Harry was starting to second guess himself, just a little, as he lead the way through the familiar, dimly lit hallways to the staircase fire. What was he signing himself up for? But somehow, the alternative seemed worse. He just couldn't put his finger on why, exactly.

When they got to the fireplace, Harry reached out to grab the flu powder, but Malfoy's hand on his arm stopped him.

"Let's take the stairs," said Malfoy. He couldn't meet Harry's eyes. "I hate flu."

"Okay."

Harry thought Malfoy might have wanted to talk on the way up, to ask what his conditions were, but they walked the first flight in silence, and then the second. Harry didn't feel uncomfortable with the quiet, but he wanted to know what Malfoy was thinking.

The staircase was one of the few places in the manor well lit. Arched windows magically reflected the outside garden, where a white peacock drank from the fountain. Harry tried to toss a toothpick from his pocket out the window, but it bounced back and down the stairs with some force. They were too deep into the house for the windows to be real.

At the flight of the second landing, Harry turned and sat on the stop step; he knew Malfoy was dawdling. Malfoy had stopped a few steps below, back straight, arms to his side, but was scratching at the skin around his thumbnails; a nervous habit Harry had noticed a few weeks ago.

"What are you doing here?" said Malfoy at last, spreading his arms. Harry said nothing. Malfoy scowled.

"You get nothing out of this," he said. "You were free, and now you're here." He looked at Harry incredulously. "What's wrong with you?"

Harry laughed, but it felt empty. He looked up at Malfoy without expression or warmth.

"When I was brought here last year," he said, "Hermione was tortured."

Malfoy shrunk back, whether against Harry's tone or what he'd said, Harry wasn't sure, but he continued.

"I hate Death Eaters," he said. "I hated Voldemort. And, of course, I've always hated you. You were the son of Lucius Malfoy, and eventually a Death Eater yourself. You were everything I found disgusting in a person.

"But I saw what it did to you. I watched as you missed classes and failed assignments. You gave up Quidditch. You confided in Moaning Myrtle, because you had no real friends."

Malfoy's eyes flashed. "You nearly killed me," he breathed through his teeth.

"You were a Death Eater," said Harry cooly, "and it was an accident."

Malfoy shook his head and made to walk past him, but Harry stopped him. "I was there," Harry said, "when you couldn't kill Dumbledore."

Malfoy froze.

"Dumbledore knew you couldn't do it. He knew you wanted to protect your family, your friends – you were conflicted, but not a murderer." Harry looked down at his fingers, scarred and calloused from the war. "You're not innocent, Malfoy. But Dumbedore wouldn't have wanted you to suffer because of the mistakes of your father, and I don't think he would have agreed with a Ministry that sentences people without trial."

Harry looked up at Malfoy, finally determined. "I think this is the right thing to do."

"You're an idiot, Potter," said Malfoy without a beat, but there was something to his expression Harry had never seen before.

Harry smiled. "I know," he said, but was surprised when Malfoy held out his hand to help him up. He took it, but let go of it quickly when he stood up. Malfoy put his hands in his pockets, awkwardly.

"But your conditions-"

"We need a plan," said Harry simply, turning back to the stairs, "and we need help."

Three elves, including Weedy, stood outside Narcissa's door, and turned their heads in unison when Harry and Malfoy arrived.

"I'm afraid she's asleep, Sir and Sir," said Weedy feebly.

Malfoy hesitated, but Harry kept walking and said, "We'll wake her up then," and, to the horrified expressions of the elves, pushed through the door and back into the room.

Narcissa seemed peaceful. She still looked warm and damp, but her breathing was steady. The shattered teapot had been cleaned up, and a new one sat on the bedside table. Next to it, half a dozen labelled potions and measuring cups.

Malfoy closed the door quietly, and stood far back in the shadows, his eyes stuck on his mother's sleeping face.

"Don't wake her," he said weakly.

But Harry leaned over Narcissa and shook her gently. Her eyes fluttered open and she turned her head slightly towards Harry.

"You're still here," she whispered with a small smile.

"I am," said Harry, "and I'm going to need half an hour. Is now a good time?"

Narcissa nodded, and slowly, carefully, started to lift herself up. "Fetch me a pillow," she said, as Malfoy jumped forward with some cushions. He placed them gently behind her back, holding her like glass; fragile and delicate. Harry had never seen Malfoy treat anything so tenderly.

"Draco," she cooed, and reached out to pet his face. "You did it."

"Shh, mother," Malfoy said warmly, sitting next to her bed. He looked at Harry pointedly.

Harry cleared his throat.

"Narcissa," he said, "I think there might be a cure. But we need your connections, and I'm going to need people to lie for me."

Narcissa half smiled. "I don't need a cure," she said slowly, "I need Lucius."

"And Lucius needs both your and Draco's testimonies in trial, which he won't get if you're dead," said Harry bluntly. He didn't have time to be gentle. "I need people you trust unconditionally. I need them to find someone else with the curse, and arrange discrete transport for us – me and Draco – to their town. And I need someone in the ministry or the prophet to lie, and say I've secluded myself there for the last month to study the Curse, which I came across while searching for Horcruxes.

I need this arranged discretely and quickly. Draco will come with me, and when the prophet gets the tip, they'll follow shortly after. It will look Draco look sympathetic."

And me too, he added inwardly.

"Is there anyone you trust enough? Your elves, maybe, or perhaps-"

"I have people," said Narcissa quietly, her eyes sparkling now. She reached out a shaking arm to hold Malfoy's hand. "I can arrange for them to visit tomorrow."

What kind of people? Harry wondered, but he didn't ask. Instead, he nodded.

They discussed loose plans, and how the ministry and prophet might handle the information they're fed. They agreed to portray Harry as grief stricken, needing an escape from the war, which he finds in his private studies of the Curse. Narcissa said she knew someone who could fake the Curse if need be. Eventually, Narcissa started to slur her words, and Malfoy pulled Harry back.

"Enough," he said. "Sleep, mother."

Outside, Malfoy dragged Harry down the corridor, stopping abruptly at the end. His eyes searched Harry's face, wildly, and his fingers dug into Harry's arm.

"Do you really think there's a cure?"

"I think so." Harry lied without hesitating. He gently prised Malfoy's hand away. "I did read about it in a safe house during the war. I didn't believe it really existed at the time, but…"

Malfoy collapsed into his knees and laughed, putting his face in his hands, and for a moment, Harry wondered if he were doing the right thing.

"Thank god," Malfoy croaked.

"It might be nothing," Harry warned him, the anxiety that had avoided him on the way up settling again in his stomach.

"Anything -" Malfoy whispered, "Anything is better than nothing."

Harry told Malfoy to pack, and convinced him to flu back to his room. But he took the stairs himself, in the end. He could feel the rising panic of his decision, but also the adrenalin. It rushed through him, and it wasn't all bad.

He would have to write to Ron and Hermione, to apologise. How would he explain away spending the last month or more studying a Curse with Draco Malfoy, with no contact whatsoever? He could blame Ginny, perhaps. He could blame a broken heart. He had to lie – he couldn't tell them the truth. They would want Draco and Narcissa locked up.

But Voldemort broke everyone, and there was no justice in a sweeping punishment.

Harry didn't have anything to pack. But he still wanted to find his socks. He found the old letter he'd written, to Ron and Hermione, explaining his imprisonment, and burned it.

"What are you so happy about?" asked the toothless witch in his room.

Harry hadn't realised he'd been smiling. "Nothing," he said, as he changed out of his travel robes and put on a sweater instead.

"Where are you off to?" she asked suspiciously. "Where have you been?"

Harry grinned at her. "I'll be back," he said, and stepped into the fireplace in his room, where he would be early to meet Malfoy in the library. But something went wrong. The spinning ended too quickly, and Harry felt himself dragged out of flames and onto the cold wooden floor of a musty darkness.

Note: Please let me know how you feel about the last few chapters! I'll be working on editing the older ones in my free time, but reviews really help me work out what works and what doesn't.

Also, after this chapter I will be renaming the story. If you think this might be confusing or a bad idea, please let me know why! Otherwise I'll go ahead and pick a new name tomorrow.