A/N: TW: References to sexual assault
The last month and a half has spoiled Harry Potter. He no longer expects three-AM owls, no longer lays out his Auror uniform Just In Case, no longer sets the timer on the coffee pot last thing before bed.
The owl at the window is a rude awakening.
"Harry." A shake to the shoulder elicits a groan. He rolls over, trying to avoid it. "Harry. Wake up!"
He's out of bed and on his feet before his eyes are even open; half-way down the stairs before realising the note's in his hands.
The content is unbearably predictable.
Domestic Disturbance and an address that's almost-but-not-quite stopped being familiar.
Number Thirty-Two.
Harry almost cries.
Nothing ever fucking changes.
He drags on his cloak and checks his wand, searching for his shoes in the darkness so as not to disturb the Malfoy sleeping on the sofa. It takes too long to get his laces tied, and Harry's stuck hard between reluctance and urgency. He hates this, doesn't want to do it, but the thought of those girls, and if he doesn't intervene it'll only be worse, even if it's pointless, even if tomorrow's the same because of course it will be because it always fucking is.
Outside the warm safety of his home, Harry steels himself, takes a deep breath, and Apparates to work.
Number Thirty-Two still stands where it has always stood; lightless, sleeping houses on either side. There are lights on in Number Thirty-Two. All of them. Streaming through every pair of faded lace curtains. It's three o'clock in the fucking morning.
"Mr Potter?"
Harry turns. Mrs Breathwaite from Number Twenty-Eight hurries towards him, her old face lined with concern. She wrings his hand. "I'm so glad you're back," she says in an earnestwhisper. "The other one – a young fellow – completely useless. Just left the note on the door. Fat lot of good. And them in there—" They both look back towards Thirty-Two. "I know it's too often, doesn't make a whole deal of difference, but just interrupting, at least… at least it…"
"I know," Harry tells her. Even if, in the long run, it's meaningless, at the very least he can stall the chaos in the moment.
He starts to move towards the door, reaching for the brass knocker, but Mrs Breathwaite calls him back. "It's getting worse in there, Mr Potter. Those girls… Something needs to be done."
Shit.
She retreats back into the darkness of her own sleeping house, one candle burning in a downstairs window, as Harry grabs the knocker.
Usually it only takes one knock to bring Suzie scurrying to the door to send him away.
Tonight, there is no answer.
He tries again, the blow reverberating through the night.
It's nothing compared to the thuddering in his chest.
Because what the hell is he supposed to do if no-one comes to the door?
"Auror Office, open up."
It's like the whole house is holding its breath, pretending not to be home.
Harry raises his voice. "If this door isn't open in thirty seconds, I'm coming in." Which is, admittedly, technically illegal without a warrant. But he doesn't give a shit. This bloke's become as spoilt and complacent as Harry in his absence. Harry grits his teeth. Unacceptable.
Wand gripped so hard the wood almost cracks, Harry raises it high. "Alohomora."
The bolt clicks back obediently.
Bombarda would've been more satisfying.
The house is still. Not even breathing. It smells like the evening meal – something rich with gravy – and wood-smoke. His hand closes around one banister, trying to choose between upstairs and downstairs.
And then he hears it. The softest sound.
A child's whimper.
Harry pounds up the stairs, hauling himself up by the bannister that squeaks within his grip.
There's nothing when he gets to the top. Harry listens, desperate for something more, anything to lead him in the right direction. Doesn't want to call out and give himself away, or give him the advantage.
Then sniffles from the bathroom.
The door is shut.
Harry tries the handle. It's locked.
He knocks very gently. "Hello? It's Harry Potter. Is someone there?"
And in the very smallest voice, "Mr Potter?"
Must be the little sister.
He crouches by the door. "Kate, is it? Can you open the door, Kate? Can you come out and talk to me?"
"I-I can't. It's locked."
"Can you unlock it?"
"Daddy locked it from the outside."
Cold prickles the hairs on Harry's arms. "Did he use magic?"
"Yessir."
"Alright. That's okay. I can undo it. Can you stand back?"
"Yeah."
"Alohomora."
It's so fucking easy.
The girl – this little scrap of a kid – flings herself straight at him, her scrawny arms wrapping tight around his leg with shocking strength.
He's never even spoken to her, has barely ever seen her hiding behind her sister, yet here she is, holding onto him like he's her life-boat.
Savior.
He crouches with some difficulty, gently easing her hands away and holding them gently in his own. Her eyes are enormous, magnified even larger by her tears. There's a bruise on her chin.
It takes every ounce of Harry not to sweep her up and Apparate home right now.
"Sweetheart," he murmurs, "where's your sister? What's going on?"
Her bottom lip, swollen from chewing, wobbles.
"Where's your mum, Kate?"
"Sleeping," she whispers back, pointing to the door to her left. "We're not allowed to wake her up. Daddy says she's 'bout to pop."
"Darling, someone called me in because they heard a lot of noise. I reckon your mum's probably pretty awake, don't you?"
But Kate only shakes her head adamantly. "No. She's sleeping. Daddy says we mustn't wake her. That's why he silenced Suzie. Cos she was making too much noise. That's why he put me… he put me…" Big tears roll down her nose as it drops to her chest. "He was hurting her. And I tried to make him stop. But we were being too loud. And Mummy's sleeping."
Harry doesn't believe that for a second but he's not about to push the issue. If a mother can hide in her room whilst her kids are being beaten up, fuck her. She's not worth his time or energy.
"Kate," he says, "I'm going to go look for your sister, for Suzie. I need you to stay in there, okay? I'm going to shut the door. I'm not going to lock it, but I want you to pretend that it is locked until I come back for you? Can you do that? Can you be brave?"
Her shoulders go rigid but she forces a nod.
"Good girl. Go on."
Kate slips back into the bathroom, sliding down to sit on the floor with her knees drawn up to her bruised chin, staring until the door closes between them.
Harry lets out a long breath, fighting the sickness in his stomach, and then takes the long journey back down the stairs into the dimly lit hallway.
Further back in the house, the lights are on also; through the hallway and into the kitchen. Everything is neat. Oppressively so. It reminds him of Privet Drive, in that clinical, insincere way; masking the smell of blood with rose-scented air-freshener. There's a light on outside, illuminating the scrap of patio through the small window above the sink.
And a girl on the floor.
He drops to his knees at her side. She is freezing cold, bare legs and stick-like arms shrouded in a thin nightie. Her chest heaves in silent sobs. There's blood on the linoleum.
"Suzie."
She cringes at his voice, her whole body contracting into itself.
"It's okay. I'm not going to hurt you. I'm here to help."
And do what? the mean little voice in his head sneers. What can you possibly do other than make things worse?
"Suzie, can I pick you up? Can I carry you? I want to get you out of here. Kate too."
She looks at him then, wide-eyed like her sister, but the state of her… dear Merlin, the fucking state of her.
"Where is he?"
Her eyes flick automatically to the window, to the thin plume of smoke curling up towards the darkness.
Harry starts getting up, wand already out, heart hammering. He doesn't have a plan, can barely think two seconds ahead, just knows he wants to get that bastard and hurt him the way he's hurt this little girl, and make him understand and make him stop and—
Fingers around his wrist forces a pause.
Suzie shakes her head, begging him no, begging him to just help her, help her sister.
"Alright," says Harry. "Okay."
Suzie is in no state to walk, but she's light as a feather. Harry can carry her easily in one arm, her face a grimace of pain hidden in his shoulder, legs dangling. Kate holds tight to Harry's other hand and, as silently and carefully as possible, the three of them leave Number Thirty-Two.
Mrs Breathwaite, watching through the curtains of Number Twenty-Eight, breathes a sigh of relief when Harry Potter Disapparates with the girls.
The night-sergeant doesn't look up from his paperwork at the pop!. "Long-time no see, Potter." It's been a blessed month; Potter's temporary replacement never bothering him once with the usual inane complaints he's come to expect from the Boy Who Lived. A blessed month, short lived.
Then he looks up.
His quill falls with a spatter of ink.
"What have you done?"
"Will you listen now?" Potter demands, holding the little girl close to his side whilst the other lies semi-conscious with her head on his shoulder. The first one, the younger one, stares up at him in unblinking accusation; her chin a single dark bruise. "Is this what it will take for you to do something?"
"Do something?" Kevin echoes, shaking his head. "Something like this? What the hell, Potter? You can't just—"
"You'd have me just leave them?" Harry snarls, his whole face ablaze. "Look at them, Kevin! Just look."
Kevin doesn't want to. He can't.
And why should he?
He concentrates on the frame sitting on his desk, on the faces of his wife and their son, grinning and waving, and reminding him what he's going home to after this hellish shift. Of why this is all worth it.
"By all accounts, Potter," he says very quietly, "you're already flying in turbulent air. Get them out of here, get them back home, and I'll do you the favour of not reporting it and recommending your suspension first thing in the morning."
Potter doesn't move.
The girl in his arms is limp.
"Please." Harry changes tactic, coaxes the little one along with him as he maneuvers all three of them into the single seat on the other side of the desk. "At least give me permission to look for someone else to take them in. They can't go back. I won't send them back—"
"You don't have a choice," says Kevin through his teeth. "Do you know how many laws you are breaking just by bringing them here? Hell, how did you even get in there? I'm willing to bet you didn't have a warrant. What were you called in for?"
"Domestic Disturbance."
"Domestic Disturbance," Kevin repeats back. "That's cut and dry – leave the ticket and move on."
"That isn't enough!"
"Yes it is! It has to be! You are already in so much shit. Between you and me, if you were anyone else, behaving the way you behave, you would've been out long ago. Be grateful, Potter. And take those girls back where they belong." When Harry doesn't move, "I will not ask you again. Get them out of here."
Potter's whole expression changes, and Kevin feels his body react on instinct to the thunder on the young Auror's face. He raises a finger in warning.
It's worthless.
"Fuck this," Potter spits. "And fuck you. You did this to them, Kevin. This goddamn useless fucking department. You looked at these kids, said 'that's okay', and let it happen. Are you happy? Is this what you want? Is this why you signed up? To sit back and let some bastard beat up his kids. Is this what you want? What was the point in fighting a war if this is allowed to keep happening?"
Kevin bites his tongue and rearranges the papers on his desk. "Sometimes," he says crisply, "you act as though you were the only person in that war. You were only one piece, Potter. There's a whole lot more of us who were fighting long before you were even a consideration. We fought for our world, to restore it back to the way it's always been. It's all about the bigger picture. There is no time to waste on—" He catches the little girl's eye and swallows. "—details. This isn't just your world, Potter, no matter what you've been lead to believe."
"That much is perfectly fucking clear." His voice shakes with grief and anger. Kevin recognizes it well – the signs of irreversible disenchantment. He remembers being in that place himself, twenty-odd years ago.
"Listen," he says with a fraction of sympathy, "go home. Get some sleep, and take a few days off. A couple weeks, even. Get your head straight and come back when you're ready. There's no hurry. Sort yourself out."
For a moment, it looks like Harry's completely ready to agree. He looks drained, almost as beaten down as those kids.
"I'll let the captain know—"
"No."
"Potter—"
"This is what happens when I'm not on the job, when it's left in hands of incompetent fucks who don't give a shit. I'm not going to do that. I'm not going to quit. I'm not going to fucking rest until something is done!"
Kevin's fist slams down on the desk between them before he can stop himself. The little girl cringes, curling into Harry's side. Her muffled sobs hurt his heart.
They cannot have this conversation with them here.
"Potter," he says, speaking very carefully as though talking someone down from the top of a building. "Take these two home. We'll talk about this when you're sensible."
Potter rises stiffly and with some difficulty, trying to manage the girls. The one in his arms, the older of the two, hasn't moved a muscle since they arrived, just lies limp against his shoulder. Kevin might've suggested St Mungo's if it wouldn't bring a whole cloud of unpleasantness raining down on the Department. They don't need that right now.
"Do you have your report?" Kevin asks just before Potter Disapparates.
The look Potter gives him is murderous.
It's nearly four o'clock and Harry still isn't back.
Draco sits in the kitchen, sipping the coffee he'd put on after Harry had woken him on his way out. He figured Potter would need it when he came home. It's cold now, but Draco supposes it can be reheated or made again. He has no idea how long these things normally take, though he's heard enough complaints of Harry's midnight callouts. They sound like hell. Like actual literal hell.
The rest of the house sleeps peacefully, undisturbed.
Draco envies them.
He looks back through the notes Theo gave him whilst he waits, still not quite able to convince himself to believe they're real, that there are those who are actually willing to support and help him on his own merits, regardless of status. It goes against everything his father ever told him. Friends are different – Draco knows he has been lucky with his friends – but clients are practically strangers, they have no loyalty towards him, no emotional investment. They have no reason to lie or feel pressured into such kindness. They do it because they want to. That's it.
It's baffling to Draco.
And Theo—
Ever since he saw Theo standing there in the snow that evening, Draco's heart has felt so full he's sure it's about to burst. It's different than before, when they were fourteen, though at the time it had been the sweetest most wonderful experience of Draco's life. But the shadow of his father and the perpetual anxiety that they'd be caught, and the low-thuddering certainty that it could never last always darkened the edges and kept it contained and small.
Now it just grows and grows, and it doesn't seem like it's ever going to stop.
This is what he wants, Draco knows. And this is what Theo wants too.
Nothing else matters.
And it's wonderful.
Most peculiarly, the fact that his parents and Astoria know, is actually a relief.
The moment he'd learnt that they knew had been terrifying – all that work he and Theo had done to hide, rendered worthless. But the work and the compromise and the hiding was never for his sake, it was for theirs. And Draco doesn't care about them anymore.
This is freedom, he thinks with a soft laugh that rings loud through the stillness of the sleeping house. Not money or security, or even safety, but love. And it finally – finally – feels like he's achieved something worthwhile.
The pop! of Apparition makes him jump, slopping coffee across the table.
It's good manners to Apparate outside, and usually Harry's very good at keeping to that rule, especially late at night.
Something's wrong.
Draco gets up and hurries to the living room where Harry has appeared.
With two girls.
Two children.
"Potter, what on earth—"
Harry looks to him desperately. "Help me." No other instruction, no other explanation. Just help me.
Draco moves on instinct.
The littlest girl is wobbling on her feet, so tired she can barely stand. Draco catches her, gently moving her to the armchair. It swamps her. A flick of his wand sends a soft light into the bulbs above their head, just enough to illuminate sufficiently.
Draco's heart breaks the moment he sees her.
Eyes averted, her mouth is twisted downwards. Tears have left streaks all the way down her face, marking a path down to her bruised chin. Draco knows a punch when he sees one.
"That's Kate," Harry says. "And this is Suzie."
"The girls you told me about?"
Harry nods, settling Suzie carefully down onto the sofa that Draco has made into his bed, drawing the quilt up over her body. She curls up underneath, burying her face into the pillow; not acknowledging anything outside of herself.
Draco knows he must remain calm and impassive, though every bit of him is coiled into a tight spring, desperate to rage and cry and destroy whoever did this. It is plain as night that Harry is in the same place, though struggling much harder.
"There's coffee in the kitchen," Draco tells him quickly before he breaks in front of them. "Go and sit down. I can deal with this."
"You're sure?"
"Of course."
Harry shoots him a weary, grateful smile and retreats into the kitchen.
Draco turns back to the girl in the chair. She still won't look at him. "Kate," he says, "my name is Draco. I want to help you. Will you let me?"
Her eyes flick to him warily and her brows dip into a frown.
"I can make that bruise go away. I can make it stop hurting. I bet it hurts pretty badly, doesn't it?"
The tiniest nod.
"Do you mind if I go and get something that'll help?"
Her lips part. It takes several attempts before she manages, "I don't mind."
"Alright. I'll be back in just twenty seconds. You can count if you like."
He can hear the mumbled numbers all the way into the kitchen, where the ointment made for James has been developing on the windowsill, and all the way back again. She's only at ten when he's back, crouched before her.
"Okay," says Draco, unscrewing the lid. "I want you to look up with your whole head. Right up at the ceiling." The ointment tingles his fingertips immediately, ready to work. "I'm going to touch you now. It's probably going to hurt, and when the potion starts working, it's going to sting, but that's okay – it means that it's working, and it'll only be the smallest while until you feel better."
Kate nods, but he still feels her flinch beneath his fingers, still hears the sharp intake of breath, still sees the tears spring into her eyes before she has a chance to screw them up.
Draco understands.
He traces her jaw as lightly as he can, carefully working the ointment into her skin.
It will take effect in exactly five, four, three, two, one—
He catches her as she bursts into tears, the burning, stinging sensation a nasty shock to the system.
Draco rubs cautious circles into her back. "Just the smallest while," he reminds her, "and then you'll feel so much better. This is okay. It just means it's working. I know it hurts. I'm sorry."
Snape had forgotten to warn him the first time he'd applied it to Draco.
"It's better than magic," he'd said. "More thorough."
Magic only made him look better, took away the surface bruise but did nothing to heal the damage underneath. Didn't do anything to take away the pain.
"Take off your shirt."
Draco hadn't wanted to. Nothing good ever came of being ordered to take off his clothes. And Snape wasn't supposed to know. No-one was supposed to know. Anyway, the marks were from an old beating. Days old. They'd go away on their own. They always did eventually. Snape wasn't supposed to know. Draco hadn't meant to flinch, just hadn't expected the touch – casual on his shoulder – and the immediate concern on his godfather's face had frightened him. Snape wasn't supposed to know. He was going to be in trouble.
"I just want to help," Snape promised when Draco recoiled. "Please. Let me see. Let me help you."
Draco didn't believe him. His godfather was still a new presence in his life, still unknown, and Father's friend. He seemed nice but, at five-years-old, Draco knew better than to trust someone just because they seemed nice.
It didn't help that Snape's fury when Draco finally managed to work his buttons free and slip the shirt from his shoulders was palpable.
It was a mistake, he was certain of it. All a terrible mistake.
"It isn't you," he heard Snape say through the numbed ringing in his ears; whole body braced rigid. "I'm not angry at you. It's okay. Come here. Don't be afraid."
Draco had to force himself to obey. Every inch of him had to be persuaded to move. Every inch of him was terrified.
"Sit here."
He perched on the very edge of the chair – the big one with the tall back by the window in the nursery – with Snape's legs on either side of him. He knew he was trembling. Couldn't help it. Trying not to just made it worse.
He cringed at the first touch to his back.
But it didn't hurt. It was cool and a bit tingly. But it didn't hurt.
Snape traced each weal with a careful finger and, slowly slowly, Draco started to relax. Because it didn't hurt. It didn't hurt.
And then it burned.
He cried out before he could stop himself, the shock of it and the betrayal, and it wasn't fair and he wasn't ready, just a mean trick, and he couldn't stop the tears, didn't even have time to hide them, and crying meant another slap and he couldn't do it anymore, he couldn't—
"Draco—"
Snape held him as he sobbed, murmuring words that Draco could only feel rather than hear, and kept rubbing the ointment into his ragged back; letting Draco's fingers bite into him, soaking up the tears and the snot and the cries, letting him hide and not minding, not being angry. And then, when it was done and the stinging stopped and Draco was worn down and limp, just rocking him. For the longest time. Until everything was better and all the bad had passed.
Just as Draco holds the little girl now.
His shoulder is soaking by the time she falls back into the chair, curling down with her cheek on the arm and her eyes closed; chin clear of the bruise.
Draco feels as tired as she looks, wants nothing more than to sleep until this night it over. But there's still Suzie.
The elder girl is hidden beneath the quilt, as still and as stiff as a statue.
Draco sits on the floor, leaning against the sofa.
"Suzie?"
Nothing.
"I helped your sister. Will you let me help you too?"
Nothing.
"I can make it so you'll be able to sleep. Everything will be better once you've slept, if you'll let me heal you. I know what it's like to wake up still hurting. I don't want that for you."
A rustle of covers and the quilt eases a little away.
There's blood on her lip and a trail down her chin. Her nose is crooked. It will take more than ointment.
"I know it's hard," says Draco, "but can you tell me what happened? So I know what to do? I know it's not easy, but can you try?"
Her fingers touch her throat. Telling him… telling him…
Oh no. Please no…
Draco arranges his face free of all emotion; perfectly placid, perfectly calm to maintain the illusion that everything is fixable.
The smallest pressure of the tip of his wand replace her fingers at her throat. "Finite Incantatum."
Suzie coughs violently, smothering herself with her own hands.
"Take your time," Draco murmurs. It can be as uncomfortable retrieving one's voice as it is to lose it; the sensation unpleasantly unnatural.
"I—" She gulps for air, then coughs again and wipes her mouth on the back of her hand, leaving a bright red smear behind. "Thanks," she says eventually, voice small and rough.
"Silencio?"
She nods, hair falling in lank curtains about her face
"How long?"
She glances up to meet Draco's eyes briefly, then drops them with a shake of her head. "I-I don't know. Maybe a while. Maybe not long. I-I'm not—"
"It's okay. Do you need water?"
"Yes. Please."
"How are they?" Harry asks, half slumped at the table, nursing the cold coffee between both hands.
"How do you think?" Draco doesn't mean it the way it comes out but he's too tired to correct himself. He moves automatically through the Potters' cupboards, retrieving everything he needs for potion-brewing. Not feeling anything. Not allowing himself to feel anything. Then, turning back a little, "How old are they?"
"Suzie's eight," says Harry from the darkness. "I'm not sure about Kate. Five, I think."
Five. Scorpius's age. And eight, James's. And his when—
"What's your plan, Potter?"
"My plan?" Harry sighs, which is answer enough.
Draco sends a low flame into the stove-top sets the pan down. "Fix them up to send them back?"
"You think I shouldn't've brought them here?"
"No. I don't think that." He carefully selects four sprigs of lavender and shreds them into the water. "But hope hurts. We have to be careful. Kindness can do just as much damage as cruelty."
"I couldn't leave them there, Draco."
"I know." He traces a pattern in the concoction with his wand until it starts to glitter, then turns up the heat and lets it rise to a boil.
"What're you making?"
"A combination of dreamless sleep and a weak amnesiac."
"Amnesiac?"
"It is better for them if they don't remember this night. When they wake up in the morning, it will feel like a faded dream. Hopefully that will be sufficient to prevent any more permanent damage."
"Until next time," he hears Harry say, more to himself in the darkness than to him. Then, "Fuck. I wish there was something—some way—"
"There isn't."
Every word comes flat, from his thoughts to his tongue.
He adds cocoa, vanilla extract and a cup of milk to the potion, then takes it off the heat to cool, and all the while Draco feels nothing.
Filling a large plastic dolphin-decorated tumbler with water, he carries it to the girl on the sofa and helps her hold it, bringing it to her split lips; her hands shaking too badly to manage by herself.
Eight years old.
With her permission, Draco fixes her nose and heals the bleeding places on her face with his wand, then tends to the bruises with the ointment. She bears it more quietly than her sister, who watches them through falling eyelids from the chair where sleep is trying to claim her for itself.
"Tell me where else."
Suzie trembles at the request, bottom lip disappearing between her teeth to keep her silence and her secrets.
More than enough to confirm what he's already sure of.
"Sweetheart," says Draco, "I know I can't stop what has already happened, and I know I can't stop it from happening again, but I can make you feel better right now, in this moment. If you'll let me. I can make it easier for a little while. I know it isn't enough, but it's something."
Her lips part to draw a ragged breath, then squeezes her eyes shut and nods
She sits still and listless whilst Draco works methodically to vanish the traces of her father's fingers from her body. He watches out for anything old and hidden, but it's just bruises, save for the ghost behind her eyes.
Draco can't take the ghost away – it will live with her for the rest of her life – but the potion will make it invisible, at least for a while. At least she won't have to look it in the eye.
She drinks steadily from a Holyhead Harpies mug, the added chocolate making the usual bitterness bearable, then Draco sits with her, holding her hand, until her fingers slacken and she falls into a heavy, bottomless sleep, praying he's caught this ghost quickly enough to make a difference.
Kate squirms, resisting the offered mug.
"It's good," he promises. "It's hot chocolate."
She doesn't believe him. Sensible girl.
"It doesn't taste bad."
"Where'll I be when I wake up?"
"In your own bed in your own home."
"I don't want to go."
"I know."
"I don't want to." Her voice cracks and her lip wobbles. "I don't want to!"
"Listen to me." Draco grips her small hands in his and looks her right in the eyes. "This isn't forever. It seems like it is now, but it isn't. You're five, aren't you? Well," he says when she nods. "That means that's only six years until your Hogwarts letter comes. That's so soon! And did you know that time feels faster the older you get? This isn't forever. It isn't even for very long. Remember that. I think you're strong enough to remember that, aren't you?"
Another doubtful nod.
"And this will make it easier." He offers the mug to her again, and this time she accepts it.
"If we're going to take them home," says Draco from the doorway, already dressed to go out, "we should take them now."
Harry pulls his head from his hands. "We?"
"You cannot carry them both by yourself, Potter."
"They're sleeping?"
Draco nods. "They'll be out until morning."
"Will they remember any of this?"
"If they do, it will only be in the vaguest."
"Good," says Harry, then grimaces. "I think."
"It's the best we can do. It has to be good enough."
The girls are snuffling in undisturbable sleep, finally peaceful.
"How did you leave the house?" Draco asks as he gathers Kate up into his arms.
"What do you mean?"
"I'm assuming you didn't just waltz in, pick up the girls and waltz out again."
Harry looks a little sheepish. "Pretty much."
"What about the parents?"
"Apparently their mum was sleeping, though I can't believe that for a moment."
"And their father?"
Harry's expression darkens as he looks down as Suzie, preparing to lift her. "Outside. Smoking. I would've gone out there. I would've confronted him. If she'd let me."
"And done what?" The girl is lighter than Scorpius, even a sleeping dead-weight.
"I don't know," Harry admits. "I couldn't think very clearly."
"He deserves to die."
"Shit, Draco—"
"Don't be dramatic, Potter."
"Do you think you should stay here?"
"I'm not about to go and commit murder," Draco snaps. "As tempting as it is. I don't think I'm brave enough."
Harry looks at him warily, Suzie a limp figure in his arms. "I don't think brave has much to do with it. Think about what would happen to Scorp if you went to Azkaban. You wouldn't do any good, locked away."
A small smile creeps across Draco's lips. "You think I do good?"
"I think you've made a big difference tonight. I certainly couldn't've fixed them up that well."
"It's only temporary."
"Nah," says Harry, sounding very much like his boys. "I think what you've done tonight is going to have more of a lasting difference than you think."
Draco isn't entirely sure that's a good thing.
"Do you have the address?"
Outside, Harry gives it to him and they Apparate to the darkened street.
They manage to get the girls settled in their shared room, single beds on either side of a bedside table, littered with strings of beads and dried up chapsticks; pink lampshade softening the light of the room. The sheets are rumpled but apart from that, there is no sign of dissent. Both young faces are soft and peaceful when Harry and Draco leave them.
Harry touches Draco's arm, a signal to Disapparate, but Draco shrugs him off.
He isn't ready to leave yet.
There's still something he has to do.
"Draco—"
His palm slides down the bannister as he takes the stairs into the hall. There are signs of life in the kitchen, the innocuous sound of china on a hard surface. The mother is sleeping, Harry had said.
Draco's wand is out and at his side by the time he reaches the bottom and curves around the bannister to take the hall along to the kitchen; Harry trying not to make a sound as he chases after him.
The man doesn't stand a chance.
"Silencio."
He grabs his throat, whipping around in shock to see his attacker. Terrified.
Draco smiles, advancing, head tilted at what he knows to be the most unnerving angle. A lesson from Yaxley.
The man is completely unarmed. Completely unprepared.
He backs away until the counter in his back prevents him going further.
Draco doesn't stop, not until their noses are almost touching.
And then he says, very quietly, "I know what you did."
The man stares at him, frozen.
"If I had my way," Draco tells him, "you would be ripped apart, piece by piece then stuck back together badly. And you would feel it, every day of your miserable excuse for a life, everything you have ever done to her. To both of them. If I didn't have a son who needed my, I would do away with you right now. If there was any justice in this world at all—" He takes one step backwards, words juddering in his throat. "But there isn't, and you know that, don't you?" says Draco with a smile that is nothing more than a twist of disgust. "Well, isn't good enough and it's going to change. I will make it change. For my son and those girls. And the next time you even think about laying a finger on either of them, I swear I will be there and I will make you understand exactly what you have done."
He turns on his heel, ready to walk out and forget about this sorry scrap of humanity.
But a hand catches his sleeve.
The spell holds fast; the girls' father cannot speak. He doesn't have to. The shape on his lips is as familiar as Draco's own reflection.
Malfoy.
Cold douses his blood.
But Draco holds himself perfectly steady, the epitome of impassive, and says, "Rapist." Then he rips away from the man's grip and strides out, passing Harry without even looking at him.
Draco doesn't draw another breath until he's outside and well down the road, away from that house. And then he stops, hands on his knees, eyes closed, and breathes in the stillness.
He feels Harry running after him, feet the pounding in the pavement.
"We should've Oblivated him—"
"No," says Draco through his teeth and the pain of a stitch. "He doesn't deserve the luxury of forgetting. He has a lesson to learn."
"He knows you, Draco."
"He doesn't know anything."
"And what's that you said back there? What did you call him?"
Draco straightens up with a grimace and looks ahead down the dark stretch of street – an endless line of identical homes. He's not ready to go back. Not yet. He needs to walk and be outside and think.
"Draco—"
"You heard me, Potter."
Potter falls in step with a little difficulty. He's got that irritatingly questioning expression he always wears when pieces are falling into place. Draco wishes they wouldn't. They always bring questions that shouldn't be asked.
"I want to do something," says Draco, directing the conversation before Harry takes his own chance. "I have to do something. I don't care what you say – what we did tonight, it was all but meaningless. Only temporary. And tomorrow, when it happens all over again, they're going to wonder why we didn't come back, and they're going to blame themselves – you know that, don't you, Potter? – we had no right to interfere if we weren't intending to maintain. We had no right to meddle in their lives just for five minutes of making ourselves feel less guilty. Because we're just as bad as them. Just as bad as him. And I have to—I have to—"
Draco falls suddenly against the house, catching his head in his hands, so tired it's almost unbearable.
All he can think of is Scorpius, and what would he do if—
"How did you know?" Harry asks.
Draco holds himself perfectly still.
"Draco, how did you know he…assaulted her?"
"Did you look at her?"
"Yes. But I didn't see—"
And then Potter stops.
Draco closes his eyes, bracing himself.
"That happened to you."
"I don't want to discuss is, Potter."
"Your dad?"
"Don't be disgusting," Draco snaps, then lets out a tight breath and picks himself up off the wall, crossing his arms tight around his body. "No, I was certainly fortunate in that regard. Comparatively. It was a… H-He was—" Draco's throat stops up, cutting off his words. He doesn't think about it, as a rule. Certainly doesn't talk about it. When nothing else had worked, that was what was decided – "We must all move forward," said his father, "as though it never happened."
"You think it's as simple as that?" Snape snapped. Neither knew Draco was listening. They thought he was asleep, out cold after Madam Pomfrey's failed attempts at memory-extraction. "You think Draco will ever be able to go back to the way he was?"
"Of course it isn't that simple. I'm not stupid, Severus, do give me some credit. But what choice do we have? You heard the diagnosis. Nothing can be done for him."
"I can't believe that."
"By pushing the issue, you will only make it worse. Let Draco forget. He will recover."
"This wasn't just a broken arm, Lucius. Your son was raped. He won't just recover and move on—Lucius."
But Lucius had made up his mind: It was over and done with, the source of the injury dealt with. There was no need to remember, as far as he was concerned, and the subject was forbidden. At least he's permitted Draco to move to a different part of the Manor, free – at that point – from ghosts, and allowed him to carry the little bottle of Muggle anxiety medication Snape managed to secure for him.
At least there was that.
Draco knows he was lucky to be supported. Knows plenty of others, like Pansy, who'd struggled much more.
Forgetting is a privilege.
And he might've managed a better job, if the experience hadn't been jarred back into existence, again and again and again.
"He was my tutor. After Snape left me to teach at Hogwarts. Father chose him because of his experience dealing with difficult children." Draco's mouth twists on the words, at the memories, of missing Snape so badly he'd gone nearly mad, more out of control than he'd ever been before, and then this new man, the replacement who could never replace his godfather, and hating him and determined to stay hating him, even through his patience and his kindness, and he had auburn hair and rectangle glasses—
"How old were you?"
"Eight. I was eight."
"And how long—"
"Parents hire tutors because they don't want anything to do with their children. No-one noticed anything was wrong for six months. I didn't realise anything was wrong – as far as I was aware, he was kind to me, he was on my side, and that was everything. I wasn't equipped to tell the difference between a kind touch and cruel one when they both felt the same. And when I did, finally, I didn't have the words. It was frightening, but Father was frightening too, and quite frankly at that point – well, at any point, really – I'd've done anything to escape a beating. I was told I'd be in trouble because it was my fault, I'd encouraged it, I'd given the impression I wanted it, I'd lied. I had no reason not to believe him. I believed everything was my fault. It was only discovered and dealt with because my magic kicked in. The noise summoned Father, and Snape was there too. Back for the Easter holiday. They saw what was happening."
"What did they do?"
"Snape took me away. I stayed with him for a while, with his parents."
"And what happened to the person who—"
"Father killed him."
A long, heavy silence, then, "Good."
"Good," Draco echoes. "It was supposed to put an end to the whole unpleasantness. Cut off the head, destroy the beast. Or something."
"Not so much?"
"Not even a little. For me it was… Well, it made little difference whether he was physically there or not, whether it was actually happening or not. I still felt it. Him. For the longest time. And my magic was highly volatile. It was a-a problem. I remember that Christmas. We were playing a game. Pansy tagged me a-and I just… I couldn't help it. I was so scared. I didn't even know what had happened until I was told about it later. I couldn't remember anything. As though my magic had ripped out that part of my memory. As though it was trying to make up for everything I couldn't forget and all the times it had left me on my own. That's when I went on medication. I'd take it every time I felt myself starting to panic or lose control. It calmed my magic so I wouldn't accidentally hurt anyone else. I've still got the bottle. I've taken the pills on and off ever since. It, ah, it was the only way I-I could manage with Astoria." He glances to Harry with a crooked smile. "Too much information for you, Potter?"
Harry looks back at him, utterly devastated. Speechless.
Draco head drops, watching the lines of the pavement disappear beneath their feet as they walk.
"It's easier if you catch it quickly," he says. "My problem was that it was left unaddressed for too long. It marinated. Put down roots. The potion I gave Suzie should tend to that and cut away the worst of it. Probably not all, but it'll help her. Perhaps prevent any serious lasting issues. If it's allowed to lay dormant without being triggered, then she should—she should be—fine."
"Don't try and tell me," says Harry stiltedly, "that sexually assaulting kids is fine and dandy too. Don't fucking tell me that, Draco."
"Why don't you tell me what your precious Auror Department would do if confronted by it, then," Draco snaps back.
"I-I don't know—"
"No, exactly, because they never know. It's kept internal. Kept private. It's shameful. And the best way to preserve secrets is through shame, believe me. I was lucky my father dealt with it eventually. Luckier still that it wasn't held against me. Sex is an unpleasant business, Potter. A very effective weapon that rarely backfires on the wielder. It traps women, it brutalizes children, and as far as men are concerned it's just another act of violence."
"Draco, that isn't true—"
"Yes it is," he says, raising his voice; fists clenched. "It is true. Maybe you're one of the lucky ones. Mostly likely. Just look at you. You're precious. No-one is going to risk laying a finger on the Saviour, are they? Power-play doesn't affect you because you've been at the top ever since you set foot in this world. You've never had anything to prove. Anything to fear. Your reputation is un-fucking-touchable."
You tell anyone, you'll be ruined, said Flint, a foot taller, twelve stone heavier and three years older.
You tell anyone, I'll say you started it.
Everyone knows how desperate you were to get on this team.
Everyone knows you'd've done anything.
No-one'd believe you got on because you were any good. You've never even won a game.
No-one would believe you.
You'll be kicked out and sent home, then what would your precious father think?
I dare you to tell him.
I dare you.
Didn't think so.
So shut up and keep your mouth closed, Malfoy.
Flint never needed Silencio.
Draco never told anyone. Not even Theo.
Just gritted his teeth and kept his silence, and took the medication the kept his magic from defending him. It became a post-match routine, even after Flint was expelled two years later. There was something about the changing rooms he couldn't stomach without help.
"It doesn't have to be like that, Draco."
"Oh, please. I don't need you to tell me that my experiences were wrong, that I am wrong and it'll take just one good time to change my mind."
"Wait, you've never—not once?"
"Have you no boundaries, Potter?"
"Well, what about Theo?"
Clearly not.
Draco glares at him; the darkness starting to soften in the first seconds of morning. "What about Theo?"
Potter blinks behind his glasses. "Well, I thought you two had a history."
"And?"
"I suppose I just assumed—"
"Yes," says Draco in a bite. "I suppose you did just assume." Then he sighs and forces a little give through his body. "What Theo and I had, what we have, is too important to ever ruin with sex. We've talked about it. You have nothing to worry about." Draco laughs when Harry reddens. "Look, I appreciate that it isn't awful for everyone. You live your life in the manner you see fit and I will do the same."
"It just seems a shame—"
"It isn't," says Draco sharply. "Believe me. Life is much better without the expectation or the worry, or the guilt of not doing and the guilt of doing, and being with Astoria was hell. She wanted a normal marriage. That's what she expected. And it was hell. Her patience was unbearable, and then her impatience was worse, and I could feel her frustration, but how could I… how could I bring myself t-to do… that to someone? Especially someone I was supposed to love? It didn't make sense. Of course, theoretically, I could understand, but trying to make sense of it practically?" He shakes his head, finger-nails making unconscious track up his arm beneath his sleeve. "She always thought it was because I hated her, because she wasn't pretty enough, because I was repulsed by her. I-I supposed, now, she thinks it's because I prefer men—"
"Well, don't you?"
"I'm not gay, Potter. I'm not… I'm not anything really."
"But you like men over women?"
"I like Theo," Draco corrects. "He's the only person I've ever felt remotely, genuinely comfortable with. I'd rather have that as a basis for a relationship than—"
"Sex?"
Draco winces. "Quite. Though, of course, not to disparage anyone else's choices. Just my own peculiarity."
"Not peculiar," says Harry. "Just you being you."
"Really?" Draco looks for the tease and finds none. "You don't think it's strange?"
"Surprising maybe, but no, I don't think it's strange."
"Most people do. Most people think it's as unnatural as homosexuality."
"Most people can go to hell and stay there."
"Mother and Astoria think it's just me not trying hard enough."
"Case in point, Draco. Case in point."
The sun is starting to touch the tops of the house, and the end of the street is in sight, with water sparkling on the horizon. They are more central than Draco thought.
"I'm not ready to go home yet."
"That's alright," says Harry. "We don't have to. It usually takes me a few hours to cool off after a job like this. Ginny's used to it. She'll explain to Scorp."
"He'll worry."
"Of course he will. He loves you."
Draco sucks his lip as they head towards the sunrise on the river.
"Harry?"
"Mmm?"
"If something happens – to me – will you help Theo look after him? Protect him?"
"The hell are you talking about, Malfoy?"
"If things go south, with all this, because let's not pretend that isn't a possibility, I need to know that Scorpius will be safe. Don't let them take him. Whatever happens, don't let my parents take him."
"Nothing's going to happen."
"Please, Harry."
Harry's hand falls onto his shoulder and squeezes. "They will not touch him," he promises. "Not if I have anything to do with it."
It's been a long time before a Department owl has bothered Davies's sleep. It wakes him with a gentle hoot, and disappears quickly back into the night when he snarls at it.
Margret remains snoring beside him. She would sleep through an earthquake, given half a chance.
The note is in Kevin's handwriting, and short to the point of useless.
Reported sighting of Malfoy, it reads, then an address. Number Thirty-Two.
A joke, no doubt, but still he forces himself out of the warmth of bed and drags on whatever clothes he left in a pile by the door from the night before. A joke still needs to be addressed.
The street is pitiful, the house morose, and the man who apparently made the report…
When he opens the door to Davies, he is red faced and fuming silently, and takes one cursory glance to the badge on Davies's chest before jabbing a pointed finger at his throat.
"I'm sorry, sir, I don't know what that means. I'm here to follow up a reported sighting of a wanted wizard?"
He doesn't look like he's been attacked, though after a long drawn out one-sided conversation, it finally clicks that the man has been silenced. It takes a simple counter-curse to remove it, and Davies almost immediately wishes he hadn't.
It's much better than this man remains without a voice.
He winces through the tirade, picking out bits and pieces when possible, something to do with 'my girls' and 'breaking and entering' and 'threatening bodily harm' and 'took them out the house without permission in the middle of the night'.
And names: Malfoy and Potter.
Davies starts paying attention.
"Potter?"
"Yeah, one of your Aurors, isn't he? Comes disturbing the peace every now and then, though haven't seen him in a while before tonight. Always sticking his nose in, waking us up. And the missus is pregnant, about to burst, the last thing she needs is—"
"And why would Potter do that?"
The man shrugs, still massaging his throat. He reeks of cigarette smoke. Davies almost asks for one. "My kids can be loud. All kids are loud, aren't they? I guess they bother the neighbors and, instead of saying it to my face, they bother you lot." He shakes his head as though to say, 'look at the state of the world'. "People got no drive to solve their own problems anymore. They need babysitting."
Davies arches an eyebrow, desperately resisting the urge to say, 'And just look at you.'
"I didn't even know Potter'd been here. I was outside in the garden – I don't sleep well, see, and sometimes you just need a smoke to settle down again – and the next thing I know, my girls are gone from their beds."
"And you didn't think to report them missing?"
"Well, kids are kids, aren't they? Sometimes they sneak out for a bit. Down the drainpipe. Figured they'd come back before morning, and if they didn't, I'd report it then."
"How old are your children?"
He has to think about it. "Five'n'eight," he says. "Though Suzie, my oldest, she's mature for her age."
"Mmhmm." Davies takes down notes. "And what happened then?"
"Well, there was no way I'd be able to sleep, knowing my kids are out there doing who knows what with who knows who, so I figure I'll wait up for them. Then suddenly there's a wand in my face and a psychopath in my kitchen, and my voice is gone, and I'm being threatened."
"And this psychopath, you believe it was Draco Malfoy?"
The man nods fervently. "I know a Malfoy when I see one. And this bloke was the one in the paper the other day. You know, the one that you lot let escape?"
Davies bristles. "I wouldn't say 'let'—"
"And hold on, weren't that Potter? The one who let him go? Cos Potter was here too. Standing right there in that doorway. Watching and letting Malfoy go nuts on me. Just standing there. Aren't Aurors supposed to protect the rights of us Magical folk? I'm pretty sure that's your bloody job, isn't it? Not just standing there, letting crimes be committed. That's not code."
"It certainly isn't," Davies agrees.
"And I got violated. Right in front of his eyes. My voice just taken, so I couldn't even speak up and defend myself." He cocks his head. "Whatcha gonna do about it?"
"I will make my report," says Davies, waving the notebook he's been scratching in. "And I will take samples of trace-magic for analysis. We'll determine the culprits and proceed accordingly. Can you point me towards anything that might've been touched?"
Davies takes samples from the man himself and the front-door. He does a brief scan of the house, but there's nothing else tangibly evident apart from the faintest trace of Apparition, though that's much harder to test and probably not necessary.
Interestingly, the perpetrators had not Disapparated once they were done.
"Nah," says the man. "They just walked out like it was nothing. No running or anything. No shame at all."
Davies's wand is full of the scent of magic, left over from filling the sample tubes. A quick location charm and it starts spinning in his palm like the needle of a compass.
His heart judders.
They aren't far.
The bench by the river glitters with fresh frost. Draco and Harry sit down, watching the ducks take tentatively to the icy water.
"Did you mean it?" Harry asks. "What you said earlier. About wanting to do something?"
Draco nods, faces flushed with new sun. "I have to. Something needs to change and no-one else is going to make it happen. It may as well be me." Though I have no idea where to begin.
Feeling Harry's eyes upon him, Draco glances up. There is something akin to admiration on his old nemesis's face.
"What?"
"If you could've had anything, as a kid, what would it've been?"
Draco thinks for a long while. He'd wanted so much so badly when he was little. "A safe place," he says eventually. "Somewhere beyond my father's jurisdiction, where he couldn't touch me. I left home a couple of times, but it was always very clearly by his consent. I was always aware he could retrieve me any time he wanted."
Harry's head tilts. "Even Hogwarts?"
"Hogwarts isn't Sanctuary." Draco blows into cupped hands and rubs them hard together. "After First Year, when he permitted me to stay, Father made it very clear it was conditional. He infiltrated the school board, appointed eyes to report back on me, ordered duplicates of every assignment to be sent back home. It was better than being there, certainly, and I loved Hogwarts but it… it wasn't safe. I was sheltered but I wasn't protected. Students attend at their parents' discretion. They can be removed at any time."
"That's bullshit. Let's change it."
Draco blinks. "Are you drunk, Potter?"
"Hogwarts should be a sanctuary. Education should be mandatory, and kids need their independence. It's ridiculous that parents have the liberty to interfere in school."
"Children belong to their parents."
"And that needs to change too."
"It's the law."
"The law is wrong. Let's change it."
"How?"
"Confront people. Collect testimonials. Stick it in people's faces and say this isn't okay. Make it change."
"And in the meantime?" Draco asks, though his thuddering heart is proof of how much he wants this. "That could take years, if it works at all. I want to… I want to do what we did tonight, but have somewhere to take them, somewhere they can stay."
"Like a home?"
"Yes! A-A home for children who aren't safe in theirs. Obviously you've enough going on in yours, but with those wards…" He gives a little laugh. "Oh, I, ah, I haven't had a chance to tell you yet – it only happened this evening – but we'll be moving soon. Theo's managed t-to pull together enough money that it's possible. It won't be much, but it'll be something, and if you helped me, ah, replicate those wards then maybe it could be something more until we manage to acquire something better. It'd be a start. It'd be—"
"Something," says Harry on a breath. "It really would be something."
"Yes. It would."
The enormity of just the thought of the hope of what they might achieve takes Draco's breath away. It's still absurd, impossible, no-one would ever pay attention, and they could get into serious trouble, but… but what if…
"All it would take is the start of a conversation," says Harry thoughtfully, fingers tapping a tuneless beat on the frosted bench between them. "Just get people talking. That's how things happen, isn't it? And the problem I see – well, one of the problems – is that it just isn't acknowledged. Anyone can get away with anything if it isn't talked about."
"You make it sound so simple."
Harry laughs. "Oh, I know it's not going to be simple. Not in the slightest. When Voldemort returned, and the proof was put right in front of their eyes, and people still went out of their way to deny it. If they decide not to see something, then that's that. Denial is one of the greatest powers in the world."
Draco feels that in his soul.
"So what do we do?"
"We confront them," says Harry. "Everyone. We make it impossible to look away and pretend not to see. We shove it in people's faces and make them talk about it. It would only take one conversation..."
"Grownups don't listen." The childish part of him, the one who wishes ardently that someone had had this idea when he'd needed it, is clashing badly with the pragmatic grownup inside him who know how the world works. But he wants it, so desperately it's dizzying. With both parts. "You said so yourself – people refuse to see what they don't wish to see. Even if you took Suzie and Kate, and put them on a plinth and said, 'Look at what you've allowed happen', it wouldn't make a difference. It is always somebody else's problem. Somebody else's fault. And that somebody is usually under seventeen."
"Then we need to start a conversation amongst kids too," says Harry. "Let them that there's a right way and a wrong way to be treated. Give them options. Take away the shackles of silence and the stigma of abuse."
Draco flinches.
"Why do you hate that word?" says Harry, because of course he notices. "Why does it bother you so much?"
"Because it's something that happens to other people," says Draco tersely. "To the less fortunate. To Muggles. It isn't applicable to me."
"Yes it is."
"Well, I don't want it to be."
"And isn't that the problem?"
Draco's mouth presses into a tight line, then he sighs. "Snape use to push it on me, and at Father. He said in the Muggle world it's a crime and that's the name of it. The label. But what good did it do me? Either Father was right and it didn't apply, or Snape was right and it kept happening anyway. It just made me feel worse. Call is discipline and it's tolerable."
"Call it discipline and it's forgivable. That isn't good, Draco."
"I didn't say it was good, Potter."
"Maybe if we started calling it by its proper name, people might start paying attention. Making people uncomfortable isn't necessarily a bad thing. Actually, I might even submit that's it's necessary."
Draco considers Harry out the corner of his eye. "What about you?" he asks. "How does it fit on you?"
"I was never under any delusion," says Harry with a grim smile. "I was brought up in the Muggle world, remember? I went to school. I knew what normal looked like. I knew normal didn't apply to me. I understand what you're saying though – labeling it makes it harder when nothing's done to set things right."
"I suppose… that's where we will come in."
"I hope so."
"Wow," Draco breathes.
"Wow indeed."
"Muggle-born children too."
"Yeah?"
"Of course. As soon as a child shows a sign of magic, there should be a-a liaison sent to them. A mediator. Someone to explain the situation and assess the parents' aptitude to deal with it. If it's lacking, then there should be a place in the Wizarding World for that child, where they can grow-up safely and achieve their potential without feeling—"
"Like a freak."
"Yes, exac—" Draco stops, stares at Harry. "Is that what they called you?"
Harry nods, considering his lap. "I had no idea what I was doing was magic," he says. "I had… no reason to believe I wasn't exactly that – a freak. Weird stuff just kept happening and I just kept thinking there was something wrong with me. You know, if someone had just come and tried to explain, to me and them, maybe they wouldn't've been so scared. Maybe they might even've come to accept it. Me. At the very least, maybe I wouldn't've spent so long trying to be something I'm not. Come to think of it, I reckon if I hadn't been me and, you know, the savior, Hogwarts wouldn't've pushed so hard to have me there. It would've been really easy to just give up after Dursleys burned my first Hogwarts letter."
"I wonder how many children don't make it."
Harry bobs his head thoughtfully. "Hogwarts is enormous, and I remember being surprised at how few kids there seemed to be." He glances to Draco. "I bet we could get our hands on those stats. How many kids don't make it in. How many kids are pulled out before the end."
"Correlation between a new term and visits to the hospital wing."
"Yeah," says Harry. "All that. I bet they know everything."
"I am certain they do."
And then Harry Potter says, "Let's do it."
Something ripples through Draco. He holds himself very still. "Let's do what?"
"Let's change the world." He glances sideways to catch Draco's eye and grins. "You and me, Malfoy. Let's change the world for those kids."
Draco's skin prickles. "You think it's possible?"
"I don't care. Let's do it anyway."
Draco stares out at the water; his ears are numb and, when he smiles, his teeth feel cold.
He can't stop smiling.
"Let's do it."
They seal it with a handshake.
Davies takes the street fast, on the cusp of jogging without breaking a sweat. His wand hums in his palm, confirming the direction, confirming he's getting closer with every house he passes. The marks aren't moving, so complacent in their certainty that their crimes will go unchecked, has they have done all this time.
They both couldn't be more wrong.
Harry gets up and stretches like he's just got out of bed; arms twisting up high over his head. "The kids'll be up soon if they're not already. We should head back."
Draco cannot think of anything he wants more than to be with Scorpius – wonderful, happy, healthy Scorpius. Scorpius who will never look the way those girls looked. The way he looked. Scorpius who will never have to fight these battles. Thank you thank you for letting me learn these lessons so he will never have to.
He starts to get up, then a hand to his chest stops him.
"Wait," Harry whispers.
His heart flickers. "What?"
But Harry doesn't say anything more. His hand is still flat against Draco's chest, and he is rigid and alert. Stay still, he signs with the other.
Draco holds his breath. Or he would, if breathing were even a possibility.
Every possible scenario flashes quick through his head, each worse than the last, concluding with Father.
Caught. He's caught. It's over. Dead. You're dead.
Draco braces himself.
But it isn't his father.
Nor is it Astoria, or a herd of Aurors.
It's just one man who he doesn't recognize.
Or maybe he does. Vaguely. Distantly.
Through the bannisters so many years ago.
"Stay upstairs and out of sight," his father hissed, pushing him towards the staircase, as was the routine when the Aurors came calling.
Out of the way and out of sight, Draco glanced back to catch the faintest glimpse of the man in the blue cloak, pinned with a gold badge; his contempt visible even from the distance, and heard his father say… what did his father say? What did he call him?
Davies.
"That's him." He doesn't realise he's spoken out loud until the words appear in the air in a frozen cloud.
That's him. The man who's been chasing him. Hunting him. The one clawing through all Draco's secrets, who took them straight to his parents, who took away Draco's name, who's trying to take away Scorpius, who violated Theo—
"Draco, no—"
Draco's cloak slips easily free of Harry's fingers.
His wand lies flat in his hand, and he feels exactly the way he felt when faced with the man in Number Thirty-Two.
How dare you.
How dare you destroy lives for pleasure.
How dare you hurt people and think you can get away with it.
Why?
Why?
"Why?"
The man blinks once – a second of surprise – and then his expression slips into the one Draco remembers from between the bannisters. Cold and impassive, stripped of all human feeling. The one Lucius Malfoy wears so well.
"It is my job, Mr Malfoy."
"Do you know what you are doing?"
"I've a fairly good idea, yes."
Draco swallows. It's worse to be seen and ignored than not noticed at all. Willful ignorance. He has had a life time of it. So has this man. It's just like Madam Malkins. Just like Hogwarts. Just like this whole damned world.
"You don't deserve it," Draco tells him. "If this is the world you are determined to keep, it was never worth saving."
Davies looks at him blankly. Then his face sets hard and he raises his wand. "Draco Malfoy, I'm—"
"Expelliarmus." Then, just as quickly, "Obliviate." And the Auror's face slackens.
"Move," Harry orders, grabbing Draco's sleeve and hauling him bodily away. "Get out of here. Get home."
"What did you—"
"Draco. Go!"
