The Two Broomsticks Fall Fic-aThon
Coming Home
by Empathic Siren
Jerome Bingbrush had always
thought his commitment to his Healing Oath above reproach. How wrong he’d been. It had taken little more than an unpleasant
visit from a rather large Ministry Special Services Wizard and Scrimgeour’s officious assistant to make Jerome forget he’d
ever pledged to put his patients’ physical and mental wellbeing above all
else. They’d convinced him that he had
to do what they requested, otherwise he’d never work as
a Healer again. As Scrimgeour’s
assistant had put it, what was one life in the face of the thousands of others
he’d save over his career, even if the life he sacrificed was Harry Potter’s? Promises had been made—of both the painful
and pleasant sort—and Jerome had agreed.
He would convince Harry Potter that he was a hairbreadth’s away from
becoming a Dark Lord, and that he had to leave
Jerome shook his head and stared into the mirror. The harsh lighting of the washroom made the angles of his face appear cruel and hollow. His hand jerked and shook with pain. He stared at the amber ring on his fourth finger, his face twisting in disgust, remembering all too well the moment he’d traded his life for that of another. The Ministry’s little gift reminded him that he had a job to do, or he would lose everything. Jerome splashed his face with water and straightened his robes.
&&&
Harry Potter lay on his hospital bed in a secure area of St. Mungo’s. Still weak from magical exhaustion and disoriented, he looked like a child, shattered by a war in which he’d been unwittingly caught. His room was dark, save the small lamp by his bed and the hovering blue board that displayed his heart rate and magic levels, both manipulated for the ruse.
Jerome stood at the edge of Harry Potter’s bed and leafed through the Ministry file once more. It was all there. Psychological profiles yielding Potter’s worst fears, his instinctive responses, and the names of the people he desired to protect the most. Had he not sensed it himself, Jerome would have thought the Ministry insane for putting Draco Malfoy at the top of the list. Sighing, he closed the file and cleared his throat. He waited. All Jerome had to do was plant the seeds. The Ministry assured him it would take care of the rest.
Jerome cleared his throat. “Mr. Potter?”
Potter stirred, his movements sluggish from exhaustion and the multiple pain and calming draughts coursing through him. He opened sleepy eyes.
“Mr. Potter? Are you awake?”
Potter struggled to sit up, blinking away the sleep in his eyes as he did so. His nod was slow and unsure.
“I—I needed to talk with you.”
“Am I okay?”
Jerome hesitated. A sharp pain to his hand from that damn ring reminded him of what he was supposed to be doing. “We’ve discovered something, something that must be addressed straight away.”
Potter bit his lip, looking impossibly young. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s your magic, Mr. Potter. It seems to have increased tenfold. We believe that you’ve absorbed all of the Dark Lord’s power.”
Potter blinked. “What?”
“You’ve absorbed his magic. You are, in effect, the Dark Lord.”
What little color had been in Potter’s face drained away. The Ministry had been right on this score. Potter was terrified of becoming a Dark Lord.
“That’s—that’s impossible. I don’t understand. I . . . I need Mr. Weasley, or Hermione.”
“They don’t want to see you. They’re afraid of you. Everyone is.”
Potter’s shoulders hunched and he curled his thin arms around his body. “Draco, then.”
Jerome winced. Draco Malfoy was the worst of the lot about demanding to see Potter—even more than that annoying Hermione Granger and cloying Molly Weasley. “Dead.”
Potter gasped. “What?”
Jerome closed his eyes. He couldn’t stand to see the shock on Potter’s face, the tears gathering at the corner of Potter’s eyes, or the way his hands gnarled and clutched at the sheets. He cursed Scrimgeour’s insistence on this particular facet of the ruse. “I’m sorry, that was cruel of me. He died in the final battle.”
“That-that’s a lie.”
“It’s the truth. I am sorry. I’ve got an official Ministry document listing the dead and wounded. Draco Malfoy’s name is at the top, along with Minerva McGonagall and Severus Snape.”
Potter closed his eyes. “I saw Professor Snape die. He . . . he shielded me from McNair and paid with his life for his trouble. Draco’s dead? He’s really dead?”
“I’m sorry. Truly.”
Jerome looked through the file again, trying to give Potter time to collect himself. A small voice, roughened with anguish caught his attention.
“But the Weasleys didn’t die. Surely they’ve been ’round, asking for me?”
Jerome shook his head. “Haven’t you noticed that you haven’t had a single visitor? You’ve been here for weeks. No one has come to see you. No one wants to.”
“But that . . . Hermione said . . .” Potter ran his hands through his hair, pulling at it. “This doesn’t make sense.”
Jerome pulled out his wand and flicked it at the blue display so that it turned and faced Potter. “Look at your magic levels, Mr. Potter. You don’t need your glasses, the numbers are large enough.”
Potter leaned forward and squinted. He gasped. “That can’t be right.”
“It is right. I told you your magic had increased. See how the numbers are a darker blue than the others?”
Potter nodded.
“Dark magic.”
“I don’t believe you,” Potter said as he stared at the numbers, obviously willing them to lighten in shade or decrease in integer.
Pain struck Jerome again, though this time at his heart and gut. “I’m your Healer, Mr. Potter. Why would I lie to you?”
“I—I don’t know. This . . . this doesn’t make sense.”
“I understand. I know how terrifying this must be, but I’m telling the truth.”
Potter looked away. Jerome did, too. Watching Potter fall apart was more difficult than he’d imagined. Another sharp pain in his hand reminded him he still had much further to go.
“The Ministry wants to send you
to Azkaban. In the wake of the final
battle,
“But—but I haven’t done anything. I won’t do anything. I don’t . . . I want . . . please, I don’t understand.”
“They’re right outside the door. Been trying to get at you all night. Surely you heard all of the feet shuffling and muffled cursing?” Jerome asked, as if Potter had never said a word to interrupt him.
Potter inhaled sharply.
Jerome thanked Malfoy and those ginger-haired apes for causing such a ruckus earlier. He was sure Potter had heard it—the entire hospital had. “I talked them out of it. I’ve convinced them to let you go. There are a number of conditions, of course.”
Potter nodded.
“You’ll need to move away from
“What about people who know me?”
“We’ve covered that, Mr.
Potter. They don’t want to see you
again. Remember? And the Ministry is considering Obliviating
them. It won’t matter in any event. You’re not allowed to return to
Potter stared at the white sheets on his bed.
“I also suggest avoiding any kind of magic stronger than a Levitation Charm or simple defensive charms. We don’t want you to fall into temptation, now do we?” Or for people to recognize you or find you.
Potter bit his lip. He hugged himself tighter and shook his head.
“And finally, whenever you’re feeling overly emotional, you’ll need to take a special calming draught. Your file indicates that your magic is tied directly to your emotions. Don’t want you getting upset with the market woman and blowing up the entire area.” Jerome chuckled, as if making a joke.
Potter only nodded, drawing his knees up and resting his head against them.
“Yes, well then, here is a list of places I suggest. You’ll want to work, though your vaults are still available to you.” Jerome hesitated, his desire for adulation making a fleeting return. “I fought hard for you on that point.”
Potter said nothing.
“I suggest a night job, or something with few people around. The less contact you have, the better your chances for avoiding any sort of strong emotions.”
“What will happen to me if my magic does something?”
The words were so quiet, Jerome almost didn’t hear them. He wished he hadn’t. “Hard to say. The Ministry could come after you, lock you away. But we’re going to do everything we can to avoid that, aren’t we?”
Potter nodded.
“Because you don’t want to be a Dark Lord, do you?”
“No—no I don’t.”
“And you’ll do anything to keep that from happening, won’t you?”
Potter looked away. He nodded. Jerome could feel the bile rising in his throat.
“And you’d do anything to protect the people you love, wouldn’t you?”
Potter nodded again. Jerome closed his eyes, willing the image of the broken young man to leave him. The silence stretched for some time before both regained their composure.
“I’m going to release you tonight. I’ve got a Portkey ready for you along with a trunk of necessities generously provided by the Ministry to help you get started. Just pick a place on that list and I’ll set the Portkey. It will take you to a safe house of sorts—somewhere where you can continue recuperating on your own, a place where you can get your bearings.”
Potter looked down at the list for a long while, not moving, or making any indication that he was considering any of the choices. He flung the list away and sighed. He reached out for his glasses on the bedside table and tucked them into the pocket his pyjama top. “Are any of them near the sea?”
Jerome retrieved the list, startled by Potter’s
passivity. “Er, yes. Ayr is a nicely sized city on the southwest
coast of
“There, then.”
“Are you sure? Have you been there? If not, you could get lost.”
Potter smirked--a strange sight, Jerome thought. “I imagine I’m allowed a Point Me spell or two.”
“Yes, I suppose that’s all right.”
“If you would, I’d appreciate if you’d Transfigure my pyjamas into robes. I imagine I’m not allowed to do such advanced Transfiguration.”
“Mr. Potter, it’s not that you’re not allowed to do magic, only that--” The look on Potter’s face struck Jerome dumb. It wasn’t one of anger, but of bitterness and sorrow. “Yes. Yes, of course.” He withdrew his wand and made a delicate arc, whispering the incantation as he did so. If nothing else, he would send Potter away with fine robes—sturdy, warm, and soft. “That should do you.”
Potter climbed out of bed, his legs shaking, looking for the world like a newborn colt as he staggered towards the end of the bed. “Thank you.” He looked up at Jerome, staring at him as if trying to puzzle him out. “You don’t seem afraid of me.”
Jerome swallowed. “Terrified, actually, but you have promised to do everything the Ministry asked. You strike me as the sort that keeps his promises.”
Potter looked away. “Just do what needs doing and I’ll be on my way.”
Jerome pulled the vision correction wand from the pocket of his robe and stepped back. “Hold still and try not to blink.” He cast the diagnostic charm, followed by the appropriate vision correction spell. “Hold still, just a few things more,” he said as he charmed Potter’s hair brown and removed what was left of the scar on Potter’s forehead. “All done.” He held out the Portkey.
Potter pocketed the small trunk and stared at the Portkey for a long moment. Jerome held his breath in expectation. Without another word or glance, Potter reached for it and he dissolved into the night.
The ring on Jerome’s finger
sizzled before falling off and dropping with a clang to the floor. Done.
All because Scrimgeour was afraid Harry Potter might run for Minister. A boy’s life destroyed for political ambition. As Jerome sagged against the bed and prepared himself to look suitably hysterical over the sudden disappearance of Harry Potter, he supposed other lives had been destroyed for far less.
&&&
July
25, 1999
I’m
not sure that this is what I’m meant to do with this little book, but I’m tired
of talking to walls. The Special
Services Wizard has just left the Ministry safe house where I’ve been staying,
trying to recuperate. I didn’t mean to
make all of the windows explode—I really didn’t! I just saw someone through the window that
looked like Draco. It wasn’t him, but it
hurt so much to hope like that, only to have it snatched away. How I wish I’d let him kiss me that night
before the Final Battle. Now I’ll never
know what it would have been like. We
talked about a future, about a relationship.
But now he’s dead and I have no family.
I don’t know how I’ll bear life here.
I suppose the same way I did as a child.
Even the cupboard under the stairs wasn’t so bad once you got used to
it.
Minutes
after the glass exploded, an agent from the Ministry
Apparated into the safe house and held me at wand point. After realizing what had happened, he
repaired the glass and checked my magic levels.
The way he looked at me and shook his head—it made me feel awful. I tried to shake his hand, but he wouldn’t
touch me—like I was evil personified, or something. He told me that I had better be careful, or
they would take me away. I can’t go to Azkaban, I can’t. So
I just have to stick to the plan, stay away from all temptation, and take the
calming draught when I feel like I did before.
I can do it. I will. I’m worried about my magic. I don’t feel any different, but how can I
deny the test results? The Ministry is
not the most trustworthy sort, but . . . they wouldn’t lie about something like
this. No one would.
I
can’t believe he’s dead. I still didn’t
believe the Healer, but the Ministry agent showed me the confidential
files. I saw the pictures from Draco’s
funeral. It’s true. I’ll never see him again, unless he’s the one
to take me into death. It’s funny. We finally worked out our differences, became
friends, and then . . . we were so close, and now it’s all gone. Now I have to make a new life, an
inconspicuous one, I suppose. I’ve got a
job at least. I’m reshelving books at
night at the local library. I’ve found a
nice little flat close by. It’s little
more than one room, but it’s cozy, has a nice kitchen, a good window, and very
few neighbors. I think I’m really going
to like this place. I miss my friends,
but I don’t miss
The
life of Evan James has begun. Goodbye,
Harry Potter. Goodbye, Draco
Malfoy.
--HJP
&&&
Draco Malfoy had fantasized about this moment for a very long time. It’s what had got him through the infuriating Ministry smoke screens, the quiet dinners at the Burrow on Harry’s birthday, the visit to those disgusting Muggles, the Dursleys. Harry had been Draco’s lover for ten years, though only in half-remembered dreams and fantasies. Ten years he’d been gone; seven years Draco had been searching.
In his dreams, he finds Harry on an overcast autumn day and saves him from stumbling off the curb when the sight of Draco sends him reeling. Pressed against Harry’s lean form, Draco feels him shiver, and offers his cloak. Harry accepts, longing in his eyes. Then, with a soft kiss to his cheek, Draco whisks him back to the comforting arms of those who miss and love him.
Other time he imagines a crowded dance floor. Both hands gripping his cock, he imagines, no he feels bodies grinding against each other, his and another, hands roaming over the planes of his chest, his hands cupping the curve of a perfect ass. The lights are low, the music loud and thumping. Draco leans in, the rapture of the dance leaving him thoughtless, and swipes his tongue across the bottom lip of his dance partner. A familiar scent assaults him. The deep rumble in the chest pressed against him evokes a forgotten memory. He looks into startling green eyes and realizes he’s found him. Harry. Harry gasps, but before he can say anything, Draco captures his lips, kisses him hard, and they melt against each other in a tight embrace.
But in all the variations of his fantasies, his dreams, he’d never imagined it would happen like this—in a Muggle produce market, while Harry fondled pomegranates with deft fingers and half-lidded eyes. Gods, he was still as beautiful and fierce and vulnerable as Draco remembered. He took a step forward, his lips curving into a smile.
They’d finally discovered that
Harry was living on the outskirts of
Harry had done something to his hair. It was no longer a shock of wild black, but a soft brown instead. Oddly, it suited him. He no longer wore glasses, either. A vast improvement, in Draco’s estimation. Draco took another step forward, narrowly avoiding an out-of-control shopping trolley driven by a toothless slip of a girl.
Harry, he noticed, hadn’t noticed him. He hadn’t noticed anything, really, so intent was his gaze on the pomegranates, his fingers skimming across the knobby ends. Draco wondered what it was about the fruit that captivated Harry so.
He made it to the opposite fruit bin. Draco reached across for a pomegranate, hoping to catch Harry’s notice. Harry didn’t look up.
“Harry?” Draco asked, finally. No response. Draco leaned over further, his hand lightly touching Harry’s. “Harry?”
Harry’s eyes snapped open. He looked up and stared into Draco’s eyes. The color drained from his face. He stepped backwards, dropping the pomegranate.
Draco moved around the bin. “Harry. It’s me, Draco. It’s okay. I’ve come to take you home.”
Harry shook his head, continuing to back away. “No. Not real. You’re not real,” he mumbled. Harry backed into a bin of lemons, sending them careening onto the polished floor. He jumped in fright and stared at the lemons as if they could leap up and hex him. The sound of breaking glass echoed through the small market.
“Harry? What’s wrong? It’s me, Draco. I promise.”
“You’re not real. You’re not. This isn’t supposed to happen. I’ve done what they said. I promise. I PROMISE!” Harry gasped as his voice echoed around the small market. Everyone was staring at him. Draco opened his mouth to snap at them all and tell them to mind their own business, but before he could, Harry had darted from the market, leaving only a small half-empty potion vial on the ground.
&&&
August
15, 2009
I did accidental magic again today, but it
really wasn’t my fault. I was at the
market and all of a sudden I started hallucinating. There, by the bin of apples, stood Draco. He looked so real. So beautiful. He touched me and then he spoke to me. Told me that he was there
to take me away. I thought he was
Death, come to claim me. I knocked over
lemons and then everyone was staring at me—seeing me—it was too much. I heard glass exploding and knew I’d caused
it. I fumbled for my potion, hoping that
once I took it, Draco would disappear, that the people would stop staring at
me. That I would
disappear. He didn’t go away, so
I left, as fast as I could. I don’t
understand. Why is this happening to
me? I doubt the Ministry will come. They didn’t when I warded my flat, or the
time that I vanished the glass storefront at that
awful pet shop. I sometimes wonder if
maybe No. It’s too dangerous to think such things.
Draco.
It hurt so much to see him, even if was only his ghost, or some weird
hallucination. I’ve nearly forgotten the
others, but him I can’t seem to let go.
I think of him all of the time, what could have been, what was. Stupid schoolboys obsessed with each other,
angry and mean. Passionate. And then we grew up, didn’t we? That time with the singing tea cozy at I imagine he’d
He’s dead.
I can’t forget that. He’s
dead.
--HJP
&&&
“Draco! Did you find him? Did you?”
Draco shifted his knees. He hated Firecalling to begin with, and he especially hated Firecalling Granger. “Granger--”
“Does he look well? What did he say? Does he look the same?”
“I--”
“When are you two coming back? Do you think he’s up for visitors? What--”
“Shut up, Granger, or I’ll hex you straight through the bloody fire.” Draco thought he heard Granger’s jaw snap closed in surprise. He sighed and dropped his head.
“Draco? Did you . . . is he . . . sorry, I’ll shut up.”
“Yes, I saw him. At a Muggle produce market, if you can believe it. I went in for some supplies and he was just . . . he was just there, like he’d been waiting for me to find him for ten years.”
“God. I can’t believe you found him. I didn’t want to hope.”
The fire snapped and sizzled in the ensuing silence. “He’s . . . there’s something off about him. He looked at me like I was a ghost, or something. He was terrified, absolutely terrified. And then all of the glass broke out of the windows.”
Granger snorted. “Sounds like Harry.”
“I turned for just a second—not even—and then . . . I turned back and he was gone. All that was left behind was a small potions vial.”
“A potions vial? Did you figure out what it was?”
“No. It reminded me of a calming potion, but not like one I’d ever seen. I’ve sent it to you via Owl so that you can take a look at it, figure out what it is. Maybe it’ll explain his behavior.”
“I’ll work on it straightaway.”
“What did that Butterbush bloke tell you and Weasley about Harry’s condition when he left? Anything?”
“Butterbush? I don’t know a Butterbush . . . wait! He wasn’t that creepy chap from the Ministry archives, was he?”
Draco felt a nasty headache coming on. “No, you vapid cow! The useless Healer. Jerry or Jeffrey Butterbush, or Bingbroom, or something.”
“Who are you---oh! Jerome, Draco. Jerome Bingbrush. And stop calling me a vapid cow, it’s not my fault you can’t see fit to remember the name of the man who’s given us the most important break we’ve gotten in seven years.”
Draco’s gaze narrowed.
Hermione clucked her tongue. “You’re so prickly. Even after all this time. Yes I know, on with it, you’re saying with those squinty little eyes of yours.”
Before Draco could riposte with uncharitable comments about the ridiculous size of Granger’s teeth, she pressed forward.
“Bingbrush didn’t say anything, other than that Harry was grateful for his help. But we know where he is and Ron’s been aching to, er, try out some of those interrogation techniques he’s been learning. Perhaps I’ll set him the task?”
“At least there’s something the Weasel is good for.”
“Draco.”
Draco pursed his lips and looked away. It was the closest he’d come to apologizing.
“What did he look like?”
The words were so soft, Draco almost missed them. He closed his eyes and remembered every detail of seeing Harry for the first time in ten years. “A little different—he’s charmed his hair, I think, and he wasn’t wearing glasses-but exactly the same, too. Better. Perfect.”
Hermione nodded. “What’s next?”
“I’m going to go back to the Muggle market and wait him out—he’ll come back, I’m sure of it. Follow him for a bit. Find out everything I can about him before approaching him again. Something’s got him scared, and we need to know what it is before bringing him back.”
“Good luck.” Hermione paused. “And Draco--”
“Stop right there. I know what you want to say—you’ve been trying to say it for years. I don’t do sentimentality. You know that.”
“Just bring him home.”
Draco nodded and watched as Granger’s face withdrew from the small fire in the grate. “Where are you, Harry? What’s got you so spooked?” he whispered to himself, as he began his planning.
&&&
Draco had learned two very important skills in the seven years he’d been searching for Harry: patience and observation. He’d employed those skills to great effect while interviewing those worthless Muggle lumps five years ago. He’d learned terrible things about Harry’s young life as he’d pressed through Dursley’s bluster with a flat persistence while watching his wife’s nervous eyes dart to the cupboard under the stairs.
He was using those same skills now as he sat in a dark corner of a library, watching Harry—the lone employee on the night shift—re-shelve books. It was such a lonely job; Draco couldn’t imagine how anyone could stand to do it. Except for Harry, it seemed, no one could. In that oppressively silent building—where others would go mad—Harry came alive.
Sometimes Harry stroked the books’ spines with the same light touch he employed with those damn pomegranates, looking off into the distance as if remembering something wonderful. Other times he’d pause before re-shelving a book, opening it and reading through a few pages before putting it away. Harry smiled on occasion at what he read. Once he even snickered. But there had been one book that had made him nibble his bottom lip as he read for almost half an hour, his gaze impassioned and alert. In those unguarded moments, Draco saw the Harry he remembered—not the skittish, depressed man he’d been following all week who fondled fruit, avoided contact of any kind with other people, and stared longingly at the small playground half-way between the library and his small flat.
Harry ducked into one of the stacks. Draco resumed his perusal of Harry’s employment file. He’d nicked it from the administrator’s office the night before, hoping to gain insight into Harry’s bizarre behavior.
For ten years of employment, the file was quite thin. He was using an alias, Draco discovered. The Ayr Central Library was employing a young man by the name of Evan James who had passable grades from his secondary school, a small flat on the south side of the town, and a rail pass. He received small pay increases each year. Evan James had no insurance beneficiaries, and no one to call in case of emergency. He had never told a fellow co-worker to sod off or missed a night of work because he was hung-over from a night of friendly revelry. He’d never even made a request for time off.
The way Draco saw it, it wasn’t what was in the file that spoke of the quiet desperation of Harry’s life; rather, it was what was missing.
Draco put the file down and checked his watch. The first snatches of daylight filtered through the high transoms. Harry’s shift would be over soon. Then, just like the four days prior, he would put away his book cart, pull on his coat, nod at the employees coming in for the morning, and fade into the morning light as if he were a ghost.
&&&
“Any luck with the potions vial?” Draco shifted his knees again, wincing. The floor was bloody hard. Tomorrow he was buying a cushion if these twice-weekly Firecalls were going to become routine.
“Yes. It’s amazingly complex, took me the better part of week to distill it, but it turns out it’s a special calming potion like you thought, only this one is keyed to the drinker.”
“With what?”
There was a long silence. “In this case, blood. Harry’s blood.”
“Who? Who would have access to that?”
“St. Mungo’s . . . the Ministry.”
Draco swore under his breath. “And Weasley? He learn anything new?”
Hermione nodded. “With some, er, persuasion, Bingbrush was only too happy to talk.”
“And?”
“I don’t even know where to start. It’s so . . . it’s just so awful.”
“Tell me. Now.”
“After the final battle, Scrimgeor was convinced Harry would try and unseat him as Minister of Magic. So his assistant and a Special Services Wizard forced Bingbrush to--”
Draco huffed. “To what, Granger? To what?”
“To convince him that he had absorbed Voldemort’s powers—that he was, in effect, the Dark Lord. That no one wanted him. That we were afraid of him. That he’d go to Azkaban if he didn’t leave straight away.”
“Fucking hell.”
“There’s more.”
“How can there be more?”
“He told Harry that you were dead.”
“He . . . what? You’re not serious?”
“I am. I’m sorry, I knew the Ministry was cruel, but—why would they do that? Why would they need to do that?”
“I don’t know.” Draco sighed as his thoughts trailed to realization. “His reaction, at the market. It makes better sense now. He must have thought he was seeing things, hallucinating. I can’t believe it. I just can’t. What have they done to him?”
“If he thought he was hallucinating, that’s probably the potion, as well. With the addition of Harry’s blood, it reinforces his worst fears. It’s . . . it’s a nasty bit of potion making. Could only have come from the Ministry.”
“This doesn’t make any sense, though. Scrimgeour’s been out of office for seven years.”
“Yes, well, someone forgot to mention that to Harry. You’ve got to tell him.”
“He’s not going to believe me out of hand, you know.”
“I’d thought of that. Ron went back to that skittish Ministry Archivist. Bingbrush gave him the files that he’d kept—in one of his reports, there was a reference to a file drawer on the lower level. Ron terrified that creepy Ministry Archivist, got all of the files, and then Obliviated him. We have it all now. All of the memorandums, the tests, the investigations.”
“Of course it is. Political ambition is never pretty.”
“What are you going to do now?”
“Tell Harry the truth, that’s what. Convince him to come home. Convince him he’s got something to come home to.”
&&&
Draco waited until the following evening to reveal himself. Harry was just putting away Sea Life of the Great Barrier Reef on a high shelf when Draco muttered the counter-charm to his Invisibility spell.
Draco held his breath as Harry dropped his hand, his fingers trailing along the spines of the shelved books, and turned. Harry’s eyes widened. He gasped. They stared at each other for a long moment before Harry fell backwards, landing on his bottom, and shook his head violently.
“Harry, it’s me, it’s really me. I’m not dead, I swear it,” Draco said in a breathless tumble as he raced after Harry’s retreating form.
“You’re not real. You’re not real. Draco’s dead, he’s dead, he’s dead,” Harry chanted, his back bumping into the wall.
Draco dropped to his knees. “I’m not dead. I promise you.” He reached out to touch Harry, ignoring Harry’s hiss as his fingers brushed against Harry’s knee. “Do you feel that? Do you? I’m real, Harry. I’m not dead. The Ministry—they lied to you. We’ve been searching for you for seven years. I’m not dead.”
Harry’s jaw worked up and down, but no sound came out. The lights flickered. Draco heard the thump of falling books. Harry paled and his hands scrabbled for his pockets, the left one fishing out a vial of potion. Before he could uncork it, Draco lunged forward with a growl and knocked the potion away. “You don’t need that.”
Harry pushed at Draco’s shoulders, knocking him backward. “The hell I don’t,” Harry said as he scuttled away from Draco’s grasp.
Draco scrambled to his feet and took off after Harry, who was running through the library, heedless of the books tumbling to the floor and the glass desk lamps exploding in his wake. “Harry, stop! I’m not going to hurt you. Oh, for fuck’s sake.” Draco whipped out his wand. “Stupefy,” he murmured, racing forward and catching Harry before he could fall to the ground. “I’ve got you. You’re safe. I’ve got you,” Draco whispered as he pulled Harry to him and breathed in the scent of him. “Sorry about that, but I can’t risk losing you again.”
With Harry immobile in his arms, Draco’s breath evened and he spared a glance around at the disarray. It wouldn’t do to leave things as they were. He waved his wand and with a non-verbal spell sent all of the books flying to their proper places. Another wave and the desk lamps were repaired. He cast a Featherweight Charm on Harry and stood, clutching Harry to him. “Time to see your flat, I reckon.” He cast the Invisibility Charm over both of them, directed Harry’s book cart to its small corral, and left.
&&&
Three things struck Draco about Harry’s flat. There were cushions and blankets and throws everywhere. It was as if Harry suffered from some sort of strange sleeping sickness, causing him to collapse without warning onto one of the myriad cushions. Draco could almost imagine Harry curled up on the large, squashy paisley one, wrapped in the soft blue knit blanket nestled next to it.
Then there were the bowls scattered about the room filled with the oddest assortment of things Draco had ever seen. There was the bowl by the sofa chair filled with dried kidney beans, one on the coffee table filled with river stones and another beside it filled with small shells. All looked as though they’d been well rifled by nimble fingers.
But by far the strangest thing—in Draco’s opinion, of course—was the kitchen. It was filled to the brim with expensive cooking equipment, exotic ingredients, top-drawer spices, the finest oils, and of course, plump fruits and gorgeous vegetables. It appeared that somewhere along the way Harry had become a foodie, and a rather snobby one at that.
Draco wondered what all of this meant in the context of Harry’s ghost-like existence and Evan James’s thin personnel file. There was only one way to find out. Draco withdrew his wand. “Ennervate,” he said, while at the same time taking hold of Harry’s hand.
Harry jerked at the pull of the spell. He moaned in the back of his throat and tried to open his eyes.
Draco squeezed Harry’s hand, letting him know he wasn’t alone.
At last, Harry’s eyes opened and fixed on Draco.
“I’m real. I’m not a ghost or a hallucination or anything else.”
Harry looked down at his hand entwined with Draco’s and then back up at Draco. “I’m beginning to see that.” He tried to sit up, wincing as he did so. “Ghosts and hallucinations don’t tend to knock people unconscious with spells--God I hate Stunning Charms.”
Draco used his other hand to press him back. “Not just yet. Being roused by a spell always leaves a nasty headache for a bit. Do you have a mild pain potion?”
Harry shook his head.
“Ah. It should pass in a few minutes.”
Harry nodded and looked down at his hand again. “You’re supposed to be dead, you know.”
“Rumor. As you can see, I’m very much alive.”
“But . . . they said . . . and the pictures . . . you’re dead, Draco. I—I mean, you’re supposed to be. Not like the Ministry to cock something like that up. How they missed that you were still alive, I’ll never know. What happened? Why in the world would the Ministry think you’re dead?”
Draco debated whether to say anything about the Ministry just yet. “You’re, uh, being rather calm about all of this, given, well, given my previous receptions.”
“Still the spell, I think. Feel a bit muddled. Shock too, I suspect. I never thought--” Harry shook his head. “Doesn’t matter what I thought. So. You’re here. In my flat. After having knocked me out. Why are you here, then? Are you in trouble? Because if you are, I’m sorry but I won’t be much help to you. I don’t really know anyone here and I don’t have tremendous resources.”
There was an edge of panic in Harry’s voice that made Draco nervous. “I rather think the set of Calabrid knives in your kitchen trounces your resource argument, but that doesn’t matter. I’m not in trouble. I’m here for you.”
The temperature in the room dropped as Harry’s body tensed. He tried to pull away. “Here for me? What are you talking about? How did you even know I was here?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“Yeah. It does. How did you know where I lived?” Harry took a look around his flat. “How did you know about the knives? Hang on, have you been going through my things?”
“Yes.”
“Bloody hell. Still the same Malfoy, then. Always sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong.”
“No, that’s your territory, if you’ll recall,” Draco said, angry that Harry had managed to irritate him in less than ten minutes. He’d withstood the Dursleys for hours before getting to the same point. “Still not why I’m here. Come on. Let’s get you up and packed.”
Harry didn’t move. “Packed? For what? I’m not going anywhere.”
“Home. I’m taking you home.”
“No.”
“No? No? Perhaps you didn’t understand, I’m here to take you home, back to the people who love you.”
The color drained from Harry’s face. He tried to pull away again, but Draco just held on tighter. “This is my home.”
“No. It’s not. Don’t you want to go home?”
“I told you, I am home,” Harry snapped, successfully dislodging his hand from Draco’s grasp. “Besides, I can’t go back. It’s . . . I can’t go back. I’m happy here.”
“Is this about . . . what that Healer said?”
Harry stiffened. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Granger and Weasley heard some Healer raving in a pub one night about knowing where you’d got to. They talked to him. He said all sorts of strange things, insinuated the Ministry was somehow involved. I came to find you—to bring you home. The Weasleys and Granger have been beside themselves. They feel terrible that they couldn’t protect you and they want to do it now. We’ve been looking a long time, you know.”
Something odd flickered in Harry’s eyes. “Why would you do that?”
“Because, once we realized that you didn’t just run away, we wanted to find you—find who sent you away.”
“Thought I ran away, did you? The lot of you thought I’d just leave, without word? And now you claim to want me to come home? That you’ve been searching for me? Please. I’m not nearly as stupid as any of you think.”
Draco gaped. When had this conversation gone so horribly wrong? “We don’t think you’re stupid. The Weasleys—they always thought you’d gone missing, but the Ministry and the papers . . . it was all very convincing, Harry. That didn’t stop any of us from missing you, or wanting you to come back.”
Harry stood up and started pacing, eventually retreating to the far corner. “You really shouldn’t be here. I think it’s time you left.”
Draco scrambled to his feet. Everything was going wrong. Harry was supposed to smile and agree to go home with Draco, perhaps even let Draco kiss him. “We think it was a Ministry plot.”
“What?”
“We think it was a plot, to send you away. What did the Healer say to you? Before you left?”
That same odd flicker passed through Harry’s eyes again. “None of your business. I’m serious, Malfoy. You need to leave.”
“Malfoy? Since when have I been Malfoy?”
“Since you started showing up, spying on me, wrecking my life, spelling me unconscious, and going through my things, that’s when.”
“Wrecking your life? What life?”
“Sod off and get out.”
Draco pressed forward, his hands outstretched in conciliation. “Harry, listen to me. Please. Let me help you.”
“I don’t need your help. What I need is for you to leave. Besides, how do I know you’re not really here to take me away to your new Master? Huh? How do I know you haven’t switched sides, again?”
Draco knew it was the potion, and that one of Harry’s deepest fears was that he couldn’t trust him, but it didn’t make it any easier to hear. “Granger still bites those ridiculous Muggle pencils in her teeth and her hair is as wild now as it was in school. Weasley became an Auror. He towers over everyone and still eats every ounce of chocolate in sight. He gets jealous easily. He still hasn’t worked up the courage to tell Granger he fancies her. Arthur—Mr. Weasley’s rubber duck collection takes up most of the attic at the Burrow—the banshee is most displeased. Charlie still works at the Dragon Reserve—met a nice girl, got married last year.”
Harry gasped. “How--How do you know all of that?”
“Like I said, we’ve been looking for you for a long time. I’m not here to hurt you, Harry. I—I . . . I want you to come home. We all do. Everyone’s waiting for you—ready to welcome you home.”
Harry’s eyes held a longing that Draco was sure meant that he’d be bringing Harry home straight away. He was just about to suggest they start packing when Harry’s breathing turned into short, desperate pants.
“I told you. I can’t go home.” Harry started patting his pockets before dashing over to a small set of drawers, searching for something.
“What are you looking for?”
“God, Malfoy! What part of ‘get out’ didn’t you hear?”
Draco reeled from the abrupt emotional shift. He noticed that bowls full of odd items were rattling. Harry’s magic swirled around the flat, tightly coiled, begging for release.
“Fuck, where is it? I know I had more,” Harry muttered to himself as he turned out drawers and sifted through bowls.
Draco realized what Harry was looking for. He walked over and pulled Harry away, grasping his elbows to keep him from lashing out. “You don’t need that stuff. I sent it to Hermione to study. You left a vial at the produce market. Harry—trust me you don’t need it.”
“Let me go! I do need it. You don’t know what will happen if I don’t have it. Let me go!”
“No! Nothing bad will happen, I promise. Let your magic go. Do something for once. Get angry. Scream, yell, kick the furniture, let your magic go wild. Just do something! I’ve been following you around for days, and it’s like you’re a ghost. You’re just drifting through life, afraid. You’re not a real person.”
Harry cried out and slipped from Draco’s grasp. He turned around and rushed Draco, knocking him into the wall. “Don’t you fucking tell me what to do. I am a real person. This is my life. Mine. You might not think much of it, but I do. I want to be here, I like what I do. Why is that so hard for you to understand?” he asked, emphasizing his words by pushing himself against Draco, and pressing him closer to the wall.
“Because you’re not real. You’re masquerading as Evan James, a nobody with a miserable, nothing life.”
“How dare you! I always knew you were a stupid prat. I can’t believe I ever thought I wanted--” Harry hissed, pushing against Draco, his fingers curled around Draco’s shoulders. “Bloody hell! You’re supposed to be dead!”
Draco wasn’t sure what came over him—whether it was the flush of Harry’s cheeks, the wild anger in his eyes, or the desire to see at least one part of his fantasy come true—but he leaned forward and nipped at Harry’s bottom lip. Harry gasped and tried to pull back. Before he could, Draco cupped Harry’s head in his hands and slipped his tongue into Harry’s mouth. Harry continued to resist, but Draco refused to let go. He deepened the kiss.
Exultance rushed through him when Harry gave in with soft mews, his body relaxing against Draco’s. Draco let Harry take over. He delighted in Harry’s enthusiasm and total lack of finesse. It was completely different than anything he’d imagined, and so much better. It went on and on, growing more intense, less controlled as the moments slipped by. Draco moaned and bucked his hips, frantic for more contact.
The enchanting spell broke with the brush of Draco’s hips. Harry made an inarticulate cry in the back of his throat, stiffened, and pulled back.
Draco tried to reach out, to lean in for another kiss, but was hit with a nasty shock of magic as Harry scrambled back, terror in his eyes. “What was that for?”
Harry’s expression hardened. “For throwing yourself at me. Why would you ever think I’d want that?”
“Because you sure as hell wanted it ten years ago, and I’m pretty sure you wanted it just now. I assumed you were just picking up where we left off.”
“Where we left off? You mean, two teenaged boys, controlled by hormones and the thought of impending doom? That’s not a place to leave off, really.”
“Fine. How do you explain the last few minutes, then? I didn’t charm your hand to grope me or your tongue to find its way into my mouth. What do you call that?’
“A mistake. There’s nothing there. Not anymore. So you see, your little gamble failed. I’m not going to follow you back to England, dazed by the thought of your amazing kiss—allegedly amazing kiss—or whatever you thought that was supposed to be. There’s no reason for me to go back. I’m happy here and I want you to leave.”
“Harry, please.”
“Get out. Now. Or I’ll make you leave. You felt my magic. There’s a lot more where that came from.”
“You don’t mean that.”
“Oh, but I do. I don’t ever want to see you again. Get out!”
“Stop this, please!”
“Get out!”
Draco could feel the rush of magic in the air. It swirled up his body and carried him away, tossing him out of the door. The door slammed shut, almost coming away from the frame. He felt the thick wards snap into place, shutting him out.
&&&
Draco stared into the fire. He’d put off the Firecall as long as possible, but he knew Granger would want a report. With a deep sigh, he initiated the call. “Granger?”
“Draco? Where have you been? I expected a call ages ago. Have you spoken to Harry? When are you coming back?”
“Tomorrow. I’m coming back tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow? Holy cricket! That doesn’t leave us any time to get ready. I’ll set Molly to making all of Harry’s favorites, and I’ll see if Bill and Charlie can arrange time off. Do you think--”
“Granger.”
“—that McGonagall should be invited? Too many people, perhaps. Yes, you’re right. Too many people would be a bad idea. But what--”
“Granger, stop. Listen.”
“—about Hagrid? Do you think we should invite Ginny and Neville?”
“Granger! Shut up and listen to me!”
Hermione’s mouth hung open in surprise, her eyes blinking as if still comprehending what was happening. Draco cursed under his breath. In the space of a day, he’d lost every ounce of self-control he had. Damn Potter to the ninth ring of hell.
“What’s wrong? It’s been forever since you—God, what have you done now?”
“I haven’t done anything. It’s that wanker Potter that’s made a right mess of things. He refuses to come home. Says he’s happy here, in his dingy little flat, with his nothing life, and non-existent friends.”
Hermione set her jaw. “Tell me what happened. All of it.”
Draco recounted the conversation, ignoring Hermione’s attempts to leap in with questions. “I mean, what the bloody hell is wrong with him? I told you he wasn’t right in the head. This just proves it. Good riddance.”
“Sounds like Harry.”
“What? What are you talking about? There’s no Harry left in that—that charlatan.”
Hermione snorted. “He’s embarrassed. He probably thinks he’s protecting you—maybe us as well—by throwing you out. He’s pushing you away. He’s quite skilled at that, actually. He did it to Ron and me all of the time. The trick with Harry is that you have to push back harder and you can’t let go.”
“You’ve gone as potty as him. I’m telling you, Granger, he is not the least bit interested in coming back.”
“He is. I promise. Besides, I’m sure you can win him over with that fabled Malfoy charm. It’s got you that kiss you wanted so badly, hasn’t it?”
Draco felt his checks redden. “I don’t care about that.”
“Right. Of course not. That’s why you’re so calm, cool, and collected.”
Draco swore under his breath. “I thought . . .”
“Yeah?”
“I’ve been thinking of this for seven years. It wasn’t anything like I thought it would be. It was awkward and he was angry and I was angry. And . . . it wasn’t what it was supposed to be. I think I’ve just imagined everything.”
“Reality never is the way you think it will be, but that doesn’t mean you should give up. Go back to him, catch him unawares. I promise, Draco. He’s just . . . well, he’s just being Harry. Two things to remember. Don’t let go and, er, appeal to Harry’s sense of curiosity.”
“What do you mean?”
“Aren’t you supposed to be the Slytherin here? I mean, I’d bet my Galleons that he’s curious about what you said. The trick is to give him little bits of information at a time. I’ll Owl you all of the files and things—you can make it like you’re both figuring things out together. While you’re doing that you can get to know him better, gain his trust, bring him home.”
It was Draco’s turn to blink. “That’s . . . don’t you think that’s a bit dishonest? Aren’t you lot known for your goody-goody honesty and such?”
Hermione leaned further into the fire. “There are times when the end justifies the means. I think we all learned that lesson in the war.”
“For your sake, you’d better be right.”
“I always am.”
&&&
August
22, 2009
I’ve been staring at this page, with no
idea where to start. My whole life has
changed, and it terrifies me. I’ve got
used to Evan James’s world. His world is
simple, ordered and free of entanglements.
Harry Potter’s isn’t. But I don’t
know that I can avoid it much longer.
Draco’s alive. It was really him
that I saw at the market last week. I
saw him again in the library the other night, and then
again in my flat. God! Draco’s alive.
I don’t know what to think about
that. If he’s alive, then the Ministry
lied to me. I’ve never liked thinking
about that, even though lately it’s all I’ve been able to think about. Draco even said that the Ministry had cooked
up some plot all those years ago. He
said I could go home, that he was there to take me home. I froze.
I can’t go back there. I’d just
put them in more danger. Besides, I can’t
face the Weasleys and their pitying looks.
I just . . . I can’t.
I don’t know what it is—maybe its that a change of season’s coming. I feel restless in a way I’ve not felt in years. It’s like I knew somehow that Draco would come back, look breathtaking, and both gut me and thrill me with one look. One kiss. I’ve waited ten years for that kiss.