactly what she did.

“Oh, so you did find a place where he hasn't boarded the train yet!” She exclaimed, shining.

“More like hasn’t arrived to the platform yet,” he corrected her, smiling.

“Yes, true,” she agreed, looking out at the window with a dreamy look, as though the view revealed her a beautiful landscape instead of black void. “I wish you luck, Harry.”

He leaned against the wall, looking at Luna with gratitude. His burdened heart felt just a little lighter as her optimism carried through her words. She seemed unafraid of letting him go, with no doubts behind.

“Well,” Luna said. “Thank you for telling me. I’ll see you sometime?”

“Eh, but I’ve already told you I’ll be gone…”

“Not in this universe,” her smile widened as she averted her eyes from the window to look at Harry. “In there, where you’re going. I’m gonna be there, aren’t I? The other me yet still the same me. Who knows, perhaps we’ll fuse into one in the end, when we’ll board the train?”

“Perhaps,” Harry said, breathless, barely catching her peculiar train of thought.

“Exactly,” she nodded, as if having proven a complex theorem. “Well, I must go. Hanna’s waiting for me.”

“Hanna?” His eyebrows lifted in surprise. “Hanna Abbott?”

She hummed in agreement. “Have you ever noticed how beautiful her hair is?”

“Erm. I think not.”

Luna nodded again, looking satisfied with his answer for some reason. “Naturally. Well, Draco’s hair was beautiful too, wasn’t it?”

Turning around, she skipped away, merrily waving her hand at Harry from the back, as though he wasn’t going to leave forever, as though she’d see him on the next Monday.

He shook his head, dazed. Merlin sees, he didn’t know a person more bizarre than Luna Lovegood. And it was incredible.

It took roughly five days of preparation: many things happened and many thoughts occurred, spinning his head. Though he had intended to tell the truth only to Ron and Hermione, he ultimately gave it up to two others—and an old elf. It seemed only right. Kreacher gazed up at him under his bushy eyebrows with an expected grim look, muttering something about young master’s madness, and, in the end, declared about his desire to serve Andromeda with the exception of him staying at Grimmauld to look after the house. Harry assumed it would have played like that.

He put an utmost effort to act quickly. Still, with each passing hour, he felt as his most precious resource—time—slipped away. It unnerved him: Harry felt a myriad of emotions from ache and shame to inexplicable peace and vigorous desire to live . Oh, he felt so alive in those moments; the feeling of blood running through his veins and warmth spreading within that he hadn’t felt since the day of the final battle. Perhaps he simply couldn’t live without danger. Perhaps it all came down to his purpose, or lack thereof, until now.

Passing his broom and his marauders’ map to an astonished Ron, Harry couldn’t help but think if this is how Draco felt, putting the finishing touches into the preparation of his death. He must have been dealing with the bank accounts too. He might have even left letters to his old mates and gave the last orders to the house-elves, releasing them into other families or sending to work at Hogwarts. It was painful to think about, yet it proved to be a reminder of the reason he’s willing to put himself at such risk, abandoning so much and so many.

On evening of the fifth day Harry looked around his bedroom for the last time, checked the contents of his chest to make sure he hadn’t forgotten anything valuable (the last of which, the invisibility cloak, he left to Teddy), and descended into the lounge. He had already thought about spending one more evening with Ron and Hermione this morning, but realised how pointless that would be. It would only make it harder for him just as it would for them. He was never good at saying goodbye. He knew that since the moment he stepped into the Forbidden Forest under his cloak to face his death.

Stopping before Hermione, who sat on a chair, tucking her feet under herself, he leaned to say softly:

“I’m heading to Snape. We’ll meet at the small courtyard in half an hour. Unless… unless you’d rather not to accompany me.”

“Harry,” she sighed and shut a large tome laying opened on her knees closed. “Of course we want to.”

Hermione got quiet, but Harry didn’t feel hurried to leave, feeling that she has more to say. He was right:

“Are you sure you want to do this?”

“Yes,” he smiled ruefully. “I don’t think I’ve ever been as sure. Well, except for the desire to kill Voldemort maybe?”

Harry tried to make it light-hearted, but Hermione didn’t even crack a smile. She sat closer to him, and, though other students were far away from them, lowered her voice:

“What have you seen in him? What makes you want to risk it so much?”

Harry averted his eyes, frowning. It wasn’t like he hadn’t asked himself the same.

Although, speaking bluntly, the answer was on the surface—Draco was always the one Harry couldn’t leave well alone. He had always been there a good half of his life: always near, always on the periphery of his eyes, sometimes right in front of him.

“He’s…” he uttered quietly, turning to her. “He’s Draco .”

Hermione scrutinised him, waiting for a continuation of his words, but he couldn’t describe it in any other way. It was impossible to explain: the burning feeling in his chest, the pull pushing forward.

Realising she wouldn’t get more out of him, she hummed, shaking her head, and whispered:

“Yes. Yes, of course. It was always like this with him, right?”

“Right,” Harry smiled tiredly, touching her shoulder. “See you later?”

“Later,” she nodded.

His eyes lingered on her fuzzy hair, dizzy from the affection blooming in his chest, he finally stepped away. Nearing the staircase he almost sprung into running, his heart pounded relentlessly, blood flowed faster, whispering to hurry. At the dungeons belatedly came the thought that he should have owled Snape or something, because he could have been anywhere: in DADA office or wandering around the portraits, scaring away the first-years lost on the late evening.

Scolding himself for a lack of thought, Harry pushed the door, and exhaled in relief as he saw the familiar exasperation in the dark eyes.

“Potter,” Snape greeted, standing up from the chair on his canvas. “Eighteen-years-old and still no common decency to knock before entering?”

“Excuse me,” he let out a wicked grin, not feeling sorry at all. “I… I came to say I’m ready.”

Snape lifted an eyebrow, the exasperation on his face replaced with something close to curiosity. Harry felt uneasy—the sudden change on the permanently detached and uninviting expression felt alien.

“Is that so?” He said, crossing his arms over his chest. His robes billowed behind him, disturbed by the imaginary wind, if one could even exist in a painting. “Have you weighed all the risks?”

“Since the first day, sir.” Harry assured, moving further into the room. “When I said anything I meant exactly that.”

And again that piercing, studying stare. A short pause.

“You know the password.”

Harry swallowed and swiped his sweaty palms against the material of trousers. All of the distractions of the recent days vanished all at once, leaving in the intimate proximity with the anticipation, the fear, and the erratic heartbeat that leaped into his throat. He crept to the wall, knocking with his wand, and mumbled the password, hoping that Snape wouldn’t notice the tension and the quivering of his voice.

“There are three coordinate axes,” he started with a didactic tone when Harry gently put the locket on the table. “If you take a closer look, you’ll see the colours distinguishing each one.”

He managed a pause letting Harry to linger on it. Leaning over the table, he gave a slow nod, having caught a glimpse of illumination each thread was coated in.

“Turn the green one three times to the right, the red one only one time time upward, and the blue one two times in the same direction.”

“That’s it?” Harry looked up to gaze at him, surprised. “You’ve already picked up the right coordinate?”

“Naturally, I did,” he said sternly. “Right after you left.”

Harry couldn’t suppress the smile. It was pleasant to know that Snape took him seriously, and, maybe, even had a faith in him. Though it was best to leave it without commenting. Harry had an inkling the man would have managed to hex him even in the limited state of a drawing.

A beat passed, and he, holding his breath, braced himself as if preparing for a jump into an icy water. He put the time-turner around his neck. This was it. The moment of no return.

“Thank you, sir,” Harry said, closing the lid of the locket. “Thank you for this and… everything.”

Snape said nothing, only letting out a snort in reply. Harry allowed himself to slip a grin, hid the device behind his robes, and put the locket away. He walked to the door, a maddening pulse of his heart and the flashing thoughts in his head.

As he touched the handle he halted, the memory of his conversation with Hermione that he had some couple of minutes ago on the front of his awareness. He licked his lips, and, turning, called:

“Sir.”

“What again?”

“Do you reckon it is possible to love someone you’ve hated for so long?”

Snape hummed. He seemed completely unbothered, as though Harry had a habit to ask such personal questions.

“Don’t you think the answer to this question is hanging on your neck?”

Harry flinched. The time-turner’s cool string caressed the skin of his neck.

“Yes,” he admitted quietly, turning to the door again. “Yes.”

The wind roamed around, ruffling the hair and playing with the edges of their robes. It lacked November’s bite, surprisingly warm instead, and carried the smell of dampness and swirls of snowflakes. It was dark outside except for the light of coming from the torches on the nearby window.

Harry held the time-turner in his hand. His friends stayed a step away from him. Ron threw an arm around Hermione’s shoulders. During the last minute they hugged five times and each time it was becoming harder to tear themselves apart. Harry looked up, meeting Hermione’s wet eyes. She sniffled quietly, Ron pressed her harder to his side.

“Mate, you know that you don’t have to, right?” Ron asked as he took in Harry’s sightly trembling hands.

He gave him a smile—tired, but open.

“That’s the thing, Ron,” he said. “It seems like I am finally doing what I want, not what I have to.”

The silence settled as he took a deep death. Taking another look at Hermione, he jerked forward to envelop her in another crashing hug, but stopped himself. No. It was useless. They could continue hugging until morning, again and again, until his determination crumbles, perished from the path by the fear to inflict hurt. Resisting himself was difficult no matter what honest and assured  words he told Ron.

Harry couldn’t bear the goodbyes. Leaving to die alone was much easier.

“I love you,” he repeated, gripping the metal device till his skin turned white.

“Oh, for circe’s sake, Harry.” Hermione said with unfamiliar bite in her voice, looking up at the sky and blinking quickly. “Turn the bloody thing on already until I changed my mind and tied you up to lock in a basement forever! I’m serious!”

Harry burst out laughing, shaking his head. Hermione blinked some more, then took a deep, shuddering breath. She resolutely nodded.

“I have one more favour to ask of you,” he said, dropping his hands that still gripped the time-turner. He’d been thinking it through for five days, not finding the strength to voice it, until he came to a conclusion that, considering all, there was nothing to lose. “About the talk with Kingsley… Could you sort it out? To make them pay? If not I’ll understand…”

“Yes,” she smiled weakly. “Yes, of course, but, Harry, I’ll have to read the letter. At least that one.”

“Okay,” he sighed. “After all, Draco wouldn’t be able to curse me anymore. Seventh. You need the seventh one. They’re signed, laying in the chest. Are you… Sure you don’t mind?”

“Mate,” Ron chuckled. “You literally proposed Hermione to fight for someone’s rights, do you think she minds?”

Barely finishing the sentence, he yelped—Hermione pinched his side, hard, her loving smile never fading.

Ron snorted, straightening his back and pressing her closer. Then looked at Harry and warily drawled, nodding at the turner: “Will it hurt?”

Harry suddenly realised he’d forgot to ask that crucial question. The tight knot of fear grew larger, but he still smiled, replying:

“Time to find out.”

The green one three times to the right. A snowflake fell on the tip of his nose. The red one one time upward. Ron’s frightened gasp broke the silence. The blue one two times in the same direction. Harry gazed up at the Gryffindor tower, lit with warm yellow light. The turner softly clicked.

It felt like an apparition—only in the beginning. Harry felt the sharp tug, then his body was squeezed and twisted, as though he was pulled through an eye of a needle. Darkness fell before his eyes, his chest was squished, and he realised with a start: he couldn’t breathe. Then everything crumbled, and, yes, it hurt. His body disintegrated, split, and dematerialised into participles and atoms to turn into a dust of crashed stars; something flashed before his eyes like dazzling fireworks impossible to discern. Harry was pulled and pulled and pulled somewhere far away. There was no air to breath, no heart to beat—nothing. It was eternal; It was only half a second; and It was the feeling of an unending moment.

Then he fell and his cheek hit something hard.

Harry woke up on the stone floor, sprawled on his stomach. He simply lay for some time there, breathing slowly, inwardly recounting every inch of his body from head to toes. He was definitely intact, feeling each limb in its place, which was great. Groaning, he decided to turn over and carefully sit up.

He stretched his arms, studying them. The familiar Inky smudge on his thumb soothed his nerves. Harry then processed to touch his face: his lips, a tip of his nose, and his glasses. Yes, it was still him. He breathed in relief.

As he stood up he immediately staggered over, and he had to lean onto the wall. His body didn’t cooperate, felt sluggish, and just a little wrong. He was also cold, so cold, and exhausted… Looking down, he noticed the dirt stains on his jeans. The ripped jeans with stretched knees. Harry wore them on the Friday he went flying until he felt cold and numb. Them and…

He looked down—a sweater from Mrs. Weasley and robes on top of a muggle jacket. It was, undeniably, the same outfit. Harry swallowed, eyes wandering to understand where exactly the time turner sent him. Or, more accurately, where was the body of his “other” self. He was in some hall in Hogwarts, that was for sure, but, Merlin, more often than not they all looked the same…

Time. Time was his most precious resource that could run its course any moment. Taking a random turn, Harry hastily headed forward. The new memories weakly forced themselves into his head. Insignificant they were, like Snape promised. The friendly match last week, Great Hall and Luna’s arms around Hanna, and Slughorn who tried to invite him for another tea; Hermione who hit Ron’s head with a folded paper, a lazy conversation with Neville… It baffled with its mundanity. Somewhere along these moments, hidden behind, Draco wrote Harry his letters. While Harry was right there, laughing, flying, chattering with someone, and giving a hug. While he lived having no idea.

Harry felt lost in those memories as he jumped over the staircases and ran through the branched corridors. As it turned out, he was near the north wing, now he only had to hurry to the Gryffindor tower to get his map out. He didn’t know yet what he’d do if he didn’t find Draco on it. Perhaps he should apparate to the manor right after he, with a shudder and terror inside, confirmed that Draco hasn’t…

He saw him. He saw him, and all his thoughts vanished.

Draco descended from the steep staircase, tightly wrapped in his warm robes. Harry halted, he couldn’t utter a single sound let alone move from his place. He saw him and he couldn’t get enough of the view. Now Harry couldn’t understand why he hadn’t noticed the sickly looking skin on Draco’s face; the sharpened cheekbones, the nose seemingly longer than before, and the dryness of his flushed lips.

Draco looked up, frozen on the spot. He studied him for a moment before asking:

“What?”

Harry couldn’t manage a response. It was unreal, it was impossible, and it was glorious. The heat and the pull, something that whispered to him, Go, be there, stop him. Everything cleared, piercingly. He was hit with the desire to laugh, not from the nerves but out of happiness, because, yes, Draco was here. He was here and he was still alive and Harry did the impossible. He wasn’t going to let him slip anymore.

Never. Not in this universe and not in any other.

“Draco,” Harry said, breathless. “You’re here.”

Chapter Text

“Thank you, Kreacher.” Draco smiled tiredly. “You’ll be a great help.”

Kreacher’s eyes looked up at him under his bushy, grey eyebrows, and hid the letters in the depth of his pillowcase. His hunched-over figure fit in the gloom of the Astronomy Tower where shadows crept into the corners.

“When is Kreacher to deliver these to young Master?” The elf croaked.

“In four days, I reckon.” Draco replied, straightening his back.

He hoped his predictions were correct. The Prophet hadn’t had many hot topics to discuss lately; the fire of war had died down, and dark days had given way to the mundane. It would be better if Harry found out everything from the papers—at least that way, he wouldn’t rush off to track Draco down. Not that Draco believed Harry would want to do that in the first place, but he liked to plan everything down to the smallest detail and wanted to be certain he wouldn’t cause the man any unnecessary trouble. Discovering the body of a childhood classmate—irritating as he might have been—was certainly not an experience Harry needed. It was better left to the Aurors.

“You may go,” Draco said, now looking at Kreacher from above.

The elf nodded, giving the last glum look, and dissipated in the air.

It was pure luck that helped him to obtain the name of Harry’s elf, previously owned by the Blacks. Draco thanked Merlin for having eavesdropped on Harry and his friends before transfigurations at the beginning of September. Paying attention to his every word was an old habit, at the start carrying the purpose of gleaning the weaknesses of the enemy and then taking a form of solace: Harry’s voice had a soothing effect on him. It didn’t matter what he said, but how—the calm sound of his timbre and intonation. Every so often it grounded him.

He shut his eyes for a few seconds, taking in the night’s moist air. There was an amusing element in spending his last moments in the Astronomy Tower—the place where his life took an irreversible turn. Before, Draco was wary of the place, but as the decision was made, the blissful serenity that took over his mind wrecked all of his reservations. His hand stretched towards the inner pocket of his robes, searching blindly for a multi-faceted vial through the cloth. He had to get a formal approval from McGonagall to apparate to the manor so that he could take the second attempt off the smouldering, smoke-laden flame. The poison was to rest at room temperature for another two days. He still couldn’t grasp the idea of him destroying the vial so ridiculously; the three weeks of additional wait were hardly tolerable.

Still, they were over. It was over, and now it’s going to be alright. Draco took another deep breath, opened his eyes, and descended down the stairs. His chest clenched with a pang of worry—apparently, dying still stirred fear in him even if it also brought closure.

Navigating the final twists of the stairwell, Draco felt someone's intense gaze on him and stopped, tensing—the heightened attention on his persona almost always resulted in trouble this year. Automatically resolving to defend himself without any restraint this time—because, really, it wouldn’t make a difference anymore—Draco turned, his body going rigid.

Whether a terrible joke or a gift from fate itself, he was given a chance to look at the person who played a big part throughout the conscious years of his life. Standing on the step, he thought that, maybe, this time he could afford himself one lingering look—just a few seconds. But in the following moments, he realised something was wrong.

Something was wrong, because Harry, who stayed paralysed on his feet, looked at Draco like a person who was finally alleviated of his burden. His wide eyes clung onto Draco with neglected greed. There was so much in them—relief, awe, euphoria. Harry never looked at him like that. Moreover, he was never supposed to look at him like that.

The question left Draco’s mouth before he could act against it:

“What?”

He was so sure Harry would say “Nothing,” shaking the strange reverie off, his eyes dimming, and returning to the well-known indifference. He was sure he’d leave.

Instead, something truly extraordinary happened.

“Draco,” Harry said, breathless, and making a step toward him. “You’re here.”

Instinctively, Draco backed off, pressing his body against the stone wall. His brain raged with thoughts, trying to come up with an explanation: Finnegan under a Polyjuice potion for the sake of sick entertainment? Real Harry, who happened to be an unfortunate victim of Confundus a couple of minutes ago? Hallucinations conjured by an exhausted mind?

“You’re here.” Harry repeated, stopping on the stair.

The shine of his eyes blazed brighter than ever. He looked with the eyes of a person who was suffocated by his feelings.

Draco had no idea how to deal with it. Thus, putting himself together, he did what he always had—bristled, shielding himself.

“What an astute observation, Potter,” his voice didn’t sound even half as confident and cool as he intended. “I suppose you’ve finally managed to find your bits of logical thought, since they seem to be in a remarkably good state.”

Harry was supposed to snap. He should’ve backed off and glared at him the way Draco was used to, but it didn’t happen. He let out a single snort, shaking his head, and muttered:

“Of course. Of course you’d be like this even now.”

Draco swallowed, taking a slow step back. Perhaps any other time he’d feel tempted to figure it out, but now he could trust neither his eyes nor the person wearing Harry’s face. He needed to run. Now.

“Glad you’re peachy, Potter, but I have plans,” Draco said and hurried downstairs.

He went through another five steps until Harry’s voice reached him as though a thunderstorm in the middle of the empty hall—loud and brusque.

“Do those plans include the vial of belladonna in your pocket?”

Draco froze on the spot. Cold waves of goosebumps sent a frisson down his neck. He turned slowly, his stare unguarded and wide.

“Or is it waiting in the manor?” Harry concluded quietly.

Awed brightness extinguished from his eyes. He looked sobered up, his gaze piercing, unblinking.

“What?” Draco said in a weak voice.

Harry’s expression softened. He made a step forward, and Draco took one back, almost falling off the staircase—his feet felt weak, unsteady.

“I know what you want to do,” Harry uttered gently, stopping.

The white noise in Draco’s head grew stronger. He stumbled again and had to grab the nearest wall to stabilise himself. Thoughts overlapped each other, trying to fit into the narrow space. No one knew. Not a single soul. How did he? Did he use legilimency? Draco had enough experience with it. He knew how the invasion felt: after dozens of attacks on his mind, you wouldn’t be able to miss even the most skilled legillimency.

Unless…

“You’ve read them?” Draco mouthed the words. Anger swelled in his chest, stunning with its heat, yet it dimmed in the moment, replaced by fogginess. “How? I sent them… Thirty seconds ago? Maybe a bit later?”

His voice was almost inaudible, speaking more to himself than to Harry, but he heard him anyway and intervened, once again stupefying Draco with the softness of his voice.

"No, I... not really. Please let me explain.”

“Not really?” Draco echoed with disbelief in his voice. He raised his eyes at him. The noise remained in his ears, and he felt so exposed, so defenceless.

In that moment, there was too little air, as though a painfully familiar, invisible stranglehold curled around his neck. His hand automatically shifted towards his throat, and he sprung into running, hopping from one step to another. Facing Harry, this Harry, who somehow knew, was unbearable. Draco understood neither the reasoning behind his departure nor the final destination, cognisant only of the urge to get away.

As he passed the last step, a cold hand, which had never touched Draco without the intention to hurt, caught his wrist. He flinched, halting. His breath came out in jagged spasms from his sternum. The back of his head was burning.

“Please.” Harry asked, breathless. “Let me explain.”

Draco jerked his hand off his hold, simultaneously turning and backing away. Harry’s face, which never left Draco’s sight, was beseeching. His wrist prickled from the cold touch.

“Draco,” Harry said with a raw kind of desperation.

“Why the hell are you calling me that?” Draco whispered, stopping any movement.

Words echoed against the walls of the deserted hall. The wind whistled in the nearby corridor, disturbing the flames of the torches on the way.

Harry suddenly smiled. It was a small, almost affectionate smile of a tired person.

“I think I got used to it somewhere along these three weeks.”

“You’re mad,” Draco choked out, even though he knew the only mad person here was him.

Perhaps it was bound to happen. The only sensible outcome for him, if you think about it. He felt a piercing need to touch Harry—just to re-evaluate the realness of his perception—but, naturally, he didn’t.

“Please,” Harry pleaded again. Then, after a long pause, he added, “You are not at risk. You are free to stun me and walk away at any moment.”

Draco’s breath hitched as he inhaled. Could Harry have read his letters in advance? It wouldn’t be a complicated task to sneak into Slytherin common room, but… Draco kept them in the secret compartment under his drawer, buried under so many concealing charms that not many would’ve been able to untangle, except for, maybe, Flitwick. After a couple of incidents with Rookwood, he became a bloody expert in locking spells. The letters were akin to a delayed catastrophe. Were anyone to find them whilst Draco was still on this earth, he would have been forced to forget the poison and kill himself by jumping off of an Astronomy Tower.

Draco let his breath out abruptly. He didn’t know what stunned him more: the absence of any logic in the attempts to make sense out of all of it or the fact that Harry used his first name. The latter knocked him out of his footing even more.

“Right,” he said slowly. “Okay. You have five minutes.”

Harry’s face lit up again just as brightly, swelling with relief, albeit less suffocating than before. He turned his head to the sides, his eyes roaming the deserted hall, and said:

“Let’s go outside. Better not be eavesdropped on by anyone.”

Draco scowled, and, just to be prepared, his hand dived into the pocket of his robes where his wand was. He couldn’t trust anyone. Harry must have noticed the swift movement, having been following it with his sharp eyes, but said nothing and—which is even more unsettling—didn’t reach for his own. He merely nodded in the direction of the massive front doors. Draco stayed a little behind him, a couple of yards away—an advantageous position to protect himself, if he happened to need it.

As they stepped outside, Harry turned, facing the lake. Draco’s eyes lingered on the ramifying pathway leading to the castle’s gates with a wistful desire to apparate at any moment. In the end, though, he knew he could—his position did allow him to stun this Harry, who didn’t even watch him that much, only glancing back to make sure Draco followed, and run. His back was completely open and defenceless—practically a dog offering its soft belly without a shadow of fear.

Harry Potter never let his guard down with Draco.

They stopped right on the edge of the lake. The water gleamed with the moon’s light, lighting up the night just enough for them not to cast Lumos. Draco stood beside Harry, holding his distance and facing him with his whole body. His hand was still in the pocket, but Harry wasn’t bothered in the slightest.

“Well,” Harry took a deep breath, as if preparing himself for a life-turning decision. “I suppose the only option here is simply to tell you the truth; otherwise, I’ll just get a stupefy in the back.”

The corner of his lips twitched when he looked at Draco, who didn’t so much as raise an eyebrow at this obvious half-joke. It seemed Harry didn’t mind at all, only continuing:

“I wouldn’t want to lie either way. Have you ever heard of parallel universes?”

The question stripped his reserve completely for a second—only a second, but still. He wasn’t sure the madness of it all could be even more bizarre. The only thing he could do was to put on a mask of careful indifference:

“I may have read about it here and there.”

“Yeah?” A glimpse of relief showed on Harry’s face. “What exactly?”

“Decided to test my competence at last?” Draco lifted his eyebrow. Harry didn’t react to the quip, and he elaborated: “Two paragraphs from a book, "Emergency Situations in Time Travel" by Briallen Glanask, about a wizard from the fifteenth century, who claimed to arrive from a parallel universe. Naturally, there was no objective evidence to support his words, and he was deemed to be insane, despite publicising an autobiography that reminded more of a historical novel. Is it what you wanted to hear?”

“Well, not really,” Harry sighed and ran his hand through his hair, such an ordinary, normal gesture that Draco witnessed so many times while observing him in the Great Hall. “But better than nothing. By the way, the guy might have been onto something.”

“What?” Draco even snorted, surprising himself by the sound so very close to laughter. “Oh, yeah, now you’ll be telling me a story about…”

“About a parallel universe where I’ve already read your eight letters.” Harry interrupted him. “About a parallel universe where you’ve already…”

He broke off, the corners of his lips turned down, and his hands clenched into fists, as though Harry couldn’t bring himself to finish the sentence. He always wore his heart on his sleeve, and the pain reflected on his face was so intense and overwhelming that Draco lost any desire to scoff at him. Instead, he asked quietly, “You’ve gone mad, haven’t you?”

“No, I–“

“I get it,” Draco muttered, subconsciously stepping backwards. The same panic threatened to take over just like it did when Harry uncompromisingly claimed to know everything. “You, for some damned reason, found out about the letters and thought… thought it clever to humiliate me, saying you’ve read them…”

“No, wait!” Harry waved his hands, and Draco instantly reacted, gripping his wand from the pocket.

Harry slowly brought his hands down. Unhurriedly and cautiously, he said:

“It’s the truth. What I said.”

“Prove it.” Draco countered, ready to fire his wand at him at any moment. “Prove that you’ve read them.”

“Right,” Harry took a deep breath and nervously wet his lips. For several seconds he looked as though he saw through Draco, occupied with thoughts. Then he talked, spewing a gab of chaotically scattered words, each of them, however, landing precisely in Draco’s guts like a blow. “The beech, the rapeseed, your father– your mark, the– the scars. From your nails. Veritaserum. Suffocating curse. ‘I’ve always wanted you.’”

“Shut up!” Draco’s voice rose above the lake, echoing in the night’s silence. “Shut up, shut up, shut up!”

Harry closed his mouth, looking at him anxiously. Draco nearly dropped his wand—his hands were shaking so much. Breathing too frequently, he turned away to the lake’s side, palm covering his face. It was not quite a panic attack, but close enough. Before his eyes was every single line he wrote in the letters and…

”I’ve always wanted you.”

Draco hasn’t felt this defenceless even in the dark corners with the company of Macmillian and his sharp teeth threatening to snap.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t want to do this, but I didn’t know any other way to prove that I’m not lying.”

Draco swallowed his thick saliva, trying to calm his breathing. Why couldn’t he even die in peace? He needed this much—a minute of peace, and solitude, and silence of the night beside the beech with the bitter taste of belladonna on his tongue. This much. Not Harry, the Harry fucking Potter, who…

“How did you do that?” He said with a hoarse voice, taking his hand off of his face. Still, he couldn’t face Harry.

“It’s Snape. He’d accommodated the time-turner for universe hopping a few years ago but didn’t have the chance to use it. When you’ve died, I… Well, I think he watched me for a while before suggesting to use the time-turner. I would’ve used a regular one, but…”

“Fixed point,” Draco murmured.

“Yes.”

Draco gradually exhaled through his nose. He knew, of course, being integrated into the wizarding world from the beginning, that everything was possible, even something that only looked like an extravagant theory. Even so, he wasn’t sure he hadn’t gone insane instead. For a moment he wanted to touch Harry again and to feel the chill of his cold hands but restrained the urge. Surely, there wasn’t a universe where Harry wouldn’t have shied away from his touch.

“What’s with the Potter I knew?” Draco asked. “Have you switched places?”

“No. My body was destroyed along the switch, so I just fused with the consciousness of this Harry. And Draco… I am the Potter you knew. The only difference between this universe and mine is that you didn’t drop the vial with the poison. I couldn’t have moved further. The more different the universe, the farther it is. At least Snape explained it that way.”

Draco finally turned to face Harry and was taken aback by the sheer calmness he displayed. As though Harry hasn’t just admitted he…

“You left your friends?” Draco asked, unable to even try to sound unaffected. “Left every one of them?”

Harry’s immediate grin was wider than before, startlingly authentic and a bit rueful, yet without an ounce of regret.

“Yes,” he said simply.

“But why?”

“Isn’t it obvious?”

“Potter,” Draco’s voice was barely audible. “I don’t need saving. I don’t want it.”

It was true. He felt broken into myriad shards that couldn’t be mended with the strongest Reparo. Too many memories left his eyes burning and too many tears that stopped spilling a long time ago. Too many reasons . Naturally, something deep-seated in him, something feral and instinctive in him, kept resisting. It was neither an urge nor a voice but a pathetic whisper in the furthest edge of his mind. Draco didn’t want mindless survival, not anymore.

Harry let out a heavy sigh from within his chest. His smile dimmed, yet the softness never left his voice when he spoke again:

“I know. I know, but… Give me a chance, please.”

“And what do you propose we do?” He laughed bitterly. “There is nothing to fix.”

“Anything,” he said firmly. “Do you want me to make the ministry crawl on their knees before you? Do you want me to make them reopen your case? Or maybe you want to disappear from England for good? We could go together, anywhere at all. There would be the sun, the sea, or the mountains, or we could go to the continent, to America… You’ve talked about America…”

“You’re mad,” Draco choked out.

Harry smiled wickedly.

“Ah. I suppose, yes. You’re not the first to tell me.”

He fell quiet. Draco didn’t speak either, just looked at him, utterly bewildered. Dark waters of the lake splashed softly, caressing the sands of its bank.

Draco knew that he knew nothing. The vial burnt his pocket, reminding him of itself, but now he didn’t have the certainty that Harry would let him turn away and walk to the gates. This person was mad. Draco always knew, but he didn’t begin to grasp the full potential of it.

“You cannot make the ministry crawl on their knees before me.” Draco thought out loud, just to say something.

Harry burst out laughing, the way only he was capable of. Golden, mischievous laughter. He never laughed like that with Draco. This would have snatched the ground out from under his feet, had he not already fallen over the edge .

“Believe me, I can.”

Draco only shook his head. A sudden fatigue crashed down on him all at once, pressing on his shoulders, decelerating his heart, and making his eyelids heavy. He wanted to lie down right on the ground, curl into a foetus, and not move till the very morning. Till the next week. Perhaps for another decade.

“What do you want from me?” He asked, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his palm.

“Time,” he replied right away; his voice was quieter, gentler. “Just a little time. I understand you need some space to digest all of this, so… Maybe we could talk tomorrow; gain a new perspective. To decide what I can do for you. If I can.”

“You can’t.” Draco cut him off and almost winced at the sight of Harry flinching from his words, as though it slapped him across his face. “And I won’t go back to Hogwarts.”

“Alright,” Harry dismissed the first part, clinging to the latter. “I don’t want to either. We could go to mine; it’s in London—the Grimmauld place. There are more than enough rooms.”

“Are you seriously offering me to stay at yours ?” Draco said slowly.

Merlin sees it wasn’t the most absurd assertion he heard tonight, but it still astounded him.

“Yes.” Harry shrugged blithely.

They fell silent again. Draco stared at him, and Harry didn’t make a move, letting him. Detached, Draco ruminated about his very real options; he could obliviate Harry, for instance. He didn’t have to go to such lengths, but he conjectured he could. Or the said Stupefy. He could cover Harry under a veil of a couple of warming charms and leave, vanishing behind the gates. Draco could be done with this in the morning and…

Something feral and far, far away clawed at his nape and begged. Harry was right here, standing right in front of him, and when he looked like this, as though there could have been nothing more precious and important than Draco, It grew louder, whispering relentlessly. Harry committed something unimaginable only for a chance to ask for time, and it was so unbearably odd, and he was so gentle, and he kept saying Draco’s name, invigorated…

Draco put his wand in his pocket and turned to the lake. His taut shoulders sagged. In the end, it was only one night. It didn't change anything.

“Lead the way.”

He was sure he heard an inhale full of relief.

Draco has only seen the bits of House of Blacks on the old picture of his mother, who was ever so young back then, and even then the dark furnishing framing the background appeared dreary. This place had nothing in common with the Manor’s halls, always full of light and air—that is, before Voldemort’s occupation, which drenched its walls and corridors with dark magic. Now, having personally visited Grimmauld Place, his assumptions were proven correct. The house was tidy, but not lived in, as there wasn’t a single insinuation of its new owner—only worn furniture, the wallpaper on the first floor peeling off with the yellow stains accenting the absence of where Draco assumed portraits were supposed to be placed. It was crystal clear that Harry had done nothing for the house, and the only reason it still remained as an ancient ancestral residence under a crisis was Kreacher. The prospects were unfortunate, dire even. Involuntarily, he thought of the manor wasting away in a similar, if not worse, manner after a decade or so. There won’t be anyone to look after it, and with time, the walls would be covered with cobwebs and dust, and the rich garden would grow beyond its perimeter, entwining everything it can reach with roots and shoots.

“Are you hungry?” Harry asked as they were sneaking out (be it any other time, the incident with the old wretch might’ve amused him) to the kitchens.

He shook his head, hanging his warm coat on a chair. His stomach held nothing but void to let the belladonna kick in thirty seconds instead of two minutes. Still, Draco wasn’t hungry.

“Then tea?”

“Alright,” he shrugged his shoulder dispassionately, sitting down.

Stretching his long legs, his eyes roamed the kitchen, which was the same as the rest of the house. That is, clean but out of shape. Even the teapot Harry put on the stove with a flick of his wand looked well-used. Draco thought detachedly that, actually, the house could be transformed into something warm and welcoming; only it would have required a lot of effort. Perhaps Harry didn’t have the time, or perhaps he just didn’t want to. In any case, it was none of his business.

He didn’t even bother to glance at the mug Harry put down before him, yet as he automatically took a sip from it, he raised his surprised eyes up.

“You know how I drink my tea?”

“Er,” he mumbled incoherently.

Draco nearly scrunched his nose. Merlin, this was stupid—obviously he merely guessed. A few splashes of milk and half a teaspoon of sugar. Not that tricky…

“I suppose I do,” Harry interrupted his thoughts as his lips twitched up in a smile. “I haven’t given it a thought.”

Draco stared at him speechlessly. He remembered every single line he’d written in those damned letters he wanted to think none of now, and he knew for sure there wasn’t a single mention of tea. Maybe that version of him decided to include it for some reason? Preposterous, and yet.

“I think I’ve watched you for too long in the Great Hall.” Harry added after a pregnant silence. “Must have stuck to me.”

“You’re weird, Potter.” Draco murmured, warming his fingers on the heated sides of the cup.

Naturally, he too knew the way Potter likes his tea. Too much milk and inadequate amounts of sugar. However, Draco was besotted with him; Harry, on the other hand… Well, at some point, he became obsessed with keeping tabs on Draco solely to ruin his chances to serve Voldemort. It certainly did not entail observation on his morning tea.

Draco hid a heavy sigh, bringing his mug to his lips. The train of thought turned to a familiar path of darkness, stirring dated memories. Up to this day, he couldn’t believe it was over. It felt as though time stilled, fossilising him in memories the obliviate was powerless against. Those thoughts tagged along with the others, thread by thread, and, eventually, when the tea was finished, he asked with a pang of aching curiosity:

“Was I buried in the Little Dropping?”

Harry instantly snapped back from the reverie he was in. His eyes hardened, an ache behind them. Draco swallowed. He still couldn’t figure out just how these memories could hurt Harry. It was evident he didn’t hop from one universe to another for the fun of it, but being aware of the fact and facing it is not the same.

“No.” Harry pushed his empty mug away. “In the cemetery of Sacred Twenty-Eight. Next to your mother.”

“Fuck,” he swore tiredly, leaning back on his chair. “Andromeda must have spent her last funds.”

He truly didn’t want her to do that. Apparently, he should’ve left those pathetic eighty-five galleons on the Malfoy accounts. Draco wouldn’t have thought she would bother with it for a person she knew for a couple of months. Not after the losses she went through.

Awkward coughing brought Draco back to reality. He raised his head, lifting up his eyebrow in question.

“Don’t worry,” he said, averting his eyes. “I paid everything. We… we buried you together.”

His voice lowered on the last words, and his eyes unfocused, as though the memory wounded him, spilling blood. Draco gaped at him, flabbergasted. He didn’t get it.

“Why?”

Harry looked at him as if he had said the most ridiculous thing in the world.

“Because you should rest there. Not with the Death Eaters. I would have done it in any case, be it with or without your letters.”

Draco breathed in audibly, clenching his fists with his nails piercing the thin skin. Something inside him coiled tightly, threatening to shoot at any second. He felt himself beyond naked before this Harry, who held the entirety of seven years layered before him. It was all wrong. The haunted look, the hurt in his eyes, and the words full of this nauseating kindness. Wrong, wrong, wrong.

“You forget that I am one of them,” he hissed through clenched teeth, bracing himself.

Such old, ingrained knee-jerk reactions: hit harder, push away further. He clung to them like a sinking man as he felt the murky waters drag him in, his breath running short. His mouth filled with an elusive tang of blood and wet earth.

“Don’t say that,” Harry replied, frowning. “It’s not true.”

He knows. He knows. He knows.

Making a gagging noise, Draco sprinted up, nearly dropping the chair off.

“I need a bathroom.” He said coolly.

“You…”

“Potter.”

“Second floor, the first door on the right,” Harry sighed, giving in.

Without a word, Draco made a rush for the exit. With each step, the gloomy walls pressed down. A gust of wind whistled past him, ruffling the edge of maroon-coloured drapes over the windows and a corner of peeling wallpaper. Draco, long given up the necessity to stay quiet, ran up the staircase that emitted a creak with each second step. He burst into a black marbled washroom, gasping for air.

Water gushed through snake-shaped faucets, its chill a fleeting consolation. Draco splashed the water onto his face with feverish haste, letting the water drops fall on his pointy chin down to the collar of his black shirt. When he raised his head to the mirror, he saw his bloodshot, feral eyes.

Harry-fucking-Potter buried him.

Harry-fucking-Potter left everything and everyone behind, tearing through the space-time continuum that no one was ever supposed to touch, which undoubtedly resulted in violation of several theoretical magical principles.

Harry-fucking-Potter wanted Draco to live.

He choked as he felt the panic that had already bloomed when they were in the castle creeping up his throat. His trembling hand reached the pocket of his trousers, fumbling for the vial—Draco never parted with it. He took out the poison, his fingertips deftly running over the sharp edges and his eyes glued to the vial. Inside, the clear liquid sloshed against the glass, beckoning to be unsealed.

Draco exhaled slowly, straightening his back as he reached for the cork.

Bloody hell, no. Not like this. Not here, in Harry’s bathroom. There couldn’t have been a worse place for it. Merlin, why had he ever agreed to come with him? Perhaps it’s not too late for Obliviation? Harry would have hated him if he knew, but he wouldn’t know, would he? Draco had inflicted enough damage in his life; this would only complement the list of his ungodly deeds.

He shook his head and put the vial back. A droplet rolled down his cheekbone, falling behind his collar just as its sisters. Draco will be gone tomorrow. Likely in the morning, when Harry would be still asleep. He will be gone and… It’s going to be alright. At least it’s going to be alright.

“Yes,” he mumbled to himself as he turned the faucets off. “Exactly.”

Harry waited for him in the hallway, leaning his back against the wall. Draco froze on the spot from the suddenness; he didn’t even close the door yet.

“Are you aware of the notion of personal space?” He drawled.

Harry smiled sheepishly.

“Sorry. You were there for too long.”

Draco unclenched his fingers as he let go of the knob, and shook his head. He was just so tired. The surge of panic sucked him dry.

“Nevermind. Just show me the guest room.”

“Er, well, you can take any room, except for those on the fourth floor—I haven’t cleaned it up yet, Merlin knows what lives there.” As he said it, Harry awkwardly shifted from leg to leg. Seeing Draco’s lifted eyebrow, he blurted: “Or you can sleep in my room. I will take the floor.”

“Potter, It’s none of my concern if you want to sleep on the floor—they say it’s even good for your back—but being together in one room is unnecessary.”

Embarrassment melted away from his face just as quickly as it appeared. Frowning, he said firmly:

“I won’t bother you, promise.”

“I know, because I won’t sleep in your room…”

“Draco,” Harry interrupted forcefully. Then he looked up at the ceiling for couple of seconds, taking a deep breath, and looked at Draco again. “Merlin sees, I didn’t want to say it. No problem, you can sleep wherever you want, if only you promise me that I won’t find an empty bed in your room, or worse, your corpse.”

Draco stared at him dumbly as the silence between them thickened the air. Either Kreacher’s or Walburga’s grumbling echoed up from downstairs, stressing the stillness of the moment.

“Great.” Harry said, pushing off of the wall. “Let’s go.”

Draco felt so taken aback that he couldn’t find it in himself to protest. Moreover, he suspected he had no such option—Harry looked a grasp away from using incarcerous.

All he could manage was to ask him for night clothes and promptly vanish into the bathroom again while Harry was roaming through the closet for clean bedsheets.

In the bathroom he quickly looked at the shower head that curled, like all faucets in there, into a snake’s head before finally deciding to use cleaning charms instead. Normally he didn’t use them—his skin felt dry and uncomfortably tight—but now he had neither the energy nor the desire for shower. He had to add slight adjustments to his clothes: to lengthen the thin, peculiar grey trousers, elasticated at the ankles, and turn the tee into a long sleeve. Draco could barely endure looking at it, let alone letting Harry—even the absolutely mad version of him—see it.

When he returned to the room, the bed was already unmade, and Harry, like he said he would, was sprawled on the floor, his body covered in a blanket. Draco didn’t see his face—the room was immersed in semidarkness as the last source of the light, the candle, burnt in the corner on the bedside table. Draco hoped Harry wouldn’t put the flame out—he hated to sleep in full darkness since the end of the fifth year—yet, obviously, didn’t plan to mention it.

Quietly slipping into the bed, Draco buried his face into the pillow, sniffing the faint scent of wood, detectable beneath the sharp smell of detergent. The t-shirt he transfigured had the same smell, and, he assumed, Harry smelt like it as well. Draco shut his eyes, clutching the edge of his blanket into his fist. He lay in Harry’s bedroom, in Harry’s bed, in Harry’s clothes, enveloped in his smell, only a couple of feet away. Madness .

Draco slowly turned over, drifting away from the fresh wood aroma, feeling as his eyelids began to grow heavy. Thoughts gradually waned into an inaudible whisper in the back of his head. He was almost asleep when Harry called him out by his name.

“Mh?” Draco hummed, reluctantly cracking his eyes open.

“Can I touch you?”

The sleep that had just begun to take him was pushed away. Draco opened his eyes wider and asked, loathing the choked way his voice sounded:

“What?”

“Can I touch you?”

Draco rolled over onto his right side, creeping closer to the edge of the bed. Harry, who lay on his back, watched him. His eyes looked pitifully exposed, big, and slightly unfocused without his glasses. Dark shadows on his face barely dissipated under the dim light of the candle.

“Why?” Draco asked as soon as he found his breath again.

Harry hesitated for a second, biting his lips. He grew awkward, and it made it worse, more complicated.

“I wanted to make sure you’re real,” Harry eventually uttered.

Only now Draco noticed how tired Harry was. Wrinkles formed between his wide eyebrows, and his eyes were sunken. Looking at him like this, tortured and tired, Draco couldn’t find the usual jibe that shielded him away. There was no desire to attack, only to protect.

Thus, he nodded and swung his hand over the edge. The cold air brushed against his skin, only to set it aflame as the calloused fingers slid over the back of his hand to then cover it fully, squeezing hard. Draco, who, once again forgot how to breathe, dropped his head on the pillow again, living through a small death within himself.

Once upon a time, there wasn’t a single universe in which Harry Potter would want to touch him. Until now.

He was going to take his hand away after a few minutes, but, in the end, he fell asleep with the warm touch.

Chapter Text

When Draco opened his eyes, he flinched. As he fell asleep, he was half certain—perhaps more than half—that he was dreaming a highly realistic dream including the warmth of fingers wrapping around his narrow hand. Now, Draco’s hand that still hung over the edge was released, but everything else stayed: the spacious (and, evidently, not his) bed, the scents of wood and detergent, the sun spilling through the slit in the curtains, which lit up the room unlike the dim green light of the Slytherin chambers, and also the muggle clothes instead of the familiar pyjamas.

Draco closed his eyes and quietly groaned. Merlin. Everything that happened, everything that couldn’t have been the truth, was, in fact, the truth .

He sat up in bed, looking around; a lock of his dishevelled hair fell on his nose bridge. Yesterday, when the room was under the faint light of a candle, and he was still affected by the haze of panic breathing down his neck, Draco didn’t manage to take a proper look at Harry’s bedroom. Now he could only snort from the revelation of how Gryffindor it turned out to be. The place seemed to exist apart from the rest of the house—a light wooden closet, bright red curtains, a few pennants, their colours and embroidery marking the house’s canons, dozens of magical photos of Harry’s friends, vulgarly glued on the walls without any frame, also some broom models, leisurely floating over the shelves, and a fucking lion plushy under the table in the corner. On the other hand, if Harry had decorated the entire house in Gryffindor colours—complete with those bloody lion plushies—Draco would have been convinced he’d died and gone straight to hell.

Dropping his feet on the cold floor, Draco leaned against his knees and rubbed his face with his palms. His body still felt fatigued, but his consciousness regained clarity with each minute and the drowsiness drifted away. As he stood he picked up the clothes folded on the chair far in the room, when the surprising realisation dawned on him: he felt rested—a feeling he’d felt a while ago. Normally, his sleep was uneasy and superficial—there was no place in which he’d feel safe, and, with a hand under the pillow, he clung to his wand. However, now, as he messed with the buttons on his shirt, Draco also realised that he didn’t even take it out of his pocket yesterday.

Well, that, perhaps, could be excused with the total indifference regarding his own life. He was supposed to be dead already, after all. The thought of his delirious mind taking Harry’s home as refuge made him feel so exposed that he preferred to leave it unattended.

He washed up and, making a half-arsed attempt to tame his hair into something appropriate, Draco descended to the first floor. There, he was enwrapped in aromas of coffee and bacon, and he followed it, dazed by the sheer notion of it, of how normal it was. How healthy, and completely strange in the world Draco lived last years, it was.

He hovered on the doorstep, not making a single movement. Harry was there, he stood by the stove, his back turned to Draco while something cooked on the pan. Draco looked at him—he was dressed in jeans and a tee that has seen better days—and could barely remind himself to breathe. Some part of him was still sure he’d find an empty house or that Harry would disappear. Or, he’d accompany Finnegan, or, maybe, his friends, possibly even a couple of professionals from St. Mungos… But he was there, certainly cooking breakfast. Draco slowly reached for his wand, laying in the pocket of his trousers. It was a perfect moment to obliviate him, actually. He could have just…

He stopped midway, hand listlessly hanging at the side.

Harry clumsily swung his hand, brushing the pan, and, with a pained moan, he put his finger in his mouth. Draco quietly snorted and he turned to the sound. A smile instantly stretched on his face and it left Draco breathless. It couldn’t not to—air hitched in his lungs from the sheer sincerity of it.

“Goo’ Mo’nin’,” Harry mumbled. Taking his finger out of his mouth, he waved his hand, adding: “Coffee?”

“Yes,” Draco said succinctly, sitting down on the table. “Thought you had an elf.”

“Cooking grew on me this summer.” Harry replied, sending the coffeepot float towards Draco. “It helps to concentrate and think. Kreacher never took a liking to that, but then again he never does.”

“Think you’re above your elf’s opinion?” Draco asked, interested. He caught the floating coffeepot and the cup, the milk followed right next and lowered on the table, splashing a couple of drops on the worn surface. “Granger would be disappointed.”

Harry snorted, amused.

“I pay him money,  for your information. Well, he simply hoards it in his room.”

“Merlin,” he muttered, pouring himself coffee.

Harry put out the heat, taking the pan off the stove. The cozy sound of sizzling stopped at once, and it became too quiet. With more focus than necessary, he occupied himself with adding the milk to his cup.

“What do you, er, prefer?” Harry asked sheepishly. “Eggs with bacon, beans, maybe toast? I had jam somewhere in the storeroom… I just couldn’t remember what you usually eat.”

Draco lifted his eyebrow in surprise as he looked up at him. Harry appeared ashamed for not knowing food preferences of a person he couldn’t care less for just recently.  Pure madness.

“It’s because I’m okay with anything.”

“Anything?” Harry repeated, astonished, as he snatched the plates flying out of the cabinet.

“Ah, you thought I am picky and hard to please?”

“Well,” Harry flushed. “It would suit you.”

“Certainly,” he said under his breath, watching as Harry deftly served the eggs on the plates. “Alas, no, I eat everything.”

“There must be something you prefer more, though?”

“Sour apples, creamy pudding, seafood pasta,” Draco recounted. “Are we gonna sit and discuss my tastes?”

“What else are we supposed to discuss?” Harry asked, placing the eggs on the table and pushing it towards Draco.

He took it, pulling closer, and stared at it, not knowing how to answer that question. They weren’t supposed to discuss anything. They were supposed to be Malfoy and Potter who didn’t discuss things with each other.

They sat in an awkward silence borne from Draco’s words. The food was delicious, but he ate automatically, for the sake of stuffing his stomach rather than enjoying it. Cutting thoughts spurred more and more questions: what was he even doing here? What for? Draco slept on Harry’s bed; he sat in front of Harry, who glanced at him with startling concern under his dark bangs, eating breakfast that Harry cooked. It had no fucking point.

Nothing has changed over night.

“Potter,” Draco called him quietly, pushing the half empty plate. “I need to go.”

Harry swallowed and put his fork down—it tinkled against the pottery.

“Where?”

“Manor.”

“Why?”

Draco took a deep breath, forcing himself to look into Harry’s eyes. Of course, Harry understood what he was leading to. The alarm reflected on his face just as clearly as silhouettes on professional magical photos.

“You know why,” he said, his voice hoarse.

Harry leaned against the back of his chair. It seemed he stopped breathing altogether, watching his hands laying on the table. Biting his lips, he was obviously mulling something over.

“You can’t help.” Draco added. “I’ve already decided.”

“Draco.”

The crack in his voice made Draco wince, he was, once again, thinking he must be going mad, because Harry was talking with him like this, he was calling him that, and his eyes were so, so desperate.

“You’re not giving me a chance,” he said quietly, yet firmly.

Draco couldn’t hold the bitter laugh, shaking his head:

“Believe me, I gave this enough chances.”

“But not to me.”

“What?”

“You didn’t give me a chance.”

The desperation in Harry’s eyes was replaced by determination. It was a fire of almost terrifying intensity; something that consisted of pure willpower. Something that, likely, let him defeat Voldemort at seventeen. A stunning power that sent a frisson onto his skin.

“What do you suggest?” Draco said slowly, instinctively seeking the pocket of his trousers under the table.

The vial fit into his palm with its sharp edges; it helped to calm the uncontrollable heart beat down.

“Let’s leave.”

Draco barely suppressed the urge to burst into hysterical laughter. Indeed, it was laughable.

“Where?” He asked with irony in his voice, continuing to roll the vial with his fingers. “I’m sick of England. Of Scotland. Of the whole kingdom.”

Harry didn’t seem bothered in the slightest by the statement:

“Then, we’ll leave the kingdom.”

“Potter,” Draco curved his eyebrow. “Perhaps you have forgotten, but I am prohibited from moving abroad for another five and a half years. They’d lock me up if I dared to. Also, I must attend a monthly checkup, wand inspection included.”

“I can fix it. I won’t promise anything permanent—we’d need to demand a reconsideration for your case—but I can win some time.”

“How, pray tell?” Draco sneered. “Planning to prostate yourself to the Minister? I don’t think so.”

Harry suddenly smiled. The smile was nothing like the one he gave Draco this morning, when he entered the kitchen. There was something dark and almost predatory in it. The grim confidence of an angered person who would go at any lengths to… To get revenge, he assumed. It took a lot of Draco to restrain himself from shivering and continue to remain calm with this Harry.

“We’ll just talk.”

“It won’t do.” Draco declared, though the deafening self-assurance his voice was filled with did not reach his heart. “I was convicted. The minister doesn’t rewrite the laws.”

"Bet I can make him quietly break a couple?"

"I’m not gonna bet with you."

“Scared, Malfoy?”

Draco flinched. The smile on Harry’s face was no longer predatory, returning to its previous softness. Now, he looked almost gleeful—a fascinating contrast.

He felt so much love for him at that moment. So much love.

“Of course not,” he said begrudgingly. “It’s just pointless.”

“Alright,” Harry nodded, standing up from his seat and leaning his hands against the table. “How about this: I go to the ministry now, and you will wait here, then, when I return a winner, we will discuss what part of the world you’d like to see the most.”

Draco couldn’t hold it anymore—he laughed. Bleak and joyless, it was full of tension and exhaustion. Letting the vial out of his fingers, he crossed his arms on his chest and shook his head.

“As you wish, Potter. I won’t interfere if you plan on taking your rose coloured glasses off.”

“Believe me, I’ve already taken them off three weeks ago,” Harry muttered as he flicked his wand, sending the dishes into the sink. Then looked at Draco, serious, and asked: “Can I be certain that you will wait for me?”

Draco bit his lip, looking at him. Half a day didn’t change a thing, did it? Just like the night didn’t change it. Harry wouldn’t be able to achieve anything, and then Draco would leave, even if he had to tear through warding charms or something else that this crazy man could come up with. He couldn’t keep Draco here forever . And then…

“I’d never pass the chance to harass you after an embarrassing failure,” he snorted. “So, yeah. I’ll wait for you.”

“Good,” Harry’s smile widened. He pushed off of the table and head towards the door, when he turned his head to add swiftly: “Call Kreacher if you need anything. I have lots of clothes in my closet, if you ever need to change…”

“Into your atrocious, stretched out muggle clothes? Not on your life.”

Harry laughed as he ducked out of the door. When he was already far in the hall Draco heard a deliberately loudly pronounced “Prat.”

He shook his head unhurriedly, and rested his back against his chair, balancing on its feet with the hazard of falling. The world turned bloody weird.

For some reason, now that he was alone, the absurdity of the situation hit him more acutely. He was still sitting in the kitchen, sipping his second cup of tea, staring blankly into space, and thinking, thinking, and thinking, endlessly. It was hard to wrap his head around it, to say the least: the Harry who had looked at him with complete indifference at breakfast yesterday was the same Harry who had just gone to the Ministry on his behalf. Could this Harry be mistaken? Why was he so sure their universes did not differ from each other, except for a broken vial? And if they were truly identical, why, for the love of Merlin, was it so important for Harry to make him stay? After everything? Even if Harry read the letters…

Draco weakly groaned, pushed the emptied cup, and rubbed his face with his palms. It shouldn’t have been so hard. It should’ve been easier . With a swish of his wand to send the cup into the sink, he stood up and went upstairs, intending to find an occupation to keep his mind from spiralling into madness. Likely, there in Blacks’ domain was a vast library, if, of course, one brute hadn’t gotten rid of it.

Briefly looking around the first floor and finding nothing, he moved onto the second, peeking into every room. Skipping Harry’s and a couple of others shabby doors, behind of which was nothing but old furniture, he stopped before lounge. Pushing the lid of the piano, he absentmindedly brushed his fingers against the keys and winced at once—the instrument was so out of tune that it would take hours to revive it if he wanted to really play something on it. Closing the lid, he turned to the far wall to freeze on the spot, seeing the large tapestry. Generation after generation of Blacks ramified all over the surface into silver branches, winking faintly in the midday sun. It was odd to see it with the knowledge that there were only three left from a once great family. Only, one of those three was going to be gone soon too.

There’ll be no Malfoys.

Swallowing a sudden lump in his throat, Draco crept closer and ran his fingertips on one of the lower branches, finding himself on it. Looking at the embroidery, he quietly snorted—he always thought that the pictures chosen for the tapestries caught the worst angles. There was the same in the manor, and every single Malfoy looked like an inferius. Fingers moved higher, and, halting, skipped Lucius’s name, stopping on Narcissa’s. Smiling ruefully, Draco lowered himself on the creaking floor and tilted his head to take a good look at his mother’s portrait.

“Hi,” he whispered. “I was on my way to you, but Harry messed it up again.”

The lump in his throat grew, his eyes prickled. Draco blinked, caught off guard—he’d thought the time for tears was over. Not because he accepted it but because he cried out every single one of them.

“You wouldn’t want this, would you?” He said, finger tracing Narcissa’s line. “I know you’ve always told me we should move on and live. But, in my opinion, I’m not so great at it.”

Draco took a shaky breath, snatching his hand back and turning away from the tapestry. Burying his fingers in his hair, he slowly brushed them back, calming himself down. His eyes still prickled. The thought of his mother was the only thing stopping him for a long time. She would have wanted him to live—to live a long, happy life. But at some point it wasn’t enough.

And now there was Harry. Harry, who…

“Kreacher,” Draco called, voice raspy.

The elf appeared instantly, as though his command was the only thing he waited for. He grunted painfully, then bowed and croaked:

“Does Master Malfoy need something?”

“Yes. The letters, you haven’t given them to Harry, right?”

Kreacher straightened up and looked at Draco as though he was out of his mind. Draco even thought he saw indignation in elf’s eyes.

“Kreacher would never disobey Black’s order,” he said under his breath. “Kreacher would never…”

“Alright, alright,” he hurried to stop the tirade of protest. “Right. Can you retrieve them to me?”

The elf ears trembled as though controlled by a separate entity. Wet eyes widened, when he rasped:

“Kreacher did something wrong? Master told Kreacher to give letters in four days…”

Oh, Merlin. Draco always found elves’ tendencies for self-harm immensely tiring and even creepy. He interrupted before Kreacher got passionate:

“It’s okay. You did no wrong. It’s just the circumstances changed.”

Kreacher got quiet, his ears still trembling. He stood still for a couple of seconds as though checking for sincerity of his words, then disappeared and reappeared two seconds later, holding out the letters.

“Thank you,” Draco offered his gratitude politely, taking out the letters from the elf’s knotty fingers.

“Is master needing something else?”

“No,” he said distractedly, having started to shuffle the envelopes. “You may go.”

He’d already known the letters would be unsealed, and still checked—just to be sure—then cast a few diagnostic charms to see if they were unsealed before. Not that Draco  hadn’t believed Harry, but… Him secretly tampering with letters seemed like a more possible outcome, than universe-hopping.

Then again, when did Harry not go all out?

Having stacked the letters into a pile, Draco rose from the floor, approached the fireplace, tossed them into the spent coals, and, without a second thought, cast Incendio. These pathetic lines had only one purpose and they had already achieved it.

Draco wasn’t sure if he was glad for it.

When Harry returned, Draco, having gotten a hold of himself and reversed into a familiar state of mindless numbness, waited for him in the kitchen with an old advanced magical theory textbook and cup of tea kindly made by Kreacher. When he heard an entrance door banging open, he grabbed his wand and gripped it under the table until Harry showed himself in the kitchen. He stopped before the threshold, visibly brightened, and in the next second tossed some pamphlet at Draco. He snatched it in the air, put his wand aside, and dumbly stared at the colourful pages.

“World map?” Draco asked, bringing his eyes up to look at Harry.

“Yep,” he replied, collapsing onto the chair beside. “Choose.”

“Choose what?”

“Where we’re heading.”

Draco stared at inky tangled lines and vivid blotches—the continents. No fucking way.

“Potter,” he said with a thick voice. “What did you do?”

“Talked with Kingsley. Like I promised.”

Draco lifted his head, clutching the pages of the map in his fingers. Muggle paper squeaked unpleasantly under the pressure. Harry looked so smug he wanted to kick him. Just for good measure.

“What did you say to him?”

Harry leaned back in his chair, smiling wryly. The charming brightness was replaced by cruel determination, which Draco had already witnessed this morning. It almost… concerned. It also enraptured. Both simultaneously.

“I said that I’d use my name to tear down the reputation of the Auror Office that tortured a kid, if they refused to cooperate.”

He felt his throat go dry and his heart’s beat counting unevenly and too frequently. His mouth was filled with an acidic taste of vomit and blood; he was biting through his own tongue too often while he was thrashing on the floor, back in those days. The kitchen walls, located on the ground floor, began to press down on him, and Draco barely kept his balance. Tugging sharply at the first button of his tightly buttoned shirt, he hissed:

“I don’t need you to protect me.”

“I know,” Harry tilted his head to his shoulder, unbothered by the tone his voice. “I wasn’t protecting you. We have two months, Kingsley will make sure to cover your monthly check-ins.”

Draco breathed too heavily, looking at Harry. He didn’t have a scenario for this outcome—he was absolutely convinced the idea was doomed.

“So what, you’ll throw out your moral code just to get me out of the country? Let the bad guys run free? Who would’ve thought, Saint Potter…” Venom dripped off Draco’s tongue as a last-minute resort to hurt, in an attempt to return them to safe ground.

It didn’t work. Harry didn’t bat an eye, only his predatory smirk widening. He said lazily:

“Not at all. Just because I promised to turn a blind eye doesn’t mean I will. When we get back, I’ll destroy Gawain Robards and give the Minister his first grey hairs,” he made a pause and continued in his usual tone: “Only if you don’t mind, of course.”

Draco’s eyebrows flew up faster than he could stop it.

“What kind of Slytherin moves are these?”

“Oh, well,” he snorted. “I have a story about me and Slytherin… I’ll tell you someday. So, have you chosen where?”

Draco looked at the map again, running his fingertips along the lines dividing the borders, and exhaled, trying to tame the aching feeling in his chest, previously thought to be drained and empty.

“Potter,” he called quietly. “Do you even realise how deranged this is? Only yesterday you didn’t even look at me, and today you gave me your bed, cooked me breakfast, stood against the ministry on my behalf, and now you’re suggesting me to run away Merlin knows where for two months. I don’t… Are you absolutely certain our universes were identical?”

“Yes,” his tone was full of conviction, and Draco felt confident enough to lift his head to loom at him. “I have the memories of him… this version of me. Those three weeks you spent rebrewing the poison—they were different in my world. So if there had been any other differences, I would have remembered. Everything’s the same, even…”

He got silent, the corners of his lips pulling down, and his eyes dimmed, losing all liveness—the weight and hurt reflected on his face. He looked like he did last night, when he talked about Draco’s funeral with him.

“Even they place we’ve met at,” he resumed, the volume of his voice lowering. “The staircase. We saw each other, I looked at you, and you asked “What?” and I… fuck, I said “Nothing,” and I left. You died that evening.”

He met his eyes and Draco’s breath almost hitched as he peered into the darkness of his pupils. The drowning regret, the unbearable pain of loss.

“I don’t understand,” Draco muttered. “What changed? How “Nothing,” changed into… this?”

“Your letters.”

He winced, unable to stand it. Merlin knows, he tried not to think about how much Harry knows now. He felt himself wholly stripped of shields, exposed, whenever they spiralled into that topic. Even so…

“Eight melodramatic letters,” he said bitterly. “Some eight melodramatic letters, and you deemed it your life mission to save my life?”

“Those weren’t just some letters, Draco,” he said, allowing no doubt. “It’s you. The real you.”

“You don’t know me,” he snorted, turning away; he couldn’t take the stunningly deep gaze Harry looked at him with anymore. “You don’t know the kind of person I am.”

“So let me.”

Draco said nothing as he looked at Harry. He didn’t know how to respond to that. Harry continued belatedly, his gaze directed somewhere above Draco’s shoulder as he was lost in thought:

“It wasn’t just the letters. Like Hermione said—the Hermione from my previous reality—it was always you and I. Always,” he made a deep breath, fixing his stubborn eyes on Draco. “I know I can’t ask you to change your mind. But I can ask you to give it more time. Two months away from England. Give it to me.”

Draco bowed his head and took his wand that still lay on the table—just to keep his restless fingers occupied. Rolling it side to side, he attempted to process what he had just heard. It was not successful.

It was always you and I.

He hummed when he thought of how fucking accurate that was.

“So, you want to go together?” He clarified, the tip of his nail scratching the roundly shaped handle of his wand.

“Only if you don’t mind,” his said with a shade of embarrassment, and Draco glanced at him under his bangs, finding it amusing. “You can go by yourself, of course.”

“You sure we won’t drive each other up the wall in the first week?”

Harry laughed.

“At least it’ll be fun,” his face grew serious again and he caught Draco’s eyes, capturing his attention to himself. “So, what?”

Draco took a long breath, turned the wand in his fingers over. He opened his mouth and…

Like a cold wave it crashed down his body; he gasped—those were alarming charms. There was sound of the door opening and he heard the hasty steps in the hall. Draco flinched, the grip on his wand stopped being relaxed.

“Fuck,” Harry swore. “Ron and Hermione were looking for me.”

“You didn’t tell them where you went?”

“I was in a hurry, you know,” he grumbled as he rose from his seat.

He made only a couple of steps to the door until it opened, revealing Granger—breathless, her hair was even more of a mess than usually.

“Harry!” She cried out, outraged. “We woke up this morning and you were gone, so…”

Granger’s voice halted, when she turned her head and finally noticed Draco, who was still perched on a chair, tense. Her lips slightly parted and her eyebrows rose up.

“What’s going on?” She asked, her voice stiff, and her eyes focused on Draco.

He hardly held back a derisive laugh. It was bizarre how her hand didn’t reach out for her wand, despite the sheer distrust in her brown eyes. Harry opened his mouth to reply, but it was interrupted by the sequence of heavy and raucous steps. Draco couldn’t suppress it; he rolled his eyes. Of course, it wasn’t a trio without the Weasel.

“What the hell, Harry?” Weasley exclaimed as he walked past Hermione. “We were going mental here and… What is he doing here?”

Draco sighed as he saw his face—so grotesquely twisted that it was almost funny. Pushing his hand down, he stood up, and said in a cool tone:

“I was just leaving. Excuse me.”

“Sit. Down.”

Harry’s voice was drenched in an imperious sharpness, and Draco froze on the spot, having made exactly zero movement. Shocked, he stared at Harry, who instantly softened and added:

“Please. I’ll be back soon.”

Knocked off his feet, he slowly descended back onto his chair. He suddenly understood how exactly Harry was speaking with the minister and didn’t feel any envy regarding that.

“Harry,” Granger tried again, but was silenced under that determined gaze.

In a flash, Harry forcefully ushered his friends into the hall, leaving the kitchen in the ringing silence. The sounds of steps receded as they ascended upstairs, fading in the buzzing of voices. He spent some time weakly resisting himself, but soon enough he threw off his own attempts, and followed them to the first floor. Almost immediately he’d made out Weasley’s deep timbre, and, following it, reached the tightly closed doors of the dining room that only partially revealed the content of the conversation. He couldn’t hear much, but it was enough to decipher some words, so Draco leaned his ear against the door.

“Listen, I’m sorry I disappeared so suddenly, but I needed to talk with Draco as soon as possible…”

“Draco? Since when has he become Draco?!”

“Ron,” Harry’s voice sounded strained now. “Stop. I’ll explain later.”

“Harry,” unlike Weasley Granger sounded mild and worried. “Do you not see how strange this is?”

“I do, but…”

“I think not!” Weasley protested. “Hermione, can we check him for dark curses or potions? Quick diagnostic or something?”

“I don’t think it’s necessary…”

“Ron, enough.”

“Enough?! You’re sitting with a Death Eater in your house…”

He heard sounds of screeching floorboards and one of a… Not a blow, but a push. Then Weasley’s high-pitched, almost comical yelp. Draco’s lip twitched, unable not to find the pleasure in amusement from this ridiculous moment. Only a second later his eyes widened as heard Harry’s outraged voice through the clenched teeth:

“Don’t you dare to call him that. Don’t you ever fucking do that.”

“Harry,” Granger gasped.

Deciding that was enough for him, Draco backed away. He understood, abruptly, that Harry was balancing between two extremes. Buried in his own problems, he hadn’t noticed how hard it was for him to keep the fragile peace that he reflected. He did have to go through a lot, to come face to face with the decision that most would have deemed unadulterated madness.

Halting on the way down to the kitchen, Draco felt a thick ball of shame, curling in his chest. All these years he desired for Harry to be in safety and peace. How come he never even thought of giving this impossible man a minute to breathe?

The conversation didn’t take long and Draco, who was sitting in the kitchen deep his in thoughts, heard the sounds of hurried steps and the slamming of the door. Weasley, naturally, and Granger, who was walking side to side with Harry, only slower. Stopping, they whispered something among themselves, and the door closed again, much quieter this time. The sound that followed next was an unfamiliar to Draco voice that, shrieking, ranted, until Harry put an end to it with a barked command, like “Shut it,” or something similar.

“I assume it’s gone badly?”

“The old hag has woken up,” he winced; as though a proof of his words a distant mumbling that was not Kreacher’s echoed from the upstairs.

“Have they tested you for Amortentia?” He couldn’t hold back to ask spitefully.

“Eavesdropped much?”

“Don’t blame me,” he shrugged. “Where a Slytherin is involved silencing charms should be in place.”

“Yeah,” Harry smiled tiredly, rubbing his forehead. “We agreed that tests are a bit much. I haven’t told them everything, it’s not the time. Too much to say.”

“And you won’t,” Draco said sternly.

Harry gaped at him:

“What?”

Draco breathed out, clenching his fists.

“I don’t care if you tell them about our little trip, but do not even think of telling them about the letters. Not a single word, Potter.”

“I wasn’t going to.” Harry said slowly. “Not my secrets to tell.”

Draco nodded, feeling as his throat tightened. He desperately wanted to forget about the letters forever. Perhaps he was the one who needed to be obliviated. He knew he couldn’t take it out on Harry for knowing so much, but sometimes the bitterness was too hard to handle.

“I apologise for causing a problem with your friends,” he said as he calmed down a little.

“Ah, it’s just Ron; he needs some time,” he made a dismissive gesture. “It’s gonna be okay.”

He said nothing else as he looked at nothing in particular. Draco gazed at him as he digested what he had just heard. Harry defended him against his best friend. There was so much happening that he, apparently, lost the last shred of shock.

His eyes fell to the map, unravelled before them on the table. Two months. Harry asked him for two months, it was nothing compared to a lifetime. Draco held his breath, picturing what could have been: the two of them and the rest of the fucking world. No England, no memories, no smells of blood and rot. Not a single person who’d know his face.

Draco stretched his hand and pulled the map closer with the tip of his fingers; ran a line across the seas and continents, felt a phantom scent of the salty sea breeze, the warmth of the sun on his head. When was the last time he had felt it?

He swallowed his saliva, exhaled, and said evenly:

“America.”

“What?” Harry blinked groggily, waking up from the trance.

“America,” he repeated quietly. “I wanna go to America.”

“America then,” Harry said. “I’ve always been curious about professional quodpot.”

“That terrible imitation of a game?” Draco sneered. “Exploding balls, who would’ve thought…”

Harry only made a rude gesture and burst into laughter, filling the kitchen with a happy, bright sound.