Chapter Text
“You wrote me oh so many letters
And all of them seemed true
Promises look good on paper
Especially from you, from you.
The weight of all those willing words
I carried all alone
You wouldn't put your pen to bed
When we hadn't found our own, our own.”
Johnny Flynn, “The Wrote and the Writ”
The first letter arrives after the Trials.
Harry has just moved back to Grimmauld Place, after spending two months at the Burrow. Hermione’s in Australia, trying to restore her parents’ memories and the Weasleys are struggling to cope. George is a wreck; Molly and Arthur can barely function and Harry feels that they could do without someone like him intruding on their grief. Of course, Ron and his mother insisted on him staying, but he’s just broken up with Ginny and he feels like they all need some space. Besides, Ron has started helping George with the shop, and Harry doesn’t want to stay at home with Molly and his ex.
So he moves back into Sirius’s old and dusty house (he doesn’t feel like he can call it home, not yet at least), leaving his trunk at the entrance and slouching on the sofa in the drawing room on the first floor, Kreacher fussing over him.
He hears the faint noise of an owl’s beak on the window and sighs, unable to get up, the effort of moving house too much for him at the moment to do anything else. He contemplates ignoring it, but the tapping becomes insistent. He hasn’t got around to setting up wards against random people’s owls yet and he already misses the Weasleys’ protective spells, keeping admirers and intruders at bay.
The owl taps so hard that the glass threatens to break.
“All right, I get it,” Harry mutters, “I’m coming, you nutter.”
It’s a beautiful brown owl, its eyes yellow and attentive as Harry lets it come inside and unfastens the message from its leg.
“I don’t have any treats, I’m afraid. I don’t own an owl anymore,” he explains and the bird makes a disappointed sound and then waits. “You can go, you know.”
The little animal cocks its head and just rests on the windowsill, waiting for him to read the letter.
“Have you been instructed to wait for a reply?” he asks and obviously receives no answer, so he sighs and sits back down. The room feels stuffy in the early summer London heat, but there’s a gentle breeze coming in, now that the window’s open.
Harry feels drained of all energy, in spite of the fact that it’s mid-morning. The last thing he wants to do is read letters and write polite replies, but he supposes he can’t just spend the whole day on the sofa, can he?
He unfolds the parchment and his eyes open wide when he realises who it’s from.
Potter,
Mother and I would like to thank you for all you have done for us, especially for testifying in our favour during the Trials.
Thank you for returning my wand and for saving me from the Fiendfyre. Please let me know if there is anything that I can do for you to repay your kindness.
Draco Lucius Malfoy
Harry’s mouth hangs open as he reads the letter again. He wonders if Narcissa forced Malfoy to write it or if she stood behind him and made suggestions on how not to be a snarky git.
He reads it again and decides that it simply doesn’t feel like something Malfoy would write.
But then Harry thinks back at Malfoy’s pale face and long dirty hair as he stood in front of the Wizengamot, his cheeks hollow, dark shades under his grey eyes after two months spent in Azkaban. He wonders if he was beaten up or hexed by the guards, now that the Dementors are gone.
The Trials were long and hard, and Harry sometimes wished he didn’t have to attend, but Hermione forced him to and he was sort of grateful in the end. It was good to see justice being made. To send some of those awful people who hurt and killed his friends to Azkaban.
He testified in Malfoy’s and his mother’s favour, telling the Wizengamot of how they had lied to save his life in two separate occasions. Both mother and son got away with house arrests (six months for Malfoy, three for his mother). Lucius was not that lucky, but Harry believes he deserves to rot in a dirty cell for the rest of his life for what he has done.
He summons parchment and quill and writes down a reply.
Malfoy,
All’s fine, I don’t need anything.
Thanks for asking,
Harry
He secures the letter to the owl’s leg and then watches it fly away. He sighs and lies on the sofa again, closing his eyes. He considers taking a nap when Kreacher appears with a loud crack that makes him jump. The Elf asks him what he should prepare for lunch, his eyes eager and excited.
“Er…could you make me a cheese toastie, please?” he asks and his question is met with a disappointed frown and a deep sigh, so he adds “but you can make whatever you want for dinner. I’m not fussy.”
“Kreacher will prepare a beef bourguignon, then.”
“Whatever that is, okay.”
He spends the rest of the morning reading a Quidditch magazine and trying not to unpack. He eats his toastie and then finally finds the courage to climb the stairs and check on the state of the bedrooms. He doesn’t want to use Sirius’s, the memory still too raw to be able to sleep in there. He doesn’t feel like using his old bedroom either, so he settles for one he’s never used before, on the third floor. It has an en suite bathroom and it faces the back garden (or what’s left of it, since it looks more like a jungle at the moment).
He’s nearly finished unpacking and is absentmindedly looking outside when the owl from the morning appears again and nearly crashes into the closed window.
“You’re bonkers, you know?” he says, letting it in, “and don’t look at me like that; I still don’t have any treats for you.”
He retrieves the letter, wondering what on earth Malfoy wants again.
Potter,
I owe you a life debt. Be reasonable for once in your life and tell me what you bloody want from me, so that we can settle it.
I refuse to spend the rest of my days waiting for you to come up of new ways to torment me.
Don’t be a wanker.
D.L.M.
Harry finds himself smiling, probably for the first time in days, or even weeks.
“That’s more like him,” he tells the owl, who just hoots and decides to ignore him. “I’ll get some treats for next time. Don’t be mad at me.”
That seems to earn the bird’s favour and he even allows Harry to pet its soft head.
“You’re a softie deep down,” unlike your owner, he feels like adding.
He’s half tempted to tell Malfoy to fuck off, but he’s feeling bored and hasn’t had any distraction that wasn’t a funeral or a trial in the past eight weeks, so he sits down at the desk and fishes out some dusty parchment and old ink from one of the drawers.
Malfoy,
I feel bored. Tell me something interesting.
Harry
He lets the owl fly away and summons Kreacher to ask him to get some owl treats and then he finishes tidying up his bedroom, making it feel less like a guestroom and more like it belongs to him. It’s a slow and painful job and he gives up halfway through, wishing for a distraction, missing Ron.
He has dinner and takes a shower, then lies in bed, unable to sleep.
The tapping on the window in the middle of the night wakes him up from one of his nightmares. He’s sweaty and nauseous, so he feels grateful for a chance to open the window and think about something other than his horrendous dreams.
“Already back?” he asks, welcoming the tired owl inside, “you must be knackered.”
Potter,
What the fuck?! I bet you feel bored, now that you’ve saved the world and there are no more megalomaniacs trying to kill you and your friends, but I can’t repay for a life debt with some distraction.
Salazar, you’re such a tosser!
Fine, I will indulge in your absurd whims.
In 1767 Camelia Malfoy fell in love with Catullus Longbottom and asked her parents to arrange a marriage between them. They told her she should instead consider marrying his older brother Magnus, since he was going to inherit the family fortunes, but she was besotted with Catullus and refused. The plans went ahead and the couple was happy and looking forward to the big day.
Imagine her surprise when, on the wedding day, she realised her betrothed was missing and Magnus was standing next to her before the altar.
She had no choice and went ahead with the wedding rituals, but when night came and she was expected to perform her marital duties, she hid her husband’s wand, stood in front of him and turned into a panther. What no one knew was that she was an Animagus.
Magnus met a very unfortunate end (imagine being mauled by a panther whilst you’re naked and ready for a shag, Potter) and Camelia was free to find Catullus, who had been imprisoned in the dungeons, and elope with him. According to rumours, they spent the rest of their days in a small village in Provence.
Next time you need a distraction, read the Prophet.
D.L.M.
In spite of the gory scene in his head, Harry finds himself amused by the story. So he gets his quill and writes a reply.
Malfoy,
I can’t believe one of your ancestors ran away with one of Neville’s!
I’d rather read another one of your stories than open the Prophet (have you checked it lately? It’s full of photos of me and Ginny breaking up).
Tell me more,
Harry
He checks that the owl is fine and sends it back.
Strangely enough, he manages to fall asleep again, thinking about panthers and a young lady with Malfoy’s fine features and white-blond hair, marrying a lad who looks like Neville.
He spends the following day trying to settle down and failing to, missing the homely feeling of the Burrow, in spite of the depressing atmosphere of the past couple of months. He considers writing to Ron or Hermione, but decides against it. They both have bigger issues to deal with and their families need them.
Once again in his life, he feels left out, useless. Voldemort is dead and no one needs him anymore. He’s finally free, but at the same time he feels like he’s lost his purpose in life. He feels trapped in his head, among bad memories and regrets. All those people he could have saved, but failed to.
He has received an official invitation to join the Aurors, in spite of not having completed his NEWTs, but he doesn’t know whether he should accept it or not. Being an Auror has always been his dream, but that feels like a lifetime ago, like a dream that belonged to another Harry and not his own.
He doesn’t know what to do with his life anymore.
He spends the day walking around the dark house, trying to care enough to clean the dirty rooms and repair the damaged furniture. He goes for a walk to the park nearby and feeds the ducks some stale bread.
When night comes, he lies in bed, unable to sleep, until he hears a small noise coming from the window. He goes to check and Malfoy’s owl is glaring at him from the other side of the glass.
“I wasn’t expecting you back,” he says as an apology. He summons Kreacher and asks him to fetch the owl treats he’s bought and to see if he can find a cage to let the poor bird rest during the night.
When the owl is peacefully sleeping in an old cage that Kreacher found in the loft, Harry finally settles down in bed, the letter clutched in his hands. He stares at it and wonders why on earth he’s feeling so excited about it.
It’s just Malfoy, at the end of the day. But it’s nice to get some attention that is not his friends’ concerned messages enquiring whether he’s sleeping and eating enough or ridiculous letters from his fans around the country, who want to express their gratitude or offer to shag him or, worse, marry him.
He turns on the little lamp on the bedside table and takes his jeans off. He can’t be bothered to put his pyjamas on, so he just lies there in his t-shirt and boxers. It’s warm enough anyway.
He opens the letter and an involuntary smile tugs at the corner of his lips when he realises what Malfoy has written.
Potter,
If you had studied History of Magic, instead of falling asleep in most of Professor Binns’ lessons, you would know by now that all pureblood families are related. Even the Potters have links with the Malfoys, if you search back in time. The archives at Malfoy Manor are full of references of our families making business together. Your great-grandfather was apparently on friendly terms with mine.
I have seen the latest photos in the papers and I deeply regret to inform you that your hair looked even messier than before. Seriously, have you ever heard of brushing charms? I’m sure you have enough money to afford a Muggle comb. Did you never learn how to use one? I could send you detailed instructions, should you require them.
I strongly hope you’ve bought some food for my poor owl, Argo; he was starving when he came back yesterday evening. I had to give him the day off, because he attempted to bite my finger off when I tried to send him back to you earlier.
I’m bored too.
D.L.M.
Harry reads it again and again, the short line at the very end making him feel something he can’t explain. Knowing that Malfoy is bored too, that he felt the need to share it. It makes his stomach feel lighter, somehow. He eventually falls asleep, the letter abandoned on his bedside table, and when he wakes up in the morning, he writes a reply while he’s munching on his toast.
Malfoy,
I’m sorry about Argo. He spent the night here and he’s well rested and has a full stomach. I lost my owl in the war and I haven’t got a new one.
I don’t know anything about my family, since my father was the last Potter. What kind of information do you have in your archives about them? Also, how much of a posh twat are you, since you have “archives” at home? Mind you, you live in a bloody mansion.
Your hair looked like shit at the trials too, but at least it wasn’t slicked back, so you looked less like a knob.
Harry
He feels a new kind of satisfaction as he fastens the letter to Argo’s leg and lets him fly off into the misty morning air. He can’t explain what he feels, doesn’t really care to put a name to it. It’s halfway through the afternoon when he realises that he’s actually waiting for Malfoy’s reply and he falters, finding himself looking outside of the window, searching the sky for the brown owl.
He calls himself an idiot and resumes his activity of cleaning the kitchen and organising the pantry. He’s decided he’s going to make dinner, which has unfortunately upset Kreacher, so he’s offered to clean the cooking area as a peace offering. The House-elf is getting older and he’s clearly struggling to look after the house as well as he would like to, but Harry doesn’t mind helping. He’s got nothing to do, after all. All he needs is someone to tell him what to do with his time.
He’s ready for bed again when Argo arrives and Harry literally jumps up to greet him.
Potter,
Only a troglodyte like you could compare your colossally stupid hairstyle with mine. I’m sure you’d be happy to know that now I am at home, I can finally wash it properly and that I’ve indeed stopped slicking it back. But not because you seem to prefer it that way.
Merlin, you’re such a dickhead.
I’ve perused some of my great-grandfather’s letters and I’ve found out a few things that might interest you. I have included a picture of our ancestors, drinking what appears to be ale (how dreadfully common) in front of Malfoy Manor and a letter Henry Potter sent Perseus Malfoy in 1908.
I will look again tomorrow, after I’ve finished cleaning the West Wing with Mother. Sometimes I fear the Manor will never be the same as it used to be.
I’m sorry about your owl; it was a beautiful bird.
D.L.M.
Harry looks at the sepia photograph, his mouth opening as he finds an unexpected resemblance between his own face and Henry’s. They have the same hair and nose, he notices, and the same crooked smile. Malfoy’s great-grandfather has short pale hair and a silly moustache, but he also shares some traits with his descendant. Harry notices how good-looking he is. They’re both grinning, young and careless. He feels like he’s never really been like that.
How odd, he thinks, to stare at two men who look like them and yet appear to be good friends, Henry’s arms wrapped around Malfoy’s shoulders as Perseus smiles at him, his eyes crinkling in amusement.
He can’t stop looking at it, finds himself re-reading Malfoy’s letter again and again.
In the morning he sends a reply, asking for more information, for more photos and anecdotes. And Malfoy delivers.
They spend days exchanging letters. Malfoy tells him how Henry and Perseus met at Hogwarts, just like them, and became friends straight away, in spite of being in different houses. Malfoy tells him that they played Quidditch together, opened a shop in Diagon Alley where they sold brooms, went for walks in the Malfoy estate and were basically inseparable.
Apparently, they were both engaged at some point, but something happened and the weddings were called off.
Harry looks at the photos he receives, puts them all away in the drawer of his desk. He stores Malfoy’s letters in a nice wooden box that he finds in one of the bedrooms, a pattern of snakes and apples carved on the side. He reads them over and over again, trying to get the days to go by.
He cleans the house, repairs what’s been damaged, tackles the rooms one a time, under Kreacher’s watchful supervision. He writes to Ron and to Hermione, sometimes to Neville and Luna. He visits the Burrow some weekends, but he doesn’t really want to be in the same room with Ginny and it hurts too much to see George and his parents falling apart.
So he keeps on exchanging letters with Malfoy, of all people. They insult each other, but there’s no bite to it, not anymore. They simply do it out of habit, to keep a resemblance of normality where there isn’t none. They’re both too tired and worn out. The world is not the same. Their lives have been turned upside down, for Merlin’s sake, and Harry wonders, what’s the point? What’s the fucking point in hating each other, when so many people have died? When he’s lost so much that he feels numb with it?
Besides, Malfoy is keeping him distracted, entertained. Harry is so engrossed in the stories he’s uncovering about their ancestors, that he always wants to know more. And a part of him, one that he tries to silence more often than not, wants to know more about Malfoy too. Looks for little clues, for small sentences scattered here and there in his letters.
Draco’s bored. He’s trying to clean and repair the Manor, just like Harry is with Grimmauld Place. He’s avoiding going out, in fear of being attacked. He’s terrified that someone might try to kill his mother. He’s letting his hair grow, making Harry wonder what he looks like now.
Harry lies on the wooden floor, after scrubbing it clean, and thinks of all the funerals. Of baby Teddy, growing up without his mother and father, just like him. Of Hermione’s parents, who still can’t remember her properly. Of Ron’s exhausted face the last time they met at the pub. Of the picture he saw in the Prophet a few days ago, Malfoy and his mother cowering into a corner in Diagon Alley as other wizards and witches spat at them and tried to hex them. Draco looks manly and handsome, protecting his mother from the crowd, as they enter Gringotts.
He can’t find a purpose in anything. He feels completely empty and too full at the same time, thoughts swimming in his head. His stomach hurts so much that he struggles to eat, but he doesn’t feel like going to St Mungo’s, because he knows that the reporters and fans will be all over him.
So he just lies on the floor, waiting for Argo to come back from Wiltshire.
Potter,
I think some of the letters might be missing, because Henry seems to refer to something he has written in previous missives, but I cannot seem to be able to find them anywhere. I asked Mother, but she doesn’t seem to know either. She said Father might have an idea, but I am unable to communicate with him at the moment.
There’s something I don’t understand. Why did they call off the weddings and why both of them, precisely on the same day?
The decision seemed abrupt and uncalled for.
And why at the same time?
It would be helpful if you could find Perseus’s letters. Do you have any idea where the Potter’s archives could be?
Mother sends her regards and a box of chocolates.
Don’t eat them all in one go or you might get spots all over your stupid face. Salazar knows that’s the last thing you need with your disastrous hair.
By the way, I saw a photo of you in the Prophet yesterday. You look like you need a decent meal and a good night’s sleep.
D.L.M.
Harry shakes his head and smiles, then he gets parchment and quill and writes his reply, Argo hooting merrily at his side.
Malfoy,
I have no idea where the Potter’s archives could be, but I have a feeling they are probably lost. I will ask Mr Weasley if he knows anything about it and I will have a look in Sirius’s old room. You never know, I might be lucky and find something my dad left there.
Please, thank your mum for the Honeydukes chocolates; they are my favourite. I know you don’t have full access to your vaults, so please don’t feel like you need to buy me stuff. I’m struggling to eat anyway; my stomach hurts all the time.
It’s my birthday next week and I don’t even want to celebrate. The Weasleys want to organise a party, but I feel like there’s nothing to celebrate.
What’s the fucking point of it all?
Don’t go and tell the Prophet about it, please.
Harry
He doesn’t even know why he’s written something so personal. He just fastens the parchment to Argo’s leg and opens the window, before he changes his mind. He feels stupid afterwards, opening up to someone he barely knows. Especially when he’s saying nothing meaningful to his own friends about how he feels.
But actually, he thinks, that’s not the truth. He actually knows Draco Malfoy. He’s not a stranger. They’ve both spent their entire time at Hogwarts spying on each other, learning to read each other’s expressions and body language. Harry can still remember the feeling of searching for Malfoy’s name on the Marauder’s Map and the excitement of finding it.
It kind of feels the same to receive his letters nowadays. Harry loves the thrill, his fingers moving fast as they unfold the parchment.
Potter,
You should definitely see a Healer, wizard or even Muggle, if you want to avoid Mungo’s. You might have an ulcer and you need potions for it. What does it feel like?
I’m staying well away from reporters, and my old habits of spilling your secrets to them are long gone. Besides, I doubt anyone would believe a former Death Eater is corresponding with the Saviour of the Wizarding World.
I’ll have a look in the Library and see if I can find more information about Perseus and Henry. I vaguely remember reading some old letters when I was younger, but I have no recollection of where I’ve put them.
As for your birthday, you should probably celebrate the fact that you’re still alive.
D.L.M.
Harry feels a thrill when he reads it, his fingers trembling slightly as he holds the parchment. He could have anyone’s attention, really. There are so many people out there who would pay for a glimpse of his life. And yet, he feels stupidly giddy because Malfoy has been decent for once, almost friendly.
He wonders if there’s something wrong with him, searching for friendship where there’s always been hatred and animosity. A part of him wants to be careful, doesn’t trust Malfoy, thinks he’s up to something again. But he’s too tired to analyse every word and study his old enemy’s moves. He wants to let go, for once.
Ron and Hermione have their own family to look after. He has nothing.
So he keeps on writing to Malfoy and tells him about how much his stomach hurts. About how empty and lonely he feels. Malfoy’s just words on parchment, no longer a threat. Harry can’t see his sneer or hear his condescending posh tones. He’s stripped bare and all there’s left are his thoughts as elegant scribbles on letters.
And Malfoy is surprisingly funny and witty, interesting and distracting in a way that never ceases to surprise Harry.
Harry’s noticed that the parchment has a peculiar smell, like some kind of expensive cologne and spices. He has no idea if that’s the way Malfoy smells. The last time they were close enough was when they were riding a broom, escaping from the fire, Malfoy’s hands holding him so tight and desperately that Harry was left with bruises. And all Harry could smell back then was his own fear and the sulphur, the room burning.
Potter,
I’ve sent a potion that might help you feel better and get your appetite back. I’ve brewed it myself and yes, I know you’re thinking I’m trying to poison you, but you’re a paranoid bastard. Just fucking take it and stop moping, you wanker.
I found some of the letters in the Library, but they’re in bad conditions and almost illegible. I’m looking for restoring spells that might repair them.
It’s your birthday tomorrow. I’ll drink a glass of firewhiskey in your honour. I hope you’re not spending the day on your own. I spent my eighteenth birthday in a cell and it was shitty enough. You should celebrate for the both of us.
Take care,
D.L.M.
Harry stares at the letter and he feels like something’s moving in his chest. It might be the potion taking effect (and his stomach stops hurting for the first time in weeks), but he thinks it’s different. He can’t remember the last time he felt like this. Alive and not simply living.
He wonders what it would feel like to actually meet Malfoy in person, if the weird and fragile truce they’ve created would last. If Malfoy would be a dick or not.
He lies awake for hours, thinking, a frown on his face, remembering all the reasons why he used to hate Draco Malfoy so much. Thinking about that day when he could have served Harry’s head on plate to Voldemort and decided against it. About the feeling of Draco’s arms around his waist, his fingers digging into Harry’s flesh as they escaped the Room of Requirements.
He goes to the Burrow for his birthday, receives his presents with a bashful smile, trying to put on a brave face as everyone pretends to be cheerful. He eats a slice of cake and doesn’t feel like there’s lava coming up from his stomach and thinks about Malfoy.
He goes home and writes to him, but Argo is gone and he doesn’t have an owl. He has considered buying a new one, but the memory of Hedwig is still too raw.
He jumps when he hears the familiar tap tap tap on his bedroom window.
“Hey, little one, I almost thought you weren’t going to come today,” he whispers, giving Argo a treat and letting him in.
He opens the letter, his breath caught in his throat.
Potter,
I think I’m drunk. I may have overdone it with the firewhiskey. Ooops!
Anyway, happy birthday!
I wrote a million versions of this letter and they all ended up in the fire (yes, I know it’s the end of July, but it’s bloody cold in the Manor, so I have a fire running in my room).
I just wanted to be nice to you, but I don’t know how.
I’m not one of your stupid fans. I was trying to be decent for once. I just wanted to wish you a happy birthday, without sounding like a pathetic wanker.
Speaking of which, I found your photos in Witch Weekly (the ones of you playing Quidditch shirtless with Weasley) and bloody hell, Potter. They kept me entertained for a few evenings, you know? You probably don’t, because you’re pure and chaste and straight as hell. And I’m drunk and really really gay. Like, really bent.
And I might have had a crush on you for longer than I thought possible.
Also, I think our great-grandfathers used to shag. I’m pretty positive they were lovers. I’m also pretty, full stop. But you couldn’t care less, because you’re straight and you’ll end up marrying a lovely witch and you’ll have a million children and I’ll die alone and miserable, wanking whilst thinking about you.
Fuck, I’m so pissed.
Happy birthdaaaaayyyy!
Draco
Harry’s heart beats madly in his chest, a storm of butterflies in his stomach. He reads the letter, over and over again. He wants to take the Knight Bus and go to Malfoy Manor, find out if what Draco has written is true. He feels his face on fire and the start of a boner in his pants. He can’t stop thinking about Draco, his usually pale cheeks flushed as he takes his cock into his fist and starts stroking it languidly, calling out Harry’s name.
Harry hasn’t done this in a while, hasn’t felt whole enough to seek pleasure. But he lies on the bed, pulls his boxers down and closes his eyes as his fingers curl around his own dick, sliding up and down, dragging the foreskin over the head. He retrieves some lube from the bedside table and whimpers softly at the delicious pressure of his hand around his length. He lets his fingers run up and down his shaft, imagining that Draco is behind him, his chest pressed against Harry’s back like that day in the Room of Requirement. He imagines that it’s Draco stroking his cock, whispering obscenities in his ear. It doesn’t take him long to come, images of Draco, naked and needy, behind his closed eyelids.
He just lies there afterwards, spent and breathing hard, feeling waves of pleasure still rippling through his body.
He needs to see him. He wants to see him.
Draco,
Did you mean what you wrote?
I may not be as straight as you thought I was. One of the reasons Ginny and I broke up was because I figured out I like blokes more than girls.
And what about Henry and Perseus? How do you know they were lovers?
Thanks for the birthday wishes.
Harry
There are a million questions swimming in his head, a million things he wants to ask and say, but he doesn’t know if he can. He doesn’t know how.
He keeps on imagining Malfoy tugging at his cock while looking at his photos on a magazine. He wants to know if there’s more. If this “crush” he mentioned is just physical attraction or if it’s something else.
He lets Argo leave and carry his letter to the Manor and the day stretches endlessly, the longest by far since he has moved back to Grimmauld Place. But the owl doesn’t return that day, nor the following one and Harry thinks he’s going to go mad. That the wait is going to kill him.
He wonders if it was all a fucking joke or a terrible prank. If Malfoy was trying to gain his trust to sell information about him to the papers. He reads the Prophet and finds nothing.
By the third day, Harry’s about to send Kreacher to a pet shop to buy him a bird, when he suddenly hears the familiar sound of Argo tapping on the window and he runs to open it, snatching the parchment from his leg with so much impatience that the bird screeches indignantly.
Potter Harry Potter,
I apologise for my inappropriate behaviour. Being inebriated is not a good enough excuse for the embarrassing letter I’ve sent you.
I found a missive confirming my suspicions about our great-grandfathers. Henry and Perseus called off their weddings because they were in love with each other. Unfortunately, their respective families suspected there was something going on between them and made them separate. They closed their shop in Diagon Alley and I have a feeling they were forced to marry pureblood witches.
I’m sorry. I’m trying not to be a twat, I swear.
I didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable.
D.L.M. Draco
Harry’s about to jump on his broom and fucking fly all the way to Wiltshire, when another owl arrives. It’s a letter from McGonagall, officially inviting him to return to Hogwarts to complete his N.E.W.T.s.
Harry paces around the kitchen, wondering what the fuck he should do, making Kreacher stare at him, a confused look on his wrinkly face.
“Master Harry needs to calm down or his stomach will start hurting again.”
He decides to go and see Ron, but he takes his Invisibility Cloak as he apparates to Diagon Alley. The shop is jam-packed and it takes him a while to get Ron’s attention without being seen by other customers. They hide in a room at the back, full of boxes and parcels and Harry takes the cloak off.
“What’s up, mate? You okay?” Ron asks, his freckled face looking pale and worried.
“I’m fine, thanks. Did you get McGonagall’s letter?”
“Yes, I got it this morning,” Ron replies, scratching the back of his head, “but I don’t think I’ll be going back.”
“Oh,” Harry replies.
“George needs me here. He can’t run the shop without me,” Ron explains, “he can barely get out of bed without me these days. And besides, I don’t need N.E.W.T.s to run a shop. I can’t face another year of essays and books, not after what we’ve been through. I don’t even think I can set foot into the Great Hall, to be honest with you.”
It makes sense, but Harry still feels a wave of anxiety washing over him. Because Hogwarts is still his home. And he wants to go back. In spite of everything that’s happened and the horrible memories of his friends dying there, he still wants to return. But he doesn’t know if he can do it without Ron.
“Do you know if Hermione is considering going back?” he asks, a glimmer of hope in his voice.
“She wants to,” Ron answers, a small smile lightening his face every time he speaks about her, “as soon as her parents’ memories are stable enough, she’s going to come back. She reckons she can do it in the next couple of weeks and be back by September.”
That’s good news and Harry feels relief filling his lungs, making him breathe fully again.
“Do you want to go back?” his best friend asks.
“I…” he replies, “I think I do.”
He hugs Ron and they promise to see each other again at the weekend.
Harry goes home and sits down at his desk, an old quill in his hand and blank parchment in front of him. He knows what he wants to ask, but the right words are hard to find.
Draco,
Have you received McGonagall’s invitation to return to Hogwarts?
I’m considering going. I think it would be good if you returned too.
We could start things over. I could shake your hand this time.
Were Henry and Perseus miserable for the rest of their lives?
I don’t want to be.
Harry
He feels torn. He feels like his heart is bleeding from several different wounds, like a million papercuts on his ventricles and valves. He fears it will never be the same.
He thinks about his great-grandfather, forced to marry a woman he didn’t care about, while he was in love with another man. With a man who looked like Draco.
Harry thought he was in love with Ginny, but maybe he wasn’t. Not really.
He wonders if he’s capable of loving someone, since no one has ever loved him before. He knows Ron and Hermione do, but not in that kind of way.
And then he thinks about Draco, about their obsessions with each other and the crush Malfoy said he’s had for him.
Argo returns the day after, looking grumpy and tired.
Potter Harry,
I have received McGonagall’s letter. She contacted the Ministry on my behalf and I have permission to return to Hogwarts and complete my house arrest there, but I don’t know what to do.
I want to repent and make amends for my old mistakes, if that’s even possible.
I want to be good, but I don’t know how.
Draco
This time Harry is about to take his broom and just fly all the way to Malfoy Manor, when the floo suddenly comes to life and Hermione’s tired but cheerful face appears in the flames.
“Harry! I’ve missed you so much! How are you doing?”
He kneels on the floor and talks to her, tells her about his long days and the house feeling empty and dark. He doesn’t tell her about the letters, nor about Malfoy.
“I’m coming back to England next week,” Hermione announces, “my parents can remember a lot more and I can get them settled in time for September.”
“Are you going back to Hogwarts?” Harry asks, his heart in his throat and when Hermione nods, a plan forms in his head.
They talk for a few more minutes and then say goodbye.
Harry lets Argo fly back to Wiltshire without giving him a reply, for the first time in over a month.
He apparates to London Victoria station. He needs time to think and he has always liked taking the train, looking at the countryside zooming by. He boards a train to Southampton Central and then changes there to get to Salisbury. When he arrives, he apparates to Malfoy Manor.
The imposing gates stand in front of him, but they let him through when he pushes on the solid iron. He feels the magic of the wards fizzing against his skin, warning the Malfoys of his arrival.
By the time he walks to the front door, Draco is already there, waiting for him.
He looks taller and his hair is longer, falling around his pale face in soft white-blond locks. His grey eyes are focusing on Harry, open wide, and his hands are trembling, nervously playing with the fabric of his dark green robes.
“Potter,” he says, his voice lacking the usual stiffness, sounding almost soft.
“Draco,” he replies, “I apologise for visiting unannounced, but I felt the need to speak to you face to face.”
He says that and yet he doesn’t actually know how to put into words the thoughts that have been circling round his head for the past few days.
“Listen, I’m sorry about my letters,” Draco starts saying, but Harry shakes his head.
“You shouldn’t apologise,” he says, “I liked them.”
Draco looks surprised and his cheeks turn a lovely shade of pink. Harry wonders how on earth he’s never realised before how beautiful Malfoy looks. His lean body standing straight in front of him, making Harry feel the need to reach for those long limbs and pale face, to stretch his arm and make his fingers come in contact with Draco’s porcelain skin. Harry wonders if he’s cold or warm to the touch. What he would look like, falling apart under his fingers.
“Come back to Hogwarts,” he blurts out, “come back with me.”
Malfoy’s mouth opens and then Narcissa appears at the door behind him, an inquisitive look on her face.
“Mr Potter, what a delightful surprise,” she exclaims, her fingers resting on Draco’s shoulder, “to what do we owe the pleasure of this visit?”
“Er…” he says, “I was…I was just asking Draco if he’s planning on returning to Hogwarts.”
She looks at him and then at her son, with furrowed brows, a silent conversation going on between them.
“Draco and I have discussed it, but I’m not sure if it’s a good idea. He wants to go and he needs his N.E.W.T.s, but I don’t know if he’s going to be safe at Hogwarts.”
“I’ll make sure he is,” Harry replies, straight away, making them both stare at him in surprise, “I’ll ensure Draco’s safe. You have my word.”
“Well, in that case,” Narcissa says, “we’ll think about it. Won’t we, darling?”
Draco nods and his eyes never leave Harry’s, trying to communicate something that the Gryffindor fails to understand.
“If that’s everything, then…” Narcissa says and Harry bids his farewell, wishing he could at least touch Draco once, speak to him alone, find out what’s on his mind.
He slowly walks back to the front gate, turning once and seeing Draco still standing there, watching him go. His grey eyes are inscrutable and a part of Harry feels like going back, but then Narcissa drags her son inside and Harry just apparates back to the train station.
He goes back home and writes to McGonagall, saying that he’s going to be there and asking for the list of books he needs to buy.
A day goes by and Harry feels restless again, finding things to do to keep himself busy, searching through Sirius’s old room, in an attempt to find clues about Henry Potter and finding absolutely nothing. He can’t face the thought of Henry and Perseus being unhappy for the rest of their lives.
He eventually gives up, finding absolutely nothing, and goes to the kitchen to get some food, when Argo flies through the open window.
Harry,
I’ll be there.
Draco
Harry smiles and he feels happy for the first time in months.
They’re going back to Hogwarts.