Nothingness
After almost an hour of waiting and two more cups of shitty Ministry coffee, Harry finally felt Draco stop shaking. They hadn’t moved from their original position—Harry because he wanted to provide every ounce of reassurance that the blond would allow, and Draco because he was probably still in shock—but thankfully Aidan hadn’t shown up yet. Aside from Gabrielle, the junior Auror assigned to watch them, and the occasional coffee delivery they’d been left relatively alone.
Harry was very, very glad that no one had tried to separate them or force Draco into an interrogation room. He knew that if the medical examiner brought back a conclusion of anything less than 100% suicide, it would take mere seconds for the Ministry to shift the blame onto Draco. That wasn’t going to happen, though. He’d decided, while sitting there, that if it became an issue he would lie and say that the man had hinted to him before that he had a ‘plan B’ lined up.
A knock on the door made all three of them jump. Harry fought the urge to squeeze Draco’s shoulders or smooth his hair as some form of comfort, but ultimately retracted his arm in case it was Aidan at the door. Gabrielle glanced at them, looking like she wanted Harry to be the one to open it, but ultimately got up and pulled the handle.
Kingsley was standing in the doorway, looking serious. He thanked Gabrielle and told her to go get herself some coffee, ignoring the half-full cup that was still in her hand. She swallowed hard and took the dismissal, closing the door behind her.
“Harry,” the Minister said quietly. “You are aware that I have a full-time job that isn’t being your babysitter, right?”
It was a joke, but even Kingsley didn’t seem to think it was that funny. Harry offered a weak smile but he was far too preoccupied by the sheer tension radiating from Draco now that they were alone with the Minister. All the silent soothing he’d done over the last hour had been erased by Kingsley’s presence.
“So, what’s the verdict?”
Harry deliberately forced himself not to hold his breath, but he felt Draco’s leg against his thigh and the muscles there were curling impossibly tight. His hand ached to reach out and smooth over the cloth, but he ignored that thought. Draco didn’t need more things to be scared of or to set him on edge at the moment—they were both still reeling from the earlier incident.
“Confirmed suicide,” Kingsley finally declared, and Harry felt a weight lift off his chest. “Internal Affairs poured over the interrogation tapes and they included the morning ones, which is why it took so long. They corroborated the examiner’s verdict that it could only be suicide. Cause of death was labelled as: cerebral hypoxia.”
“Tapes?” Draco asked uncertainly, just as Harry said: “Cerebral hypoxia?”
Kingsley sighed and took Gabrielle’s place in the only other chair in the room. He looked exhausted, Harry thought, and a vague inkling of worry spread out over his skin before he reminded himself that Kingsley was a grown adult who could take care of himself. It wasn’t Harry’s job to micromanage—or manage at all, really.
“Yes, tapes and yes, cerebral hypoxia. We use Muggle recording technology now to keep records of interrogations and interviews, Mr. Malfoy, because they’re more reliable and easily referenced than a pensieve. As for your question, Harry, I can only tell you what the examiner told me. Apparently, whatever our suspect ingested was a chemical strong enough to inhibit red blood cells’ ability to attach to oxygen, which then caused brain death due to lack of oxygen. Their best guess at the moment is some form of cyanide. Please don’t ask me what any of that means, though, because I couldn’t tell you. If you want, you can talk to the examiner and have her explain it in more depth once we’ve gotten our bearings in this case again.”
Harry nodded, trying to gauge how Draco was taking that information. The blond hadn’t seemed to react to any of it except the comment about tapes and Harry couldn’t decide if that meant he was processing it, or if he hadn’t heard a word. Hopefully, he would ask Harry about it again later if he needed to.
“Okay, well, given how the suspect reacted to Draco, I think he should be placed under Ministry protection.”
“No.”
It was quick and sharp, leaving no room for debate, and Harry turned to Draco in surprise. He’d just been bloody attacked and threatened by a now-dead man, not to mention all the weird things that had already been happening at work! But he was refusing protection?
“I have potions to brew,” the blond said stiffly. “And rent to pay.”
“I’ll pay it.”
Kingsley shot him a look that said he was clearly out of line, but Harry was too focused on Draco. The blond was staring at the floor, but his eyes were hard and cold. For the first time since the war, Harry could see a bit of that silvery reactivity brewing behind those eyes and it sent an ache of nostalgia through his chest.
“No, you won’t, Potter. I don’t want your pity money. I have a job—one that I’m bloody good at, thank you very much—and I’m not letting a random Auror stalk me around every corner for the next month. You can’t force me. Besides, the man is dead now anyways so even if this ‘Broken Crown’ guy is coming, he doesn’t know who or where I am.”
Harry was about to protest that it wouldn’t be a ‘random Auror’, it would be him—someone Draco trusted—but he stopped the words on his tongue. Kingsley would never allow that, no matter how hard he pushed. And Draco had every right not to trust whatever Auror might get the assignment. Hell, Draco had every right not to trust him.
“Mr. Malfoy has a point, Harry. None of this is an issue of force and I think a protective detail is a bit overkill regardless. This department hardly had men or resources to spare, you know, which means the protection we could offer him is limited to a charmed alert pendant and occasional Auror check-ins. However, Mr. Malfoy has every right to refuse that offer.”
They looked to Draco, waiting for him to waver or maybe even accept the pendant but refuse the check-ins. Draco had clenched his jaw, though, and straightened his spine in a way that reminded Harry of the way the old Malfoy had looked whenever he’d lost to another Quidditch team that wasn’t Harry: determined, and prideful.
“I am refusing it, Minister,” he replied, keeping his voice thin and steely. “But I appreciate the offer.”
The second part came out much more forced, as if Draco’s own mouth refused to tell such an outrageous lie. Heat from the blond’s leg burned into Harry’s outer thigh. Draco was refusing any kind of protection and that alone made Harry’s own protective instincts flare. Ignoring the fact that Harry had struggled with maintaining that boundary before, he now put almost all of his attention into keeping himself motionless on the couch.
“Very well, Mr. Malfoy, that is your right. Given what has happened today, I just ask that you report or inform either myself or Auror Potter should anything else strange or suspicious occur.”
Harry stared at the blond, willing him to mention the dysprosium incidents, but Draco kept his mouth resolutely shut and just nodded. The git. Draco probably knew that if he said things were happening to him at work, he would be relocated or forced to accept Ministry help. In the back of his mind, Harry wondered if Draco had any contracts with the Ministry. If he did, then they could use the safety of those contracts and the resulting potions as reason for why Draco needed to be protected.
But Harry wouldn’t do that. Even if he wanted to, even if every fiber of his being was screaming at him that he needed to defend Draco from some invisible force, and even if it meant the blond might be a little bit safer. He couldn’t force the blond to do anything, even if it was for his own good.
That night, Draco ate half a bowl of canned corn that he’d opened the day before. He sent a note to Andrea—actually to her this time, because she’d given him a PO box address—inviting her over but she didn’t respond. Draco couldn’t blame her and he figured she was probably trying to forget that that day had even happened. Seeing him would only bring it back.
At 8pm, a tap at his window made him look up from the only Potions book he’d brought home and he grunted in annoyance when he saw a big brown owl. Fantastic, more Ministry mail. The bars he’d installed on the windows were not ideal for owl delivery, but he managed to crack it open enough to snatch the page. He tried to look apologetic as he waved the owl away without a treat.
It was from Potter. Draco opened the envelope, trying to ignore how that familiar messy handwriting tugged at his stomach. Inside the envelope was a small, white piece of paper that had definitely been a sticky note before being transfigured and something black. His fingers reached in, grabbing for whatever it was.
As soon as he touched it, he felt the jolt of Potter’s magic and he threw it onto the folding table next to his canned corn. Note first, he decided. It was short and clearly written in a rush, with just four words.
Draco,
Wear this.
Harry
Between his name and the first word was something small and scribbly which, with some intense staring, Draco managed to make into a legible word. Please. For some reason, the afterthought of the ‘please’ was enough to make Draco laugh. He chuckled, letting the soft sound hit the air in lieu of letting his brain acknowledge how much he was reacting to such a blatant command from the Auror.
Turning back to the thing he’d dropped, Draco realized it was a bracelet. It was small and delicate, made from some kind of black string or cord that he didn’t recognize but that seemed expensive. Tentatively, he reached out and picked it up.
This time, he was ready for the zap of magic against his skin and he didn’t flinch, instead trying to feel for what kind of spell or charm it was. He didn’t know it offhand but that wasn’t surprising because charms had never been his strong suit. Shaking his head, he turned the bracelet over in his palm. There was no clasp, he noticed or place where the two ends had been joined together again which gave it the appearance of being a single, continuous strand. Maybe magic was hiding the ends?
Draco ran the pad of one finger hesitantly over the cord, noting that it was actually two cords very close together. It was expensive—he knew the feel of luxury after the childhood he’d had—and incredibly sturdy. In the center of it, the two cords split and formed a tiny, decorative knot. Draco knew he’d seen it before, but he couldn’t remember the name. He could, however, still see the memory of that same knot tied in thick, red rope and pressed tight against his sternum as hands had grabbed at his hips.
A flush spread out over his skin and Draco shook his head again, this time at himself. Plenty of knots were very useful or practical in everyday situations. Just because this one looked like the heavy, intricate figure-8 with two X’s that a rigger had once used on him didn’t mean it was a shibari knot—or that it meant anything. Chances were, Potter had just bought the bracelet already tied.
Draco glanced back at the little card that had accompanied this ‘gift’, but found no indication of what kind of magic was present. It was a question then of whether or not he trusted Potter. Because there was no clasp, Draco assumed that putting it on would lock the bracelet to his wrist size unless he took something strong to it like an enchanted blade. His decision would be final, then.
Slowly, Draco let his eyes examine the bracelet as if that might help him make his decision. This felt like a test and, though Draco hardly felt like Potter was in a position to be testing him at the moment, he instinctively wanted to do well. But, his emotions were all over the place when it came to the Auror, so he imagined Andrea sending him this.
From her, Draco would have accepted it in a heartbeat. That wasn’t smart and he knew he was being reckless because his intuition had hardly proven that it could be trusted, but he didn’t care. It wasn’t the bracelet itself that was holding him up, it was the fact that it was from Potter.
Unintentionally, Draco wondered if he would have accepted it from ‘Mr. Doe’. He pretended to consider it, but he knew immediately in the pit of his stomach that he would have taken the bracelet without question. Because I want to be able to protect you. Draco had believed that when it had come from Mr. Doe, but did he believe it when it came from Potter?
With a sigh, Draco surrendered to his curiosity and decided to follow his gut. He held the bracelet in one hand, debating for a moment over which wrist he should put it on, before slipping it onto his left. As expected, it shrank to fit solidly against his wrist. There was no pressure—it stopped just before there was any kind of constriction or restraint—but Draco was incredibly aware of the texture of the cord against his skin.
Nothing bad happened.
He hadn’t realized he was bracing and waiting for pain until it didn’t come. Draco slid his finger under the cord, fully expecting it to refuse to give now that he’d put it on, but the bracelet loosened and came off easily. Interesting. Potter could have charmed it to not be able to be removed, or so that only he could take it off, but he hadn’t.
Not even really realizing what he was doing, Draco slid the bracelet back on. He shivered as he felt it tighten and found himself briefly annoyed that it wasn’t tighter, but then reasoned that that was probably for the best. That was why Draco never let himself try to tie himself—he would push himself too hard. He wanted the grounding, restrictive pressure of rope holding him inside his body and forcing him to be present but he wouldn’t get that without cutting off a fair amount of circulation.
No, it was definitely better to let someone else do the tying.
The next morning, Draco woke well before his alarm and could already tell he was on edge. He’d been exhausted and slept hard, though not long enough. He made the journey to work in complete silence, half listening for footsteps behind him and half trying to hear anyone coming before he crossed their path. In his office, he could breathe a little easier but he still found himself triple-checking every cauldron for dysprosium chunks.
Draco needed to get his shit together.
For now, he decided, the wards on his office would be enough, mainly because he couldn’t do anything to them without involving Potter. He was not going to involve Potter. During his lunch break he would go to Diagon Alley and get some new protective charmed objects for his apartment. Where he was going to get the money for that was a mystery to him, but he would figure that out later.
The bracelet on his wrist was just loose enough that could forget it was there. Once or twice, he’d caught it with the edge of his table or felt it rub against the inside of his sleeve and he’d surprised himself by being rather pleased. He liked having it there as a reminder. Exactly what it was a reminder of or why he liked it were not things that Draco was willing to let himself consider at the moment.
The morning passed without incident and Draco had even managed to forget that he had a new stand-in supervisor until Sal stopped by with a decaf coffee for him. Draco accepted it and thanked him, but did not drink it. Even with the coffee delivery, though, Sal hadn’t seemed nosy or wanted to talk about all his different brews and contracts which Draco appreciated. He’d merely re-introduced himself, handed over the coffee, complimented Draco’s book collection, and left.
At lunch, Draco managed to steel himself into braving Diagon Alley and he pulled on his official robes—the ones without any holes—that he usually reserved for performance reviews or client meetings. As expected, Diagon Alley was packed with a combination of the lunch rush and young kids running around seemingly parentless. Brats, Draco thought as one barrelled into him by mistake. But he knew that wasn’t true, even as he thought it, because these kids were nothing like he’d been at their age and none of them looked at him with anything other than mild interest. None of them sneered or called him scum, even if their parents clearly wanted to.
Draco smoothed his robes and belined for Mari’s. The shop was deceptively small and tucked into one of the more hidden side-alleys, but it was cheaper than almost anywhere else and it was the only place that didn’t charge Draco more once the owner recognized who he was. Behind the counter, a distinctly French looking girl gave him a nod when he entered, but otherwise left him alone.
In under an hour, Draco spent as many galleons on protective and warded charmed objects as he could stomach—six galleons, in this case, which left him with two overall to his name. But rent wasn’t due for a while, still, and he’d gotten food recently. Providing no more dysprosium incidents occurred, he could make it back by the end of the week. Maybe even more.
That thought didn’t ease the churning in his stomach when he returned to work and felt how light his coin purse had become. He finished the workday far too quickly but, with no other distractions, he got a fair amount done. Three different contracts would all be done by Friday which would mean a nice bonus on top of his measly check from Whirlwind. Maybe he would splurge and buy some nice wine.
At home, Draco kicked off his boots, hung up his robe, and forced his body into the shower before the water was even warm yet. He stayed there, just standing in the spray, until it ran cold again. Everything felt strange and vaguely unreal in a way it hadn’t since he’d been in a holding cell, but alcohol didn’t seem like the answer. Drinking would just make everything even fuzzier.
With nothing else to do, Draco decided that being unconscious was his next best step and he prayed for another night like the previous where he’d been too exhausted to dream or let his mind run wild. Tonight was not his lucky night, though.
Draco pulled his knees tighter to his chest, trying to keep out the cold that was seeping into his skin. Everything was always so cold now… Half of him thought the Aurors were doing it on purpose and half of him whispered that it was the scarred remnants of his Dark Mark making everything so intense.
He pried his eyes open again. The Aurors liked to scare him if he was asleep when they did their patrols, and Draco didn’t want to give his brain another reason to release adrenaline. Already, he was practically thrumming with the chemical in response to his general panickiness. Metal clanged somewhere down the hall and he jolted upright. Was tonight Ellis’s shift?
To Draco’s relief—though it was miniscule, and dwarfed by his fear—it was not Ellis who rounded the corner and made for his holding cell. This wasn’t an Auror he recognized, actually, but that didn’t mean much. Most Aurors just blended together, now. Draco watched and tried not to look curious or hopeful as the man approached.
“Malfoy, you’re wanted upstairs.”
Draco jumped, but hurried to his feet so quickly that he stumbled against the bars and held his hands out for shackles. Why would they want him upstairs? He wasn’t due to go to trial for months still and he wasn’t allowed visitors—not even a solicitor. The Auror didn’t offer any explanation or reason, though, and just fastened the shackles in place.
Slowly, because he’d become impossibly weak over the last few months, he followed the Auror and let himself be led up the stairs towards a room he’d never seen before. It wasn’t a courtroom, but there were stands of people on all sides and a chair in the very center. Surprisingly, Draco was led towards one of the few empty sections of bench rather than towards the center chair and, for a second, Draco thought he might be being called as a witness in someone else’s trial.
Then Lucius Malfoy had been brought out.
Even after however many months it’d been since the Dark Lord’s fall, Lucius managed to look prideful and full of disdain. Draco could guess that it was a facade but it was a damn good one. Everyone around him seemed to stiffen and bristle in response to the man as if they could combat his attitude with their own snobbery.
It was silent as Draco watched his father be secured to the chair in the center of the room. People were jeering and yelling things, but Draco couldn’t hear them. He watched Lucius scan the crowd and, for a split second, Draco thought his mother might have been brought to this event as well but, if she was, she was well hidden. She certainly wasn’t in chains like he was.
Draco didn’t listen as a judge began to speak—though he tried to, desperately—but he felt the moment his father saw him. The man met his eyes, then immediately looked away. As if Draco were the scum of the Earth, or something disgusting that Lucius had stepped in. His stomach sank and he tried harder to understand what was being said.
It was only after someone appeared in all white robes with their face covered and their wand raised that Draco understood. He’d seen a similar costume at All Hallow’s Eve celebrations, though they were usually draped in black robes not white. Black was too similar to Death Eaters, now. Draco remembered the costume’s name and, finally, he understood.
This was not a trial, it was an execution.
Nothing felt real. He watched the executioner approach his father, he watched the blond stand to face his fate, and he watched that familiar face twist into one last sneer. A curse was cast—not the killing curse, but something similar—and Lucius crumpled. His limbs twisted at odd angles and his prisoner’s robes rode up, exposing his Dark Mark to the crowd. They went wild and, judging by the reactionary shields from the Aurors, many began attempting to cast their own curses at the corpse.
Draco had just watched his father die, and he felt… nothing. It didn’t feel real. He wasn’t upset, really, because he’d made peace with the idea of his entire family dying by the Dark Lord’s wand—his father included. But anger swirled in his gut and he realized he was upset with himself.
That was his father! He’d just watched his own bloody father fall dead on the floor like a dummy made of flour and he hadn’t even blinked.
Vaguely, Draco became aware of cameras flashing. They were taking pictures of him, he realized, and he could only imagine the headlines that would stem from his emotionless face. People would say he’d never loved his father at all, and maybe they were right. After all, if you could watch someone die without feeling even a twinge of sadness, maybe you didn’t care about them as much as you thought you did.
He was led back to his cell after giving the reporters a few minutes to get their pictures. Once inside with his shackles off, Draco curled back into a ball in the far corner of the cell and cried. The tears weren’t for Lucius, though, which made it even worse. Draco wasn’t crying because he missed his father, because he was grieving, or because he’d just watched someone be executed. No, he was crying because he knew he would be next.
He hated himself for that thought. His mother was somewhere—hopefully she hadn’t been forced to watch the execution—and she was probably going through hell but Draco didn’t even consider her. He’d ran himself into the ground thinking about her in the beginning. Draco didn’t think about her, about Pansy, about the sheer destruction at Hogwarts, or about any of the trials that he was sure were taking place. He didn’t think about anyone but himself.
Even when his father had just been executed, Draco still somehow managed to be selfish.
Draco awoke violently and threw his pillow across the room before his brain could register what it was. Quickly, he remembered where he was and buried his face in the mattress. He didn’t scream, even though he wanted to, because drawing attention to himself or getting a noise complaint tacked onto his lease was the last thing he needed. But he did cry.
Everything hurt, but nothing was quite as sharp as the stinging ache of his own self-hatred. What kind of person could watch someone die and feel nothing? He remembered the day before in painfully vivid detail and he was struck again by that damn nothingness. Apparently, it didn’t matter who was dying or why. His own father being executed and a virtual stranger committing suicide in front of him—neither were enough to warrant emotion.
Draco cursed his own heartlessness.