Harry was panting hard, hands on his knees, and sweat matting his perpetually messy hair, but he was also grinning like an idiot. He had been practicing a new duelling spell with Mr. Malfoy and Draco for over an hour, and the sheer exertion of dodging, concentrating, and casting had been a blessedly liberating experience.
"Well done, Harry," Mr. Malfoy said, twirling his wand as he stepped around his hastily erected shield. Harry ducked his head to hide his blush at the praise. "That was some quick thinking."
"I did good too, right dad?" Draco asked cheekily, poking his head up from behind a bale of hay in their temporary battle arena in the Malfoy's spare pasture.
Mr. Malfoy fondly rolled his eyes. "Yes, Draco. You were brilliant, as always. The two of you will be professional duelists in no time."
"It's silly that they don't teach us fun spells like that at school," Draco whinged, accepting a glass of lemonade from Dobby and gulping it down. "Even Vince would put in some effort if they taught us cool things."
"Your professors have enough difficulty wrangling you as it is, I'm sure," Mr. Malfoy said, tossing a conjured cloth at Harry so he could wipe the sweat from his face. "I'd better not be getting reports of the two of you using these spells to land yourselves in detention."
Harry handed Dobby the used cloth and sipped on his own lemonade, whispering a quick thanks to Dobby as he watched the Malfoy theatrics.
"Of course not, Father," Draco said dismissively as he plucked a piece of straw from his hair. "Harry and I are far too clever for that."
"Oh, are you?" Mr. Malfoy asked wryly, flicking more straw at his son. "Were you being clever when you brought a ministry investigation down on your favorite professor's head?"
Harry bit his lip to stifle a gasp, and Draco's face crumpled into a deep frown. "That was an accident, Father, but I don't regret it. Someone besides Professor Snape needs to take Harry's safety seriously, at that school, and Dumbledore wasn't doing anything. You'll make sure that the professor is safe from trouble, won't you?"
Mr. Malfoy gave Draco's shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "I will do my best, and you're right. The criminal negligence and potential attempted homicide needed to come to light. Still, it is better to consider your options and know what potential blowback you might be facing before you enlist the ministry's help in anything, so let this be a lesson to you. The ministry is always a double-edged sword."
"Oh," Draco said, sheepishly," speaking of enlisting the ministry's help, I may have insinuated that you'd be willing to hire Ludo Bagman as a quidditch coach for me and Harry, over the holidays."
"Of course, you did," Mr. Malfoy said, pinching the bridge of his nose.
"It was for a good cause!" Draco insisted, maneuvering himself to Harry's side. Harry nodded behind the rim of his lemonade. "I was getting Percy Weasley hired on as a summer intern."
Mr. Malfoy quirked an eyebrow at the two boys and fought back a smirk. "Why on earth would you use my money to bribe a ministry official to help a Weasley?"
Draco explained his plan to Mr. Malfoy, embellishing on the details of public relations, and brushing over the petty revenge against Ronald and the twins, but Harry thought he did an admirable job of proving his case.
"Mr. Bagman's stories about flying sounded brilliant," Harry added in Draco's defence, "but I understand if you don't want to spend the money on a tutor."
Mr. Malfoy snorted. "You've been taking lessons in wheedling favors out of me from my son."
Harry flushed scarlet and ducked his head deep between his shoulders, his eyes going wide. "I'm sorry; I didn't mean it like that. I just meant that I learned a lot from our conversation at the ball, and that was enough."
"It's alright, Harry," Mr. Malfoy said kindly. "I'm teasing you. I don't mind paying for a private lesson or two. You and Draco certainly have the raw talent for the sport. I would be a poor father, if I did not do what I could to cultivate it."
"Oh."
Dobby popped into the field, and bowed obsequiously. "Dobby be begging your pardon, Master, but the Mistress be insisting yous come in for lunch, now."
"Thank-you, Dobby," Mr. Malfoy said, causing the little elf to nearly break himself in half with his compulsive bows. "You heard him, boys. Let's go get cleaned up."
Harry and Draco raced back to the house to wash their hands and faces and change their clothes in record time.
A medley of delicious scents was already wafting from the dining room, as they took their seats.
Mrs. Malfoy looked beautiful as always, but more stressed than Harry had ever seen her before. Not even a kiss on her cheek from her husband worked its usual charm.
"How have the party preparations been, my dear?" Mr. Malfoy asked as he helped himself to a generous portion of shepherd's pie.
Mrs. Malfoy launched into a tirade about mismatched Christmas decorations, missing long tables, and stubborn stains on the ballroom floor. Harry found her ranting boring, but it was fascinating to watch the way Mr. Malfoy's face melted into a radiant, wistful smile as he watched his wife go on and on. He seemed to truly find her idiosyncrasies to be delightful and worthy of love. It both filled Harry with a soft warmth and also bitterly reminded him that some levels of familial affection were forever beyond his reach.
Picking at his lunch, Harry could not help wondering if his own parents would still adore each other, after so many years of marriage, and the inevitable tension that must come with sharing one's entire life with someone else. He imagined himself being the beneficiary of such love, of never being condemned as a freak or an outsider. It was a beautiful image, and it made him very sad.
"Father, are you still going to teach Harry occlumency this afternoon?" Draco asked, bringing Harry back to the present from his musings.
"We're going to start the process, yes," Mr. Malfoy confirmed, with a piercing look at Harry. "It won't be easy."
Harry swallowed uneasily, his shepherd's pie turning to a lump of coal in his throat.
"Are you sure I can't come, too?" Draco asked, petulance driving his voice into a childish whine.
"I'm sure, Draco. Occlumency is intrusive enough, as it is. Harry doesn't need any extra witnesses. I'll teach you, too, but you'll have to wait your turn."
Draco sighed, and scraped his fork against his plate in a way that made a jarring, spine shuddering shriek. "But it's going to be so boring waiting for you two!"
"I'm sure you'll manage," Mr. Malfoy drawled. "You could help your mother with her party decorations."
Draco made a face. Mr. Malfoy chuckled.
"You could always help Dobby make some Christmas cookies for us. You and Harry could decorate them however you like later tonight."
"However we like?" Draco asked sharply.
Mr. Malfoy narrowed his gaze. "Within reason."
Draco thought that over. Harry could only guess what schemes Draco had in mind. "Okay, I guess that sounds fun."
Mr. Malfoy nodded. "Good man."
Harry smiled at the display of father-son familiarity, but his stomach was still twisting in dread. Mr. Malfoy was going to peek into his mind in a few hours; there was no telling what he'd see.
Harry had always been a private person. He had always gone out of his way to hide himself, and blend into his surroundings. Draco had been helping him to become more comfortable in the spotlight, but he still didn't like it much. He knew all too well what happened when he was singled out as different, as insufficient, as a freak.
Well, he didn't mind it so much, when he performed exceptionally well in class, or did an extra fancy bit of flying in front of Slytherin's quidditch team. He supposed that he rather liked attention, when he had earned it by doing something he could be proud of.
His memories weren't that, though. They were shameful.
He didn't want Mr. Malfoy to see him crying like a girl in his cupboard, or running like a coward from Dudley, Piers, and the others. He didn't want Mr. Malfoy to see him being called a freak.
Harry had to risk it, though. Mr. Malfoy was the safest choice, really. If Draco or Professor Snape saw Harry's bald, raw shame, Harry would never recover. It would hurt, if Mr. Malfoy rejected Harry as a weak, cowardly freak, but he could bear that pain.
He would bear it.
Harry did his best to appear cheerful and hide his morose thoughts, as he finished his food.
Draco fidgeted in the seat next to his, spinning his empty plate flat against the table's surface with his fingers as he waited for a polite moment to be excused. He looked like a muggle DJ that he'd seen on the telly once, and Harry had to stifle a laugh.
Mrs. Malfoy, whose anxiety over the upcoming party was slowly growing to a fevered pitch, hit Draco with a mild stinging hex to stop his fidgeting.
Draco scowled at his mother. "What?" he snapped. "I'm bored. I don't want to hear about the stupid decorations, or about Harry getting special training."
"Draco," Mrs. Malfoy snapped, in a harsher voice than Harry had ever heard her use. "You're being rude. We have a guest, and I'm sure Harry doesn't want to be subjected to a family squabble."
Harry felt stuck, frozen in place between two islands that were leaving him behind. He wanted to defend Draco, to say that he didn't mind and wasn't offended. He didn't want to offend Mrs. Malfoy either, though, by talking back against her.
Without thinking, he hunched his shoulders and tried to make himself invisible, but it had the opposite effect from what he wanted.
"You see? You've made your friend uncomfortable," Mrs. Malfoy said, reaching out to comfort Harry with a gentle pat on his arm.
Harry wanted to die.
"I didn't do anything," Draco groused, pushing his chair back from the table. "Stop embarrassing both of us!"
"Draco," Mr. Malfoy said warningly, "be polite to your mother."
"Why should I?" Draco cried, crossing his arms defensively. "She's not being polite to me."
Harry shrank further into himself, well and truly horrified to watch this perfect family crack before his eyes.
"That's it," Mr. Malfoy said, standing up with a sigh. "Draco, go to your room. Now. Your mother will let you know when you can come back out again. Harry? Why don't you come with me, and we can have a cup of tea in my study to settle your nerves before we begin."
Draco stormed off, leaving Harry behind and feeling like a traitor for not standing up for his friend. He was terrified of angering the elder Malfoys, though, especially now, when Mr. Malfoy was about to rummage through his mind. He had read that Legilimency could give people headaches, even when they were being careful, and Harry did not want to find out how bad it could get, if someone decided to use it as a punishment.
Harry bowed politely to Mrs. Malfoy, who looked miserable and lost, with her half-eaten plate of food, and followed Mr. Malfoy out of the room.
The study was very cozy, with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lining the entire room, minus a grand stone fireplace with a fire already crackling in the hearth. On one side of the room was Mr. Malfoy's imposing mahogany desk and studded leather chairs, but Mr. Malfoy guided Harry to the other side, where a small sofa and a pair of squashy velvety chairs faced each other.
Harry chose to sit on the sofa, hugging one of its decorative pillows closely to himself as Mr. Malfoy poured them both a cup of freshly delivered tea.
"Sorry about that," Mr. Malfoy said. "My wife gets very worked up over social engagements, and Draco soaks up her anxiety and filters it into petulant anger. They'll both be back to themselves by supper, just wait and see."
Harry nodded mutely, and accepted his honey-sweetened tea, made just the way he liked it.
"I didn't think your family ever got mad," Harry admitted sheepishly.
Mr. Malfoy chuckled softly. "Of course we do, Harry. We're only human, just like everybody else. We love each other very much, and want the best for one another, but all families fight sometimes."
Harry accepted this, passively, and blew over his cup. "I guess that makes sense."
"What about you, Harry?" Mr. Malfoy asked. "Have you been enjoying your time with us, so far? Do you have any requests of us?"
Harry's eyes bulged out, and he vehemently shook his head. "No, Sir, nothing! It's been perfect. You've all been so nice to me. It's been more than I deserve, really."
Mr. Malfoy was silent for a moment, stirring his tea, even though he had already just done so. "That is very kind of you to say, Harry. Thank-you. Do you think you are calm enough to go over the basics, before we dive in?"
"That's fine," Harry whispered, ignoring the way his hands clenched around his tea.
"Very well. I'm going to start slowly, and ease you in as best as I can. I will enter the surface of your mind, and just take a peek at whatever memories are floating near the surface. I promise not to dive any deeper than that without giving you proper prior warning. Does that sound fair?"
Harry nodded, and set down his cup, afraid that he might jerk and spill it on himself, or worse, on the expensive furniture.
"I'm ready."
"Look at me," Mr. Malfoy prodded gently. "Legilimens."
Harry felt the foreign presence in his mind immediately, and recoiled against it. Mr. Malfoy was patient, and waited for Harry's mind to settle itself, before he brushed himself against the surface of Harry's memories.
Harry hadn't planned what to be thinking about, ahead of time, and wrestled against himself as glimpses of the dining room drama, of similarly uncomfortable meals with the Dursleys, as lonely lunches at his muggle primary school, flashed across his mind. These were quickly followed up by more images of the Dursleys, and the harder Harry tried to stop thinking about them, the faster the memories came.
He panicked, and pushed back against Mr. Malfoy's unwelcome presence.
The older man retreated immediately.
"It's okay, Harry," Mr. Malfoy said soothingly. "You did well. Take your time and drink some tea."
Harry was embarrassed to see his hands shake as he reached for his fragile china teacup. He silently begged himself not to drop it.
It took several agonizingly long minutes of awkward silence, before Harry regained control of himself.
"Feeling better?" Mr. Malfoy asked.
Harry nodded, although it was still mostly a lie. He couldn't afford to be weak. Not in front of his best friend's father. Not in front of a man who had been so kind to him. He was better than that.
"There's no rush, Harry," Mr. Malfoy said, taking a deliberately casual sip of his own tea, and leaning back into his chair.
Harry suddenly regretted choosing the sofa. He felt lost in it; adrift.
"I'm fine, Mr. Malfoy. It just took me a little by surprise, that's all. I knew it would be intense, but feeling it firsthand was not quite what I'd imagined."
Mr. Malfoy hummed agreeably. "What did it feel like?"
An invasion. "Like my mind was a sieve, and you were poking at it to make my memories fall into your clutches faster than I could stop them."
"That is an apt analogy. When I go back in, I am going to attempt to 'shake loose' the same specific memories that I've already seen. The more you panic and aimlessly resist, the more gaps will open up in your sieve, and the more new memories will fall through, along with the ones I want. Blocking all the holes in your sieve is very difficult, and will take many hours of dedicated practice. For now, try to think of memories that are safe for me to see, and do your best to shape the holes of your sieve to fit them. This will make it much more likely for the safe memories to fall out, first. Does that make sense?"
"Yes, Sir. I think so. Can I have a few minutes to think of which memories to use?"
"Take all the time you need. And if you need a break, or to stop for the day, let me know, and we'll stop. This will work better if we do it at your pace."
"Thanks, Sir. I will."
Harry began mentally gathering happy memories that he would be proud to show off to Draco's dad. He picked his memories of flying with Draco in the common room, of adding his own personal additions to a potion that turned out just right, and of Professor Snape granting him a rare approving nod. He threw in his joyful reaction to receiving his birthday presents from the Malfoys and that first day in Diagon Ally, when they had all eaten ice cream together, for good measure.
Happy with his choices, Harry gestured to Mr. Malfoy that he was ready for another round.
Mr. Malfoy slipped into his mind like a sharp knife through bubotuber puss, and unhappy memories of Harry's life with the Dursleys began shaking through the sieve.
He tried his best to block the holes with happy memories, and force the holes of his sieve to change to happy shapes, but his anxiety at Mr. Malfoy seeing the wrong memories made the holes grow larger, and his mind-sieve shake more violently.
He let out a desperate, defeated sob, as the memory of Dudley stealing his only pancake off his plate without his Aunt doing a thing to stop him, played out for the third time.
Mr. Malfoy backed out of his mind, and moved to sit next to Harry on the couch.
"it's alright, son," Mr. Malfoy lied in a calm, soothing voice. "Those memories don't reflect badly on you, and you are doing very well, for a beginner. There is no need to punish yourself."
"I can't do it," Harry whined. "I have the right memories all ready to go, but the bad memories push them away, as soon as you pull on them."
"You managed to break through a few times. I saw glimpses of brooms and what I believe was your potions classroom. Am I right?"
Harry nodded sullenly. That was hardly anything, at all.
"If I may, I have a suggestion."
Harry turned to look at the man sitting beside him.
"It seems as if you have chosen to combat sad memories with happy ones. That is a good strategy, but it's not specific enough. The memories you chose bear little in common with those I am seeking out. It will help, if the memories share similarities, and it will help, if you choose memories to prove a specific point. You know that I have reservations about muggles. I know that you would like to change my mind. Next time, why don't you choose happy memories of you interacting with muggles, instead of wizards? Prove me wrong."
Harry blanched, but tried to hide it behind another gulp of tea. Did he have any happy memories with muggles? None as happy as his times with Draco, or Mr. Malfoy, or Professor Snape. There were a few though, he managed to bring up, that weren't entirely unpleasant.
Mrs. Figg had once given him a slice of freshish poppy-seed cake when she babysat him over Easter break. Piers Polkiss had let Harry see his Luke Skywalker figurine at school once, when Dudley had been out sick for a few days with the flu. A substitute teacher had once praised Harry's answer to a tricky question, in front of the whole class. He could use those memories.
Legilimens.
The bad memories flooded in.
Harry fought back.
He focused on the details, to bring the good memories to life. The lemony zest of the poppy-seed cake. The warmth of one of Mrs. Figg's cats leaning against his leg. Piers' excited smile as he showed Harry the detachable light-saber. The feel of the cool plastic as Harry was allowed to reverently hold the toy in his own hands, cradling it against harm. The heat of his cheeks as the teacher called Harry very clever, indeed.
The bad memories crowded closer. The sieve opened wide.
Harry slammed it closed. The smell of cat dander coming from the well-worn couch. The look of neutral kindness in Piers' eyes when Dudley wasn't there to goad him into cruelty. The uncomfortable gaze of the class on the back of Harry's blushing neck.
Harry choking back tears as the pancake was shoved into Dudley's smug mouth. Harry desperately clutching at the latch to his cupboard door. Running from Piers and Dudley, only to find himself disoriented on the top of the school.
Harry being shoved roughly into his cupboard, still bleeding from where Ripper had bitten him, and being yelled at for 'traumatizing the poor dog with his freakish ways'. It had taken Harry ages to stop the bleeding, and he'd had to tear up one of Dudley's old shirts to do it. His leg had ached for days, and he'd gotten a fever. He hadn't been allowed out to eat until after Aunt Marge had left, and had been dragged harshly by his ear to the toilet twice a day to pee. The smell of blood in his cupboard had made him nauseous, and Harry had begged piteously to be allowed to stay outside.
It hadn't worked.
Harry recoiled against the injustice of it. Against the pain. Against the weakness that was on full display for Mr. Malfoy to see. Magic boiled up inside Harry, and the next thing he knew, he was lying on the floor, and Mr. Malfoy had retreated from his mind.
The man looked angry. Harry opened his mouth to apologize, for his weakness, for his magic, for wasting Mr. Malfoy's time, for being a freak, but his throat seized on the words, and nothing came out.
Mr. Malfoy retreated to his own seat, and picked up his teacup. He stared hard at the cooling liquid, but never took a drink.
Sheepishly, Harry gathered himself up, and climbed back onto the sofa. He felt ashamed of his outburst. He hadn't meant to lose control like that. He hadn't meant for Mr. Malfoy to see any of that.
He couldn't face it.
He clawed his way back off the sofa, and ran.
His bedroom door slammed behind him, and Harry dove onto his bed, wrapping himself in a shield of blankets, and hugging his knees to his chest.
That had been stupid. He had been so stupid!
He should have known better than to think that he could hide his true self from the Malfoys.
The truth always came out in the end, and now he was a disappointment, and a liar.
He should have taken Draco's side at lunch. He had abandoned his friend, and for nothing.
He kept tamping the shameful parts of himself deep down inside of himself, until they exploded at the worst possible moments, and made a mess of things.
There was a knock at his door, and Mr. Malfoy peeked his head inside. "Harry? Can I come in?"
Harry wanted to scream at him to go away, but he deserved the rejection that was sure to come. He nodded glumly.
Mr. Malfoy eased the door open, and slipped inside. He perched himself on the edge of Harry's bed, and sat there silently, waiting for Harry to talk.
"I'm sorry," Harry said with abject misery. "I've been trying to hard to be perfect, and I keep messing it up. I do believe that muggles are worth just as much as wizards, I do, but my muggles are so hard to deal with, sometimes. I don't know what to do. I know I should ignore them, that their mean words don't mean anything, that lots of kid have things worse than me, and that I should be grateful for a roof over my head, and for three meals a day. I don't mean to be so selfish…"
"Oh, Harry," Mr. Malfoy said and, to Harry's complete and utter shock, encompassed blanket Mt. Harry in a hug. "None of this is your fault. Your relatives have been awful to you, and it is okay to feel resentful. Your feelings don't make you a bad person. If I ever get my hands on them-"
"No, don't" Harry said, stiffening in Mr. Malfoy's arms. "Mr. Malfoy, please don't hurt them. They aren't worth it. You'd go to jail, and Draco would miss you, and I don't want to lose you, either, and I'm not worth any of that. Promise you'll leave them alone."
"First of all," Mr. Malfoy said, "you are so worth it, but I take your point. I promise that I will avoid doing anything that will land me in Azkaban, but Harry, if I have to hurt them to keep you safe, I will. I will do whatever I can to make sure they don't hurt you. I promise."
Harry thought that over, then nodded in acceptance. He relaxed into Mr. Malfoy's hug.
The man hadn't abandoned him. He hadn't written Harry off as a lost cause. He was still here. He was, Harry was beginning to suspect, always going to still be here.
It was a mind-blowing revelation.
Was it possible, that the unconditional love that the Malfoys had for each other, the kind of love that let them fight and disagree and then hug and make up, could belong to Harry too?
He had never dared to hope for it.
He had thought that Professor Snape's even-handed care was the best he could ever hope for. That if he worked hard enough and proved himself as worthy, that he would be treated fairly and accepted.
But… that wasn't entirely fair either, was it?
Professor Snape had seen his cupboard. He had seen the state of Harry's room. He hadn't judged Harry or pushed him away. He had taken steps to keep Harry safe and well-fed. He had given Harry his old potions' textbook with his mother's old notes, and had written back to him every time Harry had sent him a letter, all summer long.
Harry was loved, wasn't he?
He could afford to be himself around Draco, and Professor Snape, and Mr. Malfoy.
He could stop hiding, because no matter what, no matter the evidence against him, they were never going to see him as a weak, useless freak.
They loved him.
Harry could afford to take chances. He could afford to stand up in Draco's defence, against his parents. He could afford to say what he believed, even when the Malfoys disagreed. He could afford to be Harry.
Suddenly Occlumency lessons, the Malfoy's Christmas party, and even facing whoever wanted to murder him didn't seem so scary.
He was loved.
He wasn't alone.
He never would be.
Harry smiled.