The Ministry of Magic still respected the Malfoy name, and as he swept through the Atrium in his emerald green Healer-in-Charge robes, several heads acknowledged him.

Draco threw a handful of Galleons into the Fountain of Magical Brethren and bought a croissant from the coffee kiosk in the Atrium.

"Good morning," he said to the watchwizard. "Eric, isn't it?"

"Y-yes, sir."

Draco presented his wand without being asked, and the watchwizard eyed the square silver badge pinned to the front of his robes.

Healer Draco J Malfoy,
Expert Witness

A narrow slip of parchment came speeding out of a slit in the base of the Wand Weigher, and Eric tore it off and read the writing on it.

"Ten inches, hawthorn, unicorn hair core, been in use for nearly twenty-one years. Is that correct?"

"Yes."

Eric impaled the parchment on a small brass spike and handed the wand back to him. As Draco turned to leave, Eric grasped his wrist. "Take care of Mr Potter," he said quietly. "Not many people speak to me, but I like him."

"I'm doing my best." They stared at each other for a long moment. "I truly am."

"Thank you," Eric replied.

He caught sight of Pansy getting into the lift and she waved at him, grinning. He nodded back at her.

They only needed him for the morning. By the end of the day, his contact at the Ministry, a nephew of Cornelius Fudge, had sent him an owl detailing the legal outcome.

It'd hit the papers soon enough that Potter and the Weasel would divorce, she'd get half of everything blah blah blah, and Potter was entering a three-month assessment period for mental stability.

Frowning, he stared into the flames of the crackling fireplace.

It didn't sound great, but Draco had heard nothing like this before in his thirteen years of healing.

He couldn't concentrate on his paperwork, but he hated procrastinating, so forced himself through it anyway.

Then, he went down to see Harry, as he was wont to do at about six o'clock before calling it a night. The offices were deserted, and the paintings called out 'goodnight' to Draco as he went downstairs.

Draco peered through the gap between the door and the jamb when he heard voices in Potter's ward.

Mother was sitting on Potter's bed, and he was in his pyjamas already.

"… Yeah, I love flying," Potter said.

"Then I'm sure you'll enjoy these." Mother heaped a pile of magazines onto his bedside table.

Harry seized the nearest one. "Cool!"

A Quidditch player in navy-blue robes zoomed from one side of the cover to the other. "This is amazing! Was I a professional Quidditch player?"

In your wildest dreams.

"These were my son's. He subscribed to Quidditch Weekly throughout your childhood years."

"Wow. Thank you so much. It's so wonderful that I can keep them."

Draco knocked and went in.

"Draco! Hi!"

"Good evening, Mr Potter."

Mother then said, "Goodbye, boys," as if they were best friends having a sleepover. As if.

"I never said you could have those, by the way," Draco said, nodding to the magazines.

Harry smirked. "Whatever. Your mum said I could have them. She's really nice!"

Draco sniffed.

"Sit down, have some chocolate," Potter said.

He checked his pocket watch, then sat down beside the bed and yawned.

"Rough day?" Potter asked.

Draco nodded. "I was in court. Giving evidence." Potter opened his mouth to say something, but Draco cut in, "Yeah, about you, but I'm not allowed to say."

Potter pressed his lips together. "Okay, then."

"Is that all you have to say? Normally I can't get you to shut up."

"I trust you."

"You've lost your memory."

"I trust you anyway."

"You shouldn't. You can't."

"Why are you scared?"

"I'm not scared. I'm just saying… You're vulnerable to people taking advantage of you."

"Fat chance when you don't let people visit me."

"Have you got any snacks?" Draco asked. "I'm starving."

Harry needed time and attention, and this version of Potter was a good listener.

Draco found himself telling Potter about his community service. Every weekend of the year after school he had to take the Floo to St Mungo's, and he mopped floors and brought people cups of tea. By his third year as a Trainee Healer, he'd done his own projects in long-term nerve damage and goblin lung physiology. He truly wanted to specialise in potions and plant poisoning, but the department was full and named after his father, so it would have been too awkward.

"So why are you in the Mind Healing Department?" Potter asked.

He shrugged. "Colleagues were nice. There was an opening."

Draco looked at his pocket watch and swore. "I've got to go."

"See you tomorrow?"

"Yes. I hope they bring you something nice for tea."

The next morning, he sat at his desk and scanned the latest news from Scorpius. Albus had smuggled in contraband broomsticks and enclosed was a photo of them both grinning and holding matching brooms. By the sound of things, Albus was a bad influence with his 'top secret hiding places'. Still, he stuck the photograph to his noticeboard.

Ginevra finally wrote back with the dates of birth of Potter's friends and family. Draco could've passed her reply to Potter, but for some reason he couldn't name, didn't want Potter to have anything of hers.

"I spoke to someone who knows you well and got a list of birthdays and such," Draco said at lunchtime. He shifted piles of The Adventures of Martin Miggs, the Mad Muggle, and sat on the seat next to the bed. "They said you never knew your grandparents."

Potter took the parchment and stared at it, eyes skimming the page. His mouth twisted. "My aunt and uncle told me my parents died in a car accident."

Draco opened his lunch bag. "That's absurd. They were a powerful witch and wizard."

"Did you know them?" Potter asked, eyes wide.

He swallowed his truffle arancini. "No. Sorry."

He watched Potter construct some sort of wrap from peppers and onions, and waited for him to continue.

"My mum's dad died when I was really young. A heart attack, I think. But he was a Muggle. And I think my other grandparents died before I was born, but… I wasn't allowed to ask questions."

"Your grandparents—the Potters—were elderly. I have a portrait of one of your ancestors somewhere."

Potter froze, wrap halfway to his mouth. "You do?"

"Yeah, well, we are distantly related. Our families had a long alliance until the sixteenth century."

"Wow! That's so cool!"

"It's very common. To be distantly related. It's not special."

"… Oh. How do you know all this?"

Draco unwrapped the paper around the tiny chunks of Cheddar and Fourme d'Ambert before replying. "I was encouraged to learn genealogy. Bloodlines, occupations, relationships are all highly important in our society."

"Are they?" Potter looked sceptical.

"They were." Draco snapped his jaw shut.

Potter put a Cauldron Cake on Draco's plate. "What do you know about them?"

"Well, Fleamont and Euphemia Potter, your grandparents, had a haircare potions line—"

"What?" Potter asked, head cocked to the side.

"I can't tell you if you constantly interrupt!"

"Fleamont? Was that really their name?"

"It's a traditional name," Draco snapped. "I'm not going to tell you a single thing if you persist in mocking wizarding traditions like the half-blood you are—"

"Sorry. Please go on. I really want to know." Potter gripped the arm of the visitor's chair. "I don't know anything about them, not even their names."

Draco pulled a face. "Muggles. It's outrageous that they don't teach even names to their—"

"It's not a Muggle thing, it was my aunt and uncle. Most Muggles are normal people who don't lock children away in cupboards and ban them from asking stuff! If I had a child, I would never raise them like that. Hermione knows all about her grandparents."

Draco tried his best to split the Cauldron Cake in half without magic and passed a piece back to Harry.

"There are probably old documents in your bank vault pertaining to the potions. They patented and sold Sleekeazy's haircare potion, an excellent product if I may say so, and I to this day can't fathom why you don't use it. It's one of life's great mysteries."

Potter rolled his eyes.

"Anyway," Draco continued, "they made a lot of money, my great-grandfather was a shareholder in Sleekeazy's, you know, and I'm sure there'll be stories to tell. My great-grandfather hangs in the second parlour and is an engaging wizard."

"I'd love to talk to him. About my grandparents. And see their paintings. I saw them once, you know, but didn't really take it in. There was this mirror, you see…"

Potter described a looking glass that showed you your heart's desire, and it sounded Dark, and Draco told him as such.

"Do you like your job? Are you happy with your life?" Potter asked.

"I am perfectly happy." Draco said it with a straight face and even used Occlumency, just to be safe.

Yet Harry said, with a little uncertainty, "Are you sure?" and a line creased between his eyebrows.

"Quite sure," Draco replied.

Draco snuck down to the kitchen and filched an extra slice of Swiss roll for Potter. He passed one of the Trainee Healers on night watch, and gesturing the pudding, said, "Peckish patient."

"Of course, sir."

He knocked in case Potter was having a wank. Potter sounded a bit flat when he called for Draco to come in.

Potter's mouth curved in a poor facsimile of a smile and he accepted the saucer. He stared down at the Swiss roll with sad eyes.

"Whatever's the matter? Someone spit in your tea? Finally remembered how dreadful the Cannons are?"

"No," Potter said hoarsely.

Draco sat down and just stared at Potter until he spoke.

"Um, thanks. For the cake." He chewed a teaspoon of the pudding as though it were cardboard, eyes fixed upon it.

"Tell me what's wrong, or I'll never risk my job to bring you bonus cake ever again."

Potter glowered at the floorboards instead.

"I…" Potter cleared his throat. "I bet it's a matter of time before one of them is killed… I hope it's Granger," he said dully.

It felt as though a bucket of water had been chucked over Draco's head. He said nothing, breath caught in his throat.

"You don't deny it," Potter challenged.

"That was… years ago."

The look of pure contempt in Potter's eyes was heavy. Draco stood so quickly that Potter reached for his wand, or where he'd keep it were he allowed one.

"Saint Potter," Draco spat, "expects to be surrounded by perfect people wherever he goes."

Potter sprang up, face red. "That's the Malfoy I know." He pointed at Draco. "It's like you've been pretending, all this time! But you're a fake! A-a liar—"

"That was a very long time ago. I was twelve! I have served my time for all crimes I was convicted for—"

"Crimes!" Potter backed away. "Get away from me."

Draco ran a hand over his face. "Potter. Might I remind you we're thirty-one—"

"Get away!"

He left. Draco didn't send for help. This was different to Potter's usual crises.

He remembered Draco for who he really was, and he wanted Draco gone. It was a matter of pride that he didn't seek to swap Potter for one of Clearwater's patients. But early the next day, whilst Potter was still asleep, he salvaged the sketch of himself entitled 'FRIEND' from the wastepaper basket with a lump in his throat.

It was better this way.

Draco saw Pansy that week. Julian was with their baby again, and they took a light supper in the second drawing room at the Manor. He expected her to pester him about Lukas, but instead she asked, "You're not yourself. What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong."

"You're behaving very… oddly," Pansy said. "Like you don't really want to be here."

"Don't be stupid. Of course I want to be here—it's my house!"

Pansy clicked her fingers in front of his face. "It's like you're in a daze." She pushed the cheeseboard away and sat back in her seat. "Go on, then. Out with it."

She studied him with shrewd blue eyes that used to remind him of their departed headmaster.

"There's nothing to say," Draco replied.

"It's Potter, isn't it. You're getting all weird about him again."

"I'm not getting 'weird' about him. Nor have I ever been! It's just work. Work is stressful. Potter is stressful. He's always ruining everything!"

Her fingers hovered between the cakes, deciding. "I probably shouldn't… I'm trying to lose weight…" she murmured, selecting a minuscule raspberry cheesecake. "I won't tease you about Potter if you do a better job of listening to me and my woes."

"Yeah, that sounds reasonable," Draco said. He chose a strawberry one and mentally set aside a chocolate one for Potter. "Tell me more about young Johnny's teething problems."

Pansy grinned. "That's better. But you needn't look so happy about it."

After she left, an owl arrived from Hogwarts. It read:

Dear Father,

I write with excellent news, and that is to say I've got excellent marks on all of my recent essays.

You must let Al come and stay during the Easter hols. It's important for homework reasons, you know how important this time of year is, it's just 77 days until our first end-of-year exam. I've checked and Grandmother, Grandfather, Grandmama AND Al's mother all say it's fine. Then can we stay with Al's mother for a few days? They do an awful lot of Quidditch matches and it sounds jolly good fun. Then I'd like to show him Grandmama's wonderful library and Al really wants to visit London, he's never been, isn't that terrible?

Has Benbecula had her kittens yet? Can Al and I have one? They'd love the dungeons. I heard that Harry Potter's friend had a Death Eater disguised as a rat and for years he slept in Gryffindor tower. Imagine that! Therefore, I think it will be handy to have our own cat down here.

How are you? Are there any balls planned for Easter?

Love,

Scorpius

When he next saw Potter, Draco overheard him murmuring to an elf about his 'good friend Dobby' who worked at Hogwarts.

Draco knocked, and the elf squeaked and vanished.

"Hey," Potter said, rubbing the back of his neck. "It's been ages. You all right?"

"Fine." Draco reviewed the recent assessments Trainee Misselthwaite had done on his behalf.

"My name's Harry Potter, born thirty-first of July—"

"I'm not here to assess you," Draco said. "Just wanted to see your records."

Potter sat quietly on the bed for a while, but interrupted Draco's reading. "There's this phrase in my mind…" Potter started. "That I've repeated so often that I'm not sure it's true any more. The words have lost their meaning. Know what I mean?"

Draco nodded.

"Do you want to know what the phrase is?"

He pretended to scrutinise the potions cabinet. "I know it'll be something trite."

"'I hate Malfoy'."

Draco pursed his lips, eyes on the potions. "Your dinner should be coming soon."

There was a beat where neither of them said anything, but when Draco straightened up, eyes still down, Potter said, "… Stay."

He looked around at Potter, who stopped fidgeting with his sheets and met Draco's gaze.

"All right," Draco chanced.

The air was thick between them, and he was so relieved when Misselthwaite arrived with Potter's food tray.

"Oh! Hello, sir."

Potter snorted. Draco ignored him.

"How are you, Harry?" Miriam asked.

"Great! Thank you."

She left, and Harry ripped his naan bread in half and passed it to Draco.

"You were such a fucker in school," Potter said. He ate some of his curry, then downed his glass of water. "God, this jalfrezi's hot."

"Yeah," Draco said. "Turns out I was wrong. Imagine that."

"Do an Aguamenti for me, would you?"

Potter told him he once had a photograph album of his parents and gave his permission for Mother to collect it. Draco organised for Granger to go, who was only too glad.

He didn't want to send his mother away on harebrained schemes across Britain. Who knew what spells and enchantments the adult Potter had put up?

Potter's face lit up when Draco gave it to him.

"Hagrid made it for me in first year," Potter said. "I was in the hospital wing after I first met Voldemort, before Slytherin nearly won the House Cup, remember?" Potter said, running his hands over the leather cover. He didn't see Draco flinch at the Dark Lord's name.

"Yes," Draco ground out.

Potter smirked. "Not still pissed off about that, are we?"

"I am a grown man, mature, a professional. I don't care about house point injustices."

"Ha! Keep telling yourself that if it'll make you happy," Potter said. "So Hagrid wrote to my dad's friends."

Potter opened the album and saw his parents laughing together.

Draco couldn't contain himself and perched on the side of the bed to get a better view. "He looks just like you."

"Yeah," Potter whispered. He pointed at a colour photo. "Bit browner, though."

Potter hadn't recognised Professor Lupin.

"Did your mum know my parents?" Potter asked. "I wonder if they knew each other at school."

"I don't think so. You should ask her."

"I will." Potter smiled at Draco. "Thank you. For getting this."

Draco realised he was inches from Potter's face, so swiftly made towards the door. "Thank Granger. She's the one who fetched it. I'll see you later."

"Bye!"

It was cool and dark by the time Draco got home to the Manor. An elf had lit a fire in the grate of his chambers, and Blue was asleep at the foot of his bed.

He dropped his robe to the floor so it would get laundered and sighed in relief once he'd removed his sock garters. Then he smoked a nicotine-free cigarette, dressed in nothing but his underwear and sagging socks, and surveyed the moving photographs on the chimneypiece.

Him, Greg, Vince and Blaise in Suffolk after fourth year. Blaise's birthdays were always a lavish affair. He and Astoria on their wedding day in the chapel at the Greengrass Estate in Norwich. She had butterflies in her hair, and her sister was pulling a silly face over her shoulder. In a third photo, Draco kissed Scorpius's hair on his third birthday, beside an enormous levitating cake.

Astoria wasn't in that photo as she'd taken it.

She was into weird Muggle things like cameras, tiny notebooks she'd buy and never write in, and collected travel guides for all the places they'd never visit. By that point she knew she was dying and liked to browse the Muggle bookshops to pretend she was someone else.

He tossed his cigarette into the fireplace and pulled on his nightshirt.

He took down the photograph of their wedding day and fetched the shoebox at the back of his third armoire. Inside, he rediscovered Scorpius's first socks and birth record, a lock of Astoria's hair, her wedding ring, newspaper clippings of their engagement and wedding announcements, of Scorpius's birth, of her death and funeral arrangements. At the very bottom was a scroll addressed to Scorpius for when he came of age.

Draco hadn't read it.

He put the wedding photo in the box.

Astoria could always help him find light in the darkness. He pressed the lock of her hair to his lips, wiped his eyes, and went to bed.

He hadn't dreamt of Astoria in years.

On his day off, he went horse riding, wrote a letter to Scorpius and Astoria's mother, and in the evening went to a club in Edinburgh.

He didn't tell his parents he was going out—why should he have to?—and before long, a Muggle approached him.

"Hello, gorgeous! Can I get you a drink?" a man shouted into his ear over the noise of the club.

"You may! I'll have whatever you're having." No need to break the statute over something like a Daisyroot Draught.

He had a tight T-shirt, dimples when he smiled, and trimmed stubble. Will sold insurance for a living and had his own flat.

Draco put his hand on the small of Will's back—it was deafening so he had to lean in close. The cologne smelt amazing.

They stood and chatted awkwardly at the bar, and Draco laughed off not understanding pop culture references by explaining that he'd led a very sheltered life and was home-schooled.

"Ah, your parents were religious, then…?"

"Yeah. Very," Draco yelled, nodding vigorously.

"What sort?"

Draco was still nodding. "Wiccans."

"What?" Will spluttered. "Really?"

The song changed and Will said, "Oh, I like this one. Dance with me?"

"All right," Draco said, taking his hand. "If you'll take me back to your place tonight."

Will laughed at him, brown eyes sparkling. As they danced, he felt the man's smile on his neck, their bodies pressing together, the hot breath beneath his ear.

They didn't stay long.