Disclaimer, Thank You's, Summary, and Author's Notes:
This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
This fic was written for the 2013 round of the hd_fan_fair, the H/D Book Fair, on Live Journal based on a prompt submitted by the lovely Vaysh11.
EWE. Ginny and Harry? Never happened. Largely canon otherwise.
Set four years after the Battle of Hogwarts, three years after Draco was abducted by person or persons unknown. Draco is now living in a small Muggle community and working in a library with no idea the Wizarding World exists, until one day, a bloke with a mop of just-shagged black hair comes in for storytime with a little boy to get out of the rain.
Thank you to my Project Team Betas, AryaEragonPrincessShadeslayer and Asille Nellum, for volunteering to beta the whole thing, as well as Arones and Valdemort18 for their help with the beginning. And, of course, thank you to vaysh11for submitting such an awesome prompt!
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"Enjoy your books, Mrs. Hurst." Draco said, his best forced-smile gracing his face as he handed her the books she'd just checked out. As always, he was glad to see the old biddy walking out the door. Mrs. Hurst was a regular and a member of the reading group that met monthly at the library. A right old busybody, she'd tried to set him up with her granddaughter more than once until Jo had politely mentioned to her one day that she was barking up the wrong tree. She'd yet to try to set him up with any single men, but Draco had a suspicion it was only a matter of time. The woman was an incurable matchmaker. He pitied her granddaughter.
"Have you called him yet?" Kat asked as she came up behind him.
Speaking of incurable matchmakers . . . Exasperated, Draco tried to ignore her, but she was like a persistent little gnat bussing around his head and driving him mental.
At least he could've swatted the gnat.
"Well? Have you?" Kat was not one to be ignored.
Sighing Draco answered, turning only partially toward her, "No."
"Well, why in blazes not?"
"Kat, please." Normally, Draco would not have been bothered by Kat's interest and teasing; without his coworkers, he'd be alone, and it was comforting knowing his friends took an interest in him and wanted to see him happy. But the way Harry Potter had looked at him yesterday and again this morning was different from the way other men had looked at him. There was an intensity behind those green eyes that struck Draco, made him feel both protected and exposed. Remembering the way the other man had looked at him made Draco's heart race and chills spread up his back.
And the constant pictures his brain kept providing of Harry Potter and himself in bed together—their arms around each other, their legs twisted together, the sheets kicked to the floor as they moved together—were causing other reactions in his body.
Pressing his fingers to his temples, Draco tried to massage away the headache building inside his skull.
"Well, I think you should call him," Kat said.
"Yes, I know. You've only said so about a hundred times."
"A hundred, really. Two or three at most."
Draco turned to her, a look of disbelief across his features.
"Okay, maybe five or six."
Draco's eyebrow arched.
"Five or six is as high as I'm going. But, really, Draco—you should call him. He clearly wanted to you to. The way he looked at you! . . . It was like . . . like, like he'd been adrift at sea for years, and seeing you was like catching sight of land."
Draco startled. "You noticed that too?"
Laughing, Kat responded, "Luv, you'd have to be blind to not notice it."
Silent, not knowing what to say, Draco returned to his work.
Next to him, Kat refused to let it go. "So, if we're agreed he's interested, and it's obvious you're interested, why the bloody hell haven't you called him yet?" Moving to stand beside him, leaning against the enquiries counter, her arms folded in front of her chest, she returned the arched eyebrow he'd given her a moment ago and said, "Scared, Malfoy?"
You wish.
The two words that resonated through his head were so unexpected, Draco dropped the book he'd had in his hands. Not only were the words themselves unexpected, but the voice he'd heard speak them was doubly so. It was Harry Potter's voice. The voice that spoke the words was younger than the voice of the man he'd spoken to yesterday and again this morning, but while he'd only heard it twice, and only briefly those two times, he knew he'd recognise that voice out of thousands of others.
Draco rubbed his forehead with shaking fingers. Not only were impossible things suddenly seeming to happen around him and had his flashbacks begun growing more and more frequent and bizarre, but now his mind was conjuring up other people's voices speaking in his head. Hearing voices in one's head—wasn't that a sign of going mad? Was that what was happening to him? Had he only imagined he'd fallen in slow motion last night?
Draco drew a breath, calming the anxiety growing inside him. A person simply could not fall in slow motion; logically, he knew that. But he had; he was sure he'd not imagined it. It had truly happened. Just as the chip had been freed from Jo's throat by the energy that had surged threw him. He was not imagining things.
In the next moments, a welcome distraction arrived as a delivery man entered, pushing a cardboard box on a dolly toward the enquiries desk. Draco had been looking forward to this delivery all week, and now that it had finally arrived, it gave his mind something normal, something safe to focus on. The relief of something to root him firmly in the everyday and familiar was palpable.
The Ilfracombe library had as ample a stock of all the latest bestselling fiction and non-fiction works, along with all the standard reference materials and periodicals, as any library of the same size in the country. It was their collection of rare and out-of-print books, Jo's pride and joy, that set them apart. Their library had amassed an array of titles and authors not often found in a library of their size thanks to her extensive efforts. One could go to any library anywhere and find Anna Sewell's Black Beauty, but if that person was to also ask for her mother, Mary Sewell's, Mother's Last Words, he or she would likely as not be met by a blank stare, even in a library much larger than theirs. It had been the reproduction of a late 19th century edition of that very book—its scanned pages perfect replicas of the imperfect, yellowed, stained and torn century-plus old originals—which had begun Draco's love of old books and spurred his interest in preserving such works before they were lost for good.
While sometimes reproduction were all that were available—such as with Mother's Last Words—they preferred to buy the original book whenever possible, providing it was in sturdy enough condition to be given out on loan to members. They were a library, not a museum.
Now thoroughly devoted to Jo's cause, Draco was thrilled at the chance to get his hands on old books—the older the better. He loved the scent of old books, the old ink and leather covers, and could lose himself in the pursuit of antique books, searching online or scouring estate sales, used book stores and auctions. He could see himself one day with an enviable collection of his own: tall built in bookcases, shelves covered with original publications already old long before he was born. He could see himself sitting in a tall wingback chair in dark brown leather beside a roaring fire, two large dogs laying loyally at his feet, a glass of either port or sherry in one hand and. . . .
Draco squeezed his eyes shut; his breathing felt erratic, and he gripped the edge of the enquiries counter tightly. What had started out as a distraction had ended as anything but. In his mind, he had the perfect image of the scene he'd just imagined, but it wasn't his imagination—it was another flashback. It was a memory.
He could see the tall, dark brown leather wingback chair sitting beside an enormous fireplace—tall enough for a grown man to both stand up and lie down in—surrounded by an elaborately carved mantel of light-coloured stone. Beside the chair sat an ornate occasional table, and behind both the chair and table stood a large sideboard even more lavishly carved than the table. On a wall covered with dark green silk hung a painting of a great manor home in a gilt frame. Atop the occasional table stood a carved crystal decanter half-filled with amber liquid and the most enormous and ugliest golden candelabra imaginable—the arms of which were snakes upon the heads of which stood tall taper candles.
A man sat in the chair; a young boy in blue pyjamas lay sprawled on a thick carpet petting one of two large, long-haired dogs lying at their master's feet. The man held a brandy snifter in one hand and an ancient-looking, small, leather bound book in the other. He was wearing elaborate, heavily embroidered robes of black and dark green and had long hair, the shade of blond almost exactly like Draco's own, secured at the nape of his neck by a black ribbon tied in a bow. The man bore a notable resemblance to Draco, and he knew with absolute certainty he was seeing—remembering—his father.
"Draco!" Kat's hand gripped his shoulder. "What is it? Are you ill?" she asked as she guided him to a chair.
Overwhelmed, Draco opened his mouth, about to tell his friend he'd just remembered his father, seen him sitting beside a fire, reading to a small boy—himself as a child!—but he refrained at the last moment. He felt very protective of the brief glimpse he'd had of himself with his father, as if something deeply rooted inside of himself cautioned him from sharing the moment of his childhood he'd suddenly recalled. He didn't want to share it. With what he hoped was an normal expression on his face, he lied, unable to meet Kat's eyes, "It's nothing." Pain had blossomed inside his skull, and he said, "I've a sudden headache, is all. It'll pass. I'll just go take an aspirin or two."
"I've Anadin," Kat said as she retrieved her purse from a small cupboard behind the enquiries desk. Sparing a brief glance to the delivery man waiting with a clipboard in his hand, she said to him, "If you'll wait for just a moment, I'll be right with you," before turning her attention back to Draco. Handing the tablets to Draco, she said, "Go take a break. Take these with a glass of water and put your head down for a little while."
Feeling something like the young boy he'd just seen in his mind, Draco did as directed.
In the small kitchenette for staff, Draco sat at the faux wood grained laminate table, a paper cup held in his hand, trying to remember as many details of his father's face as he could. His father had the same pale blond hair, fair skin and light eyes Draco himself had, that much was certain, but Draco could make out so little of the man's features, he was unsure whether he'd be able to identify him if he were to be shown photographs of a number of blond haired, fair skinned and light eyed men. The entire scene had the air of formality, but that, Draco felt, was more due to the ostentatious grandeur of the room than to its inhabitants. Take away all the trappings and what was left was the scene of a father reading to his son as the child petted a dog.
His headache was fading as quickly has it had come, and Draco steepled his hands in front of his face, resting his head against his fingers. The scene was one of a family with great wealth; there could be no doubt about that. Had he come from money, then? He'd had no money on him when he'd been found, but that could hardly be surprising. He'd had no wallet or any type of identification other than the name sewn into his robes. In spite of the formality of the scene he'd recalled, Draco was certain there was affection between the father and son.
Why, then, had his father never come looking for him? With all the money the décor of the room implied, and the power that went along with money, why had his father never come looking for him?
Draco feared the answer. Had his father never found him because he himself had been a victim of the same attack? Draco had been found on the beach unconscious, and it had been nothing but luck that he'd not drowned. Because it had been a neap tide, the high tide mark was lower than it would've been a week before or after. As it was, his clothing had still been damp from when the tide had come in, reaching him only enough to lap harmlessly at his unconscious form. Had he been only a few feet closer to the sea, he'd have been lost to the high tide. Had his father been left on the beach as well, just those few feet closer to the sea? The thought turned Draco's stomach, leaving him feeling distinctly ill.
And where was his mother? His mother had not been in the scene he'd recalled, nor had there been other children. Had his mother been left widowed and childless? Was there anyone to take care of her? Was she alone? Had she never come looking for him because she believed him to be dead? Was she even still alive herself?
Draco sat in the kitchenette for longer than he realised, and a concerned Kat eventually stuck her head in the door checking on him. "Draco? Luv, you okay? Thought maybe you'd fallen asleep."
"No, I'm awake."
"Oh, luv. What is it?" she asked, twisting to look back over her shoulder at the library, keeping an eye on the patrons. He knew Kat well enough to know that she wanted to draw up a chair next to him and pull him into a hug, but they were the only two on today, and someone needed to ensure no one took advantage of a few moments free from the watchful eye of a librarian to run amok through the library, tearing pages from the books or speaking above a whisper.
Pushing himself away from the table, Draco forced the morbid thoughts from his mind. "It's nothing, Kat. Really."
As he stepped passed her, her hand placed gently on his arm stopped him. "It's not nothing, Draco. Something is wrong. It's all written all over your face plain as day, it is. You can talk to me, you know."
Giving her hand a light squeeze in appreciation, Draco replied. "I know. And I appreciate it. I do, truly. But not now, okay?"
"Later, then?"
"Later."
Stepping aside, Kat let him pass. "I will hold you to that, you know."
Closing the door to the kitchenette behind him, Draco told himself the delivery was just what he needed to give his mind a rest from thoughts he did not want to dwell on.
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Nearly bouncing in his seat with pent up energy and struggling to remain still, Harry's eyes darted between his friends. Hermione had gone to retrieve the plate of bacon sandwiches from the kitchen, and Ron was reviewing a report from Plymouth. Harry'd let his imagination run away with him a moment ago, and he knew it. This was why he'd not been allowed to take part in the investigation into Draco's disappearance in the first place—while it was still only known by a small group, it had been necessary that certain persons be told the truth of Harry and Draco's relationship. No Auror could be part of an investigation involving a loved one. One loses all objectivity when emotions become involved. Even knowing that, he turned to Ron, looking expectantly, and asked, "What are we doing first?"
Apologetically, Ron answered, "I'd just got out of the bath when your message arrived, so first, I'm going to have a shave, and you are going to eat—as I've no doubt you've not eaten since yesterday. Then, I'm going to the hospital and to look into Malfoy's life here in Ilfracombe, and you're going to bed."
An indignant look passed over Harry's face, and he was silent for at least five seconds before opening his mouth, about to explode at being cut out of the investigation.
Ron cut off the tirade he knew was coming before it could begin. "You are too close to the investigation to work it, and you know it."
"I can separate my emotions from my job."
"No. You can't. You're human, Harry. Someone you loved was abducted and has been missing for three years. You can't just turn that off like a Muggle light switch. No one could. I'm sorry, but you have to step aside this time and let me do my job."
"It's my job, too!"
"Not this time. Not this case. I promise, I will get whoever did this," Ron knew that, regardless of Kingsley's warning, Harry wanted to have Draco's attacker to himself for five minutes, and he finished sternly, "and hand him over to Kingsley." The dark look that filled Harry's eyes confirmed what Ron already knew—that he wanted the guilty party to himself. In Harry's place, he would, too. He warned his friend, "You won't do Malfoy any good if you are facing charges yourself."
"Ron, you don't understand," Harry begged, his voice shaking with emotion. "I have to find the bastard who attacked him. I have to. It was my fault. It was all my fault. It never would've happened had it not been for me. Draco wouldn't even have been there that night had it been up to him. He didn't want to go to the ceremony.
"We were all there honouring the dead-our dead, but his father died that day, too, and sitting in an atrium filled with people reviling his father's memory was the last thing Draco wanted to do. All he wanted to do was stay home with his mother. Kingsley specifically asked him to attend to show that the survivors from both sides could live together, but the real reason he went was because I asked him to."
Able to hear the desperation in Harry's voice and knowing his friend as well as he did, Ron feared Harry would somehow involve himself in the investigation behind Ron's back if he was not given the opportunity to be involved. Reluctantly, he compromised. "Alright, how about this," Ron offered as he began to put Draco's file back together. "We need to get this returned to the Ministry before it's missed. We cannot allow word of anyone taking an extra look into Malfoy's disappearance reach our suspect. Like Kingsley said, he's got away with it for so long, by now he's likely confident he'll never be caught. There hasn't been a new sighting reported in several months; his guard will be down, and we do not want anything to put him back on his guard." Handing a stack of reports to Harry, Ron finished, "So, what I need you to do is make a copy of the file, put the original back together again, and return it to the Ministry."
"I'm an Auror, not a bleedin' file clerk!" Harry all but shouted, his frustration growing.
Using an argument he'd rather not have had to use but one that was nonetheless true, Ron asked, remaining calm in the face of Harry's growing infuriation. "If Malfoy's attacker were to somehow learn he'd been found, what do you think he'd do?"
"I don't—"
"Yes you do. You just said you're an Auror—so, calm down and think like one. Why did you put all those protective spells on Malfoy? His attacker has already struck once—"
"He could come after Draco again," Harry said, his voice low and laced with fear. He'd put every protective spell he knew of on Draco yesterday, but his attacker would have spells of his own, spells that could counteract Harry's.
"Yes, he could," Ron said, once again handing a pile of reports to Harry. "So, the sooner we get all this back in the file room where it belongs, the less chance there is that anyone will notice it was ever gone and the safer Malfoy will be."
Without speaking, Harry sat down and set about making a perfect replica of Draco's file, duly chastised.
Hermione had reentered the room, a plate of bacon butties in her hand, remaining silently in the distance while Ron and Harry spoke, not wanting to interrupt. Now that Ron had left the room to shave before heading to the hospital, she stepped forward. "You need to eat, Harry," she said, placing the sandwiches in front of him, careful not to disturb any of the parchments covering the majority of the table. Hoping to encourage him, she took a sandwich herself as she sat down. "They really are good. You know you love bacon sandwiches," she said, licking melted butter and bacon grease off her fingertips—it wasn't often she indulged in such greasy foods. "And I've read Muggle researchers have determined that bacon butties are actually good for you," she said, as if to justify the indulgence.
The corners of Harry's mouth twitched in spite of the anxiety he felt for Draco's safety. Hermione's parents were Muggle dentists and had regularly sent her healthy, sugar-free treats whilst she'd been at Hogwarts. Now, as a Healer, she was as zealous as her parents in eating healthy. He asked, "Is that so?"
Very primly, she answered, "Yes, it is. Has to do with the carbohydrates in the bread and the protein in the bacon, which breaks down into amino acids in your body. Amino acids increase your neurotransmitters, giving you a clearer head. So, eat," she instructed in her best I-am-a-Healer-so-do-what-I-say tone of voice.
Grinning now at the absurdity of Hermione, of all people, touting the health benefits of bacon sandwiches, Harry asked, "Healer's orders, then?"
"Yes, Healer's orders." Pushing the plate of sandwiches closer to him, Hermione wiped her hands on a napkin and pulled her wand from her pocket. "I can help with this while you eat," she offered, waving her wand at a report.
His momentary good humour faded quickly, and Harry turned serious as he ate.
Picking up the perfect replica of the original report she'd just created, Hermione studied it. She set it down and repeated the spell on another report, once again studying the resulting copy. Harry watched her as she worked, and when she cocked her head to the side after a third report, he could no longer keep from asking, "What? Hermione, what?" It made no difference whether Hermione was a Healer or an Auror, she was still Hermione, and Harry would listen to any idea or opinion she had on any subject.
Setting down a fourth report, Hermione sighed and shook her head. "No one in the world has worse penmanship than Healers. They're worse than Muggle doctors. Quite dangerous, really, when one stops to think what could happen . . . I've become used to deciphering really quite indecipherable writing. I though perhaps I'd have a go at that signature. Maybe I could see something in it."
Hopeful, Harry asked, "And?"
"I think whoever signed these held the quill between their toes rather than in their hand."
Harry deflated. It was unlikely the signature was important anyway. It would be the height of stupidity for Draco's attacker to sign his own name to the incriminating reports.
Squeezing his arm, Hermione reassured him, "Ron will get him, you know."
Harry nodded his head.
"Harry . . . I know we've said this before, but we're all so sorry we didn't understand how much you'd come to love him until he was gone."
"I know."
Unsure whether she should push Harry to talk, but remembering what he'd started to say earlier in the kitchen and what she'd heard him say to Ron, Hermione prodded gently, "What happened was not your fault, Harry. You don't truly believe it was, do you?"
Finishing a second sandwich, Harry answered, "I believe it because it's true."
"Oh, Harry. That's what you meant earlier, in the kitchen just before Kingsley arrived, about him not being able to forgive you."
Letting his hands fall to the table, Harry kept his eyes averted as he said, "How could he?" Raising his hands and using them to cover his face, Harry was quiet for several seconds before going on. "I asked him to go, Hermione. He didn't want to. He was only there because I asked him to go. Why the fuck couldn't I have just let him stay the hell home with his mother like he'd wanted?"
"Oh, Harry," Hermione attempted to console him, but she didn't know what to say that might help. Any words of encouragement she could offer would only sound patronizing to his ears, she feared.
There were still a couple sandwiches on the plate, but he pushed them away. "As soon as I get this back to the Ministry, I'm going back to the library. I have to make sure he's safe."
"I don't think that's a good idea, Harry," she warned. "You don't want to come across as too heavy handed or stalker-like. Wait a bit," she shrugged, her voice slightly teasing, "I bet he'll come to you."
"It's been three years, Hermione," Harry said, sounding despondent. "It'd be foolish to expect that in all that time he hasn't found someone. He's built himself a new life. He has a job and seemed very friendly with his coworkers. Or even if he isn't seeing anyone, that's not to say he'd be interested in getting back together, even if he can forgive me."
Crestfallen, she offered, "If it will make you feel better, I'll go to the library myself and keep an eye on him." She could see a small amount of the tension visible in Harry's eyes ease.
"You wouldn't mind?" Harry asked.
"Are you seriously asking me if I'd mind spending some time in a library? Hullo, have we met? Besides, like Ron said, you really need to sleep. Let's finish getting all this copied, and then I'll go and just dry my hair quickly before I head off. I'd just got out of the bath when your message came, and I just threw it up in a bun still wet."
"I thought Ron said he'd just got out of the bath."
"Yes, well, we were on our honeymoon, you see."
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Immediately after Hermione had set off for the library, Harry took the Floo to the Ministry and made his way to the Auror department's file room as quickly and unobtrusively as he could. As it was early Saturday afternoon, there would only be a skeleton staff on duty, and he hoped to get in and out being observed by as few people as possible. He'd made it to the counter behind which the file room staff worked without having to speak to a soul. If there was only a minimal number of Aurors on duty on a Saturday, there were even fewer clerical workers. One young witch sat alone in the office, her feet propped up on an open desk drawer and the latest issue of Witch Weekly spread out in front of her.
She startled and jumped up at the sight of him. Smoothing her fuchsia robes and tucking her hair behind her ears, she hurried to the counter apologising and attempting to explain she'd been on her lunch break, but fearing a long and unwanted narrative, Harry cut her off, wanting nothing more than to extricate himself and get back to Ilfracombe as quickly as possible. "Please don't let me interrupt. I just need to get this returned, and I'll leave you get back to you lunch."
Upon seeing the name on the file Harry had returned, the young witch opened her mouth to speak again, but Harry had already turned to leave.
He made it no farther than two steps down the corridor when Anthony Moore, the Auror currently in charge of Draco's case, stepped out from a cubicle, blocking Harry's path. One of the oldest Aurors in the department, he seemed surprised to see Harry, although he'd certainly been expecting someone.
"A word, Auror Potter," he requested. His tone leaving no room to refuse, Harry acquiesced, following the older wizard into a room used for the interrogation of suspects.
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A neap tide occurs at the quarter moon phases of the lunar cycle. The high tides are lower and the low tides are higher. At the full and new moon phases of the lunar cycle the tides, called spring tides, come up higher and recede lower.
Thanks for reading!