Draco poked his head around the doorframe to Harry's hospital room and smiled toothily at him. Harry looked over and smiled tiredly back.
"Harry," Draco breathed in obvious relief. He was as prim and well groomed as Harry remembered. Draco sat by his bed and actually moved to embrace him briefly. Harry was taken aback at Draco's stricken expression. He picked up Draco's trembling fingers and sandwiched them between his hands.
"It's okay, Draco. I'm fine. Really! Hey, I'm the one in hospital. Why am I the one worrying over you?" Harry's attempts at lightening the mood only made Malfoy's eyes water suspiciously. Gulping a few times, Draco looked Harry in the face, taking in his sunken eyes and healing cuts.
"Father wouldn't tell me how hurt you were," Draco said, voice wavering but a little despite the emotion in his usually schooled features, "but then I saw the picture in the Prophet and I lost it. It was scary, mate. You don't even know how scary it was seeing you like that." Harry knew. Skeeter chose that specific picture on purpose. The moving photograph depicted Harry, eyes wide and haunted, turning reluctantly away from the camera to bare his back, bound in gauze that was stained bloody in two slanted lines along his shoulder blades angling towards his spine. It was as if he had wings and someone had hacked them off. Those wounds were infected and would leave scars that didn't respond properly to magical healing.
"It looked worse than it was, Draco," Harry said, gesturing to his back. "It was only a gardening spade, not a hacksaw."
"But it was a gardening spade, Harry," Draco hissed, "What that man did to you was monstrous. Trust me, even through Rita's rubbish, I could tell that you'd been seriously wronged. You've told us some of it, but it was definitely worse than you let on. I just wish you would see that." Harry gulped, trying to swallow the painful lump in his throat.
"I'm sorry, but it's just-I'm alive and I'm out of there. I'm trying not to brood over these things."
"Father said they found you in a boot cupboard, Harry," Malfoy said, almost in a whisper, "Even if you're trying to get over it-and I'm not saying that's a bad thing-I think you deserve some time to be angry about it; be angry for yourself, I dunno, cry it out." Harry did allow himself to cry then, a soft, steady stream of tears that was wiped away by Draco's steady hands.
"Blimey I didn't mean right now," Draco said, a bit uncomfortable.
"Well you shouldn't have said such nice things to me, then. Did you practice those lines with Pansy?" Harry retorted, blowing his nose.
"I'll have you know that under this sleek and polished exterior beats the sensitive heart of an empathetic soul," Draco replied, crossing his arms. Harry punched him in the arm for his cheek.
"Severus is worried about you," he said, soberingly, "He practically stopped breathing when he saw the paper, hasn't slept since."
Harry sighed, nodding once. "You should have brought him then."
"He's just outside talking to father." Draco gestured to the doorway. Before he left, he handed Harry a bundle of letters written on a combination parchment and muggle printing paper. Since he had a few moments alone, he opened them and found pages of words of sympathy and well wishes from his friends. He read them all, even the ones from Crabbe and Goyle, who were both surprisingly coherent on paper. Ron and Hermione wrote him an essay each, which for Ron was a feat. He got a letter from Fred, George, Percy, Hagrid, Flitwick, Zabini, Seamus, Oliver, Neville, Susan, Pansy, and a few others he barely remembered talking to. His most interesting letter, however, was the one from McGonagall that was apologetic and even expressed vehement opposition to Dumbledore's choices regarding his relatives.
Attached to the whole parcel was a note from the Malfoys' solicitor that read:
"We haven't heard anything from Dumbledore yet, but we're going to filter and test the hell out of anything he sends with your name on it. -Solicitor Lawson"
Harry arched an eyebrow and decided he liked whoever Lawson was. The door squeaked open and roused Harry from his reading. Snape entered cautiously, looking as disheveled as Draco had described.
"Hello professor," Harry greeted, serene smile on his face.
"H-Harry," Snape said brokenly, reaching a hand to touch Harry's face. His hands lingered on the cuts on his cheeks. "This should have healed with the potions they have here. What did that Dursley do to you?"
"That cuts were a lot bigger when they brought me in. I'm surprised it's healed up this fast. Isn't magic wonderful?" Harry tried his best to sound cheerful. Snape wasn't having any of it.
"I knew we should never have let you go back there. Wards be damned," he spat, "That muggle nearly killed you. I have half a mind to strangle him myself. Petunia as well. How could she do this to her own flesh and blood? This is all my fault. I knew. I knew and I couldn't save you." Harry leaned over and grasped one of Snape's hands which were fisted in his robes. Gently prying them open, he found that Snape had dug his nails in hard enough to draw blood.
"Look what you've done to yourself," Harry said, brow furrowed. Experimentally, he passed his hands over the crescent shaped cuts on Snape's palms and cast a simple healing charm. He removed his hands and the skin was whole and new again. Snape saw this and closed his eyes, taking a few calming breaths.
"Harry, you're recovering. You shouldn't have used magic in your state." Snape was calmer now, thinking more of Harry's health.
"It wasn't your fault, Snape," Harry insisted, "and you know it. You've done nothing but help me."
"You should hate me," Snape said, lowering his voice, "I got your parents killed. I condemned you to this. I wanted to hate you simply because you were so much James's son. Why don't you hate me, Harry?"
Harry shrugged, flailing his hands. "I wanted to hate you, at first. You don't hide what you think of me. Ever. When I was at the Dursley's, they either ignored me or tricked me into thinking they wouldn't hit me so that I was surprised when they did. I had no idea why they hated me. When we first met, you made it clear you didn't like me and told me why. Telling me why implied that you cared and opened up the discussion for change. I don't hate you, professor. You're, I dunno, loyal and straightforward. You've loved my mum all this time and the war never changed that. I guess I respect that."
"You're a strange child, Harry Potter," Snape said, sighing. Both felt an emotional knot that they'd wrestled with for months finally surrender and slowly unravel.
Harry was released at the end of the week as promised and apparated directly to Malfoy Manor, bypassing the throng of reporters waiting at St. Mungo's doors. Solicitor Lawson met them at the foyer, because the Malfoy's had one of those.
"You guys have a foyer?" Harry was too busy blinking owlishly at the marble floors and expensive looking chandelier above his head to even listen to the Solicitor speak. This one room was already bigger than the Dursleys' house.
"Yes, Harry," an exasperated Draco said, rolling his eyes even as the corners of his mouth flicked up into an amused smile.
"As I was saying," Samantha Lawson said, laughing softly, "we managed to get that Skeeter woman to cough up every penny she made off of that article plus compensation for emotional distress and defamation. Harry turned to blink owlishly at her. She was dressed to kill in well tailored blue robes that complimented her grey eyes and ash blond hair perfectly.
"Thank you, Solicitor Lawson," he said, sticking out his hand to shake hers.
"Nonsense," she said, bending to take his tiny hand in her own, "It was my pleasure taking her down. Nothing better than watching that snake get taken down by the full force of the law, my dear."
"And the restraining order?" Narcissa asked, pulling the gloves from her well manicured fingers.
"Oh yes, I have to go over the terms of that with you."
"Let us withdraw to the drawing room," Lucius said, gesturing for the others to follow.
"You have one of those too?" Harry's eyes were wide as saucers again "You live here? Is this a house or a castle?" Draco rolled his eyes and pushed Harry to the drawing room, shoving him as they went.
"It's only a manor, Harry. You've spent all year in a bloody castle," Draco drawled.
"Well yeah, but this is your house, as in, you live here? Just the three of you?" Harry was having trouble keeping his mouth closed.
"Don't be silly," Narcissa cooed from the doorway. "This is your home now, Harry. It's a home for four. Which wing should we put him in, darling?"
"Oh the one next to Draco's that we usually put guests in will do until we can make another one," Lucius answered. Draco had to put a finger under Harry's chin to snap his gaping mouth shut.
The solicitor spent the morning with them, sipping tea while patiently explaining the terms of the restraining order against Ms. Skeeter.
"This is a magically binding document that will notify you if she dares come within 100 meters of you. While the ministry can't directly track her movements, we need only a drop of your blood to activate a charm that will warn you of her presence." She pulled out a piece of parchment with the restraining order written out in florid script. Lawson offered Harry a needle, which he used to prick his right index finger, producing a drop of blood that fell onto the bottom of the parchment where one would normally pen a signature. The parchment sizzled and Harry could feel a mild burning sensation in the nail of his index finger.
"There," Lawson said, tucking the parchment away again, "if that slimy woman tries to get anywhere near you, your fingernail will burn and you'll know she's about."
"That sounds wonderful," Harry said, licking his bleeding finger.
"Yes," Lucius sniffed, "we may just have to start bringing you everywhere with us for good luck. Goodness knows that woman's written enough about us."
"Oh that's a wonderful idea, dear," Narcissa added, pecking Lucius lightly on the cheek. "We'd have a tactful excuse to ban her from the charity ball this year!" Harry could feel Draco rolling his eyes at his parents' antics.
Later on, as Harry sat with Draco in his new room on his new bed, Dobby popped in and nearly bowled Harry over.
"Dobby is so glad that Harry Potter is safe," he blubbered, mucus and tears getting all over Harry's shirt. Harry began to wonder if he would find his life's calling as a handkerchief. Ten pounds an hour for a shoulder to cry on.
"Dobby, what are you on about? You're being a bother," Malfoy said as he scowled at Dobby's display. Dobby backed away and hastily dabbed at his face with his pillowcase dress. He looked ready to give himself a whallop and sported bruises that were of his own making.
"Dobby, please don't be upset," Harry said, kneeling to pat the elf on the head, "You saved me by getting Mr. Malfoy for me."
"But Dobby is the one who is getting you in trouble with the fat man," Dobby wailed.
"No, Dobby, it was bound to happen at some point or another," Harry said consolingly, "The point is, you saved my life."
"Dobby, father already said he wasn't cross with you," Draco said from his seat on the bed, "Don't punish yourself any further. That's an order. Go back down into the kitchens and get yourself a biscuit." Dobby nodded, still weepy, and disappeared with a pop.
"That one's mental. Mother's always particularly gentle with him, which makes father all the more cross," Draco grumbled out, tossing a magazine at Harry's face. "Which team do you think will be making it to finals this year?"
"Finals for what?" Harry was absently digging through his trunk, which he'd unshrunk and placed at the foot of the bed. Draco blinked at his slowly, a horrified expression on his face.
"You've never heard of the Quidditch World Cup?" He was scandalized. Harry found himself immediately swallowed up in quidditch memorabilia and team statistics. When Draco was done regurgitating quidditch information all over Harry, he eyed the pile of clothes Harry'd pulled from his trunk and dumped onto the bed disdainfully. Besides his school clothes, Harry had only a few of Dudley's old clothes that he'd been wearing when he left with Hagrid all those months ago. With two fingers, Draco picked the tattered t-shirt, plaid button up, and baggy jeans before calling for Dobby. The house elf popped in with half a biscuit, looking decidedly weepy, but far from hysterics.
"Take these things and burn them," Draco said, wrinkling his nose, "and perhaps shred them first."
"It will be my pleasure, Master Draco, sir. Master Harry Potter should not wear these filthy rags," the little elf responded, taking the rags with an equally disgusted expression. It meant a great deal, coming from an elf who dressed in a pillowcase.
"Harry, get up," Draco said, walking out into the hall. He stopped and put his hands on his hips, shouting, "Mother! Harry needs clothes!" Before long, Narcissa's heels could be heard clicking down the hall. Narcissa appeared at the door dressed in a completely different outfit from earlier, hair neatly pulled back in a french curl. Mother and son bore matching expressions and Harry felt all the hair on the back of his neck stand up on end.
"Put this on, Harry," Narcissa said, handing him a hunting cap.
"Where are we going?" Harry shoved the hat on, covering his hair and his scar.
"Diagon Alley, of course." Her eyes took on a devilish glint. Draco appeared at her side fully dressed and ready to go.
"We're going shopping, Potter," he said.
Lucius leaned cautiously in from around the doorframe.
"I'd advise you to run, but I see it's far too late for that," he said. "Good day. Do remember he's still convalescing, dear."
By the time the three of them were done shopping, Harry though he might fall over. Narcissa had insisted that he needed a full wardrobe complete with dress robes, casual wear, and undergarments. He was especially appalled to find her asking whether he preferred boxers or briefs. It was all he could do to insist that he was paying for everything. As he lay in bed that night in his new pajamas, however, he couldn't help but smile a bit at the Malfoys' antics. They could be cold, calculating, and even a bit cruel in public. In private, they were a family like anyone else and seemed to value family above all else. They'd included him in their home. Even if he'd been put through what seemed to be the Malfoy shopping spree induction, he could feel the image of the Dursleys, who'd starved and beaten him, fading bit by bit to be replaced by the Malfoys, who'd stayed by his sickbed when they had very little reason to, in his heart whenever he thought of what family might mean to him. They certainly weren't Molly Weasley's brand of kindness, but they were kind even if they would never admit it in public.
The trial of Vernon Dursley took place a week from when Harry was discharged from the hospital. Harry was not required to be there because he was under age and the victim in all of this. According to solicitor Lawson, Vernon was barking mad and would not answer any questions until given veritaserum and spewed his crimes under its trance. The court was scandalized and immediately moved to have him thrown in Azkaban.
"Here's where the problems started," Lawson said, rubbing her temples as the the Malfoys and Harry listened intently around a table the drawing room. "Dumbledore of all people decided to defend Dursley by saying he'd done Harry a service by taking him in."
"That's insane! I hope the court didn't take him seriously." Lucius rapped his knuckles irately against the wood of the table. Harry fumed inwardly, wondering what he would do if Vernon was set free. He sat very still, barely even breathing until Draco placed a comforting hand on his knee.
"In light of Dumbledore's defense of the great oaf, Vernon was spared Azkaban, but is to be placed in a muggle prison for child abuse and neglect," Lawson concluded, taking a swig of something from a flask.
"Muggle prison," Narcissa hissed, "He should have gotten Azkaban for the things he did."
Lawson huffed and crossed her arms. "I arranged for him to be placed in a muggle prison for the criminally insane. I hear it's positively dreadful. With the way he's raving now, I doubt he'll ever be released. We've planted records of his arrest, of course. Your aunt was put under observation by the ministry. While she isn't guilty of hurting you, she's guilty of neglecting you. Dudley will remain with her, but she's forbidden to go anywhere near magical children including you. I do believe you've washed your hands of the whole lot, Mr. Potter."
Harry breathed a sigh of relief, though the floaters were rumbling with discontent. A man who hurts a child is himself maddened. The very act, like killing, corrupts the soul and warps it. No institution, magical or not, will be able to purge this man of what he's done. Death would have been the greatest service to everyone involved. Harry agreed, but insisted that he could live with Vernon being locked away somewhere. As far as he was concerned, the man was dead to him, no longer family or jailer or anything at all. Perhaps it was cowardly to simply cut the Dursleys away from himself, but he felt that leaving them behind was best. His body would forever carry the marks that commemorated his time with them, but his mind need not carry the burden any longer. He felt strangely light and free, a feeling so new and overwhelming to him that his eyes welled with tears despite his best efforts to hold them back. Gentle hands he recognized to be Narcissa's led him to bed and he lay there in the dark until the tears stopped.
Though it was the dead of night, Harry could not sleep. Pulling out the toy soldier he'd stuffed in a pocket, Harry reached out tentatively to the soul inside it. Voldemort's soul was quiet as it had been since the end of term, but Harry could feel it and examine it as if it were suspended in glass. Voldemort's soul looked as if it had been shredded to pieces and the sliver that remained within the toy soldier was tiny, barely a soul at all. Harry was horrified and continued to prod and probe the shredded, tortured thing he'd entombed in the aluminum figure. Voldemort's soul was woven like cloth, and interwoven through it were the threads of madness colored by the corruption of the unicorn blood and crinkled in the places where the soul was torn.
This was done voluntarily, the floaters whispered gravely. There are certain acts like killing and hurting the innocent things of the world like children or unicorns that cause a soul to tear. The more terrible the deed, the greater the tear. In the past, when magic was yet new to mankind, some would create a tear and then rip their souls apart on purpose.
"Whatever for?" Harry asked, thoroughly horrified, "It sounds like a terrible thing to do to your own soul."
A misguided attempt at immortality, the floaters huffed. Harry could almost imagine his long time companions cross their arms and huff indignantly. The gravest of deeds will only ever split the soul in halves. This one's been torn many times. It is a half of a many halves. The voices of the floaters echoed the last bit many times in hushed whispers, like a room of academics muttering to themselves over a new discovery.
"You mean there are other pieces of Voldemort's soul out there somewhere? Could they be put back together?" Harry looked at the torn piece of soul doubtfully.
It is possible, though you would have to repair the damage to this piece first and any others you might come across. The floaters fell silent. Gently, Harry reached out with his magic and tugged on the strands of Voldemort's soul. Plucking one, he twisted it and gathered the frayed ends, coaxing it straight again. The unicorn blood was as stubborn as blood on real cloth, but came out with enough effort. A few strands later and Harry was exhausted. Looking up to the clock that ticked on the nightstand by his bed, Harry could tell that it was very nearly dawn and he'd been at work for hours, though it seemed as if only minutes had passed. Groaning, Harry closed his eyes and fell asleep immediately.
Dawn came too early for Harry and he scarcely stirred at all when Dobby came to rouse him for breakfast. It took all of Dobby's strength to strong arm him out of bed and into the bathroom. The mirror sighed woefully at his hair and said, "You'd have better luck taming pixies, I'm afraid". Harry grimaced and apologized to the mirror before making it down to the dining table.
"Do not slouch, dear, it's unbecoming," Narcissa said, not looking up from a letter she was reading. Really, it was as if she's grown eyes on the back of her head. Harry wouldn't be surprised if that kind of thing actually happened in the wizarding world, but he'd have to check just to be sure.
"Yes ma'am," he said, taking a seat next to Draco, who sniggered into his orange juice. Narcissa shot an approving glance Harry's way and pointed her wand at a plate piled high with his recommended foods.
"Eat up, Harry, Smethwyck's going visit today to check up on you," Narcissa said, floating the plate in front of Harry.
"Yes," Lucius drawled, "and Snape is expected to drop in as well. Something about potions for you."
"Godfather's coming?" Draco asked, mid-chew.
"Swallow your food before you speak, dear," Narcissa chirped. "Eat everything on your plate, Harry. You have a lot of catching up to do."
"Mother, I don't think Weasley could finish all that," Draco sniggered after hastily gulping down the toast he was working on.
"Don't wolf your food," she chided gently. She looked at Harry's plate piled up to his chest with eggs and toast and the like before adding, "but perhaps you are right. Finish two thirds, then. The house elves can take the rest." Harry mouthed a silent 'thank you' to Draco, who winked back.
"I saw that, you cheeky monkeys," Narcissa chided in a singsong voice, eyes still buried in the letter she held delicately between her French tipped fingers.
"How does she do that?" Harry whispered to Draco, who shrugged in response.
"I know what you're thinking," Lucius said from the head of the table, "I've married a formidable woman." Narcissa preened.
Smethwyck was in the middle of taking the bandages off of Harry's back when Snape appeared at the fireplace in a great plume of green smoke and floo powder. He coughed once and spelled himself clean before stepping out of the fireplace.
"Apologies," he said to Narcissa with an incline of his head, "I know how much you hate soot on your marble."
"No harm done, Severus," Narcissa said companionably back. Snape caught sight of Harry sitting backwards on one of the chairs in the drawing room.
"Potter," he greeted, "and you are?"
Smethwyck wiped his hands on a flannel and stood hastily, grabbing Severus by the forearm enthusiastically.
"Healer Hippocrates Smethwyck, sir, like the Greek healer. Delightful to meet you, Professor. I am a great admirer of your work. Since your work with the wolfsbane potion was published, my ward has been bereft of werewolf bite victims, not that I'm complaining. You're quite the celebrity around St. Mungo's, you know." Smethwyck continued along that vein, continuously pumping Snape's hand up and down. Meanwhile, Snape looked petrified and his mouth was stuck in a permanent grimace-smile that was turning slowly into a deep frown. He pulled his hand stiffly away from the over eager healer and rubbed it gingerly, saying, "That is very flattering, but might we discuss Harry? I have a few salves that might help with those wounds." He gestured weakly to the two red gashes on Harry's back.
"Yes, quite right. Sorry." Smethwyck turned back to Harry, gently spelling away the dead skin and pus from the wounds. Snape uncorked several potions and smeared their gooey contents on to Harry's back. The wounds fizzled a little and began to change color to a healthy pink shade that more closely resembled healthy flesh. Smethwyck inspected the closing gashes and laughed, throwing his hands up.
"Well I'll be damned. Those will still scar, but the healing time has definitely decreased significantly. You can even do away with these bandages in a few days, Harry."
"Brilliant," Harry said, twisting around to get a glimpse at his back. Snape stowed his potions bag away, smugly raising an eyebrow.
Snape visited more often at Malfoy manor to visit the boys and the manor took on an air of domesticity that Harry was unaccustomed to. Truly, Narcissa had tasked him with keeping them occupied and Snape took to the role as if he'd been born a nanny. Their summer was filled with games and trips out to magical tourist attractions.
"What do you mean Stonehenge is a front for a wizarding museum?" Harry blinked stupidly at the wooden double doors that suddenly appeared in one of the archways of Stonehenge. Stepping through, they were in the immaculate lobby of a museum full of the first examples of wands, brooms, and depictions of magic on caveman art. Draco dragged him through all of his favorite exhibits, namely the ones with brooms and early snitches.
"Yeah, mate, they used to have these birds," the blond boy chattered as they entered the snidget sanctuary, "and people used to use them in quidditch games until they became an endangered species. The whole catching bit would crush them, you see." Harry chuckled as a snidget landed on his shoulder and nipped him on the cheek with a thin golden beak, the only recognizable bird part that stuck out prominently from its downy feathers. They beckoned for Snape to enter the magically enlarged geodesic dome that housed the magical world's most protected species. Snape groaned and looked like he wanted to disappear and melt into the surrounding carpeting. Stepping in rather unwillingly, Snape arrived just in time to see the snidgets start dancing in a double helix pattern, mimicking the way their wings rotated.
"I love magic," Harry muttered to himself.