The Summer of Seagulls
Harry is woken up after mere seconds by someone roughly shaking his shoulders.
“Wha–”
“Potter,” Malfoy hisses from his right. He sounds pained. “Potter, wake up, you stupid arse.”
Harry rolls to his other side. “Shut it, Malfoy. Go back to sleep.”
“See, that’s the problem,” Malfoy says, his voice dripping with strained sarcasm. “My leg feels like it’s on goddamn fire, which I wouldn’t be too surprised about since I do remember lots of goddamn fire before I passed out. What the fuck happened?”
Harry rolls back to face him and opens his eyes. Once they adjust to the Lumos from Malfoy’s wand, he decides Malfoy looks absolutely terrible. His skin is flushed and completely drenched in sweat, hair sticking to his forehead, ragged breathing, and illuminated silver eyes wide with pain.
Harry blinks away the sleep. “You broke your leg. ‘Mione fixed it.”
Malfoy gulps, trembling under his sleeping bag. “Potions. Check my bag.”
Harry gets up. He goes to the other corner where Malfoy has stowed his white cloth bag. Nuri’s deep snores are just behind the fabric. Malfoy lists out the name of potions he needs along with some green colored berries. Once Harry hands it over, Malfoy gulps it down like a man deprived of water. He chews on the berries slowly and Harry watches as the flush of his skin begins to recede.
Malfoy exhales heavily once he feels better. “Is there a cast on my leg?”
Harry nods, getting under his sleeping bag again. “Might have to keep it for a while.”
“Perfect,” Malfoy mutters. “Exactly what I needed right now. Potter, I’ve been attacked by a dragon and broke my leg in the span of two days’ time – all because of your grand schemes. I’ll be lucky to make it to Sunday. Is it just me or does that tell you something?”
Harry groans, feeling his head throb. “It tells me that you’re reckless. You decided all on your own that approaching a large dragon with hands in the air was the smart option. You decided to use that – that black fire spell and got blasted away.”
“Did it work?” Malfoy asks, pointedly ignoring the rest of it.
“No clue,” Harry mumbles. “We’ll check in the morning. Nuri tried to lick you.”
“I can feel it. It’s sticky as fuck,” Malfoy shudders.
“Hey, Malfoy,” Harry squints his eyes at him. “What’s the deal with the dragon? Why is she so … attached to you?”
Malfoy doesn’t respond. He stares at the ceiling in silence, breathing deeply. Harry actively struggles to stay awake.
“I’m not certain, myself,” he replies eventually. “We’ll have to let her go, won’t we?”
“In time, yeah.”
Every time Malfoy groans in pain, Harry’s eyes snap open. He’s confident that Hermione has done a good job of it. She’d healed Ron’s Splinch quite well. Then again, they had never had to mend a severely broken bone before.
After a while, Harry gathers himself to ask a question that has been burning on his lips the whole day. “Why are you still sticking around?”
Malfoy rolls his eyes at the ceiling. “How many times do we have to go over it? That’s how the Vow works, Potter. Did you hit your head or something?”
Harry doesn’t rise to the bait. “You believe I could be a Horcrux. That I have a bit of Riddle’s soul in me. Doesn’t that scare you? You escaped him only to land with another piece of him. That’s some really crappy luck.”
Malfoy snorts. “I’d say.”
The combined sounds of Malfoy’s pained and ragged breathing and Nuri’s deep rumbling is somehow hypnotic. Harry’s eyes are drooping once more.
“I have nowhere else to go.”
Harry’s lips curl sardonically. “Isn’t anywhere better than here?”
“And miss the chance of finally offing you?” Malfoy says.
Harry squints his eyes again. He thinks Malfoy might be joking; he surely does have a semblance of a grin on his face. Harry takes the joke for what it is, sniggering at the irony. After a while as Malfoy keeps twisting this way and that to get into a more comfortable position, Harry breaks the silence.
“You know…” he gulps. “When the time comes, Ron and Hermione … they won’t be able to do it.”
Malfoy stops breathing entirely. He turns his head to fix Harry with a hard gaze, almost angry. “You’re asking me to kill you, Potter? Did you really hit your head?”
“If I’m a Horcux,” Harry insists. “You’re going to have to do it eventually.”
Malfoy’s rage deepens. “I’m not going to become a goddamn murderer just to save your arse, Potter. You hear me? I won’t.”
“This is not about you,” Harry says, his headache increasing by the second. “This is about – about finishing Tom Riddle. Don’t you want that?”
“I want nothing of this war!” Malfoy hisses. “The moment you and your precious sidekicks defeat him, I’m out. I’m going to put this whole shitfuck behind me, if I survive long enough. Don’t you get it, Potter? I escaped one prison just to end up in another. The only thing I could do in the first one and now in this one, it’s to stay alive. To not die. I’m trying so bloody hard to hold on despite all the shitfuck. And then there’s you. Do you know why I despise you so much? Because you constantly bargain your life away–”
“It’s for the greater good, Malfoy,” Harry says, feeling sick of himself.
Isn’t that what Dumbledore did? His scandalous friendship with Grindelwald, the one that got his sister killed … wasn’t it all under the same banner? How Harry hated it when he first read the words in Rita Skeeter’s book. How revolted he felt of the man he had once greatly admired.
To top it off, if Dumbledore knew all along that Harry is potentially a Horcrux, he never said a peep. Never gave any indication that Harry is literally walking to his own death. Harry doesn’t want to, he really doesn’t, but the nauseating feeling of being played – it leaves a sour taste in his mouth. He doesn’t know how he’ll bring himself to forgive Dumbledore for this. Whether he wants to forgive Dumbledore for this.
“Greater good, my arse,” Malfoy retorts, pulling him out of his miserable thoughts. “You’re too fucking naïve, that’s your problem. You don’t see people for who they are. Everyone is looking out for themselves, Potter. Every goddamn person. The sooner you realise it, the better it’ll be. Forget greater good. Do something for your own good, for once in your miserable life.”
“I don’t have that luxury, Malfoy,” Harry says, rage coiling up in his stomach, head swaying dangerously. “That bastard killed my parents. He is terrorizing innocent people just for the kicks of it. Because he’s sadistic like that. Do you expect me to not do anything? To watch him murder someone else’s parents? To murder other babies like he tried with me? He didn’t hesitate one second, Malfoy, when he used Avada Kedavara on me. Not one goddamn second. All he cared about was destroying this one possibility of being destroyed himself. So yeah, if I have a shot at ending him once and for all, I’ll bloody take it no matter what the cost.”
“Even if the cost is asking your friends to kill you when the time comes?” Malfoy scoffs disdainfully. “Would you be able to bring yourself to kill Weasley or Granger? No matter how much they beg?”
Harry feels sick enough to puke, his mind reeling to the moment when Dumbledore had begged him in that cave. The revulsion at himself for making Dumbledore drink the potion, even on orders, had lasted months after that. If only they had tried to find another way, Dumbledore wouldn’t have weakened so drastically, Dumbledore would still be alive.
“I thought so,” Malfoy says with satisfaction. “You can’t just ask people that, Potter. You’re making murderers of others, because you’re ready to pay the cost. What about them?”
Harry swallows the nausea to no avail. “I guess I’ll just die in action, then.”
“No one is going to touch you,” Malfoy informs him matter-of-factly. “All the Death Eaters are under strict orders to capture you alive. Riddle wants to do the honours himself.”
“Fine,” Harry says determinedly. “After he finishes me off, you three will be free to defeat him. We’ll destroy as many Horcruxes as possible before the time comes.”
Malfoy is quiet for a few moments. “I refuse to sit here and listen to you planning your own death, Potter. If you’re so stubborn on having it your way–”
“What other way is there?” Harry says impatiently. “It’s simple math. We need to destroy all Horcruxes to make him mortal again. If I’m a Horcrux and I’m pretty sure now that I am – how else can I speak in Parseltongue? Why else did the Sorting Hat think I belonged in Slytherin? – then I’m ready to sacrifice myself.”
“What did you just say?” Malfoy says in shock. “That stupid Hat wanted to put you in Slytherin?”
“It’s not a stupid Hat,” Harry replies exasperatedly. That’s what Malfoy took from all that? “Anyway, it was right, wasn’t it? It must have sensed Riddle’s soul in me.”
“Isn’t that something?” Malfoy grumbles. “If you haven’t noticed, Potter, Quirrell was a Pseudo-Horcrux, too. And Riddle managed to escape him just fine. All we need to do is scare that shitpiece of soul to leave your body before you’re required to wear a turban yourself – and let me just relish that image for a bit. We’ll destroy it before it escapes us.”
“Sounds doable,” Harry says sarcastically. “Let me just grab my Soul Extraction Kit and we’re good to go.”
“Harry?”
Harry and Malfoy tilt their heads up to watch Ron entering the room tentatively. He raises his eyebrows at them.
“I thought I heard some talking,” he explains, approaching Harry’s side. “Hey, Malfoy. How’s the leg?”
“Peachy,” Malfoy mutters.
“It’s almost dawn,” Ron tells them. “I suggest you go back to sleep. ‘Mione is determined to put us on spell duty first thing in the morning. The redecoration of the landscape can hardly be ignored.”
Harry groans. “Fuck, I forgot.”
Ron laughs softly. “Good night, mate.”
Harry nods, letting the headache and exhaustion finally consume him.
Hermione is pissed.
She doesn’t spare a single kind word the entire morning to either Harry or Ron, let alone Malfoy. She curtly hands them a list of spells with instructions on wand movements. The three of them shuffle along the now-vast perimeter obediently. Nuri and Hermione stand in the middle of it, inspecting their work. Hermione looks like she’s ready to spout grades – Outstanding in Sheer Stupidity, Exceeds Expectations in Dumbness, Acceptable in Nothing, Poor in Following Logic, Dreadful in Being Killed By A Dragon, and Troll in Being Boys.
Ron tries to win her good graces by attempting to cook a decent meal, which only means that Harry has to smile through a terrible concoction for what passes as vegetable stew. Malfoy takes one spoonful and says, I’ll just take this outside for Nuri to sniff.
Later, Harry steps outside the tent to escape Ron and Hermione’s silent fight. He immediately notices Nuri sitting on her haunches with Malfoy waving his hands in front of her face. She tilts her head slightly in confusion. Harry tries not to spook him, silently approaching from the back.
“…never really had any qualms,” Malfoy is saying, gesturing theatrically, as though determined to communicate with the dragon via both the English language as well as sign language. If playing one-sided Dumb Charades constitutes as it. “The first time I expressed my distaste for black coffee, he said sugared coffee is for sissies. Father was always that type, you know?”
“Sugared coffee is not bad,” Harry says loudly, resisting a grin at the absurd conversation. Malfoy spins around to pin a glare on him. “I always disliked black coffee, too. Tea is nice, though.”
“No one’s talking to you, Potter,” Malfoy sneers. “Nuri and I don’t engage with dimwits.”
Harry smirks back. “Clearly, she does.”
“Sod off.”
Harry doesn’t budge. Instead, he crosses his arms across his chest in clear defiance, thinking that he can perhaps pay Malfoy back for all the stupid bullying he had so enjoyed during school days. Not that Harry wants to bully him per say, but it would be fun to yank his chains a little if nothing else. Merlin knows he needs a laugh these days.
“What else did you like that Father denied you of, Malfoy?” he raises his eyebrows. “Eternal snowflakes? Original Shakespeare?”
“Who the fuck is Shakespeare?” Malfoy asks in disgust. “Sounds like a weirdo. And I can create my own eternal snowflakes, thank you very much. Two drops of Liquid Stasis on a single flake and you’re set.”
Harry doesn’t know what to make of that. Instead, he chooses to watch Malfoy interacting with the dragon. Harry remembers his encounter with the Hungarian Horntail pretty vividly from Fourth Year Triwizard Tournament even today. The sheer heat of being in close proximity, the terror of the sharp claws, the poisonous glare of the female as she protected her golden egg.
Nuri, on the other hand, despite their rather life-and-death encounter the night before is basking under the sun and preening under Malfoy’s pale hands. The white scales on her body are scarred, healing, glistening with the promise of ethereal polar beauty.
“We need to teach you the Patranous.”
Harry feels Malfoy’s thinly veiled glare on the side of his face. “Excuse me?”
Harry ignores it in the favour of cautiously approaching Nuri, one arm extended in both question and invitation. Nuri eyes it, doesn’t move ahead. “You said so yourself. Dementors guarding the school and the village. Once we infiltrate, you need to know how to protect yourself.”
Nuri sharply turns her head back to Malfoy. Harry lets his hand fall. He reckons she’s still pissed about the night. Malfoy gingerly pets her again in silence.
Malfoy is terrible at it. At first, Harry thinks maybe he doesn’t have enough motivation the way Harry did with the Boggart. But even if they had a Boggart, Harry doesn’t even know if Malfoy’s will take the form of a Dementor, too.
Meanwhile, Nuri has somehow accustomed herself to the use of wands around her. She still shies away from time to time, but it isn’t as bad as before. Harry thinks the key to this newfound resilience is the fact that she is steadfastly staring at the lake, as though sitting in a vigil.
“Pick a strong memory, Malfoy,” Harry says again, trying to be patient. “It’s got to be really, really happy.”
“Stop saying that,” Malfoy snaps. “I am choosing happy memories! Now, shut up for a minute.”
Harry sighs. He grabs a nearby twig and starts to draw random patterns on the soil. Malfoy’s cries of Expecto Patronum continue in the background over and over again until it’s just random noises to Harry’s ears.
And then suddenly after almost twenty minutes, Malfoy breaks through his reverie. “What’s your memory?”
Harry looks up. Malfoy is sweating heavily under the glare of the afternoon sun, visibly trying not to yell in frustration. His white blonde hair is sticking to his head with the sides mussed up where he must have grabbed it at some point.
“Excuse me?”
Malfoy sighs impatiently, crossing his arms over his chest, foot tapping. “I need examples.”
“I…” Harry hesitates. “I can’t give you examples, Malfoy. Just – what’s so difficult to understand in this? Happy memories. Whatever makes you happy.”
Malfoy stares back doubtfully. “A favourite meal? Country? Hobby? Perfect potion? Beating you in Quidditch? The day I was born?”
Harry rolls his eyes. “You’ve never beat me in Quidditch. And perfect potion? Seriously?”
“What’s wrong with a perfect potion?” Malfoy demands. “Anyway, I’ve just thought of something. Expecto Patronum.”
A small wisp of white smoke streams out of Malfoy’s wand before dissipating in the bright sunlight. Harry leans forward excitedly. Malfoy does it again and the smoke lasts longer than before.
“What did you think of?” Harry asks curiously. “Seems stronger than your previous attempts.”
Malfoy smirks. “Remember Sixth Year when you cheated your way into stealing Slughorn’s Felix Felicis?”
“I did not cheat–”
“Well, I imagined earning it for myself,” Malfoy says loudly over him. “I could have avoided the whole shitfuck.”
“Stop saying shitfuck. It’s not even a word,” Harry says exasperatedly, not wanting to think of the rest of his sentence. If Malfoy had succeeded, what would have happened? Katie Bell and Ron would have died? He would have successfully killed Dumbledore with his own hands? Or not gotten the mission in the first place? It could have been a number of things.
Malfoy ignores him. He raises his wand once more. “Expecto Patronum.”
Nothing happens. Malfoy frowns, repeating it three more times before spinning to Harry.
“Why isn’t it working anymore?”
Harry slowly rises to his feet. “Maybe because it’s not a real memory? It just created momentary happiness.”
“Perfect,” Malfoy mutters.
At one point, Ron and Hermione join Harry to watch Malfoy. They show him their Patronuses, attempt to give useful advice, but nothing helps. Malfoy gives up after another two hours, saying his leg is bothering too much to focus any longer.
His next attempt during late evening is even worse.
“You’re not telling me correctly,” Malfoy insists, glaring at his wand and at Harry and at the silent lake. “Show me yours.”
Ron and Hermione are immersed in their own conversation, bits of parchment and books laid around them, stooping under the warmth of the bonfire. Nuri makes an incoherent sound from the back of the tent, her night-time residence.
Harry rises to his feet, dusting his pants lightly. He pulls out his wand from the pocket, walking over to where Malfoy is standing a good ten feet away.
“Expecto Patronum.”
The silver, illuminating stag bursts from his wand and Harry smiles reflexively. A fondness creeps in his chest and his toes and the tip of his fingers as the stag merrily bounds around him, then struts towards Ron and Hermione as though wanting to be pet for a job well done. When a light breeze ruffles the strewn leaves, the stag chases them to Nuri, her yellow slits staring back with rapt fascination. As soon as she breathes a small spark of blue-white, the stag disperses in thin air, an icicle the length of an index finger now planted in its place.
“Show off,” Malfoy grumbles from beside him.
Harry can’t contain the bubble of laughter as he rounds on the blonde, extremely pleased with himself. “You asked for it.”
Malfoy supremely ignores it. “Is it a deer?”
“Yeah, a stag. Like my Dad’s.”
Malfoy’s expression sours instantly. “I can’t have mine as a bloody peacock, Potter.”
It takes a few moments for Harry to make sense of that sentence. When the words click in his mind, he snorts so unattractively that Ron winces, looking up from the book Hermione is showing him.
“It’s not always your parents’, Malfoy. You saw Ron and Hermione’s, didn’t you? They’re supposed to be a reflection of your personality or something you resemble. I reckon yours would be – actually, you’re right. It might as well be a peacock.”
Malfoy is visibly considering offering Harry to Nuri for dessert. With Herculean effort, he raises his wand again, shutting his eyes, breathing deeply. One, two, three seconds. A smile tugs at the corner of his lips. “Expecto Patronum.”
A shapeless white mist swirls in the night and stays.
Malfoy’s smug smirk is half-hearted, crowded over by the genuine joy he clearly feels at his accomplishment.
“What did you think of?” Harry asks curiously.
“Nuh-uh,” Malfoy teases with healthy amount of satisfaction. “We Slytherins trade, Potter. Hufflepuff’s the Charity House.”
Harry rolls his eyes. The white mist dissipates. Malfoy tries again, and again it stays. There is still no discernible shape, though.
“This is pretty good progress,” Harry admits reluctantly.
“I’m a powerful wizard, Potter,” Malfoy lifts his chin up, primly adjusting the sleeves of his white dress shirt for no reason at all. “Just because I enjoy pranks does not mean I’m stupid.”
“By pranks you mean torturing?”
Malfoy stiffens.
Harry immediately curses himself, remembering the way Malfoy’s terrified, pointed face was branded in his mind for days after he saw him torturing Rowle. They had just deemed Grimmauld Place as safe after Bill and Fleur’s wedding, still in their summer holidays. Harry’s vision had been startlingly clear. It had disturbed him to no end, knowing how Malfoy was being put to use by Voldemort.
Malfoy doesn’t know that Harry was there on top of the Astronomy Tower, either, hidden under his Cloak, watching him lower his wand when Dumbledore offered sanctuary with the Order. That Harry was aware of his hesitation, his intent to escape long before the events at Malfoy Manor.
“Your – uh, pranks – were not like the twins’,” Harry stutters, not wanting to open that can of worms. “You were more – you know.”
Malfoy turns away to the lake. “Yeah, whatever.”
Harry shuffles uncomfortably from foot to foot. He contemplates leaving Malfoy alone for the evening – they can practice more tomorrow – when Malfoy suddenly breaks the tense silence in a voice Harry assumes is supposed to make him sound braver than he actually is.
“I was – jealous. All this time, I was jealous. Can you believe that? Jealous of you and Weasley and Granger. Jealous of the fact that you were heralded as heroes year after year, saving lives, protecting the school. Now that I’m here, forced to accompany you because I have nowhere else to go, I realise how stu – well. Who would want to be in your place?”
Harry swallows, strongly reminded of Fourth Year when Ron had believed Harry wanted to be in the Tournament. That he had betrayed Ron and put his name in the Goblet of Fire. Only when Harry had faced against the dragon had Ron realised that Harry wouldn’t be that stupid. That fame-hungry, if at all.
“People seem to realise that sooner or later,” Harry chuckles humourlessly. On a whim, he nudges Malfoy’s arm light-heartedly. “I don’t want to be in this place, either, you know. What I wouldn’t give for a normal life. No noseless bald men gunning for my life.”
Malfoy snorts, his earlier melancholy lifting slightly. He watches Harry with grey eyes dancing in mirth. “If you had the choice, what would you be? If you weren’t this – whole thing.”
Harry tries to search for the answer in the stillness of the lake, in the crisp breeze tickling at the back of his neck, in the scent of wet soil under his feet. Nuri had taken another bath earlier, the cold water better suiting her taste than the warm ground.
“I never thought about it.”
One thin, white blonde eyebrow raises in question.
“Never had the choice, did I?” Harry shrugs, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “And never will.”
The thought of leaving Ginny is like a stab in his chest. But he’s already left Ginny, hasn’t he? She knows not to wait. She knows not to expect his return. She knows that even if he does, there is no guarantee he would be the same.
His ambition to become an Auror was to serve one purpose. The only purpose of his life until now: to defeat Voldemort. Being an Auror would have given him better chances at survival, that was it. Although, knowing what he knows now, he supposes sooner rather than later and all that. Later would mean more of Ginny, more of Ron and Hermione, more of Molly and Arthur, more of everything.
Malfoy stares. Waits. Doesn’t relent.
Harry huffs out a laugh even though nothing is funny about this situation. “If I had to – if I had to – I think a pet shop sounds fun. Owls, cats, snakes … dragons, too, I suppose.”
Malfoy rolls his eyes. “Nuri is not for fucking sale.”
Harry laughs again, genuine this time. “What about you? Apart from – you know – failing at being a Death Eater.”
Malfoy is unimpressed by his non-joke. He runs a hand down the front of his shirt, unnecessarily trying to iron out the creases. “Perhaps a food columnist.”
“That’s. Unexpected.”
Malfoy jerks one shoulder in the semblance of a non-committal shrug. “I have tasted a variety of cuisine growing up. Mother always made sure that we tried everything during our trips abroad. She was rather fond of Stifado.”
“Stifado?”
“It’s a Greek beef stew. Hogwarts never had such variety,” Malfoy sighs. “I don’t understand if the house-elves were that incompetent or Dumbledore that limited.”
Is that why Malfoy always pulled faces during meals? It makes sense, even if Harry still thinks it’s rude. He grew up hardly eating anything, let alone the fancy dishes Malfoy clearly had access to with a snap of his fingers.
“What’s your favourite?” Harry asks, unable to contain the question. “Cuisine. Food. Whatever.”
Malfoy’s eyebrows knit, perplexed at the idea of Harry wanting to learn his personal likes and dislikes. Still, he replies, albeit carefully, as though this is some sort of ploy that he is yet to comprehend.
“Barramundi. Australian fish dish. I was eating my meal surrounded by kangaroos scampering around us in the open fields. I was thirteen. Mother was reading the newspaper with a cup of tea and Father was networking with an employee of the Australian Ministry of Magic. He had a son of my age. We spent the summer chasing seagulls on the coastline. The last holiday before things went to shit.”
Before Voldemort rose again.
“Sounds nice,” Harry remarks and it truly does. The stark contrast between his and Malfoy’s upbringing leaves something to desire.
Malfoy hums vaguely. After a brief, awkward pause, he says, “Which one was yours?”
Harry side glances. “Favourite holiday?”
“Holiday. Trip. Whatever.”
Involuntarily, Harry snorts loudly. At Malfoy’s raised eyebrow, he elaborates. And well, he’s shared about the night his parents died, the worst memory that he has, telling him about Dursleys hardly feels personal now.
“Never had one. The Muggle family I grew up with wasn’t exactly fond of me. They were – scared.”
To his surprise, Malfoy barks out a sudden laugh, his face crunching up in genuine disbelief. He clutches at his sides, bending over at the waist as though this is the funniest joke he’s ever heard. Harry has no clue what to make of it, so he watches him, he watches until he can’t help but grin back.
“It’s not funny!” he laughs, playfully swatting Malfoy’s shoulder.
“Seriously?” Malfoy wipes at the corner of his eyes, illuminated silver under the glean of moonlight. “Potter, I really don’t believe anyone can be scared of you. I mean – come on!”
“They were not scared of me, in particular,” Harry says. “They were scared of us – you know. Wizards. Magic. They thought it was freaky and weird.”
Malfoy’s cackle slowly dies down until he’s staring at the lake with a lifted expression, visibly in a much better mood than his earlier reminisce of seagulls on Australian beaches.
Harry wants to explain further, tell him that he’s lived in a cupboard for the better part of his life. He wants to tell him about Dudley and how they’re the same, just in different parts of the world. But Harry doesn’t. Malfoy might very well use it to point out that Muggles deserve the harsh treatment purebloods thrust upon them. That Harry is a stupid git for defending people who don’t deserve to be defended.
“Is that why you stayed in the school for all holidays?”
Malfoy’s question comes as a surprise. Because yes, that is the reason, and of course, Malfoy knows Harry never returned home for Christmas or Easter. Because Malfoy has mocked him for it over the years, boasting about what a perfect, rich life he lives.
But now, in this very moment, there is no malice in his tone. No sneer of contempt, no disgust. He sounds like he’s making small talk. And perhaps, he is. Harry is doing the same, isn’t he? Making small talk until it’s time to charge into battle. Until it’s time to fight, time to bleed, time to die.
Malfoy might not be his first choice, but he’s here, and he’s learning the Patronus Charm even if it’s for the sake of upholding his end of the Unbreakable Vow. Which is exactly what Harry is doing, anyway.
“Yeah,” Harry replies, shrugging. “I would have been miserable there. There was no point in returning.”
“Why didn’t you just run away?” Malfoy is back to staring at him with an unreadable expression. Harry feels the weight of his gaze, tries not to gulp.
“Dumbledore said I couldn’t,” Harry says, a hint of bitterness in his tone.
It’s not that Harry never considered it. As soon as he learned that he’s inherited a fortune from his parents during his first trip to Gringotts, Harry had dreamed of leaving the Dursleys for good. He now had the whole world open to him. He was famous, and it was obvious that the magical community would have welcomed him with open arms if he’d chosen to stay, would have asked for a favour.
And then Sirius came and Harry could not help but wonder if this was it. Dumbledore wouldn’t mind if Harry moved in with his godfather, a wizard, who’d keep Harry safe without the protection of Lily’s blood bond.
When he inherited the Black Ancestral House, well – by then the will had died. He realised he could simply spend the summers with the Weasleys and it would be enough.
“Couldn’t?” Malfoy repeats incredulously. “Why the fuck not?”
“I was safe from the Death Eaters at my relatives’ place,” Harry tells him, keeping his voice casual. This is small talk, nothing else, after all. “Dumbledore – he put some enchantments.”
“Huh.”
“Do you want to try the Patronus again?” Harry suggests and if he sounds desperate to change the topic, Malfoy doesn’t comment.
It’s easier, then.
Harry chooses to sleep in Malfoy’s room when he’s not on watch duty. Malfoy ends up insisting on taking most of the night-time shifts. He says it’s because his leg is a bitch to deal with while sleeping. Which works out perfectly, because Harry doesn’t feel too weird about taking up residence near the stone shelf of potions. When it’s his turn, though, Malfoy still keeps him company, grimacing half the time as he downs potions after potions, massaging the thigh above the cast in frustration.
“How long until it comes off?” Harry asks on the third night, eyeing Malfoy in his periphery.
“Little over a week,” Malfoy replies, sighing, playing with his wand.
Mostly, they sit in silence with Nuri’s rumbling snores as backdrop. Sometimes, they talk.
They talk about Hogwarts but not for long. And even when they do, they stick to discussing their favourite classes or subjects or Professors –
“We only shared Potions after Third Year,” Harry muses. “Which other classes were you taking?”
“All the core subjects. Charms, Transfiguration, Defence, Astronomy, Herbology, History of Magic. In electives, I took Care of Magical Creatures, Arithmancy, Ancient Runes, and Magical Theory.”
“Same as Hermione,” Harry snorts. “Except Muggle Studies, I reckon.”
“Granger didn’t opt for Magical Theory as far as I know,” Malfoy says, frowning. “There were only a handful of us. I and Blaise were the only Slytherins and some from Ravenclaw.”
“Who taught that class?”
Malfoy licks his dry lips before answering. “Everyone. Magical Theory is not just restricted to one field, is it? It was mostly like learning the core subjects but in depth. Going down to the roots.”
“Is that how you learned about soul magic?”
Their voices are hushed in the quiet night. The fire crackling near Harry’s feet keeps him warm. He feels content for some reason, simply sitting down after a day of planning, strategizing, debating, practising, to having a normal conversation.
The thing is –
To Harry, it feels like he’s going through the phase of making a new friend, even if it is former Death Eater, school bully Draco Malfoy. It’s not smooth sailing, not by any means, because there is too much bad blood between them to simply get past it. But. Being in the middle of a war changes people. Changes perspectives, or perhaps puts people into new perspectives. Or maybe Harry is too tired to keep holding onto the school spats when there are bigger threats, life-and-death situations around every corner, and all he wants is to have one normal conversation with someone he doesn’t know, because getting to know them is a whole thrill in itself. The pleasant, mundane kind of thrill that Harry knows never to take for granted.
“Sort of,” Malfoy replies, sighing. “You have to connect the dots, more like. Combine Magical Theory with Dark Arts and you start seeing a pattern. The Manor has enough books to validate it.”
“It’s weird,” Harry mumbles after a short pause. “That you talk of Dark Arts like it’s nothing.”
Malfoy turns to him sharply, bonfire reflecting in his grey eyes. “Like I said, Potter. You see the world in black and white.”
“So do you,” Harry says pointedly, unable to contain his incredulity at Malfoy’s hypocrisy. “With you, there are only purebloods and scums. Nothing in between.”
Malfoy’s eyes narrow. “Magical folks and scum,” he corrects snidely. “You don’t see me calling you Mudblood, do you? Potter is an ancient magical generation. If you trace back enough, all purebloods are connected with each other. I’m certain that you and I have common ancestry either through Potter or Black or Malfoy.”
And Harry remembers with a punch in the gut that Malfoy – Draco – is half-Black like Sirius, like Regulus. It makes him feel strange, weird in a way that he doesn’t know what to do with it.
He decides to ignore it. “Can you not be so fucking derogatory? How is it that you understand magic so well and yet, refuses to believe that anyone other than purebloods can be born with magic? Who was the first magical person? Who knows! How did they come in possession of magic or realise that they can do it? How can you be so sure that purebloods didn’t stealmagic, as well?”
“We didn’t steal it!” Malfoy snaps, shoulders tense and stiff. “You’re born with magic, Potter, when both parents are magical.”
“That logic is so flawed,” Harry argues, irritation creeping up his neck. “You’ve seen Hermione for seven goddamn years. She’s the smartest of our generation, born to Muggle parents. You know she never stole any of it. I know you do. And like I said, who’s to say how magic first came into being? No one fucking knows. I might be new and naïve to it, Malfoy, but even I know we have no right to question its existence.”
The peaceful respite from just a few minutes dissipates until the air between them is charged with tension, anger, the ever-tangible nature of their fights. One move and they’ll be at each other’s throats again and Harry is now too mad to accommodate Malfoy’s arsery.
“Father always said–”
“Father was wrong, just like he was wrong to drag you into becoming a bloody Death Eater when he should be keeping you away from all that bullshit. Parents protect, Malfoy.”
Malfoy appears stumped for a moment, but then regains his trademark sneer of disdain. “Don’t talk about shit you don’t know, Potter. My parents always protected me. Mother was this close to chaining me in my own bedroom so that no one will bother me with shit.”
“And Lucius?” Harry challenges. “Malfoy, I’ve seen you interact with him. He has always bullied you the way you’ve bullied others. Used you the way you used Crabbe and Goyle–”
“They are my friends. Don’t you fucking dare–”
“But you used them–”
“As if you never used Weasley or Granger or that house-elf to save your own arse–”
“Lucius was wrong!” Harry says forcefully. There is slight desperation in his words because if Malfoy can, for one goddamn second, remove his head from his arse, can think for himself, he might – he might – he might what?
Malfoy is glaring so viciously, Harry honestly braces himself for another of his lectures. After a few moments, though, nothing happens. No punches come his way, no clear hatred dripping into sassy sarcasm.
Doesn’t matter, Harry thinks. Malfoy might choose to do whatever he wishes, but if Harry can convince him that his prejudice is baseless, it will still be a win.
Harry holds his gaze, takes a few deep breaths in and then says as calmly as possible, “I’m not saying you have to hate him. He’s your father. But he was wrong, Malfoy. He made a mistake and you know it. That’s why you ran away. That’s why you escaped because if you had stayed, you would have continued to make up for your father’s doings. You were tasked with murdering Dumbledore, Malfoy, when Riddle himself could never do it. What does that tell you?”
The silence stretches. Nuri shifts in her sleep, the soil beneath her puffing up in a small cloud. They tear their eyes away from each other, reflexively turning to the dragon to watch her.
Malfoy glances at him, gulping. “I still want nothing of this war.”
“I know,” Harry says, his chest burning.
Over the next two weeks, they plan. They practice. They argue.
Finding a way into Hogwarts has never been this difficult. Despite the knowledge that Malfoy comes bearing, the problem is that – well, it does sound as though the school is fortified perfectly. Harry sees no other way to breach that are not as bold as walking through the front gates itself.
Nuri disappears one morning, flapping her large leathery white wings to create a small gust of wind around the tent before taking flight. Malfoy firmly believes that she’s just stretching out her wings, that she’s a bloody bird, Potter and they hate cages. Harry thinks of Hedwig and aches.
She doesn’t return even after two days. Her absence creates an opportunity for the four of them to openly use their wands as much as they want, and Harry is immensely grateful when he doesn’t have to scan his surroundings to levitate logs for the bonfire.
When Malfoy introduces them to the possibilities of Protego Diabolica and Fiendfyre, Hermione keeps her foot down.
“We are not learning Dark Fires,” she says stubbornly.
“Is it true, though?” Harry asks her. “Fiendfyre can destroy a Horcrux?”
She helplessly glances at the three of them. “Yes, but. It’s a terrible idea. There is no way we’ll be able to control it.”
“How uncontrollable are we talking here?” Ron asks, looking between Malfoy and Hermione across from him. “Me with bacon, Harry with treacle tart, ‘Mione with library, or Malfoy with insults?”
Malfoy tsks in annoyance. Hermione snorts with amusement. “Malfoy with insults.”
Ron winces. “That’s too bad. I think we could have managed me with bacon.”
Harry and Hermione both burst out in laughter. “Sure, Ron.”
“What?” Ron says indignantly. “Compared to you three? I’m definitely better.”
“Even I know that’s not true, Weasley,” Malfoy smirks. He mimics Ron stuffing his face with food, puffing up his cheeks and saying in an ill imitation of Ron’s voice. “Bloody hell.”
Harry laughs harder. To her credit, Hermione stifles her giggles with her hand. Ron rolls his eyes.
“Yeah, as if you’re any better, Malfoy.” Ron straightens himself up and positively preens like a peacock. “Look, Father. I cheated in Quidditch! I bested Scarhead! Will you gift me the shiny moonstone now? It’ll look pretty with my princess gown.”
Harry spits out his tea.
Malfoy throws him a dirty look. “Moonstone? Try the Nimbus 2003.”
“Nimbus?” Harry cocks up an eyebrow.
“It’s not a bad broom.”
“Really?” Harry asks dubiously, remembering Malfoy’s jealous face vividly.
Malfoy sighs and studies his nails with fascination. “Firebolt hadn’t launched yet.”
Harry laughs. “That’s what I thought.”
“So this Fiendfyre business,” Ron refocuses the conversation. “It’s almost impossible to control. Sentient. Difficult to cast in the first place.”
“Basically.”
“So that’s out. I don’t know about you guys, but I don’t think we can afford another landscape redecoration project so soon.”
It’s like a rerun of their months without Malfoy. Their conversations go around in circles, interspersed with plans to break into another fortress, and Hogwarts is the most powerfully protected wizarding building in Britain, Harry stubbornly believes, no matter what Malfoy says.
Having someone with prior experience in said department is – quite something. Malfoy explains how he managed to fix the Vanishing Cabinet and by the end of his complicated theory and magical deductions, only Hermione is paying attention. She keeps getting distracted with endless questions about some or the other research that Malfoy had burned through during Sixth Year until Harry and Ron have to drag her back to the problem at hand.
Surprisingly, or maybe not, Malfoy is able to keep up with her nearly every single time and they reach a moment wherein Hermione is explaining Amortentia to them and she sounds like she’s having a conversation with herself, only that Malfoy understands every stray random remark that she makes. As though he’s cast Legilimency on her and is simply following her train of thoughts.
It’s disconcerting, to say the least.
“Fake love,” she says sometime during their conversation.
“Exactly,” says Malfoy. “Magical rape.”
“Excuse me?” Harry splutters, thinking of the scent of wood, Ginny’s flowery shampoo, and treacle tart.
“Tom Riddle,” Malfoy says to him.
“What?” Ron says.
“Why is it not illegal yet?” Hermione asks, shuddering in disgust.
“Regulation of Magical Potions is bullshit, that’s why,” Malfoy grumbles unhappily.
“Are you getting any of this?” Harry turns to Ron.
Ron shrugs, mirroring Harry’s puzzled expression. “From Fiendfyre to Amortentia? No clue, mate.”
“The love potion that is sold openly, Wealsey,” Malfoy snaps, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Didn’t you get screwed over yourself in school?”
“That was for me,” Harry laughs, remembering Ron’s stumped face at the thought of Romilda Vane. “Ron ate it by mistake.”
“We were talking about how You-Know-Who’s mother took advantage of the potion’s effects to marry his father and bear a child,” Hermione explains patiently, if not a little huffily over Ron’s mishap. To be fair, he was drugged and then nearly died.
“Why?” Ron voices Harry’s mind. “What’s that got to do with anything?”
“Potter’s mother,” Malfoy supplies unhelpfully.
Harry gives up, throwing his hands in the air. Ron curses under his breath, pulling a stray piece of parchment towards him.
When Harry suggests that they can breach Hogwarts the same way the Death Eaters did, through the Vanishing Cabinet from Knockturn Alley, Hermione is unsure of the plan.
“Isn’t there some rule for Room of Requirement?” she frowns, thinking. “If someone is already occupying it, you cannot enter it unless you know the exact way the Room is being used at that moment. Isn’t that why you couldn’t catch Malfoy in Sixth Year?”
“When he was stalking me, you mean,” Malfoy gripes lowly under his breath.
Ron and Hermione exchange a look that Harry is far too aware of. Harry still insists that he was not obsessed with Malfoy’s whereabouts and his plans. He was merely tailing him because he knew that Malfoy was definitely up to something and, Harry wants to reminds them rather fiercely, he was right.
“We don’t know if anyone’s using it now,” Harry says instead, completely ignoring the rest.
“Sneaking back into Diagon Alley?” Ron grimaces. “Hate to say it, but it’s too risky for something we are ninety-nine percent sure wouldn’t work.”
“We’ve gone for more on less,” Harry raises his eyebrows.
“It’s not only that, Harry,” Hermione explains. “With Malfoy, he had someone on the other side to check if it’s running properly. If we enter the Cabinet, there is no guarantee we won’t disappear into the ether.”
“That can happen?”
“It’s the way Apparition works,” Malfoy replies.
“Exactly,” Hermione nods. “With Apparition, we are bending space and time itself. But there’s a known point of disappearance and reappearance. If you Splinch, we know where to find your missing parts. If you disappear from one of the Cabinets but don’t appear in its twin, you might as well be lost in the fabric of magic itself.”
“Then let’s contact Neville,” Harry says determinedly. “We’ll tell him to stay on the other side of the Cabinet so the room will stay occupied and we can appear without getting lost in magic fabric or whatever.”
Hermione and Malfoy work on the letter to be sent. They need to frame the words in a way that only Neville will understand since every owl post that the school receives is heavily monitored.
It takes them a full day to write a letter that barely fills one quarter of the parchment.
“We avoided using names,” Hermione fidgets nervously. “But it should get delivered properly if you tell the name to the owl.”
“Right.”
Harry skims the letter with Ron reading it over his shoulder.
Dear child,
I don’t understand why you keep forgetting things! The book is in the trunk if you search closely. I had packed it during last year; in fact, I can guarantee it was the early evening of 2nd of May when your Uncle had cooked that terrible chicken and gave everyone an ugly case of diarrhoea.
Remember the time when you stuck your parents photograph on the mirror before Christmas? I swear this is just like that.
Love,
Grandma
“Brilliant,” Harry compliments cheerfully, tucking the letter in his jacket. “This should be perfect.”
Since Harry and Ron are trusted with finding an owl, for the first time, they decide to venture out in the world outside of their campsite. With the knowledge of the Taboo, they believe it might be easier to stay concealed under the Cloak as long as they don’t use Voldemort’s name.
Ron suggests Apparating to a wizarding village and locating a nearby Owl Delivery service. From what he explains, Harry understands that it’s the magical version of a post office. People who don’t own owls can visit the establishment and use their service.
Turns out, it’s easier to infiltrate a magical post office than robbing a magical bank. Ron Apparates them to his village once more since he knows the map like the back of his hand.
Harry tries not to look past the hills in The Burrow’s direction or Lovegood’s monstrosity. He firmly keeps his eyes instead on his immediate surroundings as the two of them shuffle along the dirty roads towards the establishment.
“We need to hurry,” Ron mutters as they flatten themselves against a short compound wall to let a group of gangly teenagers pass. “Before they both snap and murder each other.”
Harry feels a thrill at how perfectly the entire operation goes. They sneak inside the entrance and quickly make their way towards the back room, where the Owlery is. As soon as they enter the smelly space, for a bizarre moment, Harry feels transported to Hogwarts. Similar to the one at the school, this structure is nothing but a hollow cylindrical, towering block of concrete and cement with countless number of windows for the owl to perch on.
They choose one nearest to them, a barn owl who cocks their heads at them even though they should be invisible. Harry pulls out the letter from his jacket, and without removing the Cloak, his hand floats in front of the bird in invitation. Beside him, Ron offers a couple of owl treats as incentives.
In their second week, Nuri finally returns from her journey. Malfoy seems extremely pleased as he pets her large head in greeting, speaking lowly and positively beaming.
It’s on that day that Harry is in Malfoy’s room, the one he ends up sharing at night to give Ron and Hermione some privacy, and he’s playing with the potion vials, studying the labels absently. He nearly jumps out of his skin when a silvery white mist sprints through his very body.
Harry spins around. There’s a shimmering fox standing in the middle of the room, and then it opens its mouth and speaks in Malfoy’s gleeful voice.
“In your face, Potter.”
Harry rushes outside. Malfoy is casually leaning against Nuri’s white wings, twirling his wand between his fingers, the picture-perfect image of cool. He’s smirking and grinning distantly at the lake, but Harry catches the molten steel under the bright sunlight glancing at him anyway.
Neville’s reply arrives by the end of the second week.
Hermione is the one who spots the owl during her routine walk around the perimeter to check if the charms are still holding. She cries out loudly for the other three and Harry drops the book he had been reading, Nasty Grasses That Will Kill You, and rushes outside. Ron is already at the entrance. Malfoy rises to his feet from his brooding position near Nuri’s tail and joins them.
Hermione has already ripped open the letter in excitement. She quickly goes through it and then beams up at them, her eyes alight with accomplishment.
Malfoy, Ron, and Harry slouch over it.
Dear Betty,
Thank you for your letter. I was very happy that you said yes to my proposition. However, I am afraid that I cannot come meet you even for a date during my school days. We have exams coming up and I wish to be well prepared for it.
I still remember the first time we visited the village together. I was very nervous to hold your hand in public and you, ever so kind, took pity on me. We ended up in that decrepit bar that stunk so badly, but being with you made everything better. I wish I could see you once more. I miss you.
Yours,
Pumpkin
A short, incredulous pause later, Harry, Ron, and Malfoy are bent at the waist, laughing so loudly that Nuri makes a disapproving noise in the back of her throat.
“Aw, I miss Neville,” Ron snorts, rereading the letter happily. “This is genius!”
“Which place is he talking about, though?” Malfoy asks them.
“Hog’s Head,” Harry replies, nostalgia coursing through his veins. “We used that place to hold the first DA meeting since Three Broomsticks would have been too crowded.”
“This is a good lead,” Hermione’s face visibly shines. “He wouldn’t tell us otherwise. We just need to find a way to the bar.”