Sage-scented smoke trailed before Harry's eyes, but he resisted the urge to wave it away. The heat from the burning roll in his hand and the sun above prickled his neck with sweat. Summer bugs chirped incessantly, and the lack of breeze was seriously starting to bother him. Harry glanced at Draco as he walked down the gravel path, holding his bundle of burning sage in the air. He seemed peaceful - or at least keeping it together. Harry followed him, trying not to inhale any ashes.
"Threshold," Draco stated to no one in particular as they reached the door. He pulled out his wand, and drew it in a circle as he muttered, "In pax, in pax, in pax…" After twenty-nine recitations, Draco flicked his wand, and the door opened. The darkness of the foyer yawned vast and intimidating, and Draco hesitated, wand hand lowering, eyes widening in fear.
"There's no one here," Harry soothed. "Homenum Revelio," He cast and felt nothing. "See? All clear. We'll open all the windows, okay?"
Draco took a deep breath. "Okay." He blew out his sage, the sparks fading. "Leave it by the door," He told Harry, and they set their bundles at the edge of the threshold.
Malfoy Manor had grown even dustier in the months since Christmas, the must and mold making Harry wrinkle his nose. He pointed his wand rapidly at the large windows, and they all swung open, letting light stream in. All the furniture, including four couches, a few armchairs, and half a dozen ottomans - seriously, Harry thought, who needs that many ottomans? - was still pushed to the walls.
Draco took the first step into his old home, his chest rising and falling deeply. Harry placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "Where do you want to start?"
"Well…" Draco looked around the room, his gaze falling on a rectangle of wallpaper that seemed darker than the rest of it. "There's supposed to be a painting there. It's in the attic, probably, with some other things." His voice grew more confident, and he walked forward, turning thoughtfully. "Some of these things can go back in the attic, though. I think we should just clean the whole place first."
"Split up, or…?"
"Stay," Draco said immediately. "Please?"
"Of course. Hey," Harry kissed him on the cheek. "I'm proud of you for coming in here. We'll get it all fixed up, make it feel like home again."
"Right. You can start dusting everything off while I cast cleansing spells."
"Yes, sir."
The pair drifted to opposite sides of the room, Draco muttering incessantly in Latin while Harry siphoned dust off the floor with his wand, sweeping it in wide circles. He glanced at his boyfriend every so often, their eyes meeting, and Draco smiled as if to say, "I'm okay."
Even a few weeks earlier, Harry hadn't been sure if Draco could have come back here so soon. To the vast dining table where Nagini slithered across, the kitchen where Lucius had thrown glasses at Narcissa. To the bedroom that became Draco's only safe haven during the war, where he secretly collected news about the Chosen One, hoping with all his might that he would end the terror once and for all. Draco had told Harry everything about those months, and the years before, about the childhood filled with screams and running through the garden and bubble baths and slaps and family banquets. They'd spent a week at the Weasley's after Ron's proposal, plenty of time for Harry to learn about Draco's past, and love him all the more for it.
Ron's proposal. Harry grinned as he remembered its elegance, the thoughtfulness that he would have expected from his best mate. It had been graduation day, when the students wore robes in their House color, holding their rolled-up parchment certificates - diplomas, in Muggle terms. Ron had instructed Ginny and Luna to run ahead to the train, decorating the pathway with sprigs of clover and lilac blooms, Hermione's favorite flower. He'd led Hermione down to the train compartment where they first met and proposed, hardly getting out the words, "Will you spend the rest of your life with me?" before she squealed, "Yes!" and threw her arms around his neck.
"Merlin's beard, I'm starving," Draco sighed a few hours later, flinging himself upon a freshly cleaned, black leather sofa. "And thirsty."
"We'll take a break now," Harry told him, picking up his bag from near the door. "Come on, let's go to the kitchen."
"Can't move. Too tired."
"It's cooler over there."
"It is?" Draco said skeptically, but he dragged himself to his feet and followed Harry from the living room.
"Not really," Harry confessed as he placed the bag on the smooth, white marble countertop. The sunlight from the window above the sink, overlooking the overgrown vegetable garden, bounced off the shiny surfaces. The crystal glasses sparkled within the glass-paneled, dark wood cabinets. "I just didn't want you to get crumbs on the couch."
"You sound like my mother, Potter," Draco remarked, and the atmosphere suddenly grew stiff; they had expertly skirted around talking about Narcissa and Lucius Malfoy for the past month - at least, in the present tense. Not that Harry had avoided it on purpose, but Draco hadn't yet broached the topic, and Harry felt it wasn't his place to bring it up. "Um…when do we see Teddy again?"
"Early August." Draco's sudden change of subject wasn't very subtle, but Harry decided not to mention it. He took out their lemonade bottles and wrapped sandwiches - cheese and tomato for Draco, roast beef for himself. "I convinced Andromeda to let him come to our place."
"We don't have any furniture yet," Draco pointed out, unscrewing a bottle cap.
"We will," Harry promised. "I'm guessing you don't want to bring him here, though."
Draco's gaze flitted to the living room, which was clean and filled with sunlight but still achingly empty and lifeless. "Too many hard surfaces for a child" was his excuse, and he took a bite of his sandwich to keep from talking.
Harry decided to let silence fall as he ate his own sandwich. Molly had taken to packing lunch for all her children, quasi-adopted or no, for as many days as she could that summer. She knew they would all be gone soon, off to Cambridge, or the Ministry, or training with a nationally-ranked Quidditch team. Cooking them all food was Molly's way of saying goodbye.
Harry was going to miss the Weasleys. Sure, he'd make a point to Floo every holiday, but he couldn't predict the future. Being an Auror, even in-training, would take him around the country - around the globe. Not to mention the danger involved - he could die, he realized and gulped down lemonade to calm himself. It wasn't death he was afraid of; he'd already experienced it. Harry glanced across the kitchen counter at Draco, who stared off towards the garden, silver eyes lost in a daydream. No, death didn't scare him. He was afraid of what would happen to the people he left behind.
Those left behind. Like George, the broken half of a whole, wearing a constant mask of a smile to hide the pain beneath. Harry had spoken to him soon after graduation, telling him about his dream, or his vision rather, of Fred visiting him beyond the grave. He'd made it clear he wasn't sure if the dream was real or not, but George had appreciated it nevertheless and was both melancholy and glad at the news that his brother would be there for him in whatever afterlife came next.
"Found it!" Draco cried presently; they had finished cleaning the house and were rummaging in the attic. Compared to the rest of the house, it was positively cramped, dusty, and completely disorganized. Harry had anticipated running across a few Dark objects, maybe an enchanted mirror, or worse, preserved body parts. Instead, the items deemed unworthy for the modern Malfoy household were pleasingly ordinary: a gramophone, and a stack of records - Muggle music? Harry observed with shock - a box of dragon figurines that looked up curiously when the lid was removed, a clothing rack of suits, two carved rocking chairs, a crib with a glittering mobile lying inside it, a wedding dress, and curiously, a rusty saxophone.
"What is it?" Harry called from the floor, where he was sorting through a box of photos.
"Our family portrait." Across the attic, Draco pointed his wand at a flat, rectangular object beneath a sheet; it was almost as tall as he was. The painting floated into the open space, and Draco guided it towards the small opening leading back to the living room.
"How'd that fit through there?" Harry asked, following him.
"Magic," Draco said, raising an amused eyebrow.
"Ah - right."
"Reducio." Draco flicked his wand at the painting, and it shrank to fit in his palm, along with the tissue-sized sheet. He tucked his wand in his pocket and carefully climbed down the ladder, Harry following. "Engorgio," Draco intoned after laying the painting on the ground, and he jumped back as it sprung to full size. "Help me pull the sheet off. Gently, please," he added as Harry grasped a corner.
Inch by inch, they uncovered the painting. Harry's heart skipped at how lifelike it was: each member of the Malfoy family blinked up at him from the brushstrokes, their expressions reacting to his presence. Narcissa, wearing a long, emerald-green gown, her face less lined, raised an eyebrow at Harry as if to say, "What are you doing here?" Lucius, visage set in a permanent scowl, haughtily straightened his collar and glared. And between them…
"Aww," Harry cooed as a younger Draco, hardly ten years old, smiled cheerfully from the portrait. His silver eyes sparkled with youth, his open expression not yet lost to the hopelessness that would come later in life. Harry waved to the painted figure, who waved back, and Narcissa laid a hand on her son's shoulder, gently telling him to stop.
"What do you mean, 'aww'?" Draco scoffed.
"Look at your little suit!" Harry pointed, and the younger Draco adjusted his green tie with an air of childlike self-importance.
"Oh, you," Draco sighed. He waved his wand again, muttering under his breath, and the painting flew to its space in the wall. "I wonder if we can find flowers," He said, mostly to himself, "Put them on the mantle."
"Let's go look." Harry slipped his hand into Draco's, tugging him to the back door. "You can show me all your old hiding places."
The buzz of cicadas and July's setting sun brought life to the untended garden - not that it needed it. Overgrown vines of honeysuckle and jasmine ran up the wall. Rosebushes and carpets of weeds, clover, dandelions, and daffodils sprawled across gravel paths. Magnolia and yellowing pine trees loomed at the edges, their flowers and needles perfuming the air. Farther down, a small citrus orchard grew wild. The scents reminded Harry of a few weeks prior, when he, Ron, Hermione, and Draco, had been presented with a box of fragrant teas for an afternoon with the Minister.
A Muggle teahouse in London had proven to be the perfect location for a surreptitious, yet friendly meeting between Minister Shacklebolt and four of Hogwarts' most famed students. Kingsley had made polite conversation with all of them, even Draco, who was surprised to be treated so civilly by the Minister himself. Kingsley congratulated them on getting into Cambridge Auror Academy and Hermione on starting her training as a Damage Control specialist that autumn. Then he told them the real reason for their meeting.
"I thought it would behoove me to inform you four of this latest…" Kingsley's deep, soothing voice paused as he refilled his tea. "Development. On the Following front."
"With all due respect, Minister," Hermione chimed in, "Are you sure you want to be telling us? Surely this is sensitive information."
"You may be right, Miss Granger," Kingsley acknowledged with a nod, "But this 'sensitive information' is being published in the Daily Prophet tomorrow. At least, the gist of it."
"I see."
"But I felt you two, in particular, should know." Kingsley's dark eyes turned to Draco and Harry. "It's about the mask you found in Wiltshire. Unfortunately, we weren't able to gain any information about who wore it, where exactly they came from, and where they went. There were some powerful anti-tracking charms on it, as well as some other…troubling spells." He cleared his throat. "It's clear that the Following, well, doesn't want to be followed. In early May, however, it dissolved."
"Dissolved?" Harry echoed. "It disappeared? Exploded?"
"Just…" Kingsley made a broad, sprinkling gesture with his hands. "Into dust. No trace of the original shape."
"Why?" Hermione asked.
"I would imagine - and some of our magical investigators have speculated - that whoever created the mask, or enchanted it, or wore it, had lost power. Died, most likely. The Ministry has searched far and wide in England, and beyond, for any trace of them. We've found nothing."
"That's it, then?" Draco interjected. "That's the end of them?"
"For now, it seems, Mr. Malfoy. For now."
Back in the garden, Draco rolled up his sleeves before squatting down by the gnarled roots of an ancient oak tree, waving for Harry to join him. "Come here, Potter."
Uncaring of his trousers getting dirty, Harry knelt to the ground and peered into a hollow in the tree. The trunk had grown strangely at the bottom, opening into a circle, then nearly closing again, to make a tiny sort of chamber. Draco reached inside the hollow, almost shoulder-deep before his fingers closed around something, and he retracted his arm.
Draco opened his hand, and Harry leaned in to peer at the oddity he had retrieved. A few tiny bones and a miniature skull that looked slightly human lay on top of a broken piece of china. "Fairy bones," Draco said quietly. "I found nearly a full skeleton in third year. It's still in good condition, see?" He tilted the plate shard slightly, and Harry gave a start as he looked straight through the skull's eye sockets, through the hole in the base, to see the smooth porcelain beneath. "I put a Preservation Charm on it."
Harry tried to imagine thirteen-year-old Draco, all bluster and arrogance, gingerly handling a hollow-boned skeleton and having the foresight to magically protect it. The scene was difficult to picture.
"Anyway," said Draco, placing the bones back inside the hollow, "I'll show you everything else later. For now," he brushed off his hands on his trousers, "Flowers."
Despite being a tangled, briar-armored mess, the rosebushes still yielded blush-pink, fragrant blooms the size of Harry's fist. Draco used his wand to sever the flowers from their spiny stems, but he and Harry picked ferns and daffodils by hand. They took their time walking back to the house, listening to the birdsong and insect harmonies, a concert in the fading light. When they reached the back door, Draco turned suddenly, taking in the view of the overgrown garden, silver eyes wandering as if imagining how magnificent it would look with a little work. Harry thought he had never looked more beautiful, his arms full of roses, pale skin tinged with pink in the sunset, face smudged slightly with dirt but free of worry. Draco glanced at him, and Harry realized he was staring.
"Something on your mind?"
Harry shook his head. "Just…you."
Draco tried and failed to suppress a grin. "I'd kiss you, Potter, but I don't want to drop these."
"Well, hurry up, then."
"All right, all right, I'm going."
Two clear, bowl-like vases were found in the cupboards. Harry cut the stems, and Draco arranged the flowers and fronds, pink on yellow on green. They each took one and placed it on the mantle of the unlit fireplace; the colors brightened the space immediately, catching the last of the sunlight streaming through the windows, making the portrait seem less somber.
"We should bring some back to the flat," Draco remarked, stepping back and admiring the tableau. "I wish I knew more gardening magic. We could grow things from our own seeds."
"Luna knows about gardening," Harry told him. "She'll be over at the Burrow soon enough."
"Are we staying there tonight?"
"If you want."
"I almost want to stay here." Draco looked up at the chandelier, then to the painting, the sofa, the kitchen with all its gleaming surfaces. "It looks like it used to. Happier."
"Should we?"
"Not for the night," Draco decided. "Let's explore the garden some more."
He took Harry's hand, and Harry had a sudden sense of déjà vu as he watched Draco's blond head move ahead of him, fingers laced gently but firmly as if beginning to curl around the Snitch. Yet how could it be déjà vu; he'd never been at Draco's house with him, at least not like this, never like this. Draco's walls had come tumbling down, and Harry could see every part of him. The child that collected rocks and bones and flowers in his mother's garden, the jealous teen whose bruised knuckles betrayed the words he didn't dare utter, the young man that had finally made room in his heart for another.
"My favorite spot," Draco proclaimed beneath a lemon tree. Some of the fruit lay smashed in the long grass, but there were plenty of round, yellow orbs hanging low in the branches, thin leaves fluttering in the breeze. The spindly trunk didn't provide much support, so Draco flopped down on the grass in front of it, then curled up as if to sleep.
"Draco Malfoy, sleeping outside?" Harry said incredulously as he sat next to him.
"I'm exhausted, Harry," Draco sighed dramatically, throwing an arm across his face to shield his eyes from the sun. "I've never done that much menial labor in my life."
"I believe you."
Draco swatted at him, half-heartedly, then grew still, his eyes sliding closed. Harry smiled, leaning against the trunk of the lemon tree. Malfoy Manor stood at the top of the slope, so he could some of Wiltshire's countryside, peppered with expansive roofs of expensive houses, leafy trees, and stone-walled courtyards between them. The sun had nearly touched the edge of the horizon.
"Draco?" But the boy had already fallen asleep, and Harry watched him for a while, his lips parted, chest rising and falling with slow breath.
Indigo spilled like ink from the top of the sky when Draco awoke. He blinked at the emerging stars. "How long was I out?"
Harry stopped transfiguring grass blades into tiny birds and replied, "An hour or so."
"You could have woken me up."
"You seemed comfortable."
"Hm." Draco lifted himself up on his arms and looked at the sliver of moon that had joined its bright daughters in the sky. "We should go home."
Home. The Burrow, the Manor, Gryffindor Tower, the Cambridge flat. Wherever Draco was, that was home. Harry almost said something of the sort, though he didn't want to sound saccharine. He figured Draco felt the same way anyway, as he helped Harry from the ground and took his hands.
"So, we'll just get the lunch bag and Apparate," Draco said, turning to walk back to the house, but Harry didn't let go. "What?"
"I think you forgot something."
It took a moment, then Draco smirked. "Maybe I didn't forget. Maybe I'm just building suspen-"
Harry slipped a hand behind his neck and pulled him in. Their lips met with familiarity, though it wasn't the same as the times before; their kisses were never the same. Now, there was starlight, and the cricket symphony, and the perfume of lemons and roses and Draco's hair. Draco's fingers threaded through his hair, and he pulled away for a split second to sigh, "Harry," and Harry felt a bit of his heart melt just at that, at the breathiness of his voice, and his tongue slipping between his lips.
Harry fell in love again, and he knew he would later, that night, with a silencing charm on the door and hasty touches beneath the sheets. And again, when they took their first steps into the Academy, and later, when they exchanged polite embraces in the corridor, and again when they buttoned each other's uniforms for whatever deadly mission lay ahead. And later, and again, and again, and again…
An eternity with Draco Malfoy. The one thing Harry never knew he wanted, but now had. He would never stop being grateful for it, not until death took him in its gentle clutches for the second and final time.
• • •
2 months earlier
Three figures stood in the center of a forest clearing. Each was dressed in robes the color of fresh blood, but only two donned masks as they stood over the other. Above their heads, shadowy silhouettes swarmed impatiently, kept at bay by a silvery tiger, its fangs bared at the darkening sky.
An old woman knelt wearily, hands bound by heavy, enchanted chains. Her head was bowed, but the sound of her pained groans and shallow breaths was loud enough for the other two to notice.
The shorter, rabbit-masked, shifted uncomfortably, hands clasped at their waist in a position of submission. When they spoke, their voice was soft, every syllable enunciated, every tone pronounced. "Dao. It's time."
The younger woman, face hidden by a tiger-shaped visage, jerked her head in recognition. "Just a moment," She said in Thai, "I want to speak to her." Dao walked closer, footsteps hushed on the dirt. A sun-darkened hand emerged from the red fabric, grabbing the older woman's chin and forcing her face upward. The prisoner gasped at her touch, but unwillingly met her gaze - her eyes were bloodshot, streaming with tears.
"Please…" The woman begged, and her voice was the voice of many, each soul inside her speaking over the others. "H̄yud. Stop this. It's not too late."
"Oh, but it is too late," Dao simpered, her voice harsh. "Too late for you, at least. Too late for Dahlia." She glanced at her Patronus, its tail swishing agitatedly. "Shame she couldn't be here to share this moment with me, eh, Rabbit?"
Rabbit inclined their head. "You don't have much time, Dao."
"You're right." Dao looked up at the dozens of dementors, swarming and hungry. They smelled blood, and residual fear, leftover from the cowering witches and wizards that had been slaughtered by the righteous army. Those who died tonight deserved every bit of suffering. Dao truly believed that.
Dao pulled back her robe sleeves. She held no wand, but her very fingertips crackled with power as they held the older woman's face. The Patronus shimmered, the tiger snarling as if it was about to disappear. "Well, Kayala? Any last words from you, and you alone?"
For a moment, Kayala's violet, fractured eyes flickered, reverting back to a dark brown. "This won't work. You'll kill yourself." Her voice was her own, warm with grandmotherly concern.
Beneath the mask, Dao's lip curled. "We'll see about that." The old woman dropped her head, hearing the conviction in her voice, knowing that there was nothing she could do to stop her. "It doesn't matter how long this takes me. My rule will prevail. As long as I have the boy." She turned to Rabbit.
"He's coming," They confirmed. "I'm sure of it."
"You see?" Dao chuckled triumphantly. "It's only a matter of time." She knelt, undamaged eyes meeting Kayala's defeated ones. "The only ones who deserve power are those desperate enough to seize it," She declared, picking up the cracked, serpent-carved mask from the ground. "You weren't desperate enough, Kayala. You've become complacent." Dao made a squeezing motion with her empty hand, and the mask dissolved into dust. "And now you're paying the price."
The witch stood, red robes and dark hair flowing with the beginnings of magic. "S̄wạs̄dī, Kayala. Farewell." She raised her arms, and the Patronus disappeared. The dementors plunged, the sound of their tortured breathing almost drowning out the anguished screams.
Rabbit resisted the urge to dive to the ground and cover their head as the ritual was performed. Their fists clenched as they watched Kayala's souls separate from her body, watched Dao harness the dementor's power to steal the spirits and magic from her old mentor's body. Rabbit closed their eyes and shut out Dao's wails - she knew it would be painful, Rabbit told themselves, she knew the risks. Yet something seemed terribly, terribly wrong.
It was only in the silence, the aftermath, when Rabbit cast their own Patronus, and it hopped forward. The silver light illuminated a path to the two unmoving bodies, lying prone in the dirt. Rabbit stopped in their tracks - for a moment, they wondered. What would happen if they left, pretend all this never happened?
But loyalty and desperation pushed them forward, and Rabbit knelt by her mistress's side, hoping with all their might that she would wake.
