Chapter 2
It seemed he and Malfoy had reached a tentative kind of truce. The Slytherin ventured out of his room more often, greeting Harry with a silent nod whenever he did which Harry returned, the lingering animosity fading to curiosity. Naturally, their change in behaviour did not go unnoticed by Remus and Sirius, though they didn’t comment, probably not wanting to disturb the newfound peace between the two boys, but Harry didn’t miss the minute smiles on their faces whenever they managed to be in the same room for longer than five minutes without tearing it or each other apart. Harry had always been acutely aware of Malfoy, always knowing when the blond was near – his platinum hair, his pale skin, the sound of his voice, imprinted in his mind – but now it was like his whole being was finetuned to Malfoy. And he wasn’t the only one. Harry could feel the weight of Malfoy’s fixed gaze on him, could feel the tension and anticipation. The questions.
It was maddening.
It was progress.
And still. Sirius started spending more and more time with Malfoy, sitting on his bed, the door ajar just enough to catch a glimpse of the two, talking in hushed voices. And it was okay, really. It was. No big deal. Except Harry couldn’t help the bitterness and pain that settled in his heart whenever he saw his godfather with the boy he had hated for five years, when it should have been him, Harry, not Malfoy.
“You’re angry with him,” Remus noted one evening. He and Harry were sitting at the kitchen table while Sirius and Malfoy had retreated to the blond’s room.
“I’m not,” Harry answered, and Remus raised an eyebrow at him, “I’m not.”
“Let me rephrase that, then,” Remus said, “You’re not happy with him.”
“It’s fine,” Harry muttered, very aware that Remus did not believe him.
As most things that took root, these feelings of jealousy, of envy and resentment, grew, large and strong, digging deep, deep, and deeper still into the ground of Harry’s very soul, coiling tightly around his heart, throwing shadows on his mind.
It was July, the sun was shining bright and hot over London, and on the streets outside the house, people crowded the sidewalks, chatting and laughing, enjoying the day. Sirius and Malfoy had gone out early – the park, they’d said – and Remus had just left to go to the shop, when the door to the apartment opened. Harry was lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling, his door not quite closed, leaving a small gap that allowed the voices from the main room to flow in.
“—worried about her, but it’s too risky,” Sirius just said. There was a click, the door shutting. Footsteps. “Huh. They must have gone out. Come on, I’ll put the kettle on.”
Water flowed from the tap in the kitchen. A chair was pulled back.
“I know,” Malfoy replied to Sirius, he sounded incredibly tired, “But the thought of her in that house with Him…”
“As hard as it is to hear this, but if she was dead, you’d probably know about it, which means she’s not. She’s alive.” The sound of water boiling. Mugs clinking together. The fridge pulled opened and pushed closed. “And Narcissa is many things but weak was never one of them. We’ve never been close but…I know she loves you. And she’ll keep fighting. For you.”
“What if I made the wrong choice?” Malfoy asked now.
“Do you think you did?”
“I don’t know.” There was a hardness to Malfoy’s voice that was unfamiliar, a desperation and helplessness that Harry had never heard before. Not from him. “My friends will support me, I know. Pansy and Blaise have never really been supporters of the Dark Lord, neither have their parents. Millicent is a half-blood, she’s scared for her mother, but her father is just as bad as mine. As for Vince and Greg…I cannot tell where their allegiances will lie when it will come down to choosing between me and their fathers. But even if they stay loyal to me, that is not a lot of allies on my part.” Two cups were set down on the table. “Severus will not risk being found out as a traitor, he will stay with the Dark Lord as long as possible, showing open sympathies to me will jeopardise that.”
“You have friends at Hogwarts –” Sirius began but was cut off by the Slytherin.
“Who?” Malfoy asked, “Who, apart from the people I have just named is my friend? Harry?” The brunet in question startled at the sound of his first name out of Malfoy’s mouth. “He tolerates me because you want him to. His little gang of ragtag Gryffindors? They hate me. And with good reason.”
“From what I heard you haven’t done anything that’s not forgivable, yet.”
Malfoy audibly sputtered. “Forgivable?” he asked, “Nothing has changed, Sirius. I still am and always will be Lucius Malfoy’s son and just because I don’t fully agree with his ideology anymore, doesn’t mean I will suddenly forget 15 years of indoctrination.”
“Then unlearn them.” Sirius voice was low, almost too low for Harry to hear. “What? You think I just woke up one day and decided my parents were wrong? I didn’t. It took me a year to stop thinking of Lily as a mudblood –” Harry’s eyes grew wide “—I didn’t say it but it was there. Mudblood. Half-breed. Blood traitor. All those nasty little words my mother used when she went on one of her rants on why exactly this country was going to the dogs. Oh, I was fascinated by Muggles, alright, the way you’d be fascinated by insects. What peculiar creatures, they are, I thought. No Magic but somehow they make do. My parents hated it, of course, but they let me because I was still a Black and I was still proud of it. I slipped up, once. James broke my nose for it.”
“What changed?”
“We found out Remus’ secret. That’s when I knew…one of my best friends, a filthy Werewolf, but I didn’t care because he was so special and I loved him, even then.” Harry barely dared to breathe, too anxious to not miss a single word his godfather was saying. “James and I,” Sirius went on, “We were a pair of spoiled brats. Bloody pricks, sometimes. Just as you’ve been. And we were no saints. We hexed people, jinxed them, pranked them. Not because we didn’t like them but because we could, because it was fun, because we thought we were better than them.” A dark chuckle sounded from the other room. “Do you know why Snape hates me?”
“Severus says you’re an insufferable and arrogant git.”
“Sounds like Snivellus,” Sirius muttered, “That’s what we used to call him. He was our favourite target – and he always gave as good as he got. Worse sometimes. But we’re the ones who started it…and then he nearly died…because of me.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because you need to understand,” Sirius replied, “I was 15. Selfish and stupid and bored, and Snape was in the wrong place at the wrong time. He always stuck his nose into our business, wanted to know where Moony went once a month, so I told him – go to the Whomping Willow, press the knot at the base of the tree and find out.” This was a story Harry knew but it didn’t make it any easier to hear. “James saved him. But if he hadn’t…Remus would have killed him. And it would have been my fault. That is something unforgivable, and yet…Remus did forgive me. Eventually.”
“Severus didn’t.”
“I never asked him to.” There was a long moment of silence, all Harry could hear was his own shallow breath and the frantic sound of his heartbeat. “Draco. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
There was no response that Harry could hear but he could imagine Malfoy nodding his head once, a stern expression on his face and thoughts racing through his mind.
You should give Draco a chance, Remus had said and now, Harry thought, maybe, just maybe, I will.
News of the attacks on Brockdale Bridge and south-western England hit them along with the murders of Emmeline Vance and Amelia Bones; but Harry’s thoughts were overtaken by Malfoy. He remembered the defeat in the blond’s voice as he had talked to Sirius, and the hollowness in his eyes. He’d told Malfoy that he knew nothing about him, but wasn’t the same true the other way around? What did he really know about Malfoy? That his family had money? That his father was a Death Eater? That he was a boy, scared for his life? For his mother’s life?
I know nothing about him, he realised, so why do I hate him?
The answer to that should have been obvious, five years of torment and rivalry was enough to make anyone resentful, and yet…if living with Remus and Sirius had thought Harry anything it was that not everything was always as it seemed. It was that people deserved second chances. It was that forgiveness was the strongest trait a person could have.
They were all sitting at the table, eating breakfast, when the letter came.
“It’s from Andy,” Sirius said, unfolding the piece of parchment, finding a second one inside, “It’s about your mother, Draco.”
Malfoy’s fork clattered to the plate, all the blood draining from his face. “Is she –”
“Alright,” Remus cut in, reading the letter over Sirius’ shoulder.
Sirius picked up the second piece of parchment and handed it to Malfoy. “This is for you, I think.”
The blond took the letter and left for his room without saying another word, closing the door.
“What happened?” Harry asked. If Narcissa was sending Malfoy letters through Andy, did that mean she’d left Lucius? Was she going into hiding as well?
“We have another ally,” Remus said cryptically, taking Andy’s letter from Sirius and handing to Harry.
Everyone,
It’s been a while since we last spoke and a lot has happened, but I will keep this short.
My sister came to visit me yesterday, she is well and brings news from a mutual friend who would like to speak to you and your boy as soon as possible.
Why don’t you all come by for tea tomorrow?
Love,
Andy
Harry frowned, not sure he understood what Andromeda was saying. “Who does she mean?”
“Severus,” Remus answered, and Harrys frown deepened. He still found it hard to believe that Snape was anything but an evil git. “We asked for his help before the summer, but he declined,” the Werewolf explained, “Voldemort trusts him, as does Dumbledore; working with us would be taking a risk.”
“What changed?”
“I imagine we’ll find out tomorrow.”
As if on their own accord, Harry’s eyes were drawn to Malfoy’s shut bedroom door. There was no sound coming through, but Harry imagined he could almost feel the waves of emotions.
“I heard you talking the other day,” he started, still looking at the door, “When you told him that he hasn’t done anything unforgivable, yet.”
Slowly, Harry turned his head to look at Sirius and Remus. They didn’t look surprised, but neither was Harry, after all, there were no secrets left between them.
“Do you think you could? Forgive him?” Sirius asked, his voice soft, gentle, void of any judgement and Harry new if he said no, they would accept that, no questions asked.
“Yes.” He hadn’t even known how true it was until now. Yes, Harry thought, I think I can forgive him.
They left early. It was still dark outside, and Remus had placed a Disillusionment Charm on Malfoy so they could Apparate to Andy’s without being seen. The blond had been quiet since breakfast the previous day, his mother’s letter in hand at all times. Harry didn’t know what she’d written but he could tell that Malfoy wasn’t happy about it; had she gotten hurt after all?
“Come on.” Sirius dragged him along, down a dark street that Harry didn’t recognize. He’d never actually been to Andy’s house and under different circumstances he might have been looking forward to it, as it was, his excitement was rather limited.
They knocked on the door and it was Tonks that opened, sporting a short haircut in vibrant blue colours and a Freddy Mercury t-shirt.
“Wotcher,” she greeted them, smiling brightly.
“Dora.” Remus nodded as the four entered the house, walking through to the living room where Andy, Ted, Narcissa and Snape were already waiting for them.
“Draco.” Malfoy’s mother let out a ragged sob the second she saw her son, rushing forward to pull him into a crushing hug. “You’re okay.”
“I’m okay, mother,” Malfoy muttered, returning the hug with just as much fierceness. It was weird, Harry found, to see them like this. Emotional. In his mind, Narcissa Malfoy had always been a cold, heartless woman, very much like her sister Bellatrix, not a loving mother terrified for her son’s life. Harry’s gaze wandered towards Snape. There was something different about him – the constant sneer was missing from his face, as was the usually sinister look in his eyes, they looked hollow.
“Narcissa, please,” the man’s voice, too, was nothing like Harry expected, a bone-deep exhaustion sounding through, and something like fear, “We do not have much time.”
Narcissa nodded while she let go of her son, tears glistening on her pale cheeks, leading the blond boy out of the room.
“What happened, Severus?” Remus asked.
There was a long moment of silence, the old grandfather clock on the wall counting the seconds – tick, tick, tick – and then Snape began to talk.
He’d overheard the Prophecy when it had first been made by Trelawney to Dumbledore and immediately reported it back to Voldemort. He’d regretted his decision, joining the Order and becoming a spy for Dumbledore. After James’ and Lily’s death, he’d agreed with Dumbledore to protect Harry from Voldemort – “for Lily’s sake,” he said – but now he had doubts.
“Why?” Sirius asked, his voice rough, barely containing his emotions, “What changed?”
Snape looked up at the other man, an unreadable expression on his face, “Albus Dumbledore is going to die.” Snape’s words were met with shocked silence, Harry’s brain trying and failing to compute the meaning behind them. “The Dark Lord has sent someone to kill him, ‘though I do not know who – Narcissa tells me it is likely to be a student. But even if they fail, he has touched a cursed object, I managed to contain the curse to his hand, but it will spread. I give him a year at the most, and then –” Snape took a deep breath. “I managed to get him to talk about his plan. For the very end. He showed me the entire Prophecy. He knows how to defeat the Dark Lord, it is in the Prophecy, and the Dark Lord’s actions have made sure that it will be fulfilled.”
“What does that mean?” Sirius bellowed.
“It means, Black,” Snape spat out, some of the familiar contempt re-entering his eyes, “That your godson has been raised like a pig for slaughter and knowing Potter he will gladly walk up to the gallows and put the noose around his own neck, if it only means saving his friends. The Dark Lord knows this, too.”
Harry had half a mind to protest against that except it was true wasn’t it? He’d proven time and time again that he would die for the people he loved.
“What makes you so sure about that?” Remus asked, it was impossible to say what he was thinking.
“Minerva, Nymphadora –”
“Don’t call me –”
“Quiet!” Snape snapped at Tonks, “As I was saying, Minerva, Nymphadora, and I managed to enter Albus’ office during his absence and view some of his memories, specifically the ones he has been revisiting lately.” Harry glanced at Tonks, trying to see what she was thinking, trying to understand how and why, but Tonks’ face was blank. “As it is, it seems the connection is the key.”
“Connection?”
“Yes, Black. The connection between the Dark Lord and Harry Potter, after all, is that not why you taught him Occlumency?”
Sirius took half a step forward, barring his teeth. “And how could you possibly know that unless you were trying to mess with his head!”
“Sirius,” Remus tried to cut in but was interrupted by Snape.
“No matter,” the Potions Master said, “The connection is the key. The Dark Lord fears it because he does not understand it, just as he fears everything he does not understand, and I am certain that Albus intends on using it because, after all, ‘either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives’.” Harry shuddered at the words, at what they implied. “That is what Trelawney prophesised and that is how it will happen. Both the Dark Lord and Dumbledore have made sure of that.”
Another moment of silence, different this time, heavier. Harry cast a glance around the room. Andy and Ted were both frowning deeply, clearly confused, while their daughter looked angry. And then there were Remus and Sirius.
“We never told Dumbledore about the connection,” Remus broke the silence.
“And yet he knows,” Snape replied.
“How?”
“That is the immediate question, is it not? Did someone tell him after all? Or does he simply suspect? In which case it begs another question – why?”
“But –” Sirius began, visibly distressed by what he was hearing.
“I have said everything I know,” Snape cut him off, “Nympha – Tonks – has seen the same memories I have, she will be able to assist you. As for me…Narcissa and I will be leaving the country. Today. We will not tell you where and you will not attempt to find us.” Harry’s eyes snapped back to his teacher, ex-teacher now, he supposed, almost feeling something akin to sympathy bloom inside of him. Snape had not wanted to help, and yet here he was, trying to safe Harry’s life. “If I may,” Snape continued, “A word with Mr. Potter, please.” The question was directed at Sirius who glanced at Remus as if looking for guidance until, eventually, both men looked at Harry, clearly deferring the question to him.
Okay, Harry thought, nodding his head once.
The room quickly emptied, leaving Snape with Harry, an uneasy feeling rising inside of him, overshadowing the newly found sympathy.
For the longest moment, Snape simply stared at Harry, not saying a word. Then –
“You have her eyes.” I know, Harry wanted to say but didn’t. “I loved your mother very much.”
“Is that why you called her a mudblood?” Harry didn’t want to say but did. “Sirius told me about that. She never forgave you, did she?”
“The Dark Lord promised me he would spare her life and he did not. Dumbledore promised me he would care for your safety and well-being and he did not. I admit that I have many regrets, if I could undo what I did then, I –”
“Would have still not been good enough!” Harry’s blood was boiling. Forgotten was the sympathy he had felt just seconds ago, replaced by the old hatred, by new hatred, by disappointment and the feeling of betrayal. “That’s why you me hate so much, isn’t it? ‘Cause every time you look at me, you’re reminded of how my mum chose my dad over you! You’re bitter ‘cause she didn’t love you back the way you wanted to, ‘cause being her friend wasn’t enough for you, ‘cause you were obsessed. And you let it out on me. And on Neville. And every other student that comes into your classroom.” How could Dumbledore ever hire you? It was a question Harry had been asking himself more often than he could count, now more than ever. “If you’d have wanted to undo what you did, you could have become a decent person, not a fucking bully.”
And then Harry stormed out, not bothering to look back at Snape who seemed to be lost for words, but if he had, he would have seen tears in his former professor’s eyes.
All the anger had left Harry once they got back home. The best word to describe what exactly he was feeling would have been ‘empty’, he supposed. ‘Used’, maybe.
Dumbledore promised me he would care for your safety and well-being and he did not.
As much as Harry hated Snape, the words haunted him.
Had it not been Dumbledore who had left him with the Dursleys?
Had it not been Dumbledore who had not lifted a finger when Sirius had been sent to Azkaban for a crime he hadn’t committed?
Had it not been Dumbledore who had let him – No, encouraged me to – risk his life over and over and over again?
Both Malfoy and he had retreated into their respective rooms immediately, seeking solace in the solitude and yet when Remus tentatively knocked on Harry’s door, he welcomed the company.
“How are you feeling, Harry?”
I’m alright. The words were on the tip of his tongue, a lie that would have been easy merely a year ago but now…
“I’m angry.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
No.
“Yes.” Remus stepped fully into the small room, gently shutting the door behind himself and sitting down on the foot of Harry’s bed once more. Patient. “I wish he’d told me,” Harry muttered, “Dumbledore. I asked him, in first year, about Voldemort and my parents, and he said I was too young.”
“I’d be angry, too,” Remus replied, “If I were you, I’d be furious, I think.”
“He used me.”
“He did.”
“Why?”
There was a pain in Remus’ eyes that he had never seen before, anguish that went beyond even his monthly struggles with himself. The Werewolf opened his mouth to answer, and Harry could tell the exact moment when he changed the words from a well-meaning lie to an uncomfortable truth, “For the greater good.”
Harry frowned. “What does that even mean?”
“Harry,” Remus began, running a hand over his face, visibly struggling, “Since I have known him, Albus Dumbledore has always prioritised the bigger picture over the individual. That’s just who he is.”
“I can’t go back to Hogwarts,” Harry suddenly realised, “Not with all this going on. Not when I have to fight Voldemort.”
Remus smiled sadly. “Have you ever heard the story of Oedipus?”
Frowning, Harry asked, “Wasn’t he like Greek or something?”
“Or something.” Remus chuckled, though there was no mirth behind the sound. “Oedipus was a tragic hero in Greek mythology. The story goes that he was the son of a king and he went to the Oracle of Delphi who told him he would kill his father and marry his mother. Oedipus was so set on averting the prophecy that he left his home. On his travels he met an old man, they got into a fight and Oedipus killed him. He went on to a place whose king had recently died, and which was threatened by a Sphinx. Oedipus defeated the Sphinx and won the throne, marrying the queen. Later, he found out that the man he’d killed, had been the former king. And his father. Making the queen his mother. Oedipus had been raised by someone else since his biological parents had send him away as a baby since they, too, had heard the same prophecy. Both Oedipus and his parents were so convinced that they could thwart the prophecy that they made it come true.”
Harry blinked. Once. Twice. “What are you trying to say?”
“Maybe it’s a lack of faith on my part,” Remus answered, “But prophecies are only ever as true as one wants them to be. Voldemort wanted to belief what he’d heard was true, so he made it true.”
“But then it’s still true,” Harry argued. He had the feeling that he was missing something here, something vital.
“Is it?” the Werewolf questioned mildly, the sad smile still firmly in place, “Dumbledore is a smart man, some may even call him wise. While everyone has been concentrating on how to defeat him, he has been asking how he could come back in the first place.”
“I told you, there was this potion –”
“No magic in the world,” Remus cut him off, “No matter how powerful, no matter how dark or not-dark, can bring back the dead, Harry. Not unless they’re not really dead.”
“But then how did he survive?”
“That,” Remus said, a contemplative expression on his face, “Is the question. Voldemort was hit by his own Killing Curse, for all intent and purposes he should have died, but he didn’t. Why?” Harry opened his mouth to say something, anything, but no words came to mind. “Sirius and I will be trying to find the answer to that. You will go back to school, make sure you learn everything you can, make sure you stay safe and alive, make sure Dumbledore doesn’t start another Triwizard Tournament, make sure to stay close to your friends, make sure Draco is okay, make sure you get to be a normal teenager for once.”
Some part of him wanted to argue but…
I trust them, he realised, I trust Remus and Sirius to take care of this.
They had told him, multiple times, that he was trying to take responsibility for something that happened before you were even born, Harry. No matter how hard it is to belief but none of this is in any way your fault. It was happening slowly, but Harry started to think that, maybe they were right. Maybe this wasn’t his problem to fix.
And yet.
“I don’t want you to put yourselves in danger because of me.”
Remus shifted, wrapping his arms around Harry and pulling him close. “That’s not your choice to make, Harry,” he whispered, “We did it before. Seventeen years old, fresh out of school…we joined the Order because we thought we could save the world, foolish as we were. Sometimes I still regret that decision, made out of some misguided sense of duty and debt. At least now, I know exactly what I’m fighting for.”
And what is that? Harry wanted to ask except he thought he already knew the answer. It was in the way Remus held him now, arms tight and yet gentle. It was in the way Remus looked at him, with warmth and pride and joy. It was in the way Remus smiled at Sirius, the way he made tea, the way he read his books, and cooked their meals, and refilled the fruit bowl with chocolate bars.
Home.
Knock. Knock.
“Come in.”
Harry pushed the door open, noting how the bedroom looked exactly like his own with the only difference that the bedsheets were green, the desk stacked with books, and there were no piles of dirty laundry visible anywhere. It was neat, meticulous, and clean, and Harry couldn’t help but feel like an intruder.
“Potter.” Harry’s eyes fell on the inhabitant of the room. Malfoy was sitting on his bed, a book in his hands, using his thumb as a makeshift bookmark as if he wasn’t sure yet whether or not he should commit to the real thing. “What do you want?”
“Erm – Remus and Sirius just left,” Harry managed to say, already feeling foolish because Malfoy probably knows this – it was the full moon after all and despite the Wolfsbane Potion, the two adults of the household still preferred to go to the abandoned 12 Grimmauld Place rather than have a Werewolf in the flat, no matter how tame.
Malfoy gave him a flat look, confirming what Harry had already thought. “Yes?”
“Well, I – er – I was wondering if you – I mean –”
“Potter.”
“Do you want to do something?” Harry blurted out, Malfoy’s raised eyebrow effectively making him feel even more stupid.
“Do what, precisely?”
“I don’t know! Have dinner, watch TV, play chess, or something…”
Malfoy looked at him for a long moment, his face blank, then –
“Alright.” Wait, really? “As long as you keep your lack of eloquence to yourself.”
Malfoy reached for the actual bookmark and placed it carefully between the pages of his book before standing up. He was wearing Muggle clothes again.
They hadn’t talked since the visit at Andy’s and Harry felt almost sorry for the blond. He couldn’t imagine what it was like, knowing your mother was out there but with no way of contacting her, having to say goodbye twice in a row, living with the uncertainty if she was still alive at all.
“I’m sorry,” he found himself saying, once they’d sat down at the table, no longer able to hold back the words, “About your mother.”
Malfoy’s eyes snapped up to meet his, the steel-grey seeming even colder and harder than usual and Harry already prepared himself for the inevitable insult that was sure to come.
“I appreciate the sentiment.” Somewhere in the depths of Harry’s mind, a record scratched to a halt. “But she made her choice. We all do.”
“Still –” Harry began, trying to recover from the shock.
“No, Potter,” Malfoy fell in, his eyes still fixed on him, “It is not you who is threatening her, so kindly stop taking responsibility for things that are clearly not yours to be responsible for. In fact, it is awfully egoistical of you to presume you could right every wrong in this world, is it not? Saint Potter?”
Harry stared. It was all he could do, really, as the concept of language seemed to have left him. Malfoy’s words sounded familiar, the same old sniping and sneering, except it wasn’t. Something had changed. There was no real heat in Malfoy’s voice, it had sounded factual with a hint of bitterness and, could it be, amusement?
Deciding to take a risk, Harry collected all of his Gryffindor bravery, and said, “Tell me about her.”
“Pardon?”
Deep breaths. “Tell me about your mum.”
“And why, pray tell, would I do such a thing?”
Harry shrugged. “We’re gonna spend another month together,” he reasoned, “Might as well try and get along.”
The corners of Malfoy’s mouth curled into something that was probably supposed to be a jeering smirk but somehow looked much softer. “How very mature,” the blond muttered, “Very well.” He leaned back in his chair, a far-away expression entering his eyes. “Mother is a smart woman. Strong. She doesn’t allow people to tell her what to do, not even father. She is unafraid. What she did – betraying father and the Dark Lord – it put her at risk, but she did it anyway.”
“She loves you,” Harry realised, not sure why it surprised him so much.
“She does.”
“She doesn’t sound like a Death Eater.” Once again, the words were out before Harry could as much as try and hold them, leaving Harry to bite his tongue and curse his own damned mouth.
Across from him, Malfoy grew incredibly tense. “That’s because she’s not,” he replied coolly, “There’s more than just Death Eaters and not-Death Eaters, you of all people should know this, by know.”
I do, Harry wanted to argue but that really wasn’t the point. “I just mean,” he said instead, “Why marry your father, then?”
Both eyebrows raised, Malfoy gave a dark chuckle. “Your lack of knowledge of pureblood culture would be humorous if it wasn’t so shocking,” he said and rolled his eyes, “She didn’t choose to marry father. Her parents chose for her.”
“You mean…it was arranged?”
“Don’t sound so shocked. I have it on good authority Muggles do it, too.”
Harry blinked. Another question for the pile he already had. “Yeah,” he answered, “But it’s not that common anymore and a lot of people don’t like it.”
“And how common do you think traditional pureblood families are in Britain?” Malfoy countered, “Twenty-eight. There are twenty-eight families that can still call themselves real purebloods.”
“Yours is one of them, I reckon.”
“Naturally. So are the Weasleys. The Blacks. Your godfather was engaged to Bellatrix before he was disowned.” Harry shuddered. He knew about the engagement, but it still made his toes curl. “My point is, Potter,” Malfoy went on, “That families like ours have to make an effort to not become extinct.”
“Or you could just do what everyone else does and let people have their own relationships,” Harry remarked drily.
“I wouldn’t expect you to understand.” Once again the malice that Harry was used to was missing. “I’m only telling you how it is, since you obviously have no idea.”
That’s hardly my fault, is it?
“And who are you engaged to?” Harry asked, not sure if he really wants to know the answer.
“It varies from year to year.” Harry also wasn’t sure if Malfoy was serious or joking.
The blond stood up and walked over to the sink, taking a glass from the rack and filling it with water.
“And you’re happy with that?”
Turning back to face Harry, Malfoy gave him an indecipherable look. “Are you always this dense or is today just a particularly bad day?” he asked, rolling his eyes, “It’s not about the marriage, it’s about continuing the bloodline.” Sipping his water, Malfoy returned to the table, piercing eyes once again fixed on Harry. “As long as an heir is born no one cares what goes on behind closed doors.” Another sip. A deep breath. “But as it is, that future is no longer for me. And to answer your question – no. I was not happy with it, but I was also not fool enough to argue with my parents. Another thing you probably wouldn’t understand, seeing as you always barge in headfirst into any battle even if it is already lost.”
As insults went, Harry had definitely heard better from Malfoy but then again, it hadn’t exactly sounded like an insult…
“What can I say?” the brunet said, “Gryffindor, where dwell the brave at heart.”
Malfoy let out a rather indignant snort. “If by brave you mean foolish, impulsive, and overly emotional, then yes, you are a true Gryffindor.”
Playful banter. That’s what it sounded like.
Harry rolled his eyes. “The Hat wanted to put me in Slytherin,” Harry whispered, no idea why he was saying this, and to Malfoy of all people, but the minute break in the blond’s mask was worth it. It was like that moment after Harry’s outbreak, when he’d let his emotions loose and the doors open, after he’d fixed Malfoy’s arm and told him he didn’t know anything about him.
“Shame it didn’t.” He’d misheard, that Harry was sure of. There was no way Malfoy would have ever wanted him in Slytherin, and, indeed, Malfoy’s next words were much clearer and much more familiar, “You wouldn’t have lasted a day.”
Yeah, he thought, definitelymisheard.
Harry rolled his eyes. “How do you know this family stuff anyway?” he asked, “Ron doesn’t.”
“Your precious Weasel family might still be part of the Sacred 28 but I imagine that will change soon, and your friend is not exactly known for his love of tradition, is he? As for me, I have been studying Genealogy since I could read.” Malfoy’s voice was dry, factual, and even the quip at Ron seemed more like habit than anything else. “Now, I have a question for you.” Harry raised his eyebrows expectantly. “How come the people that raised you not only missed to teach you adequate manners but also failed to educate you in the most basic facts of the Wizarding world?”
“You don’t know,” Harry realised. Of course, how could he? They’d never actually talked after all, and the specifics of Harry’s upbringing weren’t exactly common knowledge.
“Yes.” Malfoy’s lips curled into something bitter. “We already established that I know nothing about you.”
“My aunt and uncle don’t like magic. I didn’t learn I was a Wizard until I got the letter.”
“You’re telling me that the family of our Lord and Saviour Harry Potter convinced him he was a Muggle?”
“Believe it or not, but you weren’t the first person to ever hate me.”
Malfoy blinked. Several emotions passed over his face, too fast for Harry to identify, until it settled onto perfect blankness and he opened his mouth to say – what exactly? Harry couldn’t think of anything Malfoy would say to that, but he was clearly going to.
“I never hated you.” This time there was no doubt. The words had definitely left Malfoy’s mouth and were now hanging in the air between them, echoing back and forth between the two boys, amplified by the deafening silence. Either that, or Harry had finally lost his mind. “I never hated you,” Malfoy repeated, as if to make sure there was no misunderstanding. “And I’m – I’m sorry. My behaviour towards you has been tasteless to say the least. Childish. I hurt you, discredited you, and tried to get you expelled. I made you hate me when that was never my intention. I let my ego and pride dictate my actions and for that I apologise. I was wrong.”
Again, all Harry could do was stare, trying to process the words. Malfoy was…apologising.
From what I heard you haven’t done anything that’s not forgivable, yet.
Do you think you could? Forgive him.
“Why?”
Malfoy’s lips twitched. A weak excuse of a smile. “You know why.”
“Maybe I just want to hear you say it.”
“You’ve met my father,” he answered, “You know who he is. What he is. He has always held me by very high standards, and I have been foolish enough to attempt to please him, knowing I never would. The things he taught me stay, no matter how hard I try to forget them. I was ashamed and jealous when you chose Weasley over me, unable to understand what he had that I didn’t. It was the first time someone denied me other than my parents and I did not take it well.”
Harry nodded. He did know this. Or he had suspected it anyway. He remembered watching Malfoy and his father in Knockturn Alley all the way back in the summer before second year, the way Malfoy had not met his father’s eyes, the way Lucius had spoken to his son, a child that merely wanted his parent’s approval, and shamed him for being second-best to a Muggleborn, the way Lucius had commanded him, demanding respect and obedience, and he remembered Malfoy’s flinch.
“I’ll forgive you,” Harry found himself saying. Mafloy’s eyes snapped up to meet his, wide and almost hopeful. “Not right now but…I will.”
We were just kids…
“Thank you, Potter.”