The Water View
Draco had been dreaming again. The water was silver-bright, sparks off a mirror surface, almost translucent, almost non-existent and yet all around him, like air or light. Like the warmth of another's body close by. It trickled through the Manor's gates, unhindered by ancient wards and more recent protection spells. It seeped in underneath the doors, pushed in through the cracks between window pane and frame, dripped down from the ceilings. He tried to stop it, he cast the right spell but all that came from his mouth was Aguamenti, Aguamenti, and more water sprung from the tip of his wand. He'd woken with a strangled scream on his lips, drenched in sweat, sucking in the air as if he hadn't been able to breathe.
"Good morning, Master Draco. Is Master Draco wanting breakfast in bed?"
Draco's hand shot out, reaching underneath his pillow in a scramble, clutching the wand there. It was pure instinct, beaten into him by the many occasions when the Dark Lord had called on him in the middle of the night. The hawthorn wood was smooth and warm; relief rushed through Draco. He pushed his sweaty fringe of hair from his face and turned towards the door. Bloody elf. Draco had told it a hundred times not to enter his room unannounced.
"Get the fuck out and don't come back. I'll be down whenever I want to."
It didn't move but just stood there, waiting. Such ugly things. Huge ears and that wrinkled skin, like dirty piglets.
"What? What the fuck is it? I said, get out!"
The elf was trembling. There was a yellow stain on its tea-cosy, right below the Malfoy crest.
"An owl, M-Master Draco. From the Mistress, from Fr-Fr..." It was holding a silver platter, and sitting up, Draco recognised Mother's cream-white stationary.
"From France? Salazar, why didn't you tell me? Bring it to me and leave."
Draco had barely taken the letter from the silver plate when the elf was out of the door. Thank Merlin for small favours.
He moved his fingertips over the thick parchment, following the whorls and curls of his mother's script. His parents had moved to France two years ago, and still Mother wrote every week. Draco had visited a dozen times but made his choice to stay in England. It was the one thing Father and he agreed upon. 'Show them,' Father would say, 'Show them that the name of Malfoy means something still.' He had some sort of political career in mind for Draco, some high-ranking position in the Ministry, with aspirations for a seat on the Wizengamot. It was ridiculous, the ravings of a lunatic. Nobody in the wizarding world today wanted anything to do with neither the Malfoy name nor the Malfoy heir. Whenever he was in France, he and Father fought – long, bitter, hurtful arguments that made Mother cry. Draco hated it. There wasn't enough space for him and Father in the decrepit chateau on Douarnenez Bay. And so Draco returned to Wiltshire, trying to make the Manor his home again.
He brought the letter to his nose, and let himself be enveloped in the scent of Mother's perfume, of English roses and memories of a happier time.
o o
"Another one from the Malfoy boy."
With a thud a turquoise-coloured file landed on Harry's desk. A puff of dust rose from the parchments, and tea from Harry's Cannons cup spilled over the report he was currently studying. Carmela Munch glared at him as if it was his fault that Malfoy kept getting into trouble.
"What did he do this time?" Harry reached for the file but then thought better of it. He threw it onto a pile of folders sitting on the shelf where the parchment and quills were stored.
It was not a huge pile. And they were certainly not Harry's most prominent cases, but enough of them to qualify as a pile. They were all turquoise, all misdemeanours, nothing too serious or dangerous – the usual ones given to the Junior Aurors. But it couldn't be coincidence that Harry Potter was assigned all of Malfoy's silly cases. No doubt Robards was behind it, another one of the Head Auror's educational tasks to introduce the "children" of the "so-called Dumbledore's Army" to the realities of magical law enforcement. Even Hermione, who worked at the post-Travers Improper Use of Magic Office, had got his infamous talk about how their "adventures" were over and "welcome to the adult life". Adventures... As if Hermione with her campaign to get Muggleborn wand-issue regulation abolished had ever been anything but dead serious about what she was doing.
Malfoy though... Harry sighed as he glanced at the file.
"Another accident." Carmela, who was married to Eric the watchwizard in the Atrium, gave Harry a conspiratorial wink. Harry had no idea when the two of them had formed a conspiracy. It must have been at the last office party, shortly after Harry's coming-out, when Carmela had told him with a pointed look at his five o'clock shadow that she liked men with beards.
"Was someone hurt?"
"Only Malfoy himself. They're patching him up at St. Mungo's right now."
Initially, it had just been a couple of freakish accidents. They became more and more uncanny, with each new report that Malfoy had got himself entangled in yet another full-frontal crash on his Comet Three Thirty. Ron had shrugged it off as more proof that the ferret was no good on a broom. But Harry knew that Malfoy was a good flyer, excellent even, school animosities aside. Even Robards – Quidditch-obsessed as the rest of the wizarding world – had conceded the young Malfoy possessed superior flying skills. Not that they had got Malfoy into any of the pro teams, no matter how many spectacular try-outs he flew. Robards' voice had been full of regret, but no, no one with a Dark Mark on their arm would be playing Quidditch in the Leagues, not for the Wasps, and not for the Cannons.
The first accident had involved the mayor of Little Hangleton, a middle-aged witch who had been on her way to a prize show of magically bred roses. Just over Wylye Valley another flyer had appeared out of nowhere in front of her. Mrs Woodhouse reported to have called out but to no avail. They had crashed into each other mid-air. Luckily, Mrs Woodhouse had had the presence of mind to cast a Cushioning Charm, and neither flyer had been hurt. Her broom was a splintered mess but was promptly replaced by a newer, better one with funds from the Malfoy vault. Malfoy had been released from St. Mungo's within the hour. Too much Ogden's, the Daily Prophet had surmised.
Malfoy's broom crashes had only become an issue for the Aurors when he had appeared in the skies above Hogsmeade Village and kept colliding with locals and students from Hogwarts. There had been a constant flow of reports about broken legs and broken noses, about emergency landings in trees and on rooftops, about broom speeding and about Hogwarts copy-cats who kept staging broom accidents every Hogsmeade weekend. Robards had sent Harry to personally escort Malfoy back to Wiltshire, with strict orders to stay away from Hogsmeade.
Since then, a new slender turquoise folders appeared on Harry's desk two or three times a month. Malfoy never flew further North than Warwickshire, and he paid for all the damage caused by his strange accidents. The other flyers came out with a scratch or bruise and a generous compensation out of Malfoy's pockets. Ron laughed his head off whenever a new report came in. Hermione worried about Malfoy's state of mind, what with his parents in France and all. Robards, being a Slytherin himself, hinted at some possible Slytherin scheme of revenge, for not being admitted into any of the pro teams. Broom Regulation Control wanted to confiscate Malfoy's broom. Harry (predictably, Hermione said) suspected that Malfoy was up to no good. What Malfoy was up to, Harry had no idea. Perhaps this was why Robards kept shoving Malfoy's files Harry's way.
Carmela Munch still stood in front of his desk, eyeing the family pictures of the Weasleys on the shelf behind him with unconvincing disinterest.
"What?" Harry asked.
"Well? Don't you want to know who he crashed into this time?"
Harry really did not want to know. But something in Carmela's tone made him look up. "Who did Malfoy crash into, Carmela?"
She placed her hands on the desk and leaned forward, revealing her impressive cleavage, smooth as a velvety white-fleshed peach. It was a pity, really, that Harry was not into cleavages, no matter how velvety. "A flock of Thestrals, if you can believe it. They had a foal with them." Carmela's smile revealed two rows of small gleaming teeth. "I doubt Mr Malfoy will be out of St. Mungo's so fast this time."
Thestrals... Harry found himself reaching for the file. Bloody Malfoy, damn the git.
"I'll be out all afternoon, Carmela. And don't..." He gave her his best glare. "Don't tell Ron where I am."
o o
Malfoy was in a room on the ground floor of St. Mungo's. The Welcome Witch simply pointed down the corridor when Harry asked for him, her head bowed over rolls of parchment.
All the rooms of Artefacts Accidents went out to the Muggle street that was running along the front of the red-brick building where the magical hospital was housed. The windows were charmed to let in the light but no sound entered from the busy street. To the Muggles looking up the facade, the windows looked boarded up or broken. There were even shards of glass on the walkway in front, replaced every two weeks by a squad from the Invisibility Task Force.
When Harry entered Malfoy's room – uninvited because nobody answered to his knocking – soundless rain gushed against the window pane. There were two beds, and Malfoy sat on the one further away from the door. A yellow bedspread was lying on it. He stared out towards the street.
For a moment Harry thought Malfoy had not heard the knocking and was about to announce his presence. But then Malfoy turned to him, a slow and deliberate movement. He was dressed in dark trousers and a white shirt. He mustered Harry with such a contemptuous, such a familiar sneer that Harry felt an equally familiar anger rise in him. Merlin, they all had changed so much since the war, the wizarding world had become a new and a different place. But here was Draco Malfoy, still the arrogant git, still proud of who knew what, still so full of entitlement. Harry inwardly steeled himself. He was here to interview Malfoy, not get into another senseless fight with him. Their school-days were over and done with.
"You would think without an Impervius Charm they'd invent something a bit more practical than umbrellas." Malfoy pointed with his chin toward a tall man in a business suit, fighting his umbrella that was turned inside out by the wind.
Harry stepped further into the room. Outside, the man closed the useless umbrella with a disgusted expression and hurried on through the storm.
"At least," Harry said, "he's only fighting the rain. Not a horde of Thestrals mid-air on a broom." He turned to Malfoy. In the watery light Malfoy's skin was even paler than Harry remembered. Nobody with hair that white-blond should have such pale skin. It just didn't seem natural.
"Ah, this is why the great Auror Potter is paying me a visit."
Harry could have been mistaken but Malfoy seemed tired. Or in pain. A half-empty bottle of Skele-Gro stood on the nightstand. One sleeve of his white shirt was cut open. His right arm was dressed in bandages from wrist to elbow.. Malfoy's gaze was back on the window and the rain.
"Robards wants these accidents to stop. Malfoy –" Harry looked around. The other bed in the room was stripped down to the linen. There were no chairs, not even a stool. "Do you mind if I sit?" He pointed towards the foot of Malfoy's bed.
Malfoy twisted his head, a startled expression on his face. "Is this going to take long? Sit on the other bed if you can't stand, Potter." But despite his words he pushed himself back against the headboard and drew up his knees.
It was not exactly an invitation – Harry rather got the feeling that Malfoy wanted to be as far away from him as possible. Still, he gingerly sat on the side of the bed. Malfoy stared at him, following Harry's movements with wide eyes. He cradled his broken arm towards his chest in a protective gesture that had to be unconscious. There was nothing Malfoy had to fear from Harry. He inched backwards on the bed so Malfoy would not think he'd attack him. Or whatever. He was only here to talk.
"Malfoy, remember what I said when I had to escort you back to Wiltshire from Hogs–"
"I haven't been anywhere near Hogsmeade in months." Malfoy's voice was cutting, his usual haughtiness firmly back in place.
"I know. Believe me, we are monitoring all your... accidents closely." He should have brought all those turquoise files with him, just to make Malfoy realise what his antics looked like from Harry's side. Not that it would have made any difference.
Predictably, Malfoy only rolled his eyes.
"They need to stop, Malfoy." Robards' orders. Talk some sense into the Malfoy boy, he had said. For the umpteenth time Harry wished Robards had sent someone else, Williamson or even Seamus. Anybody would have been doing a better job than him.
"You can't make me stop flying."
"Broom Regulation Control wants to do just that." Probably the wrong thing to say even when it was the truth.
"They want to take away my broom?" For a moment Malfoy's mask of indifference slipped, his voice became shrill. He glanced over to an alcove partitioned off behind lime-green curtains.
The bathroom, Harry suspected. And the place where Malfoy had stored his broom. It struck Harry that nobody had brought Malfoy clothes to change and taken his broom home. The clothes he was wearing had to be the ones he'd worn when he had flown into the Thestrals. Harry noticed the set of robes hanging from a hook at the inside of the door. The right side was in tatters.
"They can't do that. I bought that broom with my own money." Malfoy sounded petulant, like a child.
"Why are you doing it?"
"Doing what?"
Harry fought down the overwhelming urge to shake him. "Provoking those stupid broom crashes. Racing into people purposely. Flying into a flock of Thestrals. Thestrals, Malfoy!" He struck the bed with his flat hand. "Nobody goes near a Thestral with a foal. Not on the ground, not in the air. Nobody, Malfoy. Are you suicidal? Is that it? Do you actually want to be ripped apart by Thestral fangs?"
Malfoy sat upright, back pressed against the headboard. Two faint red dots appeared high on his cheeks. "I provoked nothing," he said through clenched teeth. "I never flew into anyone on purpose. I have no wish to end my life, as much as this must disappoint you. These have been accidents, Potter. Merely accidents."
Out in the corridor, someone shouted loudly, a woman. Harry thought he could hear the rain whip against the window but that was impossible. When he lowered his gaze, he saw that he had fisted his hand into Malfoy's bedspread. He let the wool go and stood.
"Malfoy, listen... " What could he possibly say? Williamson would have known how to get through to Malfoy, with that half-threatening, half-cajoling way of his. But not Harry. "Listen, they... they will take away your broom. For a while at least. Broom Control wants to make you pass flying tests or something. You don't want that. I bloody don't want it. This is not about your flying. I know you are a perfectly fine flyer. I know you could have avoided those crashes. And I bloody don't care why you didn't. Just stop it, Malfoy. Stop whatever it is you're trying to accomplish. It's not working." Harry took a deep breath. He had said all of this before, of course, when he had taken Malfoy into custody at Hogsmeade.
Malfoy was staring at him. For an odd moment Harry thought that this was Malfoy when he was not sneering or scowling but just being himself.
"I don't want to accomplish anything." Malfoy's voice was soft. He was leaning towards Harry as if to make him understand. "What could someone like me still accomplish? After they have won." He waved his good arm towards the window.
There was so much wrong with what Malfoy said, Harry didn't know where to begin. As if Muggles had won the war! People who didn't even know witches and wizards existed.
"Malfoy..." Harry started, but just then the door opened with a bang.
"The broom crasher," exclaimed a mediwitch, a slender woman with a swinging ponytail. Harry recognised the loud voice in the corridor outside. Malfoy shrunk back against the headboard. If Harry didn't know better he would have thought Draco Malfoy was afraid.
"Healer Pye tells me you need one good looking-over. If the arm is on the mend, you can go home. Does it still hurt? Yes? Did you take the Skele-Gro last night? No skipping the potion, mind that, young man. And if I release you now, you'd better not be back anytime soon or – Oh." She stopped mid-sentence to stare at Harry.
He coughed awkwardly. Malfoy rolled his eyes. The mediwitch kept staring as if she was dumbstruck by the sight of Harry Potter in the room.
"Madam," Harry said. "Um, I had to question Mal- ... Mr Malfoy here. Auror business. You know. I'll... I'll be going now." With three quick steps he was at door, the woman's gaze following him. Harry moved to bring the Auror badge on his robes between him and her. He'd die if she asked for an autograph. Or worse still, if she wanted to touch him. People were odd like that. There were parents who asked for their little children to be allowed to kiss his scar. Harry had suffered it once. Never again. Some days he only went to Diagon Alley with a Glamour firmly in place.
"Harry Potter," the mediwitch whispered dreamily.
Malfoy's snicker was soft but audible. The woman turned to him quickly, then pulled herself together. Without another word she drew her wand and started undressing Malfoy's arm.
With a sigh of relief Harry reached for the door, turning one last time towards Malfoy, to say good-bye. Likely they would be seeing each other again soon enough, beside a splintered broom or worse. A shadow passed across the window and over Malfoy's face, just as Harry meant to open the door and leave. And Malfoy's face was again without sneer or scowl, fixated on the mediwitch with such an odd expression that Harry couldn't help staring. There was trepidation in Malfoy's tightened jaw; there was clear fear in his eyes. But underneath was such... longing. Innocent, as if the mediwitch was Malfoy's mother or someone whom he was very close to. The thought was preposterous but stuck in Harry's mind as he kept staring, fingers on the door knob and not moving at all: that there was a purpose to what Malfoy was doing, and that this – a mediwitch dressing and undressing Malfoy's broken arm – had something to do with it.
The woman seemed to feel it, too. Harry would not have thought it possible, but despite her loud voice and her brash demeanour she touched Malfoy's arm with utter gentleness once the bandages were off. Malfoy still kept twitching, to the point where the mediwitch was making low soothing noises that Harry was sure neither she herself nor Malfoy registered.
The moment became too intimate, somehow, to watch. Harry turned the knob as carefully as he could, but it still creaked in the hinges.
Both Malfoy and the mediwitch looked up, and the woman smiled and waved him good-bye. Malfoy just looked at him blandly.
"Your arm is all healed, Mr Malfoy. One last signature from Healer Pye, and you're on your merry way." The mediwitch's voice was back to being too loud and very professional.
He stepped into the corridor. Malfoy's answer was muffled by the closing door. Harry didn't catch a word of it.
o o
Dusk was falling when Healer Augustus Pye finally discharged him. Draco stepped through the dusty glass doors directly onto the street he had been watching for the last two days. The ridiculous Muggle puppet waved at him with her stiff fingers, a lifeless automaton just like everything not created by magic.
Draco quickly cast an Impervius, while still standing in the Unplottable area before the wretched Muggle display window that marked the entrance of St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. The shabby exterior truly was unbefitting such an important building. Father had been right to refuse to set foot into St. Mungo's, preferring the privately managed Urquhart Rackharrow Infirmary for all the Malfoy family's medical needs.
But Father was far away in France, and Draco had not protested when the Aurors had brought him to St. Mungo's. They couldn't refuse him, not with their high-minded Oath of Hippocrates, even when they glared at his Dark Mark and would not put another patient into the room with him.
He could Apparate from here back to the Manor. Or get on his broom and take off for Wiltshire. The rain was coming down so hard, Draco doubted anyone would look up into the sky and see him fly. Instead he let himself be swept up by the Muggles on the walkway, hurrying with them towards wherever the broad street was leading. For a moment, he wondered whether he would attract attention, in his shredded robes and with the broom at his side. But nobody seemed to care.
Good. This was not any different than the rest of his life.
With night approaching, the street became a bluish stream with yellow and red lights rushing by. Draco kept to the brightly lit store fronts to not be pushed in front of an automobile. Nasty contraptions, those things. He turned away from the stink and the noise. What he really should do was step into one of the shadowed entrances and Disapparate. What did he want here, anyway, in the middle of Muggle London?
Not much to go home to in the Manor, was there?
Muggles were coming out of stores, umbrellas in one hand, bags and packages in the other. The bustle reminded Draco of Diagon Alley during the last days of the summer holidays, before another school year started at Hogwarts. Of course, every respectable wizarding shop would Shrink customers' purchases for easy transport. He surreptitiously reached for his wand well hidden within his left sleeve. The rain turned into one of those fierce, short-lived April storms, with small hailstones bouncing off the pavement. Soon Draco would have to remove the Impervius, or some Muggle was bound to notice. But for now, walking underneath the big trees lining the street, he was safe.
The crowd dispersed, some running towards the safety of a store still open, others stepping onto one of those huge buses that reminded Draco of the Knightbus. The colour was wrong. Who ever would paint a bus fire-red? Following the few Muggles who still braved the storm, he crossed a couple of streets whenever there was a gap in the endless stream of automobiles.
It was almost dark when he found himself in a narrower road with pubs and small shops. Draco slowed down and fortified the Impervius. His shoes were wet, and the hem of his robes was getting drenched. Quickly he checked to see if any Muggles were close by, then drew his wand and blew hot air on the damp cloth.
There was a bright light reflecting from the puddles on the pavement. A gust of wind soaked him but Draco barely noticed. Across the street a building rose up high into the sky. The last light of the evening shone behind it, a deep dark blue like the winter ocean he had seen from a cliff near Douarnenez Bay. The building was awash in water, drenching every coral-coloured brick, every clear-washed stone, dripping from every pillar, from every shell-shaped arch of the rows and rows of windows. A pink light was shining upwards, illuminating oval crevices and nooks from below.
Draco gasped. He thought he could hear the chiming of bells, the chanting of clear voices. The panic from his dream came back, that he was suffocating from the water all around him. But his wand was warm in his hand, solid hawthorn, the unresisting, indestructible power of unicorn hair. Potter had given it back to him after his trial. To this day Draco remembered their hand-shake, and Potter's touch on his shoulder, Potter's wry smile. He would not drown in a bit of rain. (He swore he would not go mad.)
The legend was ages old, of a sunken cathedral near the Island of Ys. It was one of Draco's earliest memories: Father sitting on the velvety chair in Draco's room, bringing a faint scent of lemons with him, his voice deep and quiet, telling Draco the legend of the Cathedral of Ys, sunken but rising again, gone from this world into a realm of water, but always there for wizards to see, on a clear morning.
The Cathedral, Draco thought. It's risen. And chuckled at the thought. He was going mad, talking only to house-elves, healers and – every once in a while – Potter on Auror business. For what rose before him, coral and pink before the evening sky, was a Muggle theatre, a place where they showed their moving pictures. Palace, a vertical sign spelled the theatre's name in big letters, black on white, and what an apt name it was for the waterlogged likeness of a sunken cathedral.
Draco crossed the street, wand back in his sleeve but at the ready. An illuminated marquee was running along the front of the building. Raindrops sparkled in the electric light of a hundred pear-shaped globes. Underneath in tall letters stood the names of the moving pictures currently showing. FREE HUGS, the one to the left said, and Draco had to squint to make sure he had not misread.
Rain was streaming down his face, the water soft and warm for April. There were people gathering underneath the marquee, closing umbrellas, greeting each other with laughter or annoyed gestures towards watches on their wrists. They stepped through the theatre's doors that were solid and old-fashioned like the doors of St. Mungo's.
Draco shook his head, to move the dripping fringe out of his eyes. Only then he realised his Impervius Charm had stopped. All those months he had been flying the skies, looking for... someone. For anyone to notice him (to touch him). And here Muggles were giving away hugs for free. I will look beyond the water, Draco thought as he Shrunk his broom to the size of a twig. I will breathe it, like air. Moments later he was through the glass door. It took a quick Confundus Charm to get him into the Palace Theatre where he watched his first-ever moving picture.
o o
When Draco returned to the Manor in the middle of the night, the house-elves greeted him at the door. They were both in a twitter, running in circles around him and stroking his knees. It was not something Draco had ever seen from old Hanny. Lotti was different. Draco seemed to remember the elf had cried when Mother had left for France. It occurred to him that next time he was gone for so long, he should inform the house-elves of his whereabouts.
He fought the urge to pat the creatures on their bald heads. The sentiment had to be the after-effects of the moving picture. A Muggle woman in pink hot-pants and very odd, knee-high boots hugging other Muggles in the street. It was silly, of course, but strangely charming. In the theatre, once the pictures had come to an end, the girl in the seat beside Draco had turned to him, clearly wanting to hug him. He had fled from the hall as fast as possible.
The hardwood clock on the mantle-piece in the dining room struck midnight when Draco was served dinner. The elves had kept it warm for him. They now stood by the sideboard, their tea-cosies with the Malfoy crest freshly washed and neatly pressed. He had ordered them to wait on him during dinner, to not have the table feel so long, the room so empty, the silence so oppressing. Not that they were like real company. What would one talk about with house-elves? Draco had the old gramophone brought in, like Father had sometimes done for birthday dinners or when he had been in a particularly good mood. It was a simple spell to make the turntable whirl, and Draco had enjoyed those dinners with the old-fashioned tunes his grandparents must have danced to.
Tonight it felt strange to have the music play and the house-elves watch his every move. The younger one, Lotti, was nervously wringing a handkerchief that was much too large for its small frame. Dessert was sitting ready on the sideboard. There was no need for an elf, let alone two of them. Draco remembered there were elf-children down in the kitchens all by themselves, and hadn't Lotti had another one just months ago?
"Lotti", he turned to the elf who immediately stopped its fidgeting, "why don't you go down and check on the ... um, the children. I don't need you up anymore."
"Yes, Master?" Its big eyes grew even bigger but it did not move.
"You may retire, Lotti. Go."
Lotti blinked a couple of times, then looked sideways to Hanny. The older elf nodded. Lotti quickly curtsied in Draco's direction, followed by a soft pop, and she was gone.
"Will Master Draco be having dessert now?" Hanny's tone was both casual and precise as if Draco had not just broken the routine he had ordered two years ago and since then kept up faithfully night after night.
"I will, yes." Draco got up, took the empty plates and put them on the sideboard.
The elf stared at him, eyes big as Quidditch loops, a plate full of cream-puffs in its shaky hand. "Master Draco must not clean the table. This is elf work, Master Draco."
"It is," Draco conceded. He took the plate from Hanny's hand and bit into one of the cream-puffs. They were still warm, delicious and one of Draco's favourite desserts. "But it's also ridiculous to have a full dinner laid out for only one person every night. The Manor is too big to keep up with for the two of you, anyway. But we need to keep it for, for..." He faltered. What could someone like me still accomplish? The cream puff tasted bland, all of a sudden.
"For when Mistress Narcissa is coming back home? And Master Lucius." The house-elf's eyes were shining. They all loved Draco's mother. His father, not so much.
Draco shook his head. "They won't be coming back. At least, not for a very long time." Not as long as Father insisted he had done no wrong. Not as long as he believed that while the Dark Lord might have been extreme, purebloods were meant to rule wizarding society and Mudbloods be stripped of their wands. Lucius Malfoy still accused his son and wife of betrayal and painted himself the martyr who had to suffer Azkaban while they had gone their happy ways. Draco did not know how Mother could stand it, but no, they would not be coming back anytime soon.
"And there won't be... a new Mistress, no?" The elf looked at him sideways, half-shrewd, half-afraid. It certainly wasn't its place to ask such questions.
But Draco let it pass and shrugged. "Who would want me? With this..." He turned his left arm, and the elf twitched even though the Mark was covered by the sleeve of Draco's robes. Father had never been kind to the elves, but the Dark Lord had been vicious. Its ugly snake had fed on them when no other prey was available. There had been blood-bath after blood-bath in the kitchens until Mother had put a stop to it.
"And... you know," Draco said with another shrug. It felt odd to discuss this with a house-elf when he hadn't even talked about his... preference with the family lawyer. But Hanny knew about Blaise, when Blaise had still been around. He knew about the few blokes Draco had picked up in Knockturn Alley and brought to the Manor for the night. The memory of Potter flashed through Draco's mind, sitting on the foot of his bed, dressed in red, wild black hair, his eyes always hidden behind those stupid glasses. It was not a memory Draco allowed himself to dwell on.
"For festivities, then", the elf said, with an air of resolute finality.
Festivities? It took Draco a moment to get back to their conversation. "Yes, yes, of course, festivities! We can have those. A... a charity ball, maybe." In a couple of years, maybe. When he could be certain at least some people would accept invitations to Malfoy Manor. A charity ball for Hogwarts. There had been good times at Hogwarts. And for St. Mungo's, considering how often he had been there in the last couple of months. He could still write cheques, he could still spread the Malfoy Galleons around. Their vaults at Gringotts seemed to be inexhaustible, despite the war reparations and the fines he had to pay.
Hanny seemed relieved to have found a proper purpose for the Manor at last. Draco handed it the dessert plate, and it took it with a grateful expression.
"I won't be home for lunch tomorrow," Draco said. The idea had been building in his mind ever since he had seen the movie.
"Very well, Master Draco." The elf turned to leave the room.
"And, Hanny, I'll be down for breakfast at eight."
Draco might have been mistaken but he thought there was a grin flickering over the elf's grey face.
That night Draco dreamed of a pale sunrise over the ocean. The sky was gleaming white and the water sparkling silver; it was impossible to see the horizon. In his dream he felt wet sand beneath his naked feet, the chilly wind of early morning. The water was rising around him in sluggish waves, sloshing around his ankles, his knees and his thighs. Soon it was all around him like the warmth of another's body close by. He was breathing easily, in and out like the tide. He let himself fall, gently. The water carried him out into the sea. The scent of heather and pines was in the air, and a hint of lemon. He passed le cap de la Chèvre to the right, Pointe du Van to his left. Then the ocean was glistening before him, unchartered, endless and wide open.
o o
At forty minutes to one, Carmela Munch entered the office. Harry had been glancing at the clock for the last hour, waiting for lunch break so he and Ron could escape the hundreds of dusty files Robards had dumped on them this morning. Study them, he had ordered. Investigative techniques, information sources, foot work. Hermione had come by to tell them that the Head Auror had left a heap of old files for her, too, and over at Law Enforcement Patrol on Seamus' desk as well. It was on days like this that Harry envied Neville who was working at Hogwarts, repotting Mandrakes under Madame Sprout's sharp eyes. He even envied Malfoy who must be bored out of his wits with whatever it was that he did to run a manor house.
Carmela cleared her throat.
She was hiding something behind her back, Harry noticed. This couldn't be another – "Don't tell me it's Malfoy again."
"She is hiding a turquoise file." Ron could not sound smugger if he wanted to.
"God! He was released from St. Mungo's only last night. I thought I'd had him off my back for a couple of weeks."
"He's not crashed this time." Carmela placed the thin file neatly on Harry's desk, right beside the swaying tower of Robards' ancient cases.
Harry snatched it up before she could make this another one of their 'secrets' and shoot him meaningful glances. Things had come to a point where Harry was blushing whenever he passed Eric the watchwizard on his way home. It was plain depressing to have such a dedicated fag hag fan but not a lover. He couldn't well tell Carmela Munch that his coming-out was only based on a one-off – a spectacular one-off – with Oliver Wood. Oliver who had been going on and on about trust and confidentiality when he had left Harry, blissfully fucked-out, the morning after. There never had been as much as the hint of a rumour. Harry's coming-out had even left Rita Skeeter in stupendous, surprised shock. Harry only wished Oliver would sometimes smile at him, or even just look him in the face. In his darkest moments Harry thought he must have been the worst lay ever, for Oliver to behave like this.
"And?" Ron was standing beside Carmela, staring at the file in Harry's hand.
Malfoy. Right. And how was he going about getting laid? Pretty blond posh boy. Malfoy could easily find a lover, Harry assumed, if not for that ugly mark on his arm. He opened the file that consisted of only one sheet of paper, a letter of complaint sent by the new owner of Scribbulus Everchanging Inks, a Mrs Elvira Stalk. A memory flashed through Harry's mind, of Malfoy looking up to the mediwitch, about to pull his arm away from her touch but wanting to be touched all the same. Wanting it badly. Somehow Harry doubted that Malfoy was having a lot of lovers these days. Not when he was spending a perfectly fine week-day morning in Diagon Alley –
Harry jumped up from his seat. "He is doing what?!"
"Told you. Not crashing brooms." Carmela winked at him, breasts perky underneath her woollen sweater.
"What is he up to now?" Ron tried to read the file upside-down but Harry wiped it off the desk and stuck it underneath his shirt.
"I am so going to get him this time." Harry took his robes off the hook, on second thought he pulled his MLE-issued broom out of the closet. On a broom he'd be at Diagon in less than five minutes.
"What? Why are you taking a broom? What has Malfoy done? Where are you going, Harry?" Ron turned to Carmela who stood at Harry's desk, a knowing (and what did she know?) smile on her lips. "See, see?" Ron yelled. "I told you to show me Malfoy's files before you give it to him. I told you how Harry gets with the git. Now he's going to go after him! Nothing good ever came out of Harry's obsession with Malfoy. You should have seen him sixth year at Hogwarts. Barmy. I keep telling Mione..."
And Harry was out the door.
o o
Was it even a criminal offence, what Malfoy was doing? Harry watched him from the shaded entrance of the magical instruments shop where he had sought shelter from the rain a couple of minutes ago.
Malfoy was standing in the middle of Diagon Alley, a forlorn figure in the drizzle. He was wearing an old-fashioned coat, some outfit that had been fashionable with Muggles a long time ago, made of blue cloth with small brass buttons over a pair of velvet trousers. It was always hard to miss any of the Malfoys in a crowd because of their unnaturally bright hair. But one could have spotted this Malfoy, blinked at the sight and forgot him the next moment if not for the sign that was hovering behind Malfoy's back. It was small, nothing fancy or conspicuous. In old-fashioned letters on a thick sheet of parchment it read FREE HUGS.
Free hugs.
Malfoy had his arms clenched to his sides, eyes downcast to the pavement, with occasional glances to the shoppers who were gathering on both sides of the street. He didn't look very eager to hug anyone, let alone any stranger coming along. But the sign was clearly his, and he kept making small movements, turning left, then right, then left again, as if inviting people to come up to him. Malfoy, Harry thought, looked as if he needed a hug.
Mrs Stalk stood in front of Scribbulus Everchanging Inks, a huge umbrella with yellow and pink stripes over her head. Harry had already spoken to her about the complaint. Malfoy (a Death Eater, all the Malfoys are) was disrupting business, she claimed, standing in front of her shop and scaring customers away (should have gone to Azkaban, like the rest of the lot). A tall, lank wizard at her side had nodded gravely, a small parcel in his hand, stiff parchment wrapped around something shaped like an ink bottle.
"Has anybody gone up to him for a hug yet?" Harry had asked. He could not see how Malfoy was disrupting any business, not with the crowd gathering in front of Scribbulus' store-front window and admiring the differently coloured inks when they were not staring at Malfoy.
Mrs Stalk had pointed towards the ice-cream parlour down the street. In front of it had sat Dedalus Diggle, on one of the plush red settees Gabriella, the new owner, had put there. His top hat had been dry, an Impervius Charm securely in place, and he had eaten a cone overflowing with ice-cream so brightly orange it had seemed to glow. Tangerine flavour, had been Harry's guess, but later, when he had spoken to Mr Diggle, he had told him it was pumpkin with a healthy shot of cinnamon liquor.
"Diggle hugged the Death Eater," Mrs Stalk had said. "Stepped right into him fiddling with that stupid pocket-watch of his, and then hugged him as if it was the most normal thing in the world, hugging wizards in the street. The old fool has always been partial to the pureblood cause."
"He wasn't. Never." Harry remembered vividly how friendly Mr Diggle had been to the Dursleys, even trying to flatter Uncle Vernon. He remembered, too, a tiny man with a violet top hat bowing to a small boy in a Muggle shop.
When Harry had asked Dedalus Diggle about hugging Malfoy, Diggle had offered him a taste of the pumpkin ice-cream.
"He didn't cast any spell on you, sir?" Harry had asked.
"But no, Harry. Why would he? He needs a hug. And he's giving some out in return. That's just being polite, like telling people the time when they ask for it." He had patted the bulging pocket of his waistcoat with a smile.
Dedalus Diggle had not seemed Imperiused or Confunded. He had seemed perfectly all right. The pumpkin ice-cream had tasted delicious, fruity and rich, with a zing of liquor for an aftertaste. Harry was quite certain Malfoy would love a cone of it.
But Malfoy was still standing in the middle of Diagon Alley. He had seen Harry but not acknowledged his presence, not even with a nod or a shrug. But since Harry had taken up position by the entrance, Malfoy had not looked in his direction at all. He might have moved a bit to Harry's side of the street, though, further away from Scribbulus where Mrs Stalk was glaring darkly out of her shop.
Harry kept watching Malfoy. Malfoy walked back and forth a few yards. He loosened his shoulders every minute or so. He kept glancing at passers-by, inviting them to come closer, and at the same time obviously afraid that they would.
It was a silly thing to do – offering free hugs in Diagon Alley. Harry had seen Bozo from the Daily Prophet stroll by and do a double-take when he recognised Lucius Malfoy's son. The photographer had turned on his heels and raced back towards the Prophet's offices as fast as he could. Rita Skeeter would be here in no time. It was not hard to guess what tomorrow's headline would be.
It was a brave thing to do.
Was this Malfoy's way of saying 'fuck you' to the wizarding world? You won't let me play Quidditch, even when Britain hasn't made the qualifications for the World Cup this year? You want to take away my broom and won't let me fly? So let me hug you. Let's see what your Aurors can do about that.
It did not sound like Malfoy at all.
There was movement on Harry's side; a small witch was walking up briskly from Knockturn Alley. Her old-fashioned pointed hat and silver shoes were a dead give-away: everybody knew the squib who Tom had working in his kitchen, now that he was too old to tend both to bar and pots, and would not trust his fare to house-elves alone. Her heels clattered on the cobble-stones as she came closer.
The clattering did stop for one short moment, then the witch walked straight ahead towards Malfoy. He must have heard her or felt her swift approach, because he turned towards her, his arms unclenching from his sides. Harry could not detect any sign of hesitation or doubt when Malfoy leaned down a bit to be able to reach around the witch's waist. She slung her arms around his neck and hugged him tight. From where he stood, Harry could see most of Malfoy's face behind the pointy hat. Malfoy wasn't exactly beaming but Harry thought he could see a small smile on his lips.
Mrs Stalk was shaking her head so hard raindrops flew all around from her oversized umbrella. A gaggle of children in Hogwarts robes spilled out of Quality Quidditch Supplies. They were chattering excitedly about the new Firebolt 2000-X one of them carried. After them a group of parents stepped into the street, all dressed in Muggle clothes and looking a bit lost at their excited children. They had to be Muggleborn students, on an excursion to Diagon Alley, part of the new programme to better integrate the families of Muggleborns into the wizarding world.
A bit of sunshine was peaking through the clouds. In the bright light, Malfoy's sign was hard to miss. To the Muggle parents he had to look like another vendor, like the old hag who was selling stuffed cabbage rolls. One blonde woman pointed at Malfoy, saying something to a friend beside her. They both smiled broadly. Too broadly, Harry thought, almost as if they were looking at something familiar. But how could Draco Malfoy giving out free hugs be a familiar sight to Muggles?
Still the blonde woman waved to Malfoy, and he was responding with a hesitant wave of his own. He seemed to take courage from the interchange because he was pointing at his sign. Harry watched in wonder as the woman walked towards Malfoy and wrapped him into a hug. For a moment their blond heads were very close, when the woman was whispering something in Malfoy's ear. They both stepped back, hands still on each other arms, and Malfoy said, a bit indignantly, Harry thought, "But I'm a wizard, Madam. I never lived in the Muggle world."
The woman laughed. "Oh, I didn't know magical folk knew about the free hugs campaign. This is marvellous!"
She hugged Malfoy again and went back to her friend. The whole group gathered around Scribbulus' display window and soon disappeared into the store. Mrs Stalk followed them eagerly, the Death Eater disturbance apparently all forgotten.
Harry found himself stepping out of the shadows. He barely knew what he meant to do, only that Malfoy was offering free hugs and there was nothing criminal about it, nothing pure-blood supremacist or even magical. What could someone like me still accomplish? Quite a bit, it suddenly seemed to Harry. And he was on his bloody lunch break and could hug whomever he wanted.
Malfoy was clearly shocked to have Junior Auror Potter approach him, for he raised his hands and stepped back. But Harry already stood in front of him.
"Can I get one, too?" He pointed at the sign.
The corner of Malfoy's mouth twitched. An almost-smile, Harry was sure of it. Had he missed it he would have had second thoughts. For Malfoy was swaying on his feet, his face paler than only moments before. It cost him, Harry could tell, to make the final step and close the distance between them. But Harry knew better than to initiate the hug. This was no time to be the Gryffindor.
It started raining again when Malfoy's arms circled Harry's waist and pulled him close. Harry let his own hands move up Malfoy's back. He knew this body, knew the feeling of sharp ribs and hard shoulder blades. Hugging Malfoy felt familiar, like they had been close, physically, for a long time. And in a way they had been. Body memory told Harry to expect a knee in his groin, a fist making painful contact with his chin. Malfoy had to feel the same, for he had his arms wrapped around Harry so carefully you could barely call it a hug.
"I'm not made of glass, you know," Harry whispered, strands of Malfoy's hair tickling his mouth.
Malfoy pulled him tighter at once. "You're an idiot, Potter. I could hex your bollocks off if I wanted to." He spoke very softly.
Their bodies were flush against each other. Harry could feel Malfoy chuckle against his chest. He could feel the brass buttons pushing into his belly. He could feel Malfoy's soft cock. This was unfamiliar. They had never been that close before. The thought made Harry's toes go numb and his face hot.
The flash came out of nowhere, a startling, silver-bright blaze. They jumped apart. Black dots danced before Harry's eyes.
A thunderstorm, was his first thought. But there was no thunder. And Malfoy cursed, "Damn the vultures from the Prophet."
Ah. Skeeter. Harry reached for Malfoy blindly and found his hip. Such sharp bones, you could hurt yourself on them. He pulled Malfoy close, or meant to, for the git was struggling to get away from him.
"Not the headlines you want to read tomorrow morning." Malfoy tried to move backwards but Harry wouldn't let him.
"I'm not done yet with my free hug. And it's exactly the headlines I want to read." Over before Eeylops Owl Emporium Rita Skeeter was dictating so quickly that sparks glanced off her rhinestone studded glasses. She did not take her eyes off Harry and Malfoy. A long roll of parchment was unwinding in the air before her as her acid-green quill scribbled rapidly. It was protected by an Impervius but Skeeter's blond curls were dripping with rain.
Another blinding flash illuminated the whole of Diagon Alley.
It seemed to make Malfoy remember he was a Slytherin, and being on the Prophet's front page hugging the Saviour of the Wizarding World was infinitely better press than crashing into rose-loving mayors on his broom. He let himself be drawn into Harry's hug. It was pouring down even harder than before.
"Me too! Me too!" A boy was tugging at Malfoy's trousers.
They looked down at one of the second-years from Hogwarts, a dark-haired boy with multi-coloured ink spots all over his hands.
"Free hug?" the boy asked earnestly.
Malfoy disentangled himself from Harry's hold, just as Harry let go of him. They still stood close, just their body warmth and the rain between them. "Thank you," Malfoy whispered, and Harry wondered what he was being thanked for – the hug, tomorrow's headline? Malfoy's life?
Malfoy squatted beside the boy. "Of course you get a hug," he said and hugged the boy. In return, he was hugged by inky fingers that left stains all over his coat. But only Harry noticed, for Malfoy was pressing a kiss to the boy's dark hair, whispering "Darling" so softly that only Harry and the boy heard.
The child sprang away and joined his friends. Malfoy was left crouched on the pavement, his wet hair plastered to his head. Harry wanted to take him in his arms again, and usually he hated to be hugged by strangers. He wondered when Malfoy was done giving out free hugs and instead would be willing to share a cone of ice-cream with him. He wondered what it would take to have Malfoy call him 'darling', even when he still preferred Potter. He pointed towards Fortescue's with a questioning jerk of his chin, and Malfoy nodded through the rain. He got up and with a quick twirl of his wand righted the sign behind him. A witch in Unspeakable robes was approaching him, arms already spread wide.
Harry stepped back, moving towards Fortescue's, to not run into Rita Skeeter's poisonous quill or in front of Bozo who stood waiting with his camera. It would take a while for Malfoy to end his campaign for the day. Perhaps he had a certain number of people to hug. Or perhaps he meant to offer free hugs until tea-time. But Harry could take the afternoon off. The only cases waiting for him were decades old and solved. He sat on the red settee where Mr Diggle had sat and ordered pumpkin ice-cream cones.
The rain had stopped when Malfoy came by later. The git was completely dry as if he had not been soaked to the skin half an hour ago. His coat, too, was spotlessly clean. Harry must have dreamed up the rainbow of ink stains on the blue cloth.
"Can I get one, too?" Malfoy asked, eyeing the cone in Harry's hand.
It was already Harry's second one, and he was feeling a bit sick in the stomach. He held the half-eaten cone up for Malfoy to take, saying, "This one's on me."
o o o