After Camille boarded the Eurostar back to Paris late on Sunday evening, Draco took a different, unfamiliar route back to his hotel, and let himself get lost in the city he'd missed so much. He still couldn't wrap his head around the events of last week, still feeling as if it was all just a dream. Yet it was real. He had done it. He had managed to come back home, not as a criminal who'd fled the country, but as an integrated member of society, with his dignity intact.
Turning from the lit boulevard to a side road lined with pine trees, he allowed himself to remember the boy he'd been, the young, naive boy who thought he owned those streets and the people inhibiting them. He didn't have any patience for that boy.
He then remembered walking the same streets as a young man who'd lost everything, and how oddly freeing that had been. How little he had cared about things one would assume you'd care about the most - what will people say? what about the mice? - when he slept on park benches and stole petty change to feed himself. How he had managed to slowly build a new life for himself once everything from the old one had been taken away from him. But not alone - that was the one lesson Draco tried to remember every day.
Alone, he would have died in a ditch, that's for sure. First, there had been Dave - the homeless man that taught him how to be homeless: where to sleep, how to steal wallets in a crowd, how to talk to people to get them to help you, how to avoid being beaten up and robbed. Then George from Dublin, who took him in when he had gotten sick that winter, when he thought for sure he would die alone, in the cold. Then June, the social worker that had had the genius idea to declare him as having been raised in a cult - and was she wrong? - so he could get muggle papers and apply for social aid. June, who he owed his entire life to, because it had been her that had pushed him to study, to go back to university, to find a job he actually liked instead of washing dishes in soup kitchens - bref, the one who pushed him to feel like a human again. Then Alfonso, who had not judged him for who he'd been before, but for who he was then, who had not been greedy with his knowledge and taught Draco everything he knew. Then his bosses at the Ministry, who had had his back despite the backlash they faced, who showed him that he could, and should, defend himself. And finally, Ron and Hermione, whose kindness and generosity still moved him to tears, even then. Being close to them has been one of the best things that's happened to him, the thing that has allowed him to start seeing himself as the man that he wanted to be.
Walking by restaurants filled to the brim with people, he reminisced about that rainy October evening in Paris on which they had dinner together for the first time. He remembered how surprised he had been when he received Ron's letter, about a month after his appointment at the French Auror Office. They hadn't spoken since the end of the War, so he had no idea what to expect from him. He most definitely did not expect the letter to congratulate him on his new position - that was at a time when he was still not sure he would be able to continue working there due to pressure from Britain's Ministry - and invite him to dinner the following week with him and Hermione.
He'd arrived early at the restaurant they had chosen, fantasizing about all the wrong ways the conversation could turn, but all his fears melted away when they greeted him like an old friend, with enthusiastic handshakes and awkward hugs. He tried to apologize, but they waved his apologies away as if there was no more need for them.
"You already apologized for that, Draco!"
Instead, they asked him about how he was: about his time in France, about how he's been coping away from home, about his relationship with Fenouillet (whom Ron had met multiple times). In turn, they keenly answered all of his questions about the situation back in Britain, about themselves and also about their common acquaintances. It was the first time in a long time Draco had any real news - he tried not to read the British media, and contented himself to follow whatever the French press deemed worthy of mentioning - about home and about people he had often wondered about. It was then that he found out the press had taken a new interest in him, and that some journalists uncovered how his life had been like after his release. It was this which had apparently pushed Ron and Hermione to write to him in the first place.
"Honestly, Draco, we didn't know things were so tough for you…"
"Yeah, we thought you were just hiding or something. Otherwise we would have reached out…"
Hearing that had been a defining moment for Draco, he would later understand. Watching the successful man Ron had become express that thought, he couldn't help but remember the young boy he used to be. How he had despised him then, back when he thought being poor was a fault of character, back when he thought your family's lineage defined you above everything else. He couldn't help but remember the things he had said to him, and even worse, to Hermione, and wonder how they had known from the very beginning how to discern so clearly what was right from what was wrong, when for him it had been so complicated, when for him it only had only come after paying a very steep price. And, more importantly, how did they manage to find it in their heart to forgive him so completely, when he himself had long accepted the unforgiving nature of his actions? Looking at Ron and Hermione, the two people in front of him, but also the children they all used to be, he felt his eyes filling up with tears. Despite his best efforts to conceal it, Ron stopped mid sentence:
"Hey, hey, buddy! Whoa!"
"I'm sorry," he tried to articulate, but that only made him burst into actual tears. Hiding his face behind the table cloth, he heard them both drawing their chairs closer to him.
"Oh, Draco… oh, I don't know what to say," Hermione said while gently petting his left shoulder.
"Mate, c'mon… it's all good now," Ron said while slapping his right shoulder in manly support.
But it took Draco a while to regain some composure. He mumbled, still wiping his tears on the tablecloth:
"I'm sorry, I don't know what happened."
"That's fine, mate, you're just a huge crybaby and nobody will hold that against you, especially not me," Ron said, making Draco laugh and cry simultaneously.
And that's the simple story of how they became friends.
Over the next few years, they threw many more dinners at the same restaurant, every time Ron and Hermione came to Paris. Sometimes Camille or other people working at the French ministry joined them, sometimes it was just the three of them, sometimes just Draco and Ron. They talked a lot about their jobs, but also about their private lives, about serious things and also about silly things. But it still came as a surprise to Draco when Ron first offered him the job.
"That's ridiculous, Ron. I'm not stepping foot in Britain again."
"No, that is ridiculous. I got them to sign an official offer, look!"
He pushed a paper to Draco's side of the table. Draco took it and actually read every single line of text on it. It was, indeed, an official work offer from the Ministry of Magic.
"Now, I'm not saying it was easy… but it wasn't that hard either."
"But you'd be my boss!"
"Yes, so what? I'm Harry's boss too, and it didn't change anything. But only because I'm an awesome boss."
"And what does Harry think about this?"
It hadn't escaped Draco that Harry had never joined his own two best friends on these trips, even though others, like Neville or Zabini, had.
"He thinks it's a great idea, of course! Do you think I could have gotten Ulmer to sign these without Harry's backing? You can't buy a bloody quill without Harry's approval, that's pretty much how it works back in Britain, in case you forgot."
"No, I'm sorry, but this is crazy."
"It's the salary, isn't it?"
"No! But I have to say, I do earn at least two times more here..."
"OK, I admit, they were very stingy with the salary, but I'll renegotiate! "
"It's really not about the salary!"
And it was true, but Ron didn't seem to care. He went on to re-negotiate the salary until they actually offered him just a bit more than the French. But, more importantly, he kept trying, telling Draco about all the interesting cases waiting for him, promising him he will get whatever fancy, rare ingredients his heart wishes, and so on, until Draco, tired of inventing reasons to say no when all he wanted to do was say yes, accepted.
And here he was, walking around Russell Square, Head Potionner at the British Ministry, all thanks to Ron's loving and consistent nagging. He felt so insanely lucky to have friends like him and like Hermione, who had reread his contract ten times in order to make sure it was ironclad and he was protected from all sides. And of course, Camille, who had been by his side with a dedication and loyalty Draco hadn't thought possible, through beautiful and peaceful periods, but also through difficult, ugly ones. Which only made him appreciate him more. He was surrounded, for the first time in his life, by people he loved, and who loved him back as he was. He felt protected and he wanted to protect them. So why did he still feel so…bad? Guilty? Wrong? Rotten?
He knew what Camille would say - what he had just said, actually, not even 24 hours ago, when Draco had expressed those thoughts to him - : that it's normal, that he will need some time to adjust, that old wounds don't heal in a day. But he so wanted that to be the case, he so wanted to finally move on for good. To just do his job, kiss his husband goodnight, meet his friends and then repeat, without wondering every single day if that is was day he will, once again, lose everything.
He turned left at an intersection and suddenly found himself on the quiet street Harry's apartment used to be. The memories came flooding back, like the waters of the ocean swallowing a solitary boat in one swift movement. He looked for the window he thought might have belonged to Harry's living room, but the light was off and, anyways, maybe he had moved apartments
It had been bittersweet, seeing Harry again. He was now mature enough to recognise how in love he had been with Harry, how ready he had been to do anything to make Harry love him back. It had taken him a long time to move past it, to stop being angry at Harry for using him, for ditching him without as much as a goodbye… But then again, what had he expected? For Harry Potter to fall in love with him? For the man that had been brave enough to stand up in the face of evil and talk back to fall in love with the coward that couldn't even make up his mind which side to be on, who just let himself be carried through the conflict in the arms of his parents? He and Harry were different breeds of men, and he had decided to stop holding that against Harry. Of course, he would have been happy if Harry had shown the same forgiving nature towards him as Ron and Hermione, if he would have accepted him just as easily as they had. But he could see from the moment they locked eyes again for the first time in years that that just wasn't the case. And this time, he had come to terms with that. Who other than Harry had been marked more violently by the man his parents had supported? Not only had he killed his parents, but he had marked him like cattle, then haunted the first 17 years of his existence. And what was Draco, if not a walking and talking reminder, branded just like Harry was, by the man that had done that to him? How Harry had even slept with him, Draco had stopped understanding. But still, he was determined to do his best, for Ron and Hermione's sake, to make Harry feel at ease around him. He knew how much they loved him, how much they cared about him, how much they worried about him, so his number one priority was not to add to that worry. Not to make it their problem to solve whatever wasn't working between them, even if it meant going against his better judgment and going towards Harry, instead of as far away as possible, and even if that meant having to spend an unhealthy amount of time turning over in his head the many indecipherable things Harry said and did. Like when he'd told him his life wasn't as interesting as Draco's, just after openly staring at his Dark Mark. What that could have meant, Draco had no idea.
He lifted the sleeve to look at the dark tattoo imprinted on his skin. He used to hide it before, but had finally accepted it for what it was: his cue to never let himself forget what he'd done and how lucky he was to have been given a second chance.
He'd been so lost in thoughts he almost didn't realize he was back on the main street leading to his hotel. Taking it as a sign, he carried on until he reached it. He went straight to bed, and fell asleep quickly. The nightmares barely even bothered him anymore.