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Chapter Text

“I cannot make you understand. I cannot make anyone understand what is happening inside me. I cannot even explain it to myself.”

―Franz Kafka, The Metamorphosis

A pins and needles sensation begins to lace up Draco’s spine when he realises he’s screaming again.

He wakes with a gasp, his throat raw, eyes flying open as his heart thunders painfully in his chest. He takes several slow, measured breaths. His ears still ring with the desperate, agonised pleas for mercy from his mother’s lips to a deaf God’s ears.

“Draco?”

He turns his head towards the soft voice and for a terrifying moment, he believes it to be his mother’s.

Standing in the connecting bathroom’s doorway is Luna. The heel of her palm is pressed against her left eye as she rubs away sleep. Her long silvery blonde hair is pulled back into two messy french braids and she’s wearing one of Millicent’s old baggy Quidditch shirts, her collarbones and left shoulder exposed around the neckline.

Draco opens his mouth to tell her to bugger off back to sleep, that he’s fine, that he doesn’t need her, but a sob escapes him instead. Luna is at his side immediately.

“Another one?” she asks, slipping beside him under the covers.

He turns to wrap his arms around her hips, his nodding head resting on her stomach. Her small body radiates an insane amount of heat that Draco clings to. She runs her fingers through his hair.

Draco wants to resent her. He wants to hate her for seeing him so fragile and sad. He’s tried multiple times to scare her away with cruel words and promises of pain, but she keeps crossing their shared bathroom to soothe his tormented sobs in the middle of the night.

And then comes the singing.

Luna’s voice is light, angelic, as she sings the lullaby Suo Gân. He’s mentioned to Luna in the past that his mother used to sing this very lullaby to him as a child, and he never had the chance to ask her how she knew it. Did his mother’s governess sing it to her growing up? Was it just a song she came across, loved, and learned how to sing? She never indicated that she knew how to speak Welsh and it breaks his heart that he’ll never know the story behind her love for this song. He turns his face into Luna’s stomach and bites back another sob. He lets the soft Welsh words wash over him like a smooth wave despite his still waters running deep.

Draco wakes again much later to the sun peering into his bedroom. Luna’s peppermint and honey scent still lingers on the sheets, along with her warmth, showing that she hasn’t been gone long. He feels better than he has in several days and only slightly embarrassed for having once again been soothed like a child by Luna. For the longest time, she was the only one to ever see him so raw, all his nerve-endings sparking and exposed. She’s a constant source of love and strength that Draco eagerly consumes in the dead of night, and Luna willingly and happily gives it all to him. They never discuss the nightmares or her role in chasing them away during the daytime, but Draco knows that it’s okay when their silvery gazes meet and Luna shoots him a soft, serene smile.

He finally drags himself out of bed to prepare for work.

This house is a refuge for wayward souls, Draco thinks as he takes the narrow back staircase that leads to the kitchen. The old Parkinson house in Greenwich is an abandoned and debilitated monstrosity of a structure with its peeling wallpaper, drafty rooms, and old Victorian furniture. Draco, Luna, and Millicent share the naked-walled attic, a bathroom connecting their tiny rooms.

Pansy barely survived during the war after a Defodio to the chest. She promised herself afterwards that she’d strive to be a better person. To her that meant leaving her parents, her inheritance, and everything she knew to be comfortable behind. According to her parents, she ran away to live a perverted, hedonistic life with Daphne Greengrass; Draco thought that wasn’t too far from the truth. After settling in the house, she opened her doors to Millicent and Luna, Padma and Susan, Tracey and Romilda, and finally Draco, the only male in a house full of bizarre, albeit strong women. All of them are trying to navigate the harsh, painful realities of survivor’s guilt and the existential dread borne by that survival.

Draco tries to be polite to each and every one of them. But, he is almost always cold and unmoving, as a means to survive in a house overflowing with emotion. It doesn’t bother him often when he’s cold even to the most endearing, well-meaning individuals in this house.

Something he has no word for has been struck from him since his mother’s passing. When he’s not curled around Luna at night, he finds that the bitter taste for revenge is constant on his tongue, in his words, in the way that he now carries himself. There’s a kind of violent, malicious anger that is now a part of him. He keeps it tightly sealed behind occluded walls to prevent lashing out and accidentally killing someone.

People have an idea of the kind of person they think he is now, post-war, and it’s not this tightly-wound man on the precipice of physical violence. No. He’s Reformed. A grieving heir and the last-standing member of the Malfoy family. A passionate Healer turned researcher for the Ministry. A friend. A brooding, Byronic Lover.

But Draco Malfoy is none of these things. He's still learning who he is.

Padma Patil is sitting at the large, round kitchen table, her waist-length hair braided, coiled, and pinned at the back of her head. Draco only pauses briefly at the foot of the low-ceiling staircase as their eyes meet. Padma takes a small sip from her steaming cup of English Breakfast. Draco glances down and finds that she has, like she has done nearly every day for the last six months, prepared him a cup of tea. He walks over to the table and eases gracefully onto the chair beside her. Padma slides the cup over to him and with a jerky nod, he picks it up and quietly sips.

The silence that stretches between them is comfortable, and they enjoy it before the morning rush. Draco considers Padma a rather close friend, at least as close as Draco can be to another person. For almost two years, they’ve worked together as fellowship researchers for the Love Chamber at the Department of Mysteries, and she too has a background in Magical and Muggle healing, both earning M.D.s from Muggle universities. When at home, they’ll sometimes exchange books with one another, or discuss work, such as Muggle medicinal, synthetic organic, and pharmaceutical chemistry in relation to various healing potions and ointments, or simply sit quietly next to each other, sipping piping hot cups of tea.

Thudding footsteps on the same staircase Draco came down interrupts their quiet. A giggling Pansy ducks from under the low entryway, Daphne close behind, nearly on top of her, arms trying and failing to wrap around Pansy’s waist.

“Morning, animals,” Pansy drawls, stumbling towards the cooling cabinet.

Daphne shoots them a lazy grin.

“You are both up early,” Padma notes before pursing her lips.

“We never went to bed,” Daphne snickers, narrowly missing Pansy’s jerking elbow. “What? It’s not like it’s a secret.” The blonde nuzzles her face in the space where Pansy’s neck and shoulder meet.

“I am glad you mentioned that. You are definitely not trying to hide whatever it is you two have going on, seeing as I could hear you both. All night. A Silencing Charm on your end would be much appreciated,” Padma says in her firm yet monotone voice, but her eyes cut into a glacial glare, surely strong enough to cause frostbite.

The corner of Draco’s mouth twitches upward. Daphne flushes and Pansy spins around, an alarmed look on her face. Despite her tiny stature, Padma can be rather intimidating.

“Sorry, Paddy, we won’t forget next time,” Pansy says gravely before turning back to the cool cabinet. “Merlin, where’s all the bloody bacon?”

“I believe Tracey finished the last of it yesterday,” responds Daphne. “We can do eggs, my love. Or, you know, go back to bed.”

“I’m simply ravenous! I can’t think about going back to bed, no matter how much I love eating your—”

“My fellow sisters!” shouts a fresh-faced Romilda. “And Malfoy,” she adds, her dark eyes settling on him briefly before sliding over to the entwined Pansy and Daphne. “Good morning, good morning! What’s for breakfast, Pans? I’m starving.”

“I guess eggs…”

“Great! I’ll start the toast,” responds Romilda.

“Oh, wow, a party,” Luna says from the doorway before shooting Draco her serene smile.

Millicent comes in after her, taking a seat at the round table. Luna heads towards one of the cabinets, pulling out a box of Muggle cereal, some bowls, spoons, and milk to set in the middle of the table. Millicent makes a kissing sound towards Luna before pulling a bowl forward.

“Does anyone have a tampon?” asks Tracey in frustration, sliding on socked feet into the kitchen. She checks her wristwatch. “Anyone? Please, hurry? I’m late for my shift and you all know how fucking obnoxious the Goblins are in the morning.”

“Only in the morning?” Millicent snorts, spooning up her Frosties.

“You got me there, MiMi, it’s all fucking day, every fucking day. Hello! Yes, tampons?”

Padma sighs, pulling out her wand. “I have a box I can spare.”

“Oh, Jesus, you’re a God-send, Padma. You...wouldn’t happen to have Supers, would you?”

Padma nods, Summoning the box to the kitchen.

“Newsflash, ladies—” starts Pansy, ducking as the box of Super-sized tampons fly overhead. “I’m glad you’re all adopting Muggle products for your flow, but tampons and sanitary napkins are absolute shite compared to my menstrual cup,” Pansy twirls a spatula in her hand.

There are several groans of, “c’mon,” and “not this again.”

“It’s way too hard to insert,” Millicent mumbles.

“That’s what she said,” Pansy says with a wink as a frying pan flies from the drying rack to the stovetop, a carton of eggs popping into existence on the counter.

“Even worse to remove—I have to squat to get the bloody thing out,” Daphne says, pulling out several jars of jam from the pantry. “Pun intended.”

“Draco recommended the cup as a healthier option yonks ago and I haven’t bothered to look back since,” Pansy says with a wave of her hand.

The kitchen goes quiet for a few seconds before Romilda places a hand on Draco’s shoulder.

“Would you like some cereal, or some eggs and toast, love?”

“Yeah, Draco, eat something. Christ, you get skinnier every day,” Tracey calls over her shoulder as she exits the kitchen with the box of tampons.

“I believe we have some pears, if you fancy that instead,” Daphne offers.

When Draco closed up the Manor six months ago, he was sure moving in with Pansy and her mix-matched set of girlfriends would be disastrous.

In the face of his cold, calculated indifference, they’ve been warm and supportive towards him. All they want to do is take care of him and Draco doesn’t know why. A few choice suggestions concerning their menses? That hardly deserves their kindness.

They remind him of Potter in a way. Speaking of Potter...

Draco can feel a twitch in his jaw as he pulls out his pocket watch and stands.

“Thank you,” he starts gravely. “But I must be going.”

Immediately, his housemates freeze in their actions and from his vantage can see all the varying looks of concern and pity on their faces. He purses his lips. He’s at least a head taller than his tallest housemate, Susan, and she has a few inches on everyone else. This has prompted Pansy, in the past, to inappropriately nickname him Snow White and their housemates (excluding herself) his seven dwarfs.

“We have almost forty-five minutes before our shift in the lab,” Padma says as Romilda places a plate of buttery toast in front of her.

“You’re right,” he responds, bowing slightly in her direction. “I’ve some material to look over before my day truly begins. I’ll see you in the labs, and the rest of you— good day.” He sweeps out of the kitchen towards the Floo, dodging a wild-haired, pyjama-clad Susan in the hallway.

“Wotcha, Malfoy! I’m on my way to the kitchen, are ya itchin’ for a cuppa?” she asks loudly and jovially.

Draco has found that she’s the type of person who is incapable of using an indoor voice. All he does is shake his head and keeps on down the hallway towards the parlour Floo. He can hear Susan say behind him once she reaches the kitchen, “Merlin’s balls, it’s a full house in here!” And, then quieter by her standards, “Is he all right?”

---------

Draco checks his pocket watch once again.

Potter is late.

He’s standing near the currently closed Ministry Munchies stand next to the Fountain of Magical Brethren in the Atrium. Draco’s been waiting for twenty minutes.

He waits ten more minutes, until the cafe stand opens, purchases tea with a cheese danish and heads to the lifts for Level 9. He’s in a foul mood now. Potter knows Draco’s been running himself ragged trying to end this project. Potter knows what awaits the both of them in doing so. Annoyed, Draco wonders if Potter’s tardiness has anything to do with what transpired last evening, if perhaps Draco read the entire encounter wrong. He cringes at the thought, but pulls out his wand and shoots out an urgent, tersely-worded memo to Potter’s cubicle.

When he finally kicks his office door open, he notices that Granger has placed a folder containing her notations on the latest implications of Draco’s project. And on top of that, Draco’s memo to Potter, sent back unanswered. He stares at it for a long moment before tossing it into the rubbish bin. Perhaps Potter’s silence is all the answer he needs—maybe he decided to go complain to Granger.

Draco spends a few minutes flipping through Granger’s crammed notes, all of which expanded upon his recent findings on the Amortentia project. As hypothesised, Draco had been able to add the aromatic hydrocarbon functional group (originally named due to their sweet and pleasant aroma—which amused Draco to no end) that had been uniquely identified from the Amortentia fractional distillation. The catalyst wash he’d been developing secured this functional group to the lorazepam base, creating a new class of benzodiazepine. In his experimental modelling, this novel anxiolytic would bind irreversibly to GABAa receptors throughout the cortex and limbic system. The aromatic hydrocarbon's irreversible bond would still allow for the brain to mitigate normal stress and fear responses that are appropriate, but guard against irrational or pathological variants of anxiety, or at least he hoped.

Draco squints to read Granger’s excessive notes at the bottom of his implications, only making out— “how can we dose this??? How can we best give or deliver this medication where it's needed?”

He huffs and tosses the folder back onto his desk. He’s had enough bullshit from two-thirds of the Golden Trio already this morning.

He finishes his danish and tea in record time and slips on his starchy white lab coat before taking a short stroll down the office corridors of Level 9.

Eight years ago, fresh from the War and all its chaos, Draco had spent an entire year reading every single book he could find on Muggle science such as biology, chemistry, physics, all their mathematics and computer science. He'd absorbed everything like a sponge. He'd begged McGonagall and his Probation Officer to help him gather proper documentation and recommendation letters, and before he knew it, he was taking practice tests for A-Levels before passing them with flying colours. This allowed him to apply to Oxford’s undergraduate program with a focus in Biomedical Sciences. After that, he took the MCAT, desperate to leave the U.K., and applied to Harvard’s Medical School, taking an international portkey to Boston with just a rucksack of clothes and books in his possession. While fast-tracking his M.D., Draco gained a lot of attention from his colleagues at Mass General. During his clinical rotations, due to his vast pharmacological knowledge, he was often first to make treatment recommendations and answer questions on the pharmacokinetics or dynamics of a given regimen, proving himself an impressive student to many clinicians and professors alike. Draco was involved in a number of research projects with several of these same professors, invited to work within their clinical research units, particularly in the divisions related to neurological impairment and neuron pathology. After his graduation and with several letters of recommendation in his back pocket, Draco returned to England to find the intersection between his Muggle training in medicine and the Wizarding parallel, Healing.

While presenting at a conference for Healers Medical Association, he met Gedeon Wallace, the Head of the Department of Mysteries. Wallace had been intrigued by Draco’s research background, numerous co-authorships in large clinical trials, as well as his recent publications on the possible healing properties of Amortentia. It also didn’t hurt that Wallace was childhood best mates with Draco’s Attending Physician at Mass Gen, a Muggleborn witch named Shoshanna Abrahms. In light of this, Wallace invited Draco to further his investigations into the neurochemistry and applications of Amortentia as an Unspeakable in the Love Chamber. Draco was provided a large 4-year grant, a lab, a team of his own, and a senior research partner to supervise his work, Hermione Granger, the youngest Deputy ever for the DoM. He is now in his second year under Granger’s tutelage. She’s led teams and conducted research in all of the Mysteries’ rooms already.

Draco considers her quite the mad scientist. And she would say the same of him.

As he approaches the door to the Love Chamber, he can feel a muggy humidity wafting from the door. After eighteen months of working in this Chamber, he’s still not used to the hot, heady scent from the massive gold fountain of Amortentia situated in the middle of the room. Draco places his hand on a small plaque beside the massive door. An icy blue light illuminates the outline of his hand and there’s a whirring sound followed by shifting locks and a soft, vibrating hum before the light turns a shimmering purple. A needle pricks the centre of Draco’s palm.

Initially, when he'd been introduced to the security measures for the DoM, he'd been apprehensive. Each tiny prick of the palm was a sterilised needle that would take a drop of blood and analyse it to ensure that the visitor was channeled to the wards via Blood Magic. It was ridiculously Dark, but Granger had informed him gravely then that here within the walls of the Department of Mysteries they only exist, work, and create within the grey. The revelation at the time felt freeing, and had both thrilled and frightened Draco at the same time. He'd immediately assessed the boundaries set forth by the Department, the limitations of his own magic, and the number of ways he could bend the rules to create the perfect universal healing remedy for mental anguish in a petri dish—a Muggle-Magical hybrid with Amortentia at its core. A panacea of sorts. Draco likes to think, whimsically, that it would be like having one’s body fall in love with itself to the point of healing.

A series of beeps occurs and the heavy concrete door of the Love Chamber slides open.

The fountain overwhelms the room and immediately all of Draco’s senses are heightened as he breathes in scents he finds attractive: old textbooks, his mother’s perfume, and something sweet and syrupy.

Draco’s stomach plummets like always when he recognises the smell. He pushes the thought to the back of his mind and makes his way to the laboratory, just beyond the fountain. As he swings open the glass door, his team member Justin Finch-Fletchley comes rushing up to him.

The man is in disarray, his cheeks ruddy and brown hair flopping into his face. There are noticeable dark smudges under his eyes from lack of sleep. His bow-tie is crooked and there’s a curious yellow stain down the front of his white lab coat. Draco sneers. He hopes whatever that is hasn’t contaminated anything in his very pristine, very sterile lab.

“Jolly good of you to finally arrive at the lab, Malfoy,” Finch-Fletchley starts, his irritation making his plummy accent sharper. He runs a hand through his hair, pushing the floppy strands back. “Not to have you fly off into a bate, but Goldstein, the total ass, ruined the Amortentia samples we were cultivating with the new compounds. Ruined, absolutely ruined! It’s bad luck and we’ll have to start from scratch—”

Draco sighs and lifts a hand to stop Finch-Fletchley’s tirade. “We will not be doing anything, you and Goldstein will be redoing the samples, but this time preserve it in suspension.”

Finch-Fletchley blinks. “Oh. Well, that changes a few things,” he says as he rubs his large, pointy chin. “We can use a Stasis Charm before dissolution occurs in an aqueous suspension.”

The right corner of Draco’s mouth ticks upwards slightly, the closest thing to a sign of approval from him in the labs. “Exactly. Seal the samples in suspension using a glass bottle so they only start reacting again with their surroundings when the bottle is opened. Eventually...we will be able to dose sublingually and avoid first pass metabolism to similarly preserve potency.”

Finch-Flectchley starts and raises an eyebrow, his mouth taking on an ‘o’ shape. “That’s a brilliant idea. Yes, yes, you’re absolutely right. Goldstein and I will try this on a few samples and have a report for you at the end of the day. Anything else?”

“I need to schedule a meeting with Unspeakable Wallace. See if we can get a hold of his receptionist.”

The other man looks incredulous. “Well, I can certainly see if our receptionist can reach Wallace’s.”

“You do that,” Draco says coldly, his eyes narrowing as their earlier air of camaraderie evaporates.

Finch-Fletchely realises he’s struck a nerve and turns on his heel to scurry away.

Padma is already at her station, typing on her computer before taking a look at her own samples under their newest electron microscope. Goldstein is now exiting from the small breakroom in the very back of the laboratory. He pauses under the air-sterilising vent right off the room before coming back into the laboratory and shoots Draco a nervous smile. Instead of coming towards him for a proper greeting, he veers off and tucks himself away into the far corner of the lab. Draco rolls his eyes. His newest lab assistant, Astoria Greengrass, is perched at her station reading. Draco doesn’t approach her. She’s studious and extremely determined to pull her weight in the lab, so he leaves her to it and only checks in for reviews at the end of the day.

Since he has time, Draco decides to head towards his own workstation to flip through the warded files from Unspeakable Wallace. It’s a project that was initially born from his research into Amortentia, and though the Unspeakables are eager to patent any healing serums Draco may create during his four-year fellowship, this project is top secret, and a top priority. Draco was eager to review the files from Gedeon after their disagreement. He wasn’t ready to jeopardise the progress he’s made during this fellowship, but he also wasn’t interested in some of the suggestions from his Department Head.

He’s standing before his computer, ready to turn it on when Jazmine, his receptionist, runs into the lab. She’s breathing heavily and her hands are shaking.

Padma is first to stand from her stool. “Jazmine, what is wrong?”

“The most awful news!” the young girl cries pitifully. “I just found out from the receptionist at the Minister's office...Harry Potter is dead!”

“What?” Goldstein shrieks. “That’s not fucking possible, you crazy bint—”

“It is!” she sobs. “I saw the Minister himself break down at the news! The whole Wizarding World is finding out as we speak...they’re going to sound an emergency alarm to ensure there isn’t chaos when the news spreads throughout the Ministry. We’re to be evacuated to minimise any potential rioting and damage to the building. We should start packing up—”

“No, no…” Padma says, shaking her head. “It is not logical. This is Harry. Harry Potter. He—he can not be dead.” Her voice shakes.

Always monotoned, upon hearing Padma’s trembling voice Draco immediately slams strong, sturdy walls around the devastating feelings of loss, anger, and painful regret that are threatening to bubble to the surface. The wall is high, the space suffocating, and he stamps out his pain before it can overcome him. But.

Harry Potter, dead? It doesn’t seem possible. It can’t be.

Suddenly, the alarm that Jazmine mentioned goes into effect. It is a low, ominous, dreadful sound, and everyone in the room becomes rigid, fear and tension thick in the air.

“Right,” Draco forces out through clenched teeth. “Everyone evacuate the lab. Please follow the protocol C-3729A when exiting. Keep your wands close and whatever you do, please remain calm during evacuation.” With that, Draco strides towards the lab’s doors.

“Where the bloody fuck are you going?” Jazmine cries out hysterically. “We have to shut everything down with your permission and leave together!”

Her words fall on deaf ears. How? How did this bloody happen? Draco’s mind roars.

Anger begins to grow in the pit of his stomach as realisation slowly dawns on him.

He knows there’s at least one person who has that answer.

----------

Draco throws the door open and isn’t surprised to see the focus of his ire slumped on the floor.

Hermione Granger is heaving great, agonising sobs as her arms cradle her protruding pregnant belly. Some of her coarse curly hair has escaped its bun and is now sticking to her sweaty, tear-stained face. A box containing what looks like the contents of her desk spill out beside her, having probably dropped it during her onslaught of grief. When she looks up at Draco, her cries grow even more frantic as she stretches out a trembling hand towards him.

He doesn’t move to console her. He can barely contain the rage and grief swirling inside him, darkness and magic threatening to pour off him in writhing tendrils to fill the air.

“What have you done?” he hisses, but his words are sucked into the vortex of Granger’s cries.

Her hand drops back down to her belly and she begins to rock back and forth, her head tilting back, throat exposed as she screams Potter’s name.

“O-oh...oh God...oh God, Harry. N-n-no...n-no…I-I-I’m sorry, I’m sorry...I’m s-s-so sorry!” she wails.

Draco tries to quell the spasms in his hands as panic once again slips past his walls and grips him. Granger’s cries cause his mind to fog over with thoughts of his mother’s final words. Caught on a sob, her face suddenly crumples, as if in pain, and Draco can see that she’s now holding her breath.

The brain-fog dissipates as he pushes the memory down to the recesses of his mind. Draco finally steps into the room and gets on his haunches before her. He places a hand on her shoulder and she flinches.

“Breathe, goddamn it.”

She begins to tremble, shaking her head.

“I said BREATHE! Do you want to send yourself into early labour, Granger?” His voice is cold, detached, but it’s enough for his research partner to release a staggering breath before small whimpering cries chase after it.

“Harry…” she cries, repeating his name over and over, squeezing her eyes shut.

Draco’s hand on her shoulder tightens and she winces with a pained moan. “Tell me how it happened. Now.”

Granger suddenly stops crying, her large, bloodshot smokey brown eyes are now wide open and fearful as she stares over his shoulder.

The office door clicks shut.

“Healer Malfoy,” comes a low, slow drawl. “A word, please?”

Draco turns around.

-------

When he comes to, he's standing in the middle of the Atrium, his arms extended out in front of him as his entire body vibrates as if he’s been dunked and pulled out of freezing water. He takes several gasping breaths as his eyes frantically scan the chaos around him.

An emergency alarm is going off. People are screaming as they rush towards the Floo, desperate to leave, talks of vigils happening right now. Others are clustered in small groups, sobbing hysterically. A small army of Aurors are standing near the Floos, wands out, demanding decorum, shouting out orders and directions to subordinates and Ministry workers. There’s an old man standing on an overturned milk crate, his wand pointed at his throat as he belts out Amazing Grace.

Draco doesn’t know what the fuck is happening, or how he arrived to the Atrium in the first place. He closes his eyes and wills the trembles away, his hands curling into fists as he lowers his arms to his side. He sorts through his memories, usually so painfully organised. During their Occlumency and Legilimency teaching sessions, Aunt Bellatrix used to praise him in between bouts of Cruciatus for his mental tidiness.

His memories are a mess. White spots scatter over his recollection of the last twenty-four hours. He tries to sort through his memories further back and he can tell something is amiss, but he doesn’t know what exactly. He remembers tea with Padma, the ladies in the kitchen, flying tampons, more tea, heading to the office, Justin complaining about bloody Goldstein, and here...

His eyes fly open when he hears it.

“Dead! Harry Potter is dead!” someone screams from the far corner of the Atrium.

Draco is struck with such an intense headache, it steals his breath and he tries to suck in air through clenched teeth as he steps towards the Floo. His knees buckle instead and with a pained whimper escaping him, he crashes to the ground. On all fours, a wretched sob rips from him as a flood of grief washes over him, gutting him. He’s felt this way before, during the war when panic attacks were a constant reality for him. He feels like he’s dying. A small rational part of himself assesses his symptoms and he knows his panic attack is about to give way to a dissociative state.

Draco can hear his mother crying, begging for his life, begging that they kill her and not him.

“N-n-no...n-no…I-I-I’m sorry, I’m sorry...I’m s-s-so sorry!” his mother screams. “DRACO!”

Then there’s a bang. So loud his ears ring. And pain. Blinding pain.

Why can’t he pull up a wall around these memories? This isn’t supposed to be happening, he thinks frantically. He sobs again, a squeezing pressure building in the centre of his chest.

A pair of hands hook around his left bicep and tugs, hard.

“Draco, please, get up! You will be crushed in the crowd!”

Draco blinks, his vision bleary as he slowly pulls back onto his knees. He stares directly into the almond-shaped brown eyes of Padma.

When he doesn’t move, Padma grips his chin and pulls out her wand to aim a light into and across both of his eyes. Draco registers her concern before his eyes roll to the back of his head and he nearly passes out. He can hear when she casts a Lightening Charm on him, wrapping her arm around his waist and hauling him up. She barely reaches his shoulder as she stands a solid five feet in comparison to his six-foot-one frame. Draco can feel as she drapes his arm across her shoulders and leads them towards the Floo.

He can hardly feel when they spin away, shooting out of the Floo and into the Parkinson Parlour. Draco lands on his back and Padma beside him on all fours.

There are shouts of panic.

“Oh Merlin, what happened?”

“Draco, are you okay?”

“Is he dying?”

“He will be okay. Romilda, hand me those pillows over there. Pansy, Summon the thickest blanket you have. Daphne, please...just sit the bloody hell down and stop crying.”

Draco can feel his legs lift, several pillows shoving underneath them. His shoes are removed and the buttons to his lab coat and shirt are quickly undone. A heavy blanket is placed over him. He stops shuddering, surprised that he hadn’t noticed before the violent shaking or the chattering of his teeth.

“You are going to be fine, Draco. You are safe. You are at home, surrounded by your friends. You are safe. We are going to take care of you, do you understand?” Padma says in a low, reassuring voice.

She flicks her wand and her gentle, warm magic settles over him, easing into his pores, his bloodstream, soothing him.

A light is once again flashing in and across both of his eyes. “Pupils are finally responding.”

She cancels the Lightening Charm and casts a Diagnostic Charm. A gold circular orb growing to the size of a Quaffle hangs above his chest. There are runes, an ECG reading, blood pressure reading, organ function results, and small graphs flowing within the orb.

“Heart rate and blood pressure are normalising.” She suddenly grows quiet, her expression turning dark as she pulls the runes reading centre. She flicks her wand in a complicated pattern and the orb rotates three times before flashing a deep red colour. “Draco, do you know if you have been Cursed? There is this strange, residual Dark magic attached to your signature that I am unfamiliar with. If you see here, the Curse did not take completely.” Padma points to the hairline fractures within multiple areas of the red tendrils.

Draco tries to focus on the diagram. What looks like a fist wrapped in muscle is steadily pulsating. Draco knows that this is his magical signature, an icy blue outline shaped as his own physical heart. There are angry, pulsating, deep red tendrils currently wrapped around it.

A fractured Dark curse.

“N-no,” Draco stutters, dropping his gaze. He’s physically spent. He can barely move.

“Merlin, Padma, did you just save Draco’s bloody life?” Daphne asks tearfully, but her astonishment is clear.

“Hardly,” Padma says absently. “Where is everyone?” she asks, her gaze still focused on the diagnostic orb.

“It’s just me, Pans and Romy here. Everyone else went to the Weasleys’. We’re all gonna meet up in Diagon Alley later for the vigil.”

“Okay,” Padma responds. Draco watches as she tilts her head to the side before staring down at him. “This is very curious. I will record the analysis for further review later, with your consent?” she asks.

Draco nods.

She cancels the orb. “Good. You gave me such a fright in the Atrium. I can only imagine what you must be going through right now. I suggest that you eat a bit of chocolate and rest up. If your condition worsens for some reason, then we will turn to medicinal alternatives, okay?” she says kindly, quickly pushing his fringe from his forehead. “I will stay here with you.”

“T-thank you, Paddy,” Draco whispers, closing his eyes and succumbing to his exhaustion, but not before catching the small smile that flashes across Padma’s usually impassive face.

--------

“Luna and Millicent will be staying at the Burrow tonight, so I will be in their room if you need me. Are you comfortable?” Padma asks.

She managed to get him properly dressed in pyjamas, remaining clinical and professional throughout as she helped him change and perform another Diagnostic Charm, using her wand to curiously prod at the deep red tendrils of magic surrounding his magical signature.

Padma places a cold glass of water on his nightstand and a handful of chocolate pieces on a napkin before heading to bed herself. Draco is grateful for her attentiveness and had tried to tell her so a number of times. He just couldn’t find the proper words or get his lips to form them or his vocal chords to push them out. He doesn’t deserve this kindness. Not when he can’t even say a proper thank you.

Just as Draco is dozing off, a sudden chill sweeps through his bedroom.

He buries himself further under his heavy duvet, a low moan escaping him as he turns on his side and curls up into a foetal position, trying to maintain as much heat as possible.

“Draco,” whispers a voice in his ear.

He starts and tilts his head to face the voice.

Draco’s eyes meet vibrant green.

Harry Potter is on his haunches beside Draco’s bed.

Draco screams.

Chapter Text

“He who fights with monsters might take care lest he thereby become a monster. And when you gaze long into an abyss the abyss also gazes into you.”

― Friedrich Nietzsche, Jenseits von Gut und Böse (Beyond Good and Evil). 146.

Potter’s hand darts out and disappears beyond Draco’s mouth, attempting to silence him.

This does indeed quiet Draco, as his shocked gaze locks on Potter’s ghostly arm plunged into his face. Draco’s hands scramble to tug Potter away, the sensation filling his head with a slick-like and oozing cold. But his hands simply sink through Potter’s arm.

Potter’s brows furrow as he slowly pulls his hand back and stands. Draco quickly clambers away, heartbeat like the wings of a hummingbird as he sits up against his headboard.

“I didn’t mean to frighten you,” Potter says, his voice like an echo in an empty corridor. The hairs on Draco’s arms and the back of his neck stand erect at the sound of it, and he finds he can’t stand it.

“Potter...how...why are you here?”

Potter doesn’t look like a ghost, and Draco finds this the most unsettling. Potter’s not the greyish-silver colour of the ghosts Draco has encountered in his short life, instead he’s three-dimensional and familiar. Potter looks like himself: a vagabond-looking man dressed in ill-fitted Muggle jeans and a rumpled button down, shaggy hair pulled back into a messy bun, a five-o-clock shadow gracing his sharp jawline, and a slightly dangerous look about him. And like in the living, his presence seems to fill the entire room with a thrum of barely-contained excitable energy laced with just a hint of melancholy. The only difference now, is that there seems to be a hint of lingering Dark magic attached to Potter’s presence.

Draco swallows a painful lump that’s lodged itself in his throat as he stares at Potter. The fact that he’s a ghost causes a flicker of sorrow to slip through Draco’s defences like sand between his fingers. It feels wrong, knowing what type of person Potter was, how good he was, and seeing him trapped in this perpetual purgatory. He should have been able to move on, not have an imprint of himself roaming listlessly among the living, always caught on yesterday and never tomorrow.

“Draco, are you alright?”

Both Draco and Potter look over to see Padma standing in the doorway of the bathroom, wand in hand. Draco doesn’t think he’s ever seen her in anything but her posh skirt suits, pristine lab coat, or colourful Kantha printed sleep robe. Her simple flannel pyjamas and long single braid draped over her shoulder makes her look so much younger than she actually is. Even in the pale moonlight, Draco can discern the exhausted, though concerned expression on her face.

“You...you don’t see him?” Draco pants, his eyes widening.

Padma takes a cautious step forward, wordlessly lighting the tip of her wand as her gaze roams about the room. “I do not understand.”

Draco’s short gasp appears as a puff of a cold cloud, shadowed against the backdrop of her lit wand as he squints his eyes against the invading light. He bites his lower lip briefly, a well of panic that he usually avoids drinking too deeply from beginning to overspill. He tries to assess how best to pose this bit of information without coming off completely barking. Because ghosts can be seen by magical beings, and if Padma is unable to see Potter, then something is incredibly wrong.

“I know this is going to sound quite bizarre, so please bear with me. It appears that Harry Potter is a ghost and is currently standing beside me.” Draco jerks his thumb to the side. “Again, I know I sound—”

“Draco. There is no one beside you. If Harry were a ghost, I would be able to see him too.”

Draco draws in a deep breath as he rationalises his panic away. It’s been a traumatic day. He has a lingering Dark Curse he can’t recall being struck with—and can’t bring himself to question in depth at the moment, not wanting to wallow in the fact that people will always want to hurt him, kill him, even. Potter has always been a sore topic for him, dead or alive. Draco gathers all the facts together because he knows now that if Padma can’t see Potter, the only logical explanation he can come up with for Potter’s presence is that he’s a hallucination.

A figment of Draco’s warped imagination.

His hallucination begins to speak, Its voice no longer echoing. “Tell her I’m not supposed to be dead so technically I’m not supposed to be a ghost,” It says fervently.

“How do you know?” Draco asks.

Padma cuts her gaze away from him for a moment, eyes once more searching the room before landing on the spot he indicated. “I am looking right at the spot you are indicating and there is no person or entity there.”

Harry speaks over her. “I’ve seen my afterlife, Draco, and this isn’t it. Tell Padma I’m really here! Tell her! Fucking tell her I’m here!”

Draco pulls his knees up to his chest and covers his ears, his vision becoming unfocused. “Potter is dead. He’s gone,” Draco says, mostly to himself, but hoping that if he says it aloud it will somehow get rid of the hallucinated imprint of Potter.

It doesn’t.

Draco hides his shaking hands under his thighs. “I think it’s finally happened. I’ve lost the plot.”

And certainly, who would blame him for succumbing to his mental anguish in this way? It’s not enough that he's numbed himself as much as possible towards anything even remotely emotional, or allowed his work to rule his life, or that even on his best days he wishes like a child wishing on a star in an inky black sky that he’d stayed dead right along with his mother. With the use of so much Occlumency, it was just a matter of time before the degradation of his emotional well-being impacted his mental functionalities.

“You have not,” Padma says.

“Draco, I’m not really dead...please,” It says.

Draco shudders, ignoring them both, he wraps his arms around his legs as fear slips through his occluded walls. It’s stronger than the flicker of sorrow he experienced earlier and suddenly, there’s a rising feeling of dread in his stomach. A wave-like sense of déjà vu overcomes him before a sharp pain shoots through his head, causing him to flinch and close his eyes.

Draco turns around.

Granger whimpers. “No, please…”

Draco sucks in a breath as the wand is brandished before them.

“Don’t!” he shouts.

The voice is cool, calm, and collected. “Imperio.”

He opens his eyes with a gasp, immediately realising that his left arm feels like a million tiny needles are pricking his skin as a surge of adrenaline rushes through him. Imperius! Someone cast an Imperius! On me? When? Why? His mind races. He can’t place the event, or why Granger would be crying, or whose wand was pointed at them. But his distress, his anger, his utter helplessness, is on the tip of Draco’s tongue, potent and sour.

Padma quickly makes her way towards his side of the bed. Potter, or rather, Draco reminds himself, the hallucination, moves out of her way as she approaches. “Are you experiencing pain? I would like to run another diagnostic,” she says, lifting her wand.

“No,” Draco hisses, knocking her wand hand away, adrenaline bleeding into irritation. He feels prickly and cold and overwhelmed, his carefully controlled anger ready to burst free from the darkest corner of his troubled mind.

Padma takes a step back, looking unsure. “Draco. I know you are upset—”

“By Merlin, Padma. Are you naturally this dumb or are you putting in special effort?” he snaps nastily, scowling at her.

He always does this eventually, push away well-meaning people. He’s done it especially to Pansy and Luna. Now Padma. A part of him hates himself for the cruelty that easily slips from his mouth. He rarely resorts to petty insults nowadays, finding it better to just remain indifferent and unapproachable to ward off his housemates or his colleagues’s gentle enquiries into this well-being.

Draco can feel sweat building on his forehead as a dull fog settles over his thoughts. The strange feeling is compounded with another, more insidious sensation; the feeling rooted in his chest is a kind of slow unravelling of emotions he’s kept closed off since the war and more recently, his mother’s death. Petty insults, childish, petulant fears, his tightly-wound anger, violence, hatred, all his cruel little idiosyncrasies feel as if they’re seeping out to the forefront of his mind. He feels reckless despite his efforts to maintain constant control. He feels weak.

Where Pansy would have recoiled or Luna would have soothed, Padma remains firm, almost stony, in the face of his cruelty.

“You are mistaken, Draco Malfoy, if you believe I will allow you to speak to me in such a manner. I do not care how sorry you are feeling at the moment, you will show me respect.”

Padma lifts her lit wand to his face and Draco shrinks into himself at the dark look waiting in her eyes for him.

“I am here to help you and do not care for your childish comments. If you wish for me to remain in this room with you, you will cooperate and be respectful.”

Draco doesn’t realise his jaw is clenched until he relaxes, his entire body flooding with the relief that washes over him as the irritation flees and the fog over his thoughts dissipates like a fine mist. He needs her right now and despite his tired effort to push her away, she stays. He hangs his head before shame replaces the relief. He looks away from her to stare down at his arms wrapped around his legs.

“I’m...seeing things that aren’t...there,” he admits hesitantly.

Draco can’t help it, he looks again. Potter—It—is now standing in the corner, arms wrapped around itself as It stares forlornly at Draco, head shaking from side-to-side.

“I exist. I exist,” It is mumbling quietly to itself in a small, broken voice. “I’m here. I am.”

Draco runs a shaking hand through his hair as he continues to openly gape at his hallucination. A dark fog has begun to pour out near Its feet, slowly crawling up its body as it continues to mutter to itself. Draco shakes his head, trying to rid himself of what he’s seeing in front of him, but It doesn’t disappear.

“I’m losing it, Padma.”

“You are not. Within the last twenty-four hours you have dealt with extreme emotional distress as well as a wayward Dark Curse we have yet to understand. It is completely normal for you to have this kind of reaction. I apologise. Earlier, I should have used a broader diagnostic Charm to check all of your functions when your magical signature showed signs of a fractured Curse, but you were not hallucinating then. If you will allow me a diagnostic, I would like to cast one centred on your brain.”

“Right. Okay, do it,” Draco whispers.

Padma approaches him once more, looking determined. With a flick of her wand, a small orb of light bubbles at the tip of her wand and then ebbs slowly in the air, as if caught on a wind. It stops between them above their heads and sheds a low, warm light.

She then casts the diagnostic.

Draco bites back a gasp.

“Oh. Draco...” Padma starts, her free hand flying to rest at the base of her throat.

What looks like a three-dimensional Muggle MRI is floating before them.

Several parts of Draco’s brain are lit up in a sickly yellow light within the black and white imaging. Draco may not have focused on the nuances of diagnostic radiology, but he knew a poor scan when he saw one, and Padma’s reaction was enough of a tell.

“Circumrota,” Padma says, and the image rotates, showing more eerily-lit parts of Draco’s brain. “Draco, there is evidence of significant pathology in your scans. Here, in the temporal lobe, the hippocampus and the amygdala both show signs of recent and long-term damage.” She motions at the hippocampi, the seahorse shaped structures at the ends of the temporal lobes.

“There are areas of focal necrosis, but it is nearly eclipsed by the amygdalae, which have hypertrophied in a way I have never seen before.” She pauses, tearing her eyes away from the scan to instead search his face.

“Draco, I have to ask, have you had any problems with your memory? Any changes in your mood? Anger? Fear? Difficulty with controlling your emotions? All of these would be perfectly reasonable in light of these scans and the damage they show.” Padma’s voice is gentle as she leans in to peer into his face, as if his expression would give her the answer. She’s so close Draco can feel the warmth radiating off her.

His gaze shifts just to the right of her head, wanting to avoid the look of compassion and pity that’s drawn across Padma’s usually stoic face. “No, of course not.”

The lie is smooth and rolls off his tongue easily. He can’t help it. The thought of anyone becoming close enough to notice that a part of him has been stored away with other lost, painful things—like his mother, her soft singing voice and the scent of her perfume, his love for flying, his once unrestricted hope for the future, sweet childhood memories, laughter, and romance, and everything else that once made him whole and functioning—makes him feel sick. He can’t handle such an intimate exposure.

Padma nods.

“Okay. Perhaps your lack of symptoms are related to the areas of enhancement in the grey matter. There seems to be a suggestion of new neuron formation that I honestly can not explain. There have been studies, but it is generally unheard of in Muggle medicine,” Padma says, her voice troubled, but also reluctantly intrigued.

“I’m aware of the studies,” Draco says. “I knew something was amiss.” Draco’s careful not to accidentally mention his missing time from earlier or the fragments of what can only be memories coming back to him in a painful manner.

Padma tilts her head closer to the scan as she rotates it.

“The Dark Curse could have caused the recent damage and your own magic might be causing the regeneration of neurons, but I am not quite sure what the catalyst was, or if the long-term damage is reversible. I will have to review your most recent medical records to confirm the neurogenesis and see if they missed any indication of the long-term damage, it appears to be several months in the making. Did you complete your full-body biannual check-up with the Department?”

Draco nods, considering how he came to in the Atrium before going into shock and the recent assault to his mind. A fractured Dark Curse. Missing time. Unfamiliar memories that seem to be symptomatic of the focal necrosis and hypertrophy in his brain.

Someone used this Dark Curse not just to erase his memory, but to cognitively cripple Draco. And for what? What was in Draco’s mind that needed to be destroyed, beyond a simple memory or two? What knowledge did his assailant seek to eradicate so thoroughly that they’d compromise Draco’s intellectual functions? He looks over at his hallucination.

Is this his brain's way of telling him he knows something about Potter’s death?

“Good. It will be a starting point to compare brain scans as we unravel and test some of the tendrils woven into your magical signature to determine the Curse, the rapidity of its effects, and a possible reversal. With this kind of trauma, it makes sense that you are hallucinating. The brain is a complex organ and when it sustains damage the manifestation of effects can be quite unpredictable.”

Potter makes a desperate, keening sound, the fog around him seemingly forced down the length of his body as he growls, “No. I’m not a hallucination or something brought on by bloody brain damage, Draco! I need you—”

“YOU’RE NOT HERE!” Draco shouts, startling Padma to the point that she jumps away from his bed, the MRI scan disappearing. Potter looks stricken. Draco stares at them both, and is especially horrified to have startled Padma so badly.

“I’m sorry,” he says to her, his eyes widening. Padma takes a deep breath.

“It is okay. You need to sleep, now. You will feel better in the morning once your mind and your body has time to recharge after the events of today. Harry...Harry passing away hurts us all and we will grieve his loss immensely. It is...normal...to feel like he is still here with us. You two were becoming quite close.”

“Oh, Padma,” Potter says sadly. “I am here. Why can’t you see me?”

“What?” Draco says softly. “We weren’t.”

“Draco, if you’d just listen to me...”

Draco ignores him, and wishes he could ignore the look of pity Padma once again shoots him. It would make sense that some deep, secluded part of his fracturing brain would want to push to the front of his thoughts ideas of him and Potter being friendly. It’s a desire Draco’s always buried deep, ashamed to even admit to himself.

“May I touch you?” Padma asks instead of pushing him further on the topic.

Draco nods. “Yes.”

Padma presses the back of her hand against his forehead. She frowns. “You are incredibly cold, Draco. Allow me to provide a Warming Charm.”

“Are you not cold as well? Do you...not sense a chill in the air?”

Padma shrugs. “It is a bit chilly, but you should not feel this cold to the touch.” She casts a Warming Charm, and like earlier, Padma’s magic settles over Draco’s skin as sweet as a soft brush of lips against his forehead. The small orb of light then travels back to the tip of Padma’s wand as she clears her throat.

“Where do you keep your Dreamless Sleep Potion?”

Draco huffs. “What makes you think I’d have something like that?” he asks with a dismissive shrug.

“I have never met another Healer who does not own a personal stash,” she says with a small upward twitch of her lips.

Draco cuts his gaze away from Padma again, landing on his hallucination. A night away from It is just what he needs. “Bottom drawer of the nightstand.”

Padma reaches for the last drawer, pulling it open to show three small vials of the potion, a small bar of chocolate under Stasis, and a parch-pad and quill Draco keeps there in case he wakes from a strange dream or an idea relating to work. Padma hands him a vial and Draco pops the cork and greedily tosses back the contents.

“That should do it. Is there anything else I can help you with?” Padma asks, the small twitch of her mouth turning into a small smile.

Draco can already feel the potion taking effect, his stiff muscles relaxing as he slumps against his pillows, sliding down the bed before tugging his duvet up. When he looks towards the corner of the room, his hallucination is gone. He sighs in relief.

“Padma, I really can’t begin to express my gratitude. You’ve been so amazing to me, thank you.”

Padma hesitates only a second before she reaches out, like earlier, to brush back Draco’s fringe from his forehead.

“You have been through a lot. I am happy to help you, Draco. We are all happy to help you, if you let us.”

“I don’t want to be a burden,” he whispers, surprised by his own honesty. His eyelids feel heavy.

“Never,” Padma whispers back. “Off you go. Remember, I am in the next room if you need me.”

Draco hums and nods, his eyes finally closing. A few moments later, he can hear the bathroom door click shut.

“I’m still bloody here.”

Draco’s eyes fly open and Potter’s standing in the space Padma vacated, a sour look on his face.

“Did you think that Potion or you convincing yourself I’m a bloody hallucination was going to change the very real fact that I exist? The sooner you embrace it, the better we’ll both be for it.”

“What can I possibly do for you, Potter? If you have some unfinished business to take care of that’s keeping your miserable arse from crossing over, that’s hardly my fault or responsibility,” Draco snaps, though everything around him moves slowly. His head rolls across his pillow to face away from Potter. “Go away.”

“What a coincidence that you were hit with a brain-damaging Curse the day I die. It sounds like the two situations could be related. I need you to cooperate so we can figure it out, otherwise I’m going to be stuck like this forever. And Draco,” Potter pauses, his voice catching. “I can’t stay like this. I’d rather move on than stay like this...”

Draco gives into the distress in Potter’s voice. Sitting up in bed once more, he drags his hands from under the comfort of his duvet to briefly press the heels of his palms against his eyes, trying to stave off sleep. “Fine. Do you remember anything before you died?”

Potter clears his throat, shifting from one foot to another. “I do, and it seems pretty important.”

Draco covers a yawn before waving a hand in Potter’s direction. “And? Come on now, what was it?”

“You.”

-------

Before sleep conquered him, Potter was able to tell Draco a few interesting, but deeply troubling facts.

Potter, too, sustained significant memory loss. After coming-to in Grimmauld Place rather abruptly, Potter discovered that not only was he dead, but that his body was missing. He claimed that even though he had no idea where his body was, he could feel some aspect of himself still attached to it, like a dangling tether, rooting him to the land of the living. But the tether felt taut, stretched to its limits. The last thing Potter could reasonably recall before Grimmauld was a memory of Draco, facing Potter in Draco’s bedroom, angry. When Draco asked Potter to explain what he was angry about, the man, despite his transparency, flushed. He stumbled through his explanation, claiming Draco was upset about his mother, at least a week after her death. In Draco’s drowsy potion-fueled state, he could barely grasp Potter’s ramblings on King’s Cross station, Dumbledore, and white fog. Or his claims that outside of his grief, the second most powerful feeling after learning he was a ghost was the overwhelming desire to find Draco. And it was because he was able to picture Draco’s bedroom that when he closed his eyes and imagined it, he was able to materialise into the bedroom.

When he wakes, Potter is staring out of the only window in Draco’s bedroom, arms crossed against his chest and the line of his shoulders visibly hunched forward. The same tendrils of black fog are spiralling from his feet to lap at his ankles and calves. The smoke almost looks noxious, spilling out from Potter in a slow, insidious motion. With Draco’s position on the bed, he can see the sun breaking on the horizon and how it illuminates the profile of Potter’s transparent face. He can’t help the shiver that runs up his spine at the haunted look there. He watches, breath bated, as the look shifts and something in his expression now reminds Draco of the resigned look that had flashed across his Mother’s face the moment before she died. Draco flinches, and a wild, irrationally desperate panic seizes him.

“Potter!” Draco calls out, his voice brittle from sleep. He doesn’t know what this is, but something feels as if it’s slipping away, as if something inside of Potter is slipping away. He swallows, his dry throat constricting. “Potter, Potter...Harry!”

Potter finally turns around. There’s a lack of focus, of recognition in the depths of his green eyes. His thick eyebrows furrow, his shapely lips pressing into a fitful frown as he stares at Draco. The silence that stretches between them is anxiety-inducing, and Draco pushes the duvet back and slowly sits on the edge of the bed. The chill in the room hasn’t diminished in the slightest and he shivers again.

“I’m not supposed to be here. I should be...I should be somewhere else, somewhere safe,” Potter whispers, his voice small and almost child-like, staring out the window again. “I promised myself safety. I just wanted to be safe.”

Draco gets to his feet and cautiously makes his way towards Potter, his eyes trained on the black swirl of what now feels like charged, painfully sad energy pouring from Potter.

“We’ll figure it out, Potter.”

“You don’t trust me,” Potter says petulantly.

Confused, Draco clears his throat. “I don’t...I don’t really know you.”

Potter chuckles darkly. “You know me.”

Draco opens his mouth and then closes it, not knowing what to say or what to think, especially considering that Potter may very well be right. Draco’s memory surely can’t be relied upon at the moment.

Suddenly, Potter’s face crumples, a hand flying to push up his glasses and cover his eyes as he sobs. Draco’s eyes widen and he takes several steps away from Potter, the slow sprawl of black fog now up to Potter’s elbows.

“I feel lost…” Potter sobs. “I can’t stay like this…”

The room grows markedly colder as the fog trails upward, now taking on an alarming texture and rancid smell, like rotten meat. The spread and texture grossly reminds Draco of rapidly growing fungi, latching onto the bare walls of his bedroom and blossoming outward. In his attempt to escape the growth, he trips and falls onto his bum, eyes growing wide with panic.

“Potter,” Draco says before taking a deep breath to calm himself. He tries to control his voice, make it even and strong. “You need to listen to me. You have to calm down before you hurt the both of us,” or just me, Draco thinks. “I promise you, I promise we’ll figure it out. I won’t let you stay like this. I’ll make sure you don’t.” Draco’s surprised to find that as the promise leaves his mouth, he truly means it.

Potter shakes his head, his hand dropping away from his face. Despite his transparency, last night Potter’s eyes were a vibrant green, but as he stares down at Draco, Draco notices that his eyes are now pitch black.

“Did you know?” Potter hisses through his clenched jaw, teeth bared, tone accusatory. “They took something from me,” Potter says, that eerie echo back in his voice. He shudders and continues to sob.

Draco shakes his head several times, eager to console Potter and pull him from out of...whatever this is. Potter is supposed to be brave, a tenacious Gryffindor at heart, a hero, a saviour. But this isn’t Potter, this entity breaking down in front of him. It’s something Dark, scared, and angry. This is something that might hurt Draco without thought, might kill him, even.

“I didn’t know,” Draco rushes out. “I swear, I didn’t know, Potter, but we’ll figure it out together. We’ll get back whatever...they took. That’s why you came to me, right? And you trust me, don’t you, Potter? You’ve placed some of your trust in me.”

Draco doesn’t know if Potter has heard him, he’s so focused on glaring out the window, mumbling incoherently to himself. Draco scoots back on his bum, now pressing his back against the only clear spot on the opposite wall as the room continues to fill with Potter’s black fog of misery. He starts to feel faint, as if the oxygen in the room has depleted and he’s in a vacuum, struggling to breathe, struggling to even hear. The energy Potter exudes feels like the consuming Dark energy of a Dementor, violently soul crushing. Every single miserable thought begins to bubble to the surface in Draco’s fractured mind and he whimpers. Images of his mother, blood shining bright on his hands, her beautiful blue eyes wide and unseeing. Lifeless. She was lifeless and Draco could feel his own life flowing out of him, unable to staunch the source.

Draco shakes his head, trying to rid himself of the painful thoughts, trying and failing to push the memories down. He pulls his legs to his chest and buries his face in his knees and takes several deep, measured breaths. Malfoys, Draco reminds himself, we never break.

Draco can’t break.

The fog is reaching out to him. He leans away from its beckoning coil.

“Harry!” he tries one more time, looking back up at Potter. “Harry, please. Let me help you. I want to help you and I know you can help me. I know you want to help me. We can both be safe again. If you’d just let me, Harry. I know you’re scared. I am too!” Draco shouts, the tendril wrapping itself around his neck. He’s not supposed to break. But Draco thinks of what’s waiting for him if he does.

“Mother,” Draco whispers, the utterance a shattered sound. “I'm so sorry.” He closes his eyes, giving in.

Suddenly, the room is warmer.

“Draco. Merlin, I’m so sorry.”

At Potter’s gentle tone, Draco opens his eyes slowly. The pressure around his neck has disappeared and Potter is kneeling before him, his eyes vibrant green once more and full of regret and worry. Draco draws in a shuddering breath, now able to properly breathe again.

“You’re you again,” he says through numb lips.

Potter runs a hand through his hair. “I don’t know what the fuck happened. I-I forgot myself there.”

“That’s a massive understatement. What was that?”

Potter lifts a hand to place on Draco’s knee but pulls back just as his ghostly fingers attempt to curl around his kneecap. “I don’t know. But I promise I won’t hurt you.”

Draco sneers. “Ta for that shit promise, Potter. It’s not like I didn’t just spend the last few minutes trying to convince you not to suffocate me with...whatever the fuck that was.”

“I don’t know what it was either, but, Draco. You helped me come back into myself,” Potter says, his head bowing to hide the mix of distress and relief that flashes across his face. Draco nods.

“Right. Okay.”

“Don’t do that again,” Potter says quietly.

Draco feels a swell of anger bloom in the centre of his chest, immediately knowing what Potter is referring to. “I don’t know what you mean,” he says coldly.

Potter fixes him with a piercing stare, and Draco would have flinched if he weren’t using every bit of his energy to remain outwardly blank. “You know exactly what I mean. Don’t ever give in like that again. I felt it—your overwhelming willingness to die is what brought me back to my...this, to my humanity.”

“So, it saved you,” Draco mutters, looking away. “What do you care?”

Potter glares at him. “You don’t know what the fuck you’re saying. You can’t possibly...you can’t possibly want to end your life. This time, this time your pain saved us. We don’t know what that was or if it’ll happen again. Let’s not bank on anything working the exact same way a second time. Let’s especially not feed into suicidal ideations.”

Potter’s expression is hard and a twinging of a strangely familiar sensation starts in the centre of Draco’s chest. It feels like dipping one’s finger into hot wax, just on the edge of painful, stopped short when the air hits the wax, and it’s oddly comforting. There’s a few beats of silence between them until Draco nods reluctantly, pushing away the odd feeling. He notices that the sun has gone, hidden behind grey clouds. It looks like it’s about to rain. “I have to get ready for work soon.”

Potter nods. “Yeah. I reckon you do, so let’s crack on, shall we?”

Trying to regain some equilibrium, they quickly turned the conversation towards working out a chronological understanding of their missing time. Potter is missing nearly six months of his life. Draco is missing any recollection of Potter, if Potter’s single memory of them is anything to go off of. Draco is also missing significant time from yesterday, not recalling how he ended up in the Ministry Atrium from his lab.

They both agreed to go to the Ministry together, checking Potter’s office and Draco’s lab for any clues that might help them start to piece together the last few days before Potter’s death. Potter spends a few minutes trying to Apparate to Grimmauld Place, but finds that he can’t. After testing their limitations, they quickly learn that Potter is able to roam the house, but not exit the house. Any time he tries to glide out the front door he’s brought back up to the attic with Draco.

“What fresh hell is this?” Potter says frantically, his eyes wild behind his glasses as he runs a hand through his hair.

When Draco enters the bathroom, he feels raw around the edges, not completely grounded in what is quickly panning out to be a nightmare of a new reality. His brush with whatever soul-sucking entity that had been born free from Potter’s grief frightened him.

There’s rain pouring down outside now, the noise against the window of the bathroom rhythmic and soothing to Draco as he prepares for a shower, the old pipes rattling as he turns the water on to heat up. Potter agreed to wait for him in the kitchen, giving Draco the space he needed to wrap his brain around the events of the morning, and to offer a modicum of privacy now that Potter is practically haunting him. Draco threatened to find a Banishing Charm that would work on him if he opened his mouth or purposely sought out his housemates. This early, everyone would still be asleep, but Draco wasn’t keen on testing out Potter’s supposed theory that Draco is the only person capable of seeing him.

He pulls off his shirt, the lean muscle of his chest throbbing. He tries to massage the area. It’s something he’s dealt with since the attack over six months ago, a persistent contraction that often flares up where the bullet pierced his left pectoral muscle. The bullet had ricocheted inside his chest, nicking his left subclavian artery. He had bled out so much that when the Muggle EMTs found him, he had arrested, then flatlined for three minutes before they brought him back, stabilising him long enough to get him to a hospital’s operating theatre.

He wished they hadn’t. Not when they’d been unable to bring Mother back with him.

He sits on the edge of the tub and presses two fingers against the smooth, puckered, pale pink wound. It eases the throbbing.

Draco treated a few gunshot wounds during his time as a student doctor in the Emergency department at Massachusetts General. He doesn’t know if all the people who came in with such a wound survived—he only helped stabilise them in the trauma bays and prep for surgery before handing them over to the surgical team, but for the ones that did, he worried. Not because he was concerned with their physical wound, no, that would heal in due time, he had confidence in the surgical team. It was the emotional wounds he was worried about. No one ever told him in medical school how earth-shatteringly loud the bang is, the explosive feeling the lead-antimony alloy has upon impact and once it breaks apart in the body, or the blood-curdling pain. They certainly never mentioned the numbness that seems to follow a person once the wound is patched up and the patient is sent home.

Draco learned the hard way. That bullet not only ripped him open, it ripped his entire life apart.

They had been happy, happier than they’d been in years, especially after losing Father his first week in Azkaban. Mother had enjoyed living in the States, but came back to Magical Britain and the Manor because Draco decided he wanted his Healer qualifications. It had been a normal evening in the West End. His mother enjoyed travelling out to Muggle London on the weekends for a late dinner, after all, they lived a mostly Muggle life in Boston. It had been dark and they were laughing, peering at displays in darkened shop windows, vowing to come back the next day for this item or that. Draco noticed the man too late; they were already on an empty, narrow side street off the high road when the barrel of a gun was shoved in Draco’s face.

He offered the man his wallet, his watch, anything, everything.

“I’ve been following you for weeks, Malfoy! How dare you come back here after all these years and believe we’ve forgotten!” the man said.

And Draco knew. He knew then his life was over. The man cocked the gun.

Mother began to beg, apologise even, and when that fell on senseless ears, she stepped in front of Draco.

He should’ve done more. He should’ve grabbed Mother and Apparated away. He should have Hexed the man. He should have...

Draco suddenly recalls what Potter rambled on about last night. King’s Cross Station in his afterlife. Draco thinks about the place he went to when he had arrested and flatlined. How beautiful the Malfoy gardens were, how pristine the Manor looked in the bright summer daylight. He had walked around for what felt like hours, stopping to peek into the flourishing greenhouse that held some of Mother’s prized orchids. He watched the small pond and the baby ducks that flitted across the water. He ran past several beautiful, but temperamental white peacocks. And finally, he came upon the swing his Mother helped him hang on a tree branch when he was five years old. Draco knew that his Father had it removed when he turned eleven, claiming that he was too old for it. But here, in this beautiful afterlife where the Manor was untouched from the perils of war and the garden in bloom and sweet smelling, Draco had seen his swing.

And sitting on it, his Mother, swaying slightly, feet on the ground.

Oh, how he wanted to approach her, but she mouthed no and smiled sadly at him. But he wanted to go to her, badly. He wanted to hug her, to apologise, and beg to stay. He was alone without her. All his love and hope, his entire heart, were now stained across concrete, and he didn’t think he’d ever be able to continue on living knowing it.

And abruptly, he was pulled from out that space, blinking, shaking, sobbing, in the back of an ambulance.

He shakes his head, pulling himself away from memories he’s buried deep in his mind for over six months. After the events of this morning, he can’t stomach thinking about her again. He wonders, for the first time in years, if he’s a monster, if running away from the true depths of his feelings or pushing away thoughts of his Mother have finally rendered him incapable of experiencing even a modicum of humanity and humility without spiralling into a deeper depression or experiencing a panic attack. A human being wouldn’t be able to exist in an abyss of numbness for so long without turning into a monster. He’s a monster.

And still, he tries to shove the thoughts back down, this time taking longer. A sharp pain shoots through his head from the effort, but he powers through until the familiar walls of his Occlumency rises up, encasing the painful memories.

The pain doesn’t subside in Draco’s head. Instead, the pressure increases, as if something is about to pop inside his head, synapses exploding. His head falls into his hands as he clenches at his hair, eyes squeezing shut as a pained moan escapes him.

Draco is perched at his office desk writing in a leather-bound book. The only light on is the lamp sat on the corner of his desk and the crackling fireplace off to the side.

‘If elements of Amortentia can be synthesised into a healing agent and used to treat mental illnesses such as PTSD, depression, generalised anxiety...could it be tailored to specific traumas? Victims of Near Death Experiences (NDEs)? How would the potion affect them differently?’

Draco sets down his quill and stares into the fire. Fuck his Amortentia project. Even if he could heal his mental anguish, it wouldn’t bring Mother back. He wouldn’t be able to see her or talk to her again. He picks his quill back up and strikes through his earlier note. He taps the feather end of the quill against his lips as an idea slowly begins to bloom in his mind.

- What effects would encountering the Veil have on victims of NDEs? Would actual communication be possible?

When it’s over, he’s shaking and sweat has beaded along his hairline. He can recall the last time he visited the Veil. It was during a tour of all the Chambers when he agreed to his post as an Unspeakable. Draco doesn’t trust the state of his mind enough to question why this information makes him feel so nauseous. The pain in his head eases away, and as Draco lifts his left hand to run a trembling hand through his hair, the weakness in his arm is immense. He tries to curl his hand into a fist and it proves to be difficult. He stares down his arm, at the faded Dark Mark, at his now nearly useless fingers.

Dread coils like a nest of writhing snakes in the pit of his stomach.

-----

When Draco enters the kitchen, Padma is seated at the round table, Draco’s tea steaming beside her. Potter lingers in the corner, a concerned look gracing his face.

“You look like death warmed up,” Potter says jovially, but still rather dispassionately.

Draco ignores his tasteless joke and takes his seat beside Padma. She slides his mug over. He uses his right hand to pick it up. Earlier when he tried to cast a Drying charm, he could barely hold his wand. From down the hall, he hears the Floo flare to life, and soon Luna and Millicent enter the kitchen. Millicent sneezes, a weary look on her face.

“We thought it would be best to come back here to rest a bit more before heading back to the Burrow. Tomorrow is the funeral,” Luna says, her voice paper thin. She looks frail, almost sickly, as if a slight wind could knock her over. Her eyes are puffy and red and Draco knows that she’s probably been crying non-stop since learning about Potter’s death.

“So soon?” Draco asks, his eyes quickly cutting to the aghast look on Potter’s face.

“The Weasleys don’t wanna drag it on,” Millicent shrugs, taking a seat across from Draco. “Molly’s barely coherent.”

As Luna passes by Potter to head to the cold cabinet, she freezes mid-step and throws her arms around her body, visibly shuddering.

“Oh,” she whimpers, tears forming in her eyes. “Harry…”

Draco draws in a sharp breath as Potter’s eyes widen behind his glasses. Millicent quickly stands from her seat to comfort Luna.

“Luna, you can tell I’m here, can’t you?” Potter says, his voice tight with emotion.

Luna doubles over as Millicent wraps an arm around her shoulder. “It’s like...it’s like I can feel his presence,” she cries.

“That’s because I am here, Luna! You can tell!” Potter says excitedly, reaching an arm out to touch Luna. His hand passes through her shoulder, but upon impact Luna cries out, jerking forward and collapsing against Millicent. Potter quickly withdraws his hand. “Merlin! Luna...oh, Luna, I’m so—Draco! Tell them...her...you know I’m here! Luna can tell! She can—”

Luna cries harder, her body flinching in Millicent’s arms with every word that comes from Potter.

“Stop it!” Draco suddenly shouts, shooting up from his seat so quickly that he upends his tea mug.

Everyone looks up at Draco. Potter’s hands are shaking as he takes several steps away from Luna, who stops trembling almost immediately. Millicent is glaring at Draco. Padma’s lips are pursed.

“Merlin, Draco, show some fucking compassion, why don’t you? You know Luna and Harry were bloody close. Not everyone can just pretend the death of a loved one doesn’t bother them,” she says cruelly.

A tiny flicker of sharp, callous anger shoots through him at her barbed comment, but Draco just rolls his shoulders back, trying to maintain his composure.

“I apologise,” he says, voice flat. “I would hate for her to become ill with overexertion. I didn’t mean to come off as unsympathetic.”

Luna appears to have mostly recovered from whatever effect Potter’s presence had on her. She nods slowly. “No, Draco. It’s alright, I know you mean well. You’re hurting too,” Her smile is as shaky as her voice.

“We’re going to bed,” Millicent announces as she nearly carries Luna up the stairs. She shoots Draco a scowl over her shoulder. “I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to show up to the funeral or any of the vigils tomorrow, Draco, not even with Pansy. No one needs your callousness on such a day.”

“That is enough, Millicent,” Padma snaps.

“It’s alright. You’re right, Millicent. It wouldn’t be appropriate.”

“Finally, some sense out of you,” she says as she disappears up the stairs with Luna.

“She did not mean it,” Padma says.

Draco sighs, pulling out his wand to awkwardly Vanish his spilled tea with his stronger hand. Potter is still standing in the corner, looking like a kicked crup. “She absolutely did mean it, and I don’t blame her. I’m a monster.”

“Draco,” Padma starts, shaking her head. He waves a dismissive hand.

“I’m going into the lab early today.”

“I will not be going in,” Padma says quietly. It’s then that Draco notices she’s dressed in her colourful sleep robe, having probably gone back to her room before Draco woke again, otherwise she would have heard his earlier altercation with Potter. He feels a fissure of relief.

He nods. “Fine. I’ll see you later.”

As he exits the kitchen his eyes briefly meet Potter’s. Before he disappears into the hallway, the rage, violence, and despair he feels for the man is fully sequestered and exposed in a single flicker in this otherwise cold gaze.

Potter is soon behind him. “I have it on good authority that Medusa wants her withering glare back,” his voice has that same dispassionate tone from earlier.

“Fuck you, Potter,” Draco hisses through clenched teeth as they enter the parlour to use the Floo. “There’s nothing funny about this situation. You could’ve seriously hurt Luna. Her empathy is boundless and her magic is naturally Light, so I’m not surprised she picked up on your...questionable energy. But it’s Luna, Potter. She,” Draco swallows, trying to ease the sudden pain in his throat. “She means more to me than your stupid life or death situation ever will. Never push her like that again.”

Potter at least looks devastated, and Draco thinks he deserves to feel much more than that. Potter runs a hand through his wild hair and nods.

“I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.”

Chapter Text

“If you want to keep a secret, you must also hide it from yourself. You must know all the while that it is there, but until it is needed you must never let it emerge into your consciousness in any shape that can be given a name.”

―George Orwell, 1984

After some trial and error, Draco realises that the best way to enter the Ministry with a ghostly Potter was through the Floo. If his suspicions are correct, and Potter is haunting him, then Potter should be able to go anywhere Draco goes. They were somehow bonded.

When they do land in the Atrium, it’s nearly empty. Hundreds of people must have called off work today, the usual bustle and lively atmosphere of the early morning painfully absent. The lack of security details that usually roam the corridors and the near-empty Floos and offices all seem eerie to Draco.

All this. To observe Potter’s death. To mourn him. Remember him. Pray for him.

Draco hates the bitter taste in his mouth, like copper. So many people die every day and no one takes a moment to mourn them the way they’re mourning Potter.

Potter is quiet as they make their way to Level 9, a pained expression on his face. When the silence, for some reason, begins to grate on Draco’s nerves, he can’t help but poke at Potter.

“What’s wrong with you? Why do you look like you’re about to die all over again?” Draco drawls.

“I just, I don’t know, I feel strange being here,” Potter says slowly, unsurely.

Draco catalogues that bit of information to reconsider later. “We won’t be staying long, especially if none of my employees come into the lab today.”

Once they reach the concrete entryway of the Love Chamber, Potter voices his concern over the security measure taken to enter.

“Blood? Seriously, Draco? What kind of Dark nonsense—”

“It’s the best way to prevent infiltration. Now shut up and come along,” Draco mutters, sweeping into the Chamber. Potter follows closely behind but pauses to stare up at the flowing fountain of Amortentia.

“Merlin, so this is what you lot are hiding in here,” Potter says, cutting his gaze to Draco. Draco shrugs.

“More than that. We keep the potion-doused victims in the back to poke at and dissect later, if you’re interested in having a look?”

Potter starts, his mouth hanging open in shock. It closes, and a suspicious look creeps across his face as he stares at Draco. Potter then smiles at him, and Draco quickly pushes aside the strange feeling that twinges in the pit of his stomach.

“You. You cracked a joke.”

“Astute observation, Auror Potter,” Draco mutters with a roll of his eyes. “I am capable of the act once in a while.”

Potter chuckles softly beside him. Draco hates that he actually finds Potter’s little laugh attractive.

Draco draws in a breath, the familiar smell from the Amortentia assaulting his senses, but the last one is strange. He doesn’t think he’s ever smelled anything like it before in his life, but he must have, if he’s smelling it now. Bewildered, he turns to face Potter, but Potter is staring at the fountain again.

“I can’t smell anything!” Potter exclaims. “Is that...is that normal?”

Draco’s brow furrows. “I’m not quite sure. I suppose it would be, considering the fact that you’re, well, dead. You technically have no brain activity occurring, no other organ functions, nothing at all. In order to smell, the aroma sets off a signal made by the receptors that travels along the olfactory nerve to what’s called an olfactory bulb, which sits underneath the front of your brain.”

Potter looks glum. “Right.”

Draco’s curious to ask Potter what he used to smell, knowing they both encountered it in Slughorn’s class Sixth Year. He decides against it, believing it to be much too personal a question and wanting to avoid being asked to reciprocate. Instead, he simply nods and continues his stride towards the glass lab doors. For a moment he forgets about the weakness in his left arm and winces at the discomfort that shoots through him when he tries to lift it too quickly. Instead he swings his right arm forward to pull the door open. Potter doesn’t notice, because once again he’s standing beside Draco, staring in awe.

“This is phenomenal!” Potter gasps, looking around with wide eyes.

Draco pauses in his step, surprised, and takes a long look about the lab. It’s been a while since he’s stopped to really appreciate the space—the white floors, walls, benches and worktops, the sleek iMacs, the three new electron microscopes he convinced Wallace they absolutely needed. All their equipment is clean and tidy, just like their cleanroom, cold, and warm rooms.

Draco’s lip twitches. A sense of pride washes over him. “Yes. It is.”

He suddenly spots Goldstein coming from the breakroom, as usual, but this time with Astoria Greengrass at his side. Draco doesn’t miss the brief locking of their pinkies before pausing under the sterilising vent, Astoria looks up and smiles sadly at Draco.

“I didn’t think you’d be in,” she says softly once they enter the lab.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Draco asks dismissively, walking past her towards his workstation. He catches the eye roll from Goldstein and scowls.

“Oh. It’s just, well, you two seemed friendly, is all.”

“I hardly knew him,” Draco shrugs. Potter glares at him.

“I see you’re a prick to everyone,” Potter snipes.

“Well. It’s a sad day, but we wanted to pop in and just check a few things. We ran into Unspeakable Wallace earlier and he mentioned stopping by.” She glances down at her delicate wristwatch. “Actually, he’ll be here soon. I told him I didn’t know if you were going to be in or not, but he seemed to believe you would be.”

“The man knows me well,” Draco responds from behind his computer.

He powers it up with ease, waiting for the login to appear so he can type in his lengthy password. Astoria slinks away, taking his silence as a final warning of dismissal. Potter sidles up to him, his mouth, once more, wide open.

“I can’t believe you know how to use a computer!”

“It’s going to be a rather long day if you keep voicing your surprise at every little thing you see, Potter,” Draco mutters quietly from the corner of his mouth, though he can’t help the amusement he feels at Potter’s awe.

Potter snorts. “It’s just surprising. ‘Mione taught me how to properly use one a few years ago. I actually just upgraded to a newer laptop,” Potter smiles, but it falters. “So much for it now, right?”

Draco hums, not fully paying attention to Potter as he struggles to make the fingers of his left hand move in tandem with his right. Soon, he bypasses the security measures and pulls up the software designed to track their inventories, manage schedules, aggregate data, provide resource visibility, and integrate all their other lab systems into one simple, nifty program. He looks through all his files. Everything for the Amortentia project seems to be in place. Then, he sees it.

There. Something he’s never seen before.

A locked file. Draco clicks on it and a security window pops up. Draco types in the only password he knows for his computer. An Error message pops up and he flinches. He purses his lips and thinks up a possible password. He types in his mother’s date of birth, and, once again, the Error message pops up, red, bold, and angry. Draco sighs.

“Er, maybe you wrote it down somewhere?” Potter offers unhelpfully, peering at the screen beside him.

Draco huffs. And tries once more, a series of numbers he would use at Hogwarts to secure his Quidditch locker. This time another window pops up.

ERROR. FAILED VERIFICATION. CONTENT OF FILE WILL BE AUTOMATICALLY DELETED FROM SYSTEM WITHIN 48-HOURS WITHOUT PROPER VERIFICATION. CODE: C342X7Z.

FUCK! Draco mentally swears, his hands stuttering to a stop above the keyboard.

“Fuck,” Potter voices beside him. “What are you going to do? What if that, I don’t know, has something to do with my death?”

“Do you really believe I’d have something on my computer about your death, Potter? Why do you always assume I’m up to something nefarious?” Draco whispers furiously, looking around the lab. Both Goldstein and Astoria are busy at their stations, too far away from Draco to hear anything. He turns to Potter, an expectant look on his face.

Potter suddenly looks very serious. “Honestly? I don’t know anymore. But I can say that I feel very strongly about our situations being linked; it can’t be coincidental. And now you’re telling me that a file on your computer, under your personal log-in, is suddenly unavailable? Because, I’m assuming, it has something to do with the brain-damage sustained from a Dark Curse you received on the day I died? Yeah, Draco, I really do think whatever is in that file might have something to do with how I died.”

Draco sighs. Potter actually does make sense. For now. “Fine. So, now we have 48 hours to figure out what the hell is in that folder,” Draco says, exiting the window and flipping through some of the tidy files on his worktable.

There’s a loud suction sound, an indication that the lab’s door has been opened, and Draco looks up to see Gedeon Wallace and another man enter the lab.

Gedeon is a handsome man in his late forties with thick, full salt-and-pepper hair and shocking robin egg blue eyes. He’s tall like Draco, but burlier in comparison to Draco’s lithe form. If he weren’t Draco’s boss, and if Draco wasn’t so wholly uninterested in anything even remotely romantic or sexual nowadays, he would have tried to seduce the man.

“Draco!” Gedeon says, voice rich and deep. He smiles kindly at Draco. “I knew you’d be in. I’m so sorry for your loss.”

Draco shakes his head, suddenly feeling frustrated and confused. Missing memories aside, Draco can hardly entertain the idea that he and Potter were as friendly as people seem to believe they were, it just doesn’t make sense. Potter also looks bemused.

“I’m very sorry that he’s passed on. But, I hardly knew Harry Potter, sir. We were rather cruel to each other at Hogwarts and I’ve only seen him a handful of times since moving back to England.”

Something flickers across Gedeon’s face that causes a fissure of discomfort to settle across Draco’s skin like a sheen of cold sweat. He looked oddly pleased at Draco’s response.

Gedeon nodding and clasping his hands before him. “Well, my apologies. Very sad news of his passing, regardless, he was a true hero. I will of course excuse anyone looking to leave early today, and you should too, Draco. Take the day off. But before you do, I wanted to track you down and let you know that Hermione has, unfortunately, resigned from her position as your senior research partner.”

“What?” Draco starts, shocked. “What were her reasons? Why was I not provided her letter of resignation as well?”

“Ah, I thought she would owl you a copy. She seems to have qualms over...the strenuous nature of the research,” Gedeon says stiffly. “She has decided to move on to a project less demanding of her time, considering the recent death of Harry Potter and her approaching maternity leave. And of course here at the Department of Mysteries, we understand and respect her delicate...condition.”

Potter whistles beside Draco, shaking his head.

“I don’t know, Draco. Something seems definitely off here. I know Hermione and pregnant or not, hard work or not, once she dedicates herself to a project, you’ll have to pry her fingers off with the strength of a troll to get her to beg off, and even then you’ll sustain an injury or two in your attempt,” Potter says. Draco couldn’t agree more.

“Her absence will be quite a blow to our project,” Draco says.

Gedeon shakes his head. “This project was always your creation, Draco. It’s unfortunate that Hermione’s no longer on board with what we’re doing here.” Gedeon leans in closer, lowering his voice.“I always knew she would eventually leave us, just not so soon after moving beyond the developmental stages. We are finally seeing the fruits of our labours. She’s strong, Hermione, but well, you know how these things go,” Gedeon pauses to laugh mirthlessly. “Typical. She allowed her emotions to rule over reason, but I still have faith in your vision, as long as you still have faith in it, despite the changes.”

Draco purses his lips as he quickly turns over Gedeon’s response, which reeked of both casual sexism and insidious unprofessionalism. Did Granger resign for maternity leave or because she had disagreements with the project? Draco decides to tread lightly.

“Of course, sir. I’m glad we’re still on the same page.”

Gedeon beams, standing taller. “We’re all terribly excited for what’s to come. She is available for questions during this transitionary period, if you have them.” Gedeon glances down at his watch. “I believe she said she’ll be in her new office today for a few hours. For now, she’s moved to room 909 to free up space for Unspeakable Milton Edmondson, our new recruit hailed from MACUSA’s own labs! He’s very invested in the direction of your research. I know you’ll have him up to speed in no time. You’ll find you both have a lot in common.”

Milton is probably a little older than Draco, and very handsome, with dark curly hair, deep brown eyes, and a dash of dark freckles across the bronze skin of his cheeks and nose.

“It’s such a pleasure to meet you, you’re famous back home,” Milton finally says in a deep, soothing voice. He steps forward to offer Draco his hand, which Draco shakes briefly. “I look forward to working with you,” Milton continues, looking around the lab. “Such a beautiful space, really lovely. My labs back at MACUSA were probably the size of your storage room.”

Draco, still dazed from learning Hermione’s dropped from the project, shakes himself and shoots Milton a smile. “I’ve heard horror stories about your labs, it was one of the reasons I refused a position at your Ministry. If you have Unspeakable Wallace himself here inviting you to our team, I know you’ll be a wonderful asset. It’s great to have you on board.”

“I don’t trust them,” Potter mutters. Draco finds that the feeling in his gut agrees.

“Well, we must be going. I’d like to show Unspeakable Edmondson around some more. Remember, take the rest of the day off, hell, take a couple of days off if you need it, Draco. I don’t want you over-exerting yourself,” Gedeon says, placing a hand on Draco’s right shoulder and squeezing it gently.

“Thank you,” Draco says. With a small wave from Milton and another nod from Gedeon, they exit the lab, not sparing Astoria or Goldstein a single glance.

“Well, that didn’t feel suspicious at all,” Potter says sarcastically. Draco flexes his hands.

“Yes. Something is definitely...amiss.”

“I think we should head to the Auror Department. Knowing myself, if I was suspicious of anything happening here or was on the trail of something wicked, I would have kept proof of it.”

Draco hums, frowning at the lab’s door.

----

“There’s nothing for it.”

“Be quiet.”

Potter sighs. “Look, Draco. I appreciate your tenacity, but there’s no way in hell you’re going to be able to waltz into the Auror headquarters and demand to see my desk. We’re wasting time. Perhaps we can head over to Grimmauld Place to search my office there.”

Draco steps back from the glass double doors leading to the Auror Department. Even from this position, he can see Potter’s office, the door shut and the plaque with his name with Deputy Auror next to it shining bright in the sun-drenched office. Maintenance must be pulling in overtime to make sure the space looks lively despite the doom and gloom in the air of the Ministry. The problem is that Draco thought the Auror Department would be empty, mourning the loss of their Deputy, but found quite the opposite once they reached Level Two. It was as if the Aurors were mourning and celebrating Potter’s memory by coming into work. A few people stopped to place their hand on his door and close their eyes, as if in prayer. Or worship.

“Why don’t we head back to your office to flesh out our next steps?” Potter asks. Draco’s about to agree when someone clears their throat from behind them.

“Hey, wow, so good to see you, Healer Malfoy, how are you?”

Draco turns to face Patrolee Robert Jenkins. He had to be just a couple years out from Hogwarts. He was lanky but had a babyface, watery blue eyes and dirty blond hair. He’d be cute if he weren’t so strange.

“Bloody Jenkins,” Potter mutters. “This kid is a pain in my arse. Always fucking something up.”

Draco doesn’t have to ask Potter to elaborate, he’s quite familiar with the young Patrolee. A year ago Draco had been standing in a queue for tea at Ministry Munchies when Jenkins accidentally sliced three of his fingers off with a Cutting Charm trying to slice his bagel open. Even though Draco had lingered back upon seeing the catastrophe, eager for his tea, when someone started shouting for a Healer, Draco begrudgingly left his spot in the queue to help the idiotic man.

When Draco returned to work the next day he found a vase of rather lovely pink peonies and a heartfelt thank you note on his office desk from Jenkins. Suddenly, Draco felt very sorry for thinking he was an idiot. People do a lot of stupid things when they’re hungry, the poor chap, Draco rationalised. He sent Jenkins a thank you memo and thought that was the end of it.

But soon Jenkins began stalking Draco—popping up outside his office asking Draco out for drinks which Draco declined, randomly approaching him on the streets of Muggle London, which badly startled Draco that first time, sending him little love notes and candies, and finally, Jenkins crossed the line when he visited Malfoy Manor, some pink peonies in hand. It was disturbing, the level of his persistence, and Draco had to put in a formal complaint with Head Auror Robards. Jenkins apologised profusely and was suspended for a couple of weeks and ordered to stay away from Draco, which he adhered mostly to. If they happened to encounter each other in a queue at Munchies or on the lift, Jenkins would get cow-eyed and ask Draco how he’s doing, but at least a metre apart.

“Hello, Jenkins,” Draco says slowly, taking a few steps back from the man.

Potter grimaces. “You shouldn’t have to put up with this. I know all about your situation with him, I’m the one who signed off on his suspension. Merlin, I’d wager that everyone in the Ministry knew he was harassing you.”

Draco hadn’t known that. He clenches his jaw as Jenkins’ gazes up and down him.

“Healer Malfoy—”

“—Unspeakable Malfoy—” Draco overlaps.

“—when are you going to start calling me Robert, eh?”

“It wouldn’t be appropriate, you know that, Jenkins. Now, I came by to...ask a question, but the office seems rather busy, so I’ll be off.” Draco turns on his heel.

“Wait! Er, maybe I can help you?”

“I doubt it.”

“You were looking to ask about Harry Potter, right?” Jenkins asks, his eyes lighting up when Draco turns to face him. “Everyone’s talking about him.”

Potter tsks. “He’s a horrid gossip, so it might be worth hearing him out,” Potter says, crossing his arms against his chest and shooting Jenkins a dark glare. Draco nods.

“All right, yes. I have a few questions about Potter.”

Jenkins looks surprised before he recovers with a shrug. “Were you in love with him?” Jenkins asks, now looking frustrated as he runs a hand through his dirty blond hair.

Draco winces. “What? Absolutely not.”

“Right,” Jenkins starts sceptically. “Everyone fancied him. He was rather fit, wasn’t he? Even when he was yelling.”

“Jenkins, this is not appropriate conversation.”

“Right, you’re right. He’s dead and all,” Jenkins says absently, chewing briefly on his lower lip as he stares down at the floor before raising his eyes back up to Draco. “I get that, but facts are facts and—”

“—About my questions,” Draco cuts him off. “I was wondering if there was any news on how he died?”

“Oh, Merlin. It was awful. Poor bastard perished in a fire during a rescue mission according to my friend Dennis. Burnt to a bloody crisp, he said, you know, according to the Healers on site, just a right mess.”

“It can’t be true,” Potter hisses. “On a level, I...I still feel some connection to my body. Ask him who identified it, then, if my body was so badly damaged,” Potter interjects.

Draco nods before fixing the young patrolee with a sneer. “Perhaps you should show some respect for the dead.”

Jenkins flushes and mumbles an apology.

"And who identified the body?” Draco asks. Jenkins nods.

“Well, that’s easy. Hermione Granger-Weasley. I saw her sign the papers myself, actually. Head Auror Robards caught me lingering in the corridor and asked me to lead her up from the morgue to the Admin’s office so she could take care of the paperwork,” Jenkins says proudly, puffing up his chest. “Poor thing was in tears the whole way up. I thought she was going to pop that baby out right then and there in the lift, she was crying so much. Apparently, she was listed as his Case of Emergency Person.”

“My Case of Emergency Person is Andromeda,” Potter says quietly. “We agreed when I took on a more prevalent role in Teddy’s upbringing."

Draco grimaces. “Thank you, Jenkins.”

---

“It’s just not possible!” Potter exclaims, running a hand through his hair as Draco shuts his office door. Potter is pacing back and forth in front of Draco’s desk. Not wanting to accidentally walk through the man, Draco lingers by the door as Potter begins to work himself up.

“Hermione would never do anything to hurt me! Jenkins is a bloody fool and got his information mixed up!”

Draco clasps his hands behind his back and gives Potter a flat look. “He was right with her when she left the morgue. I’m not saying she’s entirely to blame, but she could, for some reason, be covering up details of your death, Potter. I’d say that she’s at least as untrustworthy as Gedeon at this point and we should tread carefully.”

Potter stops pacing and instead glides towards Draco. His face is monstrous as it twists in anger and frustration. His green eyes flash before they turn black, similar to this morning, the scowl on his face crude and demented as it grows unnaturally wide in his transparent face.

“Don’t you dare say that!” he spits in Draco’s face. “She’s my best friend. Don’t you dare disrespect her like that, to my face or anywhere else!”

Draco doesn’t flinch, not even when Potter rounds on him, despite the unease that courses through him, prickly and unpleasant. “I’d hardly call the truth an attack on her person. She’s involved in whatever happened to you, that much to me is clear, and whatever it is, it’s very, very Dark. There’s simply no other explanation as to how you would die and come back the way you have without the involvement of Dark magic. You even stink of it.”

Potter growls. “She would never. Perhaps what you’re smelling is your own upper lip.”

Draco smiles. He knows it’s cruel and cold just based on how quickly Potter recoils from him. “Who do you think taught me the ropes around here, Potter? Who do you think helped me orchestrate a project to use bloody Amortentia as a means to manipulate the human limbic system? Your sweet, precious Granger has been researching the Dark Arts for years in our Department. You just refuse to see that not everything is black and white in the field of science or life.”

But even as he says this, a wild, demented look surfaces on Potter’s face, and a black fog begins to slowly spill out from his feet. Draco takes several steps back. The fear that he’s been trying to keep hidden breaks free as he stares in horror at Potter’s contorting face.

Pain overcomes Draco immediately. He presses his index finger and thumb against the left side of his head as he doubles over before pressing his fist against his mouth to quell a strangled cry.

Draco crosses his arms against his chest as he tilts his head up to look upon the dais in the middle of the room. He can’t help but be in awe of Granger’s intelligence.

“Not everything is black and white in the field of science...or life,” a slender Granger says as she shows him the Veil. “You’ll come to appreciate the need to leave your emotions at the door so you can tackle the kind of work we’re going to do here.” Granger smirks at him. “But you know all about that, don’t you?”

Draco regains his bearings, blinking back tears as the pressure in his head eases, but a numbness, like a dull hot ache, radiates down his left arm. He straightens up and rolls his shoulders back to loosen some of his stiffness. That was not his first visit to the Veil. For one, his hair was tied back in the memory, but he didn’t start wearing his hair longer until...well, until Mother passed away. Before then, he always kept it rather short on the sides and a bit longer on top. Perhaps it’s not just Granger they should be suspicious of, but Draco himself as well? Maybe even the entire Department and not just Gedeon? Draco feels dizzy trying to grasp at all the loose ends of his thoughts while knowing there’s something greater at play here, he can feel it. Surely interrogating Granger would provide further insight.

Draco has to finally start looking at Potter’s death, his Dark Curse, and his fractured memories as related, not just hypothetically.

“Christ, Draco. Are you alright?” Potter is normal again. The fog is gone and his eyes are their usual vibrant green.

“What?” he snaps, smoothing down his lab coat. “I’m fine now that you’re not trying to kill me again.”

Potter frowns. “I’m sorry. I tried harder this time to control...it.”

“What’s happening to you?” Draco asks sharply. “What is this?”

Potter shakes his head, his wild fringe flopping against his forehead. He pushes it back with both hands, confusion etched across his face. “I don’t know...I don’t...I feel myself being consumed with...with despair,” Potter says pithily. “I can feel it growing inside me, wanting to escape and consume. It scares the shite out of me. I feel it, like a hunger, sitting in the pit of my stomach and I try, I try to control it. I feel like I’m changing.”

A shiver runs through Draco at Potter’s explanation. “Why?”

Potter winces, his shoulders rounding as he wraps his arms around himself. “I don’t know why...I just feel like I’m becoming a soulless monster.”

“We need to see Granger,” Draco says, ignoring Potter’s explanation. He doesn’t want to hear anymore—doesn’t want to think of the possibility that Potter is slowly morphing into some insidious creature.

“But...Draco, you looked like you were in pain. I thought you were going to pass out. Why don’t you sit down for a second, maybe drink some water...”

“No.”

“Draco,” Potter intones, taking a step towards him. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

Draco sneers. He can’t control the overwhelming anger that grips him low in his belly, heating up his skin, and making his head throb. He feels trapped—a part of him wants to share his memories with Potter, even though he’s not sure what they mean yet. The other part, as he glares at Potter and that stupid look of concern on his face, knows how inherently suspicious Potter’s always been of Draco, and coupled with the Dark magic lingering on him, Potter could very well kill Draco in a fit of misplaced suspicious rage by jumping to conclusions about Draco’s fractured and resurgance of missing memories. Potter would ruin any chance of saving himself by condemning Draco’s inability to explain his memories, because that’s just Potter’s nature, strike first and ask questions later.

“To be honest, Potter, nothing, and I mean nothing about my current predicament makes me feel okay. Whatever stupid, absurd decisions you made to get yourself killed has successfully seen to my current distress. You act as if we have all the time in the world to solve your problems, but let me remind you—the sooner you move the fuck on to the afterlife, the sooner I can go back to my living life. As I said, we need to visit Granger and I don’t care if you think she’s Mother Fucking Teresa, she’s involved, and I need to speak with her.”

Potter’s fists clench at his sides, a furious look on his face before it melts away and a faraway look replaces it. “You’re right,” he mutters. “I’m infringing upon your wellbeing…your poor excuse for an existence, your half-life. Padma may be used to your bollocks, considering how easily she swallowed the lies you fed her about your brain damage symptoms, but I saw right through you, Malfoy. You’re not only hiding the fact that you’re a suicidal fuck, you also can’t even bring yourself to open up to the people you live with, the people you call your bloody friends, not even when they’re looking you dead in the face begging to help your sorry arse.”

One.

Two.

Three.

Draco counts again, the hurt easing away slowly as the glacial pace of his walls crawl up to ensconce the pain. But he’s right in not being able to trust Potter, at least not with the little information Draco has gleaned from his fractured memories. Potter wouldn’t understand. He’s too emotional, too reckless.

One.

Two.

Thr—

“What, you have nothing to say?” Potter snaps. “You can’t, can you? Your secrets are all out.”

Three.

Draco draws in a breath.

“A half-life is better than no life, Potter. I would be careful with what you say to me from now on. I’ll walk away from this, all of it, and if I have to, work around the clock to Banish you from me. I’ll send you to haunt a fucking swamp if you ever open your stupid mouth to make assumptions about my character or the people I surround myself with. Do you understand me, you fucking monster?”

At the word monster, Potter cringes and hangs his head, lifting his hands to push under his glasses and rub over his eyes and face. Potter sniffs several times before he drops his hands and readjusts his glasses.

“Okay,” Potter says, nodding several times. “I took that too far, I’m sorry. I—I’m feeling a lot of things right now, and I know, I know what I said was wrong, fuck, Draco, I’m sorry—”

“I don’t want or need your apology. I want you to heed my words, and I need you to take them as a bloody promise, Potter.”

“Okay,” Potter says.

“Now, as I was saying, we need to find Granger.”

Potter crosses his arms against his chest. “I’m surprised she’s still with the Department even though she quit.”

Draco shrugs, his mind’s eye filling with the image of a smirking Granger, cockily and casually taunting him within the Death Chamber.

“She quit the research team, but she still works for the Department of Mysteries. No one in their right mind would let someone as valuable—or dangerous—as Hermione Granger walk away from this Department without a fight.”

Draco freezes, his blood running cold as his thoughts halt on one single, eerie speculation.

Perhaps, in my case, the Department wouldn’t let me go either.

What if I fought and I lost?

Draco shudders.

Chapter Text

“All our knowledge begins with the senses, proceeds then to the understanding, and ends with reason.

There is nothing higher than reason.”

―Immanuel Kant, Critique of Pure Reason

Where one might find solace in the soft clacks from the soles of shoes on the corridor’s smooth, dusty, grey granite flooring, Draco finds it nerve-wracking. The sound is proof that he’s one step closer to facing a grieving Hermione Granger, fractured memories of her tear-stained face and heartbreaking wails repeatedly playing at the forefront of his mind.

Draco quickly glances at Potter, exhaustion etched across his face as if he still has the blood pumping heart, active brain cells, and muscle activity needed for his body to register such an emotion. Draco’s loath to admit that Potter has grown to be quite handsome. Potter’s a bit taller than Draco recalls, still shorter than Draco but definitely broader. He looks strong, it was obvious that Potter took care of himself while alive. His jawline is strong, his lips full, his hair an undeniable mess but the disheveled look works for him. And his eyes. Even in death, slightly transparent but vivid in colour, his eyes are still striking. He gives a small shake of his head, chastising himself for allowing his traitorous thoughts to run rampant about Potter’s attractiveness. He instead focuses on the current overall energy between them: tense and angry.

The walk to Granger’s new office is a wordless affair rife with tension so strong that halfway through their journey Draco feels an actual cramp in his neck and shoulders from the stress. There is no significant conversation between them, their earlier exchange of barbed insults hanging like a foul odour in the air, exacerbating the wedge of distrust and hatred that’s existed between them since the very first day they met. Draco can sense that Potter is holding his tongue, probably for the first time in his incredibly short-lived, moronic life. Even in death the man is frustrating. Draco has to push away the budding desire to lash out at Potter with a fiery force that’s a culmination of pure fury and indignation. Though, Draco's acutely aware that something at the core of him has shifted from the encounter. Potter’s anger and surprising cruelty exposed a truth about Draco’s crumbling health.

The unraveling of his repressed emotions is killing him.

Occluding hurts. With the fractured Dark curse impacting his baser cognitive functions and now it seems the mobility of his left arm, Draco’s starting to realise that his emotions and body are no longer wholly under his control. He has made the connection that every time he encounters an emotional response, he suffers from some kind of attack. Even with the arrival of memories that must’ve been stolen from him, it’s not like he’s getting any better or his situation is changing, he’s just getting better at recovering from the pain. He’s desperate to run an EEG scan to confirm the reasons behind these crippling episodes, but with the weakening of his left arm, he doesn’t want to risk misfiring such delicate spell diagnostic work.

And furthermore, it bothers Draco that Potter has been able to see so accurately through his shield, the only layer of protection he has between himself and the rest of the world. Potter believing he has any right to judge Draco, let alone comment on the choices Draco has made concerning his own well-being and who is privy to it, has left a bitter taste in his mouth. He glances once more at Potter only to find that their eyes meet. Draco hastily drops his gaze, but Potter has now stopped walking, the cold wave of his presence leaving Draco’s side.

Draco can hear the other man draw in a breath, catching on the exhale as a wounded sharp sound escapes the back of his throat. It’s as if whatever words he’s preparing to say will hurt him on the way out. “I really am sorry about earlier. But...promise me you’ll keep an open mind.”

Draco’s shoulders tense up once again as he stops in his tracks too, only a few strides ahead of Potter. He waits patiently for Potter to close the space between them before noticing the anxiety in his green eyes.

“Whatever she says, whatever we learn...I want you to keep an open mind. Hermione is my best friend and I know she would never intentionally do anything to harm me.”

Draco nods and tries to sound bland. “Right. Whatever you say, Potter.”

“Goddamn it, Malfoy,” Potter hisses.

Draco is not at all surprised at how little it takes to needle Potter to the limit of his patience, even after an apology for the very issue.

Potter runs a hand through his already disheveled hair. “I won’t have you upsetting her more than she already is.”

Draco turns on his heel and continues walking down the empty corridor, Potter huffing and fumbling behind him. “Perhaps you should have waited in my office. I can’t control the emotional responses of other people,” Draco says over his shoulder.

“You can control how you talk to her and in doing so avoid eliciting reactions that may be harmful to her health or her unborn child’s health.”

Draco can feel his nostrils flare as he scowls, now catching Potter in his peripheral vision. “You must think so very little of me if you’re under the impression that I go out of my way to upset pregnant women. I also find it incredibly problematic that you’re using Granger’s pregnancy to somehow undermine her strength and brilliance. She’s more likely to harm me with a single flick of her wand than the other way around. She is that capable, Potter. It’s unfortunate that you seem to think her weak.”

“That’s not it and you know it!” Potter growls. “I want to trust you, Malfoy, I do, but you’ve yet to show me why I should.”

Despite Draco’s anger, there is a wave of self-satisfaction that washes over him at having been right about Potter’s opinion of him. Draco dodged a Bludger in not sharing the extent of his memory loss with him.

“Ah, there’s the confirmation of your condescending self-righteousness that I’ve been waiting for since you landed in my room, Potter,” Draco says, stopping in front of a simple black door with a small plaque that reads 909 on it. “Even in death you’re an unmitigated arsehole.” Before Potter can respond, Draco knocks on the door.

There’s a few beats of silence before a muffled voice calls out.

“What do you want?”

Draco quirks an eyebrow as he crosses his arms against his chest. He props himself against the door jamb, tilting his head towards the door. “It’s me, Granger, open up.”

“I know it’s you. I still demand an answer to my question.”

“Don’t be difficult, now. You know exactly why I’m here.”

“Stop mucking her about and just tell her it’s urgent, Malfoy!” Potter hisses. Draco shakes his head and before he can count to five, Granger’s door creaks open so he can push the rest of the way in.

This office is much smaller than her previous one, a desk in the centre of the room with a small box of her belonging perched on the corner of it. The lighting is bright, which works because maintenance has Granger’s office window depicting tropical-storm like conditions. Granger is seated in her chair, quietly slipping her wand up her sleeve. Draco bites back a gasp when he gets a full look of her.

“Oh, God, Hermione,” Potter whimpers.

For someone as powerful and animated as Granger, it’s easy to forget just how small she is in comparison to her boisterous personality―it always seems to fill to the brim whatever space she’s occupying. Sitting in the leather office chair is an unrecognisably frail version of that woman. There are dark circles around her sunken vacant eyes, her usually glowing, dewy brown skin has a gray ashen tint to it that makes her look sickly and gaunt, and her lustrous hair is pulled back into a severe bun. Her impeccable posture is gone, replaced with rounded shoulders and a bowed head. Even from his spot by the door, Draco can see just how bloodshot her eyes are.

“Merlin, Granger,” Draco steps forward, unfolding his arms as he’s hit with a sudden loss of words. He’s never seen Granger look so pitiful in the last two years that they’ve worked together. An immeasurable concern for her floods him, a tightness gripping in his chest as this withdrawn, sickly woman swipes at her tear-stained cheeks.

Granger sniffs before clearing her throat, her voice still gravelly. “What can I help you with, Malfoy? I’m sure Gedeon told you everything about my resignation letter.”

“Ah, yes. But you forgot to send me your resignation letter,” Draco says softly, making his way towards her desk. There’s only one chair in front of it and it looks as if it’s made of plastic, a far cry from the lush armchairs from her previous office. He has to wonder if this was truly a resignation or a demotion. Or both. Draco perches on the edge of his seat, clasping his hands together in his lap. Draco can rationalise the air of gloom around her; after all, she believes Potter is lost forever in death. The dead, vacant look in her eyes, however, that’s something he can’t stomach. Draco has seen Granger cry before, miserable, frustrated, silly, incandescently happy. Granger speaks through her eyes. This vacant look now in them is alien to him.

“You should obviously be at home so the Weasel can look over you and the bump. You look like shite.”

Granger’s shoulders tremble, as if she’s cold. She draws in a slow breath. “Ron is handling all the funeral preparations. I,” Granger pauses, drawing in another slow breath. “I don’t have the strength.”

Draco nods, briefly glancing out the window before settling his gaze back on Granger. It was time to get straight to the point.

“We both know that something is amiss concerning Potter’s death, Granger. I think you know more about it than I do. Actually, I think you’re directly involved in it.”

“Malfoy!” Potter calls out angrily. “You’re doing the exact opposite of what I asked you to do. This isn’t going to compel her to share information, she’s just going to clam up at your accusations.”

Draco ignores him. At his accusation, a blaze of fiery incredulity flashes in Granger’s bloodshot eyes before it’s snuffed out as the eerie, vacant look clouds over her gaze once more.

“Get out of my office,” she says levelly.

Draco sneers. “Not until you tell me what’s going on. A little birdie in the Patrol Department claims that Potter’s body was identified by you. I find that a bit strange considering dear old Aunt Andromeda is Potter’s Emergency contact.”

Granger shrugs, her hand trembling as she smooths back her perfectly in place hair―another strange thing he’s noticed about her today―her hair is almost always done up in a messy bun. “Andromeda couldn’t make it so she sent me.”

Draco sits back in his seat. Her excuse certainly makes sense to him but as he glances up at Potter for some kind of confirmation, the other man is staring darkly at Granger, his brows furrowed with a deep frown marring his face.

“Something is wrong with her…This...this isn’t Hermione,” Potter says slowly.

Draco’s head snaps back to look at Granger, an eyebrow quirked. “Polyjuice?” Draco whispers from the corner of his mouth, lips barely moving.

“Pardon me?” Granger asks.

“No, that’s not what I meant,” Potter trails off.

He then approaches Granger’s desk, that same critical expression on his face as he scans her desk. When Draco doesn’t respond, she sighs.

“Malfoy, please, I’m tired. I would like to finish up the few tasks I have for today so I can go home and have Ron look after me.”

Potter shakes his head, now standing beside Granger, eyes wide as he stares down at her. He crosses his arms against his chest. “I can’t register the person sitting in front of me as the same person I’ve known for over half my life. Hermione would not be at work right now. She’d be busying herself in doing everything she can to either expose foul play or prepare for my funeral if she thought I died naturally. This cold indifference isn’t like her at all.”

“I’d like you to explain your decisions behind resigning,” Draco states. “I’ve never known you to be a quitter, even in the face of adversity.”

There’s another flicker of emotion in Granger’s eyes. It looks pained as a low sound, almost like a gurgle, bubbles up her throat as she wraps her arms around her belly, her lower lip trembling. She holds herself like this for a few nerve-wracking beats before she straightens up in her seat. Draco watches her with growing dread as Potter’s words come rushing back to him―this isn’t Granger at all.

“This is different,” she finally whispers. “Now, please, get out.”

Draco feels a muscle twitch in his jaw as annoyance sets in. He flexes his hands, the weakness in his left a sore reminder of what he’s got to lose if he can’t keep his emotions in check. He can’t lose his temper with Granger. He takes a deep breath.

“Was it Gedeon? Did he say something to you to make you resign? Does it have to do with Potter’s death? Just tell me what you know,” Draco rushes out.

Granger flinches back, her brown eyes once again shining and expressive, this time with panic.

“What is it? You can tell me, Granger, I can help you, protect you. We can help each other figure out what the hell is going on here. Potter―”

Draco swallows and meets Potter gaze. With a nod of his head, Draco receives the answer to his unspoken question.

“Potter came back as a ghost, Granger.”

There. Again. Another flicker of emotion. Draco’s never seen her this in control of her emotions. It’s almost as if she’s suddenly developed Occlumency skills that exceed his own. He knows from previous conversation that Granger isn’t a skilled Occlumens.

Granger is as still as a stone as she levels a hard look at him. “Harry’s gone.”

“Potter is standing right beside you, Granger. You just can’t see him.”

“No.” Granger suddenly stands to her feet, swaying. “You’re sick in the head to sprout these disgusting lies. I-I can’t believe you, Malfoy. Why? Why would you do this?”

“You know something, Granger.”

“I know nothing about Harry’s death beyond what the Medical Examiner told me!” she shouts, tears forming at the corner of her eyes again. “He died saving a family from a string of arson burglaries. He died a hero!”

“Listen to me,” Draco says softly, rising to his own feet, hands up and palms facing Granger. “You know Potter didn’t die in a fire, Granger. I know he didn’t either, because Potter is standing right beside me and still feels a connection to his body. For some reason I’m the only person that can see him and he doesn’t remember the last six months of his life. Use that brilliant mind of yours...you know this is the work of something Dark if Potter died, came back in spirit form, but can’t be seen by everyone. You know you can help Potter by just telling us what happened.”

Another flicker.

Granger’s entire body trembles as she slowly makes her way around the table to stand before Draco. Her lower jaw quivers as she draws in another breath, this time strangled and raspy.

“I can’t help you,” she says roughly, the words sounding forced. “You must remember something.” She sounds desperate and broken, panting briefly before her hand flies up to slap across her mouth, now gagging.

“Merlin, speaking about it makes her physically ill,” Potter says quietly, painfully almost, a hand coming up to ball against his lips as he watches Granger.

Granger visibly swallows several times as she lowers her hand, a small frown gracing her lips as she stares forlornly at Draco. “You must,” she whimpers.

“I’m sorry. I don’t, Granger. I don’t remember anything pertaining to Potter or his death. Someone made sure that I wouldn’t remember.”

As he says this Granger fidgets, her shoulders rolling back and her hands twitching as they come forward to rest against her belly.

At her silence, Draco continues. “They made sure to completely fucking obliterate my memories of Potter from the last six months.” Draco draws in a deep breath. “Some of my memories have been coming back, but I just can’t piece together what’s happening yet. You can help be the glue, Granger, if you can just tell us what happened.”

Draco looks away from Granger’s crumpled face to stare at Potter’s widening eyes. The look on his face slides from bemusement to suspicion. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“You said it yourself, Potter, you don’t trust me. Imagine sharing that bit of information with someone who wants to accuse you of being involved in their demise.”

“What are the memories that have come back?”

“Now’s not the time, Potter,” Draco snaps. At that moment, Granger closes the space between them, her hands curling around the collar of Draco’s lab coat. Despite her very pregnant stature she’s able to jerk him forward with a surprising strength. But that’s not what causes the plummeting sensation in Draco’s belly. It’s the devastation written across her face―the brimming tears, the trembling gash of lips, the rigid posture―that does Draco in. His hands come up to gently cover Granger’s as she forcibly shakes him.

“Whatever it is, Granger―Hermione. Hermione, please. Whatever it is, I can protect you. We have to stick together. Tell me what you know.”

“Get out,” she sobs, her grasp tightening. “You evil, disgusting, gormless little worm! Get out of my sight!” she screeches, tears now streaming down her cheeks. “How dare you come in here and make up such a disgusting display of lies. Harry died in a fire! Harry died a hero! Get out! Get out! Get out!” she cries brokenly, pushing him back towards the door with each cry.

Draco hears Potter call out, “Hermione, please!”

He clings to her. Draco knows that after so many months of repressing his sentiments about the people around him, this trickling feeling that’s both familiar and foreign to him rushes through him, bubbling up his chest as he stares at Granger’s tear-stained face. His mind helpfully attributes words to what he’s feeling: grief, sorrow, pain. All of these emotions collide like a terrible torrent within his chest, pulling him down like a riptide as a sharp pain shoots down his already weak left arm. He gasps, a thick fog creeping across his thoughts to dull his senses, a horrible sense of doom choking him as his head swims from the pain of it all, threatening to split his skull wide open.

His vision darkens as Granger’s hands slowly begin to slip away. For a second, he believes he hears Granger utter a word: Amortentia.

Draco feels himself sinking into a pit of pain-free darkness as the ground beneath his feet collapses. He gasps.

“I have an idea you may find interesting, Malfoy.”

Draco sets down his copy of the most recent results from their tests, a small tut of annoyance escaping him as Granger strolls into his office to plop down onto the cushy armchair before his desk. She smiles grandly at him, chucking off her short heels before carefully tucking her feet underneath her. She sighs happily and sinks back into the chair. Draco notices that Granger’s wild hair is free from the usual messy bun and is now shaped like an enormous cloud around her head, her lab coat open to show a long simple black dress that clings to her protruding belly. She looks content, excited, and refreshingly healthy despite the long hours they’ve been pulling in the lab.

“Oh hello, Granger, why don’t you and your bump come in and make yourselves comfortable?” Draco drawls. With a flick of his wand, the left drawer of his desk slides open and out floats a Chocolate Frog that he sends Granger’s way. He keeps them around nowadays more to supply her cravings than to soothe his own sweet tooth. She snatches it out of the air with a little triumphant “whoop!”

Draco watches in amusement as she opens it, a collectible card of Potter staring up at them before she Vanishes it. Biting off the head of the squirming candy, she closes her eyes and hums in pleasure.

“What, praytell, will I find interesting?”

“Harry,” Granger says around her chocolate.

Draco narrows his eyes at her. “I told you before. I’m not interested in discussing what’s happening with Potter. But you know how instrumental he’s been in Mother's case.”

Granger waves a hand. “Not about that, though, we will revisit my speculations later. I meant...for the Veil.”

All subtle playfulness evaporates between them as Draco fixes her with an icy glare. “You want to put Potter in front of the Veil? Considering his traumatic history with the object?”

Draco had heard all about his Aunt Bellatrix pushing Sirius Black into the Veil in front of Potter. The story had contributed to Draco’s musings about the mechanics of the object, the various ways the Veil could engage with individuals who cross over out of willingness, force, or persuasion.

“I think it makes the most sense and therefore is the perfect choice.”

“Just because something makes sense doesn’t mean it’s the safest choice.”

Granger frowns. “Do you think I wouldn’t consider all the things that could go wrong so as not to jeopardise Harry’s wellbeing? He’s strong. You know that Harry’s magically stronger than several wizards combined, he defeated Voldemort, encountered incredibly potent dark magic his entire life, and has developed his magic to the point that he can almost cast entirely wandlessly and non-verbally. We just want to document his reactions, it could be exactly what we need to break through this plateau we’re experiencing. And let’s not forget that Harry already straddled both realms twice―”

“No!” Draco snaps, making Granger flinch at his sharp tone. “I’m sorry, but no. I know you think I’m doing a disservice to this project by not using Potter, but, he doesn’t know everything about it, does he, Granger? It would be unethical.”

Granger tosses her half-eaten frog onto the table, the headless frog twitching before jumping off of Draco’s desk to disappear behind his bookshelf. Her incredulous look darkens her features, sending a chill down Draco’s spine at how cold she looks. “How dare you assume I wouldn’t be anything but above board with Harry if he decides to help us. I would never put Harry in an unethical situation or one that would cause him harm―oh!” Granger jumps in her seat, a hand flying to her belly.

Draco shoots to his feet. “What’s wrong?”

Granger’s face briefly contorts in pain before it smooths over, an annoyed huff escaping her. “My goodness, that was just a kick! I can’t even begin to imagine what the real thing will be like,” she says wryly with a weak smile.

Just like that, the serious air between them breaks and Draco rolls his eyes as he sinks back onto his chair.

“You’re going to be the death of me one of these days, Granger. Or Potter.”

Granger snorts. “Nonsense. If you’ll just hear me out...”

Draco groans, kicking his feet up onto his desk and reclining back in his seat.

“Fine. Explain.”

Draco gasps once again as he’s brought back to his current surrounding, flailing like a drowning man on the cold stone ground. With a hiss he stills against the ground, his right hand gripping his left arm as a white hot pain lances through it. He shuts his eyes as he cries out, tears squeezing from the corners as he rides out the pain. When it subsides, sweaty and panting, he opens his eyes to stare up at the cracks in the ceiling of the office.

It was them. It must be. Draco must have agreed to whatever Hermione’s idea was and it backfired. The Veil―what were they doing with it? Did they push Potter in? Did he fall in an accident? How did they even convince him to stand before it?

“I know what was so off about Hermione.”

Draco starts, carefully turning his pounding head towards Potter’s voice, finding him sitting on the ground beside Draco, one leg pulled up to his chest with the other sprawled out before him. Another pain, a different kind of pain, shoots through Draco as he looks at Potter as he recalls it: regret.

“Where’s Granger?” Draco croaks out.

“She stared at you spasming for a while before gathering her cloak and bag to leave without a second glance.”

Draco tries to sit up, wincing as he does so. He finally has a possible explanation for Potter’s death. “Potter, I have to tell you something.”

Potter ignores him, still staring at the open office door. “You’ll probably have a bruise on your elbow, you caught the desk on your way down.”

Draco pauses as he watches Potter’s hands tighten into fists. Draco swallows. “What is it?”

“Hermione’s been Imperiused.”

-------

“How are you like this? She’s not safe!” Draco hisses as they make their way towards the lifts. Potter is eerily calm after his revelation and it irks Draco fiercely. “We should track her down, find a way to break her free.”

He recalls the flickers of emotion in Granger’s eyes―she must have been trying to fight the Curse. He’s hit with an immense sorrow and regret, knowing the magical drain it must have caused her to even fight against the Imperius for a second, let alone long enough to produce a sentence or two in opposition of it.

Once Draco was strong enough to stand on his feet, Potter tried to convince him that they needed to leave, fast, and make their way to Grimmauld Place believing that they’d find more information within his personal office. Draco, still reeling with the lingering effects of his newly reclaimed memory and the overwhelming feeling of concern that’s now situated itself in the centre of his chest for Granger, wanted instead to track her down.

“She’s safer if we stay away. The person that did this is likely closely monitoring her.”

“We have to at least get word out to Weasley,” Draco urges.

“And you think Ron would trust you after Hermione tells him you were sprouting horrific, painful lies to her? Or, what if they’re controlling Ron too?”

“It’s worth a shot, Potter. We can’t continue on not knowing if she’s alright,” Draco sighs heavily, his left arm spasming as he shoves his hand into the pocket of his lab coat. He holds his weakening arm tightly against his side.

Potter is silent for a few moments before he lifts his chin to watch the lift arrive with a ding. “I have a way we can monitor both Hermione and Ron, we just need to get to Grimmauld Place.”

Draco nods, feeling a fissure of relief. “It’s clear that whomever did this to Granger cursed me as well. Though, why Imperius Granger, but ruthlessly obliterate my memories?” Draco muses as they step onto the lift and zip towards the Atrium.

Potter grimaces. “The baby.”

Draco draws in a harsh breath, suddenly feeling ill. Memory Charms alone can cause a multitude of damage to a foetus. A Dark curse, stronger than Obliviate and targeting cognitive functions? Draco doesn’t even want to begin to list all the horrible effects this may have on a pregnant person. The pain he’s experiencing, for one, could possibly reach a foetus.

“So, whomever is controlling her has taken care not to harm her or her child in an effort to keep her quiet about your death.”

“I highly doubt they care whether or not she’s harmed, but at least for now they’ll want to maintain appearances. We just need to figure out what happened and backtrack my last steps so I can find my body,” Potter says, his eyes flashing with anger as they step out into the Atrium.

Draco clears his throat. “About that, Potter. I want to be as transparent as possible here and fill you in on the memories I’ve been reclaiming. The last one in particular―”

Draco is cut short as a blur of red whips pass him, a cacophony of noise following behind it as a pair of hands grip his weak left arm, yanking his hand from out of his pocket that was functioning as a somewhat sling. He winces, clenching his teeth against the pain of a thousand needles erupting down his arm at the harsh move. A team of ten Aurors are gathering near the Floos, a frenzied energy buzzing among them as they shout instructions and coordinates.

“We need a Healer!” some shouts.

“Do we have someone at St Mungo’s on call?”

“Never mind that, I’ve got someone!” shouts the Auror holding Draco’s arm, an older man with a long brown scraggly beard. Draco doesn’t know him but has seen him around before.

“Auror Castor,” Potter mutters.

“Unspeakable Malfoy, I’m glad I ran into you, we need an Unspeakable on site,” Auror Castor starts. “And if I’m not mistaken, you’re the same lad that fixed up Jenkins, weren’t you?”

“I was and there’s no need to manhandle me,” Draco snaps, yanking himself free from Auror Castor with a scowl. “What seems to be the problem?”

Auror Castor raises a brow but takes a small step back from Draco. “We’ve got a 10-29 out there with a possible 10-54,” he says, gesturing towards the Floo before making his way towards it.

Draco follows beside him. “I have no idea what any of that means.”

“Hazardous situation and a possible dead body,” Auror Castor and Potter say at the same time. Draco purses his lips.

“I don’t have my medical bag with me. How can I possibly be of any service?”

“One of the Aurors on site will have some supplies. It’s protocol to carry some basic potions on a 10-54. It’s in the Muggle part of town, which means we’ll have to blend in,” the Auror waves his wand over the length of his body, his Auror robes melting away to reveal an all black uniform of the Metropolitan Police. “I reckon you’ll be alright in your lab coat. The situation is developing, so stay alert at all times. Let’s go.”

----

Draco can see the haze of the Muggle-Repelling Charm as they enter the narrow side street off the main high road, which is good considering the sight before him.

A naked middle-aged man is convulsing on the pavement, his sickly pale skin appears to have areas that look like red inflamed rashes, his eyes round and nearly bulging from the sockets. But the most startling aspect of his man’s ailments is the tar-black vomit spewing from his mouth, the liquid slithering in thin tendrils to coalesce into a single puddle, thick like molasses, and shimmering. In between his vomiting the man gurgles and screams, his body heaving and contorting violently. Several Aurors rush forward, but even with three Aurors holding him down, Protective Charms on their entire bodies, the naked man still manages to arch his back off the ground.

“What the fuck is that?” Potter cries out, his eyes round behind his glasses.

“I have no idea what that is,” Draco says. Auror Castor shoots him a quizzical look.

“Well, get to it so you can figure it out, lad,” Auror Castor says.

Draco huffs as he makes his way towards the screaming, convulsing man. The Aurors holding him down look up at once as soon as he’s by the man’s feet.

“We didn’t know if we should use magic to restrain him,” one of the Aurors say.

“I would recommend it, otherwise this man might very well overpower you,” Draco drawls as the Auror nearly loses his grip on the man’s leg.

“Do you have this under control?” Potter asks as he scans the scene. Draco shrugs.

“I suppose we’re about to find out,” Draco mutters from the corner of his mouth.

“I’m going to listen in on Castor’s interviews, I won’t be far,” Potter says, nodding before following after Castor. Draco watches him go, wondering exactly how much distance they can put between one another in an open space. They haven’t exactly tested it beyond Parkinson House. Potter seems to be able to go wherever Draco goes, but hasn’t been able to travel anywhere else without Draco’s presence; they were somehow tethered to one another, in a sense.

“Er...Unspeakable Malfoy? What should we do next?” the Auror asks, pulling Draco from his reverie.

“Right then,” Draco says, rolling his shoulders.

He then instructs them to drape an emergency blanket over the man, irritated that they’ve kept him naked this entire time. He then has them turn him onto his side before stablising him with a Full Body-Bind. The man’s eyes are still bulging but the vomiting has eased, just a small steady stream of the dark substance flows from his mouth to the widening puddle. It takes Draco a couple of tries before he can cast a Protection Charm around the puddle, and even longer to conjure a tube with a stopper, the pain in his arm causing him to mess up the appropriate wand movement. Another spell, and he’s able to siphon some of the thick vomit. Even trapped within the vial the liquid slams against the glass, as if trying to break free. Draco grimaces, having never seen anything quite like it. After adding several strong Protection Charms around it, he slips it into a DMLE evidence bag.

It’s not until Draco kneels beside the man that he smells it: old textbooks, his mother’s perfume, and something sweet and syrupy. Draco flinches.

Amortentia.

He looks around his surroundings. Potter is standing next to Auror Castor, seemingly gathering information about the situation at hand, other Aurors are interviewing unsuspecting Muggles they’ve detained beyond the Repellant. The Aurors who had previously restrained the naked man had worn Protective Charms, and either could not smell the Amortentia or simply did not recognise it.

Draco leans over the man. “I know you’re frightened right now, but I’m a Healer and I’m here to help you,” Draco says soothingly.

He casts a Diagnostic Charm and grimaces. The man’s blood pressure is dangerously high, he’s tachycardic, and his temperature is abnormal. Draco rests a hand against the man’s hot skin and leans in to peer into the man’s face. His eyes are dilated. The liquid the man is regurgitating isn’t the Mother of Pearl sheen associated with the potion, but whatever is leaving the man’s body was caused by an overdose of some kind of concoction with Amortentia properties.

Draco gets to work with Cooling Charms and shifts through the contents of the medical bag left behind by the attending Aurors. He’s limited in how he controls the vomiting or whatever pain the man is in without his own potions. He uses the only pain relief potion in the bag, as well as a few drops of Dittany and Salamander blood under the man’s tongue. Suddenly, the man begins to gag.

“Oh fuck.” Draco quickly uses a spell to clear the man’s airways with an Anapneo, but his lips still begin to turn blue. The man’s eyes begin to flutter and Draco uses spell after spell to help the man breathe. By the time Draco gets the man stable, he’s worked up a sweat, a sigh of relief escaping him when the man’s eyes become more focused. He stares up at Draco, a shocked, pleading look on his face as a moan escapes him.

“I’m Unspeakable Malfoy. You’re safe. I believe you have ingested a dangerous drug and overdosed. You’re stable now, and I will let the Aurors know that they can transfer you to St Mungo’s for further evaluation,” Draco reassures the man. Instead of the man calming down, he moans louder, his eyes wide with fear. Perplexed, Draco clears his throat. “You’re going to be okay, Sir. Perhaps you’re wondering why you’re in a Full Body Bind? It is for your own protection, and I will pull you out of it as soon as possible.”

When that doesn’t calm the man, Draco turns to search the medical bag for a Calming Draught. Suddenly, a hand claps down on his shoulder and Draco jerks away, looking up into the eyes of Milton Edmondson.

“What are you doing here?” Draco asks, drawing his attention back to the bag. He finds a small vial of blue liquid and unstoppers it, the scent of lavender and peppermint powerful. He tips the man’s head back just far enough to pour the potion down his throat, the effects immediate as the man’s eyes flutter shut.

Milton crouches down beside him.

“I see you found Mr Graham.”

Draco frowns. “Do you know this man?” he asks as he recasts a Diagnostic Charm. All of his vitals are still slightly elevated, but nowhere near the dangerous levels they were before.

Milton squints at Draco before briefly biting down on his lower lip. He seems to come to some sort of conclusion because he nods and smiles at Draco. “You’re right. We shouldn’t discuss his details in public. Gedeon mentioned that you voiced some concerns with the direction of the project. I personally had qualms at first, but when Gedeon showed me the results, well, Christ, I cried a bit,” Milton chuckles before slapping Draco on the shoulder once more. “I’m really happy you decided to stay on. Despite Gedeon gloating that you’d be in the lab this morning, he was feeling rather nervous that you’d prove him wrong.”

Draco continues to remain silent, thoughts racing as they try to connect how Milton, someone who just arrived today, would know who this man is, and why Draco would know anything about his details. Draco busies himself instead with partially removing the Body-Bind to see if the convulsions have eased. There’s only a slight tremor left in Mr Graham’s limbs.

“A common side-effect. Did he go into cardiac arrest?”

“No,” Draco says slowly, hoping that by saying as little as possible Milton will fill in the gaps.

Milton leans in closer, his voice barely above a whisper. “What do you smell?”

Draco lifts a shoulder, his heartbeat as erratic as his thoughts as he questions whether or not his entire department is embroiled in some kind of scandal involving people overdosing on a cocked-up version of Amortentia. He rationalises that somehow his scientific studies must’ve gotten out and people are now making some street drug version from his findings. And this man, Mr Graham, must be a victim of its dangerous side effects.

Draco wonders if this incident has anything to do with what he knows about Potter.

He looks around once more in search of Potter, his gaze immediately finding him standing near the shell-shocked Muggles. He turns, as if sensing Draco’s eyes on him. They hold one another’s gazes and once again Draco is struck with regret, guilt building in the pit of his stomach at the thought that whatever idea Granger came up with, Draco had signed off on, killing Potter and leaving him trapped as a shell of himself in the land of the living. Draco’s discomfort must show on his face, because Potter frowns and starts to come towards him.

And then Potter’s eyes narrow as they land on Milton, his frown sliding into a sneer.

At Milton’s sigh, Draco turns to face him.

“I smell the lavenders that overgrow in my garden during the Spring, the Peach Cobbler my grandmother used to make during the holidays, and my late husband’s aftershave.”

“Draco, is everything alright?” Potter asks when he’s beside him.

Draco blinks up at him. When had he gone back to Draco?

“I’d really like it if we became friends, Draco. We do have a lot in common.”

“How do you fathom that?” Draco mutters, drawing his attention back to Milton.

Milton smiles ruefully at him, and Draco’s taken aback at how drastically it transforms his face. He looks younger, playful, and even more handsome. “I see I have my work cut out for me with you. Why don’t you head on out; I’ll make sure he receives the proper care.”

“Come on, Draco. We should make our way to Grimmauld Place. I have a gut feeling about this bloke and it’s not a positive one,” Potter says, still lingering beside Draco, a steely look on his face.

Eventually, he nods and gets to his feet, ready to escape everything about this encounter that he simply can’t begin to understand. In the end, there really was no choice.

Chapter Text

“You become. It takes a long time. That's why it doesn't happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don't matter at all, because once you are Real you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand.”

―Margery Williams Bianco, The Velveteen Rabbit

“Harry Potter lives at 12 Grimmauld Place…”

When Draco was almost five years old he visited Grimmauld Place for the first and only time. Aunt Walburga had been incredibly frail at the time, her severe dark features making her look even scarier in her gaunt state. He had been terrified of her, her dark, dank house, and decrepit old house-elf. But she’d been dead for decades now, and there was no reason for the irrational dread he’s been feeling since Potter uttered the address. He blamed it on the Curse.

So it was surprising when he landed in Potter’s foyer, Potter materialising beside him, the curtains of a covered portrait shifted from his arrival and Walburga’s piercing, screeching voice pierced the quiet.

Draco nearly faints.

“How dare these filthy half-breeds, mudbloods, and blood traitors roam my halls!”

Potter snorts. “Do me a favour and pull that curtain down,” Potter says, making his way down the hallway.

As Draco approaches the portrait, Walburga quiets immediately as her dark eyes narrow.

“Narcissa’s boy.” She gives him a once-over. “Still a blood-traitor I see, fraternising with a half-blood.”

Draco plasters a fake smile on his face, lifting a hand to grip the end of the curtain. “I’m gay too. I promise you I’ve been called far worse.”

Instead of lashing out at him, Walburga sniffs, turning her nose up. “I hear everything that goes on in my house, regardless of the half-blood filth’s attempt to keep me hidden away. I know all about your disgusting proclivities; but, I was very sorry to hear about your mother. Narcissa was such a lovely girl. I can’t imagine she was very pleased towards the end of her life, knowing her only son, her only heir, is a sodomite—”

Draco yanks the curtain in place, his breathing laboured as he’s plunged into blessed silence.

“You’re mistaken, you vile bitch. My mother loved me. All of me,” he spat, his voice slightly shaking. The curtains rattled in retaliation for a moment, but otherwise remained perfectly still.

How in the world she knew about his preferences, he didn’t care, but for her to assume his mother was disappointed in him, or judged him stung him more than he’d like. He knew it wasn’t true but some small, helplessly insecure part in his heart that he locked away for years comes rearing its ugly head. Did she really accept all of him? Did she ever pretend, or hide even the tiniest bit of her dissatisfaction over his lifestyle? Panic grips him like a vice, sudden and violent. Draco steps back from the portrait, his hands trembling and eyes itchy, surprising himself when a dry sob escapes him.

“Don’t let her get into your head.”

With a jolt, Draco turns on his heel to face Potter and his stupid, sympathetic expression. Embarrassed, Draco clenches his jaw and affects an air of nonchalance.

“Hardly,” he grits, tearing his gaze from Potter to finally take in his surroundings. He takes his time, willing the tightness in his shoulders and chest to ease away. The house seems lighter and airier than he remembers, but not by much. As a child, the damp, mildew smell that permeated each room was seared into his memory. At least it’s gone now. He’s quite sure there were a bunch of house-elf heads that once hung on the walls too. Potter steps closer.

“Hey,” Potter starts softly, soothing. “I know you’re probably crawling in your skin right now because of her shitty comments, believe me, I’ve been there. She’s been especially nasty since I sent Kreacher away to one of those posh house-elf retirement facilities.”

Draco bites the inside of his cheek. “Why don’t you just take the bloody portrait down?”

Potter smiles weakly. “I’ve tried. There’s a Permanent Sticking Charm on the godforsaken thing.” Potter pauses, running a fidgeting hand through his hair. “You know, for what it’s worth, I think your mum would be so proud of you. For hanging on despite everything, trying to live your life the best way you can, and for saving the lives that you do, as a Healer and an Unspeakable.”

Draco drags his walls up, though occluding now feels like a slow painful crawl through shards of glass as they settle in place. His jaw clenches as his hands balls into fists, fighting back a whimper, but it’s worth the physical pain to hide the outpour of the emotional. He hadn’t been able to save Potter, and the depths of his very being screams that he could have. He doesn’t know how, but with the trickle of memories anew, he just knows he failed on some part.

“You don’t know me, Potter,” Draco says tightly. He draws up the anger he felt when Potter accused him of living a half-life and it leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. “I didn’t ask you for your pity or reassurance. And I certainly don’t trust or need them.”

Potter continues to stare at him, that pitying look still on his face. After a few seconds, Potter starts down the hallway. “Follow me, I need to show you something,” he calls over his shoulder.

When Draco reaches Potter’s office, the first thing he notices is how tidy and organised it is.

It’s a large room, with floor-to-ceiling windows with the heavy blackout drapes currently pulled back, allowing sunshine to spill into the room, heating the wooden floors and illuminating dust particles Draco kicks up as he strolls the space. He notes the color-coordinated files, the alphabetised books on the massive shelves behind the office desk that’s set in the middle of the room, with its lush leather chair. The laptop Potter mentioned earlier is sat on top of the desk beside an inbox/outbox, along with yesterday’s copy of the Daily Prophet, and a half-drunk cup of tea. A surreal sort of feeling washes over him. Potter’s office feels familiar, and somewhat reminds Draco of his own, both in setup and organisational choices.

Draco then notices the large clock sat above the empty fireplace, now understanding what Potter meant when he said he’d be able to keep track of Granger and Weasley.

The wall clock is massive, situated slightly above the intricately carved mantel. Draco smirks when he realises that the mantel’s carvings are of entwined snakes. The edge of the clock is gilded gold with a pearlescent-coloured backdrop. Over twenty tiny gold hands with people’s names on them point towards various words etched along the edge of the clock: Home, Hospital, Diagon Alley, The Burrow, Travelling, Visiting, Hogwarts, In Danger, Dead, Lost, Mortal Peril, and so on. Fascinated, Draco approaches it, immediately searching out Granger and Weasley, both pointing to The Burrow. There’s a cluster of hands there, the entire Weasley clan, his Aunt Andromeda, her grandson Edward, and surprisingly, Rubeus Hagrid, Kingsley Shacklebolt, and Minerva McGonagall.

Potter, who’s been silently watching Draco peer about the room and investigate the clock finally speaks up.

“They’re both at the Burrow. If Hermione were in any kind of danger the clock would tell me. Molly has a similar clock to this one at the Burrow, which is how I got the idea. I had this one made three years ago when Ron had a workplace injury at Weasley Wheezes. Everyone up here gave me their permission...I wanted to make sure that my friends and family were always safe...constant vigilance and all that.”

From the corner of his eye, Draco can see the sad smile on his face. Draco can appreciate Potter’s need to keep an eye out on his friends and family, even if it comes off a bit strange that he knows the location of someone at any given moment. Potter’s lost too many people over the years. Draco frowns. It makes it all the more worse knowing just how protective and loving Potter is when it comes to his friends. Even at Hogwarts, Potter’s fierce loyalty and love annoyed Draco, not because it was ridiculously Gryffindor; Draco can now admit it was due to jealousy. He wanted to feel that level of commitment and love. He shamefully wanted Potter to embrace him with that kind of energy. It was one of many emotions Draco had buried deep during the war, only slipping through a few times. Particularly, the night Potter and his friends were brought to Malfoy Manor by Snatchers during the war. Draco allowed his emotions to cloud his decisions, refusing to identify Potter despite having spent years glaring into his face across the Great Hall, Quidditch Pitch, and classrooms.

Quirking a brow, Draco finds Millicent’s name listed next to Luna’s, pointed at Home. He hadn’t known that Mills and Potter were close enough that she’d earn a spot on his precious clock. Longbottom and his wife Abbott are pointed at Diagon Alley, Finnegan and Thomas, Travelling.

And Potter…

Potter’s hand is stuck between two words: Dead and Lost.

A shudder passes through him and he steps back from the clock, needing to get away from it. He decides to investigate Potter’s desk, flopping down onto his seat. He pulls open drawers, moves the contents inside of them around, touches the underside of the desk for trap doors or hidden compartments. They’ve wasted too much time dallying.

Potter tuts, crossing his arms against his chest as he watches. “Yeah, no, go right ahead,” he deadpans.

“Have you any idea where to start?” Draco asks.

“None. The office looks completely different to me. I’m nowhere near this neat.”

“Perhaps someone came in and tidied it up after you died. Perhaps Granger came here to steal proof that would expose how you truly died.”

Potter cocks his head and hums thoughtfully. “I doubt it. See that over there?” Potter points to the bookshelf that expands half the length of the wall behind him. Draco spins around in the swivel chair, his eyes searching.

“That’s one thing that is in its place—my sneakoscope. It would be on the floor and lit up if someone was in here doing something nefarious. They wouldn’t be able to Charm it to shut off or steal it, I’ve tinkered with it a bit and it’s impossible to take it out of this room.”

“Constant vigilance, indeed,” Draco mutters under his breath, eyeing the small object sat between Hogwarts: A History and Hungarian Horntails: An Encyclopaedia. He’s not at all surprised that Potter owns one, and has even enhanced it. Potter has always been naturally suspicious, and now it’s probably exacerbated by his work as an Auror.

Draco holds his breath, his thoughts turning to the rather important memory he’s yet to share with Potter. He wonders if keeping that information to himself counts as deceptive and if it’s enough to set off the gadget, marking Draco as untrustworthy and solidifying all of Potter’s concerns. He’d rather not find out. With his cool mask of indifference in place, and his shaky, prickly emotions carefully sorted and precariously stored away, Draco swings back around to face Potter, feeling confident enough to tell Potter what he knows.

“My last episode in Granger’s office,” Draco begins, tilting his chin up and meeting Potter’s keen patience head on. “It was about you. It must not have been too long ago, Granger looked as far along in her pregnancy as she does now. In the memory she had an idea that involved us placing you in front of the Veil in the Death Chamber.”

Potter recoils, his face a mixture of thunderous revolusion and anger. “What?” he hisses.

Draco notices the uptick in his heartbeat and tries to calm down; the walls around his carefully guarded emotions quiver in the face of Potter’s burgeoning anger. Draco lets out a harsh breath.

“I’m not completely sure, but from the handful of memories I’ve reclaimed, it looks like I was investigating, potentially experimenting, with the Veil. Before you ask, I’m unsure in what capacity, how far along my investigations were, or how my project with Amortentia factors in.”

“What exactly do you do with the Amortentia?”

Draco leans back in Potter’s office chair, feeling small despite his air of indifference. “I essentially have been finding ways to use Amortentia as an aide in guarding against irrational or pathological variants of anxiety and depression in the brain. I’ve been conducting this research with a team of Unspeakables in the Love Chamber for nearly two years. I wanted—I wanted to help people who are in emotional pain.”

Potter’s anger seems to ease at that. “Why are you interested in the Veil?”

It’s become obvious to Draco for a while now that his mother’s death must have been the catalyst for his experimentations into Amortentia. He recalls sitting in his office at night, questioning near death experiences and his Amortentia research. It was all coming together in Draco’s head.

“I wanted...I wanted to know what kind of positive effects encountering the Veil would have on victims of a near death experience.”

Potter draws in a sharp breath before lifting a hand to press against the centre of his chest. “Did they take something...you took something away from me for this,” he says, tone hesitant and unsure.

Draco shakes his head, confused. This isn’t the first time Potter has mentioned this. “I don’t know. I don’t know what we would take from you? Granger said you were magically strong, that you’ve had two NDEs and would be able to do it. I suppose she meant you’d be able to handle whatever pull or-or whatever control the Veil may have over you. Potter, I’m so—” Draco’s voice catches on his half-apology. He tries to swallow, but a painful ball is now pressing up his throat. “I-I guess I entertained her idea,” he says instead.

Potter’s hand slides away, his arms loose at his side, suddenly seeming uncertain, as though he no longer knows how to interact with Draco.

With a sinking feeling Draco realises that his occluded walls no longer tremble but are cracking. He can feel the tiny pieces fall away, and beyond the surface, a roar as mighty as the flames of fiendfyre licking at the edges of his consciousness. As the last bits of his resolve disintegrates, he finds that it simply hurts too much to look at Potter. The grief and pain slipping through him is a seismic shift that leaves him feeling debilitated and spiritually bankrupt. Draco tears his gaze away, focusing on the tidy surface of Potter’s cherry wood desk. His eyelids feel heavy and his eyes burn.

“I’m so sorry,” Draco says softly, lifting his eyes from the table. “I don’t, I didn’t, we didn’t—it was just an idea.”

Potter’s shoulders sag, his jaw visibly clenched as glares at Draco. “The unpleasant thing about entertaining an idea like this is that eventually you’ll need to be able to face yourself, every day, for the rest of your life. Can you?”

Draco bites back a gasp as a rush of tears finally fill his eyes. He hates himself for it and even more for his resounding answer. “No.”

Potter nods. “I still need to know what happened on the last day of my life, Draco. I need to know why, when I experience even a sliver of anger, I turn into a bloody fucking monster. I need to know why Hermione is under Imperius, and figure out how to save her. And...I need to find a way to help you too.”

“I’m fine,” Draco counters.

“No. You’re not fine at all. There’s something off about your bloody department, and then there’s the Dark Curse Padma found on you. Your recent memory does illuminate a few things, but it certainly doesn’t answer everything. We have to keep going. I can’t allow my anger with you or Hermione to colour my next steps.”

Potter approaches him then, coming around the desk to stand beside him, his vibrant green eyes glowing behind his round glasses. Draco shrinks into himself, feeling horribly exposed and afraid under such a piercing gaze.

“I can’t absolve you of whatever regret or pain you may be feeling right now. I also can’t find it in myself to say I forgive whatever choices you may have made that contributed to my death, regardless of your memories being stolen from you. I can’t right now, and I hope you understand the reasons why without me having to explain them. But I do need your help, Draco. My body is out there, I still feel a connection to it, and I know-I know something else is missing from me, something that feels like a part of me is just...gone. I want both my body and that part of myself restored.”

Draco blinks several times, trying to soothe the pain in his eyes. “And-and w-what if you can’t come back? What if you have to cross over?” he stutters out, the tightness in his throat unbearable.

“I can’t stay like this,” Potter says simply, gesturing towards himself. “I feel something—terrible—growing inside of me. We’ve both seen some of it manifest. I don’t want to lose the ability to feel or my humanity. I don’t want to become a monster, Draco,” Potter whimpers.

For a moment Draco glimpses just how terrified Potter is. He isn’t reminded of the magically strong, robust Auror in front of him, but of the little boy he met at eleven, thin with knobbly knees and a wide-eyed stare. Potter looks fragile.

“I’d rather move on than stay in such a helpless position.”

Draco tries to hide the tremble in his hands, stomach churning at the idea that Potter will be gone. Gone forever. He’s too brave, too strong, and Draco wishes for just a moment that Potter wasn’t afraid, that Draco could somehow take that fear away from him. They’ve lived such separate lives, but in the back of Draco’s mind Potter has always been there. He’s always been a reminder to Draco to do better. Be better. Potter saved him, saved his mother even. Potter doesn’t deserve to be in the position he’s currently in, and it’s partially Draco’s fault.

Potter’s fear of becoming a monster is unsettling to Draco, as well. Draco’s spent the last six months trying to destroy his ability to feel, essentially becoming unemotional—something Potter considers monstrous.

Draco doesn’t want to be a monster. And as these thoughts grip him, he can feel his walls cracking even more as the drain of mental and physical exhaustion sets in. His left arm twitches, feeling heavy and weak. “I’ll help you. I’ll make sure you cross over, Potter. Just tell me what I need to do.”

There’s a searching look in Potter’s eyes, but it passes quickly. “You’re so eager to help heal others even though you refuse to heal yourself.”

Draco cringes. “That’s not true—”

“You don’t have to lie to me about this, I’ve been watching you, I’ve seen it,” Potter says softly. “Hell, Draco, I’ve felt it. You’ve been bottling up your emotions for so long, just the thought of experiencing them at all makes you want to kill yourself.”

Embarrassment flares through Draco as he scowls, teeth bared. “I’ve said it again and again, you don’t fucking know me. You have no idea what I’ve been through. You knew a coward who made all the wrong choices as a kid, one who tried to fill the shoes of grown men. That child died years ago and the man standing in front of you right now has seen—” Draco voice cracks, images of his mother’s body falling to the ground flashing across his mind. “You-you don’t know me,” says again, this time his throat tightening, the words warped and strangled.

The room is deadly silent as Potter stares blankly at him for several seconds. Draco is transfixed as Potter sucks in his bottom lip between his teeth. At the sight, Draco tries to ease some of the tension building along his shoulders by rolling them back.

Finally, Potter’s lips part with a sigh, the bottom lip glistening before a sad smile graces his lips. “The clock wasn’t the only thing I wanted to show you, there’s something I want to try with the mantel.”

Draco nods, relief washing over him at Potter’s decision to not argue with him. As he stands, Potter speaks up again. “And, Draco. Thank you for being honest with me.”

Stricken, Draco pauses, not moving from behind the desk as he gapes at Potter, his throat feeling unbearably tight. Potter shouldn’t be thanking him.

“Don’t thank me yet, Potter,” Draco finds himself saying. “I may be the reason why you're dead, remember?”

A mirthless laugh escapes Potter. “In the meantime, come here.”

With a defeated shrug, Draco strolls from behind the desk to stand facing the fireplace. Draco glances back up at the clock, his eyes now locking on a hand he had not noticed earlier—one with a single D on it, pointed towards In Danger. His blood runs cold at the sight, his anxiety spiking. 

“Is this me?” Draco asks bluntly, nodding at the clock. Potter stares curiously at the clock.

“I don’t know. I...if it is, then it’s recent. Lost with my other memories of you,” Potter responds softly, now directly behind him. “But I feel like there are bits of you everywhere in this office. I can’t explain it...it’s just a feeling.”

Draco understands because he can feel it too. And he can feel Potter’s presence, and not like before, not the slick-like oozing cold, but strong and alluring. If Draco closes his eyes he can almost convince himself that Potter is solid and radiating a kind of comforting warmth.

Draco doesn’t know why anything has changed between them. He doesn’t deserve it, but Draco finds his mouth opening, the words bubbling up before he can stop them. “I do feel a connection here.”

Potter smiles at him. A pure, genuine smile.

“The snakes,” Potter starts exuberantly, moving to stand shoulder to shoulder with Draco as he gestures towards the fireplace. “I remember using the mantel to hide things.”

Intrigued, Draco leans in closer to examine the intricate, life-like snakes carved into the white marble mantel. He can hardly tell where one snake begins and the other ends, the design a writhing mess of scales and twisting shapes.

“Have you tried opening it?” Draco asks, standing up straight and clasping his arms behind his back.

“Well, no. I, er, figured I wouldn’t be able to, seeing as I’m dead.”

Draco holds his tongue. “Well, give it a go.”

He watches in amusement as Potter steps up to the fireplace, his shoulders squared and his eyes narrowed. He leans forward and whispers, the slithering sound that slips between his lips sending a sharp jolt up Draco’s spine. He draws in a slow breath, his heart fluttering as heat rushes to his face.

Bloody hell, Potter sounds seductive.

When the snakes remain immobile, Potter groans, standing up straight and shooting Draco a disappointed look.

“I’m a ghost, and not even a ghost by Wizarding standards. There’s no way to get the compartment open.”

Draco withdraws his wand from his holster, his left hand trembling as he tries to tighten his grip. “A well-placed Reducto won’t take care of it?”

Potter tuts. “I wouldn’t risk it.”

“Well, how do you suppose we open up your magical snake fireplace?” Draco drawls.

Potter’s face scrunches up for a moment before a single, drawn out hiss escapes him. Draco raises both eyebrows.

“Can you repeat that?” Potter asks.

Draco snorts. “Absolutely not.”

“Bollocks. C’mon, Draco. Try. During the Battle at Hogwarts Ron was able to open the Chamber of Secrets by remembering the right hiss for open.”

Despite the million questions that crop up in Draco’s head about that revelation, he keeps them to himself. “Fine. What’s the hiss for open?”

Potter repeats it.

It’s a low, velvety melodious sound and despite trying to mimic it for over ten minutes, Draco simply can’t, and he’s starting to lose his patience.

“Just relax your tongue a bit,” Potter advises, standing in front of Draco now, his legs slightly spread apart and his arms crossed against his chest. Draco shucked off his lab coat and rolled up the sleeves of his jumper two minutes in.

“Stop telling me to relax,” Draco barks, running a hand through his hair. He rolls his neck. As he does this, he’s annoyed to be on the receiving of a wry grin from Potter.

“What?” Draco snaps impatiently. Potter’s grin grows wider as he shrugs.

“It’s just, well, I noticed that you sometimes roll your shoulders or neck when you’re irritated. I just, er, find it an endearing little tic.”

Draco can feel his cheeks warm. Instead of responding to Potter’s remark, he hisses at the mantel.

Suddenly, the snakes on the front facade of the fireplace begin to move, a sound like a thousand snakes hissing at once echoing across the room. The snakes slither down either side of the fireplace, slowly exposing a hollow opening.

“Brilliant, see, you're a natural." 

Draco rolls his eyes, but a satisfied smirk creeps across his lips. “Bloody hell, that’s sort of brilliant,” he says, admiring the secret space. It’s a small compartment, the length of the mantel and only about three inches tall from top to bottom. Draco pulls out his wand and lights the tip, peering into the opening.

“I see something,” Draco says, carefully slipping his hand into the space to pull out a stack of paper.

They spread the documents out across Potter’s desk and an uncomfortable silence befalls them.

“Fuck,” Draco whispers, leaning over the documents. He was especially shocked to see several pages of notions on his Amortentia project, all written in Granger’s hand. Draco shoves them to the side to peer down at the faces staring up at him. “Do any of these people look familiar to you?”

Potter shakes his head, eyes wide behind his glasses. “No, they don’t. Look here,” he points.

Draco follows his finger to a date listed on the missing person’s report for Layla Hughes. He then looks up the date for Troy Crawford, Preti Singh, Jacquelyn Flores, and Hunter Li. Draco suddenly feels ill, a creeping dread filling his stomach.

“They all went missing within a few days of each other,” Draco observes. “All around the same age, too, early 30s. Diverse. It says here Li is a Squib, Flores is a Muggleborn. I know this guy, Crawford. I’ve seen him in the Hogwarts’ Slytherin Yearbook.”

Harry nods. “Same with Preti Singh; I remember seeing a picture of her in the Hogwarts’ trophy room. She was a Gryffindor Seeker and a half-blood.” Potter cocks his head to read a parchment crammed with notes. “They were all reported to be homeless and addicted to drugs, too, before they went missing. A friend or distant family member confirmed on each case. Each person, at one point in their life, suffered from a near death experience,” Potter mutters, his eyes scanning quickly between each document.

Draco shuffles through the papers, coming across medical records for each person, and now his stomach lurches. Each person listed as missing is noted in the notes from Granger to have participated in a “group rehabilitation program” at the Ministry of Magic's Department of Mysteries.

Potter must have been reading the same document because he says in a low, tight voice. “That's a fancy way to say experiments. Human bloody experiments.”

“We don’t know that,” Draco says. “But even if that’s the case, I would...I would never, ever agree to human participants in a trial without full disclosure to the patient the risks involved before receiving their thorough consent to participate.”

Potter looks ill. “It doesn’t matter! This is disgusting, using people as guinea pigs!”

“Welcome to modern day fucking science, Potter! How do you think doctors and scientists are learning how to cure some of the most devastating illnesses on the planet? By using rats and monkeys? Get your head out of your arse. Science can only make breakthroughs when we test our creations on people.”

“I feel like I’m going to be sick,” Potter mutters. “You’re saying, in a roundabout way, that my death is okay because—science prevailed?”

Draco drops the papers that were in his hands, his mouth sagging open as he gapes at Potter in horror. “No,” Draco says firmly. “Absolutely not. What happened to you was not fair, but we don’t know the whole picture, Potter. Maybe you stumbled upon the Veil and tripped. Or maybe we did follow along with Granger’s plan and we directly got you killed, I don’t know. Regardless, you don’t deserve this and—saying I’m sorry will never, ever be enough. But just try to keep a clear head here.”

Potter is silent for a moment. “Okay.”

Draco searches his face one last time before turning back to the records. He pulls the medical record of the only person not listed as missing, Jeremy Goodwin, another resident of the Ministry’s Rehab program. Scanning the record, Draco realises that he’s much younger than the missing people in Potter’s stack, and that his name is circled in red, next to it a scribble of coordinates.

“Is this your handwriting?” Draco glances up at Potter who nods. “You were investigating our project.”

Potter’s head bows. “So it seems,” he says quietly.

Draco swallows thickly, his Adam's apple bobbing painfully as he stares down at the handsome young man staring up at him. He feels a vague familiarity staring at the man, but can’t place him. Draco wonders if Jeremy and all these other people were victims to whatever dangerous Amortentia concoction Mr Graham had fallen victim to. Or perhaps Draco had been testing his Amortentia project on these people, but then why would some of the subjects be missing? He wonders if Jeremy knows where they are or what could have possibly happened to them. Draco glances back over at Potter. Did they end up like Potter?

Draco stands up straight and resolute.

“We should visit this man. He might have answers.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Potter says, his tone reluctant. “We can’t just waltz up to someone’s house and start interrogating them.”

“I thought that kind of brutish tactic was part of your Auror Manifesto,” Draco bites back.

“Well, it’s not. We know nothing about this person, he could be dangerous.”

Draco considers this for a moment before shaking his head. “I need to know. We both do, and honestly Potter, I’m running out of ideas here. Unless I can figure out how to get into my files at the Ministry, there’s just no other leads and you’ll be...stuck...like this until something gives.”

Potter visibly cringes before taking a deep breath and exhaling. He places his hands on his hips and nods. “Fine, okay. But if I say that bloke is giving off some serious bad vibes, we have to leave.”

“I promise,” Draco says.

After reviewing the coordinates carefully, Draco is able to Apparate with little fuss, the man living in Enfield. Potter’s beside him, and Draco can almost feel Potter’s nervous energy.

“It’s going to be okay,” Draco mutters. “Stop fidgeting.”

“I’m not.”

The streets are quiet. Pulling one of Potter’s borrowed coats close around him, Draco makes his way up the small gravel pathway to a tiny detached Victorian brick house with a pale blue door. There’s a welcome mat that says: “It Is Well With My Soul.” Draco swallows nervously as he knocks on the door.

A handsome man, probably a couple of years out of Hogwarts cracks open the door. His shaggy auburn hair and brown eyes narrow as recognition crosses his face.

“Merlin, Draco. He’s a bloody child.”

“Mr Goodwin?” Draco asks. “I’m—”

“Unspeakable Malfoy, yes, I know. What do you want?” the man snaps, but Draco can hear the subtle tremble in his voice.

“I’m sorry, Mr Goodwin. I come here in peace. I know it must have been many months since we last spoke, but I just have a few questions about the work we did together. I...wanted to do a proper follow-up,” Draco says, hoping that this sounds convincing to Goodwin. The man searches Draco’s face, suspicion melting away to confusion.

“The work we did together?” Jeremy echos. “In the program?”

Draco nods. “Yes, if you could just spare a few minutes, I’d greatly appreciate your time. I can compensate you too, if you’d like?”

A distant look passes over the young man’s face before his eyes focus and he steps back, opening the door wider. “There’s no need for that, Unspeakable. Actually, I figured one day you’d come knocking on my door, so in a sense I’ve always been ready. May I take your coat?”

Draco steps into the house. It’s an open, airy space and the fireplace is going, making the sitting room cozy and warm. Draco nods, slipping Potter’s coat off and handing it to the man. “Thank you,” he says with a nod. “I really am sorry to be a bother.”

“It’s no problem at all,” Jeremy says, hanging the coat. “Say, would you like a cup of tea? It’ll warm you right up and we can get to those questions you have.”

“That would be lovely, yes,” Draco says, clasping his hands behind his back.

Potter is walking around the sitting room, peering at pictures and spines of books. “He seems normal,” Potter says from across the room. “A bit too tidy for a twenty year old. It looks like he lives alone too. Strange. I haven’t met too many twenty year olds with their own house. Maybe it’s a family home.” Potter continues searching through Jeremy’s things, muttering to himself.

The kitchen and the sitting room are joined, and Draco can keep an eye on Potter while he sits at the small table and waits patiently as Jeremy puts the kettle on. Draco’s surprised that he’s doing everything the Muggle way.

“So, while we wait for that, what can I help you with, Unspeakable Malfoy?”

“Yes. Mr Goodwin—”

“Jeremy, please! We’re all friends here,” Jeremy says with a small smile.

Draco returns it. “Draco, then. I was wondering if you were in contact with anyone by the name of Layla Hughes?”

Jeremy nods. “Oh, yes. Layla. I haven’t seen her lately,” he says, just as the kettle begins to whistle. Jeremy turns towards the counter, opening a number of drawers and pulling small bottles down. Draco then realises that Jeremy doesn’t have a cooling cabinet but an actual Muggle fridge, watching as he pulls out a small jug of milk. Draco turns in his seat, finding Harry glancing up the stairs.

“I’m going to check it out,” Potter calls out, having finally noticed Draco watching him. Draco nods and soon Potter disappears.

“How do you take your tea, Draco?”

“Ah, just a dash of milk and two sugars.”

Jeremy nods, mixing everything together before bringing Draco his mug, which he carefully takes.

“Ta,” Draco says before taking a sip. It’s overly sweet, but Draco smiles anyway and takes a few more sips.

Jeremy goes back to his own cup, leaning against his counter casually before taking a sip.

“How about I tell you a story, first, Draco.”

Confused, Draco places his mug down. “Alright.” Draco rolls his shoulders, feeling slightly warm. He tugs his jumper down a bit.

“Up until four months ago I was a junkie. Had been one for almost three years. I got hooked on heroin in uni. I was doing pretty well at King’s College London my first semester, but eh, sometimes these things happen, and I really, really loved being high. My parents disowned me, I was kicked out of uni, and I was homeless for a year by then when they came to me. Your people. Imagine my shock when I found out that wizards exist!”

Draco gasps. “You’re a Muggle?”

Jeremy smiles. “Yes, I am. Your kind explained to me all about your secrecy thing, but claimed because they’re their own faction within your Ministry, they call their own shots, and you really, really wanted to test your little project out on a wee Muggle,” Jeremy says derisively.

“Wait, Jeremy—” Draco tries to stand but stumbles, falling back onto his seat. He blinks several times, his vision blurring and head spinning. “Fuck, what—what did you do to me?”

“Oh? It’s hitting you already? Eh, don’t worry, it’s just a little something to help take the edge off.”

“You-you drugged me?”

“Just enough to keep you copacetic. Don’t pass out on me just yet, Draco. I’m not done with my story. Now where was I?” Jeremy sticks a finger in his mouth, biting his nail. He hums. “Oh right. So your lot came in, offered me accommodations within this makeshift dormitory on level nine. Christ, I thought I’d died and gone to heaven! Such lush furnishings, free food whenever I wanted, hot water! Hot water, Draco! They promised me ten thousand pounds after a one month trial. I thought it was better than being on the streets. And with all your fancy potions, your lot got me clean within 72-hours. How cool, right? I barely suffered from withdrawal.”

“It sounds like you got exactly what you wanted and were promised,” Draco snarls.

Jeremy laughs. “Oh, it certainly felt like that! But then two weeks into your little program, one of your mates injected me with enough heroin that I overdosed and flatlined for seven minutes.”

“What?”

“Yeah. For the first two weeks I was there your lot took a memory from me, mixed it in with this tar-looking potion that smelled like honey, leather, and my ex-girlfriend’s shampoo. I drank it willingly and stood in front of your Veil, but all I heard were strange voices asking me if I knew people I didn’t know. You thought it was progress, claiming that the whispers were usually indecipherable. You monitored me by mapping out my brain activity and by collecting my memories. After a while, instead of taking a potion, I was given a tablet to place under my tongue. It hit me faster, the desires I felt to be close to the voices.

“When your project wasn’t progressing fast enough I guess, your lot then decided I should die in front of your Veil, as I’d never had a near death experience. I was resuscitated and given another tablet, and your mate told me to think of the place I went when I died. Well, in my limbo I met my beloved Grandfather. It was such a sweet experience. I was sitting beside him, talking to him, telling him how much I missed him. We were sitting in his garden, just enjoying the weather and a cuppa. We used to do that a lot, you know? I would always visit his house after school and make him a cuppa and just sit with him. I found him like that, one day, waiting for me. I found him dead. But here, in the place you crafted for me, I was able to just have a cuppa with him again. Just like that. But then, well, then I heard a voice, urging me to get up from my chair and step forward. I looked over to the side of me and my Grandfather was gone. I realised, it was his voice calling me, telling me to get up, step forward, join him. I wanted to, so badly, but then I felt this sharp puncture in my neck. And I woke up, and there you were, leaning over me.”

“Jeremy, I’m sorry, I—” Draco struggles to his feet, his legs trembling. He stumbles into the table, his hand darting out to steady himself.

“You brought me back to my room, told me the project was a failure and that I was no longer needed. You still offered the money, more than the ten-thousand, which I gladly took. It helped me get this place. But that experience, that entire experience scarred me, Draco. I have nightmares, almost every night. But sometimes, I have the most blissful dreams, and they’re always of you.”

Jeremy steps towards Draco, coming around the table to stand in front of his weak, trembling form. Jeremy pulls something out from his back pocket and it's too quick for Draco to block.

He cries out when the blade pierces through the lower right side of his abdomen like butter.

“Always of you. Dying. You’re a terrible person,” Jeremy says, twisting the knife. Draco cries out, jerking forward, his hand coming up to squeeze Jeremy’s shoulder, the other digging into Jeremy’s hand, trying to loosen his hold on the handle of the knife and failing.

“DRACO!”

Draco’s gasping, struggling to breathe. Jeremy yanks the knife out and both of Draco’s hands reach down to cover the wound, blood spilling over his hands like a crimson waterfall. He turns to see Potter, fear and panic in his eyes.

“Harry…” Draco whimpers.

“Oh God, no, no, no…” Potter says frantically. Draco coughs, already tasting the blood in his mouth as he stumbles back from Jeremy, falling to the floor and onto his back as he wheezes out a pained, anguished sob.

“I think I’ll bury you in my garden and plant a tree over you or something symbolic,” Jeremy says with a deranged laugh. “This was such a blessing, Draco, let me tell you. I feel so much better, so free! I’ve been waiting for this day since they told me the program was all your idea. Layla? Yeah, I knew Layla before she disappeared. You disappeared her. And the same with Jackie. They were in the program right along with me. A Muggle, a Muggleborn, and a Half-Blood. They told me all about you, how you fought in a war that wanted to eradicate people like me, people like them. You’re a Death Eater, a monster that was given a second chance to do what, play God? I knew right then and there that someone had to stop you. Poor Layla and Jackie couldn’t get their revenge, so I’ll happily get it for them. For all of us. You’re not our God and you have no right to play with our lives or deaths.”

Jeremy lifts the knife once more as Draco lifts a trembling hand, pleading.

It’s then that Potter lunges at Jeremy—and enters him.

Jeremy’s eyes bulge, his hands shake uncontrollably, to the point that he drops the knife. He stumbles away from Draco and opens his mouth to scream, but what instead comes out is a black tendril of smoke, reaching out towards the ceiling to spread out like an insidious bacterial growth, clinging to the walls, a rancid smell like rotting meat permeating the air. Jeremy shakes and moans, head tilted back and arms spread wide as he stares, wide-eyed, at the ceiling. The room darkens, and Draco shivers, feeling cold and weak. There’s a roaring scream in his ears, and every single miserable thought Draco’s ever had begins to bubble to the front of his mind. He whimpers as images of his mother, blood shining bright on his hands, her beautiful blue eyes wide and unseeing, flash across his mind’s eye.

And Draco is suddenly reminded of a Dementor. A Dementor sucks the joy out of someone, craves a soul. That’s the Dark energy that’s building in Potter, morphing him into something just as insidious.

Draco shakes himself, trying not to lose consciousness. He’s dizzy and confused and weak, his hands soaked as he bleeds out. “Harry,” Draco says weakly. “Stop, Harry, please. You’re...you’re killing him. Remember, Harry...your humanity.”

Jeremy’s mouth closes, the dark tendril fleeing from his mouth towards the dark growth sprawled across the ceiling and the walls. Jeremy’s mouth opens once more.

“Draco...Apparate...Parkinson,” Jeremy struggles out. “Go.”

Draco closes his eyes. He knows that’s Potter speaking through Jeremy. He’s weak and scared and he doesn’t know if he’ll splinch or not, but he focuses on Pansy’s sitting room, of the rug in front of the fireplace. And then he’s being squeezed, and falling.

The scream he hears is jarring, and he recognises it as Pansy. There are hands on him, some frantic crying as someone calls out for Padma.

“Draco, Merlin, what happened? What the fuck happened?”

My fault. My fault. My fault.

The words keep swirling about in his head as he opens his eyes to see Pansy leaning over him, Daphne standing behind her looking pale and ill. Someone runs into the room. He blinks and coughs up more blood. It’s Padma.

“Step aside! Step aside, now, Pansy, I must tend to the wound immediately!” Padma says, pushing Pansy aside.

Draco stares up at the ceiling, his eyes watering as his vision blackens. He then turns his head, facing away from Padma to see that Potter is kneeling beside him.

“You’re okay,” Draco whispers. Potter bows his head, his face crumpling.

“Yes, Draco. You will be okay! Please, stay with me,” Padma says, using her wand to slice open his shirt.

“I’m so sorry I couldn’t stop him sooner,” Potter whispers.

“Always the hero,” Draco slurs, his eyes fluttering shut. "Is he dead?"

“No, but he should be,” Potter says tightly. “You better make it, Draco. We both can’t end up as ghosts, now can we?”

Draco hums, ready to slip into unconsciousness.

“I don’t know. It might be better than what I’ve got going in my living life.”

-------

Draco knows, somewhere in the recesses of his mind, that this isn’t a dream. That he’s remembering.

Draco stares blankly ahead as Gedeon’s hand squeezes his shoulder, feeling numb.

He hadn’t meant to betray Granger. He hadn’t meant to come to Gedeon’s office, frustrated and concerned over the direction of their failures with the test subjects. He hadn’t meant to consume so much of Gedeon’s bourbon.

He certainly had not meant to tell Gedeon about Horcruxes and how Potter used to be one, something he learned about from Granger. Gedeon’s eyes had lit up as if Christmas had come early, and an idea began to unfurl. Draco was in this too deep now. There was too much blood on his hands and he just continued to collect more and more of it.

“A soul that was once split and truly straddled both realms! A shard of that? Merlin, Draco, it could power our entire project. Your Potter would want to help us...to help you. Just a piece from him. Just a small, inconsequential piece of his soul, and all our dreams will come true...he can be our portal through the Veil to the other side.”

And suddenly, the memory shifts.

He shoves Harry away from him, panting.

Harry is staring back at him, wild-eyed, hair falling into his face, lips swollen and glistening. Draco’s own lips feel plump and wet. Harry looks out of place in Draco’s tiny bedroom, their meetings usually restricted to Grimmauld Place. Harry’s magic alone fills the room to the brim with his excitable energy and presence. Draco can smell him—sweet and syrupy, like treacle tart, a smell that Draco has found he can’t live without.

“I told you, I have everything under control. Now, go home, Potter.”

Harry doesn’t move. His eyes flicker down to Draco’s lips. “You don’t want me to go. Tell me. Tell me you want me to go, and goddamn it, Draco, I bloody will,” Harry says roughly.

Draco shivers, his thoughts racing as fast as his heart. He threw it all away and he did it for the person in front him. Draco doesn’t regret it, even though he fears the repercussions, but something tells him that as long as he’s honest with Harry, he’ll survive the fall out.

And he wants Harry, he does. But his want can wait until tomorrow.

“No. No, I don’t want you to go, but I need you to go. I do want you, Potter, I always do. But, not like this. I...I want this chapter of my life closed already and it’s just weighing heavily on my mind tonight.” Draco draws in a deep breath, pulling his walls up higher.

In one stride, Harry is wrapping his arms around Draco, pulling him in close.

“You don’t have to do that around me. Don’t, I’ve told you before—”

“I’m sorry,” Draco says stiffly. “It just makes me feel—”

“You’re safe. You’re safe with me. I won’t hurt you. Don’t Occlude.” Harry says, peppering kisses across Draco’s face. He sags against him, letting down his walls. Harry holds him tighter. “All you have to ever do is ask, Draco, and I’ll give it to you. And don’t you dare feel ashamed for needing the space and time to think or rest or grieve, I will never, ever get in the way of that, okay?” Harry kisses his forehead. “You can be vulnerable with me, always.”

Draco kisses Harry then, trying to put every ounce of his want and hope into it, only feeling slightly embarrassed when he pulls back and searches Potter’s glowing face.

“Tomorrow. 8am. Meet me at Munchies in the Atrium.”

Draco nods, smiling when Potter kisses him once more, a sense of freedom washing over him at being able to kiss him, even after all this time.

“I’ll be there.”

Chapter Text

So here we are reinventing the wheel

I'm shaking hands with a hurricane

It's a colour that I can't describe,

It's a language I can't understand

Ambition, tearing out the heart of you

Carving lines into you

Dripping down the sides of you

We will not be the last.

—Bloc Party, The Pioneers

Draco glances outside his window at Malfoy Manor. It’s almost one in the morning and the only thing keeping him company is the roaring fire in his fireplace’s hearth and the nearly empty bottle of scotch beside his notes.

He’s perched at his office desk writing in his leather-bound notebook.

‘...if elements of Amortentia can be synthesised into a healing agent and used to treat mental illnesses such as PTSD, depression, generalised anxiety...could it be tailored to specific traumas? Victims of Near Death Experiences (NDEs)? How would the potion affect them differently?’

Draco sets down his quill, frustrated, and stares into the fire. Fuck his Amortentia project. Even if he could heal his mental anguish, it wouldn’t bring Mother back. He wouldn’t be able to see her or talk to her again. He picks his quill back up and strikes through his earlier note. He taps the feather end of the quill against his lips as an idea slowly begins to bloom in his mind.

- What effects would encountering the Veil have on victims of NDEs? Would actual communication be possible?

Draco sits back in his seat, contemplating the question. Who would even be willing enough to stand before the Veil without fear of being dragged in?

He blindly reaches for his tumbler and accidentally knocks it over, the liquid spilling across his desk. Swearing under his breath, he pulls out his wand to Vanish the mess, but pauses. He can see the light from the fire reflecting against the surface of the amber liquid and for a moment, he’s transfixed at just how lovely the light is dancing across the surface. It’s seductive.

An idea begins to form.

----------

It's a very risky decision. Risky, stupid, selfish, evil decision.

But Draco doesn’t care.

He dons his most expensive cloak, slips on his rings, making sure his Malfoy signet ring is polished and gleaming in the moonlight, and picks up his father’s cane, slipping his wand into the tip. Draco leaves the Manor, quiet so as not to disturb the portraits or the house-elves at this time of night.

When he’s finally in front of his destination, he taps the cane against the glass window of the door three times. Pauses. Then taps twice.

The door to Borgin and Burkes cracks open and a tiny, frail woman sticks her head out.

“What time do you call this?” she hisses, her pale narrowed eyes gleaming in the moonlight.

“I call it my time,” Draco says, thrusting a heavy bag of gold in the old woman’s face, making sure that the Malfoy signet shows. Her face lights up and she snatches it from him, tugging the drawstring free to peer into the sack.

“Oh, you are absolutely correct, Lord Malfoy. I am at your beck-and-call. What can I do for you?”

“I want any and all of your texts concerning the Death Potion.”

The woman scrunches her nose. “The one outlawed in the late 20s?”

Draco smiles a cruel little smile. “The very one.”

----------

Adding the aromatic hydrocarbon functional group uniquely identified from the Amortentia fractional distillation to the functional group distinguished from the Death Potion through a catalyst wash, Draco is able to create a similar response of this novel anxiolytic binding irreversibly to GABAa receptors throughout the cortex and limbic system. He then seals the samples in suspension using a glass bottle so they only start reacting again with their surroundings when the bottle is opened. After some time, he’s able to dose sublingually, avoiding first pass metabolism to preserve its potency.

Once the tablet is placed under the tongue of the individual, the drug is further enhanced by pulling free the memory they had upon experiencing their first NDE. Adding this memory of their unique Limbo to the experience, the bond allows the brain to mitigate the normal responses—fear, stress, anger—upon approaching the Veil, instead experiencing an euphoric memory of a loved one that has since passed on.

It’s Draco’s hope that because the individual has straddled both realms—the living and the dead, and encountering the Veil under this influence of their own personalised Limbo, the portal between the living and the dead will open. By existing within this newly opened space, the individual will be able to successfully communicate with their loved one without the risk of falling through the Veil.

Or at least that is Draco’s hope.

-------------

“What the hell is this, Malfoy?”

Draco glances up at the doorway. Granger’s face is thunderous as she holds up Draco’s most recent findings from his experiment. Draco had been able to create the tablet, which could dissolve immediately under the tongue, allowing it to hit the bloodstream faster. Considering that he’s kept this side project a secret, he didn’t know exactly how to go about involving Granger, so he simply sent her a classified copy of all of his notes, methodologies, and subsequent testings.

“The Death Potion? Are you completely insane? Not only could you have died creating this potion, even dosing it out could prove fatal to the individual taking it!”

Draco calmly sets down his quill, clasping his hands together on the table. “You know that’s not true. You know how meticulous I was in creating a sublingual tablet that was the perfect balance between the Amortentia properties binding to those found in the Death Potion.”

Granger flops into the armchair in front of his desk, her wild curls escaping her bun. She pushes her hair back from her face. “If you’re really serious about this, I need your word that you’ll keep me in the loop at all times. I mean it, Draco. I don’t want you to make a single fucking decision without alerting me to it first.”

Intrigued and surprised by Granger’s use of foul language, Draco leans back in his chair to coolly survey her.

“Fine.”

“Good. We also need to inform Gedeon of this project. We’re going to have him cosign on every document and non-disclosure agreement that comes through this office.”

“And we need to involve him when? Now?”

Granger nods.

“Come now, Granger. Surely you can give a man a couple of weeks to get his affairs in order? Gedeon will be breathing down our necks expecting results before we have the time to develop a proper anything! Let’s do some brainstorming first before we go running to Professor, shall we?” Draco asks with a smirk. Granger rolls her eyes.

“You’re an arse. But I agree. We’ll hold off on telling your God that he’s allowed to ridicule your Magnum Opus.”

Draco preens. “Magnum Opus, you say?” he asks, ignoring the bit about his relationship with Gedeon.

“Don’t let it go to your head. In the meantime, why don’t we pay a visit to the Veil?” Granger quickly gets to her feet.

Startled, Draco scrambles to his own, still surprised at how eager Granger is to help him with his project. They walk closely together, Draco’s head inclined downward to better hear her as they stroll down the long corridor.

“You’ll notice that within the Death Chamber the spells you’re able to use have been limited. This was enacted after the Department of Mysteries was broken into back in 1996 and a Battle took place. I’m sure you can recall,” Granger drawls. “Too much magic in this Chamber can have some unfortunate reactions with the Veil. We’ve seen the archway begin to deteriorate since the end of the war, so I actually helped develop a sort of blocking system against certain spells. Extremely defensive magic, for one, could simply destroy this Chamber and all the untapped secrets with it. I do have a loophole in place. Wandless magic.”

“A wise safety precaution,” Draco says.

“You’re looking at working with unpredictable magic, Malfoy. Safety is an absolute necessity. On top of that, consent is also a necessity. I want our participants thoroughly aware of the risks involved. Obtaining informed consent and assurances of compliance is the first thing we do the moment we get participants involved.”

Draco nods. “Of course. I don’t think we’ll have trouble finding people. We can contact St Mungo’s and some of the local hospitals to enquire about specific patient profiles…”

“Don’t start being daft. That’s bordering on the breach of confidentiality, Draco. This is where Gedeon comes in. He has longstanding partnerships with St Mungo’s when it comes to research studies and clinical trials. He’ll help us find the appropriate participants.”

“You’re putting a lot of trust in someone you can’t stand.”

Granger crosses her arms against her chest, an air of impatience about her. “You want to put people who are already traumatised and grieving in front of an artefact that is a magical manifestation of a one-way trip to the land of the dead from the land of the living. You bet your arse I’m involving our Head of Department, regardless of my personal opinions about him. I may be the point-of-contact after Gedeon as his Deputy, but I’m not foolish enough to take this project on by myself.

“It’s interesting that you chose people who have experienced NDEs, they have already visited beyond the Veil in their own way. I’ve heard of people visiting their unique Limbo, and it’s brilliant—and reckless, and dangerous, and insane—but still utterly brilliant, that you’ve been able to concoct a potion to mimic the sensation one feels when visiting that liminal space. It’ll be interesting to observe the process. I’m thinking about neurological studies, documentation through Penseives after each participant engages with the Veil. I wouldn’t be opposed to a third party practicing some form of Legilimency on the participant while they’re engaging with the Veil. Can you imagine it? I’d also like to document the progress and interaction via Muggle means, so I’ll contact Maintenance so they can set up Muggle cameras that will stream and save onto the Cloud. Merlin. Actual documentation that the Veil can be powered by memories in order to communicate with the other side!”

Draco is filled with a giddy excitement at the very thought. As they finally enter the Death Chamber, he crosses his arms against his chest as he tilts his head up to look upon the dais in the middle of the room. He can’t help but be in awe of Granger’s intelligence.

“Not everything is black and white in the field of science...or life,” Granger says as she shows him the Veil. “You’ll come to appreciate the need to leave your emotions at the door so you can tackle the kind of work we’re going to do here.” Granger smirks at him. “But you know all about that, don’t you?”

“What is that supposed to mean?” he drawls.

Granger steps up to him, her brown eyes flashing dangerously up at him. “I’ve noticed lately that you go through nearly the entire day Occluding. Not an iota of emotion in those pretty, stormy grey eyes of yours, Malfoy.”

Draco takes a step back. “I don’t care for your tone, Granger.”

“But my words are fine? Got it,” Granger says with a nod, a shark-like grin crossing her face. “I find it ironic, that’s all. You want to communicate with the dead, seek some kind of closure or reassurance, and yet you numb yourself to the living people and situations around you.”

“Fuck you, Granger.”

“No. Fuck you, Malfoy. If you want to do this, you better keep your head in the game, whatever that means for you. All the way. Nothing half-arsed because we’ll both be strung up on the line if this fails or if someone gets hurt. I’m woman enough to admit that this is both brilliant and utterly fucking terrifying, but I’m ready to do the work if you are.”

Granger then sticks her hand out, a fiery look of determination on her face. Cocky, and yet still a bit intimidated by his partner, Draco smirks before grasping it.

--------

Draco doesn’t know why he’s here.

He never should have agreed to come stay with Pansy and her crazy housemates. The noise levels here are grating to his nerves, their incessant need to party on the weekends means he has less time to work let alone think with the boozing, the loud music, and dancing. There are always strange men and women coming in and out of various rooms in the middle of the night, and Draco’s almost certain one time he spotted a Goblin tip-toeing from out of Tracey’s room. And now that there were two medical professionals in the house, whenever Padma isn't available, Draco becomes everyone’s go-to Healer, as if these very same people didn’t hate him when he was a teenager. They come to him for everything, from pap-smears to general concerns of malaise.

Pansy refused to let Draco live alone in the Manor, and she refused to move into the Manor with Daphne, loving her dilapidated house too much to let it go. Draco, afraid he’d kill himself if left to his own devices, eventually agreed to move into Parkinson House.

And after being called out by Granger for Occluding, he’s been trying not to rely heavily on it, but it’s difficult. He regrets her finding out now more than ever, tucked into the corner of the downstairs W.C., knees brought up to his chest and fingers entwined and tugging on the strands of his hair. His breathing is erratic and harsh as he tries to control the dull, anguished ache slowly crawling up his chest and into his throat, making it harder to breath, his lips dry, and his eyes watering.

It’s Luna’s birthday, and there are too many people in the house. Too many people he’s hurt in the past, too many people who would have no qualms trying to hurt him if they all didn’t spend so much time shooting him pitying looks. Everyone knows why he’s living with Pansy. Everyone knows he witnessed his Mother’s death and they pity him. They pity the poor, useless ex-Death Eater turned Healer turned Unspeakable. He’s non-threatening now, because he’s too sad to be anything else but pathetic.

Draco sobs, now covering his face with his hands to dull the sound. It’s then that the door swings open.

He’s so fucking stupid. He forgot to lock the bloody thing in his haste to escape having a public panic attack.

Harry Potter is framed in the doorway, his eyes widening in shock as he stares down at Draco huddled into the far corner of the W.C..

“Oh, er, fuck. Sorry!” Potter says before backing out of the loo and slamming the door shut.

Draco drops his head back into his hands, embarrassment flaring through him. Of course, Potter would be the one to walk in on Draco, in a loo, when he’s in tears and vulnerable. At least this time Draco didn’t almost die. Unfortunately. He’s about to pull his wand free to lock the door when it swings open again and Potter steps fully in, shutting it behind him.

Dumbfounded, Draco gapes openly at Potter.

Potter rubs the back of his neck, his body language reading uncomfortable as he looks around the loo.

“So, er, sorry. I promised myself I’d be less of an arsehole this year, and I would say not enquiring after the crying person in the loo is a pretty arsehole thing to do.”

“How valiant of you,” Draco croaks out. He fully expects Potter to call him a wanker and leave again, but to his surprise, Potter chuckles and sits on the closed lid of the toilet. He places a hand on each of his knees, rocking a bit as his laughter eases and a concerned look crosses his face.

“Why aren’t you at the party? You’re missing some rather lovely dance moves from our favourite birthday girl,” Potter says teasingly. Draco once again stares at Potter. Although not as hostile towards one another as they once were, Draco’s hardly spoken to Potter over the last year and a half. Granger mentions him and sometimes he’ll catch Potter in Granger’s office and they’ll all exchange mundane pleasantries, but that was the extent.

“I don’t like being around so many people.” So many people who hate me, goes unsaid.

Potter’s brow furrows. “Weren’t you some fancy, swotty GP in America?”

“Where’d you hear that?”

“Hermione, of course. Padma, too, sometimes. They both talk about you a lot, and rather highly.”

Draco snorts. “Yeah, I was a doctor in America. And a Healer here until taking up my fellowship at the Department of Mysteries.”

“So, you’re used to being around a bunch of people, and I reckon they all weren’t gyrating and drunk off their arses—completely different atmosphere and all,” Potter says, waving a hand.

A slow smile spreads across Draco’s face. “Oh, there were some cases that involved such behaviour in the emergency room. One time I was wrapping the sprained ankle of an intoxicated woman, probably old enough to be my Mother, and Merlin, she was handsy. Just singing off the top of her lungs while her friend, who was not as drunk, was mortified and held her hand. Then she pulled me real close and said, “you look like my third husband!” and started laughing wildly, and surprised, I asked, “Wow, third husband, eh? How many have you had?” And her friend responded for her. ‘Only two.’”

Potter’s laughter fills up the entire W.C. as well as filling Draco with warmth.

“Merlin, that’s priceless!” Potter says, slipping a finger under his glasses to wipe at his eyes. “So you’ve nothing to worry about, really, if you can handle that, you can handle this party, you’re a pro now.”

Draco’s smile evaporates. “What is that you want, Potter?”

“I just don’t want you to be by yourself. Your flatmates and friends are all on the opposite side of that door.”

“I’m fine by myself, thank you very much. What are you, some shrink?” Draco snorts. “Bugger off.”

Potter smiles. “Me, head-shrinking? Merlin, no. Just a curious bystander.”

“Well, go be a bystander somewhere else. You’re...you’re making me uncomfortable,” Draco mutters. Potter winces, an apologetic look flashing across his face.

“Er, I’m sorry Malfoy, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” Potter stands, his hand once more rubbing the back of his neck as he frowns. “I just thought you could use some company. I can get that it’s a bit overwhelming out there, but if you need a moment or two, I’m going to wait outside this door for a few more minutes. If you open it before I leave, I’d love to grab a beer from the kitchen with you. If not, well, maybe you’ll come ‘round later and find me for that beer.” Potter shrugs. “No pressure.”

Astonished, Draco shakes his head. “Why are you being so nice to me?”

Potter smirks. “Don’t be so big-headed. Like I said, I’m trying to be less of an arsehole this year. Today just happens to be your lucky day,” Potter says with a wink before exiting the W.C..

Draco counts to 120 before he opens the door. And good on his word, Potter is waiting on the other side for him.

------------

“How dare you!”

“Lower your damn voice, Granger.”

Draco stops short, his brow furrowing as he leans against the wall beside Granger’s slightly ajar door to eavesdrop.

“You can’t keep doing this, Wallace. Malfoy and I have a strict methodology. When you go over our heads like this it disrupts the authenticity and ultimately the outcome of the research. Mr Goodwin was our control participant. Muggle, young, no NDE. We spent time and Ministry resources to get him healthy so he could be the best control for us, and you went ahead and not only ruined perfectly fine progress and study, you committed the most egregious crime against that young man! So no, you will not come into my office and tell me to lower my voice. You may be the head of this department Wallace, but I’m the neck, and believe it or not, I control its movement.”

Draco released an exhale of breath, his lips twitching upward at Granger’s bold audacity. Gedeon was not one to chastise lightly. Draco respected Gedeon as a colleague and as a mentor, but the man did have a bit of a God-Complex and seemed to intentionally step on Granger’s toes.

“You’ll be careful with how you speak to me, Granger. I’ll let this slide now taking into consideration your...delicate situation.”

There’s a moment of silence before Granger speaks. “Pardon me?” she hisses.

“Why, I was told congratulations are in order. What are you, five months along? That’s a long time to hide a pregnancy from your employer, but I understand that you’ve been under a lot of stress. Maybe it’s time for you to consider cutting back some of your hours.”

“Get out of my office now before you’re slapped with a discrimination claim.”

“It’s always something.”

“What is that supposed to mean, Wallace?” Granger seethes. “Because I’m a woman? A pregnant woman? Or a pregnant Black woman? Which one is it for you or am I just the trifecta of all things you clearly dislike in this world?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Gedeon snorts. “I don’t see colour or gender.”

“You’re not helping yourself at all by admitting that. I’ll ask you again, please leave. Some of us actually have work to do. In my case, messes to clean up.”

Draco tries to back away from the door quickly, but stumbles, falling back as Gedeon steps out of the office, his bright blue eyes zeroing in on Draco catching himself against the wall.

“Oh! Hello, sir. I’m just here to discuss what to do with the failed test subject. You know, our control subject.”

“I’m aware,” Gedeon snaps. “Honestly, Draco. I thought you of all people would’ve understood why I made that call, but I see you’re simply not willing to take this project to the next level. Your subject was taking too long to fully engage with the Veil. True communication did not happen until he experienced an NDE. We’ve saved time by making his discovery. Since you fail to see my point, I may have to re-evaluate the resources that the department is providing your little venture.”

Draco’s eyes narrow. “I would hope not, sir, so early on in the trial and with our failed subject being the only result, I would hate for our project to reflect poorly back on you as the senior primary investigator. What would your colleagues say when I start publishing our results?”

“I want better results. Soon,” Gedeon says resolutely before turning on his heel and heading towards his own office. “It’s not just my reputation on the line here.”

Gedeon clearly doesn’t know how scientific studies work, Draco thinks as he slips into Granger’s office, quietly shutting the door and throwing up a Silencing Charm just in case.

“Merlin, he’s an arsehole. I’m sorry you had to deal with that.”

Granger, still standing behind her desk starts, lowering the water bottle she had to her lips as she glares at him. She swallows.

“So. Was it you? Did you tell him about my pregnancy?”

Draco blanches and takes a seat in front of her desk. “Of fucking course not, Granger. I actually think it’s no one’s business but the said pregnant person’s? You know I would never out you and the bump.”

Granger presses a hand against her forehead, her eyes fluttering shut as she draws in a deep breath. “Maybe it was Greengrass. She caught me napping at my desk, claimed I’ve been acting off lately, and I just said it without thinking. Merlin, I can’t fucking trust anyone in this bloody department,” she says angrily, tossing her water bottle onto her desk.

“That’s not true,” Draco says softly. Granger smiles at him.

“Why, yes. You’re right about that.” She sighs. “So, what’s this I hear about a date?”

-----------

It’s just sushi.

And maybe some sake.

And addressing well over a decade’s worth of animosity, hatred, and attempted murder.

Yeah, Draco doesn’t know why he agreed to this.

He tugs on the collar of his shirt, staring out the large window to take in the rain-slick, picturesque street in Covent Garden. Draco’s found that Potter is surprisingly funny, having kept Draco entertained throughout the rest of Luna’s wild birthday party. Potter was genuinely interested in hearing about Draco’s time in the States, his current research, and how he was settling in at Parkinson House. He hardly left Draco’s side, and made sure to include Draco in conversations sparked up with him by the people around them.

It’s then that Draco sees Potter walk by the window, their gazes meeting. Potter waves, his face lighting up with an exuberant smile as he ducks into the restaurant. Draco watches as Potter flashes the hostess another smile, probably chatting her up, the woman’s cheeks flushing as she leads Potter over to Draco’s table.

She blushes further when she looks at Draco and then back at Harry. “Well, if there’s anything...anything at all you both need, please do not hesitate to ask,” the hostess says.

“Thanks, Linda, you’re a gem,” Potter says, taking a seat across from Draco.

Linda smiles and walks away.

“Come here often enough to know the hostesses’ name?”

Potter, who had been shucking off his damp jacket snorts. “I’ve only been here once and I’m pretty sure she wasn’t working the front.”

“That certain, are you?”

“Why yes, I always remember polite people.”

Draco bites the inside of his cheek, holding back a smart remark as he watches Potter pick up his menu, a pleased look flitting across his face as he reads through the specialty rolls.

“You know there’s this little food stall in Carkitt Market that sells Dragon Rolls that lets you breathe out actual fires,” Potter says. “But, I don’t mind the non-firestarter version.”

“Sounds like a blast,” Draco says wryly, picking up his own menu. He purposely ignores the amused little smile Potter shoots him.

They order enough sushi to feed a small army, and Draco doesn’t hesitate to order Sake which the waiter brings out along with a flat, saucer-like cup to drink it out of. Their conversation is lighthearted as they talk about their friends, the weird things Draco encounters living with Pansy and her mishmash of friends, Potter’s new obsession with some Muggle gadget called a Wii, and all interspersed with a few lighthearted insults. Potter’s cheeks are endearingly flushed and his body language is lax; the skin around his eyes crinkles happily as he looks warmly at Draco. He hasn’t been on the receiving end of a look like this in a long time and a part of him is desperate for more.

As the dinner winds down, Potter turns their conversation to work.

“So,” Potter starts, sipping his sake. “How’s work?”

Draco glances over his saucer of sake at Potter before staring out the window. “It’s okay. Stressful.”

“Hermione says those exact same words. I know your lot are sworn to secrecy and all, but surely you can provide a bit more information outside of, ‘it’s stressful?’ Is your job that boring?”

Draco shrugs, a habit he picked up in the States that his mother used to admonish him for. “Yeah, swearing allegiance and secrecy to a mysterious department within the government is such a conversation-killer. Nothing going on there, unfortunately.”

Potter chuckles. “Alright, then, wise-arse, forget I asked.”

Draco sips from his sake. Potter is rather handsome. Not overly handsome, the man doesn’t need an even bigger head than he already has, but he’s someone to definitely look at twice if passing by on the streets.

Draco rolls his eyes. “Granger and I are working on a new project and yeah, it’s a bit stressful. Our boss is an arsehole.”

Potter nods. “I know what that’s like. Robards, you know, he’s not a bad bloke, but Merlin, does he have a temper. It makes working with him difficult.”

“I suppose work has been stressful for you as well?”

The look Potter gives him then is unsettling, as if Potter is weighing a decision. For an intense moment, Draco wants to tell Potter to stop, that he’d rather go back to teasing comments about their friends or Draco’s housemates. He knew at this very moment that the conversation is shifting to something serious, and he doesn’t want it to. His panic must show on his face because Potter is now looking at him the same way the people at Luna’s party did; the look is full of pity and remorse. He can’t stand it.

His Occlumency walls immediately slam to the forefront of his mind, sheltering his consternation, but even as his face smooths out into a blank wall Potter sets down his cup and reaches across the table, his hand planting firmly on Draco’s side of the table.

“Hey, look. I wasn’t going to mention this but I noticed at Luna’s party that you tend to, er, go blank about the eyes.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

Potter looks uncomfortable. “I mentioned it to Hermione. She’s worried, too. It’s not a secret that you’re a skilled Occlumens. You’d have to be, experiencing what you did during the war.”

“And how would you know what I went through during the war?”

The look on Potter’s face is almost pleading. “It’s a long story and one day I’d really like to tell you, but just trust me on this. Draco. No one would blame you for taking a passenger side seat to your emotions, especially after the loss of your mum.”

There. That’s it.

Draco turns to grab his jacket slung across the back of his seat.

“I just remembered that I have a deadline to meet, you know, publishing studies can be a headache sometimes. I have to go, but please, let me pay for this lovely meal,” he says, pulling his jacket into his lap and grabbing his wallet from his back pocket.

“Wait. No. Draco, wait. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

Draco ignores him, pulling out three fifty pound notes to put on the table.

“I think that should cover our meal and a very generous tip. If you think I should add more just let me know, but I really do need to be going—”

“Draco. Stop,” Potter barks, his tone throaty and authoritative.

Draco’s hands clench the soft material of his jacket, his glare pinning Potter in place. He’s had too much sake and he can still logically register that he should feel miserable right now, despite his walls being firmly in place. Some small part of him knows what Potter is about to say.

“Just tell me what it is. Tell me the reason behind asking me out tonight. What did you need to soften me up for?”

Potter doesn’t hesitate.

“The DMLE has decided to open a formal investigation into the recent murders of Death Eaters and suspected Death Eater sympathisers yesterday. Your mum’s case is one of them and I’ve personally assigned myself to her file.”

“Well,” Draco starts, the revelation bouncing off of his Occluded walls. “That must be a lot of work for you. You should know from my report that I didn’t recognise the man who murdered my mother.”

“Stop, Draco,” Potter intones angrily. The people at the table a metre away from them turn to stare.

“You’re drawing attention to us. Do I need to remind you that this isn’t the time or place?” Draco asks coolly.

“You don’t have to hide yourself from me, Draco. I can understand that this is difficult to hear, but I do want to help.”

A flare of indignation shoots through him. “I don’t need you to do anything for me, Potter. What gave you the idea I needed help? Any other Auror could’ve taken that case but you made my mother’s demise about you by taking it. Congratulations, now anytime someone thinks of Narcissa Malfoy they’ll remember that the Golden Boy took a keen interest. And don’t you dare talk to me about life debts, that’s old school bollocks and no one gives a flying fuck about them nowadays, so spare me your bleeding Gryffindor heart pathos,” Draco seethes. “I’ll do just fine without your unsolicited help.”

“Hermione doesn’t seem to think so, and I know you two are as thick as thieves nowadays. It’s not just that, Draco. I’m invested in my job. Narcissa’s file came across my desk and I realised that no one will do a better job at solving it than me. I planned this dinner with you a week ago because I genuinely like you, but you can consider it a courtesy meeting, if you must, where I break this news to you,” Potter says.

It’s not fair that Potter is the exception to the rule. Even though Draco’s walls are high in place, breathing still hurts. Potter’s words seem to slice through his shields.

Draco takes a struggling deep breath and rolls his shoulders back. Slowly, carefully, he lowers his walls. Potter’s gaze is rapturous as he watches Draco’s face shift from a cold indifference to the subtle misery painted across his face. It’s unfair that Potter’s very green, very kind eyes, steal Draco’s breath away when he’s already struggling.

His shoulders sag and slouches forward, his elbow hitting the table as he covers his mouth with his hand. He squeezes his eyes shut, willing away the burning sensation.

“Draco,” Potter starts softly. “I know how hard this is, I do. There’s no right way in addressing this kind of tragedy and grief, but, I think it’s time to address it. Your mother’s killer has been out there for months now. It’s time to bring her some peace. Please. Work with me so we can get the justice she deserves.”

Draco lowers his hand.

“She would have wanted justice.”

--------

He’s petrified.

Fear paralyses him, his legs locking as his jaw clenches, the hairs on his arms standing erect. Beside him Granger is using every single non-Defensive spell she can think of to undo the backlash of magic.

Hovering above the archway of the Veil is what looks like a large bas-relief, sculpted in the shape of a rhombus and made out of pure white marble. A wild, unhinged magical energy cackles around it, volatile and stinking of ozone. There’s a torrent of wind tearing through the Death Chamber, whipping their hair and clothes sideways as the magic in the room becomes unresponsive to their Protection Charms.

“I can’t stablise it!” Granger cries out over the cacophony, her eyes wild and frantic as she spins towards Draco, yanking him out of the way as a white-hot tendon of magic flicks towards them.

Draco finds himself tripping over his feet, his eyes still transfixed on the aberration in front of them.

“Draco, please, gather your wits, we need to figure out a way to contain the magic—we have to protect the Veil! The Veil!” she screams, shaking him and pointing to the crack in the archway where the marble manifested from and is still connected to. It appears as if the ghostly fog of the Veil is slowly seeping into the marble, powering it as Draco notices the writhing trapped bodies and faces within the apparition. It was akin to something out of a Muggle horror film as the profile of their latest participant, Layla Hughes, comes to the centre of the manifestation, the profile of her face depicting her wide open mouth, as if caught in the middle of a silent scream, eye clenched tight, frozen in the marble.

Trapped.

Draco can’t move, he can’t think.

My fault. My fault. My fault. His brain screams.

Granger releases him and crawls up onto the dais to stand ram-rod straight before the Veil, her wild hair whipping about her head and her lab coat violently swishing about her legs. She lifts both hands upward, her left hand open, palm facing towards the Veil, her right hand making a series of complicated wand movements as she chants an incantation over the howling, anguished screams emitting from the Veil.

The sudden silence that befalls the room is jarring and Draco finds that he’s trembling from head to toe. The room is still—the writhing body parts in the apparition as well as the fog within the Veil frozen in time.

This is the most powerful Stasis Charm he’s ever seen.

With a cry, Granger loses her balance and collides into him. He quickly reaches out to steady her. She stares up at him, her eyes brimming with tears.

“I don’t know how this happened. I-I tried to save her. I don’t know, I don’t know,” she says, shaking her head as she clings to Draco. “I heard her, I heard her cries. She didn’t want to do this, Draco. She...she didn’t want to re-experience dying, she was self-aware enough to recall how she entered her Limbo,” Granger says tearfully, sinking to her knees. Draco follows her, holding her close as he continues to stare up at the floating marble.

“My God. The tablet didn’t produce enough of an incentive to want to continue communicating with her loved one.”

“No, it didn’t.” Granger draws in a wet breath. “Draco, I think the Veil’s produced a manifestation of Layla’s grief and fear, of her lack of consent, and now she’s trapped in it.”

---------

“You’re going to be the death of me one of these days, Granger. Or Potter.”

Granger snorts. “Nonsense. If you’ll just hear me out...”

Draco groans, kicking his feet up onto his desk and reclining back in his seat.

“Fine. Explain.”

“We’ve lost five people already to that monstrous apparition, Draco. Either we try something a bit more drastic to see if we can free them and obtain positive results, or we need to terminate the project and come forward to the DMLE and the general public.”

Draco jerks back, spluttering. “Are you insane? We’ll lose all credibility as scientists, as Unspeakables!”

“Is that so awful considering the alternative?”

“We had good results from Goodwin's interteractions before Gedeon intervened. We should go back to individuals who have not experienced an NDE but have lost someone important to them beyond the Veil.”

Granger shakes her head. “We have five innocent people stuck in their version of hell when it was supposed to be a place of peace and communication, Draco. I can’t live with myself knowing I helped put them there.”

“So what do you suggest, Granger?”

She sighs. “We need to power the Veil another way. Each person, though valuable, has been a weak attempt in securing a two-way portal of communication. It’s just sucking in people who have been touched by death and trapping them. We’ve been assuming that their memories of their Limbo and the desire to see their lost ones beyond the Veil is enough to create a connection. And don’t get me wrong, I think the Amortentia-Death sublingual tablet is brilliant in easing the participant into being ready to face the Veil, but in this sense, it’s not allowing free-will in our participants, even if they do display a desire to communicate successfully or stay within that happy space. It’s not enough. An NDE is not enough. We need someone who has straddled both realms and won’t need an aid like the tablet, and someone who can harvest Dark, Light, and love magic all at once within their very soul. I think we should find someone who’s given and taken life by their own hands. I think it would truly open the Veil for communication to the other side.”

“Okay, so how does this involve Potter?”

Granger runs both her hands up and down her belly, a nervous tic of hers, as she stares off to the side. Draco can tell she’s warring with herself.

She meets his expectant stare.

“Do you know what a Horcrux is?”

-------

“Let me know if anyone looks familiar,” Potter says, tossing the album onto Draco’s desk.

This is the fifth time Potter has visited Draco’s office with images of potential suspects. Sometimes he shows Draco two to three images, other times he brings an entire album of mugshots. Today is one of those days where the album is thick and heavy. It flops onto Draco’s desk, knocking over his quill and ink pot and scattering some of his post-parchments onto the floor.

Usually, Potter visits with a smile on his face and a box of candy in hand that Draco ends up losing to the whirlwind that is Granger’s sugar cravings, but today he’s withdrawn, agitated, and rude.

“What the hell is your problem today, Potter?” Draco asks, snatching the ink pot up before it destroys the album. Draco hates that he doesn’t sound entirely as casual as he’d like, his hurt spilling out into his tone.

Potter tilts his head up the ceiling for a moment, his Adam’s apple bobbing before he glares down at Draco. “Hermione told me about your project.”

Immediately Draco throws up the strongest Silencing Charm he can conjure.

“You selfish, idiotic, childish arsehole. What did you do to guilt her into telling you? If anyone were to find out, she could go to Azkaban for the rest of her life! Did she tell you that our Department Head is a fucking prick?”

Potter’s expression darkens. “Five missing persons reports on my desk of homeless drug addicts in addition to a police report from Scotland Yard detailing a Muggle discussing being experimented on by Wizards in the DoM were brought to me. So of course, eventually, your little project was going to be found out, and not just through Hermione.”

He can’t stomach looking at Potter at the moment, the guilt in his belly making him nauseous. He hasn’t called on his walls in weeks, not since regularly spending time with Potter, but at this moment he needs them.

Draco stands from his seat, clasping his hands behind his back. He faces the window situated behind his desk. He’s always kept a tidy office, and two months ago Potter invited him to his own personal office at Grimmauld Place so Draco could tidy up his space. Potter had even added him to his creepy stalker-clock. It had been an interesting evening filled with wine, laughter, and forbidden kisses.

“What are you mad about exactly? Now you know the truth.”

“We’ve spent almost four months together. We...we lo-like each other and you left it up to Hermione to tell me that you were both thinking about asking me to join this program.”

“Why not be mad at her too?”

“Because this program wasn’t her original fucking idea, Draco. It was yours. Accept some accountability.”

Draco scoffs. “But it was her idea to include you.” He faces Potter, a quizzical quirk to his brow. “Do you think I owe something to you, Potter? You take me out to dinner and shag me a few times and suddenly transparency is required between us? This is my bloody job, and unlike Granger, I do sometimes worry that my choices will lead me to Azkaban. After all, I’m not part of the bloody Golden Trio.”

“You’re Occluding,” Potter says simply.

“I’m not.”

“You’re lying. I told you, you don’t have to do that with me.”

Draco laughs. “You’re so sweet,” he says, his voice oozing with sarcasm.

“I hate when you’re like this.”

“You don’t even know me,” Draco says derisively, already regretting his words. He can’t help it sometimes, being difficult. “Did Granger tell you what happened to the missing people?” Draco asks, desperate to change the subject as a look of outrage flashes across Potter’s face at his comment.

“Yes, she did. She had to, considering I’ve enrolled in the program.”

Draco hangs his head, his face lips tightening into a scowl. “I told her that’s a bad idea.”

“It’s not.”

“You know nothing about it,” Draco says, turning away from him to peer out the window again.

“She gave me her notes. She provided me with all the information I need to make an informed decision. Draco, look at me.”

“You’re an idiot. You’re a fucking reckless idiot, Potter.”

“Stop it. Please look at me.”

“I can’t.”

“I’ll do this. There are lives at stake.”

“Your life fucking matters, too.”

“Draco.”

“Harry,” Draco spits, turning around.

“I lost a lot of people. If I can help open up a portal where regular communication is a possibility, can you imagine how this’ll change my life? How it could change other people’s lives? I lost Sirius to the Veil. If I could somehow gain some closure from that tragedy, Merlin, Draco,” Potter says, his voice tight. “It’s okay. I want to do this.”

“You do know we’ve been experimenting on people, right? Not lab rats, rabbits or monkeys. Actual humans. Are you even aware that some of the magic involved is Dark?”

“Hermione gave me all the information I needed. This isn’t about you. It’s not about Hermione. The simple fact is I’m intrigued and I want to be invested. The only condition is that we try to keep my involvement a secret from your department head. If Hermione doesn’t trust him, I don’t trust him.

Potter is in front of Draco in just a few strides.

Draco runs a hand through his hair.

“Potter. I don’t think this is a good idea—”

The rest of his complaint is silenced as Potter kisses him.

----------

He can’t believe it.

He was vulnerable. Unable to accept that Potter wanted to risk his life to participate in a program Draco’s suddenly become afraid of.

He finds himself in Gedeon’s office, a file of their most recent findings tucked under his arm and a flashdrive of video documentation of the studies he’s pulled from his Cloud. It’s nearing 9 p.m., and the offices and corridors of the Ministry are dark and eerily silent. Gedeon ushers Draco into his large, lush office, thrusting a glass of amber liquid in his hand and encouraging him to sit on the sofa rather than have an office desk between them.

“Sir, I’m at an impasse. I think we need to pause the project for a few months so we can recalibrate.”

“Nonsense. With that awful manifestation occurring, we need to rectify the situation as soon as possible.”

“Sir, I...” he pauses and takes a sip from his glass.

Draco stares blankly ahead as Gedeon’s hand squeezes his shoulder, feeling numb.

He hadn’t meant to betray Granger. He hadn’t meant to come to Gedeon’s office, frustrated and concerned over the direction of their failures with the test subjects. He hadn’t meant to consume so much of Gedeon’s bourbon.

He certainly had not meant to tell Gedeon about Horcruxes and how Potter used to be one. Gedeon’s eyes had lit up as if Christmas had come early, and an idea began to unfurl. Draco was in this too deep now. There was too much blood on his hands and he just continued to collect more and more of it.

“A soul that was once split and truly straddled both realms! A shard of that? Merlin, Draco, it could power our entire project. Your Potter would want to help us...to help you. Just a piece from him. Just a small, inconsequential piece of his soul, and all our dreams will come true...he can be our portal through the Veil to the other side.”

----------

“You and Hermione both said he was untrustworthy. You said you would keep this between us!” Potter shouts.

“I made a mistake, Potter. I was scared, I didn’t know what else to do. I thought Gedeon would shut down the project because, well...you’re you. I thought he wouldn’t want to take the risk, but he went for it. Listen to me, Harry. Granger is brilliant but she’s wrong about this. We need to go rework our methodology. I just don’t want to risk you having a negative experience with the Veil and succumbing to it.”

“Hermione said—”

“—This is not Hermione’s fucking project! Yes! She’s involved, but these are my ideas, my questions, my research! And I’m telling you it’s dangerous for a reason! The studies show a pattern of volatility. I just need some more time, please.”

“Fine, okay,” Potter says, taking his glasses off and rubbing his eyes with a hand.

“Harry, I’m serious. Give me more time. I promise, when Granger and I rework some of our methods and determine it’s safe, then yes, I’d be honoured to have you participate in our program...just...not now, okay? Please stay away from the Death Chamber.”

Potter is on him in a second, his arms wrapping around him to hold him close. He’s warm and strong and Draco feels safe in his arms. Sometimes he can’t believe just how quickly he allowed himself to be swept up into Potter’s embrace. But, after not feeling pure joy or, dare he even speculate, love, for so long, Draco was like a man on the verge of dying from dehydration, and Potter, an overflowing fountain of purified water.

Potter kisses him then, his fingers digging into Draco’s narrow hips. Draco slips his own hands through Potter’s thick, wild black hair, his hands curling in the stands as he tugs Potter’s hair, his hips rolling against Potter’s slowly, sensuously.

“I need you,” Potter says against Draco’s mouth.

Draco hums, his body thrumming with want. “Yes,” he murmurs.

“I’m sorry if I upset you. I’m just excited to talk to my family again.”

“Harry.”

“Let me help you relax,” Potter says as hands slips from Draco’s hips to grip his bum, causing Draco to grind against him.

Draco wants him too, but right now there’s too much going on in his head. 

He shoves Harry away from him, panting.

Harry is staring back at him, wild-eyed, hair falling into his face, lips swollen and glistening. Draco’s own lips feel plump and wet. Harry looks out of place in Draco’s tiny bedroom, their meetings usually restricted to Grimmauld Place. Harry’s magic alone fills the room to the brim with his excitable energy and presence. Draco can smell him—sweet and syrupy, like treacle tart, a smell that Draco has found he can’t live without.

--------

“Tell me how it happened. Now.”

Granger suddenly stops crying, her large, bloodshot smokey brown eyes are now wide open and fearful as she stares over his shoulder.

The office door clicks shut.

“Healer Malfoy,” comes a low, slow drawl. “A word, please?”

Draco turns around.

“Imperio.” A gold fog shoots from Jenkins’ wand to Hermione’s face, her troubled expression immediately smoothing into a blank one.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Draco howls. As he scrambles to his feet, Jenkins thrusts his wand into Draco’s face.

“Healer Malfoy, I don’t want to hurt you. You’re a kind bloke, and beautiful too, it would hurt me to hurt you, so please listen. Gedeon said you and Miss Granger were gonna prove to be difficult, what with the news of Harry Potter dying and all, so he sent me, his trusted step-son, to come down here and talk some sense into you since he’s busy replacing Miss Granger as Deputy as we speak.”

“I don’t understand,” Draco whispers, sinking back onto his bum as he stares up at Jenkins.

“You’re the second smartest man I know, you get what’s happening. Listen closely. Miss Granger is being replaced by a new guy from America. Harry Potter is dead, but you’ll be glad to know that Gedeon thinks he’s opened up the portal and they’re going to test it out with a new subject soon. Gedeon needs your cooperation because you and Miss Granger are the only ones familiar with how to do the proper dosings for each participant.”

“You must be out of your bloody mind if you think I’ll help either of you!” Draco roars, once again scrambling to his feet, but this time Jenkins shoots a strong Stinging Hex at Draco, causing him to fly onto his back. Draco groans.

“That’s unfortunate. I didn’t want to do this to you, but it’s the only way. Gedeon said I’d have to repeat the spell verbatim to make sure it sticks, so if I were you Healer Malfoy, I’d stay as quiet as possible.”

There’s a flash of red light and Draco feels himself falling.

Chapter Text

And on the last day

when all his work was done

He only just discovered the sun.

On the last day.

—Moby (feat. Skylar Grey), The Last Day

Draco’s eyes snap open to total darkness. He arches up off the soft surface he’s lying supine on with a pained moan.

“Harry?” Draco calls out. He’s feverish. He can feel sweat prickle along his hairline, down his neck and across his bare chest.

He doesn’t know why it’s so dark.

“Draco. It is me, Padma. Please relax. You have sustained a stab wound in the lower part of your right abdomen. The blade missed any major organs and arteries, but you have suffered massive blood loss.”

Draco swallows, a dry sticking sensation in his throat causes him to cough roughly, causing him to clench his abdomen. He can feel a dull ache there, an inflamed soreness that makes him want to crawl back into whatever pit of unconsciousness he originally crawled out of.

“Why can’t I see?”

There’s a moment of silence before Padma sighs. “I ran an EEG Charm on you and the significant pathology from previous scans are still present, but not as severe, though I can not guarantee you will be free of long-term damage. The focal necrosis eclipsed by the amygdalae is still hypertrophied. While it is evident that your magic is trying to heal your brain, you have scar tissue which stimulates a spreading phenomena like a seizure, but presents as symptoms similar to a migraine. This is not a migraine, though. You have been experiencing epileptic fits. I have seen success with a potions therapy that can manage epilepsy and when the time is right we can discuss your options. I have cast a temporary Shield Charm over your eyes in case you are experiencing light sensitivity. I will remove it slowly, but I need to know if you have been experiencing migraine-like pain and any physical weakness and magical weakness when casting.”

“Yes, all of it. Ever since you found the Dark Curse entwined with my magical signature.”

“The Curse did not take completely, if you can recall. A Diagnostic Charm has shown that it is still there but when compared to the earlier scan, it has weakened significantly. You will notice that whatever triggered the epileptic fits before will become infrequent. The weakness is your arm is likely to be postictal paresis, which will taper off in about 48-hours.”

Draco nods, listening carefully. He knew he was experiencing seizures, and now the EEG confirms it. He’ll likely suffer from random fits due to the fractured Dark Curse for the rest of his life, just without the influx of memories.

“I am going to remove the Shield now. Careful,” Padma says. Draco can feel a smooth, cool breeze rush over his face and slowly the dark begins to recede, his vision dim and blurry but gradually becoming sharper and brighter.

His gaze fixes on Padma, who looks tired and disheveled and has blood stains down the front of her yellow blouse but still offers him a smile.

“Welcome back. You, once again, gave us quite a scare.”

Draco glances about the room. Potter is nowhere to be found, but Pansy is curled up at the foot of the bed and Luna is sitting on a round floor cushion, slouched against the wall under his window. Draco tries to breath slowly to ease his growing anxiety, but it comes out rough. A part of him knows that Harry is probably lingering in the kitchen to avoid triggering Luna’s magical sensitivity.

He needs to tell Harry he remembers. Everything. That experiments, Granger’s partnership—her friendship, and the monstrous apparition that’s being fueled by the Veil. Draco recalls their trip to the Ministry and how Harry had felt “strange” there.

Draco’s almost certain that if Harry was somehow lured down to the Death Chamber and encountered the Veil unwillingly, he’d be there, trapped in the marble. It was the most obvious possibility. Occam’s razor.

He had to find him and tell him.

He had to tell him that he remembers them. The sweet caress of a burgeoning romance, of a promise, of hope, something Draco hadn’t felt in a long time. He wants Harry to know that they were more, so much more. He doesn’t want Harry to leave this plane without knowing that Draco was falling for him.

Draco tries to sit up but the pain that lances through him has him flat on his back and panting. “Padma, please. I need relief. I need to get up and go—”

Padma hovers over him, her wand out. Her eyes are wide, a line in between her sloped eyebrows as she frowns at him. “You sustained a horrific stab wound, I do not advise any movement beyond visiting the loo. As for pain relief, you were unconscious and I did not want to risk administering potions without knowing if you have taken anything that may conflict with it or if you have an empty stomach.”

“No, I’m not on anything. And I’ve had food today,” Draco says, lying about the last bit. “Padma, please,” he whimpers, his hand coming up to lightly lay over the patched wound.

She hands him a small bottle of blue liquid which he pops and downs. Immediately, his skin cools and the pain in his belly disappears. Draco sits up and swings his legs over the bed.

“I do not think it wise for you to get up just yet, Draco! I may have patched you up, but your wound is still tender. It was deep enough that an immediate Healing Charm would not take, and so you have a few hours left to heal. You do not want to bleed internally!”

At the rise in Padma’s voice, both Luna and Pansy stir from their sleep.

“Merlin, what time is it? Draco,” Pansy asks groggily. When her eyes focus on Draco they become bright and her lower lip begins to quiver before she lunges herself at him, arms going around his shoulders. “You’re okay—ah!—sorry,” she says, pulling back and staring down at the patch covering his wound. “Where do you think you’re going?” she asks. Draco doesn’t answer, instead searching for his wand, finding it on his nightstand, and Summoning a plain button down shirt. He quickly pulls it on, using his wand to do the buttons.

Luna, who is now sitting up, blinks up at him.

“Draco, who stabbed you?” Luna asks, tilting her head to the side.

“I-I don’t know, and I’m sorry, but there’s something important I really need to do.”

“You almost died,” Luna says looking at him in surprise. “And you were injured earlier, according to Padma and Pansy. Does this have anything to do with Harry?”

“Yes,” Draco says simply. “Harry is a ghost, Luna. And he’s here in the house somewhere and I need to help him free his body and crossover otherwise he’s going to be stuck here forever and turn into a soul-sucking creature out of despair.”

It felt so freeing to admit it out loud to his friends.

His friends. The people who took him in, held him when he cried, and continuously patched him up when he’d get hurt. He loves them. It hits him then just how unnecessarily cold he’s been towards them and vows to do better moving forward.

Padma drops her head into her open palms. “Not this again, Draco,” she grouses.

Pansy looks stricken, her face pale as she stares at him sideways. “Have you completely lost your mind? How can you say something so vile, Draco? The man hasn’t been dead for even a full 24-hours and you’re trying to have a laugh?”

Draco doesn’t say anything, he just continues to watch Luna who has a curious look on her face. “Did I run into him this morning, when Millie and I were in the kitchen?”

Draco sighs in relief as Pansy falls onto her back with an, “Oh, Merlin,” and Padma, who is sitting on a stool at the end of the bed, shakes her head.

“Yes, you did,” Draco says with a small smile. “I’m so sorry it was uncomfortable for you.”

“I knew it was him, but it just felt so sad, so lost. You were telling him to stop it, not me.”

Draco nods. “I would never yell at you or be cruel. You were grieving and I would never—”

“It’s okay, Draco,” Luna says, gracefully rising to her feet to sit beside him on the bed. She places a consoling hand on his knee. “And you’re going to help find him so he can be happy?”

Draco thinks about the way Harry held him as they kissed, just the day before yesterday. He thinks about how they had both promised each other to meet in the Atrium, and how determined Draco was to solve it all—the experiments, his mother’s murder, his feelings for Harry—but now it all seemed impossible. He was about to lose everything.

He was about to lose Harry all over again, and permanently this time.

Draco places a hand over Luna’s, linking their fingers together to rest on his knee. “I’m going to try with all my heart.”

A cough near the doorway draws Draco’s gaze away from Luna’s bright blue eyes to vibrant green ones.

“Hey,” Harry croaks.

“Hi,” Draco says, a small smile on his lips.

“Uh, is he here?” Pansy says, bewildered, squinting at the doorway.

“I almost lost you.”

“Not yet.” Draco shakes himself and glances at his housemates. “Do you mind excusing us? We need to talk.”

Luna leans into him then and kisses his cheek, squeezing his hand as she does so. “Of course.”

“Wait, is this for real?” Pansy asks. “Seriously.”

Padma stands from her stool, holding her hand out to help Pansy out of the bed. “Come along now, Pansy. We need to give them some privacy. And Harry,” Padma starts, turning to face the doorway. “We both know the situation could have been a lot worse. Draco needs to recuperate. Please make sure he rests.” Padma then pauses, visibly swallowing as she frowns. “We will miss you. Terribly.”

Luna stands and crosses the room to the door, directly in front of Harry, a sad smile on her face as her large blue eyes become shiny as she holds back her tears.

“Oh, I can feel your energy, Harry. It’s not so sad anymore. I’m happy that you’ve found some peace in your circumstances, and that you’ve allowed yourself time with Draco again. I so very wish I could hug you one last time. I didn’t hug you enough, and I’m sorry. I love you, Harry.”

Harry looks devastated as he stands before Luna, his hands wringing, no doubt desperate to touch her. “You’re one of my closest friends, Luna. I love you too, I love all of you, and I’m going to miss you so much.”

Luna bows her head and wipes away a stray tear with the back of hand before turning around to join Padma and Pansy across the room.

“Take care of yourself, Potter. You were quite alright,” Pansy says with a nod, wrapping her arm around Luna’s shoulders as she reaches them. “We’ll head out this way.” Pansy inclines her head towards the shared loo. “If you need us we’ll be in the kitchen.”

“He loves you, all of you,” Draco says before they leave.

“Harry,” Draco starts, turning to face him.

“This is the second time you’ve called me Harry.”

Draco shakes his head. “I call you Harry all the time. My memories, they all came back.”

Harry’s eyes widen as he smiles. “That’s brilliant! How?”

“I-I don’t know for certain, but I think getting stabbed flooded my body with just enough endorphins to weaken some of the neurological hold the Curse had on me. Instead of one memory coming back, they all came back. Padma ran a Diagnostic and it shows that the Dark Curse isn’t as strong as it was.”

“Draco, that’s-that’s amazing, I’m so happy—”

“—Harry. You knew. You said the last thing you could remember when you came to at Grimmauld Place was me, facing you, angry.” Draco smiles gently. “You left out the part where we were kissing. That’s why you were embarrassed. And that’s how you were able to come to me here, this is where you were last before the day you died. We were supposed to meet one another in the Atrium that day, but when you couldn’t, you found a way to come to me regardless.”

“I didn’t tell you because the memory not only confused me, but, I, I didn’t know how to tell you without scaring you off. But even then, I knew I was where I was supposed to be.”

“Harry, we were dating…for at least four months. You were trying to help me solve my Mother’s murder as well. You learned about the experiments through Hermione and offered to help us because you wanted to communicate with your loved ones from beyond the Veil, too. I just—I begged you not to do it. I don’t know how you ended up in the Death Chamber, but it had to be Gedeon and I think you’re trapped—” Draco says frantically, his breathing heavy. Harry’s in front him, his presence once again startling warm.

“—Draco, please, calm down—”

“We need to get to the Ministry. If we can get you to the Veil, you’ll be able to be set free, Harry.”

A relieved smile flashes across Harry’s face. “Are you sure?”

Draco nods. “Yes.”

“But how?”

“We’ll have to figure out a way to destroy the Veil,” Draco says simply. “Harry, I—”

“Wait. Draco, let me say this...I feel, I feel close to you, and I know this is wrong of me to say because our time together is—it’s limited—but Draco, I think you’re amazing, and I wish, I wish I could kiss you, and hold you, and make love to you. I wish I could remember the four months we spent together, the laughter we shared between one another. I already miss you, and I haven’t even had the chance to learn why.”

Draco trembles. He raises his hand and tries to touch Harry’s face, but his fingers slip through. Instead of the expected coolness, the sensation is warm, a gentle caress against his fingertips and Draco gasps.

“How are you doing this?” Draco whispers.

“I don’t know. It just feels right. I want to try something. I want to try before-before we have to say goodbye.”

“What is it?” Draco asks, his heart thudding and old welcome sensation of arousal shooting through him.

Harry comes closer, leaning forward. “Lie on the bed,” Harry says, his voice breathy against Draco’s ear. “I want to see all of you.”

Draco swallows and slowly turns around to crawl onto the bed, leaning back against his pillows, his arms loose at his sides.

“Unbutton your shirt.”

“Harry—” Draco starts, his cheeks flushing.

“Do you trust me, Draco?”

Draco pauses for a moment his heart hammering against his ribcage before his eyes flutter shut and he draws in a deep breath. “Yes. I do.”

“Then let me take care of you,” Harry says softly. “Unbutton your shirt; I want to see you.” Draco shivers and begins to quickly divest of his shirt.

“No,” Harry chides. “I want you to do it slowly. Let your hands be my hands. Undo one button at a time.”

Draco sucks in his bottom lip as he carefully slips a button free, allowing the very tips of his fingers to drag against his skin as he slides the shirt open before moving onto the next button. His breathing has become laboured, the anticipation hot and heavy in the pit of his stomach, the top of his thighs, and his cock.

When Draco is free from the shirt, Harry’s silent for a moment. “I never did apologise for hurting you,” Harry says, his eyes on the scars down Draco’s chest. “I’m so sorry I hurt you; it’s something I’ll never forgive myself for. You’re so beautiful, Draco, every part of you is beautiful, and I want you to know that,” Harry says firmly.

“I forgive you, Harry,” Draco says. Harry closes his eyes briefly.

“I wish—” Harry stops himself. “We have this moment now,” he says, as if trying to reassure himself. “I want this moment to count, to be burned into both of our memories forever.”

“Y-yes,” Draco chokes out, his hand squeezing his hardness, his hips lifting off the bed. “I want it, too, Harry. Please, more.”

“I want you to slowly remove your trousers, Draco.”

Draco does as he’s told. He flicks the top button of his trousers open and then slowly drags the zipper down. He wiggles out of his trousers and then his pants, kicking them off the bed. He shivers slightly, the air hitting his naked body.

“Look at you. So beautiful laid out and on display for me. I want to remember every inch of you.”

“Harry...I want you to try something. I want you to enter me.”

Harry’s eyes darken with arousal. “I don’t know if it’ll work. I don’t know if it’ll make you feel good.”

“I want us both to feel good. We should at least try.” Harry’s look is quietly contemplative. Harry’s eyes flit across his body, leaving him feeling hot under his gaze.

Harry smiles. “Okay, let’s try it.”

Draco budges to the edge of the bed. They both watch each other, both sharing anxious looks before laughing.

“Don’t be afraid,” Draco says. “I trust you.”

“I trust you, too,” Harry says before slowly laying on top of Draco and easing into him.

Draco’s breath hitches as a soft moan escapes him, his eyes blurring with tears from the intensity. The sensation of warmth washes over him from head to toe, relaxing all his muscles, every bit of anxiety, pain, and fear fleeing his body. His arousal pools heavy in his lower stomach, spreading down to his cock. He feels as if he’s sinking, allowing sensation and pleasure to rock him slowly. His hands come up to slide down his chest slowly, leaving his skin with goosebumps as he arches off the bed. He knows that he’s not controlling his hands, that Harry is touching him, caressing his face, his neck, his collarbones, grazing and flicking at each nipple before his hands dance down the thin line of hair that leads down to his full and throbbing cock. His hands, Harry’s hands, grasp him.

“Yes, Draco.” Harry’s voice is melodious in his head as his hand begins to work his cock. “You’re doing so well, darling. You’re so beautiful, Draco.”

Draco’s eyes flutter shut and he can picture it. He can picture Harry leaning over him, slowly pumping away at him, kissing him.

“Harry, Harry…” Draco moans, arching off the bed.

“I love it when you moan my name. I want to remember you like this, so beautiful. I want to remember this moment so I can treasure it for all of eternity.”

Draco comes, spilling onto his stomach, still pumping away slowly as a sob escapes him, his coiled muscles straining and relaxing through his orgasm, his chest heaving. “Oh, oh God,” he whimpers, blinking rapidly, still coming down. He’s never felt so thoroughly exposed. So raw. Harry was not just inside of Draco, he consumed him. He’s never felt so touched, so full of life. “Harry...” Draco repeats, closing his eyes. Harry lifting himself from him tingles and lingers, Draco’s body forever changed.

“Shh, you did so well,” Harry now whispers into his ear. “Let me take care of you. Sleep now. I’ll watch over you. I’ll always watch over you.”

---

The moon is still high in the inky night sky when Harry whispers in Draco's ear, gently luring him from out of his slumber. When Draco turns to face Harry who is on his haunches beside the bed, Draco is reminded of another time Harry woke him like this. They’ve come full circle.

“Hi,” Draco says softly, an ebbing warmth filling him as he looks into Harry’s green eyes.

“I’m sorry, love, but I think it’s time. It’s time you set me free.”

---------------

Sneaking into the Ministry after hours proves to be incredibly easy. On the night before the Great Harry Potter is to be buried, the Ministry is practically a ghost-town, the usual overnight Aurors nowhere in sight by the Floos in the Atrium. Draco has donned his lab coat and brought along his briefcase to appear as if he’s there for a long night of research. The one security guard he does pass gets on the lift as Draco gets on. The Auror looks exhausted but nods at Draco before shuffling towards the Atrium.

“That was Auror Okoro. Poor bloke always pulls the night shift,” Harry offers when they get on the lift. He’s been fidgeting since he announced he was ready to cross over. They had argued over it. Draco had wanted just a few more hours with him, but Harry rationalised a few more minutes, hours, even days wouldn’t prevent the inevitable: Harry had to cross over, otherwise his grief would consume him and he’d succumb to the Darkness lurking within him.

When they finally make it to the DoM and into the Love Chamber, it is blissfully quiet, and the lights flick on one by one as Draco strolls through the space. The Amortentia fountain is still flowing, and with a pleased smile Draco inhales, now recognising and embracing the third scent: treacle tart.

It struck him, as he was pulling on his clothes, Harry watching him under hooded eyes, that Draco had spent months falling for Harry, spending time with him and wanting him. It wouldn’t be far fetched if his feelings spilled out into some of his every day activities. Like love-sick teens who draw hearts in the margins of their notepads, perhaps Draco had illustrated his feelings somewhere, too. And as soon as he thought about it, the memory came easily, and painlessly, to the forefront of his mind.

It was why he felt confident as he powered up his computer and clicked on the file that was meant to self-destruct in another 24-hours, that he knew the password.

He typed it in, all lowercase and one word: “treacletart.”

Sidling up next to him, Harry makes a small noise of surprise. “Oh, you remembered the password too?”

Draco nods. “I did.”

“What was it?”

He turns to grin at him. “It’s one of the scents I smell when encountering Amortentia—treacle tart.”

A flurry of emotions flit across Harry’s face—happiness, humour, pride, sadness.

“I wish I could kiss you right now.”

Draco leans in as close as he can to Potter, lowering his voice and closing his eyes, drawing in a deep breath. “I can still feel you. And I can still remember how your lips feel against mine. I’ll remember how you kissed me and how you touched me for the rest of my life, Harry.”

Harry looks as if he’s about to cry, but he blinks several times and nods before looking at the computer screen.

Draco clicks through the files. Everything he needs is there. Proof of consent forms from the participants involved, all their information on the potions, their methodologies, the documentation of the trapped participants and the research they were conducting around it, and video footage.

Draco gasps. There’s a video dated the day Harry died, the time stamp 8:30am. Draco clicks it and another window opens. A still of the Death Chamber takes up the screen, and Draco can see Harry standing on the dais along with Gedeon.

Draco turns to Harry. “Are you sure you want to see this?”

Harry's eyes are hard as he stares at the computer screen. When he answers, his voice is low, tight. “Yes.”

Draco turns back to the screen. With a sharp inhale, he hits Play.

“You must be Gedeon,” Harry drawls, his wand pointed at the ready. “I received your memo,” Harry says, holding up a piece of parchment between his fingers. “Is this your way of a smart move? Pretending to be Draco to lure me down here?”

“You’re down here, aren’t you?” Gedeon says, his hands clasped in front of him as he smiles at Harry. “My, I think this is the first time I’ve actually seen you up close. Not bad, no wonder Draco is so smitten with you.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere,” Harry deadpans before lifting his wand. Gedeon tuts.

“I wouldn’t if I were you, Mr Potter. You see, your brilliant friend Unspeakable Granger set up some rather lovely anti-defencive charms down here. I’m afraid you’ll do more harm to yourself than to me.”

Eyes narrowed, Harry shouts, “Petrificus Totalus!” But instead of the spell hitting Gedeon, it backfires and hits Harry in the chest, knocking him back off his feet. He lands with a thud on his back, coughing violently and spitting up blood.

“I told you, silly boy. They simply do not work here. You do get a nasty bit of a blast back from it, but that’s the extent of it, Mr Potter. My, you are as stubborn and stupid as the tabloids say, aren’t you?”

Draco takes a moment to look at Harry beside him, his eyes pinned to the computer, teeth bared. “Hermione put that spell in place to protect the Veil from destablising. She noticed cracks in the archway and wanted to protect it. Only wandless magic works successfully in the Death Chamber,” Draco explains, but he doesn’t know if Harry hears him, his eyes still trained on the computer. Draco misses some of the exchange, but is drawn back in when Harry gets to his feet, swaying slightly.

Gedeon’s stands before him.

“It is such a terrible thing, love. It is an affliction that cripples the senses, paralyses reason, and eviscerates logic. People die for love, and death is terrible, as you’ve experienced. But you would do it, you would die for love, wouldn’t you? After learning about Horcruxes from dear Draco, it made complete sense why You-Know-Who was so repulsed by the very idea of love! So repulsed by you. It disgusted him so much, the notions of love and death, that he committed heinous murders to split his soul into tiny pieces just to avoid it. And still, the embodiment of love prevailed—you won despite carrying a piece of that repulsion within you. And so I rationalise, to love and to be loved is immortality; to die for it, the ultimate sacrifice. It’s ritualistic and strong, stronger than the act of murdering someone to preserve a shard of one’s soul, Mr Potter. So, I ask again: what would you do for love? Would you die for it?”

The terror painted across Harry’s face is palpable as he steps back from Gedeon.

Draco bites his lip. He knows that Gedeon is playing with every possible fear and insecurity Harry has. He’s always been good at manipulating people, convincing them that they were either invincible or the most horrendous piece of rubbish on the planet. His heart breaks as he sees the fear and confusion flash across Harry’s face.

“I will take away everyone you’ve ever loved, Mr Potter, one by one. You can try to fight me, incapacitate me and turn me over to the authorities, but the work started here today will continue regardless of my participation—there are people dedicated to seeing this work through to the end. You will be sought after for the rest of your life, the people in your life picked over and used again and again to challenge the proclaimed boundlessness of your love. You have the choice to break that cycle right now. You have the choice to contribute to something greater, something that will echo throughout time as the greatest self-sacrifice a man has ever made. You will be the man who sacrificed himself for love and lived forever. Give your soul to the Veil. Let the Veil become your Horcrux, Mr Potter, and prove that you will die for the ones you love as they have died for you.”

With a trembling hand Harry removes his glasses, slipping them into his pocket as his other hand comes up to rub the tears clear from his eyes. He turns to face the dais. With one heavy step after the other, he climbs the stone steps to stand before the Veil. Gedeon removes Granger's powerful Stasis Charm and the room begins to howl with magical current. As Harry approaches, his hair whipping in the wind, the fear on his face smooths over, a gentle smile gracing his lips as his eyes flutter shut.

“It is rapturous,” Harry says in awe.

“Yes, Mr Potter. What do you hear?”

“I hear...I hear my Mum,” Harry says, his voice breaking as his shoulders shake. “I can hear her crying.”

“She needs you, Harry, she needs you.”

Harry shakes his head. “She’s scared for me.”

“She knows that you’re about to join her, Harry. Do not mistake her tears for pain and fear. Prove your love, Harry...repeat after me: animus vivus est Animus ad te pertinet.”

Draco flinches, blinking back the tears in his eyes. Beside him, he can hear Harry’s own choked sob...animus vivus est Animus ad te pertinet...my living soul belongs to you. This whole time Harry knew something was missing from him, that they took something from him.

It was his soul.

It all made sense to Draco now, how Harry’s sacrificed soul can power the Veil, and why Harry wouldn’t be able to fully cross over. A Horcrux keeps the person alive unless it’s destroyed, but in Harry’s case, he wasn’t alive or dead, but still a ghost trapped in the realm of the living, and one that threatened to morph into a creature bent on filling the void left behind from the theft of his soul. Freedom could only be achieved through destruction.

In the video, Harry’s hands ball into fists, his teeth bared and clenched tightly as his eyes fly open and he gazes into the foggy abyss of the Veil.

He then screams, an anguished howl ripped from the core of him causing the muscles in his neck to tighten as he releases all his rage, pain, and fear into the abyss. His body rocks as his voice grows hoarse, the scream tapering off into a sob as he says, “animus vivus est Animus ad te pertinet,” while entering the Veil.

There’s a piercing white light that fills the screen and the video footage ends abruptly, and immediately another video starts.

Milton is standing on the dais, head bent over what suspiciously looks like Draco’s leatherbound notebook. The Chamber is still and quiet. Next to Milton, Draco recognises Mr Graham, strapped to a chair and dressed in a standard medical gown. The man looks heavily drugged, slouched over as his body leans to the left and his head bobs, as if he’s trying to stay conscious.

Milton looks unbothered as he flips a page, his lips moving silently before he snaps the book shut. “Please listen closely as I do so hate repeating myself. My colleague Mr Malfoy did not figure the appropriate dosage for an individual who will step into the Veil, so I will give you two tablets, Mr Graham, to ensure that your experience is pleasant and smooth.”

It’s then that Draco sees it.

The marble apparition floating above the cracked archway. The bodies are moving again but frozen in the centre is Harry’s face, eyes closed.

Draco reels back, his hand covering his mouth as he bites back a wave of nausea. He knew Harry was trapped in the apparition, but to see it on screen made his heart ache and his stomach churn violently. He sobs, his head shaking as he continues to stare at Harry’s still face. Harry remains eerily silent beside him.

He almost misses when Milton places Mr Graham in front of the Veil, the man happily crossing into the barrier. A few seconds pass, and Mr Graham stumbles back out, naked, and falling to his knees.

“My wife! My wife!” Mr Graham screams, struggling to his feet. “Send me back to my wife!”

Draco’s jaw drops. He came back. And he notices something else. Mr Graham, who was clean shaven before going into the Veil, comes out with a beard, meaning that time must pass differently on the other side.

Gedeon did it. He opened up a two-way portal to the land of the dead by turning the Veil into Harry’s Horcrux.

“AMAZING!” Milton shouts, grinning. He pulls out a small notepad and jots down notes. “And the beard! Time elapsed!” Milton says.

When Mr Graham does not cease in his sobbing, Milton pulls out a small vial of blinding blue liquid before forcing Mr Graham to take it. When he finally does, Mr Graham slumps over with a soft moan, falling onto his side.

Milton hums to himself, stowing away his small pad and once again opening up Draco’s journal.

“Perhaps we will try four tablets? That may increase the time you’ll be able to spend on the other side with your wife, Mr Graham.” Milton kneels beside the old man, pushing him onto his back and yanking open his mouth to slip four more tablets under his tongue.

Only a minute passes before Mr Graham is gagging, tar-like liquid spilling over his lips and down the sides of his face to pool onto the floor. Milton flinches back as Mr Graham begins to gasp and choke.

Distracted by the pool of liquid, Milton doesn’t see the moment Mr Graham swings his arm out, his fist colliding against Milton’s head and sending him sideways and motionless. Mr Graham gets on all fours, hurling more liquid, before crawling off the dais and out of the sight of the camera.

The footage ends.

Draco exhales. He can’t believe it. The portal was actually created, but the cost to do so was too high. There was no way Draco was going to allow Harry’s soul to continue to power the Veil.

Draco was going to release Harry tonight.

“I-I can’t believe I gave in,” Harry whispers.

Draco quickly turns toward him.

“He was threatening the lives of the people you care for, and not only that, the lure of the Veil is powerful, five times as powerful as ever considering the experimentations we’ve done, and the people who have already entered through it. The moment you stood before it, it was over, Harry. It’s not a reflection on you, or your strength or desire to sacrifice yourself. Gedeon knew exactly what buttons to press because he’s good at reading people, it’s how he’s been able to shape me for the last two years. He plays to the things I want to hear and the things that I’m afraid to hear.”

“My mum…”

“Was trying to communicate with you. Maybe even warn you away.”

Harry is silent, his face withdrawn and breathing laboured. “You have to destroy the Veil.”

“I know, it’s the only way. I just-I just don’t know how,” Draco says, running a hand through his hair.

Expression still blank, Harry turns to Draco. “The Veil is my Horcrux. I’m linked to it and trapped in its magical manifestation. Destroying the Veil should release my soul to the other side, and release my body...so you can…” Harry trails off. Draco swallows with a nod.

“I’ll bring you home,” Draco whispers, his chin trembling slightly before he draws in a breath.

Harry nods. “Good. Good.” They’re silent for several moments, the weight of the situation weighing heavily on them. Harry speaks up first. “I have an idea, but you may not like it.”

“I’ll do whatever is necessary to help you, Harry.”

Harry looks hesitant. “Fiendfyre. It’s a sure way to destroy the Veil, and not only that, it can be conjured wandlessly, to avoid Hermione’s spell restrictions on the Chamber.

Panic surges through Draco. Some nights he still has nightmares about the Fiendfyre from the Battle. Dreams of Harry not reaching him in time and falling into the violent flames torment him throughout the night. Conjuring it wandless and expecting to control it sounds impossible.

“It’s impossible,” Draco says.

“You can do it, Draco. You’ll have to pour every ounce of concentration and power behind it, but I have faith in you. You can do this. You can free me from the Veil by destroying it with the Fiendfyre.”

Their eyes meet once again and Draco can see in Harry’s eyes just how strong his faith in him is. Draco nods.

“I’ll do it,” he says resolutely. “But there’s one more thing I want to do with this,” Draco says, turning back to the computer and condensing all his research and the video footage into a zip file.

---------

As Draco stands nearly shoulder to shoulder with Harry on the dais, he desperately wishes he could hold Harry’s hand. He wants to feel his warm calloused palm against his softer one. He wants to graze his thumb across the back of his knuckles before lifting his hand up and peppering soft kisses across them. He wants, wants, and wants.

But that is not an option, and it wouldn’t be, ever. They had spent just a handful of months together only to have the time ripped away from them, and it’ll be Draco’s charge to carry those memories and their lost future with him for the rest of his life.

“I don’t know what to say,” Draco says quietly, staring anxiously at the Veil. “I can’t wrap my head around this anymore.”

“I know,” Harry responds quietly.

“Harry,” Draco starts, facing him. “You brought light into my life when I was ready to succumb to darkness. You made me feel alive again, and I-I don’t know how I’m going to be able to move past this...” Draco said, shaking his head. “I don’t know how I’m going to carry this pain with me for the rest of my life, knowing that I had you, and I lost you, and it was my fault. The weight of my choices came with greater casualties, and I’m so-I’m so sorry. You touched me, my heart will never forget it, my body will never forget it, my soul—” Draco says, swallowing back the lump in his throat. “I love you, Harry. And I know-I know you don’t remember, but—”

“—I feel it. I feel it here,” Harry says, placing a hand over his heart. “I felt it the moment I landed in your room. I felt it with every step I took beside you, around me, and every moment I shared with you where I saw you peeking from behind the curtain of your pain and grief. I felt it when we touched, when we made love. I love you, too, Draco, now and forever. From beyond the Veil,” Harry says gently. “I will always be there for you.”

Draco’s eyes burn as he watches Harry lift a hand, the tips of his fingers grazing his cheek, the ghost of his thumb sliding across his bottom lip.

“I want to remember you, just like this. Beautiful, elegant, intelligent eyes full of love. I’m going to miss you so much,” Harry says. “Live, Draco. Live and love hard for me.”

As Draco nods, Harry starts to step backwards, his eyes never leaving Draco’s, not once. Not until the Veil consumes him.

Once the first tear had fallen, the rest followed, cascading down Draco’s cheeks as he falls to his knees, his sob breaking into a strangled cry. He falls forward, his arms holding him up and his hands curling into fists against the stone ground as his mouth opens in a silent cry before it’s strangled out of him, the muscles in his stomach clenching, the stab wound still tender and smarting. When he leans forward to rest his forehead against the cool stone, he finally breaks down. The force of his cries consuming him violently, his body shaking with the force of it. He pushes back onto his knees, his face wet and flustered. He smooths back the strands of hair caught on his cheeks as he looks up at the white marble apparition. He bites back a gasp when he sees that Harry’s eyes are open and staring down at him.

Draco hugs himself around his middle, rocking back and forth as he stares up at Harry, a pain twisting in his chest at the sight. He sobs quietly now as he struggles to his feet, swaying as his head feels light and his throat burns from his cries. Draco rolls his shoulders back, unclenching his hands and bringing them forward, touching the tips of his fingers as he closes his eyes. He’s terrified, but he knows he has to do this.

He concentrates on the smell of it, the look of it, the way it consumes everything in its path. Draco can feel a reckless abandonment growing in the pit of his stomach that he focuses on as he pushes forward, urging it to push through his body towards the tips of his fingers to expel outward.

He can feel his hands heat up, the smell of ozone and stale air permeates the Chamber. The wild magic begins to burn down his arms, travelling fast to the tips of his fingers. With a final push, his eyes fly open, his mouth wide as an unholy scream escapes him.

The Fiendfyre shoots from out of his hands and to the centre of the Veil. Sweat is already pouring down Draco’s face, mixing with his tears as he concentrates on controlling the wild stream of fire. His legs shake and his left knee gives out; he lands roughly on both knees, but doesn’t break his concentration or the stream of fire. Draco screams again, watching as the misty gray fog of the Veil instead fills with orange, yellow, and red flames, licking the edges of the Veil and pouring outward to wrap around the white marble apparition. Harry stares down at him still, even as the flames slowly crawl across the marble, consuming it. Draco watches until the entire apparition is engulfed in flames, tears once more streaming down his face. He gives one more final, violent push outward, ending the outpour of Fiendfyre from his hands.

Panting heavily, he falls onto his backside, fatigued, and shaking as he stares in amazement as the Veil contains the Fiendfyre, burning from the inside and out, the apparition a floating ball of fire. There is a hissing and crackling noise as pieces of the marble begins to break apart, slowly falling to the ground in a powdery white dust.

Harry is gone.

Draco’s breath hitches, an anguished sob escaping him once more as his eyes frantically scan the dais, waiting for the dull thud of lifeless flesh on stone. Instead, an alarm sounds off in the Chamber. Before Draco can get to his feet there are three pops of Apparation that sound off around him and a pair of hands grab him, hauling him up as binds shoots out to wrap around his upper body.

“NO!” comes a roar and Draco turns his tired eyes to the furious, reddening face of Gedeon standing next to Milton. “WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?”

Draco realises that it’s Jenkins holding him up and tries to pull away from him, but the man shakes Draco roughly, before wrapping an arm around Draco’s neck, pulling him back and squeezing to keep him in place.

Gedeon approaches the dais, devastation clear on his face as he takes in the flaming Veil and apparition. “You’ve destroyed it! You’ve destroyed everything!” Gedeon howls before turning his thunderous eyes to Draco, his wand pointed in his face.

Milton rushes up to the Veil, shooting spell after spell into the flames but only finding that it irritates the fire, making it roll and twist, thin cracks crawling up the edges of the Veil. Milton steps back when a piece of the archway falls to the ground.

“Why did you do this? This was our project, our vision, have you gone completely mad?” Gedeon screeches.

“I know what you did to Harry!” Draco shouts.

Gedeon grows silent, his eyes snapping to Jenkins and back to Draco. Milton, an alarmed look on his face, slinks off the dais to seemingly stand back from the confrontation.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” Gedeon then shouts. “You’ve ruined everything, you’ve—”

“You sent your stepson to Curse me but he fucked it up, and I was able to retrieve my memories! You had him Imperio Hermione and you brought in this arsehole from America to take over her job and do your dirty work! And because of the cruel, vile way you trapped Harry in the Veil, he came back as a ghost, Gedeon...he came back to solve his own murder. And it was you! You lured him here, you went against every ethical rule known to man, you broke your Hippocratic Oath, and for what? For what, Gedeon? To play God?”

“You knew exactly what I was about,” Gedeon hisses. “You knew about the experiments, they were your idea.”

“Your stepson erased my knowledge of the experiments. But, Hermione and I warned you to stay out of our research; we both warned you that the direction you were taking was unethical and deadly. Harry! You took Harry away from people who loved him, a world that loved him, how could you? How could you—?” Draco cries, his knees buckling.

Gedeon ignores his cries and instead turns his glare to Jenkins, a terrible scowl on his face. “You useless, idiotic cretin! No wonder they refuse to make you an Auror, you can hardly follow basic instructions! I ask you to Imperio Granger and monitor her, and you let her go back to her family where she’s surrounded at all hours! I ask you to erase all memories of Harry Potter from him and you erase everything from the last six months! You are an idiot, and if your Mother were alive she’d be disgusted by your ineptitude! I’ve been telling you this for over a decade—she would turn over in her grave if she saw just how stupid you are!”

“I’m sorry, dad,” Jenkins says contritely. “It was just hard remembering such a long incantation.”

“I don’t want to hear any more of your excuses! Hold him up!” Gedeon snarls.

Jenkins grabs under his arms and hauls him up against him so Draco is facing Gedeon again.

Draco shakes himself, trying to set aside his grief. His voice grows dark and grim as he glares at the man he once called his mentor. “Listen to me. I sent every department head within the Ministry footage of what you did to Harry and what Milton did to Mr Graham. Even the Minister for Magic will have a video waiting for him in his Wireless Post. It’s over, Gedeon. With the footage I sent the DMLE, if you kill Granger and I and make it look like we’re missing, they will link your two missing senior staff members, Harry’s death, and the demolition of the Veil back to you. If you keep Hermone and I alive, it will be easier on you when the Aurors arrest you for killing Harry.”

Gedeon’s wand is still trained on him. “I will gladly go to Azkaban if it means that this great work survives. You, Granger, and your precious Harry Potter can all be together once again on the other side, where no one will visit you since you have destroyed one of the greatest, most ancient artefacts the Wizarding World has ever seen. This is the Department of Mysteries, and no matter what that bitch Granger thinks, this is my dominion. The Ministry will believe whatever I tell them as they have no jurisdiction over this department! We have your files and Milton here has been able to manage replicating your sublingual tablets and dosage. This work will live on even if I have to scour the world for another portal.

“You’ve disappointed me, Draco. When I first heard about you from Shoshanna, I immediately felt a keen connection to you, then I read the papers you co-authored, reviewed the clinical trials you had participated in—I simply thought: this kid is a genius! This kid has no boundaries, no qualms in doing whatever he needs to do to get the right results! I knew you were being wasted in America, wasted at St Mungo’s...it’s why I brought you here, gave you a state-of-the-art lab, money for whatever endeavour you wanted to explore, and my Deputy as your senior research partner, all because I had that much faith in you. I saw you like a son, Draco, I loved you more than this bumbling fool Robert! And you betrayed me. For that, I can’t forgive you.”

Behind him, Draco can feel the soft gasp that comes from Jenkins at Gedeon’s admission.

“Get rid of him, Robert,” Gedeon demands, turning away from them to head towards Milton.

Jenkins’ grip on Draco tightens, and he drags Draco backwards towards the burning Veil, the Fiendfyre swirling within it, the heads of snakes, chimeras, eagles, and dragons coming to the surface of the Veil to hiss, howl, and roar. Draco struggles against him, desperately digging his heels of his shoes in and trying to become dead weight against Jenkins.

“You don’t have to do this! Jenkins...Robert, please…” Draco whimpers, but Jenkins tightens his arm against Draco’s neck, choking him and silencing him at once.

“I’m sorry I have to do this to you, Healer Malfoy. You ruined a good thing. You ruined my one chance to see my mother again.”

“I wanted to see my mother too, Robert,” Draco wheezes. “This whole program, the potions and the Veil, it was all because someone murdered my mother right in front of me, and I blamed myself every day for her death. I just wanted to go back to that place of peace where I saw her whole and beautiful. I just wanted to talk to her one last time, but Robert, it’s not worth destroying innocent lives, hurting innocent people for just a few stolen moments with the dead. It’s not worth disrupting the balance between the two realms for selfish desires. I’ve realised that now—so many people have died for my selfishness,” Draco says, shaking his head. “Please, please—”

He doesn’t want to die. After so many months of thinking he’d be better off dead, he learned that life was worth living and above all, worth sharing with other people. Harry died for his loved ones and because of Draco’s selfishness; the least Draco can do is live. He wants to live the rest of his days honouring a man who loved him and sacrificed everything in the name of love.

“I don’t know what I ever saw in you,” Jenkins says against Draco’s ear. “I used to think how my dad talked about you so much, if I could make you fall for me maybe I’d finally earn his respect, but all you did was treat me like a nuisance.”

“I’m so sorry,” Draco chokes out. The heat from the Veil comes off of it in thick waves, heating up the side of Draco’s body and face as Jenkins holds them perilously close to the surface.

“I don’t care. You’ve ruined everything,” Jenkin says. When he loosens his hold for a moment to turn Draco towards the flames, Draco takes the opportunity to push off Jenkins, using the momentum to spin around to face the stunned man before slamming his head against Jenkin’s nose. Draco hears a crack, his own head throbbing and spinning as he stumbles away from him. Jenkins howls in pain, his hands coming up to cover his bleeding nose as he trips over his feet.

Everything slows down as Draco watches in horror as Jenkins falls through the roaring flames. The binds immediately disappear from Draco’s body, and a sharp pain shoots through his head, tiny prickles of needles erupting throughout his skull.

The Curse is breaking.

“NO!” Draco hears Gedeon’s horrified scream. “ROBERT!”

There’s a whirling crescendo of sound, swelling and threatening to burst. Terrified of the crumbling mass, Draco jumps off the dais just in time to avoid a jet of red light coming from Gedeon’s wand. The light slips into the Veil, causing the already destablising structure to crack further. The Veil splits open and the inflamed marble apparition cracks open as well, exposing a blinding white light that hisses like a kettle.

Suddenly, there’s a moment of deafening silence.

Followed by a raging rush of an explosion, the lights, sounds, and waves of magic rush through Draco, knocking him clean across the room. He slams against the opposite wall before collapsing onto the ground, his entire body in pain. There’s blood trickling down his forehead, blurring his vision, and his abdomen is throbbing. With a trembling hand he wipes it away, squinting through the mess.

There’s a horrible howling wind mingled with screams, cries, and horrible pleading. People crying that they don’t want to die. Voices screaming out for loved ones, for God. Draco shields his eyes against the blinding white light that fills the Chamber, wondering if this is it, if this will be the last thing he sees and hears before he dies. And he would deserve it, to hear the cries of the people who have fallen through the Veil.

Draco’s being hauled up to his feet, though. Eyes still closed, he frantically digs into the skin of the hands grasping the front of his lab coat.

“Draco, you brilliant, amazing—”

Draco’s eyes fly open, and he cries out.

Harry. Warm. Solid. Standing before him. Naked as the day he was born and a full beard, his vibrant green eyes showing a newfound depth.

Draco throws his arms around him, his heart pounding, his head pounding, spinning with disbelief. He’s concussed, surely, hallucinating. But Harry is in his arms, Draco’s burnt hands press against warm, solid flesh. Harry’s arms are tight around Draco’s body, squeezing him so hard it almost hurts but Draco doesn’t care. He tucks his face into the crook of Harry’s neck. He’s real.

He’s real.

Draco lifts his head, peering over Harry's shoulder to see that there are five people, also naked, struggling to their feet. With a cry of disbelief, Draco realises that it’s Layla Hughes, Troy Crawford, Preti Singh, Jacquelyn Flores, and Hunter Li.

All alive. All freed from the Veil.

No longer straddling both realms. No longer lost.

Draco looks up at the dais. The Veil’s is cracked in half, no fog or fire in its centre, Draco can see across the room through it. It’s just two pillars of crumbling stone with a pile of white powder like snow covering the dais.

“You destroyed the Veil. You released the people trapped by its magic. You released me,” Harry says, pulling back to search Draco’s face. “I’ve missed you. Spending the last 24-hours not being able to remember you…and now, I never want to forget you again.”

Draco bows his head. “Harry, I’m so sorry, this, all of this was my fault. I...I’m so sorry—”

“—Draco, listen to me.” Draco lifts his gaze to meet Harry’s fierce eyes. “I love you. And I know I said I could not absolve you of whatever regret or pain you may be feeling or forgive you for the choices you made, but Draco. I forgive you. I forgive you. I forgive you,” Harry repeats, gently pulling Draco’s head forward to press his lips against his forehead.

There’s a choked sob that rings through the room. As they look towards the sound, Draco watches as the participants hug one another, some of them crying, others covering their nakedness. Draco takes off his lab coat and hands it to Harry who runs a hand over it, producing six off-white, threadbare robes.

“It’s the best I can do,” Harry says, donning one robe and making his way towards the group of people to hand out robes.

Draco lingers back, not knowing how he’ll be received by the people that were trapped in Limbo because of him. He notices that Milton is crumpled on the ground and is about to go over to him to check if he’s alive when the man’s head moves from side to side, a pained groan escaping him before he goes still once more, his chest rising and falling. Instead, Draco approaches the dais to watch Gedeon slowly crawl on his stomach towards the destroyed Veil. Blood covers nearly half his face and his left foot is twisted in an odd angle. He reaches out to stick a hand through the empty surface with a furious cry.

“My son, my son,” Gedeon moans.

Remorse grips Draco. He knows that realistically it was self-defence, that Jenkins was preparing to toss him into the burning Veil, but it still hurt, it still burned the inside of him to know that he contributed to a man’s death.

When Gedeon realises that Draco is watching him, with a snarl he pushes himself up with his arms, panting heavily as he glares at Draco.

“You’ll pay for this. Everything you did here, all the people you killed. My son…” 

“It’s your own fault your son is dead.”

Gedeon turns to Harry, his eyes nearly bulging from his head as he cries out in shock. “You’re supposed to be—”

“Trapped in the Veil? Powering it? A Horcrux?” Harry sneers. “Love freed me from death,” Harry says before flicking his wrist and Stunning Gedeon.

Physically spent, Draco sags forward, his hands on his knees as he looks around the Chamber, at the chaos and pain he caused.

There will be many days, maybe months of sifting through what happened here, the research and its study with the DMLE. There will be questions that Draco will have to find the strength to answer. There will be tears, pleas for forgiveness, and happy reunions. There will surely be a trial, at least for Gedeon. Draco wouldn’t be surprised if they try to come for him too, but he’ll tackle that if and when it happens. And maybe, one day, Draco will find himself sitting in the courtroom across from the man who murdered his mother.

There is so much more to do, so much he has to offer, prove, and make up for.

But right now, he feels safe. He feels hopeful. As he stands up straight, pressing against Harry’s warm side, Draco is grateful to be alive for the first time in months. He’s grateful to be able to feel all the pain, the grief, the fear, the relief and the love. So, so, so much love.

“What do we do now?” Draco asks, turning his back to the destroyed Veil to meet Harry’s vibrant green eyes. Solid, beautiful.

Harry pulls him in close and they kiss, softly, tenderly.

“We live.”