Chapter Text
Chapter Three: Harry
Harry took a moment upon apparating in to absorb the fact that he was once again willingly in Malfoy’s garden, walking casually towards Malfoy’s sophisticated black front door. So that Malfoy could aim a wand at him, and dig around in his head, and possibly heal him.
It was equal parts exciting and exasperating. He was constantly arguing with himself, because what the fuck are you doing, Harry, but he seems so different, he promised you safety, but you’re trusting the word of Draco fucking Malfoy? What is it about this that has you forgetting everything you’ve been through? And also you’ve never been around Malfoy without hurting each other, but you sat in his study for nearly eight hours and flew with him and listened to him, and you even enjoyed it…
Maybe it was the garden.
Harry had imagined the garden at Malfoy’s “place” to look like something prim and proper and precise, like the Dursley’s garden, but much more expensive. He’d expected white peacocks and those unnerving shrubs trimmed to look like majestic creatures. And probably a koi pond with a cherubic fountain and ornately carved marble benches, where one could sit leisurely and read their pureblood genealogies in the sunshine.
Not that he’d thought about it that much.
In actuality, Malfoy’s garden was modest and overgrown, the rich earth mostly left alone to bloom however it wished. And it wished wonderfully.
Long grasses were shooting up from the thawed earth, everywhere but the simple rock path that led to the door. Harry could see the sprouts of wildflowers and narcissus and even tulips around the corner, and buds promising colourful blooms on flowering shrubs and trees.
Malfoy had told him on Monday that he preferred the garden not perfectly tended, that he and Timsy simply cared for it without trying to stifle it. Which would have stunned Harry speechless, were he not already speechless.
It was the complete opposite of the Dursley’s.
But of course, Malfoy wouldn’t have an untended, overgrown garden that looked anything but beautiful. It could have easily looked a mess, and led to a ramshackle hut that housed an eccentric old wizard who wore only animal skins. It didn’t. It looked intentional, flourishing and welcoming, and led to a simple, yet sophisticated home, that housed an impressive, elusive Death-Eater-turned-Healer who wore expertly tailored muggle suits.
It was one sprawling floor, white sides with black shutters, small chimneys poking from the slate-shingled roof for each hearth. Dark green ivy and vines crawled up the sides around timber frames and large bay windows, branching out across the clean, white plaster in jagged lines, embracing the corners of the house. As Harry’s eyes roamed to the right, he glimpsed the beautiful, domed sunroom, glass panes reflecting the thick grey clouds in the sky.
It was everything Harry had ever pictured when he imagined home. Minus the Healer. Well—no, he hadn’t imagined anyone in particular, in his imaginary home, but there was definitely another soul in it. Usually blond, but Harry just had a thing for blonds. Coincidentally.
Harry shook himself out of his thoughts. It was so much harder to do now that he couldn’t speak. He couldn’t do anything but think.
He approached the door and knocked twice. He felt a moment of envy, that Malfoy’s black front door looked anything but grim and ominous. The black door of Grimmauld Place looked actively unwelcoming, as if its purpose was to turn people away. Another black door haunted Harry’s nightmares, occasionally, a foreboding destination at the end of a long, tiled corridor, that Harry avoided in real life as much as he could.
The one in front of Harry now looked… nice. Inviting and reassuring. It looked like oh good, you’re back. It made him feel warm.
Timsy opened the door and stepped aside to let him in, greeting him politely in his raspy voice and hanging up Harry’s leather jacket. Harry wished he could greet him back. He felt rude.
Timsy waved a hand in the direction of the study, though Harry already knew where it was. Harry stepped quietly down the hallway, pausing for just a second in front of the wooden double doors to the study, mentally preparing. As if there was any way to prepare himself for this sort of thing.
He pushed open the door, trying not to let his eyes linger on Malfoy, though they wanted to—he was just eye-catching, was all. Bright hair, silver eyes, pale skin contrasting with a deep blue button-up shirt, long legs in dark pressed trousers. He was the distracting, shiny thing in Harry’s peripheral that his eyes couldn’t help but find, like the glint of sun off a snitch.
Harry closed the door quietly behind him with a soft click. He nodded briefly at Malfoy—no, Draco—before sweeping the room with his eyes, just once. Draco’s study was sort of familiar, now. He no longer felt like an enemy could be lurking around any corner.
He almost felt… safe, here.
“Harry.”
That feeling of comfort slipped away rapidly as he turned to face Draco, and really let himself look. Draco’s expression was pinched and fearful, his knuckles were white around his coffee mug. He was shifting uncomfortably on his feet, like someone caught in a lie, standing by the large window and looking at Harry intently. Harry’s hand twitched for his wand, his paranoia returning in full force.
“I’ve been thinking, and I’ve come up with a possible theory about your attacker, one that honestly frightens me, and that I’m pretty sure you’re not going to like,” Draco said, watching him anxiously. Harry tried to remain calm. Why would it frighten Draco? It wasn’t Draco they’d bloody cursed. “But I told you I would be honest with you, in here, and I will be.”
Draco walked behind his wide, wooden desk, setting down the coffee, and opened a drawer. Harry could hear the clinking of tiny glass bottles. Draco picked out a very familiar vial of clear liquid, tightly sealed, and held it up.
Harry’s eyes widened as he recognized the Veritaserum, but Draco held his hand up to stop any protests. As if Harry could say anything in protest.
“Let me explain my theory to you, first, and when I’m finished, I’ll take the Veritaserum and answer any questions you have. I told you I’ll always give you full honesty, and you should trust that, but in this case, I thought you might appreciate the extra failsafe.”
Harry was so fucking confused. Draco was going to take Veritaserum himself? So that Harry would trust him?
Draco grabbed his notebook and walked towards the chairs by the fire, motioning for Harry to join him. He gave Harry the chair that faced the door, like last time. Harry had a feeling he’d done that on purpose, to make Harry more comfortable. How did he know?
Harry sat, cautiously, his eyes darting back and forth between Draco and the tiny bottle on the side table. What the fuck is going on?
Draco took a deep breath, bracing himself.
“Right. I’ve been going over what the attacker has said, and done, and there’s a possibility that I’m involved in whatever little prophecy made them attack you in the first place.” Harry jerked back. What?!
“Listen,” Draco urged, apparently worried that Harry might explode. “It sounds like the purpose of this curse was to make you ‘be known,’ right? They said they’d ‘seen it, and you will be known.’” Harry gave a slow, wary nod.
“Making you hide your voice seems a pretty counterproductive way to make someone get to know the man you are, doesn’t it?” Draco paused, searching Harry’s face. “Unless that someone can read your mind…”
Harry’s eyes widened. He was beginning to see where this was going.
“Legilimency is obviously an ill-advised way to get to know somebody, but it’s—well, it’s fast, and effective. And I’m the only Healer Legilimens in England…”
Never could get a simple, straightforward curse to the head, could you, Harry?
“This attacker seemed quite confident that everything would work out as they’d planned. They knew you’d be known, eventually, and they knew ‘he’ would find that hidden memory. It seems like I could be a part of this plan of theirs—they sent you right to me, they cursed you with something only a Healer Legilimens could fix, they made me your only option.”
Harry listened intently, his body thrumming with suspicion and rage and determination—a familiar mix of emotions around Draco Malfoy, but that wasn’t right, it shouldn’t be right, because… well, it might have been something Draco would do, a long time ago, but he seemed so different, now. Could he really do something like that? Send someone to curse Harry, just so that he could have the credit for saving him?
Even though Draco had actively avoided public attention for the last eight years?
Harry didn’t really believe he could. His rage was aimed at something else, something imperceptible and vague. His gut was telling him he was safe, and he trusted his instincts. But he could admit that logically, it didn’t look good for Draco at all. As an Auror, Harry had a right to be suspicious.
Draco finished explaining his theory, watching Harry’s face carefully, and picked up the potion vial on the side table. Harry followed its path with his eyes.
“Now, if I’m right, and I know what that theory sounds like, you’re probably thinking I had something to do with whoever cursed you, that I made them do it, or something, to make you come to me. I know I told you on Monday that I’d always wanted an opportunity for us to get to know each other properly, but never thought I would actually get it. I know it probably wouldn’t even surprise you if I did have something to do with it. It’s what you’d expect from me, it’s what the world expects from a Malfoy, and if you were to accuse me, no one would question it.”
Harry furrowed his brows. That surely couldn’t be true. He’d get a trial or something, an investigation. ...Right?
“I want to make sure you know I’m telling you the truth.” He handed the bottle to Harry. “Check it,” he ordered. “It’s Auror-grade Veritaserum, straight from the Ministry.”
Harry eyed him warily, but pulled out his wand and performed the diagnostic charms on the bottle, identifying it as Veritaserum. He didn’t need to—he’d recognized it immediately. They used the same bottles, the same seals, in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.
He handed the vial back to Draco, who quickly broke the wax seal, uncorked it, and to Harry’s utter horror, dumped the entirety of its contents down his throat.
Harry nearly jumped, reaching out in a futile attempt to stop him. He opened his mouth to shout, then tried to growl in frustration when he couldn’t. Not a sound left his lips. Didn’t Draco know he only needed three drops? The whole fucking thing, Draco?! That was a seriously dangerous overdose, and Harry’s brain scrambled, trying to remember his training, they’d told him what too much Veritaserum could do to a person—
Draco’s eyes squeezed shut as it took effect, and he shook his head, swaying a little. When he opened his eyes again, Harry was shocked by the fear he saw there. Why did he do that?
“Well, start writing,” Draco snapped.
Harry’s pen dropped obediently to the paper, writing furiously. He turned the notebook around.
Only 3 drops needed!! Why did you take whole thing?
As soon as Draco finished reading, words were coming out of his mouth, beyond his control. Harry felt horrible. “Because I don’t want to take any chances that you won’t believe me, and because that’s how much they normally used on me, so I assumed you would want me to use that much, too.”
Who the hell are ‘they’? Harry started writing again, shaking his head vehemently.
Who used it on you before?
“The Ministry of Magic.” Vague, Draco.
Who in the Ministry?
“Aurors. Licensers. Wizengamot. Harry, this isn’t—” Draco’s voice was cut off. Whatever he’d been about to say was apparently untrue.
Harry continued writing, and at this point, the notebook was always faced where Draco could read it as Harry wrote, sitting awkwardly crooked on his chair. He wrote because Draco told him to, wanted him to, apparently, and he was stalling, his brain frantically trying to remember how to detox someone in an emergency—
Did you tell someone to hide my voice or curse me?
“No,” Draco said fiercely. Harry believed him. This was so unnecessary. But Draco had fucking insisted—
Do you know who did this to me?
“No.”
Do you know any prophecies about me?
“N—” The potion stopped him again. “Yes,” Draco said. “I know there was a prophecy that named you as the one who could kill Voldemort, but I don’t know exactly what it said. I don’t know of any others.” Yeah, everyone knows that one.
Do you know any Seers?
“N—eurgh, Trelawney. But she doesn’t c—” He couldn’t finish that one, either.
Harry decided he may as well make the most of this. He couldn’t for the life of him remember what a Veritaserum overdose actually looked like, and he was worried sick, but he didn’t know what else he could do, at this point. He didn’t know how to help, he had no idea how to clean a potion out of someone’s blood on the fly. And Draco had told him to make the most of this. He was doing this to gain Harry’s trust.
Why did you agree to help me?
“Because I wanted to,” the words flew out of Draco’s mouth. “Because I knew I should, as a Healer, because I owe you a life debt, because I was curious, because I wanted the challenge, because I wanted the opportunity to really get to know you, after I mucked up so many chances, and for you to see me as the man I’ve become.” Draco gasped for breath. That was exactly what he had said previously, when Harry had asked. He’d actually told Harry the full truth, the first time.
Harry watched him for a moment, giving him a minute to breathe. What next? There was plenty he was curious about, but now he was just writing the first things that came to mind. Stalling. Waiting it out. How long did a Veritaserum overdose last? Merlin, he was shit at potions—
Where are we?
“In my study, in my home, in Devon.”
Are you married?
“No.”
Dating?
“No.”
That was surprising. Considering. Draco—well, it was just shocking that someone who looked like that was single. The absolute tosser.
Do you own any Dark Artifacts?
“N—” Draco tried. “Not in my home,” the potion corrected. “Apparently there are some waiting for me in an inheritance that I do not yet have access to. I don’t want them.”
Where were you born?
“In Malfoy Manor, Wiltshire.”
Where did we first meet?
“On the Hog—” stopped again. “Madam Malkin’s, though I didn’t know it was you at the time.”
Harry’s lips quirked. He wondered if Draco actually remembered that, or if the potion had provided the truth.
And what else? Draco looked terribly ill, his skin clammy and sweaty, his hands shaking. Harry felt like a monster, fighting back a wave of guilt and nausea. For a second, he wished Hermione was there. She’d probably know what to do. And then she would scold Draco until everyone within a five kilometer radius of here felt ashamed of themselves.
He thought hard for a moment, trying to think of what else he wanted to know. Was there anything he was curious about that might also make Draco feel better right now?
What is your Patronus?
“A common nightingale.”
What memory do you use to conjure it?
Draco’s eyes widened in panic. He tried to hold his lips together, but it was no use. “Not a memory,” Draco panted as the truth burst through. “A dream. A fantasy.” Oh. Fuck.
Draco shook his head frantically, futilely trying to fight back the words. “I dreamed I was in my bed, naked, with a man curled behind me. It was morning, we were waking up, he was stroking my sides, intertwining our fingers, pulling me closer to him. I could feel the warmth of his chest against my back and his erection against my arse—” Draco groaned and doubled over, clutching his abdomen, his face twisted in pain. Was this a side effect of an overdose? Harry didn’t quite remember, but watching Draco, he thought he could now recall something about painful convulsions. “—but we weren’t fucking. We were just laying together, and his nose was in my hair and he was whispering something against my ear, and I don’t know who he was, but I knew that I loved him, and that he loved me. It’s not real. But the happiness I felt was, and it was enough to conjure a corporeal Patronus.”
Harry felt like a fucking moron. He should have known that it could have been a fantasy, which would be embarrassing as hell to admit to someone. He’d used something similar, though less romantic, when he was practicing his Patronus Charm, at thirteen—simply the sound of his parents’ voices, talking to him, he didn’t even know if it was real. He might have made it up entirely. But it had worked.
And now he’d gone and made Draco feel worse, not better. Draco’s hands were shaking violently as they curled over his abdomen in defense. His hair, normally so sleek and perfect, was sticking to his forehead with sweat. He looked up at Harry with eyes full of resignation and defeat, so similar to the way he’d looked in Courtroom Ten during his trial: chained to the metal chair, shivering.
Harry had never wanted to see Draco looking so beaten down ever again. And yet it was Harry himself who had made him look like that, just now, because he was a bloody idiot, apparently. He blinked when he saw he’d unintentionally reached out towards Draco, and pulled his hand back. He hoped that Draco could see the apology in his expression, since he couldn’t say a damn word. Back to business, back to what you’re good at.
Who has used Veritaserum on you before?
“Aurors, Licensers and Wizengamot of the Ministry of Magic.” Draco repeated the earlier answer, his voice small and hopeless. It made Harry’s chest hurt.
Where did you get this Veritaserum?
“Nicked it,” came the automatic reply, “it fell out of an Auror’s pocket as he bent over my cot to spit on me. They always brought so much with them. I was convulsing, my body covered it.”
Harry felt a deep, coiled rage building slowly within him. He had started training long after Draco had been freed, and there’d been so much going on in those weeks right after the War… He knew the Aurors had spoken of the Malfoys viciously, always talking up different ways to bring them all down, even after Draco and Narcissa had been fully acquitted. Ron had weeded out as many of the dirty Aurors as he could, when he climbed the ranks—he and Harry had thought they’d seen it all. But Harry wanted to make absolutely sure those arseholes had been dealt with. Dismembered, hopefully.
What were the names of the Aurors?
“I don’t know. They never wore badges around me.”
Of course they didn’t. Harry wanted to punch something. It was useless to keep asking him about things he didn’t know.
Before Sunday, did you ever expect to speak to me again?
“No.”
Who do you speak to on a regular basis?
“Timsy, Pansy, and my mother, though not as often as I should. Minister Shacklebolt, occasionally. The staff of the Curse Damage ward at St. Mungo’s, when we collaborate.” Draco paused, but the potion made him continue. “There’s a muggle bakery called Sweet Nothings, in London, I’m friendly with the folks there. I buy their baklava regularly, because Timsy loves it.”
That was unexpected. Didn’t Draco say he didn’t talk to muggles, because he was afraid of messing it up and getting arrested or something?
How did you learn to use muggle money?
“I learned how to buy the baklava, after watching another muggle do it, with two of the blue paper money they use. I went to Gringotts and told them to convert a sum into the blue muggle papers, with the ‘5’ on them, so now I have a stash of them. The first time, I handed over the requisite two blue papers, and the muggle at the counter tried to hand me change, but I don’t know what to do with the other colors or the different coins, so I told him to keep it, and he liked that. Now we have a routine, where I go in, and they know I want the baklava, and I give them the two blue papers, and I always tell them to keep the change, and they smile at me.” Draco gasped for air, again. Apparently, the potion didn’t let him breathe as he answered.
Harry suppressed the glow in his face at the thought of Draco going to all that trouble just to buy baklava from muggles for his house elf. Yes, Draco was definitely different—this was certainly not the snotty, arrogant boy Harry once knew. Nothing like his father at all. Speaking of which…
Are you in contact with your father?
Draco’s lip curled. “No.” Wow—not a hint of warmth at the thought of Lucius? He practically worshipped the man, back then—
When was the last time you spoke to him?
“In the moments after you killed Voldemort, sitting in the Great Hall, before the Aurors came for us.” Really? That long?
Harry’s pen scrawled quickly across the page.
You don’t write to him, or him to you?
“No. I haven’t wanted to speak to him since he offered me up to the Dark Lord, as collateral, in an effort to remedy his failings.” Harry raised his eyebrows. He didn’t know if all of that was required by the potion, but even if it wasn’t, it was obviously the truth. Though it was odd that Draco had switched to ‘the Dark Lord,’ when he was evidently perfectly fine with saying Voldemort’s name.
Harry flipped the page in the notebook to a blank one. He’d used up several by now. He couldn’t think of anything else he wanted to ask—at least, not like this. Not even on paper.
What do you want to do right now? Harry looked up at him as he finished writing.
“I want to stop this interrogation, because it feels like the Aurors, again. I want to sleep off the Veritaserum. I want to drink Timsy’s hot chocolate.”
Timsy immediately popped into the room, with two steaming mugs of hot chocolate topped with homemade marshmallows. Harry had never seen an elf so fast and efficient, like he was in tune with Draco’s every need. His big, round eyes landed on Draco, assessing his current state, and he turned a surprisingly menacing glare on Harry.
Yes, this was bad. Very bad. Timsy’s glare kickstarted something in Harry’s brain, and now he remembered: an overdose like this would last for hours, and Draco would soon go into more painful convulsions, and there was nothing either of them could do about it.
Unless…
Harry put down his notebook as a truly outrageous idea started forming in his head. He held his hands up, then held out one finger, pointed up, to Timsy. Give me a minute. Let me try to fix this.
This was absolutely barmy, but his impulse control was notoriously bad. Besides, he couldn’t think of another solution, and the tried and true Gryffindor method of just going for it had done him well, so far.
He’d never attempted anything like this before, but it couldn’t be that hard, right? He did wandless magic all the time, he had plenty of control over it, he knew how to bend it to his will. He knew, sort of, that he was more powerful than most magical folk, for some reason. What was the point of it, if he couldn’t use it to help in ways that others could not?
Harry leaned forward and gently pulled Draco’s hands away from his waist. The potion was in his blood, Harry knew that much. He could see the veins clearly through the pale skin on Draco’s wrist, could feel the pulse racing beneath his touch. This might not even work, but in the worst case scenario, Draco would just feel a little feverish, and probably tease Harry about his pathetic attempts later. At least Harry could say he had tried.
He curled his palms over the inside of Draco’s wrists, directly over the veins. His fingers wrapped around Draco’s forearm, slipping inside his shirt cuffs. Harry felt the tip of his finger graze the edge of what he knew was the Dark Mark on Draco’s arm. His skin was so soft, and so warm.
Harry avoided looking at him, knowing there was probably an embarrassing blush growing on his own face. He closed his eyes instead, and looked inward, reaching for the depths of his magic, feeling it course through his arms—familiar and comforting, awaiting his command.
I can fix this. I know I can.
His hands tightened minutely around Draco’s wrists, and he focused his intentions, willing his magic forward, sending it out through his hands into Draco’s arms.
This can work. This will work. Harry had never before tried to bend his magic like this, using it as a simple force. But he knew what it was capable of, he could feel it. He’d seen it hurt people before; it rose and fell with his hot temper, it crackled and it burned and shattered things. There was no reason it shouldn’t be able to fix, to help, and Harry started to feel that it finally was: encountering the Veritaserum in Draco’s bloodstream and following Harry’s command, gently burning it away, leaving only Draco’s blood behind, continuing on through his body.
No one should have this much power, Harry thought distantly, before beating it away and focusing on the task at hand. At least he was using it for something good, this time, right?
Fix it, make it better, keep him safe.
Draco’s elegant hands wrapped slowly, delicately around Harry’s wrists, and that felt just wonderful. Draco’s touch felt so tender, almost sweet, when it wasn’t violent. Why had it taken Harry so long to get here? No, focus.
He realized, then, as he pushed his magic through Draco’s arteries and felt it flowing like warm wind throughout his entire body, that this was actually really, shockingly intimate. He was inside Draco, right now.
Fucking hell. Just focus, Harry.
The air around him felt charged, and it smelled different, like something outside. He felt Draco sway slightly, and Harry’s shoulders were tensing with the effort of moving his magic like this. Yes, Draco might pass out, but he’d be fine, Harry was so close, he could feel it—
Harry’s magic finally returned to him, its job finished, and he released Draco’s wrists, opening his eyes.
Draco’s face was flushed, full of wonder and awe and something else Harry couldn’t read, his shining grey eyes fixed intently on Harry.
Harry watched him, allowing himself to stare as much as he wanted, since Draco was doing the same. Draco Malfoy had never looked at him like this before, and it made Harry’s heart race; he felt like he could do anything, like he was glowing. He hoped he wasn’t. It was entirely possible.
“Thank you,” Draco rasped finally, breaking the silence, pulling Harry down from the clouds.
It was the first time Draco had ever thanked him.
Harry gave him a quick nod and grabbed his notebook. Draco took inventory of himself, touching his thighs, his collarbone, his arm, his hair, over and over. Harry tried not to watch, but he was so bloody distracting.
Lie to me
Draco looked up after a moment, seeing Harry’s notebook facing him. Harry delighted in the small, tired smile it produced on his face.
“I won’t,” Draco replied to his writing. “Not in here.” He met Harry’s eyes, grinning. Harry’s stomach fluttered, and he endured the abrupt, earth-shattering realization that he wanted Draco to look at him like that as much as possible. Constantly, preferably—
Sweet fucking Christ, Harry, you complete idiot, you’d better not—
“You were successful, however or whatever you did,” Draco added. “I feel much better.”
Harry’s smile grew. He reached over to the side table for the hot chocolates Timsy had brought, and apparently left there. He handed one to Draco, pathetically warm with accomplishment and unsuccessfully suppressed attraction. Oh, no. Merlin’s fucking balls, Harry, you can’t be serious—
“Where did he go?” Draco asked, furrowing his brows. Harry assumed he meant Timsy, and shrugged.
“Then he trusts you,” Draco noted, looking slightly impressed, taking his hot chocolate gratefully. “He wouldn’t have left if he thought I wasn’t safe.”
Draco toed off his shoes and tucked his feet up under him on the chair, sipping his hot chocolate. Harry had never seen him so relaxed—he wanted Draco to feel that way around him all the time. It felt like such an honour, a privilege. God damn it, he’s bloody lovely, isn’t he.
Harry wrote in his notebook once more.
You are safe, here
Draco smiled softly at him again, and Harry felt like he was flying.
Fuck.