Pentacles

Harry
When the first owl arrived from the Rowe family Harry was deeply suspicious of their offer to solve all of his troubles. Well, all the troubles Harry cared to solve at that exact moment. Namely, the big trouble of having nowhere to house the Summer Unity Quidditch League Harry had spent a decade building from the ground up, when he wasn’t rebuilding Hogwarts, kissing babies, or fundraising for…everything. It wasn’t so hard to build things. Just as it wasn’t so hard to appease the parents who wanted some piece of Harry’s shine to rub off on their newborns. Just as it wasn’t so hard to grin and bear talking to rich, pompous blowhards who did most of the talking for him. It wasn’t what Harry thought he’d be doing with his life - he thought he’d find purpose in the fast pace of enforcing the law, but that had proved too brutal. This alternative, this hands-on work to build as much as he could physically create, this dream of leaving behind a different world for the next generation, that was purpose.

And there, in Harry’s hands, was a letter from a man he’d never met, unlocking the door to Harry’s biggest dream.

Harry had never met Mr. Rowe, and Mr. Rowe hadn’t even known who Harry was until six months prior. He wasn’t a wizard himself, but he’d married a squib and the Statute of Secrecy was more of a suggestion in their household where magic existed but was out of reach for muggle and squib alike. Mrs. Rowe had, of course, heard of Harry, having lived through both wars and knowing Voldermort despised squibs as much as anyone. She hadn’t cared about Harry, though. No, it was Mr. Rowe’s cousin’s granddaughter, who got her Hogwarts letter three years ago, who’s fellow classmate in Ravenclaw, who had been involved in that Reducto incident that Harry cleaned up after, who’s ex-girlfriend in Slytherin got talking to Harry when he stumbled across her in Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom while Harry was ensuring the damage hadn’t opened up any hallways to secret chambers, who started the game of telephone that told Mr. Rowe how Harry was seeking a muggle-space for a Quidditch tournament to help connect muggle and magic born children to the muggle way of life, since the only meeting ground they currently had was thoroughly magic.

Harry was always getting letters like that. Letters from people whose lives he’d changed because of something he did, or, more often, something that was done to him. Harry hadn’t chosen to survive Voldermort’s first attack. He hadn’t chosen to be the chosen one. He hadn’t event known he was The boy Who Lived, and still found it alien to consider being the Boy Who Lived Twice. If he had to be known, which he’d really rather not, but if he had to, Harry wanted to be known for things like this. The small ways he showed up and was there to repair walls or sit side by side with lonely children until they felt a kernel of comfort that could grow into courage.

Perhaps he gave the letter his consideration because that’s how Mr. Rowe knew him. Mr. Rowe was getting on in years, and his children had moved to the CIty. He and his missus lived plenty muggle, and could install whatever muggle appliances would be needed for educational purposes. They missed having children afoot, and had land aplenty. He’d be happy to lease out his farmland for a modest rate, minded that Harry take care of whatever spells would keep his distant neighbors from witnessing the magic.

Harry didn’t trust serendipity. It felt too much like divination. However, Luna said if everyone puts good energy out into the world then the energy will create goodness. And Harry had spent an awful lot of years doing what he hoped in his heart was good.

Perhaps this was it. His reward for good deeds. The culmination of all of his effort and plans. A brighter future where all children could belong.

Draco
Deep in his heart Draco had always longed to be loved, but since childhood he had settled for making people give him what he wanted. Lesser men would have balked at making demands after losing a war so spectacularly that everyone they knew and loved was carted off to prison for the rest of their lives. There was some solace to knowing everyone thought Draco to be that lesser man, and he had the fortitude to prove them wrong. If the manor had any importance to Draco he would have found a way to keep it, but he hated the wretched thing with its dark curses and the peeled off snake skins in every corner. Let the ministry take it off him to settle the war debts, and leave Draco his mother’s accounts and his own trust fund he accessed upon turning twenty-five. He could have crawled off to the edges of society and lived off the pieces left to him, but Draco would not have it.

He had always longed to be loved, but since that would be held off and away from him he would settle for respect. Not respect as his father would have it. Draco was not charming like his father. The Malfoy fortune was gone, and he’d surrendered the land. It was a fool’s errand to imagine a Malfoy ever again holding a Wizengamot seat. These things may have made life easier for Draco, but he no longer longed for it to be easy. He may long for his father to see, just once, how Draco sneered at the ease in which power had been granted to Lucius, and how Draco was able to persevere despite how madly his father had failed him.

And Draco had succeeded. He’d returned for 8th year and stubbornly taken every NEWT and didn’t dare score less than Exceeds Expectations on a single subject. He’d taken advantage of the Ministry reformations and applied for every entry level job available, knowing they had to select finalists anonymously based on qualifications alone. He accepted the Department of Magical Transportation’s immediate offer before they had a chance to check his name, or be told by the other departments to beware of Death Eater applicants. He took the bundle of his mother’s money and purchased a humble little cottage because the country garden behind the house made his heart swell with memories of his mother tending to flowers, unminding how the effort of it smudged dirt over her clothes and under her fingernails. Draco learned how to garden. He planted narcissa bulbs each winter and his heart swelled with nostalgia every spring.

No one forgot all the wrongs Draco had done, but he bludgered them with rights. His job was drudgery, but Draco was steadfast in his labors. He’d been taken on as a permit and compliance trainee and spent most days reviewing assessments of apparition point formations, or approving applications for portkey routes. When he was promoted to specialist he tackled weather pattern reconfigurations for broom transport. He was a senior analyst now, because it became clear the only thing holding him back in the office was prejudice. The only thing these people liked more than their rules was their principles, and they couldn’t let prejudice stand.

Still, Draco had to earn the right to his prestigious position every day he came to work, and he did so through meticulous excellence. “Incomparable,” they said of his work, begrudging or not. “Flawless,” perhaps, if they hadn’t yet looked at the name of who wrote it.

It was a surprise one day when Draco felt proud. He hadn’t wanted pride, not after everything, but he had it all the same. He was suspicious of it rearing up, after all these years. Then again, why shouldn’t he feel proud? He was doing good work, on behalf of the people who professed they were out to do good.

And the report in Draco’s hands? His response to the permit request for a new quidditch pitch up on farmland in Cornwall? Draco knew, unquestionably, it was good.