Wands Upon A Time

by germankitty aka Dagmar Buse

Two Wands. Two wizards. One mystery (and legend) that binds all four. Harry/Draco post-Hogwarts relationship. Co-authored with Candamira.

Wands Upon A Time by germankitty and Candamira

A/N: Co-authored with Candamira. Gift fic for Lordes, written for the 2017 Harry/Draco Owlpost Fest over on LiveJournal. Originally posted on AO3.

Finnyb, thank you so much for your kind and reassuring feedback! (Speaking of which, reviews are love and will be gratefully accepted! *hint, hint*)

Disclaimer: All Harry Potter characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No copyright infringement is intended.

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Like every morning, Harry Potter entered the Ministry at eight o'clock, together with a swarm of other people. Like every morning, he exchanged greetings with those he knew, nodded or waved to those he knew of and ignored the rest as best he could. Like every morning, he joined his fellow Aurors in the lift that carried them from the Atrium down to Level Two.

And like every morning for the past fourteen months, he tried not to feel bitter that most of his colleagues went down the left corridor leading to the Auror Offices while he took a sharp right turn towards the Warehouse – or, as it was officially known, the Artefact Archives.

Sighing, Harry pushed the heavy door open.

"Good morning," he called out, but received no answer.

Looks like it's just me again. Great.

Grumbling to himself, Harry waved his wand to light the sconces on his way to his desk. He hung up his cloak, sat, plucked a Muggle notebook and pen from a drawer – using them instead of quill and parchment for note-taking was his silent protest for having been sent here; if he was stuck behind a desk for the foreseeable future, he'd damn well do the job however he liked – and glared resentfully at the stack of documents waiting for him. Whichever idiot had decided that he was the right person to catalogue and process the hoard of confiscated artefacts deserved to be tied to a tree in the Forbidden Forest, be made to eat nothing but Hagrid's rock cakes and forced to watch Professor Trelawney dance the Dance of Too Many Scarves while Filch sang a duet with Mrs Norris the Second. Or something.

Who do they think I am anyway, Hermione Lite?

He absolutely refused to admit that some of the work he was doing was actually rather fascinating; the Warehouse was filled with grimoires, objets d'art and all kinds of knickknacks that gave a much better insight into wizarding history than any lecture by Binns or, he was willing to bet, even Hermione's beloved Hogwarts: A History.

A lot of the items had been taken from Dark families in the aftermath of the War, true, but that didn't necessarily mean that they were all malicious in and of themselves. Just last week, he'd come across a set of rather pretty matching bracelets once belonging to the Nott family; spelled to kingdom come, naturally, or they wouldn't have ended up here in the Ministry's bowels, but merely to ensure marital fidelity, promote harmony and create a desire for domestic peace. Harry had packed up the bangles and certified them safe to return to the original owners with an inward smirk. Theo Nott was allegedly about to propose to Pansy Parkinson; if the rumour was true, the bracelets would certainly come in handy, given the prospective bride.

He still sighed as he opened the first folder of the day. Intellectually, Harry could see that having a qualified Auror working with a Ministry curse-breaker was the most efficient way of handling the artefacts; this way, it could be determined right away whether something was essentially harmless and could be given back, needed to be magically cleansed, had to be confiscated because of public danger or whether even just possessing the item in question was a prosecutable offense.

What Harry couldn't see was why that Auror had to be him. Just because he'd had to have the bones in his wand arm regrown again after the fiasco of the Boscastle flooding last summer and the Pufferfish in Skele-Gro reacting negatively with the mandrake in the Pepper-Up potion he'd taken that morning for a touch of the flu caused some stupid side-effects surely didn't mean that he had to be relegated to a desk job before he was even twenty-five, now did it?

Resentfully, he thought of the rumour going around the Auror office, about an illegal clinic that apparently healed people who either didn't want or dare to go to St Mungo's – or who'd been given up on as hopeless cases. Which wasn't a bad thing in principle, but … nobody knew where this clinic was, who was behind the operation or even how to get there. Not even the patients did. One moment they were sick or injured, the next they found themselves hale and hearty again, with no idea how it happened.

Obviously Obliviated, Harry thought. With uncommon skill and precision, too.

It was exactly the kind of case Harry had dreamed of when he joined the Aurors. He didn't believe it was Dark magic like some others did, but the mystery of it all was intriguing, to say the least. He wanted to be part of the investigation so badly, it felt like a physical ache. Instead he was relegated to the sidelines, stuck in a job he didn't want and which anybody could do, regardless of their health. Harry couldn't help but feel he was wasted here.

His hand clenched around the biro he was holding, the metal clip biting into his palm until it hurt. A part of his brain told him to be careful, to watch out, but … too late. A brief spasm zinged from his wrist to his nails and a second later the slender plastic tube dropped from suddenly nerveless fingers.

"Damn it all to hell!" Harry cursed, gripping his right hand with the left as he tried to massage some feeling back into skin and muscles. All things considered, it was a minor attack, neither particularly long nor painful. He'd had worse right after his injury. Or whenever he overexerted himself nowadays. Physical therapy helped; the healers at St Mungo's told him there was every chance he'd regain full use of his arm again. They just didn't know when that would be.

Gradually, Harry felt sensation return and his fingers once more reacted the way he wanted them to. He picked his pen up again and grimaced as his fingertips continued to prickle. If such a spasm had happened in the field, with his wand, possibly facing off with a criminal, or worse, a Dark wizard, he'd be toast. He would also endanger his partner and possible innocent bystanders – and that just wasn't on. It simply was safer for everyone if he waited for his injury to heal. Even if it meant he was stuck at a desk until it did. Harry knew that.

Didn't stop him from loathing the necessity with the heat of a thousand burning suns, though.

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Harry was yanked out of his gloomy thoughts by the creaking of the door and the cheerful voice of his colleague.

"Good morning, Auror Potter!"

He had to smile despite himself. So he wasn't going to be left alone all morning, after all. Anastacia Fawley, 'Stash' to her friends, was the best thing about this job he'd landed in – a few years older than him, a competent curse-breaker and friendly to a fault. There was no way he could stay mad or depressed for long in her company. The only other person who'd had a similar effect on him had been Tonks; much to Harry's delight, he'd learned that the two had been yearmates in Hufflepuff House, and they'd bonded over reminiscing about her.

"Good morning, Madam Fawley," he replied, using the same exaggerated mock formality she'd greeted him with. "How are you this fine day?"

"Dying for a cuppa," she said, plonking a large cardboard box on the table standing catty-corner to their desks. It was stamped with the Level Nine logo, making Harry perk up. Whenever the Department of Mysteries sent them items to process, it was bound to be interesting. "Have you ordered tea yet?"

Harry's stomach gurgled on cue and he shrugged sheepishly. "Er, no?"

"Well, shame on you, Oh Saviour." She grinned as he rolled his eyes and groaned. "Never mind, the elves make better tea for me anyway." In a flurry of movement, Stash sent her cloak to the peg next to Harry's, dropped the messenger bag she had slung over one shoulder under her desk and flung herself into her thoroughly Muggle office chair, almost crashing into the wall as the wheels spun wildly. "Howzy! Elfie!" she called.

A double 'pop' announced the arrival of a pair of house-elves, clad in matching tunics, some type of leggings and with Ministry-issued name tags pinned to their shoulders. "Yes, Madam Fawley?"

"Some tea for Auror Potter and myself, please," Stash requested. Harry cleared his throat and copied the puppy dog eyes Teddy was disturbingly expert at as best he could. She gave him a long look, then heaved a put-upon sigh. "And if you could also bring us a few crumpets with butter and honey from Level Seven?" There was a more convenient cafeteria in the Atrium but say what you will about Magical Games and Sports, they always had the best snacks.

One elf frowned. "Madam Fawley and Auror Potter will spill tea on parchments," he croaked in a voice almost as deep as Kreacher's.

"And yous be dripping honey on desk," the other complained. "Elfie is not knowing if it be proper."

"Madam and Auror can do as they likes," the first elf muttered. "But so can Howzy; we is libby-rated elves now."

Stash shook her head. "We'll be careful," she promised with quivering lips.

Elfie's dubious look coupled with Howzy's disgruntled expression nearly broke Harry's control. He manfully suppressed the urge to laugh – if he lost it, they could kiss any more tea deliveries good-bye for at least a week. There was a reason why this particular pair of elves were known as the Testy Twosome throughout the Ministry.

"Elfie, you know we work better with tea," Stash wheedled. "And working here is what Auror Potter and I are getting paid for, just like you are for looking after us. We just want to do a good job." The elves just stared at her for a long minute until Howzy nodded at last.

"Madam Fawley is being right," he said slowly. "We is being paid now to do as wizards ask."

Elfie grumbled something unintelligible; Harry suspected it was either over being unable to refute Stash's logic, or her barely-hidden disgust at being a 'Liberated Elf'. See what you did there, Hermione? He coughed to hide his snicker.

"Wes be right back." They disappeared with another 'pop'.

Anastacia slumped back into her chair. "Merlin, those two are something else."

"Yeah. And here I thought the elf I inherited was bad," Harry murmured. "They could teach even him lessons in how to be a killjoy."

"Oh? Do tell!"

Before Harry could answer, the elves returned one after the other, setting a fully-stocked tea tray plus a basket of crumpets on a filing cabinet between their desks.

"You is being careful now," Elfie said, sounding for all the world like Molly Weasley.

"Madam Fawley and Auror Potter will be washing hands before touching scrolls," Howzy added, giving the two a stern glance.

"Promise," Stash said, her hand already twitching for the tea pot. Both elves harumphed and popped out.

"Those two always make me feel like I'm twelve again," Harry said, grabbing a still-warm crumpet.

"Like you're being all grubby, forgot your chores and haven't done your homework, either?"

"Yeah."

Anastacia handed him a large mug of tea prepared exactly the way he liked. "Me, too." She took a long swallow of her own tea, sighed contentedly and leaned back in her chair. "It's a bloody nuisance, is what it is. Dealing with elves was a lot easier before they were all force-freed."

"What about owning sentient beings is morally wrong?"

"Well, yeah, but …" She subsided readily enough when he frowned, but muttered, "You should never have let Granger free the house-elves."

Harry stared at his colleague. "You've met Hermione, right? Nobody lets her do anything!"

"But you—"

"Not even me," Harry said firmly. "Trust me on that. Now, how about we finish breakfast and get to work? Can't wait to see what our Unspeakable colleagues have for us today."

"Slave driver," Stash mumbled around a bite of crumpet, but turned towards her desk willingly enough. Desks were cleared in record time, hands washed, cups refilled, and she at last waved her wand at the box she'd carried in earlier. The top unfolded with a papery rasp and the obligatory list of contents floated into her hand. "Now let's see … oh, good," she remarked. "Nothing too complicated for once. A stack of books ‒ we can split those ‒ a seventeenth-century jewellery chest, half the contents of which are suspected to be cursed—"

"I don't mind that as long as they caught all the poisoned trinkets," Harry interrupted drily. He hated having to fiddle with potions.

"Oh, quite," Anastacia muttered distractedly, rummaging through the box with list still in hand. "There are also a few perfume vials with obscure compulsion spells on them that need to be lifted plus a bunch of wands, all of which probably need Priori Incantatem if they're still functional. That's it."

Harry felt a frisson of excitement skitter down his spine at the mention of wands. The history of, and the story behind, the Elder Wand had sparked an interest in wandlore in him that had yet to wane; discovering Sirius' original wand, the one taken off him at his arrest back in 1982, earlier this year in the Warehouse solidified it. Harry had claimed that wand as Sirius' legal heir, and it now rested in a locked and safeguarded display case at Grimmauld Place, together with his mother's Willow and his father's Mahogany wands.

"Let's start with the books, then I'll take the wands, if you don't mind," he said as casually as he could. "I know you love handling the sparkly stuff and if we get around to it today we'll do the vials together."

"Fine by me. I hate casting Priori; remember that wand confiscated from the Macnairs? It had all these eviscerating, skinning and entrail-expelling spells on it. It was horrible!" She shuddered.

Harry laughed. "Walden Macnair was a right piece of work; wouldn't have surprised me at all if he'd used that particular wand as a Death Eater. Instead, it was just an heirloom from his maternal great-uncle who used to be a butcher. Nothing sinister about it at all. What a letdown!"

She made a gagging sound. "Only an Auror would say that!"

He winked. "Well, what do you expect? I am an Auror," he reminded her.

"Yes, and you're all disgusting. Now let's get to work."

Grinning, Harry snapped a salute. "Yes, ma'am. Right away, ma'am!"

"Oh, shut up, you!"

Laughing companionably, the two set to.

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"Done," Draco said and fixated the bandages on the unconscious wizard's chest. Screams echoing down the hallway leading to his treatment room already announced the next patient. He shoved the gurney towards Pansy who managed to look sexy even in a blood-spattered, lime-green Healer's robe. "Ob Room One."

"Already? That was fast!" Pansy jerked her head at two elves who had popped into existence seconds ago. "Perfect timing, you two. Did Mr Doe find his way home after you Side-Alonged him to the Leaky?"

"Yes, Miss Pansy," the slightly taller elf said, flattening her ears down the sides of her face. "Onyx and Topaz be always following patients home. Patients always be leaving clinic fit as fiddles."

"Every Mister Doe be getting home safe on Topaz and Onyx's watch." The other elf shuffled his feet and pulled at the hem of a black Muggle t-shirt that reached down to his shins. "And every Mistress, too." His lower lip trembled. "Also every child. Why Miss Pansy be asking? Must Topaz punish himself? Topaz could drink Hiccoughing Solution again."

"No, no, you did a good job."

Draco grinned; the internal eye-rolling was audible in Pansy's voice. Working with recently-freed elves could be exhausting.

Pansy nudged the surgery table in the elves' direction. "We patched up the next one in the meantime. Take him to Master Zabini in Obliviation Room One."

They hurried to obey and she returned to Draco's side. "You're healing so many, it's a shame we have to be so secretive about what we're doing here."

"Not again, Pans. You know my reasons." He rubbed his wrist. "In this brave new post-war world, you can either have a Dark Mark or a Healer's license. Not both."

No patient was allowed to leave without having been thoroughly Obliviated. Draco was paranoid the Aurors would find out about the illegal – and therefore secret – clinic he'd established in an abandoned and forgotten building that had once belonged to one of Blaise's seven dead step-fathers. Well-camouflaged by a modified Inconspicuousness Charm similar to the one hiding the Leaky Cauldron from the Muggles, the wizarding folk took no notice of its existence.

While nobody knew where it brought them to, everybody on Knockturn knew the Knight Bus would pick them up in cases of severe injury. How the bus got hailed remained a mystery; most of the time, the injured were too badly off to stick their wand hand in the air. But as long as the system kept functioning, people didn't waste too much thought on it and that was exactly the way Draco wanted it to be.

The cries of pain were close now; two other elves pushed the next gurney through the swing doors to the treatment room. Blood ran down the sides, and on it, a wizard was writhing in pain, both hands pressed to his abdomen where, pink and shiny, his intestines were squidging from between his splayed fingers.

"Two drops of DoP, then double vial BRP," Draco shouted. "He must drink it before I stun him, otherwise he'll bleed out during treatment!"

"Accio single vial Draught of Peace and double vial Blood Replenishing Potion," Pansy cried, flicking her wand at the shelf behind them and the requested vials flew into her hands. "Hold his head," she told one of the house-elves while she unstoppered the Draught of Peace.

The man was thrashing around despite the elf's efforts, but she applied two drops to his tongue with a practised hand. He stopped screaming and writhing immediately and looked at her as if he'd woken from a bad dream.

Pansy nodded at the elf to let go of the now calm wizard and he left, just as the Knight Bus honked the signal. Ernie and Stan had already picked up the next emergency case. What a night!

Draco adjusted the leather strap that kept his Lumosed Hawthorn wand in position on his head so it cast light on whatever he was looking at. Floating candles, sconces and Bluebell Charms were not bright enough for his difficult work. His patients' lives sometimes literally hung by a thread, a thread of life energy so thin and tangled up it was easily destroyed by a too fast or hefty movement.

He stretched out his hands and the elf who hadn't helped Pansy cast Tergeo at both. Blood and dried remains of spilled potions vanished and Draco pulled his Healer wand from his sleeve holster. The rune, embedded in the masterfully-carved quaternary Celtic knot adorning the pommel, glowed silver at his touch.

"You must drink this now," Pansy said to the wizard, casting a mild Sticking Charm on his shoulders just to be safe. She lifted his head with one hand and held the large vial of Blood Replenishing Potion to his lips with the other.

Panic flared up in the wizard's eyes. "No," he choked. "What is that? Who are you? What is this pla—"

"Drink." Pansy poured a big swig into his open mouth. His eyes bulged as the potion ran down his throat and reflex made him swallow until the vial was empty.

"Stupefy," Draco said as gently as possible and the man jerked the tiniest bit before he blacked out. His hands slid from his stomach, the fingers of the right one still hooked in a coil of intestine. Four streams of energy wrapped around his body like a cocoon – red for blood and humours, white for bones and teeth, green for organs and flesh, blue for senses and nerves.

Only the white energy flux looked good; it ran strong and steady, radiating a bright glow. The others, in contrast, were a mess. Entangled in a complicated knot over his wound, the blue one flickered in a troubled rhythm, and the red and green were barely existent, reduced to the width and strength of a hair.

Draco sighed.

"That bad?" Pansy asked. "I wish I could see what you see, just once!"

Draco smirked at her. "You have no idea how much I wish that, too. A night off now and then, leaving you in charge, would be terrific!"

The wand was twitching in his hand. It was the master here, using Draco as a tool to hold and swish and flick it while a silver thread of its mysterious magic connected it with the energy streams of the patient. Sometimes it took only minutes, sometimes it took endless hours, but the result was always the same: In the end all knots were unravelled, all wounds healed.

Draco couldn't tell how long it took the wand this time to work its wonders. He twisted his arm at nearly impossible angles, swung it in smallest loops or wide circles, stabbed the air as if he were holding a dagger or pushed it upward slowly and carefully like a needle through finest fabric.

Dawn was already painting the windows grey when he stopped at last, panting, sweat-soaked and with sagging shoulders. The four energy streams were flowing freely again, encasing the patient in a steady, four-coloured glow.

"Tough one, huh?" Pansy said and handed him a vial of Invigoration Draught.

He gulped it down in one and gave her the empty vial back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Thanks. I needed that."

Pansy unlocked the gurney's brakes and pushed it towards the swing door leading into the corridor to the Obliviation Rooms. "Onyx, Topaz, the next John Doe is ready for Obliviation. Come get him," she shouted. Letting go of the blood-smeared table, she returned to Draco.

"He would've died if he'd ended up in St Mungo's, you know that, don't you?"

"Pans, please." Draco groaned. "Do you really think they would let us continue? Here?" He turned in a wide circle, arms stretched in a gesture that encompassed the whole factory hall-like brick building. "They would confiscate the wand, lock me away for practising unknown, possibly Dark magic with unresearched, maybe dangerous side-effects, and shut the place down."

He let his arms drop to his sides and walked the few steps to the last patient of the night. The sky beyond the windows blushed faintly as the winter sun crept forth from behind a blanket of swollen clouds that promised more snow. "And you and Blaise could count yourself lucky if they arrested you for aiding and abetting only!"

"Yeah." Pansy sighed, an annoyed and gloomy little sound that awakened Draco's rage. His rage against society, the good witches and wizards out there who deemed themselves free of all guilt. Who still thought they were the only ones who had suffered under the Dark Lord's reign of terror. Who'd never acknowledge that he and his friends had also been victims.

"I guess you're right," Pansy said. "What's more, Theo would hate having to apply for conjugal visits in Azkaban. Still ..." Another sigh, a deep inhale, and the chipper Pansy Draco needed to get him through these nights was back. "He's DoP'ed," she said, dangling the vial containing Draught of Peace between her thumb and index finger. "Two drops. Was screaming his head off, but who wouldn't if their leg looked like his?" She pointed at a large tear in the dazed wizard's trousers.

Draco grimaced; the blood-caked, ragged ends of a large broken bone stuck out of it.

"Femural fracture," Draco muttered. "The perfect finale to a night like this."

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Harry and Anastacia worked through lunch, asking the still-grumpy elves to provide them with cups of soup and sandwiches at their desks instead. He found himself strangely eager to finish cataloguing his portion of the books as quickly as possible so he could turn his attention towards the dozen or so wands ‒ it almost felt as if they were calling to him. Once he got started on them, Harry methodically filled in the form attached to each with the sparse information already provided by the Department of Mysteries – owner's name if known, the family in whose possession it had been last if not, type of wood and core as well as the approximate age. Only then did he perform Priori Incantatem on every wand, jotting down the last few spells that had been cast with it.

The older the wand was, the harder it was to identify the spells. Even so, most were basically harmless spells that each witch or wizard might cast every day – Accio, Reparo, household or work-related spells like Geminio in the case of a librarian and the like. However, sometimes his investigation would show what the Aurors called 'Combat Spells', comprising everything from minor jinxes to hexes and curses. In such cases, Harry had to cross-reference the owner's or family's business, the circumstances under which the wand had last been used and determine whether it had been justifiable use or a possible crime committed.

It was slow and often tedious work, especially as meticulous research wasn't exactly Harry's forte, but it was also quite interesting. So he ploughed on, having learned over the past year how to use his own magic judiciously and with finesse rather than putting every ounce of power he could muster into his casting.

Over at her desk, Anastacia was just as painstakingly going through the jewellery chest. Occasionally, she would try on an especially beautiful or overly gaudy piece, showing it off for him with pithy comments that amused Harry to no end. Having finished sooner than him, she went for a bathroom break before tackling the perfume vials. On her return she was Levitating a fresh pot of tea, set it onto her cleared desktop and fixed cups for both of them. She then brought Harry's drink to his desk.

"You about done?" she asked.

"With this one, yes," Harry replied, scrawling his name with a flourish on the bottom of the form he was filling out, used a Sticking Charm to apply it to the wand case and stacked it with the rest. He then snagged the steaming mug from her hand and drank deeply. "Ah, that hits the spot," he sighed. "Thanks, Stash, you're a lifesaver."

"As long as you don't forget it," she said smugly, sipping her own tea as she let her eyes roam across his desk. It looked empty … until she spied a rather tattered drawstring bag near the edge, almost hidden under a pile of his finished reports. She picked it up, curiously fingering the cracked leather.

"Here's another one," she remarked.

"Yeah, that's the last."

"Funny it's not in a box; the pouch isn't really big enough to hold a wand – and doesn't feel like it has an Extension Charm on it. Of course, the previous owner could've had really tiny hands." She gave him a comical leer, at which Harry snorted.

"The length of a wand says nothing about the wizard's physical attributes," he said drily. "Besides, there's a fifty-fifty chance it belonged to a witch."

"Hmm, I guess." Stash was already fumbling with the drawstring; once she'd managed to work the knot loose, she pulled the pouch open and curiously peered inside. "Oh, it's broken."

"Really?"

"Uh-huh. Snapped clean in half. Guess it's a good thing you can't cast Priori – who knows what the last owner did with it."

Harry shook his head. "If the wand was snapped by Law Enforcement, there'd be a record of when and why. The Hogwarts Founders actually insisted on writing that into law."

"Ah. I didn't know that. Learn something new every day." Anastacia gingerly reached into the pouch. "Only there's nothi—wait, there is. Here." She withdrew her hand, holding a tattered slip of parchment between thumb and forefinger. Even squinting, she could barely make out the words written in ancient, crabbed script. "Nope, no mention of any crime, just a description of wood and core, I think. Must've been an accident, then." She handed the bag and note over to Harry. "In any case, it's dead as a doornail."

As soon as his fingers touched the pouch, a mild jolt of magic raced from his palm up to his shoulder. Harry's arm jerked and he hissed in surprise, but managed not to drop it.

Stash's eyebrows flew up. "Are you okay?"

"Y-yeah," he replied. "Just startled a bit. Guess my injury flared up for a second there," he fibbed. A part of him wondered why he felt it necessary to lie to a colleague and friend, but something seemed to tell him it was important not to divulge that it had been anything other than one of the mild residual spasms plaguing him. Even after being off active Auror duty for over a year, Harry still trusted the instincts that had served him well for as long as he could remember. He pushed the thought aside for the moment, knowing that for once the hated aftereffects of his injury were a convenient excuse ‒ and more importantly, a plausible reason ‒ for the reaction he hadn't been able to hide.

Sure enough, Anastacia took his words at face value. Giving him a rueful smile and soothing pat to his arm, she went back to her own desk. "Poor thing. Just yell if you need any help, okay?"

"Will do. Thanks, Stash."

Once she bent over her perfume flasks again, Harry drew a deep, centering breath and tipped the bag over, letting the two pieces slide out. They looked harmless enough – a straight, slightly pointed shaft crafted from a pleasant, honey-gold wood, broken off right at the indented juncture separating it from the somewhat thicker, lighter handle. This was topped by a flat hexagon in the same colour. At first he thought it was just different stains – Neville's Cherry and Unicorn hair wand, the one which he'd got after the battle in the Department of Mysteries, was two-toned – but then he saw that in this wand, shaft and handle had different grains altogether.

Huh. Weird.

There were also some faint markings on the grip ‒ three symbols that Harry thought might be runes. Not for the first time he regretted having chosen Divination in third year rather than one of the more challenging electives. The symbols weren't merely inscribed or painted on, either, but inlaid; he could just about feel the slight edge where the materials met. I'd lay odds that's more than simple decorations!

He gingerly picked both parts up to take a closer look, feeling that little jolt once again. Turning the broken ends towards the candle lighting his workspace, cursing the fact that he couldn't have a Muggle halogen desk lamp instead for when he needed both hands to work and couldn't hold a Lumosed wand, Harry saw the distinctive flash of scarlet that could only come from a Phoenix feather core. He remembered it all too well from when his own trusty Holly wand had been broken that dismal Christmas in Godric's Hollow.

He shook his head slightly to dispel the image. That was when he noticed an additional, faint silvery-white spark. Intrigued, he peered more closely at the break and saw a single unicorn hair threaded through the feather's fletching.

Frowning, Harry reached for the scrap of parchment. The writing was so crabbed and smeared as to be nearly illegible, but once he cast a focused Lumos with his own wand, he could just about make it out. Sure enough, there it was in badly-faded black and white: Acacia and Willow wood, Larch inlays, double Phoenix feather and Unicorn hair core, provenance: unknown.

Not one of each, but three types of wood, and two different cores? What the fuck?

At the back of his mind, a memory stirred. Suddenly he was certain he'd seen a wand like this before – back in the beginning, right after he'd been transferred to the Archives. Only it hadn't been broken ...

Dammit, when was that? And where did it end up?

He laid the two pieces, barely held together by the twin cores, back onto his desk, aligning them carefully until the wand looked almost whole while he tried to remember. As he did so, he inadvertently touched the symbol on the pommel.

Both the wand and his hand started to glow golden.

Instinctively, Harry snatched his hand back. Heart hammering, he held his breath until he could be sure that Stash hadn't noticed anything. When she remained oblivious, he let it out again, gradually relaxing his tensed muscles. Turning slightly sideways, he bent forward, shielding the wand with his body as best he could and touched the pommel again. As he'd suspected, or maybe halfway feared, the golden glow appeared again as soon as his fingertip brushed the symbol. Swallowing hard, he slumped back in his chair. This was no ordinary wand. Every instinct that Harry possessed agreed … and told him in no uncertain terms that he should – no, that he must investigate further.

And that's exactly what I'm going to do. Right now.

"Stash?" he said offhandedly, surreptitiously dropping the wand into a drawer, "I need to go look something up in Records."

She didn't even look up from the vial she was examining through a loupe. "'Kay. Bring some more tea on your way back."

Thank Merlin for focussed colleagues!

"Will do." Heaving a silent sigh of relief, Harry left the Warehouse and took the fastest way to the Ministry Hall of Records. He barely avoided a run-in with Percy; while they were friendly enough these days, the very last thing he wanted to endure right now was a conversation with someone as detail-oriented and rule-sticklerish as the third Weasley brother. He'd surely want to know why Harry had to visit Records in the middle of the afternoon.

Once he'd been directed to the relevant section by the clerk witch on duty, he mentally reviewed the timeline as he walked through aisle after aisle of ceiling-high shelves; he'd been injured in August, his temporary disability had been diagnosed in September and he'd started working in the Artefact archives the following month. Thus, October of last year was the logical place to start.

He flicked his wand at the shelves. "Accio records signed by Harry Potter, October till December 2004." Three thick ledgers detached themselves and zoomed towards him, landing on a handy lectern with a thump.

He lit his wand and went carefully over page after page, finally finding the entry he'd been looking for dated November 25. The description matched the wand now hidden in his desk – Acacia and Willow wood, Larch runic inlays, double Phoenix feather and Unicorn hair core.

He remembered now having handled the wand during his induction period, but that had been when he was still too caught up in his personal misery of being transferred out of the Aurors to pay more than fleeting attention. However, the last entry concerning 'his' wand's double caught his eye.

"Status: heirloom.

Rating: safe.

Location: family estate, Wiltshire.

Returned: November 19, 2004.

Current owner: Malfoy family."

Malfoy. Well, that clinched it. This meant ‒ among other, less pleasant things ‒ Draco of the pointy features, pale skin and silver-gilt hair he itched to run his hands through and an arse tight enough to bounce a Galleon off of. He gulped, banning the image to the farthest corner of his mind. He had to investigate further.

In a daze, Harry returned to his office, hardly knowing how he would go through the rest of the day. Finally their shift ended. Feeling oddly excited at the prospect of having a proper Auror problem to sink his teeth into again, he told Anastacia that he was going to pay a brief visit to his former colleagues before heading home.

"Just to catch up with everybody, you know."

She pouted. "I was hoping I could persuade you to go to Hyde Park with me – there's a new Christmas Market that the Muggles have set up. 'Winter Wonderland', they call it; it's supposed to be quite a do, with food and stalls and stuff."

"I have to clean up here first." He gestured at a few files he'd deliberately left on his desk. "You go on, though; I'll be done in another minute or two."

"But you know all the Muggle things so much better than me," she wheedled. "Are you sure you don't want to come? I'll even treat you to some mulled cider."

"Eh, you'll do fine." Seeing her disappointed expression, Harry relented. "Maybe some other time, okay? They're hardly going to dismantle it before the holidays, right?"

"I bloody well hope not! Okay, I'll hold you to that." Already back in a good mood, she shrugged into a heavy cloak that would pass muster as a Muggle cape. "Ta, Harry, see you next time!"

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"Master Malfoy, sir?"

Draco cracked open an eye and glared at Topaz as furiously as possible with only one eye. "Go away," he said and turned around, pulling the duvet over his head.

"Topaz brought tea, sir." Topaz sounded a bit muffled through the thick layer of down and fabric.

Draco groaned and folded his cover back. "Okay. Good. Fine. You bringing tea usually means—"

A wail spiraled up the staircase, getting shriller by the second.

Draco buried his head in his hands. "He didn't take his potions, right? Did you promise him a sugar cane from the tree if he drinks them? He's a bit obsessed with canes …"

"Topaz promised Master Lucius a cane and even a gingerbread man to hit, but Master Lucius is being difficult today." Topaz lifted the cup for Draco to take it, casting his eyes to the floor as if offering a sacrifice to a capricious god who might strike him with lightning or something.

"Thank you, Topaz." Draco leaned up on one elbow, took the cup and gulped down the malty Assam. Mother had preferred Darjeeling, but Draco had always been of the opinion that Assam went much better with the splash of Ogden's he occasionally liked to add to his afternoon tea. Like, right now.

Another whine rose from the basement, even more pitiful than the first.

"Whatever they did to him in Azkaban, it left a lasting impression," Draco muttered and gave Topaz the cup back. "Tell Onyx I'll be down in a minute and want—" he squinted through a gap between the heavy curtains shutting out the daylight, "something light for an early dinner."

Topaz Disapparated with the typical 'crack' and Draco swung his legs over the edge of the bed, raking both hands through his hair. Father had been coping well enough as long as Draco's mother had still been around, but once she'd died – shortly before the Healer wand had been given back – Lucius' mental health had deteriorated at an alarming speed.

Most of the time he took his potions without much fuss and then was content sitting at his desk in the study where he pushed his writing utensils around or filled long parchment rolls with endless, senseless scribbling. Once in a while, though, whenever he experienced a moment of clarity, he remembered what had happened – the war lost, his time in Azkaban, his wife's death – and grief and horror struck him, always as fresh and acute as the first time.

Draco shoved his feet into his sheepskin slippers, stood up and grabbed his quilted winter dressing gown. The Manor was a cool place even in the hottest summer, but in winter the fires in the grates had to be constantly fed to keep the cold at bay.

The next keen rang up through the house, so Draco snatched two small bottles from his drawer and hurried down the wide, shallow stairs, the marble steps slippery under his soles. It was really unfair – he spent whole nights healing people he didn't even know the names of, but couldn't help his own father. After he'd discovered the wand's power by accidentally healing a small cut he'd caught from a parchment in the oldest part of the library where he'd searched for information about this mysterious heirloom he'd never heard of before, Lucius had been the first other person he'd tried to heal. It had been a bitter disappointment when it had shown the wand was unable to cure mental diseases. So, while Lucius was in the best bodily condition a wizard of his age could ask for, Draco couldn't do much to improve his state of mind.

His father had never shown emotion by more than a flicker of an eyebrow or the twitch of a corner of his mouth. By contrast to the hard-boiled Death Eater he'd once been, Lucius now gave vent to his emotions like a three-year-old. And like a child, he then refused to take his medicine, which made things difficult. Sometimes he could be distracted from his woes by sweets. Or, the not-so-nice alternative, by giving in to the lurking, ever-present guilt and pain he was feeling and then hurt or destroy something. Himself, namely, which was the reason why Draco insisted on the potions.

"I'm coming," he shouted along the corridor. "I'm coming," he added, mumbling more to himself.

Unfortunately, there were days when nothing worked – like today – and Draco had no other option than to stun his father and force the potions down his throat. A drop of Draught of Peace slipped into a beverage, or, in severe cases, a small dose of Dreamless Sleep. The only alternative would be the Janus Thickey Ward at St Mungo's, and Draco didn't trust the Healers there to treat a former Death Eater with the same friendliness and care like other inpatients.

"Master Lucius, no. Not your beautiful peacocks!" Topaz's voice sounded from the sitting room, the last word squeaked over the splintering of glass on the floor.

"Reparo," Draco said, flicking his wand at the green and blue shards glittering in the midday sun and the orange glow of the fire. They rushed back together into their original form – a life-sized, coloured crystal peacock – just as his father let himself fall to the floor, scrabbling for a piece big enough to cut himself with.

Lucius looked up at Draco with big, reproachful eyes. The years in Azkaban had taken their toll, making him appear much older than his fifty-two years. Tears welled up in his eyes and he opened his mouth to cry again. Draco crouched down and pressed his father's head to his shoulder, as much out of pity and helplessness as fueled by the wish to stop the nerve-wracking wailing. "I know," he murmured, lips buried in Lucius' still full white hair. "I miss her, too."

His father's long hair fell over his face like a veil as he lifted his head from Draco's shoulder. Draco wiped it out of his eyes and said, "Father, you must take your potions. Can you do that for me? For her?"

Lucius nodded, the familiar haze of forgetfulness creeping back into his blue gaze.

Draco sat back on his heels. "Here," he said and unstoppered the Draught of Peace. Lucius stuck out his tongue and Draco let one drop drip on it out of the small bottle. "Come, I'll walk you to your desk. I'm sure you have some important letters to write, just like every day, right?"

Strands of hair swished over his father's shoulders as he nodded with slightly more enthusiasm now. Draco offered him a hand, glad his father allowed to be pulled up from the floor.

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"Thank you, Onyx, that was good," Draco said and pushed back his plate, leaving most of Onyx's fluffy mushroom omelet still untouched. "I'll try to get a few more hours of sleep before I head back to the hospital."

He shuffled out of the room, rubbing his eyes with his palms and yawning, and was halfway up the stairs when Topaz croaked, "Master Draco is having a visitor at the gate."

"Send them away." Draco had reached the first floor and was heading straight for his bedroom. "Tell them I'm not at home."

"But Master Draco, visitor says Topaz is to tell you his name is being Potterharry."

Draco stopped in his tracks and walked back to the staircase, looking down at Topaz over the banister. "Harry Potter?"

"No, Potterharry."

Draco sighed. "Yes, Topaz. Good. Tell Mr Potterharry to wait in the sitting room, I'll be right there. And take care that Father stays in his study, please."

Topaz bowed.

Only now did Draco allow himself to panic. His heartbeat sped up in a way that made him wish he had his Healing wand at hand. Potter was an Auror, and an Auror coming to Malfoy Manor could only mean they had found out about his clinic. He swallowed hard and sank down on one of the steps, hanging his head between his knees and taking deep breaths. Of course they would send Potter to arrest him.

In and out he breathed, imagining Potter approaching the Manor, striding up the long, winding, snow-covered avenue lined by leafless Japanese maples, one step at a time. After ten breaths Draco trusted his legs enough to get up and walk to his bedroom in order to get dressed. As un-healer-like as possible, because he would deny everything as long as Potter couldn't present ironclad proof and an arrest warrant.

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Having spent some minutes in front of his wardrobe and mirror paid off. Potter's eyes widened subtly as Draco entered the sitting room, dressed in a soft, form-fitting teal-green v-neck pullover and bespoke, light-grey tailored trousers the same colour as his eyes.

"Mr Potterharry," Draco said with a slight smirk. "What brings you here? Another raise of reparations to finance the Ministry's Yule ball?"

Topaz had made Potter sit down on one of the two small sofas facing each other in front of the large fireplace. Melting snow crystals shimmered in Potter's messy black curls; he wasn't wearing an Auror robe as Draco had expected, but rather comfortable-looking Muggle clothes instead ‒ a thick off-white Aran turtleneck sweater and black denim trousers tucked into well-worn, calf-high leather boots. His outfit wasn't all that different from what Potter used to wear at Hogwarts, but somehow managed to come across as much more stylish. Draco reluctantly admitted that it suited the man.

Draco sat down facing him, running a hand down his thigh, smoothing out a non-existent crease in the soft wool of his trousers.

Potter met his expectant look with a disarming smile. "Hell, no. Of course not." He raked a hand through his hair and dried his now-wet palm on his black jeans, mirroring Draco's gesture. His boots were surprisingly clean, probably Topaz's work who Scourgified every visitor's shoes without distinction. Black and shiny, they almost reached up to Potter's knees. "I'm here because I have some questions."

Draco relaxed against the backrest. That didn't sound as if Potter had come to arrest him. "Questions," he said, quirking an eyebrow.

Topaz appeared and placed a tray on the coffee table, laden with a teapot, cups, milk and sugar and, as Draco acknowledged with a mental smirk, a small cut-glass carafe filled with an amber-coloured liquid. Ogden's. Topaz could be very perceptive when he was in the mood.

Draco poured two cups. "Help yourself," he said to Potter, waving a hand over milk and sugar, adding a generous splash of Firewhisky to his own.

"Thank you, I really need a cuppa after that long, cold walk." Potter slid forward on the sofa and reached for the sugar. Still a sweet tooth, then. His sleeve slipped back and revealed his wrist, the skin pale golden in contrast to the more tanned tone of his hand. The fingers holding the spoon were sturdy, the back of the hand showing the white lines of a scar: I must not tell lies. As if Potter had ever been a gifted liar.

"Now, what questions are so important that you're making the journey to Wiltshire in this kind of weather?" Draco asked over the rim of his cup, the heat of the tea and the potency of the Firewhisky leaving a burning trail from his throat to his stomach.

Potter put his cup down on the saucer and pulled a small, shabby leather drawstring bag from his back pocket. He placed it on the low coffee table beside his steaming cup and fiddled it open as if it contained something precious.

"Well, actually less than a question, but … this," he said, turning the bag upside down and gesturing at the two halves of a broken wand sliding out of it. The pieces shone honey-gold and were held together by a double core. Unicorn hair and Phoenix feather, if Draco's eyes weren't deceiving him in the flickering light of the fire. Just like—

His eyes caught on the grip, on the beautiful inlays made of a darker kind of wood. His heart skipped a beat, then made his blood race, pulsing hot at the insides of his wrists, his temples and earlobes. Three inlays. Three runes. Just like on his Healer wand.

"Where did you get that?" Draco asked, hoarse not only from the Firewhisky still burning at the back of his throat. His legs twitched with the urge to run up the stairs and check if his own Healer wand was still lying safe and whole in the drawer of his nightstand.

"Do you recognise it?" Potter asked, a hopeful glint in his green eyes.

"Should I?" Draco asked back, eyes narrowed and cautious now. He had given away too much already by his imprudent question at the sight of the wand.

"Um, yeah. I remember having seen a wand looking almost exactly like this one last year, and the Archive's record says a wand matching this description was given back to your family on November 19th last year." A challenging undertone had sneaked in Potter's voice.

"Is that so," Draco said.

Potter sat up straight. "You're not going to make this easy for me, are you?"

He bent forward, forearms resting on his thighs, hands folded between his knees. His eyes followed the patterns of the inlays on the wand. "Listen," he said, "I truly only have a few questions, I don't want to confiscate yours or whatever you think I'm here for."

He looked up into Draco's eyes. "The one I catalogued last year was just a wand to me. But this one here … something strange happens when I touch it. Look."

Potter closed his fingers around the grip of the wand and the rune in the quaternary Celtic knot flashed up golden, the flare softening into a steady glow.

"It glows," Draco said, shrugging with feigned indifference. Lit up like that it was easy to see that it was different to the one on Draco's wand, but otherwise, the two wands looked like twins, down to the three runes on the grip. "And?"

Potter let go of the wand and picked his cup again, lifting it to his mouth. His green eyes remained locked on Draco's while he swallowed once, twice, three times.

Draco crossed his arms in front of his chest. He wouldn't give away the secret of his Healer wand. Telling Potter about it would only lead to more questions, and in the end Potter would start an investigation and find out about the clinic and all of Draco's nightmares would come true: Aurors storming the treatment room, arresting Pansy, shocking patients to death, interrupting Blaise's Obliviation sessions and causing irreversible brain damage to otherwise healed Jane or John Does. And worst of all – Draco would likely end up in Azkaban for performing unknown, possibly Dark magic, for running an illegal clinic and messing around with people's health without having received a proper Healer's training.

Potter stirred another spoonful of sugar into his now half-empty cup. Draco jerked when the silver spoon with the Malfoy crest on the handle cluttered against the saucer and Potter looked at him again. "You obviously don't want to talk about it," Potter said, fingers curling around the broken wand again. "But when I touch it, I don't know … it causes that desire …"

Draco raised an eyebrow. "So you finally found out about what your wand has to do with your desire?" His voice thick with innuendo, he nodded gravely. "Congratulations, Potter. That's an impressive achievement. For a thirteen-year-old."

Potter groaned. "That's not what I meant, and you know it! Why do you have to be such a stubborn git? If I didn't know better, I'd think you were sorted into Gryffindor!"

"Master Lucius, why is you not being in your study? Is you wanting another candy cane?" The tense moment was interrupted by Topaz's voice; he spoke loud enough to be heard even through the closed door and over the crackle of the fire. "No, Master Lucius cannot be going into the sitting room now!"

The door burst open and Lucius scurried into the room, face twisted in a scowl. Draco glared at Topaz who helplessly wrung his hands.

"Father, please," Draco said and stood up, the motion mirrored by Potter. At first, it looked as if Potter only wanted to be polite – until he lifted his wand hand and a jet of golden light hit Lucius straight between the eyes.

"No! Father!" Jumping in front of his father, pulling his own Hawthorn wand out of his sleeve and yelling "Expelliarmus!" were one. Panting, Draco kept his wand aimed at Potter, only dodging out of the way as both Potter's Holly and the broken wand landed dangerously close to the fire.

"What's wrong with you?" Draco was furious. "Since when is hexing defenceless people your thing, Potter? He's sick and disturbed, still suffering from the torture in Azkaban!"

Potter said nothing. He stood, unmoving, eyes glued to his wand hand. A golden glow shone forth from between his fingers. He didn't even blink.

"Shall Topaz show Potterharry the way out?" Topaz asked, bowing zealously, eager to make up for his mistake of letting Draco's father enter the room. His big eyes were swimming with tears and he was pulling at the hem of his black shirt hard enough to make the fabric scroop from the stretch.

"Yes, Topaz. Show Potterharry the door."

Topaz snapped his fingers and both wands lifted from the floor and returned to Potter who caught them out of the air without even looking at them. Enviable Seeker reflexes. Still. Gritting his teeth, Draco turned away from Potter to check on his father who was rubbing his forehead.

"Potterharry must go now," Topaz said behind his back, and out of the corner of his eye he saw Potter being all but herded out of the room by the elf.

"Father," Draco said.

The older man still stood rooted to the spot close to the fireplace in the sitting room, the fingertips of his right hand pressed to the spot between his eyes where Potter's spell had hit him. Lucius had closed his eyes; his eyeballs were moving rapidly to and fro underneath the blue-veined lids.

"Father," Draco said again. "Can you hear me?" He stroked the white hair out of his face. "Are you hurt? Do you want some tea? Or a sugar cane?"

His father's eyes opened, their ice-blue gaze settling on Draco even as he batted his hand away. "Sugar cane? Whyever would I want a sugar cane?" He frowned and turned to Topaz, who had returned from the gate after showing Potter out. "Two glasses of Ogden's, elf ‒ on ice, two cubes each," he ordered brusquely.

Draco nodded at Topaz's questioning look and let his father guide him to the sofa he had sat on before.

"Sit down, son. You don't look well." Draco sat, stunned at the sudden reversal of their roles and the unaccustomed concern from his father. "Your mother is dead, Draco, and we must accept it. There is nothing we can do." Lucius' expression grew cold. "You saw what happened because the Dark Lord tried to deny death. Vole de Mort, indeed," he sneered.

Draco gaped at him until Lucius snapped, "Close your mouth, boy. For Salazar's sake, what is wrong with you? Have you turned into an imbecile during my illness?"

"Your illness, my lord?" Topaz squeaked, presenting the requested drinks on a small silver tray.

"Yes, Father, what illness?" Draco echoed, thanking Topaz with a sparse smile as he accepted his glass.

"The fever, or whatever it was that incapacitated me." Lucius sipped his whisky with half-closed eyes, savouring the taste. "Ah," he sighed, a small smile curving his lips. "Excellent vintage." He squinted at Draco over the rim of the cut-glass tumbler. "Illness, what illness? Don't ask the patient, I can't remember. My memories are hazy." He turned his head to stare into the fire for a few heartbeats, then focussed once more on Draco. "However, now my health has returned, as has my appetite. Elf, go and prepare dinner; we'll eat in half an hour." He waved an impatient hand at Topaz before adding, "And bring me a ribbon for my hair."

In the blink of an eye, Topaz Disapparated and returned. Draco watched his father gathering his hair at his nape and tying it back with the blue ribbon Topaz had fetched.

"I shall get changed and visit your mother's grave before we eat. Elf, make sure to decant a bottle of the 1961 Château Lafite; I will have a glass when I return." Lucius stood up and walked out of the room with a spring in his step.

Draco exchanged a disbelieving look with Topaz.

"Topaz's name is Topaz, not Elf," the elf murmured, tugging at his shirt. "Topaz is an indy-vidool. A free elf with a self-chosen name."

Draco knocked back the remaining Firewhisky in his glass, flinching as the ice slid against his lips.

Lucius Malfoy was back, in all his terrifying and formidable glory, as if nothing had ever happened.

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A few days later, Harry was a nervous wreck. Ever since he'd first come into contact with the strange broken wand, he'd felt a growing conviction that he needed to learn more about it as soon as possible. He also felt compelled to keep the wand on or at least near him at all times, Ministry regulations about confiscated artefacts be damned. Even worse, Harry had started to see things whenever he touched the pieces – things he couldn't explain and that he thought he had no business knowing. Like, how did he know all of a sudden that Eric Munch, the watchwizard in the Ministry Atrium, was depressed over being retired soon? He was at that age, but he didn't want to feel completely useless once he would no longer have work to look forward to each morning. Or Andromeda ‒ the wave of pain and loneliness when she happened to glance at an old family picture with Ted and Tonks had been nearly unbearable and had caused Harry to cut his weekly visit with Teddy short. Weirdly, they both had seemed surrounded by shades of blue ‒ dark for Eric and light for Andi.

It also had become nearly impossible for Harry to enter a crowded lift when the wand was on his person; it seemed he was being bombarded with emotions from all sides, and why would he also see them as streaks of rainbow-coloured lights?

The first time he'd noticed the phenomenon had been during his unexpected encounter with Lucius Malfoy; he'd looked at the man and found his vision filled with a tangled web of dark blue, violet and yellow strands, overlaid with wavering shades of browns and greys. Then there had been an overwhelming, irresistible impulse to channel his magic into and through the wand, broken as it was, so strong that he hadn't even stopped to think. He'd just gone ahead and done it.

Like a rash, idiotic, irresponsible, typical Gryffindor. Maybe Snape was right about me, after all!

Harry shook his head, refusing to believe that. Just because Snape had ultimately died a hero didn't mean he hadn't also been a bitter, mean and prejudiced man. If he only could've explained to Draco ... but the elf, Topaz, had expedited him out of the Manor before he could even blink. As a consequence, Harry didn't even know if he'd harmed or damaged Lucius in any way. The one owl he'd sent had returned, message refused.

Harry was almost afraid to touch the wand fragments by now, but at the same time was increasingly loathe to leave them anywhere out of reach.

He was also fairly certain that Draco knew more than he'd been willing to admit. He had proof that the other wand had been returned to the Malfoys; it seemed plausible that Draco, as de facto head of the family, was at least aware of its existence. The question was, why was he so reluctant to talk to Harry?

Through all the confusion and stress, Harry had come to a conclusion at last: he needed help figuring out the mysterious wand and its effects on him. Or possibly even wands, plural, if the Malfoys really owned a counterpart to his. And the sooner he found it, the better. Luckily for him, there was an expert close by, in Diagon Alley ‒ Ollivanders, Makers of Fine Wands since 382 BC.

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Harry once again carefully hid the pouch and wand inside his jacket, sealed the pocket and left the Warehouse, hoping he wouldn't set off any alarms. Technically he wasn't supposed to remove any artefacts from work without getting permission first, but the same impulse that had made him keep his reaction to the broken wand from Stash told him to ignore the rule. He thanked his lucky stars that his colleague was currently away on another assignment; she was way too observant and would almost certainly have noticed that he hadn't sent the wand back to the Unspeakables or into storage but was instead carrying it around on most days. Not that he had a problem with breaking Ministry rules when he deemed it necessary; to be honest, Auror Potter had a bit of a reputation in that regard. But for the first time since the accident at Boscastle that invalided him Harry felt his pulse race with excitement and anticipation.

He was about to hopefully discover the secret behind the wand ‒ wands ‒ even if it killed him.

At the back of his mind, Harry spared a fleeting thought that maybe he shouldn't be quite so eager to unravel the wand's mystery. After all, the last time he'd had to deal with a Phoenix feather core wand other than his own, it hadn't been all rainbows and roses. Getting entangled in this might well lead him into danger as great as Voldemort – and he no longer had the Elder Wand to protect him.

Harry shook his head. Nah. I have a good feeling about this. Just like when he'd had to make a decision between pursuing the Hallows and hunting Voldemort's Horcruxes, he opted to follow his instincts once again. He'd learned the hard way that trusting them seldom steered him wrong.

He entered the Leaky Cauldron, crossed the tap room with nary a wave to old Tom and Hannah Abbott behind the bar and walked out the back again, tapping the bricks behind the pub that would open the portal into Diagon Alley a moment later.

Minutes later, he arrived at his destination. At first glance, the shop seemed deserted, but Harry knew that the proprietor often worked late, proven by the fact that the door opened easily as soon as he turned the handle. Glancing over his shoulder to make certain nobody was watching – Constant Vigilance and all that – Harry stepped into the dim sales room.

"Hello? Mr Ollivander?" he called, then flinched when the old, white-haired man suddenly appeared at his side as if out of nowhere.

"Harry Potter," Ollivander wheezed. "Holly and Phoenix feather, eleven inches, nice and supple." He gave Harry a sly look out of his pale eyes. "We're not going to mention that other wand you own, are we, Mr Potter?"

Harry grimaced. "No ‒ and please, call me Harry?"

Ollivander smiled. "Thank you. Now, Harry, what brings you to my shop? I trust your wand is still serving you well?"

"What? Oh yes, the Holly is just fine." Harry rubbed the back of his neck, feeling inexplicably awkward all of a sudden. "Actually it's another wand I have a few questions about." He drew in a deep breath. "I recently came upon a rather unusual wand at work. It's broken, you see ... and it seems to have a twin. Or at least there's a second wand out there with an almost identical description," he began.

Ollivander's eyes widened with sudden interest. "Twin wands, you say? And what else would be so unusual about them, Mr Potter ‒ Harry?"

Harry shrugged. "They're made out of three types of wood. And they have a double core."

The old man gasped. "Are there any markings, perhaps?"

Harry nodded, feeling better now that it appeared the wandmaker had some knowledge about the wand. "Inlaid runes, and a Celtic knot with four points," he said.

"It's called quaternary," Ollivander murmured, then shook himself. "But this is something better talked about in private." He quickly locked the shop and waved down the lights. "Follow me, Harry." He led the way through a barely visible door into what was clearly a workroom, then up some stairs into a small but cosy living space right above the shop. The crown glass windows matched the ones downstairs and looked out over the Alley. Ollivander bade Harry sit in a battered but comfortable Morris chair and bustled around in a curtained-off corner, finally returning with two steaming earthenware cups.

"We might need a bit of fortification if your enquiry is indeed heading the way I think it will," he murmured, setting one cup in front of Harry and perched on the edge of a matching adjoining chair with his own drink. "Go on, have a taste of my special recipe and then tell me what brought you here."

Obediently, Harry took a sip. It was tea, but none like he'd ever had before ‒ rich, almost-but-not-quite bitter, redolent with spices and oranges and just a touch of honey added for sweetness. "It's very good," he said, swallowing another mouthful. The hot liquid warmed him all the way to his toes.

"I'm pleased to hear it," Ollivander replied, then leaned forward with barely-contained eagerness. "Now ‒ tell me about that wand?"

So Harry did ‒ he told about finding the broken pieces that felt dead to anyone but him, how he'd seen another matching the description, that the other was a Malfoy heirloom and that he'd already tried to interview Drac— er, Malfoy about it. And because Ollivander was listening so avidly, just curious and not judgmental, he also opened up about the strange golden glow and what had happened with Lucius. Finally, haltingly, he also whispered about the coloured strands of light or auras or whatever-it-was he could now see, and how they seemed to represent people's emotions.

"I wish I knew what this all means," he concluded at last, feeling utterly drained yet much lighter for the sharing. "Me finding the broken wand, Malfoy ‒ who isn't exactly my friend ‒ owning an identical or at least very similar one … there has to be a connection, I think. I just can't figure out what it could be. My gut tells me that whatever this wand does is not Dark, but I really don't want to meddle with magic I don't understand."

"A very wise choice, Harry," Ollivander said, refilling both their cups with a flick of his wand.

Harry was grateful at how the hot liquid soothed his throat after talking so much. Cradling his half-drained cup between both hands, he looked hopefully at the old man. "Thanks. So … do you know anything about these wands, sir? And do you think you can help me?"

Ollivander took his time answering. "If the wands are what I think they might be, I do indeed know some things ‒ legends, mostly, but you know better than most that even a fairy tale can hold a kernel of truth, don't you?"

Harry sighed and nodded. The Tale of the Three Brothers was never far from his mind these days.

"As for whether I'll be able to help you ‒ that, Harry Potter, I can't say."

"Can't, or won't? Sir," Harry added belatedly.

"Truly I can't because I don't know," Ollivander murmured. "Now, to determine both or either, will you show me the wand you found?"

"Sure." Harry retrieved his jacket and dug the pouch out of the pocket, untied it and carefully set the broken wand onto the low table between him and the wandmaker. Like the first time and ever since, the glow from the pommel bathed the wand and his hand in its golden light even as the now-familiar jolt of magic rushed up his arm.

"Here it is, sir."

The wandmaker leaned forward until his nose was almost touching the wood, his eyes flitting hither and yon as he took in every tiny detail. He was muttering to himself, too low to really hear, until he finally straightened once more. One hand hovering over the wand pieces, he glanced at Harry. "May I touch it?"

"What? Oh, er, sure." Harry watched with bated breath as Ollivander brushed his long, sap-stained forefinger along the length of the wood and the bits of core sticking out of the break. Lastly, he traced the runes on both handle and pommel.

Nothing happened. There was no tell-tale glow, and it didn't seem as if Ollivander experienced anything like the small surge of magic Harry had become used to.

"This wand does not speak to me at all," Ollivander mused, "when I should be able to at least sense its essence, as it were. Neither the woods nor the cores resonate with my magic; it is utterly quiescent. How strange."

It took all of Harry's willpower not to fidget. "Is that good or bad, sir?" he asked hoarsely.

"Oh, neither, I believe," the old man replied. "Just very unusual for a man in my line of work." He gave Harry a quirky little smile, pale eyes glowing. "May I trouble you to touch the wand again for me, Harry? If I could observe the effects you described firsthand, it should help solidify my theory before I give you what answers I have."

"Um, okay." With some trepidation, Harry laid his splayed hand on the wand's handle, thumb brushing the pommel, for the first time where someone else could see. The golden glow spread out from the rune inside the Celtic knot to his hand and danced along the shaft to form a pinpoint of light at the wand's very tip, encompassing all his senses as the magic hovered to be cast. He'd never touched the wand so deliberately and long before.

"Tell me what you sense, Harry." Ollivander's quiet voice seemed to come from far away, but it nevertheless compelled an answer.

"I— I see lots of colours about you," he mumbled, struggling to keep his eyes open and focused. "A lot of bright orange, but also a kind of pale … purple? And there's a touch of yellowish green, too." Even as he spoke, the colours changed. The green intensified for a second before fading into the background again, the purple brightened and the orange gradually shifted to baby-pink.

"What do you think the colours mean, Harry?"

That was harder as it meant analysing instead of just observing, but to Harry's surprise it was not overly difficult once he set his mind to it. "You're … curious," he said. "And there's passion and happiness." His eyes snapped open, zeroing directly in on the old man's as he let go of the wand and his perception returned to normal. "There's also envy."

Ollivander's right eyebrow rose until it nearly touched his hairline. "Fascinating," he breathed.

For a second, Harry felt an almost insane desire to laugh. There was always something otherworldly, almost elfin about the wandmaker; his current facial expression and the word he'd used irresistibly reminded Harry about a certain tall, stoic movie alien with pointed ears. He mentally shook himself. While that fictional character undoubtedly would have lots of questions to ask about his world in the name of research, he was fairly sure that Ollivander would be completely lost if they should ever meet. Then the pale eyes wandered from the wand to Harry's green ones, and the intense light in them made Harry catch his breath. It was a look common to all true artificers and seekers of knowledge.

Well, maybe he wouldn't be so lost after all.

Ollivander insisted that Harry take a few moments to ground himself. "Magic as powerful as this takes a lot out of its wielder. You will be better for a brief respite."

Despite his impatience to finally get some answers – he'd had enough of delaying tactics and being doled mere snippets of information since Dumbledore – Harry decided to follow the advice and leaned back against the worn leather backrest, closing his eyes and consciously relaxing his tensed muscles. When he felt back in control, he looked up again.

"Did you see anything?" he asked.

Ollivander sighed, shifting in his chair. "Certainly not what you saw," he replied. "Though I wish I did – that was probably the green colour you perceived. It represents the envy I feel at not being able to share in this magic." He smiled wryly at Harry's look of startlement. "Is it really so surprising, given my vocation?"

"I guess not," Harry conceded. "But if yellowish green means envy, what about the other colours?"

"Curiosity is said to be bright orange and lavender indicates passion."

Oh. That … that actually makes sense.

"I'll give you the title of a book explaining the colours of emotion," Ollivander promised. "You can look it up in your own time." He paused to take a sip of his drink. "Now, about this wand."

Harry perked up. "Yes?"

The wandmaker smiled at his eagerness. "Comparing this wand with your description of the one you saw last year, I believe you are correct in assuming that both are, in fact, so similar as to be virtually identical. Of course I'd have to examine both side by side to be certain, but even without that the clues are all there." He raised a hand to stem the flood of questions about to spring from Harry's lips. "Hear me out first, please?"

Harry nodded reluctantly. "I just hope I can remember everything."

"You can always come back; it'd be a privilege," Ollivander said. "I'll always have time for artefacts that are in their own way as legendary as the Elder Wand."

"Thank you."

"Let me start at the beginning, then – the wands' material. First, the woods." He laid a fingertip on each as he spoke. "Acacia, forming the shaft which actually guides the magic, will often only respond to its true owner. That is probably why the wand feels dead to anyone but you. The handle is made of Willow, associated most strongly with healing power. And lastly, the runic inlay is Larch, indicative of hidden strengths and unexpected power. As for the double core—" The finger stopped, hovering above the break.

"Phoenix – the tears can heal even the worst injuries," Harry whispered in sudden insight. "And Unicorns stand for all that's pure and good."

"Yes. It would be nearly impossible to bend a wand with a Unicorn hair core to the Dark. And a Phoenix feather is capable of the broadest range of magic." The old man smiled. "It has also been known to sometimes act on its own initiative. Which I believe you have already experienced."

Boy, had he ever! The encounter with Lucius Malfoy was still very vivid in Harry's mind.

"What about the runes, though?" Harry asked after a few moments. "They're not just for decoration, are they?"

"Oh, not at all! I take it you didn't study Ancient Runes?"

"No," Harry admitted. "I was twelve and stupid, so I signed up for what I thought was the easy option. Turned out there's more to Divination than crystal balls, incense and reading tea leaves, but …" He shrugged, feeling unaccountably embarrassed.

"Hogwarts really needs better counseling before students choose their electives," Ollivander grumbled. "But that's neither here nor there. I would suggest that you educate yourself about runes at some point, but to summarise for now – the three sigils on the handle come from a runic alphabet called Elder Futhark, the oldest of its kind. It was used in the second to eighth centuries, and thus predates the Founding of Hogwarts by quite some time."

"The wands are that old?" Harry exclaimed.

"Not necessarily; just think of Roman numerals. They became mostly obsolete in the 14th century, and yet are still known and in some use. But I digress. The runes are Berkano, standing for regeneration and renewal; Ehwaz, symbolising harmony and change for the better and lastly Dagaz, for transformation and change by one's own will. There's more, of course, but those are the pertinent meanings, I believe."

Harry's mind was swirling with details, but one thing was rather obvious right away. "All that taken together would make the wands perfect for a Healer," he said slowly.

Ollivander beamed at him as proudly as Professor Slughorn had when he'd successfully brewed the Draught of Living Death in the very first lesson and won a vial of Felix Felicis for it. "Well reasoned, Harry!"

"Er, thanks," Harry said, blushing. He stared at the wand. "There's a fourth rune on the pommel," he murmured. "Inside that Celtic knot. Does that mean something, too? Maybe even both?"

"Indeed it does," Ollivander confirmed. "A four-cornered, or quaternary Celtic knot in a single, unbroken line symbolises what is known as the Closed Path, meaning eternity or infinity. Combined with Laguz, standing for healing power and life energy particularly in matters of the mind, affirms what you have been experiencing, wouldn't you say?"

"Yeah. Wow."

The wandmaker chuckled at Harry's awe. "Quite. It is likely that young Mr Malfoy's wand, if it is indeed the twin to yours, bears a different rune on the pommel. What it is, though, I couldn't say; there are too many options without knowing what that wand can do. "

For the first time in his life, Harry understood how Hermione could be so obsessed about amassing knowledge. There were dozens of questions he wanted to ask, but he had a feeling that any answers he might get would only lead to a hundred more. It was getting late, though, so he forced himself to concentrate on the most pressing.

"You mentioned a legend, sir," he ventured after they both had taken a short break to replenish their drinks. "Is it anything like the story from Beedle the Bard?"

"I wish we knew even as little as that," Ollivander said, shaking his head. "What is known, as far as it goes, is that there exists a pair of twinned wands, virtually indistinguishable, the origins of which are lost in antiquity. Rowena Ravenclaw, a notable Healer in her own right, mentioned them in one of the few manuscripts that are left of her legacy, however, so I think it's safe to say they are older than the school. Filius Flitwick might have more information."

Great, more research. Oh joy. Harry's mental groan was more habit than actual chagrin. This was something he really wanted to learn more about. But Ollivander wasn't finished yet.

"The Twin Wands are supposed to serve a pair of wizards ‒ or witches, or both, as the case may be ‒ known as the Wand Weavers," he continued. "Not tied to a single line like the Hallows and the Peverells, they just appear to the persons most suited, whenever there is need for their talents. Nor are their identities known; legend has it that they either retreated to Avalon before it disappeared or that obscuring their names was done deliberately to protect them. The exact reasons why are lost to the mists of time. But whoever they were, the Wand Weavers are said to be able to heal every wound, to both body and spirit, short of death when wielding the Twin Wands together. Some people even believe that they could reverse a Dementor's Kiss. Although I must confess I find the latter highly improbable," Ollivander mused. "After all, you cannot heal what's been stolen and is no longer there."

"That's quite incredible," Harry said, overwhelmed by the implications. While Ollivander hadn't said it in so many words, it was fairly obvious by reading between the lines that these Wand Weavers would have to be best mates ‒ in all senses of the word. He shied away from thinking about what it meant that the wands had landed in his and Malfoy's hands, of all people ‒ a more unlikely pair could hardly be found, his rare fantasies notwithstanding. They certainly weren't friends, and as for being the other kind of mates …? He shuddered inwardly, ignoring the tiny voice at the back of his mind that told him Malfoy had really grown into his pale, pointy looks ‒ and that his arse had looked positively scrumptious in those tailored grey trousers the other day.

I'm not even going to think about that. Nuh-uh. No way. Not ever.

He and Malfoy, anything other than mutual irritants? Ridiculous! Liar, that annoying, smug little voice told him. Harry resolutely refused to listen.

Back to business. "Thank you for all the information, Mr Ollivander," he said. "You've given me a lot to think about." And wasn't that the understatement of the century! "Would you mind if I came back another day if I have any more questions?" Like, a million or four?

"You're quite welcome, Harry, and not at all. It's always a pleasure to share wand lore with someone genuinely interested, especially when it's not under such dire circumstances as a few years ago," Ollivander smiled.

"I'll say." Harry grinned, picking up the broken wand to return it to its pouch. Which reminded him …

"One more question, if I may?"

"Yes?"

Harry hesitated, afraid to come across as impertinent, but the encouraging look Ollivander gave him tipped the issue. "Would it be possible … I mean, do you think—" He swallowed hard, then just blurted it out. "Could you repair the wand, sir?"

The wandmaker's face fell, and he suddenly looked even older than the near one-hundred years of age he was.

"Alas, no." He patted Harry's arm. "But I give you my word that I will research how it can be done. If it's at all possible."

With that disappointing news, Harry had to be content and took his leave.

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Ernie honked three times, the signal for a VIP victim on board. Draco wiped a sweaty strand of hair out of his face with a blood-stained sleeve, wishing Topaz was around to cast the usual Tergeo on his hands after a successful treatment.

Nobody else was there to replace the elf, even though Onyx had come with Draco tonight. She usually only popped in when it was a really crazy night, otherwise she had enough to do with watching over Lucius and keeping up with the household chores. Pansy was replenishing the potions and her house-elves were occupied pushing the healed on their gurneys to the Ob Rooms and guarding them on their way home.

Onyx was only available because these days – or rather nights – Topaz stayed at the Manor. Lucius had commandeered the poor elf after his return from Narcissa's grave and was keeping him more than busy since. His shoes weren't shiny enough, the silver not polished to perfection, the candles in the chandeliers too burnt down for an elegant household like his, he wanted to take a bath, get shaved, a current inventory list of the wine cellar – he didn't seem to run out of requirements any time soon.

Onyx shoved the latest patient through the swing-doors, ears flapping as she ran towards Draco. "It be Potterharry, Master Malfoy. He be looking dead!"

"How on Earth …" Draco looked down on the gurney – indeed, Potter lay there, pale as death even in the golden light of the candles and sconces. The dirty hilt of a dagger pinned his blood-soaked cloak to his chest and blood was pooling around his torso on the gurney.

"Oh fuck," Draco whispered.

"Salazar, Draco! If he dies here …" Pansy said, staring at Potter's white face. The first drop of blood spilled over the gurney's edge and hit the stone floor with a faint splash.

"He won't," Draco said with more conviction than was reasonable, trying to keep his flaring panic under control. Potter's energy streams were barely visible, the red one had faded to a pale pink and all were interwoven with the green one to a pattern reminding Draco of the Celtic knot on his wand's pommel.

"But I'm not sure if I can do it alone. He's unconscious, so he can't swallow Blood Replenishing Potion. You must cast Rennervate and Episkey at him by turns. Don't stop until I'm done."

Pansy nodded and pulled her wand from her garter. She refused to accept that a Healer's uniform consisted of two garments – tunic and trousers – and insisted on wearing just the top which barely covered half of her thighs. "If you think it'll make a difference."

"I hope so. And please have the Invigoration Draught ready. I'll need it, this is going to take long." He gripped the wand tighter and the magic all but roared, the usually silver glow brighter and the stream of energy thicker than ever when it connected the wand with Potter's energy threads. Then the world faded away, Pansy's voice became incomprehensible as though she was speaking under water, and nothing existed but the four-coloured knot hovering over Potter's chest and the moves the wand dictated.

The silver energy flew, strong and steady, and Draco gained confidence while he was working. Untangling one tangle after the other, he watched the pale pink thread turn crimson again – the worst was prevented; Potter wouldn't die. Once he'd straightened out the energy streams over the dagger's hilt, the wound closed from within, new tissue pushing out the thin blade one fraction of an inch after the other. When the weapon finally slid from Potter's blood-slick cloak and clattered onto the floor, he gulped down the Invigoration Draught Pansy shoved into his sweaty hand, wiped his brow and set to heal further, minor energy balls impeding the free flow of Potter's energies.

The knot caused by the stab wound had been hard, complicated work, but the streams had followed the wand's movements and stayed in their natural position as soon as he managed to free them from the tangle. The energy hitches had behaved the same way – once unravelled, the energy streams followed their original course around Potter's body. Except for that evil-looking knot pulsing over Potter's right arm. It seemed to have a will of its own; whenever Draco freed a stream from the slings of the others, it wiggled right back into the tangle.

After several fruitless attempts, the wand paused. Draco blinked, muscles burning and more exhausted than after the hardest Quidditch practice he could remember.

"Are you done?" Pansy asked, somehow knowing not to touch him.

Draco shrugged. "I don't know … there's a problem with his arm … hey!" His wand arm was yanked high up over Potter by the wand, which made Draco run it slowly over Potter's whole body. A broad blade of silver energy scanned every inch of Potter and flared up as it touched the pocket of his cloak. For a long moment, the wand focused on the pocket, the energy bundled into a thick, powerful jet.

At first, nothing happened, except that Draco had to squint against the blinding light, but then a thin thread of golden energy curled out of Potter's pocket. Much fainter than the silver beam coming from Draco's wand, it became nearly imperceptible as it joined the stream, but it made all the difference. Returning to the recalcitrant knot over Potter's arm, the now combined power of the two energies enabled the wand to unravel it without further complications.

"Pans," Draco said when Potter was finally healed, encased in the steady glow of his free-flowing life energies, "Pans, I'm done. Completely."

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Pansy had another vial of Invigoration Draught ready, and Draco knocked it back. Good girl. "Thanks. Good thing you restocked the shelf tonight," he said, handing her the empty vial.

"You're welcome." Pansy nudged his shoulder. "He's coming to," she whispered.

Draco looked down at Potter whose fingers twitched as if he were searching for something. Then he sat up with a jerk and Draco jumped, almost knocking Pansy over.

Potter patted his chest, obviously remembering the attack, and his green gaze flitted over the brick ceiling, through the room, over Draco's and Pansy's faces, their lime-green, blood-splattered Healer robes, and caught on Draco's Healer wand still aimed at him.

Not saying a word, Potter fumbled around in his pocket and produced his broken wand. After looking pointedly from one wand to the other, his gaze returned to Draco. "You're the mysterious Healer of Knockturn Alley."

Draco rolled his eyes. He'd saved Potter's life, now Potter owed him something. Confidentiality, for example. "Excellent deduction, Auror Potter."

Potter smiled. "It's my job."

"Fine, you were right. The Ministry gave this wand back to me about a year ago. I found out by chance that it holds great power. It has its own magic that enables me to see whether people's life energies are impaired, as is always the case when someone's injured. Then it springs into action and disentangles and strengthens the energy threads until the wounds are healed."

Potter looked down on the two halves in his hands and put them together as best as possible. "So the coloured, er, threads, are life energies?"

"That's what I see. For you, I suppose, it's … spiritual energies?"

"What gives you that idea?" Potter winced as he swung his legs over the edge of the gurney.

"Accio Essence of Dittany," Pansy said, who had developed a remarkable ability in reading patients' faces over the past year. The vial zinged off the shelf behind them and she snatched it out of the air without turning her head. "Take off your cloak and sweater; Dittany has to be applied to the skin to be effective. The wand healed you, but depending on the severity of the injuries the body sometimes needs a while to adapt to the sudden changes. Potions and ordinary Healing spells can help with that."

Potter put the wand down on the gurney with great care, then did as he was told, apparently used to following a Healer's command without questioning it. Probably a side-effect of his career as a Field Auror who'd frequently suffered injuries on the job and woke up in St Mungo's more often than in his own bed.

And probably it was only the warm light of the candles that made Potter's skin look pale golden as the muscles worked underneath when he pulled his jumper over his head. The ugly scar from the stab shone purple between his pecs, and some other, older marks marred his skin, growing thin and silver before Draco's eyes that were wandering over the pronounced ripples of Potter's abs.

Pansy pursed her lips and gave an appreciative nod, shooting Draco a glance from under arched brows. Draco glared back, but she just smiled and winked as if they were sharing a little secret that moment, when he was … not drooling over Potter's fit Auror body, just admiring his impressive healing success.

Potter's face surfaced from under the once-white wool of his sweater, hair sticking up in all directions. He put it down on the gurney, on top of his cloak and grimaced at the drying blood everything was covered in.

Pansy poured a small amount of Dittany into her palm and applied it to Potter's chest with the fingertips of her other hand. When all of the fresh and old scars gleamed wetly under the candles Pansy had summoned near with a flick of her wand, she stoppered the vial and stepped back. "There, they should be barely visible in a few hours."

"Much better," Potter said. "Thanks." He reached for his Holly wand that stuck in the holster wrapped around his left forearm and touched his torn and blood-soaked clothes with the tip. "Scourgify. Reparo."

The jumper looked like new, the wool once more soft and white as he pulled it over his head.

Draco cast a discreet, adoring glance at the last stretch of tanned skin before it disappeared under the nubby fabric. A healthy, well-nourished and trained body was a treat for the eye in here, that was all. Most of his patients were skinny, unwashed and bore the pallor of the night creatures they were.

As if Draco's thoughts had Summoned it, the Knight Bus honked again. Ernie was back with more patients; the time for small talk was over.

"Listen, Potter. Remember that golden jet of magic you shot at Father? His mind was confused since he returned from Azkaban, and it got worse after Mother's death. But since you hit him with your wand's magic, he's himself again. That's what gave me the idea of your wand showing you spiritual energies."

The rattling of small wheels rippled down the corridor; Onyx would burst through the swing doors with the next patient any second.

"Also, something strange happened when I healed your arm. I don't know what kind of injury was bothering you there, but it must've been a lasting one. It was nasty, resisting my wand and harder to fix than the stab wound. In the end, my wand activated yours, and only their combined Healing magic was able to smooth out the energy streams. I guess it was not merely a physical problem, but also a psychological one. A mental block, as they say."

Potter rubbed his elbow. "At St Mungo's they said it would get better with time. They never mentioned a mental block, or that something like that was even a possibility for the recurring symptoms."

"Whatever. I'd lie if I said I wasn't intrigued. Promise me you won't talk to anybody about this place and what happens here, and I'll tell you all I know about the wands. Otherwise Blaise will Obliviate you and all of this will never have happened as far as you know."

Potter nodded, green eyes locked on Draco's. "Your secret is safe with me. And you're right about what the wand lets me see. I visited Ollivander before I, er, ended up here. I might have some new pieces of information for you, too."

Onyx entered the treatment room at full speed. "Bar fight," she squealed over the sound of the swing doors slamming against the wall. "More wizards is coming!"

"I'll owl you," Draco said, and watched Potter jump off the gurney to Disapparate in a swirl of white and black.

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"Topaz," Draco said and waited until the elf popped into sight. "Potterharry and I need more tea. We'll have it in the library."

Topaz bowed and disappeared with the typical crack.

Draco stood up. "Come, Potter. He'll have it ready before we get there if you don't lift your arse off my comfortable sofa any time soon."

Potter grabbed the pouch containing his broken wand. "That best-mate-thing will need some time, huh?" he said acerbically, got up and followed Draco to the door.

"Ah, don't be such a mollycoddle!" Draco held the heavy door open for Potter to pass him, which allowed him a nice, long glance at Potter's delectable backside. "I must admit that the otherwise meticulously kept records about my family's history show a deplorable absence of information about these Wand Weavers Ollivander mentioned. But maybe I merely searched in the wrong place. The Malfoys have collected a section about runes only rivaled by the Hogwarts library. In Great Britain, that is. Now that we know what we're looking for – what are they called again?"

Potter waited until Draco had closed the small distance between them and took the lead. "Ollivander said the runic alphabet is called Elder Futhark. It was used in the second to eighth centuries, if that's of importance for the search."

Their footfalls echoed quietly in the long corridor that led to the other side wing of the manor. It was even colder here, in the part not turned towards the sun. But some of the old tomes and parchments had to be protected from light and heat and that was easier to do here. Draco greeted the portraits of his ancestors hanging on the wall with short nods, and when he opened the entrance to the library, a fire was already hissing in the grate, the freshly-laden tea tray stood on the small, round table between the dark green Chesterfields in front of the fireplace, and Topaz had Disapparated again to watch over Lucius.

"The rune section is in the far left corner," Draco said and cast a Stasis charm on the tea to keep it hot. He pretended not to notice Potter's gaping at the size of the library. A central aisle stretched far into the gloomy room, ceiling-high shelves branching away to the right and left. The main colours were brown and black, but here and there a crimson or green spine or golden lettering shone forth.

"The far left corner is large – where do I start?" Potter's voice rang from deep inside the shadows between the shelves.

"Wait." Draco hurried after him. "It's the last shelf on the left, to be precise."

"Great." Potter appeared from between two shelves, dust greying his hair. "You couldn't have said that right away?"

"I would've shown you if you hadn't run ahead like an over-eager five-year-old!" Draco clenched his fists in his pockets, fingers itching to pluck the cobwebs out of Potter's tousled shock of hair.

"Always having the last word," Potter mumbled. "Let's get started already." He took the corner around the last shelf to the left sharply enough to bump his shoulder on the edge. Rubbing the sting, he took in the long row of boards bending under the burden of heavy tomes alternating with thick bundles of yellowed parchment rolls and newer books that looked untouched as if nobody had ever taken the time to at least leaf through them.

"Merlin's pants," Potter said, untypical disheartenment resounding in his voice. "I wouldn't even know where to begin!"

"Use your eyes." Draco walked slowly along the shelf. He ran his gaze over the spines and pulled out a parchment roll here and there. "Given the age of the rune alphabet, we're looking either for very old parchment rolls, or for a leather-bound volume containing parchment pieces of uneven size and colour. That rules out a lot of the stuff here."

Potter blew a dusty lock out of his face and followed him, running his fingertips over the spines he was inspecting. That did the trick, in the end. While Draco stuck to his search parameters and dutifully unrolled nearly-illegible parchment scrolls or heaved fat volumes from high shelves, skimming through some pages before putting them back, Potter found what they were searching for by sheer luck. As usual.

"Here," he shouted. Draco flinched at the loud noise and almost fell off the sliding ladder that had been attached to a rail along the highest shelves to reach the books at the top; the busy silence they had worked in had only been interrupted by the occasional sneeze or cough due to the dust flying off books they were moving.

"Here ‒ where?" he asked from above, fumbling with his foot for the next lower rung to climb down.

"The runes on the spine of this monster here lit up when I touched it. Look!" Potter turned to show him the spine of a large, leather-bound tome.

Draco couldn't help but whistle in amazement. In the dim light, the five runes painted on the thick leather glowed silver and golden like sparkling Christmas decorations. "Looks like that thing wanted to be found."

He let Potter lug it to the Chesterfields in front of the fire, all those muscles had to be put to use, hadn't they, and it was purely by accident that he noticed how Potter's biceps bulged under the sleeves of his sweater. A black one today, sporting a big, gold-rimmed crimson H on the front. Shuddering inside at the gaudiness, Draco shoved his armchair against Potter's so he could put the book down on the armrests in the middle, giving both of them an equally good view.

Thank Salazar the druid – or whoever had decided to preserve his knowledge for posterity – had been a talented illustrator. The first pages were filled with instructions on how to use the wands, but most of that Draco had already found out by himself or been taught by the wand simply by letting it guide his arm. Potter's wand seemed to work similarly, though the small pictures didn't feature broken limbs or wounds, but hearts. In one picture, dark clouds hid the heart from the reader's eyes and in the next picture, a flash from one of the wands – Potter's, according to the rune on the pommel – made the clouds disappear.

"I suppose that's how they imagined what depression was like, back then. Thick clouds darkening your heart and soul, hiding reality from you so all you can see is grey fog. Seems like your wand can really heal mental and emotional problems," Draco said. "Though the effect won't last as long as it's broken. Father drove us all mad for three days, then deteriorated again."

"Sorry to hear that," Potter said. "You still want me to heal him, provided we'll find a way to fix the wand in here?" He tapped the page with the tip of his index finger.

"What kind of a question is that? Of course I want you to help him!" Draco scowled at Potter, who answered his glare with a smirk.

"Well, you did say he was driving you mad ... "

"Yes, just like you are right now." Draco rolled his eyes and turned the page. And gasped in surprise. "Ask and you will be given," he said in a hushed voice. "A nice, step-by-step instruction on how to fix a Healer wand."

Potter frowned down at the crude drawings. "Isn't that … Stonehenge?"

"Mmm," Draco murmured, studying a row of diagrams. "What day is it?"

"Er, December 20. Why do you ask?"

"If I'm interpreting this here correctly," – the drawing he was referring to looked like sunset at Stonehenge – "it's showing the winter solstice. Look, the tree in the background is bare." Draco looked up and locked eyes with Potter. "Potter, we have one day to figure out how this ritual works, or we'll have to wait until summer. Winter solstice is tomorrow, on December 21."

o====≡≡≡≡≡≡ΞΞΞΞΞΞˉˉˉˉˉˉ)

"I can Side-Along you," Potter said to Draco's utter surprise while he worked some cricks out of his neck.

They had spent the better part of the previous night figuring out every step of the ritual, fallen asleep in the comfortable depths of the Chesterfields, and woken up with stiff necks and … other stiff body parts. Even if Draco could only speak for himself.

"The Dursleys took me along when they went there once," Potter continued after a hearty yawn. "Dudley had to write an essay about it over the summer hols, the neighbour who usually watched me was unavailable and they were afraid I'd burn the house down in their absence, or some such shite."

"They knew you well, obviously." Draco laced his voice with a hint of sarcasm to hide his excitement. Side-Along Apparition meant close physical contact, and the prospect of pressing himself flush against Potter's broad chest caused heat to crawl up his neck. His parents had often taken him there – Stonehenge wasn't far from the Manor and Mother especially had been fascinated by the ancient site – but he wouldn't ruin his chance of being groped by Potter by boasting.

"Accio cloaks."

It took the two dark woolen garments a few moments until they floated through the door of the library. Draco gulped down a bitter cup of stale tea while Potter closed the clasps down the front of his cloak, then picked up the tome and waited for Potter to wrap himself around him for Apparition.

To Potter, it didn't seem to be an awkward moment; he acted as if it was the most natural thing in the world to wrap his arms around Draco and hold him tight before twirling him around like a child. But, of course, for an Auror Side-Alonging was nothing special. The tug behind the navel could be just the typical Apparition symptoms as well as a jolt of jealousy at the thought of Potter clutching other men as tightly as Draco right now.

The massive Standing Stones rose abruptly from the ground, grey against the pink fog rising from the flat meadows surrounding it. Majestic clouds, misty blue in the light of the sinking sun, swelled on the horizon like mountains and made the place look even more magical than Draco remembered from his childhood excursions. If it weren't for the Muggle crowd flooding the site.

Draco groaned. "We need some strong Muggle Repelling Charms. Ready, Potter?"

Potter had already whipped out his Holly wand and sent spells in all directions. They took effect immediately; Muggles stopped in their tracks, threw bewildered glances at their watches, and flocked to the exit. The guards sitting hunched in their small hut, cradling thermomugs of coffee, hastily folded their newspapers and all but shooed away the visitors. It didn't take long until the noises of the last cars had faded away.

"I bet the site management will have to report an inexplicable decline in visitor numbers." Potter chuckled under his breath.

"According to the instructions, we must finish the ritual before the sun sets and marks the exact time of the winter solstice by shining through the gap between these two stones," Draco murmured, not wanting to disturb the mystical silence either.

"Okay. What do we do first?" Potter whispered back.

"We have to find the altar stone. It's in the centre of the stone circles."

Noses buried in the collars of their cloaks, they slid through one of the gaps between the giant menhirs forming the outer circles. Frozen grass crunched under their soles, and Draco thought he could almost hear the humming of ancient magic, but of course it was only the rush of his own blood in his ears. They carefully avoided the holes building two smaller circles inside the rings of stones, weaving their way through the hollows until they reached the altar stone.

The flat surface was free of snow; just a thin layer of translucent frost covered the purplish-green stone. It was easy to imagine bloody rituals taking place here, large rusty stains the colour of old blood evoking pictures of slit throats and disembowelled sacrificial animals.

"This place gives me the creeps," Potter said. The late-afternoon sun glinted on the frame of his glasses. "I can't shake the feeling that a druid will jump out from behind one of these stones any second."

"Says the fearless Auror." Draco smirked; he would never admit he felt an urge to look over his shoulder himself. "First, where is North?" He looked around. "Let's see, if the sun sets between these two stones," he turned to the large blocks, "then this must be West."

"North is that way," Potter said, gesturing.

"How do you—" Oh, of course. Potter had cast a Four-Point Spell. His wand hovered in front of him, the tip pointing to a gap between some stones to Draco's right. "Right, thank you. We have to stand on the altar stone on a North-South axis, then we each have to hold our Healer wand's handle in our wand hands and the respective tip in the other hand."

The low sun was sinking fast now, sunset was close. They waited until the vertical slit between the menhirs was ablaze with fiery, orange-golden light, then, hesitating for a heartbeat, Draco stepped onto the flat stone. Magic thrummed through him, alien and powerful, awe-inspiring. Potter followed and from the glance he threw Draco he could tell that Potter felt it, too. This was ancient magic, long forgotten and neglected, older than any spell or curse they'd ever cast, mightier than Dark magic, even stronger than Blood magic. It was as if the heart of Nature herself was speaking to them, letting them understand the pure magic of Life without words.

"Your wand," Draco whispered. He pulled his own out of his holster and the moment he touched it, a big silver rune flashed up under his feet.

"It's working!" Potter produced the worn pouch and fumbled out the two pieces of his wand only connected by the sensitive double core. A golden rune lit up beneath him, and he reached out, holding out the half with the tip for Draco to take. At the same time, he closed his fingers around the tip of Draco's wand.

The strange magic jolted through them, the runes in the stone flared up and encased them in pillars of silver and golden light, and then the magic flowed through them. It rose from the stone, sparked through their bodies, tingled where it left their fingertips, set the runes on their wands on fire. Warmth flooded them, coming and going in waves, like the eternal rise and fall of the tides. There was no room for fear or dread at the overwhelming power of the magic, it was just there, filled Draco's heart, his brain, every cell in his body with its incredible energy until he was about to burst.

And then it was over. Between one blink of an eye and the next, they were two ordinary wizards again, standing somewhat awkwardly on a stone in the middle of nowhere, holding two identical wands between them.

Two whole wands.

(ˉˉˉˉˉˉΞΞΞΞΞΞ≡≡≡≡≡≡====o

o====ΞΞΞΞΞΞˉˉˉˉˉˉ)

Harry was still giddy – from the ritual, from the way the newly-repaired wand was thrumming with power in his hand and most of all from the embrace he and Draco had shared right afterwards, caught up in the euphoria of success. To feel Draco's arms wrapped around him, his body pressed full length against his own, his breath washing warmly over his neck, had been sheer bliss. He couldn't wait to run his hands through Draco's so-soft hair … and to feel the firm lips open for his tongue. He hadn't got the kiss he'd hoped for, but he was fairly sure he wouldn't have to wait overly long until he did.

Maybe even as soon as Christmas.

Which was only four days away. Okay, that might be a tad optimistic, so if not … there was always New Year's Eve, right? The two of them together at Grimmauld Place, ensconced on the new couch in front of the living room fireplace, fairy lights twinkling on the Christmas tree he'd set up in the bay window, a plate of Molly's mince pies and a carafe of mulled wine close by while they waited for midnight … it would be the perfect opportunity. He sighed dreamily.

Draco's eyes had darkened from their usual silver-grey to almost pewter. "Dare I ask where that silly grin of yours is coming from?" His cultured voice was velvety and warm, sending delicious shivers down Harry's spine.

"Mmm, no particular reason," Harry replied, still lost in his lovely vision. Which was shattered the next instant by the sharp 'crack' of one of Pansy's elves appearing next to them.

"Master Draco, there is being a big accident! Many wizards is being hurt!"

"Shit," Draco cursed, "I must go to the clinic!"

Harry grabbed his arm. "Take me with you," he said urgently. "I can help."

Draco gave him a long, searching look, then nodded sharply, pulling him against his side. "Okay. Hold on."

"Rig—"

Harry's reply was lost in the nauseating sensation of Side-Along Apparation.

Minor pandemonium reigned in the entrance hall when they came in at a run. Thankfully, Pansy was already there, directing a bevy of house-elves as well as Blaise performing triage like a general his troops in the middle of a pitched battle. If a general wore a tight miniskirt and thigh-high heeled boots, that is. Already eight or nine moaning and screaming witches and wizards were slumped against walls or writhing on hastily-Conjured pallets, with two more coming in just then. She scowled fiercely when they skidded to a halt beside her.

"Where the fuck have you been? No, don't answer that; go get changed and haul your arse into the treatment room; the worst two casualties are already in there. Blaise, whoever's conscious and not bleeding to death will have to wait; just give them a pain potion until Draco can see them! Boris! Go help Master Draco," she shouted at one of the elves.

"Yes, Miss Pansy," the stocky elf said, snapping his spindly fingers for a fresh, folded Healer's robe and scurried after Draco, who was already waving his wand over one patient while Onyx cast Tergeo on his other hand.

Harry stood to one side, knowing better than to interfere in what was obviously a choreographed routine despite the overall chaos. The wand was vibrating in his pocket, urging Harry to use him, but he held back, waiting for the right moment. It came when he saw Pansy's shoulders slump momentarily and she was lifting a weary hand to tuck a strand of hair back behind her ear. He took a step forward when her head snapped up and she glared at him more fiercely than she'd ever done at Hogwarts.

"Potter. What are you doing here?"

Instead of launching into a lengthy explanation, he simply showed her the repaired wand. "Draco and I managed to fix it."

"Well, bully for you," she sneered. "And?"

Harry might have taken offence at her attitude if he hadn't noticed the spark of hope in her dark eyes. So he shrugged. "I want to help." Pansy opened her mouth to speak, but he waved her off. "I know I have no idea how you run things here, but by the look of it you can use any pair of extra hands there is. Just tell me what to do."

"Hmph. Guess you're not completely hopeless," she muttered. "Okay, go follow Blaise on triage. Anyone who's mobile and coherent, tell them to undress if they can, carefully cut back their clothing if they can't. Clean them up without touching the actual injuries, Accio a pain potion if they're screaming, and otherwise ask one of the elves, they know the drill."

After Boscastle, Harry knew better than to hold Pansy's brusque and seemingly callous words against her. As the person in charge, she needed to be able to be detached, to make decisions quickly and efficiently, no less than the Healers at St Mungo's. When one of his fellow Auror trainees once complained to the Healer-on-call teaching them first aid measures, she had only replied, 'nice bedside manners have no place in an emergency' and gone away. The same principle applied here.

"Got it. Call me if there's anything else."

"Just do as you're told, Potter!" She was already hurrying towards the doorway, guiding a woman clad only in scanty black lingerie who was covered in grime to another pallet.

Squaring his shoulders, Harry sought the tall, dark-skinned Slytherin. He found him near a supply closet, stuffing his pockets full of bandages and potion vials. "Need a hand?"

"More like a dozen," Blaise said, not letting up with what he was doing. "There's always a risk of vials breaking if they're jumbled together like this, but I can't keep running back and forth for each dose."

Harry nodded and started gathering vials himself, most of which were tube-shaped, stored in tiered stands. Following Blaise, holding out whatever was needed was awkward and took more time than they had. It also was a mindless enough task to let Harry ponder the problem, and when they went back to the closet, he had come up with an alternative. "Hang on a minute," he told Blaise. "I think I have a solution."

He tore off a piece of bandage maybe five feet long and quickly knotted the ends together. Visualising what he wanted, he waved his trusty Holly wand in a complicated swirl and Transfigured the loop he'd made into a wide leather strap with a row of smaller loops along its length. He then started slotting potion vials into each. Once the strap was filled, he handed it to Blaise.

"Here you go."

The other stared at the contraption with wide eyes.

"What the hell is that?"

Harry grinned. "A bandolier. Muggle soldiers use it to carry extra ammunition – you know what, never mind. The important thing is, it'll help you carry more vials safely and will keep your hands free. You wear it cross-body, like a sash." He quickly draped the bandolier over Zabini's head and arm. "It has no buckle, so you just move it back to front as needed."

There was a strange look in Blaise's eyes as he fingered the bandolier. "Muggle, you say?"

"Yeah. Why?"

"Nothing. How can I tell which potion is which, though?"

"Easy. Colour-code the stoppers." Again, he waved his wand and murmured a few colour-changing spells, matching the stoppers to the vials' content. "Another Muggle trick. See?"

"Surprisingly ingenious," Blaise murmured, then shook himself, threw a terse "Thanks, Potter," over his shoulder and went off again, back to triaging. Harry just rolled his eyes and picked up the bandage roll to make a second bandolier. Surely this was more useful than tagging after someone with no clear idea what to do – and besides, he had a feeling it might come in handy before the night was out.

(ˉˉˉˉˉˉΞΞΞΞΞΞ≡≡≡≡≡≡====o

Outside the clinic, in a narrow cul-de-sac next to Borgin and Burke's, the accident site was in shambles. For some yet unknown reason, the Jewel Box – the biggest brothel of wizarding London – had collapsed, burying patrons and workers alike under mountains of rubble, glass and broken furniture.

Unfortunately for all, the place had been packed to the rafters; traditionally, the winter solstice was one of the busiest days for all of Knockturn. The area swarmed with frantic residents, Aurors and St Mungo's staff, mingling with rescuees who for the most part were only lightly injured. Some tried to slip away into the darkness before the Aurors could recognise them; others, Ron noted disgustedly, were surreptitiously trying to abscond with whatever usable items they could get their hands on before doing the same.

"I don't know why we even bother," he said to Neville as the two of them apprehended yet another looter. "It's not as if these lowlifes seem to want our help!"

"We can't not give it, though," Neville replied. "Which is one of the reasons I'm glad to be leaving the Force come spring."

"Weasley! Longbottom! Over here!"

Their squad leader was gesturing wildly for them to come over. Ron and Neville had to dodge around several people before they reached his side. "You bellowed, sir?" Ron quipped.

Erasmus Banks gave him a sour look even as he signed a clipboard someone was holding out to him. "Don't get smart with me, Weasley, or I'll have you on protection detail for the Wizengamot before you can say 'Courtroom Ten'."

"Yessir. Sorry, sir," Ron replied, not overly chastened. Banks was popular with the younger Aurors, generally fair and not too strict as long as they got the job done.

"What's up, sir?" Neville asked.

"Go over to the courtyard where we keep the worst-injured until they can be portkeyed to St Mungo's. They have trouble handling the influx of so many patients at once." Banks grimaced. "The mediwitch in charge says there have been disappearances among the wounded. Most likely people are just wandering off when she isn't looking – easy to do in this circus."

"Or she miscounted because she's overwhelmed and now doesn't want to admit it," Neville suggested.

"Or that," the older Auror nodded. "In any case, you two haul your arses over there and keep an eye on things," he ordered. "We won't need you here again until shift's end, unless something happens. I'll see you at nine sharp tomorrow, my office."

"Right. Good night, sir." Both sketched a salute and trotted off, glad to be leaving the mayhem of the accident site behind. Once at the courtyard, though, they soon wished they were anywhere else but here. The small space was filled with over two dozen moaning, thrashing people in varying stages of distress, all of them shivering in the cold. It was easy to see how just one person could lose track of what was going on elsewhere when she was distracted.

The mediwitch on duty, Madam Symmonds, immediately put them to work distributing hot beverages, pain potion and Warming Charms as needed. "It's freezing out here and I can't keep up with everyone by myself," she said frankly. "Take these packets of tissues and Transfigure them into blankets. They're Muggle, so won't keep for more than a few hours, but it'll do for now. Oh, and we could use a few more pallets while you're at it. Help yourself to some tea when you're done and ping me if one of these poor sods needs stronger medication."

"Ping you?" Neville asked, looking confused.

The mediwitch laughed. "Sorry, you wouldn't know – it's something we do on the wards. Pay attention, both of you." She quickly showed them a neat little charm that produced a small Bluebell Flame combined with a soft chime. "Just draw a circle in the air with your wand, jab it into the middle and say Adiuva Me – ahd-YOU-vah Meh. Means 'help me' and lets me know to have a look without screaming the house down."

"Right," Ron said after practising a couple of times. The charm really was simple. "Let's start at the entry, Nev – you go right, I go left and we meet in the middle? That way, we avoid double checks."

"Works for me."

Madam Symmonds nodded approvingly and was about to go back to her patients when she stopped and turned back. "While you're at it, do me a favour and count the number of people we have here? Last time I did I had twenty-nine, but some keep vanishing on me."

The two young men exchanged a glance. "Will do." Symmonds clearly was extremely busy, but didn't seem overly flustered or stressed; she exuded the same kind of competent professionalism they'd seen from Madam Pomfrey during the Battle of Hogwarts. Shrugging, they went to work. When Neville and Ron met again, they were both sweating despite the cold. Ron drew two cups of tea from the big urn and handed one to Neville.

"Well? How'd it go?"

"Fairly well," Neville replied, taking a grateful sip as he leaned against the nearest wall. "I just had no idea that Transfiguration could be so much work. I mean, tissue into blanket should be as easy as matchstick to needle, and we did loads of that in first year!"

"It's the number, I think," Ron sighed. "How many did you do?"

"Fifteen; I had the two new admissions. You?"

"Thirteen," Ron said slowly. "That's twenty-eight altogether. But if Symmonds already had twenty-nine when we started and there were two newcomers, we should have thirty-one."

Neville straightened from his comfortable slouch. "Yeah. I didn't see anyone leaving, though – did you?"

Ron's blue eyes sharpened. "No."

There was a pause. "Most of the folk here are in no condition to just wander off," Neville said at last. "Not with crushed limbs or internal organ damage."

"Or the various head injuries." Ron nodded. "That whole group that was caught in the basement? All had nasty breaks and cuts from falling masonry and at least two of them were gibbering about being buried alive; there's no way they could've walked away on their own."

The two Aurors shared a long look. "Symmonds was right," Neville said. "People are vanishing."

"Maybe someone's taking them," Ron murmured.

Neville pursed his lips. "What are you thinking?" he asked just as quietly, fairly certain that Ron's mind was walking down similar paths as his own.

The redhead inhaled deeply. "The Healer of Knockturn," he said at last. "What if he's more than just a rumour? A situation like this should be right down his alley, don't you think?" He grimaced at his own unintentional pun. "Shite, you know what I mean."

"I do, and I think you may be right." Neville sighed and rubbed his aching neck. "The question is, what do we do about it? Or rather, should we be doing something at all? Banks would want to be informed, I'm sure."

It was procedure, and maybe the most sensible thing to do. But Ron Weasley had spent seven years at Hogwarts as Harry Potter's best friend and sidekick; being sensible had never been high on their list of priorities, despite Hermione's best efforts. Neville Longbottom had led the DA against a school full of Death Eaters for a year and killed a giant snake housing a piece of Voldemort's soul with a bloody sword; also not exactly the most safe – or rational – course of action when you're just seventeen. They were also both trained Aurors … and Gryffindors.

"Let's wait and watch," Ron suggested at last. "We'd hear an Apparition. But if one of us stays near the entrance all the time, we should notice when someone sneaks up with a Portkey or something."

"Sounds like a plan. Keep your wand out, though. Just in case."

"You bet I will," Ron said fervently.

It was a little tricky to stick to their plan, what with the work they had to do – Madam Symmonds set them to Conjure more pallets when they ran out of random objects to Transfigure, and some patients needed to be Levitated so she could change their sheets, but somehow they managed. Then five more casualties were brought in at the same time as a team from St Mungo's Apparated in with a group Portkey to transport the most urgent cases to the hospital.

Neville nudged Ron as he hurried past with an armful of bandages, giving him a hand signal to watch out. The flurry of action would be the perfect opportunity to snatch more people.

"On it," Ron mouthed back, stationing himself as close to the doorway as he could.

Nervously, Neville tried to keep an eye on his partner even as he tried to follow the medics' instructions. When Ron suddenly ducked out into the street, Neville's heartbeat tripled and he rushed over, heaving a huge sigh of relief when the redhead popped back in again mere moments later.

"Nev, NOW!"

Vaulting over two pallets, Neville dashed after Ron, wand ready and cast at the same time. "Sequere!" Pale yellow light flashed in tandem from their wands, flying after a tall, purple vehicle that whisked out of existence before they could do more than blink.

"Did we just put a Tracking Charm on the Knight Bus?" Neville asked incredulously as soon as he'd caught his breath.

"Looks like it," Ron panted. "Did you hit it?"

"Dunno," Neville said. "Give me a moment to check." He centred himself, then laid his wand across his palm, holding it steady with some effort. "Point me." The Cherry wand started to vibrate, twisted, then the tip settled into a direction further down Knockturn Alley. He looked at Ron, a grim smile on his lips. "Guess I did."

"Great!" Ron clapped him on the shoulder. "Hold it; I'll let Symmonds know we're leaving, and why."

"Right. Hurry, though; we may not have a lot of time and it's been a long day."

"You think?" Ron grinned savagely. "Be right back."

Within minutes, the two walked at a fast clip further down the seedy street, Neville keeping his eyes trained on his wand while Ron kept alert for possible danger. Knockturn never was the safest place, but two Aurors out alone on a night like this might present an irresistible target for anyone with a grudge. Thankfully the moon wasn't full so werewolves were of little concern, but not so vampires, hags or common criminals.

Finally, Neville stopped at the mouth of another cul-de-sac. There was a faded sign that read Fraction Alley. "The Bus went in here," Neville said, voice hushed. "But there's nothing there ..."

Ron scowled. "That makes no sense."

Suddenly, a lighted doorway appeared out of nowhere and several house elves swarmed onto the Bus. If they squinted, the two Aurors could barely make out the hazy contours of a squat, nondescript building behind the door.

"What the ... is that an abandoned warehouse?" Neville asked over the typical 'cracks' of house elf Apparition.

"Apparently not so abandoned after all," Ron muttered. "And hidden behind an Inconspicuousness Charm, I'll bet. Does that scream 'illegal operation', or what?"

"I just can't believe Ernie would get caught up in one." Neville cancelled the Tracking Spell with a whispered Finite. They both pressed their backs against the nearest wall as the Knight Bus improbably spun on its own axis in the narrow close, then passed by them at its usual breakneck speed.

"Merlin, I hate riding that contraption," Ron sighed. "It's worse than Apparating. Say what you will about Muggles, but they know how to do transportation right."

Neville gave him a fleeting grin. "Hermione will be happy to hear that. Now, let's have a look at what we're here for, shall we?"

"Sure." Squaring his shoulders, Ron gave a nod to Neville, indicating that his mind was firmly back on the business at hand. "Lead on."

The two crept forward, keeping to the shadows and behind cover as much as possible. Now that they were aware of it, they had no problem seeing past the Inconspicuousness Charm on the building; they cast Disillusionment Charms on each other as soon as they reached it and cautiously peered through the grimy, half-blind windows on either side of the door.

"Empty," Ron breathed. "But there's a wheeled table with bloody sheets next to the door."

"I see a corridor," Neville reported as quietly. "Five, no, six doors, one of which swings in and out."

"Probably so you can move the table through it more easily."

"Yeah. Let's try and go round the corner; if we're lucky, there's another window so we can catch a glimpse of what's going on in there. I think I saw some lights."

Using every bit of stealth skill that had been drilled into them during training, Ron and Neville sidled along the rough brick wall until they estimated they'd reached the room with the swing door. They were in luck, it had a window. Again, they straightened slowly until their eyes cleared the sill and they could peer inside.

"Malfoy," Ron hissed. "Wearing Healer robes – the nerve! – and casting some weird silver magic on one of our casualties; I recognise the tattoo on the guy's arm. Why am I not surprised?"

Neville was following standard Auror practice, cataloguing the rest of the room. "I see four people: Malfoy, the patient, a woman who looks like someone's wet dream of a nurse – Merlin's pants, is that Parkinson?! – some dark-haired bloke who's hugging the wall and three house elves," he reported, whispering.

"Shelf next to the door holding what may be potions, a waste bin full of bloody bandages and other stuff, sconces and candles for light. Oh, pile of fresh towels in the corner," Ron added.

"Malfoy's carrying two wands," Neville said. "The one he's casting with now, and another in a headband of sorts."

"Using two wands is illegal," Ron said grimly. "We'll get him for that, at least." Suddenly, Neville pressed down on his shoulder until they were both crouching low against the wall. "What the hell, Nev?" he asked crossly.

"That fourth person was moving," Nev explained. "He was coming directly towards the window; if he had looked up for just a second …"

"… he might've seen the distortion from the Disillusionment through the glass," Ron finished. "Good call, mate." As useful as the charm was, it had a few drawbacks, especially if one knew what to watch for. They waited for a couple of minutes before they once again rose up until they could see inside.

The wizard, whom they still couldn't identify, was now standing side by side with Malfoy, their backs towards the window and their arms linked, casting Merlin-knew-what together on the injured man on the gurney. They were bathed in twin beams of light, one silver, one golden … and right before their eyes, the multiple cuts and wounds closed, the crushed ribcage slid back into its natural shape and the man's face, until now twisted in agony, smoothed into peaceful repose.

Parkinson pumped her fist and the three elves hopped as if dancing a jig. Malfoy was beaming from ear to ear as he grabbed the dark-haired man by his shoulders, whirled him around and then abruptly drew him into a passionate kiss. The man laughed, too, when he was released and finally lifted his face towards the light.

Neville gasped, eyes wide with shock as he lost his balance and fell on his butt onto the freezing cobbles. Ron, however, shot up to his full height, banging his fist against the window pane which shattered under the furious onslaught. Ron couldn't care less as he started to yell.

"What the FUCK, Harry!"

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Once Zabini and Pansy were finished with triage, Blaise retreated into the room he used to Obliviate the healed patients. Pansy gave a few more instructions to the elves, then glared at Harry. He – correctly, as it turned out – took it as a summons to walk over.

"I'm going in to help Draco," she said curtly. "I guess you want to tag along?"

"I need to watch how he works," Harry replied, more calmly than he felt. Inwardly, he was quaking with nerves. "The one healing I've done on his father was an accident and has worn off because my wand was still broken. I'll do it again, of course, but we've only completed the ritual to repair it—" he checked his watch, "less than an hour ago before your elf found us. I don't want to make things worse for the patients; that's why I'd like to observe what Draco does before I try anything on my own."

She looked at him as if he were a new species bred by Hagrid that had turned out unexpectedly cute and fluffy. "That's … surprisingly un-Gryffindorkish," she said at last. "Especially coming from you, Potter."

Harry shrugged. "I have my moments."

"Hmph." She rolled her eyes. "Well, come on then, if you must."

"Too gracious," he muttered as he followed her down the concrete floor to what was grandiosely called the operating theatre. Because she was leading the way and thus had her back towards him, he didn't see the tiny smug smile playing around Pansy's mouth.

He was surprised by how Spartan Draco's workspace was; except for a potions shelf next to the door, a storage unit for linens and a bin for used bandages and bloody towels, there were only lots of sconces, a couple of hooks for Healer's robes and a narrow bench under the window opposite the door. In the centre, where the light was best, stood a gurney with an already-unconscious patient.

Draco was bending over the woman, assessing all the outwardly-visible damage first. "Pans, I need you on standby with towels," he murmured. "I think there's been some abdominal bleeding, and I'd like to drain it first before I repair the actual damage."

"Ick," Pansy moaned. "You're going to do the siphoning thing again, are you?" Even so, she was already collecting towels and moved to stand next to the gurney.

"I wouldn't have to, if I knew the spell to reverse blood flow," Draco said sharply. "But as that only gets taught to actual Healers, I bloody can't!" His frustration was obvious in his voice as well as every line of his body, and Harry ached with him. Draco would be a great Healer if it weren't for the faded mark on his arm.

"I'll do it if you'd rather not," he said from his shadowy spot next to the door. It was probably safest to stay out of the way as best he could.

"I've done it before and I can do it again if I have to, Potter," Pansy snapped. "Doesn't mean I have to like it!"

"Pansy knows what she's doing, Pot— Harry," Draco said. "Okay, everyone ready?"

"As I'll ever be," Parkinson sighed.

"What do you want me to do?" Harry asked.

"Just stay where you are for now," Draco answered after a moment's reflection. "The wand guides me, doing most of the work. As grave injuries go, this lady is not too-badly off, so I'll try to give you a running commentary, if that's all right with you."

"More than." Harry's hand dropped involuntarily into the pocket where he'd stashed his Healer wand. As his fingers brushed against the wood, he was flooded with the wand's golden magic, its eager thrumming travelling up his arm to spread through his whole body. A tight, bright ball settled behind his breastbone – he knew without being told that he'd be able to draw on the magic through there.

"Right, I'll start w—"

"Wait," Harry interrupted hastily as something occurred to him. "What if the wand just takes over like it did with your father?"

Draco's eyebrows rose. "They tend to do that, don't they. Good point." He sighed, then sent Harry a rueful smile. "Given my own experiences, I suppose you won't be able to stop it. Just try to warn me if you can and let's hope that the whole thing doesn't end in disaster."

"You have no idea how reassuring the two of you sound," Pansy drawled, her arms still full of towels. "Can we get on with the healing already, or do I have to dope Mrs Doe up again until you've stopped eye-fucking each other?"

Both Harry and Draco blushed; Harry retreated again to the door, and Draco lifted his Healer wand. As he concentrated on the currents it showed him, the rune in the pommel started to glow as bright as the full moon.

"I'm first looking at the full picture of her life energies; to me, they appear as strands of red for blood and humours, white for bones and teeth, green for organs and flesh, blue for senses and nerves. In this Mrs Doe, the red strand is all tangled up with the green, indicating organ damage and abdominal bleeding, as I've already suspected from her symptoms. The other two …"

Harry lost himself in the cadence of Draco's voice as he described in detail what he was seeing and doing. A part of Harry's brain stored the information in a place he'd be able to access later, he knew, but for now it was equally important to attune himself and his wand to what Draco was doing.

As the third patient, a tattooed man with head trauma, multiple lacerations and a crushed thorax was wheeled in, Draco stopped speaking at last and concentrated fully on the healing. The golden magic sensed it wouldn't be enough, so it prodded Harry forward.

"I'm coming in," he said quietly, startling Parkinson. He went to Draco's side, drew his own Healer wand and held it parallel to its counterpart. A mental nudge released the information Harry needed, and he started to mimic Draco's wand movements. The pommel rune in his wand flashed bright gold.

Once he was fully in synch with Draco, Harry saw where the red, blue, green and white life energies needed bolstering and support by simply feeding power to Draco; the more variegated strands he saw himself required a different touch, however. For example, there was a wide swath of churning browns, oranges and yellows, indicating that the man was ill, suspicious and afraid, so Harry smoothed them until they flowed tranquilly once more, no wider or wilder than all the other shades. He noticed in the process that there was a feedback loop at work - the power he lent Draco to untangle the physical energies in turn helped the spiritual energies Harry was working on to return to their natural state.

As all strands, Harry and Draco's, were balanced and back in harmony, both wands flared once together, then released their wizards. Harry came only gradually back to reality; somehow, his arm was wrapped around Draco's waist, which was really kind of perfect already.

"Harry, we did it! We repaired your wand, and now we can heal together, and … we totally did it!"

"Yeah," Harry murmured, still in a daze. He couldn't remember exactly what 'it' was, or why he should give a damn - sure, he felt better than he had in ages, but all he really cared about was Draco's bright smile and the sparkling grey eyes full of pride, joy and accomplishment as he whirled them exuberantly in a circle.

Draco was so elated, so happy, it was infectious. A step or two away, Pansy was congratulating them and some of the elves were doing a Happy Dance in back. Harry thought he might deserve a little bit of that happiness for himself, so he just reached up and kissed Draco full on the lips.

Draco gasped into his mouth, surprised, but started to kiss him back almost immediately with great and quite satisfying enthusiasm, Harry thought as he burrowed closer against that lean body.

Then Ron smashed the window and all hell broke loose.

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Epilogue

Like every Thursday afternoon, Draco came home to Grimmauld Place already cursing a blue streak. Like every time it happened, Harry just rolled his eyes and ignored him until he calmed down, continuing to chop potatoes for the casserole he was making for dinner. And like every day for the past three years, the bubble of happiness within him grew just a little bit bigger.

Next to him, Kreacher looked up from polishing a silver tea tray.

"Should Kreacher bring some of the ugly crockery to Master Draco for smashing?" he asked. His bullfrog voice hadn't grown more pleasant over the years, but much friendlier; Harry quite liked the change.

"No, thank you," he said gently to the old elf. "It's Thursday; he's just come from his weekly training session with the Unspeakables. You know how he gets afterwards."

Kreacher shared a long look with Harry, then nodded. "Kreacher be setting out the bottle of Old Ogden's in drawing room."

"You do that, Kreacher," Harry grinned, starting to layer spices, chunks of sausage, bacon, onions and carrots into a pot with the spuds, topping everything off with some stock. Kreacher obligingly lit the oven by snapping his fingers so Harry could slide the covered dish in. "I'm sure Master Draco will appreciate it."

"So will Master Harry," Kreacher said over his shoulder as he shuffled out of the kitchen. "Kreacher knows these things."

Harry laughed quietly to himself. He'd never expected to end up where he was right now – back to full health, doing his old job in the Auror corps, studying wand lore with Ollivander, healing people in body and spirit. Most of all, though, he'd never expected to be deeply, irrevocably in love with Draco Malfoy.

But he was, had been ever since that soul-searing kiss they'd shared after their first successful joint healing. Harry didn't even care much that Ollivander intimated it was an inevitable consequence of having become the newest incarnation of Wand Weavers. His hand strayed to the Healing wand he now carried in a sheath strapped to his belt, tracing the Celtic cross on the pommel and his own Healing rune, Laguz, in its centre with his fingertips. The wand glowed briefly, sending back a surge of warmth and gentle acceptance that made Harry sigh with contentment.

"Are you playing with your wand again?"

Draco breezed into the kitchen, full of nervous energy as he often was on Thursdays. The question was also laden with innuendo, but Harry refused to be baited. Instead he smiled as Draco snagged a handful of nuts from the bowl Kreacher kept filled especially for him, slanting a look at Harry as if he was expecting to get scolded for snacking before dinner.

"I wasn't playing with it, no," Harry said mildly. He knew that for Draco, excessive snark was merely an outlet for his pent-up frustrations of the day. "I simply touched it just once – and hello to you, too."

Draco grunted what could charitably called a reply, munching on his mouthful of nuts as he opened the pantry to root for a drink. Shaking his head in fond exasperation, Harry Summoned a bottle of Butterbeer from the Cooling Cabinet, popped the cork and offered it to his mate.

"Here you go. And that'll have to hold you until dinner," he said. "Kreacher and I have made Dublin Coddle for you; you don't want to spoil your appetite, do you?"

"That's so plebeian," Draco pouted.

Harry rolled his eyes at him. "It's still one of your favourites and I know it, so stop complaining."

"I can complain if I want to after having been made to perform like a damned show Crup for the fucking Unspeakables all afternoon," Draco exploded as he started to pace up and down the long table. "As if a morning of Smethwyck's private tuition wasn't bad enough! I've had it up to here with all these old fogies," he continued to rant, throwing his hand nearly up to his brows.

"Training and cooperating with them is part of the deal you made with Kingsley to avoid being punished for practising medicine without a Healer's license," Harry said reasonably. "Just stick it out another few months, take your exams and we can finally turn the Knockturn facility into a proper hospital. Your father has been schmoozing up donors for ages; you don't want to disappoint him."

"Wouldn't be the first time," Draco grumbled, but was slowly simmering down now that Harry had let him vent the worst of his frustrations. "You'd think that healing first Father, then the Longbottoms, Bill Weasley and Lavender Brown would be enough proof that we can do what we say we can, but noooo …" He gulped down half the bottle of Butterbeer, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. The defiant look in the grey eyes dared Harry to comment on his lack of manners.

As if I ever would!

In fact, Harry loved that Draco would let his habitual Malfoy mask drop so readily with him.

He loved Draco, full stop.

Maybe it's time to tell him again.

So he did. He was rewarded with the identical twin to the bright, happy smile Draco had given him after their first successful healing and found himself swept up into a repeat or twelve of the kiss they'd shared that night.

And the Twin Wands bathed the Wand Weavers in a column of mingled gold and silver light.

The End.

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Final Notes:

It would be remiss not to cite a few of the sources used in the creation of this fic. Permission wasn't asked for, alas, but no copyright infringement of any kind intended, as every little bit is used for fun and not profit. All hail the original creators!

The wands were modelled after a "Deity Wand" for Thor (Acacia and Thunderbird feather) created by Fideliswands; you can see a picture of it throughout the story used as a scene breaker on AO3. (No idea why the Ascii pictures show up differently; I tried several times to put 'em in correctly, but the site isn't cooperating. Boo!)

The information about wand woods and wand cores comes from the Pottermore wikia.

The Elder Futhark runic 'alphabet' was chosen rather randomly after looking at lots of pretty pictures on Google and Pinterest.

The runes' meanings were mostly taken from Urne's Ash Tree, admittedly cherry-picked, slightly tweaked and adapted for purposes of the story. The "closed path" Quaternary Celtic Knot and its meaning was found at ; again, incorporating every little detail, while fascinating, would've gone too far.

Pictures of the wands' markings can be found in the End Notes of this story on AO3.

The colour chart to classify emotions is from The Tao of Dana, because it best served the story's purposes.

The Hyde Park Winter Wonderland is a real-life event which had indeed a first (unsuccessful) run in 2005; it really took off in 2007 and is still going each year.

"Sequere" is entirely made-up; it means "Follow!" in Latin and seemed plausible for a Tracking Charm.

And lastly, the Boscastle Flood where Harry sustained his injury was a real-life event in 2004; it was picked because the Museum of Witchcraft and Magic is situated there. (Go visit! It's fun!) The date also gave us a time reference for the characters.