Merlin Works in Mysterious Ways

by lordhellebore

When Harry is forced to form a Blood Bond with Draco Malfoy under threat of death, he thinks he'll have to contend with a cold home for the next 100 years. But when a group of left-over Death Eaters decides to stir trouble, their lives change completely – and it takes them both some years to figure out whether it's for better or for worse.

2. Part 2

Part 2: Down The Drain

"Tell me one good reason why I should get you out of there!"

Harry was glaring at his husband of four years, who was currently inside a holding cell at the Auror Department, sitting cross-legged on the wooden cot and grinning at him through the iron bars. It was the third time in as many months that he'd been arrested, and it seemed that this was becoming a pattern.

"How about you'll miss me tonight, Potter?" Draco slurred. He was – unsurprisingly – drunk.

Harry snorted. "Right. That's convincing."

Ever since the first day when they had been forced to be close for 24 hours and share a bed, they hadn't spent more than a couple of hours together, never mind in the bedroom.

For almost two years, it hadn't even been all that bad. They had been wary around each other, there had been constant jibes from both sides and several heated arguments, and they usually hadn't spoken much during the meals they'd sometimes taken together. But there had been no violent fights, and they had managed to uphold a certain measure of civility most of the time. Every now and then, they had even visited Draco's mother together, making small-talk and calling each other by their first names in front of her. That, together with Teddy and Andromeda calling him Draco, was probably how Harry had come to no longer think of him as 'Malfoy' – which was still rather weird.

During the day, Draco had seemed to busy himself mostly with reading; whenever Harry had entered the library, there had been another book lying on the small table next to the black leather couch in front of the fireplace, and often enough he'd found Draco there when he had come home from work.

When Harry's friends were visiting, Draco would usually vanish into the library as well or into his room, although a few times, Harry had found him in conversation with Luna – she later told him that Draco had protected her once from Bellatrix when she had been imprisoned at Malfoy Manor.

Come spring, Draco had taken up the task of bringing some life back into the neglected garden, cutting back the lignified rosebushes and removing the weeds which had run riot on the lawn.

"I learnt some gardening from the house-elves during the summer holidays," he had told Harry.

A few times, on weekends, Harry had decided to help, and they had shovelled and weeded in a not altogether uncomfortable silence. After that, they'd eaten together and watched TV. Harry hadn't expected for them to become good friends, but slowly, he had dared to hope that maybe his life wouldn't be the catastrophe he had imagined.

But during the summer two years ago, things had changed inexplicably. Without any obvious reason, Draco had become sullen and outright hostile, insulting Harry and Harry's friends at every opportunity. He had stopped reading much and caring for the garden and instead begun going out frequently, often coming home drunk. More and more often, Harry had found glasses with the remainders of what smelt like Firewhiskey strewn around the house. After a few months, he'd attempted talking to Draco, but to no avail.

"It's none of your business," had been the answer whenever he'd tried, and a while after Luna had told him that she, too, had failed to get Draco to talk, he had given up. It wasn't as if he much cared, and if Draco wanted to live like this, let him. Harry had his work, he had his friends and their children who loved him, and he wasn't his fake-husband's keeper.

Only recently, it seemed that that was what he had become.

"What was it this time?" The other two times Draco had got arrested, it had been for disturbance of the peace by night. Harry had collected him from two different Muggle police stations, just as inebriated as he was now.

"He pissed into the fountain in the Atrium," said a male voice, and Harry turned to see Auror Pollack, grinning from ear to ear. "Flooed in, made a ruckus. Said that the Ministry was shit and everyone who worked here was shit, and that he'd show us just how much he shat on us if only he hadn't taken a dump at home already. But that he'd gladly give a demonstration of how much we pissed him off."

"You're kidding."

"Nope." Pollack was still grinning. "He's got some balls – it's not as if I hadn't felt like it sometimes."

Harry wished it had been Pollack; at least then he might get fired and Harry wouldn't have to see his stupid face around at work all day. And he wouldn't have to deal with this mess.

"Did you even think for one second about the consequences?" he snapped into the cell. "This is going to end up in the Prophet, and what if your mother sees it by accident? Do you seriously want her to get upset over something like this? Now, when she's so much worse? Do you want her to die?"

The smug grin slowly drained from Draco's face, being replaced with horror.

"Shit."

"Indeed," Harry said sharply, turning away to leave the cell block. "You're a bloody idiot. Cross your fingers that I'll be able to make this go away."

Harry did manage to make it go away, at the cost of a 1,000 Galleon-fine to the Ministry and by promising the Prophet an in-depth interview about his experiences in the war in addition to letting a reporter come and take photos of the inside of his house – both things he had carefully avoided before now.

Why was he even doing all of this, he asked himself on his way back to the Ministry. He was walking part of the distance, trying to cool off after the talk with the editor at the Prophet, who'd been so chuffed about the outcome that Harry had wanted to punch his face in.

It certainly wasn't for Draco. A week or two in Azkaban – now that there were no longer any Dementors – would serve him right. Maybe it would teach him a lesson. Harry sighed, rounding the corner to see the telephone booth that would take him inside the Ministry. It was because of Narcissa. For some reason, she had grown rather fond of him, and, truth be told, he of her.

After she had lost everything and all that she had believed in had gone down the drain, according to what Harry had gathered from Draco and Andromeda, she had never complained. She had taken up a job at a Muggle fashion shop for a while, until the separation from Lucius, whom she had been forbidden to visit on Ministry orders, had made her too sick to work.

"They planned that, of course," she had once said matter-of-factly to Harry. "Most Death Eaters were blood-bonded to their spouses, so what easier way to kill them than to forbid them to see each other for years? Minister Shacklebolt was against it, but he was overruled. Lucius got sick much quicker than I because they wouldn't allow us to send him medication that would have helped with the effects of our separation. And also because of the bad conditions in Azkaban. It's a terrible place even without the Dementors. When he died, the bond was broken and I might have recovered, but I was weakened already, and the Healers said I had no chance against the disease when I caught it."

It was preposterous, as were most laws concerning former Death Eaters, and Harry had tried to talk about it to Minister Hollingberry personally. He'd actually got an appointment, but the Minster had been very clear on the matter: everyone was extremely grateful to Harry, and what he had done would never be forgotten, but it did not give him any kind of influence, and nobody cared whether or not he found fault with the law. He'd embarrassed himself and the Auror Department enough already by marrying Draco Malfoy, and it would do neither his position as an Auror nor his 'Death Eater relations' any good if he tried stirring up trouble.

Well, Harry thought as he stepped out of the lift and made for the holding cells, at least he had enough influence left to spare Narcissa the heartache of hearing about her son making an utter ass out of himself in public. Harry and Andromeda had kept all of Draco's escapades from her; she deserved better than that, even Draco had admitted to that in a moment of guilt.

Harry could only hope that he'd be able to bring him home without too much of a fuss now. If he was lucky, Draco might go to bed and sleep off the alcohol.

When he arrived at the cell, he found Draco sitting on the cot with his head bowed and his hands in his hair – his usual position when he was worried or upset, as Harry had learnt.

"Come on out," Harry said before he unlocked the cell with his wand. "You're free to go home, no thanks to you."

Slowly, Draco got up, swaying a bit before he managed to walk to the door.

"The Prophet?" he asked with so much worry that Harry almost – but only almost – felt something like pity.

"They won't print it. I promised them something else instead. Something about me they'd been after for a long time. Thank you very much for that," he added. "I've always dreamt about bailing my Death Eater husband out of media attention by stripping my soul bare to the likes of Rita Skeeter."

"Just shut up," Draco muttered. He swayed again, and Harry grabbed his arm, holding on only tighter when he met with resistance.

"Let's go home. You need to sleep and sober up."

Draco didn't answer, but he complied when Harry led him out of the cell block and through the Ministry to the fireplaces, and he let Harry Floo them home and bring him to his room, where he curled up on his bed silently.

"Sleep," Harry said. "Don't do anything stupid for a while. We might not be as lucky the next time." When he was met with no reply, he left the room, hoping for the best.

Looking at the grandfather clock down in the living room, he realised that he was already ten minutes late. He'd been invited for supper at Luna and Percy's, and especially their two-year-old, Frederica, would be waiting for him impatiently. For reasons unknown to everyone, he'd been her favourite 'uncle' from the start, and when he was there, she wouldn't play with anybody else or let anyone but him help her or bring her to bed.

Hopefully, Draco would simply be sleeping when he came home.

---

When Harry entered the living room the next morning, he only needed one glance to grasp what had happened. He should have known, he told himself. He really should. It wasn't as if this was the first time.

Two naked bodies were spread out on the big green velvet couch, barely covered with a blanket that had mostly slipped off during the night. One was Draco, the other's face was pressed into a pillow so only the black hair was visible. Harry doubted that he knew him, though – he never did.

Wonderful. He almost wanted to leave them to their own devices, but it was unwise, especially if the stranger was a Muggle. And considering the state Draco would be in once he awoke . . .

Sighing, he approached the couch and carefully touched the black-haired bloke's shoulder.

"Hey," he said, trying to speak softly despite his irritation. "Wake up." The answer was a sleepy moan, and Harry shook him slightly. "Come on, wake up."

The stranger turned his head and blinked slowly. "Wha . . .?"

"It's morning," Harry said, taking his hand away. "Time to leave."

"Who . . ." The man sat up abruptly, making the blanket slip fully to the floor and revealing his toned body. Absently, Harry registered that he was shaved. "Who're you?"

"His husband." Harry picked up the blanket and offered it to him. "And you're naked in my house. I'd prefer if you left."

It didn't matter to him in the slightest that Draco was sleeping with somebody other than him, and he wouldn't have bothered with any of this if it weren't for the Blood Bond. The worst hangover was nothing against the pain Draco would be in once he woke up, and he wanted to get rid of this man as quickly as possible before having to deal with it.

The bloke stared blankly at him for a few moments before he looked down at himself, flushing furiously, and then grabbed the blanket and quickly wrapped it around himself.

"His . . . h-husband?" he stuttered. "He never said . . ."

"He tends to forget when he's drunk. Now if you wouldn't mind, your clothes are . . ." Harry looked around to see them strewn across the carpet close to one of the armchairs, "over there. Do you want me to call you a taxi?"

"Um . . . yeah. Please." The man got up and looked down at Draco for a few seconds before he shook his head. "This is awkward."

"Yes," Harry agreed. He seemed to be lucky today, though. There had been enough of them who'd made a scene, especially when they had been wizards and Draco had woken up before or along with them. A few times, Harry had witnessed some guy yelling at Draco for not telling him he was blood-bonded, while Draco had been curled into a ball of agony on his bed or one of the couches in the living room.

The man had collected his clothes, and Harry just wanted to tell him he'd leave him to dress and call the taxi, and to please not wake Draco.

"Master Harry? Kreacher has made the usual Saturday morning breakfast. Will Master Draco eat with Master Harry?"

Draco's one night stand shrieked and dropped his clothes.

A Muggle, then. Lovely.

"Kreacher!" Harry couldn't help snapping at him as he turned around to the elf standing in the doorway. "I've told you a thousand times not to come out of the kitchen in the morning without checking for Muggles!" House-elves could do that, they could magically feel if a Muggle was in their house. Inexplicably, Kreacher seemed to forget it again and again these days.

Kreacher's face fell, the long ears hanging down even lower. Harry saw that his hands were trembling. "Kreacher is inconsolable!" he croaked. "Kreacher will go and iron his hands immediately! And he will . . ."

"No, wait!" Mentally counting to ten, Harry tried to calm himself down. A shocked Muggle, Draco soon in the throes of magical infidelity punishment – he couldn't need a house-elf who would look for creative ways to castigate himself all day long on top of that.

"I want you to go to the kitchen and stay there. Wait for me. Have a cup of tea. Do not punish yourself, do you hear me? That is an order."

"Yes, Master Harry," Kreacher muttered unhappily before he disappeared.

Now for the Muggle. Harry drew his wand.

"Obliviate!"

---

"Another one?" Ron asked as he reached for the teapot. "How many does that make now?"

"Seven." Harry looked down at the strawberry cake with cream dejectedly. It was his favourite, which was why Hermione had made it, but he didn't feel at all hungry.

"If they were wizards at least, it wouldn't be so bad. But he keeps bringing home Muggles. To Grimmauld Place! It's so stupid! He could just dump them at the Ministry or in Diagon Alley as well, for what it's worth. The house breathes magic."

After it had happened for the second time, Harry had realised he'd have to do something. He had banned all magical paintings, all magical objects, in fact, from the ground floor (with the exception of his study and the library) as well as the upstairs corridor with the bedrooms, and he'd ordered Kreacher to check for Muggles every morning. Still, it hadn't been enough.

"At least he made no scene. Just asked me again who I was, and when I told him he said again how awkward this was and yes, he'd like me to call him a taxi. Draco kept sleeping, luckily. Woke up just after the door closed behind him."

Which had led to the next highlight of the day. Draco had begun throwing up only moments after opening his eyes, and when the worst was over, Harry had been faced with the task of bringing his naked, shaking husband who couldn't take even one step on his own upstairs and to bed. Once there, Draco had buried his face in his pillow, sobbing with pain, wailing for Harry – or anybody at all – to make it go away.

Harry knew perfectly well how horrible he felt. He'd had sex with a witch about a year ago, when his own hand simply hadn't seemed to be enough anymore and he'd been growing increasingly frustrated with Draco's insults and hostility. The sex had been glorious, but it hadn't been worth it. Nothing could be worth this kind of pain. It really was the perfect way to ensure fidelity and blood purity.

"I've got no clue why he keeps doing it. But I suppose he gets so shit-faced most nights it happens that he simply forgets. Makes the whole drinking business even dumber."

Knowing that admonishments were worthless at the moment, Harry had put the covers over Draco and left. Painkillers wouldn't help; nothing would help for the next five days. All that could be done was to make sure that Draco drank regularly and somehow made it to the loo on time. In the past, Harry had mostly left that task to Kreacher, but now he wasn't so sure anymore.

"I don't know what's wrong with him," he told Ron and Hermione after he had eaten his slice of cake after all. "He keeps forgetting all kinds of things, he's burnt food several times, there's dust all over the library and the upstairs rooms and . . . well, he just isn't himself. It's been going on for months, but I didn't truly notice at first because it was only little things. But now . . . Do you think he is sick? Are there Healers for house-elves? He keeps insisting he's fine, but I think he's hiding something."

"He sounds like Tiddy," Ron said thoughtfully. "Grandma Cedrella brought her with her from the Black family when she married Grandpa Septimus. They removed her from the family tree and refused her her dowry because she married a Weasley, but they couldn't take Tiddy from her because she was her personal house-elf. Tiddy was old, almost 500, and she died only a year before Grandma. I was eight, but I remember she was just like that, like you described Kreacher."

"500?" Harry was dumbfounded. "I had no idea they could get that old!"

Hermione nodded. "House-elves can live to be 550, though most of them die somewhere between 450 and 500. Kreacher, if I remember correctly, should be around 520. I think it's old age, nothing more."

"What do I do now? He obviously doesn't want me to know, but I don't want him to feel overwhelmed with the work."

"Seriously, Harry?" Hermione sounded amused as she answered. "Twelve years of living with a house-elf and you suddenly can't clean up after yourself anymore? Perform some cleaning spells, how about that? Dusting, mopping the floor, laundry – they're all things that can be done with magic in no time. You don't have to talk about it with him, that would only make him feel humiliated. Let him take care of the kitchen and don't allow any discussion. If he's really that forgetful by now, he might not even notice and think he just did it already."

Harry grinned sheepishly, but then an idea came to him that made him shudder. "When Black house-elves get old . . . you think he'll still want . . ."

Ron's eyes grew wide. "Would you do it?"

"What are you talking about?" Hermione asked.

"Remember the heads?" Harry answered.

"Harry!" Her teacup clattered on the saucer as she put it down rather forcefully. "Promise you wouldn't."

"Of course not!" The mere thought of Kreacher's stuffed head hanging from the wall on a plate for him to look at every day made him feel sick. "I had all the heads put up in the attic with Mrs Black's portrait and some other stuff, and I'm not adding to them."

"Good," Hermione said. "It's barbaric."

Harry had the decided feeling that Kreacher would argue she didn't know what she was talking about, but he didn't want to think about it any longer.

"I've got to go home. I don't think Kreacher should be looking after Draco on his own. Maybe I can get some days off work; I worked loads of overtime this year."

"Have fun with that," Ron said and ducked as Harry whacked him over the head.

---

The next weeks went by quietly, much to Harry's relief. There were no more arrests or public scenes from Draco, and no sex with strangers, be they wizard or Muggle. In fact, he didn't seem to be going out at all. When Harry came home in the evening, he often found him in the library again, or on the green couch in the living room with a switched-on telly.

He was mostly quiet and gloomy-looking; often he was sleeping and a glass of Firewhiskey was standing close by, but still, this was better than how it had been before. Harry hoped it might last for a while.

December came, London disappeared under a blanket of crisp snow, and while they were watching TV on the Sunday before Christmas, after they'd visited Narcissa together for the first time in months, Harry asked if Draco wanted to come to the Burrow for Christmas Dinner. Narcissa had got even worse – now she was coughing up blood, and the Healers said it was a matter of months, maybe weeks.

Draco had been silent for the rest of the visit with Teddy and Andromeda and also for the rest of the evening, picking at the supper he'd taken together with Harry and watching the thriller Harry had switched on without complaint.

"I'd spend the day in a cupboard with Kreacher rather than set foot in that pig-sty full of Weasels," he now snapped.

He got up and left the room, and shortly afterwards Harry heard the front door slam shut behind him. Draco didn't return before he went to bed, and in the morning, Harry stepped into the corridor to see a stranger in billowing robes storming out of Draco's room and towards the stairs.

"I don't get it," he told Ginny when they were sitting in the kitchen of the Burrow after Christmas Dinner over a bottle of butterbeer for him and a glass of wine for her. Arthur had got everyone else to set up the large electric train set Percy and Luna had got him. "It's as if he wants to hurt himself."

"Maybe he does." She held her glass up against a candle, swirling the dark red wine thoughtfully. "Or maybe he wants distraction, no matter what kind. Drinking, sex, pain . . . His mother is dying. And did you consider that he might be lovesick?"

"You mean . . ."

"Why not? Maybe he's met someone, and now they can't be together. You'd feel miserable too, I'd wager."

"True. But he knew what he was getting himself into. He chose my Gringotts vault over his freedom."

"He chose your vault over starvation," Ginny said with a frown, "and you can't tell me you wouldn't at least have considered the same."

"Maybe," Harry conceded.

"Anyway, I think it's possible. After you two got married, I went out a lot, had a lot of sex to distract myself. I wasn't over you, not really. Not until a few months before I started going out with Neville."

Harry smiled at the thought. Neville was in the living room as well, probably trying to set up the small generator with Mr Weasley. He and Ginny were a lovely couple, and Harry was glad for them – and not just a little envious.

"I wish he'd stop," he said. "Kreacher's not really up to taking care of him anymore, I noticed that the last two times, and I can't take time off work every time he slips. Plus, it makes him unhappy, whether he wants the distraction or not. He doesn't do any of this because he likes it, that much is obvious. He'd rather bite off his tongue than tell me that, but he's a picture of misery. It's hard not to notice when you live with him. And his mother isn't blind, she noticed it too. She asked me what's wrong with him. And he feels guilty for making her worry."

How had it come to this? Him sitting and discussing Draco Malfoy's psyche on Christmas Day?

"Maybe if you two got along better –" Ginny began, but Harry cut her off.

"I try! I even invited him here, and not only this year. Your parents allowed it. He's the one who keeps being difficult! He doesn't want anything to do with me, and he refuses to talk about it." With a large gulp, Harry emptied his bottle. "What more do you expect me to do? I'm being civil, I protect his mother from his stupidity, and now I even take care of him after he has sex. And it's not as if I had to! I could just leave him to deal with all of it by himself."

"Then why don't you?"

There were whoops and cheers from the living room, Mr Weasley's voice shouting, "It's running!" and George saying, "Told you the cable had to go there, Dad." Everyone was laughing and sounding happy, and Harry felt a rush of fierce gratitude that he was here, that he belonged to these people, to this family. And, as he realised, that was probably the answer.

"He doesn't really have anyone else. You said it yourself, his mother is dying, and Andromeda . . . I think he doesn't want to burden her. She's already taking care of her sister when he believes he should be able to do it alone." Andromeda had told him that Draco had rejected her invitation as well and would only stop by shortly on Boxing Day to visit Narcissa with Harry. "I know it's silly and I don't even like him, but he is my husband, even if it doesn't really mean anything."

Ginny smiled. "I suspected as much. He's a fool for not realising what a kind man he's married to. Just promise me you won't get sucked in too much. If he doesn't want your help, there's nothing you can really do."

Ginny was right, Harry told himself the next evening, when Draco vanished once again after they had visited his mother, probably to some club as he usually did. He couldn't get too involved; it would only tear him down as well. Still, he was relieved when Draco returned alone only a few hours later, and he was relieved as well when the following weeks passed quietly.

He believed it might be because of Narcissa – the bad news could come any day, and Draco probably didn't want to be caught incapacitated. He now visited with her almost every day and appeared to have cut down on the Firewhiskey too, from what Harry could tell.

He hadn't tried talking to him again, but he made it a point to be in the kitchen as well when Draco ate, and while during the previous two years, Draco more often than not had left with his plate when Harry had entered the room, he now stayed. A few times, they ended up watching TV together again.

The back and forth between outright hostility and a wary, silent truce was unnerving, but there were things Harry was more preoccupied with. Kreacher seemed to be slipping more and more, however much he was trying to hide it, and one evening when he came home, Harry found supper burnt on the cold cooker while deep, croaking sobs were emerging from Kreacher's cupboard.

With a sigh, Harry approached and knelt down before the cupboard. He had hoped he wouldn't have to have this conversation, but had known it would probably come at some point. When he opened the door, he found Kreacher sitting in a corner of the small space with his face buried in his hands, long nose sticking out between them.

"Kreacher . . ."

The sobs got louder, and Kreacher turned away from him, trying in vain to scoot even deeper into the cupboard.

"Kreacher, please." Harry had no idea what to do or say. "Please, don't be so upset. It's not the end of the world."

Obviously, that had been the wrong thing to say. "K-kreacher is old!" the house-elf wailed. "Kreacher is useless! Burning food, forgetting things that are important to Master Harry. And Master Harry is cleaning!"

Damn, so he had noticed.

"We all get old," he tried. "It's normal, really. And I don't mind the cleaning; it's only a few spells."

Kreacher shook his head, still not turning around to face him. "If this were the old days, Kreacher would be put out of his misery. House-elves shouldn't be left alive when they're too old to be useful! Kreacher is so ashamed!"

Harry had expected this, but still, he didn't quite know how to answer. "I can't possibly kill you!"

By now, the sobs had stopped, and Kreacher was only sniffling weakly. "All the Black house-elves were beheaded in old age. It's an honourable passing, Master Harry. Kreacher's ancestors would be appalled if they knew of his indignity."

"I can't kill you. I can't kill anyone. That's my last word." It was more than enough that he'd killed Voldemort, and he never wanted to even contemplate doing anything like it again.

Kreacher nodded. "Kreacher knows," he said dully. "It's why he didn't want to tell Master Harry. Master Harry didn't grow up to honour the old traditions. He can't understand." He sobbed again, quietly this time.

Harry felt like a heartless monster.

"Look, I really can't kill you. It's wrong. You're, well, a friend. But what if I . . . when you're dead, if I put your head up into the attic with the other heads? With the portrait of Mrs Black?" He couldn't believe he was even considering this, but Kreacher seemed so utterly miserable that it felt cruel to deny him this as well. He'd never have to look at the head or even tell anybody. Certainly not Hermione.

Kreacher turned around slowly, lowering his hands from his face. His bulging eyes were still swimming with tears, and there was something wet hanging under his nose Harry didn't want to think about.

"Master Harry would do that for Kreacher?" He sounded so incredulous and hopeful that Harry couldn't help but reach out and put his hand on one skinny shoulder.

"Yes. You're a friend and you've always been a good house-elf. I'd be a bad master if I refused. I'm sorry I can't do more than that." To his own surprise, he realised that he meant every word as he said it.

Kreacher's wrinkled face worked hard for a while, and Harry suspected he was trying not to burst out crying again. "Master Harry has a kind heart," he finally croaked. "Kreacher will endure the shame of Master Harry cleaning without complaint if he promises to stuff Kreacher's head and put it with those of his ancestors."

"I promise," Harry said, squeezing Kreacher's shoulder slightly. "Just don't tell anybody, all right? Hermione would have my head if she knew."

To Harry's relief, Kreacher nodded, and he pulled his hand away. "Then we'll make a deal: I clean the rest of the house and do the laundry, and you're responsible for the kitchen. I could never cook as well as you, and if you don't have to worry about other things, I'm sure you won't burn the food."

Again, Kreacher nodded, and Harry got up. "Great. Then how about another try at supper?"

"Right away, Master Harry!" Kreacher said as he crawled out of his cupboard. "Right away!"

---

Narcissa died on a cold Thursday night during the last week of February.

Harry came home from work to find Draco sitting in the kitchen, watching as Kreacher prepared supper. When he entered the room, Draco turned to look at him.

"It's time," he said flatly, and Harry immediately knew what he was talking about. "They say she won't survive the night. I just came to get you. She wants to see you."

"All right." Harry didn't want to do it, but he felt that he owed it to Narcissa – and somehow, even to Draco. And he knew he would hate himself if he didn't go.

They Flooed over to Andromeda's house, where they were greeted by the two Healers who had treated Narcissa over the last few years. Andromeda was upstairs, and when Harry made for Narcissa's room, he found her coming out of it.

"I had Molly get Teddy," she told Harry after they had greeted with a hug. "He shouldn't be here tonight."

Harry nodded. "Can I go in?"

"Yes, she keeps asking for you. I was just about to go and Firecall you, ask you to please come quickly. I'm not sure . . ." She drew a shaky breath. "It won't be more than a few hours."

"I'm so sorry." It wasn't right – her husband and daughter had died, and now she was losing her second sister.

"Well, we all knew it was coming. And at least we could reconcile; I'd never even hoped for that. Now go in, don't keep her waiting. I'll go downstairs to Draco."

When she had descended the stairs, Harry waited for another minute, trying to mentally prepare himself. He had last seen Narcissa a month ago, and even then she had been incredibly weak and barely able to talk.

Finally, he took heart and opened the door. The room was as tidy as ever and lit by gently flickering candlelight, but the air was thick, and even from the door, he could hear Narcissa's laboured breathing. Her eyes were closed, and she didn't appear to notice him when he approached and even when he sat down carefully on the edge of the bed.

While she had been fragile when he had met her after the wedding, now she was emaciated, paper-thin skin stretching tightly over her skull. Her hair had thinned even more and lost all colour, and her mouth was standing open, pale gums having receded from her teeth. When Harry took her hand into his, he was almost afraid he might break bones.

"Narcissa?" he said softly. "It's Harry. I'm here now."

There was no answer, and none either when he repeated her name. She seemed to be asleep, and he wondered if he shouldn't let her be. But it had been so important to her to see him, and this would be the last chance.

"Narcissa?" With his free hand, Harry cupped her cheek. She whimpered, slightly turning her head into his touch, and he felt a thick lump in his throat as he remembered how strong and proud she had been when he'd seen her for the first time at the Quidditch World Cup. "It's Harry."

After a few moments, her eyes fluttered open – they were glassy and unfocused, and Harry had to lean forward to hear her when she spoke.

"Harry?"

"Yes, it's me. Draco said you wanted to see me."

"I . . . I wanted to . . . apologise."

He had no idea what she was talking about. "There's nothing to apologise for."

She wanted to answer, but instead she coughed, her thin body shaking under the covers. Harry quickly grabbed a paper tissue from the box on the bedside table and held it before her mouth and when she could finally stop and he took the tissue away, it was stained with fresh blood.

For a minute or two, all she could do was draw shallow, wheezing breaths with closed eyes, and Harry wondered how often Draco had simply sat here with her during the last years, watching her and listening to her life tick away breath for breath. Was it really such a surprise that he'd thrown himself into distractions, however destructive they were? Harry couldn't imagine seeing his own mother like this.

At last, she opened her eyes again.

"Th-thirsty . . ."

There was a feeding cup with water on the bedside table, and Harry let go of her hand and took it instead. He carefully slipped his free hand behind her head and lifted it a little before he put the spout to her mouth.

"Here."

She drank a few sips, and when he'd put the cup away and lowered her head on the pillow, she reached out for him. Harry quickly took hold of her hand again.

"I know . . . Draco forced you into marriage," she whispered. "It couldn't have been . . . any other way. I knew it the moment . . . he told me that . . . you said yes. But . . . it's so . . . so important to . . . him that I believe . . . he wouldn't do such a thing. You mustn't . . . mustn't tell him, Harry."

"Narcissa . . ."

"Promise . . . me!" She sounded agitated and even tried to lift her head, and Harry nodded hastily.

"I promise. Please, don't get upset. I won't tell him."

"Thank . . . you." Much to Harry's relief, she relaxed again, and her eyes closed. "Will you promise me . . . something else?"

"Whatever you want; if I can do it, I will." Even if he had wanted to, he couldn't have said anything else.

"Take care . . . of Draco. I know he's . . . difficult and not . . . kind to you. You two never . . . fooled me."

Harry hesitated. He didn't know if he could do it, and he didn't want to. It couldn't go on the way it had been before Christmas. He couldn't shoulder that kind of burden.

"Please," Narcissa urged him. She opened her eyes, again, looking at him intently. Her hand in his was shaking, her voice barely audible, and Harry got the impression that it took all of her strength to speak. "He's got . . . nobody else. Andromeda . . . has lost so much already . . . and she's got Teddy to take care of. I know . . . I know it's wrong of me to ask . . . but I need to know that . . . he'll have somebody. Please, Harry."

"I promise." He couldn't refuse. Already, he inwardly cursed himself, but there was no way he could say no to her. "You needn't worry about him. I'll be there."

Again, whatever she wanted to reply was cut off by a violent coughing fit, and when it was over, she appeared to fall asleep. She didn't speak anymore and her eyes stayed closed. Harry thought it would be best to leave, but when he wanted to let go of her hand and get up, she squeezed weakly, and he leant down again to be able to understand what she said.

"I miss . . . Lucius. Now when I go . . . to him, I won't be . . . scared. I'll tell him . . . how much you've done for . . . for our family. We didn't . . . deserve any of it. You have . . . a kind heart."

Harry wanted to be far away from here, or to tell her that he couldn't keep this promise. A kind heart – Kreacher and Ginny had said the same, but it seemed that all it did was manoeuvre him into responsibilities he didn't want.

"You needn't be scared," he repeated instead. "I promise I'll take care of Draco. Now should I get him for you?"

She nodded and didn't resist this time when he let go. Harry got up, but couldn't make himself leave. Instead he looked down at her in the soft candlelight that smoothed at least the harshest lines from her ravaged face. She had saved his life once, and after the war he'd come to respect her for the strong woman she was. They had almost become friends over the years, and he couldn't quite believe that this should be the last time he saw her.

Following a sudden impulse, he leant down one last time and kissed her clammy forehead. "Goodbye, Narcissa."

He didn't wait for an answer, but straightened himself and almost fled from the room. As he closed the door behind him, he found that he was fighting tears, and he leaned against the wall and closed his eyes. It didn't help much, but he managed to calm down enough so he could go and get Draco quickly. Narcissa shouldn't be alone for any amount of time.

Downstairs, he found the Healers gone and Draco and Andromeda in the dimly lit living room, both with an untouched cup of tea before them.

"Draco? You should go to her."

Immediately, Draco got up and brushed past him without a glance. Harry took his spot on the couch next to Andromeda. They didn't speak, since there was nothing to say, but when he took her hand, she held on tightly for a long time.

It was shortly past four in the morning when Draco returned to the living room. He didn't say anything, but there was no need. He moved slowly, as if in trance, and Harry could have sworn that it wasn't only the lack of light that made his face look almost as shadowed and tired as Narcissa's had been.

Andromeda had been sitting with her teacup clutched tightly on her lap, and now she rose without paying attention to it, making it fall and break on the wooden floor. She rushed to Draco, and Harry was expecting for them to hug, to touch, anything – but Draco backed away. It was only a tiny flinch, but enough for Andromeda to stop in her tracks. For seconds, they looked at each other mutely, then Andromeda turned away from him and left; Harry could hear her climb the stairs while Draco stood like frozen.

Upstairs, a door opened and closed, and Draco started moving again, slowly shuffling to the couch and sitting down on it heavily next to Harry. He leant forward and supported his head with his hands as usual. Watching him, Harry was unsure of what to do, if anything. He didn't want to provoke any outburst, but he felt that he couldn't simply do nothing.

"Draco?" he tried in the end. "I'm sorry. She didn't . . . it's not right."

Draco didn't react in any fashion, and Harry already thought he'd ignore him. It was better than snapping at him, at least.

"The worst thing is that I wanted for her to die." Draco's voice was monotonous, lifeless – as if something inside him had been switched off. Harry said nothing.

"At first, I wanted for her to get better, of course. When she could still walk, and even when she was bedbound, in the beginning. But the last half year . . ." Draco ran all ten fingers through his hair, then assumed the same position as before. "I couldn't take it anymore, to see her like this. I wanted her to die, so that she'd stop hurting. So that I would stop hurting because of her. What kind of son wishes his own mother would die?"

Carefully, Harry scooted closer to him. His mind was blank – it wasn't that he hadn't wondered a few times if it wouldn't be better if the end came quickly, that he hadn't wished for it once or twice, but it wasn't the same as for Draco. It couldn't be.

"Only at the same time, I wanted her to stay," Draco went on, still in this flat, toneless voice. "I didn't want her to leave me like Father. Like everyone. But that was selfish of me; she was suffering so much. It made me feel just as rotten as hoping it would be over quickly."

Harry reached out hesitantly, thinking that this was more likely than not a huge mistake. But Draco didn't even react to the hand on his back.

"Now I feel glad that she's at peace, and mad with her for leaving, and guilty for all of it. Life's a pile of shit."

No words would come to Harry, and so they sat in silence, Harry's hand still on Draco's back. Tomorrow, there would be a funeral to plan, and Harry wondered if Draco would be up to the task. Andromeda would probably help him, and if he let him, Harry would as well. Who would come other than them and Teddy? Was there anyone left? Old friends from before the war maybe? Draco appeared to have lost all contact, and neither Narcissa nor Andromeda had ever mentioned anyone.

"Potter?"

"Hmh?" Harry snapped out of his thoughts to find Draco looking at him as if he'd only now realised that he wasn't alone.

"Did she know?"

"Know what?" Harry believed that he knew perfectly well what Draco was asking, but luckily he had the presence of mind not to give himself away.

"That I forced you into this marriage. Did she ever say anything?"

"No," Harry heard himself say. He sounded sincere and it was far easier than he'd have imagined. It was the only possible answer. "She didn't suspect anything. She never even asked. And when I was with her earlier she only thanked me again. Asked me to sit with her for a bit. Nothing more."

Draco nodded, and then, to Harry's utter surprise, very slowly, he leant against Harry, into the embrace he'd half-offered when he had touched him. It was so surreal that Harry barely dared to breathe, but then he got a grip on himself and carefully wrapped his other arm around Draco as well, pulling him in closer. Draco didn't resist; he was rigid in Harry's hold, his fists clenched and pressed against his own chest, but bit by bit, as the minutes went by, he relaxed. In the end, his arms sneaked around Harry's waist and he turned his face so it was hidden in Harry's robes.

Andromeda found them like that an hour later; Draco was sleeping by then, lying against Harry heavily. At some point, he'd drawn up his feet on the couch, and Harry had summoned a blanket and wrapped it around him.

Harry could see that Andromeda had cried, but she looked composed now. "Will he let you take care of him?" she asked. "I tried, but we're not close. The only thing connecting us was Cissa."

Harry shrugged very slightly. "I'm not sure. It seems so, for now." He hoped it would last for a while at least. It would make keeping his promise to Narcissa easier.

"He's lucky to have you. Cissa thought the same."

If only she wouldn't say anything about him being kind-hearted, Harry thought, but fortunately, she did nothing of the sort.

"I'm going to make us a fresh pot of tea, and then we should talk about the funeral."

"All right."

---

Narcissa was buried four days later, in the Black family crypt on an old, hidden Wizarding graveyard in the heart of London. Since the Malfoy family crypt was situated on the grounds of the Manor, she, and before her Lucius, couldn't be buried there, and at Draco's request, Harry as the Head of the House of Black had given official permission to the Malfoys to use the crypt of the Blacks. Lucius, who had been buried on a shabby Muggle graveyard, would be transferred later this week.

It had been Andromeda and Harry who'd organised everything; Draco seemed incapable of doing much at all. He spent the days – and nights – between his mother's death and funeral on the green couch in the living room of Grimmauld Place, sometimes watching TV, but mostly lying down, staring at nothing. While there was always a glass of Firewhiskey close by, he only sipped from it occasionally, unlike the previous years. A few times when Harry sat down with him, he curled up against him without a word, and most of these times, he fell asleep eventually.

He barely spoke and he never cried, from what Harry could tell: he simply seemed numb and almost like a sleep-walker. His behaviour worried Harry, but he didn't know what to do about it and hoped that with time, he would go back to normal – though he couldn't help but think that he still liked him better like this than the Draco who'd done nothing but cause trouble for them both.

As Harry had suspected, nobody attended the funeral but himself, Draco, Andromeda, and Teddy. It was a depressing affair; the weather was gloomy and wet, a constant drizzle combined with fog clouding the sight, and the ancient tombs and crypts on the graveyard, together with the weathered, moss-covered trees towering over them, created an eerie atmosphere.

Before the coffin was brought into the crypt, the speaker Andromeda had hired for the occasion talked about Narcissa's life and the people she had loved, as well as her magical accomplishments and her and her husband's blood-line – an old tradition Draco had insisted on.

Teddy was sobbing weakly and holding Andromeda's hand despite disliking such displays at the age of almost thirteen. He'd come to love his great-aunt dearly, and in the morning, Harry had accidentally witnessed him yelling at Andromeda for sending him away during the night she had died. Andromeda herself did her best to appear composed, as she had over the last few days. Her black robes were free of any crinkles and she was standing very straight under her black umbrella, but her face had lost all colour, and when Harry looked closer, he saw tears running down her cheeks as well.

In contrast, Draco seemed as emotionless as he had since his mother had died. He looked straight ahead, dry-eyed and silent, and Harry wondered what Andromeda might think of him. He was standing right next to Draco, arm wrapped tightly around his waist to prevent him from falling – when they'd wanted to leave the house, Draco's legs had simply given in.

When it was finally over, they went home separately. Harry had asked if Andromeda wanted him there, but she'd told him to take care of Draco. Molly Weasley would come over – they'd become friends over the years.

At home, Draco went straight for the liquor cabinet in the living room.

"Do you think that's a good idea?" Harry asked, but Draco ignored him, and although he felt as if he might soon have to tackle the drinking issue – it had been more than obvious that Draco was an alcoholic for quite a while – Harry didn't feel like starting a fight. The one thing he would do was make sure Draco didn't run off to find somebody to have sex with. Not tonight.

For now, though, it seemed safe to leave him on the couch with the bottle of Ogden's, and Harry made for the kitchen to get some sandwiches for supper. Draco hadn't yet eaten anything that day.

Harry walked into the kitchen – and screamed.

When he could think again, he found that he was standing with his hand clapped over his mouth, heart beating wildly in his throat as he looked down on Kreacher, who was lying in front of the cooker with his eyes wide open and not breathing.

Not this, too.

But there was no denying it, Harry had to realise when he knelt down next to Kreacher: the house-elf was dead. There was an unsettling feeling deep in his stomach when he realised what he'd have to do next.

It was only five-thirty, and the shops were still open. If he wanted to, he could take Kreacher's body to Knockturn Alley right away. At the beginning of February, he'd reluctantly gathered information about where you could get your house-elves' heads stuffed and had found out – relieved and appalled in equal parts – that there was a nameless shop belonging to a wizard named Kilgore he could turn to.

The mere thought of what would happen there and what he'd have to take home in a few days made his stomach lurch, and he had to close his eyes and fight down the nausea. He couldn't do this. He wouldn't.

Only he'd promised.

---

When Harry came back, Draco was still on the couch, clutching the bottle of Firewhiskey. The telly wasn't switched on, but he appeared to be looking at it intently, not moving when Harry entered the room, nor when he sat down next to him.

"Kreacher's dead," Harry said. "Found him in the kitchen." And because he had to share it with somebody: "Don't tell anyone, but I brought him to Kilgore's to take care of his head. I promised it to him."

A hand appeared in his field of vision, holding the bottle out to him. Harry grabbed it and downed a big gulp. The Firewhiskey burnt down his throat pleasantly and within moments, his upset stomach settled. Encouraged, he took another gulp.

He'd wrapped Kreacher into a blanket he'd summoned and Flooed to the shop's address through the fireplace in his study. Mr Kilgore, a man who looked like a friendly grandfather with spectacles and tufts of white hair sticking out around his bald head, had listened and nodded, sworn secrecy, and named a price. In a week, Harry could come to collect Kreacher's head.

The question of what to do with the body had arisen, and Kilgore had asked if Harry wanted him to 'dispose of it'. Admonishing himself to stay calm, Harry had ground out that he'd take it home to bury, which he would do close to the garden wall under a rosebush. Kreacher might not have liked it, but Harry felt that he'd done his duty there.

"Potter."

"What?"

"The bottle."

Harry handed it back and heard Draco drink. He wondered if he should go to bed now – he'd locked all doors and fireplaces after he'd come back from Knockturn Alley and warded them with spells more complicated than Draco could undo with the household magic he had left. There was no way he could get out without Harry's help. But he knew he wouldn't be able to sleep, and he'd have felt guilty to leave Draco alone tonight.

"He was a good house-elf, you know. Once he stopped acting crazy." The bottle appeared again, and Harry took it and drank without thinking before handing it back. "And he remembered stuff. My and all my friends' birthdays. And yours. He made us birthday cakes every year, and one for Ron and Hermione's anniversary too. Before he started getting forgetful."

"Mhm," Draco grunted into the bottle.

"I can't believe I'm letting that old man cut his head off. But he was almost begging, I couldn't say no."

"Shut up, Potter." Despite the words, Draco's voice was soft, and Harry only sighed and accepted the bottle again. He'd get drunk if he swallowed as much as one more mouthful, but he didn't particularly care. After today, he needed it.

They sat and drank until the bottle was empty, and Harry didn't protest when Draco summoned a second one. At some point during that one, Draco switched on the telly, where he zapped through the channels until he ended up at Comedy Central UK, and for a while, they watched Leslie Nielsen embarrassing himself playing a ridiculous vampire count.

It was just when the gormless servant began eating flies at the asylum that Harry realised he was crying. He leant his head against the backrest of the couch and closed his eyes. The world was spinning around him thanks to the Firewhiskey, but the closed eyes didn't help. Now he was seeing Kreacher prepare breakfast, saying, 'Master Harry knows this is how it goes after too much to drink,' in his deep, croaking voice; then the scene switched to him leading the army of house-elves at the Battle of Hogwarts. 'Fight! Fight for my master, the defender of the house-elves! Fight the Dark Lord, in the name of brave Regulus! Fight!'

Harry had lived with him for twelve years, and while he'd been dotty and unpleasant to look at for human eyes, it was true what Harry had told him shortly after Christmas: he had become a friend.

You didn't have a friend's head chopped off and stuffed like an animal's. You didn't.

It was just when he began sobbing that Draco leant against his chest like he'd done during the previous days. Harry wrapped his arms around him and cried into his hair, holding on tightly more for his own than for Draco's sake while Draco stayed silent. He was warm and his hair was soft, and his arms around Harry's waist were strong and comforting.

"You know," Harry finally muttered in a slightly slurred voice, when the tears had stopped and he'd spelled the snot out of Draco's hair, "you're not all that bad, for a git. We should just get along. We are married."

Draco lifted himself to look at Harry. His eyes were dark and his drawn face glowing with a faint pink flush.

"You are such an idiot." The way he said it sounded like a strange mixture of fondness and hurt; then he learnt in and his lips were on Harry's.

Harry was too dumbstruck to react at all and simply held still, trying to figure out what was happening though the alcoholic haze. He was being kissed and a soft tongue was probing gently. Harry whimpered low in his throat. It had been so long. He opened his mouth.

It was intoxicating, and while somewhere back in his mind a tiny voice told him that he wasn't attracted to men, he couldn't care even one bit. Not with these lips and tongue and teeth, licking and nibbling and sucking and caressing. Not when gentle hands were mussing his hair and a warm, heavy weight settled on his lap, pressing against his hard cock.

"Oh God," Harry moaned. Every brushing of tongues seemed to wander down there directly, and then the kisses wandered over his cheek to his neck, making him first shiver and then moan again when they turned into tantalising little bites.

The kissing stopped and there were hands fumbling with his robes' buttons, and Harry found that his own hands were busy doing the same thing with Draco's. They were both uncoordinated and it took far too long, so when the robes finally came off, all Harry wanted to do was touch. Draco's narrow chest was smooth and almost hairless, and it didn't matter that there were no breasts – it felt weird only for a few moments. Then Harry couldn't withstand anymore and bent down to kiss while supporting Draco with both arms, preventing him from falling backwards. There was a gasp when Harry's lips closed around a small, pink nipple, and soon, Draco was panting harshly as Harry kept teasing with his teeth and tongue.

Eventually, Draco leant forward again, pushing Harry back against the couch and kissing him greedily.

"Let me," he whispered breathlessly when they broke the kiss. "Let me . . ." He didn't go on, but slid down from Harry onto the floor, and before Harry could protest, Draco had pulled down his boxers.

'Wait,' he wanted to say, the last rational bit of his mind making a feeble attempt at being heard. But the only thing he got out was a deep groan as Draco's hot mouth closed around his cock and all thought left him. This was heaven.

From there on, things were fuzzy in Harry's mind. The blow-job was incredible, but it ended too soon without him having come, and then, somehow, Draco was on his back on the couch and Harry above him. There were mutters of "please fuck me" and "waited too long", hungry kisses and cocks grinding together. From somewhere, a jar with a sticky substance floated towards them.

Harry had no idea how he ended up with his cock inside Draco's arse, but it was hot and tight andperfect, and he fleetingly thought that he hadn't known what he was missing out on, before once again all thinking stopped. There were only heated kisses, clinging, scratching fingers, smooth skin and deep thrusts, and finally, finally, a climax that made Harry slump down on Draco in blissful exhaustion. He was tired and sated and still far too drunk, Draco was the perfect pillow, and he almost would have gone to sleep.

Then he heard it.

Confused, he struggled to open his eyes and catch a clear thought.

Draco was crying.

Why? Was something wrong? This had been lovely.

Harry tried to lift himself, but was pulled back down abruptly – Draco was clinging to him with all his strength. It was awkward; by now Harry could feel sticky come between them, and his position was beginning to get uncomfortable. He slowly slid down from Draco, next to him on the couch, being careful to stay as close to him as possible. When they were lying side by side and Harry wrapped his arms around him, Draco all but crawled into him, fingernails digging deep into Harry's back.

"Don't . . . go!" His face was pressed against Harry's chest, voice muffled and barely understandable between sobs. "Don't go! Now I've got only you."

Oh.

Draco tried to press even closer, and Harry, in turn, tightened his hold. Somehow, one of his hands found its way into Draco's hair.

"Shhh. I'm here. I'm not leaving, promise." He had promised it to Narcissa, and right now, it didn't seem so bad. He didn't want to go anywhere; all that he wanted, he thought dazedly, was to somehow make things better. Make Draco stop hurting.

"I couldn't help her," Draco sobbed, "I couldn't. I tried so hard . . ." And then there were only sobs left, making him jerk harshly in Harry's embrace while Harry kept murmuring softly and stroking Draco's hair. He wouldn't leave, he'd take care of him, everything was going to be all right.

Eventually, after what felt like a very long time, the sobs died down to sniffling and whimpers, then silence. Draco's desperate clinging loosened as well, enough so that Harry could summon his wand and, subsequently, a blanket which he wrapped around them. He felt exhausted and dizzy and didn't care anymore about them being a mess of come, tears, and sweat. By now, Draco was limp and warm against him, and Harry barely managed to stay awake.

"Harry . . ." Draco whispered hoarsely.

"I'm here. Now hush, we're going to sleep."

There was no protest; Draco only wriggled a bit, snuggling comfortably into Harry's arms. It was nice, Harry thought. He'd missed this. And then he was asleep.

---

Harry wanted to die.

It was his first clear thought through the horrible headache, and he groaned when he realised what had happened.

He'd got drunk. Why? He never got drunk anymore, hadn't in years. It was never worth it.

Slowly gaining more of his senses, he noticed that he was not in his bed: there were no smooth sheets beneath him, but something soft and plushy. And he was naked, with somebody just as naked cuddled up to him. For a few moments, that fact didn't fully register with him. It was warm and felt almost cosy, despite the pain he was in.

Then there was an abrupt movement, the body next to him vanished, and a sharp voice like a knife cut into his brain.

"What the fuck happened?"

Harry blinked and groaned again as light flooded his stinging eyes. Right before him, he could make out something blurry and human-shaped, and when he blinked and focused – his glasses were still sitting on his nose – it turned into Draco, who was glaring down at him, apparently uncaring of his lack of clothing.

"Draco, what . . ."

"I said, what happened?" Draco snapped. "How come I'm waking up naked with you, Potter?"

Slowly, Harry struggled into a sitting position, closing his eyes and rubbing his temples to lessen the pain at least a little. "I think . . . we had sex." Bit by bit, it was coming back to him. "We came home from the funeral and there was Kreacher . . . he was dead. I brought him to . . . well, away. We drank together. A lot. You kissed me. And then . . . then it happened."

His explanation was met with silence, and he raised his head after a while. Draco was paler than ever and looking at him with such burning hatred that for a second, Harry feared he'd attack him. But Draco stood still, fists clenched, lean body trembling barely noticeably.

"Don't ever touch me again," he finally hissed through gritted teeth. "Got that? Don't ever!"

"What?" This was making no sense at all. "Just last night you said –"

"Shut up! I don't want to hear it!"

"Please, Draco." The raised voice sent pain though his head and nausea rolling in waves over him. Harry was in no condition to fight. "Can we just stay calm and talk?"

"Talk about what? About how you exploited me being drunk after my mother's funeral?"

"You're always drunk. And you started it. Begged me to fuck you." It wasn't the smartest thing to say, but he could barely think, his head was hurting that badly. And it was the truth.

"Because I wasn't right in the head!" Draco screamed. "I was pissed to the gills, my mother had just been buried, and you thought it was a good idea to go along with that shit?" He raked his hands though his hair, which was sticking up into all directions. "I thought you didn't even like men anyway. What kind of pervert are you?"

"I'm not!" Now it was Harry's turn to get angry. "We were grieving, we were both drunk, we both needed comfort –"

"Comfort!" Draco spat. "Yeah, I remember. 'I'm here. I'm going to take care of you. I promise'," he cooed, his voice sickly sweet. "Is that what you promised her? To play the martyr? Be there for her wayward son because he's so pathetic that he's got nobody else? Well, I don't want you. I don't need you!"

"Draco –" Harry hoisted himself to his feet, trying not to fall as he was hit by a dizzy spell.

"No, stay away from me! You can keep your pity!"

"It's not pity!" Harry insisted. It wasn't, hadn't been last night. "We're married, and I promised I would –"

"I married your money and your protection! I married your name, not you! You've got no obligation beyond that, why can't you get that into your thick head?"

Hearing that hurt. It wasn't that Harry hadn't thought of it like this. He had, in the beginning. It had been realistic. And when Draco had changed for no reason and everything had begun going down the drain, he'd almost resigned himself to the fact that this was how it would always be. But last night, Harry had dared to hope . . . what? That they'd be lovers? No, he realised, not that. What had happened had been facilitated by alcohol and pure need. He wasn't attracted to Draco or men in general. But friends? Yes, he'd hoped they might be friends after all.

"I don't want to have anything to do with you ever again!" Draco's harsh voice tore him out of his thoughts. He had picked up his clothes and was clutching them to his chest. "Just leave me alone. Don't talk to me, don't try to take care of me! I can take care of myself and you've got better things to do anyway. And if you dare touch me again, I will find a way to hurt you, magic or no! Is that clear?"

He didn't wait for an answer but stalked out of the room stiffly, leaving Harry to stare after him speechlessly before his legs gave way and he found himself sitting on his butt.

Shit. Somehow, within a few days, everything had gone to shit even more than it had during the previous years. Narcissa was dead, Kreacher was dead, Draco hated him worse than before. His home life would be hell, as it had been since he was a child, always.

Naked as he was, Harry curled up right there on the carpet, but he couldn't even cry.

---

"Please, Hermione. I don't know who else to ask, and I can't do it. The Russians are due this morning, in half an hour, so even if I could squeeze some more days out of Ruskin at any other time, it's not happening now. Please."

Hermione shook her head for the third time. "No. He'll never learn anything if you keep trying to help. He needs to get through this alone."

"He can't stay alone, it's too dangerous. Remember what he did to make the pain go away the one time I tried that? I'll have to send him to St Mungo's again if you say no, and you know the risks. It wouldn't be right. Please, this last time."

"It's not right what he keeps doing to you, Harry." She sighed. "All right, this last time. But promise me it will truly be the last. Promise you'll get him into rehab directly after, no matter what he does or says. Stun and bind him on Thursday, if necessary. There won't be a free space so quickly again, I'd wager. And don't feel bad about it. It's necessary, and you're doing nothing wrong. As his bond partner, you're within your rights, you know that."

"I know."

They'd gone over it a dozen times during these last weeks. During the eleven months after Narcissa's death, Draco had brought home a one night stand eight times, and Harry had no idea if that was all. He disappeared for days, sometimes up to a week, and when he was home, it seemed that all he did anymore was drinking.

Harry had used up all of his free days for this year to take care of him – and a few more he'd managed to amass with working plenty of overtime. When he was half crazy with pain, Draco didn't care that it was Harry, and afterwards, he never said anything. The last three times, Harry'd had to resort to asking Hermione for help, since as an independent researcher for the Ministry, she was the only one of his friends who wasn't currently working fixed hours. She had agreed grudgingly and borne Draco's ceaseless insults with stoic demeanour, but she'd been clear about the fact that this couldn't go on. Draco had spiralled out of control entirely, and Harry had let himself be dragged down with him. 'Co-dependent' Hermione had called it. It was time to change that.

It had been her who had given Harry the brochures, and he'd latched on to the idea almost desperately. The place was called Hecate Domicile and it was a private facility for the wealthier members of Wizarding society who found themselves afflicted with all kinds of addictions. It promised good medical care during the detoxication period and professional help with the aftermath for both in- and outpatients.

Immediately, Harry had looked into it and found that you could send your blood-bonded partner to a rehab centre without their consent if it was medically proven that they were suffering from an addiction. Apparently, addictive substances – and especially magical ones, of which he'd found an impressive and frightening list – could do damage to the bond and both partners' life expectancy.

With Draco, there would be no difficulty proving the medical necessity, and after some stern, honest talks with Hermione and Ginny, Harry had decided that this was what he would do. He'd felt dizzy with relief when they had Firecalled him two days ago and informed him of a free place next Thursday. His life was a train wreck, and he hadn't even understood how stressed and plain burnt out he was until their owl had delivered the confirmation letter in the evening, only hours after the Firecall.

He had Firecalled Ginny and asked if he could spend the night, and like he'd done the night before his wedding, he had been able to let go with her, even more than he could have with Ron or Hermione. This time, though, there had been no kisses, just a comforting embrace and a warm blanket spread over him after he'd fallen asleep in her arms on the couch.

"Next Thursday it is," he now promised Hermione. "I'll do whatever I have to. Will you be there? Please?"

"I will. I would even if you hadn't asked; I need to know he's truly going. The things he's put you through, all the one night stands, all the arrests these last months . . . he'd deserve St Mungo's."

"You don't mean that, not really. It would be one thing if they were to let him know how much they despise him – I'd not say anything. He'd deserve that, even though it's for different reasons. But we can never know which of the Healers or nurses –"

"I know, and you're right," she conceded. "Whatever he was in the past, he doesn't deserve to be mistreated because of it while he's helpless like this. But that is the only reason I'm doing it."

When all his days of leave had run out and Draco had got himself into trouble again with another man, Harry had seen no other option but to send him to St Mungo's to recover. It had been a big mistake. On the evening of the second day, when he wanted to see how Draco was doing, he'd witnessed two of the nurses hitting him viciously. They were Muggle-born and Death Eaters had murdered their parents.

"Now go to work, Harry," Hermione said. "I'll get my things and Floo over to him. But this means you owe me. Big time."

"You're a life-saver." Relieved, Harry hugged her before he made for the fireplace. Maybe he could squeeze in a cup of coffee before the Russian exchange Aurors would arrive.

---

Eight days later, on Wednesday evening, Harry was nervously pacing his study. Draco had been gone for two days, which was unusual. Normally, after five days of excruciating pain, he'd rest and stay home for several days. This time, he'd taken off the very next day, before Harry could prevent it. It didn't fit with his plans at all. He'd hoped he would be able to surprise him in bed on Thursday morning. The rehab centre was awaiting them at 9am, and Harry had planned everything carefully to make sure Draco wouldn't stand a chance against him and Hermione. Maybe they could even make him see reason. Harry knew that he didn't like living like this.

Now, though, it seemed as if plans would have to change. This morning already, he'd set Hermione on locating Draco, but so far, she'd had no luck at all. Harry had only come home from work to change clothes and grab a sandwich, then he'd Floo back to the Ministry and try some locating devices they had only there.

He had just decided to leave the half-eaten sandwich on his desk and get going when something rapped at the window. Harry wasn't expecting any owl-post, but it was a large Eagle Owl, which was carrying a parchment and took off immediately after dropping it on Harry's desk.

Harry was tempted to leave the parchment and only look at it the next morning – he really needed to try and find Draco. But then he grabbed and unrolled it. Five minutes wouldn't hurt.

At first, his only thought was that this had got to be a joke, although he couldn't imagine anybody he knew doing something like it, not even Draco. Or would he? But what would be the purpose of it?

Shaking his head in confusion, he read the letter a second time.

Potter,

We've got your husband. If you want to get him back alive, bring 250,000 Galleons to the crossroads five miles south of Ottery St. Catchpole. There's a large stone directly under the signpost. Under the stone, there's a hollow big enough for the money if you shrink it. Put it in and then leave. Come alone or he dies immediately. Don't bring your friends. Don't go to the Aurors. We WILL know. Bring the money at 11pm sharp. If you meet our demands, he'll be delivered to your home at 11.30. You know how to verify this letter.

And under that:

They're serious. Please do what they say.

Draco

That short note more than anything else made Harry worry and consider taking it seriously after all. It was without a doubt written in Draco's spidery handwriting, and not in ink, but in a red colour which a part of Harry had recognised immediately upon reading the note for the first time. Together with the bit about him knowing how to verify the letter, this fact made all of this not a bad joke but a very serious matter. So serious that he hadn't wanted to acknowledge the implications at the first reading.

A Blood Quill.

As an Auror, Harry had worked on several kidnapping cases, most of them over in New York, and in two of them, the kidnappers had made the victim use a Blood Quill to prove that they were serious and indeed were holding the person in question captive.

With a sinking feeling in his stomach, he drew his wand, pointed it at the parchment, and spoke the necessary incantations.

It was indeed blood, and it had been taken by force. With growing dread, Harry took his letter opener and pricked his finger, letting one droplet of blood fall on the lower left corner of the parchment, away from the writing. If it was truly Draco's blood, its magical signature would match Harry's due to the Blood Bond.

It did.

"Bugger!"

Harry flopped down on the chair in front of his desk and buried his face in his hands, trying to think. It seemed likely that Draco might be in true danger. It wasn't completely inconceivable that somebody should try something like this. Harry was rich and he had made more than enough enemies during the war. If one twisted the facts enough, some people might even argue that since it was he who had defeated Voldemort, the dismal conditions under which the former Death Eater families now had to live were essentially his fault. And what better way was there to punish him and at the same time get a source of money?

What should he do?

For one horrible moment, a cold voice spoke in the back of his mind, telling him that he shouldn't do anything. Let the deadline go by, ignore any following letters. This was his chance to be free, maybe the only one he'd ever get.

No. "I won't," Harry whispered. It would be like murder, like he did it himself.

He'd try and save Draco, it was the only way. But how? At work, they always told relatives not to comply without notifying the authorities. Concealed Aurors supervising the handing over of the ransom were a vital security measure and had resulted in capture of the kidnappers more than once. On the other hand, there were those cases in which things had gone wrong and the presence of Aurors had, in fact, meant the victim's death. Harry shuddered as he remembered the one time he'd had to deal with this. He couldn't let it happen to Draco under any circumstances.

It was only when he reached out to read the parchment a third time that Harry noticed he was shaking. He couldn't think clearly, that much was obvious. Before his inner eye, the image of a dead Draco formed, and then a funeral at the same graveyard as eleven months ago, only this time it was Draco, not Narcissa, who was lowered into the dark, cold crypt.

No. He couldn't allow that. But what should he –

Hermione and Ron! He'd ask them for advice! Ron was a fellow Auror, and Hermione was always far more level-headed than either of them. They should be home now; Ron had left work at the same time as Harry to grab a bite before he'd meet with him at the Ministry again to aid him in his search.

Harry got up and rushed to his fireplace.

He found his friends in their kitchen, eating leftover black bean soup from the previous evening when Harry had eaten with them. They both looked up in surprise when Harry stormed into the room.

"Did you find him?" Ron wanted to know.

"No. Look!" Harry thrust the parchment at him.

Ron stared at it in confusion.

"Take it!"

Ron obeyed, and as he read, his bewildered expression turned serious. "Bloody hell!"

"What?" Hermione asked "What's wrong?"

Ron handed her the parchment. "It's a ransom note. And it looks as if was signed with a Blood Quill. Harry, did you verify it?"

Harry nodded. "It's Draco's."

"Damn!"

Hermione, who'd finished the letter, had gone white. "This is very serious, Harry. I think it's legit."

"So do I," Ron said. "It fits the usual pattern, it's Malfoy's blood, and as your husband, he is the perfect target."

Harry's heart sank. He had expected that they would say it and still, somehow, he'd hoped that they would convince him that it wasn't true. That it was a mystery that might be solved in some other way.

"You have to inform the other Aurors. You should go to the Ministry right now."

"I don't know, Hermione," Ron said. "It might not be the best idea."

"How can you say that? You're not seriously suggesting he should go alone? It's far too dangerous! What if – "

"What if they kill him?" Harry interrupted. "I can't risk that! And it can happen, it's realistic. The last time Aurors got involved, we got involved, a woman died. Remember the Laverick case?"

Hermione nodded unhappily. "Still, I think it would be wiser –"

"Harry's right," Ron said calmly. "That case was a disaster, and it could happen here too. We've got no idea who these people are and what they're capable of. We can be happy they only used a Blood Quill to make sure Harry understood they're for real."

Hermione stayed silent for a few moments, thinking.

"All right," she said in the end. "Let's assume he goes alone, no Aurors and neither you nor me under his Invisibility Cloak. What if the delivers the money, comes back safely, and then they won't hand over Draco? What if they think if he pays this much, they can try and get more out of him? And don't tell me that doesn't happen."

"It does," Harry conceded, "but we'll have to risk it. And I don't care about the money; all I want is to try and get Draco to safety. If they want more, I can give them that. If I don't give them anything, Draco dies anyway." And that was something he simply couldn't let happen. "I promised to protect him, not only when I married him but to his mother, on her deathbed."

"It's a lot to risk for an arsehole like him, even if you made a promise," Ron said.

"I know. But if this were a case, don't tell me you wouldn't try your damndest to get him free. You'd risk your life for him as well, we all would."

"Oh, I would. He's an arsehole, but he doesn't deserve to die." Ron smiled grimly. "I got over that phase. Now, 250,000 Galleons, that's a lot. Almost a million Muggle pounds. Can you pay that, and more if need be?"

"Uh, yeah. That part is no problem." Although he was glad that he could afford it without thinking twice, Harry felt somewhat uncomfortable nonetheless. With the money he'd inherited from his parents and especially from Sirius, he was far too rich for his own tastes. If he didn't want to, he'd never have to work again and still wouldn't be able to spend it all. "And the goblins keep Gringotts open until nine, that's in . . ." he quickly glanced at the ticking clock. "Almost an hour. I could get the money if I went right away."

"I think you should do it," Ron said. "Deliver the money just as they demand, then go home and wait for Malfoy. We'll allow for a 20-minute delay, then Hermione and I will Floo over to your place. It's better if we don't get there before you come back, just in case somebody is monitoring the house. If Malfoy's not there by the time we come, at 11:50, we'll Floo straight to the Ministry and alarm the guys on night shift. It means they either want more money or, well, they killed him."

Harry nodded, trying to swallow the lump in his throat. He was glad Ron's professional side had taken over, but hearing it like this was still dreadful. "Sounds like a plan."

"Why do you think they chose Ottery St. Catchpole?" Hermione asked.

Ron shrugged. "Could be any reason, but I doubt it's because any of them lives near there. They usually aren't that stupid. My guess? It's because Harry's familiar with the place. Everyone who bothers knowing a little bit about him knows he's been spending time with our family there for years."

"That makes sense."

"I'll get the money now, before it's too late," Harry said.

"Should one of us come with you?" Hermione suggested.

"No. They might be monitoring Diagon Alley. Gringotts. To see if I'm getting the money. I should be alone."

"All right." Hermione got up from her seat and hugged Harry tightly. "Take care," she whispered. Her voice was trembling. "I don't want to lose you."

He distanced himself slightly and looked at her. "You won't. I'll be home safely when you come, and so will Draco."

"I hope so."

After he and Ron had exchanged a fierce hug as well, Harry left, Apparating directly to the Apparition Point close to the Leaky Cauldron.

It wasn't a problem at all to get the money he needed, and Harry was glad that the goblins never asked any questions. By 8:40pm he was home again and began restlessly pacing the living room, going over a hundred ways how things could go wrong in his mind. They were very different scenarios, some involving former Death Eaters, some his Auror colleagues, but all of them ended with Draco dead and him organising another funeral.

9:07pm. Time seemed to creep like a snail. Watching TV didn't help; he couldn't concentrate on the programme.

At 9:36, he began counting the shrunken Galleons, making little piles of 50 around him. They looked like strange golden miniature pennies.

10:24. This was ridiculous. Harry quickly shovelled the Galleons back into the old leather bag he'd brought with him to Gringotts. He began pacing again.

At 10:58pm, Harry Apparated.

He knew the crossroads the ransom note had mentioned perfectly well – he and Ginny had liked to take extended walks through the area and having picnics while they had been together.

Now, nothing was further from his mind. It was cold and pitch-black – no snow even in January – and Harry drew his wand and performed a Lumos charm to be able to orient himself. He was standing in the middle of the crossroads where the two dirt roads met. Just in front of him, he could make out the signpost with the rock underneath. Straining his ears, he tried to listen for any noise, however small, but there was nothing.

And it wasn't as if he was here to do anything but place the money and go home again. They could try and get the bastards later, when Draco was safe. Harry took a deep breath. His mouth was incredibly dry. He slowly approached the signpost and was able to roll the stone to the side, and as the note had said, there was a hollow, apparently freshly dug only hours ago.

Harry licked his dry lips and carefully placed the bag inside it – and just as he made to get up again, something heavy hit him straight over the head. The world faded to black.