A/N: For whatever odd reason (my brain is a strange place), this is one of the stories I always wanted to read. After a long time of just wishing someone could read my brain over the Internet and write it, I gave in and decided to just go for it myself.
I hope other people enjoy it too! Updates will come weekly. Reviews are always appreciated and inspiring. Thanks for reading!
And as always, all the respect to JK Rowling for writing Deathly Hallows, and letting me (or at least not suing me for it) take it for a spin.
Chapter One
The second midnight of July finds Harry halfway through another restless night. It's annoying, but if Harry is completely honest, not unexpected. Most of his nights this summer find Harry just like this: staring blankly at the creme colored ceiling above his brass metal bed frame, listening faintly to the snores of the Dursleys in the other rooms and wishing he could just sleep through a single night without interruption. It's hot too, and he has stripped down to his boxers, laying with sticky skin wrapped in peach sheets Aunt Petunia had bought on final clearance. He's exhausted, but incapable of closing his eyes.
Surprisingly, at least to Harry, it's not always nightmares that keeps him up lately . Instead,
it's mostly a sense of growing dread in the pit of his stomach. It's the feeling that he should be doing something, anything really, to be moving forward. He spends too many nights replaying the muggle news over and over in his head, running through the headlines of the Daily Prophet, keeping a running log of the number of dead in his head. He can't shake the knowledge that Voldemort is out there murdering people, maybe people that Harry himself cares about, and he's here in Number Four Privet Drive merely biding time until his birthday. Coupled with the same scenes of Dumbledore being blasted off the Astronomy Tower by Snape replaying over and over in his dreams and the occasional joyless flash into Voldemort's mind as Harry sleeps, the restless nights pin him in desperation against his mattress, with an irrational and all-consuming need to do anything that seems to paralyze him.
Harry should have known when he parted with Ron and Hermione at the train station for the last time those weeks ago, that he was walking into a month and a half of despair and absolute fucking silence, but he hadn't been thinking about it at the time. Maybe he should have prepared himself more for the summer, but there was so much that happened in a whirlwind between Dumbledore's funeral and Harry's final steps away from Hogwarts. Before he knew it he was in a car with Uncle Vernon, heading back to the one place in the world where there would be absolutely nothing to distract him from his thoughts of the impending war, of which he was no longer a student hiding away at Hogwarts but instead the Chosen One To Go Destroy All Of The Horcruxes.
The end of July is, thankfully, getting closer, although it doesn't always seem close enough. The plans of exactly when to get him had continued to change (not that he had much contact with The Order) but it was only the beginning of the month. Harry holds it together during the day, keeping mostly to himself in his room, pouring over old textbooks for anything useful, staring endlessly at newspapers for any important information (usually slipped in between the lines), and wistfully thinking of the hectic yet peaceful calm of The Burrow. Really it's just at night, when Harry has nothing to do but comes to terms with how truly alone he is, that it all becomes too much and he begins his ritual of staring at the ceiling and mumbling to himself. Bat shit crazy, he is, and he knows it.
Harry is awake then, when just after midnight that evening a cracking noise from somewhere in the backyard jerks him out of his stupor. He shoots up out of bed without even thinking. Straining his ears, Harry crosses his room to the door, his wand arm stretched out in front of him, and his other arm hurriedly pulling on his discarded t-shirt from the side of his bed. His heart is ramming in his chest, and he hopes it's just someone from The Order, here to collect him early and sneak him away before dawn. He knows there are people watching over Privet Drive. The thought that a member of the Order was outside right now, fighting to the death with some random Death Eater sent to finish Harry off sends chills down his spine.
He can't hear anything, however. Not even the squeak of the bottom stair, which almost always creaks unless you hit it just right. Harry stands there for several long minutes, tense and breathing heavily. He's finally about to shake himself, laugh off his paranoia, and turn back to bed when the door knob twists, slowly, and then opens.
A disheveled figure stands in front of him, wrapped tightly in a black cloak but hands raised in a gesture of surrender. It's only the many years of practice Harry has in being in quite terrifying situations that keeps him from shouting out, which is lucky, because the last thing he needs is the Dursleys running out of their rooms in a rage.
Harry peers at the figure, wand still raised to attack and heart pounding loud enough to hear. It definitely doesn't seem like anyone from the Order. Harry can't imagine they would send anyone he didn't recognize. He sucks in a breath to murmur the first curse that pops into his mind, when a strand of blonde hair falls across the stranger's forehead and the faint moonlight in the room casts shadows that twist around a sharp nose and mouth. Harry almost drops his wand.
"Malfoy?" Harry exclaims, hardly managing to keep to a whisper. He doesn't lower his wand, instead taking a few steps back, as if the distance will help him in this tiny bedroom. Malfoy, on the other hand, seems to take that as an invitation and enters into the room, his pace cautious but surprisingly (or maybe not, knowing Malfoy) fluid. The moonlight from Harry's window hits Malfoy's face, illuminating a long cut from Malfoy's cheek that disappears behind his ear and several large purple bruises forming around his face. The sight takes Harry off guard and he just stares.
They stand like that in silence for a long moment, a series of thoughts running through Harry's mind. On one hand, he wasn't really afraid of Malfoy. He never had been, had he? And after the scene on the tower, and the bathroom last year, well… didn't Harry at least feel for him, somewhere deep down? Somewhere that would at least allow Harry to give him a chance to explain what the flying fuck he was doing in Harry's bedroom, when hardly anyone, especially a bloody Death Eater, should be able to get in?
Death Eater. The words remind Harry of everything that seemed to be wiped out of his mind at the disheveled sight of his childhood nemesis. And worse yet, the thought that this could very well be someone pretending to be Malfoy flickers through his mind, and he clenches his wand tighter. If it wasn't for the very serious conversation he had with both Mad-Eye and Mr. Weasley before leaving the train station, reminding him that getting caught doing anything he wasn't supposed to be doing as an underage wizard could give the no longer trustable Ministry an excuse to arrest him, Harry would have already cast a body bind curse at Malfoy. Or Not Malfoy, whichever it was. His eyes move around the black cloak, trying to make out where the figure could be hiding his wand, but Harry can't make out much shape. He clears his throat and takes a deep breath.
"Malfoy," he whispers. His tone sounds more incredulous than he would have hoped. "What are you doing here?"
Malfoy shifts and some dark expression Harry can't place passes over Malfoy's face. Malfoy seems to be working up the nerve to say something, his hands still at chest height and empty, but he remains silent. Harry finds he doesn't have the patience to wait it out.
"Who was I with when we first met?" Harry says abruptly, thinking quickly. Surprise flickers in Malfoy's eyes, but he seems to catches on and Harry can almost hear his mind thinking fast.
"Hagrid. In Diagon Alley," Malfoy says, and his voice sounds much wearier than Harry expected, and drier, but carries with it the familiar drawl Harry was expecting. Harry lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding.
"I suppose you could have told someone else that," Harry reasons out loud, but he doesn't really believe Malfoy could be Not Malfoy. There's something in Harry's gut that tells him it is him, something similar to the feeling he would get when he'd see Malfoy again at school after the long summer, and one of them would throw out the first taunting words of the school year, waiting for the rise in the other. Harry lowers his wand a fraction. "But I'm going to assume that you didn't."
Malfoy nods. Harry folds his arms slowly, his fingers clenching the wood of his wand into his palm. He feels bewildered and somehow more tired than before, as the adrenaline from the intrusion begins to ebb away.
"You need to tell me what you're doing here," Harry says, and he wills his voice to stay even. He wonders if they weren't in the middle of a war, if he wasn't getting ready to hunt horcruxes, if Dumbledore hadn't just died, if he would be giving Malfoy a chance to explain himself. "Now."
Harry expects a taunt in return, a or what, Potter or shove it, but nothing comes. Malfoy sighs and lowers his hands, wrapping his arms around himself in what seems to be a defensive stance, as though he's not convinced that Harry isn't going to curse him. Which is fair, because Harry isn't really sure of that himself.
"I—" Draco begins, and then he stops. He presses his eyes shut for a moment before continuing. The gray irises open and stare unfocused at the floor. "I ran away from The Manor."
Silence. A loud snore rips through the wall separating Harry's room from Dudley's.
Malfoy startles ever so slightly at the noise. His eyes, however, are locked somewhere around Harry's kneecaps. It's unnerving.
"You ran away from The Manor," Harry repeats slowly. He doesn't understand. "Your house?"
"Yes, Potter, my house." Malfoy's words lack the bite that should accompany it. Harry doesn't know if he's crazy, but the lack of Malfoy's normal fight almost sets his more on edge than his unexpected appearance.
"Oh. Okay." Harry blinks. Shifts his weight onto his other leg. "Because you were sick of being there, or—"
Malfoy snorts. It's a humorless sound.
"My mother wanted me to leave. Made me leave actually," Malfoy says suddenly, quickly, and Harry has a feeling that he's resigned himself to telling his story as quickly as possible, so that he can be done with it. "Slipped me a portkey to a park a few blocks down. Vol— the Dark Lord has been staying there."
Harry's skin crawls. He knows that Malfoy is an annoying, spoiled brat, and a bully at that, but even he can't pretend that the last year or so wasn't hard on the blonde. He had watched Malfoy enough the past year, hadn't he? And after what he witnessed on the tower, Harry can't completely believe that Malfoy ever wanted that mark on his arm.
Almost independent of his brain, Harry's eyes flick to Malfoy's left arm, despite knowing it's covered by the black sleeve. If Malfoy notices, he doesn't say anything.
"My father, he's desperate to get back in the Dark Lord's good graces. He so courteously opened our home to him." Malfoy's voice is cold, and there's an undertone of pure hatred that laces his words about his father that Harry wasn't expecting. "As if giving him a son wasn't enough."
"You're marked—" Harry begins, but Malfoy cuts him off.
"I know you know, Potter," he snaps. "I know you were there on the tower. You always seems to know things, anyway, don't you? You knew what I was all along."
Harry's not sure what Malfoy means by that. An image of a young Malfoy with slicked back hair and a twisted frown as Harry turns down his hand of friendship pops into Harry's head, and Harry blinks quickly, trying to make it go away.
"Sure," he says finally. "I knew."
They stare at each other. Harry can't think of what the right question is to ask. Neither of them have moved, but the moonlight is beginning to shift slightly on Malfoy's face. Harry is all the sudden too aware that this is the first real conversation he's had with someone in weeks.
"Why?" Harry asks finally. "Why would you take it?"
"He would have killed them," Malfoy says. The words sound similar to the pained ones he used to explain himself to Dumbledore up on the tower. Despite better judgement, Harry believes Malfoy. He's not really sure how to process it all, however. Harry can't help but wonder if his life was different and he had never lost his parents, if he would be brave enough to risk their lives. Harry supposes wondering about something that could never happen doesn't even matter. "He would have killed my mother, first."
"But she sent you away. Doesn't that mean—"
"I know what it'll mean, Potter. You don't have to remind me. I didn't have a choice." Malfoy's voice cracks and he turns his head towards the floor. Out of the light, Harry can only see a shadow. "She made me leave. She told me to come here. She told me Severus told her it was safe."
Rage boils in Harry's gut for the first time that night. He chokes it down, just barely.
"Where does Snape bloody get off in telling people to come here?"
"My mother said he knew you would protect me," Malfoy says, and he raises his head to look straight into Harry's eyes. The grey eyes are serious. "It's not hard to guess. A Gryffindor like yourself would never turn away a wizard in need, would he?"
Harry's blood pounded in his ears, thinking of Snape mocking him, mocking Dumbledore. He curses himself for not automatically assuming this was a trap. He should have sent Hedwig out to the Order as soon as he heard a noise in the first place, instead trying to play it out himself as though he could handle it without using magic. He tries to think of a way signal to whoever is keeping guard in the front of the house.
"Snape said no one with ill intent against you could find the house, or come in," Malfoy says, speaking quickly again, as though he can hear Harry's thoughts. "I didn't even speak to him about it. I haven't spoken to him since— since that night. Just my mother has. She just wanted to protect me."
"You have the mark," Harry says, suddenly and with a twist in his stomach. He doesn't want to think about Snape or if he believes Malfoy, and he doesn't want to feel pity for him. "He'll find you."
Malfoy stares at Harry, seeming to forget to breath, but then shakes his head slowly.
"We didn't finish the ceremony. The mark is there, but— it's not complete until— until you kill someone, for the Dark Lord. He normally does it right away, but it was more of a challe— Trust me, he would have found me already, if it was."
Harry feels sick to his stomach. He turns to the bed and sits down on the edge, fighting the urge to bury his head in his hands. He doesn't take his eyes off of Malfoy, but he feels all at once his insomnia catch up to him, and fuck he's tired.
"You need to tell me. Right now. What are you doing here?"
"I told you," Malfoy says, his hands twisting around the long sleeves of his cloak, "I told you, my mother—"
"Your mother let Voldemort mark you," Harry snaps. Malfoy flinches, but Harry continues, "it has to be something else. Tell me, or I'm letting whatever Order member is in the front yard that you're here, and they're definitely not going to care that Snape told you this was a safe house."
Harry can tell by the look on Malfoy's face that he isn't surprised someone is watching over Harry. He assumes it's probably obvious, and it explains why Malfoy snuck in the back, although how exactly he did is just another thing on the long list of what the fucks Harry needs to find out.
But one thing at a time.
"Malfoy—"
"Something happened. Yeah," Malfoy's eyes flick all over the room, anywhere but Harry. "I'm not— I'm not trying to hide it, it's just— Merlin. It's not something I particularly want to share. Especially with you, Potter. Can you please stop staring at me?"
Malfoy is a knot of nervous energy, and Harry doesn't know what's happening anymore. There's something off, something very off about Malfoy, but Harry can't place it. Not that he'd ever admit it, even under the threat of the Cruciatus, but Harry spent a lot of his last six years at Hogwarts watching the other boy, and nothing about what he's learned about him since then seems to apply to the current situation. Harry, for his part however, doesn't look away.
"He— the Dark Lord— he's messed up, Potter. You know that."
Harry gapes. "Seriously, Malfoy, just fucking get on with—"
"He tortures people." Draco blurts. Harry resists the urge to roll his eyes at the obvious statement, because there seems to be something else that Malfoy is getting at, something that Harry doesn't understand but that gives him a tight feeling in his stomach. "Just to entertain himself. And it's not always with magic, and...he doesn't do it himself. Obviously, right? Who knows if he even can."
Malfoy's face is blank, but is voice is dark and angry, with something else that sounds a lot like Malfoy's could simply burst into tears. There's a slight pink tinge to his skin that Harry can just make out through the dark. He looks away hurriedly at the window, his mind spinning, unsure of what is supposed to be obvious. When Malfoy speaks again, he's so quiet Harry almost can't hear him.
"He has his followers do it. The other Death Eaters. I've—I've seen it, heard it before. But then— the other night, he was mad, again with my father. My bloody father who blindly followed this maniac but can't fucking gather up the courage to serve him well, and instead drags me into the whole thing, like I asked for this—"
Harry glances back over at Malfoy. He's shifting his weight back and forth, as though he wants to be pacing but is afraid to move. He folds his arms around himself. He looks small. It's so unlike any other time he's ever faced off with Malfoy. It makes Harry's head spin.
"I didn't kill Dumbledore," Malfoy says, quietly, and Harry understands, at least a part of it. The image of Lucius Malfoy throwing his son to a pit of Death Eaters, subject to whatever form of torture Malfoy can't bring himself to say, in desperate hopes to save the Malfoy name. Horrified despite himself, he whispers back,
"Snape killed Dumbledore."
Malfoy snorts, and Harry stares at his hunched figure. He's knows, without knowing how
he knows, that Malfoy isn't lying. That Malfoy was, what, passed around to a bunch of Death Eaters, in his own home? Merlin.
"Like that matters, Potter. I failed. I didn't even complete my marking."
Harry tears his eyes from the window and focuses on Malfoy, who's peering at Harry through the dark.
"I don't want to tell you any of this, Potter," he says slowly, and he sounds very different from the bully Harry knew at school. Harry is suddenly reminded of a memory he'd like to forget, of a bathroom and blood and a screaming match between the two of them where Harry had not been the good guy. "But I know I have to, if you're going to help me. And I know—I know that you'll have to tell everyone in The Order, and that everyone will know, but fuck… just don't say anything right now."
Harry doesn't. He thinks of the torture he sees at night, sometimes when his
dreams blend into Voldemort's consciousness, and he can see him slicing muggles over and over, he can see him turning people inside out, can see him holding muggles under the Cruciatus until they fall still, dead… images that have haunted Harry since that night in the graveyard when that cold voice spoke kill the spare, the dark realities of an utter madman that no one truly knows but those closest to him—
"He lets his followers… mess with the prisoners." Malfoy's voice is soft and quiet but his words hit Harry like a curse. "You know? Touch them. Do—do things with them. Or… or with failed Death Eater sons, I guess."
Harry stops breathing. He understands in a wave of clarity, and the whole idea of it makes bile rise in Harry's throat. He's not sure how to process this new information, instead he closes his eyes and rubs at his face with his hands and crosses over to his bed, sitting down heavily and succumbing to the need to hide himself as far away from Malfoy as he can manage in this tiny room, as though he can easily pretend he's alone and his schoolyard rival wasn't in his room in the middle of the night, admitting to Harry for whatever reason the darkest secret Malfoy probably had.
You wouldn't have ever listened to him, a voice in the back of Harry's head says, he had to tell you.
Harry supposes that's true.
"Don't pity me, Potter."
Harry's head jerks up at the sound of Malfoy's voice. The words are snapped with actual heat this time, and for the first time Malfoy sounds like the Malfoy Harry remembers. Harry shakes his head, bewildered.
"I don't pity you," he says, and he's surprised to feel that it's true. He's definitely feeling something, but pity isn't exactly it. Horror, perhaps, and nausea, and something uncomfortable Harry can't quite name. Nothing in his life could have prepared him for this, and even if someone had told him ahead of time that his former enemy would be standing in his childhood bedroom reliving what had to be the worst memories imaginable, it wouldn't have helped Harry figure out anything to say. He thinks of apologizing, but that doesn't feel right. He settles for silence, leaning back in the bed until his back hits the wall, his head tilting back to stare at the ceiling. He feels as though something has fundamentally shifted, and he feels old.
"You should get some sleep," Harry says finally, looking at Malfoy, still standing with arms wrapped tight around himself and downcast eyes. Malfoy jerks at this, and when he looks up, the hood of his cloak tilts back, revealing a shocked expression, pale skin, and more bruises than Harry initially thought. Not for the first time that night, Harry fights for control of his voice. Taking a deep breath, he sits up. His back cracks as he stands up off the bed and moves into the desk chair on the opposite wall. He jerks his chin towards the bed. "You take it."
Malfoy's watching Harry with disbelief, and for some reason, it's that expression that sparks the irritation in his gut, and the entire situation seems overwhelmingly insane to Harry.
"I'm not going to sleep. I'm not tired," Harry lies. "Seriously, Malfoy, just—you look terrible."
Another dry snort from the blonde.
"Thanks, Potter." Malfoy rises, his expression, surprisingly, determined. Harry wonders what it must cost his pride and sense of self-preservation to even be here, let alone try to sleep. Malfoy slips his cloak off, and Harry tries not to stare at the black trousers and black long sleeved shirt underneath. He wonders if the all black is a Slytherin thing or a Death Eater thing or if it's just an upper class Malfoy thing.
Malfoy pauses on his way to the bed and glances over at Harry.
"There's more," he says quickly. Harry finds himself trying to remember if Malfoy has always been a nervous rambler or if this is a completely new development. He guesses he's going to find out, at this rate.
"In the morning," he replies, too tired for more. He hasn't even processed any of this, or figured out what he's going to do with bloody Draco Malfoy in his room.
Malfoy says nothing, just stares at him, before abruptly laying down on the bed. He makes almost no noise as he lies out on top of the sheets, his head turned away from Harry.
Harry takes this moment to stare at the blonde, thinking hard. He has a couple options of course, the first and most obvious one being to throw Malfoy out as soon as possible. But, even with their history, Harry knew that was cruel. And as much as he loathed admitting it, Snape was right, Harry wouldn't be able to just throw Malfoy out, not after knowing what he knows, and especially since Malfoy didn't seem to pose much of a threat. Harry had yet to see his wand...
"Malfoy," Harry says suddenly, wincing at how loud his voice sounds in the quiet room. "Where's your wand?"
A long silence stretches out and Harry almost thinks that Malfoy has already fallen asleep on him, when the tired drawl responds faintly.
"Someone took it."
Despite everything Harry's heard tonight, this seems to be the thing that pushes him over the edge. He stares at Malfoy, incredulous.
"You don't have it? What do you—"
"You can search me in the morning, Potter," Malfoy snaps. He almost sounds normal, and Harry feels strangely grateful for it. The idea of fighting with Malfoy sounds a lot easier than whatever this strange truce is. "I'm tired."
Harry doesn't say anything, just leans back in the desk chair and keeps watching as Malfoy's breathing eventually slows, turning their conversation over and over in his mind until he reaches a decision.
Things he does know, he decides: Malfoy is unarmed (most likely), Malfoy is not really a Death Eater, Malfoy is definitely pitiable (even if Harry wouldn't admit it out loud), and there's got to be some uses the Order could find for someone who, until hours ago, had Voldemort himself living under his roof.
The list of things Harry doesn't know is much longer. It isn't until the sun is beginning to rise, turning the little bedroom into a gentle pink glow, that Harry decides how to precede.
"Whatever the more is first," he mumbles to himself, his head in his hands against the desk he's sitting at. "And then I'll owl The Order."
Malfoy doesn't stir at the noise, and Harry allows himself to close his eyes, just for a moment, and rest.
Harry wakes suddenly, his neck uncomfortably tight as he removes it from the elbow he has propped up against the desk and straightens up. His back is warm, covered in golden morning sunlight that's streaming into the room. He blinks hard, the details from the night before mixing with the dream which had woken him up. He feels disoriented.
"You were having quite the dream, weren't you?" A voice drawled behind him, and it sounds so much like Malfoy that Harry is both relieved and regretful for not kicking the blonde ponce out when he had the chance.
Harry rubs at his eyes before turning to Malfoy. The dream of Malfoy Manor, of Voldemort's anger, flashes behind Harry's eyes. In front of him, Malfoy is sitting up against the wall, leaning casually with his knees drawn up to his chest and elbows resting on kneecaps. He looks an irritating picture of elegance that seems impossible given the situation, and despite the twisted sheets and the ugly peach wallpaper behind him. If it wasn't for the bruising around his face that looks much more purple in the daylight, Harry would have questioned if he had imagined their conversation last night.
"Your mother is alive," Harry says, because he's never been one to beat around the bush, and does not feel at all guilty when Malfoy's jaw snaps shut. He does, however, leave out her disheveled state, figuring that as long as Voldemort didn't plan to kill her, Malfoy doesn't need to know. "It seems that Voldemort thinks you escaped on your own. And I guess it proves that you were right about the mark. He has no idea where you are, and without your wand or doing magic, he's going to have a hard time tracking you."
Malfoy stares at Harry, and Harry realizes with a jolt that it wasn't exactly common knowledge, Harry's weird connection with Voldemort. He tries to think of a way to explain, but can't. Instead he shrugs, in an attempt at nonchalance that makes Malfoy's face twist in confusion.
"Just trust— believe me," Harry says, changing his words quickly. Malfoy continues to stare at him but nods slowly. "And anyways, you're the one who needs to answer some more questions, aren't you?"
A pale blonde eyebrow rises slightly.
"Merlin, Potter. You just woke up." Malfoy's tone in incredulous, as though Harry had asked him to run a race with his legs tied together instead of just having a fucking conversation. "I'm starving and I need a wash. Don't you at least have to take a piss?"
Harry, for whatever bloody reason, blushes.
"I suppose," he says. "But it's complicated."
"Complicated," Malfoy repeats slowly, as though talking to someone half his age. Harry rolls his eyes.
"My aunt and uncle are not going to be please with you being here. We're going to have to sneak into the bathroom together." Harry does not, he tells himself, continue blush when he says this. "And there's some cake under the bed. Under the floorboard."
"There's cake in the floor?" The same slow drawl, coupled with an additional raised eyebrow. Harry sighs, irritated and feeling just as defensive as he usually does around Malfoy.
"Breakfast, right? Trust me. There's not going to be breakfast downstairs for either of us."
"I don't understand."
Harry flashes him a grin.
"Makes a nice change of pace, doesn't it Malfoy?"
Somehow, the two of them make it through all morning bathroom rituals without being seen by the Dursleys and without killing each other. Harry tells himself, as they stand too close in the tiny brightly lot bathroom, that it's no different than sharing a bathroom with four other boys for the last six years. It feels different though, because most of those six years were also spent at odds with the boy next to him, but somehow the two make it through with minimal threats and only a little blushing. Harry is somewhat pleased to notice that he wasn't the only one with flushed cheeks, and figures that's the only reason Malfoy doesn't mock him for it.
Shortly, the two of them have returned to the room, Malfoy is back on Harry's bed and Harry in the chair, each favoring a large piece of cake from Mrs. Weasley. Harry closes his eyes as he eats, savoring the buttery flavor of the strawberry frosting against his tongue.
"How are you so boney?" Malfoy remarks in between bites. "If you eat cake for every bloody breakfast?"
Harry wipes his mouth on the back of his hand. Malfoy's nose wrinkles at the gesture and Harry sends him another grin.
"Not every breakfast."
"So it's true, isn't it? The stuff everyone says about your relatives?"
The grin slides off Harry's face.
"I suppose," he says, his pride keeping him from letting his eyes drop from Malfoy's. "But aren't we supposed to be talking about you?"
Malfoy's face tightens and his straight posture seems to sag slightly. He slips a little more into the person who showed up in Harry's room the night before, although his face remains impassive.
"I would have thought I told you enough personal— information to at least be able to ask some questions in return," he says finally, his voice tight and annoyingly polite.
"Well," Harry says slowly, "I'm not the Death Eater here, am I?"
For a moment, Harry forgets Malfoy doesn't have a wand and thinks he's going to curse him on the spot. But then Malfoy just sighs again and looks up at the ceiling.
"Okay. Just go for it."
"Okay," Harry says, a little unnerved by the easy cooperation, but plunges right into his mental list of questions he formed during the night. "How did you get in the house?"
"I picked the lock," Malfoy says, and he looks surprised at the question. "Some second year tried to pick Blaise's trunk last year, and I made him show me how to do it in return for not ratting him out."
"It wasn't too muggle for you?" Harry shoots back, not quite believing his ears. He has a hard time picturing Malfoy at Hogwarts admitting that a second year might know something that he didn't.
"I thought it would come in handy." Malfoy's cheeks are pink again. "And it did, didn't it?"
Harry concedes the point with a tilt of his head.
"You knew which room was mine?"
"I got lucky," Malfoy says, shaking his head. "Yours is the first door."
He pushes a hand through his blonde hair, which looks much softer when it's not slicked back.
"Okay," Harry says, unsure of how else to respond. Malfoy rolls his eyes.
"You've been up most of the night thinking about all of this, and those are the questions you have?"
Harry glares at him.
"I'm working up to the bigger ones," he snaps, defensive. "I thought it'd probably be easier this way, but if you'd prefer me to ask instead how it felt to be thrown to the pit of Death Eaters by your own father, be my—"
Malfoy springs out of bed with shocking grace, standing in front of Harry. He breathes heavily and his eyes spark.
"Don't," he says, his voice low. "Don't you fucking dare."
Harry winces, and with a flash of guilt concedes the point to Malfoy. He looks up at the lean figure in front of him, this version of his rival that Harry doesn't understand anymore, and thinks that the war was destined to change a lot of things and Harry shouldn't be shocked that it could change Draco Malfoy as well. Harry avoids looking Malfoy in the eye and tells himself that he's almost an adult and he really should be past the point of wanting to goad Malfoy.
"Sorry," he says, and Malfoy's surprised look pulls at something in Harry's chest, something that makes him feel another wave of guilt. "You're right, sorry."
"Okay," Malfoy says. He sits back down on the edge of the bed, feet on the floor and back straight. Harry runs a hand through his hair.
"I'm not sure how to do this," he admits, and Malfoy snorts.
"That makes two of us, Potter. Although it does help if you at least try to think before you speak."
Harry glares at him, but there's little heat behind it. H draws in a breath, collecting his thoughts.
"You said there was more," Harry says finally, carefully. "What else?"
Malfoy's eyes are bright.
"Name it, Potter," he says. "I'd imagine I have enough information about the Dark— Vol—"
"Voldemort," Harry says firmly. "It's not going to help you to avoid saying it."
"It could," Malfoy mutters, "he's thinking of jinxing it."
"He— what?"
"Never mind," Malfoy rubs a hand absentmindedly over a large bruise on his jaw. "It's doesn't matter right now. The point is, I know a good amount of things about what He was planning. Not everything, and nothing complete, but I believe it could be useful."
"Okay."
"Okay," Malfoy repeats. Harry feels as though there has to be more, but he waits Malfoy out, imaging he's working up to it, judging by the way he's chewing on his bottom lip. In the silence between them, Harry can hear Dudley turning up the TV downstairs and Aunt Petunia starting up the vacuum on the stairs. Harry's again struck with how surreal this whole thing feels.
"I'm willing to do an unbreakable vow," Malfoy says finally. "Or help The Order, whatever they need."
"Why?" Harry asks, his eyes narrowing. He figures it's one thing to flee Voldemort's torture to protect yourself, especially a Slytherin through and through like Malfoy, but another to openly switch sides in the way he's offering. Malfoy looks uncomfortable, and he twists slightly on the bed. His expression remains carefully neutral, but Harry can see the subtle signs, the further bend in the otherwise perfect posture, the tiny clench of his hands, the signs Harry was used to watching for. He wonders, somewhere in the back of his mind, if it's unhealthy, the amount he's watched Draco Malfoy. He's sure Ron and Hermione have opinions on it, most of them that he's heard, and he pushes these thoughts aside and tries to focuses on the blonde in front of him, whose skin seems to be growing paler. "Why not just ask for sanctuary?"
"I'm not just protecting myself."
Malfoy says this with an air of forced calm, and Harry decides he's done with feeling completely lost in their conversations.
"We can't help your mother," Harry says, aiming for a gentle let down but instead sounding more exasperated than anything. "Not unless she leaves the manor too, and even then. She's an adult, this is her second war, it diff—"
"Not my mother," Malfoy cuts in. "It's— Merlin, you might actually have been right Potter, we should have built up to this."
Harry just watches him. If it's anything like last night, he thinks that silence and patience might be the only way to get information out of Malfoy.
"Vol— He uses Snape as more than just a spy. He's a brilliant potions master, whatever you might say."
Harry's expressions tightens, but he lets Malfoy continue.
"He uses Snape for experimental potions. New ways to kill people, I guess, as if he needs it. But there was this idea, among his followers, this idea that… Merlin, that if the wizarding line was to stay purely magical, then there would need to be a way to… we'll, have more magical children."
"Right," Harry says, but he doesn't get it. Malfoy is biting his lip again. Harry realizes that the blonde's voice loses almost all of its smug drawl when he's speaking seriously like this. He likes it a lot more than Malfoy arguing with him.
"He ordered Snape to make a potion, one that would let… men carry children."
Harry's mouth drops open. He almost laughs at the idea, but stops himself just in time. Malfoy is glaring at him.
"And it worked?" Harry asks, fighting to keep his voice even. The image of an army of male Death Eaters with swollen bellies wandering around The Manor firmly locks in Harry's mind.
"Barely," Malfoy's eyes are cold, looking just over Harry's shoulder. "They captured half-bloods and tested it— most of them died. Painfully, slowly, their bodies breaking down from the inside out."
The Death Eater image is wiped from Harry's brain and he winces.
"Most of them? What about the rest?"
"Those that lived were killed after they delivered."
"How did—"
"They cut the baby out," Malfoy looked sick just thinking about it, and Harry couldn't blame him. "And then killed them."
"They murdered them?" Harry stared at Malfoy, not wanting to believe anyone could truly could be that cruel. "Didn't they want to know if they would live?"
Malfoy shrugs, with a short laugh that sounded more like a bark.
"They were half-blood children," he spits out, but Harry doesn't think his disgust is pointed at the children. "And the theory was that a pureblood would be more likely to live, and the baby would be stronger."
"The theory? It's sounds like bloody bullshit. They were just going to go with that, without even testing—" Harry breaks off, his eyes widening and compression dawning. Malfoy is glaring at him as though he's challenging him to laugh, but there's something vulnerable behind the grey eyes that doesn't quite make it to the pale face.
"Made it there finally, Potter?" He snaps, and then stands and walks to the corner furthest from Harry, not looking at him. "What an amusing joke this must be to you."
"What? No, Malfoy. Fuck. That's...that's fucked up."
He barely hears the snort from the corner of the room. Harry's head is spinning. He feels cold, and unsure of how to proceed. Every strategy, every plan he had thought through the previous night seemed to be thrown out. He might have been able to give up Malfoy to the hard judgement that most likely waited with The Order, but it wasn't just Malfoy anymore, was it?
"Snape gave my mother more potions. To help, with the… development over time."
Harry ran a hand through his hair. He stood up and walked over the window, briefly considering crossing the room to Malfoy and offer some sign of support. He quickly shrugs off this urge, unsure of where it came from. Although, Harry figures, you'd have to be inhuman (or at least a Death Eater it seemed) to not empathize with Malfoy at this particular moment. Harry's entire body hurts just thinking about it.
"Can you, you know, get rid of it?"
Draco spins around, and his cold eyes burn into Harry's.
"How elegant, Potter," he snaps. "No I can't just get rid of it. Snaps was clear that the results of trying would be… less than favorable. Besides—"
Malfoy breaks off at the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs and past their door. Aunt Petunia, Harry supposes, judging by the lightness of them. She passes into her bedroom and then out again, back down the stairs. Harry's not worried about them interrupting, they mostly try to ignore the fact that he's there. He knows no one is going to check and make sure he's still breathing, that's for certain.
"Besides?" Harry presses, but Malfoy waves a hand at him and shakes his head. Harry tries for a different approach. "Whose is—"
"I don't know," Malfoy cuts in, voice rough. Harry swears under his breath. Malfoy is stubbornly not looking at him, and Harry knows how mortifying this must be for him, to come to Harry Potter of all people with this kind of secret. He can't decide if it's just self-preservation or actually extremely brave, or maybe a little bit of both. He tries to imagine what it would be like if they're positions were reversed, and although he's sure Malfoy would have just cursed him on sight, Harry knows the last thing he would want would be for Malfoy to make a big deal over the whole thing. Besides, emotionally delicate situations were never going to be Harry's strongest moments. He settles on a calm but determined response.
"Okay," he says firmly, and Malfoy's eyes snap to his. "We'll help you. the Order will. I'll make sure of it."
"And in return?" Malfoy asks, looking skeptical. Harry shakes his head.
"If anyone thinks it's necessary. I'm sure they'll give you veritaserum. I don't have any or I'd give you it now. But we're not monsters, Malfoy. We'll keep you and— we'll keep you safe. You didn't ask for this."
Malfoy's mouth twists. "No, I didn't."
"Right," Harry tries smiling at Malfoy, and he hopes it reaches his eyes. "Don't think this means you're not still an idiot though."
Malfoy stares at him for a moment, and then smiles faintly back, a surprised look in his stretching across his face. It's quickly gone, replaced by the familiar controlled expression, but for some reason the brief glimpse relaxes Harry.
He can figure this out, Harry decides. It will be okay.
Harry leaves Malfoy in the room with a firm don't leave this room even if you're on fire, to which the blonde just glares up from whatever potions book of Harry's he nicked and is in the middle of reading at the tiny desk. Harry slips across the street to Mrs. Figg's, where he is bombarded by introductions to her newest cats, a heavy, thick perfume that smells like lilacs, and more floral wallpaper than he remembers. He manages to ask her if she knows who is on watch for the day before she drags out the photo albums.
"Oh," she says, looking surprised, although Harry isn't sure why. It's not like he normally comes over on social visits. "Remus Lupin, I believe."
"Perfect," Harry says, relief flooding him. "Do you— Er, do you know how I can speak to him?"
"Oh! Yes— yes, alright, one moment." She peers at him. "You're not hurt, are you Harry?"
"No. No, it's just—- important."
She stares at him, as though trying to figure him out. At a moment she shakes her head slightly and turns quicker than Harry would have expected for a woman her age.
"Alright, I'll fetch him."
Mrs. Figg disappears into the adjacent sitting room and he can hear her speaking to someone. Harry tries to peer around the corner, curious about how the Order managed to communicate, especially by the non-magic means that Mrs. Figg was probably using. He can't see around the wall, however, and it's only a short moment before she's back. He straightens up quickly.
"He'll be in any minute. Can I get you some tea?"
Harry shakes his head no. He remembers all too well the stale and disappointing things Mrs. Figg used to serve him when the Dursleys would leave him here during their family days. He sees her open her mouth as though she's about to argue with him, when he's saved by a sharp knock on the door and an almost immediate entrance of a slightly less but still disarrayed looking Remus than normal.
"Harry," he says, sounding breathless. His eyes flick up and down, as though checking for signs of damage. "Are you alright?"
"I'm fine, Remus," Harry says quickly, holding his hands out in front of him in what he hopes is a calming gesture. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to startle you. I just— I have something I need to talk to you about. It's urgent."
Lupin nods, his eyes curious. There are more lines around his eyes, Harry notices, and he wonders if this war isn't aging them all way too fast.
They sit in Mrs. Figg's sitting room. Lupin drapes his patchy brown robes over the rose patterned loveseat and leans back, watching Harry intently. Harry sits on a small pink chair across from him. He is instantly reminded of many visit to Lupin's office his third year, and he thanks anyone who's listening that it was Lupin on the Make Sure Harry Potter Doesn't Get Murdered shift today and not anyone else.
"What is it, Harry?" Lupin says, as soon as Harry is seated. Harry opens his mouth and then closes it again, unsure of where to start. He can hear Mrs. Figg bustling around the kitchen, clanging pans under a running faucet.
"This is going to sound insane," Harry says in a low voice, "but just, just wait until I explain it all, okay?"
"Okay." Lupin says slowly, his eyebrows drawn up in confusion. Harry decides to just jump into it.
"Last night Draco Malfoy showed up at the Dursleys. In the Dursleys, actually. His mother gave him a portkey to Little Whinging and he picked the lock."
Lupin stares at Harry blankly.
"That's not possible—"
Harry holds up a hand, giving Lupin an apologetic twist of his mouth.
"Sorry, Remus, I just need to get this all out." Harry takes a deep breath. He launches without preamble into Malfoy's story, how he fled The Manor and was able to sneak into the Dursleys house. He glides over the mention of Snape, still not wanting to process it himself, and figuring it probably won't help this conversation. Lupin watches him quietly, his eyes widening more as Harry continues, as he tells him about the potion brewing, about Malfoy's current affliction and how he got it, until Lupin's eyes are simply wide with horror.
"Merlin," Lupin says, pushing out a long breath. He leans back on the couch. In the other room, Mrs. Figg is singing a high pitched tune to what Harry assumes is one of her cats. "That's barbaric. Malfoy isn't even of age yet, is he?"
"Er— he just turned, I think he said." This is a lie, but Harry's not quite sure how he knows what Malfoy's birthday is and he'd rather not add to the creepy list of things Harry practically stalked Malfoy to learn.
"It's horrifying. I— I can't imagine."
"I'm not sure what to say to him," Harry admits, looking down at his hands. Around his ankles, a small tabby Harry thinks is named Tulip brushes pushes her head against his shoe. "We hated each other, since we first met, and then… I never thought I would ever be the person he came to with this, I guess. He doesn't even have a wand with him. It's— unnerving."
"It's understandable, Harry." Lupin says in the calm voice of his that always manages to relax him. "It's not something most adults would even know how to handle. I don't really know what to do here. Draco Malfoy. Turning against his family name, betrayed by his father...it's hard to believe." Harry looks up at these words and finds Lupin watching him carefully. "Harry, I know you might not want to hear this, but it is possible that he's not being entirely truthful."
Harry shakes his head roughly and folds his arms over his chest.
"He's telling the truth, Remus. I'm sure of it." He avoids looking at the expression on Lupin's face. "Like I said, he doesn't have a wand on him. And we can give him veritaserum, can't we? He's not going to object."
Lupin hesitates before nodding slowly and standing up. He picks up his robes and starts pushing back on. Harry stands up too, confused.
"Wait, that's it? You're fine with all of this?"
Lupin shoots Harry a strange look.
"No, Harry. I… I'm going to go get him. I'll bring him to an Order safehouse, where someone can watch over him."
For some reason, some strange reason that Harry doesn't want to think about, that he tucks away in the far corners of his mind, this idea doesn't seem right to him. A knot of anxiety tightens in Harry's stomach.
"I don't think that's the best idea," he blurts out, and again, Lupin sends him another look with the same mixture of confusion and surprise. Harry continues on, trying to make his voice sound like he's thought this through. "I think it would be best if he stayed. With me. It's got to be a lot, everyone knowing all this, right? And he has to be safer with me here than in a safe house. Voldemort can't get in the house, right? He's going to try a lot harder to search for Malfoy. I don't want anyone in the Order getting hurt, not for him."
Lupin stares at Harry for a long moment, and he's not sure if he wants to know what Lupin is thinking at the moment. Finally, however, Lupin nods his head and rubs a hand over his eyes.
"You're probably right, at least for the next weeks. It'll give us time to think of a plan. And an explanation, perhaps."
"Right," Harry says, and the pit of his stomach relaxes a little. "Ease people into it."
"I suppose, yes. But Harry," Lupin says, in the very serious tone that only he can completely achieve. "If anything, really anything, seems off to you, you need to tell us. Immediately. I know you like to do things on your own—"
"Hey," Harry cuts in, stung. "I came to you, didn't I?"
"You did," Lupin says gently. "But hours after the fact. It could have gone many other ways, Harry. I need your word that you'll let us know as soon as anything would happen." Harry looks down at his feet, annoyed with Lupin for making him feel thirteen again, like he was being scolded again for sneaking into Hogsmeade.
"And I'll make sure someone's posted at the back entrance too. I don't like that Malfoy got through undetected."
Harry simply nods. The two of them thank Mrs. Figg and hurry out before she has a chance to offer them the homemade fruitcake Harry can see on the kitchen table. They walk down the road together. Dusk is beginning to set in, and the hot summer air of the midday is starting to disappear. Harry sucks in a deep breath of cooling air and lets it calm him.
Lupin pulls him aside before Harry slips back into the Dursley's house.
"I want to say, Harry. I'm very proud of you, of how you handled this all. Not everyone would show such compassionate towards their enemy. Your—Your parents would be proud too."
Harry smiles at Lupin and is at once overwhelmed with gratitude for Lupin in his life.
"Thank you, Remus."
Lupin gives him a small smile in return and disappears into the street behind Harry. Harry doesn't watch him go, instead slipping in through the back door and hurrying up the stairs before Aunt Petunia can tell him to do the dinner dishes.