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Chapter Text

You know the Spell. Do it. Do it now! 

Harry does know the Spell. It's haunted his dreams all his life. That spark of green, those two words, the cut-off scream of the victims, his own mother. To cast the spell, one has to mean it, has to want to kill. Has to be capable of it. 

Bellatrix's curls are bouncing as she heaves for breath, her eyes wide. She looks unhinged, not afraid. She's giggling before his wand because she doesn't think he can do it, doesn't think he wants to do it, but she doesn't know. She can't possibly know just how much he wants to. 

It makes him sick to think about it. He's just angry enough to ignore the coiling in his stomach, like a snake preparing to strike. His skin feels hot and itchy, even if the air around him is ice-cold. 

His grip on his wand is shaky. 

You know the Spell, Harry... 

He does. He knows it better than most, in fact. Knows it in ways no one else in the world will. The sole survivor of such a Spell. He has no recollection of such a feat, but he can imagine that the aftermath had been explosive. One doesn't simply survive the Killing Curse without repercussions. 

"Is the itty, bitty baby sad about his Godfather?" Bellatrix mocks in a high-pitched babble, her eyes boring into his. In the reflection of her dark gaze, he can see Sirius' body falling through the veil. 

She took everything from you, Harry, the voice in his mind hisses, a coaxing edge to the words. She killed the one person you felt closest to. The person you allowed yourself to feel safe with. Others betrayed you, but never him. He wanted to treat you better than the rest, better than you've ever been treated, and now he's dead. She killed him, Harry. Return the favor… You know you want to. You know the Spell. 

Harry feels a sharp shiver run up his back, making him roll his head to the side with a shudder. Intense anger lashes out within him in response to the words in his mind. They sound bitter, sour, egging him on. It scares him, but it spurs him on. 

A step. Just one. Putting him closer to Bellatrix, who actually shrinks back with an exaggerated pout. She's deranged, no doubt about it, but Harry can suddenly taste her fear on his tongue. It tastes good, sweet. He can see it in the widening of her eyes, in the way she shuffles backwards. 

Good. He wants her to be afraid. Sirius would want her to be afraid. It's nothing she doesn't deserve, not after all that she's done. The people she's killed, those she's driven to madness, and now the murder of the one person Harry desperately wishes were alive. It's Harry's own fault for falling into the trap, and he knows it. That only serves to make him angrier, to want to take it out on the woman foolish enough to cast the Spell. 

She should know better, the voice declares sharply. You've come running just for him. You would have done anything for him, to save him, and she took him from you anyway. You can only avenge him now, Harry. 

"Potter," Bellatrix croons, her eyes flashing again. 

Harry grips his wand harder. "Shut up!" 

Silence her, the voice orders harshly. Silence her for good. You know the Spell… 

It's too much. The rising crescendo of his pain and anger. There are scents hitting his nose—the smell of his own sweat, something distinctly familiar swirling around him, and the heady press of Bellatrix's fear. He shudders again, so angry, so hurt and lost. His mind feels scrambled and occupied, as if someone marched in and went searching through every thought he's ever had. 

"Harry," comes the soft, tentative voice of the Headmaster. 

Ultimately, that's what makes him snap. The way Dumbledore sounds. Not frightened, exactly, but a touch wary to be sure. Like Harry's unstable, like Harry's losing it a bit, and he'd be right, wouldn't he? Harry has tried telling him all of this, but he has refused to listen. He must know, must be able to sense the problems Harry is having, and he must have given up on him. 

It's not right. It's not fair. Harry has done everything he could. He's been doing his best. After last year, he didn't think things could get worse, but now Dumbledore clearly doesn't trust him. Maybe he's not right to. Sirius is dead because of him. 

This time, there's no prompting from the voice in his head. He just explodes, "Shut up! Shut up, shut up, shut up! Avada Kedavra!" 

One has to mean the Spell to cast it, and Harry doesn't think he's ever meant anything more. There's the familiar flash of green, accompanied by the strangest surge of something in the center of his chest. It's warm, inviting, thrilling, enticing… He can feel it curling around his lungs and heart, squeezing like a hug, making him breathless with it. 

Bellatrix's body hits the floor with a thump. 

"Oh, Harry," Dumbledore whispers hoarsely, and for Harry, everything goes dark. 

The last thing he remembers is the cruel laugh of delight falling from his lips, sounding nothing like himself, though it feels like his own. 

Harry is running through a field, running as hard as he can, though he has no idea why. Is he running from something? Towards something? 

Why is he running? 

He comes to a sudden halt, taking in a deep breath as he blinks dazedly. The air around him feels wet and heavy, like the barest touch of mist is trying to suffocate him. Every inhale comes with the touch of danger, just a faint hint of what drowning must be like. Oxygen feels muddled as he breathes it in, sloshing around in his lungs. 

"You didn't hate the Muggles?" 

Harry turns, coughing up water that dribbles down his chin. The man isn't looking at him, and his hood is up. "Hate them? Why would I hate them?" he asks, his words a surprised gurgle. 

Six years old, Petunia yanking on his hair until he sobs. Many different ages, Dudley's fists hitting him over and over, chasing him until he can barely breathe and chasing him some more. A regular occurrence, Vernon's face turning purple in rage with explosive tangents and raised fists that make him flinch before he can stop himself. 

"Why wouldn't you?" the man says. 

Harry doesn't know. Maybe he does. Maybe he always has. Maybe that's just another thing he's scared to admit to himself. 

"It's raining in my lungs," Harry says nonsensically. 

The man hums. "I suppose it would. You should consider a boat. A boat in your throat." 

Harry can feel oars tickle his windpipe. "I won't float away. I can't. I have somewhere to be. There are people waiting." 

"Who awaits you?" The man doesn't reveal his face, but his head carefully cocks to the side. 

People lying to him. Well-meaning, trying to do their best for him, but there was no help. Something is wrong, and they don't listen. They don't hear him. They don't give him a chance, and they won't now. They see his seclusion, they allow it. He wants it, but he wants more for someone to try. Why do they never try? 

Harry opens his mouth to answer, but rivers run from his eyes, splashing on his tongue. The oars in his throat paddle harder. "Please," he chokes out, desperate, "they only try their best!" 

"Do they?" The man steps forward, his head ducked low. "You shouldn't hate them. You shouldn't." 

Burning anger for those who locked up the one who deserved to be free. Curt words said to those he should have wanted to speak to the most. Eyes avoiding his as he glared at those he used to smile at. A hatred in his chest for those who shouldn't have earned it, those who somehow did anyway. Who's hatred? His? 

"My heart is on fire," Harry gasps out. 

The man nods. "Put it out. Just put it out." 

The fire spreads, and Harry can't contain it, let alone douse it. The burning fills him up and spills out of him. Steam escapes his throat as the man reaches up to push back his hood, and Harry finds himself staring into his own face. 

He tries to scream. 

He can't. 

With a gasp, Harry bolts up as his eyes snap open. His entire body is covered in sweat, trembling despite the heat that seems to settle beneath his skin. He works to get his breathing under control.

A light breeze makes him shiver in relief. It ruffles his hair and cools the sweat clinging to him. The meadow around him sways, and Harry slowly stands up with a frown. 

This isn't a familiar place. 

He seems to be standing in a meadow in between two rolling hills, a healthy green that stretches as far as the eye can see. The sky above him is a calm blue, the clouds puffy and vaguely cheerful. There are no trees or any landmarks of any kind. The only sound is of the rustling grass as the wind eases around him. It's strangely peaceful out here. 

Harry wraps his arms around himself and looks around, unsure what's going on. He has the nagging feeling that something has happened. There's a memory tugging at his mind, something involving boats and striking green eyes just like his own. 

"Potter?" 

Jolting, Harry whirls around so fast that he nearly topples over. He fumbles in his pocket for his wand immediately, knowing the owner of that voice, recognizing as simply as he would his own. He's heard it frequently enough in the last five years that he should know it, though he's never heard it sound like this—careful, polite, hesitant. 

Malfoy zones in on his wand immediately and visibly flinches, taking a solid step back. Harry feels a vindictive spike at that, at the palpable fear on the other boy's face, even if it makes no sense. 

Why would Malfoy be afraid of him? He never has been before, not really, not like this. 

"Where am I?" Harry asks harshly. "What have you done to me, Malfoy?" 

"I—I didn't do anything," Malfoy says slowly, his words stuttering—actually stuttering—out of him. 

Harry scowls and steps forward in vague threat, raising his wand. "Where am I?!" 

Malfoy actually closes his eyes, flinching back violently, and it's like a slap to Harry's face. With just that, just a flinch, Harry vividly recalls the way Bellatrix recoiled before—before— 

Oh, Harry, Dumbledore had breathed out. 

It's not that Harry forgot, exactly, but the memory has been lingering untouched in the back of his mind, waiting to remind him. It does now, and he nearly drops his wand in pure shock. 

He's killed someone. He actually— 

"Oh no," Harry chokes out, his eyes bulging. 

Malfoy's eyes snap open, his gaze sharp as he stares at Harry in silence. No wonder he was scared. Harry would be scared, too. There's something heavily terrifying about knowing that someone who has only disdain for you is capable of murder. Harry would know; he's been dealing with it for the past five years. 

For a long time, Harry just stands there and hyperventilates. Malfoy simply watches him, his hands still held up like Harry might attack him at any moment. Would he do that? 

No. No. Merlin, he hadn't even wanted to kill— 

Actually, yes, yes he did. He remembers that with stark clarity, that strong pulse of desire to take Bellatrix out of the world the same way she took Sirius out of it. 

And Sirius. Harry chokes on air, feeling his eyes flood with a fresh wave of tears. What would Sirius think? What does everyone else think? People must know. If Malfoy knows, everyone else likely does as well. What will become of him? 

"Potter," Malfoy says slowly, his tone soft. 

Harry sucks in a sharp breath, his hands shaking hard. "I—I didn't mean to. I swear it." 

"Yes, you did," Malfoy replies immediately. "You have to mean it to cast—" 

"I know that!" Harry shouts, his anger flaring. Malfoy snaps his mouth shut, his chest expanding on a hasty inhale, and Harry can't be bothered to care. "Don't you think I—I know that?"

Malfoy doesn't say anything for a long time, just looking at him, and Harry reaches up to grip his forehead a little clumsily. It's clammy under his hand, but at least his scar doesn't hurt. 

The thing is, Harry wants to be able to say he didn't mean to and let it be the truth. But he can't. Because Malfoy is right, you do have to mean the curse, and Harry remembers meaning it. In fact, he remembers relishing in it, in the rush of it. 

The memory is terrifying and tantalizing in equal measure. Harry can barely breathe. 

Malfoy seems to draw himself up, holding his head higher and giving a prim sniff. "Sit down, Potter, now. With your sniveling, you'll pass out." 

His voice is so stern that Harry actually stumbles back a step and sits down, mostly led by his shock. Malfoy seems surprised that Harry actually listens, but he nods in approval. Harry stares straight ahead with wide eyes, his heart beating a relentless tattoo against his sternum, a hot thrumming in his chest that burns on every thump. 

Malfoy swiftly moves over and shucks his outer robe, laying it out on the ground with a small frown before lowering himself on it, sitting right next to Harry like he's not afraid. There's something strangely comforting about that. Harry very nearly sobs in relief. Maybe if Malfoy isn't scared of him, it means that Harry isn't capable of— 

But he is. He's already proven that. 

"Do they know?" Harry rasps, his gaze flicking over to Malfoy with a desperation he doesn't understand.

Malfoy seems to get it because he nods. "Yes. They all do. Everyone does. The story was released in The Prophet the following morning." 

"D-Dumbledore… Did he—" 

"He refused to give a statement. He's been recovering anyway, so people haven't really had the time to pester him." 

"Recovering?" Harry asks. 

"You don't remember?" Malfoy looks at him with a small frown. "What do you remember, Potter?" 

Harry swallows. "The last thing I remember is—is killing… I killed her. Bellatrix Lestrange." 

"My aunt," Malfoy informs him casually. 

"Is she?" Harry mumbles, feeling numb.

Malfoy shoots him a look. "She was." 

"What happened?" 

"Well, you...er, you got into a duel with Dumbledore. No one knows how you managed to hold your own, but it's not like he was aiming to hurt you. Father says that—that Dumbledore was telling the Minister that you were possessed. He claims it wasn't you who...dueled him, which I'm inclined to believe, because as adept at dueling you may be, you aren't nearly at the level as you portrayed there." 

"Did I hurt him?" Harry asks weakly, feeling his eyes prickle with heat. There's a steady strum of anger fluttering at the dip in his throat. 

Malfoy won't meet his eyes. "Multiple witnesses caught you using the Cruciatus Curse on him." 

Harry presses his hands over his face, trying to smother the frustrated tears that spring from his eyes. It wasn't him, he knows that. He must have been possessed. Who's fault is that? Harry's, for allowing it, for not being strong enough to stop it? Snape's for failing to help him, for failing to teach him better? Dumbledore's, for pulling away, for giving up on Harry when he needed him most? 

He shouldn't be angry, not when Dumbledore has been hurt because of him. And yet, he's still so furious that it doesn't make sense. The rage simmers in his chest, making his temples throb. 

"Malfoy," Harry chokes out at some point later when he can breathe again, "where are we? How did I get here? How am I supposed to—" 

At that, cuts himself off. He doesn't want to voice that, to ask that of Malfoy, who likely won't have an answer for him, not for that question. How am I supposed to face them, to go home? 

"You're on the grounds of my home," Malfoy explains casually. "Not too far from the Manor, actually, and I'm not sure how you got here. I was just out for a fly when I saw you in the distance. I thought I had lost the plot." 

Harry rubs a hand over his face, completely and utterly exhausted. "I think I have." 

"You really don't remember anything after k-killing her, Potter?" Malfoy asks quietly. 

"Nothing," Harry admits. 

Malfoy looks at him curiously. "People are looking for you everywhere, you know. After what happened at the Ministry, you just...disappeared. From what Father said, you just vaporized into smoke in the middle of the duel with Dumbledore. It's been a week and a half since, Potter." 

"I don't know where I've been," Harry whispers, feeling the color drain from his face. "If I was possessed, he could have been using me to—to do anything." 

"He?" 

"Voldemort." 

"Don't say that name," Malfoy snaps, flinching in the same manner he had when Harry yelled at him. Timid, frightened. He swallows and looks at Harry with a small frown. "Potter, don't ask me how I know, but...you haven't been possessed in the last two days, at least. I can't say the same for any of the days before, but I do know that." 

"I already told you," Harry grits out, "I don't remember anything between killing Bellatrix and waking up in this bloody meadow!" 

"Alright," Malfoy says quickly, shuffling a little nervously and side-eyeing Harry warily. 

Harry glares at him. "Relax, Malfoy, I'm not going to kill you. Not that I haven't considered it, mind." 

Malfoy blanches. "Merlin, Potter, I—" 

"Shut up!" Harry snarls, shoving to his feet and feeling his whole body shake. "Stop being bloody terrified of me, would you? I'm not—I'm still—" 

I'm not evil. I'm still good. 

Is he, though? Merlin, he doesn't know. Everything feels like a torrential storm in his mind, in his chest. His palm itches around his wand, tingles running circuits around his wrist. It takes him a moment to realize what it is. Desire. A strong desire to use his wand, to lash out, to— 

You know the Spell… 

No! Harry gives his head a violent shake, horrified at his own thoughts. Malfoy may be horrid, but Harry won't kill him. He can't just—just kill people all because he killed Bellatrix. He doesn't want to. 

"Sit down," Malfoy says again, this time firmer than the last. He stares up at Harry with a sharp gaze, prodding Harry to glare right back. They're locked into an intense stare-off until Harry realizes that Malfoy has stopped being frightened of him, and he sits. Malfoy nods in satisfaction. "Good. Now, breathe. Just...breathe, Potter." 

So, for a while, that's what Harry does. He breathes. Just keeps on breathing until, eventually, his grip on his wand slackens and the burning in his chest quells. Malfoy seems pleased. 

"I'm going to Azkaban, aren't I?" Harry croaks miserably, shutting his eyes. 

Malfoy makes a small noise in the back of his throat, almost amused. "I don't think so, Potter." 

Harry starts to reply, to ask how Malfoy can sound so sure about that, but a sudden chill has him snapping his mouth shut. He goes very still as a shudder rips through his body. There's a swirl of shadows in front of him, black mist forming right in before him and Malfoy, swirling in a dark vortex that Harry can almost feel brush against his skin. He knows who it is before they even appear. 

Voldemort peers at them with ruby red eyes, the slits where his nose should be flaring as he audibly inhales. His stillness is otherworldly and threatening, exuding an easy power that would put the strongest of men to their knees. Nothing in his expression gives anything away, and he simply surveys the both of them closely. 

Harry rubs at his scar, dead-silent. It doesn't hurt, exactly, merely itches faintly. In comparison to how it usually reacts in Voldemort's presence, this is practically nothing. This is, however, the first time that Voldemort has stood before him that Harry hasn't had his mind screeching at him with a mixture of fear, anger, and disgust. Mostly because Harry doesn't know what to do or say. 

Of course Voldemort has found him. He's not at home, under protection, safe behind his blood connection to Petunia Dursley. And it's his own fault, even if he can't remember. Voldemort is here now, and Harry's going to die. 

Maybe he deserves to for what he did. 

"Do you wish to kill the Malfoy boy?" 

Harry feels another violent shiver rip through him at Voldemort's cold question. He can't breathe yet again, but his hearing works very well. Malfoy has just sucked in a sharp breath and doesn't appear to be exhaling, holding it in as he waits. 

Waits for Harry to give his answer. Harry isn't sure what he's supposed to say. Voldemort doesn't ask questions, especially not to Harry. No, he just tries to kill him, simple as that. 

And what a stupid question to ask. As if Harry wants to kill anyone. He hadn't even wanted—

Yes, yes he had. Reminding himself that once more hurts just as much as the first time. He can vividly recall the relish in which he took in killing Bellatrix. He had done it, had meant it, had wanted it. 

Maybe Harry still does. Something in him wishes he could go back in time and do it again. Live through it again. Feel how it felt all over again. 

But to do it to Malfoy? To kill him? Perhaps something twisted and broken in him wants to kill Bellatrix again, possibly the grief over Sirius and the lingering anger from the year, but that doesn't mean Harry wants to kill Malfoy. 

"No," Harry says sharply. 

Malfoy finally exhales. 

Voldemort considers him. "Do you wish to kill me, Harry Potter?" 

"Yes," Harry answers immediately. 

"Try," Voldemort says. 

Harry stares at him. Voldemort stares right back, expectant. So, with shaking legs and a weird squirming in his chest, Harry pushes to his feet. He waits for Voldemort to react, to Crucio him, to try to kill him first. He doesn't, and instead, he stands perfectly still and waits. 

Licking his lips, Harry tries to stop the lurch of excitement he feels in his chest. It's more than an eagerness to rid the world of Voldemort once and for all; no, it's an earnest desire to use the spell again. He's practically trembling with the urge. 

Harry lifts his wand and, strong as the breeze around them, declares, "Avada Kedavra." 

It shouldn't be a pleasant experience. Killing shouldn't be. The flash of green shouldn't shoot a thrill through him, especially after it has haunted his nightmares for years. The energy expelling from his wand shouldn't split and travel up his arm, snaking warm and snug around his heart. It shouldn't feel so good, but it does. It simply does, and Harry can't help but shudder and gasp in response. 

Harry knows the Spell. He's used it. He's survived it. He knows it in and out, knows how it works, knows what it looks like in action. It does not simply wrap around the target, then slip off. 

And yet. 

Voldemort reaches up with one long finger to flick a spec of lint off his robe, completely unbothered. He stares right at Harry. "Do you see that your attempts are futile?" 

Harry lowers his wand, because he does see that. "Are you going to kill me?" 

"That would go against my current interest," Voldemort tells him. "You, Malfoy child, stand up."

Malfoy does, graceful even in his obvious fear. 

"You have chocolate on your person. Offer it to Harry," Voldemort says, his voice soft, yet deceptively so. There's power and threat in every single syllable. 

Malfoy swallows, but he digs in his pocket to pull out a small, wrapped chocolate. "Here you are, Potter," he says, his voice shaking. 

"So cold and detached," Voldemort murmurs, a scolding edge to his tone that has Malfoy openly trembling and terrified. "You should address him warmly. I expect you'll be spending a great deal of time with each other from this day on." 

"Take it, Harry," Malfoy whispers, staring at him with wide, pleading eyes. 

Harry is alarmed by how utterly terrified Malfoy is at the moment, and he's a bit stunned that Malfoy is addressing him by his first name. Though, with an evil Dark Wizard commanding him to, Harry can't really blame him. 

Slowly, Harry reaches over to grab the chocolate, opening it and popping it in his mouth. If he was going to be killed, he severely doubts they'd go through the trouble of poisoning him. And, if they do, at least the chocolate tastes good. Overall, though, Harry's a bit more stuck on what Voldemort just casually said. 

"I'm not going home, am I?" Harry asks flatly. He doesn't even know why he asks. Of course he isn't. Voldemort has him now. He's not just going to let him go; that's not how these things work. 

Voldemort flicks his harsh gaze to Harry. "You can't go home." 

"Why?" 

"What's the last spell you cast with your wand?" 

Harry's throat positively closes up. He swallows thickly, twice. "It's not like—" 

It's not like Bellatrix was anyone good. It's not like I'm suddenly evil. It's not like they won't be able to forgive me. They'll understand. They will. 

"They won't," Voldemort tells him. "You killed Bellatrix Lestrange of your own will, Harry Potter. For revenge. You've taken a life, no matter who's life it was. The Wizarding World will not forgive you."

Harry shakes his head. "Dumbledore—" 

"Dumbledore," Voldemort spits, his lipless mouth curling in disgust, "will think you tainted, boy, and he would be right. You certainly know that. You can feel it, can't you?" 

"They'll just put me in Azkaban, then?" Harry snaps, that spark of rage igniting in him again. "Give me the Dementor's Kiss, perhaps? For—for killing one of the most notorious Death Eaters? I'm a boy! I didn't mean for any of this to happen!" 

Voldemort continues to be unruffled. "I cannot say for sure what would happen to you if you returned. I can tell you that the Wizarding World is no more on your side than they were in the beginning of your year at Hogwarts. To the public, you remain the lunatic who believes I have returned against all odds; now with the added benefit of being the boy driven mad by the thought. Pity that they don't believe you. After all, you are correct." 

"I hate you," Harry chokes out. "This is all your fault. Why won't you die?" 

"You may go, if you wish," Voldemort offers coolly, gesturing lazily with his hand. "Give him your broom, Malfoy child." 

Harry practically vibrates out of his skin as Malfoy carefully takes a few steps back and picks up his broom from the grass. He holds it out to Harry, staring at him with wide eyes. It's like he's trying to say something without actually saying it, but Harry doesn't really care to parse out what it is. 

Stiffly, Harry snatches the broom and mounts it. He pauses, waiting, but Voldemort stares at him impassively. He makes no move to stop him. 

This should be where Harry kicks off the ground and flies as fast as he can as far as he can. The chance to leave, to go home, is very inviting. To get as far away from Voldemort and all of this is all he really wants at this point. Just fly as high as the clouds until he's safe again. 

But where would he go? 

What safety awaits him back home? It's not like the Wizarding World has been on his side all year. That includes the Ministry. They tried to silence him, then tried to expel him when that didn't work, and had it not been for Dumbledore—angry as he was even then—Harry would have been. What could Dumbledore possibly do for him now? 

Harry remembers how Dumbledore sounded. Oh, Harry, he'd whispered. Just that. So much shock and pity and disappointment in those two words. 

Even if Dumbledore could do a damn thing to help him now, Harry's not so sure that he would. 

But to stay here? To stay in Voldemort's presence? That can't seriously be an option. If Harry can't kill him with the one curse no one is supposed to survive, then there's nothing else he can do. How can you defeat someone who doesn't die? Is that what Voldemort wonders about him? 

Harry can't go home, can he? This isn't a choice. His options are limited to two. Fly off and try to live out his life in secrecy, which likely won't work because he'll be discovered easily. Or, stay here and see what the hell Voldemort is going to do to him. 

With a sigh, Harry kicks off the broom and plants his feet, holding it out to Malfoy without a word. Malfoy slowly takes it, and Voldemort hums. 

"The offer to go will remain an option, Harry Potter," Voldemort tells him. "It is yours to take whenever you wish. You are no prisoner." 

Harry stares at him. "Why aren't you killing me?" 

"I told you," Voldemort says, his voice soft and horrible, "it goes against my interests. Now, come along, both of you. I believe you require nourishment, Harry. Do not let him faint, Malfoy child." 

With that, Voldemort turns around and seemingly floats away. He doesn't actually glide or anything, but it seems that way. His robes billow in a way that makes Snape's robes seem like a joke. 

Malfoy jerks his head, eyes wide, urging him to follow. Harry starts to send him an incredulous look before he remembers that he can't actually go anywhere else. Well, he can, but what happens if he does? He's not willing to find out. 

So, with a deep breath, Harry starts walking. 

Chapter Text

The scraping of cutlery is loud in the silence of the room. Harry stares at his full plate without really seeing it, listening to Malfoy eat quietly from right beside him. Trust Malfoy to be a nearly silent eater, pretentious in even that. 

There is something utterly bizarre about sitting at the Malfoys dining table for a meal with Voldemort sitting at the head, not eating at all. Mrs and Mr. Malfoy eat as quietly as their son does, and when Harry braves a glance up, Mrs. Malfoy is taking very small bites without looking up. 

Then, one time, Harry looks up and Mrs. Malfoy does at the same exact time. They meet each other's gazes all at once, and Harry doesn't know how to react. He killed her sister. Is she grieving? 

She doesn't seem to be. 

As quickly as he met her gaze, Mrs. Malfoy drops her own, demure and polite. It's with a sick jolt that Harry realizes she's afraid of him, timid just like her son. Does she think he'll kill her? How could she? You kill one person, and suddenly you're evil? It can't seriously be that way, can it? Harry doesn't feel evil. He doesn't want to kill anyone! 

Except you do, that voice whispers in his mind, taunting him. You like how it feels, don't you? 

"Shut up," Harry grits out. 

"What was that, Harry?" Voldemort asks. 

Harry blinks and glances up to see everyone staring at him. Voldemort is the only one who doesn't look at him like he's borderline insane. 

"I haven't gone mad," Harry says sharply, glaring right at Mr. Malfoy. His flinch doesn't make Harry feel nearly as uncomfortable. 

"Do you think he has, Lucius?" Voldemort murmurs.

Mr. Malfoy pauses in cutting his meat on the plate, swallowing thickly. "The thought crossed my mind, I admit, My Lord. Talking to yourself is usually a sign that someone has gone mad." 

"He just said he hasn't," Voldemort says. 

"Yes, My Lord," Mr. Malfoy agrees. 

Harry feels numb all over. "This is enough to drive me mad. This is ridiculous." 

With that, he stands up and shoves his chair back. No one makes a move to stop him. Mrs. Malfoy continues eating like she is completely unaware of what's happening. Harry feels the irrational urge to hex her. He wants her to look at him, to not be afraid, because he didn't—he's not— 

"You need to eat," Voldemort tells him. 

"Look at me," Harry demands harshly, staring right at Mrs. Malfoy. 

After a long, tense moment, she looks up. "Yes?" 

"Your sister—" Harry cuts himself off, watching Mrs. Malfoy for any reaction, but she gives none. 

"Yes?" Mrs. Malfoy prompts quietly, that guarded look in her eyes. She's still afraid. 

Harry takes a deep breath and slowly lets it out, trying his best to stomp out his anger. "Did you mourn her? Are you—did her...death upset you?" 

Mrs. Malfoy opens her mouth, then closes it. Harry's anger surges, and he slams a hand to the table, making the dishes rattle. 

"Answer me!" Harry bellows. 

"N-Nothing as simple as that," Mrs. Malfoy says quickly, sitting up straight in her chair. She flinches at the continued rattling of the dishes. "You must understand, Bellatrix lost her mind long ago in many ways, and I mourned her then. She was my sister, so in some ways, it is upsetting that she's gone. But no, I'm not fully grieving." 

Harry drops back down in the chair helplessly, feeling his eyes itch with tears. "Then why are you afraid of me?" he asks in a small voice. 

Mrs. Malfoy's eyes grow wide, but again, she doesn't answer. Harry doesn't make her. 

"You need to eat," Voldemort says again. 

"You'll have to forgive me for not having an appetite," Harry bites out, glaring right into those red eyed with reckless abandon. "Being a murderer tends to put me off my lunch." 

Voldemort looks cruelly amused. "You are an insolent child, aren't you? Will you flip the table in your next fit of anger, Harry?" 

"What would happen to me if I did?" Harry stares defiantly at Voldemort as he grabs his plate and tosses it right over his shoulder. It shatters when it hits the floor. "Going to kill me now?" 

There's a distinct pop as a house-elf cleans up the mess. With a wave of his wand, Voldemort has a new plate of food sitting right in front of him. 

"No," Voldemort says. 

Harry tosses that plate, too. "And now?" 

"Stubborn," Voldemort notes absently, waving his wand yet again as another house-elf appears. "No, again. I am not going to kill you." 

"Alright." Harry grabs up his wand. "Stupefy!" 

Voldemort easily defects it. "Manners dictate that one shouldn't cast Spells during a meal." 

"Oh, pardon me," Harry says sarcastically, letting his wand clatter to the table with a harsh chuckle. "I should have known better, I suppose. Because of course I've got manners." 

Then, without hesitation, Harry grabs his glass of wine and overturns it right in Malfoy's lap. To Malfoy's credit, he doesn't shout. He just jerks and hisses, then goes very still. 

"That would suggest otherwise," Voldemort informs him calmly. He waves his wand at Malfoy, who flinches, and the wine is gone. No mess. 

"What do you want with me?" Harry growls out. 

Voldemort narrows his eyes at him. "I want you to eat, Harry. You require nourishment." 

"Oh, how human of you," Harry snaps. "What about you, Mr. Voldemort, Dark Lord, sir? Do you require nourishment? Are you even human?" 

"Do I look it?" 

"Not at all. You look like a fucking snake." 

"One tends to have an altered appearance when they do not die properly," Voldemort tells him. "You got off rather light, as I understand it. A simple scar."

"Yeah, and you got off with no nose," Harry says, leaning forward, his whole body wired and thrumming with anger. He wants to piss off Voldemort. He's eager for it. For what? Death? Something. Anything. "Do you shed your skin, too, Mr. Voldemort, Dark Lord, sir?" 

"No." Voldemort steeples his weirdly long, spindly fingers and watches Harry closely. "I should tell you, Harry, that I'm aware of your attempt to anger me. You may continue to try, but I think you'll be better off simply accepting that you won't achieve your goal. You will eventually eat, and if you wish for any further answers, you will do so sooner rather than later. Either way, your actions are your own." 

"Oh, is that right?" Harry shoves his plate so hard that it skitters halfway across the table. He clenches his fists. "So, if I decide to set fire to this place, that's just fine? What if I beat the everloving shit out of Malfoy? The older one, I mean. What will he do? What will his son do? What will you do?" 

Voldemort waves a hand. "Do as you wish, Harry. As I said, your choices are your own. No one will stop you. In fact, you could kill everyone at this table with the exception of me, and no one would stop you. Do you want to know why?" 

"I don't believe you," Harry says sharply. 

"You are free to test my theory," Voldemort offers.

Harry picks up his wand again, turning it to Lucius Malfoy. First, he looks right at Mrs. Malfoy, but she just continues to eat like nothing is going on. Mr. Malfoy makes no move to defend himself, simply staring straight ahead with his jaw clenched. When Harry checks, Malfoy is staring hard at his plate, blinking rapidly as he takes measured breaths. 

Slowly, Harry turns his wand to Mrs. Malfoy. Mr. Malfoy's throat visibly bobs, but he says nothing. Malfoy ducks his head farther, his breath hitching like he's lost control of it. Mrs. Malfoy continues to eat. 

Finally, Harry puts his wand on Malfoy. Mr. Malfoy goes rigid as his eyes flutter shut. Malfoy has stopped breathing, his eyes so wide that Harry can see the watery quality to them. Mrs. Malfoy continues to eat, but Harry can see her gripping her cloth napkin so hard that her knuckles turn white. 

"What is wrong with you people?" Harry breathes out, lowering his wand back to the table. 

Voldemort hums. "They fear you, Harry Potter. More than that, however, they fear me. They are also loyal to me. If it is my offer for you to kill them, they will allow it because I deem it so." 

"Why?" Harry sputters in disbelief. "What good are they dead? What could you possibly offer them that makes them willing to die just because you said so? All because you believe in the Pureblood rhetoric? Because you hate Muggles like they do?" 

"Because," Voldemort says seriously, "I have the power to kill them at any moment in their life, and yet, I have chosen to spare them. Every breath they take is granted by my mercy." 

Harry stares at him. "You're completely insane." 

"Perhaps," Voldemort says. He tilts his head, his gaze piercing. "Long ago, Lucius and I used to be friends before I became what I am now. I have no interest in such bonds anymore, but I still consider him a friend. We've been through much together, and we've fought alongside each other. It may be mostly fear that keeps him loyal, but it was once different. Now, what of your friends, Harry? Can you honestly say they'd be loyal to you following your murderous habits?" 

Harry feels his mouth snap shut so quickly that he's not surprised to hear the clack of his teeth echo loudly in the silence. His heart gives a mournful pang in his chest. What Ron and Hermione must think of him now. Do they hate him? 

Would he hate either of them if roles were reversed? No. He can say that with assurance. Ron and Hermione could make the same mistake he has, and he'd believe them when they said they're not evil. He'd let them cry, and he'd try to comfort them, and he'd forgive them in a heartbeat. They're his best friends, and he knows them. 

Neither of them have a scar on their head and a connection to Voldemort, though. Can he blame them if they wouldn't forgive him? 

Would they forgive him? 

He doesn't know.

Harry swallows thickly and reaches out to grab the plate that he shoved away. Slowly, he eats. 

After dinner, the Malfoys are sent elsewhere, and Harry is made to follow Voldemort into a study. 

It's an overly large room for a simple study, more space than needed for bookshelves and a desk. There are cabinets the color of coal—so dark that they seem to glitter in the light from one of the tall windows that opens up to the grounds outside. Even the chair behind the desk that Voldemort lowers himself into is extravagant, looking to be dragonhide, which is just ridiculous. The two chairs in front of the desk are only moderately better, a clean leather that Harry has the urge to slice open. 

"Sit," Voldemort orders, gesturing to one of the leather chairs Harry wants to gut. 

Harry slowly walks over and lowers himself stiffly into it. He expects it to squeak and be unrelenting, but it doesn't and it isn't. In fact, it's the kind of chair that's so comfortable you don't want to leave. That only makes him more uncomfortable. 

Voldemort watches him from across the desk, and Harry watches him right back. There's a thick silence between them that seems stifling. It must be odd, Harry supposes, considering who they are and the history they have. It's not every day a boy meets the man who has murdered his parents and wants to murder him, just like it isn't every day the murderer meets the boy he has failed to murder on multiple occasions. Probably a right sight, after all. 

Harry has never envisioned a meeting like this between them. In his mind, they never do anything like this—it's always instant attempts to kill him amidst evil mockery. Instead, here they sit, and none of this makes any kind of sense. 

"Why does it go against your interest to kill me?" Harry finally asks, the silence getting too heavy for him to bear. 

"Do you wish to die, Harry Potter?" Voldemort asks in a soft rasp, his eyes glittering blood. 

"No one wants to die," Harry whispers, "not really."

"Some do. Some are forced to." 

"Then no. No, I don't want to die." 

Voldemort steeples his fingers again, his head tilting ever so slightly, just a small twitch. "Do you wish to kill again?" 

"No." 

"Do not lie to me!" 

"I'm not lying!" Harry shouts, his voice raising as he bristles at Voldemort's scolding tone—so full of disgust, like the idea of Harry lying to him is abhorrent, like Harry is worth nothing if he lies, and Harry almost feels it. Quiter, he says, "I'm not lying."

Voldemort watches him like a bird watches something that manages to hold its interest. "Perhaps I should word the question another way. Do you like the way it felt to kill?" 

Harry grits his teeth, his eyes fluttering shut. He could lie. He seriously could, and maybe if he says it, the words will be the truth. The thing is, Harry already knows what the truth is, and it sickens him. Killing should not feel good. That Curse should not feel good. It makes no sense. 

"Answer me," Voldemort says softly, those two words spoken with poignant order. 

Harry unlocks his jaw, shuddering out a quiet gasp at the pain in his chest as he admits, "Yes." 

"And yet, you speak only the truth when you say you do not wish to do it again," Voldemort muses. 

"I don't want to kill," Harry snarls harshly, a curl of hope and relief in his chest at his own tone of conviction. "Just because it feels like—just because that's how it feels doesn't mean it's alright or acceptable. It's wrong!" 

"That is your opinion." 

"That's fact!" 

Voldemort spreads his hands, a mock look of curiosity on his face. "Says who? What reliable source has proven this?" 

"That's just the way things are," Harry says through gritted teeth. "Killing, bad. Plain and simple!" 

"So, you feel as if you're bad?" 

"I'm not bad!" 

Voldemort tilts his head again. "You just said—" 

"I know what I just said!" Harry explodes in a fit of fury, standing up so quickly that the chair skids back, though it's too heavy to fall over. Harry gives it a harsh kick, wanting to stick the point of a blade against the smooth surface and push until it splits open and shows its insides. He whirls away from the chair with a grimace, his panic rising as his mouth opens and begins to move, stringing along sentences that fall out in a rush. "I know none of this makes sense! I know I've killed someone, and I know how it feels, and I know you should have killed me by now! I don't—I don't k-know…" 

Harry presses the palm of his hand flat on his chest, hyperventilating. He waits for the tears, but there are none. His ears ring, ring, and ring. He struggles for air, but there is none, and he can't think. He can't bloody get a grasp on his thoughts. 

His head hurts, yet he's numb all over. Sweaty and cold, the room spinning as he firmly hits his knees to the floor, trying to ground himself. A boy in front of a murderer. A murderer watching a boy. 

Something cold and hard pings off his head. Harry jerks up, blinking rapidly at the small vial hovering right in front of him, uncorked. Perhaps it is poison. Maybe Voldemort is already bored of his ridiculous inability to make it through one conversation; Harry's certainly tired of it, at least. It could be poison, and he almost welcomes the idea, already feeling like he's suffocating anyway—this, fortunately, won't be so slow to act. 

He grabs it with trembling fingers and downs it in one gulp, his body shuddering in response to the taste. He recognizes it, though. Not a poison, just—

"Calming Draught," Voldemort confirms. 

Harry feels only a bit better, his panic muted to a dull throb that he can mostly ignore. He stands up and clenches his fists so his nails will dig into his palm, thankful for the bite of them. 

"Why does it go against your interest to kill me?" Harry repeats as he moves the chair back in its proper place, slowly sitting down in it. 

"I have been in your mind, Harry Potter," Voldemort tells him. "I have seen your desires and your horrors. I know your thoughts, your hopes, your dreams. I am well aware of your anger when approached as a child, despite the actions you've portrayed today. I have an understanding for your distaste for being lied to, so today, right now, I offer you something that not even Dumbledore has granted you." 

Harry stares at him. "And what's that?" 

"Honesty," Voldemort murmurs. 

"Ironic, considering I don't believe you." 

"I have no reason to lie. Ask your questions and determine my honesty if you so wish, but I will not lie to you." 

"Did you possess me?" Harry asks sharply. 

Voldemort nods. "I did." 

"When? For how long?" 

"Following your act of murder, I possessed you. I continued to do so for the following eight days. The following two days you spent in that field, recovering from the possession." 

Harry scowls at him. "What did you do? Who—"

"Nothing," Voldemort cuts him off, "and I harmed no one. I put your body in a stasis and explored your mind for the time I had control over your body. Following my duel with Dumbledore, of course." 

"You tortured him, using me to do it." 

"Yes." 

"Bugger," Harry chokes out, turning his gaze away as his eyes fall shut. The Calming Draught works harder to keep him stable, and he slowly releases an exhale before looking back at Voldemort. "Well, you explored my mind. Brilliant. Anything interesting in there, Mr. Voldemort, Dark Lord, sir?" 

"There was, in fact," Voldemort tells him. "Multiple things. One more interesting than the others." 

"And what was that?" 

"I will answer you in a moment. First, I require you to answer a question of my own. You may call it trading information, if you wish. Tell me, Harry, what did Dumbledore say about the night that I attempted to kill you as an infant and failed?" 

"He didn't say very much," Harry admits, vaguely suspicious now. "Just that you killed my parents, then tried to kill me. My mum sacrificed her life for me, and it was her love that made the spell rebound back onto you. Are you going to tell me that isn't it? That Dumbledore has it wrong?" 

Voldemort hums. "I won't tell you that, for it is as good of a theory as any. He may be correct. My question pertains more to what he didn't tell you." 

"Which is?" Harry grits out. 

"Has Dumbledore spoken to you about our connection, Harry?" 

"Not very much. He doesn't seem to be eager to talk to me at all, actually." 

"Ah," Voldemort says with a nod. "Yes, disappointing, isn't it? To be shunned by someone you respect very much." 

"Answer my question now," Harry says shortly, refusing to admit just how disappointing it is. 

Voldemort dips his head. "Very well. Because I have explored your mind, I have come across something of great value to me. Your knowledge of the Prophecy is sufficient enough to understand that there is a belief among some who think you have the power to defeat me. It has come to my attention that the Prophecy is further proof that perception matters on all subjects." 

"You're saying that the Prophecy was lying?" Harry asks hollowly, his stomach dropping. 

"No, I am not saying that. In fact, it is the exact opposite. The Prophecy was correct in that you could defeat me, but I would first have to allow it. In short, to die, I would have to kill you, hence why it goes against my interests to do so." 

"Wait. What? For you to die...I have to die?" 

"Precisely," Voldemort agrees. 

Harry balks. "That makes no sense! It can't be true. That would mean Dumbledore knows I'll have to die, and he wouldn't—that's not…" 

Voldemort watches him as he trails off. Harry slowly closes his mouth. No, none of this makes sense, he stands by that. It doesn't add up to him that he has to die so that Voldemort will, and he doubts all the numbers in the world could make the equation work. But, sadly, this isn't what gives Harry pause. 

Would Dumbledore allow that to happen if there was such a world in which that was actually true? Take care of Harry for years, excluding the last one, only for him to die? Treat him kindly, with warmth, instilling hope and respect in him, all while aware that Harry will have to die someday? 

Dumbledore wouldn't, would he? Surely not. 

"The Prophecy matters to me no longer," Voldemort continues in the silence. "A long look in your mind, deep in your mind, has told me all that I need to know. Long ago, Harry Potter, I was foolish and arrogant. I went in search of an infant prophesied to bring upon my demise, and in doing so, I handed that same infant the power to do so. Just as I've gifted that same power to other various cherished objects. You are the first living one." 

"I don't understand," Harry whispers, stiff in his seat, his heart beating wildly against his chest. 

Voldemort stares right into his eyes. "I know you don't, but I will attempt to explain to you what I'm willing to share. First, allow me to ask. Do you not find it curious that you can speak Parseltongue? Hasn't it ever crossed your mind to wonder why your scar signals you when I'm near? Have you ever asked yourself the reason behind your ability to enter my mind in your dreams, or the mind of Nagini?" 

Harry stares at him with wide eyes. "Of course I've wondered. I'm—no one could tell me, no one knew what it meant, or how it—" 

"On the night I attempted to take your life, something occurred that I did not plan. I was not aware of it until I swept your mind and simply found it," Voldemort says softly, the cadence to his words a chill-inducing melody. "When the spell rebounded on me, you could say a piece of me was ripped away. In my absence, it chose you for a host. You, Harry Potter, cradle and unwittingly protect a piece of myself within you—so infused with you that you would have to die to remove it." 

"No," Harry breathes out, the word punching out of him in a croak. 

Voldemort merely nods. "Yes." 

And, with that, Harry turns in the chair to lean over one arm and lose his dinner. 

Voldemort waves his wand calmly and the mess is Vanished; another wave of his wand has a cup with water floating in front of Harry, which Harry takes. He shakily swirls it around in his mouth, ridding himself of the rancid taste lingering on his tongue. Carelessly, he spits the mouthful right onto the floor, barely noticing that mess being Vanished, too. He focuses on drinking the cool water, instead. 

Harry thinks really hard about what Voldemort has just told him. It can't be true, can it? Dumbledore would have told him. Right? 

He doesn't know. 

It makes a certain amount of sense, though. There has to be some reason for his connection to Voldemort, and Dumbledore has said something close to the same thing before, though nothing as elaborate as this. It explains why Harry has certain abilities, why he's so quick to anger, why he dreams through Voldemort's eyes. 

It's utterly disgusting if it is true. He just...what, carries around a piece of Voldemort somewhere? Protects it? Against his will? He doesn't want that; it isn't fair, not at all. He'd give it up in a heartbeat if he could, just lay down and let someone yank it out of him, remove him of the burden.

To do that, though, he'd have to die. For Voldemort to be able to die, Harry will have to die first. That explains why Voldemort hasn't killed him yet and has no interest to, but that doesn't explain why Dumbledore hasn't told him. It's horrible and terrifying, but Dumbledore has to know that Harry would do it, would give his life if it would end Voldemort's. He knows that, doesn't he? 

Dumbledore can trust that out of him, at least, surely? Harry can't have caused distrust that deep. 

"Does he know?" Harry finds himself asking robotically. "Does Dumbledore know?" 

Voldemort takes an audible pause, then makes a considering noise. "I daresay he has always suspected it in some way. For him, it is merely a theory, but following the events of this year, I imagine that it's a theory he believes to be fact." 

Harry nods woodenly. 

For a long time, it is silent in the room as Harry takes the time to process this. He thinks, and thinks, and thinks. He doesn't know what to think. Still, his mind runs in circles. He flips through so many emotions that he can barely keep up with them—anger prevails the most, unfortunately, but at least Harry knows why. 

There's something distinctly displeasing about the fact that Voldemort has sat him down to tell him the truth when people he trusts wouldn't do the same. How could Dumbledore keep this from him, theory or not? It's Harry's life! He's more inclined to the information than anyone else in the world, and that's including Dumbledore himself! 

Harry doesn't say anything for a long, long time. Voldemort doesn't interrupt his thoughts, simply sitting there and watching him. 

Finally, Harry plucks up the courage to lift his head and speak. "What does that mean for me, then? In regards to what you will do to me, I mean."

"I will do nothing to you, Harry Potter, nothing but protect you as you protect me, willingly or not." Voldemort smirks. "I have you to thank for my continued survival in some parts, at least. It would be remiss of me to harm you now, don't you think?"

"You're going to protect me?" Harry asks in blatant disbelief. 

Voldemort nods. "Your death will gain me nothing. Your survival gains me plenty. So, yes, I will protect you. Do you have objections?" 

"I could kill myself," Harry declares. "Or, if my offer to go really is open, I could go back and let someone else kill me. You'll be able to die, then, even if I'm not the one to do it." 

"You are incorrect," Voldemort tells him, clearly not offended or surprised by Harry's brazen words. "I told you that you were a mistake. I never meant to make you a defense for me. However, you are not the only defense I have made. I mentioned other objects earlier, if you recall." 

Harry lets out a delirious laugh that contains no humor. "So, so even if I die...you still won't be able to be killed? That's what you're saying." 

"That is what I'm saying, yes." 

"Someone could destroy those objects. If they do and I'm dead, maybe someone stands a chance." 

"Maybe they do," Voldemort agrees. "There is, of course, the problem in finding out how to destroy said objects. There are very few ways to do so, unknown by many great minds. You must be aware that I haven't made it so simple." 

Harry shakes his head, frustrated. He knows he's just arguing now because he doesn't want to admit the truth—that Voldemort is nearly indestructible. It's a bloody terrifying thought. 

"Stranger things have happened," Harry snaps. 

Voldemort hums in wicked amusement. "They have, yes. Make no mistake, Harry, I will protect you without fail, but I will make no move to stop you if you wish to take your own life in a desperate and hopeless desire that I will be defeated. You are, after all, capable of making your own choices—human, no matter what you hold within you—and I will not take away your free will." 

Harry almost wants to scream, to lash out again. No, don't tell me that, don't give me the option, he begs. I'm not supposed to be a coward, but I am bred for survival; it is all I know. How can they be one in the same now? 

Maybe this is what the Sorting Hat meant when it suggested he would do well in Slytherin. 

Harry gives into the urge to slump forward, putting his face in his hands. Calming Draught or no, there is nothing stopping him from breaking down a bit now. People don't just learn what he has and take it easily. Maybe it makes him weak, but he doesn't care. Voldemort is right there, and Harry can't be arsed; he just cries, because what else can he do? 

What is he supposed to do? Return home and beg for death? They'll think him mental, throw him in St. Mungos, if not Azkaban, and Voldemort will continue to live on. Or, alternatively, what if he was to return and Dumbledore actually fulfilled his wish? Just killed him. Would Dumbledore look at him with dim eyes, no twinkle in sight, and do what should be done? 

Harry doesn't want to die. That's the thing. He'd said it earlier, and he'd meant it. He's never wanted to, especially when he learned that he was a target for the very monster sitting across from him now. 

He's not afraid to die, not when he's on the precipice of it—in the Chamber, in the Graveyard, staring down a Werewolf, nearly Kissed by Dementors twice, falling from a high point in the sky. There's something strangely peaceful about the embrace of death, just a little piece of him that goes oh, here it comes, and it's accepted with detached calm. Because what can he do? How does he cope? Death greets him so regularly that Harry has started to wonder when he'd be unable to escape. Surely next time, he'd think. Next time, I won't be so lucky. 

And now, here he is, learning that it's expected of him from the last person he would have anticipated the request from. Being offered the opposite by the monster who has always, without fail, wanted to take his life. It all boils down to the fact that it's his choice, and Harry doesn't want to die. 

"No one wants to die, not really."

"Some do. Some are forced to." 

Harry is both. He doesn't and he does. He should, but he doesn't; he shouldn't, but he does. People shouldn't want to die, no more than they should want to kill. But he's not just normal people, is he? He's the Boy-Who-Lived, and now he knows why. The same people who have praised him for that will expect him to be the Boy-Who-Died. 

Is that fair? 

None of this is fair. Harry doesn't know what he's supposed to do. He scrubs his hands over his face and takes in a rattling breath, dropping his hands and leaning back in the chair. He's so exhausted, and he's barely even realized it. 

Voldemort looks at him expectantly. 

"What is going to happen to me?" Harry rasps. 

"If you choose to stay, you will remain here for the summer. You will be taken care of, far better than those Muggles ever have done for you, and you needn't fear for your safety. You will have your freedom to do whatever you wish." 

"And after the summer?" 

"You may attempt to return to Hogwarts, though I would advise against it, simply because you'll likely be taken in by the Ministry. Your education would not fail, however, because I would teach you." 

"You would teach me?" Harry blurts out. 

Voldemort hums, cruelly amused again. "Indeed, Harry, I would. Fear not, it would not be lessons that could bring you harm—it would be those of which someone your age should learn. You are, of course, within your right to refuse to be taught, though I will again advise against it because education is very important for a young Wizard." 

"The answer is no." 

"Very well. Do let me know if you change your mind. Anymore questions?" 

"Yeah, actually," Harry says forcefully. "What about all your little Death Eaters, Mr. Voldemort, Dark Lord, sir? You don't think they'll try something?" 

"I assure you, they will not. They are as much at your disposal as mine, Harry Potter. You are under my protection, and they will be informed to treat you with the same loyalty, fear, and respect that I have earned. To go against my order is their head, and they are very aware of that. As such, I don't think they will be eager to procure your wrath if Bellatrix is an example of what happens when they do. I daresay you are safe." 

"I somehow doubt that. It's not like they haven't ever killed anyone before. They shouldn't be afraid of me, not when they're the evil ones." 

Voldemort laughs, a morbidly chilling sound that makes Harry cringe. "Oh, Harry Potter, you have no idea, do you? Casting the Killing Curse is not as simple as I make it seem. One should not be able to do it at a mere fifteen years old. Furthermore, those who have managed to achieve casting the Killing Curse knows what it takes to do so—meaning they understand your base desire to see people like them dead. What's stopping you if not I?" 

"That's… It's wrong." 

"Perhaps. Perhaps not." 

Harry glares at him. "And you just don't care? What if I did get up and just kill all of them?" 

"I cannot allow you to kill all of them. There is an amount I will eventually have to stop you at," Voldemort admits. "But your victims are your own, and I will not take responsibility for them. Do with that what you will and know it is your choice." 

"You're relying on my morals," Harry notes. 

Voldemort arches a naked eyebrow. "To an extent, I suppose I am. You may surprise me, though I doubt it. I know how each kill feels. The secret is in the Curse. There is a difference in a man strangling another, than a man casting the Killing Curse. I suspect you already know what that difference is." 

Harry does. He wishes he didn't. It's that rush, that thrill, that jolt up his arm as warmth explodes pleasantly in his chest, hugging his heart. That's purely the Spell, and it makes no sense for something so evil to feel that way. It makes him want to do it again, and again, and again, even as it scares him in equal measure. 

"I don't want them at my disposal," Harry says hoarsely, averting his eyes. 

"Nevertheless, they are there." 

"Why?" 

"Because, if you should ever need me, for any reason whatsoever, they will be able to call upon me in ways no others can. However, I'll admit, I mostly offer them up to you to continue stroking that urge within you that you seem to regret so deeply." 

"Just my playthings, then? Like toys offered up to a child, only you hope I'll break them." 

Voldemort watches him for a beat. "Harry, your choices here are your own. I hope not to manipulate you into being someone you have no desire to become. I take much more pleasure in seeing where you end up on your own." 

"You think I'll kill them," Harry chokes out. 

"No, I do not. I also do not think that you won't kill them. I do not expect anything," Voldemort says. "I simply await what will happen." 

Harry scoffs. "I'm like an experiment to you, aren't I?" he asks bitterly, that rage kicking up a fuss within him all over again. "You'll just sit back and watch, waiting to see what I'll do, waiting for me to dance like a pet monkey." 

"You," Voldemort declares with a strangely pointed look, "have serious trust issues, Harry Potter, though I cannot blame you. Believe me or don't, it is of no importance to me either way. I've said it before, and I will say it once more: I am protecting you. You have your free will. I do not intend to manipulate you. Those are not lies, and I do not require you to believe them for them to be true." 

Harry resists the urge to squirm. Merlin, he can barely wrap his head around the fact that Voldemort is psychoanalysing him right now, let alone that he's reassuring him. Harry doesn't know what the fuck to do with that. The incredulity of this entire encounter is on par with Snape suddenly laughing and being nice to children. 

Snape. 

Bloody hell. What about him? Harry's stomach cramps at the mere thought. Dumbledore has insisted that Snape is to be trusted completely, somehow so sure that he's a Spy. For the first time ever, Harry feels the exact opposite of what he's always used to—the hope that maybe Dumbledore is wrong, rather than the scornful belief that he is. 

If Snape is to be trusted, that means he could tell Dumbledore where Harry is and what he's being offered. Dumbledore would trust him even less, possibly give up on him for good, if he hasn't already. That's even if Snape is somehow not on Voldemort's side, which seems unlikely. 

Still, the chances… 

"Have you told Snape?" Harry asks abruptly. 

Voldemort considers him curiously. "I have not." 

"Don't," Harry whispers, shame rippling through him. He feels like he's keeping a secret, betraying the people he cares about. And that's exactly what he's doing, isn't it? "Don't tell him anything about me. I—I don't...trust him." 

He doesn't, he never has. Now, Harry has no idea who he trusts Snape to be a Spy for, who he hopes Snape is a Spy for. Fuck. 

"Severus is loyal to—" 

"I don't care." 

"Harry," Voldemort begins. 

Harry shakes his head firmly. "I don't care. Unless you can figure out a way to make sure he can never breathe a word about—about me being here, then he doesn't know. That's my choice. You said I could make my own choices, and that's one of them." 

"Very well," Voldemort murmurs. "I will keep it hidden until I have a way, bound by magic, for him to keep his silence." 

"Good," Harry says shortly, still fuming. 

Voldemort stares at him for a long time, then suddenly calls, "Tilly!" 

A house-elf appears with a pop, bowing so low that her nose brushes the ground. "Yes, Master?" 

"You are to escort Harry Potter to Draco Malfoy's room, understood?" 

"Yes, Master." 

Voldemort turns his gaze to Harry. "Go speak with someone your age, Harry. Sleep if you require it. Request anything should you want it. Roam at your leisure, and of course, do as you please." 

"Brilliant," Harry says sarcastically, shoving to his feet and giving a mock-salute. "Thank you oh so much, Mr. Voldemort, Dark Lord, sir." 

Voldemort does not deem that worthy of an answer and simply stares at him, and Harry begins to feel stupid just standing there. With a scowl, he whirls around and marches out of the room.

Chapter Text

When Harry walks into Malfoy's room, he comes to a sudden halt. Of course Malfoy has a room like this. Bigger than the sitting room at the Dursleys, full of books and posters and trinkets, painted birds flying on the walls. His bed is larger than what any boy needs, and Harry guesses the sheets are silk before he even looks to confirm it—and, of course, they are. 

"I'd ask you not to set my bed on fire, but I'd much rather you do that to it rather than me." 

Harry snaps his gaze over to Malfoy, narrowing his eyes. He's itching for a fight, but for once, Malfoy seems in no mood to help him start one. He's just sitting on a chair, reading a book, some of his hair falling into his eyes. He looks achingly normal, and Harry wants to punch him in the face. 

"Any rooms on this hall got a bed?" Harry snaps. 

Malfoy doesn't even look at him, just gestures to the bed Harry was glaring at. "There's one." 

"Yes, I can bloody see." 

"Good to know." 

Alright, fine. If Malfoy wants to be like that, all calm and collected, then Harry very well will use his sodding bed, and he'll be sure to be an arse about it. He marches over and shoves a few pillows to the floor with a scowl. Who even needs that many pillows anyway? Immediately after that, he balls up the thickest duvet in a messy ball and drops it to the floor, waiting for Malfoy to snipe at him. 

Malfoy doesn't. 

Frustrated, Harry slams himself down on the bed with absolutely no finesse whatsoever, determined to annoy Malfoy's precious, pretentious sensibilities. Even putting his shoes on the bed doesn't manage to get a reaction out of him, and Harry reaches up to pull his glasses off his face, letting them drop somewhere on the other side of the bed. He then tosses his arm over his eyes and huffs. 

Again, Malfoy does not rise to the bait, which is a pity. Harry so desperately wants to lose his cool on someone. If nothing else, Malfoy has always been easy to fight with. 

Not that Harry fully trusts himself at the moment. Maybe it's for the best if he doesn't fight anyone. It's with shame that he thinks he might not be able to control his anger once he gets started, and according to Voldemort, no one will stop him when it's necessary. The mere thought that Harry could lash out and do something unforgivable isn't one he wants to ponder, yet that's where his mind turns to.

Like this, Harry doesn't think he'll be able to get to sleep. There's too much on his mind. He's too angry, too wound up, too...everything, really. 

Yet, he can feel the sun warm on his face from the window that Malfoy is sitting beside, and the next thing he knows, he's jerking awake with the feeling like he lost time. He moves his arm from his face, blinking blearily at the window—which no longer sheds sunlight in the room—and the blurry image of Malfoy still sitting in that chair. 

Harry sits up slowly, groaning as he reaches back to palm at the nape of his neck. He feels sore all over, but thankfully less tired. Actually, he feels awfully rested for the first time in...well, a while. It's then that he realizes that he didn't have a nightmare about Voldemort—his sleep went unbroken by dreams of any kind, in fact. 

Swallowing, Harry stares down at his lap for a long time, simply thinking about all that's happened. He finds himself thinking about Sirius, missing him, grieving. His brain skitters around the idea of what Sirius would think of him right now. 

The world isn't split into good people and Death Eaters. We've all got both light and dark inside us. What matters is the part we choose to act on. That's who we really are. 

Sirius said that once. Harry wonders what Sirius would say to him right this second. Something helpful, a decision in his best interest, the right thing. Or, perhaps, the thing that gets revenge the quickest. Would Sirius sacrifice Harry just to avenge the dead? Is Harry going to do that? 

There's a Muggle saying—cutting off your nose to spite your face, which is oddly fitting, considering the circumstances. Harry thinks about that saying for a long time, and he thinks about his Godfather, too. Thinks about how, out of everyone, Sirius is the person he doesn't want to disappoint the most, but Sirius is gone. He's dead, and the person who killed him is dead because Harry got his revenge. 

Harry wonders if Sirius would have used the Killing Curse on Pettigrew that night. 

Sighing, Harry pats around on the bed for his glasses, squinting as he tries to find any sign of the weathered frames. Eventually, his fingers fumble over them, and he shoves them on his face in just enough time to nearly jump out of his skin when a house-elf appears with a pop! 

"Dipsy is to inform Masters Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy that dinner is being served," Dipsy says with a low bow, his whole body shaking. 

"Thank you, Dipsy," Malfoy says in a bored tone, standing up from his chair. 

"Master Draco Malfoy is most welcome," Dipsy declares before disappearing the same way he came.

Malfoy makes his way over to the door, pausing to look back at him with an unreadable expression on his face. "Coming?" 

"Do I have a choice?" Harry mutters, pushing to his feet and grabbing his wand. 

Malfoy's gaze zeroes in on the action, his throat bobbing. It's clear that he thinks Harry has endless choices, some that could end with him in a bad way, and it makes Harry feel ill to think that Malfoy actually believes he's capable of that. 

Well, he's capable enough to kill Bellatrix. Why not anyone else? Therein lies the problem, he supposes. It still grates on his nerves, anyway. 

"You might get lost, so I'll wait," Malfoy offers quietly, his gaze planted firmly on the floor. 

"Stop it," Harry snaps, kicking a pillow aside as he moves closer to Malfoy. "Stop being scared of me, Malfoy. I'm not going to kill you, alright? Merlin." 

"My apologies, Harry," Malfoy says slowly, the words a little stiff like he's forcing them out. 

"And stop that, too!" Harry snarls, reaching past Malfoy to yank open the door. "I don't care if Merlin himself ordered you to treat me nicely, that's not how things work between us!" 

Malfoy frowns at him. "Don't put me in this position, Po-Harry. I shouldn't disobey him." 

"Bloody buggering hell," Harry grits out, reaching over to grab Malfoy's arm and drag him out into the hall. Instead of going towards the dining room, which Harry would likely get lost at, admittedly, he follows the path back to the study. 

He remembers the walk in stark clarity, actually paying attention for once, mostly by choice. He'd figured that Voldemort would spend most of his time there—seems like the place for Dark Lords to linger, or whatever. He does reach a few halls that he forgets whether to take a left or right before he recognizes a portrait, and then he's off again with Malfoy following him without a word. 

However, once they get close to the study, Malfoy begins to dig his heels in. Harry yanks on his arm, and he almost relishes in the way Malfoy resists him, pulling back and shaking his head. 

"He shouldn't be disturbed," Malfoy hisses, his eyes bulging as Harry yanks on him harder. 

Harry throws him a glare. "Well, I don't give a damn, Malfoy. You are coming in!" 

"No, I most certainly am not going to—" 

"Don't tell me you're scared, Malfoy!" 

"I'd be a bloody idiot not to be! The Dark Lord does not like to be bothered!" Malfoy snaps, some of that fire Harry's used to coming back to life in his gaze as he tries to slap Harry's hand off his arm. 

"In that case, he shouldn't have offered me refuge," Harry growls, pulling on Malfoy with a grunt as he throws the door open and yanks them both in. 

Malfoy immediately snaps his mouth shut, going still and ducking his head. Harry huffs and keeps a firm grip on Malfoy's arm as he looks between Voldemort and Mr. Malfoy. They're both staring at him and Malfoy with irritation. 

"What is it?" Voldemort asks tersely. 

Harry jabs a hand at Malfoy. "Tell this tosser to be how he used to be. I don't need you bloody ordering people to be friends with me!" 

Voldemort blinks. "Pardon?" 

"Me and Malfoy?" Harry snaps, giving Malfoy's arm a rough shake. "We're not friends. We've spent the better part of the last five years trying to rip each other's heads off. He'd sooner call me Scarhead than call me by name, and he most certainly doesn't treat me warmly, the prat." 

"And you wish for him to...resume treating you in such a manner?" Voldemort asks him slowly, looking—for the very first time that Harry has ever seen—supremely confused. 

"Yes! Well, no. I mean—" Harry groans and rubs a hand over his face before letting it drop limply to his side as he sighs. "Look, Malfoy pretending to be nice is the last thing I want to deal with on top of everything else. I would prefer it if he acted however he really wanted to, rather than faking it all because you told him to. Make sense?" 

"I see." Voldemort's gaze sweeps from Harry to Malfoy. "Draco, look at me." 

Swallowing thickly, Malfoy does, barely hiding his flinch. "Yes?" 

"You are free to treat Harry however you wish, call him whatever you wish, and do whatever to him that you like. No one will interfere, and you will not be punished. Harry is free to act and react however he wishes, do bear that in mind." 

Malfoy nods, dipping his head respectfully. 

"Good. Now, out, both of you. Dinner is served."

"Let me go," Malfoy says sharply, yanking his arm out of Harry's grip with such force that Harry actually blinks. Malfoy arches an eyebrow before turning on his heel and heading right for the door, his head held high. "Do keep up, Potter." 

Harry stands there for a beat, blinking, then feels his lips curl up and break into a grin at Malfoy's cool demeanor. If nothing else, that's familiar, and it suggests that Malfoy isn't afraid of him. It's such a relief that Harry actually laughs and shakes his head before moving to follow Malfoy out of the room. 

"Children," Mr. Malfoy offers as they go. 

Voldemort hums. 

Once they reach the dining room, Malfoy instantly sweeps over to his mother, bowing his head near her ear to whisper quietly. After a moment, she nods and gently touches his hand on her shoulder, giving it a brief squeeze before Malfoy pulls away. 

Harry sits down in the same spot he did for lunch, feeling very out of place, especially when Malfoy moves to sit right next to him yet again. He wonders what Malfoy would do if he dumped a glass of wine on him now, and he eyes the wine for a beat. 

"Don't even think about it," Malfoy says coldly, making Harry jolt. "Make a move to do it, and I'll hex the glass to bite you." 

"Can you actually do that?" Harry asks. 

Malfoy glares at him. "Try it and find out." 

Stupidly, Harry grins again. It only grows when Malfoy scoffs in open disgust and rolls his eyes, turning his attention to his plate. Harry watches him cut his meat in small bites, so small that he probably doesn't even need to properly chew them. 

"Hey, er, Mrs. Malfoy…" Harry murmurs hesitantly, looking at her cautiously. 

Mrs. Malfoy smiles at him. "Call me Narcissa, Mr. Potter. What can I do for you?" 

Harry feels his face explode with heat. "Oh no. I mean, just—just Harry, please. My name is Harry."

"Alright, Harry," Mrs. Malfoy says, nodding with her kind smile still in place, seemingly unaware of her son scoffing again from beside Harry. 

"I just—I wanted to apologize for, erm, earlier when I...was rude," Harry manages to stutter out. "And, um, about—about your...about…" 

He can't say it. He can't force the words out, even though he would really like to for her benefit, no matter if it is a lie. Every time he tries to push the words past the lump in his throat, it gets stuck. Sorry about killing your sister, ma'am, really. 

Except he's not. At all. 

"No need to apologize, Harry," Mrs. Malfoy tells him softly. "As I said, I am not grieving her. However, I do believe condolences are in order for your Godfather, Sirius Black. He was my cousin." 

The lump in Harry's throat seems to get larger, and he blinks hard. "Yes, I know. And thank you. I'd rather not talk about him, though." 

Mrs. Malfoy nods. "Of course. You should eat. The house-elves are delighted to have another person to feed, and I do think they may have...shown off a bit. I hope you don't mind." 

"No." Harry clears his throat and tries for a smile, knowing it's strained. "No, it's fine. It's, er, brilliant. Thank them for me, please." 

"I will indeed do that," Mrs. Malfoy tells him, her lips twitching a bit around her smile. He can't tell if she wants to smile harder or frown, but neither option is acted on. "I should also tell you that there is a room being made up for you across from Draco's. I've been told that you will be spending the summer with us, and I would hope that your time here is comfortable. We wish to be gracious hosts, so you need only ask for anything you wish." 

Harry blinks at her, then slowly nods. After a beat, he frowns. "My things from Hogwarts. You wouldn't happen to—to know where it is, would you? I don't suppose Voldemort could just fly off and grab them on his next trip to burn helpless people alive?" 

"Well...um," Mrs. Malfoy says, visibly startled as she stares at him, and there's a vindictive spike in him that he's managed to crack her proper exterior. Good. "I actually believe that your things were seized by the Ministry. I would have to check with Lucius to be absolutely sure." 

"D'you think he'd be able to get them for me?" Harry asks, trying his absolute best not to perk up in obvious hope. 

Mrs. Malfoy seems to know anyway. "I will discuss it with him and inform you as soon as I know." 

Harry gives her a mocking smile and grabs his glass as he sarcastically says, "Cheers, Mrs. Malfoy. It would be a great help to have something to remind me of my home, since this place only reminds me of the opposite." 

"Potter," Malfoy drawls, "leave my mother alone." 

"Oh, and why should I?" Harry whips his head around to glare at Malfoy. "It's not as if you haven't mocked my mother more times than I can count."

"It's not my fault you can't count very high." 

"Piss off. You talked horribly of my mother, and she's dead. Killed by the monster having a bloody meeting with your father in a stupidly lavish study. If all I do is make your mother uncomfortable, you should consider yourself lucky." 

Malfoy takes another small bite, narrowing his eyes at Harry. "Oh? Are you a bully now, Potter? When we've welcomed you so kindly into our home?" 

"A home housing the Darkest Wizard of his age. Such a kind welcome, Malfoy. Excuse me for not feeling right at home here." 

"I imagine you'd rather be in that shed the Weasleys call a home, would you?" 

"Without a doubt," Harry snaps. 

"So, go," Malfoy tells him simply, blinking at him with a smirk. "No one's stopping you." 

Harry shuts his mouth with an audible clack and goes about viciously cutting his meat up with a scowl. He has no rebuttal for that, and Malfoy knows it. It probably won't be the last time he'll say something like that, so Harry should get used to it. Malfoy has always been good about exploiting weaknesses that Harry has and using them to rile him up. 

Mrs. Malfoy eats calmly like nothing is amiss. 

At some point later, the silence is broken by Mr. Malfoy sweeping in the room. He immediately moves over to the seat next to his wife, leaving the head seat empty, even though it doesn't seem like Voldemort will be joining them. Mrs. Malfoy leans over and whispers in Mr. Malfoy's ear. 

Harry feels an elbow nudging in his side, and he glances over at Malfoy with a scowl. Malfoy minutely shakes his head and flicks his gaze down. Harry feels something brush his leg, and when he glances down, Malfoy is waving his wand. 

When Harry looks back up, the peas are disappearing from Malfoy's plate. Harry blinks. 

Malfoy arches an eyebrow at him, and Harry can't believe he's actually agreeing, but he nods anyway. Not because he doesn't want to eat the peas, but because he wants to see Malfoy do magic so casually during the summer. It's so odd. 

The peas disappear slowly off his plate, too, and Harry just watches. How is Malfoy doing magic over the summer? He's underage. Well, it's probably some kind of magic that allows him to, or maybe it's the fact that he's not in a house full of Muggles. 

Harry feels a desperate grip of excitement take hold of his lungs, nearly leaving him breathless. He reaches out with a shaky hand and points it at the dish containing the slices of meat. 

"Wingardium Leviosa," he whispers. 

It's such a simple Spell. A first-year Spell, but he's never had the luxury of even that before now, nevermind the fact that he's already used his wand. He hadn't thought about it, then. The dish rises in the air, hovering, and Harry just stares at it. It's at that moment that he realizes that he's sitting in Malfoy Manor, eating supper with enemies, in the easy vicinity of the madman who killed his parents and countless others. 

The dish clatters back to the table, and Harry covers his face with his hands, trying to breathe. What the hell is he doing? He has no bloody clue. 

"Mr. Potter," Mr. Malfoy suddenly says, making Harry slowly pick up his head and glare at him, "I will attempt to retrieve your possessions from the Ministry. Is there anything else you require? I will be going out later this week." 

"Yeah," Harry rasps, "see if you can't locate my damn mind, won't you? I seem to have lost it somewhere in the past week and a half." 

"As you wish," Mr. Malfoy says, not even twitching, giving nothing away except for the brief flash of sadistic amusement in his eyes. 

Harry sighs and falls silent, picking at his food and getting lost among his thoughts. The Malfoys leave him alone to his brooding, for which he's thankful. 

The next two days pass in a blur. 

Also in silence. Harry hasn't spoken a word since the first dinner, and not even Malfoy's glib snark manages to pull him out of his own head. All his interaction turns inward, his thoughts on a loop of guilt, anger, uncertainty. There are questions he doesn't want answers to, and details he doesn't want to ask after, not anymore. 

He manages to forget for a little while what Voldemort told him. Instead, he focuses most of his energy on simply thinking about Sirius. Crying, grieving, wishing he could go back and not make the stupidest decision he's ever made. 

Along with Sirius, thoughts of killing Bellatrix fills his head. She's the last person he wants to think of and remember in stark clarity, but since he's killed her, it seems he's doomed to clear space for her in his mind. He can remember her curls, the taste of her fear, the dying light in her eyes after Harry said the Spell. He goes back and forth on his guilt and discomfort with it, justifying his own actions in one breath and declaring himself a monster in the next. 

He also spends a great deal of time thinking about his parents, about what they must think of him now, if there is an afterlife to watch him from. Disappointed? Undoubtedly. 

And, when he's not thinking of the dead, he's thinking of the living. His friends, what they're doing, what they feel about him now. Dumbledore, why he didn't tell Harry the truth, whether he regrets not doing so. Anyone, everyone in the Order, his housemates—do they hate him now, are they worried, what would happen if he went back? 

He almost leaves at ten different points, but he can't quite bring himself to. Out of fear, maybe, expect that doesn't quite fit him, does it? 

The truth is, yes, he's terrified of the idea of being handed over to Dementors—they are his worst fear, after all—but it's more than that. He's mostly afraid of what he'll have to face from those he trusts and loves. Would they cast him aside? Would they demand he die for the world? Would they look at him differently because of what he did, maybe with fear the same way everyone else has? 

It's the unknown that keeps him here, and he wastes away in it, sitting in his room every time he's not summoned to meals. He eats because he knows he has to, but he says not one word. He doesn't respond to any of them, to no one, and it's harder to drown out his own thoughts that way. 

But he deserves them. 

"Killing, bad. Plain and simple!" 

"So, you feel as if you are bad?" 

Harry starts having nightmares after the first night. Every time he closes his eyes, he sees himself killing Bellatrix again. Sometimes, she'll plead for her life and he'll still scream the Curse at her. Sometimes, Voldemort will be there and he'll nod at Harry in approval. And, worst of all, Dumbledore is always there, begging him not to do it, but he does it anyway every single time without fail. 

In short, Harry is having a hard time coping with this. He's getting to the point where he's thinking he should take off and face the people who must feel completely betrayed by him. 

If nothing else, he's earned their disdain. 

Harry is planning just that on the third morning when he goes down to breakfast, padding down the cold halls of the Manor. He almost wants to retreat to the room they've given him, even if it feels as impersonal as the rest of the place. It is, however, where he's spent most of his time. The room is as large as Malfoy's, and it seems like a guest room without a touch of anything of his—even his wardrobe consists of generic wizarding clothes, though they fit much better than Dudley's second-hand clothes ever have. 

Still, if he's going to be leaving, he should probably plan it better in case he actually is a prisoner here. So, he trudges into the dining room in utter silence, moving over to the chair next to Malfoy on complete habit alone. 

"Potter," Malfoy says the moment he sits down, "I think there's something you should see." 

Harry's stomach clenches at the serious tone Malfoy has. He slowly looks up to see Mr and Mrs. Malfoy watching him with small frowns, and Malfoy himself looks distinctly unhappy. 

"At least let him have breakfast, Draco," Mrs. Malfoy says softly, her tone just on the edge of scolding. Usually, when it comes to Harry, Malfoy's parents never interfere, just like Voldemort ordered them not to. 

Malfoy frowns harder. "Mother, I'm taking a chance here on what I do know about Potter, and my guess is that he does not appreciate people withholding information about him from him." He looks at Harry and passes up a folded paper that Harry instantly recognizes—The Prophet. Malfoy takes a deep breath. "You may want to satiate your appetite before you do your curiosity, because there is a good chance what you read will remove your appetite entirely. Up to you, Potter." 

Harry swallows thickly and grabs the paper as each Malfoy watches him closely. Everything within him wants to open the paper immediately, but if Malfoy is right, then Harry should probably eat first. 

So, that's what he does. 

The mood around the table seems to relax a bit since he's not reading it first thing, and that only makes him want to read it even less. He eats very slowly in silence and pretends like he can't feel each Malfoy watching him like he might explode. 

Harry eventually realizes that he's avoiding it. Somewhere deep down, he knows what he's going to find in that paper. He just knows. And he doesn't want to see it. He doesn't want to have to face it, not when he's so close to giving in to the urge to just go home, consequences be damned. 

There's going to be consequences listed in that paper, Harry just knows it. 

Once he's eaten all he can stomach, Harry pushes his plate away and grabs his wine, nursing it. In the past three days here, that's about the only thing he's come to appreciate. The wine doesn't get him drunk, but it does make him relax ever so slightly, sort of making his limbs feel just a bit fuzzy, warming his stomach and chest. He's even learned that it works and tastes even better if he sips it slowly over time, which helps him in this case. 

Though it's clear that the Malfoys have finished their breakfast, they linger at the table, waiting. Even Mr. Malfoy stays, not sweeping off the moment he's finished his meal like usual. 

Eventually, Harry can't put it off any longer. His glass is empty, his plate is empty, and he has nothing else to hide behind. It's the Gryffindor courage in him that gets him to reach out and pick up the paper, his stomach twisting in anxious knots. He feels sick to his stomach even before he opens the paper and begins reading, but that feeling only gets worse with every second that passes after that. 

Boy-Who-Lost-His-Mind Wanted! the headline reads.

Harry J. Potter, fifteen years of age, was once the sole beacon of hope for all Witches and Wizards alike. It's with a heavy heart that we inform you this is no longer the case. Proceeding the events of Harry Potter's disastrous outburst in the Ministry, putting Albus Dumbledore and other students from Hogwarts in need of medical aid, a meeting took place to decide what would become of the missing boy. 

Minister Fudge (see the next page for his personal statement on the matter) sat with those of the Wizengamot to decide the fate of Harry Potter, who has been missing for two weeks exactly. With his destruction of parts of the Ministry and the added crime of Casting the Killing Curse to murder Azkaban Escapee, Bellatrix Lestrange, it shouldn't come as any surprise that Harry Potter has been deemed a threat. 

The meeting lasted a total of six hours before a decision and sentence was reached. Witnesses were called to make statements, and our sources say that Albus Dumbledore was not among them. His opinion on the matter remains a mystery, but his silence tells it all. 

Harry Potter has been declared Wanted for Arrest upon immediate interaction. Anyone with any contact with the criminal in question should immediately report it to the Aurors. He is armed with his wand and very dangerous. 

Being the sole survivor of the Killing Curse seems to have damaged Harry Potter's mental state. He has spread lies about He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named's return, as well as harmed a Ministry Official (see Delores Umbridge's statement on page 3). What has driven Harry Potter to such lunacy? Could it be a carnal urge to follow in his Godfather's footsteps? One must wonder at Sirius Black's escape and ask themselves if, perhaps, Harry Potter has aligned himself with him out of desperation for family. Sirius Black's whereabouts are still unknown, just as Harry Potter's, and there is a very real chance they are together, laying in wait to terrorize the world. 

Harry Potter's mental state has been in question for some time (see the last page for a quick summary of previous articles on Harry Potter) and it brings no one any joy to see him completely lose his mind. One might think he belongs in the Janus Thickey Ward rather than Azkaban, but Minister Fudge has determined otherwise. 

It's a dark day for many to face the very possible reality that the Hero they once adored might just become the next insane Dark Lord. 

(Pictured above, Harry Potter dueling Albus Dumbledore in the Ministry of Magic. Continue to page 2 for more on the story.) 

For a long time, Harry stares at the moving picture as it blurs in front of him. It's not the best moving photo, but he can clearly see himself waving his wand and making the tiled walls in the Ministry explode, pelting Dumbledore with the debris. Dumbledore is shouting, that much is obvious, and he's not attacking Harry in return, merely defending himself against everything that Harry throws at him. 

Except that's not Harry. It's his face, his body, his wand...but that's not him. That's not his maniacal glee in his eyes, not his cold sneer on his lips, not his harsh slashing of his wand. It's so clearly Voldemort that Harry thinks he might hurl. 

Surprisingly, what makes him feel the most ill is the dead body of Bellatrix in the background. That had been him. All him on his own. 

Witnesses were called to make statements, and our sources say that Albus Dumbledore was not among them. His opinion on the matter remains a mystery, but his silence tells it all, the paper had read. 

Harry feels...numb. 

He knows, of course, that there were consequences waiting in this paper, but he still struggles to process it. Wanted? He's just a boy! It shouldn't surprise him, considering the Ministry tried to have him killed last summer, but it does. 

Why wasn't Dumbledore there? Didn't he have anything to say on Harry's behalf? 

Does he? 

The picture in the paper gets even blurrier, and it takes him a moment to realize why. Tears are gathering in his eyes, hot and stinging. It only serves to anger him, and that's like un-stoppering a flowing tap. As sudden as that, his rage swirls within him like a furious storm, making his tears fall as his face twists. He glares so hard at the paper that he's not even really all that shocked when it abruptly catches fire and goes up in flame, burning hot and shrinking under his tight grip. 

Cool hands peel his own away from the paper carefully, the fingers trembling as they grip his wrists. Harry stiffly drops the paper, watching it burn to ash right there on his empty plate. He clenches his jaw and says nothing as Malfoy's wand waves over his burns, smoothing them over and healing them. He barely even feels it. 

Slowly, Harry looks up and pins his gaze on Lucius Malfoy. "Did you make a statement?" he asks softly, each word falling out with an edge. 

Mr. Malfoy swallows thickly. "I was expected to, but My Lord ordered me not to," he admits, seeming very relieved of that fact. "I bribed the right people to get out of doing so." 

"Were you there?" Harry demands. 

"I wasn't," Mr. Malfoy whispers, looking as pale as the ash on the plate. "I did have someone recount the meeting for me, if you're interested." 

Harry leans forward just a bit. "I want to know what witnesses gave statements." 

"Multiple Ministry workers who arrived on the scene to see you kill Bellatrix and then duel Dumbledore. S-Severus Snape was called in for his knowledge of you breaking into the Ministry to begin with. Dumbledore himself was requested, but the man refused," Mr. Malfoy says quietly. 

"Were any of the Weasleys there?" 

"The children present on the night of the events at the Ministry were not permitted by their parents to give statements. No Weasleys were there." 

"No, of course not," Harry whispers, releasing Mr. Malfoy from the weight of his gaze and choosing instead to stare at the ashes. Ridiculously, he waits for a baby Phoenix to rise up, but it doesn't. Of course it doesn't. "Brilliant. Well, you're all aiding a fugitive now. How does that feel?" 

No one answers him. 

He doesn't really expect them to. He doesn't blame them for their silence. He wouldn't know what to say if he was them, either. And it's not like he's in a good mood; he's so clearly furious that it's a wonder Dumbledore himself can't feel it. Maybe he can. Harry pictures him sitting up in alarm, looking around wherever he is, uneasy. 

Why wouldn't he be uneasy? After all, it's Harry Potter. A criminal. Wanted. The murderous, lying boy who believes Voldemort somehow returned from the dead. The next insane Dark Lord. 

Harry feels like he's about to be sick. 

"Potter," Malfoy says suddenly, making Harry snap his gaze over to him in a sharp look, but Malfoy doesn't flinch or back down. "Come with me for a fly. I'll loan you a broom." 

"I don't want to go for a fly, Malfoy," Harry snaps. 

Malfoy stands up and looks down his nose at him, arching an eyebrow. "Do it anyway." 

With that, Malfoy turns and exits the room with his usual pompous strut, except Harry can see just the barest tremble in his fingers. 

Harry gets up and follows him. 

They fly all day. Up in the air until the sun starts to set. No meals, no Voldemort, no Malfoys besides the one that's Harry's age. No games are played, they don't speak, and they don't chase each other; they simply fly over the Manor, over the Gardens, over the rolling hills and the expansive meadow Harry woke up in four days ago. 

As it starts to get dark, Harry touches down in that meadow, wondering if the place he lands is where he woke up. It's not likely, but that would be a bit poetic, wouldn't it? He puts his borrowed broom down in the grass and sits next to it, staring out at the sun dipping below the hill. 

Malfoy eventually joins him, sitting down next to him without even taking off his outer robe first. The silence is heavy, but for once, it's not because of their familiar dislike for each other. 

The flying has actually calmed him, though. Harry won't admit it to save his life, but it was a good idea on Malfoy's part to get him in the air. Up there, all his problems seem so small and trivial. Always has, even when his biggest problem was Voldemort wanting him dead. While flying, Harry can push all that away and focus on the rushing wind brushing along his cheeks and through his hair. 

His problems are a lot different now. So much so that it's still hard to fathom. Voldemort no longer wants him dead. Harry is a murderer. Malfoy is sitting next to him, not Ron or Hermione. Sirius is dead because of him. And Dumbledore… 

Harry doesn't know what to think. He really, truly doesn't. Yes, Dumbledore had been ignoring him all year, unwilling to listen to him or even meet his gaze. Yes, Harry unintentionally got the man sacked and nearly arrested, which was truly an accident that the Ministry jumped on quickly. And yes, Harry failed to keep Voldemort out of his head, even though Snape only made that problem worse. 

He knows he's mucked it all up this year. He's very aware. But he's not—he isn't bad. Surely Dumbledore can't think that? 

So what if he does? a voice whispers in his mind, the same voice that reminds him how much he liked killing. If he sees you in such a negative light, isn't that betrayal on his part? If he thinks you capable of evil, is his faith something you should desire? 

That's not fair. Dumbledore is many things, but he is a great Wizard. He is kind, and he helps people. He's helped Harry countless times throughout the years. 

Has he? the voice needles at him. Or has he lied to you? Has he kept your friends from contacting you when you needed them the most? Has he failed to help you throughout the year, pawning you off on Snape, who you aren't even sure you can trust? Has he forced you to stay with those Muggles who treat you so horribly? Don't lie to yourself, Harry. You're angry at him, and you have all rights to be. Great as he may be, he hasn't been any help to you this last year.

Maybe that's true, but that doesn't mean Harry wants to accept the rage he feels for the man. He doesn't want to be angry with Dumbledore. He wants to feel safe enough to return to him, and he wants to be able to trust him wholeheartedly. 

Yet, he sits right there and doesn't move. That's a betrayal from him right there, and he knows it. Someone innocent would return home as soon as they could, at whatever chance they got. But Harry's not innocent, is he? What is he supposed to say if Dumbledore asks him why he killed Bellatrix, if he regrets it, or worse, if he liked it? What is he supposed to say if Dumbledore asks him where he's been, who he's been with? What would Dumbledore say if Harry asked him about what Voldemort said?

Harry closes his eyes and inhales deeply, breathing in the crisp scent of fresh air. He exhales slowly, trying to stay calm. It's going to be fine. He just has to accept it. He's a wanted criminal now, and that's that, isn't it? He'd have to hide no matter who he did it with, and at least— 

No, Harry cuts that thought off violently. He will not be thankful for a damn thing Voldemort offers him. As if honesty and freedom is enough to garner Harry's gratitude, not when paired against years of history where Voldemort has tried to kill him. 

Inhale, exhale. Deep and slow. There we go. 

Harry breathes for a while. 

"What are you going to do?" Malfoy whispers, glancing over at him when Harry thinks to look. 

"I don't know," Harry admits softly. 

"It's—Potter, anyone with half a brain won't actually believe that you're dangerous. I mean, you are dangerous, but it's quite clear that you don't want to be, and that counts for something. If I know that, surely those who know you are aware of that." 

"Unfortunately, Malfoy, I think many in the Wizarding World have less than half a brain. That became quite obvious when they refused to believe me when I said Voldemort was back." 

"Yes, well, what about your simpering admirers? Your group of friends and that bastard, Dumbledore?" Malfoy looks over at him again, this time not quickly looking away when he sees Harry already staring at him. "You can't possibly think that they believe you're...evil now, or something." 

Harry huffs a harsh breath. "You know what, Malfoy? They just might. After all, Dumbledore has been ignoring me all year. I have been distant with all my friends, and I—I started seeming...different. Then I killed Bellatrix and—well, maybe they do think I'm evil now. Maybe they're right." 

Malfoy snorts, making Harry blink. "You? Oh, please, Potter. You are dangerous, that's true. But you're not evil. If you were, you would have killed me the moment you opened your eyes in this meadow and saw me standing before you." 

The world isn't split into good people and Death Eaters. We've all got both light and dark inside us. What matters is the part we choose to act on. That's who we really are. 

What matters is the part we choose to act on. That's who we really are… 

Harry feels his eyes itch with a fresh wave of tears that he won't let surface. Still, those words echo in his head in Sirius' voice. It soothes him, because for the first time, he understands what that means. 

Killing Bellatrix was the dark side of him, and yes, he chose to embrace that. He wanted to. But that doesn't mean he can't choose differently today than he did then. Scary as the thought is, he could choose differently each day, and it won't make the fact that he's capable of both go away. He could be either, but the important thing is that he gets to choose. 

Harry reaches up to grip his hair, tugging on the strands and letting out a wet breath. "Malfoy, how does someone decide what to—to do when the two choices they have are equally...wrong?" 

It hurts to admit that, but it's true. It's not just Light Side versus Dark Side anymore, and anyway, that's for fairytales where the Light always wins. No, it's something different now. It involves the fact that Harry's now wanted by the Ministry, and the way Dumbledore has kept things from him, and how Harry feels farther from anyone he used to depend on than he ever has. It involves the fact that Harry's now under protection, and the way Voldemort offers it even though he used to want Harry dead, and how Harry feels about the Killing Curse. 

It's all wrong, all of it in so many different ways, and it's also not. These are just things that are happening to him, and he has to deal with them. The wrongness comes from how he doesn't want to.

"Well, Potter," Malfoy muses, "I suppose if someone doesn't like the options they have, they'll just have to...get more options." 

"What if they can't?" 

"In that case, they should choose whatever option will let them survive. Surely you know that. Survival is sort of your thing, isn't it, Potter?" 

"Yes," Harry whispers, "but betrayal and cowardice is not." 

Malfoy hums. "Is it traitorous to want to live? Is it cowardly to adapt to the circumstances you face?" 

"If the price of those things is the safety of my friends and the world I've come to love, then yes."

"In that case, let me ask you this. How much is your survival worth to you, Potter?" 

Harry stares at the side of Malfoy's face, taking in his content expression, the surprisingly soft curve of his cheek that gives way to his sharp jaw. He stares, and without even meaning to, he hears his answer fall from his lips. 

"It's all I know." 

"Do you intend to unlearn it?" 

Harry feels something break and splinter inside his chest, and he chokes out, "I don't think I can." 

"No, I imagine you can't," Malfoy agrees, looking over at him intently. "I don't even believe that's your fault. You've been built for it from a mere infant, surviving something no one should. And every year at Hogwarts tested you in that aspect, strengthening your instinctive need to survive. It seems your choice has already been made for you, Potter." 

"I can't do this, Malfoy," Harry gasps out, squeezing his eyes shut and wishing the tears would come now, but they won't. Everything is so bloody still, inside him and around them. The wind has stopped, and Harry feels absolutely nothing. 

Malfoy's fingers gently prodding his hand makes Harry's eyes snap open, and for a long moment, they simply stare at each other. Then, softly, Malfoy murmurs, "You're already doing it." 

Yeah. 

Yeah, he is. 

Chapter Text

Two days later, Harry's no better off than the two days prior, still grieving his Godfather and questioning everything relentlessly, but now there's the added pressure of Draco Malfoy.  

They've gotten into a fight. 

This, on its own, is not that surprising. He and Malfoy bicker almost constantly. They verbally spar pretty much every time they speak to each other, and that's generally the only time that Harry speaks at all. Even if they do go out flying at least once a day now—a silent, yet necessary ritual that Harry won't be breaking anytime soon—they still have a go at each other any other time. Verbally, at least. 

They've both said harsh, cruel things. Not just here at the Manor, but for as long as they've known each other. Harry knows the gobshite Malfoy spews like he knows his own name, unlikely to forget it, and somehow it still riles him up every sodding time. 

Deep down, it's the weirdest form of comfort Harry's got in this bizarre new world of his. For as long as Malfoy is still being a prat to him, then he certainly can't be something formidable or evil, no matter how Mr and Mrs. Malfoy reacts to him. So, Malfoy being a git is actually something that Harry finds a bit of secret relief in. 

And yet. 

He doesn't even really remember what it is that Malfoy says. He's just especially pissed off today, which has something to do with his reoccurring nightmare where he kills Bellatrix—the night before, Sirius was there, shaking his head in disapproval. 

So, Malfoy says something. Probably about his friends, or his hair, or glasses, or intelligence, or any of the usual things Malfoy spouts off about with his trademark sneer. Harry says something back, Malfoy responds, they start arguing, and the next thing Harry knows...they're swinging fists. 

Someone should stop them. There's no doubt in Harry's mind that someone hears it, that someone is aware of them beating the shite out of each other. But no one comes, and Harry only gets angrier. 

In fact, he's so angry that he barely notices they're both bloody in the face and the knuckles. He doesn't hear what Malfoy snarls at him, doesn't even feel the pain from the hits that Malfoy does land. It's just the roaring in his ears, the anger beating a steady drum in his head, growing into a rapid tempo. 

Then, quite suddenly, Harry is very aware. 

He comes back to himself with a sensation like he's just been slapped. Because here is Draco Malfoy, laying flat on his back and gasping for air as Harry holds his forearm against his throat. Here is Draco Malfoy, normally so pale that he looks porcelain, turning a bright red as his eyes flutter. 

Here is Harry Potter, strangling the only person who has made him feel the least bit human in the past week, mindless in his ruthless brutality. 

Harry flings himself off of Malfoy so fast that he actually trips backwards. He hears Malfoy choke, gasping for air, and Harry copies the sound because he feels like he's experiencing the same exact thing. Malfoy stares at him, his chest heaving, his hand cradling his throat, his eyes oh so wide. 

And Harry? 

Harry runs. 

So, no, he's no better off than he was before, and in fact, he's somehow much worse. 

He avoids Malfoy after, roaming a long hall and slipping in through the first door that catches his interest. He's still dripping with blood, his split knuckles and the cut near his eyebrow. He must look a dreadful sight, but Voldemort doesn't seem to show much of a reaction to him. 

Harry doesn't actually mean to come across Voldemort. According to Malfoy, the 'Dark Lord had other matters to attend to, so he's away', which had suited Harry just fine. He, of course, spent many hours contemplating what Voldemort was off doing and how much blood would be spilt, but that didn't make Harry want him to come back any more. 

In short, he's not expecting to find Voldemort, believing him to be away, and he's certainly ill-prepared for the sight of him casually sitting in a chair with Nagini coiled up beside him. 

Stupidly, the first thing Harry blurts is, "I thought you were out." 

"I was," Voldemort confirms. He flicks his red gaze over Harry's haphazard state. "I have only just returned a mere few hours ago." 

"Did you kill people?" 

"Do you actually want me to answer that?" 

"I should hear it," Harry whispers harshly, awaiting the confirmation, ready for the brunt of yet another load of shame and guilt. 

Voldemort hums. "You seem to have plenty of other things going on at the moment. Are you damaged?"

Harry blinks. "Excuse me?" 

"Beyond superficially, I mean," Voldemort clarifies, flicking his fingers lazily and somehow making it clear that he means Harry's injuries. 

"Oh, er, no. Nothing broken or d-damaged," Harry mumbles, repressing a shudder. 

"I take this to mean that you and the Malfoy child are not...getting along." 

"You could say that." 

"Did you kill him?" Voldemort asks, cocking his head to the side. 

Swallow him, perhaps? says a hissing voice, soft yet grotesque, from near Nagini. 

"No! I didn't kill him," Harry snarls defensively, throwing a glare at Voldemort and Nagini. "Nor did I swallow him!" 

It takes Harry a second to realize that he never switched over from English, then even longer to realize that he's been talking to Voldemort in Parseltongue this whole time without even realizing it. He blinks rapidly in surprise. 

Voldemort smirks, though it's more of a flash of his teeth than anything. "Yes, you've been doing that unconsciously from the moment your eyes landed on Nagini. It is a lot easier to speak when there is a snake in the room, wouldn't you agree?" 

"Am I still doing it?" Harry asks. 

"Yes," Voldemort answers. 

Harry sighs. "I don't actually know how to...turn it off, not when no one is speaking English around me. Generally, I can note the difference between the two and switch between them." 

Why speak English at all? Nagini hisses, somehow sounding unimpressed by the idea that anyone would prefer to speak some other language than the one she knows. 

"Would you like me to heal your head for you, Harry? You're losing quite a bit of blood." Voldemort raises his wand patiently.

"No," Harry says sharply, frowning. "I'll be fine." 

Voldemort looks irritated, scowling, but he only says, "Very well. Take this instead." 

Bandages are Summoned and sent over to Harry, who takes them after a beat. Better than having Voldemort turn his wand on Harry, at least. As anyone would guess, Harry's not exactly eager for that. He just doesn't trust the man—monster, really—sitting across the room. 

Your scent is sweet, calling to me, Nagini hisses, raising her large head, her tongue flicking. 

Harry takes a solid step back. "Yeah, well, don't answer. I don't fancy myself your next meal, thanks."

"Nagini will not harm you," Voldemort says with his head tipping to the other side. 

Will not, Nagini agrees. 

Her coiled body starts to spill over itself as she starts slithering across the floor, a lot faster than she looks with her massive body. Harry is stepping back in alarm before he even realizes it, promises to not harm him or no. Before he can properly run away, though, she's sliding in a slow circle around his feet, making sure he can't move without stepping on her. 

He can feel some of her scales brush along his ankle, and it causes him to shudder. A strange ringing fills his ears, making him shut his eyes to try and hear it better. In the distance, somewhere far, it sounds like a high-pitched shrill of a kettle. The longer he listens, however, the more that sound shatters and softens into a strange hum, soft and melodic, almost soothing. Harry snaps his eyes open once it fades and stares down at Nagini warily. 

Do you hear the sound? Nagini hisses at him, her eyes flicking. The sound of our Master? I can taste it. 

"Nagini," Voldemort says softly, "I am not his Master, he is not my pet." 

Can he be mine? 

"No!" Harry bursts out, staring down at the snake incredulously. 

Nagini wraps a little more snuggly around his feet, then goes still. Pity. 

"Do not mind her," Voldemort tells Harry, seemingly very serious at the moment, despite the madness of all of this. "Nagini is...mischievous at the best of times. She had, of course, taken a natural dislike for you for the simple fact that I felt that way, and she did not appreciate knowing that you were in her mind, however briefly. In light of recent events, she has taken it upon herself to...reevaluate. It seems that she likes you, Harry Potter." 

Harry doesn't really know what to say to that, and he's got a very heavy snake laying across his feet, so he doesn't feel comfortable arguing that he doesn't want the snake in question to like him. 

Instead, he says, "It's not—it wasn't like I was in her mind. It was like...I was her." 

"Oh?" Voldemort eyes him in clear interest. "You felt as if you were Nagini?" 

"Yeah. I—I didn't know that I wasn't...me. It felt like I was her, and she was me, and we both wanted the same thing. To—" 

"Yes?" 

"You know what she did." 

"And you felt as if it was you who did it?" 

Harry swallows thickly. "Yeah." 

"I see." Voldemort looks over to the window that shows sparse trees swaying in the wind outside. It looks like there's a storm rolling in. Voldemort reaches up to tap his lipless mouth, his long finger smoothing back and forth in a weirdly human gesture to show him deep in thought. After a beat, he looks back at Harry and gestures to the chair right across from him. "Sit and wrap your wounds." 

For a moment, he resists listening to him on the fact that it's bloody Voldemort, but then he realizes he actually is fairly tired after his fight with Malfoy. His head is throbbing so hard that his vision goes in and out on the rare occasion. He sighs and carefully steps over Nagini's long length, unwilling to step on her and risk her deciding to dislike him after all. 

Harry eases into the chair opposite of Voldemort, feeling completely ridiculous as he does. Here he goes, sitting across from his enemy, the maniac who killed his parents and tried to kill him on multiple occasions, nothing bizarre about that, not at all. 

He huffs. Everything about all of this is bizarre. 

Voldemort doesn't say anything else, and Harry doesn't know what to say, so they both sit in complete silence as Harry wraps his knuckles. He gets lost in doing so, distracted by the sight of the bandage expanding over the blood, collecting it in little blots that spread. He can see his blood drying and flaking off around his split knuckles, his skin already trying to mend itself. Carelessly, he wraps his hand with detached interest, then does the other one the same exact way. 

Stupidly, he just presses gauze to his head, holding it down over the small gash near his eyebrow with a wince. It doesn't feel great, stings a bit, but he's certainly had worse—by the very man watching him right now, in fact. 

What a mad, mad world it is. 

Nagini comes slithering by, nearly scaring Harry half to death to see her in his peripheral. She brushes along his leg again, making that shrill noise pass in his mind until it turns to that wondrous hum before it passes entirely. She keeps going, though, brushing past Voldemort, who actually reaches out to pet her head as she goes by. Then she keeps on going until she's curled up in a shady corner. 

"Do you know?" Harry asks, his gaze fixed on Nagini. "Do you know why I—I felt like I was her that night?" 

"I do," Voldemort answers. He watches Harry closely, curiously. "Did Dumbledore have a theory?"

"Dumbledore…" Harry trails off, displeased by the tightness of his own voice, uncomfortable with the harsh wave of anger that hits him. He doesn't want to be angry at Dumbledore, he really doesn't, but he is. He is, and he doesn't know how to make it go away. It scares him. Remembering that night doesn't exactly help matters. "If Dumbledore had one, he didn't tell me what it was. He just—he sent me off with Snape, wouldn't explain anything. I was so angry, and he—he wouldn't even look at me…" 

"Do you think it was because he did not want you looking into his eyes, or that he did not wish to look into yours?" Voldemort asks softly. 

Harry shuts his eyes, his chest feeling tight, and he presses down harder on the gash to feel the pain, just so he can breathe. "I don't know." 

"The reason you felt as if you were Nagini was because, in a sense, you were." Voldemort gestures to the corner where Nagini appears to be napping. "I told you that I have many defenses in place, and she is one of them. As you do, she safeguards a piece of me, which means you two are connected." 

Harry's eyes snap open, and he feels a grip of distrust ensnare his heart. An ugly, harsh thing that makes him feel irrationally betrayed. "You said I was the only living one! You lied to me." 

"You are incorrect," Voldemort replies calmly, unaffected by Harry's obvious anger. "I said you were the first living one, I did not say you were the last. I can tell you this, Harry Potter. You are the only human, a one-of-a-kind, special…" 

"A mistake," Harry argues sharply, that distrust receding but leaving a faint press of suspicion in his mind. He narrows his eyes at Voldemort. "Are you going to try and make another human like me?"

Voldemort simply shakes his head. "No. The process, as I'm sure you know, is quite...destructive. I have no need for another, not when you exist already. A mistake you may be, but a wondrous one all the same." 

"Are you going to make more...defences?" 

"All magic comes with a price, Harry. This is not one I'm willing to pay, not if I do not wish to...lose something much greater. I have enough defenses."

"How many?" 

"Including you? Seven." 

Harry frowns. "Seems a bit excessive." 

"Not at all. Two are with me, while two others are hidden away. But two are missing, and one is already destroyed. It will take the destruction of all before I can ever be truly killed. Each of them are equally important as the next." 

"Three out of seven doesn't make your odds look good, Mr. Voldemort, Dark Lord, sir." 

"Only one is destroyed, Harry," Voldemort tells him in cruel amusement. "And that was a fluke. However, let's entertain the discussion of my odds. First, let us consider the two items I have hidden away. Do you know where they are?" 

"Well, no," Harry admits, scowling. 

Voldemort hums. "And the other two that are under my protection. Even if you were to leave and give yourself over to be killed, how easy do you think it would be for someone to kill Nagini, especially when there are so few true ways to do it?" 

Harry says nothing, clenching his jaw so hard that his teeth grind. Anger pulses hot in his chest. 

"The remaining two that are missing are inconsequential. One is lost over decades of time, only one other who knows of its whereabouts, and he is very much dead. The other...I believe that Dumbledore himself has that one." 

"You're not worried he'll destroy it?" Harry grits out, his heart slamming against his ribs. There's a swirl of fear and hope—so at odds with each other—in the pit in his stomach. 

Voldemort sneers. "He does not have the knowledge to do so; not yet, at least. He might very soon, and he may destroy it. But...not before it destroys him." 

Harry feels like he's been suddenly dunked in ice-cold water, frigid waves pressing in at all of his sides. "You're going to kill Dumbledore?" 

"No," Voldemort says with a glare as if he's actually annoyed by this, "I will not have the pleasure." 

"You just said—" 

"I will not destroy him, he will destroy himself." 

"No, he won't," Harry says, feeling himself relax in pure relief. "Dumbledore is too smart for that." 

"Perhaps," Voldemort allows. His eyes seem to glitter in satisfaction. "We shall see." 

Harry pulls his hand away from the gauze at his head, grateful that it just sticks there now. He clears his throat. "Am I still talking in Parseltongue?" 

"Yes." 

"Bugger." 

"You should go find Narcissa. She's quite exceptional at healing Spells. It's ironic, considering Bellatrix was horrible at them." 

"That's because she was horrid." 

Voldemort eyes him in cruel amusement again, smiling thinly. "She was a sadist and a masochist all at once, Harry Potter, but even she had her—" at this, he sneers, "—good qualities. Good by Dumbledore's standards, even. That was long ago, but who is to say that she wouldn't have changed into something better in the future? Who is to say that she did not have the potential to be something worthy of forgiveness from those who believe themselves inherently good?" 

"Stop it," Harry rasps. 

"I have offered you honesty, and I will not back out on that promise for your comfort. The simple truth is, despite her many faults in your eyes, she was a human capable of change. She may have. That chance was as likely as her staying just as she was. And you killed her." 

"She was a murderer! She killed Sirius, and—and tortured the Longbottoms, and—" 

"And you killed her," Voldemort says simply, his words firm but not forceful. 

Harry feels like he's about to vibrate right out of his chair, so angry and hurt and tightly wound that he can barely breathe. "I—I—" 

"She had life within her. Life comes with chances and choices, and no one knows the ones she would have made. You took that life and you snuffed it out without hesitation." 

"I didn't mean—" 

"Yes, you did. Do not lie to me. You killed her for revenge, because you were angry, because she killed your Godfather, because you wanted to. You don't even truly regret it, do you?" 

"No, I fucking don't!" Harry shouts, exploding out of the chair in between one blink and the next, his mind in an uproar. "I don't regret a damn thing! She deserved it, and given the bloody chance, I'd do it again! I'd snuff out her life with my bare hands!" 

This admission, of course, only makes Harry angrier once he registers it. Because it's true, and he's utterly horrified by it. Because he knows it's wrong, and he doesn't want it to be true at all. But it is. 

Harry lashes out, barely even registering the wand in his hand before the chair he was just sitting in goes sailing across the room. The rafters on the window start banging against the wall, and the books on the shelves come flying off. Harry turns around, utterly furious, and lashes out at Voldemort as well, even though he knows it's pointless. 

It is, of course. Voldemort disappears and materializes across the room, watching him with intense, ruby red eyes. Harry tosses a Spell at him, watches it get deflected, then tosses another. When it becomes apparent that Voldemort is not going to duel him, Harry whirls away with a snarl and takes his anger out on various items around the room. 

Multiple pillows are exploded. 

In the end, though, Harry finally comes to a stop. He's tired and weary, but his anger continues to boil within him. He wishes it would run out, just spill over until all of it would be gone. It doesn't, but in his stillness, the rage goes back to simmering right beneath the surface, manageable. 

Now, he's just vaguely irritated and more than a little embarrassed. He wants to leave, but Voldemort is standing by the door, and going seems like admitting defeat. So, instead, Harry moves back over to his toppled chair, picking it back up and plopping down into it with a grunt. 

Without a word, Voldemort flicks his wand. The mess around Harry snaps to life, going in reverse and flying all around him, putting itself back together the way it was before he ever lashed out. Despite everything, Harry watches the proceedings in a sense of awe—magic, no matter who casts it, no matter how long he's gone with knowing about it, still manages to be amazing. 

"Why did you not kill the Malfoy boy?" Voldemort asks him as he moves back over to the chair. 

Or swallow him? Nagini adds, completely unmoved from her corner. 

Harry ignores her and answers Voldemort instead, heaving a sigh. "Because I don't want to kill him." 

"He is Bellatrix's nephew." 

"That's no fault of his own. I know better than most that you can't help who you're related to." 

"Very true," Voldemort agrees. "But it was you who said that you've had disdain for each other for the past five years. He has bullied you, has he not?" 

"Well, yes, but I've given as much as I've gotten. And besides, just because he's horrible doesn't mean I should kill him." 

"Bellatrix was horrible." 

Harry digs his nails into the leather arm of the chair, frustrated. "I know, alright? It—it doesn't make sense. I get that. But it's just—it's different." 

"I have a theory, if you wish to hear it," Voldemort offers, leaning back in his chair. 

"Oh, I get to hear theories now, do I?" Harry mutters before he can think to stop himself, scoffing. "That'll be a bloody first." 

He blanches immediately after he registers his own bitter words. Harry doesn't want to acknowledge the anger towards Dumbledore, let alone show it to Voldemort of all people. He grimaces, shame coursing through him, clogging his throat. 

"I told you, I offer something Dumbledore has never given you," Voldemort tells him. "Honesty and freedom. I intend to keep my promise. Now, do you want to hear my theory or not?" 

Harry sighs. "Alright, give it a go, then." 

"I think," Voldemort muses, "you find it easier to lose your morals when it comes to people who have wronged you in an inexcusable way. Bellatrix killed your Godfather, so you hated her, so it was easy to kill her. I killed your parents and tried to kill you, so you hate me, so you wish you could kill me. The Malfoy boy, however, is just that: a boy. He would have to do much more to get you to hate him fully, so even with your history, you would not wish to harm him because, in your mind, it is a reflection of you rather than him. Hating Bellatrix and hating me is acceptable, hating him is not." 

"So it really just boils down to how good I am, then?"

"I did not say that. Think of it as a spectrum. At one end, pure evil; at the other, pure good. Some would say that people cannot land on the exact ends of said spectrum. Your morals or lack of, however, dictate where, precisely, you land. That does not mean that you cannot move along that scale, that your morals cannot shift, that you can be where you have always been on that spectrum and still do, as you would call it, monstrous things." 

We've all got both light and dark inside us. What matters is the part we choose to act on. That's who we really are…

Harry releases a shaky breath, gripping the chair hard enough to hurt. "So, you don't think I'm—I'm like you?" he whispers. 

It's completely mental, but here he is, borderline in tears and asking Voldemort to sodding reassure him that he's not evil. He shouldn't care about the word of a madman, but he needs to know, needs the answer the way he needed it from Dumbledore. He feels like he'll splinter apart and melt away to drift along the wind without it. Where Dumbledore wouldn't answer, Voldemort does. 

"I think that you are your own person, Harry Potter," Voldemort tells him calmly, his gaze sharp and intense on him. "All people are capable of many things, but very few are capable of great things—no matter if they're good or bad. I may have unwittingly given you a piece of myself, but you still have your free will to be who you are. I am me, and you are you. The similarities and differences do not dictate what choices you'll make; you do that." 

Harry exhales shakily, his eyelids fluttering. He doesn't know if that's a comfort or not, but he's glad to have any answer. At least Voldemort answered.

"I don't want to be like you," Harry admits in a croak. It's one of his biggest fears, and he's just laying it right at Voldemort's feet. 

Voldemort hums. "I am aware. As I've just said, you decide for yourself who you will be. If you have no desire to be like me, then you will not be." 

That's the thing, that voice in his head whispers, taunting him. You already are like him in some aspects, aren't you? Wanting to kill, liking how it felt. As much as it terrifies you, the desire for it still remains. 

Harry opens his eyes. "Are you capable of change?"

"I believe everyone is, so I must be as well. In fact, I've proven that to be true recently, as I've changed in wishing you dead." 

"But you'll always be…" 

"I choose to be," Voldemort says. 

"I think you land on the end of the spectrum," Harry croaks, blinking rapidly against the heat in his eyes. 

Voldemort watches him. "Perhaps." 

"I want to leave, to go home." 

"So, go." 

Harry makes a small sound in the back of his throat, frustrated and scared and defeated. "I can't." 

"I know," Voldemort says softly. "I am privy to your dreams. I see them when you sleep. Every time, Dumbledore begs you not to kill Bellatrix, and every time, you cast the Curse anyway." 

"You see my dreams now?" Harry blurts out, sitting up straighter in his seat, feeling...well, violated. 

Voldemort glares at him. "It is not my choice to do so. Do you think I wish to stand there, as you, feeling your guilt and shame? It is not my own! It is not how I feel." 

"Wait," Harry mutters, "you're in my dreams the same way I—I was in your mind?" 

"Yes," Voldemort says tersely. "That is not all. By possessing you and looking deeply into your mind, I seem to have...strengthened our connection. Where it affected me very little before, it does so more frequently now. I feel your intense emotions, Harry. I know exactly how angry you are." 

Harry freezes. "It's—it's not your anger?" 

Voldemort is back to being cruelly amused again, borderline delighted, really. "Oh no, Harry, that anger is all yours. I have little to be angry about as of right now. As I said, what you feel and what you do are entirely yours. You'll know when it is me, I assure you. You'll be able to tell now." 

"Can we close the connection?" Harry asks desperately, his eyes wide. 

"Not without killing you, no." 

"I don't want it." 

"Unfortunately," Voldemort murmurs, "this is not something I can offer you freedom from. If nothing else, take comfort that I have no choice in this matter, either." 

"Will you see all of my dreams? Feel everything I do?" Harry asks, openly uncomfortable. 

Voldemort shakes his head. "No, I will not, no more than you will in regards to me. As I've said, you are one-of-a-kind. This has never happened before, so I do not know every detail." He looks a little annoyed about that. "I do believe, however, that it is solely spikes of...vibrant emotions that spill over. Anger, hatred, bursts of excessive joy. We can tell which is our own and which is the other, and I do not believe that will change. Dreams, however… I am unsure how those work, admittedly." 

"Do you even sleep?" Harry blurts out. 

"I meditate," Voldemort offers calmly. 

Harry flops back in his chair, shoving his fingers through his hair, wrinkling the bandages around his knuckles. He lets out a delirious huff of laughter and stares at Voldemort in disbelief. 

"This is...mad." 

"It is extraordinary, Harry. Nothing like this has ever happened, and likely never will again." 

Harry stares at him. "You said you feel my guilt and shame in the dreams." 

"I do," Voldemort admits with a sneer. 

"Do you feel any of your own?" 

"Not in a very, very long time." 

Harry nods, averting his eyes. "I don't know if I can do this. Any of this. It's not...me." 

Voldemort gestures to the door. "You may go whenever you wish. I will not keep you here."

"I want other options," Harry whispers, flicking his gaze around the room as he wracks his brain for any idea, any plan. "I want—I…" 

"Yes?" Voldemort presses. 

"I want…" Harry trails off. He doesn't think there's anything he wants that Voldemort can give to him. Instead, what he needs is a push. A reason to go, something that overrides everything else. "I want you to tell me if you killed people." 

Voldemort arches a naked eyebrow. "While I was away?" he clarifies. 

"Yes," Harry says sharply. "Tell me h-how you did it, what their names were. That's what I want." 

"Well, Harry, I can't give you what you want this time, unfortunately," Voldemort says simply. "On this trip, I killed no one." 

"I don't believe you." 

"I am not lying." 

Harry slams his hand down to the arm of the chair and surges forward. "Why do you hate them, the Muggles? Why?" 

"Why don't you?" Voldemort cocks his head, examining Harry curiously. "I saw what they did to you, how it's affected you. You hate those Muggles. Why don't you hate them all?" 

"They're not all bad," Harry grits out. 

Voldemort hums. "Perhaps not. They are, however, inferior to us." 

"How? Because they can't do magic? Isn't the fact that they live unhindered without magic a sign of their strength?" Harry challenges. 

"We are superior beings." 

"Some of them have magical children. Can you explain that? How that happens if—if they're so inferior? Or how some magical people have Squibs?" 

Voldemort narrows his eyes. "Are you asking to debate with me, Harry Potter?" 

Harry tilts his chin up. "Yeah. You know what? Yeah, I am. You know my beliefs are the opposite of yours. Change my mind, if you can." 

"Ah," Voldemort says, seeming to understand all of a sudden. He smirks. "I see. If you wish for a debate, Harry, you shall have it. And I'll even offer you the same chance to change my mind, if you can." 

"I don't think you'll actually listen to me." 

"I would not offer if I did not plan to do so. I have not lied to you, Harry Potter, and I will not." 

"Fine," Harry snaps, irrationally angry that Voldemort won't lie to him, even angrier that he's pleased by that. He leans forward some more, intending to debate his heart out. 

Voldemort holds up a hand, halting him. "I have given you the opportunity to hold a discussion with me on a topic I have no positive feelings for. We will have it when you are calmer and not a moment before. For now, you should go rest." 

Harry blinks. "What?" 

"Go," Voldemort says shortly, flicking his wand towards the door. It flies open in such a clear dismissal that Harry stands up in pure reflex. 

In the end, it's the strangest feeling of disappointment he has that urges him to go. He should not want to stay in Voldemort's presence, not even to argue with him. And yet, being dismissed feels weirdly...well, Harry refuses to acknowledge how that feels to him. 

At the doorway, he stares out into the hall and quietly asks, "Am I still speaking Parseltongue?"

"Yes," Voldemort confirms. 

Yes, Nagini agrees. 

Harry curses under his breath and marches out of the room, as frustrated as ever. The door slams shut behind him, and he pretends that he doesn't care.

Running into Malfoy is an accident. 

He's just marching up the hall to the room he's been staying in, only to collide right into Malfoy. They back off and stare at each other for a long moment. Malfoy has clearly healed his face and hands, but his throat has a distinct bruise on it that makes Harry's stomach lurch with guilt. 

"Merlin, Potter," Malfoy snaps, "why didn't you heal yourself, you berk?" 

"Didn't know the Spells," Harry mumbles. 

Malfoy sighs and rolls his eyes, reaching out to snag Harry's arm and drag him into his room. Harry hasn't been in here since the first day where he napped in Malfoy's bed, so he just awkwardly hovers in the middle of the room while Malfoy grabs his wand from his nightstand. 

Without a word, Malfoy invades his space and ruthlessly yanks the gauze right off Harry's brow, grimacing as he Vanishes it before it hits the floor. He doesn't ask for permission, nor does he react to Harry leaning back warily when he brandishes his wand. Instead, Malfoy just waves his wand. 

"Episkey," he says sternly. 

Harry feels the small gash on his eyebrow grow very warm, then very cold. When it feels normal, he reaches up to touch it, and it feels healed. Malfoy reaches out to grab his hand, but Harry shakes his head a little vigorously. 

"Not the hands," Harry says quietly. 

Malfoy stares into his eyes, searching his gaze, then finally says, "Alright." 

Harry pulls his hand from Malfoy's grasp and gestures to his neck. "Why didn't you heal that?" 

"Well, it serves as a reminder not to get into a fight with Harry Potter, I suppose," Malfoy drawls. He smirks at Harry. "Relax, Potter, it doesn't hurt very much. You haven't killed me yet." 

Harry frowns in response to Malfoy's words, feeling more guilt rise up and threaten to choke him. Without much thought, he finds himself reaching with his fingers to touch the bruise, just lightly brushing the pads of his fingers over it. Malfoy holds very still, not saying a word. 

His skin is soft. Harry doesn't know why that surprises him, why he expected it to be hard like glass. Usually, it's pale, but now it's decorated in one purple line—just where Harry's forearm pressed against it for too long. 

"Malfoy," Harry murmurs, "I'm—I'm sorry." 

"Don't fret. I bruise easily," Malfoy replies, his voice just slightly strained. 

Harry blinks, feeling like a Spell has been broken. He drops his hand and clears his throat. "Still, I should have never—it shouldn't have gotten that far, Malfoy. I should have…" 

"Don't be an idiot, though I am aware of how impossible that is for you," Malfoy tells him, his voice smooth and snooty once again. "I'm fairly sure it was I who started it. Though, right now, I can't really remember. But, knowing me, it was probably me. Nothing to worry about." 

"Are you...trying to reassure me, Malfoy?" Harry asks incredulously, blinking in pure surprise. 

Malfoy glares at him. "Yes, well, you try dealing with Harry Potter when he resembles a kicked crup. What else am I supposed to do? You look like you're about to cry; over hurting me, no less." 

"I'm not going to cry, you prat, I'm just…" Harry sighs and reaches up to rub at his forehead. "I might've killed you, you know, and I suppose I'm not...dealing with it well, alright?" 

"Alright, enough of this," Malfoy suddenly declares, whirling on the spot and marching over to his bed. He gestures at the open end right across from him, his eyes narrowed into slits. "I will coddle you no longer, Potter. Sit. Now." 

Harry balks, his mouth dropping open. "Coddle me? When have you even come close to—" 

"Sit!" Malfoy interrupts harshly. 

"Prat," Harry grumbles, glaring at him as he moves over and plops down where Malfoy points to. 

Malfoy nods, apparently satisfied, and he looks right at Harry. "Potter, did you want to kill me?" 

"Well, er, no…" 

"And Bellatrix?" 

"I don't want to talk to you about this, Malfoy," Harry says shortly, his stomach dropping. 

"How unfortunate. Humor me anyway." 

"Yes, alright? I did. I wanted to." 

Malfoy stares at him for a beat, then nods. "And that's my point. Bellatrix is dead, I am not. You wanted to kill her, you didn't want to kill me. Simple, easy Arithmancy, Potter. You're not some monster that's out of control, always on the verge of losing it and killing someone. You chose to kill her, just like you chose to pull away from me, even when you were very angry." 

"Is that supposed to make me feel better?" Harry asks weakly, feeling somehow worse. "You're saying I just—just up and decided to become a murderer, like I sat down and thought about it in length over tea that morning!" 

"No, I know it's more complicated than that," Malfoy argues, though his tone is serious. "I'm only saying you are in charge of your own actions, so if you don't want to kill me, you won't. You're not a threat unless you make yourself one." 

"But I'm so—I get so, so angry, Malfoy," Harry chokes out, his words escaping him in a plea. He stares at Malfoy helplessly, desperate. "So angry that I can't think or—or control it, control me. I nearly killed you because I was so angry, and that's dangerous. It is, I am, and it scares me!" 

Malfoy opens his mouth, looking lost, then closes it. He can't help him, Harry knows that. Not that he even would if he could. Malfoy is Harry's age and doesn't know a damn thing about what Harry's life is like. He can't help. Maybe no one can. 

"But why?" Malfoy blurts out, and Harry blinks in surprise. "Why are you so angry, Potter?" 

"Because!" Harry shouts. "Sirius is dead because of me! Same with Cedric! My parents? Dead. My Muggle relatives? They treat me like a bloody house-elf! Dumbledore? Apparently he's been lying to me for who knows how long, and Voldemort is somehow the one who's being honest! I'm a wanted criminal, even though I never—I wasn't supposed to be like this, Malfoy! I wasn't supposed to be a murderer, or stay with your family, or—or...any of this. And I don't—I have no idea what I'm doing." 

"Potter," Malfoy says very, very carefully. 

Harry shakes his head. "If you think that's all I have to be angry about, you're wrong. Did you know that, to defeat Voldemort, I have to—to...die?" 

Malfoy rears back, blinking in shock. "What? That can't be true. Make it make sense, Potter!" 

"I—I can't explain it, exactly," Harry snaps, scowling at him, "but it's true. I know it is, somehow, and Voldemort's all but confirmed it in every way possible. Don't you think there's a reason that he's hiding me here, protecting me? If I die, there's a chance that he could—maybe, and that's a really big maybe—be killed one day." 

"Merlin and Morgana both, Potter," Malfoy breathes out, his eyes wide, "that's...it's…" 

"Mental, I know." Harry tries to squash the rise of hurt and guilt in his chest, but it comes anyway, joined with rage. "Want to know the most insane part, Malfoy? Dumbledore knows. He already knows, and he hasn't told me, hasn't… It's like he didn't think I'd do it, but I would. I'd let him or anyone else kill me—he'd only have to say the word, to say the truth, but he clearly didn't trust that I would. He didn't—he saw something wrong in me, and he didn't trust me, Malfoy. It's like he knew I wouldn't be strong enough, knew I'd kill Bellatrix, but if only he'd helped me and explained it all...maybe…" 

Malfoy lets out a slow breath. "You're just...scared."

"Yeah," Harry rasps, "yeah, I am." 

For a long time, they sit in complete silence, not looking at each other. Malfoy stares hard at his silk sheets, his expression smooth and open. Harry simply stares at him, not looking for anything, just...looking. Because why not? 

It's easy for Harry to forget how close to grown men they are now. Sometimes, in Harry's mind, Malfoy is still that baby-faced, sneering eleven-year-old who wore his hair out of his face and strutted around like a pillock—not that he still doesn't strut, mind. But now, looking at Malfoy, he's reminded that they're a lot older than when they first met. 

Malfoy is sixteen, and he certainly looks it. He's taller than Harry, always has been, the wanker. There's something delicate about him, though, that Harry just doesn't have. Despite Malfoy's insults and sneers, when he's not tossing them about, he looks...well, he looks a bit soft, actually. His skin looks soft, his hair looks soft, his eyes look soft. If Harry didn't know him, if he thought that Malfoy was a stranger, he'd probably expect Malfoy to offer a kind smile before a mean word because that's how he looks. His hair may be the color of his father's, and his words may be as harsh as his father's, but he's picked up his mother's seemingly gentle looks.

Harry sort of wants to see him smile, curious to see what that would look like. Pretty, probably, his mind scoffs. Just like the rest of the prat. 

"How did it feel?" Malfoy suddenly asks, making Harry blink. Malfoy takes a deep breath. "When you killed Bellatrix, how did it feel?" 

Harry feels like all of the air has been punched out of him. "Malfoy, I don't—" 

"Again," Malfoy says softly, "indulge me." 

"It—it felt…" The words get lodged in Harry's throat, and he chokes on them for a second while Malfoy waits patiently, not pushing him. He has to close his eyes to force the words out. "Malfoy, it felt like nothing you could ever imagine. It—it shouldn't feel the way it did. It was—it was—" 

"Alright," Malfoy cuts in, saving him from trying to elaborate, "and how did it feel when you were choking me, Potter?" 

Harry jolts in alarm, blinking, frowning. "What? It wasn't like that. It was—I was just so angry. I didn't even know I was choking you. Everything just went...blank, sort of."

Malfoy nods, humming. "That just proves my earlier point, you know. Maybe you are dangerous when you get angry, fine, but that doesn't make you a monster. People just snap sometimes, Potter." 

"Most people can control it or calm down." 

"Yes, well, you were always a bit dim, weren't you? And it's not like you don't have plenty to be peeved off about, even I'll admit that." 

"I don't want to be this angry," Harry growls out. 

"And I don't want you to wear those stupid glasses, but we all have things to come to terms with, don't we?" Malfoy arches an eyebrow at him. "It's like this, Potter. You're angry, you're going to continue to be angry, but the sooner you realize that only you can control how you react to that anger, the better off you will be. Trust me, I would know." 

Harry scowls at him. "Would you?" 

"Believe it or not," Malfoy drawls, "I've been scolded for my...outbursts, usually in regards to you. Potter, I don't know if you know this, but you piss me off as much as I piss you off." 

"I gathered that." 

"One can never be sure. You are a bit of an oblivious idiot, you know." 

"Yeah, well, you're an arse," Harry grumbles. 

Malfoy shrugs. "I never said I wasn't." 

"Hey, Malfoy?" 

"What, Potter?" 

"Thanks," Harry says, refusing to look over at him.

Malfoy doesn't say anything for a long time, at least not until Harry meets his gaze again. He's looking at Harry almost curiously. "You're a bit like Exploding Snap, did you know?" 

"What?" Harry blinks, startled. "How?" 

"You're all the cards," Malfoy informs him seriously, not even blinking, not sounding mocking in the least. "They're all capable of exploding, but no one really knows what sets them off, or which card it's going to be. That's like you." 

Harry snorts. "Oh, and in this metaphor for people being games, what's Voldemort?" 

"A grand game of Wizarding Chess against Dumbledore, I think," Malfoy muses. 

"Oh?" Harry swallows around the lump in his throat, his heart racing. "And who's winning?" 

Malfoy looks at him, just looks at him. "Well, Potter, seeing as you're the Dark Lord's knight now, I'd wager that it's not Dumbledore." 

"I'm not Voldemort's knight." 

"Aren't you?" 

"I don't mean to be. I don't want to be," Harry whispers urgently, earnestly. 

"Well, your only other option is being Dumbledore's pawn," Malfoy says slowly, squinting like he can actually see the game of chess right in front of him. "You'd have to sacrifice yourself, of course. Are you going to do that?" 

Harry snaps his mouth shut. He hates how weirdly accurate this analogy is. Finally, he manages to croak, "I don't want to talk about this anymore." 

Malfoy seems to allow it this time. He hums and glances over at his window. "You know, in this metaphor, I'm definitely Quidditch." 

"What? No, you're not," Harry says with a snort, his lips curling up despite himself. 

"I am," Malfoy argues, but he sees Harry's small smile, and one of his own graces his lips for the barest of second, gone too quickly. 

Pretty, Harry's mind muses. Just as I thought. 

Chapter Text

The next day passes sluggishly, though without much interference. Mr. Malfoy does stop by to drop off the things he managed to steal from the Ministry, which Harry is thankful for. 

It's his entire trunk, still locked. Mr. Malfoy must not have looked through it, as wild as that thought is. If he had, he might have had something to say about the Invisibility Cloak in there. The Marauders Map is carefully hidden, tucked beneath books and clothes. Even his Firebolt is in there, shrunk down but there all the same. 

For a long time, Harry just sits on the floor and looks at his things. Touches them, holds them, stares at them. He picks up books he's held multiple times before, and he strokes their pages carefully, wondering if he's the same person he was when he first touched them. He cradles the Invisibility Cloak in his lap, pushing his face against the silky fabric, trying his hardest not to cry and doing so anyway. 

It's the photo album that gets him, though. Seeing his father and mother's smiling faces sets him off. He's so angry all over again, but only at himself this time. He wonders if he can get furious enough to burn himself alive, and he relishes in the thought. 

Guilt, above all else, is the worst feeling in the world, second only to anger. 

Harry feels an abundance of both. 

He skips lunch, locking himself in his room with his things, alternating between crying and staring blankly ahead, and no one disturbs him. It's a good thing they don't, because he's not so sure he could control himself this time. Lashing out sounds brilliant right about now, actually, and it's a wonder he doesn't tear this room apart in his rage. 

But there's something else that demands his attention. It's this hollow feeling in his chest that seems to suck him in. It dries up his tears, makes him feel nothing at all, and it seems to stop time. It could be seconds or days—though, it's likely just hours—that he sits there, his Cloak laid over his lap as he stares blankly ahead. 

That's how he falls asleep. 

When he wakes, it's to a gentle touch on his shoulder. He jerks, scrambling for his wand and lifting it as he blinks blearily. It's in just enough time to see Mrs. Malfoy take a solid step back with pure fear flashing across her face. 

"Mrs. Malfoy," Harry mumbles, feeling foolish. 

"Narcissa, dear," Mrs. Malfoy says softly, dragging her gaze away from Harry's wand to look at his face. Her eyes flick to his Invisibility Cloak briefly, then jerk back up to meet his eyes. "I don't mean to disturb you, but you've missed both Breakfast and Lunch. I'd hoped you would join us for Dinner?" 

Harry sighs. "Not really hungry, honestly." 

Mrs. Malfoy purses her lips, something like displeasure flashing through her eyes for a mere second, then she smiles. "Harry, if it is not so bold for me to say, I admit that it...upsets me to think of you not eating." 

"Pretty bold of you, actually," Harry muses with a snort, ignoring her small flinch. "Don't worry, I like it. I'd prefer it, really." 

"Then allow me to be bolder," Mrs. Malfoy says, taking a deep breath and drawing herself up to her full height, suddenly seeming a lot more imposing than mere seconds before. "Frankly, Harry, your behavior is cause for worry. You eat as little as you can get away with, seclude yourself in this room, and spend far too little time outside. Now, you are in my home, under my care, and it upsets me to think that you are wasting away in my presence." 

Harry gapes up at her in shock. She truly is intimidating at this moment, nothing like the demure woman who ate through multiple moments a mother would prefer to interrupt. She's never spoken to him like this, blunt yet polite, straightforward yet careful. 

He feels...well, he feels scolded, actually. It's not an entirely new feeling because Mrs. Weasley tends to have that same effect, but he never expected it from Narcissa Malfoy of all people. 

And he can tell she's being honest. She actually—bloody hell, she's actually upset that he's not happy here or taking care of himself. 

"Oh, er, sorry," Harry mumbles, scrambling to his feet as he reaches back to scratch his head in a nervous gesture. "I'll...have dinner then, I suppose."

Mrs. Malfoy eyes him for a second, her gaze flicking over him critically. "If your wish is to not eat in mine or Lucius' presence, you are more than welcome to eat in your room." 

"Oh. That's—" 

"On the condition that Draco eats with you." 

Harry pauses, frowning at her. "Mrs. Malfoy, no offense, but I don't care about who I'm eating around. It's not the food or the company. It's just that my appetite is practically gone these days." 

"You must have a lot on your mind," Mrs. Malfoy muses, her eyes strangely softer. 

"You could say that," Harry admits. 

Mrs. Malfoy smiles, and it looks more real than any smile she's ever given him. "If you wish to talk about anything at all, Harry, I will listen." 

"I want to ask you why you're so scared of me," Harry whispers, holding her gaze. 

"Ah," Mrs. Malfoy says delicately, "you lack general subtlety, Harry, did you know?" 

"Malfoy has made me aware. Er, Draco, that is." 

"Draco would. He also lacks subtlety, at least when it comes to you. Always has." 

"Really?" Harry asks, surprised and strangely delighted by that. 

Mrs. Malfoy's lips twitch. "Indeed. He's as subtle as a Hippogriff about how he feels about you."

"Well, dislike and hatred is very hard to hide, I've learned," Harry mutters. 

"I suppose," Mrs. Malfoy allows, only looking more amused. "And you, Harry? Do you hate my son?" 

"No. I thought I did, but no." 

"You just dislike him." 

Harry eyes her warily. "I don't want to offend you." 

"I assure you, you will not. Speak freely." 

"Well, Malfoy—er, Draco has always been a prat to me. A bully, really. I mean, before all this, I would have believed that I did hate him, that's how much we don't like each other. We always fight, and he's always saying terrible things. He's a git." 

"So you dislike him," Mrs. Malfoy repeats, her words almost a question but somehow...something else. 

"I—well, I mean…" Harry trails off, uncertain. Does he dislike Malfoy? Before, he would be able to say he does, but as of right now...well, Malfoy is the only thing that makes some of these days bearable, as mad as that is. If not for him, Harry probably wouldn't come out of this room at all, and then he'd really just waste away. 

Mrs. Malfoy hums. "I see." 

Harry blinks. "What? See what? I didn't answer."

"You did. Now, to answer your earlier question, I was scared of you because you are a very powerful, young Wizard who killed my sister and could, should you so wish, kill my son with absolutely no one to stop you. That is why, Harry." 

"Was?" Harry asks, his mouth going dry. 

"Was," Mrs. Malfoy confirms, looking right at him with that calm, real smile of hers. "I find myself suddenly sure that, no matter what you do from this point on, you will not kill Draco. Am I wrong?" 

Harry stares at her, releasing a breath that rattles out of him. "No," he rasps, "you're not wrong."

Mrs. Malfoy hums, pleased. "Thank you. Now, why don't we go down for Dinner, yes? After, I could show you some very old pictures of Sirius when he was just a boy, if you wish." 

"Yeah," Harry mumbles, "that's—I'd like that." 

Sirius, as a child, was adorable. In most pictures, he's giggling or rolling his eyes. In some, he's smiling at a younger boy—Regulus, Mrs. Malfoy tells him when he asks. But, as the boy in the pictures grows up, the less pleased he seems, and the angrier he visibly gets—his giggles turn to scowls, and his smiles turn to sneers that the younger boy returns. 

Harry asks to see the pictures even after Sirius stops being in them. He watches Regulus grow up, looking the perfect picture of a Pureblood son. In many pictures, his mother—and Sirius' mother—looks extremely proud of him in a way she never did when she looked at Sirius. Harry comes to hate this boy, pointless as it is to do so. 

Alongside Regulus, there are pictures of Mrs. Malfoy when she was younger. She seems to try and flip past pictures of a younger Bellatrix and another girl who looks just like her, but Harry reaches out to catch her wrist, staring at the moving photo intently. 

In it, Bellatrix is smiling. Laughing. Her eyes bright, her lips curling up sweetly, looking heartbreakingly pretty, so much so that Harry almost can't recognize her. The beautiful younger version of Bellatrix smiles and laughs brightly, turning her gaze right towards him, the happiness plain in her eyes. 

She had life within her. Life comes with chances and choices, and no one knows the ones she would have made. You took that life and you snuffed it out without hesitation. 

He can see it here in this version of her, that life that Voldemort was talking about. Bellatrix looks positively vibrant in these photos, not so harsh and insane, not so wicked and careless. She looks like a person, a real person, and somewhere along the way, Harry has forgotten that. The woman he killed, in his memories, doesn't feel like a real person—just a caricature of her madness. But this, looking at this, it reminds him that he has killed someone, a person, a human being who is more than just what his mind has come up with as a defense. 

And, horribly, he still doesn't regret it. 

"Who is this?" Harry murmurs, letting his finger trail to the other girl in the picture. 

Mrs. Malfoy releases a slow breath. "That is Andromeda, my other sister. She was disowned by the family for falling in love with a Muggle-born. She chose to be with him rather than choosing her family. It has been many years since I saw her." 

"Do you miss her?" Harry asks curiously, looking up at her expectantly. 

Malfoy, who has been quietly reading over in the chair across from them, looks up from his book. There's a curious glint in his eyes as well. 

"Sometimes, yes," Mrs. Malfoy says softly. "When we were very young, it was Dromeda who looked after me. Bella was always too taken with other things to worry about me." 

"That doesn't surprise me," Harry admits. 

"Mm, well, I should tell you...as distant as she could seem, Bella was never cruel, not when we were younger. She was kind to me. She stood up for me when people would say terrible things about me. She did the same for Dromeda before she met Edward."

"He was the Muggle-born?" 

"Yes," Mrs. Malfoy confirms. 

Harry stares at her for a long beat. "Was he kind to her? Did he treat her well? Did he love her?" 

There's a long, long pause. Malfoy shifts in his seat, giving up all pretenses of reading as he stares right at his mother. Harry takes note of that in his peripheral, of Malfoy's curiosity. Mrs. Malfoy, on the other hand, has gone very still and seems to be searching for some way to not answer this question. But she doesn't really have a choice, does she? Harry asks, so she has to tell him unless she can distract him, and it's apparent that he won't be, not now. 

He knows how hard this must be for her, ridiculous as it is. She won't lie to him. Can't, not with his current status in this household. Harry could do whatever he wanted to get the answers, even demand Voldemort to do it for him if he is determined to know, and Mrs. Malfoy doesn't know him well enough to realize that he'd never do that. 

To tell him the truth, though, would be admitting something she would rather not, Harry suspects. 

That Muggle-borns are capable of kindness, capable of treating Purebloods well, capable of loving. Harry already knows this, and it's pure stupidity to think otherwise. That doesn't mean everyone shares his belief. To say anything kind about this Muggle-born is to hint that perhaps her sister didn't betray the family, but made a decision out of love while her family betrayed her. 

"Yes," Mrs. Malfoy finally says, her words quiet and resigned. "Edward was a good man to her, and I imagine he still is today." 

Harry ducks his head to hide his grin. 

"Don't look so pleased, Potter," Malfoy drawls, making Harry's head snap up. "The fact remains, she still chose to cut all loyalties to her family by choosing a Mud—Muggle-born." 

Wise choice, censoring your words there, Malfoy, Harry thinks, his eyes narrowing into slits. 

"And choosing to be with the person you love is wrong, is it?" Harry asks tersely. 

Malfoy purses his lips. "Would you betray your parents to be with someone you love if they told you that you couldn't be?" 

"My parents wouldn't tell me that." 

"You can't actually know that, though, can you?" 

"Okay," Harry grits out, "fine. Let's just say, for instance, that there was someone I loved that my parents told me I couldn't be with. In this very impossible scenario, I would choose to be with the person I love. Do you want to know why, Malfoy?" 

"Oh, this should be good," Malfoy muses, smirking. He flicks his fingers lazily. "Go on, then, spout off some heartwarming, Gryffindor nonsense about how love conquers all. Do tell, Potter." 

Harry glares at him. "Well, take it from me, but people don't live with their parents forever. Eventually, their parents die, and then it's just them and the choices they've made with their life. Maybe it's just me, but I don't think I'd be comfortable choosing a family that would disown me over someone who can make me happy far longer than my family can even be alive." 

Malfoy blinks, his lips parting in pure shock. "You would turn your back on your family because, to clarify, you'd outlive them anyway?" 

"That's as good as a reason as any, I suppose. Frankly, if my family would cast me aside for my choices with my life, I don't want them," Harry says boldly, brazenly, his heart racing in his chest all of a sudden. 

He doesn't even know what he's talking about anymore. No, he does, but he's painfully aware of what other matters it might apply to. 

"I could never," Malfoy whispers, even more pale than he usually is, unnaturally so.

Harry turns to look right at Mrs. Malfoy, watching her watch her son with a strange look in her eye, something pity-filled and full of unbridled love. That expression makes his heart squeeze violently, because that is the look of a mother who loves her son intensely, unconditionally, and Malfoy likely doesn't even realize it. He glances back at Malfoy, who still looks unsettled. 

"I don't think you'll ever have to," Harry says shortly, trying not to be bitter and envious, and failing miserably. "It's clear that your mother wouldn't cast you aside. You should be thankful."

Malfoy's gaze flicks to his mother, then right back to Harry. "You should shut your mouth. You don't know what you're talking about." 

"Oh, I don't, do I? Mrs. Malfoy, say your son did the equivalent of what Andromeda did, would you disown him?" Harry asks sharply. 

"That is, unfortunately, not within my power to decide," Mrs. Malfoy answers him quietly. 

Harry looks over at her, blinking. "What do you mean? Who's the one that—" 

"My father, you twit," Malfoy snaps, making Harry glance at him—giving him whiplash. Malfoy is scowling at him, furious. "How daft are you? My father is the Head of the Family, of the Malfoy name, and I am the Heir. If I am u-unfit in his eyes in any way, it is solely his right to disown me." 

"I...never knew that," Harry admits. 

Malfoy scoffs. "Of course you don't. The only Purebloods you really know are the Weasleys, and they certainly aren't the example." 

Harry stares at him, holding his gaze. "Would your father do it? Would he disown you if—if you did what Andromeda did?" 

"He would," Malfoy says through clenched teeth, gripping his book so tight that his knuckles are pure white. "As he should. If I were to do anything disgraceful, I deserve it." 

"No, you don't," Harry whispers. 

Malfoy snaps his mouth shut. For a long moment, he just sits there, staring at Harry, his face blank. Then, without preamble, he sits his book aside and pushes to his feet quickly. Not another word said, he marches out of the room. 

Mrs. Malfoy sighs. 

Harry stares after him, feeling...well, feeling something. He doesn't know what, exactly, but he feels it, and he feels it deeply. It's not anger—he knows that feeling intimately—nor is it guilt or shame, two other feelings he's used to. No, it's something else, and he doesn't like it, especially not when it gives him the urge to go after Malfoy.

He won't, though, because the truth is...he doesn't like Malfoy. This entire conversation is only a reminder of why. He's been ignoring it like a coward, but it's clear that he and Malfoy are from two very different worlds. 

Just because Malfoy has made some of this easier doesn't mean that Malfoy isn't...complicated. 

They have two entirely different sets of values and expectations. Their belief systems are exactly the opposite, and Harry has no interest in trying to sway Malfoy's stupid opinions. It's not like they're friends. Harry wouldn't allow that—it's a small betrayal to Ron and Hermione that he can avoid, and if that's the only good he can do now, then he'll do it. 

But, well… 

Harry fists his hands in his lap, physically forcing himself to stay in his seat and not run after Malfoy. What would be the point? Why would he even want to? He doesn't care about Malfoy's issues, not when he has enough of his own. 

It's just that, well, no one should feel trapped, and Malfoy must feel that way, even if he doesn't know it. To think that he's deserving of his family's scorn if he doesn't make the choices that's expected of him is—well, it's just wrong. If they told Malfoy that he had to go fight a bloody dragon lest he be cut off from his father, mother, home, and possessions, would that prat actually attempt to do it? 

Harry thinks he would, and sod it all, but he gets that in a really, really strange way. Because Harry is sitting here in Malfoy Manor, agonizing day-in and day-out over what his dead parents and dead Godfather must think of him right now. 

Bloody hell. 

"Harry," Mrs. Malfoy says gently, snagging his attention, "I understand that this all feels very strange to you, our traditions, but this is how we are raised. It's all Draco knows." 

Harry stares at her. "It's wrong. Some of it is, at least," he whispers heatedly. "You know it is."

Mrs. Malfoy opens her mouth, then closes it, then sighs again. "Before I had my son, I did not know, as you say. Sometimes, it takes seeing what it does to someone you love to realize that something you've grown up knowing the same way you know how to breathe isn't as simple as you thought." 

"He shouldn't—it's not right," Harry hisses fiercely, suddenly angry again. 

"I have only ever wanted happiness for my son, Harry. That's all I ever wanted for him," Mrs. Malfoy says quietly, her eyes sad. "Unfortunately, I am not in a position to give that to him. If he wants it, he will have to be strong enough to take it. And, if he does, he will have my support." 

"But not his father's." 

"That, I cannot say. Before...certain things happened, I would have been able to say with absolute certainty that, no, Lucius would not support Draco, and Draco is aware of that. However, change is trust upon us, and what future awaits us is becoming increasingly unclear." 

"You mean me," Harry mumbles. 

Mrs. Malfoy gives a sharp nod, her gaze turning to him, serious. "You have given Draco something that he has never had before, least of all in his father's presence, something he was not even aware that he was lacking. By going over Lucius' head and having the Dark Lord grant Draco his freedom to be however he wishes in your presence, Draco has been able to do and say things that would have disastrous consequences for him otherwise. He is only just learning how that feels, Harry. You have given Draco a chance to be who he is—who he really is—and he's only figuring out now that he has no idea who that is. Please, be patient with him." 

Harry swallows as he considers her words. They're said with intensity, heavy with something that he doesn't fully understand. There's pleading in there, too. She truly does love her son. 

He thinks about what she just said, about all of it, and he realizes that maybe...he is too hasty to think that he shouldn't, can't, or won't sway Malfoy's stupid opinions. Maybe he should, only because they might not even be Malfoy's stupid opinions. Just regurgitated words and beliefs that Malfoy has had shoved down his throat all his life. 

Not everyone is Sirius. Not everyone is that young boy who grew to hate the family he once smiled at as a child. Not everyone realizes the wrong that surrounds them before it turns on them. As Mrs. Malfoy said, it's sometimes hard to see it until it affects someone you love. 

Harry wonders, vaguely, who it was that tipped Sirius off, or how he knew. 

He'll likely never know. 

Taking a deep breath, Harry looks up and stares at Mrs. Malfoy with a small frown. "I want to know all of it, all the stupid traditions and expectations. I want you to tell me, to teach me." 

"Why?" Mrs. Malfoy asks, blinking. 

"That way I can prove how wrong it is," Harry says simply. "It'll be easier if I know what I'm talking about. Hermione always said that you have to be able to argue for the opinion you don't have as thoroughly as your own if you want to be sure that you're right." 

Mrs. Malfoy releases a soft laugh. "Well, yes, I suppose that's true. This Hermione sounds like a brilliant lady." 

Harry smirks smugly, staring right at her. "Yeah, she is. She's Muggle-born, too."

It takes two days for Harry to realize that Malfoy is avoiding him. Harry doesn't even notice that he's looking for the git until he goes out to fly the first time and he waits to kick off the ground, expecting him to show, feeling strangely off-kilter when he doesn't. After that, he starts subconsciously looking for Malfoy, but he's nowhere to be seen—he's not even in his room when Harry checks—and he doesn't show up for meals. 

Harry has taken to spending time with Mrs. Malfoy as she tends to the garden—though, it's more of a greenhouse full of beautiful flowers that smell so lovely that Harry always leaves feeling a bit lightheaded. In that time together, she teaches Harry about Purebloods. She's never rude about it, not even when Harry bursts out how stupid certain things are—which is, admittedly, most of the time. 

She explains Pureblood traditions to him and how deeply they run in the inner circles of those who believe themselves to be a part of it. Harry learns about the Sacred Twenty-Eight, and in doing so, learns a bit about his own family in the process and ends up a bit uncomfortable. It seems that pretty much all families in the Sacred Twenty-Eight are related in some way, and Harry's family is related to some of them as well. 

It's too confusing for him to work out, though, so he doesn't. Mrs. Malfoy answers questions about families and people from the bloody late 1800s as if she finds it completely normal to know information that far back. It's a bit extreme, but Harry is sort of thankful of all that she knows about the Potters. He can't help but be interested, despite himself. 

However, most of these little lessons leave Harry even more annoyed with Purebloods, now in a way he wasn't before. Mostly because he didn't know they were like this. But now that he does know, he's extremely displeased with it all. 

Mrs. Malfoy doesn't seem annoyed with his outbursts of deep dislike for the way she was raised and how she's raising her son. No, instead, she lets him tend to her flowers and tells him even more, only stopping when Harry tells her to or they have to go in for Lunch. Where Malfoy isn't. 

By the second day, Harry is actively looking for him. He's even more angry that the Manor has so many rooms to explore when each one doesn't reveal the person he's trying to find. At least twice, he's walked in on Mr. Malfoy, who simply stares at him until Harry grunts in frustration and leaves. He's even walked in on Nagini in various places, who always talks to him for a bit before he can get away. And, once, he walks in on Voldemort, but he quickly leaves before they can get into conversation. 

The thing is, two days without seeing Malfoy anywhere has...well, it's bothered him, admittedly. It's then that Harry realizes that Malfoy really does help him feel a bit more sane. 

It's a pure stroke of luck—which Harry really must have—that he finds Malfoy where he does on the third day. Truly, this Manor is unnecessarily massive for no reason at all. Why does a family of three need two libraries, anyway? However, it's in a small alcove that Harry finds Malfoy—a little bay window tucked in the corner of the second Library, the glass panes pushing out and showing the world outside. 

It's raining, so it looks like tears are running down the glass, and Malfoy is watching it avidly. If he notices Harry walking up to him, he doesn't say a word about it, or acknowledge him. 

"Well, this is a tad dramatic, Malfoy, even for you," Harry murmurs as he shoves himself into the space opposite of Malfoy. 

There's enough room for Harry to sit with his back against the wall, but his knees knock into Malfoy's as he gets comfortable. Malfoy still doesn't spare him a glance, just staring out the window as if the outside world is all he yearns for. Maybe it is; it's not like Harry would know. Still dramatic, though. 

Harry sighs. "Malfoy. Hey, Malfoy," he says insistently, knocking his knee into Malfoy's and going ignored. "Merlin, Malfoy, the one time I don't want you to shut up… Malfoy. Malfoy! Draco!" 

That, at least, gets a reaction. Malfoy jerks, his head snapping over to Harry in open surprise. Harry blinks, then rolls his eyes. Trust Malfoy to react to that, of all things. Though, to be fair, it's not like they've ever addressed each other by their first names. Sticking to last names suggests disinterest and—in their case—disdain. 

It's practically an unspoken rule of their rivalry to spit each other's last names like its poison. Harry has been adhering to this rule, but desperate times and all that. If Malfoy is going to go to such lengths to be a dramatic prat, then Harry's going to overrule that route as quickly as possible. 

"What?" Malfoy snaps. 

"I wanted to tell you something," Harry says. 

Malfoy frowns at him. "What?" he repeats, just as harsh and flat as before. 

"Well, I wanted to tell you something and ask you something, I suppose." Harry glances out the window, watching the small tracks of rain run down the outside of it. "I somehow convinced Voldemort to agree to have a...debate with me. We're going to discuss something he and I don't see eye-to-eye on."

"Alright," Malfoy says blandly. 

Harry takes a deep breath. "I want to, er, try discussing it with you first." 

"I have no interest in debating with you, Potter," Malfoy says quietly. "It would only end in a fight, and you know it. I have a bruise on my neck that cautions me against it, you understand." 

"I—" Harry stops, grimacing. He heaves a sigh, reaching up to rub his forehead. "Alright, you've earned that, I suppose. What if I promised we'd keep it...friendly? No fighting, I swear it." 

"Not interested." 

"Malfoy." 

"No." 

"Draco." 

Malfoy looks at him again, visibly startled. He blinks, then scowls. "Surprising as that is, Potter, it won't work every time. Take a hint and leave me to my avoiding you." 

"Malfoy, come on," Harry needles at him, laughing a little at Malfoy's snooty tone. "We argue all the time as it is, anyway. This is just a bit more...controlled. Besides, if you do it, I'll make your dad get us a snitch so we can try and catch it when we go out flying. Up for some competition?" 

"You'll make my father, will you?" Malfoy grumbles, glaring at him sullenly. 

Harry pauses, then chuckles. "Yeah, sure. You and I both know I can, that he'll do it. Why shouldn't I?" 

"Exploitation. Nice, Potter." 

"It's not like that, Malfoy. I just figured that, since he had a hand in getting my Godfather killed and he's nearly succeeded in getting me killed and various other offenses of which I can assure you he has, then he could spend a little bit of money that he surely won't miss to get me and his son something to focus on when we go flying. That's all." 

"Of all the things you could do to anyone," Malfoy mutters, turning back to look out the window with a small frown on his face. 

Harry considers him. "What would you do? If—if you could get away with the things I can, what would you do, Malfoy?" 

"I'd go to France," Malfoy says immediately. His face twists almost wistfully. "France, then Italy. There's a Villa there that we own where you can step through a door and walk beneath the Grand Canal. In France, there's a maze in Paris, solely for Witches and Wizards—no Muggles. They say you go in and can only find your way out once you've felt pure joy, and that time stops in there. People get lost among their happiness inside, did you know? I want—well, I suppose it would be something I'd like to see." 

Malfoy looks down, clearly not trying to show how much he wants those things, and Harry feels a peculiar sense of pity for him. He ignores it, instead staring at his side-profile. From this angle, with the way Malfoy is looking down, his pale eyelashes seem to kiss his cheeks, fluttering softly, unnecessarily long for a boy who is already fit and doesn't really deserve to be with how rude he is. 

Harry releases a soft sigh. "I've never left England, you know, not really. I've barely been to places that aren't Hogwarts or the Weasleys." 

"There's a lot of world to see," Malfoy mumbles. 

"You've seen a lot of it, then?" 

"Some. Not nearly enough." 

"Where do you like best?" Harry asks. 

Malfoy's lips twitch down. He looks upset, uncertain. "I should say...here, I suppose. It's my home. I don't want to move away or anything." 

"But?" Harry prompts. 

"But...France really is lovely," Malfoy says quietly. 

"Would you move there?" 

"I couldn't, even if I wanted to." 

Harry frowns. "Why not?" 

"My duty is here," Malfoy says simply, looking over at him with that same downward tick to his lips, like it's his only tell of displeasure. "Besides, I'm not of age. Father would never move the family there." 

"You'll be of age soon, won't you? Just a year, really, then you can go wherever you want." 

"No, no, I can't." 

Harry knows that already. Mrs. Malfoy has explained a bit about that as well, how some Heirs are bound to places by their expectations. Malfoy can't leave, not when he's expected to pick up whatever Mr. Malfoy leaves behind and continue on. It's supposed to be a proud Malfoy name that Malfoy will have to take over, ensuring it stays that way until he has a Heir who will be expected to do the same thing. A vicious cycle that Malfoy can't get out of. 

But he can. Of course he can. People shouldn't dream about mazes where happiness awaits them, knowing they can't have it in real life. Not even Malfoy. He should have his freedom just like everyone should, just like Harry has always wanted and only recently gotten. 

It's like Harry is staring at a trapped boy and realizing how trapped he, himself had been this entire time. How trapped he would have continued to be—with the Dursleys, with people keeping things from him, with the world thinking him either insane or someone capable of saving them, dying for them. How trapped he still is, in some ways, seen as a wanted criminal, stuck in this in-between of not knowing who he is or what he's doing or who he's betraying or who's betraying him. 

It's complete and utter bullocks! If Malfoy wants to go to France, he should damn well go! Live there, if he wants, go to that maze and come out quickly because he's already happy. And Harry should be able to mess up, to make mistakes, and not be cast aside for it. Kill someone and have people tell him he can be forgiven, people who he's always trusted, go home and not have to die when all he's ever wanted was to live normally. 

Maybe Malfoy and I can run away to France, Harry thinks stupidly. We can get lost in that maze and forget about what's going on outside of it. 

Harry takes a deep breath, looking at Malfoy, feeling oddly tentative. "I could make them let you go to France. You know I could. Do you want me to?" 

"Don't," Malfoy says quickly, looking right at him with wide eyes. "Don't do that, Potter." 

"Why?" Harry whispers. 

Malfoy swallows thickly. "Just...don't. Please." 

It's that, Harry supposes, the way Malfoy says please. The lilt to his voice that's clearly a plea, though it's subtly begging for the opposite things. Please, Malfoy seems to say, don't do it. And, in the same breath, it's please, please do it. 

Harry suddenly gets what Mrs. Malfoy meant by saying that Malfoy will have to be strong enough to take the happiness he wants. 

"Alright," Harry says calmly. "What about the other, though? Will you help me?" 

Malfoy scoffs, rolling his eyes. "Oh, please, you're terrible at manipulation, Potter. Fortunately for you, I happen to want a snitch, so I'll go along with it." 

"Brilliant," Harry says brightly, a smile playing at the corners of his lips. He stands up, looking at Malfoy expectantly. "Come with me, then." 

"Where are we going?" 

"To find your father so I can make my demands, of course. Unless you don't want to watch me do it?" 

"No," Malfoy says slowly, "I'm coming." 

Harry bites back a grin and heads for the door, Malfoy following along in silence. And so, the search for Lucius Malfoy begins. 

It's evening now, so Harry expects Mr. Malfoy to be in his study, but he isn't. He also isn't in the study Voldemort has taken for himself, nor is Voldemort. In fact, Harry can't find either of them where they usually are, so he starts looking for Mrs. Malfoy, too. She's nowhere to be found, either, and that doesn't really make sense—she always frequents the same places; the garden, the sitting room, or the dining room. It seems like everyone has just...disappeared. 

Malfoy starts to get visibly uneasy, and Harry won't admit it to save his life, but so does he. What does it mean if everyone is gone? Is there danger? Has something happened, and what will Harry do if it has? What if it's the Order? 

A slide of fear, shameful as it is, slithers down his back as he shares a look with Malfoy. They've checked all of the usual haunts of each person in this house, even Mr and Mrs. Malfoy's room, as invasive as that is. Everyone is just...gone. 

With renewed energy, nervous, they start looking everywhere, going down halls people don't often walk. At this point, Harry's even looking for Nagini, but she's nowhere to be found either. His alarm spreads, along with something else, something he doesn't want to look at too closely. There's some hope in there, too, hope that maybe the Order has come with a plan to rescue him, above all odds. And that, shockingly enough, inspires the oddest sense of guilt Harry has experienced so far—guilt that he'd want the Order to save him. 

Bloody hell, it's all so confusing in his head, which only makes him panic a bit more, which only makes him frustrated, which leads him to be angry. He feels like he's pumped on adrenaline as they move through the halls, and he has the strangest urge to start fighting something, to do something. The only problem is he has no idea what to do! 

So, admittedly, he's a bit worked up. That's the only reason he yelps when he first sees Nagini slithering up the hall towards them, that's all. He calms immediately after, though, because he's not really afraid of her anymore. Malfoy, on the other hand, obviously is because he reaches out to grab Harry's arm, the same forearm that pressed against his throat, nails digging in due to his panic. 

Sensed your distress, Nagini hisses at him when she's close enough. Her tongue flicks out. The pale boy calls to me; I so wish to swallow him… 

"No one is swallowing anyone," Harry tells her firmly, wincing when Malfoy's fingers dig into his skin even more—likely in response to Harry talking in Parseltongue. "You are to never, never harm Draco Malfoy, do you understand, Nagini?" 

You are not my Master, she replies, sounding put out and slightly offended. 

Harry scowls at her. "No, I definitely am not, but I'm like you, right? I'm—I protect your Master, yes?" 

Yes. 

"Right. Well, if I'm going to keep doing that, I need your promise not to—to hurt him." 

I do not take too kindly to threats, boy. 

"It's not a threat, it's a request." 

Nagini picks up her head, her reptilian eyes flicking, and she hisses again. Very well, I shall agree to this unless my Master tells me otherwise. His order is above yours, boy. Now, why are you distressed? 

"Where is everyone?" Harry asks in a strained voice, his heart thundering in his ears. He expects her to say they're dueling or something, fighting for their lives, but she doesn't. 

I will take you to them. 

With that, she turns and starts slithering back up the hall, and Harry automatically follows her. Malfoy yanks him to a halt, looking incredulous, his eyes wide. He looks so scared. 

"What are you doing, Potter?" Malfoy says in a low, shaky voice. "I know you can have a conversation with the snake, but not everyone can beg it not to eat them, you know! It's common knowledge not to get too close to the snake when the Dark Lord isn't around. Are you mad?" 

Harry rolls his eyes. "Relax, Malfoy, she's not going to hurt you. Besides, she's taking us to your parents. Now, let's go already." 

Malfoy makes a sound in the back of his throat that suggests he isn't on board with this at all, but Harry just starts marching forward. He's depending on Malfoy's grip on his arm to drag him along, and since Malfoy is seemingly too frightened to let go, it actually works. They follow Nagini in silence. 

Harry has never been down this hall before. It surprises him when it starts to look worse for wear the further they go. The paint on the walls begins to look worn, certain spots flaking off. The doors turn weathered and splintered with rusted doorknockers and broken doorknobs. The farther they go, the worse it gets; dust everywhere. 

When he looks, Malfoy doesn't seem to recognize this place either, so this must not be a hall he's ever explored. He looks as surprised as Harry, though much more disgusted. Harry, however, finds this hall reminding him a bit of Grimmauld Place. 

Nagini eventually turns and slithers through a cracked door that slowly swings open with a creak. Harry exchanges another look with Malfoy, then marches on without hesitation, only to come to a screeching halt when they enter the room. 

It's not the black-tiled floor, or the dusty grey and black walls, or the long marble table in the center of the room that's lined with high-back chairs that stops him. Rather, it's the number of people sitting at the table, all staring right at him and Malfoy with various expressions. Mr. Malfoy is among those at this table, sitting right next to Mrs. Malfoy, and they're both looking at Malfoy with wide eyes. 

Voldemort sits calmly at the head seat, surveying him and Malfoy with polite curiosity. There he sits, calm and patient, surrounded by what is and what can only be some of his Death Eaters. Harry even recognizes a few of them, though some of the discomfort and fear they display is new. 

"Harry," Voldemort greets in that deceptively soft rasp of his, "is there something you needed?" 

Harry stares right into his eyes. He refuses to look away for more reasons than one. The main reason, though, is that he can feel his hand wrapped around his wand heating up and tingling, a familiar warmth urging him to—to… 

No, not again. 

"Is this all of them?" Harry asks sharply.

Voldemort needs no elaboration. "Not all. This is merely a few in my ranks. Very high ranks, you understand. Some are even away right now." 

"Who?" 

"Wormtail, Severus. Others. But those two were the ones you were curious about, weren't they? They have business elsewhere tonight." 

Harry inhales slowly, then exhales slowly. In, out. Okay, alright. "Doing what?" 

"Finding a solution for what we discussed." Voldemort tilts his head slightly. "I told you I would handle it, so I am." 

"Right," Harry says tersely. His gaze flicks over those at the table, unwilling to linger as more rage spikes in him. Malfoy, at his side, grips his arm harder but is otherwise still. It somehow grounds Harry a bit. "There is something I need, in fact, but not from you. From Lucius." 

The man in question actually flinches at the way Harry says in his name in a taunting fashion. Long ago, had Harry said that to him, in this way, in front of these people, Lucius would have cursed him without thought. Now, he just sits there with his gaze planted on the table, his body so tense that he looks like he'd shatter if someone breathed on him. 

He's not worthy of a title. He shouldn't be referred to as Mr. Malfoy. He's just a man. A man named Lucius who is weak and horrible enough to fight children, willing to kill them. A man named Lucius who thinks his last name should earn him a step up in the world, giving him an edge. A man named Lucius who will be called that by Harry, because it makes him flinch and feel small. 

Good, the voice in Harry's mind praises, vindictively pleased. He deserves no better. 

No, he doesn't, Harry agrees inwardly. 

"I'm sure Lucius would be more than happy to help you, Harry," Voldemort says calmly, and it's no secret that his words hold an edge of threat to them, but not to Harry...to Lucius. 

Lucius nods shakily. "Yes, My Lord. H-How can I help you, P-Mr. Potter?" 

"Don't call me that, first of all," Harry snaps, annoyed. "My name is Harry." 

"I—yes, of course." Lucius blinks at him, looking confused and uncertain and terrified. "What can I do for you...Harry?" 

Harry scowls. He doesn't like that, either. "No, don't call me that. You don't get to call me that." 

Lucius opens his mouth, then closes it, visibly unsure how to proceed. And Harry? Well, Harry knows how he's being right now, contrary and confusing, harsh and a bit...well, cruel. Is this why Voldemort likes it so much? This strange little rush that comes from watching someone squirm? 

Harry doesn't have it in him to really care about how wrong it is. In his mind, he's just getting flashes of that night in the Department of Mysteries, or when Lucius abused Dobby, or when Lucius fought Mr. Weasley and then decided it was a brilliant idea to slip Tom Riddle's diary into Ginny's young hands, leading her to being possessed and nearly killed. Lucius Malfoy is horrible. So, so horrible. 

That's not even including the things he expects of his son. Harry's even angry about that, too. About all of it. And he wants— 

He wants to watch Lucius squirm. He wants Lucius to be afraid of him. He likes it. Likes having power over someone who saw him as nothing. That's horrible, too, Harry knows. Dumbledore wouldn't like it, no one back home would, except for maybe Ron, who can get angry just like Harry can. He bets Ron would stand beside him right now and laugh in glee to see Lucius Malfoy looking like he's about to piss himself because he doesn't know how to properly address Harry. 

It's terrible. It's wrong. And still, Harry feels it and likes it all the same. 

However, he takes a deep breath and focuses on the bite of Malfoy's nails digging into his arm, blinking past the smug fog in his brain. He doesn't want to be guilty about this later, not any more than he's already going to be anyway, so he figures it's best if he doesn't make things any worse and indulge himself any further with this...cruelty. 

"Just don't call me anything," Harry says shortly, narrowing his eyes. "That, or call me what you always have: Potter. Though, I could do without the brat on the end of it." 

"Yes, Potter," Lucius says immediately. He blinks and straightens up. "What do you need?" 

Harry eyes him in open disdain. "When are you going out again?" 

"Tomorrow." 

"You'll stop somewhere and get a snitch. Buy it with your own money." 

"Pardon?" Lucius says, looking stunned. He flinches immediately after, his eyes widening. 

"You heard Harry, Lucius," Voldemort murmurs, his tone sharp. "He wants a snitch. You will get one for him, won't you?" 

Lucius dips his head. "Yes, of course, My Lord."

Harry clears his throat, raising his eyebrows. "I need Polyjuice, too. A day's worth supply for two people. With your own money, of course." 

"Potter," Malfoy hisses, his tone low. 

"Hush," Harry whispers, shooting him a look. 

Malfoy narrows his eyes. "I will not hush, you—" 

"I'll tell you later," Harry says firmly. He holds Malfoy's gaze, willing him to go along with this, willing him to please, please back down just this once. Malfoy doesn't hide his glare, but he closes his mouth, and that's enough for Harry. He turns back to the others. "You understand, Lucius?" 

"Yes, Potter," Lucius says, his tone strained. 

Voldemort hums, leaning forward. "And what do you require Polyjuice for, Harry?" 

"Malfoy and I will be going out," Harry says, gesturing towards Malfoy—Draco, that is, as there are so many in the room—with his hand. 

"I see," Voldemort murmurs. "Do you require hair for the potion? I'm sure we have volunteers here."

Harry curls his lip. "No. I'd rather not be any of these people, you understand, and I'm sure Malfoy has higher standards than anyone here can meet."

Voldemort looks cruelly amused again. He even laughs quietly, a cold chilling laugh that makes everyone in the room shudder. "I see your point, Harry. Tell me, if I may ask, where are you and Draco going?" 

"You may not ask," Harry says defiantly, holding his gaze, tilting his chin up. "I'm not going to tell you or anyone else, and neither will Malfoy, mostly because he doesn't know either. Are you going to try and stop me? Are you going to torture it out of us?" 

Harry almost wants him to say yes. A part of him thinks all of this will be easier if Voldemort goes back on his promise of freedom. He keeps waiting for Voldemort to go back on his word, to lose it and Crucio him, to kill him in a fit of fury. That would make more sense than anything else. 

It would certainly make more sense than what Voldemort actually does. 

"No, of course not," Voldemort replies, at complete ease. "Your freedom is your own, as I've told you multiple times before. And, in case I haven't made this clear, Draco is entirely yours to do what you wish with—and vise versa, at your request. Though, I should warn you to err on the side of caution when going out. Your discovery could end in your death, and I cannot protect you when you are away." 

Harry stares at him, barely standing upright. Those words seem to barrel him over, hitting him square in his chest. Voldemort is just going to let him go? He's going to let Harry have his secrets and trust him to do whatever it is that he wants? He's not going to demand that Harry stay shut away and safe, or even offer people to shadow him and be willing to risk their lives for his life? He doesn't know what to do with that. It's absolutely madness, it is! 

And yet, there it is, simple as that. Something Harry has never had before. He almost doesn't trust it, and he's going to test it, of course he is. 

"Come on, Malfoy," Harry says softly, reaching out to grab Malfoy's arm and tug him from the room. 

Malfoy, for once, doesn't protest. No one in the room says a word as they walk out, and they both jump when the door quietly closes behind them. Without a word, Harry starts walking swiftly up the hall, and Malfoy follows. 

For a long time, Harry is just walking briskly, nearly running, making Malfoy rush to keep up. Then, quite abruptly, he's coming to a halt and folding in half as he vomits all over the floor. Malfoy yelps and jumps back with a sound of disgust. Harry's head throbs with his dry heaves afterwards. 

It's silent for a beat. 

"Scourgify," Malfoy mutters, cleaning the sick on the floor with a wave of his wand. "Potter, get up." 

Harry does, letting out a harsh breath. "Malfoy—" 

"Scourgify," Malfoy repeats, pointing it at Harry this time, his nose wrinkled. 

"Ergh!" Harry blurts out, the protest muffled as his mouth fills with soap that quickly turns to strangely invasive water. In mere moments, Harry's mouth is clean and tasting vaguely of suds, but that's an improvement of what it tasted like before. He huffs and wipes his mouth, glaring at Malfoy. "You could have at least warned me." 

Malfoy glances around with a frown. "Come on, we shouldn't linger here." 

Harry can't argue with that, so he doesn't. He just falls into step with Malfoy as they finish their trek out of the hall. It's oddly relieving to be back in a part of the Manor that Harry actually recognizes. He climbs the stairs with Malfoy, heading for his room, and he doesn't protest when Malfoy follows him in, slamming the door and facing him with a scowl. 

"What?" Harry snaps, already on edge. 

Malfoy waves a hand a little erratically. "Care to tell me what all of that was about? You did a lot more than ask for a bloody snitch!" 

"The Polyjuice is important. You agreed to help me, and we need to go out if we're going to do that. I'd rather go out looking like someone else, wouldn't you? That way we'll be sure to be safe." 

"You didn't think to ask me if I even wanted to go?!"

"Look, I can't tell you where we're going anyway. It would ruin the whole thing. Just—just—" Harry falters, words on the tip of his tongue that he's said so many times before. It makes him miss Ron and Hermione fiercely. 

"Just what, Potter?" Malfoy snarls. 

Harry scowls at him. "Just trust me, alright? I know you have no reason to, but just—just go along with this, please? It's important!" 

"Do I even have a bloody choice?" Malfoy hisses, looking utterly furious. "You heard the Dark Lord, Potter. I'm yours. You can do anything to me, don't you realize that? You can make me walk right off a bloody bridge if you wanted to, and I would have to do it! Can't you—do you even understand—" 

"That's not true, Malfoy, and you know it!" Harry shouts back, cutting him off ruthlessly. "Maybe that's how your parents see it, how Voldemort sees it, but that's not how I see it, alright?! You have your freedom with me! You can do whatever you want, and I won't stop you. I won't m ake you do anything, ever! I'm asking you, Malfoy. I'm...asking." 

Malfoy snaps his mouth shut, his fury draining away in a heartbeat. The tension around them pulses for a long moment, and Harry feels like he's just run very far for a very long time, his chest heaving, his skin feeling strangely warm. 

"Okay," Malfoy rasps, blinking rapidly. 

Harry swallows, deflating. "Yeah?" 

"Yes," Malfoy whispers. "Alright, I'll go with you, so long as you know it's my choice." 

"Yeah, I see that," Harry mutters, a wry grin tugging at his lips. He tries to stop it, but he can't, and Malfoy rolls his eyes. A thought strikes Harry, and he clears his throat. "You know, Voldemort doesn't just think you are, er, mine to do whatever I want with, you know. He also said that—that it's the same in reverse. You realize that, don't you?" 

Malfoy sends him a flat look, like Harry's the biggest idiot alive. "Yes, Potter, I caught that. However, it's only true because you requested it. The Dark Lord expects you to—to change that one day, to put me in my place, to handle it on your own. You realize that, don't you?" 

Harry snorts. "If that's true, then he's more insane than I thought. As if you'd ever let me put you in your place. I've been trying for years, and I haven't succeeded so far." 

Malfoy's lips twitch and he looks away quickly, but Harry can see it, see that small smile playing on his face. Harry ducks his head to hide the one on his own, feeling warm all the way down to his toes. 

"Why'd you sick up, Potter?" Malfoy asks quietly a few moments later. 

"I don't know," Harry lies. 

But he does know. He knows exactly why. Because of how he treated Lucius and how much he liked it. Because of how scared he was that Voldemort wouldn't keep his promises, and how the mere thought that he wouldn't felt like a betrayal when it shouldn't. Because Harry walked into a room full of Death Eaters who were all terrified of him, and then he walked right back out without doing a damn thing. 

He doesn't know how he stomachs himself most of the time, as of late especially, but in that moment… Well, to say the least, he literally couldn't. 

"Are you going to be alright?" Malfoy asks him, his words quiet and unsure. 

This time, when Harry says, "I don't know," it's not at all a lie. 

Chapter Text

"As requested, Potter." 

Harry looks down into the flask, glancing over at the one Malfoy is holding. He knows a bit about the potion, probably more than most considering his experience with it. He knows it's going to taste awful, and he's not exactly eager for it. 

Sighing, Harry reaches in his pocket, pulling out the folded parchment in his pocket. He'd gone out the day before under his Invisibility Cloak, on his Firebolt, flying for hours before he found the place he was looking for—the closest Muggle town to the Malfoy Manor. It's where they're going today, but at that time, he'd been looking for something specific. Two strands of hair from people around their age, preferably boys, just to make it easier. 

In the end, though, his paranoia got the best of him and he'd grabbed two strands of hair from the same boy. Well, actually, he'd flown by quickly and snatched a clump of hair before the boy could even react, internally apologizing as he flew away while the boy yelped and rubbed his head. 

He still feels a bit bad about that, actually. 

Frowning, he pushes the guilt away and carefully unfolds the parchment to reveal the clump of hair tucked away in the crease. Without looking at Lucius or Malfoy, he drops half into his flask, then another half into Malfoy's. 

"Who is it?" Malfoy mutters. 

Harry shrugs. "No one you know. Don't drink too much. It has to last us all day." 

With that, Harry tips back a deep swallow, grimacing and shuddering at the taste. It isn't so horrible, he supposes. It certainly tastes better than what Goyle's did, at least. Still, feeling his skin stretch and shift is as uncomfortable as it was the first time, and the sound of bones grinding is no less disconcerting than it was back then, either. 

From beside him, Malfoy is changing, too. He gets a bit taller, while Harry shoots up, leaving them at the same exact height. Malfoy's hair darkens, while Harry's lightens, leaving them with brown curls. Their faces shift and twitch, slowly forming into the same one, and then it comes to a halt. 

"Twins," Lucius mutters. 

Er, sure, let's go with that, Harry thinks. 

"Who are they?" Malfoy asks again, looking down at himself. He frowns and waves his wand to lengthen his pants that are just a touch too short, then does it to Harry's which is significantly shorter, almost as an afterthought. 

Harry clears his throat. "No one you know." 

"I trust," Voldemort says, sweeping into the room so suddenly that Harry's scar prickles for a second, almost like it's reminding him it still works, "that you will be careful, Harry. Unless, of course, it is your intention to get caught and take Draco with you, as it is in your right to do. In which case, I bid you a safe journey. Otherwise, if not, then I bid you a safe return." 

"You could find me out there, couldn't you?" Harry asks him curiously. "Because I haven't been with the Dursleys this summer." 

"I could, yes, but I won't." 

"Can...Dumbledore find me?" 

"If you are not careful, yes, and using magic will have the Aurors on you in a second, regardless of what you look like," Voldemort informs him. 

Harry pauses, then swallows. "If I get caught…" 

"Yes?" Voldemort stares at him, his gaze piercing. 

"Don't harm Mal-Draco," Harry says. 

Voldemort smiles thinly. "I will not. He is not mine to harm, or to not harm." 

Harry nods jerkily, uncomfortable and worried despite himself. He's already left once before, but this is somehow different. This is the first time Voldemort knows about it, and this is him leaving with Malfoy in tow. Besides, he's not just flying by quickly while invisible. 

"Draco," Lucius says, that one word cold and sharp, yet somehow strained, too. 

Malfoy stands up straighter, apparently slouching, and Harry stares between father and son in something akin to disbelief. That's it? That's all Lucius is going to say to send off his son, not knowing if he'll return safely or not? Just a reprimand for not standing up straight enough? 

Kill him, that voice in his mind whispers. 

"No," Harry snaps, grimacing when all eyes turn to him. He hadn't meant to say that out loud. 

"Harry?" Voldemort asks, watching him closely. 

"Nothing." Harry jerks his head at Malfoy, reaching out to grab his broom leaning against the wall as Malfoy does the same. "Let's go. We fly high. Follow me and don't go down until I do, yeah?" 

Malfoy just gives a sharp nod. 

With that and nothing else, they head out the front doors and push off into the air, not even looking back. Harry does catch sight of Mrs. Malfoy standing at a window, watching them go, but he doesn't slow down to see what she looks like. 

Harry does fly high, taking off in the direction of the Muggle Town and keeping his eyes peeled. He feels a lot more tense being out in the open like this, no Invisibility Cloak to hide under. It hadn't even crossed his mind the day before that Dumbledore might have been able to find him. And why would it? After all, it's not like Harry has ever been worried about something like that. 

Is he worried now? 

A bit, yeah. It makes him feel shame, but he does. He shouldn't be scared of Dumbledore. Is he? Maybe. Does he have a right to be? Harry wouldn't say that he and Dumbledore are very, very close, but before this last year, he'd been under the impression that they were a lot closer than Dumbledore and any other student. He's certainly never been scared of the man—in awe of, yes; amazed by, undoubtedly; even intimidated, understandably. But afraid? 

No, he's never been afraid of Dumbledore, not the way he's been afraid of Voldemort. Yet, somehow, he's living with Voldemort and hoping like hell that Dumbledore doesn't find him. 

It's horrible. 

Harry doesn't understand how it got to this point, and by now, he's tired of feeling like this. A simple solution is to just hand himself over to Dumbledore and be done with it, just deal with what comes next. Whether he lives or dies, at least guilt and shame won't eat away at him. 

But that's not a simple solution at all, because first, he'd have to be brave enough to face them. To face all of them. His friends, the Weasleys, Dumbledore himself. And, after that, he'd have to be willing to either go to Azkaban or give his life, or both. Those things feel even more impossible than living with Malfoys and having Voldemort protect him. 

Then, there's how living with Malfoys and having Voldemort protect him is going to consider. It has absolutely no business being this way. 

With Mrs. Malfoy making sure he eats, walking in her garden with him as she patiently tells him about her ridiculous lifestyle as he berates her for it, smiling at him sometimes like she's thankful he's there, like she genuinely likes him. With Lucius Malfoy doing what Harry tells him to, never saying a word against him or anything at all to upset him, visibly and wholeheartedly afraid of him. 

With Malfoy keeping him sane in a really bizarre way, somehow knowing what to say in the moments that Harry doesn't know what he needs to hear, treating him like he's normal and not a threat, flying with him, giving him space and being patient when Harry's own friends never did that, blatantly trapped while unaware of it, reminding Harry of himself. 

With Voldemort giving Harry freedom and honesty with complete ease, giving him what Harry didn't even know he wanted all along, treating him like he's more than just some child, speaking with him as if he's an equal, offering him things that Harry doesn't even really want or need and still offering them anyway, never ignoring him, explaining things, answering his questions, willing and never refusing to meet his gaze…

Harry knows what he's doing. Of course he does. He can feel it, can feel the shift in his mind, can feel it with how his anger and fear betrays him. 

Somehow, mad as it is, Harry doesn't trust Dumbledore anymore, and he feels absolutely miserable about it. To make matters worse, he's actually scared of him, just a bit. Afraid of what will happen if Dumbledore does find him. 

Then, of course, there's Harry's struggles with his own bloody morality and twisted desires. He doesn't want to kill, except he does sometimes. He should regret killing Bellatrix, but he just doesn't. He thinks about what Sirius and his parents would think of him, and he lets that eat away at him, too, even while he recalls how honest he was when he said what he did that day to Mrs. Malfoy and Malfoy. 

Frankly, if my family would cast me aside for my choices with my life, I don't want them. 

Overall, Harry's just bloody exhausted with everything. He's so tired of feeling this way all the time, tired of being angry and scared, tired of being tired. He's just...tired. 

The flying helps, despite his tension, and it's not long before he's relaxing. He's flying right next to Malfoy, so high that the puffy white clouds surround them. He reaches out a hand and lets it pass through, smiling at the wetness of them, looking over to grin when he sees Malfoy do the same. 

The air is thinner up here, so he's already breathless to begin with, but he has no idea why he suddenly can't breathe at all when Malfoy sends him a broad grin in return, flashing white teeth. He looks like some random boy, and Harry is suddenly very frustrated with that fact. The one bloody time Malfoy smiles, he isn't even himself! Bastard. 

For a few hours, they fly. They're not going as fast as they can, but they aren't being slow, either. Harry's being careful, so Malfoy is. 

Eventually, Harry starts dipping down to peek out of the clouds to search for the outline of the town. It's a while before he sees it, but when he does, he flies back up and slows to a halt, waiting for Malfoy to do the same. With them coming to a stop, no wind whipping past them, it's oddly quiet and still. A few meters from them, birds fly by in a v-shape. 

"What is it, Potter?" Malfoy calls. 

Harry points down. "There are woods down there. We need to fly straight down as quickly as we can and hope no one sees us." 

Malfoy scowls. "Oh, brilliant." 

"Race you?" Harry offers cheekily, suddenly dipping his broom and putting on a burst of speed as he flies straight down as quick as he can. 

So quickly, in fact, that the wind hits his face hard enough to sting, bringing tears to his eyes. The tops of the trees rush up to greet him, and he's flattened as tight to his broom as possible. He grins. It's amazing, completely and utterly exhilarating. 

He points himself right through the gap between two trees, hastily yanking up as the ground gets closer far too quickly. He barks a laugh as a branch slams into his arm, not hard enough to hurt, but forceful enough to make him stumble a bit on the broom, making him right himself with a whoop. He yanks on his broom, slowing down, stumbling a little on shaky legs as he dismounts. 

Malfoy is panting when he lowers down beside him, getting off his broom and leaning on it a bit as his chest heaves. A second later, he's releasing a delirious little huff of laughter that Harry echoes, and then they just stand there and laugh for a while, shaky with adrenaline and excitement. 

"Merlin, Potter," Malfoy chokes, "you're mental."

Harry wheezes a laugh. "I won, though." 

"Piss off, you cheated." 

"Sure, Malfoy, whatever helps you sleep at night." 

Malfoy shakes his head at him, his smile draining as he glances around. "Where are we, Potter?" 

"Oh, about a mile out from civilization," Harry tells him casually. He points to the right. "There's a town a bit that way. Hope you don't mind a walk." 

"I'm not very fond of forests," Malfoy mutters, glancing around with a frown before pinning a pointed look on Harry. "I'm sure you can understand my reasoning behind that." 

Harry snorts. "I do. I have more reason than you, actually, but this isn't so bad." He looks around with a small smile. "The trees are smaller and farther apart, and the sun reaches us down here, so it's fine. Come on, bring your broom." 

Malfoy sighs, but he follows Harry along, and they start a calm pace. It is daylight out, so it's not as tense as it could be. That doesn't mean Harry isn't on edge, waiting for someone to suddenly appear with a crack, or for a Spell to suddenly fly at him. Nothing happens, though. 

The path is easy. No roots to trip over, no low-hanging branches, nothing but the crunch of leaves and the warmth of sunlight beating down on them. There are bugs, though, and Malfoy grumbles to himself as he swats at them when they come too close. Harry watches in amusement. 

It's a little bit into their trek that Malfoy says, "What do you mean you have more reason than me? What else happened to you in the Forbidden Forest, Potter? Don't tell me you were nearly killed again."

"Well...you see…" 

And so, they talk. It's not like they've never done so before. It is only recently that they've had conversations that weren't just fights, and sure, it's taking a little getting used to, but it's not so bad. Harry knows exactly what topics to avoid by now, and Malfoy seems to know exactly what not to say, and it's been working so far. 

This is the first time, however, that they've actually talked about their years in Hogwarts like this. Harry tells Malfoy about some of his other adventures in the Forbidden Forest, his tone fond, which he knows is strange. Those were easier times, though, even if he was having his soul sucked out or nearly being eaten by acromantulas. Malfoy seems absolutely blown away (and wary, like he thinks Harry might be insane after all) by the fact that Harry can laugh and smile fondly about these things. 

"You're utterly ridiculous, you know that?" 

Harry rolls his eyes. "How am I utterly ridiculous? Things just seem to...happen to me, Malfoy. S'not always my fault, you know." 

"Oh no, it most certainly is. You followed the spiders. You went running after your Godfather, right into a swarm of Dementors. Those are things you did, Potter, so it is your fault." 

"So I was just supposed to let Hagrid stay in Azkaban for something he didn't do? Let Sirius die when he was innocent?" 

"They say there is a very thin line between bravery and stupidity, and you are very much on the side of the stupid," Malfoy tells him. "You just risk your life like it's not—like you're not scared to die!" 

Harry frowns. "But I am. I must be if I'm still here, rather than going back home." 

"I don't think that's it at all," Malfoy replies, looking right at him. "I think it has nothing to do with you not being willing to die. You would, you know you would, I know you would." 

"Have me all figured out, do you?" 

"Not everyone is as oblivious as you, Scarhead."

Harry chuckles. "Been a while since you called me that. You know, it's almost...nice, now." 

"Nice? Nice?" Malfoy turns to stare at him, even while he walks. He looks at Harry like he's suddenly sprouted a second head. "Why are you so odd? In what way is me mocking you nice, Potter?" 

"I can't explain it," Harry admits, shrugging sheepishly. "It's just… Well, it doesn't feel as much like an insult as it used to. Probably because you've healed my burnt hands, healed the gash on my head, cleaned up my vomit, and agreed to trust me enough to go somewhere with me without knowing any details. I suppose mocking me seems kind of silly after all that, so it's just a bit funny now."

Malfoy stares at him blankly. "Potter, you're giving Loony Lovegood a race for the biggest oddball in the world, you know that?" 

"Her name is Luna." 

"I didn't actually know that. It's always been Loony."

"She fought Death Eaters, you know," Harry murmurs, his gaze distant as a lump forms in his throat. "She's really nice, even when people are so cruel to her. Her mum died when she was eight, and she doesn't even—she's just...kind." 

"Potter," Malfoy says sharply, "stop it. She doesn't hate you, alright? Your friends don't hate you." 

Harry shudders out a harsh breath. "Yeah? How do you know that, Malfoy?" 

Malfoy sighs, looking forward again. "Because they're your friends. They… Just trust me when I say that they don't hate you. They can't. There's no way that they hate you. I don't even hate you, and this won't come as a surprise, but before all of this, I was fairly sure I hated you. I...wanted to hate you." 

"That's a lot of hate." 

"Yes, well, my point is, no one hates you. Or, well, no one should hate you, anyway." 

"But they might," Harry mumbles, his gaze falling to his feet. "They might, and you can't say that they don't for sure, not even to reassure me. Because the truth is, you don't know and I don't know, and they might hate me. That's all there is to it." 

"Fine, so I can't be sure," Malfoy snaps. He looks extremely annoyed by this, which strangely makes Harry feel a bit better. "Whatever. So what if they do hate you, then? That just means they're not—it means they're stupid, alright? And I know you'll hate me saying it, but it's true. If your friends decide to hate you because you killed Bellatrix Lestrange, then maybe they're not good friends. My friends would never hate me for that." 

"Yeah, but your friends are a bit...different. What about this?" Harry leans over to peer into his face, trying to figure out Malfoy is going to take this, having no clue since Malfoy doesn't look like himself at the moment. "Say you were to...hmm, would your friends hate you if you decided to be friends with Hermione? Would they turn on you if you stood up for her?" 

Malfoy's head whips over, his eyes brown, which startles Harry because they should be blue-grey; he knows that for damn sure. Still, brown or not, Malfoy's gaze is intense, bright with anger. 

"Of course they would turn on me for that! Granger is a Muggle-born. Standing up for her is wrong." 

"It's not, but that's not my point. My point is that my friends think killing people is wrong, no matter who it is, and they're right. It is wrong, and I did it." 

"That's so unrealistic, though." 

Harry blinks. "How do you mean?" 

"What about Aurors?" Malfoy challenges, raising his eyebrows, not pale like they should be. "Sometimes seemingly good people kill people. Moody, for example. He's killed Witches and Wizards as an Auror. And what about Lupin? He's a werewolf. There's a chance that he might have accidentally killed someone during the full moon. What about self-defense? What about when there's a Quidditch player who shoves another player too hard, and they fall to their death? I mean, honestly, sometimes people kill people, and it's not always as black and white as it seems to be." 

"Yes, yes, all of that is true, I suppose," Harry allows, frowning because Malfoy does have a point, "but that's not the case with me. I—I killed Bellatrix because I wanted to. I used the Killing Curse, and you have to—you already know what you have to be to do that, and so does everyone else. Just like Voldemort walked into my house when I was a baby and killed my parents, I looked Bellatrix right in the eyes and killed her. The same exact way." 

Malfoy heaves a deep sigh. "Fine. Fine, but that doesn't mean you're—" He stops, takes a deep breath, then shakes his head. His jaw is clenched, and he seems to be walking faster with restless energy. "Potter, you're not evil, alright? You're just not. I don't really know what that makes you after everything, but I do know that people shouldn't hate you for it, especially the people who've loved you." 

It's such a profound statement that Harry comes to a screeching halt. He just...stops. Blinks. Stares. Malfoy swings around to look at him with a small frown, a wrinkle in his brow. Harry, very stupidly, has the strangest (oddest) urge to fucking hug Malfoy for saying something so kind, so thoughtful, and Malfoy probably doesn't even see it that way. 

But Harry does. He really does. Malfoy has no idea what saying that means to him. Harry sort of, maybe, just a bit wants to cry a little because he's needed to hear that. He really, really has. 

"Potter?" Malfoy asks in exasperation. 

Harry releases a slow breath, clearing his throat, forcing himself to relax before he does something stupid like actually launch himself at Malfoy and hug him. No way in hell he's doing that. 

"Nothing. Fine. I'm fine," Harry says quickly, clearing his throat again as he starts walking. "Sorry, it's just… Thanks for saying that, Malfoy." 

Malfoy rolls his eyes. "I'm only saying the truth. Don't look too much into it, git." 

"You know," Harry says carefully, "your friends shouldn't hate you if you were to stand up for Hermione. That's as unrealistic and stupid as my friends hating me—in your mind, at least." 

"Tell me how it's unrealistic and stupid. Because, the way I see it, it's—" 

"No, stop. You want me to tell you? I will. And you're going to listen. Hermione is brilliant, and you may hate to admit it, but you can't deny it. Maybe she is a know-it-all, but what is so horrible about that? About her taking interest in the world around her, Muggle and Wizard alike? You read plenty, and you're full of knowledge, so why is it wrong for her? Just because she wants to tell people what she knows? It's annoying sometimes, I get that, and she doesn't always know when to stop, but she means well. She always, always means well. She'd kill me for saying this, and don't you dare laugh, but she didn't have friends before me and Ron. She was the weird girl who other Muggles didn't understand because she was different, so she read books. She told me once that books and knowledge never hurt her feelings. So what if her parents are Muggles? She's still good at magic, and you can't deny that either. So, tell me, Malfoy, how is it in any way realistic or smart to be cruel to you for being kind to her?" 

"Are you quite finished defending Granger's honor?" Malfoy drawls. 

Harry sighs. "Nevermind. I don't want to hear your response. Save it." 

With that, Harry starts forward, feeling the sharp sting of disappointment whip through him. A hand catches his arm, swinging him around, and Malfoy looks frustrated. Conflicted. Harry's heart dares to jolt and stammer with hope. 

"No, you are going to listen to me now," Malfoy says tightly, his eyes blazing. "On the surface, it seems like it's just about her blood, and it is in some ways. You don't have to agree with it, but that's how I've been raised. No one says it, why we hate them, but Muggles are dangerous. Granger having one foot in each world is a cauldron waiting to explode—maybe not her, but possibly the next Mudblood, or the next. But that's not all it is, and you need to understand. I need you to. It's—she's… Do you have any idea how hard I worked to beat her every single sodding year? Of course not. But, maybe, in a different—if things were different, I'd be able to respect it rather than resent it, but I can't. I'm literally not allowed, because Malfoys don't get bested by Mudbloods. Except, now, because of me and because of her, they do. And I have to deal with that, not her." 

Harry's heart is hammering away in his chest, and there's something like excitement quivering in his stomach, because he does understand. He really, truly does. He knows exactly what this means. 

Malfoy doesn't necessarily hate Hermione, he's just...jealous. That, and he's angry because he has to deal with his father's anger over Hermione being better than him in her studies. Except, maybe Malfoy would respect her, if he could. Meaning he does, in some really twisted way that makes Harry's brain hurt and rejoice in the same breath. 

"Malfoy," Harry murmurs, "there's no one else here. There's just me and there's just you. Nothing is going to happen if you say—if you admit anything." 

"I can't," Malfoy spits, clearly agitated. 

Harry takes a step closer, looking right into his darting eyes, holding his gaze. "She's smart. Say it. You know it's true." 

Malfoy clenches his jaw. 

"Say it," Harry insists. 

Malfoy glares at him. "Is that an order?" 

Harry glares right back. "It's an opportunity. Say it, Malfoy. Just...say it." 

"Yes, alright?!" Malfoy explodes, his chest heaving as his eyes bulge. "Granger is smart! And I want to know her damn study-plan because I have no idea how she manages to get such high marks!" 

Harry grins. "Yeah?" 

"Piss off," Malfoy snaps, his gaze darting around like he expects his father to suddenly appear from behind the trees. "You got what you wanted, Potter." 

"Yeah, I did," Harry agrees smugly. "I can tell you Hermione's study-plan, if you want." 

Malfoy pauses, side-eyeing him. "Really?" 

"Sure," Harry says easily. "It's actually rather simple. See, all you have to do is study every waking moment, then you're doing it." 

"You're joking." 

"Not really. The only time Hermione isn't reading, at least, is when she's fussing at me and Ron, following me around on deadly tasks, or in class." 

"I hate her more and more," Malfoy says with a huff, shaking his head as he starts walking again, adjusting his grip on his broom. 

Harry snorts and moves forward to catch up with him. "I don't know, I think you two would get on if things were different. Ron and I aren't really on her level when it comes to intellectual conversation, but I think she'd enjoy it with you." 

Malfoy sneers. "I somehow doubt that." 

"Do you think she's pretty?" Harry asks him curiously, watching him closely. 

"What?" Malfoy snaps, looking over at him in utter disbelief. "Don't be ridiculous." 

"What about Parkinson?" 

"Pansy? She's alright, I suppose." 

"Hermione looks better than Parkinson, I think." 

"You think?" 

Harry shrugs. "Well, I've never actually thought about it. What do you think?" 

Malfoy watches him suspiciously. "You're trying to trick me, Potter. Don't think I don't know what you're doing." 

"No idea what you're on about. You didn't answer my question, though. Scared?" 

"Again, piss off. Just because Granger has better features than Pansy does not mean I—" 

"Ha!" Harry bursts out, grinning like a loon as he reaches over and pokes Malfoy in the arm. "You just said it. Hermione is smart and she's prettier than a Pureblood—one who's your friend, mind." 

"I did not say—" 

"But you did. Is it a lie?" 

"No. Yes? Wait. Potter," Malfoy snaps, reaching over to shove him a few steps to the side. 

Harry snorts. "Oh, come on, Malfoy. It's not going to kill you to admit that Hermione is pretty and smart, no matter what blood is in her veins." 

"Fine," Malfoy says grudgingly, heaving a sigh and rolling his eyes, "Granger is smart, and she actually looked...not horrible at the Yule Ball. Happy?" 

"A compromise. Fair enough." Harry tips an imaginary hat at Malfoy, snickering when Malfoy flips him off. His laugh abruptly comes to a halt when a thought strikes him. "Er, Malfoy, you don't secretly fancy Hermione, do you?" 

"No, why would I?" Malfoy asks, looking at Harry in genuine confusion. "I don't know anything about her, and honestly...no matter what you say or how smart she may be, I still don't actually like her." 

"Oh. Huh. Alright then, that's good."

"Good? Why? I'd rather thought you'd find some kind of heartwarming poetry in the idea of a Pureblood Malfoy loving a Mudblood." 

"Don't call her that. And no, there's nothing heartwarmingly poetic about you secretly fancying the girl you've bullied and called slurs for five years. Also, she'd never give you the time of day. Also, I think Ron has a thing for her." 

Malfoy goes strangely quiet. 

Harry glances at him, frowning. He's suddenly feeling an awkwardness he hasn't felt for a while. Being at the Malfoys and under Voldemort's—well, not his nose because he doesn't have one, but his supervision, perhaps, has made Harry oddly brave. Mostly in how he acts, just to cover up how he feels usually, and sometimes spurred on by his anger. It's easy to feel confident when he's thinking he's going to die anyway, which was what he thought at first, then it's easy when he realizes that he can get away with—quite literally—murder where he's at. 

This, though, is an awkward silence, and Harry has no idea why. Does Malfoy secretly fancy Hermione? No, he's just said the opposite, and he was being sincere. Maybe it's the way Harry reminds him how cruel he has always been, but that's not it either because Harry has reminded him that plenty. 

Harry's not really sure what the explanation is for Malfoy's abrupt silence or the way all the color drains from his face. He looks like a stray wind could knock him over, which is just...odd. 

"Malfoy?" Harry ventures cautiously. 

Clearing his throat, Malfoy blinks rapidly. "Weasley has a thing for Granger, then? Their children would be ghastly, you know." 

 "Maybe not," Harry says a little defensively, frowning. "I could see them being—no, this is ridiculous. Hermione would kill me if she knew I was imagining her kids with Ron. I'm not supposed to notice how she looks at him sometimes, I think. Probably more than I realize, because yeah, I am a bit oblivious sometimes. But that's only because I usually have a lot on my mind." 

"You have reason to, I'll grant you that," Malfoy mutters, rolling his eyes. "The great saint Harry Potter can't have one normal year at Hogwarts, can he? Oh no, that's too simple for him." 

Harry sighs. "Tell me about it. You know, I used to think I was cursed. Every time I wished for a normal year, things somehow got worse every time I returned. I can't imagine what my Sixth Year would have been like if I actually went." 

"That's right." Malfoy blinks, looking a bit shocked. "You aren't going back next year." 

"You forgot?" 

"No. Well, sort of. I mean, I knew it, but I guess I just realized that you're not actually going to be there." 

"Mm, and what will the pompous prat Draco Malfoy do without me there to terrorize?" Harry teases, wrinkling his nose and grinning when Malfoy looks over at him with an arched eyebrow. 

"Have a relatively normal year at Hogwarts, I imagine. Finally," Malfoy retorts, smirking. 

Harry feels his smile slip. "It'll be strange not going back. Hogwarts is… Well, it's the only home I've ever known. Everyone I love is there." 

"You don't love your Muggle relatives?" Malfoy asks.

"No," Harry says immediately, snorting at the mere insinuation. When he glances over, Malfoy actually looks surprised. "Believe it or not, my Muggle relatives are horrible. I wasn't joking before when I said they treat me like a house-elf. They're probably ecstatic that I never showed up this summer." 

Malfoy blinks rapidly. "But you're a Muggle-lover!"

"Sure, if that's what you want to call me. I don't love those Muggles, though. Actually, I don't really love any Muggles. I don't have to love them to know that they aren't inferior to us or deserve to be tortured, enslaved, and killed." 

"I…" 

"Do you think they deserve that?" Harry asks, tilting his head. "Do you hate them?" 

"Well, I certainly don't like them." 

"Why?" 

"Why?" Malfoy sputters, his free hand flailing as he stares at Harry, aghast. "My father says—" 

"No, no, Malfoy. Do you hate them?" Harry interrupts, raising his eyebrows. 

Malfoy frowns at him. "Yes." 

"Why?" 

"Because." 

"Because why?" Harry presses, side-stepping a bit closer, leaning over to look at Malfoy's borrowed face closely, intently. Malfoy presses his lips into a thin line and looks away. Harry hums, triumphant. "Just as I thought. You don't have reason to hate them because you don't actually know anything about them. You just do it because you're told to." 

"I hate them because they don't have magic, Potter. That's more than enough reason." 

"It isn't. You don't see the things they can do. Besides, magic doesn't always make the man, Malfoy. You don't hate a tree for where it grows, so it's a bit stupid to hate a person just because they don't have magic." 

"A tree isn't dangerous," Malfoy snaps. 

Harry frowns. "How are Muggles dangerous?" 

"They used to try and burn people alive for having magic, you know. I mean, it didn't work. People with real magic didn't burn, but the Muggles still did it. Not only that, but we have to hide from them. Why? Seriously, Potter, why do we hide from them if not to keep ourselves safe? They'd either hunt us like before, hate us because we're better, find some way to steal our magic, or try and weaponize us." 

"I don't know if that's true, though." 

"No? So why do we hide?" Malfoy asks sharply. 

Harry opens his mouth, then closes it. "Alright, so I don't actually know. And let's say, for argument's sake, that you're right and that's how Muggles would react to magic. Do you think every Muggle would feel that way?" 

"No, but that doesn't matter. Only enough need to, and then Witches and Wizards will find themselves under threat," Malfoy murmurs, his tone strangely grave. "Their Muggle Governments need only to realize our world actually exists, and then what can we do? There's nothing we can do." 

"Are you—Malfoy, are you actually scared of Muggles?" Harry asks in astonishment. 

Malfoy sends him a scathing look. "You'd be an idiot if you weren't. Have you been listening to me at all?"

"No, I have, I just… Well, I never realized that the source of all this hate was...fear." 

"It's not!" 

"Oh, but it is," Harry mumbles thoughtfully. "Just like my Muggle relatives fear me and anything to do with magic. But they're not all like that." 

"Perhaps not," Malfoy allows with a grimace like he's tasted something foul, "but you have to admit that enough are that they're dangerous." 

Harry hums. "Sure, but does that mean they deserve to be hated, tortured, enslaved, and killed? Because if you say yes, I hope you realize that you'll be the same way you fear the Muggles would be to you." 

Malfoy opens his mouth, then closes it. He looks frustrated again. "Okay, say that's true. Say I don't think they deserve it, fine. Tell me, oh wise one, what the solution is to the Muggle problem I've presented you with?" 

"I don't know," Harry admits honestly, shrugging. 

"You don't?" Malfoy looks over at him. 

Harry shrugs again. "No, I don't. What I do know is that the Muggles don't deserve what Voldemort wants to do to them any more than what you're scared they'd do to magical people. And you?" 

"Me?" 

"Yes, you. Do you think they do?" 

"I…" Malfoy is back to looking confused and frustrated again. "Potter, I—"

"Think on it," Harry interrupts. "We'll circle back around to it. For now, there's the edge of the town."

They leave their brooms on the edge of the forest behind an easily identifiable tree, and Malfoy fusses about it the entire time, not seeming to realize why Harry is making him do this. Harry's hoping Malfoy won't pick up on what's going on for a bit. 

He does, though, very quickly. 

Harry leads them into the outskirts of town, which is where Malfoy sees train tracks and comes to a screeching halt. It's not the train tracks that gives him pause, though. It's the group of kids that are playing beside them that makes him freeze. 

They couldn't be more Muggle if they tried. Just small kids wearing cut-off trousers with their skinned knees on display, their hands covered in dirt as they play with rocks and skip over the tracks. They're young, that much is obvious, probably pre-teens and a bit younger. They're all giggling, playing, and so obviously Muggle that it's mad. 

"Potter," Malfoy says tightly, "where are we?" 

Harry looks at him in amusement. "Are you scared of them?" 

"Of course not." 

"No? Hey! Hey, kids!" 

"Harry!" Malfoy hisses, reaching out to grip Harry's arm and shake it hard, his eyes wide. 

Harry blinks. "Oh, are we doing that now? I rather thought you'd given up on calling me that." 

"Bloody hell," Malfoy mutters, ignoring him entirely as he shuffles back a step, "they're coming over. Send them away, Potter. I'm not joking." 

"They're not going to hurt you," Harry says, trying very hard to cover his laugh and failing. 

"Hello!" A girl who seems to be the youngest and also the leader of this small group of five children smiles at them, waving. "Are you lost? No one comes back here. Mummy says there's no reason to." 

"Oh, is that right?" Harry asks lightly. "But you are all back here. There must be some reason to." 

The girl shrugs. "This is where we play. Are you two playing? You look too old to play." 

"Do we?" Harry asks in amusement, his lips twitching. "And how old is too old to play?" 

"Well, how old are you?" the girl asks. 

"Fifteen," Harry answers promptly. 

"Oh. My brother is fifteen. He doesn't really play like we do anymore, so I think you're too old." 

"What about him?" asks a boy in the back, pointing at Malfoy. 

"They're twins, stupid," a different boy says from right next to him, rolling his eyes. "They have to be the same age. Do you know anything?" 

"Shut up, Roger!" 

"You shut up!" 

"You both shut up!" the girl shouts shrilly, whirling around to glare at them. They shut up. She smiles in a pleased fashion and turns back to Harry. "I'm sorry you can't play, and we're not supposed to talk to you either. Mummy says we can't talk to strangers." 

Harry nods seriously. "Yeah, that's right. Don't do that. Actually, I was hoping you might know which way I could go to get to the Library." 

The girl's face brightens. "Oh! I cycle there all the time. It's beside the Church. You know where the Church is, don't you?" 

"Not at all," Harry admits. 

The girl's face falls. "Oh. Well… I can draw you a map in the dirt if you want?" 

"Brilliant," Harry says. 

So, she does. The little girl picks up a stick and puts a rock on the ground, declaring that to be all her friends and the two strangers, then proceeds to draw the route she cycles to get to the Library. Harry, of course, doesn't think he'll actually remember, but he studies it carefully anyway. 

"Does that help?" she asks hopefully. 

Harry nods at her. "Loads. Thank you. We're going to go now. Say bye, Malfoy." 

"Bye," Malfoy grits out, sending him a sharp look. 

"Bye!" the group of kids call after them, smiling wide and cheerful, waving as they go. 

Harry can't help but chuckle as they walk along the road, even with Malfoy fuming silently beside him. He doesn't mean to find it so funny, but the idea of Malfoy being afraid of children is hilarious. He hadn't said one word throughout that entire exchange, not until Harry told him to, and he'd been tense the whole time. Over children. 

"That wasn't so bad, was it?" Harry teases. 

Malfoy glares at him. "I don't know what you're playing at, Potter, but—" 

"Don't be like that," Harry says softly, his amusement gone in a flash. "Just...have an open mind about this, Malfoy. The kids? They were happy to help us in a way only kids can. Voldemort would have them killed or tortured. You okay with that?" 

"Stop it," Malfoy says harshly, his fists balling up and relaxing over and over. 

Harry frowns at him. "I won't. Why are you afraid of them? They're kids." 

"I wasn't afraid of them," Malfoy mutters. "I just… I don't particularly like kids anyway. And, you know, I don't—I'm not like them. I don't know their ways. I can't just...play it off." 

"Was there anything particularly Muggle about what they did back there?" 

"Well...wait. What's cycling? And what's a Church?" 

Harry grins. 

So, as they walk, Harry starts telling Malfoy a bit about Muggles and how they do things. Well, as much as he can, anyway. Malfoy doesn't actually seem to get most of it, and he asks a lot of questions. 

Questions like: 

"But they can't actually see God?" 

"What's a lightbulb?" 

"You mean they don't use Quills?" 

"Yes, but how does the toaster know the bread is ready to come out?" 

"Oh, so automocars don't normally fly? And you just happened to end up in one that did?" 

"No Quidditch?!" 

"That's impossible, Potter. There's absolutely no way the Muggles can do that. It's—it's practically magic! How? No, stop laughing. How?" 

"Why don't they just get a Portkey?" 

"No Portkeys?!" 

Harry answers to the best of his abilities, though there are just some things he simply doesn't know. It's at this moment that Harry wishes Hermione would just show up and explain everything, because Hermione would know. 

Malfoy, despite his earlier wariness, asks questions with undeniable interest. He doesn't seem to realize just how animated he is, astonished at some of the things that Harry tells him about, demanding to know how the Muggles do it. Though he'll never say it, the way he acts reminds Harry of Mr. Weasley, just a bit. Malfoy doesn't have the wide-eyed wonder or delight, but he is clearly hooked, to say the least. 

However, Malfoy deems some things stupid, which Harry supposes is fair. No society is perfect, after all. There are flaws in every world, Harry is sure of it. That doesn't mean it's not interesting to know about, or discuss, and Malfoy—whether he realizes it or not—seems to feel the same. 

Harry is pleased by this. He can't quite hide his smile as he answers Malfoy's questions, and there's something distinctly victorious about seeing Malfoy come to a screeching halt the first time he sees a TV in a shop window. They've just reached the edge of downtown, and Harry almost keeps walking (and talking) until he sees Malfoy stop. 

"That's the telly I was telling you about," Harry informs him, moving over to stand beside him. 

Malfoy watches the program with wide eyes. "Potter, are the people in the box?" he hisses. 

"What?" Harry blinks, then laughs. "No! Malfoy, no. It's like I said. They sort of, er, record the people in the program and then somehow show it on the telly. I don't really know how it all works and it involves electricity and technology that I just really don't know enough about to explain." 

"It's a bit distracting, isn't it?" Malfoy muses, very obviously distracted as he watches the man and woman on the telly argue—must be the soaps. 

Harry hums, chuckling as Malfoy just stands there and watches. He shoves his hands in his pockets and waits, simply smiling as he stares at Malfoy, who avidly stares at the telly. 

They stand there for a long time until the program goes on break, and then Malfoy frowns. He looks distinctly displeased to have the soap interrupted, and Harry busts out laughing, unable to stop it. Still laughing uproariously, he grabs Malfoy's arm and drags him away, ignoring his protests. 

And that begins the tour of the Muggle town. Amidst regular pauses to drink their Polyjuice, Harry spends the next few hours showing Malfoy as much as he can, everything from the local playground they come across to a hotel they pass. He answers questions he never thought he'd be asked, and he answers questions he's had to answer for others, like Ron and Neville. 

Harry does locate the Library, but he keeps on walking past it, deciding to make that the last stop. Instead, he walks around with Malfoy and shows him a Food Truck, how the phone-booths work (which takes a while since someone left behind some coins and Malfoy wants to try it out, but Harry makes him leave a coin because it's only polite, so they only call random people three times, in which Malfoy hangs up quickly each time), and what exactly a petrol station looks like. 

He even convinces Malfoy to go into a few different shops, even if they can't buy anything—a clothing store, a bakery, and an antique shop. Malfoy thinks Muggle fashion is abhorrent until he finds a hoodie and seems fascinated with—as he rather confidently calls it—the 'pocket-jumper'. Malfoy doesn't really care about the bakery, and Harry isn't about to make him try, though Malfoy does agree that it smells nice—grudgingly, but he does. The antique shop is a point of confusion for Malfoy, mostly because he doesn't understand the point of some of the items, and Harry doesn't either, really. He does get distracted by a lone keyboard on a shelf, apparently enjoying the clicking sound it makes when he presses the keys, which sets him off on questions about why Muggles need buttons to tell them the alphabet and how computers work. 

The Church, though… 

"Are you sure you want to go in there?" Harry checks one more time, looking up at the large white building nervously. 

Malfoy pauses on the step. "Pardon?" 

"It's just…" 

"What, Potter?" 

"I don't know," Harry admits, glancing at the doors warily, swallowing thickly. 

"Have you ever been?" Malfoy asks him, tilting his head and looking at him curiously. 

Harry clears his throat. "A few times when I was younger. The Dursleys… Well, obviously they're no saints, but they fancy themselves righteous and Christian—as if they're not all going straight to Hell. Hypocrites, the lot of them." 

Malfoy moves back off the steps, turning around to walk over and stand right in front of him. It's only then that Harry realizes his own face has twisted into a dark scowl. "Potter," Malfoy says softly, "if you don't want to go into the Church, you don't have to. It's fine." 

"No, it's not that," Harry says hotly, irrationally angry for no reason. He casts his mind back, stirring up memories he hasn't thought about in years. He gives a hollow, bitter laugh. "They told me I was going to burn for eternity in Hell, you know. I was—well, I was only nine. Said I was a freak, and that God didn't take freaks." 

"How would they know? They've never met him," Malfoy says instantly, a bit stuck on that part. As an afterthought, he adds, "And you're not a freak. You're just full of magic." 

"I didn't know that at the time," Harry snaps, heat prickling at the back of his neck. "I was just a boy. I was nine, and I—I used to pray every night not to go to Hell, pray that God would—would take me. Can you believe that? They knew what I was, and they made me think—and I never even—" 

"Potter," Malfoy says sharply, that tone he uses when Harry's losing the plot a little. 

But Harry can hear it now, and he doesn't want to settle down. He just keeps right on going. "Then, when I learned what I was, they told me it was Devil Worship, that I'd set fire the moment I walked into a Church. But they didn't know. They didn't understand that I used to pray. I used to pray, Malfoy, every single night. Pray to God that my life could be different, that God would bring my parents back or at least take me to them, pray that they were happy in Heaven, and—and that I'd be able to see them again one day. I believed. I believed in God because he was all I had, and they tried to take that away from me all the time." 

Malfoy looks stricken. "Harry," he whispers. 

Harry blinks, surprised to feel tears clinging to eyelashes that aren't his. "I—I—" 

"Excuse me." 

Harry jerks at the same exact time that Malfoy does, the both of them whirling around in alarm. A man is standing a bit back from them, watching them, and he's in a black robe with a collar that Harry recognizes instantly, even after all these years. A Priest, just standing there with a polite smile. 

"I—um, s-sorry," Harry stutters out, blinking rapidly as he pulls Malfoy to the side, giving the Priest room to walk by. 

"No need to apologize," the priest says, not budging an inch, still looking right at them. 

Harry clears his throat. "We were just...looking, Father," he says carefully, the title falling off his tongue clumsily, though he knows it's respectful to say it, even if he didn't understand why at five. 

Malfoy shoots him a strange look. 

"Father Ellis, please," he says, smiling at them calmly and moving forward to walk up the steps. He opens the door and pauses, looking back at them patiently. "Aren't you coming in?" 

"Well…" Harry hesitates, still unsure. 

Father Ellis smiles even more kindly. "I assure you, you will not catch flame." 

Harry blushes. "Right. Yeah, I know. Um, sure." 

Malfoy makes a face like he wants to protest, but he says nothing and walks up the steps next to Harry. Their shoulders bump as they go up, and Harry can't help but take a deep breath and grab Malfoy's arm as they approach the door. Father Ellis gestures them to go in, so in they go. 

Harry does not, as expected, burst into flame. Ridiculously, he'd somehow thought that he would. It wouldn't be the first insane thing to happen to him, after all. 

The Church already looked big from the outside, but it really shows it on the inside. There's a statue of a woman that Harry is pretty sure is Mary. Rows of pews take up most of the space, and there's a confession booth off to the side—he only remembers what that is because Aunt Petunia once threatened to lock him inside it during a sermon because he had to use the bathroom and couldn't sit still. At the front of the room, near the statue, there's an altar. Off to each side are two large tables with candles flickering—the only source of light outside of the sun beaming in through stained glass. 

Malfoy looks around in surprise, his eyebrows flying up, and Harry knows he has a million questions. Thankfully, he doesn't ask them, apparently subdued by the atmosphere and his own appreciation. 

"Votive candle," Father Ellis says softly, looking at Malfoy, who's staring at the candles with curiosity written all over his face. Malfoy jolts, and Father Ellis smiles. "You've never been in Church?" 

Malfoy clears his throat. "Er, no. Sorry." 

"That's quite alright. You are always welcome here, regardless if you know this place or not," Father Ellis murmurs. "Do you have questions?" 

"What's a votive candle?" Malfoy asks immediately. 

"A prayer candle," Father Ellis says. "To light a candle for someone indicates one's intention to say a prayer for another person, and the candle symbolizes that prayer. Would you like to try?" 

Malfoy's eyes go wide. "Oh, I—I don't know how." 

Father Ellis shakes his head, the corners of his eyes crinkling. "It is not hard, I assure you. There is always something to reflect on in the eyes of God. There is always someone to wish well by God's mercy." 

"I'm not religious," Malfoy blurts out. 

"That's alright," Father Ellis says kindly. "Even if you do not know God, he knows you." 

"How does God feel about freaks?" Harry asks quietly, his eyes locked on the candles flickering across the room, his throat burning. 

"God does not make mistakes, child," Father Ellis says gently, drawing Harry's gaze. "Who you are is exactly who you're meant to be. We are made of sin, but that does not mean we are not worthy of forgiveness." 

Harry's throat positively closes up, and his eyes burn, burn, burn. He sees Uncle Vernon damning him to Hell in his mind. He sees himself, young and so lost, kneeling in his cupboard, wishing God would just take him to Heaven to see his parents. 

"Do you want to...pray?" Malfoy asks him carefully, staring at the side of his face. Harry can't speak right now, and he's scared he'll start crying if he reacts. Malfoy suddenly straightens up. "Yes, we will, er, pray the candles, sir." 

"Father," Harry chokes out weakly, a laugh falling out a little broken. "You call him Father." 

"But he's not my father." 

"It's—it's hard to explain, but it's like a title, yeah? A sign of respect." 

Malfoy looks uncertain, but he nods. "Alright, then. Er, we'll pray...Father?"

Harry gives that weak laugh again. 

"Come with me," Father Ellis says with a small smile, leading them away. 

There's something about a Church, Harry supposes. When he was a child, he always liked going, mostly because it was the few times he got to leave the house. Everyone knew the Durselys had a nephew, much as they tried to pretend otherwise, and to not bring him would look too abnormal. So, he got to go, and he always looked forward to it. 

The sermons bored him, of course, as he was very young and didn't care to listen to Adults drone on and on for hours. To be fair, he still doesn't and likely never will. Despite that, though, he loved going to Sunday school. Yes, they sometimes got wacked on the knuckles with rulers for being loud, but that was where he was told that God was someone he could talk to, almost like a friend. He had no friends back then, and so, he latched onto that. 

Now? Well, Harry doesn't even know if he believes in God. He doesn't feel particularly bad about that, exactly, but it bothers him to think that Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon somehow managed to succeed in taking God away from him, even inadvertently. He hasn't thought about God, or Hell, or Heaven in a very long time. 

He doesn't really want to start now, not really. He just wishes the one good thing he had in his early childhood wasn't tainted. He couldn't yearn for Heaven without worrying he was going to Hell, all because that's what he was told, even when he had no idea what he was doing wrong. He couldn't pray to God without thinking that he was going ignored, all because he was a freak, even though he didn't understand it half of the time. 

And then, once he realized he was a Wizard, his Aunt and Uncle had to smear that, too. They brought God into it as well, and Harry hated it. 

He hasn't prayed in five years… 

"Just...take one?" Malfoy suddenly says, making Harry blink and come back to himself. Malfoy is looking at where Father Ellis gestures to the long sticks they use to light the candles. 

Father Ellis smiles and nods. "Yes. There are methods for many different people for many different forms of prayer, but I feel that God has led you both here for something. It seems most important that you not know everything and do it all correctly—if there is such a thing—but that you both are granted serenity from this experience." 

Malfoy stares at him. "Bloody hell, that's a bit fanatical, isn't it?" 

"Malfoy!" Harry hisses, reaching over to smack him on the arm. 

"What?" Malfoy grumbles, rubbing his arm and shooting Harry a glare. "It's true." 

"Sorry about him, Father," Harry says with a sigh, clearing his throat as he picks up the stick. 

Father Ellis seems amused and still so, so unbearably kind. "Again, there is no need." 

"How does one pray, exactly?" Malfoy mutters. 

"You close your eyes," Harry says softly, staring down at his stick. "Sometimes, you kneel. But, mostly, you close your eyes and you—you talk to God in your mind. Sometimes, you think he's there, but when you open your eyes...he isn't." 

Malfoy grabs a stick. "Odd, but alright. You go first, Potter. Show me how to pray." 

Harry sends him a cross look, but steps forward. With a deep breath, he leans forward to put the end of the stick into a flickering flame, then moves it over a candle that's gone out. In a way, they are forever burning, someone always ready to light them over and over. There's something a bit beautiful and magical about that, though Harry can't pinpoint what it is, exactly. 

Taking a deep breath, Harry moves the flame down, watching it catch on the candle. The candle that someone lit before him, belonging to them, holding their prayer until it eventually went out. In a strange way, Harry feels like he's sparking that prayer back to life, even if it isn't his. He'll add his to it, and later, someone will bring it back to life, too. 

Harry closes his eyes and prays. 

He's not entirely sure how to talk to God anymore. He hasn't done it since he was eleven. The last time he'd prayed was in Hogwarts, sitting in front of the Mirror of Erised, thanking God that he could see his family again. But that had just turned out to be magic. 

Maybe God is magic. Maybe God is Merlin. Maybe Merlin is God. Maybe it doesn't matter and all of this is about Harry, about unearthing something deep in the corners of his mind, something that ties Muggles into Magic and the Dursleys into trauma. So, he takes a deep breath and addresses God for the first time in five years. 

I don't know if you're real, and don't be offended because I'm not sure. I'm a Wizard, so things are only more confusing when it comes to religion. But, if you are real, thank you. For a long time, you're all I had. I think this moment has made me realize that that isn't the case anymore. Whether you answered my prayers or not, whether this is your doing or not, thank you for being there when I had no one else. 

Harry blinks open his eyes, pulling the stick back and blowing it out softly. His candle flickers just like everyone else's, and he smiles. 

Malfoy looks at him for a long moment, just looks at him, then steps forward as Harry steps back. He does just as Harry did. Only, he uses the flame from Harry's candle to light another one, and Harry feels something soft flutter within him at that. Then, Malfoy closes his eyes, and he looks like he's concentrating, like he's actually doing it. He's praying. Harry wonders what he's praying about, or who he's praying for. 

A few seconds later, Malfoy opens his eyes and blows out the stick, then turns to Harry. "God didn't answer. Rather rude of him, if you ask me." 

Harry claps a hand over his mouth to try and muffle his bark of laughter, but it still echoes in the silence. Malfoy grins at him. Father Ellis smiles down at the floor, then looks back up at them. 

"Have you made your peace?" he asks. 

"You know," Harry murmurs, "I think so." 

They leave. Father Ellis walks them to the door and tells them they're welcome to come back anytime, and Harry thanks him, even though he knows he won't be back. But, for the first time, it's not because he's scared to, or traumatized. 

Malfoy stands beside him out front, simply looking up at the Church with him, his head cocked. Harry knows it must all be so bizarre to him, which is fair. It's bizarre that Draco Malfoy was even in a Church to begin with, let alone prayed. To his credit, he's being a lot more gracious than Harry expected. 

"What a load of Hippogriff dung," Malfoy says, because no, Harry can't have nice things. 

Harry rolls his eyes. "Malfoy, you are, without a doubt, a terrible person." 

"Maybe, but at least I'm not religious," Malfoy replies with a derisive snort. 

"I was, technically. I think?" 

"Yes, well, you're very stupid, though." 

"Thanks," Harry says dryly. 

Malfoy sends him a sly look. "You're very welcome, Potter. You know, I wouldn't do this for just anyone. While it's been...enlightening, I'd find much more joy at home. I require payment." 

"Do you?" 

"Indeed." 

"And what would you like?" Harry asks, arching an eyebrow at him. 

"The people in the box, have you seen them before?" Malfoy says immediately. 

Harry's face twitches as he works very, very hard not to laugh. "Have I watched the program, you mean?" 

"Yes, that, whatever." 

"I have." 

"Does Julia forgive him?" Malfoy asks, staring at him intently, clearly very eager to know. 

"Is this your payment, Malfoy, really?" 

"Look, I need to know. Shut up about it." 

Harry laughs. "Yeah," he says. "She forgives him."

Malfoy's face lights up; it's not his face, and Harry desperately wishes it was. He's grinning, the prat. "I knew it! Lovely. I mean, good for her and him," he says, overly pleased. 

Julia didn't actually forgive him, but Harry can't really bring himself to tell Malfoy that. Maybe Julia should have forgiven him. Maybe he needed forgiveness. Maybe he was different than Julia thought he was. 

Harry's not going to tell him. Ever. 

"One last stop," Harry says. 

Malfoy blinks. "Oh? Where?" 

"The Library." 

Chapter Text

Muggle libraries aren't that much different than Wizard libraries, except they have no magical books, and Malfoy tells him this. Harry responds by saying that, despite what Malfoy may think, he didn't actually come to this Muggle town to show Malfoy around, that the Library was the destination the whole time. Malfoy is notably put out by this. 

If Harry has learned anything from Hermione, it's that books always have the answers you're looking for. You just have to know what question you're asking, then find the right book. 

Harry has been thinking a lot about his not-lessons about Pureblood traditions with Mrs. Malfoy. It has been reminding him of something, and maybe it always has. The way Purebloods have a word for people that aren't like them. The way Purebloods dislike someone without really knowing them, all because of their lineage. The way Purebloods pass their, frankly, wrong beliefs to their children in a cycle that seriously needs to stop. 

It's racism, plain and simple. It's white supremacy, but for Purebloods, and it's wrong. 

That realization has him thinking about Voldemort and their upcoming debate. He's started thinking about what, exactly, Voldemort's goal is. What he aims to do. What he wants the world to be. How he thinks people should be a certain way, or they're lesser than him, and how he's insane enough to think that those without magic aren't worthy of life, or freedom, or anything at all, really. 

Well, Harry doesn't think he'll have to look very far to find those things in Muggle history. There's always someone like that, someone who thinks the way Voldemort does. 

Harry doesn't remember a lot from Muggle school, but he does remember first learning about horrible things in history that didn't make sense to him then and still doesn't now. How people can hate someone based on how they look, who they love, where they're from, what God they pray to, and so on. But people do, and people probably always will, and it's completely ridiculous. 

He can't make everyone see it the way he does. The chances that Voldemort will are practically nonexistent. He's fairly sure that Voldemort won't go into this with an open mind, no matter what he's promised, but that doesn't mean Harry isn't going to be prepared. Today, with Malfoy, has actually helped, regardless if he has been swayed in either direction or not. 

The Library, thankfully, does have the answers he's looking for. Malfoy follows him around everywhere, so he has a front row seat to the conversation Harry has with the Librarian. When he explains to the woman what he's looking for, lying that he has a school project, the woman jumps up and starts recommending titles, hurrying to register him for a Library card in case he needs to take the books home—Harry panics and gives Dudley's name because it's the first Muggle name he can think of. 

As Harry is going through the shelves to find the books, Malfoy stands beside him with a frown. Harry glances at him, then looks away quickly when Malfoy catches him. Malfoy then sighs and leans up against the shelf, staring at Harry blatantly. 

"What?" Harry mutters. 

Malfoy frowns harder. "What's racism?" 

Harry takes a deep breath. "Well, it's—it's… You know your friend, Blaise Zabini, or even my friend, Dean Thomas?" 

"Yes. What about them?" 

"Would you ever...hate them for the color of their skin?" 

"Um...no?" Malfoy looks at him like he's gone mad, genuine confusion on his face, and it makes Harry inexplicably angry. "Why would I?" 

"Because, that's what racism is," Harry snaps. "It's people that hate someone without ever knowing them, all because they have a different skin color." 

"That's stupid. Why would they do that?" 

"They think they're lesser than them. They think they're inferior because they're different. They think that they deserve worse because they don't look like them, as if they're not even human." 

"That's…" Malfoy's face scrunches up, and he shakes his head in disbelief. "Well, it's stupid. Blaise is better than most people." 

"And Dean?" Harry challenges. 

Malfoy blinks. "Well, no, but not because of his skin color! That's just preposterous." 

Harry grits his teeth. "As preposterous as hating people because of who their parents are, because their blood is different." 

"Potter, that's not even remotely the same," Malfoy mutters, narrowing his eyes. 

"No?"

"It's not! I already told you, Muggle-borns are dangerous. They're—" 

"You know," Harry cuts him off, viciously shoving a book back on the shelf, "racists claimed the same things. People with different skin colors are dangerous. They're beasts, out of control, more likely to do crime, won't grow up to amount to anything. That's what racists say, that and probably more. The same exact bullshite you have said, that Purebloods say. Racists have slurs, too, did you know? Just like you lot have Mudblood and blood-traitor and Muggle-lover." 

Malfoy makes a small sound, something halfway between confusion and offense. Harry doesn't care. He's angry. Furious, really. Peeved that Malfoy is the person he is, even if it's not entirely his fault. So, so angry that Malfoy is a bloody racist white supremacist and can't seem to see it. Hating and raging at the fact that this is all true, and Harry is living with his family and laughing with him. 

Harry's even more furious with himself. 

"Here," Harry snarls, pushing a book into Malfoy's hand that covers a lot of horrors surrounding racism and the American Civil War. "Read that, why don't you? See how it's like looking into a mirror for you. Might do you some bloody good." 

With that, Harry whirls away and marches off, leaving Malfoy alone in the stacks. He is thankful that Malfoy doesn't follow him, mostly because he's angrier than he's been since he walked into that room to see Voldemort having a meeting with his Death Eaters. Harry doesn't want to punch Malfoy, but he also really does at the same time. 

Given the current situation they're in and the things they've just discussed, Harry's fairly sure he'd punch Malfoy in the face, given half the chance. 

Harry doesn't know if it's better or worse that Malfoy doesn't realize how horrible he is, how horrible the things he's been taught is. If he did know, it would be a lot easier for him to understand, but it would mean that he's done it on purpose. Which, he has, and he's relished in it, Harry knows that. But there is a difference in doing it because that's how you're taught, knowing no better, and doing it because you like how you feel when you do. 

He's not entirely sure which it is for Malfoy. 

It takes Harry some time to cool down, but he eventually does. He calms as he gathers more books, skimming a few to make sure they're what he needs. The subject puts him on edge, no doubt, but he knows it's necessary. 

It's once he's more relaxed that Harry realizes that he doesn't want Malfoy to be like this. It hits him square in the chest, and he blinks rapidly down at a book about different wars throughout history. He doesn't want Malfoy to be Lucius. He wants Malfoy to be better, to learn, to—to break the cycle. 

He actually cares if Malfoy is a horrible person or not, and isn't that like a bludger to the head? 

Harry...doesn't actually know what to do with this new information. He doesn't really understand why, even if he knows it's true. He contemplates it for a while, then shakes it away, pushing it to the back of his mind. He's not going to give himself false hope. 

He goes back to gather books, feeling a bit like Hermione, missing her. He always misses her and Ron over the summer, but he knows it's going to hit him a lot harder when Hogwarts opens back up for the term and Harry isn't with them. He wonders if they're going to miss him, too. 

Harry feels less angry and more maudlin by the time the next few hours have passed. Malfoy has left him alone, presumably, because Harry hasn't seen him since he stormed off. Sighing, he gathers the books he's finally settled on and goes off in search of Malfoy, wondering where he got off to. 

He does not expect to find Malfoy in the same spot Harry left him, but there he is, sitting on the floor with his nose in the book Harry shoved at him. His eyes are wide and horrified as he reads. 

"Malfoy," Harry says carefully. 

It's like someone hits him with a stinging jinx. He jolts and rams his head into the shelf behind him as his head snaps up. Grimacing, he snaps the book closed and reaches back to rub at his head before standing up. He won't quite meet Harry's eyes. 

"Ready to go?" Malfoy asks quietly. 

Harry hums. "Yeah. I'm getting these books." 

Malfoy holds out the book to Harry, clearing his throat, still not looking at him. "Get that one, too, would you? I—I'm reading it." 

"Alright," Harry says after a brief pause. 

They leave the Library in silence. Malfoy doesn't say anything, and Harry doesn't either. A part of Harry wants to apologize, but he refuses to. It's not like anything he said was a lie; it's just a really, really brutal truth. Malfoy needs to hear it. 

As they walk back through the town, now laden with a bag of books each, Harry marvels at how strange things have gotten. It's all so, so odd how things have turned out. Even today is really unexpected. Overall, it really hasn't been that bad, and Harry had thought it would be horrible with Malfoy. It's somehow been the exact opposite, which is probably the most bizarre thing that could have happened. 

There are some victories, though. No one found them and caught them, so that's...good? Harry's still not entirely sure where he stands on that. 

Malfoy doesn't say a word the entire walk to the train tracks. It's almost dark now, which makes Harry a bit uneasy, but they're almost— 

Home. Almost home. Harry was just about to think of it as—as home. Bloody hell, that's… 

Harry doesn't know what that is. 

Thankfully, he doesn't have to explore it and figure it out because the same children from before are still playing at the tracks, despite the fact that it's getting late in the evening. As soon as the kids see them, they stop skipping rocks and run over. 

"Did you find the Library?" the girl asks brightly. 

Harry chuckles, holding up his bag of books. "We did, yeah, all thanks to you. Your map helped." 

The girl beams at him. "Yes!" 

"Isn't it a little late?" Malfoy asks, making Harry blink over at him in shock. Malfoy is looking at the kids with a small frown. "Shouldn't you all be at home? It's not—you shouldn't be out this late." 

"You sound like my mummy," the girl says with a tinkling laugh, grinning at Malfoy. "We're allowed to stay out until the sun passes behind the trees. We've got a few more minutes, at least." 

"My mum is gonna kill me," one of the boys says, heaving a sigh. 

Malfoy frowns harder. "Just...go be safe, or something. You shouldn't be out." 

"We have a few more minutes," the girl says stubbornly, crossing her arms. 

"Alright." Malfoy huffs, arching an eyebrow. "I suppose we'll just have to stand here and wait with you, then, won't we?" 

"We're not babies," the girl mutters. 

Malfoy's eyebrow somehow arches higher. "No, you're not. Babies are at home with their mothers, safe. You are clearly a child too stubborn to listen to people who are older and wiser than you." 

The girl glares at him. 

Malfoy glares right back. 

It's a bit awkward waiting with the children. Harry shuffles in place and watches the last blip of sunlight slowly sink down behind the trees, willing it to go faster. Meanwhile, Malfoy is apparently in the middle of a staredown with an eight-year-old. Harry keeps catching himself smiling without even realizing it, forcing the grin away over and over. 

Finally, once the sun falls behind the trees, the girl apparently gives in because Malfoy smirks as she breaks eye contact. The children gather themselves, calling out goodbyes before they take off running for, presumably, their homes. The girl sticks her tongue out at Malfoy, then smiles, then she's gone.

Harry coughs to cover a laugh. 

"Not a word, Potter." 

"I didn't say anything," Harry says, practically chewing on his bottom lip to try and stifle his grin. 

Malfoy grumbles and marches off towards the trees. Harry follows him, trying to muffle his laughter in the crook of his arm, disguising it as coughing again. By the time they make it back to their brooms, Harry's mostly calmed down. He wisely doesn't say a word as Malfoy takes one last sip of his Polyjuice Potion for the journey h—to the Malfoy Manor. He has some of his own, then mounts his broom as Malfoy does. They don't need to walk for coverage, not when it's this dark. 

So, in perfect unison, with bags hanging off their arms, they take off to the sky. 

(They'll never know that there's this little girl who is sitting in her room, looking out the window, gasping as she watches two figures fly up on brooms. Her name is Madeline, and she will one day tell the story of two very strange twins and how they made her believe in magic. People will laugh at her, but for her, it will always remain true.) 

The fly to the Manor is uneventful. 

Until it isn't. 

It's fairly dark out now, so they can fly a bit lower than before, and they do. They keep the same pace they set on the way there, not too fast, not too slow. They're careful, watching, waiting. Or, well, Malfoy is, because it's him that gives a shout of warning when a blur of something comes right at Harry. 

Surprised and little more than terrified, Harry reacts without thinking, doing something very stupid that he'd never expected himself to do. He yanks his hands away from the broom to try and cover his face, seeing as something is coming right at it. But the things about brooms are...you sort of aren't supposed to let go of them. 

Harry goes careening right off, the rush of wind and how fast he's going carrying him over. He falls with a shout, stunned by it, even though he knows what this feeling is. He's been here before a few times. This falling sensation, everything becoming weightless except him, a rush of wind in his ears, everything going too fast. Death is there, surely, laying in wait, greeting him softly. 

Then, with a harsh jerk, Harry is being yanked to a stop as a hand grabs his wrist and tugs. It feels a bit like a Portkey, actually, gravity yanking at his center as Malfoy fights against it. There isn't anything Harry can do but wait and see what will win. 

Malfoy grunts and swoops down to get some leverage, sliding back on the broom and pulling Harry up there with him. They blink at each other, facing each other, the world seeming to pause for a moment because this is just insane. Harry's never straddled a broom like this before, and he also hasn't had a boy this close to his face before. 

"Your broom," Malfoy suddenly blurts, his eyes going wide. "Hold on, Potter!" 

With that strangely forceful warning, Malfoy scoots forward and reaches around to grab the broom handle properly, which puts them in a very strange embrace. Harry suddenly knows what Malfoy means by holding on. His stomach swoops from underneath him as the broom dips forward, and then he's scrambling to hold onto Malfoy as he feels his body tip back and start to slide. 

His heart is thundering as the air whips around him, gravity trying to suck him down and fling him off the broom as Malfoy makes a dive. If not for Malfoy's arms around him and his arms locked around Malfoy, Harry probably would fall off. Malfoy doesn't seem to notice at the moment, his face full of focus as he watches where he's going over Harry's shoulder, his eyes narrowed. 

There's a frantic flap of wings near Harry's head, and Malfoy curses as he veers sharply to the left. They wobble, the weight off with the both of them, and Malfoy straightens them out. Harry struggles not to drop the bag of books that's still on his arm. 

"Bloody bird!" Malfoy shouts. Then, seconds later, he's shouting again. "Potter, your broom! Get it! It's right there, grab it!" 

Blinking around, Harry looks for his broom, spotting it seconds later, falling through the air. He has to lean over to reach out and snag it, only to nearly drop it again as a blur of white comes barreling by, something sharp nipping his arm. He curses under his breath, but he manages to hold onto his broom. Finally, thankfully, Malfoy pulls up, slowing them to a halt, letting them hover in the air. 

Harry pulls back, blinking in surprise to see Malfoy's face. Actual Malfoy, not some muggle Harry stole hairs from. It seems, in the last few seconds, Malfoy's Polyjuice has worn off, which means Harry's has to. That explains why everything else besides Malfoy's face is blurry right now. Harry needs his glasses. 

Actually, he really doesn't. He can see Malfoy just fine. More than fine, really. He's very close. His face is very close, his face that Harry has been sort of looking for all day. He wants to see Malfoy smile, but Malfoy isn't currently doing that. No, Malfoy is currently staring at him with wide eyes and parted lips, like he's startled, but Harry can't imagine what has surprised him. 

Harry feels like he's about to pass out. 

You should breathe, his mind tells him. 

Oh, right. 

Harry should do that, and he's going to, just as soon as he remembers how. Because somewhere between the falling and seeing Malfoy actually look like Malfoy, Harry's forgotten. 

"Draco," Harry says, and he doesn't really know why he says that, except he says it, and that one word escapes him on a shaky exhale, and that's not— 

Twack! 

Harry sputters as wings flap in his face, feathers blocking his vision. Malfoy yelps, the broom teetering, and Harry raises his free hand to try and shove the—well, whatever it is away, trusting Malfoy not to let him fall. It's as he does this that he gets a good look at the wings attacking him and Malfoy, the wings that are the color of snow, the wings he'd know just about anywhere. 

"Hedwig!" Harry bursts out in delight, only to rear back as her wings flap harder. "No! No, Hedwig, it's okay! It's okay, I swear. Stop attacking Malfoy!" 

She does. It's slow and with a reluctant click of her beak, but she does. She flies in a small arc, then stares at him as she hovers in place for a minute, her wings flapping slowly. Her sharp gaze has always been piercing, but in this moment, she seems to be looking at him in anger. 

"Of course it's your bloody bird!" Malfoy snaps, trying to pat down his hair. Hedwig clicks her beak at him in clear threat. 

Harry sighs. "Oh, Hedwig, how did you find me?" 

"She's your owl, Potter, and an intelligent one to boot. Of course she can find you," Malfoy says with a roll of his eyes. 

"Is it safe to—can I bring her back home with us?" Harry asks hopefully. 

Malfoy sends him a strange look, but he says, "I suppose it can't hurt. She doesn't have any letters with her, so no one sent her off." 

"No," Harry agrees, smiling at Hedwig. "Before I left Hogwarts, she was out hunting. I just assumed she'd go to the Weasleys." 

"She must have been looking for you this whole time," Malfoy muses. "Can't find you inside our wards, though." 

"It's good to have you back, Hedwig," Harry says sincerely, reaching out with his free hand to stroke the only place he can reach—her head. She nips his fingers affectionately. 

"Hey, er, Potter," Malfoy says, clearing his throat, "you can get back on your broom now." 

Harry blinks, dropping his hand and feeling his cheeks heat up. "Oh, right. Sorry. And, um, thanks for catching me, by the way." 

Malfoy coughs and nods. 

Harry nudges Malfoy's arms out of the way and scoots back, fumbling for his glasses in his pocket to shove them on his face, then reaches out to grip his broom with both hands. With a grin, Harry lets himself fall to the side with a bright laugh, bringing the broom between his legs and shooting up a few moments later. That feeling truly never gets old. 

"Show off," Malfoy calls out to him. 

Harry laughs, then circles back to Hedwig. "Just follow me and Malfoy. I'll explain everything when we get back to the Manor, alright?" 

Hedwig gives a hoot that Harry takes as an affirmative. He takes off flying with Malfoy, Hedwig flying behind them. They do slow their pace a bit so she won't push herself too hard, but they're not far from the Manor anyway. 

Still, when they touch down, Hedwig flies down to perch on his arm that he offers like she does when she's tired sometimes. Harry strokes her feathers as he and Malfoy amble up towards the Manor. 

"The answer is no," Malfoy says suddenly. 

Harry looks up. "To what?" 

"To what you asked me earlier," Malfoy murmurs, looking at him out of the corner of his eye. "The Muggles don't deserve it." 

"Oh," Harry breathes out, blinking rapidly. 

Before he can say anything else, Malfoy is picking up the pace, practically running through the front door of the Manor. Harry stares after him and doesn't move for a while. 

The following day, Harry sleeps in. He only wakes up because the heat of the sun from the window beams right into his eyes, and as he turns over to get away from it, his glasses smoosh up against his face. He groans and hates himself for daring to fall asleep with his glasses on. 

Hedwig is over on her perch that Malfoy got for her last night. Harry hadn't been expecting it, but Malfoy just showed up at the door, levitated it in, and left before Harry could even thank him. 

"Hey, Hedwig," Harry greets her, standing up from his bed and padding over to her—his feet stick to the marble with each step, but he's used to that by now, and the cold doesn't even really bother him anymore. "Are you still asleep?" 

Hedwig pulls her head from where it's tucked into her wing, looking at him, then clicks her beak. 

"Yeah," Harry agrees, "long day for me, too, yesterday. We were up late last night." 

They were. Hedwig doesn't...hate the Manor, exactly, but it's clear that she's not used to it. Her head had swiveled in circles for a while until Harry told her that she wouldn't have to be caged here, then her head stopped as she stared right at him. Her gaze, as always, had been piercing and knowing. He'd spent the next few hours after that, late into the night, talking to her about...well, everything. As always, Hedwig did not judge him, and she nipped his fingers before bed like she usually did, even though she knows he's a murderer now. 

So, that's...nice. 

Actually, it really is. Having her here is brilliant. It makes Harry feel better, at least. Hedwig was sort of his first real friend—a bit different from Ron, on account of her being an Owl, of course. She was also his first proper Wizarding gift, and he has adored her since he was eleven. She's probably heard more thoughts in his head than anyone else in the world, and still, she's incredibly loyal. Smart, too, as Malfoy said. She reminds him of who he used to be, of who he may still be, but a bit different now. 

Harry sighs and moves over to the window, twisting the latch and pushing it out. "You can go hunting when you're ready. Or just out for a fly, I suppose. Try not to leave the Malfoy wards; I'm not sure you'd be able to get back in if you did." 

Hedwig hoots, staring at him. 

"I think I missed breakfast," Harry mumbles, moving back over to his bed to make it up. He usually wouldn't because he's only going to mess it up again, but he's learned that the house-elves do it when he's out of his room, and he prefers it if they don't clean up after him in every single way. 

It's a bit of a process, seeing as his bed is as big as Malfoy's is—an odd thing to know, but regardless. His sheets are silk as well, and his duvet is just as thick and soft. Harry hasn't realized it, but he's sleeping with five pillows, too. 

Harry pauses and glances around his room. 

His room. His. 

Bullocks, he's doing it again. This, at least, makes a bit more sense. The room does seem to be more his than a guest room, now. The books from his trunk and the ones from the Library are on the shelves, ensuring they don't look empty at all. His Firebolt is leaning in the corner next to the broom-cleaning set that Malfoy had given him. Harry had felt stupid to put his photo album of his parents on his nightstand, but he'd still done it, and now even that looks like it belongs there. His trunk is in front of his wardrobe, and his Invisibility Cloak is hanging off the brass hook on the side of the wardrobe, making one whole side of it look invisible. Now, with Hedwig on her perch beside the window, this room feels more like his own than his room at the Dursleys, and he's not sure what to feel about that. 

Harry sighs, shaking his head. "Dipsy!" he calls. 

There's a sharp pop, and then Dipsy—Harry's favorite house-elf, actually—appears in the room with a quick bow. "Yes, Master Harry Potter, sir?" 

"Did I miss breakfast, Dipsy?" 

"Yes, Master Harry Potter be missing breakfast, sir. Misses Narcissa Malfoy has Dipsy see if he and Master Draco Malfoy is awake, sir, but they be asleep still, so Dipsy was ordered to leave them be."

"Draco's still asleep?" Harry asks in surprise. 

Dipsy wrings his little hands. "Dipsy do not be knowing, Master Harry Potter, sir. Dipsy will check for Master—" 

"No, no, it's alright," Harry says quickly. He clears his throat. "Is it almost lunch, Dipsy?" 

"Lunch be happening in three hours and forty-seven minutes, Master Harry Potter, sir." 

"Oh. Yeah, alright. Er, Dipsy, sorry to ask you, but could you put together a light lunch for me and Malfoy? If you have the time, of course." 

Dipsy bobs his head. "Of course, Master Harry Potter, sir. Dipsy will do this for Masters Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy." 

"Thank you, Dipsy," Harry says with a smile. 

"Master Harry Potter is most welcome," Dipsy tells him with a little smile of his own before he's gone in much the same way he came. 

Harry sighs again. Hermione would kill him if she could see him now, honestly. Not that he isn't already feeling guilty enough as it is. It's just that he has so much to be guilty about that he no longer can settle on which part needs the full brunt of his shame first. Usually, it's his distrust of Dumbledore or him being a murderer that beats everything else out, followed closely by what his parents and Sirius would think of him now. 

For a bit, Harry sits on the edge of his bed and thinks about Sirius. Just thinks about him. Remembers what he looked like, how his laugh sounded, the way his eyes used to shine fiercely when he was passionate about something. Harry misses him so damn much, all the time, and that feeling is almost like a second heartbeat in his chest. Inhale, miss Sirius, exhale, miss Sirius. 

It's grief, Harry knows that. He knows he's grieving. He'd grieved Cedric, though not nearly as intensely as this. But Cedric wasn't family, and Sirius felt like the only family he really had. Harry's heart gives a sharp pang for both of them. 

A little bit later, Harry forces himself to get it together and keep going. He stands up from his bed, then marches right out of the room and across the hall. Without knocking, he barges right into Malfoy's room, a plan already knocking around in his brain for what they should do before Lunch. 

However, as soon as Harry catches sight of Malfoy, he comes to a sudden stop. 

Malfoy is still asleep. His blanket is pulled up to his chest, leaving only his shoulders and up visible to the eye—his naked shoulders because, apparently, Malfoy sleeps shirtless, which is fine. Really, really fine. Harry snatches his gaze to Malfoy's face, blinking in surprise to see that he looks...well, he looks really peaceful in his sleep, actually. 

Of course the tosser would be pretty even in his sleep. Most people drool, or snore, or have creases on their faces from their pillows. Malfoy, instead, has a slack face that looks sweet, and his lips are parted as he breathes soft and slow. His pale eyelashes lay on his cheekbones, and Harry has a feeling they tickle and Malfoy just isn't aware of it.

The only thing keeping Malfoy from looking utterly perfect in this moment is his hair. Usually, it has some sense of order to it. Now? Well, it's sticking up in all directions around his head, pushed around by his pillows, still gleaming blond in the sunlight, still looking ridiculously soft. It should be funny, Harry should laugh at his hair misfortune, but he can't because it's a bit...adorable, really. 

Harry flicks his gaze away quickly, catching sight of the book on Malfoy's nightstand. The same book from the Library. It has a bookmark sticking out the edge of it, and Harry's heart squeezes violently in his chest to see that Malfoy is more than halfway done. He must have been up all night reading it. 

"Malfoy," Harry whispers, moving over to stand beside the bed. He reaches out to poke Malfoy in the arm, quickly pulling his hand back when he feels how warm Malfoy is. "Hey, er, Malfoy. Wake up, Malfoy. Wake up!" 

Groaning, Malfoy's nose scrunches as he cracks open one eye. "What do you want, Harry?" he rasps, his voice sleep-thick and husky. 

Harry coughs. "Er, I want you to get up."

"M'sleepin'," Malfoy informs him in a mumble. 

"Yes," Harry agrees in amusement, his lips twitching, "I can see that. Stop doing so. Come on, we're going to eat a light lunch and have a Seeker game. Wake up, Malfoy." 

"Hate you," Malfoy declares with a groan, turning his head into his pillow and sighing. 

"The feeling is mutual," Harry lies. "Now, get up!"

Malfoy huffs, turning to look at him with squinting blue-grey eyes, clearly irritated to be woken up. Harry stares back defiantly until Malfoy grumbles and yawns, his eyes opening fully afterwards. He blinks around, then sits up slowly. 

Harry bites his lip. Malfoy's hair… 

"What are you laughing at, Potter?" Malfoy mutters in a croak, eyeing him suspiciously. 

"Your, um, hair is…" Harry trails off and reaches up to his own head to gesture that the sides are all sticking up around his head. Malfoy's hair looks a bit like his own, actually. 

Malfoy frowns, then reaches up with a scowl to pat his hair down. He gives up quickly and shoves himself out of the bed, and Harry suddenly isn't laughing anymore as Malfoy heads towards the loo. He snags his brush on the way, and Harry watches the way his shoulder blades move sharply on his back. He's not as thin as he used to be; he really, really isn't. His shoulders are fairly broad, actually, and he's taller, leaner, and— 

And he's gone. 

Harry blinks, feeling ridiculously rooted to the spot. He coughs hard and shakes it off. So what if Malfoy looks older and more fit? Harry might get taller, too, and he's not really horrible-looking, he doesn't think. No need to get jealous over Malfoy. 

Rolling his eyes at himself, Harry moves back across the hall to his own room to get ready for the day. The usual morning routine settles him. Get dressed, brush his teeth, fight with his hair (and lose). By the time he's finished, Malfoy is waiting out in the hall, looking awake and far more put together. Harry strangely misses his wild hair, even if his fixed hair looks soft and falls into his eyes. 

"Here, Potter, catch," Malfoy says, tossing him a leather box with a golden clasp. 

Harry raises his eyebrows. "A gift? Really, Malfoy, you shouldn't have." 

"I didn't," Malfoy says dryly. "That's the snitch. I figured you'd want to open it outside." 

"Yeah, alright," Harry agrees. 

A sudden pop makes Harry jump, but Malfoy doesn't. He looks bored. Dipsy bows before them, holding a basket in his little hand that's bigger than his whole body. 

"Dipsy be bringing Master Harry Potter a light lunch as requested," Dipsy says. 

Harry groans. "Dipsy, you call this light?" 

"You always have to be specific with house-elves, Potter, especially when it comes to food," Malfoy says in blatant amusement. He pushes away from the wall to grab the basket. "Thank you, Dipsy." 

Harry sighs as Dipsy leaves, shaking his head as he and Malfoy start down the hall, heading for the stairs with their brooms in hand. "We'll be stuffed by the time Lunch is ready."

"We'll eat, then fly," Malfoy tells him. "We might work up an appetite." 

"Your mother might just kill me if I don't eat Lunch, especially since I skipped breakfast," Harry mumbles as they head down the stairs. "She worries about me, you know. Can you believe that?" 

"I can, actually," Malfoy muses, his lips curling up. "She's a mother, Potter. Besides, I used to… Well, there was a time when I was younger that I—I didn't eat very well." 

Harry blinks. "You ate bad types of food, you mean?"

"I didn't eat at all if I could help it," Malfoy corrects flatly. "She was distraught when she realized."

"Why didn't you eat?" Harry asks, his heart racing in his chest. There must be some reason. Who kept him from eating if not his mother? Lucius? 

Malfoy sighs heavily. "I didn't—well, I was younger, you know. I thought that I would get big like Crabbe and Goyle if I ate, and I didn't think Malfoys were supposed to look like that, so I just...didn't eat. I was only ten, you understand, and my father was giving me all these lessons about who I was supposed to be, how I was supposed to act, that sort of thing. I didn't think Crabbe and Goyle were ugly, I just thought my father did, so I—I tried to not eat like they did. Plus, I mean, manners dictate that you don't eat like a wild animal anyway, and then it sort of...got worse. I was very thin and they had to call a Mediwizard, then I had meal plans, and Mother and Father were upset. So, Mother always made sure I ate, especially sweets to keep my weight up, and that's probably why she worries about you, that's all." 

Harry stops on the last step as Malfoy continues on. He stares. Malfoy seems to realize he's no longer moving and turns around, blinking at him with a frown. They're almost the same height now with Harry standing a step off the floor. 

He's suddenly thinking about that young, pointy boy from Hogwarts with thin shoulders and high cheekbones. Malfoy has always been healthily thin, not malnourished like Harry, but that doesn't mean he didn't used to be malnourished. It just means that he had parents who cared to make sure that he'd get healthy again, a mother to send him sweets by Owl, and Harry had the audacity to be annoyed by it. 

It just goes to show that people don't always know the real story. Harry certainly never would have guessed that Malfoy struggled with eating, just like Harry, but in a very different way. And, even if Malfoy didn't and Mrs. Malfoy sent him sweets to spoil him, so what? Harry was just envious. That doesn't mean Draco is Dudley, even if that's what Harry thought at the time. 

"Potter?" Malfoy asks, uncertain. 

Harry clears his throat. "Do you still—I mean, do you have problems with it now?" 

"Not as much anymore, no," Malfoy says, frowning at him. "Why?" 

"I, um—" Harry snaps his mouth shut, then releases a shaky breath. "You know my Muggle relatives I was telling you about?"

"Yes." 

"They used to, er, make me skip meals. That, and they sort of fed me scraps. I never—I mean, they didn't let me eat very well, is all. So, I get it. What that's like, I mean. To be hungry. To not eat." 

Malfoy's face goes blank, his eyes sparking with the same exact anger Harry's seen in Mrs. Weasley's eyes, or Ron's, or Hermione's when they see just how bad the Dursleys are. Harry watches Malfoy's hand spasm at his side like he'd enjoy it very much if he could grab his wand and hex the Dursleys to oblivion. Harry relates to that, but it worries him in the same breath. He doesn't want whatever progress Malfoy has made in his opinion of Muggles to go away, not when the Dursleys shouldn't be the representation of Muggles. 

Malfoy takes a deep breath, then lets it out, nodding sharply. "Alright. Well, are you hungry?" 

Harry relaxes. "Starving," he says with a grin. 

"Then let's go have a light lunch," Malfoy says simply, turning around. 

"Yeah, alright," Harry agrees, pleased. 

It's nice that Malfoy isn't going to ask him questions about it, isn't going to rant about the Dursleys. It always makes Harry uncomfortable when the Weasleys or Hermione do it. He just...doesn't want to talk about it. He never wants to talk about it. 

Thankfully, Malfoy doesn't seem to want to make him. He's altogether quiet as they head through the foyer to the drawing room, which will eventually lead to the entrance hall where the doors to outside awaits. Harry can practically feel the air rushing over his face already. Well, he can until they make it into the drawing room and Mrs. Malfoy is sitting in her chair, working on embroidery, and she looks up at them with raised eyebrows. 

"Finally up, I see," she says lightly. "You boys had a late morning in." 

Harry smiles sheepishly. "Sorry. We were up late last night. And we spent a lot of time walking around yesterday. We're going to eat, though." 

Malfoy holds up the basket as if showing proof. 

Mrs. Malfoy hums. "I see. Well, you two have a good time flying. I'll send Dipsy out to fetch you when Lunch is on the table." 

"A bit before, Mother," Malfoy says, wrinkling his nose. "Showers." 

"Of course, love," Mrs. Malfoy says, amused. 

"Hey, um, Mrs. Malfoy—"

"Narcissa, dear. I've already told you this before, Harry, just call me Narcissa." 

Harry smiles at her sheepishly again. "Sorry, Mrs. Malfoy. I mean—sorry," he mumbles. 

Mrs. Malfoy sighs, her gaze fond and amused. "What did you want to ask, Harry?" 

"Just, er, can we go into your garden after Lunch?" Harry asks, blinking at her. 

"Certainly," Mrs. Malfoy agrees. "Now, off you go, the both of you. Enjoy your flying." 

So, with smiles, that's what they do. 

The snitch turns out to be one of Harry's more brilliant ideas. They have a great time chasing it, and Malfoy rants the whole way back to the Manor about Harry catching the snitch. Harry, of course, is feeling a lot better after getting to be a seeker again, and he's pleased to have won. 

It puts him in a relatively good mood, so Lunch passes in a way it usually doesn't. He and Malfoy bicker just like always, and at one point, Harry smacks Malfoy's knuckles with his fork for saying something prat-ish, which leads to Malfoy smacking him over the head for lack of table manners, which ends up with them glaring at each other as they hold the other at wand point. Mrs. Malfoy and Lucius do not intervene, like they never do, but they do visibly lean back in case Spells go flying. 

In the end, though, they just go back to bickering, and Harry's in such a good mood from catching the snitch that he actually talks. This, surprisingly, leads Mrs. Malfoy to talk, which even more surprisingly, leads Lucius to speak up occasionally. Lucius usually never talks at meals, unless spoken to, but he does answer the few questions Mrs. Malfoy aims at him and even exchanges a few words with Malfoy. 

It's strange. Harry can almost see how they're like a real family, odd and distant as they may be. Even with Lucius' many, many flaws, it's apparent that he loves his son—he just shows it horribly. It makes Harry wonder how Lucius' father treated him. 

The Malfoys aren't like the Weasleys. There's no warmth and love and constant bustling movement. Their words are short and borderline cold, always so prim and proper. Harry would bet that Lucius and Mrs. Malfoy don't tell Malfoy they love him the way Mr and Mrs. Weasley tells each of their children in an offhand, obvious way that the Weasley kids don't have to question because they already know. Does Malfoy know that his parents love him? Really, really know with absolutely no room for doubt? 

Harry is still wondering this when he strolls through the garden with Mrs. Malfoy after lunch. She's waving her wand, watering the flowers, pruning them. He watches her in silence for a while, then clears his throat. 

"Mrs. Malfoy," Harry murmurs, "you have been telling me about Pureblood traditions, and I still don't agree with them, but can you tell me what the traditions are for...affection?" 

"Affection?" Mrs. Malfoy echoes, turning to look at him in surprise. "Do you mean in a romantic sense?" 

"No, I mean...like family," Harry says carefully. 

Mrs. Malfoy blinks. "Oh. Well, I suppose that Pureblood families show their affection in their pride. That was always how my mother and father did it, at least. If they said they were proud of me, or showed it, then I knew I'd done the right thing." 

"What about hugs?" 

"Hugs?" 

Harry nods. "Yes. Hugs. When was the last time you hugged Draco?" 

"I…" Mrs. Malfoy slowly lowers her wand, looking a bit flustered. "Well, he was very young. Ten, I believe. Before he went to Hogwarts. He was very nervous, you understand." 

"Was he?" Harry asks in surprise. "He didn't act like it. He seemed like a confident, little prat." 

Mrs. Malfoy frowns at him, but her eyes smile. "Yes, well, Draco was very good at pretending. He still is, in some ways. He also had an image to maintain at his father's demand." 

"When was the last time Lucius hugged Draco?" 

"That, I cannot tell you. Possibly when he was five? Perhaps a little younger." 

"Merlin," Harry breathes out, grimacing. "You do realize how strange that is, don't you? That parents don't give their only child any affection?"

"Draco is older now," Mrs. Malfoy says softly. She sighs and shakes her head. "It is not always that I did not wish to embrace my son, Harry, it sometimes is that he would not allow it. He knows that it is expected of him to be above such things." 

"But that's only because his parents taught him that. Besides, why does he have to be the one to allow it, or even want it? How do you know he doesn't want it, if he's been told that he shouldn't?" 

"Has he told you this, Harry?" 

Harry snorts. "I think you know your son better than that, Mrs. Malfoy. He'd rather chew off his own tongue than admit he needs something like that. Which, I suppose, is Lucius' doing...and yours." 

"It's just not the way things are," Mrs. Malfoy says simply, watching him closely. "One doesn't force hugs upon someone who does not want them." 

"He's your son." 

"Yes, he is." 

"So, if he was—if you found him crying." Harry holds up a hand when Mrs. Malfoy opens her mouth to protest. "Just say that you did. He's crying, upset, something like that. What are you going to do? Just watch him, walk away and give him his privacy, tell him to stop and act better? Or, are you going to hug your son because he needs a bloody hug?" 

Mrs. Malfoy closes her mouth. Her nostrils flare as she exhales heavily through her nose. Looking slightly uncomfortable, she says, "Of course I would comfort my son under those circumstances." 

"Right," Harry agrees harshly. "Just, you should know that, sometimes, people feel that way on the inside, even if they don't show it. Sometimes, they will smile at you and need a hug, even if they'll never dare to ask for one." 

"And you think that is the case with Draco?" 

"I think that, if you were to hug him, he wouldn't be upset about it, that's all. I mean, if he told you to stop, then you stop. That simple. Maybe a bit embarrassing, sure, but is that so important when your son might need it?" 

"I see," Mrs. Malfoy murmurs. She watches him for a long moment, then tilts her head slightly. "And you, Harry? Is that the case with you?" 

Harry stares at her. "Mrs. Malfoy, my life is pretty shit. I live with my schoolyard bully and the man who killed my parents. I'm a wanted murderer, my Godfather has just recently died, and I don't know if I can trust someone I have always trusted. If I didn't need a hug, I wouldn't be human." 

Mrs. Malfoy blinks rapidly in pure surprise, and Harry can't help but laugh at her shocked expression. Really, he's not one for great bursts of affection, mostly because he didn't have it at all before Hogwarts. But between Hermione and Mrs. Weasley, he's come to realize that he doesn't actually hate hugs. They're nice, if not a bit disconcerting. 

He likes them, in any case, and he doesn't think it's as weird as he did when he was younger. Gryffindors are actually pretty affectionate in their own ways. Claps on the shoulder, bumping elbows, shoving each other playfully, hugs in greeting and parting. He's not always the best about it, about initiating it, about admitting that he wants it, but he knows now that he's worlds better than the Malfoys. So, he's going to have to own up to it, as it were. 

"Harry," Mrs. Malfoy says cautiously. 

He silences her by stepping forward and wrapping his arms around her. It's the most awkward he's ever felt in his entire life, and that's really saying something. Mrs. Malfoy is stiff as a board and more petite than he expects her to be. She's only a bit taller than him, so he has to hook his chin on her shoulder and wait for her to thaw out. 

She does, eventually. She clearly hasn't hugged someone in a long time, not in this way or for this long before. At first, she doesn't seem to know what to do with her arms, then finally finds a spot for them around his shoulders. She clears her throat and awkwardly pats his shoulder. 

"You know," Harry tells her conversationally, "it's really not so bad. Hermione says that hugs are scientifically proven to make you happier." 

Mrs. Malfoy huffs a quiet laugh, which ruffles his hair just a bit. "And to think I assumed this Hermione was intelligent." 

"She is." 

"If you say so, Harry." 

Harry chuckles and waits for her to relax before pulling away, grinning lopsidedly at her. "If you think that was strange for you, just think about the fact that I just hugged Mrs. Malfoy, my childhood bully's mother. I think I win." 

"Yes, I think you do," Mrs. Malfoy agrees. She smiles at him softly. "You may have a point about...affection. Perhaps…" 

"Yeah?" Harry stuffs his hands in his pockets, his heart thundering away in his chest. "Does this mean you'll give Malfoy—er, Draco a hug? Because, honestly, I think he'd appreciate one." 

Mrs. Malfoy hums, looking at him intently. "And why haven't you given him one, then?"

Harry blinks. "Oh, no, I couldn't. We're not—well, he wouldn't appreciate it coming from me. His mother, though? Everyone needs their mother to hug them sometimes. Not having that is… It can be really horrible. Trust me, I would know." 

"Yes, I suppose you would," Mrs. Malfoy says gently, her mouth set into an unhappy frown, as if she's genuinely upset for him.

He thinks she wants to hug him again, and he smiles. 

Chapter Text

The next few days pass without incident. Harry is fine one day, upset the next. Cheerful, then silent. Thinking fondly of Sirius, then grieving so hard that he cries himself to sleep. Smiling in amusement at Malfoy's antics, then coming close to blows when they get in an argument. It ebbs and it flows, and it becomes Harry's strange new normal. 

He flies with Malfoy every day, sometimes with Hedwig flying with them, sometimes with the snitch and sometimes without. He eats at meals, only occasionally skipping them when things seem so very hard and he can't handle it all. He thinks a lot about his friends, about Dumbledore. He looks for Voldemort to have his debate because he's read a lot of books and he feels ready, but Voldemort is away again, which makes him sick with worry that there are people out there dying somewhere. 

Then, one day, he looks up and realizes that he's halfway into July. He has a month and a half until Hogwarts reopens and he's not going to be there. It feels wrong. He doesn't know what to do about it. 

It's late in the evening on a day that he's mourning this fact deeply when Malfoy suddenly comes barging into his room. Harry blinks as he marches over to the other side of the bed and flops down with a huff, his hair splaying out on Harry's pillow in an unfairly graceful way. The bed is so big that they don't even touch, but Harry is still shocked to find Malfoy sprawled out on his bed like this. 

"Er, can I help you, Malfoy?" Harry mutters. 

Malfoy heaves a deep sigh. "Potter, my mother just hugged me." 

"Did she?" Harry asks, beaming. 

"It was very strange," Malfoy tells him. He glances over at Harry with a frown. "It came out of nowhere with no warning. She just...hugged me." 

"Is that a bad thing?" 

"She hasn't hugged me since I was ten." 

I know, Harry doesn't say. Instead, he murmurs, "I'm sure it was nice then, after all these years." 

"It wasn't horrible, just unexpected. I let her, of course, in case she needed it. But, when I asked her if she was alright, she said she was. Do you think she's going through a...woman thing?" 

"I...wouldn't know. I don't think there is a woman thing that makes them suddenly hug you. Maybe she just wanted to hug you, Malfoy." 

Malfoy hums. "Perhaps. Oh, I'm also meant to escort you to, er, the Dark Lord. Back in that room where… Well, you know the room." 

"Yeah, I do," Harry mutters. "We're going now? Voldemort is back from his...trip?" 

"Yes," Malfoy says, hopping up from the bed, not a hair out of place, not a wrinkle in his robes. 

Harry shakes his head. "Alright, let's go, then." 

The little wiggle of excitement and warmth Harry feels at the knowledge that Mrs. Malfoy hugged her son is squashed as Malfoy leads him out of the room. He wishes he'd had a few more minutes to appreciate it, because fixing some of the broken aspects of the Malfoys—Draco, in particular—feels like the only good he's doing these days. 

It's like a little project that he can focus on and forget how truly messed up everything is right now. Changing Malfoy's viewpoints, changing Mrs. Malfoy's...it all feels like Harry is actually doing some good in the world. After killing Bellatrix and semi-losing trust for Dumbledore, Harry is a bit thankful to have that, at least. 

If Malfoy notices his solemn state, he doesn't comment on it. He just keeps sending Harry quick, furtive looks like he wants to say something but won't. Harry doesn't have it in him to hear whatever is on Malfoy's mind, not right now. 

The march to the Death Eater room—as Harry has dubbed it in his mind—is a slow one. It's very quiet in the Manor, though it's rarely loud. It just feels quiet and sparse because he knows where everyone is. He's not at all looking forward to going back in that room, nor is he very ready to find out why Voldemort has asked for him. 

To be honest, Harry doesn't like how he feels inside that room. The atmosphere was tense, he remembers that, but it's being around all those Death Eaters that gets to him. It's odd because Harry is around Lucius every day, and at this point, he doesn't feel like he's going to lose it and kill him at every available opportunity—the urge rather comes and goes, actually, a bit like a tide of anger. 

The others, though? All those Death Eaters? Harry wants to blow up the entire room. It only makes it worse that Voldemort is there, sitting before all his followers, nearly indestructible. 

It's all maddening. 

As they start getting farther down the hall where it goes from looking pristine and cold to dusty and dark, Harry takes measured breaths. He's calm. He is. And he's going to stay that way. He'll just go in, see what Voldemort wants, then leave. He will likely sick up again because walking away from a group of horrible, torturous murderers without doing anything goes against everything he believes in. 

The door is closed, but Harry knows that it will open as soon as he touches it. He doesn't, not for a while, just standing there in complete silence. Malfoy looks at him a few times, then without a word, he reaches out to touch Harry's wrist, just a brief squeeze that somehow makes Harry think he'll get through this. He shoots Malfoy a shaky smile in thanks, and Malfoy gives a sharp nod before dropping his hand. 

Harry reaches up to touch the door, his stomach in knots as it slowly creaks open. There was a low murmur that filtered out, but now it's quiet. Harry sets his shoulders and walks in, Malfoy right beside him, keeping pace with him. 

The first time he walked in this room, it was the sight of all the Death Eaters at the table that made him come to a halt. This time, it's the sight of one. 

Instantly, Harry feels a sharp sting of betrayal as he stares at Snape. He almost misses the very quick flash of surprise on Snape's face and the barely perceptible widening of his eyes by just a fraction. Harry stares at him, suddenly angry, so angry that Voldemort lied to him when Harry dared to believe that he wouldn't. He snatches his furious gaze from Snape to glare at Voldemort, who watches him. 

"Explain," Harry grits out, waiting, giving him the benefit of doubt because it's an insane world and Voldemort hasn't lied to him yet. 

"I told you, Harry," Voldemort says softly, his red eyes glittering, "I was handling it. Rest assured, Severus is unable to reveal anything. As much as I trust him, you do not, and I respect that." 

Harry feels his nostrils flare. "How do you know? How can you be sure? He could—" 

"He can't," Voldemort cuts him off sternly. "I have not lied to you, and I will not. Severus would die before the words could ever leave his lips." 

"Why am I here?" Harry asks, his gaze shifting back over to look at Snape, who is staring at him with empty eyes and a blank expression. 

Voldemort sweeps his hand towards Snape, his long fingers waving in a strangely grotesque way. "I told you I would notify you when we found a solution. This is me doing so." 

"I want to speak with him," Harry declares, the words falling from his mouth before he even makes the decision. "Alone." 

"Very well," Voldemort says. He turns to look at Snape with a thin smile. "Go with Harry, Severus. Answer his questions honestly." 

"Yes, My Lord," Snape says softly, silkily, standing up immediately. His robes billow out as he sweeps around the table, coming to a halt as he stares right at Harry. "After you, Mr. Potter." 

Harry glances at Malfoy. "I'll be right back." 

Malfoy, in a great show of aloofness, smirks and waves a hand lazily. "And I'll be right here." 

With that, Harry takes a deep breath and whirls around on the spot, marching right back out of the room with his heart in his throat. He assumes that Snape is following him, but he doesn't look back to check. He just keeps walking until a door catches his attention, feeling a little pull to it. He doesn't even wait, his mind running in circles as he moves to the door and opens it, walking in. 

It's a room on the dirty, dank hallway. It looks like it used to be a study, but the chairs are dusty and the shelves lining the walls are empty. Harry notices immediately what pulled him here, grimacing at the sight of Nagini curled up in the corner. He always finds his way to her somehow, especially when he's distressed, but that makes sense if they're both the same sort of thing Voldemort uses as a defense. 

Distressed again, Nagini hisses at him, picking her head up to stare at him and Snape. Are you ever anything else, boy? 

"Shut up," Harry hisses back, huffing. He points a finger at her. "And no, you can't swallow Snape." 

Nagini lowers her head. I wouldn't. The master does not permit it, or encourage it. 

Harry rolls his eyes. "Of course he doesn't." 

With a sigh, Harry turns right back around and walks out of the room, brushing past Snape lingering in the doorway with watchful eyes. Harry slams the door and goes farther up the hall, finding yet another room that doesn't even have chairs. It's empty, so Harry nods to himself and turns around. 

Snape walks in behind him and closes the door, his robes dramatically flapping, just as always. Strangely, it gives Harry a sharp pang for the way things used to be, reminding him of his times in Hogwarts. Oh, to be eleven again and sure that your Potions Professor wants you killed. 

Simpler times, really. 

Black eyes watch him. Snape's gaze has always been harsh and forceful, full of scorn, at least when it comes to Harry—though, also in general as well. There's a different type of hatred for Harry in Snape's gaze, however, always has been, and Harry is aware of that. But it's not there now. 

No, Snape's gaze is guarded now, intent. He's being careful, watching. His eyes flick over Harry like he's checking for wounds, and the sharp curiosity in them is poorly hidden. Snape has not expected this, and Harry understands that completely. 

"Well?" Snape finally drawls. 

Harry takes a deep breath, lets it out. "You—you really can't say anything about me being here?" 

"Not unless you permit it," Snape replies, his gaze sharpening on Harry's face. "You have to be the one to give me permission to say anything about you to anyone who is not the Dark Lord." 

"Me?" Harry blurts out. "But why?" 

Snape arches an eyebrow. "The Dark Lord has made it so. Only you can dictate what information I give on you to anyone outside of the Dark Lord himself."

Harry gives a hollow laugh, reaching up to scrub a hand down the side of his face. Voldemort would do this. It goes above and beyond what Harry asked of him, and in the same breath, it puts him in yet another position to make choices that feel like a betrayal. Harry has the power to grant Snape the permission to tell Dumbledore and the Order everything, but he has to decide to. 

The thing is, Harry can't do that. Voldemort knows Harry can't. Knows he won't. That bastard. 

On the other hand, Harry could tell Snape absolutely anything, and no one would be able to find out except for Voldemort. Which, in truth, that isn't a huge deal, not really. Voldemort has already seen his mind, and they have this weird connection anyway. Harry gets the feeling that he doesn't really have a lot of secrets from Voldemort as it is, and it seems like Voldemort doesn't really care either way what goes on in Harry's head. 

"Of course," Harry whispers, dropping his hand and blinking slowly as he looks at Snape. "Of course he'd do that. Yeah, makes sense." 

Snape stares at him hard. "Does it?" 

"Honestly, Professor, a lot of things don't really surprise me anymore," Harry admits with a weary sigh. He feels so, so tired. "I have questions, so go ahead and try your best to shock me." 

"I have been told to answer honestly. If something shocks you, it will be no fault of my own." 

"Do you have questions?" 

"Many," Snape admits. 

Harry nods. "Yeah, I figured. Me first. Am I really a wanted criminal?" 

"Yes, you are." Snape curls his lip. "A wanted criminal to be arrested immediately on sight."

"Dumbledore was wanted at the meeting as a witness, wasn't he?" 

"Yes." 

"He didn't go," Harry murmurs, and Snape doesn't answer because it's not a question, but he doesn't have to. Harry already knows. What he really wants to know is, "Why?" 

"I do not know," Snape says. 

Harry clenches his fists. "You don't know? He didn't say anything?" 

"Not to me."

"What did he say about me killing Bellatrix?"

Snape stares at him in complete silence, his face blank. There's something startling like pity in his dark eyes. "Nothing. He said...nothing."

"Oh," Harry whispers. It's like a bludger to the chest, it hits so hard. He has to take a second to get his breath back, blinking rapidly. "Has there been Order meetings since—since I went missing?" 

"Yes." 

"Was he there?" 

"He attended three meetings out of five." 

"And d-does the Order…" 

Snape presses his lips in a thin line, waiting. Harry doesn't want to ask. He's terrified. Snape doesn't blink, holding his gaze. "Speak, Potter." 

"Do they know I—do they know it was me, and not V-Voldemort?" Harry stutters out, his chest feeling too small, pressing in on his heart and lungs. 

"There were some who would rather believe that it was the Dark Lord who possessed you and killed Bellatrix Lestrange, but Dumbledore confirmed that it was you," Snape says in a short, sharp tone. 

Harry frowns. "You said he didn't say—" 

"He did not. When the point was brought up, he merely shook his head. When asked if it was you who cast the Killing Curse, he nodded." 

"And he had nothing to say? Nothing?! He hasn't spoken one word about me? Not even to—" 

"Not to me and not to anyone else, not to my knowledge," Snape murmurs when Harry cuts himself off. 

"So...so, everyone knows it was me, then?" Harry asks weakly, his heart thundering in his chest. 

"Yes," Snape answers. 

Harry stares at him. "Were you one of those who thought it wasn't?" 

"Yes," Snape admits. 

"You didn't think I would do it."

"No, I did not."

"Well," Harry says with a harsh, bitter laugh, "it was me. Looks like I finally did something you thought I couldn't, Professor. Proud of me yet?" 

Snape opens his mouth. 

"Don't answer that," Harry says quickly, swallowing thickly. "The majority of the Order...how do they feel about it? The adults, I mean."

"About you killing Bellatrix?"

"Yes."

"They are…" Snape trails off for a second, pausing, the sentence hanging there like he's giving Harry the chance to stop him. Harry does not, and with a tightness around his eyes, Snape picks it right back up. "They are divided. Some are notably angry, even betrayed. They know of the Spell, just as everyone does, and they know how you have to feel and how you have to be to cast it. That is undeniable, and some of them feel that you've...done something unforgivable. Some have even left the Order." 

"And the others?" Harry rasps. 

Snape releases a deep breath. "They are conflicted. It's a regular debate at meetings about what it means that you are capable of...that. Some still believe in you wholeheartedly. Some are more concerned that you are missing. And a few think you've done a good thing, regardless of how you did it and what that reflects back on you." 

"And you?" Harry asks in a hoarse croak, staring up at Snape. "Do you think I'm evil, Professor?"