Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Draco dreams.

He wasn't used to dreaming. Well, not nice things at least. When the bad memories managed to break through the potion's protection against dreaming, Draco often found himself standing in the dark. In the void, rather. He couldn't walk, or move, or even speak, as the nightmare began to replay. Usually his mother was a few steps away from him, and there were a lot of hands touching her, ripping her clothes to shreds while her lifeless eyes stared at Draco. And Draco was reaching for her, trying to scream, for some noise to come out of his throat; he was trying to get to her to get out of there... but he was never able to. Never. And the nightmare always ended the same:

His mother shattered in front of him.

Sometimes, the one who used to be in the centre was Eric. Others, his father; or Pansy; or Theo. Each nightmare was just as suffocating, just as terrible. Though no more than he had when Draco himself was the one standing before them, wand to his temple and a sibilant voice next to his ear ordering him to kill them.

Draco always ended up doing it.

But in that instant— In that instant Draco dreams. Not with darkness, or hands, or blood. Draco dreams of a man who is lying on the sand, his face facing the sun and his hands behind his head. Draco tries to look at him, but as much as his eyes are fixed on him, he couldn't make out who it was, or really see his features. Far away, the sound of the waves crashing against the rocks and the shore, and a few seagulls passed from one side to the other.

“You like the sea?” the man asked without opening his eyes. Draco only knew that he couldn't stop looking at it.

“I never spent much time on any coast, my parents didn't like it. They didn't like the sun very much,” he found herself replying without much thought, as if he knew him. “I could not tell you.”

The stranger turned, and perhaps it was a nightmare after all, because as much as Draco wanted to focus, outline his features and recognize him, he couldn't.

"Maybe we should stay and live here. Forever,” the man replied. “We will buy a house near the beach and see the sea every day. Then you could find out if you like it.”

For some reason, Draco could feel his feet getting wet, as if the water had reached them. Or maybe the sand was wet. The setting had quite caught his attention, and even his stomach fluttered with happiness at the thought.

“Yeah?” Draco asked back. “And I guess our house would be a mess. That we would fight because you would never clean anything.”

“Of course. And it would probably drive you crazy if I walked into the room with my shoes on.”

"Oh by Merlin, I would kill you."

A laugh. Draco wanted to bottle that laugh and drink it like Firewhiskey on his worst days.

Even if it was a dream.

"I would teach you how to use the TV," the man continued after calming down. “And to drive.”

"You'd end up stress-killing me, I'm sure of that."

"Maybe, but we'd be happy."

“Why?”

“Because we would be together.

The stranger gave him the brightest smile Draco had ever received, and for some reason, that alone was enough for him to believe him. To believe that the mere presence of him could make him happy. Certainly the sea and having it close were making him happy. Even when he didn't know who he was.

"But what about your dreams?" Draco asked after a few minutes of silence, doing nothing but looking at each other. The words were out of his mouth before he could register them.

“What Dreams?”

"You know, your dreams," Draco replied, as if he knew what he was talking about. “How are you going to fulfil them if you stay here for the rest of eternity?”

The man seemed to think, and Draco hadn't felt this complete in a long time. It made his fingers tingle, made him want to get closer even though he was a complete stranger— That man was a complete stranger .

"I don't think I have dreams, if I'm honest…”

“That sounds depressing.”

“Yeah? What are your dreams then?”

“You.”

It was out of his mouth before he could stop it, just like most of the things he was saying, but it was worth it, because the stranger smiled again. Something about his smile was painfully familiar.

"And what am I?"

That was when the dream stopped being pretty.

Draco frowned, once again going over every line of his face so he could answer him, but everything was blurring, and for some reason the longer he looked, the less he was able to make out his features. Straight nose. Red lips. dark hair Clear and intense eyes. It wasn't a soft look, Draco knew that. It was a look with which he went to war.

The man's question had come out playfully, but as Draco opened and closed his mouth, desperately trying to make him out, to see something familiar enough… the expression of confidence was fading from the other's face, replaced by a desolate one. Draco hated it.

"You don't remember me," he said flatly.

It was not a question.

Draco reached for him, however, the man backed away as if he wanted to hit him. He felt his throat tight as he couldn't answer his doubts.

Who was he?

Why did he know him?

Why was he with him?

“I want to remember you. I want to remember you,” Draco said over and over. His voice was just a choked sound. “I do not want to forget you.”

The stranger let out a bitter laugh as he got up and left him there. Draco wanted to go to him, wanted to cross space. He wanted to hold him in his arms…but he was unable to move.

"That's what you always say."

And the man began to walk away.

Draco couldn't do anything lying on the sand watching the man walk away from him eagerly, as if running from a disaster. Draco was just a bystander, he had been his whole life. He wanted to do something, wanted to run after him and promise that now he would not forget, that now he would remember, but it would be a complete lie. Draco was never able to act when horrible things were happening around him. He was just watching, just like right now.

Don't leave me, he wanted to yell at him like a vile and pathetic being.

You said you'd be here.

That you would always be here.

And,

My life is yours.

Draco didn't think about that dream or that man once he woke up.

Malfoy Manor after the Dark Lord's arrival strangely didn't look that different from how Draco thought it would. When he was sixteen and the Lord lived there, his home had gone from being a box of happy memories, to being transformed into a cradle of horror. In that instant, when Death Eaters came in and out of the halls, when Draco saw heads roll and they laughed, he didn't feel…unfamiliar.

The usual, he supposed.

He was used to it.

The mansion was overflowing with prisoners, mostly peasants seen in suspicious activities. Honestly, it seemed almost unbelievable to him that there were still people to hunt down and imprison. Draco was in charge of extracting information from them as he could, and then, if they were too badly injured, he would send for Greyback or Maia to dispose of their bodies as they liked. His attitude towards torture and pain was what was expected of him, and even lately, he had received almost no punishment for his conduct. Sometimes Draco didn't even go to battles, and as April faded all he had to worry about was doing his job.

Capture.

Extract information from rebellions.

Suppress.

Capture. Extract information. Suppress. Capture. Extract information. Suppress.

It was what he did every day, rinse and repeat. Draco hardly counted it as an activity, but rather as part of his life. It was almost a routine, where he was nothing more than the weapon serving the Lord.

Capture. Extract information. Repress.

On an ordinary Thursday, a small change occurred in that routine. Spring was making its appearances and the light was softly touching the blood-drenched walls. Draco had been examining the mansion when he heard them.

They were voices coming from a room a few steps away from him.

“...Yes, my Lord.”

He had pressed himself against the wall to hear clearly. Draco wrinkled his nose as soon as he recognised the voice: Rodolphus. He wasn't going to lie, it pleased him to hear him so shy, almost submissive. It was better than the arrogance he always professed. It pleased Draco to know that he could sound that weak.

“You'll come with me," the other voice said then, and Draco felt frozen in place. He didn't know why he hadn't guessed that the person Rodolphus was talking to was the Dark Lord. “If this has anything to do with Harry Potter, it's the best place to look.”

“Are you sure, my Lord?”

“Do you think I'm wrong?”

From outside the room, Draco could feel the tension of the conversation. It was usual for it to be that way, Draco couldn't remember the Lord ever talking to anyone as an equal. After a few seconds—in which he assumed he was making Rodolphus nervous—, the Lord spoke again.

"I have reason to believe that Potter Manor must hold the key. It's one of the oldest houses, and they were associated with the Blacks at some point,” he said. Draco, from outside, drew his eyebrows together. Potter Manor? “Is that enough for you to trust my judgment and obey orders, Rodolphus?”

“Of course, my Lord.”

“Good.”

Draco backed out of there before they could find him. It was almost a miracle that he had heard that conversation in the first place.

He didn't know what to do with that information, or if there was anything he could do, really. Was it really his problem? What the hell did the Blacks and Potters have to do with each other? What could they be talking about? Draco felt that it was something big, that something big was coming, he could feel it behind his palate and under his eyes. He just knew.

But before his curiosity got the better of him, and he went to investigate, Draco stopped in his tracks and shut down all those thoughts.

He was not a man, but a soldier. A Death Eater. He was nothing more than a weapon.

That mantra was repeated for days, over and over again, every time the questions surfaced. Draco shut out the thoughts of it.

Until a week later, the uncertainty surfaced again.

Draco had just washed his face after removing the teeth of a woman who refused to speak, when one of the elves Apparated to his side, frightened and crumpling his robes.

"The Dark Lord is looking for Master Malfoy," it said without meeting his eyes. “He says that he is being in the office of Master Malfoy’s father.”

For a moment, Draco thought the Lord knew he had overheard the conversation in the hall, but he dismissed it immediately. If that was the case, he would have ushered him into the room upon noticing and humiliated him in front of Rodolphus... he wouldn't ask for a separate date.

Draco found his father's office and entered it after knocking. He kept his eyes on the floor, feeling a flash of discomfort, a feeling that this was  wrong , that it was wrong because this place belonged to his family, not to the Dark Lord; though he pushed the thought away as it barely crossed his mind. His parents were dead, and everything that was his was the Lord's as well.

The Dark Lord's black magic spread across the floor and reached the edge of his shoes, making the room icy. Draco closed the door keeping a cool expression, and landed in front of the desk. The Lord was standing behind.

"Sit down, Ashtaroth.”

Draco obeyed, opening the chair and plunging into it with more force than he intended. The training of a lifetime required him to sit up straight, with his shoulders squared and one leg on his thigh. He made an effort not to look ahead.

"You have held your duty worthily," the Lord spoke again. His voice was low and horrible, like hearing claws on a blackboard. It gave him chills. “You have helped, you have served, you have done what is expected of you, even when you have been wrong.” McGonagall's face came to his head. The scars on his torso burned. “That's why I think I can trust you.”

“It is an honour, my Lord.”

When Draco finished that sentence, a minute of silence followed them. Thoughtful. The Dark Lord made that gesture with his hand that Draco saw out of the corner of his eye, and Draco knew that he was allowed to look at him, that the Lord asked him to.

So he did.

He was met with completely red eyes. No eyelids. Empty and dangerous eyes. Draco had to grit his teeth, before the Dark Lord smiled and showed him the row of rotting fangs in his mouth.

And then, he got into his mind.

It was as if a blade wanted to navigate through his memories, but it left him, lowering his Occlumency walls. Draco had no idea what his head looked like, but he could feel him opening and closing doors, just like you could feel a parasite swimming in your blood. The Lord touched, made and unmade, searching for something... or so it seemed, but after reviewing the memories of the last few months, he withdrew, but not before letting a wave of pain spread through his brain.

There was nothing there that could help him.

"Very well…" he said, taking a step back.

Draco forced himself not to look away, even though he wanted to, even though his head ached and throbbed and his breath came in gasps. He clenched his hands on top of his pants and waited. The Lord studied him back, still thoughtful. Draco didn't know what he wanted from him and it terrified him.

"How do you think we can win the war, Astaroth?" he finished asking him with that chilling voice.

Draco swallowed, counting from one to ten in his head, front to back and back to front. What was he supposed to reply to that?

When had the opinions of his followers truly mattered to the Dark Lord?

“I think that one way or another, we've already won the war.” He decided to go for the safest option: praise his government. The Rebels and traitors are not enough to defeat us.

The Lord smiled again, and although Draco didn't look away, he did feel like throwing up.

"As much as I appreciate your optimism, Malfoy, I think you're smart enough to know that wars aren't won on the battlefield alone." The Dark Lord didn't move, but his magic did, touching Draco's ankles and running up his leg. “So my question is, how do you think we're going to win the war, thinking like a Slytherin, and not like a Gryffindor?”

The word Gryffindor sounded like an insult from his mouth, something dirty.

Draco forced himself to take a deep breath and think. How could they win that war off the battlefield, by overthrowing the traitors and influences the Order might have on their world? They were already doing that. Was there something the Order had, or wanted, that the Death Eaters could get first?

What thing ?

"No? Don't you know?" the Dark Lord asked at his silence. “Let me help you.”

There was something in the Lord's calm tone that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Draco had always preferred to hear him scream. Anything was better than that calm aura that got under your teeth and made your skin itch.

As if he knew all your intentions.

The magic continued to rise, surrounding Draco's neck and settling on his head. He could feel it. He could see it.

“With hope," he finished.

Draco swallowed, not daring to take his eyes off the tall figure of the Dark Lord. Some might say he was losing the war after losing Azkaban or the Ministry, but Draco doubted anyone who had ever stood before him would believe it. There was something in his posture... that gave away that the Lord thought victory had never escaped his grasp.

“Deceive them, make them believe things they are not, make them believe they have a choice. Wars are won by hope," the Lord continued. Magic began to wrap itself around his stomach. “I thought you would understand that better than anyone.”

Draco forced himself to concentrate on what he was saying. He hated feeling like this: weak. Exposed.

It wasn't a feeling he was used to.

“We will win with the hope that weak men have of seeing things where there are none," Draco finished, congratulating himself that the sentence didn't come out as a question.

“Exactly.”

He still felt he wasn't saying the right thing, but he didn't show it, just sat there with a distant, calculating expression. The number of times he'd repeated to himself over the years that nothing mattered and not to let anything show that people weren't supposed to see helped him stay neutral. He saw something horrible, and Draco just didn't care, what was the point of trying to stop a Muggle-born from being hung in the doorway of his house, what was the point of stopping Greyback from devouring his victims in the living room that used to be his mother's safe place? He wasn't going to stop them. They would end up doing it anyway, except Draco would end up the same way as the victims. Dead and used.

Nothing mattered.

"I'll be gone for a few days," the Dark Lord said. That caught his attention. Was the Lord leaving? Just then? “Or maybe a few weeks, I'm not sure. I will not wait for you to call me unless it is extremely necessary, or you will all pay. Everyone will take care of the tasks entrusted to them, and no one will take a single step out of line, do you understand?”

“Yes my lord.”

"You'll take care of that."

“Yes my lord.”

“Good.”

The Dark Lord began to walk around him, his magic moving with him. Draco stared straight ahead, connecting all the bits of information he had. The talk with Rodolphus, that conversation, the investigation...

He could think of only one place the Lord would want to explore.

He would go to Potter Manor.

"You know…" Draco forced himself to focus on the Lord's voice coming from his side, "when I saw you taking the Mark, at sixteen, I always knew you would be great. Others have wanted to serve me, others have been desirous of power at your age. immature. But you... there was determination in your eyes. There was a courage that the rest lacked.”

Draco was transported back to that time, at sixteen. He had willingly given up his arm, while Narcissa was crying in a corner of the room after asking him not to. Draco was surrounded by different Death Eaters, most of them killed during the Battle, and he had thought with pride whether they wanted to or not, now he was one of them. That the Lord trusted him, and that he would give him a task important enough to test his worth. Draco had felt so powerful , imposing. At last he had the place he had been promised. He was finally on his way to reign in that society.

The Lord had raised his wand, pointing it at his forearm, and before Draco could remind himself not to make a sound, the world spun and for a few moments it was nothing but fire, claws, laughter and crying. Cries that came from his mouth. The snake etched itself into his skin as he tried to keep his arm still, reminding himself that he wanted it. That was exactly what he wanted .

That was what he had chosen.

"You were doing it to avenge your father, weren't you?" the Lord asked, and Draco snapped back to the present.

He nodded.

Yes. That was part of the reason. He had promised Potter that he would make him pay for putting him in prison, and he was willing to keep his promise. Draco had felt so angry at the world for taking his father from him, his father . What did that filthy half blood think? Him and his mudbloods and blood traitors.

The world belonged to them .

"For the Malfoys, family has always been very important," the Lord commented, nodding as well. He focused his red eyes on him, and Draco knew whatever he was going to say next, he didn't want to hear it, not really. “I want you to know, Draco Malfoy, that you are part of my family. This great family. You and me... we're not that different.”

That was a test.

The Dark Lord never said such things. To nobody. Less comparing himself to his followers, even if they were as close as Draco. So it was a test and Draco had to pass it.

He had always wanted that, hadn't he?

He had always wanted to be as powerful as the Lord. So smart and great. Without fear of anything.

You and me... we're not that different.

"Go," the Dark Lord said before Draco could thank him.

He had never left a room so quickly before.

•••

"What if Ginny was still alive?"

Harry was in his office when Hermione entered. She didn't bother to say hello or anything, she just stood in front of him, hands on her hips and waited for Harry to look up to her. When he didn't, she spoke.

Harry didn't expect that to be what she would say.

“Pardon me?”

"If Ginny were alive…" Hermione went on, unaware of his stupefaction. Or ignoring him. “Would you still want this? Would you still love him?”

The mention of Ginny's death still hurt, Harry couldn't pretend it didn't. The things he never told her hurt. The way she left. Never being able to say goodbye.

It hurt.

That didn't mean having her there would change Harry's feelings.

"How am I supposed to know that, Hermione?" he asked, feeling a little tired.

Hermione did a little spin with her hands on her hips and then plopped down in front of him. Perhaps that thought of hers had been haunting her for nights and she had just made up her mind to ask.

"I don't think I could ever love someone the way I love Ron," she finished answering as if that explained it.

And it was- unfair.

Hermione could say that because she hadn't lost Ron. She had no idea how she felt recovering from the death of someone you once thought you'd spend the rest of your life with. She had no idea how it felt to wake up and believe that it was all a bad dream and that you will see her sleeping next to you. Hermione didn't know how it felt to love again after that.

And what were these questions about, anyway? Imagining it didn't change anything. Ginny wouldn't come back from the dead so Harry wouldn’t know if things had been different between the two of them. Harry would never know now.

"But Ron is here," Harry said forcefully. “Ginny left almost eight years ago. Ginny is not here.”

"But did you love her?"

Ginny had been light on cloudy days. Ginny had represented the strength Harry needed to find. Ginny had made him feel like a hero .

Draco makes him feel like a man.

It was the difference between the two, and Harry wouldn't trade either of them for anything. After losing at the Battle of Hogwarts, Harry needed someone to show him that he was still capable of going on and winning. After nearly nine years of unsuccessful attempts to win that war, he needed someone who could show him that it wasn't necessary to be strong all the time. Not because he loved Ginny at one point, he meant that he could never love someone else. And the way he loved them both was totally different.

Everything with Draco was totally different from anything he had ever felt before.

“Yes. I still do.”

“Then—?”

“Do you love Me?” he finished asking in an exhausted breath; that conversation exhausted him. Hermione frowned.

"Yes," she replied without hesitation.

Harry felt himself relax in the seat.

For a second, he thought she wouldn't answer.

"Would you stop loving me even if I died?" he continued, after calming down.

“Nope.”

“There's your answer.”

Hermione massaged her temples, closing her eyes. It was clear that this was costing her work, and perhaps what she was trying to do was remedy that situation. She perhaps wanted to make Harry and herself see that if he still loved Ginny the same way he did at eighteen, then he was still the person he thought he was.

"I can't understand it," she finished without opening her eyes. “I can’t. From other people I would expect it, but you, Harry?”

Harry felt his throat tighten.

“What about me?”

“You usually know evil when you see it, no matter how attractive it looks.”

Harry tried to see things from Hermione's point of view, and thought he could understand her. He didn't think anyone saw Draco the way he did, who was able to see past those layers and layers of coldness and inhumanity. He wanted to explain it to her, but…Harry doubted that, even if he did, she would understand.

"Hermione…" he murmured, sighing. “Forget it.”

"I want to understand you, Harry. I really want to.”

"You don't have to. Just…" Harry remembered Draco's smile the last time he saw him. Drowsy and soft and unaware. Something warmed in his chest. “As amazing as it may sound, he makes me happy. He makes me happy, Hermione. Every time I see him I feel like the sun is born again. Draco is no good, he never has been. But…”

He felt himself silent; he had spoken more than he intended. Harry wasn't good at expressing what he felt and he preferred not to say it out loud unless it was necessary.

He was still being honest.

For a moment his thoughts wandered to Draco and the doubts that were invading his head. Would he ever smile again, like the last time he saw him? What were they forcing him to do in that house? What was happening to him? Harry felt so fucking worried about him doing the wrong thing and getting punished. He knew that as long as he stayed in the mansion they couldn't kill him, but they could break him enough to never get him back. Harry didn't know what he would do then.

Certainly the most dangerous thing in the world was to love.

Hermione took a deep breath in a sign of frustration and sadness. Harry tried to focus on her, who was looking at him as if she wanted to figure it out. He was taking every part of himself to try to be understanding with his friend. Hermione was a great person, she always was, and even when Harry thought she was being unfair, she was just trying to protect him. That was the basis of their friendship, each protected the other as they could. Harry tried to spare them pain by fighting, Ron threw himself in front of the death that stalked them, and Hermione fixed everything that was wrong, or could go wrong. They functioned in their own way.

“This is not something you can or should fix. There's nothing to fix, Hermione,” he finally said, harsher than he intended. “Things are the way they are, and I can't change them. I wouldn't want to do it either.”

“Harry…”

"I'm sorry for the hurt he did to you in the past," he interrupted, softer now, and Hermione closed her mouth. “But I assure you that he will not harm you again in the present—”

"And what if he hurts you ?" It was her turn to interrupt him. It sounded fierce. worried.

Fearful.

“He won’t”

“Yes, he will do it. He will, and you won't know it until you're bleeding.”

Harry thought back to the day at the Ministry. He hadn't told anyone that Draco tried to hurt him, cutting his skin. He thought of the pressure in his chest every time his memories were erased, and the horrible things Draco said to him when he didn't remember.

"You know how I feel about him," he answered, keeping his voice level. “You know how I feel, and I'm very sorry.”

Hermione didn't answer. She watched him, as if she couldn't believe her ears. She was probably trying to find some fault, something that told her that she could still save him, that she could still change what was between him and Draco. It hurt him to see that such behaviour was born out of pain. The pain had shaped them. Harry just wanted to cross the space, take her in his arms and hold her, assure her that everything would be fine and that from now on he would never allow anyone  to  hurt her. He wanted to tell her that he was sorry for everything she had been through, and that if he could go back in time to take care of her wounds, he would; if she were in his hands, he would never have allowed her to bleed in the first place. Harry just wanted his best friend back.

He supposed it would take a long time to close the gap between them.

He wondered if they would ever make it.

•••

Two days after the Lord left, Draco was stunned and taken to the Order's base by Theo.

The wand touched his temple. Harry was there. The memories came back.

And before the guilt came and hit him, before Draco was undone by having Harry in front of him, the first thing that played was Rodolphus and Voldemort's conversation.

What Voldemort had told him.

"Oh, fuck."

It was too obvious the concern printed on Harry's face when he heard it, how he had gone pale from one second to another. Draco felt his heart sink but he didn't have time to pay attention to that right now.

“You did something...?”

It burned. The question got under his skin, and the tone of his voice, for a few seconds, made it hard for him to breathe. He hated that the first thing Harry had to ask was that. He hated that the first thing he had to know was if Draco had done something like McGonagall.

“No. No, but I heard- fuck.” He decided to let it go, pinching the bridge of his nose. Then he focused his eyes on Harry's. “Tom is going to Potter Manor.”

Harry stepped back.

“What?”

"Two days ago, I overheard him talking to Rodolphus," he explained to his stunned gaze. “He's going to go to Potter Manor to search- I don't know, but he's probably there now, figuring out how to get in, doing something- I don't know. I do not know. I just know that- that it had something to do with you, and then he said something to me about the war being over and—”

“Wait. Harry put his hands to the sides of his face trying to reassure him. Do you think you can give Kingsley this memory?”

Draco nodded, letting Harry place a small kiss on his lips.

“Okay. Let's go.”

As Draco walked along, he didn't miss Rubeus Hagrid, who suddenly turned his back on them as if he didn't want to see them. Harry's entire body, too tense, didn't go unnoticed either. Perhaps he was trying to keep himself composed in front of him given the state in which Draco had arrived there weeks ago.

Voldemort's words came back.

You and me... we're not that different.

Draco knew he was almost white when he walked into that office and saw these people gathered around a table. A bunch of red heads to one side, Granger shooting daggers in his direction, and Kingsley watching them with curious eyes.

Draco didn't bother to spare any of them a single glance.

"Young Malfoy," he said calmly. “Did something happen?”

Harry was the one who spoke before he could.

He listened silently as Harry related what Draco had just told him in the courtyard, and once again ignored the rest of the party, who were watching him as if he were in the way. He probably did.

"In that case…" Kingsley said, when Harry finished his hasty speech. “Please take a seat.”

Even if he wasn't looking directly at him, Draco didn't have to be a fortune teller to know he was talking to him. Shaking his robes, he sat down.

Fuck.

He hated this. Hated it.

He hated feeling like the people around him were bigger, that they could attack him at any second and Draco wouldn't be able to do anything. He hated feeling small under his scrutinising gaze. He hated Kingsley for putting him in that position. He hated that it was so important.

Draco forbade himself to close his eyes as Shacklebolt came around the table and stood next to him, placing his wand to his temple. He knew the procedure, so he simply compiled —gritting his teeth and thinking about what he wanted to deliver— for Kingsley to remove the memories from his head.

"Do you want to watch it with me, Harry?" said the man once he separated.

Harry gave him an unsubtle look, asking, and Draco responded by shaking his head up and down. He didn't mind Harry seeing it, and he didn't mind missing him for a few minutes. At the end of the day, everyone in that room would end up knowing the same thing.

You are part of my family.

We are not so different.

When Harry plunged his head into the Pensieve, Draco couldn't bear to stand there, to wait in silence with these people wondering what he had done and what he had lived through. Without giving it much thought he went out into the hall and leaned against the wall, ready to wait for Harry there. Anything less than that, to be close to those words.

Which, after all... weren't so wrong. If Voldemort himself had seen part of himself in him to say something like that, it's because that was what the rest of the world saw. Draco didn't mind, not too much.

Harry, on the other hand...

The door opened, causing Draco to press his head against the wall and wait. He hadn't looked to the side, but from the clanking of the floor and the limp, he knew perfectly well who was staring at him.

"I think we shouldn't ignore what happened between you and Harry."

Oh, there it was.

Draco lowered his neck so he could look at him. Ron Weasley, shoulders squared and jaw set, was looking at him intently. Perhaps he was there for a fight. Draco couldn't say it was bad for him.

"No one is ignoring it," he replied calmly.

He could see that Weasley had never been a big fan of his carefully neutral expressions. He could almost feel him get angry.

"What do you want, Weasley?" Draco decided to ask. “What are you looking for with this conversation?”

“A reason.”

“I'm not here to satisfy your curiosity.

"How long ago?" he spat, ignoring his words. Draco eyed him warily before replying.

“Since the first of November. Although if we are exact, for my part, since his birthday.”

He did not think it necessary to specify what he meant. Weasley seemed to understand.

"Do you worry about him?"

Draco narrowed his eyes. What kind of question was that? What was he trying to prove?

A motive, was that what Weasley was looking for?

A good enough reason for Draco to have gotten close to Harry?

"Yes," he answered. He was being honest. “I would kill for him. I would do anything for him.”

Weasley looked him square in the face, and Draco didn't look away. His blue eyes were dull, not to be compared to Harry's.

They observed each other for a full minute.

He didn't know what Weasley had seen, but he nodded then, believing at least half of her answer.

“Good. That closes it, then,” he said, though his voice sounded distant. “If you care about him and will do anything for him, then you will also avoid hurting him.”

Draco raised an eyebrow. Whatever Harry had told him, it had worked to keep Ron Weasley from making a fuss.

Truthfully, he didn't care.

All that talking... he couldn't care less.

"Because I swear to you, Malfoy," he continued, and Draco understood that he wasn't finished, "I swear to you that if Harry gets even a scratch from…whatever this is, I'm going to find you, and I'm going to kill you."

Draco suppressed a laugh.

"Does he know you're making threats on his behalf like he can't take care of himself?"

"I think he knows I'm capable of killing you."

Draco studied him without showing a single emotion on his face. He analysed his posture, and his tone, and how after talking to the Lord, Weasley didn't seem like too much of a problem. He gulped, signalling that he was nervous under his scrutiny, and Draco gave him a smile, scanning his body until he reached the missing foot. Draco could have sworn he saw him turn pale.

"You don't scare me, Ron Weasley," he replied, still grinning. “I've seen the worst things you can imagine, and your words sound less dangerous when you're standing on a wooden leg.” Weasley tried to hide how he cringed at the mention. He couldn't. “But do not worry. I won't hurt him, not while I can help it. I'd rather rip my skin off first, and I know that's not a pretty experience.”

Draco felt his mind a little dizzy. Weasley gulped again and nodded once. He didn't know why, really, why everything felt more distant and less real. The last time he regained memories of him, the world had felt impossible and harsh and terrible. At that moment… for Draco it was as if all his emotions were inside a box.

"We're done, then," Draco said, pushing himself away from the wall. “I think we haven’t ignored it.”

Harry chose that moment to leave the room and Weasley stepped back, exchanging a small look with him. Harry put his hand on his shoulder, saying something under his breath, then motioned for Draco to follow him. The tension in his body was worse. He supposed that he had seen his conversation with Voldemort.

As he knew it would, a few minutes later they were both standing in Harry's room. The latter was sitting on the bed, looking at a distant point. Draco felt uncertain.

“What will you do?” he decided to ask him, drinking in the image of him. His hair loose on it’s sides. His vivid green eyes. His marked jaw...

"We'll go, obviously," Harry replied.

“When?”

“We do not know. Hermione goes to investigate with McGo-”

Harry snapped his mouth shut, and Draco couldn't help but sigh. He knew Harry didn't blame him, not actively, but he couldn't help but feel the tiniest hint of guilt rise in his chest when he talked about her.

"Sorry," he said walking to the bed and sitting up.

For a few minutes, they just stood next to each other, though Draco didn't think it was strange. He felt good just being there, without touching, just listening to his breathing and watching his profile.

This man— this man who was kind when he didn't realise he was being kind, who wanted to save the world and who put everyone before himself. This man, to whom he would give the universe for—

Draco didn't want to hurt him. That was the only thing he knew.

Harry eventually let out a shaky breath and rested his head on his shoulder. Draco wrapped his arm around him, feeling Harry's nose on his neck.

Home.

This is where I belong.

"I didn't know that…" Harry murmured serenely. “I didn't know my family had a mansion.”

“No?”

“Nope.” He denied. “It wasn't in the things my parents left me, and no one ever told me about it. It's rare.”

Draco didn't reply. Sometimes with Harry it was better if he kept talking without being pushed. That was why he didn't bring to the table what Voldemort had told him, Harry probably didn't want to talk about it. Draco didn't want to either.

"That's where my dad grew up, right? In that mansion,” Harry continued eventually. “How come I never got the chance to visit it? How come I wouldn't have known it existed, if it wasn't for that son of a bitch who thought to look it up?”

Draco couldn't understand that feeling, the feeling that you were losing something you didn't know, so he simply shut up by drawing little circles on his back.

“I’m sorry.”

"Don't be sorry, just…" Harry shook his head again, as if trying to shake off that topic of conversation. “What were you talking about with Ron?”

Draco also knew when Harry really wanted to change a subject, when he should push and when not. At that time, the topic of his parents... was not something to press.

"Nothing, he was just doing his job, I guess. Which, to all this…” Draco turned the conversation away before Harry could ask what he meant, adding, “I was thinking, how does the Weasley prosthetic work?”

"For Ron?" Harry asked, puzzled. “It gives him some trouble, but... normal, I guess. Why?”

"Is there no way to make it more effective?"

“Not with the implements we have, no.”

“What implements do you need?”

"Actually, Muggles have technology that makes it look like he has a real leg again. Taking advantage of the fact that we can go out into the muggle world for a short period of time, and that Ron's amputation was below the knee, I think it would be a very good…" Harry cut himself off, letting the sentence hang in the air as he pulled away to look at him. “Sorry, but why are you asking me this?”

"I remember seeing Weasley fight. I know he's a good soldier,” Draco told him, seeing Harry's expression darken. “He's been out of the battlefield for a year, but I guess that doesn't take eight years of training to waste, does it? And with what's coming, I think we're going to need all the people who can fight.”

Harry looked thoughtful at his words, which Draco took as a good sign: he wasn't immediately pushing him away.

“What do you suggest?”

“You need money?” Draco shrugged. “To get a decent prosthetic, I mean.”

“Yes.”

“How much?”

“Quite a bit.”

“Okay, I'll send you whatever you need with Theo.”

Harry moved further away, but Draco's arm stopped him. It had been more from shock than anything else.

“What?”

"I have money to spare," Draco emphasised the obvious. “You never thought of asking me before?”

Harry just stared at him, his face looking too young, his mouth slightly open and his eyes wide open behind the glass. Draco kissed every trace of surprise on his face, not trying to suppress the urge.

"Thank you," Harry whispered once they parted ways. Draco pulled him closer to him.

Whatever you ask of me.

Whatever you want.

Do you want my heart?

Do you want my life?

I'll give you anything.

But Draco didn't say any of that. He kissed the top of his head, deciding to move on to the next topic instead. He knew that Weasley was important to Harry, and he knew what that meant.

He also knew that Granger was, and that there was a conversation that hadn't been touched on.

"How did it go with Granger?"

“What?” Harry blinked, not expecting that question.

“The day they saw us, did you talk to them? I assume Weasley didn't make a big deal out of it, but you haven't told me about it.”

Harry looked away, leaning deeper into him. Draco didn't comment on the tension in his body.

"It was... how I thought it would be, I guess."

“What do you mean?”

"Draco," Harry said after a few seconds, making his skin tingle pleasantly. “Draco, do you... regret it...?”

“Regret what?”

"Regret what happened at Hogwarts."

Draco frowned. He hadn't thought of Hogwarts that way in years.

"I'm sorry for the harm I did to you.”

“I wasn't the only person you hurt.”

Harry waited for his answer in silence, and Draco understood what he was talking about. Was that it, then? His best friends had reproached him for the person he was as a teenager.

Not that he was better now, at any rate.

"I don't think I've ever thought about it before.”

Looking back, all of that seemed so... small. Insubstantial. What were nicknames and hallway fights, when Draco had practically tortured people to death? What did the teasing mean for the cruel child he was, compared to the things he did as an adult?

Did it really make a difference to regret calling a few people mudbloods?

"Do you believe what you believed then?" Harry asked, causing Draco to look at him.

Eric's image popped into his head.

“What do you think?”

“No.”

His heart clenched as he realised that Harry hadn't stopped to doubt it. He hadn't stopped to think about it. That was the degree of trust that he had in him, that's how much he knew him.

"My best friend is Muggleborn," he said anyway. “My best friend is a "blood traitor” I’m a—”

"Harry," Draco cut him off as gently as he could. “Do you think, do you genuinely think, that I give a fuck after everything that's happened?”

It didn't. Draco didn't see anyone as less than himself, not anymore. At least not with memories. He spent years convincing himself that those he harmed weren't human, or that they deserved it, or that he was better...but deep down he always knew he wasn't like that.

They all screamed the same. All the spilled blood was the same colour.

"I'm sorry that what I did over the years has hurt you," he continued, sensing Harry very still. “Even when you didn't care what I said to you, I know you care more about your loved ones than yourself, and I'm sorry for what I did and said... For what it's worth, right now, I don't think of Granger as "mudblood", nor in Weasley as a "traitor".”

“Okay.”

It barely came out as a whisper. Perhaps Harry was expecting another answer. Something more enthusiastic and to make things easier for him and his friends.

Draco didn't know what.

"I'm sorry I can't do more for you," he murmured.

And Harry said exactly what he was thinking.

"I just- I wish things were simpler."

“I know. Me too.”

Draco inhaled the scent, and let his magic wash over him, taking everything that he was. He would miss him even if he didn't know what had happened between the two of them when they took away his memories. Draco remembered the dream, almost certain that it had been Harry, and squeezed him tighter.

He wished they could have more, that they could be more.

Maybe if Draco closed his eyes and wanted it badly enough, they would end up living in that beach house by the sea. Perhaps they would fight over the mess Harry would make by not taking off his shoes, and Draco would later make him hot chocolate to apologise, because Harry obviously liked hot chocolate, who didn't? Harry would teach him Muggle things, they would go on long walks, they would run away, and Draco would make fun of his taste in music or that he couldn't dance.

"We could move to Paris," Harry in his imagination would say at some point, when the waves were too monotonous or the atmosphere too quiet. “Or to Japan. Or to Mexico.”

“Yeah?” Draco would reply, pleased to see him excited. “Wherever you go, I will go.”

That would be his life.

Maybe.

If he wanted it bad enough.

"I think I have to go," Draco commented back to the present, feeling the footsteps of people outside. Harry seemed to squeeze him tighter.

“Yeah. I know.”

His voice had sounded small. Draco pulled back so he could cup his face.

They were close.

"Come here," he murmured, then joined their lips.

Draco hadn't realised they hadn't really kissed until that moment.

It made sense. Harry's presence was so overwhelming, Draco would just have to look at him. Seeing him, touching him, having him by his side and knowing that he was fine.

But kissing him was always going to be another kind of experience.

Knowing the speed and intensity that Harry enjoyed; moving his mouth to the little mole on the edge of his jaw that Draco loved to bite on; know the noises by heart. He knew exactly when Harry wanted to go faster by the way his breath hitched, or when he wanted to deepen the kiss by the way he started to touch him.

Draco loved this.

Draco loved to recognize him for things so small, yet so significant.

"I'll be back," he murmured as they parted, sensing Harry's desperation. He used to get like this before saying goodbye. “I will always come back.”

“Okay.”

He didn't sound like he believed him, so Draco pulled away so he could meet his eyes. He thought that he could recognize them wherever he went. He had them engraved on fire: the golden hues that dotted him, the dark edges. fierce.

His.

“Harry. I'm serious,” Draco murmured, brushing a hair past the man's ear. “I will burn cities to ashes to get back to you. I will always come back to you, do you understand?”

He didn't know what Harry had seen in his eyes, but he believed him.

He believed him, and Draco felt himself lift as Harry pulled him into another kiss. Communicating without words.

I still want you here.

Do not go.

"Something big is coming, we both know it," Harry said. The breath hit his lips. “Maybe the end is near, so—”

"I won't die," Draco cut him off sharply, giving him another kiss. “I won't die, and neither will you.”

Harry let the air out of his lungs, hugging him once more.

Draco wished he could stay there forever.

“Okay. I believe you.”

It was implied in that sentence.

I trust you, it said.

I trust you, so come back.

Draco buried his hands in Harry's messy hair and held him tight, before he had to walk through that door and go back to being the man he had to be to make things work.

The real plan to end the war had begun.

End of Act II.