Chapter 2
It hadn’t been easy for Draco after the war, what with his last name, lineage, and that godawful mark on his arm. But he was proud of what he’d accomplished in the seven years since.
He had a well-respected job at the Ministry that he’d earned on his own merit, a flat in West London, friends who, he admittedly could stand to see more, and a kneazle with whom he shared a mutual hatred, but kept the loneliness at bay.
And okay, maybe he still got the odd death threat in the post, and his relationship with his parents wasn’t great, not to mention his desolate love life…
But for the most part, it was a peaceful existence – one he’d worked hard for – and more than he expected to get after the war.
So he wasn’t eager to throw it all away for a haunting order from a persistent ghost.
Even if she was the mother of the saviour of the wizarding world, he thought to himself, staring unblinkingly up at his bedroom ceiling, trying unsuccessfully to fall asleep.
He turned to get into a more comfortable position.
Even if the order was to protect said saviour.
He kicked his sheets to the foot of the bed, suddenly feeling overheated, despite the November chill.
Even if said saviour also saved you, in more ways than you deserve, his traitorous thoughts continued.
Fucking hell. What had he gotten himself into?
With another heavy sigh and a groan for good measure, Draco hauled himself out of bed and down the hall to his floo.
He had a call to make.
“Potter?” the shrill voice at the other side of his fireplace repeated for the third time.
“You woke me up in the middle of the night because of POTTER? Draco, what did I tell you?”
“Emergencies only,” Draco said with her in a rush, continuing, “but Pans, this IS an emergency. Just let me explain. Can I come through?”
Pansy’s floating head glared daggers at him, but he’d been on the receiving end of that look enough times in his life to know that his best friend would cave.
He stared back at her with a desperate look of his own.
“Ugh, fine, you utter bastard. Hang on.” Rolling her eyes, Pansy exited the floo so Draco could go through.
Pansy’s sitting room was elegant as ever, even when it was scattered with her belongings, including stacks of her most recently published novel, Enjeux.
He tore his attention away from the image of squinting eyes boring into him on the book cover, the look of gritty determination one that reminded him of the man he was here to discuss, and looked back to Pansy.
“Well?” She asked, arms folded across her chest.
Her scowl made her striking features stand out more fiercely, even with her slender 5 ‘3 frame drowning in an oversized sleeping robe, perched on the side of an armchair, hair sticking to the sides of her face with static.
“Book sales going well, then?” Draco asked politely.
Pansy sighed and folded into the chair more comfortably, all the tension seeping out of her.
“Yeah, they’re alright. What do you want, Draco? Only, it’s 3 am if you hadn’t noticed and I’ve got a book signing bright and early.”
“Well, it’s actually only 2 am for me…” Draco began, but was cut off abruptly with a pinched look from his friend.
“Yeah, well the whole world doesn’t run on your time. Now what do you want?”
Draco knew when he was pushing it, so he got straight to the point.
“I’m seeing visions of Harry Potter’s mother,” he said in one breath, taking a seat on the plush sofa across from Pansy’s armchair.
Letting out his mad secret felt like a weight off Draco’s shoulders and he felt himself start to relax into his surroundings.
The room, like the rest of the flat, was cosy without being gauche.
A single large cushion decorated the sofa, and the soft glow of lamps added warmth to the room.
An old oak writing desk sat in one corner of the room, covered in manuscripts and a typewriter. A matching coffee table separated the sofa from two brown armchairs, and tying it all together on the walnut hardwood was a thick patterned rug in shades of deep blue, grey and gold Draco recognized from the Parkinson family home.
Draco’s eyes settled on the bookshelves lining the walls, a mix of magical and muggle literature sitting among family heirlooms and framed photographs.
The glass doors to the balcony were flung open as though in welcome, gauzy white hangings shuffling softly in the night breeze, embraced by a set of heavier dark green velvet curtains.
He always felt safe here.
Pansy’s voice brought Draco back to the present.
“I’m sorry you…come again?” Pansy shook her head, processing Draco’s news and then rubbed her eyes and squinted at Draco, as though he were an apparition she was seeing.
He sighed and leaned towards her, head in his hands, elbows resting on his knees.
“It’s what it sounds like. It happened first a few months ago, in a dream, she was beckoning me to come with her and she looked anxious. Obviously, I chalked it up to a night out with Blaise, but then it happened again at work and –”
“Wait, at work? Like in the daytime? Around other people?” Pansy interrupted.
“Yes, Granger was asking me about the potion I’d been brewing for – well, it doesn’t matter. The point is, only I could see her.”
“Granger?”
“No, Lily Potter!”
“Right,” Pansy said, standing up suddenly. “I need a drink.”
Draco followed her into the kitchen of her flat, admiring the portraits in the corridors she’d added since he’d last been there.
He swallowed his regret at that thought, wishing he hadn’t left so much time between visits, and cursing the circumstances that finally got him to see his friend again.
Like many Slytherins, Pansy had a rough go of things after the war when word travelled about her willingness to sacrifice Harry Potter to the dark lord to save the rest of them.
Of course, that’s what ended up happening anyway, but the wizarding world wasn’t so forgiving of the idea that someone would consider giving up their golden boy.
So, like any reasonable witch in her position would do, Pansy left the country for French-er pastures. And pastries. And a less hostile life overall.
It was a gamble that paid off, given that Pansy was now a bestselling novelist in Paris.
Sometimes Draco wondered what his life would be like if he’d followed suit. But he tried not to go down that road.
Of all his friends, he’d had it the worst. With his father in Voldemort’s inner circle and Voldemort turning the manor into death eater HQ, it was no wonder Draco was thrown into Azkaban with the likes of Rookwood and Greyback, and, well, Lucius in the immediate aftermath of Voldemort’s demise.
It was his age that saved him from a life in prison in the end. The fact that he’d been underage when he took the mark. Well, that and Harry Potter.
To Draco’s immense surprise, Potter supposedly flew into the ministry in a rage, harping on about justice and fair trials and proper Auroring procedures, and “if this is how the ministry’s going to be run, I’m not having any part of it.”
It was this tirade and Granger’s level-headed diplomacy and excessive knowledge of wizarding law that got Draco released from Azkaban two weeks in, allowing him to wait out his trial in a holding cell.
Draco hadn’t seen Potter until the day of the trial itself, but nodded his thanks and got a nod in return.
It wasn’t the last he’d seen of Potter, who as expected, became an Auror as soon as possible.
They came across each other in the halls of the ministry, and sometimes Potter came by the office Draco shared with Granger to take her to lunch.
He never said more than two words to Draco.
Draco came out of his thoughts when Pansy plunked a steaming cup of tea on the kitchen table in front of him, the smell of firewhisky filling his nostrils.
“Ok.” She said, settling in next to him. “Talk.”
“Right.” The heat of the cup was a comfort to Draco, something to hold and focus on while he relayed the events of the evening to Pansy.
When he was done, he looked over to find her mug empty and her look calculating.
“Well?” He ventured after a tense minute.
“How do you know it’s actually Lily Potter?” Pansy asked finally.
Draco gave her a look. Photos of the Potter family were unavoidable after the war, published in every history book and newspaper in wizarding Britain.
“Just listen,” Pansy started, cutting Draco off before he could begin.
“You said she had aged. Ghosts don’t age, Draco. So. Maybe it’s not Lily Potter. Maybe it’s someone else, who looks like her. Or posing as her. Did she ever actually say who she was?”
Draco thought back to his encounters with the ghost. “Well no, but…there’s just something. I can’t explain it, but I just know it’s her Pans.”
He’d known it from the very first vision, when she’d come to him in his sleep, in the way you often just know the truth in dreams, even when they’re hazy.
Pansy had pulled out a notebook at some point during their conversation and began writing things down.
“Ok, fine. Let’s say it is somehow the present-day version of Lily Potter’s ghost. Why would she come to you?”
“I don’t know! That’s why I’m here Pans, I don’t know who to go to about this. It doesn’t make any sense.”
“Well, you came to the right place,” she said with a conspiratorial grin, and not for the first time that night, Draco was grateful to have such a fiercely loyal and nosy friend.
With a click of her pen, she began to write.