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October 2010
The corridors seemed larger at night. Emptier – which was to be expected, given that hundreds of feet traveled over the centuries-old stone slabs and carpets every day. Now, as the castle lay asleep, all but one student safely ensconced in their beds, corners appeared darker, alcoves deeper, statues more sinister.
Hogwarts was a spooky place. Eileen had known this, of course. Papa had said so, and even Harry had admitted that the Bloody Baron could be a little ‘unnerving.’ Papa was a bit of a scaredy cat sometimes, but Harry wasn’t. He caught giant spiders in a glass for her to look at. He chased a gang of Redcaps out of Papa’s elderberry bushes . He had fought against an evil Dark wizard, although he didn’t like to talk about it.
If Harry wasn’t scared, then Eileen wouldn’t be, either. And she had been planning this ever since the summer; ever since she’d found the Secret Cloak in her new, shiny Hogwarts trunk.
She was going to do this, and even the Bloody Baron wasn’t going to stop her.
She had studied a map of the castle in Papa’s new edition of Hogwarts: A History. To know her way around, she’d answered when he asked why. It wasn’t a lie; she did want to know her way around. And most importantly, she wanted to know her way into Headmistress McGonagall’s office.
Eileen knew, of course, that the Headmistress used a password to protect her office. She also knew that magical passwords had to be spoken aloud – unlike the passwords on Harry’s computer, which were Muggle passwords and had to be typed out. Typing passwords was smarter, Eileen thought. By speaking them out loud, anyone – say, a small first-year hidden behind a nearby statue – could hear them and memorize them as easily as that.
She needn’t have worried about the Bloody Baron, or any of the Hogwarts ghosts. No one showed up as she made her way to the large stone gargoyle that guarded the entrance. Its maned head rested on its front paws, snoring quietly.
Eileen prodded it carefully with her foot. “Neeps and tatties.”
The bulbous stone eyes popped open, the head jerking up. “Huh? Who’s there?”
“An invisible person,” Eileen stated, because it was only fair to let it know. “Neeps and tatties.”
The gargoyle blinked several times, and Eileen worried for a moment that it wouldn’t move. But it did, slowly shuffling aside to reveal the stairs. Stairs that moved, Eileen reminded herself. She stepped onto them gingerly, holding on to the handrail as the steps slowly, with a strange grating sound, carried her upward.
She wasn’t worried about finding McGonagall still at her desk. Before putting her plan into action, she’d made sure to study the Headmistress’ movements on the Secret Map. McGonagall never stayed in her office past 10 p.m. Eileen had the map with her now, and had checked it before entering the corridor. The office was empty.
Well, empty of anyone living. But Eileen wasn’t interested in anyone living. Tonight, she wanted to speak to a dead man.
She stepped into the office, which was lit only by the moon shining in through the tall windows. A huge desk sat at the other end, quills and parchments and strange instruments outlined in the dark. The walls were lined with bookcases and… portraits. Hundreds of them, squares, rectangles and the occasional round frame. Their inhabitants were mere silhouettes in the gloom, and none of them seemed to move. They usually slept, or so she’d read.
She looked around for a light switch, then remembered that Hogwarts did not have them. Even Nana in her grand old Manor had them, but Hogwarts, Papa had said, was strictly traditional. Torches and lanterns, that was it.
Strictly stupid, Eileen thought as she took out her wand. Who wanted to carry around a lantern like an idiot when they could just flip a switch. Besides, torches were a fire hazard.
“You don’t have to share everything that’s going through your mind,” Papa had told her, one evening on the pier. They’d been dangling their feet in the water, watching Harry as he puttered about on his houseboat.
“Why?” she had asked. “You said to be polite. Talk to people. Make friends.”
“Yes,” Papa had said, drawing out the words in that way he had when he’d rather be talking about something else. “But, you know. If you think somebody’s stupid, just avoid them. Don’t tell them, or… make fun of them. It’s rude, and people will think you’re a bully.”
“You make fun of Harry,” Eileen had pointed out, and Papa had laughed.
“Yes, that’s different. He needs making fun of.”
Well, Eileen thought, having torches instead of electric lamps was still stupid, even if she wasn’t going to say so to anyone. For now, her wand would have to do. She’d been able to cast Lumos since she was seven and had nicked Harry’s wand to practice. Harry never kept track of where he left it.
She slipped off the Secret Cloak, kept it balled up under her arm in case she had to hide quickly, and began to walk along the portraits. She didn’t bother looking at any of the older ones, gray-haired wizards with strange hats who blinked sleepily in the light of her wand. Some of them muttered or shook their heads, but she ignored them.
“Miss Malfoy?”
Eileen almost dropped her wand. He’d startled her, the tall man in the lilac robe. She looked at him, at his long, silver beard and the half-moon glasses. She knew who he was, of course.
“Dumbledore,” she said, then remembered what Papa had said about manners. “Professor Dumbledore.”
“I thought you would come,” he said, his eyes twinkling in a way that was both funny and annoying. “I must admit that I didn’t expect to see you so soon. But apparently, you’ve inherited two rather useful objects from your stepfather, which you seem to be putting to good use.”
“Harry’s not my stepfather,” she said. “He’s just Harry. He doesn’t need any outdated labels just to be socially acceptable.”
Harry often said such things, and even if Eileen didn’t always get them, she liked how they sounded. Like something that made you feel strong, especially when weird old men said funny things to you.
Dumbledore smiled. “Of course, of course, dear girl. I apologize. And as much as I am enjoying our little chat, I daresay it isn’t me you’ve come to see.”
“No,” Eileen said, then, remembering Papa’s raised eyebrow, “But it’s been nice talking to you, Professor.”
“Delighted, dear girl, delighted. The person you are looking for is in the portrait on the other side of the desk, by the way. Don’t be fooled; he’s not asleep, and has, in fact, been listening to our conversation rather avidly.”
Eileen nodded and turned away from Dumbledore, walking past the desk until she came to stand in front of the portrait in question.
The man’s nose was really big. She’d seen pictures of him before, but no life-sized ones, as this one was. His nose was big, his skin pale (he must’ve sunburned easily, just like she did), and his hair black, like hers.
He didn’t look nice, but that was okay. His eyes, dark like hers and glittering as if they were alive, not just drops of paint on canvas, seemed awake and alert, as if they took in everything around him and missed nothing.
At the moment, they were focused on her.
“I’m – I’m Eileen,” she said, like she’d practiced. The wand in her hand trembled, just a little, and she gripped it tighter. “Eileen Malfoy.”
“I know who you are,” he said, in a voice that would make any classroom full of students fall silent at once. “You shouldn’t be out of bed after curfew, should you?”
“No,” she agreed, because he was right; it was one of the school rules.
He glared at her. “Some of the beings that roam the school at night do not take kindly to stray students.”
“I’m not afraid,” Eileen said defiantly. “And I have the Secret Cloak to hide under.”
“Ah yes, the cloak.” He narrowed his dark eyes a little. “I presume you also have a spare bit of parchment in your possession? One that assists you in your unauthorized nightly ventures?”
He had a funny way of talking, Eileen thought. His voice seemed to turn words into little darts that pricked the skin, just enough to leave a sting.
“They were Harry’s before he gave them to me,” she informed him.
“I am aware.” He eyed her for a moment, then, “I hear you’ve been Sorted into Slytherin?”
She nodded. “Yeah. But Papa says I might be in Ravenclaw next year.”
“Ah yes, the new system of Resorting,” he said, his voice dipping down. “Can’t say I approve.”
“Harry doesn’t either,” she told him. “He says the Sorting promotes sectarian thinking and teaches the students that strength lies in homogeneous groups, when the opposite is actually true.”
His thin eyebrows lifted. “Potter said that?”
“Hundreds of times,” Eileen said, remembering the endless discussions she had listened to, lying on the deck of Harry’s houseboat and watching the fireflies dance over the lake. “It’s what his new book is about. Aunt Hermione says he’s right, but Papa and Uncle Ron say that centuries of tradition can’t simply be tossed out of the window.”
“Indeed,” the man muttered. He seemed surprised, although Eileen couldn’t tell why. “Indeed.”
He cleared his throat, suddenly looking a lot less intimidating. “So, Miss Malfoy…”
“Eileen,” she said. “You can call me Eileen. I don’t need…”
“Outdated labels to be socially acceptable,” he nodded, raising an eyebrow at her. “I heard you loud and clear. So, Eileen… may I assume that you are… well taken care of by my godson and Mr. Potter?”
“And Nana,” she said. “I stay with Nana at the Manor when Harry’s on a book tour and Papa has a late shift at St. Mungo’s. Or she comes to our cottage by Floo. She doesn’t like to stay in Harry’s houseboat, though. It makes her seasick.”
“A houseboat,” he muttered. “Of all the… well. It does sound like a… stable home life. Even if Potter is a persona non grata at the Ministry these days.”
“Harry hates the Wizengamot,” she told him. “And they hate him, because he broke Papa out of prison.”
The man, Severus Snape, sighed at that.
*
November 1998
The first time Draco saw Harry Potter after the war, he made sure to keep himself out of sight.
It wasn’t exactly difficult. Azkaban’s prison laundry was large, full of nooks and crannies and large copper boilers that filled the place with hot steam. Draco slipped behind one of them unnoticed, leaning against its warm brickwork as he watched Potter’s group being led into the room. There were five of them, new apprentice Aurors that would replace the group currently doing their “jail rotation,” as Draco had heard them call it.
Only one more week. Can’t wait to see the last of this place. Gonna get so drunk the first night I’m back…
Potter lagged somewhat behind the others, looking uncharacteristically put-together in his red uniform robes and knee-high boots. As Draco watched, he took off his glasses and cleaned them on his jacket. It didn’t seem to help, as the ever-present steam clouded them again as soon as he put them back on. Potter tapped them with a resigned flick of his wand, clearing them immediately.
He looked tired, Draco thought.
Potter had no business looking tired. He was the lauded hero, the savior of the wizarding nation. He had received several medals, some of which had been invented solely for him. Every time Draco managed to get hold of a copy of the Daily Prophet, a picture of Potter was plastered across the front page – receiving awards on a stage, drinking in the Leaky Cauldron and scowling at the camera, looking awkward on his first day at training.
Savior Joins the Auror Force, that last one had proclaimed.
Draco had seen it and yet, he hadn’t made the connection. All Auror trainees had to complete their jail rotation. He should have expected Potter to show up at some point.
He had not.
“…work programs are an important part of the reformed correctional system,” he heard the warden say as the group passed by. “Prisoners on security levels one through four are required to work a minimum of…”
Draco didn’t hear the rest of it as the warden moved further away. Potter still lagged behind, his eyes traveling aimlessly across the room. There was a second when Draco believed he’d been spotted, but then Potter moved on, quickening his step to catch up with the others.
He let out the breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding. A second later, he jumped when a wet, rolled-up sock bounced off the back of his head.
“Oi, Malfoy! What you doing over there? Sheets aren’t gonna take themselves to the mangle room!”
Sighing, Draco turned around and went back to the cart he was supposed to be filling with wet sheets. The weight of the soaked fabric sent a spike of pain along his spine. He resisted the urge to push his hands into the small of his back and stretch for a moment’s relief. It made his bump stick out, which amused his fellow inmates to no end.
This isn’t Lamaze class, Malfoy.
Look at him waddle.
Draco heaved the last of the sheets into the cart, and began to push it towards the mangle room. The mangles, like the boilers, were charmed to operate themselves, but the process of taking the laundry in and out, of feeding it into the wringers and stacking it back into the distribution carts had to be done by hand.
It was what he did, day in, day out, starting at eight and finishing at six, with half an hour’s lunch break. Every third day, they got two hours in the exercise yard, where Draco huddled against the stone walls, shielding himself from the cold and the ever-present drizzle. Every other Sunday was off. Those, Draco spent comatose on his narrow bunk, barely managing to drag himself to the door of his cell when it was time to go to the mess hall.
That was Azkaban, and it was a lot better than in pre-reform times. Or so the long-term inmates said. Having no basis for comparison (Lucius had never spoken about his time in prison), Draco could only take their word for it.
He fed the sheets into the machine, and was turning the empty cart around when Macnair stepped into his path.
Draco tried to slip past him, but his movements had become rather ungainly, slowing him down. Macnair grabbed the cart and easily swung it around so that it blocked his way, cornering him between a wall and one of the mangles.
“What, not going to say hello to Uncle Walden?”
Macnair pushed the cart forward, and Draco only just caught it before it slammed into his stomach.
Macnair laughed. “Careful now. Don’t want to fall and hurt yourself in your delicate condition.”
Draco clutched the side of the cart. “Piss off, Macnair.”
“So rude,” Macnair said, leaning against the other side of the cart so that Draco was crowded against the mangle. “So bloody rude, when all I want is a little favor for daddy’s old friend.”
Draco felt the metal frame of the cart digging into his stomach, a sick feeling in his throat. Macnair towered over him, and he knew it was going to happen again, that he was going to give in again, because Macnair would not hesitate to slam the cart into him with all the brutal strength he could muster.
Draco knew this. He’d spent a year living under the same roof as the man, and had seen him do far worse. He’d seen him join Greyback at times, and do things that frequently crept up in Draco’s nightmares.
The Ministry had believed Macnair when he’d claimed to be Imperiused, the only reason why he was here and not on Level 5 with the worst of the worst. But Draco had been there, and Walden Macnair had never needed incentive to rape, torture and kill.
The wet floor soaked his uniform trousers as he knelt on it. Macnair began to fumble open his fly, and he looked away, trying to find that place in his head where he wasn’t really there, just an impassive bystander.
He’d done this before, degrading and disgusting as it was. He’d done this, and had survived, and Macnair would leave him alone after. For a while, anyway.
“Hold it right there.”
Macnair jumped at the sharp command, one hand still gripping Draco’s hair as he turned around. “What the…”
His sentence ended in a pained yelp. A well-aimed Stinging Hex had hit his hand, forcing him to let go. Draco scrambled backwards as fast as he could. Even with a guard present, he wouldn’t put it past Macnair to aim a kick at him.
Only it wasn’t a guard, Draco realized once he had put a safe distance between himself and Macnair. It was Potter, eyes blazing with anger, his magic literally sizzling around him as he strode towards them. His wand was pointed straight at Macnair’s head.
And while Draco had seen Macnair cower when Voldemort was in one of his rages, he’d never seen outright fear on the brutal face. He did now.
Potter dug the tip of his wand into Macnair’s throat. “Give me a reason why I shouldn’t just blast your head off.”
Above them, one of the dim light bulbs shattered. Macnair winced at the sound.
“It’s… he likes it, he – “
The man never finished his sentence. Potter’s wand slashed through the air, and ropes of light wrapped themselves around Macnair, immobilizing him on the spot. His mouth opened and closed, but no sound came out, cut off by a Silencing Charm.
Potter stared at him, as if contemplating the merits of a sound kick into the man’s nether region.
Do it, Draco silently cheered him on, do it, Potter, give it your best and make him taste his own nuts for a change…
But Potter did not. He put his wand away – not into his sleeve, but into a wand holster half-hidden under the lapel of his cloak – and turned towards Draco.
“Are you okay? You’re bleeding. Your – your cheek…”
“What?” Draco reached up and touched his face. His hand came away bloody. He hadn’t felt it, but realized it must have been one of the glass shards from the light bulb. Dozens of them were scattered around him, glinting on the wet floor.
“Sorry,” Potter said. “I – I can heal it, let me just… can you get up?”
To his dismay, Draco found that he couldn’t. At this stage, getting up from any flat surface involved a lot of awkward lumbering about and pushing himself up with his hands – not a good idea amidst a puddle of glass shards.
But he’d rather cut his palms to bloody shreds than admit this humiliating fact to Harry Potter.
“Of course I can,” he snapped, looking around for something to grab onto and pull himself up. “I’m not an invalid, Potter!”
He wanted Potter to snap back angrily, to look at him with anything but pity. Draco could not abide pity, and certainly not from Potter.
But Potter only held out a hand. “You’re not, no.”
If there had been the slightest trace of mocking in his tone, Draco would have remained sitting in his pile of shards rather than take Potter’s hand. But there was not. Potter, bless him, merely looked doggedly determined, the way he had when he’d spotted the snitch and would stop at nothing in order to catch it.
Sighing, Draco took the offered hand and allowed Potter to pull him to his feet. A sharp twinge between his shoulder blades made him wince. His back was a landscape of aches and pains these days, and having to sleep awkwardly on his side didn’t help. Not to mention the lugging around of wet laundry most hours of the day.
Potter stared at his bump, which was rude, but perhaps understandable. Draco knew he looked absurd.
“How far along are you, Malfoy?”
“Thirty-six weeks.”
Potter’s eyes looked very wide, very green . “But… that’s only a month from your due date.”
“Good to know you can do basic math,” Draco said, mostly to distract himself from what Potter had said.
“Malfoy,” Potter said, sounding distressed rather than angry, as if Draco had not just insulted his intelligence.
Draco did not like it. The situation was beyond humiliating; Potter had seen him kneeling in front of Macnair, clearly not of his own will, which was when he’d decided to intervene and play the savior once again. Merlin knew why, but the man had a gift of popping up in Draco’s worst moments.
“I’m fine,” he snapped. “Now if you don’t mind, Potter, I have to get back to work.”
“Your face,” Potter said. “Let me heal it.”
“No, thanks ever so.” It was childish and petty, but Draco didn’t care. He could do childish and petty with the best of them. “I’m sure you have Auror training or world-saving to get back to. Don’t let me keep you.”
With this, he grabbed his empty laundry cart and marched towards the door, past the warden who had just entered, looking dumbstruck at the scene. Potter could sort out the mess he had created by himself.
“Malfoy,” Potter called, but Draco ignored him. He had work to do.
*
The first time Harry saw Draco Malfoy after the war, he was thinking about turning around and walking out – out of Azkaban, away from the rest of their group and the warden, who seemed so proud of his new and improved prison.
He could see himself do it. He’d walk to the pier at the bottom of the cliffs and ask the steerswizard to return him to the mainland. Somewhere along the way, he’d take off the red cloak and robes and toss them overboard, let the North Sea have them.
He could picture it clearly in his mind. Intrusive thoughts, Hermione called such urges. They came to him frequently these days, unbidden and violent in their imagery. They egged him on to kick over the laurel trees on the stage where he was to receive yet another medal. They made him want to throw his butterbeer at the kindly old witch who cried and thanked him for his sacrifice. They urged him to scream at Mrs. Weasley, to tell her where she could stick her worried looks and motherly advice.
Harry had never acted on them, had never insulted, punched or cursed anyone. This, Hermione said, was normal. Intrusive thoughts were normal, as was not acting upon them.
Only this time, he might have.
He might have left Azkaban and the Aurors, and walked away, never looking back.
But there was Draco Malfoy, watching him from what he clearly thought was a secure hiding place between the giant laundry boilers, and Harry, who had been about to turn on his heel, paused in his tracks.
The Ministry had not allowed him to attend Malfoy’s trial. Some of the trials – Lucius Malfoy, Avery, Rookwood – were public affairs, very much intended to make an example of the accused. The Dementor’s Kiss had been abolished, but it was life without the possibility of parole for all of them, and ‘certainly not in any of the cushy new low-security levels,’ as the Prophet crowed in its report. Other trials had been kept away from the public eye; far less spectacular events in which the accused was not a well-known killer, but a collaborator or a person who’d been shanghaied into Voldemort’s service.
Like Draco had been. Harry knew this. He also knew that the Wizengamot probably considered five years in Azkaban a lenient sentence – they rarely went under two, even for people who’d acted at wand point.
But it wasn’t fair. Malfoy did not deserve to spend five years behind bars, and if Harry had spoken for him, the prosecutor might have reconsidered.
Which is exactly why they kept the majority of the trials private, Hermione had pointed out. They don’t want to discuss mitigating circumstances or personal testimonies. It’s bad press. They want retribution and punishment, not lengthy investigations.
Harry still sent an open letter to the Prophet, recounting how Draco and Narcissa had risked their lives to support the resistance. It was printed on page 34, heavily redacted and squeezed in between an ad for Sleekeasy’s and a piece on cauldron taxes. Exactly nothing came of it. Narcissa had been sent to a new women’s facility somewhere on the Channel Islands, and Malfoy to Azkaban, as soon as the trials were over.
And now he was here, hollow-faced, hiding and very obviously pregnant, and Harry knew he couldn’t just walk away.
Maybe it was another intrusive thought that made him follow Malfoy when he left the room with his cart, or perhaps instinct. Harry didn’t even know what he was going to do or say. He just went, and came very close to killing Walden Macnair for what he found.
“I’m not an invalid,” Malfoy hissed, glaring at Harry over his enormous bump. Harry’s eyes were drawn to it as if of their own accord. He’d seen pregnant wizards before, but never anyone he knew, nor anyone who was quite so… well. So very, very pregnant.
Malfoy seemed annoyed by his staring. He refused to let Harry heal the cut on his cheek and left, clearly struggling to walk at a normal pace, his too-large prison uniform stretched around his belly.
Harry couldn’t believe that this was happening. That Malfoy was here, doing hard physical labor heavily pregnant, that he was being assaulted in plain sight. All of it in this new and oh-so-modern, reformed institution of justice.
He said as much to Warden Byrne when he went back to join the group, dragging a struggling Macnair along behind him. He didn’t mention Malfoy’s name, not until Byrne had dismissed the rest of the apprentice Aurors and asked Harry to join him in his office.
“Macnair’s going to spend some time in solitary,” Byrne said, fiddling with one of the quills on his desk. “If it was up to me, he wouldn’t be in gen pop or any of the work programs. I’d have to apply to the Wizengamot to have his security level upped, however. Lots of red tape involved, you know how it is.”
“He was about to rape Malfoy,” Harry said quietly.
“‘Rape’ may be a little strong of a word.” Byrne sighed. “Most of the men in here… Mr. Potter, I don’t have to tell you that they’re animals. No matter how close of an eye we keep on them, these things are going to happen. And young Malfoy… well, he would be a target even under normal circumstances.”
“So you’re saying it’s his fault? Sir,” Harry added, realizing that he had just snapped at his superior officer. Which was Not Done.
Byrne just sighed again. “No, of course not. We had fewer of these incidents before the reforms, but with the prisoners on work programs rather than in their cells, it does happen. We can’t watch everyone 24/7.”
“Why is Malfoy on the work program, anyway? He’s almost due.”
“His last physical gave him a clean bill of health,” Byrne shrugged. “Not to put too fine a point on it, Mr. Potter, but we’re not running a clinic or a retreat here. These men are criminals, and they’re here to be punished.”
“I thought they were here to become law-abiding, hard-working members of society,” Harry said, quoting the warden’s introductory speech before they’d started their tour.
This time, Byrne did not sigh, merely gave him an unimpressed look. “Don’t take this the wrong way, Mr. Potter, but you’re new to this place. I’ve been doing this job for 19 years now, and I’ve seen many of them returned here again and again. These reforms are all well and good, but someone like Macnair… do you really think he can be rehabilitated by having him put in a few shifts in the laundry room?”
So it’s all just for show, Harry wanted to say, but didn’t. He knew Byrne was giving him more leeway than he would any of the other apprentice Aurors.
“Sir… what happens after Malfoy’s had his baby?” he asked instead.
Byrne avoided his eyes, back to fiddling with his files and quills. “Malfoy will be admitted to the infirmary for the birth, of course, and returned to gen pop when he’s recovered.”
“And the baby?”
“I’ve owled St. Agnes’,” Byrnes said. “They’ll take the child, or find a foster place, I suppose. They are quite stretched as it is.”
The warden said this as if it was a matter of course, and perhaps it was. Perhaps there had been other inmates who had given birth during their time in prison, and Byrne was just following procedure. Harry still felt a helpless, irrational anger. He saw himself swipe Byrne’s carefully stacked files off the desk and onto the floor, and suppressed the thought before it could take hold.
“You’re just going to take his kid away?”
Byrne frowned. “What do you expect me to do, Mr. Potter? Malfoy can hardly raise a child in here. He says the other father is dead, and his parents are in prison themselves, of course. I’m not an ogre, you know. I’ve spoken to him about his situation, and he’s well aware of what’s going to happen. He understands it's the only way."
Before Harry could answer, the Floo behind Byrne flared to life, announcing an incoming call. The warden looked almost relieved.
“That’ll be the DMLE. If you’ll excuse me, Mr. Potter…”
Harry left. After a brief detour to get his trunk, he went to join Ron and the others who were settling into their rooms in staff accommodation, moaning over their duty rosters and figuring out how the percolator in the rec room worked. When Ron asked him about his visit to the warden’s office, he shrugged. None of what had been said was a secret, and still, it didn’t seem right to share it.
“Three months in this hellhole,” Ron groaned as he spelled their duty rosters onto the wall of their little room. “Kill me now, Harry.”
“I will if you steal my socks again,” Harry said.
Their jail rotation had begun.
*
The second time they met, Potter was on supervising duty in the mess hall.
Draco knew this was a job the guards liked to palm off on the apprentice Aurors. Meal times in Azkaban were loud, messy and often the setting of minor scrapes between the prisoners. Some tried to grab food from another inmate’s tray; others fought or exchanged contraband under the tables. And then there were the droolers; prisoners who’d been incarcerated long before the reforms, and had spent too much time in the company of Dementors. The droolers always made a mess, and it was up to the guards on duty to make sure no one took their food away.
From his corner table, Draco watched as Potter and the Weasel gave it their all. Neither of them used Stinging Hexes, which was a point in their favor. Potter even went to one of the droolers and spoke quietly to him, apparently trying to get him to eat. Draco could have told him that it was no use. The drooler’s face was blank, vacant; no more than a breathing corpse, really. Many of them had these fits, and when they got like that, they wouldn’t move even with a wand pointed at their head.
Draco didn’t find out whether Potter managed to coax a bite of slop into the drooler. A grubby hand appeared at the edge of his own tray, and he reacted instinctively, slapping it hard with his spoon.
“Bloody hell!” The hand withdrew quickly, without the piece of bread it had been trying to grab.
“Keep your filthy paws off my food, Cobbett,” Draco said without looking at the man.
Cobbett was harmless. There were others to be worried about; those who carried a sharpened piece of metal in their sleeve or a glass shard hidden in the sole of their shoe. If one of them took his food, Draco let it happen without protest. He’d seen enough inmates sent to the infirmary over less.
Cobbett grunted something indistinct and moved away, allowing Draco to return to his meal.
Today, it was supposed to be potato stew; served, as always, with a piece of dry bread and a helping of beans. Not that it mattered. Azkaban food tasted the same in every incarnation, all of it cooked until it resembled gray or brown sludge. In his first week, Draco had been unable to make himself eat properly, too nauseated by the stale taste and smell. He’d soon regretted it when the hunger pangs kept him awake at night.
These days, eating had become another chore; something he had to do, or the ravenous little beast in his belly wouldn’t give him a moment’s peace.
“Malfoy.”
Draco glanced up at the sound of his name. Potter had come to stand by his table, speaking quietly so as not to draw attention.
“How are you?”
Potter didn’t look at him when he asked his question, oh-so-inconspicuously pretending to keep watch over a rowdy group nearby.
Draco couldn’t quite believe the man. Asking questions – stupid questions – in the middle of the mess hall, as if this was study time at Hogwarts… Merlin, even during study time this kind of behavior would have been suspicious.
“Splendid,” he hissed from the corner of his mouth. “Go away, Potter.”
“You look… ill,” Potter said, sounding worried.
Which was not on. Potter did not get to worry over him, or stand there in his tailored uniform telling him he looked like shit. Draco knew he did.
“You try carrying six pounds of angry little human around all day, let’s see what you look like. Now go away, Potter.”
Potter, being his obnoxious self, did not. “Angry little human?” he asked, amused.
Draco knew he should not engage. Nothing good could come of this. It would complicate things, and at this point, the last thing he needed was more complications to his life.
But he’d never listened to the voice of reason when it came to Harry Potter, and it seemed like he wasn’t going to start now. “They’ve been kicking my kidneys all night, and using my bladder as a trampoline ever since I got up. Throwing a tantrum, I suppose.”
Potter laughed at that, and it shouldn’t matter that his teeth shone white in his handsome face, or that a curl of dark hair had escaped the bun at the back of his head, falling into his forehead. None of it should matter, because this was Potter, and he was… well. Being nosy for reasons best known to his heroic self.
He was not here because he just wanted to be friendly with the likes of Draco Malfoy. That much should be obvious.
“They’ve got their father’s temperament, it seems,” Potter quipped.
Draco gave him a sharp look, but Potter seemed innocent enough, not as if he was dropping hints at something he couldn’t possibly know.
“I suppose,” he said. “What do you want, Potter?”
“Just wanted to ask you how you were,” Potter shrugged. “And to give you this. Whatever they’re serving there, it doesn’t exactly look like a balanced prenatal diet.”
Before Draco could react to this, Potter placed something in front of him and walked off, clearly to prevent Draco from rejecting his gift.
It was an apple. The kind he liked best – light green skin, unblemished and gleaming. Just by looking at it, Draco could almost taste the tart, juicy flesh. Potter had given him the sort of apple served with every Hogwarts breakfast; the kind he’d liked to snack on during their morning break or during free periods in the common room. A tiny bit of sweet-smelling freedom, just for him. Draco quickly slipped it into his pocket, glancing around to make sure no one had seen. He’d eat it later after lockup, alone in his cell when he could savor every bite. Maybe he’d save half of it for tomorrow to have something to look forward to. Or maybe not. He wasn’t so sure he’d be able to make himself stop until every last bite of it was gone.
Draco met Potter’s eyes. The man was still there, watching, hovering. Worrying about him.
Draco nodded at him, if only to get Potter to stop staring, and gathered up his tray to take it to the disposal window.
A particularly hard kick to his bladder made him wince.
“Shush,” he muttered, one hand slipping into his pocket and feeling the smooth skin of the apple under his fingers. “I’ve got a treat for you if you’re good.”
As he left, he felt Potter’s eyes between his shoulder blades.
*
As the days passed and the new Aurors settled into a routine, Harry found himself rapidly becoming obsessed with Draco Malfoy again.
It was like Sixth Year without the map.
Whenever Harry was on duty, he kept an eye out for a flash of white-blond hair; he kept tabs on him in the mess hall, the exercise yard and the prison laundry. During his nightly rounds, he made sure to pass by Malfoy’s cell, peering through the bars in the hope of finding him awake.
On most occasions, Malfoy was asleep, wrapped in his thin blanket with his back turned to the room, as if to shield himself and his child from the entirety of the prison outside. When he was awake, he seemed reluctantly accepting of Harry’s presence. Questions about his wellbeing were met with a shrug or a sarcastic remark, but he took the apples Harry brought him happily enough, his face lighting up in a way Harry remembered from Hogwarts, when yet another parcel filled with chocolates and sweets had arrived at the Slytherin table.
The more he visited, the more Harry began to really see Malfoy’s cell – and the other cells – for what they were. Cages for human beings, rows upon rows, squeezed into the prison’s narrow corridors through a number of extension charms. In pre-reform times, some of them had been as small as a typical Hogwarts four-poster, with only a handful of straw and a ratty blanket on the stone floor. Those had been converted into storage rooms after the Dementors had left.
“We don’t have any prisoner accommodations smaller than six by four feet these days,” Byrne had announced proudly. “Up to Red Wand recommendations and all that.”
Harry felt far from proud at any of it. Ron seemed to take it in stride – he complained about the food (not Hogwarts standard, but far from the disgusting swill served to the prisoners), played chess in the rec room, and sighed when he found Harry brooding on his bed in their room.
“It’s the jail rotation,” he said. “Everybody hates it. Part of the job, eh?”
When Harry gave no reply, he shook his head. “It’s Malfoy, isn’t it? Look, mate, there’s nothing you can do. He was sentenced, and he’s doing his time. I don’t think he should be put to work like that, not while he’s…” Ron mimed a bulging pregnant belly with his hands. “But it is what it is. You can’t break him out, so he’s got to stay and make the best of it.”
Same as you, was the unspoken addition. Even so, Harry’s mind, which seemed intent on hyperfocusing these days, caught onto another part of Ron's advice, a statement Ron took to be a matter of course: You can’t break him out.
An Auror could not break an inmate out of prison. Of course not. Just like a twelve-year-old could not kill a basilisk, or like a trio of teenagers could not rob Gringotts and abscond with a dragon.
You can’t break him out.
But Harry could. He knew that he could, and wondered if a thought still counted as intrusive when it occupied his mind every hour of the day. It would be easy, even. He’d seen the extension charms on the cells, had listened to Byrne’s rhapsodizing about how “simple, and yet so effective” they were.
He could do it. The only question was whether Malfoy would let him.
One evening, Harry arrived at Cell 43, Block 3, only to find it empty, its bed made. Obviously, its occupant had never returned from his work shift to be locked up for the night.
Harry asked a guard patrolling nearby, who rolled his eyes.
“In the infirmary. Bound to happen, if you ask me.”
“What happened?” Harry felt like shaking the man, like kicking the bars that were bloody everywhere in this bloody awful place.
“Macnair,” the guard said with a shrug. “Seems our little mama decided he wasn’t going to smoke the wand anymore, and tried to fight him. Macnair punched his lights out.”
Harry didn’t stay to listen to any more. Leaving the guard to his patrolling, he headed down the flights of stairs that led to the infirmary, taking two and three steps at a time.
Punched his lights out. It could mean anything. Macnair might have seriously injured Malfoy. He might have injured or even killed the baby, and no one in here gave a rat’s arse about it. No one cared that a parent was left alone, unable to defend their child or themself.
Something quietly snapped in Harry’s mind, something that had been nudging its way to the surface for a long time. He felt it give, and didn’t care.
This wasn’t happening. Not on his watch; not when he’d fought a bloody Dark Lord to make sure everyone lived happily ever after in this wonderful, enlightened new age.
“I’m here to check on Prisoner Malfoy,” he said to the mediwizard, who was puttering about his little office.
The man, an elderly wizard with a French name Harry had forgotten right after Byrne mentioned it, barely glanced at him.
“Bien sûr. His condition is stable, but do not stay too long. He needs rest.”
“What about the child?” Harry asked quietly.
The mediwizard’s expression softened somewhat. “It appears Monsieur Malfoy’s magic threw up a shield to cushion the blows in that area. The baby is unharmed, but it drained him of a great deal of energy. He will have to remain here until he is completely recovered.”
Harry nodded. “I’ll make sure he’s not put back on the work program too soon.”
Or at all.
The mediwizard hummed doubtfully, but stepped back and let Harry pass through, into the little ward behind the office.
The beds were narrow, their frames rusty, a far cry from the gleaming modern facilities Harry had seen at St. Mungo’s. They were better than the rickety cots in the cells, however, and Malfoy seemed fairly comfortable with his upper body propped up somewhat, his right arm enveloped in a healing charm that pulsed a gentle green.
Then, he turned his head, and Harry saw the bruising and swelling on his face, the dark red rings around his eyes – the look of someone whose nose had been recently broken.
He was going to kill Walden Macnair.
“Potter.” Malfoy winced. “If you’re here to slap me into solitary for fighting, I’m not going. Ask Healer Bernard. He said I get to stay here for the time being, that I need rest, and I’m not – ”
“Malfoy,” Harry gently cut across him. “Stop. I’m not here to take you to solitary confinement. Here, your, er. Your mouth, it’s…”
He held out a paper towel. Malfoy snatched it out of his hand and began to dab impatiently at his lip, which had begun bleeding during his rant.
“What do you want then?” he muttered between dabs.
Harry Accio’d the sole chair in the room and took a seat at Malfoy’s bedside. “The guard said you fought Macnair. Why didn’t you tell me he was harassing you again?”
Malfoy rolled his eyes. “You’re doing a fine impression of being omnipresent these days, Potter, you do seem to be there any time I turn around. But it’s not like you’re my personal bodyguard. Macnair’s not stupid enough to go after me when any of the staff are there to see it.”
“Well, he’s not going to do it again.”
Malfoy gave him a flat look. “Oh yeah?”
“Yeah,” Harry said firmly. “Because you’re not going to be here anymore.”
At this, Malfoy sighed. “Look, Potter. I appreciate what you’re trying to do, even if you’re annoying about it. Really. But it’s not like you can cast Expelliarmus and make my sentence disappear. I’ve got to – survive, and hoping for parole when they’re clearly not going to grant it doesn’t… it doesn’t help.”
Harry nodded. “I know it doesn’t. And I want you to listen to me closely, Malfoy, okay?”
A thoughtful look appeared on Malfoy’s thin face. He watched Harry carefully, clearly waiting for the other shoe to drop. Harry, for his part, had every intention of letting it hit the floor with a clatter - loud, clear and unmistakable, should anyone ever view this moment in a Pensieve. As courts sometimes did when a witness was examined.
He cast a Silencing Charm around them for good measure, then leaned forward and spoke in a low, determined voice.
“This is me not giving you a choice, you understand? This is me telling you that I’m going to come here and kidnap you tonight. At wand point. You won’t be able to do anything about it. I’m going to get you out of Azkaban against your will.”
Malfoy’s eyes widened. “Potter…”
“Do you understand what I’m telling you, Malfoy?” Harry gave him a hard stare. “Nothing you say right now can change my mind. But I need to know if you really understand this.”
Malfoy did not look away, his expression unreadable. Harry waited. Everything depended on what Malfoy did now; whether he decided to trust Harry and seal the deal.
Finally, after a long moment, Malfoy nodded slowly. “I… understand. I don’t see how I can get out of this one, Potter, not when you’ve made up your mind.”
Harry nodded, outwardly indifferent. “That’s right. You can’t. I know exactly what I’m doing, and it’s not like I need your permission.”
“Which you don’t have,” Malfoy replied without missing a beat. “This is crazy, Potter, but I suppose I’m not in a position to refuse.”
His gray eyes bored into Harry’s, and Harry could read the message in them as clearly as if he’d used Legilimency: I hope you really know what you’re doing.
He nodded once in response to the unspoken words. And hoped he wasn’t taking things too far in what he was going to say next. He didn’t like it, but knew that it needed to be done. The blame for this would be laid at his feet and only his, and he had to ensure no prosecutor would be able to argue otherwise.
“And Malfoy – don’t mention this to anyone, okay? I’m only telling you so you don’t make a fuss later. If I find out that you tried to stop me, I’ll make you regret it, understand?”
“You’ve lost your mind, Potter,” Malfoy said, shaking his head. “But I wouldn’t risk upsetting you, not when you’re clearly unstable. I won’t say a word to anyone.”
“Good,” Harry said. “That’s good.”
Step one had worked just as planned.
*
“You’re not serious, Potter.”
Potter, madman that he was, just smiled grimly, as if he’d expected Draco’s reaction. “I’m entirely serious, Malfoy. You’re going in there.”
He’d come here under the guise of his Invisibility Cloak, making almost no noise as he slipped into the nightly infirmary. Clearly, Auror training had done wonders for his stealth skills, if not his common sense.
Draco shook his head. “Potter, in case you haven’t noticed, I’m currently the size of a small mansion. There’s no way I’ll fit into your trunk.”
Potter snorted at that, before his face settled back into the scowl he seemed to think appropriate of a kidnapper. “You’re going in, Malfoy, whether you want to or not. Do you really think I’d waste a second’s thought on your comfort?”
Draco gave him a flat look, mostly to let him know what he thought of the mustache-twirling villain’s dialogue. Potter shrugged sheepishly, then popped open the lid of the trunk.
Draco blinked. Inside, a flight of stairs led down into… well, somewhere; stairs that had been equipped with soft, fluffy carpet pads and a hand rail for extra safety.
“No, of course you wouldn’t consider my comfort, Potter,” Draco said. “What on earth did you do to your trunk? Extension charm?”
Potter looked almost proud at this. “Yeah, Hermione’s specialty. Not that she knows about this,” he added quickly. “Now get in, Malfoy, before I hex you.”
Sighing, Draco allowed Potter to help him climb into the trunk and onto the steps. From outside, they looked barely wide enough for one slender person to walk down without going sideways, let alone a person carrying around a bump his size. As soon as he set foot on them, however, he found that he could walk down comfortably enough, without even brushing against the walls.
“Wait!”
Draco turned, and found Potter climbing in after him.
“I, er. Just want to make sure you’re okay down there.”
“Of course I’m not okay,” Draco replied, raising an eyebrow at the man. “I’m being abducted and held against my will, aren’t I?”
“Right,” Potter said, pointing his wand at him. “Down you go, then.”
The stairs, Draco found, led into a little room, which… well. Cozy, was the first term that came to his mind at the sight. A charmed window showed a pastoral scene of sheep grazing on a sunny field; next to it, a four-poster bed had been set up, complete with dark blue hangings that matched the sheets. In a corner, two comfy armchairs bracketed a little coffee table. On another table, Draco spotted a number of books, a bowl filled with green apples and a jug of pumpkin juice. A box of bagged tea and a kettle completed the ensemble.
“There’s crisps and things in that drawer,” Potter said, sounding almost apologetic. “I didn’t know what you’d like, so I got a bit of everything there was in the rec room.”
Draco shook his head. “Only a truly twisted mind could come up with a wretched dungeon such as this, Potter.”
His kidnapper blushed and scratched the back of his head, which Draco did not find endearing. Of course not.
“So, there’s a bathroom over there if you need to… yeah. Shower’s in there, too. If anything comes up, just ring this bell.” He pointed at a little golden bell on the coffee table. “It’ll make my wand vibrate, and I’ll know to check in on you.”
“And how long do you plan on making me languish in this prison?” Draco asked. “People are going to look for me, you know.”
“Not in my trunk,” Potter said, smiling his deranged little smile, which did fluttery things to Draco’s stomach. “And even if they do, all they’re going to find is a bunch of clothes. I’m the only one who can access the stairs. Unless something happens to me, in which case the charm activates itself after a day.”
“Brilliant,” Draco said, with just a touch of sarcasm. Because the whole thing really was brilliant – entirely mad, but brilliant nevertheless. And this being Harry Potter, it might just work.
He might just get out of Azkaban, and to hell with the consequences. Draco had thrown caution and common sense out of the window when he’d decided to fight Macnair, and if it took a slightly unhinged Boy-Who-Lived to get him out of this place, so be it.
“Brilliant,” he said again, and Harry Potter smiled at him.
*
All hell broke loose when, in the morning, Malfoy’s disappearance was discovered. Harry dutifully joined in the mayhem, patrolling and searching and reporting back to Byrne that no, there was no trace of Malfoy anywhere on the premises.
Which was true, in a way. If he’d understood Hermione correctly, extension charms created liminal spaces, borrowing hidden pockets from other worlds or even other universes. Harry only vaguely understood the theory behind it, just enough to know that while Malfoy was inside his trunk, which was pushed under his bunk in the staff dorms, he technically did not exist in the same space-time continuum as the rest of the prison right now.
So, Harry wasn’t lying. Technically.
A frazzled Byrne insisted that they turn the entire prison inside out in their search. The inmates were on lockdown while guards and apprentice Aurors checked every possible nook and cranny, ignoring shouts and rude suggestions from the prisoners as to where they might look next.
An hour or two in, one of the guards shared his theory that someone had killed Malfoy and done away with the body. Byrne himself dragged Macnair out of solitary to question him, to no effect. Eventually, in a fit of desperation, the warden decided that every animal on the island should be contained and examined as to whether it was an Animagus (after all, the most notorious Azkaban escapee had managed to break out in just this manner).
They ended up with four rabbits, about fifty mice and rats and twenty very angry seagulls causing mayhem in the messhall, but of course none of them turned out to be Draco Malfoy in disguise.
“Maybe he can turn into a fish,” one of the guards suggested. “Or a spider. There’s thousands of them around.”
He quickly fell silent at Byrne’s glare.
Harry was helping Ron and another apprentice Auror release the animals back into the wild, when he noticed Ron’s eyes on him.
“What?”
“Nothing,” Ron said quietly, watching as two of the seagulls rejoined the rest of their flock on the cliffs. “You... seem calm about all of this."
Harry shrugged. “Not much we can do, is there? Malfoy has obviously not turned into a seagull to fly to the mainland.”
“I guess,” Ron said. “I’m just saying, you’re taking this rather well, considering.”
“Considering what?” Harry asked, trying not to sound defensive.
“Come on, mate,” Ron turned towards him, a strange look in his eyes. “You don’t do calm when it comes to Malfoy. But here you are, acting as if you don’t even care what happened to him. What’s up with that?”
“Nothing,” Harry said with a shrug. “Like you said, it’s part of the job. If Malfoy found a way out of here, more power to him, I guess. Doesn’t look like we’re going to find him, does it?”
Ron held his eyes, and Harry remembered the time Seamus had introduced them to poker, back in Fifth Year. Himself, he’d never been much use at it, but Ron had cleaned everyone out, including Hermione. Ron might have the emotional range of a teaspoon, granted; he did, however, recognize patterns and put pieces of information together in a way that was uncanny sometimes.
A strategic mind, Remus had called him. And while Harry trusted his best friend implicitly, he did not want him to complete the pieces of this particular puzzle.
“Let’s go back,” he said. “Byrne wants the mess hall cleared by noon.”
Ron shrugged. “Alright.”
It was evening by the time the search was declared officially over. Byrne owled the DMLE, and the lockdown was ended, the prison returning to its drab everyday routine.
Rumors still made the rounds. From what Harry heard, a prisoner on Block 2 claimed to have seen Malfoy’s ghost in one of the corridors, while another had peered out his cell window the night of the escape and spotted a dark figure wading into the sea. The mess hall and rec room buzzed as people with little else to entertain them speculated on the mystery surrounding Draco Malfoy’s disappearance. How had a heavily pregnant eighteen-year-old staged the first ever post-war escape from Azkaban? It seemed impossible, and yet, no body was found; no evidence discovered to disprove the theory.
“I think he had help,” Ron said casually, two nights later over a game of late-night chess in the rec room.
“Nah,” Harry said, moving his remaining knight to a position that looked promising. “How would they help him, precisely? Smuggle him a cake with a file in it? Get him a poster of Celestina Warbeck to hide his tunnel behind?”
“Malfoy’s cell was on the fifth floor,” Ron said, reaching for his queen. “No tunneling out from there. And he isn’t exactly up for physical exertion in his condition. I say he had help. Checkmate.”
Harry sighed, even though he had expected the outcome. He tipped over his king before it could be blasted to pieces, ignoring the little figurine’s outraged yelp. “Well, I’d better turn in. Got an early shift tomorrow.”
“You go ahead,” Ron nodded. “I was going to finish a letter to Hermione. See you later.”
“Yeah,” Harry said, already on his way to the door. “Later.”
*
For the first twenty-four hours after Harry Potter had abducted him, Draco did little else but sleep.
The fourposter in Potter’s trunk, with its soft pillows and thick duvet, was heaven. The cot in his cell had been hard and lumpy, hell on his sore back and aching limbs. Here, he could comfortably lie on his side, his bump supported by a host of pillows, which was a game changer if there had ever been one. No muscle cramps. No limbs going dead and tormenting him with pins and needles when he moved. Heaven.
There was one half-awake moment when he heard Potter rummaging around, glass and dishes clinking as they were set on the table, but he didn’t bother opening his eyes, merely pulled the duvet over his head and slept on. The baby, it seemed, did too, and he was glad for it. Their kicks could be painful at times, waking him in the middle of the night and forcing him to relieve himself awkwardly into the bucket prisoners were provided for that very purpose. Now, there were no disturbances, allowing him to remain dead to the world for as long as humanly possible.
When Draco finally woke up, he felt well-rested and alert, something he hadn’t felt in months. Not only that, but he was starving. Potter seemed to have anticipated this. He had left a bowl of chicken stew under a warming charm – far from the thin sludge served in the mess hall, this was warm and rich food, with tender chunks of meat and vegetables and slices of crusty bread to go with it. Draco had no idea where Potter had procured such a meal, here on this godforsaken rock in the middle of the North Sea. He ate every bite of it, used the bread to mop up the sauce, and chased it down with a cold glass of pumpkin juice.
The baby kicked him then, gently, as if to let him know that they approved of the new routine. Food, sleep, lack of physical pain; all things he’d never thought about, not until they were taken away. Now even his face, swollen as it had been from Macnair’s punches, no longer hurt. Perhaps Potter had cast a healing charm on him while he’d been sleeping.
Potter had clearly gone round the twist, of course. He’d always been a little mad, but this – abducting a Death Eater prisoner, a pregnant Death Eater prisoner from Azkaban – had to be a new level of insanity even in his book. Draco supposed that it was only fair; after everything Potter had lived through (including a brief stint in the afterlife, if rumors were to be believed), anyone would go mad. Draco felt his own sanity crumbling at the edges sometimes, and he hadn’t been under attack by a murderous overlord since the age of one.
The thing was, Potter didn’t seem dangerous in his lunacy. Not like Aunt Bellatrix, who had shot curses into empty corners and scratched her own cheeks raw during her fits. No, Potter just… did what he’d always done. He saved people. And now he was saving Draco again - not from a raging magical fire, but from a place that was slowly but surely taking his will to live away.
Anything, anything was better than Azkaban. Severus Snape had sacrificed – not his life, but his wizard’s honor so that Draco could live. This, and the child growing inside him – it was reason enough to value his life, wretched as it was. And it was reason enough to take this chance, this hand of fate, whatever it was.
He had a feeling that Snape would have approved. And if Draco had ever trusted anyone’s judgment absolutely and unequivocally, it was that of his godfather Severus Snape.
*
Coming down the stairs, Harry found Malfoy awake and sitting in one of the armchairs. His feet, divested of the ill-fitting prison slip-ons, were propped up on a footstool, and there was a book open on his lap.
Harry studied his face, thin and smudged with yellowing bruises, and decided that he looked better. Not exactly well; anyone could see that Malfoy was far from well. But he’d rested, he’d eaten his fill, and it showed.
“How are you feeling?” Harry asked, shrugging off his red uniform cape and depositing it on the back of a chair. No need to stand here in full Auror kit; not when Malfoy was sitting there in his faded prison uniform. Harry wished he’d remembered to bring him some of the civvies he’d brought from home. If, that was, he could find a t-shirt baggy enough to fit Malfoy’s belly.
“Fine,” Malfoy said, resting one hand on his bump. It was obviously not an intentional gesture, and yet Harry sensed the nervousness behind it.
“Good, that’s good.” He felt awkward, for some reason; unsure what to say, now that the immediate sense of urgency, of having to plan and act, had passed.
“Thank you for the meal,” Malfoy said quietly. “It was really good.”
“Molly made it,” Harry blurted, glad to have something to say. “Molly Weasley, that is. She, um. She hates the idea of institutional food, so she’s been sending us these care packages with Stasis Charms. They’ve been a life-saver, really. The food round here’s, well. Not the best,” he said, wishing he could take the words back when he remembered the disgusting slop on the prisoners’ trays. The guards and Aurors, at least, got food that didn’t look like it had been scraped from the bottom of a puddle.
Malfoy nodded. “Give her my thanks. Or not,” he added, pale brows drawing into a frown. “I assume that I’ve become a wanted man? You wouldn’t want to let Mrs. Weasley know you, er. Know of my whereabouts.”
Harry sat down in the armchair across from Malfoy. “They’re looking for you, yeah. I saw the wanted notice in the warden’s office. There’s a reward of fifteen Galleons on your head.”
“Fifteen Galleons?” Malfoy snorted. “Fifteen Galleons is an insult, not a reward. Even Weasley wouldn’t go to the trouble of dragging me to the Ministry for fifteen measly Galleons.”
“Pretentious snob,” Harry said, tugging the footstool closer so that he could put his own feet on it next to Malfoy’s. “I hate to break it to you, Malfoy, but you’re not exactly public enemy number one. Most people in here seem to believe you’ve been chopped up by some madman and thrown down an incinerator chute.”
“Thanks for the visual,” Malfoy muttered. “They’d still find my bones, wouldn’t they?”
“They haven’t found anything,” Harry said, a touch smugly. Byrne hadn’t even thought to have the staff dormitories searched. “You’re safe here, don’t worry.”
Malfoy sighed. “Potter… don’t get me wrong, I appreciate the effort and all, but… what’s your angle in this, exactly? You, er. You do realize that you’re breaking the law, right?”
Malfoy seemed to be picking his words carefully, which was unusual for him. Harry wondered why that was, why Malfoy was eyeing him as if he might go berserk at any moment.
“Look,” he said. “All of this, you being here… it isn’t right. It isn’t what we fought for. The Ministry’s on a rampage locking up anyone who ever so much as looked at a Dark artifact…”
“I did a little more than that,” Malfoy said quietly, not looking at him.
“You were supposed to have a fair trial. Hermione looked up the laws, and she said that as a minor at the time of the crime you should’ve been given house arrest and community service. Not five years in prison. And… this place, it’s…”
Harry struggled to find words for the helpless disgust he felt at Byrne shrugging off Macnair’s brutality. Every day, he saw catatonic prisoners in the mess hall who didn’t touch their food, who were shuffled back to their cells afterwards like so much human cattle. No one did anything to help them. No one cared that Azkaban was just as fucked up as it had been in pre-reform days, just differently.
“It’s a shitshow. I never wanted any of this. And…” He swallowed, then decided that if they were doing this, he might as well address the hippogriff in the room. “And they were going to take your kid away. I couldn’t let that happen.”
“Potter…” Malfoy exhaled and rubbed his forehead, clearly wondering where to even begin. “You can’t save the entire world. Well, obviously you can, but not like this. Not everything’s on you. Didn’t Granger ever tell you this? She’s supposed to be the smart one, isn’t she?”
“Yeah,” Harry muttered, because Hermione had said something to that effect, many times. “And I’m not trying to save the world, or anything. But… your kid…”
“Has it ever occurred to you that I might want to give them up?” Malfoy asked, surprisingly gently.
Harry looked at him, at his tired gray eyes; the white-blond hair that had lost its healthy shine. “Do you?” he asked softly. “Want to give them up?”
Malfoy said nothing for a long moment, looking out the charmed window with its non-existent peaceful scenery. Or perhaps it did exist, in a world or a universe far from their own. Perhaps, in that universe, Harry Potter had never even set a foot in Azkaban, nor had Draco Malfoy.
“I don’t,” he said eventually. “That is, I don’t think I do. I… haven’t exactly given it much thought. There was never any question of me keeping them, not in here. And my parents…” He swallowed. “That wasn’t an option, as you know. Byrne said… he said the healers wouldn’t let me see them, or, you know. Hold them, after the delivery. The separation is supposed to be easier if there’s no, er, bonding moment between parent and child,” Malfoy said, clearly quoting something he’d been told.
Harry struggled to suppress a hot surge of anger. That someone would do this – tell a parent that they were going to whisk away their newborn child without even a chance to see them – it seemed monstrous.
“That’s not going to happen,” he said. “Not on my watch.”
Malfoy shook his head. “Potter… you do realize that I can’t have a baby inside your trunk, cozy as it may be? There’s complex birth magic involved – even you must know that. I haven’t exactly got the right equipment to deliver them without magic, in case you hadn’t noticed.”
Harry had, in fact, noticed this. Had noticed it as early as Third Year, to put a fine point on it. But this was not the moment for embarrassing confessions; not when Malfoy was clearly getting agitated at the idea of delivering without the help of a healer.
“I’ll sort it out,” he said, projecting as much confidence into his voice as he could. “I will. Don’t worry.”
Malfoy sighed, but nodded resignedly. “You better.”
*
As the days passed, Draco decided that while Potter might be bonkers, he was, at least, reliable in his madness.
He came downstairs at least once a day, carrying meals made by the Weasley matriarch, as well as an assortment of things he thought might be useful. He even procured a small Wireless from somewhere, which proved to have perfect reception of several unfamiliar channels.
He and Potter had an interesting discussion about this – if liminal magical spaces contained magical radio waves, they must be connected to the outside world somehow, but if they were, why did the Wireless play songs Draco had never heard in his life? Parallel universes seemed to be the answer – or so he told Potter, who shook his head when he saw the notes Draco had taken on a piece of parchment.
“You’re such a nerd. You and Hermione would get along like a house on fire. That is, if you hadn’t been such a wanker to her in school.”
Draco reddened at that, but didn’t argue for once. Potter was right. And the greatest idiocy of it all, he hadn’t even hated Granger for being Muggleborn. The shameful truth was that Draco Malfoy was far too self-absorbed to conjure real hate over something as abstract as blood status. But he had hated her; oh yes, he had, to the point of wanting to see her eaten by an ancient monster that roamed the school corridors. Which had little to do with her parents, and everything to do with her close friendship to a certain green-eyed Gryffindor menace.
Jealousy is an ugly emotion, Mother used to say, and as always, she had been right.
It all seemed very childish in retrospect; very insignificant, compared to what had followed. Draco had faced his own monsters, had found out what it was like to be utterly defenseless, at the mercy of someone who had disposed of any trace of humanity with the surgical precision of a master healer. He’d been reduced to spoils, to be squabbled over by vile and brutal men. He’d seen his father’s white face, heard his mother’s desperate pleading as he was promised as a “favor” to the monster who went in search of young children when the moon was full.
As he was ordered to take a fertility potion before he “serviced” the man.
Why, Lucius, you should be delighted to see your line continued thus… does not your wife’s niece enjoy a similar… liaison? If your son survives, who knows, you might even babysit the cubs…
And then Severus had stepped up; the only one who would dare call in a favor from the Dark Lord. But even he could not repudiate Draco’s “punishment,” much as he tried to stall and delay. Eventually, he brewed the fertility potion himself, lacing it with just enough silphium to render it useless. Voldemort took one look at it and spilled it on the floor at Snape’s feet, only to hand him a corked flask containing a pure version.
And do take your pleasure, Severus… I shall know if you haven’t. I shall draw the memories from the boy’s mind.
Strangely enough, it had not been so awful. Draco did not remember much; Severus had given him wine, and hadn’t objected when Draco got rather mindlessly drunk. He did remember hands on his body, hands that were not used to being gentle, but tried nevertheless. He remembered some pain, but no fear or disgust. He trusted Severus, always had, and that didn’t change.
He remembered the look on his godfather’s face when, a week later, they cast the diagnostic spell. A small green flame had flickered on Draco’s stomach, indicating the creation of magical life. At the sight, Severus had grabbed an ancient and invaluable vase from a nearby shelf and hurled it across the room.
Later, facing the Dark Lord, he’d been as blank-faced as ever, ignoring the lewd remarks just as he ignored Narcissa’s quiet sobs.
He carries my child, as you commanded, my Lord.
Voldemort had been pleased, and Greyback was ordered to stand down.
All of it seemed like a dream now, a hazy and blurred memory of things that had happened many years ago, when in reality not even a year had passed. The child, of course, was very real; very much there, a living reminder of his godfather’s loyalty. Much as it had been forced on him, Draco felt no resentment when he sensed the first gentle flutters in his belly.
Severus had loved him, and unlike Lucius, even unlike Narcissa, he had risked everything to protect Draco.
Much, in fact, as Potter had done. Potter had pulled him from the Fiendfyre, and now he’d saved him again, caring little about the consequences to himself. He brought Draco food and books, and never asked any of the questions Draco could see in his eyes.
Draco almost told him.
He had never shared his child’s parentage with anyone – not the Aurors who interrogated him after his arrest, not the Ministry healer who asked if he’d been raped (he shook his head at that, but said nothing else), and not the Wizengamot at his trial. He never violated Severus’ privacy, which had been so important to his late godfather; never tainted the reputation of the man who had become a lauded war hero.
But he almost told Potter, simply because the man asked no questions.
In the end, however, he didn’t, mostly because he didn’t want to see the pity in Potter’s eyes. He assumed that he had time, and eventually, perhaps, he would share the secret.
Then, after falling asleep one night, Draco was jolted back to consciousness by a sharp, ripping cramp in his belly, and understood how badly he had miscalculated.
As it was, he had no time left at all.
*
Harry woke suddenly, confused at first until he registered where the loud buzzing sound was coming from. His wand was vibrating under his pillow.
He touched it to shut down the noise. There was no movement from Ron’s side of the room, only soft snores. As quietly as he could, Harry climbed out of his bed and reached under it to pull out his trunk. Malfoy had never used the bell before, and that he was doing so now, in the middle of the night, did not bode well.
Harry cast a Silencing Charm for good measure, then popped open the lid and flicked his wand, muttering the spell that would allow him to access the hidden Extension Charm. By now, it came as easily to him as Expelliarmus. His mess of clothes, shoes and toiletries disappeared, the stairs coming into view. Harry wasted no time, slipping his wand into his sleeve as he took two and three steps at a time.
Malfoy was waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs, and Harry saw at once that it was bad. He was shaking, his pale face covered in sweat. Behind him on the floor, Harry spotted something which could only be a puddle of sick.
“Malfoy, are you okay? What –”
“You idiot,” Malfoy hissed, gripping Harry’s arm and digging his fingers painfully into his skin. “You blithering idiot, of course I’m not okay! What the bloody hell took you so long?”
“I came as soon as I – ” Harry broke off, staring in horror. “Malfoy, is it the baby?”
“Oh no, I just fancied a nightcap and a little chat – OF COURSE IT IS, YOU BLOODY IDIOT! I’M IN LABOR!”
Harry winced. “Malfoy, I…”
“What now, Potter?” Malfoy’s eyes were wide and panicky, his voice becoming brittle. “I can’t do this on my own, I need help, I don’t have the foggiest what birth magic is all about, the healers said all I have to do is let the spells do their work, but – OW! Ow fuck, FUCK, IT’S KILLING ME!”
Malfoy folded over, or tried to, clutching at his belly. Harry grabbed him and guided him to the bed.
“Lie down, Malfoy, come on. Come on, before you fall down.”
His thoughts were chasing their own tails in his head. He’d been planning to smuggle Malfoy out of Azkaban this weekend; they’d been scheduled for a two-day leave, and no one would have looked twice at Harry taking his trunk back with him, on a leave from which he would never return, of course. After that, well, he’d had a vague idea of contacting Luna, who was doing an apprenticeship at St. Mungo’s.
“I…” Harry swallowed. “I thought you weren’t due for another fortnight?”
Curled up on the bed, Malfoy stared up at him in disbelief. “W-what?”
“You, er. You said thirty-six weeks, when we first met. That was about two weeks ago, so…”
“Potter, please do not tell me that you assumed babies were all born at forty weeks exactly. Please do not, or I shall have to suffocate you with this pillow – OW!”
Harry reddened in shame, for that was pretty much what he had assumed. They hadn’t exactly covered any of this at Hogwarts, had they? Basic biology had never seemed important in a wizarding curriculum… but perhaps, Harry thought as he looked at the writhing figure on the bed, perhaps that was a mistake.
Malfoy howled and drove a fist into the mattress as the cramp intensified, and Harry quickly pulled himself together.
“Look,” he said. “I can fix this. That mediwizard, Brennard or whatever, he’ll know what to do. I’ll get him to come and – Obliviate him after – ”
“Mate? Harry?!”
Harry turned around, a sinking feeling in his stomach. There was Ron standing at the bottom of the stairs, in his boxers and Chudley Cannons t-shirt, a slack-jawed expression of disbelief on his face.
“Harry, what the bloody hell is going on here?”
“Oh great,” Malfoy groaned, closing his eyes. “Just great. Just when I thought this situation couldn’t get any worse…”
“Shut up, Malfoy,” Ron said, his eyes still fixed on Harry. “Mate, have you lost your mind?”
“Look…” Harry took a deep breath, telling himself not to panic. This was Ron. Things were going to be okay. “Look, I couldn’t just – leave him out there, could I? Macnair was… you know… and they were going to take his kid away! I couldn’t just stand by and let that happen!”
“So you decided to hide him in your trunk? What is this anyway, an Extension Charm?”
“Yeah,” Harry said, feeling a little proud despite everything. “Hermione showed me how to do them, and they did it to the cells round here, so I knew larger objects wouldn’t be a problem. It was easy, actually.”
“Excuse me,” Malfoy hissed between gritted teeth. “I’d hate to interrupt your pleasant little chat, but I happen to be in labor over here. And as Potter’s only plan seems to be abducting the mediwizard…”
“What?” Ron stared at Harry, who hung his head in shame.
“I – I didn’t think he’d go into labor so soon, and –”
“Okay,” Ron said, holding up a hand. “Okay. You know what, I’ll leave it to Hermione to sort you out. It’s no less than you deserve. Malfoy, listen to me…”
As Harry watched, Ron walked towards the bed, a confidence in his voice and posture that Harry could only admire, given the circumstances. Malfoy seemed to react to it, too. He calmed down visibly, and actually listened when Ron continued.
“It doesn’t look like you’re too far along in your labor, which is good. Can you tell how far apart your contractions are?”
Malfoy shook his head, looking helpless. “I… was having back pains all day, but… my back aches all the time, so I thought it was just that.”
“Must have been first stage labor,” Ron said knowledgeably. “And now? How far apart are the cramps?”
“Er… maybe ten minutes? Or… or five? What do you know about it anyway, Weasley?”
“Yeah,” Harry said, staring at his friend. “How come you know that stuff?”
“Bill,” Ron shrugged. “He made all of us listen to every bleeding detail after Victoire was born. And well. Mum told me some. She said all wixen need to know these things, just in case.”
Molly Weasley was a godsend, Harry thought fervently. She deserved a statue in her honor and the entire contents of his vault in Gringotts, even if she would never accept either.
And Ron was a godsend, too. Casting Tempus, he timed Malfoy’s next contraction and nodded when it turned out to be exactly seven minutes apart from the last one.
“That’s good,” he said loudly over Malfoy’s groans of pain. “It means we still have time. Come on, Malfoy. Spreading it on a bit thick, aren’t you? It’s going to get a lot worse than this, you know.”
“Fuck… you…” Malfoy hissed. “Fuck you… straight to hell, Weasley.”
Harry caught his best friend’s eyes. “‘We’ have time?” he repeated, hardly daring to hope. “Ron, I…”
“Harry,” Ron cut across him before he could finish the sentence. “I could kill you right now, and I’ll gladly stand aside and watch when Hermione’s going to do just that. I think you’ve completely lost your mind, but… well. We’ve got to deal with it, somehow, don’t we? Not like I’m going to report you to Byrne.”
He said it as if the idea was absurdity incarnated, and Harry had the sudden, wild urge to grab him and kiss both of his freckled cheeks. Being in enough trouble as it was, he did not, and merely grabbed Ron’s arm.
“Thanks, mate. Really. I owe you one.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Ron sighed. “I don’t suppose you have a contingency plan for this situation? One that doesn’t involve kidnapping any more people?” he added pointedly.
Harry reddened. “Er… I was going to take him to Grimmauld Place, and try to call Luna…”
“No,” Ron decided. “Luna’s fine and all, but she’s only in her first year, and yeah. You know what she can be like. I say we take him to Bill and Fleur’s.”
“Shell Cottage?” Harry asked. “Are you sure?”
Ron nodded. “Fleur’s best friend is a Veela healer and a midwife. She delivered Victoire, actually. She’s used to being called on short notice.”
“But…” Harry bit his lip. It sounded like a much better option than going to Grimmauld Place, but there were people involved; people he cared about and didn’t want to drag unwillingly into this admittedly mad scheme. “I don’t want Bill and Fleur to get in trouble. Any of you, actually.”
“What about me?” Malfoy griped, having recovered from his latest bout of cramping. “Is anyone going to ask me what I think, or am I just so much contraband?”
Ron ignored him. “It’s a little late for that, mate,” he said, holding Harry’s eyes. “But you know, they won’t hesitate for a second when they hear it’s for you. None of us would. I thought you knew that.”
Harry felt another wave of shame, for a very different reason this time. “Sorry,” he muttered. “I… I didn’t mean for you to get involved, is all. The DMLE aren’t going to like this.”
Ron sighed. “Let’s burn that bridge when we get to it. For now, we need a way to leave here tonight, preferably without having to swim to shore with your trunk in tow.”
Harry nodded, and blinked when he found Ron’s wand aimed straight at his face. “Ron…?”
“Sorry,” Ron said. “This is going to hurt a little, I think.”
*
Thinking back on it later, Draco only recalled bits and pieces of his flight from Azkaban. Not that he was aware of the exact moment when he left the prison, ensconced as he still was in Potter’s trunk.
He did recall the expression on Potter’s face as Weasley twirled his wand and caused dozens of huge, shining purple pustules to appear on Potter’s cheeks, neck and arms. It was, admittedly, a rather brilliant strategic move. Imitating the symptoms of spattergroit not only explained Potter’s sudden and unceremonious departure; it also ensured that no one was going to get too close to him to notice the deception. Weasley claimed to have found pustules on his own stomach, and that he was going to accompany Potter into quarantine, so as not to infect the whole prison. No one questioned their tale as they left.
Draco remembered vaguely how he’d spent the time in between, curled up on the bed with nausea roiling in his stomach and wild thoughts flitting through his head.
What if Bill Weasley decided he’d rather not have a Death Eater baby delivered in his house? What if, in spite of his younger brother’s oh-so-loyal vow of confidence, he and his wife slammed their door in Potter’s face? Draco would be left to deliver his child in the middle of nowhere, with no one but an unsympathetic brute and a mad boy hero to help him. It sounded like his worst nightmare come alive.
He did expect the worst when he heard the stairs unfold themselves, bracing himself for Potter’s stupid, puppy dog eyes as he announced the bad news.
Potter did look at him with puppy dog eyes, but only to ask foolishly if Draco was ‘okay.’ As if anyone could be ‘okay’ while magic was rearranging their insides and tearing its way through sensitive tissue. Draco told him as much, cursing the man’s name and all his ancestors’ as he was being helped up the stairs.
“Shut up, Malfoy,” Weasley said, as if Draco wasn’t dying before his very eyes. He said it almost kindly, however, so Draco decided not to kill him for the time being. “Sylvie is on her way to grab the next portkey. Fleur called her as soon as she got my Patronus.”
Draco wasn’t taking much notice of his surroundings at that point, just enough to get an impression of bright, airy rooms, pastel hues and bamboo furniture. Shells seemed to dominate the entire aesthetic, in a manner that Mother would have called ‘maritime chic,’ with a delicate twitch of her nose.
There was a mosaic of green ormer shells on the ceiling of the guest room, an iridescent spiral that reminded him vaguely of Fae writing. Draco stared at it, wondering if it was a Veela symbol as Fleur, Potter and the two Weasley brothers rushed about, preparing things Draco tried not to think about.
Bill and Fleur Weasley did not say much to him, which was fine with Draco. They did not seem to resent Potter’s sudden presence in their home, however, nor the fact that he’d brought along a kidnapped Death Eater about to deliver a child. Draco just filed this as one of the many things he’d never understand about Gryffindor dynamics, and shrugged it off. He had far more pressing things to think about.
True to Weasley’s words, the Veela midwife arrived soon enough. She was a small and delicate woman, breathtakingly beautiful and as scary as Madam Pomfrey at her fiercest.
“Est-ce qu'il a fait ses exercices de respiration?” she barked at Potter and Weasley, who both cringed despite clearly not understanding a word.
“Malheureusement non,” Draco managed between waves of pain that seemed to drive a clawhammer into his lower back. “Je viens de m’échapper de prison.”
“Eenglishmen,” she snapped in response to that. “Damned fools, all of them.”
She twirled her wand in a complicated movement, and the pain abruptly receded, leaving only a dull, insistent throbbing in its wake.
“Leave,” she ordered the Weasleys and Potter, who had been hovering uncertainly at the foot of the bed. “I will call you when you are needed.”
“No,” Draco said, and flinched a little when she turned her cold, silver eyes on him. “Please, Madame. Je souhaiterais que Monsieur Potter reste à mes côtés.”
“Is he the other father?”
“No,” Draco said quietly. “But I want him there.”
“D’accord,” she nodded. “He stays. The others – out.”
Potter, to his credit, did stay until the very end. He turned rather green at some points, and winced as Draco crushed his fingers, grabbing onto Potter’s hand during the worst of it. The Ministry healer hadn’t lied – all Draco had to do was let the birth magic run its course. Which, incidentally, meant being awake and aware as his lower parts transformed into a channel (Potter looked away quickly when that happened), and, as if that wasn’t enough, trying to follow Sylvie’s commands of “Attendez!” and “Allez-y, poussez!”
It was the worst pain he’d ever endured. Being mauled by a Hippogriff did not even come close. Draco screamed and cried and finally just whimpered, when he had no more strength left to give voice to his agony.
“Almost there,” Sylvie announced in her businesslike tone. “One more push, come on now, Monsieur Malfoy!”
“I can’t,” Draco sobbed. “I simply can’t.”
Through a haze of pain and exhaustion, he felt Potter’s blessedly cool fingers brush a strand of hair out of his sweaty forehead.
“You can,” Potter said softly. “You’re so strong, Draco. You’re incredible. You can do it.”
Draco knew that he could not, but just for Potter, he gave it one last try. There was a slippery, heavy feeling, a second of things giving and tissue parting – and then it was over.
From that second on, Draco remembered things very clearly, no matter how many years later he recalled the moment. Sylvie cut the cord with brisk routine and picked her up to put her on Draco’s chest – a slimy, blueish and squirming thing that uttered a noise not unlike an angry Kneazle.
Draco did not love her at first sight; he was too exhausted for any such complex feelings. He did know, in that very moment, that she was his. She was his, this tiny human with her pointy nose and mop of black hair, and she would remain his. For as long as she needed him, he wasn’t going anywhere.
“She’s perfect,” Potter whispered, tears running down his face like the sentimental fool that he was. “She’s perfect, Draco. What are you going to call her?”
Draco looked into the dark, dark eyes of his daughter. As to that, he’d never been in any doubt whatsoever.
“Eileen,” he said. “Her name’s Eileen.”
*
October 2010
“So, Potter got away with it,” Severus Snape said, in a tone of stern disapproval. “Yet again, I might add. Anyone but the Chosen One would have gone to prison themselves for abducting an Azkaban detainee.”
“Oh, the Wizengamot were furious,” Eileen said, shrugging. She’d heard the tale often enough. “Harry was kicked out of the Aurors, but he didn’t care. He says the DMLE is an authoritarian institution prone to enforcing the status quo.”
“Of course he does,” Severus Snape muttered. “It eludes me as to how he managed to keep Draco from being returned to prison once he was found. Bribery, no doubt.”
“No,” Eileen snapped, stung at the accusation. “Harry doesn’t bribe people. He doesn’t believe in money, anyway.”
“Easy to say for a man with a vault full of gold.”
“He gave it all to the War Orphans’ Trust and Aunt Hermione’s Creature Equality Foundation. And some to me, for when I’m finished with Hogwarts. To start my Potions Mastery.”
Severus Snape’s eyes widened, just a little. “You… plan on being a Potions Mistress?”
“Yes,” Eileen said. “I’ve helped Papa brew since I was five. I’m the best of my year, naturally. That is,” she added, remembering something Papa had said about bragging, “not just naturally. I do work hard.”
“Indeed.” A strange expression crept onto Severus Snape’s face; one which, in a face less hardened by age and circumstance, could have been a smile. “Do educate me, though. How did Potter keep my godson from being thrown back into Azkaban, all those years ago?”
Eileen shrugged. “He claimed a life debt. They all said it – he’d saved everyone by killing Voldemort, so everyone owed him a life debt. That’s what Aunt Hermione said. It was his legal right to make any demand of the Wizengamot, and they had to give it to him.”
“So he demanded Draco Malfoy.”
“Yes,” Eileen nodded. “He said he wanted Papa, and they had no choice. They’ve changed the life debt laws since then,” she added. “Demands have to be ‘within the lawful framework as set out in the Wizarding Codex’, now.”
“Leave it to Potter,” Severus Snape muttered, and it sounded – almost – like a compliment. “I do believe it is time you returned to bed, Eileen. You have classes tomorrow.”
She looked at him in his dark frame, this big-nosed man whose eyes were like looking into a mirror. “Can I come back?”
Severus Snape hesitated, then inclined his head. "I shall be looking forward to it."