Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It all began gradually.

During the Second Wizarding War, the world seemed divided into two opposing sides: good and bad, light and dark, right and wrong. There was no grey area, no middle ground; everyone had to choose.

One side was the dark, represented by people whose hearts had grown so cold and cruel that they seemed incapable of ever doing good again.

And then there was the light, practically glowing with righteousness. They were justice. They fought for equality and believed, with unwavering certainty, that only they knew how the Wizarding World should be run.

And they would never sink to the same level as the opposite side.

But when the War ended, nothing was that simple anymore. The word ‘justice’ slowly began to change its meaning when the winning side started discussing the Death Eater trials they had been planning already during the War. Although they were happy and relieved to have won, they couldn’t forget the cruelty and injustices committed by the opposing side. Instead of mercy, fairness, and forgiveness, the end of the War brought feelings of bitterness and a bottomless thirst for revenge to the surface. If you tortured and killed my loved ones, I have the right to torture and kill you.

Speeches about justice and mercy started to turn into thoughts about eliminating evil once and for all. Actually, the light side wanted to completely forget the War and all its evil deeds by destroying the haunting memories and remnants by wiping them out of the world and pretending they had never existed.

Besides, why would people on the dark side even need trials? There wasn’t even a hint of light in them. They couldn’t be cured.

When the War ended, all surviving Death Eaters were locked in Azkaban to wait for their trials. The trials that never came. Only a week after the War’s end, the Wizengamot decided, on behalf of its members and almost the entire light side, that every single person who bore the Dark Mark would be sentenced straight to death without trial. The reasoning was clear: the only way to rid the world of evil was to eliminate it completely. A prison sentence in Azkaban without Dementors wasn’t cruel enough punishment; they should pay with their lives.

At first, Harry couldn’t believe the Wizengamot’s decision was real. It had to be a joke; it went completely against all the ideals and values the light side had fought for. But when Harry read in the Daily Prophet about the first Death Eaters, the Carrow siblings, to be executed only a couple of weeks after the War had ended, he felt as if someone had abruptly pushed him headfirst into cold water. This couldn’t be true. It didn’t make any sense.

Harry hadn’t been ready to die for the Wizarding World so that they could dirty their hands with the opposite side’s blood after the War.

After the first executions, they started to happen weekly, with one or two Death Eaters killed at a time. First the Carrows, then Antonin Dolohov, followed by Augustus Rookwood, and finally Walden Macnair and Corban Yaxley at the end of June.

Before every execution, Harry, Ron, and Hermione tried to plead with the new Minister for Magic, Kingsley Shacklebolt, to stop the killings, but they always received the same answer: Kingsley was utterly helpless when it came to persuading the Wizengamot to reconsider.

As for Harry, Ron, and Hermione’s attempts to ask the Wizengamot directly to discuss the matter again, those efforts were doomed from the start. The opinions of two young wizards and one witch barely of age, who hadn’t even finished their schooling, counted for nothing, no matter how crucial their role had been during the War. The Wizengamot likely wouldn’t even be able to punish the Death Eaters now if it weren’t for them.

On the fifth of July, Harry sat at the kitchen table at Grimmauld Place with Ron and Hermione, all three waiting nervously for an owl to bring the Daily Prophet . Every Sunday, the paper announced who would be executed the following week, and who they should try to save by repeating worn phrases about wrongness, cruelty, and illegality. Not that Harry had much hope left that the Wizengamot would listen. It had just become a kind of habit.

“I still haven’t found anything new to stop the executions,” Hermione said, frustrated, nervously picking at her nails. “I think I’ve gone through almost all the juridical books in the Wizarding World I’ve found, and they all seem to have the same conclusion: the executions without trials are always illegal except for when there’s some sort of state of emergency in the wizarding society.”

“But there is no state of emergency! The War’s over for fuck’s sake,” Harry cursed, feeling the anger boiling inside him.

I know!” Hermione cried, sounding at least as angry as Harry. “We’ve tried to tell the Wizengamot, Merlin knows how many times, but they won’t listen! They act like we’re still in the middle of the War, or at least in something just as bad.

“Dad has always said there are loopholes in the laws, but in his department, loopholes have probably never killed anyone,” Ron muttered.

“Probably not. And it’s always been possible to eventually go around or abolish the laws if they’ve seemed too barbaric or inhuman,” Hermione said. “But now I’ve got no idea what we could do next. Not even Kingsley seems to have a say in the Wizengamot’s decisions.”

Harry huffed, feeling his head starting to throb slightly as it always did nowadays when he felt somehow helpless or useless. 

Suddenly, he saw movement in his peripheral vision, and he turned his gaze quickly to the window. The sight made his heart jump uncomfortably, even though he had known all along this moment would come. And, after all, this was what he had been waiting for impatiently during the whole sleepless night and restless morning, but apparently, he could never get used to this sight on Sundays. 

There was a small, brown owl hovering behind the window and carrying the Sunday’s Daily Prophet in its claws, looking at three of them curiously and hooting at them innocently.

Before Harry, who felt as if he was rooted to the spot, had time to stand up, Ron had already dashed to the window, thrown it open, and yanked the paper from the owl’s claws, all the while clumsily dropping a few sickles into the small pouch tied to its leg. The owl gave him an indignant look before taking off, but Ron didn’t seem to notice at all as he slammed the window shut right in front of its beak. As Ron began to flip through the paper, Hermione hurried to his side, trying to peek over his shoulder. After a few moments, Ron’s hands froze mid-motion—he had clearly found the page he was looking for.  If the situation hadn’t been so serious, Harry might have laughed at his friends. Their eyes widened comically, their mouths dropped open, and they stared at the paper as if it had just announced that aliens had landed in London and were preparing to conquer the Earth.

“Well?” Harry asked, impatient. 

Both Ron and Hermione were quiet for a moment, probably feeling unable to say a word. Hermione gulped and coughed a little to clear her throat. “Malfoy,” she whispered finally, her voice trembling.

Harry suddenly felt as if an invisible hand had wrapped around his throat, making it hard to breathe. “Which one?” he asked hoarsely.

“Lucius,” Ron said in a grim voice. “Not that the world would be much worse off without him — ouch !” he went on and winced abruptly as his girlfriend poked harshly at his side with her elbow. “But as I’ve said earlier, I’m not in favour of executions. Not even when they’re about to execute such a slimy bastard as Lucius Malfoy.”  

“I don’t like Lucius Malfoy either, but he has an equal right to live just like everyone else. People shouldn’t play gods, it never ends well,” Hermione said.

“What happens next?” Harry asked, feeling horrified. The list of the Death Eaters had become terrifyingly short, actually almost non-existent, and soon there wouldn’t be left anyone else but Malfoy –  Draco  Malfoy – and Gregory Goyle. But surely the Wizengamot couldn’t sentence to death those who had committed their crimes while underage, or barely old enough to be considered adults? They had still been students, practically just kids. Just like he, Ron and Hermione during the War.

Hermione looked at Harry with sad and empathetic eyes, as if she knew exactly what was going on inside Harry’s head. And knowing her, she probably did know, maybe even better than Harry himself. “You’re thinking about Malfoy, aren’t you? Draco?”

“Mm-hmm,” Harry mumbled, fiddling with an empty water glass in his hands. “And Goyle. The Wizengamot can’t just sentence them to death, too, right? They’re both barely eighteen.”

“It’d be ridiculous. I mean, well, they were both bloody idiots and completely on their parents’ leashes. But the Wizengamot can’t do anything as stupid as to sentence to death a couple of brainwashed teens,” Ron said, looking at Hermione as if waiting for her to support his words.

“I don’t know,” Hermione said, nervously biting her lip. “I’m sorry, but I don’t think the Wizengamot cares much about age. Just having the Dark Mark on your arm seems to be enough reason for them to sentence someone to death, and they’re not exactly willing to reconsider that.” She sighed. “It’s sadly not unusual after a war. In fact, it’s pretty common that people still carry the same feelings they had during it, you know, hatred, bitterness, a thirst for revenge. Those emotions don’t just disappear the moment the war ends. Instead, people try to release them... like this. The winning side wants revenge on the losing side, by oppressing them, or even trying to wipe them out entirely.”

Harry looked at his friend, feeling flabbergasted. “But they can’t… This doesn’t… Oh, for fuck’s sake, I wasn’t ready to die for them so that they could start killing more people completely wantonly! The killing was supposed to end when the War ended!”

“Harry, I know! And I still agree with you. There are many cases like this in history, and, trust me, this way won’t lead to anything good. Instead, the gap between people will quite certainly become even wider; you just can’t end hatred with hatred,” Hermione said. “I promise I’ll go and try to talk to both Kingsley and the Wizengamot tomorrow and present them with some case examples of earlier Wizarding and Muggle wars. They have to start to listen to reason at some point.”

Harry tried to smile at Hermione, but the look on his face probably looked more like a forced grimace than a smile. “Thanks.”

“Would you like to come for a visit to the Burrow tomorrow?” Ron asked suddenly, apropos of nothing. “You’d have something else to think about for once, and mum and Ginny have asked a lot after you,” he explained, giving Harry a meaningful look.

Harry felt something twist uncomfortably in his stomach. He had a slight pang of guilt for having postponed his visit to the Weasleys again and again, simply because he was afraid Ginny might want to talk about their… relationship. Or the lack of it. Or whatever it was. The thing they’d had before the War, which now seemed to hang in the air between them like a heavy grey cloud, waiting to either rain or erupt into a storm. Harry didn’t feel ready to talk about that yet. He had no idea what he wanted, or even how he felt. When would he have had the time to figure that out anyway?

“Yeah, why not,” he finally muttered, reluctant, unable to come up with a reasonable excuse to say no. Everyone always said it was better to just rip the band-aid off or something like that. 

“Cool, mum will be thrilled! I’ll tell her to cook a bit extra so that there’s enough for you, too,” Ron said, sounding more cheerful. 

“No, don’t, you don’t have to because of me –”

“Bullshit. You know mum, she’s only happy when she gets to feed you,” Ron said with a grin. “I should get going, I promised to help George at the shop,” he added, getting up from his chair. “See you tomorrow!” he called, waving as he headed for the front door.

“Don’t worry, Harry. I’m sure the Wizengamot will have to listen once I show them a pile of evidence about how harmful their decision will be in the long run,” Hermione said, trying to give Harry a reassuring smile. “I’ll bring them studies, facts. Proofs in black and white. And I won’t leave until they promise to take it seriously.”

Harry let out a noncommittal grunt, staring at the floor.

“See you tomorrow,” she added, giving Harry a hug before following Ron out, leaving him alone with his thoughts, thoughts of Draco Malfoy, Gregory Goyle, and how utterly twisted the world could become.

Chapter Text

" Potter ."

Harry jolted and spun around, straining to see who had called his name—but it was no use. Thick, ominous grey fog surrounded him on all sides, and no matter how hard he tried to focus, all he could see was the swirling, suffocating mist.

" Potter! "

The voice sounded now louder and more impatient, maybe even slightly commanding, but despite that, Harry couldn't identify the source of the voice. It had to be someone he knew, though; how else would they know to call him by name?

"Who are you?" Harry yelled into the fog, the words echoing back at him in the thick, unnatural silence.

" Do you really let them kill me ?"

Harry felt his heart jump suddenly into his throat, and cold sweat began to rise on the back of his neck.

"Who are you?" Harry asked again, his voice trembling slightly, even though he was quite certain he already knew the answer.

"Do you really let them kill me?" the voice repeated, now right beside Harry, whispering softly in his ear. Though the question was accusatory, there was no hint of blame in it. On the contrary, it sounded more... sad and disappointed. Or perhaps resigned, as if the speaker had already accepted their fate.

"Malfoy?" Harry whispered back cautiously, groping his surroundings and trying to find the source of the voice.

"I actually thought you were one of the good ones. You know, justice, mercy, all that idealistic crap."

"Can you show yourself?" Harry asked anxiously, still trying to feel his way toward where he believed the voice was coming from, but his fingers kept slipping through the fog.

"They’re erasing us and you’re just letting it happen. Out of your way, out of your precious, guilt-ridden mind. Is that what you were after all along?"

"What the fuck Malfoy, do you really think I asked fot this? We've tried, we've spoken to the Wizengamot and the Ministry. Hermione is going to talk to them again; she has evidence and literature against the executions—"

" And you already know that it won't help ."

"I never wanted to give up on the trials," he said quietly. "I didn’t want anyone to die. We really have done everything we could," he added, his voice tight, trying to convince Malfoy. And maybe even himself.

"So you say a few decent things, wash your hands of it all, and carry on with a clear conscience. Is that how it works?"

Harry swallowed hard. His throat suddenly felt dry and scratchy. "I don't know what else I could do," he said softly.

The words hung in the air, followed by a silence so heavy it made it hard for Harry to breathe.

"Malfoy?" Harry called out, dread tightening his chest at the thought that the other boy might have disappeared.

"Potter?" Malfoy's voice came back, thinner now, and further away.

"Yeah, I'm here," Harry said quickly, a wave of relief crashing over him.

"Don't let me die."

"I swear I'll do everything I can," Harry blurted. "I'm still going to talk to them. Hermione said they’ll have to listen eventually." He swallowed hard. "I don’t want you or anyone to die anymore. I won’t let them kill you. I promise."

His words drifted into the silence, unanswered, swallowed by the fog.

"Malfoy?" Harry called, uncertain and quieter now, already sensing the absence. "Malfoy?" he shouted, panic rising in his throat. "MALFOY!" He broke into a run, blindly charging through the endless mist.

Then—

"Master!" He heard a new voice, faint and far away. "Master is having a nightmare. Master must wake up."

He felt hands on his shoulders, shaking them gently.

Harry gasped. His eyes flew open and met a pair of huge, pale, bluish eyes watching him with concern.

"Master had a nightmare," Kreacher repeated, his voice tight with worry as Harry struggled to steady his breath. "Kreacher had to wake Master. He was shouting as if in pain."

"It's all right," Harry said hoarsely. "Probably just a bad dream, nothing serious."

"Master was tossing in the sheets, and Kreacher is quite sure he was loudly shouting the name 'Malfoy.' Kreacher wonders if Master meant the respected member of the Black family, Narcissa Black, or someone else in the family?"

"Um, well," Harry said awkwardly. "It was just a dream, really, and I don’t even remember the details," he lied. The dream had been too troubling for him to want to talk about it right now. "What time is it, anyway?"

"It's seven o’clock. Would Master like breakfast? Or would Master prefer to go back to sleep?"

"I don’t think I’ll be able to get back to sleep," Harry sighed deeply. "I’m visiting the Weasleys in a couple of hours, so no need to prepare food for me today."

"Master should still eat before the visit. Kreacher has heard that breakfast is the most important meal of the day for wizards," Kreacher said, sounding slightly offended.

"Maybe I could eat a sandwich before I leave," Harry said, shrugging.

"Very well. Kreacher will prepare some sandwiches in the kitchen," the elf said.

"You really don't have to—" Harry began, but before he could finish, Kreacher vanished from the bedroom with a loud bang. Harry sighed and muttered to the empty room, "—do that."

Harry sighed heavily, rested his head back on the pillow, and closed his eyes.

He was used to all kinds of strange dreams and nightmares, and even though the war was over, the bad dreams didn’t seem to leave him alone. It had become almost a dull routine for Harry to wake up in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat, his throat raw from shouting, and his heart pounding as if it wanted to burst from his chest.

But something about last night's dream had been different.

The dream had felt disturbingly real, as if Harry and Malfoy had truly been in the same place at the same time, even though Harry hadn’t been able to see Malfoy. This sensation was different from his usual dreams. It reminded him of those times when he had been inside Voldemort’s mind, or Voldemort inside his. For some reason, those dreams always felt more vivid, almost as if they had really happened.

Harry felt shivers running down his spine. The idea that he had had a madman inside his head practically all his life, or at least until Voldemort's defeat, had been quite enough for one lifetime. He had no desire to share his head with anyone else, thank you very much. Besides, Malfoy could never really be inside his head. Voldemort’s ability to enter Harry’s mind had been caused solely by the failed Killing Curse and the unique connection it created between them. As far as Harry knew, Malfoy had never been involved with any curse related to him, especially nothing like the Horcruxes that bound Harry and Voldemort. So the idea that Harry and Malfoy could share any similar connection was completely absurd.

But why had the dream still felt as if Malfoy had really been there, whispering in his ear and asking Harry to save him?

On the other hand, now that Harry really thought about it, the dream couldn’t be true; Malfoy would never stoop so low as to ask Harry for help. And Harry certainly didn’t owe Malfoy anything. During the war, Malfoy had helped Harry and his friends escape from Malfoy Manor, and in return, Harry had saved Malfoy from the Fiendfyre. They were basically even.

And even if the dream were true and Malfoy had asked for help, Harry meant every word he said in it. He, Ron, and Hermione had done their best, and Harry didn’t know what more he could do. He hadn’t wanted this, the violence, the executions. Not even for Malfoy. How could anyone in their right mind wish death on someone so young? Yes, Malfoy had done some really serious and twisted crap, but he still had his whole life ahead of him. Harry and Malfoy shared a difficult, eventful history, but Harry couldn’t recall ever truly wishing harm or death upon him, not even when, in their sixth year, Harry used Sectumsempra on Malfoy. The guilt from that act still haunted him.

Harry slowly opened his eyes, retrieved his wand, and cast a spell to check the time.

Eight.

Maybe it was a perfectly reasonable time to get up. Molly would probably be delighted if Harry showed up at the Burrow this early.

–*--*--*--*--

"Oh, Harry dear, you still look like you haven't had a proper meal in ages. Would you like some more shepherd's pie?" Molly asked, smiling kindly at him from across the kitchen table, though her eyes were filled with concern.

"No, thank you, I really can’t eat another bite," Harry said, and Molly's smile faltered slightly in disappointment.

He truly couldn't manage another forkful, even to please Molly, despite how delicious the food was. The breakfast sandwiches Kreacher had made earlier had turned out to be far more filling than Harry was used to, especially since Kreacher had apparently just read about the importance of balanced nutrition and had therefore added extra eggs and tofu for protein.

"Well then, I’ll pack you some to take home. Your house-elf really ought to take better care of you, we can’t have you wasting away," Molly said briskly, already slicing a generous portion into a container.

"Oh, but Kreacher’s not at all like he used to be, Mum," Ron said with a crooked smile. "He’s genuinely fond of Harry now. There’s always so much food at Harry’s place he can’t possibly eat it all, and Kreacher keeps asking him every ten minutes if he’s hungry. Does Master perhaps want some salmon and potatoes? No? Then maybe this apple pie Kreacher just pulled from the oven? Not that one either? Well, Master must at least try these cookies, Kreacher found a special recipe just for Master. They’ve got lots of nuts, and Kreacher just learned nuts are full of good fats ,’” he finished, mimicking Kreacher’s high-pitched voice.

“Yeah, well, I’m not exactly starving,” Harry mumbled with an amused smile.

"Well, that's good to hear," Molly said, still slightly suspicious. "You do need someone to take care of you."

"Mum, stop fussing. Harry’s a grown man, he can look after himself," George said, rolling his eyes. Harry gave him a quick, grateful glance.

"You’ll always be my boys — and girls," Molly said fondly, watching her youngest gather the dirty dishes. "And I certainly won’t stop worrying about you for as long as I live," she added, a faint smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.

"Harry, do you have a moment to talk?" Ginny asked sharply, making Harry suddenly feel very tense. He had mentally prepared himself for the possibility that Ginny might want to talk, but the morning at the Burrow had been so enjoyable that he had let himself think that maybe, just maybe, today wouldn’t involve any difficult conversations after all.

"Um, sure," Harry replied, but he didn't make any gesture to get up from his chair.

"I mean, in private. Maybe outside on the steps?" Ginny added, giving Harry a meaningful look.

"Yeah, fine," Harry said, reluctantly pulling himself up from the chair and following Ginny outside.

"All right," Ginny said as they sat down on the steps side by side, close enough so that Ginny's warm thigh pressed against Harry's. "How are you really doing? I mean, like really really?"

"Fine. How about you?" Harry replied quickly, trying to shift the focus away from himself.

"Harry," Ginny said with a sigh, her warm brown eyes meeting his. "It's okay if you're not doing well. Honestly, it would be strange if you were fine already, after everything that happened. You can talk to me," she added, resting her hand gently on his thigh.

Harry flinched, and Ginny quickly pulled her hand back. "Um..." he muttered, heat rising to his face.

"We haven’t really talked about this," Ginny said with a hint of sadness, gesturing between them.

"No, we haven't."

"What do you think?" Ginny said. "About us?"

"Well... I mean... I haven't really had time to think about this. At all," Harry said, staring at his knees.

"I get it, the war only just ended. But Harry, I can't wait for you forever."

"You don't have to."

Ginny raised an eyebrow.  "What’s that supposed to mean?"

"It means I understand. I’m not asking you to wait."

"So you don’t have feelings for me anymore?"

"Do you really think I’ve had time to think about my own life for over a year?" Harry shot back, frustration creeping into his voice. "The war just ended. I’ve been dealing with Ministry events, and now there are these executions—"

"Oh right, I almost forgot you’re still hung up on those," Ginny said darkly. "Do you realize you’re defending the people who killed Fred? And Lupin and Tonks? And who knows how many others? Because of them, I lost my brother! Because of them, Teddy’s an orphan!"

"I know that! I’m not saying they should go unpunished. But I don’t support the death penalty. I don’t want to live in a world where killing people is considered acceptable."

"Harry, right now our side is responsible for the wizarding community in Britain. You need to trust the justice system we’ve built," Ginny said firmly. "Besides, how are we even supposed to explore what might be between us if you keep wasting all your energy defending Death Eaters?"

"But that’s exactly why I don’t trust—"

"Harry!" Hermione’s voice cut through the air, and both Harry and Ginny turned toward the road as she came running toward them.

"Hermione!" Harry exclaimed, standing up quickly and hurrying over to his friend. "Did you go to the Ministry today? How did it go?"

But Harry stopped short as he saw the girl’s face. Her hair was disheveled, her eyes red and swollen, and a tear streak glistened down her cheek.

"What happened?" Harry asked, concern tightening his voice as Hermione reached him and grasped his arm.

"I tried, I really did everything I could, but they wouldn’t listen to me again," Hermione said, her voice shaking. "They want to speed up the executions, and they plan to execute not only Lucius Malfoy but also Goyle today."

"What?" Harry exclaimed, his head starting to buzz. This couldn’t be true, Hermione must have misunderstood.

"And Malfoy. Draco Malfoy," Hermione continued quietly. "Harry, they’re planning to execute him tomorrow."

Chapter Text

Draco Malfoy opened his eyes and stared for a moment at the grey stone ceiling of his prison cell. The grey ceiling, not the marble-white one that adorned his room at the manor.

By now, he should have learnt that this wasn’t just a nightmare he could wake up from, back home in his massive four-poster bed, wrapped in clean silk sheets while the morning sun gently played on his face. But he hadn’t learnt that yet.

Instead, he took a sharp breath as his exhausted mind registered his true surroundings once again, and quickly shut his eyes tight.

Maybe it wasn’t too late yet; maybe he could just turn over and slip back into sleep. None of his dreams had been pleasant for years; they were mostly nightmares, one after another. But maybe this time, he might see something even slightly more bearable. It didn’t seem like too much to ask. In fact, he wished for one thing and one thing only: that the dream wouldn’t be about Azkaban. Maybe he could see one of his many wartime dreams, which had started to feel so familiar by now, almost like an old friend coming to greet him. Not that Draco enjoyed those dreams either, but despite all the fear and despair, every single one was infinitely better than his current reality. In them, he was still with his family. In them, he was home.

But Draco knew he was fighting a losing battle. Insecurity and anxiety had become his constant, loyal companions, which meant his body had been in a constant state of high alert for a long time. He couldn’t even remember the last time he had slept for more than ten minutes straight.

And the lack of comfort in his cell, not to mention weeks spent sleeping on the cold, bare floor, did nothing to help his body relax. “You should be grateful to us; filthy Death Eaters like you don’t deserve such luxury,” almost every Auror who had guarded him had said, usually followed by a spit in his face just to make sure his worthlessness was crystal clear. After nearly two months in Azkaban, Draco couldn’t help but wonder how anyone had ever survived the place if these conditions were supposedly far better and more humane than before. The absence of Dementors might have helped a little, but there were so many other reasons why this place made it easy to lose both mind and strength.

Draco tried to stretch his numb limbs, but his hands and feet hit the cold stone walls before he could fully extend himself. The cell where he had spent his entire imprisonment was an extremely small, windowless room, lit only when someone bothered to light a torch for him. It was so cold and damp in the cell that Draco felt as if the chill had seeped into his very bones. It was hard to believe that outside the prison walls, summer was in full bloom. Though there were no Dementors sucking the happiness out of him, Draco could hardly remember what it was like to hear birdsong or smell the scent of flowers drifting on the summer breeze. Or to lie in the manor garden with his eyes closed, the sun warming every cell of his body.

The cold was made worse by the fact that his meals had become increasingly scarce; he probably hadn’t eaten a proper meal in days. Draco had somewhat expected this; prisoners sentenced to death were seen only as burdens on society. Why invest in someone who had nothing left to offer? In someone with no future.

Three weeks. That was how long a person could survive without food. Water was provided, but if Draco died before his execution, it would be from starvation. The darkness of his cell had caused him to lose all sense of time during those first days. Hours, days, and weeks blended into one; he no longer knew whether it was day or night. The only sign of time passing was his stomach, which had long since gone numb to the gnawing hunger that made even the scant meals the Ministry grudgingly provided difficult to keep down.

Besides hunger, Draco had noticed physical changes he wished he could forget. Always on the slender side, his body was now wasting away; his strength drained until he could barely stand. Thank Salazar there were no mirrors in the cell, for he could only imagine the gaunt reflection staring back. His bones felt like they pressed beneath thinning skin, his cheeks hollowed, and his once-thick blond hair had grown noticeably thinner under his fingers.

Not that it mattered anymore. Tomorrow, his life would be taken from him. His body was of no use.

He couldn’t get over how absurd it all was, to be executed by the light side. He’d known long before the war’s end that his family wouldn’t survive if the Dark Lord had won; their mistakes had made them the lowest rank among Death Eaters. Yet, he had not expected the light’s side to forget mercy too. He hadn’t hoped for compassion or to avoid Azkaban, but he never imagined the light side would also demand his life.

A joyless smile touched Draco’s lips. No matter what he’d done during the war, the outcome would have been the same. Perhaps his only chance of survival would have been to switch sides, but he could never have done that. His parents would never have followed, and he couldn’t have left them. That’s assuming he’d even found the courage to change sides in the first place.

Weak, coward .

The words echoed in Draco’s head, sometimes in the Dark Lord’s voice, sometimes in Potter’s.

But they were both wrong.

Yes, for much of his life, Draco had been weak, and he had been a coward, someone who only tried to project confidence and strength, wearing a brave face like ill-fitting armour. But that facade had cracked, then shattered entirely in the final months of the war, exposing just how uncertain, frightened, and fragile he really was.

He was still weak, yes, now in every sense of the word, both body and mind.

But he was no longer a coward.

Not anymore.

He knew he would die tomorrow, and yet, to his surprise, he didn’t feel fear. He felt bitter about how it had all ended, and sad to leave behind a life that had barely begun. But beneath the sorrow and resentment, there was something else — a quiet, unexpected calm.

He had made peace with his fate.

Because what was there left to fear?

He had already lost everything he had. The future had nothing to offer him anymore, and no one wanted him here.

And soon, he would be free from this weak, gaunt, and sickly body. Maybe he would get to see Vincent and Greg and could tell them how sorry he was for their deaths. Maybe he would be reunited with his mother and father, maybe they could be together as a family again.

And even if it was all wishful thinking, and nothing happened after death, it would still be better than his current state. He wouldn't have to feel pain anymore. He wouldn't even realize he was gone.

Suddenly, a scraping sound came from outside the cell, jolting Draco fully awake from the hazy border between sleep and wakefulness. So, they’d decided to feed him one more time before tomorrow, unnecessarily, since they already knew his body couldn’t handle eating anymore.

For a moment, indistinct clicking and clinking noises came from behind the cell door. Then, the heavy wooden door began to open very, very slowly, as if whoever was outside hesitated, unsure if they really wanted to come in.

Draco blinked several times, trying to make out something in the dim, flickering light. All he could see was the door, slightly ajar, and the dark corridor beyond. He slowly sat up and let his gaze drift around the prison cell, but even his exhaustion-weakened senses told him he was still completely alone. That could mean only one thing.

"Potter," he said dryly. "So, you came for my last supper, did you? How considerate of you."

Potter quickly pulled off the invisibility cloak, looking surprised. Draco grinned to himself. He’d been watching the boy rather closely for the past seven years; there was no way Potter could surprise him now. He should have known better by now.

“I’m sorry the conditions here don’t quite live up to the standards expected by the saviour of the wizarding world,” Draco said, gesturing around him. “Had I known such an honourable guest would grace me with a visit, I might have bothered to tidy up.”

"Don’t be ridiculous," Potter said sharply, his gaze roaming over Draco in disbelief. Draco suddenly felt painfully exposed and vulnerable. It was ironic, he’d spent years chasing Potter’s attention, and now that he had it, he wished he were anywhere else but under those intense green eyes. He didn’t want Potter to witness how completely the current Ministry had destroyed him, nor to be part of his last moments.

"Me? Ridiculous?" Draco said coldly, raising an eyebrow. "You can leave if you've seen enough. I'm actually quite busy, I was just counting the number of stones in the ceiling."

"What happened to you?"

"Isn’t it obvious?" Draco hissed. "They don’t exactly pamper Death Eaters in places like this."

"Malfoy—"

"Why are you even here?"

"I came to get you out."

Draco burst into laughter. "Yeah, sure, and I'm a perfectly harmless blast-ended screwt."

"No, I’m serious. I really mean it."

Draco stared at Potter as if he had grown another head. He’d assumed Potter had come to ramble something on about youthful mistakes and tragic consequences, how he hadn’t wished this fate on anyone. Not even Draco. "Oh, so you’re on another noble mission? Saving poor lost souls again?"

"Well, if you want to put it that way," Potter said impatiently. "Come on, we don't have much time."

"What do you mean we don't have much time?" Draco asked, confused. "Are you trying to tell me you broke in here?"

"Isn't it rather obvious, as if I'm wandering around here for fun in an invisibility cloak," Potter said, rolling his eyes and taking a few steps towards Draco. "Come on, let's go!"

"I'm not going anywhere."

"What do you mean you're not going anywhere?" Potter asked, puzzled.

"Why would I go anywhere? Why would I leave? There’s nothing left for me out there," Draco said, a slow, pounding headache blooming behind his eyes. Oh, how he wished he could spend his last moments in peace and alone. Not like this. Not fighting with Harry fucking Potter.

"What do you mean? How can you even say that?"

"Tell me then, Potter, what do I have left?" Draco snapped. "My parents are dead. All my friends are either dead or have fled the country. No one wants me here. I have nothing left."

"What do you mean, your parents are dead?" Potter asked, taking a few cautious steps closer. "I mean… your father, yes. But your mother, she’s still very much alive."

Draco’s heart skipped a beat.

The Aurors had been saying it every day: there would be no place for a Malfoy in the new world. He’d assumed the worst, that they had executed his mother alongside his father, that the whole family was doomed.

"What the hell are you talking about?" he hissed.

"Narcissa isn’t a Death Eater. There hasn’t even been any talk of her trial."

"Where is my mother?"

"At the Manor. Under house arrest."

Draco felt a wave of relief wash over him. Potter might have many faults, but cruelty wasn’t one of them. He wouldn’t lie about something like this.

"Malfoy, we really need to go."

Draco turned to face him, locking eyes with those annoyingly bright green ones. "Salazar, Potter, how many times do I have to say this? I’m not going anywhere."

Potter stared at him, stunned, probably not used to seeing a version of Draco that wasn’t frantically trying to save his own skin. "Why not?"

"Why do you even care?" Draco shot back. "You don’t even like me. And don’t give me that crap about second chances and the power of redemption or whatever bullshit you lot preach."

Potter’s lips thinned into a tight line.  "I do believe in second chances. And in people’s ability to change—"

"Oh, how very noble of you," Draco muttered, voice dripping with contempt.

"—but you still seem like the same arrogant git, so I’m not entirely sure about your chances," Potter said. "I just don’t want to live in a society where killing is considered justice. I don’t want any more executions in the name of war."

"So you'd use me just as a means to an end?" Draco scoffed. "No, thanks. Find some other charity case for your noble mission."

"If you won't save yourself for your own sake, then do it for your mother at least."

"Leave my mother out of this," Draco hissed, eyes flashing. "She’ll get over losing me."

"Oh, really? Even though her only significant move during the entire war was to show her loyalty to our side in an attempt to save you?" Potter said, hands on his hips. "Besides, I didn’t mean just that. Even you can’t be so naive as to think the current Ministry will stop the executions after you’re gone. Once they remove you from the picture, they’ll start digging into anyone who’s ever been associated with Voldemort or the Death Eaters. They want to erase all memories of the war completely, and your mother is likely next in line."

Draco swallowed, caught off guard for the first time since their conversation began. He hadn’t even considered what would happen after his death. "Fine. What do you suggest then?"

"Come with me. I have a place where I can hide you. If you escape, the Ministry’s focus will be solely on finding you, and they won’t have time to plan more executions."

Draco studied Potter closely. He’d always been terrible at hiding his feelings, and now, glowing with honesty, courage, and conviction, it seemed absurd to think this was some kind of trick. While Draco could trust Potter to help him escape Azkaban, teaming up with the insufferable do-gooder was still his last choice. Maybe he was already dead, and this was his personal hell.

But he couldn’t shake the thought that by letting Potter save him, he might also save his mother. Potter was probably right, even if Draco would never admit it. It was naive to think that after his death, the wizarding world would suddenly start singing and dancing hand in hand through flower meadows. They had killed wantonly too many times, and their thirst for blood and vengeance wouldn’t end with him.

“All right, I’ll go with you.”

“Oh,” Potter said, surprised. “Uh, great! We really need to hurry. I have no idea how the Aurors are guarding the sections, but we can try the same route I used to get here. At least it was deserted,” Potter babbled, grabbing his cloak and heading for the door.

Draco took a deep breath, grasped the wall for support, and struggled to his feet with all his strength. His hands and legs trembled, but eventually he managed to stand.

Only to collapse painfully back onto the floor.

Hearing Draco fall, Potter quickly turned and hesitated for a moment before coming to his side, lifting him up surprisingly gently. He draped Draco’s arm over his shoulder and wrapped his other arm tightly around Draco’s waist, bearing most of his weight. Thankfully, Potter didn’t say a word.

They moved forward extremely slowly. First out of Draco’s cell and onto a torch-lit corridor, then right, then left, up the stairs, and right again… After a while, Draco lost track of where Potter was leading him, all of his energy was entirely focused on staying conscious. If only his father could see him now, completely relying on Harry Potter, leaning on him as if his life depended on it. Well, in a way, it probably did. Lucius Malfoy would surely turn in his grave.

“Fucking hell,” Potter muttered, coming to a halt. Draco blinked, trying to focus to understand what had made the Gryffindor stop. Slowly, Draco made out the outline of a stranger in red Auror robes approaching.

Draco found it almost amusing. Potter and his grand escape plan had ended before it had properly begun, just a few corridors and one staircase from Draco’s cell.

“Mr. Potter, what on earth are you doing here?” the Auror asked, looking bewildered before turning his gaze to Draco, who, noticing the look, clung tighter to Potter. “Malfoy? What’s going on? Malfoy is the most dangerous prisoner here; he has no right to wander outside his cell; he should—”

"Imperio," Draco heard Potter whisper beside him. Suddenly, the Auror froze mid-sentence, his expression going completely blank and motionless.

Draco’s mouth dropped open in surprise. Harry Potter had just used an Unforgivable Curse. "Potter, what the hell do you think you’re doing?"

But Potter ignored him, staring intently into the Auror’s eyes. "Take us out of here by a route where we won’t be seen."

The Auror spun on his heels and began walking back the way he had come from. Draco and Potter followed cautiously, Potter still holding Draco firmly.

Right, upstairs, left, long corridor, upstairs again... At the top of the stairs, Draco flinched and closed his eyes as natural light poured in through the windows. It had been over two months since he’d last seen anything but flickering torchlight, and despite the cloudy day, the daylight felt blinding.

"Are you okay?" Potter asked, slowing his pace. He must have felt Draco’s startle.

Draco forced his eyes open and nodded. Potter nodded back, his expression set, and quickened their pace. Though it wasn’t necessary, as the Auror had just stopped in front of a large wooden door.

"Can we slip out of here unnoticed?" Potter asked the Auror, who nodded sharply. "Great. Stupefy. Obliviate ."

Draco let out a nervous grunt. "You do realize his memories can be restored sooner or later?" he said slowly as Potter opened the door for them.

"Of course. But it buys us some time."

"Not forever. What do you think the wizarding world will say when they find out their precious saviour helped a Death Eater escape?"

Potter rolled his eyes. "We don’t need to worry about that now. Let’s just get off this damn island."

"And how exactly?" Draco asked. "Even the great Harry Potter can’t get us through Azkaban’s protections. No offence."

"Just shut up for a second," Potter snapped, scanning their surroundings. To Draco, every inch of the rocky island and the roaring sea looked exactly the same.

"Sit here. I’ll be right back," Potter said, lowering Draco gently next to a large boulder, ensuring he couldn’t be seen from the door they’d just exited.

"Well, since you asked so nicely," Draco muttered as Potter disappeared from view.

Draco turned his gaze to the sea and filled his lungs with the salty air. He had thought he'd never smell the outdoors again, feel the wind on his face, or see daylight. So now, he let himself absorb it all with every sense he had. The sensation was so overwhelming that, for the first time in ages, there was no room left in him for cold or despair, even though it was nearly as chilly out here as it had been in his cell. 

So this is what being alive felt like.

A few minutes later, Potter came jogging back into view.  "Found it. Let’s go," he said, wrapping his arms around Draco and lifting him up again.

"Found what?" Draco asked as they slowly moved in the direction Potter had come from.

"A boat."

" A boat? "

"Yeah," Potter said. "Once they realize you’re gone, they'll assume you're still on the island or escaped by broom. They'll search the cliffs and skies first. We’ve got a better shot getting away by boat."

"I can’t believe I agreed to this," Draco muttered as they reached the shore, where a small wooden rowboat waited.

Potter acted as if he hadn’t heard Draco’s muttering. He helped him into the boat, then pushed the boat into the water and jumped in himself.

“Malfoy can’t be far. You three, search the inside. The rest of you, outside. I’ll contact the Ministry, we’ll need reinforcements,” came a distant shout from near the prison. Draco’s body began to tremble.

“Here, take this,” Potter said, handing him the Invisibility Cloak while setting the boat in motion with his wand.

Draco pulled the Cloak tightly around himself. It wouldn’t hide the boat or Potter, but it offered some warmth and shelter from the biting wind at least.

They travelled in silence, waves rocking the small boat, the sea roaring around them. Draco kept his eyes on the sky. He didn’t know the typical routes in and out of Azkaban, but he figured the air was the fastest. After a while, he spotted red dots darting through the clouds; Aurors, flying in all directions.

"Are you sure they won’t notice us?" Draco asked quietly.

Potter glanced up at the sky. "They’re searching too high. It’s too foggy and cloudy for them to spot us."

Draco nodded, even though Potter couldn’t see him. He turned his gaze back upward, trying to tell if the red dots were holding altitude or beginning to descend. He was so focused on watching the sky that he didn’t even notice when the boat scraped against the rocky shore of a small, deserted island, until the sudden jolt nearly tipped him overboard.

Potter grabbed him again, lifted him up, and helped him out of the boat. “ Incendio ,” he muttered, and flames immediately engulfed the boat.

“The prison’s protections shouldn’t reach this far. Hold on to me.”

Draco wrapped his arms around Potter’s shoulders, trying not to dwell on how helpless it made him feel. He could deal with that later. Potter slipped his arms around Draco’s waist, and in the next moment, Draco felt that horrible, familiar pull, like being squeezed through a narrow tube.

It ended just as abruptly as it began. Draco’s legs nearly gave out, but Potter held him upright.

“You okay?” Potter asked, breathing heavily.

“Mhm,” Draco murmured, eyes still tightly shut. He inhaled deeply, then slowly exhaled, grounding himself in the feeling of his feet on solid ground, the worn fabric of Potter’s hoodie under his fingers, and the steady weight of Potter’s arms around his waist.

When he finally felt in control of his body again, Draco slowly opened his eyes, only to find Potter’s bright gaze just inches from his own.

Salazar, this was humiliating.

“Let go of me,” Draco snapped, pushing him away with more pride than strength. Bad idea. As soon as Potter released him, Draco nearly collapsed. Potter caught him again, this time keeping a cautious distance and settling for one arm around his waist.

“Always coming in like a bull in a china shop,” came a raspy voice from the stairs. An elderly-looking house-elf descended slowly, muttering to himself. “How many times has Kreacher told Master that if he wants to avoid Mistress’s scolding, he must enter the hall quietly?”

Then his eyes landed on Draco.

“Oh! Master has brought a guest!” the elf exclaimed and bowed deeply.

“Kreacher, I’ve told you not to bow to me,” Potter said, clearly irritated. “Kreacher, this is Draco Malfoy. Malfoy, this is Kreacher.”

“Malfoy? The only son of the noble Narcissa Black?” Kreacher said, eyes going wide with astonishment.

"Yes. Malfoy will be staying with us for a while, but no one must know he's here. I mean no one, only the three of us should know," Potter said firmly. "And would you be kind enough to prepare food for Malfoy and attend to his requests while he's here?"

"Of course, it would be a great honour for Kreacher," the elf replied, bowing so deeply his nose nearly touched the floor. "Kreacher will prepare dinner at once. We must have a feast to honour the guest," he added, leaving the hall with a loud bang.

Draco blinked, confused. "So, who exactly was that?"

"Kreacher, the house-elf of Grimmauld Place."

Grimmauld Place… The name sounded vaguely familiar.

"Great Aunt Walburga…" Draco muttered.

"Yeah, this is her old house. Want to see your room?" Potter asked impatiently, tugging Draco gently toward the stairs.

They barely made it a few steps up before Draco's legs gave out completely. Potter the idiot probably intended to carry him upstairs, but thankfully, noticing Draco’s threatening glare, he apparated them straight into the room instead.

As they entered the room, Draco collapsed onto the huge, soft four-poster bed and closed his eyes. Fortunately, Potter had apparated right next to the bed, because Draco would likely have passed out if he hadn’t been able to lie down immediately.

“Let me know if you need anything. And you can ask Kreacher for whatever you like,” Potter said, sounding a bit awkward.

“Mm-hmm,” Draco mumbled, wishing Potter would just leave him alone.

“I, uh, I’ll leave you to rest,” Potter said. This time Draco didn’t even bother to respond, simply waiting until he heard the door snap shut behind him.

Draco sighed deeply, rolled onto his side, and to his relief, fell into a light sleep almost instantly.

For the first time in a long while, only his mind remained in Azkaban, in that small, cold underground cell, while his body rested elsewhere, on a huge, soft four-poster bed, wrapped tightly in a thick, warm blanket.

Chapter Text

The next morning, Draco woke with a jolt, his heart pounding and skin clammy with cold sweat. His whole body was shaking. He forced himself to breathe, slow, steady inhales through his mouth, trying to quiet the frantic rhythm in his chest and pull his mind back from the nightmare it had been trapped in just moments before.

There was a white canopy above him, clean sheets beneath him, and a warm, soft blanket pulled over his body. Sunlight streamed through the window, spilling pale golden streaks across the floor.

He was still alive.
He wasn’t in Azkaban anymore.

Draco closed his eyes for a moment and let his mind drift back to the events of the previous day. Everything since the moment Potter had appeared in his cell felt like one long, bizarre, surreal dream, which, to be fair, he still half suspected it was. People did tend to lose their grip on reality in Azkaban, Dementors or not.

He opened his eyes again, scanning the room. There was something vaguely familiar about the dark red wallpaper and the tall windows. He could’ve sworn he’d run through this room as a child, bouncing with excitement on that same oversized four-poster bed. Such behaviour had never been tolerated at the manor, of course, but as Great Aunt Walburga’s sweet little angel, she had always just chuckled fondly at his antics. He still remembered how the room had seemed enormous and grand through the eyes of a small child, and it still was, but just much shabbier now; Potter clearly wasn’t too fussed about keeping up the noble and ancient legacy. But at least the room was clean, and the bed was warm and soft, though after a stone floor and a mouldy blanket, even a mattress stuffed with hay might’ve felt like luxury.

"Malfoy?" came a soft voice from behind the door, followed by a knock that made Draco flinch.

"What?" he grunted.

Potter pushed the door open cautiously and stepped inside. “Good morning. Did you get any sleep?” He sounded almost ridiculously rehearsed, like he’d practised the exact words and tone in front of a mirror.

Draco didn’t bother replying. He just stared blankly at the canopy above his bed. It was actually quite a nice canopy, a bit faded, slightly moth-eaten maybe, but it gave the bed a nice, antique charm.

"Right," Potter muttered, clearly annoyed. "Here. I brought you food," he added, dropping a large silver tray onto the bedside table with a clatter.

"Not hungry," Draco heard himself say, though the food smelled ridiculously good. He knew he was being childish but had no desire to be nice to Potter.

"Right. Judging by how you look, you must still be full from all that Azkaban fine dining."

“Do you honestly think insulting me will magically bring my appetite back?”

Draco could hear Potter take a deep breath. Then another. Seemed like the Chosen One had finally decided to practise controlling his hot temper.

“Okay, sorry. Didn’t mean—” Potter started, still tense but more controlled now. “Is there something else you want?”

“A bath.”

“A bath?”

“Yes, Potter. A bath,” Draco repeated slowly and deliberately, as if talking to a particularly slow house-elf.

“Um. Right?” Potter glanced around, clearly confused. “Your room has a private bathroom,” he said, gesturing to the mahogany door on the left.

Draco rolled his eyes dramatically. “Do you really think I can get there on my own?”

This might turn out to be fun after all, bossing Potter around like a common errand boy.

Potter pressed his lips into a tight line, marched into the bathroom, and turned on the taps.

“The water should be exactly thirty-seven degrees,” Draco said sweetly as Potter returned, slipped an arm around his waist, and hoisted him up far less gracefully than Draco would have liked. “And I’ll need lavender soap, bath salts, and a glass of the finest champagne this house has to offer, if that’s not too much trouble.”

“Shut up already, will you?” Potter muttered, lowering him onto the edge of the tub.

“What?” Draco asked, sounding as innocent as possible. Potter just turned on his heel and began to leave.

“And who’s going to help me out of here?” Draco called after him.

“Get Kreacher to levitate you. See if I care,” Potter snapped, slamming the bathroom door shut behind him.

--*--*--*--*--

About an hour later, Draco was back in bed, having, against all odds and despite his excessive complaining, actually made it there on his own. He hadn’t realised how much a half-decent night’s sleep and a proper bath could do for one’s energy levels, both physically and mentally. 

To his mild surprise, he had also managed to eat a bit. After his bath, he’d eyed the breakfast tray Potter had brought with deep suspicion, but eventually decided to try just a little. The tray was piled with everything imaginable: toast, bacon, omelette, cheeses, colourful fruits, vegetables, cookies and pancakes. Not knowing what his stomach could handle after weeks of near-starvation, he started cautiously with a few bites of fruits and vegetables. When nothing bad seemed to happen, he dared to nibble the tiniest corner of a bacon strip. The food made his stomach churn, as expected, but to his surprise, it stayed down. 

Now he felt oddly relaxed. Almost serene, even.

There was a knock on the door again.  

“Is it all right if I come in?” Potter asked from the other side.

Draco didn’t answer. It didn’t matter what he said anyway; Potter would come in regardless.

“I brought lunch,” Potter said, opening the door with a fresh silver tray in hand.

“Not hungry. I just ate,” Draco said flatly. Potter eyed the breakfast tray suspiciously, probably doubting Draco had touched any of it. “Besides, don’t you have a house-elf? Why are you carrying these trays around yourself?”

“Kreacher was... busy.”

“Right,” Draco scoffed. “You just want to keep watch on your charity case.”

“I told you, you’re not a charity case.”

“Aren’t I? Then tell me, Potter, what am I to you? A buddy? A friend? Just a casual acquaintance? Because you made it very clear at school just how much you liked me.”

“As if you didn’t do the exact same thing,” Potter muttered.

“That’s not what I asked. I know perfectly well what I did and didn’t do, thank you very much. I asked about you . Because your thoughts and feelings are in pretty obvious conflict with your current actions.”

Potter fell silent, clearly weighing his words.

“I—”

“ Harry! ” Hermione Granger’s voice suddenly echoed from downstairs, cutting him off.

Potter’s eyes widened in horror. “Oh, shit.”

“What? Don’t tell me Weasel and the Mud—”

“Stay here and stay quiet, okay?” Potter said, already backing toward the door.

“But—”

“ Okay? ”

“Yeah, whatever,” Draco muttered begrudgingly. Potter shot him a quick, doubtful glance before slipping out of the room.

“ I thought you weren’t home ,” Granger’s voice came faintly from below as Potter hurried down the stairs. Draco hesitated a moment, but the curiosity won out almost immediately. He dragged himself slowly over to the door and pressed his ear tightly against it.

“ I was just... uh, napping. ”

“Harry James Potter, you’re one of the worst liars in the entire universe,” Granger said sharply.

“No, I mean it, I was really just napping.”

“Harry—”

“’Mione, I think we can have this conversation a bit later, right?” Weasley interrupted.

“What? Has something happened?” Potter asked quickly.

“You haven’t read the Prophet yet?” Granger asked.

“I don’t read that crap, you know that.”

“Malfoy has escaped,” Weasley said grimly.

“What?!” Potter exclaimed, sounding so genuinely shocked that Draco had to give him some credit.

“Oh, come on, you can’t seriously say you haven’t heard about this already,” Granger said. “He escaped from Azkaban yesterday afternoon. It’s still a complete mystery how, but the only clue we have is that one of the Aurors on duty was Obliviated, which suggests Malfoy had outside help. He doesn’t even have a wand.”

“You think he didn’t just snatch a wand off one of the Aurors and use it?” Weasley suggested.

“Technically, it’s possible, but highly unlikely. None of the Aurors reported a missing wand, and let’s be honest, Malfoy probably isn’t in top physical condition after Azkaban.”

“Why didn’t anyone tell me about this yesterday?” Potter asked, sounding mildly annoyed.

“I think the Ministry tried to keep it quiet for as long as they could. We only found out because of the Prophet this morning,” Granger said. “Besides, you’re a civilian now. This technically doesn’t even concern you.”

“I know,” Potter muttered through gritted teeth. “But Kingsley knows damn well how much we’ve invested in this case.”

Weasley snorted. “All that effort, down the drain. Should’ve known Malfoy would eventually slither away like nothing happened.”

“Ronald,” Granger snapped warningly.

“No, but seriously. I’m not saying I want him executed or anything, but it’s not like I like him either. And there’s no way he just magically became a better person overnight. He’s still a Death Eater. No one knows what he might be planning now that he’s loose.”

Something about Weasley’s words made Draco’s stomach twist. He slowly rolled up his left sleeve and stared blankly at the Dark Mark emerging inch by inch. Had he ever truly believed in what it stood for? He wasn’t sure. On some level, yes; in the same way children believe everything their parents say, building their worldview around those words, and everything else is a lie. 

Toward the end of the war, Draco had realised that the “truth” his parents had given him probably wasn’t the only one, and certainly not the right one. People seemed to live by many different truths, each as absolute to them as his had been to him. In theory, he could have chosen another one. But by the time he had understood that, it had been far too late. The Mark had already been burned into his skin, announcing to the world exactly whose truth he had chosen to follow.

He had been too deep in it. And there had been no turning back.

Draco’s fingers brushed faintly over the edges of the Mark. Everything could have been different if he had never taken it. He wouldn’t be hated, branded, hunted. He wouldn’t probably be exactly liked , either, but at least he wouldn’t be walking around with a target carved into his arm.

“I doubt any of us like Malfoy,” Granger said suddenly, pulling Draco back from his thoughts, “but honestly, he’s more of a pretentious prat than an actual criminal. You saw him during the war; he could barely go through with any of the things the real Death Eaters did.” She paused. “And I really don’t see him being a threat right now. He’s probably just hiding somewhere, trying to recover.”

“Does the Ministry have any idea where he might’ve gone?” Potter asked.

“I don’t think so. He definitely hasn’t tried to return to the Manor; it’s under full watch since Narcissa’s arrest. And he doesn’t have many allies left. I just can’t figure out who could’ve helped him. Or how.”

“Doesn’t matter. We’ll know soon enough,” Weasley said. “The Ministry’s probably thrown all their resources into finding him. And if they can’t track him down another way, they’ll use the Obliviated Auror. I bet he’ll have plenty to say once they get his memory back.”

“Yeah, right,” Granger muttered. “Everything should be fine as long as Malfoy stays hidden long enough for us to reverse the Wizengamot’s ruling.”

"So, you’re going to keep investigating this?" Potter asked.

"Of course. Malfoy’s escape will delay the executions for a while, which gives us the perfect window to try to stop them completely," Granger said briskly. "Speaking of which, mind if I borrow your library? There must be something in the Black family’s collection besides just Dark magic."

"Uh, yeah, sure, but maybe some other day?" Potter replied, sounding slightly uncomfortable.

"And not today?"

"Hermione, let’s give Harry a break. He clearly had something going on before we showed up," Weasley cut in.

"Fine, okay," Granger said, mildly annoyed. "Send me an owl when it’s a good time for me to come by, will you?"

"I can also take a look myself in the next few days."

"Really? That would actually save me a lot of time. The Ministry archives still have an entire wing I haven’t gotten through yet."

As Weasley and Granger began saying their goodbyes, Draco stopped listening and drifted back into his thoughts. He couldn’t fathom why these self-righteous do-gooders had wasted so much effort on saving him . Or well, not just him, but others like him, who had fought on the Dark Lord’s side. What on earth could be their real motive? They certainly had never liked Draco, and he sure as hell had done nothing to try to win their approval either, which made the whole thing feel even more absurd.

Then again, now that Draco thought about it, the trio, especially Potter, had always seemed to try to save him despite their complicated past. Even twice during the Battle of Hogwarts when he’d been close to dying thanks to his so-called own side. Maybe this was just their idea of the world. Their “truth.” A fairytale where even criminals were worth saving. Where everyone, even he, deserved a second chance.

The door Draco had been absentmindedly leaning against suddenly opened, nearly making him topple over.

"What the hell are you doing sitting on the ground?" Potter asked, frowning as Draco scrambled ungracefully to his feet.

"Just wanted to see what the room looked like from this angle," Draco said, trying to stand as tall as possible under Potter’s suspicious stare. But his legs didn’t quite cooperate, and he had to lean back against the wall for support.

"You were eavesdropping," Potter said, eyes narrowing.

"Wow, Potter. Top-notch observational skills." Draco smirked. "Tell me, are there cracks forming in the Golden Trio?"

"What’s that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing specific. I’m just pointing out that you clearly haven’t told your so-called best friends you’re hiding an outlaw in your house."

The look on Potter’s face darkened instantly, his expression turning sharp, almost threatening.

"That is none of your business."

"Just admit it, you don’t trust them," Draco said, not even sure himself what he was trying to provoke.

"Of course I trust them. I’m not about to justify myself to you."

"So, it’s just about you then. You want to play the lone hero. Is it a habit of yours, keeping massive, dirty secrets from your friends? What do you think they’ll say when they find out what you’ve been hiding?"

Draco knew he was asking for it, but it felt far too natural, too safe, to slip back into the familiar role of getting under Potter’s skin.

"Drop it," Potter growled, his hands curling into fists.

"Aw, did I touch a nerve?" Draco sneered. "Is the wizarding world’s golden trio not quite as picture-perfect as the press claims?"

“Piss off, Malfoy,” Potter snapped, spinning on his heel and slamming the door in Draco’s face.

Draco held his breath, listening to the heavy thuds of footsteps retreating down the stairs, followed by the unmistakable bang of the front door.

He let the air out slowly. He was completely alone in the house.

He had no idea what the hell was wrong with him, what made him act like this every time he had to talk to Potter. He knew, deep down, that Potter was trying. That he probably even meant well. And yet Draco couldn’t let go of his old patterns. Being a prick kept Potter at arm’s length, where it felt safer.

And honestly, he wanted to keep him at arm’s length. Objectively speaking, Draco was nothing more than a pawn in Potter’s grand plan, a means to an end, no matter how much comfort or care he pretended to offer. It didn’t matter that he was no longer in Azkaban. He was still a prisoner. Just in a slightly nicer prison.

He wasn’t allowed outside. He didn’t know if he ever would be again. Everything was still so uncertain, so murky and pointless, that he couldn’t say escaping Azkaban had brought him any real hope. Probably not. Not when he could never see his parents again. Not when he could never undo what he’d done. Not with the Dark Mark still crawling on his skin, impossible to erase.

Draco’s breathing grew shallower and faster. It felt like an invisible hand was clutching his throat, and his Mark — it burned . Like it was on fire.

Merlin, if only he could get rid of it.

He had to get rid of it.

He had to. Now.

With trembling legs, Draco began making his way downstairs, gripping the bannister and walls for support.

His head buzzed with static. He couldn’t focus on anything except the fire under his skin and the phantom pressure on his throat. He needed to breathe . He needed to get the Mark off.

In the kitchen, he began yanking open drawers with frantic, shaky hands. He just needed something sharp. Anything.

Finally, his fingers closed around the handle of a rusty old bread knife.

It would have to do.

Tattoos only went through the outermost layer of skin. Theoretically, the Dark Mark couldn't be much deeper. He just had to scrape. Just enough.

Pain shot through his arm the second the blade met his skin, radiating out in waves that made his whole body shudder. Something warm and sticky trickled down his arm, and he could smell the bitter scent of iron. But beneath the pain, there was relief — for the first time in ages, he felt like he could actually breathe .

Good. Just a little more. I can do this.

But he couldn’t.

The knife slipped from his grasp, clattering loudly to the floor as Draco collapsed after it, his body folding in on itself like a ragdoll.

Damn it. He had to keep going. He was so close. But everything was starting to blur, his vision dimming and swimming in and out, no matter how hard he tried to blink it into focus.

"Malfoy — oh fuck, Malfoy — what the hell are you doing?" came Potter’s panicked voice, distant and sharp, as if from underwater. "Malfoy, stay with me. Come on, don’t you dare black out. You absolute fucking idiot," Potter muttered, slapping Draco’s cheeks lightly.

But Draco couldn’t stay conscious.

No matter how hard he fought it, the darkness was far too comforting, too heavy and irresistible, and it pulled him under without mercy.

He forced his eyes open one last time, just long enough to see Potter’s face twisted with worry.

And then he let go.

Chapter Text

Draco lay on the grass outside the manor, early summer sunlight warm on his face, a light breeze ruffling his hair. Flowers were blooming, their scent mingling with the cheerful singing of birds newly returned from the south.

He felt kind of like them, as if he’d also just come back from something dark and cold, and now he could simply breathe. Everything here felt still, safe, untouched.

He didn’t know how long he’d been lying there. A minute, a day? Time didn’t seem to move, or maybe it just didn’t matter. People spoke of places beyond time, free of pain and grief, a paradise. Maybe this garden was it for him.

But the illusion wavered as a voice called his name, faint beneath the birdsong. He sighed. It had to be his mother. No one else ever cared where he disappeared to. Probably another dull dinner with the Notts or the bloody Fudges, and she wanted him to be presentable.

“ Malfoy. ”

Draco frowned. That was... odd. His mother never called him by his surname. Not even when he’d thoroughly pissed her off.

“ Malfoy .”

No, that definitely wasn’t her voice. It was too deep. Too rough.

“ Malfoy! ”

A creeping doubt began to rise in him. He wasn’t in the garden. He wasn’t home. The birds stopped singing, the sun vanished from his skin, and the wind fell still. The peaceful weightlessness evaporated, replaced by searing, stabbing pain that radiated from his left forearm through his whole body.

Draco gasped and opened his eyes.

He lay still for a moment, blinking up at unfamiliar white canopy fabric until his vision cleared and the world solidified around him again.

“Malfoy?” Potter’s voice filtered through from somewhere nearby, and a hand was gently shaking his shoulder. “Malfoy, can you say something so I know you’re not brain-dead or something?”

Draco turned his head slowly. Potter was sitting right beside the bed, his face tense with worry.

“I’m...” Draco croaked, then coughed, trying to clear his dry throat. “I’m fine.”

“Sure you are,” Potter muttered. “You lost a lot of blood, you idiot, and were unconscious for a full day. You’re lucky Kreacher was here and knew the right spells. I’m shit at healing magic and… If he hadn’t been here, I don’t... I don’t know if I could’ve saved you.”

Draco gave a faint, humourless laugh. “Harry Potter, saviour of the wizarding world, failing to save the last Death Eater. Now that would’ve been a tragedy.”

“Why did you do it?” Potter asked quietly, ignoring the jab. “Did you try to kill yourself or what?”

“No I didn’t,” Draco muttered. “I just wanted to get rid of... you know.”

“The Mark?”

Draco gave a half-smile. “It was supposed to be a scratch. That’s all.”

“A scratch?” Potter echoed, incredulous. “Even a paper cut would be too much for you right now.. Did you really think you could just carve it off?”

“I panicked, okay?” Draco snapped, cheeks flushing. “Stop acting like some overprotective parent, it doesn’t suit you.”

Looking back, it was hard to believe he’d thought a rusty bread knife would fix anything, but at the time it had seemed like the only way out of the crushing panic, the only way to breathe again. Not that he’d ever tell Potter that.

He watched Potter pinch the bridge of his nose and let out an overly dramatic sigh.

“Does it hurt?” Potter asked after a pause.

“What?”

“The wound. Does it hurt?”

Draco glanced down and realised his arm had been carefully wrapped in clean white bandages.

“Kreacher couldn’t heal it all the way,” Potter explained, voice oddly casual. “The Mark didn’t exactly like being tampered with. I put clean gauze and some Essence of Dittany in your drawer. It should help with the pain and speed up healing. I could, uh, help you change the bandage if you want.”

“No,” Draco said, sharper than intended. “I mean... I’ll just ask Kreacher.”

Potter looked mildly offended but gave a small nod. “Right. I’ll ask him to bring you dinner too,” he said, standing up and heading for the door. “Malfoy?” he added, glancing back from the doorway.

“What?”

“Please don’t ever do that again.”

--*--*--*--*--

Once Potter had left, Draco closed his eyes and let himself drift back to sleep. Or he would have, if only he could’ve caught hold of it. Apparently, his body had decided that twenty-four hours of unconsciousness was quite enough rest for now, and both his mind and body were far too awake and far too restless to relax.

Fucking Potter. 

It was entirely Potter’s fault that Draco was now staring at the frayed canopy of his four-poster bed again, pain slicing through his arm, an odd hollow tightness settling in his chest, and a vague stinging behind his eyes.

He blinked a few times, sharply, trying to force the tears back. He was not going to cry. Not because of Potter.

What kept bothering him the most was still the thought that he might only have instrumental value to Potter. What hurt, more than he liked to admit, was the fact that Potter kept taking care of him, helping him, acting like he actually gave a shit when they both knew perfectly well that wasn’t the case.

Not that Draco wanted Potter to care. What he missed was the feeling of being cared for by people he cared about. After the war, anyone who had ever cared about him had vanished, one by one, some unwillingly, and some very deliberately, loudly denying they’d ever had anything to do with Draco or his family.

Friends and family had always been something constant, something he could always count on to support and take care of him. There was something bittersweet about how much Potter’s behaviour reminded him of what it used to feel like, to belong, to be heard, to be seen, to matter to someone. 

And now, here he was stuck under the same roof as Potter and his deranged house-elf for Merlin knew how long, and there was absolutely nothing he could do about it. Unless, perhaps, he managed to convince said deranged house-elf to knock him out every few hours. Which seemed rather unlikely, given how alarmingly strong the elf’s nurturing instincts were. But if there was one thing Draco knew for sure, it was that he couldn’t keep staring at the wrinkled canopy of this bed for much longer without going stark raving mad.

Pop.

Draco flinched.

“I’d appreciate it if you actually used the door,” he muttered, heart pounding as the house-elf set down the dinner tray on the bedside table and started digging through the drawer.

“Master asked me to bring dinner to the noble Mister Malfoy and assist with changing the gauze,” Kreacher rasped, sounding a bit puzzled as he carefully reached for Draco’s injured arm.

“Yeah, I know that. I just… never mind,” Draco said, sharply turning his face toward the wall. No way was he looking at the Dark Mark right now.

“Oh, and could you maybe call me something other than Mister Malfoy?”

“But that is Mister Malfoy’s name,” Kreacher said, still confused. “What else would Kreacher call Mister Malfoy?”

“My first name. Just… Draco.”

“Mister Draco?” the elf asked, tightening the clean gauze.

“Just Draco,” Draco insisted, though he knew it was a lost cause. Anything but ‘Mister Malfoy.’ That sounded far too much like his father.

“There. Master’s orders are fulfilled,” Kreacher said briskly, packing away the supplies. “Dinner has been served. Mister Draco should eat before it gets cold.”

“Well… Actually, I was thinking I might come downstairs to eat tonight,” Draco said quickly, before he could change his mind.

Kreacher blinked at him with those round, ancient eyes wide with surprise.

“Of course, sir! Oh, how delighted Master will be to have company for dinner!”

“Great,” Draco muttered, swinging his legs over the side of the bed — only to realise he was still stuck in those awful prison greys he’d put back on after the bath the other day. He hadn’t even gotten around to asking Potter for fresh clothes, mostly because he’d pissed him off before that could happen.

“Uh, Kreacher? Got anything else in this house I could wear?”

Kreacher’s eyes swept over him from head to toe.

“Yes, sir. Master has some spare clothes. Kreacher will fetch them.”

With another loud pop , the elf was gone.

Draco hadn’t had time to specify that he’d prefer anything else but Potter’s old rags, because surely there had to be something left behind by the house’s long line of previous owners.

But when the elf returned, balancing a small stack of clothes, Draco decided not to say anything after all.

“Master hasn’t worn these in years,” Kreacher announced. “He won’t even notice they’re gone.”

Draco felt his cheeks flush at the idea of wearing Potter’s clothes. Especially Potter’s old clothes.

He waited until Kreacher politely turned his back before stripping off the prison greys and pulling on a massive white hoodie and a pair of black sweatpants, which were so big he could’ve probably fit into just one leg.

“Is this meant to be a tent or an actual piece of clothing?” he muttered, eyeing the front of the hoodie, which bore the faded orange words Smeltings’94 , whatever that was supposed to mean.

“Kreacher, could you shrink these a bit for me?”

The elf turned, looked him over, and Draco could’ve sworn his mouth twitched before he raised a hand and muttered something unintelligible.

Even after shrinking, the clothes weren’t exactly well-fitted, but they’d have to do. At least they were quite an improvement over Azkaban uniforms. 

“Kreacher can help you downstairs. You may lean on Kreacher if needed,” the elf said, stepping toward him.

“That won’t be necessary,” Draco replied, but Kreacher grabbed his arm anyway, and Draco let him, and they started moving slowly toward the stairs.

They didn’t get far before the elf suddenly tightened his grip and Apparated them straight to the dining room door without a warning.

“Master, Mister Draco would like to join you for dinner tonight!” Kreacher croaked excitedly.

“If that’s all right,” Draco added, leaning heavily against the doorframe, closing his eyes for a second to get the room to stop spinning. Apparition still felt horrible.

Potter stared at him, frozen, fork halfway to his mouth and blinking like he couldn’t believe his eyes.

“If I might ask, could you maybe say something sometime this century?” Draco said impatiently, his legs beginning to shake.

“Uh. Right. Yes. Sit down,” Potter said finally, getting up to fetch a plate and cutlery.

“Kreacher will take care of it,” the elf said quickly, guiding Draco to sit across from Potter and snapping his fingers to summon utensils.

“Call if either of the gentlemen requires anything else,” he added, bowing and vanishing toward the kitchen.

Draco stared at his empty plate, suddenly unsure what to do with his hands. Which was ridiculous. He’d known since he was four how to hold a wine glass and which fork to use for what, but right now, it all felt strangely difficult.

“Um—would you like some wine?” Potter asked awkwardly.

 Clearly, Draco wasn’t the only one feeling off.

“I would, yes,” Draco said, lifting his gaze.

Potter stood and opened a nearby cupboard.

 “Any preference?”

“No, anything’s fine.”

“No more insisting it be the finest champagne in the house?” Potter muttered at the cupboard, and Draco wasn’t sure whether to be offended or amused.

This had been a bad idea. There was no way they could act like civilised adults around each other for more than five minutes. Maybe it wasn’t too late to back out. Maybe he could just tell Kreacher this had all been a mistake and have him Apparate him straight back to his room and—

“I don’t really know anything about wines,” Potter rambled, “I usually just drink beer. But I’ve heard red goes with meat and white with fish, except apparently there are dry whites and sweet whites and semi-dry and I don’t really know which is—”

“Potter. Stop,” Draco said sharply. “Whatever you’ve picked is fine. I’m not picky.”

Potter raised an eyebrow, and Draco was pretty sure it was amusement this time.

“Suit yourself,” he said, pouring them each a glass and sitting back down.

The table had been set with fresh salad, sliced fruit, potatoes, and some delicious-smelling salmon with sauce. Despite how tempting it all looked, Draco served himself cautiously. He still had no idea what, how much and how fast his stomach would tolerate.

Not that there was much risk of him eating fast anyway. It turned out eating with one hand was harder than he’d expected. He tried, at first, to use both knife and fork properly, but every time his left arm so much as moved, pain shot through it. Eventually, he gave up, switched his fork to his right hand, and let his left rest in his lap.

“Did the Essence of Dittany help at all?” Potter asked, watching him warily over his glass.

Draco nodded. “It did. The pain isn’t nearly as bad now, just when I move it, or if something presses against the wound.”

“That’s good.”

“Mm.”

“Uh… Malfoy?”

“Hm?”

“What made you change your mind?” Potter asked, green eyes sharp now, curious, fixed on him.

“Change my mind?”

“A while ago, you looked like you’d rather drown yourself than have dinner with me.”

Draco gave a small shrug, trying for casual. “I just figured, since I’m stuck here—Merlin knows for how long—with only you and your disturbingly enthusiastic house-elf for company, I might as well try to interact a bit sometimes.”

Potter blinked, glanced at Draco’s wine glass, then back at him like he was trying to figure out whether he was joking or drunk.

Draco narrowed his eyes. “Don’t look at me like that. And don’t overthink it. It doesn’t mean I suddenly like you.”

“That’s not what I—” Potter hesitated, then his tone shifted, quieter. “I just don’t want you to feel like a prisoner.”

“I am a prisoner,” Draco said, voice soft but steady. A dry smile played on his lips. “And that’s fine. Or… it has to be. I’m getting used to the idea. Or at least trying to.”

Potter looked like he wanted to argue, then changed his mind and just nodded. The quiet that followed wasn’t entirely uncomfortable, but it wasn’t comfortable either. Like balancing on fragile ice. One wrong word, and they’d both go crashing through.

“More wine?” Potter asked, already refilling Draco’s glass before he could answer. “What I’m trying to say is that you don’t have to stay shut away in your room. You’re free to walk around the house and eat whatever you want, just ask me or Kreacher for anything you need. And there’s also a huge library if you’d like to, you know, read or something.”

Draco watched him for a moment, then set down his fork. “A library?”

“Yeah. The Black collection.”

“I know,” Draco said. “I’ve been in there when I was a kid. We used to visit sometimes, when my great-aunt still lived.”

“Right. Well… it’s yours to explore. No one else goes in there. Except Kreacher, probably.”

“Thanks, I guess”, Draco said and took another sip of wine. 

Potter gave a small, awkward smile. “Uh, and Malfoy?”

Draco sighed. “What now?”

“I meant to ask this earlier but… what are you wearing?”

Draco looked down at the hoodie and lifted the hem slightly. “This? That’s actually what I wanted to ask you . What the hell do you even keep in your closets?”

“That’s not—” Potter squinted, then frowned. “Wait… is that a Smeltings hoodie?”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “Wouldn’t know. But these massive, orange letters seem to suggest so. Whatever ‘Smeltings’ is.”

Potter let out a half-laugh. “It’s… a school. My cousin went there. That hoodie was his.”

“Touching,” Draco muttered. “You hoard your cousin’s castoffs now? What for? Nostalgia? You couldn’t have fit into this even before it was shrunk. You and Weasley could’ve shared it like a tent.”

He thought he was being funny but then he saw the way Potter’s shoulders stiffened, the faint flicker of something unreadable in his eyes.

For a moment, Potter didn’t say anything, he just stared at the table, lips pressed into a line, before picking up his wine and finishing it in one go.

“I think I’m done here,” he said, quieter than before. “Thanks for dinner. Need help getting back upstairs?”

Draco shook his head slowly. “No. I’ve got it. But… thanks.”

“Night, Malfoy.”

“Night, Potter.”

He watched the door swing shut behind Potter. And for a while, he just sat there wondering if this was just how they worked, always managing to say something wrong, even without trying.

Chapter Text

“So, have you found anything useful in the Black collection?” Hermione asked from across the table, peering over her pint in the dim light of a Muggle pub. The place was shabby, with grimy windows that probably hadn’t been cleaned in years, and the only other customers seemed to be the kind of grumpy regulars who paid no attention to Harry, Ron, or Hermione, which suited them just fine.

“Not yet,” Harry said, and Hermione frowned at him. “But I’ve started going through the books.”
If Harry was being completely honest, it was actually Malfoy who had started going through them, but Harry had tried to help, for as long as his concentration skills would let him, anyway. Which, admittedly, wasn’t very long at a time.

Then again, Malfoy hadn’t turned out to be quite as methodical as Harry had expected, either. Sure, he could focus for hours at a stretch, but his interest always ended up drifting toward ancient magic, seasonal rituals, Chinese healing traditions, the greatest witches and wizards of the Middle Ages, and whatnot. In other words, almost anything except law. Not that Harry minded. Honestly, he was just glad Malfoy had finally started to move around Grimmauld Place more freely and seemed... well, lighter somehow. He even had a habit now of joining Harry for lunch and dinner, and Harry had been quietly relieved to see that Malfoy’s bones weren’t sticking out quite so much anymore, and that bit by bit, he was starting to look more like his old pre-war self.

“Thanks, Harry. It really helps if you can manage to get through them. Even if there’s nothing useful, at least we’ll have ruled it out.”

“Have you found anything at the Ministry?”

Hermione let out a sigh. “No. I’ve gone through nearly everything, and there’s just... nothing. Nothing even remotely like this. Meanwhile, there are entire shelves full of everything else that doesn’t even belong there. It’s like someone’s deliberately scrubbed the place clean of anything to do with war trials.”

Harry gave a dry laugh. “Wouldn’t surprise me if they had.”

“But we, or, well, actually Ron,” Hermione said, glancing at her boyfriend with a warm smile, “came up with a new idea.”

Harry looked over at Ron and raised his eyebrows.

“Well, I just figured,” Ron said with a shrug, “if we’ve got access to the Black family’s library, why not try and get into the collections of other old wizarding families too? The Ministry’s selection is rubbish anyway, because the pureblood families guard their libraries like dragons.”

“And you think they’d actually let us look through their collections?”

“You’re joking, right?” Ron said. “A lot of the pureblood families that are still left have lost family and friends because of the Ministry. They’d love nothing more than to help anyone trying to mess with it, even just a little.”

“We’ve already started asking around, seeing whose libraries we might be able to access. Do you remember Theodore Nott from our year?” Hermione asked, and Harry nodded. “He’s given us full permission to go through the Notts’ collection. And on top of that, we’ve already heard back from the Goyles, the Flints, the Greengrasses, the Macmillans and the Abbotts. We’re still waiting to hear from a few others, but if all goes well, we could end up with access to the archives of ten different families.”

Harry felt his heart thud a little faster. Finally, some real progress. Something that might actually lead somewhere. “That’s a brilliant idea. When are you starting? Do you want help?”

Hermione shook her head. “I don’t think so. You’ve got your hands full with the Black collection already. Ron and I are planning to visit each place together, and it looks like every family is willing to help us go through their libraries. But don’t get too excited yet, this is going to be slow. Really slow.”

“Yeah, I know,” Harry said. “It’s just been so bloody frustrating, you know? Like we haven’t moved forward at all.”

He turned to Ron. “Do you think your family might have something?”

“Have you ever met my family?” Ron snorted. “I doubt it. In case you haven’t noticed, we’re not exactly big on the whole pureblood culture or ancient traditions. I think we’ve got more of Dad’s Muggle gadgets lying around than old wizarding books. I could ask Great Aunt Muriel, though, she might have something stashed away.”

“And I’m guessing the Malfoy collection is off-limits?” Harry asked.

“Yes,” Hermione said with a sigh. “Narcissa’s under house arrest, and she’s only allowed visitors in very specific emergencies. I don’t think the Ministry would count this as one.”

She bit her lip, looking a bit hesitant. “Harry, I’ve been meaning to ask you for a while; do you know anything about your own family’s collection? Did your parents leave you anything?”

“You know they didn’t,” Harry said. “Just some gold in Gringotts and my dad’s Invisibility Cloak. Everything else at Godric’s Hollow was destroyed the night Voldemort killed them.”

“But no one ever mentioned if the Potters had a library? Not even Dumbledore?”

“No clue,” Harry said, a bit annoyed. “Maybe we did, maybe we didn’t. Doesn’t matter now, does it? If we did have one, it’s gone. And no one’s ever said a word to me about it.”

“Okay. I just wanted to be sure,” Hermione said quietly.

“Yeah, I get it,” Harry said with a sigh. “So we’ve got a plan now, then? You two dig through the libraries of the old pureblood families, and I’ll keep working on the Black collection?”

“Sounds good,” Hermione said with a nod. “And Harry, let us know straight away if you find anything that might help, okay?”

“Same to you,” Harry replied, pushing his half-full pint to the middle of the table. “Was there anything else we needed to talk about? Kreacher’s probably already made dinner.”

“Actually,” Ron said loudly, and both he and Hermione suddenly looked a bit too concerned for Harry’s liking, “we wanted to ask how you’ve been. You’ve seemed kind of distant lately.”

“Have I?” Harry asked, surprised. He had realised that living under the same roof as Malfoy was taking up a lot of his time and energy, but he hadn’t thought anyone else had noticed.

“You have,” Hermione confirmed. “Is it still about Malfoy disappearing? There’s been no sign of him, so he’s clearly found a good place to hide. Don’t waste too much energy worrying about him.”

“I’m not worried about him,” Harry said defensively. “Well, okay, maybe a little, he is kind of the reason we’re doing all this in the first place. But no, I’ve just needed a bit of space. After the war... it’s just been hard, sometimes, being around people. You know?”

“Of course we know,” Ron said sharply. “We fought in the same bloody war, and we’ve been dragged to the same Ministry galas and trials as you. Just don’t forget we exist . We’re not your bloody coworkers you only talk to when there’s an update on a case. We’re your friends.”

“Ron’s right,” Hermione added gently, reaching across the table to squeeze Harry’s hand. “If there’s something on your mind, you can talk to us. Anytime.”

“Thanks,” Harry said, forcing a small smile as he squeezed her hand back.

-–*--*--*--*--

When Harry got back to Grimmauld Place, he wasn’t exactly surprised to find Malfoy asleep on the largest sofa in the drawing room, a book open on his chest. What did surprise him, though, was how peaceful and oddly fragile the other boy looked with his guard completely down. His chest rose and fell steadily with each breath, his pale blond hair had come loose in soft, messy waves across the cushion, and his long, nearly translucent lashes rested lightly against his cheeks. The skin of his face looked smooth and untroubled, free of the tight lines and shadows that usually marked it.

Harry’s breath caught for a second. He’d never seen Malfoy look this... relaxed. Honestly, he hadn’t thought Malfoy could look like this… human. Vulnerable. And Harry didn’t know yet what to make of the way he found himself liking that look on him. 

He took a few cautious steps back and tried to close the door behind him as quietly as possible.

But apparently he didn’t do it quietly enough.

Malfoy startled awake with a sharp gasp. “Potter,” he mumbled sleepily, rubbing his eyes.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you,” Harry said, chewing awkwardly on his lower lip. If he happened to like boys, which he absolutely wasn’t admitting to right now, he might’ve noticed how ridiculously good Malfoy looked like this: soft, sleepy, and for once not perfectly put-together.

“It’s fine. Wasn’t supposed to fall asleep anyway,” Malfoy murmured, still not quite opening his eyes. “So... how were Weasley and Granger?”

“Like you care,” Harry snorted. “But actually, we made some progress. We’ve got a new plan.”

That made Malfoy sit up properly, suddenly alert, and he patted the seat beside him. Harry hesitated for a moment, then walked over, sat cross-legged next to him, and started picking at a loose thread on his hoodie sleeve. 

Malfoy was watching him closely, grey eyes sharp and focused, and he was sitting so close that Harry could feel the warmth radiating from his body.

“Well?” Malfoy said after a moment, arching an eyebrow with practised elegance.

“Well what?”

“You, Granger, Weasley, new plan, remember?”

“Oh. Right.” Harry could feel himself blushing. “Yeah, so we thought, since there’s basically nothing useful at the Ministry, we could try getting access to some of the old pureblood families’ libraries. Most of the useful stuff’s probably in private collections anyway. Ron and Hermione have already asked a few families and gotten several yeses. They’re still waiting to hear from a few more.”

“And who, exactly, has agreed to let you dig through their precious archives?” Malfoy asked suspiciously.

“Like I remember all of them,” Harry said. “But there were at least Macmillans, Abbotts, Greengrasses and Notts, I think? And maybe a few others.”

Malfoy’s expression darkened. “You honestly think the Greengrasses and Notts will be so helpful once they find out this has anything to do with me? Potter, their families were some of the loudest after the war, swearing they’d never had anything to do with mine. Not willingly, at least.”

“How would they even know this has anything to do with you?” Harry challenged. “Ron and Hermione said they’re bitter as hell toward the current Ministry. They’ll do anything to get back at them. No one knows this is connected to you.”

“What about the Macmillans and the Abbotts? They were on the winning side, why would they want to help you?”

“I’d guess they’re not thrilled with how the current Ministry’s been handling things either. And they trust us,” Harry said with a shrug.

“And you still haven’t told your friends about me?”

“No,” Harry said, shaking his head sharply. “I don’t like it, I hate keeping this from them, but… I don’t know. I honestly have no idea how they’d react.”

“We both know they wouldn’t react well,” Malfoy said, letting out a long sigh. “Still… the plan itself might not be terrible. Those old family collections really are massive. If even one of them happens to have a focus on legal history…”

“Ron and Hermione said the same,” Harry agreed. “Do you think there’s actually a chance we’ll find anything in the Black collection?”

“I’m not sure,” Malfoy said, sounding uncertain. “From what I’ve seen, it’s mostly ancient magic and ritualistic theory. Not much on trials or legal precedent.”

“Ancient magic?” Harry repeated, surprised. “I thought it was mostly just... I mean…”

“Mostly just what, Potter?” Malfoy asked, one eyebrow arched.

“Dark magic,” Harry admitted, a bit sheepish.

“Is that why you assumed I’d be interested in it? How flattering,” Malfoy said dryly. 

“No! I just meant… Everyone knows the Blacks were fascinated by the Dark Arts. I didn’t mean… Look, all this stuff about family collections is new to me. I didn’t even realise different families had specific focuses.”

“Seriously, Potter? How do you not know that? I get that you were raised by Muggles, but you’ve been part of the wizarding world for years. That excuse is wearing thin.”

 “Well, excuse me for having had other things on my mind lately,” Harry muttered, slightly irritated. “Maybe you could enlighten me then; what exactly makes these collections so special?”

“I’m assuming Granger and Weasley already told you some of this,” Malfoy said, “but a lot of the old wizarding families have private collections that go back centuries. Many of them include materials from all over the world. Like you said, each collection tends to have a different emphasis. Some lean more toward Dark magic, others toward healing practices from Asia or spells that were popular in medieval Europe. But I don’t know a single collection that’s just Dark Arts and nothing else.”

“What about your family’s? Does it have a focus?” Harry asked.

“Not exactly,” Malfoy said. “I won’t deny there’s quite a bit of Dark magic in there, but maybe even more prominent is the emphasis on French, Italian, and Spanish magical traditions. A lot of the texts are in Romance languages.”

“You speak those?”

“Not all of them, obviously. Just French, and I’ve studied some Latin. But that helps a lot with understanding the rest,” Malfoy said with a shrug. “Besides, I’ve only gone through the manor library once or twice.”

“Really? I figured you’d have spent loads of time in there growing up,” Harry said. “I always assumed you liked reading.”

“I do like reading, always have. But my parents never let me explore the library on my own. Ancient magic isn’t Dark per se, but it can be wild and unpredictable. It’s nothing like the refined stuff we use today.”

Harry snorted. “You make it sound like we’ve domesticated it. Like magical pets or something.”

 “Honestly, that’s not far off. Magic used to be a lot freer, less limited. It was woven into things like seasonal rituals and soul travel. But nowadays we’ve bent it to our will so thoroughly, it’s like we’ve cut it off from its roots. Someday, that’s going to backfire.”

“What do you mean?” Harry asked, frowning.

“Magic is... well, it’s like this force, right? It’s inside us, around us. We’re supposed to coexist with it, not dominate it. But we’ve built everything around controlling it through wands, narrowing its scope, choking its natural form. I don’t think that’s sustainable in the long run.”

“So you’re saying magic is... alive?” Harry asked, thoroughly confused.

“Kind of. And at the same time not,” Malfoy said. “My mother always compares it to water. It’s not alive , but it still needs to flow freely. Every wave is like the magical core inside a witch or wizard, part of the whole, but also its own unique entity.”

“This is getting seriously deep,” Harry muttered, and Malfoy nudged him in the shin with his foot.

“Standard pureblood upbringing,” he said with a smirk and a shrug.

“So if magic’s everywhere,” Harry said slowly, “then couldn’t Muggles learn to use it too, in theory?”

“No, they can’t,” Malfoy said firmly. “Like I told you, our magical cores are distinct. Muggles don’t have that. Magic just flows through them. They don’t even notice it’s there, let alone understand what it is.”

“Try telling that to my relatives,” Harry said with a dry smile. “They’d be thrilled to hear magic runs through them too, and they can do nothing about it.”

 “What do you mean?” Malfoy asked, clearly confused.

“They hate magic,” Harry said flatly.

“Hate magic?” Malfoy looked genuinely horrified. “How could anyone who knows magic exist hate it?”

“They’re scared of it,” Harry replied. “And fear turns into hate. Same as purebloods being afraid of Muggles.”

“Why would anyone be afraid of Muggles?” Malfoy challenged, locking eyes with him. “We’re far more powerful than they are.”

“Are we?” Harry asked, not looking away.

“Of course we are. Magic’s powerful, it doesn’t just flow through us, it’s part of us. And we know how to use it.”

“Have you ever heard of weapons? Bombs? Nuclear weapons?”

“Nuclear... what?”

“Nuclear weapons. They’re basically like Avada Kedavra, just a thousand times more powerful.”

“What do you mean, more powerful? How could anything be more powerful than Avada Kedavra?”

“You really haven’t heard of them?” Harry asked. Malfoy shook his head. “They’re weapons Muggles invented. They can kill hundreds, or rather thousands , of people at once.”

Malfoy looked stunned, almost sick. “And you think that’s a good invention?”

“Of course not,” Harry said quickly. “I’m just saying that magic doesn’t automatically make us more powerful. Muggles found their own ways of chasing power.”

Malfoy’s expression shuttered. He looked down into his lap. “I don’t know, Potter,” he said quietly. “I don’t know why you saved me. I don’t see Muggles the way you do, and I’m not sure I ever will. Hell, I don’t even know anything about them.”

“It’s never too late to learn,” Harry said, nudging him back lightly with his foot. Malfoy shot him a half-hearted glare.

“You’re making fun of me.” His eyes narrowed.

“Why would I?” Harry asked. “Merlin, Malfoy, you’re eighteen , not eighty. You’ve got plenty of time to learn about Muggles. Or anything else you want.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry if I’m having a hard time reorienting my life,” Malfoy snapped, his voice suddenly ice-cold, “considering I was fairly convinced I wouldn’t have one past this summer.”

Harry let out a slow growl. “Okay. Sorry. That wasn’t fair. I didn’t mean to dismiss what you’ve been through.” He paused. “But I meant what I said. We will figure this out. You’re not going to die. So you might as well start thinking about what comes next.”

Malfoy looked at him darkly, and Harry could tell that he still didn’t really believe him. Not yet

 “I’m going to make tea,” Malfoy said abruptly, standing up and walking out of the room without waiting for a response.

Harry closed his eyes and breathed slowly in and out.

Then he got to his feet, but instead of heading to the kitchen, he turned toward the stairs. He could try getting along with Malfoy.

 Just... not tonight.

Chapter Text

In the days that followed, life at Grimmauld Place settled into a steady routine. Both Harry and Malfoy methodically worked through the Black family’s library, starting each day in the morning and often continuing, exhausted and dishevelled, until well past midnight.

In addition to that, Harry had to occasionally drop by the Ministry or meet Ron and Hermione in various shady and dubious Muggle pubs to discuss the progress of their plan. Not that he complained, without those breaks, the words in the books would probably have started jumping around on the page a little too wildly.

On the other hand, Kreacher also made sure that Harry and Malfoy remembered to take breaks, and he had clearly taken it upon himself to ensure that they both ate properly and at regular intervals. At first, the task had been visibly difficult; Malfoy often had to be persuaded for quite a while before he agreed to leave the library even for half an hour. However, after a bit of quiet experimenting, Kreacher had figured out exactly which foods and drinks could reliably lure Malfoy to the kitchen, and before long, the daily menu had begun to feature increasing amounts of things like salmon, roast beef, vegetable gratin, and blueberry pie.

“I think I might have found something,” Malfoy said as they sat in the kitchen having a snack, tossing a forkful of blueberry pie into his mouth.

“Really?” Harry raised an eyebrow questioningly.

Malfoy was, once again, wearing one of Dudley’s old sweatshirts,  the kind with a logo from some cheap canned food brand, even though Harry had already gone out and bought him a pile of new clothes that actually fit. Malfoy had insisted that the damage was already done once Kreacher had resized Dudley’s old stuff for him, so it would be wasteful not to use them. Harry, however, suspected that Malfoy had started to genuinely like Muggle hoodies but simply didn’t want to admit it.

“Yeah,” Malfoy nodded.

“I found a book that talks about the Spanish Wizarding Civil War in the 1570s, and it explains in quite a bit of detail the trials and political dealings that followed the war.”

“And you think that could be helpful?” Harry asked skeptically.

“Well, not directly or as-is, of course. The laws of the 16th-century Spanish wizarding community aren’t exactly comparable to our modern ones, but it does give a sort of framework. Or at the very least, a cautionary example for the Wizengamot, something to show how bad things can get if the public becomes divided through a cycle of revenge, like in that case.”

There was a cautiously hopeful look on Malfoy’s face, and for a moment Harry wanted to say something equally hopeful and encouraging in return.

“I’m afraid Hermione has already presented the council with several similar cases, both from Britain and elsewhere, but they just don’t care,” he ended up saying grimly instead.

Malfoy frowned. “Didn’t think you’d be such a pessimist.”

“I’m not trying to be a pessimist, I just...” Harry began heavily. “It’s just always the same damn pattern. Every bloody time, they pretend to be interested in what Hermione has to say and accept the documents, but then they don’t do a single thing to change anything. It feels exactly as productive as talking to a wall.”

“Yeah, yeah, I get it,” Malfoy sighed deeply. “It’s just that this is the only book even remotely related to what we’re looking for, and we’ve been searching for days.”

“There are still plenty of shelves left. We might still find something,” Harry said, though he still didn’t manage to sound particularly hopeful.

“Yeah, I know. I didn’t mean it like that,” Malfoy said, frustrated.  “I don’t think I can read another single page today.”

“We don’t have to read. We could do something else.”

“Like what?” Malfoy asked, sounding suspicious. Which, to be fair, wasn’t all that surprising, they didn’t exactly do anything together, unless one counted eating and going through the library as shared activities.

“Well, umm,” Harry stalled, trying to come up with something they might both enjoy.
The truth was, he didn’t really know what Malfoy liked, aside from flying and Potions. And the first wasn’t an option right now, while the second appealed to Harry about as much as caring for Hagrid’s flobberworms had back in third year. “We could play wizard’s chess? Or Exploding Snap?”

“You know how to play chess?” Malfoy asked haughtily, and Harry couldn’t tell if his tone was meant to be surprised, insulting, teasing, or perhaps all three at once.

“Of course I do. I’m actually pretty good at it.”

That was a lie, and Harry knew it well.  Even though his skills had improved during the horcrux hunting the previous year, he could still count all his lifetime wins on one hand.

“Prove it,” Malfoy said, locking eyes with him challengingly.

“Fine,” Harry replied, trying to sound confident even though he knew this would probably end in disaster. “Wait here, I’ll go get the board and pieces.”

Playing didn’t turn out to be as disastrous as Harry had imagined, even though he lost the first two games to Malfoy rather spectacularly. By the third game, he was proving to be more of a challenge, but that was likely mostly because he had been playing with his chess set for years and had no trouble getting the pieces to obey, unlike Malfoy.

“Yes, you , it’s your turn to move,” Malfoy hissed at one of his knights, trying to get it to comply with no luck.

“Now I think I understand how Granger feels talking to the Wizengamot. This feels like trying to reason with a bunch of bloody stubborn idiots, knowing full well it won’t do any good.”

Harry snorted. “Or maybe you just don’t know how to talk to your pieces.”

Malfoy glared at him. “If I had my own set, this would be a completely different situation. So consider this a mercy, at least this way, you stand a chance.”

“If you say so,” Harry said lightly, shrugging as he commanded his bishop to move with ease.

“But I have to admit I’m a bit surprised,” Malfoy said, nudging one of his pawns forward with the tip of his finger. “I mean, I wouldn’t call you good at this, but you’re not nearly as hopeless as I thought you’d be.”

“Wow, thanks,” Harry said dryly. “Is this the first even remotely nice thing you’ve ever said about me?”

“Don’t expect it to become a habit, we can’t have the savior of the wizarding world getting cocky.”

“So you’ve wanted to compliment me before,” Harry said with a grin.

“Of course not,” Malfoy snapped, blushing slightly. “Focus on the game, it’s your move.”

Harry watched Malfoy’s flushed cheeks with amusement as he moved his bishop again and felt something flutter gently in his chest. The pink in Malfoy’s cheeks looked surprisingly nice, creating a sharp contrast against his otherwise pale skin.

“If only I could get inside your head for a moment and see what thought process led to that move,” Malfoy said as he commanded his queen forward, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Checkmate.”

“What—” Harry looked down at the board and saw Malfoy’s pieces celebrating their victory, bouncing in place, the king and queen even tossing their crowns in the air. “You distracted me.”

“I did not,” Malfoy said, grinning mischievously at him.

“Oh, Potter, if you’re this easily distracted – ”

“I’m not easily distracted, I just… momentarily lost focus.”

“Momentarily lost focus?” Malfoy smiled smugly.

“Yeah,” Harry said. “Another round?”

“As enjoyable as crushing you has been, I think three wins in a row is enough for now. Maybe later.”

“Wanna do something else?”

“I don’t know. What were you thinking?”

“We could see if there’s anything interesting on TV.”

“TV?” Malfoy repeated, confused, with a slight furrow of his brows.

“Yeah,” Harry nodded. “You know, that square box that shows movies, series, news, that sort of thing.”

“Potter, I currently don’t understand half the words coming out of your mouth,” Malfoy said.

“Movie? Series?”

“I don’t know why I expected you to have even heard of them,” Harry muttered to himself. “They’re… kind of like visual and audible stories where real people act in them. I don’t really know how to explain it better than that. It’s easier if you just see it for yourself.”

“Well then, show me,” Malfoy said sharply.

Harry led Malfoy to a small second-floor sitting room, decorated in dark red wallpaper, with an old fireplace and a worn brown leather sofa.

“It actually works differently from day to day,” Harry said as he sat on the sofa and picked up the remote. “Muggle devices aren’t supposed to work in places with strong magical presence, but Arthur, you know, Ron’s dad, has been tinkering with Muggle stuff for years and managed to adapt some of it for magical environments. TVs are still kind of experimental, but this one has been working fairly well so far.”

Malfoy eyed the television warily and slowly sat at the opposite end of the sofa. “Why is it black?”

“It’s still off,” Harry replied and pressed the power button.

Malfoy flinched violently as two women suddenly appeared on the screen, chatting animatedly in a café.  “Merlin and Morgana, what the bloody hell is this? Who are those women? How are they in there?”

“What do you mean?” Harry asked, trying not to laugh.

“Those women. How are they inside your box?”

“They’re not physically in the TV. This was probably filmed years ago and is just being shown now.”

“But…” Malfoy blinked a few times.  “I don’t understand. How can they be in there and somewhere else at the same time?”

“Most TV shows are recorded in advance and broadcast on different channels,” Harry explained, flipping to the next channel. “TV has several channels, and each one shows different programs at the same time. That last one was probably some drama series, and this one looks like… maybe a nature documentary?”

Malfoy watched the slow-moving elephants on the screen with extreme suspicion, then shot Harry a look as if he suspected Harry had somehow trapped the animals inside the television. “So what exactly is the function of this contraption?”

“Muggles watch it for fun in their free time. It’s supposed to offer something entertaining or informative for everyone,” Harry said, shrugging.

“Informative?”

“Yeah,” Harry said, flipping through more channels until a weather map appeared on screen.
“For example, this is a weather forecast. Its purpose is… well, to predict the weather. Usually for the next few days at a time.”

Malfoy’s eyes widened in astonishment. “Muggles can predict the future?”

Harry chuckled. “Well, I suppose you could put it that way. But they predict the future very differently than wizards. I mean, technically they do try to predict people’s personal futures too, but nearly everyone knows that’s just nonsense.”

“Not all divination is nonsense,” Malfoy said firmly.

“Oh, really?” Harry asked, a little surprised. He didn’t recall Malfoy ever being particularly fond of Divination either. “I just don’t have very good memories of it. Or of divination in general.”

“I wasn’t talking about the kind we were taught in school,” Malfoy clarified. “I mean involuntary divination, like visions and dreams.”

“You mean like the prophecy about me and Voldemort?”

“Well, that too. But also regular people, even Muggles, can have prophetic dreams. I just don’t think they know how to interpret them. Haven’t you ever noticed dreaming about something that ended up happening later on?”

Harry was silent for a moment. He had had many vivid dreams throughout his life, but he couldn’t remember a single one that had actually come true. The only dreams that had matched reality had been real-time visions, and even those weren’t truly dreams, just him accidentally tuning into Voldemort’s mind.

“I don’t think so,” he said uncertainly. “Have you?”

Malfoy nodded. “A few times. The last one actually wasn’t even that long ago.”

“What kind of dream did you have?”

To Harry’s surprise, Malfoy blushed again and turned his gaze away. “It wasn’t anything special. A couple of days before you showed up at Azkaban, I had a dream where you promised me I wouldn’t die.”

“Wait a second,” Harry said, perking up and straightening his posture. “You’re saying you talked to me in a dream a few nights before I came to get you from Azkaban, and I promised that you wouldn’t die?”

“That’s literally what I just said, Potter,” Malfoy snapped, rolling his eyes.

“But I had the exact same dream! Or at least I think so. A few days before I went to Azkaban, I dreamed I was talking to you and promised you wouldn’t die, and you were accusing me of letting your side die and begging me to save you and… What the hell, Malfoy? That was actually you ?”

Malfoy’s face was now bright red. “It’s possible it was, yes.”

“But… you didn’t sound like yourself at all. You’d never ask me for help.”

“Of course I didn’t sound like myself,” Malfoy snapped. “I thought it was just a normal dream, so I figured I could say whatever I wanted. I didn’t realise we were actually sharing the same dream.”

“So it wasn’t a prophetic dream after all?”

“No.”

“What was it then?”

“A kind of soul journey, or at least that’s what I think. Our selves ended up in the same dream.”

Harry stared at Malfoy in disbelief. “You can’t be serious.”

“Of course I am,” Malfoy said. “Shouldn’t that be obvious to you of all people? Apparently, you happened to visit the Dark Lord’s mind sometimes, and he yours.”

“That’s not the same thing,” Harry hissed through his teeth.

“Maybe not exactly, I don’t know all the details,” Malfoy said indifferently. “In any case, soul travelling, or spirit travelling, or whatever people prefer to call it, is a perfectly ordinary phenomenon, even though it’s no longer widely talked about these days. I actually just found a book yesterday that said in the northernmost parts of Europe it used to be quite common, even among Muggles, to believe in soul travelling and meeting other souls in dreams. Although they didn’t know that it could also be somewhat learned and controlled.”

“Really? You mean it can be learned and controlled?”

Malfoy nodded. “At least the book claimed that shamans and seers, who were actually just witches and wizards living among Muggles, intentionally learned to control soul travelling. It’s divided into uncontrolled soul travelling that happens in dreams and a kind of trance or meditative state soul travelling, which only shamans and seers practised. Voluntary soul travelling is really demanding, and you have to be able to completely empty your mind and focus solely on what you’re doing at the moment.”

“That sounds a lot like Occlumency to me.”

“Occlumency is indeed a close relative of this kind of magic; it’s almost exactly the same basic principle. But this is precisely that ancient magic that the current wizarding community fears, because even after long practice, you can never fully control it, and it involves more risks than Occlumency. In the worst case, your spirit may never find its way back to your body, or some malicious spirit might capture you on your soul journey,” Malfoy explained.

“Not find its way back to the body?” Harry said, somewhat shocked.

“Yeah. Imagine being trapped as a spirit in this world forever, without anyone being able to see or hear you, yet you couldn’t cross the boundary either,” Malfoy said, visibly trembling slightly just from the thought. “But this is really just one way to view and practice soul travelling.”

“And this was popular especially in Northern Europe?”

“There too, but soul travelling has probably existed in some form in almost all originally shamanistic cultures.”

“I think I remember something about regional magic from school. Not about this, what you’ve explained now, but we might have talked once about how different spells are needed in different parts of the world or something like that.”

“I don’t remember anything about other regions’ spells except what we were taught in school. The book I found had some pretty interesting examples of Arctic area spells, and it mentioned, for example, heating spells so powerful that we’ve never even heard of them. They also have many spells related to surviving in snowy environments and nature in general, which they have gradually developed specifically to fit their own living conditions.”

“Do you remember the name of any spell?” Harry asked, raising his feet onto the sofa as he sat cross-legged.

“Merlin, no. They’re not Latin-based spells,” Malfoy said. “But I can fetch the book. Or you can summon it; if I remember correctly, it’s called Northern Magic: Then and Now .”

Harry took out his wand and tried to summon the book. After a moment, it became clear Malfoy had remembered the title correctly, as the book flew into the room, bumping against the walls a couple of times on the way.

When the book landed in Harry’s lap, Malfoy immediately grabbed it and began flipping through the pages. “There are all kinds of spells here: ones that help with reindeer herding, spells that change the form of snow, energy spells designed for the polar night…” Malfoy listed as he browsed. “Well, here’s an example of a heating spell more powerful than the one we use,” he said, stopping roughly halfway through the book and pointing to a specific page for Harry.

Harry scooted closer to Malfoy on the sofa to get a better look and shivered when he felt the other boy’s warm breath briefly brush the back of his hand. “Is this it?” he asked, pointing at a strange foreign word, lieggan , written in large, curly letters.

“Yeah. Heating spell… apparently in Northern Sámi,” Malfoy said, running his finger along the line.

“How does it differ from our heating spell? Or, isn’t it just exactly the same spell but in a different language?”

“This is a special spell in that way, it probably doesn’t exist in any other languages. It’s developed precisely for an environment where the cold is extremely harsh.”

“So we’re not going to try it?”

“Potter, no. Unless you want your whole apartment to turn into a sauna.”

“Is there anything there we could try, then?”

“Dream spells, midsummer sun spells, mushroom- and berry-foraging revealing spells…” Malfoy listed again as he flipped forward. “Well, here’s a list of spell names more widely known around the world in different Nordic languages.”

 “What does that mean in practice?” 

“That for spells we’re familiar with, other-language environments might use different names. Latin is currently the dominant ‘fashion language’ for spells, so many wizarding communities use the same-named spells with maybe slight variations, but some have stuck with versions in their own languages,” Malfoy explained, going through the list of spells. “Here, pick your favourite, the disarming spell, for example. In many languages nowadays the Latin-based Expelliarmus is used in some form, while in Finnish, witches and wizards use the spell karkotaseet .”

“Karkotaseet,” Harry repeated. “And it works exactly the same way as Expelliarmus ?”

“That’s exactly the same spell, so yes,” Malfoy said, nodding. “We could try it, but there’s no point since only one of us has a wand.”

“I’ve told you many times that I can just return your wand. You know very well I want to give it back to you.”

“And I’ve told you many times I don’t want it.”

“But—”

“Potter,” Malfoy interrupted him sharply, “drop it, please.”

Harry bit the inside of his cheek to stop himself from arguing further. He really did still have Malfoy’s wand, and he had offered it back to him multiple times, but for some reason, Malfoy had refused every single time without giving any explanation. The only thing Harry could think of was that Malfoy was somehow bothered by the fact that the wand had switched its allegiance when Harry had won it from him. On the other hand, Harry had even offered to let Malfoy win it back from him using Expelliarmus , and Malfoy had refused outright, so even the wand’s allegiance didn’t seem like a logical explanation.

“Let’s try something else instead,” Malfoy suggested, looking through the book again. “How about a summoning spell?”

“How do you say it?”

“Tulejo.”

“Tulejo,” Harry repeated, mumbling again. 

“Try it.”

“Just like that?” Harry asked uncertainly.

“Just like that,” Malfoy nodded.

Harry hesitated but raised his wand, feeling incredibly stupid. “Tulejo,” he muttered and pointed it at the remote control on the coffee table. Nothing happened.

“You’re doing it wrong. Don’t think about it as a foreign language, just do it exactly like Accio ,” Malfoy said. “Try again.”

Harry obeyed, raising his wand again and aiming it at the remote. “ Tulejo ,” he said much more clearly this time, but still no result.

“You’re still doing it wrong. Salazar, Potter, it’s like you’re a fourth grader trying this spell for the first time,” Malfoy said irritably, stepping right up behind Harry and wrapping his wand-holding hand with his own. Harry flinched and inhaled sharply. “It’s exactly the same movement as Accio , you know it,” he continued in a calm voice, gently guiding Harry’s wand to point at the remote. “Now say the spell.”

“ Tulejo ,” Harry hissed, barely making the spell audible. He couldn’t concentrate. Not at all, with Malfoy’s cold, long fingers wrapped around his own, and Malfoy’s warm, steady chest pressed against his back. 

Despite that, the remote control moved a couple of centimetres upward this time.

“Good!” Malfoy said, his warm breath tickling Harry’s ear. “Try again.”

“ Tulejo ,” Harry said again with a more confident voice, trying to forget Malfoy’s warm chest and cool fingers, and this time the remote flew in a neat arc into Harry’s left hand.

“That worked,” he said in disbelief.

“Of course it worked,” Malfoy scoffed, releasing Harry’s hand and stepping a few paces away from him. Harry exhaled a breath he hadn’t even realised he was holding. Suddenly, he felt a bit cold.

“I told you, it’s exactly the same spell you’ve been doing for years. Changing the language doesn’t change the spell.”

“Shall we try something else?” Harry asked. “What’s the stunning spell in Finnish?”

“Tainnutu,” Malfoy said, glancing at the book and narrowing his eyes at Harry. “And you’re so not trying that on me.”

“Something else then? A freezing spell?”

Malfoy rolled his eyes and grinned at Harry. “What if we start with a simple light spell instead?”

Chapter Text

“You have that book I found with you, don’t you, Potter?”

“Yeah, I do,” Harry answered probably for the tenth time that day.

“And you actually read it?”

“I read all the parts you marked as important.”

Malfoy pressed his lips into a thin line, clearly not quite satisfied, but he nodded anyway. “Let’s hope Granger has some kind of plan.”

“Believe me, she wouldn’t go anywhere without one.”

“I know,” Malfoy said calmly. “I always knew she was the brains of your little trio.”

Harry rolled his eyes and shrugged. “Can’t really argue with that,” he muttered.

“I know you can’t,” Malfoy said with a smug smile.

“You really should do something about your hair. I don’t understand how anyone at the Ministry takes you seriously when you show up looking like that,” he added, lifting a hand toward Harry’s hair — then pausing, letting it hover for a second before quickly pulling it back, as if only just realising what he’d been about to do.

“My hair’s fine, thanks,” Harry said dryly, running his fingers through it in a half-hearted attempt to make it behave. “Ever think that maybe some of that pureblood etiquette you were taught is just pretentious nonsense? I’ve never done anything to my hair, and I’ve managed just fine.”

“That is not pretentious nonsense. Looking presentable and creating a professional, impressive image is actually—”

“It’s funny how much you sometimes sound like my Muggle aunt and uncle,” Harry interrupted, “even though you’re pretty much the last person I’d expect to have anything in common with them,” he continued. “Calm down. You know we’ve done our best, and you know my hair won’t affect the outcome in any way.”

Malfoy opened his mouth like he was about to snap something back, then closed it again, and instead shot his hand toward Harry’s hair at lightning speed.

“Hey, what the hell do you think you’re doing?” Harry shouted, trying to shield his hair with his hands, but Malfoy managed to slip one hand between them and started ruffling it.

“You said you didn’t care how your hair looked, so I figured I’d just put it back the way it usually is,” Malfoy said seriously, though a mischievous smile was already tugging at his lips.

“Stop it, you crazy bastard!” Harry laughed, grabbing Malfoy’s wrist and yanking his hand away.

“Me? Crazy?” Malfoy said mockingly, weaving his free hand back into Harry’s hair. “Says the guy who illegally rescues death row prisoners and suffers from a hero complex.”

Harry managed to grab Malfoy’s other wrist for a second, but Malfoy twisted both his arms smoothly out of his grip, and this time, he slid both of his long, slender fingers into Harry’s hair. Not that Harry was really fighting back anymore, because somehow Malfoy’s touch felt… surprisingly good, sending a warm, tingling sensation down his spine.

Which, as a thought, was deeply disturbing.

So disturbing, in fact, that Harry shoved it firmly to the back of his mind and switched tactics, reaching out toward Malfoy’s pale, silky-looking hair in retaliation.

“Just try touching my hair, you bloody barbarian,” Malfoy hissed, leaping backwards and catching both of Harry’s wrists.

“You could stand to loosen up a little, too. There’s no one here but me and Kreacher to see you, and neither of us gives a damn about your hair,” Harry said with a grin, taking a deliberately threatening step closer.

“Oh, really?” Malfoy asked softly, his voice like silk. He raised an eyebrow and locked eyes with Harry, and Harry’s breath hitched.

He was way too close.

So close that he could see every single pale eyelash glinting in the daylight, feel Malfoy’s toes just barely brushing against his own, and notice that his eyes weren’t really grey at all.

Up close, his irises were flecked with small, uneven patches of blue — a detail that probably explained why his eyes always had that weird, brilliant sparkle.

“ Harry! ” Hermione’s voice rang out suddenly from downstairs, making both boys jump, Harry’s wrists still firmly caught in Malfoy’s grasp.

“I’m coming!” Harry called back quickly, stepping away and slipping free.

“Well—” Malfoy began, hesitantly.

“Yeah—”

“Good luck,” Malfoy said, almost in a whisper, offering a small, nervous smile.

“Thanks,” Harry replied, trying to smile back reassuringly as he slung his bag over his shoulder. “I’ll come back straight after and tell you how it went.”

“You better,” Malfoy said with mock authority, and Harry grinned, flipping him the middle finger as he turned to leave.

He closed the door behind him with a firm click , then paused for a few deep breaths, forcing himself to focus on Hermione, on Kingsley, on the meeting ahead, before stroding down the stairs.

“Hi,” he called. “Shall we go?”

“Did you have a visitor?” Hermione asked, raising an eyebrow as he reached the bottom step.

“Umm… no?”

“Oh really,” Hermione said, clearly not buying it. “It just sounded like you were laughing with someone up there.”

“Oh, that was just the TV.”

“You don’t have a TV in your bedroom.”

“I moved it there a few days ago. I’ve been spending more time up there.”

“Harry.”

“Shouldn’t we be going already?”

Hermione studied him for a moment, biting her lower lip. “We should,” she said finally.
“But Harry, I know something’s going on that you’re not telling me. And I hope you’ll tell me and Ron soon.”

“Alright,” Harry said shortly. “Can we go now?”

She gave him one last, quick, calculating look. “We can,” she said at last, looping her arm through his.

-–*--*--*--*--

“This is everything Ron and I have found so far,” Hermione said, digging into her handbag, magically expanded with an Extension Charm, and pulling out a heavy stack of books and papers. She dumped them onto Kingsley’s desk with a thud.

“These top two are from the Notts’ library. They contain detailed accounts of the wizard uprising that started in Ireland and spread through Northern Ireland to the rest of Britain in the 1730s, and its aftermath. The situation and the methods used back then are strikingly similar to what we’re facing now, so I believe the case offers a strong historical parallel.”

She pointed to four black-backed volumes. “These are from the Greengrass collection. They document what happened to Grindelwald’s followers after his defeat. Naturally, there were no executions, as Grindelwald himself wasn’t executed either, but most of his followers were sent to the Muggle world to perform community service for various lengths of time. Can you believe many of them actually became fully functional members of society afterwards? Some did serve prison sentences as well, and a few returned to petty crime, but I found no evidence of anything worse. So I think this sets a promising precedent for our current situation. Of course, it’s too late for most of the Death Eaters, but for others who fought on Voldemort’s side or were otherwise involved, similar alternatives could still be adapted. As for the rest—”

“Miss Granger—” Kingsley tried to interject.

“And these others,” Hermione raised her voice slightly, unfazed, “are case studies from around the world, from different historical periods. Some ended up using punishment models similar to ours, and every piece of material I’ve read suggests that these created deep and long-lasting trauma and distrust within the wizarding community. In contrast, in cases where lighter punishments and reintegration efforts were used, communities recovered significantly faster and more smoothly. Some of the books still need closer review; my translation charms aren’t equally accurate for all languages, so I can’t be entirely sure about the material from Asia. It may not all be fully or clearly translated yet—”

“Miss Granger,” Kingsley tried again, more firmly this time.

“And Harry, you found something too, didn’t you?” Hermione prompted quickly.

“Yeah,” Harry said, pulling out the book Malfoy had given him. “This one’s about, um, the Spanish wizarding civil war in the 1570s. It, uh…” He faltered, flipping through the pages, searching for the passages Malfoy had marked.

“Thank you, Harry. Thank you, Hermione,” Kingsley said, his deep voice calm and measured. “You’ve done a tremendous amount of work, and I truly appreciate it.”

“Yes,” Hermione said quietly. She was now perched on the edge of her chair, visibly tense.

“That said,” Kingsley continued, “I can’t promise you much, if anything. You’ve brought forward important new material, most of which the Wizengamot hasn’t reviewed before. But I’m sorry to say I don’t believe it will carry much weight in their final decisions.”

“What do you mean it won’t?” Harry snapped, his voice rising. “Hermione just went through a whole list of similar cases, and their outcomes!”

“Yes, but the Wizengamot has currently chosen to turn a blind eye to anything that challenges their agenda.”

“That’s exactly why we came to you,” Hermione said. “You’re the Minister for Magic, you have influence over their decisions.”

“I’m afraid I don’t have as much influence as you think,” Kingsley replied. “You’re forgetting my background. The Wizengamot is made up mostly of elderly, wealthy pure-bloods who’ve spent decades building their political power, long before they ever joined the council. Before I became Minister, I was just an ordinary Auror. I don’t come from a prominent or wealthy family.”

“So you’re saying you won’t do anything?” Harry asked, still visibly frustrated.

“That’s not what I’m saying, I’m completely on your side in this. I believe in the same goals you do. But we need a different approach.”

“What would you suggest then?” Hermione asked quickly.

“The Wizengamot may hold a lot of authority,” Kingsley said, “but it’s not the only body with influence. We need to think beyond just the council, and we have to look at the Ministry as a whole, and even more broadly, at the entire wizarding community.”

He paused, then added gravely: “But if there’s one thing I do know for sure, it’s that we desperately need more time.”

“But we don’t have time! It’s only a matter of time before the council decides to press forward!” A surge of frustration rose in Harry’s chest. It was the kind of hollow, burning anger he’d grown all too used to over the past few months, always the same empty reassurances: Yes, Mr. Potter, we understand. We promise to do our best.  But this time… he had allowed himself to hope. Maybe not for success, but at least for some real progress.

“This isn’t up for debate,” Kingsley said firmly. “If we’re going to challenge the Wizengamot’s decision, we need time, groundwork, and a carefully planned strategy.”

“So you have no way to push anything forward right now?” Harry asked, his voice sharp.

“Unfortunately not,” Kingsley said, shaking his head with a regretful look. “Do you still have access to the old wizarding family libraries?” he asked. Both Harry and Hermione nodded. “Good. Keep going through them. Keep looking for anything useful. I’ll reach out once I’ve figured out a possible next step.”

“And there’s really nothing else we can do right now?” Harry pressed.

“It’s more effective if we divide the work, rather than all trying to do everything at once. You should keep reviewing the historical cases. The more solid evidence we gather, the stronger our position.”

Harry glanced sideways at Hermione, hoping she had a backup plan, something she hadn’t yet mentioned. But she only looked at Kingsley with quiet determination, a flicker of excitement briefly lighting her eyes as she nodded.

“So that’s it?” Harry snapped. “We just go home and twiddle our thumbs while the Wizengamot gets ready to keep persecuting people?”

“Harry, no one said that,” Hermione said sharply. “Kingsley’s right. We have to look at this more broadly, and we need a precise, well-thought-out plan. The last thing we need is to do something reckless.”

Harry clenched his jaw and bit back his next words, nodding stiffly.

“Good. Then we all know what to do,” Kingsley said, rising from behind his desk, subtly signalling that the meeting was over. “Please contact me immediately if you come across anything new or if you have any questions.”

“Thank you,” Hermione said, standing up and pulling Harry to his feet, linking her arm through his again. “We’ll keep you informed.”

“And I’ll do the same. Hopefully, we’ll speak again soon. Say hello to everyone at the Burrow for me,” Kingsley said with a nod.

They exchanged goodbyes and stepped out of Kingsley’s office. For a long while, Harry and Hermione walked through the Ministry corridors in silence. A dull throb pulsed behind Harry’s eyes. He couldn’t believe that once more, he was walking these same halls with the exact same outcome as every time before.

What made the least sense was how easily Hermione had given up. She, Ron, and Harry had been discussing the matter for months, and they had all agreed that things needed to move forward now. Playing for time was a huge risk. Not only for Malfoy, who was right now well protected at Grimmauld Place, but also because the Wizengamot was acting increasingly unpredictably. They had worried for a while that the council might keep going after people, even with Malfoy in hiding.

And what if they decided to threaten Narcissa next, just to lure Malfoy out of hiding? At that point, Harry would have no way of keeping him safe.

He let out a frustrated sigh. He had no idea how he was supposed to tell Malfoy that they had failed again.

“What’s wrong?” Hermione asked.

Harry looked at her in surprise. “What isn’t?” he snapped. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Say what? I think I said everything I wanted.”

“I don’t know! Something! You always have some kind of backup plan.”

“The fact that you’re snapping at me isn’t helping,” Hermione shot back. “Besides, didn’t you hear what Kingsley actually said?”

“Of course I did. He just went on with the same crap about the Wizengamot as always.”

“I wasn’t talking about the Wizengamot. Didn’t you hear anything else he said?”

Harry tried to review the conversation in his head, but nothing jumped out as significant. “What are you talking about?”

“Let’s talk about it at the Burrow, okay?”

“I wasn’t really planning on going to the Burrow. I promised Kreacher—”

“You only need to come for a moment. It’s easier if the three of us talk now, instead of me having to explain things to you and Ron separately.”

Harry tried to offer a few half-hearted objections, but in the end, he gave in. He didn’t really feel like going home anyway. He didn’t want to be the one to look Malfoy in the eye and deliver the disappointment.

When they arrived at the Burrow, Molly was outside weeding the garden of pixies with Ginny, and she visibly brightened upon seeing Harry and Hermione.  “Harry, dear, it’s so lovely to see you after such a long time,” she said, coming over to greet them and hugging Harry tightly. Harry glanced over Molly’s shoulder at Ginny, who grinned at them. “We haven’t seen you around here for a while,” Molly added with a slightly reproachful tone.

“Yes, well, things have been a bit hectic at the Ministry.”

Molly gave a dissatisfied hum. “I understand why you feel so strongly about this Death Eater situation, but what I don’t understand is why it has to be the three of you handling it. Couldn’t you just let Kingsley and the others at the Ministry deal with it for once? You’ve been through so much lately; you deserve some rest.”

“It’s really not much trouble,” Harry lied. “We’re just helping Kingsley a bit.”

“Oh, I already know what your so-called ‘help’ looks like, always jumping into matters that don’t even concern you,” Molly said firmly, though her eyes twinkled mischievously.

“Is Ron inside?” Hermione asked. “We need to talk to him.”

“Yes, he should be in his room. Last I checked, he was buried under those books you two have been dragging in here from who knows where.”

“Thanks, Molly!” Hermione said, starting toward the house.

Harry smiled quickly at Molly and followed Hermione, but he hadn’t gone far before someone stopped him by lightly grabbing his arm.

“Harry, do you have a moment to talk?” Ginny asked, her tone making it clear she wasn’t taking ‘no’ for an answer.

“I’m not sure I have the time—”

“It’ll only take a moment. Then you can get back to plotting with Ron and Hermione in peace,” Ginny said firmly.

Harry glanced at Hermione, who just shrugged. “I’ll be right there,” he called after her and reluctantly followed Ginny toward a wooden table and chairs set up in the garden.

“You were at the Ministry again today,” Ginny began as they sat down facing each other. “Ron told me,” she continued when Harry looked at her questioningly. “How did it go?”

Harry shrugged irritably and stared at his bitten cuticles. “Not very well. Same old story.”

“That’s a shame,” Ginny said, sounding anything but sorry.

“Did you want to say something?”

Ginny hesitated for a moment. “I just wanted to say I’m sorry about how our conversation ended last time.”

Harry raised his eyes and looked at her suspiciously. It sounded like there was still a ‘but’ missing.

“But I still stand by what I said. You do far too much for their sake, the Death Eaters and their cause.”

“I told you—”

“I didn’t come to talk to you just to argue about this,” Ginny cut him off. “You’re free to spend your time however you like. I just can’t keep doing this anymore, being pushed aside while you prioritise everyone else over me. Even the people you fought against. The people who wanted you dead.”

“I’m not prioritising them. It’s just that right now—”

“Harry, yes, you are. You spend all your energy obsessed with the other side, especially Malfoy. You might as well be married to him.”

Harry felt as if someone had poured ice-cold water over his head. Ginny couldn’t possibly know anything about Malfoy, right?

“What do you mean by that?” he asked, his voice hoarse.

“I mean that I’m tired of being your second or third, or honestly, Merlin knows where I even fall on your list anymore. I’m tired of feeling like you value me less than people who hurt you, who hurt all of us, people who don’t even deserve forgiveness. They don’t deserve our help.”

“Just because I want to help them doesn’t mean I’ve forgiven them,” Harry said tensely. “Like I told you last time, I don’t want to live in a society where death is considered an acceptable punishment.”

“And the only solution for you is to play the hero again?”

“Well, no one else seems to be doing anything about it!” Harry shouted, unable to hold back his frustration.

“Of course not,” Ginny said coldly, her eyes blazing. “In any case, I’m done. I can’t keep doing this. Whatever this is between us, it’s over.”

“Fine by me,” Harry snapped.

“Fine,” Ginny retorted, standing up sharply and storming off toward the house, her long red hair swinging behind her with every angry step.

Harry stood too, striding away in the opposite direction from the Burrow. Whatever Hermione had to say could wait. He was far too angry to process anything right now. He just wanted to be alone.

As soon as he was beyond the Burrow’s protective charms, he Disapparated straight to the doorstep of Grimmauld Place and threw the door open.

“Potter!” Malfoy called from the kitchen. “How did it go? Did Shacklebolt listen to you?” he asked, hurrying out into the hallway.

“What do you think?” Harry snapped before he could stop himself.

Malfoy stared at him, confused and slightly hurt. “So… it didn’t go well?”

“No.”

“Did he refuse to hear you out?”

“No, but he didn’t promise to do anything either,” Harry said, pressing his fingers to his temples, trying to calm himself. “I don’t— I can’t talk about it right now.”

“Why not? Did something happen at the Ministry?”

“No, I just… I need to be alone for a bit,” Harry said, backing toward the door.

“You can’t be serious,” Malfoy hissed, visibly angry. “I’ve been waiting here all day, and the only thing I get out of you—”

“I’m going for a walk,” Harry interrupted loudly, hand already on the doorknob.

“Fine! Go! Must be nice, being able to leave this bloody prison of a house just whenever you feel like it—” Malfoy shouted after him, loud enough to wake Walburga’s portrait, whose screeching soon joined his in a furious duet. But Harry didn’t stick around to listen. He stepped outside, slammed the door shut behind him, and Apparated without a second thought.

He landed on a quiet, deserted side street — the same one next to that dingy Muggle pub he’d visited with Ron and Hermione a couple of weeks ago.

As soon as his feet touched the ground, he leaned back against the pub’s rough brick wall and closed his eyes, taking in a deep breath of air tinged with smoke and exhaust. The wall felt cold and uneven through his t-shirt, and the rough texture of the bricks scraped gently at his fingertips as he traced them along the surface.

It felt good just to be there, alone. Somewhere with enough space to breathe, to think, to actually feel the world around him again.

So much had happened in one day, and his mind was looping through the voices of Kingsley, Ginny, and Malfoy in a blur. It was strange to think that only hours earlier, he’d been laughing while Draco Malfoy ruffled his hair. That moment now felt like it belonged to an entirely different reality, one where some alternate version of Harry and some alternate version of Malfoy were capable of just enjoying each other’s company without the weight of everything pressing down on them.

He regretted how he’d literally fled from the conversation with Malfoy. But the blow at the Ministry, followed so quickly by the fight with Ginny, had pushed him past his limit. There had been no way he could’ve had any kind of reasonable conversation in that state, not when his mind was spinning out of control and his whole body was coiled so tight he felt like he might snap. And he knew himself well enough to realise that if he had stayed, whatever he said would’ve likely only made things worse for both of them.

Still, he couldn’t blame Malfoy for losing his temper. In fact, the outburst had reminded Harry a bit too much of Sirius. Not that the two had much else in common, far from it, but both had been trapped in that same cursed house, haunted by their family's past and legacy. Harry could still vividly remember how bleak and bitter Sirius had become, shut in Grimmauld Place, slowly becoming a ghost of the man he used to be. And even though Malfoy hadn’t been there as long, Harry could already see the same signs in him; the frustration, the restlessness, the way his eyes lit up only when he was doing something, anything, that made him feel even a little bit closer to freedom.

Harry opened his eyes and stretched his limbs lightly. His original plan had been to go inside the pub as his first instinct after the blow-up with Ginny had been to get absolutely wasted, just enough to forget everything about Ginny, Kingsley, and the damned Wizengamot. But now that his nerves had settled, he couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling Malfoy left behind.

He counted slowly to ten, standing still, then reached for his wand and Apparated straight back to the doorstep of Grimmauld Place.

When he opened the door, a strange silence greeted him. The house felt suspended — still, tense, as if it were holding its breath.

“Malfoy?” he called cautiously.

No reply. No cursing, no footsteps, not even a creak in the floorboards. The silence was eerie.

“Malfoy?” he repeated, louder this time, beginning to ascend the stairs.

He’d just reached the halfway landing when a loud crack behind him made him start so violently he nearly lost his balance.

“Master!” came a high-pitched, panicked voice.

Harry turned around to see Kreacher, who had just Apparated onto the lower steps, wringing his gnarled hands together.

“Thank Merlin, Master has returned! Kreacher needs Master’s help!”

“What’s happened? Is something wrong?” Harry asked sharply, a sinking dread already taking root in his chest.

“Kreacher tried, Master, Kreacher truly tried, but even so, Kreacher could not stop young Master Draco,” the elf wailed, swaying back and forth with arms tightly crossed over his chest.

“Stop him from what? Kreacher, what happened?” Harry demanded, voice taut with urgency.

“Oh, Master, Kreacher begged, Kreacher pleaded, but young Master Draco would not listen… not to poor Kreacher,” the elf moaned.

“Kreacher,” Harry said, very slowly, “where is Malfoy?”

“Kreacher does not know, Master,” the elf said in a miserable whisper. “Young Master Draco left Grimmauld Place… and Kreacher does not know where he has gone.”

Chapter Text

Fucking Malfoy.

Bloody, fucking, reckless Malfoy. 

Harry threw himself onto the bed and shut his eyes tight. Why did Malfoy have to make everything so impossibly difficult? First, he hadn’t even wanted to escape Azkaban. Then he’d gone and tried to erase the Dark Mark by hurting himself. And now this.

With a groan, Harry rolled onto his stomach and buried his face in the pillow. He wanted to kick or punch something. Grab Malfoy by the front of his robes and yell at him, make him see how fucking stupid he actually was.

Okay, yes, maybe Harry hadn’t been the most considerate when he had come back home. He could admit that. And he understood that being locked in Grimmauld Place might make anyone feel like the walls were closing in. But this? This was reckless in a way even Malfoy hadn’t been before. What the hell was he thinking? Malfoy, who had always been calculated and cautious, never the type to act on impulse, let alone risk his own neck for no good reason.

And where the hell could he have even gone?

Harry regretted now that he’d never made it explicitly clear to Kreacher that he could leave the house if he felt like he needed to. He’d long since learned to trust the elf, and it hadn’t even occurred to him that Kreacher couldn’t leave Grimmauld Place without his master’s verbal permission. But it was too late to dwell on that now.

If there was one thing Harry could be sure of, it was that Malfoy couldn’t have gotten very far. Harry had only been gone for about half an hour, and Malfoy still had some weird grudge against using his own wand, which meant he couldn’t have Apparated anywhere. And he certainly didn’t know how to use Muggle public transport or money, so he had to be on foot.

Even so, knowing that Malfoy couldn’t have gone far didn’t actually help much. Harry had no idea which direction he’d taken after leaving Grimmauld Place. At first, he’d thought about flying, but there was no way he could fly low enough over a Muggle area to spot individual people on foot. He also couldn’t just pick a direction at random, as there was too big a risk he’d go the completely wrong way and waste valuable time.

With a heavy sigh, he pushed himself upright, sitting on the edge of the bed.

He had to do something. There was no way he could just sit at home and wait patiently, hoping Malfoy would turn up at his door. Or worse — that someone would send him an owl telling him Malfoy had been caught.

The most difficult part of the entire situation, Harry thought, was that he couldn’t tell anyone about Malfoy’s disappearance, at least not anyone except Kreacher. He was so used to sharing everything and making joint plans with Ron and Hermione. He could already picture Hermione organising a carefully structured and methodical search operation a minute after Harry had told them.

But he couldn’t tell them. Not about this. And besides, this wasn’t the first time he had to act alone; he had made plenty of difficult decisions before without asking for anyone’s help, and he usually didn’t regret them. Like surrendering himself to Voldemort. Or like going to Azkaban to get Malfoy out.

The biggest problem now was that Harry didn’t even know where to start. Malfoy didn’t really have anywhere to go, not unless he wanted to risk returning to the Manor, which he knew was under constant surveillance. And even if Malfoy did decide to try getting to Wiltshire, it would take him dozens of hours on foot, and he probably wouldn’t even know the way.

“Kreacher,” Harry said loudly into the empty room, and the house-elf appeared before he could even blink.

“You called, Master,” the elf croaked, giving him a small nod.

“Can you tell me more about Malfoy leaving?”

“What does Master wish to know?” Kreacher asked, squinting at Harry with his cloudy eyes.

“Did he say anything before he left? Anything that might help me guess where he was going?”

“No, Master. Young Master Draco only cursed loudly and complained that he couldn’t take it anymore. Then he left, without listening to poor old Kreacher at all.”

“He didn’t take anything with him?”

“No, Master,” Kreacher said, shaking his head so that his ears flapped.

Harry fell silent again, thinking. Kreacher’s words only supported his theory that Malfoy had to be travelling on foot. If he hadn’t taken anything with him, it was unlikely he’d planned ahead. Most likely, he was just wandering aimlessly through London, not even knowing where he was going.

Still, this didn’t help Harry move forward. Maybe he could report Malfoy missing to the Muggle police? But they probably didn’t have any kind of registry for pure-blood wizards ; Harry would likely just get himself into more trouble if he reported a missing person who, according to their records, didn’t even exist. No, he’d have to deal with this on his own.

He just needed to come up with a way to start searching that would allow him to scan a wide area without attracting attention from Muggles. But his mind was coming up blank. Scanning a large area required either a large group of people or flying, and he couldn’t do either. How much easier everything would be if he were, like his father, an Animagus. If he could just turn into a bird, for example.

“Wait a minute,” Harry mumbled to himself, straightening up as an idea struck him. “Kreacher, are you absolutely sure Malfoy didn’t take anything with him? Not even books?”

"Yes, Kreacher is quite certain, Master. Master Draco took nothing. He didn’t even go into his room before leaving."

"Malfoy’s been reading a book lately, something about northern magic. Do you know which one I mean? Can you tell if it’s anywhere in the house?"

"Yes, Kreacher knows. Kreacher saw it on Master Draco’s bedside table while cleaning his room," the elf croaked. "Would Master like to see the book?"

"If it’s not too much trouble," Harry said.

"Of course not," Kreacher replied, snapping his fingers, and in the blink of an eye, the book appeared in his hands. "Here you are, Master," the elf said, handing the book to Harry.

"Thanks," Harry said and began flipping through it immediately. He remembered Malfoy mentioning something about soul travelling, something about the soul leaving the body and how it could be trained to do so intentionally. A tiny voice in the back of his mind nagged at him, saying the whole idea was doomed from the start and a complete waste of time. He had never consciously travelled outside his body, he’d never even tried.

But Harry silenced the voice quickly. What other options did he really have right now?

After a few moments of skimming, he found a page that looked promising.

Soul Travelling

Soul travelling is a universally known method of journeying outside one’s own body. It has roots going back thousands of years and has been practised across the globe, with each region developing its own distinguishing characteristics. The core idea, however, has remained the same everywhere: the human mind must enter a trance-like state in order to allow the soul to separate from the body. This trance state can be reached in different ways; in some cultures, it is common to use a drum, in others, to chant a specific mantra, and in others still, to dance the mind into ecstasy.

Harry skimmed quickly through the general information. The voice in his head returned, now shouting in Hermione’s voice about how dangerous it was to toy with soul travelling without proper knowledge, but he simply didn’t have the time now.

Entering the trance requires shutting out all external sensory stimuli or, alternatively, overwhelming one particular sense to the point that the mind turns inward. Once the mind is turned inward, the soul is ready to detach from the body. In the North, soul separation traditionally involves the assistance of a spirit guide, which varies depending on whether the journey is into this world or the next. For journeys to the beyond, the guide is often a snake or fish, while for journeys within this world, nearly any creature can serve. Birds, however, have held a special role in Northern traditions, and it is most often a bird that serves as a soul traveller’s guide and messenger.

Soul travel can roughly be divided into the following stages:

• Entering a trance by shutting out sensory input, quieting the mind, and relaxing the body
  
  

• Turning the mind inward and separating the spirit from the body
  
  

• Summoning the spirit guide
  
  

• Leaving the body with the guide’s help
  
  

• Travelling, either in this world or the hereafter, alongside the guide
  
  

• Returning to one’s body
  
  

While breaking soul travelling into phases may make it sound simple, the journey itself — especially when venturing into the beyond — can be extremely difficult and even dangerous. Along the way, one might encounter—

But Harry didn’t read any further. He didn’t really want to know what might appear along the way; if anything unpleasant came up, he’d deal with it when it happened.

“Kreacher,” Harry said to the elf, who was still standing obediently in the middle of the room. “I need your help with something.”

“Of course. Kreacher is always ready to help Master,” the elf croaked.

“If you haven’t heard from me in an hour, and it looks like I’m asleep, get Ron and Hermione. Show them this book and tell them I’ve tried soul travelling.”

“But Master can’t, that could be dangerous,” the elf said, his eyes widening in horror.

“I can’t think of any other way to find Malfoy right now,” Harry snapped, his nerves wearing thin.

“We’ll think of something else, Master, surely it’s not worth risking yourself.”

“Everything will be fine. You know what I’m doing, and you know what to do if it looks like something’s gone wrong.”

“But Master—”

“Do you promise to help me, Kreacher?”

The old house-elf studied Harry for a long moment, his cloudy eyes full of worry. “Yes. Kreacher promises.”

“Good. Come check on me in an hour if you haven’t heard anything.”

“Very well,” the elf said unhappily, giving Harry one last look before disappearing from the room.

Harry let out a long breath. He knew Hermione and Ron both would be furious with him for attempting something he had no experience with or proper understanding of, but he forced that worry into the background of his head. Right now, he had no other choice.
He had to at least try.

He got up from his bed and closed the curtains over all the windows in the room. Then he got back into bed, lay down, pulled the curtains shut, and cast a Muffliato that filled his ears with a soft buzzing, blocking out the creaks, groans, and hum of the old house.

He closed his eyes again and tried to push away the racing thoughts in his head by focusing on his breathing and the soft, steady hum. He had never been particularly good at calming his mind or body, but Hermione had taught him and Ron a few breathing exercises to use when stress and sleeplessness refused to leave any of them alone after the war, and even Dreamless Sleep Potion could only be taken so many nights in a row. Harry and Ron had been highly sceptical at first, treating the exercises mostly as a joke. But Harry had to admit they sometimes helped, especially on nights when he woke up drenched in sweat from his own scream and had to find a way to settle his body after a nightmare.

He tried to recall one of the exercises.

Count to four while inhaling.
Hold your breath for a moment.

This felt so stupid. There was no way he’d actually manage to relax.

Count to six while exhaling.
Hold again.

Snape had always said he wasn’t good at clearing his mind.

Four in.
Hold.
Six out.

He really was willing to do anything for Malfoy, wasn’t he? He could almost picture Malfoy raising an eyebrow at him with a smirk and asking whether he had finally gone completely mad.

Hold.
Four in.
Hold.
Six out.
Hold.

To his surprise, Harry started to feel pleasantly relaxed. His thoughts slowed, his breathing became easier, and he felt a strange, gentle tingling all over his body.

Four in.
Hold.
Six out.
Hold.
Four in.
Hold.
Six out…

He felt himself sinking deeper and deeper into a state of calm. His body felt at once incredibly heavy and light as a feather, and he knew he wouldn’t have been able to move even a fingertip if he’d tried. All he could do was exist and breathe, letting himself drift further and further.

He knew what he needed to do next; it suddenly felt perfectly clear and simple in his mind. He focused entirely on the task ahead: he needed to find Malfoy, and he needed help to do it.

Soon, a fragile bird flapping powerfully its wings began to take shape in front of him, slowly coming into focus. The bird was fairly small and jet black, except for a bright orange beak and ring around its eye.

A blackbird.

Harry hesitated for a moment; this had to be his spirit guide that the book mentioned, but he had no idea how to communicate to the bird what he needed from it. But the bird seemed to know exactly what to do, and before Harry could even attempt any form of communication, it was already motioning for him to follow.

What happened next was something he had never believed he would experience. He had assumed that leaving one’s body would be difficult, that the body would resist when its occupant tried to depart. But to his surprise, he barely even felt the boundary his body set, as his mind simply drifted off with the bird. Before long, he found himself looking at the strangest sight he had ever seen: his own body, lying below him, looking completely peaceful, his face relaxed and his chest rising and falling gently with his breath.

He didn’t have much time to observe, however, because the bird was already on the move again, and Harry knew he had to stay with it. They flew side by side, farther and farther from Grimmauld Place, higher and higher above the rooftops of Islington.

Harry had never felt such a sense of freedom. He was weightless, formless, limitless—and it felt like nothing in his path could stop him. Nothing could, in fact, as he could pass through any obstacle at will. The only thing limiting his path was the blackbird flying beside him, leading them as they glided above the neighbourhood.

A bit reluctantly, Harry forced himself to focus on his mission. He scanned the ground below, where people looked tiny, reduced to the tops of their heads. Every time he spotted someone with blond hair, Harry and the blackbird swooped down to check if it was Malfoy. They weaved back and forth, diving and rising over and over again. At some point, Harry began to feel like the blackbird was teasing him on purpose, seeming to urge him into sharper and sharper turns and twists, so much so that Harry struggled to keep up at times. Flying in this bodiless state was nothing like flying on a broom, but his Quidditch skills came in handy nonetheless, and he quickly learned to read the bird’s body language to anticipate where it was going next.

As they flew over Nightingale Park, the blackbird suddenly dove toward the ground again. This time, however, Harry quickly realised that the dive wasn’t playful or teasing—the blackbird had truly spotted something.

A moment later, Harry saw it too: standing on the path below them was a young, blond man who looked completely lost, as if he had no idea why he was there or where he was going. People walked past him, some throwing annoyed glances his way as he stood blocking the path, but the man didn’t seem to notice them at all.

Harry and the blackbird descended a little lower, and the man suddenly lifted his gaze upward to look at the bird.

Malfoy.

Harry’s heart would have leapt if he had been capable of feeling anything in this form.

Malfoy looked utterly lost. His face was tense with worry, and his grey eyes were filled with sorrow, confusion, and despair as he watched the bird circling above him.

Harry turned to look at the blackbird, which now gestured for him to follow once more. Together, they rose higher again and flew straight toward Grimmauld Place. As they descended, Harry once again found himself staring at his sleeping body, and once again, he had no time to reflect on how strange it was to see himself like that.

Quickly, he slipped back into his body just as easily as he had left it, trying to settle in and reestablish the connection. He opened his eyes and gasped for breath, as though he had just surfaced from being underwater for too long.

The blackbird was gone, and Harry was left with a strange sense that he had just had a particularly vivid dream.

But it couldn’t have been just a dream. He had to go check; he had to know if they had really found Malfoy.

He got up quickly and grabbed his invisibility cloak, his heart still pounding wildly in his chest, and his breath coming hard and fast.

"Kreacher!" he shouted, hurrying down the stairs toward the front door. "I think I found him! I’m going to try and bring him back!"

He leapt down the final steps to the ground floor, rushed out the door, and Disapparated straight to the park he had just seen.

"Potter, what the hell!" Malfoy hissed, jumping back in alarm as he heard the pop and saw Harry suddenly appear from beneath the Invisibility Cloak in front of him. "You can’t just Apparate like that, there are bloody Muggles around!"  

But no one else seemed to have noticed Harry’s sudden arrival.

"Nice to see you too," Harry muttered, catching his breath. "Come on, Malfoy. We need to get back to Grimmauld Place."

"How did you find me?"

"It's a long story, I'll explain later," Harry said, urging Malfoy. "Come on," he tried, but Malfoy didn’t budge. Passersby were starting to stare at them with increasing disapproval.

"I… I'm not going back to Grimmauld Place, Potter. I can’t," Malfoy said, his voice trembling.

"You’ve got to be kidding me," Harry said impatiently. "I’m sorry I didn’t stop to explain how things went at the Ministry, okay? Can we just go now?"

"That's not why I left," Malfoy said quietly, wrapping his arms tightly around himself.

"Then why?"

Malfoy looked at Harry for a moment, his grey eyes desperate. "This is just… it’s all too much. Everyone’s dead, and I should be too, but I survived, and it just feels so unfair and wrong. Why the hell did you have to save me, of all people? I lost my father, I can never see my mother again, and now I’m just living on borrowed time, waiting to be caught and killed. I can’t keep living like this," he finished in a whisper, his whole body visibly shaking.

"But you’re safe at Grimmauld Place," Harry said, reaching out and lightly touching Malfoy's arm. The trembling eased slightly at the contact.

"You know I’m not. I can’t be truly safe anywhere," Malfoy replied. "No matter how long I have left, I want to live at least some of it free. I’m leaving."

"What do you mean, you live? Where would you even go?"

Malfoy shrugged. "I don’t know yet. Eastern Europe? Somewhere far away from here."

"Okay, then I’m coming with you."

Malfoy flinched and blinked at him in confusion. "What do you mean?"

"I mean I’m coming with you."

"No, you’re not."

"Yes, I am," Harry said stubbornly. "You can’t seriously think you’d manage out there alone."

Malfoy looked almost offended. "For your information, I’ve travelled all over Italy, France, Switzerland, been to China—"

"In wizarding areas," Harry cut in. "But now you’ll have to travel only through Muggle areas and use Muggle transport, or you’ll get caught instantly."

Malfoy shut his mouth abruptly. Clearly, he hadn’t thought of that. "But… you can’t just leave,” he said. "Your whole life is here. You can't seriously be that stupidly selfless that you’d throw it all away for me ."

"I’m not throwing it away. I’m not planning to hide forever," Harry said. "You know Muggles raised me. I know how to get by in the Muggle world."

"But..."

"This is my decision. I’m coming with you."

Malfoy stared at Harry defiantly, trying to come up with something to object to. “Merlin, you really can be so stupid sometimes,” he muttered after a moment.

“Alright then, it’s settled.”

“I already know I’ll regret this many times over, but fine, I’ll come with you,” Malfoy said, sounding both annoyed and exhausted.

Harry smiled at him. “Great! Come on, let’s head back to Grimmauld Place and start planning.” He held out his hand to Malfoy.

Malfoy studied him for a moment longer, then wrapped his long, sweat-dampened fingers around Harry’s hand. Harry squeezed back, pulled him a little closer, and threw the Invisibility Cloak over them both.

Soon, a loud pop echoed through the park, making a few Muggles jump and look around, confused as they searched for the source of the noise in vain.

Chapter Text

Harry had never imagined that, after walking away from Privet Drive for the last time, he would have any reason to deal with his relatives again; at least not for years, maybe not ever.

Sure, he might have pictured himself showing up at Dudley’s graduation or wedding, or grabbing a quick pint with his cousin at a pub someday. But mostly, he had assumed that leaving Privet Drive also meant leaving the Dursleys behind for good.

Now, standing in front of a worn, mahogany-brown apartment building in London with his finger hovering over the doorbell, he couldn’t help but wonder just how wrong he’d been.

He took a steadying breath and pressed the doorbell.

After a moment, there was a rustling sound behind the door, and then it slowly creaked open.

Dudley peeked out cautiously, and his eyes widened in surprise when he saw Harry. 

Harry gave his cousin a strained smile. “Hi, Dudley! Mind if we come in? I’ve got something I’d like to talk about.”

Dudley blinked a few times, then opened the door wider to see who else Harry meant by ‘we’. When he spotted Malfoy, standing there in the orange Smeltings hoodie, he stared in open amazement for several seconds before seeming to realise it, and quickly turned his gaze back to Harry.

“Harry,” Dudley said after a moment.

“Dudley,” Harry replied patiently. “So, could we come in?”

The question snapped Dudley out of his stupor. “Yeah, sure,” he said hesitantly and opened the door for Harry and Malfoy.

“Is your cousin a bit slow, or what’s wrong with him?” Malfoy whispered to Harry, who stepped on his foot warningly.

After Malfoy closed the door behind them, Harry looked around the fairly small and somewhat old-looking apartment. “So you’ve moved out of Privet Drive.”

“Yeah,” Dudley nodded. “How did you find me?”

“I actually called your home first, but your mom said you don’t live there anymore.”

Dudley nodded. “Mom and Dad moved back there after your war ended, but I didn’t want to go back. I got a job at a nearby pub and found this place.”

“This seems pretty nice.” 

“Well, it’s small and a bit run-down, but it suits me fine,” Dudley said with a shrug.

Now it was Harry’s turn to be surprised. The old Dudley — the one who had always wanted everything big, shiny, and expensive — would never have said something like that.

Looking more closely, Harry realised just how much his cousin had changed in a year. Dudley had grown a couple of centimetres taller and slimmed down a bit, and the soft, boyish roundness had nearly vanished from his face. He looked more grown-up now, and even a bit serious.

“Come to the living room, I’ll get us some beers,” Dudley said, motioning for them to step further inside.

Harry followed him into a space that seemed to serve as both living room and kitchen. The walls were covered in yellowish-brown wallpaper, and by the window stood a small dining table. There was a compact kitchenette on one side, and in the opposite corner, a shabby brown sofa and armchair faced a small TV.

Despite the modest size, the room felt surprisingly spacious, clean, and almost empty.

“Uh, Dudley? Where’s all your stuff?” Harry asked as he sat down on the sofa next to Malfoy.

“What stuff?” Dudley replied, confused, as he set the beers down on the coffee table and dropped into the armchair.

“All your things from Privet Drive. Your video games, CD player, that big TV…”

“Oh, those,” Dudley said. “I left them at home.”

Harry frowned. “Why would you leave them?”

“Mom and Dad didn’t want me moving out, so they tried to blackmail me into staying by taking all my stuff. I only managed to grab the PlayStation and a couple of games,” he added, nodding toward the TV.

“What’s a PlayStation?” Malfoy whispered loudly enough for Dudley to hear.

“I’ll explain later,” Harry whispered back. “So why did you want to move out?” he asked Dudley, raising his voice again.

“I…” Dudley began, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. “It’s just… Privet Drive didn’t feel like a good idea anymore. We spent months hiding out in one of your people’s safehouses, with others in similar situations, and… well, there was a lot of time to think. I thought a lot about our childhood, you know, about how my parents and I treated you. Then suddenly, you were in some kind of terrible danger, and all I could think about was how much I used to whine about you coming to the zoo for my birthday, or when Mum and Dad finally let you out of the cupboard and you got my second room—”

“Okay, yeah, I get it,” Harry cut in quickly, his cheeks turning red. He could feel Malfoy’s gaze fixed on him like a spotlight.

“Harry, I’m really sorry,” Dudley said quietly, staring down at his unopened beer. “I wanted to reach out after I got settled here, but… I just didn’t dare.”

“It’s okay,” Harry replied, trying to sound casual, and probably failing. Having this conversation with Dudley, of all people, and in front of Malfoy, hadn’t exactly been on his to-do list for the day.

Dudley sat in silence for a moment longer, then opened his beer with a soft pop and handed the bottle opener to Harry.

“You said you had something to talk about?”

“Yeah,” Harry said with a nod, opening both his and Malfoy’s bottles. “I… or rather, we need a bit of your help.”

Dudley’s gaze drifted slowly back to Malfoy, who was now sniffing the beer bottle suspiciously.

“So, uh… this is my friend Malfoy,” Harry said, nodding toward him. “Dudley, Malfoy — Malfoy, Dudley.”

They exchanged cautious nods.

“And are you also one of those… those…” Dudley began, still eyeing Malfoy.

“He is,” Harry said simply.

“I am what?” Malfoy asked, a hint of irritation in his voice.

“A wizard,” Harry replied.

“Oh, those . Of course I am,” Malfoy said smugly, lifting his chin slightly as he gave Dudley an assessing look. “And you must be Potter’s Muggle cousin.”

Harry sighed. “Muggle means—”

“I know what it means,” Dudley interrupted. “I heard that word all the time in your safehouse. And yeah, I can’t, well… you know, do magic ,” he added, lowering his voice like the word still made him uncomfortable. 

Malfoy nodded and turned his attention back to the bottle. “May I ask what exactly this drink is?” he said, turning it slowly in his hands like it might explode.

“It’s a mild alcoholic drink. Very popular among Muggles,” Harry said. “Just try it.”

Malfoy raised the bottle to his lips, took a cautious sip, and immediately wrinkled his nose. “I don’t know about you, but I still prefer butter beer.”

Harry laughed. “You get used to beer. It’s actually pretty good once you’ve had it a few times.”

“Sure,” Malfoy muttered, setting the bottle down.

“Not fancy enough for you?” Harry asked with a grin.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Malfoy snapped.

“Um,” Dudley said, shifting awkwardly. “I don’t want to interrupt, but… what exactly was this about again?”

“Oh, right,” Harry said, sitting up a little straighter. “Uh… how’s Piers Polkiss?”

Dudley gave him a puzzled look. “Piers? He’s all right, I guess. Haven’t heard from him in a while. Why?”

“Didn’t his dad used to be involved in some… shady business?”

Dudley stared at him, horrified. “How do you know that?” he asked, as if suspecting Harry had learned to read minds.

“My room was right next to yours,” Harry said with a small smile. “Let’s just say you weren’t exactly quiet when you talked about it.”

Dudley relaxed a little. “Right… okay. But what does that have to do with anything?”

“We need to leave the country,” Harry said, “and we need fake documents.”

Dudley blinked at him. “What?”

Harry repeated calmly, “We need fake documents to leave the country. Preferably as soon as possible.”

Dudley gaped. “What the hell have you gotten yourself into? You’re not in danger again, are you?”

“No, nothing like that,” Harry said with a sigh. “It’s… complicated. And honestly, the less you know, the better.”

“But couldn’t you just, I don’t know… use magic to create them?”

“I can’t do magic at the moment,” Harry began, but Malfoy cut in.

“And Potter is hopeless even with the simplest spells, so we’re stuck with Muggle methods.”

Harry scoffed. “Oh, please, like you’d do any better. You said yourself you wouldn’t know how to make fake documents that would look realistic enough.”

“That’s only because I’ve never actually seen Muggle documents,” Malfoy replied stiffly.

“Well, for obvious reasons, I haven’t needed them much either. I’ve never even had a passport,” Harry muttered, rolling his eyes before turning back to his cousin. “So… do you think you could help us?”

“Maybe,” Dudley said hesitantly. “I’ll have to talk to Piers first. But this might take some time, and it’ll probably cost quite a bit.”

“That’s not a problem,” Harry replied. “I’ve already exchanged enough money into pounds. It should cover it. Actually, there’s one more thing; could we stay here until we get the documents?”

“Why?” Dudley asked, frowning. “Harry, this doesn’t sound good.”

“I promise it’s nothing dangerous. We’re just… avoiding the rest of the magical community right now.”

Dudley studied Harry for a moment, his expression dark. “Okay, you can stay. One of you can sleep on the couch, and the other on the guest mattress. I’ll talk to Piers first thing tomorrow.”

“Thanks, Dudley.”

“No problem, you’re family after all,” Dudley said, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I’ll go get a mattress then.”

After Harry, Malfoy, and Dudley had set up the mattress and finished their beers, Dudley wished them good night and went to his bedroom.

Harry and Malfoy had a short, half-hearted battle over who would get the couch, but Harry was so tired he gave up quickly and collapsed onto the narrow, lumpy mattress beside it. Without a word, he placed his glasses on the floor, turned onto his side, pulled the blanket up to his ears, and closed his eyes.

Malfoy settled down quietly on the creaking sofa.

Though Harry was physically exhausted from the past few days, his mind raced with thoughts about what he and Malfoy were about to do. He was somewhat used to running away; after all, he’d been doing it almost all last year, but if someone had told him a few months ago that he’d end up fleeing abroad, and with Malfoy no less, he would have laughed in their face.

It was ironically tragic. He’d always envied the Dursleys’ trips abroad. And now, just as he was finally leaving Britain for the first time, it was just to escape again. 

“Potter?” Malfoy suddenly whispered, tapping Harry’s cheek lightly with a knuckle. Harry jumped.

“Malfoy, what the hell?” he muttered irritably.

“Are you still awake?”

“Well, now I am.”

“I just… never mind. Sorry, didn’t mean to wake you.”

Harry sighed. “I wasn’t really asleep yet.”

“I didn’t have anything important to say.”

“Come on, you’ve already started,” Harry whispered, turning toward Malfoy.

“I’ve just been thinking…” Malfoy said slowly, eyes fixed on the ceiling. “About this whole thing. Whether any of it even makes sense.”

“What do you mean?”

“Going abroad. Or, well, you coming with me.”

“We’ve already been over this. It’s my choice.”

“Yeah, but… doesn’t it scare you?” Malfoy asked quietly, and beneath the words, Harry could clearly hear the fear and doubt in his voice.

“Hey, look at me,” Harry said, pushing himself up onto one elbow.

Malfoy hesitated, then turned his gaze from the ceiling. Even without his glasses, Harry could make out the worry lines etched between his brows.

“Of course I’m scared,” Harry said. “This whole plan is full of holes. But the more I think about it, the more it feels like our only real option. You were right when I came to get you from Azkaban — it’s just a matter of time before that obliviated Auror gets his memory back. And when that happens, neither of us can be here. Not even hiding in Grimmauld Place.”

“You could stay,” Malfoy said. “They wouldn’t come after you.”

“Believe it or not, being the so-called saviour doesn’t protect me from everything, especially not from this Ministry. And I’d really rather not get to know Azkaban any better.”

“You seriously think they’d throw you in Azkaban?” Malfoy asked, incredulous.

“You seriously think they wouldn’t? After everything they’ve already done?”

Malfoy was quiet for a moment, his grey eyes flickering in the dim light. “Okay. Fair point.”

“So… we’re still doing this? We’re leaving together?”

“I guess so,” Malfoy muttered, and Harry could just make out the faintest curve of a smile at the corner of his mouth. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t still think you’re a reckless idiot.”

Harry grabbed his pillow and whacked him in the head with it. “Just go to sleep already you idiot . ”

Malfoy just let out a quiet laugh, and Harry couldn’t help but grin.

“Okay, okay,” Malfoy said, still smiling. “Good night, Potter.”

“Night, Malfoy,” Harry murmured, sinking back onto his pillow.

-–*--*--*--*--

Piers had agreed to help, though it seemed Dudley hadn’t told him exactly who the fake documents were for. As expected, they wouldn’t be ready immediately. All Dudley could give him was a rough estimate: a couple of days, maybe. So Harry and Malfoy had no choice but to live with the uncertainty and settle into Dudley’s flat for an indefinite amount of time.

So far, they’d managed to arrange fake documents that might get them to France, but everything beyond that point was still a blur. At least Harry had prepared somewhat; he’d visited Gringotts a few times to exchange Galleons into various Muggle currencies, just to make travelling through various countries smoother.

He’d also returned to Grimmauld Place twice to pack, always late at night to avoid running into Ron or Hermione. The secrecy made him feel like a coward and guilty. He knew he wouldn’t be able to face his friends without giving himself away completely. He already dreaded how disappointed and angry they’d be with him, and honestly, he didn’t blame them. If Ron or Hermione had done something like this behind his back, he’d probably be furious too. All he could hope was that, maybe one day, they’d understand why he felt like he had no other choice.

Letting out a long sigh, Harry tossed a few books and hoodies into his magically expanded backpack, left a handwritten note for Ron and Hermione on the kitchen table, and said a slightly bitter goodbye to Kreacher before Disapparating from Grimmauld Place.

When he landed in Dudley’s hallway, for a second he thought he’d arrived in the wrong place because the first thing he heard was laughter. But no, there were Dudley’s coats on the hooks, and among the shoes by the wall were the white sneakers Dudley had recently bought for Malfoy, even if they were a few sizes too big.

Harry hesitated, took a few cautious steps forward, and peeked around the corner into the living room, where Dudley and Malfoy were sitting side by side on the sofa, game controllers in hand, laughing.

“Move, you stupid polar bear,” Malfoy grunted, twisting his whole body with the controller. “Why won’t it go?”

“Try the turbo boost,” Dudley said, eyes fixed on the screen.

“Not a chance. Last time I used that, I slammed straight into a wall.”

“That was your own fault,” Dudley shrugged. “Haha, there you are! I can already see you.”

“How?” Malfoy demanded. “Wait—did you hit me with something?”

“I don’t need to. You’re off the road without me having to do anything,” Dudley said, smirking. “I just passed you again.”

“Of course you did,” Malfoy muttered.

“Ahem,” Harry cleared his throat and stepped into the room.

“Potter!” Malfoy jumped. “Bloody hell, I crashed again because of you.”

Harry grinned and walked around the couch to watch. Malfoy was the last one of all; besides Dudley, a couple of other racers had passed him, and to make things worse, he kept trying to go the wrong way.

“Wow, Malfoy, I didn’t know anyone could be this bad,” Harry said as Dudley burst out laughing.

“If you’re such a bloody expert, go on, show us,” Malfoy snapped and shoved the controller at him.

Harry took it, leaned on the back of the sofa, and started playing. At first, he was all over the place, but after a minute of chaotic driving, his reflexes started to come back, and he managed to overtake a couple of racers before the finish line.

Dudley, who had crossed the finish line long ago, looked at him with a confused expression.

“How did you get so good at playing?”

Harry grinned at his cousin.

“I don’t know, maybe I played on your PlayStation once or twice when you and your parents were out.”

“Should’ve guessed,” Dudley said. “New game?”

“No thank you. Losing this many times in a row is enough humiliation for one day, thanks,” Malfoy groaned. “But you can play with Potter.”

“I don’t think I have the energy either. Maybe later.”

“How did it go at Grimmauld Place? Any problems?” Malfoy asked, turning on the couch to look Harry in the eye.

Harry shook his head.

“Nope. I managed to pack everything I needed and left a message for Ron and Hermione.”

“Hey, by the way,” Dudley interrupted, “I got your documents today. Piers brought them to me at work.”

Harry’s heart skipped a beat.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Malfoy asked Dudley, sounding a bit offended.

“I forgot,” Dudley shrugged. “You started asking about how the PlayStation works the moment I got home from work.”

“I was just bored.”

“Want to see them? I left them on the kitchen table,” Dudley said, standing up.

Harry, Dudley, and Malfoy gathered around the kitchen table, and Dudley started sorting through the stack of papers.

“Alright, first things first—passports,” Dudley said, pulling a couple of red-covered booklets from the pile. “From now on, Draco’s Oliver Davies, and Harry, you’re Matt Johnson.” Both took the passports from Dudley and started flipping through them.

Although Harry hadn’t seen many passports closely before, he could immediately tell that the ones Piers had gotten looked alarmingly authentic. When Dudley pulled out his own passport for comparison, Harry saw no differences at all; everything, from serial numbers to stamps, was perfectly in order. It was a strange feeling seeing his own photo on an official document that was otherwise completely wrong. His birthdate was off by a few months, the place of birth listed as Leicester, and the name barely resembled his own.

“Are these good enough?” Dudley asked after a moment.

“They’re perfect, definitely believable,” Harry said. “Thanks, Dudley.”

“Well, Matt, when are we going to leave?” Malfoy asked.

“Right now.”

 “Right now? Couldn’t you wait until morning at least?” Dudley sounded worried.

“We really can’t. We need to get out of the country as soon as possible,” Harry said. “Leaving at night gives us a better chance of slipping away unnoticed.”

Dudley bit his lip nervously and looked at him.“Harry, can I talk to you alone for a moment?”

Harry raised an eyebrow in surprise. “Sure,” he said, shrugging at Malfoy’s curious glance, and followed Dudley to his bedroom.

“Well?” Harry asked, closing the door behind them.

“That friend of yours…” Dudley began hesitantly.

“Malfoy,” Harry corrected.

“Right,” Dudley said. “Are you sure you can trust him? That he’s not dangerous?”

Harry frowned. “What do you mean? Has he done something?”

“No, nothing like that. He’s just… a bit unusual.”

“But?”

“But… what exactly is going on between you two?”

“What do you mean?” Harry asked, swallowing hard as his mouth suddenly went dry and his face flushed. There was nothing going on between him and Malfoy.

“You said you’re friends, but you call each other by last names. That’s ridiculous, friends don’t do that,” Dudley said, sounding sceptical.

“Oh,” Harry said, oddly relieved. “Well, it’s… complicated.”

“It’s not.”

“How do you know that?”

“Either you’re friends or you’re not. It’s that simple.”

Harry didn’t know how to answer. Honestly, even he wasn’t sure what he and Malfoy really were. Former enemies who, by circumstance, had suddenly ended up on the same side and actually found they enjoyed each other’s company enough, but who still stubbornly pretended to hate each other? 

“It’s really complicated,” Harry finally said. “I can’t explain much more than that we didn’t get along at school, but now we’re on better terms, I think.”

“But you trust him?”

“Yeah, I do,” Harry said, surprised to realise he actually meant it.

Dudley studied him for a moment, then nodded seriously. “Good. Just promise me you’ll be careful, okay?”

“Of course,” Harry said, trying to sound convincing, “we really should get going now.”

“Yeah, okay,” Dudley said, opening the bedroom door.

Harry and Malfoy dressed quietly in the hallway, and only then did it truly sink in that they were actually leaving. Harry’s heart pounded fast and hard in his chest.

“Thanks, Dudley. I owe you one,” Harry said, his voice a little hoarse, while Malfoy pulled the ridiculous Smeltings hoodie over his head.

“You don’t,” Dudley assured him, glancing sideways at Malfoy and the hoodie. “Just promise you both take care of yourselves and stay safe.”

“I... thanks,” Harry said with a grin. “It was good to see you, Big D.”

“Yes, thanks from me too,” Malfoy said stiffly.

Dudley placed his big hands briefly on their shoulders, making Malfoy clearly confused.

“Good to see you. Harry, send me a message as soon as you get back to Britain.”

“Of course,” Harry said, grabbing Malfoy’s arm. “Bye, Dudley.”

“Bye then, Muggle,” Malfoy said, before Harry grabbed his wand and pulled them both into the darkness.

-–*--*--*--*--

“So, we’re actually leaving, Matt,” Malfoy said, sitting by the window seat and staring thoughtfully out at the not-yet-moving train.

Harry tried to laugh softly, but the sound caught in his throat. “Yeah, Oliver, looks like we are.”

As the train slowly started to move, Malfoy gently rested his head on Harry’s shoulder. For a moment, Harry felt frozen, forgetting how to breathe.

“Still no regrets?” Malfoy asked quietly.

Harry leaned his head against Malfoy’s and whispered, “Nope. No regrets.”

Chapter Text

Outside, the late summer evening had turned into night as the train sped through the tunnel connecting England and France. The steady rhythm of the wheels on the tracks was calming, almost hypnotic, broken only by the sound of Malfoy’s quiet, quick breathing beside Harry’s left ear. He was still leaning against his shoulder.

As the minutes passed, Malfoy’s head began to feel heavier, and Harry’s arm slowly started to go numb. Still, he didn’t move or say anything. Even though he was sure they were both wide awake, he didn’t want to break the moment.

Over two hours later, when the conductor finally announced their arrival in Paris, Harry and Malfoy slipped off the train with the flow of passengers. Despite the weight of everything that had brought them here, Harry couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at his lips as he stepped onto foreign soil for the first time in his life.

“What’s with the smile, Potter?” Malfoy asked, raising an eyebrow.

Harry turned to him, not bothering to hide it.

“I’ve never been abroad before.” 

“Seriously?” Malfoy looked genuinely surprised. “Not even as a kid with your Muggle family?”

“You mean the Dursleys?” Harry let out a dry laugh. “Oh, they travelled all the time. They just never brought me along.”

Malfoy gave him that look again, that sharp, calculating one, like he was trying to solve a puzzle.  “Well, lucky for you, you’ve got me now. We travelled a lot when I was a kid, so I can give you a decent rundown of a few places.”

“Lucky me indeed,” Harry muttered.

Turned out he really was lucky. Malfoy’s French came in handy right away when they tried to ask about trains heading toward Eastern Europe. The ticket clerk barely spoke any English, or maybe he just didn’t want to.

Harry had to admit that they actually made a pretty decent team. Malfoy, annoyingly, knew what he was doing when it came to travelling abroad, and he could fumble his way through a handful of languages like it was no big deal. As for Harry… well, he was at least passable at navigating the Muggle world. 

Eventually, tickets in hand, they made their way to the station’s waiting room to pass the hours until their early morning train to Stuttgart. From there, they planned to continue to Munich, and then finally on to Innsbruck. Austria felt like a far enough place to start; safe, quiet, and distant. And with any luck, the trail behind them would be too tangled to follow.

The journey from Paris to Stuttgart passed in a kind of quiet haze. Malfoy sat with his eyes closed, leaning against the window, while Harry took the seat opposite, his own gaze fixed outside. Normally, long silences made him twitchy, but this time he hardly noticed the hours slipping by. He was too caught up watching the countryside rush past, fields, vineyards, tiny villages, and, as they got closer to Germany, rolling hills that grew into real mountains.

Even the road signs caught his attention, French and German names flashing by, each one a reminder that he was somewhere completely new. Even the rising sun looked different out here, like everything was just slightly off in a way he couldn’t explain.

He was pretty sure Malfoy wasn’t really asleep. Every so often, Harry had the strange sensation of being watched, and when he glanced over, Malfoy would still have his eyes closed, but there’d be this little smirk playing on his lips, like he knew something Harry didn’t.

The train connection in Stuttgart was fast, and they had just ten minutes to find the right platform. On the way to Munich, they had to sit side by side again, and this time Harry insisted on the window seat since Malfoy announced he planned on sleeping the whole way.

Not long after the train pulled out, Malfoy’s head ended up on Harry’s shoulder again. What Harry didn’t expect, though, was that an hour in, Malfoy let out a quiet grunt, shifted in his sleep, and curled up like a cat. Legs tucked into his own seat and upper body curled into Harry’s lap.

Harry froze.

Suddenly, all the noise of the train and the German chatter just faded away; it was like the world around him had gone completely quiet. There was just a boy, asleep, absurdly peacefully in his arms. And Harry had absolutely no idea what to do with his hands. One armrest was blocked, the other was too far. Folding his arms over his chest felt ridiculous. He ended up just… hovering there, stiff and stunned, wondering how the hell this had become his life.

He slowly let out the breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding.

This time, though, Malfoy really did seem asleep. He probably wouldn’t even notice if Harry gently rested a hand on him. And if he did, well, he could always blame Malfoy himself. After all, it was Malfoy who’d practically crawled into his lap.

Carefully, Harry placed one hand on Malfoy’s arm and the other in his hair. When Malfoy didn’t stir, Harry finally let his shoulders relax. As he ran his fingers slowly through Malfoy’s silky, travel-mussed hair, he found himself oddly struck by how no one’s hair had ever caught his attention quite like this.

He vaguely remembered how, back at school, he’d noticed little details about Malfoy’s hair: those early years annoyingly slicked back, the sixth year thin and too white, and during the Battle of Hogwarts, streaked with soot and tangled. But what stuck with him most were the sunny days, maybe on the Quidditch pitch, in Care of Magical Creatures class, or at a picnic by the lake, when Malfoy’s hair had gleamed in the sunlight. Just like now, with the afternoon light streaming through the window, making each strand sparkle like it held a hundred tiny stars.

As his fingers sank into that hair again and again, a memory suddenly washed over him, from a couple of years ago, a strikingly similar moment. Only back then, Malfoy’s head had rested in Pansy Parkinson’s lap instead. Her slender fingers, nails painted bright red, tangled in his hair while Harry hid above them on the luggage rack.

Harry’s stomach twisted uncomfortably at the memory, remembering how satisfied and privileged Parkinson had looked, holding Malfoy’s head and stroking his hair.

Maybe Malfoy was just touch-starved, too used to being cared for and getting attention.

Nächste Station, München.

Harry jolted and quickly pulled his hand out of Malfoy’s hair. He didn’t need to understand German to get the message.

“Malfoy,” he said, giving him a gentle shake on the shoulder.

Malfoy inhaled sharply and blinked his pale lashes as he opened his eyes.

“We’re just arriving in Munich. We have to get off.”

Harry couldn’t tell if Malfoy was just dazed from sleep or if he honestly didn’t care, but he gave no indication that he’d just woken up halfway in Harry’s lap. His expression didn’t even shift as he slowly sat up, stretched, and looked at Harry like nothing at all had happened.

“So, are we going?” Malfoy asked, yawning.

“Yeah. We are,” Harry said, forcing his eyes away from him as he reached down to grab his backpack.

In Munich, they had just enough time to buy pretzels from a station kiosk. Malfoy claimed they were a famous local thing, though Harry wasn’t exactly blown away by the taste. Still, it had been smart to eat something. Harry realised only then that they hadn’t had a single bite since London, and he hadn’t even noticed how hungry he was until he had the warm, salty pastry in his hand.

The train from Munich to Innsbruck was much calmer than the previous ones, and this time they managed to snag an entire six-seat compartment to themselves. Harry tossed his backpack onto the luggage rack and dropped into one of the window seats, expecting Malfoy to take the opposite bench. But instead, Malfoy sat down right next to him, stretched out, and laid his head back in Harry’s lap, legs curled comfortably across the seats.

Then he took Harry’s hand and placed it on his hair.

“What?” Malfoy asked, raising an eyebrow when Harry froze in place, visibly flustered. His grey eyes sparkled with something between challenge and amusement. “You didn’t seem to mind touching my hair on the last train ride.”

Harry felt his face go hot in an instant. “I thought you were asleep!”

“Well, I wasn’t,” Malfoy said simply. He took Harry’s hand again, this time holding it a little more gently, and placed it back in his hair.

“Please,” he added softly, his expression shifting suddenly to an unsure, almost pleading one.

With stiff fingers, Harry began to stroke Malfoy’s hair, slowly at first, barely grazing the strands. When nothing bad happened,he let himself grow a little bolder, his touch gaining confidence with every pass.

Malfoy’s eyes fluttered closed, his face softening. The crease between his brows smoothed out, his jaw unclenched, and the corners of his mouth curved into the faintest smile.

Harry let his gaze drift over Malfoy’s face, from his forehead to his lashes, from the lashes down to the tip of his nose, and finally to his lips. He hadn’t noticed before how Malfoy’s lips were somehow both thin and full, slightly dry and chapped, and the kind of soft rose pink that stood out sharply against his pale skin.

A shiver crept down Harry’s spine. A strange thought slipped into his mind: what would it feel like to touch them? To trace the outline of Malfoy’s mouth with a finger, feel him exhale, maybe part his lips ever so slightly…

“Let’s play a game,” Malfoy said suddenly, eyes snapping open and dragging Harry out of his thoughts.

“A game?” Harry repeated, caught off guard.

“Something we used to play as kids to kill time when we were bored,” Malfoy said casually. “What did you and your friends play?”

“I… I didn’t really play anything,” Harry admitted, feeling awkward.

“Oh, come on,” Malfoy scoffed. “All kids play something.”

“I didn’t,” Harry said firmly. “Let’s play something you used to play.”

Malfoy gave him a sceptical look but didn’t push it. “Fine. Let’s start with something easy. Ever heard of the yes or no game?”

Harry shook his head.

“We used to play it with my mum when I complained there was nothing to do,” Malfoy explained. “You take turns asking questions, and you can only answer with yes or no.”

“So you can ask absolutely anything?”

“Anything,” Malfoy nodded. “You start.”

Harry paused to think. “Do you really like Dudley’s old Smeltings hoodie?”

Malfoy rolled his eyes, smirking. “Should’ve known this was the thing that was bothering your mind the most. Yes, I like it.”

“Sometimes I feel like I don’t understand you at all,” Harry said, twirling Malfoy’s hair around his finger.

“I can tell you the feeling is mutual,” Malfoy’s mouth curved into a crooked smile. “My turn: Did you really free our house-elf?”

“You mean Dobby?” Harry asked, surprised by the question. Malfoy nodded. “No, you know only the master of a house-elf can free them, but… I may have helped your father a bit with that,” he finished, grinning cautiously.

“I knew you had to have something to do with it.”

“Does it bother you?”

Malfoy was silent for a moment, then shook his head. “No. Dobby never fit in as an ordinary house-elf. He was always very unhappy. Unhappier than the others.”

Harry looked at Malfoy seriously. “You really mean that.”

“Is that your question?” Malfoy asked. Harry nodded.

“Yeah. I mean… I wouldn’t have said it back when you freed Dobby, but later… I was glad he got to live a few years free.”

“He was happy. Freedom suited him.”

“I can imagine,” Malfoy said. “Okay, my turn. That day you came back from the Ministry, all upset, were you angry at me?”

Harry blinked, surprised. Malfoy was watching him closely, his face serious.

“No. Why would you think that?”

“You never explained why you were so angry.”

“I did. Things weren’t going as planned at the Ministry.”

“Sure,” Malfoy said, unconvinced. “But it wasn’t the first time you had problems at the Ministry. And you weren’t that upset before.”

Harry looked away. “Hermione and I went to the Burrow after. And… something happened.”

“Something happened,” Malfoy repeated, raising an eyebrow.

“Yeah.”

“Does it have something to do with the Weasley girl?”

Harry’s eyes snapped back to him. “How do you know that?”

“Lucky guess,” Malfoy said with a shrug. “I saw you together a lot toward the end of sixth year. What happened between you?”

Harry narrowed his eyes. “Nice try. It’s my turn to ask.”

Malfoy smirked. “Go on, then.”

“Were you and Pansy Parkinson together?”

“Pansy?” Malfoy looked genuinely surprised. “No. Pansy… Let’s just say she wasn’t really my type.”

“What do you mean by that?” Harry asked before he could stop himself. His heart had started beating a little faster.

Malfoy gave him a faint smile. “Not your turn. Are you still with the Weasley girl?”

“No,” Harry said simply, and he was surprised by how good it felt to say it out loud. A small voice in the back of his head whispered that it probably shouldn’t feel this easy, considering the breakup was still fresh. But deep down, he knew it had been a long time coming. Things with Ginny had been too heavy, almost suffocating.

“Do you miss her?”

“No. Not really,” Harry said, then hesitated. “I mean… nothing really happened between us after sixth year. Too much happened during the war. I haven’t had feelings for her in a long time. The breakup was more of a formality than anything.”

Malfoy studied him for a moment, his expression unreadable. “Your turn.”

“Um, yeah, okay.” Harry hesitated. “Why don’t you want to use your wand anymore?”

Malfoy tensed, but his voice stayed even. “You’ll need to rephrase that. That’s not a yes-or-no question.”

Harry paused to think. “Is it because I’ve used it?”

For a second, Malfoy just stared at him like he’d said something completely ridiculous. “Potter, what—no. This has nothing to do with you.”

“Then what is it?”

“It’s about me,” Malfoy said, turning his gaze away. “Remember when I said I wanted the Dark Mark gone?”

“Yeah,” Harry said softly. Like he could ever forget.

“I feel the same way about my wand. I’ve done… tried to do too many things with it. Bad things. It’s like the wand itself is weighed down by all of it. ” His voice had dropped to a near whisper by the end.

Harry chose his next words carefully. “You know you can’t just cut the past out of yourself and pretend it didn’t happen.”

“I know,” Malfoy muttered, almost too quietly to hear. He raised his left hand instinctively, no longer bandaged, but now marked with fresh, sharp red scars slashing across the faded Dark Mark.

On impulse, Harry reached out, gently took Malfoy’s hand, and rolled up the sleeve. He ran his fingers slowly over the scars.

Malfoy flinched, staring at him like a cornered animal, but he didn’t pull away.

“You can’t cut it out,” Harry said. “But you shouldn’t dwell on it either. You can learn to live with it. What matters most is the choices you make from now on.”

“You’re far too forgiving,” Malfoy said quietly.

“And you’re an idiot if you think you don’t deserve a second chance after making stupid decisions under pressure while you were still a kid.”

Malfoy didn’t say anything; he just looked at Harry, like he was trying to read something in his face. Finally, he murmured, “I still don’t want to use my wand. Not yet.”

“That’s okay. You don’t have to.”

Malfoy tilted his head. “My turn. All this talk about forgiveness and second chances, does that have something to do with your Muggle family?”

Harry’s hand froze. “What do you mean?”

“You and your cousin,” Malfoy said. “I picked up on something between you two. It sounded like something happened when you were younger. And like… maybe he tried to make up for it?”

Harry didn’t answer right away.

“You don’t have to tell me,” Malfoy added quickly, catching his expression.

“No… it’s okay,” Harry said, steadying himself. It wasn’t something he wanted to talk about, not really, but it felt unfair to keep quiet after what Malfoy had just shared.

“Do you remember when I told you they don’t like magic?” he asked. Malfoy nodded. “They didn’t like me either. Never did. And they made that pretty clear from the start.”

“You mean… they treated you badly just because you’re a wizard?” Malfoy asked, frowning.

Harry nodded again. “They raised Dudley to feel the same. That’s why he apologised.”

“He’s changed,” Malfoy said. “You can tell he’s still kind of scared of magic, but he helped us. And after spending time with him… he was actually kind of nice.”

“He really has changed, especially this past year.”

“So this whole thing about second chances and forgiveness, that’s partly because of him?”

“Partly,” Harry admitted. “It’s not that different from your situation, actually.”

Malfoy’s expression darkened. “It’s not the same. I doubt your cousin ever tried to kill anyone.”

“No. But he also didn’t grow up in the middle of a war.”

“I get what you’re saying,” Malfoy said quietly, glancing down at Harry’s hand still resting on his arm. “But I still don’t agree with you.”

Harry opened his mouth to argue, but then thought better of it. Maybe it was better to let it go, just for now.

Nächste Station, Innsbruck.

“I guess this is our stop,” Harry said, glancing over at Malfoy.

Malfoy looked back at him and smiled. “Yeah.”

Chapter Text

“Passports, please,” said a middle-aged woman behind the hostel reception, her voice bored as she held out her hand expectantly.

Harry handed over their fake passports, and she barely glanced at them.

“So, Mr. Davies and Mr. Johnson. You want a room?”

“Yes, please,” Malfoy replied with a nod.

The woman peered lazily over her reading glasses at Malfoy, then slowly shifted her gaze to Harry. “Double bed or separate beds?”

“Separate beds,” they both said quickly at the same time. Harry felt his cheeks warm.

“Alright,” she said, indifferent, and started typing on the computer. “Room 235 is free. The shower and toilet are shared with others on the floor. Breakfast isn’t included.” She grabbed two keys from the key hook behind her. “Will you pay now or when you leave?”

“Could we pay when we leave?” Harry asked.

“That’s fine,” she replied, still focused on the screen. “Second floor, down the hall to the left. Enjoy your stay.”

“Danke schön,” Malfoy said, grabbing the keys.

The stairs creaked ominously as they climbed to the second floor. Harry caught Malfoy wrinkling his nose, and honestly, he couldn’t blame him. The brown, worn carpet covering the stairs puffed up dust with every step. The walls were papered in faded red wallpaper, peeling here and there, and the windows were so grimy it looked like they hadn’t been cleaned in decades.

Their room wasn’t much better. The same dusty carpet ran throughout the hostel and right into their tiny room. The hallway’s red wallpaper gave way to pale beige, dotted with black cigarette stains. Inside, the room was cramped, with just two narrow beds, a small nightstand between them, and a tiny window.

“How cosy,” Malfoy said dryly as he sat on the bed by the window.

“We’re not here for long,” Harry replied, dropping onto the other bed.

Malfoy sighed. “I know. It’s just… I don’t know,” he said, and Harry chuckled. “What?”

“You don’t have to pretend you like it.”

“I’m just…” Malfoy started, then shook his head. “I don’t want to complain, but this is definitely not…”

“Quite what you’re used to?” Harry offered.

“Yeah, you could say that,” Malfoy muttered with a shrug. “But it’s fine. I wasn’t expecting a five-star suite.”

“I know,” Harry smiled faintly. “Are you hungry?” He dug a water bottle and a bag of pretzels out of his backpack.

“No, but I’d like to have some water,” Malfoy said, taking the bottle. “We’ve got to eat better tomorrow.”

“Definitely.” Harry nodded. “Have you been here before?”

“Yeah,” Malfoy nodded. “Not on the Muggle side, though. There’s a wizarding village up in the Alps, just about Hogsmeade-sized, protected by Muggle-repelling charms. We visited there a couple of times when I was a kid.”

“That sounds so strange,” Harry said. “I never really thought about the magical world outside Britain.”

“I’ve only ever been travelling in wizarding places, the Muggle side feels weird.”

“I can imagine.” Harry yawned. “I think I’m going to bed. I’m knackered.”

“Go ahead,” Malfoy said, grabbing Harry’s backpack and starting to dig through his books. “I might read a while.”

Harry quickly showered, brushed his teeth, and collapsed onto his bed, utterly exhausted. He glanced once more at Malfoy, absorbed in a book, before closing his eyes and drifting off.

-–*--*--*--*--

“You can’t be serious,” Malfoy said for the fourth time in the last ten minutes. 

“Why not? It’s not that crazy.”

“Wasn’t the whole point of this escape to stay in the Muggle areas?” Malfoy snapped, annoyed. “Bloody hell, Potter, we’ve only been travelling a couple of days and you’re already risking blowing our cover.”

“How am I risking that? I didn’t say we’d just stroll in without changing our appearance first.”

“You know full well appearance charms don’t make you completely unrecognisable. You’d need polyjuice for that.”

“Yeah, but we don’t have to look totally different here. Nobody knows us, and no one would expect to see us here.”

“Do you even know how to use appearance charms properly?”

“I think so,” Harry shrugged. “I’ve seen Hermione do them a few times, so I think I get the theory.”

Malfoy bit his lip, looking worried. “I really don’t like this idea.”

“We’d just walk through, and maybe grab something to eat. Plus, I can take the Invisibility Cloak just in case.”

Malfoy muttered for a moment, then finally growled, “Fine, but if we get caught, it’s on you. If I die because of this, I swear I won’t cross the border, I’ll just haunt you and make your life miserable forever instead.”

Harry laughed. “Wouldn’t doubt that.” He grabbed his wand from the nightstand.

As Malfoy expected, Harry wasn’t great with appearance charms, but he managed to straighten his hair, turn Malfoy’s hair chestnut brown and shoulder-length, and conjure a hooked nose on himself. Malfoy laughed, saying Harry’s nose looked exactly like when he reshaped it for him on the Hogwarts Express back in sixth year. Harry couldn’t hide the scar completely, but lightened it enough so it wasn’t visible under his straightened fringe.

They took a bus as close as possible to where Malfoy remembered the village being, then hiked the rest of the way on popular Muggle trails up the mountain. Near the end, a smaller, barely visible path branched off the main trail. It was probably protected by Muggle-repelling spells, judging by how unused it looked. Harry was suspicious, but Malfoy swore it was the right way.

After a couple of kilometres, a small alpine village appeared, surrounded by mountains, full of white, red, and yellow houses with brown window frames and balconies bursting with colourful flowers.

“Nurmengard,” Malfoy said seriously as they passed through the stone gate around the village.

“Huh?”

“Nurmengard. That’s the name of the village.”

“But Nurmengard’s a prison,” Harry said, confused. “Where Grindelwald was held.”

Malfoy pointed to a huge, grim, grey castle looming behind the village through thin clouds. “That’s the prison. The village and the castle were built side by side hundreds of years ago. Nowadays, lots of villagers work at the prison.”

“I didn’t know that,” Harry said, staring at the crumbling castle and its towering spires.

“Really?” Malfoy scoffed, a twitch at his upper lip. “So what’s the plan?”

“Eat,” Harry said immediately.

“Sounds good to me.”

They walked for a while through the busy village streets, thankfully without drawing that much attention. The village had the usual wizarding shops for brooms, wands, and magical creatures as well as some restaurants, cafés, and pubs. The biggest difference was how many shops reflected the local culture. The broom shop carried special models made for flying in mountainous terrain alongside the usual favourites, the shop for magical creatures had more varieties of hawks instead of owls, since hawks flew better in the mountains, and the pubs and restaurants had picked up plenty of influences from local Muggle cuisine.

After wandering and checking out some places, Harry and Malfoy picked a restaurant with a cosy terrace that opened right onto the mountains. Harry was about to order something safe and familiar, but Malfoy insisted they try Wiener schnitzel with mushroom sauce to honour local traditions. 

“Well?” Malfoy asked, casually twirling his glass of red wine. “What do you think?”

“This is surprisingly good. I expected something… stranger.”

“Told you,” Malfoy said smugly. “Wiener schnitzel’s pretty mild, it’s hard not to like it. You should trust me more.”

“I do. Well, at least on some things,” Harry replied, sipping his Austrian butter beer flavoured with cinnamon and cardamom.

Malfoy’s cheeks flushed faintly. “It’s not hard to guess what kind of food you like. The simplest, most boring stuff. I don’t even want to imagine what your diet would be like if Kreacher wasn’t cooking for you.”

“I’m not that hopeless.”

“Keep telling yourself that,” Malfoy grinned. “Ready to head back? Shall we go to the hostel?”

“I actually want to visit one more place.”

Malfoy raised an eyebrow suspiciously. “What are you planning? You do know our transformation charms won’t last much longer.”

“Just one place, then we’ll leave. It shouldn’t take long,” Harry said, standing up and motioning for Malfoy to follow. Malfoy looked at him for a moment, then hesitantly stood and followed.

Harry glanced at Malfoy out of the corner of his eye. His hair was still long and chestnut brown, just like when they left the hostel, so they still had some time. Harry led them back to the main street where most of the shops were, scanning through the crowd as Malfoy muttered nervously beside him. Soon Harry spotted what he was looking for: a shop bursting with wands called Sigfredas Zauberstab . He focused on the sign visible above the people and headed toward the shop.

“Potter, you can’t be serious,” Malfoy said in a cold voice, stopping abruptly.

“I am,” Harry said steadily, hoping Malfoy would follow.

Soon, cautious footsteps dragged behind him along with quiet muttering and complaining. “I’m not going inside.”

Harry said nothing and opened the door. The bell tinkled as he looked Malfoy in the eye without flinching. Malfoy glanced nervously around as if afraid someone might notice them, then reluctantly stepped inside.

“Hallo! Wie kann ich dir helfen?” the young woman behind the counter greeted cheerfully, her short, wildly spiked bright red hair blazing.

“Hallo!” Harry said hesitantly, wincing a bit at his own accent. “Do you mind if we speak English?”

“Not at all! Brits, huh? Here on holiday?”

“Yeah, something like that,” Harry smiled. “Actually, we’re looking for a new wand.”

“Well, that figures. You’ve come to the right place,” Sigfreda grinned. “Who’s the lucky customer?”

“It’s for him,” Harry said, nodding at Malfoy, who stood with his arms crossed.

“Alright,” Sigfreda said, turning to Malfoy. “How can I help you, Mr…?”

“Davies,” Malfoy replied. “Although there’s been a bit of a misunderstanding, I’m not actually looking for a new wand right now. My friend here,” he added, elbowing Harry sharply in the ribs, “tends to get a bit carried away.”

“Oh, I see,” Sigfreda said thoughtfully. “Well, Mr. Davies, I know you Brits have the famous Ollivander, who’s rightly respected worldwide. It was terrible what happened to him during the war, and I hear he’s still not back at work, which I guess is why you came here instead. But I promise you, I’m quite skilled myself, and I won’t disappoint if you just give me a chance.”

Malfoy blinked a few times, clearly flustered. “It’s not about —” 

“If we do it this way,” Sigfreda interrupted cheerfully. “I’ll help you pick a wand from my collection, and then you can decide if it’s good enough for someone used to Ollivander’s work.”

Malfoy shot Harry a sharp look before nodding firmly, his lips pressed tight.

“Great! So, you’ve had a wand before, right? What kind?”

“I only had one, from school. Ten inches, hawthorn wood with a unicorn hair core. It… got lost during the war,” Malfoy said quietly, eyes dropping to the floor.

“Sounds like a classic Ollivander,” Sigfreda mused. “Let’s start with some traditional wands, unicorn cores included.” She disappeared behind the counter and soon returned with a handful of wands.

Malfoy took the first wand hesitantly and tried a levitation spell. The quill on the counter floated up slowly, but both he and Sigfreda looked unimpressed.

“Try this one,” she said, handing over another wand.

Same result, not bad, but something was off. Undeterred, Sigfreda kept handing him wand after wand with growing enthusiasm.

“Interesting, you’re quite a picky customer,” she murmured. “Your magic seems to be rejecting unicorn cores. Maybe you’ve changed so much inside that it’s affecting your magic, or something external is interfering. Or maybe both.”

“Does that affect his ability to do magic?” Harry asked.

“Not at all, Mr…?”

“Johnson.”

“Mr. Johnson. No, it doesn’t affect your ability to do magic, but it does change which wand channels your magic best. The wand core, the wood, and the wizard form a close bond — they pick up on super subtle signals from each other. It really helps if your magical ‘frequency’ matches the wand’s. If they’re out of sync, well, spells end up just okay, not great.”

“Can that magical frequency actually change over time?” Harry asked.

“Yes, though it’s pretty rare. It usually only happens if something really intense or traumatic shakes a witch or wizard’s connection to their wand. Unicorn cores still work fairly well for Mr. Davies here, so it looks like any rift in the wand-wizard bond is just temporary,” Sigfreda explained. “We can try some more wands now, the usual phoenix, unicorn, or dragon cores, but also some less traditional ones if you want. Honestly, Mr. Ollivander, amazing as he is, is a bit old-school about wand cores. But other cores can work fine without losing power. Give me a sec, I’ll show you…” she said, disappearing into the backroom.

“Potter, let’s go,” Malfoy hissed, clearly not trusting her.

“Wait,” Harry whispered back. “Let’s at least see what she’s got.”

“Everything okay here, gentlemen?” Sigfreda popped back out.

“All good,” Harry nodded.

“Perfect,” she smiled. “So, where to start? How about this one?” She handed Malfoy a long, dark brown wand with a slight hook. “Eleven inches, hawthorn, with a merpeople scale as a core.”

Malfoy took it cautiously, swung it, and muttered a levitation charm. The quill floated up, and then the whole counter caught fire. Harry and Malfoy jumped, but Sigfreda just flicked her wand and put the fire out without missing a beat.

“Definitely not this one,” she said. “Try this one instead, this is pretty rare. Ten inches, apple wood with a hippogriff feather core.”

Harry burst out laughing, and Malfoy shot him a glare. “Shut up, Matt.”

“Sorry, what am I missing?” Sigfreda raised her eyebrows.

“Nothing really,” Harry chuckled. “My friend here has a complicated history with hippogriffs.”

“Don’t remind me, Matt. It’s been five years,” Malfoy rolled his eyes.

“Right,” Sigfreda said, still curious. “Think you want to give it a try?”

“Of course,” Malfoy said, grabbing the wand.

The moment his fingers closed around it, Harry felt a warm, pulsing energy fill the room. Malfoy stared at the wand like the whole world had disappeared except for it.

“Go ahead, cast a spell,” Sigfreda encouraged, eyes sparkling.

This time, Malfoy didn’t even say the levitation charm out loud as objects from the table floated up one after another effortlessly.

Sigfreda beamed. “Interesting choice. Apple wood usually picks wizards who want to achieve big things, and tends to bless its owners with long, happy lives. Hippogriff feathers choose brave, resilient witches and wizards who fight for freedom, their own or others.” She looked at Malfoy. “The wand’s clearly chosen you. Now, the question is: will you choose it?”

Malfoy stood there stunned for a moment, looking away from the wand and then quietly glancing first at Sigfreda and then at Harry with a hesitant, questioning look.

“I think he wants it,” Harry said. “How much do I owe?”

Sigfreda smiled broadly. “Would you like to pay in galleons or zaubermarks?”

“Galleons, if that’s possible.”

“Of course. Though I have to add a small fee for currency exchange, the local goblins are so crumpy they often charge ridiculous rates,” Sigfreda explained. “That’ll be nine galleons.”

Harry paid while Sigfreda packed Malfoy’s wand into a wooden box and slipped it into a small bag. They thanked her and quietly left the shop, starting to walk away from the village. Harry glanced at Malfoy, whose hair was slowly shifting back to its original colour and style, but at this point, it didn’t matter anymore.

After walking a moment in a silence, Malfoy suddenly grabbed Harry’s wrist, stopped him, and looked deep into his eyes, his grey eyes shining. “Thank you, Harry.”

Chapter Text

The train clattered steadily on, leaving Innsbruck behind as the afternoon sun blazed through the window. Harry leaned his forehead against the cool glass, eyes fixed on the blur of mountains racing by — not that he was really seeing them. His gaze was distant, unfocused. A low hum of anxiety pulsed in his chest, the same one that had been with him since morning, shapeless and persistent. There wasn’t any clear reason for it; everything had gone better than expected, honestly. He and Malfoy hadn’t snapped at each other in days, which had to be some sort of record, and he was somehow even enjoying the journey.

Maybe that was what felt wrong, how easy it had been to leave. Like the weight of everything they’d escaped hadn’t caught up yet. Or maybe it was that dream again. Ron and Hermione, appearing in his subconscious just to glare at him like he’d betrayed them. Calling him reckless, selfish, a traitor. And maybe, deep down, they were right. Maybe this whole thing had just been a selfish impulse he’d convinced himself was necessary.

Or maybe it wasn’t about what he’d left behind, but how disturbingly simple it had been to walk away from it.

Well. ‘ Simple ’ wasn’t exactly the right word in this context. He just hadn’t let himself dwell on it too much. He could already hear Hermione’s voice in his head, clipped and precise, accusing him of acting without thinking again. And maybe she had a point, but, still, his instincts had gotten him this far. If he hadn’t trusted them, Voldemort might still be alive.

He lifted his head from the window, leaving a faint smudge where his forehead had been. Across from him, Malfoy sat hunched over his wand, murmuring small spells under his breath, testing it out. After the conductor had come and gone, he’d pulled the curtain shut over the compartment door; no need to give the passing Muggles a front-row seat to floating objects and fizzing sparks.

“Seems like it’s working,” Harry said, breaking the silence.

Malfoy looked up, then nodded. “Yeah. Still a bit off, but it listens. Not quite like my old one, but close enough.” He hesitated for a beat. “By the way… I owe you.”

“You don’t.”

“I do,” Malfoy said firmly. “I’ll pay you back.”

Harry shrugged. “Sure. But I mostly did it because it’s safer if we both have wands.”

Malfoy narrowed his eyes a little, like he was thinking something over. “And you didn’t have any other reason for buying it?”

The question landed harder than Harry expected. Like Malfoy still couldn’t believe he’d do something for him without a hidden reason.

“I thought,” Harry said quietly, “it might just be... a decent thing to do.”

Malfoy’s expression softened a bit.

“It was,” he admitted. “But it’d be nice if you didn’t do these things behind my back.”

“As if you’d have agreed otherwise.”

“No way,” Malfoy admitted. “You know, I think you’re starting to show more and more Slytherin traits.”

“That wasn’t very Slytherin of me,” Harry protested.

“Oh, it definitely was, no matter how good your excuse was,” Malfoy smirked. “Take it as a compliment.”

“Yeah, sure,” Harry muttered.

“No, seriously,” Malfoy went on. “Have you ever thought about how ridiculously stupid the whole sorting system really is? Or at least it was in our time. Like, people can just be shoved into four categories based on a few traits, and then everyone in those houses is supposed to be a copy of each other.”

“That’s not really how it works. There are loads of different kinds of people in every house, and everyone’s got traits from more than one house.”

“True,” Malfoy nodded. “I know you weren’t exactly the biggest fan of Slytherin back in school, and the boundaries between houses meant a lot as kids, but now I think it’s okay to admit even you’ve got traits from other houses too. Even Slytherin.”

“The Sorting Hat actually thought about putting me in Slytherin,” Harry blurted out. Malfoy’s eyes widened, and the floating objects around them dropped with a clatter.

“ Excuse me? ”

“Well, it thought I had some, uh, Slytherin-appropriate qualities. Ambition and all that, I don’t remember exactly.”

Malfoy looked at him, calculating. “Yeah, I can definitely see the ambition and cunning in you. How else would you have dodged so many punishments and tricked Dumbledore into giving you all those extra points?” he said. “But good thing you didn’t end up in our house. You wouldn’t have lasted a day with us.”

“How so?” Harry challenged.

“We weren’t exactly the easiest or friendliest bunch,” Malfoy said awkwardly, avoiding Harry’s gaze.

“I can take care of myself,” Harry said with a chuckle.

“I know.”

“So, what other houses do you think you’ve got traits from?”

“I’m not sure,” Malfoy hesitated and resumed levitating objects. “Maybe Ravenclaw, at least. Maybe a bit from the others too.”

Harry studied the Slytherin sitting opposite him. How different their school years might have been if Malfoy had been in a different house. The strangest thing was that he could actually picture Malfoy somewhere other than Slytherin, or at least this Malfoy he had come to know over the past few weeks.

“Do you think we could’ve been friends?” Harry asked quietly, mostly to himself.

“If I’d been in another house?” Malfoy raised an eyebrow, amused.

“Yeah.”

“Maybe. The other houses seemed to get along fine with each other, while we were usually left out,” Malfoy said, sounding unsure. “But then again, I’d still be me, and you’d still be you. So the house probably wouldn’t have changed much about us. Besides, you didn’t even like me before we were sorted.”

“No, I didn’t. But I like you now,” Harry said, and Malfoy blinked like Harry had just smacked him. “I mean, I think we get along pretty well.”

“Yeah, me too,” Malfoy said slowly, a weird look still on his face.

“Yeah, well... nice,” Harry muttered, suddenly feeling awkward. “But you’d fit well in Ravenclaw,” he added, trying to steer the conversation elsewhere.

“Oh yeah? And why’s that?”

“You read so much, and you know about everything except maybe Muggles,” Harry said. “Never really noticed that at school.”

“Just because you like reading doesn’t mean you’re smart.”

“Well,” Harry shrugged, “sometimes you remind me of Hermione, and that should tell you something.”

“She’s not a Ravenclaw either. But thanks, I’m flattered,” Malfoy said with a faint smirk, turning his attention back to the floating objects. 

“Actually, I wanted to ask about that soul travel thing.”

“What about it?”

“It reminded me a lot of Occlumency, or at least at first, before the blackbird showed up and all that,” Harry explained. “But I’m terrible at Occlumency. It doesn’t make sense that I managed soul travel.”

Malfoy looked at him quietly for a moment, thoughtful.

“Why do you think you failed at Occlumency?”

The question puzzled Harry. “I don’t know,” he said after a pause. “According to Snape, it was because I couldn’t control my emotions or clear my mind. I just figured I wasn’t naturally good at it.”

“Did you ever actually want to learn Occlumency?”

Harry frowned. “No, not really. But what does that have to do with anything?”

Malfoy let out an exasperated sigh. “Potter, I’m only going to say this once, so listen carefully. You are the most stubbornly determined person I’ve ever met. When you decide to do something, you throw yourself into it completely, whether it’s surviving the Triwizard Tournament as an underage competitor, sneaking into the Ministry to wreck the Department of Mysteries, or breaking someone out of prison and fleeing the country with them. That’s who you are, and honestly, it’s something I respect.”

Harry felt his face heat up. “We weren’t trying to destroy the Department of Mysteries,” he muttered. “So… what, you’re saying I only managed soul travel because I really wanted to do that?”

“More or less,” Malfoy said. “Also, you got insanely lucky. No one pulls that off on willpower alone the first time. But have you ever actually thought about how much your determination plays into your success? You would’ve learned Occlumency eventually, if you’d actually wanted to.”

“I… I’ve never really thought about it like that.”

“Of course you haven’t,” Malfoy said, grinning. “Good thing you’ve got me to think for you.”

-–*--*--*--*--

When the train finally pulled into their next stop, Ljubljana, a city tucked between green hills and split by a winding river, the sun had already dipped below the horizon, leaving the sky glowing red.

Harry and Malfoy stumbled groggily through the charming city centre, hunting for a place to stay. Fortunately, they managed to find a double room at a hostel right in the heart of town. It was a far cry from their last one, set in an old stone building with colourful murals. A grand chandelier hung from the lobby ceiling, and tiny dragon statues guarded the ends of the stair rails. Their room was bigger and much cosier, with soft turquoise walls, big windows overlooking the old town, and beds twice the size of their previous ones.

They dumped their bags and headed out to find dinner.

By then, the sky was pitch black, and the streets glowed with the soft light of streetlamps and restaurant candles flickering on riverside terraces. It was a Saturday night, so the air buzzed with laughter and clinking glasses, but they managed to find a table at a place serving local food right by the river.

Harry picked up the menu and flipped through it helplessly. “Uh, I don’t think I understand anything on this,” he admitted, squinting at the unfamiliar words. “Is there even a translation in English?”
“Doubt it,” Malfoy said, frowning at his own copy while the small candle on the table cast light across his face. “The only word I recognise is ‘dumplings’. They exist pretty much everywhere.”

“Are they good?”
“Depends on the filling. And I have no idea what these fillings are.” Malfoy scanned the menu a moment longer, then shrugged. “Alright, I think I’ll try the štruklji .”

“Why?” Harry asked.

"Because it’s the first dumpling on the list, and the first item on a menu is usually something neutral, like cheese or something,” Malfoy explained. “What will you have?”

Harry closed his eyes and randomly jabbed his finger at the menu. “I’ll have knedle sa šljivama .”

Malfoy rolled his eyes. “Okay, but don’t complain if it’s disgusting.”

The waiter who served them was cheerful and clearly trying his best, but he spoke barely any English. He attempted to explain the dishes in Slovenian, gesturing enthusiastically and speaking loudly, but it didn’t help them understand a single word. After taking their orders and reporting them to the kitchen, he returned with two small shot glasses filled with a honey-colored liquid.

“What’s this?” Malfoy asked suspiciously, eyeing the glass placed in front of him.

“Medica,” the waiter said with an encouraging grin. “Tradition.”

Harry caught Malfoy’s eye, shrugged, and knocked the shot back in one go. It burned all the way down but left behind a surprisingly pleasant, honeyed and sweet taste.

“That was actually pretty good,” Harry said.

“Yeah, it was,” Malfoy agreed. “Do you have any more of these traditional drinks?”

“More? Tradition? Yes!” the waiter said eagerly, and soon returned with a tray full of colourful shot glasses.

“I didn’t mean this many,” Malfoy muttered, then added, “Hvala,” as the waiter beamed and walked off.

“Well, we kind of have to drink them now,” Harry said, picking up a dark purple shot. Malfoy shrugged and grabbed the same.

They started working their way through the shots while waiting for their food. At first, the alcohol was harsh, making them grimace after each sip, but as time passed, Harry noticed he was getting used to the burn and the sharp flavours. They began turning the shots into small games: who could down one faster, or who could keep a straight face longer. It wasn’t that hard to swallow them anymore, taste-wise, but for some reason, looking into each other’s eyes made them crack up every time.

When the waiter finally returned with their food, he looked pleased to see all the empty glasses. He brought them two glasses of wine and a jug of water to go with the meal.

“Knew it,” Malfoy said triumphantly after tasting his dumplings. “Cheese filling.”

Harry cautiously tasted his own and immediately puckered his lips.

“Well?” Malfoy asked.

“I don’t know, it’s like... there’s something... something… fruit ,” Harry tried again, squinting. “It tastes like dessert.”

Malfoy gave him a smug look, then burst out laughing.
“Thold you. I told you you’d regret it.”

“I don’t. I don’t regret it,” Harry said stubbornly and kept eating his fruit dumplings.

“Don’t be ridicalious. Ridiculous ,” Malfoy said, grabbing Harry’s plate and dropping half of his own dumplings onto it.

“I’m not—”

“Yes, you are. Listhen, Potter. No, Matt,” Malfoy said, attempting to be serious. “You give me half, I give you half. Deal?”

“Okay, okay,” Harry agreed, even though mixing fruit and cheese dumplings turned out to be a questionable decision.

“This is lum - plum, ” Malfoy muttered after tasting one of Harry’s. “Hey... hey, Matt. Do you know where this city got its name from?”

“Yes, Bjul– Bjul—”

“Ljub-lja-na.”

“Bjul—whatever,” Harry mumbled. “So tell me.”

“It’s named after me.”

Harry stared at him, stunned. “No way.”

“Yes way. This is the dargon—I mean dragi—Dragon City.”

Harry snorted, then broke into giggles.

“No, seriously.”

“But this city is whay older than you.”

“That’s just... that’s a minor... detail,” Malfoy said with a wave of his hand. “I’ll prove it. There are dragons everywhere here.”

“I’ve noticed,” Harry said. Besides the dragon statues on their hostel’s stair railings, he’d spotted dragon figures scattered all over the city. “But that doesn’t mean the city’s named after you .”

“Well... maybe not,” Malfoy said, chuckling to himself.

“What?”

"Can you imagine, the entire founding of this city is tied to a dragon myth," Malfoy said, then burst out laughing again. "And muggles don’t even realise it’s not a myth at all."

"Shh," Harry hushed him, glancing around. He was definitely drunk, but not so drunk that he didn’t realise talking about muggles around muggles was a bad idea.

"Shh yourself," Malfoy whispered back. "Should we go?"

"Let’s go."

Malfoy waved toward the waiter, his hand a little shaky but determined. They paid for their food, half of it left uneaten, tipped the cheerful waiter generously, and downed the last sips of their wine.

Once outside, they began their way back toward the hostel, stumbling slightly, laughing too loudly, occasionally bumping into each other, or a wall. At one point, Malfoy leaned against Harry and slipped his arm through Harry’s. Harry felt a warm, fizzy sort of happiness rise in his chest. He didn’t mind at all. Especially since it meant he could lean into Malfoy, too, which, surprisingly, felt kind of nice.

They both sighed in relief when the hostel door closed behind them. The front desk clerk gave them a strange look but, thankfully, said nothing. Harry kicked off his shoes and flopped face-first onto his bed. But before he could even fully close his eyes, someone dropped down beside him, right up against his side.

He opened his eyes and turned. Malfoy was lying next to him, slightly flushed, his hair messy, his gaze soft and unfocused.

"You have your own bed, idiot," Harry whispered.

"Mm-m," Malfoy hummed, reaching out to run a hesitant hand through Harry’s hair.

Harry closed his eyes, leaning into the touch without thinking. Something in his chest tightened, strangely tender and aching.

"You know," he whispered, "if you keep doing that, there’s a real chance I might fall for you."

The hand in his hair froze, then quickly withdrew. Harry opened his eyes to find Malfoy staring at him.

"I didn’t—" Harry started, panicking. "I didn’t mean—"

"Shh," Malfoy said softly, placing a cool hand on Harry’s cheek.

"What are you—"

"Shh," Malfoy repeated, leaning in until their noses touched.

Harry felt the warmth of Malfoy’s breath on his skin, and then his lips, barely brushing his own, so light it felt more like a question than a kiss.

Harry flinched and pulled back. "I don’t like boys. Or, I mean, men."

"Okay."

"Or… maybe I do. A little."

"But not me?" Malfoy asked quietly, clearly hurt.

And how stupid was that? Harry had basically just said he liked him. Kind of

Instead of answering, Harry wrapped his arms around Malfoy’s waist and pulled him close, kissing him properly.

Malfoy melted into it instantly, kissing him back with quiet certainty, hands sliding down to explore Harry’s chest, gently tracing the fabric of his shirt.

"Is this okay?" Malfoy murmured against his lips, fingers hesitating at the hem.

Harry nodded and helped him tug the shirt over his head.

"This doesn’t have to mean anything," Malfoy whispered. "If you don’t want it to. Just… human contact. It’s natural. We all need—"

"Just shut up and kiss me."

Chapter Text

The sun poured through the window and landed squarely on Harry’s face, warm and far too bright behind his closed eyelids. His head throbbed dully, and a restless discomfort prickled beneath his skin. He groaned and shifted, trying to turn over, but froze the moment he realised something, no, someone , was holding him firmly around the waist.

His eyes snapped open. Blinking against the bright light, he took in the room in fragments: sunlight streaming unfiltered through open curtains, clothes in crumpled piles scattered hastily across the floor, one bed still neatly made and untouched.

Right. So Malfoy was in his bed.

A very naked Malfoy.

Only now did Harry become fully aware of his own bare skin under the blanket, and the unmistakable feel of Malfoy pressed along his back: warm, sticky skin against his own, an arm looped tightly around his waist, and soft breath ghosting against the back of his neck.

His pulse quickened as fragmented memories from the night before came crashing back. The restaurant. The overly friendly waiter. Too many shots. Malfoy’s body beside his, warm, solid, real. Whispered words about a crush. A hesitant kiss. Hands tugging off clothes, roaming gently over skin—

“Don’t start freaking out, Potter,” Malfoy murmured sleepily, his voice hoarse and close, and tightened his arm slightly.

Harry squeezed his eyes shut and tried to steady his breathing. He didn’t want to think about last night. But the memories tumbled in anyway, chaotic and persistent, and the more he tried to push them away, the more clearly he could see them in his head.

“You’re fine,” Malfoy said quietly, and began tracing slow, lazy spirals along Harry’s arm with one finger. From wrist to shoulder, then back again, finally slipping his fingers between Harry’s in a gentle grip.

But Harry couldn’t settle. He twisted out of Malfoy’s hold and sat up abruptly. “I’m gonna take a shower,” he muttered, voice rough from sleep and hangover, and left the room without looking back.

In the bathroom, he turned the tap as cold as it would go and stepped under the icy stream without hesitation. The water bit at his skin, raising goosebumps, but the sharpness helped clear the fog in his head. It didn’t erase anything, of course, but for a few minutes, it let him pretend it might.

When he finally stepped out, he dried himself off slowly, deliberately stretching the moment. Wrapping a towel around his waist, he glanced briefly at his reflection. Without his glasses, the image was a blur, but even through the haze, he could make out enough: the bloodshot eyes, the heavy shadows underneath, and faint bruises blooming along his neck like fading fingerprints from the night before.

He let out a heavy sigh and opened the bathroom door.

“I’m taking a shower too,” Malfoy said coldly, brushing past him and stepping into the bathroom without meeting his eyes. The door shut behind him with more force than necessary.

Harry stood there for a moment, leaning against the closed door, eyes shut, listening to the hiss of running water. Then he made himself move. He found his wand under the bed and summoned his clothes from where they’d been flung the night before, stuffing them into his backpack. He pulled on clean black jeans and a light grey T-shirt.

When Malfoy returned a few minutes later, he was dressed in fresh clothes too. He stopped at the doorframe, arms crossed tightly, his face unreadable. “We need to move. We drew too much attention yesterday.”

“Okay,” Harry said quietly. Honestly, it hadn’t even crossed his mind that their behaviour last night might have consequences. Of course, Malfoy would think of that first.

“I suggest we go either east through Hungary and Romania, or south, toward the Balkans.”

“I’d rather go south. Ron’s brother Charlie lives in Romania, so… they might expect us there,” Harry said. Saying Ron’s name out loud stung more than he’d anticipated.

“Alright. You packed?”

“Yeah, I have.”

“Good. We’ll check the station and figure it out from there.”

They walked side by side through the bright Ljubljana streets, the silence between them thick and uncomfortable. A few times, Harry parted his lips as if to speak, but nothing came out. He knew he’d hurt Malfoy somehow, probably more than he meant to, but he wasn’t ready to talk about last night. It was easier, for both of them, maybe, to pretend nothing had happened at all.

At the station, they had to break the silence for practical reasons; tickets, timing, connections, and to Harry’s surprise, it helped a little. They chose to head for Zadar, a coastal Croatian town neither of them had heard of before. That felt like a good enough reason to go.

They found an empty compartment and sat facing each other. When the conductor came to check their tickets, he made a joke in a thick accent about quiet, grumpy Brits, which only made Harry shrink into his seat, face red.

“I can’t take this anymore,” Malfoy hissed suddenly, his voice low and sharp.

“What?” Harry asked, startled.

“This bloody headache,” Malfoy snapped. “Feels like my skull’s going to crack open. I’d trade anything for some hangover potion right now.”

Harry reached up to the luggage rack, grabbed his backpack, and pulled out a pack of painkillers. “Here,” he said, tossing both the pills and a bottle of water to Malfoy.

Malfoy caught them, eyeing the painkiller pack with suspicion. “What are these?”

“Muggle medicine for hangover,” Harry said. “Just take one with water.”

Malfoy hesitated, then shrugged and did as instructed.

“Nothing’s happening,” he said flatly after swallowing the pill.

“It’s not magic,” Harry said. “Takes at least twenty minutes to kick in.”

Malfoy let out a low, miserable groan. “Can we talk about something? Anything. Doesn’t have to be about… last night. I just need to distract myself from this headache.”

“Alright,” Harry said cautiously. “What do you want to talk about?”

“Let’s play a game.”

Harry narrowed his eyes. “What kind of game?”

“Like Two Truths and a Lie .”

“And you play it how?”

“Isn’t the title kind of self-explanatory?” Malfoy huffed, irritated. “You say three things about yourself, two are true, one’s a lie. The other person can ask up to three questions, and then has to guess the lie.”

“Fine,” Harry said. “You go first.”

“Okay,” Malfoy said, sitting up straighter. “First: I never used the prefects’ bathroom. Second: when I was a kid, my hair reached almost down to my waist. Third: my favourite sweets since childhood have been Chocolate Frogs.”

“You didn’t have hair down to your waist,” Harry said immediately.

“You’re supposed to ask some questions first,” Malfoy snapped.

“I don’t need to,” Harry said smugly. “There’s no way you never used the prefects’ bathroom, especially when you were a prefect yourself. And everyone likes Chocolate Frogs. Wait, hang on, did you just tell two lies?”

Malfoy sighed loudly and closed his eyes like he was summoning all the patience in the world. “You’re still wrong. I get a point.”

“Huh? How?”

“I never used the prefects’ bathroom—”

“Wait, what ? How’s that possible?”

“I didn’t care,” Malfoy said with a shrug. “We had a bath just like it at the manor. Why would I bother climbing all the way up to the fifth floor for something I already had at home?”

Harry blinked. “So… the lie was that you like Chocolate Frogs?”

“Yes.”

“How can anyone not like Chocolate Frogs?” Harry asked, genuinely baffled.

Malfoy gave him a pointed look. “Shocking, I know, but  people have different tastes.”

“Shut up,” Harry muttered.

“You didn’t bother asking more questions,” Malfoy said smugly.

“So… you really had hair down to your waist?” Harry asked, still trying to wrap his head around it. He couldn’t help but picture a miniature Lucius Malfoy in dress robes, which made him shudder slightly.

“Yes, up until I started school,” Malfoy said with a small nod. “And yes, I know what you’re thinking. Part of it was wanting to be like my father, but I honestly liked it. Long hair suited me.”

“You didn’t look like him?” Harry asked, glancing at Malfoy’s current hairstyle.

“Not as much as you’d think,” Malfoy said. “My hair was quite curly back then.”

“ Curly ?” Harry asked, eyebrows raised. Now that he thought about it for a second, he had noticed that Malfoy’s hair had a slight wave when it wasn’t slicked back. It wasn’t impossible.

“Yes,” Malfoy confirmed. “My father’s would’ve been too, if you’d seen the amount of effort he put into getting it perfectly straight every day.”

Harry noticed Malfoy’s expression shift, his eyes unfocused slightly, his face tightening at the mention of his father.

“Alright, my turn,” Harry said quickly, wanting to steer the conversation away. “Let’s see. First: I once turned my aunt into a giant balloon. Second: I’ve fought a Basilisk. Third: I’ve visited common rooms of all the Houses.”

Malfoy raised an eyebrow. “Not bad. Okay, why did you inflate your aunt?”

“Accident. I got angry, and couldn’t control my magic.”

“I would’ve paid to see that,” Malfoy said with a smirk. “And the Basilisk... Wait. That had to be back during the Chamber of Secrets stuff, right? The second year? Let me ask something else, how did you survive?”

“Dumbledore’s phoenix helped me,” Harry said. “It clawed the Basilisk’s eyes out, then brought me the Sorting Hat. I pulled the Gryffindor sword out of it.”

Malfoy stared at him, and then burst out laughing. “You honestly don’t realise how completely ridiculous that sounds. Which is why it has to be true.”

Harry gave a half-smile. “Yeah, I get that a lot.”

“Well then, what about the common rooms? Where’s each one located?”

“Gryffindor’s is in Gryffindor Tower, Ravenclaw’s in its own tower, Hufflepuff’s is by the kitchens, and Slytherin’s down in the dungeons,” Harry recited flatly.

“Doesn’t sound so convincing. I mean, obviously you know where your own is, and everyone knows Slytherin’s is somewhere in the dungeons, it’s not exactly a secret, the dungeons are massive. Maybe you’ve been to Ravenclaw’s or Hufflepuff’s if you had a friend there, but you definitely haven’t been inside Slytherin’s,” Malfoy reasoned. “So the lie is that you haven’t been to all of the common rooms.”

“Well, yeah. Point to you,” Harry admitted, and Malfoy smirked in triumph.

“But you were wrong about which one I haven’t seen. I’ve been to Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin. Never made it to Hufflepuff.”

The smirk dropped from Malfoy’s face. “You’ve never been in our common room.”

“Oh, I have,” Harry said smugly. “It’s under the lake which makes the light all greenish through the windows. Low ceiling, stone walls, dark green couches, and those weird lamps that glow green. The entrance is hidden in the dungeons, behind a blank wall. You need a password. ‘ Pure-blood ’ worked in the second year –”

“Okay, okay,” Malfoy cut him off, eyes narrowing. “Merlin, you’re ridiculous. Do I even want to know what you were doing in our common room?”

Harry grinned. “Probably not. Let’s just say it involved some Polyjuice Potion and trying to figure out who the Heir of Slytherin was.”

“Of course it did,” Malfoy muttered, raising an eyebrow. “Alright, my turn. First: I was secretly afraid of house-elves as a kid. Second: I was fluent in my first foreign language before I turned six. And third: I don’t regret what happened between us last night.”

Harry’s stomach dropped. He looked up and found Malfoy staring at him steadily, expression unreadable. His whole body went rigid.

“Uh…”

“Your turn to ask questions,” Malfoy said, voice cool and measured.

“Right. Um, house-elves. Why were you afraid of them?”

“They’ve got those huge ears and shiny eyes like saucers. Imagine bumping into one on your way to the bathroom in the middle of the night. I had way too much imagination as a kid.”

Harry tried to laugh, but it came out dry and awkward. “And the language, what was the first one you learned?”

“French. Mum hired a private tutor before I could walk.”

Harry hesitated, then asked quietly, “And why don’t you regret last night?”

“Because I’ve wanted it for a long time,” Malfoy said, voice unwavering.

“How long?” Harry asked, almost without meaning to.

Malfoy’s gaze didn’t flicker. “You already had your questions.”

They locked eyes, neither of them blinking, the air between them suddenly dense and electric.

“The third one,” Harry said finally.

“What about it?”

“It’s the lie.”

“It’s not,” Malfoy said softly. “The first one was.”

“You weren’t afraid of house-elves?”

“No.”

“And… the third was true?”

“Yes,” Malfoy whispered. “Your turn.”

Harry looked at Malfoy in disbelief. How could he stay so cool and detached, talking about some stupid game, when Harry's head felt like a mess of scattered thoughts and tangled-up feelings?

“Okay,” Harry said, a hint of defiance in his voice. “First statement: I’ve ridden a dragon.”

“Everyone already knows that,” Malfoy muttered.

“Second,” Harry went on, ignoring him, “before I found out I was a wizard, I wanted to be a police officer.”

“A police officer?”

“Yeah, sort of like a Muggle Auror.”

“Right,” Malfoy said. “Makes sense.”

“And third, I don’t regret what happened last night either.” He saw Malfoy’s expression tense immediately.

“The third one,” Malfoy said, his face shifting into a flicker of anxiety, sadness, tension, and confusion, all of it cracking through the usual calm mask. “That one’s the lie.”

“You were supposed to ask questions,” Harry reminded him.

“I don’t need to ask,” Malfoy replied.

“You should have,” Harry said. “The second one’s the lie. I never wanted to be a police officer. Honestly, I didn’t even have any dream job as a kid.”

“So the third…”

“Yeah.”

“But… why did you… this morning…” Malfoy started, frustrated and confused.

“Because I was hungover,” Harry cut in. “And everything’s awful when you’re hungover. And… I’ve never really been into a guy before. Or at least, not that I’ve realised.”

“And now suddenly…”

“Well,” Harry said, “last night didn’t exactly go as planned, and neither did this morning, but I remember everything I said. And I meant it.”

Malfoy looked at him for a long moment. “I meant it too,” he said eventually. “And I mean… this doesn’t have to be anything serious, if you don’t want it to be. We can just—”

“Oh, come on, Malfoy,” Harry snapped, exasperated. “I told you last night I have feelings for you. How exactly do you take that as me wanting something casual? When has anything between us ever been light or casual?”

“What do you want, then?”

“I don’t know,” Harry admitted. “I just know I’ve apparently developed feelings for you.”

Malfoy let out a deep breath and turned to look out the window. Harry watched his whole posture shift, shoulders slowly relaxing, his expression softening, the rise and fall of his chest growing steadier with each breath. When he turned back to Harry, his eyes looked calmer.

“You don’t have to know,” Malfoy said. “This is fine.”

Harry felt something tight in his chest finally let go.

“Come here,” Malfoy added, reaching a hand toward him.

“Hm?”

“Come here,” Malfoy repeated, lifting his hand again with a small, wordless command.

Harry took it and let Malfoy pull him onto the seat beside him. Malfoy looked into his eyes for a moment, then brushed a gentle kiss against his cheek, laced their fingers together, and rested his head against Harry’s shoulder. Carefully, Harry leaned his head on top of Malfoy’s, closed his eyes, and began lightly tracing circles on the back of Malfoy’s hand with his thumb.

“I like you too,” Malfoy said quietly. “Just so you know.”

Chapter Text

Zadar was a charming, peaceful little city with a rocky coastline that stretched as far as the eye could see. Harry and Draco had settled into a guesthouse just outside the old town, run by a sweet elderly woman who spoke almost no English. They were the only guests in the house, besides the woman herself, who lived there full-time.

Despite the language barrier, she had welcomed them warmly, almost maternally, taking care of their laundry, advising them about cosy local spots, and making them breakfast and dinner every day, even though meals weren’t technically included in the price. Every time she gave them one of her gentle, caring, and slightly bossy looks, Harry couldn’t help but think of Molly, and the thought always brought with it a quiet warmth and a pang of longing.

Then again, there wasn’t much room for longing at the moment. Their days in Zadar had quickly taken on a dreamy, peaceful rhythm, each one melting happily into the next. Harry was aware that the city’s small size, remoteness, and lack of tourists created only the illusion of safety, but the ease and softness of simply being there felt too tempting to resist.

And it probably didn’t help that Harry was so stupidly head-over-heels for Draco that there was very little space in his brain for anything else. Draco’s pale hair. Draco’s warm skin. Draco’s soft lips. Draco’s grin that reveales his dimples. Draco’s laugh that sparkled with joy. Draco’s grey eyes that, whenever they landed on Harry, made him feel embarrassingly close to having his knees give out.

The best and worst part was that they were spending practically every waking and sleeping moment together. Harry’s mind and body were on constant overdrive, never quite relaxing. Every morning started the same way: waking up beside Draco, one of their arms thrown around the other, legs tangled together, and warm breath tickling his cheek. And every evening ended the same, too, with kisses, giggles, flushed cheeks, and the slow, careful exploration of each other’s bodies.

“What was the address again?” Draco asked, the last rays of the sun catching in his hair. The guesthouse lady had proudly told them that Zadar had the most beautiful sunsets in the world, and this was their third evening in a row watching it from the seaside promenade by the old town.

“Address?” Harry mumbled, eyes half-closed, ears full of the sea organ’s melody and the sound of waves crashing against the rocks.

“Your cousin’s. Dudley’s.”

Harry cracked his eyes open and glanced to the side. Draco had a pen in hand and a postcard in his lap; the one they’d picked up earlier that day, and it looked almost completely written, save for the address.

“You’re seriously going to send a postcard to Dudley?” Harry asked, feeling both amused and strangely touched by the boy sitting beside him.

“Of course I am. If you’d just tell me how,” Draco said. “This would be so much easier with an owl.”

“Post is a perfectly proper form of communication for Muggles,” Harry said with a grin. “But I don’t remember the address right now, it should be somewhere with our passports and other papers.” 

Draco slipped the postcard and pen into Harry’s backpack, then turned his gaze toward the horizon. Harry watched as his almost shoulder-length hair swayed lightly in the breeze, sunlight caught on his lashes, and a small, mischievous smile slowly spread across his face. “Harry, I can feel you staring.”

Harry quickly looked away, feeling the flush rise to his cheeks.

Draco chuckled and took his hand. A chill ran down Harry’s spine. It still felt unreal that he actually got to do this, to be in a public place holding Draco Malfoy’s hand. Sometimes he did notice people giving them odd glances or whispering behind their backs, but Harry couldn’t bring himself to care in a place where no one knew who they were.

“My parents loved the sea,” Draco said quietly, still staring at the distant sky.

“And yet you always seemed to travel inland through Central Europe.” 

“We did, the three of us,” Draco replied. “But whenever they left me at home and travelled on their own, it was always somewhere by the sea.”

Harry didn’t know what to say. It felt strange hearing these kinds of details about Lucius Malfoy, details that made him sound almost human.

“I know you don’t like them, but they’re still my parents,” Draco said, as if reading his thoughts. “Sometimes I feel like I’m way too young to be living without them, even if I know that sounds ridiculous.”

“It’s not ridiculous,” Harry said, tightening his grip on Draco’s hand.

“But you’ve lived most of your life without yours, and I’ve never heard you complain.”

“It’s not the same,” Harry said. “Of course I’m sad and I miss them, but I never really knew them. I’ve seen photos and heard stories from people who did, but they were never part of my life in a way I could actually remember.”

“But that doesn’t mean you didn’t lose them.”

“No,” Harry admitted. “But it’s not the same kind of loss. It’s more like a bitterness for something I never even got to have. A hollow feeling, like something everyone else has, was always just missing from me.”

“I feel that hollow feeling now. I know it’s not the same, because I got to have my parents for a long time, but I still feel… empty,” Draco said quietly, his voice slightly trembling.

Harry looked over and saw tears glinting in Draco’s eyes.

“I… Let me know if there’s anything I can do.”

Draco looked at him, his expression conflicted. “But you hated my father.”

“What I felt about your father doesn’t change the fact that I understand how much you’ve lost,” Harry said, meeting Draco’s eyes with quiet intensity. He felt like he was repeating himself over and over, but maybe Draco needed to hear it more than once.

Draco turned his gaze back toward the sunset, resting his head on Harry’s shoulder and inching closer. Harry wrapped an arm around him.

“Sometimes I feel like I shouldn’t even be mourning him,” Draco murmured. “He did so many horrible things, hurt so many people. It makes me feel even worse that I’m grieving someone whose values and choices I can’t stand by anymore.”

“But he was still your father.”

“Yes,” Draco said softly. “He might not have been the best father in the world, but I always knew he cared about my mother and me.”

“I believe that,” Harry said quietly, feeling the warm tears soaking through his T-shirt.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be—”

“Don’t,” Harry said sharply. “You’re not responsible for your father’s actions, and you’re allowed to grieve him as much as you need. The worst thing you can do is not let yourself mourn. That kind of grief just eats you from the inside.”

Draco gave a small, watery laugh. “You sound like a bloody therapist.”

“I’ve lost a few people myself in recent years, remember?”

“I know,” Draco said with a sigh. “Do you think my mother could still be alive?”

Harry hesitated. “I think so. I can’t be sure. But I do believe the plan worked, and the Ministry’s full attention is on finding you right now,” he said. “And when all of this is over, I promise I’ll help you. I’ll help you find her.”

Draco lifted his head, cupped Harry’s face in his hands, and turned it toward his own. “Why are you so good to me?” he whispered, honestly confused, cheeks glistening with tears and eyes swollen from crying.

Harry blinked, not quite sure what to say. “I—”

But Draco silenced him by pressing his lips to Harry’s in a sudden kiss. His arms wrapped around Harry’s neck, the kiss clumsy and desperate, like he was drowning and kissing Harry was the only thing keeping him on the surface. Harry could taste the salt of Draco’s tears and feel their teeth bumping together now and then, but he didn’t care. He just pulled Draco as close as he could and kissed him back, trying to say without words that he’d meant everything he said, that he was here, that he wanted to be here, and he wasn’t going anywhere.

A moment later, Draco broke the kiss gently, resting his forehead against Harry’s. “Let’s go back to the hostel.”

When the door clicked shut behind them, they started undressing each other in silence, slowly, eyes never leaving each other’s in the dim light, the hum of passing cars drifting in from outside. Once all their clothes lay in a heap on the floor, Draco took Harry’s hand, led him to their pushed-together beds, and began kissing him again, this time softer, slower.

As they lay pressed together, Harry’s body fully wrapped around Draco’s, a sudden flicker of panic flashed through his mind; what the hell was he doing, about to have sex with Draco Malfoy, this time completely sober , but the thought vanished before he could hold on to it.

Because this time, everything felt right. Easy. Draco’s warm chest against his own, the faint scrape of stubble grazing his skin as they kissed, their hands moving carefully, curiously over each other’s bodies, hips grinding slowly, messily in search of a shared rhythm that fit them just right.

When they had both come, moaning against sweat-slicked skin, Harry felt calm and quiet inside. Like, for the first time in a long time, he was exactly where he was supposed to be.

“Come here,” he mumbled to the sleepy boy beside him, pulling Draco gently into his arms and pressing a kiss to his forehead.

-–*--*--*--*--

The next morning, Harry woke up once again with Draco’s arm wrapped tightly around his waist and warm breath tickling the back of his neck, but this time, he didn’t panic. Memories from the night before started returning, image by image sharpening in his mind, but instead of dread, they made him smile. He pulled the softly snoring Draco even closer. He wanted to stay wrapped up in his warmth, surrounded by the faint coconut scent of his skin, feeling him against him.

“Harry,” Draco mumbled sleepily, placing a soft kiss on the back of his neck. “Are you going to run off again this time?”

Harry turned around to face him, looked into his eyes, and brought a hand to Draco’s cheek, gently brushing his thumb across it. “What do you think?”

“With you, one never really knows,” Draco said, half teasing, half serious. “People say you can’t hide how you feel, that even the Dark Lord could read you like a book from miles away. And yet, you’re still a mystery to me.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Harry said, and he felt the tension in Draco’s body slowly release.

Draco looked at him, his expression soft and drowsy, then closed his eyes and pressed his lips to Harry’s in a slow, unhurried kiss, gentle and lingering, yet charged with something... something almost overwhelming. Something that tasted of deep affection, trust, and a quiet longing to be close, to stay.

Draco pulled back slightly. “I think I like this morning more than the one in Ljubljana,” he murmured against Harry’s lips.

“Me too,” Harry said, kissing him quickly again. “So, what do you want to do today?”

“I don’t know. Lie here with you, go get some food, come back and lie down again.”

Harry grinned. “Sounds tempting.”

“No, but seriously,” Draco said, sounding a bit more awake, “the only thing I want to actually accomplish today is finally sending that postcard to your cousin. Do you have the address?”

“Yeah. It should be somewhere with our passports and other papers,” Harry said, not quite ready to move yet.

“Would you want to send one to Weasley and Granger too?” Draco asked suddenly, eyeing him curiously.

“No,” Harry said quickly. “I mean, yes, but I can’t. The Ministry is definitely monitoring everything sent to them. Even Muggle mail.”

“But you miss them,” Draco said. “Even though I still don’t quite get what you see in Weasley.”

“They’re probably angry. And honestly, I can’t blame them,” Harry said seriously. “But there’s nothing I can do about it right now.”

“There’s one thing.”

“One thing?”

“Talk to them.”

“How? Every magical form of communication is way too risky if I can’t even safely use Muggle methods.”

“You could try soul travelling again.”

Harry blinked in surprise and turned to look at Draco, whose eyes held nothing but quiet confidence.

“You’ve already done it once. You can do it again,” Draco said, placing a hand on Harry’s bare chest and starting to stroke it gently. “And this time, I’ll be right here to watch over you. I’ll make sure everything goes exactly as it should.”

“You really think it could work?”

“I think so,” Draco said. “If anyone could pull it off, it’d be you. And honestly, reaching out to them would help in so many ways. First off, it would give them peace of mind just to know you’re alive. And second, we could finally get some sense of what’s actually going on in Britain. Right now, we’re completely in the dark.”

Harry thought about Draco’s words. The guilt of leaving his friends behind without any real explanation had been gnawing at him more and more each day. And the truth was, he missed them badly. Soul travelling might really be the one way the Ministry wouldn’t expect or be able to trace.

“Okay,” Harry said. “Let’s try it. What’s the smartest way to go about it?”

“Sometime during the night,” Draco replied, “when they’re likely to be asleep. In soul travelling, you can’t exactly contact someone directly, you’d have to enter their dream.”

“You mean like when we shared that dream while you were still in Azkaban?”

“Exactly. But this time, you’ll need to stay fully aware. You have to get them to realise it’s not just a dream, that you’re actually trying to talk to them. Whichever one you choose to visit.”

“Hermione,” Harry said immediately. “If I started rambling about soul travelling in Ron’s dream, he’d never believe it was really me.”

“Yeah, I can’t say I blame you,” Draco muttered.

“So, what do we do now? We’ve still got the whole day ahead of us.”

A wicked grin spread across Draco’s face. “How about my earlier suggestion? Lie around, eat, lie around, eat some more, lie around again. Oh, and the postcard.”

“And the postcard,” Harry laughed.

With a sudden, fluid motion, Draco swung his leg over and straddled Harry’s hips. “But maybe we start with this,” he murmured, leaning down to kiss Harry, smiling against his mouth.

“Works for me,” Harry mumbled against Draco’s lips, pulling him closer and deepening the kiss.

-–*--*--*--*--

The day went just as they’d planned: they wrote Dudley’s address on the postcard and dropped it into a postbox on their way to pick up food from a nearby restaurant. Despite Draco’s half-hearted protests, they ended up eating in bed. The rest of the day passed in a strange haze between waking and sleep. Harry drifted in and out of naps beside Draco, who absentmindedly stroked his hair; he’d wake to a sleepy kiss, then fall asleep again with Draco tucked in his arms, only to be stirred later by Draco mumbling something incoherent in his sleep.

By the time the sun had set and darkness had completely fallen outside, Harry reluctantly untangled himself from Draco’s arms and took a cold shower to focus his mind on the task ahead.

When he returned to the bedroom, Draco was already awake. The drowsiness had left his posture, and a serious look had taken over his face.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Draco asked, the worry in his voice completely unfiltered.

“I’m sure,” Harry nodded, lying back down beside him.

“But what if something goes wrong?” Draco asked, now sounding more unsure than he had earlier that morning.

“It’s going to be fine,” Harry said softly, trying to reassure both Draco and himself. “And this time I’m not doing it alone. You’ll be here, in case anything does go wrong.”

“I’m not sure I’ll be able to help.”

“You will. And if not, I have your book about sould travelling in my backpack,” he said, taking Draco’s hand and giving it a gentle squeeze.

Draco sighed. “Okay. Let’s try it. What do we need to do first?”

“We should close the curtains and cast a silence charm over the room. That helped last time.”

Draco used his new wand to draw the curtains shut and ward the room against all outside noise. The contrast was so big that Harry might’ve thought he’d been transported somewhere else entirely if not for the fact that he could still feel Draco’s hand in his.

“Are you ready?” Draco whispered.

“I am,” Harry said and then felt Draco begin to let go of his hand. “Wait! I mean… I think it might help. If you held my hand. It might help me find my way back.”

“Okay,” Draco said, re-linking their fingers and settling down beside him.

Harry closed his eyes and focused on deepening his breathing, slowly relaxing his body from head to toe. He could feel his heartbeat start to slow, a warm tingling sensation spreading through him. His body felt heavier and heavier, until he was no longer fully aware of where it ended and the world around him began.

The same blackbird came this time too, its shape fluttering into view, wings blurry at first and then sharpening with every beat of its wings. This time, Harry didn’t hesitate. He trusted that the bird already knew, without needing to be told, what he was there for. He felt himself slipping free of his body and took one last glance downward to see his own form lying still on the bed, Draco holding his hand tightly, his mouth drawn into a tense, worried line.

They rose high into the starlit sky, the blackbird soaring fast ahead of him. Harry felt like he was flying through some kind of stardust-filled current, flashes of brilliant light twinkling all around him. He focused all his attention on keeping up with the bird, resisting the strange pull of the glowing mist that called to him to let go, to drift aimlessly through it, weightless and untethered.

After a while, the blackbird began to slow down and started descending. The stardust around them faded, and the sky full of stars grew more and more distant as they dropped toward the ground. Harry felt his focus sharpen as familiar shapes began to emerge below: trees, rivers, rooftops, streetlights, winding roads, and eventually, people scurrying around like ants from the high-up view.

To his surprise, the blackbird veered away from the city, leaving the lights, noise, and movement behind them.

If Harry had been in his physical body, his stomach would’ve flipped. He was beginning to recognise the hills and forests scattered across the landscape… and then, far off in the distance, a crooked, towering house came into view. The Burrow.

Harry slowed instinctively. He’d tried to mentally prepare himself for seeing Ron and Hermione again, but he hadn’t considered the possibility of seeing the Burrow or anyone else who might be living there now.

Thankfully, Ron and Hermione were sleeping in Ron’s room, and the blackbird seemed to know exactly where to go, sparing Harry from having to pass through the rest of the house. They slipped straight down through the attic and into Ron’s room without so much as stirring the ghoul that lived upstairs.

Once they reached the ceiling of Ron’s room, Harry hesitated. It felt surreal to be looking down at his friends like this, watching them sleep side by side in Ron’s bed, tangled together in a quiet, unconscious embrace. Ron had one arm slung protectively around Hermione, who was curled into his chest, her brow furrowed in a tense expression even in sleep.

The blackbird paused too, as if checking to make sure Harry was still with it. It gave him a meaningful look before continuing, drifting slowly toward Hermione.

Harry forced himself to follow.

He descended after the bird—and suddenly, he was standing outside the Burrow’s gate, in the middle of a downpour, the sky above him grey and thunder rumbling in the distance.

His glasses were already fogged and slick with rain, making it hard to see, and the unfamiliarity of being back in a human-like body made him momentarily disoriented. Still, the blackbird hovered close, almost protectively, as if it sensed Harry’s limitations in this form: the fact that he couldn’t fly, couldn’t see clearly, couldn’t just will himself forward with magic. So it stayed near, leading him steadily down the muddy road away from the Burrow.

“Harry!”

He heard Hermione’s voice, muffled by the roar of the rain and thunder. He picked up his pace.

“Harry!” she shouted again, closer this time. Through the haze, he could just make out a figure running toward him in a red raincoat. “Oh thank Merlin, you’re okay,” she cried as she reached him, out of breath and soaked. “We’ve been looking for you everywhere, for weeks . Where have you been? Everyone’s been so worried! Ron’s at Grimmauld Place, Mrs. Weasley and Ginny went to Romania to see if you’d gone to Charlie, and Mr. Weasley’s been—”

“Hermione, listen,” he said firmly, looking into her face, bright with excitement and worry despite the rain streaming down her cheeks under the hood of her coat. “This is a dream.”

“A dream?”

“Yes.”

“Oh,” Hermione said, and the excitement immediately drained from her features, replaced by confusion and a flicker of despair.

“I mean, this is your dream, but I’m actually here,” Harry tried to explain.

“What do you mean?” she asked, her voice uncertain.

“I mean that I’m really in your dream right now. Not my body, obviously, but my consciousness,” Harry said. “I wanted to talk to you. To both of you, really.”

“Harry, that doesn’t make any sense,” Hermione said. “This is one of the weirdest dreams I’ve had in a while.”

“No, I’m serious. I needed to find a way to contact you, so I studied up on soul travelling and… well, it’s a long story,” he said. “You have to believe me, I am really here.”

“I… Harry, I don’t know,” Hermione said, biting her lower lip in doubt.

“Hermione, please. Look it up in the morning if you’re still unsure, read about soul travelling, but I don’t have much time, and I had to talk to you,” he said, feeling the cold wetness of the dream-rain soaking into his clothes like a growing weight.

“Okay. Let’s say this is a dream, and I’m actually talking to the real you right now. What’s going on? Where are you?”

“I’m in Zadar. In Croatia,” he said. “I… I left the country. I went on the run with Draco Malfoy.”

Hermione gasped. “I knew you had something to do with Malfoy’s escape, but Harry, for Merlin’s sake, what the hell have you done?”

“I helped Draco escape—”

“Draco?”

“Malfoy,” Harry corrected quickly, but he could see from her expression that she had definitely noticed the slip. “I helped Malfoy break out of Azkaban, and we went abroad. We’ve mostly stayed in the Muggle world.”

“Why didn’t you tell us anything?” Hermione asked, her voice cracking.

“I… I didn’t think I could risk telling anyone,” Harry said, and for the first time, the weight of guilt hit him full force under her wounded gaze. “I’m sorry.”

“Harry… After everything we’ve been through together, and you still don’t trust us?”

“I do,” Harry interrupted. “Of course I trust you. I always have.”

“You don’t,” Hermione snapped. “At least not enough. What did you think we’d do? March straight to the Ministry and report that you let a convicted Death Eater escape? We would’ve helped you,” she continued, her voice sharp. “Even if I didn’t agree with your methods, I still would’ve stood by you. We’ve only ever wanted to help you, Harry. Support you. If that hasn’t been clear by now…”

“I’m sorry,” Harry said again. He didn’t know what else to say; nothing he could think of felt like a good enough explanation. Honestly, looking back, he couldn’t even fully explain his choices to himself. “It just… it felt like the safest option. Not telling anyone.”

Hermione let out a long, frustrated sigh. “The most important thing is that you’re both still alive and safe,” she said. “But Harry, they’re looking for you everywhere. With everything they’ve got. The memory of the Obliviated Auror was restored. Everyone knows you helped Malfoy escape.”

A chill spread through Harry’s chest like ice. “Everyone knows?”

Hermione nodded, her expression grim. “Whatever you do, don’t come back to Britain. Promise me that.”