Why Does the Truth Bother You?

Harry was not the most tactful of people, but even he had the sense to give Malfoy some space after what he was referring to in his mind as the "Knockturn Alley incident." When Ron had caught up with him, standing alone, completely soaked, staring in the direction Malfoy had taken, he had only been able to say that he had been speaking with Malfoy.

Ron had grimaced. "Don't you see enough of him already?"

Harry had almost replied, but decided against it. What was he supposed to say, anyway? He hates me because I saved his life? Or, I just found out he only saved me because some weird magical force made him do it? Because that, though he had denied it at the time, was what Harry found most unsettling.

He had believed that Malfoy had had a last-minute change of heart. Or even that a shred of humanity had reminded him that Harry had saved his life and that he had felt honour-bound to return the favour. Not to repay a goddamn life debt. It made a lie out of nearly everything Harry had said at his trial. It made a lie out of everything Harry had thought he knew about Malfoy.

Even so, he recognised that Malfoy was also unsettled by the confession, for reasons unknown. He had hardly been able to look Harry in the eye when he had first realised it, and it was obvious it pained him to ever have owed Harry anything. So Harry gave him a wide berth. Whenever the wards alerted him that Malfoy was leaving the house, he hardly reacted. In fact Malfoy was coming and going more frequently than before, sometimes several times a day; Harry wondered whether he was taunting him or genuinely just enjoying the fact that he wouldn't be quizzed about his whereabouts later.

"Argh," he said, very intelligibly, as he slammed his food tray down at the table where Neville was sitting with his Auror training partner.

Neville looked at him in alarm. "Are you all right, Harry?"

"Yeah, yeah. Malfoy's just doing my head in."

"Oh, right." Neville nodded knowingly.

"And it's Monday. I hate Mondays."

"You and everyone else, mate." Neville looked a little green in the face. They had Potions on Monday afternoons.

"Mind if I sit here?"

"Course not."

Neville's partner this week, the weird Ravenclaw named Richard, gave Harry a very strange look when he slid into the seat across from Neville. Harry ignored it and pushed his tray to the side, instead laying his head on the table and heaving out a huge sigh.

"So, what's he done this time?" Neville asked, sounding concerned.

"Nothing," Harry moaned. "Everything. He's just so... Malfoy, you know?"

Neville was silent. Harry cracked open an eye and was horrified to see his friend looked like he was trying hard not to laugh.

"Sorry, sorry," Neville said quickly when he caught Harry looking. "It must be awful. It's just, you two remind me of Hogwarts. It's almost like nothing has changed."

Harry closed his eye again. There really was nothing he could say to that. He wished he could agree, but the truth was, his relationship with Malfoy was the one thing that had most changed since the war. The only similarity was that it was still fucked up.

"Oh," Neville said, sounding a little worried when Harry didn't react. "Have you seen him since this weekend?"

"How do you know about this weekend?" Harry asked the table.

"Ron mentioned it. Something about Diagon Alley. You two had a fight?"

Harry thought about it. "I don't know," he said slowly. "I'm not sure it was a fight. It's just... Malfoy, you know?"

"Yeah, I know." Harry thought he could almost hear Neville smiling, and he wished he'd never mentioned it. He really didn't want to think about this right now.

He stood up abruptly and left the table, ignoring Neville's startled look, or the way his friend called after him.

Even though Harry wanted nothing more than to forget that discussion and never see Malfoy again, the next week-end rolled around very quickly, and all too soon it was time to stop by the manor again. He was filled with a sentiment of dread he couldn't explain – apprehension, maybe, of how Malfoy would act. Or perhaps it was just the knowledge that there was nothing between them anymore, no fake mutual respect, no naïve belief in Malfoy's bravery.

Slytherins will be Slytherins, Harry told himself as he stood before the gate. He's right, you should have guessed without him ever having to tell you.

Malfoy had been so cold, so aloof, that it should have been obvious he didn't care one whit for Harry's survival. And that, Harry knew, was what stung. Somewhere inside him, he didn't want Malfoy to die. And he had thought, because of what had happened at the Manor after he had been Snatched, that some part of Malfoy felt the same about him. The disappointment he felt was out of proportion. There had never been anything but childish antagonism between them. Nothing that could even be vaguely construed as something other than disdain. Nothing that warranted feeling... betrayed. Because no promises had ever been made.

So why had he imagined that Malfoy was capable of caring?

And why did the truth bother him so much?

He resolutely pushed the thought away and passed through the gate effortlessly. Malfoy had had the wards altered to let him pass through without question. Harry wondered how he had felt about that. It didn't matter, anyway. He was here for official purposes only.

It felt like something was missing, now that he had no reason to be grateful to Malfoy.

He wondered whether Malfoy guessed his mood when he opened the door. The blonde was dark-eyed and sour-faced as usual at first, but it quickly faded to mild surprise when he took in Harry's expression. Harry wondered what he saw there, or thought he saw; again he brushed the thought away and schooled his features into a blank expression as he greeted the other.

"Anything new to inform the Ministry of?" he asked as he made his way to the drawing room, walking as confidently as if he owned the house.
Malfoy followed a few steps behind him; Harry could feel the irritation radiating off him. It was a petty sort of revenge – revenge for what? – but it made him feel vindicated.

"No," Malfoy said, his voice unexpectedly calm. "There's nothing the Ministry should know. I didn't buy anything in Knockturn Alley."

Harry said nothing.

"You don't believe me, do you?"

Was it his imagination, or was there an edge of hurt in Malfoy's tone? Harry reached the door to the drawing room; he rested his hand on the handle.

"I believe you."

"Really," Malfoy said, his voice much closer now, but quiet and breathy. He stood just behind Harry; if Harry backed up a step he would be standing on Malfoy's toes.

"Really."

It wasn't like Malfoy had lied to him. He'd been telling the truth, the whole time, and Harry had been too blind to see it. Now he believed him.

"My parents are in there," Malfoy said.

Harry immediately withdrew his hand from the cool metal of the handle as though he'd been burnt. "Oh, sorry. Where are we supposed to go, then?"

He turned to look at Malfoy – their faces were inches apart –, hoping the answer wasn't the main drawing room. He wasn't scared, exactly, but the thought of the place made him feel the same way the thought of returning to Hogwarts did. It was the desire to put it all behind him and never think about it again – a desire the press didn't seem to understand.

"Same place as usual," Malfoy said. His expression was attentive, revealing nothing about his own feelings, as though he were waiting to see how Harry would react.

"You mean – in front of your parents?"

Malfoy rolled his eyes and amusement flashed in his expression for a fraction of a second. "I mean talk to my parents, Potter."

"Oh." Realisation hit. "Well, it's about time."

Malfoy narrowed his eyes. "And that kind of attitude is exactly why I didn't –"

"Like I can expect any better from them," Harry cut in. "Come on, let's get this over with."

He turned the handle and opened the door.

Narcissa and Lucius Malfoy sat together on either side of a couch, Narcissa's hands clasped together in her lap. They didn't even pretend not to have heard everything through the door and met Harry's gaze squarely. A shiver ran up his spine as Lucius' cool grey eyes bore into him, challenging, and in that instant, Harry knew he'd been right after all. Draco Malfoy did have something worth saving; a warmth, a spark, a light that his father had lost.

Lucius Malfoy is a dangerous criminal, Kingsley had said. Think about it.

Strangely enough, both of Malfoy's parents looked better than their son did: rounder, fuller somehow. Narcissa's cheeks were rosy, her eyes bright with alertness, with life; Lucius was as pale as his son, but his hair was groomed and his clothes were tailored. In contrast, Draco looked almost sloppy; his robes were expensive, but they hung badly on him because of the weight he had lost, making him look like a shabby scarecrow. His white-blond hair was once again not slicked back, as though here were deliberately cultivating the difference. At the same time, there was something alluring about the sharpness of his jaw and the way the skin was drawn tightly over his now-prominent cheekbones. It set him as much apart from his father as the eyes and the hair and at that moment, for all that father and son were alike in colouring and features, Harry thought he had never seen two more strikingly opposed men side by side.

"Mr Malfoy," he said, not bothering to reach out a hand that he knew would be rejected. "Mrs Malfoy. I hope I find you well."

Malfoy moved away to stand at a careful distance in a corner of the room, watching them with hawk eyes.

"As well as can be given the circumstances," Narcissa replied; it was really the only possible answer.

"It would doubtless be better if you didn't find us at all," Lucius drawled.

"Certainly," Harry said after a pause, determined not to be so easily thrown. "I assure you, I want to be here about as much as you want to see me here. All we can do is make this as painless as possible. I only need to go over a couple official things. And one unofficial."

He looked straight at Narcissa, noting for the first time a resemblance with her sister Andromeda. Something about the jaw, maybe around the eyes, too. He focused on that, trying not to let his distaste for the woman show.

"Thank you," he said awkwardly.

She didn't pretend not to know what he was talking about, or even to appreciate his gratitude. "I didn't do it for you."

Her tone was haughty. Lucius' eyes slid over to her, questioning; Harry realised he didn't know. He couldn't resist the urge to glance at Malfoy, for whom Narcissa had been ready to sacrifice everything; the blonde stared impassively back. Harry forced himself to look away.

"I know that. But you did do it, and that's what I'm thanking you for. It was very brave of you." It wasn't a very high compliment for a Malfoy – a Slytherin – but at least Narcissa didn't seem to take offence. "And... I'm sorry about your sister."

Narcissa's eyes narrowed; Harry saw Draco start out of the corner of his eye. "No, you're not."

Harry set his jaw. "I am, actually, although I'm sure you can't understand that. Never mind, it doesn't matter." He took out a notepad and flicked through the pages. "Your son has already answered most of my questions, but Ministry protocol requires that I go through these once more with you..."

"I told you there was no point," Malfoy cut in, his voice sharp as broken glass. "They're only going to tell you what I've already said. You don't have to... They don't need to go through that."

Harry bit back a fiery retort; the last thing he needed was to get into an argument with Malfoy in front of his parents. "It isn't your decision to make," he said calmly. "I've already bent the rules enough for you."

"You have," Malfoy said. "So what does it matter if you do it again?"

"Leave it alone, Draco," Lucius said, his voice silky smooth. "Let the little Auror ask his questions if it makes the Ministry feel better."

He looked as collected as his son always acted, but Harry's eyes zeroed in on a tremor in his left hand. Not nervousness, more like an uncontrolled tic. Azkaban could do that to a person, he supposed. Meeting the cool emptiness of Lucius' eyes again, Harry wondered what other marks their stay in prison had left on the Malfoys' bodies – and minds.

The questions were intrusive and repetitive, trying to get as much personal information about the couple as the Ministry could justify needing. There were questions about their eating habits, the places they usually shopped at, and their daily routines. What time do you wake up? Do you ever sleep in? Do you cook, Mrs Malfoy? They replied curtly but not rudely, and Harry couldn't not notice that their answers were one hundred percent compatible with what their son had told him.

"Do you receive social visits from anyone? Friends, family, maybe?"

The question rolled off his tongue before he could think about it; he had been rattling off these questions for a quarter of an hour, reading without really processing them, jotting down answers as quickly as he could. The room seemed to go completely still and he felt himself flush as he realised what he'd just implied.

"They're general questions," he said quickly, looking up to meet Narcissa's eyes. "I didn't – it's a form written by the Ministry, they don't factor in whether you –"

"– actually have any family left," Draco filled in.

Narcissa had gone quite pale; her hands were clenched tightly around fistfuls of her robes in her lap. She opened her mouth as though to say something but couldn't seem to get the words out; she dropped her gaze to the floor and stared at a spot on the carpet.

"How tactful," Lucius said with a sneer that was very reminiscent of Draco's. "I suppose your next question was going to be whether either of us had a lover."

"That was the last one, actually," Harry said quietly. "I... Well, I know the answer to that already, anyway. So... Thank you for your... cooperation," he said finally, standing up.

Narcissa and Lucius rose to their feet as well, almost out of politeness. Harry nodded at them, then made to turn away; suddenly Narcissa's hand shot out, wrapping itself around his arm. He looked at her, surprised. Her eyes were as hard as steel.

"Don't be too hard on him," she said, her voice too low for Malfoy to hear from across the room.

Harry glanced at Malfoy, then back at Narcissa. "I won't."

Malfoy followed him out of the room, as though to accompany him out. Harry wasn't sure whether it was meant to be polite or whether Malfoy just wanted to make sure he got off the grounds as quickly as possible.

"Well, that was... pointless."

Harry glanced at Malfoy. Was it his imagination, or did the blond sound amused? He was practically smiling.

"Yeah, it was."

"Are you satisfied now? You got to talk to my parents."

Harry started. Had this been Malfoy's way of – apologising? Making it up to him? It was a disguised peace offering, and Harry wasn't sure how to accept it without being too obvious.

"Something tells me I'm going to keep those occasions to a minimum now," he said, trying to make it into a joke.

This time, Malfoy did smile. "That sounds like the first good idea you've had to date."

Harry hummed noncommittally.

Malfoy was silent for a moment, then: "What did my mother say to you? When you were about to leave?"

"Oh, that," Harry said. "Nothing." He changed the subject."Your parents are... special. What was it like for you, growing up?"

Malfoy's lips curled into a half-smile. "You think I was abused."

"I didn't exactly –"

"Don't worry, Potter," Malfoy said. "My childhood was very happy, if you can believe that."

Harry thought he could. Malfoy in first year had been arrogant and proud, the kind of child who still believed that his parents were superheroes and that if a train ran over him, he could peel himself off the tracks and be fine again. The kind of child who thought he was invincible. The kind of child who'd grown up with parents who protected him no matter what.

Godric, had it really been seven years since he and Malfoy had met?

"Why didn't you want me to talk to them before?"

"Just because."

"Do you expect me to buy that? You don't do things 'just because.' You're avoiding my questions, just like you did when you didn't want me to know about the debt."

At the word debt, Malfoy's eyes flashed and the corners of his mouth turned down. "Why are you even bothering with this, Potter? From the moment we laid eyes on each other you disliked me. You did," he said when Harry's opened his mouth to speak, "and don't even try to deny it. You were the one who brushed off my offer of friendship, not the other way around."

"Even if I had accepted it, do you really think we could have been friends? Doesn't that seem – impossible?"

But even as he said the words, he wondered. Were they true, or was there a side to Malfoy he didn't know? What if he had let the Sorting Hat put him in Slytherin – would he have eventually become friends with Malfoy?

"Which is exactly my point," Malfoy said. "We can't stand each other, clearly. I'm a Slytherin and a Death Eater and I represent everything you believe is wrong and evil. So why are you here?"

"There was a Slytherin once," Harry said, "who joined the ranks of the Death Eaters when he was sixteen."

Malfoy scowled at him, as though he thought Harry were mocking him.

"He had been raised in a wealthy, pure-blood family, like you. He was Sorted into Slytherin, as was expected of him, and lived up to his parents' expectations in every way. His family didn't follow Voldemort – stop that, will you? It's just a name, and a fake one at that – I said, they didn't follow him actively, but they agreed with many of his ideals. This boy, Regulus –" He saw Malfoy's eyes widen at the mention of the name – "got in with a bad lot at Hogwarts. Probably the same sort of people your parents hung out with, actually – he was your mother's cousin, you know? Regulus Black."

They had reached the door, but Malfoy didn't open it. He stood staring at Harry.

"He died really young," he said slowly. "Mother told me he had an accident."

"He didn't."

"I figured."

"Regulus became a Death Eater when he was sixteen, and he soon realised that he didn't have it in him to do the kind of thing that was required of him. He also realised that he didn't really agree with Voldemot's ideas – namely on the subject of house-elves. He had a very devoted house-elf whom he didn't consider worthless, if you can believe that. So Regulus turned against the Dark Lord."

"What happened to him?" Malfoy asked, his voice a hoarse whisper.

"He died," Harry said, "but he went down fighting. He stole something very important to Voldemort, at the cost of his life." Harry shrugged. "Obviously I don't expect you to ever do anything like that, but I just wanted you to know – I don't have anything against Slytherins in general."

Malfoy reached out and opened the door, stepping aside to let Harry through. "It's just me, then."

Harry looked at him, once again struck by the difference between Malfoy and his father. There was light in his eyes and something soft in the way long, pale lashes framed them, despite the harshness of his jaw.

"Yeah," he said. "It's just you."