A/N: Couple of notes/TWs for this one:

[1] This chapter discusses at length the topic of the 1999 London nail bombings. Whilst I have done research and have obviously tried to deal with this with the appropriate amount of respect and sensitivity, I was also not in London at that time and am not part of the populations targeted in these events. If anything looks wrong to you, do not hesitate to let me know.

[2] There is sex in this chapter. Mostly consensual but there is one particular passage at the end which touches on the events of chapter 8, in a rather explicit way. If this is a sensitive topic for you, maybe make sure you're... in the right mood. Lots of love.

As always, reviews, comments, tumblr anons are all very welcome!

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xiii. out of slate (wipe it blank)

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In the autumn of 2017, when Albus does get sorted into Slytherin, Harry finds it funny, more than anything. He doesn't get mad or tell his son he doesn't belong but - can you imagine? His own kid down in that Common Room? Merlin.

Slughorn sends him a letter of congratulations. Ron's reaction is mortifying , as always, jokes at family gatherings about Al getting written off the Weasley family tree or something; Ginny sends him a howler, a five-minute-long tirade full of motherly grit, a lioness protecting her cubs to the death. Hermione responds with another howler, agreeing with the point, but not with its means of delivery, not when it 'WAKES UP THE WHOLE NEIGHBOURHOOD ALONG WITH IT.' Harry laughs and wonders out loud if they're all going to communicate SCREAMING from now, and Ginny rolls her eyes at him. He thinks: Slytherin was Snape's house, Giulia's house, Andromeda's house. According to many, many, people - could have been his, too. And, most importantly, it's just a fucking house.

No , the real annoying part, then, is that of All People in Slytherin, Al decides that his best friend will be Scorpius Malfoy. Harry wonders if the whole thing is actually James's idea and design, a teenage attempt to fuck with his father's patience. Ron finds this fact equally hilarious and Harry throws back: 'Cheers, you're not the one who has to have him in your house for dinner over the holidays.'

'Not my fault. I would have let him die in that fire,' Ron laughs. Harry looks up at the ceiling, then, regretting a lifetime of altruistic decisions.

'I don't like having him around either , ' Ginny hisses as she walks in between them, levitating a tray of appetisers onto the kitchen worktop, annoyed. It's Al's birthday, today. The weather is nice, the beginning of July, and Draco Malfoy is standing at the other end of the back garden, helping himself to their bloody barbecue. 'But, we're all grown up and mature, aren't we?' she adds, pointedly. Draco has served his time, she says, and 'aren't you always the one promoting rehabilitation efforts?' Harry catches her gaze with all the things neither of them can say out loud with an audience present, and: hey, if I can get over this, her eyes whisper, so can you. 'Plus, Scorpius is a sweetheart,' she dismisses. 'It's not his fault, so you two shut it. '

Ron holds his hands up in response, whispering something in Harry's ear about 'divorce' and 'another howler.' 'I'm gonna go help with the barbecue, yeah?'

Harry supposes he's got no right to complain, really, given that he's also the one who got Malfoy out, in '99.

The thing is, that spring, as the weeks pass, they gradually get closer to a date none of them really wants to think about. Harry remembers November, the way he felt like they'd all just woken up from a six-month haze, to suddenly find themselves there. Now, it feels like the Battle was yesterday, but also ten years ago. A year is just months, he knows, grouped together, an arbitrary unit of distance between point A to point B - yet, he can't stop thinking about it. It's the 16th of April 1999 and suddenly, there are eighteen days left. In her letters, Ginny says: I had a dream about Fred, last night and Harry wants nothing more, nothing less, than to simply rewind time. I think it's because of, well, you know.

He does - know.

Do you think there's something, after? she wonders. He stares at her words. If you don't become a ghost, I mean. I know what you said about King's Cross but - what about after the station? After your brain hallucinates as everything else is shutting down?

Good morning to you, too, he thinks. Doesn't remember ever speaking about this with anyone else. Do you really want me to answer that?

I wouldn't have asked if I didn't.

He sighs. Writes: I reckon King's Cross was real . I also think it totally happened in my head. It's a messy, confusing kind of truth. What he does know is that if there is a God in charge of justice, of policing the Earth the way the Muggles think, the man's clearly fucked off a long time ago. I don't know Gin, he says. I think my parents are dead and they're just dead you know? They're not just… floating out there somewhere. Even the stone couldn't really bring them back. They're rarer, now, but he still sometimes has dreams where he goes looking for it. They never end well. I told Ron: your heart beats and then it stops. Then your brain does weird shit for a bit and then that stops too. This is it whether we like it or not. It's all there is to it.

He supposes his response could have been slightly kinder, more considerate. And, perhaps, if she'd asked this last summer, it would have been. Now, he thinks. She's seen him say worse things. Yeah . I think I'd like to believe there is something. I'd like to think Fred's just up there laughing at me for wasting my time talking about this shit, you know?

He laughs. Kind of wants to believe that, too. Well for what it's worth I like talking to you.

Yeah, me too.

When Draco's trial finally rolls around on the 20th, Mia's back from Manchester. It's a relief to have her back in the flat - this past year of being an adult has helped Harry realise he doesn't particularly like living alone. Once she gets them developed, she showers him with pictures of her little brother and sleeps for eleven hours. 'I mean, I'd love to have kids someday but they're exhausting.' He laughs and tells her that yeah, sometimes he looks at Teddy and wonders how such a small thing can drain so much of his energy.

For lack of anything better to do, he got into a fresh row with Kingsley over the weekend, still by way of media. Hey, out of curiosity, when you want Witch Weekly to tail you around, who do you call? he asked Ginny, which prompted her to respond: hahahaha what mischief are you up to? That same day, Harry made sure he was photographed Apparating outside a suite of offices in Diagon Alley where he knows most of the wizarding world's political polling is compiled. Hermione glared daggers at him when the newspapers predictably speculated: Is Potter Really in the Running? It didn't matter that the head of the polling institute later categorically denied meeting with him - the rumour was out there. Ron laughed loud enough that he could be heard throughout Grimmauld Place - 'I don't know mate, people are gonna vote for you whether you run or not, at this rate.'

Harry sure hopes not. 'Yeah, and what if these people just don't vote?' Hermione asks him. 'It's always like this. We progressives just start in-fighting and then they win because too many of our people abstain. You're playing with fire, and -'

'- and that would be a first, wouldn't it?' he challenges.

Between that and the verdict in Narcissa's case, the start of Draco's trial doesn't exactly make the headlines. His father went insane, his mother fought to prove her innocence, and he - refuses to engage. Early reports describe him staring at his shoes or at the walls, not out of shyness or repentance, but out of boredom. Mr Malfoy seems to already have accepted his fate, The Prophet claims, which Harry frankly gets. With the Dark Mark branded on his skin, Draco already knows he'll end up with a life sentence as a mandatory minimum, so why bother? Harry half-thinks it was his mother who forced him not to take a plea.

He keeps a distant eye on the trial regardless. The first round of witnesses called to establish the facts of the case, then the list of witnesses called by the prosecution after him. He notes that Narcissa was initially scheduled to testify in support of her son but not anymore. Harry supposes that testimony from someone who's already been found guilty wouldn't necessarily help him.

'You nervous about that one?' Mia asks, the night before Harry's testimony. She is chopping onions and peppers on the worktop of his kitchen and insists he doesn't have to tell her if he doesn't want to, she's just curious.

'I don't know,' he shrugs. 'I reckon maybe I'm less nervous than I should be.'

Decisions were made a long time ago when it came to Draco. He just needs to follow through.

So: in the end, he tells the court three things: 1) Draco Malfoy saved his life at Malfoy Manor, by refusing to identify him. He confirms the stories that Ron and Hermione already told the Commission last summer, and which have been read into evidence on the first day. When the prosecution insists: 'Do you think there is a chance - any chance at all - that Mr Malfoy might not have recognised you?' he laughs.

'Please .'

'Mr Potter, could you make your answer explicit, for the record?'

'Alright. No, there is absolutely no way Draco Malfoy would not have recognised me,' he says.

They later decide to remind him that Draco almost killed Dumbledore. 'He was your mentor, your friend. How does that make you feel?'

Harry snorts. Playfully eyes the jury. 'Sorry, who are you?' he quips. 'My therapist?'

2) He tells the court Draco did not actually mean to kill Dumbledore. It's an elaboration of the previous point. 'May I remind you he poisoned two of your friends?' the prosecutor scoffs. 'That's evidence we have on record.'

Harry nods. Smiles. 'Well, obviously, I don't want him to just walk out of here,' he laughs. A few sniggers are heard for the second time in less than ten minutes amongst the jury, the Head Juror silences them with a glare. Since he's started testifying, the Prophet has begun to report on his sense of humour. Through these testimonies, we are beginning to see another side to Mr Potter. He is turning out to be rather funny, and charming. Harry rolled his eyes.

His gaze now drifts across the room to Malfoy's face - although the other boy is still looking at his shoes, Harry thinks he can almost make out a smirk, there. 'Look,' he adds. 'All I'm saying is, he's a pathetic kid who talked the talk but never actually meant to kill anyone. Think of it like an angry toddler, you know?'

Malfoy unmistakably stops smiling, then.

'Mr Potter, this is a trial not a circus.'

'Sorry, my mistake.'

On a related note - point 2) and ½ maybe - the prosecutor counters: 'There is evidence,' she says, 'that Mr Malfoy cast a Cruciatus curse at you when you both were students at Hogwarts. Is that true? That act alone carries a life sentence. I understand you might want to help your friend -'

Harry almost roars with laughter, with that one. 'My friend? Trust me, I don't want to help. I mean, I know the MPS isn't exactly keen on witnesses, these days,' (a small dig at them never hurts), 'but ask anyone, me and Draco, we hate each other,' he smiles. Adds: 'But, who told you that, though?' he shrugs. ''Cause it never happened.'

2) and ½, so. Harry later reads in The Prophet this was the first time Draco looked up in three days of trial. A feat, you know?

And, lastly, 3) he tells the court Malfoy got the Dark Mark forced on him.

It's not that much of a stretch, if you think about it - or at least, that's what he tells himself. There is forceful coercion and then there's - whatever that was. He does it to pay a debt. He does it because it's what Dumbledore would have wanted, too. He says the words in passing, 'Plus, they made him get the Dark Mark and all,' hoping the prosecution will take the bate, question him about it. They are predictable, so of course, they do and by then, Harry's got his story prepared. Tells the jury he used to follow Malfoy around in Sixth Year and, 'I saw Snape dragging him out of the castle, one night in September. They were arguing, it was clear Draco didn't want to go - I was curious, you know? Anyway, they stopped at a clearing, just at the edge of Hogsmeade. Met a bunch of people there. I couldn't tell who they were; it was dark. They took Draco by the arm; I remember his aunt because I recognised her voice. She said: "Draco, if you don't do this, you know he'll kill your mother." He was less vocal, after that, understandably,' he smirks. 'The next day, he was wearing long sleeves, kept holding his arm. I dunno if it was hurting him, but -'

'Merlin, I'd say he was shocked,' Ron comments, in the aftermath. Harry laughs. Hermione doesn't. Concedes that: yes, maybe Malfoy shouldn't actually spend his entire life in jail. 'I sure don't like him, but…'

Harry slumps down on the couch next to Ron. He's not sure what charms Luna's performed on the cushions when they renovated the sitting room but this is probably the comfiest sofa his bum has ever been sat on. 'I dunno,' he shrugs. He toys with the beer bottle in his hand. 'He was more, like, entertained ?'

'I don't like it,' Hermione declares. Harry doesn't either, not really, but the only living people who could verify this story are he and Malfoy, and Draco's obviously not going to throw him under the bus, is he?

'I just don't understand why you'd have to lie -'

'That's between me and him, alright?'

Hermione sighs.

Seven days later, Draco Malfoy is sentenced to five years in Azkaban, in 1999. His is the only case of all those listed, that year, which doesn't turn out exactly the way the MPS wanted. They later ironically use it as an example to show that their trial process was, indeed, very fair, thank you very much. The charges that could have led to imposing a life sentence miserably fail due to Harry's testimony and what is left consists mostly of charges filed against him as an accomplice to his father's criminal activities. On the attempted murders, the lawyers his mother clearly forced him to hire successfully argue duress. And, considering time served as well as overcrowding, Draco will be out in three. Harry reads The Prophet 's report of the judgement, accompanied by a picture of his former classmate sandwiched between two guards, escorted through the gates down to the Ministry's holding cells, and feels: relief. That's his last war debt paid. In her letters, Ginny asks: Why? Lying for him goes a step beyond telling the truth, doesn't it? and -

He told the Carrows we'd broken up, he writes back. Finally tells her the truth about a lie. About how, between his interview in the press promising to tell the truth (nothing more, nothing less) and this - something happened. She happened. He didn't know, he adds. And he didn't need to say anything. If the Carrows had pressed their Mark on her that night, before they got interrupted, they'd probably all be dead. Not just her. So, she won't like it, but it's the truth. He doesn't regret it.

Ah. Harry Potter, the blind lady of justice, eh?

Something like that, yeah.

He looks at their words on parchment, that night, and can't help but think: it would feel good - like happiness, not just relief - putting a full-stop to it all, if bombs hadn't been going off in Muggle London for over a week, at this point.

For the first one, Mia who wakes him. Just past 6pm - nine days ago, the 17th. Harry had got home from an overnight shift around noon, fell into bed just as she headed out to catch a meal with her friends. She shook him awake in the middle of a dream - he was on a boat, there was a bear? - and he blinked himself conscious, vaguely recognised the blurry shape of her face. The apartment was dark, daylight filtering at the edges of his curtains. 'Harry, wake up,' she whispered. 'Something's happened.'

They stared at the TV for thirty minutes. He says 'stare' because there's not really another way to describe it, the way the images washed up in waves of BBC Breaking News! banners. There were: children, parents crying, people running. Half of Brixton Market blasted to pieces. It took Harry a few minutes of readjusting his glasses, wiping the sleep from his eyes, to even look at her and ask. 'Were you -'

She shook her head. Had lunch in East London, she said, hit a few charity shops. 'We only found out when we sat down for drinks at the pub.'

He looked back at the telly. The lens of the camera seemed covered in dust from the blast. The both of them took in the images, the shops and the streets and the shining gold of emergency blankets. For days afterwards like a choreographed ballet of blaring sirens, the ambulances continued to transport the wounded between hospitals, day and night. On TV, a rushed-looking doctor appeared, a bizarre Scottish accent that, to Harry, strangely sounded like home - 'These are some of the worst injuries we've ever seen,' he said. It occured to Harry he'd never even been to Brixton, had to admit that in his mind, South London has always been a bit of a black hole.

But: 'I go there all the time,' Mia said. A female journalist followed the doctor on the screen, her blond hair tight in a neat, ponytail. She had that crisp, posh, newsperson's voice when she spoke. Harry couldn't take his eyes off the man behind her, walking down the street looking haggard, those same blankets over his shoulders. There was blood all over his face, his hands. He kept looking at it as though wondering whose it was.

'Well, Chris, the numbers we're hearing here from the emergency services speak of dozens of casualties currently in hospital, some in very critical conditions. From the little information we have been able to gather from Scotland Yard at this stage, it seems the bomb may have been passed around before the explosion; as you can see behind me, the whole area around me is complete chaos. We are, of course -'

Harry glanced at Mia's face. 'I -' she stumbled over her words, 'I go there to get my hair done, I mean, it's -' and never finished her sentence. Stupidly, Harry looked the braids that fell down her back and wondered if the people who did that were dead. Or in hospital. Just -

'They're saying it's IRA,' she added. His gaze narrowed. 'I don't know though, Brixton's not exactly high profile, they've just had Good Friday -'

She kept talking. He closed his eyes. Re-opened them and stared at the screen.

'Shit.'

He looked around. Ran an inventory in his head: boots and work trousers by the bed. Cloak at the door. He vaguely sniffed the shirt he'd slept in. It would do. 'I've got to go.'

' What? '

There may be other bombs, she said. He summoned his trousers, already changing. 'It's not safe to -' she trailed off. 'Wait, you don't think -'

'I don't know , Mia,' he snapped. Didn't mean to. The adrenaline has not always led him good places. Grabbed his keys off the kitchen counter before opening the door. 'But an explosion that kills random Muggles sounds a lot more like my people than it does the IRA at the moment -'

'Jesus, Harry -'

'Just stay here. I'll be back, I promise.' He said that and didn't see her for another two days.

Now, History proves him wrong, of course. He might have had good instincts, but forty-eight hours of investigations and no sleep, scrambling for information, evidence the following: the bomb was a Muggle one, with timers and explosives, not potions and charms. In the press, the police releases scans: a four-year old child's brain, perforated by a four-inch nail, stark black and white contrast on the X-ray films. Harry feels himself retch.

It turns out, too, that the IRA had nothing to do with it. Neither did his people, as a matter of fact. Through Section B, the Auror department finds out the Yard has pictures of the attacker that they won't share - it is 1999 and the CCTV is too grainy. A week later, another bomb explodes. This time, in Brick Lane, at the heart of the Bengali community. It injures another thirteen people; the first batch aren't even out of hospital. The doctors now talk about war injuries, people's flying bones crushing others' ribs. It's less than a week before a third bomb goes off at a gay bar in Soho. There, a pregnant woman, her unborn child, and two of her best friends die. When, on the 30th, they finally arrest David Copeland, and ask him why ( whywhywhy ), he says: 'Well, I'm a Nazi. I'll admit that.'

So, in '99, Harry was wrong about that , too. 'Random' Muggles weren't the target. Muggles who look like Mia, were.

It's just - Harry stares at the TV screens and decides there are no words for it.

So, for most of April, that year, she's in shock. Watches and reads and bites her nails as the Yard canvasses Brixton, Brick Lane - coppers who have the audacity to complain that the communities who they overpoliced and underprotected for decades are now refusing to cooperate . Blair expresses condolences, a heartfelt, passionate speech about the importance of diversity and the horror of this tragedy, which does absolutely fuck all when, simultaneously, suits at the BNP rally up their base, like throwing petrol on burning flames, claiming that racial violence has nothing to do with them.

And, that spring, Mia watches. The first weekend, then the second, as the tally of the injured goes up and whoever is doing this is still, at this point, unidentified, out in the wild. That Monday night after the first bomb, Harry comes home having not slept since she last woke him up, and all they've managed to establish is that the bomb wasn't a magical one. After that, they were sent home.

That night, she won't stop looking at him. 'But with magic,' she says. 'With magic you could find him quicker. Stop him? All these people -'

And, it's hard to explain - impossible to explain - or justify. The position of the wizarding world, in this, is nothing short of indefensible. It had never occurred to Harry before, but now, living here, with her, amongst Muggles - he can't even look her in the eyes. There is no rational explanation he can give, aside from his own shared anger which is about as useful as Blair's speech in this situation, like a white person raging to an empty room about racism. The whole lot of them, sitting on their arses, watching Muggles get bombed, families torn apart, doing nothing . It takes him another two days - two days - to let it all explode in Robards' face.

'People are going to die!' Harry shouts. It is a miracle, at this point, that Copeland's bombs have only cut skin and limbs but not heads. They're in the middle of a morning briefing during which they spent an excruciating ten minutes debating the illegal breeding of fire slugs. He stands amongst the fifty-or-so desks occupied by patrol, with an audience of about a hundred agents, working that day. 'The Muggle police are scrambling, the bloke's out there, somewhere, and you people -'

'Ah, Potter, don't start this again -'

It is long-standing Ministry policy, you see. Not getting involved in Muggle matters. The Statute of Secrecy is always a good excuse. 'We wouldn't have to tell them,' Harry argues. 'We could, I don't know, drop leads if we find anything or something? Hell, Section B is fucking spying on them day and night,' he argues. 'They sure should be able to send Muggles a message instead of us all, sitting on our arses -'

' POTTER, THAT'S ENOUGH .'

Robards' voice booms. It not only makes Harry, but everyone on the floor stop talking. Watch. A good thirty seconds pass, a silent battle of wills and ire; all Harry hears is his own heavy breathing in his ears. Bulls in a bull ring. Robards brings his voice down.

'Get out of here, you're off the case.'

'WHAT THE -'

He never finishes his sentence. The look on Robards' face stops him; a line in the sand, not to be crossed. Ron is frozen in place, the panic in his gaze screaming: please, mate. Harry feels the fury in his gut like flaming hot glass, red and orange and burning, doesn't dare take out his wand for fear he might use it. Instead, he lets out air - not really a sigh but more of a raging smile, disbelief and contempt. Wordlessly, he moves to grab his cloak off the chair behind his desk and storms out of the place. There is maybe two hundred feet of open-space offices between him and the lifts and he walks them. Feels the stares against his back, following him and as he passes by a pile of cardboard boxes that almost rises to the ceiling; he doesn't think. Takes out his wand and shouts: 'Reducto!' sending dozens of files, papers and everything inside flying around. A motherfucking explosion, if that's what they want.

Now, obviously, he doesn't get sacked. But, almost. Supposes it would just look like retaliation on Kingsley's part if he did. Instead, Robards summons him into his office and says: 'Take some time, you might like what you find.' A week. No pay. 'You've had a hard few months, you've lost your partner,' the Head Auror adds. 'So… think of it as a holiday. Say: "thank you," and you piss off, yeah?'

Ron's there, too. Called alongside Harry as his partner, he later refers to the silence that follows as one of the longest in his life. 'Fine,' Harry coughs out. He doesn't push, doesn't say "thank you," either. Just - stupidly also fucks things up with Mia later.

They don't argue. She's not like that. No one screams, or shouts, or cries. He's not sure how to explain it. It's just that he's been stuck at home all day watching TV, rage and fear intermingling; someone else, an innocent, could die, and - 'I'm just not sure you get how important this is,' she says. An unfortunate choice of words.

He is sitting on the sofa, still reeling from the incident. His eyes are nothing but anger when he looks at her. 'Really ? You don't think I do?'

Her lips are tight, eyes downcast. 'Sorry,' she says. 'I know you're doing your best. I just meant -'

The thing is, he is mostly angry, that day, because she is right. Because he hates himself, his people, the Ministry. He isn't doing his best, is he? He's just sitting here, just like them. Failed this morning and now, people are going to die because of them, because of this, because of him, and - 'Do you?' he throws back at her. Even if she'd tried, he is so furious she could never have done anything right.

Mia puts her hands up. She has good instincts, too. 'Harry, I'm not the enemy,' she tells him. There is a full-stop at the end of her sentence and he hears it. Meant to put a stop to this debate. 'I'm sorry I said that,' she adds. 'I just -' A sigh escapes her mouth. She catches his gaze. 'Let's just forget about it, okay?'

A thought occurs to him that he doesn't want to forget about it. He wants to row about it, but Mia's not someone he rows with. She is kind and quiet and scared, and they just stop discussing the matter, instead. To Ginny, it's easier to complain.

I don't know why she never just says stuff. It's like you last summer, he writes, which he knows is also not ideal, but it is a point nonetheless. Except she's not lying, it's more like she doesn't want to say things to me cause she doesn't want to bother me or offend me or something. Like I don't know she's leaving the country in two months and we've still not talked about it.

(Yeah, okay, maybe that' s his issue. Don't tell anyone he said that, alright?)

Harry, people almost died , Ginny responds. He can also almost hear annoyance in her tone. And, you're complaining to me about your girlfriend. There are more important things out there than one shitty conversation you've had. Which, by the way, she's right. You were being a complete twat. She was just saying there are tensions and years of Muggle history there that you feel like you know 'cause you've watched three Muggle 'videos' about it. How would you feel if you tried to explain what it was like being on the run last year and she said: 'ah yeah, I get you, I had to stay outside a couple hours 'cause I couldn't find my keys, that was rough.' Grow the fuck up. I don't like you when you're like this.

Well, I don't like you when you're like this either , he thinks.

Ultimately, Harry grumbles about it in his head for a few days. Has another stupid media standoff with Kingsley who, when asked about the declarations Harry made at Draco's trial, sarcastically quipped: 'You know, you are right to ask me about this, it's been at least two days since Mr Potter hasn't been quoted in the media, I'm starting to worry about him.'

'Funny how the Minister is so keen on taking Muggle money but not as keen when it comes to helping them catch murderers,' Harry responds when, about to go to print, the Standard asks him for comment. It doesn't really go anywhere but at least, the wizarding press starts to report on the bombings - a little bit. Hermione argues that's better than nothing.

In the end, maybe it's the fact that he sleeps, that week, that kind of helps. It's Friday when he looks at Mia - she's coming out of the shower, dressed in a towel and nothing else - and says: 'I'm sorry.' Actually means it. He just wanted - to be better than this, better than them. There is a finality in his voice and she pauses, her gaze set on his. He stands in front of her, awkward and ashamed.

'It's fine,' she tells him.

He shakes his head. 'It's really not.'

'Well, now, it is,' she smiles, and kisses him.

They fuck slow, that night. Against the wall outside his bathroom, then in bed, and every time he moves against her - her skin soft and warm; she smells of coconut and sex - he feels like he is burying himself deeper, and won't ever let the moment end. He remembers: the way she comes in short, quiet gasps - not loud, never theatrical - just soft and breathy, and there , and he'd like to tell her the world, the world that stands between them - the one he can't always understand. And, there is a feeling he recognises in his gut as she lies next to him and he sleepily traces patterns on her back with the tip of his index finger in the dark. Recognises it from last summer, when he was trying to hold together with used tape what he already knew was about to fall apart. 'I missed you when you were in Manchester,' he says.

Her face is bright in the moonlight. 'Me too.'

It's true. So, so true.

(So: why is she never the last thing he thinks of, before he falls asleep?)

He tells Ginny, the next day. The words spelled out on the page; the things they say to each other are the things they don't tell anyone else. I guess we made up, he says. I guess you were right. We had sex , he adds. It was good. I don't know. It'd been a while.

Haha, since it was good or since you had sex?

He looks up at the ceiling. Clicks his jaw. He promised not to lie to her, didn't he? Shit. The latter, he admits. It's his fault, not Mia's, he's just - She was in Manchester and then I don't know. I've just been in my head a lot with everything going on.

So, get out of your bloody head, oh my god! I love you but sometimes you're insufferable.

He bites bottom lip and stares at her words for a bit.

They've been talking about it - sex - a lot, lately, he and Ginny. It just sort of happened, somewhere between the early days, when she was trying to provoke him with the boys she saw, and that night when she asked if he'd ever slept with anyone other than her and Mia. Now, it's like: this back and forth, between them, and no matter how much he tells himself he wants to, no matter how many times he thinks he's Seeing Someone, shouldn't, he can't stop it.

Last summer, they never really talked. Not about the war, but not about that, either. In that department, they mostly, well - did. Gestures, quick words - she showed him: how to touch, where, the angles that felt good and those that didn't - they laughed a lot, too, awkward attempts and epic fails. And, if as the legend has it, last spring was about funerals and sex, it was in the feeling of her skin against his, and the mischievous look in her eyes that told him to keep going. It was in: being able to feel her Right There after months of seeing her as nothing but a dot on a map. There was something primal, physical about it. This is different. This is - curious. This is: that time when he wrote back, raging at the way she told him everyone wanted to shag 'Harry Potter's ex' and he responded -

Mia blew me last night and it was the first time since I read your letters that I didn't think about you and Amycus, you know?

She apologised: sorry, I was angry. But, then, also, a couple of letters later, once the dust had settled: Was it good, though?

He puffed out a laugh. Stop. I'm not discussing this with you.

Haha, Potter. You shy?

When they write to each other, these words are often just one line, one paragraph at most, buried in multiple pages that cover half a dozen topics. He could have ignored it but instead, he could feel heat rise in his cheeks. Pictured her lying on her stomach as she wrote, legs up and crossed at the ankles, the feather at the end of her quill teasing her lips. He shook his head. You know I'm not.

Er… Prove it?

He sighed. Figured Mia was asleep. Figured it was harmless. Figured they had to talk about these things, too, if he wanted to get her to talk about Amycus, too. He wasn't technically doing anything wrong, was he? Alright, yeah. It was good. I dunno it's a blowjob Ginny there's not that much to say about it.

The next day: Oh, I'd have loads to say about it…

He bit his lip and readjusted his trousers. Fuck.

So, here: he could stop it, but he doesn't. Ginny, in turn, points out she doesn't have anyone else to talk to. D. gets awkward about it, she says. Luna is - well, you know. I love her to bits, don't get me wrong, but… And Hermione, I mean sure, but then I'm opening the door for her to talk about the sex she has with my brother which is just… EW. We promised we'd tell each other the things we don't tell anyone else, didn't we?

Frankly, sometimes, he looks at it and thinks it should be more awkward than it is.

In her letters, she still talks about the blokes she sees, sometimes, but it's not aggressive, not like it used to be. It's like: she trusts him. They're friends. Like: why do men seem to think they can shove two fingers up there for about thirty seconds and that's it, job done? He coughs, reading. Well, okay, I know you're gonna say not you but I trained you well in sixth year. He feels heat in his cheeks.

And, look, he could play innocent, but it's not like she's the only one doing it. He's very much a willing participant in this conversation, whether he likes to admit it or not. Can I ask you something? he writes, one night. When we were together, was there anything you wanted to do and didn't tell me?

The problem with letters is that you've got all the time in the world to overthink what you sent, before the response arrives. Was that an odd question? What is she going to think? Hmmm. Okay, she finally writes back . He's almost holding his breath. I don't know, maybe this is strange, but doing it under the cloak? Like, somewhere we'd have gotten caught otherwise. And, I don't know, I also kind of liked it when you were a bit rough? Do you remember that night after Narcissa spoke to the press, we kind of both went for it at the same time and sort of crashed into the wall? He laughs. Yeah, that night, they were both probably a bit… eager. You bit my lip at one point and that felt good. I can't explain it. That was probably the best sex I ever had, actually. You?

Shit. Why did he even ask this? The monster in his chest is back, roaring with pride. It's childish, maybe, but - I don't know last summer sometimes we'd be sat next to each other at dinner and I just - God, this probably sounds ridiculous. She's going to think he's gone nuts. You'd be wearing a skirt and I just wanted to touch you under the table? And like you'd have to pretend nothing was going on cause everyone would be there as well you know?

God, this is mortifying. Until, well - the answer he gets is certainly not what he expects. Haha, you should have done it. He gulps. You could have, she starts, and goes into two full pages of Exquisite Details of exactly how that would have gone, which leads him straight to a Very Cold Shower. What the fuck am I supposed to do with that, Gin? he writes back. There has to be a line somewhere.

I don't know. Wank? she suggests. I sure do.

So, yeah, that spring, he's got a girlfriend who is about to move across Europe and doesn't want to bother him with her thoughts, and an ex-girlfriend who sends him porn via owl. When he spends most of the week of the 19th of April at home, wishing he was at work, and Ron asks, 'how are things?' Harry grits his teeth and says: 'fine.' Not: 'I spent half of it reading porn written by your sister.' That would probably be pushing the boundaries of their friendship.

On the 27th, the day the verdict is announced in Draco's case, Harry's called back into Robards' office. Technically still on leave; the Ministry owl on his windowsill is a surprise, to say the least. Can you come in? You're not getting arrested, the boss says. It's all Harry can hope for, at this stage, so he drags himself to the tube station and goes from there.

On the Auror floor, stares and gossipy whispers follow him as he walks from the lift all the way to Robards' office. Down carpeted floors to the start of an L-shaped corridor. Robards' office has glass windows on one side, with a view out onto the Patrol open space. Harry knocks.

'Potter,' Robards says. 'Take a seat.' He is oddly polite. Harry eyes the chair in front of him before sitting, thinks it's the first time he's ever seen it without mountains of files piled on top of it. 'How's your holiday going?'

'Fine.'

Robards smirks. 'Right, well -'

He tells Mia, later that day. Truth be told, she is the first person he wants to tell. Eager, Harry knocks on her door; 'It's open!' she shouts, grumbling a bit (she hides down here to avoid him, claims he is 'distracting' when she tries to study). Her desk faces the window, her back to him; she tilts her neck to the side when he enters, sighs. Must have pulled a muscle in her back, sleeping on her mother's sofa when she was up in Manchester; he's tried multiple times to convince her to go see a doctor but she claims she doesn't have the time; her finals start next week. He's also asked why her mother couldn't get a fold-out bed, at the very least, but was told the woman couldn't find one she liked. On Mia's end, Harry's pretty sure that spending hours bent down, sewing small beads into the dress she's making isn't necessarily helping. He stands behind her, sets his hands on her shoulders and presses his thumbs into her skin. She hums in approval.

They stay like this for a while. Her skin under his fingers; it almost makes him forget what he came down to tell her. 'Harry, this feels very nice, but did you just come here for sex or was there something you wanted to tell me?' she asks. He bursts out a laugh.

He sits on the desk, pushing her work a little to the side. She looks up at him. 'We're opening a Wizard/Muggle cooperation network with the Yard,' he says.

She looks at him. 'You're joking! '

The mad thing is: he isn't -

Now, to be entirely fair, he did wonder if Robards was joking when he was first told this morning. 'Wash that self-satisfied smirk off your face,' the boss said, then. 'It's not thanks to you.' But: he also sighed, conceded: 'Well, maybe it is actually, I don't know. It's part of the agreement Kingsley signed with Blair.' ( Ah, Harry thought.) 'We promised more cooperation in policing and defence, so.' He shrugged. 'We've found a few lads over there who know of our existence. Family members of witches and wizards, mostly. We need someone to coordinate with them. It's gathering info, passing it back, building relationships, that sort of thing. I'm not sure how much work it'll involve yet, but I need someone who speaks "Muggle." You interested?'

Harry just sat there, in shock. For - too long.

'Potter, these days, my patience is really running th-'

'Sorry, I -' Harry barely articulated. 'I really thought I was getting sacked, this time.'

'Oh, you pull another one on me like you did last week and you will be.' Robards sighed, then, caught Harry's gaze. 'Look, I get it, you're angry. And, between you and I, a lot of it's justified. You just need to learn to do something with all that frustration, alright? Are you in?'

Fuck, he was so, bloody in.

And, finally, Mia smiles, now. 'That's great!' she says. Immediately talks about the bombings. The police have not arrested anyone, yet, but they're closing in. 'You could help -'

But, Harry shakes his head, sighs. 'It's probably gonna take a while before… Anything happens, really,' he explains. At this point, the Yard have better chances catching the bloke on their own. His first meeting with an actual officer isn't scheduled until next week and even by then, it'll take weeks, probably, for anything meaningful to come out of it. Establish practices, what each side will and won't be comfortable sharing. They can all be pretty territorial, he's learnt.

And, that afternoon, Mia does a great job hiding the disappointment from her face, all in all. But, she's right, it's just - not good enough. 'I know it's shit,' he admits. Looks down at his feet before finding her gaze again. 'But, I reckon it's something. '

God, he's starting to sound like Hermione, isn't he?

She smiles, nods. She is reassuring. Her fingers against his forearm. 'Sorry, I know. Thanks for telling me.'

(And, well, this is where it all goes to shite. Again. )

That day, Harry tenses at her words. Can't help but roll his eyes. She removes her hand. 'Why do you always do that?' he asks.

She frowns. 'Do what?'

Fuck, he can see she's not happy about this. He gets it, even: the plan, as outlined by Robards, is something, but it's not perfect, by any means. And yes, maybe, he should have tuned down his enthusiasm a notch for what is, ultimately, just an open door into the Muggle world. But, his favourite thing about her, last winter, was how easy things were between the two of them. The way she never questioned, respected, just let him be - unlike everyone else in his life, at the time. Now, though, he swallows, annoyed. 'Tell me shit's alright when it's not. I can see it, you know,' he challenges. 'Just tell me if you don't agree.'

She runs a hand through her hair, sits back in her chair. There is annoyance in her voice, now, too. 'Look, you 're happy about this,' she observes. 'So, I'm happy for you . That's what counts. It's your world, at the end of the day, not mine.' She tries to grab his hand again. 'Come on, let's get something to eat,' she smiles. 'I don't want to argue. I don't care -'

And, sure: a voice in his head is telling him to let this go. He ignores it. 'Well, maybe I fucking do. Maybe, I care about you.'

His words hang. In the silence between them. She closes her eyes like she doesn't want to see. Looks away, down to the dress on her desk, when she opens them again. Her fingers fiddle with a pearl weaved into lace fabric. 'Harry, please, don't say that.' Her voice is low, eerie.

He laughs. This is ridiculous. 'What? That I care ? We've lived together for almost six months, Mia! Of course, I care!'

She bites her lip. Won't look at him. 'I think you should go.'

' What - '

'I've got to work, please.'

' Mia - '

She inhales. Loud. It stops him. When she speaks again, her voice cracks, and it's only then he realises that when he bends down slightly, desperately trying to catch her gaze, her eyes have turned red. She looks up, suddenly; it's probably the first time he's ever seen a hint of anger in her eyes. 'Just leave, please,' she says. 'Go… write to her, or something.'

By the time he stops staring, in shock, trying to find something to say, she's put her headphones over her ears, music blaring.

He doesn't - write to Ginny - that night. Because, when Christopher finally flies back from Hogwarts, Harry pulls her letter from his paw and starts skimming it, just as he opens the glass jar containing the owl's treats. He grits his teeth and goes over her words three times before he realises his fingers are dripping with blood. Treats all over the floor. His magic's exploded the fucking thing into his palm. ' Fuck!' he shouts. Tonight really was the night she had to write that, wasn't it?

He goes into work. Doesn't want to think about anything else, really.

And, here: it may be naive, but he only truly realises how bad things are with Mia the next day, when it turns out she is avoiding him. Quite a feat when you think they live in the same, fucking building. He thought this would just fix itself, like the previous hiccup they had. Instead, he knocks on her door and she pretends not to be there, even though a quick look at the Aurors out the window combined with an hominum revelio informs him that she very much is. 'Mia, open the door!' he shouts through the wood, wanting to - shout some more, row, apologise, he doesn't even know. Could probably alohomora it, but then Timothy, the man who lives on the first floor, comes out of his apartment and down the stairs, carrying his baby in his arms. He glares. A look that reads: she doesn't want to talk to you. Leave or I'm calling the cops.

So: Harry sighs, runs an exhausted hand over his face, and stomps back upstairs.

He goes back into the Ministry, that evening. It's late, around 8PM; he takes the tube and the sky is pinkish - the last drops of an old bottle of Dittany have helped patch up the cuts in his hand. When Harry asked Robards for the favour in his office, yesterday, the Head Auror told him to come when no one could see him. 'I don't like this, Potter,' he said. 'Kingsley wouldn't like it either.'

'Good thing he won't know, then,' Harry declared.

He didn't think he'd feel like this, going in. Didn't think he'd feel like he was entering this particular parlay on the back foot, didn't think that in the meantime, he'd have cut his hand, fought-but-not-really with Mia, and spent the afternoon sat on his sofa, chain-smoking two packs of Marlboros until his voice was hoarse. He waits at the gates for the guards to open. Drops his wand in a locker by the door. Robards only agreed to shut down the monitoring and the listening charms if he promised he wouldn't be armed. Harry sighs, closes his eyes. Focus, he thinks . It's funny, the number of things that can still change for him in less than twenty-four hours.

'Follow me.'

The corridor he walks down is dark, narrow, closed doors lined up on either side. Harry's never been here before. The Aurors usually interrogate suspects on their own floors, before anyone is arraigned. He's told these are the rooms in which defendants are sent to consult their lawyers. They're much less… inviting, let's say.

He and the guard stop in front of a black, heavy door. Harry gets patted up and down. 'I thought the gate could detect wands,' he frowns.

'Yeah. Don't detect anything else, though.'

The man's wand hovers over the door handle; it clicks. There is an incantation muttered, Harry can't make it out. 'Look, hope you're not claustrophobic,' the guard smirks. 'We lock you in from the outside. When you want to come out, put your hand on the reader at the door and we'll come to get you.'

'Right,' Harry quips. 'Very welcoming.'

'These people are being transferred to Azkaban, alright? This isn't Hogwarts detention.'

Harry wonders if they'll ever stop treating him like a child.

Eventually, that night, the guard opens the door. It slides straight into the wall but looking in, Harry can't see anything past the threshold, the inside of the room hidden behind a cloud of smoke. He breathes in, breathes out, steps in. The moment he does, the fog clears, and he feels the locked door materialise behind him. Here we fucking go, he thinks, looks up.

The room is … Green - the sickening kind. Like: concrete lit by Azkaban lights, the ones they obtain by trapping cursed fireflies into glass tubes stuck to the ceilings, this kind of neverending buzz in your head. There is a metallic, rectangular table in the middle, two chairs. The other occupant smirks when their gazes cross - dark shadows down the sunken circles under his eyes. He's lost weight, Harry notices. Eyes the metallic cuffs around his wrists, tying his hands to the table. 'You know, Potter, when they brought me here, I thought I was getting murdered,' Malfoy says.

Harry eyes him up and down, quick. 'Yeah?' he asks. 'I wouldn't push my luck, if I were you.'

And, so: it starts.

Harry sits. The chair opposite. They are close enough to touch, haven't been so in almost a year, now. 'You asked to see me,' Harry comments. 'And, you said we needed to be alone. We are. Now, what do you want?'

He got the message through one of Malfoy's barristers, a few days ago. 'My client has some information he would like to give you,' the man said. It was after Harry's testimony; the man was still wearing those ridiculous wigs and gowns they wear in court. Harry just shrugged, said it was too late to strike a deal with the Aurors. Not two days into the trial itself. 'Mr Malfoy is not looking for a deal,' the barrister added, an unmistakable degree of bitterness in his tone. Harry found it… Intriguing. Intriguing enough to come here, he supposes.

'Rude,' Malfoy observes, now. 'We've not talked in, what? Almost two years? Can we not enjoy each other's presence for a bit? I hear you've got a new girlfriend. A Muggle? Mia , is that right? Congratulations. I'm happy for you.'

Jesus, he's going to kill him. Harry's top teeth feel like they are drilling holes into the bottom ones. Her name's never come out in the press. How -

'Ooooh,' Malfoy smiles. 'Seems I have hit a nerve.'

Harry's palms slam flat against the cold metal of the table. It's that or punching Malfoy in the face. He pushes his weight off the chair, legs screeching behind him as he starts to stand. 'Right, okay,' he nods at Malfoy. 'This is pointless, go fuck yourself.'

'Ah, come on, Potter!' The chains rattle, metal against metal, when he tries to move his hands. Harry glares. 'I've got information for you, aren't you interested?'

Merlin, this day is going to be the death of him, Harry thinks.

Eventually, he sits back down. Probably shouldn't. This is Malfoy's version of an entertaining evening. It's stupid.

'You were kind to me and my mother,' Malfoy… appreciates?

'I wasn't kind, I told the truth.'

'Course you did,' Malfoy bursts out a laugh. 'Perjury carries a twenty-year sentence - did Granger not tell you?'

Harry sighs. 'Look,' he starts. 'You wanna pay me back? Tell your stupid mother to stop harassing me and we can all put this behind us. That's all I'm asking.'

Malfoy smiles, smug. 'Oh, didn't enjoy her Howlers, did you? I do apologise. Mother never understood the whole idea with you Gryffindors and doing the "right thing?"' Harry crosses his arms, glares. 'Anyway, I pay my debts, too,' Malfoy says. Oh, this should be interesting. 'I see you're still on the witness list for Carrow's trial next Monday?' he adds.

Right.

Harry - nods. That's still a thing he needs to take care of. (Amongst the thousand other things he needs to take care of.) Just tell me what you need to say so I can get out of here , he thinks. 'Yes,' Harry confirms. 'I am. Why?'

'Because I'd try not to be, if I were you.'

Harry stares. Sits there for a moment, waiting for more. A good fifteen seconds. Malfoy says nothing else. He can't help but laugh. 'That's it ?' he asks. Either this is actually fucking hilarious, or he's just tired. Malfoy shrugs. Wow, what a waste of his fucking time. 'Well,' Harry puffs out. 'Groundbreaking news, thanks.' He shakes his head to himself. 'You know what, Malfoy? It was nice to see you. This was great. Enjoy your life when you get out, yeah?'

Malfoy nods, like goodbye, as Harry stands. To tell the truth, part of him cannot possibly believe that this is it, that a stupid warning he's already known about for weeks was all that Malfoy wanted to give him, but looking at the other boy's face, it seems like it is. Harry supposes Malfoy couldn't possibly know about anything so, well, maybe this is his version of payback? Alecto Carrow's a cunt, be careful? Merlin, thanks . Harry gets up, slowly, giving Malfoy ample opportunity to stop him, play his stupid cat and mouse game of 'Oh, by the way,' but nothing comes. Eventually, he shrugs and just pushes his chair back underneath the table, turns around. Takes a step, two. No, this really was it, he thinks. Shakes his head to himself. Ridic .

His hand is an inch from touching the handle when Malfoy says: 'Gosh. I never thought she'd tell you.'

Harry stills.

He drops his hand to his side.

'What would Alecto Carrow tell me?' he asks.

There is a smirk in Malfoy's voice when he says: 'Oh, come on. You can do better than that, can't you?' There's that low buzzing sound coming from above their heads. It's giving Harry a headache. He finally gives up, turns around.

He watches Malfoy sit back. Arms extended, hands joined, like he's watching a theatre performance. 'Oh.' He purses his lips together, then opens them, a ticking sound leaving his mouth. 'You've always been a bad liar, Potter, you know that?' Harry tries to look confused, his mind racing. How - 'I tell you you shouldn't testify at Carrow's trial and you just go with it? Don't ask me why? I find that rather suspicious but you're the Auror, so what do you think?'

Malfoy grins. 'Oh, this,' he gestures between the two of them, his gaze hovering over Harry's face. The metal of his chains rattles again. 'This is turning out to be a much more interesting conversation than I had anticipated. See, it's always your arrogance that gets you in the end, isn't it?'

Harry closes his eyes. Opens them. Tries to breathe. Says nothing. Malfoy bursts out a loud laugh - the ironic kind; it bounces off the walls. 'Oh, now, you're really thinking of murdering me,' he smiles, fakes a loving tone. ' I can see it in your eyes. ' Then: 'No wand, though,' he observes. 'So -'

Harry thinks aloud. 'I'm a trained Auror and you're tied to a table. I think I'll take my chances.'

The steadiness in his voice surprises him. So does the fact that he is managing to speak without throwing up. How -

Malfoy laughs. Harry stares. The thought passes. He's killed two people in his life, let there never be a third one. 'I'm leaving,' he tells Malfoy. 'I'm leaving, and all our debts are settled, so we never have to see each other again.' (God, is hindsight a bitch.) 'But let me tell you this,' he catches Malfoy's gaze, steps forward towards him, a finger pointed. 'I don't know what you know, or what you think you know, and frankly, I don't give a fuck. But, let me tell you this: you could be in prison, in your bed, or surrounded by fifty of your mates. You breathe a word about this conversation to anyone else and I'll kill you. There won't be any warnings and trust me I won't think twice about it. We're fucking done, now.'

He doesn't say goodbye. Turns around, eyes the door. He wants out ( outoutout ). Did Malfoy really say what he thinks he did? And, how? And - 'You say you don't want to know but I'll tell you anyway,' Malfoy speaks at his back. Harry hopes he can reach the door before Draco says another word. He can't. 'Relax,' he says. Harry thinks that would be a rather hard feat, considering the circumstances. 'He did the same thing to Pansy. That's how I know.'

Harry freezes.

'Well, not exactly the same thing,' Draco quickly amends, then. Harry can hear a fake smile in his voice. He still hasn't turned around, can't see his face. He can't - move. 'I mean, Pansy was very much willing . Into it, you know. I'd broken up with her . I thought I had a mission. That I would be important . She didn't fit into that. So, of course,' Malfoy sighs. 'She was flattered when he told her she was special in September. Valued. He said he'd do things for her. Pansy's parents are - well, they're 'good' people. For our kind of people, I mean,' he breathes. 'But they were never really "inner circle," you know? And, Pansy, well, she had ambitions. And, he had chosen her. Said he'd marry her. Give her the rank she deserved. My family was already on the out so, she'd never have that with me, even if we got back together. I think she was happy.'

Malfoy pauses. Harry slowly turns around. He feels dizzy. There is a fury in Draco's grey gaze.

'Until she got pregnant, that is,' he adds. 'You know, your friend Hermione isn't wrong. Pansy's not particularly clever. She thought he'd want to have the baby. With her. His sweet Pansy. Can you imagine? She'd done so much for him. Lost her virginity for him,' Malfoy smirks. 'Never wanted to give me that, believe it or not. Maybe, she always knew I wouldn't make it.' He pauses, shakes his head as though to shake the memory away. 'That's still a thing, you know? Families like hers. Girls have value. Passed around like property. When she told him, he just kind of laughed. Called her a whore, said it was her problem to deal with. She was terrified. Couldn't tell her parents, obviously.

'She almost died, you know?' Malfoy says, then. 'Doing the spell, trying to get rid of it herself.' Harry closes his eyes for a moment. Can't look. 'Almost bled out. In the Prefects' bathroom. That's where I found her,' he explains. 'Had no idea. We'd more or less stopped talking. I'd been avoiding her, if I'm honest. Wasn't really proud of - anyway,' he sighs. 'I tried to stop the bleeding, didn't know what to do. She begged me not to get help, let her die if I had to. Obviously, I didn't. Couldn't. Lifted her up. Carried her down the five floors, trailing blood after us, all the way to Pomfrey. Pansy didn't have the energy to fight me, in the end. Pomfrey managed to stop the bleeding, but then she and McGonagall told her parents. Oh, they were furious,' Malfoy laughs. Shakes his head. ' The honour of their precious daughter.

'They gave him an ultimatum.' He spits out the word like a curse. 'Marry her, or else. I think Amycus just laughed in their face.' Malfoy almost smiles, too. 'Until they threatened to get the Dark Lord involved. Thank Merlin, they didn't. Can you imagine?' he laughs. 'So, in the end, my Auntie Bella, our most trusted, level headed mediator, got involved. Persuaded Pansy's parents to let it go - or tortured them, with Bella, you could never be sure. Told Amycus he better lay off the Slytherins, or else. And, now, you can say whatever you want about Amycus but Bella… Well, she was different. Everyone was scared of her, even on our end. And: "Plenty of fish in the sea," she said. So, voilà. It was before Christmas, I think. And, afterwards… Well, it was obvious. All that intel the DA was getting, all of a sudden. And, the way the light just - went, from her eyes. For the record, I tried to warn her, you know? I knew they were trying to get her to shut up, her and her stupid little rebellious enterprises, tame the lion,' he smiles. 'And, well, she was the ideal target, really. Pureblood - Amycus had standards, believe it or not. I told her I shouldn't be the one she was concerned about, but - well, the Weasleys never listen, do they?'

( I told him to go fuck himself, like I did the Carrows. He laughed. Said he's not the one I should be worried about. So, then, we got into some sort of duel until Goyle came back running with Alecto. It didn't end very well. Now, I'll be dealing with those fucking cramps all night. )

Harry - stares.

'So, I don't know, Potter,' Malfoy smirks. His shoulders go up and down, and his gaze haunts Harry's. He leans, heavy, against the metallic back of his chair. Harry stands, immobile, thinks that if he moves an inch, he will crash to the floor. 'You thought it was all about you, didn't you?' Malfoy asks. 'That he'd targeted her because of you ? And, maybe he did, I don't know,' he adds, matter-of-fact. 'I'd say it was definitely a factor,' he smiles. 'Or, maybe - maybe, he was just an arsehole who wanted to do maximum damage, who knows? Maybe, he did it to other girls, too. I was never certain. But, you know,' Malfoy adds, catching his gaze. 'I see you people. With your trials, and your verdicts. You think if you let the victims speak, if you put people away, if you clean up the Ministry, then everything will be okay. Like it's all about us, individuals, but Amycus didn't grow out of nowhere, did he? He learnt this. To him, it was just another kind of weapon. Another way to control. His sister thought it was funny . And us?' Malfoy asks. 'Do you think we're better? Fighting, duelling as kids, ready to injure. I don't know,' he shrugs. His last syllable is long-drawn, pensive. 'My aunt - the other one - says we need to get all that violence out of our heads. But, maybe, we're all just fucking arseholes,' he laughs, holds his hands up, showing off the chains around his wrists. His Azkaban-issued robes ride up at the sleeves, Harry catches a glimpse of the snake, wrapped around his left forearm. 'Part of the same fucking system. Waiting to be caught and rot away…'

Harry stares, again. Looks around, inspects the silence between them. His hands are shoved deep inside the pockets of the jumper Mia made for him last Christmas. Warm, lined with fleece.'The cotton's the best I could find,' she said. It's all black. A deep, profound black. He likes it. 'Reckoned you deserved nice things, too, you know?'

He holds Malfoy's gaze, now. Strangely, smiles, tired. Giulia once said: 'Everyone does everything for a reason. So: what's the motive, Harry? What's the reason?' Well, the same as his, it looks like.

'Why'd you kill him, then?' he pauses. The words fall from his lips like a fact he's always known. It was glaring him right in the face. 'If it's all systems , not personal responsibilities?'

He's curious, genuinely.

In response: Malfoy laughs. Something silent, at first, a short puff of air that slowly morphs into a loud chortle. When he stops, his expression is light. Childish, almost. He points an amused finger at Harry, nods. 'Touché,' he smiles. 'Maybe, because that was a load of horseshit?' he wonders, out loud. 'Or maybe because we, humans, are all full of contradictions, I don't know. Either way, it's your job to change the world, not mine.'

Later, outside, when he pulls them out of his pockets, Harry's hands are shaking so hard he can't even light a cigarette.)

He goes back to Ginny's letter, later that night. He sits down at his kitchen table, parchment between his hands and the blinding glow of his halogen, and reads. It's three o'clock in the morning.

If the fun we had after Narcissa was the best, what was the worst sex I ever had, Potter? she repeated. How would you like me to talk about it? How much detail? I know what you're thinking, Harry. I know what you're trying to get at. You want to hear me when I explain how I did it. So, sure, I'll tell you. That first time with Amycus, it hurt. So bad. I thought I'd made the wrong choice. Should have let him kill me. I bit my tongue to keep myself from screaming, and after that I couldn't eat properly for days. I bit my tongue until it bled like liquid iron in my mouth because also I couldn't - let him kill me. Because it wasn't just me he would kill, if I stopped going along. I remember that when I offered to blow him first, I thought that was as far as it would go. I thought if I put on a miserable, vulnerable act, get him hard, make him come, and that'd be it, you know?

It wasn't though. That night, he pulled me up and pushed me against the wall, ripped my knickers off and all. But, I didn't stop him. And, what do you want me to say? That I still think about him every fucking day? That I still think about how I was bleeding, afterwards, and he laughed. Fucking laughed. Cleaned himself up and said: 'You come back tomorrow, yeah?'

And, I felt relieved. Harry. Like, at least it had worked, and no one else was going to die by my fault. I thought: they've killed Luna, but it stops here. And, I had him, hooked. So, I nodded, and he shrugged, and he said: 'Now, fuck off.' So, I took my school bag, and I straightened my skirt, and I straightened my tie, and I closed the door of his office on my way out. It was after curfew, the castle was empty, I could hear the sound of my own breaths. I remember I walked down to the staircase at the end of the corridor; I looked around: at the quiet. At the sleeping portraits, and the statues, and the tapestries, and the white stones under my trainers and the fact that you weren't there. That mum and dad and the boys weren't there. That I was alone, all alone in this fucking haunted castle, and I ran . I fucking ran, Harry. So bloody fast - my calves and my belly, and inside me, it hurt so fucking bad. I ran. Ran, ran, ran. And when I got back to the tower, the Fat Lady barely looked at me.

But, then, I came back. Came the next day and the next week, came back to him, to his office, and to this fucking castle where I sit and look around and feel like I'm drowning. I came back and that , that wasn't even the worst night.

Is that what you wanted me to tell you, Harry?

He doesn't take out a new page. Takes his half-chewed Biro pen to the piece of parchment she sent, and scribbles two lines at the end:

READ THAT AGAIN, he writes. READ THAT AGAIN AND TELL ME IT WASN'T RAPE.

.

.

A/N:This chapter is dedicated to rowenarc94 on tumblr. I am so sorry to have pretended you were wrong... you were So Fucking Close. You get a drabble, bravo!

Otherwise, I hope you enjoyed! Again, all comments, kudos, tumblr anons, random thoughts are welcome. If you want to find more stories like this one, feel free to visit my AO3 works page.

For a chat, you can find me in the comment section on AO3 (check chap 1 for an A/N about this) or on Tumblr (username: pebblysand). Additionally, myself and my friend (and beta) copper-dust also now host a podcast where we discuss the "art" of writing fanfic, you can find it on most podcast platforms and on tumblr as "The Fanfic Writer's Craft." We chat about our writing process, tips and tricks, etc. so feel free to check that out if you fancy.

Chapter 14 should be released in September. I'm looking at the 25th right now, but it may be earlier/later. But, let's be honest, if you were in it for regular updates, you'd have stopped following castles a long time ago haha.

Lots of love ❤️. I won't take another six months to post, I promise! See you soon!