Chapter FiveDearest Draco,
I'm happy to hear that you're doing well. I still believe you work too hard, but you understand I never imagined you working at all, so I may always think this way.
I am still so proud of you, Draco, and all you've accomplished—never doubt that.
I spend my days helping the house elves prepare the gardens for spring, and reading. The roses will be breathtaking this year, I can feel it. You must come for tea, soon. I'd love for you to see the work we've done, and how much brighter the Manor looks because of it.
Your Aunt Andromeda reached out to me, recently. I was surprised she was willing to speak with me—you may remember I wrote to her years ago, and did not receive a response. We now have a tentative correspondence, and I must say I look forward to reconnecting with her. We were very close, when we were girls. She is curious about you, in her letters.
I miss you, darling. Visit soon, and please give Timsy my best.
Love, Narcissa
Draco put the parchment down on the table next to the rest of his post, and adjusted his reading glasses. It was interesting that Andromeda was finally reconnecting with Narcissa—but why now? Andromeda was the guardian and grandmother of Teddy Lupin, wasn't she? And wasn't Teddy Harry's godson? He wondered if Harry knew about this development. He didn't know how much Harry was involved in little Teddy's life, but would he want his godson that close to a Malfoy? Narcissa hadn't mentioned the boy, so maybe he didn't have to worry about that just yet.
Draco tried to control his dread at the invitation to tea. He knew he'd have to accept, sooner rather than later, if he didn't want his mother bursting in and providing one of her powerful guilt trips. She still felt he belonged at the Manor, as the sole Malfoy heir. There was a lot about Draco that Narcissa didn't understand—his career, his home, his lack of a partner (and his preference of the gender of that partner)—but he knew she loved him, anyway. He needed to see her. She was his mother, after all—he just wished he didn't have to see her there.
Draco unrolled the Daily Prophet, glancing at the headlines before tossing it to the side—something incredibly boring about certain Wizengamot members retiring, opening up positions. He picked up a small package, tied with twine and stamped with the Quality Quidditch Supplies logo, and smiled. He'd been expecting this order to come in for a while.
As he stood up to go stow his latest purchase in the shed, he heard a man's voice call his name from his floo, and he groaned quietly in irritation. He adjusted the belt on his dressing gown and buttoned up the top buttons of his pyjama shirt on his way to the sitting room.
"Shacklebolt," Draco sighed at the Minister's floating face in the fire, crouching in front of the grate. "What can I do for you?"
"Healer Malfoy," he greeted in his deep, smooth voice. "May I come through?"
Draco tried not to roll his eyes. He was still wearing his fuzzy slippers, but he couldn't really say no. He stood up fully, giving the man a wave of permission. He supposed it was nice that the Minister for Magic, Kingsley Shacklebolt himself, bothered to ask permission, first, when he knew Draco had given him full access to his floo.
Draco had done that after enough of their back and forth correspondence while he was studying for and subsequently applying for his Healer License—it was terribly inconvenient to correspond with the Minister normally, and he'd needed the Minister's involvement to get his license approved, considering his background. Shacklebolt had helped keep an eye on him, personally, after his trial, so they had spoken and caught up every few months since then. Draco had found it odd, but knew better than to question it. He'd figured if he could prove himself to the Minister for Magic, beloved leader of Wizarding Britain, it would help ease the way into his career, and his return to England. It hadn't, really—he still felt threatened when he went out alone, and the Licensers at the Ministry still required him to be magically bound, even with Shacklebolt's stamp of approval. But at least, Draco hadn't had any Aurors breaking down his door with every whiff of neo-Death Eater activity. That, he could probably attribute to Shacklebolt—maybe. There might have been plenty of Aurors who were itching to bring a Malfoy their own form of justice, but Weasley and Harry probably wouldn't allow that either, without sufficient cause, as committed as they were to that trademark Gryffindor fairness. Weasley had probably weeded out the corrupt Aurors himself, once he took charge. He'd have seen it all, climbing the ranks.
The flames flared green, and Shacklebolt stepped out, dusting nonexistent soot off of his deep violet robes.
"Healer," he greeted, again.
"Minister," Draco nodded, because apparently they were back to titles instead of names. He motioned for Shacklebolt to sit on the sofa, and sat opposite him, suddenly reminded of the last time he entertained a Ministry employee while wearing his pyjamas and Grouch slippers. Was this going to become a pattern? Was calling before nine in the morning a Ministry custom he should be expecting?
"To what do I owe the pleasure?" Draco asked, crossing one leg over the other. He realized he was still wearing his reading glasses—he removed them from his face, slipping them into the pocket of his dressing gown.
Shacklebolt clasped his hands in his lap and gave Draco a grave look.
"I know you're working with Harry," he declared.
Draco let none of his emotions show on his face—of course, the Minister was checking to make sure Draco wasn't hurting their Golden Boy. He should have known.
"Whether I am or not, you know I can't discuss it," Draco said, narrowing his eyes.
Shacklebolt closed his eyes and sighed. "And thus I know that it's true, because if you weren't, you would have been much more surprised, and you'd have been able to deny it. I only wanted to confirm it. If you're really working with him, that means he's out of commission for at least six weeks, and I can't wait that long," Shacklebolt explained.
Draco stared at him. "Then this will be a very one-sided conversation. But I am curious as to whether—the man you speak of—knows you're here, discussing him," Draco strained, feeling the tentative warning in his gut. It wasn't painful, not yet, but it had the potential to be, if Draco said anything further about Harry or his condition.
"He doesn't. Not for this," Shacklebolt mumbled, looking away, and his eyes widened slightly, as if he hadn't meant to say that out loud.
"'Not for this'?" Draco repeated, frowning in confusion.
"I only mean that, he knows we know each other, that we talk. He doesn't know I'm here to talk about… this."
"He knows we talk," Draco parroted him again, because what?
Shacklebolt looked a bit uncomfortable now, which was a very odd look on him, the Minister for Magic, in an ex-Death Eater's sitting room, while said ex-Death Eater was wearing fuzzy Oscar the Grouch slippers. How did Draco somehow gain the upper hand?
"Yes, well," Shacklebolt started, looking away from Draco again. "He was the one who asked me to keep an eye on you, in the first place, after your trial. So, he knows that we're acquainted."
Now, Draco could not control his shock. That certainly explained Shacklebolt's surprising interest in him, all those years ago, but for some reason, it didn't feel very good.
"I don't mean keep an eye on you, as in make sure you weren't doing anything illegal or nefarious," Shacklebolt clarified, apparently getting over his discomfort with this admission. "He was… he was worried, that Wizarding Britain and the Ministry would try to hold you back, because of your history and their grief and anger. He said he wanted to make sure you got the second chance you deserved, and that he didn't testify for you for nothing."
Draco closed his eyes, shaking his head slowly. This was too much. Harry Potter had been worriedabout him? At seventeen? Mere weeks after defeating Voldemort? There was no way. Maybe Shacklebolt was trying to manipulate information on Harry's curse out of him. He was a politician, now, after all.
"I don't believe you," Draco said finally, because he couldn't say anything else.
Shacklebolt shrugged, another shockingly informal gesture for the Minister. "That's your prerogative," he said. "Either way, I doubt he ever wanted you to know."
"You know I don't keep secrets from my—" a twist of pain in his gut. He clutched his abdomen, breathing hard. He glared at the Minister, who knew the ins and outs of Draco's work, who had signed off on the approval of his magical bonds, and who was here discussing a patient with him, anyway.
Shacklebolt only pursed his lips in concern. For Draco, or for what Harry might do if he knew Draco knew, Draco didn't know.
"I need Harry back in working capacity as soon as possible," Shacklebolt said mechanically, and Draco rolled his eyes. "With the sudden retiring of Vance and Eldridge from the Wizengamot, the path has been cleared for some rather unsavoury up-and-coming politicians—Umbridge types, you understand—and I need Harry to start publicly endorsing the right candidates, to ensure the Wizengamot remains balanced."
Draco deepened his glare, hoping Shacklebolt could feel the disapproval in his gaze, since he didn't want to risk saying another word in this conversation. The Minister was relying on the bloody Chosen One to save the day, yet again. Did anyone get anything done without help from the Saviour?
Recognizing that Draco wouldn't contribute any more to the discussion, nor would he reveal any details about Harry's condition, Shacklebolt ended the conversation by patting his knees once and standing up to his full, not-inconsiderable height.
Draco stood as well, still subtly clutching his torso.
"Thank you for your time, Healer Malfoy," Shacklebolt nodded. Draco returned it shortly.
"Good day, Minister."
Shacklebolt grabbed a small handful of floo powder out of a pouch in his pocket, stepped into the flames, called out "Minister Shacklebolt's Office," and was gone in a whoosh of green flame.
Draco continued glaring at the empty fireplace. The nerve of these fucking meddlesome Gryffindors.
***
When Harry apparated in on Thursday, Draco was already in the front garden, helping Timsy pick Narcissus flowers for the house. The garden was nearly overrun with them, this time of year, which Draco loved. Timsy normally never needed help with this, but Draco hadn't questioned it when Timsy had muttered, "Master Draco should be enjoying the sunshine before his guest arrives, Master Draco should pick some of the flowers for the house, he should, it is being good for him," with an odd gleam in his eye. Draco hated denying him anything.
Therefore, when Harry appeared in the walkway at nine, Draco had the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to his elbows, crouched on one knee in the dirt in his expensive trousers, with an armful of yellow and white flowers. Not an ideal professional Healer look, in his opinion.
Harry broke into a wide, surprised smile upon seeing him like this, raising his eyebrows in a look Draco could only describe as lightly teasing, and Draco couldn't help feeling like Timsy had made him look foolish on purpose, but he tried to take it in stride.
"Morning," he waved, awkwardly, and winced at himself. "Timsy wanted help picking these for bouquets," he explained, lifting his armful of flowers in emphasis. Why had he picked so many? He'd thought he'd just pick until Timsy told him to stop, but of course, Timsy hadn't. The elf had his own tiny bundle, significantly smaller than Draco's, and he was side-eyeing them persistently. Draco sent him a half-hearted glare.
"Where do you want these, Timsy?"
"Master Draco is putting the blooms in the kitchen, where Timsy is being arranging them for the house," Timsy replied, looking at Draco meaningfully. The elf's apparent hidden agenda eluded him, but Draco went along with it, as he usually did. He glanced at Harry, jerking his head toward the front door, and led him inside.
Harry slipped off his jacket as he entered, floating it wandlessly to a hook on the wall, not stopping at all as he followed Draco and his many flowers into the kitchen.
Draco unloaded his burden onto the wide, wooden butcher block island in the kitchen. The flowers rolled across the wood. As he stretched his arms out, his elbows tense from holding the blooms so delicately, he caught a glimpse of the Dark Mark, grayish-red and hideous and exposed on his left arm. He put his arms down quickly, hoping Harry hadn't noticed, but according to Harry's pinpointing stare on his arm, he most definitely had. Draco, embarrassed and defensive, reached his right hand over his torso and started to roll his sleeve back down.
Harry's eyes snapped up to meet Draco's. His face was intent, apparently trying to communicate something without having the words to do it. Draco froze, and waited.
Harry's eyes darted around Draco's face for a moment, before he slowly reached across the pile of flowers, took Draco's left arm in his hands, and rolled his sleeve back up. He looked back up at Draco's face, unreadable, and Draco wished he would just say something, but they both knew he wouldn't. He felt his cheeks heating.
Draco took the hint for what it was: hiding his Mark like that was another barrier between them, another thing that Draco could hide from Harry, when Harry could hide nothing from Draco. He cleared his throat, and made his way to the study, feeling very exposed. He left his sleeves rolled up, but took his wand out of his pocket and cast a swift tergeo at the dirty knees of his trousers. He had some standards, after all.
"The Minister came to visit me yesterday," Draco proclaimed as they sat in their usual chairs by the fireplace, watching Harry carefully for his reaction. Harry raised his eyebrows, and darted his eyes to the side and back. He looked at Draco expectantly.
"He somehow found out I was working with you, and basically wanted to tell me to hurry it up," Draco explained. "He told me—in so many words—that he can't afford to not have you available as a political tool, otherwise the Wizengamot will fall to the control of blood purists and traditionalists." He gave Harry a sharp look, raising one disapproving eyebrow, hoping that conveyed all of his distaste.
Harry looked away, uncomfortable, and made a dismissive motion with his hand.
"He told me something else, too," Draco continued, trying very hard not to sound too accusatory. "He told me that you were the one who insisted he keep an eye on me himself, after the trial."
Harry looked at him warily, and let out a long, exhaustive breath. Draco waited for a moment, watching him.
"Is that true, Harry?" he asked in a small voice. He wasn't upset, anymore—just confused, conflicted. He didn't know what to feel.
Harry sat still for a moment, eyes searching Draco's expression. The morning light from the window was hitting the left side of his face, while the soft firelight danced on the other. Draco was mesmerized by the play of light on Harry's skin.
Finally, Harry nodded, so gently that Draco would have missed it if he weren't looking right at him. It only confused Draco more, and he furrowed his brows. He didn't know if he could ask Harry why. He hated asking Harry anything, in here, where most of the time, Harry had no control over what Draco knew about him. Why should Draco feel entitled to anything more?
"Shacklebolt gave me a very brief explanation as to why you would ask that of him, but I don't know if I believe it," Draco said, breaking the silence, and Harry looked away, clicking his tongue in annoyance. At Draco or the Minister, he may never know. "After all, he was trying to weasel information on your condition out of me, he may have simply told me what he thought would work best to that end. But that would make him a bit of an idiot, considering he is more familiar with my work than probably anyone else at the Ministry, and knows full well that I am bound by patient confidentiality."
Harry was looking at him with that unreadable look again. Draco missed the open book he usually was.
"Besides, I would not rush this kind of healing if the world were on fire. There's too much at stake. There's too much that could go wrong, if I'm careless and hurried, or if we just stop halfway through the maze. This is your mind we're talking about. Why would I risk that?" Draco was pretty much talking to himself now, his hand half-covering his mouth, propping his chin up with his elbow on the armrest. He sighed, scrubbing his hand over his face and sitting up properly.
"It doesn't matter, now," Draco muttered. "Point is, I'm not rushing your healing for anybody. The other point is, someone else knows you're seeing me, and I certainly haven't let anything slip, because I can't. I don't know if that matters to you or not, but if it does, you might want to contain that rumour before it catches."
Harry's cheeks were pink, and Draco was starting to feel like an idiot, the way he could not comprehend a single thing about Harry other than his past. But that was what they were here for: Harry's memories, and the voice hidden inside them. Healer, and patient.
They assessed each other for another moment, still and silent, before Draco quietly called Timsy and asked him for coffee. As they poured and sipped out of warm mugs, Harry's hand kept moving towards his notebook on the side table, resting on it for a moment, and moving away, as if he couldn't decide whether or not he actually wanted to pick it up.
"Do you have questions for me?" Draco asked, because maybe that would make this moment more comfortable. Harry winced a little, shook his head once, but finally picked up the notebook and pen, turning it to a blank page and setting it on his lap to write one quick word:
Ask
Draco didn't need to clarify the vague command, because his many questions hung so clearly and heavily in the air around them. Yes, he would probably get his answers eventually, in his head, beyond Harry's control, but maybe Harry wanted the chance to do it his way, first. Draco still hesitated before obliging.
"Why? Why did you set the Minister on me, when we were seventeen?"
Harry nodded, accepting the question he'd been expecting, and began to write. It didn't take him very long, but it was still longer than anything he'd written so far.
I wanted to be sure the Ministry/public wouldn't stop you from succeeding, after that trial. The Aurors were always talking about ways to bring you down, for no reason.
Draco wrinkled his nose in confusion. "Succeeding at what?"
Harry shrugged, writing again.
Anything
This was so much, and Draco was baffled. He eyed Harry intently for a moment, searching for an answer in his face, but didn't find one.
"I thought you hated me," he mumbled.
Harry met his eyes, shaking his head slowly before returning his face to the notebook.
Not for a long time
That was news to Draco—he remembered Harry's furious face when Draco arrived in his hospital room, he remembered Harry's silence and cold look upon returning his hawthorn wand, and walking away from him, before Draco could muster the strength for a useless 'thank you.' But he also remembered Harry's lengthy and unnecessary testimony to keep him out of Azkaban; he remembered Harry flying back into danger and pulling him out of the fiendfyre. In the back of Draco's brain, he knew that it could be true—that Harry hadn't hated him, even then, and had maybe even wanted good things for him. Maybe Harry had wanted him to live, to thrive.
But for some reason, a world where Harry Potter didn't previously loathe Draco Malfoy, and vice versa, was frightening, and Draco couldn't make himself accept it. It felt dangerous to him, like standing on a cliff, and being told everything about the fatal drop to the jagged rocks below would be absolutely fine. It was too precarious, and against his common sense. His characteristic Slytherin self-preservation was winning out, and his gut told him to back away from the edge, so he did. He sighed and closed his eyes to collect himself, and to protect himself from Harry's penetrating gaze.
"Alright," he said finally, even though things were definitely not alright. He sipped his coffee, allowing the warmth and flavour to soothe him, and caught himself absently rubbing his sternum with the heel of his palm. He put both his hands on the coffee mug to keep them occupied. Harry simply watched him, a cautious, vulnerable look on his face.
"Do you feel ready to begin?" Draco asked, and Harry eyed him for a moment more before putting his notebook down on the side table, sitting up and readying himself for the work.
Draco guided them through a slow, careful meditation, but he kept his hands on his own coffee mug the whole time, its warmth softening him from the inside out, relaxing the muscles still tensed in fight-or-flight.
"We'll start with third year today," Draco began. "I'm going to walk us through it, similarly to how I flipped through your memories of the pub, but less quickly. I'm going to skim through them, like pages of a book, and stop once I find a breadcrumb. Alright?" Harry nodded. "Legilimens."
"Of course, Harry, I suppose I can do that. But I must ask: why not just keep an eye on him, yourself?" Shacklebolt asks, and Harry scoffs at him.
"Trust me, Kingsley," Harry says. "It'll be much more welcome coming from you."
"He's doing well," Shacklebolt says, amused and exasperated. "He's just got his Healer License, though the Licensers gave him a hard time about it. He'll be moving back to England, soon…"
"I'm taking us back, now," Draco said, cutting this reverie short, keeping his emotions behind his Occlumency walls. He tightened his grip on his wand a little, and pushed, until he saw the same breadcrumb they'd left off with last time, with Harry and Dumbledore discussing his Slytherin qualities and Gryffindor choices in the Headmaster's office. He started skimming, following Harry's return to Privet Drive that summer.
"It all comes down to blood, you see it with dogs all the time. If there's something wrong with the bitch, there's something wrong with the pup—" The large woman doesn't finish her thought, because Harry is furious, and she is inflating like a balloon, floating away into the garden, screaming.
Harry is sitting on his trunk on the sidewalk, fuming and scared. He thinks he sees a large dog across the street, raises his wand arm, and the Knight Bus appears, nearly running him over.
"No, no, you won't be expelled, dear boy! The important thing is, you're safe. You can stay here, where everyone can keep an eye on you…" Cornelius Fudge says, looking shifty, and Harry is confused.
"Sirius Black is after me?" Harry asks, and Arthur Weasley nods gravely.
"Promise me Harry, no matter what you may hear, that you won't go looking for Black."
Harry is baffled. "Why would I go looking for someone who wants to kill me?"
"You're doing great, Harry," Draco praised him, because his memories did feel calmer, more stable than usual—he'd probably be great at Occlumency, if he wanted to be.
Dead, scaly hands open the compartment door, Harry feels more cold and hopeless than he ever has in his life. Distantly, he hears a woman screaming, before everything fades to black.
"Yeah, you're not dangerous at all, are you, you great ugly brute?" Draco snarls at Buckbeak, who rears up indignantly, swinging down with giant, steely talons.
The memories flashed past him, and Draco suppressed a wince at watching himself milk that shallow injury for all it was worth.
"We owe them everything," Fred Weasley says wistfully, gazing at the old parchment in adoration. 'Messrs Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs do proudly present The Marauder's Map,' it reads. Harry opens it and sees every room and corridor of Hogwarts, with tiny, named footprints traversing the paper halls.
Draco flipped and flipped, moving forward and faster, through Quidditch matches and illicit Hogsmeade trips, until finally the glow appeared in his peripherals, and he seized it—
"You don't understand!" Peter Pettigrew whines on the filthy floor of an old shack. Severus Snape is unconscious against the wall. "He would have killed me, Sirius!"
"THEN YOU SHOULD HAVE DIED!" Sirius Black roars. His long, matted hair hangs down over his tatty Azkaban robes. "DIED, RATHER THAN BETRAY YOUR FRIENDS, AS WE WOULD HAVE DONE FOR YOU!"
Sirius and Remus stand shoulder to shoulder, wands raised.
"You should have realized," Remus says quietly, "if Voldemort didn't kill you, we would. Goodbye, Peter."
Hermione covers her face, turns away.
"NO!" Harry yells. He runs forward, placing himself in front of Pettigrew. "You can't kill him."
"Harry, this piece of vermin is the reason you have no parents," Sirius snarls. "This cringing bit of filth would have seen you die, too, without turning a hair. You heard him. His own stinking skin meant more to him than your whole family."
"I know," Harry is panting with adrenaline. "We'll take him up to the castle. We'll hand him over to the dementors… he can go to Azkaban… but don't kill him."
"Harry!" Pettigrew wheezes, throwing his arms around Harry's knees, "You—thank you—"
"Get off me," Harry spits. "I'm not doing this for you. I'm doing it because I don't reckon my dad would have wanted his best friends to become killers—just for you."
Draco retreated from Harry's head, pointing his wand at the chalkboard to label a new dot "Sparing Pettigrew" before lowering it to his lap. He examined his fingers, ran one hand through his hair, let it fall down his neck, inside his collar to trace the tip of the scar there. Harry watched the path of his hand, apparently enraptured. Draco swallowed.
"That was quite a memory," Draco murmured, clearing his throat. "How do you feel?"
Harry blinked himself out of his daze, and shrugged.
"Any discomfort, with the way I pushed through your memories there?"
Harry thought for a moment, and shook his head, no. Draco sat back, contemplating the memory, twirling another lock of hair through his fingers with his elbow propped on the armrest. Harry watched his hand, again.
"Was that the first time you… you made the choice to spare someone's life, even though they didn't deserve it?" Draco asked.
Harry looked away from Draco's hand, meeting his eyes. He nodded.
"So that must have been the first time you actually felt the power of holding someone's life in your hands," Draco added. "The first time you were somewhat aware of incurring a life debt, and what that might mean…" He trailed off, thinking some more.
"But you didn't do it for him, did you? No, you said you did it so your dad's friends wouldn't become killers—you saved them from damaging their souls. But you didn't have to do it, that's the point there. You'd saved lives before—multiple times, by then—but those times you were only doing what you had to do. This was quite different. This was a much more conscious decision, and I'll bet it had an impact on you later in life, didn't it?" Draco was musing to himself again, but Harry was following along now, and he nodded, grabbing his notebook to write.
He paid that debt, eventually
Draco nodded. "I'm sure he did, what with the way I found him in our cellar, having strangled himself." They both cringed at the memory. Harry shook his head, writing again.
The gift hand turned on him—Voldemort punishing an act of weakness/mercy
Draco nodded again, eyes wide. "Sounds like something Old Voldy would do," he said, surprising himself at the slip of the silly nickname. Harry's lips quirked at it.
"I have a feeling you hated that kind of power, even when you were thirteen," Draco muttered, and Harry frowned, nodding. "Do you understand how unique that is?"
Harry knit his brows in confusion.
"Anyone with even a slight thirst for power would have relished in a moment like that," Draco explained. "Having that kind of—of dominance over someone, influencing life and death, is like a drug, for so many people. They can't get enough. The Death Eaters were especially addicted."
Harry looked at him curiously, and started writing again.
Did you like it?
Draco grimaced. "I thought I would," he said quietly, shuddering, "until I didn't."
Harry's face was full of understanding, and Draco was filled with the usual regret of the cowardly Death Eater he used to be. They simply stared at each other for a moment, digesting the knowledge.
"I'm curious…" Draco hesitated, and Harry looked up at him, a little pleased. Draco reminded himself that Harry wanted him to react, to ask questions—that this was important to maintaining the balance of their Healer-patient relationship.
"Which one of you knocked out Severus?"
Harry huffed, barely smiling, and pointed to himself, abashed. Draco chuckled.
"I reckon he wasn't too pleased about that," he said, and Harry shook his head, his smile growing. Draco felt satisfied he had cheered Harry up enough to go back in.
"Feel ready for one more?" he asked, raising his wand. Harry hesitated, one hand out, and quickly started writing again.
Next bit might look weird. Time turner
Draco rolled his eyes. "Of course," he exclaimed haughtily, the signature sarcasm he usually only displayed around Pansy coming out in full force. "I was just thinking that this year looked a bit too mundane for you, with only the escaped-convict-turned-godfather to keep things interesting. It only makes sense that you'd bring something like that in to spice things up." He couldn't keep the delight and amusement out of his eyes, and it was infecting Harry, whose shoulders were quivering with laughter, shaking his head in what might have been something like fondness at Draco.
"But thank you for the warning, I probably would have gotten very confused. Ready?"
At Harry's nod, Draco fell back in, and found himself exactly where he had left off. "You brought me right back," he noted, awed. "Your control really is quite impressive. You'll be a great Occlumens, one day."
He could feel that Harry was pleased with the praise, which only made Draco want to praise him more. Draco never thought that someone so constantly fawned over by adoring crowds would appreciate praise so much. Maybe Harry could just tell that Draco actually meant it, or that it was for Harry's actual improvement and accomplishments. He put it away in his mind for later, and got to work watching the rest of the memories flash by.
To say it was an odd feeling would be an understatement. He saw everything happen to Harry, first, Sirius offering him a home and family, Remus transforming, Pettigrew escaping, being attacked by dementors by the lake, being saved by a Patronus that Harry was convinced was the work of his own father. There was a very slight glow around that last bit, but Draco thought it might have been from the powerful Patronus in the memory, and decided to wait and see. Then he watched it all happen to Harry again, but differently—he watched Harry make some of it happen, until the silvery glow appeared in full force at the lake the second time, and Draco seized it.
Harry nears the edge of the lake, seeing tiny glimmers of silver at the opposite bank—his own attempts at a Patronus. There is no one around him, except for a very nervous Hermione.
Across the lake, the pathetic glimmers of silver were extinguished. The dementors were swarming. Harry feels excitement and fear shoot through him.
"Come on!" Harry mutters, looking around. "Where are you, Dad? Come on—"
But no one comes. On the opposite bank, a dementor is lowering its hood.
A wild shock of understanding runs through him. He flings himself out from behind a bush and pulls out his wand. "EXPECTO PATRONUM!"
Out of his wand bursts a blinding, dazzling, silver animal, galloping across the lake, scattering hundreds of dementors, radiating light unlike anything Harry had ever seen. Harry is breathless.
The Patronus turns and canters back towards him, across the still surface of the water. Harry can finally make out its shape as it stops in front of him on the bank, bowing its antlered head.
"Prongs," he whispers, reaching out his hand—the creature vanishes.
Draco withdrew, carefully. He made a new dot on the board, and labeled it "Patronus - Prongs". He let down his Occlumency barriers, and felt everything he needed to feel about that moment, while gingerly rubbing the tops of his thighs. He watched Harry closely—his eyes were currently closed, but his face was smooth, even as he gripped the armrests of the chair.
Harry opened his eyes, immediately meeting Draco's gaze, and Draco could now see the traces of sadness on his face—of course, a Patronus is the embodiment of happiness, but his stag apparently represents the parts of him that came from his father, which would conflict with those feelings.
"It was quite something," Draco commented, breaking the silence. "But I've seen that stag charge me down before, as you know. What about that one particularly shaped you?"
Harry twisted his mouth, looking up at the ceiling in thought for a few minutes. Draco retrieved his own notebook and reading glasses and added to his notes, sipping his coffee occasionally.
When Harry turned the notebook around, Draco blinked—he hadn't even noticed Harry writing.
First time I was made aware of my magical power
"Oh," Draco breathed, his eyebrows rising on his forehead. "You didn't know?" Harry shook his head, returning the notebook to his lap.
"So that moment was a catalyst—you knew you could produce a Patronus that powerful, because you'd already seen yourself do it… and you hadn't really needed to use that much magical power, ever before…" Draco furrowed his brows, because it was getting confusing again, but Harry was nodding vigorously, surprised that Draco had apparently understood him, and not called him crazy.
Draco watched him for a bit. "Would you say you're aware of your magical power, now?"
Harry looked a little uncomfortable. He shrugged, gave a half-hearted nod. A conflicting, evasive answer. Draco made a split-second decision.
"Would you like to know about it, now, from a Healer Legilimens' perspective?"
Harry widened his eyes.
"My training has made me extremely sensitive to magical auras," Draco explained. "I can tell you what yours looks and feels like, if you wish."
Harry stared at him for a moment, eyes full of curiosity, and nodded hesitantly. Draco breathed in deep, and concentrated hard on Harry, reaching out gently with his magic, allowing himself to perceive it all. Harry's lips parted as he watched, and Draco wondered if he could feel Draco's magic, too.
"The air around you shimmers, a bit like a heatwave coming off of the earth," Draco began, watching the distortion of the chair around Harry. It was heady, finally letting himself observe and feel this, when he kept this part of his training so carefully locked away. It would be too overwhelming, feeling and seeing the magical cores of everyone he passed. It was overwhelming now, when it was just Harry. He could feel his own lips turning up in a small, satisfied grin.
"It's calmer than I've seen before, gentler. When you're angry or upset, the air feels charged, like it does right before a lightning storm. Like going to touch something metal in a dry winter, knowing the static will zap you." Draco breathed in deeply again, and rolled his head on his neck, letting it wash over him.
"It smells like that, too, like a thunderstorm on summer grass, like ozone in the air, and erm…" he huffed an embarrassed laugh, eyes closed. "Like treacle, if I'm honest—syrupy and sweet. It's warm, and thick, like…" He paused and bit his lip, choosing not to disclose how comforting it could be, how it felt like curling in front of the fire at home after a long day, or putting on his fuzzy green slippers. He moved on, opening his eyes and looking closely at the edges of Harry's body, his hands.
"I can't see it strongly now, but I know from experience your magic looks like gold, red and green light—not like a fire, but the light you see and feel when you finally hold the right wand, you know?" Like coming home, Draco thought again to himself. Harry nodded slowly, and Draco felt a bit drunk. It looked like Harry was hanging on to his every word. "I've seen it in your mind, before. It's… incandescent." Draco paused, eyes roaming Harry's body.
"Magic at rest doesn't usually have a colour visible to the naked eye," he continued. "It manifests physically through will and intention, direction and incantation—for most people. You, obviously, don't always require an incantation—just the intention, and the will to make something happen, like purging a potion out of someone's bloodstream," he added, giving Harry a pointed look. Harry's cheeks were pink.
"But for someone trained to feel it, your magic, even at rest, causes the hair on the back of my neck to stand up. If I couldn't see or hear you, I would still be able to feel you, and I would know it was you, Harry—because I'm familiar with your magic, I've known you for a long time, and because I've never known anyone with as much magical power as you. It's quite intense," Draco commented. "A bit intoxicating, if I don't control my perceptivity—which I do, constantly."
Draco waited a moment more, watching and experiencing Harry's magic swirling around him, relishing in its warmth and energy, before closing it off, allowing his head to clear.
"Does it feel like that, to you?" Draco asked, curious. Harry's face was flaming with a blush, his eyes still wide with surprise, and it was so stupidly endearing that Draco could feel his own cheeks heating, as well. Harry simply coughed gently into his fist, and shook his head.
"Hm," Draco hummed quietly. "Well, now you know," he said matter-of-factly. "Ready for a break?"
Harry nodded quickly—they were both apparently grateful for the distraction.
"Good," Draco said, standing up. "I've got something I think you'll like. Feel up for a fly?"
***
Draco flung open the doors to the shed, breathing in the smell of wood and broom polish. He could hear Harry taking a deep breath of it behind him. It was one of Draco's favourite scents, which is probably why it manifested in his magic. It reminded him of the joy of flying, and filled him with a feeling of potential energy and possibility.
He walked to the shelves next to his broom rack and picked up the small package he'd received the previous day, tossing it to Harry, who caught it with typical Seeker reflexes, looking back up at Draco with a question in his eyes.
"Open it up, I've been waiting on that to come in for a while."
Draco stepped over to the broom rack as Harry opened it, pulling out the brand new Golden Snitch. Draco gave him a wicked smile, holding up his hand with his index finger and thumb an inch apart, and making a quick grabbing motion with the same hand. Harry laughed silently at his teasing, his smile wide and bright.
"As the guest, you get first pick," Draco motioned towards his brooms. Harry took his time deciding, inspecting each one, stroking his fingers against the smooth wood, tracing the ends of the carefully trimmed twigs, before picking up the Nimbus 2001, and looking back at Draco with a mischievous smirk.
"Ah," Draco said, giving a sly smile. "You think you'll be beating me on my own school broom, don't you? We'll see." He picked up his Comet Aurora and led the way out of the shed, mounting the broom swiftly and kicking off into the air, Harry close behind.
"I think we have time for best two out of three, yeah?" Draco yelled, flying in tight circles to warm up his muscles. Harry smiled at him from across the garden, coming out of a Sloth Grip Roll, and released the Snitch.
The wind and sun was invigorating against Draco's face. He felt like a part of the air, swerving and diving and drifting with the currents. It was exhilarating, competing against Harry again, even casually, in the way they both loved best. By the joyful, carefree look on Harry's face, and the way he kept careful watch on Draco in the air, eyes alight with competition, he was feeling the same, and Draco didn't want it to end. He wanted to stay up there, where he and Harry were friends who loved flying together, but eventually Harry caught the Snitch for the second time, effectively winning and ending their little contest, and they made their way to the ground.
Draco wasn't too ashamed to admit he was pouting a little. He'd always been a sore loser. But as they walked back into the house, Harry bumped his shoulder with his, in a friendly, almost affectionate gesture only Pansy had ever done with him, and Draco chuckled softly at him, all of his moping forgotten.
Timsy served them falafel for lunch—he was a fan of it, lately, even though Draco didn't see the appeal of the handfuls of little sprouts Timsy stuffed in the pitas. Harry ate the whole thing.
"I'm sorry to break this to you Harry, but you're wrong," Draco argued on their way back to the study. "Backstreet Boys was and remains inferior to N*SYNC, no matter how many more albums they made. I've tried telling Pansy, as well, but N*SYNC did what the Backstreet Boys wouldn't and got out while the going was good, plus, they gave us Justin Timberlake, there's honestly nothing more to be said, and we don't have time for you to write out all your arguments in your chicken scratch."
Harry was laughing at him as they plopped down in their chairs, shaking his head at Draco's false arrogance. He had spotted the No Strings Attached album on top of the record player as they passed by the sitting room after lunch, and had given Draco a perplexed look, shaking his head in clear disapproval. Draco had picked up on the age old muggle-boy-band debate with great enthusiasm—it was one of his favourite things to argue about with Pansy, when they felt like being extra dramatic.
Draco summoned two glasses from the sideboard against the wall and poured himself water from his wand. Harry picked up his glass and held it out to him, biting his lip.
"You might want to do it from your own wand," Draco pointed out. "Mine's been adding a touch of lemon juice for years, I can't get it to stop." Harry only shook his head and pushed his glass closer to Draco.
"Oh, you like the lemon?" Draco asked, filling Harry's glass as he nodded with a small smile. "Well, good to know. Let's get into some more breathwork, and then resume our efforts."
Harry closed his eyes in satisfaction as he sipped his lemon water. It was such a simple thing—Draco had modified his aguamenti years ago, because he preferred it with lemon, and he didn't really use the charm for anything else, since Timsy took care of the plants. But it seemed like a luxury to Harry, a treat. Draco wondered what other kinds of luxuries Harry enjoyed, if any.
Draco put his hands on his knees, focusing on his breathing, on slowing his thoughts, on building up his Occlumency walls.
"Right," Draco declared. "Ready for fourth year?" He raised his wand.
Harry nodded, sitting forward in his chair. Draco wanted to look away from his eyes, sitting this close, but couldn't, considering the eye contact was necessary for the work. Harry made him feel like he could do it wandlessly, if he wanted, with those bright green eyes piercing him so intently—all Draco would have to do is tip forward, just a little, and fall. "Legilimens."
Harry took him back to the summer before fourth year himself, and they made no detours along the way.
"Well done, Harry," Draco said, enjoying that pleased feeling coming from Harry again. "You're getting better at this."
Draco skimmed past the memories, knowing himself what happens this year, but seeing it fresh through Harry's fourteen-year-old eyes.
"You better get your bushy brown head out of here, Granger," Draco says. "Unless you want to be next." Harry can see the fire of the burning tents, hear the jeers of the Death Eaters.
"That's the Dark Mark, Harry," Hermione whispers. "His mark." An unconscious house elf lays on the ground, holding Harry's wand in her tiny hand.
The Goblet of Fire spits out another piece of paper. "Harry Potter," Dumbledore reads aloud. The Great Hall is completely silent. Ron is glaring at him, with the rest of the students.
Draco kept moving, onward through the year, past memories of the students glaring at him, wearing Draco's "Potter Stinks" badges, past an adrenaline filled memory with a massive, angry dragon following him on a broom that made Draco shake, past an uncomfortable Yule Ball watching Cho and Cedric and even Draco dancing with Pansy, until he saw that iridescent glow coming up, and latched on to it.
"Potter!" Cedric Diggory is jogging up to him. Harry feels an uncomfortable nervousness in his gut, it makes him feel resentful. Cho Chang watches from across the corridor.
"I wanted to thank you," Cedric says quietly, "for that tip about the dragons."
"Don't mention it," Harry says gruffly. His voice breaks. He feels small. "You'd have done the same."
"Exactly," Cedric says, looking at him intently. "Have you figured out your egg yet?"
Harry glares up at him, adjusts the strap of his satchel. "I'm getting there."
Cedric darts his eyes around, but the hallway is empty except for them, and Cho several feet away, out of hearing range. Cedric leans in closer to Harry, and Harry's heart speeds up, and he has no idea why.
"You know the prefect's bathroom on the fifth floor?" Cedric mumbles, still looking at him intently, and Harry can't look away. He manages a nod. "It's not a bad place for a bath," Cedric continues.
Harry swallows, Cedric leans even closer, and Harry can feel the heat off of his body. Harry's breathing is shallow, and he is so confused.
"Password is 'pine fresh'," he murmurs in Harry's ear, and Harry feels a swooping sensation in his stomach. His cheeks are on fire, and he is so, so confused.
Cedric pulls back, starts walking backwards towards Cho. "Just take your egg and… mull things over in the hot water," he says vaguely. He winks before he turns and walks away, and Harry is confused and aroused and bitter and excited all at once.
Draco withdrew, pointed his wand at the board, and labeled the next dot "Diggory's Help". He looked back to Harry, and his lips started twitching at the fiery blush on Harry's cheeks. Harry's eyes were wide, surprised and embarrassed. Draco couldn't hold back his amusement, now that his Occlumency walls were down.
"Oh Merlin, Harry," he mutters, trying to hold back an exhilarated giggle. "Join the club. Cedric Diggory was responsible for the queer awakening of so many unsuspecting young men, myself included," he chuckled. Draco was vibrating a bit from the nervous feelings of all of those memories. "Sweet Circe, that was fun."
Harry was shaking his head in that odd, almost-fond way of his, and his smile was growing. He scoffed and rolled his eyes, but the smile remained, as did the colour on his cheeks.
"Now, how did that particular scene shape you, other than stirring up desires heretofore undiscovered?" Draco pressed his lips together, but couldn't hold back his giddy laughter. His own cheeks felt hot—he'd had the same thoughts, seeing Cedric Diggory sweaty and covered in dirt and blood after battling a dragon—confused and bitter and aroused and excited, all at once. It was a classic.
Harry shook his head again, that incredible smile stuck on his face, and grabbed his notebook to write.
Learned difference between competitor and enemy
"Hmm," Draco hummed. "You were surprised that he helped you?" Harry nodded.
"I suppose if you're used to fighting for your life all the time, it must have been difficult to think of the Tournament as just a game." Draco commented, grabbing his own notebook and reading glasses, making his notes.
Harry closed his eyes, nodding again, and Draco remembered Harry staying in the Black Lake for way too long, the way Draco's hands had shaken and his heart had sped up with fear, until Harry's head popped out of the water with not one, but two other people. He'd probably thought Fleur's little sister would have died if he didn't, and risked his neck to save her, as he was wont to do. Draco couldn't blame him—he'd kind of been trained that way, hadn't he, the way he was forced to save the school all the bloody time, with the adults otherwise occupied. It was just how Harry was, how he'd always been, because he had to be.
"Well, that made me a bit giddy, so let's do some more breathing to calm our heart rates, and try for another one," Draco suggested, and Harry nodded once, smirking.
When they both felt calmer, Draco raised his wand. "Ready?"
Harry started to nod, but stopped himself, as if he had just remembered something. The colour drained from his face. He grabbed his notebook, writing again.
Next one will not be fun
"Mm," Draco grunted, remembering. "No, I don't suppose it will be. But we'll be alright. We're safe, here."
Harry looked at him intently again, searching his face for something, lips pressed tightly together. He let out a huff of breath, and nodded. Draco raised his wand and cast.
Cedric was walking away, right where they'd left off. Draco pushed through the memories quickly—he had a feeling, just as Harry did, he knew where the next breadcrumb would be, and it would not be pleasant.
Past fighting Grindylows in the lake, past letters from Sirius, through a maze and a gut feeling of wrongness until the glow appeared, covering another hefty chunk of memories, similar to the breadcrumb of Harry's eleventh birthday—but these looked dark, painful. Draco took a deep breath, and seized them with his magic.
"Kill the spare," a voice rasps from a bundle of cloth in Pettigrew's arms. A flash of green light, and Cedric Diggory falls.
…
Pettigrew cuts Harry's arm, deposits the blood in the cauldron. "The Dark Lord will rise again," he pants. Light bursts from the heavy cauldron, Harry's scar burns like never before. He is trapped, tied to a gravestone. A massive snake circles the ground at his feet.
…
Lucius grovels at Voldemort's feet. "My Lord, if there had been any sign, or whisper of your whereabouts…"
"There were signs, and more than whispers," Voldemort snarls.
…
"Oh, Harry! I'd forgotten you were here," Voldemort says coldly. The Death Eaters laugh. Lucius smiles cruelly.
…
"I'm going to kill you, Harry Potter, but properly. First, we will duel. You were taught how to duel, yes?" Voldemort's voice is gleeful and cruel. "We begin with a bow. Come on, now, Dumbledore wouldn't want you to forget your manners. I said, bow. Imperio."
Harry feels such sweet emptiness in his mind, but knows it is wrong. He strains, but shoves it away.
"Impressive, I'll admit, but I suppose we can skip the niceties. Crucio."
A Cruciatus rips through Harry. Lucius laughs and jeers from the side with the other Death Eaters, as Harry screams in agony. The pain is unbearable. When it finally ends, Harry gets to his feet and points his wand again, muscles shaking. He tries a disarming charm, Voldemort bats it away like an insect. Voldemort toys with him, throwing curses at him that Harry physically dodges, unable to fight back. Harry ducks behind a gravestone.
"Come out, Harry," Voldemort jeers, to the delight of the Death Eaters. "Face your death like your father did. Lord Voldemort can be merciful—your death will be quick."
Harry believes he is going to die, but he won't do it cowering behind a gravestone on his knees. He stands, wand at the ready, and walks out to face his foe. His hand shakes as he aims his wand.
"Avada Kedavra!"
"Expelliarmus!"
Jets of red and green light shoot from the wands, colliding in the middle in a burst of gold light. Power courses through Harry as light explodes from the collision of spells, encasing the pair of them in a golden dome, filled with eerie music. Harry pushes his spell harder, forcing the light back into Voldemort's wand.
Echoes of sounds and translucent figures start emerging from the tip of Voldemort's wand, surrounding them: an old man, a woman, Cedric, and Harry finally sees the figures of his parents. They stand next to him as he strains against the powerful magic, and he drinks in their faces. "Don't let go, Harry," his mother encourages. "We can hold them for a moment, but only a moment—you have to get back to the portkey, understand?" his father urges. "Take my body back, Harry," Cedric's figure says.
Harry releases the spell, the figures swarm Voldemort, the golden web disappears, and he runs like he's never run in his life, dodging stunners from Death Eaters around gravestones. He dives onto Cedric's body, summons the Triwizard Cup, and is jerked away from the graveyard in a swirl of colour and darkness, Voldemort's screams of fury fading. He lands in front of the maze, the crowd cheers, and Harry cries hysterically into Cedric's cold chest.
Draco gasped and withdrew, feeling something warm in his left hand. When he exited Harry's head, he saw that he had unwittingly reached out towards Harry, and Harry had taken his hand, gripping it tightly. His Occlumency barriers, already halfway down under the onslaught of reaction, fell completely, and his vision blurred. His throat burned. He set his wand down and took his glasses off his face, still holding tightly to Harry's hand, but it wasn't the glasses blurring his vision, he realized—it was tears, shit.
He quickly let go of Harry's hand, and realized he was shaking. He was not fully aware of himself, and knew he needed to be. He rubbed his thighs, scrubbed his hands through his hair, a tear fell down his cheek, he wiped it away in annoyance, stuck his finger inside his collar, traced the scar, another tear fell. He clicked his tongue in irritation at himself, wiping it again.
Draco had been waiting in the crowd, that night, complaining to Pansy and Greg about how long Diggory and Potter were taking in the stupid maze. Meanwhile, Harry had been dueling the Dark Lord, while Draco's father watched—Harry was so unbelievably young, and he'd been fighting for his life, no one left to save but himself, fuck.
And then Harry had returned, and Draco had watched with fear and shock and that sudden squeezing sensation in his chest as Harry cried openly, refusing to release Cedric's body.
His right hand fell on his left forearm and felt the Dark Mark on his skin, his sleeves still rolled up from earlier. His hand recoiled from it in disgust. Finally, he looked up at Harry.
Harry's eyes were wide, red and shiny, watching Draco anxiously. He probably hadn't wanted Draco to see that at all, but he had to. Harry's hands were shaking in his lap, clenching and unclenching his fists, and the muscles in his shoulders were tense and bunched under his t-shirt. Draco instinctively started to reach out to him again—he inhaled sharply as he noticed it happening, and pulled his hands back to his own lap.
Harry was obviously a man, now, as Draco could tell from the shadow of stubble on his jaw and the size and roughness of his hands, but in this moment, Draco could see the boy he was, too—the scrawny fourteen-year-old with a voice that broke from puberty, the tiny eleven-year-old on a broom with mischief in his eyes, the sixteen-year-old with a grave face and a watchful gaze. He felt he was being bombarded with every Harry he had ever known, all combining into this one astonishing man, and he let himself revel in the miracle that was Harry Potter, just for a moment, as they watched each other with careful eyes from the too-close distance between the wingback chairs.
When Draco finally came down from the adrenaline rush, his breathing smooth and even, he raised his wand and pointed it at the chalkboard, labeling a new dot "Voldemort's Return". He took another deep breath and looked back at Harry, who was still watching him cautiously, as if Draco might spook at any moment.
"Are you alright?" Draco asked. Harry took a deep, stabilizing breath and clasped his hands together in his lap to keep them from shaking, but he nodded all the same. Draco quietly called Timsy for hot chocolate, which he brought with his typical unnatural speed. Harry took his mug gratefully, closing his eyes and sipping it carefully. Draco simply watched him, deep in thought, cradling his own mug in his hands.
"Your wands," Draco mused. "Cores of phoenix feather. Did the feathers come from the same bird?" Harry nodded, opening his notebook on his lap with one hand, writing one word.
Fawkes
"Priori Incantatem… I'd heard of the phenomenon, but I never…" Draco took a deep breath, and sipped more of his hot chocolate, letting the warmth fill him. He felt like he couldn't finish a thought before his mind raced to the next.
"You were maneuvered into that graveyard," Draco commented. "He needed your blood…"
Harry pursed his lips, nodding again, absently rubbing a thin, long scar on his right forearm. The room was quiet for a while, as they sipped their hot chocolates and processed their thoughts.
"You amaze me, you know," Draco finally spoke, barely above a whisper, because it would feel wrong if Harry left today without knowing this. "Do you have any idea how incredible you are?"
Harry stared back at him for a moment, gripping his mug tightly, before looking away, lifting his shoulders in a tiny shrug.
"I know, you only did what you had to do. I doubt you enjoy being praised for doing what was necessary, or for surviving. But Harry, it is a bloody miracle that you are alive today—and I'm so glad you are, even if it was all out of sheer dumb luck and Gryffindor stubbornness. And the fact that you are here, and that you still feel joy and love so freely, and that you're still always trying to do the right thing, after everything—the fact that you're here with me now, placing your trust in me, after everything my father and I have put you through…"
Draco trailed off, making a vague gesture with his hand. He took a deep, shaky breath and shook his head slowly in disbelief. "That, you did yourself, all on your own. You're a bloody marvel, Harry."
Harry's cheeks were pink again, a faint rosy tint on his copper skin. His bright eyes darted down to his hot chocolate, where his fingers were fidgeting against the mug, feeling it's smooth edges. If Draco hadn't been watching him so closely, he would have missed the corner of his lip lifting up, just a little, in the ghost of a smile. Draco's shoulders finally relaxed, and he decided to offer Harry something of himself, to balance the scales a bit.
"Would you like a bit of a break, from being in your own head?" Draco asked. Harry furrowed his brows in confusion, tilting his head to the side.
"You'll have to meditate and return to yourself before you leave, of course, but you endured a lot, today, in your own mind. If you want a holiday from it, you're welcome to mine, for a bit."
Harry's eyebrows shot up behind his fringe, his jaw dropping in shock.
"I'm an accomplished Occlumens, Harry—you'll only see what I want you to see. I have some places I think you'd enjoy, if you want a—a recess," Draco offered. "You don't have to perform the spell, either, all it'll take is a nonverbal shield charm, which I know you can do," he smirked. "Up to you."
Harry stared at him in disbelief for a while, and Draco was beginning to think he might turn down the offer, after all, regardless of his curiosity. But Harry finally shut his mouth, set down his hot chocolate, and pulled his wand out of his pocket. His face was both eager and shy, as if he wasn't really sure if Draco was serious, but hoped he was.
Draco smiled encouragingly and took a deep breath, building his defenses and selecting a couple of memories. He raised his wand. "I'll cast and hold the Legilimency, while you just relax and keep up the shield charm, yeah? It doesn't have to be very strong." Harry nodded, and raised his wand. "Three, two, one, legilimens."
Harry flicked his wand automatically, holding his eye contact, and tumbled clumsily into Draco's head.
The first thing they saw was an empty room, with stone floors and walls and two large, heavy wooden doors.
"This is Occlumency at work," Draco said, luxuriating in the smell of treacle and summer rain in his head. "I'm going to open the door on the right, which is where I want us to go."
Draco opened the door, and remembered—
A field full of lavender, the warmth of the sun on his skin.
He could feel Harry's curious presence, watching. "Welcome to Provence, France," he said quietly.
A twenty-year-old Draco is walking through the vast lavender fields alone, surrounded by their heavy, floral scent. His hair is longer than ever, it's tied messily in a bun on the back of his head. He is dressed casually, in a thin, blue jumper with the sleeves rolled up. He ambles lazily along the rows of flowers that seem to stretch on for miles. He can't keep the silly grin off of his face.
"I studied here for about six months, one of my first apprenticeships, under a renowned Healer who would only let me call him 'Croque Monsieur'—which is basically the name of a cheese toasty," Draco explained, pleased with the burst of curiosity and amusement he could feel from Harry's presence. "He was an odd fellow, but quite inspiring."
A cool breeze lifts the flyaway strands of hair from his face. He reaches his hand into his trouser pocket, and fiddles with the worn, folded parchment inside. The early-evening sun shines warm on the side of his face, and his smile widens.
"I have a letter in my pocket, that I've kept in there all day—it's from Pansy, informing me of the child she's expecting, how happy she is about it, the names she's picked out, and the godfather she's chosen: me." Draco could feel Harry feeling his own happiness—it was odd, but enjoyable. Draco gently moved them to the next memory, which was significantly noisier than the first.
Twenty-one-year-old Draco meanders through the stalls of a busy bazaar. It's more crowded than he'd ever seen in Diagon Alley, but no one is looking at him in anger or disgust. No one knows him, here, and it feels wonderful. Someone is busking nearby—Draco enjoys the music.
His hair is shorn shorter, a bit longer on the top of his head. The sun beats down on him, through his thin black t-shirt, which is getting too tight on him—he's finally building up the mass he lost in the War, and he feels healthy. Everywhere he looks, the stalls are sparking and whirring and glowing with magical wares. He breathes in the smell of fragrant spiced meats and the city. Above him, a wizard shoots by on a beautiful broom at an incredible speed, and lands somewhere farther ahead along the wide alley.
"This is Istanbul, Turkey," Draco notes, feeling Harry's awe all around him, "on the Wizarding side of the Grand Bazaar. I apprenticed here for a few months, under Healer Ekrem. I learned from all of my mentors, but Ekrem is the one who made me practice vulnerability, and explained the necessity of a balance between the patient and Healer Legilimens. I worked the hardest, under him, but spent a lot of time here, wandering the Bazaar—it always felt amazing, to be among a crowd where no one knew my name."
Draco continues through the Bazaar, aimlessly winding his way through the crowd, until he reaches the point where the flying wizard had landed. It's a large, ornate stall selling racing brooms. Draco's eyes land on the Göktaşı, and he knows he must have it—he has no broom, here, and he misses flying. He bargains with the merchant in Turkish until they settle on a price, and Draco pulls a pouch out of the pocket of his shorts and pays for it. He walks out of the stall with the Göktaşı, excitement running through his veins.
"It's an excellent broom, perfect for covering long distances at high speeds. Its maneuverability suffers for it, though," Draco commented, moving them on to the next memory.
Twenty-two-year-old Draco stands in the small garden of the Wizarding house he's rooming in,Göktaşı in hand. He hasn't bothered to put shoes on—he'll be in the air, after all. He casts a disillusionment charm, swings his leg over the handle, and kicks off into the dark night sky. Joy swoops through him—it's been too long since he last flew.
Smiling widely, he steers the broom toward the sea, and accelerates. The wind is whipping his shirt around his torso, his hair around his face.
"Italy," Draco smiled. "A small fishing village on The Amalfi Coast. My apprenticeship here was short, but I loved the sea."
By the time he reaches the shoreline, Draco is hurtling through the air at top speed. He shoots out over the sea, steering the broom in a wide turn to follow the sheer, rocky cliffs of the coastline. He hears only the sound of the waves on the rocks below, and the wind rushing past his ears. He smells the salt of the sea and faint hints of lemon from the groves nearby. His eyes are watering from the speed, but Draco doesn't care. He feels wild and free, flying barefoot in the air, with the night sky stretched wide above him, the clear, salty waves of the Tyrrhenian Sea below.
Draco continued the reverie for a few moments more, before ending his spell, gently pushing Harry out of his head with Occlumency. Harry's smile was small, but it reached his eyes, and Draco knew he could feel Draco's emotions in those memories. Harry lowered his wand, watching Draco's face, and mouthed thank you.
"You're welcome," Draco grinned, and sighed. "Ready to finish up for today? I always prefer to end on a good note."
He watched Harry meditate, touching some of his scars and his hair. Draco replaced his reading glasses on his face, and tried to add to his notes, but was distracted by Harry's gentle movements, the sound of his even breathing, the rasp of his large palm moving over the stubble on his face. Draco absently rubbed his hand over his chest, feeling the thin, raised scars under the fabric, notes forgotten.
He walked Harry to the door, continuing their one-sided argument over boy bands. Harry wandlessly summoned the leather jacket from the hook on the wall, and shrugged it on, stuffing his hands in his pockets. Harry's face lit up with surprise, and his cheeks pinked again as he pulled out a small, plastic, rectangular object from his pocket, gently shook it in the air in front of his face—almost forgot about this, Draco read from his expression—and handed it to Draco.
"What's this, then?" Draco asked, amused. He took the object from Harry's hand, and read Harry's handwriting on a piece of paper inside the plastic:
For continuing your muggle music education
On the back, Draco found a list of songs with different artists he hadn't heard of. He grinned widely, his face brightening with excitement as he looked back at Harry, who seemed pleased and abashed.
"Excellent," Draco declared, still grinning. "Thank you, Harry. I will figure out what on earth this object is and how to hear music from it, mark my words."
Harry rolled his eyes, huffed a silent laugh, and left.