Chapter Four
"I can hardly believe this is legal."
Hermione was referring to the stack of files she'd gone through in the last hour of restricted information about the guests at Second Chances.
"I don't think you're supposed to give out information this easily. I understand he wants you to work with them, but you're not a Healer, Harry. He could get into serious trouble for making you privy to such private matters." The witch reorganised the pile in her hand and continued reading. Apparently, it was only a matter of Harry's legal credibility and not her own.
The wizard hadn't been concerned with whatever Hermione was prattling on about. He was too busy creating a list of questions unknown to any other member of the house. Harry had always seemed to blurt any and all information to his two closest friends and he wasn't entirely sure if even his possible knowledge was public information. Surely, the reformed Death Eater didn't expect Harry not to explain himself. The two were hardly on terms where the Chosen One could do the man favours without anything in return—Hermione would see right through that charade in an instant once she'd committed to the belief of strange activity.
Something churned in the brunet's stomach whilst he decided against exposing his agreement and opted instead to focus on his list. What seemed important enough to ask? What kinds of questions could be open ended enough to receive more than originally warranted?
"That same boy kept us from dying after being caught, refused to kill Dumbledore, and is the son of the woman who saved you from dying,"Hermione had reminded him only days ago.
This was at least a start.
These questions gave Harry the proper mentality to defend Malfoy after the war. The sound proof of the remaining pure bloods' innocence kept the mother and son out of prison and away from the same fate as Lucius. Answers to these questions never consciously crossed the Hero's mind. 'Why' didn't matter. It was strange now, seeing the former Death Eater succeeding. Only now did Harry question his certainty on the motives behind the matter. While in court, the quickly fading memory of the pair with death in their eyes and courage to face it was more than adequate cause for defence. The new effort offered no security and only a catch in Harry's eyes.
Here was the opportunity to gain those reasons that had only recently seemed ill intended. Here was the precise moment that Harry hadn't known himself to be waiting for.
What did he want to hear? What would it mean if Malfoy really had changed?
Why did it matter?
"Harry, are you listening to me about this case?" Hermione nagged incessantly. To his utter indifference, the Man Who Lived shrugged. This only served to infuriate the witch who proceeded to toss the manila envelope in his direction, missing his eye by a fraction of an inch and coming into contact with the very edge of his brow. "Serves you right."
Rubbing the probably reddening spot, Harry began to skim through the pages of this particular file.
Death Eaters tortured the sixteen-year-old boy, for months before the war. Some of the accusations of assault included neglect, rape, and physical abuse that left multiple scars along his back and rib cage. Death Eaters wiped his memory of any knowledge from his previous life. He did not have a name of his own. Upon discovery, he was given the name: Felix Oblitus. A picture rested inside, of the boy as he was stepping out of St. Mungo's.
"Looks a bit familiar, doesn't he?"
Harry didn't respond. The picture had aged about four years. Obviously, the boy had as well. He wondered why there wasn't a more recent photo of Felix. Why did they choose this picture? The boy was healed, but he hadn't come close to eliminating the internal scarring.
The Hero couldn't imagine having no memories other than torment. Of course, that was almost a possibility if he hadn't come to the knowledge that he was a wizard. His troubles before Hogwarts centred only on neglect, verbal cruelty, and the occasional over reacted slap. Harry wasn't able to hold a candle to all that this boy had seen, all he'd survived. Sure, he'd seen death and felt it himself. But, death was quick while torture was quite another thing all together.
"I can't quite put my finger on it."
Harry looked closer at the image. The boy had straight dark hair and a pale complexion. Nothing really startled his examining. He was abnormally thin, but that was to be expected. He fidgeted in the photo—no doubt from the attention—his smile was small and absolutely terrified, his nose stuck up in the slightest and was speckled with a dusting of freckles. His eyes were green and his lashes long. If held at wand point, Harry couldn't relate this boy to anyone.
"Let's go out to Diagon Alley," the wizard said suddenly after closing Felix's file. "We can look at wedding things for a bit. I need to walk around." And purchase some Veritaserum.
Hermione brightened significantly. Her smile could have lit a small city as she practically flew towards her room to change into something other than pyjamas. Harry looked back to his list and proceeded to fold it in half and then in half again.
Tucking the folded parchment into his coat pocket, the former Gryffindor glided to the fireplace and grabbed a bit of floo powder.
A mirror sat upon the mantle and for a split second in time, Harry hardly recognised who was staring back at him. In the blink of an eye, though, there stood the same man with the same expression of weariness staining his once youthful face. At the age of twenty-one, Harry Potter had the worry lines of someone at least twice his age. His skin was paling. Years of finding any excuse to bask in the heat of the sun had dissipated into a shade or two above an anaemic. Bags collected under his noticeably dim eyes, brought on by years of restless sleep or no sleep at all. In four years, the only peaceful sleeps he'd felt came from pure exhaustion. Exhaustion so demanding, so terrifying in its intensity that it leaves the person powerless to unconsciousness.
Harry knew and welcomed that kind of fatigue.
"Ready?"
Shaking himself from reading too far into his own thoughts, he threw the powder into the flames.
"Hermione, I don't think anyone will give half a damn if the plates match the flower arrangements," Harry huffed exasperatedly. The pair had been in Diagon Alley for nearly two hours and purchased soap, ribbon and a practice broom for Teddy's upcoming birthday. None of which was of any importance to the wedding. That small detail set Harry's nerves on edge. He wasn't one to shop for pleasure and he certainly didn't want to shop aimlessly.
"Well, it's not just the flower arrangements that they'll match." Taking a deep breath, Hermione hid her face from the Saviour's view. Before he had a moment to become curious, she began again. "It'll match my dress too."
"You have a dress? When did you get that?"
"I've had it for a year," she said with her face reddening. "I didn't tell anyone. Ron would have found out if I had."
"Little sneak, you," Harry teased, nudging the girl beside him. "When do I get to see it?"
Hermione seemed shocked in the way her jaw slacked and a few muttered sounds protruded from her lips. "You're sure?"
"What? Is that the Maid of Honour's job or something? Can't the Best Man have a look?"
"Of course you can see it!" the witch nearly screeched, pulling a stumbling Harry Potter behind her to Madam Malkin's to be greeted by a rather stout woman measuring another client. Not a minute passed before that customer was lost to the new guests.
"Mr Potter and Ms Granger! Oh, it has been too long! You look stunning," she praised, waddling over towards the door. "And Mr Potter, you're looking so grown up!" The witch was kind. 'Older' or 'grown-up' seemed to be some kind of code for worn-out and nearly deceased looking. "I think I know what you're here for," Madam Malkin winked after pinching Hermione's cheek with the kind of vigour only known by a woman with a Grandmother's past.
The bride-to-be twitched in the pinch's aftermath and elbowed Harry who could only find humour in the situation.
"Here it is, Darling! Come try it on for the gentleman, yeah?"
Hermione followed dutifully and shot a horrifying glare in Harry's direction, warning him to keep his chuckling to a minimum.
The Man Who Lived had only a moment to inspect his nails for dirt that didn't exist before Hermione returned.
In a word, she was stunning.
At the top of her head sat a thin band with diamond-like crystals. The dress began at the shoulders and capped them with a lacy material that frayed in an intricate design. Its body sat straight across her chest, revealing only a small dip in her middle. The same crystals on her headband accented the entire length from chest to floor—the majority of sparkle decorating her chest and slowly trickling into pure white down her left side.
The most spectacular point made by this dress was that it couldn't wear the witch. Hermione made the dress. On the rack, it would have been fabric.
On this, this being his second oldest friend in the world, it was, "Beautiful."
"Really?" Hermione asked bashfully. "It isn't perfect. I mean—I still have the final fittings, but it's okay; it'll do."
"Hermione? Would you do me a favour?" The witch nodded. "Tell that nagging twit telling you otherwise to kindly—pardon my cuss—shut the fuck up. You're perfect."
A blushing smile graced her face and she looked to the owner of the shop for approval.
"He's right, dear. You're a vision. Now, can we get you measured? I've waited a year."
"Won't that take about half a second with magic?" Harry wondered, as if this were one of the few things that Hermione overlooked.
The witch's cheeks darkened even more so. "I want a Muggle wedding. I want the fitting by hand. Like my mother and everyone else in my family." With a pregnant pause, Hermione cleared her throat. "Is that stupid?"
Harry paced to his best friend and took hold of her right hand. Placing his lips over her middle knuckle, he smiled. "I think it's brilliant."
"Thank-you, Harry." Tears collected in Hermione's eyes and threatened to spill over in prelude to an undignified snort from Madam Malkin. She always seemed sappy in times like this. "And on that note, eh?" the witch in white teased—collecting her hand.
"I need to go to the Apothecary. Will you be a minute?" Hermione cocked an eyebrow and Harry explained. "I want some Dreamless Sleep potion." Concern marred the bride's grin and the wizard brushed it away.
"Are you alright? I know you haven't been sleeping well. I've just been busy and you didn't seem too ready to chat recently."
"I'm fine. And I'd like to get some sleep before I talk to the kids tomorrow. So, can I meet you somewhere? The café next door? We'll have some dinner and talk about whatever you'd like."
Half of her mouth pulled up and she nodded once. "I'd like that. Don't get lost."
"I won't," he promised and slipped quietly out the door. It wasn't a far distance from Madam Malkin's. However, while entering the shop, Harry noticed the atmosphere change. Perhaps it was lack of proper lighting, or perhaps it was the lie needed to get here.
"Veritaserum, please," Harry called over the empty counter.
"Ah, Harry Potter!" a voice responded without aid of a face. "It's been years."
I keep getting that. "So I've heard. The Veritaserum?"
"In a rush, are we?" A man finally revealed himself from behind Harry, causing his step to falter in the unexpected company. He was at least a foot shorter than Harry, his hair thinning to a single piss-yellow streak across the very edge of his forehead, the clothing he wore was stained with countless colours—perhaps the only colour in the store. Harry distinctly remembered a much sillier place in comparison to this—but surely not everything could have gone back to normal after the war. "You always had time before the war for a chat."
Reeling in an excessive amount of air, Harry worked to control his temper and even his voice before deciding it best to not respond at all. The man seemed to understand this silence and hurried to the back of the shop. Releasing the breath he hadn't recalled holding, Harry held out his hand to the returning man. A vial found its way into his palm and he smirked at the clear liquid.
"Big plans for a little bottle, Mr Potter?"
"Sir, with all due respect, I don't feel as if it's your business to know."
An ironic chuckle filled the room. "Of course. Three years away can do that to a man's trust, can't it?"
"What would you know?" Harry spat before he could stop himself. A cloud of smoke appeared as the man threw a recent Prophet on the dusty countertop. Looking up towards the man, he received an all-knowing grin and was left alone.
Leaving more than necessary for the potion, Harry took the paper and exited the shop quickly.
Standing in the street and flipping through the first few pages, the Saviour settled unto a moving photo of himself poking his wand into Draco Malfoy's neck. Mentally, he slapped himself for having the gall to do such a thing in public.
'Lions, Charity, and Snakes—Oh My!'the title read right above the repeating picture of his encounter. Reading on:
'Harry Potter,Saviour of the Wizarding World, Hero to all, Reason behind our existence and Runaway Man Who Lived is seen fraternising with his once rival and a former Death Eater, Draco Malfoy at the latter's very own charity event! Witnesses were not able to comment much on the Great Harry Potter as he preferred a grand entrance of his own in the very middle of the press conference. Doesn't leave very much time to chat with the old Hero, does it?
When appearing, though, not a single member of the news team retreated from Mr Malfoy. The news team left Harry Potter alone, as was evident to be his own desires as well.
That is until he was able to corner our host for the evening.
The conversation could not be heard, but from the above image, it's fairly obvious that old grudges never really die, do they? Could it be possible that Harry Potter is still grieving? What could this 'damaged' hero have against a man he defended in court?
Later this week, several witnesses spotted Potter and Malfoy walking the gardens of Second Chances. Of course, what was said is still left to the reader's imagination. It's clear, though, that a conversation was had.
Is Potter making up for the death threat only days earlier? Checking in on the heir for a purely social visit? This reporter says, no. 'Something is rotten in the state of Denmark,' as the late great Shakespeare may have said.
Perhaps our hero's changed.'
Harry folded the paper under his arm and stalked to the café next door to Madam Malkin's to find Hermione waiting with a bowl of vanilla ice cream topped with pineapples and what looked to be fried cheese sticks.
Could've sworn she was lactose intolerant.
"What the bloody fuck is this nonsense and why exactly have you kept it from me?" he growled, throwing the Prophet on the table and hardly missing Hermione's glass of steaming something-or-other.
She shook her head, not needing to read the paper to know exactly what he was on about.
"It came out this Sunday. I didn't want you worrying about something so silly as this. You know as well as I do that these stories are utter rubbish."
"But, this one isn't, Hermione! This is real. They haven't said a word that's false."
Harry hadn't sat yet and had taken to crossing his arms heavily across his chest as if to hold himself together.
"So, what's worrying you? Aside from your temper, they haven't a thing to say against you with proof."
The man finally sat and sighed, rubbing his forehead in the spot where his scar had been fading. "I just didn't want the first story about me to be… this." Taking a bite of her cheese stick and offering another to Harry, Hermione listened thoughtfully. "I don't want to be seen as this 'damaged' hero. Do you think I'm damaged?"
"I think you need to work through a few things. But, you'll be okay. I know you; you'll get through it. We're all damaged."
Harry considered that and fiddled with the list and vial in his pocket. "How're you so sure?"
"I know everything," she said as if that was public knowledge and always had been, "Even about the list in your pocket. Care to talk about it?" A challenging smirk settled and she finished the last bit of pineapple in her bowl.
"You're too smart. Know that?" Hermione shrugged. Some things just couldn't be helped. "It's for Malfoy."
"I figured that out on my own after reading it. But," she paused at Harry's shocked look. "Give me credit! You left your coat on the hook while we shopped for save-the-date parchment. Anyway, what are these questions for?"
What harm could it do? "I'm trading my services for answers."
"Ah, knew there had to be something else. And he's willing to give them?"
Pulling the vial from his pocket, along with the list, Harry offered the items as explanation.
"That explains the Apothecary. You hate Dreamless Sleep potion. Always gave you a terrible stomach-ache."
"I've only had it four times between first and fourth year." Hermione pointed to her head and that was all the rebuttal Harry needed. "You never miss a thing."
"Why, though?"
"I don't need his money. I don't need anything material. And for some sick reason, I think I'll like knowing that he's entrusting me with these things he's hiding."
"It'd be interesting to sit in your head for a day."
Harry laughed. "Don't you do that already?" Hermione joined in without as much humour. Worry lined the sound. "You're worried about what I'll get myself into."
"I just don't want anyone to get hurt. The truth hurts more than physical pain sometimes. I've gotten to know Draco while he's been forming this and he's different than how I remember. He's kinder. Sincerely kinder—something I don't think he's picked up on. Something I think he's had all along but wasn't able to show. The few times I've seen him with his daughter, he's been exceedingly loving towards her. He'll still knock your block off if he's in the right mood, but there's just cause."
"So, what negative reason could I have for getting to know him? How could I get hurt for understanding this new and improved Draco Malfoy?" His tone dripped with sarcasm.
"It's not you who I'm worried about. You're never too keen to reveal too much about your past. No one's forced you to. You can understand that these questions aren't answered because they hurt. They hurt him in some way. Otherwise, why wouldn't he have shared them? Be careful, okay?" A genuine look of concern on her face worried Harry, but he agreed. How could he not?
"Hermione, who are you thinking of making your Maid of Honour?" he asked in hopes of changing the subject.
"I haven't an idea in the least. Maybe Luna?"
"How about Ginny?"
Hermione resituated herself in her seat and coughed to move the cheese stick lodged in her throat. "Are you serious? After what she's done to you? After what she said?"
"Hermione, she had every reason to leave me. I slept with her brother."
"After she cheated on you!" she countered.
"I didn't sleep with her for months! I never even told her I loved her. She cheated on me out of absolute necessity. What did I expect her to do? She fell for a gay man."
"Still, Charlie was a full participant in the act and she didn't have a word against him."
"Well, Charlie hadn't strung her along for years to avoid looking at men. Good thing, too. That would've been entirely strange," Harry reflected with a shudder. "If I can forgive her, you can."
"You were never upset."
"No, I never loved her. If anything, I was disappointed in myself for doing that to her. And to Charlie for that matter. Shouldn't have made him chose between his family and I. Granted, he chose neither and ran away to Romania, but wouldn't you have done the same?" Hermione couldn't repress a small snicker and slapped Harry's arm to regain seriousness. "It's my fault too. I can accept that. You were friends since we started Hogwarts. She had her heart broken. Maybe you can make amends and let her be a part of the family again."
"It would make Ron happy," she reasoned.
"And that's what marriage is about, right? Compromising and trying to make the other happy?"
"Couldn't agree more. Even though she's part of the reason you left. Or at least tried to be a reason for you to leave."
"Let's not talk about it," Harry suggested—shoving another stick into Hermione's open mouth before she could speak again. "Please? Just talk to her. We'll drop it at that."
Waving her hands in surrender, she dismissed the topic completely. "You've seen Karina?"
Harry laughed one loud chuckle and smacked the table. "She absolutely hates me."
"Never been too great with kids, have you?"
"Never claimed to be. Met the girl for the first time with her punching me. Best part is, she already knows about our past. Her mother told her about the whole almost killing him thing and I-."
"Wait, you know about her mother? You've talked to Karina about her mother? Draco's let you?" Another cheese stick would be lodge into the over-excited witch's throat—if there had been one. Instead, Harry placed a hand over Hermione's mouth.
When she finally stopped struggling and settled, the wizard released his hold. "Why does any of that matter? We talked for a bit while Malfoy ran to stop Seamus from burning the place to the ground. By the way, you were going to tell me Seamus married Pansy Parkinson when, exactly?"
Hermione's eyes shifted back and forth from Harry to nothing and back again. "You wondered why we knew nothing about her. She's seen, but never really heard. I've seen Draco with her, sure. But, I've never heard her or talked directly to her. He's very careful to not let her speak to anyone in particular. Not let anyone speak to her. I worked with him for months and I said 'hello' once to the girl. It's just odd that he's trusted you to speak to her. No offense, but if he's trying to hide those skeletons, you're the last person she should be getting close to, don't you think?"
"Can't imagine her doing anything like that. I think she'd like to see me dead. She wouldn't be the first in her family to want that."
Possibly the least likely person, aside from Malfoy himself, to join my fan club.
Hermione raised her glass in agreement and took a large gulp of whatever liquid sat in the container.
"Hermione, are you pregnant?" She spit out that gulp almost entirely. What didn't stain Harry's shirt choked the witch into two minutes of red-faced coughing.
"What-." Cough. "Would," Cough. "Make you think that?"
"Your mood swings. The fact that you're eating fried cheese sticks and pineapple ice cream when I'm fairly sure that you're lactose intolerant. George thinks you're acting like Luna."
"He told you?"
"He told you?" Harry asked, feeling the guilt of exposing the secret fall away with her prior knowledge.
"Wanted to know if I was pregnant also. I'm not—as far as I know."
"Thank-you. I assumed I'd be the Godfather and I can't add another to my list. Teddy and two of George's will be more than enough to handle for now," Harry confessed, feigning relief.
"So sure it'd be you, eh?"
The Man Who Lived, laughed. "What other friends do either of you have?"
Hermione rolled her eyes and vanished the plates in front of her. "Point made."
"Let's get home. Tomorrow's going to be a long day. I can feel the need for a drink already."
"Promise you won't go drink with Draco," Hermione cautioned with an eyebrow lifted.
Harry sincerely gasped. "I'm not so much of a man-whore as to sleep with a single straight father. As attractive as he is, I'm not going to throw myself to the sharks for the arrogant prick I knew in school. Oh, and he likes women. If that kid's proof enough."
With a secret smile, the witch winked. "Good."
"Like I already said four times, Robards! I'm not starving anyone here!" Draco cried only just stopping himself from beating the old corded phone into his skull. "No," the Malfoy heir hissed through clenched teeth, "we're not poisoning anything. I know," he conceded, "I know. It's protocol. It's just," Draco sneezed and the mucus soaked receiver immediately disgusted him. "No. I'm fine. Touch of cold is all. Will that be all? Right. Tomorrow at noon for a visit. See you then, Robards."
Writing the note in his agenda, Draco rubbed both hands over his cheeks and into his hair, interlocking his fingers behind his head and breathing as deeply as he could ever remember breathing. His eyes were still swollen slightly from the sneeze and everything felt congested and stuffed with thick slimy goop the blond thought he'd left behind him along with prepubescent childhood.
Oh, Dear Merlin's fucking sock shit. Fuck! Draco thought and voiced with an unintelligible groan that grew in volume to a bark.
"Bad timing?" someone called from the door. The blond averted his eyes in that direction and was met with the greens of Harry Potter.
Before he could answer, a sneeze interrupted his thought and a slight coughing fit followed quickly afterwards.
"Just letting you know I was here. I already talked to your assistant. She showed me to my office. Told me to just get to know the centre and that kids may stop and go as they please. Appointments aren't needed and the office is only there for official purposes. I don't need to be cooped up all day if I don't wish it. So, I'll leave you to carry on, then."
The newest member to his team turned on his heel to leave and glanced over his shoulder, "Don't worry about the Auror team, Malfoy. They're not so bad. And when they get a big head, which Robards will be the least likely to, tell him to 'piss off.' They like a bit of a temper. Makes them think you're standing for something." With those parting words, Potter left the room and the scene was utterly quiet in his wake.
Draco sat down in his chair and tallied the chores he'd need to go through today. There were nine hours before bedtime and the blond couldn't decide if he'd survive. Of course, it was far too much to handle. Everyone was right. The job was simply too big for one person. He should have accepted Hermione's shared help when she offered. He had to be proud, though. What good would come from allowing fear to stop his cause?
Resting his head on the desk in front of him, Draco sighed and drifted in and out of consciousness. With his terrible luck, he caught the flu that Karina had been passing.
With no one to disturb his silence, the former Slytherin finally fell asleep.
A pool of drool welcomed Draco back to reality. The darkness of an ending day accompanied the liquid. With a large yawn, the blond glanced at the clock against the wall and observed 8:47 flashing in angry red. Darting from his seat and sprinting down hallway after hallway, he heard nothing. No chaos, no tantrums, nothing.
It was only on the third floor, the children's floor, that he heard a muttering of some kind and a joined laughter. Pausing in front of the door housing the noise, Draco placed his ear to the wood and listened. However, he needed to crack the door just a bit to hear clearly.
"And he did just that," Harry Potter bellowed, "turned Draco Malfoy into a little ferret no bigger than your arm, Vince."
The room exploded into a fit of giggles, even his daughter Karina joined in. Still keeping weary of Potter, but contributing nonetheless.
"Speak of the devil," Potter proclaimed, pointing at Draco. "Say, 'hello,' kids."
A sea of greetings was sounded and the blond waved in response.
"Alright, guys. Bedtime. I'll be back next week with a whole new line of stories." Sheer disappointment lined every face of every child. "I promise! Now, lights out or I'll turn each of you into a ferret!" Without another peep, every tiny foot found its way to bed and under his or her covers.
"A word, Potter?" Draco whispered, beckoning Karina to follow. Closing the door behind the three, Draco bent to eye level with his daughter. "Sorry I wasn't here all day, Sweetheart."
"That's okay, Daddy. Harry took care of the house while you took a nap. He said you were very tired and no one should bother you because you get so crabby when you're sleepy." The girl looked to the brunet and tried not to smile, still maintaining a stern attitude. She gave her father a kiss on the cheek and broadly grinned. "I'm feeling better. Harry made soup and tea. I'm sorry I got you sick."
Draco was lost to wordless blinking and hugged his daughter tightly against him. "Not your fault, Honey. Go up to Grandma's, all right? She'll take you home to sleep."
"Good night, Daddy. Love you!" Karina said with a tightening hold before releasing herself and walking to Potter. Holding out her hand for the man to shake, the brunet smiled and accepted her offer. "Good night, Harry."
"Good night, Karina. I'll see you next week."
Karina skipped out of sight leaving Draco to the likely hero, Harry Potter, with his hands shoved idly into his pockets and dark circles beneath his eyes.
"I'll wager you took care of the entire house while I was unconscious?" The other man nodded once. "And we're all surprised. Thank you, Potter. You didn't have to do all of this extra work."
"Come with me," the brunet commanded gently, cocking his head to the stairs. On the ground floor, Potter led Draco to the kitchens. "Sit for a second."
In an instant, a hot bowl of soup sat in front of him along with what looked to be green tea. Potter handed the confused host a spoon and gestured for him to eat.
"Blow on it," the man warned before tidying up the space. "And I know you're analysing every single pore on my face, but trust me. I'm also not too keen about poisoning food or harming anyone in such a manner. Just eat and we can talk afterwards."
The blond studied each syllable, just as Potter knew he would and resolved to eat the soup he now knew to be chicken noodle. Of course it wasn't condensed. Harry Potter would know how to make it from scratch. And it would have to be delicious. Draco only wished that his taste were a bit more precise. Upon finishing half of the steaming bowl, however, he found that his senses were peaking exponentially.
Saving lives, one distraught Death Eater at a time.
Laughing quietly to himself and shaking his head, Draco finished his soup and searched to find a perplexed former Gryffindor with his brow furrowed, hand drying a plate from dinner, he supposed.
"Something funny?" Potter wondered, taking the dirtied dish and tossing it into the soapy water behind him.
"You're just so predictable."
"I prefer dependable," the brunet offered. "You needed the rest. I'm not a total idiot when it comes to running a house. Or leading a few kids for that matter."
"I remember most bitterly," Draco teased and took a sip of his tea. "Green chamomile?"
"Figured you'd need the extra help with sleep after that coma you took earlier."
How considerate.
Potter went back to the sink and scrubbed at a particularly engraved stain. Draco watched with obscure interest as the man completed the mundane task so slowly and mechanically. Sink rinse dry shelf. Sink rinse dry shelf. Sink rinse scrub sink rinse dry shelf.
The chore went on for twenty minutes before Draco convinced himself to stop staring holes into Potter's back.
"Wondered when you'd stop watching. Like little daggers, you know? Prickles on the back of my neck and all that." He continued with his routine, though. Not turning to look at the blond who couldn't be surprised of the man's sixth sense if he tried. "You can watch all you want. Just, don't stare so hard. It's strange, but I can feel the difference. Makes me anxious the way you're looking at me."
"And how would that be?"
"How about you tell me? It's hostile. No need to be. Like I said, I have no interest in hurting anyone. If it's the whole, I-can-do-this-myself bit—spare me the sob story. It's a lot to handle, and if I could change one thing about how I acted during the war, I wouldn't have refused help when it was offered and would have been more grateful for the help that was forced on me."
Draco couldn't find an argument. "Thank-you."
Potter smiled with every single tooth gleaming. "You're welcome, Malfoy."
"Should we get to the questioning? Veritaserum usually knocks me out anyway."
"If you're up for it."
The blond put his thumb in the air signalling his enthusiastic readiness. Potter took the liberty to drop only half of the bottle into the cooling tea. "The bottle gives you an hour. I do not intend to keep you that long. You look like shit."
"And you're charming beyond belief, Potter," Draco said before finishing off his cup. The warming sensation in his face led him to the conclusion that he was under the potion's power. "Ah, I forgot to ask what you'd be asking."
Potter searched his pockets and handed Draco a crumpled list. Reading the questions once over, the blond gave the list back and made for the brunet to proceed.
"Why didn't you kill Dumbledore?"
"Straight to the point, aren't we?" Draco commented. "I couldn't kill him. I'm not a killer, Potter. I didn't want to follow the Dark Lord any more than you wanted to. But, I'm from a different family. I had other responsibilities. Uncle Severus killed Dumbledore for me. He was a good man. No matter what you believe."
"I know he was good. He killed Dumbledore because Dumbledore asked him to. Did you know that? He was dying. Snape tried to save him and bought him a year. He would have died either way. The hand that killed him wouldn't have mattered."
Draco fought to maintain composure. "I didn't know that."
"There's a lot about Snape that people don't know. Anyway, why didn't you reveal us to your aunt in your Manor during the war?"
"I hated myself at the time," Draco blurted. "I couldn't do a damn thing in that house and I hated myself for it. I felt weak. And then, you showed up—captured and completely ruined in the face. Hermione's plan, I'm sure. But, it was a physical need to help you. I couldn't live with myself knowing that I could have ended the fight for the wrong side. My father knew who you were. We all knew. I think fear kept most of us from saying anything, but for me, well, it was different."
"Thank-you for that. I'm not sure if I could've died, but it certainly would have made things more difficult if I had."
Draco couldn't comprehend this explanation. So he decided to let the matter subside. The heat was dying down in his face and by the looks of the man in front of him; he knew the potion was wearing away as well.
"Malfoy, this isn't on the list, but I don't think you can answer about your Mum's actions and it isn't too personal. Trust me?" I don't have a choice. "Do you love Karina?"
"Absolutely."
"Did you love her mother?"
Oh, damn it all. "No, Potter. I hardly knew her."
The last of the potion fizzled from Draco's system and he sighed with weariness. "Time's up."
"So it is. I'll suppose I'll see you next week?"
The Hero walked to the doors of the kitchen and reached the knob before, "Wait, Potter."
"Yes, Malfoy?"
"You said you knew a bit about Severus."
Potter complied. "I did."
"Would you be willing to share that with me? He was like a father to me, you see. I wouldn't mind knowing more about him."
With a sad smile, Potter shrugged. "Sure. Sunday afternoon? There's a café next to Madam Malkin's. Excellent ice cream as far as Hermione's pallet is concerned."
"I think I can make it. Not afraid of making the papers again, I take it?"
"You read the article, then?"
Draco's returning smirk hadn't the malice it usually held while in Potter's direction. "Can't believe all of it, eh?"
"S'pose not." Ducking his head, Potter looked to be concealing something. "See you Sunday. One o'clock."
"Mind if I bring Karina? She seems to be taking an ironic sort of liking to you."
Again, Potter kept his head down. "Of course." And with that, the Man Who Lived exited. Draco felt an odd sensation while thinking about his Sunday plans. A cross between a tickle in his stomach and a constriction in his chest.
Probably the cold.
After apparating back to the Burrow, Harry slammed the door behind him as if someone were chasing him home.
Perhaps it was the innocence in Draco's face while he-
Draco?
"Oh fuckity shit fuck," Harry muttered under his breath, an all-familiar sensation in his stomach and chest.
Just bloody wonderful.