Chapter 2
.o.o.o.o.o.
The wizard in charge of Draco's probation was a reedy little man by the name of Leopold Barns. He made his disdain for the Malfoy name quite clear upon their first meeting, and Draco could not help but further antagonize the man, but he understood all the same. Barns bore all the scars of the type of torture used on muggleborns who'd refused to surrender their wands under Voldemort's puppet administration.
All things considered, he was rather kind, Draco supposed. He knew if he were in the same position as this mudblood then he'd not hesitate to flaunt his power over a lesser being. That was what a Malfoy was, now. A lesser being.
"I'm not sure who's pulling strings for you, Mr. Malfoy, but I've just gotten the forms to send you over to Hogwarts for your wizarding community service. Apparently, the repairs are not yet complete."
"Mmmm," Draco hummed maliciously, "I take it they've reopened for students already? Are you certain you want me hanging around all those impressionable children? Aren't you and your ministry worried I might corrupt them with my- what did you call it last time- ah yes, 'pureblood agenda?'"
"You'll be supervised, of course," Barns said stiffly, "And I've made certain that your request for a temporary wand was denied. I suspect you'll have much manual labor to look forward to."
"Good man!" Draco acknowledged, "Perhaps you're not so useless at your job after all."
Barns sighed and picked up his quill, ready to copy Draco's sass into his report.
"We're going to be jolly good friends for a long time, Mr. Malfoy."
.o.o.o.o.o.
Draco knew something was odd when he'd Floo'd back to the manor and his mother was standing in the parlor, admiring a vase of bright yellow marigolds. In the days since they'd returned to the manor she'd not left her bedroom much. It had been Draco knocking on her doors to bring her meals, meals that he himself had thrown together. The manor's house-elves had been seized by the ministry, along with many other, far more valuable pieces of furniture.
She would smile kindly at him, eyes red and swollen from her tears, and set the platter of terribly seasoned and overcooked food aside. He couldn't blame her. Even he couldn't stomach his own creations.
Today she stood staring at the yellow flowers while holding a letter close to her chest. Draco approached from behind.
"What is it?" he asked.
"Nothing," Narcissa answered, clutching the letter tighter, "Just an old acquaintance sending his condolences at your father's passing."
Draco snorted, eyeing the flowers skeptically, and wondering about the sort of men that might attempt to prey upon his gorgeous, and very conveniently recently widowed mother. Yet, he held his tongue. For some reason, she was no longer crying.
And he wished for it to stay like that.
He caught her a few days later sitting in front of her vanity, applying make-up for the first time since before the end of the war.
"What is going on?" Draco asked curiously.
"Put on a set of nice robes, if you have any left. We are going to the opera."
"They'll never let us in." Draco replied, exasperated.
"They most certainly will," Narcissa said huffily while she powdered her nose, "I shall be arriving with my sister."
"Your sister," Draco repeated, dumbfounded for a moment. Aunt Bellatrix was, fortunately, lying six feet under.
"You remember your Auntie 'Dromeda, don't you?"
"Oh... that one. I thought I was never to speak her name again," he drawled. His mother glared at him.
"Times have changed, Draco. If we don't learn to consort with the muggleborns and the blood-traitors then we will never survive in this new era," she scowled, throwing down her makeup, and immediately she became an image of sadness.
"Lucius ought to have let us die with him. We are the ones suffering now, not him," she gave a bitter laugh, "And he probably died thinking himself some great hero."
"Don't talk like that, mother," Draco whispered, bringing his hands up to rest them on her shoulders. It hurt to know just how much she was suffering, just how much she wasn't meant for this new world. She was all he had left, and he could not bear to lose her. Was that selfish of him? Perhaps they ought to all just join Lucius in death. Who would miss them?
"I'll get dressed," Draco said to his mother, giving her a weak smile before kissing her lightly on the top of her head.
.o.o.o.o.o.
Draco had never set eyes on his Aunt Andromeda before. All he knew of her was some pictures he'd seen of her as a young girl. She'd run off with the muggleborn before Draco had even been conceived. When he finally was able to see her, standing on cobblestone of the theater district of Diagon, he was taken aback by how much she resembled Bellatrix. Hopefully she proved a tad more sane, or this was to be a dreadful evening indeed.
"Dromeda," his mother greeted her sister with a plastic smile, her voice as warm as she could make it.
"Sissy," Andromeda replied, returning a hesitant smile of her own, and looking rather like she was regretting the night already. She turned to Draco. "And you must be Draco. What a fine, young man you've grown into. You look so much like your mother."
This tension was already unbearable. Something needed to be done about it.
"Auntie 'Dromeda," Draco effected with his most disarming smile. He went to her, took her hand and brushed his lips against the back of her glove. "I'm glad to have finally met you. Mother speaks of you most fondly when recalling her childhood."
"She does?" the other woman said, blinking back her surprise.
"Oh yes, and I would be delighted to hear more of my mother's scandalous past. Is it true you once caught her snogging Amos Diggory in the charms corridor at Hogwarts?" Draco continued. To his immense relief, Andromeda broke out laughing. Narcissa eyed her son, annoyed. In truth, he had heard that particular rumor from his father, on a night that Lucius had been rather drunk and angry with his wife.
"Oh yes, I do remember that!" Andromeda sighed, as if reliving the memory. She winked at Draco. "Cissy, Bella, and I got into all sorts of trouble at school."
"Yes, I suppose we couldn't be the good little Black daughters at all times," Narcissa conceded with a more relaxed smile.
For a moment the conversation ran dry again, and this time Draco was at a loss.
"Cissy," Andromeda began, but then the next words caught in her throat. Narcissa's face crumpled suddenly and she flung herself into her sister's arms, shoulders hitching with her sobs. Andromeda embraced her and her own eyes sparkled with tears.
"It's been... so long," Narcissa choked.
"I know."
Draco kept a respectable distance while the tearful reunion occurred. The square was crowded with people, many of whom were preparing to enter the Silver Wand Theater themselves. The two, sobbing sisters had become something to gawk at.
"Mrs. Tonks, I've the tickets," said a very familiar voice.
Potter was standing behind Andromeda, looking quite respectable for once in dress robes nearly as fine as those he'd worn for the Yule Ball in fourth year, and staring bewildered at the scene before him.
"Oh, yes, Harry. Thank you for going to fetch them," Andromeda said as she broke apart from her sister and hastily dried her eyes. Narcissa pulled the netting of her hat over her face to hide her smeared make-up. "My husband has opted to stay home with our grandson tonight. I asked Harry to come along instead," Andromeda explained, "He's never been to the wizarding opera. I am educating him in the finer things."
As if enough people hadn't already been staring at the sobfest, now they had grown hushed with the appearance of Harry Potter in their midst.
"Mrs. Malfoy, it's good to see you well," Potter said, shocking them all. He then did as Draco had, taking his mother's petite, gloved hand and raising it to his lips. Afterwards he extended a hand to Draco.
Draco stared at it stupidly until his mother nudged him. He grasped the offered hand in a vice-like grip. Potter returned it in kind, but something strange happened. There was a spark of... something. Potter felt it too, and it caused their hands to remain linked for a fraction longer than need be.
"Potter," Draco said stiffly when he came to his senses.
By the time he had let go, Draco was already dwelling upon the reasons Potter was here. Andromeda had taken Potter on purpose. Of course she wouldn't bring her mudblood husband with her while she and her sister attempted to mend their relationship. But Draco realized that Potter had just afforded them another opportunity as well. He glanced down at the tickets the other man was holding.
"You won't be needing those. We've a private box in this establishment," Draco said, turning his nose up. "Come, we'll miss the opening." They walked into the theater, Narcissa and Draco in front, and were greeted immediately by the Silver Wand's owner, who had apparently been waiting for them.
"Evening Fawley," said Draco, attempting to sound like his father, "I trust you saved our box for us."
"You are leaving, Malfoy."
"No, we most certainly just arrived."
"Death Eaters are not welcome in my theater. If you do not remove yourselves then I shall call my security."
"Oh dear, what shall I tell my guests, then?" Draco said, gesturing back to Andromeda and Potter. Potter did not look pleased to be part of this new ploy, but he stepped forward nonetheless, his expression grim.
"Is there a problem?" Potter asked. It only took a moment for Bernard Fawley's eyes to find the scar. "I understand that the Malfoys have been among your chief patrons since this theater first opened."
"Harry Potter! It is an honor-"
"You may not wish to smear your company's reputation by allowing a few exonerated Death Eaters entrance, but if I were you, I might be more concerned about what the Prophet would say if you refused to admit me as well."
Fawley looked as though he'd just been slapped in the face. It took him a moment to compose himself before he flagged down an usher to personally escort them to the box. Draco fell into step alongside Potter.
"So, you've learned to play."
"I've always known," Potter bit out, "Just never wanted to, is all." He turned his green gaze on Draco, and the fairer man felt his breath hitch because... well... there was something dangerous behind those eyes. "Do not ever use me like that again, Malfoy, or I'll make sure you regret it."
"Of course," Draco said demurely, holding the curtain open for Potter to enter the box before him. There were four seats in the box, two in front and two in the back. Whenever Draco had attended with his parents, they would take the two in the rear while Draco would lounge in the two front ones alone.
This time, Narcissa and Andromeda sat in the two front ones, leaving Potter and Draco to, awkwardly, take the two in the back. The lights overhead were extinguished by a flick of a wand and the pit orchestra began a somber melody.
"I saw the note you sent my mother," Draco said quietly where there was sufficient noise to drown out his voice from any ears but the man seated next to him. "And the flowers. Thank you."
"They weren't for you," Potter replied, a bit perplexed. Draco scowled.
"She stopped crying. I suppose she'd lost hope that anyone cared, and you showed her otherwise. I want to know why."
"Why, what?"
"Why you care. Why you intervened in our trial."
"Your mother saved my life."
"But I didn't, at least not on purpose. Why even pretend I gave you that wand in the first place? And that bit with Dumbledore, you know I was trying to kill him, and you know I was the one who let those Death Eaters into Hogwarts."
"It's almost like you don't want a second chance," Potter observed, ironically.
"Arrogance. Maybe there was nothing wrong with my first chance. Maybe mother and I don't want to live in your new world, Potter. Did you ever think of that?" Draco hissed. Potter considered for a moment.
"No, I didn't think of that. I don't really think I have to think about it. Things are the way they are. No one is making you stay in my new world."
The opera droned on in the background, two lovers saying farewell before one was forced to leave for some obscure war. Of course, it was all in Italian. Potter probably couldn't understand a word.
"There are so many potions that can do the job quick and easy," Potter continued, quietly. "But I personally think the killing curse does it best. I would know. It's instant... and painless."
For a moment Draco sat very still, wondering if he'd heard the other man correctly, and then wondering if he'd interpreted correctly. What would Potter know of suicidal thoughts? Dumbledore's precious golden boy all his life. Always with a purpose, always surrounded by friends.
Perhaps it wasn't so simple...
"I didn't realize the Savior thought about such things in his spare time," Draco responded nastily. Potter closed his eyes and leaned back a fraction in his seat, as if preparing to take a nap until intermission.
"Every single day, Malfoy."
.o.o.o.o.o.
The next day marked the start of Draco's community service at Hogwarts. Three days every week until sometime in the spring. He would Floo into the Three Broomsticks, where his chaperon would be waiting to take him up to the castle.
He was just about to leave the manor when he saw his mother sitting at the breakfast table, a plate of hot food in front of her. The fine china and silverware had been taken out, and the entire room was spotless and gleaming like it had been only before the Dark Lord had planted his ass in that chair and made himself at home. Even the drapes had been drawn, letting in the September sunlight.
"Mother," Draco began, confused.
"I do believe young Harry might have overheard my comment to Dromeda about our need for a house-elf," Narcissa remarked quietly, putting the fork to her painted lips again with an expression of pure bliss.
An old, decrepit thing emerged from the kitchen that Draco immediately recognized as the Blacks' old house elf. It set down a glass of champagne for Narcissa and bowed to Draco.
"Kreacher is honored to be serving a family as old and noble as the Malfoys. Master Harry says I am to be serving you for as long as you need, and Kreacher must say that he is happy to be out of a house overrun with filthy mudbloods and blood-traitors."
"Delightful, isn't he?" Narcissa sighed, "I always envied my Auntie Walburga for her house-elf. I don't understand why ours never could be trained like this. Perhaps Lucius should have been more heavy-handed with them."
"I'll be at Hogwarts today, mother. I expect I'll be back late."
"Of course, darling," she said airily, and Draco was relieved to know that she at least would not be lonely while he was away. He walked over to the fireplace and stepped inside.
When he emerged on the side of the Three Broomsticks he was a bit surprised to find Potter standing as if he was expecting him. Draco scoured the room, hoping to see someone else, but the Three Broomsticks was dead at this early hour, probably not even open yet.
"It won't always be me," Potter said after noticing Draco's expression, clearly taking some offense. "I'll be sure they send Filch next time, if you prefer. I only wanted to ask if Kreacher is behaving himself thus far."
"To be blunt, Potter, I do wonder how that elf ever behaved for you."
"We came to an understanding, eventually," Potter answered, not so amused.
"That aside, I must say that I didn't realize you were at Hogwarts yourself this year," Draco said, brushing off his robes and finally stepping out of the hearth. "Remedial potions?" he guessed, raising a brow. The ministry had acknowledged that the previous Hogwarts year had done nothing to advance the education of the students, however, the ministry had offered its own set of accelerated courses over the summer for those unwilling to return to Hogwarts.
It hadn't much mattered for the seventh years. As Draco heard it, most of them had already taken jobs in the ministry, which was willing to overlook the fact that their new hires remained ungraduated when they were so desperate for people.
"I work there, actually," Potter replied flatly, "I teach Defense Against the Dark Arts."
"What even qualifies you for that job?" Draco sneered. "You're barely eighteen, with little experience, no NEWTS and no published research. Father was right about the falling standards at this school. McGonagall must have gone off her rocker when she hired you." He thought he remembered that Potter once had ambitions to become an Auror. He wondered what had changed his mind.
"I defeated Voldemort, didn't I?"
"With Expeliarmus, from what I hear..." Draco retorted disdainfully, "If only the Dark Lord had known that it was one of three spells that you could be arsed to remember." Potter didn't rise to the taunt, Instead the corners of his mouth twitched in a semblance of a smile.
"Doesn't sound so glorious when you put it that way, does it? You ought to pen an article and sell it to the Prophet. Give them a new perspective on the whole thing."
Draco blinked, suddenly thrown off his rhythm. He'd been prepping for a verbal spar.
"In time, Potter."
Outside the Three Broomsticks, Potter had a set of brooms waiting for them.
"You do remember how to fly, I hope," the scarhead asked. Malfoy snatched the offered broom from him. It was black and sleek and the grip in his hand was familiar. It was a Nimbus 2001. Perhaps one of the same his father had bought for the Slytherin quidditch team several years ago.
He and Potter flew out of the town and over the glassy lake. The castle loomed in the distance. The wind whipping across Draco's face was exhilarating and he found he could not resist a grin. He imagined that he was young again, on the quidditch field, hunting the snitch. Perhaps his grin was infectious, because when he glanced to Potter he saw his expression mirrored.
A bird flew across their line of sight and suddenly Potter spiraled into an elegant dive. Instinct commanded that Draco do the same. Eventually the bird was forgotten and they were racing. Together. Their thighs bumped against one another as they rode the wind currents.
And then they reached the grounds and it was all over. All forgotten. Potter held out his hand for Draco's broom. Filch was shuffling up to them, bones creaking, Mrs. Norris in his wake. Hogwarts was all around him and it was like he'd gone back in time... like nothing had changed.
Draco was still panting from the exertion. He imagined his hair was wild from the wind, and he was very glad his robes hid his erection. He hadn't felt this good in... he couldn't even remember the the last time.
"Well, well, well," began Filch, eyeing Draco with glee, except it was the sort of glee he reserved for an upcoming detention he was about to oversee. "Looks like I finally got myself an assistant."
Draco realized that he was about to receive the detention of his life.
.o.o.o.o.o.
Draco really couldn't do much without a wand. On paper, it said he'd been sent to help with the castle's renovations, but in truth the tasks he was capable of fell more into a 'general housekeeping' category.
He sat scrubbing puke off the floor of the History of Magic classroom one day, a few weeks into his service, with nothing but a rag and a bucket.
"Put your back into it," said Filch as he sat at a desk with his feet propped up, lazily filing one of his over-long finger nails. A few minutes later he stood. "Alright, next class is coming in. Pack it up."
He and Filch waded through the halls of students. They tended to part around Draco like he had the plague, even moreso today as he had his sleeves rolled up to display a very distinctive mark on his left arm.
He recognized some of the students occasionally. They'd been in the years beneath him, but he did not really know any of them, even those from his own house. And they pretended not to know him. They were too frightened to approach. He suspected that they weren't allowed to speak to him anyway.
It was McGonagall who first gave him a wand.
"Oh, Mr. Malfoy, there you are," she said, looking harried as always, "I need you to fix the wall outside the courtyard, yes the one that we keep sealing temporarily. The nights are getting colder and we really must keep out that draft. We haven't the stone for it, therefore it will take quite a bit of transfiguration."
"I don't have a wand, Headmistress," he reminded her, a little less respectfully than he should have. She placed her own wand in his hand, not noticing his attitude in her rush.
"There you are. Have it on my desk by the end of the day. 'Whiskers' will get you past the gargoyle. Now off you go." Draco handed the bucket of puke water to a scowling Filch and went his own way, staring at the wand in his fingers. She had entrusted it to him. Just like that. No second thoughts.
Had she forgotten what he was? What he'd done?
Professor Sprout was next, only a week later.
"Morning, Mr. Malfoy. I understand you are available to assist the staff with projects for the time being. Could you winterize greenhouses eight, nine and ten for me? You'll need to vanish the water from the piping."
"I haven't a wand, professor," Draco explained sullenly.
"Well you'd best take mine then," she said with a nod, using her dirt-covered fingers to extract her short, fat wand from her grimy robes. "I won't be needing it until the afternoon classes."
Draco was starting to see that the Hogwarts staff, who'd somehow remained almost entirely intact after the war, saw him first and foremost as the student he once was, not the Death Eater he'd become. How extraordinarily naive of them. His probation wizard would have a fit if he knew.
Draco tucked away the borrowed wand and headed for the greenhouses, feeling just a bit lighter than he had before.
.o.o.o.o.o.
It was an unseasonably warm October day, and Draco was repairing the thatching on the roof of Hagrid's hut when he realized that Hagrid no longer lived there. In fact, he couldn't remember seeing the mangey giant around the castle at all. Draco's fingers were aching from all of the times he'd accidentally smashed them with the muggle contraption called a 'hammer'. In his defense, Filch had not provided a very thorough explanation on how to properly use the thing before wobbling away back into the cool interior of the castle.
Evening rolled around and who but Potter comes strutting down to the hut, giving Malfoy a curt nod before walking in as if he owned the hovel.
The git walked out the back door a few minutes later, completely naked. He filled a rusted, old tub with hot water and slipped in with a sigh, uncaring that he had an audience.
"Do you live here, Potter?" Draco asked, disgust evident in his voice.
"Yep," Potter replied, leaning back and sighing.
"What happened to that great oaf, Hagrid?"
"The ministry appointed him their official giant liaison. I suspect he'll be gone for some time."
Draco realized that from his rooftop vantage he could see everything in Potter's sorry excuse for a bathtub.
"Why on earth wouldn't you stay in the castle?" Draco continued, because really, he just couldn't understand it. He figured McGonagall would have set up her precious Potter within the castle's most luxurious accommodations.
"Can't stand to sleep in there. I see so many dead faces in my dreams. Out here it's peaceful," Potter answered calmly as he lathered up his body. Again, Draco was thrown momentarily by Potter's offhandedly dark comment, just like back in the theater, but he soon became distracted.
He had to wonder how Potter was so toned. Teaching class all day didn't exactly give one a fit figure.
"I'm the referee for all the quidditch matches, if that's what you're wondering."
Draco scowled and hated himself for the flush that had crept into his face.
"Fuck off, Potter."
"Then stop staring."
"Whip out your wand and fix this roof. Then I'll be on my way."
Potter put his arms over the edge of the washtub and leaned his head onto them so that he could study the man on his roof in a leisurely fashion.
"I like seeing you work with your hands. It's very satisfying, because I know you've never had to do work like this before," Potter responded. There. That cruelty, that vicious envy that surfaced every-so-often. Draco was starting to see a pattern. There were days where Potter was all humble and saintly, and there were days where he seemed to hate the world and everyone in it.
"You wouldn't believe what I can do with my hands, Potter." The retort came out of Draco's mouth before he realized the meaning the words would take on.
"Why don't you show me?" Harry said, green eyes gazing intensely up at him through thick brows. His voice had dropped lower and smoothed into something resembling a purr. "And maybe I'll let you use your hawthorn wand to finish the roof."
Draco was on the ground a moment later, striding over to Potter, who was looking quite smug. Let it not be said that a Malfoy would not rise to a challenge when it was issued. If he could agree to murder Dumbledore for the Dark Lord, he could bloody well give Potter a good wank in exchange for a wand. And really, it was almost a relief that Draco had not been imagining the 'come hither' eyes Potter had been making towards him since he'd first started at the castle.
Draco plunged his hand into the steaming water and Potter leaned back, giving him full access to the front of his body. Draco's fingers skated over lean abs, and he quite liked the feel of them, so he plunged his other hand into the water as well. He touched Potter where he wanted first. Shoulders, pecks, fingers ghosting over nipples, and then his hands slid lower and lower until they met the hard flesh between Potter's legs.
The Savior groaned.
Draco took the erection in his fist like he'd do with his own. He gave it a few, long strokes, squeezing the head as he neared the top. He found his own body responding to the noises escaping from Potter's lips.
"Yes, Draco..."
Draco squeezed so hard that Potter yelped and jerked away.
"Don't call me by my first name," Draco hissed, "We aren't friends."
Potter grabbed his wrist in a bone-crushing grip, and it was then that Draco knew that something was wrong, and not just with Potter.
Something had ignited within him, something that could have only been magic, for nothing else could leave him with such searing want. The washtub tipped, sending hot water everywhere. Potter was on him shortly after, both of them sprawled on the grass and panting heavily. Potter still had not let go of his wrist, and now he captured the other one and pinned them together.
"Stop it," Harry breathed in a voice of barely leashed restraint, "Whatever you're doing, stop it now!" His words were making no sense. Draco blinked stupidly. He wasn't doing anything, it was all Potter. "Malfoy!" They struggled against each other for a moment longer before Potter finally drew himself away with teeth gritted.
"You just used the Imperius curse on me!" Potter accused, still panting from his exertions.
"Are you mad?" Draco stuttered in disbelief.
"I know what the Imperious curse feels like!"
"I have no fucking wand, Potter! Or did you forget why I was putting my hands on you in the first place!" Draco shouted. His heart was threatening to beat out of his chest and his mind was already running through what might happen if Potter decided to bring such an accusation to the proper authorities. It would ruin him, truth or not, no one would take the word of a Malfoy over the Savior.
"You're insane, Potter," Draco decided as he picked himself up off the ground, "The Dark Lord must have addled your brain with that last Avada." It seemed Potter had nothing to say to that. He just sat there in the grass in all his naked glory, holding his head as if it pained him.
"Fix the rest of your roof yourself," Draco called over his shoulder as he stalked away.
.o.o.o.o.o.