I Just Saved Harry Potter

Malfoy’s presence at the Shell Cottage is probably one of the unsettling experiences of Harry’s life.

Hermione is personally offended by Harry’s decision and he can’t blame her. She refuses to speak with him beyond the necessities. She avoids Malfoy like the plague, shooting him dark looks whenever he happens to be in the same room as her. Malfoy doesn’t instigate any response from her, either. In fact, Harry can’t decide who is avoiding who the most – maybe both of them. Probably for the best. He tries not to think about the logistics of this arrangement once they leave Shell Cottage to resume their camping trip from hell.

Ron does the same. He sticks with Hermione for most part, updates himself on the rest of his family through Bill and Fleur, helps Harry with the planning of their next mission, and treats Malfoy as though he is part of the furniture.

As for Bill and Fleur, they feed Malfoy along with the rest of the impromptu housemates. They don’t address him, though. They leave it up to him whether he wants to show up for meals or not. Sometimes he does, other times Luna brings it to him. They sit outside the house for long amounts of time, and Harry doesn’t have the courage to ask either of them what they talk about. What can they talk about? His mind supplies a bizarre image of Luna explaining Nargles to Malfoy in explicit details and Malfoy listening to her with utmost attention. In the world that he now lives in, he wouldn’t put it past Malfoy to make radish earrings for himself.

In fact, only Dean and Luna have any sort of communication with Malfoy whatsoever. Malfoy doesn’t speak much, but he listens quietly as Luna and Dean engage in conversation. Harry studies him during these moments, waiting for Malfoy to spit out a hurtful remark, sneering and snarling haughtily, declaring that he’s done with the lot of them.

Harry keeps reminding himself that Malfoy can’t escape. Literally cannot, unless he wants to die. He has voluntarily chosen to bind himself to Harry until the war is over, to protect Harry, and Harry thinks the ridiculousness of it won’t wear off even in a hundred years.

Things turn for the worse when Remus visits the Shell Cottage one evening in their first week of staying there. One look at Malfoy sitting in the corner, knees drawn up, and Remus is striding towards him in a rage.

Harry steps between the two of them immediately, throwing his hands wide apart to shield Malfoy.

“Harry?” Remus says, confused, angry, suspicious. Harry has a distinct feeling that Remus might want to check whether Harry is the real Harry.

Harry goes into the details of how Malfoy saved them, feeling exhausted and done. Remus doesn’t seem convinced. He reminds Harry that this is the Order’s safe house in voice low enough that Malfoy doesn’t hear him. He says that Harry can’t simply bring Death Eaters in their midst because he had a change of heart.

Harry repeats that Malfoy saved them all, that he could have easily gotten them killed but chose to buy them time to escape. Luna and Dean speak as well and Remus seems more accepting of their explanations than Harry’s.

It stings.

Regardless, when Remus announces that he’s become a father of a boy who changed his hair colour, the tension breaks. Bill and Fleur pop open the Firewhiskey and Harry lets it warm him, the giddiness of becoming a godfather swirling in his dazed mind. No one hands a glass to Malfoy but Luna sits with him, sharing hers. Malfoy throws a small smile at her in gratitude.

The thing is – Malfoy is withdrawing into himself more and more with each passing day. He speaks with no one, just moves around the house like a pale ghost. He spends most of his time outside the house, sitting on the shore. Harry thinks about giving him company when he feels particularly charitable but can’t bring himself to do so when he sees Hermione’s hands sometimes trembling. Sees Bill’s skin slashed through.

One morning, a few days after their arrival at the Shell Cottage, just as Harry is walking down the stairs, he comes across Malfoy exiting the bathroom. The fresh smell of Bill’s lemon soap is easily recognizable. Malfoy’s hair is wet and he’s trying to dry it off by squeezing the water with his equally wet fingers. Harry is hit by a sudden realisation that no one must have bothered providing Malfoy with fresh set of clothes or even a towel. Or a toothbrush.

He wonders if Malfoy has been using magic to dry himself all these days. It would appear so. Despite not having to use the cleaning and drying charms on a regular basis, Harry knows that the magic can feel uncomfortable after a certain amount of reusing them. They’re only meant to be used in case of emergencies, not on a regular basis as a replacement for proper hygiene tools.

Harry can’t imagine him asking anyone for them since it would hurt his pride. The same way Malfoy doesn’t ask any questions around the house. Or makes any requests.

Malfoy avoids meeting his gaze as he pushes himself against the wall to let Harry pass. Harry bites his lip, stopping to face him instead.

“You can borrow my towel.”

Malfoy’s grey eyes narrow at him dangerously. “I don’t need it.”

Harry thins his lips. “My clothes might not fit you. I’ll ask some from Ron. I’m sure Fleur has a spare toothbrush lying around. Do you need anything else?”

“What’s it to you?” Malfoy snaps. “Isn’t this the glorious moment you have been waiting for, Potter? To see me in such deplorable living conditions?”

Harry exhales in irritation. “Everyone deserves basic necessities, Malfoy.”

Harry tries not to think about his life with Dursleys, but it’s difficult. He knows first-hand how it feels to be neglected proper food, shelter, or even hygiene. He has spent days locked in the cupboard as a child, not knowing what to do whenever he had to use the bathroom. He spent his days making himself as small as possible, invisible, hoping that no one notices him that day to vent their anger. He refuses to become anything like the Dursleys towards even Draco Malfoy.

Harry watches Malfoy’s resolve start to crumble. He doesn’t respond, though, merely nods his head once curtly in acceptance. Harry places a pair of Ron’s frayed jeans, a loose black T-shirt, a plain sweater, clean socks, his own towel, a spare toothbrush, shaving kit, and half-used cologne on Malfoy’s sleeping bag that night.

The next morning, Malfoy seems uncomfortable in the old clothes but definitely more cheerful. He asks for a second helping from Luna during dinner and Harry feels slight satisfaction with himself.

One day, when Harry, Ron, and Hermione are discussing their break-in at Gringotts, Ron suggests an idea that Harry double takes and Hermione goes suddenly quiet and stiff.

“We should get Malfoy in this.”

Hermione’s voice is soft and broken. “Ron.”

Ron’s hand moves to put it on her shoulders but he changes his mind. He retreats it and sighs. “He’s stuck with us, isn’t he? Harry – we have to take him to Gringotts with us, isn’t it? If that’s the case, why not use him in the process? He knows his aunt better than we do.”

“And what will we say is in the vaults?” Harry questions when Hermione shrinks onto herself.

Ron shrugs. “The truth. That we want the cup. No need to go into details of why and what it is.”

Hermione is concentrating hard on the parchments. Harry waits for her permission. He doesn’t think he has any right to decide in this case.

After a while, Hermione sighs. “It does make sense.”

That evening, Harry sits beside Malfoy with his plate on the floor beside the fireplace. Malfoy gives him a funny look. Harry ignores it, biting into his food. Luna and Dean approach the pair but there isn’t much space for them to sit. They join Ron at the couch, instead.

“What are you playing at?” Malfoy hisses lowly. The sound is nearly drowned in the crackling of the fire behind them.

“I need to talk to you,” Harry tells him. “We’ll go for a walk after dinner.”

Malfoy stares at him. “Are you planning to off me finally?”

“What?” Harry chokes on a piece of sausage. “No. Merlin, Malfoy. Talk about being paranoid.”

“You can’t blame me,” Malfoy says defensively. “I bet you that half the occupants of this house are thinking about the same thing every three seconds!”

“I’m not,” Harry points out. “Neither is Luna and Dean, I’m sure.”

Malfoy scoffs in disbelief but doesn’t respond. They eat the rest of their food in silence. Harry feels strange. He’s spent meals at Hogwarts at his own table with Malfoy all the way across the Great Hall. He’s studied Malfoy enough times to know how he eats his meals. The way he holds his forks and knives with delicate wrists, back straight, all prim and proper. Even the way he drinks his tea reminds Harry of the Queen.

Malfoy comes from a royal, ancient family. He’s grown up in an environment that is entirely opposite to how Harry grew up. Malfoy is used to house-elves, dinner etiquettes, knows the posh mannerisms for fine dining. Harry bets on his life that Malfoy is the type of bloke to reprimand you if use the wrong type of fork for a salad.

And yet – none of that is visible right now. Malfoy sits on the floor with his legs drawn up like always, balancing the plate on his knees, eating with his hands. Harry feels uncomfortable. He’s not used to Malfoy behaving like a normal human being. In fact, Harry doesn’t think he’s ever thought of Malfoy as a human being. He’s always been the stereotypical bully of the school, popping out of thin air whenever and wherever he’s least wanted.

When they had faced off in Moaning Mrytle’s bathroom, Harry had used the Sectumsempra without knowing what it did. He used an unknown curse because whatever it would do, Draco Malfoy was a caricature of a bully and Harry didn’t stop to think of him as a human with flesh and bones.

Only after Malfoy had been gagging on his own blood with a large slice on his chest, running from his collarbone across his whole abdomen, did Harry come to his senses – saw proof with his own two eyes that Malfoy was as human as Harry was, as terrified as Harry was.

There was another moment, Harry reminds himself, when Malfoy had been human. The time when he hesitated to kill his Headmaster, wanting to take on Dumbledore’s offer even back then, the Order’s protection, and had started to lower his wand in acceptance of said offer.

Harry knows that he can turn blue in his face trying to explain all this to the world but it wouldn’t make a difference. Malfoy would still be seen as the Death Eater who tried to kill Albus Dumbledore, almost killed Katie Bell and Ron, used Unforgivables, and when Harry allows himself to see their side – it does seem unfair to ask anyone to see Malfoy as a human just because it’s becoming harder and harder for Harry to be in denial of it.

After they finish their meals, Harry takes both their plates to the kitchen. Malfoy doesn’t remark. He gets to his feet and walks to the front door to wait for Harry outside. Once Harry joins him, they approach the shore in equal silence.

The crash of the waves is loud yet calming. It’s a crescent moon tonight, hanging in the dark sky, illuminating their surroundings in tones of silver. Malfoy’s white blonde hair positively shines. Harry blinks away the impression from his eyelids.

It’s so easy to forget about the war when they’re standing near the ocean with soft, cool sand under their feet. If anyone were to look, all they would see are two young boys taking a walk on the beach, probably discussing mundane topics such as school or homework. Not a war. Not life and death. Not wondering whether they’ll be alive to celebrate their next birthday.

“Potter?” Malfoy prompts him eventually. He sounds resigned to his fate.

Harry steels himself for the blow up that is about to come. He hadn’t wanted Ron or Hermione present for this. He explained to them that he didn’t want to subject them to Malfoy’s scathing remarks; but the truth is that Harry knows – somehow – if he speaks alone, Malfoy will at least hear him out without being distracted by his innate urge to taunt Ron or Hermione, and the whole point of the conversation would be lost.

“We need your help.”

Malfoy actually stops in his tracks, staring at Harry like he does these days – as though Harry has finally lost his mind.

“You need my help?” Malfoy repeats blankly. “My help? My help?”

Harry frowns in irritation. Malfoy doesn’t make anything easy, does he? “Yes. We are planning to break into Gringotts and we need your help.”

For a few seconds, there’s no sound except the rushing of the water and the faint plonk­-plop of fish in the distance. Suddenly, Malfoy’s hands close around Harry’s shoulders and shake him roughly.

“What the–? Malfoy, stop it! Hey, stop it! What are you doing!”

Malfoy doesn’t stop. “Trying to shake some goddamn sense into you!” he nearly yells.

Harry shoves his hands away, straightening his glasses on his nose. He tsks in annoyance at being manhandled like that, but Malfoy comes for him again. Harry is ready this time and pushes him back. Malfoy stumbles a few steps, his feet sinking in wet sand. They’re close to the water now.

He shakes his feet loose. “Potter, are you trying to think of creative ways to get me killed? I know that you’re a dunce, but even you can’t be that big of a dunce! It’s practically suicide to do that! Honestly, I’m more disappointed in Granger than in you right now. I thought she was supposed to be the smartest witch or wizard of our age! And that’s what she comes up with? Breaking into one of the most powerfully protected wizarding buildings in Britain? Are you shitting me?”

Harry lets him continue. He knows Malfoy won’t listen to a word until he’s gotten this self-induced soliloquy out of his system.

As Malfoy goes into great detail of how Harry is the stupidest person he’s met in his miserably short life, Harry lets his mind wander. If Malfoy survives this, he can become a theatrical actor. He has the stage presence required for it, can rant for however long he pleases, and even has the sort of looks that are pleasant to watch – as long as he doesn’t act like himself, that is.

When Malfoy pauses to breathe, Harry latches onto the opportunity to cut in.

“We have Bellatrix’s hair and her wand,” he says and Malfoy twitches in shock. “We want you to transform into your aunt and help us get inside her vault.”

Malfoy stares for a beat, then throws his head back and gives out an unhinged laugh. The sound escapes him only to be carried away on the cool breeze across the dark ocean.

There are tears in his eyes now. He wipes at them with his pale hand, still laughing, and Harry wants to laugh, too, because saying it out-loud, with zero context does sort of seem deranged. He bites his lower lip but ends up grinning despite himself.

“You’re mental,” Malfoy declares to the winds loudly, sounding oddly cheerful.

Harry shrugs.

“And why, for the love of Circe, do you need to do that?” Malfoy questions. There’s a skip in his step. He sounds as though he doesn’t really believe it, that he’s just humouring Harry. “I doubt it’s for her gold.”

“There’s an artefact inside it that we want,” Harry tells him.

“A Dark artefact?” Malfoy asks curiously. “I might know it.”

The casual reminder that Malfoy dabbles in Dark magic is … disturbing.

Harry hesitates. “It’s not the kind you’d find in Knockturn Alley,” he finally says.

Malfoy hums thoughtfully. “Want it or need it?” his voice is deliberately casual.

“Need it.”

“Is it a weapon against the Dark Lord?”

“You can say that.”

“One of them?”

Harry almost loses his footing. Does Malfoy–? If he does know about Horcruxes – but there’s no possible way. Has Malfoy somehow figured it out just like Regulus Black had done? Now that Harry thinks about it, there are certainly parallels between Regulus and Malfoy. Slytherins who grew up believing in blood purity, desperate to help Voldemort until they witnessed with their own two eyes what a maniac he is.

Before Harry can gear himself up to ask the question, how do you know, Malfoy takes his silence as a question in itself and answers. “You said to Weasley that day, one of them must be in it.”

He doesn’t know, Harry decides. It would have been truly strange for Malfoy to learn about Horcruxes. He wonders if Malfoy would have taken the same route Regulus did if he knew. Harry highly doubts it.

Malfoy doesn’t sound even slightly ashamed of eavesdropping on their private conversation. Harry isn’t all that surprised, either. If Malfoy has already heard the words, then there’s no point lying about it now.

“Yes. One of them.”

“Why is it in Aunt Bella’s vault?”

Harry ignores the way Malfoy’s voice catches on Aunt Bella. “We suspect that Vol – You-Know-Who kept it there for safekeeping.”

Malfoy is quiet for a few moments. Harry thinks he can hear the gears churning in Malfoy’s head as he processes this information. The thing is, after Hermione, Malfoy is the smartest in their school. He is only slightly below Hermione’s grades and once again, Harry is surprised at himself for never acknowledging it. Malfoy even fixed the Vanishing Cabinet last year and Dumbledore was impressed. And then there’s Potions – Harry knows that even without Snape favouring him, Malfoy’s strongest subject has been Potions.

“You’re telling me,” Malfoy says carefully, slowly, “that the Dark Lord is in possession of multiple weapons that can be used to destroy him and he’s kept one of them in Aunt Bella’s vault.”

Harry doesn’t know how much knowledge Malfoy might have about ancient Dark magic, let alone Horcruxes. He doesn’t want to underestimate the bloke but feels safe in the knowledge that Horcruxes are very rare and there were no books dedicated to them in Hogwarts library. If Malfoy has been ransacking his own library at the Manor – and Harry knows beyond doubt there must be one – well, they’ll just deal with it later.

“Yes.”

“And you want to steal it?”

“Yes.”

“Will it end the Dark Lord?”

Harry pauses. He had not expected Malfoy to ask questions and such specific ones at that. Delicately probing and prodding in a way that Harry can’t refuse to answer.

“No.” He holds up a hand when Malfoy opens his mouth. “But it will help. Significantly.”

“Even if the Dark Lord now possesses the Elder Wand?” Malfoy asks. There’s sarcasm there, but not as much as Harry would have expected.

“Probably. Anyway, how do you know about the Elder Wand?”

Harry had been itching to ask that question ever since Malfoy had overheard their conversation. He hadn’t even asked what Elder Wand was or denied its existence.

Malfoy rolls his eyes scathingly. “Despite how you might live, Potter, some of us actually possess knowledge. The Elder Wand is one of the biggest quests in wizarding history; I’m surprised Weasley didn’t tell you about it in first year itself.”

Harry stays silent. They walk a few feet before Malfoy breaks it again.

He sighs. “It never crossed my mind that the Dark Lord might search for it. He seems powerful enough on his own.”

Harry doesn’t bother telling him about the reason for Voldemort’s obsessive search for it. He doesn’t really want to get into the details of twin-cores and whatnot, when it’s not necessary to truly indulge that information to Malfoy in the first place.

“So?” Harry prompts eventually. “Are you in?”

Malfoy snorts derisively. “Do I have a choice, Potter? I made the Vow, didn’t I?”

Harry doesn’t respond. They’ve reached quite far without realising it. Some of the stones are breaching the shore, creating a solid wall that they need to either climb over or walk around through the water to get to the other side. Having reached a silent agreement, they both turn around.

On their way back to the Shell Cottage, Malfoy says quietly, “We’re not going back to school, are we?”

Harry swallows at the tone. “No.”

“You never returned for seventh year,” Malfoy says thoughtfully. “At first, I thought it was one of your plans for another dramatic entry. But then the Feast was over and you were nowhere to be seen. Everyone noticed it. One day turned to a week and by the end of second week, the school had realised that you three had run off. The She-Weasel batted away questions after questions for the first whole month.”

Harry’s heart twitches at Ginny’s mention. Bill had said that she didn’t return to the school after Easter holidays, after Luna was kidnapped. Ginny must be at Muriel’s and the knowledge is a stabbing pain in his gut – that he can just Floo over, see her, bury his head in her flower-scented hair.

Malfoy continues, oblivious to Harry’s suffering. “You never intended to return, did you, Potter?”

“No.”

“This is what you’ve been up to, then? Searching for these weapons?”

“Yes.”

“Might as well,” Malfoy says heavily. “There is no Hogwarts to return to. At least, not the one we knew.”

“Hogwarts stopped being Hogwarts after Dumbledore died,” Harry says without thinking.

Malfoy stiffens beside him.

“What do you mean by that, anyway?” Harry tries courageously. He doesn’t want to think about Dumbledore’s death any more than Malfoy does.

Malfoy latches on to the change of topic desperately. “The Carrow siblings have taken over Defence Against the Dark Arts. Except that it’s just Dark Arts now.”

Harry wants to say how it must have been fun for Malfoy but holds his tongue. He doesn’t know why. Maybe because he’s tired of fighting tonight. He doesn’t want to get into another morally grey argument just yet.

“Hogwarts feels dead,” Malfoy shares after another bout of silence, sounding frustrated. “Never thought I’d miss the stupid school.”

Harry misses it, too, but doesn’t say it. He never thought Malfoy would. He’d always complained and whined and moaned about everything that he felt was wrong with it, including Dumbledore and house-elves and less-than-state-of-the-art interior of the ancient castle.

Harry sidesteps the topic entirely. “We usually meet early in the mornings. Come to Griphook’s room at five.”

Malfoy grabs Harry’s arm suddenly. “Wait, you’re bringing a goblin into this?”

Harry shakes his hand away. “No shit, Malfoy. He’s an asset.”

“How Slytherin of you, Potter,” Malfoy snarls in satisfaction for a second before it slips off. “Why is the goblin helping you into betraying his own kind?”

He asks so many questions, Harry thinks.

“He got chucked out.”

“So?”

“So he wants revenge.”

Malfoy groans loudly, pulling at his hair in frustration. “Merlin, Potter, has the Weasley taught you nothing in all these years?”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Harry says defensively.

“Goblins don’t just – take revenge! They’re very loyal to their own kind! I bet you anything that this goblin wants something in exchange for his help, and whatever that price is, he’s going to use it to get back in his own society as a hero.”

Harry blinks. How in the world did Malfoy–?

“Have you been listening to our meetings?” Harry hisses, anger roiling in the pit of his stomach. “Is that how you know that the goblin has asked for a price?”

Malfoy nearly smirks. “So I’m right? Like I always say, Potter, you might be living under a rock but I don’t–”

Harry scoffs.

“–and I know goblins. Hell, you know goblins. Do you never pay attention in History of Magic?”

For one bizarre moment, Harry thinks he’s speaking with Hermione Polyjuiced as Malfoy. “What?”

Malfoy rolls his eyes. “How the fuck did you survive this long? Wait, don’t answer that. I don’t want to know. Potter, the goblin wars are enough of a testament on how goblins think. They care about nothing but their magical objects. Whatever you have promised this goblin as a price, he’s going to find a loophole in it. If creatures were ever sorted in Houses, all the goblins would be Slytherins.”

This is the second person after Bill to warn him about goblins. But what else can Harry do? He needs to get inside that vault and Griphook is their ultimate source of information.

“There’s no other way, Malfoy,” Harry admits.

Malfoy’s inclusion in their meetings turns out unexpectedly helpful and expectedly chaotic.

Hermione and Ron speak only when necessary and Griphook is more curious about why a Death Eater is in their midst. He makes a variety of remarks over it and Malfoy shoots them back up with why a goblin is helping a wizard. Griphook also keeps enquiring over a variety of magical objects that he believes are placed in the Malfoy Manor. Whenever Griphook asks those questions, Malfoy becomes tense and shifty-eyed, not even bothering to respond.

Harry himself does not know the fate of Malfoy’s parents. He has not seen any more visions of Voldemort after Bellatrix’s torture. All he knows with certainty that the Malfoys were not spared – Harry watches Draco Malfoy, studying the map of Gringotts with concentration, a wrinkle between his white blonde eyebrows, wonders if he should share the potential bad news.

Apart from the fact that Harry has no idea how Malfoy will take the news, he also doesn’t want to risk Malfoy’s wrath. Not that the blonde is intimidating in any way; Harry just doesn’t want another of his rants of I just saved Harry Potter and now my parents are dead.

He deserves to know, his mind whispers to him. It’s his parents. You need to tell him.

But Harry argues back with the voice – that sounds like Hermione – that Harry doesn’t know for sure. If Malfoy prods, which he will beyond a doubt, Harry will have no answers. It’ll only make things worse, the uncertainty, and Harry does not want to be the bearer of bad news for Draco Malfoy. If Malfoy breaks down, yet again in front of Harry – he would rather avoid the entire uncomfortable experience of seeing Malfoy as a human being.

“What are you planning to do about the curses?” Malfoy asks during one of the meetings, grey eyes fixed on Harry. They’re always fixed on Harry and Harry knows it is because Malfoy still doesn’t want to acknowledge Ron or Hermione any more than is absolutely necessary – and vice versa.

“On what?” Harry asks blankly. Griphook had not mentioned any curses yet.

Malfoy makes an impatient noise, throwing a glare in the goblin’s direction. “You’re entering Aunt Bella’s vault and you don’t think it’ll be protected against thieves?”

“We know about the dragon,” Harry tells him.

“Not outside the vault, you moron,” Malfoy rolls his eyes. “On the vault itself.”

“How are we supposed to be inside it, then?” Ron snaps.

“That’s the whole point, isn’t it?” Hermione puts in, eyes fixed on Malfoy with a thoughtful expression. “Do all pureblood families place curses on their vaults?”

Harry doesn’t dare breathe. This is the first time Hermione has asked a direct question to Malfoy. Harry reckons there are some things you just don’t find in a book.

Malfoy’s face is carefully blank as he answers, now returning her stare steadily. “Yes. Gringotts might be the safest place–”

“Hogwarts is.”

Malfoy ignores him. “–but pureblood families are paranoid arseholes. We don’t trust anyone with our treasures.”

“How do we counter it?”

“You can’t,” Malfoy shrugs simply.

“Didn’t you just ask how to counter it?” Harry says with irritation.

“I asked what are you planning to do about it,” Malfoy points out, one thin eyebrow raised in mocking.

Harry knows that he’s reciting his Harry Potter is the stupidest git I’ve ever met speech in his mind.

“Only the owner of the vault can counter it,” Malfoy continues. “Whatever it is that you want from inside it, only one person must enter so that even if they do get Cursed, the others can take over.”

Harry immediately recognizes that Malfoy didn’t say the others can take care of them, but that the others can take over.

Harry pins it away for later. “How do we reverse Curses we have no idea about?”

“We’ll just have to deal with it,” Ron sighs. “Whoever goes inside will need to be prepared for the worst.”

Malfoy looks scandalous. “Is this how you plan your grand schemes?” he demands furiously. “Just go with it? I wouldn’t survive a single fucking day with you dunderheads.”

“What do you expect us to do?” Harry says defensively. “We can’t exactly have a trial round, can we? We’ve only got one shot at this!”

Malfoy groans loudly, throwing his stare towards the ceiling as though in prayer. “The most commonly used curse is Flagrante. Everything you touch will burn your skin off. Have you got a batch of Dittany or do we need to make one?”

Harry, Ron, and Hermione exchange looks.

“Yes,” Hermione replies in a civil tone. “We have some left.”

“Thank fuck,” Malfoy mutters, pinching the bridge of his nose. “One less thing to worry about in this shitfuck of a plan.” In a normal voice, he asks, now directing the question towards Hermione directly. “Then there’s the Slumber Curse.”

“What–?”

“It puts people in deep sleep,” Hermione explains absently, frowning. “And there’s no telling when they’ll wake up.”

“Exactly,” Malfoy says. “Statue Curse, Transmogrifian Torture, Gemino, Cursed Ice …” he continues to list out an impressive amount of Dark curses that Harry has never heard before.

Meanwhile, Hermione starts to make notes as if Malfoy is giving a DADA lecture at Hogwarts. They start listing the gruesome effects of each one, then figuring out the ways to heal those injuries or reverse them. By the time there are noises indicating the rest of the house’s occupants are slowly waking up, Malfoy has prepared a list of possibly useful healing potions that they can carry with them and hope for the best. Hermione says that she’ll procure the ingredients that they don’t have in handy supply.

Ron suggests borrowing Bill’s tent to set up next to the Shell Cottage for privacy. “It’ll be a madhouse if we try to brew anything in this space.”

Bill’s tent is nothing like Arthur Weasley’s tent.

It’s a small two-room space with no furniture inside it. Malfoy makes a noise in the back of his throat. Harry watches as the blonde storms outside, only to return levitating two large stones from their surroundings. Malfoy transfigures one stone into a smooth square crate, while the other he transforms into a small three-slab shelf. Next, he dumps his sleeping bag in one corner with a lazy flick of his wand.

Hermione and Ron enter, discussing about who will be staying in the tent with Malfoy. Hermione summons a bunch of ingredients from her purse and neatly places them by the stone shelf.

“We can all sleep here,” Hermione is insisting, arranging the vials in an order only she understands. “Fleur is already so close to losing her mind with so many of us!”

“I don’t know about you but I’m not giving up on a bed so easily,” Ron grumbles.

“Then stay there,” Hermione snaps. “No one is forcing you to sleep here.”

Harry already knows that he will have to move in with Malfoy in this tent. There’s no debate over it. But he hadn’t expected Hermione to suggest they all live in it. He’s honestly surprised by her dedication towards their task that she’s willing to sleep next to a Death Eater – next to Malfoy. Not technically, but still.

Malfoy sorts through the ingredients in silence once Hermione is done. He goes outside and brings in two more stones to fashion two more crates. He fills them up with dry twigs, throwing some in the corner for later use, and then steadies one cauldron on each of them.

He is wearing Ron’s clothes again; the blue frayed jeans and faded black T-shirt. He alternates between them and his original ones, and the difference between the quality of fabrics is astounding. It’s yet another reminder that Malfoy is so out of his comfort zone that Harry is certain, one of these days, he might combust into flames, the way witches used to be burned alive on the stake in medieval times. Harry can almost imagine Malfoy declaring a fanciful curse on everyone around him in an ethereal, haughty voice, giving the best performance of his lifetime.

Malfoy’s movements are precise as he goes about his self-imposed tasks. From time to time, he has to flick his white blonde hair out of his eyes. Harry frowns; Malfoy has stopped slicking them back now that he thinks about it. His hair is finger-combed and without any hair product, they fall around his head naturally.

“Harry?” Hermione startles him out of his reverie. “What do you think?”

“What about Griphook?” Harry asks. “He won’t sleep in here, that’s for sure.”

“Definitely not,” Ron nods sagely. “We have to be in the house for the early morning meetings in any case, ‘Mione. We might as well sleep there.”

“Ron,” Hermione begins exasperatedly.

“I’m not going to run away, you know,” Malfoy suddenly cuts in loudly, determinedly adjusting the small flame under the first cauldron. “None of you have to sleep here. In fact, I’d rather you don’t. I can’t exactly fuck off unless I want to die. And believe it or not, I don’t particularly fancy dying.”

There’s a prickly silence as the three exchange looks. The silent communication is obvious – they can’t leave Malfoy alone no matter what he says.

“I’ll stay here.” Harry sighs. “You both can sleep in the house.”

“Harry–”

“Mate, seriously–”

“I don’t mind,” Harry quickly says.

If he’s being honest, he is looking forward to some privacy during nights. He has woken up Dean multiple times already due to his nightmares and doesn’t think he can take any more pitying looks from him.

Besides, Malfoy will be in another room altogether. Harry can pretend he’s the only one in the tent. Even if he continues to get nightmares, Malfoy will be far enough to not hear any embarrassing sounds.

Bill tries to question the three of them over why is Draco Malfoy being included in their secret mission from Dumbledore, while the rest of the Order is not. Harry doesn’t want to reveal that they’ve bound him in an Unbreakable Vow but there is no other justifiable excuse for the same.

“He’s stuck with us,” Harry says instead.

“No, he’s not,” Bill frowns. “Like Ron had said, he can very well live in the Muggle world.”

Ron insists that they know what they’re doing and Bill should stop asking questions. Bill isn’t happy about it one bit. He lets it go, though, when Harry seems resolute in not telling him the real reason.

Fleur passes the food for Malfoy in the tent through Luna or Harry. In fact, Malfoy never comes around the house anymore whatsoever. He has no reason to, really, and Dean and Luna still spend some amount of time with Malfoy, walking on the shores.

At night, after dinner, Harry goes to the tent to sleep. Only his sleeping bag is kept in there. Harry usually stuffs the moleskin pouch under the cover. The first night of Harry co-habituating with Malfoy alone is unadventurous. They don’t talk, merely stay in their respective rooms divided by the cloth.

Harry watches the faint glow of flames coming from Malfoy’s side, watches the shadow of his movements as he stirs the potions, adds ingredients, scribbles on a piece of parchment from time to time. His eyes drift close, burning embers and silhouetted man etched in his vision.

The next day, late in the morning, Luna floats through the front flap of the tent, smiling at Harry.

Harry is just pulling a jumper over his shirt. He pauses long enough to shout a rather loud greeting at Luna, hoping that Malfoy hears his warning and hides any incriminating items. It seems to work because Malfoy suddenly bursts through his room, wrapped in his cloak.

“Draco, hello,” Luna beams at him. “Did you sleep well?”

He has bags under his eyes. “Yes. What are you doing here?”

“I came to fetch you, of course,” Luna says airily. “You promised to show Dean and I the different magical plants behind the Cottage. I’m very excited, you know. I was thinking of writing to Daddy about it. He can publish the information in the Quibbler in the next edition.”

“Right,” Malfoy says. “Well, I’ll be outside in a minute.”

Luna turns to Harry. “Harry, do you want to accompany us? I’m sure you can use Draco’s knowledge in your secret mission.”

Harry really doesn’t want to. He tries for a smile. “Er – no thanks, Luna. You have fun.”

Luna dutifully steps outside to wait for Malfoy. As soon as she leaves, Malfoy suddenly grimaces, hissing in pain, dropping his cloak to the floor. His fingers look badly burned.

Harry’s eyes widen and he scrambles to get a closer look. “Malfoy – what the hell? What happened?”

Malfoy takes a deep breath in. “Just a small accident. Can you put some Dittany on it? I’m not able to touch anything.”

“Yeah, of course.”

Harry enters Malfoy’s room slash lab. The cauldrons are still bubbling with potions. Harry notices a few vials rolling on their side on the floor and deduces that Malfoy must have knocked them over in his haste. He finds the vial labelled Dittany in Hermione’s neat script.

Malfoy’s hands are trembling. Harry carefully tips the vial, allowing a few drops to fall onto the burned flesh. The skin immediately starts to heal, knitting itself back to the smooth pale expanse. Once it’s fully restored, Malfoy flexes his fingers experimentally.

“Thanks,” he mutters grudgingly.

“Er – no problem.”

Two days later, Harry watches the shadows on the cloth dividing him from Malfoy.

This time, Malfoy is slumped over another parchment, the scratching of quill faint in the quiet of the tent. The cacophony of waves is strangely comforting now.

On a whim, unable to sleep, Harry crawls out of his sleeping bag. He hesitates slightly before making his way across the small room and flipping away the fabric to enter Malfoy’s room.

The cauldrons are held under Stasis Charm tonight. Malfoy’s wand is on the floor beside him, casting a steady Lumos. Harry clears his throat.

Malfoy jumps a foot in the air. His quill skates across the parchment in shock.

“Motherfucking Merlin,” he shrieks. “Potter – how the fuck are you still creeping like a stalker past midnight?”

Harry takes that as an invitation to sit beside him. He reads the parchment upside down. It’s a list of plants, berries, herbs, and so on.

“What are you writing? Are these more ingredients for potions?”

Malfoy dips the quill in the inkpot delicately and resumes his task. “No. These items have innate healing properties. We don’t always require potions for everything.”

“Like a bezoar,” Harry muses.

“Like a bezoar,” Malfoy repeats absently in confirmation. “Ten points to the Chosen Arse.”

Harry rolls his eyes. “Chosen Arse to be kicked, sure.”

Malfoy’s hands still on the parchment, illuminated silver eyes darting towards Harry. Suddenly, he snorts in amusement, quickly turning to his task once more.

Harry relaxes. He glances at the various vials now filling the stone shelf, each neatly labelled in Malfoy’s cursive script. Harry is strongly reminded of Snape.

And then he spirals. His mind drifts towards his hatred for the current Headmaster, how he had betrayed Dumbledore so thoroughly, and then he begins to think about Dumbledore and how he was foolish to ever trust Snape, despite Harry warning him over and over and over …

Harry wonders if Snape is a safe topic between him and Malfoy. He doubts it. Despite Malfoy being here, he is still emotionally attached to his Death Eater family. And if he really thinks about it, for Malfoy, Snape was his saving grace. Snape finished the task that Malfoy couldn’t, and Voldemort never thought of the task as a failure, never punished Malfoy for it.

“What do you want, Potter?”

Harry jerks. Malfoy is still writing; he sounds tired and sleepy.

“Do you not sleep at all?”

“Oh yes,” Malfoy says sarcastically. “I’m a bloody vampire.”

“You curse a lot, don’t you?”

“If you ever had the bloody Dark Lord asking for godforsaken pastry from your terrified house-elves, you’d become a fucking pirate,” Malfoy shudders violently.

A brief stunned silence meets his words and then Harry barks out a startled laugh. “Excuse me?”

Malfoy looks annoyed and exasperated. “What’s funny in that?”

“Are you kidding me?” Harry chokes out. “Vold–”

“Potter, do you want another trip to the Manor!”

“Sorry, You-Know-Who demanded pastry?”

Malfoy tsks. “He’s a fucking human, isn’t he? He needs food to sustain, despite what he wants to portray to the rest of us. He can’t exactly eat magic no matter how much he’s in love with it. So yes, he loved asking for the stupidest shit for meals. You’d think he grew up in a goddamn hut.”

You have no idea, Harry thinks. The thought that even Voldemort needs food to live is so bizarre. On top of that, Malfoy had called him human. Harry doesn’t want to burst his little bubble.

The topic of Voldemort taking over the Manor reminds Harry of another anecdote Malfoy had spilled days ago.

“Malfoy,” Harry begins cautiously. “You said you tried to convince your parents to escape … what did they say?”

Malfoy stiffens impossibly. Not a single muscle moves on his body. He looks rather like a Petrified ghost, his hair and skin paler than usual under the white of Lumos.

“None of your business,” he states coldly, the light-heartedness from earlier dissipating in thin air instantly.

Harry stifles a sigh. Malfoy is technically right. Despite his curiosity, Harry isn’t offended by being shut down. Malfoy and he are not friends, after all. Malfoy has no reason to share personal experiences with Harry of any kind.

Harry continues to watch Malfoy scribbling, pausing from time to time to think. Malfoy doesn’t tell Harry to fuck off, so Harry assumes he can stay. The scratching of the quill and the lull of the ocean waves, the warmth of Malfoy’s body in close proximity … Harry’s eyes start to drift close …

“Oye, Potter!” Malfoy shakes his shoulder roughly.

Harry topples over on his side, his glasses sliding off his nose. He quickly shoves them back and straightens up. Malfoy is gathering his things and keeping them neatly on one side.

“I’m going to sleep,” Malfoy says, busy with his mundane tasks. “You might want to return to your own sleeping bag.”

“Right.”

Harry hurries back to his room. The glow of the Lumos extinguishes when Malfoy is tucked in his own sleeping bag.

Harry steps out of the Shell Cottage in a rage.

He had another vision – a very vague, cold and dark impression of a vision that lasted for barely a few seconds. All he could make out was that Voldemort was ecstatic for some reason. The glimpses were definitely still of Malfoy Manor, but Harry had not seen any other occupants around him. He supposes Voldemort was alone in the room.

But Hermione had caught it and began hissing at him under her breath about how he should learn Occlumency and then Ron had intervened saying how this is hardly the time for the conversation and that if Harry couldn’t learn it in a few months with Snape – all hope was lost anyway. The whole thing spiralled like it always does and Harry just needed to breathe. He stormed out of the room, straight past Fleur who opened her mouth to say ‘Arry – and then Harry was breezing past her and out of the Cottage altogether –

Right into a bizarre world.

Harry blinks. The expansive shore is white under the clear blue sky. Which is nothing out of the ordinary, really, except that –

Dean and Malfoy are kicking a soccer ball between them while Luna is perched atop a nearby stone, spinning her own commentary – the words being carried over the wind to where Harry is standing like a static radio –

“… the dragon seems happy to be playing despite his earlier disgust … dragons can be very unpredictable, Daddy always says … personally, I prefer wyverns … oh, look, Ronaldo uses his head as a foot! Rather clever, Dean! … dragon looks offended … Daddy should have been here … I think I’ll visit the games after the war …”

Harry stands there for the longest times, pinching his elbow regularly. The scene doesn’t change. Malfoy is playing soccer with Dean willingly, under no threat of torture or injury of any kind. He even cheers from time to time whenever he manages to score a goal against Dean.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione find some time to have a private conversation on a late afternoon one day. Malfoy is out collecting natural items from the surrounding shrubbery along with Luna and Dean.

On this particular day, he’s stepped outside with an old white cloth bag looped across his chest, wearing Ron’s old sweater.

The three of them are inside the tent, in Harry’s room. Hermione is sorting through the items in her enchanted purse for the hundredth time, muttering under her breath. Ron is playing with Harry’s snitch as Harry lies on his back, staring at the canopy of the tent.

“We need to leave soon,” he states firmly. “We’ve prepared ourselves as much as possible.”

“There’s one thing left,” Ron tells him conversationally. “Malfoy needs to practise being a witch.”

Hermione snorts suddenly and Harry tries not to laugh. The mental image is – quite something. But Ron is right. Malfoy needs to pull off Bellatrix Lestrange convincingly; part of it involves wearing high heels.

As though reading his mind, Hermione says, “I’ll borrow some items from Fleur.”

“By the way,” Ron says seriously. “How’s it going, living with him?”

“I’m not living with him,” Harry mutters. “I only sleep here.”

Ron and Hermione wait for him to elaborate. The thing is – they have not really discussed Malfoy in detail as such. When Harry had informed Hermione about the Vow, she hadn’t wanted to hear him out, the torture still fresh in her mind.

“It’s been fine,” Harry admits. “I think he might actually be useful, you know? Malfoy’s smart. And he knows what he’s talking about–”

“Harry.”

“–not all the time!” Harry adds in hastily. “But when it comes to Dark magic and Potions and stuff.”

“Are we going to forget the past?” Ron frowns, throwing a side-glance at Hermione.

“I don’t know,” Harry admits. “Malfoy might have chickened out in being a Death Eater but he’s definitely sticking with us, isn’t he?”

“Only because of the Vow,” Ron reminds him pointedly.

“He chose to do it,” Harry says. Ron looked taken aback at Harry defending Malfoy. “Look. I’m not saying he’s forgiven for all the crap he’s put us through. I’m only trying to focus on the war right now. And Malfoy has proven to be resourceful and he’s willingly helping. That’s all I care about. I don’t have to like him or forgive him.”

“Harry is right,” Hermione sighs. “I would much rather not have him around but he’s been helpful. Besides, I don’t think I could have pulled off Bellatrix Lestrange anyway.”

“We don’t know if he can, either,” Ron chortles. “Mate, I feel all the bullshit is worth it if I get to see Malfoy clacking in high heels.”

Later that night, the four of them are in Harry’s room in the tent.

Everyone else has already gone off to sleep. Malfoy eyes Ron and Hermione with a healthy amount of suspicion, silently questioning their unprecedented presence. Ron is casually sprawled on the floor, one knee over the other, biting on a grin. Hermione is hiding behind her copy of TheTales of Beedle the Bard.

Harry clears his throat. “Er – Malfoy. We wanted to give you some time to – practice.”

Malfoy’s grey eyes, illuminated silver once more in the steady Lumos of Hermione’s wand, latch onto Harry. “Practise for what?”

“You know – being Bellatrix.”

Malfoy crosses his arms across his chest. “That’s so specific, Potter. Once again, I applaud you on your fantastic communication skills! Besides, what practise do I need? If you’re expecting me to cast Cruciatus on Granger–”

Ron moves, quickly getting to his feet and crossing the distance between him and the blonde. “You sodding son of bitch–”

“Shut it, Malfoy!”

“–then I’d rather avoid hearing the screams,” Malfoy finishes calmly, dodging Ron’s punch deftly. “I’ve heard enough screams from enough people to last a lifetime.”

Ron stumbles. Harry’s eyebrows raise almost to his hairline. Hermione’s hand slips from her book and it clatters to the floor with a thud.

“Practice for what, Potter?” Malfoy snaps impatiently in the silence that follows.

“Wearing witch clothes and stuff,” Harry finally says. “If you’re going to be Bellatrix, you need to show us that you can carry yourself like her, too.”

Malfoy looks highly affronted at the prospect. “You want me to wear Granger’s clothes?”

Harry blinks. So Malfoy has no qualms wearing a witch’s clothing but Hermione’s robes? What an absurd git.

“I’ve borrowed from Fleur,” Hermione snaps, frowning, insulted. “You wouldn’t fit in mine and I would rather not wear anything that you’ve touched, thank you very much.”

“Trust me, the feeling is mutual,” Malfoy sneers.

Ron looks ready to punch him once again. In fact, Harry himself feels conflicted between defending Hermione and getting over the task already.

Before things can escalate, though, Hermione takes the decision in her hands. She pulls out the robes and shoes from her purse, throwing in Malfoy’s direction. Malfoy swats it away from hitting him in the face.

He studies the heels. Cursing under his breath, he pulls out his wand and points at the pair. A whispered spell later, the heels enlarge a few inches.

But Malfoy doesn’t wear any of it. He gathers them in his arms, instead, disappearing inside his room with a stomp. Harry sees the glow of Lumos flicker on, watches Malfoy’s shadow crossing to the cauldrons, the flames being turned up.

“Well,” Ron says. “That was disappointing.”