Chapter Text
Day 1
It’s a bit like being strangled, but I see no hands. I see no hands but I feel them; and yet they’re gentle. So gentle. I can’t explain it. Those hands love me, but they also want to hurt me. I feel like I can’t breathe, but I’m not sure if it’s the invisible hands or just the panic I’m feeling. Everything is so confused…
Harry scanned the words on the parchment again, trying to parse their meaning. He’d been over them multiple times, but couldn’t quite get his intellectual hooks into them. There was something familiar there, but it was like the person who had written them was trying to capture a feeling in writing that they had never felt themselves in reality.
Everything was confused, indeed.
Harry tossed the parchment down on his desk with a small sigh, then glanced at the clock. It was 9:12 in the morning. Michael and Hailey Gardner - the prospective clients who had written these very confusing accounts - were due to arrive in less than twenty minutes, to discuss whether Harry’s services could be at all helpful to them. Harry had been hoping to go over the case with his partner before then, but he was late.
Harry swallowed thickly, trying very hard not to think about why that would be. He returned his attention to the letters the Gardners had sent him, focusing on Michael’s this time.
I’m walking around the house, just walking and walking. Sometimes it feels like I’ve been walking for hours. And I feel so triumphant and sure of myself, because I have everything I always planned to have. But I’m also so angry, and I can’t explain why. I’m just… I feel hungry. I feel hungry all the time. I know the feelings are connected.
Harry knew this was significant; he was sure of it. But he couldn’t explain how, not without seeing this haunting for himself. He ran a hand through his hair and set the parchment down again, then, reflexively, glanced at the clock. 9:14.
Draco , he thought, rather despairingly. Where are you?
***
It had all started as a lark, really. A way to pass the time.
After Harry had left that strange, empty King’s Cross station in the spiritual realm and returned to the land of the living, after Harry had defeated Voldemort and finally gotten a good night’s sleep, he knew he had changed. It wasn’t something he could put his finger on at first. It felt a bit like a hum in his blood, and he was easily able to chock it up to the adrenaline of triumph, or maybe just a bone-deep relief that it was over.
But then he started to notice other things, notice a heightened awareness that definitely hadn’t been there before. His return to Hogwarts for the rebuilding only solidified it. He found he could sense where all the ghosts were in the castle, and that there were more than had been there before. He felt the presence of others, even when he couldn’t see them. Sometimes they would whisper to him, lovingly, or harshly, or impatiently. It was a bit startling at first. It reminded him of standing at the edge of the Veil in the Department of Mysteries, only… the entire world was like the Veil to him now. All he needed to do was pull back the curtain.
He tried explaining this to Ron and Hermione, but they hadn’t fully understood. Hermione looked at him pityingly, as though he’d finally gone round the bend, and Ron had simply looked frightened and didn’t want to hear any more.
It’s not a scary thing , he wanted to explain to Ron, when his eyes widened like that. It’s a bit comforting, actually.
It was about three months after the final battle when the dreams started. Harry had already, like most of his fellow veterans, been having nightmares about the war and the people that had been lost. These new dreams were different, though, in that they weren’t really like dreams at all. They felt as real as when Harry was awake, down to the temperature of the air and the texture of whatever furniture he was sitting on. He was entirely lucid as well, able to control his own thoughts, his own words.
In the first one, Harry saw his mother. It took place in the back garden of his parents’ home in Godric’s Hollow, though this version was vibrant and flourishing, perhaps how it would have looked had his parents been allowed to survive. Harry found himself there without knowing how, except that he remembered that he was supposed to be asleep.
It’s a dream, he realized immediately, though he didn’t have much time to contemplate it beyond that. Because someone was coming through the door at the back of the house, someone with long red hair and verdant green eyes.
“Mum,” Harry had choked out, feeling both shock and a painful, unbearable hope.
Lily Potter had smiled at him, opening her arms. Harry went without question, further shocked and amazed that when their arms wrapped around each other he could feel the solidness of her body against his. Like she was real, like she was alive.
“How…” Harry had begun once they pulled away, though he immediately knew the truth. “This isn’t real, is it? It’s a dream.”
“It’s real, love,” Lily told him, wiping the moisture from his cheeks. “Just not in the physical world. It’s real here.”
“Is this like King’s Cross, from when I… when I died?”
Lily hummed. “A bit, I think. It’s a bridge of sorts, a place for us to meet halfway.”
Harry had so many questions, but Lily didn’t know much more than that. Still, they sat in the back garden and talked for hours, about everything they could think of. And when they parted ways, it wasn’t a painful goodbye.
“We’ll see each other again,” Lily said. “You have this bridge now. You can use it whenever you like.”
She had been right, though it took Harry a bit to figure out how to manage it. A few nights later, he’d had a similar dream, though it took place on the Quidditch pitch at Hogwarts and James Potter was the one who appeared. They had played a Seeker’s game together, then sat on the grass and passed the time in companionable silence, punctuated by the occasional bit of idle chatter.
It took over a week for him to get to see Sirius, and a few days later he got to meet with Remus. By then he was starting to get a feel for it, though. He figured out, after the fifth dream, when Tonks had visited him and they’d talked of almost nothing but Teddy, that there was a kind of door in his mind that he could leave open, just as he was falling asleep. When opened, it let him enter a new realm, and it allowed someone else, someone who had died and already moved beyond, to meet him there.
Hermione had been very concerned about this development. “It’s like the resurrection stone all over again,” she had said, a bit shakily. “What if you decide to live your life in this bridge between realms and forget about your life right here, in this world?”
Harry knew the concern was out of love, and he set out to prove that it wasn’t the case. If anything, the encounters were healing, like finally getting to resolve unfinished business. He got to continue to have relationships with the people he had lost, and it helped him be more present to his life, to fixing up Grimmauld Place and helping raise Teddy, to spending time with his friends and finishing his education. Hermione calmed down eventually, seeing that, and he was allowed to go on talking to his parents, godfather, and friends in his dreams without any more nagging from her.
Some nights, though, he did choose to keep the door closed. His brain did still need to dream as it used to, and going many nights at a time without that opportunity had a tendency to exhaust him. On top of that, he was starting to get visits in the other realm from people he didn’t know as well, or not at all. The time he met Colin Creevey by a dream version of the Black Lake was particularly disconcerting. Harry has stumbled through apologies and expressions of remorse before Colin finally stopped him.
“It’s all right, Harry,” he said kindly. “I’m not here for you. I’m here for my brother. I’m here so you can help me help him.”
Harry hadn’t understood what Colin meant, at that moment, but he soon figured it out. With this new ability to meet with people beyond the Veil in his dreams came certain responsibilities, ones that Harry didn’t feel he could shirk. In a way, he was the bridge, the go-between.
After all, he was the Master of Death. No one else, it became abundantly clear, could do what he could. And if he could use it for good, then of course he would.
So he began delivering messages to the living from their dead loved ones. He met with Dennis Creevey and relayed all that Colin had to say, then stayed with him while he wept. He gathered all the Weasleys together that Christmas and gave them a list of all the ridiculous gifts Fred wished he could buy them all, then had a few minutes with George to tell him all the ideas Fred also had for the joke shop. He talked to Hannah Abbott, who sat with Neville’s hand clutching hers the entire time, about how proud her mother was of her and of all her wishes for Hannah’s future. He met with strangers, and acquaintances, and friends, and soon the word spread, in the physical world and in the spiritual one, that Harry had this ability. And he only got more requests.
If his friends thought that this was an odd way to spend his days, they never said so. They seemed to understand that their opinions wouldn’t have much bearing on what he decided to do. Or perhaps they thought this was a lot healthier than any of the other things he could be doing. It was certainly better, in Harry’s opinion, than being an unemployed layabout. He’d had no direction after the war, no sense of vocation or calling, until this. And this felt like something worthwhile.
Things changed once again about ten months after the war, when Harry got his most startling visit of all, from none other than Severus Snape.
They were in Snape’s old potions classroom, the version of it that Harry remembered from his early years of school. Snape himself was already there, seated behind his desk. Harry had stared at him, confused and perhaps a little appalled, unsure what to do.
“Come in, Potter,” Snape said, sounding both annoyed and resigned. “I don’t bite.”
Doubting that was actually true, but feeling nonetheless that he hadn’t much of a choice, Harry approached the desk and sat in the chair opposite the Potions master.
“Professor,” he said. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”
“No,” Snape replied. “I imagine not. But I’m not here for you.”
Harry couldn’t help a wry smile. He heard that a lot these days, and wasn’t at all surprised to hear it from this man in particular.
“How can I help you, Snape?”
“My godson is about to make the biggest mistake of his life,” Snape said, sounding as though the words almost pained him. Or maybe it was just asking Harry for help was the painful bit. “And I need you to stop him.”
“Are you talking about Malfoy?” Harry couldn’t think of who else Snape’s godson could be.
“Yes, naturally.”
“What is he about to do?”
“He’s getting married in two weeks’ time. To someone entirely unsuitable.”
“Oh, er…” Harry rubbed the back of his neck nervously. He’d never been asked to do something like this before. “I have no idea how I would stop something like that to be honest. Or if I even should. If he wants to get married, then he ought to be allowed to, right? Even if you don’t think it’s someone suitable for him?”
Snape looked at Harry as though it was taking all his willpower not to roll his eyes. “You would think I would ruin my godson’s happiness from the beyond simply because I didn’t approve of his fiance?” he asked icily.
Harry was now truly at a loss. “Er… no?”
“The point, Potter, is that this marriage would have nothing to do with his happiness. It could not possibly…” He trailed off, then snorted delicately through his nose. “You deliver messages, do you not?”
“Yes, that’s normally how this works,” Harry said.
“Then deliver this to Draco. Tell him that I know who he is, and he need not be ashamed of it. Tell him that he deserves happiness, and that bending to his parents’ wishes won’t save them, as much as they believe it will. Tell him that the fate of the family does not rest on his shoulders.”
“All right,” Harry said, trying to lock the words away in his head, so he could write them down when he woke up. This was always the trickiest bit, trying to remember the message as close to how it was given to him as possible.
“You’ll remember all that?” Snape asked derisively, and Harry had the sudden wondering if skilled Legilimens could practice beyond the grave. “Sure you can fit it all in that giant head of yours?”
Harry laughed, in spite of himself. “I’ll remember, Snape. And if I get it wrong, you can keep haunting me.”
“Be careful what you offer, Potter,” Snape said, though there was also a wry tilt to his mouth that almost looked like a smile.
“Please,” Harry said, grinning now. “I know you have better things to do with your afterlife than bother me incessantly. It would more torturous for you than for me.”
“Undoubtedly.”
“Okay, then,” Harry said. “I’ll tell Malfoy. But I can’t guarantee he won’t get married anyway.”
“I’m aware of that. But I wouldn’t be much of a godfather if I didn’t make you try.”
Harry, in spite of himself, was rather moved by Snape’s concern, and did indeed try to stop Malfoy’s impending nuptials. He owled his former rival the following morning, after frantically writing down Snape’s message in the notebook he now always kept by his bed. He didn’t relay the message itself in his letter, but instead told Malfoy that he had a message, and asked if he would be willing to meet. Surprisingly, Harry received a letter the very next day.
Potter,
I’ll admit, I’m intrigued. I’ve heard rumors about your little gift, but it never occurred to me that it could be used to my benefit. I would very much like to hear what Severus has to say. Are you free to come to the Manor this Thursday? I will be home all afternoon.
Sincerely,
Draco Malfoy
PS: If this is some sort of joke, Potter, I will hex your bollocks into oblivion. You have been warned.
A little amused and mostly trepidatious, Harry had apparated to Malfoy Manor on Thursday afternoon as planned, and was greeted by Narcissa Malfoy in the entrance hall. Harry hadn’t seen her since he had testified on her and Draco’s behalf many months before, and the two of them made stilted small talk while an elf went to fetch Malfoy.
In the meantime, Harry took in the redone manor with immense curiosity, as it was almost unrecognizable from the last time he had seen it.
“The house looks lovely,” he remarked, once it became clear that his investigation of the space was less surreptitious than he intended.
“Thank you,” Mrs. Malfoy said graciously. “We’re decorating for the wedding, of course. I imagine you’ve heard. He’s going to marry Daphne Greengrass. Lovely girl.”
“I did hear about it,” Harry said, dread dropping heavy into his gut. He had already considered the possibility that Malfoy would be offended or incensed by Snape’s message, but was now realizing that it was his mother that might be the greater danger.
She’ll probably want to kill me if I manage to stop this wedding , he thought.
“And, thanks to his current studies,” Mrs. Malfoy went on, seemingly unaware of Harry’s inner turmoil, “Draco has been able to cleanse the place. All to the better.”
That piqued Harry’s interest, allowing him to shove aside his concern to make room for curiosity. He was about to ask what exactly Malfoy was studying when the man himself appeared in the hall, thwarting Harry’s question.
“Potter,” Malfoy drawled in a familiar way. “Welcome to our home.”
“Thank you,” Harry said.
“Can we offer you tea?”
“No, thanks. I won’t be keeping you long,” Harry said. He looked sideways at Malfoy’s mother. “Is there somewhere we could talk?”
The privately was implied, which Malfoy seemed to understand.
“This way,” Malfoy said with a tilt of his head down the hall. “We won’t be but a moment, Mother,” he called to her as both men left her by the door. “Then we can discuss flower arrangements, as promised.”
Malfoy engaged Harry in some idle chatter, doing most of the talking as he described the various wedding preparations that were underway. Harry hummed occasionally to show he was listening, all the while feeling more and more like this was a fool’s errand and could not possibly end well. So far, since the end of the war, Harry and Malfoy had managed to be civil, which was a welcome change. This would surely undo all that.
And yet he had promised, and knew he could not back out now.
Malfoy lead him into a study and shut the door, then turned immediately to Harry.
“If this is real, Potter, then I have to say it is mighty decent of you,” he said, looking sincere, which only made Harry feel worse. “I appreciate anything you can tell me about my godfather. How is he?”
Harry cleared his throat and pulled out his little notebook. “I think he is well,” he said. “Honestly, we didn’t talk much about him. We mostly talked about you.”
“Indeed. You said you had a message for me?”
“Yeah, I… yes. I do.”
“And yet you hesitate.”
“I’m not sure you’ll like it.”
Malfoy seemed to consider that. “Severus could be harsh, it’s true,” he said. “But I never doubted that he loved me. I’m sure whatever he had to say is worth hearing, if he went to all this trouble.”
“I think it is,” Harry said, hoping to Merlin it was true. He opened the notebook, scanning the words briefly before speaking. He was almost positive he had the words verbatim, and as he said them, he snuck a glance or two at Malfoy’s face, which was becoming increasingly white. “I know he said this out of concern,” Harry said, once the message was read. “He just wants you to be happy, that’s all. And I guess he just doesn’t think this wedding-”
“Very good, Potter, that’s enough,” Malfoy interrupted him. “You can leave now.”
“Malfoy, I swear-”
“Go, Potter,” Malfoy said. He didn’t sound angry, but his tone was cold and forbidding. “Just go.”