Chapter 1
“That’s not Malfoy,” Harry said, rounding on his friends the second they stepped foot into his living room, Hermione looking harassed with a large bag over one shoulder and Ron stumbling out after her brushing soot off his robes.
“Honestly, Harry not this again,” Hermione sighed, putting herself to rights and taking a seat on the sofa as Harry continued his pacing.
“No, I mean it, Hermione. It’s not him. No way. Something’s not right.”
“People do change you realize,” Hermione said, looking at Ron who nodded wisely, now soot-free and sat beside her.
“Not that much! He called me Harry, Hermione! Tell her, Ron!” “Er, well it is your name, mate.” Harry stopped his pacing to glare at his so-called best friends. “Yes but it’s Malfoy.”
“You just said it wasn’t Malfoy?”
“Exactly! That’s what I mean! Malfoy would never call me Harry, and he would probably choose death by fiendfyre before thanking me or apologizing.”
“That’s a bit much, Harry come on,” Hermione reasoned.
“We all know he was a huge twat in school but it’s been years…and I mean he’s paid his dues, hasn’t he?” She asked, wringing her fingers.
Harry sighed, the fight leaving him. He flopped down in an armchair across from his friends, rubbing at his hair. “I guess,” he mumbled into his hand.
Harry still felt bad about Malfoy being sent to Azkaban. Not that he could have done anything about it, but it seemed wrong.
He was a child, they were all children. Sure Malfoy was a git and he made some incredibly foolish choices, but he was never actually evil.
Apparently that doesn’t count for much to a Wizengamot looking to lay down the law on anyone associated with the war, and he was sentenced to 10 years in prison.
But pity didn’t equate to trust or forgiveness. Not to Harry, not like it seemed to for his friends.
In a sense, Harry understood where they were coming from. Coming down from the war had been rough on everyone, but perhaps especially Hermione and Ron.
They’d stepped up, still reeling from their own losses (it took almost two years before Hermione made contact with her parents again) to keep Harry out of the limelight. To protect him, like they always did.
Hermione jumped right into organizing, her rational mind taking over where her emotional one couldn’t.
She organized funerals, wakes (Fred’s was the hardest but she still managed to capture his spirit with a sparkling send off), memorials, tributes to the fallen.
She took it upon herself to give speeches, set up foundations, and research how to rebuild Hogwarts.
All while keeping Harry away from it all.
Ron was right there with her, every step of the way, taking care of Hermione while she took care of everything else.
He made sure she didn’t miss meals, he gently closed her books when her eyes were drooping but her stubbornness refused to let her give in to sleep.
He even took care of Crookshanks. And if that wasn’t love…
When he wasn’t minding Hermione, Ron was taking up the mantle of hero, the title bestowed on the three of them for carrying burdens they should never have had to bear. For ending a war. For saving their world.
Ron wore the title well. He stood tall when they pinned the Order of Merlin, First Class to his chest, when they accepted him into Auror training, when he completed his exams.
He did everything he knew Harry didn’t want to. Everything the world expected of him anyway.
While his best friends took action, Harry faded into the background, grateful to be forgotten, to be afforded that little bit of peace.
He took up residence in his horrible house, the one Sirius so lovingly left to Harry after he left this plane of existence.
He spent months there doing nothing but sleeping, and eating, and slowly fixing the place up.
On bad days, he broke things.
His friends let it go on for a year, before they marched into the kitchen of Grimmauld Place, expressions hard, worn like armour, ready for a fight.
But Harry didn’t put one up.
One glance at Hermione’s fierce no nonsense look and Harry caved. He had known his time alone would be short lived. He appreciated it anyway.
He eventually re-entered society, attending all the right events, donating to all the right causes, socializing with his friends and family for their sake as much as for his own.
But when he wasn’t going through the routine Ron and Hermione helped him forge, Harry didn’t really know what to do with himself.
He still flinched when something was too loud, too close. He still dreamt of those who moved on, those he couldn’t save, of snake eyes.
But it was the other dreams that haunted him more.
The dreams he had in the daylight. The dreams of a future, a family, a home to call his own.
Ginny had tried to be his dream for a while, but it was too soon after the war, before the wounds had healed, and too much too fast to turn into anything real.
They parted as friends.
With that dream a distant memory, Harry did the only thing he knew how to — he fought the bad guys.
He joined the Aurors shortly after Ron, shortly after ending things with Ginny, shortly before Hermione found the courage to find her parents again.
He rose to the top of the ranks quickly as everyone knew he would, and he found he didn’t care whether it was because of his name or his scar or his actual ability. He was just glad to have a purpose again.
And if that purpose was to give himself up to death then so be it.
He was used to dying. It was living Harry was afraid of.
In all his 27 years, he’d never quite learned how.
It was that thought that shook Harry out of his reverie and back to his friends, who had taken the time to pour themselves drinks.
He gratefully plucked his out of the air as Hermione floated it to him.
“Listen, mate, I know it’s Malfoy and all, and I’m not saying he’s not still a grade-A wanker, but he hasn’t really done anything to warrant well, suspicion has he? I mean, he’s only been out a week.”
Harry took in Ron’s anxious body language, Hermione’s worried gaze and decided to drop it.
“You’re right. Sod it. Now what are we having for dinner?”
The tension in the room broke instantly with Ron grinning and pulling out a takeaway menu from somewhere in his robes.
It had become a bit of a tradition for the three of them to excuse themselves as early as possible from Ministry events and galas and regroup at Harry’s for real food and petty gossip.
The rest of the night followed the script of many similar nights past and by the time his friends left to relieve Molly from babysitting duties, he felt slightly better.
“Still on for Wednesday?” Hermione smiled tiredly, giving his arm a tight squeeze.
Harry returned the smile. “Absolutely.”
With a whoosh of the floo his best friends were gone and Harry was left alone once again.
After banishing the takeout containers and turning out the lights he made his way to bed, questions about Draco Malfoy still lingering in the back of his mind.