A/N: Hi everyone. Before I start this chapter, I feel like I should just give a WARNING. Not for anything particularly explicit but because I have the suspicion that I might provoke annoyance, frustration, possibly a little bit of disappointment over how everything plays out. I would just like to say that I have written as such as I believe the following response is how the characters would most realistically act. This does not mean that I entirely approve of it, nor that I think it is exactly the right response. Personally, I don't think there is any specifically right way to act in such a situation - it depends entirely upon the individual and what they choose, or how they can respond. I am in no way downplaying the severity of childhood abuse of PTSD, so please don't think as much.

Sorry, though, if this annoys anyone. Hope you enjoy the chapter regardless :)


Chapter 12: A Past Long Avoided

"Harry, I notice you never mention your parents. Why is that?"

Harry glanced upwards from his lap, peering across the dark room towards the woman in green. Socorro's face was a mask of mild curiosity; not intrusive, not judgmental. Simply… curious.

"What's there to say? I don't even remember them."

"But you said you've spoken to some of their friends from the past. And your godfather, Sirius; he always seems eager to share stories of them. Do you like hearing stories about your parents?"

Dropping his eyes back into his lap, Harry tugged awkwardly on his fingers. "It's not that I don't like hearing stories of them, it's just…"

"Do you find it painful to hear about them?"

Harry considered, then slowly shook his head. "No so much hearing about them. I want to know about my parents, I really do."

Socorro waited silently, allowing him to finish. When Harry didn't continue, she prompted him, "But?"

"But…" Harry sighed. He rubbed a hand over his collarbones. Not scratching; he wasn't supposed to do that anymore. It was a personal challenge that he felt he was going rather well at accomplishing, except for in moments such as these. "I don't know. Whenever anyone does talk about them, it just brings up memories."

"Memories? What kind of memories? You said you didn't remember your parents." It wasn't an accusation – Socorro was never accusing – but there was genuine, urging curiosity behind her words.

"I don't. I mean, it's not memories of them, just…" He took a deep breath that faintly wavered. "The image that comes to mind when anyone talks of my parents is my family. The one that I do remember. And when I think of my family I think of…"

"Ah." Socorro nodded her head slowly, her quill scribbling in nearly inaudible scratches on the arm of her chair. "I see. Would you be able to tell me what sort of memories are triggered by discussing your parents?"

A year ago, Harry knew he wouldn't have been able to. He would have blanked out, or shied away from the suggestion. He would have confronted the intrusive question with indifference or blatantly ignored it.

Not now. He was, truly, quite comfortable with Socorro. Comfortable enough to discuss things with her that he had previously considered untouchable. He did not feel closer to her than to his friends, exactly. There was not a deeper bond between them than he held with someone like Draco, or Tali, or Sirius. But he could talk to her, talk like he could with no one else. It had taken a while, and months of meeting twice a week that had only recently eased to weekly sessions, but yes, he was comfortable with her.

Besides, even if only gradually, Socorro knew things about him, knew the facts as he saw them and no one else did. There was very little of the dirty sides of him that she wasn't aware of, if any. It was that which made it easier for him to confess the truth of his feelings.

"When Sirius talks about James, or when my old teacher Professor Slughorn or Professor McGonagall would talk about Lily, I don't think of my mum and dad. My mind just immediately goes to my mum's side of the family, the people that I do know. To Stephen and the Dursleys."

Socorro nodded, that slow, kind nod that she was so partial to using. "Any memories in particular?"

Harry twisted his lips, thinking and tamping down on the discomfort that welled within him at her prodding. "I think of my aunt, of the few times she told me anything about Lily. She would usually get angry at me after discussing it, even if I wasn't the one who brought it up. Or I would remember when my uncle Vernon used to lock me in the cupboard and tell me how no one wanted me, not my parents, and that they were probably happy that they escaped looking after me.'

Again, Socorro gave that slow nod of understanding. She never attempted to intrude upon his explanations with sympathy or reassurances that what Harry's relatives had told him had been cruel, had been false and wrong. They'd worked through that long ago, had objectively discussed the very wrongness of what he'd been told, what he'd experienced. Socorro appreciated that Harry was intelligent enough – or at least applicably logical enough – to recall their discussion when revisiting his past. It had been only very few times where she had been forced to remind him herself.

"Dudley used to be the same, though I think he just copied what my uncle was saying. Almost word for word, actually, now that I think about it, though he'd usually punctuate himself by throwing things at me from across the room, or chasing after me with his friends." Harry shrugged with forced nonchalance, his eyes still on his lap. Yes, he knew, logically, that the words of his relatives weren't true, but the memory of the pain they'd elicited still stung. "That's mostly what comes to mind. I don't like it, I don't like remembering that, even if I know it's not true and my aunt and uncle were mostly just resentful of my parents."

"It's perfectly understandable to want to avoid such discussions," Socorro said, her tone lacking in overt sympathy as usual. But there was still a distinct note of compassion, of kindness, in her words. "Harry, I have to ask, though. When you say you remember your relatives? You don't seem to associate your parents with Stephen."

Harry opened his mouth to reply but faltered. He frowned. That was true. He hadn't even noticed. "I guess… I don't know. I feel like a lot of the difficulties I have with the – with my past are associated with Stephen. And I feel like… I don't know, maybe I'm getting better at learning to live with them." Socorro didn't say anything when he paused, only tilting her head when he glanced towards her. "No, I don't think I do. Associate him with my parents, I mean."

"Why do you think that is?"

Attempting to speak once more, Harry failed again. Why was that? "I… I don't know."

"Take a guess. Just tell me what you think."

Socorro wasn't condescending with her suggestion. It was a simple question, no strings attached, and none of the careful slowness and superiority of a teacher that already knew the answer to the question perfectly well. She was, quite honestly, asking his opinion. It was her way, her approach, and Harry found it agreed with him.

"I suppose… Maybe I've come to terms with some of the things that happened with Stephen? Maybe?" He frowned again. It was true, for he had. Not all of them, certainly, he was sure of that. There were still moments when he would receive a gut-clenching flashback, unexpectedly and often even when conducting a task that he'd done dozens of times before. Even with Draco still, sometimes, the memories would resurface. Only briefly, and usually it was easy enough to thrust them aside and get lost in the moment with his partner.

There had been that one time in particular where his memories had nearly frozen him – it had been the first time Draco had taken the lead in their intimacy. Harry knew that Draco had noticed, had seen his arousal of uncertainty and known that Draco would pull away in a tide of his own irrational guilt and fear. So Harry had made sure that he couldn't, and the memory had died from the moment he demanded it have no place in his relationship with Draco. It had worked. For the most part, he was fairly certain that any succeeding, brief revisits of memory were kept well hidden from Draco. And they seemed to be recurring less frequently, too. So yes, maybe he was getting better with dealing with that part of his past.

"But you don't think so with the Dursleys?"

Socorro's voice brought him from his musings. Slowly, he shook his head. "I don't know. Maybe. I guess I just don't know… how…"

Crossing her legs in a fluid motion of flicking robes, Socorro leant back into her seat. "I could offer my suggestion, Harry, but you already know what I'm going to say."

"I don't want to press charges," Harry murmured hastily, sinking back into the cushions of his own chair.

Socorro nodded, ceding. "I know. And that is your prerogative. As a legal adult, it is your decision whether you pursue the judicial process to hold your relatives accountable for their actions. Personally, from a professional perspective, I would of course prefer to see such accountability held. But," she raised her voice slightly, one of the few times she had ever overridden him, as Harry made to protest, "it is not my place. And due to doctor-patient confidentiality, it would be immoral and unethical for me to do so." She gave a small, slightly rueful smile. "Not to mention it would likely cost me my job.

"Yet even though I do have my preferences, I can understand where you come from with your resistance in pursuing legal proceeds. Looking into past cases of domestic abuse is messy, and not only because of the temporal aspects of it. There is always difficulty juggling between the Wizarding and the Muggle judicial systems. And as part of both worlds, I'm afraid that it would be very difficult for you to report to one without the other becoming aware and naturally embroiled." Her smile became bemused, as though she considered a pair of rather foolish children rather than two prestigious judicial bodies. "No one ever said the judiciary were the most practical of systems."

Harry smiled himself. It was relieving to know that Socorro wouldn't go behind his back with the good intentions of 'seeking justice where justice was due'. He didn't want to dredge up the past more than it had been. More than that, it honestly felt like he didn't need to. Yes, he understood what they – what all of them – had done was wrong. That it was unfair, cruel, even. "Disgusting and despicable" as Draco called it, with a curl of his lip as though he would readily spit upon any of Harry's relatives should they present themselves before him. He knew this, and yet he didn't want to push it further. It was his past, what had happened to him. He knew the arguments, that people should pay for their crimes, that if they weren't held accountable then there was always the possibility that they would conduct just such acts of crime upon other victims.

Perhaps he was being optimistic. Perhaps it was naïve of him, but Harry couldn't let himself think so. He didn't want to think that the Dursleys would be so unkind, so cruel, to anyone else. As far as he knew, none of them had ever lifted a hand to anyone but himself. As for Stephen… Harry wondered – though with less frequency nowadays than he used to – whether the man was still even quite there. Harry didn't know what had happened to Stephen Defaux, his guardian of five years, but there seemed to be little of him left. The patient in the rehabilitation centre had been a shell, empty and lifeless. There had been not a flicker of recognition behind those dull eyes.

Some people would likely call him selfish, to not consider the 'potential' victims that he could be protecting by alerting the authorities. And maybe he was. But then, Draco frequently encouraged him to make his own choices, to even be a little more selfish. So, just this once, maybe he would be.

Socorro was speaking again, and Harry was shaken from his thoughts once more. It happened quite often in their sessions, falling into his mind. Socorro didn't seem to mind. The knowing smile she adopted when she knew he had fallen into another such trance-like state sat upon her lips. "Do you know what I think, Harry?"

Harry blinked, raising an eyebrow, then slowly shook his head.

"I think that perhaps it might be an idea to see your aunt and uncle."

Harry felt his breath die in his chest. "W-what?"

Socorro raised a calming hand. "Not now. I am not saying that you should charge straight into a confrontation when you haven't prepared yourself." She folded her hands in her lap once more. "But I think I would be correct in assuming that confronting the Dursleys would be a big step in your recovery."

Still struggling to breath, Harry had to clench his fingers together in his lap to keep from scratching himself. Distress. Anxiety. Yes, he was familiar with the signs by now. "Why?"

With that ever-soothing voice that even now worked its magic on Harry's jumping nerves, Socorro continued. "Because I believe that the Dursleys are still a very real and very unshakeable block for you. I think you have in the past handled your memories of them, however distant, by simply pushing them to the back of your mind. Would you agree?"

Slowly, hesitantly, Harry nodded.

Socorro's smile seemed almost grateful for the agreement. "You will recall, I am sure, of your difficulty with firearms when first I met you, yes?"

Frowning slightly, Harry nodded once more. It wasn't something he liked to recall, but he could credit that Socorro's recommended method of treatment had been effective. For months after the Battle of Hogwarts, Harry had flinched at any sound resembling that of a gunshot, had been afflicted by a powerful bout of nausea whenever he even saw the image of a gun. Thankfully, such images were scarce in the Wizarding world, for even as the weapon that destroyed Voldemort, wizards and witches maintained their uneasiness around firearms on general principle.

Harry was an avoider. That's what he did, was what he'd always done to protect himself from being overwhelmed by painful memories, from memories that hurt and scared him. Socorro had put a stop to that. The immersion therapy, a rapid-fire sequence of painfully uncomfortable bouts to habituate himself to the reality of guns once more, had worked like a charm. It was as though, hit in the face with no way of avoiding it, Harry had simply clawed to build his own immunity to the damage such exposure could cause, an immunity that was experienced by just about every other average citizen in the world.

It had worked. Surprisingly well, too. A visit with Socorro to a reputed arms shop – God knew she had connections and was even on speaking terms with the manager – had shown that he was even able to hold one in his hands without shrinking from it in fear.

That in mind, the way Socorro had seemed to simply know the best approach to dealing with his trauma left Harry open-minded to further suggestions from the woman. Wary as he was, he opened himself to the possibilities she would suggest, lips clamped and awaiting her continuation.

Contemplating him and apparently concluding him open to suggestion, Socorro spoke. "I reiterate that I do not mean that it would be best so expose yourself to them now. Merely that I think it would be a good point for you to work towards, you and I. I think this can be the next direction we head in. Because I think without truly confronting what happened with your relatives – all of your relatives, not just Stephen – you will be unable to move forwards and unable to view the past with anything but fear."

Swallowing the dryness in his mouth – why was he so nervous? He didn't think the Dursleys still held such power over him – Harry struggled to speak. "So y…you think that seeing them would help.'

Socorro nodded. 'I think that, eventually, seeing the Dursleys will help. Seeing them, and understanding that they no longer hold a part in your life, that they can no longer hurt you. I truly believe it would help you."

"I don't think they can hurt me." Harry's voice was hushed, but he whole-heartedly believed as such. How could they? They lived in another country, for Christ's sake!

"Consciously, yes, I think you know this. But on a subconscious level?" Socorro tilted her head. "What do you think?"

Harry wasn't a psychologist. He knew this, so he could hardly lay claim to superior knowledge. Still, it was hard to reconcile that the Dursleys still held sway over him after all these years. "I… maybe, I suppose."

"Then that's that." Socorro's smile widened. "Don't look so down, Harry. It is entirely up to you whether you pursue this path, and even if you choose to do so then I would not recommend such quite so abruptly. We'll work up to it."

"Oh…kay."

"And you don't have to do this by yourself. In fact, I think it would be better if someone went with you. Do you think Draco would mind?"

Harry let out a small laugh that just bordered on the hysterical. "I think if I went to see the Dursleys without Draco I'd be hearing about it for the rest of my life. Though he's likely to scare the living daylights out of them."

Socorro chuckled herself. "Well, then, I think that it might in fact be a rather good idea to bring him along."


The Christmas holidays.

Two weeks off from his apprenticeship. Two weeks to do absolutely nothing except enjoy himself. Draco never thought he'd be glad to see the back of his Ancient Runes translations, but it was certainly nice to gain a little reprieve, even if it was only temporary. A release, and a much needed one at that. He didn't know what it was, but for whatever reason, when the celebratory spirit hung in the air, Draco felt a distinct lack of maturity sink onto his shoulders. Not that he minded, of course – rather, he revelled in the freedom of some heartfelt juvenile behaviour.

Except today, the child within him was silent. Subdued, even. He didn't have to tell it to pipe down; it make that executive decision all by itself.

Because today was the day he would visit the Dursleys.

Harry had spoken to him nearly a month ago about the possibility of going to see them. From the quiet, calculated way his partner had sat him down, had very seriously requested his assistance, Draco got the impression that it was something Harry had been considering for some time now.

The prospect raised conflicting emotions within him. On the one hand, Draco was relieved, even happy, that Harry had asked him to accompany him. He knew Harry was generally reserved on the topic of his relatives – hell, he didn't even breathe a word of them to Draco except by accident and such accidents were few and far between – so Draco wouldn't have been surprised if Harry's sudden inclination to go and meet those bastards by himself suddenly arisen in conversation up one day, only for him to find that it had taken place over a year ago. So yes, he was relieved, happy, that his partner had asked him.

Yet at the same time, a deep-set growling anger rumbled within him. These were the people who had mistreated the love of his life, had beaten into submission with violence and neglect, before palming him off to some paedophile in a foreign country. Draco had long been plotting every kind of revenge against the creatures who could not even be deemed human for their cruelty. He'd plotted, for that was often the only way he could sleep at night with knowing the reality of the situation.

Draco would, if he could, pin the bastards in gaol. No, that didn't seem like punishment enough. He'd pin them in gaol, make them suffer in isolation, then give them the Dementor's Kiss before throwing them back in again. Even that didn't seem like quite enough, but it was his current fantasy, anyway. It was only Harry's adamant refusal to punish them as such that withheld him from pursuing such actions without restraint. And though Draco couldn't understand the reasoning behind exactly why Harry didn't want to hold them accountable, he would abide by it. Temporarily, at least.

It didn't mean he felt any less loathing for the Dursleys. In actuality, it probably made him hate them even more. At times, Draco even loathed them more than he did Stephen Defaux, and Draco was at times a little startled to realise just how deeply he detested that particular son of the devil himself. Was it possible to hate four people each more than the last in a never-ending loop?

It was this loathing that occupied his thoughts as he walked alongside Harry through the quiet, suburban streets of Little Whinging. It was startlingly contrasting, the absolute deadness of the winter surrounds that sharply juxtaposed the barely contained whirlwind writhing in Draco's chest. He was surprised Harry hadn't commented on the sound of the anger bubbling in his chest and roaring from his ears.

But then, Harry was quite justifiably distracted. It was only in those moments when Draco glanced towards his partner – bundled in thick winter jackets and scarf, shoulders hunched from the cold and tension and breathing puffs of fog onto his glasses – that his anger subsided slightly. For he was here for Harry, to support his partner, in one of what was probably the most difficult things he would ever do.

Draco would never understand the feeling of confronting the demons from his past. His demons had been taken by the war and he would never have to confront them again, never even be given the chance. Harry, though… Harry decided to face his past in an attempt to move on from it. If it were possible to love him more than Draco already did, that display of strength would have done it.

Their boots crunched in time on the ice-crusted pavement, the only sounds in the empty street. As such, the clip of their footsteps echoed ominously loudly. Not a single figure could be seen, though as Draco scanned his surrounds, over the sickeningly identical, stoutly plain houses, he briefly glimpsed pale faces in windows before curtains dropped hastily to hide the dim interior.

Creepy. They certainly know how to make people feel unwelcome. For though Draco had always had an overdeveloped sense of entitlement, he couldn't deny that he felt uneasy in Little Whinging. Even his constant anger was not enough to dispel the discomfort. He would be more than happy to leave the little town.

"Down here," Harry murmured at his side, lifting their clasped hands to gesture to the left of a crossroads. Glancing at the street sign, Draco read the words 'Privet Drive' in immaculate print. The sign looked almost too knew for its placement, too well cared-for. It was unnatural, for a Muggle sign to be so well-preserved from the elements.

He allowed himself to be tugged by Harry's hand down the street. It wasn't a particularly long street, but the monotony of those disgustingly similar houses made it appear longer. With growing agitation, even further discontent than he already felt, he walked in Harry's footsteps – for Harry walked ahead of him now, arm stretched behind him to maintain their handhold – and almost relief when they stopped. A letterbox stood before them, wedged in a picket fence and exactly the same to the rest lining the pathway save for the number '4' in place of the '2' and '6' of its neighbours.

"This is it?"

Harry nodded slowly in reply but didn't glance towards him. Following his line of sight, Draco observed the little house before him. It was decidedly unremarkable. A two-storey bright building was a dull visage of slanted brown roof and box-like windows, each covered by thick, pale curtains from the inside. A sturdy yet unremarkable car squatted in the driveway, covered with a sheet of pale snow unmelted even at midday. The front lawn, as plain as the house itself, was covered in a similar blanket of snow.

Draco didn't know how long they stood there in silence. Obviously Harry saw something in the little house, the house from his past, that was definitely more interesting than what Draco perceived. He had begun to count the minutes when Harry finally spoke.

"My aunt's garden…"

Draco glanced towards him, raising an eyebrow as Harry's words faltered. "What about it?"

Harry shook his head slightly, a very small motion. "No, it's… it's just not there anymore."

Glancing back towards the blanketed lawn, Draco frowned. True, there was not much garden of which to speak. There might have been grass buried beneath all that snow, but not a rose bush or shrubbery in sight.

Draco didn't have much time to ponder the meaning of it, however, for evidently Harry had shaken himself out of his stupor with his own words. A slight tug on his hand and he was following Harry up the icy footpath towards the front door.

The sound of the doorbell rung with a hollow chime. Even through the thickness of the front door Draco thought it sounded slightly off-key, as though the mechanics moaned in wear and tear. It was likely made louder by the distinct lack of any other noise coming from the house. Nothing. Silence.

Draco glanced sideways at Harry as his partner tapped the doorbell once more. His face have blank, but the still blankness of controlled emotions rather than emotionlessness. Draco didn't need to be holding his hand to know that tension thrummed through his entire body.

A third chime and there was still no answer. Draco frowned, his agitation tinging with the constant presence of anger once more. Even without house elves to answer the door, surely such was considered rude, wasn't it? "Maybe they're not home?"

"Maybe," Harry agreed quietly. "Maybe they don't even live here anymore."

Draco hadn't considered that. He didn't get much time to think further on the subject either, for on the fourth chime the sound of softly thudding footsteps down a hall interrupted him. The lock clicked, unlatching, jiggled on the other side of the door swung inwards.

Standing before them was one of the largest men Draco had ever seen. Not taller than him, but simply… big. It wasn't even so much that he carried an enormous amount of fat upon his frame; there was as much muscle and simple bigness as anything else. Draco doubted he would have passed through the doorways straight on without getting his shoulders wedged.

It took a moment of staring to discern that he was a young man. Another to hazard a guess that he was likely not much older than Draco and Harry. He had a mop of sandy blonde hair and ruddy cheeks tinged faintly purple. A wide mouth that was downturned in a natural scowl and watery blue eyes that looked slightly bloodshot over bags of weariness. The man did not look particularly happy to see them, but that could have simply been driven by lack of sleep as actual disgruntlement.

Leaning onto the doorframe, both arms propped either side of and above his head, the man switched his eyes between the both of them. He squinted, as though attempting to discern any trace of familiarity. Neither Draco nor Harry spoke. A brief glance to his side showed Harry in a state of immobility, blinking slowly with… curiosity? Draco was relieved to see there was no fear in the tightness of his partner's shoulders. Or, if there was, it was barely perceivable. In spite of everything Harry was somehow and quite suddenly… calm.

The man in the doorway was the one who broke the silence. His voice was deep and gravely, as though he had a cold. "Do I know you?"

Harry's hand twitched slightly in Draco's, and for a moment he wasn't entirely sure why. When he glanced down towards him, however, there was a warning in Harry's stare that alerted him to his own rekindled anger. Apparently Harry had noticed it welling within him even before he had himself.

Harry stared at him pointedly, unblinkingly for a moment longer, until Draco grudgingly dipped his chin. He turned back to the man. "Um… Dudley?"

The man in the doorway – Dudley – blinked in surprise. At least Draco assumed it was surprise. He wasn't entirely sure the man was awake enough to be surprised. "How do you -?"

"You mean you don't recognise him?" Draco couldn't help himself. His voice was cold and biting, he knew, but Harry could hardly blame him for that. He could have made it so much colder.

Dudley blinked up at him, puzzled, and there was a moment where Draco beheld a rising wariness in the man's eyes. Then he turned back to Harry and squinted again. Only for a moment, though, before his eyes widened, becoming tiny blue marbles in his chubby face. "Bloody hell! Potter? Harry Potter?"

Harry stared at him silently for a moment before slowly nodding his head. "Dudley. It's been a while."

Dudley huffed in a laugh of disbelief, without a trace of amusement, and slumped further into the doorframe. "Yeah, I'll say." He dropped his eyes to the floor for a moment, scrubbing one meaty hand over the back of his head before glancing up once more. Incredulity was thick in his gaze. "Christ, you look different."

"Older, probably, after six years," Harry rationalised. His voice was devoid of emotion. "You do too."

Dudley muttered something beneath his breath, glancing up hesitantly at Harry once more before his eyes drifted towards Draco. He seemed to size him up, and Draco was quite pleased to find that he appeared quite intimidated by what he saw. "Who's he?"

A squeeze of Harry's hand silenced Draco before he could even open his mouth. "This is Draco Malfoy. He's my partner."

"Partner?" Dudley's eyebrows nearly disappeared into his hairline. "What, like your boyfriend?" He snorted, dropping his arms from the doorframe and leaning heavily back into the door instead. "You're a poof?"

Draco might have hissed. Or he might have said something, he wasn't sure. His vision blanked briefly, so fierce and sudden was the rush of his anger, and when it returned seconds later he took it as a point of pride in his own restraint that Dudley was still standing. Or maybe it was simply that Harry's hand had become more like a death grip, a physical restraint, than a clasp that sought support. Still, standing though Dudley may be, his heavy face had slipped into one of stark terror.

Letting his face fall into a sneer, lip curling, Draco glared down his nose at the increasingly cowering man. "I'm sorry. Were you being derogatory towards my partner?" It wasn't really a question, for who would reply with anything to such a baited query except to shake one's head? Which Dudley did. Vigorously.

"Draco." At Harry's murmur, Draco glanced towards him. There was no reprimand in his face, just a faint request, and as quickly as it had arisen Draco's anger fell under wraps once more.

This is for Harry. You're here to support Harry, not to pick a fight. Draco was supposed to let Harry talk, to ask his questions, to rationalise himself with reality and come to terms with what he already knew: that the past was well and truly firmly set where it belonged. In the past.

Taking a deep breath, Draco released his fury through his nostrils. "Sorry," he muttered. And though he looked at Dudley, his words were entirely for Harry. The brief tightening of thin fingers in his own indicated that Harry knew as much.

Dudley seemed to have steadied himself at only a slightly slower pace than Draco did himself. Straightening from his pathetic cower, the man cleared his throat. At least he wasn't slumping lazily on the doorframe anymore. His eyes turned guardedly towards Harry. "What do you want?"

Harry was in control, now. Draco had to wonder just how much mental preparation had gone into his decision to make such a trip, how little he had slept the previous night, to have built such a fortified resistance. "I came to see you."

"Why?"

Harry shrugged. "Tying up loose ends, I guess you could say."

Wariness still swum in Dudley's eyes, eyes that flickered constantly towards Draco, but he seemed to have composed himself marginally. "What does that mean, exactly? What do you want?"

Pausing, Harry glanced over his shoulder. To the car, Draco supposed, though he didn't know why. When he turned back to Dudley, it was to glance briefly over his shoulder before meeting his eyes once more. "Are Vernon and Petunia here?"

Dudley's face blanked. From confusion or something else, Draco didn't know. He blinked slowly, a frown settling on his brow. "You mean you don't know?"

"Know what?"

Closing his eyes, Dudley ran a hand over his face, dragging across his eyes and tugging at his jaw. There was a faint sheen of blond stumble there that Draco hadn't initially noticed. It made a coarse grating sound as his nails raked through it. "'Bout Dad. 'Bout what happened to him."

Harry was frowning now in evident confusion. "What happened?"

A surprising emotion settled on the big man's face, one that Draco wasn't particularly pleased to behold. It looked like sadness. Not fear or guilt, but grief. "Dad died of a heart attack. Four years ago now."

Any lingering anger within Draco seemed to have been shunted abruptly to the side. He didn't feel sympathy, not for the man before him, the man who was Dudley Dursley, but for whatever reason the anger just seemed to… fade.

His father died… Oh. So that's what it is.

It was irrational, that Draco should feel even the faintest twinge of sympathy. Just because the man's father died didn't make him any less of a monster himself, didn't erase the cruelty he'd enacted in the past. If anything, Draco should feel happy for the man's pain, satisfied that the brute who'd hurt his Harry was dead.

And he did. He truly was satisfied that they had been made to pay, even in such a roundabout fashion. Such an unrelated way. Karma, as it may be.

But still… his father died…

He didn't know why he kept thinking that, but the thought wouldn't leave him alone.

"Oh," Harry sighed, barely a whisper. "I… I'm sorry, Dudley."

Dudley glanced towards him once more. The sadness was still evident, but it was an old grief, with none of the rawness of acute pain. Incredulity swum forth to take its place as his eyebrows rose once more. "You're sorry? Really?'

Nodding slowly, Harry glanced towards Draco. And suddenly, even in such a situation, even given just whom Harry was talking to, Draco knew that he was speaking with nothing but sympathy for the man who had been his terroriser in their childhood. "No one should have to lose a parent in such a way." He offered Draco a small smile. And somehow, in the numbness and recurring 'his father died' swirling around and around in Draco's head, he was able to smile in return.

"Oh," Dudley muttered, interrupting Draco's thoughts and drawing both his and Harry's attention once more. "Oh, well that's…" He cleared his throat. "Thanks, I guess."

"No problem." This time Harry turned his smile, small yet still heartfelt, towards his cousin instead. "Would you perhaps mind telling me what happened?"

And so Dudley did. It was an entirely irrational situation – Harry, speaking to one of the perpetrators of his childhood abuse, standing on an icy doorstep and murmuring words of sympathy as though he genuinely felt for the man before him. And, knowing Harry as Draco did, he likely did feel for him. Somehow. Impossibly, stupidly, but somehow.

Dudley spoke of Vernon's failing health, something that had come about shortly after Harry had left. He spoke of the first heart attack and his subsequent hospitalisation, of the night that it finally happened, in his sleep, and Dudley's father never woke up. And though Dudley was sniffling by the end of it, he didn't cry.

"What about Petunia?" Harry murmured, speaking into the ensuing silence. "Is she…?"

"Mum? Nah, she's alright." Somehow, over the course of his telling, Dudley seemed to have become more comfortable. And though Draco still felt the faint tightness in his chest at the topic at hand, he couldn't suppress the resentment, the swelling anger, that arose at his casualness. The stupid lump should feel scared out of his wits. I should make him scared. His sneer threatened to resurface, but once more, as though predicting it, as though feeling it arouse, Harry's hand tightened warningly on his own. "She moved down to London a little while ago. Just after I got out of school. She never liked the suburbs so much anyway, and likes them even less now that Dad's not here. Says they're too quiet."

Harry looked slightly surprised at that. "She prefers inner city?"

Dudley frowned, as though Harry had just accused him of something. "Yeah. Got a problem with that?'

But Harry only shook his head thoughtfully. "No, just – she always seemed to take great pride in her garden and her quiet life. I would have thought…"

"Yeah, well, things change." Dudley spared an almost guilty glance towards the distinct lack of garden over Draco's shoulder. Draco didn't bother to withhold his smirk; it was that or openly scowl at him again.

As their conversation died, Dudley's face fell into seriousness. Into thoughtfulness that Draco hadn't expected to see on such an otherwise obviously unintelligent individual. His small blue eyes, staring uncomfortably at the floor, rose slowly towards Harry. Harry remained motionless beneath his cousins gaze, an admirable, considering the splay if emotions – some quiet aversive – that welled within Dudley's eyes.

"You've changed, Potter."

Harry stared at him for a long moment. So long that Dudley began to shift, fidgeting uneasily from foot to foot. Draco knew that look and could attest to the quiet discomfort that Harry could invoke with a simple, extended stare.

Finally, he broke his silence. "Yes. I have." And surprisingly, a full smile unfurled across his lips. It wasn't an exceptionally wide smile, but it was full and genuine nonetheless. A smile that bespoke true happiness, calm and… release.

Draco didn't understand it. He didn't understand how Harry could so easily smile at the man who had tormented him in his childhood, the son of the aunt and uncle who had made his life a living hell. He didn't understand how Harry could feel anything but hatred for his cousin, for any of his relatives. Draco himself was still struggling with the urge to beat Dudley's face into a pulp, a fact that seemed no less satisfying for its Muggle approach. More satisfying, perhaps, for the desire to feel the crunch of a nose under his fist rather than to simply see the effects of a hex cave the bastard's face in.

He didn't understand it, but then he didn't really have to. Harry was content. Somehow, impossibly, irrationally and inexplicably, he was content.

Draco didn't know at what point, from which moment, the change had occurred. When Dudley told him Vernon was dead? When Draco had scared him into something vaguely resembling a human in his fear? Knowing Harry, it was more likely to be from before then, even. Most likely from the moment he saw Dudley, the man who looked so tired, so worn. So pathetic.

They exchanged a few pleasantries, the two cousins, which Dudley seemed to answer in a state of shock. And then that was it. Only a brief nod of farewell, a murmured "goodbye", and once more Harry was tugging Draco down the path from Number 4 Privet Drive. A brief glance over his shoulder showed Dudley watching their departure. Watching silently, immobile, as though the icy chill of the outdoors had frozen him to the ground. And though he didn't glance over his shoulder to check and be sure, Draco was certain that the man watched them until they disappeared from the street.

Draco and Harry walked in silence through the streets of Little Whinging. It was as empty, as bare and silent, as it had been a mere half an hour before. Except that this time, the hand that settled in Draco's wasn't rigid with tension. Harry didn't hunch his shoulders nervously or keep his chin to his chest, eyes glued firmly to the ground. Quite the opposite, in fact; his face was turned skyward, that same smile that had been on his lips since leaving his cousin still settled comfortably.

As they reached the main road coming out of Little Whinging – not quite a block from the park that would serve as their Apparation point – Harry stopped. His face was still turned skyward, and Draco had to glance overhead to determine if there actually was some sort of magical creature hovering above them to draw his attention. He wouldn't put it past Harry not to tell him.

"Is it terrible of me that I'm relieved he's dead?"

Draco didn't even have to consider his reply. "No. It's not at all. Of course it's not."

Harry didn't seem to hear him, and Draco realised that the question was likely more self-directed. Rhetorical. He closed his eyes and shook his head. "I'm not so sure, but I just feel lighter, knowing that he's not…" He shook his head again slowly, and a sorrowfully guilty expression settled on his face.

Frowning, Draco had to bite back the desire to take Harry by the shoulders and demand he listen to reason. That the death of his uncle, who had made his childhood a living hell, should not make him feel sad. Or guilty. Or repentant in any way, as his expression suggested he was. Taking a deep breath, Draco fought to unlock his clenched teeth. "I think it would be natural to feel relieved, Harry. I know you're still working on it, but the reality of it is that your uncle abused you." He didn't hide the true meaning of his thoughts by using a euphemism. He didn't need to, for Harry didn't even flinch at the stark reality of the words nowadays. "To be honest, I'm impressed that you even made it here without changing your mind. Even speaking to your cousin." Draco paused. "You're alright? With speaking to him? And with your Aunt and everything?"

The faint amusement that had crept onto Harry's face when Draco had declared himself impressed died. "Seeing Dudley…"

"Because I'm more than happy to turn around, walk straight up to his door, and punch his nose out the back of his head."

"Punch him? Really?" That flicker of amusement returned with a quirk of Harry's lips. "I'd have thought you'd take the hexing route."

"I'd considered it, but striking him skin to skin just seems to much more satisfying."

Harry shook his head in familiar exasperation. Though when he continued his tone turned serious once more, that little smile remained. "I don't really know. I don't know if I should have talked to him more. If I should have blamed him for what happened so long ago. Maybe I should have pressed charges, or at least demanded that Dudley give me Aunt Petunia's address so I could go and confront her too, to say something, but…" He trailed off, dropping his gaze to his feet thoughtfully. "I just don't want to. I thought that I was stuck in the past, that I wouldn't be able to move on without them at least, I don't know, apologising or something maybe. But…"

The quiet of Little Whinging seeming overly loud in the aftermath of Harry's words. Draco watched him closely, attempting to discern if he was going to continue, but further words didn't seem forthcoming. Finally, Draco nudged him into explanation. "But?"

"But… he's different. He's moved on. Aunt Petunia has moved on. And I'm different." Harry took a steadying breath, held it, before releasing it in a rush. "I don't need their apologies, because I doubt they'd ever mean it, truly. I still don't even know if they fully realise that what they did was – was wrong. I don't want to be waiting for something that's never going to happen, and let it rule me and any possible chance of moving on."

"You could press charges."

"I could," Harry nodded in acknowledged. It wasn't in agreement with the notion but simply to recognise Draco's suggestion. "But I don't want to. Because I don't need that hanging over me any longer. I don't need it, and I don't want it. Because it's… it's in the past. And it can't hurt me anymore."

Draco stared at Harry. He felt an entirely foreign feeling well within him and it took a moment of consideration to realise it was awe. It seemed incredible, impossible even, that Harry would just be alright. He could never consider that if something like that had happened to him that he could just move on. Could just live and progress, could turn aside from something that had so hurt him and look forwards instead. It seemed unfair, unjust, impossible, and yet to Harry…

Harry just didn't need it. He didn't want to seek justice. To Harry, who had been living with those memories, with those experiences his whole life, he wanted nothing more than to let them go.

There was something so courageous about that. Draco didn't think he could put his feelings on the subject into words if he'd tried. So he kept silent, simply watching as with each moment Harry seemed to settle further and further into his own skin. Tension that Draco had never noticed constantly gripped him silently seemed to ease, previously unnoticed but leaving a profound lightness in its absence.

When Harry finally continued it was in a near whisper. "Thank you for coming with me today."

Draco felt a smile pull at his lips. A real smile, and he realised in that moment that somewhere in the last few moments of silent contemplation, of staring at Harry's serene expression – content in a way he'd never seen before – his anger had nearly entirely disappeared. "Of course. I'd never forgive you if you didn't bring me along."

Harry huffed a breath of fog in laughter. "Yeah, I figured as much." He paused and slowly turned his face towards Draco's. His dark eyes, just visible behind the slight clouding of his lenses, were deep in thought. "You know Draco, I've been thinking."

"Yes? About what?"

"About getting my eyes fixed."

Draco blinked, surprised at the sudden change of topic. Until comprehension dawned. "You mean you -?"

"Yeah. I don't think I really want to wear my glasses anymore."

Draco wanted to ask why. He wanted to know the exact reason. More importantly, he wanted to know just how his partner had managed such a giant leap when he knew how much pain had been settled within him. Harry used his glasses as much as a wall to hide behind as for his sight. It seemed impossible that he would be able to even consider discarding them.

But he didn't ask. Because really, it didn't matter. Harry was happy, and nothing in the world could make him happier himself. Draco felt his lips tug, tentatively stretching wider. "You think so?"

Harry nodded, his own smile broadening. "I think it's about time."

They stared at each other for a moment, the weight of their day trip gradually falling from their shoulders. Finally, Draco leaned in and pressed his lips to Harry's forehead. "I think that's a wonderful idea." Linking his hand through Harry's more tightly, he drew him with a gentle pull to begin their departure once more.

They wandered the short distance to the park without another word. When they Apparated, it was without a moment of regret, nor a single pause to glance over their shoulder. It wasn't like either of them were ever coming back again.


A/N: Hopefully that wasn't too disappointing? If you have any comments, suggestions or thoughts, please let me know with a review.
And just because I have to say it - I honestly can't not - thank you so much to LittleBrawley for your absolutely beautiful comment on the last chapter. I can't thank you enough for how lovely it was. Made me get all jittery and embarrassed. Thank you!