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Chapter Text

The first time Draco opened the leather pouch, it was shortly after he’d been forced to watch Nagini eat Charity Burbage. Had anyone asked him prior to the experience, he probably wouldn’t have said he knew who she was, exactly, only that he’d seen her at Hogwarts, and that she must be a member of staff.

He’d never cared about Muggle Studies; he might even admit to thinking it was a silly thing to waste an elective on. But killing someone over it was…there weren’t words, really. The sick crunch of bones, the way she’d begged for mercy…

Certifiably shite, indeed.

He’d often wondered throughout the summer what was in the small leather pouch. He’d come up with all kinds of ideas, from plausible to ridiculous. Obviously he could have opened it any time he felt like it; he could have easily satiated his curiosity and put the questions to rest. Certainly any time since he failed his mission to assassinate Dumbledore could be counted as a time that was certifiably shite enough to warrant opening the damn pouch. But the thought of just opening it for no real reason, on a whim, seemed wrong. Dissatisfied him, somehow. He just knew he shouldn’t, that he’d regret it. Rather, he knew that if he waited until he needed it, he’d be rewarded.

When he finally did open it, the contents were not what he was expecting.

It was full of seeds. Strange, silver-coated seeds in all shapes and sizes and varieties. He couldn’t quite identify any of them, no matter how striking the sensation was that they were familiar; that they were his; that he should know what they were, and the fact that he didn’t was less frustrating than it was painful.

He wasn't sure how many there were, either, only that there were a lot. He’d tried to empty the pouch once, believing there couldn't be more than a handful inside. But the seeds kept coming out of the bag, overflowing from his hand all over his desk, and from the desk onto the floor, and still there were seeds left inside. It had taken him two hours to collect them all and stuff them back in the pouch. For some reason, he thought it would be terrible if he lost even one. The pouch must have had an enchantment on it, an undetectable extension charm in all likelihood. That alone made the pouch valuable; such enchantments weren’t easy to come by, less for the spellwork needed and more for finding material that would hold it.

Even so, the pouch was less valuable to him than the contents. Holding the seeds in his hand was a strange experience. Inexplicable, yet positive. A group of seeds felt only warm and safe, but if he placed only one in his palm, the sensation was more concentrated. Precise, as though the seed contained a specific feeling itself. The feelings were not always positive, but they were always good. He wondered what sort of plants they’d make if he planted them, but he was afraid to even attempt it while he was at the manor that summer. He doubted anything would ever grow there again, seeped as it was with dark magic. At least, nothing good would grow there.

Imagining what the seeds would do if he planted them was enough to sustain him until he got somewhere he could plant them safely. He didn’t know yet where that would be, only that it certainly wasn’t the Manor; Hogwarts wasn’t exactly safe anymore, not with Dumbledore gone. (Not without Potter, either, not that he’d admit it.)

But the magic of Hogwarts was stronger than the manor; it could resist the darkness in a way his own home couldn’t. He wasn’t sure if the flowers could really flourish in such an environment of despondency, however. Perhaps it was the choir of dementors that ever hovered just outside the Hogwarts gates, or perhaps it was something else altogether, but all the colours seemed a bit dimmer; the air was cold, even next to the fire; food didn’t taste as good or fulfill him; and the only scent he could remember since the start of summer was that of rot and death.

He could have planted the seeds, whatever they might sow, at Hogwarts. But if he planted them, they’d be gone, and with them the warmth they brought. To feel anything other than the fear and nothingness that plagued him these days was a gift. But if he planted the seeds, the gift would be gone. And if they failed to produce anything…

Well, they had to produce something; that they might not didn't bear thinking about, and having a goal beyond the war was important, probably. Not that he could easily imagine such a time, but the first step to surviving was planning to survive, even if the thought that he could survive this darkness was uncharacteristically optimistic of him. In any case, it gave him purpose, a reason to outlast this, if only in order to find a place worthy of these seeds.

So he waited, and he imagined. He knew it would be worth it, just as it had been worth it to wait to open the pouch until times were, as instructed, ‘certifiably shit’.

“That went well, I’d say.” 

Draco snorted. “You have a twisted sense of success.” Still, in spite of everything, it cheered him.

Harry sounded far away and muffled. These containment units did not apparently lend themselves to communication and companionship with other detainees. The only reason Draco could tell he was not completely alone in this dark place was because he knew Harry had been brought in with him. 

Even so, they'd make it work. They’d done so in the face of the many obstacles they’d yet encountered, and this was no different.

“I was half-convinced they would just incinerate us on the spot. The fact that they’re even considering our proposal is more than I dared to hope for.” 

“If you thought they were going to dissolve us, why did you suggest we tell them?” Draco said, panic leaking into his voice.

“If we’d tried to hide it, they definitely would have destroyed us. We couldn’t have asked them for a test if they found us out. So it was worth it, even for a small chance they'd listen." In a smaller voice he added, "All I want is a chance at forever.”

Draco sighed. “I know."

He heard a scratching sound, and though he couldn’t see in the absolute light-swallowing darkness of the cells, he thought he could smell the distant hint of crackling fire.

“Are you burning things?”

“No,” Harry said guiltily, then, “Yes. I just wanted to see if it were true.”

When Harry failed to elaborate, Draco asked, “To see if what were true?”

“They say you can’t feel anything from your flames in here. Not heat, not light. Nothing.”

More silence. 

“And?” Draco pressed.

“And…and I feel cold.”

Draco, for his part, was starting to feel rather uncomfortably warm. At least he knew the sensation, recognized it from his time with Harry. “I believe they’ve made these cells contrary to our nature.”

Harry hummed speculatively. “Well, joke’s on them. I could never feel negatively about anything that shares your qualities.”

Draco huffed a laugh. He wondered if optimism were catching. He hoped so. “How can you be so relaxed? Aren’t you scared?”

“Why? Should I be?” There was enough of a waver in Harry's voice to suggest it was a facade of bravery. 

But perhaps bravery did not exist in absence of fear, but in spite of it. “…we could die, you know.”

“At least we’d know we tried.”

In fact, they would not know anything. For if they failed their test, or if the Patrons decided their brashness did not deserve to be rewarded, they would be unmade, and never think or know anything again.

Draco decided he didn’t need to point that out.

— 

They spoke off and on to pass the time, but there was something about the yawning emptiness of the place that demanded silence. And in the end, there wasn’t really much they could say. Neither of them really wanted to discuss their chances of survival, and with nothing to distract them, it was simpler not to talk.

It was shortly after Harry had dozed off—not really asleep, probably, since they didn’t need it, but still like an ember in the rain—when Draco heard a sound.

Footsteps, he realized. Quiet, but not stealthy. Whoever it was didn’t feel the need to hide their presence.

At first he assumed it was a Blank Charge sent to fetch them, and though he dreaded what they would say, he was almost relieved. It was better to know; the endless waiting was not easy to bear.

But it was not a Blank Charge. With a chilling breeze of air and the fragrance of fresh flowers, the one being Draco never expected to see appeared. 

Green.

Even now, after everything, Draco felt a conflict between adoration and distance. Green was, after all, the one responsible for Draco’s existence. It was not quite love he felt, though, for Green was also responsible for the Rules that put Draco in a cell.

“My Lord,” he said, bowing his head. He knew he ought to show deference; no matter how frustrated he was, he still respected his Patron’s power.

“My Charge,” Green said, returning the greeting. “Draco.”

Draco jerked his face up, unable to hide his surprise. 

“Don’t look so shocked. I am the one who named you. I am the one who made you. There’s nothing impersonal about that, no matter what you might think of me.”

Draco averted his gaze again. “Of course, my Lord.”

Green did not say anything for a long moment, still as ice in winter. Perhaps he was watching, just because he could. Perhaps he was observing, trying to come to a decision. “You are no doubt wondering why I am here.”

“It is not my place to wonder about you, my Lord,” Draco said, though he had been wondering. He just hadn’t thought to ask.

“You can speak freely, Draco. You’re already in as much trouble as you can be, after all, and it’s rather exhausting to maintain the charade, don’t you think?”

Draco looked up again. Green was actually smiling at him. He hadn't known Green could smile. “I’d like to think I still have a chance to win your favour,” he admitted.

Green crafted an ice throne and sat down in it; expression unreadable once again. “I already admire you quite a lot. You are my creation, but you have qualities I do not possess. So you see, the one who hopes he still has a chance is me.”

Draco frowned, sitting back against the wall of his cell. It was more comfortable now with Green’s cooling presence. “What do you mean?” 

“It might surprise you to hear, but we Patrons have lots of hopes, many which go unfulfilled. It is only natural, you understand, when the hopes of the Seven must compete for dominance. So many of our dreams conflict, contradict each other. Such is our nature.”

“I’ve never really thought about it,” Draco confessed. He generally tried not to dwell on the sorts of things that might count as shortcomings for his Patron. "I assumed you all shared the same vision. More or less."

"Sometimes more, sometimes less," Green replied with yet another smile, a cryptic one this time. “Some of my dreams, I gave up on long ago. Some are still strong, however.”

Draco returned the smile; he couldn’t help it. There was a familiarity to Green, even if Draco had never talked to him like this before. Or at all, really. “Care to share?”

Green inclined his head. “One hope I maintain is that you’ll give up on taking this test.”

Any warm feelings Draco had immediately vanished. “That, I cannot do.”

“Cannot, or will not?”

“Even if it were an option, I wouldn’t choose it." The sound of Harry's gentle snores wafted into the cell, fortifying his conviction, not that it had ever wavered. "I want to be with Harry, no matter what it takes.”

“You will suffer, even if you succeed." Green fixed him with his stoic gaze. "You were not built to withstand this trial.”

Draco wasn’t sure if this was meant to be a warning or a threat. He decided it didn’t really matter; he was ready for whatever the test might bring, if they should be allowed to take it.

He set his jaw and stared right back; chin lifted high. “I’m stronger than you think.”

“But still not strong enough—”

“It is my decision, and it is made.”

There had been a time when the very thought of interrupting his Patron would’ve made Draco a nervous wreck. He wasn’t sure if it were a sign of folly or bravery that now he felt justified in his actions.  

“You remind me of myself when I was your age,” said Green, changing tack.

Draco still saw it for what it was: an attempt to change his mind. “I do not have an age,” he countered, “And neither do you.” 

“And yet it's not wrong to say that I have been around longer than you, is it?”

Draco had nothing to say to that. “What is your point?” 

“You’re naive, and full of hope, and lack the wisdom of experience. Not that it's necessarily a bad thing,” Green added, perhaps sensing Draco’s impending protest, “but you do yourself no favours by reaching for the unattainable."

"I have to disagree with you, my Lord. Respectfully."

Green pressed his lips into a moue of displeasure. "Your chosen Charge is not so different from his Patron. Are you sure you wish to tie your fate to his?”

“Harry is nothing like Red,” Draco snapped. “I saw what they’re like. Angry, and contrary, and vengeful.”

“They were not always so…there was a time when Red was all commitment, and devotion, and reckless hope.”

Draco bit his tongue, unwilling to give any ground. “Harry is different than Red,” he said again, telling himself he sounded as sure as he felt.

Green continued as though Draco had not spoken. “Everyone likes to think they’re the exception; they aren’t. Your Charge will be just like Red is now, given the right circumstances. Red and all their Charges are passion, and a wounded passion lashes out.”

“And how would you know?” 

“I was like you, once. In love. We both were.” He levelled Draco with calm eyes. "Red and myself, that is."

Draco snapped his mouth shut, thinking as quickly as he could, even if his mind felt frozen. Such a thing could not be. And yet… “I thought love was a mortal construct.”

“It is true that love is not a creation of any of the Patrons,” Green allowed, “but I’d like to tell you a story. A story of love and pain. If, at the end, you still wish to take your test of bond, I will give you my blessing.”

Draco seriously doubted anything could change his mind, but he wasn’t in the mood to risk it. “And if I do not wish to hear it?”

“Well, you are stuck in there, and I am going to sit here and talk. You can try to ignore me, but I think you will listen.” Green leaned in toward Draco, a dark smile on his face. “We of Green are keen on learning. You’re too curious to pass up a good story.”

Draco was annoyed, but he couldn’t quite deny that Green was right. Which only annoyed him further. “What’s your story about, then?”

“It’s about that abandoned sector you think we forgot, and the reason Red and I don't get on, as well as the reason your Chosen has Green eyes.” Green chuckled a little at Draco, who leaned in closer. “Have I got your attention now? Good. It all started before the Mortal Realm was what it is, and before the words of time held any meaning or existence…”

It felt wrong, going back to school like this. Like everything was normal, like there wasn’t a war on, like the Dark Lord hadn’t staged a military coup, and like Draco hadn’t facilitated the murder of his former headmaster.

Like Potter wasn’t off somewhere, fighting for his life, not on the train with the rest of them.

Not that Potter would likely ever speak to him again. Not that they’d ever been on speaking terms. Draco couldn’t even remember what the last thing Potter had even said to him. Probably ‘fuck off’ or ‘fuck you’ or ‘go fuck yourself’ or some variation thereof.

He felt like he should remember. Everything Harry Potter said to him was important, and the fact that he couldn’t remember was more upsetting than it ought to be.

He thumbed the leather pouch in his pocket. In spite of the fact that he’d resolved himself not to plant the seeds at Hogwarts—save some sort of miracle involving the sudden and complete expulsion of the Dark Lord and all his rot—he found the idea of leaving the seeds behind even worse. Just because he wasn’t going to plant them didn’t mean he didn’t want them with him, if for no other reason than to pull them out and periodically stroke them. 

He could almost identify what each shape meant now; in terms of the feelings they would evoke. The oblong ones felt like happiness. The roundish ones felt like longing. The ones that looked like pebbles felt like regret. And the thin ones felt like safety. Size didn’t seem to have any indication for intensity, and even the shapes he felt he could reasonably classify as “the same” created different nuances of feeling for what was largely the same emotion. It was delicious, like cool water on a hot day. No, he would not leave such a balm behind.

He didn’t know what plants the seeds would grow, but they were all different. And when he held each one in his palm, he was filled with warmth, and longing, and pain, and loss, and wholeness in kind. It was just enough to stave off the chilling horror he was certain had seeped into his bones and become a permanent part of him. 

Although the bag contained a single instruction to open when times are certifiably shite—which Draco now interpreted as ‘open every time things are certifiably shite'—it said nothing about what to do with the contents once opened. Perhaps whoever had written the note and gifted him the pouch thought it was obvious what he was to do with the seeds. It wasn’t obvious, not to Draco anyway. Nothing seemed obvious anymore, in terms of what he should do. Up was down and left was right, and he just wanted it to all be over. 

In practical terms, what it meant was he kept his head down and did as he was told. Not that that was in any meaningful way different from how he used to behave. But in the past, he did as he was told because he wanted to. Now he did it because he didn’t know what else he could do. It was a pathetic way to live, of that he was certain, but knowing that didn’t give him any better ideas about what to do instead.

Times were most certifiably shite right now, but he hadn’t planted a single one yet. He didn’t think it was the right time, though what the right time would be, he wasn’t certain. He just thought he would know it when he got there.

Needless to say, the seeds were dear to him. He couldn’t explain why, and it was probably daft of him, but it was his only source of comfort, and he’d protect it with his life.

That was the other thing. Even though it felt wrong, he was relieved to be going back to Hogwarts. He’d started his summer with three-hour nightly sessions with the Dark Lord combing through his mind cruelly, forcing him to torture muggles, and otherwise making him miserable.

He’d glared at Draco, and sometimes smiled, but mostly he watched. Once, and only once, he had ripped off Draco’s sleeve to inspect his mark, poking and prodding and examining it painfully. “What did you do to it?” he’d asked. 

“Nothing, my Lord,” Draco had replied honestly. The only thing he’d done with it was try to ignore it.

The Dark Lord had sneered at it, as though it, too, had failed him. “It feels different.”

“It still works doesn’t it?”

The Dark Lord tested it every day. It still worked.

“I didn’t do anything to it,” Draco had said again, and even though he knew it was the truth, it felt like a lie. He hadn’t so much as touched it in the year since it had been branded on him. He usually kept it wrapped in a bandage so he didn’t have to acknowledge it was there. Not that he could forget, with it burning and writhing under his skin at every waking second. But at least he could pretend it was an infection, or a wound, or something other than a claim of evil on Draco’s soul.

At least at Hogwarts the burning would be lesser. Maybe at Hogwarts, he would find out if there were something more to do with the seeds other than plant them or hold them like a deranged gardener.

And if there was nothing else to do with them…well. Better a deranged gardener than a murderer. 

“When the beings you know as the Patrons first met, we had no direction. No greater purpose. All we knew was the meadow, and that we were creators. The world was our canvas, quite literally, responding to our wills to create whatever we imagined. We all had our inclinations and preferences, and that was enough.

“When you lack a greater vision, and aren’t working towards anything, there are no toes to step on, metaphorically. If you didn’t like something the other made, you could dismiss it and move on to a different part of the meadow. 

“But nothing lasts forever, even in that time before time.

“I was fascinated with Red; they always made such interesting creations, so different from my own. I admired their passion and reckless abandon. They didn’t care about making mistakes; better to crash and burn than to let fear stop them from creating.

“One day, they asked for my help. ‘All this heat and pressure needs something. A release. It can’t build up forever.’ And so we made a rain cloud. And another. You can make so many different shapes from clouds, you know. Red was delighted. So was I. And we’d done it together.

“Soon I had to admit it was not just Red’s creations I admired. It was Red. Everything I wasn’t, they were and are. Sometimes it frustrated me—frustrates me still—but mostly it dazzled me. So bright and powerful…a real inspiration to me, to all of us, really.

“All my flowers were red for a time. Red loved that, of course. Red is proud, as they should be. They liked our colours together. It was good…for a time.

“The others saw what we were doing, what we were creating together. They wanted in. That’s how the Mortal Realm came to be. It was like our sector, but with rules. You can’t have water that burns, or rocks that fly, or nights that are bright and days that are dark. Working with the others meant I had less time for Red, though. And Red noticed. It took me a while to understand, but they wanted approval. Recognition. Attention. The things Red creates are ephemeral, you know. That’s why they make so much noise, I think. Everything they do seems to say, ‘look at me while you still can’.

“But one day they went too far. Lightning struck a field I hadn’t been paying attention to. And it burned. The flowers, the trees, the grass. All gone.

"I was furious, naturally. ‘How could you do this to me?’ I asked. ‘Use my own nature and creation against me?’

“Red insisted it was our creation, and that it needed to happen. ‘Your plants were dying. You neglected them. I tried to water them, but it was too late. They were already dead. That’s what happens with mortal creations: they die.’ 

‘That doesn’t mean you had to set them all on fire!’ I yelled. Red just rolled their eyes, insouciant and unapologetic as they'd ever been. ‘They were always going to die. This is just us creating together again. Now you can start over.’ I didn’t see it, then, though. ‘It’s not together if you do it without asking.’ ‘I can’t ask if you don’t have the time of day for me anymore.’

“Red was used to their creations having a start and an end; I was not. I said things I didn’t mean, or at least said them in a way I didn’t want to say them. Red has always been a hot head. They told me I’m selfish and unwilling to give up space for others.

“Even so…needless to say, we didn’t talk after that. Things went haywire in our meadow, from us constantly trying to outdo each other. The other Patrons said enough; that we couldn’t work together anymore. We had to have our own domains. So we left the meadow and forged our own creative spaces. Rule-bound by the same restrictions that govern the mortal realm, other than time. It was easier that way. A reminder not to create things that could not Be. We have the council now, to make sure the balance is maintained, and that’s enough. It has to be.”

Draco sat and watched her eat. Technically, he didn't have to; his duties began and ended at bringing her food, but the dungeons felt safer than anywhere else in the manor, so he might as well be here as anywhere.

Well, technically he shouldn’t have been here at all. In the dungeons, that is. The dungeons were no place to be at Yule, not that he particularly felt like celebrating this year. It was the principle of the thing though. He’d spent Yule at Hogwarts for the past three years, and while he didn’t particularly want to stay there either, at least at Hogwarts there was no Dark Lord.

He’d been summoned to be here, though, in the way one marked by the Dark Lord was. He wasn’t sure if the months he’d spent in hopelessness had numbed him to everything, or if he had simply grown accustomed to the pain of the Dark Mark burning, but he could have sworn the intensity was less than it used to be.

He’d been summoned to the Manor, and so he came. He was still working out why he’d been summoned, to be truthful. No one had asked him to actually do anything since his hateful task had been completed. Well, half completed…at any rate, he wasn’t exactly part of the group. He neither believed in the message nor supported the Leader. Oh, from an outside perspective he belonged, certainly. He was marked, which was the distinguishing factor, but apart from that he was a Malfoy. A pureblood, the ideal of everything the Dark Lord and his followers claimed as their ideology. 

He was treated little better than a servant these days, mostly forgotten. He didn’t mind being forgotten; being the focus of the Dark Lord and his followers was less than pleasant, even for the favoured amongst them.

Even so, he’d been summoned, and from what he’d gathered, the only reason for it was to ‘deal with’ their new dungeon guest. But according to said guest herself, the only reason she’d been taken was to intimidate her father into falling in line, so Draco wasn’t sure where he was meant to fit in to all of this. He’d been given a platter of food to deliver to her, so it didn’t seem that ‘deal with’ meant ‘murder’, in this case. Not that he would have done that, of course, even if they had meant it. 

And really, they’d probably learned by now that Draco was not the person to call when they needed a murderer.

“You’re Draco Malfoy,” she said. There was no judgement in her voice. Interest, more like. A kind of scholarly distance, perhaps.

“Yes I am,” he replied, because there wasn’t much else to say to that, except perhaps to acknowledge that he knew who she was, too. “You’re Luna Lovegood.”

“You know my name? And that it belongs to me?”

Draco nodded. “I believe we are distantly related cousins.”

“I’ve never had a distantly related cousin before. What’s it like?”

Obviously, that wasn’t true. Draco was older than she was, so technically she’d always had a distantly related cousin. But having one and knowing about it were obviously different things, and it had been a long time since he'd had a conversation about something that wasn't how fucked everything was. “Well, it’s like this, I suppose. We meet for the first time when we’re already grown, and never discuss our shared great aunt twice removed.”

Lovegood frowned. “We aren’t already grown.”

“I’m already seventeen, so I think you’ll find that I, at least, am.”

She cocked her head at him, protuberant eyes scanning his face. For what, he couldn’t have said, so he was unsure whether she found it. “I, for one, hope to never be ‘fully grown’. I hope you learn how to un-grow yourself.”

“Right,” Draco said, and he was beginning to understand what ‘dealing with’ Lovegood meant.

“Well, if we’re meant to be cousins, I suppose I’ll call you Cousin Draco.”

“That’s really not necessary, Lovegood—”

“And you can call me Cousin Luna, the first, or perhaps the third, I did always like the number three, although—”

“How about just Luna and Draco?”

She smiled, and he wondered if that had been her goal all along. “All my favourite people call me Luna.”

— 

"Would you like me to heat it up?" Draco asked. He’d been tasked with bringing her supper again, even though he should have been at Hogwarts. They both should have been, not that any learning was taking place there. In any case, he didn't see any reason to treat her poorly, even though she was a prisoner.

"Oh. Alright." She smiled at the now steaming dinner as though seeing something else. "It's nice to have company, as Mr. Ollivander has been taken away again."

"I hardly count as company," he said, and meant it.

Luna shrugged as though it hadn't occurred to her. "Harry was right about you."

His breath caught in his throat. "Harry?"

"Why, Harry Potter, of course.”

Draco barely bit back the ‘obviously’. His confusion hadn’t been over the who, but the why. Even so, Luna did not deserve his acerbity.

“He and I talked a lot about you," Luna continued, blithely eating her soup. "Quite a lot, I suppose."

“When?”

“Before I came here,” she said. 

He reminded himself again not to say something rude and prayed for patience.

She considered her spoon. “We talked lots of times, Harry and I, about lots of different things. He’s one of my best friends, you know. I painted his face on my ceiling. Not just his face. That would be…disturbing. Not that his face is disturbing, but—”

“No need to explain Luna, I understand.”

She smiled at him, and (fortunately), moved on with her explanation. “There are a lot of things he doesn’t feel he can talk about with Hermione and Ron, I think. He’s never said as much, but they don’t get him sometimes. You are one of those things.” She said this in that flighty way of hers, like it was both incredibly profound and also very simple.

It was time for a direct approach, apparently. "What did Potter tell you about me?" He wanted to know what Harry Potter thought he possibly knew about Draco, but hopefully he wouldn’t have to put that sentiment into words.

"He said you're contrary, a know it all, and a right pain in the arse sometimes. But he said you've got a soft side that you protect, and it's your best kept secret." Her smile fell a bit. "He said some other things, too. Nothing specific, but I think…I think that even though you might be on the other side of the bars, you're in a cell the same as I am."

Draco didn't know what to say to that.

“He also told me about the flowers.”

“The flowers?” 

“Yes, the flowers.” She sighed happily. “You do know what flowers are? Of course, you must do. Harry told me you had a sense of humour.”

He got a daft idea then. He pulled out the leather pouch that he always kept on his person and from it extracted a single, shining, silvery seed. “Do you know what this is?”

She gave him a very indulgent look, then. “Yes, I do.”

“And?” he prompted.

She shrugged. “You would know better than I, I should think. And if you don’t, I really shouldn’t be the one to tell you.”

He sighed. As much as she seemed to believe wholeheartedly in spreading knowledge, she also told him some things defied explanation. That explaining them would lessen them somehow, if not in actuality than in understanding. She'd then told him a story about roses and foxes and a prince and a planet that he only half understood and thought that perhaps she was right about some explanations only muddying the waters.

He liked to ask her questions about things that probably seemed obvious to her, anyway. Her answers were not always cogent in the typical sense, but that was never really the point, was it?

"How can you stay so positive? Even in times like these?"

"Well, either things will get better, or they won't. All I can do is hope for the best. Negative thinking attracts wrackspurts, after all, and I can't have wrackspurts making my brain go fuzzy in a critical moment, can I?"

“No, I suppose you can’t,” he agreed. Then, "…what are wrackspurts?"

— 

Draco learned a lot from Luna, much of it nonsense, but it cheered him up regardless. He learned about her life, and about Harry Potter, too. The DA, and breaking into the ministry, and Bill Weasley's wedding.

"Harry was ever so sad there, you know. He was smiling, and laughing, but it was just an act.”

“How do you know?”

She gave him a melancholy smile as a response, and though it wasn’t an answer as such, he reckoned he understood, anyway. 

— 

“Do you know what these are?” He’d taken to asking her about the seeds often. Not every time they met, but frequently enough that a lesser being would have told him to shut up about the seeds already.

Luna never did. She only smiled, like they shared an in-joke, which maybe they did. No one was laughing, however.

He was summoned to the Manor nearly every weekend. He might have complained it was disturbing his studies, but that would imply he was actually learning anything at Hogwarts this year. Besides that, he didn’t mind. He got to spend his weekend taking care of Luna, and sometimes Ollivander, though Ollivander never spoke to him.

One day, after he asked her about the seeds, and after she’d given her enigmatic smile, she said something more about it. “Do you know what they are yet?”

“They’re seeds, obviously.”

“If you know that, why are you asking me?”

It was difficult to say he asked because he wanted to tell someone, and he didn’t think anyone else would understand. So he didn’t say that. “You know a lot of weird things.”

“Oh, why thank you, Draco.” She smiled wider at that. “Harry was right again.”

“What did he say?” He’d asked that many times as well, but she always said something different. It warmed him as much as it entertained him, even down here in this dank cellar.

“That you don’t always say what you mean. You’re like a riddle. You have to read between the lines.”

“How would Potter know that?”

“Harry knows a lot of weird things,” she advised. “Things even I find strange.”

“Why did I ask,” he wondered aloud.

“It’s a very good question.” Which question, she didn’t clarify. 

— 

“Do you believe in soulmates?”

“No.” Draco wanted to, but he didn’t.

“Harry told me a story, once. Not everyone has soulmates. But in a different time and place, some souls decided to be together. To test their love, they tried to find each other in a new life. If they found each other again, their bond was true.”

“And if they didn't?”

She shrugged. “Then they’d never be the wiser.”

His heart ached at the very thought. “That sounds cruel.”

“I don’t think so. If you fail, you never know about it. You can find love elsewhere, unburdened by past convictions.”

“I’m not so sure…”

“I like the idea that a soulmate is someone you pick,” she said dreamily. “I think my soulmate is chocolate. One of my soulmates, anyway.”

Draco didn’t think that was how it worked, but if he made sure there was chocolate hidden on the platter at her next meal, no one was the wiser. Except for Luna, probably. She knew a lot of things.

Draco sat there quietly, waiting for the story to continue. When he realized Green wasn’t going to—that he’d reached the end of the story—he felt…well.

“That’s it?” he asked, barely maintaining a respectful tone. “You had one fight, and that was it?”

“That’s all we needed. We couldn’t move past it.”

“Did you even try?” 

Green didn’t respond.

“You didn’t." Of all the things he might have expected to feel about his Patron, disappointed wasn't one of them. And yet here he was: disappointed. "You said it yourself, you haven’t spoken since.”

“There was nothing left to say.”

“Red was right, though. The plants were already dead, and even if they weren’t, at some point they were going to die. It’s the first thing you learn as a Green Charge.”

“For a good reason. No point getting attached to things that won’t last, even if you made them yourself.”

“You don’t really believe that,” Draco accused.

“I was right, too,” Green said, ignoring Draco. “Red should have asked me.”

“Perhaps so,” Draco conceded, “but maybe they didn’t think you still cared about the field, since you neglected the plants and let them die.”

“They were always going to die, just as my relationship with Red was always going to end.”

“That’s bullshit, and you know it.” Draco took a deep breath. “And anyway, Harry and I aren’t like that. We talk about things.”

“Have you ever had a fight, though?”

Draco smiled. “In the beginning, all we did was fight. Over anything and everything. Who the meadow belonged to, who had found it first, who needed it more. I hated talking to him and hated it even more when he ignored me.”

Green waved his hand dismissively. “Those are petty fights, hardly worth considering.”

“We’ve disagreed over things, even recently. A lot of things.”

“A disagreement is not the same as a fight. He’ll hurt you, someday. Maybe without meaning to. It doesn’t matter. He will hurt you.”

“And I might hurt him. But we won’t let it end our relationship because we refuse to speak to each other because of it.” Draco readjusted himself on the floor. It wasn’t going to be comfortable no matter how he sat, but at least he could find a new position to be uncomfortable in. “Relationships are about communication. Harry and I had such little time to be together, we didn’t have time to stay angry. If he did something I didn’t like, I told him, even if it made me anxious to bring it up. And if I did something to annoy him, he asked me not to do it again, or explained why it bothered him, even if it was hard for him to put it into words.” 

Really, Draco thought, he shouldn't have to explain this to an ageless, ancient being.

“It’s easy to say that now. I’m just trying to save you the pain of disappointment.”

There had been a time when Draco might have believed that. Now, he knew better. “Trying to stop me from getting attached, are you? How kind,” Draco scoffed. “I’m already far beyond attached.”

“And does he feel the same?”

“Of course,” Draco said coldly. He’d never been more sure of anything. “And we’d like to prove it to you. Prove you wrong.”

“Bold words for someone so young and naive. What if it doesn’t go as you expect?”

“I have no expectations about the test, except that it will be hard. But we’ll make it. Together.”

Green didn’t say anything to that. He looked pensive, if anything.

“You know, Time is a mortal construct,” Draco began, emboldened. “They can only face things as they come. Sometimes they don’t act quickly enough, sometimes they act too fast. But time is a constant they are aware of. They know the time they have is finite.” 

“What is your point?”

“That we have an advantage. It’s never too late to make amends, if you want to.”

“Time might be for Mortals, but we are still bound by its ends.”

Draco could tell he wasn’t getting through. He tried a new tactic. “Do you think Red meant to hurt you?”

Green sighed. “Red was angry that I wasn’t paying attention to them anymore, and threw a temper tantrum.”

“Because you hurt them first. Unintentionally,” he added to stop Green’s protests, “But you did.” 

“It was unrealistic of them to expect me to dedicate all my attention to them when we had work to do.”

“Perhaps. But did you make any time for them? Any at all?”

“Time did not exist yet,” Green explained.

Draco rolled his eyes. Had he ever been this stubborn? 

“Time is different for us here,” Draco agreed, “but time is the great equalizer. It’s all Harry and I could give to each other. Time is how you love: by giving it. Knowing you can’t take it back, that those moments are gone.”

“You can’t keep them anyway,” Green pointed out.

“Exactly. Which is why it matters, how you choose to spend your time. You didn’t spend yours caring for the things you claimed to love, either your plants or Red. Love is a verb—”

“And they used their time to destroy!”

“Do you know what happens to a field after a fire?” Draco asked. “The soil is replenished. It becomes fertile, and new plants grow. All without anyone having to do anything. A sick land can heal after a fire. Would you have let Red burn that field, even knowing it was necessary? Even seeing the flowers were dead from your neglect?”

“They should have asked,” Green said again, stubborn to the last.

“Yes. But you should have been paying attention.” Ultimately, it didn't really matter whether Green understood Draco or not. He understood this, fundamentally, but it was not Draco himself Draco wanted Green to understand. Oddly, it was Red. “Maybe Red felt a bit like those dead plants: neglected and forgotten for more interesting ventures.”

“If our relationship was like a plant, then it was always going to die, anyway.” That was the third time Green had said as much. Draco wondered whether it was he Green hoped to convince or himself.

He had a good idea he knew the answer.

“Plants have seeds, you know. So even when they die, they can regrow. Maybe you can’t be what you were. Maybe relationships go through phases of growth and phases of dormancy, too. They have to change to respond to the times. Lots of forests flourish after a wildfire, you know. Harry told me that.”

“Did he,” Green said, noncommittal.

“Yes. Do you know what I did with that information? I made a whole batch of flowers that only germinate after exposure to smoke.”

Green looked taken aback. “Why?”

“To prove a point, I guess. That opposites can coexist, and flourish together.” He took a deep breath. “Maybe Red went about it poorly. And they should have asked before setting your field on fire. But didn’t the plants that grew back there flourish?”

“I don’t know. I never went back to see.”

Draco smiled. “You should. If Harry is anything like Red…Harry isn't always good at explaining things. He's about action, and if Red is like that, perhaps they were trying to show you something."

"You don't know them like I do—" Green tried, the panic in his voice carefully concealed.

"But I know Harry better than anyone." Green didn't say anything to that, which Draco decided to take as a measure of victory. "I think what Red was trying to say was two-fold: you can’t ignore things and expect them to keep growing, but you can start over from the seeds of what was. Become something new, something better.”

Green scowled at him, but Draco felt neither fear nor offense at the expression. “And what about you and your chosen bond? If you take the test, and it all goes up in flames?”

Draco shrugged. He'd already thought already about all the ways they might fail, and yet here they were. Alive, hopeful, and with their chance at forever almost within reach. “Then maybe we’ll be reborn and find each other again. I can’t worry about what might happen.”

Green stood up abruptly, ice throne melting into a puddle at his feet. “You’ve given me much to think about, Draco,” he said evenly. “If you change your mind about the Test of Bond, I will not hold it against you.”

And with that, he left.

Kneeling on the floor, Draco marvelled that this was both literally and figuratively the lowest point of his life. His former Lowest Point had been the moment he’d succeeded in letting the Death Eaters into Hogwarts and subsequently failed to kill Dumbledore. He was glad he’d failed, on some level. At least he could say he wasn’t a killer.

But he had suffered for that failure, and so he'd regretted it. But that moment had nothing on where he was right now.

“Well, Draco? Go on!”

Draco had thought he knew what hopelessness felt like. He’d been so stewed in it that he could describe how it tasted in his mouth when he lay awake in the middle of the night, drowning in the sounds of muggles being tortured. He could recreate exactly what it looked like just by closing his eyes and picturing his face staring back at him. He knew the size and shape of it, writhing around in his gut, dead and yet clawing its way up his esophagus trying to escape, to come out in words of begging for death or mercy, before asking whether there was any difference.

Draco knew hopelessness. It lived in, on, around, and through him. But now he realized that hopelessness had been kept alive through juxtaposition, that he’d kept a small reserve of hope, carefully hidden away in his heart where even he couldn’t find it. He only knew about it now due to its absence, having been ripped away from him, leaving a gaping wound that silently bled out before him.

That small hope had been the knowledge that Harry Potter was out there somewhere, doing something to fight back against the Dark Lord. That as long as Harry Potter lived, remained free, there was someone out there finding a way to end this miserable war. That since the death of Dumbledore, the only one the Dark Lord truly feared was around like a splinter left to fester and rot the death eaters away.

But now Harry Potter was here, kneeling on the floor with Draco. He didn’t look like a renegade hero. He looked like a scared, starved boy.

He was just a boy, and he was captured.

He was just a boy, like Draco, and he’d been the last shred of hope for any of them.

And he was here. Kneeling on the floor, hope a stranger to them all.

“What’s wrong with his face?” Draco whispered. There was something in Potter's eyes, some desperate message or plea he was trying to communicate. Draco couldn't read it, though. As devastated as he was that Potter was here, there was some part of Draco was happy just to see him again. Proof that he was still alive and Draco was alive to witness it.

For however long that lasted for either of them. He could almost see the end now, clearer than ever.

Thunder rolled outside the window, and it started to rain. Even the sky was in despair, it seemed.

“He came to us like that,” one of the snatchers said. Draco had never bothered to learn their names. Why humanize a monster?

“Well, Draco? Is it him? Is it Potter?” Aunt Bellatrix hissed, eyes alight with delighted malice. She knew, he realized. She just wanted to hear him say it. To see the proof that he was firmly and securely under her boot, where she believed he belonged.

Draco looked at the scar, the wild black hair, the green green eyes. He had no doubt. “I can’t be sure.”

“Look closer, Draco! This could mean everything for us!”

Draco looked at his father, the man he’d once respected and loved above all other things. He looked back to Harry, his everything. The one who filled his every waking thought, and who graced his dreams at night. The memories, the dreams, they weren’t real. But Draco’s feelings were.

“I don’t know…”

Later, he’d tell himself he fought back, fought with Potter over control of the wands. He’d never been a very good liar.

But in that moment of struggle, when Harry Potter had him pinned to the floor in a desperate struggle to take the wands, Draco could have sworn he saw regret in his eyes. He also saw a strange chain and pendant around his neck, so familiar and dear it knocked the wind out of him.

In that moment, Harry didn’t look surprised, just grateful. And sorry. He may have even mouthed it; Draco couldn’t have said one way or the other. He was just…caught.

In that moment, he was more sure than he’d been in almost two years. Of what, he couldn’t say; the conviction was as strong as it was fleeting.

In that moment, Draco saw, and he understood.

And in the moment, he let go, and gave Harry his wand.

— — — 

He took his mother’s wand with him back to Hogwarts. It worked for him, but he might as well have taken her shoes for the strangeness of using a wand that wasn’t his. What was it like for Potter, Draco wondered, using his wand out there somewhere, fighting back against the forces of evil? Did it feel strange, unfriendly? Or was it yielding and helpful, even if not quite the same?

Draco missed his wand, but somehow the idea that Potter was using it was less detestable than it should have been. It almost made him feel like he himself was somehow contributing to the resistance. It was a stupid thing to think, he knew. No one else would see it that way, especially as he hadn’t used his wand to fight back against the Dark Lord well…ever.

Or perhaps Potter wasn’t using it at all. He had his own wand, didn’t he? The snatchers had said they hadn’t found one to take off him, nor had it been in the bag with an extension charm on it that apparently belonged to Granger. But it must be out there somewhere, surely.

The fact that Granger had a purse with an undetectable extension charm on it was interesting. Well, the bag wasn’t interesting at all; it was that she had it, and with whom she kept company. Was it a stretch to wonder if there were some link between her purse and the pouch Draco had been gifted?

The cynical part of him (which made up a large part of him these days) said it was unlikely and childish. It was not as though Hermione Granger were the only one who could cast an undetectable extension charm. 

The hopeful part of him said it was certainly possible, and why couldn’t it be true? And after everything Luna had said to him…

Luna was gone, though, so he couldn’t very well ask her opinion. He’d cautiously say they were friends now, even if she had been locked in his dungeon for months. He was glad she’d escaped, even if he missed her. Perhaps he’d see her at Hogwarts, if she went back. It would be a foolish thing to do, but she didn’t often take those kinds of things into consideration when deciding what to do with herself.

At least he still had the seeds, not that he was any closer to planting them. With the seeds, he felt that maybe he wasn’t quite as alone, somehow.

It didn’t make sense, but he didn’t need to explain it to anyone, either.

Sometimes, he poured them all out into his palm, arranging them into half-remembered shapes and patterns.

He missed Luna; wished she were still with him. Wished he could ask her again if she knew what they were, if only to hear her make up an answer, which she’d done a few times. Not that she’d lied; she’d simply said, ‘I’ll tell you what they aren’t’, and then proceeded to tell him tales as barmy as nargles and wrackspurts. It was always fanciful and cheerful and just a little bit creepy. 

He imagined now what she'd say. It was almost enough to cheer him up.

“Those are baby tooth fae. They're born from baby teeth, you know. Adult tooth fairies bury the teeth in sacks woven from unicorn velvet. Not hair, Draco: Velvet. It’s rather different. It grows on the horns in the spring, and they rub it off on the trees so it can grow longer and shine brighter. Wizards have no use for it, which is why you’ve never heard of it, but the Quibbler did a special on it. It’s probably for the best that wizards don’t know about it. They’d probably find some way to exploit it, even if we can’t use it. And then the teeth fae would be terribly upset, Draco, and you don’t want a horde of teeth fae coming for you. I’m getting an urge to floss just thinking about it. Speaking of flossing, have I told you about the Rotfang conspiracy?”

— — — 

As it turned out, he didn’t have to wait long to see Potter again. A little over a month, and there he was. Back at Hogwarts, fighting back, just as he always had done.

Well, perhaps it was not quite right to say, ‘there he was’, as though he’d appeared before Draco suddenly. In fact, Draco was the one who appeared in front of Potter.

Draco had gone looking for him during the battle. He told everyone, including himself, that his only business was finding Harry to get his wand back. He’d never been a very good liar.

He found Potter in the Room of Hidden Things, and how fitting. This was where Draco had lost Harry forever, when he let the Death Eaters in. Not that he’d ever had a chance, really. But every moment spent in here, fixing that cabinet, working towards betraying the castle and everyone in it, was a moment he’d forsaken finding a way to save himself. Finding a way to be honest for once and tell Potter the truth. For someone who wasn’t a good liar, he was just as bad at being truthful.

Here in the Room of Hidden Things was where he’d hidden away his feelings for Potter deep within himself. It was never deep enough to forget, only deep enough to convince himself that he cared more about living than he did about Harry Potter. Like the Room of Hidden Things, the door to the true depths of Draco’s emotions was accessible only by those who knew where to look and how to open it. Hidden, secret, profound, powerful.

“Potter,” he said, without his usual bite. Potter turned to look at him with sorrowful eyes. “You have something of mine.”

Potter smiled, and Draco frowned. Surely that smile couldn’t be for him. Perhaps Potter had finally lost it? There was nothing to smile about here. “You have something of mine as well.”

“The bag of seeds?” Draco guessed. He held it up. It was a gamble, but he decided the thing must have come from Potter. He didn’t know why, but he was certain of it. “I’ve grown rather attached to them, I’m afraid.”

Potter nodded. “That makes sense. They’re yours.”

Whatever Potter meant by that, Draco didn’t have the chance to ask, since Vince decided to unleash fiendfyre on them all.

As Draco sat on top of a burning pile of what had once been furniture, he thought it rather fitting. His attempt to pursue Potter had gone up in flames, like it always did.

But then he saw a shape emerge from the smoke and like in all his dreams there Potter appeared. Unlike his dreams, he was on a broomstick, and he was not smiling. He had a mask of grim determination, and as he reached out a hand to Draco, Draco realized that grim determination was the will to save Draco.

He grasped Potter's forearm and squeezed, Potter hauling him up on the broomstick behind him. “Hold on tight,” he said, and they were flying. Draco indulged himself this one pleasure, wrapping his arms around Harry Potter, boy who lived, and doing as instructed. He didn’t ever want to let go. But all too quickly, and not a moment too soon, they were out of the fire, slamming the door shut behind them as they all collapsed on a pile on the floor. Vince hadn’t made it out, but Draco would mourn for him later.

Then Potter was whispering in his ear, “I need to borrow your wand for a little while longer. You’ll get it back, though, I promise.” And then he was gone, leaving Draco in the hall with Greg and several toasted broomsticks.

Draco wandered around the castle, looking for his parents, looking for Potter, looking for answers, for purpose. He was on everyone’s side as much as he was on no one’s side, which meant he was surrounded by enemies. Eventually, he found an alcove to hide in, and there he stayed, wrapping his arms around his legs and his hands around the pouch full of seeds and hope.

Draco couldn’t have said how long they sat in the holding cells. It could have been hours; it could have been weeks. The Patrons certainly weren’t concerned for his and Harry’s wellbeing, and who knows how long they could spend arguing about whether or not to allow a test of bond.

In any case, it was after an indeterminable period that at last Draco saw the ambient glow of the Blank Charge’s uniforms appear before the door to his cell. He could have wept for joy, even if they might be leading him and Harry to their end. One way or another, they would get closure, and that was a gift in and of itself.

After all, had the Patrons so chosen, they could have extinguished Harry and Draco in their cells without so much as a by-your-leave. The fact that they were being brought back before the Patrons left him feeling cautiously optimistic.

Without speaking, the Blank Charges lead Draco and Harry back before the Council. All seven had adopted carefully neutral expressions, but Draco thought he saw a pleased glimmer in Yellow’s countenance. He could have imagined it, though, through the power of wishful thinking.

“We have discussed your proposal,” Orange said without preamble, “and have decided to allow you to take a test of bond.”

Draco’s knees nearly buckled in relief.

“We won’t make it easy on you,” warned Red. “This will be the most rigorous test of bond ever conducted. Are you certain you still wish to take it?”

Stealing a glance at Harry, Draco nodded. He wondered if Red gave them a chance to back out because Red did not want them to take the test, or if it were a rare show of affection.

“We can handle anything you give us,” Harry said, eyes full of determination.

The predatory smile Red gave them did not comfort Draco in the slightest. “We'll see.”

— — — 

They weren’t supposed to see each other before the test, but Harry and Draco had never much cared for the rules when it came to each other. It was a brief meeting—far too brief—but it gave Draco the courage to accept their task.

“It might be years before we meet again, you know,” Draco said, leaning his forehead against Harry’s.

“Yeah. But what a gift, to get to meet the love of your life twice!”

“Bloody optimist.”

“Stingy pessimist.”

“I’ll have you know I’m a realist,” Draco protested.

“Yes, but Reality is depressing.” Harry kissed Draco’s knuckles. In spite of his bravado, his eyes were tight with worry.

He knelt down on one knee and turned his head slightly. “Well, go on. Do it, then.”

Draco frowned. “Do what?”

“The pre-bonding ritual! You said it’s traditional to pierce the lobe.”

His eyes went wide. “You want to do that now? We’re about to be sent to the Mortal Realm!”

“I know. And when we get back, you can pierce the other ear.”

Draco didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “It won’t have time to bloom.”

“The first one already did, though.” He squeezed Draco’s hand urgently. “We don’t have to hide it anymore, Draco.”

He couldn’t really argue with that. “Very well. Hold still. On the count of three?”

Harry smiled, all challenge and trouble. “If you say so.”

Just for that, he didn’t give Harry a countdown at all, piercing his lobe with a black thorn. Almost immediately, it started turning green, fragrant red blooms bursting forth.

On the occasions Draco got to see Harry—rarer though they came to be—he tended to the thorn in Harry's ear, now sporting several small red flowers, fragrant and thriving and beautiful. Harry said the flowers sighed songs to him, and it might have been a flight of fancy, but it could have been true.

The mark on Draco’s arm had developed in that time, too, as though the tattoo were more plant than fire. The dandelion seed grew into a flower, then two, three, four, until a garden grew up his arm, beating warmly with energy that was Harry, and now Draco, too. Them, together.

“Well, would you look at that," Harry said. "I guess you like me.”

“It’s very becoming,” he snarked, mostly to hide how pleased he was. “Is there anything I can do? To show off that I’m claimed?”

Harry grinned wide. “Sure. Rip off your sleeve, throw it to the wind. Show off your tattoo. It’s something to be proud of, after all.”

“I can’t destroy my uniform, Harry. Quite literally.”

Harry stood up. “Will you allow me?”

Draco shrugged. He doubted Harry could do anything, but— 

“Hold still.” With a burst of flame that somehow avoided touching Draco altogether, his sleeve was gone. Harry nodded, pleased with his work. “Very Avant Garde.”

Draco touched the tattoo lovingly. A group of dandelions, all different, bloomed their wishes and devotion and good luck and toughness. “I shall miss having this down there,” he said quietly.

“You’ll get it back. You’ll love what happens when we pass the test.”

Draco raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “It’s going to change again?”

“Red energy is temperamental as an autumn sky, as they say,” Harry said with an enigmatic smile.

“Won’t you just tell me now?”

Harry pretended to consider, but Draco knew he’d already decided to tell him. He tapped his bare arm. “We’ll match. Every change, every twist, every turn, mirror images. Normally, the tattoos would join up, but since I don’t have one yet—”

“Can I give you one? Not now, obviously,” he rushed to add. "I doubt we'd have time."

Harry smirked. "Aren't you always saying time is a mortal construct?"

"Seeing as how we're about to be mortal—"

Harry interrupted Draco with a kiss. “When we get back, you can give me a tattoo. If you let me pierce your ear, that is.”

Draco thought he could feel a garden bloom in his heart. "It would be an honour."

They stood for a moment, just absorbing the other's presence. It wasn't long enough, but it never would be.

"I wish we could see the meadow one last time," Draco whispered.

Harry kissed Draco's knuckles. "It'll be here when we get back."

"Still. I think it'll miss us while we're gone."

"And we, it. We'll just have to find a place just like it down there when we find each other."

"If we—"

"When." Harry looked at him fiercely enough for Draco to find the confidence within himself to face their trial without fear.

They didn't know what trials they'd be given. This would be a test unlike any other; the Patrons had said as much. But it was them, and they'd overcome impossible odds before. The fact that they were being allowed to take the test at all was proof of that.

Draco brushed his fingers through Harry's hair and hoped it would not be the last time he was blessed enough to do so. "I hope we find a place with dandelions. I'll make flower crowns for you."

Harry beamed. “Whenever I see a flower down there, I’ll think of you. And when I see fractals, and Fibonacci sequences, and Pascal’s what’s it—”

“Triangle.”

“That’s the one. I’ll see and smile and think ‘my love did that’.”

“You won’t remember me or my contributions to the mortal realm,” Draco pointed out. "You'll think it was Mother Nature or something who made the flowers."

“I think I will remember. I might miss some of the details, but the important bits will be there.”

“Oh? What bits?” Draco asked with a lecherous smile.

“You, of course.”

“Draco Malfoy from Wiltshire, you mean.”

“It’s still you in there, just as it’s me as Harry Potter.”

“Potter and Malfoy. Hmm.”

“I prefer Draco and Harry,” Harry corrected.

“Scared, Potter?” Draco said, brushing Harry's hair back from his forehead again. It might be the last chance he had for a long time to do so.

Harry beamed. “You wish. I’ll find you, Draco. Always.”

Draco sighed, and tried for a smile. “I know you will.”

There might have been a bright light, or a rush or wind, or the roar of thunder. Maybe there was a sense of falling, a burning heat, a cascade of water.

It might have been all of that, or it might have been nothing.

But one moment they were together, and the next their test had begun.

He felt it the moment Harry Potter died. It was not as though there were a burst of light, or a clatter of thunder, or an explosion in the sky.

He just knew. Like something had reached inside him and snapped an invisible thread.

He’d heard the announcement of a ceasefire from the Dark Lord, the bid for Harry Potter to surrender himself. Harry would never do that, Draco had reasoned, and so he had thought he didn’t need to worry. Not that he was worried about Potter, of course.

But apparently he had been worried, and with due cause, because Harry Potter was dead. He knew it.

Don't fall for a hero, his father had said. You'll regret it. 

Draco did. Well, he wanted to. He couldn't feel regret though, not really. Regret implied an action one had chosen, and from the start Draco had been helpless to fall.

Don't fall for a hero. Don't fall in love at all.

Draco fell, and if he regretted it, it was only that there was nothing and no one there to catch him now.

But Harry would have, if he could. Because Harry was a hero. He'd catch me, if he could.

Draco stumbled to the courtyard along with everyone else, feeling more like a ghost than one among the living. He knew what had happened, but he’d refused to believe it until he saw it.

And see it he did. He stood in the courtyard, frozen in shocked horror, as Hagrid stumbled in front, tears flowing down his face.

In his arms lay Harry’s dead body. Still in a way that Harry had never been in life.

In spite of the fact that he’d known, and in spite of the fact that he was seeing it now, Draco simply couldn’t believe it. It was something visceral within him that raged and pushed back against the logic of what all his senses were telling him.

It simply couldn’t be true. He couldn’t be in a world without Harry Potter. Draco was still alive, and so surely Harry Potter must be, also, in spite of all evidence to the contrary. 

A heart was a stubborn thing. But a powerful thing, as well.

“Harry Potter is dead!” Voldemort shrieked in glee. Draco didn’t believe it.

Love was supposed to be the most powerful magic of all, and yet here they were.

Draco fell to his knees. He needed to breathe. He wasn’t breathing. He couldn’t. His one reason for being, his central support, his everything was gone. He was angry, underneath it all. How could Harry have surrendered himself? And why?

Why was everyone saying Harry was dead when he couldn’t be?

He wasn’t listening to Voldemort’s drivel, his invitation to let anyone who wanted to join them, join. Even if Draco could have moved, he wouldn’t have. If Harry was gone, he wanted to die, as well. He didn’t want to continue on in a world devoid of Hope and Harry, and so he’d stay on the losing side.

Draco just stared at Harry’s body, unmoving. It would be cold, and nothing was less like Harry than coldness. He was warmth, heat, the sun personified, and Draco was a sunflower, endlessly pivoting and trying to capture some of that sun for himself.

He thought, fleetingly, of the pouch of seeds, hanging dutifully around his neck, close to his heart. Even the pull of wanting to plant them wasn’t enough to keep him here. Perhaps, if he died with it, they’d burst into bloom around him? He might not get to see it, but someone would. That was enough, surely. It had to be.

If he hadn’t been watching Harry’s body, he wouldn’t have seen it. A twitch of his eyebrow, a shallow breath. Could it be?

Before he could process what he wasn’t sure he was seeing, Harry rolled away from Hagrid and vaulted over the rubble, running away, leading Voldemort towards the Great Hall. Like a man possessed, Voldemort followed, joyous cackles reduced to furious shouts. He cast curse after curse at Harry, but none of them hit.

Draco went with the rest of the crowd that followed them into the Great Hall. He listened with heart bursting as Harry recounted that Volde-fucking-mort had never been master of the Elder Wand. It had been Draco, apparently, and then it was Harry, and wasn’t that just the way of things? Master of the most powerful wand ever made, and Draco hadn’t even known it.

He watched with wonder as Voldemort tried for the last time to kill Harry with Avada Kedavra, and for the last time failed utterly. He fell to the floor with barely a sound, and the hall erupted in cheers. Most of the death eaters had already apparated away, but Draco saw his parents at the periphery, subtly trying to signal him to come to them so they could run away, too.

But Draco was done running. The only place he wanted to be was here, with Harry, even if only tangentially.

Harry had other plans. Like a homing beacon, he zeroed in on Draco, expression changing from worry to relief. Everyone wanted a piece of Harry; to touch him, hug him, shake his hand. Harry wasn’t paying attention to that. He was staring down Draco, making a beeline for him.

Draco stood frozen, too confused and cautiously hopeful to question it.

All too quickly and not nearly soon enough, Harry was before him, eyes full of emotion. He didn’t say anything, didn’t even stop walking, and his lips crashed into Draco’s with passion, desperation, and love. He pulled back and leaned his forehead against Draco’s. Draco—who was quite certain he would remember it if he had kissed Harry Sodding Potter—was inexplicably filled with a sense of familiarity and rightness. The kiss had been a little hard with chapped lips, but it was gentle and chaste, too. Perfect, really. A kiss he’d never forget, not this time, he was sure.

“I told you I’d find you again,” Harry said, brushing Draco’s cheekbones with his thumbs.

“I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about,” Draco admitted, “but I’m listening.”

Harry fitted his hand in Draco’s, like it was always meant to have gone there, and why hadn’t it been there sooner? “Walk with me. I have something to return to you.”

Some members of the celebrating public watched them go but said nothing; everyone was too caught up in their own celebrating, their own relishing that it was finally over and we survived and he's gone.

Although their private moment was, after all, very public, everyone was apparently too stunned to do anything about stopping them as they walked away. Draco would have liked to see them try; nothing could stop him from going with Harry, not now.

They walked down across the grounds, strewn with rubble, pockmarked from the battle. There would be time for healing later.

They walked past the viaduct, past the boat house, down across the heath, and around the lake. They walked and walked until they came to a willow grove.

“I know this place,” Draco said softly, parting the branches to reveal a grassy bank next to the shore. It was covered with dandelions, not all quite blooming yet, but full of promise.

Harry sat down. He patted the place next to him and looked at Draco expectantly. So Draco sat.

“Have we done this before?”

Harry hummed. “Not quite, but almost.” He started plucking dandelions and twisting them into a chain. “Do you know what this is?” he asked, presenting his creation to Draco.

He’d definitely seen this before, in dreams of things that could not be. He ached with familiarity and rightness. “It’s a Crown of Wishes.”

Harry gave Draco his wand back—the Hawthorne wand, not the Elder. He gave Draco his hope back, with his very presence. He gave Draco his pendant full of flowers and love back, with a request that Draco make him one as well.

And he gave Draco back something he hadn’t even known he’d been missing—

“Do you have the seeds of memories?”

“So they aren’t teeth fae eggs,” he joked, pulling the pouch out. If he didn’t know better, he’d say it was singing.

“You trust me,” Harry said, and it wasn’t a question. It had been a question once, of that Draco was sure. But no more. 

Harry didn’t wait for Draco’s confirmation. “Dig a hole, about a wand’s length in depth.”

“Your wand or mine?” he said, but he started digging, and stopped when it felt right.

It was deep, but not very wide.

“Give me your arm,” said Harry, and though in the past Draco might have offered the right arm, he knew Harry meant his left.

Harry smiled when Draco gave it to him, rolled up the sleeve with both precision and impatience. "You can watch this time," he said.

And Draco did. Harry bit his thumb until he drew blood, and with it drew a lightning bolt over the dark mark. The blood didn’t do anything, but it wasn’t supposed to, not yet.

Harry held out his hand, and Draco gave him the pouch of seeds. “Stick your arm in the hole.”

At this, Draco did raise an eyebrow, but he did as Harry instructed.

Harry either didn’t notice or ignored him. “I’d forgotten how many there were,” he said, opening the pouch with care. 

“How many are there?”

“A lot." Harry smiled. "I guess you thought of me often."

Draco blushed, but not with shame. It was something far more precious, more dear.

"The memories needed to stay with you, even if they weren't in your head.” Harry explained, and smiled. “I told you we’d bury them. Plant them. Here we are.” With that, he tipped the pouch over, pouring the seeds into the hole around Draco’s arm. The seeds flowed in and around Draco’s arm, burying it completely, until the hole was filled completely. 

“I put my heart, my soul, my everything into you,” Harry said softly, “all for this.”

All for you, was what Draco heard. He didn’t doubt it.

Harry placed his wand over the seeds, next to Draco’s arm pointing towards the dark mark, and whispered a word Draco understood even though he couldn’t identify what language it was. “Bloom.”

Draco gasped as flowers burst from the ground, growing out from the seeds—no, from his arm—in a circling, spiralling pattern. Azaleas, Daffodils, Primroses, baby’s breath. Arbutus, Aster, Anemone, Bleeding Hearts. Tulips and violets and Sunflowers and Amaranth.

And dandelions. Of course, dandelions.

He pulled his arm out of the ground. He knew it was the right thing to do, even if Harry had never told him the specifics of the spell. He remembered well enough what it was meant to do, and he wasn’t disappointed.

Inked flowers erupted across his skin, growing and unfurling and blossoming beautifully until they completely covered up the dark mark—no, they absorbed it, more like. Blooming like a garden and covering up his mistakes, drawing out the sick and the poison and the regret.

“Dandy lions and sunflowers,” Draco whispered, touching the flowers with awe. He looked around the grove, now filled with blooming flowers. “Harry, what on earth—”

“Sit still; the best is yet to come.”

The flowers were still growing, bright petals reaching toward the sky triumphantly.

“Why—” It only took a moment later, and thoughts and memories filled his mind. Their fight in the bathroom, going to Dumbledore for help, finding it on their own. Finding each other, every year, in the willow grove. Exchanging flowers, exchanging secrets, becoming friends, and more. Everything he’d forgotten—no, buried, had come back to him, just like Harry said.

Draco turned to look at Harry, wide eyed and full of wonder. “Harry,” he whispered, putting a shaking hand on his cheek. “My Harry.”

“There you are,” Harry said with a fond smile. “Told you I’d find you.”

“Always,” Draco choked out.

Harry kissed him again, and again, and again. Slowly, deeply, like he needed Draco’s lips to breathe, like he’d never let go. “Wanted to do that since the first time I saw you,” he said, and Draco couldn’t agree more.

He remembered now, the things he’d wanted to ask months ago, and couldn’t. 

“Where on earth did you find such a barmy spell?”

“Where do you think?” Harry said, smiling. “Luna told me about it.”

Epilogue

Sitting in front of the Patrons was never a comfortable experience. They were just so much, it was difficult to take in. Sitting in front of the Patrons when you’d just finished an excruciating test of your love was even less comfortable. Sitting in front of the Patrons when you’d just finished an excruciating test you weren’t sure you’d passed was, truly, torture.

“Well,” Yellow said, breaking the silence, “that certainly was interesting, wasn't it?”

Draco was apparently alone in his feeling that it was all too much, for Harry protested, “That was not a fair test.”

“No?” said Red, tone carefully neutral.

“No! The test is supposed to show whether you can find each other or not. You pushed us together and set us against each other in every way imaginable!”

“We told you it would be a challenge. You said you were up for it.”

Harry glared at them. “That was not a test. That was punishment.”

“You broke the Rules by being together. It was only fair you pay the price,” Green said, sounding like he didn’t particularly care one way or another. Draco knew otherwise, but it still irked him. “It was the condition to get us all to agree to allowing you to take the test. Be grateful.”

“Grateful?” Harry repeated, indignant, but fortunately he didn’t get the chance to say anything else.

“You passed anyway, so I don’t see why you’re complaining,” added Violet. The other Patrons turned to look at xir sharply, irritation written on their faces.

“You weren’t supposed to tell them that yet!” Orange protested.

“I rather think they’ve suffered enough, don’t you?” Violet said. Indigo nodded after a moment.

Yellow sighed, content. “Violet is right. The test is over, no need to punish them further.”

Draco felt flame licking at his shoulders and reached over to squeeze Harry’s hand. He could understand why Harry was still upset, but they’d done it, against all odds. They’d passed.

“The rules of the test were finding each other. In this case, it was not connecting physically that mattered, since you’d already done that. Repeatedly.” Blue paused to cough pointedly, but continued, “it was connecting emotionally that mattered.” 

“Congratulations on passing your test—you’ve found your other half,” said Yellow, smile indulgent and pleased.

“Enjoy eternity together, et cetera,” Red concluded a negligent handwave.

Draco might have imagined it, but he thought he saw Green look over and give Red a smile.

Harry opened his mouth to protest, and Draco knew he had to stop him before things got out of hand and they had to do something terrible like take another test. “Excuse me,” he said as patiently as he could, “Not to make another request so soon, but...where are we meant to go now?”

The Patrons did not answer, though whether that was because they did not understand the question or were ignoring Draco, he couldn’t be sure. So he tried again. “Are we going to stay in Green Sector? In Red? Somewhere else altogether? And where are we going to work—”

“You have a lot of questions,” Red interrupted, tone indecipherable. “Reminds me of someone, and apples and trees and falling.”

Draco was sure now he didn’t imagine Red’s smirk aimed at Green, friendly more than antagonistic.

“Your story was very popular up here,” Yellow said, much friendlier. If Draco had to guess, he’d say she seemed almost amused. “We allowed the Charges to watch your trial together. In the spirit of trying new things, you understand. They asked these same questions on your behalf, and others that have yet to occur to you, I suspect.”

“No one wanted you separated after all you went through,” Orange explained.

“After what you put us through, you mean?” said Harry. “A war, nearly dying, Gilderoy Lockhart—”

“We have no control over mortal affairs, as you know,” Green interrupted.

“You inspired curiosity in the other Charges. That change you were so keen on…” Blue hinted. “And some changes, perhaps, you didn’t expect.”

“Seven heads are better than two,” Green said. Draco could not tell whether it was meant to be a joke. “No longer will failure of a test result in termination. Charges can,” at this, he paused to sigh deeply, “retry as many times as it takes to succeed.”

We’ve lifted the barriers between sectors because of you, as well, Indigo said. But I think you’ll find neither of you wants to step back into your old places and old jobs. You’ve outgrown them.

“Then where—” Draco began, but this time Harry stopped him.

“We already have a place that’s ours,” he said, eyes sparkling with happiness for the first time since they’d arrived back here.

Draco gasped as he realized what Harry was saying. “But—we can just stay there?”

“You still have duties,” Yellow explained. “Over an area of Mortal and Charge life hitherto overlooked, in which you have great experience now.”

“The greatest magic of all, I’m told,” said Red. “Love.”

“We’re…Patrons?” Harry laughed. “Surely not.”

“Hardly,” replied Blue. “The spectrum of visible light is already accounted for with the Seven—”

“Think of yourselves as ambassadors,” Violet explained. “You’ll have staff, of course, to help Charges understand love. There hasn’t nearly been enough of it up here, and they’re all keen to try it out.”

“I don’t understand,” Draco confessed.

“You will,” Yellow promised. “Good luck with your next test.”

“What—”

Draco blinked. They were in their meadow again, the Patrons had left them, and Harry and Draco were finally—at last—alone together. But the meadow was not as they’d left it. Where before it had been abandoned, now there was life, and not only that—

“Our willow tree,” Harry whispered, pointing a shaking hand, “and the lake, and our house.”

It was, indeed, the house they’d shared in the mortal realm, with the babbling brook, Draco’s garden, and from the smoke rising out of the chimney, Harry’s kitchen.

Draco had a thought, something missing that would complete their home, but it was too much to hope for, surely. But then he heard it: the ringing of a hundred tiny bells as all their cats—and three dogs and two ferrets—rushed from the back of the house to greet them.

“Pay up,” Harry said, grinning from ear to ear. “I told you.”

“Technically, you said all dogs and cats go to heaven, and I only see—” he’d spoken too soon. All pets were here, apparently. He supposed if they were in charge of love, it only made sense.

“Our Charges,” Harry said happily.

"That's right," Draco agreed with a smile, picking up as many cats as he could hold. "Endings should be happy."

"Then why are you crying?" Harry asked, wiping Draco's tears away. He'd never hide his tears from Harry.

"Oh, I don't know. Allergies, I suppose."

He'd never been a very good liar, but that was alright. He didn't particularly want to be. 

"Hm. Well, it's not really the end, anyhow," Harry mused. "It's the start of something new."

"What would that be?"

"Forever, obviously."

"Ah. Obviously."

Draco looked over to Harry, his other half.  

“We did it,” Draco whispered, leaning his head on Harry’s shoulder. 

“Draco—” Harry began, but Draco cut him off with a kiss. A move he’d stolen from Harry.

“We’re home.”

END