Chapter Text
It’s a mild, soggy winter. The snow that falls during the night melts under the sticky morning sun and Grimmauld Square turns into a muddy mess by late afternoon. Harry declines Ron and Hermione’s invitation. He spends the last two weeks of December in bed, venturing outside only to spell the snow off his front steps and check the mail.
Draco doesn't write.
As the days bleed into each other, he finds himself distracted by small projects here and there. He starts going on walks around the swampy neighbourhood. He tries new recipes he stumbles upon in muggle magazines. He installs new shelves in the pantry. While he’s at it, he paints the window sill and instals a spice rack next to the oven. It takes longer than it should, but it’s something to do. A reason to get out of bed.
Around mid-January, Myriam’s letters start arriving. They’re not as aggressive as he feared. They’re mostly a plea for Harry to consider helping further the research into parallel universes by continuing their work. He drops them in the hearth.
He’s worried Hermione might resent the years he’s been too absent so it takes him some time to talk to her about volunteering at SPEW. “That’s other Harry’s thing,” he says when she asks if he’d like to teach the defence classes. “I can do whatever you need help with.”
“I’m sure we’ll find something,” she replies with a smile.
In the meantime, when he’s not cooking, renovating or walking aimlessly around London, he writes letters to Draco. To both versions of Draco. He drops them in the hearth alongside most mail he gets, including another envelope from Quillweather.
* * *
“Guess who came into my office to ask about you today.”
The candles flicker when the three plates of pasta float by before settling in front of Harry, Ron and Hermione.
“Who?”
“Malfoy.”
Harry’s heart drops. He hasn’t had any news about Draco since the last time Ron mentioned him off-handedly, and then he'd only learnt Draco had been rude to an intern. He moves the bottle of wine so he can see Ron better.
“What did he say?” he asks in one breath.
“Before I recount our conversation in excruciating detail, as I imagine you also want to know what he was wearing and how he styled his hair, why don’t you finally tell us what happened between you too?”
“Nobody will judge you, Harry. If something did happen and that’s part of the reason you’ve been so sad, it’s ridiculous to hide it from us.”
“If? If? I’ve seen happier Dementors than Malfoy voluntarily exposing himself to my presence today.”
Harry’s eyes move from Hermione to Ron. He sighs. His food gets cold while he speaks.
“I can’t believe you got dumped by Draco bloody Malfoy,” Ron says, clutching his head and staring out the window dramatically. “He’s an even bigger tosser than I thought, and I was already of the opinion that he’s a huge tosser.”
“I don’t know if that’s fair. I can understand where he’s coming from,” Hermione says, crossing her arms.
“What? Not only are you not siding with your friend, who, on top of being heartbroken and in great need of moral support from his friends, has also clearly lost his mind because dating Malfoy in one universe wasn’t enough for him so he had to go ahead and try to replicate the experience, but you’re siding with Malfoy?”
“I’m not siding with him, I’m just capable of empathising with his position. Of course I’m on Harry’s side.”
“Great. Now that we’ve all taken sides,” Harry says grumpily, biting into the cold pasta, “will you tell me what he said?”
“He asked me if you’re well. I told him you’re partying it up every night and living your best life without his sorry arse in it.”
“Very funny.”
“Nah, I told him you’re training for a cooking contest. I think he actually believed me, which should be evidence enough he’s a moron who doesn’t deserve you. And then he asked me to give you this.”
* * *
Dear Harry,
Please forgive me for the manner in which this letter has gotten to you. It couldn’t be avoided since I was worried you might still be in the habit of not checking your mail.
In these last few months I’ve had the time to reflect on our short time together. I am deeply ashamed to have behaved in a way that, so many times, bordered on viciousness. The only excuse I have is that I was very much overwhelmed by your sudden interest in me and I didn’t know how to communicate my feelings clearly. I hope you’ll give me the opportunity to right this wrong by reading the rest of my letter.
I don’t even know where to start. I think it doesn’t take an Auror to see that I’ve always had a soft spot for you. Even as a teenager I was always doing my best to get you to notice me. I was very stupid and competing with people much better than me, so forgive me for doing it so poorly. But we were children then, and then the war came and well …
During the almost four years we worked together I had the privilege to get to know you better. I’m afraid my pride never let it show how much I respect the dedication and energy you put into running your department and your incredible loyalty to your friends, colleagues and staff. Lucas still talks about how you were always so kind to him.
Of course my feelings could only grow in such close proximity to you, but I hope you’ll believe me when I say I never even dared hope they’d ever be reciprocated. I was never brave, or kind, or intelligent—not when it came to the things that truly mattered, anyway. I made many terrible decisions in my life and despite considerable efforts I’m still too quick to anger and too proud. You can see how in my mind, there was never anything in me that someone like you could like.
So when it turned out you were also interested in me, I was blinded by your attention. By you. I couldn’t think straight anymore. My attraction towards you left me feeling hollow when I was not with you and I craved your affection. Naturally, I was consumed by doubt. I couldn’t silence the voice in my head that said “It’s not you he wants.” I was jealous, I was cruel, I was the worst version of myself. I wanted to hurt you because I thought you had hurt me.
With a clearer head, I can see now that it was never your intention to hurt me and that you were simply doing your best in a hopeless situation. And I sincerely think you did your best and that you were much too good and much too kind with me. It was terribly wrong of me to accuse you of holding my past against me. It’s my past and it’s my own fault if it’s there for people to hold against me. For this, and everything else, I apologise sincerely.
If I’m writing this letter to you today, it is also to clarify something I should have clarified when you first asked me about it. I will once again blame my pride; I didn’t want to let you in on how deep my affection for you ran by admitting to it then. Following your invitation to the Puddlemere-Arrows game and the sudden but much hoped-for change in your attitude towards me, I was forced to take a closer look at my feelings. While I could only speculate as to your intentions, I realised mine were not unequivocally platonic in nature. I didn’t consider it fair to myself or to my partner at the time, Adam (the quidditch player), to continue our relationship under these circumstances so I put a stop to it before we attended the match together.
I’m sure sooner or later it will reach you in some way that we are back together and I just want to reiterate that while we were seeing each other I have never been with him or with anybody else. Maybe it’s presumptuous of me to believe this information would still be of any interest to you, but I’d much rather you heard it from me than from someone else and assume the worst.
I’d also like to add that my moving on is not so much a reflection of the superficiality of my prior feelings as it is of a need to regain a semblance of balance in my life. It is one of my many flaws that I am terribly afraid of loneliness and cannot stand it any more than bats can stand daylight.
As for us, I often think about something you said to me one evening. It was snowing outside. You seemed sad and I asked you how other Draco and other Harry became close. You stalled, for once you didn’t seem too keen to indulge the morbid curiosity that always got the better of me when I felt like I was not enough for you. But I insisted and in the end you admitted that in that universe, we were born bound to each other. Soulmates is the word you used, I think.
I was of course very shocked to learn about this foreign magic. Shocked to hear how it affected the way we interacted with each other from the very start, how this was the real reason our histories differ so much. I immediately resented the fact that you had kept this from me for so long, but before I could express myself you put your arm around me and wondered, in the tone of voice of someone who’s pursuing an intellectual curiosity but who has no hope of ever finding the answer to their query, if the ring sends everybody to a universe where soulmates are real.
You could have of course answered this question yourself by picking up the book on my nightstand entitled “The History of the Ring of Haan”. You could have gone to any bookstore and browsed the Magical Objects section and read the few testimonials from people that used the ring, and you would have found out that it was indeed just you the ring sent to such a bizarre universe. If only you would have looked, you would have learnt many incredible things. You would have learnt that there are as many universes as moments in time, a different one born each time we make a choice or draw a breath. There’s one where I’ve written this letter in blue ink instead o black and one where I’ve never written it and yet another one where I’ve written it exactly the same only in an entirely different language. And the incredible power of the Ring of Haan, the reason it is such an amazing piece of magic, is that it won’t throw you across the universe in a random world where you won’t recognise anything. It will always make the quickest jump to the closest world in which its one crucial condition is met—a wedding band linking the wearer to the object of their desire.
And when one knows this, one understands that if the ring sent you so far away, to a universe where a whole new branch of magic had to come into being for us to give each other a chance, that can only mean that we are surrounded by an infinity of worlds that look just like ours in which we never did. It means that, since we weren’t fortunate enough to be born with each other’s names on our wrist, the chances were always stacked against us. So bad are our chances, in fact, that it never happened. Not even once.
It’s a horrendous thought at first but, the more I think about it, the more oddly comforting it becomes. I find myself laying in bed thinking of all the other Harrys and Dracos in universes that look just like ours, circling each other and never touching and I think hey, at least we tried. Then I think of the only two who made it work and I hope they’re happy together. They seem like great people from what you’ve told me.
But you didn’t need to read the book on my nightstand, nor go to any library to know the ring sent you to the closest possible universe to ours. You already knew it, because I had already told you as much the first night you came over. So it begs the question, what was the point of pretending?
I resented your charade then, thought you a coward for it. It was months after, when the anger had finally passed, that I could see it for something else. An attempt to protect me, maybe, from a truth you deemed too ugly. But surely, I tell myself as the rain falls outside my window and I’m kept awake by memories of our time together, surely you would have lied if your intention had been to protect me. You’ve lied to me before. So the only other explanation I can think of is that you weren’t pretending for my sake, but for yours. And that saddens me, because I was so busy protecting myself that I never gave much thought to the fact that you needed to be protected too. For this too, I hope you’ll forgive me.
Anyway, I hope that if we ever cross each other again we can shake hands and not walk by as if we were strangers. That would be, I think, the real tragedy.
Yours,
Draco
* * *
One would think there’s only a finite number of times somebody can read a goodbye letter and have their heart broken again and again, but one would be wrong. So, so terribly wrong.
* * *
February comes and goes.
* * *
Imperceptibly, life regains a certain structure.
Two days a week, he helps Hermione with little things around the office. Sometimes, he needs to take a break to just breathe. Or cry. Or stare at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. But then he goes back to the letter he was writing, informing a certain Mister Sheen he has to offer five weeks of paid vacation to the elves in his employment, that he is very much forced by the law to do so and that unless he complies, he will soon be receiving a visit from a Ministry official, and the ache in his chest passes as if it was never there.
The other days, he works on the house. Once he’s finished with the kitchen, he moves on to his study. Before he gets rid of the furniture he goes through the mountains of paperwork he’s amassed in the ten years he’s been living there. Draco’s memos are moved upstairs, to the drawer of his nightstand. Draco’s letter also lives there and every night before he goes to sleep he reads it. He knows it by heart yet, every time he reads it, it says something else.
Ron and Hermione come over every Friday and they play muggle board games spelled to come alive. He cooks elaborate dinners for them. “It’s my pleasure,” he says when they deplore their lack of time to return the favour. “My way to say thank you.”
On Tuesdays he goes to the Ministry to do his part for the research into parallel universes. Sometimes, it’s hard to see himself with the other Draco. Other times, it’s like watching an old movie. But most times, the only thing he can think about is that his Draco is only a couple of floors above him. And that maybe, just maybe …
* * *
Ron gets ridiculously skilled at Monopoly and for the whole month of March they only play that but that’s all right, because the new responsibilities at work are getting to him and he’s more stressed than usual.
At the beginning of April, Harry gets somebody from the Ministry to dissolve the Fidelius Charm and to connect his house to the floo network so that Ron can firecall him when he needs help. Only instead of using it in emergencies, Ron takes this as an invitation to firecall him in the middle of the day just to relay the last office gossip whenever he has five minutes in between meetings.
Harry doesn’t mind. The knife glides down the middle of the tomato while he laughs at Adler’s latest ploy to dissolve the Department of Mysteries and the window is open and the sun is shining through and there’s something in the air that changes with every gust of wind—something sweet, something bitter, something like hope and something like regret.
* * *
Harry’s stomach clenches when he finds the fourth letter from Quillweather on his doorstep. He knows the man did not lodge an appeal, so what could he possibly want from Harry? What could warrant such a level of persistence? Surely … surely not that.
He tears open the envelope with his thumb as he walks into the kitchen, heart racing.
Mister Potter,
It has come to my understanding you have recently travelled to a world far away from this one. I know how difficult it is to come back home. If you desire to go back to where you’ve been, I can help you for a fair price, all things considered.
Sincerely yours,
Rudolph Quillweather
Harry puts the letter back into the envelope with trembling hands.
* * *
“How did he find out, Myriam?”
“That’s probably my fault. I told him somebody used the ring. He must have put two and two together, with your public inquiry and all.”
“Didn’t you say your men found it in a jewellery box, thrown together with dozens of other rings? I thought he didn’t know what it was. You told me he didn’t know.”
“All the evidence pointed towards this conclusion, but I had my doubts. How could a collector of antiques not recognise such a legendary magical object? I pulled a few strings so that I could talk to him when he was kept at the Ministry during the trial. Since I couldn’t actually start an investigation…”
Harry nods, aware Myriam’s referring to the deal Adler made to save his job.
“He became very agitated as soon as I mentioned the ring. He asked me if Crook had written to me to inform me of this, which I found very weird. When I told him we found it amongst his own possessions, he was adamant we were mistaken. I told him somebody had used it unintentionally so we were sure it was not a fake. His behaviour became even stranger and he asked his solicitor to get him out of the meeting. I didn’t find it necessary to inquire further.”
“And what do you make of his letter?”
“I think he truly didn’t know he had the ring before I told him and that he decided to try to use this to his advantage. There are many people who’d give a man everything for the Ring of Haan. Who knows who else he’s sending these letters to?”
“So you think he’s lying? That he doesn’t know where it is?”
“I think it’s not worth making a deal with a convicted murderer in order to find out if he’s lying or not. Don’t you agree?”
“Of course I agree. What kind of question is that?”
“Just a question I’d ask anybody who used the ring, Harry.”
* * *
The inevitable happens on a warm, sunny day. He finished an early morning session with Myriam and he’s dragging his feet towards the visitors entrance through the crowded Atrium when, from a distance, he sees him.
He’s walking towards Harry, squinting at a piece of parchment and muttering under his breath. For a second, the longest and most terrifying second of Harry’s life, he thinks Draco’ll just pass him by, a swoosh of dark robes on his peripheral vision, and leave him standing there, struck in place by the force of a whole sun with nobody to tell.
He doesn’t. He looks up just in time and his eyes settle on Harry, the only person not moving in a sea of people rushing left and right. He must be a funny sight, dressed in a pair of washed out muggle jeans and an old t-shirt, because Draco stops so abruptly a witch bumps into him from behind.
Harry swallows with difficulty. He’s forgotten how striking Draco looks in his black robes. How his narrow neck seems so fragile surrounded by the stiff collar, so fair and delicate and naked. He’s forgotten the depth in his eyes, the colour of his lips, the beauty of his hands as he runs one through his hair. Harry takes a step towards him and, voice trembling, says, “Hey.”
An Unspeakable walks between them, hiding Draco from view for a moment.
“Harry. What a … what a surprise.”
“I—I,” Harry stutters, overwhelmed. He’s dreamt of this moment for months, already lived it a hundred times over. He takes a deep breath, points to the door behind him. “I was in the Department of Mysteries. For research.”
“Research,” Draco echoes, looking at Harry’s hair, at his clothes, at his hands.
“Yes,” Harry says, mind blank. “And you?”
“And me?”
“Where are you going?”
“What?” Draco looks up. Blinks. Lets out a nervous laugh. “Oh, I’m going back to my office. I’m sorry—I didn’t expect to … bump into you today.”
“Yeah, no, I know,” Harry says, mirroring Draco’s laugh. “Me too.”
Draco smiles. He closes his eyes. When he opens them he doesn’t look agitated anymore. He looks radiant and bright and open. He narrows the distance between them and offers Harry his hand.
“I’m really happy to see you, Harry. How are you?”
“I’m—I’m fine,” Harry says, shaking Draco’s hand. “And you?”
Draco folds the parchment he was reading and rolls his eyes towards the corridor leading to the courtrooms. “Cross with a judge.”
Harry laughs. “So business as usual, then.”
“Pretty much.”
“How’s Lucas?”
“He’s well. It’s his birthday actually,” Draco says, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear. Harry opens his mouth to ask another stupid question whose only purpose is to avoid the dreaded moment when Draco will tell him he’s got to go, but Draco looks up and asks, “Would you like to say hello to him?”
“I’d love to,” Harry says in one breath.
Draco smiles. They turn towards the lifts.
“So, I’ve heard you’re preparing for a cooking contest?”
The rest comes easy. Harry tells him about all the cooking and all the renovating and Draco listens attentively to Harry’s rambling, squished between Ministry officials and the lift panels, and then it’s his turn to talk about what he’s been doing while their steps echo against the marbled floor and Harry can barely keep up with his words because his lips are so distracting and before he knows it they’re already in front of Draco’s office and he’s shaking Lucas’s hand.
Lucas’s desk is adorned with a Happy Birthday banner and he stammers excitedly when Harry inquires about his law studies. He speaks about final exams and other things Harry can’t really focus on, and then Harry asks if Draco’s still giving him a hard time because he forgot to alphabetize the files that one time and they all laugh at that. But then there’s not much else they can say to each other so Lucas excuses himself and sits back down at his desk and Harry and Draco are just awkwardly standing there until Draco mumbles, “I should probably—” and Harry can’t think of anything else to say to avoid the unavoidable, so he says, “Yes, of course. I’ll—I’ll go.”
The hem of Draco’s robe flutters out of sight and the double doors swing closed behind Harry. He takes two steps towards the lifts, then turns around and goes back through the double doors.
He had meant to wait just a bit more—just enough to get back on his feet, finish renovating Grimmauld Place, maybe even find a real job—but what would that accomplish? He made up his mind months ago. He knows what he feels. He knows what he wants.
He flies by Lucas’s desk and barges into Draco’s office.
“Have dinner with me.”
Draco looks up, startled.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“I did what you asked me. I left you alone. For six months.”
“And I appreciate it—”
“One dinner. Please.”
* * *
Tight-chested and sweaty-palmed, Harry gives Draco a tour of the house. He points to the architectural details he’s restored and answers Draco’s pointed questions about wood grain and trim work. He tries not to think too much of how shaky his voice is or about how calm Draco’s is. He tries not to look at his lips when he smiles, or at the curve of his jaw when he looks up to inspect the ceiling medallions.
On the way back down Draco asks about the empty room across the drawing room. White walled and bare, it stands out against the clutter of the rest of the house. Harry stops at the doorpost while Draco goes in.
“It was my study. I’m still deciding what to do with it.”
Draco’s eyes linger on the empty walls, on the curtainless window that lets in the last rays of sunlight.
“This used to be his office, right?”
“Draco …”
“I’m just making a calculating guess,” he shrugs. “It’s the best room in the house.”
“This was my study.”
Draco smiles but does not add anything else.
He lets out a gasp when he enters the kitchen. It’s warm enough to keep the window open and the wind carries inside the murmur of distant conversations.
“Quite an impressive transformation. The first time I saw your kitchen, I asked myself if you survive on take-out and expensive whiskey.”
“What, you mean like you?”
Draco laughs, leaning in to take a closer look at the herb garden on the window sill. “Yeah. Like me.”
He sits down by the empty hearth and, chin propped on his hands, follows Harry as he puts on a pair of mittens and opens the oven door. He cracks a smile when Harry brings the lasagna over to the table.
“It looks very good on you. All this free time.”
A flush goes up Harry’s neck as he cuts into the crust and serves Draco.
“Tell me if you like it. I took some creative liberties with the recipe.”
Draco makes a show of examining his plate from all sides, then takes the first bite.
“It’s outrageous! Who’s ever heard of cheese in a lasagna?”
Harry laughs, and the laughter seems to unlock something. He breathes out, feels the tension leaving his muscles as he sits down and mirrors Draco.
“It’s delicious.”
“I’m glad you like it.”
“How could I not? Didn’t you cook it specifically for my tastes, which you know so well?”
Harry looks down at his plate.
“I’m just messing with you. It really is delicious. When did you discover your passion for cooking?”
Harry takes his time answering.
“I’ve always liked cooking. Since I was a child.”
“Oh.” Draco wipes the corner of his mouth with a napkin. “Really?”
“What about you?”
“What about me?”
“Do you like cooking?”
“I don’t know. I don’t have the time to try it.”
For a while, there’s only the sounds of the city coming in through the open window and the click of cutlery against the plates.
“How’s Adam?”
“You invited me here to ask about Adam?”
“No, I—No.”
“Right.”
Harry looks up at the ceiling. He knows what he wants to say. He’s written tens of letters in which he’s said it. He’s fallen asleep to this very conversation taking place in his head. Only now that Draco’s sitting across from him, cross-legged and impatient, it’s like Harry’s forgotten all the words. Draco seems to pick up on the fact because he sighs and says, “Listen, Harry—”
Harry straightens his back and pushes his empty plate away.
“I care about you. And from your letter, it seemed like you care about me, so—”
“Of course I care about you. That was never the issue, me not caring about you.”
“Yeah, so we both care about each other … and … I think maybe the problem was that … maybe it was too soon, after what I’ve been through. It was hard to keep you two separate in my head. I shouldn’t have told you so much about him. I felt guilty about lying in the beginning and I thought you deserved to know everything that happened. But I think it just made everything even more confusing. For both of us.”
Draco raises an eyebrow.
“Yeah. It probably did. So?”
“So, I won’t do it anymore. I’m not confused anymore. If you …”
Harry grabs the edges of his chair and searches for his eyes. “If you’d like to try again, it won’t be like before.”
Draco crosses his arms.
“Try again?” He pauses, lets Harry process just how ridiculous he finds the idea. “The only thing I’ve been thinking about since coming here is that this is the house in which you were happy with someone I can never be. I can’t live like that. It’s as simple as that.”
“You don’t have to live like that. I don’t want you to live like that. I can move—”
“Move?” Draco laughs. “No, Harry, I meant I can’t live my life comparing myself to this version of myself that made you let go of whatever it was that was holding you back.”
“He didn't make me—”
“Harry,” Draco says, voice laden with disappointment. “You asked me to come here so at least have the decency to listen to me. You never chose to be attracted to me. But you chose not to act on it. Until you met a Draco that didn’t make all the mistakes that I made. Those are the hard, cold facts. If I had been younger, maybe I would have taken advantage of your situation for longer than I did. But I’m not, and I can’t be with someone who’s been forced by a very unfortunate accident to have to settle for me. I can’t do this to myself. It’ll turn me into someone I hate. And I can’t do this to you. Precisely because I care about you.”
There’s a bit of blood on Harry’s nail from how hard he’s scratched at it while listening to Draco. He wipes it with his thumb and looks up.
“I did not settle for you.”
“Of course you did. Of course you did.”
“I didn’t.”
Draco sighs.
“Draco,” Harry begs. “What can I do to prove to you I didn’t? Tell me, and I’ll do it.”
“Prove?” Draco scoffs. “This isn’t a trial, Harry. You didn’t commit a crime, you just did whatever you thought was best for you. It is what it is. I’ve accepted it. And maybe it’s time you accepted it too, so you can move on and find somebody you will be thrilled to fall in love with.” He stands up. “Thank you for dinner.”
* * *
Draco’s silhouette melts into the shadows and a loud pop momentarily disturbs the peace that had settled over Grimmauld Square. Harry closes the kitchen window. If this was not a trial, why does he feel like he’s been tried, found guilty and executed, all in the span of a one course meal?
He replays Draco’s words on the way upstairs. Under the jet of scalding water. While he tosses in bed, waiting for sleep.
Draco was wrong, he thinks as the first rays of sunlight cast red shadows on his wall, it was a trial. From the very first kiss in Draco’s office, their story had been nothing but one long, agonising trial. And Harry’s lost at every hearing. But, another voice chimes in as he splashes cold water on his face, there’s still the appeal.
* * *
The sound of early morning traffic covers the swooshing of the coffee as it leaves the filter.
“Hermione.”
Hermione looks up from the registry she’s flipping through. Harry hands her a cup, then places his own on the edge of her desk.
“Why do you think Ginny left me?”
She takes a sip of her coffee and fumbles with the registry on her desk; clears her throat.
“I think Ginny was quite clear as to her reasons, wasn’t she?”
Harry nods. It’s true, after all. He strolls over to the window. Somewhere out of sight a light has turned green and the cars start moving one by one. He crosses his arms and turns back to Hermione. He’s learnt very early on the job that for every case there’s often one question that unlocks all the right answers. The difficult part is finding that question.
“And do you think she was right? Do you think I don’t show people how I feel?”
Hermione brings her hands together and meets his eyes.
“I think you don’t show people who you are, Harry. And at the end of the day, maybe that’s the same thing?”
* * *
Once you’ve asked the right questions you can start looking for evidence.
“Is fifteen minutes enough?”
Harry nods. Myriam closes the door. Harry locks it with a flick of his wand, then points it towards his temples. At first glance, it looks like any other memory he shares with Myriam, just slightly blurrier around the edges.
Harry’s just collapsed on the drawing room floor due to the force of the soul-reading spell. Draco rushes over to him.
“Harry? Are you alright? Harry?”
“I—I don’t—that’s not at all what I remember. I want to remember all of that. I want to remember that!”
“Never mind all that. We’ll make new memories.”
The colours fade and melt into each other, as if Harry’s just fallen underwater. The Harry and Draco on the floor become moving shadows; their voices, distant whispers.
“I remember horrible things!”
“What do you mean, horrible things?”
“I remember doing horrible things to you. At school. You too, but I—I—there was blood everywhere and I—”
“Harry, those memories are not real. You heard Willowbrook, they’re things your mind made up. You never did anything horrible to me. On the contrary, you were extremely patient and kind with me from the day we met.”
“That’s not what happened, Draco! You’re the one who doesn’t remember things correctly! The ring, it must have—”
“Enough with this ring. You searched for it for months and didn’t find anything. The ring isn’t real, Harry. But this is real. Us. Our life together. My love for you. And you know what made it all possible?”
“The Amets?”
“No! Your kindness did. When we met you were a scared child, thrown into a world you knew nothing about, having been bullied all your life. And you met me, the biggest bully of them all, so sure of my ways and of my rightful place at the top. And I just so happened to idolise you. I could have spent my life thinking you were larger than life, Harry, because in so many ways you are.”
Harry closes his eyes. Somewhere in another part of the room, his old self is doing the same thing.
“But then you told me about your life. About how you grew up hungry, cooking and cleaning for your muggle family like a house elf. That they made you sleep in a cupboard. You told me how it was for you to go to school dressed in your cousin’s old clothes. How it felt to be poor and unloved and different. You told me you’re scared they’ll send you back there because you’re not smart enough. Not good enough.”
Draco huffs.
“You, not smart enough! Not good enough! I wanted to cry and I wanted to scream. I had never heard of anything more ridiculous in my entire life. And then you looked me in the eyes and asked me if I’ll judge you for it. If I’ll make fun of you for being poor, like I make fun of Ron. So I’ll let you say whatever you want to me, my love, but never repeat in my presence that you ever did anything horrible to me. You taught me kindness.”
* * *
The problem is that, sooner or later in any case, there comes a point when you know what your next step should be, but you don’t want to do it. You know the murder weapon is on the bottom of the river, but you don’t want to get your uniform wet retrieving it. You care too much about your uniform still.
So naturally, you get drunk. Really drunk. So drunk there’s no way you won’t do something extremely stupid the moment you step outside the muggle pub you’ve been in since early afternoon.
* * *
There’s a sound of a metal mechanism at work and then the door opens. Draco shuts his eyes briefly when the fluorescent light hits him. Before Harry can draw in a breath and start enumerating all the reasons that have brought him there, Draco pushes him into the bright stairwell. He closes the door behind him, leaving only a narrow gap through which the light can slither through into Draco’s living room.
“What the hell, Harry?”
“Oh,” Harry says as the curved bannister trembles with the force of his body slamming against it. “Is Adam in? I’m sorry. I didn’t know he’d be in.”
“You’re drunk,” Draco whispers angrily, wrapping his dressing gown around himself like an armour. “You’re drunk and you’re making a fool of yourself.”
“I wanted to …” Harry starts, then gets distracted by the expanse of Draco’s neck, broken up by the ornate hem of the dressing gown, “ ... speak with you.”
“Do you know what time it is?”
Harry shakes his head. He loses his balance and hobbles forward.
“All right. I’m taking you home.”
Home? Yes, he’d like to be taken home very much. There, he’d have all the time in the world to explain. All the time in the world to remove that gown. In fact, Harry thinks as Draco’s getting closer and he can make out two red sleep lines spanning the width of his cheek and continuing down his neck, he could get started on that particular project right now.
The gap between the door and the frame lights up. Somebody’s turned on the light in Draco’s apartment. Adam turned on the light in Draco’s apartment.
“We’ll go home,” Harry says, words stumbling out with an uneven cadence, “I just need to do something first.”
Harry fights off Draco’s attempts to keep him from going inside. The source of the light is easy to identify—child’s play, really—as it comes spilling out of the arched doorway leading to Draco’s bedroom. Harry goes in, ignoring Draco’s mortified whispers.
From the middle of the bed, Adam squints at Harry. He still has one hand on the cord of the reading lamp. He’s shorter than Harry imagined and not as ugly as he’d hoped. He has a full beard, and large, strong arms. Harry wants to break them.
“Er—”
“Adam, right? I’m Harry.”
“I’m sorry—I’m sorry, Adam, he’s really drunk.”
Adam’s panicked gaze moves from Harry’s forehead to Draco.
“Is that … Draco, is that Harry Potter?”
Adam backs into the headboard when Harry takes a step towards him.
“He didn’t tell you about me?” Harry asks in a low, sad voice. He sits down at the foot of the bed. “He told me about you.”
He lays on his back, making Adam move his legs out of the way, and takes off his glasses so he can rub his eyes. They hurt.
“Why did he have to tell me about you? Was he trying to kill me?”
He abandons the idea of keeping up with what’s happening around him. The bed moves, the sound of footsteps dies out and Adam’s hushed voice asking, “Is that the bloke you were talking about?” is the last thing Harry hears before sleep takes him.
* * *
The sound of a window slammed shut awakes Harry. Head throbbing, he jumps out of Draco’s bed. A blanket falls off him. He’s still dressed in last night's clothes and smells of last night’s mistakes. Next to an anti-hangover vial, he finds a succinct note asking him to never, ever, contact Draco again.
Harry looks at the storm picking up outside. He’s pretty wet now; might as well get drenched.
* * *
“He’s not in.”
“I know he’s in, Lucas.”
“I’m sorry, Mister Potter,” Lucas whispers, leaning in, “but he explicitly told me not to let you inside if you come by.”
Harry considers Lucas’s distressed expression. He performed a cleaning spell on himself in the lift but it couldn't have done much for his bloodshot eyes or wrinkled clothes. He nods, then turns towards the closed door leading to Draco's office.
“Draco! I know you can hear me. I’ll just—”
The door opens wide and a furious Draco comes out.
“Go into my office,” he screams at Lucas, who jumps out of his chair and does as he’s told. “Harry, you’ve crossed any limit of decency showing up here!”
“Can I please talk to you for five minutes?”
“Do you realise how inexcusable your behaviour is?”
Harry takes a step towards Draco. His heart is racing.
“You were right.”
Draco takes a step back as if they're rehearsing a dance. He shakes his head in disbelief.
“I can’t believe you’re doing this to me.”
Harry swallows the lump in his throat.
“I was too much of a coward to admit my feelings for you.”
“I don’t want to hear this, Harry.”
“I was scared of what Ron and Hermione would say.”
“Enough.”
“Of what it said about me.”
“I said enough.”
“I’m sorry,” Harry carries on. “I’m sorry I put on that ring instead of asking you out.”
Draco lets out a mock laughter.
“But you did. It’s done.”
“I wish I never had.”
Draco stops laughing.
“But you did.”
Harry tries to reduce the distance between them again but Draco backs further away.
“It was a mistake,” Harry says, voice small.
“You only believe that because you had to come back.”
It’s Harry’s turn to shake his head in disbelief.
“That’s not true, Draco.” Draco’s back hit the wall behind Lucas’ office. “I'm in love—”
“You're in love with him. I'm not him.”
“I—”
“Please, Harry,” Draco cuts him off again. “Enough.” His voice breaks and he plasters a hand over his mouth while tears start rolling down his cheeks. “Enough.”
Harry’s heart stops.
He’s on a landing, peering into somebody else’s drawing room. He’s sixteen, staring into a bathroom mirror. He’s alone in the cupboard under the stairs, face covered in tears, and he doesn’t know what to do.
The double doors open. Ron comes strolling in, clean-shaved and bright-faced. His gaze travels from the weeping Draco to the dumbstruck Harry.
“Er—What's going on?”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Draco whispers, turning away from Run and wiping his tears frantically.
“What are you doing? Get out!” Harry shouts in Ron's direction, brought back to reality by Draco's words.
Draco turns to him, eyes red and full of tears.
“No, Harry! You're the one who has to get out!”
“We’ll both get out, how about that?” Ron says in a low, panicked voice, dragging Harry towards the exit and eyeing Draco’s back with a concerned look. “Send Lucas with those papers when you want, all right?”
* * *
The doors close, hiding Draco from view. The corridor is dark. The storm clouds are reflected in the marble floor.
“Harry?”
Lighting strikes and everything turns white for an instant. He shakes free of Ron’s grip and starts walking towards the lifts.
“Harry, mate. Er—what was that? Do you want to talk about it?”
Harry takes out his wand and picks up the pace.
“No. I want a portkey to Azkaban and a visitor’s pass.”
Ron looks at his watch.
“Give me five minutes.”
* * *
The sea is black. The rain falls like a thick curtain, cutting through Harry’s thin blouse. Dark shadows linger behind the wet rocks. He lifts up his wand and thinks of Draco, claping a hand over his mouth to hide his smile when Harry’s legs found his ankle under the long table in Adler’s office.
The shadows retreat; he enters the prison.
* * *
His clothes are soaked and he leaves a trail of muddy water on the marble floors.
“Don’t even try, Lucas.”
Wide-eyed, the boy sits back down while Harry walks by his desk and enters Draco’s office with a determined stride. Before Draco can protest, Harry puts out his hand and drops the ring on the file in front of him. The ring wobbles on the brittle parchment, then becomes perfectly still. Eyes glued to it, Draco takes off his spectacles.
“What the fuck is this?”
“It’s the Ring of Haan.”
In one smooth move, Draco stands up and backs away from his desk. A drop of water glides off the ring and dissolves into the paper as the contours of foreign letters start to take shape on its outer surface.
“Are you insane?” he screeches, grabbing the window ledge on both sides. Behind him, the rain splashes against the thin glass in waves. “Cover it up!”
Harry lays his palm over it.
“Don’t worry. It’s just the pull of the ring. I feel it too.”
Draco looks up at Harry, stunned. His eyes are still red and glossy, his entire expression lacking its usual composure.
“I wish I never put this ring on. But you’re right. I did. And you should, too.”
Draco stares at him.
“It will take you to the same universe I was in. It should, right, since it’s the closest one? It should take you to the other Harry, the one I replaced for seven years.”
“Have you lost your mind?”
“It should take you to a Harry that’s not afraid to let people in. To let you in,” Harry carries on, trying to exert a control on his voice that he’s not really capable of exerting anymore. He closes his eyes. Swallows. Opens them again. “He’s not afraid to say I love you.”
“Harry …”
“It’s really quite amazing, how different he turned out because he grew up with your love,” Harry says quietly, gaze settled on the drenched glass. “I didn’t, so I’m not as good as him at … this. I don’t know how to open up. All I know is how to make you cry and how to lie.”
“Hey …”
“And I lie a lot,” he says, breaking into some sort of laughter. “To myself. To you. To the other Draco. I never told him about Sectumsempra. I thought he was you and the ring had wiped your memories and I was glad. It was easier to pretend I’d lost my memories than to face what I did that day. You see,” Harry says, using his other hand to wipe a tear escaping from the corner of his eye, “that’s who I am. A coward who couldn’t even take off your shirt.”
“Harry, I never let you take it off. You tried to—”
Harry shakes his head.
“I didn’t try. I pretended to try, just like I pretend to be someone I’m not. This … this good person all around. But I’m not a good person, Draco.”
“Of course you are, Harry, you’re a—”
“I’m not. I spent ten years of my life catching criminals but you know what I do at night? I dream of killing my muggle family. My cousin and my aunt and my uncle. I dream of killing them with my bare hands, without magic. And I’m scared that one day I’ll snap and actually do it. Because why else would I dream of it all the time, if not because I really want to do it?”
“I—”
“I’m not a good person, Draco. I really want to be one. But I’m not. I’m full of hate and spite and resentment and I live with the fear that one day, somebody will catch on to that. Everything I do, I do because I’m terrified people will find out just how rotten I am inside. Terrified that one day, I’ll make a mistake and everybody will leave me.”
Harry removes his glasses and rubs his eyes with his one free hand.
“Harry,” Draco says, voice shaky, “please don’t talk like that about yourself—”
“And you … you’re the opposite. You made so many mistakes in your life but you didn’t hide or run. You owned up to them and turned your life around. You have to walk around with your biggest mistake tattooed on your arm and come to work surrounded by people who never forgave you and maybe never will, and you do it every day. You do it because you believe what you’re doing is good and important, and you do it even if it will never change their opinion of you. Yeah, you were a brat as a child. But then you grew up and became this amazing person, so brave and honest and self-aware. So ridiculously good at your job they hired you even with a Dark Mark on your wrist. And I’m sorry I was scared people would judge me for your mistakes. I’m sorry I couldn’t be as brave as you.”
“Harry …” Draco says, bottom lip trembling.
Harry takes a big breath and gulps down the air, struggling to regain some composure. He wipes his tears with the back of his hand and uncovers the ring.
“So, here. Put on the ring and we'll be equal. I know seven years sounds like a long time but it’s just a second of your life. And if you still want me after meeting the perfect version of myself, I’ll be here. Because I met your perfect version, Draco, and I don’t want him. Why would I? He’s nothing compared to you. He never got to make your mistakes so he never became the man I fell in love with.”
He closes his eyes—they’re so blurry they’re of no use to him anyway—and waits. For a while, he only hears the sound of rain violently hitting the windows. Then the floor creaks—is he doing it? Did he do it already?—and a rustle of fabric is getting closer and closer.
Draco’s warmth surrounds him. Harry lets out a sob and throws himself into Draco’s arms. Draco’s chest is heaving and his shoulders are shaking. He’s crying. Harry opens his eyes.
“Don’t cry,” he says, bursting into tears as well. “Don’t cry, please,” he begs, nestling Draco’s head to his chest.
Breath choppy, Draco inhales in an effort to calm himself.
“I’m really in love with you, Harry,” he says into Harry’s drenched blouse, voice almost a whimper, “I’ve never been in love like this before. I don’t know … I don't know how to handle it.”
Harry tightens his embrace. Draco’s hair is in his mouth and eyes. He breathes him in, kisses his head.
“You don’t know how to handle it?” Draco’s fingers sink into Harry’s back. “Have you seen me lately?”
Draco’s sobbing worsens. Harry grabs Draco’s chin and looks for his eyes. They’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, even wretched like this.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, tears rolling down his cheeks. “Why are you crying like this?”
“I just,” Draco chokes up, gasping, “I ca—can’t believe you just did that. I can’t believe you brought me the ring and … said all those things … and …”
Harry cups Draco’s cheeks and wipes away his tears with his thumbs.
“Can’t believe it? Draco, I’d do anything for you.”
A sob escapes Draco’s mouth and Harry presses their lips together. Behind them, between reports, parchments and an assortment of swan quills, the ring reflects the rain-drenched windows.
* * *
“Mister Malfoy? Mister Potter? Is everything alright?”
Draco pushes Harry away and whispers, “This is worse than we used to shag during lunch.”
Harry can’t contain the big, stupid grin on his face. He lifts himself from the floor and offers Draco a hand. “We’re fine, Lucas,” he shouts towards the closed door. “Just talking.”
“Crying and snogging under my desk,” Draco mutters, flattening his robes, “even teenagers have more sense than this.”
“That’s great! But—er, Mister Malfoy, you have that meeting in ten minutes—”
“Oh, shit.” And then, in a louder voice, “Thank you, Lucas!”
Harry wipes a dried tear from the corner of Draco’s eye.
“Is this my queue to let you get back to your professional self?”
“It is,” Draco says, putting Harry’s glasses back on.
Harry grabs his hand and kisses it.
“So be it. I need to go take care of the ring, anyway. Unless you want to—”
“I don’t.”
“All right. I’ll do that, then, while you go to your very important meeting. And when you’ve finished being a distinguished member of society, will you come over so that we can continue snogging and crying in peace?”
Draco laughs. He grabs an envelope from his drawer. He puts the ring inside, then slides it over to Harry.
“It’s a date.”
* * *
Harry’s only had the time to take a shower and start peeling the potatoes when the doorbell rings.
They don’t get hungry until after midnight, and so at midnight they turn on all the lights and the house echoes with their laughter as they make their way to the kitchen. Harry picks up the half-peeled potato abandoned on the counter while Draco makes himself comfortable in the chair by the hearth. The summer storm has passed but it’s chilly out so Harry starts a fire. Draco summons an apple from the fruit ball on the window sill and asks the question Harry’s been dying to be asked.
Harry tells him about Quillweather's letters and unceremoniously informs Draco he went to Azkaban fully prepared to threaten Quillweather into telling him where the ring was.
“But that’s extortion!”
“Yes. And if that didn’t work, I was going to break him out of prison.”
Draco crosses his arms.
“I spent four months of my life putting him in there.”
“Thankfully, I didn’t have to. He didn’t want me to. He agreed to tell me where the ring is as long as I swore to give it back to him after I used it.”
“That doesn’t make any sense.”
“It will. It’s a complicated story, so let me start at the beginning. You see, Quillweather was in love with Crook.”
“In love with him? He killed him!”
“Yes. But that doesn’t mean he wasn’t in love with him. He fell in love with him in their youth but never dared admit it to anybody. They both ended up marrying other people. Quillweather spent ten years searching for the ring, hoping he’ll get Crook out of his system. Of course, it didn’t work as planned. The return was very hard. He was even more in love with him and, in a moment of weakness, he confessed everything to his wife. She consented to stay with him but never really forgave the betrayed.”
“Did Quillweather really tell you all of this?”
“Yeah, and you will see why. So, he went to—do you like mashed potatoes with a lot of cream or not too much?”
“Not too much.”
“Alright. So, Quillweather went on with his life until the beginning of last year, when Crook offered to sell him the Ring of Haan out of nowhere. Confused, Quillweather wanted to know how Crook came into its possession. Crook told him he found it in a teapot he bought years before. Somebody must have lost it, no doubt. But Quillweather knew that wasn’t possible. He had used the ring the year before, so it couldn’t have also been in Crook’s warehouse all this time. So he reached the only logical conclusion he could: his wife had taken her revenge and Crook knew everything. Embarrassed and hurt, he left without a word and never spoke with Crook again. After four months, he couldn’t take it anymore and poisoned him. He planned to kill himself too, but was too scared to do it when time came.”
“He confessed the murder to you? After pleading not guilty?”
“He did. Because when Myriam told him they found the ring in his warehouse, in a random jewellery box, Quillweather finally understood how the ring had gotten to Crook in the first place.”
“How?”
Harry covers the steaming pot with a lid and turns to face Draco.
“Once somebody uses the ring, it goes to the last place they’d ever look for it. In the house of the person they’re in love with. When Quillweather used it, it went to Crook’s warehouse. And when it appeared back in Quillweather’s house, that could only mean Crook used it too.”
“Jesus … So Crook ...?"
“Yeah … you can imagine Quillweather’s state when he figured it all out.”
“And so you found the ring in … ?”
“The ring was in your apartment. It came to me through the open window of your bedroom when I summoned it from the street.”
“And you agreed to give it to him? After what he did?”
“Yes. I told him I’d let you put it on, then get it from my house and bring it to him. He cried when I went back.”
“He’ll use it?”
“I imagine he already did.”
“And where did the ring go now? Since Crook’s dead?”
“Who knows?”
* * *
Harry traces one of the three white scars on Draco’s chest with his finger. He promised he won’t apologise about them—it was the one condition under which Draco let him take off his shirt the day he brought him the ring.
“I’ve been meaning to say,” Draco says, lips pressed on Harry’s forehead, “I’m sorry about Adam.”
“I’m sorry about Adam. Was he upset?”
“He was convinced you came to beat him up. He dumped me on the spot.”
“Was I so scary?”
“No. You were sweet. I’ve never seen a sweeter drunk than you, politely introducing yourself to him as if you were making a new acquaintance.”
Harry laughs. He kisses Draco’s scars one by one, then looks up and smirks.
“Admit you’d have liked to see me start a fight for you.”
“I will admit to no such thing,” Draco chuckles, reaching for a glass of water on Harry’s nightstand.
“I’m sorry I got you dumped in the middle of the night.”
“To be fair,” Draco sighs, “he should have dumped me the first time I cried about you next to him. Or at least the fifth time it happened. Not my brightest moment, Adam. I’m sorry.”
“And I’m sorry about these,” Harry says, looking down at Draco’s chest.
Draco’s smile falters.
“You promised.”
“So sue me.”
“You’re the worst,” Draco laughs, rolling on top of Harry and kissing him.
* * *
“Dinner’s ready.”
Harry watches from Draco's kitchen as Draco puts away his files and turns off the desk lamp.
“I feel so spoiled,” he says when he sits down in front of the feast Harry’s prepared.
“As you should, because I’m spoiling you. How’s it coming along?”
“Not great. Weasley’s even worse than you at writing reports.”
“Do you summon him into your office to scream at him too?”
“No,” Draco says grumpily. “He’s a lot scarier than you.”
Harry laughs. “Speaking of Ron, I was wondering if maybe Friday night you’d like to join us for game night.”
“Game night?”
“If you don’t have too much work.”
“I can’t this Friday.”
“Oh.”
“But maybe the next one?”
* * *
Harry wakes up with Draco staring at him. He immediately understands why.
“I’m sorry,” he says, panting.
“Don’t be sorry! What happened? Were you having a nightmare?”
Harry can still feel Dudley’s fingers scraping his face. He wants to get away from Draco’s penetrating gaze. He wants to hide somewhere until his heart stops racing. Wants to lock himself into Draco’s bathroom and spend the night on the cold tiles. But then Draco pulls him into his arms.
“Is that what you were talking about? With your muggle family?”
Harry nods.
“Oh, my darling. I’m so sorry.”
Harry buries his head in Draco’s chest.
“Were they so horrible to you? I mean, I heard stories but …”
So Harry tells him.
* * *
The Monopoly’s all set. The window is open. There’s a fan in the corner and the wine’s been submerged into a bucket of ice.
Draco’s reading his deposition on a corner of the table and Harry’s putting the finishing touches on a cake—he’s been into baking lately—when the front door opens. Harry looks up at Draco, who looks at the door. The two sets of footsteps get closer and closer until Ron and Hermione are standing in the doorway.
Draco stands up. The three of them look at each other. Harry can’t tell which one’s more awkward and he’s about to intervene when Draco removes his glasses and says, “I’m sorry I was a horrendous arse to both of you when we were at school.”
Ron lets out a dry laugh. “And Harry?”
“Ro—” Harry starts, but Draco shakes his head at him curtly.
“And to Harry too. I’m sorry.”
“It’s OK, Draco,” Hermione says, dropping her bag down next to Draco, “don’t mind Ron. It’s really nice to see you, it’s been too long.”
“It’s really nice to see you, too, Hermione,” he says, shaking her hand.
“If the majority has spoken, who am I to stand in the way of general happiness?” Ron sighs, advancing towards Draco. Draco offers him his hand but Ron waves it away.
Harry watches in awe as he puts an arm around Draco’s back and pulls him into an embrace. Draco mirrors him. Ron whispers something in Draco’s ear. Draco nods, then whispers something back and when they come apart Draco’s eyes are slightly wet.
Later, after they eat and drink and laugh, after Ron beats everybody at Monopoly despite the alliance Draco made with Hermione halfway through, after Draco helps Harry do the washing up, as they make their way to bed, Harry asks, “What did Ron tell you earlier?”
Draco turns and peers down at Harry. His eyes are bright and wide and deep.
“He told me we’re both very stupid, but that you’ll always be stupider than me because you tend to forget how much people love you. And that it’s up to me now to remind you everyday.”