Chapter Text
And time weaves ribbons of memory
To sweeten life when youth is through,
But I would need no memories there
If I could share my life with you.
—Stephen Schwartz, "With You" (from Pippin)
It figures that Draco Malfoy would have taken a flat in Harry's neighborhood, even if Malfoy doesn't realize it.
After two months off the job, Harry's Auror robes feel almost unfamiliar to him now, yet still strangely comforting, almost like sliding onto a broom again after being sidelined by injury. There isn't that same sense of exultation, but still, it's good. He hadn't realized quite how much he'd miss the challenge, and even the daily grind. It's hard to believe it's been that long—almost two months since Ron woke up, six weeks since Draco Malfoy was released from hospital, two weeks since the Malfoy case was finally closed, with all charges dropped.
The Ministry wasn't quite ready to let such a high-profile admitted Death Eater get off scot-free, until Hermione and Remus stepped in to offer cool, reasoned defenses and proof of Malfoy's actions against the Death Eaters and in protection of Harry. In the end, they reasoned that four months in hospital was a sort of punishment anyway, and gave in grudgingly.
During Harry's suspension, he and Tonks had met weekly, ostensibly for drinks, though mostly so Harry could pry for information about Malfoy, and Tonks could pry for information about Ginny—not that Harry knows any more about Ginny's self-imposed exile than Tonks does, in spite of Harry and Ginny's cautious reconciliation. Tonks has always been kind, though, and never dropped the façade that Harry sought information only because of his work on the Malfoy case. She's told him things the Prophet doesn't know, or doesn't report. Like how the Prophet seemed intent on stalking Malfoy from almost the instant of his release, and how death threats continue to rain down on Malfoy Manor, even though Malfoy doesn't live there any longer and, Tonks claims, has no intention of doing so ever again.
It's little wonder, really, that Malfoy is hiding out among Muggles these days.
A lot of questions had been answered during the hearings that led up to the Ministry's charges against Malfoy being dropped. The Daily Prophet's reporters hadn't been permitted entrance, so much of the coverage was speculation and sensationalism. But Tonks gave Harry the truth—how Malfoy never denied his willingness to join the Death Eaters, in spite of his increasing reservations during his final year at Hogwarts (Tonks eyed Harry suspiciously as she told him this). How Malfoy had keyed his communication spell to Hermione's magical signature because rumor placed her in Intelligence, and he knew that she, at least, would never be a Death Eater sympathizer. How Lucius's Kiss had been the final straw after years of growing aversion to Death Eater methods and missions. How he'd never intended to cause harm to Harry Potter, and had in fact protected him at very nearly the cost of his own life. The Ministry officials had been awed at Malfoy's scar, Tonks said, after Remus had described the spell and produced photographs and diagrams as evidence. Harry himself had been called to testify, but otherwise was excluded from the hearings due to his suspended status. He'd dispassionately answered questions about the night of the raid, and about his suspicions regarding Malfoy's loyalties back in school, but he was never pressed too far, never asked specifically about the nature of his relationship with Malfoy, and Harry didn't volunteer the information. Malfoy was present during his questioning, and their eyes met only briefly before Malfoy averted his gaze, his face blank. Harry hasn't seen him since.
Even though Malfoy's case is closed, it's remarkably easy for an Auror with the right connections to learn the very much not public home address of a wizard formerly under investigation. Or at least it would under ordinary circumstances. Malfoy, however, proved a tougher case than most.
Harry had ranted in Hermione's office, pacing back and forth as she watched calmly, hands folded against the desktop, Ron's ring sparkling on her left hand. "Nobody knows where he is!" he'd railed. "It's like he disappeared off the face of the earth!"
"Why do you want to find him?"
Harry had halted, startled at the question. "I—just to talk—to see if he's—" He stopped and shut his mouth as she narrowed her eyes at him.
"You don't mean to attack him again?"
"Of course not!"
Eyes still narrow. "You promise?"
"Yes, yes, I promise." He searched her eyes, and something he saw in there made him approach the desk. "Hermione, do you know where he is?"
She gazed back at him without changing expression.
"Hermione," he said. "Please. If you know where he is, tell me."
"You're asking me where to find Draco Malfoy?" she'd asked, slowly and clearly.
"Yes, I—" He shook his head and stepped back. "God, you don't know either, do you? Damn it—"
"He's under Fidelius," she said, watching him evenly.
He froze, and could practically feel the hope draining right out of his chest. "I'll never find him, then," he said, and his voice sounded as hollow as he felt. "Fuck. He's—fuck!" He spun, raised a fist to hit the wall, hit something.
"I'm his Secret-Keeper," Hermione continued, and nearly cracked a smile when Harry's mouth fell open.
The fact that she admitted this still puzzles him. He'd never taken her for the type to betray a confidence, especially one as sacred as a Fidelius Charm. But he hadn't wanted to look a gift horse in the mouth—and still is relieved not to have had to resort to any underhanded tactics or influence-peddling, or even interference in the form of an Intelligence officer's just-back-from-the-brink-of-death fiancé, to get the information.
And so, here he is.
He can feel the security spells on the flat even from outside the door—the faint buzz on the edge of his senses, so subtle, most Muggles would never even realize it's there—and he hesitates for a moment, his knuckles inches from the wood. The last time he approached Malfoy's home, he'd landed in hospital for his troubles, and one of his closest friends had nearly died. The last time he'd spoken with Malfoy, he'd physically attacked the man and had to be dragged away. He'll be lucky if Malfoy doesn't hex him where he stands.
Steeling his courage, he raps three times on the door.
When Malfoy opens it, it's with an almost bored air, and with none of the surprise or anger Harry had expected. He leans against the jamb, arms crossed. "Potter."
"Malfoy," Harry says. Everything seems to fly out of his head at the sight of him, still thinner than he should be, cool and pale, eyes speculative.
"I expect Granger told you where to find me."
"I—yes, but—she—I made her—"
Malfoy waves a hand in dismissal. "I told her it was all right to tell you. But only if you asked." Malfoy's eyes catch his, and there's a nervous, unsettled light in them that makes Harry straighten. Malfoy shrugs a little, glances away. "I didn't think you really would ask."
Something inside of Harry twists, hard. "Do you want me to leave?"
"No!" Malfoy blinks, lowers the hand that had begun to reach, seemingly without thought, toward Harry. "I mean—not if you don't want to. I…wasn't sure you'd ever want to see me again."
"Of course I wanted to see you," Harry insists. "I—" He glances away, then back at Malfoy. "You're…well now?"
"As well as a marked-for-death ex-Death Eater can be, I suppose."
Harry scowls. "That's not what I—"
Malfoy sighs. "Yes, to get the pleasantries out of the way, I'm fine. Memory one-hundred percent recovered. Psychosomatic memory loss," he enunciates, as though reciting. "Response to traumatic stimuli." He sneers. "You Gryffindors always did think I was a head case. Must be nice to have it confirmed."
Harry refuses to rise to the bait. "And…the other?" He gestures vaguely at his own chest.
"As healed as it ever will be." Malfoy smirks. "I suppose now we can be manly and boast about our scars together."
"So, the scar," Harry continues doggedly, "that means you were hit by—"
"Probably Bella's Killing Curse, yes. That's what the evidence points to."
Harry breathes. "Malfoy, you probably saved my life."
Malfoy is silent for a few moments, fidgeting, then he sighs again. "Look, Potter, don't let this go to your head—"
Harry feels something within him die a little, and promise to Hermione or no, Harry wants to deck him. "Wouldn't dream of it," he snaps.
Malfoy doesn't invite him in, but neither does he send Harry away. Harry stands outside the door, eyes downcast, feeling hurt, foolish, his mind racing. He thinks he can sense Malfoy's searching gaze on him, and something doesn't feel quite right. "Er," Harry says at last, "but you were—willing to sacrifice yourself to save me?"
Malfoy's voice is dry. "We're all entitled to lapses in judgment."
"Oh," Harry says, and he can't bear to meet Malfoy's eyes. I shouldn't have come. God, the presumption—I'm such an idiot—
"Have you always been this much of an idiot, Potter?" Harry's head snaps up when Malfoy echoes his thoughts, and he almost winces at Malfoy's disgusted expression. But when he looks more closely, he can see a light in Malfoy's eyes that's almost—warm.
"I—" Harry clears his throat and takes a chance. "I'd almost be convinced of it, if I'd listened to your thoughts on the subject all those years."
Malfoy's expression doesn't change, but he seems to Harry to be a heartbeat away from a smile. "Too right."
Harry's heart is in his throat when he speaks again. "So you really did—I mean, not just because of the Boy Who Lived thing, but—for me—?"
Malfoy looks away. "Yes," he says, then lifts his gaze to meet Harry's again, and Harry's never felt leaping, soaring hope quite like this.
When an envelope appears out of thin air in front of him, he catches it instinctively and curses to see his name on it, along with the seal of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. "I—sorry," he mutters, sliding his thumb under the flap, hating that this has interrupted, but knowing the Ministry doesn't use the translocation spell for trivial things, especially with attacks escalating as Voldemort begins to sense defeat is nigh. Everyone in wizarding Britain is edgy, with reason. "Fuck," Harry says as he reads, and lifts his head to meet Malfoy's eyes again. "I have to go."
Malfoy's expression shutters, and mentally Harry curses again. "Right," Malfoy says, clearly withdrawing both physically and emotionally. "Of course."
Before he has time to think, to consider, to reflect on all the ways this could backfire—all the ways such overtures have backfired in the past—Harry seizes Malfoy's hand between his. "Look, Malfoy—I'll see you tomorrow, all right?"
Malfoy's hand jerks at Harry's words, and his gaze searches Harry's intently, clearly distrusting. But then, slowly, something dawns in his eyes, and Malfoy's fingers curl around his.
"All right," he says, his lips curving into a smile. "Tomorrow."