Tick-tock, tick-tock, the clock on the wall of the St. Mungo's waiting room went. Harry hated it. Harry wished it would stop. Harry needed to get out. Harry, Harry, Harry, Harry, Draco. Malfoy.
The green-eyed boy cringed. He turned his body even further away from the clock and it's door, ignoring the irony.
The irony was that, even there and then, waiting to see that brazen blonde, Harry was doing everything in his power not to think about him. Could he even call the man brazen anymore? Did he have the right?
No. He wouldn't think about it.
Tick-tick-tock went the clock.
Such a simple sound.
Such powerful and painful memories. You can't ignore me, they whispered.
And they were right. Unwillingly, his mind replayed an old record in it's eye: the first memories of Malfoy in the older age, the greying, fraying life after Hogwarts. It had been only three and a half years since he saw the man last, and yet the world was an entirely different one in Harry's sleepless eyes.
It had been precisely 11:06 pm on the first Tuesday of March. The 6th, five years ago. Harry remembered that because he was lost in thought staring at his Muggle clock, watching it tick, thinking about Ginny and wondering what he could have for lunch. Lunch being a loose term of course, but what else can you call meals in the middle of the Auror night shift?
He was promptly snapped out of his chicken-and-ex-wife-induced daydream by Shanice Williams, the Auror office secretary. Her large shadow darkened literally the entirety of Harry's office. Long, painstakingly manicured nails clasped onto the frame of Harry's doorway.
"Auror Potter," she said, strong African accent booming with bored officiallity, "I hav' told you, I will no' clean up your shit. And this kinda shit ee' definitely not en ma job description. Ma pay check ain' big enough for dis. Dis is your ol' problems, I know it. I don' care what he doin' here, but you betta sort it ou' before I get back from ma lunch break. You get me?"
Harry sighed.
Shanice Williams had never been particularly sensitive, but in the strangest of ways, she was a Merlin-send. Three-foot dreadlocks and a stare that gave Molly Weasley a run for her money, she ignored what needed to be ignored and pushed whoever needed to be pushed. She never took no for an answer, made you pay for your mistakes and in the shortest of summaries, made the whole magical world go round. Harry often wondered how the Auror offices survived before Mama Shanice, as the Aurors called her behind her back (as if they had the guts to do so in front of her face), set her tushie and authority on the second floor department.
His limbs under the weight of what must have been the entire world's problems, Harry sluggishly shifted from his comfy desk chair and followed that sizable tushie down the hall. The lady in front of him continued to rattle about whatever it was that had offended her so. Something that was Harry's fault... but then again, apparently a lot of things in those days were. After having to deal with Ginny Weasley, Molly Weasley and a couple of neo-Death Eaters all out on revenge missions aimed at the young Auror, Shanice Williams had firmly decided that anything that turned up to the office to do with Harry would be dealt with by Harry, and that she would certainly not be lending any helping hands.
And no helping hands meant Harry was going to get hexed. A lot. He just knew it. As he hobbled down the corridor, his muscles began to tense. Preparation... his body knew what was coming. His bad leg seized up a bit from the stress of his whole body tightening up and Harry ignored it. He hated that leg: he hated it more than anything. It was the reason he was in the mess he was in; kooked up in the Auror's recruitment office of all places, rather than out catching villains, keeping the streets safe, covering Ron's back as Ron had done for him so many years.
Harry, fresh off the Hogwarts battlefield, had instantly signed up for his destiny as an Auror, a national hero for life. His three years of training had been shortened to two and a half, and then Auror-extraordinaire, as he was aptly named, was set on the job.
Ron and Neville, otherwise known to fangirls as Auror Ginger-King and Auror Sex-God, joined Harry's side. Together they formed a new crime-fighting trio commonly known as the Bond Triad, although Harry only knew that the first word was a crude reference to a Muggle superhero or something of the sort; and the second, triad, was a clever play on words to combine ideas of the three of them being like a harmonious tune to the ears and hearts of the nation.
For six beautiful months, Harry lived up to his name. He cursed and fought and caught thugs of the magical underworld, saved two young children from a neo-Death Eater arson attack and even rescued a kitten stuck up a tree.
And then, after six beautiful months, Harry was cursed. Something nasty that tore his muscles off the bone, rebounded off his spine, made Harry twitch and lose it at random moments.
Magically cursed, can't magically cure, the Healers said. Needs time to heal naturally, they continued. Not suitable for field word, they barely whispered. Sorry Mr. Potter, there is nothing we can further do; they ended, leaving without making eye contact.
Harry all but fell into depression. No field work.
No field work.
The words bounced against the edges of his mind, never finding an escape. No field work. No field work meant it was quickly agreed Harry would be bound up in recruitment. It was supposed to be a favour: the chosen one wouldn't be leaving the department. But all it meant to Harry was that he would now be wasting his time finding people to replace him and what he could no longer be. It didn't even free him from excruciatingly tiring night shifts: the Auror offices were open 24 hours a day, and it was hence tradition that the recruitment office should be the same. His new destiny to tackle after he was dispatched.
Harry was in hospital for about a month, during which time hundreds of people must have visited him. Healers from around the globe, his wife, Hermione, Ron, the Minister, the Head Auror, Neville, countless fangirls, the press. It never ended. Harry just watched them go round like cars on a roundabout, stuck in his little bed, stuck in his little room. The same room which Malfoy now lay in.
Malfoy.
The last thing Harry expected was for Draco Malfoy to turn up at the Auror's office. Hell, the last thing anyone expected was for Draco Malfoy to turn up at the Auror's office.
And yet there he was. At 11:08pm on the 6th of March, first Tuesday of the month, Harry found himself face to face with his old nemesis, who was leaning with self-satisfied ease against the Secretary desk.
Death Eater. Standing in the middle of the Auror department. And still having that over-confident arrogance that had got him into so much shit in his life. Wonderful. Just what Harry needed to top off his perky year.
Sleeves rolled up and Dark Mark painfully visible, an aristocratic and familiar voice drawled seven deadly words that would turn Harry's life upside down: "I would like to become an Auror."
"Can...n't..." Harry had choked, "Death... Criminal record... Not... P-Possible..."
Sunk deep into the chairs of the hospital waiting room, Harry remembered his mortifying struggle with his words. At least the Malfoy had chosen the quietest office time: it got busy after 1 am. There could have been an audience for Harry's indignity.
"Auror Potter?" Came a voice. It was time. Harry had used his 'special privileges' to come see Malfoy past visiting hours: he wasn't about to be stuck in a room with Narcissa or Astoria. He tried to ignore that it was nearly midnight – now was better than never.
The Nurse's voice had been sweet and windchime-like, soft enough to be sexy, gentle enough to be reassuring, her pretty face and petite figure matching it perfectly. She reminded Harry strongly of Ginny, making it sickening for him to look at her.
He followed her through the doorway and under the clock that hung above it. The Nurse left, and Harry, alone but for an unconscious man, listened as she shut the door and shuffled away, savouring her footsteps until he could no longer hear them and had no choice but to turn his attention to the rest of the room.
He was finally here. At least a dozen times he'd tried to come, each time running away at the last moment. Each time his nerves set alight with a sort of daunting fear, although fear of what Harry did not know.
Why would it be so hard to look at the unconscious Malfoy? Harry didn't even like the man!
Green eyes trailed the floor, marking out the familiar patters they had spent so long staring at so long ago. Trailed the white-washed walls, bright, brash lamps and paintings enchanted to look like windows. No real sunlight here.
There were two chairs: one on either side of the bed. Harry observed them both, meticulously avoiding the occupant between them, before finally choosing the one on the right hand side. Crinkled and worn brown leather loosely embedded it's dark oak frame; Harry had longed to sit on this chair when he was bed-ridden himself. He would never forget the deep satisfaction when he could finally move and place himself upon it, like a king on a throne... But there was no such satisfaction now.
Now it was like being on the wrong side of a philistine nightmare: to watch a martyr die for a cause Harry didn't understand.
Harry didn't understand Draco Malfoy.
The man had turned up to the Auror offices and simply requested to apply. And then somehow, somehow, in the months that followed he had proven himself enough to the bosses for them to let him do so. To let him train. To let him become an Auror.
Personally, Harry had very little to do with it. He had heard that Draco was a fantastic asset due to unparallel experience and knowledge of the dark arts. He'd also heard rumours about the man being questioned with experimental new mixes of Veritaserum, ancient spells from Austria and potions from Russia. Harry wouldn't have been surprised if the rumours were true: Aurors were very thorough.
Half way through Malfoy's training, Auror-extraordinaire had been allowed back on the field, and the Bond Triad were complete once more. He saw very little of the blonde. When Malfoy finally qualified, Harry saw him even less. He did mostly day jobs and Malfoy, still disliked by most of the Magical community, was boarded with paperwork and night rounds. Not that he ever complained. What little Harry did hear about Malfoy made him question if the man had some kind of twin that had replaced him: Harry had eavesdropped Marlene from the night shift telling Neville that Draco was the most gracious and self-less person she'd ever met. Harry nearly choked on his coffee. It was only after she further informed Neville that he had volunteered to cover a day shift for a colleague with a sick child that Harry spluttered his drink. Talk about out of character. She trailed off with Auror Longbottom, explaining that she was off to buy the reformed man a coffee to keep him going in his act of kindness: black, three sugars, no milk. Harry looked down at his own cup. That was how he liked his coffee. The first thing Harry ever had in common with Malfoy.
The days and weeks and months passed and Harry saw the man around a little more, often laughing with the other Aurors... He was being accepted. At Shanice Williams' birthday party she called him my favourite little love muffin of an Auror, much to both Ron and Harry's horror; the boss liked him; and Marlene was now nicknamed Mrs. Malfoy despite the fact that Malfoy was engaged to one of the Greengrass sisters. He had rescued his co-worker from a killing hex, and had since been granted the status of her personal hero.
Harry, however, was suspicious. Mere months after Draco became an Auror, wanted thugs, warlords, crime bosses and potion-smugglers of the magical underworld began to vanish. Poof. Just like that. It made Harry's job a hell of a lot easier, of course: the department just rounded up the lost, confused and disoriented former employees of the missing criminals; a year into this mysterious pattern of vanishings, the crime rate all over the country had reduced dramatically. Law enforcement departments from all over the world were contacting theirs, asking for their secrets. Of course, nobody could tell them. Officially, nobody knew. Unofficially, anybody who had eyes to see and wasn't as oblivious as Ron could clearly catch onto what was happening. Malfoy was tracking them down in his own time: Harry just knew it. Good intentions aside, it was wrong. Malfoy wasn't playing by the rules. Harry made a point of talking to the head boss about it, but the man just mumbled something about no proof and simple gratefulness for what had transpired. It was disgusting: the Malfoy was obviously only after recognition... A true Slytherin.
If he had any more free time and room for drama, Harry would have dug into it further himself. But he had none: his personal life was a mess and sucked every last sickle of energy out of him.
At nineteen, he had married Ginny. They argued. A lot. They broke up. They got back together, argued again, broke up again. Made up. Argued. She found him drinking when he said he was working, he found her in bed with a 6"11 Quidditch player. They divorced. Married again. Planned to have a baby. Harry found her cheating once more. They made up, promised faithfulness for the sake of their unconceived child. It was bliss in public, hell in private... A relationship held together by lies.
Through the last and undeniably most painful stretch of his life and marriage, Harry's work had seriously struggled. He was behind on everything, helping very little, and finding less and less motivation to get up each morning; green eyes opening to see the beautiful redhead who wished she was anywhere but next to Harry, and the soul behind the dim emeralds died just a little each day.
Ron was off with him, Hermione fretted constantly, and to add salt to the wound, Harry walked into work each day to see Malfoy smiling brightly at his friends. The man had found popularity even amongst the people who were hunting his entire family a few short years ago. It was bizarre, if not a little painful: the blonde barely even looked at Harry once, barely even acknowledged him since strolling into the department that first day.
But the strangest thing was not that, but that someone was helping Harry. Someone was completing his lengthily paperwork, filling in his criminal forms, picking up his slack. Harry requested numerous times for the person to stop, whoever they were, saying he didn't want special treatment, but they never did. He made endless efforts to identify the person, but he never found them. Failing that, he simply tried to get his own work done before the other person could, but it never held out that way.
Sitting now in Malfoy's private room at St. Mungo's, Harry sighed at how obvious it had been. Saint Draco had been giving him a helping hand.
In truth, Harry could be forgiven for only seeing it now. The two men avoided one another fervently, and until recently, Harry had no reason to suspect that Draco would ever do something nice for Harry, despite what he did for others.
"I still don't understand why." Harry whispered to the room.
He piled up his infamous courage and, for the first time, he forced himself to look at the man. At Draco. He was pale white: a porcelain darling of sharp lines and soft curves. Harry clutched his heart in relief. He wasn't gray. That had been Harry's personal nightmare: a deathly gray Malfoy, a man endeavoured to death: greyer and even more sick than he had looked in sixth year.
Instead, the man in front of him looked unnaturally strong, and, in a way that Harry couldn't wrap his head around, at peace with himself.
So many times Harry had heard someone ask Draco why he wanted to become an Auror, and each time he gave the same answer: to find peace.
"Was this your peace, Malfoy?" Whispered Harry to the still figure before him, "Is this your peace, Draco? Is that why you did it?"
The figure never moved, the figure never replied.
With a shaking hand and heavy lungs, Harry reached out and gently stroked Draco's open palm. Softly, his fingers wrapped around Draco's. This was Harry's peace. It was a peace full of regret and pain, full of dreams of time-turners and obliviate, the raw guilt of being wrong. Wrong about a man.
Draco's hand was warm and soft, the quietest heartbeat breaking onto Harry's skin.
Like a broken Pensieve and a stab through the heart, memories replayed in Harry's mind. A mission. An ambush. Black magic everywhere, injured Aurors on the floor. A sky so dark it made Nox look like sunlight, and tears of rain drowning from it. Harry, wandless, injured and alone stared into his oblivion, the man opposite him wearing a smile like Bellatrix's had been, pointing his own weapon and casting some deathly curse, worse than Crucio or Sectumsempra...
It had slithered through the air, scarlet purple, too fast for Harry to run and-
Out of the night, Malfoy apparated in front of Harry, taking the curse full power to the chest. Malfoy, who was supposed to be on holiday. Malfoy, who had not said a word to Harry for months. Malfoy, who now lay before Harry, motionless and losing to death's siren call...
Endless regret and impossible redemption. Now that Harry felt it, he understood why Draco had done all those things.
Late at night, the heart whispers little taunts: you were wrong. You were wrong about him. Wrong again.
You can never take it back. Never. He will never know.
Dying. He's dying. And soon he'll be dead. For you. And he'll never know how sorry you are.
Malfoy's ghost haunted him and he wasn't even dead yet. What was it like for Draco to carry all those deaths of the years before upon his soul?
So young and so broken. A second thing they had in common.
Harry grasped the porcelain hand harder. He was no longer pushing back the memories, letting them flow like a raging river in the storm, grasping onto each one with all his heart, hanging onto Draco Malfoy. The first time they met, the sorting, their Quidditch matches, the beautiful snow white ferret, watching him on the Marauder's map, blood on the bathroom floor, Draco in the fire, his hand slipping out of Harry's...
He brought that hand up his lips, letting tears and kisses fall upon it.
Harry's entire soul ached. Six weeks. Draco had been in a coma for six weeks... Everyone knew he wasn't coming out of it. Harry had overheard a Healer: he'll die that way, she said.
No! He wouldn't! He couldn't!
Harry, still maddened by tears, threw back the duvet, grabbing Draco by the shoulders, shaking him violently.
"Draco! Wake up! Please!" He screamed, "Please! Don't do this to me! Don't die because of me. Draco, I beg you, don't leave me."
The boy before him never moved.
Harry collapsed next to him, curling up beside him, body pressed against Draco's, wishing more than anything that he could see those bright gray eyes, always so full of life and challenge, one more time. Just once more.
"Draco... I'm so sorry..." Choked Harry in a whisper, his face buried in pearly and silk-soft white blonde hair, "I was wrong."
He never got to see Draco's eyes again. Hand on Malfoy's heart, Harry passed away into the realm of dreams, and Draco passed away into the realm beyond this life, serenity in his still blood. Harry would carry his ghost on scarred skin and psyche for the rest of his life.
Embraced in their single moment of peace, Harry was not only holding Draco's body, but holding close his entire soul, lost in their redemption, regret and affinity.
A/N: I'd love to know what's running through your mind right now... let me know if you will :) ~felix