Harry was running through the halls of Hogwarts again. Mayhem and destruction all around, debris and bodies strewn across the stone floors, just as it had always been. But something was different this time. Harry was not running from something – he was the pursuer. His prey lay just ahead, just around the next corner. He quickened his pace, gliding coolly through the castle, until his target tripped, stumbling to the floor...Harry raised his wand…

"Beg for mercy," he said in a high, cool voice. "Beg for your life, Draco."

"Please, no!" Draco Malfoy stammered, hands outstretched in a desperate attempt to shield himself. "I'll do anything!"

Harry laughed, a chilling, sadistic laugh. The Elder Wand slashed through the air, and there was a blinding flash of green light—

Harry bolted awake, gasping for breath, drenched in sweat. He'd dreamed of Voldemort and the Battle of Hogwarts many times before, but never once had he been Voldemort, had he become the thing he feared more than any other. It was an unpleasant feeling, akin to the time he had dreamed he was Nagini attacking Arthur Weasley. But that time was different – that was no dream, that was real. Harry reached up to touch the scar on his forehead, but it lay dormant, the fragment of Voldemort's soul that once resided there long gone. It was only a dream.

It was not the first time Draco had popped up in his dreams, however. Ever since his trial, Harry had seen glimpses of him, in various states of vulnerability, with Harry the only one who could save him. Draco reaching for Harry's broom in the burning Room of Requirement, but Harry pulling his hand away at the last second. Draco sinking to the depths of the underground lake, in the clutches of the Inferi, as Harry watched coldly from shore. Each time Harry's instincts screamed at him to save Draco, but his dream self was cold and uncaring, letting the worst come to his arch-nemesis. And each time Harry awoke with a knot in his stomach, feeling as though he had truly just condemned Draco to death. Was it any different, really, to be the one striking the killing blow? The end result was the same.

It was three in the morning, but Harry knew it would be useless trying to sleep again. He forced himself out of bed and down to the kitchen to brew a cup of coffee. It was a Sunday, and Harry had an inkling of what he wanted to do today. He'd been considering it for weeks now, but this latest batch of nightmares had solidified his resolve. He still had reservations about it, but he figured there was no harm in a simple conversation. So he waited until the sun had risen to a respectable level and got dressed, then he stepped out the front door and Disapparated to Coeur-du-l'Ame.

The French village was quiet today; there was no snow on the ground, but there was a frosty chill in the air and inhabitants were likely bundled up by the fire. Harry quickly made his way down the road until he located the home with the Beauxbatons crest on the door, and knocked. A few moments passed, and Claude Dupont opened the door. His face registered confusion at first, but he brightened considerably upon recognizing Harry. "Mr. Potter!" he beamed. "What a pleasant surprise! Come in, come in."

Dupont led Harry into the hall and took his coat. "I'm afraid I am with a client at the moment," he said. "We'll be done in about fifteen minutes. Do you mind waiting?"

"Not at all," said Harry, and he sat on a bench in the entryway as Dupont scurried back into his study and closed the door behind him. Harry took in Dupont's home more closely; he saw a photo of a younger Dupont shaking hands with Madam Maxime, alongside a family photo of Dupont with what Harry assumed were his late wife and daughter. They all looked so happy, laughing and striking a silly pose for the camera. Harry felt a pang of sadness, knowing what would happen to the little girl in the picture later in life. He averted his gaze and busied himself with studying the ornate patterns of the wallpaper.

A few minutes later, the study door opened, and an older French wizard shuffled out into the hall. He saw Harry seated there and his face lit up; he eagerly extended a hand for Harry to shake. Despite the language barrier between them, his reverence for Harry was palpable; Harry nodded politely and smiled at the man, who beamed at Harry before ducking out the front door into the biting cold. Dupont motioned for Harry to enter the study, and he did so, sinking into the still-warm armchair opposite the room.

"Apologies for the wait," Dupont said. "Mr. Gregoire is one of my oldest clients, dating back half a century now."

"Did he fight in the First Wizarding War?" Harry asked, remembering that Dupont used to mentor veterans.

"Indeed," Dupont nodded. "He was one of Grindelwald's staunchest supporters."

"What?!" Harry yelped. That man had been the enemy? Had he been involved in the torture and subjugation of Muggles? Had he done battle with Dumbledore and his supporters? Dupont seemed to sense Harry's sudden alarm, because he continued.

"Pierre Gregoire was just seventeen when he joined Grindelwald," said Dupont. "He came from a poor family, and he was drawn in by Grindelwald's promises of prosperity and power for all wizardkind. Once he realized what he would be asked to do against Muggles, he had a change of heart, and once Grindelwald was defeated he testified against him."

Harry was eerily reminded of the Nurmengard Trials, and wondered if Gregoire had sat in a courtroom very similar to the one he had the past few weeks and recounted Grindelwald's crimes as the Dark wizard sat in a cage before him. Or had it been the other way around? Had a seventeen-year-old Gregoire sat in the cage himself and had testimony given against him as he quaked in fear? Harry's stomach turned at the thought, as the image of Draco Malfoy weeping into his own lap reentered his mind.

"To what do I owe the pleasure today, Mr. Potter?" asked Dupont, settling into his own chair across the room. "I was under the impression that our previous meeting would be our last."

"I thought so too," Harry admitted. "But recently...I've been thinking about something you said to me last time. About having fewer people to talk to as I got older. I didn't realize how true that was until now."

"Ah," said Dupont. "So I take it you've been preoccupied with something? The Nurmengard Trials, perhaps?"

"I...how did you guess?" asked Harry, surprised.

"It's in all the wizarding papers, even here in France," said Dupont simply. "You gave compelling testimony against the Malfoy boy, if reports are accurate."

"Yeah," Harry muttered. "That's part of the problem."

"Problem?" asked Dupont. "It sounds like you got what you were after. If I remember our last meeting right, you seemed very preoccupied with putting the enablers of Voldemort's regime to justice."

Harry fidgeted in his seat, uncomfortable. "I thought that's what I wanted," he said. "But it hasn't been as satisfying as I thought it would be. Like yeah, seeing Yaxley and the Carrows and all the truly awful people get locked away is justice, and that's great. But Draco Malfoy...he was different. He was personal for me. He's been my enemy since we were eleven years old. I thought seeing him put away would finally give me that satisfaction, but if anything it feels worse."

Dupont nodded slowly. "Why don't you tell me more about your relationship with Mr. Malfoy?" he said after some thought. "These grudges tend to run deep, and examining the root causes can help explain how current attitudes developed."

Harry eyed Dupont suspiciously. "Just promise me something," he said. "I don't want to be ambushed halfway through my story by a Legilimens spell. I won't have my mind invaded without permission again."

In response to this, Dupont reached towards his waist and withdrew his wand. Harry instinctively flinched, preparing to draw his own wand, but Dupont merely leaned forward and extended his wand towards Harry, handle first. Harry tentatively took it, confused.

"As a token of trust," said Dupont. "You can hold onto my wand until our session is over. To prove that I will not look into your memories again."

"Okay," said Harry, setting Dupont's wand on the corner table beside him. "Thanks."

"Why don't you start with your first meeting with Mr. Malfoy?" Dupont suggested. "That would have been your first year, would it not?"

"I don't think it much matters what he was like when he was eleven," Harry protested. "It wasn't until he was sixteen that he started working for Voldemort, so why bother looking beyond that?"

"Because I'm not trying to determine his guilt in working for Voldemort," said Dupont. "I'm trying to determine how you feel about him and why. Our brains tend to develop subconscious feelings about people based upon first impressions, and those can be difficult to break, even in adulthood."

"Fine," Harry sighed, settling back into his chair. "The first time I met Draco was in Diagon Alley, before my first year. We didn't know who each other were yet, but we talked about Hogwarts while we got fitted for robes. I couldn't place why at the time, but I didn't like him much."

"And why is that?"

"He just…" Harry wracked his brain, trying to remember back to the moment nearly half his lifetime ago. "He reminded me of Dudley," he blurted out, suddenly remembering. "My cousin."

"In what way?"

"The way he talked," said Harry. "Very privileged. Like he thought he was better than other people. I didn't know anything about pure-bloods or Muggle-borns yet, and I thought it strange to put so much stock into what kind of family you came from."

"I see," Dupont mused. "I take it from your description that you didn't get along with your cousin all that well."

Harry laughed hollowly. "We grew up together," he said. "And my aunt and uncle always favored him over me. Dudley knew it, too, and he held it over me constantly. Draco seemed like the kind of kid who grew up being coddled like Dudley had, so I already distrusted him."

"If you don't mind me asking," said Dupont, "if you didn't gravitate towards Draco in your first year, who did you end up aligning yourself with? Who did you consider a friend?"

"Well, Ron Weasley was the first bloke I met who seemed alright," said Harry. "He came from a big family, all wizards, but he wasn't arrogant about it. He was generous and kind, and encouraged me for being raised by Muggles. Then there was Hermione Granger, of course, a Muggle-born, and she was just brilliant at everything. A bit of a know-it-all, but also kind and warm and always knew the right thing to say to make you feel better."

"Hmm," said Dupont, nodding slowly. "A pureblood who showed generosity towards those unlike himself, and a Muggle-born who proved herself more capable than expected. Two fascinating archetypes."

"They're more than just archetypes," Harry protested. "You should see them now, the people they grew up to be—"

"I have no doubt," said Dupont, holding up a patient hand. "What I mean to suggest is that, at eleven, placed in an environment you didn't understand, you were drawn towards two concepts that contradicted what you were raised to believe. That you were inferior, incapable of greatness and unworthy of love. And you were repulsed by that which reminded you of your upbringing, which tried to reinforce those ideas. You could never know at eleven what Draco, Ron or Hermione would grow up to become, but your brain subconsciously sorted them into archetypes, and you aligned yourself with the ideals that were most attractive to you."

Harry had never thought of it that way. He used to dwell frequently on his Sorting into Gryffindor rather than Slytherin, how differently his life would have played out if he'd been friends with Malfoy instead. He remembered what the Sorting Hat had told him about eleven-year-olds, how it was not all-knowing but merely assessed their dispositions to find the best home for them. Maybe it too separated children into "archetypes" and instinctively Sorted them accordingly. Maybe it sensed that same conflict within Harry: the untapped potential contrasted with a desperate desire for decency and camaraderie that he was deprived of growing up.

"So you and Draco were set on two very different life paths at Hogwarts," Dupont went on. "How did your relationship – or shall I say rivalry – develop from there?"

"Well, it wasn't long after that when I learned more about his beliefs about pure-blood supremacy," Harry said bitterly. "He called Hermione a Mudblood in our second year; that was the first time I'd heard the slur. And he antagonized us any chance he got. Ratting on us to get us detention, bragging about the cool toys his father bought for him. Professor Snape enabled him, too; he let Draco get away with bad-mouthing us in class while anything we said in response got us punished."

"Did you compete against him in any other capacity?" asked Dupont. "Sports, women, that kind of thing?"

"Not women, no," Harry chuckled, remembering his intense dislike of Pansy Parkinson whenever she hung off of Draco's arm. "But we were both Seekers on our respective Quidditch teams. And we were always competing for House points of course. And yeah, I guess I always wanted to get better grades than him."

"So it's clear you and Draco were pitted against one another from the start," said Dupont. "Long before either of you got involved in the war efforts."

"Yeah, but that was never in doubt either," said Harry. "I was always going to fight with the Order of the Phoenix, and he was always going to join the dark side, because of his parents."

"I wouldn't be so sure," said Dupont. "I've heard of many pure-blood wizards from dark families joining the fight against Voldemort. You assumed Draco would follow in his parents' footsteps, and your assumptions proved correct, but they were assumptions nonetheless."

"Whatever," Harry muttered. Dupont had a point, he supposed; Sirius had defected from the Black family tradition of dark magic, after all. But what did it matter? Draco did follow the Malfoy tradition, just as Harry always knew he would.

"So then you both grow up," Dupont went on. "You join the fight against Voldemort, Draco becomes a Death Eater. How did your relationship change then?"

"It didn't, really," Harry admitted. "We didn't antagonize each other as much, maybe, but we remained bitter enemies. I knew he was up to something during my sixth year and tried to stop whatever it was. We dueled in the bathroom once, and I nearly killed him."

"Did you?" asked Dupont, eyebrows raised.

"I didn't mean to," Harry said quickly. "Long story. But the point is, him becoming a Death Eater didn't really change anything. We were the same people we always were; the stakes just became higher."

"So it seems," Dupont said slowly, processing what Harry was saying, "that your negative opinion of Draco goes far beyond his ties to Voldemort, and was always rooted in something deeper at the heart of your shared childhoods."

"The Voldemort stuff sure didn't help!" Harry protested. "I just keep coming back around to this one idea...what if he'd been successful in all of his attempts to thwart me? What if he'd helped Umbridge get me expelled? What if his poisoned mead actually killed Ron? What if he had disarmed me and turned me in to Voldemort during the Battle of Hogwarts? The war would have been lost, and it would have been his fault."

"How interesting," said Dupont. "It seems that you have fashioned Draco as something of an important figure in the war."

"Well...yeah!" Harry argued. "Didn't you hear what I just said? If he beat me, Voldemort wins!"

"Sure," said Dupont. "But you are equating two different ideas that may not be the same. By your own admission, he antagonized you purely out of spite, not only for dark aims. You are connecting the dots from A to B that Draco himself may never have...that your demise would mean Voldemort's ultimate victory. His personal aims happened to align with what his boss wanted, so to him, he may have just viewed the war as a bonus, empowering him to accomplish what he always sought to do: take his childhood rival down a peg."

"He knew how important I was to the resistance efforts," Harry retorted. "He knew how badly Voldemort wanted me gone—"

"But surely he didn't know why, any more than I or the common public did," said Dupont. "You justify Draco's guilt by looking at the bigger picture, which he was not privy to. It's rare that any soldier in a war has a firm grasp on why they have been asked to do certain things. You lay the entire fate of the war at Draco Malfoy's feet, when for all he knew he was simply resolving a childhood ill."

"Is this more 'archetype' rubbish?" Harry sneered. "Draco was a grown adult by the end, and he knew full well what the war was being fought about! He may not have known exactly why Voldemort wanted me dead, but he knew enough. It wasn't just about one-upping me; he was doing it because Voldemort told him to."

But even as Harry said this, he began to see the fault in his own logic. Because Voldemort told him to...was that really so damning after all? Few ever defied a direct order from Voldemort and lived to tell the tale. The evidence sat before Harry: Dupont himself had defied Voldemort, and he lost his only daughter for his insolence. Did it matter if Draco was aware of the repercussions of turning Harry over to the Dark Lord? The alternative was angering Voldemort and incurring his wrath upon Draco and his family. Dupont was right: Harry was looking at the end result and assigning Draco's goals accordingly.

"That man you just met earlier, Gregoire," said Dupont. "He was just following orders too. Grindelwald had a nasty temper, and when he told you to do something, you did it. Even after Gregoire became disillusioned with the movement and tried to back out, he was forced to do Grindelwald's bidding or else he and his family would be killed."

"And you think Draco's case is similar?" asked Harry.

"Perhaps," said Dupont. "From everything I've read about Draco's case, he contributed heavily to Voldemort's campaign and his crimes warranted prison time by the letter of the law. But I wonder why you still feel guilty in spite of this? Is it perhaps that you question his motives, and whether he truly supported Voldemort's aims? Or if he was simply 'following orders'?"

"Should there be a distinction, though?" asked Harry. "Does the intent behind an action matter, or is the outcome what we should judge them by?"

"Ah, we have finally arrived at the question!" said Dupont with a smile. "The one that wizards and witches have debated for decades. What constitutes guilt in a war? Is it what you do, or what you believe? Is a man with evil intentions who never acted upon his impulses any better than one who does evil deeds against their better judgment? I'm afraid there is no easy answer to that question, Mr. Potter, and it's one you must answer for yourself."

Harry pondered this. "I've been thinking about something Dumbledore said to me once," he said. "It is our choices that show what we truly are, far more than our abilities."

"Wise words," Dupont nodded. "So it comes down to a simple question, then: do you believe that Draco had a choice?"

Harry didn't have a good answer to that. It was the same argument Kingsley had made during their big argument last year, highlighting the "impossible choices" people had to make under Voldemort's reign. Was Draco any worse than Arthur Weasley, forced to work in a corrupted Ministry to keep his family safe, or Minerva McGonagall, forced to teach alongside Snape and the Carrows? Sure, Draco was a lot closer to Voldemort thanks to his family, but if anything, did that make him less able to choose his own trajectory? As Dupont suggested, was he thrust into Harry's path by Voldemort's puppetry, rather than willingly putting himself there? Could Harry judge Draco for being attracted to the Death Eaters as a child, when as an adult he demonstrated reluctance to continue?

"We saved each other's lives last year," Harry said under his breath, without really thinking.

"I beg your pardon?"

"He recognized me in Malfoy Manor last spring, I'm sure of it," said Harry. "But he denied it, and that bought me time to escape. And when I saw him again at Hogwarts, I could have left him for dead to the Fiendfyre. But I went back for him."

"Why?"

"Because...I felt I owed him that much," Harry said. "Because nobody deserves such a horrible fate."

"Interesting," said Dupont. "I don't recall reading about this in your trial testimony."

"I left that part out," said Harry. "I left a lot of things out, actually. Like how the Malfoys weren't fighting in the Battle of Hogwarts. Like how Draco had Dumbledore at his mercy and chose not to kill him. Like how Dumbledore knew he was dying and chose to let the assassination plot continue."

"I did not know that part," said Dupont, intrigued.

"No one does," said Harry. "That's what has me feeling guilty, I think. The Wizengamot took me at my word about Malfoy, but I didn't give them the full picture. Maybe they would have felt differently if I told the full truth, and Draco would have gotten off with a lesser sentence."

"Ah," said Dupont. "You know, I had a thought during our last meeting that I did not share, but it seems prudent to do so now. And I hope you will not take it as an insult."

"What's that?" asked Harry, intrigued.

"You told me that you were uncomfortable with me looking into your mind," said Dupont, "because I might abuse the privilege to look deeper than you wanted me to. That you had secrets you wanted to keep secret from the wizarding world."

"Right."

"And I remembered thinking," Dupont continued, "that you enjoyed quite a bit of privilege yourself. That in withholding the secrets of Voldemort's demise, you controlled the narrative of how the war was won. People accepted your request for privacy and trusted your judgment completely. And what an incredible power that granted you! If you were so inclined, you could abuse that trust that the public has in you to manipulate the post-war landscape in your favor."

Harry's gut reaction to this was anger, but he suppressed the impulse and tried to understand what Dupont meant by this. The wizarding community viewed him as a hero for defeating Voldemort, and whatever he told them, they would believe. Kingsley said it himself: "Wherever you go, they'll follow." If he wanted people to believe something, they would accept it. Harry could determine who became the next Minister of Magic, who faced prison time and who didn't. He'd never considered how much influence that gave him, and the responsibility he bore to use it wisely.

"I don't mean to suggest that you would abuse such power, of course," Dupont added quickly. "But when you speak of trust, I hope you understand just how much has been placed in you. Trust is a two-way street after all."

Harry now wondered what Dupont must have been thinking in their last meeting. When Harry was so adamant about not having his secrets violated, did Dupont suspect something sinister at play? Perhaps he thought Harry had employed some sort of Dark magic to defeat Voldemort, as Harry had seen frequent rumors of in the Prophet over the past year? Hell, maybe Dupont believed he would be doing the wizarding world a favor by unearthing these secrets and warning the public about what he found!

And yet, Dupont's wand sat beside Harry on the corner table. He had proven he had no intention of digging around without permission again. Now Harry realized just how powerful of a gesture that had been: sure, it was designed to make Harry trust Dupont, but it also indicated that Dupont trusted Harry in return. That he may not know what Harry's true intentions were, but he would trust that Harry had the community's best interests at heart. A privilege indeed.

"I shared my secret with somebody the other day," Harry said after some thought. "I thought my friends and I would take it to the grave, but I decided to let someone else in on it."

"And how did that feel?" asked Dupont.

"Great," Harry admitted. "Like a huge burden was lifted."

"And you aren't afraid of that information falling into the wrong hands?"

"Not at all," said Harry. "You were right...I wasn't allowing myself to trust anybody, and I needed someone to help shoulder the burden." Then, without really planning to, Harry reached into his pocket and withdrew the Elder Wand, brandishing it in the low light for Dupont to see.

"This is the Elder Wand," he said. "I won it during the war, when I defeated Voldemort. It answers to me, and as long as I'm in possession of it, I'm the most powerful wizard alive."

Dupont did not have as big of a reaction as Harry expected; he merely nodded slowly in understanding. "And why are you telling me this?" he asked calmly.

"A gesture of trust," Harry shrugged. "Since you showed me the same."

"I can see how you would want to keep that under wraps," said Dupont. "The Deathstick has a terrible history of its owners being murdered for possession of the wand."

"But you wouldn't tell anyone I have it, would you?" asked Harry. "Even if someone tried to force it out of you?"

"Indeed not," said Dupont. "And I thank you for trusting me with that information."

Harry nodded, stowing the wand safely back under his cloak.

"And as for Draco Malfoy," Dupont continued, "in lieu of advice, I'll leave you with one more tidbit of wisdom. Mr. Gregoire, whom you met earlier, has spent the past fifty years of his life free and clear of the charges against him. And yet, he still comes to see me every month, consumed with guilt about the things he did when he was just a teenager. He may have never seen the inside of a prison cell, but make no mistake, he did not get off easy. He remains a prisoner of his own mind, and in many ways that is a worse fate."

There was suddenly a knock at the front door, making Harry jump. "Oh, that will probably be my next client," said Dupont. "I'm afraid we'll have to cut this short, Mr. Potter. Can I expect you to return at a future date?"

"Yeah, I think so," said Harry. "I'll make sure to set an appointment next time." He shook Dupont's hand and left the house, still deep in thought as he made his way home to Grimmauld Place.

Harry lay back on his bed later that night, staring at the ceiling. He imagined Draco doing exactly the same at Nurmengard Tower, confined within the cell he would call home for the next twenty years – more than twice his lifetime from now. No doubt he was ruing the day he ever crossed paths with Harry Potter, the Chosen One, who had been the deciding factor in his guilt. But maybe that was the least of his worries. Maybe he was kept up not by thoughts of Harry, but by guilt at the things he had done. Regret that he couldn't get out sooner. Whatever the case may be, Draco likely wasn't sleeping well tonight. Harry closed his eyes, hoping to drift off to nothingness and forget the day, despite the blinding light of the full moon streaming in through his window.

Harry opened his eyes. It wasn't the moon casting that light – something was glowing brightly just outside his window. As he sat up to get out of bed and investigate, a silvery Patronus sailed in through the window. Harry sat up, expecting it to stop at the foot of his bed and address him, but instead it jumped across the room and through the bedroom door. Harry stood and followed it, peering down the hallway, just in time to see the glowing creature enter Neville's room. A moment of silence passed, then he heard an echoing voice speak:

"Neville Longbottom, your presence is requested at St. Mungo's Hospital immediately. Your grandmother has been attacked."