How To Get What You Want (How To Disappear)

by Moon_Peach

Summary:

With the passing of Lucius Malfoy, Draco begins to fear a similar fate for himself. He turns to cleansing and healing rituals with the hope that it might not be too late. His journey to penance leads him back to an unexpected place and a group of unlikely friends. But will it be enough to stop the disease he fears is growing in his veins?

Notes:

Wow, what a journey! This fic began as a therapy project, to get back into the things I liked to do. Writing was that! I joined the drarry discord and this was the first fest accepting writers, and I wanted to challenge myself into writing on a time limit! This fic was described to me as a "love letter to Slytherin" and I hope it reads as such to you, dear reader.

Special shout out to my betas epitomereally and robinbuckllly for walking me through the editing process and teaching me about a number of writing things, and ironstar_co for cheerleading me like always. Love you Siri!

Title comes from the song "How to Get What You Want" by Elise Trouw, which I feel embodies Draco throughout the fic.

If one were to ask Draco when the uncontrollable shaking in his hands started, he would've said the day Lucius died. To be more precise, it was three days later, when the Azkaban formal autopsy report was sent to them. Every complicated sliver of feelings he felt came surging up, up, up before screeching to a stop in his throat. It was incredibly easy to pretend he absolutely, vehemently despised his father (“Lucius,” he would correct with a sneer to anyone who dared call them father and son) while he was alive, spouting barely concealed venom during mandated hour-long meetings that left Draco gasping for air later. Then he had the audacity to go and die, and it wasn’t even a relief. It wasn’t as if they hadn’t seen it coming from a mile away either, dragging the grief and confusing feelings out significantly longer than they had any right to be. Maybe the shaking started then.

 

There’s something to be said about watching someone he previously thought to be infallible, strong and demanding of presence, slowly wither away right in front of his eyes. Someone he idolized and worshiped, hanging onto their every word like they hung the stars in the sky. Draco had truly thought the sun and moon rose and fell with the words of his father. Then he started growing up and seeing his father for what he really was— a fucked up, flawed person like the rest of them. He could’ve been okay with that; could have reconciled Lucius, his great and intelligent father who commanded a room even if it was adorned in gold, even with Lucius who was snide and thought he was better than most everyone else as two sides of the same very human coin. He could’ve been fine with that, would’ve done anything for it, in fact. But then the war happened.

 

It was much, much harder to reconcile with the egotistical, narcissistic purist monster his father had become. He was suddenly not the loving, doting father full of wisdom to bestow upon Draco, for the single most reason that his home was no longer safe and was now forever tainted. For this reason the inside of his left arm held a litter of crisscrossing silvery white scars that did nothing to hide what was underneath: The man who sold his soul and ran everything he loved right into the ground. The love quickly turned from devotion into apathy, and then into full-bodied hatred before he even turned 17.

 

He hated him for everything he forced on his perfect mother, having her host the Dark Lord and those people who should’ve never been allowed in Malfoy Manor’s sacred halls. He hated him for pressuring him into the Mark. He especially hated him for not protecting him like a true father should have done from that awful task everyone expected him to fail. His hatred simmered to a boil, carrying him though those first unbearable months after the war. 

 

Then Lucius fucked it all up for him, like bloody always, by getting sick. It was harder to throw petty, snide comments at him when his father‘s barbs grew less biting and harsh. It became impossible to glower and sneer coldly while his mother tried so hard to bridge the gap between father and son. 

 

“Come, Draco. It would mean so much to your father if you would sit and read with him, too,” she would say, when Lucius’ hands would begin to shake so much that he could no longer hold anything heavier than a quill. She doted on him with practiced ease, while Draco stood there, as useless and silent as a shadow. 

 

“His mind is still sharp, even if his body is weakened. A father needs to hear his son’s voice.” 

 

In addition to his father’s pitiful state, her whispered guilt tripping was enough that he would give in, quicker and quicker each visit.

 

Lucius’ short-term memory was one of the first things to go, and Draco choked up on the fact that Lucius was content to sit there and reminisce on the past, when everything had been perfect and Draco ran around in the gardens, following like a little shadow. He had been so eager to learn from him back then. “Things were perfect back then,” he wanted to scream at him, “Perfect until you single-handedly destroyed it.” He never said it out loud, letting it fester in his heart like the dark magic and the mark on his arm. Instead, he would nod his head when elbowed by mother, and do his best to not weep at the serene, dazed look on his father’s face— Lucius, he tried to remind himself sternly.

 

A part of himself, small and horrifically weak, dreamt that one day, Lucius would have woken up in Azkaban while he was still healthy and of sound mind, and realized the crushing weight of his actions like Draco had. That he would apologize and maybe even beg for forgiveness from Narcissa and Draco. Maybe they’d even sing friendship songs while holding hands with Muggles and people like Harry bloody Potter. Everyone would kiss and make up, and Draco would have his father back. It was a sad little daydream, nothing more, so Lucius getting sick just further cemented that in Draco's mind.

 

He would never, ever have his father back. He died a long time before he left, so Draco expected the day to be just like any other. He was done with all his mourning already. However, the morning the Azkaban owl came with news of his imminent demise had been laced with an unnatural heaviness that Draco could not shake. Something about the day felt off, like he was waiting on a bated breath for the news without even realizing it. The calm before the storm.

 

His mother, usually so put together, crumpled to the floor and wailed— actually wailed— he found parts of himself had not stopped mourning after all. “Come on, mum…” He tried to sound self-assured as he held his hands out to pull her off the floor and help her Floo immediately to Azkaban while sobs wracked her frail body, “We’ve got to go be with dad.” Hearing him call him not Lucius, not father or Him, seemed to strike a chord in her, and her sobs renewed with vigour. His heart imploded more if that was even possible at that point, and he ignored the knot in his throat and stomach, tears of his own welling in the corner of his eyes. 

 

Father had died a slow death, wheezing and coughing as his frail, skeletal hand held his mother‘s. She looked so much younger than him. Sickness had taken its toll on him so much that Draco would’ve guessed him 60 rather than 40. Mother looked not much older than Draco next to him. He knew Father had to be in pain, and stormed off to get him some pain relief potions while his mother said her private goodbyes. It took a bit of a temper tantrum to get the potion; Azkaban guards weren’t exactly sympathetic to Lucius. They had always seen Mother’s constant visits while Father was sick as nothing more than an inconvenience, a joke to laugh at. After all, another death eater in the ground was just more cause for celebration. 

 

“You’re already getting rid of him, so why can’t you allow him the dignity to do so gracefully?” 

 

Finally, they must’ve gotten tired of his shouting and stomping, and the prison healer finally managed to ’unearth’ some pain medicine that happened to not be there five minutes prior. 

 

As he returned with the healer, ready to put the pain potion into his IV, Lucius cried out and grasped Draco‘s hand. “Wait, Draco.” His eyes darted around, clearer than he had seen it in months with sudden clarity. “My boy… I have ruined us. I am sorry.“

 

Strangely enough, Draco would have laughed if it had been any other moment. The incredulity of Lucius Malfoy apologizing, something Draco had dreamed about for years, was nothing short of bizarre. It always came back to their damned family reputation, didn’t it? He felt the hair on the back of his neck and across his arms rise. This was really it then, he was sure of it. This was the day Lucius Malfoy died.

 

 “You always told me Malfoys don’t apologize,” he managed through the tightness growing in his chest. 

 

Lucius licked his dry, cracked lips. His voice was rough, and every gasp seemed to take more and more energy away from him like air leaking out of a balloon. 

 

“Only to each other. Only when we well and truly mean it.” 

 

He squeezed his hand tightly, with the last remaining strength he had as the pain potion began its work through his system and lulled him to a peaceful oblivion he would not wake from. His hand slackened, and a low, keening sound came choking out of him without realizing it. A wet, surprised, voice crack of a laugh that turned quickly into one of deep anguish. His shoulders slumped, and he squeezed his eyes shut. It was as if all the air in his lungs came whooshing out of his lungs, crumpling and then turning to ash. All of those feelings that had been continuously welling up had nowhere to go but out, and he allowed himself to be swallowed up with wave after wave of it. Narcissa quickly pulled him into her arms, weathering one of many storms the two had gone through since the war. Another in a long, long line of penance. 

 

When Lucius finally crossed over, Draco took just a moment to stand there and take in the peaceful look on his father’s gaunt face. Everything that had led him up to here, dying in a rat-infested and dreary maximum security prison, had been of his own choice. Lucius Malfoy had been a horrible man, and Draco knew without a shadow of a doubt that he had reaped what he had sown. As it turned out, it was even more difficult to know that at the very same time, Lucius Malfoy had been a good father. Never a good man, and yet, he had loved his family. He had loved Draco and Narcissa in the best way he knew how, in the only ways he knew how to express. It was worse to grapple with the fact that there had been good in Lucius Malfoy after all, than any of the times he had learned how much evil he was capable of. It would haunt him for the rest of his life.

 

The autopsy report showed that so much dark magic exposure had practically strangled his magical core to death like a parasite. His magical signature, one that used to be the pride and joy of pure blood society, had been gored out and emptied by his disease. Dark magic was as addictive as any drug out there, warping the mind and body to its whim. Being raised as a Malfoy, surrounded by nothing but darkness, perhaps he had never stood a chance at turning out a decent man. 

 

He was buried in the Malfoy family crypt, and Draco shouldn’t have been surprised when no one came to the funeral other than one or two business partners. Is that all that he had to show for his whole life? He had been so successful, at the height of wizarding society for decades, and yet he was buried on a brutally stormy day with less than five people in attendance. 

 

Draco did not believe in God; most purebloods believed in the deep magicks, but not an entity above all. Yet, despite all his mental repetition to convince himself he still despised Lucius Malfoy, he found himself praying. It was a little prayer, borne of those complicated feelings that just kept continuing to build up. Please, if any higher being or entity is out there, he prayed, Have mercy on his soul. Punish him as he deserves, but please, if he ever had anything good in him, have mercy . 

The insistent itch under his skin did not abate after Lucius’ death. If anything, it only grew worse and worse as he was forced to live in the Manor. The echoes of dark magic permeated the very halls of Malfoy Manor until the air was so thick he could not do it anymore. The autopsy report haunted his every waking moment, and he was downright terrified it would soon be him in his father’s shoes. He was proud to be his mother’s son— his perfect and pristine mother— and yet he could sense the darkness that coiled in his arm and soul. He was just as much his father’s son as well, and just as no amount of refurbishment would scrub the Manor clean, the same could be said for himself. His handwriting suffered poorly from his constant shakes, but at least he hardly wrote anyone at all. 

Blaise had fucked off to the continent with Pansy in tow, off to wine and dine their way through France’s high society with the excuse of honing his ‘fashion consultant’ skills. Of course, the offer would’ve been extended to Draco if he hadn't been on bloody house arrest for a year and a half. By the time he was released from his tenure, he was sure they were much too busy and successful to pay any mind to a failure like him, and he didn’t wish to find out for himself exactly how their brilliant lives had turned out. Not when he was so certain of the hidden illness growing silently in his chest. 

“I think you should take a holiday, my dear,” Narcissa told him one night after a quiet, stilted dinner just like every meal had become. “Put some distance between the past and get some sun. Certainly your friends would love for you to visit Paris. There’s the old summer estate in Versailles that would enjoy your presence.” 

 

She looked at him out of the corner of her eye as she calmly cut into her rosemary salmon, as if his every move were one she had to watch and coddle. 

 

He put his fork and knife down with entirely too much force. His hands began to tremor again, like they were doing more and more often now, and he clasped his hands together tightly under the table before Mother could see. Damn his hands, why couldn’t they ever keep still? 

 

“I am perfectly content to remain in our ancestral home with you, mother. We can take a holiday when your house arrest ends in a few months, too. I could not bear to leave you in these walls alone.” 

 

His voice was lowered, carefully inflected to not show a hint of weakness. The Dark Lord did not like weakness. 

 

But the Dark Lord did not haunt these walls anymore, he had to remind himself. 

 

“Excuse me.” 

 

His voice was strangled; he had to get out of his chair and flee the too large dining hall where He used to hold court. His foot caught the high back chair as he stumbled, crashing into the marble floors as he flinched reflectively. As he rushed out the room and down the hall, all he could hear was the pounding of blood  in his ears.

 

•••

 

The bouts of illness slowly began to run together, then seemed to always be hidden right under the surface. It never took much to set Draco off; barely a change in the wind seemed to do it. His heart rate was permanently elevated and the little sleep he was able to get was plagued with nightmares. The dreamless sleep potions he mail ordered to the manor were not nearly the quality he’d come to expect from the supply Severus had given him back in the day. Alas, beggars could not be choosers and whatnot, not when the majority of potioneers required in person consultations. If they even accepted an order from a Malfoy to begin with, of course.

 

They quickly lost efficacy, despite how carefully he measured it out. Sometimes he would go two or three days straight before the exhaustion won out and he would shakily measure out a half dose of potion before falling asleep. Still, the dreamless sleep potion only blurred the horrific images in his head and did absolutely nothing for the panic the nightmares produced. Mother was keeping a close watch on him now, he knew, watching the post and sleeping habits through her few house elves left to her disposal. Draco had gotten quite good at hiding the shakiness of his hands and glamours over the haunted, dark circles of his face. Better than father ever had when the Dark Lord lived there, at least. 

 

His nightmares did not always consist of the war. They also consisted of his father slowly withering away and then decomposing right in front of his eyes, while he remained rooted to the spot. Sometimes it was the passage of time that did him in, while other times it was a dark and decrepit skeletal creature who feasted on his father’s body like it was its last meal. Mother’s voice would always scream at him to run and get away, to save himself before the thing eating away at Lucius would turn onto him. It would moan and contort its skeletal body as if hungry for more, turn to approach him, and he would awaken mere seconds before the creature touched him. It was always in a cold sweat, gasping for air that would not come.

 

 This time, however, the thundering buzz in his ears did not abate. In fact, his queasiness only grew, bile rising up into his throat as he flung his tangled blankets back and made a break for the attached ensuite. Draco dry heaved for a bit, tears running down his face as the sounds of retching and sobbing reverberated off the polished marble walls. The temperature spells weaved into the flooring cooled to his subconscious will, as he crumpled slowly to the floor. Draco could still feel the rake crawling into him from the dream, clambering beneath the Dark Mark, poised like a parasite. He scratched at the insistent itch, so damned close under his skin that he could practically feel it pulsate under his touch. He needed it out from beneath his skin, and he needed it out right that second. 

 

Draco was hyperventilating now, quick, stuttering gasps for air  that did nothing to calm his urge to tear into his skin and convince himself the creature was not there. His nails were short and blunt, so they tore rather than cut through the first few layers of skin. It was going to kill him, of that he was certain. It was going to kill him like it had his father in Azkaban months ago, and now it was after Draco. He had to expel it before it was too late. Crimson rivulets ran down his forearm, across his fingers and then dripped onto the floor, congealing in a stark contrast against the white marble. The sudden realization of seeing so much of his blood surrounding him made him scream and scramble away from the scene. He did not get far, considering he was the source of the continuous blood flow, and he held his arm as far away from himself as possible. Flashes of the last time he’d been cut up in a bathroom flashed in his mind, causing the bile in his uneasy stomach back up again. “Episkey,” he croaked out, more of a breath than a sound. 

 

“Episkey!” Draco stuttered out again, despite not having his wand, as a whole new type of panic flooded his system. There was no Severus to save him this time, no Madam Pomfrey right down the hall. Once again, the spell was ineffective. He couldn’t bear the sight long enough to concentrate enough, terrified and sickened at the copious amount of blood streaming down his arm. Draco had never been good with blood; it just got worse after the bathroom incident. “Come on, work! Please, Episkey! Episkey!” 

 

“Master Draco, Fibsey is hearing you call for help— oh dear! Oh no!” One of the house elves popped into the suddenly ridiculously small bathroom. Hadn’t his bathroom been larger? They lived in a fucking Manor for Merlin’s sake! He was distracted from his rumination by the quick double cracking of Fibsey disappearing and then returning with mother at his side. She was still barefoot and in her nightgown, hair falling loosely down her back. The little elf had seen fit to grab her without telling her anything other than the emergency situation. She gasped and quickly knelt beside him, hands coming up to cup his face and confirm he was still alert. 

 

“Oh, Draco…” she murmured. 

 

“Bloody meddling house elf,” he attempted a lighthearted joke, despite the way mother’s lips flattened into a line of displeasure. “Sorry.” 

 

She turned her head away from him to whisper quick instructions to Fibsey, then lifted his arm up for her to inspect. She cast a quick disinfectant spell that made him tense up and hiss, then a neat Episkey that put his futile wandless attempts to shame. Mother had the quick thinking to grab her wand when awoken in the middle of the night, unlike his own idiotic thinking. Fibsey returned with a roll of dittany soaked gauze that she wrapped his arm in with clean precision. Draco wasn’t sure how many injuries she had healed for father during the both wars, and he felt immensely guilty for putting her back in that situation with him this time. 

 

“Enough is enough, Draco.” She spoke softly, placing a hand gently over the wrapped wound. “I’ve given you the space to work through all of this on your own, but this is too much for me to bear. Do you think I do not see how little you sleep? The number of empty potion bottles you have hidden away in your rooms? I’ve tried, with great difficulty mind you, to approach you gently about coming to terms with the new way of life. Yet you seem content to wither away and die here like your father!” Her voice wavered with the effort to stay calm and level, and Draco flinched when her voice rose towards the end. 

 

He swallowed roughly, and Fibsey handed him the waiting glass of cool water. He nodded to the creature in thanks, which seemed to surprise him. It wasn’t that big of a surprise, was it, that he could be kind?

 

“Why? Why do you wish for me to lose my child alongside my husband?” She whispered, and for the first time since father died, he saw frustrated tears begin to well in her eyes. “You are supposed to be a survivor, my love. You have to be. If not for yourself yet, then for me.” She pulled him into her arms, and he could feel the racing thump of her panicked heartbeat. He’d really terrified her, then.

 

“I wasn’t trying to do anything of the sort… I just- The nightmares feel so real.” He finally admitted. He needed her to know that he hadn’t been trying to purposely end his life. Admitting everything else seemed easy enough as long as she knew that he wasn’t trying to give up and leave her. Not like father had, sickness or otherwise.

 

She gripped him tightly. “Your father was a prideful man. Weakened in the mind was something to be pushed away and overcome by brute force. I, however, disagree. Pride will get you nowhere in this new world. If there is something wrong, whether that be with your heart or your magic, you must get help.  You must put yourself back out there and build a life for yourself. Do not hide away here and rot. Promise it to me, love. Promise me you will try.”

 

He wanted to argue with her; tell her that he was perfectly fine, thank you. The idea of a Malfoy needing help was preposterous, and besides, no one would help out a known Death Eater family like the Malfoys now anyways. The illness that hid underneath his flesh… No one had helped Lucius until it was too late, despite the prison healer’s awareness of his failing health for months. It was fairly safe to assume the wizarding world would do the same to him as well. 

 

“I don’t very well have a choice, do I? Not when you’ve made up your mind.” 

 

She smiled, letting out a soft exhale of breath that he knew was almost a laugh. “Do not sass me, young man. Not after the fright I’ve just had. You’ll have to forgive me if I refuse to let you out of my sight until morning.” She stood, reaching her hands out to help him up as well. 

 

Standing up made him dizzy from blood loss, and Fibsey pressed a blood replenishing potion into his free hand before either Malfoy could request it. He gave Draco a small nervous yet genuine smile. He would have to figure out how to read the line of her request carefully without humiliating himself further come the morning, but for now he was groggy and in pain. Wrapped up in his mother’s arms like a child, and he was perfectly content to stay that way until morning.

 

•••

 

His first trip out of the Manor in two years left him feeling even more unsettled than his last stint in public, as he slipped on a heavy cloak and waded into the crowds of Diagon Alley. The apothecary was credible; he’d done nonstop research for three days on the likelihood of his personal information finding its way into a reporter’s hands. The records were impossible to crack, even by a hired private investigator, and he felt confident that a combination of disillusionment charms and partial glamours would be enough to survive Diagon for a single afternoon.

 

The streets were so, so busy. Had Diagon always felt this stifling? He could barely breathe through the closeness of people on all sides. Draco pinched his eyes shut when the smell of magic smoke permeated his nostrils as he passed by Weasley’s Wizarding Wheezes. Don’t look, he chanted to himself as the familiar onset of full body shaking began to take over every inch of his skin. Don’t look at them. Don’t look at anyone.

 

The apothecary’s location on the maps in the Malfoy Manor study seemed significantly closer to the edge of Diagon Alley than it felt in person. Draco finally reached the little apothecary about fifteen minutes after entering Diagon, and yet it felt like much, much longer. The door creaked shut behind him, the sound of wind chimes announcing his presence in the small yet brightly painted apothecary. The walls were a soft and bright pastel yellow, with swirls of pastel green along the walls, guiding a path through the shelves of various home remedies. Every bottle was different; each a unique stained glass vial filled with sparkling tonics. He picked up a small orb vial filled with what looked to be liquid sunshine and felt warm to the touch. Something deep in him recoiled at the feeling, and he sat it back down quickly.

 

 “Thank you, Luna. It’s always a pleasure coming to see you,” a familiar deep voice chuckled. “I don’t know where I’d be without your Pick Me Up tea.” 

 

Draco halted where he stood, right about to turn the corner to the sales counter. He debated turning on his heel and fleeing the scene immediately, but the thought of wedging himself through the tightness of Diagon Alley somehow seemed even less appealing. 

 

“Probably asleep in that office of yours.” 

 

Luna’s dreamy voice floated around, the calm and bright magic filling the space, a sharp contrast to the Manor’s heaviness. 

 

“May I suggest planting some star seed in your window planters to attract snorbylies? You should notice a difference in quality of sleep within a few weeks. Although I can’t help but believe you run yourself too ragged to do much good.”

 

“Yes, yes. I’ll be sure to try that.” He laughed again, and Draco peeked through the shelf towards the origin of the voice. Sure enough, as if his day could not get any worse, there stood Harry bloody Potter himself, clad in a leather jacket and disgusting black Muggle work boots of all things! He stifled a groan— no one should ever look that good in bloody work boots— and ducked between two shelves as Potter made his way out of the shop with copious amounts of well wishings on his way. That settled it; once Potter had a few minutes’ head start, he would brave the crowds and Apparate straight back home, where he would never run into people like him again.

 

Luna coughed to get his attention, and he flinched so hard he bumped into the shelf behind him. “Fuck..!” he swore, righting the pyramid of lime and orange smelling oils. 

 

“Hello, Draco. Welcome in. Did you find the place alright? It’s quite busy for a Wednesday evening, don’t you agree?” 

 

Her eyes crinkled with warmth, tiptoeing around a corner display and casting levitation charms to place the oils back where they belonged. 

 

Draco peered at her suspiciously. “How did you know it was me?” 

 

His cloak obscured much of his appearance, but he pulled the hood down since she already knew it was him. 

 

She did not get offended by the suspicion, instead whirling around to replace stock on the shelf beside him. “My apothecary only calls those who are friends.” 

 

He balked at her, mouth slightly agape. She was barmy, absolutely mad, and he mentally slapped himself for not doing his research adequately. The itch under his skin doubled at his failure. Now that he saw her, it was abundantly clear that the shop was not only selling her products, but owned and operated by her as well. 

 

“May I do a chakra cleanse for you? Your pathways feel quite askew.” 

 

He blinked, still off kilter by the whole experience, as she reached to take both of his shaking hands and gently lead him to the back room. This was so stupid of me , he thought, mentally grimacing at the woman in front of him. He couldn't be sure any work she did wasn’t just a big hoax. They ducked past the floral tapestry that seperated the shop from the back, into a warm office space. Stairs in the corner of the room led up to what must have been a private storage area or even living space. The room was also filled with lumpy, mismatched furniture that was equal parts garish and undoubtedly comfortable. What was he doing? He needed to find a way to excuse himself from the situation. Now that he was in the back it was all that much harder to leave without being horrendously rude. “I am sick,” he managed, attempting to breach the subject as she busied herself with making them a pot of tea. Merlin, he had to get out of here.

 

“Aren’t we all?” she hummed, stirring a small bit of sugar into a finished mug of the tea and setting it down in front of him. 

 

“It’s a blood curse,” he tried again, tentatively reaching for the mug. “That or an exposure curse. We never figured the specifics out.” 

 

He felt himself fumbling over explaining himself, explaining his sheer presence in her life, no doubt bringing up a host of terrible memories for her in the meantime. 

 

She smiled softly, not showing any hint that his appearance was difficult for her at all. 

 

“Drink, Draco. It’s my own personal blend. For you, I brewed my Mooncalf blend; it promotes both peacefulness and calming of the nervous system.” Draco glanced between the mug and her with trepidation. “Yes, some people have questioned why I named it after Mooncalves, especially with their Muggle connotations. Have you ever seen a Mooncalf dance? It’s a feeling of peace like you can’t explain. Very, very beautiful.” 

 

She watched him expectantly, and he lifted the steaming mug to his lips under her gaze. The warmth of the tea coursed into his chest even with the tiniest sip, relaxing his tightened muscles for the first time in years. He gasped at the sensation, almost forgetting himself and dropping her handmade mug. “Lovegood, this is…” he trailed off, unable to put it into words and instead drinking another hearty swallow.

 

She laughed, a twinkling sound not unlike her wind chimes. “Please, call me Luna. Did you know we are cousins? Not all that distant, either,” she sat down, pouring another refill for Draco when he drained the mug. “I like to think we built the beginnings of a friendship during my stay at the manor.” 

 

Draco’s grip slackened on the mug. “Luna, I am so sorry for what happened to you.”

 

She held up a hand as she waved her wand with the other one to steady the mug. “No, none of that from you. The nargles love to feed on those kinds of remorseful thoughts. We all said and did things we are not proud of, and I can see how it eats you alive. Even back then, I could. I forgive you, cousin. Have for a long time.” 

 

She took his hands again, slow and gentle so as to not scare him away. She closed her eyes, murmuring a soft lullaby like incantation under her breath. The tea acted like her conduit, and slowly a colorful aura began to appear around him. 

 

He watched in awe, colors running down neural pathways with every beat of his heart. Risking a glance at his magical core, he found it to be bleeding colors in a tightly wound tangle right above his navel and below his heart. A dark line tangled up from his left arm and into it, turning the colors a muddy brown. He gasped, and wrenched his hands away from her. 

 

“I have to go.” 

 

A low keening sound escaped his mouth before he could stop it, as another attack of anguish set in. He couldn’t be here, not in front of Luna Lovegood. He couldn’t taint her bright and peaceful little apothecary of goodness with his monstrous, murky energy. He suddenly wished for his dark and dreary manor, wished to get caught up in the nonstop cycle of his panic attack there instead. He should have just locked himself up at home, prisoner to his family’s dark ambitions as the only sacrifice left to make. Who was he kidding, thinking he was worthy of cleansing his soul? It was already too late. 

 

Luna wrapped him in her arms, smelling faintly of ozone and clover, bare feet tucked underneath her as she held onto him tightly on that lumpy red couch. “It is never too late for you, Draco. I promise,” she kept repeating, a soft lullaby in his ear, while he gasped and fought for air.

 

 Eventually, he grabbed her arms back, desperate for her to help him find air and finally, finally stop drowning. 

 

“I don’t want this. I don’t want to die.” 

 

“You aren’t going to die. You’re having a panic attack.” She assured him through his gasping breaths. “Try to breathe with me. In and out, slowly. Just like that. Good. In and out.”

 

It was so hard to listen to her. When Lucius had died, it was with the very same gasping breaths. The very same dark magic coursing through his veins. How could she say that he was going to be fine, that it wasn’t too late for him, when every fiber of his being was screaming the opposite at him? He was drowning in flashes of every horrible, evil thing he’d done. Every time Luna’s cries and screams wafted into his bedroom while he gripped a pillow over his ears. He had been a coward, just like his father, time and time again. He was no more deserving of salvation than Lucius Malfoy. Yet here Luna was, alive and whole, holding him through a panic attack and showering him with  calming tea and warmth and forgiveness. Telling him that under no uncertain terms, he was going to be alright, too. 

 

He owed it to her to at least try.

 

“Very good, cousin, there you are. Welcome back.” 

 

She rubbed his back as his breathing finally levelled out. 

 

“Does this happen a lot?” she asked as she plied him with a handknit blanket and more Mooncalf tea. He nodded slowly, sipping the tea like she ordered. 

 

“I see… no wonder you think you’re dying.” 

 

“I am dying,” he croaked, a half arsed attempt at arguing despite the heavy exhaustion in his body. 

 

She smiled, humming as she stood. “I’ll be right back, won’t be a minute.” 

 

Her feet padded against the wooden floors in a rhythm not unlike dancing, and returned with a handful of pamphlets. “I want you to read through these, get familiar with the terminology, and come to meditation with me on Saturday. You could use some mind healing too, but that’s out of my expertise. My apothecary calls to those who are looking for peace and healing more than anything else, and you deserve to feel that.” 

 

He let out a self deprecating, watery chuckle. “No I don’t.”

 

“Trust the process, Draco. It’s worth a shot, no?” She clasped his hands and gave them a squeeze. “You made sure we ate down there. You read to me. I will be forever grateful for your company in my darkest days, so let me repay that in yours. Come with me on Saturday.” She insisted until he finally shrugged halfheartedly in her direction. He owed her that much.

 

She loaded him up with various colorful pamphlets with words like meditation and chakra alignment, as well as two very large bags of her Mooncalf tea wrapped up in a parcel. As he finally stepped back out into Diagon Alley, he felt equal parts lighter and more exhausted than he had in years. 

 

•••

 

Draco really thought about not showing up to Luna’s apothecary that Saturday. He penned no less than twelve letters in varying lengths to her that went unsent, mostly due to the comfort and kindness she’d shown him that previous Wednesday. That, and of course her bloody amazing Mooncalf tea blend. He’d drunk a pot each morning since, with a cup or two before bed each night, and found it greatly reduced the nightmares. If he didn’t attend, there was a chance he would never get another bag of the tea which was frankly unacceptable. Mother seemed thrilled that he had plans to leave the manor twice in one week, to which he did his best to not visibly cringe in front of her as he escaped to the Floo before she could do something worse like cry or adjust his outfit. Luna had sent an owl to him with the instructions to dress comfortably, as if for a light workout, and stretch before showing up. He’d ignored the second instruction, and wasn’t quite sure what dressing comfortably entailed, so she was just going to have to forgive any accidental faux pas. 

 

The apothecary sign was flipped to closed, but the door was unlocked. He let himself in, then took the large black cloak off and hung it on the coat hanger. The lights from the back office were a twinkling sign to her location, and if he concentrated enough, he could hear her bird-like singing floating around the shop. Draco couldn’t help the soft smile that rose to his lips— it was so very Luna. He was already starting to associate Luna Lovegood with the quieting of the storm inside him, and was suddenly very glad he had chosen to show up after all. 

 

“You should’ve signed up for the toad choir in school. Hogwarts missed out on an extremely talented virtuoso,” he said, announcing his arrival to the girl with her back turned towards a large painting canvas. She was singing along to the wireless, a station he’d never bothered to listen to, as she painted with watercolors. It was a familiar nod to Monet’s Water Lilies collection, with a particular Luna style of freehand bright colors and various aquatic magical creatures. Kappa, by the looks of it. “Is that modeled after Monet?”

 

She brightened, twirling around on her toes. “You came! Why yes, I am recreating Monet! As for the choir, I’m afraid Professor Flitwick didn’t like my habit of singing from the heart rather than the notes.” She shrugged as she sat her painting equipment down and cast a protective stasis charm over the entire painting area. 

 

“His loss,” Draco agreed. “You didn’t specify my attire, so I hope this is to your approval.” 

 

He indicated his old slytherin quidditch sweater and loose fitting trousers he managed to put together. The sweater was a bit tight in the shoulders, and would rise above his belly button if he lifted his arms above his head, but it was the only remotely acceptable option in his closet. He didn’t exactly shop for clothes much anymore. Draco didn’t go out in public often, so there wasn’t a need to dress well or change out of his pajamas. 

 

She beamed at him regardless, and Draco felt a surge of victory at passing the test. She took off her paint smock and indicated that he follow her up the stairs to the second floor. Draco was right about it being a living space, just as bright and open as her shop below. It was a nice size studio apartment with big windows to let natural light in and was cluttered with various plants along the windows. The furniture was just as mismatched and secondhand as before, and she had a set of paintings on every available wall space. Some were landscapes like the one she was painting downstairs, but many were of her friends’ likenesses. He gravitated to one of the golden trio having a picnic, laughing at something the toddler with bright blue hair in Granger’s arms did. Draco faintly recalled something about Potter being a godfather for his disowned cousin and that werewolf that had taught in third year, and realized that must be the child. He moved along quickly. Another was of her and Longbottom at Fortescue’s Ice Cream Parlor, sharing what looked to be an atrocious amount of a sundae together. Longbottom buffed up incredibly since Draco last laid eyes on him, or so the painting appeared.

 

He decided to stop looking at the walls altogether.

 

“Are you ready? It’s just a short apparition jump into London, then we can walk the rest of the way. I usually take the tube, but I figured that we ease you into it, lest you run away like a frightened Umgubular Slashkilter.” She peeked her head out of her room with a grin and giggle, like his unfamiliarity with muggles and their culture was a sort of odd inside joke rather than the result of a sheltered and supremist upbringing, and it thawed something in his chest. 

 

He was grateful for her blasé reaction to his past. It made it seem less paramount. More like he would be able to learn from it and move on one day. 

 

“You’re the expert.” He attempted with a wince, taking her hand as she side alonged him into unknown territory. 

 

Forty five minutes later, his tentative hopeful feelings of doing the right thing by taking  the plunge with Luna were considerably less positive as the muggle teacher— Guru, Luna had corrected with a bright smile— poked and prodded him into various unnatural poses. He was breaking out in a sweat above his brow, body screaming at him. Why anyone did this for fun or relaxation was completely out of Draco’s depths. He wasn’t sure how much more he could take, and Luna’s flexibility mildly concerned him. Just when he was sure he was going to have to step out with some flimsy excuse and contemplate why the bloody hell he thought muggle yoga would somehow magically heal him, the guru clapped her hands softly, bringing everyone out of their individual meditating. 

 

“Wonderful work, friends. Our journeys into spiritual and physical healing is different for everyone, but I would like us to take a moment together at our lovely Luna’s request to do a mindfulness exercise. She has brought us a new spiritual warrior, her cousin Draco. You are new on this path, and we welcome you with loving arms. Everyone here started somewhere, yes even Luna,” there were some laughs from the class, “And we like to start all our beginning warriors on a guided meditation. Friends who have been here for a while, take this moment to check in with your future selves, reassuring yourselves that you are on the right path. Shall we?” 

 

Draco did his best to smile at the class when all eyes turned to him, but it came out a bit more Malfoy sneer-ish than he hoped. Fuck, he was bad at this whole being good thing. Luna took his hand from her seat on the floor beside him, squeezing it reassuringly, and he mustered up the last of his failing courage to make it through the class. 

 

“As we begin, find yourself a comfortable position and allow your eyes to close or turn downcast. Focus your awareness on your breath. Breathe in and out, slowly and deeply from your core. Easily. Effortlessly. Let go of any outside noise or worry in your mind. Just allow yourself to go deeper into your mind; take a moment to remind yourself of how good it is to leave the stress and noise of the outside world and journey into the quietness and peace of our inner worlds,” she began, instructing the class as they shuffled into various seated positions and closed their eyes. Draco squeezed his own shut, but found he was entirely too fidgety for his own good. He was so skeptical about things like this; his inner mind was not exactly a place full of positive feelings.

 

“From this relaxed and comfortable place, imagine yourself walking into a natural setting and finding a path. As you slowly walk along  the path, take the time to notice and appreciate the nature around you. What season is it? What small details do you notice? Whatever temperature, you are adequately prepared, comfortably warm or cool. Notice the colors, shapes, textures, and the feeling of the path beneath your feet as you walk. Rest at your leisure and continue when you are ready.” 

 

His heart hammered in his chest as he frantically tried to bring an image up in his mind’s eye before the class could get ahead of him. A voice like his father’s echoed that all of this was stupid and weak, and he firmly redoubled his efforts. First, he thought of Hogwarts and the path along the Black Lake, but soon the smell of smoke and crackling sounds of crackling wands firing took hold. No, that wouldn’t do at all. He searched his memory even earlier, well before the war, and settled on walking the forest grounds of Malfoy Manor. Not the meticulously upkept gardens, but the wild paths of the edges of the Manor he used to explore as a child. It was autumn, golden red and yellow leaves floating down around him lazily— no, perhaps it was a bright early winter’s day. That was when he loved to explore the most, right after a heavy blanket of snow had descended in the night and mother would read to him. They would have hot cocoa and listen to the sounds of Christmas carols filter in from the library. Father always had a soft spot for Christmas carols, and he would listen to them all season long. Yes, it was a bright winter’s morning, with not a cloud in the sky. The sunlight glinted against the bright white snow, making him shield his eyes as his feet made the familiar crunch, crunch, crunch in the snow along the path. A white fox skittered around the trees, chasing after a set of chittering squirrels. Draco smiled to himself at the sight. He loved those foxes more than any of the other wildlife on the property. He could almost hear the distant sounds of cheerful music from the manor, even way out there. 

 

“Soon, you notice you are coming across a beautiful gate just in front of you. Next to the gate is a basket. When you reach the gate, feel free to leave anything in the basket that may not be serving you.”

 

Draco’s breath curled up in front of him from the cold, but the comfort of his mother’s warming charms kept him the perfect temperature, never too hot or cold. The gate up ahead was silver metal, twisted and designed in an ornate, rococo style typical of the Manor. The small statue in front of it was of a tree nymph, holding out a basket for offerings. She was beautiful and serene, and she reminded him of Mother. He paused at the gate. There was so much he wanted to get rid of, so much that he felt like there would be nothing left, and he fretted in that one place for a while. Finally, he imagined himself rolling up his jacket sleeve and pulling away the Dark Mark on his forearm, tendrils of dark swirling magic along with it. He pulled and pulled, and still more traces of it pulled away from his skin and out of his soul. He kept pulling, pulling at what seemed to be an unbearably endless amount of parasitic magic inside him. Warmth trickled down the side of his face, something he belatedly recognized at tears, but he did not stop. He kept pulling at the tendrils and dropping them in the basket until there was nothing left, and he felt lighter, more like himself. A shaky stutter of his chest was all that remained, an echo of anguish and relief at the feeling of finally being free.

“Now, unlatch the gate and continue through it. Step into the threshold two or three years into the future. This is where your Future Self lives. This place looks different than where you just came from, and yet, it is just as familiar and welcoming. Continue up the path until you reach the dwelling where your Future Self lives. They are waiting for you here; waiting to talk with you. Greet your Future Self and notice what it is like to be with them, this Future Self that lives a life of optimal health and well-being. Soak in the environment around you, all the sights and sounds as they invite you to have a conversation.” 

 

The terrain grew steeper after he stepped through the gate, winding up a twisting path in the trees as if he was climbing a mountain path. The trees grew more thickly forested, and the sounds of birds and other animals replaced that of the manor’s music. He kept climbing, never out of breath despite the sharp incline, sure that he was so close to his destination. As he turned a corner on the path, the trees opened up into a clearing overlooking the sprawling expanse of the Malfoy lands. He could see smoke swirling up from the Manor in the distance, merrily decorated for the Christmas season. It was early yet, but that was how they always did it. He smiled at the sight, and sat on a bench overlooking the grounds. The maze of the rose gardens in the east and the fountains and statues of the west flowed together in a truly gorgeous sight to behold. This was Malfoy Manor in its prime—still untouched and untainted by the Dark Lord. 

 

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” He heard a voice approach and take a seat on the stone bench beside him. 

 

He couldn’t take his eyes off of it. “It was perfect back then.” 

 

“It can be perfect again, you know,” the voice continued, so warm and open. Draco glanced at the owner of the voice to reveal his Future Self. Older Draco had longer hair, falling just above his shoulders and pinned back with a colorful strip of fabric winding through it. His complexion was not gaunt or pale like present Draco, and he looked like he slept through the night. “Father is dead, but that doesn’t mean we’re in for the same fate. Life can regain its colors for us.” 

 

“You look like a vagrant,” present Draco couldn’t help but observe out loud. It was not just the way he was dressed, but also in the way he held himself. Full of easy confidence and openness like he believed he was a truly good man. Not rigidly calculating every move he made like present him did.

 

Future Draco smiled at him, and he could see the beginnings of smile lines appear on his face. His eyes crinkled with mirth. They were the signs of a lifetime of smile and laughter, not anxiety and fear. “Would that be the worst outcome of all this?” 

 

“No, I suppose not,” present Draco relented. “I just don’t see how I get from here to there, is all. I can’t remove the Dark Mark out there.” He waved his hand in absent circles, indicating the outside world. “All of this seems so strange and stupid. Father would’ve hated it.” 

 

Future Draco laughed. “Oh, yes. He hated talking about his feelings. Does that mean we have to hate it as well? We’re our own person, Draco. It’s high time you get to decide for yourself what penance means to you. Not what it meant to him.” 

 

Draco put his head in his hands. It was all so frustrating. 

 

“But how? All I’ve ever done was try to live up to the family name. That turned out to be a monumental failure.” 

 

“One day, you’ll forgive yourself, and that’ll be enough. There will be people who love and support you for more than what you can give them. You won’t feel like you deserve it, not for a long time, but they’ll stick around to prove it to you. People will forget to see you as Malfoy the Death Eater, and begin to see you as Draco. Just as soon as you figure out who Draco is to you first.” 

 

Future Draco pressed his finger into Draco’s chest gently. “Who is Draco? You know who Draco Malfoy was raised to be, but who is Draco, just Draco? Who are you?”

 

Tears welled up in his eyes again. 

 

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “I have no idea who I am. I’m afraid to find out.”

 

Future Draco smiled. “Seems like a good place to start as any, don’t you? How exciting a journey.” 

 

“What if- what if Mother hates who I am? What if I hate who I am?” 

 

He couldn’t help the familiar worry and panic that bubbled back up in his chest. What if he tried and tried to fix all that was wrong with him just to find out there wasn’t a redeemable person underneath at all? Why go through all that hurt if it was meaningless? 

 

Future Draco poked him again. “Oh, Draco. But what if you find that you love who you are? What if others do, too? Don’t you want to find out for yourself?” 

 

Present Draco’s train of worry came to a screeching halt. “What if I… love who I am?”

 

“Worth a try, right?” His Future Self raised an eyebrow, grinning a satisfied smirk. Echoes of other voices beckoned for Future Draco, full of laughter and happiness. He looked back at the woods with a fond snort and roll of his eyes.

 

Present Draco blinked. “This isn’t real. How can I know to trust you?  Will I see you again?”

 

His future self laughed. “You know, someone once told me that just because something was happening in your head, doesn’t mean it isn’t real. You’ll see.” He stood, brushing off his pants and gave him a final soft smirk. “You’ll see.” He repeated, as he turned his back on present Draco and began to head towards the forest, whistling a soft Christmas tune as he did so. 

 

“Three… Two… One… Come back to the present, everyone!” The guru clapped, startling Draco from his mediation. He jumped, falling over as his calf cramped up and his hissed in pain. Shit, he had forgotten where he was completely, and it both terrified and pleased him. Luna sent him two thumbs up as the guru woman ended the class. He didn’t hear anything she said over the thrum of his heartbeat in his ears, and let Luna drag him away at the appropriate time. 

 

“Well? How do you feel?” Luna finally asked when they arrived at her flat above the apothecary. She let him dazedly exist in his own head while returning, only giving him a reassuring squeeze of his hand when she felt he needed it. 

 

In truth, he wasn’t sure what to think. Everything had felt so real in the guided meditation, and he promptly told her so. She liked that answer, and busied herself with making him a cup of Mooncalf tea. It wasn’t until he had finished a pot and felt significantly more aware of his surroundings did she get his cloak. “Luna, when can we go again?” He finally asked, as he pulled the hood of his cloak up to obscure his face. She beamed and hugged him tightly, to which he surprised himself when he hugged back. 

 

“Whenever you want, Draco. We can go again whenever you’d like.” She promised, curling their pinkies together in an absurd promising ritual. “Pinky swear.” 

 

He laughed, “Yeah, pinky swear.” 

 

•••

 

He began to show up at the muggle yoga studio with Luna weekly. Every Saturday he would come over and keep her company while she painted or knit, and then they would Apparate into London. Once class was over, she would take him out to eat and teach him about Muggle culture, such as currency or the public transport system. She even took him out to get more appropriate Muggle workout clothes, and signed them up for a weekend hiking and yoga retreat. He was constantly nervous and out of his element when around Luna and her Muggle activities, but the more often he went out with her, the lighter the weight on his shoulders became. His hands shook less, and he gave himself little tasks to push him out of his comfort zone regularly. Mother wasn’t sure how to feel about his friendship with Luna Lovegood, but the thrill at Draco going out and existing as a person in public seemed to outweigh any left over thoughts about blood traitors and Muggleborns. He took his victories as they came. 

 

The first couple retreats felt so foreign to him. All those people, Muggles no less, talking about their feelings and emotions while discussing chakra pathways and reconnecting with nature and inner children made a voice in his mind rear its ugly head and run an inner commentary about how idiotic such behavior was, how unfitting of a Malfoy.  That voice was so much like his father that he threw himself into the retreats with renewed vigor. He joined the Muggles on those optional early hikes to watch the sunrise. He joined prayer circles when invited, even though he knew next to nothing about their gods. Luna would teach him afterwards, all about Christianity and Hinduism and Islam. She would take him to pagan rituals, something that felt significantly closer to home, despite the Muggles getting most of it wrong. He bought copious amounts of books on it all, every type of new interesting healing rituals that appeared before him as he was welcomed into the community with loving arms. 

 

She hugged him tightly one day, when he had rushed over to her flat with a dozen books on the cohesive magical-muggle community in a tiny village in the mountains of Nepal, partnering up the old magic with newfound muggle healing rites. He was breathless, excited, as he explained to her that they hosted a multiple week healing retreat open that spring, and how he wanted them to go and experience the blended cohesiveness of a fully magical and muggle village. He stopped in the middle of his rant as she hugged him tightly around the middle. “What is it?” He asked, eyes widened as she began to cry.  The last thing he wanted was to make her cry.

 

“I’m so happy for you, Draco. It sounds so wonderful. I’d love to go with you, I really would, but the thing is… Neville proposed.” She lifted up her hand to show off a brilliant gold and opalescent sun and moon ring. She was beaming so bright she was practically glowing.

 

He was silent, struck into a shocked silence as he took in everything from the beauty of the ring to the tranquil, filled to the brim with a happy smile on Luna’s face. 

 

“That’s amazing, Luna. Neville is a lucky man, truly,” he congratulated her, and found he really meant it. There was no anger or vile writhing mess of envy in his chest. “We can go next year, then.” 

 

She shook her head. “No, you should go! You are ready to continue your path without me to act as your training wheels. You should go and find your enlightenment, and when you come back, you can be my best man.” She insisted, taking both his hands. “Getting to know you this past year has been a dream come true. I love you, Draco. You’re family. No one else is an option.” 

 

His eyes widened again, and the familiar curl of anxiety twisted in his chest. “You want me to be your best man? Me? Luna… I was a Death Eater! You really don’t want to pick girl Weasley or Harry bloody Potter or someone like that?” He was the last person she should want to be her best man. Circe, he hadn’t even properly apologized to Longbottom! He had thrust two bottles of wine into his hands and rapid fire targeted him with questions about his job at Hogwarts teaching Herbology until the shaking in his hands lightened up and Longbottom was significantly tipsy. 

 

She nodded insistently, her smile never falling from her face. “It would not be like the Pureblood weddings you’ve attended in the past. Neville and I want it to be much less of a fuss than that. Just a simple bonding ceremony, with a casual reception. Weddings are a time to emphasize positive emotions like love and happiness, and I truly believe you should reintroduce those emotions into your life, too. Not just misery and penance.” 

 

He couldn’t help it; he scowled at her. “Luna. You’ve seen the Mark. You were captive in my basement. I doubt anyone is going to be thrilled with my attendance!”

“Well, it isn't about them, is it? It’s my choice, dear cousin. I’m choosing you specifically because I believe you will grow and gain from this opportunity, not to mention how wonderful you will do. You’ve dedicated everything to your studies and made amazing amounts of progress in the past year. That's the type of person I want helping me. I want my cousin as my best man, end of story.” She used that tone when she meant business, and he shut his mouth. “Now tell me about Nepal while I finish this painting, will you?” She turned away to tie her painting smock back on her body and picked up her paintbrush. He had no further objections, content to stay on much safer topics than her upcoming wedding to a man he had personally made their school years hell back in the day. 

 

The day before he left for six weeks in Nepal, he decided to do something extraordinarily crazy. He went to the Ministry, a usually terrifying and anxiety inducing place for him, and rode the lift all the way up to the Finance department. The welcome witch hardly looked up from her perusal of the Daily Prophet, just pointed down a hallway when he explained he had a meeting with Miss Hermione Granger.  He balked at the ease of it all, surely it should’ve been a bit more difficult for a man like Draco Malfoy to get a meeting with the most prestigious of the golden trio. He paused at the door in front of him to take a moment and pull his shaky hands and himself together. He plastered on what he hoped was a genuinely charming smile and less of a grimace, and rapped his knuckles against the door. 

 

“Come in,” she commanded with ease, swirling around in her swivel chair at his arrival. She had grown into a strong and powerful witch, beautiful too, and his nose throbbed with the echo of the last time she had landed a punch on him. She was the embodiment of power, dressed in a sharp muggle pantsuit in a deep navy color with her hair pulled back into a sleek, professional high ponytail. She looked rather fetching, if he fancied women in the slightest and wasn't downright terrified of Granger. She raised her eyebrow at him as he came in and quickly sat down in front of her, meeting her eyes but not yet speaking. “I must admit, I moved some of my schedule around to see why Draco Malfoy was so insistent on seeing me.” 

 

He took a deep breath, wishing instantly for some of Luna’s Mooncalf tea to calm his already frayed nerves. “Miss Granger. I have a business proposal, and I could not think of anyone more capable than you. I know our personal relationship has been… tumultuous at best—,”

 

“If you count calling me a Mudblood at every turn ‘tumultuous’, then yes,” she commented, hands coming together to clasp together as she rested her chin upon them and watched him. Merlin, she was terrifying. 

 

“Granger, I cannot express to you how sorry I am for my actions…” he stuttered, wincing at the way his voice wavered and cracked. “I do not have a lot to show for myself, but I am a changed man. I- I am trying to do better. That is why I’ve come to you. You’re the best financial consultant in the UK, and I know you single-handedly run at least a dozen of the post war charities that exist today. I want to discuss the linking of the Malfoy estate with your charities and nonprofits.”

 

Both of her eyebrows rose into her hairline at the comment, but waved her hand for him to continue. No pressure, Draco, he thought to himself in dismay. None at all. 

 

He cleared his throat. “I could’ve made a one time or recurrent donation, yes. But I wanted to discuss your plan for the future and become one of your top benefactors. Before you ask, no, I am not interested in doing it for the press. The truth of the matter is, I am sitting on a massive amount of blood money and artifacts. I cannot make an effort to rehabilitate myself while also sitting on my hoard. Giving it away to some random charity could upset the balance and be entirely too noticeable. I don’t want my name on things, Granger. I just want to do my part in the fixing of the mess my family caused. I can only trust you and your vision to put that money to the best use possible,” he rushed out, sharp and arrogant sounding, but he thought he did alright managing to speak clearly. Luna told him once that his anxiety was what made him sound so cold and arsehole-like, not because he wanted to be seen as superior. It sounded better than blaming his parents, so he went with it.

 

“And what? You think giving away all your fortune will suddenly redeem you?” she asked after a moment, though he could see the way the cogs in her brain were already calculating his donations. 

 

He laughed a bit, harsh and deprecating. “Not at all. Yet money makes the world go round, does it not?” 

 

She shook her head in silent agreement, and he took that as a tiny, minuscule victory. Emboldened by it, he pressed on. “I’m not talking about thousands of galleons here, I’m talking about the entire Malfoy estate fund. Millions upon millions of dirty blood money I will not have anything to do with. I have the Manor for my mother, and a small flat for myself. I don’t need the rest. I know you can distribute it much better than I ever could, and wouldn’t use it to bolster any sort of corruption whatsoever.” 

 

She sat on his words for a moment, thinking them over with a metaphorical fine-toothed comb. He waited, as patiently as he could muster, and did not fidget once. “What do you get out of it then?”

 

He shook his head. “Consider it a part of my own personal penance program. No conditions or strings attached.” 

 

“Very well, Malfoy. I’ll draft up a contract on one condition.” She relented as a small mischievous smile rose on her lips. He felt like he walked into a trap instantly. “You want this to be penance? Then you must agree to become a true benefactor. That means regular meetings with the Board and me, showing up to the benefits, and actually making a difference with these charities like the rest of us. Think you’re up to the challenge?” 

 

He opened his mouth to argue, but quickly closed it when her shark-like smile widened. It was what she was expecting him to do: back out at the last second, throwing money around but not thinking much further than that. Instead, he balled his hands into fists for a moment to get his heart beat in his ears to dissipate. 

 

“Do your worst, Granger. I won’t disappoint. I’m afraid I have prior business to attend to in Nepal for a few weeks, but after that I'm all yours.” 

 

She blinked, clearly surprised, and held her hand out for him to shake. “I’ll send an owl with specifics when you return to the country.” 

 

He took her hand and shook it firmly, like he was completely confident in his abilities. Fake it until you make it, he reminded himself. Granger seemed pleased at the outcome, and he left feeling equal parts terrified and excited to actually do something with himself. Just as soon as he returned from Nepal.

 

•••

 

Draco Malfoy, at the tender age of twenty-two, had been to many Muggle and magical retreats with Luna Lovegood over the first year of their friendship, if one could call it that, considering Luna called it found family and Draco called it a long-term test of his morality and ethics. If Luna stayed, then he was doing something right. If she decided he was no longer worthy or redeemable in her eyes, he knew he could well and truly give up then. She was his moral compass, his guide to healing, and professor of Muggle studies all in one. So, it felt strange for her to be absent from the Nepal retreat, no longer there to be his proverbial training wheels like she had implied. His third portkey dropped him off at the base of a mountain, at the very base of a set of steep, winding stairs. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, then began his journey up to the monastery. 

 

The village turned out to be little more than a residential area, farming land in the valley below, and a single monastery that seemed to be both the spiritual and social centre of the village. Wizards from all around the world Apparated or portkeyed into the farming lands of the valley and began the arrival up to the village on foot. It was a well respected tradition of the retreat, and encouraged the blending of wizard and muggle from the very first moment. They would be staying in the monastery, assisting the monks with their daily chores or in the village. The first bell would ring at four in the morning, breakfast at six, and then classes and community events would take place until the moon rose in the sky around eight or nine. It was known for being especially gruelling for a new student, but Draco relished the schedule with fervour. He would be ready for anything. 

 

Two brothers led the retreat, although Draco wasn’t sure if they were actual blood-related or if that was a term of honorable endearment. He felt it would be unwise to ask, so he contemplated it silently to himself over the orientation meeting. The first was Lama Akshan, and the second Lama Animesh. Lama Akshan was magical, while Lama Animesh was a squib. 

 

“Tibetan Buddhism helps us to understand the root causes of our problems, and at the same time offers the remedies that can help us to change, to lead a happier, more satisfying and meaningful life. So however you have found yourself here, whether you find yourself in a time of transition or emotional turmoil, we welcome you to this month-long retreat.” 

 

Lama Animesh ended the orientation with a bow to the group of twenty or so partaking on the retreat. 

 

“Please do not hesitate to reach out if there is anything we can do for you.” 

 

“Remember, wand use and magic will only be allowed during magical practices and study, so we insist you take this time to learn to be one with and without your magic. Welcome to our humble home. Let’s eat, shall we?” Lama Akshan waved his hand across the long tables, and food magically appeared across them. Fragrant rice dishes, curries, samosas and more appeared before them causing the chorus of wizards to applaud. The hike up the mountain was steep and the air thin, so the ample servings of food seemed even more tantalizing and mouthwatering than ever before. It reminded him of the feasts at Hogwarts. To see something so familiar, even way up in the mountains of Nepal warmed his heart. He spared a quick prayer to his Unnamed Spiritual Deity (what he was currently calling the ‘god’ he prayed to on these retreats) expressing his gratitude for a little piece of home. Getting away for a little while would do him some good, indeed.

 

Draco was an abnormally early riser, had been his whole life in fact, but even he found four in the morning to be excruciating. Two cups of locally grown arabica black coffee was just enough to get him to Morning Meditation, but did precious little to discourage falling back asleep mid-meditation. By breakfast,  the sleepy little village finally seemed to rise and gather, and Draco‘s first chore was assigned— the making and serving of the meal. He relished the opportunity to get his body up and moving, while also getting a chance to do and be good. Maybe if he did enough good things for others, then he would balance all of his own misdeeds one day. His fellow retreat students came from all around the world, and were a mix of witches, wizards, and squibs. A rare few were muggles who knew about magic for one reason or another. Some grew up in cohesive magical and muggle communities, while others were distantly related to someone who was magical. Every case was different. He apologized once, to a squib girl whose entire family was magical except for her, but she simply cocked her head and looked puzzled. 

 

“Whatever are you sorry for? I don’t need magic to be fulfilled.”

 

He stopped for a moment, reflecting on yet another accidental insensitive comment he made. She had a wicked sense of humour that made his heart ache for Pansy, his closest confidant since they were young. If contact to the outside world had been feasible, he would’ve had a monumental lack of strength and owled both her and Blaise. Still, despite his pledge to find himself and become a decent man, he was still a ginormous coward and no letters ever made it out. Even when he returned to England.

 

He threw himself into his studies when the doubt grew insistent in his mind, even going so far as to assist Lama Animesh with the reorganization of the monastery's library. When he was not in a class or workshop, he was there in the library, meticulously organizing books and scrolls by literary master, year of origin, and topic. Translation spells became his best friend, and sorely missed Luna for all her random language knowledge she was sure to have hidden in her sleeve. 

 

“You are especially fond of morality writings,” Lama Animesh spoke late one evening, disrupting Draco from his place on the floor surrounded by books. “I cannot help but feel you are searching for something within them.”

 

Draco sighed, putting his book down and rubbing his tired eyes. He’d lost track of time again, reading by candlelight. “Lama Animesh, I didn’t hear you come in.” he sighed again, deeper this time as he popped his vertebrae with the stretch of protesting muscles.

 

Lama Animesh came to sit in front of him. “What holds your mind so captive, trapa Malfoy?” 

 

Draco sighed again, long suffering and winded. “Lama, do you believe it's possible to cancel one's previous bad karma and become a good person in one lifetime? Does the want to become better negate the selflessness of actions and taint them? The gurus in these books are unclear.” He let his questions flow like an endless stream. “Maddeningly unclear.” He huffed, putting his head in his hands.

 

Lama Animesh smiled at him patiently, like he was waiting for him to continue, so he did. He was helpless to stop the flow of words once they began. 

 

“I was not a good child. I was an even worse teen. I don't believe I ever made a good decision until I was seventeen or so. My father was an evil man, and I see so much of him inside me no matter what I do.  I feel guilty for even missing him, but I'm terrified that if I don't, who will?” His voice cracked pitifully, “I feel damned. I didn't even try to change until we’d lost everything. I never noticed how hurtful my actions were until the war, and by then I was so trapped by my bad decisions that I couldn't take it all back. I was in over my head, but that’s no excuse. I wanted to be branded by that madman, that terrorist, practically had to beg for it, too. There’s no way in hell I could create enough good karma to break even, let alone die a good man.”

 

Lama Animesh reached his hands out, palms facing the ceiling. “May I take a look inside your mind, trapa ?” That graceful, peaceful smile did not falter or flicker once. Draco exhaled shakily, but put his tremoring hands on top of his. Lama Animesh’s eyes flashed milky white, gripping onto Draco’s hands tightly, as they were pulled under the sudden influx of memories. Flickers of a snot nosed six year old Draco popped up first, as he threw a screaming fit at his parents for not giving him, a six year old, the newest and most expensive racing broom on the market. 

 

“I hate you, father! I hate you!” He wailed, throwing his body on the ground and tossing his gifts against the wall. Hurt flashed on both of his parents’ faces, as Narcissa tried to hide a hiccup in her wine glass and Lucius stormed out to go find the blasted broom he wanted so bloody badly. It had taken Lucius nearly seven hours and five different Quidditch shops across the country before he found it, and Draco had gotten bored with it before the new year arrived only days later. 

 

Memories of sneering haughtily at Greg and Vince at eleven for even considering someone other than Draco play pretend Minister of Magic came next. He was a Malfoy, and that made him better than a Crabbe or Goyle, so he got to be the Minister no ifs, ands, or buts. Greg and Vince had stopped suggesting ideas of their own after that. Pansy, weeping after a harsh letter from her mother about grades in third year, when Draco had been so blinded by prejudice that his idea of comfort and support was to tell her, “It’s okay you’re rubbish at potions. You’re just a girl. You don't need to be smart, you just have to be pretty.” There were years and years of hurt he caused, friendships he splintered, well before the war ever started up again.

 

Then he rifled through the war memories. The time Aunt Bella forced him to practice his Unforgivables on the peacocks before the prisoners, hours and hours a day until he could muster up enough feelings to mean it and power the curse. Begging for the Dark Lord to brand him in order to redeem his father. Drawing away from Pansy and Blaise because they didn’t deserve to get caught up in his task of killing Dumbledore, and yet pulling Vince and Greg out of bed in order to keep watch. Casual snide remarks like, “Stop acting like you’re anything other than muscle, Greg” and breaking Potter’s nose on the train because it felt good to have someone else hurt instead of him. There were countless memories of calling the smartest girl in their year slurs, then having the audacity to waltz back into her life and propose a business deal. Luna and Dean’s screams. 

 

Lama Animesh pulled out from his mind. “You’re a seer…” Draco realized as his body slumped forward, exhausted from the onslaught of forced memories. “You’re nonmagical and yet you’re a seer.”

 

He smiled and nodded. “It was a gift from the gods themselves. I see you, Draco Malfoy. Be still, for I see you in all that you are. You are not a damned man. It has just taken you longer to see your path than others. A damned man would not try as hard as you do.”

 

Draco blinked back more infernal tears. Weak , the Lucius voice whispered in the back of his mind. “How will I know I’ve done it? Fully redeemed myself? When will I stop feeling like this?”

 

The monk tilted Draco’s slumped chin upwards. “Heavy is the head full of regret. We will work on it together. Raise your head up high, trapa . Your work is only beginning. It will be hard, and it will hurt, but you will become better for it.” 

 

Draco chuckled weakly. “Don’t I know it. Bring it on, then.” Lama Animesh laughed at his resigned state, and shooed him off to bed before he could ruminate any further.

 

Lama Animesh returned to him the next day with an entirely separate workshop specifically for Draco. He was given an unassuming little leather bound journal and told to write down his thoughts and feelings whenever he did a good deed. “Not just the big things, trapa , but the small ones that are victories, too.” Lama Animesh’s eyes twinkled with a knowing wisdom much like Dumbledore. Draco relented, hands up, caught red handed in his own troubled thoughts. It started off with short, awkward entries that made him cringe, and he wasn’t sure how talking about his feelings was going to redeem him, but the monks had been so kind to him that he couldn’t just not do it.

 

“I slept through morning meditation. The Lamas forgave me easily, but it was impossible to get the shaking under control. The voice in my head sounds like my father.”

 

“Forced myself to join the senior monks on a hike further into the mountains to fetch drinking water instead of having another cup of (much needed, thank you) coffee. We stopped to help and pray for a wild Snow Lion in the middle of giving birth. The monks say Snow Lions are pure creatures, and we were called forth to witness such beauty in the beginnings of life. Luna would’ve died to be there.”

 

“Lumia, the squib girl, and I helped tend to the farmlands yesterday. I apologized for being sorry she wasn’t magical. She told me that I was a good person to be reassessing my beliefs, and that she didn’t hold it against me. She insisted I make it up to her by being her friend out here. I don’t feel like a good person.” 

 

“I see the Snow Lions on my morning hike regularly now. The monks say it is very humbling to be chosen by the Snow Lions. I didn’t tell them that the little one likes to walk beside me and nuzzle at my legs until I relent and scratch it behind the ears. They are supposed to be good judges of character, like the unicorns back at home. I don’t understand why they chose me of all people.”

 

“Lama Animesh says it isn’t about being worthy of forgiveness or deserving of praise. He says that having the courage to set foot on the path of healing is enough. He also says that I shouldn’t be so hard on myself. Normally I’d say he’s full of shite, but I’m trying to be kinder to people now. Lumia tells me that the first thoughts that pop into my mind are what I’ve been conditioned to think (the Lucius voice) while the second thought is how I actually feel (the Luna voice). When does it become my voice?”

 

“Some days are better than others. Today was a good day.”

 

“I jinxed myself. Today was rubbish.”

 

“Lumia gave me her phone number for when we leave in a week. I need to ask Luna how to get one of my own. I already miss Tibet and it’s not time to leave yet. Maybe I could stay and formally join the monastery. Wouldn’t mother think I’d lost the plot entirely? It’s quite funny to think about.” 

 

On the last night of the retreat, they gathered for one last meal together. No one was assigned to make or clean up after this one, just like their first meal at the monastery, as a reward for everyone’s hard work over the course of the retreat. He was saddened by the merriment of it all as he listened to the others talk about seeing their loved ones again and telling them all about the retreat. Back at home all he had was a too big, too empty manor that his mother haunted like a ghost, and a cousin-friend who would be too busy with the preparations of her upcoming wedding to listen to him whine and lament. Instead of wallowing in his misery— Lama Animesh called it ruminating— he decided he would throw himself head first into the merriest of attitudes. Gifts were exchanged as parting gifts, and last minute shopping trips had been completed earlier that day. Draco had bought copious amounts of Tibetan coffee beans to bring home with him, as well as a small carved statue of Buddha surrounded by Snow Lions that fit nicely in the palm of his hand. He had also bought a colorful, hand sewn scarf for Lumia, and then two more for Luna and his mother. 

 

Lumia had gifted him a small silver pendant that held a lock of humanely harvested Snow Lion fur. It was cold to the touch but not uncomfortably so, and when he opened it, the locket activated a charm that made snow flurries waft around him lazily. It was like a small piece of Tibet with him always. “I will never, ever take it off.” He swore to her softly, fingertips skirting over the pendant with reverence. She laughed and called him unbearably dramatic, but helped clasp the necklace on him. 

 

Lamas Animesh and Akshan gave a gift to all the trapas at the retreat as well. It was a vial of Himalayan spring water that had been blessed by the Lamas that would never run dry. They had taught them how to use the holy water to bless and protect all the way back on that first day, and Draco held onto the vial tightly as his heart swelled. Lama Animesh had even fashioned his onto a durable chain, so Draco could keep it on his person always. 

 

When it came time to finally leave and head back down the mountain, Draco found it difficult. He contemplated turning around and telling them he wanted to stay, that he wasn’t ready to go home yet, but when he turned around and adjusted his pack’s straps on his shoulders, the only thing that came out of his mouth was, “Thank you for believing in me, teachers. I won’t soon forget your teachings.” He bowed low and respectfully to them, and held it until the pack’s weight on his back began to protest.

 

Lama Akshan laughed. “Come back next year! We’ll make a true monk out of you yet!” 

 

Draco grinned back at him and nodded his head quickly. He had already made up his mind about returning to this  humble, magical place in the mountains. 

 

“I see you, Draco Malfoy.” Lama Animesh bowed back to him. “Let you carry a bit of the monastery with you wherever your journey takes you.” He waved his hand with the utmost reverence and seriousness, and Draco waited for something to happen.

 

Nothing did, of course, Lama Animesh may have been a seer but he was still not magical. Lama Akshan laughed boisterously at his brother’s antics, then waved his hand to do his brother’s bidding. Draco felt something weave into his hair behind his ear, a hand sewn piece of colorful fabric. 

 

It wasn’t until a day and a half later, when he had finally returned all the way home and was getting ready to shower off the grime and muck of a month in the mountains that he saw the “I see you” written in Nepalese on the vivid colors of the fabric. He laughed, surprised at the antics of his beloved teacher and friend. “Okay, Draco. I think I’m beginning to see you, too.” He proudly weaved the fabric back into his hair when he got out of the shower, and bolstered his courage as he looked at himself in the mirror. 

 

“Give me your worst, London,” he told the mirror with a smirk. For once, he felt sure of himself. He could handle whatever was thrown at him.

 

•••

 

It was wonderful to sleep back on his plush bed with thousand count thread sheets rather than the modest cots at the monastery. The monks had done what they had set out to do, and Draco had been humbled in a very quick amount of time. Still, he rather loved his familiar comforts, and wouldn’t be getting rid of a few here and there. He was only human. Mother still didn’t understand why he’d felt the need to buy the flat he did just shortly before leaving for Nepal, but he woke up feeling refreshed rather than in terror at the sight of his childhood bedroom, and he called that a win. 

 

Sitting up, he rubbed his bleary eyes as he fumbled in the side drawer for his notebook. He yawned, craning his neck to and fro as he put the quill to paper. I didn’t wake up to a panic attack like I did living in the Manor. Luna did amazing with Draco-fying my flat in my absence. She had, of course, suggested the flat above an empty shop near hers when she noticed it going up for sale, and Draco had honestly been surprised the landlord accepted his offer at all given his family name. But the shop underneath was small and off the normal Diagon beaten path, so she accepted since no one else was offering. Draco ended up buying both floors, but had no interest in opening any sort of shop. He left it empty, and used the side entrance to the flat when going in and out. Since the offer was approved days before he left abroad, Luna had suggested she furnish the flat for him, while promising to stick to his particular tastes. It was a feat that Draco had to admit she had done exceedingly well. 

 

The walls were a soft cream, with windows she had magically enlarged. The soft, sheer white curtains flowed beautifully with the wind when he opened all the windows. He laughed at the fully equipped kitchen, when Luna knew he barely knew how to cook for himself at all. Draco spared only a half second thought about going down to Knockturn and purchasing or even hiring a house elf, before signing deeply as he sat at the kitchen bar. No, he would never be able to go through with it. House elves just reminded him of how awful he had been to the Malfoy house elves at the Manor. If he ever really needed one, he would simply borrow Fibsey from mother. He inspected all the shelves and drawers, then pulled everything out so he could reorganize it in his particular way. That was when he found the array of cookbooks in the lower cabinet that made him laugh so hard tears came to his eyes and he wheezed for breath. Luna had bought him no less than five large cookbooks, both magical and muggle.  He accioed his notebook, amending his previous note. She also bought me cookbooks, and even passed down some Lovegood family recipes while she was at it. It’s a pity she’s marrying Longbottom, for I’d snatch her up for myself if I were not so horrendously homosexual. 

 

He was halfway through with organizing the living room’s books that Fibsey had brought from the Manor when the ministry owl came coasting through his open window. It landed beside him, tucking its wings to its body and tilting its head at him. He took the letter, setting it aside, and conjured his bag of owl treats from its place on the shelf. It was a letter from Hermione Granger herself. 

 

Malfoy, 

 

The War Reparations Banquet is tonight. I trust you have rested up from your travels and can accompany the RESET board, now that you are an official member. I’ll forgive you for not helping us prepare for it on the account that you had previously scheduled gallantry elsewhere, so make sure you spruce yourself up and arrive at six pm sharp.

 

Sincerely,

 Hermione Granger, Ministry of Finance Administrator, Founder of RESET  

 

“Bloody fucking…” he groaned. He had forgotten all about her insistence of joining the board, and had no idea about the banquet. He’d woken up at noon, and then spent two hours organizing his bloody flat for Salazar’s sake! He scrambled up and rushed to his closet, hoping against hope that Fibsey or Luna one had organized his closet by clothing type at the very least. If he had enough time, he would go through and thoroughly organize by clothing type, material make up, and then color scheme, but he knew better than to expect anyone else to organize by his insanely specific methodology. He flung open the doors to the closet space with an almost frantic pace. Draco moaned at the dismal state of organization. How was he supposed to find anything under these conditions? 

 

He waved his wand in sharp motions to get everything to fly out and into specific piles, then did so again for each level of organization and suborganization. Doing so calmed the frantic staccato of his breath enough to realize he was on the precipice of a panic attack. He gripped the edge of the closet door and squeezed his eyes shut, forcing his breathing to take on a slower pace as he went through his mental checklist exercise from Lama Animesh. Frustrated tears pricked at his eyes, but he refused to have a panic attack about his closet. It was such a small, unnoticeable thing that shouldn’t have been the end of the world to him. So why, pray tell, did he have to be such a baby about it? He took another deep breath and reopened his eyes. All in all, the entire process of destroying his closet and reorganizing it the way he needed it to be took about an hour and a half. And that was the most horrible part about it all. He needed it to be the exact way he liked, or else he lost his mind and threw a fit like a child. It was like an Imperius on his mind, a near constant itch that demanded attention. He had to fix it, and he had to fix it immediately. From his clothes to his bathroom, he had to go through and meticulously put it together piece by piece before he could even think about getting ready. 

 

In the end, he was forced to go with a charcoal grey three piece muggle suit Luna and Longbottom had bought for his birthday. Now that he thought about it, he really ought to start calling Longbottom by his given name, especially since he was marrying his cousin and also bought him a suit, it was the polite thing to do, really. He skipped the tie and popped the collar open so he had easy access to fish out his pendant if he got anxious, and used only a minimal amount of hair gel to achieve that messy on purpose look. Draco knew he should take the braid out of his hair, but decided on a whim to keep it. He was proud of his visit to Tibet and his journey of healing. He was proud of his relation to Luna, his cousin who saved him and set him on his current path. Those gifts he received from the Lamas, Lumia, Luna, and Neville, would be his good luck charms. All of those kind people who had looked into his soul and still believed he could be good,  all his lucky L names. Draco was pretty sure he’d need all the good luck he could get to survive the ministry hosted banquet anyways. 

 

Of course, he could not find a single adequate pair of dress shoes in his inventory, and cursed the year that he hadn't cared about his appearance. Before he could think better of it, and with only thirty minutes to spare, he Flooed over to Luna’s flat. “Please tell me Longbottom is here! I’m having a fashion emergency of the utmost importance!” he shouted, tumbling out of the fireplace. Luna was adjusting a sparkly hairpiece in her hair in the living room and was not startled by his abrupt arrival in the slightest. Draco had a habit of going through crises and showing up like that.

 

“Welcome back, Draco. Tea?” She offered with her signature dreamy smile. Her dress was a simple navy strappy dress that glittered like the night sky. If he watched for more than a moment, a shooting star would dance across the fabric. Constellations merged and dissipated to the rhythm of music, and he knew it was a gorgeous fit for her.

 

“You look beautiful, cousin. I missed you.” He paused in the middle of his newest breakdown to hug her and kiss both her cheeks. 

 

She giggled, kissing his cheeks back, and pointed towards the shared bedroom. “He should be in there.”

 

He thanked her quickly, and rushed to the opened door. “Neville Longbottom, you better be dressed because I am coming in whether you like it or not.” He warned, knocking his knuckles to the doorframe frantically. Manners be damned. 

 

“Good to see you too, Draco.” Neville shook his head fondly. He was trying and failing astronomically at spelling his tie in a double windsor knot. “Any particular reason you’re storming ovr to see little old me without any shoes on?”

 

“Oh for the love of…” Draco rolled his eyes. He flicked his wand in Neville’s direction, and the tie creased into a perfect knot. His arrogant confidence disappeared into nothingness under Longbottom’s gaze, and he cursed himself for not just going out and buying a pair of bloody shoes himself. “I… don’t have any dress shoes anymore.” He closed his eyes, fingers coming to pinch the bridge of his nose. Merlin, this was fucking embarrassing. “You just so happen… to be the only other bloke I happen to be on speaking terms with…” 

 

The curiosity in Neville’s eyes softened into something akin to what Draco could only assume was pity, and he fought the urge to flee from the situation. “So you came to me?” Neville wondered out loud in amazement. 

 

“If it’s too much of a bother, I can go elsewhere,” he snapped, a bit more forceful than he intended. 

 

“No! Not at all! I’m just surprised, that’s all. Never thought I’d see the day a Malfoy wanted to borrow something from my closet.” He chuckled to himself, and went over to fish through the shoes strewn haphazardly about the room. Draco did his best to suppress the organization cringe, and pinched his eyes closed again until Neville was finished. “I dunno what size you are, but I suppose that’s why we were taught Transfiguration in the first place. How’s a black pair of dragonskins sound? They’re low rise, which may be a factor in your decision, so it’s up to you.” 

 

Draco opened his eyes to reveal Neville holding up a pair of quite nice, polished dragonskin dress shoes. They must’ve cost a fortune, and were so far out of his usual wardrobe that they had to be the nicest shoes the man owned. Draco faltered at the realization. “These are quite possibly the nicest pair of shoes you own. Why on earth aren’t you wearing them? Are you mental?” 

 

Neville smiled at him and shrugged. “You’re the poshest bloke I know. Can't have you walking around in Timbs,” he said as if it was the most noticeable thing in the world. 

 

Draco’s eyes widened, and he gulped down the knot forming in his throat. “You’re insane,” he managed, “You’re absolutely insane, Longbottom. I understand why Luna deals with me, but I can’t pin you down for the life of me.” 

 

Neville clapped him on the back. “At the end of the day, you’re a decent bloke. Luna likes you, and if Luna’s forgiven you, then I can too. I think that’s enough.” 

 

He wasn’t sure what to possibly say to that, so he accepted the shoes in his arms and rushed into the adjacent bathroom to catch his breath. He put the shoes on and did another meditation set, and by the time he came out of the bathroom, he had set his mouth in a line and held his hand out to Neville. “Thank you, Neville. You’re a good man.” 

 

Neville laughed, and pulled him into a hug rather than shaking his hand. “You’re not so bad yourself, Draco.” 

 

They arrived together to the banquet, a fact that Draco was unbelievably grateful for when they were assaulted by the press at the door. His hands began to shake again, and he breathed through his nose to stall the panic rising in his chest. Luna reached for his hand with her free hand, and he gripped it tightly. She squeezed his hand reassuringly, and they managed to get through the doors without too much of a fuss. Granger was waiting for the Board members on the other side of the double doors, tapping her foot impatiently as she checked names off a clipboard. “Alright, that’s Luna, Neville, and…Malfoy?” She did a double take, clearly not expecting them to arrive together, if Draco showed at all. She looked surprised, but nodded her head regardless. “Alright, that’s everyone then. We’ll have a quick huddle, then open the doors for the banquet to get started. Minister Shacklebolt will begin with his opening speech, then we’ll move onto the live auction. The silent auction will be available for bids all night, and will be tallied tomorrow. Harry, you said that Celestina Warbeck will arrive at eight, correct?” 

 

Draco looked up from his staring at the dragonskin shoes suddenly. Of course Potter was on the board! He glanced around the room quickly, taking in the room of twenty or so stuffy politicians and Gryffindors from his graduating class. Great, he’d walked straight into the lion’s den. Potter said something in the distance that Draco couldn’t hear over the buzzing in his ears, probably in the affirmative, and Draco sought out the voice in the group. Potter was leaning against the wall, foot pressing back against it, dressed in slacks and a tight button up that was unbuttoned three buttons down with his blazer tossed over the back of a nearby chair, and Draco balked. Potter was staring directly at him. They met eyes and Potter’s eyes flicked down at his outfit before looking away. 

 

“Great. The buffet will open right after, so people will be forced to bid faster so they can eat. After Mrs. Warbeck’s performance, I’ll announce our theme for the upcoming year and the projects, and then we'll be content to enjoy the rest of the party. Deal?” Granger continued, and everyone nodded to her. Draco was still too busy staring at those three blasted unbuttons. Luna nudged him, and he followed her numbly, unable to get the sight of Potter’s saintly fucking collarbone out of his head as they took their seats at the board table. Granger, Minister Shacklebolt, and a few of the others stood at attention at the doors when they opened, shaking hands with guests as they began to trickle in. Draco huffed under his breath in order to restrain his urge to roll his eyes as the orchestra musician began to play merry tunes. These events were always the same, no matter if it was hosted by his mother or Hermione Granger. Luna got up to hug and speak with an editor for the Quibbler, but Draco stayed put at the table. This was not a crowd excited to see him, even if he did see a few socialites he recognized from back in the day. He stopped a waiter and took two glasses of champagne from his tray, drinking the first down before the waiter could leave. The second was for sipping, but he could use the extra ammo to get through what was guaranteed to be an excruciatingly dull evening. 

 

Every now and again he would catch glimpses of Potter and his three unbuttoned buttons, caught up talking to a swarm of his beloved fans or reporters. He would grin at them and rub the back of his neck, escaping about two or three meters before getting swamped again. His shirt sleeves were pushed past his elbows, and he faintly caught glimpses of a tattoo under the right sleeve of his upper arm. Draco’s mind whirled with the possibilities; maybe it was a particularly garish Ode du Gryffindor, or another satisfactorily terrifying creature he’d slain over the years. His mind went through the most outlandish ideas of what the tattoo could be, from embarrassing to lewd, heroic to prodigious. Part of him, surely the remnants from their school years, wanted to go over to him and goad him into revealing it for everyone to see. Maybe push him around a little and watch his blood boil so delectably on his face. He knew it was wrong to take such delight in pushing Potter over the edge, and he was a bit horrified at how easy it was to fall back into those thoughts. It was always Potter that did it to him; made him vye for his attention like that. Maybe it was the audacity of dressing so loosely at a black tie event that made him want to push him around a little, maybe it was the sight of seeing how people tripped over themselves to speak with him and shake his hand.  He bit at the edge of his bottom lip, peeling the skin off his lip until it was tender and red. Sometimes it was like Potter could feel his eyes on him, and he would glance around to find the source. Draco would slide his eyes off Potter with great pain to observe the bubbles in his glass or a particularly interesting piece of tablecloth. Despite his best efforts, he couldn't keep his eyes off him for long and he wished for someone he knew to come speak to him so he could distract himself.

Luckily for him, everyone quieted down when Minister Shacklebolt gave his speech. It was a long, blithering thing full of vague sentiments about unity and samaritanism that flowed in one ear and out the other. It was meant to play on the public’s hearts, make them more pliant on spending the galleons in their wallets. Draco really had been to too many of these events, he lamented with a long suffering sigh. Halfway through the speech, he felt the hair on the back of his neck rise, and he shot a glance down the table. There was Potter, a few seats down and across, staring at him with a complicated expression, like a puzzle he was trying to solve. He couldn't help the small, startled gasp that fell from his mouth, and quickly looked back at the Minister as the tips of his ears heated. Luna nudged him, thinking he was having a crisis moment, but he shot her a confident smile. He bit the inside of his cheek, and resolutely did not look in Potter’s direction through the end of the speech and into the beginning of the auction. Granger brushed past his seat and sat down at the board table. She sent him a glance he was certain meant for him to put his galleons where his mouth was, and he suppressed a groan as he smiled sweetly to her, nodding his head. 

 

Unfortunately for him, the pieces for sale during the live auction were all high value items, but none quite caught his eye. It was honestly a bit boring how typical the items for bid were. He bid conservatively to keep the prices rising, but didn’t walk away with anything at first, until he noticed that Potter was doing the same. His lips curved up into a smirk, as he realized exactly how he could make the evening more entertaining. Draco waited patiently for Potter’s next bid, then innocently raised the bid while smirking at him. Potter frowned, narrowing his eyes, then took the bait and raised his bid another fifty galleons. Draco drummed his fingers against the table. Potter leaned forward in his seat. Draco did the same, and could barely conceal the delight in his voice when he raised the bid by another hundred. Potter’s frown set determinedly, and matched the bid another hundred. People were starting to look now, no longer bidding so highly against the two of them. Ron Weasley nudged Potter, clearly whispering to find out what was wrong with him. Draco’s heart was thrumming with the adrenaline only Potter seemed to get out of him, then made a particularly reckless move to raise his bid up five hundred galleons. His eyes were alight with challenge as he did it, staring Potter down the whole time. The crowds around them murmured as Potter worried a hole into his cheek. The auctioneer called it once, then twice.

 

 Potter raised the bid by a thousand galleons. 

 

The crowd’s murmuring grew louder and more restless, and Draco laughed. He laughed, a bit crazed, and met the bid another thousand. They were up to nearly fifty thousand galleons for a hideous little vase that couldn't have been worth more than five thousand. He knew he shouldn’t raise it much higher and saddle Potter with the ugly vase, but truthfully, he hadn't had so much fun in ages. He bit down on his lip as Potter raised it again to the fifty thousand mark, and Draco’s toes curled pleasantly as the auctioneer called it once. Potter seemed to realize finally what he’d been baited into when the auctioneer called it twice. “Hey, just what exactly do you-” He was interrupted by the auctioneer calling it sold to Mister Harry Potter, thanking him profusely for his generous donation. Potter scowled at him for the remainder of the auction, refusing to bid again. That was fine with Draco, he would be riding that high for the rest of the night, consequences be damned. Potter sulked for quite a bit, but he knew he would find some way to get revenge before the night was through if their track record was anything to go by. He didn’t feel anxious about it like he would if it was anyone else. Potter was old, familiar territory, and it felt almost safe to taunt him despite the way the air crackled with magic when he was angry. Granger did not seem to like his little stunt, so he bought a few items for entirely too much in the silent auction to appease her.

 

Draco treated himself to a top shelf cocktail at the open bar, still riding his victory two hours later. He’d danced with Luna, swirling her around the open floor as much as she wanted when Neville wanted a break, and was only just taking a moment to reflect on how delicious it felt to one up Potter again. Merlin, he lived for that feeling. He leaned against the bar, watching the festivities from afar with a self-satisfied smirk. “You know,” Neville began as he sidled up to Draco at the bar, “It's funny to see how the more things change, the more they stay the same.” He ordered a double whiskey neat.

 

“Whatever do you mean, Neville?” He hid his delight behind the rim of his almost empty gin and tonic.

 

Neville snorted. “That whole bidding war between the two of you. I swear, it's like you two can't help but show off when the other is involved.”

 

“Moment of weakness. Won’t happen again,” he assured him, although he knew he’d probably do it again if he had the chance.

 

“I’d hope so.” Neville chuckled, sliding over the untouched whiskey neat to Draco. “Especially since Harry’s my best man. You’ll have to see him quite a lot for a bit.” 

“He’s your what?” He croaked.

 

“My best man. Do keep up, Draco. Drink. You’ll need it.” Draco was about to ask why on earth he would need it, when Neville turned and waved to Harry Potter, who was currently on a warpath in their direction. “Well, I’ll leave you to it!” 

 

He clapped Draco on the back extra cheerily, and quickly left the area before Potter came over to inevitably smite him down. 

 

He took a step back, reaching for the drink frantically. He brought it up to his lips right before Potter was in front of him, and drank as a distraction. Potter crossed his arms. 

 

“Potter, what a lovely surprise. Let’s never do it again, shall we?” Draco sat the empty glass on the bar and turned to make a beeline out of the situation, but found he couldn't move at all. “Did you just… full body bind me nonverbally?” He gasped. Circe, Potter had gotten a hell of a lot stronger since seventh year. He suddenly regret taunting him during the bid at all.

 

“We’ve got to talk, and I'm not spending the rest of the night chasing you down while you fancy running away.” Potter’s baritone voice had gotten deeper since seventh year too, his mind supplied in shock. 

 

“B-by all means… You’ve clearly gotten too used to getting what you want the moment you want it.” He schooled the slight shake in his voice into one of cool indifference. Potter’s magic was intoxicating, and was wrapped so tightly around his body that it felt like all his nerves were on fire. 

 

Potter rolled his eyes. “Hermione told me that vase was only worth about five thousand galleons. What the hell was that all about, Malfoy?”

 

Draco suppressed a wince at the way the full body bind squeezed against his chest with the way Potter’s hands flexed reflexively against his upper arms. Oh, Merlin . Potter’s full body bind was nonverbal and wandless. 

 

“Old habits die hard. Figured it would entertain me during this awfully dreadful banquet. Wasn’t it wonderful? You practically did it all by yourself. Though I would appreciate a thank you for walking you into such fantastic press.” He challenged with a smirk.

 

Potter scoffed, tongue in cheek as he rolled his eyes. His fingers twitched in a flex, clearly his best attempt at not balling his fists entirely. The miniscule squeeze was enough to make Draco stifle a small gasp. “Good to see you haven’t changed completely. That seems a hell of a lot more like you than what Luna and Neville’s said.”

 

“Oh, yes, because you're such a good judge of what is and isn’t like me.” He retorted before he could stop himself. Like he’d said before, old habits died a particularly gruesome death. Surely the lack of breathing room was making him do funny things, like baiting a ticked off Potter that smelled like thunder before a lightning strike when he was the only thing left to strike. 

 

He uncrossed his arms, coming to stand toe to toe with Draco. Potter stood so close that he could faintly smell his aftershave and cologne mixing with the crackling ozone of his ridiculously powerful magic. Incredibly, ridiculously powerful magic, his brain supplied dizzily. “I won’t let you fool me, Malfoy. If you pull a stunt like that at Luna and Neville’s wedding, even step a single hair out of line, I won’t hesitate to put you back in your place. Quickly and quietly.” He vowed under his breath, vivid green eyes clashing with Draco’s inevitable blown wide grey ones. He crossed his arms again, and released the full body bind.

 

Draco lurched forward, and stumbled into the bar. His breathing was heavy from the sudden release of restraint. He stood, brushing himself off in order to have a moment to collect himself from how horrifically turned on Potter’s reckless show of magic awakened in him– something he was going to have to discuss with himself at a later time, really, just what did his body think it was doing– and placed a scowl on his face.  

 

“Contrary to your small-minded, feeble attempt at sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong, you don’t scare me, Potter. Maybe the rest of the bloody world trembles at your godly feet, but I have not nor will I ever do the same. I have come too far to let people like you decide that I can't pick myself up and better myself. If all you see are the physical changes, Potter, then you're even more shallow than I thought. I love Luna more than any other being on the planet, except perhaps my mother, and despite her careless and ill-advised decision to choose me as her best man, I am doing it for her. Because she asked for me. ” He hissed under his breath, “You cannot scare me out of the position, and your attempt to do so is entirely too hypocritical, even for you.” He turned and stormed away before he could be tempted to stoop to his old ways and hex the arsehole. Serves him right , he thought, venom dripping in his mind. Granger was just going to have to be alright with his donations as he stomped to the nearest Apparition point. 

 

I didn’t hex Harry fucking Potter. Fuck him and his stupid unbuttoned shirt and wildly uncontrolled magic. He wrote down aggressively in his notebook, slamming it shut and throwing it across the room. He’d never been so turned on in his life.

 

•••

 

“Do you want to talk about it?” Luna asked suddenly, as if they’d already begun the conversation she thought he needed to have despite Draco giving not a single hint that was true. They were out to lunch to discuss a wedding budget. Apparently Granger was in charge of their expenditures, but each best man was responsible for setting pre-agreed totals for any sort of bachelor or bachelorette events with the groom or bride before the first budget meeting. He’d come from his first RESET meeting just prior, which consisted primarily of a tongue lashing rivaling even his father from Granger for taunting Potter. He venomously hoped that Potter received the same treatment, as he stabbed the fork forcefully into his salad. Well, perhaps there had been an indicator or two to his current mood after all.

 

“No.” He grumbled, lasting about ten seconds before sighing and pushing the salad away. It tasted bland and flavorless in his mouth. “Yes? I don’t know.”

 

She stopped writing in her notebook, sitting her glittery purple pen down. She smiled, looking at him with single minded attention. “Your aura is all wobbly. Start at the beginning,” she advised gently. 

 

Draco grumbled under his breath again. “It’s about Potter.”

 

“Like always,” She agreed, and he shot her such a look of betrayal that she patted his hand like one did to an affectionate crup. “What? It’s true.”

 

“Nevermind, I am not getting another lecture today,” he decided on the spot, content to let the storm in his mind live there forever if it meant he didn’t have to actually talk about it.

 

She sighed softly, “You know you shouldn’t bottle it up. It’s already affecting your inner peace you’re trying so hard to maintain.” Her bottom lip wavered, and she knit her fingers together in her lap. “If being my best man is too much on you, you’d let me know, right? I thought it might be good for you to put yourself out there in other circles than just me, but I never meant to cause you this much anguish. Please don’t do it just because you feel obligated.”

 

His inner storm softened momentarily, and the crease between his eyebrows released its tension. “Luna… No, never. You could never cause me anguish. It’s stupid really, all in my head. I’m not used to being around Potter anymore, and there’s a lot of… unfinished business there. It’s complicated. He knows all the right buttons to press to get me to lash out, and then I'm right back to who I used to be and where I started.” 

 

He sighed, twirling his fork in absent circles as he steadfastly avoided looking at her. She made a noise of acknowledgement, and he pressed on before he could change his mind. “He brings out the absolute worst in me, Luna.” 

 

“Well, from the perspective of someone who’s been his friend since school, I don’t think it's that one-sided. He hasn’t seen you change like Neville and I. You are eager to prove that to him, because of what he stands for. You’ve always thought of him as your equal but opposite, and if he thinks you’ve become better, then you have hit some sort of strived-for milestone of acceptance. Oh, but Draco, that’s not how that works you know. True peace and acceptance comes from within, not external praise from others.”

 

He grumbled again, stabbing a particularly sad, wilted lettuce leaf.  “Yes, yes, I know that. I had parents that did not express enough love to me, so now I crave validation from others. I read the pamphlet.”

 

“You two are so much more alike than you realize. I really do think you two could be quite good friends once you work through these growing pains,” she insisted, squeezing his free hand in hers. She was always so loose and open with her affections, and it soothed him more than he’d ever admit outloud. He was used to holding her hand as a form of solidarity and comfort, so much so that the Daily Prophet had released a particularly scandalous article about the evil, evil Death Eater attempting to seduce her away from her big, brave Gryffindor hero. They’d all laughed quite hard, with Draco using his best nasally Rita Skeeter impression as he read it aloud to the still very happy and in love couple. Neville had a pretty good hand at impressions too as it turned out. Draco sent a small, trying smile in her direction. 

 

“Just don’t let him get under your skin and live there, Draco. Just because you slip up doesn't mean your progress no longer counts. Progress is-”

 

“-not linear, yes.” He finished for her. That made her beam, and he felt lighter after talking with Luna, letting it fall off his shoulders like cleansing rain water. “Enough about me, tell me more about this sentient magic spring you’re asking me to prove myself to in order for your wedding to be a success.”

 

“I’ve already told you, it isn’t about proving anything. You remember that Celtic retreat we went to last fall? It’s a similar concept to that cleansing community retreat, and a Muggle pagan wedding ritual. A trusted family member or friend, both in your case, goes to find a special spring that’s been in certain familial circles for generations. You gather the water, and during the ceremony, it unifies and blesses the union of those getting married. The main rule is that neither bride or groom can be the one to gather. Supposedly, depending on the union and the strength of the bond of the person gathering and the wedding couple, it can take quite a bit of time to find.” she flipped into business mode quickly, opening up her bright and glittery notebook covered in unicorns and the words ‘Lisa Frank’. 

 

Draco nodded along with her explanation, still quite sure it was another test. Though this time, the proctor was sentient nature magic, which was known for being especially fickle with intent and worthiness. How fantastic. He cringed internally as she went into specifics about the unity spring that existed somewhere on the Lovegood property. Hers tended to only show itself to those full of strong love and truth intentions, neither of which he had ever been particularly good at expressing, in his humble opinion.

 

It was a disaster in the making, choosing to send him of all people, but they had made that choice for themselves. It was up to him to figure out how to make it work despite that.

 

•••

 

It took a few weeks to settle back into a routine in the UK. It took him ages to find a good morning running path that challenged his stamina and endurance like the mountain paths of Tibet had. While running the distance of the Royal Parks did an alright job, he craved the steep inclines that pushed his body to the extreme, and finally settled on Apparating into Wales, up on the mountaineering paths of the Cambrian Mountains. It took him quite a bit of exploring to settle on, but felt so wonderful on his aching muscles that he thought it well worth the apparition necessary. He always started and finished with a meditation up in the mountain air, centering himself before facing whatever horrors the day would bring. It did wonders on his physical fitness and mental clarity, and while he never bulked up like most of the Gryffindor lot, specifically Neville, he thought ruefully, he toned up quite nicely. 

 

Incorporating some of his coping and peace strategies from Nepal alongside finding his new running path took a while, and the RESET board membership expected much more from him than the average ‘give us money and look pretty at events' that most others did. Granger ran RESET with military-like precision, juggling multiple large projects at a time without ever breaking a sweat, despite the fact it was not even her main job. She ran RESET out of her own home as a self startup, but expected everyone to carry their own weight. Every person on the main board brought something to the table, and Draco felt like he stuck out like a sore thumb just being around those meetings. He was a glorified wallet on legs, one that came with the unfortunate  habit of reminding everyone of the war they fought as teenagers. It was the proverbial white elephant of the room, every time he showed up too early or right on time. There never seemed to be the right time to walk in and not cause heads to flick to him and conversations abruptly stop. Unless it was Neville or Luna. They’d had plenty of time to get used to him, at least. He sat silent and chewed on the skin of his thumb or lip, listening intently to find something he could do to break out of his uselessness somehow. Granger would give him small tasks occasionally, which he would accomplish with lightning fast speed and accuracy, no matter the task. His goal of wearing her down was finally showing signs of working; he could tell by the way her lips curved up in thanks when he took mountains of brainless paperwork from her or brought in a second coffee to the meetings specifically for her. If it helped with her productivity, she responded warmly. 

 

Another method he’d taken up was strictly calling everyone at the meetings or wedding planning by their given first names. It was against every single Pureblood polite code of ethics he learned as a child. It paid off quicker than he expected. Granger– no, Hermione– offhandedly called him Draco to grab his attention during a budget meeting and he’d felt so victorious he began to shake from pure excitement. Luna sent him a discreet thumbs up, and he could’ve bottled up the feeling as liquid sunshine for Luna’s apothecary. 

 

The only one he didn't do that to was Potter, who he only responded with cool silence. If the situation absolutely required a response, he would nod or shake his head, or reply in short, to the point sentences. It was for the best; Draco couldn’t trust he would not stoop back to his Hogwarts self when around Potter. Both Luna and Neville had tried to encourage him to speak cordially with Potter, to which he smiled and promised his best for next time. Usually the next time tended to be a few weeks out, and he could pretend he forgot completely about the conversation they’d had in the first place. Luna was catching onto him quickly, and soon he would need a different distraction method. They avoided each other, pretending there had never been animosity between them, and that suited Draco just fine. He didn’t ask about how Potter found the arrangement, mostly due to the fact the whole arrangement relied on the fact that they never spoke in the first place, but he assumed he was content with it as well.

 

Luna was true to her word, and helped him in getting a Muggle phone device to contact Lumia, and he enjoyed talking to her while he disastrously attempted recipes from one of his new cookbooks in the evenings. Lumia was from the States, so while he was attempting dinners for himself, she was usually working on some art pieces as a freelance artist in the early afternoon. It worked well for both of them. He was even picking up on some of her American Muggle slang, and hoped Lucius was rolling in the grave at the sound. 

 

 As it turned out, getting a phone earned him serious brownie points in most of the Gryffindors’ eyes. He was cornered by Dean Thomas for forty five minutes after one RESET visit, where he taught Draco texting slang. After that particular incident, everyone warmed up to him, as if they were waiting on a bated breath for Dean to accept him into their group. It was preposterous of course, if they waited on anyone’s permission it would’ve been Potter’s, and Potter showed no signs of that over the months. Draco rambled an apology to Dean later that night once they were both trashed, but Dean just clasped him on the back and declared him as a “Decent bloke, that Malfoy.” He definitely did not cry after he returned to his flat, clutching his pendant in both hands and sliding to the floor with his back to the door, thanking his Unnamed Entity for every baby step towards forgiveness. 

•••

 

Greg,

 

I’ll never be able to forgive myself either. You can hate me forever if it helps. You can send me daily howlers telling me how much I failed you and Vince. In fact, I encourage you to do so. You two were always more than your muscles. I should’ve seen that. I’m so sorry for everything. 

 

DLM

•••

 

Three months before the wedding was set to take place, members of both wedding parties were scheduled to a joint outfit fitting. Luna and Neville’s separate fittings had been the week previous, but Draco had been forced to miss it due to an episode that kept him bedridden with dizziness and a pounding headache that would not go away unless he stayed completely still in a room with no light or sound. It worried him greatly that despite him checking all of his boxes, balancing his ledger, he was still having episodes. When he was a child, he had the occasional syncopal episode that started with a headache that the healers chalked up from his mother’s illness when he was in the womb, but this one felt different, almost sentient in its pain. 

 

He knew what to expect from each side of the wedding, mostly people he saw regularly at RESET,  but there were a few that he was worried about meeting for the first time. Specifically the littlest Weasley girl. Ginny, he reminded himself like a mantra as he loitered outside the small wedding boutique. Not little Weasley or girl Weasley. Not Potter‘s girlfriend, and definitely not Weaslette. Old habits were not going to raise their ugly heads here and prove everyone’s old mindset about him true. He had a nagging sense of guilt that he had taken the best man spot from Ginny Weasley specifically from the way Luna praised her, and that he’d be under intense scrutiny from everyone if he were to offend her the first time he saw her again. She’d been off playing professional Quidditch and returned on break specifically for the last bit of wedding prep. He wrote Ginny’s name down in his notebook like the detention lines the night before, to ensure no slip ups occurred. It took him four pages before his mind stopped  applying the old nicknames with reckless abandon, and he picked up one of his new ethics textbooks Lumia had sent him from her old university days to distract his mind before he had a panic attack.

 

“For Luna,” he told the welcome witch, still distracted as he was escorted to an open but private room with a handful of changing areas on either side. There was a wall of mirrors on the long side, and comfortable seating in the middle where Luna and Neville sat, glowing with excitement as they browsed a binder full of designs. He was genuinely happy for the two; they’d somehow ended up his closest confidants. He still missed Pansy, Blaise, Theo,  and Greg like a missing limb, but Luna and Nev brought a different kind of friendship into his life that eased the ache. Draco felt he didn’t deserve to miss Vince. Not when he was so responsible for his death. He knew Greg blamed him, and he deserved to carry that blame with him the rest of his life. 

 

He bumped into someone. “Oh, I’m sorry,” he murmured, shaking himself out of his dark thoughts. Draco was getting stuck in his thoughts more and more often now.

 

“Not your fault. These damn sleeves are too— Malfoy?” Ginny gawked, voice raising a pitch and making both sides of the room look up. Her eyes were wide and startled.

 

He wanted to crawl into his skin and hide there forever. “Weasley. Ginny. It is uh, good to see you.” 

 

Clearly no one had thought to warn her of his presence, and he wasn’t sure if that was a good sign or not. “I’ll just…” he muttered, waving his hand in the opposite direction. She nodded slowly, turning back to the Patil twins. He did his best to not run to the other side of the room.

 

Ron sidled up beside him, and handed him a champagne flute. “If it’s any consolation, mate, she had the same reaction to Harry the first dozen times she saw him.”

 

“I hardly think Ginny’s harboring a massive crush on me, Ron,” he scoffed  into his champagne. 

 

“That would be strange indeed,” Ron agreed.

 

“Besides, I’m about as bent as they come,” Draco added on a whim. Potter, who was standing nearby and clearly eavesdropping, spluttered and coughed suddenly as he choked on champagne. Draco raised a critical eyebrow in his direction. “What’s wrong with him?” 

 

Ron chuckled weakly. “Oh, you know Harry…“ He trailed off vaguely. “Not anything to do with… You know. My brother Charlie is gay. Never had an issue with him.”

 

Draco nodded his head slowly. “Uh huh…” He peered at Potter, who noticed his glance, turned red in embarrassment, and then scurried off to help Neville with something. Bloody Gryffindors made absolutely no sense. 

 

Luckily for him, the attendants returned with the chosen dress robes and accompaniments, which distracted the group with sudden fittings and quick changes. Draco turned away a few items with excessively open or short sleeves for obvious reasons, and stuck to changing in one of the changing booths. Some people opted to try things on over an under shirt and shorts like Potter and Ginny, but there was simply too much for Draco to hide on his skin to be so careless. Potter didn’t seem to care about his scars, as if they were badges he won by being courageous and heroic. Draco supposed they were, compared to the shame and regret branded on him. For not the first and definitely not the last time, he wondered if the acidic taste of regret he felt crawling up his throat would ever balance out the meanings of the marks on his skin. If he would ever break even, and people come to see the mottled skin of Mark and scar. Luna had wept once, when she caught an accidental glimpse of the raised silver scars of the attempt that brought him to her apothecary in the first place. He didn’t want these people to pity him. 

 

Neville and Luna’s wedding theme was sun and moon, like her engagement ring, so they chose for Luna’s side to dress in pale yellow, and Neville’s in a deep blue. It was colorful and eccentric, just like the couple in question. Draco managed to swindle his way into a light grey suit with only accents like his waistcoat and pocket square in the yellow. He was the only bloke in her wedding party, so he took a bit of liberty. His coattails swished behind him in a way that reminded him of the way Snape used to billow down the halls, and he turned and admired the flow in the mirrors. The rest of Luna’s side could choose whatever style they wished as long as the main color was the pale yellow. Ginny went full Bohemia in a loose and lacy strapless dress that made her look quite radiant. The Patil twins, who he remembered as matching from their hair to their toes, seemed to have grown into their own individual styles. 

 

Hermione chose a pantsuit as well, demanding in ways that spoke of someone who earned respect rather than demanded it. Ron seemed to agree, based on the tips of his ears. He'd arrived too late to learn the name of the other girl on Neville’s side. She seemed close to him, both of them getting into a side conversation about herbology. It took him entirely too long to realize that she must’ve been the girl who apprenticed under Sprout that Nev would mention in passing stories from time to time. She chose a quite simple dress that didn’t do much for her plain face, which he thought was a pity. He felt immediate shame at the thought and spent the rest of the appointment avoiding her like the plague.

 

The problem he would soon find out however, was that he was not very good at avoiding multiple people, especially in such a small group. He didn’t think he had ever done anything specific to Padma, being in Ravenclaw, but she was always beside her Gryffindor sister, so it was very possible she had been caught up in his malice. Ginny was still glancing occasionally over at him, before turning back to whisper to whichever member of the golden trio was next to her, so she was out too. It was particularly difficult that Potter was the way he was, circling around him in a friend group that he was somehow suddenly a part of despite his history. Potter and him had too much history for them to ever be anything other than people involved with the same people. Acquaintances perhaps, but never friends. 

 

“Hey,”Potter said, after far too long lurking. 

 

Draco sipped from the glass. 

 

“Hermione said that I uh, should probably apologize to you. You know, for the banquet a couple months ago.” Potter continued, despite the way Draco was attempting to freeze him out. 

 

“Oh well, if Hermione thinks so…” Draco muttered dryly over his second flute of champagne. The conversation with Potter would definitely require a third or maybe even fourth glass as well.

 

Potter had the decency to snap his mouth shut and bounce on his feet for a second. “That’s not why I— Look. Have you been practicing the matrimonial spells yet?” he pressed on.

 

“I think I’m fairly familiar with wizarding customs, but thank you for thinking of little old me. Truly the savior we all need.” Draco exhaled through his nose sharply, draining his glass and turning on his heel to ask Ron where he happened to get those little miniature sandwiches. 

 

“Then you know we have to be the ones to lead the spell!” he blurted, causing Draco to still. 

 

He turned back to face Potter. “Usually the parents or guardians lead the spell, Potter.” He corrected, curious at what Potter seemed to know and he did not. 

 

Potter swallowed. “They want it to be us. Since Luna’s mum isn’t around and Neville’s parents are… you know. He’d rather it not be his grandmother, since she makes too big a fuss. Their wand cores weren’t compatible anyways.”

 

Well, fuck. “And since there weren’t other combinations that could be tried, it falls onto us, and it just so happens our wand cores are compatible for the spell. Is that right?” Draco sighed, feeling his headache surfacing to the front of his mind. He rubbed at his temples tiredly.

 

“Yep.” Potter grimaced, popping his P and sticking his hands into his pockets as he did that little bounce thing on his feet. “So, we’ll need to practice it sometime. Weekends work best for me, since I never know when I’ll need to be undercover or work late, and I’m not sure what your schedule is like, considering you’re in and out of the country just as often if not more often than Gin it seems.” He exhaled out in a rush. 

 

Draco just blinked at him. “You’ve been… paying attention.”

 

“You could say that,” he shrugged, “When’s good for you?” 

 

Draco shook his head, completely exasperated by the sudden homework given to Potter and him. He loved Luna and Neville, and promised he would do anything for them in order for the wedding to take place. In a way, he was partially responsible for the Longbottoms’ fates at the hands of his psychotic aunt, so the least he could do was endure a few measly study sessions with Potter. He much rather preferred it be Hermione, but alas, beggars can’t be choosers. “Well, I was planning a quick Camino de Santiago, but knowing us, we will need more time than that. I suppose I can stick to some local RESET services and do that cathedral tour I had planned for next month instead, but that does throw my timing off… I will have to find something that will balance out, but I will make do. Weekends will work fine.” He pulled his notebook out of his expanded pocket, scratching things out and quickly scribbling with a muggle pen. 

 

“Balance… it out?” Potter blinked at him,  confused at the rapid fire mumbling.

 

His recent episode meant that he needed to work harder, contribute more to acts of service and learning, so he felt a tug of anxiety at the fact he would have to delay his Camino de Santiago again. He was looking into university intro to ethics courses in his free time, perhaps if he took a few of those, he could contribute into his ledger enough to even out the lack of the Camino de Santiago walk. There was always Easter mass he could attend as well, if he needed an extra bit. “Can’t be helped, Potter. I gave my word to Luna that this would go as smoothly as possible. I will simply look into other avenues. I will send an owl with details,” he said coolly, as if his mind wasn’t calculating the weight of his soul against every measurable factor he could find and his heart wasn’t racing.

 

•••

 

Parkinson,

Dearest Pans,

Dear Pansy,

 

Long time, no see. I hope Paris is treating you wonderfully. If this letter comes as an unwelcome surprise, feel free to send me a howler or this envelope full of letter ash at your inclination. I wouldn’t blame you, I deserve it. You were my best friend, and I repeatedly put you down. I’m sorry I talked you into that nose job operation in Paris back in fourth year. I always loved your nose, but I thought I was doing you a favor by making you more conventional to other Pureblooded men. You terrified me, and I was afraid other suitors would find your beautiful soul and witty humor crass. I hope Blaise is well. I’m sorry I never saw your worries and fears as validated and understandable as they were. I should’ve never assumed you were anything less just because you were a girl. I don’t understand how you ever cared about me while I was such a horrible, uncaring person. I miss you so terribly much. I’m trying to be better.

 

Your horrid ponce of a friend,

Draco 

 

••••

 

Greg never did send him a letter back. It wasn’t returned unopened either, so he was forced to deal with the vagueness of closure the letter gave him. He hoped Greg was doing alright for himself nowadays, and that he found people who didn’t treat him like he was just a stupid oaf like Draco had. He wrote a similar one for Vince, and took it to the Crabbe family cemetery where he could read it aloud to the headstone. Draco conjured some flowers to liven up the dreadful state of it; both of his parents were in Azkaban so there was no one to keep the cemetery cleaned up in proper fashion. He promised Vince he would come back often to tidy his resting place. 

 

He didn’t expect a letter back from Pansy either. He could’ve written pages upon pages about how dismal he had been to her since day one. Draco had never thought of himself as sexist, even when he knew what the term meant, but there were so many microaggressions he had carelessly tossed about while around Pansy that horrified him. He went back and updated his initial ledger, adding the term to his list. Yet she had stuck by his side, a constant in a world that was quickly swept up into war. He didn’t expect Pansy to write him a letter back, nor hear from her ever again if he was honest. He sent the letter, confident that he would not receive one in return, and went about his life.

 

He went to yoga with Luna. He helped Neville pick out fabrics for his dress robes. He marked three names off his apology letter list in his journal. 

 

All the while, the itch under the surface of his skin grew more insistent. He fainted while walking home from Luna’s apothecary one day, just to be brought back to consciousness by a Renervate from Potter of all people. Potter fretted over him quite excessively for a man who still hated him, forcing him to stay seated until a mediwitch arrived. 

 

“Potter, I’ve already told you. This happens. I’m fine.” 

 

Potter, clad in his Auror robes, just crossed his arms and shook his head. “Not a chance. You could have a concussion or brain bleed. Let me see your pupils. How many fingers am I holding up?”

 

Draco groaned inwardly. “Three. Come on, this is just ridiculous. People are staring.” 

 

Yes, his head hurt. It always did when episodes like this occurred, but they had become his normal. The last thing he needed was an emergency St Mungo’s trip. Draco had only tried once to step foot in the building before the shaking got so bad he swore to never go back. “I banged up my knee pretty rough on the landing and I’m tired. I just want to go home, and it’s just down the road for Merlin’s sake.”

 

Potter sighed. “If you go and bleed out in your sleep, I’m going to be very cross with you.” 

 

He held his hand out for Draco, who took the help up. He was still shaking quite bad, and a second fall in front of Potter would probably not go over well. Potter steadied him regardless, holding him up for support as they turned the corner to Draco’s street. When they arrived at the door, Draco spelled the door open rather than messing with his keys. His dexterity had taken a major hit. 

 

“How often does this happen, Malfoy?” Potter asked suddenly, as they took the stairs up one at a time. He was insistent to see him all the way up to bed, to make sure he didn’t pass out and fall again. 

 

“Often enough.” He replied vaguely.

 

“Are you sick? Cursed?” Potter asked again. “If so, we really ought to get you to an actual Healer, not some bloke who knows how to sling a Renervate around.”

 

“Yes, Potter. I am sick. But there is nothing to be done about it, so quit your Gryffindor worrying and leave me to rest,” he snapped, knowing he was in the wrong for biting his head off like that. They reached his bedroom, and Draco collapsed onto the bed. Potter seemed to flail there, unsure of what to do next. Finally he left the room, and Draco shut his eyes, thrilled to finally be in the quiet again. Then there were distant noises that made him open his eyes again. “Potter, is that you?”

 

Potter returned moments later with a steaming mug. “I made some of Luna’s tea you’ve got in your cupboards. I use her Pick Me Up blend personally, but the Mooncalf one is no joke either. Here.” 

 

Draco accepted the mug, his mouth ajar. “What are you doing?” He couldn’t help but ask, dumbfounded by the entire situation.

 

Potter shrugged, bouncing back on his toes in that maddeningly little display of casualness Draco was beginning to realize he did quite a bit. He always did it with a tiny smile and tongue in his cheek, a sign of familiarity that was somehow being extended to Draco now, too. “We’ve got to start being nicer to each other for our spellcasting to be harmonious, right? So uh, here. An olive branch.”

 

“An olive branch… Another of Hermione’s brilliant plans, then?” Draco blinked at him slowly.

 

Potter chuckled, meeting his eyes.“This one’s all me for the record.”

 

Draco pulled his eyes away from Potter’s intense eye contact first. “To harmonious spell work, then.” He raised his mug in a mock cheer. 

 

“To an olive branch.” Potter agreed, miming a toast with an invisible mug. 

 

•••

 

“Your library collection here might just be the most eccentric I’ve ever seen, and I’ve known Luna and Hermione for years,” Potter said as he browsed the wall of bookshelves in his living room. 

 

“Thank you?” Draco replied, instead of saying some cutting and sarcastic remark about having ‘actual taste compared to plebeians like him’. Potter had a tendency to stick his own foot in his mouth, and it occurred to Draco that perhaps some of the things he took as offensive in school might have just been the product of that tendency. 

 

Potter turned away from his nosing around. “I’m not saying that’s a bad thing! It’s just strange to put you in the middle of a spectrum that begins with Hermione and ends with Luna. You really believe in all this stuff?” He held up a particularly ratty and beaten up book on chakra alignment that was one of his first on the subject. 

 

“Yes, Potter, I do. Cream or sugar?” He sighed as he sat the tea tray down in his living room. Potter had returned on Saturday to work on their spell work, true to his word. Draco had recovered from his most recent episode and sent out two more letters, one to Theo and one to Blaise. 

 

Potter kept his browsing, picking up various knick knacks from his travels and admiring them before putting them back down gently. “Just cream. You’re religious then? Ron told me that religion isn’t very popular with the old families.” 

 

“Not religious per say, but I am spiritual. I might go to a Catholic mass one day, then one of Luna’s pagan retreats the next. All depends on what is available on any given day. Are you ready to work?” Draco’s fingers came to touch his pendant for a moment, before he fished out the small vial in his pocket. He dipped two fingers into the vial, then flicked the water at Potter’s face. 

 

“What the fuck, Malfoy?” He spluttered, wiping away the water from his face.

 

Draco didn’t reply for a moment, instead doing the flick of water at his face. “No one casts a single spell in my home without first properly cleansing the area.” He went around the edges of the room, flicking water across the floor, murmuring an enchantment under his breath. The water trail glowed blue for a moment until the route connected, then flashed brightly before fading away. “Wizarding houses follow Igorin’s Stone Mark Theory. Any spell cast in the house will leave a mark that the house will remember, slowly creating a will of its own to the home that matches the will of the owner. Some disagree with Igorin, and believe that any dark magic cast will slowly infect the inhabitants, regardless of their intentions or mastery of the house. I will not take that chance again.” 

 

Potter blinked, slowly relaxing again. “That makes plenty of sense, actually. Just warn a bloke next time, alright? I’m not a fan of sudden unexplained movements. Auror training kicks in, and I’d rather not hurt you for no reason.” He rubbed the back of his neck with that goofy grin Draco could remember in vivid detail, after years of watching Potter. It felt different when he was the one the grin was directed towards, like a brightness that would strip one down to its bare essence and still smile at what he would find. 

 

He felt exposed and vulnerable under it, so he quickly turned to shield his face. “We’ll start with the incantation. Repeat after me.” 

 

•••

 

Pansy Parkinson showed up at his flat exactly two weeks after he sent his letter, soaking wet in her Chanel coat and Jimmy Choos. Her makeup was charmed to be impervious to the elements, but she had not spared a thought for herself in her rush. All in all, she reminded him of a very wet, very pissed off rattlesnake. 

 

Gods, he had missed her. 

 

“Pansy, dear. What a surprise. Ah, you look quite drenched.” he managed after a moment where the two of them just stood and watched each other. The only sounds were their breaths and the pattering of rain against the streets as they stared. She was breathing heavily from her travels, yet she surged forward with a strangled sound, squeezing him tightly in a hug. 

 

“Like you look any better,” she retorted with a sniff, “Five years, Draco. Five years! No message, no visit, no sign that you were even alive! Then out of the blue, you send this— this goodbye letter?” She reached into her pocket to reveal the crumpled up letter. 

 

“Goodbye letter?”

 

“Y-you say all these things that you would never normally say, things I didn’t even think you noticed back then, apologizing for every little thing since we were knee high just like Greg did! Then I noticed that the send date was two bloody weeks ago and there was no way t-to get to you on time but I had to try! I had to try, Draco!” She was hiccuping on her sobs, pressing her face into his chest and holding him tightly. 

 

His mind was going in circles, twisting like a whirlwind. “I’m right here, Pans. I’m fine. It was just an apology letter for being such a shite friend, not a— not anything else.” He assured her, patting her on the back as she held onto him for dear life, knees buckling on his front step. “Pans. Pansy, look at me. I’m right here.” He ran his hand through her beautiful black hair until she caught her breath between sobs, slowly calming down.

 

“How many jumps did you take to get here?” He asked her softly, leading her inside the warm and dry flat after she caught her breath. He took her sopping wet coat to hang on the coat rack, as soft plinks of water dripped onto the tile. 

 

“Five. Got all the way to Wiltshire before I saw the address was different and had to circle back to London.” She answered, sinking onto his couch. 

 

Now that the immediate danger of the situation was wearing off, she was looking worse for wear. International Apparition was dangerous and usually illegal, though was accepted in accordance to emergencies like the death of a loved one. Pansy had never been particularly skilled in Apparition to begin with, and he squeezed her hand in his. “You could’ve splinched yourself. What were you thinking?” 

 

She smiled at him through teary eyes. “That I wasn’t going to let you go that easily, you prat.” 

 

His heart clenched, breath stuttering with the sheer amount of love he had for the woman in front of him. “You’re a monster, Pansy Parkinson. Let me go get some dry pajamas for you, and we’ll talk more in the morning.” Draco insisted, before getting up to rifle through his closet until he found a pair of joggers and one of his first retreat team T-shirts. He only wore them to bed, but looking at Luna’s little sharpie marker sun with a smiley face on the right shoulder still filled him with memories. They were undoubtedly not the silk Dior she was used to, but they held memories to him that were much, much more priceless. 

 

She did not even bat an eye at the choices given to her— a true testament to exactly how exhausted her jumps from Paris to London had made her. She fell asleep the moment she fell onto his bed. He shook his head at sight. “ Remouens Delicata .” He murmured, flicking his wand towards her sleeping form. The spell wiped away the makeup on her face, leaving it washed and moisturized. She usually preferred using her own specific products, but it brought him back to third and fourth year when she fell asleep with her makeup on during those late nights studying in the common room.

 

He shut the door behind him quietly, then headed back downstairs to the couch. There had been a quick detour to the kitchen to pour himself some scotch and grab his notebook where he left it. Truthfully, he hated the taste of dark liquors, but they reminded him of his father. Crabbe and Goyle had been dark liquor blokes as well he recalled; they were always the first to partake in the bottles Blaise managed to smuggle in, gifts from countless stepfathers trying to win him over. It never worked of course, but it was nice to have access to a steady supply whenever they wanted it.

 

Draco flipped open the notebook, back to the page he had dedicated to his Slytherin list. He had officially sent letters to every one of his close friends, and now Pansy was there. Still, he didn’t feel better. Instead, he felt unsettled by something she had said, something big as if it was measly and inconsequential. Like Greg did. It didn’t fully hit him until he sat down, alone with his thoughts. The implication of those three little words turned his world on its axis. Greg couldn’t have, could he? He would’ve known, surely, if he had been successful. There would have been news. Another Death Eater dead. Someone would’ve sent him an owl. Knowing he even made an attempt at ending his life was altogether not much of a better outcome, but he simply couldn’t connect the idea of Greg with death. They had all been too scared to die— that’s why they did what they did, all of them. That’s why Pansy tried to barter Potter to the Dark Lord to save their own. That was why Greg and Vince followed him dutifully into the protective ranks of the Death Eaters to begin with, despite not really understanding what it all meant. His year of Slytherins were supposed to be invincible. Us against them. 

 

Draco was not the leader he should’ve been. No wonder his castle had been reduced to rubble around him.

 

“Find Greg. Apologize to his face.” He scribbled into his notebook, underlining apologize three times.

 

•••

 

Pansy woke up in the afternoon after a good thirteen hours of sleep. She looked less pale, with dark circles that had lightened significantly. She was still a bit frazzled around the edges, barefaced and in common clothes, but international apparition was strenuous. Such a feat sucked an incredible amount of magic from the one attempting it, so being unable to cast her usual grooming spells or bringing any sort of luggage was really the best possible solution. 

 

Draco had slept on the couch due to never having the time or willpower to set up two guest rooms he had no intention of using until it was too late. They still sat full of boxes he hadn’t bothered to unpack. “Still take your coffee black as your soul?” He asked, sitting at the table with the Daily Prophet strewn haphazardly on the table and a book on Nietzsche in hand.

 

She stood in the doorway for a moment, observing the scene like she had to reassure herself he was really there. “Splash of milk now, since I no longer hate myself.” She replied with a tilt of her lips upward.

 

He shut his book with a mock gasp, hand to his chest. “Who are you and what have you done with Pansy Parkinson?”

 

Her smile widened. “I missed you.”

 

He got up to fix the coffee. Draco had grown from a terrorizing hyperactive child into an adult with a constant urge to do something with his hands. It was why he enjoyed things like cooking, potions, or reading. It kept his mind and hands busy. “I missed you too, Pans. More than you could ever know.” He murmured.

 

“Flattery will get you everywhere,” She blushed, waving her hand flippantly, before sitting at the table and looking at him expectantly. “So, tell me what you’ve been up to these years. I cannot put the pieces together by myself, and your flat is giving me some new puzzling clues, if I’m being honest.”

 

“It’s a long story, Pans, and it’s not all a happy one. I’m not entirely sure you’ll want to hear it.” Draco busied himself with his daily cup of Mooncalf tea. In today’s case, his third. It gave him the chance to pause and recenter himself.

 

 When she paused, waiting for him with full attention, he began. He told her about his father’s death and the same poisoning he was certain was in his veins. He told her about Luna’s little sunshine filled shop and his path towards becoming a better person, all the while being encouraged by two of the most unlikely people in the world. He spoke at length about Nepal and breezed through what she was sure to call his own attempt. She held her hands out expectantly, rolling up his sleeve to see the self-inflicted scars that overlaced the Dark Mark, yet kept silent until his story was done. Pansy never let go of his hand after rolling his sleeve back down, and squeezed it occasionally whenever he mentioned not being good enough to send them those apology letters. She listened patiently, nodding her head with understanding despite her eyes going glassy with unshed tears.

 

“I know I should’ve sent them earlier, years earlier, but… I didn’t want to dredge it back up when everyone was so busy moving on with their lives. I mean, come on, Paris is much more interesting than me.” 

 

“How many of us is that stupid fucking war going to take, Dray?” She whispered. A single stubborn tear rolled down her face, stormy with frustration. “First Vince, then Greg, now you? Oh Draco, we have to get you to an actual Healer! I’m sure Loony— Sorry, Luna— is great and all, but you can’t be certain all of this will go away just because you’re holding hands with Gryffindors now!”

 

He felt ice form in his gut. “Wait. I thought Greg was fine. You said—!”

 

Her face crumpled, and it was all he needed to understand what had actually happened. “D-did you not know? We came for the funeral, but Blaise and I assumed you—,”

 

His ears were full of a high pitched ringing. “You assumed I what? Didn’t care to come? Was glad I wasn’t being held down by him anymore? Was too embarrassed? I knew him my whole life, Pansy! Of course, I would’ve come!” He shouted, pushing the chair away as he stood and pulled his hand away like he was burned.

 

“—were still on house arrest.” She finished with a small voice, but hardened eyes. “I’m so sorry, Draco, really I am. I sent you an owl, but I suppose it didn’t arrive right.”

 

The anger seeped from his body instantly. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have let my anger get the best of me.” He sat back down, balled fists coming up to knead at his eyes. “How long?”

 

“It isn't your fault, Draco Malfoy. Do you hear me?”

 

He removed his hands from his eyes to look at her tiredly. “That wasn’t my question, and you know it.”

 

She grimaced. “I’m serious, Draco. The war left permanent marks on everyone. Lots of people had issues adapting, and you knew Greg better than I did. He always had issues adapting. Azkaban was the final nail in the coffin, not you. He didn’t stand a chance when his year was up.”

 

Draco felt cold and numb. It was like a large chasm opened up below him, and he was staring down into its cold emptiness just centimeters from the ledge. “Four years ago, then. He killed himself four years ago and I am just learning about this now? Circe.” He was floating there at the precipice, distantly aware of the tightening of his chest. Pansy squeezed his hand, now trembling in her’s, and he focused on her. “I need to go see him. I'm four years late. How horridly impolite of me. I didn’t get to send him off.” 

 

He remembered all the times Greg had gone along with Draco’s schemes despite finding them too long winded and complicated. He was many things, patience and subtlety never one of them, and yet despite that he still went along with every single convoluted plan. Now here he was again, later than ever to do the final thing he could do for one of his oldest and most horribly treated friends.

 

“He would say you were perfectly on your own time.” Pansy insisted, wiping her eyes with her free hand. “We’ll go together. Have our own funeral.”

 

“I’d like that. Very much so.” He agreed with a squeeze of her hand in return. 

 

They chose the following evening. Pansy sent a message by Floo to Blaise to tell him, and he agreed to get the next Portkey out of Paris with a trunk packed for both him and Pansy, of course. Draco asked her after if there was anything happening there between the two, but she just shook her head and commented on Blaise’s slag status. Draco retorted and called them both an equal amount of slag, and she hit him with a stinging hex before he could block. Fair was fair.

 

He was so preoccupied with finally getting his guest rooms organized and up to standard that he lost track of the hours. Blaise arrived a few hours later, through the Floo from the International Portkey Office, and embraced Draco so tightly he did not know how to react. 

 

“I got your letter. You never had to apologize to me, old man. Us against them, hiss hiss.” He clapped him on the back, then thumped his knuckles against his chest twice as he hissed. Pansy nodded in agreement. 

 

“We both know I did, Blaise. Sweet of you to pretend otherwise, though. Hiss hiss.” He repeated the gesture, a secret communication method that had been kept in Slytherin for hundreds of years. His father had made the motion to him just shortly before the Hogwarts Express had  left the station, and he had never looked back. He felt seen, and he felt their loyalty as if it were the bond of blood. In a way, he supposed it was. Greg had reunited them after so many years; the spilt blood that strengthened the remaining green strings in his life.

 

Greg’s fate weighed heavily on him. So much so, that he completely forgot about his previous longstanding Saturday engagement of entertaining Potter. After that first practice together, he’d grown silent and contemplative before turning those curious thoughts outward towards Draco. He was relentless in his mundane questions, all highly personal and yet never malicious. It only made Draco think something was off about the entire situation; that Potter must have been watching him all over again. Potter kept his distance from asking about Nepal specifically, but Draco felt without a shadow of a doubt he was working his way up to it. He also refrained from any mention of the war or Draco’s father. Draco did the same, and was careful to respond vaguely anywhere his illness was concerned. Only Luna and Pansy knew, but Pansy would inevitably tell Blaise, who would pretend he didn’t know but look at him with knowing eyes all the same, and he didn’t need Potter’s savior complex to join in on that. He and Potter weren’t friends, anyone with eyes could tell you that, yet they belonged to the same friend group somehow. They were still Potter and Malfoy, but Draco wondered if the wedding would defrost even the tiniest bit towards them becoming Harry and Draco.

 

He was already dressed, back in his muggle suit that he transfigured black for the occasion when Potter knocked at the door. He had his scotch glass in hand again, having poured the three of them a glass while getting ready. He didn’t know who he expected at the door, but Potter was not high up on the list.

 

Potter blinked back at him. “Woah, you look like shit, Malfoy,” he said, entirely too much familiarity in his voice.

 

“Thanks,” he replied dryly, “Did you come all the way to my flat to insult me then?” 

 

Potter shoved his hands into his pockets. It was his usual build up to conversation. Hands in his pockets, that bounce thing he did on the balls of his feet, then a small laugh or exhale. Draco watched it like clockwork. Constant vigilance and all that. “Today’s Saturday. We’re supposed to work on the bonding spell for the wedding, remember? Did you get Confounded or something? Draco’s mouth parted like a fish, then closed again. He took a deep breath through his nose and sipped the scotch. “Something has come up.”

 

Potter’s eyebrows shot up. “Are you drinking at one o’clock in the afternoon?”

Draco wrinkled his nose at the taste. “Yes, Potter, very observant, you are. Now really isn’t the time, so if you could just…” he made a shooing motion with his hands. The scotch sloshed dangerously close to splashing out the cup.

 

“Let me in, Malfoy. I’m texting Luna.” His eyes hardened. “You're clearly not alright, and I don't think you should be alone. Budge up.”

 

“I’m not alone, Potter. For Merlin’s sake.” He argued, blocking Potter every time he tried to sidestep him. “Potter, I'm quite serious! Desist!”

 

“Will you just– move!”

 

“No! This is my flat!” 

 

“Quit it, Malfoy. God, you're literally the most difficult– Ow! Did you just pinch me?” Potter gasped in outrage, both of them stilling suddenly.

 

Draco narrowed his eyes. “I am not above biting you.” he warned.

 

“I’ll show you biting.” Potter retorted under his muttered breath before pulling Draco into a headlock. It didn’t last long, Draco slipping between his grasp easily. They grappled for another minute before they heard Blaise’s snort.

 

“Told you it would be Potter,” Pansy said loudly, grinning like the shark she was.

 

“It’s like going back to Hogwarts.” Blaise agreed, crossing his arms and leaning casually against the wall as if he was the textbook picture of nonchalance. He had the audacity to take a swig of his scotch and not react at all. Traitor , Draco thought vindictively.

 

They broke apart from their grapple in the doorway. “Parkinson, Zabini. Thought you two were on the continent.” He greeted, no ice in his voice as he took the opportunity to slip into the doorway.

 

“Yes, well.” Draco smoothed down the rumpled folds of his suit as he glared at Potter’s subtle slide into the house. “Bit of a Slytherin reunion, you could say.”

 

Pansy and Blaise exchanged a glance. “Yes, if you count a funeral as a reunion.” Blaise said it flippantly, but held Draco’s gaze with a knowing glint.

 

Draco debated kicking his arse back to France and calling the whole event off, Greg be damned. Then he immediately took it back with crushing regret at the thought and drained the rest of his glass. Potter turned that infuriating pity look towards Draco again. “Oh, don't give me that, Potter. I’m no stranger to people dying around me.” Potter’s lips flattened into a thin line as he said it, and knew he had said the wrong thing before it even finished coming out of his mouth.

 

“Who passed, if you don't mind me asking?” Potter asked quietly, solemnly.

 

Draco coughed, clearing his throat under the intense gaze. That was the only word that remotely came close to describing adult Potter. Intense. Powerful. He had such a natural relationship with the storm of magic inside him, and had developed incredible control and restraint on it. And so, Draco's mouth moved before his brain could catch up.

 

“Greg,” he near whispered. “Goyle. I called him Goyle, back in school.” A fresh wave of grief washed over him. It was a small confession wrapped up in simple words, hidden in plain sight. 

 

I was horrible to him when he was alive. His blood is on my hands.

 

If Potter could read between the lines, he didn’t indicate so. Draco swallowed his confession back down. “These two did not see it fit to notify me when it actually happened, so we’re holding our own vigil. Very exclusive, so I doubt you received an invitation.” He strengthened his voice with nonchalance, wandering to pour more scotch. All of this was hard enough without Potter there to muck it up with sunshine and heartfelt sentiments. The shot he swung back was a welcome distraction.

 

“Could I come?” Potter asked suddenly, and all three Slytherins in the room choked on their drinks. Or in Draco’s case, he was already coughing from the shot.

Blaise composed himself first. “Now, why would you go and do a thing like that, hmm?”

“Well, I know it sounds weird, but I made a point to go to all the war funerals I heard about. It’s a promise I made to myself.” There it was again: hands, bounce, huff.  His eyes flicked to Draco’s for only a moment.

 

“Not all of them…” Draco muttered under his breath, thinking of the mere five people at Lucius’ funeral.

 

“No, not all of them.” He amended with a soft snort, “Some were incredibly difficult to get into.”

 

“That’s all nice and good, but I think you ought to leave.” Blaise stiffened defensively as they approached forbidden territory. One loss was hard enough on Draco as it was. Draco nodded slowly from where he was staring holes into the amber liquid. He was clearly done with the conversation from his body language, turned solitarily inward. Potter went to acquiesce, turning back to the door with a sympathetic nod. His fingers had just brushed the handle when Pansy cried out suddenly. 

 

“Wait!” She glanced between Draco and Blaise. “Would one more person remembering Greg be that bad? It’s just us, his mum, and Theo. If Potter can put his personal feelings about him aside to help us guide him to the other side, shouldn’t we take him up on the offer? His magic is like a beacon. Greg was never good with adjustment; he’ll need all the help he can get.”

 

Draco met her eyes and let out a long suffering sigh. She was right; the old magic would call to Greg, but they all had their doubts he had gone easy. He preferred to close his eyes and be stubborn until someone he knew could convince him.  Draco had always been that person, since that first toddler meetup. Potter’s magic could be instrumental if he hovered still. “Fine. For Greg,” he muttered.

 

An hour and a half later he found himself side-along Apparating Potter to the Goyle estate. They sent him home to change beforehand, which had only taken barely as long as it took Draco to pour the scotch shot for Potter when he returned. 

 

“I don’t like scotch,” he tried.

 

“Don’t be silly, Potter. Neither do I. It’s for Greg.” he replied with a roll of his eyes and a toast with his own shot. “Bottom’s up.”

 

They arrived as far as the wards would allow, which was the front gate. An old, grisly house elf waited for them on the other side. “Sirs and madam, please follow Nipsey. Thank you for visiting the late master, yes indeed. Nipsey remembers when you were all as tall as Nipsey, so young…” The house elf seemed to age right in front of their eyes, hobbling down the path.

 

“It's horrible, really…” Pansy whispered up ahead of them.

 

“So the Goyle line really is ending. I’ve never seen a house elf age like that. Didn’t Greg have a cousin that would have inherited from Euginie Goyle?” Blaise whispered back, both of them turning their heads like Draco would know.

 

He didn’t know. He never paid enough attention to Greg to remember the details.

 

The Goyles preferred burials rather than a memorial mausoleum or family crypt. Nipsey snapped her fingers and the gate to the cemetery opened, sprawling out as far as the eye could see. The ward’s magic rippled over them curiously, but did not harm them at Nipsey’s presence. She hobbled down a row and then down another, until they came to the most recent plot. 

 

The grass was wet and soft as Draco fell to his knees the second he read the tombstone, solidifying the fact in sharp clarity. Oh, Merlin and Morgana both . Potter did not hesitate, coming to sit beside him in the muddy grass. His hand brushed the ground, leaving a trail of simple wildflowers. No one spoke for a long time, listening to the gentle pattering of rain around them.Blaise’s Impervius kept them dry from overhead,  but not on the ground. 

 

“I was really awful to him. My whole life I told them how much better I was than them. Everyone always compared the two of them and Greg hated it. He just wanted to be himself. He-He was afraid he would be sorted into Hufflepuff and disappoint his father. I told him to follow my lead and everything would be okay, and it– it wasn’t. It’s not okay. If his family had been different, if I had been different… If anyone had stopped to let Greg be Greg instead of Goyle… Do you think he would be alive now?” Draco contemplated out loud. 

 

Pansy put a comforting hand on his shoulder. “He made his own choices. You weren’t responsible for him making them. He had free will, just like the rest of us.”

 

“I know it's not really my place, but if I had to guess, you couldn't have influenced his circumstances back then anymore than you could your own, and me and mine. It took me a long time to realize that. Not a train of thought you want to go down, believe me,” Potter murmured from his place in the grass beside him. 

 

Draco did not reply to either of them, choosing instead to roll his wand around in his hands. They let him sit there and absorb the new reality of a world without Gregory Goyle.  He couldn’t tell Potter that was exactly what he was doing, what he had been doing for years already with no sign of slowing down. Endless what ifs rattled violently in his mind. If they had not had Death Eaters for fathers, would they have met before Hogwarts? Would Draco have batted an eye in his direction at the sorting ceremony and regarded him as too stupid to befriend? If Draco had treated him like an actual friend rather than an unthinking lacky, even remotely like he had Pansy and Blaise, would he have felt comfortable enough to tell them about his struggles before it was too late? If Vincent hadn’t been his only true friend, would he have kept his head down rather than join the death eaters?

 

“Let’s get this over with.” he sighed an unknown time later. The others, waiting on him and his silent internal monologue, moved into a half circle. Pansy and Blaise took their place on the edges closest to the tombstone, with Potter and him in the middle. It was such a quick, seamless motion that he immediately knew it had been planned ahead of time. They wanted Draco to lead the vigil since he had not made the first funeral. All of this was for his own personal closure, and maybe a little bit for Potter’s somehow, but he knew Pansy and Blaise enough to recognize the small steps aside for what they were. It was a sweet gesture, even more so as they acted like it was for their benefit rather than his own. After hanging around with so many Gryffindors, Ravenclaws, and occasional Hufflepuff, he welcomed their unique brand of comfort like home. People showed how they cared in so many different ways, yet the subtle acts of Slytherin was what he knew best, what he craved and missed the most in the past five years.

 

He lit his wand with a soft green light and said, “Gregory Cadmus Goyle. I lend my magic to your memory.” They went clockwise, lighting their wands and repeating him. Potter was the final one to repeat him, and the words inscribed on the tombstone began to glow in the same green as the echo of Greg’s magical signature washed over them. Draco briefly shut his eyes to stop the tears from starting anew. It wasn’t the same, just a pale recreation of his core embedded in the stone, and Draco thought if he craned his neck just so, he might hear his familiar chuckle. 

 

“If the enchantments will allow, I would like to contribute to your memory so that Gregory can be remembered for many more years to come. I submit my chosen memories to you. Filcandum Memoriam .”

 

He shut his eyes again, picturing the memories he had spent hours agonizing over. Greg, when they were just boys, jumping off the second story balcony and into the giant pile of autumn leaves the house elves had conjured into a pile at his demand. “Come on, Draco! Are you scared?” he taunted him, head emerging from the leaves. Draco had been, in all honesty, but launched himself off the balcony too. They dissolved into laughter, racing inside to do it again over and over again. The first Slytherin match in second year that they won purely because of Greg’s quick reflexes with his beater’s bat. Draco told him he didn’t do that bad, and he beamed for days at the hard given praise. He put every memory he could recall about Greg’s Quidditch abilities in with that one. It was the only thing he was very good at, and he wanted that memorialized. Greg was good at things, too, even if Draco never told him directly to his face.

 

“Do you think anyone will ever want to go to a ball with me?” He asked Draco in the solitude of their fourth year dorm, well after everyone else had fallen asleep. It was a quiet, vulnerable thing to say. “You’ve been with Pansy for a year now. I wish it was that easy for me. I’m not great at magic or nearly as good looking as you.”

 

Draco remembered feeling annoyed at his weakness, his vulnerability. “Shut up, Greg. Your father will arrange someone for you, so you shouldn’t worry with such stupid questions.”

 

“Oh, alright.” he replied after a beat. “Thanks, Draco.”

 

“Don’t mention it. Girls are annoying at this age anyways. You’re the lucky one.” he huffed, spelling his curtains closed and cutting off the conversation.

 

Another one, from sixth year that time. “I could do it, then you could take the credit. I wouldn’t mind.” he offered once, when Draco had emerged from the Room of Requirement after yet another failed attempt. He felt defeated; he was going to fail the task, fail his mother, and then they were all going to die. His bloodline would end all because of him and his incompetence.

 

“Are you fucking stupid?” Draco spat at him as he stalked ahead. Greg followed dutifully. “If I can't figure it out, what makes you think you could?”

 

Greg shrugged. “You’re my friend. I don’t like seeing you in pain.” He said it like it was the truth of the world. The sun rose and set. Two plus two equalled four. You’re my friend.

 

He hadn’t been. Not really.

 

It ate Draco alive. 

 

The others in the circle saw the memories as they flowed from Draco into the stone. A few memories of Greg’s mother rocking him flowed back. Him painting Pansy’s nails and her laughing that he did a ridiculously shoddy job. An unknown first year Slytherin watching him hex an older student that was bullying him. Hundreds of individual instances of rapping knuckles against his chest and hissing. 

 

The spell faded when all of the contributed memories played back to the circle, fading from green to white light, the spell reaching its end. They all stood silently, gathering themselves again. Pansy sniffed occasionally, while Blaise exhaled shakily and put his wand away. Draco knew the tears were streaming down his face, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. He took Greg for granted all his life. One of his first friends laid to rest because he was not there to help him through the aftermath.

 

“You can go.” His voice croaked. “You can go, Greg, it's alright.  Vince will– Vince will be there for you, I'm certain. One day, the rest of us will catch up, so don’t worry about us. Your mum will be okay, too. This is no place for you to wait around. Hiss hiss, old friend. Finite incantatem.” Draco could barely end the spell on the tombstone due to his stuttering gasps and shaking hands. It took two tries, and then he turned on his heel to find some air. They were outside, he knew, but it felt like the world was collapsing in on itself. 

 

He walked aimlessly for a bit while he attempted all of the many of the assorted breathing exercises he learned over the years. None of them took away the sheer hopelessness from his stolen breath, but at least he was starting to hear the crunch of gravel under his feet rather than the ringing in his ears.

 

“Malfoy, wait!” Potter called from somewhere behind him, jogging down the path to catch up to him. 

 

Draco sighed. Of course it was Potter; Pansy and Blaise were smart enough to recognize when he needed to be alone. “What is it?” He ran a hand down his face, dragging the skin downwards. 

 

Potter huffed, catching his breath as he stepped  into line with Draco. “That spell on the gravestone. That was that one stone recording theory you mentioned once, right?”

 

Draco cast a Warming Charm over them both as the sun began to slip behind the horizon, and futilely wiped at his face, even though it was sure to be an ugly splotchy mess of red. “Igorin’s Stone Mark Theory, yes. Certain stone types absorb magical imprints easier than others. His was a good material for memory playback spells, probably limestone by the looks of it. I’m surprised you remembered.”

 

“I pick up the occasional thing or two,” Potter grinned lazily at him, and it baffled him beyond belief. Potter had been doing it more and more often, yet it never grew less strange and odd. He didn’t feel like someone who deserved a signature Harry Potter grin. “Parkinson told me to go after you. She wants to make sure you’d be ‘pulled together enough to get hammered’. Her words, not mine.”

 

“How kind of you both,” Draco muttered with an eye roll.

 

“All jokes aside, do you want to talk about it? I imagine it’s been a big shock,” Potter pressed, halting where he stood and touching Draco's elbow slightly to stop him as well. It worked; the shock of Potter touching him froze him in place. 

 

To his utter embarrassment, he felt the tears well up in the corners of his eyes again, as if their sole goal was to embarrass him in front of Harry fucking Potter. “Oh, like you care so bloody much. You didn’t give a single fuck about Greg.”

 

“To be honest, up until today, I didn't think you did either,” Potter admitted, “It’s becoming clear that I had you in a box you don’t fit in, Malfoy. You’re right, I didn't care that much about Goyle. That doesn’t mean I wanted him to die. I wanted all of you to get your heads out of your arses and think for yourselves, which I think you’ve managed a hell of a lot better than I expected, alright? You surprised me, that’s all.”

 

Draco bit at his cheek and frowned, trying to decide whether to feel offended at the admission. “You have no idea who I am, Potter. Don’t flatter yourself.” He was breathing quick now, temper flared and he wanted to lash out at him for even being there. 

 

Potter did not rise to the bait. Instead, he removed his fingers from Draco’s elbow and looked at him with an amused glint in his eyes. “I’m starting to get a pretty good idea, Malfoy. You only get nasty when deflecting from your own feelings, which means you probably feel like utter shite. If I’m right, you’ll pull your wand out and try to threaten me–” 

 

Draco, who had been reaching for his wand, stilled his hand. 

 

“—which will only make you feel worse, all things considered.” Potter had the audacity to smirk in triumph, crossing his arms and waiting.  When Draco just glared at him, he continued. “So why don’t you skip the pomp and circumstance and just accept the fact I’m asking how you’re doing?”

 

Draco clenched and unclenched his wand hand a few times, before crossing his arms to close himself off from the uncomfortable way Potter saw right through him. “I do believe I hear Pansy calling us.” He deflected in a different way, which did not feel like the victory he hoped it would as he turned the opposite way and began to walk briskly towards the way they came. 

 

Potter shrugged and followed in silence. Finally, finally, he had gotten Potter to drop his blasted let's-talk-about-your-feelings crap. The way he pried behind Draco’s curtains was both uncomfortable and rude. They were not friends. They just so happened to be in the same group, that was all they would ever be capable of being. End of story. Rivals. Acquaintances. 

 

“You  know, I spent a long time trying to trip you up in your carefully constructed web of lies, but they aren’t there. Your actions are genuine. I can’t find a lick of fault with them.” Potter said after a good few minutes of them walking in silence. “If everyone else can be your friend, then I ought to give it a go, too. Just so you know.”

 

Draco paused from where he was slightly ahead on the trail, turning his head back to look at him like he suddenly grew two heads, turned purple, and proclaimed the end of times. “You’re insane. We could never be friends.”

 

“I’ve decided to be your friend, Malfoy.  What you decide to do with that information is up to you. I've just had a lot of people tell me you’ll come to me when you feel ready. I’m fairly patient.” Potter put his hands in his pockets, shrugging. He clapped him on the back as he passed Draco’s still body along the path, rounding the corner to spot Pansy and Blaise in the distance.

 

Draco stood still for a moment, mouth agape and eyes blinking rapidly. “You–now hold on just a moment!”

 

•••

 

“Okay, okay, I’ve got to ask. What was up with all the hissing?” Potter interjected over the overlap between Pansy and Blaise’s excessive chatter, as they had both become drunk off their arses. 

 

Pansy thrust her glass up into the air with a proud cheer. “Hiss hiss!”

 

“Hiss hiss, darling.” Blaise chuckled, deep and hearty as he clinked his glass against Pansy’s. 

 

Potter laughed, loosely leant against his seat in the booth of the upscale pub they’d wandered into at Pansy’s insistence. “Yeah, that!”

 

Draco rolled his eyes, more exaggerated than he meant for the action to be. “It's a classified Slytherin secret, Potter, you couldn’t begin to understand.” Unfortunately, he also had broken his vow to not speak to Potter for the rest of the evening by correcting him. Maybe Draco was drunker than he thought.

 

Potter raised an eyebrow. “So that’s how it's going to be, huh? I’ll have you know I was almost in Slytherin. Only ended up in Gryffindor because of this git.” He waved his hand in Draco’s general direction, which caused him to splutter in outrage and Pansy to giggle.

 

“Oh, really? Do tell.” Blaise leaned forward with a smirk.

 

“He was a snotty little brat who insulted my first actual friend. Wasn’t a very good first impression, you know. I hear he’s gotten a lot better at those, apparently.” Potter laughed, winking in his direction when Draco made a noise of complaint.

 

“We could’ve had Potter! Circe’s tits, imagine the house points!” Pansy cackled, nearly falling out of the booth. Draco held out his arm to steady her at the same time Blaise grabbed at her arm and pulled her back into the booth. She stayed cackling the whole time.

 

“Who would’ve played seeker then, I wonder?” Blaise wondered aloud, stirring his martini slowly.

 

“Me, of course,” Potter said at the same time that Draco did.

 

Draco’s eyes widened at the Gryffindor, currently stealing his friends’ loyalties with his almost Slytherin-ness. “Don’t be ridiculous. It would’ve been me.”

 

“No way, I had you beat in nearly every game we played against each other. You obviously would’ve been a chaser. You have the better build for it,” Potter argued, draining the last of his Firewhisky. Before it could come to blows however, he nodded towards Draco’s empty glass. “Same thing as before?”

 

“Gin and tonic. Top shelf, since you’re buying,” Draco said, crossing his arms and taking the peace offering.

 

Potter snorted. “God, you’re so posh.”

 

He left their booth, wading through the crowd towards the bar, and both Pansy and Blaise zeroed in on Draco the second Potter was out of earshot. Pansy cast a Muffliato before any of the spoke. “When were you going to tell me you were all buddy buddy with Potter?” she demanded, leaning forward.

 

Blaise nodded emphatically. “Showing up at your flat like he belonged there? Incredibly suspicious, old man.”

 

“Oh, please. It’s Potter. He’s got a misplaced sense of obligation because of Luna and Neville’s wedding, that’s all. We’re the best men, so we’ve had to come to an understanding,” Draco scoffed, fingers drumming against his bouncing leg. 

 

Neither Blaise or Pansy seemed satisfied with that answer, but couldn’t pry as Potter returned to the table, four drinks trailing beside him in the air. Pansy ended her spell, taking the bright, glittery champagne glass from him gratefully. “So, what are we talking about now?” he asked while divvying out the drinks. 

 

Blaise smirked as he sipped his new martini. “Draco was just telling us all about your new friendship.”

 

“Was he now? That’s news to me.” Potter raised his eyebrows towards Draco, who sunk down in his seat. “I was under the impression he didn’t want to be friends.”

 

“I was not. All of you are putting words in my mouth,” Draco muttered as he sipped sullenly on his gin and tonic.

 

“All I'm putting in your mouth is that 87 Galleon gin and tonic, I'm afraid,” Potter quipped with a chuckle.

 

Draco spluttered quite unattractively, coughing up a storm as Pansy and Blaise wheezed. “Oh, that’s a good one! Attractive and funny. I like him, Draco, he should come around more often!” Pansy cackled, practically doubling over. 

 

“Slag…” Draco rolled his eyes affectionately. “You can all keep your euphemisms to yourselves.”

 

Pansy stuck her tongue out at him in response.

 

The three drinks in his system loosened his attitude considerably, and he kept glancing at Potter. Blaise kept prying about their supposed friendship, to which Potter answered that he actually did in fact think of them as friends. Draco’s face heated and he ducked his head to avoid any gazes turned his way. Potter continued to charm his way into Pansy and Blaise’s good graces, much to Draco’s dismay. Potter had grown quite good at it compared to the awkward fumbling way he behaved back in school.

 

It was extraordinarily strange, he thought, that he could go out and about after the events of Greg’s funeral. After his visit to see Vince’s final resting place, he had locked himself in his flat for days as he tried to get a handle on the unease that rolled through his body and left him with cruel Fiendfyre nightmares, over and over again. Yet here he was, laughing and making snide comments like nothing had happened. He felt a bit guilty for it, like he was not serving his necessary penance of being downright miserable, but the mix of alcohol, close friends, and whatever Potter was supposed to be kept him from being swallowed whole by the misery. Being around people was good for him in moments like these, so he intended on making the most of it.

 

By the end of the night, Pansy had even convinced Potter to go out on the small dance floor with her for a little bit, and wormed her way into getting to admit he was bisexual and had a brief fling with both Ginny and Charlie Weasley. Draco was both shocked and surprised Pansy could get that particularly juicy bit of gossip out of him in just one night. Potter is bi, his traitorous drunk mind supplied belatedly. Potter likes men, too. Potter caught him staring a few times, but always seemed to be interrupted by one of the others before he could say anything to Draco directly. 

 

They all stumbled out of the pub at half past eleven, all too drunk to Apparate. They stumbled back to Draco’s flat, where Potter was to use the Floo. Pansy shucked her heels at the door, kissing all three boys on the cheek before padding up the stairs to the guest room. Blaise followed suit, leaving just Draco to see Potter to the fireplace, an action which seemed to be highly calculated on Blaise’s part.  

 

Potter tripped on the rug, and Draco stifled the chuckle rising in his throat. Sobering up unfortunately brought back the revival of his guilt—guilt over Greg, fear about the rising black bile in his soul, shame about succumbing to his base instincts and sassing Potter all night. Unfortunately, the trip had Potter grabbing onto Draco’s arm for momentary support. Potter slurred, “Oops, sorry ‘bout that.”

 

“Are you sure you’ll be alright to Floo? I’ve got a couch,” Draco offered, quite reluctantly. It wouldn’t look good on his ledger to have the boy saviour get lost in the Floo system and surely perish stuck between Hackney and Mayfair.

 

Potter waved him away with a smile. “Nah, I’ll be alright. Always am.”

 

“It’s a very nice couch.” Draco said again. He wasn’t sure what he was trying to accomplish by saying so. It wasn’t as if he wanted Potter to spend the night. He just didn’t want him to get caught in the fireplace like a fool, surely. At least that was the excuse he was going with at the moment.

 

Potter met his eyes. “Hmm, I'm sure it is, knowing you.” His voice was lower, raspier than Draco remembered it being seconds prior. 

 

Draco couldn’t pull his eyes away. “Easily Transfigurable.” 

 

“Mmm. I bet.” 

 

“Egyptian cotton sheets,” Draco added, mouth suddenly dry.

 

“Very posh. Posh is growing on me.” Potter bit his lip.

 

“Was that …” Draco asked, trailing off. He wasn’t sure what he was even going to say. Whatever it was, it was lost at the touch of Potter’s breath on his face.

 

“Call me Harry,” he insisted softly, eyes too big and soft for someone like Draco.

 

There was a sudden crash upstairs, followed by a curse from Blaise. They jumped apart, Potter removing his hand from where he still clutched Draco’s arm.

 

Potter shook his head with a soft chuckle. “Good luck with that. Goodnight, Draco.” 

 

Draco blinked at the space no longer occupied by Harry Potter. He and Potter were friends. He had called him Draco. He wanted him to call him Harry. Blaise crashed into something else, snapping him from his dazed stupor.

 

The next morning, his first sober thought, however, was that he needed to gain control of himself immediately.

 

•••

 

Pansy witnessed one of his episodes two days later, when he slipped getting out of the bath. His knees and ankles had started giving out under his weight on occasion, and he had sent off an express owl for some mermaid tear bath potions to soak in twice a week just to keep him standing. Lumia told him to lay off the running when she ordered them from an American apothecary for him, but he knew what was happening was much less innocuous than that. They arrived as colorful little spheres that fizzed in that bath. If he submerged his head, they sang soft folk tunes to him. The first couple of times he used them, the pain disappeared completely and he even beat his best time on his usual running path. 

 

Like all good things, they became less and less effective the more he used them. Draco should’ve known better by the way his legs shook as he removed himself from the bath. His grasp along the slick counter was not as secure as he hoped it was, and he hit the ground before he even knew he was falling. His knees hit every edge they possibly could on the way down, skin a bright red as bruises blossomed across his shins and up his side.

 

“Draco? Was that you?” Pansy called.

 

He blinked away the multicolored spots dancing in his vision, hand coming up to press into the strangely warm and aching spot on his temple. His hand came away covered in bright crimson blood, and a wave of sudden nausea rolled through him.“I fell,” he croaked, shaking hand reaching for the towel as his breath quickened into sharp little gasps. “I’m bleeding.” 

 

She didn’t need to be told any more than that, bursting into the locked bathroom with a particularly ruthless Alohamora , wand at the ready. “Salazar fucking Slytherin, what happened?”

 

“My bloody knees won’t bloody work, apparently.” He gritted his teeth as frustrated tears pricked at the corner of his eyes. “They aren’t supposed to— not yet.”

 

Pansy hummed, casting a series of healing charms at the gash on his head. “Up we go, Draco. Do you have any Anti-Concussion Elixirs or shall I run out and get a few?”

 

He took her hands, determined to make his body move the right way. Every step was excruciating, from his head to his toes. Even his arms and shoulder blades ached as he slipped back into his discarded pajama shirt. He settled back into his bed with an exhausted sigh as Pansy went down the street to fetch a couple of elixirs from Luna’s apothecary. She seemed entirely too excited to reintroduce herself as Draco’s best friend, but there wasn’t anything he could do to dissuade her.

 

There wasn’t much he could do when his body refused to work correctly, so he flipped aimlessly through his notebook. Its pages were almost full now, lists upon lists of his calculations and ledger receipts. Draco marked through the mermaid tear potion suggestion in his list. Another failure. A small wave of panic hit him as he realized just how many of his cleansing rituals required intense walking or hiking. If he didn’t regain control over his muscles, how could he complete the four great penance pilgrimages he still had to do? 

 

No, he would rest for as long as it took so he could play his role during the wedding perfectly. It would put so much good onto his ledger in the family region that he would buy himself just a little more time. At least, he really, really hoped it would. 

 

“Fibsey!” he called, waiting for the house elf’s telltale pop of Apparition. Another last resort in the making, and something he had really hoped to never do again. 

 

“Master Draco is calling Fibsey?” Fibsey popped into existence by his bedside, and gave a small curtsy in his direction. 

 

He huffed, exhaling a bit of air that ruffled the wet hair at his forehead. “I need this to be done both quickly and quietly. Can you retrieve a small, unassuming cane from the Manor’s collection? Nothing like father used to use. I want it to be hardly noticeable.” 

 

Fibsey nodded her head quickly. “Oh, yes! Fibsey will be retrieving it for you right away, sir!”

 

“And Fibsey? Do not tell anyone. Not mother, not Pansy, no one. If they ask why you’re helping me, you are to ignore the question completely.”

 

The cane would be his absolute last resort, but Draco was running out of options.

 

•••

 

Pansy and Blaise left two weeks after they arrived. Blaise patted him on the back and Pansy kissed both his cheeks. “We’ll be back before you know it, love. The wedding is only a month away,” she insisted as she hugged him tightly. 

 

“I won’t fall apart without you, Pans. I promise,” he assured her with an affectionate eye roll.

 

“Four weeks. Floo call us every day,” she demanded.

 

Blaise took a look at the time on his wristwatch. “One minute, Pans.” 

 

“Every day.” Draco chuckled, waving her away. “You already weaseled your way into an invite to the wedding. Go enjoy your fashion show. Bring me back some Hermès if you really feel so bad about leaving me alone while I’m so sick and frail.”

 

 He grinned, and she hit him lightly with her free arm. “Oh, please. You can buy your own Hermès.” 

 

“30 seconds!” Blaise warned again, and Pansy finally let go as she frantically reached for the small spoon.

 

Draco kept the confident grin on his face until they vanished out of existence. He groaned, snapping his fingers for the cane to appear at his side, and he leaned his weight off his left leg as much as possible. Luna had diagnosed him with the worst case of shin splints she’d seen, as well as a stress fracture in his left foot. The concussion was healed with the double dose of elixir, but Luna was not licensed to brew or sell anything strong enough to mend the fracture or splints. Both Pansy and Luna had insisted on him going to be an actual healer or mediwizard, and bonded over their exasperation when he flat out refused. They would find his dark magic poisoning and then tell him how much time he had left. He just couldn’t have an actual timer to reference. 

 

Draco hobbled back into the living room, collapsing onto his couch. Potter would be there soon for their study session, but he needed a small break before putting on his false air of confidence again. It would also be the first time he saw him since the pub night fiasco. He still felt embarrassed by the way he had basically propositioned Potter to spend the night, crooning under the casual feather light touches Potter bestowed upon people when he was drunk. The way his magic cocooned around the two like they were the only people who mattered, standing in the dim light of his living room. 

 

Get control of yourself ,” he reminded himself sternly. Potter was not the person to develop a schoolyard crush on, of all people. Truthfully, he always had just the tiniest bit of an infatuation with getting Potter’s attention. The idea of gaining his affection in that way was heady and intoxicating. Potter’s devotion was something he could only dream of being worthy enough to deserve, so he could not entertain those passing thoughts for longer than a moment. 

 

Potter came stumbling through his fireplace exactly ten minutes late, still in his slightly smouldering Auror robes. He was also already getting into his excuse before fully exiting the fireplace. “Okay, I know what you’re going to say. ‘Ten whole minutes! Have you no shame? You’re lucky I grace you with my presence at all, Potter!’ Spare me the commentary. We finally made a big break on the case that’s been stumping me for ages, and then we were on the move, and— why are you laughing?” He stopped suddenly, crossing his arms defensively as Draco chuckled to himself. 

 

Draco waved his hand flippantly. “Oh no, don’t mind me. Keep arguing my point for me, it’s quite entertaining and saves me the work.” He tried to stifle the laughter, hiding the grin behind his hand. 

 

“You’re a right arsehole, Draco.” he shook his head with a deep breath as he attempted to pat out the smoke still lazily drifting up from his robes. “And here I was worried for nothing.” 

 

Draco’s grin faltered when he called him by his first name. “Beggars can't be choosers, Potter.” 

 

He shucked off the outer Auror robes, flinging them over his forearm. “Have you already done your cleansing charm? I’d love to banish these ruined robes that seem set on remaining slightly on fire and smelling of truly noxious potion gases.” He paused, turning his loose, easy grin towards Draco. “And I’m fairly certain I told you to call me Harry.”

 

Ah, so he did remember then. Draco wished to crawl into a hole and remain there until he passed away. It was the only solution, surely. “You were drunk. Drunk Potter does not make sensible decisions.” He argued, getting up to flick his vial of Tibetan holy water along the room. 

 

“Fine, have it your way then. I’m completely sober now, so I will say it again. I’m Harry.” He pointed at himself, then at Draco. “You’re Draco. Friends call each other by their given names, something I know you’re capable of considering I’m the only one you call by my last name nowadays.”

 

Draco turned and flicked holy water straight in his face. He shot Draco a two finger salute in response. It felt far too fond so Draco ignored the gesture, falling back into the couch and crossing his left leg over his right to prop it up slightly.

 

“Have you been practicing your pacing? I swear to Merlin himself if you still haven’t gotten the basic idea down and we’re less than four weeks out, I don’t think we’ll ever get it.” 

 

Potter laughed, “We could do this spell with our eyes closed, Draco. Upside down with our hands behind our backs, too. Probably nonverbally at this point, considering how much you make us drill the motions.” To prove his point, he waved his wand silently, and the correct shade of lavender sparks trailed off his wand. 

 

“Bloody show off. Maybe you could, but I certainly don’t have that level of a magical reservoir, much as it pains me to admit so,” Draco muttered, crossing his arms and looking away as he willed his face to not flush. Potter was such a blatant fucking show off. The only spell he had ever managed nonverbally was a weak Lumos. 

 

Potter chuckled, then vanished his Auror robes. He was right; they did absolutely reek. The smell dissipated almost instantaneously. “Can’t we skive off just this once? You’re an absolutely ruthless teacher.” He flopped down onto the couch beside Draco. “I’m tired of working. Let’s do something fun.”

 

“You could’ve cancelled.” Draco rolled his eyes petulantly, but he was already losing the battle against Potter’s pleas. “I’m not sure you’ve realized this yet, Potter, but I don’t have fun. I need to continue to work on this.” I need to find a way to prove myself before the wedding, he added in his head.

 

Potter held out a long please, followed by calling him Draco. 

 

He never stood a chance. “Fine! Merlin, you’re insufferable. Fine. What, pray tell, do you want to do then?”

 

Potter’s eyes lit up with a mischievous twinkle: “I’ve got just the thing. Two words: theme park.” he proclaimed with a wide grin.

 

•••

 

“Let me get this straight. You”—he pointed at Potter—“want me to get on that Muggle death trap with you. The death trap that is currently eliciting screams of bloody murder? From everyone on the ride?”

 

Harry Potter, whose grin had not faltered once since they left Draco’s flat, put his hands on his hips, admired the death trap like no sane person would have, surely, and nodded. “Doesn’t it look fun? They just opened it last year.”

 

Draco grimaced, watching the metal contraption fling its passengers around at high speeds. Screams of terror filled the air, and nearby a small child was sobbing as her parents tried to cheer her up with words like “that wasn’t so bad, was it?” Draco agreed with the child, personally. 

 

“They call it a roller coaster!” Potter sighed dreamily. “I’ve always wanted to ride one. I’d always have to stay home when the Dursleys went, and I told myself that, if I survived the war, then I’d ride every roller coaster I could. It’s the closest Muggles get to flying like we do, but there’s something really brillant about the way they’ve recreated it. Been too busy at work since this bad boy opened, so thanks for coming with me, Draco.” 

 

Potter watched the ride with a particularly longing look for a moment. “Well? Will you ride it with me?”

 

Something about Harry made him want to be brave, to take risks. Prove that he could be all of those qualities, too. He could be brave, kind, and good. Harry made him want to be all the things he wasn’t. Someone who might, one day, deserve to stand by Harry’s side, even if it was in the background. 

 

Potter! He realized in horror. Potter corrected him every time he called him by his surname, and after the Ginny Weasley fiasco he had accidentally conditioned himself to adapt. Draco Malfoy could come to terms with a truly unfortunate lifelong crush on Harry fucking Potter, but he would not call him Harry. He had some dignity left, after all.

 

Potter looked at him expectantly. Draco relented, with an anxious swallow. “You’re telling me that this thing won’t kill me in a dozen horrific ways? You’re sure? You swear it?”

 

“I promise. Come on, before you change your mind!” Potter laughed, dragging him into the queue before he could argue. 

 

They reached the front of the queue much faster than Draco would’ve liked. He hadn’t had enough time to prepare himself. Potter was so excited he couldn’t back out once he agreed, and he felt a bit sick to his stomach. His feet moved on their own accord; before he knew it, the Muggle ride operator had strapped him in. 

 

“Potter, I’m not sure about this…” he tried, waving feebly for the operator to return and release him. 

 

“It’s Harry, and don’t worry. Just breathe. The anticipation is the best part,” Potter insisted, kicking his feet about like an excited child. 

 

Draco disagreed. “I’m serious, Harry, I don’t think I can do this.” 

 

He tried to quell the panic rising in his voice as the ride began to move, curving slowly out of the station. “Oh, we’re going to die. We’re most definitely going to die. I’m going to die in a Muggle theme park, smashed into an unidentifiable blob, oozing…” Draco gripped the arm handles at his chest tightly as the ride began a sharp incline. The awful machine just clicked loudly, bringing them closer and closer to their inevitable deaths. 

 

Potter had the nerve to chuckle at his woes, actually chuckle, and Draco pinched his eyes shut as he made a low whine of misery. Potter relented, “Okay, okay, I’ll have some mercy. Here, take my hand. I’ll make sure you don’t fly off the ride.” He extended a tan hand to him. 

 

“People fly off the ride?” Draco exclaimed in terror, quickly reaching out to crush Potter’s hand as they crested the incline, looking down over the entire theme park. They stayed suspended in the air for a moment, before launching down a smooth, twisting drop. He screamed, clutching onto Harry’s hand like a lifeline. Please, please, Draco bargained with whatever higher power. If they got off the ride alive, he wouldn’t even care if Potter told everyone about him screaming like a little girl for years to come. 

 

Harry whooped and hollered, laughing up a storm the whole time. Draco did his best to brace for the inevitable, deadly impact. When it didn’t come, he cautiously opened his eyes. The initial terror faded away, replaced with the familiar feeling of flying. He hadn’t flown in ages, not since his hands began to shake and it became too dangerous. A soft ‘oh’ bubbled up out of him, and he could’ve sworn Harry squeezed his hand for a brief moment. 

 

The ride came to a quick end, thought it felt like forever at first, much to Draco’s surprise and disappointment. “That’s it?” He asked Potter after the ride finally stilled and the chest harnesses lifted away from them. 

 

Potter grinned, hair even more of a windswept mess after the ride. He pushed his fringe out of his face, and Draco immediately missed the warm weight of their hands intertwined. “Told you you’d like it. And we live to see another day.” 

 

“An important goal, I suppose,” Draco huffed as they exited the pathway away from the roller coaster loading zone. “Could we go again before we leave?” 

 

Potter’s eyes brightened with that intense, heated look again. “As many times as we can stand, if you're up for it. Of course, there’s other coasters we can ride too. This one was pretty tame, all things considered, but it really did fit my flying comparison, didn’t it?” 

 

That ride was not what Draco considered tame, but then again, he had nothing to compare it to like Potter did. A roll of nervous anticipation thrummed through his gut. 

 

“You called me Harry, you know. One of these days I’ll wear you down. Think you’re up for something a bit scarier?” Potter laughed as he dodged Draco pushing him away with a scoff. 

 

“You must be imagining things, Potter. I have no idea what you’re on about. Let’s go ride that one.” He pointed in the direction of a separate contraption with a similarly sized queue.

 

“If you're so confident, let’s go, then,” Potter replied vaguely, a secretive smile on his face.

 

Draco didn’t understand what that vague statement was supposed to mean, so he remained smugly confident right up until the cart rolled up the incline, reached the top and flattened out. “Oh please, this is nothing.”

 

Potter grinned towards him. “Just you wait.”

 

Then they were tilting forward. Quite impossibly, the track dropped below them and down into the ground below them. They floated at the precipice for what could've been seconds or minutes, and then they were freefalling. 

 

Draco did not stop screaming once.

 

•••

 

Draco Malfoy was not writing a will. He was simply reassessing his current finances. A will implied that he was giving up and letting the illness win, which he was resolutely not doing. His pen, a truly hideous glittery and fuzzy pink gel pen from Luna, of course, scratched against the paper in the leather-bound notebook as he paced through his flat. He just needed to make a list, that was all. Keep accurate statements, just in case.

 

The heir to the Malfoy fortune would fall to Teddy Lupin, an irony that was not missed on Draco, and he had no doubt his mother and Aunt Andromeda would figure something to do with the properties and active investments before the child grew up. All of the accounts promised to RESET would go into Hermione. His plants to Neville and his books and trinkets to Luna. They could use it all to decorate a nursery if they ever decided to bring the most strange and brilliant child into the world. Spontaneously, he scribbled his cookbooks to Lumia, sure that she would get a chuckle out of that. His bottle of refillable Tibetan holy water he left to Harry, as he was now calling him in his head after a full day of near death experiences with the bloke. Harry was the one who seemed to understand without question his anxieties about casting spells in his own home. He debated adding the couch for a right laugh.

 

Something nagged at him quite persistently as he went through the rest of his things. He knew, on a conceptual level, that he was spiraling fully into rumination. Listing steps and planning solutions usually kept the compulsion down. If it didn’t, he would go to Luna or Neville. This close to the wedding though, he couldn’t possibly go to either of them like he usually did. 

 

What to do with his flat? The Malfoy fortune did not need another empty property collecting dust. Teddy would not move out for years, and none of his distant friends would need his little flat. 

 

One of them, however, did need a commercial property. Hermione Granger’s humble grassroots movement RESET had long outgrown the Granger-Weasley home.

 

His mind continued to drift to the lower floor and RESET, until he was sure he would not get it out of his head until it was out of his hands for good. He was not sure if she would accept it under normal circumstances, nor did he particularly wish to reveal yet another of his abhorrent weaknesses to her, but she had become a person full of advice he could trust. Hermione Granger was practically a paragon of ethics and goodness, an exact opposite to him in every way, and he penned her a letter for lunch without a second thought.

 

She came by Floo, hair frazzled and falling out of her bun. “I am so glad you invited me, Draco. I cannot look at these papers anymore.” She dropped her armful of spreadsheets and file folders out onto his table, a feat that horrified him only slightly.

 

“I was actually wanting to discuss RESET with you, but it can wait until after lunch,” he insisted, nudging a homemade espresso towards her as he began divvying up the pasta he prepared. 

 

She accepted both with grace, as is her wont. Mouth full of spaghetti, she said, “You’re the best. It’s like you’ve got a sixth sense to realize when I’m at my wit’s end. What would I do without you?” 

 

Draco focused intently on fishing out a cherry tomato out of the pan.  “Don’t be ridiculous, Hermione. I just happen to be the one to tell you while everyone else cowers in fear. You would do the same if it was me.”

 

“You tell me how it is, which is increasingly important when half the board tells me that whatever I pick will be good enough, because it’s me making the decision. But that isn’t how it works at all.” She took a sip of the espresso and the small crease between her eyebrows melted away along with the tension in her shoulders. 

 

He rolled his eyes. “No business talk at my table, Hermione. Eat.”

 

It was not until she was finished that he proceeded with business. “You really ought to pursue a designated space for RESET. It’s driving you up a wall.” 

 

She groaned. It was a conversation they’d had multiple times before. “I can’t justify spending donation funds to rent a space, and besides,  we don’t have employees yet.” 

 

“What if you didn’t have to rent? You need a headquarters for bookkeeping at the minimum, if only so you and Ron can build an actual home rather than a glorified office.” Draco beckoned her up and led her to the lower floor. The door to the stairs locked on both sides, and besides, he hardly used it. Malfoys always had more money and property than they had use for, his father always said, and it was a sign of wealth and privilege. Draco abhorred the lower floor, for that same reason.

 

He told Hermione, “I own both floors, and the bottom floor is intended for commercial usage anyways. I want to give it to RESET. Truthfully, it’s been driving me mad, and I need it out of my hands. It’s the same square meters as Luna’s apothecary, for reference.” 

 

 “Draco, this is”—she ran her hands alongside the wall—“I can’t accept this.” 

 

“You can, and you will. I already sent the deed to RESET’s Gringotts solicitor.”

 

Hermione did not speak for a while, only the sounds of her heels clicking echoed softly against the floor. She walked slowly across the room, wheels turning in her head as she processed his offer. Tentatively, she turned to ask a question about the property, and he knew he had piqued her interest. Then, when she began to take various measurements and investigate everything about the property, he felt confident he would win her over. He answered questions about the property as she asked them. Finally, she closed her notebook with a snap. “Fine, I’ll take it on one condition. Accept my offer of full employment that I’ve been begging you to take, and be my co-chairman. RESET has grown entirely too large to be run by just me and a board of volunteers. I need a COO, or a CFO, or whatever you want the specific title to be.” 

 

Draco blinked slowly at her. “You want me to… what?” 

 

“Be my right hand man, Draco. Stop pretending you don’t deserve it. I need the help, and I can’t imagine anyone more perfect for the job. I’ve been wanting to make RESET my full time job, and I’ll need your help. The pay won’t be anything glamorous, but I have a feeling your concerns lie elsewhere.”

 

“I already told you. I’m not interested in getting paid for my good deeds. That negates the entire purpose.”

 

Hermione rolled her eyes, the amusement twinkling with ambition that would’ve served her well in Slytherin. “I wouldn’t be paying you to be good, Draco. You do that just fine on your own. I would be paying you to help me out running the day-to-day projects for RESET. Go to meetings when I’m too busy, keep up with the quarterly statements, harass the solicitor, be my eyes and ears in two places at a time. Imagine what we could achieve! I’ve already discussed the beginnings of a lobbying effort to include an orientation before Hogwarts for both Purebloods and Muggleborns before the Wizengamot, which was your idea! I need you to help me with the Pureblood side of things, and we both know it. Please?”

 

He stared at her, mouth set in a hard line. “You can’t coerce people into being your staff, Miss Granger.” 

 

“Not coercion, Mr Malfoy, just a business transaction.” She grinned, holding out her hand for him to shake.

 

He sighed, long and painfully, in a way he hoped emulated Professor Snape. “I won’t promise forever,” he warned her, clasping his hand in hers. 

 

“We’ll figure it out when it comes to it,” she assured him flippantly, “Now, help me figure out a layout for the office.”

•••

 

Draco did not expect the rehearsal dinner to come to arms. If the bride had been Pansy, at least he would’ve known to expect the crushing stress keeping his eyelid twitching during the rehearsal dinner.  Luna was as patient and graceful as usual, Neville an outstanding chap, and he and Potter practiced a nearly flawless version of their spell.  It should’ve been quick and painless.

 

What he did not anticipate was the stark difference between Xenophilius Lovegood and Augusta Longbottom, and the way they both insisted the wedding party repeat the processions from start to finish at least a dozen bloody times.

 

“Sorry about them, mate. They’ve lost the plot entirely,” Neville murmured to him, eyes not leaving the two arguing parents. Draco suppressed the urge to groan. 

 

“I’m going to lose my fucking mind, Nev,” Draco hissed under his breath. He wasn’t even sure what they were even arguing about anymore, or if they were even arguing or just talking over one another. Neville nodded his head.

 

“Are you two also losing your minds? Can I join you?” Harry stepped up behind them, joining their little huddle of horrified spectatorship. 

 

 Draco shook his head slightly. “Even you , Potter, can’t make this worse.”

 

“Daddy, I know how much the Snorkack horn means to you, but we have to compromise. Mrs Longbottom already agreed to the flutterby choreography during the reception,” Luna interjected, both hands on Xenophilius’ arm. Neville actually groaned then, following her lead to keep the peace between the high strung parents as a united front.

 

Harry snorted under his breath. “George has a bet going for who gets the worst in-law and, for once, it might end in a tie.”

 

Draco’s eye twitched again.  The longer he stood in one place, the more his foot began to ache and joints stiff. He should be resting them so he didn’t need the cane at the wedding the next day. “I deserve to be drunk right now. Circe’s tits, this is unbearable.”

 

“But Lunaloo”—Xenophilius turned towards his daughter, seemingly heartbroken—“You must blow the Snorkack horn during your vows! Why, when I married your mother, we both did it and it blessed our union!”

 

Luna nodded, holding her father’s hands in hers. “I know, Daddy, and I love hearing about when you and Mummy got married. I won’t be forgetting Mummy by dropping one little tradition. We decided months ago on a loving cup ceremony, and it's so similar!”

 

“Ah, finally. The girl speaks sense!” Augusta Longbottom agreed. “Why, you can even choose the chalice from our collection, but I won’t allow my grandson to blow into some stupid Erumpent horn and blow himself up!”

 

Neville tugged on Augusta’s fur coat. “Grandma, we’ve talked about this.”

 

Xenophilius Lovegood still seemed distraught, but hung his head in defeat. “The spring it is, I suppose… but if Pandora was here, she’d agree with me, Lunaloo…”

 

“I know, daddy.” She patted his back comfortingly. “Let’s take a break for now.”

 

Draco sunk into a nearby chair that was woven from bamboo. It was old and rickety, but it served its purpose. He sighed deeply, rolling out the tension in his shoulder blades. Speaking of the loving cup ceremony… Collecting the spring water from the hidden unity spring was yet another feat he was responsible for that night, and who knew how long that would take. He suppressed the groan, just in case the magical spring could tell he was annoyed with the task and decided he did not have the honorable intent to find it.

 

“You alright there?” Harry asked, as he came to sit on the chair’s arm. 

 

“Just aching. Headache. Nothing new.” Draco shrugged. Evasive—how he answered the question every time Harry asked. Harry was much more observant that Draco gave him credit for, and if Draco gave even the slightest impression that something was amiss, Harry would be the first to insist on a side-along to St Mungo’s. Draco would not spend his last days confined to a hospital bed…not that his last days were coming, necessarily. But still.

 

Harry leaned closer, peering at him suspiciously. He put a hand to his forehead. “You don’t feel warm. Not going to faint on me, are you, Draco?”

 

“If I do, it will only be my fantastic third year acting skills, I assure you.” Draco smirked up at Potter.

 

“Git.” Harry rolled his eyes, brushing a stray hair out of Draco’s eyes, nails scratching softly against his scalp as he did so. Dear Merlin, that felt nice.

 

Suddenly, Luna’s white hare Patronus came leaping out of the house and over to them. Draco’s eyes flew open, and Harry’s hand snapped back to his side. “Draco, Daddy gave me the coordinates for the unity spring. Would you mind heading there to bottle some for the ceremony tomorrow? Neville’s gone off to send everyone home for the night.”

 

Draco took a deep breath. So much for resting his feet. “Of course, Luna. Go be with him. I’ll catch you before I leave, too.” The hare bounced back to the Lovegood house as he stood and cracked his neck. “Well, duty calls. Until tomorrow, Potter.”

 

Harry looked at him like he was barmy. “And leave you to go navigate the Lovegood acres by yourself? I think not. Besides, I had something I wanted to talk to you about anyways.” He bounced nervously at his side, not clarifying. Draco didn’t like that in the slightest.

 

Draco cast a Point Me spell with the coordinates Luna’s hare gave him, and the two set off in search of the mysterious Celtic unity spring the Lovegoods apparently had on their property. The walk was surprisingly level and easy on his definitely-still-fractured foot, so he didn’t feel worried that he might end up revealing the injury to Harry, even if he already suspected. Really though, his foot was feeling quite better already. Who needed a bloody Healer anyways?

 

Harry stayed unusually quiet. Draco had grown accustomed to the loose, confident way he draped himself around his friends, chatting up a storm about even the most inane, miniscule thing. He was relentless in conversation, subjecting Draco to every subject that popped into his mind as he attempted to win him over. He never slipped up again after the day at the theme park, and Harry never stopped trying. It was their usual tête-à-tête. It was strange to be silent around Harry—he found that he missed someone distracting him from the endless thoughts of if he was good enough yet, etc, etc.

 

“I think I’ve figured it out,” Draco announced, “You’re only coming with me so you can murder me without a trace. It’s the perfect plan really, you can simply say you went home with the rest of the Gryffindors. Why didn’t I think about that?” 

 

Harry chuckled softly and replied, “Nah, good guess though.” 

 

Draco’s eyebrows knit together in confusion. If even a joke did not break Harry out of his stupor, then he was well and truly troubled about something. “Potter, I must admit that your strange behavior has even me concerned. What in the world is breaking your brain so?” 

 

Harry came to a full stop and bounced on his heels.  He stuffed his hands stuffed into the torn jeans he favored so much, the ones with the small blue paint splotch at the right knee from painting Teddy’s ‘big kid’ bedroom months prior (with Draco) that he refused to get out with basic housekeeping charms (as Draco repeatedly insisted). Really, it was too much for Draco to handle when he asked Potter and Harry smiled wide and launched into a long, devoted spiel about his godson and the sentimentality of the blue splotch. Draco never made a comment about getting new jeans again. Harry then exhaled a deep breath a few times, like the words were getting stuck in his throat. He muttered, mostly to himself, “It’s stupid, I dunno why it’s so difficult to just say it aloud.

 

Draco paused, turning to look back at Potter. “I thought you Gryffindors were supposed to be filled to the brim with reckless abandon. Terrible time for you to be such a Slytherin.”

 

Harry chuckled, a harsh edge to the laugh. “Yeah, no kidding.”

 

“Seriously, Potter, you're freaking me out,” Draco said again.

 

“Harry,” he interjected, “This would be so much easier if you’d just call me Harry.” Draco’s eyebrows rose in bewilderment, but Harry pressed on. “I mean, seriously. You call everyone their first names– even Hermione, even Ron– and I’m still Potter to you. And maybe that means something, maybe that's supposed to be special or something in Draco Malfoy language, but I can’t figure you— it out.”

 

Draco opened his mouth.

 

“Let me finish,” Harry warned. The whole forest around them quieted slightly, as if muffling for whatever was to come. 

 

He closed his mouth, waving his hand for him to continue. In truth, he really had nothing to say.

 

“I can’t figure you out, Draco. I can't figure myself out when I’m around you. All I know is, fuck… I think I’m falling for you.”

 

Those three little words kept repeating in Draco’s head. Falling for you, falling for you, falling for you. His heartbeat thrummed to life in his ears. 

 

Harry continued, “God, you're just… I can't explain it. You're the first person I notice in a room, have been ever since I met you, and somehow it’s only grown stronger since you’ve come back into my life. And I know this is so, so incredibly reckless of me when I’m not entirely sure you think of me as even a friend, much less anything more, and… I’m rambling. I wanted to put this eloquently, damn it”—Harry ran his hands through his hair and then over his face—“Damn it.” 

 

Draco stood still, barely breathing. “You can’t mean that…” 

 

Harry’s hands fell from his face and he finally met Draco’s eyes. “Yeah, Draco. I do mean it.” 

 

Draco blinked a few times. “Ah… ” he said quite lamely, as he turned to continue the trek at a quicker pace. One that could not even be slightly misconstrued as running. Draco Malfoy didn’t run, he simply had a task to do. 

 

“That’s it? Ah? ” Harry pressed in indignation. 

 

“Yes, Potter, alright then. We have to find this spring, and then we can deal with this… this issue.” Draco gestured wildly between the two of them as he fought to keep his voice from wavering and breath from devolving into panic. Luna and Neville , his mind supplied frantically.

 

Harry exhaled sharply. “You know what? No. You don’t get to run away. You don’t get to treat my feelings like they’re an issue. Because if that’s all this is to you, just an inconvenience, then we might as well stop right now. I’m going crazy, Draco.” 

 

Draco clasped his hands together tightly to avoid the shaking and kept his eyes straight forward to avoid his gaze. “Potter, please…” 

 

“Because I can’t think of a single good reason why we shouldn’t try. I want to try, and I think you do, too. That’s why you won’t call me Harry. It’s the only conclusion I can come to.” 

 

“You’re wrong. You’re so fucking wrong about me it’s almost laughable.” Draco snarled at him, “You don’t know the first thing about me, and just because you happen to be an Auror—!”

 

“You don’t deflect when I’m wrong,” he interrupted quietly, “Would admitting to it aloud really be that horrible? Will the world come to a fiery end? What are you so bloody afraid of?”

 

Draco squeezed his hands into tight balls at his side, twisting around to shout directly at him. “You have no idea what I’m afraid of!”

 

“Then tell me!” Harry shouted right back.

 

“Fine! You want to know so fucking bad, fine! I'm dying! Does that make you feel better? I’m fucking dying, so excuse me if I’m a bit preoccupied with that rather than acting on my stupid crush on you!”—he tried to catch his breath, relishing awfully the shocked facial expression on Harry’s face—“So if you’re quite done, I have a spring to find.” Luna and Neville . He tried to remind himself like a mantra. Find the bloody spring and get the hell out of there.

 

“What do you mean you’re dying?” Potter asked quietly, before Draco could walk away. 

 

Draco rolled his eyes. “Means exactly what you think, Potter. Dark magic poisoning. Same thing that put my dear old dad in the ground about six years ago. I’ve slowed the process down, but my methods are running out. I strongly suspect I will succumb before I turn thirty. Hardly long-term material, don’t you agree?” 

 

“You think you’re dying.”

 

“Yes.” 

 

“Of dark magic poisoning?”

 

Draco was starting to get annoyed. “ Yes , Potter. Do keep repeating me.” 

 

Potter crossed his arms, looking at him levelly. “Show me the wound, then.”

 

Draco spluttered, “I’m not going to just show you my Mark, Potter!” 

 

Harry pushed forward, “It’s just the Dark Mark? No black veins running out from it? Not increasing in size or shape?” 

 

“What are you on about? No, of course not!” Draco crossed his arms protectively, lest Harry Potter reach out and take a look for himself. 

 

“So, wait, let me see if I have this right. You think you’re dying because you have the Dark Mark and Lucius Malfoy happened to die from dark magic exposure?” Harry said slowly, stepping closer to Draco with every few words. 

 

Draco took a step back, and then took another just in case. “Yes…” 

 

Harry snorted softly, continuing his advance. “Let me guess, that’s how you reconnected with Luna. So have you done all of these things you’ve done since the war because you thought you were dying?” 

 

“Yes, Potter, now do you get it? I never changed. I just wanted to save my own skin. Once a Death Eater, always a Death Eater, completely incapable of change.” Draco closed in upon himself, bitter self hatred clogging his throat. 

 

Harry made a hum in the back of his throat. It sounded like disgust. “So then… your friendship with Luna and Hermione was fake? Then why did you give Hermione your flat for the RESET headquarters? Agree to work for almost a year as Luna’s best man? Cry when you found out your friend had passed away? All of that was a farce?” 

 

“I love Luna!” Draco interjected indignantly.

 

Draco had stopped backing up when he yelled, and Harry came closer until they were standing inches apart. His hand came up to clasp gently on his left forearm. “ If you’re ill, that might have been the catalyst, but any change you did along the way was a hundred percent you. You think you’re not worthy of change or forgiveness, so therefore you’ll die like your father. You can stop, Draco. You’ve done it.” 

 

Draco was shaking softly, small full-body trembles as he chanced the glance up at Harry. He expected to find some sick joke, but instead he was met with nothing but warmth and devotion. Just  like Lama Animesh had all those months ago in Nepal. Harry’s other hand came up to tuck the braided strand behind Draco’s ear. 

 

“You can forgive yourself, too. You don’t have to believe me right away, and I’ll even come with you to prove it at St Mungo’s. You aren’t sick, Draco Malfoy. You aren’t dying,” Harry declared softly, eyes never leaving his gaze. 

 

“How can you be sure?” Draco whispered. 

 

Harry’s eyes flicked down to his lips, then back to his eyes. “Trust me, I know a thing or two about dark magic exposure. I’m a bit of an expert,” he murmured, tilting Draco’s chin up to meet their lips together. 

 

He was kissing Harry Potter. He, Draco Malfoy himself, was kissing Harry Potter. Something snapped in him, all his meticulous self restraint dissolved into smoke, and he kissed back frantically. Harry laughed softly. Draco threw his arms around his neck, scrabbling to get closer to him now that he had a taste. They stumbled. Suddenly the ground underneath the two of them shifted from where it had been, replaced with pebble-filled river silt. They slid a bit, and fell straight into the spring. 

 

The spring that was definitely not there minutes prior. 

 

“A mirage protects the spring…” Draco realized, after his head broke through the surface of the water. It was no ordinary spring; copious amounts of colorful and strange flowers and plants bloomed along the banks, and there was a small waterfall that poured into the calm pool. Sensing the presence of wizards, the waterfall provided unnaturally warm water and a foam that smelled distinctly of daffodil and honeysuckle. The spell protecting the spring was old magic, from a time before wizards used wands. A truth spell they accidentally fulfilled, all without realizing it was ever there. There was no need for him to focus on his love for the wedding couple, when the object of his own pining love and devotion was right there with him, however unintentionally. Better yet, it was a love that was returned to him as well.  Harry’s head burst from the surface, and he pushed his wet hair out of his eyes. He had come to a similar conclusion.

 

 “Oh, I’ll kill Luna. Were you in on this?” Draco swore softly.

 

Harry chuckled, swimming up to him to press him gently against the soft edge of a nearby rock. He smiled against his lips again as he pecked them softly, wrapping his arms around Draco’s waist. “Not at all, actually. Now kiss me, Draco.” 

 

Draco took Harry’s glasses off and put them on the rock. “Kiss me yourself, Harry.” he could not help taunting him as he shucked off his overcoat and dove into the warm water. He emerged  a few meters behind him with a smirk, “If you can catch me, of course!”

 

“Oh you sneaky little–!” Harry swore with a laugh, diving into the water. He cut through the water much quicker than Draco thanks to his broad shoulders. He yelped when Harry’s hand closed around his ankle and pulled him under the water. His eyes and mouth were still open when he hit the water, giving him an unintentional front row seat to admire Harry’s smug, victorious grin with his eyes squeezed shut. Harry laughed, causing a few bubbles of air to escape his mouth and trickle up towards the surface.

 

If Draco had any air left in his lungs, it would've come rushing out at the sight. His chest stuttered. They were two grown adult men, neither allowed to be children when they were young, finally playing like children. Draco broke the surface of the water, spluttering. “You dirty cheat!” Draco complained, as Harry pulled him into an embrace.

 

“Guilty as charged. It’s the leftover Slytherin; no one ever sees it coming.” Harry chuckled. It seemed as though he let go of any sort of self-imposed restraint since they had fallen into the spring, showering him in casual and affectionate touches. 

 

“I could still be dying. You’re aware of that, right?” Draco murmured, leaning into Harry’s embrace, tracing small designs in the foam on Harry’s collarbone.

 

Harry replied with a kiss to his temple. “Like I said, I’ll come with you to St Mungo’s and prove it to you.” 

 

“Just because I agree with this, doesn’t mean I won’t have my doubts. I am very difficult to get along with, Harry,” Draco added after a beat. 

 

Harry kissed him again. “Many of my favorite features of yours are your difficulties.” 

 

“And…” Draco was running out of warnings to justify why it was such a bad idea. “I won’t stop going on my retreats.” 

 

“Why would I want you to do that?” Harry laughed, holding him in place when Draco tried to push him away. “Sorry, sorry! Come back.” he laughed, pulling him splashing down into the water. 

 

Draco returned to the surface with a stormy look on his face and, most likely,  a mountain of bubbles on his head. Harry laughed even harder, so Draco dunked him under the water in retaliation. They wrestled around, foam flying everywhere. The tussle devolved into a soft, languid make out session. The waterfall trickled nearby, adding to the romantic and peaceful ambiance, as if the unity spring was made to protect only the two of them in its waters.  The approval of such old, powerful nature magic was one of promise, and it bolstered his courage to give their tentative relationship a try. And he really would, Draco thought to himself. He would give them a true, brave Gryffindor try.

 

“I’m serious, Draco. I’ll remind you as many times as you need,” Harry promised softly. Draco rolled his eyes, warmth tinting the tips of his ears as he pushed Harry back under the water, a bit too softly, with a slight smile. It was simple and easy, having Harry’s full attention turned solely on him. It was the attention he craved so badly back in school, and his inner child settled with satisfaction. By allowing himself to have this, to become something together, would he always feel so warm and full? 

 

Draco wanted to find out, more than anything. 

 

He pressed his forehead against Harry’s shoulder, closing his eyes and breathing in the mixture of sweet smelling foam and Harry. He took a deep breath, and found that for once, that inner storm inside him had completely quieted. Draco opened his eyes, lifted his head, and met his eyes. “Okay,” he said simply, “okay, we’re doing this, then.”

 

Harry practically beamed at him, pulling him back into a deep kiss that made Draco’s heart stutter again. The spring around them responded by sprouting more than a dozen colorful flowers along the banks. Multicolored, sweet smelling bubbles burst forth from the flowers along the banks, showering them lazily. Somewhere in the distance, a hauntingly beautiful sound floated through the air.

Draco pulled away with a gasp. “Harry, do you hear that?”

 

“Mooncalves, yeah.” Harry laughed in return, “The spring called a herd of Mooncalves to us.”

 

Draco laughed softly, in complete disbelief. “Mooncalves. Luna was right.” His mind flickered rapidly through all the ways that the unity spring was trying to tell them that they worked, that they fit together, all of the soft, tender, embracing meeting places of their sharp, clashing edges. His hand reached up to touch the Snow Lion locket. He sank into the water, smiling the whole time, floating onto his back to close his eyes and just listen to their song. With a soft splash, he heard Harry do the same. Seconds later, Draco reached to intertwine their fingers together while they floated there, in their special little oasis of peace. 

 

He was content to stay there forever, but eventually the Mooncalf song ended, and the bubbles floating around them slowed down. The water did not cool considerably, but did cool enough to remind them to return home.

 

“Do you think Luna would be upset if we returned without the spring water?” Harry asked as they dried themselves off. Harry flung his head around like an animal to dry his hair while asking, and Draco cast a drying charm at his head before he stood straight again. 

 

“Nonsense. I’ve marked the coordinates, and I’ll come back in the morning after the spring resets.” Draco waved his hand away, buttoning up his outer jacket. 

 

“Oh, Draco? Just so you know, I don’t just mess around.” Harry grinned.

 

Draco rolled his eyes, “You’re unbelievable. I did so hope you were after me for more than my devilishly handsome good looks and witty sense of humor.”

 

 “I’m after your whole heart, Draco Malfoy,” Harry declared, “Don’t you forget it.” 

 

•••

 

Despite the flaws and repetition of the rehearsal dinner, the morning of the wedding went off without a hitch. No one had a meltdown or wardrobe malfunction. All the caterers and event staff were being overseen by Hermione and thus, Draco didn’t have to worry. Luna looked absolutely radiant, walking down the aisle. Everyone pretended Neville didn’t cry seeing her in her dress. Ron kissed Hermione’s joined hand and she wiped a single tear from the corner of her eyes with her free hand. Draco highly suspected they would be the next couple he’d have to assist with wedding preparations in the not-so-distant future. 

 

Harry grinned at him when they took their places in front of the couple. The bonding spell shimmered purple sparks, more vivid than ever, causing everyone to murmur in amazement. It wasn’t until Draco was sure they hadn’t royally fucked it up that he sent a small smile in Harry’s direction, mouthing the word ‘thanks’. 

 

“I told you we could ditch the study hall a bit. Look at how well we did. We make a pretty good team, Draco,” Harry told him later at the reception, cutting in after Draco danced with Luna and then Pansy. 

 

Draco rolled his eyes, guiding a minimally-trollish Harry across the dance floor. His dancing skills left much to be desired, but they would work on that before the next wedding, he decided. “It’s only because we practiced that we did as well as we did.” 

 

“That and we got a magic spring’s blessing in the process,” Harry added with a conspiratorial wink. 

 

Draco’s eyes widened and he hissed, “People will hear you!” 

 

“So? I don’t mind them knowing. Everyone here already knows about how much I like you.” Harry tucked a piece of Draco’s hair behind his ear, ducking to press a swift kiss to his lips. 

 

Somewhere nearby, someone whistled. “Took you long enough!” Pansy shrieked. 

 

“See?” Harry grinned. Draco’s face turned bright red, and he hid his face on Harry’s shoulder. More people had turned to look after Pansy’s shout. “Alright, everyone! Nothing to see here. You’re embarrassing my boyfriend,” Harry joked, and there were a few laughs from people they knew. 

 

Draco looked up. “I never said I was your— oh, nevermind.”

 

Maybe this was what that future Draco had meant about finding people who understood. People who surrounded him with unconditional love and support, despite every little flaw and problem he had. The laughter made him smile, despite the embarrassment of everyone knowing his feelings towards Harry. With all of these people by his side, he felt safe to be brave and vulnerable despite the uncertainty of the future around him.

 

Maybe that was what healing was all about, in the end. 

Notes:

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