Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

1. Accepting the Reality of Loss

The rain is pouring down as he walks along the street, the now-soaked paper firmly in his hand. It rains almost all the time in London, which is nothing special in itself, but today the rain no longer seems to consist of individual drops, but of long threads that stretch from the sky directly to the ground. Harry seeks shelter under a canopy, takes off his glasses, and tries to rub them dry as best he can with his sleeve. If only he'd had a spell against the wet, or an umbrella like all the Muggles around him. Well, bad luck. Just like so many other times in his life.

He unfolds the note again and reads the slowly fading blue writing: "Tomy's tree house. Blilfe Allee 163." Written with a pen, not a quill. He can still hear the sound the pen made as Hermione dragged it across the paper, as if punching out the address.

"Sometimes I hate the double standards in our world," she had replied when she noticed his eyes on her hand. "Everyone turns up their noses at the Death Eaters and their pureblood ideology and immediately claims to be an oh-so-great Muggle friend. But no one wants to use useful Muggle inventions like quill pens or the internet. It's as if they're afraid to admit that there are areas where Muggles might not be completely inferior to us."

She was already angry, he could tell. So he didn't want to give her a reason to get even angrier. In his opinion, it was best not to argue with her. She had the rare ability to channel anger into something productive. She had always fought—for being allowed to take all classes at once, for the rights of the house-elves, for a free world... She had always fought, but unlike Harry, her resistance had had a direction, a goal.

When he thought back to the war, he often felt like a spinning top that someone else had wound up and thrown into the room. As if he had only been a spectator, and none of it had been his own choice—or his own merit. How naive he had been to believe that Voldemort's death would automatically put everything right. That all the pieces would fall back into place.

Hermione's office smelled of books and coffee. Almost exactly like her old flat that she and Ron had moved into after the war.

"Don't look at me like that." Her voice had become softer, more gentle, and she even made the effort to get up from her huge desk and walk over to him. "I'm on your side, you know that, don't you? But you attacked a man in his own home, in front of his children. What do you expect me to do?"

"But only because I was sure he was the dark wizard we've been looking for for months, and that he and the little girl..."

"But he wasn't," Hermione interrupted. "He was just an ordinary family man." The only thing worse than her words was the disappointment in her voice. Harry bit his lip. "You're lucky nothing worse happened and he didn't report you."

Yes, the good old Harry Potter bonus.

"I know, and it was a mistake, but mistakes can happen, can't they? As an Auror, you only have a split second to make a final decision, and sometimes you make the wrong one." He gestured with his hands. "But that doesn't make me crazy."

He saw her grimace.

"I didn't say you were crazy. Nobody did, but I'm your superior, and I can't let you go back on duty."

Harry didn't answer her. He turned away.

"You need to work on your problem."

"What problem?" He spun around to face her. "The only problem I have is that my best friend doesn't trust me anymore, thinks I'm crazy, and wants to send me to that psycho doctor."

"I know you're always like that when you feel backed into a corner, so I won't take it personally, but I'm not going to get into a discussion at that level. You're going there. Full stop."

Her voice remained firm. Harry still knew he had hurt her. He knew it by the force with which she wrote the address on the small piece of paper: Blilfe Allee 163. "Ron's worried about you too. He thinks you've changed."

"Oh yeah, and Ron knows that because he studied psychology while working in the joke shop?"

She didn't say anything, just silently slid the note across her desk.

"And if I don't go?" He crossed his arms. Yes, he might be acting like a petulant child, but he was nowhere near the end of his rage.

"Then I'll take you off active duty until you do."

She looked at him, and he knew she meant it. Behind all the sadness and worry, he could clearly see the fire burning.

He bit his lip and snatched the note out of her hand. "Please let someone help you."

But he had already turned and stormed angrily toward the door.

Now that the rain had cooled his temper, he was sorry for his overdramatic exit—no, actually for the whole conversation. Hermione only meant well, even if she was definitely wrong.

"Excuse me." He intercepted a grey-haired man in an expensive-looking suit. "Can you tell me how to get to this address?"

The man just shrugged and walked on without saying a word. The next people he met, two young women walking hand in hand through the area, were much friendlier, but they explained to him in a half-English, half-French chant that they were tourists themselves and weren't from here.

Tourists themselves... if they only knew.

Somehow, it's strange to walk through Muggle London again. Almost like when he was a child and Aunt Petunia, Uncle Vernon, and Dudley had taken him on one of the rare trips to the big city. In fact, the adults had spent the whole time talking about how dirty everything was, how the rubbish stank, and how many homeless people there were. In the end, Dudley always got to choose a giant toy, and they would go out for a meal somewhere. If Harry was lucky, and the waiter looked at them reproachfully for ordering only three meals when there were four of them at the table, they would even order a cheap dish for him.

Neither the trips nor his childhood had been objectively nice, and yet the memory gave him a strangely comforting feeling. Back then, he had simply been a strange, unloved child with shaggy hair and much too thin legs, not someone who was constantly in the limelight and whose face appeared on Chocolate Frog trading cards.

"Blife Alley? You're in the wrong place." An older lady interjected, pulling a shopping trolley behind her. "Blife Alley turns right off Linkon Street, but you must have turned left."

Harry thinks Blife Alley sounds almost like Blind Alley, like a dead end, and that's how it feels to him. Nevertheless, he thanks the woman and walks back the way he came in the pouring rain. He passes a bakery that has fallen out of time, from which the smell of pastries wafts toward him for a few steps, and a flower shop. Flower shops only exist in the wizarding world to buy magical plants as ingredients for potions. The gesture of giving a flower to someone you care about does not exist there. Nevertheless, he considers going there and buying Ginny a bunch of roses. He could explain the meaning, and also that he's sorry they've been fighting again. That he was sorry for being such a difficult person at the moment, pushing everyone away, and that he knew she really deserves someone who can share his thoughts with her. Someone who wants to build a future with her and not just be stuck in the past. He wants to make an effort to become that person; he really does, and flowers would be a nice start.

His glasses are full of raindrops again. He can only see the flowers in the shop window as colorful dots. No, it's a stupid idea. She wouldn't understand. Besides, he's already way too late, and what would people think if he showed up with a bunch of red roses?

When he reached 165 Blife Allee ten minutes later, a nondescript grey multi-storey building nestled among other equally nondescript grey buildings, he considered just turning around and going home. He could tell Hermione in the morning that he couldn't find the address, and it wouldn't even be a lie, would it?

He sees Hermione's face in his mind. Her wild curls, which she had recently tried to tame with a hair clip. I'm worried about you. She never said it in words, only with her eyes, but the message is the same.

He sighs, takes a deep breath, and takes a step forward, then another. With every yard he gets closer to the door, his throat tightens. He stops again. He puts his cold hands to his throbbing forehead and runs his fingertips over the old scar.

How stupid! He has seen people die. He's survived Voldemort and everything he's done to him, and now he's panicking because he has to open a door and face some Muggles? How pathetic. The great Harry Potter... my arse.

The corridor in front of him is so dark that even the twilight in the streets of London seems bright to him. He recognizes several doors. He hears voices behind one of them, so he knocks and enters before his courage fails him again.

The voice he heard faded and about fifteen faces turned in his direction. Young faces, old faces, faces of men and women. In some, he saw curiosity; in others, anger at the disturbance; in all of them, a deep pain and a kind of resignation that he saw in his own reflection every morning.

What am I doing here? Again he wants to turn around and just leave.

"Sorry I'm late. I couldn't find the address." And suddenly he feels transported back to his school days. Water drips from his black wool coat, which now smells like a wet dog and leaves puddles on the linoleum floor.

His glasses are so fogged up that he can barely make out anything.

"How nice of you to have found us after all. Come in and sit down."

The woman is tall, her hair tied back so grey it looks almost white, and she is the only one standing, while everyone else is seated in a circle of chairs. He deduces that she must be Dr. Jenkins, the one Hermione told him about.

"Thank you." He sits down on an empty chair on the left and tries to wipe his glasses with his sleeve. He smudges them more than it helps.

"Mr. Potter is our guest today." She turns back to the group, then to him: "You don't have to say anything, just listen. Unless you want to."

"Okay."

Are there any other rules he should know so as not to make a complete fool of himself? It's best if he doesn't do anything... except breathe.

The older woman next to him watches his efforts with his glasses, finally handing him a handkerchief.

"Don't worry," she smiles encouragingly. "It's always a bit hard being here at first, but later... it helps."

"Thank you." At least he can finally see again.

"I’m Iris, by the way." She holds out her hand.

"Harry." It's the first time in so long that the other person's face doesn't change when he says his name. For a brief moment, he thinks he understands why Hermione has sent him here of all places.

"I'd rather tell you about Emily, what she was like." The young woman begins again. "How funny she was, or what crazy ideas she had. Once she wanted to open a birds' savings bank and secretly hid old bread in her bed box." She smiles. Harry thinks she looks beautiful when she smiles. It only lasts a fraction of a second. Like a soap bubble, then it bursts.

"Shit." She says, pressing her hands to her eyes. "Shit."

Another woman, also young, but with short dark hair, suddenly comes to her and puts her arm around her.

"It's OK," she whispers.

"No, nothing is okay. My daughter is dead, and it's like that fact is covering everything like a spider's web or a broken window. I can't even think about the moment when the nurse first put her in my arms without thinking about how she died." Her inhalation sounds like she's breathing through a whistle. "And do you remember last week?" she turns to the woman next to her. Tears run down her cheeks. "You had to pick me up because there was this girl in the supermarket who had the same school bag as Emily. Unicorns and stars. And because I was hiding between the shelves and I couldn't breathe."

Harry feels sick, and with every word he hears, his inner turmoil grows. The faces of the others reflect sympathy; some are crying too, but no one seems to be fighting as hard as he is not to collapse on the floor.

"I can't bear it anymore." She sobs now. "I just can't bear it anymore."

"It's almost unbearable." Dr. Jenkins has come to her and puts a hand on her shoulder. At that moment, Harry jumps up. His chair tips over, and once again all the faces turn to him.

"I have to... I have to go." He points to the exit and sprints off. His first stop is the bathroom, where, thankfully, he doesn't throw up. He splashes cold water on his face and looks at his reflection. Dark circles under his eyes.

"Are you all right?"

He is surprised to see the silhouette of Dr. Jenkins in the doorway.

"Yeah, I'm fine." He turns off the tap, feeling strangely caught out. "Shouldn't you be with your group?"

"They're taking a break, and I wanted to check that you were all right."

"Hm." He pulls a green handkerchief out of the holder and wipes his hands.

"Go on, tell me."

"Tell you what?"

"Well, your doubts. I can see them dripping out of you."

Her blue eyes seem to look right into him.

"OK, why didn't you help that woman?" He turns to her. Suddenly the old anger is back. "She was really desperate, and you didn't do anything."

"Yes, that's true. Lydia's daughter was hit by a turning truck on her way to school two months ago. She was only seven, so what exactly would you advise me to do?"

"I don't know. You're the psychologist." He turns back to the mirror. "You must know something."

To his horror, he feels tears welling up inside him. Damn it, why does he have to cry now? He doesn't even know this woman or her dead child.

"It's called grief work because it's really hard for the psyche to accept the loss of another person as reality, to process the pain, and to find your way in a world that continues to spin without the other person." Her voice is soft as she says this.

"Emily is no longer here; that's the lowest common denominator that all religions and schools of thought can agree on. She won't be opening bird banks or taking sandwiches to school. She will no longer play with her toys or celebrate her birthday. This is Lydia's new reality."

"But that's just... sucks."

He has to wipe his eyes; there are so many tears.

"Yes... But it wouldn't ease her pain if someone said something supposedly uplifting like 'Be thankful you had her' or 'She wouldn't want you to suffer like this.' Quite the opposite." She tilts her head sideways. "For people on the outside, grief is just a hassle to get over as quickly as possible, but it doesn't work that way. There are no shortcuts, no way to take away someone's pain, but you've known that for a long time, haven't you?" He hadn't even noticed that she wore glasses on a chain around her neck. "That's why you're here."

Wrong! I'm only here because I was forced to be. He just managed to bite his tongue, so that only a strange gasp escaped his mouth.

"I'm sure you're doing a great job for the Mu..." Again, he barely manages to control himself. "For the people here."

"But?"

She looks at him again, as if she already knew the answer.

"But not for me."

"Okay."

"Okay? It's that simple?" He raises an eyebrow. "I can just go now?"

"Yes. It's that simple. This is a voluntary event, not Azkaban, but you have to face the consequences of your actions."

"You've heard of Azkaban?" He's so taken by surprise he doesn't even catch the rest of the sentence.

"Fortunately, not from personal experience." She laughs.

"So you're a...?"

"A witch? No." She glances over her shoulder, as if to make sure none of the other participants are passing her. "I know your story, Harry Potter, as probably everyone in wizarding society does, so it's only fair that you know who you're dealing with as well. My parents were witches and wizards, even purebloods. In your world, I'm what you call a squib, though I deeply dislike the term."

A squib, of course—someone who can navigate both worlds. Suddenly, everything about Hermione's perfidious plan makes sense.

"You may know some facts and the stories you read in the papers, but you don't know me."

"You're right." Again, the smile on her face. "Actually, I only know the list of your losses, and from that, I deduce that it can't be easy for you, but of course, that's pure speculation."

"I don't need therapy!" He didn't mean to say it; it just came out. "I'm doing really well. I have a wonderful girlfriend, friends I trust completely, and the job I always wanted. My life is pretty much perfect."

"I'm happy for you because you're not getting therapy here. This is a support group, and if you follow me into the tea kitchen now, I can tell you about our concept while I make us some tea. You can still decide if you want to run away, but the men's pissoir... it's a pretty gloomy place, don't you think?"

As they stand in the narrow room, which is really more of a recess in the corridor, and the water boils, Dr. Jenkins talks about self-empowerment and regaining agency. It smells of peppermint. Harry is only listening with half an ear anyway as he watches the group gather around a table, chatting and laughing, with Tupperware containers piled high with various things like muffins and sandwiches.

"Everyone brings a snack for the break, but I'm sure you will be allowed to eat something today."

From a distance, they almost look like friends meeting. The young woman, Lydia, is also deep in conversation with the dark-haired one. He thought that she would cry forever.

"And all I have to do is come and listen every Tuesday evening, and you will write to my supervisor to say that I'm fully functional again?"

"Well, the main focus of the group is actually the tandem principle, similar to what we know from addiction counseling. A more experienced member helps a newer member through the disaster that has suddenly hit his own life. A tandem partner is like a lifeline. They are the person you call in the middle of the night when you don't know what to do next, or when you just need someone to talk to."

"Okay."

No, actually it's not okay. It's not what he needs right now, but firstly, he's not going to cry between the shelves, and secondly, he didn't need to let that person get that close to him. They were Muggles anyway, and he would have to make up a story to avoid being discovered.

"Yes." He tries to sound as confident as possible to sell it. "So which one of them will be my... what's the word? Tandem partner? Then I'd like to say hello."

"None of them." She looks over her teacup at the group. "I make sure that the tandem partners have as much in common as possible; otherwise, the whole concept makes no sense. And with them..." She raises her shoulders. "It would be dumb if you got arrested for breaking the confidentiality agreement just for telling a Muggle about a wizarding war at three in the morning." She laughs again and looks around the room. "Strange he's not here yet. He's usually so reliable."

Just then, the door opens, and a tall young man in an olive-green and rather wet outdoor jacket enters.

"Speak of the devil."

"Sorry I'm only here now. I've had some... problems."

He knows the voice, but it's only when the stranger takes off his hood and runs his fingers through his wet, too-blonde hair that he realizes.

"Malfoy?" The word leaves his mouth involuntarily.

"Potter?" Surprise appears on the skinny face. "What the hell are you doing here?"

How long has it been since they last faced each other like this? Years? Ages? Yet the feeling is the same. It's like being transported back in time. Like being eleven again and wanting to whip out your wand and turn the other person into a toad.

"You know each other?" Dr. Jenkins' voice sounds surprised—positively surprised. She puts her mug on the windowsill. "Well, that makes it even easier for you."

Oh, she has no idea how wrong she is.

Chapter Text

2. Processing the Pain

The participants stand in the corridor. They look for their jackets and get dressed. Harry hears them talking. Through the door, he perceives their voices only as a muffled murmur, but in his mind, he puts together the most appropriate dialogue.

"Did you see that?" he sees the old woman, who has introduced herself as Iris, talking to the others. "He went completely crazy out of nowhere, waving that stick around. Who knows what would have happened if Dr. Jenkins hadn't intervened?"

As for how the wand ended up in his hand, he can't say. Well... actually, he could. Malfoy had looked at him like that. With that look, just like he used to, like he was about to do something. Like he was going to pull out his wand if Harry didn't react fast enough. Only that he didn't. Except that Dr. Jenkins was suddenly standing protectively in front of Malfoy.

Her loud "Stop. There's a limit here," and her outstretched hand had seemed so strong, as if she were firing a powerful spell at him. He had even crouched down as his heart pumped adrenaline through his body to ease a pain that never came. It was only when he opened his eyes again that he noticed the trembling tip of his wand and all the confused faces around him, with Malfoy hiding behind her, like he used to hide behind the teachers in the good old days.

"We'll finish early today," Dr. Jenkins had said as a matter of course. "Disruptions take precedence."

No one had protested, but the looks people gave him on their way out made him realize who the disruption was in their eyes.

Well done, Potter. You lost control in front of everyone and threatened a couple of grieving Muggles with a wand. It's not Malfoy saying that. It's the voices in Harry's head doing it for him. Malfoy just continues to stand in the middle of the room, watching him. Who in the Ministry do you speak to when this happens? Yourself?

It's nice to always have your archenemy around. You don't need a real flesh-and-blood one anymore.

"You've become superfluous!" he wants to yell at him, but he's smart enough not to react to his provocations, especially since Malfoy isn't doing anything at the moment. He is neither scared nor frightened, neither angry nor defiant. He hasn't even put on his "Oops, you're in trouble now" face. He just stands there, and everything about him reminds Harry of a hunting dog waiting because he doesn't know what to expect.

Harry wipes his face. Why is that bloody clock ticking so loudly?

Dr. Jenkins leans over to Malfoy. She puts her hand on his shoulder. They whisper to each other. He nods, walks across the room, and sits down on one of the windowsills. Then she comes back to Harry.

"He should get out of here!" he wants to shout at her. "What is he doing here anyway? Why isn't he in Azkaban?"

His presence is like a stone in his shoe, hurting with every step.

Harry closes his eyes again. He bites the inside of his cheek, hoping the pain will suppress the shame. In the darkness of his mind, he sees Hermione's face. Her disappointed look.

It has happened again. That's what I'm talking about. This can't go on.

He picks at his fingernails and digs them into his palms.

"Do you want to talk about what just happened?"

Someone touches his shoulder. He opens his eyes to see Dr. Jenkins' worried face.

Malfoy has taken the headphones out of his backpack and put them on, but Harry is still sure he understands every word.

What the hell! Let him. He can hear what Harry has to say.

"No, I don't want to talk about the fact that you brought a bloody Death Eater here and seriously assumed we'd get along." There are things that life has taught him. Things he knows are wrong, but that he keeps doing under pressure. Striking first is one of them. Attack before you are attacked. "You of all people should understand that the ideology he and his people..."

Very thin ice! Her eyes say as she interrupts him by placing a hand on his shoulder again.

"There are some rules in this group that I haven't been able to explain yet, but I will now. All emotions have a place here, even the unpleasant ones that people always try to push away because they are annoying. This means that you are allowed to be sad. You are even allowed to be angry. You're allowed to run out, shout, hit the wall, but you're never allowed to attack another person here, especially an unarmed person, understood?"

"But..."

"Do you understand that?" Her tone becomes a little sharper.

"But the fact that he and his people have tortured and killed people— is that okay or what?" He can't help but raise his arm and point reproachfully at Malfoy, who is still sitting on the windowsill pretending to listen to music. His eyes are closed, as if he were asleep. His breath fogs the windowpane he leans his face against. Harry feels his emotions threatening to overwhelm him. Tears well up in his eyes, and he hates himself for it. Himself and Malfoy, who is probably having a party inside right now. "You might as well invite the lorry driver who killed that child and suggest they become good friends."

"Sometimes we actually do." He admires her for how calm she remains and how little she reacts to his provocations. "Seeing that the driver is not a monster, but a human being who is also suffering from the consequences of the accident, can help to unlock a stuck grieving process." She tilts her head. "Anger is a very powerful emotion, Mr. Potter. It helps us to protect what is important to us and focuses our attention on what is wrong. Anger and guilt are part of grief, but if they are not dealt with, they can also harm us."

Harry bites his lip.

"That was a really bad example from me. The driver didn't kill Emily on purpose, but the Death Eaters... they chose to align themselves with Voldemort and his inhuman ideology. They chose to hurt others in his name."

His voice shakes, but he doesn't care. There is something soft, almost compassionate, in her gaze.

"I know it's hard to see the individual, especially in a group like the Death Eaters, who have done everything they can to appear as a faceless mob with their cloaks and silver masks, but that's what's important when you want to judge the question of individual responsibility and the extent to which someone really could have made a different choice."

Harry doesn't answer. He presses his lips together and remains silent.

"To get back to your original question: Yes, I knew Draco Malfoy was a Death Eater, but I didn't know you two knew each other and that this meeting would affect you so much."

"Potter and I met before our first day at school. We'd just turned eleven and were standing next to each other in a clothes shop getting measured for our school uniforms." Draco took off his headphones. For the first time that evening, the typical Malfoy expression—that mocking, arrogant smile—stole across his features. "And let's just say, for some reason, things never worked out between us."

"Want to know a secret? The reason was you." Harry snorts. "From the moment we met, you did everything you could to be so unsympathetic that I just wanted to leave. We exchanged maybe three sentences, and in two of them, you told me how great you thought you were, and in the third, how inferior and bad everyone else was."

"You didn't give me a chance." Draco lets his legs dangle from the window bench, stands up, and walks over to them. "You just looked at me and decided you didn't like me."

"Yes. Funny, isn't it? And yet the fourth sentence would surely have been the tipping point where your good, true self—your heart of gold, as it were—would have come out, and we would have become best friends forever."

Harry laughs.

He sees Draco clench his hands into fists. Just for a moment, then he lets them fall back to the sides of his body. His face remains still. His eyes are the same color as the slate roofs of the houses—grey like the fog that always seems to hang over the city in November.

"Besides, the second time we met on the train, you sicced your thug buddies on us and insulted my friends."

"You started making stupid jokes about my name."

"So this isn't about Draco being a Death Eater," Dr. Jenkins explains. "This is about the hurt feelings of a little boy, or two little boys to be precise." She looks in Draco's direction. He lowers his eyes and retreats back to the windowsill.

"Potter tried to slash me in the girls' lavatory. Really, he almost killed me."

"Right, I almost forgot. That was... Yes, you tried to murder our headmaster and put a Cruciatus curse on me."

Dr. Jenkins shakes her head in annoyance. It annoys Harry that she reacts like that. It annoys him that he feels like a little child again, having to explain himself to his teachers.

But we didn't deliberately go into the forbidden corridor on the third floor.

Really? Ten points off for Gryffindor.

"I have really good reasons to dislike him." He crosses his arms. "He has put down anyone he thought was weak or vulnerable in any way. Not just me. He made school hell for so many of our classmates."

"Our criticism tends to focus on blaming other people for not having the qualities we think we have," she says suddenly.

"What?"

"It's a quote from Jules Renard. He was a French writer in the eighteenth century."

Harry doesn't know what to say. This is all completely crazy. He shouldn't even be here. Not with this strange old woman quoting French writers, and certainly not with Malfoy.

"You two have spent so many years trying to find out what makes you different that you can't see what you have in common," her voice becomes soft again, almost maternal. "And yet, in the less than three minutes you've been arguing, I've already noticed at least five things." She holds up her hand and counts. "You're the same age, you went to the same school, the same year, and this is not so obvious: you've both been deeply hurt, and you don't want to be here."

"With all due love, Linda, I don't think the common ground of not wanting to be here is enough to overcome everything that's happened in the last..." he seems to think. "Eleven years between us."

Harry doesn't know what surprises him more: that Draco seems to know Dr. Jenkins' first name, or that for the first time in... ever... he agrees with him.

"Yes." He says. "I don't think so either."

Eleven years. They've known each other as long as they haven't known each other before. Although... actually, that's not true, because Harry hasn't had any contact with him for the last four years since the war ended.

"You can have a cup of tea now." Dr. Jenkins points to the table, where there are no more Tupperware containers, but there are still cups and a thermos bottle. "Then you can go out into the fresh air and talk to each other."

"But it's raining."

Harry wants to laugh; Malfoy sounds so much like a little child.

"Sometimes you have to change your location to change your perspective."

It's as surreal as a dream. Draco and he wordlessly pour hot tea into mugs that look as old and worn as if they have been in use for at least thirty years.

Harry strokes the red apples, already chipped in places, before following Draco as if he were going to his own execution.

It has grown dark outside. Snow has mixed with the rain, and the cold cuts into his skin like a knife. Smoke and the smell of cinnamon apples rise from his cup and float into the sky. It smells like the coal stoves that still heat this poorer part of the city. It reminds Harry of home, of Hogwarts.

Draco turns away from him. His eyes blur with the lights of the city in the distance. Harry doesn't know what to say.

How do you start a conversation when all you've exchanged for the last eleven years is insults and angry put-downs? How can you talk about trivial things like the weather or the traffic when you've just made it clear how much you hate the other person?

"Okay, let's make this brief." Draco's gaze is hard, almost serene. "That's what you call karma, isn't it? You're finally in a position where you have the power, and I'm... nothing." He licks his lips nervously. "So what are you waiting for? This is your chance to finally take revenge for everything you've accused me of." So he had listened. Of course he had. "One word from you, and I have to go."

Harry realizes that Draco is right. He's no longer the abandoned boy under the stairs at the Dursleys. He's bloody Harry Potter. His word carries weight now. He can use it. He can assert himself.

He imagines what it would be like. He watches Malfoy walk away through the rain, and it feels bloody good to finally be powerful instead of always so damn helpless. But then something snaps back in his head, like a rubber band. A feeling, perhaps, or a memory.

Draco still looks at him. Up close, Harry notices how worn his clothes are. Even the green outdoor jacket has dark edges on the sleeves and is definitely two sizes too big for his slender frame.

"No," Harry finally replies, shaking his head. "I don't do that. I'm not like you."

Draco says nothing. He leans his chin on his arms resting on the railing.

"Of course you don't. The roles in this story are clearly assigned, and you're the shining hero." He laughs. Only briefly, then he is silent again. "Why do you always have to show up where I am? I mean, the world is so big. Why are we always in the same place at the same time?"

Why can't Malfoy be grateful for once?

The rain becomes heavier. The canopy they were standing under offers little protection. Malfoy's outdoor jacket is getting darker and darker from the wet.

"Are you sure you want to stand so close to the edge? You're already soaked."

"Yes."

Only the rain is falling. Harry takes a sip from his mug. The only good thing about the tea is that it's hot.

"Why is it so important for you to stay if you don't want to be here?" Draco doesn't answer, just looks down at his left arm, which is answer enough for Harry. "I bet that's one of the Ministry's conditions so they don't send you back to Azkaban, isn't it?"

Now he slowly turns to Harry.

"And what about you? Why are you here when you obviously don't want to be?"

He considers lying, but then decides to tell the truth, without really knowing why.

"Ministry requirements too... somehow."

He shrugs and takes another sip from his mug.

"I can't imagine they'd put you in Azkaban."

"No. But they can make me do paperwork for the rest of my life." Why is he telling Malfoy about this at all? "Because I'm an Auror, and there was this tiny little incident..."

"Auror, of course..." Malfoy shakes his head. "I bet you married little Weasley and live in a fancy house somewhere in London, and in the evenings, you meet Granger and your best buddy Ron for dinner and then you talk about how exhausting your day was and how hard it is to be good and perfect all the time."

"Why do you always have to be such a dick? I've tried talking to you normally."

"I don't know. It's probably in my blood. You know, rotten family to the core?" He raises his shoulders, then lowers them again. "I'm sorry; I'm just not good at this sort of thing."

"Neither am I."

Rain and silence fall between them again.

"I've been thinking." Harry says after a while, "and please, let's skip the part where you say, 'What? You can think?' and then I say something back to insult you and get straight to the point: Let's be tandem partners."

He had never been able to rattle Draco before. Now he is. He looks at him as confused as if Harry had asked him if they were going to fly naked to the moon.

"Not really, of course." Harry rows back. "Only pro forma. I mean, I don't want to be here. You don't want to be here, but we both need the confirmation."

Draco still looks at him suspiciously.

"I don't need your pity, Potter."

"And you won't get it. Quite the opposite. I don't care about you at all, and that's why, unlike the Muggles here who really need help, I'm not the least bit sorry that we'll never see each other or talk on the phone. That we'll just sit here every Tuesday and our paths will never cross again in a few weeks when this spit is over."

He can see it working behind Draco's forehead, looking for the rake, the trap that will snap shut if he isn't careful enough.

"Come on, Malfoy, this is a really foolproof plan. Not even you can ruin it." It is only when he reaches out his hand to Draco that he realizes how symbolic the gesture is. A reversal of what happened all those years ago.

Draco seems to notice, and for a moment, Harry is sure he's going to leave him like Harry did then, but then he reaches out. His hand is freezing cold, and Harry's first impulse is to hold it longer to warm it, until he realizes whose hand it is and lets go.

“Don't you dare mess with me, Potter. You'll regret it. I swear to you. I can defend myself without a wand.” Despite his bravado, Harry senses a hurt behind those words that he had never noticed before. Suddenly, there is something between them—terribly vulnerable, but there it is, and for the first time that evening, Harry feels that maybe it is not so bad after all.

Chapter Text

3. Adapting to a World Without the Deceased

When Harry comes in through the front door that evening, the house is already dark. He takes off his shoes and quietly goes into the kitchen to pour himself a glass of water. A street lamp burns outside the window.

"What a crazy day," he thinks. "Almost nine million people live in London, and I bump into Draco Malfoy in a Muggle grief support group." It sounds like the beginning of a ridiculous joke, and he has to laugh. Two wizards meet at the psychologist's... He hears something move upstairs and falls silent. A door opens.

“Harry?” Ginny's voice sounds fuzzy, as if she has just woken up. The worry and reproach in her tone are still clearly audible. “What took you so long?”

His gaze falls automatically on the clock hanging above the door. It's almost eleven. He had casually mentioned at breakfast that he was going to do something after work but hadn't specified what or when he would be back. He knows she's still standing at the top of the stairs, waiting for an answer. He just doesn't know what to tell her.

“You'll never guess who I bumped into earlier!” Maybe, and then, after a few unsuccessful guesses: “the weasel, Draco Malfoy, of all people! Isn't that crazy?” They could laugh about it together and perhaps even dig up more memories from the past. Perhaps they would feel as close as they did back then.

But no, he dismisses the idea. If he tells her about Malfoy, he will also have to reveal the support group, the conversation with Hermione, and the incident at work that set everything in motion. He would have to expose his entire improvised life and how broken he actually is.

He fills his glass again and puts it to his lips to buy some time. As he does so, he feels a corner of the rim break off, leaving a crack stretching all the way to the bottom. “That's me,” he thinks, suppressing another throaty laugh. “This is symbolic of my life.” He pours out the water and throws the glass into the bin under the sink. What else can you do with a broken glass?

Ginny is still standing at the top of the stairs when he goes upstairs. She's wearing a green nightdress and looking straight at him. He knows she's beautiful. He knows he should be grateful for her.

“Sorry, I should have told you it would be later.” He kisses her fleetingly on the lips, then considers hugging her. Her skin looks so soft. So warm.

“It's okay.” She clenches her jaw as if she wants to say something else, then reaches for his hand. “Let's just go to sleep.”

***

The next day at work, it's business as usual. Harry likes that. He enjoys having so much to do that he doesn't have time to think. He appreciates the meaningfulness of his work. The feeling of being needed. He had wanted to become an Auror since his third year at school, and that dream had come true—at least until last Friday.

“You're here?” his colleague, Jackson, asks in astonishment as Harry comes out of his office. “I thought you were still on... on holiday.” Harry notices the pause before the word “holiday,” but doesn't elaborate.

“So many people are absent because of dragon pox. We need every man we can get to get the problem with the fake potions under control.”

“Will you be at the meeting at ten?” Harry nods. “Yes.”

He sits down at the very back of the meeting room. Hermione spots him as soon as she enters. Her eyes tell Harry that the last word on the matter has not yet been spoken, but at least she doesn't send him out again straight away. When she steps up to the lectern and talks about organized criminal gangs selling illegally imported potions, her voice sounds almost as strong as ever.

She only stands in his way when he wants to sneak out inconspicuously after the meeting is over. “What part of ‘take care of yourself until you return to active duty’ didn't you understand?” She sounds more resigned than angry, which is worse.

“But I went to the support group, just like you wanted. You can ask Dr. Jenkins.” He takes a deep breath. “I really learned a lot about myself and my feelings.”

“From a single meeting?” Is that amusement or more resignation in her gaze?

“I know the Highsmith case got completely out of hand. But it was a series of unfortunate events, and I promise you it won't happen again. I will work on myself. I even have a tandem partner now, and I meet up with him regularly. I'm taking this really seriously.”

“You know, it wouldn't be a crime to take a few days from your holiday allowance over the last four years either. You could fly away somewhere warm. Have you ever been outside England?”

“You never take time off either.”

The sun streams through the windows. Such an unusual sight for this autumn; they both hold their faces up to the light.

“I know.” She finally says, “It's kind of daft, isn't it? But I haven't been in charge of this department that long, and now these fake potions are popping up everywhere...” She shakes her head and looks at him again. “Did you think we'd end up like this?”

Well, as far as Hermione is concerned, it's pretty close to reality. She's the best graduate in over 25 years and the youngest Head of Magical Law Enforcement in the department's history.

“I'll give you ten years at most, then you'll be Minister of Magic.”

He pokes her in the side. She smiles. “You’re only saying that because you don’t want me to send you home.”

“I’m saying that because it’s true, and because I don’t want you to send me home. Please, Hermione...” He puts on his most pleading expression. “This case is very different. It's less emotional and confrontational. White-collar crime is more about research and diligence. I probably wouldn't even come into direct contact with people.”

He sees her chewing her lip. It's something she always does when she's thinking.

“Okay.” She finally says. “But this is just a trial. As soon as I feel like you're too burdened, you're out, got it?”

“Yes!” He hugs her so hard that she almost falls backwards. “Thank you. You really are the best.” Her curls tickle his face, and for a moment, it's almost like before. Then the moment is over, and he lets her go.

“I have an idea.” She says. “Why don't you come over tomorrow after work? Arthur's fixed the old Muggle DVD player. We can order pizza and watch stupid horror films.” Looking at him expectantly, she says, “It really has been far too long since the three of us have seen each other.” When he doesn't respond immediately, she adds, “Oh, and Ginny's invited, too.”

“That sounds really nice...” He reaches over the edge of the table. “But I'm afraid I don't have time tomorrow.”

It's not that he doesn't like his friends. In fact, he would give his life for them without hesitation, but something has changed since they returned from the Battle of Hogwarts. It has nothing to do with the fact that Hermione and Ron have been a couple ever since, even though everyone always assumes it does. He isn't jealous when he sits next to them, staring into the flames while Ron cracks joke after joke and throws chocolate beans into the air to catch them with his mouth before kissing Hermione. It's not jealousy he feels; it's the feeling of being the loneliest person in the world. Even with Ginny there, leaning her head on his shoulder, he only feels lonelier.

“But it's Halloween!” Hermione sounds incredulous.

“Yes, but I already have plans with my tandem partner.”

“I'm really glad you're taking it so seriously, but... well...” She shrugs her shoulders. “I mean, he doesn't really know you.”

Harry's hand tenses slightly. “I suppose that's true. But he should get to know me, shouldn't he?”

Does Draco Malfoy know about this? Surely every wizard in England knows the story of what happened on 31 October 1981, but does he realize how much it still matters to Harry? Does he understand how much it affects him, even though he was just a baby and can't remember anything?

“My parents died.”

“I'm sorry to hear that.” This had been part of their very first conversation. Ever since they met again, Harry had analyzed every sentence that stuck in his mind. At the time, he had felt that Malfoy hadn't meant what he said, and it had made him angry.

Of course he hadn't meant it. How many eleven-year-olds do you know who form deep, empathetic bonds with people they've just met? Harry pushed the thought aside. He thinks far too much about Malfoy anyway; he doesn't need a new best friend, and they'll never be anything more than business partners. What connects them is business: a deal. One hand washes the other. There's nothing more to it, and the fact that they're meeting on Halloween, so that Harry can't see his real friends, is pure coincidence.

“We'll just meet up another time.” He curls his lips into a smile. “Now I have to read up on the files.”

***

The next afternoon, when he leaves the Ministry of Magic, the city is full of people, and the names and addresses he read in the files are buzzing through his head. He gets on the Tube and travels to Hyde Park Corner. He recognizes Malfoy from afar. He is leaning casually against one of the marble walls of Wellington Arch—their chosen meeting point—and he looks surprisingly good in his blue jeans and obligatory green outdoor jacket.

“You're ten minutes late, Potter,” he says, sporting an arrogant grin.

“Some of us have to work for our money.” Malfoy still has the power to trigger a response in Harry that makes him retaliate immediately. “Besides, you were late last time.”

“No.” Harry wonders for a moment if Malfoy is seriously denying this fact, but then he continues, “Yes, it's true that some people have to work for their money, but you're certainly not one of them.” He leans against the wall, then comes closer. “I didn't understand that back then. Your parents left you a dungeon full of gold coins, yet you still played the ‘poor orphan’ card throughout school. I mean, you even let old McGonagall buy you a broom while you watched your friend Weasley struggle with a broken wand for months. I've been wondering for years whether you're just stupid or very stingy.”

Harry turns onto the gravel path that leads into the park. It doesn't save him. Malfoy follows him anyway, like a hunting dog that has scented blood.

“And now you're really famous. You're even more famous than you were as a child when everyone admired you for that rare quality in children: being alive. So you could be... I don't know...” He shrugs and glances sideways at a young woman's Hard Rock coffee bag. “Open a café and print T-shirts with your face on them, or write a book: My Life as a World Savior: Tips and Tricks for the Chosen Ones and All Those Who Want to Become One.” He spreads his hands out as if he can already see the title in front of him.

Harry speeds up. When an old woman blocks his path, feeding a flock of pigeons from her hand, he has to stop.

“Are those still your old glasses that Granger conjured up in one piece?” Harry just manages to bat Malfoy's outstretched hand away before it can reach them.

“No, they're not.” He replies amidst the cooing of the birds, “Believe it or not, I've grown over the last eleven years. Besides, I have a completely different set of glasses now.”

“Better or worse?”

Okay, maybe this was a bad idea. Even the compassionate behavior of his friends and their tiptoeing around him would have been more bearable than this. But now it was too late. He takes a step forward angrily. The pigeons flutter up, startled.

“Now I know why you hoarded your gold like a dragon in Gringotts!” Malfoy shouts, drowning out the sound of hundreds of flapping wings. There are birds everywhere. It's almost like a Hitchcock film. “You think money corrupts character.”

At last, Harry breaks through the wall of birds. At last, he can breathe freely.

“Yeah, maybe I do...” Or maybe I feel like a fraud. Like I'm not really worthy of any of it. “I mean, there have been one or two people in my past who left me with negative memories of their wealth and how they used it.”

“And your aunt and uncle weren't even rich.” Draco shrugs. “Middle class at best, if that.”

Harry rolls his eyes and quickens his pace, but to no avail, as Malfoy can easily keep up with his long legs.

“Let me share with you what I learned at school. You'll always be Harry Potter. People will always freak out when they see you; they'll want to buy you stuff or change the rules in your favor. So just accept it and make the best of it. There really are worse fates.”

“Thank you for that informative lecture about me.” He puts a hand on his chest. “Now that you’ve finished, we can finally talk about the things we still need to sort out. I really don't have much time, and I have even less desire to spend it with you.” He pulls his chronometer out of his coat pocket demonstratively. Molly Weasley had given it to him for his seventeenth birthday; it had belonged to her brother.

Perhaps Malfoy is right. Maybe he should have given them some money back then—secretly, so they could have accepted it. Sometimes they hadn't even been able to buy schoolbooks.

“Okay, then, let's discuss the oh-so-important things.” The hard expression returns to Malfoy's face. “Fire away. After all, I don't want to steal any more of your precious time, and we've already done the Victorian rendezvous where we strolled through the park.”

Harry looks around. The park is grey at that time of year and almost deserted, except near the entrances leading to the underground stations. The fallen leaves are floating on the ponds, and the twilight is reflected on their surface. It's all so desolate, as if they were the last people in the world.

It's stupid. He's wanted to leave all along, but now that it's time, he feels like they've forgotten something important—as if they're not really finished yet.

“Come on, let's go in there.” Harry points to a glass pavilion with Greek marble columns. “It's almost dark.”

Draco pauses. In the twilight, Harry can't read his expression.

“No, I think you're right. We already know enough about each other to maintain the pretense on Tuesday. Why waste any more time on each other?”

Had Harry's comment really affected him that much, or was he just generally resentful?

“Come on, just a coffee. I'll buy you one too.”

The moment he utters these words, Harry regrets them. What exactly was he trying to prove to Malfoy? That he was capable of spending money? Or that he's nice and not an arse?

Malfoy won't accept the invitation anyway. He's far too proud.

“Okay.”

He looks unsure, almost childish. It's as if he's spent all his energy on being arrogant, and now he's exhausted.

Harry holds the door open. They go inside. After the damp cold of the park, the overheated room is almost a relief. If only it wasn't so loud. The babble of voices from the other tables is amplified by the walls.

Harry is glad to find a free table in a small alcove a short distance away. He sits down, takes off his coat, and hangs it over the back of the chair. At almost the same time, a waitress comes over and takes their order.

He has no idea what he wants. He decides on something warm, so he orders a coffee and a sandwich.

“Same for me, please.”

Malfoy also takes off his jacket. Harry notices how thin he is.

“I’ve never been here before. Have you?”

Harry's hand plucks at the menu.

“No.”

“Where are you staying at the moment?”

“In a mansion on Bishop Avenue...” Perhaps that was supposed to be a joke; perhaps not. The problem with Malfoy is that you never know if he's telling the truth. “And you?”

“In the house I inherited from my godfather, Sirius Black. It's right on Grimmauld Place.”

“I know that house. I was there a few times as a child. Walburga was my... I don't know what.” He shrugs his shoulders. “Somehow, all pure-blood wizards are related.”

“And what did you think?”

“It's creepy.” He shrugs again.

Harry can't help but smile.

“Yeah, it's still kind of creepy despite the refurbishment. But at least it's in a really central location.”

At that moment, a group of children dressed as witches and skeletons enters the café with their parents. Halloween comes to Harry's mind and then children. Both topics squeeze his heart.

“Would you like some, Potter?” Draco asks, following his gaze. He could, of course, be referring to the sweets the children are carrying around in their plastic pumpkin buckets, but Harry knows better. Malfoy has an amazing knowledge of human nature—much better than Harry would have given him credit for. If only he'd used it for something useful.

“I don't know.” Harry shrugs, and then, because it sounds so implausible that he's supposedly never dealt with the subject before, he adds, “Maybe later.”

He doesn't have to tell Malfoy that most of the conflicts between him and Ginny center on this very subject. Ginny says things like, “We could start by ditching the contraceptive spells and see what happens,” and then he almost panics. “Yes, but maybe not now. There's so much to do at the Ministry right now, and we still have time, don't we?”

The waitress comes and puts the food in front of them. Harry is amazed at how quickly Malfoy devours his sandwich. He has only just taken a sip of his own coffee.

“I don't want children, by the way,” Malfoy says, still with his mouth full. “Just in case you were wondering.”

“Okay.”

In theory, the news that the Malfoys are dying out with Draco should be good, but it doesn't feel that way. Harry stirs his cup. The silence between them isn't awkward, just strange.

“Maybe we should go?”

Harry nods.

“Yeah. Ginny's probably waiting for me already.”

“Why haven't you gotten married yet, anyway?”

Harry pretends not to notice the question. He's so busy waving the waitress over to pay that it's as if he's simply overlooked it in the background noise.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Malfoy wrap Harry's almost untouched sandwich in a napkin and slip it into his jacket pocket. He says nothing, and they leave the café.

Outside, Harry puts his head back and closes his eyes. Even the light drizzle that has started to fall is welcome.

“I'll walk you to the underground station. So someone else doesn't steal you,” Draco says.

Harry wonders how Draco is going to stop that; after all, he doesn't even have a wand anymore. Harry has defeated Voldemort, but he says nothing. It's a nice gesture, though, and he's glad he won't have to walk through the dark park alone.

The wind sweeping through the branches and the moon hidden behind the clouds remind him of something.

“Do you remember when we had to be together in the Forbidden Forest at night in our first year?”

He finally remembers. It's crazy how time can make everything seem better, even the unjust punishments Malfoy inflicted on them and the monsters that killed a unicorn.

“Yes.”

Malfoy had run off in a panic, leaving Harry alone. He would have died if the centaurs hadn't come. Even in the dark, the whiteness of Malfoy's skin stood out. If he and his family were Voldemort's henchmen, why had he run away at all? The fear in his voice had not been feigned.

“Here we are.” They were standing in front of the ornate fence that separated Hyde Park from Piccadilly. They stood on the green space as if on a border between two worlds. The light from the street lamps, billboards, and car headlights shines on them, and the sounds of the bustling city reach them, yet they have the place all to themselves.

“So...” Harry begins.

“Yes.” Malfoy says. “See you Tuesday.”

How do you say goodbye in a situation like this? A handshake seems too formal, and a hug too intimate.

“Wait.” Draco reaches into his jacket pocket, pulls out a half-softened piece of paper and a pen, and starts to write. “Here.” He finally says, pressing the note into Harry's hand. “Just for disguise, of course.”

“What's this?”

Harry unfolds the piece of paper and looks at the collection of numbers. “The number from my Muggle mobile phone. Some people would kill to get it.”

“But I don't have a mobile phone.”

Malfoy leans towards him again. He is so close that Harry thinks their lips are touching. “Then you’d better get one, Potter. How else are you going to reach me?”

After one last look from his slate-grey eyes, Malfoy turns and runs across the street.

“You should play Quidditch again,” he calls from there.

“What?” Harry shouts over the passing cars.

“You only won because your friends set people on fire or the Golden Snitch flew into your mouth...” He pauses. “But you're somehow far too sad now.”

They stand there for a moment. The cars move past, the city lights shine between them, and then Draco turns and disappears into the depths of the city. Maybe he really is going to Bishop Avenue. Or maybe he isn't.

Harry remains at the entrance to Hyde Park, looking at the note in his hand and the spot where Malfoy vanished.

Chapter Text

4. Finding a Lasting Connection Amidst Life's Challenges

It's Sunday, and Harry and Ginny are visiting her parents. This is nothing unusual; they often visit the Burrow. Ginny loves the surrounding nature, and although she has never said so, Harry is sure that she also loves the feeling of opening the door and becoming the child she once was in her mother's arms again. Harry understands her well. In the Burrow, no one has to make a shopping list for the whole week and then battle through the crowded supermarket on a Saturday morning. In the Burrow, no one has to stand at the stove and cook for themselves.

All the things that make adult life so complicated just happen in the Burrow, and Molly Weasley has always been an expert at making it look easy.

“Mum.”

As soon as the door opens and Molly pulls Ginny into a tight hug, Ginny seems to shrink by two heads. Next, it's Harry's turn. No sooner has he handed her the chocolates they brought as a gift than he feels her warm, soft body.

“It’s been far too long.” She lets go of him. “Come in. Everyone else is already here.”

Yes, it was this warmth that had attracted him to her at King's Cross railway station. It was this motherliness and love that he had tried to fill the void in his heart with—his eternal longing for what was missing.

“How are you doing? What's new?”

He can see her gaze wandering briefly over her daughter's flat stomach as she asks these questions. News, good news, for Molly Weasley always has something to do with pregnancies, births, or at least planned weddings.

“Actually, it's the same as always,” Ginny answers for them both. “Preparations for the next Quidditch session are very stressful, but otherwise...”

She stretches, takes off her shoes, and follows her mum down the narrow corridor into the open-plan kitchen. Harry follows her.

It's just as Molly said. Everyone is already here, and there are so many of them that there is hardly any room left on the two worn sofas. There's Arthur, who is almost like a father to Harry; Hermione and Ron; George with his fiancée, Angelina Johnson; Percy with his wife, Audrey; and the special guests of honor, Bill and his wife, Fleur, with their two children from France.

“Hello,” says Harry, raising his hand somewhat uncertainly in greeting.

“Ohhhh,” says Ginny, kneeling down on the carpet in front of Fleur—or rather, in front of the baby on her lap. “Who are you?”

Yes, that's right. On Fleur and Bill's last visit, the baby was still in her belly.

“I'm Dominique,” Fleur answers on behalf of the baby in her French-tinged singsong. She even does Ginny a favor and moves her as if the baby were really answering her.

The whole situation is ridiculous. Ever since the owls brought the cards with the happy family, everyone has known the baby's name. Moreover, this is the second installment of the popular theater play because Bill and Fleur already have a daughter, Victoire, who is playing with a car under the coffee table and lost in thought.

Ginny is holding the baby in her arms the next moment, and he can't say exactly how it happened.

“Oh, you're so cute, and you smell so good, baby.”

The shouts from the audience are the same as last time.

“A baby really suits you.” This comment comes from Percy's wife, who is pregnant herself. “Watch out, Bill, otherwise she'll keep the baby,” her brother George says, followed by Bill's laughing reply: “If she keeps it at night, too, so that we can sleep for more than four hours at a time, at least once, then it's fine.”

There was also Fleur's invitation for them all to come to France for the christening in May. It's all been there before, and it's making his head spin.

It's November. May seems so far away, Harry thinks. Almost a lifetime. How am I supposed to know what will happen then?

He smiles anyway, knowing that this is what is expected of him. If only there were more chairs, he could sit down and not feel as though he's standing on a stage with everyone staring at him.

“Look at those little feet.”

Ginny approaches him with the child in her arms. He notices the worried look on Hermione's face as she sits huddled next to Ron at the back of the sofa.

“Sweet.” He briefly strokes the baby's head. The baby has big blue eyes, clearly inherited from its mum, which look at him. Why are they all looking at him like that? Fleur and Bill clearly make beautiful babies, but that's probably not what he should be saying right now.

“I have to go now. I have to...” He points down the corridor.

“Have fun in the toilet!” Ron shouts so loudly that even his mum in the kitchen must have heard it.

Everyone laughs.

“Thank you too.”

Harry tries to walk as slowly as possible, even though he feels like running. Only when he closes the bathroom door behind him does he start to feel better. How long can he stay here without anyone realizing he's missing? Why doesn't he enjoy spending time at the Burrow anymore? He always loved being here. So much. Almost more than at Hogwarts.

He turns on the tap, splashes water on his face, and pulls his Muggle mobile phone out of his trouser pocket. It's a Nokia that he bought in an electronics shop a few days ago.

Taking the small device out of its packaging in his bedroom and inserting the card that had been stuck to the letter had felt strange. It felt strange and almost forbidden in a way he couldn't understand. It was almost as if he were a boy again, secretly looking at pornographic magazines.

Yet Harry had grown up in the Muggle world. Things like computers and video game consoles had been around during his childhood. Not for him, though, but for Dudley.

I just wanted to tell you that I have a Muggle phone now, so I can text or make phone calls.

He wrote to Malfoy after spending about two hours trying to figure out how it worked, almost despairing at the buttons and T9 autocorrect.

Super, Potter. Do you want a prize for that?

Since then, they've been regularly exchanging trivia and jokes. So regularly, in fact, that Harry himself now feels the need to write to him. But what exactly?

Do you ever suddenly feel like a stranger in your own life? Everyone's happy, and you know you should be too, but you just can't get into it, and you can't figure out why. It's like that Matrix movie. Like everything is a lie and nothing is real.

A text message can contain up to 160 characters. That's pretty damn little. Besides, someone like Malfoy certainly wouldn't know about the Matrix.

I'm at my in-laws. It's all about babies and making babies! (°-°)* LOL. I hope you're okay?

It must have taken him ten minutes to type this message! The emoji was especially challenging. But now he's skimmed over the message again, and it feels wrong—almost like a betrayal.

You see, Potter, I've always told you that some wizarding families are better than others, and the Weasleys are not ones to mess with.

Perhaps it's unfair to still hold this remark, this encounter, against Malfoy, but he deletes the message and returns his gaze to the blank screen.

I'm at my in-laws. He types. That part was actually OK. There's lamb stew, but I'd rather have potatoes. Hope you're OK?

“Are you still in there?” he hears Hermione ask from outside the door. “Molly told me to get you for dinner.”

“I'm coming.”

Almost in a panic, he presses send, then flushes the toilet and washes his hands pro forma before opening the door. Hermione is still standing in the corridor, looking at him critically.

“Are you sure you’re all right? You must have been in there for half an hour.”

“Yes... I... I just needed some time to myself.”

“In the guest toilet?”

He shrugs and opens a side argument, as he always does in situations like this. “Why do they only ever ask me about having babies while you and Ron get off scot-free?”

“It's probably because Ron acts like a baby so often that not even his own mum thinks he's capable of having one, and I've made it abundantly clear that I'm going to focus on my career before even thinking about having children.” She laughs, then her expression softens. “You know Molly. You know what she's like. Since when do you let that put pressure on you?”

He's about to answer when Ron comes up behind them.

“The most exciting things always happen in the toilet: troll attacks, girl ghosts, entrances to secret chambers. And didn't you almost slash the Weasel in the girls' toilet?”

“Yes.” He rolls his eyes. Ron puts a hand on his shoulder.

“Anyway, I want to be part of the adventure.”

“There's no adventure.” Hermione gives him a look. “There's lamb stew in the dining room, so it would be nice if you came to the table now.”

***

By the time they return, everyone has already gathered around the long wooden dining table. All conversations fall silent as they enter.

“Sorry.” Hermione pushes past the others—holding Ron's hand—to reach the two empty seats. Harry has to go to the other side of the table. When he reaches Ginny, he briefly brushes his hand over her shoulder. She doesn't react. He hopes it's because she's talking to Fleur, who's sitting next to her, and not because she's angry.

“Oh, Molly's stew is fantastic.” Arthur chimes in and helps her place the heavy pot on the table. She smiles as she begins to ladle the steaming contents into the plates in front of her. The plates are then passed around.

They are sitting so close to the table that his arm keeps brushing against Ginny or Percy, who is sitting on his other side. Just then, his mobile phone announces with its usual ringtone that he has received a message. He automatically pulls it out of his pocket and reads it.

I have no idea what you're trying to tell me with this message, Potter.

He reads it three more times, unable to categorize it. Then he opens his previous message and freezes.

I'm at my in-laws. There's lamb stew, but I'd rather have penis ^-^. Hope you're OK?

Oh God! Out of all the words that autocorrect could have replaced incorrectly, this was the worst possible outcome. He feels a chill run down his spine.

Not 'penis', of course. I meant penis.

    Penis!

                Penis.

It's so crazy. Everything. The whole situation. His family is staring at him as if he's lost his mind. The laughter forming in his throat feels like carbon dioxide. He tries to suppress it with a sip of water, but it just wants to come out.

The message tone sounds again.

I believe in you, Potter. You defeated Voldemort; you'll defeat T9, too. Then there'll be no stopping him. He laughs and laughs until tears run down his cheeks.

“I'm sorry.” But he doesn't really mean it. When was the last time he laughed like that? So heartily that his stomach muscles hurt?

POTATOES!

He writes each letter individually and says them out loud. “Is this one of those new Muggle phones?” Arthur is the only one who has broken out of his stupor. He leans over the table towards him, looking curious and benevolent.

“Yes, exactly.”

Harry has the presence of mind to close the chat before placing the mobile phone in his father-in-law's outstretched hand.

“Fascinating, and so light!” Arthur strokes the orange and purple plastic casing. “And you can really use this to call or send a message to any Muggle in the world?”

“Well, the other person has to have a phone like this, and you need their number.”

Arthur nods again. “Really fascinating.”

Harry is horrified to realize that Arthur has passed it on to Bill, who then passes it on to Angelina.

“Hermione has one of these too,” Ron finally says when it reaches him. “She uses it to phone her parents, but you can also do really cool things with it.” He sets something up, and Harry briefly fears that he might open Malfoy's chat. Instead, a beeping tune sounds. “It's a video game,” Ron explains. “The snake should not bite its own tail and get longer the more it eats,” Ron says, holding the screen so that everyone can see it.

“Speaking of eating, maybe we should do that too?” remarks Molly, but no one listens to her.

“If you two have Muggle phones, why don't you call each other?” Arthur gives Ron a pleading look. “Please, I'd love to be there and see how something like this works.”

“Of course.”

Ron presses some buttons, and the melody falls silent. Every second that passes stretches into an eternity. Harry longs to snatch the mobile phone out of Ron's hand.

“You don’t have Hermione’s number in your address book, and who is D.M.?”

“Someone I know.” There it was again: the feeling of falling into the abyss. Even his fingers tingle. “My cousin Dudley... He's got a different family name now.”

Please, don't open the chat. Please!

“You've been texting your cousin Dudley all last week?” Ginny looks at him in disbelief.

“Yeah...”

He lowers his eyes. He's not good at lying; he knows that. But he can't tell the truth either. Not here, not at this table. All he has to do is look at Bill's scarred face and the place where George's ear should be to know that's impossible.

“You didn’t even tell me he was married. Have you been seeing each other? You and... your family?”

“Not really...”

“Give me that.” Once again, it's Hermione who saves him, taking the phone from Ron's hand and typing something. Seconds later, her mobile phone rings in her handbag. She takes it out and puts it on the table in front of Arthur. “If you want, you can answer it.”

“And how do I do that?”

“Just press the green phone button.”

“Ah.” He does as he's told and says, “Hello?”

His face takes on an enraptured expression when he hears Hermione's voice. They all hear her voice because they are sitting at the same table. It reminds Harry of a child being given a present. He can't explain where this feeling comes from, but the love he feels for this man and this family is so intense that it surprises even him.

“Here's your phone again. I've memorized my number for you, and I've set the notification tone for text messages to vibrate.” Hermione's brown eyes are so deep that it's as if she can read him—like she knows exactly what he is trying to hide from everyone.

“Thank you.” His voice is still shaky.

The conversations around him begin again. Arthur gives Molly a kiss on the cheek.

“You still won't get one. We don't even have electricity here,” she says, but her cheeks are red. Victoire needs the toilet, and her mum gets up with her. Harry is no longer the center of attention and can finally relax.

***

After dinner, almost all the adults play Quidditch in front of the house. It's not real Quidditch, of course. Arthur flies up and down on the broom with Victoire while Percy stands below, anxiously asking whether he really thinks it's a good idea at his age. Only Ginny, Ron, George, and Angelina play properly. But there are no clappers, and they're fighting over the only Quaffle. He can hear their laughter all the way up here by the window.

They also asked him if he wanted to play along, but he declined, saying he had a headache. He regretted it the moment he saw their horrified looks.

“Is it your scar?” Ginny's touch was both loving and concerned. “Does it hurt again?”

“No,” he said, turning away. “It's just a normal headache. You're allowed to have a headache, aren't you?”

He ran upstairs, leaving her behind. Now, standing at the window and looking out, he regrets his decision.

You should play Quidditch again. You're far too sad.

He shakes his head. Malfoy doesn't understand anything! His hand touches the windowpane. He sees his own pale, questioning face looking back at him, and behind it, the people he loves.

He turns away from the window and carefully sits down on the edge of one of the beds. The duvet's fabric still glows red and gold—Gryffindor's colors. Everything is just as he remembers it from his first visit. The only things missing are the two boys with the red hair and loud voices.

Harry takes his mobile phone out of his pocket and opens the chat with Malfoy.

POTATOES! still shines out at him in capital letters. Malfoy hasn't answered him. He knows he should feel bad for thinking about someone like Malfoy in a place like this, but... anyway...

Harry takes a picture of the Gryffindor banner hanging on the wall and sends it off. The built-in camera on the mobile phone is poor. Only a few red and yellow pixels are visible, but the ability to send photos is overwhelming, even for someone who has spent the last few years in the wizarding world. He wants a reaction. He wants it immediately, but the small device lies motionless in his hand like a dead animal.

When the door opens, he immediately puts the phone back in his trouser pocket.

“Oh, you're here?” Molly is carrying a plastic basket of folded, fresh laundry. He wonders what she's doing with it. Is she putting it in the large built-in cupboard in the corner of the room, or does she always take a break here before going through the other rooms?

Maybe this room isn't abandoned after all? Perhaps everyone just thinks so because they all enter the room at different times and in secret. Maybe everyone just feels like they're alone?

“I was just leaving anyway.”

She puts the laundry basket on the floor and comes over to him.

“Why aren't you with the others?” She strokes his cheek and runs her fingers through his hair.

“Oh, I think I've somehow outgrown Quidditch. Besides, I don't have a broom with me.”

You're far too sad.

Yes, Malfoy, maybe I really am.

She looks sad, but she may also be worried. It's difficult to discern the subtle nuances of emotion.

“Hang on.” She goes to the cupboard and pulls out a broom. It's a Cleansweep broom. It's Fred's broom. “Poor broom.” She strokes its polished wood. “It just sits in the cupboard now, never flying again. It's a disgrace. A real disgrace, isn't it?”

“Yes.”

She holds the broom out to him, and he can't refuse. There are tears in her eyes, and probably in his too. Poor broom... How is he supposed to explain to her what happened the last time he sat on a broom? About Hedwig, Mad-Eye Moody, and George, who was badly injured? Or the Room of Requirement burning to the ground and Crabbe falling to his death?

“Hey, there's our Seeker at last,” George greets him as he steps outside with the broom in his hand. Everyone must recognize the broom, but no one says anything. “Then we can let the golden snitch out of the box.”

“Don't worry.” Ginny blows him a light kiss on the cheek before pushing herself off the floor. “You never forget how to fly.”

And that's true. It only takes him a few minutes to get used to the different broom and flying. Then it's just like always. It's like breathing. He flies between the others, climbing higher and higher, searching for the characteristic flashing—searching for something he can't grasp.

It starts to drizzle, but that doesn't bother him.

You're far too sad.

Yeah, and you know what? It's not easy to carry on living when you were fully expecting to die and when you can't even be happy about it, knowing that so many others gave their lives so that you could be here now. How can I ever be cheerful or happy again?

There! It's just a glimmer, but he's absolutely certain. He hurtles towards the ground in a breakneck dive.

I wish you were here. It's crazy to think that. I wish you were here so I could snatch the Snitch from under your nose again, just like I did back then.

He sees Hermione standing on the ground looking up at him anxiously, but he doesn't care. He reaches out, grabs it, and feels nothing but triumph.

Chapter Text

Fifth: Elephant and Rider

“It was nice at my parents' place, wasn't it?” Ginny unbuttons her coat as they step out of the fireplace at the house in Grimmauld Place that evening.

“Yes.”

Then no one says anything. It's dark inside the room. Only the glow of the flames provides a little light.

“Do you have to work late tomorrow?” Tomorrow is Monday. The group doesn't meet again until Tuesday. “I thought maybe we could go out for dinner?” she asks before he can answer. She has turned her face in his direction. The glow of the flames is reflected in her eyes.

“Because I'm traveling with the Holyhead Harpies for a week from Tuesday.”

“Yeah, sure, why not?”

Damn! He'd completely forgotten. The relief that comes over him startles him. But it's a week when he won't have to make any excuses for being out so late on Tuesday—a week in which he doesn't have to pretend to be in a good mood and full of energy in the evening.

“Great! Then you'll pick me up after work tomorrow?”

“Yes.”

She kisses him. He is briefly surprised but then returns the kiss. It's probably the aftereffects of flying. He's still excited and full of adrenaline. She tastes so good. As she leans in to undo the buttons of his shirt, her long red hair grazes his skin, sending shivers down his spine.

“Come on, let's continue upstairs.” She whispers, taking his hand.

She used to be everything he needed and wanted; his reason to keep going. And now? He misses that feeling. He wishes he could pull her towards him and hug her as tightly as he once did.

Later, when it's over, they turn away from each other. It only takes a few minutes before he hears her breathing evenly. He can't fall asleep himself, even though he should be tired. After tossing and turning for another half an hour, he gets up and quietly walks downstairs into the living room.

Only embers remain of the fire in the fireplace. He lies down on the sofa, pulls the woolen blanket over himself, and takes out his mobile phone. Draco still hasn't replied to his second message, which included the photo.

Harry listens to his thoughts and tries to work out how this makes him feel. Is he disappointed? Is he angry? Or is he worried? He puts his mobile phone down. He needs to stop worrying so much about Malfoy. Malfoy is probably tired of all his meaningless and unfunny messages. He's always been unreliable and arrogant.

Has Hermione's mute function also changed something? Maybe no more messages are getting through to him? He selects the last message again and presses a button to open it but is confused when he suddenly hears the dialing tone. He still has the chance to hang up. He doesn't, and then suddenly Malfoy's voice comes through.

“Potter?”

Harry's gaze wanders guiltily to the clock. It's almost one o'clock in the morning, yet Malfoy doesn't sound sleepy. Harry can even hear another man's voice in the background.

“I didn't mean to call you. I just pressed the button by mistake,” Harry explains quickly.

“I've run out of credit.”

“What?”

The voice sounds like Malfoy's, but different somehow, more excited. It's probably because of the transmission.

“Well, it's because I've run out of mobile phone credit; that's why I couldn't answer you.”

“I see.”

He hadn't even realized that credit was a thing.

“Do you have to keep paying for your mobile phone?”

“Yes.”

There is silence on the line.

“In any case, I didn't want to disturb you. You've got a friend there.”

“That's not a friend of mine.” The words sound strangely stretched again. “Just someone I've slept with. But I want to leave now anyway.”

He must have misheard. Is there a correction function on the phone that changes words to make them ambiguous? Malfoy must still be teasing him about the “penis prescription,” right?

Harry waits for the arrogant laugh that doesn't come; instead, the front door slams shut.

“There, now we can talk.”

He hears footsteps, followed by Malfoy taking a deep swig from a bottle.

“You're drunk.” The scales fall from Harry's eyes.

“Just a little. Otherwise, it's no fun. But I'm still fully sane,” he chuckles into the receiver. “I have a trick for when someone wants to get me drunk. I only ever drink half and secretly pour the other half away. But with this baby here, it would have been a shame to leave it.”

He wonders what's in the bottle. Hopefully champagne or an expensive wine. Malfoy doesn't sound like he could handle being any more high-spirited.

“I've also brought two tins of breakfast meat and a tin of peas and carrots.”

He chuckles once more, then the line goes quiet again.

“I bet you're shocked now, aren't you?” His laugh changes, becoming something harsher and more spiteful—much more like the one he recognizes from Malfoy. “It's a real shame I can't see your horrified face.”

“Yes, I'm shocked, but only because nobody voluntarily steals tinned vegetables, let alone eats them.” Harry is the only one who laughs, and even that laugh isn't real. He clears his throat and becomes serious. “I'm not really shocked, just surprised.” Perhaps some things can only be discussed openly on a mobile phone at such a late hour. “I mean, you...”

“Were you a Death Eater?”

“I was going to say that you had a girlfriend for years.”

“When we used to have sleepovers at Hogwarts, where we'd paint our nails and chat about all sorts, I guess I somehow neglected to tell you that I fancied boys.” Harry can imagine Malfoy shaking his head somewhere in the city: “Even in your most active stalker phases, you didn't figure it out. Take comfort, though. No one but my father knew about it.”

“You could talk to your father about something like that?” Lucius appears in Harry's mind's eye: Lucius with a walking stick, a gloomy expression, and an arrogant look on his face. Harry found Lucius more than frightening, at least as a child.

“Talking might not be the first thing that comes to mind,” Draco confirms Harry's assumption. “I once snogged Marcus Flint after a game of Quidditch and we got caught.”

“What?” Malfoy had managed to surprise him after all. “Seriously? Flint of all people? I mean, the guy looked like a troll, and then there were those teeth...” He shudders, even though Draco can't see it. “And don't even get me started on his character.”

“It wasn't like I had much choice at Hogwarts. Besides, I was only fourteen, and it was just snogging. He didn't look that bad either.”

“Yes, he did!” He has the feeling that he has to say something else. Something conciliatory, even though he doesn't know how. The bond between them is still fragile—far too fragile. “Your father... was he very angry with you?”

“First and foremost, he was disappointed, so everything was as usual.” He can hear Draco taking another swig from the bottle and imagines him shrugging his shoulders. “And he was annoyed because he had to clean up after me again. At least Flint's father had a pretty similar opinion on most things, so he didn't have to worry that 'the thing,' as he called it, would somehow come to light. He sat down with his good friend Mr. Parkinson that day, and the next day, I officially became Pansy's girlfriend without having to do anything. Convenient, right?”

“Your father has always been a jerk.”

Somewhere nearby, a car drives past. Draco remains silent. Perhaps he shouldn't have said that. He certainly shouldn't have. Harry presses his lips together.

“Oh, Potter, I don't think I could be so drunk that I could talk about my father with you, of all people, in an unbiased manner.” He doesn't sound angry; he sounds infinitely resigned and tired.

“I'm sorry. I shouldn't have...” Malfoy remains silent, so Harry huffs, “What are you doing right now?”

“I'm trying to open the tin of breakfast meat, but I can't.”

“Are you home yet?”

“No, I'm just having a rest.”

Harry looks out of the window. It's a starry night. A thin layer of hoarfrost covers the branches of the trees.

“You can’t take a break. It's far too cold.” There's no answer. “Where are you right now?”

“Do you want to come over and eat some breakfast meat with me? There'd be enough.”

“That's not funny. I mean it seriously. If you don't get up right now, I'll find you with a locator spell.”

“You really are paranoid sometimes. Has anyone ever told you that? Paranoid and annoying. It's just cold; I'm not that drunk, and I know what's coming next: 'And you don't even have a wand anymore. Something might happen to you.'” He's disguising his voice. Does Harry really sound like that? “I know that myself. I've known that for a long time.”

Harry had, of course, checked the facts because it was important to know your enemies. He'd done so right after they first met, leaning over the hole he'd ignored for so long. He hadn't wanted to know who had been sentenced to what after the war. He had avoided the trials and the newspapers. Everything.

He just wanted it all to be over at last. He wanted to let go. To move on.

He hadn't found much that was useful, partly because scavengers like Rita Skeeter had pounced on the coverage and headlines such as “What's the Angel of Azkaban planning next?” Even now, he felt compelled to turn the pages immediately. Secondly, he had learned that Draco had been sentenced to a punishment called Damnatio Memoriae after spending two years in Azkaban. He had to ask Hermione what that meant.

“Damnation of memory. The wizard's name will be erased from all documents. All his possessions will be confiscated. It's as if he never existed. His wand will be broken, and he'll never be allowed to return to the wizarding world.” First, she had recited her lines in a textbook manner, and then she had looked at him worriedly. “You're asking about the Malfoys, aren't you? They were the first wizards in over 300 years to receive this punishment.”

And with that, the circle was complete. He should have felt satisfied, or at least grumbled like Ron that they were getting off too easily. But he couldn't. He took a small box from the far corner of the wardrobe and opened it. Inside were the few items he had kept from the war: the coin they had used to summon the DA to a meeting; Regulus Black's destroyed locket; the golden snitch that Dumbledore had bequeathed to him; and an inconspicuous hawthorn wand. He had snatched this wand from Malfoy's hand when they fled from the manor; it was the wand with which he had defeated Voldemort.

“It switched sides because you won it in a duel,” Hermione had explained at the time, but he hadn't dueled Malfoy. He'd simply snatched it out of his hand. Besides, by that logic, he would have deserved the allegiance of the other wands just as much. But Bellatrix's wand and those of the other Death Eaters had always felt alien to him—dark and evil, like biting into something rotten.

Draco's wand, however, had been immediately familiar. It was like someone comforting you—almost like a friend.

That's rubbish!

He threw the box shut and hurriedly put it back in the cupboard. Yet a part of him was filled with a kind of defiant joy at having saved it from being broken.

“Tell me something.” Malfoy snapped him out of his thoughts.

“What?”

“I don't know. Something.” He imagines Malfoy shrugging his shoulders again. “If you're going to startle me, at least tell me about your day at the Weasleys' or your heroic battle against autocorrect.”

“It was the same as always, actually.”

“Wow! The way you describe it, I almost feel like I was there.”

Harry can't help but smile.

“Well, everyone's nice, and it's lovely...”

“But?”

“No buts. It's all good.” He holds the phone to his ear so he can lie on the sofa and talk at the same time. The sofa still smells brand new. The fire has gone out. Only the small screen of the mobile phone lights up the room.

“It's just... everything's so different now.”

“They really treat you differently than when you were eleven? Crikey! I always told you there was something wrong with those Weasleys.”

Harry laughs, and then it goes quiet as the street noise also quiets down with Malfoy on the line.

“Where are you now?” he asks.

“In the garden.”

“From your mansion on Bishop Avenue?”

“Yes, I'll be right there.” He hears footsteps on the gravel, followed by the squeak of an opening door. “It was surprisingly... less shitty to talk to you on the phone. But maybe we should...”

“Yeah, sure. There's also that voice you told me about, saying that my credit is almost empty. How can I replenish it?”

“In the mobile phone shop or at any kiosk, but you'll need Muggle money.”

“You know what I just realized? We're actually talking on the phone at three in the morning, even though we said we wouldn't.”

Harry knows that their time together is limited. The voice said one minute, so he has to make it count. “And you were right, by the way. The flying thing... that was really good.”

“Potter?”

“Huh?”

There was silence. Harry counts how many times he has to breathe in and out. Three times.

“I just wanted to tell you that you're the last person in the world I'd want to sleep with. So if you're scared of me now... you really don't need to worry about that.”

“I'm never scared of you.” It's just strange for a moment. “And it's only logical that you wouldn't want to sleep with me if you like trolls like Marcus Flint.”

The phone voice answers again. She counts down the seconds: fifteen, ten. “Oh, come on, he wasn't that bad.”

“Yes, he was!”

After the laughter dies down, there is a long pause.

“Would you really have picked me up off a park bench in the middle of the night?”

Five, four, three.

“Of course.”

Then the connection is gone.

***

At the next meeting on Tuesday, everything is the same yet different. Sitting next to Malfoy in the circle of chairs isn't so bad. In fact, it's almost as if they're old friends going into battle together. He wants to ask if the breakfast meat tasted good as Dr. Jenkins steps into the middle of the circle and everyone falls silent amidst the noise of chairs scraping on the linoleum floor and clearing of throats.

All eyes are on her. First, she lights the long match in her hand, then she places a small tea light on the floor before slowly, almost solemnly, returning to her seat. Next, Lydia stands up and lights another small tea light, followed by Harold.

Harry knows it is the opening ceremony—a light for a loved one who has gone too soon. He shifts nervously in his chair. Who should he think of when it is his turn to light a candle? His parents? Sirius or Remus? Or Cedric, Dumbledore, Dobby, or one of the almost fifty students who lost their lives in the Battle of Hogwarts?

Sometimes, when he wakes up in the middle of the night and can't get back to sleep, he imagines them standing in his doorway, watching him.

“How pathetic,” he hears them whispering to each other. “And we had to give our lives for this.”

It is now Draco's turn to light his candle. The flames bathe his face in golden light. Everything about him seems soft and childlike—almost beautiful. Startled by his own thoughts, Harry quickly averts his gaze.

As he moves forward to light his own candle, he realizes that Malfoy is not just here because of the requirements. Like everyone else, he must have lost someone, and Harry realizes that he has no idea who it is. He knows everyone else's stories. Their fates have become intertwined with their names, as if they could not exist without the misfortune that has befallen them. Lydia's daughter was hit by a car on the way to school; Iris's husband had a brain tumor; Harold's wife committed suicide; and so on. But Harry doesn't know the story of Draco Malfoy, his worst enemy since childhood and now his tandem partner. Harry doesn't know what happened to Draco when he was under Voldemort's rule or afterward.

Draco himself has perfected the art of being present yet somehow also absent. He laughs, tells anecdotes, or listens. But at the end of the lesson, no one realizes that he hasn't actually said anything.

“Do you think any of us want to be here?” Iris had taken him aside after his performance in the first session. “No one is clamoring to be a member of this club.”

Yes, she's right. Nobody wants to be a member of a grief support group—not even Draco. Fate just happens, and you have to find a way to live with it.

He sits down, and once all the lights are lit, Dr. Jenkins asks them to walk around the room until they feel ready to sit down. They can talk to their dead loved ones in their thoughts, or not—just as they wish.

The chairs scrape across the floor again, and the group rises. Harry already hates this exercise. He has no desire to talk to imaginary dead people. In fact, he doesn't even want to think about them. He wasn't nervous or anxious before, but now he is, especially when everyone else starts walking around.

He'd talked to the dead once before, when he'd gone to Voldemort in the forest with the Resurrection Stone in his hand. That had been okay—almost comforting—but the situation had been very different.

I open up at the very end...

It's crazy to think that Dumbledore must have spent years planning the whole thing just so Harry would end up holding that stupid stone in his hands. So that he could die more easily? Like a sick animal first tranquilized and then killed? He doesn't know whether to be grateful or angry. Maybe both.

But you didn't die, says the voice in his head.

“Yes, and maybe that's exactly the problem.”

Malfoy is still standing motionless in front of his chair. Harry wants to go and talk to him. He wants to ask if he would like to walk around the room with him. He wants to ask if he enjoyed the breakfast meat and if he slept well. There are so many things he wants to ask him, but it turns out differently. The door opens, and a young woman with red eyes and a baby in her arms comes in.

“I don't know if I'm in the right place,” she says, noticing all the people looking at her. She has an Eastern European accent, which seems to intensify as she becomes more excited. “The doctors at the hospital gave me this note.” She holds the folded flyer from Tommy's tree house up in front of her, as though it were an admission ticket. “When Collin fell asleep.”

She starts to cry. Dr. Jenkins joins her.

“We're taking a break,” she tells the group, moving aside with the young woman.

Is it always like this? Doesn't hardly an hour go by without a break? The others don't seem angry, though, but grateful. It's as if Dr. Jenkins had touched on particularly painful areas of their souls, and now they can breathe out in relief.

Harry hears Kathy and Lydia laughing because their tea supposedly tastes like toilet cleaner, while Harold and William start a conversation about the proper care of orchids.

“Poor thing, and so close to Christmas.” He says that at one point, his gaze fixed in the direction where Dr. Jenkins and the woman have vanished.

“Yeah, she doesn't look like she has many people to catch her.” Kathy takes another sip from her cup. “What do you think? Should I go over and offer my help? I mean, if this Collin guy has just died... She probably doesn't even have a funeral parlor or anything.”

“Allow her to arrive there first.” Iris seems to be the gray eminence of the group; at least, everyone nods. “Besides, Dr. Jenkins has everything under control.”

“Yes, we’ll probably help her the most if we disturb her the least now.”

Kathy stretches her legs and reaches for a biscuit in one of the Tupperware tins. Then her gaze falls on Malfoy, sitting in his favorite spot on the windowsill, eating an apple. Unlike usual, he seems almost absent this time.

“Why don't you tell us a few more stories from your school days?” she asks him.

“Oh yes.” Lydia remembers. “They're always so funny.”

Harry feels something tighten inside him. After his cinematic performance in front of everyone, it had made sense to tell people that they knew each other from school, and Malfoy being the one to tell them that they had gone to a special boarding school had been fine. But why did he have to keep making things up, and why did the group hang on his every word, begging him for more stories? It was beyond him.

“Okay...” Draco seemed to say to himself, then turned to his audience. “So, back at boarding school, there was this man who was actually in charge of looking after... the polo horses.” Since Malfoy had gone on at length about the wildest polo tournaments last time, this probably made sense as a change of subject. “But in his spare time, he surrounded himself with all sorts of exotic animals. He even hid a lion cub in his hut once, which he'd won from a traveler in a card game. Didn't you remember, Potter?”

“You must know. After all, you tried to report him to the headmaster about it.”

“Yes.” Harry can't tell if Malfoy regrets what he did back then. Probably not; he seems to be reveling in a particularly fond memory, which makes Harry angry in a way he can hardly believe. “Anyway, this man... he also had an... elephant, a huge old bull. Once, when he was supposed to look after us kids, he just brought him along.” Malfoy takes another bite of his apple.

“That really is an unusual educational approach,” Harold interjects. “I mean, I've heard of therapy horses, but therapy elephants?” He shakes his head.

“And then what?”

Lydia moves closer in her chair.

“Well, I was trying to be cool, but I might have annoyed the elephant a bit. So, if any of you are planning on doing this: better not. Elephants are very powerful, and this one knocked me over with his trunk so hard that I must have flown ten feet through the air.”

A few listeners laugh. Harry doesn't.

“That was just a scratch,” he interrupts. “But you spent the whole school year pretending to be badly hurt. You ran to your father and told him lies. He even wanted to kill the elephant, and the man almost lost his job because of you.”

He doesn't understand why he said that. He doesn't understand why it still makes him so angry. Things were going well between him and Malfoy. Things were going well with the people in the group. And now? Why did he have to ruin it? Why dredge up a truth that had long since become obsolete? A truth that nobody needed? All they wanted was a happy story with a good ending, and Harry took that away from them. He could see the disappointment on their faces.

“The elephant is in excellent health.” Malfoy swung from the windowsill without looking at Harry or anyone else. “Just like the lion cub and the man himself. It was St. Potter and his friends who saved them all, as they always did when someone was in distress. They climbed onto the elephant's back and rode off.”

He walks past Harry to his place in the circle of chairs. Harry follows him. He wants to say “I'm sorry,” but why?

“Well, I would also take legal action if my son was attacked by an elephant at school.” He hears Harold arguing with Kathy.

“But if your son had teased the elephant before, it would honestly be his own fault.” She crosses her arms in front of her chest. “Did you know that elephants can remember the faces of people who were mean to them more than 50 years ago?”

He is still standing next to Malfoy's seat, still at a loss for words.

“Sorry, but we have to finish the group early today.”

As quickly as Dr. Jenkins has appeared, she disappears. In the murmur and rumble of chairs being moved, in the babble of voices around him, he doesn't notice Malfoy grabbing his outdoor jacket and leaving.

“Did you really ride off on the elephant?” Katy asks him, suddenly standing in his way. Harry shrugs his shoulders. Malfoy has already reached the door. “No,” he wants to say. “Actually, I flew away on the elephant.”

“That's just an old story.”

Then he pushes past her and runs off too.

“Malfoy, wait!”

Chapter Text

sixth: right of the eight.

When Harry opens the door, he is surprised to see thick white flakes falling from the sky. It's just like the old Muggle movies he used to watch as a child. The whole world is blanketed in white. He is even more surprised when he notices Dr. Jenkins standing under the canopy not far from him, talking loudly to someone.

"I'm not concerned about some hypocritical form of moralizing. I'm just worried that you're on the right side of eight again."

"I'm fine, though." The other voice, clearly Malfoy's, sounds upset. "Besides, I'm not a kid anymore. Why can't you all just leave me alone?"

The rest of the sentence is lost in the sound of the front door opening. Harry instinctively takes a step back as Harold emerges.

"The worst accidents always happen in weather like this," he warns Harry before putting on his cap and looking up at the sky. "I hope you’re not traveling by car?"

"No."

The conversation between Dr. Jenkins and Malfoy falls silent. "I have to go back to looking after Ekaratina," she says. "We'll talk again another time."

Draco says nothing. As he steps into the light of the street lamp, Harry notices that his lips are pulled into a thin, defiant line.

"Nice eavesdropping, Potter. Like always?"

Harry doesn't have a chance to reply. Draco walks past him, head held high.

"That was... an oversight..."

Harry doesn't give up that easily. He runs after Draco until he catches up with him beside a small park, barely bigger than the gap between two buildings. Neither of them says anything. Only the sound of their footsteps in the freshly fallen snow breaks the silence.

"I really didn't mean to hear you talking."

He tries again. There is no reply. Draco scrunches up his face briefly but doesn't slow down.

"What does she mean, you’re to the right of the eight again?"

"The show's over, Potter. Just go home."

"But..."

Out of nowhere, Draco whirls around to face him. Harry almost runs into him; it is so sudden.

"You're right. I made life hell for our classmates back then. It's my fault they want to execute the stupid hippogriff and kick Hagrid out. You always suspected it. You've known from day one what a terrible, depraved person I am. Congratulations on your fantastic knowledge of human nature. Are you happy to have been proved right? Can you just leave me alone now?"

He turns around but doesn't go any further.

"Malfoy... I didn't mean... I..." Harry stretches out his hand. But before he can touch the other man's back or shoulder, he drops his arm. One touch would be too much. He knows that. Even the words are probably too much. The conversation is over. He should just turn left into the next street, catch the Underground, and go home.

"I'm sorry." He takes a deep breath. "Can we just forget what happened and start again?"

"How far back in time do you want to go to forget the past?" He doesn't sound upset; he sounds resigned. Looking equally resigned, he walks over to the park bench, wipes the snow off the backrest, and then sits down on it with his shoes on the seat, like a bird on a garden fence. "We have so much history together. You have to be more specific."

"I mean today." Harry starts to walk toward him but then stops, feeling unsure. "I shouldn't have ruined your story or overheard the conversation, even if it really was just an accident."

Draco laughs. It's this laugh that makes Harry decide to sit next to him.

"Just today? I think we can manage that."

The snow continues to fall, and Harry wonders if this is a park where people usually pass by quickly because of the homeless people and young people drinking alcohol, or if it's a place where mothers meet with their children in the afternoon. Some distance away, he spots a swing and a sandpit.

"You don't even know me, Potter," says Draco into the silence, raising his eyes. "You don't know anything about me, even though you've been stalking me for years." He says this quietly, almost softly, as if the words themselves have no bearing on what he is saying.

"You don't know me either."

Harry turns his head to the sky. He tries to catch snowflakes on his tongue, but it doesn't work. They all land on his glasses and melt.

"I could buy a biography. Maybe Rita Skeeter's?"

Before he can reply, Harry feels Draco's gaze on him again.

"The boy who survived."

"Yes."

In the distance, between two canyons, Harry can see Big Ben. At least, that's what he thinks, but then again, maybe it's the tower of some other church — he's not sure.

"What does 'right of the eight' mean?" he asks again.

Draco remains silent for so long that Harry no longer expects an answer.

"That's just one of Linda's psychological theories that can drive you up the wall."

"Okay." Harry nods. "Now I know almost as much as I did before."

"Do you really want me to explain her theories to you?"

Malfoy makes an annoyed noise: a hiss through clenched teeth. Then he snaps off a twig from the bush next to him. "Don't say I didn't warn you."

He draws a figure of eight in the snow, forming an infinity symbol.

"Linda says that everyone has basic needs without which they cannot survive." He taps the top left-hand arch. "Of course, things like food and shelter, and ideally not being killed, but also things that are much harder to grasp: being loved, belonging, and so on." He's still looking at Harry, as if annoyed by this conversation — or maybe that's just his normal look. "Linda says that humans are social creatures and that they die if they're not loved, like flowers that aren't watered."

Harry swallows. Something constricts his windpipe, but he doesn't know what it is.

"She also says that children instinctively know what they need, and that they have a 'magic power' to help them do well."

He draws inverted commas in the air.

"Does she mean magic?"

"No, she's talking about feelings." He shakes his head. "When children don't have a need fulfilled, they get angry or sad. Ideally, then, someone comes and gives them a hug — their parents, for example — and everything is fine."

He continues tracing the figure of eight with the stick. He completes the first circle and points back to the beginning. "But some children grow up in places where their needs count for nothing, where they don't matter and their feelings are perceived as a burden." He looks Harry straight in the eye. "These children forget how to feel what they need. They compartmentalize their feelings and banish them to the subconscious. And then..." He traces the circle once more, this time following the figure of eight and ending up in the right-hand circle. "Welcome to the dark side of the human psyche; now we are right of the eight. The side where people only feel good when they are bad to someone. Bad to others, bad to themselves..." He raises his eyes again, and Harry has the feeling that he is looking straight into him.

"Yes, Potter. As I'm sure you've realized, that was mostly my hood. I often found myself to the right of the eight, but then, during the war... I was really far away." He thrusts the stick into the circle with such force that it sticks. "Just like you, right?"

Harry wants to disagree. He wants to say that they are hardly comparable. That he's never hurt anyone. But it's a lie, and he knows it.

"It's just a theory." Malfoy's voice sounds almost conciliatory. "And I also think it's not true in a lot of places. I mean, me seeing men... There's nothing self-destructive about it at all. Considering my background, it's almost like an act of resistance."

Yes, you should be awarded a medal for that.

Fortunately, Malfoy doesn't seem to be expecting an answer. Harry reaches into the loose snow that has collected on the bench and forms a ball.

"Besides... I like sex. You do too, don't you? Everybody does. It's the only thing in my life that isn't complicated."

He can't explain where the idea of throwing the ball in Malfoy's face came from. Perhaps it was the age-old association between snow and snowball fights. Or from Malfoy's face to throwing anything. Perhaps he just wanted to stop him from sharing any more stories about sex. In any case, Malfoy now turned to Harry, staring at him angrily with snow dripping from his hair.

"Did you seriously just throw a snowball at me?" Draco asks. His eyes light up like cigarette lighters. "How old are you, Potter? Five?"

Maybe Harry should apologize. He certainly should. It was inappropriate and childish.

He should... The shot hit him unprepared on the temple, causing his glasses to slip.

"Hey! You didn't even warn me!"

"Neither did you."

Malfoy is clever. He jumps off the bench immediately, before Harry has a chance to counterattack. He piles up mountains of snow on his arms behind the bench with both hands. Harry just manages to dodge the snow Malfoy throws at him.

"Wait, you'll get that back!" Harry shouts.

Taking advantage of the fact that Malfoy is unarmed, he picks up a handful of snow and hurls it in Malfoy's direction before getting out of the way. They jump apart, putting several yards of safe distance between them. Snowballs fly through the darkness. Very few hit their target, and even if they do, they never seem to have enough of an effect.

Draco shovels more snow onto his arms. Harry does the same. It's like a dance they perform together. A dance of absolute concentration, evasion, and closeness.

Moisture trickles down Harry's temples. Perhaps sweat, perhaps melted snow.

After the phase of cautious circling comes the phase of direct confrontation. Draco is bigger than Harry, but Harry is stronger. As they wrestle, Harry finally manages to bring Draco down, end up on top of him, and pin him to the ground. He then rubs a lot of snow in Draco's face.

"Since when do Gryffindors resort to such unfair means?" coughs Draco, wiping the snow off his face with the sleeve of his jacket. They've never been this close before. Not consciously, anyway. Harry can count every one of Malfoy's almost translucent eyelashes, on which snowflakes keep getting caught. His cheeks are slightly flushed. It's probably due to the exertion and the cold.

"Those weren't unfair means."

"Yes, that's what I would have said."

Clouds of steam rise from their mouths.

"Is that actually your wand I can feel, or are you just happy to see me?"

"It really is just my wand."

Harry's horror makes him careless. Malfoy immediately takes advantage of this, pushing him off and rolling onto him.

"I know," he whispers after dumping a load of snow on Harry's face. Most of it has gotten stuck between his glasses and his eyes, fogging up the lenses. "I was just trying to wind you up."

The fingers clutching Harry's wrists are ice-cold.

"And you're complaining about unfair methods?"

"I'm a Slytherin. I'm allowed to."

The whole world is a blur, which is a shame. Harry would have liked to see Malfoy's face, his smile above his own. But there's only a vague outline, and the streetlight creates an extra halo of light.

"Just for the record: If that had been my 'wand', not my wand, it would have felt a lot bigger and thicker."

Malfoy laughs but doesn't move off him.

"You can dream, Potter, but let's be realistic. I've won."

"You played unfairly and just decided the snowball fight was over."

Draco shrugs his shoulders.

"A win is a win."

"Something different..." Harry swallows. The snowflakes melt into tears on his face. "I’ve bought new mobile phone credit. We can talk on the phone again when you get back from someone's house. Only if you want..."

"Why? Do you still feel the need to control me?"

Draco's gaze remains unchanged. It's impossible to read him. He's like an unreadable book in a foreign language.

"Of course not." Harry shakes his head. "I just can't sleep at night anyway."

"Are you worried about me?" It sounds like an insult coming out of his mouth. A dark secret best not told to anyone. "Oh, Potter. Anyone who kidnaps me will return me the next day at the latest."

Harry says nothing. His vision through his glasses is still blurred. The falling flakes look like shining stars, and the world looks like the inside of a snow globe.

"Maybe you're lying on frozen dog poo." Malfoy leans further down towards him. "And if I sit on you long enough, you'll thaw it out."

"Wow, that really does sound like the master plan of an evil genius."

Malfoy laughs. There should be a word for that, Harry thinks: that short, bright laugh that dies away far too quickly.

"Okay," he finally says. His expression remains unchanged.

"Okay, what?"

"Okay, that we can talk on the phone."

"Okay."

They both have to smile.

"Maybe we should go home?" Harry suggests after a while. "Well, if you ever plan on getting up from me."

"It wasn’t just a scratch." Draco holds his hand in front of Harry's face. His hand is white and slender, and Harry has absolutely no idea what he is talking about.

"It really pained me, and I was really hurt. Then, when I woke up in the infirmary, my father was sitting next to my bed..."

He swallows. Harry can see his larynx bouncing up and down. "He was never usually there. Not at Quidditch matches or Hogsmeade weekends. I thought he was really worried about me; I thought he cared about me. I didn't want it to stop, you know? I just didn't want it to end again."

His voice breaks. He regains control of his emotions very quickly. "So I told him everything I thought he wanted to hear. Of course, I pretended that my hand was still hurting, even though it had long since healed." He shakes his head. "It was pretty stupid of me to think that, I know. Of course my father wasn't interested in me. The whole thing was just the perfect opportunity to finally get one over on Dumbledore."

He stands up. He does so very slowly. Without taking his eyes off Harry, he laughs and shrugs as if it doesn't matter.

It's as if the whole thing was nothing, just a good anecdote. But Harry knows that's not the case.

Your father's an obnoxious arsehole!

It wasn't a good conversation starter last time, so Harry bites his lip to stop himself from speaking.

He stands up and slowly brushes the snow off his trousers.

"Your hands were really cold." He draws his wand and points it at Draco.

What follows happens both far too quickly and as if in slow motion. Draco's eyes widen in shock and his body tenses. The next moment, he rolls to the side, holding his hands protectively in front of his face.

"I didn't mean to... It's just a warm-up spell."

Malfoy seems to find his own reaction unpleasant. He stands up quickly and turns his face to the other side of the street.

"You can't just point a wand at someone, Potter. I also kind of like the feeling of cold. That's why I didn't need your spell."

"Sure, I understand."

They both realize that that's not the real reason. But they also realize that they're not going to talk about it.

Harry lowers his wand. It feels unfair. He had wanted to do something good, but now he feels guilty.

"At least take my scarf," he says. He unwraps it from around his throat. "It's much better than any spell anyway."

Chapter Text

Chapter 7: Nothing Is as It Was

Draco keeps his promise. The very next evening, Harry's phone rings. He calls back, and they talk. This happens two or three times, eventually so often that Harry stops counting. At some point, he automatically glances at the clock when it's time for bed, waiting for Malfoy's call. Before he knows it, November turns into December, and with the new month comes a new development in Harry's life: the festive season.

Of course, Christmas biscuits have been on sale in shops for months, and the shopping streets and even Diagon Alley have been festively decorated with magic, LED stars, and artificial fir trees for a while now. But it's only since Ginny took the boxes of Christmas decorations out of the attic that Harry has felt Christmas really getting closer, which makes him nervous.

Christmas has always been a sad time for him, at least as a child. It was a constant reminder that he was different from other children who sat on fake Santa's lap in shopping centers, handing him a list of their Christmas wishes. Harry felt more akin to the little match girl from the fairy tale, watching all the happy families through the windows and ultimately freezing to death.

Of course, it was impossible to freeze to death in the Dursleys' house. Petunia was always cold and turned up the heating. It was the feeling of cold and being unwanted that marked Harry's soul from the earliest days of his childhood.

The idea of a real Christmas filled with presents, miracles, and loved ones was something Harry had only learned about at Hogwarts. He often found himself thinking back to that time in the most impossible situations. He remembers Ron's happy face when he gave him the Muggle money while sitting with Hermione at work. She tells him that she suspects an English wizard must be behind the illegal potions ring because he knows his way around too well and always seems to be one step ahead of them.

As he stands in the shop, scanning the shelves for the right cereal boxes that Ginny loves, he thinks about the soft wool of the jumper Molly gave him in his first year. Even then, his mind is filled with the flavors of plum pudding and stuffed turkey, and the glow of the Great Hall as Ginny hugs and kisses him.

But no matter how many boxes of Christmas decorations are moved from the attic to the living room, the feeling from back then just doesn't return. Quite the opposite. There's a huge emptiness inside him.

“All right, no more Christmas then,” he thinks, sitting next to Ron and Hermione, who are beaming in their home-knitted Christmas jumpers. He's drinking a Butterbeer, and he shouldn't mind. After all, he'd only had it for a short time. He's an adult now—who needs Christmas? Not the people in the support group, anyway.

“Christmas is the worst,” Lydia had said last week. Her tandem partner, Katy, had nodded.

“Yes, Christmas and birthdays.”

“You can at least endeavor to disregard birthdays.” For a moment, Harry thought she was going to kick something.

“I mean, no one else knows it's a special day, but Christmas...” She pointed toward the door. “The whole bloody world is full of Christmas, and there's no escaping it.”

Maybe that's why Harry has been enjoying the meetings so much lately; maybe it's because he gets to see Malfoy again, and they usually sit on their park bench and talk afterward. Last week, he had asked Malfoy if they wanted to go somewhere where they wouldn't freeze or get soaked in the rain. To his surprise, Malfoy had nodded, and they had gone into a nearby pub, where a group of drunk football fans cheered on their team on a TV.

***

Today is Tuesday, 15 December. Harry knows this because he opened the door of his Chocolate Frog Advent Calendar before he left. “With at least one Harry Potter card,” it says on the packaging. Maybe that's why Ginny gave him the calendar—chocolate frogs and cards featuring his face among the ranks of the most famous wizards of all time. Who wouldn't be delighted?

He hadn't opened a single door until St. Nicholas's Day. Then her look became sadder and sadder. Since then, he has tried to fulfill his duty almost every day, even if he often doesn't remember until the evening after work.

His mouth still feels sticky as he pushes the door handle of the small grey house at 165 Blife Alley. He is relieved to see that the front door is already open. He enters the hallway and hangs his coat on the rack.

“It's raining cats and dogs again,” he says to Harold, who is setting up a circle of chairs.

“Yes,” he replies, pausing for a moment. “It's bad, isn't it? Where is this going to lead?” Then he continues setting up.

Harry looks around. Most of the people are already there, including Dr. Jenkins, who is brewing tea. However, there is no sign of Malfoy. Even five minutes later, when they sit down together and light the candles, he is still nowhere to be seen.

“Everything changes in one fell swoop when you lose someone you love,” says Dr. Jenkins. Harry shifts uneasily in his chair. Where is Malfoy, and why hasn't he written?

“For everyone else, Christmas is a time of joy and togetherness, but the old rituals no longer give us any strength. On the contrary, the gap in our lives is never more apparent than now. The 'never again' is never more painful than at this time.”

Some nod.

At last, the door opens, and Draco slips in, his jacket soaked through with rain.

“Sorry,” he says, stepping closer.

He has such tired eyes, Harry thinks. Such tired eyes.

“Is everything okay?” he whispers. Before Draco can answer, Dr. Jenkins interjects.

“Could you do me a favor before you sit down? Hand out some paper and pens for our next exercise, please.”

Draco nods, leaves the circle, and returns a little later with a pile of paper and pens, which he distributes to the participants.

“On the left-hand side, write the name of the person you're mourning,” he explains. “And on the right, write down the things you associate with them. They can be big, essential things or small situations from everyday life. Everything has its place. There is no right or wrong.”

The first participants start writing, and Draco, who has taken the empty seat next to him, joins in. His pen races across the paper.

Harry feels like he's taking an exam—an exam he has neither studied for nor understands. He can feel his nervousness rising. Why can the others think of so much? What are they writing anyway? Leaning inconspicuously toward Malfoy, he looks at his notes.

“Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy,” it says on the left-hand side—his parents. Harry already knows that they are dead. Lucius must have died in Azkaban shortly after his sentence was passed when he announced that he wanted to make a statement that would change everything if he was given one last chance to speak.

It was probably just hot air. He had already done everything he could to save himself during the trial after the First Wizarding War, but his death added a new dimension to the situation. It wasn't just Rita Skeeter who wondered if this man had to die because he knew too much. She used the situation to accuse people, preferably Shacklebolt—who had since become Minister for Magic—of being Death Eaters, which was laughable.

There was even less reliable information about Narcissa Malfoy. Apparently, she died of a broken heart following her family's downfall and the death of her husband. But Harry knows this is impossible. Nobody can die of a broken heart.

Harry knows this, yet even though he and Draco attend a grief group together and talk about all sorts of things, they have never discussed it. It would be too intimate for Harry to bring it up. How could he?

Have you ever realized how much we have in common? We're the same age, we're both wizards, and we went to the same school. And we both have dead parents, too.

He shakes his head. Draco's hand is still flying over the sheet of paper.

“My mum used to send me a packet of sweets to school every week.” It says so in his neat handwriting. Harry remembers that well.

Draco must have noticed him looking, because now he's holding his note up to hide it from Harry. Never mind, though—he knows how to do it now anyway.

“Lily and James Potter, my parents,” he writes, pausing. There is nothing he can write about them. He remembers nothing. They were always like ghosts, hovering over his life. They were an eternal 'what if?' but not real people. Angrily, he crosses out their names. He writes 'Sirius Black' instead and pauses again. „When he realized Wormtail was still alive, he wanted to protect me. He wanted us to live together.“ The tip of the pen still hangs in the air. „He called me James. Isn't that crazy? That was just moments before he died. He saw my father in me, and I saw my father in him.“

He feels tears gathering in his eyes. He angrily wipes them away.

“I know this is hard.” Dr. Jenkins puts a hand on his shoulder as she passes. “It's infinitely painful to face the gap that suddenly opens up in your life.” She walks past the other participants and looks at their notes. “It's painful to accept that Emily will never crawl into bed with her mum again on the weekend.” Lydia starts to cry. “It's hard to accept that Harold is no longer traveling to Lake Garda with his wife.” She stops in front of Draco and takes his note from him. “Nobody's going to buy Draco sweets here anymore—not at least his mum.” Draco looks as though she has punched him in the face. Harry feels his own heartbeat quicken. “Maybe he’ll find someone else to do it. Or maybe he'll buy his own, but it'll never be the same.” She tears up his note, separating names and stories, and it's as if she's ripping him apart. As if he were in physical pain.

“Stop it right now! You're hurting him!” Harry can't stand it any longer. He jumps up, and everyone stares at him.

“I'm afraid I can't do that,” Dr. Jenkins' voice sounds surprisingly gentle, almost as if she's proud of him. “It's already happened, and no one can undo death.”

“But...”

“Sit down, Potter... please.”

Malfoy's voice sounds tired but unmistakable, so Harry sits down again and presses his lips tightly together, determined not to say anything more.

“For some of you, this is the first Christmas since your loss, and you have no idea how you're going to get through the day.” She nods in Lydia's direction. Lydia is now pressing a handkerchief over her eyes and lying half in Katy's arms. “Many others have experienced these Christmases before, developed new rituals, and accepted that things will never be the same again.”

Her voice also wavers briefly. Or is he just imagining it?

As she talks about Bonhoeffer, a theologian who was murdered by the Nazis but who, during his lifetime, cut a branch from his family's Christmas tree every year to place on his brother's grave, he looks at Malfoy's face, which still betrays no emotion.

“Stop that!” he hisses at one point.

“What am I doing?”

“Well, staring at me all the time as if I had huge warts on my face.”

“Shhh,” Harold says next to them.

“I just wanted to...”

“I’m not made of sugar, Potter. I can handle it.”

“I realize that already.” Harry slides back and forth in his chair again. “If you were made of sugar, you would have dissolved in the rain.”

Malfoy rolls his eyes but smiles briefly.

“Could you please sort out whatever it is you want to sort out after class?” Harold now addresses them directly. “Because there are people who would really like to listen.”

“Sorry,” says Harry, then turning to Malfoy. “Pub?”

“Pub.”

Harry can't help but smile.

***

It's 23 December, and Harry opens his Chocolate Frog Advent calendar again. He bites off the frog's head without paying attention to the card inside. But this time it's different. Ron is standing next to him and says, “Oh, you've got a Chocolate Frog Advent calendar.” His expression is just like when they first went to Hogwarts and the Trolley Witch asked him if he wanted to buy sweets, but he didn't have any money.

“Yeah, do you want one?”

Harry opens the door with the number twenty-four.

“You can’t do that.”

Ron's eyes widen in shock as if Harry had just uttered a forbidden curse.

“You can see I can do it. Besides, I still have number twenty-five.”

Harry hands Ron the box, which he opens almost reverently before eating his Chocolate Frog. Harry has to swallow—not just because of the chocolate. Moments like these are special.

“Every step you take on the stairs, think of something beautiful, something you are grateful for today.” Malfoy shouted that at him when they were sitting in the pub and Harry had to go to the toilet. Harry laughed, assuming it was a joke. It referenced the mindfulness diary that Dr. Jenkins had told them to keep. But Draco's eyes remained like smooth, polished mirrors.

“Are you serious? How are you even going to check what I think?”

“I'm a pretty good Occlumens, remember?” And then: “At least three little things, Potter. Even you should be able to do that.”

And that was that. Three things they wrote to each other. They often outdid each other with jokes, but sometimes surprisingly profound thoughts were hidden between two laughs, as if they were ashamed of them.

Ron eating a Chocolate Frog, Harry noted in his mind. And the feeling that he still liked him.

“Dumbledore again.” Ron grinned after pulling his card out of the box. “Who have you got?”

Please don't let it be me.

“Snape.”

At least he didn't pull a Chocolate Frog card of himself, even if it meant hiding on the 25th.

They both laugh and go back to the living room, where the “girls,” now women, are sitting at a colorfully laid table. They seem engrossed in conversation, each with a glass of sherry in their hands. When Ginny sees him coming, she stands up and kisses him on the lips; she tastes of sherry too.

“Mum will burn you out of the family tree for betraying us,” she says bitterly to her brother, who immediately looks guilty and lowers his eyes. “Just running off to Fuerteventura for Christmas.”

“It’s really not my fault,” he protests. “Hermione’s parents invited us, and I wanted to make a good impression.”

“You won't make it anyway.” She pours sherry for herself and Hermione, who is grinning broadly. “But enjoy swimming in the sea while our mum cries her eyes out.”

She fills the other two glasses with sherry and hands one to Harry. After some hesitation, she hands Ron the second one.

“So here's to my traitorous brother, his clever girlfriend, and the fact that we somehow managed to meet up anyway.”

The clinking of glasses sounds like a bright chime.

“Here's to my sister, whom I love despite everything, and to old friends.”

“Yes, to old friends,” Hermione echoes.

Ron's gaze wanders over the table, which is laden with turkey, plum pudding, and various other dishes.

“Wow! Who's going to eat all that?”

“You?”

Everyone laughs again, then falls silent.

“Have you hidden house-elves somewhere in the cellar? Where did all the food come from?”

Hermione's expression darkens briefly. Harry's does too, albeit for different reasons.

“Harry cooked most of it.” Ginny laughs.

“But you were working until just now.” Hermione's look of concern remains.

“Harry did most of the cooking the last few nights while he was on the phone to Dudley.”

“I couldn't sleep anyway,” he shrugs. “Besides, the desserts are from the supermarket.”

Why does everything they say sound like it's from a bad Muggle soap opera? It's as if they're all just playing roles.

“Actually, it's 'ladies first.' But you look like you're going to devour us if you don't get some food right away.”

He tries to laugh convincingly. If it's a soap opera, it should be a proper one.

Everyone laughs except Hermione, who is still looking at him worriedly.

“It's important that you get enough sleep, Harry.”

“Oh, Mi, he's never slept at night.” Ron picks up his full plate. “He was always sneaking around the castle in a cloak trying to find something out, and I had to share a room with him for years.”

He laughs, as does Ginny.

“Now that I have to share a room with him, you almost have my sympathy.” She, too, holds out her plate to Harry. “He never sleeps and is always haunting the house.”

Harry finishes his glass before they reach the table. He secretly pours himself another, and after the third, the world finally becomes soft and warm, and the glass walls disappear.

“How are you?” Hermione asks later as they sit in front of the fireplace. Ron and Ginny are in the small kitchen, washing up. You can hear them arguing about who's causing their mum more trouble.

“Good.” He leans his head against the back of the sofa. “Why do you ask?”

She shrugs, takes her glass, and takes a sip. “You seem so distant sometimes, and I just worry.”

“You're always worried...”

He picks up the sherry bottle to pour her another glass, but she holds her hand over it and shakes her head. So he only pours himself a drink.

“Yes, that's in my job description.”

“As head of Magical Law Enforcement?”

“As your best friend, you idiot.”

She punches him in the side. They laugh, and then silence falls again. Only the wood crackles in the fireplace.

“Maybe I've always been like this,” he finally says. “Even when I used to sneak around Hogwarts at night in my invisibility cloak, apparently preventing everyone from sleeping.” He turns the glass in his hands before taking a sip. “Maybe there have always been parts of me that I've never shown anyone. Maybe that's what everyone does.”

“Are you mad about what Ron and Ginny said? That was just a joke.”

“No!” he hurries to say. “I'm not mad... I'm just tired. That's all.”

He leans back and closes his eyes. He can feel her gaze still resting on him.

“You know you can always come to me if you need someone to talk to.”

“I know.” He puts the empty glass down and considers pouring himself another drink, but then decides against it. The world is shaking enough as it is. “I'm grateful to you for that...”

“But?”

Her gaze rests heavily on him.

She's always been far too clever—much smarter than people give her credit for. Much smarter than is good for her.

But you moved on, and I stayed. I stayed in the destroyed school, and I can still smell the smoke and dust from the shattered walls. I can hear the desperate cries of the others. There are times when the war and what happened seem more real to me than reality, and I know you can't understand that. I'm glad you can't.

“No, but... I just want you to know that I care about you—and so about Ron and Ginny.”

“Okay.” Her fingertips play with the empty glass in front of her. At that moment, his phone rings. It's still on vibrate, but it's buzzing so loudly that Hermione must have heard it.

“Dudley?”

He considers nodding but then shakes his head.

“I have a confession to make,” he whispers. “I'm not on the phone with Dudley at all. I've met someone again, and…”

“Is it a woman?” Her voice is shrill. “Is that why you and Ginny are so weird together? Do you want to break up?”

“What? No!” he exclaims, shaking his head vehemently. “No, it's not like that. Besides, we're not weird together at all. Everything is the same as always.” He runs his fingers through his hair. He would love another glass of sherry right now. “What makes you think that?”

“Sorry.” She raises her hands. “That was stupid of me.”

He'll never be able to tell her who he's seeing. It was naive of him to think otherwise.

“It's just someone from the support group, that's all.” He stands up and takes a few unsteady steps. “I'm going to see what the Weasleys are up to in the kitchen. They'll never finish.”

“Harry, I'm really sorry.”

He pretends not to have heard her and continues walking.

Chapter Text

8. Here and Now, or There and Then?

When Harry wakes up on Christmas morning, his head feels as if someone is driving red-hot nails through it. He closes his eyes against the light, but that only makes things slightly better.

“Do we actually need to do any shopping?” Ginny stands at the window, peering through the gaps in the blinds, as if she can see the answer somewhere outside. The snow that fell a few nights ago is now just a distant memory. The world outside is shrouded in thick fog.

“I don’t think so. Did your mum say if there's anything else she wants us to bring?” He doesn't want to get up or open his eyes, but he blinks through half-opened lids.

“Not really.”

She has such beautiful legs—long and well-defined from playing Quidditch. As she approaches, he both wishes for and fears her coming back to snuggle with him. But she walks past and opens the wardrobe door to take out her clothes.

“Haven’t you packed your things yet?”

“I will in a minute.” He turns to the wall.

“Blimey, Harry! I've been telling you that for days! We have enough other things to do today.”

“It's only three days,” he thinks. What could they possibly need that isn't available in the Burrow?

“I'll go downstairs and make us some breakfast.” He hears the door open. “And you pack your things. And don't you dare go back to sleep.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

The light in the room is grey, just like the heavy feeling lying upon him. He reaches for his mobile phone. There's no new message from Malfoy, but there is one from Hermione.

“I hate Muggle Airlines! They've delayed our flight by two hours, so we're stuck at the airport forever. Next time, we'll take a Portkey.” He thinks about what he could say. “Look on the bright side. Maybe you'll see Santa fly past on his racing sled.” But the thought of pressing buttons seems too stressful. It is only when Ginny calls him for the second time that he struggles out of bed, throws a few items of clothing into a travel bag, and heads downstairs.

Breakfast passes in silence. Harry is relieved when Ginny decides to go shopping after all. At least he can catch his breath before heading to the lively, noisy Burrow.

He gets up from the breakfast table and goes into the living room. He knows he should take a shower or at least shave. He should also continue packing his bag, clear the breakfast table, empty the fridge so nothing spoils while they're away, and take out the trash. There are a thousand things he should be doing right now. Instead, he sits on the sofa and stares at the Christmas tree. It's just a small tree; they're celebrating 'properly' in the Burrow. His face is reflected in the red baubles and shiny stars, but the warm feeling he craves remains elusive.

He thinks about what Dr. Jenkins said: the man who cut a branch from the Christmas tree every year and laid it on his brother's grave. Without a second thought, he goes into the kitchen and returns with a pair of scissors. One last look, then he gets to work. He has to use all his strength—it's more slicing than cutting. Although the tree has been indoors for several days, its branches are still surprisingly flexible. It is only when he squeezes with all his might that the branch finally falls to the ground.

Harry and Dudley used to play at being hairdressers when they were children. Harry thinks about that now whenever he sees the gap. Dudley was the one who actually played hairdresser, and Harry had no chance to defend himself. He got into trouble for it, of course, and was locked away for two days. That's exactly how it looked when he looked in the mirror. It was like something you could never undo, no matter how much you wanted to.

The gap in the tree looks as though someone has bitten off the branch. Harry picks up the amputated branch and looks at it. It is beautiful in its own right. He strokes the needles and takes in the forest's scent. But who should he give it to? He hasn't thought about who it should be for. His parents? They are buried in Godric's Hollow cemetery, and Sirius Black has no grave. Remus Lupin and his wife, Nymphadora Tonks, however, are buried in Highgate Cemetery in London, like most deceased Hogwarts students. He goes to the kitchen again and returns with the poultry shears. They make it easy to snip off the branches. It feels like cutting through butter. One by one, the branches fall to the floor. He can't stop.

“What are you doing?”

Only when Ginny suddenly appears behind him does he realize what he's up to and how it must appear to her. She doesn't sound angry—just shocked. She puts the shopping bag down and slowly approaches him. He thinks about the moment when things tipped over between them, when his sadness and broken state became too much for her. Right after the battle, when they fell into each other's arms, they were both equally dazed and devastated.

“The tree had to go anyway, didn’t it? I thought I'd chop it up.”

There's no point in trying to explain anything to her—it doesn't matter anyway. He grabs a bag they usually use for shopping and hastily stuffs the branches into it.

“I have to go again,” he says. “Just a quick errand.”

She tries to reach for his hand.

“But we promised Mum we'd be there for coffee at four o'clock on the dot.”

“Go on ahead.” He slips into his shoes. “I'll be there later. I promise.”

Then he opens the door.

***

The bus is much emptier than usual. The city slowly falls into its festive hush. Only an old woman with a shopping trolley gives him a grim look when he takes out his mobile phone, dials Malfoy's number, and presses the green receiver.

“Hi, Malfoy,” Harry says when he hears the call has been answered.

“Hi, Potter.”

Then there is silence.

“I was wondering if we might want to meet up again before Christmas?” he says, clearing his throat. “Maybe at Highgate Cemetery? I'm on my way there right now.”

There is only the sound of breathing on the line.

“OK,” Malfoy finally says. “I'll be there in twenty minutes.”

The old Malfoy would never have said “OK.” He would have mocked Harry for having no friends and being crazy. He certainly would have had better things to do than meet Harry in a graveyard on 24 December. Harry likes the new Malfoy, though. He likes his commitment and quiet nature. He even likes his aloofness and the aura of mystery that surrounds him.

When Harry gets off the bus and walks to the graveyard wall, Malfoy is already there. He is wearing his olive green jacket, which blends him into the surroundings like a cloak of invisibility in the fog, along with the scarf that Harry gave him, which he knows he will never ask for back.

Malfoy's eyes are as stormy grey as the sky behind him. They greet each other with a silent nod. That's another thing Harry likes about him: he doesn't ask any questions; he simply follows Harry to the entrance.

It is only when Harry pulls out his wand to touch some of the stones and open the passageway that Malfoy's gaze becomes uncertain for a moment. He pulls his hood tighter over his face, making himself even more invisible, before following Harry along one of the overgrown gravel paths.

Harry realizes why he is doing this. For almost two centuries, Highgate Cemetery was the only London cemetery where Muggles and wizards were buried side by side. The Muggles abandoned their section over forty years ago, but the wizards continued to bury their dead there. Despite the overgrown state of the grounds, it is possible to come across one of them, and Harry realizes that Draco should avoid doing so.

They leave the weeping angels and toppled gravestones of the Muggle section behind them. The graveyard reserved for wizards and witches is just as wildly beautiful but has been left to decay much less.

Harry hasn't been here often—only a few times when he has been particularly overcome with guilt. He knows the paths that lead to the graves: Lavenda Braun, Colin Creevey, Catherine Parry, Albert Warren... He could recite the list of names like a poem at any time—even in the middle of the night if he was woken up.

When they arrive at Lavenda Braun's grave, he pauses for a moment. Someone has placed a photo on her grave, in which she is smiling happily at the camera while sticking out her tongue. Sheltered from the elements, a magical light burns that never goes out. Next to it sits a teddy bear holding a heart in its paws. Why? it reads on the heart.

Yes, why? He has asked himself this question a thousand times but has never found an answer. He takes a branch out of his bag, runs his hand over it once more, and then places it on the grave. They pause for a moment before moving on.

The same ritual is repeated at Colin Creevey's grave and those of the other children. As the afternoon progresses, all the contours gradually disappear. Malfoy still follows him like a shadow. They have exchanged perhaps twenty words, if that, and yet he does not feel uncomfortable in Malfoy's company. On the contrary...

As they approach Remus and Tonks' grave, Harry's heart stops in horror. Bellatrix is standing there, staring into the darkness. She hasn't spotted Harry yet. He still has time to grab his wand and attack before she notices him.

“This isn't real,” he whispers, squinting his eyes. But when he opens them again, she's still there.

“Hey, there's Uncle Harry.”

He only notices the little boy standing next to her when he runs up and jumps at him. His grandmother doesn't have a chance to say anything; it happens so quickly. She no longer looks like Bellatrix. “You haven't been with us for that long.” Teddy has grown big and heavy! Harry can barely hold him.

“And you still recognized me.”

“Yes, and do you know why?”

The little boy beams at him. “Because of the glasses and the scar.”

Andromeda nods slightly at him. Her curly hair is streaked with grey, and her eyes look tired.

“Come on, Teddy, let go of Harry Potter. You'll break him.”

“Do you know what I want for Christmas?” he says, ignoring his grandmother's words completely. Harry fears it might be something like: "That my parents are still alive" or "That things would have turned out differently back then." Instead, he smiles and spreads his hands. “A Tyrannosaurus rex.”

“But it won't fit down the chimney; it's too big. It'll end up biting Santa.”

Harry had almost forgotten about Draco. Everyone had. He had kept himself as far away as possible. Now, however, Teddy turned his attention to the strange stranger with the green hood.

“It's not real; it's just plastic,” he chuckles. “You can't wish for real dinosaurs. They're all dead. All that's left are bones.”

“We were just leaving anyway.” Andromeda points to the grave as if it were a one-person-at-a-time facility. Harry wonders if she recognized who was under the hood. No, probably not. She and Harry had never really warmed to each other. He is certain that she blames him, at least in part, for what happened to her daughter and her husband.

“Oh, no,” Teddy whines, then runs to Andromeda. “Will you come and visit me again soon? Maybe tomorrow?” His gaze wanders pleadingly from Harry to Draco. “You can bring your friend to play with, too.”

“I'll be in the Burrow tomorrow, but maybe next Sunday?” He looks to the older woman for approval. She nods.

“Merry Christmas, Harry,” she says, taking her grandson's hand.

“Yes, I wish you the same.”

Then they are gone, and Harry puts his Christmas tree branch next to the sunflower and child's drawing that are already there.

“Are you feeling better now that you've maltreated the tree and spread its branches over all the graves?” Malfoy sits on a bench and looks up at the sky.

Harry shrugs his shoulders.

“No, but maybe that's not the point. Maybe I want it to hurt?”

“Hmm,” says Draco, nodding as if he understands but saying nothing more.

Harry sits down next to him. The marble bench is freezing cold, but being close to Draco spreads a blanket of warmth through Harry. Guilt is a strange thing. He didn't expect to survive, yet here he is, his heart still beating in his chest. It squeezes into every gap and memory. It's always there, even in moments when he should be happy. It hugs him tightly from behind and whispers in his ear in a voice belonging to either his aunt or Snape: You're not entitled to any of this. You know that, don't you? You shouldn't even be here anymore. But it was clear that you, of all people, would come back while all these good people lie in the cold ground because of you.

“Sometimes it's not so easy to go on living,” says Draco, and Harry can't help but put his hand on Draco's.

“Yeah,” he thinks, “yeah, right.”

“I know who you lit your candle for,” he says instead. “I have more Christmas tree branches left. We can go to their grave too, if you want.”

Malfoy says nothing. He stands up, and Harry fears he might just walk away. Instead, he nods tentatively.

“Okay.”

They swap roles. Harry follows Malfoy along the narrow, ivy-covered paths and past the large mausoleums and marble statues until they reach a plain white gravestone.

Lucius Malfoy 1953–1999
Narcissa Malfoy née Black 1955–1999

That's all it says. A single sunflower lies beneath Narcissa's inscription. Harry considers putting one of the fir branches in Draco's hand so he can lay it on the grave himself, but he doesn't move. He is petrified, as if he were the marble angel watching over the grave. Harry places the fir branch next to the sunflower, then looks up at him.

“It's so crazy. I don't feel anything,“ Malfoy whispers, turning to face him. “It could be anyone's grave.” He shrugs his shoulders.

Harry agrees that it could be anyones grave—someone poor—but he doesn't mention that. There is nothing to remind them of the splendor with which the Malfoys surrounded themselves when they were alive.

“I know they're dead, but in my head, there's still a world where none of this ever happened. Where they sit in the big parlor drinking tea. It feels so real that I sometimes wonder why I'm here instead of visiting them.”

Draco points across the graveyard, beyond all the grey. “But it was never like this at home anyway... so beautiful, I mean, in reality.”

“I'm sorry...” Harry doesn't know exactly what he's apologizing for. Perhaps for not testifying at the trial. If he had just testified for Draco, everything would have turned out differently.

Speaking of the trial... “Why didn't you say a single word in your defense?”

It's easier to ask this question now, when everything around him is almost dark, and he might as well be on the moon. Harry had looked at the case files. He inhaled them. Unlike Draco, who had remained silent throughout the trial, Lucius Malfoy had tried to talk his way out of everything, just as he had in the First Wizarding War.

Harry is reminded of the princess from the Muggle fairy tale with the swans, who had been kept silent for seven years to save her brothers. However, unlike the princess, Draco's silence didn't save anyone—least of all himself. The Daily Prophet had headlined, “Ice Prince mocks Voldemort's victims with his silence,” and the Wizarding Government had condemned him.

“Oh, that wouldn't have changed anything.”

Draco shrugged and lowered his shoulders again. In the distance, in front of the wall, cars could be heard driving by. People are sitting together and happy.

“You shouldn’t feel so bad,” says Draco suddenly, standing up. “It sucks that you can't be really happy either. It's ridiculous that you think anything here is your fault.” He spreads his arms out again. “That wasn't you. It was Voldemort.” He pulls his face in pain. “Voldemort and his followers murdered those people. And you know why I'm so sure? Because I was there.” He turns away. “So, what was I supposed to say? Sorry? That it can happen?” He laughs and wipes his face. The gesture is so quick that Harry can barely see it in the darkness.

“It's like the bees, you know?” His voice is barely more than a whisper. “Bees can see polarizing light and colors that no one else can.” He swallows. “But they can't explain it to anyone who can't see it.” Malfoy's hand moves unconsciously to the left sleeve of his jacket. “He said he wanted to defeat death, but in reality, he turned against all life. Wherever his shadow fell, nothing was left. He pulled all the beauty and goodness, all the colors, out of the world.” He pauses. “Now I know thousands of words for darkness, pain, and despair, but they're in a language that nobody but me speaks. So, what was I supposed to say?”

“Draco...”

This is perhaps the first time Harry has ever said that name out loud. It still feels completely foreign on his tongue. It feels strange and familiar at the same time, like something you whisper to yourself to give you courage.

He stands up too. They are now standing opposite each other and neither of them knowing what will happen next.

Chapter Text

Chapter 9: Dead Days

Harry could tell Draco, “I speak that language too,” but he doesn't. Instead, he says, “I have a present for you. It's just a little something.” Then he turns away. When he casts a Lumos spell, the light from his wand is so bright that it obscures his vision. He feels for the small pouch rather than seeing it.

Malfoy's face freezes as he recognizes the bag of sweets. Suddenly, Harry feels stupid and out of line. What was he thinking? When Draco wiped away tears in front of the group, it wasn't because he missed the sweets; he missed the person who had sent them.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Malfoy asks. “Do you really want to be the one to give me sweets in the future?” He tries to make light of it, but Harry can see from his eyes how serious he is.

“Sure, why not?” Harry plays along. “Someone has to make sure you can keep walking around and telling everyone about all the things you've been sent.”

Draco takes the bag and opens it. He eats a Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Bean and then holds it out to Harry, who also takes a bean.

“Urgh, fermented potato! My life hates me!” Harry gasps and grabs his neck theatrically.

Draco laughs out loud; for the first time that evening, he sounds as spiteful as he did in Harry's memories. “We could have made this easier, couldn’t we?” he says when their laughter dies down.

“Yeah, you could have just sat with us without your gorillas. Being nice might not have hurt either.” To help Draco understand, he gestures, pretending to open an invisible compartment door. “Hello, I'm Draco Malfoy. I'm very nice; I'm not prejudiced against Muggle-born witches, and I don't make jokes at other people's expense. Can I sit with you? We could be friends?”

“Yeah, sure.” Draco nods and holds out his hand. “I'm Harry Potter, by the way. You've probably heard of me because I defeated the most badass wizard tyrant ever when I was one. I've just bought all the available food supplies on the train because I am rich. But come on in! I've already made two best friends for life. I did that while sitting in this compartment for about a minute. But as a future world savior, you can't have enough friends. Besides, you look damn good—much better than Weasley.”

“I'm not playing with you anymore.” Harry laughs and punches Draco in the side. “Never again.”

Harry never thought he would be sitting in a graveyard with Draco Malfoy, pretending they were eleven again, laughing together, and feeling so good after all the confusion.

“Speaking of friends,” Draco begins, “you should get going. I'm sure they're waiting for you. After all, there are worse ways to spend Christmas than with the Weasleys.”

“Yeah, that's right…”

They walk a little way across the overgrown, deserted graveyard, and then the wall comes into view. Through the gap in the stones, Harry can see the pulse of the city: cars driving past, people, and colorful lights.

“So...” This time, it is Malfoy who leans forward. The hug is brief and hardly deserves to be called that. It's more like an awkward collision, yet it's so much more than Harry expected. “Oh, I almost forgot. I've got something for you too.”

Harry recognizes one of the old “Potter Stinks” buttons that Malfoy made and distributed during the Triwizard Tournament. This time, however, Malfoy has added the word “Don't” underneath it.

He can't help but laugh again. “That's... wow! I'll treasure it forever.”

“You should too. Because it's the sole one in existence.”

Once again, it's time for them to part ways and return to their respective lives. Again, there's a voice inside him that wants to delay the moment.

“Merry Christmas, Potter,” Draco begins.

“Yes, I wish you the same.”

***

Despite Ginny's reproachful look when he rings the doorbell of the Burrow, the Christmas holidays pass quickly. Then the time of the Twelve Nights begins. According to Dr. Jenkins, these twelve nights are known as the Dead Days, leftovers from the transition from the lunar to the solar calendar, representing the return and power of new beginnings.

Contrary to popular belief, witches and wizards do not attach particular significance to these days. During his time with the Weasleys, nobody mentioned them, which is ironic considering how Muggles have told themselves for centuries that the barrier to the magical world is particularly thin on these days, that animals can speak, future spouses appear in dreams, and the Wild Hunt roams the land.

“I always find it a bit strange when Muggles get involved with magic, or at least what they think it is,” he whispered to Malfoy during the first group meeting after the Christmas holidays. Malfoy, sitting on his favorite windowsill, just shrugs.

“If it helps them feel better?” He nods toward Lydia and Emily, who are sitting at a small table talking to each other. Harry feels shame settle on his skin. In the past, he had always stood up for the weak and misunderstood, while Malfoy had just been Malfoy. Since when had that changed?

“How were your holidays? Did you do anything?” Harry shifts uneasily in his chair. How could Malfoy find the windowsill comfortable? It's far too narrow.

“Nothing much,” he shrugs. “And you?”

“Nothing special either.” Harry returns the shrug. “You know how it is with the Weasleys in the Burrow.”

That was stupid. Of course, Draco doesn't know what it's like, but he nods anyway.

“So, how are you?”

He doesn't think Malfoy has recovered. In fact, he looks even thinner than before and is as grey in the face as he was when he was supposed to kill Dumbledore.

“Good. I'm just a little tired.” He dramatically pops a biscuit into his mouth and then changes the subject. “Have you been working hard on Dr. Jenkins’ assignments, writing down your thirteen wishes and burning one every night?”

“I did.” Harry pulls the last two folded pieces of paper out of his jacket pocket to prove it.

“It wasn't easy, was it?” Draco's gaze wanders to the window, where only darkness and his own reflection await him. “In the past, I would have had no problem coming up with thirteen wishes for the New Year. I would have written down a thousand things I wanted: a new racing broom, perhaps, or some cool clothes...” He shrugs. “And if that hadn't been allowed, I still would have thought of things like winning the House Cup or being selected for the national Quidditch team.” He laughs. There is a sadness in his mirror-grey eyes that is hard to grasp. “Now, I'll be happy if the new year is just less bad than the old one. If it doesn't take any more away from me.”

Harry nods. “Not taking any more away from me” is a pretty good summary of how he feels. He remembers sitting on the couch in Hermione and Ron's living room, colorful "Happy New Year" garlands hanging above him. Ginny and his old friends, Luna and Neville, toasting him. He sees himself raising his glass. But, unlike in the real memory, this time he hears himself say, “Here's to the year 2003, and may it not take any more from us than the year before.”

He laughs too. Draco misinterprets it. “Yeah, I know. That doesn't sound like me at all. What do you call it again?” He pauses. “Oh yes: modest and humble.” He grimaces, making a great effort to spit out the last words as if they were insects. Draco had always been good at imitating other people, but Harry had been his favorite victim in the past and had not appreciated this talent much. Now he laughs so loudly that even Lydia and Katy look over at them. Never mind; he relishes the warm feeling spreading through his chest.

“Even if you don't want to hear it, you've become much more modest and humble than the spoiled, mischievous boy I knew, and it really suits you.”

Draco clutches his chest and lets out a cry of pain as if he is about to have a heart attack. Even Harold, standing several meters away, turns to them anxiously to make sure everything is all right.

“You can't say that to a Malfoy! It's like pouring a bucket of water over the Wicked Witch of the West's head.”

“Who is the Wicked Witch of the West, and why does she have such a problem with water?”

He laughs again, perhaps only because Malfoy sucks in his breath in mock horror.

“You don't know the Wicked Witch of the West? And yet you grew up with Muggles.”

“Exactly! So how come you, of all people, have become a specialist in Muggle fairy tales?”

“It's actually a book,” he corrects him. Something he really enjoy. „But I saw it as a musical in the West End last Tuesday.”

“You go to musicals?”

He shrugs again. “I started hanging out with a really well-trained, athletic actor over the holidays. When he had to leave, he took me to the show.”

“That's nice of him.” Harry doesn't even try to hide the sarcasm in his voice. Draco doesn't seem to notice, or at least he doesn't dwell on it.

“Anyway, I met more well-built, athletic men there and watched more musicals later.”

“You do realize that you can buy tickets at the box office as normal, right? You don't have to sleep your way through the entire ensemble.”

He didn't mean to say it like that. But he didn't want to put the goblin in Gringotts under the Imperius Curse, nor did he want to paralyze the two Death Eaters who stormed in with a Crucio either. He supposes that's just the way he is. He often does things he regrets, but by then it's too late. For a moment, Malfoy looks as horrified as if Harry had punched him in the face. Then, before Harry has a chance to apologize, he regains control of his expression, replacing it with one of coldness and defense.

“What exactly is your problem, Potter?” The mocking glint in his eyes has returned. “Is it because I'm having sex, or because I'm having sex and you're not?”

“You don't know anything, so watch your mouth.”

“I know Ginny wasn't exactly a sad child at Hogwarts.” He shrugs indifferently. “And I know she wouldn't put up with being treated like that by you, Chosen One or not.”

“Just shut up!”

Harry's voice has become so loud and aggressive that Dr. Jenkins can hear it and rushes over.

“What's going on?”

Malfoy has retreated back to his corner of the windowsill.

“Nothing... everything's fine. We're getting on really well today.”

Harry doesn't answer her; he just crosses his arms angrily.

“Have you two burnt one of your wishes yet?” She ignores their silence. “If not, then please hurry. I want to get straight on with it.”

“Then you’d better put your name in the Goblet of Fire, Potter.” Draco gestures toward the small fire burning outside the open back door. “With all the attention you're attracting, you must know your way around.”

Okay, so there they are together. Harry has almost forgotten what it feels like to receive those pointed little comments all the time, and he could do without that experience. On the other hand, though, he won't let Malfoy get the better of him.

With his head held high, Harry approaches the back exit. He looks again at the two pieces of paper in his hand. Which should he throw in the fire, and which should he read later when he's alone in bed? It doesn't really matter anyway. He doesn't believe in such hocus-pocus. He glances back at Malfoy, studying his thin, compressed lips. At that moment, he has only one wish. Just one.

Finally, he lets go of the paper in his left hand. For a moment, it falls unharmed into the bowl; then its edges become spongy, and it bursts into flames.

He stands there for a while, watching the fire, before he hears someone clear their throat behind him. Everyone else is already seated, so he hurries back into the room and takes his place.

Dr. Jenkins begins her monologue about ancient traditions that provided people with strength in a time before electric light, when they were controlled by the eternal cycle of nature. She explains that, in ancient mythology, each of these days symbolizes one of the months of the coming year. But Harry barely listens to her. His eyes keep darting to Malfoy, who has moved as far away from him as possible and is still staring straight ahead with his arms crossed. He looks much more exhausted than angry now. Is he really all right?

“Where will you be in a year's time?” Dr. Jenkins asks Katy. “What will you be proud of because you overcame it?”

Maybe Malfoy isn't wrong after all. Perhaps Harry is actually jealous of Draco, envying him the opportunity to experience things without facing any consequences. Harry's accidental kiss with Cho Chang meant that many of the other girls had not speak to her for weeks. Why else would he care? Draco is a grown man. He can do whatever he wants.

“Shall we walk to the underground station together?” he asks when the meeting is over.

Whatever it is, he wants things to go back to how they were before. He wants to be able to talk on the phone at night and share everything again.

“No time...” Draco reaches for his jacket. His eyes are still slits.

“Where are you going that you don't have to take the Tube?”

He tries to make it sound like a joke.

“To the go-anywhere party.” He slips his arms into the sleeves. “Where I can sleep with hundreds of men if I want to.”

“Draco...”

Harry's hand reaches for nothing again. Draco has long since turned around and left.

“It'll be fine.” Iris puts a motherly hand on his shoulder. Harry feels uneasy that she has even heard about their argument. “You know what Dr. Jenkins always says: the more pressure a person is under, the more their defense mechanisms come to the fore.”

Is she referring to him or Malfoy?

“Yes...” He nods at her again, then gets dressed and leaves.

***

“I hate the way we argue,” he texts as he lies alone in bed that evening. He turns his head toward the blank page next to him. Ginny has been away all week now that the new term has started. Even though they haven't had much contact recently, he feels lonely in the empty house.

“I know I said some really stupid things that I definitely didn't mean, and I'm sorry.” He thinks about what else he can write. “Please, let's meet and talk about it in person. I'll take you out for pizza to make amends, or we can talk on the phone.”

It's strange that it had never bothered him before that he and Malfoy argued about the meanest things, yet it bothers him so much.

He sends the message and stares at the screen for a few minutes. Nothing happens. No reply.

He sighs, turns onto his side, switches off the light, and lies awake for a long time. The next morning, when his alarm goes off, the first thing he does is check his phone. Still no answer. Malfoy seems very angry. Or maybe he's still busy sleeping with a hundred men. Harry shakes his head, gets up, and gets ready for work. But the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach just won't go away.

Chapter Text

Chapter 10: The Calm Before the Storm

He has barely sat down at his desk to compare files when Jackson interrupts him with the news that an unscheduled meeting of the entire Department of Magical Law Enforcement has been scheduled for nine o'clock. Meetings are nothing unusual; there's one every Monday where the individual teams catch up on the latest developments. What is unusual, however, is that today is Wednesday.

“Do you have any idea what it might be about?” Jackson, who sits at the desk opposite, sips nervously from his coffee cup while Harry shrugs his shoulders.

"It doesn't have to be anything bad," says his new colleague, Susie Brown, who transferred from the Goblin Liaison Office a few weeks ago. “Maybe it's simply because most of the staff have just returned from their Christmas holidays and need to be brought up to speed?” She looks at him hopefully. “Or is Granger announcing that she's pregnant?”

Harry almost chokes on his tea. “What?!”

"I mean, it wouldn't be that unusual. She has a partner, and she's the right age."

“I don't think that's the reason,” he finally says. “Even if she were to have a child at some point, Hermione wouldn't be someone who would give up her job permanently because of it.”

“Yes,” Brown nods thoughtfully. “She really loves her work.”

“She does.“He stands up „ I suppose we'll just have to wait until nine o'clock.”

That's easier said than done. Even though he continues to pretend to read the file, his thoughts wander to what Hermione has to tell them and to Malfoy. Not a good mix.

At a quarter to nine, he finally closes the file and joins the others on their way to the large conference room. About half the staff are already there, and with each new person who enters the overheated room, the murmuring increases, as does the feeling of not being able to breathe. This only stops when Hermione steps up to the desk at nine o'clock sharp. Harry hasn't seen her since the New Year's Eve party and thinks she looks terrible. What is going on with all the important people in his life? First Malfoy, now Hermione. Is there some deadly epidemic that only affects wizards?

She briefly taps her wand against her neck to strengthen her voice. “Let's make this quick.” She still sounds determined, which dampens his spirits a little. “The worst thing we feared has happened.” She takes a deep breath. “The first death in the potion case has probably occurred.”

A horrified murmur spreads through the crowd, quickly turning into questions. A single glance from Hermione is enough to silence them again. “Shania Johnson, aged fifteen, is believed to have obtained some unauthorized potions during the Christmas holidays, which she spent with her family in London. She is thought to have smuggled them into Hogwarts and consumed them there. The first symptoms appeared last night, which is why her friend called the school nurse.” Hermione pauses. “Despite immediate treatment, Shania's condition deteriorated so rapidly that she was transferred to St. Mungo's, where she died in the early hours of this morning.”

Silence falls over the room.

“She was a Slytherin,” Jackson whispers, pointing to the green emblem on her school cloak. It is clearly visible in the photo Hermione has projected onto the wall. Jackson, like Harry, had been a Gryffindor. Even though his school days had ended before Harry started, this commonality made it easier for them to work together. But when it came to dead children, the old house rivalry clearly ended, even for Harry.

“Pshhhh,” he says, turning his face forward demonstratively.

“We still need to clarify the exact circumstances of her death and await the autopsy results before we can be certain, but it looks pretty clear.” She breaks off. “Fortunately, our Minister, Kingsley Shacklebolt, was able to convince the editors of the Daily Prophet not to report on the incident until the evening's edition. This will allow the parents to say goodbye to their child in peace and give the Headmistress of Hogwarts, Minerva McGonagall, the chance to increase the school's security measures.” Another pause follows. “This arrangement also gives the Ministry of Magic a chance to develop a plan of action before all hell breaks loose tonight.”

It gets louder again. Everyone is talking wildly. Only Brown speaks up, sounding like a schoolgirl. “Yes? But how exactly will the Ministry proceed?”

“I'm afraid I don't know. The minister's inner circle is also meeting at the moment. But I assume, from the leaflets being sent to every household, that... But we should...”

“Leaflets?” Jackson interjects, not waiting to be asked. “The last time the Ministry sent out leaflets was after the rise of... you know who.”

“Exactly, and I can still remember the uncertainty that erupted among the population as a result.” It was a man named Collins, with whom Harry had hardly ever had any dealings.

“The Ministry has sent out leaflets to the public far more often in its history than in this one case...”

“I certainly don't want to minimize the situation, and I really feel sorry for the poor girl.” There's another interruption. “And yet the situation is hardly comparable to back then. Isn't sending out leaflets a bit excessive, causing more harm than good?”

A few of those present nod.

“Of course, the situation isn't the same as when Tom Riddle and his followers went on a killing spree.” Harry joins in the discussion. He feels anger rising within him. He is angry that his colleagues don't seem to realize that they are responsible for preventing further deaths and solving this case.

“Be careful,” Hermione seems to say with her look, even though she seems relieved at his intervention.

“And yet the whole situation is highly dangerous, which is why the public must be warned.” Hermione hands Harry a black doctor's bag that folds open. He is amazed at how well they still work together without needing to say a word.

“These are samples of the potions we've confiscated in recent weeks through raids and tighter controls,” she begins. He opens the bag and passes the small bottles around.

“As you can see, the fakes are almost indistinguishable from the originals at first glance. Even the Ministry of Magic seal has been copied on the bottles.” Hermione points her wand at the relevant part of the small flask she is holding. “The quality also seems to be right at first glance.”

The audience gasps in surprise as Hermione opens the cap with one finger. “Pearl-colored liquid, spiral smoke, and the smell of your favorite things.” She fans the smoke into the audience. “Which of you paid attention at school and can tell me what potion it is?” Harry can well imagine her as a Potions teacher. She stands there, holding out the small flask to the front row. Only after a few moments does her smile fade, and she becomes serious again.

“The problem with these fake potions is twofold. Firstly, expensive ingredients such as pearl dust or phoenix tears are often replaced with cheaper, poisonous ingredients like arsenic or foxglove, and the customer doesn't realize. Secondly, certain potions can only be sold after registration by a licensed potion master for good reason. Who would want to risk someone pouring Amortentia into their coffee?”

She pretends to tip the contents of the small flask into Jackson's coffee cup. A short, nervous laugh goes around the room.

“Other potions, such as Felix Felicis, can have fatal side effects if taken too often.” She shakes her head. “For most wizards and witches, forging potions is, at best, a trivial offense with a long tradition. Only a handful of witches and wizards in any given year could brew potions, while many others spent their lessons staring into space.” Again, she provokes a few furtive laughs. “That’s why it’s always been common to buy potions from neighbors or acquaintances, so you don’t have to brew them yourself.” The magical population doesn't realize the danger they are in if they consume something they don't recognize. It is the Ministry's duty to educate them, and it is our duty as magical law enforcement to take the smuggling ring's backers out of circulation and permanently block their trade routes, ensuring everyone's safety in the future.“

***

“Now I seriously need a drink.” Although Hermione is clearly joking, Harry can sense the desperation in her words. Hermione had never wanted a drink before—not even when Voldemort and his followers attacked the castle.

“Sometimes I really wonder why I didn't just become a dentist like my parents. I could have taken over the practice, carried out some prophylactic treatments from nine to five, and then called it a day.” She leans over to Harry, who is sitting at her tidy desk. “Oh, very clean, Mr. Potter, but do you use interdental brushes regularly?”

He laughs. “You would have hated it.”

“No.” She crosses her arms. “I could have studied medicine on the side. Did you know that you need degrees in both dentistry and medicine to be an oral surgeon?”

He gives her a stern look. “I can tell when you're not telling the truth.”

“It really is true, at least the part about the oral surgeon.” She takes a big swig from the bottle of seltzer she pulls out of her bag. “But it would have been nice if life had just settled down for a while, wouldn't it?”

“We work in the magical law enforcement department. What did you expect?”

“I know, and I even run the Magical Law Enforcement Department.” She pokes him playfully in the ribs. “Why didn't you stop me when they offered me this position?”

“Would you have listened to me?”

Her gaze turns serious again. “Probably not, but now they're going to blame me—the Mudblood who only got so far because he latched onto the Chosen One—for the whole mess. And I can almost understand why. How can it be that the number of illegal potions entering the country doubles every week, yet all we've managed to do so far is arrest a few small-time dealers who didn't even know the name of their supplier?”

“Or didn't want to know,” he adds.

She starts pacing restlessly.

 “Hermione.” He stands up as well, blocking her path, and places a hand on her upper arm. “Do you remember our ZAG exams and how you were convinced you'd failed them all?”

He smiles at her. “Besides, it doesn't matter what Rita Skeeter writes about you. They can't do more than accuse you of having a secret love affair with me anyway.”

“You're probably right.” She lowers her gaze. He can still feel her warmth and sorrow. “I'm probably just overworked and seeing everything negatively. Coffee?”

“I’d love some.”

“I hate this general mood so much. I could go crazy.” She fiddles with the machine, and soon the familiar, comforting smell of coffee fills the room.

“What do you think?”

He takes a step toward her to take the cup. “I don't know. This constant insistence that foreign witches and wizards are causing these problems is ridiculous. I can already imagine what the Daily Prophet headline will be: ‘Foreign criminal gangs murder Hogwarts student.’”

She rolls her eyes. 

“You forgot the ‘And the Ministry looks on helplessly.’”

“Right.”

They laugh, then silence spreads between them. “When I came to Hogwarts, my blood status was an issue the whole time. Most people didn't insult me directly like Malfoy and his gang, but I could see it in most of the teachers' eyes: That look of, ‘Oh, she's not so bad for a Muggle-born witch.’” She screws up her face. “I thought that would stop. After Voldemort fell, I thought everything would be different and that people would be interested in starting over. And now?” She shrugs. “Now it looks like Nicholas Dawn is going to win the election to be the next Minister of Magic, even though his call for Britain to leave the International Confederation of Wizards is just madness.”

“I know.” He stares at the contents of his cup, watching the light-colored foam mix with the brown coffee. “But somehow we’ll fix it. We always have.”

“Voldemort succeeded in taking over the Ministry of Magic twice. He didn't even have to use force, and he did it twice.” She puts her cup down on her desk. “What good is it that he's dead? What good does it do to capture any of his supporters and set an example if his ideology—this ‘we're superior and everyone else is worthless’—still lives on?”

She doesn't expect an answer. Probably not. What could he say? He hates seeing her so resigned. There have already been so many terrible things in the past that he can't bear the thought of any more in the future.

"We can do it," he says once again, even though he hasn't the faintest idea how. “We’ll smash this smuggling ring, and people will see that Shacklebolt is a better minister and vote for him again.” He smiles at her encouragingly. “Besides, I'm sure the public won't react too strongly to Shania's death. You'll see. It's tragic, but they'll have forgotten all about it by tomorrow.”

***

Unfortunately, he is completely wrong about this. As soon as the evening edition of the Daily Prophet is published, a young female reporter is waiting for him at his front door, holding a quill and parchment under his nose. “As the Chosen One, what do you have to say about the latest developments that are keeping our country on its toes?”

"That's just stupid." If only she had asked him in his role as an Auror! But what did some stupid prophecy that had already ruined his childhood have to do with the current case?

“Nothing,” he replies, waving his wand to open the door. “I'm not saying anything about it.” Then he closes it behind him.

In front of him is the lonely living room; behind it, the windows reveal a darkening sky. He lights the fire, then sorts through the letters that the owls have delivered that day. Most of them are bills. There is also a letter from Fleur and Bill asking about the christening in May. Ginny hasn't written to him. Perhaps she hasn't realized what's going on in the outside world amid all the hustle and bustle of the games?

He reaches for his mobile phone. It's a pity she doesn't have one. It would be so handy to give her a quick call—much better than owls. Draco still hasn't answered him. Harry lies on the sofa; apart from the flames in the fireplace, the mobile phone is the only light in the room.

Okay, that's enough. Outside, people are dying, yet here they're acting like eleven-year-olds, fighting over things someone said in anger. They avoid each other when they shouldn't. There's so much hate in the world. They don't need to reactivate theirs.

Harry presses the receiver. He just needs to hear Draco's voice. He needs to know that he's all right, and then he needs to apologize to him.

It beeps. His knuckles turn white as he clutches the plastic case tightly and listens to every tone. “Please pick up,” he pleads silently.

He can handle anything: an angry Malfoy shouting at him or an arrogant Malfoy treating him coldly—he can handle either. But not the Malfoy whose absence leaves him in a vacuum. That's not an option.

“What if something really happened to him?” the voice inside him whispers. “He was heading off somewhere, and he didn't look well.”

“Oh, come on,” he argues in his mind. “He's just angry with me. It's typical of him to hold grudges and deliberately keep me in the dark.”

“Besides, he doesn't have a wand. You remember when he wanted to take a break in the park at night in sub-zero temperatures, don't you?”

What does that stupid voice want from him? What is he supposed to do? He doesn't even have Malfoy's address.

At that moment, the tape announcement switches on. “This is the voicemail for the number...” A computerized voice calls out numbers. “Please leave a message or call back at a later time.”

He didn't even bother to discuss it in person. “But you know where he lives. He told you, remember? Bishops Avenue, Billionaires Row.”

Harry shakes his head. “Yes, I'm sure he lives there, and Father Christmas is real.”

He stands up and stares out of the window. It's so dark that only his own ghostly reflection looks back at him.

What if he's really unwell? What if he's lying out there somewhere, freezing? Or what if he's with someone athletic and good-looking but who doesn't mean him any good? Someone who hurts him? Besides, what has he got to lose?

He sighs once more, then steps up to the fireplace. He reaches for the powder in the bowl and throws it into the flames. “Bishops Avenue! To Draco Malfoy,” he shouts before stepping into the green flames.

Chapter Text

Chapter 11: Love Wrapped in Words

Once the sensation of being pulled through a tight rubber tube has passed and the heat has faded, Harry blinks and takes an unsteady step forward. Thankfully, he's no longer in his own living room. He's also not lost in the Floo Network, an idea the Weasleys had warned him about, which still haunts the back of his mind.

The room he stumbles into has high stuccoed ceilings and a wooden floor, and it is almost empty. In one corner, there is a small table covered with various items. Harry spots a half-empty bottle of Coke and some food. There are folded clothes on the chair in front of the table. He recognizes Draco's olive green outdoor jacket hanging over the back of the chair. But where is its owner?

As he walks toward the table, he bumps his foot against a mattress on the floor. The slender figure under the blankets scrambles up, startled.

“Don't panic. It's just me.” Harry raises his hands to show that he is unarmed. Draco's eyes are wide and shiny with confusion; Harry isn't even sure that he recognizes him. “You really do live on Bishops Avenue,” Harry continues. He feels he must say something to defuse the strange situation. He points to the ceiling, where he suddenly notices a large water stain. He realizes that the whole room shows clear signs of decay. The wallpaper is rippling around the windows, which are covered by faded heavy velvet curtains, and the wooden floor is uneven.

Draco still says nothing. He looks worse than the room. His skin is blotchy and shiny, and his usually well-groomed hair hangs stringily in his face. Harry can't help but reach out and touch his unnaturally warm forehead, pushing a strand of hair behind his ear.

“Are you not feeling well? Are you ill?”

Harry's gaze falls on a bottle of cold syrup with a picture of a smiling toddler on the label—an image he recognizes from his time with the Dursleys. Doesn't Draco know that Muggle medicines, especially homeopathic ones, aren't nearly as potent as potions?

“Potter.” As Draco sits up, his breath hitches menacingly. “What are you doing here? And how did you get in here anyway?” His and Harry's eyes wander to the fireplace at the same time.

“It wasn't protected by spells. I thought...”

Draco rolls his eyes. As he continues, his voice sounds almost normal again, but much angrier. “And that's like an invitation for you to break into people's houses at night?”

“It's not night yet.” Bad excuse. A glance at his watch tells him it's almost ten o'clock. It might not be night yet, but it's definitely not the time to visit someone unannounced. “Besides, we're not just anyone.” He sighs. “I'm sorry. I...” He drops his arms. “I'll leave you alone and lock the fireplace when I go.”

“No!” he exclaims, amazed at the strength with which Draco grabs his wand arm and holds it tight. “No spells near me.”

He had hoped it was about him, that Draco didn't want him to leave. Disappointment spreads through him.

“Sorry...” Malfoy lets himself fall back onto his pillow. He closes his eyes and covers them with his hand as if he has a headache.“You didn't answer your phone, and I... I was worried about you.” Draco doesn't answer. “Well, I'd better go then.”

“I'm not mad at you anymore. Just a little bit, at most.” Draco sits up again, indicating the extent of his anger with his thumb and forefinger. His smile is faint, but it's there.

“I mean, I've said much worse things to other people in my life, especially to you. You've probably got a few more mistakes left.”

“I still shouldn't have said it, and I'm really sorry.”

There is silence between them. “Let it go, okay?” Draco looks around. “What time is it anyway? I think I've slept all day.”

“Then you must have needed it.” Harry would like to put his hand on Malfoy's forehead again to check his temperature, but he doesn't dare. “When was the last time you ate something?”

Draco shrugs, which could mean anything or nothing.

“I'm not hungry anyway.”

“But it's important that you eat enough when you're ill. How else are you going to get your strength back? You also need to drink plenty.”

“Right now?”

“No, I'm talking about ten years from now, of course.”

Draco laughs.

“Oh, well, then I still have some time...” He sits up a little more. Harry almost expects him to stand up, but then he pulls the blanket up to the tip of his nose. “Can you get me my bottle of Coke from the table?”

Harry considers explaining that Coke is the last thing his body needs right now. Maybe he should ask if he wants some tea instead. Never mind—every milliliter of liquid that Malfoy drinks is a good milliliter.

He crosses the few meters to the table and reaches for the bottle. His gaze falls on a small, handwritten note stuck to the mirror.

“Everything is fine,” it says. Underneath, it continues: “I am brave. I am strong. I am important. I am safe. I am allowed to feel all my feelings. I am allowed to make mistakes. I am allowed to find my own path. I am still loved.”

This is probably one of Dr. Jenkins' exercises. Draco may have mocked them on the surface, but these phrases are so important to him that he has put them up where he can see them every day.

Harry turns his gaze away. He knows it would make Malfoy uncomfortable to know that he had read them. He would have been just as uncomfortable the other way around. He lowers his gaze and discovers a book. It lies inconspicuously between a bag of crisps and a hairbrush.

“You're reading The Lord of the Rings?”

He lifts it up. Draco shakes his head.

“I just picked it up somewhere.”

“Somewhere” is usually another man's flat. Harry has no idea why Draco takes anything from these “forays.” They're never valuable items like money or expensive watches, but rather things that the original owner probably didn't even realize were missing. If they did, they certainly wouldn't associate them with the handsome young man they had once picked up and brought home.

Harry takes the book and the bottle of Coke, then goes back to Draco's mattress.

“I read it just before coming to Hogwarts, and it really meant a lot to me.”

He hands the bottle to Draco.

“Why?”

“ I am still loved.” He can't explain why the final item on Draco's list still resonates with him so deeply.

“I think it's because it's about how anyone, no matter how small or insignificant they may seem, can change the course of the world for the better.”

Draco laughs.

“You're the Chosen One. The boy who survived. When have you ever felt small or insignificant?”

“A lot,” Harry thinks. “A lot.”

Draco uncaps his medicine, takes a deep swig straight from the small glass bottle, and washes it down with cola. Harry shakes just from watching.

“I can read it to you if you like. There's even a wizard in it. In theory, there are two, but one of them is evil.”

He picks up the book. It has the same green cover as the edition he borrowed from the library.

“It sounds familiar somehow. But it's not your story, is it?”

“No.” Now it's Harry's turn to laugh. “My story has more wizards and fewer dwarves, elves, hobbits, orcs, and other fantasy creatures in it.”

“Harry?” Despite the fire in the fireplace, the floor is cold. Harry scoots closer to Malfoy and the mattress.“You don't have to do this. If you want to read the book that badly, I'll lend it to you and you can take it with you.”

“I know I don’t have to.” He opens the book and puts his finger on the first chapter. “But I'd like to.”

He thinks of his childhood again. He remembers how, as soon as he had a runny nose, he had to spend days alone in the small room under the stairs, just to make sure he didn't infect anyone.

“I'm loved anyway.” Why does that trigger so much in him?

“Sometimes, as a child, when I was alone in the dark and couldn’t sleep, I used to imagine that in some parallel universe, my parents were still alive and that they would come to me. They would sit on the edge of my bed, make me a cup of tea, and read to me until I fell asleep. I know that's silly, but to me, it was always like... well, like love wrapped in words.”

"My parents never read to me." He's surprised when he feels Draco's hand on his. “My mum thought it would make kids effeminate, and my dad... he was busy.”

“Yeah, trying out forbidden curses and conjuring the Dark Mark on the night sky,” Harry thinks, but says nothing.

“So much has happened that can never be fixed. Sometimes I think the only way to deal with it is to laugh about it.” Draco looks directly at him now. “Because it's better than crying about it, isn't it?”

Harry swallows, then taps the book. “You’ll love it,” he says. “It's a really good story.” He pushes thoughts of the war and what happened deep inside. He blocks out the fact that Draco isn't well and that his forehead is glowing with fever. He clears his mind until it is as calm and serene as the sea on a sunny day. Then he opens the book and begins to read aloud.

Chapter Text

Chapter 12: Bedfellows

Much later, when Draco's breathing becomes regular and Harry realises that he has closed his eyes, he puts the book down and looks at his sleeping silhouette. He would have liked to continue reading, not only because the story is exciting—they have just left the Shire, and Harry is already looking forward to the part where they first encounter Aragorn, disguised as Strider—but also because reading allows him to forget about the reality of Hogwarts students dying from black-brewed potions.

Above all, it is Draco's sleep-softened features that make it difficult for Harry to detach himself from him. The knowledge that now is the time to climb into the fireplace and return to his empty house makes him hesitate.

Carefully, so as not to wake him, he feels Draco's forehead again. Has it become warmer, or is he just imagining it? Harry rises to his feet, groaning. It feels as if every bone in his body is protesting, even though he is only twenty-two. What will it be like when he's really old?

Before he leaves, he definitely wants to make Malfoy a cup of tea. He can put it next to his bed for him to drink when he wakes up. It's much better than sugary drinks full of caffeine.

However, when Harry opens the door and looks into the dark corridor, he realises that he has no idea where the kitchen is. Is there even one?

He casts a Lumos spell and moves forward in the light from the wand tip. Long shadows dance on the walls. The house is huge, and details such as golden taps and marble sinks in a bathroom—whose door Harry accidentally opens—bear witness to its former splendor. Outside Draco's room, the signs of decay are even more evident. In what was probably once a library, fist-sized chunks of concrete have fallen from the ceiling and are scattered across the pink carpet. In another room, a greenish discolouration covers the entire window.

Draco wasn't lying. He really does live in a mansion on Bishops Avenue. However, he has left out a crucial detail in his stories: this mansion must have been abandoned for at least ten years.

As Harry continues to explore the depths of the house, opening doors to rooms that appear intact as if the owners had just left, he wonders what stories have unfolded here and why there is no one living here anymore.

When he finally finds the kitchen, he breathes a sigh of relief. There is a fire burning in the fireplace, and the room painfully reminds him of Hogwarts.

He knows it's rubbish. During his entire time at school, he had only knocked on the castle kitchen door twice—once to ask for something to eat for himself and once for Ron. However, he knows that the Hogwarts kitchen must be much bigger than this room, even though the large table and old cookers take up more space than many flats in central London. This kitchen could serve as the backdrop for a sentimental love story in which a wealthy gentleman falls in love with a girl from a working-class background.

He hums cheerfully as he turns on the tap, the pipes spitting out water with a great roar. He pours the water into a copper kettle and places it on the hob. Perhaps this feeling of taking part in Potions lessons reminds him of his school days?

While the water slowly boils, Harry looks around the room. He finds a tin of fennel tea and hopes it is not a hundred years old. He places it next to the mug.

He finds open books and a half-labeled notepad on the table. The titles of the books read “All England Law Reports” and “English Reports.” He flips through a few pages. They are legal texts. Why is Draco studying Muggle criminal law? There's a Walkman next to him. Through the window in the cassette slot, he can see The Best of Madonna. Who still uses a Walkman—let alone one with Madonna on it? The '80s are long gone. Does it even work? He puts on his headphones and presses play. The door opens to the first notes of “Like a Virgin.”

Harry hurriedly presses stop and tries to free himself from the tangle of cables because he is sure Draco is standing in the doorway. In fact, the person is pretty much the opposite of Malfoy. If he had to name any similarity between him and the young woman wearing a red sari and with long dark hair, it would probably be age. She reminds him of one of the Patil twins, but maybe that's just a stereotypical thought, as Hermione sometimes accuses him of having.

In his memory, the Patil twins are always smiling. This woman, however, switches from neutral to surprised and then to hostile in a fraction of a second, making Harry flinch in horror.

Moreover, this woman has grabbed an umbrella that reminds him painfully of Hagrid's hidden wand. She is now waving it menacingly in front of his face.

“You have three seconds to tell me who you are and what on earth you're doing here.”

“Potter.” He is still holding his wand with its glowing tip in his hands, yet he feels strangely defenceless. “So, Harry Potter.”

There is no change in her expression, and he realises that she must be a Muggle. The name Harry Potter means as much to her as Daniel Brown or Paul Smith: nothing at all. “I'm a friend of Draco Malfoy.” It doesn't feel right to sum up their relationship in a few words, but what do you call someone with whom you shared a childhood enmity for more than ten years, which led to a cruel war? Someone you then met again in a support group, who quickly became one of the most important people in your life?

He points to the copper kettle in which the water is gurgling. “I'll make him some tea because he's ill.”

Her face remains skeptical, but at least she lowers the tip of her umbrella.

“Sunita,” she finally says. It takes him a few moments to realise that that is her name and not a strange spell she is casting on him.

“Harry,” he says again, holding out his hand to her. “Harry Potter, then.”

“Got it.”

She looks at his outstretched hand but doesn't take it. For the first time, Harry understands how Malfoy must have felt.

“Strange. Draco never brings any of his bedfellows to the manor, and that's just as it should be.”

“Oh, I'm not... so we're not...” His hands take on a life of their own. He literally has to force them to stay on his body. 

“I don't really care what you do in your spare time. To each his own, as they say.” She sits back down at the table, takes her Walkman from Harry slightly reproachfully, and bends over her law books. “It's just important to me that as few people as possible know about the house. The last thing we need is some drunken youths partying here and destroying everything.”

“Yes, I completely understand that. But I..."

“And before you ask, yes, we're allowed to be here. Squatting is not a criminal offence in England and Wales.” She points to one of her books. “At least, not as long as no doors have been broken down, and no written request has been received from the landlord to leave the property. That's yet another reason why we should keep the ball as low as possible.”

“That sounds very wise.”

“Besides, the ownership of the villa is unclear anyway. Apparently, some family has so much money that they've simply forgotten about this property with park-like grounds in the center of London. It can happen when you have fifty others.” Her face takes on a bitter expression. “Did you know that the eight richest men—and I say men deliberately—have more money between them than the poorer half of the world’s population? Eight men have more money than four billion people?”

“No, I didn't know that.”

The whistling of the kettle puts an end to it. He takes it off the heat and pours the boiling water into the prepared cup.

“By the way, did you know that your... I don't know... flatmate? Draco Malfoy may not be one of the eight richest families on Earth, but he is definitely one of the eight richest wizarding families. Did you know that he only ever got the finest clothes and the most expensive things as a child?”

Of course, he doesn't ask this question out loud. He's not stupid, after all, and the last thing he needs is to breach the non-disclosure agreement.

“I'll go and get Draco his tea.” He gestures to the door.

“Take this with you.” She stands up and hands him a small jar of honey. “But don't stir it into the tea until it's cooled down a bit; otherwise, you'll destroy the ingredients.”

***

Harry realizes that now he knows the way, getting back to Draco's room is much quicker than the adventurous search for the kitchen.

When he opens the door, he is surprised to find that Draco is awake.

“I thought you would have left by now.” His voice sounds sharper and his breathing even more raspy than before. Harry isn't sure whether Draco is annoyed that he's still there or relieved to see him.

“I made you a cup of tea.” Chilled or not. He stirs a teaspoon of honey into it. “I met your flatmate, too.”

“Which one?”

So there's more than one?

“Sunita.”

“Ah.” Draco sits up with difficulty and takes the tea from Harry. “She can seem quite scary, but she's really easy to get along with once you get to know her.”

Harry nods and sits down on the floor next to his mattress.

“I didn’t expect you to be… well… living with other people.”

“I lived with other people at Hogwarts, too. Believe it or not, even Slytherins have shared dormitories.”

“Yeah, but...” Harry's hands dance uncertainly through the air before he finally lets them drop.

“Go ahead and say it.”

“What?”

“That you think it's unusual that I'm living with Muggles in a shared flat instead of torturing and killing them.”

His eyes are much clearer than usual. It's as if the fever is tearing away the last protective veil they had stretched between them, revealing everything they weren't talking about.

“That's not what I meant.”

But that's exactly what he did.

He could ask, “Did you?” It's only two little words, but his tongue feels infinitely heavy. He doesn't want to know. He doesn't want anything to come between them, especially now that he's starting to like Draco. The truth is both terrible and beautiful. Dumbledore knew that already, and despite his faults, he was very wise.

“I didn't mean the Muggles. I meant this house.” He hurriedly points to the water stain on the ceiling. “It's so... broken.”

“I know, but I like it here.”

Harry nods again. The pause between them grows longer.

“You need to drink more tea,” he says at one point, pointing to the mug. “It's important that you stay hydrated.”

Obediently, Draco brings the cup to his mouth again. After taking a sip, he starts to cough. The sound is so terrible that Harry automatically reaches out to him and takes the cup away.

Startled, Harry realizes that his body seems to be glowing.

“Draco, you're really hot.”

“It's nice that you've finally realized that, too.” A wry grin spreads across his face, but then the cough returns and he sinks back into the pillow. “I should probably get some sleep. My head feels like it's about to explode.”

Was that a request? But for what? To go or to stay?

“Yeah, that sounds like a magnificent idea.”

Harry is glad that they are back on familiar territory. At the same time, worry floods the huge hole in his chest. He can't leave now. He can't travel home through the Floo Network and leave Draco, who is lying on his mattress and running a fever, alone in the big house.

“I’ll stay for a while until you fall asleep,” he says, pulling a chair up to the desk. Draco doesn't answer. His eyes are closed. His chest rises and falls evenly. Harry is tired, too. He is so, so tired.

Somewhere in the depths of the house, there is a scratching and creaking. Old houses do that. Maybe it's the beams, the water pipes, or the rats, he thinks. Then he falls asleep, too.

***

When he opens his eyes again, the room is almost dark. Only a faint ember remains of the fire in the fireplace, and he has difficulty orienting himself. Where is he, and why does his neck hurt so much? It takes a few moments for the faint whimpering next to him to register. The restless tossing and turning, the pleading “Please don't”—and suddenly he is wide awake.

“Draco!” he exclaims, jumping up from his chair and grabbing Draco by the shoulders. He wants to shake him, wake him up, and tell him that he's just having a bad dream. But the moment his hand touches the fabric on his shoulders, he realizes that something is wrong. The fabric is soaking wet, and the skin underneath seems to be burning.

With an automatic flick of his wand, Harry rekindles the fire in the fireplace. The flickering orange flames reveal the extent of the catastrophe. Draco's skin isn't just pale; it's almost transparent. Harry can see the blue veins underneath. The circles under his eyes are as dark as if he had been hit. However, what worries Harry most is the high fever and the racking breathing noise that now occurs even when Draco is lying down.

“Draco, wake up!”

Harry shakes him again. Once again, there is no reaction. His half-open eyes focus on nothing. His body is far too hot.

“We need to get to the infirmary now,” he thinks, half heaving him up, before realizing that they are no longer at Hogwarts. What now?

Shaking off the last of his tiredness, he reaches into his jacket pocket for the flu powder. After rubbing it between his fingers, he throws it into the fireplace.

“St. Mungo's!” he shouts, before dragging Draco's lifeless body into the green flames.

At almost the same moment, he hears pain-filled screams right next to him. It sounds as if someone is being tortured with the Cruciatus Curse. A moment later, they both land painfully on the wooden floor of Draco's room.

Harry's head is pounding. Why didn't it work? He crawls over to Draco, who is lying some distance away. He has stopped screaming and is now only whimpering softly while hugging his own body.

“I'm sorry. I have no idea what went wrong,” Harry whispers. He hardly dares to touch him for fear of hurting him again. “We’ll have to try again.”

“No!” Draco backs away from him. “Please don't.”

The fear in his eyes is so genuine that it breaks Harry's heart.

“But I want to help you.”

“I can't use the Floo Network; it's part of the seal.”

At least he seems responsive. With his last remaining strength, he pulls the collar of his jumper down slightly to expose his shoulder. Harry leans closer to him to make out what the red mark on his shoulder blade is.

“Red color,” he thinks. He recognizes the seal of the Ministry of Magic with its characteristic M, but tries to convince himself that it is just red paint. As he smells the burnt flesh, he sees the edges of the wound begin to crust over, as if someone had burnt it into his skin at that very moment.

“Just let me lie on the mattress,” Draco says, his pronunciation so slurred that Harry can barely understand him. “I just want to go back to sleep.” The next moment, Draco loses consciousness again.

“Draco!”

After a moment of helpless panic, Harry reaches for his mobile phone. He knows he has to get help, but who? A Muggle ambulance? No, that's not a good idea.

He opens his contacts. There aren't many: Hermione and... Dr. Jenkins. She probably knows what to do, and she knows Draco.

He dials her number and presses the green receiver. His eyes fall on the screen. It's almost three in the morning.

“Please pick up,” he pleads silently. Draco's face is terribly pale. Beads of sweat stand out on his forehead. “Please!”

Chapter Text

Chapter 13: Emergency Intervention, or The Art of Brewing

After the third ring, someone finally answers the phone.

“Linda Jenkins.” Harry hears a sleepy voice.

Harry feels so relieved at that moment that he almost cries. Draco is still lying heavily in his arms. His face is pale and expressionless. Harry has no idea what to say.

“Hello?” Dr. Jenkins says again, this time sounding more alert and annoyed. “If this is supposed to be a stupid joke, then I'm hanging up now.”

“No,” the voice that leaves his mouth sounds shrill, even to his own ears. “It's me, Harry Potter.”

“Harry Potter... Is everything all right with you?”

What a question. His gaze wanders to the clock. How many people call their therapist at three in the morning just because they're fine?

“Listen, if you're having an acute crisis...”

“Malfoy's too hot, and he's breathing strangely. I can't wake him up properly, and when I pulled him into the fireplace, he screamed terribly and we fell out...”

“Calm down first. Take a deep breath and start again in order, okay?”

“Yes, okay.”

And Harry does. He talks about the argument he had with Draco and his subsequent visit. He says that he was doing reasonably well at first, but then it got worse. When he arrives at the part where he tried to take Draco to St. Mungo's via the Floo Network, he hears Dr. Jenkins draw in her breath sharply.

“I'll get in the car and be right with you.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

“Come out to the road with Draco. This will make it easier for me to collect you both.”

“Okay.”

Harry dimly remembers seeing a wide corridor next to the kitchen that could easily serve as an entrance. Draco isn't much help finding the front door, though. He is so deeply unconscious that Harry has to use both arms to hook him under the armpits and pull him along. Harry has his wand, with a glowing tip, clamped between his teeth.

Sweat runs down Harry's back as he realizes with relief that he is approaching a double entrance door. Moonlight falls through the mosaic of colored glass, casting colorful spots on the floor. He considers whether he needs to tell anyone, but the kitchen is empty. Sunita, with her law books, has disappeared, leaving the house in absolute silence.

It's probably for the best. He doubts she knows she's living with a wizard... or an ex-wizard under the same roof. If she witnesses him dragging her unconscious flatmate away, it could raise awkward questions.

“Careful.”

He has to put Draco down for a moment to open the door. Desperation overwhelms him as they step outside. The garden is the size of a park. It's a wild park where the plants spread out as they please, seeming to wage war against humans.

The gravel path winding between the bushes seems to go on forever, and the gate at the end seems unreachable. Once again, his gaze falls on Draco's pale figure.

“Come on,” he whispers, shaking him gently. “You have to wake up now and at least join in a little. I can't do this on my own.”

There is no response, so he drags him under again, and they take a few steps. Every meter costs Harry an infinite amount of strength, yet the gate hardly seems to get any closer. He is about to put Draco down again when he suddenly see light. He shields his eyes from the bright light with his arms. He can see two headlights piercing the night and hears the hum of an engine.

“We're here!” he shouts, waving his arms. It feels as if he is sitting in a lifeboat far out at sea.

The car stops in front of the gate, and he spots a slender figure walking toward them in the dim light. It is only when she is almost in front of him that he recognizes her face. Dr. Jenkins can't tell that it's the middle of the night and that she should find the situation unfamiliar. She wears her usual air of determination, coupled with a hint of natural authority, and is dressed in an uncharacteristic purple fleece jacket.

When she reaches them, she immediately kneels down beside Draco. Her fingers dart over his face, pulling up an eyelid and resting on his forehead.

“And now what?” asks Harry. “What do we do now?”

He is still very tired and confused.

“We take him between us and put him in my car.”

That's not what Harry meant, but he doesn't get around to asking another question. Together, they lift Draco. It's much easier with two people, and Harry can't help but admire Dr. Jenkins for how easily she lifts the heavy body. Hopefully, Harry will be just as fit when he's her age.

Together, they make good progress. Harry can smell the earthy aroma of the winter forest giving way to the smells of the big city. A short time later, they reach the car. Dr. Jenkins opens the back door.

“It's best if we put him in the back seat and you hold his head while we drive.”

“Okay.”

Draco flinches and whimpers as Harry touches the burn on his shoulder and pulls him in. Dr. Jenkins notices it too.

“That was really very careless of you.”

What does she mean? The clumsy touch? Or his attempt to get him through the Floo Network? Or his visit in general? There are many things in his life at the moment that would fit the description “reckless.”

He grits his teeth and says nothing in response. She climbs into the driver's seat. Harry looks at Draco's pale face. As the car starts to move, the streetlamps' lights flash on and off.

“Where are we going now? To St. Mungo's?” Harry can't help but stroke Draco's hair. The sweat on his forehead is cold. Is that a good or a bad sign?

“You're always talking about St. Mungo's. Don't you still get it?” Her eyes flash angrily in the rear-view mirror. “St. Mungo's won't treat him. No wizarding institution will.”

“Then we’ll take him to a Muggle hospital?”

She doesn't answer. Instead, she shifts up a gear and crosses a junction where the traffic lights are amber at best.

“We’re taking him to my house.” As she continues to speak, she regains control of her emotions. “I should still have enough ingredients for a simple healing potion.”

“You want to brew a potion to cure him?”

“No.” She turns into a narrow side street. The terraced houses here remind Harry of his childhood with the Dursleys, although this estate is far less populated with garden gnomes than Privet Drive was. “I was never allowed to visit Hogwarts, remember? So I guess you'll have to do that.”

“What?! But I... I can't do that.”

The car stops in front of a house. She turns around to face him.

“Nobody’s asking you to brew a potion to UTZ standards. You should at least be able to make a Wiggenweld potion to bring down his fever and stabilize his condition. I mean, it's a first-year potion.”

“Yes, yes, but...”

She doesn't wait for an answer. Instead, she gets out of the car, opens the back door, and starts to lift Draco out.

“Are you going to help me, or are you going to put down roots here?”

“Of course.”

Together, they carry Draco into the house and take him to the small guest room next to the kitchen. While Dr. Jenkins lovingly spreads a blanket over Draco and touches his forehead once more, Harry looks around the room. There is a bed, a wardrobe, and a small desk covered in psychology books. A Benjamin tree stands in one corner, and a few framed pictures hang on the walls.

Harry turns to the photos. He recognizes Dr. Jenkins, who had black hair at the time, as well as a man and two children smiling at the camera. These two boys appear repeatedly in various combinations and at different ages. The older one, who inherited his mother's dark hair and mischievous smile, appears especially frequently. We see him smeared with cream as a toddler, wearing a jersey at a football match, and wearing a gown and hat at graduation.

“I'll show you the kitchen now, where you'll find everything you need for the potion.”

“Okay.”

He turns away from the photos. It still feels strange that they don't move or smile at him. Then he follows her.

The kitchen is modern, with an induction hob, an extractor fan, and a cooking island in the center of the room. Later, as Harry stands at the kitchen island, desperately trying to mash Billywig spikes with a potato masher, he asks himself two things: How did he get into this situation? And why on earth is someone who has nothing to do with the wizarding world keeping Billywig spines and Horklump juice in their kitchen cupboard?

The whole thing is like one of those “normal” nightmares that he's almost grateful for because he can tell his friends about it.

“Imagine I dreamt that the Ministry of Magic realized I hadn't graduated from school and I had to catch up immediately.”

It's the kind of nightmare that you can laugh about together. Hermione would say, “Oh yeah, you wouldn't believe how often I dream that I'm failing exams.” Ron would laugh and say, “That's what you always have with exams. I often dream that there's a really important Quidditch match against Slytherin, but I've forgotten to put my trousers on.”

These are not the kind of nightmares that wake him up in a cold sweat with the taste of ash in his mouth and the smell of blood in his nose.

He pulls himself together. Now is not the time to get lost in memories—unless they're about brewing potions. How do you ensure that the liquid boils without burning?

A little later, as he stands at the induction hob, stirring a pot, he no longer feels quite so helpless. In fact, he is amazed at how much of Severus Snape's training has found its way into his subconscious and how easy it is for him to estimate and stir the right quantities. With the induction hob, maintaining the right temperature is easy. He wonders why witches and wizards still use copper kettles and open fires. When he runs the ladle through the liquid, it is the right color—green—and has the consistency of slime.

He feels a sense of pride just as the door opens and Dr. Jenkins comes into the kitchen to check on him.

“How far along are you?”

“Done.”

He pours something into a coffee cup and hands it to her.

“You’ve done very well.” She pats his shoulder. “I knew there was more to you.”

More than the Chosen One of the wizarding world? More than a mental wreck who attends her support group? No matter. Maybe he shouldn't be so flattered. After all, she is a Squib. She said herself that she never attended Potions class. She would probably have praised him even if he'd handed her a cup of Maggi seasoning. Nevertheless, he can't help but smile back and feel great for a moment.

The moment passes abruptly when she takes the cup and goes into the guest room. Then he remembers how poorly Draco is feeling.

“Will it help him?” he asks, following her. He sees her squatting by Draco's bed, carefully propping up his head and pouring him the potion.

“You can tell she used to have children,” he thinks. There's still something very motherly about her, even though she's long past her prime.

“We'd best leave him alone.” She rises and walks toward the door. “He needs sleep more than anything right now.”

“But he'll be fine, won't he?”

She raises her head. It's probably supposed to be a nod.

“What's wrong with him anyway? That wasn't a normal cold, was it?”

He follows her into the kitchen, where, despite the extractor hood, the air still smells of Horcrux juice with a hint of mint.

“No, that wasn't a normal cold.” She puts a glass lid on the pot and moves it aside so it is no longer in the way. Then she fills the kettle and puts it on the hob. “My guess is a disease that attacks the magical system. Dragon pox or scrofula, probably. Would you like some tea?”

“But how can that be?”

“Well, not everyone gets the so-called childhood diseases when they're children. If you catch them as an adult, they can be pretty nasty.”

She could see from his surprised face that that wasn't what he had meant. “Oh, you meant about the ridiculous seal?” she asks, grinning mockingly as she turns to the kitchen cupboard to fetch cups and tea bags. “There's a lesson I learned very early in life that the Ministry still doesn't seem to understand: Either you're a wizard or a witch, or you're not. You can't give magic to someone who doesn't have it, and conversely, you can't take it away from anyone.”

His mind races with thoughts, making it as difficult to think clearly as the potion he has just brewed. What does it mean to be able to perform magic yet be forbidden from doing so? Does it hurt? And isn't dragon pox extremely dangerous? Didn't Malfoy's grandfather die from it? What if this family has a genetic predisposition to dying from it?

“Draco is young and strong. Your Wiggenweld potion may not be quite as effective as the potions you'd get at St. Mungo's, but it should alleviate most symptoms.” She hands him a cup. “Did you know that the fairy tale of Sleeping Beauty and her hundred-year sleep was most likely caused by poisoning with the potion of the living dead, and that the ‘prince’ moistened his lips with Wiggenweld potion to heal?”

“No, I didn't know that.”

The tea is hot and tastes far too spicy, burning his tongue. He hears the first cars pulling out of driveways and looks at his watch. It's almost half past six in the morning.

Harry turns his head in the direction of Draco's room.

“He'll need rest, but he won't die or fall into a hundred-year sleep in the next few hours.” She pats him on the shoulder. “I'll look after him and make sure he takes the potion regularly. You can go home and get a good night's sleep. I can see that you can barely keep your eyes open.”

“It's not really worth it anymore.” Harry looks out of the window. It's still dark. “I have to be at work in less than two hours.”

“Then you should at least go home to shower and change.” She wrinkles her nose. “And Harry?” she says, much more conciliatorily.

He turns to her again.

“It was good that you were there and looked after Draco. He needs friends.”

Harry nods. He thinks about what he can say: “I was glad to do it” or “Everyone needs friends.”

“Wish him well for me when he wakes up and tell him I'll come and see him soon.”

Is that okay? He can come back, can't he?

“I'll tell him that.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 14: Hidden Dangers

Harry decides to take the bus back home. He hates Apparating because it makes him feel sick every time, and it's unnecessary for such short distances. Besides, he likes to ponder his thoughts while the city is still asleep and there are hardly any people around.

However, when he gets off and approaches his house from the street, his good mood evaporates. Although it is still dark, several reporters with automatic pens and their camera-wielding assistants are standing in his front yard. They are looking expectantly at his front door.

He wonders if there is another way into the house that will ensure they don't notice him. Then he loses patience and simply walks toward them.

“Excuse me? Can I get through, please?”

The reporters are so taken aback that he manages to reach the front door and put his key in the lock before they realize what is happening. As they begin, "A question, Mr. Potter..." and their cameras start flashing, he slips into the house and closes the door behind him.

He feels a grim satisfaction knowing that they will spend the next few days speculating about what he was doing outside his house in the middle of the night while his fiancée was away. Let them.

He walks past his wardrobe, takes out some fresh clothes, and then goes into the bathroom. Perhaps his alleged affair with Hermione would buy him some more time to make progress on the case.

As the water falls gently on his shoulders, releasing the tension, he thinks of the dead girl: Shania. Immediately, guilt wraps itself around his neck like a rope. He couldn't save her. Admittedly, he didn't even know she was in danger, but what did that matter in the end?

Her best friend had testified that she had smuggled the potion into Hogwarts after the Christmas holidays. But where had she got it from in the first place? He imagines her walking alone through dark alleys and being talked into buying potions from a wizard in a black cloak. The image doesn't fit. She was only fourteen, and it was the Christmas holidays. When would she have found the time for that?

He reaches for the shower gel and looks at his hands, which are slowly beginning to wrinkle in the water. Oh man, they still smelled strongly of Horcrux juice. It's no wonder that nobody brews their own potions anymore. Why spend days smelling disgusting things and renovating your house when you can just buy a potion for every occasion from a shop for a few sickles?

A shop... An icy shiver creeps down Harry's spine. It is so icy that it displaces the warmth of the water. Almost all wizarding shops have a selection of everyday potions, especially the less potent, cheaper ones. Even at Weasleys' Wizarding Wheezes, you could buy one or two.

But what if Shania hadn't been given the vial by the unknown black magician whom everyone feared? What if she had bought it in a regular shop? Aren't the potions in official shops subject to strict controls?

He gets out of the shower, quickly dries himself with a towel, and gets dressed. It's probably silly, but he just can't stop thinking about it. So he grabs his mobile phone and dials Hermione's number. It rings, and after a short time, her voicemail kicks in. Where is she?

He looks at the clock again. It's already half past seven. He didn't actually expect her to still be asleep.

“Does anyone know what the potion Shania took was originally intended for?” he asks, speaking into the telephone. “What effect was it supposed to have?” He pauses. “What about her relatives? Are there any siblings or cousins she came into contact with over Christmas who could tell us where she got it?” Another pause. The next sentence is particularly difficult for him. “I know this sounds paranoid, and I'm probably wrong, but could she have got it from a regular shop? Oh, and by the way, this is Harry Potter. Just in case you hadn't figured that out yet. Please call me back when you hear this, okay?” Then he hangs up.

Okay, what's next? He slides the curtains aside a little. The reporters are still there. He'll have to use the Floo Network.

He's already standing in front of the fireplace, holding the Floo powder, ready to transport himself to the Ministry, when he remembers something else. After telling Dr. Jenkins he'd never had dragon pox, she had half-jokingly and half-seriously urged him to stop by St. Mungo's to get a potion that would prevent him from getting infected.

“And while you're there, why don't you bring one for Draco that'll do more than just treat the symptoms?”

Perhaps a quick visit to the wizarding hospital isn't such a bad idea after all. Not just for the dragon pox medicine, of course. St. Mungo's is the only institution Harry knows of that employs certified Potions Masters. If anyone has the expertise to help him with poisoned potions, it would be them.

“St. Mungo's Visitors' Entrance,” he calls, before stepping into the flames.

***

Being Harry Potter usually comes with quite a few drawbacks. You can't go out to eat anywhere without people coming to your table to ask for autographs or to take a photo. Some witches send you used underwear and chocolates dipped in love potion. Last but not least, Witch Weekly writes at least one article a month about you, in which you either have terminal cancer, your relationship has ended, or some foreign secret organization wants to kidnap you.

In short, Harry Potter could easily do without being Harry Potter. There are many times when he wishes he could simply shed his famous name and the expectations that come with it.

But today, as he makes his request at the visitors' desk at St. Mungo's, he realizes that there are times when being Harry Potter is actually a good thing. It opens doors that would never have been opened by simply showing his Auror badge.

Minutes later, he is sitting in the staff break room, surrounded by a crowd of excited nurses and healers, as if he were covered in honey. Looking around, he can see only the lime-green cloaks of the healers, not a single blue one worn by the Potions Masters.

“Of course, I'd be happy to take you to Mr. Peek's lab,” trills a blonde witch who's probably Molly Weasley's age. She's constantly touching his elbow. “That's no problem at all, but we'd better owl Mr. Peek first so he can prepare for your visit while you finish your coffee in peace.”

“I don't think that's necessary.” He puts down his cup. “I'm really in a hurry and only want to...”

“Oh yes,” says a second witch. She's younger, and she and the older witch exchange a deep look.

“Mr. Peek is a great Potions Master and has run the lab for many years,” says the older witch. “But when it comes to human interaction, he's a bit...” She seems to be searching for a word that doesn't sound quite so harsh. “...special.”

Her younger colleague starts to laugh but stops when she notices Harry looking at her.

“I can handle difficult people.”

“You might think so, but trust me: 'He Who Must Not Be Named' is nothing compared to Mr. Peek.”

“Cindy!” the older woman scolds, then turns back to Harry. Her face now appears considerably less certain. “Then I'll take you downstairs.”

As Harry follows her through the hospital's corridors, it seems to grow darker and more surreal around them. He wonders if all Potions Masters were always a little 'special' and if their labs were always located in the basement.

“We're here.” Although the badge on the blonde nurse's chest identifies her as the head nurse, she seems even more uncertain as she knocks on the door.

“I'm bringing Harry Potter,” she explains as the door opens slightly and a gaunt, middle-aged man peers out. “He's here on behalf of the Ministry to...”

“I know who Harry Potter is.” He gives her a cold look. “So you're welcome to go.”

“Yes... well then.” She smiles at Harry one last time. “If there's anything else you need, please let me know. It would be lovely if you could visit the children's ward sometime. The little ones would be so happy.”

“Yes, I'll definitely try to plan that in.”

Part of him is glad when she turns and leaves. Another part of him isn't glad at all because it means he is left alone with this strange man in a dark, lonely basement.

“So, it's about...”

The man has already turned around and disappeared back into the laboratory, leaving Harry to speak only to the air.

“Mr. Peek?”

Harry follows him cautiously. The air is stuffy in this large, winding basement room. There are bubbling cauldrons with self-stirring spoons and glass spheres collecting liquids of dazzling colors and states everywhere. Harry is about to examine one of the jars more closely when the man's sharp voice behind him makes him jump.

“Careful,” he says. “This is the processed venom of the Australian box jellyfish. Even a single drop is absolutely fatal.”

“Oh... okay...”

He takes a step back and almost collides with another cauldron. Why are such dangerous poisons kept in a hospital, and what are they needed for?

“Ask your questions. After all, I have plenty of other things to do.”

He puts on gloves and starts adjusting something on the small glass tubes.

“Yes, so... you've probably noticed that the Ministry is having a problem with counterfeit potions right now.” Mr. Peek nods impatiently. “And since my Potions teacher at school didn't teach me much, I thought I'd get some advice from someone who really knows what they're talking about.” He tries a joke.

“Who was your teacher?”

“What?”

“In Potions? Who was your teacher?”

A few drops of bright green liquid fall into a yellow liquid, turning it blue.

“Severus Snape. Why?”

He nods as if he already knows the answer.

“He was my teacher, too. He taught me a lot.”

“Okay...”

“Everyone's always complaining about how strict their teachers were, as if it's their teachers' fault that they can't do anything after all those years of lessons.”

“Well, he was... very special in terms of teaching, but that's beside the point. I'm here because...”

“Potion brewing isn't about education, Mr. Potter. It's about responsibility. You wouldn't let someone with two left hands perform brain surgery just to be fair, would you?” He turns down the heat on one of the pots. “But I agree with you that it would be sensible for every witch and wizard to acquire a solid foundation in potions during their training at Hogwarts, so accidents like the one with that poor girl don't happen.”

Mr. Peek looks as if Snape and Flitwick had a secret and very ugly child together, and Harry doesn't like him. But now he's perked up.

“What exactly do you mean?”

“Well, if arsenic was really used in the girl's potion instead of pearl dust, anyone with even a modicum of knowledge would be able to tell immediately from the color of the potion.”

“Absolutely not. I saw the potion. The color was identical to the original.”

“Indeed?”

He raises an eyebrow. He looks even more like Snape now.

“Uh... white?”

He clicks his lips disapprovingly.

“Mr. Potter, 'white' isn't a good description for a potion. Was it more milky white or pearlescent? What was its consistency like in the flask when you shook it? Adding arsenic makes a potion opaque, and it should have been much thinner.”

Harry resists the temptation to point out that everyone else in his department, including Hermione, had agreed that the potions were identical.

“With the necessary know-how, you can even prove which ingredients come from which region. Spanish salamander blood, for example, is much darker in color than English blood,” he says, rubbing two fingers together. “You can also tell how old a potion is, or whether it's been opened and altered in the meantime.”

“So if I give you a potion, you can find out where its ingredients come from and whether they've been altered?”

“It's challenging, but yes, in theory it should be possible.”

“That's brilliant.” He has to be careful not to knock over another cauldron in his excitement. Somewhere, steam rises and the smell of rotten eggs grows stronger. “Then I'll bring you the confiscated sample today and you...”

It finally dawns on him.

“I'm supposed to do that? Absolutely not.” He crosses his arms, then laughs exaggeratedly, as if he were the villain in a children's TV series. “I'm also far too busy. Even though 55% of all magical treatments at St. Mungo's are due to my potions and ointments, management still hasn't filled Mrs. Schmith's position since she retired over two years ago.” He points reproachfully at an empty desk in the corner. “Without an assistant, it's completely impossible in terms of time.”

Harry bites his tongue, trying not to slip up and say that maybe it's not the management, but his presence, that's the reason no one wants the job.

“That's a real shame,” he sighs. “I mean, you really are the best, but if it doesn't work out, I guess I'll have to ask another Potions Master. In any case, thank you for your help. You've been a great support.”

With these words, he slowly walks toward the door.

“Okay, okay, okay, I'll do it,” he finally hears Mr. Peek say, trying not to let on how relieved he is. “But only because I don't trust anyone else to do it as well as I can, and because potion-making is, after all, about responsibility.”

***

When Harry steps back into the daylight, he feels extremely pleased with himself and the world. Not only has he made a big step forward in solving the case, but he has also got the two dragon pox medications from Peek. He's so pleased with himself that he's considering treating himself to a slice of cake from the bakery across the street. He could buy a slice for Draco and Dr. Jenkins to enjoy during their visit later.

He rummages through his jacket pocket for his wallet when his mobile phone rings.

“Yes?”

“Harry, thank God I finally caught up with you! Where have you been?” Hermione sounds upset.

“At St. Mungo's. In the basement.” He turns back to the building. He probably hadn't had reception down there. “I asked the Potions Master a few questions, and guess what?”

“Anyway, that can wait. You were right. Shania's cousin said she bought the vial in an ordinary shop. Do you know what that means, Harry?” Her voice sounds almost toneless.

“Whoever is behind this has managed to break through the trading chains with forged documents. No one is safe anymore.”

For a brief moment, he's proud of himself for having solved the mystery before anyone else. Then reality sinks in, and he realizes the repercussions this will have. He feels like his legs are going to give way. He has to sit down on the nearest park bench while the pigeons flutter up and almost brush against his head—he doesn't care at this moment.

“And now?”

“The shop where she bought the potion is being raided.”

“Should I come and help?”

“No!” he hears her voice breaking. It gets quieter and quieter. “No... you'd be too self-conscious, too.”

“Too self-conscious? What do you mean?” The blood rushes in his ears. The blood and the midday London traffic. “Which shop did she buy the vial from?”

For a moment, the line is silent. He hears Hermione swallow.

“As of the current investigation from Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 15: This Moment Between Us

Of course, he still flood into Diagon Alley, regardless of what Hermione had said. The shop was already sealed with the Ministry's barrier spell. As he pushed his way through the crowd of onlookers and slipped beneath them, he encountered numerous wizards and witches—some of them his direct colleagues and others whom he knew only by sight from other Ministry departments. They bustled about, carrying stacks of parchments or boxes presumably containing confiscated potions, taking them to an old rubber boot that his department uses as a mobile Portkey.

After looking around briefly, he spots Hermione and Ron standing motionless in a corner. George runs back and forth excitedly, trying to help the Aurors find what they are looking for.

“You came after all.” Hermione lets go of Ron's hand and walks toward George. “And you were right. The delivery papers are forged.”

He sees Ron flinch at her words. That's his only reaction. Not even a quick 'hello' or a hug. He just stands there.

“At first glance, they look really official. If you don't know exactly what to look for, then...”

She breaks off.

“I know.”

Stupid answer. Actually, he doesn't know anything. While he's thinking about what to say instead, a bright light flares up somewhere nearby. He instinctively turns in the direction from which it came and, to his horror, notices a camera directly behind the barrier tape, with the corresponding Daily Prophet photographer behind it.

It was clear that they would eventually find out about it. It was obvious that they would report it. That was their job. Nevertheless, an angry, hurt part of Harry just wants to climb over the barrier, snatch the camera from the man, and throw it on the ground.

“Just leave it,” whispers Hermione, who probably knows him better than anyone else in the world. “That would only make everything much worse.”

He forces himself to breathe in and out calmly. From the witch whom Harry only remembers because she constantly blocks the salad buffet in the canteen, he knows that searches are also taking place in other shops at the same time. Maybe the Daily Prophet won't base its reporting exclusively on Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, then. He clings to that thought.

“By the way, the potion was a kind of euphoria elixir...” Hermione clears her throat to find her voice again.

He vaguely remembers reading recently that this type of potion is very popular with young witches and wizards because it supposedly lifts their spirits. Much of the effect is probably due to its high alcohol content of over fifty percent.

“Aren’t those banned at Hogwarts?”

She shrugs. “Oh, Harry. You know how it was at school: for every new protective spell installed, the students found a way to get around it.”

It's strange. Back then, smuggling in forbidden items—especially the joke items designed by the Weasley twins—seemed like an act of rebellion against a rigid, unjust system. At the top of that system stood Dolores Umbridge in her pink cloak. But now, in Ron and his brother's shop, he suddenly feels terribly old and stuffy. For the first time, he can understand the other side's arguments. Dangerous items had no place at Hogwarts, a place where children were supposed to grow up.

He is about to voice this thought aloud when he notices Ron's face. He looks as if he is about to burst into tears at any moment. The last thing he needs is for someone to make him feel even more guilty. Ron didn't do anything wrong. The children who wanted to try it out didn't do anything wrong either. Shania's death is solely the fault of... well, who exactly?

“Do you think it was a coincidence that a popular young people's potion was contaminated?”

The thought that keeps spreading through his mind is incredibly frightening. Children are the most important and vulnerable members of any society. Even Voldemort recognized this by offering students the chance to surrender without facing any consequences. However, it was clear that his protection would probably only have applied to pure-blood or at least half-blood students.

“I don't know.” She shrugs again. “But we should leave the speculation to them.” Her chin nods toward the Daily Prophet paparazzi. “Our job is to uncover the truth, and for that, we need real evidence.”

Harry is probably painting the devil on the wall again. “I'm sure everything will be fine.” Perhaps he is saying this primarily to himself, but he takes Ron's hands in his. Ron doesn't look at him, just nods slowly, and then pulls away.

“Yes... I need to check on George now.”

“Sure.”

Maybe that's what makes the situation so difficult. The feeling of failing across the board. It’s like standing on a theater stage and not knowing your lines. The bright spotlight blinds him as he shifts between his work colleagues and his friends. Arthur and Percy have joined them. By the time the Aurors leave and Ginny's head appears in the embers of the fireplace, he feels completely alienated. She speaks soothingly to Ron while George cries in his father's arms.

He had always wanted to be part of this family, who stood together through thick and thin, like an impregnable bulwark. Ever since he first saw them at King's Cross, he had wanted that. And now... He could see them, and he could see himself, but it was as if he was looking at them from a great distance. An invisible wall separates them.

“I have to go.” It's as if more and more pieces of him are breaking away and floating into the air, simply burning up.

“Do you have any idea where we can start?”

Hermione is the only one who responds to him. The hope and confidence in her voice is even harder to bear than the others' ignorance. He has always disappointed everyone's expectations: as the Chosen One, as an Auror, and now as a friend.

“I'll be in touch later.”

He turns around. It's better that she can't see his face. Then he runs off.

***

A little later, he stands in front of Dr. Jenkins' small terraced house. It's actually quite stupid. After all, it doesn't help anyone. He had already delivered the potion he received at St. Mungo's before. There is absolutely no reason to come back. Draco is probably still asleep, or has woken up and gone back to sleep. But even if he isn't... Whether he's eating dinner, watching TV, or idly scratching himself, Harry has no right to intrude on his life with such insistence.

What does he want from Draco Malfoy anyway? Why has his former arch-enemy grown so dear to his heart of all the people on this planet?

Just as he is about to turn around and leave, the door opens, and he is confronted with Dr. Jenkins' stern face.

“Come in,” she says, reminding him painfully of McGonagall. “Draco is in the living room.”

“Is he okay?” He asks, trying to make the question sound as casual as possible as he takes off his shoes in the hallway. Soft piano music plays in the background.

“Perhaps a little too well.”

She rolls her eyes. He wants to ask her what she means, but she's already pointing up the stairs.

“I’ll be upstairs, finishing my book. Just call me if you need anything. Although Draco should know his way around the house.”

She leaves, and Harry watches her go for a moment. This must be what it feels like to have friends and meet up with them at their house after school. At least, that's how he always imagined it when he was sitting alone in the small room under the stairs, feeling lonely.

Harry opens the door to the living room and stops abruptly. Draco is sitting on a stool, his fingers gliding over the piano keys. His expression is distant and thoughtful, as if he is lost in the music.

Harry had assumed the music was coming from the radio or a CD player. But now, listening more closely, he can feel the vibrations from the hammers striking the keys. Perhaps it is the setting sun shining through the window and giving Draco's face an unusual softness. Or perhaps not. Harry wants to capture the moment and preserve it. But when Draco senses his presence, the music stops almost instantly. Harry is overcome with a strange feeling of loss, as if the magic of the moment has vanished in an instant.

“I didn't know... I mean...” Harry points to the piano standing in an alcove. “You never played at Hogwarts.”

Draco looks at him, and once again, Harry cannot read the look in his pale eyes. He seems vulnerable and human on one hand, and angry and almost hostile on the other. “There are a lot of things you don't seem to know. For example, that you should knock before entering a room.”

Harry is about to reply that it isn't even his living room when Draco's gaze softens.

“My mother taught me. When I was younger, we often played four-handed.”

Harry pauses to realize that Draco didn't actually play with four hands, but with his mother. He imagines them sitting side by side at the piano, their fingers gliding over the keys. The image is so clear that it brings a smile to his face.

“Come and sit with me,” Draco urges, moving aside. Harry sits down, but uncertainty gnaws at him.

“But I can't play the piano, in case you somehow missed that.”

“Then I'll teach you.”

Harry laughs, convinced that Malfoy is joking, but he remains serious. “You can do magic,” Malfoy explains. “So you must have dexterous fingers.” The next moment, Draco reaches for Harry's hand and gently places it on the piano keys. The touch is brief and intense, and over far too quickly. The keys feel cold and smooth in comparison.

“Just stay in time,” says Draco, who then begins to play. The melody fills the room, a gentle flow of notes vibrating in Harry's core. Draco's fingers fly over the keys. Every now and then, he nudges Harry to press the keys that his fingers are touching. It doesn't sound bad; in fact, it's almost harmonious. But as the tempo quickens, Harry loses track and presses the keys in a chaotic jumble, interspersed with the sound of a duck quacking. They both laugh, and that's how the song ends.

“You play well,” Harry remarks after a while. “Really well, in fact.”

Draco shrugs and lowers his gaze to the keys. “It's a skill I haven't had much opportunity to use so far.” He sounds deliberately indifferent. “I couldn’t very well sit at the piano and play while the Death Eaters were torturing people...”

He strikes a key that echoes like a lament, then pulls his hands away.

“Sorry, that was stupid. I don't want to talk about the past.”

“Neither do I.”

The war, and the fact that they were on opposing sides, will always tear them apart while simultaneously binding them together. No one in the world understands Harry like Draco does. Likewise, no one understands Draco like Harry does.

“But I still think about it sometimes. Especially at night.”

If you replaced 'sometimes' with 'all the time,' that would actually be true.

They sit there for a while, and Harry wishes they could just be two boys playing the piano again. But then Draco gets up and goes to the sofa, where a pillow and a blanket are lying. He pushes both aside and sits down.

“I just wanted to thank you again for your help. Linda told me that you brewed a healing potion for me.”

“Yes, on a Muggle induction stove.”

He seems a little proud. Draco also looks impressed.

“I wouldn't have thought you capable of that,” he says. “I mean, you really weren't good at potion-making.”

“Well, I wasn't that bad.”

Harry wants to kick him just for the loud laugh that follows. “Potter, I was in the same classroom as you for six years. You really don't have to pretend with me.”

“Maybe next time you're deathly ill, you can brew yourself a potion?” He crosses his arms over his chest. “Or you could take the assistant position with Mr. Peek at St. Mungo's. I think you two would be a great match. You could spend all day discussing how little I know about Potions and what a great teacher Snape was, and everything you learned from him. You could even set up a little altar with a tube of hair gel on it.”

"That sounds tempting. Especially since his potion was far more sophisticated and specific than yours. But I'm afraid I have to pass.”

Draco points to his shoulder. Harry's guilty conscience gets the upper hand as he realizes what it means.

“Sorry... I didn't mean to...”

“It's okay.”

Draco forces a smile. Harry gets up from the piano and sits down a short distance away from him.

“I didn’t know that the Floo Network...” He falls silent. “I didn't mean to hurt you.”

“I know.” Draco shakes his head. His breath smells faintly of chocolate. “Don't worry. I had no idea how it worked either. I bet not even the Ministry itself knows. After all, over two hundred and fifty years have passed since they last did it.” He shrugs. “Great, I've always wanted to be something special.”

“Does it still hurt?”

Harry's fingers touch the fabric of Draco's oversized pajama top, probably borrowed from the man in Dr. Jenkins' photos. Draco doesn't flinch, which is a good sign, and this gives Harry the courage to pull the fabric down a little.

“No, not anymore.”

In fact, the lines that were thick blisters yesterday are now barely visible. They can no longer be felt either, as Harry discovers when he traces the M of the Ministry with his fingertips.

"This magic probably works in a similar way like the trace on underage wizards." Harry finally has to take his hand off Draco's shoulder before things get even stranger.

“Yes, I thought so too. But aside from the very clear warning about what would happen if I ever picked up a wand again, their explanations were extremely vague.” He pulls his top back up and buttons it. “I mean, I was absolutely certain that any magic potion would burn me up inside, just as the mark burn up as soon as I go near magical places. But apparently, I can take them normally.”

Harry feels stupid and, worse still, selfish. He had given Draco a potion without giving the slightest thought to the possible consequences. What would he have done if he had really burned him? How could he have faced himself in the mirror afterward?

“Enough about me. What did you get up to today?” Draco nudges him gently. Somewhere, a car drives down the street. “Was Mr. Peek able to help you solve the case?”

Ron's horrified face flashes through Harry's mind. He had failed to protect either of them. His brain replays a montage of his biggest mistakes: Ginny in the Chamber of Secrets, Cedric lying dead in the graveyard, and Bellatrix towering over a tearful Hermione.

She lifts her head.

“Don't you understand yet?” she asks, her face serious rather than crazy as usual. “You can't protect anyone because you're the problem.” She raises her arms. “Everyone who loves you pays a high price for it.”

“Come on, talk to me.”

He feels Draco's touch on his arm, closes his eyes for a moment, and then opens them again and actually tells him about his day. Slowly and haltingly at first, then more and more fluently.

At some point, the light in the room disappears. They are sitting close together; so close that he can feel every one of Draco's movements. Later, when Dr. Jenkins comes in and turns on the light, Harry has to close his eyes because it is suddenly so bright.

“You're still here?”

It's not really a question. She can see him. It's a request. When he looks at the clock with half-closed eyes, he understands why: it's almost ten o'clock. It's high time Draco got some rest.

He gets up and takes his pillow and blanket. Harry follows him. They walk silently down the hallway to the small guest room.

“Why did you leave anyway?” Harry asks, standing silently facing Draco. When Draco looks at him in confusion, Harry clarifies, “I mean, why did you leave here? You used to live with Dr. Jenkins at first, didn't you?”

“Maybe it’s because I was always sent to bed like a child in the evening?” he laughs before turning away. “Have you ever wondered why she does all this? The support group, I mean. Tommy's tree house?”

Harry had held the flyer with the name of the group on it at the very beginning, but then he forgot the name. To him, it was simply 'the group' or 'the Tuesday meeting.'

“That’s Tommy.” Draco points to one of the photos in the frame on the wall. In the dim light of the room, Harry can only make out a brown-haired boy with a winning smile. He grows older in every family photo until he is a young man, proudly holding his diploma up to the camera and hugging his mother—a much younger Dr. Jenkins. The young man is missing from all subsequent photos. The realization of what that means makes Harry's throat tighten.

“I've spent my whole life trying to be someone I'm not in order to meet other people's expectations. And let's just say, I wasn't very good at it.” Draco is still looking at him. “So I'd better not try to replace Tommy. That can only go wrong.”

“Then you’ll run away again as soon as you feel better?”

Draco sits down on his bed and shrugs. “If you know where I live, it's not running away. It's just living alone, which isn't so unusual at twenty-two. You live alone too, don't you?”

“Yes, but...” There are thousands of 'buts' on the tip of his tongue. The house is a ruin. How are you going to make a living? He swallows them all. “Actually, I live with Ginny.”

Harry is still standing in front of the bed.

“I should go now,” he says. “Sleep well and get some rest.”

“You too, and... Potter?”

“Yes?”

“I didn't mean to say your potion was bad, but the second one...” He grimaces. “I was really panicking this morning that I’d end up with a scarred face or something. I know that sounds superficial, but when there's not much else to focus on... Anyway, thanks for saving my good looks with the help of the ominous Mr. Peek.”

“You're welcome.”

He considers telling Draco that he has more to offer than just good looks but dismisses the thought. It's far too exaggerated, and besides, Draco already has his eyes half-closed. Harry moves quietly toward the door.

“Could you please turn on the desk light and leave the door slightly open when you leave?” At moments like this, he seems so young and vulnerable.

“Sure.”

Harry goes to the desk. It's not easy to find the small switch, but eventually, the little lamp spreads its circular light.

“Potter?” comes the voice just as Harry is about to open the door.

“Actually, it's not that late yet.” Draco points to the window. For a moment, Harry hopes that he will ask him to stay after all. “At least not for people who don't have dragon pox and are under the influence of potions. If I were you, I'd stop by Granger and Weasley’s.”

“I don't think that's such a good idea. I mean, I didn't know how to help them earlier.”

“Have you ever considered that maybe you don't have to do anything?” The artificial light makes his eyes shine. “I mean, I’m not exactly an expert when it comes to close friendships. But maybe it's enough just to be there. You could bring some alcohol or a huge tub of vanilla ice cream.”

“A tub of vanilla ice cream?”

“Yes, people in Muggle films do that all the time. They sit down on the sofa, eat straight out of the packet, and cry together.”

“They only do that when they're lovesick.”

He shrugs again. “Maybe it helps with other kinds of grief, too?”

The house is completely silent. Only Dr. Jenkins can be heard tidying something in the kitchen and humming quietly along to a song that Harry doesn't recognize.

“Maybe you're right...”

“Of course I'm right. I'm practically a Muggle expert. Now go and let me sleep.” He makes a gesture as if shooing away wild animals. “And tomorrow, you can come back and tell me how it went... if you want to?”

Harry nods. “Gladly. I mean, I have to see how you're doing.”

***

Later, after leaving the house, he goes to the nearest petrol station and buys a large tub of ice cream and a bottle of red wine. When Ron opens the door later, he looks slightly confused, but hugs Harry immediately. He hugs him so tightly and for so long that it's as if he never wants to let him go.

“Harry's here!” he calls to Hermione, and then quietly adds, “I'm glad you're here.”

“Yes, me too.”

The ice cream is melting in Harry's hands, but that's okay.

Chapter Text

Chapter 16: Spring Awakening

Harry sits with Hermione in her office, amazed by the intensity of the March sun shining through the window. He knows the warmth is an illusion, created by the fire in the fireplace and magically reinforced windows. Nevertheless, there is a hint of summer in the air, which makes the dopamine in his bloodstream dance.

He is almost ashamed of this naive and childish thought. It's just light, after all. He knows there is no need to fear the darkness. Most of the bad things always happened just before the summer break, as if fate, with all its challenges, was considerate enough to schedule them around his exam dates.

It was the last year that broke him. Having to flee Bill's wedding without knowing if the other guests—his friends and family—had survived made it feel like winter all year round. Harry still finds it difficult to distinguish between physical realities, such as cold and hunger, and things that had only happened in his head.

“Maybe that's it,” he thinks, looking out of the window at the first hint of green appearing on the trees. “Maybe Voldemort never touched summer. Not really, anyway.” Perhaps that's why it's the only season he has left—his only safe place.

“Have you been listening to me at all?” asks Hermione, holding her steaming coffee mug and giving him that strange look—a mixture of concern and annoyance that she has perfected over the years.

“Of course.” He straightens up and smiles. He has no idea what she said and hopes she won't quiz him, which she is quite capable of doing.

Fortunately, she just nods, leans back in her office chair, and starts spinning. “Actually, I had planned to drink less coffee this year.” She spins faster and faster. “I also wanted to eat more healthily. You know—buy fewer ready-made products from the supermarket and more regional, fresh produce. It would be wonderful to be able to sit here now and tell you about the benefits of my new lifestyle and how much better I feel. But, well... I didn't do it.” She laughs, then slows down.

“Speaking of unhealthy food... Would you like some?” She leans over to her bag and pulls out a shrink-wrapped sandwich.

“Sounds tempting, especially when you present it like that."

He laughs and takes the soggy toast she holds out to him. It tastes of deep affection and far too much sour mayonnaise.

“How do other adults do it?” she asks, chewing. “I mean, without time turners—and they often have children and everything."

He shrugs his shoulders. “Maybe you need a house-elf after all? They could cook and clean for you.”

“Be careful, dear. I couldn't sink that low morally.” Her hand with the sandwich comes dangerously close to his face. Then she pulls it away. “Well, at least thanks to you, I don't have to deal with any wedding preparations.”

He looks at her questioningly. “Because two weddings in one year would be too much even for Molly Weasley?”

The bite he was about to swallow gets stuck in his throat. “Because of the baby you want to have?” she suggests. When he still doesn't respond, she says, “You want to have a baby, don't you? Ginny asked Ron to let you go first because of that.” She sighs and lowers her gaze. “I really thought you had talked about it beforehand and that it was both of your wishes.”

“We did... just not in such concrete terms.” He fiddles with the foil.

“Maybe I just misunderstood the whole thing. You know what the Weasleys are like.” She laughs again. This time, it sounds rather forced. “Sometimes they only talk to hear their own thoughts.” She pauses. “I'm sure they were just rough ideas. Just forget what I said.”

“Yes, it's fine.” A flock of starlings flies past the window. They both watch them.

“But you still want to, don't you? Marry Ginny, I mean?”

“Sure.” He nods, then shrugs his shoulders. “I mean, why not? After all, we've been together for almost five years.”

“What was your New Year's resolution this year?”

He realizes that she's just trying to change the subject, but he gratefully accepts her outstretched hand. “Actually, I wanted to keep a diary in which I would write down all the good things and things I'm grateful for.”

“And did you do it?”

He shakes his head and then laughs. “Let's put it this way: it's now the end of March, and I've only written five pages.”

She joins in his laughter. It sounds beautiful and somehow familiar. He has always liked her laugh.

“But every evening, when I'm lying in bed, I think about the good things that happened today. That's better than nothing, right?”

She reaches out and gently touches his arm. “You're doing really well, Harry.”

“What?”

“Everything.”

She shrugs again and glances at the clock. “Shit, it's so late!” She puts her cup down roughly and jumps up. “We should have picked up Galdur Wigley in the lobby ten minutes ago!”

“Who's Galdur Wigley?” He follows her and catches up with her at the golden lift, where she repeatedly presses the button.

“You haven’t been listening to me at all,” she growls. “Galdur Wigley is the new colleague transferring from MACUSA to the Ministry of Magic to help us with the potions case.”

Harry would like to ask more questions, but he doesn't dare, especially since Hermione is busy admiring her reflection in the mirrored wall and playing with her curls.

“Do I look terrible?” she asks.

“No.”

“What about my teeth?” She opens her mouth. “Still too long?”

“Hermione, you look very competent, like someone who heads the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.”

“I don't know if that's a compliment.” Fortunately, the lift door opens, relieving Harry of this awkward situation.

A young, dark-haired man, barely a few years older than Harry, stands next to the reception desk, looking around searchingly. There's a good chance he must be the person they're looking for.

“I'm so sorry,” Hermione gasps, clearly out of breath. “We were still… in a meeting.”

“That's no problem.” He holds out his hand to her. He has a few freckles on the bridge of his nose and a broad, infectious smile. “I'm Galdur Wigley, but nobody really calls me that. Gal is fine; otherwise, I won't even know who you are talking to.” He laughs again, this time sheepishly. “Oh, you probably use your surnames here. I've just put my foot in it.”

“No, it's OK. Especially when you work so closely together that you know each other better than your own spouses.” She laughs. “So, I'm Hermione Granger, and this is...”

“Harry Potter.” He pronounces the name with such reverence that it sends an unpleasant shiver down Harry's spine. He knows these situations all too well, and there's hardly anything he hates more.

“Yes.” He scratches his head. “I suppose that's me.”

“Sorry, I really didn't mean to be so intrusive, but I've never met anyone famous before, except for that Muggle actor my wife loves so much who we ran into on the street in Vegas.” His hands dance through the air. “What was his name again? Ryan... Ryan something...”

“You were in Las Vegas?” Harry gratefully changes the subject. “Cool. I only know it from television.”

“Actually, it was the opposite of cool. It was incredibly hot, and my wife, Angela, warned me a thousand times that I mustn't use a cooling spell under any circumstances so that the No-Majs wouldn't notice.” He laughs. “You have to understand that even the slightest violation of the Secrecy Treaty is very costly in the US, and you don't earn that much at MACUSA.” He looks at his ring finger, adorned with a simple gold ring. “Apart from the heat, though, it was really great. Neither of us wanted a big family celebration, so we just got married there.”

Harry has found Gal charming, but now he finds him downright likeable. “Come on, I’ll show you your office and the department where you’ll be working. We're practically desk neighbors, so if you have any questions...”

“Famous and nice. How lucky am I?”

They walk together to the golden lifts and wait for the doors to open.

“You'd be disappointed at how normal and boring I actually am. I'm only nice on the first day.”

Gal was about to reply when Hermione interrupted the conversation. “So, what's your catch?”

“My what?”

“Well, there must be something wrong with you. Why else would anyone voluntarily transfer from MACUSA to the British Ministry of Magic?”

“Busted.” His face, which looks briefly startled, breaks into a broad smile again. “I'm addicted to chocolate, I'm secretly planning to take over the world, and I'm...” He lowers his voice to a whisper. “... I'm English. I'm actually from here. My father died when I was five. My mum moved to the US with me and remarried there.” He shrugs. “I thought I'd come back, eat some meat with mint sauce, and work at the Ministry of Magic. Besides, I've heard that London is much cheaper than New York.”

“I think that’s a rumor.” Hermione rolls her eyes. “But we're really glad you're here and want to support us. Have you heard about the potion crisis in Great Britain? Given how politically charged the whole thing has become, the story has surely made it across the pond.”

Gal nods. Finally, the lift doors open, and they step inside. “Foreign criminal cartels are flooding the English market with highly dangerous potions that have been brought into the country illegally. There have even been fatalities.”

“Yes, except it's most likely English criminal cartels, not foreign ones, which no one wants to hear. People like Nicolas Dawn are exploiting people's fears for their own gain and calling anyone who says otherwise a liar.” She snorts in frustration, then nudges Harry in the side. “Tell him.”

“Well, a potion master I know was able to prove that the potions were made and bottled here in England, but it's like Hermione says.” He shrugs. “No one seems to care. Even the press keeps writing about ominous foreign crime cartels doing business right here among us while the government looks the other way.”

“I know the problem.” Gale's expression becomes serious. “When I was in training, there was a chain of shops with a virtual monopoly on a popular and effective sleeping potion that was supposed to have no side effects. Except it didn't.” He pauses. “Many important people knew that a highly addictive poppy seed derivative had been added to the potion. Yet it took years for my department to ban its sale.” He grimaces. “How does the saying go? 'Vice and money rule the world.'”

“That's true... unfortunately...” There is a moment of silence, then the display shows the floor where the magical law enforcement is located, and the door opens with a ping.

“So...” Hermione spreads her arms. “Welcome to chaos, Gal.”

***

“What do you think of him?” Hermione asks when they are alone again later.

“Nice.” Harry would say much more if he weren't so late.

“Really? You look so critical.”

“Yes, really. I always look like that when I'm late.” He zips up his jacket.

“Oh, right, today is Tuesday. Have fun in the group.”

“Thanks.” He raises his hand in farewell. “Do you think we should invite him and his wife over sometime? I mean, they probably don't know many people here yet.”

“Sure... well...” He waves and sets off.

***

Harry walks through the door of the meeting room, completely out of breath. The other members of the group are already sitting in a circle of chairs. Iris is talking but falls silent when everyone turns towards Harry.

“Sorry,” he gasps, holding his hand to his chest. “I had to work late.”

He can see clear displeasure in their eyes. Only Draco smiles at him. “I saved you a seat.” He pats the chair next to him, and Harry is glad to be able to slip past the others and sit down next to him.

Several weeks have passed since his illness, and he has long since returned to his haunted house on Bishop's Avenue. Harry thinks he looks particularly good today. Maybe it really is because of spring. Perhaps Draco is like a flower growing in the sunlight. Or perhaps it's because of Harry's real good intentions, which he couldn't tell Hermione about: making sure that Draco was eating enough.

They had always met in restaurants, or Harry had brought Tupperware containers full of food that he supposedly no longer needed and would have thrown away anyway.

“You really don't have to do that,” Draco had said every time, but then accepted the food anyway. “I can take care of myself pretty well. But in return, I'll invite you to my house sometime and cook for us.”

They both knew that would never happen. The old stove probably wasn't working, and what about Draco and cooking? That was as likely as flying pigs. But it was a well-intentioned gesture, and if it helped Draco accept his affection, Harry was happy to play along.

Draco's face already looked much less sharp and emaciated, and the dark circles under his eyes had almost disappeared. Harry couldn't help but feel a little proud.

“What are we doing today?” he whispered after sitting down. In response, he receives a “Pssssst” and a disapproving look from Harold, who is sitting to his left as usual.

It had become customary for them to do something together after the meeting. Tuesdays and Thursdays were Draco's days. They met in the group on Tuesdays, and on Thursdays, Ginny had a long training session and was rarely home before midnight. If there were away games that Harry didn't watch, he would also meet Draco on the weekend.

“Let yourself be surprised,” Draco whispers back with a broad grin.

“Pshhhh,” Harold hissed again, this time even louder.

“Later.” Draco points at Harold and then demonstratively turns his head forward. Harry tries hard to listen while going over in his mind what Draco could be planning.

“Let yourself be surprised.” Hadn't been much of a friend to Harry so far in his life. Harry liked knowing what was coming. He liked being able to prepare himself.

“So, what are we really up to?” he asked as soon as they left the grey house at 163 Blife Alley together. Although the sun had been shining earlier, signaling the arrival of spring, it was bitterly cold in the evening. As beautiful as the starry sky is, clear nights like this always bring frost.

“I already told you that I'm not going to tell you.” Draco nudges him. “Otherwise, you'll just run away anyway.”

Firstly, that's not true, as Draco hasn't mentioned it once so far. Secondly, this doesn't sound very trustworthy. Draco probably notices his doubtful look and raises his hands in a reassuring gesture.

“Don't worry, it's not that bad. It makes sense, it's a bit exciting, and you get something in return.” He starts counting on his fingers. “Oh, and my flatmates are coming too.”

Harry grimaces even more. It's not that he has anything against Draco's flatmates. He has seen them briefly from time to time over the past few weeks. But he can't say he likes them very much either. He is still a little afraid of Sunita's fiery nature. He much prefers Parval, who never speaks. Then there is Liz, with her short blue hair at the back and long blue hair on top, not to mention her nose piercing. She is, in a sense, the leader of the lost children, and her boyfriend Sam.

He really has nothing against Draco's roommates, but he had actually been looking forward to spending time alone with Draco.

“I kind of double-booked myself.” He wonders if Draco can read his mind. After all, he was always good at Occlumency. “Or rather, I didn't have much of a chance to say no. You know how Liz is when she wants something.” Harry doesn't know that, but Draco's eye roll gives him at least a hint.

“It's okay if you don't want to come. You can go home instead. We'll see each other on Thursday.”

“No, no, it's OK. I'd love to come.”

It's an easy decision: no matter what Draco's strange flatmates have planned, the idea of sitting at home alone appeals to him even less.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.” Is that a trick question?

“Cool. Maybe we'll even manage to continue reading the book with Atreyu and the Childlike Empress afterward.”

Draco moves closer to him. So close that Harry can feel his body heat. Although it's not that late, the streets are almost deserted.

“You said that you never wanted to read it again and you cried when the horse drowned in the Swamps of Sadness.”

“I didn't cry.” He crossed his arms. “I just had something in my eye.”

“Hmm, sure.”

“You cried, too, Potter.”

“That was from reading for so long.”

A group of young girls push past them, laughing, and disappear into the evening.

“Maybe that's why I want to keep reading,” Draco says after a while. Their fingers almost touch as they walk. “Otherwise, the story would be stuck in this sad place forever. Maybe everything will be fine in the end?” Draco looks directly at him now. “In books, everything usually turns out all right, doesn't it?”

“Yes, in books it does.”

They have reached the underground station. It still feels strange to let the escalator carry them down, as if they were entering another world. A world where there is neither day nor night, only artificial light.

“Two more minutes.” Draco points to the display board above the platform. Harry nods. At the back of the platform, a homeless man is leaning against the tiled wall, fast asleep.

“Or he's dead,” an inner voice whispers. Harry pushes the thought aside. He doesn't like it. It's not very friendly.

Then the train pulls in. A gust of wind rushes out of the tunnel and blows through their hair. The doors open. A few people get off, and Harry and Draco get on.

“How was work today?” Draco asks once they are seated. “Aren't you supposed to be picking up that new colleague who graduated from Ilvermorny?”

“Yes, his name is Gal, and he's really nice.”

“That's good.” Draco's grey eyes remain unreadable to Harry. They are like the sea on the Atlantic coast. You can see maybe half a meter down. Anything deeper is hidden.

“We have to get off at the next station.” Draco stands up.

“And what are we doing there?”

Draco turns back to him once more. The smile on his face stretches from ear to ear. “I already told you, I'm not telling you.”

Then the door opens, and he jumps out, moving lightly like a wild animal. Like a deer, perhaps, or a cat.

Chapter Text

Chapter 17: An Unexpected Discovery

The area that Draco leads Harry through is unfamiliar to him, yet it seems interchangeable. It is a typical London neighborhood with terraced houses and small parks. There is even a tiny town center comprising little more than a collection of small shops, a supermarket, a chemist, a hairdresser, and a bank branch. The communal car park is completely deserted at half past ten. Not even the monotonous background noise of traffic can be heard, and there are no stars in the night sky—only grey clouds.

“There you are at last. I thought you weren't going to show up. Do you have a big carrier bag with you?”

Harry flinches as a slender figure emerges from behind a bush. After a moment of shock, he realizes that it is not a blue-furred monster, but Liz. Perhaps she is also startled by him. In any case, the look of skepticism that she gives him in the dim light of the streetlamp is intense.

“You brought your friend with you?”

Draco shrugs. “Many hands make light work. That's what they say, right?”

“That's good.” Sam, who has also emerged from the bushes, puts a hand on her shoulder as though she were a restless horse. “He can help carry things. Then we can get a lot more out of here.”

A moment of silence falls between them. In this moment, Harry seriously wonders what he is doing here and whether it would not be much smarter to leave as quickly as possible. Moths flutter around the streetlamp's light. The constant flapping of their wings as they bump against the glass sounds like a beat.

“Whatever.” Now it's Liz's turn to shrug. “Do you at least have a carrier bag with you in case Draco forgets everything?”

Before Harry can answer, Sunita pushes between them and hands him a blue plastic bag from a Swedish furniture store. “Here, take mine. I have two.” She hands Draco the other one before turning to Liz. “You know I can't do that. If we get caught, I'll get a criminal record and lose my license. I've worked too hard to get this far.”

Her gaze is fiery once again, and her voice sounds as if she is looking for a fight. Harry wonders if her gaze is ever not fiery—perhaps when she is asleep?

“It's important to take a stand against waste, and we're not doing anything illegal.”

Liz meets her gaze defiantly. It's as if King Kong and Godzilla are facing each other, with Harry caught right between them. That's probably why he's unable to react.

“Yes, strictly speaking, that's exactly what it is.” Sunita exhales loudly. “I know there's a big difference between what's morally right and what's legal. Just as there are differences between individuals and their backgrounds. You may not mind if we get caught because your parents will rush to your aid and pay the fine, even if you're not released immediately. But I..."

“Let's not argue now,” Sam tries to mediate. “Sunita can stay here and keep an eye on the driveway. We need someone to stand guard anyway.”

He reminds Harry of a referee trying to get both opponents to at least shake hands before the decisive fight. 

“Are you ready? We only have fifteen minutes between the last employees leaving and the security guards arriving.”

Parvil, the last of Draco's roommates, has now arrived. His eyes reflect tension and adrenaline. All eyes turn to Liz.

“Yes, let's go.”

Harry is dragged along too, whether he wants to or not. “If anything happens, I'll make owl noises to warn you. Something like this...” A loud “Hoo hoo hoo” accompanies them as they start running. Liz rolls her eyes once more.

“It's like we're in a children's detective series,” Harry hears her tell Sam. Then they turn in another direction, and he and Draco are alone again. Alone in a fenced-off area behind a building complex late at night, to... well, what exactly?

“We'd better hurry. Make sure you don't get caught on camera.”

“What?!”

“Well, the cameras.” Draco points to the building. “Muggles use things like that to watch others. It's similar to the Cat's Eye spell. So be careful and stay on the edge.”

“I know what cameras are. I meant...”

But Draco isn't listening to him anymore. He has turned around and is about to sprint off when Harry grabs his arm and stops him. His head jerks back. Their grey and green eyes meet, and the cold night air causes clouds of breath to rise from their mouths.

“We can't do that, Draco. I work for the Ministry of Magic, and you're on probation. If the Muggle police catch you...”

“Afraid, Potter?” His eyes flash defiantly. With a twist of his arm, he breaks free from Harry's grip. His face comes closer. “I’m a pretty fast runner.”

How can he be so defiant at a time like this? He's usually much more cautious, even fearful.

“That's not funny.”

“I hope you are too.”

There's that challenging grin again. Then Draco turns around and starts running. Harry hears his footsteps echoing eerily loudly on the asphalt. Each step seems to resonate like a drumbeat in the silent night.

“Shit,” Harry curses. For a moment, he's so angry and perplexed that he considers just turning around and walking away. Let Draco see how he copes for himself. What a load of... You'll like it, and you'll get something for yourself. He clenches his fists and takes a deep breath. The whole thing is a nightmare. He blows the air out through his lips and watches the cloud of breath, then runs after Draco.

“Wait for me!”

By the time he finally catches up, Draco has already reached the huge silver dumpster. Gathering momentum, he pulls himself up and climbs inside through the open lid.

What the hell...?

“Oh, look! They have melons and cherries. Also... awesome, are those cornflakes?”

“Just pack everything up,” he hears Liz say. “We can always sort it out at home.”

Were they all in there?

“You weren't planning on robbing the bank?”

The laughter echoing from the container sounds so tinny through the metal walls that he can't tell who is laughing or how many people.

“Of course not...” he hears Draco say. “What do you think of us?”

“Shh! Be quiet!”

Draco falls suddenly silent. Then Harry can hear it too: the loud, panicked “shoo” that tears the night in two.

“Damn it!” he hears Sam say. “They weren't supposed to be here for another fifteen minutes.”

“Maybe the shift started earlier today?” That's Pavil.

“Anyway, let's get out of here.” Liz.

Harry helps Liz, Sam, and Pavil out of the container. They jump onto the asphalt and scatter into the night in different directions. Draco is the last to arrive. His eyes seem to glow in the dim light inside the container. He has strapped his full satchel to his back, and the weight pulls him backward.

“Do you hear that?” he whispers as Harry finally pulls him out too.

Harry thinks he knows what he means. A sudden screeching noise breaks the silence as the electric gate slowly opens. Harry flinches, feeling adrenaline surge through his body. In the distance, he can hear the rough voices of the guards getting closer. “Fucking chaos here,” he hears one of them say, and he feels even more panic rise within him.

“Shit, what now?” He looks around in a panic. He notes with a pounding heart that the area outside the car park is completely fenced in. They'll never make it across. If they don't make it past the guards in time, they'll be trapped.

“Come on, we have to hurry.”

He grabs Draco's arm again and tries to pull him forward, but he doesn't budge.

“I think there's a baby.”

“What?!”

It must be a dream. It must be his subconscious dealing with the conversation he had with Hermione that morning. Otherwise, he can't explain why the subject of babies comes up in such a situation. He pinches himself again. Unfortunately, he still doesn't wake up. Instead, he stands there, listening to the silence.

There's nothing. Only the voices are there, now so close that Harry can make out individual words and laughter.

“Draco, we have to get out of here!”

He pulls him away more forcefully, but this only creates more resistance from Draco.

“Wait!” he cries. “Listen!”

Indeed, Harry can hear it too: that faint whimpering seems to be coming from right behind the container. What if there really is a baby there? How is he supposed to explain that he and Draco Malfoy found a baby in the bin? And what are they supposed to do with it? Do they drop it off somewhere?

This time, it is Draco who exerts force, pulling Harry behind the container and out of the security guards' sight just in time. He bends down, but there's no baby. Harry can't suppress a sigh of relief. But there's a dog lying on the pavement. It has blue eyes and fur so silver that Harry is initially sure it can't be real. He must be imagining the dog. Is this really not a dream?

The dog is tied to a thick leather lead and looks at them as if pleading for help, then wags its tail. A soft bark breaks the silence, and Harry's heart skips a beat. Have the guards heard that? He can't see them from here. Only the cold wind blows through the trees, rustling the bare branches.

“Hey, sweetie, what are you doing out here all alone?”

Draco reaches out to the dog, letting it sniff him before stroking its head. The men are very close now. Harry can see their shoes through the crack in the container. He moves closer to Draco, puts a finger to his lips, and indicates that they must be quiet.

One sound, one bark, and it would all be over. Harry fights the urge to draw his wand, knowing he would be unarmed otherwise.

“They're just Muggles,” he tells himself. “Guardians doing their jobs, not Death Eaters.”

It's like a mantra, yet his heart still beats far too fast. Draco's eyes reflect the same panic that he feels. Would he be able to perform an Obliviate in an emergency? He's never tried it before, and he remembers his teacher Lockhart with horror; after accidentally Obliviating himself, Lockhart didn't even know his own name.

“It was those damned eco-freaks again,” says one guard, slamming the lid of the container shut. The dog flinches and looks at Draco helplessly but doesn't bark.

“Leave them alone,” says the other guard. “It'll all get thrown away anyway.”

Draco is pressed so tightly against Harry that he can feel his heart beating. They are one body, one organism. Draco's hair smells of the old house, the rubbish bin, and apple shampoo. Harry buries his nose deeper into it and counts slowly to three. He feels his heart rate slow. It's crazy how quickly things could have turned out differently, he thinks. If he hadn't managed to pull Draco onto the broomstick with him in the burning Room of Requirement, Draco wouldn't have a beating heart now. Then there would only be bones and ash.

“Yeah, but you know how the Boss sees it...”

Harry can't hear anything else because the two men are moving further away. Draco exhales with such relief that Harry can feel the rush of air on his skin.

“Come on! This is our chance to get out of here.”

Harry offers him a hand to help him up. Draco has untied the lead from the tree, and the dog follows him as if it were the most normal thing in the world. As if they've known each other for years.

“Thank God nothing happened to you,” Liz says when they meet again a little later on the driveway. In fact, she looks extremely relieved.

“When you didn't show up, we thought they'd caught you,” Sunita agrees. Then her eyes fall on the dog.

“What is it?”

“It's a dog,” says Draco with a shrug. “What else could it be?” His gaze says it all. He tightens his shoulder bag. He holds the leash in one hand and Harry's hand in the other, as if they'd simply forgotten to let go. “Can we go now? These melons are really damn heavy.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 18: A Heart for Dogs

"You can't keep the dog." Sunita crosses her arms and gives Draco a look that makes her dark eyes glow like coals. They're all sitting around the large kitchen table. The air is heavy with humidity and the scent of the peppermint tea they've brewed. Stacks of cereal boxes, cans, and the melons that Draco lugged home in the IKEA hut are on the counter behind them.

Draco himself isn't at the table. Instead, he is sitting on the floor in front of the table, his arms protectively wrapped around the dog's neck. His gaze is every bit as intense as Sunita's. He reminds Harry of a child—a defiant child. A child who knows he's fighting a losing battle but isn't ready to abandon his wish without a fight.

"It's almost a miracle that the owners of this house haven't called the police to evict us yet..." She addresses her roommates but speaks with the gravity of a courtroom. "If we get a dog that barks and scratches at the door, that will definitely make them do it." She pauses for a moment. "That's the last straw."

Parval nods.

"Look around you, Sunita." Draco draws himself to his full height. He raises his arms, either to appear taller or to emphasize the importance of his words. "Do you seriously think there's a single person in the world who cares about this place?" He laughs his trademark spiteful Malfoy laugh. "Before we moved in, there hadn't been a soul in here for at least ten years. I don't need to be a university student to realize that whoever owns this house is either dead or doesn't care what happens to it." He pauses again. "What do Muggles call this again? An Object of speculation?“

She rolls her eyes. "If you think your strange, made-up insult will hurt me, then..."

"Maybe the dog belongs to someone?" Sam is clearly trying desperately to mediate between Draco and Sunita again, but it's equally clear that neither of them will agree. "I mean, he's wearing a rhinestone-encrusted collar, and he's a purebred, right?" He points to the grey dog, which is still lying at Draco's feet. Now that he's no longer being hugged, he looks almost disinterested, as if this whole fuss really has nothing to do with him.

"Maybe someone just lost him?" Sam tries again. This time, the desperation in his voice is clearly audible.

"Tied up behind a dumpster at night? It happens." It's Liz who says this, but the nastiness in her voice makes her sound almost like Draco.

Harry feels sorry for Sam, who now hangs his head. He only meant well. It's unfair that he's being attacked from all sides.

"It's a Weimaraner." Draco strokes the dog's head. "An old German hunting dog breed that needs a lot of exercise." Harry wonders how he knows that. There are clearly many things about Draco that he doesn't know, and they are slowly coming to light, almost like bubbles rising to the surface of a deep lake. "That's what happens when you buy a dog just because it's pretty and expensive." He strokes the dog's head again, and the dog lazily wags its tail and licks his hand. "First, you get a rhinestone collar and become everyone's darling. A few weeks later, when you're no longer cute, you're left behind a dumpster at night. Not even your oh-so-noble origins can save you."

He sounds bitter. Harry doesn't know what to say. No one knows what to say. Everyone looks around, feeling embarrassed, except for Sunita, who touches Draco's arm unusually gently.

"A dog that size really needs a lot of food and exercise, as you say. Maybe a big city like London isn't the right place for him?" Her gaze is softening too. "Maybe someone else can take better care of him? We already have so much to do ourselves."

"But we can't take him to a Muggle shelter. They kill dogs that can't be adopted in Muggle shelters." Harry sees Draco's jaw grinding together, and then he meets Harry's gaze. "Say something!" he seems to be saying. His eyes are so wide that they're just grey. "You're always saving everyone, Potter. Everyone."

But Harry doesn't know what to say. After all, he doesn't even live in this house. He can't tell the others what to do. The look won't leave his mind, not even when he stares intently at the silver hands of Fabian's watch—the one Molly Weasley gave him for his seventeenth birthday—which tell him it's well past midnight. What does Draco think he can do? That he can change anything? In reality, he hasn't saved anyone. No one. So why is he looking at him like that?

"Maybe we should take a closer look tomorrow?" It's Sam who suggests this again, getting up from his chair to stretch pointedly. "I mean, it's late, and we're not going to decide anything tonight anyway."

There are nods and muttered "Right." Chairs scrape across the floor, and feet slowly move toward the door, accompanied by a final "Goodnight." Then Harry is left alone with Draco and the dog. A fire crackles in the cast-iron stove, and the warmth makes him feel sleepy.

It's long past time to go home. He did text Ginny right after the group meeting to tell her he'd be late, but she's probably worried by now anyway. Besides, he has a meeting with Hermione and Gal in less than seven hours.

He knows he should nod, say goodbye, and leave. It makes absolutely no sense to follow Draco and the dog, who is trotting around behind him as if it were the most natural thing in the world, into his room. But that's exactly what he does.

"A dog is really a lot of work and responsibility."

He doesn't know why he says that. He doesn't know anything about dogs. The Dursleys would never have brought a "filthy creature" into their house, not even if it had been Dudley's idea.

"I know it."

Draco collapses onto his mattress as if his spine had been pulled out of his body. All the tension has gone. The dog curls up next to him, but there is no place for Harry in this room.

"But I can take care."

Harry isn't sure he heard Draco correctly. When he turns to look at Draco, he sees that his eyes are serious and his hands are clenched into fists.

"I don't just think about myself. I can really take care of someone."

"No one has said you couldn't."

"But you think so, don't you? You look at me and think: 'Draco Malfoy, that spoiled little brat who always got whatever he wanted and never took responsibility for anything, least of all himself.'"

He turns away and strokes the dog.

"No, I really didn't think so."

"But it's true. So never mind."

Harry can see his shoulders rising almost casually beneath his thick jumper. Suddenly, an image comes to mind. He sees himself at the start of his second year, ending up in Knockturn Alley with Borgin and Burkes instead of Diagon Alley. He remembers the time he overheard the Malfoys. While his father was talking to the shopkeeper, Draco had begged him for a vial of Peruvian Darkness Powder, a mummified hand that negated that very effect, and a cursed necklace. At the time, Harry had thought the choice of objects seemed random. It was as if a naughty child was trying to interrupt the adults' conversation, almost compulsively—at least until the day, over five years later, when Draco had managed to let the Death Eaters into the school with the help of those very same objects.

"Earth to Potter." Draco snapped his fingers in front of Harry's face. "Where are your thoughts right now?"

Harry considered replying with something trivial, such as "At work" or "Thinking about what dogs eat." Instead, the words that came out of his mouth were: "At Borgin and Burkes." His lips reveal his surprise, which is matched by Draco's raised eyebrow.

"Why are you thinking about a shop that sells Dark Magic items in the middle of the night?"

Harry knows it's unreasonable to ask any further questions, but he just has to know; otherwise, he won't be able to sleep all night.

"When you were a kid with your father at Borgin and Burkes, wanting that Peruvian Dark Powder, the hand, and the cursed necklace, did you already plan that one day you would... well..." He trails off. Draco is now looking at him with more than a little skepticism. "Oh, I was hiding in the Vanishing Cabinet back then. I wasn't there for you. Really."

He raises his hands defensively.

"Sure, and Crabbe and Goyle's hair just happened to fall into your Polyjuice potion too." He rolls his eyes. "Didn't you have any other hobbies back then besides spying on me?"

"Yes, beating you at Quidditch."

Luckily, Draco laughs so heartily that Harry feels a little lighter inside. He doesn't seem upset. Then silence falls between them. Even the dog puts its head between its paws and closes its eyes.

"Of course I didn't need a bloody necklace." When Draco speaks, his voice sounds different—less fake. He's talking to the dog he's petting. "I was twelve years old. What was I supposed to do with that? Just like the other stuff?" He chews on his lower lip. "If you had really listened to the conversation between my father and Burke, you would know how it went. I am such a disappointment that even a mud... Muggle-born witch would get better grades and that he had to buy me a place on the Quidditch team. He said that if I carried on like this, thieving would be the only career option left for me—I could really use the Peruvian Dark Powder and the Hand for that." He shakes his head. "I had no chance of getting on the house team because students weren't allowed to try out until second year. They changed the rules just for you, and my grades were better than his back then…Except Granger's were even better." He clenched his hand into a fist. "I couldn't even defend myself. If I had contradicted my father in front of that strange man, then..." He breaks off and looks down. "All I could do was stand there and pretend I didn't understand what they were saying and all I cared about was that stupid necklace." He swallows. "Sometimes that worked. I always wanted everything I saw, regardless of whether I could do anything with it. If my father was in a good mood, he'd buy it for me. Then he could convince himself for a few seconds that he was a good father, and I could convince myself that he loved me. But that day... it just didn't work."

"I don't think you're stupid. Quite the opposite." He puts a hand on Draco's shoulder. Their faces are now only centimeters apart. „ And I'm sure you would have made it on the Quidditch team even without your father's help. In fact, there was only one Seeker better than you during our time at Hogwarts." Harry is relieved when he can pull his hand away from the soft fabric of Draco's jumper and place it on his own chest. A laugh spreads across Draco's face, small and inconspicuous at first, then growing louder and louder.

"You're just dreaming about that."

"Hey, there he is again. Arrogant and conceited." He ruffles Draco's hair. The smell is no longer that of a trash can, but simply of him, and it's still incomparably soft. "How I've missed that little creep."

Draco rams him in the side with such force that he loses his breath for a moment. Then they both laugh.

Draco then turns away from him again and toward the dog, whose paws are twitching slightly in his sleep.

"Sunita's probably right," he finally whispers. "Maybe that little brat needs to learn that he can't always have everything he wants." There's a hint of longing in his gaze. "We can find a proper home for the dog tomorrow, somewhere he'll be truly happy, with people who will love and take good care of him."

It's this softness in his gaze that makes Harry weak. The softness and love that the world weaned him off so long ago.

"Or we can keep him and become the people who will take good care of him ourselves."

Harry's hand touches Draco's on the dog's head. Draco's gaze is questioning and uncertain.

"What do you mean?"

Harry knows he'll surely regret those words someday, but the look Draco gives him alone is worth it. "We could have her together. Then it'd be half the responsibility and half the dog food..."

"Her?"

"I may not know much about dogs, but I know this much."

Draco bends down to the dog, who is finally awake and seems to take this as an invitation to play. He jumps excitedly around him.

"Oh, you're right. We have a female dog."

He laughs. His eyes sparkle. Harry thinks: So many people have dogs. It can't be that difficult, can it?

**

"Where have you been?" Ginny is understandably annoyed when he comes home in the middle of the night.

"At a friend's house," he replies as casually as possible, undressing and climbing into his side of the bed. His pillow still smells of laundry detergent. He likes the smell of freshly made sheets. "He was having trouble with his dog."

Ginny doesn't know anything about Draco. She doesn't even know about the group, and he can't explain why he hasn't told her yet. Perhaps it's because so much time has passed, and it would seem even stranger if he'd said something right away. Or maybe it's because he's afraid that if she knew the truth, the way she looks at him would change irrevocably. If she knew how messed up he really was!

At some point, after too many Tuesdays had passed during which he'd been home late, he told her about a sports group he was joining. At the same time, he was terribly ashamed of the lie.

"What kind of sport?" she asked.

"Oh, some Muggle sport," he replied, shrugging. After that, it never came up in conversation again.

Ginny is still angry when she turns off the light. He knows this because she doesn't say anything else, just turns away from him and pretends to be asleep.

Harry looks up at the ceiling. In the darkness, only a tiny sliver of light from the streetlamp falls into the room. Sometimes, when a car passes by, the light changes. It streaks across the room until it disappears.

When did things start to get so weird between them? So cold?

He tries to remember how it all began. There was a time when Ginny was young, sassy, and full of life. She had fooled around with Dean Thomas in the hallway before Charms. And then there was him and his obsession. He could be the person who kissed her in the school corridor. The person who brushed her hair back and made her laugh. He could be the person who is happy and in love—someone who has a life and a future.

But it had always just been a game, like children playing at being married or astronauts. Perpetual pretense.

He knew that this would be the only way he could ever grow up. Voldemort had risen to power, and Harry had put a stop to it before it had even begun. He went into battle certain he would not return. Yet he had returned, unlike so many others, and no one is young, bold, and full of life anymore.

He considers leaning over and brushing a strand of hair from her face. "I'm sorry," he could say, and he would mean everything: tonight and everything that had gone wrong in the past few years. He really considers it, but doesn't do it, and eventually falls asleep.

When the alarm goes off the next morning, the side of the bed next to him is already empty. "Had to get to training early," reads a note on his desk. He looks at each of the delicately curved letters, then pushes the paper aside.

He has to do something. This becomes clear to him as he pokes around in the Nutella jar with the knife. If he doesn't want to lose her, he has to act. Then he suddenly has an idea.

Chapter Text

Chapter 19: Closer than Expected

After work, Harry visits a Muggle travel agency and books a weekend break at a romantic hotel in Cornwall. The plan is perfect. Ginny doesn't have a game this weekend. He'll surprise her with packed suitcases on Friday. They'll use the Floo Network to arrive by the sea. He'll brush a strand of her hair behind her ear. They'll laugh and be happy together.

He is disappointed that Draco reacts so cautiously when he tells him about the plan on Thursday afternoon. They have arranged to meet in Hyde Park and are eating ice cream. More precisely, they are standing in the dog-walking area of the park. There are him, Draco, and the silver-grey dog, who now answers to the name Madonna.

“Sunita’s idea,” says Draco, slipping the dog a biscuit, which it devours greedily before running off again to race the other dogs.

“But what do you think?”

It's one of the first real days of spring. The trees around them are still bare, and the ground is little more than a brown, clay-like plain. But the sun is bright in the sky, stinging their eyes.

“Well, the name's OK. I thought it was good to include her. You know, to build rapport and stuff.”

He wipes his hand on his trouser leg.

“Actually, I was talking about Ginny and my idea. You know, the romantic weekend.”

“If that's what you want, then that's fine.”

He notices how long it takes Draco to answer.

“But you don't think it's a good idea?”

“I didn't say that.” Draco still isn't looking at him.

“Then what do you mean?”

“Nothing. It's just...” He shakes his head and points into the distance. “Look! Did you see how Madonna took the ball from the other dog?” Sure enough, Madonna comes trotting towards him with a red ball in her mouth that she didn't have before, looking very proud. “If our dog had to be sorted into one of the houses, I think she would definitely be a Slytherin.”

***

On Friday, when Harry intercepts Ginny at the front door and hands her the printout of her travel documents with an almost solemn gesture, her eyes widen in surprise. He had been waiting for almost two hours in the armchair next to the door, and his fingers were still trembling slightly when their hands touched. He feels an almost irrational excitement that has increased during his wait for her. He is overcome with a fear that makes him imagine, over and over again, how she will pull a face, look at him almost pityingly, and say:

"There's no point in us being together anymore."

She would leave, and he would be alone. Alone in a dark house with only himself, his fears, and his mistakes for company.

But her face doesn't change. At least not into a disgusted grimace. Her eyes don't look at him with pity or condescension either. There is only the warm amber glow that she shares with her brothers, which he has always liked so much about the Weasleys. She comes up to him and hugs him.

“Thank you. That's a great idea,” she whispers in his ear, kissing him on the lips.

***

Despite the foggy grey of the coast, Cornwall is beautiful at this time of year. Perhaps it is especially beautiful now, as the fine sandy beach is still absent of the crowds of tourists who cover it with their colorful blankets and parasols in summer. They can walk for hours along the seashore without encountering more than a handful of people.

Harry likes this tranquility and the sound of the waves lapping against the beach. The small pebbles washed ashore carry his thoughts out to the open sea.

“Dominique’s christening is in May,” says Ginny. He nods and gazes into the distance where the sky and water meet.

As a child, he had never been to the sea.

“Too many dodgy characters,” the Dursleys had said, “and the best holidays are still spent at home.”

While he sat in the cupboard under the stairs, imagining he was inside a big ship sailing to a distant land, they had burned the weeds from the cracks between the slabs in the front garden.

“Maybe we can come here more often?” he thinks, and then says it out loud.

“Maybe we can come here more often?”

He takes her hand, and she nods.

“Sure, why not?”

In the hotel room, the staff have folded the bedspread on her bed to look like a swan. On the table set for them, there is confetti in the shape of hearts. Ginny takes a photo of it. She now has a mobile phone too, and she smiles. They sleep together in the evening after carefully placing the swan on the chair so as not to destroy it.

“Celine asked me if I want to be the captain of the Hollyhead Harpies next season,” she says later as they lie next to each other in the dark. The sea roars in the distance.

“But that's great!” His voice still sounds rough. When was the last time he used it? “That's what you always wanted, wasn't it?”

“Yes...” He feels her shrug next to him. “But it would be a lot of work. I'd be home even less, and I don't know what next year will bring.” He hears her take a deep breath. “Maybe I should take a step back professionally next season?”

He wonders why she phrased her idea as a question and what he should say in response, so he remains silent. He turns to the window. The white curtains sway gently in the wind. Eventually, he hears her steady breathing beside him. He himself cannot fall asleep. He puts on a dressing gown, opens the balcony door, and steps outside.

The night wind, blowing in from the sea, is cold, but it greets him as an old friend would.

The sky is filled with so many shining stars that hardly any black is visible, and their light is reflected in the sea. He pulls out his mobile phone and tries to take a photo, but everything in the photo is black except for a tiny spot—the moon. There's no point in sending the photo to Draco, though, as it won't show how beautiful it is here or how he feels right now or that he misses him.

He leans back. The wall behind him feels warmer than the wind.

How strange that is. Everyone always talks about how he—the great Harry Potter—saved the world. But he didn't. He didn't save the stars, the sea, or the wind. Those things would still be there even if Voldemort had taken control of the wizarding community. The stars, the sea, and the wind aren't concerned with trivialities like forms of government. Nor do they care about individual human beings and their fate. They don't care if someone stands on a balcony at night, looking up at the sky and feeling empty, lonely, and unsure why. They simply continue on their millennia-old paths as if nothing had ever happened.

***

The next day, it's pouring with rain, and the wind is so strong that it's impossible to hold an umbrella.

“You must come back in the summer,” says the woman replenishing the breakfast buffet. “You can't enjoy the beautiful landscape like this.”

When they return to the room, Ginny sits down on the bed. First, she reads the sports section of the Daily Prophet, then she begins to take notes in a small notebook.

“What are you doing?” he asks after a while.

“Gathering initial ideas for my article.”

He looks at her questioningly.

“I told you that the Daily Prophet editors asked me to write an article about my life as a professional Quidditch player.”

He nods automatically. Had she really told him about it and he hadn't listened properly, or did she just think so? In the end, it didn't matter. The air conditioning hums unbearably loudly.

“But you're not writing about me, are you?” he asks after a while.

“No?” she replies, her voice now sounding irritated. “I'm writing about my life as a professional Quidditch player.”

The day progresses, but the light doesn't change. He wishes he had brought something to read. He could read the Daily Prophet, which is still lying half-open between them, but he doesn't want to. He hates the Daily Prophet. It's full of lies and bad news, and he doesn't want either of those things in his life right now. So he turns on the television and watches reruns of old Doctor Who episodes.

Eventually, it's time for dinner. They go downstairs to the table covered in confetti and eat in silence. When they go back to their room and lie down in bed, he considers sleeping with her again. He knows she's considering it too. He can tell by the way she looks at him.

"Good night," he finally says, turning on his side. “Sleep well, Ginny.” Then he turns off the light.

The next day, the weather is just as bad, which makes saying goodbye easier. He buys a soft toy dolphin with glittery eyes and a sign in its fins saying "I love Cornwall" at reception for Teddy, as well as some mussel-flavored dog biscuits for Madonna.

“What do you need those for?” Ginny asks, standing next to him.

“For my friend's dog.”

“Ah.”

She nods. Then they leave the hotel and board the bus traveling up the coast. Rain rolls down the windows. The dolphin doesn't fit in the rucksack. Harry holds it in his hands. Its fur is incredibly soft. They get off at the 'Coastal Ride' restaurant.

“Would you like anything to eat or drink before you head back?” asks the witch at the counter.

Harry takes off his glasses and wipes them dry with his sleeve.

“No, just the Floo connection home, please,” replies Ginny for him, searching for Galleons in her bag.

***

By Monday, it's as if the short trip to Cornwall had never happened. Neither Harry nor Ginny mention it at all. Harry goes to work, visits Teddy and his grandmother, and then it's Tuesday again.

Draco has brought Madonna to the group meeting. She runs happily from one person to another, resting her head on their lap or nudging their hand here and there. It's as if she's introducing herself briefly before finally curling up in front of Draco's chair and falling asleep.

“Is that your dog?” Lydia asks at some point during their first break when they're pouring hot water for tea.

Draco looks at the sleeping dog, then nods. “Mmm, mine and Harry's. Her name is Madonna.”

“She seems really sweet.” Her gaze is very soft. “Emily always wanted a dog, but we weren't allowed to have one in our flat. Besides...” She shrugs and looks into her cup. “I always thought we had so much time.”

“A dog like that has a relatively long life expectancy and requires a high level of responsibility.”

Dr. Jenkins interrupts. She stands next to Harry and casually reaches for a muffin, unwrapping it.

Harry thinks about what he could say to her. Why don't you tell Draco that? It's crazy that when he joined this group, responsibility for Draco seemed to have transferred to him.

Although maybe that's actually true. He thinks back to the evening he found Draco lying lifeless on his bed and how that affected him. To buy some time, he reaches for a muffin to.

“They say that dogs have a positive effect on the psyche.” He doesn't dare look her in the face but instead reaches past her at an angle. “There are even projects like this in prisons. It's been found that it's good for people to be responsible for someone else.”

She says nothing. They both look over at Draco, who is still sitting in his chair with Madonna beside him, talking to Lydia. She is probably thinking the same thing at that moment: namely, how content he seems... yes, almost happy.

“Maybe it really does him good to have a task,” he hears her clear her throat. “And to experience that love is not automatically conditional.”

She clears her throat again, then turns around and walks on.

***

“She ate my mattress yesterday.” Draco points to the dog curled up under the table, then laughs. “Well, not the whole mattress, of course—just a piece of it. Apparently, she really can't be left alone.”

After the group meeting, they decided to go to a pub. Now they are sitting alone in the outdoor seating area, as dogs are not allowed inside. Harry has just managed to dissuade Draco from taking out his frustration on the waitress.

Draco strokes the grey dog's head and looks at him so lovingly that, for a strange, surreal moment, Harry wishes he were the dog.

“No wonder your people abandoned you,” says Draco in a voice so sweet that Madonna wags her tail with joy and repeatedly bumps it against Harry's leg. “But don't worry. I won't do that to you, even if you eat the whole house.”

Harry laughs now.

“And what are you going to do about it?”

Rain drips from the canopy, creating circles in their beer glasses. It's dark. It's cold and really not the weather to be sitting outside at this time of night. Yet Harry feels a contentment he can't quite explain.

He doesn't want to sit inside among all the smoke and loud people. He prefers the silence and the fact that it's just the two of them sharing it. He reaches for his beer and takes a sip, looking at the sad string of lights above them.

“Well, take her with me.” Draco looks from Harry to the dog, as if this were the most natural thing in the world.

“What if you can't take her anywhere?”

Draco's gaze remains confused, as if he has no idea what Harry is talking about.

“I don't know... something like...” Harry runs through the possibilities in his head: working, renting a flat... everything he can think of is off-limits to Draco anyway. “Meeting up with a man?” he asks, nervously running his tongue over his lips.

“Then I'll just take Madonna with me.” He strokes her head again. “I'm not going to bed with anyone who has a problem with my dog.” He laughs again. “Besides, she's a great party companion who'll make sure you get home safely. Isn't that right, sweetheart?”

Once again, her wagging tail brushes against Harry's leg.

“We look out for each other.” Draco has bent down so low that Harry can no longer see him. “We learn that it’s okay to be alone and that the person you love will come back to you.”

It is only when Draco emerges from under the table and reaches for his beer that Harry realizes he was talking to the dog, not him.

Chapter Text

Chapter 20: Heart and Shadow

The Ministry of Magic is as monotonous as ever. Although there has been no real breakthrough in the potion investigation, there have been no new victims since strict controls were introduced in all major wizarding shops and sales regulations were tightened. This seems to be enough for people. They have long since returned to their usual topics of conversation, such as where to spend the summer holidays and how to lose weight before then.

Even the Daily Prophet, alongside its usual articles on "Best Spells to Get Your Body Beach-Ready," is mainly reporting on Viktor Krum's planned wedding to an American supermodel.

The peace and return to old routines that envelop the wizarding community and Harry's life are seductive, but also deceptive. Harry knows that all is not well yet and that something is going to happen. He senses it, as animals sense a storm long before dark clouds appear in the sky. But the only people he can voice these thoughts to are Hermione and Gal.

Gal, who has worked for the British Ministry of Magic for less than a month, seems to Harry as if he has always been there. He has not only become an integral part of the entire Department of Magical Law Enforcement, but also of Hermione's and his "coffee and rant sessions."

However, this morning, there is no sign of Gal, and Harry sits alone with Hermione in her office.

"I just can't believe that Shacklebolt really took Jackson off the case! We need every man we can get!"

Hermione rants loudly, settling down at her desk with her coffee in hand. Harry admires her ability to remain so calm. He definitely couldn't do that.

"I know." He takes a sip from his mug. "But he had little choice. The Ministry has so many things to take care of, and... well..."

"Finding the laboratories is like looking for a needle in a haystack?"

"I was going to say that we’ve completely messed up so far and will probably never find the laboratories. But, yes, in principle, it amounts to almost the same thing." He laughs, takes another sip, and puts the cup down in front of him.

"Harry, that's not true." She leans forward and gently touches his arm. "After all, we did find the container with the bang-horn extract at the cargo port in Southampton."

Harry raises his thumb in the air, looking resigned. “Yes, that's a really good start.”

She shakes her head, then smiles mildly. He knows she's thinking the same thing he is: without someone at the Ministry tipping someone off, this poor success rate wouldn't be possible. He told Shacklebolt as much last week, but Shacklebolt just cut him off gruffly.

"You weren’t there in the early eighties when Voldemort disappeared from one day to the next."

This wasn't strictly true, given that it was Harry's one-year-old self that had set everything in motion. However, he understood what Shacklebolt meant, so he remained silent.

"You have no idea what it was like when he left nothing but this power vacuum behind. No one knew who was in on it and who was just being used. Everyone suspected everyone else and tried to screw them over. Believe me, something like that always leaves its mark." He shook his head. "I can't turn the entire Ministry against me. Don't you understand? Besides, what justification would I have? Do you have any proof that the trail really leads here?"

"No, but..."

"Then either get me proof, or keep your speculations to yourself."

With those words, Shacklebolt turned and left Harry standing in the corridor outside his office like a naughty child. Harry had to bite his lip to stop himself from calling after him. Even in his anger, though, he knew that Shacklebolt was right. Without evidence, there was nothing he could do.

"Maybe we're getting worked up over nothing and the situation has resolved itself... maybe not completely, but at least it's calmed down?"

She touched his arm again before straightening up. He was about to reply when the door opened and Gal came running in, his face bright red.

"Sorry I'm late..." He still sounds out of breath. "I hate the Pensieve. There was something wrong with the liquid, I'll have to watch the same rehearsal memory of that boring shopping trip over and over again to check if the playback works."

He gestures as if his head is about to explode. Harry nods sympathetically. He knows the memory of the shopping trip all too well. Before Gal started here, looking after the Pensieve was part of Harry's job.

"Is it working again now?"

Hermione hands him a cup of coffee. He takes a big sip and then nods.

"Mm." Just a fraction of a second later, he adds, "Hot."

"Yes, coffee is usually hot." She smiles at him. "Are you ready to listen again? We've got another breathtaking story for you."

"A breathtaking story?"

Harry and she look at each other.

"You start," she says.

Harry sighs, then begins to speak.

"Well, Hermione’s boyfriend, who also happens to be my best friend, is a bit jealous of you."

"Of me?" Gal laughs nervously. "Why me?"

"Maybe we talked a little too much about you last time, or about work in general," Hermione adds.

"And now he's acting worse than when Hermione went to the Winter Ball with Viktor Krum," Harry sighs.

"Viktor Krum? You mean the Viktor Krum?"

Gal points to the Daily Prophet, which is lying curled up on the desk.

"It was a long time ago."

She runs her fingers through her curls. Although she pretends not to care, Harry knows her well enough to know that she is flattered by the attention.

"Wow... then I can really understand his doubts. I mean, I would marry Viktor Krum in a heartbeat if he asked me—and I'm married, and I'm not even into men! But Viktor Krum... He's the best Quidditch player ever."

"Yeah, maybe you shouldn't tell him that when you meet him," Harry laughs.

"Anyway, I've been thinking that I'd like to invite you all to my house for a barbecue next Saturday." Hermione places her palms together. "Harry and his girlfriend Ginny are coming too. I'll get some meat and corn on the cob, make a few salads, and I'm sure it'll be nice."

She now turns directly to Gal and looks at him expectantly. She and Harry had asked him several times to do something with them after work, but he had declined every time. Sometimes he was expecting a repairman to come and fix something in their new house. Sometimes his wife, Angelina, wasn't feeling well, and sometimes he was just too tired.

Harry hoped that Gal was just shy or busy, and not that he didn't want to spend any more time with them than necessary.

"Come on, Gal, say yes. I won't accept any more excuses, and I'm your boss."

"Besides, we want to finally meet your wife."

Gal chewed on his lip, then finally nodded. "We'd love to come."

“Yay!” She jumped off the desk. “It'll be fun!” She turns to Harry. “Saturday works for you too, right? Or does Ginny have a game?”

Harry had actually planned to meet up with Draco that day, and for a brief moment, he is tempted to lie.

"No, that would be fine." That's silly. He could meet up with Draco another time. “We'd be happy to come too.”

***

“Why didn’t you propose to my sister?” Ron asks him on Saturday in the kitchen of the house he shares with Hermione.

“What?”

Bowls of marinated meat are piled high on the counter. Ron holds out a beer to him. Harry isn't sure if Ron wants to do him a favor or hit him over the head with the bottle; the gesture is so unexpectedly forceful. At least the deep despair that had settled over him after the raid seems to have evaporated.

"You know, when you invited her to Cornwall for that romantic weekend?"

Harry takes the beer and drinks several gulps, giving himself more time to answer. He hadn't told Ron about that weekend. Why not, actually? He was his best friend and the brother of the woman he loved. It would have made sense to talk to him about it rather than Draco.

"It was just a holiday."

Harry drinks more beer. He knows he should slow down. The bottle is already half empty, and the first blissful spots of alcohol are dancing before his eyes. Did Ginny think that...? He can see the folded swan and the heart-shaped confetti in his mind's eye, and then her disappointed look. Oh God! She thought he was inviting her to... He shakes his head, feeling like the biggest idiot in the world.

"Oh, don't worry about it, my friend. I've already told her that you're a bit clueless when it comes to matters of the heart." His shoulder pat has something benevolent about it and, in some ways, reminds him of Hagrid in his clumsiness, whom he has been meaning to contact again for weeks. When did he last see him? A year ago?

"There'll be other opportunities. At Dominique's christening, for example. The whole family will be there." Ron smiles. "Mum would love to be there. Ginny is her only daughter, and you..." He spreads his arms as if presenting Harry on a stage. "She would have loved to adopt you back then. She can't wait for you to officially become part of our family."

The christening. Ginny had mentioned that several times too. Was it to give him a second chance to propose? He felt his throat slowly constrict as his heart pounded against it in panic.

"I don't think I can do that." Even his voice sounded tortured. "It's not even in a month, and... I don't... I don't have any rings."

The last thing he needs right now is to have a panic attack in Ron's kitchen. He forces himself to do the breathing exercises that Dr. Jenkins showed him: inhale, exhale, pause. Ron's expression relaxes too.

"Oh, that's no problem. We'll go together." Again, he squeezes his shoulder almost affectionately. "We’ll go to one of those Muggle wedding fairs together. We can look at rings and wedding dresses and..." When he turns to Harry, his face is glowing with enthusiasm. "Decoration ideas."

"That sounds really good."

Harry is relieved when the kitchen door opens and Hermione pokes her brown, curly head in.

"Oh, so this is where you've been hiding! It would be great if you guys would come out of your man cave. Gal and Angelina are already here."

Ron rolls his eyes when he hears their names, as if he has already forgotten the reason for this meeting.

"I'll go and light the barbecue." He pushes himself away from the worktop and takes a step towards the door.

"Too late. Your sister has already done that."

Ron stands there, looking confused, for a moment, then turns conspiratorially to Harry.

"You have to marry my sister. A woman who can light a barbecue..." At that moment, Hermione opens two beer bottles against each other. "It's almost as good as a woman who can open a beer without a bottle opener." He then goes over to her, leans against her back, and kisses her on the neck.

"Yes, opening beer bottles is a great skill. I should put that on my CV. My Hogwarts degree and all the training I've done since then can't hold a candle to that." She rolls her eyes but returns the kiss. When she strokes his cheek, it feels so intimate that Harry has to turn away. Seeing his friends like this still feels strange. Even after all this time.

"I'll go and say hello to Gal."

"Great idea. Hermione and I will join you in a few hours."

Hermione laughs and pats him on the arm, then lets go of him. "You're going to behave yourself, Ronald, and be nice to our guests."

"Ron's right," Harry thinks, watching Ginny turn the meat on the barbecue with a beer in one hand. She's a great woman, and you'd be an idiot to mess things up with her.

Her red hair hangs down over her face. She looks pretty. Much prettier than when she dresses up for receptions and victory celebrations; she looks just as he remembers her. Ron laughs too, and his naïve cheerfulness is almost the same as it was when they shared a room and could talk about anything.

He is standing next to Gal, and they are talking. Ron can't maintain his aversion for more than a few minutes, of course. Later, after dinner, they move to the living room. Ron persuades Gal to play a "Muggle video game" with him. They spend the rest of the evening engaged in a serious but friendly Mario Kart duel, which they lose every time to Ginny and Hermione.

"Reaction and speed, brother. It's all about reaction and speed," says Ginny, blowing her hair out of her face and reaching for her beer. Harry sits next to them and watches. Angelina does the same. She looks tired, and Harry is worried that she is bored, so he strikes up a conversation with her, asking her about where she comes from and what it was like to study at Ilvermorny.

She remains reserved but friendly. It is only when her answers become longer that Harry begins to sense her subtle sense of humor.

"Thank you for welcoming my husband so warmly," she says as they want to leave. "It's not easy for him. He tends to want to deal with everything on his own. He's always been that way."

She shrugs her shoulders and lets them drop again.

"We were happy to do it." Harry hands her her coat. "I can well imagine that moving to a completely foreign country takes a lot out of you two."

He wishes the others were there, but they're still standing in a group discussing the game.

"That calls for a repeat performance." Ron's voice sounds as excited as if he were a child again. "Yes, the moving." Her smile has an exhausted quality to it. She pulls her coat tighter around her.

At that moment, Gal breaks away from the group and comes over to her. "Everything okay, darling?" he asks, kissing her on the forehead. She nods. "Yes, I'm just a little tired." She smiles at Harry.

"Thanks again for the invitation." It's now his turn to nod. "You're welcome." Then he turns to Gal and says, "See you on Monday."

They both raise their hands in farewell almost simultaneously. "Yes, see you on Monday." One last wave, and then the two of them are gone.

"That was surprisingly nice," Harry hears Ron say behind him, as if he still can't quite believe it. Then Hermione closes the front door.

***

Later, lying in bed, Harry stares at the ceiling and thinks about the evening. He types, "Tell Madonna goodnight for me," into his mobile phone, but Draco doesn't reply. He's probably out with someone else. Harry tells himself he doesn't care, but he knows he's lying. He knows he's jealous.

Not about the sex, of course, but about the fact that this other man has had the opportunity to spend an entire evening with Draco. To talk to him and discover how clever and subtle his thoughts are and how beautiful his laugh sounds.

He also knows that his feelings are even sillier than wanting sex. He has no right to feel this way. After all, he was the one who canceled their plans, and he's the one who's going to propose to Ginny Weasley at her family's christening.

“It was a really nice evening, wasn't it?” Ginny has turned to him in the dark.

"I thought so too."

He stroked her face and long hair, then turned away and fell asleep. His dreams are filled with grey-furred dogs, wedding fairs where he gets lost, and Death Eaters chasing him in silver masks.

Chapter Text

Chapter 21: Ingredients of Disaster

If there was one thing that Harry Potter had learned in his life so far, it was this: something wonderful was almost always followed by something terrible. This principle had governed his entire life. A party in the Great Hall was followed by a troll attack in the girls' toilet. Victory in the Triwizard Tournament was followed by an encounter with Voldemort. Yes, disaster always struck when he least expected it.

On this Thursday morning, two weeks after the barbecue at Hermione's and one day after his last meeting with Draco, Harry reflected on how well things were going right now. Even the grey fog that usually grips London tightly has disappeared. He sent Draco another text message and looked forward to his afternoon with Teddy before pushing open the door to the Ministry. Yes, he was even looking forward to work. At least he was, until he entered his office and encountered Gal's stony face.

“Is everything okay?” he asked. “Did Angelina end up getting really sick?” Gal had told him that she had probably caught something. “Completely harmless. Probably just a cold.” But it was apparently persistent enough to put a stop to any further attempts at a meet-up since the barbecue.

“No, everything's fine. It's just...”

“Haven't you heard yet?” Jackson leaned so close to Harry that he felt uncomfortable. He could even smell his strong aftershave, something that probably comes in a blue bottle and has something to do with sport and men in the name. “There's been another death. That's why there's an emergency meeting at half past eight.” Jackson nudged him again. “Oh, and before I forget, I'm back in.”

He made a gesture as if he had been selected for a school team. He even made a 'V' sign with his fingers before walking out of the door. Harry had to pull himself together to stop himself from saying anything. Yes, work dulls your senses, and you develop a strange sense of humor to cope with it. But a dead body is never a cause for joy.

“Can you tell me more?” he asked Gal, who was still sitting at his desk looking pale. Gal just shrugged. His gesture seemed to say he didn't know any more than Harry did. After all, it was already twenty past eight. Harry didn't have to wait much longer. He grabbed his coffee cup and followed Jackson and Gal outside.

The excited murmuring and babble of voices from the meeting room did not bode well.

“Quiet!” Hermione called out from the lectern, trying to make herself heard. There was little left of the relaxed woman who could open a beer bottle with another. Her features were hard and unreadable. She had reverted to her role as boss, the woman who headed the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. The woman who saw the big picture, even in uncertain times. She radiated confidence and competence.

“Let's get straight to the point. The body found today belongs to thirty-eight-year-old witch Jane Salomon, wife of Edmund Nigerius Salomon and mother of an eight-year-old son.” Harry heard a sympathetic murmur go through the crowd at the mention of the child. It was as if the fact that she was a mother made her death worse. Perhaps it was. How does the saying go? You only die your own death once... He thought of the child: the little boy who was now sitting alone in his room, no longer understanding the world.

"According to her husband's statement, Jane was not feeling well that evening. She wanted to go to bed early. When he checked on her a few hours later, she was no longer breathing.”

“That's exactly what happened with the dead girl at Hogwarts!” Harry heard Jackson whisper beside him. Hermione seemed to have heard it too.

“It's still too early to draw conclusions where there may be none.” She now addressed Jackson directly. Harry could see that she was concentrating on a spot on the wall behind him. She always did that when she was nervous but trying to hide it. “Jane's body is currently being examined at St Mungo's for forbidden spells and poisons. As soon as we know the exact cause of death, we will be able to say more. Until then, I would ask you to refrain from further speculation, and above all, not to speak to the press.” She took a deep breath. “The last thing we need right now is renewed panic and panic buying.”

As the gathering slowly dispersed and everyone rushed for the doors, Harry heard someone in the crowd say, “And now they want to silence us, too.”

He wondered whether he should respond. By swearing or shouting, for example. He could counter that person by pointing out how stupid someone would have to be to believe that this reasonable request was really the same as silencing someone. Harry knew what it was like when people were silenced for real. He knew what it was like when they were completely destroyed.

He shook his head and moved on. Besides, it would probably just be a waste of energy. He had no idea who said it, and people who believed such theories would only feel further confirmed afterward.

He followed Gal into their shared office, slumped down in the desk chair, and reached for the little red ball that Hermione once gave him “to relieve stress.”

“Maybe she really did die of natural causes?” Even Gal didn't sound convinced. “I mean, that would still be tragic, of course, especially for the child, but...” He shrugged, then fell silent.

“At thirty-eight?” Harry squeezed the ball again, as if it were his enemy. As if it were to blame for Jane Salomon being dead. “The magic flowing through her veins should have given her twice the lifespan of a Muggle.”

“True, but even witches and wizards can suffer from illnesses, curses, or congenital anomalies that can snatch you away from life.” There was something different in his gaze. Only for a moment, like a cloud passing in front of the sun. “Not all of us are lucky enough to grow old.” Then everything was back to normal. Harry said nothing. He just pushed his glasses back onto his nose and sighed. He considered reaching for his mobile phone to check if Draco had replied. Draco's messages always cheered him up. But he had no reception at the Ministry.

At that moment, Hermione walked past his office. He saw her outline through the frosted glass of the door and got up to open it.

“Hermione...” There was no trace of her earlier self-assured and composed demeanor. Her eyes were slightly reddened, as if she had been crying secretly. “Is everything all right?”

He bit his tongue. What a stupid question. Of course not.

“Is there anything we can do?” he asked instead.

“You could bring me the guy responsible for all this, tied up and presented on a silver platter.” She grimaced in anguish. “Sorry, bad joke.”

“So it really was...?” He didn't know which word to choose: poison, a contaminated drink, murder... There were so many possibilities. In the end, he went for the most harmless option: “Not an accident?”

She shook her head.

“The sodium chloride concentration in her blood was five hundred times higher than normal. Her kidneys must simply have stopped working.”

“Sodium chloride? But isn't that just...?”

“Table salt, yes. But in a dose that would require her to have eaten at least five kilos of it.”

“But how...?”

She gave him the same look she had given Ron in his first year at school when she corrected his pronunciation of “Levioosa.”

“You do know what an adjuvant is in potions, don't you?”

“Yes, sort of...” He didn't have the faintest idea what she was talking about. Not for the first time in recent weeks, he wondered what he had actually learned in all those years in Snape's classroom, other than how to duck when Snape looked in his direction and how to pelt Draco Malfoy with paper balls. Speaking of Draco Malfoy... Never mind.

He sighed and looked at the floor. She raised her eyebrows and began to speak.

“It's an element added to enhance the properties of the main ingredient. It's used especially in cases where the main ingredient of the potion is expensive or rare.” She sounded as if she were reading from a textbook. “Adjuvants require absolute finesse to use, which is why they should only be handled by experienced Potions Masters. Otherwise...” She paused to think. “Do you remember when we tried to break into Lestrange's dungeon and every object we touched magically multiplied?” He nodded. How could he ever forget that experience, with all the fear, pain, and adrenaline?

“The same thing happens in your body when an adjuvant is added to the potion.”

“But why common salt? It's not exactly a rare ingredient that needs to be magically enhanced,” Gal interjected.

Harry had almost forgotten that he was still in the office, and he flinched briefly when Hermione appeared behind him. Hermione shrugged again.

“I don't know. Probably someone who had no idea what they were doing just mixed the ingredients together. Or maybe some expensive ingredient, like pearl dust or grated unicorn horn, was replaced with table salt...” She fell silent.

“Or what?”

“Harry, we're getting into the realm of pure speculation now.”

“I don't care. I still want to hear your thoughts on this.”

“Or maybe someone knew exactly what they were doing. Both sodium chloride and adjuvants are harmless on their own. No Ministry test would have detected such a potion. No one would have examined it more closely or confiscated it.”

Now that she had said it, the silence between them felt much deeper. Even the clock on the wall seemed to tick much louder all of a sudden.

“Never mind,” she said, shaking her wild mane once more. “As I said, it's pure speculation. I have to prepare for the press conference now—I definitely shouldn't say anything like that there. People freak out as soon as they hear there's been another victim.”

She shuddered, and he empathized with how she must feel. If he had the choice, he wouldn't want to trade places with her—unless it was to spare her from this situation.

“What else can I do?” he asked, reaching for her arm and holding her tight. “Apart from catching the guy behind all this and presenting his head to you on a silver platter?”

“Not his head, Harry. I want the guy alive.” She clenched her hands into fists, then relaxed them again, looking him straight in the eye. “Go to Underwoodshire and visit Jane's family. Find out what she did in the last days of her life, and see if you can find any clues. Take Gal with you.” Her smile was as brief as the extinguishing of a candle flame. “Underwoodshire is a purely wizarding village, very remote.” She nibbled her lip. “The people there... well... they're rather conservative and don't identify much with the big city or the politics of the Ministry of Magic.”

“But you're the famous Harry Potter.” Gal put a hand on his shoulder. “So I have high hopes that they won't immediately impale us with their pitchforks because of that.”

“Or they'll do it precisely because of that,” thinks Harry, frustratedly, but he decides to keep that thought to himself.

Chapter Text

Chapter 22: Dark Omens

When Harry emerges from the fireplace in Underwoodshire, he is greeted by aging office furniture and a grumpy-looking man who introduces himself as Hoops. Harry isn't sure whether this is his first or last name, but he suspects it's the latter.

Hoops guides Harry and Gal through the village and seems to be something of a constable, a jack of all trades. Harry has heard of such unofficial Ministry employees before: They are wizards and witches who mainly do other work but perform certain tasks for the Ministry. One such employee was Mrs. Figg, a Squib who bred kneazles and kept an eye on Harry during his childhood to ensure that the Dursleys didn't kill him. Sometimes, she looked after him.

Unlike her, however, Hoops doesn't seem to take pride in his Ministry job, nor does he seem to remember that he has one. In any case, he gives Harry and Gal such a disparaging look, as if they were salesmen trying to sell him a Muggle vacuum cleaner.

“And you were the first to find Jane Salomon?”

Harry has taken out his little notebook and quill pen.

“Edmund was the first to find her. Her husband.”

“Yes, of course, but then...” He breaks off, hoping that Hoops will continue.

“Eddy sent me a Patronus straight away after he found his wife. You should know that I've known the family for years.” He now turns directly to Harry. The look in his faded grey eyes is hard and dismissive. 'You have no business here,' he seems to say. “They're good people, decent people. The last thing they need right now is some armchair farts from the Ministry digging around here and messing everything up.”

Harry lowers his notebook. The village street is empty, perhaps because of the grey rain dripping from the sky. Every now and then, a hand moves behind a curtain. Harry feels furtive glances brushing his skin like curses.

Great, this is going to be a really good day.

“Mr. Hoops,” he begins slowly. “A witch has been killed. It's my job to investigate here.” He emphasizes the words extra clearly. “...to find out who is to blame, hold them accountable, and make sure there are no more victims. I'm sure you understand that, don't you?”

He can see a smile spreading across Gal's face. It fades quickly, and his colleague looks down at the floor again.

“Then why don't you do your job properly?” The smile on Hoops's face is not genuine. It's a snarl.“Then why couldn't you prevent Jane's death after the girl at Hogwarts died? Admit it. You don't know anything.” He savors the silence like a particularly good glass of Firewhisky. “And what's even worse is that you're closing your eyes to the truth so you can continue to be a Ministry puppet. Everyone here knows who is actually responsible for Jane's death.”

“And who would that be?”

Gal asks this question. Both Hoops and Harry look at him in such surprise that they seem to have forgotten he is there.

“What is your blood status, boy?”

Harry thinks he has misheard. It may not be forbidden, but ever since the Voldemort affair, asking someone about their blood status has been highly frowned upon. Especially when meeting someone for the first time who is here to solve a crime.

“I don't know why you would...” he begins, before looking up to see Gal reply, “Pure-blood.”

Hoops nods contentedly while Harry feels a twisting sensation in his stomach, as if he has swallowed broken glass. Is Gal really a pure-blood, or has he claimed to be one in order to gain this man's trust? And if so, why does it bother him so much? The Weasleys were pure-bloods too, but that was something completely different.

Either way, Gal's response seems like a smart move. Hoops leans toward Gal as if they were old friends.

“It was those foreigners who came into our country with the help of some criminal Mudbloods, and now they're killing pure-blood women and children. Oh, I forgot — you're not allowed to say that word anymore.” He grimaces exaggeratedly. “Criminal Muggle-borns.” Harry clenches his hands into fists. “I have nothing against Muggle-borns per se. I had a friend who was Muggle-born in my year, and she was really okay. But they just grew up very differently from us. If they want to belong, they have to integrate with us, not the other way around. We English wizarding families have centuries-old traditions and values, but these people...” He shakes his head as if thinking about something sad. He probably expects Gal to agree with him. “They're just different from us. The only ones worse are the foreign wizards. For them, dark magic is normal. They learn it as children, just like cheating and stealing. But Shacklebolt and all his sycophants don't want to hear that, of course. Nowadays, we're all so tolerant that we'd rather let our wives and children be killed than admit the truth. To me, that makes him just as guilty of Jane's death as those who poisoned her.”

Harry clutches his notebook tighter. So tightly that the white of his knuckles shows. “This won't get you anywhere,” he mentally recites his mantra. He tries to remember the breathing exercises Dr. Jenkins taught him. How many times should you breathe in through your nose? It doesn't matter, as long as you breathe deeply into your diaphragm.

“If I were Minister for Magic, the first thing I'd do would be to bring back the death penalty,” says Hoops. “Azkaban is far too good for people like that.”

“Good thing you're not,” he thinks, and forces himself to continue breathing in and out calmly, trying not to think about what would happen if Nicholas Dawn actually won the next election.

“Were these people here? Any traders or people you didn't know?” Harry admires Gal for just carrying on as if nothing had happened. If they want to be successful here, that must be their roles. Not good cop and bad cop, as in the Muggle crime novels he sometimes reads, but pure-blood cop and... well... Harry Potter.

“No, that's the crazy thing.” Hoops exhales loudly. “A stranger would have been noticed immediately. Here in Underwoodshire, we still look out for each other.” Gal nods in understanding. “Do you have any idea how Jane could have got hold of a poisoned potion?”

Another shrug follows. This time, it is done with significantly less confidence and vigor, as Harry notes with satisfaction.

“I’ve wondered about that myself. We still brew a lot of potions ourselves here, and when we need something quickly, we go to our village shop. But you don't need to bother going to Ernie's. I'd stake my life on him. It's all top-quality English goods.”

Harry and Gal exchange a quick glance.

“I'd still have a quick chat with Ernie, just to be on the safe side.” Gal puts on his most charming smile. “Where can I find him and his shop?”

“Just up the road.”

After a quick nod in Harry's direction, Gal turns away. Hoops watches him go with even more longing than Harry does. It's clear that neither of them particularly appreciates the other's presence.

“I’ll take you to the Salomones,” Hoops finally says.

“Yes.”

After a short, silent walk, they reach a detached farmhouse and open the garden gate. Harry's stomach churns at the sight of the children's toys scattered around the garden. Hoops knocks on the door. An elderly woman with grey hair and a thin mouth answers it. She looks at him hostilely, and for a moment, Harry fears she will simply slam the door in his face. However, after exchanging a few words with Hoops, she lets him into the house.

In the living room, Edmund Salomon sits in a brown, worn leather armchair with a bottle of Firewhisky and an empty glass in front of him. His face is expressionless, marked by great despair. Harry is reminded of a person whose soul has been sucked out by a Dementor.

“I’m going to go now, Eddy,” says the man sitting on the sofa next to him. “If there's anything... you know.” He briefly places his hand on Salomon's upper arm, nods, and then leaves the room.

Harry feels bad for bothering this man with questions at such a difficult time, but he has no choice.

“My sincere condolences,” he begins.

Edmund nods weakly.

“Just start.”

“Er, yes. Do you know if your wife took potions regularly? And if so, where did she get them?”

These are questions that Edmund cannot answer. The couple had a fairly traditional marriage. She took care of the house and child; he took care of the two hundred cows that the family owned.

“How should I know what she does all day?” He sounds desperate. When Harry asks him to recount the previous evening's events, he presses his hands to his temples and begins to cry bitterly.

“That's enough.” Hoops interrupts the questioning and gestures toward the door. Harry knows he's right, even if he doesn't like to admit it. This is getting us nowhere.

“I’ll talk to the others first,” he says. “If I have any more questions, I'll come back to you.”

He feels a sense of relief as he closes the door behind him. It's as if he can finally breathe freely again. There are some things he will never get used to: delivering news of someone's death, for example, or interviews like this one.

After exhaling, he walks over to the chest of drawers in the hallway and looks at the family photos on top of it. Mother, father, child — all with broad smiles.

He only notices the small figure when it jumps up and scurries up the stairs.

“Timmy?” he says, remembering the child's name. “Is that you?”

He runs up the stairs before Hoops or anyone else can stop him. In a room full of toys scattered on the floor sits a small boy who looks at him with big brown eyes.

“I’m Harry Potter,” he says, placing a hand on his chest.

“I know.” The boy is still looking at him. “Mum's dead, isn't she?”

Harry thinks about what he could say to make it less painful. But really, there's only one option.

“Yes,” he finally says, and then, “I'm sorry.”

The boy nods and turns to one of his toys. It's a magical toy. The figures walk by themselves, laughing and shaking hands in greeting as if they were alive. The boy watches them for a moment before angrily throwing them into a corner.

“That's so mean!” he cries. “We were going to go swimming together tomorrow, and now she's dead!”

Harry doesn't know what to say. The child has jumped up and is kicking his toys frantically. A toy wand flies close to Harry's head, followed by a mini broomstick.

“Stupid Mummy!” he cries. “I hate everyone! I hate the world!” Then he starts to cry bitterly.

Harry thinks of Dr. Jenkins. She would know what to do or say in a situation like this. She wouldn't feel so helpless. But she is far away.

“It's okay to be sad.” Harry crouches down in front of the child and takes him by the shoulders. “You’re right. What happened was really mean, and it shouldn't have happened.”

The child sobs, then buries his tear-stained face in Harry's chest. Harry notices that the child is still wearing his pajamas. Probably the same ones from last night. Has he eaten anything yet? Someone must take care of him. He's still so small — barely older than Teddy.

Teddy! It's like a bolt of lightning has struck him. A bolt of insight. His gaze flies to the clock. Twenty to four. He promised to be at the children's gymnastics class in exactly twenty minutes to pick up Teddy, because Andromeda has an appointment today regarding the survivor's pension.

He chews on his fingernail. How realistic is it to make it there when he is on the other side of the country with another crying child in his arms?

He rushes downstairs with the child, almost colliding with Gal, who is just coming in through the front door.

“You were right. It's the shop. So much for good English-quality workmanship. Most of it is ordered from elsewhere.”

Gal sounds as breathless as if he had run all the way back.

Harry nods, then turns to the child hanging heavily on him like a wet sack.

“Did you and your mum often go shopping at Ernie's?”

The boy looks up, his eyelashes stuck together with tears, and nods.

“Yes, every Monday. Mum would buy the new issue of Witch Weekly, and I would get a liquorice wand and a small bag of hissing Wissbies.”

Monday. That was three days ago. Other people could have bought the potion by now. It could be lying in their bathrooms or kitchens, ready to be taken at any moment.

“Call for backup from the Ministry immediately,” he shouts to Gal. “Tell them to leave no stone unturned here. I also need a list from Ernie of all the potions he's sold in the last five days.”

“Will do, but...”

He pushes the child into Gal's arms.

“I have to go. Sort something out.”

Without waiting for a reply, he slips out of the front door, past Hoops, and into the front garden. There, he pulls out his mobile phone and dials Ginny's number.

The phone rings. Twelve minutes to go.

“Please answer,” he pleads.

“Real wizards use owls,” he hears Hoops's reproachful voice. Apparently, he has followed him outside. “Not these weird Muggle boxes.”

“Real wizards will stick their wands through your eye until it comes out the other side,” he thinks angrily. But he forces himself to smile, hoping it will finally make him leave.

It beeps again, then goes to voicemail. Damn it! He wants to curse loudly. Then he remembers that Ginny is in the middle of training and therefore not answering her phone.

He thinks further. The only other person he knows with a mobile phone is Hermione, but she's currently at her own press conference and probably has even less time to pick Teddy up from gymnastics than he does.

He looks at his watch again. Ten minutes to go. Then he has a desperate idea, but it's better than nothing. His fingers scroll through the list, then he presses the green phone button. Again, the phone rings, but this time someone picks up.

“Potter? Don't you have to work today, or are you so desperate to see me that you can't stand it anymore?”

“I'm at work right now.” He clears his throat. “But something's happened.”

He tries to speak quietly and shields the receiver from Mr. Hoops, who is still looking over at him. “But that doesn't matter now. I really need your help. Do you know the gym at Kensington Primary School? We always pass it on the way to the Underground after group meetings?”

“Yes?” Draco's voice sounds highly skeptical.

“Could you be there in...” He looks at his watch again. “Could you be there in ten minutes to pick up Teddy for me? Teddy Lupin, that is?”

“Are you kidding me?”

“Please, Draco. I wouldn't ask you if it wasn't urgent.” He tries to balance the mobile phone in one hand while reaching for his notepad with the other.

“You know him. He knows you. Just take him for an ice cream and to the playground until I can get there.”

“We saw each other once in a cemetery, and that was over three months ago. For children, that's practically a lifetime.” He takes a deep breath into the phone. “Besides, just in case you've forgotten, I'm a Death Eater who's been cast out of society. Death Eaters are the people who murdered his parents, after all. They'll never let him go with me.”

“It’s a Muggle gymnastics club. They just put the children out on the street until someone takes them in.” He sees Gal running toward him. “Just take Madonna with you. I told him about her. When he sees her, he’ll trust you.”

“Luring a little boy away with the prospect of puppies? Great idea, Potter.”

“Please! I'll be there as soon as I can. And thank you so much.”

He hangs up the red receiver and turns to Gal.

“Reinforcements are on their way.”

“Very good.”

“Was that your wife?” asks Hoops. “On that thing?”

But Harry just turns away and leaves him standing there.