"Draco!"

He turned from the staff fireplace to see Granger.

"How is he?" she asked, trailing off her scarf. Her daughter hid behind Granger's legs.

"I'm not at liberty to say."

She grimaced. "That bad? Let's get lunch tomorrow. Can you make it to the Atrium at one?"

He couldn't think straight—he'd not had a moment to eat today.

"Whatever. Fine."

The next day, the Weasleys were early to their meeting. The Atrium was crammed, but they'd secured a table near the coffee kiosk.

He weaved over with a mint tea and pasty, and Hermione beckoned him. Her idiot husband was advising their young daughter on her colouring book.

They greeted him and before replying, Draco peered around to make sure no one could overhear. The nearest table were chattering in a foreign language.

"Rose, this is Draco," Ronald said.

"Look!" The little girl held up her colouring. The unicorn had red and pink stripes.

"Marvellous," Draco said, "I like what you've done with the tail. Very original."

"Thanks!"

He bit into his lunch, starving. "How old are you?" he asked.

"Five and three quarters!" Rose exclaimed. "How old are you?"

Draco blinked. "Er… Approximately thirty-one and two-thirds."

Ronald snorted. His daughter's mouth fell open.

"Anyway," Hermione said, "let's put some music on, darling, we're going to be talking about private things."

She placed a Muggle device over her daughter's ears and fiddled with some knobs, then turned to Draco. "Tell us how we can help," she said.

"Strictly off the record…?" Draco asked, voice low.

Ronald looked to the heavens and nodded.

"It goes against confidentiality regulations," he continued. "But as Potter's wife isn't replying to my owls… I'm at a loss and need information."

"Anything," Hermione said. "We'll do anything to help Harry."

"Ginny's in Crete," Ronald added, around a mouthful of baguette. "So it's nothing personal."

Draco repressed the urge to say something rude. "Why did Potter say it was wonderful to 'have a room'?"

Granger exchanged a look with Ginger and replied, "He didn't have one as a child. He lived in a cupboard under the stairs."

"Sorry?"

"He slept in the cupboard under the stairs," she repeated. "When he was a child."

Ronald nodded and grimaced.

"Oh," Draco said, gathering the pasty flakes with a finger. "I hadn't realised he was from such abject poverty."

"No, you don't understand," she said. "They had extra bedrooms but kept Harry under the stairs."

"Like an elf? Why?" Draco asked.

"Because they were fuckers," Ronald said.

"Because they were terrible people who didn't love him," she added.

"I've got more questions about his childhood." Draco sat back and crossed his arms. "But you must keep quiet about this." He eyed the raucous group nearest to them. Confident that no one was listening, he spoke quietly anyway. "If word got out that I was breaking patient confidentiality—"

"Yeah, yeah, we get it," Ron said. "What do you want to know?"

"Would it help him to bring in his family? Where do they live?"

Granger exchanged another look with Ronald.

"They're mental," Ronald said, tearing a leaf of lettuce into shreds. "He was on better terms with his cousin, but Harry's not mentioned his aunt in years. They're a bad sort. The worst kind of Muggle," he said. "Didn't his uncle die?" he asked Hermione.

"Yes, about ten years ago of a heart attack. I think his aunt still lives in Surrey."

Draco gulped his tea, considering.

"So you don't think a child Harry would want to see his cousin?"

"No," Ronald replied with a single shake of his head. "No way."

"We used to send him food in the summer holidays because they wouldn't feed him properly," Hermione added.

"You can't be serious!"

Yet it made sense. Harry didn't act like a normal child.

"Something to do with a strict diet his relatives were following—" Hermione said.

"But he's Harry Potter!" Draco hissed, leaning in. "Surely someone would've done something—"

"He wouldn't want anyone making a fuss," Ronald said. "Before second year, my brothers and I nicked a flying car and broke him out. We flew him all the way to Devon," he continued, puffing out his chest. "They stuck bars to his window, fed him through a cat flap. Trust me—bringing in his relatives is a bad idea."

"I see," Draco said. "Does he have childhood belongings you can fetch?"

Again, there was a shared look between Ronald and Hermione.

Draco scowled. "What is it this time?"

"He didn't have much," Ronald said. "Even his clothes were hand-me-downs from his cousin. Once Harry got a fifty pence coin for Christmas."

"That's a few Knuts," Hermione said, nodding.

"I don't understand," Draco said.

"Because his owl showed up, expecting a gift. The Dursleys had to give him something."

"In fairness," Ronald said, "fifty pence is better than that tissue he got one year."

"I wish you were joking," Draco said.

"I wish we were too," Ronald said, draping his arm over the back of Granger's chair.

"It's sick," Draco said. He thought of his own son who had received a set of Quidditch balls, new quills and a camera for his birthday.

"You can't fit much in a cupboard," Granger said coolly. "I suppose we could bring in a radio so he's got more than just tapes." She said to Ronald, "Perhaps your dad might be able to modify one so it works in hospital."

"Yeah, we can have a poke round his shed."

"I can see if my parents have anything in the loft," Granger said.

"Of course," Draco said. "They're Muggles."

"How could I forget," she said blithely.

Draco looked at his pocket watch—he'd be late for teaching duties. He downed his drink and got to his feet. "I didn't mean any offence. Goodbye, Weasleys."

After work, he headed into the Reading Room. Whilst the library was chock-full of books, the Reading Room was full of cabinets stuffed with Daily Prophet issues dating back to its inception, as well as the Evening Prophet and the Sunday Prophet. First published in 1855, Ranunculus Malfoy was its first investor, and as such, the family had a perpetual subscription.

He went over to the cabinet containing the last two decades and soon found what he was looking for.

WEDDING BELLS FOR HARRY POTTER

Ah, yes, the wedding of the century.

Potter beamed at the camera, Weasley on his arm, barefoot on a beach.

Draco's lip curled. The witch had had so much yet threw it all away to be with Wood.

There was a photograph of Potter on one of the gossip pages towards the back. Harry Potter, despite everything, was living the sort of life Draco had only read about in fantasy books. There he stood, with an average-looking healthy wife and a home full of laughter.

He would cure Potter. The man was obviously improving, albeit slowly.

He would cure Potter if it was the last thing he did.

Failure was not an option.

Draco penned a letter to Weasley and his wife, and then to Pansy. He didn't bother with Blaise; he was an idiot. The line of inquiry was the same: ideas for helping Potter, and to look out for unusual Healing books in the private libraries they had access to.

He spent the following Saturday at Parkinson Park (how gauche). Julian played with the toddler in the parlour whilst he and Pansy ransacked the library.

"I don't think you'll find anything," Pansy said, through a haze of cigar smoke, "but my great-grandfather was a patron of St Mungo's, so you never know."

Mrs Parkinson brought them decaf tea and biscuits and told him he could borrow anything provided he signed his name and the title on a slip of paper.

"Don't mind her," Pansy hissed. "Likes to get involved."

Draco picked at some lint on his robes. "Sometimes I think your family is madder than mine."

"Not possible. Wanker."

They flipped through the contents of likely books as though they were back at school, and he could almost pretend they were fifteen again.

"It's like being at Hogwarts, isn't it," she said wistfully.

"It is," he replied. "I don't imagine you have to read much for your job."

"No," she said with a sniff, rejecting another book. "Get good at Memory Charms. Learn how to talk to the Muggle please-men, even though it's simpler to Confund them. It's a piece of cake. This one could be relevant," she said, passing him Obliterating The Mind of Your Enemie.

Draco frowned at bloodstains on Surreptitious Potions and Hexes to Rid the Worlde of Bastard Children and looked at the contents page of the book she'd handed him. "Thank you."

"Lukas said it's been weeks and you still haven't written to him."

"Haven't I?" Draco said absently.

"No," she said. "He said it had gone very well indeed, and that you'd promised to write and see him again."

"Mmm. Promise is a strong word."

She tapped the ash off the end of her cigar onto the carpet. "So you'll be moving to Paris, then, I take it?"

"What?"

"Paris. You said before that you wanted to go there."

"I don't know that I will," Draco said, nose in a book.

"Why, what's happened?"

"Nothing's happened. I like my job."

"No you don't."

"Yes I do."

"No you don't."

"Yes I do."

"You like Potter."

"Yes I—no, I do not like—" Draco clamped his mouth shut.

Pansy smirked. "I see."

"You tricked me. And you do not see," Draco said, scowling. "There is nothing to 'see'."

"Right. Of course." She grinned at the pile of books.

"This is useless," he said. "I don't know why we're bothering."

"I think we've exhausted this library." She waved her wand in a sweeping motion and the books arranged themselves into a tall stack. "Let us have some gin and orange on the lawn."

"An excellent suggestion."

"No gin for you, of course. I'll let you light the bonfire if you promise to stop being so boring," Pansy said.

Draco offered his arm to Pansy, and she took it.

"I hate you," he said, patting her on the arm.

Pansy smiled sweetly. "I know."

The day the funding ran out for the Auror guards, Draco picked up a Foe-Glass from Wiseacre's Wizarding Equipment and installed it on Potter's wall.

"Your enemy's eyes will glow in the looking glass," he explained to Potter. "Ghosts are on hand and will fetch help if you alert them. Just shout loudly."

"Ghosts?" Potter repeated. He sat cross-legged on his moving walkway machinery, T-shirt damp with sweat. Disgusting. Definitely not even a little bit charming.

"Spectres. The departed. Souls."

"I know what ghosts are!" Potter exclaimed. "Are they friendly?"

"Of course they're friendly. They haunt a hospital. Don't you remember ghosts?"

"Not very well." Potter screwed up his face. "I hope Ron or Hermione will visit me soon. It's been days. Are you going to ask me all those questions? To measure how mad I am?"

Draco sat in the seat beside Potter's bed. "No," he said softly. "Not today."

Then Potter pointed at the window. "The cloud that's about to come by is a really weird-looking one. Won't be long."

"Would you be happier without the window?" Draco asked.

Potter's arm fell to his side, and he stared at the walking machine. "No."

It made a bleak sight. Even so, Draco dropped in at least once a day. Mother saw Potter every morning she volunteered, and she said, "He's such a sweet boy," the next afternoon.

"Yeah, just wonderful," he drawled.

The lowing sun peeked through the trees and the Portafires warmed the Orangery. Normally he could see the waking stars from here, but it was cloudy up above.

Because of his night shift, it wasn't safe for him to work until tomorrow. He invariably found it hard to sleep during the daytime, so lingered about the home in a daze. He'd written to his son and sent him a box of Sugar Quills, demanding an update on the marks in Scorpius's recent tests. Then he'd taken his grandfather a pot of tea and whiled away the hours playing Wizarding Snooker with Father, who was having one of his good days.

Flaming torches lit the main garden paths, and he wandered aimlessly about the grounds, up to the Fountain of the Victorious Youth, just to avoid his echoing vacant room.

When the rain crept into his bones, he had a hot bath, and at last, it was time for bed, so he found Mother to kiss her goodnight.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

She looked up from her sewing and pulled Draco down for a peck. "Hello, darling. I'm taking up the hem of your old summer robes."

"Whatever for?"

"Harry doesn't have any lighter ones."

"They're mine!"

"You never wear them, dear."

"Yes I do!"

"I found them in the attic."

Draco scowled.

"I can hardly take him to Twilfitt and Tattings, can I?" she said, teasing out Draco's initials from the label with the tip of her wand. "I suppose I could make him something from scratch… They had some fine grey silk the last time I went in…"

"Fine," Draco said. "Goodnight, then."

He was at the door when she said, "Harry said he liked your new haircut."

Draco's head snapped around. "What? Why?"

Mother smiled. "Because you're a handsome young man, Draco."

He groaned and left.

As he undressed, the rustling of his clothing roared in the stifling silence of his chambers.

Draco drifted for a moment in his cold, lonely bed, before sleep dragged him down into dreams of paradise.

Draco collated all of Potter's Healing Records together and compiled his statement—the deadline for the court report was Friday.

The prognosis was shaky. His improvement, slow. Potter's magic was intact but erratic, and he certainly shouldn't wield a wand for the foreseeable future. His memory—at least, the first twelve years of it—seemed to be back, but who knew if his recollections might cease? What if he was mentally thirteen forever? Or he woke up one day a toddler? It could be cyclical. They had no way of knowing.

The report was still open to question. There were no comfortable conclusions to be made, no projections of timeframes and certainly no guarantees.

He didn't include the details from Harry's dream journal. Somehow, they seemed more confidential. And they didn't help elucidate a trajectory for his recovery. It said things like, 'We are all capable of doing evil things, there's a bad person deep inside all of us' and 'We are all dying, some of us faster than others'.

Potter's ex-wife had been a year below them at school and it wouldn't be long until she could visit him too, and perhaps then he'd remember more. However, as a divorcée, would she be willing?

Anne interrupted Draco's reverie to bring him a mug of decaf tea and a bourbon.

"Just what I needed," he said, leaning back in his seat and rubbing his temples.

"They're looking for a Freedom to Speak Up Guardian," Anne said.

"Oh?" Draco asked, munching the bourbon and eyes scanning his paperwork.

"The successful candidate will be zealous about making St Mungo's a safer place to receive care, and will have the ability to operate independently, impartially and objectively to—"

"I do not meet those requirements."

He scowled at the parchment in annoyance that 'Go to Paris' had spiralled into 'Cure Potter, then go to Paris'.