The gates swung open silently and the convoy of black vehicles moved expeditiously up the sloping drive that curved towards the stately house. Suited security personnel stepped out of the first and third vehicles, alert eyes scanning their surroundings before one of them proceeded to the second car and opened the door. The gentleman inside exited and gave his lapels a tug, sniffing as he did so, and strode up to the door, which opened at his approach.
"Senator Hathorne." The butler greeted him with a slight bow. "Right this way, sir."
Arthur Hathorne gave the modest foyer a cursory glance as he was conveyed past the staircase to a set of double doors at the end of the corridor which swung open at their approach. He stepped into what appeared to be a library. The walls were lined with shelves of books on two levels. A large desk, whose cherry oak finish matched the woodwork, was prominent at one end of the room in front of tall, arched windows. A large conference table dominated the opposite end. Around it sat a number of important looking men and women, with Sinclair Purfield at the head. At the other end of the table, Daniel Barbon got to his feet with a broad smile.
"Hathorne! So good to see you again, my friend!"
"Dan." The two men shook hands and Barbon showed him to the only other empty chair at the table. "Now what exactly is this hush-hush gathering all about? You said it was a matter of imminent national security." Hathorne took in the gazes of the other occupants at the table as he sat.
"Senator Hathorne, I'm told you and the distinguished gentleman from Texas share similar family histories," said the blond gentleman at the head of the table.
"Arthur, allow me to introduce you to Mr. Sinclair Purfield, our host for the evening."
"Mr. Purfield." Hathorne nodded. "I don't believe I know to what you are referring. Mr. Barbon and I share no common ancestors."
"However, both the Hathorne and Barbon—or Barebone—as it was called at the time—families were involved in the exposure and eradication efforts against magic and witchcraft in our country's infancy."
Hathorne gave a snort. "High school literature and U.S. History. There's no such thing as magic."
"Ah, my friend," said Barbon. "That is where you are sadly mistaken."
"Honestly, Dan, just make it plain. Are you seriously telling me that you believe in witchcraft? D'you know what your constituents would say to that? You'll never get your reelection nomination! With all that's happened on Capitol Hill over that last administration, we can't be seen engaging in any sort of frivolous crusades. Leave that to Hollywood."
"Deuteronomy 18:10, Arthur. You are a god-fearing Christian, are you not?"
"Of course I am!" Hathorne gave him an indignant look.
"The New Salem Philanthropic Society is prepared to throw very generous support our way. They have provided incontrovertible proof that witches and wizards do in fact live among us. They are a danger to our national security, and we need to act now to eradicate them!"
"And how exactly do you propose we do that?" Hathorne sat back in his chair with arms crossed. He was not yet entirely convinced.
"That, sir is where I come in," said Purfield as he leaned forward with a glint in his silver eyes.
Harry stretched and pushed himself up. "I suppose I should get going," he declared with a yawn, pushing back the sumptuous bed linens and casting about for his clothes. He blushed a bit with the memory of their fevered disrobing between the entrance of the master suite and the bed. As he made to stand, Draco caught his wrist.
"There's no need to rush," he said. "Stay…if you like." Harry paused and turned back towards Draco, who was stretched out on his side, propping g himself on an elbow. He smiled at Harry, who couldn't help but note a hint of wistfulness in the other man's expression.
"Draco, what…what do you want from me?" He asked. "Really?"
Draco pushed himself up and gazed intently in Harry's eyes. He felt his heart pounding painfully in his chest.
"I…everything, Harry. I want everything. I've already told you that you've held my heart from the very first time that I laid eyes upon you when we were eleven. I want to know you like no one else. Who are you Harry Potter?"
"What's to know? I was born. A madman killed my parents and gave me this scar. I found out I was wizard and spent my adolescence fighting to stay alive while the same madman tried to kill me. I died. I came back and now everyone thinks I'm the saviour of the wizarding world." Harry shrugged.
"I know all of that, Harry." Draco sighed impatiently and moved closer to him. He settled himself behind Harry, his legs on either side of his. He placed his hands on his shoulders. "I want to know who you really are. What makes you smile when you think no one is watching? What is that secret fantasy that you've never shared with anyone? What do you dream about at night?" He kneaded Harry's shoulders as he spoke. Harry closed his eyes, instinctively leaning into him, and Draco's late night stubble tickled the side of his neck as he spoke close to his ear, his voice low and husky.
"What do you see when you read my mind?" He asked. Harry's eyes snapped open, and he stiffened.
"Read your—I don't—" Harry tried to turn to him, but Draco wrapped his arms about him and kissed along his neck, eliciting a soft moan.
"But you are a legilimens. You as much as let me know on the first day of school at Greyswood." He nipped at Harry's shoulder.
"Well, yes, but—mmm—that was only to…" he panted softly, struggling to focus under Draco's ministrations, his groin stirring to life once more. "…to help you out. I would never invade another's psyche for my own personal gain I'm not him, Draco."
Draco inhaled sharply and left the bed, summoning his dressing gown as he went to the window. Harry watched him for a moment, before getting to his feet.
"I'm sorry. After all these years, I didn't think it would still be raw for you."
"It's not," Draco replied without turning. "Is this serious to you, Harry? Because, as I've already told you, it is for me. If all I needed was a mindless shag, I'm sure I'd have no problem finding a willing partner. I've laid myself bare in the hope that now that the war is over, time has passed, you will be able to look at me differently, that you'll see the wizard you testified for and for whom you secured a pardon." Draco turned to face him, and suppressed a gasp of delight when his gaze fell upon the other wizard, who stood before him, naked as the statue of David. "Why did you do that?"
"Do what?" Harry began to feel slightly uncomfortable under Draco's piercing gaze. He summoned his shirt and pulled it on.
"You testified for us—for Mother and for Lucius and Me. Then you testified for Scorpius. Why?"
"I thought—because you didn't deserve to go to prison, Draco. It's little secret that Lucius' desperate quest for power and position is what entangled your family in the cause. The Malfoys didn't fight in the end. Your mother saved my life. She lied to him."
"In all honesty, would seriously question whether Lucius learned as lesson at all. Mother is a question." Draco moved into the sitting area, flicking his wand to collect the discarded clothing into a neatly folded pile, and again to light a small fire in the hearth.
"What about you?" Harry asked, following him. He curled up on one end of the sofa.
"As I recall, we weren't talking about me?"
"You asked why I testified for you."
"And you gave a rather pat response." Draco draped himself over the opposite end of the sofa, crossing his legs.
"And yet you felt the need to analyze your parents' changed behavior or lack thereof, but omitted your own self-examination." Harry gazed intently at him. Draco said nothing for a long moment, instead stared, unseeing, through the gauzy curtains to the lights dancing on the water below. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and husky.
"You know, they held us at Azkaban before our trials. The dementors may be gone, but despair hangs in the very stone of that place. By the end of the first day, I was ready to pack it all in. Hours felt like days, and days like weeks. The first week was hell on earth, and you couldn't have convinced me that it had only been seven days. I…I was scratching at the walls, just praying that I could dislodge any small jagged bit of rock."
"You couldn't have dismantled even a section of wall," said Harry. "Surely you knew that."
"I wasn't trying to escape, Potter. I-" Draco pushed up his sleeve, revealing the faded tattoo. Harry noticed that the serpent-tongued skull was marred by thin lines that crisscrossed the damning image.
"You—wait—at the trial…I remember thinking to myself that the sleeves of your robes seemed oddly oversized." Harry gave him an incredulous look. Draco traced a finger over one of the longer scars that seemed to cross the eyes of the mark.
"I cut a bit too deep there. I might have bled out, had I not the misfortune of attempting my makeover mere minutes before the nightly meal rounds." He pulled his sleeve down, gripping it tightly for a moment and heaved a sigh, looking into the fire. "It just didn't matter to me. I'd stopped having any semblance of control over my life ages ago, and I was certain that I was going to spend the rest of my days on that godforsaken rock, so why not get on with it? Better to do the deed myself than have it slowly drained from me in tortuous anguish. It was if the very stone was whispering to me. 'Do it!'"
"However, deep down, you don't have a true affinity for the dark arts."
"How would you know?" Draco gave Harry a look of indignation mixed with fear. His discovery that Harry was a legilimens had unnerved him at best, conjuring unsettling memories of the Dark Lord's unspeakable acts of possession.
"I've already told you. Your inability to murder an innocent person, just for starters. I mean, you couldn't even muster up the vehemence necessary to carry a cruciatus curse on me the night we dueled. There was the tiniest will to survive. You'd already been through hell and made it out alive. And frankly, I'm here to tell you, dying is rather anticlimactic," Harry muttered. Draco scoffed.
"Well, I wouldn't imagine it's the same as faking one's death to escape a madman, but that's hardly what I was thinking at the time." Draco turned his gaze back to Harry. "I've always wanted to know…how did you manage it? How did you get Mother, of all people, to lie for you?"
"Never underestimate a mother's love for her child, Draco." Harry skirted the first question. "The only thing that mattered to Narcissa was that you were safe."
"Yes, but how did you block the killing curse? There were dozens of witnesses."
Harry sighed. He didn't want to have discussion.
"I didn't block the curse. Tom Riddle killed me…sort of."
"Sort of?" Draco looked at him skeptically. Harry sighed again.
He argued with himself about revealing everything to Draco. As it was, he want entirely certain of what their relationship was just yet. On second thought, sharing this secret might just be the test that they needed.
"No one alive knows what I'm about to tell you, not even Hermione or Ron." Harry placed both feet on the floor, resting his elbows on his knees.
"What is it?" Draco moved a little closer to Harry, gripping the edge of the sofa cushion in suspense. What powerful magic could Harry have employed that he would keep it a secret even from his two closest friends, he wondered.
"I…erm…I would assume, given your background, that you have heard of a…horcrux—" No sooner had the second syllable fallen from Harry's lips, than Draco leapt to his feet and away from him, staring incredulously.
"Merlin's balls! A horcrux? You created a horcrux? Harry, you murdered someone?" Draco began to pace anxiously.
He knew that horcrux creation was among the darkest and most dangerous magic ant wizard or witch could perform, and there was only one book, Secrets of the Darkest Art, which had detailed information on the method and consequences of creating a Horcrux. It was the one tome in the Malfoy library which was kept under spell and key, and Lucius had expressly forbidden Draco to even touch it. Now, here was Harry Potter, savior of the wizarding world, confessing to have created one. Draco was so absorbed in his astonishment, that he'd barely registered Harry's voice until the dark haired wizard was standing in front of him.
Draco instinctively stepped backward as Harry approached him, and it did not escape his notice that the fingers of the blonde's wand hand twitched just slightly.
"You're not listening, Draco. I've never murdered anyone, and I've not made a horcrux. I wouldn't even know where to begin to create such a foul thing."
"But—I—" Draco raked his fingers through his hair.
"Tom Riddle released the basilisk into Hogwarts when he was a student. It killed Myrtle Warren."
"Moaning Myrtle?" Draco's eyes grew wide.
"Yes. He blamed Hagrid, who was secretly keeping an acromantula, and Hagrid was excluded and had his wand snapped." At this, Draco's mouth dropped open.
"But what does this have to do with—"
"Riddle split his soul repeatedly, and used the fragments to make horcruxes." Harry turned back to the sofa, sitting heavily. "The night Dumbledore was…killed…"
It was Draco's turn to sigh heavily. He crossed his arms, gripping his sleeves tightly as if to ward off the cold.
"He and I had just returned from retrieving one of them. It turned out to be a fake, however." Harry raked his fingers through his hair. "Hermione and Ron and I were on the run, searching for the horcruxes we hadn't managed to destroy."
"I-you—"
"The diary…"
"What?"
"Dumbledore was already dying when Snape killed him. They had agreed that you wouldn't be the one. Snape had even made a vow to your mum that he would protect you."
Draco felt weak in the knees. He stumbled to the sofa and collapsed onto it.
"Wait. I thought you said nobody knew—not even Granger and Weasley."
"Hermione and Ron knew about the horcruxes Riddle had consciously created. There were six."
"Six?"
"But there was another he never meant to create." Draco stared at him in confusion. Harry sighed again and sat down once more. Draco edged away just slightly and Harry pursed his lips before plunging ahead.
"The first time he tried to kill me, the curse rebounded and struck him instead. So, being that he was unable to place it into a suitable vessel of his choosing, the remaining fragment of his soul took refuge in the only living thing available."
Draco let out a choked gasp, his eyes wide as saucers as he looked Harry up and down.
"He—you—it—you?"
"Yes. However, I don't know if I could actually be considered a horcrux, given that the full process was not complete. I—I don't know, and honestly, I don't care." Harry chose to leave out his realization that he could see into Voldemort's thoughts and the havoc it wreaked upon him during his fifth year and beyond. "Riddle cast the killing curse and for a brief moment, I died. I was able to return because the curse destroyed the fragment of his soul that resided within me, leaving me unharmed—mostly." Harry looked up to find Draco staring at him, a question in his eyes. "Please don't ask me what happened when I died. I won't tell you. I haven't told anyone, nor do I ever plan to." Harry considered the interaction he'd had with Dumbledore intensely personal. He didn't think he could trust anyone with the fact that he had considered going on and not returning to finish the fight.
"I—I wasn't…" Draco realized how tightly he had been holding himself since Harry's first mention of a horcrux, and he began to feel a bit ashamed. Looking at Harry in this moment, he saw something that in all of the years of knowing him—or at least as he had known him in his youth—he had never noticed. Harry was quite vulnerable emotionally. Even more than twenty years after the end of the war, the wizard was burdened with profound secrets. He wondered how Harry even managed any semblance of sanity.
"My parents," Harry murmured softly.
"What?" Draco was shaken out of his ruminations.
"I dream about my parents," Harry said. "I don't remember much about them, but I often dream about what it would be like if they had lived."
"Oh, heh. I suppose that is what I'd asked you, isn't it?" Draco attempted a smile.
"It is."
"Could I—why do you call him Riddle?" he asked. Harry snorted.
"That's what you want to know?"
"Well…" Draco shrugged.
"His name is Tom Riddle. Nothing else matters. Lord Voldemort is just a bastardization of that—a creation to make himself seem greater than he was—kind of like The Boy Who Lived, or The Chosen One." He rolled his eyes.
"I rather like The Chosen One," Draco smirked. He closed the small distance between himself and Harry, until they were sitting shoulder to shoulder. Harry gave him a nudge. Draco reached up and turned Harry's chin with a finger. "I like it a lot." Silver eyes gazed into green ones before lips met.
As the first rays of sunshine danced over the waters of Greyswood Lake, Harry lay in Draco's arms, his mind swirling with the realization that he was beginning to fall seriously for his childhood rival, and wondered what it meant for his already tumultuous family situation.