Chapter Four"...Draco, are you listening?"
Draco blinked, and turned his head away from the windows in Pansy's kitchen. The mid-afternoon sun looked warm on the new spring grass. It'd be a nice day for a fly, but he'd probably end up flying later tonight anyway, he always did. Daytime flying just wasn't the same.
"I'm sorry, Pans," Draco apologized. "What were you saying?"
Pansy pinched her lips together. "Does it matter?"
Draco rolled his eyes. They both shared dramatic tendencies, it was how they got along so well, after all this time. Their interactions would do well on a stage. He loved her for it, even when it was annoying as shit.
"You know it does, Pansy," Draco sighed. "I'm distracted with this new case, but I'm here now."
"You're always distracted with your cases," Pansy argued. "They don't usually make you gaze longingly at my garden, or tap your foot incessantly on my floor."
Draco forcefully stilled his jumping leg. He hadn't even noticed.
"It's tougher than most."
"Tell me about it," Pansy shot back.
Draco narrowed his eyes. "You know I can't."
"Yes, yes, I know," Pansy sighed, flapping her hand. "I can't help it, gossip is in my nature, I'll never stop asking."
"I'm well aware of your nature," Draco smirked. "Bloody vulture," he muttered under his breath.
"Language!!" Pansy hissed, eyes full of amusement, dramatically reaching over to cover her daughter's ears. Camila giggled at her antics, unperturbed by the interruption to her drawing.
"Camila," Pansy cooed, "what do we call Uncle Draco when he's being boring?"
"Draco the Grouch," the girl replied, still giggling. Draco scoffed at the pair of them, a reluctant smile on his face.
"I am not boring!"
"Please, Draco, you're practically drowning us in ennui." Pansy smirked. Draco huffed a laugh.
"Draco the Grouch, Draco the Grouch…" Camila sang in a little tune to herself. Her straight, dark hair, so like her mother's, fell into her face as she drew. Pansy absently tucked it behind her ear. The colourful scribbles on the paper were dancing between its edges, thanks to her charmed crayons, courtesy of Draco.
"Did you know that show was American?" Draco asked.
"Of course," Pansy laughed. "Hard to miss, the way those puppets go on." She narrowed her eyes at him, but the smile remained. "Why, are you practicing your faux-muggle prejudices?"
Draco chuckled. "Absolutely. Isn't it difficult to get it, though, from across the ocean? How do they do it?"
"Merlin, I don't know how they do it, Draco," Pansy said, exasperated. "I just pay for the premium telly package, and Camila turns it on and presses the buttons and finds it, every Saturday morning. I think she even records it, to watch later, because of the time difference. No idea how she does it."
She eyed him intently. Draco recognized this look, she usually wore it when she poked and prodded Draco for his secrets. "How did you find out it was American, anyway?"
Draco's smile vanished. He cleared his throat awkwardly. "Someone saw my slippers," he said vaguely. Pansy sighed.
"You're no fun. And I know you love those slippers, don't pretend you don't, your guest was probably gushing over them," Pansy declared, standing up to clear the table. Draco stood to help.
"I do," he mumbled. "They're softer than a pygmy puff."
"When have you ever held a pygmy puff?" Pansy laughed as they deposited the dishes in the sink, setting a charm to clean them. Camila came in and added her new drawing to the growing collection on the cupboard, with help from one of Pansy's sticking charms. From a distance, the cupboards looked like they were crawling with odd, colourful insects.
Pansy's house was smaller than Draco's, but no less elegant. It was just enough room for her and Camila, and she liked it that way. "I don't want there to be empty space I'd feel pressured to fill with something superfluous, like a man," she'd told him when she bought it. He'd agreed with the sentiment, and silently wondered if that was why he kept buying all those sodding plants—daddy issues notwithstanding.
They chatted idly about her work in the sitting room, cradling cups of tea. She was a private divorce lawyer, and made a fortune at it, most of which she put away for Camila, wisely not trusting the Parkinson family to include an illegitimate child in an inheritance or trust. Pansy had no qualms about confidentiality around Draco, regaling him with the tales of juicy betrayals and sordid affairs of divorcing couples.
Camila eventually became restless, making her way to the sofa to crawl all over her godfather's lap. He effortlessly flipped and rolled her around, playfully shouting, "Is this comfortable for you, love? I only want you to be comfortable!" as she shrieked with laughter. This was enough to tire her out for a nap, even though she begged "Again, Uncle Draco!" over and over until her head hit the pillow. It filled Draco with a quiet joy, as Camila always did.
Back in the sitting room, Pansy hit their tea with a quick warming charm, sighing as she settled back into her armchair.
"Don't work too hard, Draco, or I'll hear about it from Timsy."
"I know. That elf doesn't know when to keep his mouth shut."
"He does. He also knows when to open it for the purpose of your continued well-being."
Draco rolled his eyes, but conceded the point.
"I moved all my other patients to different Healers," he appealed. "There's only one on my plate right now."
Pansy widened her eyes. "Must be big, then, for you to give up the others," she murmured. Draco gave her a nod, and hoped it would be enough to satisfy her thirst for knowledge. By the intrigued look on her face, it wasn't. "Whatever happened to not putting all your eggs in one basket?"
"I'll be fine," he replied, and prayed that not an ounce of weakness showed on his face, because Pansy would pounce on it in a heartbeat. "No matter how this ends, the demand outstrips the supply, you know."
"Yes, we know, you're the only man in England who can do what you do, Merlin, you're sospecial," she rolled her eyes, flapping her hand at him, but the small smile remained on her face, as it usually did when Draco was around.
***
Draco lay on a conjured blanket, stretched out on the quickly-growing grass in his garden. It wasn't too cold, for so late at night. With his hands folded behind his head, he stared up at the wide night sky, allowing his mind to drift, identifying the constellations he knew. An owl flew silently overhead.
A dim light came from the kitchen window, which was opened to let in fresh air, and let out the exhaust from Timsy's roaster. Draco's garden smelled like crisp night air and honeyed toast. Draco smiled as he breathed it in—the beans were nearly done, then. He could hear the warble of Doris Day, muffled from inside the house.
"Stars shining bright above you
Soft breezes seem to whisper, I love you…"
His thoughts drifted to his current patient. He'd never before worked on someone he knew personally, and it was frustrating, that he had to realign his own memories of his and Harry's interactions with what he'd seen from Harry's own perspective.
That day on the train, after Harry had rejected him, Draco had fled Harry's compartment with Greg and Vince after Greg was "attacked" by Weasley's rat. He'd told Greg and Vince to go on to their own compartment without him, and he'd made his way to the most deserted end of the train, near the exit of the rear car. Draco had then proceeded to throw his tantrum in solitude, angry at himself for crying a little, and all he could think about was What did I do wrong, and Father will be so disappointed in me for messing up this opportunity, and What if everyone I talk to at school treats me like that, because Harry Potter did? He'd berated himself for already feeling homesick, for not acting like a proper Malfoy heir, for being childish, for being not good enough for Harry Potter.
But in Harry's eyes, Draco had spent their interactions making him feel stupid and inferior, throwing a bigoted ideology on his shoulders and expecting him to carry it, and insulting his first two friends, ever. They'd made enemies of each other so quickly, as children. What would have happened if Draco had apologized and asked for Harry's perspective? If they had had time to introduce themselves in Madam Malkin's, if Draco was the one to offer his friendship first, instead of Weasley?
The Dark Lord would probably be alive, he thought grimly. Lucius would have sunk his claws in Harry as soon as he could, if the Malfoys were the first wizard family Harry encountered. Narcissa would have loved him as her own, probably, but even Narcissa's love hadn't kept Draco safe from Lucius' ideals or Voldemort's demands. It wouldn't have kept Harry safe, either. And Draco had worshipped his father, as a child. He would have fought Harry the second he disagreed with Lucius, which he inevitably would have, because Harry was just so innately good.
No, Harry had to know the Weasleys, had to experience the love of a proper family. Draco was glad Harry hadn't had to endure the full Malfoy experience growing up. He wouldn't wish it on anybody.
"And in your dreams, whatever they be
Dream a little dream of me…"
Soon, the garden began to smell like perfectly roasted coffee. Draco could hear the hissing and crackling of the beans on the cooling tray. He sat up with a sigh, giving the constellations one last glance, and made his way inside, vanishing the blanket with a lazy swish of his wand.
***
"You seem tired," Draco observed, as Harry yawned again. He was cradling his coffee mug with both hands, absently rubbing the lip of it with his thumb. There were dark smudges under his eyes. Harry shrugged.
"Nightmares or insomnia?" Draco asked, holding up one and two fingers for Harry to use as an answer. Harry hesitated for a moment before holding up one finger. Draco nodded in understanding.
"I have a few bottles of dreamless sleep, if you'd like," he offered, and Harry grimaced. Draco held his hands up, "Or not."
Harry shook his head firmly.
"Does your mind feel slow, right now? Do you feel calm?" Harry shrugged again.
"It's not ideal, but we can skip the meditation, then," Draco explained. "I fear it would only make you more tired, at the moment. We can have a nap during our break today." Harry sat up, apparently ready to go. Draco set down his coffee, and lifted his wand, waiting for Harry's nod. "Legilimens."
Fred Weasley stares at him from the stone floor, covered in rubble. His face is slack with surprise, frozen in death, and his clothes are stained with blood. An acromantula crawls through a hole in the side of the castle. Harry looks around. Bodies are everywhere, all unseeing eyes trained on him.
Draco recognized the signs of a dream, other than it being so unrealistic, with all those bodies looking at him. Surrealism never really mattered in a nightmare—they always felt real, always terrifying and painful.
"It's alright, Harry," he soothed in his low voice, feeling Harry's grief and panic surge. "I know this is a nightmare. Look at the walls, see how they're a bit hazy? Look for your hands—you won't be able to count your fingers, in a dream." He let the nightmare pass him.
"No wonder you couldn't sleep," he mumbled. "Hang on, let me show you something."
Draco pushed gently with his magic, searching. It felt a bit like flipping through his records, or a photo album, until—there.
"Training for the ballet, Potter?" a twelve-year-old Draco sneers on his broom. He doesn't notice the snitch hovering just behind him. Harry's arm is broken, but he ignores the pain, steering his broom clumsily towards Draco, who is widening his eyes in surprise. Harry shoots past him, grabbing the snitch out of the air by Draco's head before landing with a heavy thud on his back. He looks up—Draco's jaw is hanging open in shock, looking foolish. Harry laughs quietly at him, shaking his head.
"Merlin, what a prat," Draco muttered, and he could feel a small spark of Harry's amusement. "I certainly knew how to make a fool of myself around you, didn't I?"
Draco made another quick search, knowing exactly what he was looking for—
Harry lands on the pitch, the snitch in his fist, a wide smile on his face. Remus jogs up to him.
"That was some Patronus," he remarks with a wry grin. "You gave Mr. Malfoy and his friends quite a fright." Harry turns his head, surprised, and sees Draco and a few other Slytherin boys flailing and tangled in heavy, dark robes on the ground, getting scolded by a furious McGonagall. Harry throws his head back, and laughs.
And now Draco could hear Harry laughing for real, just soft breaths huffing out of his mouth. The rhythm matched almost perfectly to the bright, joyful laugh he was listening to in Harry's head, and Draco could imagine how it would sound on Harry today, a little lower, a little rougher. Draco grinned.
"Knew that would cheer you up," he said quietly. "Feel ready to get to work?"
He could still feel Harry's joy, quiet and warm, and he waited for the soft assent before starting another push.
"We'll start where we left off last time," Draco explained. "You had just practically sorted yourselfinto Gryffindor, as I recall." More soft huffs, more amusement. Draco found the sorting memory with ease; it still had its silvery glow around it.
Draco relaxed his control a bit, and let the jumble of first year flow around him, all out of order.
Harry leaps onto a mountain troll's club, it swings him around wildly. In his flailing, his wand is shoved up its nose.
"I think I'll leave it somewhere for Longbottom to find," Draco yells, and throws the Remembrall. Without thinking, Harry shoots after it on his broom, and it's exhilarating and natural and right.
Weasley sits on a giant chess knight. "You have to go on, Harry," he says. "It has to be you. Not me, not Hermione, you." The giant queen swings her sword, and Ron is thrown across the board, unconscious.
"Still looking," Draco said, furrowing his brows. "Hold on…"
Harry sits in front of a large, ornate mirror. His mother pets his head affectionately in the reflection. His father smiles at him, proud. Harry feels a painful mixture of joy and loss, and can't get enough.
Harry runs from Professor Quirrell, but he's tackled to the stone floor. The Sorcerer's Stone rolls out of his pocket. His head feels like it's on fire. Quirrell reaches for the Stone, but Harry grabs his face. It starts to burn and disintegrate; Quirrell and Voldemort scream. Harry holds on until the pain in his head renders him unconscious.
Draco frowned. That seemed pretty fucking important. Why wouldn't that be a breadcrumb? But it passed, and Draco finally saw the silvery glow in his peripheral. "There you are," he whispered, grabbing onto the memory.
Harry urges his broom faster, his body held close to the wood, gaining on the snitch. He reaches out his hand, but loses his balance, tipping forward over the front of his broom. He opens his mouth to yell, and catches something hard and cold in his mouth, nearly choking. He rolls over after his fall, and coughs the snitch into his hand. The crowd is cheering wildly. He's never felt happier.
Draco pulled back and out, lowering his wand and his barriers, quickly putting the memory on the chalkboard ("First Quidditch win") next to the rest. He idly rubbed the scar on his collarbone, watching Harry, processing.
Harry still had a little smile on his face. "That was a fun one," Draco said, grinning. Harry's smile widened, but faded slowly again. He grabbed his notebook and started writing.
Do you think attacker chose these memories to be breadcrumbs?
Draco tilted his head to the side, thinking. "No," he decided. "When they cursed you, they technically commanded you to hide your voice—whatever potion they slipped you may have made your subconscious more suggestible. Either way, they made the command, but I'm pretty sure your own mind did the hiding, and considering how they went on about you being known for yourself and not your image, I believe your mind marked a trail of your most formative memories—the ones that shaped who you really are."
Harry looked thoughtful. He twirled his pen around in his fingers.
"The first one," Draco said, pointing at the short trail on the chalkboard, "obviously changed your life, was the reason you became who you are. The snake, I think, must have been your first… I'd say magical, but you'd have thought it simply abnormal, conversation with something or someone who didn't immediately think you were… different, who simply spoke to you as you are," Draco muttered, thinking hard, carefully avoiding that awful word: freak. Harry's eyebrows were raised, looking surprised and thoughtful.
"The third one was obviously a bundle of formative memories. Learning you're a wizard, learning you're famous, your first friends, your first birthday present, your first rival, I suppose—finally being among people just like you, learning you're not… abnormal, that you're in fact celebrated."
Harry continued to stare at him, like this was all new to him, like he hadn't expected Draco to say anything at all.
"But you've caught plenty of snitches in your day," Draco remarked. "I know that was the first, and probably the only one you've ever swallowed," he smirked, "but why do you think that particular one was so formative to you?"
Harry thought for a moment, staring at the fireplace, before turning a new page and writing again.
My first real accomplishment
"Ah," Draco said, tipping his chin down. "You were praised for your own achievement, and not for the gnarly scar on your head?" Draco clarified, a wry grin on his face.
Harry smirked, and nodded once.
"I'm amazed you only got one detention that year, the amount of mischief you got up to," Draco commented. Harry rolled his eyes.
"While a lot of it was very intense, I only saw the one crumb. We'll go back and see if there's one more from that year—I've a feeling there must be another—and then we'll call it for a nap, yeah?"
Back in Harry's head, swimming through the flashes of first year, Draco decided to look at the smaller, duller ones, just in case he was missing something.
"This was my dad's?" Harry asks in disbelief, and wraps the silvery cloak around himself.
"Whoa," Weasley breathes. "I know what that is!"
Several wizards on brooms take off from the astronomy tower, a crate carrying a baby dragon suspended between them.
Harry sees the dead unicorn, and is filled with sorrow and dread. The hooded figure looks up at him. His scar burns fiercely, his vision swims. Draco runs.
"...to have been loved so deeply, even though the person who loved us is gone, will give us some protection forever. It is in your very skin. Quirrell, full of hatred, greed, and ambition, sharing his soul with Voldemort, could not touch you for this reason. It was agony to touch a person marked by something so good." Dumbledore smiles. Harry's eyes are wet.
"There's got to be…" Draco mumbled, his own emotions carefully tucked away. "Aha." This memory was small, almost irrelevant, but the glow was definitely there.
"It's about the Sorcerer's Stone," Harry says frantically. McGonagall drops her books in shock.
"How do you know—?"
"Professor, I think—I know—that someone's going to try and steal the Stone. I've got to talk to Professor Dumbledore."
She eyes him with a mixture of shock and suspicion.
"Professor Dumbledore will be back tomorrow," she says finally. "I don't know how you found out about the Stone, but rest assured, no one can possibly steal it, it's too well protected."
"But Professor—"
"Potter, I know what I'm talking about," she says shortly. She gathers her books. "I suggest you all go back outside and enjoy the sunshine."
And that was it. That conversation couldn't have been more than sixty seconds. Why…?
Draco retreated, quickly adding another dot to the board, but he blanked on what to label it. He looked at Harry again, furrowing his brows, rubbing his jaw in thought.
"Now, why do you think that one was so important?" Draco asked. Harry shrugged, looking just as confused as Draco was. It probably wasn't the first or the last time he'd argued with McGonagall. Draco closed his eyes and set his clever brain to work, idly twisting a lock of his hair in his fingers. That short, dismissive conversation had shaped Harry in some way, had changed the course of his life, affected his future…?
"Oh," Draco breathed, opening his eyes wide. "I think…" He bit his lip, hesitating. Harry probably wouldn't like this too much.
"I think that was when you realized you couldn't rely on adults," Draco spoke slowly, hoping he was making sense. "You learned you'd have to fight the important battles yourself, if they were going to be fought at all. They never did take you seriously, when you told them something was terribly wrong, did they?"
Harry's eyes were as wide as saucers. Draco shook his head in disbelief.
"Merlin, Harry," he breathed. "How many times did you hold the safety of the entire school in your hands, because the adults weren't handling it, or they were caught up in their own politics, or they wouldn't believe you? They literally made you have to save the day, yourself, over and over."
Harry frowned at this, looking like he wanted to protest. Draco held up his hand.
"I know, they didn't make you do anything. But the professors did, unwittingly, provide you with no other option than to go it alone, to fight it yourself. Think about it, Harry," Draco implored. "I bet you knew, as soon as that conversation was over, that you were going to stop whoever from stealing the Stone yourself, no matter how dangerous it was, because you couldn't trust anyone else to do it. You had to, because terrible things would happen if you didn't, and becausenobody else would."
Harry's jaw was clenched tight, and he crossed his arms over his chest, defensive. This was clearly not fun to hear, but it made perfect sense to Draco.
"Think, Harry," Draco commanded. "In the rest of your years at school, when did you ever trust an adult to take care of something dire? How many times were you forced to take matters into your own hands, because the adults around you wouldn't, or couldn't?"
Harry was breathing hard, his nostrils were flaring. He looked angry, but it was widening into fear, then pleading, and Draco knew he understood, even if he didn't want to admit it.
"Sixth year," Draco continued quietly, "How many times did you try to tell the staff that something was happening with me, that I needed to be stopped?"
Harry didn't respond, but the truth was written on his face, in the purse of his lips, the distress in his eyes. Draco nodded slowly.
"And they did nothing," Draco said, "so you watched me yourself. You had to."
The fire crackled quietly in the grate. Harry bit his lip again, his brow creased in thought as he watched Draco label the new dot on the board: "Adult distrust - Stone."
Draco gave his armrests a gentle pat to shift the mood. "Now that we've figured that out, I could do with a nap, and I know you could, too. If you prefer a bed, feel free to use the guest room, but personally I prefer the sofas for a kip. Take your pick."
***
Draco's index finger was idly tracing the tip of the scar on his collarbone again, inside the open collar of his shirt. He couldn't relax enough to doze, with Harry Potter so close, asleep on the chestnut leather sofa opposite him. So Draco simply lay there, occasionally watching the afternoon light move across the ceiling, occasionally watching Harry sleep. It was so quiet—all Draco could hear was Harry's soft breathing, matching the gentle rise and fall of his chest, and the intermittent chirping of a blackbird outside.
Harry was stretched out, his head propped on a soft cream throw pillow against the armrest, his lawless hair splayed across the fabric. He had one arm thrown above his head, the other settled against his stomach. The hem of his navy t-shirt had ridden up a little in his sleep, and Draco's eyes were drawn to the thin sliver of deep bronze skin there on his hip, just above the waistband of his faded muggle jeans. His boots had been discarded in the front hall as soon as he arrived this morning—his socks today were a normal, black cotton. Draco missed the polka dots.
Harry wouldn't have been able to function properly, as sleep-deprived as Draco knew he was. He'd truly needed the nap. But seeing Harry like this, so peaceful and vulnerable, asleep in Draco's sitting room, was causing him a sort of discomfort—a pulling, constricting feeling in his chest. Draco couldn't discern if it was his bonds acting up or not, because he'd felt something like it a couple of times before: after the final task of the TriWizard Tournament, in sixth year after Harry had sliced him open, during the battle when Hagrid had carried Harry's body, and when Harry had testified for him, to name a few. It wasn't a feeling he particularly enjoyed. It felt like his chest was being squeezed, it was hard to breathe. It felt like gravity, like magnetism, an inevitable force that was futile to resist, though he had tried. He didn't understand what it was, he didn't want to, he didn't like it.
Regardless, Draco couldn't make himself stop, though he wished he would. He couldn't move.
His gaze landed on Harry's holly wand, laying on the coffee table between them, next to his glasses. His face looked so different without them—he looked defenseless, and so young. Draco felt privileged, to be trusted like this, but he needed it to end, very soon, needed to stop this uncomfortably familiar ache in his ribs.
Harry stirred, and Draco wondered if his protesting thoughts were loud enough to wake him. He turned his face back to the ceiling. The sunlight was filtering through the leaves on the crabapple tree outside of the window. The shadows danced and flickered on the crisp, white paint above his little antique chandelier. He'd bought that at an estate sale, years ago—he'd found it charming, and un-Malfoyish, while still very elegant.
Draco gave Harry a few moments to wake up, hearing the rustle of fabric and leather as he stretched and sighed, the clatter of metal against glass as he plucked his glasses off the table. Draco turned to look at him, and was momentarily startled by the brightness of his eyes. He'd apparently forgotten how vibrantly green they were, green like his old Slytherin tie.
"Feeling better?" Draco asked, his voice tight, and Harry gave a little satisfied smile with his single, short nod. Draco looked away. "Excellent. Timsy's prepared roast beef sandwiches, I believe," he said, glad to finally be able to fill the silence, to distract from his incomprehensible discomfort. He swung his legs over the side of the couch, standing in a single, graceful movement. He made his way towards the kitchen, hearing Harry follow him, not bothering to look back.
The sandwiches were excellent, of course they were. Timsy should be given an Order of Merlin or something, honestly, Draco thought, and he made sure to tell Harry this, too, because if anyone could make that happen, it would be Harry Potter. Harry huffed a laugh, and tapped his hand on his chest.
"Yes, I know you have one," Draco rolled his eyes. Harry shook his head and put down his sandwich. He then proceeded to fully mime removing a medal from his own chest, bending down, and pinning it on the chest of a tiny, invisible being, nodding seriously and shaking a little hand.
Draco stared at him for one full second, then two, before he burst out laughing, a full belly laugh that had tears leaking out of his eyes. When he was finally able to look at Harry again, Harry's smile was nearly blinding, his eyes twinkling and shoulders shaking with his own silent laughter.
Draco wiped the tears from his eyes with his finger. "Oh, Merlin," he breathed, still chuckling. "If chasing down Dark wizards doesn't work out, Auror Potter, you'll definitely have a career waiting in pantomime." Draco giggled some more, and Harry rolled his eyes, still smiling. "But yes, you should absolutely hand over your Order of Merlin to Timsy. He was roasting into the wee hours of the morning, you know, the dedication he has to providing the best coffee in Wizarding Britain is unsurpassed. Now, finish the sandwich our hero has so graciously prepared for you."
Harry huffed another laugh at him, and picked up his sandwich again. It felt like a casual lunch between friends, the way they were laughing and joking with each other so naturally. Draco allowed himself to believe it for a second and a half, then swept the fantasy aside.
***
"Do you have any questions for me, before we begin?"
Harry's face looked calm from their meditation, like the surface of the Black Lake—still, but full of potential. He considered Draco for a moment, before grabbing his notebook and pen from the side table, turning a fresh page.
Why don't you use the hawthorn wand?
"Hmm," Draco sighed, wondering how to explain this. He propped his chin in his hand, idly tapping his finger against his cheek.
"The short answer is that it didn't feel right, to use it for healing," Draco decided. "I still have it, but it's put away." Harry tilted his head to the side, another question on his open face.
"You want the long answer?" Draco asked, smirking. Harry nodded sheepishly. He was so easy to read. Draco sat up fully, rolling his pale wand between his slender fingers. Harry watched his hands, his face intent and curious.
"That wand performed a lot of Dark magic, when it didn't want to," he began. "I remember the day I got it, Ollivander explained to me that hawthorn chooses a wizard with internal conflict. My father was quite disappointed—he'd figured I'd find something with dragon heartstring, which more easily adapts to the Dark Arts, and unicorn hair is so… pure. Dark magic is against its nature. A wand with a core of unicorn shouldn't ever have to perform Unforgivables, but I did, and it adapted accordingly." Draco looked up at Harry, who looked a bit abashed, which Draco did not understand, but he continued anyway. "When I decided to become a Healer, I didn't want to do it with a wand with a history of Dark magic. So I went back to Ollivander's—he didn't hold a grudge against me personally, thank Merlin—and I met this wand. Silver lime wood, unicorn hair, eleven inches, flexible. It's a rare wood, it makes for wands that are well suited to Legilimency. Ollivander seemed surprised that this wand chose me—I doubt he ever expected something like this to end up with a Malfoy, and neither did I, truly, but I'm very happy with it."
Harry nodded slowly, digesting the information. Draco, not exactly eager to continue talking about the hawthorn wand and its feats, moved on. "Speaking of which," he said, raising his wand. "Are you ready?" Harry nodded, his eyes too knowing for Draco's comfort. "Legilimens."
Amycus Carrow spits in McGonagall's face. Harry is enraged. He throws the Cloak off of himself and aims the hawthorn wand, fury in his veins. "Crucio!" he yells, and Amycus is thrown across the Ravenclaw common room, screaming.
Harry is laying on his cot in the wizard tent. He can hear waves against a rocky shoreline outside. It's dark, he is staring at an old parchment map by the light of the hawthorn wand. On the map, a pair of footprints is walking down a corridor, the name "Draco Malfoy" moving along with them.
"Alright, Harry," Draco said quietly. "Let's start in the summer after first year."
The memory of the strange map disappeared, and more memories started to rush past, until Draco recognized the house at Privet Drive.
"Harry Potter must say he's not going back to school—"
"I can't—"
"Then Dobby must do it, sir, for Harry Potter's own good." The floating pudding crashes to the floor. The elf vanishes.
A bowl of cold tinned soup is pushed through a cat flap in his bedroom door. Harry scarfs it down hungrily. There are bars on his window.
Ron looks sheepish. The room is frighteningly orange, but Harry is so happy to be there. "This is the best house I've ever been in," Harry grins, and Ron's ears go pink.
"I can see one coming up," Draco observed. He flipped quickly through flashes of a flying car, a lot of ginger hair, dancing ghosts and blood on the walls and a duel with Draco and then—
"Hannah," the stout boy says solemnly. "He's a Parselmouth. Everyone knows that's the mark of a Dark wizard. Have you ever heard of a decent one who could talk to snakes?" The group of Hufflepuffs is gossiping among themselves. Harry listens, just around the corner. "That's probably why You-Know-Who wanted to kill him in the first place. Didn't want another Dark Lord competingwith him. I wonder what other powers Potter's been hiding?" Harry is furious.
The memory slid away, the silvery glow following it. Draco retreated out of Harry's head, pointed his wand at the chalkboard, and labeled a new dot "Gossipy Hufflepuffs", trying not to wrinkle his nose at it. The anti-Hufflepuff prejudice was a hard one to shake, and he never really knew why.
Draco grabbed his own notebook off the table, squinted at it, then huffed and held out his hand, wandlessly summoning his reading glasses from where he'd left them on his desk. He placed them on his nose and picked up his pen, making his notes, allowing his emotions: victory at Harry's attack on the Carrow brother, curiosity at the odd, magical map.
"Dobby tried to get you expelled?" Draco asked, glancing up at Harry, who snorted quietly. "He always did have a roundabout way of doing things," Draco murmured absently as he wrote. "Very clever, and very brave."
He continued his notes for a few moments more, before finally looking back up at Harry. Harry's eyes were wide with undisguised curiosity. He was watching Draco intensely. Draco raised an eyebrow at him, and Harry opened his notebook to write.
You knew Dobby well?
Draco tried to rein in the sorrow and shame. "I did, as a child."
Harry looked like he wanted something else from Draco, but didn't know how to ask for it. Draco had an idea of what it might be.
"I can show you memories of him sometime, if you'd like. He was always helping me get into mischief."
Harry smiled, but his eyes were sad. He nodded once. Draco returned it, and took a deep breath.
"Now, why did your subconscious mind decide that overhearing a bunch of Hufflepuffs gossiping was paramount to your development?" Draco asked, smirking, pen held above the paper. Harry snorted again, shaking his head. He twirled his pen in his fingers, staring at the fire for a bit in contemplation before finally writing—
Hard to explain
Draco clicked his tongue. How anticlimactic. "Give it your best shot," he said. "We've got time."
Harry chewed on the end of his pen, staring at the paper, before turning back to Draco with an exasperated look on his face. He shook his head, put his notebook down, and tapped his index finger on his forehead insistently. Draco raised his eyebrows.
"You want to show me?" he clarified, and Harry nodded. Draco was wary. "You're sure you have that much control over it?"
At this, Harry rolled his eyes, leaned forward a bit, and continued his insistent forehead tapping. Draco sighed. "I'll just sit and watch, then," he said, raising his wand, and his mind fell forward into Harry's. The flashes Harry showed him weren't longer than five seconds each, but there were many.
Thirteen-year-old Harry is walking through a corridor. The students stare at him as he passes, their faces awed and curious.
Fourteen-year-old Harry is walking through a corridor. The students stare at him as he passes, their faces indignant and sneering.
Fifteen-year-old Harry is walking through a corridor. The Ministry employees are staring at him in amazement and derision.
Fifteen-year-old Harry is walking through a corridor. The students stare at him with suspicion and wariness, and divert their gazes.
Sixteen-year-old Harry is walking through a corridor. The students stare at him with admiration, and sometimes lust.
Seventeen-year-old Harry is walking through a Ministry corridor. He's on Polyjuice potion, full of adrenaline. Harry's face stares back at him from the posters on the walls, under the large words, "UNDESIRABLE NO. 1".
Seventeen-year-old Harry stands among his peers, wand in hand. They stare at him, pure fear in their eyes. "But he's right there!" Pansy shouts. "Someone grab him!"
Eighteen-year-old Harry is walking down Diagon Alley. The crowd stares at him with unmitigated adoration, their eyes worshipful.
Eighteen-year-old Harry is walking down Diagon Alley. People are staring at him with disappointment and disdain. He sees someone holding a Daily Prophet—the headline reads "TROUBLE IN PARADISE: HARRY AND GINNY'S VICIOUS ROW IN DIAGON" by Rita Skeeter.
"Alright, I get it," Draco admitted, withdrawing from Harry's head. He set his wand down in his lap and rubbed his eyes beneath his glasses.
"You learned that fame is fickle," he analyzed, "and that it does not ensure loyalty."
The corner of Harry's lips turned up in a smirk. He gave an exaggerated nod, reminding Draco of one of his old tutors, when he had finally understood a difficult lesson as a child.
"Interesting," Draco mumbled, looking over the top of his glasses at the skeleton map of memories on the board. He twirled a piece of hair around his fingers—soft, thick, platinum, very his. Breathed in, breathed out.
"Any questions so far?" Draco offers. Harry thinks for a moment before writing.
Were you truly excited for Muggleborns to die?
Draco winced. "Fair question," he muttered. "At the time, yes, because my father was, and I didn't truly understand the concept of death. Lucius had been so excited that his plan was working, I thought him so cunning. I was excited for his success, even when I didn't fully understand it. I wanted to be just like him." He grimaced, looking away from Harry. "I didn't really get it until the end of fourth year, and even then, I was still desperate for his approval. I practically worshipped him."
Harry pursed his lips together, considering Draco for a moment. He started writing again.
Does seeing my memories of Lucius hurt you?
Draco frowned, looking away again. "I've seen Lucius' cruelty plenty of times. Your memories don't hurt me any more than mine do—and I know, you've met him more than I've seen so far."
Harry nodded slowly, biting his lip. He didn't look entirely sure of Draco. Draco wasn't entirely sure of himself, either, but that was irrelevant. He was a professional.
"Let's do a bit more breath work, and we'll go back in, alright?" Draco suggested, sitting up and placing his hands on his knees. He pushed his glasses up into his hair, which he knew looked ridiculous, but his appearance was not his priority at the moment, when he felt he might be losing his grip. He was a professional.
The meditation calmed his racing heart a little. Draco leaned forward, raised his wand, and cast.
"You'll meet the same sticky end as your parents one of these days, Harry Potter," Lucius says softly. "They were meddlesome fools, too." He turns to go. "Come, Dobby."
But Dobby doesn't move. He is holding up Harry's disgusting, slimy sock, and looking at it as though it were a priceless treasure. "Master has given a sock," he says in wonderment. "Master threw it, and Dobby caught it, and Dobby is free."
Lucius becomes enraged, lunging at Harry. "You've lost me my servant, boy!" He whips out his wand, "Avad—"
Dobby snaps his fingers, and Lucius is thrown backwards onto the floor.
Draco's Occlumency barriers crashed, and he withdrew so quickly it probably left a vacuum in Harry's head. He let out a harsh, shaky breath, and rubbed his face with his hands. His glasses immediately fell forwards; he ripped them off, tossing them carelessly onto the side table and closing his eyes. His emotions were storming again—fear, regret, anger, loss, pain—he tried his best to keep up.
"Sorry," Draco muttered. "Just a moment." He didn't look at Harry.
He almost wished that had been a breadcrumb, just so he wouldn't have to go back in Harry's head today. He didn't want to do his routine, didn't want to return to himself, didn't want to be himself, right now.
"I'm sorry," Draco said again. He wasn't sure for which part he was apologizing. Maybe all of it. "He tried to kill you… you were twelve…" The mumbled words were tumbling out of Draco's mouth. "I shouldn't even be surprised, at this point… but you were so small, and he… if I had known—"
Harry snapped his fingers to get his attention. Draco looked up and met Harry's sharp glare. Harry shook his head, and grabbed his notebook to write.
You wouldn't have believed me
Draco sighed, and rubbed the tops of his thighs with his palms. "You're right," he said. "I wouldn't've."
Draco shook himself, taking a deep, slow breath, then another. I am not who I was, he reminded himself, but who I was is part of who I am. He rubbed the Dark Mark on his arm through the silk sleeve of his shirt, and felt the raised scarring under the fabric.
He eventually raised his wand again, and declared himself ready. Harry consented, but he still looked a bit cautious, which only furthered Draco's resolve. He had to do this, had to see this through, he was a fucking professional, one of the best of his age. He strengthened his Occlumency walls. "Legilimens."
Harry pulls the Sword out of the Sorting Hat and stands. The blinded basilisk lunges and Harry swings, misses. The colossal snake knocks Harry to the wall. Harry stands back up, aiming the sword as the basilisk lunges again. He throws his full weight behind it, impaling the roof of the serpent's mouth. He feels a searing pain in his arm as one long, poisonous fang pierces him.
Not now, Draco told himself, behind his careful Occlumency walls. Keep looking. Don't get distracted.
"Saint Potter, the Mudbloods' friend," Draco says slowly. They're sitting in the Slytherin common room. "He's another one with no proper wizard feeling. And people think he's Slytherin's heir!"
A silvery glow appeared in his peripherals, and Draco seized it. "Got one—"
"Listen to me, Harry," Dumbledore says calmly. "You happen to have many qualities Salazar Slytherin prized in his hand-picked students. His own very rare gift, Parseltongue; resourcefulness, determination—a certain disregard for rules," he adds. "Yet the Sorting Hat placed you in Gryffindor. You know why that was. Think."
Harry feels defeated. "It only put me in Gryffindor because I asked not to go in Slytherin—"
"Exactly," Dumbledore beams at him. "Which makes you very different from Tom Riddle. It is our choices, Harry, that show what we truly are, far more than our abilities. If you want proof that you belong in Gryffindor, I suggest you look more closely at this."
Harry turns over the sword, rubies blazing in the firelight. He sees the name engraved just below the hilt: Godric Gryffindor.
The memory ended, and Draco withdrew carefully, not yet letting his Occlumency walls down. He had work to do first. He pointed his wand at the board, made another dot, and frowned, not sure what to label it.
"That was obviously an important conversation," Draco began, "but why do you think it was important? Why then?"
Harry closed his eyes, his body only partially relaxed, his pen flicking in his restless fingers. He leaned back in his chair, and slightly furrowed his brow. Draco had a moment of envy—how could Harry exude power and authority like that, just from sitting, and thinking? If someone had shown him this memory of Harry, simply sitting back in this wingback chair, eyes closed and face tensed in thought, and asked Draco to follow this man and take up his causes, Draco would consider it. He would honestly turn over the prospect in his mind, whether Harry was Harry Potter, or simply a man.
But Draco's Occlumency walls were still up, and his face was carefully blank. His body was still while he waited.
When Harry opened his eyes and picked up his notebook, it felt like time had restarted. Draco's joints creaked as he crossed his legs, his body protesting being held so tense and motionless for so long. Harry was writing.
Combination of accepting parts of me I was uncomfortable with, and learning that my choices mattered more.
Draco silently noted that that may have been the longest sentence Harry had written in his notebook thus far. He nodded slowly in understanding, and pointed his wand at the board, labeling the new dot on the map "Abilities & Choices". He rested his wand in his lap when he was finished, turning his gaze to meet Harry's again.
Harry had an expectant look on his face, that was slowly turning puzzled. Draco kept his walls up, and his face emotionless. "We've made excellent progress today," he said. "We'll start on third year next time. You can start your ending meditation, now."
Harry only frowned, his face dropping into a half-hearted glare. He started writing again.
Unfair
Draco furrowed his brows. "What's unfair?" Harry shook his head, disgruntled. He returned the pen to paper.
You can shut me out, but I can't shut you out
Draco closed his eyes, sagging. "I'm not shutting you out, Harry. I'm shutting me in."
Harry scoffed.
"I don't see how I could add anything valuable, at this point," Draco snapped. "Haven't you had enough of my reactions for one day? I can't keep making this about me," he explained desperately, but Harry was shaking his head again. He'd done that a lot, today.
I learn from your reactions
Draco's brows creased further. He was getting agitated. "Learn what?"
Harry rolled his eyes, and simply pointed at Draco, apparently tired of writing for the moment, or unsure of the words.
"Learn… about me?" Draco guessed, and Harry nodded. He motioned between the two of them, back and forth.
"So we learn about each other," Draco guessed again, and Harry seemed proud of himself for communicating that nonverbally. "I understand," he sighed. "It's unbalanced. What do you want to know?"
Harry shook his head yet again, and decided he needed the notebook after all.
I want you to react
"To what I've seen so far?" Harry nodded. Draco groaned, cautiously letting down his barriers. It still felt a bit dangerous to be so open with Harry, but he'd said he would be, their first day. Harry was right: Draco was getting scared of his own reactions, how raw and vulnerable they made him feel, but Harry didn't exactly have a choice in being vulnerable. He had no defense against Draco's Legilimency. It was only fair. Draco knewthat.
"Fine," he sighed. "I'm dying to know how the bloody hell you survived basilisk venom."
Harry looked pleased with Draco's concession. He gave Draco a small smile, and wrote quickly.
Phoenix tears - Fawkes
Draco stared at the page in shock for a moment, before his lips started twitching, and suddenly he was trying very hard to hold back a giggle. He raised his hand to cover his mouth, because laughing at that felt morbidly wrong, but Harry quickly reached over and pulled his wrist away. He wanted Draco to react, and Draco had promised him honesty. So he released his laughter. Harry's face was gratified and amused.
"Of fucking course," Draco snickered. "I don't even doubt that, you know, I know it must be true, but it's so… it's of course, I shouldn't have expected anything less from you. I'll bet the tears came straight from the bird's eyes. Please tell me the phoenix cried on you, Harry," he implored, giggling helplessly, and Harry smiled at him as he nodded. Draco was fully laughing now.
"Typical," he said, shaking his head. "And let me guess, you took Polyjuice to get into the Slytherin common room and spy on me," he said, his laughs on hold as he waited for Harry's inevitable nod.
Hermione brewed it in a loo, Harry wrote.
"Of course she did," Draco threw his head back, laughing some more. "Merlin, Harry," he breathed, wiping a tear from his eye. "You never do a thing halfway, do you?"
Harry's eyes were dancing with mirth, his shoulders shaking with his own silent laughter.
Draco let his laughter die down. "Go on, then, meditate and return to yourself, you absolutely ludicrous human being."
Harry did, and the soft smile remained on his face the entire time.
***
Draco stood alone in his study, staring at his empty Pensieve inside its cabinet. He picked up an empty vial from a shelf full of memories.
He closed his eyes, thinking deeply, remembering. He raised his wand to his temple, and carefully drew out two long, silvery strands of memory, dropping them delicately into the mouth of the vial. He pointed his wand at the glass, and with a quick spell, labeled it "Dobby". He set it back on the shelf, where it sat glowing softly with the rest.
Later that night, after a relaxing evening spent with Timsy and an obligatory letter to his mother, Draco fell into a deep and contented sleep, cradled by his luxurious bed. He dreamed of tiny footprints walking on parchment, the light of a wand keeping careful vigilance.